#I would be mentally ill even if I lived in actual care bear land

[vulturesawake]

"Your mental illness is actually just a product of living under capitalism! You don't need those drugs they call 'medicine'!" Glad that's your experience. I'm legitimately batshit crazy though

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Hallo! IT'S ME AGAINNNNN!

Okay, so I was listening to a song and daydreaming, and then boom—I came up with this idea,It might not make total sense(lmao), but here we gooooo...

So, Donna and the reader are close. They’re not exactly friends, but it’s definitely more than just “a lord and a random villager.” The catch? Donna has a girlfriend whom she genuinely loves. Every time she sees the reader, she can’t help but rave about how amazing her girlfriend is, always blabbing about her personality and how great she treats Donna.

But then, They break up over something (maybe Donna finds out that Mother Miranda sent her "girlfriend" to make her feel less lonely). Donna is heartbroken, but during one of her crises, she realizes the reader is the one who ACTUALLY cares about her. So, she gets her emotions in check and starts getting close to the reader, and they eventually start dating. Donna is OVER THE MOON because, this time, she knows someone is truly in love with her, and she turns into a total hopeless romantic. She loves the reader way more than she ever loved her ex (way more than ANYONE actually)

But here’s where it gets a bit shaky: the reader sometimes feels like she's not enough because she remember all the sweet things Donna used to say about her ex. So, the reader starts putting a ton of pressure on herself, trying to be better. Donna notices right away and makes it her mission to ensure the reader never feels that way again. (You can totally ignore this part if you’re not feeling the angst, though!)

yeah that's it.

THANK YOU SO MUCH, CUTIE! WISH YOU THE BEST! TSCHÜSS!

Yess!!!! Thank you for your request and for being here!!! I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :)))))

A fake love, a real love

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff

Word count: 7,643

Summary: You loved her, but she didn't...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! :))

Walking to that isolated mansion might seem like an unwanted routine, something you had to do, but you didn't like. No one could blame you if you refused that usual errand, if you refused to cross that forest, those ruins, to get closer to the home where fear itself lived.

But you, a normal villager, young, happy and without much fear of everything around you, didn't see it that way. It was a normal transaction that had been common for you since you could remember. Your parents were farmers, a profession that couldn't be missing in an isolated village like that. Fruits, vegetables... everything that could feed a person was sold and grown by them.

Naturally, they weren't the only family that provided the village with food, but it was the only one who had the privilege of doing so for important people. Your father was related to a person who had long worked in the lands of the Beneviento family. That connection with one of the four noble families was what made you never lacked work.

Your parents were providers for that strange family long before you were born, like a kind of family profession that was inherited over time. You never knew the old family that lived next to a waterfall, that made dolls to brighten up the boring life of the villagers.

When you were born, they no longer existed. Misfortune had taken its toll on that Italian family. Not even your father could quite understand what exactly happened; he was only a child when Mr. and Mrs. Beneviento decided to end their life by jumping into the void.

It was the end of their existence, but not the end of their family. They left a girl too young to bear that horrible loss, a strange girl, carrier of a terrible mental illness.

No one could have guessed what would become of that girl after the death of her family. Only Josef Simon, the family gardener, and your young father were able to discover what was left in that horrible place, which then belonged to the only daughter who survived the tragedy: the young and sick Donna Beneviento.

You didn't know much about her, only what your parents talked about from time to time. Shortly after that tragedy, the Beneviento girl closed herself off even more, spending years and years completely alone.

But that was until, one day, when the young Donna apparently decided to give up, her destiny changed forever. Mother Miranda, the priestess who claimed to have the will of the Black Gods, saw something in that young woman with black hair and a horrible scar on her face.

The young Donna, barely 32 years old, became (you didn't know if voluntarily or not) one of the four Lords, the youngest of the witch's adopted children. That was too long ago, enough for your father to know something about who he was working for.

As time went by, the cold relationship with the lady of the mansion remained as a silent alliance. Serving a noble family and then, serving a Lord… It was definitely a good change for your family.

Since you were very young, you had accompanied your parents on their deliveries and, of course, you had walked the dangerous path that led to the mansion. You barely remember what your first encounters with that strange woman, with that veiled woman, dressed in black, who never, ever said a single word, were like.

You were just a little girl, and, well, the power that Lady Beneviento had, allowed her to give life to the Angie doll. You were a little girl, Angie was a doll. It was quite evident that it caught your attention.

Little by little you began to want to go to the mansion to play with the puppet, to laugh, to have fun with its irreverent attitude. Tag, hide and seek... For a girl without too many friends like you, the Angie doll began to seem like a playmate.

That silent appreciation of the lady, and Angie's playful attitude towards you was something your parents would always be grateful for. If Angie was happy, Donna was happy, if Donna was happy, you could live another day.

Of course you weren’t immortal, you didn’t have the grace of not aging, and as time went by, you grew up enough to get bored of playing with the doll. The lady, always hidden in the shadows, began to catch your attention. She was a lonely woman, a woman you didn’t know if she even noticed you.

Already in your teens, you began to show some of your slightly more daring attitude, asking questions to the lady in black, or even sharing books with her; a silent exchange that didn't seem to bother the Lord. Due to that lack of fear the lady generated in you, unlike your parents, at only 14 years old, you were the only one in charge of delivering the orders to that lost mansion.

Getting along with Donna was perhaps an exaggeration, but, unlike most of the villagers, you didn't feel uncomfortable with her presence. Her gestures were vague, and your voice and Angie's were the only ones that could be heard.

The years passed and that strange relationship you had with the lady in black mutated little by little, until, finally, you had the privilege of hearing her hoarse voice, addressing you.

Small talks, advices, personal experiences... the conversations became more complicated as you grew up, becoming a new routine that you considered pleasant.

Donna wasn’t your friend, she never was and she never would be, but your relationship certainly couldn't be limited to what it really was. You were both quite close, you had known each other for many years, and you learned to relate in a pleasant way.

At 21, you continued working for your parents. You continued walking through that dark forest, knocking on that door, talking with the lady in black.

She had lost her fear of the unknown, of that smiling girl who brought her vegetables. The trust increased enough for Lady Beneviento to do something unthinkable, uncover her face.

Your father barely remembered what her face was like, what that young, tormented girl looked like. No one had seen that woman once adopted by Miranda, no one knew what that black veil hid, no one, except you.

Beneath the black cloth there was no hideous monster, as your companions used to say or speculate. No, there was only a beautiful woman, black and shiny hair, a beautiful eye, an existing one.

You could sense why the lady in black covered herself, but you didn't quite understand it. Donna Beneviento, Lord and doll maker, wasn't a monster, and somehow, you knew that some time ago.

You tried to convince yourself, to deny the things you were starting to feel when you were with her, but you couldn't.

That strange woman who barely spoke to you, but who smiled, who laughed at your stupid comments, was no longer just a job for you. She was no longer Lady Beneviento, she was just Donna. Without being friends you were close, and, at 21 years old, with no hope of finding love, she became the involuntary target of your heart.

You couldn't help it, you were crazy about her. It didn't matter that you knew what she was capable of, that you had heard the horrible things she did in the past, those that your parents sometimes commented on. She was everything to you, the only reason that made you smile in your hard work.

Distracted, you approached the estate with your weekly order, clumsily checking that your working girl clothes were as neatly arranged as possible.

“Ahem,” you said, clearing your throat before knocking softly on the door.

“Who is it?” a squeaky voice asked, along with small footsteps on the wood.

Behind the door was not Donna, but the doll Angie, comically opening it and looking at you suspiciously.

“Hi, Angie, how are you?” you asked, crouching down pleasantly and smiling kindly at your old playmate.

“Oh, it's you,” the doll said, placing a hand on her chest. “I thought you wouldn't come, silly.”

“Of course I came, I-I'm bringing the vegetables,” you said, pointing to the boxes. “Is Donna here?”

“Um, yes,” Angie said, leaning over the boxes and picking up some vegetables. “But… she’s kind of… busy right now.”

“Oh,” you said, feeling a dagger stab your heart slowly, painfully. “T-Then I better go and…”

“No, no, don’t go,” Angie said, tugging at your dress hastily. “Stay, stay.”

“I don’t want to disturb you,” you said in a small voice, suppressing a sob.

“Nonsense, we like you being here,” the doll said, crossing her arms. “Come, come in.”

“Angie, I don’t…” you said uncertainly, picking up the boxes and entering the mansion. “W-Wait,” you said whispering when the doll closed the door and walked away from you and towards the living room.

“Hey, you two! Stop that!” Angie shrieked, causing some annoying grunts that you tried not to hear. “(Y/N) has come! Hey, silly, come here!”

Obeying without really wanting to, you walked slowly towards the voices. Just as you feared, on Donna's lap, there was a girl, one you had known for a while, who was part of your visits to the estate.

“Oh, (Y/N), I'm glad to see you,” the lady in black said with a soft voice, standing up and straightening her dress, with a kind smile.

“Hello, Donna,” you said, with a slight blush on your cheeks, looking away from the young woman who sat up, getting up from the sofa, putting on her clothes as well. “I-I'm glad too. S-Sorry to interrupt, Angie…”

“Mm, don't worry, we were just... wasting the time,” the Lord said softly, with an embarrassed smile. “Sit down, please... would you like some tea?”

“Oh, no, I don't want to disturb,” you said kindly, moving away from the overwhelming presence of the lady, from her addictive smile. “H-Hello, Anya.”

The girl nodded with a fake smile, checking that her dress, a little flashy one, was in its place.

“How are you, (Y/N)?” the young woman said, walking beside you.

“Fine,” you said dryly, looking at the floor and not at how the girl approached Donna, planting a wet kiss on one of her cheeks, causing a shy giggle that made you tremble.

“Donna, honey, I've taken up too much of your time, I'd better get home,” Anya murmured in her ear, looking at you out of the corner of her eye.

“Are you going to leave? Why don't you stay and have some tea with (Y/N) and me?” the lady asked, gently grabbing her hand, with a pleading eye.

“I'm sorry, sweetie, but I can't,” she whispered, approaching the coat rack to pick up her clothes. “Don't worry, sweetie, see you tomorrow, mm?” she said, approaching Donna again and running a hand over her chest. “I'll let you do whatever you want to me... Don...” she whispered, discreetly making you burn and kissing the lady slowly, before moving away and walking definitively towards the exit.

“Va bene,” Donna sighed, without losing sight of her girlfriend.

“Mm, don't talk to me that weird, you know I don't understand you,” Anya said, shaking her head as she opened the door.

“I'm sorry, I mean... it's okay, see you tomorrow,” the woman in black corrected, playing nervously with her hands. “Be careful, please.”

“Of course, baby,” the girl said, before throwing a kiss in the air and closing the door, disappearing, to your relief.

That girl was a bit stupid, but your opinion was clouded by spite, so you never told Donna what you thought.

Anya had been her girlfriend for some time. You still remember the pain it caused you to hear it from her lips, to hear that there was someone who had managed to make Donna fall in love, and that it wasn't you.

Donna loved her with all her heart. She did nothing but speak wonders of that young woman from the village, who appeared by chance in her life and turned it upside down. Jealousy and rage built up in your body every time you saw her approach Donna, kiss her, caress her, but you had to suffer in silence.

Confessing your love was something for which it was too late and, even if it was just a friendship, you didn’t want to lose it, you wanted to continue seeing that beautiful woman, even if her heart never belonged to you.

“She is beautiful, isn't she?” the lady murmured when her girlfriend left, biting her lip and turning shyly.

You smiled sadly, nodding and looking at your clothes, completely different from that Anya’s, from that love-stealer.

“Yes, she is,” you sighed with a fake smile, scratching the back of your neck.

“Sono pazza di lei,” Donna whispered, leaning her head towards the door.

“Yes, I see that,” you said amused, bending down to pick up the boxes and put them on the table. “Look, Donna, I brought you the vegetables you asked for.”

“Mm, let me see, (Y/N),” she said, getting a little closer to you to rummage through the boxes, carefully examining the vegetables. “Wow, those peppers look really good.”

“It's been a very good harvest,” you commented distracted by her slender hands, hands that would never caress you.

“No doubt,”  Donna murmured, going back to put the vegetables. “Aspetta un attimo, I'm going to get your money.”

“Okay,” you said with a kind look, without losing sight of her, without missing a detail of her walk, the hypnotic dance of her dress.

“Thank goodness she's gone…” Angie said, suddenly getting on the table, scaring you. “That girl is a pain in the ass.”

“Why do you say that?” you asked curiously, checking the vegetables again. “She seems nice.”

“Nice? She's dumb and boring as a rock. She never wants to play with me,” the doll said, making you laugh unintentionally and shake your head. “I don't know what Donna saw in her.”

“She's beautiful,” you said with a sad voice, looking at the place where the Lord disappeared and gently closing your eyes. “Donna didn't deserve less.”

“Do you like that stupid girl?” Angie asked, making you think carefully about your answer.

“Um, well, I don't know her very well, but if she makes Donna happy…” you whispered, trying to keep your voice from breaking. “I guess I like her.”

“I don't,” Angie said, with a brusque gesture. “I don't like that girl at all, but Donna doesn't listen to me, she's completely in love with her.”

“It's good that Donna has a girlfriend she loves, she deserves it, you know as well as I do that she's been through a lot of disgraces,” you said without wanting to say it, hurting yourself.

“That's what worries me,” the doll said, getting a little closer to you. “Donna's a fool too, suddenly a pretty girl comes out of nowhere, tells her she’s in love with her and wants to be with her… and all that shit.”

“What are you implying?” you asked, now paying full attention.

“I didn't imply anything, I'm saying it clearly: I don't want that stupid girl to be Donna's girlfriend,” Angie said, with a confidential whisper, almost speaking in your ear. “I don't like Anya, there's something about her that gives me a bad feeling.”

“I'm afraid that's what Donna has chosen, you can't do anything,” you commented with a sad sigh, watching the door.

“No... but you can,” the puppet said, pointing at you. “You are her friend, aren't you?”

“Me? I-I don't know if friend is the right word but...”

“You can tell her what you think of that stupid girl, Donna will listen to you,” said the doll, jumping comically on the table.

“What? No, I'm not going to do that,” you said, shaking your head. “Donna is happy with Anya and I have no right to butt in.”

“Another boring girl,” Angie said, getting down from the table when the lady's heels began to echo on the wood. “I wish you were her girlfriend instead that fool.”

Your eyes widened at her comment, but you didn't have much time to think about it, as Donna appeared through the door, a bag of coins in her hand.

“Prego,” she whispered, giving you the bag with a tender smile, to which you nodded.

“Thanks Donna, I hope you didn't overpay me as usual,” you said amused.

She laughed and shook her head.

“Are you going to question my will, (Y/N)?” she joked, gesturing for you to follow her to the couch.

“I would never dare,” you said, putting the coins in your bag.

“Sit with me,” she said, kicking the couch. “Do you want to play chess?”

“Chess?” you asked, sitting as far away from her as possible while she pulled out an old board. “I-I don't know, I always lose.”

“Don't talk nonsense, you've beaten me more than once,” Donna said, her gaze away from yours, placing the pieces. “White or black?”

“Black. You probably play a lot with Anya…” you commented, choosing a color while the lady focused on the board, looking at you briefly and shaking her head.

“Not really,” the doll maker whispered, sitting in front of you, with a thoughtful look. “Anya says it's boring. She doesn't like to play this… kind of games.”

“Oh, well, I guess there are all kinds of tastes, right?” you asked, ignoring that information. “Let's see…”

“Certo,” Donna sighed, making her first move. “Anyway, we don't have much time to play or chat. I'm afraid that... well, she really likes... kissing me.”

You swallowed a sob, moving your piece and nodding slowly.

“I understand why,” you whispered in a terribly low voice.

“Scusi?” she asked, concentrating on your move. “Did you say something, (Y/N)?”

“No, nothing, I was just... thinking about my next move,” you lied, erratically moving another of the pieces. “I guess it's wonderful to have someone so affectionate by your side.”

“It is, of course it is,” Donna sighed, with a tender smile.

Nothing that happened that afternoon was out of the ordinary. The conversations with Donna usually traveled between unimportant experiences or... well, or compliments and words of love from the brunette to her girl.

Anya must have been the most wonderful girl in the world, or at least she was to Donna. The lady never got tired of talking about her, praising her… You might think it was almost unbearable to spend time with her just to hear about her girlfriend, but it wasn't like that. You were her only friend, or her only truly close contact, surely the only one who listened to her.

You loved Donna hopelessly. Even if her words weren't about you, they were her words, it was her voice.

Another afternoon of soft laughter, another night of dreams and fantasies about her. At some point you should realize the mistake you made by falling in love with Donna Beneviento, the delay in your confession, the theft of her heart by that beautiful girl.

Donna was crazy about her, she always told you so innocently, without knowing the damage she was doing to you, without wanting to know, perhaps.

The days passed and your visits could be summed up in chess games or comments about how fabulous Anya was. Angie's words echoed in your head.

Naturally, the Angie doll was jealous and distrustful, but the insinuation that she would prefer you to be Donna's girlfriend... You just couldn't get it out of your head.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fritz,” you said pleasantly, after doing your daily shopping in the village.

“Give my regards to your parents, dear,” the woman said, making you smile before setting off on your way back home.

You didn't live as isolated as Donna, but you had a nice walk to the orchards, a walk you always enjoyed.

“Shh, hey, Anya...” a male voice caught your attention as you walked.

Behind one of the crumbling walls of the orchards, there was a boy hiding, gesturing to a young woman who seemed to walk slowly, looking around.

You recognized her immediately: Anya, Donna's girlfriend. You weren't usually a gossipy girl, but this situation was a out of the ordinary, so you slowly camouflaged yourself in the wheat fields, behind a stone wall.

“Sergei…” Anya sighed, looking cautiously as she approached the boy. You had to quickly crouch down as they both looked in your direction.

“Has anyone followed you?” the young man asked, grabbing the girl's hands while you peeked discreetly.

“Of course not, you know I'm careful,” Anya said, letting that boy grab her waist and… kiss her, kiss her passionately.

“Shit,” you whispered, covering your mouth with your hands, blinking in bewilderment at the sight before you. It couldn't be, it just couldn't be.

“I've missed you, I thought you came back every night,” the boy said, kissing her repeatedly. “Did she trick you into staying again?”

“No, she knows I need some room and… well, thank goodness, because otherwise I wouldn't be able to see you,” Anya said, leaving you more and more confused.

“This situation is awkward, Anya, I can't stand to think what you do with… with her,” he said, with an angry gesture. “To think that you kiss her, that you… Gods, Anya, you have to end this.”

“Do you think it makes me happy to be with that nutcase? That I have another option?” Donna's girlfriend asked, crossing her arms. “You knew what the situation is.”

“I know but… maybe if you talk to Mother Miranda and…”

“I've already told you, Sergei, I would never dare to contradict her, besides, it's not difficult to fool the idiot Beneviento, we can still see each other,” she said, leaving you frozen on the ground.

“Yes, but for how long?” the boy asked, resting his hands on the shoulders of the girl, who sighed with a sad look.

“I don't know, but... I promise I'll fix it, I promise you,” she said, with a much more genuine smile than the one you had seen in the mansion as if she really... were in love with that boy, as if she didn't care about Donna.

Your trembling legs moved nervously, accidentally stepping on a dry branch, which alerted the lovers.

“You better go, Sergei, I'll call you when I'm free,” Anya said, gesturing for the boy to leave.

 He did, and you stood up from your hiding place, terribly furious.

That perfect girlfriend that Donna adored was a farce, a lie. You wanted to throw yourself at her, pull her hair, yell at her for cheating on the love of your life, but you didn't dare to do it. You were just a coward, but something inside your head prevented you from letting that discovery go, and you started walking towards her.

“You,” you said, getting her attention, walking through the orchards. The girl didn't move. She just frowned at you, as if she hadn't recognized you at first.

“Hi, you're (Y/N), right?” she said with a fake smile, with a somewhat cocky pose. “How are you?”

“Great, I just found out what you're doing to Donna,” you said without wasting time, pointing at her in an unpleasant way.

“Please…” she sighed, rolling her eyes, with no intention of denying the evidence. “Are you surprised?”

“What? You're Donna's girlfriend, of course it surprises me. How dare you to cheat on her?” you said defiantly, dropping your bags on the snowy ground. “She loves you very much, did you know that?”

“Of course I know… unfortunately,” she muttered with a look of disgust. “Hey, vegetable girl, I hope you're not thinking of spilling the beans.”

“What do you expect me to do?” you asked furiously, hating that stupid girl even more. Angie was right.

“Mm, well, okay, let's talk, shall we?” she said, helping you pick up the bags from the ground and handing them to you kindly.

“There's nothing to talk about, it's all very clear,” you hissed, moving away from her, who shook her head, sighing tiredly.

“Six months ago, Mother Miranda asked me to go to church,” the girl began to tell, as if you were really listening to her. “Naturally I was willing to do whatever she asked me to do.”

“What are you talking about?” you wanted to know, stopping your steps.

“She told me that her youngest daughter, Lady Beneviento, was going through a rough patch, that she was very lonely and… well, she was afraid that she would decide to do something stupid. You and I know that Beneviento is not right in the head.”

“Don't insult her,” you growled, clenching your fists. “Don't you dare to insult her.”

“I'm just telling the truth, (Y/N), denying that she is sick would be stupid,” Anya said, with a serious expression.

“That doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all,” you said in a low voice, looking away from Anya.

“Mother Miranda thought it would be a good idea to give her… well, some fun, I don't know if you know what I mean,” she explained with a sinister look. “Understand me, my family is poor, and I need all the appreciation of the Black Gods. At first I just had to go to Beneviento's house and have sex with her but… well, it didn't turn out as I expected.”

“How disgusting,” you said nervously, running a hand over your forehead.

“The stupid Donna fell in love with me and far from considering my work finished, Mother Miranda asked me to play along, to be with her so she wouldn't feel so terribly alone.”

“And you accepted,” you hissed, looking at her out of the corner of your eye.

Anya sighed and nodded, with a calm look.

“I assumed it was okay to play pretending to have feelings for her, surely Miranda would think that Donna would get tired of me, but… obviously she didn't,” the young woman said, lowering her gaze.

“You're stupid, Anya, you're playing with poor Donna's feelings, aren't you ashamed?” you accused, unable to believe her words.

“Poor Donna? What's so much affection for her about? You only bring her vegetables, don't you?” she asked, frowning at your revealing attitude.

“I've known Do... Lady Beneviento since I was 5 years old,” you explained, running a hand through your hair.

“I see... you know her... well,” the girl said with a sinister laugh. “Well, you should know, vegetable girl: I don't care about her. I just want to get on with my life and get away from her so I can be with my boyfriend.”

“I assumed so,” you said mockingly. “But do you know what you're doing? You're playing with her feelings, Donna loves you and...”

“I don't feel the same,” the young woman sighed, leaning against a wall. “It's very easy to judge others, isn't it? You don't understand my situation, vegetable girl. I can't do anything.”

“Of course you can, you must tell her,” you said, in a calmer tone. “She has to know the truth.”

“Wrong, silly girl,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “If I tell that nutcase that I don't love her, that it's all been a lie, I'm dead.”

“She adores you, she would never hurt you,” you said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “She loves you madly, she wouldn't dare to…”

“What are you saying? Are you saying that I should go to her house and tell her that it's all been a lie? Seriously, girl, where did you come from?”

“It's better than her finding out on her own, don't you think? If you want to get away from her so much… it must be you,” you said, without thinking too much.

“Why do you care so much about that crazy woman?” Anya asked, making you back away.

“My reasons are… only mine,” you murmured. “I don't want her to suffer.”

“You don't want her to suffer... if I didn't know that no one could feel anything for Donna, I would think that you were terribly in love with her,” Anya mocked, shaking her head.

“You're wrong,” you murmured in a dark tone. “You have to end this, Anya, for your own sake.”

“Mm, maybe I'll think about it, she's unbearable, you know?” Anya said in an unpleasant tone, moving away from the wall and passing by you. “It might not be such a bad idea, after all.”

“You are unbearable,” you growled when the girl walked away.

That conversation, that revelation fell on you like a bucket of cold water, freezing you, leaving you completely lost. You didn't feel joy or relief, only sadness for Donna. She was crazy about Anya, she would give her life for her if she asked. She was madly in love.

Breaking her heart, telling her what you had seen wasn’t in your plans, but you didn't want to go back to the mansion either, not when you knew that those kisses they gave each other were fake ones. You decided to get away for a while, just for a while, until you could forget that horrible truth and stop being tempted to reveal it.

“Honey, something's wrong,” your mother commented at dinnertime, surely looking at your sad expression. You faked a smile and shook your head.

“Mm, your mother is right, (Y/N), what is it…?”

Your father couldn't finish the question, as the phone rang to interrupt that attempt at interrogation.

“Hello,” your father said, picking up the phone, immediately moving it away from his ear, due to some loud, high-pitched screams coming out of it. “Hello? Who's speaking? Are you a little girl? Hey, listen…”

“What's wrong?” you asked, getting up from your chair and approaching slowly.

“It’s for you, (Y/N),” your father said, handing you the phone. “She must be a friend of yours.”

“A friend?” you asked, bringing it close to your ear and recognizing the screams. Angie. “Who is it?”

“Oh, it's you, thank goodness…” the doll said, with her voice distorted by a terrible cry that sounded in the distance. “(Y/N), you have to come, now.”

“Angie? What's wrong?” you asked somewhat scared, with your family looking at you with intrigue.

“There's no time to explain it to you, silly! Come, run, come! Donna is completely out of her mind!” the doll shrieked, before hanging up.

“D-Donna?” you asked, hanging up scared and looking at your family. Something had happened, something had happened to Donna.

“What's wrong, honey?” your mother asked as you ran out of the house. “(Y/N)!?”

You didn't pay attention to her calls. You just limited yourself to running without looking back. You didn't know what had happened, but Donna needed your help, and you had to give it to her.

In record time you arrived at the dimly lit mansion. The door was open and agonizing sobs echoed off the walls.

“It's about time!” Angie shouted, welcoming you and pulling your hand to guide you to the living room. “Quick!”

The sight before you shattered your heart. Donna, the lady in black, was sitting on the floor, her head between her legs, pulling at her hair as she sobbed inconsolably. All around her were traces of fury, of broken furniture. Something terrible had happened. Donna had lost her mind again.

“Donna...” you sighed, cautiously approaching the lady, who roared, cried and kicked the air without moving from the floor, muttering something you couldn't understand. “Gods, Donna, your hand,” you said when you saw her blood stained knuckles, looking at Angie sharply. “What happened?”

“Just like I told you, that whore wasn't trustworthy! She left my Donna!” the doll shrieked, approaching her owner. “My Donna is very nervous, she's having a very bad crisis, you have to help her! She doesn't listen to me anymore.”

