#Out of the entire world despite solid evidence to the contrary

[freebooter4ever]

😭😭😭

[omegalomania]

ive got a one free sincere poetical diatribe coupon that expires this week so im cashing it in on waxing lyrical about my favorite band for a minute cause im stupidly sleep deprived and its gonna be a long night so

the thing is this.

the thing is that maybe there isnt quite magic in this world but theres something to be said for the pure unfettered serendipity of a million little things conspiring to have certain peoples paths cross and the way this can change entire worlds. maybe i dont believe in magic but i believe in the unshakable fucking certainty that a 17 year old joe trohman had when he met a 17 year old patrick stump in a bookstore by sheer chance and listened to his demos and Knowing that he should sing despite patrick not being a singer and not particularly wanting to sing. i believe in the stone cold rock solid belief this kid had in this other kids voice to the point where he dragged his buddy over to his house to prove he had the pipes they needed. i believe in pete wentz hearing patrick stump sing in person for the first time and realizing wait, yeah, actually hes our golden fucking ticket. i believe in the last second just before patrick was about to get on the kit to record the drums for take this to your grave, andy hurley comes swinging in fresh from recording an ep with another band and knocking out every drum part damn near flawlessly. i believe in a band of scrappy dumb punk kids who grew up in the suburbs of the midwest and took over the world and didnt plan for any of it to get as big as it did. i believe in this weird fucking band with their weird fucking idiosyncrasies, this band of four guys who dont look like they should be friends let alone making music together: a heavily tattooed vegan straightedge beefcake drummer, the ambitious visionary bassist with the 50-megawatt grin, the tattoo-sleeved lanky guitarist with an inescapable rock 'n roll bent, the pixie-pale and painfully anxious frontman with the voice of a soul singer.

i believe theres a special kind of chemistry that only makes sense with the four of them, together. its the guy with the visuals and the words, this bassist who was supposed to be a lawyer or a star soccer player but instead crafts stories from the narratives he crafts in his head. its this guitarist with his love for the interleaving of sounds and ability to seamlessly jump from front-facing to incredibly restrained and his indelible blues-rock momentum. its this singer who never intended to sing but whose soaring, clear tenor is so utterly distinct that he quickly became one of the most iconic and versatile vocalists in the genre, if not in the world of music in general. its this hardcore drummer who pulls everything together and forms the throbbing heartbeat of the band, whose grit-edged metalcore backbone not even the poppiest of all pop choruses can truly file away.

i believe in this: andy hurley's unshakable faith that the band would reform during the hiatus, despite all evidence to the contrary. patrick stump writing the song that would become "miss missing you" for his solo record but then setting it aside because it didnt feel like it was for him, again, despite every indication that for all anyone knew, fall out boy was done for good. pete wentz, moved by a miserable blog post from his split-up bands singer, reaching out and sparking what was unheard of, especially for bands like them - a renaissance, a successful resurgence, and one of the best comebacks any musical act can say theyve had in decades. joe trohman picking up the phone and preparing to tell patrick stump that he wasn't ready to go back and do the band again if he wasn't going to be writing music, only for patrick to take the words out of his mouth and insist that he should be writing more and he was too talented a writer for them not to allow him space for that.

i believe in the little things. i believe in a band that was never expected to last a summer but has become an indelible part of music history, naysayers be damned. i believe in the unique chemistry of four guys who have no monetary or logistical reason to continue doing this thing aside from the fact that they love it so - they love the process of creating with one another, and they love the car crash hearts whose hearts beat in sync with theirs. i believe in joe listening to the first pass of "fake out" exactly once, picking up an acoustic guitar, and walking into record the instrumentation that ultimately pulled the entire song together in one take without thinking twice about it. i believe in andy simply knowing that "heaven, iowa" would make the final cut of the record despite patricks reticence and his not knowing how to make the song something he could say he was proud of. i believe in pete pouring some of his most vulnerable feelings into his, fearful of how well they will be accepted but making that leap nonetheless, only for the crowds to sing every single word back to him.

maybe theres no such thing as magic or fate and maybe theres no point. but i think of stardust. i think of four guys who poured so much love and time into this record and named it for stardust and i think of them as this: fistfuls of cosmic dust who all sprang from the same etiology. i think of them and its a romantic fucking notion but i allow myself this, i entertain the thought that when the cosmos formed and the detonation of planets and the dissolution of comets created that far-flung scatter of so much (for) stardust, that starry residue liberally dotting the broad span of the black, the four of them all came from the same origin point and like magnets ended up snapping together and thats the way theyve stayed. for years. for decades.

what i guess im trying to say is this: when the universe formed we all came from stardust and we will all return to stardust and i cant help but wonder if those four guys all came from the same stardust too.

like i said. its a romantic fucking notion. i believe in the little things though. and you know what they say about believers (never die).

[bakuhoes-dumbass]

Aberration - Chapter 2

MHA!Various x Fem!Reader

Thriller/Horror/Drama

Criminal!AU

Words: 1.5k

A/N: Yay, here’s the second chapter of my new AU! It’s a little shorter but I promise chapters will get longer as we go.

Warnings: Yandere Themes, Mentions of murder, blood, felonies, bullying, swearing.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of MHA, just this story. In no way does this reflect the characters, writers or VAs of the show/manga. MINORS DNI.

~~~

Aberration Masterlist

~~~

"Now, on to your next subject. Inmate 04, Eijiro Kirishima." You flip the page of your inmate profiles to see a picture of a red-haired man. "He is of a higher danger level, so make sure to keep your guard up. And for the love of God, under any circumstances…

Do not touch him."

Only slightly acknowledging his warning, you look down at your notes, eyebrows shooting up in surprise at the words on the page. "He suffers from Erotomania? Interesting…"

Aizawa nods. "Ah, yes. A very rare condition indeed, especially in males. The affected person strongly believes that another individual is in love with them. This delusion develops and persists despite clear evidence to the contrary."

"That's a very exciting find. I can't wait to meet him." Your eyes light up, quite intrigued.

Aizawa sighs and gestures with his head. "Follow me."

Kirishima's room was only a few doors down from Tokoyami's. Once again, Aizawa presses his hand to a key code and you hear the door unlock, following a buzzer. You slowly make your way into the room. It mirrors Tokoyami's down to the last detail, the only difference being a redhead was currently doing pushups.

He barely acknowledges a person stepping into his room, eyes flitting to your form and back to the ground. It takes him a moment to realize it was someone new. As soon as he does, his eyes widen and he springs onto his feet, slightly startling you.

"Oh! Hello there! You're new!"

You nod your head and smile at the red-head. "That I am. My name is Y/N and I'm the newest scientist at this facility. My role here is to get to know and observe you all to help further our findings for a cure." You choose to leave out the 'friends' part, as something about him makes you weary. You don't need anything being misinterpreted.

"Hello there, Y/N! My name is Kirishima!" He takes a step towards you but is suddenly stopped by a lower force. You look down to see his ankles chained to the heavy-duty bed frame, connected to him by quirk-canceling cuffs. You look back up to see him looking at you intensely, with a shark-toothed smile. "Man, you're really pretty!"

You swallow thickly, but keep your smile. "That's very kind of you to say, Kirishima. Now, if I may." You take a seat at the desk like you did with Tokoyami. Kirishima follows suit and sits across from you on the bed. His smile never wavers, making you slightly uneasy. You ignore it and turn to a blank page in your notebook. "Now, if you could please state your full name, age and date of birth?"

He gives you a chuckle and points to himself proudly with his thumb. "I'M Eijiro Kirishima! I'm 22 years old and my Birthday is October 16th!"

You giggle softly at his extroverted personality. "Ahh, same birth month as Tokoyami." You mumble to yourself. His ears perked up and his smile faltered slightly.

"You met Tokoyami already?"

"Hm?" You look up and smile fondly. "Ah yes, I have. He was the first one. A very nice young man."

You look back down at your notes, failing to see Kirishima's eye twitch slightly. He returns to his signature smile as you look up at him again. "And what is your quirk?"

"Oh, it's so cool! I can harden my entire body to an extreme. I can make myself a shield or a weapon! Pretty manly, am I right?" Kirishima wiggles his eyebrows at you, causing you to chuckle.

"That is definitely a unique one, Kiri." You, once again, fail to notice the way his eyes light up at the nickname, too busy looking down at your notes. "Now I see here that you've been charged with Stalking and 2 counts of second degree murder. Is that correct?"

"Yup! Although I don't understand how it would be considered 'Stalking', when she always knew I was around. She was okay with it, too! I mean, we WERE in love, you know." He furrows his brows.

You raise a brow and write down everything he says. "Care to continue explaining what happened? Why were you brought into this facility?"

Kirishima sighs and rests his chin on his hand, a dazed look on his face. "Well, you see. There was this girl. We were totally, completely head over heels for each other. You've probably heard of her, Kim Hyuna?"

Your eyebrows shoot up. Yeah, you heard of her. She is one of the biggest idols around right now, extremely pretty and extremely talented. She has millions of fans from around the world. You already can see where the direction of this story is headed.

He continues with a wide smile. "We used to go out on dates everywhere. To the mall, the salon, even to her dorms. We were so in love." His dazed expression turns sour. "Then that stupid boy shows up outta nowhere. He took her from me. He dared to take something so precious from me. So, I couldn't take it anymore and, uh, kinda killed them."

You watched him rub the back of his neck sheepishly, like the situation was no more than a mere broken dish he dropped on accident. You nod your head carefully, writing the last bit of information down. Clicking your pen, you look up and give the young man a fake smile.

"Well, that's it for today, Kirishima. I must take my leave, but I'll be back to run some tests soon."

Kirishima frowns and quickly stands up. "W-Wait, already?"

You gather up your notes and clipboard. "Yes, unfortunately. I do have some other patients I need to get to before-" as you go to stand up, your foot gets caught under the chair leg and you trip. You accidentally fall forward and into something hard. Looking up, you realized you fell against Kirishima himself, your hands splayed out against his chest.

His eyes widen, staring down at your hands against his chest, something shifting in his eyes. Before you're able to pull your hands away, his own reach up and snatch your wrists, holding them in place. A blush appears on the apples of his cheeks.

"Y-Y/N. I-I had no idea you felt the same."

Your eyes widen in fear. You attempt to tug your hands away, but his iron grip tightens into a bruising force. "Kirishima, I would advise you to kindly let go of me. Please, don't misunderstand the situation."

His grin widens, showcasing his sharp teeth. Red eyes bore into yours with a wild look. You hear the door buzz behind you and a flood of voices coming in. You feel a pair of arms reach around you and hands grip your elbows. Two pairs of hands each grab Kirishima by the arms and force him to release his grip on you. You watched two of Aizawa's assistants hold down a struggling Kirishima as you were forcibly dragged out of his room.

Once safely outside, you were spun around to meet the eyes of a fuming and worried doctor. "Are you alright, Y/N?" Aizawa's eyes travel along your body, doing a quick examination to make sure nothing was injured.

You nod your head and rotate your slightly bruised wrists. "Y-Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little shaken up."

Aizawa sighs. "Didn't I say NOT to touch him? His obsession tends to solidify with physical contact."

You wince. "I know. This time it was an accident. I tripped and he just happened to, uh, be the 'wall' I fell against." You think back to the moment you fell against Kirishima. His chest felt almost rock solid, not like a normal human body would be. Now you're thinking that his quirk leaked through the cuffs and that thought scares you.

"Nobody said you were clumsy when you were hired," he sighs and runs a hand down his tired face. "There are still 9 other inmates you need to check with. And 6 out of the 9 are above Kirishima's danger level. Are you still up for it today?"

