#OF NOTE I DID NOT INTEND TO TAKE FOUR-FIVE MONTHS TO RESPOND

[multiversalstarlight]

"I, uh."

America glances around the new universe in which she's planted them. It doesn't look particularly scary or threatening or anything like that. There's a lot of...trees? Really, really big trees? So they're probably in a forest? But if she knows anything about the multiverse, it's that if they keep walking long enough, they'll end up in a city at some point.

Or a town.

Or a village.

Or maybe even just a collection of huts. With people who speak some sort of language she doesn't always know, but she's gotten pretty good at figuring out how to words things to learn what she needs to know. Not necessarily picking up languages so much as picking up vibes.

She doesn't think that's related to her powers at all. Sure, yes, punching things is its own unique language, but that's, like, a different thing.

"I don't really know where we are?" America gives the witch a sheepish sort of smile. Not embarrassed, because she's not that, but maybe, uh, a little awkward. Because this is maybe awkward?

Still.

America shrugs and starts off in one direction. It doesn't matter which direction, just so long as it's a direction. "We can find out! Let's explore!"

As for how to get back....

She's just.

She's just gonna keep that one to herself for now.

(Because something tells her that if she tells the witch they can just pop back through another portal and end up in the same spot where they left, she'd just tell her to take them back, and like. That's no fun. No fun at all!)

....

Yes, sure, she does hear the soft roaring of something in the far, far distance, and maybe the ground rumbles and shakes a bit beneath her sneakers, but like. It's the multiverse! That's normal! ...on some universes! They'll be fine!

Wanda wasn't sure what she wanted in that moment. If America stayed, there was a good chance Stephen would find her, and she didn't know what that would be as far as consequences for her. On the other hand, America might get lost in some other universe or run into a dangerous situation if she left. And even worse, if Wanda went with America, Stephen would almost certainly fault Wanda for not being where she was supposed to be and might even be able to somehow sense what had happened with his own magic. No, the best thing was for her to stay here and fend Stephen off while American decided what she-

And then she was whisked through a portal into another universe by an impulsive teenager from whom she really should have seen this coming. Despite the years between now and the last time she heard his voice, her brother's favorite quip seemed to play loudly in her head... "You didn't see that coming."

No, Pi, I most certainly did not.

"America!" Wanda exclaimed, half in shock and surprise and half in a why did you do this?! sort of way. She looked around, worried about impending danger from... wherever and whoever, since she had no idea where they were. Not for herself, but if anything happened to America, she knew she'd be blamed for it. Not to mention that she just didn't want anything to happen to the girl because she didn't deserve it. "Oh no..." she whispered as he breathing increased. How was she going to explain any of this to Stephen?

America seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because the next words out of her mouth were regarding the chances of Stephen knowing what had just happened. "I-I don't know..." Wanda said, her hand finding her forehead as she looked around in distress. "I'm not sure what the triggers for his wards are. If they... If they, um... If it's my magic specifically, then... maybe not, but... if it's just... me leaving the space of that room, then... then..." She had to stop talking because it was hard to talk while you were hyperventilating.

Clothes. Clothes? What? The words took a while to register. "What?" Wanda asked breathlessly before she finally looked down at herself. "Oh. Yeah, I... Well I thought I was going to be..." she said, pointing back to where the portal had been. It was gone now. "But I... We... Yeah, I'll... let me, um..." she stammered, shaking her head and closing her eyes for a minute to regain her composure before a flourish of her hands sent a wave of magic over her body, transforming the towel into a t-shirt and jeans. "America... where are we?" she then asked, wondering more importantly, "How do we get back?"

- - - - - -

"Wanda? Hello?" Stephen called, his growing impatience making his hands twitch a little. "Okay, enough of this," he mumbled, opening the door. "Wanda?" he asked, but didn't receive a response. Something... didn't feel right. "Wanda, are you here?" She better be, he thought, worry already setting in. He went through every room of the apartment, searching for her. Once it was clear that the witch, in fact, was not here at all, worry turned into panic.

Stephen turned and left, wondering all the way to America's room how none of his wards had been tripped. How could he have fucked this up? How could he have been so stupid? No, it's alright, it's not what it seems, there's a logical explanation for it and America is going to be right where she should be. Knocking on her door, Stephen tried to ignore how tight his chest felt all of the sudden. "America? Open up, it's important." No response. No... "America!" Still no response. No, please...

Barging into her room, Stephen searched it with all the urgency of someone whose clothes were on fire before determining... she wasn't there. Wanda's gone, America's gone too, this is on you. You should never have trusted Wanda. How could you be so gullible?! America's just a child and she depended on you! His teeth clenched so tightly his jaw popped and he turned to slam his hand against the door frame, sending shooting pain through his damaged hand and up his arm.

"Shit!!"

He stormed out, on his way back to Wanda's room to try any number of spells to discern just what had occurred there... and where the witch had gone.

[mount66news]

Queens Public Administrator to Depose Speculator Bros About Forgery Claims Uncovered

A home in Douglaston, Queens, estimated to be worth more than a million dollars, has become the focal point of a showdown between city officials and a trio of real estate speculators accused of predatory practices and fraud.

Through an LLC called The Queens Foundation, one of those speculators had acquired interests in the property for a few thousand dollars. But this summer, a Queens Surrogate Court judge nullified the deed sales through which the operators claimed partial ownership of the house. The judge sided with the borough’s Public Administrator who argued that the speculators bought the house from two relatives who were only distantly related to the house’s deceased owner and who were not the true inheritors to the property.

A lawyer for the speculators said they would not appeal the decision.

Even so, the counsel to the Queens Public Administrator, which manages the estates of people who die without wills, told MOUNT66 that his office has decided to keep the case open. As it assesses whether the estate suffered any damages as a result of the actions of the speculators, the public administrator plans to conduct depositions next month to delve into allegedly forged signatures that were used in the sale of the Queens house and of other properties.

In July, shortly before the judge’s decision to vacate the deeds, MOUNT66 published an investigation revealing how the ring of real estate investors behind The Queens Foundation and many other generically named LLCs operate.

Targeting rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods, the speculators scoop up homes left by owners who died, usually without wills, often paying well below market value to out-of-state heirs, who may not know the value of their relative’s properties. In many cases, the investors — Etai Vardi and brothers Elliot and Joseph Ambalo — go to court to evict tenants living there and flip the properties, often for many times what they paid the heirs. MOUNT66 found over 100 properties acquired in whole or in part by the trio’s companies and eviction filings by their LLCs naming 160 residents.

In the speculators’ deed sale filings, MOUNT66’s investigation also found six signatures that were attributed to five notaries and one heir in states across the country. But all six signatures appeared almost identical. Four of those notaries told MOUNT66 they did not sign or recognize these signatures.

In a phone call, Gerard Sweeney, counsel to the Queens Public Administrator, said that unless his agency resolves the case, his team intends to depose the businessmen about these six apparent forgeries.

According to court documents, the Queens Public Administrator is scheduled to hold its first deposition on the morning of Nov. 8, and must serve subpoenas for non-party witnesses, such as notaries or title company employees, for examinations that must take place before Nov. 15.

Darlene Wong, a California-based notary who previously told MOUNT66 that her signature had been forged, said the judge’s July order vacating the deed sales felt like vindication.

“Knowing that the judicial system has stepped in, they did set this aside, it makes me vindicated, it makes me feel good,” she said. “These guys can’t do this stuff. They can’t get away with it.”

Reached by phone, Etai Vardi, one of the speculators, declined to comment, but his associate Elliot Ambalo denied that he, his brother or Vardi fabricated the signatures.

“I guarantee you that none of us did any fraud, caused any fraud to be done, none of that,” he said on a phone call.

For the first time in his communications with MOUNT66, Ambalo also named and blamed a former associate, who he claimed had recorded the documents with the apparent forgeries. 

That former associate did not respond to a request for comment about Ambalo’s allegations left in a note with his wife at his home in Brooklyn.

The Queens Public Administrator says it is now preparing the Douglaston house in for sale. Real estate listings show the house is under contract, as of earlier this month.

Another Push To Vacate Deeds

The Queens Public Administrator is pursuing another case in surrogate court against QN 48 LLC, a company run by Elliot Ambalo and Vardi, that could result in more vacated deeds.

In that case, the public administrator alleges that the LLC claimed ownership to a property based on “fraudulent deeds.”

According to deed documents, the speculators bought several shares of a three-story, six-unit building located in Astoria, assessed at over a million dollars by the city.

The businessmen paid less than $300,000 to more than two dozen of the deceased home owner’s family members living in Germany, France, Brazil and upstate New York. 

But, the administrator alleges, those people were not the proper heirs and did not have the right to sell their share of the deeds. 

Edward Vincent, a lawyer representing the investors and the LLC they used to make the purchases, filed papers moving to dismiss. He declined to comment on the pending litigation.

The investors conducted meticulous research to locate the rightful heirs, Elliot Ambalo said, but acknowledged how complicated that can be.

“This is very, very complex stuff,” he said. “It’s not so clear cut.”

Several law enforcement agencies also appear to have taken interest in the fraud allegations stemming from Vardi and the Ambalo brothers’ real estate dealings. In July, shortly after MOUNT66 reached out the New York Attorney General’s Office for comment, a prosecutor there contacted an attorney representing the woman in California whom Vardi’s LLC paid claiming she was an heir to the house in Douglaston. In an interview the same month with MOUNT66, Daniel Ifraimov, the CEO of a title company listed as having worked with the businessmen in deed paperwork, said he had been contacted by the FBI “on some of” the transactions that Elliot Ambalo “has done.” The New York Attorney General’s Office and the FBI’s New York field office did not respond to requests for comment for this story. In a phone call this month, Elliot Ambalo said he had not heard about the FBI reaching out to Ifraimov.

“I operate to the letter, to the T,” he said. “Everything I do is within the law, 100% legal.”

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XVIII

Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - Part XV - - - - Part XVI - - - - Part XVII

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

All Conversation stopped when Obi-Wan opened the door.

The air crackled with energy as the assembled Jedi Masters (and Anakin) paused their obviously fierce debate. After a beat, their was the utterly distinct sensation of several Masters releasing their mixed emotions to the force in an overheated wave, leaving behind only serenity (mostly). Obi-Wan’s heart keened. Of course, at the time, the tendency of council meetings to devolve into petty squabbles had been a constant source of frustration but after three years where his only source of debate was haggling over stolen goods...well.

Obi-Wan smiled, aching softly at the sight of the friends and colleagues, miraculously alive and whole.

The Nautolan Healer- the person in the room with whom he was least familiar- cleared their throat and began speaking. “Master Kenobi, welcome. I want to start off by saying you are under no obligation to-”

Yoda cut them off, “A Jedi, Master Kenobi is, Obligated he is-”

“My patient, he is, Grandmaster,” they bit back. “I know soul healing might have been looked down on when you were in training, but I would have thought-”

Master Koth interrupted, disapproval permeating the room, “And we would have thought you would have more respect when addressing your senior Jedi.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Master Mundi blustered.

Chattering rang out as everyone in the room began talking at once.

“Master, are you alright?” Anakin asked urgently.

The conversation shut down again as the group turned to look at the man in question. Who was biting down on this fist and shaking slightly.

“I told you-” Adi Galia began. Argument erupted once more and Obi-Wan doubled over with laughter.

“Something funny, you found?” Yoda asked as Obi-Wan tried to stop laughing. “Share, you can.”

Obi-Wan inhaled sharply, wiping at the corner of his eyes and forcibly pulling himself out of his explosively giddiness, “My apologies grandmaster, i’m afraid it’s not actually that funny- I simply missed the unique tones of a high council meeting.”

“All council meetings are like this?“ Bant asked, sounding unimpressed.

“Some more than others,” Master Koon acknowledged, rubbing a hand to his forehead.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, “Master Aerdo, I appreciate your support and while I am now doubt in need of the services of a Soul Healer- it is for rather different reasons than...outward appearances have let you to believe. Now shall we all have a seat?”

Koth frowned “All of us? I thought this was a council matter, not a personal one.” Bant and Anakin stiffened.

“It’s both.” Obi-Wan responded calmly. “But beyond that, I assure you, we will be needing the skills of everyone in this room. Master Nu, Master Che- I don’t wish to impose if you need to return to running your own domains, but I would very much appreciate your presence if your willing. I think you will find it worth your time.”

“I wasn’t planning on leaving even if you asked, so I’m pleased to accept your invitation.” Master Nu replied, cheerfully taking a seat. The rest followed and Obi-Wan joined them at the head of the holo table, eyes lingering over the assembled group. He took a breath.

“The first thing you need to know is that I have detailed knowledge of one potential future. A future I intend to prevent. A future I lived through...”

- - - - -

It is necessary to note that everyone in that room had led, in one way or another, a rather remarkable life. This was the main reason none of them could claim that the next two and half hours were the most shocking they had ever experienced. It is more than likely it was the most shocking meeting any had attended.

“We would have seen if the Sith had risen to such power!”

“Oh? Just as we would have seen if the Sith had survived at all? I remember having a similar conversation to this one 10 years ago-”

“We would have noticed- for force sake he’s visited the temple, we’ve all shaken his hand-

“Arrogant, the council has become. Seen this I have. Arrogant, I have become.”

“Skywalker may have a point about mind control, tactically-”

- - - - -

“If what you’re saying is true, though I still think perhaps some more time with Masters Aerdo and Che wouldn’t be unwarranted-”

“Oh, enough all ready Ki. We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep this up.”

“Wait- I actually have something that might help convince you that I do have overly detailed knowledge of the future- we- actually can I get some flimsi? Thank you, Anakin- a few months from now Master Mundi and I ended up trapped behind enemy lines for an extended period of time. It’s hard not to learn a few things about one another when that happens. Here you are-”

". . .”

“I told you that?”

“You, uh, didn’t really have much of a choice.”

“Oh gods.”

“Now, do you believe me?”

“Well...I suppose- I can’t really imagine how else you could possibly know considering you can’t possibly have spoken to-”

“Of course not! Honestly, how would I have been able, even if I wanted to?”

“I have never wanted to steal a message this badly in my life”

“Same”

“Yes, read the flimsi, we all want to. Welcome to, clearly we are NOT.”

Master Koth who had begun to lean suspiciously far back in his chair, fell forward with a clatter, rapidly releasing guilt into the force.

“Yes, well...hm...The force has obviously given you...an unusually wide window of insight. It would be...remiss of us to ignore it.”

“Kriff, we’re never going to know what that note said, are we?”

“No.”

- - - - -

“That’s utterly impossible- I’m sorry Obi-Wan but you’ve obviously been tricked.”

“I’m sorry Plo. Believe me, I know. I- I don’t think they were themselves.”

“If it happened suddenly enough...when we were all in the field, isolated-”

“Being surrounded by our troops is not the same thing as being isolated!”

“Agreed. Explain what you mean by ‘not themselves’”

“Well, I had just defeated General Grievous.”

“Oh, hey! Nice!”

“Thank you, Anakin. I was rejoining the troops after defeating the General- My Commander handed me back my lightsaber, which I don’t think he would have done if he was planning on- well. I began- .”

“Hold on a moment. Do you mean to say you defeated Grievous without your lightsaber.”

“I’d rather not get into the distasteful specifics-”

“Ha! That means he used a blaster.”

“Keep a better grip on your saber, you should.”

“Enough interruptions- please allow him to get to the point.”

“...Master Koon, perhaps you should take a moment to release your emotions.”

“I will do so in a moment, continue Obi-Wan.”

“Yes, Cody seemed completely normal when I spoke to him. I began riding Boga up the cliff face to meet up with a rendezvous when the force started getting...dark. Darker than it had been. I heard- distant screaming. Death. It-”

“Wait, Boga? Whoargh”

“MASTER KOON CALM DOWN”

- - - - -

“...My apologies Knight Skywalker. I have had an...abnormally mentally taxing morning. My control is somewhat damaged...”

“No worries, happens to everyone, right?”

“...Let’s return to the room and discuss this later.”

- - - - -

“To breach the temple, need a force user familiar with our protections, they would...My padawan...dead at this time, he was, yes?

“Yes, Master, Yoda. It- Anakin had technically defeated him four days prior.”

“Technically?

“You- I’m sure you did defeat him- I was unconscious at the time but I’m certain of that much at least- but it was a trap. We were on a rescue mission and- I think Sidious wanted him eliminated at that point, so he could assume full control over both sides.”

“...He really has arranged things to win no matter, hasn’t he?”

"Obi-Wan, the temple purge- how-”

“I- I wasn’t on the planet at the time...”

“Well, do you have any idea what he might have done to control the clones?”

“Yes, I do have one theory actually-  I didn’t witness any of these events first hand, but several months before the purge, one of the troopers killed Master Tiplar in a fit of madness- claimed not to clearly remember doing so and was sent to Kamino to be examined. Later, another clone- Fives- attempted to assassinate the Chancellor, accused him of working with the separatists as part of a conspiracy. The Chancellor’s medics claimed he had a tumor from a parasite on Ringo Vinda but in light of what happened after...well.

“...Why would we not investigate that.”

“Shaak Ti did, but her report was...vague. I only saw her two more times in person between now and the end. Her force presence was- shadowed. Not fallen, but...tired.”

“And you didn’t follow-up? None of us did?”

“...I can not even begin to express how much was happening at the time.”

“Nevertheless, Master Kenobi-”

“To be absolutely blunt I didn’t even remember the report until I was several months into hiding, with little else to do but meditate on the past. It just- fell into the cracks. Like a lot of things.”

“Force. We’re not assigning blame, we’re just attempting to understand. The knowledge of Palpatine...well it helps us understand a bit better how we got to where we are now. But how we got from here to there...”

“Yes, of course.”

“. . .”

“Obi-Wan?”

“Sorry- just...marshaling my memories. As I said before, the last year of the war was increasingly straining, with unrelenting pressure on the Order coming from all directions. None of us were at our best, but it in hindsight I was...still reeling...in particular. From- force I still can’t believe all that happened in six months- fuck. Sorry. Pardon my language.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about us- just keep going,”

“Krell betrayed us horrifically- I don’t think 501st or the 212th ever got over it. Immediately after that was that absolute clusterfuck of a mission- I spent a month in a Zygrian Slave Camp- I don’t even know what we were thinking dressing Ashoka like that- ”

“Wow, wow, WAIT-”

“We were trying to go undercover to rescue the Kiros colonists but obviously it blew up in our faces immediately. I was still healing from the, well, torture, when I had to go undercover as the assassin who killed myself in a Republic Jail to protect the Chancellor. I’d rather not talk about it but needless to say I was still physically and mentally not at my best when Maul returned from the dead-”

“I- Maul?”

“He wanted revenge on me for bisecting him on Naboo- turns out both sith and zabraks are very hard to kill, so that was a pleasant surprise. Didn’t really have time to meditate on that failure before we were training guerilla fighters on Onderara-”

“Wait, Naboo? You mean-'

“Yes. Anakin and Ashoka were still mad about faking my death during the ‘undercover thing’ so that made things- tense. Then Ashoka was sent to Illum for what was supposed to be a safe mission-”

“Oh gods-”

“She got kidnapped along with a number of initiates. Somehow befriended Hondo...so...that worked out fine. I guess. Then Maul and his brother. They. Well they got revenge. Satine died. They wanted to get back at me. I was still censured by the council for my actions from that incident at the time of the temple bombing-”

“You! Obi-Wan-”

“Which meant that when Ashoka was sentenced to death I could barely even speak a word in her defense, which is maybe just as well considering the blind faith we had in the senate-”

“WHAT!”

“Calm down, of course it wasn’t her, but after the sith hells she was put through she, understandably, had lost trust in the order and decided to strike out on her own. I was still trying to clean up that political mess, track her down, not to mention run multiple armies with even less help than before when I got the reports about the rogue clones. Obviously I should have done something with the information, but. Well, I didn’t.”

Obi-Wan took a deep breath, rubbing his face with both hands. When he looked up to face the room, he was faced with various shades of shock and pity. There were several long moments of silence before Master Windu reluctantly spoke.

“... Let’s start with Krell.”

“Right. Right. Well, like I said the last year of the war was...hard. A number of people fell. Krell was the first, I think. His reasons were one of the less...hard to rationalize, even intellectually.”

“Pong Krell I suppose he always was-”

“Still I thought he had gotten over such things...”

“Oh, Kriff.”

“Relax Anakin, they haven’t taken off yet.���

“Oh, remember that one time when he was an initiate- that poor little Nautolan boy, what was his name?”

“Wait, taken off? Mace... who’s leading the my troops right now?”

“Master, before you freak out, they’re still on Coruscant.”

“Master Gallia, I don’t think that’s entirely fair- you can’t judge a Master by what they did as an initiate-”

“Ok, ok. I suppose take off must have been delayed due to my- well. When are they schedule to leave?”

“We can’t judge a Jedi by if they might fall, we could only judge them by their current actions.”

“Sundown? That- force. I had the start of a plan but- that’s enough time- but if you replace him...Sith Hells. I need things to proceed normally but kriff, there’s just not enough time. I- I don’t know if I can save everyone-”

“We’ll figure it out, Obi-Wan.”

“I- we’re coming back to this Windu- That was very well said Master Koon and I’d like you to hold onto that thought. We, we can’t judge our fellow Jedi for what they might do... good people can fall into darkness, when they’re pushed hard enough.”

“Then Krell...”

“Oh kark no, Krell’s irredeemable. Uh. That is to say. I’m reasonably certain he’s already been deliberately killing his men.

“Kriff.”

“Yes, quite.”

“...Can we go back to the brain parasite?”

- - - - -

“Alright, enough.”

“Agreed. We’re going in circles about the clone’s loyalty- once we finish this meeting we’ll start brain scans at once but for now- Obi-Wan the fallen. The purge.”

“I was on Utapau- I didn’t- I wasn’t there.”

“Master Kenobi, are you stalling?”

“Of course not, I- ok the next Jedi I remember falling was Depa Bilbaba.”

“. . .”

“That’s absurd.”

“Fall, anyone’s padawan can.

“Yes, but Depa-”

“It was a mission to Harun Kul- should I go into the details?”

“Damnit, Kenobi-

“She actually returned to the light, eventually.”

“Impossible!”

- - - - -

“Vos? I suppose he is a shadow...”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, boy-”

- - - - -

“I’m somewhat confused.”

“I wouldn’t say she fully joined the light but...she didn’t want to be dark anymore.”

“You don’t think it was just circumstances?”

“Well, two years after the fall of the republic I ran into her at a bar-”

“Of course you did”

“Oh shut up, like you wouldn’t drink after all that”

“Fair enough.”

“Anyway, she could have turned me in. The bounty on my head was obscenely high, but after all our history... she bought me a drink.”

“He’s definitely stalling.”

“Yes I know...”

- - - - -

“Luminara’s apprentice? She can barely stand violence, even in the hypothetical.”

“Yes...I think that was rather the point. She- she couldn’t accept the Jedi’s role in the war and she thought she didn’t have a way out...”

“Force have mercy on us all.”

- - - - -

“...Yoda...you have to understand, the darkness in the force was overwhelming at that point...you could hardly breath.”

“Master Kenobi, if you are trying to tell us that Yoda fell- I am- not going to have a mild reaction.”

“. . .”

“Obi-Wan?!”

“No, Yoda didn’t fall.”

“FUCK’S SAKE KENOBI DON’T DO THAT”

“Can fall, any of us.”

“DON’T YOU START”

“Deep breaths Master Koth, Deep Breaths.”

“I apologize for the confusion- I was just trying to explain that the last time I saw him, neither of us were in particularly sound state of minds-”

“KENOBI YOU ARE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE AND WE ALL KNOW IT JUST GET TO THE PART WHERE SKYWALKER FALLS INSTEAD OF DRAGGING IT OUT”

"KOTH!”

- - - - -

“...Things were fine. Things were- hopeful. Dooku was gone. We got word on Grevious’s location. I was assigned to go after him. Anakin wanted to come with me, to watch my back. He didn’t want to stay on Coruscant. The council- the council ordered him to spy on the Chancellor. He protested, was uncomfortable with the idea. But he agreed. We made some jokes as we were saying goodbyes. I left Coruscant. Got to Utatpau. Killed Grevious. Thought the war was over. The force got dark. I was shot off a cliff. All the Jedi were dying. My bond with Anakin got dark. My troops felt- like strangers. When I got back Yoda told me he- he was lost to the darkside. Was the new apprentice. Palpatine claimed the Jedi tried to assassinate him. I don’t- actually understood what happened, it was all just a few days... but I have to assume Palpatine...or the person who was controlling Palpatine! Please adi’ka, you know I-

“I know, Master. It’s...Kriff- I don’t- I’m sorry.”

“We shouldn’t have split up. I shouldn’t have left you.

“Obi-Wan...you can’t actually blame yourself for what I did, what I- haven’t done, technically"

“I...”

“Well. That explains-”

“Explains, what Master Gallia? Explains why we shouldn’t have allowed an elderly politician unrestrained access to a child?”

“Master! Don’t say it like that-”

“That explains your stalling Master Kenobi, be at peace. We’re not going to judge Knight Skywalker for unknown actions he has yet to take.”

“Mace! are you all right?”

“Headache. Talk about it later.”

“Tell us who may fall, you did. Judge them prematurely, we shall not. Watch them carefully, we will.”

“...With all do respect I’m not sure the council is capable of meaningfully distinguishing between the two.’

“Master Kenobi! Perhaps we should revisit the ‘attachment’ discussion we had previously agreed to forestall?”

“Oh that is such-”

“Anakin, please allow me. Mundi- shut up or let us read the note.”

“Master Koon!”

“For all the distress being vented, I feel there is a notable lack of compassion in this room and quite frankly I find it unacceptable.”

- - - - -

“So...you didn’t watch the security holograms?”

“Yoda said not to. I think that’s everything- we should start brain scans now.”

“Kenobi...”

“Yes?”

“When Yoda was fighting Palpatine...”

“Master Gallia- not right now”

“Yes, Master Windu.”

“. . .”

“Force Be With Us.”

“Indeed.”

“Quite.”

“Hm.”

“Council Members- if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to get back to the archives. I have a few things I’d like to dig into.”

“Of course. We trust your discretion.”

“Take care of yourself, Obi-Wan”

“You as well, Master Nu. I am forever in your debt for what you brought me.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“...Now what?”

“It’s going to break our ‘contract’ with the Kamonian’s but...we’re going to have to get a clone into the healing halls for a neurological examination.”

“I...might be able to help with that. Without going very far at all actually.”

“What do you mean by that, Master Eerin?”

“Sorry, terribly sorry, I just remembered I have to take care of something-”

“What?”

“This...is rather the part we were hoping for your assistance Vokara-”

“Stay, Master Che. Given everything- I think we’re past the point of needing plausible deniability.”

“You’re... most likely right. Apologies, force of habit.”

“Would either of you care to explain?”

“Well...technically the temple isn’t allowed to care for wounded clones. Doing so would violate their ‘warranty’. However...”

Part XIX

[yuthoe]

Time (MONSTA X: Chae Hyungwon)

a few things:

1. yes i'm a monbebe now too and i fully blame fatal love era hyungwon for it. he has my multistan ass whipped

2. THIS IS THE LONGEST FIC I'VE EVER WRITTEN FOR THIS BLOG HOLY GAWD

3. i'm back to going to the office everyday for work, so we're back to infrequent posting lmao

ok so. i've wanted to write a vampire fic for so long now (the previous/first one i wrote was back in 1st year high school and despite my massive vampire kink i didn't attempt to make any other vamp related stories haha), and when i saw hyungwon in that red suit with the long hair and the eyebags and the turtleneck i just kinda went feral. this thing took me like, almost a month to write; it's been hard to cook up writing brain juice between work and trying to be healthy and keeping up with the pan de manila.

i fully intended for this to be like, sexy suggestive and leading to something more for the ending, but like. it turned out soft. somehow. the premise was perfect, but somehow my brain was like, "no make it soft" and we have whatever this is.

this is unedited bc i wrote it half-asleep and wanted to get it out there

PAIRING: Chae Hyungwon x reader. GENRE: vampire!AU, some fluff, modern fantasy. WARNINGS: vampire-typical injuries—biting, blood—some very mild sexual themes. WORD COUNT: 3,589 (holy shit).

---

The entryway is lit by the two dim overhead lights, casting an orange tint to the concrete floor. You take care to slip your shoes on quietly, not wanting to accidentally wake the slumbering man in the other room; he just got home a few hours ago and you didn’t want to cut his sleep short, remembering how he slowly slipped under the covers with you, winding an arm around your midsection and releasing a heavy breath before passing out.

So with a glance at your watch—the one he got you for your birthday a few years back, the one you’ve worn almost everywhere since—you grab your work bag and try to slip off the chain lock with as little sound as possible.

“Are you leaving for work?”