“Anya's gone?” you asked, blinking in confusion.

“She left me!” Donna shrieked, making you look at her. “She didn't love me, she never loved me!” she screamed, pulling at her hair again, something you tried to stop.

“No, Donna, stop… don't hurt yourself,” you said, fighting against her sudden movements, against her nervous kicks. “Shh, Donna, please… I'm so sorry, darling…”

“Troietta! You bitch!” the lady shrieked, attacking you as if you were the girl who broke her heart, throwing herself at you, struggling.

“Donna, Donna, no!” Angie screamed, pushing the lady off of you with a thud.

You had to admit that you were scared, but you made a superhuman effort to stay calm, to soothe her wounded heart.

“No, darling, please stop…” you said, grabbing her shoulders, pulling her body towards yours to hug her tightly. “It's over, Donna… Shh… it's over…”

“Porca miseria!” the lady shrieked, trying to release herself from your embrace until, thanks to your strength and mental advantage in the situation, the poor lady calmed down, staying close to you, crying at your chest.

“Shh…” you whispered while, sitting on the floor, you tenderly rocked Donna, calming her down little by little. “Shh, it's over Donna… I'm here with you… calm down… that's it… very good, very good, Donna, relax with me…”

“Listen to her, Donna, she's here, (Y/N) has come to help you,” Angie said, carefully approaching your embraced bodies, the soft maternal movements with which you rocked her.

The sobs were horrible, piercing, but little by little they stopped sounding, being nothing but an agonizing lament while you rubbed her hair, keeping her head on your chest.

“Shhh, Donna…” you whispered softly, wiping her tears and moving her away from you when you saw she was feeling better.

“Mm?” the lady murmured, slowly pushing you away, her eye was red from crying and her cheek full of tears. Donna blinked confused at the sight of you, running a hand through her hair. “(Y/N)… what… what are you doing here?” she asked with a thick accent, looking at you suspiciously, disoriented.

“Angie called me a while ago, she said you had lost your mind,” you explained with a soft voice, while she got up from the floor in pain, sitting on the couch, looking at you briefly.

“I don't…” she stammered, still confused, shaking her head. “(Y/N)… I…”

“Relax, I'm here,” you said with a tender smile, sitting next to her and glancing at her hand. “Did you break a glass again? Wow, you have a serious wound, Donna…”

She looked away, embarrassed, but letting you play with her injured hand.

“You shouldn't be here,” the lady whispered with a dark voice, looking at you shyly. “I could have hurt you. I-If I lose you too, I'll...”

“You haven't,” you said, daring to run a hand over her cheek. “You won't lose me…” you whispered softly, looking at the doll again. “Angie, bring the first aid kit, please.”

Once again in silence, you healed the wound the lady had self-inflicted. The sound of the wind and slight moans of pain were the only atmosphere in that place, until the lady glanced at you out of the corner of her eye as you bandaged her hand.

“Anya left me,” Donna whispered in a sad voice, gripping the fabric of the sofa tightly. “She came this afternoon and told me that… she didn't love me.”

You looked at her, but repressed any attempt to speak.

“Mother Miranda sent her to pretend that she loved me, to make me believe that I wasn't alone,” the brunette explained, nervous, but at the same time, calm.

“I'm so sorry, Donna,” you said in a whisper, tying the bandages tightly. “I couldn't imagine that…”

“I did, I should have realized,” she said, looking away with a nervous moan. “I should have realized!”

“Shh, don't yell anymore, honey…” you whispered in a sweet voice, caressing her injured hand. “You must get over it.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Donna asked, shaking her head. “I-It's all been a lie… She cheated on me!”

“I'm sorry,” you said with a broken voice, feeling guilty for knowing it, and not having warned her before. “I'm so sorry, Donna.”

“I must look pathetic, right?” she said with a sinister smile, panting nervously. “How pathetic is Donna, who needs you to pay her a whore so she doesn't feel so alone, because, of course, no one could ever love her.”

“Don't say that, it's not true,” you said, holding back your tears, calming the doll maker's madness with your touch. “That's a lie, do you hear me?”

“You...” she hissed, moving away from your caresses, abruptly getting up from the sofa. “Is that why you came? She also sends you!” she shrieked, pointing at you with a deranged gesture. “You're a liar! Bugiarda!”

“No, Donna, that's not true, I came to help you,” you said nervously, somewhat scared. “You are… you are…”

“What am I? A moron who doesn't deserve to be loved? Poor Donna, she needs a toy to play with and not to think about the shitty life she has, right? You whores, you're all sluts! Sluts!”

“No, Donna, you're wrong, I…” you said trembling, putting your hands in a defensive position.

“What are you doing here then?! Why are you pretending to care about me? Huh? Talk, bitch!” Donna shouted, grabbing you by the collar of your dress.

“Silly Donna, let her go!” Angie said, fearing that her fury would be launched against you. “Donna, Donna…”

“I… I care about you because… because I'm in love with you,” you said with a broken voice, stammering and preventing her hands from applying more force, from hurting you. “I love you, Donna, I've always loved you.”

“What?” she asked, frowning and letting you go immediately. “What…?”

“I'm sorry to tell you in a situation like this, but if you're going to kill me… I want you to know what I feel for you, for longer than I'd like to admit…” you said, squeezing your eyes tightly, waiting for a nightmare that never came.

Again, the silence caused the atmosphere to become tense. Donna moved away from you, looking at you with distrust, breathing with difficulty.

“It's not true, you don't…” she murmured nervously, looking at you briefly and moving confused. “It can't be true.”

“I don't care if you don't believe me, I understand that you don't, but I want, I want you to know that you are a wonderful and beautiful woman and... you can say whatever you want, but you have made me fall in love with you, Donna, what I feel for you is what you have done, being who you are. Don't think that it's not possible for someone to fall in love with you, to want to give you their heart because I... have already done it.”

Saying those last words, ensuring your confession, you slowly stood up ready to leave the mansion, to leave poor Donna alone.

“A-Aspetta, (Y/N)” Donna interrupted, before you walked out the door. “Wait, please.”

You turned slowly, scared of the consequences of your confession.

“You...” she whispered, approaching with a slow step, with her chest rising and falling quickly, with her gaze lost. “Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes, Donna,” you sighed, wiping away a tear. “I would understand if you didn't want to see me again, I'll tell my father to take care of…”

“N-No, no, wait a moment,” she said, shaking her head, grabbing your arms, very tightly, but without any intention of hurting you. “You… you've always been with me… always.”

You nodded, suppressing the trembling of your body.

“I-I remember you took care of me when I lost my mind, and how you played with Angie when you were little,” Donna said, with a distracted look, but speaking without stuttering. “You were the vegetable girl, but for me you were something else, you know?”

“A fool,” you said amused, sobbing.

“No, you… you were my only friend… you were always there when I needed you, you never cared about my appearance and… you've never abandoned me. (Y/N), is it possible that you're telling me the truth? That you really have feelings for me?”

“I would never lie to you Donna, to me you were much more than a friend or a Lord,” you whispered, looking away, noticing how her grip loosened.

“You have always understood me,” she said, getting a little closer, moving her hand erratically to your cheek. “Angie was right… I-I was so blind with… with her that… I wasn't able to see that you were the only one who was by my side.”

“I will be if you want me to be, always, Donna,” you said in a very low voice, with her too close to you.

“Don't leave, (Y/N)… stay with me,” she asked you, squeezing your hand in hers. “Let me… let me… love you as you have always deserved…”

“Donna…” you sighed, letting yourself be carried away by the gentle swaying of your bodies. “You don't love me.”

“I may not have known until now,” she whispered, coming closer, placing her lips on yours, a sensation so dreamed, so imagined, that you already knew what it was like, but not how it made you feel.

A tender, salty and slow kiss… It was a quiet, calm kiss, emphasized by her caresses, a kiss that you didn’t expect, that you wanted, even at a time like that.

In that horrible and sad way, with a doubtful but sincere confession, her relationship with that poor girl ended, and one with you began.

At first you were suspicious that her love was real. Anya was too recent and Donna was resentful. It didn't take long for you to realize that you were wrong.

Donna was romantic, sweet, understanding and tender. Being her girlfriend was the best thing that had ever happened to you, you had never felt so loved, so cherished.

It was simply impossible, it was impossible for the lady in black to treat you so well after that breakup. Happiness occupied your entire life, you even moved in with her, but doubts also haunted your mind.

Every night, after the passion, came the thoughts, the fears, those horrible memories about Anya, about the admiration Donna felt for her, the love she had for her. You didn't know what that fake relationship was like inside, but, somehow, you felt inferior to that stupid girl.

Little by little, the pressure you put on your mind took its toll on you. Your movements and attempts to surprise Donna were almost pathetic and… over time, you started to look like that stupid girl, or try to.

The doll maker had no friends, she only had you. She wouldn't talk to anyone about how much she loved you, so you would never know if you had gotten over that stupid girl in some way, and that… that was killing you.

“Come on…” you said comically, trying to fit into a tight, provocative dress, one very similar to the one her ex-girlfriend used to wear.

Maybe your doubts were stupid, but they were doubts, and you had to do everything you could to not think they were justified.

“Okay, that's it,” you said, looking at yourself in the mirror. “I-I can see everything but... well, I guess Donna will like it,” you said, finishing getting ready for a special occasion, the celebration of your 6 months together.

“Here you go, amore mio,” Donna said, serving you dinner and wine elegantly, looking at you out of the corner of her eye and making a strange expression.

“Thank you, darling,” you said with a tender smile, putting yourself in a position that clearly exaggerated your feminine attributes.

“Um, yes, um...” she said nervous and confused.

Smiles, caresses and words of love accompanied you throughout the dinner, but, after dessert, a small moment of awkwardness formed.

Normally you didn't mind Donna looking at your breasts, you even found it funny, but that look was different than other times, very different.

“Donna, are you looking at my tits?” you asked amused, encouraged by the wine. “Do you like them?”

“Y-Yes, of course, you know I love your body, (Y/N),” she said, looking away, without her usual smile.

“You don't seem to like my dress very much,” you whispered distrustfully, with a sad sigh.

“Oh, yes I... just... (Y/N), what are you wearing?” she asked finally, crossing her arms.

You looked at yourself and shrugged with an amused smile.

“It's new,” you said in a seductive voice.

“I see but... You... you don't usually wear that kind of clothes,” Donna commented, with a cold look.

“Yeah but… I thought, I thought you would like it,” you said in a fearful whisper.

“(Y/N), you're… very strange lately, you don't want to play chess, you wear… those things… it seems like something's wrong with you.”

“I'm the same as always,” you said in your defense, with a somewhat dangerous tone and look.

“No, that's not true, you've changed…” she said, shaking her head. “It seems like you're trying to be like…”

“Well, so what if I do? You loved her a lot, didn't you? I have nothing to do with her, you'll never love me that much,” you said, bringing your worries to light.

“(Y/N),” the lady sighed, getting up and approaching you while resting two fingers on your chin. “I like the way you are, do you hear me? I don't want you to be like her, I don't love her. She was stupid and she never wanted to do anything that I liked. She could never, ever compare to you, (Y/N), I've never loved anyone as much as you, only you, and always you... do you understand? I love you, you are the love of my life, you always will be.”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

for anyone curious, my newest book is about the Salem Witch Trials! it’s at the point of view of Mary Warren and how she went through trials, ultimately ending in her downward spiral into madness as the trials deteriorate her mental health. it’s called Servant of Evil.

here’s the first segment of the first chapter!

— — —

She was gathering crops the first day she caught wind of the hysteria.

It was late January and sunny, the last warm day in what would soon feel like forever. The sickle in her hand was wickedly sharp and gleaming in pale yellow light, and the stalks of the corn she was cutting away were rough and sharp beneath calloused fingers. Already, the skin on her hands was shredded, oozing ruby droplets of blood and staining bright green stems. Her legs ached from crouching in the dirt, muscles locked up and tense. Somewhere beyond the pillars of corn stretched out before her, she could hear her master’s children talking in high-pitched voices, dogs barking, and horses neighing. Even closer than that, however, she could hear heavy footsteps tramping through the field, and she knew the owner of this land would not enjoy such galumphing through his crops. But she also knew that the one who appeared through the stalks wouldn’t care much for the fiery point of John Proctor’s scorn.

“Something weirdish is going on in Salem.”

Without looking up, Mary Warren answered the unexpected visitor, “Something is always going on in Salem.”

That much was true, at least right now. Salem was a town of rich trade and sea salt, characterized by a sparkling harbor that was bested only by Boston’s and a habit of fighting with itself. For years, Salem had been split between two forces: the nobles up in Salem Town and the farmers down in Salem Village. The two territories were never not fighting with each other; they were always mad about something the other did, and it was easy to lose track of who hated who and for what reason. Salem Village didn’t like the control Salem Town held over it, while Salem Town was annoyed by Salem Village thinking it was its own settlement, but they all detested the British church, which was mutual. Salem Town often pulled men from Salem Village to be a part of the national guard, which made Salem Village nervous because then they would have nobody to protect them, and Indian attacks were a regular fear throughout the civilization. Aside from its harbor, the other thing Salem had to owe to its popularity was its unfortunate position in front of frequent ambushes. And if it didn’t suffer ambushes first-hand, then it suffered ambushes through the survivors of such raids, many of which populated the city and would soon help with the grisly events that turned the community over on its head.

But the only other thing Salem Village and Salem Town could agree on was that the Indians were an issue. Unfortunately, that was where agreements ended and arguments began- Salem Town wanted more men to train, promising protection; Salem Village refusing, saying they knew how Salem Town lied, and if they didn’t, then they only saved them because of their bountiful trade and not because they were their people. It wouldn’t be long until the yelling broke out, testaments from the Bible were quoted, and grown men argued like two children fighting over who was their parents’ favorite kid.

However, Salem as a whole had fallen silent recently. Things were peaceful. It was as though a grace period were opening up before them all--or, perhaps, it was actually ending.

Except for right now, in the Proctor corn field, of course. Because her visitor would only bring silence if she were dead, and she had proved to be too slippery for death’s fingers three times over after surviving several Indian attacks throughout her young life.

“This is different.”

Wiping a sagging green sleeve over her damp brow, Mary looked up and squinted through sweat and sun to look at none other than the Putnam’s maid, Mercy Lewis.

Mercy was a fine example of everything the Puritans didn’t want. Despite her name’s sake, she was stubborn, brash, and spitfire, though she was smart enough to never act in such a way in front of the church. And she was, indeed, smart. She was more clever than a fox, easily outwitting several situations despite the minimal education women had in their lifetime. The only thing she was merciful to was her younger cousin, Ann Putnam Jr. Her parents were better off naming her Big, Loud, and Vulgar.

Mercy was nineteen-years-old, two years older than Mary, and built like a small bear. She was short, compact, and sinewy, her muscles and joints well-honed from rough maid work. Her temper was black and her teeth were sharp. Her curly dark brown hair was tucked up in her blindingly white bonnet, and she was dressed in a nondescript dress of purple. Storm cloud grey eyes bore down on Mary with bright amusement.

The two of them met three years ago in Elizabeth Proctor’s tavern. Mary had been struggling to wipe away a sticky stain on one of the tables; Mercy was looking for fresh meat. They both were in the right place at the right time.

Mary hadn’t heard her come in. It was as though the shadows of the tavern itself had unfolded the sixteen-year-old before her because she was suddenly there, towering over the front of the table, and Mary ended up spilling the bowl of soapy water she was using all over herself upon noticing her.

“My, are you jumpy,” the strange girl had observed, peering over the edge of the table. She didn’t offer Mary her help or even an apology. Mary didn’t ask for one. “Were your parents murdered by savages, too?”

“What?”

“Ooo, no, then. Got it.”

Mary blinked up at her for a moment, then carefully got up out of the sudsy puddle and retrieved a dry rag to clean up the newest mess. The entire time, the strange girl watched her as she dripped droplets and beads of white soap from the bottom of her old lavender dress.

“Can I help you?” Mary asked as she got back down on her hands and knees to clean the floor.

“Oh, no,” the strange girl answered. “I just came to say hello. Introduce myself. You work for the Proctor’s, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mary nodded.

“Interesting, interesting. I work for the Putnam’s. Thomas is my cousin, actually.”

Mary nodded again. She looked back down at the puddle, trying to focus on that. The girl didn’t move.

“Mercy.”

Mary looked back up again. She blinked. The strange girl blinked back. Was this a game?

“Pity.”

The girl stared at her for a moment, then burst into loud laughter that seemed to shake the walls. Mary was startled; she had never heard anyone laugh so hard in her entire life. Especially in a town as strict as Sakem.

“No, that’s my name,” the girl said after calming down. “My name is Mercy. Mercy Lewis.”

“Oh,” Mary’s ears heated up. “Right. Your parents were feeling pretty creative, weren’t they?”

Another bout of laughter. “Yes. Yes, they were.” She squinted at her. “And you are?”

“Mary. Mary Warren.”

“Well, Mary ‘Pity’ Warren, I think we are going to be very good friends.”

And she was right.

Mercy, as menacing as she could be, made life in Salem a lot more bearable, especially when Proctor’s whip frequently began lapping at Mary’s bare back. Together, they formed a cohort of sorts, sneaking away into the woods with other village girls, hiding away from the Lord’s watchful eyes to discuss the most sinful of things.

And today, Mercy wanted to carry on with their long-running traditions.

“Different in what way?” Mary asked.

Mercy rolled her eyes. She kicked a cloud of dust at Mary, and Mary sputtered, nearly falling backwards into the corn.

“Different-different,” Mercy answered. “Something is wrong with Abigail. Betty, too, I hear. We’re gonna go up to the Reverend’s house and see them. They’re ill, you know?”

“No,” Mary shook her head. “Mister Proctor didn’t tell me anything. They’re sick?”

“Yeah. Real sick. Ain’t wakin’ up. The Reverend has been throwin’ a huge fit over them.” Mercy explained, “I’m surprised you never heard him howlin’!” Then, doing a horrible imitation of Reverend Samuel Parris’s voice, she wailed, “Oh Betty, Betty! Wake, my sweet daughter! Wake! Why won’t you wake?!”

She clung to Mary’s arm dramatically. “God! God! Why have you forsaken me?! What have you struck my little girls with?!”

Mary couldn’t help but giggle softly. Still, her mind was made up on the whole ordeal.

“Tell them my pardons and prayers,” she said, grabbing the fallen sickle. “My master said I gotta tend to the crops. Then I can go to town. But I am not spendin’ my free time meddlin’ in someone else’s affairs.”

Mercy groaned loudly and snatched the sickle away from Mary, making her yelp.

“Live a little, will ya? Let’s go see poor Abby and Betty!” Mercy urged. “To Hell with your master right now. You can’t let him lead you around by a leash all the time. Deal with the consequences later. Let’s go!”

Mary stared into the older girl’s eyes and then sighed, giving in. She stood up- Mercy was taller than her, as she always had been. “Lead on, Mercy.”

Mercy brightened.

Together, the two of them snuck out of the Proctor property, careful as to not get caught by one of the many children roaming the plantation.

Technically, the Proctor’s had eighteen children, though four were dead and eleven were brought forth by two different women, both of which had also passed over the seasons. The only living child of John Proctor’s first wife, Martha Giddens, was Benjamin, a tall, lanky man who could never seem to grow a beard, yet had hair down to his shoulders. He was thirty-three and didn’t talk to Mary very often, but when he did, he greatly critiqued her work in the field. That farm was his pride and joy, and it was a challenge to not roll her eyes when he would go on about the importance of their crops and proper plant care.

Elizabeth II was the second oldest at twenty-nine, and helped Elizabeth Proctor run the tavern with her other siblings: Martha IV, twenty-six (the first two Martha’s had died when they were both infants, along with the woman they were named after); Mary II, twenty-five; John II, twenty-four; Mary III, twenty-three; and Thorndike, twenty. Why Proctor decided to have TWO daughters named Mary was beyond Mary herself, but it wasn’t uncommon for things to become confusing when their name was shouted for whatever reason.

Elizabeth Proctor’s children stayed on the farm, helping clean and take care of the livestock: William, eighteen; Sarah fifteen; Samuel, seven; Elisha, five; Abigail, three; and Joseph, one. Mercy often made jokes that Elizabeth had obviously been the one to name the kids, as they were actually creative and not repeating several times over.

But with so many watchmen on the property, Mary was surprised about how easy it was to slip away unseen.

The road was loose and crunched loudly beneath their footfalls. Mercy kept kicking a rock, and Mary watched it bounce across the ground.

“So, what’s wrong with Betty and Abby?” Mary asked.

Mercy smirked widely.

“There be witches about, Mary.”

[fandom-pardes]

According to halacha, which actions are Azula liable for?

Reposted from my Tumblr.

One of my favorite ways to study Jewish texts is to take a fictional character or situation and examine it through the lens of Jewish text and tradition.

I’ve done this before with ABC’s Once Upon A Time. Now I’m going to take up this exercise again with Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Before I begin, a few things to keep in mind.

I’m not a Talmud scholar.

There is no definitive Jewish Opinion™ about any issue pertaining to halacha. Unanimous opinions on halacha are so rare that when we find one, we assume something went wrong in the process..

Azula is a morally polarizing character in AtLA fandom. Regardless of who you ask, you’re bound to get some strong opinions about exactly what she’s done, the extent to which she’s responsible for it, and what this says about her morality or lack thereof. I’m not going to rehash those arguments. I think I’ve made it clear that I care less about whether people approve of her behavior than I do about how their statements about her reinforce harmful messages about women, people of color, LGBT people and mentally ill people.

Nevertheless, she’s incredibly interesting, and studying Jewish text is fun, so here we are.

Why examine Azula’s actions through the lens of halacha?

Halacha gets a lot of flack because it comes off as excessively legalistic. But, in my opinion, that’s based on a misunderstanding of what halacha is. Usually translated as “Jewish law,” the word halacha actually comes from the root word that means “to go/walk.”

Halacha is not a collection of rules for the sake of having rules. It’s meant to take us somewhere. You can write a library of books about exactly what that is and what it means. But for the sake of simplicity, halacha is how we show that we recognize the holiness of everything in creation. So we aim to do right by one another, by the land we live in and by the creatures we share this world with.

Before we can launch into examining the halachic ramifications of the things Azula does, we need to establish some boundaries.

Only the show counts. It’s the common frame of reference universally accepted by the vast majority of fandom. Fandom’s stances on the comics, novelizations and other tie-in materials are too variable to base an analysis on.

Word of God is immaterial. While some would use the phrase Death of the Author, Jewish tradition has a more entertaining take on it. In the Talmud, there’s a dispute between Rabbi Eliezer and some of his peers. In that story, Rabbi Eliezer says that if he’s right, this or that miraculous thing would happen, and those miraculous things do happen. But the other rabbis still reject it because we don’t determine halacha by miraculous signs. Eventually, God parts the heavens and says, “Rabbi Eliezer is right.” But another rabbi responds, “The Torah is not in heaven,” meaning that the Torah was meant for human beings on earth to interpret for themselves. And God’s response? To smile and say, “My children have defeated Me.”

Now, let’s begin.

Is Azula bound by halacha?

She’s not Jewish, so no. However, all human beings are bound by the Noahide laws. For the sake of argument, let’s say that the Noahide covenant applies to all humans on all worlds. According to the Talmud (Sanhedrin 56a.24):

Since the halakhot of the descendants of Noah have been mentioned, a full discussion of the Noahide mitzvot is presented. The Sages taught in a baraita: The descendants of Noah, i.e., all of humanity, were commanded to observe seven mitzvot: The mitzva of establishing courts of judgment; and the prohibition against blessing, i.e., cursing, the name of God; and the prohibition of idol worship; and the prohibition against forbidden sexual relations; and the prohibition of bloodshed; and the prohibition of robbery; and the prohibition against eating a limb from a living animal.

What is Azula’s legal status?

In any case, we know the rules, and now we have to decide whether Azula broke them or not, right?

Not so fast.

First, we have to determine if Azula is of the appropriate legal status to be held accountable for upholding the Noahide laws. In other words: when she committed certain acts, was Azula an adult capable of making rational decisions?

Clear your mind of the idea that being an adult is the same as being a grownup. Instead, think of it as a term that defines when people can make legally binding decisions.

As far as I can tell, the Talmud doesn’t say when a gentile becomes an adult. However, we can use halacha as a guide.

Now for a warning.

If frank talk about the physical development of adolescents makes you uncomfortable, you might want to skip this next part. There’s nothing graphic or titillating about what I’m going to discuss, but if breasts and pubic hair squick you out, skip this part until I say it’s safe in bold like this.

According to halacha, a girl reaches adulthood when she’s twelve years and one day old and has two pubic hairs. Yeah, you read that right. Twelve and two pubes are the requirement. Before this point, nothing she does is legally binding, even if she’s really smart and claims to be fully aware of what she’s doing. After this point, her actions are legally binding, even if she says she had no idea what she was doing.

On the show, we see Azula in a range of ages. In “Zuko Alone,” we see her at roughly eight years old. In “The Storm,” she’s about eleven. In all the other episodes she’s in, she’s fourteen. So, from a legal standpoint, flashback!Azula is too young for her actions to be legally binding. At that point in time, the responsibility would fall to her parents.

Um, I’m not willing to speculate about the genitals of an underage cartoon character, so for the sake of argument, I’m assuming that 14-year-old Azula meets the two pubes requirement. Thus, 14-year-old Azula is responsible for her actions.

If you skipped that last part, it’s safe to continue now.

OK, we’ve established that flashback!Azula is too young for her actions to be legally binding, but in the main story, Azula is legally an adult and responsible for her actions.

We good? Alright.

Which Noahide laws does Azula actually break?

This is both easier and harder than it seems.

The laws about idol worship, cursing God, and forbidden sexual acts don’t apply to her because neither religion nor sex are portrayed as such on the show. Also, the law about establishing courts of justice is a communal obligation, not one that falls on a single individual, so that’s another one we don’t have to concern ourselves with.

That leaves the prohibitions against bloodshed, robbery and eating a limb cut from a living animal.

First up: bloodshed.

The connotation of the prohibition against bloodshed is not for general acts of violence, but actual murder.

Here’s where I think I’m going to throw a lot of people for a loop. Azula doesn’t kill anyone on the show. She tries. She comes close. She wouldn’t lose sleep over it if she did. But nobody’s dead because of her. She doesn’t even take lives as collateral damage.

One could argue that zapping Aang with lightning counts as killing, but when the Sages talk about death and dying, I assume they mean the kind where the dead stay dead, not people who are revived by magic spirit water. Furthermore, if someone’s about to kill you (and I think entering the Avatar State qualifies here), you are halachically obligated to save your own life, even if it means killing that person.

Second: robbery.

We’ll come back to that.

Third: eating a limb from a living animal.

This prohibition is often expanded to incorporate all forms of animal cruelty.