You shake out your hands and nod your head. "Yes! I am. A little scare never bothered me. This is my job."

Aizawa hummed in reply and flipped through his clipboard, stopping on a page. "Inmate 09, Keigo Takami. Mafia leader. He's a level 7 as well, but doesn't have delusions like Inmate 04 does. While he's very dangerous, he's a little more tolerable." Aizawa hesitates before continuing. "Er, minus the excessive flirting."

You sigh and flip through Keigo's information. "Oh goodie. Well, let's get this over with." You follow Aizawa to Keigo's door and once it buzzes, you enter the pristine, white room.

"Good afternoon Mr. Keigo, my name is Y/N and I'll-" You look up from your notes to see a half naked man with blonde hair and bright red bird wings lounging on his bed. Your jaw drops and you hold your clipboard up in front of your suddenly heated face.

Keigo looks over to you with his brows raised. "Well well, looks like we've got ourselves a new baby bird. How…" The handsome man's lips turn up into a cocky smirk.

"...interesting."

~~~

Taglist: @theblueslytherin @sterassion @somechick30003 @meena-in-a-nutshell @justtj-andnonumberspls @zombieonna @amajikiwife @yulifee @atexansadventureintokinkandlife @ep-ip-ha-ny @hcneymilkks @pastelmoonwitche @stayarmytinyzenmoa-l @railmeddy @unlimitedfirepheonix @confaegion @drownedbytears @burntcrips @silverqueenie @the-lady-writes-what @awkward-confused @themotherofmoons @ihaveakoreanseoul @1-800-multifandomness @tragically-here @andyronii @sunnnyshark @henhouse-horrors  @dabis-s-whore 

(If your name is bolded, I couldn’t tag you)

[ellsbclls]

The Fire Escape

warnings ➛ A couple of swear words here and there, mentions of death, endgame spoilers, and a dash of far from home erasure.

word count ➛ 4.7K

synopsis ➛ After the events of End Game, Peter Parker takes a break from his crime fighting persona, but when Spider-Man is called to a mission in Sokovia, he realizes that you might not be ready to handle the life of an Avenger’s girlfriend. There’s a little bit of angst, but not enough to keep you up at night.

“Y/N… Earth to Y/N.”

Peter ropes you back to reality with a light squeeze of your hand, a simple gesture that you return two-fold. On normal dates, the competition would ignite almost immediately, squeezing each other’s hands back and forth, under varying degrees of pressure, until one of you cried uncle — but this is far from a normal date.

It had started innocently enough. Peter had begged Dr.Banner to let him leave his “internship” an hour early just so he could surprise you at work. You assumed — after some superb groveling on Peter’s part — that Bruce agreed, because the end of your shift was met with a parchment wrapped dozen of blushing roses, accompanied by your equally blushing boyfriend. The two of you were able to snag one of the emptier carts on the N train, and were accompanied by a small Greek woman who sent a warm smile when you nestled your head into Peter’s shoulder. The smile disappeared as soon as he started using the poles as his personal jungle gym, but your laugh made up for its loss as he offered his hand out, begging you to join him with a Gene Kelly-esque flair. He ushered you into one of your favorite ramen places during your stroll down Ditmars, pulling out your chair when you were given a table, pretending not to notice how you snuck a noodle or two from his bowl when he wasn’t looking. Your heart felt so warm, you’re surprised it didn’t melt.

So why does everything seem so off now? You and Peter are walking side by side down 37th avenue, he’s rambling excitedly about some new enhancement he made to his web slingers, the evening breeze is kissing your cheeks as it waltzes around the autumn foliage, and somehow, you feel like you’re in the eye of a hurricane.

“Where’d you go?” Peter tries to reel you back in once more and succeeds, craning his head to meet your gaze.

“Oh, just a quick jog.” you tease. There’s a thin edge underlying your sarcasm, and you wonder if he can hear it, too. You’re only a block away from your apartment, and the tiny voice in the back of your mind rationalizes that nothing could ruin your impromptu date night if you were tucked away in your home — because you always feel safe when you’re home. Yet, with no solid evidence to confirm or deny the thought, you’re in a race with the block to dig through your purse.

“Oh, well don’t forget to warm up.” he teases back. His caramel hues, once alight with a mirthful glint, start to descend into an uneasy resolve that only confirms your suspicions, but you’re too occupied by the whereabouts of your keys to notice. “Speaking of warm up, actually, there’s something I have to ask you.”

“Shoot.” you reply offhandedly.

“Well, I- I don’t know how to say this.” The tremor in his voice is subtle, but just present enough to pull you from your search.   “There’s- uh- there’s something going on in Sokovia, or at least what’s left of it. There’s a lot of feedback coming off the maps, like a… a hotplate of cosmic activity, so Captain wants the entire team there.”

There it is — that dark cloud that hung over your head this evening finally drenches you in a sharp, cold blanket of realization. Your heart stops, aches, and then crumbles to the pit of your stomach, waiting to be washed away by the waves of terror that crash upon your airways, and despite the wash cycle of emotions you’ve just endured, you feel far from clean. In fact, everything feels heavy — from the weight of your heart to your ragged breath — paralyzed by the idea that each thump, each exhale, brings you closer to the moment where Peter has to leave.

You started dating a year and a half ago, and two years have passed since half of the population was restored to its rightful plane of existence. Iron Man’s death left a massive hole in Peter’s morale, as well as a nagging doubt that he would never be able to take on the mantle he was left with. So, for the first time since he was bitten by that radioactive spider, he cowered in the face of adversity. Not only had he lost a mentor, he had lost his friend — and when Tony Stark sacrificed his life, he was under the impression that the heroes he saved would continue to protect the world, but sometimes Peter wonders if that still reigns true. If Mr.Stark knew just how easily the team had crumbled, how easily he had crumbled, would he still leave? Three and a half years later and Peter still can’t find the answer.

Meanwhile, when it seemed like the world needed him most, Spiderman slipped into obscurity. Now he only makes an appearance when the newscast is a little too bleak to ignore, and even then, he usually sticks to the rogue bank heist or back alley mugging.

You try not to pry, knowing that each time you ask about his brief hiatus is like poking an open wound, and, albeit selfishly, you relish in the fact that your boyfriend isn’t throwing himself in harm's way. However, now seems like a better time than ever for an interrogation, seeing as this is not only the first Avengers mission he’s attended in your relationship, but the first mission to ever span past the Hudson.

No obstacle prior has conjured a looming sense of dread and anxiety as palpable as the one you’re toting now. You can already feel it bubbling in your chest, like a cauldron of endless toils, expelling a hazy fog that makes your head spin.

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t give out on me now.” You don’t realize that your knees buckled beneath you until Peter comes to your rescue, and you silently wish that all of his heroic excursions could be this simple. The warmth of his hand bleeds past your winter coat and business casual blouse as it settles against the small of your back, and your body betrays you as it melts into his touch. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually not CPR certified.”

“I- I’m sorry.” Your mouth is bone dry, and you can barely muster a laugh convincing enough to counter his attempt at humor, so you don’t. You opt on settling your gaze upon the entrance of your building, just over Peter’s shoulder, and trying to ground yourself enough to stand without his help.

Peter’s hand still lingers on your form when you shuffle away from him, moving from the small of your back to the curve of your elbow. He can tell that you’re shaken, he expected that much from the get go, so he doesn’t leave your side, encroaching on the space you so obviously seek.  

“I don’t know- I don’t…” You muster just enough courage to counter his gaze, and a tiny frown creases between your brows, confusion riddling every other feature. “What exactly are you asking me?”

He pauses, searching for the answer himself. “Well, I guess- I just wanna know how you’re feeling.”

You chalk it up to your sudden sense of irritability, but his question just pisses you off. How dare he throw out a semblance of hope, a faulty impression, that you’d have any choice in this matter. You climb the three steps up to the front door, dolled up in dismay, and still try to find purchase in the illusion that you have any control in the matter. Maybe that’s what pushes you over the deep end, your once honeyed voice now curdled by venom — the hopelessness of it all. “Oh, I’m fine! I’m amazing, Peter. After the way you buttered me up all evening, how could I possibly be upset?”

“Y/N, that’s not fair-” Peter’s visibly taken aback, his features mimicking your own. You can see the cogs turning in his head, formulating some way to diffuse this situation before it really begins, but now that the gates are opened, it’s too late for you to hold anything back.

“Why not? Cause it’s the truth?” You cut him off, freshly manicured nails digging into your palms in an attempt to keep your tone even. “Let me tell you what’s not fair — You don’t even know how long you’re gonna be gone, do you?”

You’re met with a mutual silence, which confirms just how equally unaware you both are.

“Exactly.” At this point, your nerves are getting the best of you. Whether you lay all of your feelings out to him tonight or not, a sickening thought will remain — Peter is going to leave, and there’s a chance he won’t come back. So you persist, your hues boring into his own with each word. “You don’t know what it’s like to sit in our bed and wonder if you’re gonna be in it the next morning. You don’t know how terrifying it is to watch the news and pray to god that you’re not a part of it. You’re never going to be in my shoes when it comes to all of this, and I pray to god that you never have to be because I never want you to feel this way. That’s what’s not fair.” You wish your voice hadn’t grown weaker with each blow, you wish you could utter your last few thoughts with an unwavering certainty, but you know you can’t — not when a sob threatens to bubble up from the back of your throat. “That you can just decide to swing across the globe and put your life in danger while I sit at home and worry about you, and the worst part is that it only makes me love you more.”

“Y/N, do you think this is easy for me?” he’s never raised his voice at you, especially not like this, but it looks like tonight is a series of firsts for the both of you. “I haven’t been on a mission with the Avengers since high school, since —” Since Mr.Stark died. You know.

It’s not like he didn’t try to say it, he did, but the name just felt so foreign on his tongue. After years of inactivity, the threat of unearthing all those memories, all those bright eyed, bushy tailed endeavors, was almost as bad as remembering that he was gone — or even worse, not remembering them at all. But where could he retreat to now? He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, forced to choose between the thought of losing Mr.Stark, or the thought of losing you. His thoughts are raw and earnest as he tries to placate the latter. “I don’t want to leave you. It terrifies me to think of all the things that could happen to you while I’m gone —”

“Obviously it doesn’t scare you enough, because you’re still going!” You punch the last two words, as if you’re suddenly trying to talk to him from across the street.

“I don’t have a choice, Y/N! I don’t-”

Your argument skids to a screeching halt, rivaling the groan of the metal door that guards your apartment complex, and with it appears Ms.Nunez — the single mother that lives a floor below you, whose ability to juggle her graveyard shifts at the hospital with her two rambunctious toddlers is almost as impeccable as her timing.

She appears to be in a rush as she skirts past you, but not enough to stop her from sending Peter an all too knowing look — one that screams “what did you do to that poor girl?”, with only the view of your red, puffy eyes and guarded stance to back up her assumption.

And with an opportunity so golden laying at your feet, who are you to ignore it? You catch the door before it hits the frame and slip into the yellowed entryway, barreling up the stairwell before he can question her weighted stare. You leave Peter no choice but to slip past Ms.Nunez in your pursuit, without so much as a goodbye, but a few choice words still sit on the back of his tongue, waiting to be swallowed.

Normally, the five stories of stairs leaves you winded by the third, but you chalk your superhuman stamina up to adrenaline. Luckily for you, you’re able to reach the last flight of stairs as Peter climbs up the first. Unluckily for you, you seem to forget that your boyfriend actually does have superhuman stamina, and you swear to fucking god that he’s flying up the stairwell by the time you shut the door behind you.

The door slams twice more after that, one loud bang to signal Peter’s entrance and one to punctuate it. His voice pierces through the apartment, firm and unyielding. “This conversation isn’t over, Y/N.”

He has no idea where you’ve run off to, ruling out the kitchen once he drapes his jacket over the center island. All he can hear is your voice, muffled behind one of the walls, calling out to him with little emotion to spare. “Oh, yes it is. I’m over it. It’s over.”