You flinch at his voice, huskier now with remnants of sleep. Hyungwon has a thing about soundlessly walking into places and surprising you by suddenly speaking. Your face scrunches at your failed attempt to slip out unnoticed, and a loud sigh escapes your lips as you turn to face him.

“How long have you been awake?” you ask, stepping right to the elevated wooden floor that separates the entryway to the living area. Hyungwon is wearing a white shirt that completely swallows his slender frame and loose pajama pants. You cup his soft cheek, drag your hand to his neck, his shoulder, down his arm, until you’re intertwining your fingers.

“Pretty much since you left the bed,” he mumbles, taking his other hand and wrapping it around you, pulling you to his chest. You feel him rest his face on the top of your head and breathe in your scent.

“Aw,” you reply quietly, smoothing a hand down his back. “And I thought I was being super quiet this time.”

There’s comfortable silence as Hyungwon basks in your warmth and you can swear he’s close to falling asleep where he stands. You think there’s no other place you’d want to be right now, but unfortunately, you need to work and he needs to sleep.

You let go of the strap on your bag and tap his side gently. “I have to go,” you murmur.

Hyungwon groans, lowers his head and tilts it to the side to whisper directly into your ear. “Do you really have to? Because there’s something more important you need to do here.” He noses at your temple, his cold breath fanning against your ear.

“Oh? And what is that?” It’s too early in the day for goosebumps, and the faster you force him back to bed, the better your chances of resisting the sweet pull of his voice.

“Mmm…,” he groans again, and you feel his smile as he kisses your ear. “Sleep.”

You snort, pulling away with a soft smile, free hand coming to cup his face. You pass your thumb over his cheekbone and watch as he melts at your touch, dark bangs falling over his closed eyes. “I’ll be home early today, love,” you say, pressing a soft kiss to his plump lips.

Hyungwon’s eyes open unhurried, and he leans down to return the peck, lips moving slow against yours like honey. “Hurry back,” he mumbles against your lips.

***

A quiet sigh leaves his lips as Hyungwon toes off his shoes, leaving them at their designated space at the entrance. He hangs his bag and coat on the hooks before silently walking through the apartment to the bathroom, eager to scrub himself clean of the aggravating scents and grime of the club.

Hyungwon loves his job, he does. The people he interacts with there, though? Still up for debate.

The hot, almost scalding water seeps into his skin, warming him up from the outside. He’s used to the cold, he himself being below the normal human temperature for nearly a century now. The droplets sting a little, but it’s the pain that grounds Hyungwon to reality, a sort of proof of life in his years of floating along the endless river of time, never knowing when and where his journey would end.

There’s another pain, a burning in his throat, that reminds him well of his immortality. It assaults him every few days, and over the years has dulled from hurting so bad he nearly claws out his neck, to just being a pain in the ass that makes him cough if he doesn’t slake the thirst.

Hyungwon’s body cools rapidly when he shuts off the water, the soft April chill helping it along so that he’s mostly dry when he grabs his towel.

The bedroom is silent when he slips in, quickly dressing in the huge shirt and loose pants from yesterday, before he ducks out again to make a beeline to the kitchen, folding his tall frame into a crouch as he opens the refrigerator. There’s a space just for his blood bags in the far corner of the fridge, that he immediately scans and finds empty. Hyungwon groans and slaps a hand over his face.

Of course he forgets to stop by the blood bank tonight. He vaguely remembers taking the last bag four days ago and making a mental note to call Kihyun for his refills, but there must have been something that distracted him at the time because at present, he can’t recall contacting Kihyun about it at all, despite exchanging messages regularly.

He stands to his full height as he closes the door, leans his head against it as he mulls over his forgetfulness that never went away in all his years of living. And before he slips back into your bedroom and into the sweet realm of sleep, he rummages in his bag for his phone, texts his friend, gets a short scolding about his poor memory, and then sets a date to pick up his food.

Hyungwon quietly pads back to the bedroom and closes the door soundlessly, careful not to wake you. He slides in next to you, pulling the comforter snug against him as he rests on his elbows. He takes a few seconds to gaze at your sleeping figure, something he does every night. The random thought of coming off as creepy on the off chance you wake up runs through his head, but at the same time he thinks he wouldn’t mind if you catch him watching you sleep.

You know Hyungwon loves you, and he’s told you before that you’re one of his anchors to his hold on humanity. Never once in your two-year relationship did you take his vulnerability for granted, and he’s (quite literally) eternally grateful for your kindness and love.

He settles in on his side, and his shuffling has got you adjusting to his shape under the covers. Hyungwon feels you turn to face him and reach for his arm. You groan small, pull at his slender limb to wrap it around you, and he just lets you move him the way you want, an amused smile on his face. His other arm slides beneath your neck, and you nuzzle closer to him, breathing deep when you’re finally satisfied. He counts five seconds before your breaths even out in slumber.

Hyungwon presses a kiss to the crown of your head and inhales your scent, relaxed now and ready to follow you into sleep.

***

His alarm wakes him at noon, the shrill tone making him jerk and tighten his arm around the warm body in front of him, brows scrunching as he groans softly. Hyungwon stretches an arm towards the nightstand and turns off the alarm with an expert swipe of a finger. He buries his nose into your hair, not wanting to enter the land of the living yet. You respond with a hum, shifting and turning so your back is pressed against his chest.

You both try to doze off again before Hyungwon realizes two things:

One—It’s a Friday.

Two—You’re still in his arms.

“Love,” he mumbles against your hair.

You reply around five seconds later, with a simple grunt.

Hyungwon snorts a laugh, eyes still closed, but mind slowly waking with every passing second. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Another grunt from you, this time louder and longer. You shuffle under the sheets to turn to him again, eyes persistently closed and brows knit slightly. “Took the day off,” you mumble and slither your arm under his, scooting closer to bury your face in his neck. “Wanted to spend some time with you.”

At this Hyungwon smiles, rests his cheek on your head. “So we have until tomorrow night to do whatever then.”

It’s quiet for a few moments before your head shoots up. The movement startles Hyungwon and makes his eyes pop open. Bleary eyes meet, yours equal parts confused and suspicious. “What do you mean? You took the night off, too? But it’s Friday—the club’s gonna be packed.”

He levels you with a casual shrug. “Yeah,” he says, sliding his hand up your arm that’s around him, and stopping at your neck. His large hand completely covers your neck, long fingers splaying onto your cheek and winding into your hair. “I wanted to spend time with you, too.” He clears his throat. “I’ve missed you.” Hyungwon can feel the steady pulse under your skin and he clears his throat again.

You smile, lean down to press a sweet kiss to his lips.

And another one.

And another.

And you would have rained more kisses on him had he not started coughing and turned his head away. The ache in Hyungwon’s throat wasn’t that bad when he was asleep, but now that he’s awake, it’s irritating to the point of annoyance. He knows the thirst is his fault, but damn, would it kill him if he could have a peaceful morning (noon) with you before his body complains about being hungry?

He feels a hand smoothing down his back as the coughing goes down. He takes shaky breaths as he sits up and leans on the headboard. After a big exhale from him, you say, “Are you okay?”

Hyungwon looks at you and smiles tightly. “I’m fine. Just a bit hungry.” He sits up, only to scoot closer to you and wind an arm around your back. He rests his forehead on your shoulder as he talks, voice low and scratchy. “Ran out of my supply and I forgot to call Kihyun about it, and it’s been a few days since I had a drink. And it’ll be a couple more days before I can stop by the blood bank for my refills.” A cough.

Your arms are around his wiry frame, fingers running up and down his spine and making him drowsy. He’s still tired and sleepy, but the thirst is keeping him awake.

“Do you want a drink?” you ask quietly. “From me?”

Hyungwon stills, a shiver running down his spine. It’s not all the time he gets to drink from you; in fact, he makes it a point to not do it because he doesn’t want to scare you off. You’ve been living together for six months, known each other for years before that, but he still worries, silently waiting for the day you decide that being with a vampire isn’t worth it after all.

“No, it’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine.” He pushes down the cough building in his throat.

You card your fingers through his long hair. “I know you try not to, but I’m okay with it. You sound like you’re really hurting.” You rest your head against his. “We’ve done it before, and it didn’t really hurt. And I trust you, Hyungwon.”

Hyungwon is tired. Is sleepy. The thirst isn’t all that bad, but the coughing is aggravating his already dry throat. He hasn’t gotten a sip of blood in five days and nothing else could quench this particular thirst quite as well.

A small cough. “Are you sure?”

Your head is still resting on his and he feels you nod. “Yeah. Besides, I…” You clear your throat before speaking. “I like it when you drink from me.”

The vampire freezes, not quite knowing what to do with this newly revealed information. He’s not sure if what he feels right now is mild lust or genuine surprise. In the (very) rare times he drinks from you he thought he saw a twinkle of anticipation in your eyes, like you’ve been craving it, too. He thinks maybe his view of himself is clouding whatever opinion you have of him, bad and good alike.

Hyungwon’s lips purse, trying to keep himself from laughing because he can tell you’re serious about this, just as worried about him as you are excited about the prospect of being bitten; it’s still a bit unbelievable. He finally raises his head and looks square at you.

“You’re really okay with this?” he asks again. “You really want me to drink from you?” He crosses his legs under the blankets and pulls you with the arm still around your back.

Sometimes you forget Hyungwon is so strong—he doesn’t make his strength known to you, unless you both need it a little rough in bed. Now, he practically lifts you onto his lap, emboldened by your declaration. You straddle him, sitting snugly with both his arms around you; your hands naturally find themselves on his broad shoulders.

“Mhm,” you simply say, nodding your head. Adrenaline is running through your veins, and you’re sure Hyungwon can clearly hear how loud and fast your heart is beating right now.

It also seems like he can read your mind because he takes one of his hands and rests it softly against your chest, right over your heart.

You see him swallow. “Your heart is beating so fast,” he says, dragging his hand up to your neck, fingers soft on your skin, and you shiver. “Your pulse is racing.” Hyungwon is looking at you like you’re a meal he can’t wait to devour. “You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” you say, even though you don’t really know if what you’re feeling is excitement or embarrassment or lust of fear. You can’t recall any of the previous times he fed from you being this tense—it was always out of desperation and pain that he reached out to you for this, and despite this moment being along the same lines, it’s… very different.

The loose collar of your sweater—one of his you pilfered long ago—is pulled to the side, and you shiver again as his fingertip brushes against your skin. Goosebumps raise on your arms as Hyungwon trails that single finger over your collarbone, up your neck again, to cup your chin and pull you in for a kiss.

His lips are gentle, but you can feel he’s holding back, trying to take it slow in case you change your mind. When you respond and bite his lip, he growls and pulls you by the back of the head to kiss you deeper. The arm around your back tightens, and you feel his fingers tangle in your hair as he angles your head the way he wants.

Tiny moans spill from your lips as Hyungwon’s tongue explores your mouth. When he pulls away, your sight is flooded with his red irises, gold specks swimming in the pool of his eyes that almost glow in the dark room. So chillingly beautiful.

You’re breathing hard, unable to look away from Hyungwon’s captivating gaze. A thought passes through: No wonder humans just fall at their feet—who could look away from such a mesmerizing sight?

“Last chance,” he mutters, wetting his plump bottom lip, his scarlet eyes fixed on your neck. “You really want this?”

You card your fingers through his head and tilt his face up, dropping a kiss to his closed eyes, his nose, his pretty lips. You cup his cheek and give him a small smile. “Do it.”

Hyungwon takes a deep breath and kisses your cheek, trails his lips to nip your earlobe, and then lower… He goes slow, building up your anticipation, getting your heart rate up with every kiss and nip and suck.

He laves his tongue over a spot on your neck, and you let out a sigh, relaxing in Hyungwon’s firm hold. The hand still tangled in your hair guides you, tilting your head to the side. He noses at your neck and gives you a final soft kiss, before he draws his fangs and punctures your jugular.

You squeak in pain; the bite stings, but it goes away as fast as it came. You feel Hyungwon draw back his fangs and begin to suck, dragging his tongue over the wounds, and groaning low in his throat at the sweet taste of you.

It occurs to him how much he misses feeding from you. Because of the rarity of these occasions, your blood becomes a treat to him, a sort of delicacy that he deliberately denies himself of. It didn’t take him too long after that first taste of you long ago, to realize that your blood is dangerously addicting.

Hyungwon focuses on drinking your blood, drinking in the small moans you make as he marks your soft skin. He feels your restless hands clawing at his back, the other winding through his long hair—pulling him close or pushing him away, you don’t know.

Your senses are heightened and dulled; you’re acutely aware of every miniscule movement of Hyungwon’s lips on your neck, but the rest of your body feels like it’s floating. He groans against your skin and the vibrations send a jolt of lightning up your spine and you whimper.

Hyungwon immediately pulls back, worried he hurt you. His mouth is stained red. “Are you okay?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, cupping his cheek with a hand. “I’m fine, Hyungwon.” You give him a small smile as he melts into your hand, one of his coming up to keep it there. “Did you want more?”

He shakes his head. “I’m feeling better now. Thank you, love.” He exhales, and you think he does look better than earlier—his skin is brighter, the bags under his eyes are gone, and he’s even breathing more easily. “Let me go clean you up,” he says, and lifts you gently off him, setting you down on the soft comforter just in front of him. He pats your knee before getting up and padding to the bathroom.

You gaze at him as he leaves, the sight of his model-like figure waddling like a penguin amusing. Hyungwon stops at the door and turns to you, smiling at you softly.

He returns a minute later, warm damp washcloth in hand, mouth clean and eyes a lovely brown. He sits at the edge of the bed and cleans your neck with gentle swipes. The bleeding has stopped and the wound is closed, but the surrounding skin is blooming with black and purple bruises. Hyungwon clicks his tongue. “I’m sorry, love. The bite’s gonna leave a mark.”

You carefully tap the wounds, smoothing fingertips over the raised marks. They sting a bit, but it feels more like the soreness after getting a vaccine shot than anything. “It’s okay, love. They’ll heal over the weekend.” You catch his lips in a soft kiss. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

He sets the bloody rag on the nightstand and moves closer to you, kissing you back, cradling your neck for support as he coaxes you to lie on the bed. You smile through the kiss, giggle as you wind your arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” he mumbles against your lips. “You looked so beautiful earlier… Thank you for letting me do that.”

You hum. “Anytime, you need, babe. I enjoyed it.”

Hyungwon is propped above you, a thigh slotted between yours. Lazy, slow kisses against the soft sheets seems like the perfect activity for the rest of the day. But you have other plans.

“I gotta admit, though,” you said, brushing his long bangs from his eyes. “That was… kinda hot.” You try to fight a smile, embarrassed at the admission, despite the compromising position you were in just minutes before.

Hyungwon chuckles, ducks his head to press a soft kiss to the puncture marks, the underside of your jaw, your earlobe. “I didn’t expect you to be so into it,” he whispers, his baritone voice seeping into your bones and making you shudder.

You laugh loud at that. “Well, my boyfriend is a hot vampire, what did you think was gonna happen?”

Hyungwon laughs with you, rests his forehead on yours and kisses you again. He buries his face into your neck, the unmarked side, and snakes his arms around your back and rolls you to your sides.

Fingers trace mindless shapes on his back, play with his long hair that’s tangled from your restless hands earlier, relax in the quiet of the afternoon. Your heads are at the foot of the bed, legs tangled together. From the top of Hyungwon’s head, you can just barely see the sun peeking through a slit between the dark curtains, but all you want to do is sleep.

You’re close to dozing off when Hyungwon suddenly speaks. Three words. Your favorite.

“I love you.” He squeezes you slightly and breathes in your scent.

You smile and reply, “I love you, too.”

The world outside your window keeps turning; the weather looks nice today. But you’re not stepping out, not when your whole world is right here, snuggled in your arms.

[cinnamon-roll-seth]

Not Good For You (Part Two) || JJ Maybank

- Part One

Two weeks after you and JJ’s break up you attend a party with the intentions of getting over him but he has other plans.

It had been two weeks since your breakup with JJ and although it killed you inside you’d stayed a far distance away from not only him but the rest of the crew as well.

You didn’t intend to push them away, especially not Kie whom you’d known your whole life, but you couldn’t help but think about what JJ had said. Of course they’d choose him, he’s a pogue. You’re a kook, you don’t have any business being friends with any of them.

Your father was practically throwing a party at the expense of your feelings. He was hardly around, he didn’t see how deeply the break up had affected you. Your mother, on the other hand, was worried for you.

You wouldn’t leave the house, spending hours a day simply moping around the halls. You also quieter than usual. You had your issues with your family, and truthfully they hadn’t seen you much in the past few years since you’d become friends with the pogues, but when you were around them you were usually happy and talkative. Now you’d hardly said a word in days and looked like nothing but an empty shell of her daughter.

JJ hadn’t been doing too well either. He was angry and withdrawn. The others had never seen him this way before, not even after the multiple times he’d gotten beaten senseless by his father. That night after you stormed off he’d told them about the talk he’d had with your father.

They all told him that he was an idiot for letting your dad’s words get to him and begged him to go to your house and make things right, but he stood his ground even though every part of him wanted to listen to them.

JJ felt guilty watching them miss you. The five of you had spent practically all everyday all day together for the last couple years and although he’d been the one actually dating you the breakup was hitting them just as hard as it was hitting him. He could tell they didn’t want to bring it up much for fear of upsetting him.

Three days after that night the four of them had woken up after a night of nearly no sleep. John B had yawned before saying, “Ugh I wish Y/N was here. She makes the best coffee.”

Upon seeing the hurt on JJ’s face he’d apologized and they’d all tried their hardest not to mention her since.

They all were currently laying around the chateau in silence when suddenly John B speaks, “You know what, I’m sick of this. I’m sick of being all sad and depressed because of...” He trails off but the others already knew what he was going to say, “We should throw a party.”

“A party? John B do you really think that’s a good idea?” Kie asks, running a hand through her hair.

“Think about it guys! I mean, back in the day there was nothing that a good old kegger couldn’t fix, remember?” It was silent for a moment while they all soaked up his words.

“I’m down,” Pope shrugs and Kiara nods as they all look towards JJ.

“JJ? You in?”

“I don’t know. Maybe count me out on this one?” The blonde boy replies and the other three groan.

“Oh come on JJ. You never used to turn down a party! And besides, maybe you’ll meet somebody and move on from-“ Pope stops talking as Kie harshly elbows him and turns to glare at her.

They all stare at JJ as he thinks it over and finally sighs, “Sure, yeah.”

Kie and Pope cheer as John B smiles, “Great, it’s a plan then.”

—

“Y/N do you still have that diamond hairpin that I let you borrow a few months ago?” Your mother asked as you watched her get ready for a party her and your father were going to.

“Um maybe?” You responded, knowing damn well you gave it to JJ to pawn off.

“Well can you go check your room for it please? It would really help out my outfit.” She pleads and you sigh.

“Yeah, I guess.” You walk out of your parents’ room in across the hall into your own, nearly screaming when you realize somebody is already sitting on your bed waiting for you, “Jesus Kie, you scared me! What are you doing here?”

“Y/N we miss you. All of us do, we’ve all been struggling with loosing you, especially JJ,” She whispers the last part but you hear it anyway and shake your head.

“Kie if you’re here to try to fix things between me and JJ then you should probably just leave. He told me exactly how he feels and trust me when I say that he is not interested in getting back together so please just stay out of it.”

Kiara’s heart sinks and she’s tempted to tell you the truth about why JJ said those things instead she shakes her head, “No no, Y/N. That’s not why I came. I- we’re having a kegger tonight on the beach. Please come, I miss my best friend.” She pleads.

“I don’t know Kie. Watching JJ flirt with and be all over other girls knowing I’m not over him doesn’t really sound like my cup of tea.”

“I doubt he’ll be doing that. Besides the beach is huge, you don’t even have to see him if you don’t want too!” She insists.

“And what about the other boys, what do they think about it?” You ask wearily.

“They don’t even know I’m here but I know they’d be so happy if you came. They miss the hell out of you Y/N. It’s not the same without you there.”

She stares at you for a moment while you think. You have missed them and going would probably get your mom off your back. But what about JJ, you know your heart isn’t ready to see him again. You know what, screw JJ. Like Kie said, the beach is big enough and there will probably be enough people there that you won’t even have to see him.

You sigh and nod, “Yeah sure, I’ll go. But if I see even a glimpse of JJ I’m out.”

—

“Damn it Kie, we’ve been looking for you all- Y/N!” John B yells when he sees you walking behind Kiara and you laugh as he runs forward and picks you up in a hug, spinning you around.

“Hey JB,” You smile, moving to hug Pope as well.

“Where the hell have you been?! We’ve missed you!” Pope asks after you pull away.

“The land of the dead,” You laugh, referring to your house but also referring to your mental state the past two weeks, “But in case you were wondering I’ve missed you idiots too...I suppose” You add at the end, jumping away as John B attempts to punch you playfully in the shoulder.

“Don’t ever disappear like that for that long ever again.” Pope says softly and you look at the ground, feeling guilty.

“Hey, don’t feel bad. We understand that you needed some time.” Kie reaches out to put a hand on your shoulder. You look up and smile at her weakly.

“Yeah well I’m over being sad. Now if somebody doesn’t get me a beer right now I’m leaving,” You smirk and they all laugh.

“Yes your highness,” John B bows playfully and runs off towards the keg.

—

“And that’s when he said ‘just yank the damn thing out!’ Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard him say,” The kids around you laugh as you tell them the story of when John B stepped on a fishing hook, chugging down the rest of your sixth (or seventh?) beer.

As the night had progressed you surprisingly hadn’t seen JJ and you were relieved for that, instead inserting yourself into a group of tourons that were already wasted and would probably pass out on the beach, unable to navigate the way back to their hotel.

You were also quite tipsy, just enough to have that extra courage to do things you normally wouldn’t, which is why you currently stood wrapped up in the arms of some random touron that you didn’t bother learning the name of.

The kids around you began a new conversation and you turned and stood on your tip toes, leaning in to the boy’s ear, “I’m going to get another beer and then you should take me back to your hotel.”

He nodded, eyes going wide, and you wink before walking over towards the keg. You fill your cup to the brim and head back to the group, waving at Kie with a smile as you pass her talking to one of her coworkers at The Wreck. You’re nearly back to the group of tourists when the voice you were hoping you wouldn’t hear tonight calls out your name.

You ignore him and keep walking but he follows and grabs your wrist, gaining the attention of the tourons near you, “Y/N can we talk?”

“Oh hey JJ. Guys, this is my ex-boyfriend, JJ. He broke up with me because I’m rich.” You say sarcastically, taking a sip of your beer.

“That’s not why. Y/N please, I need to talk to you, in private.” He pleads and you shake your head.

“Isn’t it though? You broke up with me because you were afraid of ‘dragging me down to your level’ and ‘ruining my hopes and dreams’, because apparently you think I’m only capable of being happy if I’m rich right? So yeah, essentially you did break up with me because I’m rich and your not. Or was it the fact that I’m too clingy and pathetic? What, did you come to tell me? That I need to move on because you haven’t loved me for a long time? Well sorry JJ but for once in my life I don’t give a shit what you’re about to say next so can you leave? I was doing just fine having fun over until you had to come ruin it. Jesus, you really don’t want me to move on and be happy. Who’s the pathetic one now.” You snap as everyone around you ‘oohs’ and you hear one of them say ‘damn bro, she told you’.

“God damn it Y/N. Of course I want you to be happy, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I- I didn’t mean anything I said that night. Please just let me explain.” JJ says again.

You hadn’t seen him tonight but he’d seen you. He’d watched from afar as you talked and laughed and when he saw you in the arms of that boy his heart broke even more. He couldn’t stand seeing you with someone who wasn’t him and with that he finally decided to tell you the truth.

Finally you roll your eyes, “You have ten minutes to explain yourself.” He tries not to smile in triumph and nods, pulling you away to a quiet spot, away from people.

“The night of Midsummers I had every intention of finding you Y/N. I wanted nothing more then to find you and have you in my arms. As I was looking for Sarah, to give her John B’s note, I ran into your dad-“ You scoff and roll your eyes.

“Of course my father has something to do with this. What did he say, huh? Did he tell you how dirty and poor you are and how much he hates you and doesn’t like you? Yeah he told me that same thing multiple times JJ but I didn’t break up with you because of it.”

“Yeah he started out with that. And I told him that I wouldn’t break up with you. But then he started talking about how being with me would ruin your life and how one day I’d get into trouble and drag you down with me and you’d have to give up your dreams.”

“And did you ever once stop and think about what those dreams were? Or did you just automatically assume? Just because I’m a kook did you think my main goal in life is to go to a fancy college, marry a handsome rich man, and have some spoiled little rich kids running around?” You ask angrily.

“No! No of course not. I- to be honest I don’t know what I thought.” He admits sheepishly, looking at the ground.

“Yeah well you wanna hear my dreams for my future? The ones you were so worried that you would ruin? JJ when I think about the future I dream about having more adventures with you and the others. I dream about us getting married out in the middle of the water on the HMS Pogue with the people we love most watching, one of them can get ordained to perform the ceremony, I don’t care who. I dream about finding a cute little house close to the water that we can call home, like the chateau, some place where our children and their friends can hang out and call home. I dream about having a bunch of little mini JJ’s and mini Y/N’s running around, probably having to break up a few fights if they have a temper anything like their father’s. I dream about growing old with you and watching our grandchildren grow up and have their own adventures just like we did and our kids will after us. Or so I thought. Funny how you broke up with me because you were so worried about ruining my dreams but you breaking up with me is the thing that ruined them huh?” You laugh humorlessly.

“Y/N I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, I know that. I know that I was wrong for what I did and what I said. But Y/N I can’t live without you. These past two weeks have been hell without you and I just want you back. I’m done listening to what other people think I swear.” He replies softly.

“I thought you fell out of love with me? Yeah because I’m too clingy.”

He shakes his head furiously, “That was a lie. I only said it to push you away, like you accused me of when I said it in the first place.”

“You called me pathetic JJ. You told me that you felt bad because I have no other friends and that you knew the pogues would choose you over me because you’re a pogue and I’m a kook.” You reply softly, more hurt now than angry.

“No. No you’re not Y/N. You might have a kook family and live in a kook house on the kook side of the island but you are a pogue. You’ve always been a pogue and I’m an idiot for not realizing it sooner-“

“You’re an idiot for a lot of things.” I laugh softly and he returns it.

“Yeah I guess I am. My point though, Y/N, is that you are a pogue. In fact the pogues aren’t the pogues without you. Nothing Is right without you. You do have friends, we are your friends. Nothing will change that. Even if you don’t forgive me right away or at all, even if you don’t want to take me back. I don’t care what happens as long as you’re in my life because without you nothing is the same.” Your face softens as you see a tear rolling down his cheek and reach forward to wipe it away.

You stay leaned in, just staring into those blue eyes that you love so much, the same ones that have caused you so much pain in the past to weeks. Finally you sigh and whisper, “Of course I forgive you. My dad got in your head, that’s not your fault. And I’ll admit I am a little stubborn.”

He smiles, “Does at mean?”

“Kiss me you idiot,” You laugh and obeys, cupping your cheek softly as he leans in and kisses you sweetly. After he pulls away he just rests his forehead against yours for a moment, soaking up as much affection as he can after missing it for two weeks.

“You didn’t address the pathetic comment,” You joke, pulling away and he laughs, standing up and offering you his hand.

“I say we go find out friends, yeah?” You take his hand and nod.

“Hey I thought you wanted to go back to my hotel?” The boy from earlier calls out as you two walk past.

“Sorry bro, she’s mine. Hey, maybe you should talk to your friend over there though, she’s been staring at you all night!” JJ calls and you laugh as he pulls you towards the pogues who are now grouped together around a fire.

“Hey! I see you two made up. Did dumbass here finally listen to us and tell you the truth?” Kie yells jokingly as the two of you sit down on a log across from her.

“He did and I’m not letting him take ‘advice’ from my father, or anyone, ever again.” You answer, curling into his side.

“I don’t plan on it. I promise, I’m never leaving you again. What do you say about making your dreams a reality?”

You smile as he wraps his arm around you, “I think that sounds like a great idea.”

So here it is, the end 🥺 I hope it did part one some justice and fixed your broken hearts. Can I just take a minute to tell you all how shocked I was when part one blew up? I did not expect it to get that much attention but I’m so happy it did. Ever since I posted it I’ve been reading all of your comments and it makes my heart so happy so thank you 💕 I’ll be writing more soon so if you liked my writing then be on the lookout for that 😉

Taglist- @itsskythoo @rudyypankow @downbytheouterbanks @obxlife @justsomegirlontheinternet @alltimekp @starkeybaby @timotaychalabae @fernweh-fangirl @howdyherron @mavelfanatic @hotel-colson @yeehaw87 @sofiluvschu (I hope I didn’t forget anybody!)