The show does portray animal cruelty. We see a prime example with the circus in “Appa’s Lost Days.”

But what about Azula? We don’t see her interact with many animals on the show, but there are two notable examples: Appa the sky bison in “Appa’s Lost Days” and Bosco the bear in “The Crossroads of Destiny.”

How does her behavior measure up? Despite her earlier behavior of terrorizing turtleducks, Azula does not harm either Appa or Bosco.

On the show, Mai and Ty Lee are seen spending time with Bosco in the throne room while the Earth King is imprisoned. So, at the very least, they treat the bear well.

So, Azula is not liable for animal cruelty.

*hands Azula her Not As Big A Jerk As She Could Have Been award*

Now, let’s revisit that prohibition against robbery.

Given the prescribed punishment (decapitation), the connotation seems to be taking the rightful property of another through violent means. That being said, the prohibition against robbery is often extended to include all sorts of theft.

This one might have some legs. On the show, does Azula take the rightful property of another, and does she use violent means to do so?

Absolutely.

A major example is stealing the clothes of the Kyoshi Warriors after defeating them in combat.

But!

The show takes place during a time of war, and the Kyoshi Warriors, as allies of the Avatar, are enemies of the Fire Nation. So does beating them up and taking their uniforms fall under the prohibition against robbery, or are the Kyoshi Warrior uniforms considered the spoils of war and thus free for the taking?

Halachically speaking, it might actually be the latter. When fighting the Kyoshi Warriors, Azula acts as a military commander during a time of war and achieves a decisive victory against an elite combat unit. Thus, she is entitled to take their stuff.

So, back to the original question: which actions does Azula commit during the show that she’s halachically liable for?

The answer, shockingly, may be: none.

On the show, we’re encouraged to think of Azula as a Very Bad Girl who does Very Bad Things. She’s calculating, ruthless and deceptive. She’s also full of herself. She’s not someone who inspires warm, fuzzy feelings in most people. But when you put her actions under the microscope, she exercises remarkable restraint compared to what she’s capable of.

Don’t worry. No one’s going to nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize just yet. This is Azula we’re talking about. She’s not acting out of an overwhelming love for humanity. But it is interesting that despite her threats to kill, maim and destroy, she doesn’t participate in wanton destruction or wasteful loss of life.

[brasskier]

@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary:  Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death. 

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind. 

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks. 

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge. 

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand. 

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.” 

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…” 

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.” 

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively. 

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it. 

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations. 

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.” 

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?” 

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself. 

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves. 

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes. 

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment. 

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood. 

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—” 

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it. 

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders. 

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck. 

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious. 

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.” 

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth. 

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale. 

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words. 

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him. 

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never. 

[baby-the-crybaby]

Festival Nights (Madara x Reader)

Madara and I have been friends for a few years now. Well we were friends.

Let me explain.

When I heard of the new peaceful Konoha, my family and I moved here with no questions asked. We wanted new opportunities and this place reeked with them. It was new and exciting and I for one got to see the village grow each day. It was beautiful and I will never regret moving here.

My father was a hardworking ninja and was constantly out on missions most days. My mother was out trying to find other jobs for herself to bring in more money for us. That left me at the house to do the chores. I would sweep and wash all the floors. Prepare dinner. Wash the clothes. All sorts of things.

I wanted to be a ninja just like my father, but he says it’s a man’s job. There are plenty of ninja women out there and I want to be just like them. I want my name out there, but my family would never allow it.

Then one day my father became ill and wasn’t able to go out on missions anymore. His life was on a thin sheet of ice and the smallest thing could take him away from me. Seeing as how my mom was struggling to take care of us and all the finances, I took it upon myself to get a job that I could do.

At first I applied for a spot as the Hokage’s advisor, but that was already taken. I felt embarrassed for even thinking I could even do that, but to my surprise I actually landed a different job. I was supposed to be one of Mito’s, the Hokage’s wife, handmaidens. I would help her around the village and make sure she had everything she needed.

I actually got to meet Hashirama a few times.

That’s how Madara and I met.

I was at Mito’s side when we met up with Hashirama for their lunch date. He was busy with his tall, dark haired, black eyed friend it seemed. When he saw us he gave us his warm smile and introduced us. Madara and I sat afar as we watched the two lovebirds eat their lunch. We didn’t talk much. I told him who I was and he told me who he was and that’s pretty much it.

It was a continuous routine from that point on. Eventually we had gotten so close that we started meeting up on our own to talk. We would tell each other about our lives or what our ambitions were. He told me I should pursue my dreams of becoming a ninja and that was the first time anyone had ever said that to me. That’s when our relationship really blossomed. Soon our conversations had the occasional flirt here and there. We even got more serious with our conversations as well. We started watching the sunset together while talking about all sorts of different things. His cold demeanor soon melted into a soft mushy one. The occasional flirt grew and grew until our feelings for each other were pretty obvious. Then I realized I was in love with the man.

That’s when I put an end to our meetings. When Mito would meet up with Hashirama, I would avoid his dark eyes and if he talked to me, I kept it short. He was an important man, the leader of his clan. I was just some small town girl who was lucky that she even scored a job for her dying dad. His clan would shun him if they found out about our meetings. I couldn’t ruin his reputation just so I could be happy with him. When he understood I didn’t want to talk anymore, he gave up even trying.

Which brings us to today.

My father was doing much better and is even able to walk around the village all by himself. Mito has become a very close friend of mine and I get to hear all the gossip from her. Madara and I haven’t spoken in a while. I won’t lie, I do miss him, but this is for his sake not mine.

To celebrate my father’s good health getting better we decided to go to a festival that was being held in the village. I had my (f/c) kimono on and my hair was all done and pretty. Mito had ended up doing my makeup that day. I felt like a pretty princess tonight.

I separated myself from my family to go around the festival myself. While walking around I started to eye a game. It was a simple bottle toss game with a small straw doll, but I still wanted to play. I walked up to the game and paid the man behind the stall. As I was getting ready to throw the ball at the bottles I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.

“You should let a man throw this for you,” The voice belonged to a man that I had not met before.

He was handsome. I won’t lie, so why not have some fun and flirt tonight? “I can handle this like the big girl I am.” I winked at the stranger. His warm hand left my shoulder as I prepped my arm to throw. I tossed the ball as hard as I could towards the bottles and only managed to knock off the top bottle. I frowned at my failure.

He chuckled, “That’s alright, these games are usually rigged anyway.”

I let out my fake cute giggle, “Well why didn’t you say so before? I just wasted some money for it.”

“Oh my bad,” He grinned at me. “Let me make up to you. I can go buy us some food if you’d like?”

I smiled back at him, “Why not?” He wrapped his arm around my waist and started to walk down the street. As we were walking, we passed the long haired Uchiha. I could see his dark eyes glare at us. He was upset and wasn’t hiding it at all. It made me mad that he was upset at a little flirting. It’s not like we were dating before anyway. I moved the man’s arm off of me and started to walk towards Madara. “I’ll be right back.”

When Madara saw me coming towards him, he quickly turned on his heel and tried to get away from me. I was right on his tail though. I gripped the back of his navy kimono causing him to flinch. He wiggled out of my grasp and continued walking, “Leave me alone, woman.”

I scoffed and ran up to his side, “What has your panties in a twist?”

His eyes met mine, he was shocked at my language, “Excuse me?”

“Why are you upset with me?”

We continued walking even though the festival started to break off. We were soon in a secluded part of the woods as he kept trying to get away. “Is it that obvious?”

I stopped walking at his side and he stopped in front of me, “I saw you looking at me with a glare so I think it is pretty obvious.” He scoffed and turned his head away from me. “Are you jealous of me and that man?”

“Of course not,” His arms crossed over his chest. “I just think you should be careful with who you flirt with.”

I pointed at him in triumph, “So you are jealous!”

It was hard to see in the dark, but with the moon illuminating us I could still see his beautiful pale skin and the pink that was dusted on his cheek, “And what if I am? It shouldn’t bother you anyway. You don’t seem to care about other people’s feelings. You just leave with no word.”

I let my hand fall. I knew I hurt him, but I thought we had a mutual understanding of why I left. I didn’t think he would hold it against me, “Madara, I was considering your feelings when I left.”

“In what way?” His head snapped to me, his voice slightly rising with anger.

“I left because…” My eyes stared at the grass floor. “I left because I knew if we were to be together, your clan would shun you and you wouldn’t be able to produce an heir that was a pure Uchiha. I couldn’t do that to you.”

He remained silent after my explanation. It was so silent that the wind was talking for us. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. He was deep in thought. I knew that face. I studied it many times. The way his eyes were squinted, his lips were pursed, and his eyebrows slightly furrowed. I knew him all too well.

“I’m sorry,” My eyes widened at his words. “I wish I could say you’re wrong and we could be together, but you’re right. It wouldn’t be good for my reputation and I wouldn’t want you to bear that hate from the clan. I shouldn’t have been so foolish and allowed us to get as far as we did.”

Our eyes met and we were thinking the same thing. We wanted to run into each other's arms and be together, but with our circumstances, it just couldn’t happen. His words hurt, but it was the truth.

I raised my arms up and held them open, “Can we hug it out at least?”

I could see the corner of his lips curl up as he stepped into my arms. I wrapped them around his chest and his were around my lower back. I laid the side of my cheek of his torso and sighed. His heart beat remained calm, just like mine. It felt so tranquil at that moment. His chin was on the top of my head. His chest raised and fell as he followed my sigh with one of his.

I broke away from the hug and laid my hands on his chest. His hands laid on my lower back. Our eyes were reading each other’s searching for some way out of our situation.

I went up and pressed my lips on his lips. His lips were so soft, I was expecting a hard surface but they were plump and smooth.

Wait.

Oh my god.

What am I doing?

I pulled away quickly to see his eyes were wide with shock. Mine were large as well, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I just...It felt right. I just felt like I should--”

He shut me up with his lips. My body froze. Shoulders were up and my arms were stiff. Soon everything melted into that kiss. My eyes slowly shut as I pressed my lips back. We continued this passionate kiss for as long as we could. We were both desperate for it. We wanted to leave our lips together forever. My heart was pounding and my hand could feel his doing the same. It was as if we were connected literally and mentally. His hands were on the back of my head and my hands stayed resting on his chest.

When my lips met the cold air again, I felt sad and alone.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” His words were simple, but I knew he wanted to keep going just like me.

I chuckled, “Just kiss me.”

He did it with no question. We kept kissing for so long. Our lips were desperate for each other’s touch. I didn’t want to leave his touch, but I knew this couldn’t last forever.

I spoke too soon. He pulled away once more. He laid his forehead on mine while thumb rubbed my lips. His eyes darted from my lips to my eyes.

“This never happened,” He was serious this time. No underlying message in his eyes or body language.

I nodded with no questions asked.

Then he was gone for the night.

I never went back to the stranger that night. I went home and my fingers kept playing along my lips.

I wish we could say that it never happened again, but we kept meeting in secret and it kept happening. It was almost a nightly routine. We would chat just like old times and end it with our lips touching each other. I felt so open with him now. Like I didn’t have to keep holding back anymore.

When we saw each other in public, we acted as if we didn’t know each other, but at night we would laugh about our acting skills.

Soon his visits became more dispersed. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up for a whole week. When we were together, he was angry. I could tell something was bothering him, but he wouldn’t tell me anything. He sometimes would just get what he wanted from me and leave. It broke my heart.

What broke my heart in pieces was when I heard of his death. When Mito told me what happened, I had to excuse myself while I sobbed somewhere else. I wished I could have helped him more on his last days, but now he’s gone and wishing meant nothing.

One day, we’ll meet again.

[bangtan-gal]

Torn Soul

Lee Minho x Fem!Reader

Gang!au powers!au post!apocalypse!au

A/N: the reader is in a psych ward—she doesn’t actually have any mental illnesses, but if that will still make you uncomfortable, I suggest not reading. But honestly if you’ve read the other fics in this series, you’ll probably be able to take it so yeah

Word count: 14.8k

Warnings: swearing, angst, graphic depictions of blood, abuse, mentions of past abuse, detailed sex scenes, fluff, unedited 

You woke up with a shout, cold sweat clinging to you.  The sheets were tossed on the floor and now the bitter air was burning into you. There was no clock in your room and you didn’t have a phone, but it didn’t matter what time it was: you weren’t going back to sleep. Images seemed to flicker across the walls around you, phantoms of nightmares creeping through the shadows. 

A click sounded through the room as the lamp on your bedside flickered to life. Of course, it didn’t help. If anything, it enhanced the creepiness of your windowless, cement-walled room. Orange was cast over the gray and it created even worse illusions. You sighed, pulling your knees to your chest and letting your chin fall on top of your knees. 

 “They’re just nightmares. Only nightmares, what you see in the real world are illusions.” That’s what they constantly told you, that what you saw in the real world was fake. At first, you believed them, but that’s because at first they were only nightmares.

 The tiger that stood on top of a mountain, roaring. The blonde boy with his white and gold embroidered mask. Snow blizzards, lightning storms, ghosts, and knives flying around plagued you every night. They shouldn’t have been real, but they were. You wouldn’t have ever believed it if you had never woken up that day,  giant claw marks torn into your stomach. Random injuries continued to appear whenever you woke up; fingertips blue with frostbite, an unexplainable bite in your calf, a burn mark on your bedroom floor and a hole in the roof. 

That was your first and biggest mistake: telling someone about it. You were stupid to think that anyone would believe you, especially when you yourself barely believed it. Your parents, who had always looked for an excuse to get rid of you, happily took the opportunity to send you to the psychiatric hospital and leave you there. 

You looked over your body, checking for any mysterious wounds and then around the room for any damage. This was the third room you’ve lived in the five months you’d been here. The first one had been normal, with a window, drawing desk, and it’s own bathroom. The second didn’t have the desk or the bathroom, but it had the window. After that room had been destroyed by a wind storm—the same one that you’d seen in your dream that night—they sent you to a room with no glass. 

There was for once, nothing. A sigh of relief escaped you as you relaxed into the bed, glad for just one night of peace. It was hard to explain to the doctors and nurses what happened every time you woke up with mysterious wounds. You couldn’t tell them the truth, they would just continue to brand you as crazy. 

“Y/N.”

You jumped so hard, your head smashed against the wall behind you. A groan unconsciously escaped you. You pressed your fingers to the back of your head, pulling them back to see specks of blood dotting your skin. 

You should’ve expected it, there was no way that you would have a peaceful night for once in your life, but it still scared you. Something or someone—you weren’t exactly sure—stood by your door. Correction: it hovered. It’s eyes were purple and there was no specific figure to it, but it seemed to be human. The creature didn’t move, it just sat by the door, watching you. 

It’s mouth opened and you almost threw up. 

Blood dripped from its mouth and fangs that weren’t attached to anything sat in its mouth.

“It’s Y/N, right?” The voice was familiar, but it was deep and raspy, an inhuman curl in its sound. You sat there silently, trying to place the voice to a person but you couldn’t. 

“Yes…” you whispered, pressing yourself further back against the wall. 

The creature made a sound that sounded like a sigh.

“I apologize for the appearance. I can’t always pick and choose what I possess,” it muttered, “but I’m here to talk about your ability.”

You couldn’t reply.

“Possess?” You squeaked out eventually.

If the creature was capable of facial expressions, it didn’t look very impressed.

“Look, I don’t have much time, I’m hundreds of miles away so the conne—”

It stopped talking to let out a hissing noise.

“—you’re in the V district, right? In a psych ward?”

You nodded wearily, unsure of where this was going exactly. The ghost—you decided it was a ghost—flickered for a few seconds and a few garbled sentences fell from its gruesome mouth. Then with a flash of light, it disappeared. You sat there, heart racing as you stared at the spot it had been. Blood sat in droplets around the floor where it had been. 

That voice, that voice… it had been from your dreams. You were sure of it, the tone and accent were the same as one of the boys you’d briefly seen in your sleep. Were… were they actually real or was that just an after effect of one of your nightmares?  

The overhead lights in your room and you sat up straight, eyes darting from the blood on the floor to the metal door. A face appeared in it: your doctor. Her red hair was in a bun and her glasses rested low on her nose. The door creaked open, an armed man standing beside her. She smiled at you as the guard surveyed the room, his eyes landing on the blood spots. He nudged her, nodding at it. When her gaze returned to yours, her face was full of disappointment. The gesture was completely comical of course, considering that the lady didn’t genuinely care about you. 

As usual, you were dragged out of the room as a cleaning team was sent in. You didn’t fight this time, your mind focused on the conversation you’d had with the ghost boy. He’d asked where you were, which made you wonder if those boys from your dreams were coming for you. If they were, was that a good thing or a bad thing? You wanted to get out of this hellhole desperately, but who knew if they were on their way to rescue you? They could be coming to painfully slaughter you and leave your guts splattered all along the depressing cement walls of your room. 

At least if that happened, you wouldn’t have to explain why there was blood everywhere.

“Y/N.” The doctor snapped her fingers in front of your face. You blinked and then sighed as you begrudgingly met her inquisitive stare. “I see you banged your head up.”

She unconsciously touched the same spot on her head as if injuries were contagious. You stared at her, keeping your face blank. You’d learned that remaining expressionless and talking as little as possible got you out of these rather quickly. She was your fifth doctor and she seemed more determined than the rest to “cure” you.

“Of course, there’s not much blood coming from that wound,” she muttered aloud, “so where did that blood on the floor come from?”

You shrugged and rolled your eyes.

A mandatory check was conducted on you. The doctor was baffled when she found no other wounds on you. She checked three times just to make sure and you had never seen anyone look so distraught. It was hard to tell what was going through her mind, but it probably wasn’t anything good.

“Are you sure you don’t know where the blood came from?” She asked slowly. 

You smiled.

“Want the truth?” 

She nodded.

“It was a ghost,” you deadpanned, leaning back in your seat. “He said that him and his pals are coming to save me from this hell. Nine of them actually. You won’t even know I’m gone until it’s too late.”

The lady obviously didn’t believe you as she raised an eyebrow and took notes. The notes were probably somewhere along the lines of ‘the psychopath thinks that nine ghosts are going to come and break her out. How cute.’ With that, she nodded at two guards, and they grabbed you, dragging you away. You let them willingly, your bare feet stumbling against the cold tile.

But then you stopped. A tiny little boy drifted along the hallway and his light blue eyes locked with yours. A shiver raced down your spine and you didn’t want to go in that direction, but they were forcing you to. He approached, clutching a teddy bear in his arms. One of the guards shouted at you and then you fell to your knees.

“Y/N,” he mumbled, standing right in front of you, “I’m almost there. Tonight. Be ready.”

The ghost disappeared and you stared at the spot in disbelief. Then a smile started to curl at your lips and you started laughing. You made eye contact with one of the guards and your laughs only grew louder.

“You”—you giggled—“you all are so screwed.” 

Neither of them seemed impressed by your threat as they furiously dragged you the rest of the way. They threw you in your room, the frigid ground scraping against your elbows. You didn’t care as you sat up, grinning at the tiny window in your door. Unless you were actually crazy, your ass was getting saved tonight.

The rest of the day passed quietly, a sloppy lunch getting tossed into your room. You chose not to eat it, staring at the mush in disgust. You kept yourself busy as you scratched words into the walls. You continued writing until the lights flickered off and guards shouted throughout the halls for everyone to get to bed. A smile was bright on your face as you stared at the little message you’d left on your wall.

‘Lol bye fuckers!’ 

It was impossible for you to fall asleep that night. You tried multiple times, but your heart was trying to escape your chest and your mind was racing. This was the moment where it really proved whether you were a psycho or not. Shadows danced along the side of the walls and guards paced back and forth in the hallway. 

You weren’t sure how you expected the boy to show up. Maybe he would blow up your room and march in through a hole in the wall. Or he would go guns blazing through the facility until he found you. What you didn’t expect was a boy appearing in your room. Silver and black specks floated around him and his eyes glowed silver in the dark room. 

“Y/N?” You couldn’t reply, your mouth flopping open and close.

“We need to hurry,” he rushed out as he ran towards your bed. You nodded in understanding, slipping out of bed. His fingers wrapped around your hand and he wrapped his other arm around your torso. His mouth was close to your ear and shivers raced through your body as his breath ruffled your hair.

“This is gonna feel weird,” he warned briefly.

And then everything around you twisted and turned. You became everything and nothing; you were everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. A million different voices came for you, some loud and others soft. It felt like you were underwater, floating through murky water. The only thing you were sure of was the warm body pressed tight against you and the nervous, hushed breaths coming from the person.

When you blinked, everything changed. You stood in a different room, with wooden walls and red carpet. A plush queen bed was pressed against one wall and there was a window, with curtains framing it. It smelled of old cigarettes and laundry detergent. 

“Are you okay?” You jumped, having forgotten that the boy was still there. You nodded, stepping away from him only for the room to spin.  He caught you before you fell and carried you to the bed, setting you down.

“What was that?” You asked as he sat down on the bed. The boy titled his head at you, silver eyes glinting.

“That depends,” he murmured, leaning towards you, “what can you tell me?”

“Lee Minho, twenty years old. Abilities are teleportation and possession.”

You covered your mouth, eyes widening. It came from nowhere. Did you somehow manage to pick all that up from just your dreams? You didn’t remember any names or anything that specific being mentioned once.

“Correct.” Satisfaction spread over Minho’s face. He leaned back, watching you. You stared at him, hoping that maybe he would offer some explanation. He didn’t.

“Where are we?” You asked. 

“A hotel.”

“And… you teleported us here?” 

Minho paced across the floor and nodded. He kept brushing his hair out of his face, only for it to fall back into his eyes. He was lean with a tiny waist. His black hair contrasted his pale skin.

“Stay here and don’t answer the door,” he instructed, his hand landing on the handle. “I’m going to go get you some clothes… you can’t be seen in those or somebody might call people we don’t want to have a run-in with.” 

Minho left before you could answer. Once the door was shut, you sank deeper into the bed, letting your eyes close. You let out a loud sigh and pulled the covers up to your chin. It was 2 AM and exhaustion was starting to pull at you. You tried to fight the sleep, but it claimed you quickly. 

Your eyes opened to an empty parking lot. You sat up, looking around at your settings. A burnt down building sat at the head of the lot and debris was scattered throughout the place. Three boys stood in a circle, talking amongst themselves. They motioned with their hands and they looked to be arguing. 

They all wore masks and hoods. They dressed in elaborate, expensive clothes and skin-tight gloves clung to their hands. You recognized one immediately, with blonde hair and the white and gold mask. He seemed to be the only one not talking, as his gaze was focused on something on the horizon.

Nothing was happening, which was odd. Whenever you had these dreams, someone was going full-on Avengers on someone. You weren’t complaining, of course, maybe this meant no injuries for once. 

Curiosity got the best of you as you stood up and crept towards the boys. They didn’t notice you as usual. The two continued to argue between themselves while the blonde kept looking around for something. 

Finally, the blonde spoke up.

“You two need to stop arguing, it is not going to get us anywhere,” he huffed, “Minho’s gone right now, so we can’t rely on him to keep people out of the way. Seungmin, maybe try putting some wind barrier up or something. Most people will leave that alone.”

“Chan… it’s really not that big of a de—”

“Don’t tell me what’s a big deal and what’s not!” The blonde snapped, “I’m doing this to keep us all safe and all you people do is drag your feet.”—he turned to the other one—“tell Woojin to find Minho, I want him back here as soon as possible.”  

The two stood in silence while the other one hurried away. Chan let out a sigh before turning to Seungmin. 

“Why was it that Minho went off again?” “A girl. He thought he found another one.”

Someone smacked your shoulder, hard. You woke up groggily, pain flaring through your left temple. Minho hovered over you and once he saw that you were awake, he threw a pile of clothes at you. 

“Hurry and get dressed, we gotta go,” he explained. You sat up, glancing at the clock and whining when you saw that it was just barely five AM. 

“But it’s so early,” you muttered, sliding out of the warm bed reluctantly. 

“They’re here and unless you wanna go back to that hell hole, you better hurry,” Minho snapped. The boy turned his back to you as he threw off his shirt and pulled on a new one. You looked away with a blush and searched through the clothes he got you. There weren’t many options, but you grabbed a sweatshirt and shorts. You changed swiftly, not caring if he was staring. You hadn’t had any privacy for the past five months, always aware of the cameras in the corners of the room whenever you were alone.

Minho grabbed your hospital gown and stuffed it under the mattress. His hand wrapped around yours and he pulled you out of the hotel door. The two of you ran down the hallway and out the door. Your eyes strayed over the parking lot to where two cop cars and a white van sat with cops and nurses wandering about. You quickly saw the red hair and white coat. Your fingers curled and tightened around his hand, your pulse starting to race. She was here, looking for you: threatening your freedom.

“Why is she here?” You whispered, more to yourself than to Minho.

“She’s crazy,” he replied, stopping in front of a pickup. He quickly unlocked the car and motioned for you to go around. You listened, sliding into the passenger’s seat, your gaze still focused on the crowd of people. “Her job is to find people like you and experiment on them.”

You opened your mouth but found that you had no reply to that odd statement. Your mind replayed your dream, reminding you of what the brunette had said. “He thought he found another one.” What did that mean? Were you that one? 

“Is this your car?” You queried as Minho rapidly pulled the truck out. The boy shook his head, keeping his gaze focused on the road ahead of him. He pulled out of the parking lot on two wheels and his foot flattened on the gas pedal, aiming for the highway.

“Stole it from the desk clerk,” he stated, “and I know you have questions, but I can’t answer those right now. Help me look for anybody that could be tailing us or any cops. We don’t need to run into anyone right now.”

You pursed your lips but accepted it. You looked at the rearview mirror and saw that there was only an empty road behind you. Minho’s gaze swept from side to side, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The truck was going at least fifteen over the speed limit and the last thing you needed was to get a speeding ticket in a stolen car with a runaway psych patient.

“Slow down,” you demanded. For a second, nothing happened and he didn’t let up. Then he let out a slow breath and as he did, the car started to gradually slow down. You sighed, your head falling back against the headrest.  “Are you sure you can’t answer my questions now?”

The black-haired boy glanced at you and then back at the road.

“I can, but I don’t know how much I can really answer. I honestly think some of the people I know would be better at explaining,” he murmured, “but ask away.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘people like me’?” You went for the one that confused you the most. He sighed and rolled his neck.

“People like you and me,” he said, “people with abilities.”

You went silent.

Minho glanced at you.

“Did she ever experiment on you?”

You shook your head.

“That probably means she hadn’t figured out what your abilities were yet or maybe she wasn’t entirely sure if you had any,” he muttered, relief spilling out through his voice. “The only reason I could find you was because I started sensing you. It doesn’t make sense, considering how far away you are from where I originally am from, but I could. My possession ability gives me the chance to look for specific people. That’s where I sensed your abilities.”