“Well, that’s mature.” He mutters under his breath, not expecting you to hear him, let alone respond.

“Oh, I’m so glad you think so!” You chuckle dryly, ”‘Cause your judgment of maturity is oh so rational and not at all fucking batshit.” And he thought he had enhanced hearing.

“You know what? You’re right.” He scoffs, letting the slam of the bathroom door punctuate his final words. “I’m over this, too.”

🕷 🕷 🕷

“Y/N?” Peter calls out, but to no avail. It’s on nights like these where he wishes you weren’t fighting, knowing fully well that you would command him to the bed with a downward pointing finger and the best glare you could muster. You’ve always loved the way his hair curled into soft, chestnut waves, so you didn’t mind weaving through his damp tresses before he went to sleep. You would make up some excuse about how the process helped give his curls definition, and he would always end up way too tired and relaxed to call you out on it.

You’re nowhere to be found, though. Your comforter is still as haphazard as it was this morning, and the kitchen is void of your late night snack ravaging. The only sign of your presence is found in the open window next to you bed, and way the curtains float against the evening breeze, leaving him to ponder your whereabouts at a breakneck speed. 

A million visions of paranoia screen through his mind all at once, but he’s quick to dismiss them, oddly familiar with the prospect of losing someone, and all the fretting that comes with it.

And you know better than to wander the streets of the city so late at night — but with all of the venom being spewed throughout the apartment, Peter wouldn’t be surprised if you needed a small reprieve. Even for just a quick trip to the corner market. He’s well aware of the eagle eye you sport in the moonlit streets, as well as the switchblade that sits in the side pocket of your bag, but he knows better than anyone that you have to expect the unexpected in these streets.

He pulls out his phone, ready to shoot you a quick text when the bars of the fire escape let out a metallic groan. Despite your apartment’s... adequate amenities, you’d never had a problem with the fire escape. The finicky oven? Maybe, but never the fire escape.

Even without his spidey senses tingling, he has no choice but to poke his head through the window pane, and to his surprise, he ends up killing two birds with one stone.

“I didn’t know you were out here.” Peter balances on the window sill, crouching in a near feline stance as he surveys your position — bundled between the metal grates of the fire escape and your downy comforter. Your lips are parted in a tiny “o”, eyelids blanketing your hues, and with the street lights flickering to life across the seam of thirty-eighth avenue, you’re nothing short of angelic — features now outlined in a seraphic, dewy haze.

If he wasn’t feeling guilty beforehand, the sight before him guarantees he is now.

“Yeah, that was kind of the point.” you murmur. You don’t bother to open your eyes, not even when the iron beams start to squeak under Peter’s weight. “Can I help you with something? I’m pretty sure this thing has a weight limit, and this is a weighted blanket.”

You’re met with silence, and you hate to admit it, but you’d take his silent presence over your self-induced isolation any day. Despite the fact that you only moved in together four months prior, your body has grown accustomed to his presence, subconsciously weaving it into your daily routine. There were nights when you would splay out like a starfish in your childhood bedroom, waiting restlessly for the gentle wrap of his knuckles at the window pane, and that same restlessness bleeds into nights in your shared apartment,  which then bleeds into now. Sure, you can trick your body into sleeping, but rest seems to be boroughs and islands away when Peter’s not there to wish you a good night.

A terse silence settles between the two of you, and you blink up at Peter, expecting him to break it since you surely wouldn’t.

“Why here?” Peter exceeds your expectations with his query. His gaze is fixed on Manhattan’s skyline — even from the tippy top of the complex, he can still make out the jagged glittering, crust of the city’s bustling core — and it’s then he finds the answer to his very own question.

“I used to sneak onto the fire escape at my parents place, too.” you reminisce, the corners of your lips curling into a bittersweet grin. “The apartment walls were thin, and whenever they would fight, or talk shit about something I did that day, I would just sit on the fire escape until I fell asleep.”

“How?” He breaks yet another lengthy pause, and you fight the urge to chuckle at his candor, settling with a lazy grin. “I mean, no offense, but Astoria isn’t exactly a library.”

“Yeah, but inside, I knew exactly what they were saying, how they were feeling — it was all in the air. At least out here everything just… blends together. It’s kind of peaceful in a way.”

Your voice is so timid and gentle as you recall your childhood, reflecting on moments that seem lifetimes away despite the handful of years in between. Peter’s gaze is transfixed on your profile, skating down the slope of your nose and skirting the curves of your lips until he realizes just how small you are. He tends to hold you on a pedestal, a habit he’s retained since the very beginning of your relationship, so sometimes it still baffles him to know that you can be anything but perfect — that you too can be human, and make human mistakes.

“How come I’ve never seen you out here before?” He feels like a little kid, question after question slipping past his lips before he even has the chance to filter them.

“‘Cause I haven’t had a reason to hide since I moved in with you.”

And just when he thought he couldn’t feel even guiltier, he’s soon overflowing with it. It kills him to know that you felt the need to escape, and you’ll never admit it after tonight, but he was the one who pushed you toward it.

“I’m sorry.” Peter blurts out, not expecting you to say —

“I’m sorry.”

You furrow your brows, cutting him off before he can even open his mouth to protest. “I’m just so used to my Peter. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that I’m sharing him with the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

“Hey, hey �� look at me.” His thumb traces the spot right under your eye, using his pinky to nudge the curve of your jaw upward, toward his gaze — heavy and drenched in a type of resoluteness that leaves your mouth bone dry. “It may not always seem like it, but trust me when I tell you that you’re always going to be my top priority.”

“Peter, you’re being dramatic.” You sigh, finding it hard to believe that your life could take any precedence over the safety of mankind itself.

“No, I’m being honest.” His voice, his gaze, they leave no room for protest. You feel a little awkward being the center of their attention, and so it’s a relief when they shift to the city’s skyline once more. “Look over there, you know what that is?”

“Central Park?”

“Mhm, good girl.” Crimson blooms across the valley of your cheeks at his choice of nickname, no matter how innocently he uttered it, but your attention still remains undivided. “I figured out that I can get home quicker if I cut through it.”

You quirk a brow, and he doesn’t need to ask to know exactly what you’re thinking — So what if he hasn’t figured out which trains he needs to board in order to make a dent in his homebound commute? It’s the thought that counts.

“Sometimes like to just stop for a second and watch some of the people in the park, but not in, like, a creepy way? You know what I mean?” A subtle hint of embarrassment tinges his features, but dissolves once he notices your understanding nod.  “Is there a word for that?”

“Yeah, it’s called people watching.” You snickered, trying to imagine your boyfriend and his attempts at roasting the New York natives. “MJ and I do it all the time.”

“No, but with less… shit talking.” He counters.

Ouch.

“Oh…” You’re stumped, unsure of where he’s heading and, quite frankly, a little humbled by his read. “Hmm… Carry on?”

“Well,” Peter lets his hand rest palm forward on his knee, fingers gently curled, and you’re well acquainted with the gesture. Almost instinctively, you hover your hand above his own, digits clumsily dancing with one another as he speaks, and for a fleeting second, everything is back to normal. “It’s just… mind-blowing sometimes. There’s so much life there, all at once. All of these people are just living their lives, making their way home, falling in love, falling out of love, buying overpriced hotdogs from the street vendors — The other day I saw this mom fishing her two toddlers out of that fountain on Terrace road and honestly, if they don’t end up with superpowers, I’ll be shocked.” He can tell he’s drifted wildly off track by the way you nod, slowly and unsure, as to not offend him and his train of thought. “The point is… I used to protect all of that, and it used to make me so happy.”

“You still do,” You murmur, not one to discredit the risks he does take in the name of New York. Just because his enemies aren’t held to the same caliber as, say, Thanos, doesn’t mean they aren’t worthwhile. “All that matters is that you’re doing what you can.”

You hesitantly intertwine your fingers with his, in just a delicate enough hold to let him reject it if he so chooses. Your lips softly quirk upward when he only tightens the grip.

“Thank you.” He offers a comforting smile, one that barely reaches his eyes, and you can tell that he has more to say. So, you squeeze his hand, silently urging him to continue. “Well, I just- after Mr.Stark… passed away… it was really hard to remember why I started doing all of it in the first place. Like- I hate saying this, but why do we keep protecting all of these strangers when all the people we do know just keep getting hurt?” He winces at his own words, so far removed from such bitterness that he can barely believe he once thought such selfish things. “But then- then I get to see all of the people that I’ve been protecting, and suddenly it all makes sense again. All I want to do is make sure people are safe, and happy, and hopefully… Hopefully, when we’re older, and we have kids that jump in the fountains at Central Park, someone like me will be watching… and they’ll feel the exact same way.”

When we’re older, When we have kids... Those promises of marriage, of a loving family, of a future — they bounce off your eardrums like a mantra. Soon, you can’t even imagine thinking about anything but Peter’s words, and how much you love him right now, and how you’ll love him until your heart can’t possibly take it anymore. You can read what he’s trying to portray loud and clear — He loves you, he can see a future with you, and if there’s ever a doubt in your mind that his feelings may have changed, you can look out into the world and find pieces of his heart in every passing face.

“I haven’t been doing everything I can to make sure that’s possible, though.” He breaches your lovesick trance, reminding you that there’s still a thread of discord dangling between you. One that you can see rapidly disappearing with each passing second. “I have to go on this mission, Y/N. I wanna start helping people again. I wanna do right by him.”

“I know.” You whisper, conceding to the fact that you will always want what’s best for him, even if you aren’t a fan of the circumstances. “It doesn’t make it any less sucky.”

“C’mere.” He can barely pat his thighs before you’re crawling toward him. He passes a warm hand under your thigh once you straddle his waist, scooping you further into his lap, and uses his free hand to encompass the nape of your neck. You feel like you could melt, being cradled between his strong, toned  arms, and the feeling only intensifies when his lips seek out yours. His lips are soft, and warm, and taste like listerine, and you couldn’t ask for anything more perfectly suited for you.    

“I love you.” He murmurs against your lips, without a trace of uncertainty. His thumb wipes the corner of your mouth, and he continues to plant a series of sweet, soft butterfly kisses over every patch of skin he can get his lips on — your cheeks, your nose, your temple.

He’s so wrapped up in his gentle ministrations that he barely hears you return the sentiment, eyes fluttering to a close as you breathe out, “I love you.”

“Please come inside,'' he whispers against your forehead, punctuating his plea with a chaste kiss.

You pretend to entertain the thought, tapping your index finger against your chin, before shaking your head with a waggish simper. Fortunately for you, it doesn’t take long for him to take the bait, and he disappears through the window. You can just barely make out the harmony of wild rustling and hushed obscenities coming from your room before Peter is returning to your makeshift bed, clad in the cheesy “The Floor is Lava!” hoodie you snagged from a street vendor during your trip to Pompeii the summer beforehand.

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Y/N,” Peter’s voice is tight, shuffling his knees across the fretted ground as he crawls into your lap. It takes him all of three seconds to make himself comfortable, collapsing between your thighs, and you seize the opportunity to weave your fingers through his soft, chestnut locks. “I don’t think I can make this a recurring thing. I can already feel the scoliosis forming.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” you scoff, only to be met with a scandalized set of caramel hues. “I think you can make it through the night without any permanent damage to your spine.” With droopy eyes, your body starts to hum with the tell-tale signs of sleep, and your voice drips with drowsiness as you murmur, “And I wanna savor as many nights with you as I can.”