[chews-erotically]

Waxing Gibbous  Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

    *Note: I dedicate this installment to the beautiful @ifimayhaveaword, who really made my day today with her lovely messages of support. People like you truly mean the world to me. I appreciate you more than you know.

      * Warnings:  Some minor angst/ miscommunication/ SMUT (m/f oral, fingering, hand job, spicy kisses) Can’t stop the smut train baybeeee choo choo motherfuckers       * Summary: You process the events of the night before, and wonder about your place with Ezra and on the Green       * Word Count: 3879 *Part ONE* *Part TWO* *Part THREE* *Part FOUR*

PART FIVE

    You Awoke the next morning feeling as if it were some erotic fever dream. You stretched your arm out across the emptiness of the cot pushed beside yours. It was only when you moved to roll onto your back that the deep pang of soreness between your legs reminded you that, yes, what you’d wanted for months had actually happened, and you did indeed feel ruined.     Ezra appeared to have left the tent in the early morning haze. You gazed upward at the ceiling of the tent, at the support beams that vaulted the cloth walls. Things were going to be different, that you knew. It did not make you any less apprehensive.     He had told you he loved you. Or, more accurately, that he had love for you.

    You could not forget the tenderness he’d shown you after you were attacked, but you were well aware that things said in the heat of passion were often a product of an intense moment and were not necessarily reflective of the truth. You chided yourself for ruminating; he’d been a nanosecond from coming inside of a warm body for the first time in undoubtedly several months. From your admittedly limited sexual experiences, proclamations of love and devotion and promises of ardent follow-through were often expressed in the heat of the moment, never to be mentioned again. You usually never saw them again.

    This was different, of course, as you literally could not leave. You were both stranded, though you still kept up the pretense of harvesting in the event an opportunity to escape should present itself. The chance of this happening had begun to seem less and less likely- the heyday of the aurelac rush had long since come and gone, and the remaining groups of adventurers to the Green operated more or less on whispered rumors and folklore.     The zipper of the tent pulled upward, and Ezra emerged. The flaps were quickly refastened, and he moved to whip his helmet off as you shyly pulled your worn blanket up to your neck. You had been wanton and vocal the night before, but in the light of the morning you felt fragile, unsure. Ezra looked to you, seemingly amused by your sudden modesty. The corner of his mouth tilted up, his warm brown eyes twinkled. The blond patch of hair, a rogue among it’s dark compatriots, stuck out wildly in response to the chaotic divestment of his helmet. He wasn’t even close to you and your heart started pounding.     “Ah, good morning to you, Dove. I was hoping you would continue your slumber a bit longer. I have spent some time in the early light surveying the Green for signs of life and transport, not necessarily in that order, of course.”     In the months since you’d first met him in the clearing on that fateful day, his arm had fully recovered thanks to your ministrations- all that remained was a cratered, puckering pink scar on the skin of his bicep. He wore a threadbare grey tee under his suit and this drew your eye to the wound. If something were to happen to you, if this did not pan out and you either died or escaped, were separated, would he remember you when he saw his scar? Would it be with fondness, or would it only remind him of how traumatic this all was?      Why am I thinking like this?     It was the fact that he had admitted, out loud, that he was looking for a way out, a way off of the Green. You knew that you would both die if you could not find a way to go, it was only logical. So why were you nursing this pang of melancholy that had emerged when you’d awoken to find his cot empty?     You came back to yourself, and noted the concern etched on Ezra’s face as he contemplated you.     “Have I said or done something to upset you, Dove? That has rendered you mute?”     He moved across the floor of the tent with a lithe grace and perched on the edge of your cot, placing a hand on your knee.     “Are you feeling alright?”     You sighed, smiling softly when you felt his touch on you, warm and heavy. “Better than alright, Ez. I….can’t….I guess I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened last night.”     He creased his brow in contemplation and turned to face you fully.  “I must admit, I myself did not envision such intimacy occurring between us in the manner it did. I…. fear I may have been a fair bit rougher than I meant to be at the outset. I need you to be truthful if I hurt you in any way.”     You bit your lip, and your neck and face felt hot. Flashes of him caging you, filling you, his words, hot breath and hands, the way the cot had creaked like it was pleading for its life…     “I….really loved everything about last night. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone...like that. So honestly, I’m sore. But in a...good way?”     He surged forward, framing your face with his hands. His voice left his plush lips in a hoarse whisper. His eyes held yours, hypnotic and deep.     “Will you feel me with every step you take today? I’m going to watch you. I have never felt such intensity with anyone the way I felt it when we took our pleasure last night. I don’t want it to stop.”     You were flushed, your ears buzzed. Your mind filled with static. How could he practically dismantle you in this way with only words? You realized your mouth was hanging open. You snapped it shut and swallowed audibly.     Ezra’s clever tongue darted to wet his lips before squeezing your knee and standing.     “Get dressed, Dove. We’ve a day ahead of us.”

    It was another hot day in the Green, and you both resumed your digging, harvesting and cataloguing as if it were any other afternoon. For all intents and purposes, it was. Ezra waxed poetic about the juxtaposition of the beauty surrounding you beside the deadliness of the air, how the regular exchange of oxygen, hydrogen and carbon dioxide were perverted carbon copies of the vegetation you were both used to which processed and sustained an atmosphere more life-sustaining.      You hummed at the appropriate moments, but your mind was on your conversation in the tent. What he had said to you seemed indicative of the fact that he intended to continue a physical relationship. It made you feel equal parts giddy and insecure. You frowned in thought.     Snap the fuck out of it. You’re no delicate, blushing maiden. You know yourself. You’re seriously thinking like some incapable, dependent damsel the second you get some good dick??     Except you moved a certain way while crouching down and you winced, gasping softly. Ezra stopped mid-sentence and turned his gaze toward you, his eyes dark, his tongue once again flicking out to moisten his lips.     “Are you injured, little Dove?” he asked, smiling softly.     “Uh, no, not exactly. You know, what I told you before...I’m fine, really.”     He sauntered over to you and held out his hand. You grasped it, and he pulled you to your feet so that your helmets were touching.     “As cocky as I may have seemed at the outset in regards to the way I left my mark on you, do not think it is no little concern to me to see your movements impaired. My words were not meant to denote any sadistic pleasure taken in regards to your objective discomfort.”     His hands were stroking gently up and down your arms as he spoke.     You shrugged under his hands, a flash of annoyance crossing your features.     “I’m really fine, Ez. I’m not some wilting flower that you’ve irreparably damaged with your Godlike virility. I promise you, my delicate, blushing womanhood will recover.”     Ezra cocked an eyebrow in surprise. His hands stilled as he paused a beat before responding.     “Now that is something I would not anticipate. The thought that for one moment I consider you anything less than an equal, in fact a superior to myself in several ways, not the least of which include cunning and resilience. It saddens me that you think that of me.”     All at once you felt like a jerk. Damn this emotional lability, damn this stubborn pride. Ezra was genuinely concerned that you were in pain, and you were jumping at the opportunity to argue semantics and gender roles. On a toxic planet you were both stranded on, no less.     You reached for his gloved hand, squeezing firmly. His hand squeezed back, equally firm.     “I don’t know why I said that, Ezra. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I sound like an asshole, I’m sorry.”     You’ve gotten into me.

    You were back in the tent after determining that the day's work had finished. It was quiet, Ezra ruminated. The tension had surely rebuilt itself over the course of the day, there was only so much harvesting, so much concentration on work that could be accomplished, before it came to this. The both of you, stripped to your thermals. You lay as you had countless times before, facing one another on your cots. Ezra swept his thumb lazily back and forth across your knuckles. You felt like you could drown in the depths of him.      “I’m sorry again about what I said to you today. I don’t know why I said it. I didn’t mean it.”     “Though you have nothing to apologize for, Dove, I will readily accept if it will still the turbulence within you. I meant what I said, and I have you to thank for every bit of happiness I doubted I’d ever feel in this Kevva-forsaken place. My arm, my livelihood. My life. If not for you I’d have faded forgotten like so many other poor, foolish dupes. My very survival is due to your strength and intellect.”     You felt full to bursting at his words, overwhelmed by his sincerity. You couldn’t respond, so you propelled yourself forward and pressed your lips to his desperately. He stilled only momentarily, startled at your boldness, before he responded hungrily. Lips slid, teeth clashed. His tongue begged entry into your mouth, which you granted with a whimper. He tasted somehow sweet, wild. His breaths gasped into your mouth, you pushed your own back into him. Hands tangled in hair. You had yet to see him unclothed, you reached out and grasped his shirt in your needy fist. Ezra immediately took the hint and stripped it. You removed your own and his hands were at once on your breasts, large warm hands that enveloped each in turn, greedy and restless. He couldn’t touch enough of you at once.     His hands moved to your waist, tearing at your pants. You helped him pull them off and fling them to the ground. You felt like you were radiating heat, you were a thermal detonator. Ezra pinched your nipple, applying slight pressure into the bud with his thumb nail. Your nerves sparked and sang, your ass arching off of your cot like you’d been hit by an electrical current.     You gasped, your trembling hands moving to divest him of his pants.     His hand shot down to still yours. You both paused, the only sound within the confines of your quarters were the loud gasps that echoed between you.     “Is….is something wrong?”     Ezra fought to still his breathing. “Sweet girl, I have not forgotten my rough congress with you the night before. I do not want to risk exacerbating your discomfort. You should recover, first, from our mutual enthusiasm.”     You groaned in frustration. “I’ll be fine. Ezra, I promise you won’t break me.”     You palmed him through his trousers, Kevva he was so hard. So hot. You swore you were salivating. Ezra stilled, breath held in an attempt to maintain his composure.     “Please grant me this, at least for my own peace of mind. Just for tonight. Allow me, if I may, to indulge in an alternate form of intimacy, one which I’ve dreamed of sharing with you since your first trick with the Sater.” The last sentence was gritted out between clenched teeth.     Your eyes wide, you bit your lip and barely finished a frenzied nod before Ezra was pinning your hands above your head and scraping his teeth against the juncture of your neck and shoulder. It was somehow different, more measured, if no less intense. You let a shiver run through your body as Ezra moved down to first one breast, then the other. He opened his mouth wide and covered the entirety of your nipple and sucked. You gasped, already overwhelmed. You felt as if you could lose your mind as he possessed you. Teeth scraped and teased, and he made sure the peak of your breast was properly slicked before repeating the motions on your other breast. You keened out into the cycled air of the tent as the wet surface of your skin cooled, warring with the sinful furnace of Ezra’s mouth on your other breast.     He disengaged, intentions clear as he continued to kiss, lick, and nip down the length of your body. You were struck mute and trembling. You didn’t realize he had let go of your hands, and you were so mesmerized that you kept them stationary above your head. Ezra reached your drenched core and settled between your legs, pressing feather-light kisses to your inner thighs as you whimpered. He was going to kill you. He paused, and as you realized he was beginning to part your inner folds you started and reflexively started to close your legs. Ezra huffed, placing a searing palm against the inside of your knee in protest.     “Don’t be shy, sweet girl. There is no shame here with me. I consider it a compliment of the highest order that you are blooming for me like this.” He moved to lay his head against the side of your thigh. He felt inches away from you. You could feel every warm exhale against your dripping sex, hypersensitive, attuned to every word and movement.     “Look at you,” he crooned reverently. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen arousal so profound. Glistening like a jewel. Every blushing fold spread open and ready. The temple of this divine cunt fluttering and weeping for me.”     You choked out a broken groan at his words and tilted your hips toward him desperately. Impossibly, you felt him closer, his breaths tiny explosions on your swollen core. He groaned back in response and dragged his fingers languidly through your slick.     “.....smell so good…”     Before you could register his words he darted forward and licked from your clenching hole up to your clit, his tongue wide and flat. Ezra ran his tongue back down to your base before repeating the motion twice more.     It was a feeling so intense, sensation so overwhelming to you, that you could not speak, only throw your head back with eyes and mouth wide in a silent scream. Your hands hammered down to your sides and you tore at the sheets beneath you.     “....taste so fucking good.”     You gasped his name like a prayer. You were incapable of speech, your mind blank. Over the din of white noise between your ears, you heard Ezra speaking your name reverently.     You forced your head up to meet his gaze. Your arousal was a wet sheen across his face, his eyes blown wide, hair wild. So beautiful.     “You still with me, Dove?” You could only give him another desperate nod.      You then watched, eyes wide and shocked, as Ezra opened his wicked mouth and let a strand of spittle drip down from his lips and roll down to coat your engorged clit.     “Ezra...oh my fucking God,” You moaned. He could kill you in this moment, snuff your life like a wasted candle and you would thank him.     When he next attached his mouth to you and began to tongue your fluttering cunt, you could not stop the noises that left your gasping mouth. You could not keep track of the groans, whimpers, screams, pleas that left you like an incantation. If you’d been able to form a coherent thought, you may have even supposed (correctly) that Ezra would be cataloguing every single one.     When he moved his mouth back to your aching clit, he replaced his tongue with two thick fingers and entered you easily. He began a slow, deep pace while his tongue danced across and upon your bud. Your legs began to shake of their own accord, muscles jumping and fluttering. Ezra placed a hand across your stomach to steady you, murmuring low praises.     “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. So good. Come for me sweetheart. Let go, release onto my tongue, spill your ecstasy into my mouth.”     He resumed the labor of his fingers within your walls and latched his mouth to your bud and began sucking.     The pressure in your belly, between your legs, through your limbs stretched tight and snapped, and you roared Ezra’s name into the void of the Green. You were shaking, you were flying apart, the world could be crumbling down around you, you did not care.     I’m dying, you thought. You could not think beyond the white-hot, searing pleasure that sparked through and lit up every nerve ending. Ezra worked you through your explosive release, easing you down with slow licks and kisses as he greedily consumed every drop of his victory. He finally relented and crawled back up your shaking body. He kissed you wantonly, gasping into your mouth. You tasted your own arousal and release on his lips and tongue- it was intoxicating. He kissed you as if he would die if he stopped, his hands cradling your face.     “Ezra,” you moaned, your breaths and heart rate finally beginning to slow. “Ezra, that was…..” You felt him smirk against your mouth. You gasped out a laugh and wound your arms around his shoulders.     “Proud of yourself, are you?” You swore on your soul that he giggled.     “While I must admit fault has never been found in my technique, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a response so….intense. You do wonders for my ego, Dovie.” He whispered, tucking his nose into your neck. You stroked his back, your limbs heavy and loose. You could have drifted away like this but for the hardness you felt against your hip.     “Hey, Ez?”     “Mmmfff.”     “What about you?”     To punctuate your point, your hand reached down to palm him through his trousers. Ezra’s demeanor immediately changed, lazy grin stilling as he gasped and groaned against you.     “I believe I told you I wanted you in my mouth last night, Ezra. I still do.”     “You don’t have to, sweet one. I wanted to take care of you tonight,” he gasped, even as he began to rock his hips into your open hand.     “I want to take care of you, too,” You whispered against his mouth. You were startled by the desire flooding into you once again- Ezra had fully wrung you out, you should be exhausted. Instead, the flames of your lust were stoked once again as you rolled him onto his back and began to undo his pants. Ezra stared down at you, his breathing hitched and baited. His hands were fisted on either side of him, he looked almost scared to move.     You revealed his swollen aching cock, red and weeping. He was so aroused the head of him was almost purple. You swore you could see his pronounced veins pulsating. Your felt your cunt clench, further shocking you. You realized your mouth was watering.     “I need this divine cock in my mouth, Ezra. I want to watch you fall apart for me.”     Ezra whined, hands clutching in desperation as yours were only a short time before.     You flashed him a salacious grin and opened your mouth to spew your own string of saliva to cascade down the head of his cock. Ezra gasped, eyes wide.     “Turnabout is fair play, Sir.”      Shudders racked his body as you lowered your head, placing delicate kisses at the base of him before working your way up. Ezra quickly became a panting, groaning mess, knocking his head into the pillow. The cords of his neck stood out in stark relief as his hips canted upward in search of more of your mouth, more of anything.     “Please, sweet girl,” he moaned, is voice thin and reedy, “Please. I need more….”     You glanced up at him as your hand slowly pumped his length, considering, before once again leaning forward. Without preamble you opened your mouth and took him down as far as you could. The cries that erupted from him at your action could have awakened any floater within a 15-mile radius. You wanted to hear it again, so you dislodged him from your mouth before repeating your action. You clasped hour hands around the sizable part of him that did not fit, lacing your fingers together. You pressed your palms against the slick shaft and worked him slowly and steadily while the obscene, wet noises coming from your mouth reverberated throughout your quarters.     Ezra was properly wrecked, sobbing and gasping, pleading for you to continue.     “You're going to kill me,” he whined, and it caused a fresh flood of arousal to run down the insides of your thighs. He was so, so close. You could feel his cock twitch and swell impossibly. You raised your eyes to meet his, mouth popping off of him, strands of spit stretching like cables between your parted lips and his glistening head. Catching your breath, you wiped the back of your hand across your mouth.     “Come in my mouth, Ezra.”     Ezra could only whimper in response, hands buried in your hair as you sank back onto him. You bobbed your head once, twice, three times, and then he was painting your mouth and tongue with his seed. You struggled to swallow it all, it seemed neverending. Ezra sobbed, shouting half-formed words and unintelligible praises into the air. His hips twitched and rolled up rhythmically as you struggled to keep him captured within the confines of your mouth.      You swallowed each spurt eagerly until Ezra tugged at your hair, hypersensitized, to pull you up his chest. His limbs trembled in aftershocks as his arms wrapped around you. His heart continued to hammer in his chest as you lay your head on him. You reached a hand up to cup his face. Ezra leaned into it, turning his head and placing a kiss to the palm of your hand.     “You are magical, Dove. Transcendent. I do not deserve you.”     You yawned and burrowed your head into the crook of his neck. You were suddenly exhausted.      You stayed entwined on your cots, breaths slowing and steadying as you both found your slumber. Inhaling as you exhaled, you dreamed of escape, daring to hope against hope that there was a way to leave and make your way to something better.      Something you both deserved.

[wickedgamesoyaoya]

⇺ ⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂ ⇻

↣ Masterpost 

↣ inspired by @haik-choo​’s post 

↣ wc: 2.4k

↣ warnings: emotional pain, swearing, mentions of sex (not outright anything).

↣ format: mixed

↣  song recommendation:  5 Seconds of Summer - Lover Of Mine &  5 Seconds Of Summer - Ghost Of You

↣  preamble: atsumu miya never understands what he has until its too late. from a young age, he only focused on his own satisfaction and accordingly, his own pleasure. the only reason your relationship was able to stand the test of time was solely because of your accommodating nature. but sometimes, it still hurts… the lack of appreciation. would he truly care if you stopped leaving him little love notes in your shared apartment? would he notice if you stopped keeping pace with him during your morning walks? did he even care that you only woke up at the ungodly hour to spend more time with him? with those questions unanswered, some days you wonder if love should hurt this much.  

After winning five consecutive matches, a formal banquet was arranged to celebrate MSBY’s notable achievement. The guest-list was littered with numerous B list celebrities, with the occasional A lister promising to attend. What was originally planned to be a small gathering morphed into an evening gala that attracted media coverage, and a significant crowd. Some were desperate to secure an invite solely to catch a glimpse of one of the star players; while others were significantly more interested in the foreign chief that would be designing the menu for the function. Whatever the motivation, each attendee expelled an aura of excitement, one that was highly contagious. Accompanying the delectable atmosphere was a sugary scent wafting throughout the establishment. It was what Atsumu Miya deemed heaven on earth.

The blonde setter had the stem of a wineglass tucked between two fingers nonchalantly, occasionally swaying the maroon liquid as he surveyed those around him. He adored these gatherings for numerous reasons, one being the unnaturally attractive crowd it allured. Not that he planned on approaching any of them with nefarious intentions – he had a date after-all. The same one for the last four years. You. However, he refused to believe there was any harm in simply admiring from afar what he could have but chose not to. It provided him a rush of exhilaration, knowing that if he chose, he could secure the interest of any woman within the vicinity. Oh yes, if only they were so lucky. But alas, they were not. Simply having their attention and compliments was enough, he was disinterested in the satisfaction of sleeping with them. The truth was, while they were surely attractive, none of them would provide him the consistency that came neatly packaged with you. To be blunt, you were easy. Low maintenance, as he explained two nights ago to his brother. Even now, rather than remain glued to his side, you were somewhere in the crowd, mingling with someone unknown. He preferred it this way, and you knew it.

Half an hour before dinner was to be served, Atsumu was invited to take a shot with the MSBY Ace. Bokuto’s best friend refused to drink, vowing to return home early to complete a manuscript, and so he sought a new drinking buddy. But when he approached the setter, his thoughts of drinking were replaced with a newfound concern. Atsumu notified his team-mate that his hair required a quick touch up. His usual spikes were beginning to droop, resembling a withering flower.  

“Akaashi! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Tsum, do you have any gel?” A pout registered upon his lips as he attempted to sharpen the ends of his hair using his index finger and thumb. What if someone caught a photo of him appearing less than satisfactory? The Ace, ordinary or not, should appear extraordinary on a night dedicated to celebrating him (and his team-mates).

“I don’t think it looks that bad, Bokuto-san.” The black-haired writer shook his head, prior to bringing the rim of his coffee cup to his lips. Okay, maybe he could have something earlier. But to his defence, he had only noticed the imperfection now. With a wave of exhaustion weighing over his eyelids, he was less perceptive than usual.

“You know lying to him ain’t gonna fix the problem, right?” Atsumu shifted his narrowed gaze at Akaashi questioningly, something the other male did not appreciate. “And do you really have to ask? Of course, I do. Come on.” The blonde tapped against his lower jacket pocket, where a thin container of hair-serum was kept.

“I’m going to my seat. I’ll meet you there when you’re done.” The comment was directed solely at Bokuto, in a tone that indicated the writer would rather not spend any ‘quality’ time with the setter unless forced to. The brunette was not his biggest fan to say the least.

“I’ll be back soon.” He was well aware that his best friend and team-mate were not particularly fond of one another, placing distance was perhaps the best available option. Once the writer was no longer present, the pair began walking towards the bathroom. “Say… Tsum, where’s y/n?” Instinctively, the Ace’s golden irises searched the space around them for your familiar face.

“I dunno. Somewhere. I’m sure I’ll see her at the dinner table, since we’re sitting together.” The disinterest laced in his tone startled the other male, who failed to mask his bewilderment. Atsumu ignored the puzzlement that shined in his team-mate’s eyes, dismissing the action with a limp shrug before entering the bathroom first.

Bokuto trailed in a second later, pausing at the mirror with a hand extended forward. “You guys are really weird.”

Retrieving the container from his pouch, the blonde handed his team-mate the gel then began adjusting his own appearance, beginning by ushering aside some fallen strands. The observation that was offered only brought a little laugh to exit his mouth. “Yeah? Why do you say that?”

“You don’t act like a real couple.” Bokuto did not intend to respond immediately, particularly because he desired to avoid the stare he was now receiving through the mirror. The lack of hesitation was not well received by the MSBY setter.

“We don’t need to abide by norms to be a couple, Bokkun.” Despite the sour taste curling around his tongue, Atsumu managed to maintain a smile on his lips, finding humour in his own explanation.

“Alright, so is that why you haven’t proposed yet?” The white-haired Ace mentally scolded himself for his lack of restraint. He should have bit his tongue. Oh, if only he bit his tongue –

However, this was not the first time the question was posed to him. In fact, two days ago, it was exact topic that resulted in a very heated argument with his twin-brother. He truly did not understand why proposing was necessary. You both already lived together – was that not enough?

“It’s not that serious.” Tugging at his sleeves, the setter then adjusted his cufflinks. “I love her, but I’m not sure she’s the one. I don’t know if I can really give everything up forever, for her. For the time-being, I don’t mind. But I’m not giving everything up just yet.” The final sentence uttered by the blonde was more of an affirmation to himself, one that did not register well with his team-mate. It seemed that everyone but Atsumu could see how much you did for him. His unappreciated nature was rather toxic.

“That doesn’t sound like love, dude.”

No. It certainly did not.

They say that the truth will always be revealed sooner or later. Perhaps Atsumu Miya’s true feelings would have been revealed later, if he chose to lower his voice and restrict his sincerity. Had he known that you were outside, he certainly would have taken some precautions. But how could he have known that you were searching for him, when you ran into Akaashi? Who unfortunately knew exactly where he was?

How many warnings were issued by your friends over the years? Dozens? Hundreds? What would they say now? How many red flags did you ignore? 

How curious how easily you confused ache for butterflies.

The strain circling inside of your temples morphed into a throb as the liquid distorting your vision began spilling down your cheeks, dragging your mascara along with it. Behind you someone whispered your name, fear gripping their throat and muffling the sound. But you were unable to recognize who the voice belonged to, as you no longer held the luxury of having a stable state of mind.

Lifting your trembling fingers to the area below your eyelids, you stumbled attempting to discard the substance hanging on your lashes. “I need to go. I… Oh, I’m stupid. I just… I need to leave. Please.” Sluggishly, you shifted your body to face the person who addressed you earlier, seeking any aid that was offered. You couldn’t face him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“I know. Come on.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi accidentally stumbled onto the scene just as Atsumu began responding to the inquiry. He was not staggered to hear the cruel statements fall casually from his team-mate’s lips. Similar statements were uttered in the locker-room on numerous occasions. It was your reaction that tugged at his heart. No one deserved to hear the one they loved speak with such venom, and certainly not you. “Let’s go before they come out, shall we?”

The thrill of partying as a newly single bachelor provided Atsumu Miya temporary satisfaction. Each night a stranger’s mouth was attached to his, as he clung to them, desperate to combat the vanilla scent that circulated in the apartment, even weeks after your departure. How many girls had now laid in the exact spot you once occupied on the bed? Dozens? And yet, every morning when he awoke, he continuously thought it was you in his arms, and not someone whose name he did not bother remembering. His endeavours to erase you were fruitless. Not due to a lack of effort, but because the truth was… He didn’t want to forget you.

It took a month for the realization to settle in. No longer interested in the meaningless sex that was offered by mistresses of the night, he found himself unable to leave the apartment unless there was a match scheduled. It was the only location where he could feel some connection to you. Particularly when intoxicated, he swore he could hear you whisper soothing sentiments into his ears, dispelling his fears that you no longer loved him.

But each morning, reality would register once more, providing him a metaphorical jab to his chest.

Today was no different.

It had been forty days since the gala. Forty days to mull over how just how much you did for him, and just how little he did for you. It wasn’t always like this. Over the years, he became too accustomed to your giving nature. Soon, he developed a toxic mentality that he was entitled to everything you provided. But it wasn’t always like that. It wasn’t. At least that was what he repeated to himself, hoping it was the truth.

After downing a liter of water, the throbbing in his head had dimmed to a tolerable level. And once the lights no longer strained his eyes, he reached for his phone, determination igniting in his heart. 

“Hi.” The greeting was exhaled softly into the phone, as anxiety prompted your heart to beat irregularly. The uncertainty of what would be said by your former lover had your thoughts tangled into an incoherent mess.

“Hey. Thanks for talking with me.” Atsumu pressed a fist against his mouth, muffling the small whimper that threatened to sound. Oh fuck. You actually picked up. A single word overwhelmed him with the storm of emotions he usually suppressed with alcohol.

A little hum was given to acknowledge his gratitude, it was honestly the best you could offer. But it was unlike you to be so quiet. The thought that he impacted you this much only expanded the guilt he was suffocating in.

“Was I always this bad?” The setter’s eyes stung with fresh tears forming along his lids. Did he even deserve to speak with you now?

Inhaling a lengthy breath of air, silence greeted him for a minute as you mustered the courage to respond. You knew you should hate him. and yet, hearing the tremor in his voice broke your heart. Was it really your fault that you still loved him?

“You weren’t.” You prayed the words were audible, since you were unsure whether you would be able to repeat yourself.

The blonde found the slightest bit of relief in your response, although it only eased a tenth of the tension he was battling to contain. Swallowing once, he strived to stabilize his breathing.

“Will you give me another chance?”

You caught onto the small crack in his voice, symbolizing his distress and sincerity simultaneously. But you wished you hadn’t.

“Atsumu. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t see a future with me.” Even now, stating a reminder of what you heard activated the emotional wound you spent the last month attempting to heal. Could you truly ever get passed this?

“I can’t see a future without you in it.” He interjected, not missing a beat. He refused to deny it any longer. He was an idiot, but he loved you. It was more than the fact you were low maintenance. He knew that now.

“I feel like I wasted four years, do you understand that?” His confession promoted a swarm of butterflies to parade inside of your stomach, but the mental reminder of your friends scoldings kept you grounded. Pretty words would not heal the damage. Not this time. “I’m sorry. I can’t waste any more…”

“You won’t have to, y/n. I promise. Let me take care of you this time. It will be different.” At this point he was essentially begging you to place trust in his promises, even if he had no credibility.