You shifted in your seat, staring at him. 

“My dreams.” “What?” “I… I’ve always had these kinds of nightmares, that’s where I first saw you and the others,” you mumbled, “for a while, they were just nightmares… but then I started waking up with unexplained injuries and started having weird occurrences in my life. I think, I mean I’m not sure, but I think maybe I was actually there but you guys just couldn’t see me.”

Minho stared at you for a second, completely ignorant to the fact he was driving. The way his silver eyes burned into you sent nerves racing through your body. Finally, he looked away, focusing on the road in front of him. He bit his lip and his eyes were clouded over as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

You drove along in silence for another hour. You kept your gaze on the window, watching the street signs blur past and looking for any familiar landmarks. You had no idea where you were or where you were going. This was a part of District V that you didn’t recognize. 

“Where are we going?” You asked softly, staring at the large cottonwood trees that hung over the road.

“District 9,” Minho murmured, “we can keep you safe there until we know exactly who you are.” 

You stiffened. “And the doctor lady?” “She won’t stop until she finds you, but she won’t be able to.”

“Shit.”

You looked up and saw what Minho was worried about. You were nearing the border and cop cars lined the street. Fear raced through you; this was it, this was where you got caught and sent back to hell. Minho’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and his gaze grew steely. The car pulled to a stop beside one of the policeman. Minho rolled down the window.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” The man said with a smile. “Can I see your IDs?”

You watched in confusion as Minho shuddered and his whole body seemed to shut down. Suddenly the policeman stiffened up and was blinking. His eyes turned silver and then he turned around and pressed a button in the manning station. The toll lifted.

Minho sprung back to life and gunned it out of there. You looked over your shoulder, eyes wide as nobody chased after you. You leaned back in your seat, trying to catch your breath. When you looked over at Minho you saw that his eyes were drooping and his body was slumping.

“Minho?”

He groaned and slowly started to pull the truck over.

“What’s wrong?”

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, his head falling back against the seat. His eyes were starting to flutter closed. “Don’t have enough energy and shit for th…”

He trailed off, his eyes closing completely. You sat there, your jaw on the floor. Had he just passed out? Slowly you unbuckled yourself and then did the same for the boy. You struggled for several minutes to get him out of the driver's seat and into the passenger’s seat. You had no idea where you were going, but you still started the car back up again and started down the road towards the Heart of District 9.

⧪⧪⧬⧪⧪ 

It was two hours later when you started to see lights and buildings. Skyscrapers and apartment buildings disappeared into the clouds. As you drove into the city, you watched as people milled about. It was noisy and crowded. 

You glanced over at Minho and sighed when you found him still asleep. You carefully pulled the car into a parking lot and then slid out of the car. Your bladder was begging to be relieved. You hurried into the convenience store. Country music played on the overhead and the desk clerk didn’t pay you any attention as you shuffled into the bathroom. 

You stared at yourself in the mirror, shocked by the gaunt look in your face. A sigh fell from your lips and you left the bathroom warily. Hunger gnawed at you as you made your way through the store, rows of snacks staring at you. You had no money so you left quickly, making a beeline for the truck. 

Minho was gone.

Panic set in as you looked through the truck and then scanned the parking lot. Where was he? Did people take random sleeping dudes from cars here? 

A hand wrapped around your wrist and you were roughly pulled against someone. You looked up, meeting Minho’s furious gaze. A baseball cap was pulled down over his hair and the only reason you were certain it was him was because of the cat-like eyes that glittered under the brim. Warmth raced across your skin when you realized just how close the two of you were standing.  His lips were inches from yours and up close you could a tiny amount of freckles that dotted his skin.

“Where the hell were you?” He growled, his grip on your wrist tightening. 

You blinked.

“Where was I? You were the one who randomly disappeared from the car!” You retorted, trying to pull back from him. He was stronger than you and it didn’t help that he looked ready to beat your ass any second.

“I woke up to find you gone! I didn’t know what happened—you could’ve run off or someone could’ve taken you! You could’ve been dead Y/N and you’re mad at me for running off in a hurry to find you?” Minho’s voice grew louder as he went. The few people that walked by looked over in alarm but nobody interfered. Minho pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Y/N, I can protect myself, you can’t.”

You couldn’t stop the snort of indignation.

“You fucking passed out for two hours after using one of your abilities for a solid two seconds!” You snapped back. “You think you’re anymore protected right now?”

He grew silent, his eyes studying your face. Then he smirked and pushed you away, shaking his head. You tried to stay mad but somehow your focus went to how good he looked with the sun beaming off his skin. You pinched yourself and turned away, walking back towards the truck.

“How far away are we?” You asked once the two of you were back on the road. 

“Not far.”

That was the only thing you said for the rest of the ride. Thirty minutes later, he pulled up in front of a huge building. You were in a city, full of people and buildings all in a row. No one paid you any attention as you stepped into the building. You were blasted by AC and greeted by stairs. 

As you trailed behind Minho, all you could think about was how you’d never seen so many stairs in your life. You’d climbed up seven flights of stairs so far and from the looks of it, there were plenty more to come. How many stairs could one building need? Did these boys really like exercise or something? “Can’t you just invest in an elevator?” You gasped once you’d finally reached another set of doors. Relief swept through you when he opened them to reveal an expensive-looking home. 

“I normally just teleport up them,” he pointed out, “but right now I’m running low on fuel.”

It was quiet as you followed Minho deeper into the home. Exhaustion was starting to wear you down and the couch that you stood by looked rather welcoming. You sat on the arm of the couch, slouching down and letting your eyes close. 

“Minho!” You jumped and stood back up, fidgeting nervously behind Minho. A white-haired boy approached, eyes widening when he spotted you. You watched as the two made eye contact and seemed to have a silent conversation. After a few tense moments, a tentative smile broke out on his face.

“We’re having a meeting,” he murmured, “I’m sure Chan will be glad that you’re back.”

Minho nodded and reached behind him to make sure you were following. As you followed him through the living room and down a glass hallway, you committed everything to memory. The layout was much different than any homes you’d ever seen in District V. It was nicer too;  more modern and clean. 

You stepped into a room after the two boys and looked around. Two of the walls were glass and the other two were a shiny gray. A long table sat in the middle of the room and seven boys sat around it. As you looked around at all of them, you found yourself recognizing them from your dreams. Chan sat at the head of the table, blonde hair curly and swept to the side. They were all staring at you, but something in his gaze was different. 

He looked like a skeptical predator and you were the unworthy prey.

“Minho,” he murmured, not taking his eyes off you, “who is this?” “Y/N,” you replied, raising your eyebrow. “You’re Chan, right?”

The two of you stared at each other, sizing one another up.

His eyes momentarily darted to Minho and then back to you.

“Yeah…” he grumbled, “do you know why you’re here?”

“Minho says I have abilities.”

A soft murmur ran through the boys. Chan leaned forward on his elbows, his skepticism turning to intrigue. You steeled yourself, forcing yourself not to buckle under all the attention. Minho stepped closer to you and you were surprised by the small calm that washed over you.

“And what, exactly, are these abilities?” The blonde demanded. You grew silent at that question and bit your lip. 

“I’m not sure yet Chan,” Minho butt in, “I think she can wander in her dreams and has like… an information well or something.”

The sentence made no sense to you, but it seemed to make a little bit of sense to the others because there were nods all around.

“Well, I suppose we could have Changbin and Woojin check it out… but the two of you look tired,” Chan murmured, “get some rest and then we’ll talk about this.”

⧪⧪⧬⧪⧪ 

You lay on the couch, your hands folded over your stomach as Woojin, Minho, Chan, and Changbin all hovered over you. It felt odd as they all stared at you like you were some unsolvable math problem. Finally, Woojin knelt down next to your head, his lavender eyes sweeping over your face.

“This might feel weird,” he warned. Your eyes fluttered close and you felt Woojin’s fingers press against your temple. There was a zing that ran through you, but other than that, nothing else happened. 

You tried to stay as still as possible and stay focused on the task at hand, but your mind started to wander. You started to think about your supposed abilities—could you really wander in your dreams? How did you do it? 

It felt like you blinked and then you woke up in a different place. You were still laying on a couch, but everything around you had changed. The boys were missing and you were surrounded by an overcast field of dead grass. You sat up, watching as images fluttered by like ripples of light. One of the images floated dangerously close to you and you reached out to touch it. 

You did more than touch it. Suddenly, the image was swimming around you. You were staring out a window, watching as rain poured down on two people arguing outside. Your instinct told you that these were your parents and a fabricated sadness fell over you. This wasn’t your memory; these weren’t your parents. Without your consent, your gaze shifted to focus on the blurry reflection in the. A young boy’s face appeared, black hair falling over his eyebrows, overshadowing familiar lavender-colored eyes.

This was Woojin’s memory.

You reeled back, feeling like you were intruding on something. A mix of panic and confusion started to fill you: what was happening? Was this what Woojin meant to do? Something told you it wasn’t; whatever was happening right now was your own doing. 

It almost felt like you were standing in a swimming pool full of panic. Your eyes widened as a storm started to brew above you and the grass withered away, turning into black piles of ash. The fear  seemed to go into overload and it caused your own heart to start thundering. You covered your ears, begging for it to stop and go away. Your eyes pinched shut and you bit your lip.

The air around you warmed up and the wind disappeared. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself back on the couch in the apartment. Woojin no longer knelt next to you, but instead he was sprawled on the ground several feet from you. His eyes swam with fear and his breathing was sporadic. The other three’s gazes we’re switching between you and the blue-haired boy. Finally, Chan clapped his hands together and let out a loud sigh.

“Come on, let's go take a breather,” he murmured, holding out a hand to Woojin. The boy took it and the two left.  Changbin looked at Minho and the two seemed to have a silent conversation. 

After that, it was just you and the teleporter. 

“What happened?” Your voice was shakier than you would’ve liked. Minho sat down beside you. 

“As you know, Woojin’s ability allows him to enter and read minds. At first, everything seemed fine and then he just stiffened up… and then he jumped away from you and started freaking out. He kept mumbling something about how you were in,” Minho explained. His voice became softer and had a calming effect on you. His hand landed on your wrist awkwardly and his eyes strayed to the place, a debate obvious in his stare. 

You cleared your throat. 

“I-er-I think I was in Woojin’s mind,” you whispered, “I don’t know how I did it and I’m really fucking sorry if I hurt him. It-it just happened, I really don’t k—“

“Y/N, it’s fine. Woojin isn’t injured, he’s just shocked. Don’t blame yourself,” he said, his hand dropping to yours this time. His fingers were warm between yours and it caused your face to heat up. 

Minho stood up, your hand slipping from his grasp. Changbin came back, his dark eyes watching the two of you carefully. He gave you the creeps, with his death stare and the weird aura that floated around him. 

“Chan said that we’ll see what happens tonight, but we’ve seemed to come to a conclusion on her abilities. We just want to be certain,” he stated, sitting down on the coffee table. “But now Chan wants to talk to you, while you’ve been gone, we’ve been in some desperate need of your ability.”

Minho nodded and sent a quick glance back at you before leaving. Changbin turned to watch him leave and once the silver-eyed boy was out of sight, he turned back to you. He brushed his black hair from his face, showing off a scar that ran through his eyebrow. His lips turned into a frown.

You expected him to say something, but instead, the boy just perched on the table. It felt like you were having some weird staring contest as the boy refused to look away from you. You looked away and sat up, running a hand through your hair. 

“So what’s the conclusion?” “You want to know?” 

You narrowed your eyes and turned to him. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s my ability, isn’t it?” Changbin shrugged.

“Minho explained to us how you could randomly sprout information about him the second you met him. Chan and Woojin believe that it may be a side-ability to a bigger one. They… think that you can mock abilities,” Changbin said. He raised his eyebrows at you and tilted his head. “I told you one of my abilities… what’s my other one?”

You wanted to laugh in his face, but you couldn’t because the information rushed you so fast.

“Telekinesis,” you replied smoothly. 

He nodded. “What are Chan’s?”

“Gravitation and Phasing.”

A satisfied smile curled onto his lips and it was rather disconcerting. For some reason, you could imagine this boy smiling while stabbing you. You couldn’t remember anything about him from your dreams, so you weren’t sure where you were getting this persona from. Maybe it was just your paranoia.

You hoped it was paranoia. 

       His eyes roved over you, curiosity burning in their depths. You could see the questions brimming. Then he let out a sigh and leaned away. 

“You’re welcome to do whatever, we won’t be retrying until tonight,” he said. Changbin stood up and bid you goodbye and then disappeared to where the others had gone. 

       You sat in silence, looking around. You didn’t feel like you belong among the polished surfaces and clean carpets. This was the world for the rich and powerful. It was the opposite of what you had grown up in. 

You spent the rest of the day wandering around the place and trying to relax. Stress was coursing through you, making your thoughts race and your skin tingle. There were a million things going on that were causing it. You were no longer in District V and now you were living with some notorious gang. Apparently, you had “abilities” and these boys would go to any means to discover what they were.

Night approached too quickly. After eating a bowl of cereal by yourself in their extremely clean kitchen, Minho came to fetch you. It didn’t help that he also seemed to be nervous, with his fingers constantly tapping against his thigh. Nothing was even happening to him.

“Y/N,” Changbin greeted you as you stepped into the room. A large queen bed with a blood-red bedspread was pressed against the wall. The walls themselves were a deep brown and the dark atmosphere wasn’t helping with your nerves. “Just go to bed for right now, that’s really all you have to do.”

“And then you’re gonna step into my dreams?” You asked as he slid from the room. The boy nodded and then glanced at Minho.

“It won’t hurt, I swear. Most people don’t even notice I’m there… although, it might be different for you. Just… try not to do whatever you did last time,” he murmured. Part of you knew that you shouldn’t have been hurt by what he said, but a pang ran through you at his words. 

“Ok ok,” Minho spoke up, “let’s not stress her out now. Just sleep and do whatever you do. Let’s get you comfortable.”

He steered you towards the bed, his arm firm around your shoulders. You sat down nervously on the bed, watching as the boy shuffled away to search through the dresser across the room. Minho pulled out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and brought them over to you. 

“Are these yours?” You asked, unable to meet his gaze. 

“This is my room,” he pointed out and then he turned around. You changed quickly, muttering an ‘okay’ when you were ready for him to turn around. It felt weird to be sitting in someone else’s closing, especially his.

The articles smelled of him and you hated to admit that it calmed you down slightly.  You slid into the bed and turned away from him, praying he wouldn’t see the red that was burning up your face. The lights turned off and your heart started to race as you heard his footsteps approach the bed. 

“Are you sleeping here?” You whispered into the dark. 

He didn’t reply for a moment.

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

You didn’t give yourself time to think before you answered.

“No, I’d rather you stay… please,” you mumbled. The bed dipped as and the sheets were pulled down for a second. Your heart should’ve been racing but as you took deep breaths, it slowed down to a steady beat. Minho stayed a good distance away, but warmth crept through the few inches between you. 

And sleep claimed you quickly.

⧪⧪⧬⧪⧪

You woke up the next morning peacefully. There hadn’t been any dreams last night and it was the best sleep you’d gotten in a while. Minho was still dead asleep beside you, his mouth parted and his breathing was light. His arm was now lazily slung over your waist and his nose was just inches from your cheeks. 

You sat up, staring at him for a second. His eyelashes were long enough to fall along the top of his cheekbones. His lips were a deep pink and they looked soft. Your mind ran on its own track as you ran your thumb over his bottom lip. The boy stirred under your touch and you jumped away. 

The silver would never not shock you, especially watching them brighten as his eyelids fluttered open. He was still for a few seconds and after blinking a couple times, he looked up at you. A groan fell from his lips as he sat up and rapidly rubbed his eyes. The side of his face he’d been lying on was dusted red. 

“Sleep well?” His voice was raspy. He licked his lips and squinted his eyes at the wall in front of him.

“Yeah. What about you?” 

He laughed. “You’re really cuddly once you’re asleep. I have never been more terrified of being suffocated in my life.”

You stared at him, your mouth falling open. A grin split over Minho’s face and although he’d smiled before, there was something so different in his face, that it had you smiling just as brightly. It disappeared when his gaze dropped to your lips and sat focused there, his eyes glazing over. 

The door burst open and Chan marched in. 

“We have bad news,” he announced, his expression grim, “Doctor Lynn doesn’t plan to let Y/N get away that easily.”

You didn’t have time to throw on any different clothes as the two of you followed Chan to the meeting room. A TV flickered on the glass wall, paused on an image that had horror burning up through your system. It was your picture with the caption ‘Unstable Psych Patient on the Loose, Contact Police if Seen!’ 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Minho muttered, stepping closer to you. You stared at it, your eyes widening.

“How do you know it’s her?” You asked, looking around. 

“She did the same thing to me,” Changbin replied. He wasn’t looking at you as he stared at the screen, almost like he was reliving a bad memory. “The things that woman did to me were awful. The only reason I’m free and alive today is because of Chan.”

Despite the gratuitous statement, there was no gratitude in his voice. His voice sounded broken, dead. Your gaze moved from him and back to your own picture and you thought of the red-haired doctor.  Was she really out for you? “I’ve already sent Woojin, Hyunjin, and Jisung out. She knows that we’re in District 9 for sure and I’m hoping they’ll keep her away from the Deep City,” Chan explained, eyes filled with worry as he glanced at you. “Unfortunately, we can’t stop everything just because some bitch is out on the hunt. The rest of you need to get to your stations and continue your jobs.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a frown spread over Minho’s face. His eyebrows furrowed and his hand swayed until it brushed against yours. You entangled your own fingers with his and squeezed tightly.

“One of us needs to stay with Y/N, it’s not safe,” Minho mentioned, “and I’ve already finished my part.”

Chan didn’t look happy but he obliged. 

      After everyone had filed out, you and Minho sat alone in the living room. Your mind kept fluttering back to that almost kiss in his bed. Your body was burning with pent up energy. You bit your lip.

“Minho?”

“Yeah?” He was barely paying attention as he paced back and forth in the kitchen. His thoughts were elsewhere, focused on the problems at hand. You frowned and glanced down at your lap.

“Are you… are you—” you cut yourself off and then shook your head. “Nevermind.”

The boy stopped his pacing and made his way over to you. His eyes were full of concern as he leaned over the counter. You looked away and cleared your throat. He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by alarms blaring through the house. You stiffened and Minho raced away, cursing loudly. You slid from the chair and followed after him, watching as he turned on the TV. It wasn’t a basic stream, instead, the stairwell popped into view.

“Oh fuck!” He hissed, staring at the several guards dressed in all black racing up the stairs. You recognized those outfits. 

“The psych ward,” you whispered, coming to stand beside him. “They’ve found us.”

Minho didn’t reply as he hurried towards the phone and quickly dialed it. Even from your place, you could hear the white noise crackle through the phone. He cussed again and then grabbed your hand. There was no warning as the same feeling as before washed over you; everything disappeared and new images raced past you. But when you came out of it you found yourself only two feet away.

A groan left the boy and he staggered against you. You caught him, struggling to keep him upright. His eyes were no longer silver, but a dark gray. You patted him and dragged him over to the couch, letting him collapse.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, running your hands over him in search of some form of injuries. 

“No, the job Chan had me do… it completely drained me,” he grumbled and sat up. “We’re gonna have to use the back entrance, come on.”

Minho didn’t sound good at all and you doubted he had enough energy to keep going, but you didn’t stop him. He led the way up the stairs and then into a bedroom. He yanked open the window and slid out first and then helped you through. You made the mistake of looking down and nearly threw up. You weren’t sure how high up you were exactly, but it was super fucking high. The ladder didn’t look steady either. 

“Hey,” you mumbled, staring down the ladder, “if we both die or something… I just wanna say that I really like you.”

You looked up and met his shocked stare. 

Then he blushed and looked away.

“Uh… I really like you too,” he replied. You smiled and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and then started down the ladder. He followed you and the two of you struggled down in silence. The metal creaked beneath your shoes and the wind battered you. Your palms grew sweaty and your grip tightened as you continued down. 

You came to another landing and the two of you paused and looked up. Nobody was following you. For once, you were actually thankful for the millions of stairs this building had. The guards were probably in better shape, but it would still take them a while. Minho jumped onto the landing behind you, his face flushed white. Worry raced through you when you saw just how dim his eyes looked.

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” You whispered.

He wasn’t able to answer your question. Something whizzed past the two of you and hit him. He crumbled against you and you struggled to keep upright against his weight. Your eyes drifted down his body and your eyes widened when you saw a needle sticking out of his waist. You plucked it out quickly and tossed it away, but the damage had already been done. His eyes were starting to close and he mumbled something and then passed out against you.

A helicopter that you had somehow missed slowly hovered down. Your gaze met the red-haired doctor’s and rage swept through you. The helicopter was level with you and the door opened, two guards staring at you with blank expressions. Tears started to prick the corners of your eyes; you were so fucking screwed. Minho was hurt and it was all your fault. They were after you, not him.

“Y/N,” he rasped. You glanced at him, shocked to find him still alive. “Run, I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t just leave you,” you said, shaking your head. 

You weren’t sure what happened next, it was like you blacked out, but you somehow saw everything that happened. You just couldn’t stop it. Your eyes blinked open to find yourself in a dirty bathroom, sitting on the counter. When you slid off the counter, you stumbled. Your legs felt like jelly and your head was pounding. 

You opened the door and slid out of the bathroom, finding yourself in an empty gas station. The open sign was turned off and the parking lot was empty. Your gaze dropped to your hands and then you bit your lip, realizing exactly what happened. Minho.

You spent several minutes crying on the floor in the chips aisle, head buried into your knees. He’d sacrificed himself for you and the two of you had only known one another for a couple days. After a while, you forced yourself to stand up and wiped your tears away.  Minho saved your life several times and now you needed to repay him and crying in a gas station wouldn’t help.

You grabbed a water bottle, draining it in a few seconds flat. The air was cold when you stepped outside. It was annoying, not knowing the place because you didn’t recognize any buildings or street signs. Either way, you started walking down the street, keeping your head down whenever a car zoomed past.

You were left alone for several miles down the street, but eventually a car rolled to a stop beside you. The window rolled down and a boy around your age grinned at you. His eyes ran along your body and he licked his lips. You grimaced.

“Need a ride somewhere doll?” You almost said no and then you smirked. The car smelled of smoke as you leaned in through the window, smiling at him. His eyes glittered and his smile gave you the creeps, but you forced yourself to stay in character.

“Uhm, actually I do,” you murmured. The door unlocked and you opened the door and stood outside it for a second. You balled your fists and then slid into the car. His eyes darted to the unclosed door and to you as you just stared at him. Then you smiled again and prayed that he had a soft face. You’d never punched anyone in your life, but the satisfying crunch that came when your fist connected with his nose sounded good. Your knuckles stung and you hissed, but kept moving. 

You left him on the side of the road, trying not to smile at the blood that dripped from his nose. Then you slid into the driver’s seat and raced off. In truth, you had no idea what you were doing or where you were going, but how easy is it to hide a butt-ton of guards. Eventually, you started seeing vaguely familiar things. You zoomed down the main street of the city, keeping an eye out for anybody dressed in black or suspicious helicopters. 

Nerves started to roil in your stomach because you didn’t really know what you were doing. What were you supposed to look for? You didn’t know how to contact Chan or anyone else and they wouldn’t be back the house for the rest of the day.

You were on your own. 

⧪⧪⧬⧪⧪

Days passed and soon the car ran out of gas and you still had no luck in finding any sign of the psychos or Minho. You walked along the edge of the street, dirt sticking to your shoes and everywhere else. You were tired and lost and hopeless. You were forcing yourself not to cry, having cried so many times in the past days. 

As you walked past an abandoned house, you froze. Your eyes zeroed in on the silver van that sat in the driveway. You’d seen that van plenty of times. It was the one the came to pick you up from your house and took you to the psych ward. You’d seen hundreds of them parked outside from your window.

“Minho,” you whispered.

You ran towards the side of the house, taking extra care to pay attention to the area around you. There was nobody in sight. A window was broken on the first floor and you poked your head in. Once again there was no one. It felt too easy to be just waltzing in there, but you had to take your chances.

Glass crunched under your shoes as you jumped onto the floor. That was when you saw the two guards. They leaned against the wall in the kitchen, talking and not even sparing you a glance. You scooted away from them and pressed yourself against the wall, out of view. You forced your breath to stay even and looked around. Minho had to be here. The place was so random and out of the way, that it made perfect sense for him to be here. 

You moved towards a closed-door, figuring the best way to find him was to start opening as many doors as possible. It was just a coat closet. You opened the one next to it and found a tiny bedroom. You looked around and then slowly snuck from the room. The third door you opened lead to a staircase going down. Your stomach tightened and you stepped down. The stair creaked loudly and you stiffened.

“Did you hear that?” One of the guards muttered.

“It’s probably that idiot rocking his chair again.”

“Should we tell him to stop?” “He’s sedated off his ass, where is he gonna go?” The second one retorted. You stared into the dim room at the bottom of the stairs and made your way down as carefully as possible. It was dark and dusty, but as your eyes adjusted, you saw the silhouette of someone sitting in a chair.

“Please don’t be some creepy old lady like in horror movies,” you mumbled.

It wasn’t.

It was Minho.

You rushed to him, a sigh of relief leaving you. He was completely out of it, mouth slightly hanging open and head leaned back. His breathing was shallow and he didn’t look very good. You looked up, stiffening when you heard footsteps stomp along. You had to get out of here.

“We think you can mock abilities.”

Minho had teleported with you twice. You’d experienced his ability twice and if you really could mock abilities, what was to stop you from getting out of there? You wrapped your hands around his and closed your eyes, trying to remember the sensation you’d felt before. You imagined that you were back in the city. When you opened your eyes, you were still in the dusty basement.

“I can do this,” you muttered and then forced more confidence into your voice, “I can do this.”

You remembered the smell of the city and the feel of the air around you. You remembered people storming past you and cars rushing by. Your hands tightened against Minho’s, forcing the world around you to disappear. Then you felt it, a pulling in your gut. It snapped and then the familiar sensations flooded you like a river. You were everywhere and nowhere; everything and nothing. 

When you opened your eyes, you were in the middle of the Deep City. Your head pounded and your vision swam. You crumpled to your knees, gasping. Minho’s hand was still tightly clutched in yours. Everything was blurry, but you forced yourself to focus as you looked around. You recognized the Miroh building and you struggled to your feet, pulling Minho up with you. 

You fell again. 

“Shit,” you whispered. You felt like you were going to throw up.

A pair of shoes stepped in front of you. Arms wrapped around you and scooped you up. Seungmin’s face came into view. He looked worried, but there was a smile on his face nonetheless. Black spots fizzled in your vision.

When you came to, you woke up in Minho’s bed. He lay beside you, bandages wrapped around his biceps and face pale. Woojin sat in a chair several feet away, reading through a magazine. 