“I know,” he whispers back, the aftertaste of guilt intermingling with the abashment that follows your sleepy confession. ”I know. I’m right here, babe.”

And he swore, in that very moment, that nothing would change that.

[chiseler]

The Bombing of Black Wall Street

O.W. Gurley 

On the night of May 13th, 1985, as Derek Davis has so eloquently documented in previous issues of The Chiseler, the Philadelphia Police Department dropped a packet of C4 explosives onto the West Philly house occupied by MOVE, a black radical group whose sociopolitical agenda was fuzzy at best. You should read Davis’ stories to more fully understand how and why this came to pass, but suffice it to say in the end eleven people in the house (including several children) were killed, and some sixty surrounding homes—an entire city block’s worth—were allowed to burn to the ground.

At noon on September sixteenth, 1920, a group of anarchists detonated a horse-drawn cart packed with explosives and shrapnel in the middle of Wall Street, killing thirty-eight capitalists and sending hundreds more to area hospitals.

Nine months after the Wall Street bombing and sixty-four years before MOVE, an incident which in a way echoed both events took place in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but with far more devastating results. The Bombing of Black Wall Street, as it was sometimes known, would go on to be just as forgotten, at least in white history books, as both the MOVE and Wall Street bombings.

In 1906, a wealthy black entrepreneur named O.W. Gurley moved from Arkansas to Tulsa, where he bought up forty acres of land on the northern outskirts of the predominately white town. He had a plan in mind, and would only sell parcels of the land to other African-Americans, especially those trying to escape the brutal economic conditions in Tennessee.

Within a decade, the resulting thirty-four square block community, which had been dubbed Greenwood, had evolved into one of the most affluent regions of the state, and certainly the wealthiest and most successful black-owned business district in the country. A few of the new residents had even struck it rich when oil was discovered nearby. Along with the grocery, clothing and hardware stores that lined the main commercial strip, Greenwood boasted its own schools, churches, doctors,  banks, law offices, restaurants, movie theaters, a post office and a  public transportation system. The houses had indoor plumbing, and, even that early in the history of aviation, six of the residents owned private airplanes. Thanks to Segregation laws which prohibited blacks from shopping in nearby Whites-Only stores, the African-American residents of Greenwood shopped at their own local stores, which kept money circulating in the community, only bolstering their economic strength.

By all accounts, the people who lived there were extremely proud of what they had forged, especially the school system, insisting each and every child of Greenwood receive a full and solid education.

Although generally referred to as “Little Africa” or “Niggertown” in the Tulsa Tribune, Tulsa World, and other local papers, the residents of Greenwood preferred to think of it as Black Wall Street, a nickname that has stuck to this day.

As you might imagine, the much poorer white residents in surrounding Tulsa resented the wealth and success of their black neighbors. This resentment was only fueled by the local papers, in particular the Tribune. Taking their lead from the local chapter of the Klan, more often than not the Tribune’s writers insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary, on caricaturing the residents of “Little Africa” as either stupid, shiftless, shuffling drunks or drug crazed, wild-eyed criminals and rapists running wild in the streets. Meanwhile, editorial writers over at the World even recommended conscripting the Klan to restore law and order to the community.

Combining the reality with the grotesque cartoon proved to be a poor white racist’s worst nightmare. Not only were those blacks in Greenwood subhuman, they were rich subhumans. Jesus God Almighty!

The simmering anger reached the boiling point on May 30th, 1921 when seventeen-year-old (and white) Sarah Page accused nineteen-year-old (and black) shoeshine man Dick Rowland of rape. Page worked as an elevator operator in Tulsa’s Drexel Building, and claimed Rowland attacked her while she was  on the job. No one really knows to this day what happened in that elevator, but later investigators who’ve looked into the case genrtally agree there was no rape. Rowland would claim he either bumped into Page accidentally or stepped on her foot—he couldn’t remember. At the time it didn’t matter. The following morning’s Tribune ran a racially inflammatory, lurid account of the fictional crime in which they essentially declared Rowland guilty. A hearing was scheduled for that afternoon, and the paper further erroneously reported the gallows was already being built outside the courthouse for that night’s hanging.

Whether or not a rape had occurred was, to be honest, irrelevant. It was simply the easiest and cheapest way to rile up the angry white masses. If the paper had run an article about economic disparity and racial class resentment turned on its head, all it would have encouraged its white readers to do is flip forward to the sports section.

The residents of Greenwood understood this, and on the 31st, the day of the hearing, a group of men, some of them armed, showed up outside the courthouse in hopes of protecting Rowland.  When they arrived they found themselves facing off with the much larger (and better-armed) angry white mob, there to ensure Rowland was hanged, trial or no trial.

Words were exchanged and a few scuffles broke out. A white man reportedly approached an armed African-American WWI vet, and demanded he hand over his gun. When the vet refused and the white tried to wrest it from him, the  gun went off, and the riot was underway.

Realizing they were outnumbered, the mob from Greenwood retreated towards home, only to be pursued by the white mob, both on foot and in pickups.

It’s worth noting that the confrontation outside the courthouse had gone on for several hours before the few cops onhand to keep the peace finally called for backup. When all hell broke loose after that gunshot, the cops quickly began deputizing whites on the fly, giving them the authority to make arrests. A few did, and an internment camp set up at the local fairgrounds quickly began to fill. Most of the new deputies didn’t bother, and just started shooting.

As the white mob entered Greenwood, they immediately began looting and torching every building they passed. For the next twelve hours they rampaged through the neighborhood, whooping and hooting as they smashed windows, kicked in doors, took potshots at fleeing residents, and set fire to anything that wasn’t already ablaze. Several eyewitness reports claim two small planes flying over the community started dropping what some believe were kerosene bombs and others believe was dynamite on the already raging inferno. Firemen who arrived on the scene to douse the fires were turned back at gunpoint by the rioters.

The number of white families from nearby neighborhoods—a lot of mothers and children—who gathered around the edges of Greenwood to watch the carnage has led some to believe the attack was planned well in advance, likely by the Klan. They were just waiting for an excuse.

The National Guard arrived shortly before noon on June 1st, but by then most of the rioters had gone home. Along with trying to control the flames, the Guardsmen also began arresting Greenwood’s residents. By the time the fires were put out, all thirty-four square blocks of Black Wall Street had been burned to the ground. An estimated three hundred had been killed, another eight hundred hospitalized, ten thousand were left homeless, six thousand were being held in the internment camp at the fairgrounds, and six hundred businesses had been destroyed. No whites were arrested or charged for their role in the massacre.

Some of the dead, it was reported, were buried in mass graves, others dumped in a nearby river, and still others dropped into the shafts of a local coal mine.

The coverage of the destruction of Black Wall Street in the following day’s Tulsa World included the headlines “Fear of Another Uprising” and “Difficult to Check Negroes.” To this day, white media outlets continue to refer to the incident as “The Tulsa Race Riot,” when they refer to it at all. The Tribune quietly removed the front page story about the alleged rape from all their bound editions, and all police and fire department files about the incident mysteriously vanished.

The day after the riot, all charges were dropped against Dick Rowland (who had been safely hidden away in a jail cell throughout it all), and upon his release he quickly and quietly left town.

Only one of Black Wall Street’s buildings was left standing, and those who survived vowed they would rebuild. They did, too, to an extent, but they were never able to fully reclaim the spirit and status the community once had. Making things more difficult, Greenwood was in a prime location in terms of business expansion. City politicians, anxious to reclaim that land, began devaluing Greenwood property, hoping they might encourage residents to sell out and move far away.

Ironically, the real death blow to Black Wall Street came when Segregation was overturned in Oklahoma in the late ’50s and early ’60s, and most Greenwood residents decided they were happy to take their business to formerly whites-only stores.

Seventy-five years after the massacre, the state of Oklahoma ordered an investigation into the events of May 31st-June 1st, 1921. When the investigation ended in 2001, it was suggested a scholarship fund be set up, and reparations be paid to the families of the victims. A few scholarships were handed out before the program was discontinued three years later, but no reparations were ever paid.

by Jim Knipfel

[hashtagartistlife]

Maybe fate was called fate because some things weren’t choices; some things were simply written into his DNA, woven into the very fabric of the universe. World orders. The sky is blue. The sun is hot. He is in love with Kuchiki Rukia.

Kuchiki Rukia is dying.  

Ten years after the defeat of Yhwach, it’s time Ichigo and Rukia started facing some truths— about the world, about themselves, and about each other. 

this is all i have of this fic for now (this and a tiny little bit of chapter 3), i guess it’ll be updated when i woman the fuck up and wrack up enough nerves to keep writing which im hoping will be sometime this decade :’/ but i might post chapters i have for other unfinished fics i have over the next few days so if you’re into unfinished fics (read: literally nobody) then stick around!!! 

premise for this fic | chapter 1 here | this is chapter 2

________________________________________________________________

f r a y

by hashtagartistlife

________________________________________________________________

Two 

.

.

.

9:12 am 

Kurosaki Clinic

When Renji wakes up the next morning to find Rukia safely asleep beside him, he feels the tension across his shoulders ease somewhat. They’d both been a little worried about how her sleepwalking habit might fit into this visit (even though neither of them had voiced their concerns out loud), he more so than she for reasons he had yet to disclose to her. Her breathy sigh of ‘Ichigo?’ rings in his ears. He hadn’t seen a point in telling Rukia about that, not when she was still refusing to admit she had a problem in the first place. She’d just feel needlessly guilty and isolate herself even more. Renji knows how Rukia works. What he doesn’t know is how to break through that shell she builds around herself, how to draw her out of it and get her to face her problems head-on. 

No, he admits (and he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in the way he thought it), that’s always been Ichigo’s specialty. He looks across the rowdy breakfast table to his friend, who is sitting uncharacteristically silent with a mug of something dark and unappetising in his hands. His eyes are shadowed, tired, and when he meets Renji’s gaze he starts almost guiltily before curving his lips into an uneasy smile. 

The hell’s all that about? Renji thinks, but then Ichika slams into his knee, shoving a glass of orange juice into his face, and he puts the moment out of his mind. The rest of the morning is filled with trying out some godawful beverage called ‘coffee’ at Orihime’s behest, wrangling Ichika into human world clothes, and sending the children off, along with their mothers, to go meet Sado. He and Ichigo stay back, Ichigo to tend to his clinic and he to go see Urahara. Since gensei visits were so few and far between, even on what was ostensibly a holiday they had been saddled with checking in on the shopkeeper to exchange news and technology. Renji figures he might as well get that out of the way first, and catch up with Sado later. 

At least, he figures that until Ichigo corners him just before he walks out the door, a dark expression on his face. He looks uncomfortable, standing in the doorway of his own house, a hand on the back of his neck, and Renji notes with a kind of detached surprise that if Ichigo hadn’t been slumping, they’d be more or less at a height now. He raises an eyebrow at him in a silent question. 

“A— about Rukia—” Ichigo stumbles over the syllables in her name, and stops, wetting his lips, looking nervous. A sense of foreboding settles into Renji’s gut; Ichigo hasn’t looked this worried in— well, a decade. He stays quiet, letting Ichigo finish his question. “Has she ever— has she ever sleepwalked before?”

He freezes in his tracks; frantically, Renji rewinds last night in his mind. It’s no use; he’d been out for the count for a solid eight hours. If he hadn’t been so tired lately, he’d have thought someone had spiked his drink. Try as he might, he can’t remember Rukia slipping out of bed at all. But she’d been back in bed by the morning, so someone must have intercepted her—