Maybe it was unhealthy how much you wished his promise to be true. How desperate you were to lower your armor and envelope him into your embrace instead. You knew your friends would never approve of him, but his pleads were weaved together with a vulnerability you had never heard before. Before you could stop yourself, the one word the setter was waiting for left your mouth. 

“Okay.” Dropping your face into your palm, you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip. 

The second you agreed, the blonde was already on his feet, fetching his keys before rushing to the front door. It had been so long since the setter was flooded with joy, he could barely contain himself. “Where are you? I’m coming to you now.” Clicking the lock to a close, he nestled his phone against his shoulder.

Upon hearing the shuffling in his background followed by his question, you instantly shot up to your feet, feeling a surge of hope enter your system. “Don’t you have practice soon?” You certainly did not expect this. Not at all.

Pausing in the middle of the hallway, he blew out a scoff. “I don’t fucking care. I need you in my arms now. Text me the address and I’ll be there. I fucking love you, y/n I love you so much. I’ll never let you go again. I promise.”

It should be noted that he wholeheartedly intended to keep that promise, and thankfully… he did.

Taglist: @idiot-juice-enthusiast​ @shakiraisawesome​

[iamakiller]

owl always love you

Wordcount: 2000

Notes & Warnings:  It has been far too long since I shared any of my fiction with you, hasn’t it?  Well, how about five unhappy memories of Valentines past, and one that went perfectly to plan (... or did it?)

As for warnings, there is no sex at all, but there is an unfortunate accident, and a hint of murder. Hmm, I must be going soft in my old age ... 

Five unhappy memories ...

1.

Charlie is four.

Today feels like a very special day.  There were flowers and a card on the kitchen table this morning, and no arguments over breakfast.  It was almost like last night’s fight didn’t happen.

At preschool, the classroom has been decorated with red and pink hearts because it’s Valentine’s Day. The teacher reads the class a picture book about an owl who was looking for love, and then they all do a craft based on the story.  The teacher has drawn the owl’s face and body on card for everyone, but they have to color it in and try to write a message on the owl’s tummy.  Charlie writes “Owl always love you Mommy” in purple crayon – his mother’s favorite color.

The next part of the craft is very hard.  They have to trace the outline of their hands onto card, color it in, and then cut it out. They stick the hands onto the owl with glue, and fold them over, and it looks kind of like wings.  Charlie is very proud of himself, because he did it without any help, and unlike the boy who sits next to him, he didn’t try to eat any of the glue.

At going home time, he presents the card to his mother.  She glances at it, and puts it in her handbag.

“Do you like it, Mommy?” Charlie asks, but she doesn’t say anything.  Maybe she didn’t hear him.

The next morning, he finds it in the trash.  

Oh.

Well, it wasn’t very good, he realizes.  His coloring wasn’t neat enough, and one of the thumbs was missing because of a mishap he had when he was cutting it out.  Maybe if he’d tried harder, she would have liked it.

Maybe if he tries harder, she’ll like him ...

2.

Charlie is eight.  

Valentine’s Day has been the main topic of conversation on the playground ever since the beginning of February. It’s not like anybody ever talks to Charlie, but there are some advantages to being invisible.  He hears everything.  He knows exactly who is getting a Valentine, and – most crucially – who isn’t.

On the night of February thirteenth, he stays up very late.  It isn’t like anyone is checking what time he goes to bed anyway, so he pulls together the materials he’s “borrowed” from his teacher over the past few days, and works until the early hours of the morning.

The next day, everyone in the class has at least one little handmade card on their desk by the end of the day.  

… except Charlie.

And that’s one of the disadvantages of being invisible.

Nobody knows he exists ...

3.

Charlie is thirteen.

According to his research, it is puberty that has turned the majority of his classmates into mindless, giggling idiots.  Thankfully, he seems to be immune to this plague, and the hours he spends staring at the long, golden hair of the girl who sits in front of him in class is perfectly normal, thank you very much.

Melissa is the prettiest girl in the class by far.  Charlie thinks she looks just like an elven queen ... if Galadriel had a Midwestern accent and a mother who was the head of the PTA.  She is also constantly accompanied by a group of four uglier girls, who all stare at Charlie as he makes his approach, the poem he wrote for her clutched in a hand that seems to be permanently sweaty these days.

She accepts the token of his affection with the carelessness of one who is accustomed to such things, and doesn’t even say thank you.  At lunchtime, Charlie overhears her reading excerpts of it to her gaggle of friends.  She tosses her lovely, blonde hair back, and laughs scornfully, before tearing it up into tiny pieces and leaving it on her lunch tray for the cafeteria staff to clear away.  

And suddenly, Charlie realizes how ugly she is.

At the end of February, poor Melissa has a terrible accident.  One of the teachers finds her unconscious at the bottom of the stairwell hours after school has finished for the day.  She must have tripped and fallen down the stairs somehow.

She makes a full recovery, but she never remembers what happened that day ...

4.

Charlie is seventeen.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to the dance?” asks cousin Pat from where he’s leaning in the doorway of Charlie’s bedroom.  He’s dressed to impress, and Charlie can smell the terrible cologne he’s wearing from all the way on the other side of the room.  “I can wait for you to get changed, I don’t mind.”

“I’m too busy,” says Charlie, staring up at the ceiling.  Soon, it will be time for him to turn over and stare at the wall.  “And I don’t like parties.”

“I don’t like parties either,” Pat reminds him, fidgeting with the cuffs of his blue button-down.  “But you’ll never meet someone special if you don’t leave your room.”

Charlie responds by making a noise like someone being sick, and turns over to show Pat his back.  “Bye.  Have fun at the shitty Valentine’s dance.”  He can feel his cousin’s gaze on the back of his head – can picture the annoying look of concern on his face – but he doesn’t move or say anything, and finally he hears the door close, and then Pat’s footsteps lumbering down the stairs.

Fuck Valentine’s Day, Charlie thinks.  Fuck parties, and fuck ever finding someone special.

5.

Charlie is 27.

This might be his first ever Valentine’s Day in a relationship, but he’s done his research into What Women Want, and blown a small fortune on trying to make the day special.  A hundred red roses, delivered to Nicole on set.  Reservations at the hottest restaurant in town.  A pair of Chanel earrings, so expensive he actually choked on his own saliva when they told him the price, and had to be brought a glass of water to help him recover.

At the restaurant, Nicole opens the earrings, and stares at them for a long time.  Her expression is completely unreadable, which is usually the case with her.  They have been dating for two and a half months, and with every day that passes, Charlie feels like he knows less about her, which should surely be impossible.

“Don’t you like them?” Charlie asks, after the silence has gone on for so long that even the people at the next table have glanced over to see what’s going on. 

Nicole closes the lid of the box with a snap, and looks up at him.  “So you aren’t going to propose to me, then?”

Charlie blinks.  “I – Wait, what?”

And then it all goes south very quickly from there.

The next day, there’s a blind item online about it:

Which C-list celebrity currently filming a procedural drama in New York was seen arguing with an unknown male at a local celeb hotspot last night?  With a string of broken engagements already behind her, it looks like this feisty young starlet is single once more after dousing her hapless companion in Veuve Clicquot!

Unknown? Hapless?  How rude!

He complains at length about the injustice of it all to the cocktail waitress he brought home last night, after he had sloped off to a bar to drown his sorrows and soothe the burn of his humiliation.  Naturally, she has nothing to add to the conversation – having passed away six hours or so ago – but he appreciates her presence nevertheless.  So much so that before he prepares her for disposal, he takes out her fake diamond earrings, and replaces them with the Chanel ones.

“I know I’m a day late,” he tells her.  “But … happy Valentine’s Day.”

It’s the thought that counts, anyway ...

And then ...

Charlie is 37.

He is awakened at 5:30 a.m. on Valentine’s Day morning by his son barging in to the master bedroom.  Without saying anything, Henry climbs onto the bed next to him, and falls asleep almost instantly.  Charlie throws an arm over him, in the hopes of stopping him from tossing and turning like he often does.

Behind him, there’s a rustle of sheets  “What’s happening?” Kitten asks, her voice thick with sleep.

“We have our usual Sunday morning visitor,” Charlie mumbles. “It’s still early, go back to sleep.”

A leg hooks over his, an arm curls around his middle, and Kitten lets out a happy sigh before falling asleep again.

Charlie closes his eyes, but it barely seems like a moment has passed before he’s being shaken awake by a very excited Henry.  “Dad.  DAD! Can we give Britt the card now?”

The digital display on the clock says eight, still an ungodly hour to be awake on a Sunday, but when Charlie rolls over, Kitten is already sitting up against the headboard, with her phone out.  “A card?” she says, feigning surprise, as though she wasn’t banned from the kitchen for four hours the previous day, and hadn’t noticed the layer of glitter Henry was covered in when he emerged, which necessitated a dreaded bath.

“If we must,” grumbles Charlie, astonished at the speed with which Henry scrambles out of bed and sprints out of the room.  He thunders downstairs, in search of the spot where they left their work of art to dry out after its completion.

Charlie rolls over onto his back, and stares up at Kitten.  “Remember last year, when we stayed in bed all day?” he asks, mournfully.  “That was the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had.”

“Mm, same.”  Kitten leans down to kiss him, probably intending it to be just a peck on the lips.  But Charlie wraps his hand around the back of her head to keep her there, deepening the kiss until a gagging sound from the doorway interrupts them and they break apart to find Henry watching them from the doorway, looking slightly green.

“You guys are gross!” he scolds them, in a tone not dissimilar to Sandra when she is upset about something.  

Charlie sits up, and scowls. “That’s not in keeping with the spirit of the day.”

“The spirit of the day is chocolate,” says Henry, approaching Kitten’s side of the bed, with one hand behind his back.  “Ta-daaaaa!” he shouts, and pulls out the card, waving it in her face.  A hefty sprinkle of glitter falls on the sheets, and Charlie winces.

“This looks very impressive,” says Kitten, glancing sideways at Charlie to check his reaction to the glitter, and stifling a smile.  “Can I take a closer look?”

On closer inspection, the card is very large, and is a rather well-drawn and extremely glittery looking owl which looks to be a combination of about three different species.  Its wings – which look suspiciously like the outline of Charlie’s hands – are wrapped around itself.

“Open it, open it,” says Henry, climbing onto the bed, and bouncing slightly, causing more glitter to be dislodged.

When Kitten carefully opens the wings, she finds another, smaller pair of hand-shaped wings underneath.  “Yours?” she asks Henry, who nods vigorously.  When she opens those, there is a ridiculously tiny pair of hands underneath. One has been colored blue, and the other pink.  

“Little B,” says Henry.  “We looked up online how small their hands would be.  I drew them, and Dad cut them out.  He said we should do one hand in each color since we don’t know whether Little b is a boy or a girl yet.  And wait, there’s a message.  Read the message!”

“Owl always love you,” Kitten reads, her voice trembling slightly.  “From Charlie, Henry and Little B. Oh Henry, thank you!  The owl, the hands, the sweet message.  It’s perfect!”

She pulls Henry into a hug, which he tolerates for a moment or two before asking, “Can I go watch cartoons now?” with all the tact typical of an eight year-old boy.

“It was all Henry’s idea, of course,” says Charlie, once the young man in question has bounced out of the room.  He tries to brush some of the glitter off the bed, and succeeds only in getting it stuck all over his hand.  “I was but an unwitting accomplice to this madness.”

“Is that so?” asks Kitten, with a smile.  She sets the card on the nightstand so she can see it, and curls against Charlie, who wraps an arm around her shoulder, and rests his other hand on her stomach.  “You know, it reminds me of this book I read when I was little. About an owl who was searching for love.  It was a really cute story.”

“Never heard of it,” says Charlie, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.  “But it sounds like a real hoot.”

“Oh god, not the owl puns.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” says Charlie, but somehow he finds himself lapsing into silence instead of releasing the string of dreadful jokes that are on the tip of his tongue.  “Do you -” he begins, and then sighs, and runs his hand through his hair, inadvertently spreading multi-colored glitter quite liberally through it.  He chews on the inside of his cheek before continuing.  “Do you really like it?”

Is it good enough?

Am I trying hard enough?

Do you like me?

A gentle hand against his cheek brings him back to the present.  “I don’t just like it, I love it,” Kitten reassures him.  “And I love you very much, too.  I know it’s a little rough at the moment with me working from home, but I’m still feeling very lucky.  Who would have thought six months ago that we would be here?  We’ve come so far, Charlie.  I’m so proud of us.  I’m so proud of you.  Especially now you’re back in therapy again.”

Charlie holds her a little more tightly, and she tucks her head under his chin and settles her hand on his chest, over his heart, which is beating too quickly for his liking.  “I’m trying, my love,” he says softly, taking slow, deep breaths to try to control the speed of his heart.  “I never want to let you down again ...”

He closes his eyes, breathes in Kitten’s familiar, comforting scent, and tells himself that he’s just holding her, not clinging to her.  I’m okay, he tells himself, over and over again.  We’re okay.

I just have to try harder, and it will all be okay ...

[seiin-translations]

2.43 S1 Chapter 2.4 - Dracula and Princess Briar Rose

4. BEAUTIFUL WORLD

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“Suemori-san.”

I was startled when my name was called. It was a calm voice that was humble but not excessively servile.

Kanno stood at a distance of about three meters from me. I was holding the net at the center line, and Kanno’s feet were above the attack line, so he was actually three-meters away. There was a clear difference in height now without even having to stand side by side to compare. I think it was a difference of six or seven centimeters. I didn’t think…it was past ten centimeters, but… When I was picturing myself next to Kanno in my head, even though he squirmed a bit uncomfortably, he didn’t apologize fearfully and meaninglessly like in our first year.

Suemori-san. I pondered the voice that called me. The last time he called me “Ibara-chan” was last September. And I feel like this was the first time he called me “Suemori-san”—we hadn’t called each other’s names once during these nine months. I wondered at what point during those blank nine months did I change from “Ibara-chan” to “Suemori-san” within Kanno.

“About the ballgame tournament, I received the list of who’s in each event for our club, so I have been told by my senpais to consult with Suemori-san and decide the allocation of duties, but…”

He’s still speaking with formal language mixed in, even to someone in his own grade, I thought, and while feeling something that was like nostalgia and sadness, I said, “It’s fine. If that’s the case, let’s do it on our way home today.”

I tried my best to respond in a natural manner, trying to be somewhat distant for the three meters of space Kanno had opened between us, but also not too blunt. I’ll be in your care, Kanno said, bending his long back and quickly bowing his head.

I watched his back as he left, him who was dressed unseasonably as ever with his long T-shirt and long pants, even though it was June. Kanno still participated in the girls’ team practice for half of the week, but ever since they witnessed his seizure on the outside court, no members made fun of him anymore. On the contrary, there was a mood of “Kanno-kun is working so hard even though it’s hard on his body,” and everyone became weirdly nice to him. Even now, when he ran over to the girl who was drawing the net strings to the side of the pole and said “I will do it” as he reached out his hand, he was politely refused with “It’s fine. Akiton should sit down” and ended up having nothing to do. Akiton was Kanno’s new nickname. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard Dracky at all lately.

From where I was looking, I thought that seemed pretty awkward, but anyways, my role as Kanno’s (unwilling) knight was no longer necessary.

I noticed that there was a girl looking at us from the entrance of the gym. It was Ayano, holding a basket lined with drink bottles.

“…I feel like I haven’t seen Ibara-chan and Akiton talking in a long time.”

“Oh, we’re just getting in touch about clerical work, for the ballgame tournament. I’m helping the boys this year.”

I felt like I was being glared at, so I unintentionally made an excuse. It wasn’t even an excuse, it really was nothing more than talk about work. “You don’t have to worry about that,” Ayano said, her lips tapering into a pout and she turned away.

“No, no, I’m not worrying about it at all…”

Nonetheless, my behavior towards Ayano was still mostly filled with a sense of guilt. Ayano might like Kanno…looking at her actions during that incident last year, even I, who was completely unfamiliar with matters of love, could tell that. I wondered if she confessed to him…I didn’t know what happened after that incident, since my conversations with Ayano had decreased considerably since then. I did the worst possible thing—disparaging a girl’s body in front of the boy she liked.

“It’s thanks to Ibara-chan that I lost weight, so I’m really not thinking anything right now…”

Ayano muttered in a slightly soft voice while still turning away.

That’s right. Ayano, who had been chubby, had slimmed down quite a lot since then and, taking advantage of her bust and hips which had been ample by nature, now attained well-balanced proportions. It seemed that my words triggered her to go on a diet. I was surprised at the unexpected willpower that lay sleeping within Ayano. That wasn’t at all. Maybe because her body was lighter, her play became agile and nimble, and she became a bench member in her second year. Since she didn’t have the stature, her spike power was inferior, but she was praised for her thorough and careful defense. What I hated so much and concluded that a strong player didn’t need, Ayano became stronger without throwing it away.

On the other hand, as for me—as evidenced by the fact that I was dispatched as a coordinator with the boys’ team for the ballgame tournament, I had been languishing without being selected for the bench. In middle school, if I worked hard, the results of my hard work came naturally to me, but since I became a high schooler, I kept getting betrayed by myself.

I loved volleyball. I wanted to be better than everyone else. I was willing to cut away anything that would hinder me from that. As a result, I ended up losing my friendship with Ayano, the reverence from Kanno, and my pride as a volleyball ace that should have been everything to me.

“Yeah…now I’ve become the most shameful and useless thing.”

I let out a weak self-deprecatory remark. “Ibara-chan…” Ayano turned her face towards me. The top of her nose was wrinkled, and she looked she was about to cry.

“Ibara-chan, you’re not going to quit the team, are you…?”

I didn’t answer her, only giving a forced smile.

I had actually received a club withdrawal form. The coordinator thing this time made it doubly sure for me, and I had made up my mind. I intended to write my name on it and hand it in after the ballgame tournament work was done, and leave volleyball. I intended to seriously quit it.

——Until the day before yesterday.

The day before yesterday, when I saw the boys’ practice on the outside court——.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

The ball that rose high up into the blue sky shone in the afternoon sunlight, burning my eyes. The one who took off from behind the attack line and rushed in like a bullet was that first-year, Kuroba Yuni.

That was a back-row attack? That jump distance was unbelievable. He jumped in with his whole body all the way to the net, as though he was attacking from the front row. His figure, arched in midair, seemed stationary, as though it was a photo. Such a long flight duration. His arm flexed like a spring that had stored up energy and returned it all at once, and he punched in the ball.

However, in the next moment there was a cloud of dust rising on Kuroba’s side of the court. “Daaah—” Kuroba groaned in frustration as he sank down and landed. Even I, who should have been calmly watching on the courtside, lost sight of the ball’s trajectory for an instant, but Aoki-senpai, who had jumped for a commit block, covered it with his long arms and shot down the bullet spike.

Amazing…just amazing. That was so cool. I couldn’t suppress the long-forgotten thumping of my heart. Each moment of that play was bold and so fast that I almost couldn’t follow it with my eyes. Just when I thought the ball had disappeared from my view, a dust cloud leapt up from the ground with a dynamic sound, like something exploding. I squinted many times at the dazzling aerial battle that unfolded while causing grains of light to burst into the air.

For me, the most beautiful sport on Earth was there.

There was a world that I couldn’t stop longing for, so much that it was painful.

For the first time since I reaped what I sow and lost many things, I thought that I did love volleyball after all, and I didn’t want to quit. Perhaps now, I could say this with the purest feelings I had since I met this sport.

I loved volleyball.

***

It took twenty-five minutes riding on a local line that was only composed of two cars to go from Nanafu to Monshiro. Bench seats against the windows were only placed on both sides of each door, and the rest were box seats with seats for two facing each other. Kanno and I occupied one of those seats, and we sat shallowly on them with our knees facing each other.

“…Even assuming we can manage with the staff for the first and second games, the problem starts from the third game and after. When Team C’s match starts, the team members will pack the court, and we’ll have to get the members who went out to basketball and futsal back immediately…”

“I think we’ll definitely not have enough staff at some point.”

“We’ll have to adjust the games so we’ll have enough. We’ll move the fourth game of Team E versus Team F over here, and the sixth game with Team D versus Team F…”

“Oda-senpai is in Team F, so I think it’ll work out well.”

“Oh, I see.”

While we were humming and hawing, at a loss, the two of us wrote on both sides of the notebook that was spread out on our laps. The notes were becoming unreadable due to the flood of arrows, boxes, strikethroughs, and desperate-looking messy lines.  

The boys’ volleyball team had just eight members. From that, we would send out four people as staff members for each game, and there were those who took part in each event as competitors apart from that, so it would be impossible to run the boys’ volleyball division without the full rotation of eight people on a meticulously calculated time schedule. A lunch break was out of the question, and we might not even be able to give them a bathroom break. I mean, even if you rotate them at full speed, it was bound to break down somewhere, right?

Looking down at the messy notebook, I got a headache. Ah, I wanted to open the window and just throw it outside.

Around seven p.m., there was still a thin light outside the window. Come to think of it, summer solstice was approaching, so this was the time of the year with the longest daylight. After passing through the cities of Nanafu and Suzumu, the two-carriage train was moving a slow pace through the countryside wrapped in a warm, dim light. Since the rice planting was just finished in May, there were still only green seedlings planted in the fields. The water surface limitlessly reflected the distant mountains.

Every time the car swayed a little too much, I felt ticklish from the rubbing of my kneecap against Kanno’s kneecap beneath his spread-out notebook. I was tempted to retract my leg, but it felt somewhat like a waste of time to do so.

“We both got some irritating work forced on us, huh.”

Though I was grumbling, that was why we didn’t have to finish talking about work for the time being. However, Monshiro Station was already coming up soon. Usually, I slept for the twenty-five-minute ride when I could sit down, but each minute and second felt strangely precious today.

I curled my back and dropped my gaze to the notebook. Kanno also looked down at the same notebook from above my head. I had my toes standing up, and Kanno’s heels were on the floor. The fact that the notebook was kept level meant that the length below our knees was that much different. He just kept shooting up.

He’s got an awfully big lead on me, I thought once again, but strangely, the jealousy and hatred and uneasiness and chaotic feelings I had in my first year that made my heart hopelessly ugly, did not appear anymore. I wonder if I matured a step…that also felt wrong, and I was quite confused about myself.

“I don’t really think it’s irritating. I’m having fun right now.”

I heard a whisper above my head. My heart leapt at the word “fun,” but,

“I only play with the guys half of the time, and I can’t help much with setting up or cleanup, so…I’m glad I’m able to help out with this kind of work, because it makes me feel like I’m doing club activities with everyone else. The senpais didn’t say anything about that, but I think they knew that and gave me this job.”

“I guess you’re more comfortable in the boys’ team, huh?”

I didn’t mean that sarcastically, but it must have sounded like I was, because Kanno flinched and his face tightened. It seemed that he still hadn’t fixed his habit of peeking at my expression.

“The senpais on the boys’ team seem like good people. The girls’ team has a strange atmosphere, and you can’t always go all out, can you? I know you’re holding back in the intra-team games.”

“Well…if I go all out, I’ll blow the girls away.”

In the past, he might have put himself down and immediately apologized with a “I’m sorry,” but he pouted slightly as he plainly affirmed that. It was as if something like the core of self-confidence had taken root within Kanno, and I felt relieved, but at the same time, I felt somewhat sad for some reason.

Even before I realized it, Kanno himself must have been aware that he was starting to outstrip the girls in terms of strength and was out of place among them. And that wasn’t something that could be obtained “without much effort, just by the good luck of being born a boy,” like I had accused him of before.

I happened to see Kanno in his training wear in my neighborhood last year on an early autumn night. He was jogging and entered the park near the middle school, and unconsciously concealing my presence, I watched him do strength training on the bars and seesaw until the end.

Kanno somewhat looked like a normal athletic boy during the night, not wearing his hood completely over his head and frightened by the threat of the sun like he was during the day. It was then that I learned about the side of Kanno who worked harder than others because of his physical disability. No, I was supposed to know that a long time ago. He was the target of unreasonable teasing, and there was no reason for him to go out of his way to stay in the girls’ team to the point of feeling uncomfortable, but he worked harder than anyone even in basic training that was nothing but painful, and never missed a day of practice.

Because, like me, he loved volleyball—he told me that I was the one who taught him the fun of volleyball. Maybe that was the only thing I could be proud of.

He was probably still training at night on his own. He looked stronger, with another faint layer of muscle on his neck and arms. The nails on his fingers gripping his mechanical pencil were deeply trimmed. His fingertips were a bit chapped, but it was an indoor sport, so the underside of his nails wouldn’t be darkened with dirt. His protruding joints was due to the repeated spraining of his fingers. His long fingers were for catching the ball and accurately handling it, and his large palms were for powerfully driving in spikes. The hands that I thought were beautiful were characteristic of male volleyball players.

Kanno had become independent of the “shadows” that had been clinging to my back and only stirred up my frustration and impatience, and after taking some distance and time where I was able to calm down, I was feeling a bit nervous right now, coming in contact with him like this again.

I knew what I was saying was too convenient at this point. There was no way the selfishness of trying to get back something you pushed away but wanted later could be allowed unchallenged. You had to take responsibility for what you have done.

We were approaching Monshiro Station. I closed the notebook and put it in my bag.

“Aaah, we didn’t finish it. Let’s do it tomorrow.”

I secretly cherished the feeling of our kneecaps brushing up against each other, but I quickly stood up and carried my schoolbag and enamel bag with me. It was a one-man operation train, so if you were too slow, it was easy to miss your stop.

“…Kanno?”

Right when I stepped into the aisle, I looked back suspiciously. Kanno hadn’t even attempted to stand up, his behind still stuck to his seat.

“I’m riding to the next station, don’t worry. I can’t walk you home, but be careful.”

“Hah? Why?”

“Um…well…I can’t get up. My knees have no strength…”

“Huh…what’s that about, did you get hurt? You want me to escort you home?”

Worried, I brought my face closer. “N-no, you’re mistaken,” Kanno pulled down the hood of his hoodie and turned his face to the window.

“When I was talking to Iba-Suemori-san today, I was actually really nervous… I summoned up all of my strength to call out to you, and once I did, I surprisingly felt like I could talk to you normally as a friend, so I was so relieved that my muscles went limp…Oh, I know that I already got rejected, so I’m really not thinking about anything more than that now, but it’s hard not being able to talk to each other at all during practice…”

Kanno’s pale face, hidden by the hood, turned red like the old days, and he talked quickly like he was feeling restless. While I was standing stock-still in the middle of the aisle, Monshiro Station’s platform slowly slid into the train window. The scenery stopped along with the vibration of being pulled sideways, and there was the sound of the doors whooshing open. There weren’t a lot of passengers, but some still passed by here and there. No new passengers got on from the platform. The departure bell immediately started ringing. “You have to get off,” Kanno urged, his face still hidden.

My toes hesitated for an instant over whether to go or not, but ultimately I placed my bags on the seats again and sat back down in front of Kanno.

“Wait, Iba…Suemori-san?”

Kanno raised his panicked face.

“It’s perfect. We still haven’t finished the arrangements, so let’s just do it now.”

“Yes, but…”

“And it’s a bit fun to go all the way to the final stop and loop back, so how about it?”

I spread the notebook on top of our laps without giving Kanno a chance to object. Looking like he found it hard to accept, Kanno chewed on the tip of his lip, but…

“Thank you…”

In the end, he gave in and said in a limp voice.

I was slightly discouraged to find out that Kanno had already finished drawing a line between us within him, but I was glad he said it clearly. I shouldn’t be forgiven by Kanno, and I didn’t want to be forgiven by him. I was sure that I would live with this regret for the rest of my life.

The bell stopped ringing, and the train started to move. The view of the platform fell out of sight.

I wasn’t saying to whom, but…if I had to say it, I made a promise with myself. When we got off this train and went our own ways home, I would put a lid on these feelings once and for all. So, just a little bit more. I was ready to carry a lifetime’s worth of regret, so wasn’t it okay for me to draw this out…for just a few more minutes?

***

“Um, it’s hard to say this, but…if we take this train to the end of the line, there are no more trains available to take us back…to Monshiro.”

Kanno brought that up when the curtain of night had completely fallen outside the window.

“What, why didn’t you say that earlier!? What’re we gonna do!”

“We can walk home or something. But it’ll be the middle of the night by the time we get there. I’m fine with nights so I don’t mind it at all. Suemori-san, I’ll carry you on my back if you’re tired.”

Considering that he said it was hard to say it, Kanno had a slightly happy expression on his face as he said that, and my resolve immediately wavered.

Previous || Index || Next

[libsterslobsters]

Dazed and Confused

Description: Almost a month has past since Bucky and the reader met. Since then, they've had absolutely no contact or communication. What happens when someone decides to make the first move? More importantly: is this a date?