“He’s going to be okay,” he hummed without looking up, “considering you were worried?”

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked as you stared down at him. You wished that you had gotten there sooner. 

“You can’t blame yourself, Y/N. From the looks of it, you did some amazing things,” he sighed. Woojin stood up and made his way towards you. His eyes worriedly ran over Minho before darting to you. “Of course, you’ll still need to tell us what happened.”

You slid out of bed and paused beside Minho. Woojin waited for you at the door. A shaky sigh escaped you as you ran your thumb over a cut on his cheek. Then you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Woojin didn’t say anything as the two of you walked back to the meeting room. The seven other boys sat around the table, all of them seeming to have various injuries of their own. 

You sat down and cleared your throat, fingers drumming against your thigh. You took a few deep breaths before you started to recount what happened. They all listened intently, not asking any questions, and you finished the story, even more nervous than before.

“It doesn’t make sense,” you piped up, “I mean… I didn’t even have any altercations with them.”

“That’s because they’ve set their eyes past you and to us,” Changbin sighed, “they talked to somebody who knows something. All of us who ambushed. It was a stupid move to leave Minho that unattended, but maybe they were confident that they wouldn’t need to guard him.”

For a second he was silent, chewing on his lip.

He stared at Chan.

“I think I know who it is.”

Chan nodded. “I believe I do too, although the question is if we really want to do with him right now.”

Then he groaned and rubbed his eyes.

“But we need to,” he mumbled to himself. Then he looked around. “Normally this is something I’d have Minho do… Woojin, can you go?”

He didn’t seem too thrilled with whatever he had to do. You fiddled with the edges of your sweater, debating what to do. You wanted to help, well actually, you wanted to punch whoever snitched and then toss them into a meat grinder. Minho was hurt because of them; all these boys were in trouble and injured because of it. 

“I want to come as well,” the words tumbled out. Heads snapped in your direction, confusion evident in their eyes. You looked at Chan. “Please—this is my fight as much as it is yours. If anything, it’s more of my fight than yours but still... “

Chan looked ready to object, but Woojin interjected.

“Well then, let’s go get ready and then we’ll go.”

You walked back to Minho’s room and found him awake. He was lying there, staring at the ceiling and as you approached, you saw that his eyes were red. Your heart lurched and you swiftly walked over to the bed. Minho jumped when you came into view and then he smiled at you. You grabbed his head and knelt down beside him.

“Are you okay?” You whispered.

“I’m alive,” he croaked and then coughed. You wanted to know what they did to him, but you figured now wasn’t a good time. Minho’s gaze was sad as he watched you. His hand reached up and tipped your chin up, bringing you closer until you were inches apart. “This is really random, but I kind of want to kiss you.”

You nodded and let your eyes flutter closed. His lips were cold and chapped when they pressed against yours, but you didn’t mind. You pressed closer, hands gripping into the sheets beside him. His hand moved from your face to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. He shifted and tugged you forwards so you spilled on top of him. You pulled back with a gasp, nervously laughing and unable to meet his stare.

“I have… I have to go,” you muttered, remembering Woojin. It was hard to focus as Minho’s thumbs massaged circles into your hips and with his face really close to yours. “I’m—”

You found that you didn’t want to tell Minho what you were doing.

“Chan wants to talk to me about my abilities.” You cringed as the lie came out. You didn’t want Minho to worry, but lying to him didn’t feel right. His eyes searched your face and you had a feeling he knew. “I’ll be back, I-I promise.”

A sigh filled the air between you, but he nodded. He pressed one last quick kiss to your lips. You slid from the bed and then grabbed a pile of clothes off the wardrobe and disappeared into the bathroom. Your gaze met your reflection’s after you’d pulled your new clothes on. Your hands curled into fists, nails biting crescents into your palm and you steeled your nerves.

⧪⧪⧬⧪⧪

  The sun set several hours before you arrived at the place. Woojin hadn’t given you any hint of where you were going or what type of person this guy was. It was a club that you pulled into. LED lights flashed through the windows and when you opened the door you were attacked by the smell of alcohol and tobacco. Your nose wrinkled and you glanced over at Woojin in disbelief.

“Believe me, I don’t how this guy became our problem,” he huffed, slamming the door shut. “Just stay close to me… people here are weird.”

The bouncer didn’t spare you a single glance as you walked into the building. Immediately your senses went overload trying to pay attention to everything that was happening. The lights were changing color rapidly, people were shouting, and sparkly strippers swung on even shinier poles. Waitresses wandered about, smiles out and chests out. 

“Sora!” Woojin called as the two of you pushed past groups of drunken idiots. A girl dressed in green lingerie with blue hair and blue-colored skin turned to him. She smiled, not in a welcoming way, but the same way a predator would when an unknowing prey walks into their house. As she approached, you realized that her skin wasn’t actually blue, the high points of her skin just had blue highlight on them. 

“New girl?” She asked, her eyes darting towards you. You frowned at her, feeling uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze. “You never have a girl with you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like I’m a customer. We need to talk to Rio.”

Sora huffed.

“Kim Woojin!”

Another girl approached. She was dressed in a fiery red, tight skinned dress and just like Sora, the high points of her body and face were tinted a sparkly orange. Her green eyes sparkled under the lights and her smile was even more unnerving than the first girl’s. She didn’t spare you a single glance as she kept her stare leveled on Woojin.

“Here to see Rio?” She sounded like she was making fun of him. 

Woojin gritted his teeth. “Yes, Vienna.”

She laughed, flapping her hand and then motioning for him to follow. You went to follow him, but a hand on your shoulder stopped you. Sora held tight to you and when you met her gaze, it only tightened. Your eyebrows furrowed and a grimace spread over your face.

“Please let go,” you murmured, trying to pull away. 

“Rio only allows certain guests to see him,” she stated, “and you don’t seem to be one of them.”

It was like a natural reaction, an instinct that was buried deep inside. You grabbed her wrist and twisted it until she let go. The two of you stood nearly chest to chest and you sneered. She tried to pull back, but this time you were the one in control. 

“Oh believe me,” you snapped, “I am one of them.”

You let go of her wrist and pushed her away. You chased after Woojin and Vienna, sending the same vicious glare Vienna’s way when she sent you a look of disdain. The three of you stepped into a room. It smelled awful and a man sat with his back to you. When he turned around at Vienna’s call, he wasn’t a good sight. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, and a patchy beard was growing along his chin and neck.

“You Miroh bitches never leave people alone, do you?”

The room grew cold and the smell of alcohol and body odor was overpowered by the smell of something dead. Figures started to dance in the dark corners of the room and pairs of eyes and sharp teeth flashed. Ice crept through you and it felt like you were back in the psych ward, your mind playing tricks on you as you sat in the dark room for hours on end. 

Rio stiffened at it and he muttered an apology. The creatures retreated and the cold lessened, but it was still there. Woojin walked around the couch until he stood in front of the disgusting man. You walked towards the back of the couch and your nose wrinkled as the stench grew stronger. The man’s blue eyes darted from you to Woojin and you saw a deep fear racing through his face.

“Who the hell did you tell?” Woojin asked. He didn’t move, his expression didn’t change, and the dead didn’t even shift. Yet Rio still flinched away, fingers drumming against his knees.

“Some lady,” he squeaked out, “red hair. Claimed she was working for the greater good or something.”

Woojin raised an eyebrow.

“And what did you tell her?”

Rio’s eyes cast downwards and he mumbled something. Woojin snorted and then backed up until he could lean against the wall behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the alcoholic in front of him. Rio paused for a second before looking back up at Woojin.

“She promised she’d get rid of you guys and I wouldn’t have to deal with you psychopaths anymore. You think I care how she does it? As long as you’re out of my hair, I couldn’t give two shits!” It felt like something snapped inside you. The whole statement peeved you off. Minho was hurt because this guy snitched. All nine of them were in danger because of her. She wouldn’t have known about their abilities or where they were stationed if he hadn’t said anything. 

Your body moved without your mind’s command. Your elbow rammed into the side of his head and warm satisfaction ran through you as he crumpled. He let out a cry, grasping his head where you’d hit him. You leaned over the back of the couch, forcing him to meet your stare. 

“You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to act like that while you fucking sit in here, drinking your life away, not doing anything but ruin others life. You’ve put these boys lives in danger because of your stupid mouth. They can’t really be that fucking bad can they? You used to live in a dump you pig and then they helped you out, even though they didn’t have to! The reason you’re so successful is because of them and this is how you repay them?” You snarled. Rio tried to  look away from you, but you weren’t done yet. Your fingers digged into his hair and you pulled, snapping his neck back so he had no choice but to look at you. 

“They’ve all been under extreme stress and they’ve been hurt because of your dumbass actions! If anything, you owe them, but you repay them by ratting their lives out to some random ass woman you don’t even know? A woman who hasn’t done a single thing for you? Minho could’ve fucking died because of your actions! He’s hurt and he doesn’t deserve it because he went out of his way to save my ass—a random girl he’d never met. He’s been nothing but nice and caring and you try to brush him under the rug like he’s not human?”—You didn’t even realize you were solely focused on Minho, you were seething and your mind was racing too fast for your mouth to keep up—“he doesn’t deserve it, you swine! You owe them your wealth and your life, and yet, you’d just let them die?”

You bared your teeth at him. 

“Some piece of disgusting scum you are.”

You let go of his hair and shoved his head forward. He cradled his head, sobbing loudly and muttering apologies under his breath. Woojin stared at you with no readable expressions. You couldn’t tell if he was surprised or impressed. His eyes darted from you to Rio and then he frowned.

“What was her plan, Rio?” He asked. The other man was silent for a moment, still sobbing. You fought the urge to give him a real beating and tell him to man up. Woojin probably didn’t want your help again.

“I don’t really know,” he whispered, “she just said she was going to find you guys and separate you. Sh-she said that all her guards weren’t here yet and once they were all there, that there was no winning for you. I… I don’t really know, please, I swear. Don’t hurt me again.”

His pale blue eyes darted to you, not Woojin, and you realized that he wasn’t scared of Woojin anymore. You shifted uncomfortably, looking away and staring at the shadows that rolled along the sides of the room. Woojin cursed under his breath.

“We gotta go,” he murmured to and then marched towards Rio. His fingers pressed against the man’s temple and Rio collapsed. The two of you left quickly, racing across the parking lot to the car.   

The car was silent for the first several minutes, both of you still struggling to catch your breath. You were suddenly really tired and you leaned your head against the window, watching as headlights zoomed by. Finally Woojin let out a soft sigh and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him glance at you. 

“You really like Minho, huh?” He hummed. You looked away from the window to stare at him. His eyes looked black in the dark atmosphere. Your mind kept skipping back to the ghosts he’d summoned and how much it had reminded you of the occasional hallucinations you used to have. 

“What do you mean by that?” You grumbled, scoffing afterwards.

“The majority of your speech was about him,” he pointed out, “I mean… at the end, you managed to wrap it up with us, but your main worry really seemed to be Minho.” Woojin paused as if trying to think of what to say next.

“The two times you really used your ability was because of him. You managed to teleport with someone else and go pretty far for the first time. You read Rio’s mind back there. Both times were motivated by him,” he commented, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He pulled into the garage and turned off the car. The two of you stared at one another.

“Yeah… so?” He smiled. “Just make sure he knows that Y/N.”

Woojin got out first, heading towards the door. You slid out of the car a few moments later. The walk up the stairs didn’t seem as long as usual. Your mind was wandering, lost in emotions that you couldn’t even explain to yourself. 

When you stepped into the house, you were greeted by Changbin and Chan. The two sat in the living room, playing a game of cards. Both of their expressions were grim and you figured that Woojin must’ve already told them what you found out. You didn’t stay to talk and instead made your way to your room. 

Minho was coming out of the bathroom as you entered. Most of his bandages were off and a lot of his cuts were already healed. He stood in only sweatpants, wet hair falling into his eyes. He spotted you and smiled and you found yourself smiling back. His eyes were back to their regular color and there was a healthy pink tint in his skin. You didn’t question how he’d managed to heal so fast and ran towards him. You threw your arms over his shoulders and kissed him deeply.

He was surprised for a moment, but then his arms snaked around your waist and he kissed you back. You smiled against his lips and then pulled back, staring up at him. Minho stared back at you, cheeks pinker than before. 

“I love you,” you blurted out. His eyes widened and so did yours.

He pouted.

“I wanted to say it first,” he mumbled and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips.  Then he pulled back and wrinkled his nose. “You smell.”

You laughed. “Thanks. I should probably go shower.”

⧪⧪⧬⧪⧪

The two of you had laid quietly in bed for an hour. You had just stared at Minho, just barely able to see him in the dark room. But it didn’t seem to matter how dark it was because his eyes were still bright.

It was an hour of purely nothing but cuddles and soft breathing. Then it changed quickly when Minho pressed a soft kiss to your jawline. When you hummed, it only egged him on and his mouth continued along your jaw and down your neck. He shifted over top of you, knee slotted between your thighs, and mouth desperately marking up your shoulder and collarbone. Whimpers were falling from you and you were grinding against his leg, eyes pinched shut. His hands ran down your sides and then stopped at the hem of your shirt.

“Are you sure this is a good time?” He gasped. You groaned, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him.

“Is it ever a good time in this life?” It was a vague sentence, but it was all he needed. Your shirt flew over your head and his warm mouth fell on your breast. You gasped, your back arching into his touch. His fingers were playing with your pants, testing the fabric between him and you. He switched his mouth to your other breast, rolling your nipple under his tongue.

In one fluid movement, he pulled down your pants and panties down. His mouth made a slow trail down your stomach and along your hips. He skipped over your core, kissing and nipping at your thighs. You mewled, spreading your legs further. Minho hummed against your skin and then your clit was sucked into his mouth. You squealed, thighs closing around his head. 

It didn’t deter him. His tongue licked several quick stripes up your core, sending electricity bouncing along your skin. He sucked and nipped at your clit, distracting you from the movement of his hand. Two of his fingers entered you swiftly, pushing all the way up to the third knuckle. They curled against your tight hole, pressing right to the g-spot. 

“Minho,” you moaned, head falling back against the pillows. “D-don’t stop.”

He added a third finger and his pace picked up. Lewd noises filled the air as your wetness grew. It felt like the room was spinning and too much was happening as he continued to suck on your clit and thrust his fingers in and out of your pussy. You tightened around his digits, squirming on the sheets and letting out nervous gasps as the dam in your stomach broke. Minho lapped at you for a few seconds longer and then pulled back. 

“Damn,” he murmured, wiping his mouth. 

You panted silently as he crawled back up beside you. He laid down, arms wrapping around your waist. You licked your lips and then frowned.

“Are you done?” You asked, voice weak. 

Minho kissed your cheek.

“I don’t want to overwhelm you,” he sighed. 

“What about you?”

“I’m fi—”

You grasped his hard-on through his sweatpants. He stopped his sentence, voice catching in his throat. You stroked him softly through the material, pulling a mewl from him. The two of you worked together to wriggle his pants down so you could grasp his cock with nothing between you. 

It was mostly quiet as you stroked him, only occasional grunts and whimpers escaping him. You could tell he was trying to be quiet from the close-mouthed gasps that came from him. His hips bucked into your touch and he started to curl up, face burying itself in your neck. You rolled your thumb over the tip and squeezed his length. 

“Y/N I-I—”

He cut himself off with a loud yelp. 

He panted for several minutes, struggling to regain his senses.

“We need to clean the sheets,” he grumbled. He didn’t move.

“That can wait till tomorrow,” you sighed and then curled into his side. He pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your temple, and then slowly the two of you fell asleep.

⧪⧪⧬⧪⧪

You were woken up late morning by the sunshine spraying across the room. Minho laid on his back, face turned towards you and one arm stretched across your torso. A smile fell on your face as you stared at him, blissfully unaware of how pretty he looked without trying. You wrapped your arm around his bare waist and rested your head on his shoulder. The world had melted away and for once, there was nothing wrong.

“Why the hell are you two sti—”

You shrieked just as Seungmin did. He had thrown the hairbrush that was in his hand and now covered his eyes. You scrambled to pull up the sheets, pink spreading over your face.  He kept his hand over his eyes and leaned against the doorway, trying to slow his breathing.

“That is…” he grumbled, starting to back away, “just get showered and come to the meeting room. Chan is trying to form a plan and he needs you two.”

Once he closed the door behind him, you sagged down in the bed, covering your face. Minho had woken up and was now laughing softly at you. 

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, sliding out of bed, “it builds character, he’ll be fine. Now, we should probably shower and hope that Seungmin isn’t screaming at the top of his lungs somewhere.”

He held out a hand and you grasped it, pulling yourself up. You took two quick, separate showers. Your nerves started to rebuild themselves when you realized that now was no time to pretend that everything was perfectly fine. She was still out there, trying to find you and tear you apart. 

You completely forgot about Seungmin by the time you sat down in the meeting room, fingers tapping on the arms of the chair. Chan sat at the head of the table, eyes reading over the several papers in front of him. It was silent between the ten of you for several minutes before Chan started to talk. 

“So… as I’m sure you all know, Lynn has reinforcements coming. We have no idea when she’s coming, although if I were her, it would make sense to strike soon. So for the next several days, I need everyone on top of it.

“Woojin and Hyunjin are going to do a mental barrier and Y/N…” he trailed off for a second, staring at you. Then he steeled his gaze. “If you could try to help Woojin, that would be great. Minho and I will work on trying to find them. The rest of you will just have to wait for the time to come.”

Chan reached under the table and grabbed a box, placing it on the surface. Minho looked uncomfortable as he stared at the box.  The rest of them didn’t seem too pleased to see it either. He opened it and threw several small packets with silver powder in front of all of you. 

“I know you guys don’t like it, but these exist for a reason. If you start feeling drained, take one,” he demanded, meeting everyone’s stare, “I don’t need one of you getting dragged off because you suddenly collapsed from exhaustion.”

Everyone took a packet, tucking it into their pockets and exchanging wary glances with the person sitting next to them. You frowned down at yours, wondering what it was. Minho’s hand fell on yours and you looked up at him, tightly smiling when you saw the worried expression on his face.

“It’s a… well, it refuels strength and energy. Using your abilities excessively take a lot out of you, so we have these for special cases,” he explained under his breath. “But only use it if you’re certain you can’t go any further.”

“Everyone know what they’re doing?” Chan asked. He didn’t give anyone time to respond as he stood up and dismissed everyone. You stood up, hurrying towards Woojin. Minho stood with you for a while and then grabbed your hand.

“Be careful please,” he whispered. You nodded and smiled when he kissed you quickly.

You followed Woojin and Hyunjin up to the roof. The two of them were looking around before they finally regrouped with you. It was a windy day and the building was so high up that there were clouds swirling around you. 

“What’s a mental barrier?” You asked.

“It’s probably not the right term, but it’s how we describe this weird force field we made once. Hyunjin makes a light forcefield and I kind of… fuse my abilities with it so that I can automatically read whoever walks through it,” he explained, “and I think Chan wants you to try to use my ability so I won’t be the only one.”

You opened and closed your mouth before realizing you had too many questions.

Woojin smiled.

“We’ll just let Hyunjin do his thing and then it’s our turn, alright?”

You and Woojin sat and watched as Hyunjin put all his focus into the forcefield. A full hour passed and by the time it was done, he looked ready to pass out. You wanted to point out that this was when he should take the shady drug Chan gave you all, but when you saw his dead expression, you decided against it. Woojin stood up and walked towards the corner of the building, where if you squinted really hard, you could see a faint purple glimmer. He held out a hand to touch it and you did too, flinching at the cold feeling that rushed through your hand. 

“It’s kind of weird, but imagine this thing has a mind,” he murmured, “and then try to read it.”

You closed your eyes, pretending as if the frigid, slimy thing was a human. Your head started to hurt as you tried to read its mind. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to concentrate. Then the cold feeling disappeared and your stomach did a somersault. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself somewhere completely different. 

The floor was soft under your fingers and the room around you was neat. There was a voice murmuring somewhere and you looking around the room, freezing when you saw who stood with their back to you. Red hair fell down her back and she was on the phone, quietly scolding the person. 

You cursed internally and started to scoot backwards, pinching your eyes shut and trying to go back. This was just your luck. Your back pressed against a wall and you opened your eyes, realizing you weren’t going anywhere. The doctor started to turn around and she looked around the room and then her cool gaze fell on you. She paused, an amused smile starting to curl at her lips.

“Don, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”

She set the phone down and then stared at you. 

“You came in rather quietly,” she purred, leaning against the wall. You stood up, pressing your hands against the drywall behind you. She lifted her shirt up and your eyes bugged out when you saw the pistol strapped to her hip. She pulled it out, the normally quiet click ten times louder as the safety was turned off.

“You’re not going to kill me,” you hissed, “you need me, don’t you?” She laughed and rolled her eyes.

“You? There’s nine boys with extraordinary, trained abilities and you think you’re still important? I only need one of them for experimentation, but I suppose I could keep the other eight as pets,” she mused, tilting her head, “I’d rather put your name on a plaque and call you the first casualty.”

She pointed the gun at you and your heart started to pound loudly in your head. Any thought of trying to teleport out of there left your head and panic started to set in. The bang was louder than you anticipated and you flinched back, holding your hands up as if they would stop the bullet. 

The hit never came. Your eyes fluttered open, staring at the milky white sphere that glittered around you. The bullet shell lay discarded on the floor in front of it. The doctor stared at the shield in front of you, curiosity flaring in her green eyes. Only for her to chuckle when it started to flicker and then completely disappear.

“Cute,” she snorted, “real cute.”

“You’re one to talk, considering you only have a gun,” you retorted. The statement sounded stupid after you said it. She snorted. 

“You know,” she started, “maybe I should let you live for a while longer. I can let you watch as your friends perish. Once I call my reinforcements, you’ll never see your friends again.”

She hadn’t called the rest of the guards.  That was the only thing you picked up from it. You steeled yourself and grabbed the cactus plant on the shelf beside you, throwing it at her. Lynn side-stepped, but you were already moving towards her. You jumped over the desk between you, sliding across the surface, and tackling her to the floor.

The doctor was stronger than you anticipated, easily throwing you off her and re-aiming her weapon at you. A bang ricocheted through the room, but for a moment you were in control of yourself. You appeared behind her, pulling hard on her hair and ramming your knee into her back. She shouted, arching away from you and you kicked her legs out from under her. Her grip on her gun was lost and it skittered across the floor. 

You reached for it, but were stopped as she kicked the chair at you. 

“You bitch!” She shrieked, “you’ll die knowing your friends will perish because of your failed attempt.”

She got to the gun before you and this time when the trigger was pulled, you had nothing to protect yourself. Pain flared through your shoulder and you gasped, clutching the wound. Blood seeped out around your fingers, staining the gray shirt dark red. 

She laughed. “I think I’ll let you bleed to death.”

You barely managed to dodge as she tried to knee your head. Your body was shaking and your vision was starting to swim. Heat was flaring from the wound, sending waves of panic throughout your anatomy. 

“Poor you,” she cooed, reaching towards your face. 

“Fuck you!” You didn’t realize what you were doing as the temperature in the room dropped. Frost started to curl at the edges of the desk and darkness started to swirl through the space. Shadowy figures crawled up from the ground and corners, groaning and shrieking. The redhead tried to back away from them, but they were coming from all angles. 

“Yo-you won’t win,” you gasped out, managing to stand up. You didn’t watch as the creatures amassed around her, dragging her down towards them. You struggled away, the room spinning around you. Somehow you managed to make it out of the house into the cold air. The main road was mere feet away from you, wind cutting at your face as cars raced past.

“Holy shit—”

You collapsed to the ground, wondering if Minho would be able to find you before you were gone.  Blood was dripping down your arm and side, staining the dirt you knelt on. You remembered his lips on yours and a small smile crawled across your face. 

“Y/N? Y/N!” 

Arms wrapped around you.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head and darkness swarmed your vision

I love you.

So, i’ll just leave this open-ended for you to self-interpret

[deliciousmeta]

According to halacha, which actions is Azula liable for?

One of my favorite ways to study Jewish texts is to take a fictional character or situation and examine it through the lens of Jewish text and tradition.

I’ve done this before with ABC’s Once Upon A Time. Now I’m going to take up this exercise again with Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Before I begin, a few things to keep in mind.

I’m not a Talmud scholar.

There is no definitive Jewish Opinion™ about any issue pertaining to halacha. Unanimous opinions on halacha are so rare that when we find one, we assume something went wrong in the process..

Azula is a morally polarizing character in AtLA fandom. Regardless of who you ask, you’re bound to get some strong opinions about exactly what she’s done, the extent to which she’s responsible for it, and what this says about her morality or lack thereof. I’m not going to rehash those arguments. I think I’ve made it clear that I care less about whether people approve of her behavior than I do about how their statements about her reinforce harmful messages about women, people of color, LGBT people and mentally ill people.

Nevertheless, she’s incredibly interesting, and studying Jewish text is fun, so here we are.

Why examine Azula’s actions through the lens of halacha?

Halacha gets a lot of flack because it comes off as excessively legalistic. But, in my opinion, that’s based on a misunderstanding of what halacha is. Usually translated as “Jewish law,” the word halacha actually comes from the root word that means “to go/walk.”

Halacha is not a collection of rules for the sake of having rules. It’s meant to take us somewhere. You can write a library of books about exactly what that is and what it means. But for the sake of simplicity, halacha is how we show that we recognize the holiness of everything in creation. So we aim to do right by one another, by the land we live in and by the creatures we share this world with.

Before we can launch into examining the halachic ramifications of the things Azula does, we need to establish some boundaries.

Only the show counts. It’s the common frame of reference universally accepted by the vast majority of fandom. Fandom’s stances on the comics, novelizations and other tie-in materials are too variable to base an analysis on.

Word of God is immaterial. While some would use the phrase Death of the Author, Jewish tradition has a more entertaining take on it. In the Talmud, there’s a dispute between Rabbi Eliezer and some of his peers. In that story, Rabbi Eliezer says that if he’s right, this or that miraculous thing would happen, and those miraculous things do happen. But the other rabbis still reject it because we don’t determine halacha by miraculous signs. Eventually, God parts the heavens and says, “Rabbi Eliezer is right.” But another rabbi responds, “The Torah is not in heaven,” meaning that the Torah was meant for human beings on earth to interpret for themselves. And God’s response? To smile and say, “My children have defeated Me.”

Now, let’s begin.

Is Azula bound by halacha?

She’s not Jewish, so no. However, all human beings are bound by the Noahide laws. For the sake of argument, let’s say that the Noahide covenant applies to all humans on all worlds. According to the Talmud (Sanhedrin 56a.24):

Since the halakhot of the descendants of Noah have been mentioned, a full discussion of the Noahide mitzvot is presented. The Sages taught in a baraita: The descendants of Noah, i.e., all of humanity, were commanded to observe seven mitzvot: The mitzva of establishing courts of judgment; and the prohibition against blessing, i.e., cursing, the name of God; and the prohibition of idol worship; and the prohibition against forbidden sexual relations; and the prohibition of bloodshed; and the prohibition of robbery; and the prohibition against eating a limb from a living animal.