Ichigo. Rukia’s voice, ghostly in his mind, calling his name. Ichigo. Ichigo. Ichigo—

His breath leaves him in a long, long sigh, and Renji closes his eyes before gesturing for Ichigo to sit. 

. 

.

.

6:53 am

Ichigo doesn’t go back to his bed after the kiss. Instead he sits outside the clinic, on the cold hard asphalt, for one eternity— two— til the sun starts lightening the end of the street and the moon grows paler in the sky. He can still feel Rukia on his skin, in his veins, lingering like a drug that refuses to clear. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be empty of her touch now that he’s known it. 

When the moon finally disappears and the sun well and truly risen, he picks himself up from the ground and stumbles back into the house, feeling like he was the sleepwalker now. The sight of their children sprawled out together in their blanket fort brings the reality of what he’s done rushing back to him. He can’t help the reflex that brings his fingers up to ghost over his lips, like a lovesick teenager. The breath leaves his lungs like he’s been punched, and he turns away from the kids, sleeping angelically side-by-side. He can’t bear the thought of facing either of them, of facing anyone in this household any more. 

What does he do now? Does he go back to bed, pretend nothing ever happened— slip into his place beside Orihime and forget the fact that his heart is beating again for the first time in ten years? Does he come clean to her and beg forgiveness, tell her he loves her and it won’t ever happen again, or does he lock this away in a dark recess of his mind, just like he’s done with his shinigami powers and everything related to her for the last decade? His mind casts around frantically for excuses — he was tired. It was the middle of the night. Hell, he doesn’t even know if it really happened anymore — was everything a fever dream, triggered by the immense relief of seeing Rukia again? But his blood is thrumming in his veins, and the power he’d spent his entire adult life crushing down is once again swirling and eddying just under his skin, exactly like it had when he was seventeen. His hands are shaking, and his skin feels hot. He can’t lie to himself. Rukia was here. Rukia’d kissed him. He’d kissed her back. 

He drags his trembling hands over his eyes, down his face; slumps into a chair in the kitchen and attempts to evade the question that becomes more pressing with every second. What now? It was clear that Rukia had no idea what had happened. The weight of this transgression was his alone to carry. Even if she had remembered, the fault lay with him— she’d been asleep, but he’d been wide awake and had pulled her towards him. 

A part of him— the good part, the noble part, the part that had once forced its way through layers of hollow to tell his zanpakutou to fuck off out of his fight with Byakuya— is yelling at him to confess, to lay himself at Orihime’s mercy and take whatever comes from it. But a larger, more insistent part of him is asking, for what? What does telling Orihime accomplish, but the breaking of four hearts? He has never deserved Orihime, with her soft smiles and kind words to his rough edges; the fact that he is, once again, an awful person to her— for her— is not news. What is the point of ruining her spun-sugar smile with something that will never happen again—

liar

—especially when it doesn’t just involve him? If he confesses, it’s not just his head on the line; it’s Rukia’s, too, no matter the fact that she was asleep at the time. And he might be willing to risk everything he ever is or was for far less than this, but there is no way in hell he will do that to Rukia. Not for some one-off sleepwalking incident that she had no control over, and if it happens again he’ll just push her away—

liar

— and oh, god, was this a thing that happened often? Rukia’d always been a deep sleeper; she was, despite everything she insisted to the contrary, very clearly not okay if she was sleepwalking like this. 

As his thoughts spiral back to the cause of his turmoil, Ichigo becomes acutely aware of her reiatsu upstairs, thrumming rapidly like a hummingbird’s wings. It seems lighter and more unsettled than he remembers it being, and the tinge of instability to it as it flares and retreats irregularly unnerves him. Rukia’s reiatsu control has always been top-class, so this distinct lack of it triggers alarm bells in his mind. He swallows, and attempts to smooth down the ragged edges of her power with his; but wherever his reiatsu brushes against hers, it just flares brighter and more powerful and he has to give up, lest it disturb Renji or the kids.

It's been a while since he's felt someone else’s reiatsu like this, but he knows this isn't normal; concern eats at him even as it wars with an urge to ignore it and bury everything about this incident as deep as possible. Rukia isn’t an idiot, she would have gotten help if it was something serious—but would she, really? He knows better than anyone how stubborn she can be when she thinks she’s being a burden. She’d die before she let someone else take the fall for her. 

He closes his eyes. 

He scowls; ten years it’s been, and she’s still so— so— so her. Longer hair, a husband and child, a Captain’s haori, and nothing matters; she’s still stubborn, still a bitch who lives to help everyone else but won’t let anyone help her. It's evident in the way she refuses to say she’s tired, the way that Renji’s eyes follow her around everywhere, worried. She’s still the self-sacrificing idiot she’d been from day one, and he—

He is still the coward he’d been twelve years ago, when he’d watched her bleed out on the concrete before him and only then been spurred into action. 

This isn’t about him. If Rukia is ill, then he has to let someone know— someone who can actually do something about it. His feelings — whatever they are— does not factor into the equation. This is about Rukia—

— so, he needs to talk to Renji. 

.

.

.

10:18 am

“Has Rukia ever sleepwalked before?”

A moment of tension across Renji’s features, and then a long, long sigh; he gestures for Ichigo to sit, and the two of them shuffle over to the recently vacated kitchen table. Renji rubs his face tiredly, and Ichigo’s sense of foreboding grows. 

“... Last night, huh?” Renji says, and Ichigo almost jumps out of his skin; did he know? Could he see— was the mark of Rukia's lips on his visible, indelible, the way it felt like to him? Could everyone read it on his face, that he and Rukia—

Renji’s voice is weary as he continues. “Yeah. Yeah, she's sleepwalked before. The past few years, actually. What did she do last night? How did you find her?”

— kissed—  “She— she walked out of the clinic and I heard the door open. Renji, is she— is she okay—”

Renji leans his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands. “I don't know,” he breathes, frustration dripping from every syllable. “I don't know, she won't tell me, you know how she is—”

Did he ever. Ichigo remembers with vivid clarity the time she'd sustained a stomach wound, back in the days before Soul Society; she hadn’t told him for three days, and had only agreed to go see Urahara when she'd finally collapsed in his arms. 

“ — don't think I've tried—? God, doctors, healers, we've tried everything, Kuchiki-Taichou’s worried out of his mind. But she won't have any of it, says she won't let us waste time fussing over her when there are better things to worry about—”

“That fucking idiot,” Ichigo mutters, and Renji barks out what is almost a laugh. 

“Right? Drives me up the fucking wall. Wouldn't be Rukia if she didn't.”

“Guess not.”

Renji cracks a strained smile before it fades away into seriousness again. “It wasn't this bad before,” he says, and Ichigo sits up straight. 

“Recent thing, then?”

“Depends what you'd classify as recent. I mean, she's never been a heavy sleeper—”

At this, Ichigo interrupts. “Wait, really? She's always slept like the dead—” 

Renji gives him a look, and Ichigo remembers who it is that is sharing her bed now. He shuts up. 

“ — as I said, she's never slept too well, even during our Rukon days, and it got pretty bad after the war, but it wasn't— wasn’t to this extent, you know? At least, not till she had Ichika. And then— it was like a switch flipped. She couldn't get to sleep at night, and she could barely keep her eyes open during the day. It started interfering with her work, and you know how that would have killed her; we started to go see a bunch of people for it but nothing seemed to help. And then she started sleepwalking—”

Something cold crawls up Ichigo’s spine.

“She— at first, we didn't know where it was that she was going in her sleep. she wandered the Kuchiki Manor gardens a lot, sometimes she just paced around inside the house. Sometimes she got out of the Kuchiki property and was well into the streets before we found her and brought her back. I didn't know where she was trying to go—” 

Renji breaks off, and looks Ichigo dead in the eye. 

“— till one morning I woke up, and found her at Sokyouku Hill.” 

Ichigo’s blood turns to ice. 

“It was bloody Sokyoku Hill, Ichigo. Every single time— inside the Manor, in the gardens, on the streets. She was always trying to get to Sokyouku Hill. North-north west from the Kuchiki Manor. I—”

Renji’s expression turns supplicating, as if asking him for an answer, but Ichigo has none to give; he’s rooted to the spot by the sheer horror he’s feeling, Rukia strung up against the Sokyouku vivid in his mind. That collar around her neck, a red slash splitting her throat open; her eyes, glazed over with tears. Her skin dyed orange and yellow from the heat of it all. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Ichigo, for fuck’s sake I can’t even get her to admit that there’s something wrong. I just—” 

Renji drops his head into his hands. Very softly — so soft that Ichigo is sure he isn’t meant to hear these next words— he says to himself: 

“Ten years. Ten years, and I’m still not enough.” 

Ten years. Enough to fell mountains; enough to dry rivers and move oceans. 

Not enough to change a heart. 

When Renji looks up at Ichigo again, his gaze is edged with steel. 

“She says your name.” 

“I�� what?” 

“She says your name, when she walks out to Sokyouku Hill. She says your name.” 

A memory, in his mind: Rukia, ethereal in the moonlight. Ichigo? 

Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. 

Ichigo doesn’t know what to say. 

Eventually, Renji breaks their impasse; he sighs and raps the table before getting up. “I’m not such a small man as to beat you to a pulp over that, Ichigo, stop looking like you think I’m going to bite your head off.” 

“I’m not—” he protests automatically, but Renji shushes him with a wave of his hand. 

“You are, but that’s not the point.” He ambles over to the door and looks over his shoulder at him, one hand poised on the handle. “If— if there’s anything you might be able to do for her—” 

“Renji—”

“Please,” Renji says, and even though this time, he isn’t on his knees half-dead before him, Ichigo knows what it’s costing him to make this request. “Please… help her.” 

Of course, Ichigo wants to reply, She’ll be fine, I’ll save her. Rukia’ll be safe—

But he isn’t fifteen anymore. 

“I’ll— try,” he says, lamely, and that is the best they can do. Renji nods. 

“Gonna go see Urahara. He might have some tricks up his sleeve,” he says, but he doesn’t look like he believes what he’s saying. Ichigo waves him off, and Renji slips away.

The sound of the clinic door swinging shut echoes in his wake. 

.

.

.

3:02 pm

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Click.

“...Hello?”

“Kurosaki-san?”

“...... Urahara-san?”

“Ah, Kurosaki-san, thank goodness you picked up. If you aren’t busy, I’d appreciate your presence at the Shoten as soon as possible.” 

“What? Me? Why?”

A pause; Ichigo finds, for no good reason whatsoever, that he is holding his breath.

“Ah, well. You see, that is—”

Between one accelerating heartbeat and the next—

“Kuchiki-san has collapsed.” 

[sonichkkaaascreams]

Mountain with a Flower Crown (chapter 1)

Just a super long one shot that is broken into a bunch of parts

Zaraki Kenapchi X OC Yamase Yasu

wordcount: 3090~

this is the fist part instalation of Mountain With A Flower Crown. this was inspire by post made by @bleachhaven  and @shadowsnlace   who both made posts regarding Kenpachi and an S/O who is larger than him. I use their headcanons as inspirational sparks to my own greedy little imagination.

Kenpachi may seem a little off but eh, what can I do about it. it just happened. also the starting point of this oneshot came to me in a hormonal fever dream. this is gonna be a super fudging long thing. i think it may be a very well around 6 to 8 chapters knock on wood to keep up my writing mojou.

enjoy ;) and please let me know what you think. XP

Yamase Yasu prided herself on being an early riser. She had practiced the discipline of waking up before sunrise to another day of hard work no matter how tired she may be from an early age. As such, her current circumstances were less than ideal.

 She was not only awake, forced to endure the bright rays of the sun right in her eyes and listen to the damned feathery monsters sing annoyingly but also she was required to stay still and not move an inch.

 Unlike her, her beloved spouse was sound asleep free from all the worries of office work. She greatly envied the man’s ability to not only sleep through the annoying chirping of birds but also all the way through the morning to evening regardless of the loud ruckus his squad members made. The only thing that would make him open his eyes was if she moved about. Witch is why despite her dire need to get up, stretch, make breakfast for an entire squadron of men who can’t take care of themselves properly and go to her own squad office to work; she was laying on their futon and fighting the urge to coo at the slumbering beast.