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem!enhanced! reader

(Reader can see shards of the future, understand all languages, and process information abnormally fast)

Warnings: Strong language, mostly fluff, mild angst, two idiots who could really benefit from a lesson in basic communication skills

Author's note: As per usual, the reader is unnamed, but when I'm writing, I refer to her as Violet. Also, Bucky Barnes is a poor lost puppy, and you can pry him from my cold, dead fingers before I'll let you hurt him.

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

 The text comes when he’s ankle-deep in various pipes and tools (he could call the building’s super to fix the plumbing but with this great new thing called the internet, he figured it would be pretty simple to figure out why every time he takes a shower, the bathroom sink fills with sludge), and his hands are so full, he can’t check it. Besides, Bucky reasons with himself, it’s probably nothing. Nobody texts him unless it’s a wrong number or a telemarketer. In fact, at this point, he’s not even sure why he has a phone.

 It takes a full hour to put everything back together (the youtube tutorials he watched made it all seem much simpler than it is), this time sans dead rat in the elbow fitting (he’s trying not to think too hard about that), and by that time, he’s nearly forgotten about the text. It’s only when he checks the time that he sees the alert on his phone. With a tap, he opens his messages, and as he reads the name attached to the latest one, he nearly drops the phone. It’s her.

 He hasn’t seen the woman who has visions in nearly a month. Never expected to hear from her again, if he’s being honest. But there it is: a message with her listed as the contact. It’s not very long; only four words, actually. “Hey. Are you busy?”

 He quickly types, “Why?” but realizes just as he’s about to hit “send” that it’s probably not the best response, all things considered (especially since he really, really wants to see her again… despite his better judgment). Alright, he needs to concentrate. Possibly, “That depends. What’ve you got in mind?” No. That’s too suggestive. Too flirty. Although he is flirting… sort of… maybe… he hasn’t figured that out yet. Finally, he decides to go with a simple, “No.” There. No way that can be misconstrued or make her uncomfortable (which is the last thing he wants to do). Unless she takes into account that it took him an hour to reply. Dammit. How do you even go about talking to a pretty girl these days? Is there a YouTube video on that?

 Two minutes tick by. Then five. Then fifteen. He’s almost decided she’s not going to respond when his phone chirps again. “Sorry. Got caught up grading a paper.” This time, he’s fast on the draw. “That’s fine.” But not fast enough, because before he can hit send, another message appears. “This may be weird, but would you want to meet up? It’s okay if not. I just don’t know many people, so…” So…? That’s it? Is he supposed to wait for her to finish the thought or come up with a witty reply? How the hell does he do this?

 Finally he comes up with another simple response. “When?” Great. He’s a monosyllabic wonder. It’s been a long time, and he can’t prove it (you know, because everyone who could bear witness to it is either ancient or dead) but he’s fairly certain he used to be better at this whole “talking” thing.

 Less than thirty seconds pass by before there’s another message. “Now.” Now? Now! Okay, yeah, that’s fine. The shower’s fixed, so maybe he can hose off and change clothes fast enough that it won’t cause much of a delay. But he also hasn’t shaved in… when was the last time he shaved? At least he did laundry two days ago, so he has something clean- another ding. “Or, you know, whenever.” followed by… a yellow smiling face with a bead of sweat. What does that mean? Why is the face yellow? Once again, a ding. “What I meant is, I have this afternoon free. If you do too, that would work fine. No pressure.” No, he’s free pretty much for the foreseeable future. He should probably say something back sooner rather than later.

 “Where?” No, that’s too short. “Where would you like to meet?” There. Better. Maybe. When did people stop talking on phones and only… texting? You used to be able to tell where a person stood because you could hear their voice. Now it’s all guesswork. God, he’s old. Definitely too old to be possibly thinking about her like-

 “Wherever is fine. We could do a coffee shop again, or my apartment. Whatever’s most convenient for you.” Ball’s in his court. Um… he’d really rather not be out in public. For now, he’s safe (at least as far as he can tell), but it’s always a gamble, him betting against himself that his simple disguises will work, he won’t be recognized. That leaves… oh boy.

 “Your place, if that’s alright.” That’s forward. Maybe too forward. She offered, but maybe that was just being polite? More importantly, is this a date? No. Can’t be. Possibly. Oh my god, what’s wrong with him?!

 “Sure.” the words are followed by a string of numbers and a street name. “Just give me half an hour to make the place presentable.” Another yellow, sweaty smile. He really needs to look up what that means.

 “Alright. See you then.” He presses another button and the screen goes black. Thirty minutes. What can he do in thirty minutes? As he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror, he makes a decision. Start with getting the sewage off his face.

___________________________________________________________________________________

 “What the hell is the matter with me?” She mutters it to herself as, for the fourth time in ten minutes, she chances her clothes. “This is NOT a date. Not a date.” Just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl… she shakes her head. She needs to get a grip. Now. Because this is definitely not a date. Barnes might be many things, but at all interested in her THAT way is not one of them. How could he be? She’s… weird. And damaged. Not that he’s all there either, but the possibility of this being anything more than a potential friendship? Uh-uh. No way. She doesn’t need to see the future to know that much.

 A knock on her front door makes her jump, immediately hating herself. Why is she nervous? There’s nothing strange about this. People meet up all the time to talk and eat… in one or the other’s apartment… after finding out they both have special abilities. Okay, all of this is pretty strange, especially since it’s her.

 After taking one last glance in the mirror (and smoothing down her hair that’s sticking straight up, thanks to switching out her shirts so many times), she steps out of her bedroom and makes her way towards the door. Not a date, she mentally repeats to herself. No reason to be nervous. Not a date.Then why the hell is she shaking a little? She needs to get a grip. Now.

 Taking a deep breath, she pulls the door open (as it so happens, just as the man on the other side raises his hand to knock again).

 “Hey. You made it.” That sounded almost normal. Not like she’s quaking in her boots.

 “I did.” He’s smiling, so she must not sound as awkward as she feels.

 “Did you find the place okay?” Wow. She sounds like she’s reading from a script. A really boring script at that.

 “Yeah. There’s this thing called GPS now, and…” He trails off. “You probably already know about that.” Great. Now they’re both fish out of water.

 “I do. Super helpful.” It occurs to her that she’s just leaving him standing in the hallway, so she asks, “Would you like to come in?” Oh my god. Her brain. Where is it?

 “Thanks.” He doesn’t make a move, and that’s when she realizes she’s still blocking the doorway. Dumb-ass. Trying not to seem awkward, she walks backwards, promptly running into her kitchen chair.

 “Ouch.” Bucky winces, and she wishes the floor would open up and swallow her.

 “Graceful as an elephant.” She murmurs it under her breath, but a snicker from the man behind her lets her know it’s been heard. Right. Super hearing.

 “That should turn into a nice, purple bruise by tomorrow.”

 “Oh, yeah?” She calls it over her shoulder. “Do you see the future by any chance?”

 “Nah.” He shakes his head, grinning. He has a nice smile. No, she needs to stop thinking like that. Right now. “I’ve just had a lot of experience running into things.”

 They’ve gone so far into the room that they’ve walked straight past the tiny kitchen into the living room. She wasn’t really intending to jump straight into, “Why don’t we sit on the couch, which happens to barely be big enough for two people”, but there’s no way to work, “Let’s retrace our steps into the kitchen” into conversation smoothly, so she takes a seat, scooting as far to one side as she can.

 “I thought super soldiers were supposed to be agile.” Thank god, he’s sitting too.

 “They are, but for around twenty-eight years before that, I was as clumsy as the next person.” Immediately, he freezes. “Not that you’re clumsy-” So maybe she’s not the only one out of practice in the fine art of making friends.

 “No, you had it right. I am.” He still looks a little unsure so, ignoring the little voice in her head screaming, “Don’t do it! You’re coming on too strong!” she leans towards him. “Actually, that new bruise is the latest of at least five others I currently have, and I can’t remember how I got any of them.” Does that make her sound weird? But no, he seems to be rolling with it.

 “Haven’t you ever heard of looking where you’re going?” She goes out on a limb, assuming he’s joking.

 “I’ve heard of the concept, but I’m usually too busy looking ahead, so-”

 “Fair point.”

 There’s a lull in the conversation. It goes on so long, that she blurts out, “Are you allergic to anything?” just to fill the silence.

 “Huh?” He frowns. “Don’t think so. Why?” There actually is a reason, but now that she thinks about it, how would he be allergic to anything? If her frantic googling is correct, whatever Captain America is hopped up on took care of all physical weaknesses, so it’s unlikely Barnes will suffer anaphilactic shock due to something in her kitchen.

 “I cooked, and…” She trails off. “… never mind.”

 “Oh.” Now she really wishes her “power” had something to do with disappearing. “Thanks, um-” he clears his throat. “-was I supposed to bring anything? I thought about flowers, but-” he scratches the back of his neck, and if she had to guess, she’d say he’s nervous too.

 “No, just yourself.”

 “Great, because that’s all I brought.” Splendid. Neither of them know how to hold a conversation.

 Finally, she decides to just come out and say it:

 “I’m not good at this sort of thing.” He looks mildly confused, so she explains, “Talking to people. That is, unless I’m teaching them.”

 “I don’t think I am either.” She starts to ask, “You don’t think?” but reels it in. Apparently, her face must show what she’s thinking, because he continues. “This is the most of it I’ve done in a long time.”

 It’s completely inappropriate, but she laughs.

 “Same for me. Hiding out to avoid capture doesn’t really leave many opportunities to practice your social skills, does it?”

 He chuckles.

 “Not unless I’m doing it wrong.”

 It may be a mistake, but she decides to make a suggestion.

 “You know, I think I heard from someone that there’s this really great solution when two people are in a room together and are out of practice holding a conversation.”

 “What’s that?” At least he doesn’t seem offended.

 “Watching a movie.”

 “Huh.” He nods. “That was the go-to when the cat’s got your tongue back in my day too.” Good, so it’s not a foreign concept. “I’m afraid I don’t know of any theaters around here though, or even what’s playing.”

 “Not a problem.” As she says it, she powers up her laptop “Any preferences? They’ve got pretty much anything if you know where to look.”

 He thinks for a minute, then asks, “Fantasia? Do you think they have that?” It’s an unexpected request; out of all things, the ex-soldier wants to see a Disney movie.

 “I’m sure they do. Give me a second.”  Luckily, it’s on the first service she tries.

 As the opening credits play, she struggles not to laugh at how wide his eyes go.

 “How did you-”

 “It’s on Netflix.” Nothing. He doesn’t know what that is. “It’s a website. I just typed in what I wanted to find, and there it is.”

 The only sound for a few minutes is the swelling music coming from the speakers, then finally, Bucky murmurs,

 “I don’t think I’ve been using the internet to it’s full potential.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

 “Really?” Somehow, over the course of the evening, they’ve stopped sitting stiffly next to each other and watching their words. Now she’s turned towards him, a plate balanced on her knees, both of them completely ignoring the movie playing in the background. “A rat in your pipes? Are you serious?”

 He nods.

 “Afraid so.”

 “How the hell did it even get in there?”

 “Beats me. I didn’t ask it.”

 She’s got a great laugh, Bucky thinks to himself. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you want to give into the giggles too.

 “That’s probably for the best. From the sound of things, it wasn’t in any condition to answer your questions.”

 He’s about to shoot back a reply, but then he remembers.

 “That reminds me-” Careful not to elbow her (this sofa is barely a sofa; he’s not complaining though, because now that the ice has been broken, it’s actually kind of nice being close to another person again), he digs his phone out of his pocket and pulls up her texts from earlier. “-what does this yellow face mean?”

 She frowns and leans towards him (she smells like cinnamon, maybe cloves… it’s not weird that he’s noticed that, right?).

 “Oh.” Again, that laugh, but quieter this time. “It basically means, ‘I’m second guessing what I just said and I hope it didn’t come off the wrong way.’”  That makes sense, given the context, but he still has another question.

 “But why is the face yellow?”

 Her brow furrows slightly as she thinks.

 “You know, I’m really not sure. That’s just how most emojis look.”

 “Emojis?”

 “May I?” She indicates his phone.

 “Sure.”

 With a brief tap to the screen, a full page of yellow faces (amongst other odd symbols) appears.

 “These are emojis. They sort of add interest to a text.”

 “Huh.” Taking back the offered phone, he studies the symbols. “That would’ve been useful to have when we sent telegrams.” As soon as he says it, he realizes how he sounds. “I just dated myself, didn’t I?”

 She smirks.

 “Just a little, but don’t worry. It’s charming.”

 He places a smile on his face and laughs lightly, but on the inside, he’s still trying to figure out whether or not this is a date. Is she, against all odds, actually interested in him, or is she just being kind? Two hours later when the clock strikes nine, he’s still not sure.

 “Well, I hate to kick you out, Bucky, but I have a student coming by tomorrow at seven a.m., so I need to get to bed.” Has he overstayed his welcome? But no, she doesn’t look offended.

 “Sure. No problem.” He stands and, without thinking, offers her his hand to pull her up, which she takes. How long has it been since he’s touched another person, or another person has touched him, like that? A casual gesture that normal people with simple secrets share?

 “Thanks for the meal, by the way.”

 “Oh, no trouble.” She still hasn’t let go. “Did you want to take some leftovers with you?”

 “No, that’s okay.” Yes, he really does want to (its much better than what he usually comes up with on his own) but if he had to venture a guess, she probably doesn’t have the funds to be giving away food willy-nilly.

 “Alright.” She pulls her hand away, and immediately, he feels colder.

 They walk single file towards the door (this apartment is too small for them both to pass through  shoulder-to-shoulder), her right behind him. As he pulls open the door, he tells her,

 “Thanks again for everything.”

 She chuckles.

 “Thank you for the conversation.”

 He’s about to say something more (although he’s not sure what) when she wraps her arms around him in a hug. It takes a second for him to realize what’s happening, but then he returns the embrace.

 It’s over far too quickly, and when she stands back, her cheeks are flushed.

 “Be careful on your way home.”

 “Will do. Have a good night.”

 On the bus ride home, he plays over the events of the evening. He’s still uncertain as to whether or not it was a date. He feels like it was, but it’s been so long… time to consult the internet. As it turns out, there’s quite a few websites that offer opinions on the subject. He finds one that has a quiz attached and, calculating how much time it’ll take him to get home, decides to take it.

 The questions are pretty generic, and he gets through them in under two minutes. Waiting for the result to load, however? He’s back in his apartment before he gets a solid answer on that. There’s a graph showing how they measure each factor, but the final result is stands at, “You’ve been on a date- likelihood, 99%.” Huh. First time in seventy years. Maybe he’ll give the whole “texting” thing another go.

___________________________________________________________________________________

 Morning dawns far too early for her liking, and with it, her memories of last night return. It was going okay. Really it was. Until she hugged him, that is. Oh my god. Why couldn’t she show some common sense for once? Friends don’t hug goodbye, especially not, “I’m just getting to know you” friends. She’s never going to hear from him again because she came on too strong, and now he really doesn’t want to have the, “I’m not attracted to you” conversation.

 As she makes a cup of tea, a scene plays out before her eyes. The phone dings with a text alert under the name “Barnes.” She doesn’t realize it’s a vision until that exact thing happens ten seconds later. “Wow. So helpful. Really.” She mutters to herself. It’s almost as useful as someone yelling “Duck!” just as you get hit in the head.

 She really shouldn’t read the message. She has a job to do, a student to teach, and if she’s distracted during their lesson, she’ll feel terrible. But, another “ding” sounds and curiousity gets the better of her.

 The first text is simple: “Good morning” followed by… she has to choke back a laugh… several various smiley faces. Guess he’s decided to give emojis a go. “Hope your class goes well today.” Shaking her head, she scrolls down to the next message. “Last night was fun. Would you want to do it again sometime?”

 “Well, I’ll be damned.” She whispers as her fingertips make contact with the keyboard. Maybe he didn’t take it as her trying to make something happen between them that never will. Or maybe he’s just been away from normal human interraction for so long, he’s accepting whatever she throws at him simply so he’ll have a friend. Either way, she likes him and would like to know him better, and if that means swallowing down the silly crush that’s starting to develop, she can do that.

 “Good morning. That sounds great.” She types back, then puts her phone on silent. Certain areas of her life may be changing, but for now- a knock sounds on her door- class is in session.

[cudan2]

Starbucks and Skin Grafts

Spring Break Shadowing Part 2

Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Word Count: 2,206

Summary: You’re starting your second day of shadowing with Dr. Cullen and get to learn more about him.

A/N: I underestimated the amount of research I’d have to do for this series woops. I’m pre-dent and not pre-med, so if anyone here is actually a doctor or a med student or even knows more about medicine than I do, feel free to tell me what details I should change! (I really did try my best though, but it’s turning out to be more Grey’s Anatomy-esque) 

Anyways, this is #4 on my headcanon list. 

Masterlist

XXX

When the train stops at the 168th Street Station, you make your first task of the day to find Doctor Cullen. The campus is growing to be familiar territory, but it’s still massive and you find yourself getting lost on the main surgical floor despite already getting directions from a receptionist. Your frustration begin growing as you turn another corner and realize you’re still as lost as before.

“Just the person I’ve been looking for!” a familiar voice calls out. You turn to look over your shoulder and find the doctor you’d spent the last fifteen minutes searching for. He’s wearing a white coat and lacking the scrub cap from the previous day. So he’s blonde, you notice, not a single strand out of place. You take several steps towards him to meet him halfway.

“Good morning, Doctor Cullen. I’m sorry for not meeting with you earlier. It might have been a little difficult to track you down,” you give a sheepish smile.

“Don’t worry, it can certainly take weeks to learn how to navigate this hospital. I’ve just finished doing my morning rounds, so there is about twenty minutes before I meet for a pre-op. Why don’t we grab some coffee and get to know each other a bit more?” Before you can even give an answer, your stomach growls loudly and you mentally berate yourself for not eating anything beforehand. “Perhaps a little less coffee and some more food would be beneficial for you instead,” Doctor Cullen chuckles.

By the time you reach the Starbucks on the first floor of the hospital, you’ve learned the basics about him and vice versa. He’s a plastic surgeon, this was his first year as an attending, he moved here about five months ago, actually started working here four months ago, and attended University of Washington in Seattle for both his undergrad and medical school.

Meanwhile, you currently attend school away from home at New York University, you’re in your third year of college, majoring in biology, minoring in psychology, and on track to graduate a semester early.

“Hey, Doc! The usual as always?” you hear as you make it to the front of the Starbucks line with Doctor Cullen.

“Good morning, Emily. Yes, the usual as always.”

“Sounds good! Will that be all?” Both the barista and the doctor look towards at you.

You splutter out your intended order and lean towards Doctor Cullen as Emily is writing your name on a cup. “You really don’t have to pay for the food and stuff. I mean, I brought cash so–”

“Think of it as compensation. I can’t imagine how many people actually enjoy being up this early in the morning, especially seeing how this is your spring break. Besides, I think you’ll find you need the energy to keep up with me today. I must warn you though, it won’t all lap appys and fun like with Doctor Stone.”  

“I like a good challenge,” you smirk at him. He gazes back at you with a twinkle in his eyes and a soft smile and you can’t help the fact that your heart starts beating just a little faster.  

Another barista call your names out and you’re suddenly reminded that this is the real world.

“Thanks for the breakfast,” you quickly say, breaking eye contact and grabbing the orders from the counter. Stop thinking about how pretty his eyes are, you tell yourself, even if they do look like pure amber. Doctor Cullen follows suite and goes to grab his grande-sized cup.

“Careful, wouldn’t want to burn the surgeon hands,” you notice the amount steam coming out of the lid and hand him a sleeve for the cup. When he accepts the sleeve from your outstretched arm, you see a peculiar expression on his face and hear a soft chuckle from him before he thanks you. It’s almost as though he knew something you didn’t.

The two of you walk back to his office so he can grab his notes on the patient. On the way there, he tells you more about his daily life as a plastic surgeon as you eat. He’s done so many different procedures that you can barely keep track of the list. There’s a lot less liposuctions and facelifts – those were for the cosmetic surgeons – and more reconstructions and repairs in his line of work.    

“The patient you’re about to meet was in a car accident two years ago,” Doctor Cullen explains. “He received extensive burns to the face and neck, all of which have scarred over now. Our goal is to reduce the scarring and give him back some mobility.”

Before you can ask any questions, Doctor Cullen is already knocking on the patient’s door and entering. The door opens to reveal the patient sitting up in bed along and a woman standing beside him. The other two doctors in the room wore ceil blue scrubs – residents, you note, following Doctor Cullen into the room.  

“There’s the man of the hour!” The woman exclaims.

“Mom!” The patient lets out an exasperated groan.

“What? As if you aren’t excited to see the handsome doctor either, Tyler!” You try your best not to laugh but can see the two residents smother their own smiles behind fake coughs. Doctor Cullen is the one to accept the indirect compliment and bids both the patient and his mother a hello.

“Tyler, I have a student shadowing me for the week, if you wouldn’t mind another pair of eyes in the room?”

“Yeah, I don’t mind. I’ve definitely experienced a whole lot worse,” Tyler responds.

“Perfect. Doctor Wang, would you present the case?”

One of the residents looks up from her charts and begins reciting the details as if it were second nature. “Tyler Sardella, age 24, scheduled for scar revision.”

“And what procedures will we be performing today?”

“We’ll be planting an autograft and doing a Z-plasty to minimize the appearance of scarring. Skin grafting will help give a bigger range of motion in the neck, accelerate the healing process, and prevent any future scarring.” Her words exude confidence and you hope to sound like that one day. Skin graft and Z-plasty... you’re not entirely familiar with the terms but store them in the back of your head. After all, you’re here to learn.

Doctor Cullen gives a nod of approval to Doctor Wang and turns back to Tyler. “Tyler, do you have any last-minute questions before we send you to the OR?”

“Nope! I’m so ready to turn my head 180 degrees again.”

“Sounds good, I’ll see you soon then.”

You give a quick nod to Tyler and his mother as both Doctor Cullen and you take your leave. The two residents reconvene with their attending several minutes later and exchange words before they both head off to prepare for the surgery.

You stand around awkwardly for a moment as Doctor Cullen looks over the charts. He suddenly calls your name out, eyes still scanning over his notes.

Your response is to stand up just slightly straighter as you say, “Yes?”

“What procedures will we be performing on Tyler?”

Well shit, you certainly weren’t expecting him to ask you that.

“Um, you’re planting a skin graft, an autograft to be more specific, and then doing a Z-plasty.” You’re unsure and your voice shows it. Of course you could regurgitate words, but it’s hard to explain any further when you didn’t know the meanings to those words.

Doctor Cullen looks up from his charts with that twinkle in his eyes again and a smirk playing on his lips. “Correct!” he exclaims and laughs when he sees the petrified expression you’re wearing from being caught off guard. “Y/N, I did warn you it wasn’t going to be easy. However, I may have failed to mention it was going to be me making your experience here more difficult.”

“Why though?”

“What can I say? I like to keep my students on their toes. It keeps things interesting.”

You huffed and followed him to the OR. Challenge accepted.

Scrubbed – check, PPE – check, scrub cap – well, that was for Doctor Cullen, but check. He’s still scrubbing when you hear him.

“Are you sure you want to be in there? It’s going to take approximately three hours.”

“You told me that,” you remind him. “And I told you that I like a challenge.”

“Alright, but please let me know if you feel any fatigue. I can ask one of the nurses to bring in a chair or you can step out for some air–”

“I will be fine,” you insist. “I sit all day in class, standing for three hours will be a good change of pace.” The concern etched into his face is almost endearing, but really, you’re going to be fine.

Everything and everyone is prepped and ready to go by the time you two enter the OR. You make sure to stand in an area that gives you a perfect view of the surgery but would not get in the way of anyone else. Doctor Cullen has his loupes on and you start feeling the high that comes with observing any sort of surgical procedure. It’s not every day that a mere undergrad like you can witness this kind of stuff.

Two hours later, you are still engrossed in the surgery. There’s 80s music playing in the background at the request of the two residents from earlier, who are now chatting away. About fifteen minutes in, Doctor Cullen had properly introduced you to his residents, Lily Wang and Jaime Montes.

Doctor Stone was great and all, but there is something about the blonde doctor that really makes him stand out as a surgeon to you. He’s able to cut and suture whilst explaining the entire procedure to you. He makes all of this seem so... effortless. Although Lily and Jaime are working as much as Doctor Cullen, it’s clear who the leader in the room is.

“You said you went to University of Washington for your undergrad and med school. What made you decide to work here instead of staying in Seattle?” you ask Doctor Cullen suddenly. The conversations around you die down. It seems you aren’t the only one curious about the surgeon.

“I suppose it felt like the right decision at the time.” He glances hesitantly at you from the head of the table before looking back to his work. You can tell there’s more to the story. “I previously worked in a hospital in a small town called Forks.”

“Forks? As in the thing you eat with?” Jaime asks and everyone around you laughs.

“Yes, Forks. It had less than 4,000 inhabitants, so you can imagine the lack of cases like these. The other residents would have gone crazy. It was peaceful for some time but I was ready to move on. It’s a silly notion now that I say it out loud, but I wanted to make an impact on the people I treated.”

“You weren’t making a difference in Forks,” you say. It isn’t a question, but a statement.

“Exactly. One of my deciding factors in working for Columbia was its resources and size. Here, I could save more people to the best of my ability with the most advance resources available.”

Once the surgery reaches its conclusion, you go scrub out with Doctor Cullen as everyone else stays to finish up. You unceremoniously flop onto the bench outside the OR, propriety be damned. Your feet are sore and you wish you could be wearing scrubs and sneakers instead of business-casual clothing.

A water bottle enters your peripheral and you look up to the person handing it to you. Doctor Cullen’s scrub cap is gone once again and his blonde hair is slightly astray.

“Thanks,” is all you can say as you grab the bottle and take a nice, long drink from it. “Nice hair by the way.” Doctor Cullen has the audacity to look down rather bashfully and runs a hand through his hair. Great, now he looks even more attractive.

“You survived,” he says.    

“I did.”

“I’m impressed.”

You let out a snort.

“You’re impressed? You, Lily, and Jaime were the ones doing everything. I literally stood there for three and a half hours! I should be the one that’s impressed.”

“You showed resilience. I have a feeling most students your age would have given in for a chair at least.”

“Yeah, I did tell you I like a challenge,” you point out, even if you did feel like never standing again.

“You also asked very good questions, Y/N. Don’t sell yourself short. You have a lot of potential in this field whether you think it or not. Now go get some lunch, you deserve a break.” He sticks out a hand and you grab it to get up. Damn, his hands are cold. “I have some paperwork to file, so I’ll catch up with you later.”

“I’ll see you then,” you say and begin walking in the direction of the cafeteria.

“Y/N!” you hear him halfway down the hallway and turn to look over your shoulder. “How are we treating the donor site wound?”

You decide to keep walking.

[juliandev0rak]

Education & Occupation 🏛📚

Four: Education – did they go to a private school, were taught at home, or taught themselves? Did they have a favorite subject?

combined with 

Seven: Occupation – did they work/have a job or trade of any kind? Did they have a mentor figure there?

echoes of the past event

@arcana-echoes​

Freya Viano, she/ her

Bérault University, Port Tremaire

14 years before the events of The Arcana, Freya is 16, ends at age 22

Words: 2240

Warnings: young naive blonde becomes vengeful blonde on a mission of destruction 

read about freya’s arrival in the city here

Note: I have no idea if this educational system has any basis in history, but at this fantasy school a professor can offer to sponsor a student, agreeing to take them on as a student for no cost. These students have higher expectations placed on them because their success at the school is seen as a reflection of their sponsor professor. It’s a rudimentary scholarship system that’s based entirely on either merit or recognizable family name. 

When Freya arrived at Bérault University in Port Tremaire she thought it would be easy to convince them to let her in. She'd basically run away from home for a chance to study in a big city and make something of herself, but she soon found herself alone, penniless, and in over her head. 

She’d heard from passing merchants that the school admitted students even when they couldn’t pay the tuition, but it turns out they only did that for students who already had a faculty sponsor. She had knocked on every professor’s office door, trying to find someone who would take a chance on her. It always went the same way, they asked her “Who is your family?” and “What are your talents?” and as Freya has neither, she has no hope of admittance.

During her third week in Port Tremaire she’s nearly given up. Just as she had begun to fear that she’d have to return to Vesuvia empty handed due to a lack of funds she’d accepted a job at the Inn she’s been staying at. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s enough to let her stay while she tries to find someone to sponsor her. 

She’s been through every department; mathematics, philosophy, literature, and so on, but none of the professors are willing to vouch for someone with no background and no prospects. The only professor she’s yet to ask specializes in architecture, and although she hasn’t thought much about studying architecture before, Freya doesn’t have much of a choice. If this professor won’t vouch for her, she’ll have to find another university or somehow raise enough money to afford the tuition. 