What is Azula’s legal status?

In any case, we know the rules, and now we have to decide whether Azula broke them or not, right?

Not so fast.

First, we have to determine if Azula is of the appropriate legal status to be held accountable for upholding the Noahide laws. In other words: when she committed certain acts, was Azula an adult capable of making rational decisions?

Clear your mind of the idea that being an adult is the same as being a grownup. Instead, think of it as a term that defines when people can make legally binding decisions.

As far as I can tell, the Talmud doesn’t say when a gentile becomes an adult. However, we can use halacha as a guide.

Now for a warning.

If frank talk about the physical development of adolescents makes you uncomfortable, you might want to skip this next part. There’s nothing graphic or titillating about what I’m going to discuss, but if breasts and pubic hair squick you out, skip this part until I say it’s safe in bold like this.

According to halacha, a girl reaches adulthood when she’s twelve years and one day old and has two pubic hairs. Yeah, you read that right. Twelve and two pubes are the requirement. Before this point, nothing she does is legally binding, even if she’s really smart and claims to be fully aware of what she’s doing. After this point, her actions are legally binding, even if she says she had no idea what she was doing.

On the show, we see Azula in a range of ages. In “Zuko Alone,” we see her at roughly eight years old. In “The Storm,” she’s about eleven. In all the other episodes she’s in, she’s fourteen. So, from a legal standpoint, flashback!Azula is too young for her actions to be legally binding. At that point in time, the responsibility would fall to her parents.

Um, I’m not willing to speculate about the genitals of an underage cartoon character, so for the sake of argument, I’m assuming that 14-year-old Azula meets the two pubes requirement. Thus, 14-year-old Azula is responsible for her actions.

If you skipped that last part, it’s safe to continue now.

OK, we’ve established that flashback!Azula is too young for her actions to be legally binding, but in the main story, Azula is legally an adult and responsible for her actions.

We good? Alright.

Which Noahide laws does Azula actually break?

This is both easier and harder than it seems.

The laws about idol worship, cursing God, and forbidden sexual acts don’t apply to her because neither religion nor sex are portrayed as such on the show. Also, the law about establishing courts of justice is a communal obligation, not one that falls on a single individual, so that’s another one we don’t have to concern ourselves with.

That leaves the prohibitions against bloodshed, robbery and eating a limb cut from a living animal.

First up: bloodshed.

The connotation of the prohibition against bloodshed is not for general acts of violence, but actual murder.

Here’s where I think I’m going to throw a lot of people for a loop. Azula doesn’t kill anyone on the show. She tries. She comes close. She wouldn’t lose sleep over it if she did. But nobody’s dead because of her. She doesn’t even take lives as collateral damage.

One could argue that zapping Aang with lightning counts as killing, but when the Sages talk about death and dying, I assume they mean the kind where the dead stay dead, not people who are revived by magic spirit water. Furthermore, if someone’s about to kill you (and I think entering the Avatar State qualifies here), you are halachically obligated to save your own life, even if it means killing that person.

Second: robbery.

We’ll come back to that.

Third: eating a limb from a living animal.

This prohibition is often expanded to incorporate all forms of animal cruelty.

The show does portray animal cruelty. We see a prime example with the circus in “Appa’s Lost Days.”

But what about Azula? We don’t see her interact with many animals on the show, but there are two notable examples: Appa the sky bison in “Appa’s Lost Days” and Bosco the bear in “The Crossroads of Destiny.”

How does her behavior measure up? Despite her earlier behavior of terrorizing turtleducks, Azula does not harm either Appa or Bosco.

On the show, Mai and Ty Lee are seen spending time with Bosco in the throne room while the Earth King is imprisoned. So, at the very least, they treat the bear well.

So, Azula is not liable for animal cruelty.

*hands Azula her Not As Big A Jerk As She Could Have Been award*

Now, let’s revisit that prohibition against robbery.

Given the prescribed punishment (decapitation), the connotation seems to be taking the rightful property of another through violent means. That being said, the prohibition against robbery is often extended to include all sorts of theft.

This one might have some legs. On the show, does Azula take the rightful property of another, and does she use violent means to do so?

Absolutely.

A major example is stealing the clothes of the Kyoshi Warriors after defeating them in combat.

But!

The show takes place during a time of war, and the Kyoshi Warriors, as allies of the Avatar, are enemies of the Fire Nation. So does beating them up and taking their uniforms fall under the prohibition against robbery, or are the Kyoshi Warrior uniforms considered the spoils of war and thus free for the taking?

Halachically speaking, it might actually be the latter. When fighting the Kyoshi Warriors, Azula acts as a military commander during a time of war and achieves a decisive victory against an elite combat unit. Thus, she is entitled to take their stuff.

So, back to the original question: which actions does Azula commit during the show that she’s halachically liable for?

The answer, shockingly, may be: none.

On the show, we’re encouraged to think of Azula as a Very Bad Girl who does Very Bad Things. She’s calculating, ruthless and deceptive. She’s also full of herself. She’s not someone who inspires warm, fuzzy feelings in most people. But when you put her actions under the microscope, she exercises remarkable restraint compared to what she’s capable of.

Don’t worry. No one’s going to nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize just yet. This is Azula we’re talking about. She’s not acting out of an overwhelming love for humanity. But it is interesting that despite her threats to kill, maim and destroy, she doesn’t participate in wanton destruction or wasteful loss of life.

[ohshcscenerios]

I hope you don’t mind, Anons, but I’d like to answer these two requests with one response... and I’d like to do try something new. I hope you don’t hate me for this but I’ve actually already written a piece between Hikaru and Haruhi where he is the “monster” and it’s very angsty. So I hope you don’t mind that I’ve “recycled” a chapter from one of my stories but I felt it fit your requests perfectly and I hope you enjoy :)

Heavy footsteps echoed throughout the empty classroom as Hikaru anxiously paced between the dusty chalkboard and the jarred door. As usual Haruhi was running a few minutes late, probably trying to sneak out a few library books before meeting him in the Algebra room, but it didn't sit well with his nerves. Every second that ticked on the clock made his heart pound harder.

He had asked Kaoru to wait for him outside the main front entrance hoping if his twin were at least on the same grounds he'd feel confident enough to pull through with his plan but even with Kaoru standing directly a floor beneath him an unfamiliar vulnerability consumed him. It was almost paralyzing, to the point he cursed himself for ever sending Haruhi that text message. The only thing that kept him from abandoning his plan altogether was the fact he loved Haruhi; so much so he couldn't live with himself if he resigned to love her from afar. No, that wouldn't be like Hikaru to muzzle his heart and live the rest of life asking 'what if'. Hikaru was bold, ambitious – at least when Kaoru hung at his hip. But as of right now he was one hiccup away from throwing up his lunch.

"Hikaru?" Haruhi's head peered from behind the door frame. Once she recognized him she slid inside the classroom. He immediately saw the Chemistry workbooks piled in her arms and he couldn't help but smirk at her predictable behavior. It was enough to break the first layer of ice and it pulled Hikaru from his distressed agitation. It's go time.

"Haruhi, thank you for meeting me," he said with a smile as he walked over to join her.

"It's no problem; although I'm a little peeved you've been ignoring me all day." Haruhi rested the workbooks on a desk and planted her hands on her hips as she turned to face Hikaru. "What was that about?"

He paused, taken aback by her observation. It was true; he did behave rather odd throughout the day. Usually he and Kaoru poked fun at Haruhi before, after, and during their lectures however today he retired to his desk and focused on his notes. In truth he fought with himself all day planning how he'd confess his feelings to her after school. He couldn't focus on a single word their teacher said, completely lost in his nervousness.

"Sorry about that, I just wasn't feeling well," he shyly said as he rubbed the back of his head.

"If you're sick then you should probably head home and see a doctor." Her irked voice turned concerned.

"No, no, I'll be fine," he laughed, "I don't need to see a doctor. I just need to talk to you about… something."

Haruhi stared at him with blank eyes but it only amused him even more. She was never one to catch on quickly and it made her all the more entertaining.

"Wait, where's Kaoru?" She asked as she looked around the classroom.

That was another thing he admired about her. She understood his unique bond with his twin brother. She didn't question them, mock them, or accuse them of mental illness (though that couldn't be said about his classmates over the years) but instead accepted their contorted dependence on each other. She knew where one went the other was sure to follow, bound by whatever perversion that merged them together, and yet she still treated them as individuals.

"Oh he… uh… he has to meet with our language teacher about the end-of-term project," Hikaru fibbed. He couldn't admit Kaoru was waiting for him outside or else it would appear too suspicious. He had to make sure everything went as smoothly as he could manage, if not for her sake then for his.

Before Haruhi could prod him further he took his chance, "Listen Haruhi, I don't want to waste your time so I'll just get down to it. You're my best friend, besides Kaoru, and I don't want anything to ruin that. After all, you're the first person who ever crossed over our line. Truth be told, you may be the only person to ever do that."

Haruhi watched him with expectation, waiting for him to reveal his true intentions.

"But I can't bottle this secret anymore, it's eating me alive. I guess what I'm trying to say is," Hikaru continued, "you're a very important person to me, Haruhi. Our friendship means so much to me and I… I…"

His voice trailed off, uncertain where he was going with his ramble. He cursed himself for talking so incoherently. Haruhi just stood before him, transfixed in confusion.

"Hikaru-."

"I love you Haruhi!"

He didn't mean to yell but the accumulation of anxious stress forced it out of his mouth like a fired missile. He could only hope it landed on its target.

For a few moments the air stood still between them, dense with fearful anticipation. Haruhi's expressionless stare made him feel small. For most of their friendship he enjoyed the mystery of guessing what she was truly feeling behind her retained facial expressions but in this very moment he looked for any hint of emotion behind her large brown eyes. Anything he could latch onto as a lead.

"Hikaru…" her voice broke the silence and to his horror it was laced with disappointment. Every pillar of hope he built in preparation crumbled at his feet in a heap of dust. Every piece of encouragement he told himself as he made his way to the classroom pierced him like a double-edged sword.

"I'm sorry…" he muttered. The disbelief he felt was plainly written on his face and it embarrassed him that he couldn't at least hide his calamity. "Haruhi, I –."

"I'm sorry Hikaru," she interrupted him, "but I can't return those feelings." Her eyes were lowered to his feet and it pained him she couldn't muster enough courage to look him in the eyes.

"I should have guessed… I suppose Tamaki was right all along then; I'm too immature for my own good." Hikaru scoffed at himself as he kicked his heel against the floor. It made sense if his childish antics blocked any romantic potential between them.

"It's not that you're immature Hikaru," Haruhi reasoned, "I wouldn't pin that against you. It's just that…"

The way she abandoned her sentence grabbed his attention. Her voice carried an unfamiliar uncertainty and if anyone knew Haruhi like he did then they'd know she was everything but uncertain. She may not have a wide variety of knowledge about pop culture or high-end fashion designers but she was always black or white; never gray. But just now, she sounded doubtful in herself… doubtful enough to discontinue her thought. She was hiding something from him and he needed to know what it was – now.

"Just what?" He couldn't hide the hint of anger in his voice and at this point he didn't care to hide it. He opened his heart to the first person he ever accepted into his world and they had just rejected him. He loved her passionately but even that wasn't enough to stop his desire for retaliation. He winced at himself; perhaps Tamaki is right to call him immature if he couldn't control his emotions.

"I've already accepted someone else's confession."

"What…?" Hikaru grabbed his left arm and wondered if he was having a heart attack. His chest burned from the shock and for a second he considered dialing for a doctor. He clasped his arm tighter as the pain traveled up his neck, down his torso, and around his back and wondered if this was how it felt to have one's heart break.

"Who confessed to you?" He barely managed the words as they bit his tongue. The reality of the situation seemed to compress his body like a boa constrictor, squeezing out whatever logical sanity he desperately needed to keep himself under control.

Haruhi didn't – or couldn't – answer him, her gaze still transfixed on the tiled floor. She looked tense as if she were contemplating on telling him the truth.

Then it hit him. It was so obvious and he chastised himself for not realizing it before. The answer she held on her tongue was none other than…

"Mori-senpai?" Hikaru asked, terrified of her confirmation.

Her eyes finally met his, "Yes."

Hikaru couldn't explain what happened next. It was as if the strings that held him together finally snapped and he slipped helplessly into despair. He stared at the girl in front of him, the only person who ever penetrated his twisted isolated world, and saw her slipping through his fingers. The flame that burned for her turned into a raging fire. The flames spread through his body, the heat coursed through his blood, the pain stabbed him in the chest. The only person to ever see Hikaru for who he was, accept him for who he was, couldn't return the blazing inferno that ate him alive. He wished the love he carried for her would be enough for the both of them. He could commit to a one-sided relationship, at least for now, just to have Haruhi all to himself. Now even that was impossible because she gave her precious heart to…

"Mori-senpai!" The name tasted bitter on his tongue. It tasted like… betrayal. "Why him?" It was a heavily loaded question that demanded a heavily loaded answer, one that was sure to pierce him even deeper, but he had to know. He had to hear it from her lips.

.

Her lips.

.

"Hikaru, I can see you're upset. Maybe we can talk about this another time." Haruhi tried to defuse the tension rising between them but to no avail. Hikaru wasn't willing to listen to reason. He honestly didn't know what would save him at this point. The humiliation and heart break merged into one monster, one he didn't know how to fight.

"It's because you're living with him, isn't it?" Hikaru sneered, bearing his teeth as he fought back the floodgate of tears. "He somehow seduced you while you were vulnerable, that's it right?" He didn't consider the weight of his accusations as he continued, "That traitor, that low-life. For a man who speaks of loyalty he sure knows how to -."

Haruhi slapped him across the face before he could finish. It should have hurt. It should have broken him. It wasn't a whack upside the head or a pat on the cheek. She had swung an open palm at him and knocked him backwards a few steps. His cheek should be stinging but it didn't. Strangely, just the opposite.

.

Her skin.

.

Hikaru lunged forward and pinned Haruhi against the wall by her shoulders. He surprised even himself by his haste action but his body was running ahead of his mind; defying his consciousness and moving on pure impulse.

He expected to see Haruhi wince in fear but there was something building in her eyes, something more terrifying; defiance. She wasn't going to budge to him and it somehow drove him crazier.

.

Her eyes.

.

"What is so special about him? What does he have that I don't?" He couldn't stop the words pouring from his mouth. He wanted to bite his tongue but his civility was trapped in the backseat of his mind.

"Well first, he wouldn't do this." Her voice had bite as she stared him down.

"You should have never moved in with him. You should have moved in with me and Kaoru. We'd take good care of you. You and your dad would have liked it at our house. We're more fun! We'd do something every weekend! We'd take you to the zoo, to museums, to the amusement park, wherever you'd want to go!"

"I don't want to do those things every weekend. I don't want to be dragged around Japan like a doll."

"Mori is too serious for you. He barely speaks, he lives under Hunny's shadow, his only hobby is kendo, and he spends his evenings with his chicken for god sake! That's the kind of life you resign to? Where is the fun in your relationship? I'm better suited for you than he is!"

She raised an eyebrow, "That's what you really think?"

Hikaru wanted to say yes. He wanted to go down the list of reasons why she should accept him but he couldn't form the words. He knew he couldn't justify his actions by speaking sweet nothings. He forced her into a hostile situation; there was nothing he could say now that would break her down.

.

Words won't be enough.

.

His thoughts quickly dissipated as he looked into her large brown eyes and before he could catch himself his hand cupped her jaw and leaned forward to kiss her. Her lips stiffened as she tried to escape but he held her firm against the wall. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was the worst thing he could possibly do but he felt possessed; a puppet on strings blindly obeying his selfish instincts.

She escaped his lips long enough to shout, "Stop!" Her hands pushed against his chest as she tried to wriggle from his hold but all it did was ruffle up his shirt. Feeling her hands on his body in such an aggressive way was dangerous; it fueled his kiss further. If he couldn't receive her love then stealing a kiss would suffice.

A small voice screamed inside his head – his common sense finally awakening. It was quiet at first, barely whispering over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears. Gradually it grew louder, louder, louder until its scream nearly burst his eardrums.

.

Hikaru stop.

.

Hikaru stop!

.

HIKARU STOP!

.

Hikaru felt a large hand grab the back of his shirt collar and yank him off Haruhi. The force behind him threw him several feet backwards until he landed hard on his tailbone and skidded to a stop. It happened so fast it took him a few seconds to process what just happened. Once his eyes adjusted to the scene – and his mind snapped back to reality – his heart dropped into his stomach when he saw Mori tending to Haruhi. He rubbed her arms as he offered tender reassurance for her safety. Mori's voice was soft and gentle as he calmed her down.

Hikaru couldn't believe it… Haruhi was shaking… His temporary madness affected her greatly. Hikaru couldn't believe what he just did… It felt like someone else controlled his body as he assaulted her yet he couldn't blame anyone but himself.

Mori straightened his posture and turned around. Hikaru gulped at seeing the anger warp his normally blank expression. He wanted to run but his body once against betrayed him; paralyzed by his panic.

"Hikaru, what the hell was that?" His deep voice bore through Hikaru's chest and stilled his breath for a second. He's never seen Mori this angry before. No it wasn't just anger, there was something else pulsating through him. The way he loomed over Hikaru as if he was an insect; it was a foreign feeling to receive from Mori. It was deadly. He was thankful looks really couldn't kill or else he'd leave this room in a body bag.

Mori's gray eyes turned darker as they glared into his frightened hazel eyes. His neck tightened as he restrained regrettable actions and he pulled back his shoulders until it broadened his chest. Mori resembled an angry bear ready to attack and it scared Hikaru; not only because the usually calm host now looked ready to fight him but because there was an aggression behind his protection. Mori wasn't just protecting one of the hosts. This ran deeper than that. Mori was protecting Haruhi. He defended her as if he claimed her as his own. The aura he emitted was strong… almost possessive…

"Mori-senpai…" Hikaru stuttered, relieved to hear his strength returning, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened… I lost control… oh god…" Hikaru turned his attention to Haruhi, "Haruhi, I'm so sorry. Please believe me… I didn't plan any of that. I'm so sorry…"

The last of the dark clouds that flooded his mind cleared away. He finally felt the weight of his actions and words and it was heavy. It was so heavy. It was almost crippling. They threatened to squash into a human pancake.

"You and I will talk later," Mori growled and in one swift motion he brought Haruhi to his chest and cradled her in his arm, snatched her library books with his free hand, and left Hikaru to drown in his guilt – alone. If Hikaru wanted to be honest he deserved every agonizing second that followed.

[always-la-belle-epoque]

hi what is mash and why do you love it so much because i need to know if i need to love it too thanks

Hello, anon! It took a bit because I wanted to put time into my answers, so here you are! 

What Is M*A*S*H: 

M*A*S*H is a tv show about doctors/nurses stationed at a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital (M*A*S*H) unit on the frontlines of the Korean War. The show focuses on the medical staff as they desperately try to save the lives of young soldiers. Many of the doctors are draftees and they are faced with trying to cope with the horror of a war they want no part of and that is the absolute antithesis to their professional calling. They fight against death every day, struggle against military bureaucracy, and try to keep their sanity. Often that deep stress is released in humor, practical jokes, and wildly unmilitary antics, but the true costs and realities of war are never treated lightly. I’ve never seen another show that can make me laugh so hard and then turn on a dime to make me cry just as deeply a second later. The show is a beautiful examination of human nature, heart, found family, loss, helplessness, despair, exhaustion, humanity, and hope,. 

M*A*S*H ran for 11 years, from 1972-1983 and the finale, Goodbye, Farewell and Amen, is still the most-watched television broadcast in history (the NYC sewer nearly faced collapse because people would all flush the toilet at the same time during commercials, and the streets were totally empty of cars as over half the country, 150+ mil people, watched the finale live together all at the same time. Can you imagine?!). Plus, it’s been in continuous syndication for 45 years which is impressive. M*A*S*H is for all generations, it resonates far beyond the era in which it was made, or which it was made about.

Why Do I Love M*A*S*H So Much (in general):

I don’t think there is another show out there in the history of the world that has written such narratively wonderful, deeply moving character arcs. I don’t know if there’s another show out there where the characters grow so much from their relationships with one another. Or a show that depicts masculinity in such a healthy, tender way. It is normal on M*A*S*H for male characters to: Cry. Hug. Tuck each other in. Hold hands. Perform emotional labor. Actively listen. Dance together. Sleep with teddy bears (and not have it be a joke). Admit they were wrong. Change and grow from being wrong. Etc, etc. 

And while Major Margaret Houlihan is the only female lead, her character arc is the most beautiful of any character I have ever watched or read. The show doesn’t start out particularly feminist, but it definitely ends that way (both male and female characters evolve here and it’s wonderful). And if more tv shows had characters half as complex as Margaret Houlihan, tv would be a whole lot more interesting, and women would be a whole lot farther along toward equality, imo. 

Why Do I Love M*A*S*H So Much (the personal): 

I was 15 or 16 when I started watching M*A*S*H. I was going through a very dark time in my home life. But my Mom would usually have M*A*S*H on while making dinner or just after. It was their weird time of day where it seemed like a truce between us. Sometimes I’d even sit all 5’8 of my gangly teenage body on her lap and we’d just watch like that with her arms around me (which given that things were darkly terrible the rest of the time it was like being a small kid again in a way I really needed). We’d talk about the characters. We’d talk about the stories. We both loved Margaret Houlihan (it’s interesting that Margaret has the most valuable traits I learned from my Mom - things I like most about her and am grateful she taught me despite all the bad stuff). 

Soon I was racing home after school and jamming in a blank VHS so that I could record each ep. I’d cross reference between tv guide and IMDB to try to see if any eps that I hadn’t seen yet would be on so I could record them for my collection. I made an elaborate cataloging system because they weren’t shown in order! And some eps were shown only rarely!! (I’m only 28, it amazes me that this was how things were not that long ago lol). 

Anyway, the DVD box set came out and I saved up alllllll my $ for it. Thank goodness, because then I got sick and for a few years the M*A*S*H characters were the most consistent and truest friends I had. The show is deeply personal for me. I can watch it over, and over, and over. It makes me laugh, and weep, and cheer. It’s like having friends. Like having family. 

Should You Love M*A*S*H too?

I want you to love M*A*S*H. I want everyone to love M*A*S*H! And M*A*S*H holds up. It’s still radically progressive. It’s still - in this time where North Korea is a frequent headline, where we have a government we do not trust, in a world where we have been at war since 2001 - deeply relevant. 

Here’s the thing though: it was made in the 70s, about events in the 1950s, and this is 2019 tumblr-land. You’ve all read the roasts about lack of critical thinking skills on this website and ability to contextualize, and those posts are unfortunately not wrong. And the world has changed - and changed for even better than what was, at the time, truly radical! Even terms that were the liberal, pc term in the 70s have changed now and are not liberal or pc anymore which for the 2019 watcher might raise eyebrows. But the show is extremely pointed about calling out racism, homophobia, sexism, military fetishism, colonization, etc. I think maybe the only other show I can think of that goes so hard at dogged and relentless political call outs would be One Day at a Time. So I feel protective of M*A*S*H because in 50 years maybe we will look back at ODaaT and say yikes about certain things, though that feels crazy to say now. 

If you do want to watch, here’s my advice (pull down your pants and slide on the ice (sorry, omg M*A*S*H jokeee)): 

Do not start with S1. Start with S4, or S5 even. For one thing, there are some cast changes at the start of S4 so you get intro-ed to everyone again in “Welcome to Korea pt 1 & 2” and “Change of Command.”  It’s a really good starting point to see a lot of characters on the brink of change. Don’t get me wrong, I still really love S1-3 but the characters haven’t grown yet. I love going back because I know them so well, but if you’re just meeting them, I recommend getting to know them in the middle of their journey, watch them evolve, and then go back and see where they started. And I think Col. Potter/BJ really elevated the tone of the show.

Because M*A*S*H is an older tv show, most people who love M*A*S*H never watched the show in order because we could only watched it in syndication! And you don’t really need to watch in order! In fact, CBS had the final call for episode order so sometimes even the air order is different than the writing, filming, intended order. Also, because they had 11 years of content over a 3 years of war, the show itself isn’t chronological. Due to probability (there are just more Potter/BJ eps) I saw more S4+ eps when I was first watching the show so again that’s my newbie preference. Now that it’s on Hulu (and remastered OMG) it might be tempting to watch in order, but really do recommend skipping around or at least starting later in for sure. You’ll learn context as you go (recs below). Then once you get the characters and their arcs it’s suuuuper fascinating to watch in order. 

 Fight me: Is everyone bisexual on this show??! Yes, yes they are. This is where I go full 2019 tumblr-brain, lol, but looking back I think it’s one of the reasons I loved it before I understood myself. It’s gentle, tender, pretty wavy. Alan Alda’s Hawkeye Pierce is, like, arguably canonically bi, like I even wonder if he was intentionally written/played that way on the dl. It’s pretty blatant?? And don’t even get me started on Margaret Houlihan. Godddddddd. 

 On that note, and maybe you will fall over, but Margaret and Hawkeye are my actual, #1, forever OTP. Which is weird for you, dear readers, I’m sure, as I run a v strict wlw blog and I’m very proud about that. But broken people who heal and change and grow because of the other is my tea, jam, and bread (”crackers and jam! too bad!” ;) ),  and so far the writing of other characters and relationships hasn’t a hope of even coming into the range of depth these characters have (obvs not just wlw ships, all other mlw ships are The Worst as well, we’re all doomed, why does tv suck). But anyway, I would take them over any ship any day of the week goombye (but also….shipping Margaret is kinda like….not the point of Margaret Houlihan). 