 Contrary to the common belief of those who shared a futon or a roof with Zaraki Kenpachi, he is not by any means a light sleeper. Take away the threat of the man rolling on top of his partners and smothering them to death and the man sleeps like a bear through winter. And that extra layer of peace and ease showed on his face and the way he slept.

 For one, he was sprawled on top of her with no care in the world. No matter how neatly or sweetly they sleep he always finds a way to roll over her, using her chest or stomach as his pillow. And so long he didn’t drool on her she wouldn’t mind it. Another sign that he was deep asleep was the light yet deep and rattling snores. And even those were endearing and cute.

 This morning however it seemed her spouse was hellbent in testing her patience – witch she was never renowned for – he was not only sleeping with a slighting parted lips, lightly snoring, and had done this absolutely cute thing where he held a fistful of her sleeping Yukata, but also his stupid and unreasonably soft hair was fanned out over her, tickling her skin.

 She is only but a mere woman. She is flawed and weak to temptation. Especially one as sweet and divine as this one. Not many would describe the 11th captain of the 11th division who just happens to be the sole successor of Kenpachi Yachiru cute. But at the moment that was the only word she knew of, that could capture his peaceful slumber - And until someone made a better word her husband had to deal with being called so – as mentioned Yamase Yasu as disciplined as she claimed to be, was only a mere woman and of course, she gave in to the divine temptation and ran her fingers in her husband’s hair and feel the silky soft yet soapy dry hair – he refused to use any proper hair product and she had no right to complain since she was no better – running her fingers a little higher she reached his scalp and began to massage his head. Feeling every secret scar that charcoal black mane hid. And taking inventory of the one or two gray hair she would find.

 “hmmm.” The rumbling groan of his dry throat rattled her bones and resonated in her skull. How she truly found his voice calming. “you’re awake.”

 “Sorry I woke you up. I couldn’t resist.” Her voice equally cracked and dry was louder and clearer than his own. Zaraki Kenpachi refused to admit that even after 100 years of married life, her voice still made his heart race.

 “I’m not complaining.”

 With a grunt, he pushed himself up and pulled himself up towards her face. His unkempt mane falling around them like a curtain of privacy against the prying eyes of the sun and those birds – that Yasu, who also prided herself on being ‘peaceful’ wanted to kill one by one if they didn’t shut up and let her listen to Kenpachi’s voice and NOTHING else – it was a solid minute or two of them just staring at each other and by any bystanders, it was not only unromantic but also rather unsettling to have the beastly captain Zaraki stare at them for long periods. Usually, a glance was enough to make grown men lose control of their bladers. For this fated pair, however, this was a ritualistic habit of cataloging every scar and wrinkle the other had gained.

 The small scars on her face, the slightly chipped and torn lip, the small scar and the smaller bald patch it had resulted, a barely visible scar on her eyebrow, the shallow wrinkles around her eyes resulted by squinting at the sun, and the visible laugh line, the small blue veins he could see if he paid attention and the way every muscle twitched.

 “it’s a bit late for you to be still in bed.” He stated matter of factly in a way that only she would realize what it meant. It’s a bit late for you to still be in bed meant: did you sleep in again because you didn’t want to wake me up. And only she knew his matter-of-fact tone was not an observation or a statement but a self-condemnation.

 “why captain Zaraki! You think me so cruel that I would up and leave my beloved husband cold in the morning to go to work? Without saying good morning?”

 His grunt made evident that her teasing was effective. With a smile she continued to tease as she wrapped her iron grip around his waist and slide a finger on the arch of his back – she couldn’t bring herself to call anything on this man small even to describe the small of his back – “you’re not just a warm body my dear. I love to wake up to see you still asleep so peacefully. You look so cute I want to eat you up.” She giggled. The Mountain woman of Gotei, in all her 8’8 glory, giggled. “I love it when I get to run my hands in your soft hair and take in your scent and have your head in the crook of my ne-AAHH…” her insufferable cooing was brought to an abrupt end when the strongest Kenpachi hit her in the face with a pillow. Using her initial shock as a distraction he rolled off of her and buried his face in the pillow to cover the ever-growing deep blush that dusted his face. It wasn’t a feminine blush rather it was a dark, red almost brownish. And he was not cute. By gods, he was NoT CuTe. AT ALL. HE WAS THE CAPTAIN OF SQUAD 11 AND HE WAS NOT CUTE GODDAMIT. Well, at least he’s not cute as far as anyone else is concerned.

 Laughing loudly she rolled and embraced her husband in her arms, after 100 years of marriage and 50 more years of knowing the woman beforehand, it still amazes him how easily he is held in her arms. How well fitted his face is in her neck and how safe it all feels. Like he's a scrawny child all over again back in Zaraki woods but this time he’s safe and he doesn’t have to sleep with one eye open or dig himself a hole under a tree for warmth, hell he doesn’t even need to hug his sword for safety and safekeeping. No, he can just sleep, or rest, or just lean in the warm embrace and drown himself in the scent of sea salt, peaches and ink. Completely safe and loved. He’d never tell her that, no, he’ll take it to his grave and beyond. But he doesn’t need to. She doesn’t need him to. The simple soft hum that rumbles in his chest and the long, deep exhale on her throat says more than enough.

 “you’d think after this long of a time, you’d be used to my pampering chi-chi.” She cooed at him barring her nose in his hair. She loved how he always smelled so distinctly him. Just him. Nothing ever changed his scent. His sweat, his stupid cheap dry soap – that she also used because she is too busy to use the shampoo and hair conditioner and all the other dumb things lieutenant Matsumoto gives her every year for her birthday – and woods, the special pine woods only found in Zaraki. He always smells of those. And if he comes back from missions, blood. The metallic rusty smell of blood that always compelled her to ask for a full day off from her captain immediately to attend to her… private needs with her husband.

 “Unfortunately, love of my life, you are awake which means I have no excuse to stay in bed any longer. And if you and the boys want breakfast I better shake a leg.” She hummed as she left chaste kisses over his face.

 “Fuck them, the bastards can go eat shit for all I care.” He snarled. How dare they and their needs take his wife from his bed?

 “Honey, you need breakfast as well.”

 “No I don’t.” he – dare she say the word? – whined like a bratty child and gripped at her even harder. It wasn’t even a sexual groping, he just really really wanted the warm embrace to last longer. But from past experiences she knew if she catered to him any longer she would most likely not leave this room for about another years or so. And so as the sensible wife of the squad 11 she wiggled into a comfortable position and willed herself to her feet. Her 2 feet shorter husband refusing to let go, hung from her neck.

 “chi-chi, light of my life please don’t swing from my neck.” She lovingly stroked his back and hair beckoning him to be a little more mature. Earning a guttural, loud, ground shaking, ear-piercing growl as he tightened his equally iron grip. “ at least wrap your legs around my waist so I wouldn’t trip and fall on you. you wouldn’t want to explain to Isane-Chan WHY you have a broken arm early in the morning again…. Right?

 Given the choice of letting go of his precious peach-scented giantess and holding on to her like a monkey’s babe, you’d think the strongest Kenpachi would hold on to his dignity and let go. But no.

 The man had gone nearly 800 something years of his life touch starved with no real understanding of affection, the moment his beloved Yasu had begun to shower him with it his mind was simply blown. ‘Is this why Yachiru always hung off of his shoulder everywhere? Is this why she always ran to his arms like a crazed boar?’ because that’s what he wants to do with her.

 “She can keep her mouth shut.” He says taking in another breath full of sea salt and peaches. But finally, lets her go. It’s been 100 years for them and he knows she gets annoyed when she can’t go to her office on time. But he can sure make it difficult for her as he is still very much salty that she chose squad 10 over his own. “the hell you chose the Lil' brat over meh?” he had thrashed and at one point picked a fight with everyone from squad 10 – the captain in question, the Lil' brat. Refused to indulge her suiter at the time. – “you coming home earlier today? for lunch I mean.”

 Home. Another thing that made her heart flutter and bounces about like a lamb, is Kenpachi referring to squad 11 barracks as home. He had only started calling the place their HOME about 30 years into their marriage and Yasu firmly believed to this day he doesn’t realize he started doing so and if she pointed it out he would instantly stop.

 “Ahh, no. I promised to go to this new ramen stand that’s opened recently with Momo and others.” She smiled apologetically as she followed him to the adjoined captain’s bathroom. Kenpachi fast to strip to wash off before entering the basin of warm water and Yasu, who hated showering in the morning simply brushed her rust-colored crow’s nest, braiding the gray strands and adding her handmade decorations. Smiling at the second set of decorations that belonged to her beloved. They were much simpler and significantly less intricate than hers – just a few sharp wolf teeth and hawk feathers and one or two polished stones kept for special occasions such as date nights – which was just a stroll and wrestle in the woods and sex in the wilds night – and birthdays – the same as date nights but less walking, more sex and a lot steamier plus a gift is given as well –

 “I should seriously get going love, I won't be home for lunch but I’ll try to be home for dinner earlier so we can wrestle.” She smiled her big kind stupidly beautiful smile that made Kenpachi avert his eyes to avoid another humiliating blushing event. And he would have succeeded if Yamase Yasu, the mountain of squad 10 hadn’t bent down – he still can’t wrap his braid around the fact that she has to bend down for him – and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

 He deemed himself lucky that she left and didn’t see how that simple cherishing act turned his whole being into mush. And also very unlucky because now that she had departed for the barracks kitchen, he was left alone to deal with the aftermath of looking at her swaying hips in a thin, light white Yukata. As a married man, he should not have to deal with this predicament alone, however, he realized soon after actually living with Yasu under the same roof that, being an obstacle between her and her career is a fool's errand and it’s best if she is left to manage her time and duties herself. In fact, he begrudgingly admits, their afternoon wrestling is far more enjoyable than any morning quicky he could convince her into.

 On the other side of the barracks, newly dressed in formal black Shikaushou, Ymase Yasu was already in the middle of preparing breakfast for her hundreds of beloved morons. Ymichika, being an early riser himself was also present. Having retired from his morning shower he was enjoying a cup of tea as he helped Yasu warm up her habitual – albeit horrid and unsightly – blood milk. “you don’t have to help you know. I can manage myself.” She would politely say, which was her way of saying ‘please get out of my way.’ She had already stepped on his poor dainty feet and her mobility was further reduced by being careful not to barrel into the small, dainty fellow. “I know. I want to help dear. You don’t let me take care of your hair so I thought I’d do something else.”

 Oh, god. Please no. “ Yumichika, dear, I already told you, I don’t care for hair. It’s fine as it is. And you don’t need to help me in the kitchen.”

 “what she really means is that you’re small and get in her way. Stay around and she might accidentally step on ya like a bug.” Madarame Ikkaku, her husband's lieutenant and right-hand man – and in her personal opinion, the closest thing Kenpachi has to an actual friend. – may be rude and insufferable with absolute no table manners but she could always rely on him to tell the mean things she didn’t want to say.

 “that’s one way of putting it.” She smiled, offering him a full plate of the most protein-filled breakfast a man could ever dream of. “I put extra spinach, berries, and eggs for you; I hear it’s good for hair growth.” She adoringly said as she patted the lieutenant's shoulder. Making Ikkaku break his chop-sticks. Oh, how he wished he could kick her ass. Unfortunately, his captain would kill him if he so much as looked at her with ill intent. – something about her not partaking in violence witch was dumb, he’d seen the way they ‘wrestle’ once by complete accident and the image that’s unfortunately burned in his mind is nothing if not violent and he hears things. Violent-sounding things. How is she not into violence when she married him?- he shouldn’t think about his captain’s wife that way, he tells himself. And instead says:” I’m not bald…my head is shaved.” A vein popping on his head.