Freya’s walk to the university is fraught with tension as she tries to remind herself why she’s doing this. Despite every door that closes in her face, she is determined to get in to this school. The connections and reputation she would be able to gain at Bérault University are her only chance to make a name for herself as a young person alone in the world. She might not have a fancy family name or a coveted apprenticeship, but she can work her way up if she only gets the chance.

She stands outside the office door for a minute as she tries to collect her thoughts. Finally, she tells herself to stop delaying, steels herself, and knocks. She hopes that this professor will at least politely decline instead of laughing in her face like others had done. 

“Come in!” A voice calls, so she does. Sitting behind a large wooden desk is a regal looking middle aged woman with greying dark hair and jewel rimmed glasses. She looks intimidating, put together, and like everything Freya wants to be someday. 

“Hello M’am.” Freya says politely as she walks in, unsure whether she should sit or stand. “My name is Freya Viano.”

“Well, Freya Viano, my name is Madame Gérard. Would you like to take a seat and tell me why you’ve come to see me?” The woman says, gesturing to the comfortable looking chair in front of her. Freya tentatively sits down, smoothing her dress down and trying to seem more confident than she is. 

“I’m trying to find a professor to sponsor me, you see. I really want to attend this school but it seems all of the other teachers are… already occupied.” Freya says, trying to put her situation into the most tactful words as possible. 

“I see.” Madame Gérard clasps her hands together. “Do you have an interest in architecture, Freya? You do understand, I’m sure, that if a professor is to sponsor you, you are then expected to follow their course of study?” 

“Yes, I understand that Madame. I do have an interest in architecture. Though, I must confess, little practical knowledge.” She replies, forcing herself to meet Madame Gérard’s steady eye contact. Her facial expression is inscrutable and Freya tries not to hold her breath as she waits for some sort of response.

“May I ask why you want to study at this University? Surely a girl your age would be better suited by a home education.” Gérard asks, eyes shrewdly watching Freya struggle to come up with a response. 

“I want to succeed in life, and I need an education to do that.” Freya smiles, it’s a bit wobbly, but she thinks her answer will suffice.

“Hmm, and you think attending a university will automatically make you successful?” Gérard frowns. “What do you intend to do after your studies?” Suddenly Freya is unsure, she hasn’t really thought that far ahead.

“Well I suppose if I study architecture, I’ll become an architect.” She responds, trying not to fidget under Gérard’s stare.

“Perhaps, but what if you have no talent for it? What if you’re unable to find clients? Do you have any other talents to fall back on?” Gérard questions. Her tone is not unkind, but it’s a dose of reality Freya’s been trying to avoid since leaving home.

“Well.. what if I do have talent for it?” Freya counters, she’s not giving up this easily. 

“It is quite a risk to take on a student who only might have talent.” Madame Gérard says and Freya’s heart drops, it seems another rejection is imminent. “However, we were all unmolded clay once, and I believe myself to be an expert potter, if you’ll forgive the use of metaphor.” 

“Does this mean-” Freya says excitedly, but is stilled by the raise of Madame Gérard’s hand. 

“It means that I am willing to give you a chance.” She states firmly. “You’ll need to prove that you are up to the task.” 

“Of course, Madame. I promise you won’t regret this!” Freya grins, nearly rising from her chair in excitement. 

“That is a very presumptuous promise to make, Miss Viano. Do not make promises you cannot know that you will keep.” Gérard says, turning around to search through a drawer of files. “We shall see what you are capable of in time.” 

Freya leaves ecstatic, she’s finally gotten her chance. She’s been so certain that if she can only manage to get a formal education she’ll be a success. However, she soon finds it’s much harder work than she had assumed. 

She has daily classes to attend, usually small seminars with Madame Gérard and the five other architecture students, as well as her job at the Inn to attend to. While she doesn’t have school expenses, she still needs to be able to afford food and shelter. The long hours at the Inn coupled with the sheer amount of coursework she’s been assigned leaves her little time to sleep. 

She had expected architecture to be easy, it’s just buildings, how hard could it be? The reality is that instead of simply looking at silly buildings all day, she’s studying mathematics, physics, history, art and technical skills, ancient languages, and developing a trained eye for aesthetics. She spends every night after classes and work studying to keep up. She’s behind the rest of her class by far, and the rest of the students come from more privileged backgrounds and clearly have more time to focus on their studies.

Freya always arrives at her morning classes late, tired, and usually quite behind on her work, but she’s still determined to succeed. Gérard isn’t a harsh teacher, but she isn’t afraid to warn Freya that every missed drafting assignment or slip up in verb conjugation could lead to her expulsion if she doesn’t show an improvement. She won’t let herself lose this chance. 

In the beginning, she hates architecture, the harder it gets to remember column types and drafting techniques the more she curses herself for ever moving to Port Tremaire. A few months in, her attitude changes. She finds herself taking the long way home so she can pass by the ornate city hall building, or spending her lunch breaks sketching roof designs. Soon enough she does begin to improve, she still shows up tired and late but she can understand her lectures and discussions with her classmates, she begins to develop her own opinions and taste.

The work never gets easier, but Freya starts to enjoy it more and that makes all the difference. By the end of her first year of studies she passes her course review and Madame Gérard agrees to allow her to advance to the next year. It’s the sort of achievement Freya wishes she could write home about.

She’d vowed not to need her family anymore and she can’t bring herself to start a letter, as much as she knows that her younger sister (and possibly her mother) are worried sick. Aside from the occasional letter to her aunt, Freya doesn’t talk to her family back in Vesuvia, and she tries not to think about them if she can help it.

It’s not long before she gets her first big break. Madame Gérard is commissioned to redesign a home in the wealthy area of town and she chooses Freya as her assistant. Gérard offers to let Freya submit a design and the homeowners end up selecting it. Word of mouth spreads and before she’s even finished her formal course of study Freya’s architectural designs are in demand. 

Her style is modern, opulent, and personalized. She seems to have an eye for what a person will like without needing to ask, and her charming confidence (however feigned) makes business deals easy. Freya is able to quit her job at the Inn and move into a place of her own, she finally feels like she’s succeeding.

When she finishes her studies four years later Madame Gérard offers her a full time place in her architecture firm and Freya accepts.  Her life in the city is great, and things seem to be going her way. She begins to live more lavishly, buying fancy new clothes and moving into a large home in the nicest city district. 

She even starts dating someone, a man named Enzo who she’d had a few classes with during university. She doesn’t give him a second thought at first, but he’s persistent, sending flowers to her house, inviting her to operas and horse races and lavish parties. He’s handsome, charming, and from a wealthy family, it’s the kind of attention she’s always dreamed of having. 

Rather than being a distraction from her work, Enzo seems to support her,  even occasionally traveling with her when she takes on commissions in other cities. He seems perfect and Freya begins to expect a marriage proposal any day. He’s never invited her to meet his family, but she assumes it’s because he’s simply a private person. It only takes a few months for him to show his true colors. She opens the newspaper one morning to find his name in the headlines, announcing his engagement to a woman from the nobility.

When she confronts him about it he explains that he’d always been planning to marry this woman, he’d never viewed Freya as anything more than a fling. After all, Freya has no family name, no reputation aside from her work, he couldn’t possibly marry her. She leaves his house heartbroken. but it’s not the only bad news she receives that day.

Freya arrives at the architecture firm a few hours later, eyes still red from crying but determined to work through the pain. Madame Gérard calls her in for a meeting and Freya is blindsided when she’s asked to leave the firm for “stealing clients”. She’s accused of doing too much under her own name rather than the firm’s. 

She later finds out that Gérard had grown jealous of her student’s success, which was the real reason for her dismissal. It feels like she’s been fired for being too successful, which doesn’t make any sense to her. She’d had everything she wanted and had it taken away in the course of one day. 

After these revelations she’s forced to reevaluate. The people she’d trusted had only wanted her until they’d gotten what they needed, then thrown her away like garbage. It’s a hard reality for her to cope with, and when she finally returns home at the end of the day she’s nearly ready to stop trying, maybe she should just give up and move back home.

Her house feels so empty, the rooms echoing as she walks. The marble floors she’d admired just this morning seem like nothing but cold, useless stone. She lets herself feel sad for a few hours, but eventually her sense of self preservation kicks in and before she knows it, she starts thinking of revenge.

The next morning she gets a letter in the mail from her sister, it says that her aunt is sick and Freya needs to return to Vesuvia as soon as possible. It’s an alarming letter, especially after not hearing from her sister for six years. Though Freya has successfully distanced herself from her family over the last few years she still feels a sense of obligation.

She tells herself she’ll be on the first carriage over, as soon as she finishes her business in Port Tremaire. If Enzo doesn’t want her, she’ll make sure that no one will ever want him. If Madame Gérard feels threatened by her success, Freya will have to get rid of the competition to prove just how successful she can be.

They might not want her, but she’ll make sure that everyone else does.

[songfell-ut]

Chapter 9 is done, urgh

This one was quite the exercise in rewriting All The Phrasing. Stoopid fortunes. I ended up splitting it off again. Here it is! Hi, @lostmypotatoes! Next one very soon!

Sans and Frisk did not have a slumber party that night.

No, once they returned from the festival and she finished telling Sans exactly what she thought of his behavior, Frisk sent him to his room, then went to the office and stayed there. Not on the couch: she sat down at her desk to make a few notes while the fortunes were still fresh in her mind. By the time she was done, it was after dawn, her hand was one solid cramp, she'd lost all feeling in her rear, and she had filled up five sheets of paper.

Regarding the child – the one from her nightmares – there wasn't much to write, just key phrases that she suspected would be more intelligible when she'd tracked down the man who spoke in hands. Would Sans have mentioned it if he knew some way in which he didn't belong here? It could simply be his stay in the castle, but it felt bigger than that. She'd had nightmares about that horrible child throughout her entire life, and it had never wanted her to do anything before; had it known she'd meet him, and would its "business" be finished if she killed him?

For now, it was all morbid conjecture. She'd put it aside until she could talk to Sans without wanting to pull his arm off and slap him with it.

So. If she didn't open the box, her life would be adequate. There was a lot to be said for adequacy. Her children would have wealthy, loving parents, and never suffer from hunger, loneliness, beatings—the kind of pain that was all behind her now, the same way a loaded wagon is behind the horse pulling it. Staying busy with her lessons in the strict, orderly convent and then her duties as High Priestess had kept Frisk going, preventing her from having to look over her shoulder. Would marrying Luke keep it that way?

She had gone years without really thinking of her life before St. Brigid's, except for fleeting apprehensions about having to explain the scars to her future husband. Why in God's name would she want to dig that up in the course of remembering something even worse?

By definition, she didn't know the exact contents of the rosewood box. She just knew that when she was about thirteen, one of her teachers had finally explained to Frisk why she couldn't recall anything between her tenth birthday and her second month at the convent: "We could do nothing with you when you first arrived. No food, no rest, just tears and 'Take me back, please' for weeks on end," Sister Clair had told her, almost accusingly. "Your father came to see you for himself, and he was so distraught that he gave the Mother Superior his blessing to do whatever she thought needful."

Frisk had always accepted that the sisters knew best; her father's influence had probably been a factor, but it wouldn't have pushed them to take such a drastic step if it hadn't been absolutely necessary. She herself had done her fair share of comforting frightened or homesick new arrivals, and no matter how distressed they were, none of them had had their memories removed.

She also had come to terms with her father returning home from his visit without her. Her first solid recollection at the convent was of the Mother Superior taking her aside to tell her exactly who her father was, ensuring she understood why he hadn't been a more direct part of her life and why she would be staying here from now on. Accustomed to receiving girls born out of wedlock, the Mother had emphasized how lucky Frisk was that her father had come forward – discreetly – to acknowledge her and pay for her education, and that he would ensure she had everything she needed from then on. Even as a child, Frisk had appreciated how superior the convent was to her prior circumstances, and agreed that she was fine at St. Brigid's.

The only mystery to Frisk was why she had initially been so desperate to leave. She couldn't have been crying for her father; she'd always been told that he was dead, and never thought to question it. Frisk had seen over and over again that mistreated children never wanted to leave their parents, no matter how awful they were, but her mother had only visited her every few months throughout her early life, and once Frisk realized that Mama was never going to keep her promise to take her with her, Frisk had grown to hate seeing her. She hadn't been attached to anyone at the group home where she'd stayed as a very little girl, and when she was old enough to work in the castle kitchens, her only goal had been to avoid being noticed. What had she wanted so badly?

Since Sans had arrived, she had been more and more tempted to try something stupid and just crack the orb or chip off a few figuratively bite-sized pieces. But that wasn't how the magic worked, was it? The sisters had been very specific on how to take the memories back if she so chose, and her fortune had also made it clear that this was an all-or-nothing proposition. She would fully open the box and reclaim the contents, or throw them away for good, no peeking allowed.

At that point, Frisk almost stopped writing and tossed her notes into the fireplace. What was she doing? Why wouldn't she choose a long life with a respectable husband and four children? True, her efforts to free monsters from slavery wouldn't work, but that didn't mean she'd be totally useless. Besides helping humans – always a full-time job – there was still plenty she could do for monsters in captivity, and she'd lay the groundwork for others to finish what she'd started. After centuries of hatred and mistrust, it made sense that humanity wasn't ready yet to accept monsters as equals; she couldn't change the entire world on her own, so—

Except that she could. She could change the world for the better if she worked hard enough to achieve her goal, which she knew in her bones to be humans and monsters living in peace. But how could her lost memories possibly be the one thing that made the difference? And if they were, how was she supposed to deal with that much pain, knowing it would also affect at least one other person?

...But what about the joy, the love, the power, also to be shared? What about the child she'd bear in time for next year's All Souls festival?

That was another worry: the ferryman had said "your husband" for the first future, but "your child's father" in the second. That didn't seem accidental. Frisk knew herself, and she had no idea what would induce her to conceive a child with someone she wouldn't or couldn't marry, no matter how attractive he was or how lonely she might be. With her own morals and her mother's example to go on, she'd sooner die than let a married man near her, and she'd kill him if she found out after the fact!

Surely the fortune-teller would've mentioned the child resulting from violence or coercion? Its wry tone had implied that the father would be unable to talk her out of going to the festival, not that she'd escape from his clutches, which also eliminated the possibility of one night with someone she'd never see again or a man who would die before the baby was born.

So, in summary, she would have little triumphs, large regrets, old age, a decent husband, money, kids, in-laws, and grandkids. Very simple.

...Granted, it...didn't sound quite like the life she'd always craved, with joy and love, real parents, a huge family, and monsters freed in her lifetime, not to mention a man she loved enough to have his illegitimate child...and maybe Frisk could see Luke assuring her with a straight face that he'd "take an interest in her happiness," and maybe it was already making her cringe. Maybe she was already wealthy enough to marry anyone she wanted. Maybe she intended to keep working hard enough that, when she thought it over, she found she would much rather have one child than divide her attention between four who could very well end up being raised by servants. Maybe all these things were true.

...What was she trying to say again?

Right. Maybe all these things were true. There was still no avoiding the fact that she'd be exchanging a life of peace and stability for every bit of the heartbreak that had nearly killed her as a child, and somehow also share it with someone else. Was she stupid enough to open the box anyway out of curiosity, like the woman in the fable?

A treacherous little voice whispered in reply: Are you selfish enough to keep monsters enslaved because you're afraid of being hurt?

Frisk shoved the papers into a drawer and eased out of her chair, shaking her hand vigorously as the sun peeped in through the high window. It'd be time for breakfast soon. She wouldn't take Sans to pieces; she'd let him sleep in, then have him experiment with the alfalfa mixtures while she napped, though they'd need fresh seedlings before he could really get started. The supplies she had already ordered should be arriving this afternoon, which would enable them to try even more—

Sans was not sleeping. Sans was sitting in the middle of the workroom floor with no clothes on. He was holding a book up over his head and squinting at the words as though he'd never seen letters before, and gave a very elongated "Heyyyy" when he heard the door open.

Frisk stopped dead. "Hey," she responded. "What are you doing, Sans?"

"Wheeee," the skeleton said, and demonstrated by falling onto his back. The book stayed up, and his legs fell every which way, one bumping into a chair pulled away from the worktable and the other almost hitting the bedroom door. "'s hot in here," he explained, pointing at the ceiling.

Frisk looked at the ceiling, then at the windows. They were all wide open, and the workroom was freezing. She had the completely irrational urge to cover her eyes, and compromised by turning her back and heading to the windows. "We're going to pretend that it's not hot in here," she said carefully. What on earth was wrong with him?

In the time it took for her to shut one window and place her hand on the latch, Sans had appeared inches away. One enormous phalange wobbled its way up to push her hand aside. "No, 's hot," he explained.

The priestess was equal parts annoyed and concerned now, especially when he teetered against the wall. "Sans, if I did not know better, I would say you were drunk. Have you been mixing things without telling me?" She eased away from him, just in case.

The skeleton seemed to take umbrage: his eyes lit up. "Ya don' know better. I am absolutely drunk!" Just as quickly, his sockets were blank. He peered at the tiny-looking book in his hand and turned it to her, tapping a random word. "How d'ya say this? It's human. How do you human. Please."

Frisk eased back a little more, trying not to look at his pelvis, which was far too close to her eye level. "That's the word 'the,' Sans. If that's not the one you mean, I will have to ask you to be more specific." Should she make a break for the bedroom, or just put up a barrier while she had the chance?

Sans laughed. "Damn, yer cute! Lessee." He dropped the book and continued trying to flip pages in midair. A moment later, he realized his mistake, scowled, and lifted the book on a wisp of red. "Hold on. 's tryin' ta get away." Even the magic had trouble staying steady, she noted uneasily.

Someone knocked on the double doors, and Frisk heaved a sigh of relief. "You can find the word while I answer that, all right?" She lifted a foot to step around him.

Unbelievably quick, Sans sat down, extended a hand, and caught her around the middle in a loose, ironclad grip. Across the workroom, the bar on the doors glowed red and lifted; the doors swung open. "There," said the boss monster, tugging her closer and frowning at the book. "Who's what y'want?"

It was Dr. Serif, who stopped on the threshold, raised an eyebrow as high as it would go, and closed the doors behind him. "Good morning?" he inquired.

"Hands," the skeleton replied, still searching the pages for that errant word.

The priestess was still trying to comprehend what was happening. Was this some kind of bizarre prank, or a distraction from talking about last night? The longer he held on, the less likely either possibility seemed—he was too calm and too comfortable, as if this was something he was doing simply because he wanted to do it.

Here they were, then. With Sans seated and her standing, the giant skeleton could fold his arm and hold Frisk against him like a child cuddling a teddy bear, fingers spread across her upper legs and torso, her shoulders resting on his clavicle. This wasn't quite as scary as the last time he'd grabbed her, but...

Frisk tested his grip and was unsurprised to find that, though his phalanges were angled not to dig into her, they were about as movable as solid rock. "We're having a very interesting morning," she said to Dr. Serif, and mouthed Help!

"I can see that," said the doctor, who gestured for her not to move, then came forward a few steps. Sans' head swiveled, eyes fully lit, and the royal sorcerer turned his next step into a half bow. "I am glad to hear that you had a good time at the festival last night, my lady. Rumors are brewing about a woman with a highly interesting fortune who was called 'Your Eminence,' but no one is willing to swear that it was you."

That sounded like one problem too many. "Good" was all she could think to say.

"I can't find it," complained Sans. He tossed the book out the window. "Gimme another one, pl's."

"You can have it later," Frisk said acidly. That was her old science textbook from the convent, with her notes and doodles in the margins!

"Sans," said the doctor, "where are your clothes?"

The skeleton blinked at him, sockets still wide orange. "Off," he said, as though the sorcerer was being stupid.

"Of course. How silly of me." Dr. Serif bowed vigorously, letting the motion carry him forward. "Tell me, what did you have to drink at the festival?"

"This asshole was comin' onta her." The skeleton's now-free hand patted Frisk very lightly on the head. Despite her irritation, the priestess couldn't help smiling. "I hit 'im with cider," said Sans. "Damn good cider. 'sat why those people were goin' at it, Frisk?" he asked curiously.

The priestess was no longer smiling. "Sans intervened on my behalf when a man wouldn't leave me alone," she explained to the straight-faced doctor. "We tried some apple cider—why can I still smell it on you, Sans? And yes, we saw a couple who couldn't wait until they found somewhere private. I have no idea what they'd been drinking, but it wasn't what we were having."

"Hmmm." Dr. Serif watched Sans, who was examining the back of Frisk's head, then produced a scroll from his robe pocket. "The monster Snowdrake has been confiscated from his owners, effective immediately. I've brought the paperwork for you to take official custody, my lady. He will be here once the captain of the guards has finished questioning him."

Sans started. Frisk tugged at the skeleton's enormous metacarpals. "Let me go, Sans, please."

Very reluctantly, his hand uncurled to let her wriggle free. Trust the doctor to be a step ahead of everyone, she thought as she accepted the scroll, unaware that Sans was staring fixedly at him. The priestess smoothed out the papers on the worktable and began skimming through it.

Sans turned around so that he stretch out on the floor lengthwise. The doctor wrinkled his nose at the colossal skeleton, then peered over Frisk's shoulder as she came to several blank lines for an address. "Where is that, my lady?" he asked as she began writing.

"It's a house I own on the edge of the city. I've been renting it out, but the current tenants have already moved for the winter, so I'm putting it down as Snowdrake's official residence."

"Well done." Dr. Serif glanced at Sans, then suddenly flicked his fingers across Frisk's back. "Forgive me, Your Eminence," he said as she jumped, "there was a spider. We'll have to have your rooms cleaned soon."

The High Priestess scratched her back, gave him a terse nod, and went back to the scroll, moving away from him.

Sans was on his feet. He said to Frisk, "'Scuse us, kitten," then grabbed the doctor and vanished.

She wondered why he was so upset, and why he'd teleported Dr. Serif just a few feet away into the office. Well, at least he'd let go of her without a fight. Should she check on him to be sure he wouldn't hurt the doctor?

After a moment, she shook her head. She'd have to let them hash it out. What was the worst that could happen?

 ~

 The moment they reached the office, Gaster dropped his disguise, summoned six extra hands, and gripped the boss monster's arms before Sans could dismember him. "Easy, now," the older skeleton cautioned him. "Don't disrupt Her Eminence any more than you already have."

"Oh yeah? 'll disrupt yer fuckin'—"

Smack. "Hold still," the doctor rasped, and Sans jerked convulsively as a hand gripped the back of his skull. A moment later, the hand disappeared and left Sans with his eyes shut tight. "Can you think now, insofar as you are capable of it?" snapped Gaster.

Sans blinked at the hands grasping his arms. They disappeared, too, and Sans looked down at himself. "What." He twisted around to look at his backside. "The hell are my clothes? What'd ya do?"

"I sped up the metabolism of the ethanol molecules that were causing you to lose track of your clothing and treat the High Priestess like a toddler with his favorite toy. In short, you were drunk, and you no longer are. Would you care to tell me how much alcohol it took to inebriate someone your size so many hours after the fact, and how you did so without the lady knowing?"

Sans had gone red. "All I had last night was turkey an' cider!" he protested. "She wouldn't let me try anythin' else! She had the exact same stuff, 'n she didn't get plastered!"

The older skeleton regarded him with narrowed eyes, which was extremely creepy. It made Sans think of Frisk's first question, the one about the child from her nightmares—had Frisk been talking about him? If so, then how did he not belong here? Did the kid's unfinished business with him involve murder? Why?

Why should they beware the man who spoke in hands?

Gaster started to speak, and Sans cut him off: "Were you tryin' ta piss me off back there? Are ya after Frisk, or d'you just wanna screw with me? Whaddya want?"

"To help," the doctor said calmly.

Sans sat down with a mighty thmp. "Ta help. Of course. Why didn't I realize that already?" He tapped his phalanges on the carpet. "Who are you helpin', besides yerself?"

"That is a very large question." Gaster also sat down, on the edge of the desk. "My most immediate goal since Frisk became High Priestess has been to aid her in restoring peace between monsters and humans. The longer I have worked with her, the more I find that, frankly, I like her, and I would like her to be happy if possible." No sooner had the words left him than a hand sprang up in front of Sans, who was already fully aglow. The hand held up a finger long enough for Gaster to add, "Which is to say, I admire her caring heart, her singing voice, her magical prowess...her determination. Would you agree?"

Sans' eyes felt ready to burn clean through his skull. Frisk would get even more upset with him if her office was destroyed, so he tried to say something civil, or at least something okay, or something that wouldn't get him smacked again. But he couldn't.

The hand waggled again, then vanished. "Everything I say and do is for one ultimate purpose, my boy: to gather data. I can help no one if I have insufficient information. Take you, for example." The older skeleton folded an extra set of hands in the air over his lap, like a lecturer settling in at the start of class. "Since the High Priestess made you her apprentice, I have considered your intractability to be an impediment to her plan. I ensured that she had a means of preventing your escape, and I have been monitoring your relationship to see if you were developing any kind of rapport. Now that you have, though, you have become a very different sort of problem."

The boss monster was still at a loss. Gaster was quiet, but it didn't feel as if he was trying to antagonize him again; this seemed more careful, almost sad, thought Sans. "In that respect, I have all the data I need," the doctor said. "I assure you that I have no personal designs on Her Eminence, and I will not imply anything further to that effect." He was looking through Sans now, almost talking to himself. "The more I resolve to be of use, the more difficult it becomes to discern where usefulness ends and interference begins. I am more inclined to let matters go where they will from here on, especially after the advice Her Eminence received last night. But..." The slashes on Gaster's face deepened. "It cannot hurt to exchange information. For example, did you notice that the 'ferryman' is a monster?"

"I..." Sans got his thoughts back in order, contemplated the fortune-teller and his cat-shaped table, and found himself nodding slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I kinda did. He didn't seem very human."

Gaster chuckled. "It's strange how these things work. Where I come from, he is the ferryman in the Underground."

"Where you come from?" A chill crept down Sans' spine. He tried to force a laugh. "We just have a coupla Royal Guards runnin' our ferry. Wha, is there more'n one Underground 'round here?"

"No. There is not." The smile faded. "Now, my turn. None of the people who heard Frisk's fortunes told were listening closely to her first question, or the answer. What exactly were they?"

Sans still had that prickly feeling, like someone had held a door open too long and he'd glimpsed something he couldn't unsee. He probably shouldn't tell the man who speaks in hands that they were supposed to beware of him, should he? "Yeah, she asked about something from her nightmares that wanted her to hurt somebody. He said it's a child who wants Frisk to kill someone who doesn't belong here, something about it having 'unfinished business,' and that Frisk was its connection."

The doctor waited patiently as Sans hesitated. "I'm pretty much positive she meant me," the boss monster continued. "I saw the kid once, and I could tell it hates my guts." The boss monster took a moment to indicate that he didn't have guts, ha ha, but Gaster was unamused. "So that means I don't belong here, and some freaky little ghost wants Frisk t'finish me off? I guess? Any chance ya know what any of that means?" He scratched his patella, wondering if it was his imagination or if his body was feeling a little more touch-sensitive than usual, like his human self.

Come to think of it, he could sort of smell the air in here, though it wasn't as strong as any of the ones he'd encountered at the festival. And now he could vaguely remember Frisk being right up against him a minute ago, and that her hair had smelled like...a smell. All he knew was that he had liked it, and letting her go had sucked.

...Crap. What were they talking about again?

"I see," murmured Gaster. He looked down at his extra hands. "Forgive me if this sounds dramatic, or if it's very personal, but have you ever felt especially out of place, or dreamed vividly of things that you are sure never happened to you?"

It was more than a chill this time. "Yeah, but I figured everybody feels like that sometimes. I've had the same nightmares my whole damn life, over and over. They stopped when I came here and started sleepin' inside her barrier. So..." He scowled, trying to cover his fear. "Somethin' is makin' us both see things? Is that it?" He suddenly sprang to his feet. "Is that why I used ta dream about ya? Are you behind all this shit?!"

Two skeletal hands flew at him and stopped just short of his eye sockets. Sans froze, feeling sick and cold inside as he stared through the holes in the palms. Those hands, coming at him—

Gaster gave a long, tired, defeated sigh. "Data. I am sorry, Sans. This will be very unpleasant, but I need to know if it is familiar to you. Hold still, please."

Before the boss monster could react, a third hand dropped onto the top of his skull and—

 ~

 It was cold. Dark, darker, yet darker.

Papyrus wasn't moving. Sans struggled out of the restraints, threw himself onto the tiles and screamed at his brother, trying to shake the little skeleton awake, but pieces were already flaking off. Helpless tears streamed from Sans' sockets, soaking the dust into pink mud.

"Messy."