It’s worth noting that M*A*S*H has a character named Maxwell Klinger who wears a dress to try to get out of the army via a Section 8 (previously known as a “psycho”) discharge (remember lgbtq was still classified as a mental illness, smh). Obviously, this is potentially triggering. And, obviously, not okay in today’s world. To me the show does call out that it is the policies/laws/politics that are crazy, not Klinger. I think there are still some fairly modern ideas in his portrayal in that anyone who treats him like he is crazy, or is disrespectful, is very pointedly shown to be bigoted/an antagonist. Klinger is excellent at his job, brave, loyal, true, and that’s all anyone who is a protagonist cares about (and I do think they try to show to the extend they could during the time it aired that even if Klinger were not doing it for a discharge, they would respond the same way). Fwif, imo, Klinger isn’t played as a one note joke for wearing dresses, in fact, to an extent, he does wear them utterly sincerely. He loves, deeply loves, clothes and fashion because loving something gives him something to live for. It becomes his passion, not a gag. The gag is that Klinger will do anything to get out of the war through any available loophole he hears about (having an imaginary pet camel, eating 10 sausages in a single day, eating a jeep, trying to get into West Point aka join the military to get out of the military), etc. His comrades in arms treat him very sincerely and are very protective. Early on, a jeep comes in with wounded and Radar pulls Klinger away from the blood, “careful, you’ll get your dress dirty” in the most serious, sweet way. Col Potter is always very serious and sincere about telling Klinger when one of his dresses is a fav, and Klinger positively glows. When Klinger has to trade his dress collection to local women in exchange for shelter for the wounded during a bug out, Col. Potter, regular army in his 3rd war, tells Klinger (who is in tears) that it’s the finest act of bravery he has ever seen (and he means it). When Margaret desperately wants to look pretty and Klinger pulls out one of his best frocks and helps her dress in it - Margaret who grew up in combat boots wanting a crew cut - it’s pretty emotional (and I bawl when he gives her the wedding dress, goddd). As for Klinger himself, he’s one of my favorite characters. He has the biggest heart and I love him (and yes, I might feel differently if I had a different life experience than I do - that is why I’m flagging this as something that might not be for everyone, or might be trigger - because history already is triggering, and not everyone might be as moved by him as I am).

If you’re a 30 Rock fan you will know the star Alan Alda as Milton Greeen, Jack Donaghy’s father, and if you love Beauty and the Beast you will know that the actor who voiced Cogsworth is a major (lol pun) character in S6-11! But that’s all crazy to me because they are always M*A*S*H, first and forever, and always in my mind! I can’t believe they’re all in their 80s now, or that so many of them have passed.  :( They are truly my whole heart, my family, my home. 

If you do want to watch, recommend you start with the following eps (omg this list is long but it feels so short):

Welcome to Korea pt 1 + 2 (s4)

Change of Command (s4)

Aid Station (s3)

Death Takes a Holiday (s9)

Carry on, Hawkeye (s2)

Bug Out pt 1 + 2 (s5)

Dear Sigmund (s5)

Period of Adjustment (s8) *my first ep ever :,)

The Bus (s4)

Sometimes You Hear the Bullet (s1)

Tuttle (s1)

Crisis (s2)

O.R. (s3)

5 O'Clock Charlie (s2)

The Nurses (s5)

The Interview (s4)

Movie Tonight (s5)

Abyssinia, Henry (s3)

Hepatitis (s5)

Your Hit Parade (s6)

Peace on Us (s7)

Eye for a Tooth (s7)

Old Soldiers (s8)

Life Time (s8)

Stars and Stripes (s8)

Hey, Look Me Over (s11)

There’s a million more things I could say about the show. I feel like I haven’t summarized it justly. If anyone wants to chime in with why they love M*A*S*H, what your fav ep is, etc, please do :)

[fionaapplerocks]

Fiona's explanation of her MTV Speech, as posted to the fan forum in 1997...

Hi everyone-

I've been meaning to write this for awhile now. Thank you very much for the birthday book. For those of you who contributed, I need to tell you that that was the most wonderful thing you could have done for me, and it couldn't have come at a better time- You should all know, that whatever it is that I and my music do for you, it can only be expressed so, because you're there listening. I'm proud of being the reason why so many wonderful people gather right here, and get to know each other, but I'm aware that I need you to be what I want to be. (There's no way to say that right.) Anyway, I gotta explain the MTV speech, because it's too annoying to be misunderstood, and if it's written down, I won't have to talk about it anymore. Here's what happened:

Sitting there in the audience, just before my award was announced, I had a crowd of people sitting around me, staring, awaiting my reaction to the outcome of the "contest". Now me,- I was sure I couldn't win. For me, MTV seemed like the land of the cool- the popular peoples' party, and I honestly didn't expect to be accepted and appreciated by the very ones who, at that point, still intimidated me, you know? I mean, I remember what it was like being a freshman in high school, and feeling so small and inadequate in the shadows of those beautiful "senior people". I remember actually believing that somehow their lives were better than mine- more fun and more meaningful, because they had status, and I didn't. Then, when I was a senior, I still thought the grass would be greener, only this time, it was the celebrities I was comparing myself to. I would watch these awards shows, watch them all walk down the red carpets, and think,- fuck- I'm nobody. Those people are special. They're perfect. Everyone likes them. They get invited to parties- they get all the pretty clothes. I don't have shit. I shop at Ross Dress For Less and I gotta pay a 10 buck cover charge to wait in the cold before anyone lets me into their parties, and even then, I'm still just me. No one knows my name. No one cares what I think. How come some people are born to grace and perfection and gleeful reception wherever they arrive, and others are doomed to be shunned and shamed for their misfortune and even for their sacred individuality? I know a lot of people feel that way, that's why people got so annoyed with me for saying what I said. They figured "she's got it all, and she's complaining to us?"

But you see, that's exactly the mentality I strive to overturn. I mean, you think I've got something that makes my life a fairytale- that makes my life enviable, because people know my name, I'm starting to make a lot of money? Well, I agree, I do. I'm lucky to be able to do the shit I do, and I love to do it, most of the time. But when I started with this whole music thing, I wanted to bring people together, and show them that all we are is what we feel. No one's got more than anyone else. Not really. The only thing anyone ever truly possesses, are the thoughts and feeling we use as fuel, to motivate ourselves into action. And the only things we can ever take real pride in, are the physical manifestations of all our pains and passions; the actions we control- the situations we create-the thoughts and feelings we provoke in one another. In that sense, we're all the same, and there's no reason to ever envy or feel inferior to anyone know matter how much fame and money they've got and there's no sense in even looking up to them, just because they've got those things. But this society is infatuated with celebrities. We look on hollywood with the eyes of desperate disciples. We copy their clothes, their hair do's and don'ts, their attitudes, behavior and even the most trivial of characteristics we read about in magazines, like what comic books they read, and what soda they drink. We herald them as gods, as royalty, and when we compare ourselves to them, we feel small. When I won, I felt like a sellout. I felt that I deserved recognition, but that the recognition I was getting, was for the wrong reasons. I felt that now, in the blink of an eye, all of those people who didn't give a fuck who I was, or what I thought, were now all at once, just humoring me, appeasing me, and not just because of my talent, but instead because of the fact that somehow with the help of my record company and my make-up artist, my stylist, and my press, I had successfully created the illusion that I was perfect, and pretty, and rich, and therefore living a higher quality of life. I started to resent being there, because I felt like I was now one of those seniors, one of those "better than thou" celebrities, who made me feel so small before, and now, I was going to make people feel small. I'd saved myself from the misfit status, but I'd betrayed my own kind, by becoming a paper doll in order to be accepted.

"It's stupid that I'm even in this world" only referred to that fact that up on that stage, I didn't feel cool. I didn't feel like I had graduated into celebrity, I felt like I snuck into that party, and because I was wearing nice clothes, and I was bearing a name that some people now recognized, somehow, I tricked them all into thinking I belonged. I thought they liked me for superficial reasons, and therefore, I resented being liked. (Just like when I was a junior in high school, and guys started asking me out all of a sudden, I know it was because of my physical metamorphosis. "I've always been a good person," I thought, and I hated their clothing for I knew it was due only to that fact over the summer I had grown breasts.) Does anyone see what I mean? I know I'm a little oversensitive. I'm cynical, impulsive, and in many ways, very stupid. But I had this thought, and I had this feeling, and I said it. I put it into action. I provoked conversation. And that, I am proud of.

Also, here is a letter I am sending to Spin (no explanation necessary). Three things: 1.) I do not think of Tori Amos as the "poster girl for rape"- I was merely referring to the danger in both of us being honest about our personal experience, when, as public figures, there is a tendency of the media to label us and reduce our music to simply a reflection of one cultural ill.

2.) I don't want to die. If you knew me personally, you'd see that I was just being me- sarcastically, cynically, and deadpan. (Please- I was coming out of a photo shoot- and if you read the article, you know I consider suicide a tasty alternative to modeling.)

3.) And finally, just to clarify, the "Criminal" video is not an erotic reference to my childhood assault- please. It's about the trouble in weilding the the double edged sword of female sexuality. The thin line between sweet seduction and subversive manipulation. How come I feel like a "Bad, bad girl", when all I did was have a night of fun? Just cause a girl gets her kick in bed, don't mean she's a victim, or a slut, or a whore. And if you're dumb enough to think I'm a victim, cuz I look "waifish", well then you probably can't read this letter, so what can I say?

One last thing. Remember, everything you see in the media, is what the people with the big desks want you to see. Seek your own answers to the questions that are raised. Like I said before, "Go with yourself!" --Fiona

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

Scanxiety: And you thought the SATs were bad!

Hello from the land of Scanxiety!

That's a portmanteau that I learned from the online cancer communities I'm in that is (you guessed it!) a combination of the terms "scan" and "anxiety." It's what happens in the days leading up to and immediately following the imaging scans (typically CTs, sometimes PETs or MRIs) that cancer patients get to assess whether the disease has "progressed." Now, bear in mind that in cancer-speak progress is bad. Progress is from the perspective of the disease, meaning that it's been marching on ahead despite your best efforts to stop it. CTs occur every 2-3 months (or at least mine do...I assume if I had no sign of disease for longer they might be less frequent) and they are the metric that tells you whether the treatment you've been enduring--have been pinning your hopes on--is working. Or if it's not.

Basically, these assessment scans are the worst test you can imagine taking. You do everything you possibly can to prepare, assiduously infusing yourself with poison or swallowing pills that lead to instant (though manageable) acid reflux and nausea, trying not to care as your hair falls out or your muscles seize or the nerves in your fingers die. (All, let me remind you, "good" side effects on the scale of cancer treatment that I have been very "lucky" to get away with; these are relative terms but I've seen the alternative and they are still really meaningful to me.) You prepare and you suffer and you endure and you hope it's enough. You're fundamentally powerless over the outcome (unlike with any other test overachievers like me are used to taking) but you hope and you hope and send out pleas and prayers that it will be enough. And often it's not.

[Below the cut: “But it's tough to read as a patient, to see yourself anatomized and quantified, like a patient etherised upon a table. More on scans and anxiety.]

Every time I've had a CT scan it's been bad news. My report from January was the one that showed that the disease was metastatic (boy, was it ever!!). My report from March suggested that my previously safe liver had been affected after all. My report from June determined that chemo hadn't worked on anything except my lungs and that several tumors had actually gotten bigger. So you can see why I'm facing the prospect of news from last Friday's scans with dread and anxiety, despite there being some early indications that I can feel more optimistic about this treatment. On a very real, very visceral level those signs don't matter at all. No matter how well I feel or how well I seem to be doing all these scans have ever showed is that I'm still getting worse. Or as I might say, if I weren't so inclined to avoid upsetting the rest of you, that I'm still dying (slowly, but faster than most of you and far faster than any of us would like).

I've written before about how incredibly impressed I am with the science of the study I'm on now and I have far more reason for thinking I might get some good news out of it than from the default chemotherapy option. But the cold indifference of x-rays and the people who read them stands in such stunning contrast to the incredible amount of emotion associated with the process that I cannot help but expect its cruelty. And honestly no offense to radiologists--I even have friends who are radiologists!--who see thousands of these images and who must write dispassionately because it is their job. I get it. But it's tough to read as a patient, to see yourself anatomized and quantified, like a patient etherised upon a table.

If you want to know what one of these reports looks like--what I'm facing getting tomorrow (or today, August 20th) here are mine from back in June. (Keep in mind that this one even has a piece of good news in which is that two of the lung tumors are gone and the others got smaller.)

So when I say that I'm nervous about tomorrow you can imagine why. In the morning, as usual, I'll drive myself to Philadelphia to meet my doctors. Inevitably, 95 will have construction or an accident and it will take 90 minutes each way, a total of 3 hours alone in the car with my thoughts and either the anxiety and fear caused but NOT knowing or the potentially worse anxiety caused by knowing. It's times like these that I hate being single, being an only child, living alone. So often it's just this dynamic duo of me and my anxiety...and my goodness do I get sick of us!

Now, yes, I have wonderful friends and family who would fly out here in a heartbeat if I asked. But part of trying to maintain "a normal life"; to live as myself even while living with this disease, is to do things as I normally do them. And for the past couple years that as meant living singly, independently, and perhaps a little too entrenched in that fact. My parents can tell you that from the earliest age I wanted to do things myself and would tell them emphatically (a nice word for it) to leave me alone and let me do it. (They did. They do.)

I'm not so different as an adult. I didn't want anyone to think, as a child, that I couldn't do things for myself and some core part of me has never gotten past that. But what I understand now that I didn't then is that just because you can do something doesn't mean you have to. (I do have friends here who have gone with me to appointments in the past but I have now developed a silly conviction that they have done enough and should not be bothered further.) Still, it's hard to put this into practice and ask for things.

What's more, it can be hard to know what to ask for. Or, even if I know that, say, it would be fantastic to have someone else drive at least one way to or from Philly sometime, it can be too hard to ask for it because it seems like too big a favor. Because accompanying the childhood conviction that I can do it myself is a longstanding fear of being too much. Many women struggle with this, I know, and I won't say too much about it now. But I will say that it pairs either very badly (or very well, depending on your perspective) with the drive to look capable and reliable, to seem in control no matter what the situation. Even if the situation is literally threatening my life. I can do it myself. But should I?

It's much easier to accept an offer than it is to ask for something, not least because it relieves the burden of emotional labor involved in figuring out what to ask and in overcoming any hangups about asking for it. If you're in a position to offer something--to me or to someone else going through something rough, whether it's illness or grief or something else entirely--consider doing it. We've all looked at a menu enough times to know that sometimes you don't even know what to order until a friend suggests it. Look at the menu for someone you care about and offer them something. (But also be ok if they turn it down because it just doesn't appeal...we've all had that menu experience too.)

I suppose I've wandered off track (and maybe now feel a little hungry) but I wanted to remind myself that you're out there and to try to share just a little of the mental state that I exist in most days now with you. Thanks for coming on this ride with me. I'll share whatever news I have as soon as I'm able.

Love, Bex

[bottlepiecemuses]

big mom and whitebeard as foils

big mom is a foil (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Foil https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foil_(literature) “In fiction, a foil is a character who contrasts with another character —usually the protagonist— in order to highlight particular qualities of the other character” )To Whitebeard. They’re both very old emperors that few would want to cross but they have virtually opposite standards. Whitebeard felt every pirate should have a code and sense of honor. Big Mom lies and regularly deceives and tricks others to obtain her own ends. Whitebeard never had any actual family (his alleged wife and son notwithstanding), but he treated every subordinate as if they were one of his own children, forgiving one for stabbing him, and he led them with sincere, if gruff, love. Big Mom’s children are related to her by blood, yet she feels no true love or compassion for them, treating them as no more than a means to an end, and killing them if they go against her. Whitebeard protected Fishman Island and demanded absolutely nothing in return for his protection. Big Mom not only made a massive demand for candy from Fishman Island under her protection, but she was highly inflexible about receiving her payment, and it’s only thanks to Luffy that she didn’t unleash her wrath upon the island. while big mom is leading her crew by fear ( which she invoked so that she could take their soul away) whitebeard led by love Even the contrast of their powers is interesting as Whitebeard could control the land and sea with his powers (quake) while Big Mom’s powers (soul) she uses to manipulate something that represent the sun and sky. both of them suffer from a form of illness which hurts them whitebeard a physical illness which led his body to be weakened and left openings for people to attack while big mom suffers from a mental illlness which occasionally activates ( her hunger pains) and can lead her to cause damage to her own crew and lands. 

 “ BIG MOM and WHITEBEARD That is no free will vs free will.

If you are a pirate, you must have your free will. But we have seen that big mom impose Her will on her kids and as well as her allies

However it was not the case with the WB he never imposed his will on his allies and even his crewmates. His tag line was “Bear my name on the back and roam the sea freely” But Bigmom’s tagline is “You can only leave tottoland after your death” I think, Here oda is trying to show the apparent difference between WB and BM

I.E they are polar opposites of each other

Big Mom Have no regards for her crewmates The example if this is when she called katakuri “a lowly child” But WB on the other had high regards for his crewmates. He said to jozu “i am counting on you” , when jozu attacked aokiji.

In WB’s reign there was “true freedom for the races” Which is not the case with bigmom because she believes in controlled freedom(where all the races can live but with no freedom)which is “bondage” in other words.

WB didn’t discriminate anyone on looks but BIGMOM discriminated pudding and katakuri  “

On the one hand you have Edward Newgate, with no (confirmed) biological children, but with a vast crew of "sons" that he has nurtured, brought up, and accepted as his family despite no blood ties. He is attached to each and every one as though they are his own children, even forgiving direct betrayal and countering it with a caring embrace.

On the other hand you have Charlotte Linlin, with a ludicrously large biological family that she seems to take virtually no loving role in raising and appears ready and willing to personally execute any should they outlive their usefulness. They are tools, collectibles, to be married off for political gains or utilized as weapons in her massive army.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Keeping Up Appearances (baon)

Summary: Compromise was the stepping stone of a good marriage

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, References to Possible Illness, Implied Sexytimes

part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Stretch teased Edge sometimes about spoiling him. It was true that he enjoyed doing things for him, Edge couldn’t deny that. Whether it was a gift or making plans to take him places didn’t matter, and if doing things to make his husband smile was considered spoiling him, Edge would be content to continue for the rest of their lives.

For example, getting him a chicken. Or three.

His intentions when he'd gotten the chickens were nothing more complex than giving Stretch a pet. Once Edge did the research and learned they were relatively simple to care for, the decision was made. If he were honest, Edge had fully expected to take over their care within a month and was pleasantly surprised when Stretch stayed diligent. His impulsive gift had been a far better choice for his husband than he could have ever guessed.

Having something he could care for with relatively little pressure involved did Stretch a world of good and it always warmed Edge’s soul to see him with his little brood. Whether he was watching them in the yard or something more strangely creative, like dressing them in costumes, Stretch’s delight was Edge’s, always.

The eggs were something of a practical afterthought. At the beginning, he'd been more concerned with getting the type of chickens that would be best as pets, and when he'd learned there were breeds that laid colored eggs, his choice had been made.

As he was learning, the amount of eggs three small chickens could provide at the peak of their laying could be a challenge. Edge liked to think he was up to the task and thus far he hadn't wasted a single one. At least one night a week he made omelets to help deal with the overabundance.

Simple, quick, and delicious, easy to doctor the ingredients based on what was in the refrigerator, plus Stretch liked them. A win-win, all the way around.

Tonight, Edge sautéed mushrooms in butter and white wine, adding garlic, and then the eggs. He added a sprinkle of cheese and when it was just melting, he pulled the pan from the heat, carefully folding it onto the plate. A second omelet took only a couple minutes and the first was still steaming when he carried the plates out to the living room.

There he faced his first conundrum of the night; where to put them.

The coffee table was currently covered with papers. There were notebooks, diagrams, scraps of paper covered in equations written in Stretch’s messy handwriting in a kaleidoscope of ink colors. Stretch was sitting in the floor pouring over them. He barely even glancing up as Edge walked over to him, chewing on the end of a purple pen.

Distractedly, he took the plate from Edge, mumbling a thank you before shoveling a bite into his mouth.

Well, at least he was eating food instead of writing utensils. Edge sat in the armchair with his own plate, eating silently as he watched Stretch work.

This was an effect of moving the lab equipment to their basement that Edge hadn’t anticipated. It was slowly leaking upstairs. Not that he could complain, he often brought his own work home. But then, he didn’t need the rest that Stretch did. Four or five hours a night suited him fine, while Stretch really needed a more traditional eight, nine if he could.

Stretch also should have taken a nap that afternoon and it didn’t seem as if he had. He looked tired. There were visible shadows beneath his sockets and usually if Edge sat there long enough, he would start explaining what he was doing. It was almost an automatic response these days and Edge always listened, whether or not he understood.

Today, Stretch only set his empty plate on the least cluttered corner of the table and kept writing. He didn’t seem as if he was truly working now, doodling in the margins, misshapen spirals and geometric shapes with uneven lines. But then, for all Edge knew it was another scientific language, it wasn’t like anything else on those pages made sense to him.

Almost, Edge asked him what he was working on. It would get him talking, if only to shut Edge down, and normally he would. If only Stretch didn’t look so tired.

The fatigue wasn’t completely abnormal; it was a simple fact of having low HP. On the rare occasions Stretch worked himself to exhaustion, he always made up for it afterward by sleeping in the next few days.

Edge shouldn’t be worried. And yet—

The pen was abandoned and now Stretch was absently folding a scrap of paper, crisp lines slowly forming into one of his creations.

He couldn’t be sure what, but something was clearly bothering Stretch. His work, an oncoming depressive episode, perhaps even illness. Something was clearly out of the normal.

Well, there was no point in dancing around it.

“Are you feeling all right?” Edge asked bluntly.

“i’m fine,” Stretch said, shortly. Nothing else, not so much a smile or wincingly sharp sarcasm. Which could mean that he was perfectly fine, or that he was definitely was not but didn’t want to talk about it.

Irritating to not know which. It was life with Stretch in a nutshell.

The paper he was folding slowly came into focus as a little rabbit. It was carefully set upright and with a flick of Stretch’s finger, it jumped across the table. Edge watched, considering his options.

He could either push it and risk actually angering Stretch or he could let it go and trust that if anything were wrong, Stretch would tell him. Neither choice was sitting very well with him.

He settled for leaning down to press a kiss against the top of Stretch’s skull. If he happened to mentally gauge his husband’s temperature when he did it, he could hardly be blamed for that.

From the suspicious look Stretch gave him, he was not fooled. That he hooked a finger in the collar of Edge’s shirt and pulled him down for a real kiss was more encouraging.

“i’m going to be down at the embassy tomorrow,” Stretch murmured when he drew away, still close enough that Edge could feel the warmth of his breath. “did you want to have lunch?”

“What are you doing at the Embassy?” He made a point of not reminding him of his promise to shortcut in to avoid the protesters, despite his inner voice howling for it. Stretch was an adult and he was highly unlikely to forget a promise.

Stretch shrugged. “sans asked me to come down. he and alphys are working on something, and he wanted a third opinion.”

“Hm.” Edge decided not to ask. Much as he loved listening to Stretch’s excited chatter, past experience taught him that Alphys’s work was even more incomprehensible than Stretch’s. “Yes, we could meet for lunch.”

“good.” Stretch kissed him again before asking with deliberate sultry warmth. “welp, i’m finished for the night. you done with work?”

Even a fool would understand that implication and Edge liked to consider himself above average. He was a little torn. He always wanted to be with Stretch and sex definitely held more appeal than dishes.

But he looked tired and Edge wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t a ploy to take his mind off that fact.

Compromise was the stepping stone of a good marriage, he decided.

“I am. Let me do something for you?”

That took him aback. “uh, sure?”

Stretch’s uncertainty only grew as Edge slid down to the floor, pushing him gently to lay back as he settled between his legs. He slithered downward, dragging Stretch’s shorts down with him and soon, any doubts were alleviated.

Hands scrabbled against Edge’s skull, thin fingers unable to find purchase, and he didn’t quite bring Stretch to the point of begging, though it was close. Stretch didn’t last ten minutes but Edge liked to think they were a good ten minutes. Certainly Stretch’s whimpered praises gave that impression.

When Edge crawled back up the length of his limp body, wiping his mouth carelessly on his sleeve, Stretch only barely managed a drowsy kiss at first. He roused a little soon enough, hands sliding down Edge’s rib cage.

“let me—" Edge didn’t stop Stretch from pressing a hand between his own legs, watched him frown at what he found. Well, Stretch wasn’t the only one who’d thought it was a very good ten minutes.

It did mean that was Edge was going to end up doing laundry before bed, and it was a good thing magic didn’t leave permanent stains. But it also meant Stretch wouldn’t have to exhaust himself further trying to reciprocate.

“like going down on me that much?” Stretch asked impishly.

“Yes,” Edge told him honestly. The proof was obvious and still damp.

It made a blush rise in Stretch’s face, dusting his cheekbones. That soft orange was lovely, unlike the darker stains beneath his sockets. Stretch didn’t flinch when Edge cupped his face and rubbed a thumb over those shadows, but he did sigh, relenting.

“okay, okay,” Stretch grumbled. “listen, maybe you’re right, i am pretty tired. i’ll head up to bed and you can wander up whenever you want, yeah?”

Edge rolled off him and to his feet, holding out a hand to help Stretch to his. “Do you want me to tuck you in?”

Stretch clasped his hands to his face and batted his non-existent eyelashes. “aw, would you, mama bear? read me a story, get me a glass of water—"

“Spank your ass.”

“kinky. yeah, if you wanna cuddle in the afterglow a little bit, you can come up.”

Stretch started upstairs, blowing him a kiss from the landing and he only waiting long enough for Edge to pretend to catch it before turning away. He didn’t see the way Edge pressed his hand to his mouth, adding his own kiss.

Edge didn’t care. The act wasn’t only for his husband’s benefit.

He did take a moment to clear away the dinner dishes, pausing at the linen closet to pull out an extra blanket in case Stretch was feeling colder than usual.

He passed the coffee table on his way up and paused. The little paper rabbit was sitting on top of the paperwork, poised for another leap amidst the multi-colored scrawls.

Edge picked it up and tucked it into his pocket before following Stretch up. It wouldn’t take him long to fall asleep, Edge hoped, and Edge could stay a while and make sure he was settled.

His love needed his rest.