 “I didn’t say you were.” She deadpans causing Yumichika to snort into his tea. “just because I’ve never seen you shave your head, or your hair to grow out – even after spending time on missions or never seen you in possession of a single strand of hair – anywhere – doesn’t mean I said you’re bald.”

 Ikkaku Madarame respects his captain greatly. Sometimes, however, he thinks he married a devious demon.

 “you take that back you damn Yama-Oni.” He cries out attempting to draw out his sword but is held back by Yumichika who is using his mastery over his eyebrows to tell Yasu to ‘please don’t bully him.’

 “mountain- demon? Now that’s a new insult. I should write this one down.” She happily sings out as she prepares the last bits of breakfast and proceeds to ring the bells of the kitchen. Informing the squad that their breakfast is now served.

 Yamase Yasu is an eternal pain in Ikkaku madarame's behind, but he admits if it weren’t for her food that this squad would have A) starved to death and B) would have slept till evening. She managed to convince them to get up early and to eat a healthy diet. What was it that Yumichika had said? Something about a woman’s touch?  The berries are too tasty for him to care for anything else.

 And as she is about to leave to her own squad, to the one she actually works at, the members of the loudest, rudest, nastiest squad in Gotei all bow and thank Yamase-san. And the new ones who are still shy around the giantess bow and thank their ‘Oujou-sama’ which makes him want to laugh.

 Yeah…a woman’s touch. Or something.

[thebeautyofdisorder]

The Undone & The Divine (BBC Dracula) - Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger, but chapter 4 is here! I really hope you like it. Whether i will leave it here (for now) or add on anymore immediately I’m not sure of, but I suppose we will see. Please let me know what you think! 

First two Chapters Here

Chapter 3 Is Here

Can be found on AO3 - Right HERE -

Rating: T, for blood and maybe language

Pairing: Dracula & Zoe/Agatha Van Helsing

Chapter 4

He'd felt her before he heard her, despite her best attempt at startling him, her form partially blocking out the beam of light projecting from the door he hadn't cared to close. It took more self-control than the Count would ever willingly admit to remain facing away from the source of the voice, if for no other reason than to keep his confusion as close to the vest as possible. He refused to be at a disadvantage again, with her more than anyone.

“Apparently we’ve both underestimated our own resilience,” he remarked, with faint amusement calling back to his comment from the last time they’d met, though he couldn’t rightly include the ‘vampire’ designation. She didn’t feel like a vampire, and yet she was certainly not the sick woman who he’d left for dead. 

“So it would seem,” Zoe agreed, taking a few steps inside despite the agitation she’d felt from a distance ramping up to a fever pitch now that she was actually in his presence. It wasn’t fear – he wasn’t likely to be any danger to her in her current state, not anymore. She was simply hyper-aware of Dracula, and it was causing a strange disconnect between her mind and her body. At least she’d assumed he was the cause of it, but now as she found herself approaching him for closer study, without any inherent want on her part, she wasn’t so sure he alone was to blame.

“Indestructible after all.”

“Yes, I’m afraid Death has turned out to be completely immune to my allure,” the vampire drawled in a good imitation of indifference, finally turning about to meet her approach, head tilting as he took her in with careful consideration.

“What?” She felt herself ask, feeling the weight of his focus drag on a moment too long for her liking.

Dracula ignored her question, approaching closer until she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze, an act she wasn’t accustomed to having to enact that often in her daily life. His hand lifted, brushing her hair off her neck to study the state of his bite. The wound was raised and slightly jagged, but shown white against her skin - evidence of rapid healing, yet no inflammation or scabbing. 

A clear sign of life – real life, in a woman he had murdered a week ago. A wry chuckle reverberated through his chest, previously so still that she could feel it like a distant earthquake.

“Of course it would be you.”

One sharp nail grazed the pierced flesh, and she stood rigid against the tremor that bloomed over her skin until his hand dropped, and his gaze flipped rapidly from probing to analytical. 

“Why though? Five centuries I’ve been trying to procreate, and it was rare enough I even got within the realm of close. Most recent attempt notwithstanding, perhaps Johnny, but he threw himself off a bloody cliff, and well – he didn’t exactly look very alive towards the end, did he?” he blurted with a scoff, the cogs of his mind whirring as he began to pace in front of the window. They were almost audible, tripping over the obvious until someone couldn’t resist the urge to prod the bear any longer.

“You haven’t figured it out yet? Honestly, Count, maybe you should’ve eaten more doctors.” 

Dracula’s eyes narrowed, catching the muted edge of Dutch hostility he had grown to know far too well over the last century, infuriation and amusement blending imperceptibly on his face. His lips parted, intent on snapping back, but just as quickly he stopped, shut his mouth and took a moment to think. Out of spite, of course.

Then it clicked. 

The count let out a loud guffaw of frustrated laughter, slapping his large hands down on the table with so much force Agatha was surprised it didn’t split down the middle. It was the least collected she had ever seen him outside of a blood frenzy, and it was at first difficult to tell if he were furious or enthused.

“Of course. My blood. Of course,” he announced, grinning widely to himself, before spinning and turning upon the woman before him, grabbing her by the shoulders, uncaring if she shared in his jubilation or not.

“What was it, Agatha, you told Johnny all those years ago? There was a pathogen that was passed from one to another, yes? Oh, you are brilliant. And heaven’s sake, I am an idiot at times, aren’t I?” he mock-sighed, lauding perhaps a little less than an ounce of authenticity to his self-deprecation.

“At times?” She snarked back, despite Zoe’s otherwise well intended vow to not indulge him, leaning back in reluctance to his grip. 

His eyes rolled skyward, tilting his head to look down at her in disappointment, retaining her in his grasp. “Always one to ruin a party.” 

“Only if it’s yours.” 

A pointy-toothed grin slowly overcame his face. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he shot back, in what could have almost passed for warmth. 

With a brief, forced groan of disgust, Zoe decided it was paramount to take back control of this particular reunion with some sense of urgency before it got off the rails any further. Nudging her shoulders out of his grasp, which he surprisingly didn’t protest, she paced back and looked out the window, “You know I can’t just let you go infect the world with unquenchable bloodlust, Count Dracula.”

“Oh?” He inquired with a small hum of surprise, stuffing his hands as far into his pockets as they would fit. “You don’t look so unquenchable to me…” His tone was mocking, but his eyes shown dark with curiosity. 

“That’s because I’m not like you.”

He looked even more amused. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. Have you been around fresh blood?”

She didn’t respond, but from her stubborn silence he already knew the answer.

“Have you been eating? Sleeping?”

“Some,” Zoe protested, turning back to face him with renewed confidence. “More often than not I’ve been working.”

Dracula looked mildly alarmed at the insinuation, but not for any reason pertaining to himself. “Don’t tell me you went back to that institute? Oh, Zoe. Surely you know that can never end well?”

“You yourself said science is the future, and I very much agree. Which is why I’m going to do everything in power to make sure that I never have to take anyone’s life,” she continued, powering through his protest like the useless distraction it was. She didn’t for a moment think he had any real concern for her well being, vampire or not.

“By starving yourself until some unfortunate intern gets an ill-timed paper cut? Dr. Helsing, they’ll lock you up and throw away the key. Believe me. I know.”  

“I’m not starving myself. The reason you can’t process solid food is because all of your organs stopped functioning centuries ago, I am going to do what I can to make sure that doesn’t happen to me. Plus, there are other ways to intake the nutrients within blood that are necessary to live without using someone else’s veins to do it,” she protested, holding her head high in protest.

His brows wagged, her stubbornness coming as no shock, despite the unfortunate nature of it. If the rest of the Van Helsing bloodline were half as persistent as just one of these women’s weakest moments, he hated to know what the family dinners were like. 

“Fine. Fair enough. If you’re so determined to try that approach I can’t stop you. But don’t expect me to join you.” 

Her smile was triumphant, but minimal. “Oh I don’t. So long as you don’t expect me to let you murder your way through the British Isles uninhibited.” 

His smile mirrored hers, and despite knowing there was nothing (he was currently aware of) that she could use to stand in his way, his eyes held a darker edge of challenge and his voice was a ragged, conspiratorial whisper. “On the contrary. I would be highly disappointed if you did.”

She quirked a brow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like it when things don’t go your way.”

The vampire shrugged, approaching her once more. “Call it an existential crisis. On the other hand…” He placed one longer finger under her chin and with light pressure, urged it up so that she was meeting his eyes more directly. “All my best brides are the defiant ones.”

A mocking scoff erupted from her throat, and after a short, internal scuffle it was, at least in part, Agatha’s words that countered him. “I am not your bride, Count. In fact none of them ever were – you don’t keep ‘brides’ in boxes and feed them garden pests. Those were lab rats. A bride is someone you actually have to ‘live’ with – if you’ll excuse the colloquialism.” She gently jerked her jaw out of his grasp.

“Good thing we have forever, then.”  He gave her another brief crooked smile and began to walk past her entirely towards the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m starving. I trust you can find your way out – unless you’d like to join me?”

“I’ll pass,” Zoe insisted, blinking out of the strange daze of his presence and Agatha’s intrusion with an annoyed set to her shoulders, looking after him with a look of warning. “I’ll be seeing you.”

He paused, glancing back one last time from the hall. 

“Looking forward to it.” 

---

Thank you everyone who’s been following it, I hope I paid off that cliffhanger while still being a tease.  I hope the Agatha/Zoe conundrum doesn’t come off entirely too confusing, though it is meant to be confusing to her as well. Poor Zoe. Join the OT3 or put up with our incessant fuckery Also, I wrote this at work yesterday, so this post is funded by the US government ;)

@my-fanfic-library @ohveda @imagineandimagine @wannabebloodsucker @hoefordarkness @mymagicsuitcase @crazytxgradstudent @itendedbadly @theplumsoldier @gatissed @allfandoms-writings @littlemessyjessi @punk-courtesan @vampiregirl1797 @gleefullyselfishreblogs @break-free-killer-queen @desperatefrenchwriter @bellamortislife @charlesdances @iloveclaesbang @carydorse @ss9slb @dreamerkim @isayhourwrong

I’ll add anyone else who asks! 

[paperbagpetrichor]

Birthday | Izuku Midoriya

I forgot to publish this on his actual birthday because sometimes I’m dumb like that, please forgive me --

Harsh hulls of heat hit the huge bay windows hibernating in their habitat of the right hemisphere of the small household, refracting and reflecting as the most persistent, persevering rays hastened forth on an endless reservoir of patience, rousing a revolution from outside in, starting with the most miniscule strips of light slipping through the cracks of the shutters and growing, exponentially, as the sun crested the haughty horizon and gradually hung itself atop the tip of the sky, beaming waves out to all, bursting through doors and windows regardless of inhabitants' requests or hopes, deluging the dark, dull skies of night and early morning and hastily forcing all to harken to the rise of day. Hunched in such a neighborhood of close ties and localities, where everyone knew everyone else and nobody knew the definition nor the concept of 'unfamiliar faces' sheerly because of spacing, most residents welcomed the daytime with open arms, heading out to work, or to meet family and friends, or else simply just into their green-grassed backyards to bask and bake in the warm summer sun that so rarely shone as brightly as that day.

Needless to say, most were never all, and there were, exceptionally, exceptions.

It's not as if you wouldn't have enjoyed doing the same as all the passers-by you witnessed from your watching station by the window. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact, for while the sun struck your skin through the thin shield of plastic and glass particles, you were overcome with how beautiful it truly was, and found yourself longing to wear the shoes of the hordes of summer-break schoolgirls and fresh-from-university graduates you spotted laughing and joking alongside their respective crews of friends, if only just to hear laughter, if only just to feel the presence of someone by your side.

Loneliness. Your greatest friend and simultaneously your worst enemy.