Sans whirled around, choking with grief and rage. He'd always promised himself he would kill the bastard before he let him hurt Pap! Why hadn't he—

Hands smashed into his spine, his ribs, and one square over his face, the palm large enough for both his sockets to see out through the hole. "I never could fix that design flaw," their creator said in distaste, poking at the red streaking Sans' cheekbones. "Strange...I always thought you'd break first. Ah, well." A philosophical sigh. "Now, the question of whether to finish with you and create a better set, or try a fresh copy of that one first. What do you think, Sans?"

There was a deep sound from behind Dr. Gaster, almost a snarl. It was Gaster's turn to whip around, his face contorted in surprise and every one of his hands flung up to defend himself. A flash of light, searing pain—

Footsteps. A dark figure bent over him. Sans whimpered as Gaster loomed back into his field of view. He should have known better than to hope he was dead!

But...Gaster seemed different, almost another person—paler, the cracks in his face more shallow and less splintered than the ones Sans had stared down his whole life. The hand that rested on Sans' forehead was...gentle? "I am so sorry, child," the scientist said quietly. "Forgive me."

Sans couldn't answer. He felt as if his bones were getting softer, his body lighter. When Gaster sighed, Sans watched tiny bits of himself blow away in the puff of breath. It was almost a relief to feel his SOUL flicker out like a candle and finally die.

 ~

 Sans clawed his way back to consciousness, sitting up so hard that he nearly banged his head on the desk. He looked around, but there was no laboratory equipment, no tile floors or piles of murky dust, just the desk in her office.

Frisk's office. He was here. He wasn't dead, Pap wasn't dead, Gaster wasn't—

"Please do not move."

The boss monster froze in place. "Now, tell me," the doctor said, shutting the door. "Have you had that nightmare before?"

Sans nodded imperceptibly. "Yeah. Long...a long time ago." He couldn't stop shaking.

He flinched as Gaster patted his shoulder blade. "Please don't be frightened, Sans. It was only a dream. I have never hurt you or your brother, and I have no intention of ever doing so." A black coat drifted past Sans' peripheral vision as the royal sorcerer went behind the desk. "To answer your last question, no, I have not sent any of your nightmares, or hers. As I said, I am here to acquire information. I try to avoid collateral damage in the pursuit thereof, but it is not always possible. For that, I sincerely apologize. I've asked Frisk for her help in calming you down."

Sure enough, a sound was coming through the door behind him. It was faint, but as Sans listened, he recognized her humming a slow, sweet little song. Out of her entire repertoire, that one was probably his favorite; he hadn't heard it in so long that he'd been on the verge of swallowing his pride and asking her to do it again. Had Gaster requested that one specifically, or did she know?

Gaster watched the tension fade from the boss monster's massive frame, and the smallest movements of his skull as he bobbed his head along. The doctor examined the center of Sans' chest, his eyes going very wide. Sans was too mellow to ask what he was looking at...probably his SOUL. Eh, whatever.

Presently, the royal sorcerer said, "Snowdrake should be en route now. Her Eminence is still checking that the papers are in order, as well as the deposit she will have to put down until the Church finds another buyer for him." A dry chuckle. "If I know Frisk, Snowdrake will not be sold again. In the unlikely event that someone discovers she's lost track of him, she will be rebuked and lose her deposit, and that will be all."

Sans moved his shoulder back. "She's not gonna get fired or locked up?"

"They wouldn't dare. Not for her first offense, and not for neglecting a single low-ranked monster. Our High Priestess is protected by very powerful connections."

That word took Sans right back to the child from her nightmares. "Why'd you show me that horrible thing with me 'n Pap, and how? I didn't see the ghost kid anywhere. Is the little psycho mad about that dream 'cause it wanted ta kill me first? What the hell is it, anyway?"

"One thing at a time, please. Overall, you may be on the right track, but that's a matter I would rather discuss with Frisk. I—"

"Quit callin' 'er by name. I thought you weren't gonna pull that crap anymore."

Gaster merely smiled. "If you'll bear with me for a moment, the best answer I can give you is that the mind is a terrifyingly powerful thing." Sans bit back his impatience as the doctor settled himself again. "When someone has suffered greatly, especially early in life, it is natural to try to move past those experiences as quickly as possible. But if the mind is active, intelligent, and magically gifted, failure to properly acknowledge these experiences can backfire very badly. Inner demons may become reality, or outside forces with malevolent intent take notice, or both."

"Geez." Sans rubbed the corners of his eyes, wondering where the hanky was. "Yeah, that'd explain why I never got any sleep before I shacked up with someone who could block 'em for me."

A beat of cold silence. "I am not talking about you."

The giant skeleton paused mid-rub. "Ya mean—"

"Most people in a great deal of pain will express it as destructive behavior toward themselves or others. It takes remarkable determination to turn that negativity into the drive to protect other people, rather than lashing out." The doctor shook his head. "I am impressed that she has not seen anything worse than the specter of an evil child. The fact that it can be stopped with a barrier suggests it is primarily external in nature, and her recognizing its intent without acting upon it is also a good sign."

Sans winced. "So, is she seeing it 'cause she's mad at me? Am I in any actual danger?"

Gaster laced his fingers together. "Its power and its ability to work through her will depend both on her intrinsic strength and the energy she has left after dealing with other problems—say, a protege who interrupts an expensive fortune-teller with crude questions in front of dozens of people, and then says 'See you next year' as she tries to get him away."

At this point, Sans would have been surprised if word of that incident hadn't gotten around. "Ya think she's still mad at me?" he asked sheepishly.

"I am not her, so I cannot say for certain, but I can ask you whether you've apologized yet."

"I didn't get a chance! She reamed me out 'n made me go straight t'bed!"

"After which you were drunk this morning, which I still do not understand, and during which you took sizable liberties." A hand popped up to rap Sans on the skull. "At the risk of interfering further, I strongly advise you to ask yourself whether you want to be a friend or a problem."

Sans digested this in silence. The royal sorcerer glanced at the door. "We have a few more minutes. I'd like to ask you a few more questions—nothing terrible, just some odds and ends I've wanted to discuss for some time now. You may do the same."

The boss monster thought it over for a moment. "What's everyone sayin' about her second fortune, the one with the box?"

"Your turn is already over." Two more hands appeared over Gaster's head, one holding a pen and the other a small notepad. "Now, you were a normal skeleton for most of your life, correct? And Papyrus remains as he was?" The hand with the pen swooped down and tapped on Sans' upper leftmost fang, then the top of his skull. "Hm. Intact. How interesting."

Sans swatted at the hand, which evaded him as nimbly as a bug and swooped back up to scratch something on the notepad. "Yeah, Pap's still Pap, and I wasn't born a big ol' freak. Don't ask how that happened, 'cause I don't wanna talk about it."

"Fair enough. Tell me, Sans, do you or have you ever smoked?"

"Smoked? From where?"

The doctor laughed. "I'll take that as a no." Scritch, scritch went the pen. "Do you have a predilection for violence? If so, is it against other monsters, humans, or both?"

"Uh...yes? Humans?"

"I see." Scriscritch. "What is your favorite food? Do you prefer any condiments in particular?"

"My favorite food's whatever I can eat! Haven't you heard what's happenin' in the Underground? Where the hell are you from, exactly?"

Gaster tsked. "In that vein, have any monsters besides yourself become more violent than usual?"

"Not...really. Undyne's more psycho than ever, but I think that's just her."

"Is the situation such that anyone has contemplated resorting to cannibalism?"

"Hell no! Don't even joke about that!"

"I am not joking, Sans. Has the Underground seen a marked increase in sexual activity?"

Great, now he was baffled and embarrassed. "Weren't you listening? There's no damn food! Why would anybody want to have kids right now?"

"A valid point, but to your knowledge, have any of the monsters been engaging in indiscriminate, non-procreative sexual activities?"

"Wha—why the fuck would I know that?!"

That earned him another smack on the head, though not very hard. "Language." Scriscritch. "Now, please be honest. Have you ever contemplated keeping a human as a pet? If so, do you believe you would treat her well, or would you—"

"That does it!" Sans lurched to his feet, eyes and face blazing. "I dunno what kinda sick fantasies ya got goin', buddy, but I'm not gonna play along!"

The royal sorcerer held up his hands, and the extras holding the pen and notepad vanished. "Let's move on, then. Tell me whether this is correct: the second fortune explained the consequences of Her Eminence either opening or disposing of a box. One result is a very dull and safe future, while the other would be shorter and more painful, but ultimately much more fulfilling. Yes?"

Sans sat back down, poking at a scuff mark on the carpet. "Yeah, that's pretty much it."

"Unsurprisingly, many people are fixated on the latter possibility, because it would result in the High Priestess – if it is her, of course, which no one will say for certain, though they're certainly saying it – having a child by this time next year." One side of Gaster's mouth lifted. "It is a very popular misconception that human gestation lasts nine months, but in reality, medical experts consider a full-term pregnancy to be roughly forty weeks, or ten months. I will not contribute any sordid conjectures to the narrative, but if this aspect of her fortune is accurate, the necessary timing of certain events is self-evident."

"If?" Sans sat forward eagerly. "Ya mean it might not happen? No boring husband sometime soonish, no havin' a kid right away?"

Gaster stared at him for a little too long. "Where do you see yourself in this, Sans? Where would you like to be?"

Sans blinked. "Wha?"

"You escorted her to the festival, and mutual convenience led you to present yourselves as a couple, but you are not her husband. You are her apprentice and personal guard for the next twenty or so days, after which she will return to the usual course of her duties, and you will return to the Underground to report to King Asgore that the humans are interested in reopening diplomatic relations."

"Actually," Sans said, trying not to sound smug, "once my time's up, she's probably gonna come back Underground with me. She's got this big plan ta have monsters work with humans instead of bein' slaves, and it's too much fer me t'decide on, so—"

"So you would risk her life by bringing her directly to Asgore?" The doctor stood slowly, and the room seemed to grow darker as he glared down at Sans. "You idiot! Do you have any idea what will happen if the High Priestess is delivered to your King as he is now?"

"You mean, if he doesn't like her idea? Then I'll...uh..."

"You'll what?" Gaster's voice dripped with such scorn that Sans couldn't muster a response. "King Asgore is not interested in making peace! He would only meet with her in order to take her SOUL!"

The boss monster's mouth opened and closed. "But...if I didn't—"

"Asgore's sole aim is to become powerful enough to take vengeance on humanity. The King knows very well that only women with strong inborn magic may become High Priestess, and the moment he saw Frisk's SOUL for himself, he would be willing to fight her, you, and perhaps even Toriel to acquire it. Do you understand?"

Sans had never felt so small and stupid. Why hadn't it occurred to him that Asgore would notice how powerful Frisk was without being told? All he had thought of was the excuse to take her with him, not even bothering to remember how he had immediately noticed her SOUL and tried to kill her for it. He was smarter than this!

There was no time to beat himself up. He had to think. Her first fortune had said her efforts wouldn't bear fruit, and Gaster had mentioned Asgore "as he is now"; for the second future to come to pass, with Frisk changing the world and achieving her goal, the King would have to be more like his old, sweet-natured self, who would never have killed someone without at least hearing her out. "Whaddya think is in the box?" Sans asked abruptly.

Gaster frowned. "That's an excellent question. I couldn't even venture a guess without seeing the box myself, but I doubt Her Eminence would be willing to show me. After what you said last night, I don't think she would be receptive to you asking, either."

Sans let himself fall onto his back, staring at the wallpapered ceiling. Who the hell put wallpaper on the ceiling? "Nope. She'd kick my ass from here to the Underground and back."

"Crude, but accurate." Gaster sighed, twiddling his thumbs in elaborate swirls. "How very frustrating. We have so much information, but the most crucial component may be forever beyond our gr—"

The door banged open. "Excuse me," Frisk said to Sans, who got up and watched her shove the couch aside.

Gaster quickly resumed his disguise; luckily, the priestess was so fixated on the couch that she hadn't noticed. "May we help you, my lady?" asked Dr. Serif.

"No." The young woman yanked at a floorboard, and both monsters watched in astonishment as she pulled it up to reveal a makeshift safe. She removed the barrier and rummaged through the safe, extracting a thickly folded paper. "Here we are." Frisk scowled as she tried to remove the packet: the safe was so small that the paper was stuck lengthwise against something. The priestess dug downward and shoved the offending object up and onto the floor. "Here is the deed to my house in Riverview, and here's the key. You and Snowdrake will be able to stop there on your way, and no one will...Sans? Hello?"

The men weren't listening to her. They were looking at what had tumbled out of the safe: a rosewood box.

Frisk slapped at it, sending it tumbling back into the safe, which she resealed and covered with the floorboard and couch in rapid succession. "Don't even think about it," she said to them, dangerously calm, and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The royal sorcerer scratched his cheek. "Memories."

"Hm?" Sans glanced at him. "What about 'em?"

"That type of wood is useful for preserving magical objects, but that shape and size are not common. Given the context of her second fortune and the emotional pain therein, it must contain at least one memory." Dr. Serif drummed his fingers on the desk. "How curious. Memory excision has historically been so abused that it was outlawed by King Stephin's great-grandfather. Nowadays, the procedure can only be authorized on a case-by-case basis by a Church official higher than an archdeacon, or the very highest ranks of the nobility or royalty."

Sans suddenly remembered a night not long after he'd arrived where Frisk had mentioned her father, and how loyal her mother had been to the duke she worked for. Just for grins, he'd looked up the hierarchy of nobility in one of Frisk's books, and a duke was the next best thing to being a royal. It all fit, except for the fact that what the hell was in the box? How did you keep memories sitting around like that? Why would you need to carve something like that out of someone's head, and how would getting it back make the difference between a future of "stupid perfect husband she didn't even like" and "monsters going free" plus "having sex sometime soon"?

One more thing came to mind, and before he could stop himself, Sans said, "Hey, Gaster. Doctor. Whatever you are right now. You say you're from another Underground or something?"

The doctor narrowed his eyes at him again. Even with a human face, it gave Sans the creeps. "Why do you ask?"

Sans almost said "Never mind," but the air still faintly smelled of Frisk – he'd have to ask her what it was, exactly – and he wouldn't get a chance to ask anyone else who might know, so, fuck it. "D'ya know if it's possible for a monster and a human to have a kid together? Biologically?"

The royal scientist raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said after a painfully long moment. "It is quite rare, but I am aware of several instances where a human woman married and had at least one child with a monster." He coughed. "With a skeleton."

But before Sans could even start feeling things about that, much less sort through them, the doctor half-smiled. "None of them, however, involved a boss monster." He stood, and walked to the door. "I'm sorry." He slipped out, leaving Sans to stare up at the wallpaper ceiling.

[calligraphist-artemisia]

14 | Ritual

Written for Kidgetober 2020. Week 2 Theme: Myths & Magic. Day 14: Ritual.

Summary: Alternate Universe - Magic.  All Pidge wanted to know was who her soulmate was. And if all of her attempts at using divination to find out were not going to work for her, then she'd just have to develop her own ritual for it. Nothing could go wrong with that, right?

Also posted on AO3 under the username Kishirokitsune. Titled as “Magic of the Season”.

- - - - -

14 | Ritual

The Castle of Lions was the premiere magical institute of Altea and notoriously difficult to be accepted into even for the best and brightest. They only accepted a maximum of five students per year and Pidge was blessed to count herself among the four chosen in the first year she applied. It meant there was plenty of individual training and enough room for everyone to have their own space to practice and study their chosen Craft.

Pidge loved her room. It was a circular space located at the top of the western tower and came equipped with a bathroom that she was rapidly coming to appreciate. Three windows allowed light to filter in whenever she pulled back her heavy curtains and there was a door that opened onto a tiny balcony that was perfect for stargazing.

Most important, it was her space and she could do whatever she wished without worrying about being interrupted.

She was especially grateful for that as she prepared for her newest ritual, one designed to allow her to divine the identity of her soulmate. It was a concept that fascinated her from the first time it was mentioned by High Priestess Melenor, but also one that felt completely out of reach for Pidge because of one very big reason.

She was awful at all forms of divination.

And from all of her studies, the tried and true method of ascertaining the identity of one's soulmate was through some form of that magical art. There was simply no other way.

Pidge threw herself into the process, taking the time to break down all of the steps and test out a few different ways. She'd gone through a full month of mediation and attempting Astral travel, but found it nearly impossible to quiet her mind long enough to achieve that goal.

When it became clear that meditating wasn't the right path for her, she moved onto the various forms of scrying, starting with the classic crystal ball. And although she tried it with several different types of crystal, she didn't find one that she “vibed” with enough for it to actually work and gave up on that path after two frustrating weeks. She spent another week with a shallow bowl of water and a quartz crystal cluster. And then a round mirror. And then a piece of hematite lit only by candlelight.

All of that brought her to the decision that the only way she would succeed in her goal would be if she crafted her own ritual. She'd had moderate success with Dream Magic in the past and hoped that it could be useful for what she intended.

Pidge took every step that she could think of the ensure the highest chance of success. Her room was already cleansed after her last ritual, so she began with a relaxing bath with purifying salts and herbs and remained there until her head felt clear and light, her magical energy brimming beneath the surface of her skin in anticipation.

She slipped on a simple cotton dress and clasped a band of hematite around her right ankle to help keep her grounded through the process. Next came a circlet crafted from silver, which had a sun-and-moon centerpiece made of sunstone and moonstone, locked by a small diamond on either side. It centered neatly over her brow.

She was ready.

Pidge gathered up the rest of her tools and began to arrange them in the center of the room, taking care with each item and focusing on her purpose. Using a piece of kunzite, she carved her chosen runes into the proper candles before setting them down around her. A stick of sandalwood incense was lit last and she stood with the kunzite in her hands and watched as the smoke curled up into the air.

She breathed in and then released that breath, feeling her magic rise in answer to her call, before turning to the north to begin the opening of her circle, calling in each elemental force to request their aid in her ritual as she lit each candle.

With energy swirling around her, Pidge slowly sat cross-legged in the center of the circle and closed her eyes. She held on tight to her intent, refusing to stray to any other thought.

She wanted to find her soulmate.

She wanted to know who they were and where she could find them.

The candlelight flared along with her magic as her spell took hold. Pidge could feel the heat of the flames. The thickness in the air. The scent of sandalwood, heavy around her.

It continued to build, higher and higher, until the next thing Pidge knew the soft early morning sun was shining in through the windows and all of her limbs were stiff and sore from apparently passing out on the floor.

Pidge groaned as she sat up, blearily looking around and taking note of the fully-melted candles and the stick of incense that was completely burned out. The kunzite was still in her hands, held onto so tightly that it left behind marks when she finally let it go.

As she examined the indents it left, she noticed something else unusual.

Encircling her right wrist was some kind of band of silver ink that was no more than a centimeter wide, comprised of intricate spirals that formed some sort of pattern, but not one that held any meaning as far as Pidge knew. She studied it for a moment, her tired brain working to try and make sense of it all, but a knock at the door interrupted her and she quickly jumped up.

“Just a minute!” she called out.

Pidge hesitated at the edge of the circle and then stepped back into the center. She took a moment to steady her breathing and then went through the steps to close the circle, taking the time to thank each of the elemental forces for their aid. Only then did she hurry around and prepare for the day.

Cleaning up would have to wait.

Another knock and the sound of her friend, Lance, calling for her had Pidge rolling her eyes at his impatience. She checked her reflection and took an extra minute to remove the circlet and place it back into its box before answering the door.

“You have got to learn some patience,” she said before Lance could open his mouth.

“Hey, I'm not the one running abnormally late,” he responded. “You didn't stay up all night reading again, did you? I don't know how you lose track of time doing that.”

“Some of us came here to actually learn and study.”

“Ouch. I'm wounded. My heart!” Lance placed one hand over his chest and dramatically swooned. “Your cruelty breaks my spirit! And after I brought you breakfast!”

Pidge's stomach growled when she caught side of the cloth-wrapped bundle in Lance's hands. “So should I profess my undying devotion to you now or do you want to wait until there are other people around?”

Lance laughed and handed over the food as they left the tower and headed towards their first lesson of the day with Alchemist Alfor. He chatted about whatever came to his mind while Pidge devoured the sandwich and made reaffirming noises so he knew she was still paying attention. She finished it as they passed under the arch marking the potions and alchemy wing of the castle and, coincidentally, came across the other two students of their year – all-around sweetheart Hunk Garrett and his more hot-tempered friend, Keith Hawkins, who also happened to be embroiled in an intense rivalry with Pidge.

The two pairs came to a dead stop beneath the archway.

Pidge was in no mood to deal with him so early in the morning and especially not after yet another failed attempt at divination spellcrafting, so she pretended as though he didn't exist as Hunk and Lance jumped into a lively conversation to try and lift the atmosphere around them.

“Anyway, there's a note on Alfor's door asking us to meet in the Four Seasons Courtyard for our lesson today. That's why we're on our way back through,” Hunk explained.

“Lucky for us that we ran into you!” Lance laughed as he slung an arm across Hunk's shoulders. “Do you think we're gathering ingredients for something? Or does he have another lecture on how our environment affects alchemic equations?”

Hunk shrugged. “Guess we'll find out once we get there.”

The two walked ahead, leaving Pidge and Keith to silently follow behind them. Pidge used every ounce of her willpower to keep her mouth shut and not look over at her rival, telling herself that it wouldn't be worth getting into an argument right before class.

It was when they arrived in the courtyard that everything went wrong.

Pidge tried to walk towards Lance to sit with him like she always did but was stopped by Keith grabbing her wrist and tugging her back towards him. She whirled on him, a snarl on her lips, only to be interrupted by his own furious remark -

“What the fuck? Let go of me, Holt!”

“I am not holding onto you! Why would I, Hawkins?” she snapped back.

In unison, they glared at their wrists, each seeking to prove that they were right, only to discover that they were both wrong. There was nothing there, though Pidge continued to feel pressure around her wrist as though there was something holding onto her.

“Is there a problem over here?” asked Alchemist Alfor as he approached.

Keith tried to yank his hand away from the invisible force but it only served to make Pidge stumble forward and throw a another glare in his direction.

“Alright, alright. Calm down,” Alfor said before either of them could start speaking again. He, like everyone else in the castle, was well aware of the animosity between the two of them. “I'm sure this is someone's idea of a prank and we can get it sorted out quickly. Lets take a look at what's going on, shall we?” He held his hand out over theirs and murmured a few words. Within seconds, a twisted braid of gold and silver appeared around their wrists, with a short chain connecting them.

Keith frowned. “What is that?”

“Fascinating... I've never seen anything like it,” Alfor admitted. “I would wager that the silver is related to some form of soul magic, but I'm unsure of what the gold represents. Melenor would be the best to ask about this sort of thing, unless either of you has an idea?”

Pidge's blood turned to ice in her veins.

Soul magic.

It couldn't be.

Not him!

“He is not my soulmate,” Pidge refused, unaware that she was speaking aloud.

Keith's eyes flashed with something Pidge couldn't define and he tensed his jaw before responding. “Who would ever want you to be their soulmate, Holt?”

Alfor must have called for backup while Pidge wasn't paying attention, because suddenly Battle Mage Shiro was there and was hurrying them to Melenor's office while Alfor stayed behind to teach Hunk and Lance the lesson he had planned for the day. It was there that Melenor confirmed her husbands thoughts that soul magic was involved, with the silver strand representing femininity while the gold represented masculinity – a perfect balance symbolizing the bond between them.

Pidge had no choice but the tell them about the ritual she performed and how it was designed to reveal her soulmate, and from there Melenor came up with a plan to help them.

“You will live together for one week. If you cannot learn to get along in that time, I will undue the spell tying you together. I want to make it clear that you will give this your best effort. Magic has bonded the two of you together for a reason and I should think that both of you would endeavor to learn why.”

So there they were, in the brand new set of rooms they were being allowed to borrow for one week while they lived together, unable to move more than a few feet apart. Neither of them spoke for the first hour, until Keith finally sat down and refused to budge, his violet eyes hard as he stared up at her.

“I don't understand what your problem with me is,” he said.

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Right.”

“I'm serious. From the very first day we met you've treated me like I'm the scum of the earth. What did I ever do to you?” Keith demanded.

Pidge opened her mouth to respond, but Keith wasn't finished.

“Imagine it's your first day in the most prestigious magical institute in the world and as you're leaving your first class you finally see your soulmate. And at first you think it's just another dream, like all of the others you've had since you were old enough to understand what a soulmate is, but when you try to talk to her it all turns into a nightmare.

“At first I thought you were just stressed, but that wasn't right, was it? Because you get along with everyone else in this school. Just not me. So what is it, Holt? What did I do to you that was so horrible that you need to turn every chance meeting into a confrontation?”

The hot flash of fury that Pidge felt when he first started talking dissipated the moment he spoke of his dreams. A heavy, cold weight settled in the pit of her stomach as her mind worked to comprehend what she was hearing. “You... you knew this whole time? Why didn't you ever say something?”

“What was the point? I knew it would only end in rejection. You proved me right about that earlier,” Keith responded. The heat was gone from his voice, replaced by a deep sorrow.

Pidge sat on the floor next to him and pulled her knees up against her chest, thinking back to her first week at the Castle of Lions. It had been a massive change from the rigorous structure and rules of the Galaxy Garrison where she previously studied and she remembered struggling to adapt to a new environment. It took her a moment to place when her first interaction with Keith, an event she blocked from her mind because it didn't seem worth remembering aside from it being the starting place of their rivalry. A rivalry she was starting to think was almost entirely one-sided.

She had volunteered to try and solve an alchemic equation Alfor presented to them and when she was finished, Keith was the first to speak up and offer a critique on her work. She remembered the flush of anger at being called out for making what, in hindsight, was a stupid mistake that spoiled the rest of her work, and then the embarrassment as two students of another year started sniggering to themselves over it. The fact that Keith completely snubbed her as they all left the classroom served to cement in her mind that he was challenging her intellect and from that day on she refused to show weakness.

She breathed out softly and pressed her forehead to the tops of her knees.

Had she really based their rivalry on a simple misunderstanding?

Had her time at the Galaxy Garrison really impaired her social skills that much? Lance was always joking about it, but maybe there was some truth to that.

The competitive atmosphere. The constant drive to do better and be the best. Maybe she carried that with her to the Castle of Lions and let it influence the way she interacted with her peers. She thought she was getting better at it with help from Lance and speaking with their instructors, but those first few weeks...

That first interaction with Keith, when he corrected her and then didn't say a word to her after that – so different from the Garrison, where rivalries were encouraged as a way to push one another to do better. That lack of acknowledgment for it made her feel as though he was looking down on her. Like she was unworthy of being considered an equal.

“Keith, I... I'm so sorry,” she murmured, unsure how to put all of her thoughts into the right words. “I don't know what else to say. All of this is my fault. Our fighting. This chain tying us together. I've never been great at divination and I've been trying for months to use it to find my soulmate – to find you – and after all of that I ended up making a spell and well... I guess Magic got tired of being ignored, so it found a way to make things more obvious for me. And here you've known all along! I can't imagine how that must have felt.”

She snapped her mouth shut and uttered another quick apology as she realized she had started rambling.

“I didn't mean what I said before,” Keith said after a moment of silence. “About how no one would want to be your soulmate? I didn't mean that.”

Pidge lifted her head from her knees. “I kind of deserved it. I've been awful to you.”

“And I was awful right back,” Keith responded, a sudden spark of passion to his voice as he twisted to look at her. “We've both said and done things that we regret. I'm not going to sit here and go over all of it when it'll only make us feel worse. Look, we're stuck together for at least a week, right?”

Pidge nodded.

“Then let's make the best of that time. By, uh, talking things through, I guess. I don't know how people normally do this sort of thing,” he admitted.

“Neither do I,” Pidge said with a grimace. “But we're smart. We can figure it out.”

Keith made a curious sound, but didn't voice whatever he was thinking. Instead, he stuck out his left hand to her – the one with the gold-and-silver chain clasped around his wrist. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Pidge agreed, grasping his left hand with her right.

The chain loosened ever-so-slightly between them.

[bltzgore]

Alright here's an actual story fragment

Characrer index:

Jupiter: (Female) 6'1, strong, intense, scary, werebeast [turns into a monster called a rusttooth]

Sky: (Male) 5'10, sweet, caring, perceptive, usually observant, bold but not fearless

North: (Male) 6'2, snarky, playful, big brother figure, loyal, devoted

Tw: language panic, mention of blood, broken bones, hopelessness, claustrophobia I suppose? Idk this is still a wip.

The fall came out of nowhere. He hadn't even noticed the hole prior, but once he was slipping it was too late. He barely had long enough to yell as he was dragged down the icy hole. His stomach felt like it was in his chest as he fell, deeper, deeper. The light faded away, he dropped into the darkness, nothing but the chilling air on all sides until he was crushed between two icy jaws. It rattled him badly, slowing his fall but scraping him up as he continued to slide down. He expected to stop but it suddenly opened up. He wasn't sure how long he felt but when he hit ground it hurt. His legs were wedged in what felt like another hole and his torso cracked against a chunk of ice.