-finis-

[vocaloidcomments]

kaito: i l ove to piss into the mouth of my good firned, Sand Udnertale

sand [gargling kaitos piss]: The human race has travelled a long way, since those remote ages when men fashioned their rude implements of flint and lived on the precarious spoils of hunting, leaving to their children for their only heritage a shelter beneath the rocks, some poor utensils—and Nature, vast, unknown, and terrific, with whom they had to fight for their wretched existence.During the long succession of agitated ages which have elapsed since, mankind has nevertheless amassed untold treasures. It has cleared the land, dried the marshes, hewn down forests, made roads, pierced mountains; it has been building, inventing, observing, reasoning; it has created a complex machinery, wrested her secrets from Nature, and finally it pressed steam and electricity into its service. And the result is, that now the child of the civilized man finds at its birth, ready for its use, an immense capital accumulated by those who have gone before him. And this capital enables man to acquire, merely by his own labour combined with the labour of others, riches surpassing the dreams of the fairy tales of the Thousand and One Nights.The soil is cleared to a great extent, fit for the reception of the best seeds, ready to give a rich return for the skill and labour spent upon it—a return more than sufficient for all the wants of humanity. The methods of rational cultivation are known.On the wide prairies of America each hundred men, with the aid of powerful machinery, can produce in a few months enough wheat to maintain ten thousand people for a whole year. And where man wishes to double his produce, to treble it, to multiply it a hundred-fold, he makes the soil, gives to each plant the requisite care, and thus obtains enormous returns. While the hunter of old had to scour fifty or sixty square miles to find food for his family, the civilized man supports his household, with far less pains, and far more certainty, on a thousandth part of that space. Climate is no longer an obstacle. When the sun fails, man replaces it by artificial heat; and we see the coming of a time when artificial light also will be used to stimulate vegetation. Meanwhile, by the use of glass and hot water pipes, man renders a given space ten and fifty times more productive than it was in its natural state.The prodigies accomplished in industry are still more striking. With the co-operation of those intelligent beings, modern machines—themselves the fruit of three or four generations of inventors, mostly unknown—a hundred men manufacture now the stuff to provide ten thousand persons with clothing for two years. In well-managed coal mines the labour of a hundred miners furnishes each year enough fuel to warm ten thousand families under an inclement sky. And we have lately witnessed the spectacle of wonderful cities springing up in a few months for international exhibitions, without interrupting in the slightest degree the regular work of the nations.And if in manufactures as in agriculture, and as indeed through our whole social system, the labour, the discoveries, and the inventions of our ancestors profit chiefly the few, it is none the less certain that mankind in general, aided by the creatures of steel and iron which it already possesses, could already procure an existence of wealth and ease for every one of its members.Truly, we are rich—far richer than we think; rich in what we already possess, richer still in the possibilities of production of our actual mechanical outfit; richest of all in what we might win from our soil, from our manufactures, from our science, from our technical knowledge, were they but applied to bringing about the well-being of all.IIIn our civilized societies we are rich. Why then are the many poor? Why this painful drudgery for the masses? Why, even to the best paid workman, this uncertainty for the morrow, in the midst of all the wealth inherited from the past, and in spite of the powerful means of production, which could ensure comfort to all, in return for a few hours of daily toil?The Socialists have said it and repeated it unwearyingly. Daily they reiterate it, demonstrating it by arguments taken from all the sciences. It is because all that is necessary for production—the land, the mines, the highways, machinery, food, shelter, education, knowledge—all have been seized by the few in the course of that long story of robbery, enforced migration and wars, of ignorance and oppression, which has been the life of the human race before it had learned to subdue the forces of Nature. It is because, taking advantage of alleged rights acquired in the past, these few appropriate to-day two-thirds of the products of human labour, and then squander them in the most stupid and shameful way. It is because, having reduced the masses to a point at which they have not the means of subsistence for a month, or even for a week in advance, the few can allow the many to work, only on the condition of themselves receiving the lion's share. It is because these few prevent the remainder of men from producing the things they need, and force them to produce, not the necessaries of life for all, but whatever offers the greatest profits to the monopolists. In this is the substance of all Socialism.Take, indeed, a civilized country. The forests which once covered it have been cleared, the marshes drained, the climate improved. It has been made habitable. The soil, which bore formerly only a coarse vegetation, is covered to-day with rich harvests. The rock-walls in the valleys are laid out in terraces and covered with vines. The wild plants, which yielded nought but acrid berries, or uneatable roots, have been transformed by generations of culture into succulent vegetables or trees covered with delicious fruits. Thousands of highways and railroads furrow the earth, and pierce the mountains. The shriek of the engine is heard in the wild gorges of the Alps, the Caucasus, and the Himalayas. The rivers have been made navigable; the coasts, carefully surveyed, are easy of access; artificial harbours, laboriously dug out and protected against the fury of the sea, afford shelter to the ships. Deep shafts have been sunk in the rocks; labyrinths of underground galleries have been dug out where coal may be raised or minerals extracted. At the crossings of the highways great cities have sprung up, and within their borders all the treasures of industry, science, and art have been accumulated.Whole generations, that lived and died in misery, oppressed and ill-treated by their masters, and worn out by toil, have handed on this immense inheritance to our century.For thousands of years millions of men have laboured to clear the forests, to drain the marshes, and to open up highways by land and water. Every rood of soil we cultivate in Europe has been watered by the sweat of several races of men. Every acre has its story of enforced labour, of intolerable toil, of the people's sufferings. Every mile of railway, every yard of tunnel, has received its share of human blood.The shafts of the mine still bear on their rocky walls the marks made by the pick of the workman who toiled to excavate them. The space between each prop in the underground galleries might be marked as a miner's grave; and who can tell what each of these graves has cost, in tears, in privations, in unspeakable wretchedness to the family who depended on the scanty wage of the worker cut off in his prime by fire-damp, rock-fall, or flood?The cities, bound together by railroads and waterways, are organisms which have lived through centuries. Dig beneath them and you find, one above another, the foundations of streets, of houses, of theatres, of public buildings. Search into their history and you will see how the civilization of the town, its industry, its special characteristics, have slowly grown and ripened through the co-operation of generations of its inhabitants before it could become what it is to-day. And even to-day, the value of each dwelling, factory, and warehouse, which has been created by the accumulated labour of the millions of workers, now dead and buried, is only maintained by the very presence and labour of legions of the men who now inhabit that special corner of the globe. Each of the atoms composing what we call the Wealth of Nations owes its value to the fact that it is a part of the great whole. What would a London dockyard or a great Paris warehouse be if they were not situated in these great centres of international commerce? What would become of our mines, our factories, our workshops, and our railways, without the immense quantities of merchandise transported every day by sea and land?Millions of human beings have laboured to create this civilization on which we pride ourselves to-day. Other millions, scattered through the globe, labour to maintain it. Without them nothing would be left in fifty years but ruins.There is not even a thought, or an invention, which is not common property, born of the past and the present. Thousands of inventors, known and unknown, who have died in poverty, have co-operated in the invention of each of these machines which embody the genius of man.Thousands of writers, of poets, of scholars, have laboured to increase knowledge, to dissipate error, and to create that atmosphere of scientific thought, without which the marvels of our century could never have appeared. And these thousands of philosophers, of poets, of scholars, of inventors, have themselves been supported by the labour of past centuries. They have been upheld and nourished through life, both physically and mentally, by legions of workers and craftsmen of all sorts. They have drawn their motive force from the environment.The genius of a Séguin, a Mayer, a Grove, has certainly done more to launch industry in new directions than all the capitalists in the world. But men of genius are themselves the children of industry as well as of science. Not until thousands of steam-engines had been working for years before all eyes, constantly transforming heat into dynamic force, and this force into sound, light, and electricity, could the insight of genius proclaim the mechanical origin and the unity of the physical forces. And if we, children of the nineteenth century, have at last grasped this idea, if we know now how to apply it, it is again because daily experience has prepared the way. The thinkers of the eighteenth century saw and declared it, but the idea remained undeveloped, because the eighteenth century had not grown up like ours, side by side with the steam-engine. Imagine the decades that might have passed while we remained in ignorance of this law, which has revolutionized modern industry, had Watt not found at Soho skilled workmen to embody his ideas in metal, bringing all the parts of his engine to perfection, so that steam, pent in a complete mechanism, and rendered more docile than a horse, more manageable than water, became at last the very soul of modern industry.Every machine has had the same history—a long record of sleepless nights and of poverty, of disillusions and of joys, of partial improvements discovered by several generations of nameless workers, who have added to the original invention these little nothings, without which the most fertile idea would remain fruitless. More than that: every new invention is a synthesis, the resultant of innumerable inventions which have preceded it in the vast field of mechanics and industry.Science and industry, knowledge and application, discovery and practical realization leading to new discoveries, cunning of brain and of hand, toil of mind and muscle—all work together. Each discovery, each advance, each increase in the sum of human riches, owes its being to the physical and mental travail of the past and the present.By what right then can any one whatever appropriate the least morsel of this immense whole and say—This is mine, not yours?IIIIt has come about, however, in the course of the ages traversed by the human race, that all that enables man to produce and to increase his power of production has been seized by the few. Some time, perhaps, we will relate how this came to pass. For the present let it suffice to state the fact and analyze its consequences.To-day the soil, which actually owes its value to the needs of an ever-increasing population, belongs to a minority who prevent the people from cultivating it—or do not allow them to cultivate it according to modern methods.The mines, though they represent the labour of several generations, and derive their sole value from the requirements of the industry of a nation and the density of the population—the mines also belong to the few; and these few restrict the output of coal, or prevent it entirely, if they find more profitable investments for their capital. Machinery, too, has become the exclusive property of the few, and even when a machine incontestably represents the improvements added to the original rough invention by three or four generations of workers, it none the less belongs to a few owners. And if the descendants of the very inventor who constructed the first machine for lace-making, a century ago, were to present themselves to-day in a lace factory at Bâle or Nottingham, and claim their rights, they would be told: "Hands off! this machine is not yours," and they would be shot down if they attempted to take possession of it.The railways, which would be useless as so much old iron without the teeming population of Europe, its industry, its commerce, and its marts, belong to a few shareholders, ignorant perhaps of the whereabouts of the lines of rails which yield them revenues greater than those of medieval kings. And if the children of those who perished by thousands while excavating the railway cuttings and tunnels were to assemble one day, crowding in their rags and hunger, to demand bread from the shareholders, they would be met with bayonets and grapeshot, to disperse them and safeguard "vested interests."In virtue of this monstrous system, the son of the worker, on entering life, finds no field which he may till, no machine which he may tend, no mine in which he may dig, without accepting to leave a great part of what he will produce to a master. He must sell his labour for a scant and uncertain wage. His father and his grandfather have toiled to drain this field, to build this mill, to perfect this machine. They gave to the work the full measure of their strength, and what more could they give? But their heir comes into the world poorer than the lowest savage. If he obtains leave to till the fields, it is on condition of surrendering a quarter of the produce to his master, and another quarter to the government and the middlemen. And this tax, levied upon him by the State, the capitalist, the lord of the manor, and the middleman, is always increasing; it rarely leaves him the power to improve his system of culture. If he turns to industry, he is allowed to work—though not always even that—only on condition that he yield a half or two-thirds of the product to him whom the land recognizes as the owner of the machine.We cry shame on the feudal baron who forbade the peasant to turn a clod of earth unless he surrendered to his lord a fourth of his crop. We called those the barbarous times. But if the forms have changed, the relations have remained the same, and the worker is forced, under the name of free contract, to accept feudal obligations. For, turn where he will, he can find no better conditions. Everything has become private property, and he must accept, or die of hunger.The result of this state of things is that all our production tends in a wrong direction. Enterprise takes no thought for the needs of the community. Its only aim is to increase the gains of the speculator. Hence the constant fluctuations of trade, the periodical industrial crises, each of which throws scores of thousands of workers on the streets.The working people cannot purchase with their wages the wealth which they have produced, and industry seeks foreign markets among the monied classes of other nations. In the East, in Africa, everywhere, in Egypt, Tonkin or the Congo, the European is thus bound to promote the growth of serfdom. And so he does. But soon he finds that everywhere there are similar competitors. All the nations evolve on the same lines, and wars, perpetual wars, break out for the right of precedence in the market. Wars for the possession of the East, wars for the empire of the sea, wars to impose duties on imports and to dictate conditions to neighbouring states; wars against those "blacks" who revolt! The roar of the cannon never ceases in the world, whole races are massacred, the states of Europe spend a third of their budgets in armaments; and we know how heavily these taxes fall on the workers.Education still remains the privilege of a small minority, for it is idle to talk of education when the workman's child is forced, at the age of thirteen, to go down into the mine or to help his father on the farm. It is idle to talk of studying to the worker, who comes home in the evening wearied by excessive toil, and its brutalizing atmosphere. Society is thus bound to remain divided into two hostile camps, and in such conditions freedom is a vain word. The Radical begins by demanding a greater extension of political rights, but he soon sees that the breath of liberty leads to the uplifting of the proletariat, and then he turns round, changes his opinions, and reverts to repressive legislation and government by the sword.A vast array of courts, judges, executioners, policemen, and gaolers is needed to uphold these privileges; and this array gives rise in its turn to a whole system of espionage, of false witness, of spies, of threats and corruption.The system under which we live checks in its turn the growth of the social sentiment. We all know that without uprightness, without self-respect, without sympathy and mutual aid, human kind must perish, as perish the few races of animals living by rapine, or the slave-keeping ants. But such ideas are not to the taste of the ruling classes, and they have elaborated a whole system of pseudo-science to teach the contrary.Fine sermons have been preached on the text that those who have should share with those who have not, but he who would carry out this principle would be speedily informed that these beautiful sentiments are all very well in poetry, but not in practice. "To lie is to degrade and besmirch oneself," we say, and yet all civilized life becomes one huge lie. We accustom ourselves and our children to hypocrisy, to the practice of a double-faced morality. And since the brain is ill at ease among lies, we cheat ourselves with sophistry. Hypocrisy and sophistry become the second nature of the civilized man.But a society cannot live thus; it must return to truth, or cease to exist.Thus the consequences which spring from the original act of monopoly spread through the whole of social life. Under pain of death, human societies are forced to return to first principles: the means of production being the collective work of humanity, the product should be the collective property of the race. Individual appropriation is neither just nor serviceable. All belongs to all. All things are for all men, since all men have need of them, since all men have worked in the measure of their strength to produce them, and since it is not possible to evaluate every one's part in the production of the world's wealth.All things for all. Here is an immense stock of tools and implements; here are all those iron slaves which we call machines, which saw and plane, spin and weave for us, unmaking and remaking, working up raw matter to produce the marvels of our time. But nobody has the right to seize a single one of these machines and say: "This is mine; if you want to use it you must pay me a tax on each of your products," any more than the feudal lord of medieval times had the right to say to the peasant: "This hill, this meadow belong to me, and you must pay me a tax on every sheaf of corn you reap, on every brick you build."All is for all! If the man and the woman bear their fair share of work, they have a right to their fair share of all that is produced by all, and that share is enough to secure them well-being. No more of such vague formulas as "The right to work," or "To each the whole result of his labour." What we proclaim is The Right to Well-Being: Well-Being for All!

[chrysalispen]

iii. shadow of the morrow

AO3 Link

Until Idront's shout, sharp with urgency, pierced the steady hiss of the falling rain, Bryngeim hadn't realized just how much she'd resigned herself to a fruitless search. 

Slowly, as one, she and K'luhia paused and looked at each other. The sudden flare of hope in the other woman's eyes, she suspected, mirrored the hope in her own.

"Weapons at the ready," she said. "Just in case."

And they were off, all but running towards the sound of the elezen's voice, splashing through the water and congealed earth.

The Duskwight was kneeling next to an overturned magitek reaper about thirty yalms northeast of the makeshift pathway they'd beaten into the field. Leaning against the side of the machina, unmoving, was a pale figure clad in a strange black fabric that was utterly unfamiliar: certainly not any standard-issue uniform of the Grand Companies Bryngeim recognized.

K'luhia drew to a halt, the happy light in her green eyes fading at the sight. She glared upon the center of this tableau with open contempt.

"...Piss, Idront, you got us excited over a bleedin' imperial?"

"Hush, Lu." Bryngeim reached over her shoulder and slid the axe back into its leather strapping, keeping one hand ready to draw in case it was needful. The figure in black had not stirred at their approach, but that didn't mean they were truly unconscious. "She's right, though--this one's surely not one of ours. Dead?"

As she drew close she saw a fresh, young face that was soaking wet and smeared with dirt and oil. A very young lad, she thought. That in itself wasn't necessarily so unusual; the Garlean Empire seemed to prefer its cannon fodder practically out of the cradle. Like many Limsan privateers with letters of marque from the thassolocracy, Bryngeim had taken Garlean conscripts into custody before, and more often than not the poor bastards were little more than boys. Her own captain had been one such conscript (albeit not one of her prisoners), barely past eighteen summers himself when he'd first been captured and brought to Limsa.

It was difficult in the fading light to make out much else-- save a strange pale mark on the brow, half-hidden beneath a matted, dirty blond forelock. Bryngeim frowned at the sight of it.

"No, he still breathes," Idront was saying, his own brow knitted in a frown of its own. "If I might make an observation, ma'am? I'm no expert on the imperials nor their outfitting, but by the look of this... suit, it's some sort of undergarment. He looks to have removed the armor. I found some of it in a pile next to the reaper, though I'm not sure why he'd have done that."

"Any idea why he'd be out in the open like this?"

"Might've dug himself out from under this thing." He pointed at the deep furrows nearby, half-submerged in water. "There's drag marks in the mud over there, and more of the same mud in his greaves."

She shrugged uneasily.

"I can't see shite in this soup, so I'll take your word for it." While she appreciated the man's efforts at investigation, they were wasting time out here trying to retrace an enemy's steps. She crossed her arms, fidgeting in place, thinking of the men and women who could be waiting for help. "Well? You found him, Idront. Thoughts?"

"Well, you already know what I think," K'luhia's voice piped from their backs. Bryngeim rolled her eyes heavensward. "...Oh, hang the godsdamned brass, Bryn!"

"Lu, stop it. Even if we weren't under orders to take prisoners, which we are, we're not going to go about killing enemy survivors just to make things easier on ourselves."

"Who'd care, if they even noticed he was gone?"

"Sergeant."

"What?" the Seeker snapped, her temper clearly frayed.

"Go check on the others." Discussing the moral implications of their orders was not the conversation Bryngeim wanted to be having with anyone right now, nor was this particular conversation turning out the way she would have wished. And she knew better than to make any sort of judgment call that might make it appear she'd caved to pressure from her subordinates. "Let them know we'll be along in a moment."

"With or without the Garlean?"

"What we do with him is not your concern, Sergeant. Go." Her voice made it very clear that she was not making a request but issuing a direct order, and out of the corner of her eye she could see the smaller woman's lithe frame stiffen in outrage at her tone. "If we found this one, there's a chance we'll be findin' some of ours too."

"If y'want to bring him in alive, captain, by all means," she said flatly. "But I'll have naught to do with him, ye can be sure o' that--and I doubt the others will either."

She stalked off into the darkness, tail lashing in agitation. Bryngeim ran a hand down the side of her face.

Well, that could have gone better.

"If you think it best to try our luck elsewhere, ma'am, I can take care of this," Idront said quietly. His hand reached for the hunting knife she saw sheathed in his boot, wrapped about the hilt, and tugged perhaps an ilm upwards. Steel gleamed wickedly in the watery half-light of dusk. "He won't feel any pain, and he won't be telling his friends we were here."

Bryngeim... hesitated.

As she did, a soft, cracked groan broke the silence.

"He's coming around," the elezen said sharply. "What're your orders, ma'am?"

The situation -- her sudden and unwanted promotion, the red moon, the primal, everything they'd lost in the space of the last two suns, L'sazha dying a horribly slow and painful death, all of it -- brought a wave of resentment with it. She could actually taste her own bile on the back of her tongue, sour and bright.

Because K'luhia had a point, of course she did. She could turn her back and let Idront open the boy's throat, and the likelihood anyone would be the wiser was next to nothing; certainly her unit wouldn't say a word against her. They could walk away from this now and find someone actually worth saving. One of her fellows, hurt and possibly dying, defending their lands from the endless greed and ambition of the Empire, and far more deserving of rescue. The first survivor they'd been able to find on tonight's search and it was an enemy.

the Twelve certainly had a sense of humor, she thought bitterly.

"...Ma'am?"

She was opening her mouth to tell him orders be damned, Lu's right, no one will notice another dead imperial, just cut the swiving bastard's throat from ear to ear--and then they saw the twitch of limbs, the head tilting from side to side, that soft fresh face contorting briefly in pain, long eyelashes quivering like the wings of a hurt bird against that pallid skin.

And she-

Couldn't do it.

She couldn't give an order like that. Not only for her own peace of mind, but for the look she imagined she'd see on L'sazha's face if he found out she'd ordered her men to kill this boy while he lay unconscious and unable to speak a word in his own defense, even as an act of war. Even now she knew he would bear their Garlean enemies no ill will. He'd been in their army, knew what it was like to fight for a cause not his own.

But more than anything, Bryngeim simply couldn't bear the thought of her commander's disappointment in her.

The moment came, and it passed, and the flow of time moved onwards. She exhaled, the knots in her stomach settling by ilms now that her decision was made. 

I'm sorry, Lu. I can't. You and the others will just have to live with it until we can wash our hands of him.

"Ma'am, I need-"

"Wake him up if you can," she said. "I would have him make the choice himself."

~*~

Someone was shaking her shoulder.

She'd not been properly asleep; only dozing - drifting in and out of consciousness in the broken sleep of the sick and gravely injured. 

For the first time in weeks, there had been no nightmares about the crimson moon. Or rather: nightmare, singular. For over a fortnight now, it had brought her out of a dead sleep, struggling to cut off the scream that lodged in the back of her throat, raw and hot and aching, so that she would not wake her bunkmates or sound any false alarums. Or get herself discharged and sent back to the capitol, a possibility if her superiors believed her to be shell-shocked.

(Seven hells, anything but that. They'd send her back to her family in disgrace, unable to bear the mental and physical strain of even one full deployment, and if that happened she'd never be free.)

But just thinking about that awful dream made the metallic rasp of scraping sollerets echo through her memory.

"Wake him up if you can. I would have him make the choice himself."

The footsteps she'd heard approaching the reaper, however-- those were real, and she knew by the cadence of them that they did not belong to imperial allies. Her proprioception was still in perfect working order for all that the rest of her was in poor shape, and she could easily sense their positions around and within her immediate space. They were flanking her. Preventing escape.

She felt curiously calm.

The weight on her shoulder shook once again. She remained still a moment longer, her weight slumped against the lacquer and steel of the overturned reaper.

Shaking with cold and acutely conscious that she was unable to mount even a cursory defense against any attacks, she slowly opened her eyes and blinked at the twin shapes that had materialized out of the gloom. Both were attired in uniforms bearing the colors of the Eorzean Grand Companies: one a roegadyn woman in the scarlet coat of the Limsan Lominsan Maelstrom, the other a dusk-complected elezen man in a bright yellow she didn't recognize.

The pair were staring at her with eyes as hard as stone, clearly taking her measure.

"I see we'll not have to put you out of your misery," the woman said, sounding none too pleased. That deep voice was quietly menacing and it put rest to any lingering hope that the new arrivals might be in any way friendly. "You speak Common?"

"Yes," she rasped, then nodded her head in case they hadn't heard her.

"Good. That makes things easier. Hands up. Place them behind your head."

Slowly she raised her hands, dirty and wet and numbing from the cold, and laced her fingers together where they pressed against her equally wet, dirty hair, to show them she was unarmed and not reaching for a weapon. She winced when her palm found the tender spot on the back of her head, and a dull thumping pain wove its way through the edge of her consciousness.

"What's your name? Rank?"

"Aurelia jen Laskaris. Third Cohort Medicus."

Both of them blinked at her in a sort of nonplussed surprise as if she'd said something wholly unexpected, exchanging meaningful glances between them. Aurelia herself was confused in turn by their reaction, but given the circumstance she didn't dare ask for an explanation.

" 'Medicus'." The roegadyn was the first to speak, her broad accent rolling like a crashing wave over the syllables of the foreign word. "Don't think I've heard that one before. Garlean word?"

"Ilsabardian. I-I don't-" she stammered, trying to explain, "I'm not- wasn't- in the fighting force proper. 'Medicus' means, it's..."

"Go on."

For a moment Aurelia was at a loss for words. She had expected them to understand she was just a field medic who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time (or right time, she thought wildly, all things considered)... though it was possible they knew well enough what it was and were simply making her sweat. The grimly amused tilt of the woman's mouth made her suspect thus- but absurd jest at her expense or not, she knew she was in no position to be defiant. 

Her exhausted and pain-addled mind raced, scrambling for the word she wanted. Shite, what was it...? Barber? No, not quite, though it was close; as a child she'd heard the local aan use 'barber' interchangeably to mean-

It clicked, then, and Aurelia felt a vague sense of embarrassment that she could have forgotten a word she knew so well even for a moment.

"...Chirurgeon,"  she clarified hastily. "I'm part of the VIIth Legion's medical corps."

Those light brown eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"You mean to tell me you're a healer and you were traipsing about the battlefield by your lonesome? Bollocks."

"No, not- I-I was dispatched as... as part of a-a unit. We got separated when-" When the moon dropped. She swallowed back the rest of the sentence, deciding it would be wise not to finish it, and kept her statement as simple as possible. "...that- I mean. In the fighting. ...I-I don't have a weapon. I don't even know what happened to my field kit."

"Idront." Her captor gestured to the elezen. "Search her."

Hands prodded at her waist, searching for anything hidden, then the soldier shifted the search to her sides and shoulders and she was looking up into the angular features of the elezen man in yellow. He met her gaze for a single instant before averting his eyes, his face a carefully neutral mask.

"Any weapons? Knives, pistols, or the like?"

"No, ma'am. She's unarmed."

"Then I'll take it from here. Move aside."

The man in yellow hastily scrambled backwards and almost fell on his arse into the mud trying to make space for the woman who was clearly his commanding officer. Aurelia barely noticed; she found herself face to face with the stern and unyielding face of a veteran warrior, staring into a pair of flinty dun-colored eyes. The roegadyn woman's lips were thinned with her obvious displeasure, set and tight at the corners.

A hand fell on her shoulder and with it came the kiss of a sharpened blade at her neck. Every muscle in her body stilled, and for a moment even the horrific pain in her hips was forgotten.

"I've precious little time and even fewer words to waste on you," the warrior said in a low, cold voice. "Not when I've allies in need of rescue, on account of the moon you and yours dropped on our bleedin' heads. So I'll lay out our terms. You'll either surrender now, without a fight, or you'll die trying to escape."

Aurelia's mouth felt as though all of the moisture had left it. Keeping her voice steady with considerable effort, she asked: "Should I surrender, have I any guarantee you'll not kill me regardless?"

"What they plan to do with you lot isn't up to us," came the sour response. "Doesn't matter to me either way what you decide, but you either leave with us or you die here. Your choice."

"You've no need to worry yourself about the possibility of escape. I cannot stand under my own power, let alone run."

She swallowed in apprehension, her heart pounding, unsure what they would do with this news. The woman stared at her for a long and terrifyingly silent moment and the scowl she wore was so fierce that Aurelia fully expected to feel metal dig into her trachea, puncturing flesh and tendon, choking to death on her own arterial spray.

Instead there came a heavy, resigned sigh and the blade was withdrawn. She let her weight sag against the reaper in relief.

"I am Storm Captain Bryngeim Ahrmbraena of the Maelstrom Foreign Levy. Henceforth, you are my prisoner. If at any time you should make an attempt to escape or cause harm to my squadmates, your life is forfeit. Do you understand?"

It was exceedingly likely that the Eorzeans meant only to keep her alive long enough to stretch her neck as an example, in the wake of all that had happened. After all, it was what Legatus van Darnus would have done in their place. But even were she able to do so, she knew that running would be pointless. 

She had nowhere else to go.

Not trusting herself to speak, she could manage only a single nod.