It took some time for him to actually understand what had happened, to steady himself enough to focus. He tried to take deep breaths but his doubtlessly broken ribs made that impossible. There was a tiny pinprick of light above him, but it didn't help much. He shuttered with the cold, fear, and pain as he tried to push himself free, but the speed of the fall, despite the slowing earlier he was wedged far too tight. He was stuck, ok, he had to stay calm. He couldn't do this himself, his friends were bound to notice he was gone. He tilted up towards the hole, "HELP! NORTH! JUPITER!" He stopped and waited, nothing. He felt a shard of white hot fear jab him in the chest. He was going to die here, they weren't going to find him- NO! He just needed to keep yelling they would find him. He steadied himself again, then kept yelling.

Jupiter was relaxed, it was pretty calm here. Not many people really ventured up this far, she was confident they would be undisturbed. She wished they could stay here, she loved it, all the blues and whites and wonderful landscape, but it was cold. Since she had been bitten she had gradually discovered that she had grown a much higher tolerance for the heat and the cold. It was a little cool for her, but for the others it was freezing. Their winter gear helped but it was still uncomfortable. They couldn't stay here, but for now she would bask in the cool peace that the landscape provided.

North walked up and placed down a few branches he had managed to find a little ways down from the forest up against the glacier. He glanced down at it then up towards Jupiter, "Enjoying yourself?"

She opened her eyes and nodded. This was the most relaxed North had ever seen her. She was basking in the bone chilling air, eyes shut and features relaxed. What almost made North question if she was mentally sound was that she was not armed. Jupiter always had some form of weapon on her, despite her ability.

This was good to see, she was never relaxed like this. He made a mental note to visit here again, if only to give Jupiter another chance to be this at ease. He knelt down to set the fire and noticed Jupiter seemed to snap to. "Didn't Sky go with you?" she asked, her tone not quite uneasy, but also her tension free stance was gone.

"No, he went to go get water, he should be back in a bit." North assured her. Jupiter seemed to calm at the news, but he could see that her muscles didn't relax. She'd be like that until Sky got back, well so be it, it would only be a few minutes. Time started to pass, five minutes, ten, then fifteen, then thirty, an hour later both of them were worried.

Jupiter had been pacing the camp when North walked over, "Let's go." he didn't need to say where.

They started in the direction that North had seen him go, luckily there were a few patches where the snow hadn't melted in the sun. Patches where Sky's tracks had stuck around. It led them off in the direction of the sound of rushing water.

Jupiter saw the hole before North did and grabbed the back of his shirt.

"What?" he seemed mildly irritated.

"That." she pointed to it.

"Oh shit. Do you think...?" he started looking back at her.

"Let's find out.'' She took several careful steps towards the hole stopping and kneeling down to make sure she at least had some form of tractions if she somehow started to slide. Jupiter cupped her hands around her mouth, took a deep breath and yelled "SKYYYYYYY!"

Sky froze, there! They were here! "JUPITER! NORTH! I'M DOWN HERE!!!! HELP!!" he winced and shut his eyes. In his excitement he'd over done it on a few breaths, and his ribs were shrieking. He tried to calm down, he needed to keep yelling, if he didn't they might not hear him. He clenched his jaw and took a breath, trying not to make it too deep. "JUPITER! NORTH!" It was louder and the shock knocked the wind out of him for a bit, "Help."

"Do you hear anything?" North asked.

"Shhhh!" she responded leaning her ear towards the hole. She shut her eyes, focusing on her ears. She flinched, "He's down there!" she announced turning back to North. "I heard him."

"So... we have to.." he started.

"Climb down and get him. Yes." she confirmed.

They had recovered what little gear they had from camp, which consisted of four climbing picks, a harness and line, and a few pitons. It was decided that North would get the harness and that Jupiter could free climb. This took some time to settle as North was reluctant to allow her to go without any sort of safety cord, but the fact remained that if one of them fell she would be the one capable of surviving. So he took the harness.

Once the anchor was set and the harness was hooked up they armed themselves with climbing picks and started their descent. They had both done something similar to this before. They had been required to climb a mountain with a group. It had been a sort of training exercise, though it had likely also been intended to build trust. However Jupiter and North had elected to go on their own. It had gone really well actually, Jupiter took up rock climbing for several months after.

The climb was draining, the further down they got the darker and colder it became. Jupiter was the more adept at this, but North was taking it all in stride. He had lost his grip a few times during which he was internally very thankful he had let Jupiter talk him into taking the harness. Jupiter on the other hand was getting more and more comfortable with this by the second.

At first she had been tense and focusing on one the portion of the wall at a time, just trying to stay focused. She'd almost lost one of the picks when she'd lost her grip, but her hand had changed, it had gone scaly, the claws were easily long enough and strong enough to sink into the ice just as well as the picks had been. After that she had become far more comfortable climbing around. After all she now had a second set of climbing picks that she couldn't drops.

Sky was shaking, shivering, freezing. He couldn't feel his fingers, which now he supposed was a good thing. He was pretty sure he was missing a nail or two from when he had tried to slow his fall he had been able to reach one of the walls. But again he couldn't feel that right now, he could barely see the blood in the water... the water? It was maybe five inches deep, a bit above his waist.

That hadn't been there before! His chest tightened, and his breaths became deeper and faster, causing his ribs to flare up with each gulp of air. The water was rising! He was going to drown! He tried struggling free again. The water was still running down here, it was going to fill the cave. He had to get out of here! Now! NOW! "No! No! No! No NO! HELP I'M GOING TO DROWN! HELP ME! PLEASE! I- ACK!" Pain raced through his chest and stole his breath away. He stopped, shock paralyzing him. He leaned forward against the ice chunk trying to breathe but trying to stop the pain, trying to calm himself down. Tears were starting to roll down his cheeks, "Help me," he sobbed breathlessly, "Please, save me."

Jupiter froze, "North! I heard him again, did you?"

He stopped and shifted himself to handle the weight, "I heard something."

"I think he said drowning." she seemed to be staring down at nothing.

He could practically read her mind, "Jupiter no."

"North, by the time we get there it could be too late." saying that stole the air from her throat.

"Or he's panicking, he could be fine. If we fall we're screwed too." North reminded, trying to calm her down.

"North." she gave him a serious look, "There's no way of knowing he's not in immediate danger. We have to get down there."

He went to argue back but she was already changing. She shifted from hanging onto the pick to anchoring her claws in the wall. Her claws were just about twice as long as the ice picks and now she had much more grip on her back legs. She clambered over to North and nodded to her back. He seemed reluctant but sighed, "If you fall we're screwed." he warned before climbing on, disconnecting the rope from his harness and getting a grip on her spines.

She was moving much faster, occasionally her claws would slide and North would completely tense up hanging on to her spines as tight as he could get his hands to grip. He would stay tense until a good five minutes after she was resituated and continued climbing down. She could feel when the walls started to close in. It got tight fast, and her tail was the first to get stuck. She started to lash it a little, feeling the ice cracking around her tail.

"It gets pretty claustrophobic pretty quick. I don't think you're going to fit." North observed, looking down.

She chuffed, yanking her tail free, then looked down at the hole she would need to find a way down. As a human she wouldn't have much of a problem getting through it. She couldn't really control when she would change back, and if she did she wouldn't be able to get a grip on the ice. There was really only one thing left to do.

"Ok, so what if you stay here, and I go down and find out what's happening." North suggested.

She shifted enough to see the hole below and glanced at her claws then sunk them into the wall, pulling them out through the ice, shredding it. She started slashing, slashing, slashing, cutting the hole larger.

"Or you could just cut your way down, why not." North snarked, before turning his attention to hanging on.

At first there was just a little bit of snow drifting down. It was falling from the hole above his head. He started to look up as chunks of ice started to splash in the water around him. It was just below his chest, but he could still lean down on the ice chuck and keep his head above water. More and more started to come tumbling down, was it a cave-in? He couldn't tell, but he decided he'd rather die to being buried alive than drowning. He shut his eyes and waited stifling his sniffling. But then there was a new sound. A very grating noise but unmistakable, the sound of breaking ice!

The fact that she was able to basically dig her way down, though yes the tunnel had already been started, was really impressing North. He knew rusttooths were powerful but this was wild. She was clawing massive pieces out of the wall and crushing them as they fell. At first it sort of confused him but then he understood, if Sky was at the bottom of this hole she didn't want him to get crushed.

Just as he was wondering how much longer this was going to take the floor she had carved gave out. They were in free fall, but Jupiter handled this well. She glanced down and saw where they were falling, right on top of a familiar figure! She took a swipe at the nearest wall before it was out of her reach. She wasn't trying to catch herself though. When she hit it she pushed herself away, changing their landing point.

Landing was a big rough on her joints but she landed on all found and bent to absorb the shock before towards North, who was already jumping off her back and running towards Sky. She took off after him, splashing through the water.

North knelt down beside Sky and pulled him into a hug seeing the state he was in. Shivering, crying, bruised and bleeding. Sky couldn't really speak, he was so tired, and it all hurt so bad, but he was safe now. They were here, they would save him. He stayed tucked against North, unable to do much else than hope North would understand what was wrong.

"I got you buddy, you're gonna be ok." North kept a hand on Sky's back then looked down. So that was it, he was stuck. "Ju, he's wedged, you're gonna need to dig him out."

She looked where he was pointing and nodded. She raised then jammed her claws through the water into the ice. She did this over and over going all the way around. Then she started to dig, cracks forming between the holes as pieces started to come away. Sky relaxed the more ice she pulled away until they could pull him out. From there North climbed back on Jupiter's back and made sure he was hanging on tight to her with one hand and to Sky with the other.

The climb up was far easier than the climb down for Jupiter. The way down had been a slow process of setting her claws in a spot she thought she could trust but then carefully putting her weight into it as she tested to see if she had hooked her claws in deep enough. She could practically run up the sides. Her claws sunk in much more naturally and her muscles were primed to work this direction.

As soon as they were back above ground Jupiter headed back towards the camp. The fire had gone out again and it was starting to get dark, so rekindling it was North's first priority. He climbed off and helped Sky down before heading over to the lighter.

"Ju, think you can change back?"

She shook her head and sat down turning to Sky and very carefully scooting him against her. Her monstrous form was radiating heat, how it kept her moving in the cold. It meant she would have to eat more frequently, but that wouldn't be much of a problem as long as they got out of here soon.

Sky cuddled into her underside, he was freezing and soaked. She did a good job blocking out the wind and trapping heat under her. She lowered her head and nuzzled him carefully, chuffing quietly.

North got the fire going, Jupiter was still stuck in rust form but didn't seem to mind. She was basically big enough to stand in for a tent, and when the snow started falling she was happy to play the part. She sat up, and Sky and North sat beneath her, North tending to Sky's wounds. Sky was able to tell them about the broken ribs, and North made sure his bloody fingers and scrapes were bandaged.          

[creepingsharia]

“Burned Alive”: Muslim Persecution of Christians, June 2020

This report fails to note the continued shut down of churches in the U.S. by tyrannical governors, and the bombing/arson of churches by leftists and anti-maskers.

07/27/2020 by Raymond Ibrahim

Cutfitri Handayani, Indonesia woman whose children were taken from her for converting to Christianity

The following are among the abuses Muslims inflicted on Christians throughout the month of June 2020:

The Slaughter of Christians

Nigeria:  The jihad on Christians continued unabated in the West Africa nation. In what police described as a “brutal assault,” suspected Muslims raped and slaughtered Uwaila Vera Omozuwa, a 22-year-old Christian girl who was studying inside Redeemed Christian Church of God in Benin City. “We are all devastated by her death,” a spokesman of the church said, before explaining: “She [had] decided to do some private studies during the lockdown because the church was peaceful. She’s been taking the key from the parish pastor and returning it after her studies.”  The slain girl’s mother described what happened after she heard of the attack on the church:

I ran [to the church] but before I got there, they took her to a private hospital and when I saw my daughter, I cried. They raped her; the dress she was wearing that morning was white. The white had turned to red; all her body was full of blood….  My daughter was very kind and very intelligent and disciplined. We had just celebrated her admission to university.

In a separate incident, Muslim Fulani herdsmen entered a Christian owned mini-store and shot to death its owner and four other Christians. They did not steal anything from the store or the victims’ bodies.  Despite the presence of armed security, the terrorists were able to open fire for a full ten minutes, before absconding without a trace.  In response, Ibrahim Agu Iliya, a Christian man, assembled and led a team of unarmed civilians to apprehend the murderers.  He said,

These Muslim Fulani herdsmen have been attacking our communities because we are Christians.  Their desire is to take over our lands, force us to become Muslims, and if we decline, they kill us….The government’s inability to stop these Muslim Fulani herdsmen is because the government is being controlled by Fulani political leaders headed by Muhammadu Buhari, Nigeria’s president, who’s also a Fulani man.

Sunday Samuel—who witnessed and survived the attack, and whose 42-year-old slain sister Asabe Samuel was the store owner—agreed:

I strongly believe that some of these security personnel who are Muslims are conniving with these armed men to attack our people. These killings of Christians here are just too much of a pressure on us, and the sad reality is that our people have made representations to the government at both the state and federal levels and nothing has been done.

In another massacre on June 3—fresh on the heels of a May terror attack in the same region, where “more than 30 corpses of slain Christians still lay in nearby villages”—Muslim Fulani herdsmen shot or hacked to death with machetes nine Christians, most of them church-attending women and children; a three-year-old was seriously wounded.  Seven other Christians were kidnapped at gun point.

Burkina Faso:  “Christians were among those targeted and killed,” a June 5 report found, after “armed jihadists launched three separate attacks … that left at least 58 dead,” including children; dozens were also injured.  A “contact reported that it was clear from the testimony of a survivor that the militants were targeting Christians and humanitarians taking food to an internally displaced people camp, where many mainly-Christian villagers had taken refuge after fleeing prior jihadi violence.”  Any of their intended victims which the terrorists discovered were Muslim were spared.  A survivor recalled how the driver of his truck had cried “forgive, forgive, we are also followers of the prophet Muhammad!” This caused one of the terrorists to turn to the others and say, “They have the same religion with us,” which prompted an end to the attack on that vehicle. “Jihadi attacks on Christians in the African nation have been on the rise,” the report added:  “Last December, at least 14 people were killed when gunmen stormed a Protestant church service… Last April, gunmen killed a Protestant pastor and five other Christians who were leaving a worship service.”

Mali: During near simultaneous raids on three Christian majority villages, “suspected Islamic radicals killed at least 27 people, some of whom were burned alive,” a June 4 report said:

Mali has been in chaos since 2012, when al Qaeda-linked jihadists seized the northern two-thirds of the country. French forces intervened the following year to drive them back, but the militants have since regrouped and expanded their operations into neighbouring countries such as Burkina Faso and Niger.

A separate report elaborates:

Mali suffered its worst year of extremist violence in seven years in 2019. Jihadi militants carried out murderous attacks in the north and central area, laying waste to Christian villages and causing hundreds to flee with only the clothes on their backs. In one of the worst attacks, in June 2019, at least 100 men, women and children were slaughtered in Sobame Da, a mainly-Christian village in the Mopti region of central Mali.

Pakistan:  On June 4, Muslim neighbors attacked a Christian family for purchasing a home in what they claimed was a “Muslim neighborhood.”  Despite being operated on five times, the father, Nadeem Joseph—who along with his mother-in-law was shot—succumbed to his wounds and died in a hospital on June 29.  Prior to the attack, the Christian family’s Muslim neighbors had regularly harassed them—including by damaging their home, riding loud motorcycles in front of it, and calling them “chooras,” a derogatory term meaning “unclean Christians.”  Before he died, Joseph had made a video from his hospital bed explaining what happened: “I am feeling scared even in the hospital,” he said. “I fear [for] my life and my family[’s]….  A month ago, I purchased a house in TV Colony. I still have to make the final payments to the seller, but Salman Khan, a Muslim in the neighborhood, has started harassing my family.”  After asking him to leave the neighborhood, because it was “meant for Muslim residents only,” Khan exclaimed: “How dare a Christian family live amid Muslims?…  Christians and Jews are the opponents of Muslims.  Therefore, you cannot stay in this house.”   It was then that Khan opened fire on Joseph and his family; he was shot twice in the stomach, and his mother-in-law in the shoulder.

In a separate incident, police killed a man after he cited his Christian faith as reason not to falsify his testimony, which they were urging him to do.  On June 22, police broke into the home of Waqar Masih.  According to the Christian:

Arif Jutt, a policeman, along with his others illegally barged into my house.  They searched for my father [Younis] and threw him down from his bed. They beat my father with their guns and continuously kicked him in stomach. My father could not survive the torture and breathed his last immediately.

Police were trying to get Younas to recant his eyewitness testimony against a Muslim family accused of murder.  When beating him did not yield results, they tried to bribe him.   “I am a Christian and I will never cheat and get bribed,” Younis had responded.  “My father’s deep commitment to his faith made the policemen aggressive,” Waqar continued. “During the attack, one of the officers shouted, ‘We will teach him a lesson for insulting us!’”

Sudan:  On June 6 in Omdurman, a number of mosque leaders called on the faithful to rid their “Muslim area” of South Sudanese Christians, prompting Muslims to rise up against and beat—and in one instance, kill—Christians. According to the report, “The mosque leaders told those at the evening prayer that the South Sudanese were infidels, criminals and brewers of alcohol, which is forbidden in Islam.”  In one of the attacks to follow, “three young Muslim men with rods, sticks and rifles subsequently beat two Christians.”  According to a source, “The attack left one of the two Christians [an 18-year-old] in critical condition after sustaining injuries on his head.  The Muslims who consider the area Muslim territory were shouting, ‘They [South Sudanese Christians] must leave this place by force.’”  Later, “mobs of young Muslim men” set fire to 16 make-shift shelters of plastic sheeting that had sheltered South Sudanese Christians, causing them to flee; 10 were injured in the assault, including one woman. Speaking afterwards, she said, “Muslim men have long harassed Christian women…  This issue is disturbing us, and it is not acceptable—but what can we do, oh God?”

Then, on June 20, near the capital of Khartoum, “young Muslim men shouting the jihadist slogan ‘Allah Akbar [God is greater]’ stabbed a [35-year-old] Christian to death in a street assault on him…  Mariel Bang is survived by his wife and four children ranging in age from 1 to 4 years old.”  Four other Christians who were traveling with Bang—three of whom were women—were also beaten, one left in critical condition.  “We will burn this place,” one of the assailants was heard to say.

Mozambique: “It was fierce, cruel and lasted three days,” a nun said of a jihadi raid on the town of Macomia that began on May 28 and continued for three days. She and the other Teresian Carmelite Sisters of Saint Joseph, who have served Macomia for 16 years, had temporarily fled their school and boarding house.   They returned on June 4, “even though the danger had by no means receded,” said Sister Blanca Nubia Castaño, because they were hoping, “at the very least to be able to visit (our) employees and their families and help them and give them new courage”:

As a result of this barbarism, the town center was completely destroyed, the majority of the administrative infrastructure was damaged and the commercial and shopping center was reduced to ashes….  We still don’t know the number of civilian victims or those of the security forces. On June 3, people slowly began to return to their homes, some of which had been burned, while others had been looted…. Our mission was saved because it is situated in the hills, close to a military base.

According to the report, “Since the end of 2017, violence in the region has claimed the more than 1100 lives” and “caused the displacement of some 200,000 people.”

Attacks on Apostates

Indonesia:  On June 17, Cutfitri (or Zulfitri) Handayani, a woman who converted from Islam to Christianity, uploaded an impassioned video recording (with English subtitles) describing her ordeals at the hands of her family, while regularly asking, “Is it wrong to have another religion? Is Christianity wrong?”  Among other abuses, her Muslim family and that of her ex-husband took custody of her two young sons, and falsely claimed that she had been kidnapped.  During her pleading, which was interrupted by uncontrollable weeping, she begged her sister to “please leave [at least] one of my children, don’t take them both….  How can you, my own family, seize my own children—are you happy at my condition, suffering without my children?”  She said that her sister would eventually surrender the young children to their father, who, Handayani hinted, is engaged in illegal activities.  “I beg you sister, reveal the truth, don’t slander [innocent] people.” She revealed that she was told that, in order for her children to be returned to her, she would first have to “return to Islam,” to which she replied, “even if it means I be murdered, I will never return there, because my faith belongs here, in Christianity!”

Uganda:  Muslims beat a Muslim convert to Christianity and his wife for refusing to recant, and torched their home.  Marijan Olupot, formerly an Islamic sheikh, had secretly embraced Christianity on Christmas Day 2019.  Later in May, he confessed his conversion to his two wives.  One joined him, the other refused—and reported the matter to a local Muslim leader, who publicized the apostasy among the local Muslim population. Accordingly, on June 8, around 11:30 pm, Muslim villagers surrounded and torched the convert’s home.  He, his wife, and three children—10, 12, and 14—barely managed to escape from the rear exit door.  “Unfortunately as we were fleeing in the night, the attackers managed to get hold of my wife and beat her with sticks, injuring her left hand and back and the right leg, but thank God my Christian neighbors rescued her,” the fugitive apostate explained:

As we were fleeing, I heard one of the Muslims, named Hamuza, calling out that the house should be completely destroyed [at which point the house was set on fire]…. We need prayers at this trying moment, as the Muslims are out to kill me.  My other wife is scheming for my death.

In a separate but similar incident, Muslims “beat a Christian convert with sticks and burned his home for refusing to renounce Christ,” a June 22 report said.  According to the 27-year-old apostate from Islam, he refused to open his door after area Muslims came knocking at night.  So, “[t]hey destroyed the door and made entry, but I escaped through the rear door.  They followed me and got hold of me and began beating me up. Neighbors came when I screamed for help.”   After a neighbor took him to, and while he was being treated in a hospital, the same Muslims “returned to his house and set it on fire,” he said.

General Abuse of Christians

Pakistan:  A Christian man and his family were essentially enslaved and abused “for their Christian faith,” a human rights activist said in a June 24 report.  Earlier in 2015, Bashir Masih, a Christian man, had agreed to be Ali Babar Waraich’s servant for an advance sum equivalent to $2,397 USD.  After five years of labor, not only did his Muslim “master” refuse to release Bashir and his family from their indentured servitude, but it was revealed that he had been abusing them.  According to Dr. Riaz Aasi, who is closely acquainted with this case,

During Waraich’s custody, Bashir and his wife were beaten and abused for their Christian faith.  However, Bashir [was] never hesitant to proclaim and practice his faith….  As a result of continuous years of abuse, Bashir’s legs have twisted, and he can’t walk without support.  Bashir has never been provided with medical aid for his legs….  Christian victims of bounded labor are voiceless.  They are extremely pressurized and threatened in the villages by landlords, resulting in the loss of their courage to speak against injustice. They prefer to suffer rather than raising their voices for justice. Therefore, victims in most cases keep silent to protect their families. Bashir went through the same experience.

In a separate but similar incident, a Christian teenager was sexually assaulted by his Muslim employer in early June; the boy’s father and brother were also beaten for trying to seek justice for him.  Saim Masih, 13, began working for Muhammad Tauseef to pay off his father’s loan from the Muslim (equivalent to $2,128 USD).  After a year’s worth of work, Saim’s father argued that the debt had been paid and that his son’s salary would need to be raised if Muhammad wanted the youth to continue working for him.  The Muslim “got irritated and rejected the demand,” a human rights activist explained.  He beat the father while calling him “a ‘choora,’ a derogatory term used to denote Pakistani Christians as untouchable.”  He then “began beating and sexually assaulting” the 13-year-old boy, to quote his older brother, Saqar.   However, when Saqar went to police to register a complaint against Muhammad, “police refused the application and abused Saqar,” who “was then pressurized to withdraw the application, but he refused.”  As a result, on June 5, the older brother went “missing for about 30 hours. When he was found, his body was covered with multiple injuries.” Masked men also threatened the father and other family members to drop the complaint.  “To date,” concludes the June 19 report, “local police have done little to protect Saim or his family. This is likely due to the religious bias faced by Christians in Pakistan.”

Finally, in a June 14 report, Hannah Chowdhry, a Pakistani human rights activist, offered more details concerning a church attack that occurred on May 9, when a Muslim mob trying “to take advantage “of the coronavirus lockdown … attempted to break into the church in a bid to illegally wrestle the property from its rightful owners.”  She elaborated:

There were two mafia gang members who brought five or six other men with them with guns and pistols….  They broke down the outer wall of the church. There was a cemented cross as well that they broke down and threw on the floor and they tried to break into the church….   Although the people are terrified about what has happened, they have started up services in the church again …. This happens on a regular basis and we just have to make people aware of what is happening around the world…. It’s devastating that this is still happening even during the pandemic.

Another rights activist added that authorities should but rarely take action against such land-grabbers; this “creates fear in local congregations and takes away their freedom to practice their faith.”

Iraq:  On June 2, “suspicious fires” consumed over 240 acres of mostly Christian land in the Nineveh district; they severely damaged “the livelihoods of those who are attempting to rebuild their lives following displacement from the Islamic State (ISIS).”  According to the report,

This is not the first instance of crop fires being set in Nineveh. Many residents are quick to blame either ISIS or the PMF (Popular Mobilization Forces), an Iranian-backed militia which controls the territory. The PMF is also a strong supporter of the Shabak, an ethnic [but Muslim] minority who also suffered persecution under ISIS but emerged from the genocide in a position of strength. There are often tensions between the Shabak and Christians, especially as the Shabak have moved into Christian areas in a sometimes forceful manner.

Separately, according to a report, Turkish airstrikes ostensibly targeting members of the Kurdish Workers’ Party (PKK) “impacted [several] villages” which are “home to Christian communities”: “Hundreds of Christian families who fled Mosul and the Nineveh Plains during the 2014 ISIS attacks now live in Zakho, one of the areas targeted by Turkey’s raids. Many of these Christians have been displaced once again.”

Syria: According to a June 17 report, an Aramean Christian woman “became terrified” when she discovered that two Kurdish militiamen had dug a tunnel that ended up in the backyard of her house.  “Aramean Christians across Northeast Syria have been complaining more than once about this military strategy that is being employed by the PYD/YPG [People’s Kurdish Protection Unit’s] Kurds.”  The brothers of the woman, “a respected deaconess in one of the local churches in Qamishli,” met with local Kurdish leaders in an effort to “get them to close the hole and find another tunnel exit.”

After the request was approved, one of the Kurdish representatives in Qamishli frightened the family, telling them: “These are our houses. In ten years, none of you will be left here and then your homes will be ours anyway.” This latest case has shocked the vulnerable Aramean woman who is afraid to stay at home alone and can’t sleep peacefully. The Arameans, who in the last years have been living under the Kurdish yoke in occupied Northeast Syria, have frequently been victims of the YPG’s scare tactics, intimidations, threats, oppression and (lethal) violence.

Commenting on these Kurdish tunnels that often presage the confiscation of Christian properties, a representative of the World Council of Arameans, said,

Everyone knows about it, but nobody knows whether or not a tunnel has been dug under their own house….  YPG Kurds target the native Arameans and their ancestral lands so that the latter will be turned into war zones from which the defenseless Christians will inevitably want to flee.

Raymond Ibrahim, author most recently of Sword and Scimitar, Fourteen Centuries of War between Islam and the West, is a Distinguished Senior Fellow at the Gatestone Institute, a Shillman Fellow at the David Horowitz Freedom Center, and a Judith Rosen Friedman Fellow at the Middle East Forum.

About this Series

The persecution of Christians in the Islamic world has become endemic.  Accordingly, “Muslim Persecution of Christians” was developed in 2011 to collate some—by no means all—of the instances of persecution that occur or are reported each month. It serves two purposes:

1)          To document that which the mainstream media does not: the habitual, if not chronic, persecution of Christians.

2)          To show that such persecution is not “random,” but systematic and interrelated—that it is rooted in a worldview inspired by Islamic Sharia.

Accordingly, whatever the anecdote of persecution, it typically fits under a specific theme, including hatred for churches and other Christian symbols; apostasy, blasphemy, and proselytism laws that criminalize and sometimes punish with death those who “offend” Islam; sexual abuse of Christian women; forced conversions to Islam;  theft and plunder in lieu of jizya (financial tribute expected from non-Muslims); overall expectations for Christians to behave like cowed dhimmis, or second-class, “tolerated” citizens; and simple violence and murder. Sometimes it is a combination thereof.

Because these accounts of persecution span different ethnicities, languages, and locales—from Morocco in the West, to Indonesia in the East—it should be clear that one thing alone binds them: Islam—whether the strict application of Islamic Sharia law, or the supremacist culture born of it.

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