Besides the typical onset of angst that came with being a young adult, your parents had also chosen to allot some of the excessive craving for company to your quirk, a decision that, to you, seemed rather unsupported by logic and overall inaccurate. And yet, as every footstep fell from just outside, your heart twisted within your chest, pinched by the invisible fingers of fate and the one friend, isolation, who you supposed you were never foretold to lose. Perhaps their claims weren't as crazy as they had initially seemed.

It wasn't as though there was nobody else to be around. In a neighborhood of that size, you knew many people, fairly well acquainted with a rather high number of them. But that was precisely where it stopped - acquaintances. Few in this world were able to be viewed as your friend. In fact, as of late, you'd really only had one friend, for the matter.

That friend had seemingly fallen off the face of the earth.

He wasn't missing. That much you were sure of. The numerous minutes, hours, days, weeks, now building on months of times you'd found yourself standing on his doorstep, hoping he would finally open up and explain where he had been, or rather for you to see some strange hallucination to make you realize this all was a superficially-concocted nightmare, had only ever led to more disappointment. His mother was always the one to answer. And while you loved her dearly, even she didn't have a proper explanation as to where her son was running off to these days. All she was able to do was assure you he was coming home, and eating all of his meals, and guarantee you that she would tell him how much you wished to see him whenever she could. The words alone were comforting, and so you had continued to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And now, nearly two months had gone by without sight or sound of your best friend.

You still clearly remembered the last time you'd seen him. It had been the last day of middle school, and, as per usual, he had stopped at your house, just outside that very same window that your restless gaze found itself glued to, waving and smiling, ready to walk alongside you to the final day with your teachers. That same day, once the final, long-awaited bell had rung for the very last time, you had sat upon the solid stairs cemented at your school's front, humming to yourself and waiting, as you always did, for him to come walk you home, as he always did.

Only he never came.

By the time you were home, it was three hours after you normally arrived, all spent on trounced time and wasted wishes for a boy who never came, and never, not for the next two months, would. Your parents had been worried sick about you, almost as much so as you were worried sick for him. Some of the more unruly students in your classes had been rather infamous for bullying, and your friend usually received the butt end of it all - had something drastically dire occurred? You remembered the talk of quirks, and how harsh some had been on your friend, whose only dream had ever been to become a hero, despite his own lack of power. You'd nearly had to restrain Bakugou, and very easily would've, if it weren't for how desperately your friend had wanted to prove he could succeed without your help.

You hoped that was what he was doing now - succeeding. Even without you. Even if it hurt you, all you truly wished for was his happiness. And if that meant leaving you behind, then you supposed that there wasn't much you could do about it - no. Your own thought was cut short.

One of the first days after you'd found yourself friends with him, you'd promised that you would follow him to whichever high school he wound up at. Of course, back then, he had been so certain of U.A. But after lengthy battles with people who seemingly only desired to put him down and drag him out of his own dream, you had sensed that confidence begin to fade, thinning and deteriorating until it was as light as a feather, as fragile as glass. Through the words of others, the stairway to success, stoic and unshaking, sealed in place, had wilted away to something as delicate as flower petals, fighting to stay upright against the summer droughts and ready to whisk away in the winter. So no matter what, your promise still stood.

Of course, there was always the possibility that he was so busy simply due to training for U.A.'s acceptance test. You had often wondered long and hard if he really was still dreaming of attending U.A. For his sake, you wished that he would succeed. You still remembered the first time you'd seen his heart as wide as his eyes, exclaiming to you that one day he would become a Pro Hero, and protect you and your family from whatever vile villains lay ahead. A smile flitted across your lips, albeit bittersweet. You believed in him. You believed he could do it.

But then, that was one against the entire world - an entire world where the quirkless were never offered the same treatment as the quirked, an entire world with the odds stacked against him.

You would do anything to make that prejudiced pillar of society fall to its miserable death.

All that you could do then, however, was shoot him a text. It wasn't like you hadn't done that before. You'd sent him - how many now, forty? - all left unread, all left unanswered. This was besides calls, emails, and use of whatever social media you could find him on. You weren't expecting a response this time, not so much as you were just waiting for the day he would look at his phone, whenever it would come, and see that you had never, would never, will never give up on him. If anything, you hoped it would at least put a grin on his face and ease his forever-racing mind.

As soon as you saw the lock screen long enough to comprehend it, however, you almost dropped your phone right there and then. There was no way. It was already July fifteenth? How had time warped itself like that...? Or rather, how had you been so caught up in counting time that the dates themselves had become meaningless?

But July fifteenth was a special day. His birthday.

And even if he wouldn't be there to see you help set it up, or get to have you hand-deliver his gift, you were as sure as anything going to try.

Merely a few minutes later, you found yourself out of breath - not from the distance but rather the speed - from your run, and stole a knock at the door.

Almost immediately, as if trained on a schedule - which, you supposed, she rather was, what with your seemingly daily treks to the house - Ms. Inko had opened it, ushered you inside, and paused you after a moment of allowing you to take in the scenery.

Half the house was already perfectly decorated. Posters and ribbons and bundles of balloons dotted the walls and tables, while a stack of gifts sat, eagerly awaiting their own opening, upon the coffee table in the living room. Everything was, so far, astonishingly wondrous, which, of course, was nothing less than what you'd expected, but nevertheless couldn't help but gawk.

"I'm so sorry to ask for your help so abruptly, [y/n], but would you mind helping me finish the rest of the decorations?" Polite as always, your friend's mother gestured to the rather barren areas of the home, her fatigue evident in her voice.

You nodded enthusiastically, always cheered by the sheer passion of her love for her son. "Of course. That's why I came, after all."

And thus, within a few moments, the both of you were back at work. You chose between accent colors and main colors, clearly recalling what he liked and disliked, adding a hint of your own presence, although rather unintentionally, through the slight crookedness of everything, as if it all were solely a millimeter off. For once, the minutes seemed to fly by happily, you and Ms. Inko cheerfully chattering away about the weather, and school, and eventually her son, your friend. You tried your best to keep your own selfish remarks out of it, dearly wanting to press her for more information, but not wanting to stress such a kind soul, until, about two hours in, you couldn't hold it in any longer, and, without much conscience or a second thought, you blurted, "He hasn't been at home very often, has he?"

You immediately chastised yourself for concocting such a harebrained concept to even consider talking about, biting down hard on your tongue until the pain ran sharp through your nerves, until you heard Ms. Inko let out a soft sigh from her spot on the couch. After a long day of work, and your pressing for her to take a brief break, she had finally consigned to you the task of decorating by yourself for all of ten minutes. Her response, however, was not one you had been expecting.

"No, he hasn't. Worse now, he's rarely home on time...I worry a lot for him. But I doubt I worry as much as you."

From your position high upon a ladder, where you were stringing paper letters together in front of the kitchen doorway to read 'Happy 15th,' you cocked your head to the side. "Why do you say that?" you inquired.

Much to your surprise, Ms. Inko laughed. "Isn't it obvious? You both like each other very much, you know..."

You opened your mouth a bit too soon, and when you attempted to retort, it fell upon immobile vocal cords, strung taut against your neck. The sheer surprise of it all sent a redhot blush blooming across your face, and before you had any moment of peace to catch your breath or comprehend the situation, small decorations were suddenly flying off the wall, plastering themselves in hordes atop poor Ms. Inko, who couldn't help but chuckle again and begin to remove them. "My, you seem a bit excited by that," she giggled.

"W-wait, I never said anything like that! I just -"

"Mhm, I'm sure. All is forgiven, love. But I suppose this means my break is over." In a flash of motion she was once more her typical self, busying herself with re-administering the decorations to their initially facets of location. "Besides, U.A. will straighten out your quirk in no time."

Despite it all, you couldn't help but once more feel casual, and shrugged without thinking. "I - actually don't know if I'm going to U.A..." and then you abruptly trailed off.

For, right at that moment, you realized the sound of a door shutting from just behind you. Face deepening yet another shade of red, you spun around atop the slight steps of the ladder, finding yourself, after all of two months filled with worried days, concerned nights, and heartbroken weeks, face-to-face with Izuku.

His face was struck with pallor. "[Y/n], you have to go to U.A.!" he exclaimed. "You're going to be a Pro Hero one day."

Immediately your feet were flying down the steps, and in a few short strides you had flung your arms around him, hugging him close, feeling the beat of his heart against that of your own, once broken but now whole at the sight of him, safe and healthy, once more. His presence filled the empty space in your mind that had been boiling over with worries, now filled with nothing but joy, because he was here, in your arms, and he felt like he always had, the same boy as - wait.

No.

Something here wasn't right. He was here, he was in your arms, yes. But he did not feel like he always had. He was not the same boy as you remembered him being.

Because once, where your quirk had only felt nothingness, there was now a massive weight. A massive power, emanating from his very heart and soul, strong and pulsating and full and alive, just as alive as he was, so incredulously humongous that there was only one other person who you could ever remember having such a full gauge of power, and then it spilled from you, softer than a whisper, like the tears you were trying so hard to suppress - "All Might?"

From the corner of the room, now up upon your place of the ladder you had so quickly abandoned, you heard Ms. Inko's voice cut through the tension like a rainbow after a hurricane. "Oh, Izuku, how about you head to your room with [y/n]? I'll fix everything up and call you down when the cake is ready." She couldn't have heard anything, but she did, of course, know how dear you held him to your heart.

And within seconds Izuku was practically dragging you off to his room, grip light but pulling with such an unparalleled force that you realized the sheer shock of it all must have gotten to your head, to your quirk, once more, and presuming that things were as they usually were, you were accidentally amplifying his own - his own quirk. Even that train of thought felt wrong. But it was undeniable. You were always able to sense quirks, and what they could do, and even enhance them. Nothing had ever come from Izuku before. But now there was something so mindblowingly powerful, profound in and of its own existence, so that even as you both entered his room and he carefully closed the door behind him you still didn't feel right about anything.

Izuku plopped himself on his bed, silently patting the empty cover next to him, signaling for you to take a seat; a request to which you eagerly obliged.

You were still in absolute disbelief. ""Izuku - what is going on? I-is my quirk acting up? Why do you..."

And now it was his turn to hug you, and suddenly you felt his chest rising and falling in a disorderly fashion, as though controlled by an invisible puppeteer who'd left his post for lunch, radically changing with every passing second, and you returned the embrace, melting into him as you realized, with a sweet-and-sour aftertaste, that he was almost crying. His voice was equally as shaky. "I missed you so much. I missed you so much. I missed you so much." He continued to repeat it, as though a mantra, the only thing keeping him grounded in the here and now, in reality.

Completely stunned, but beginning to regain some control over yourself, you pulled him tighter, murmuring, "I missed you too, Izuku."

And even though you couldn't bring yourself to repeat it, it was on an endless loop in your mind, a broken record replaying again and again, doomed to never have a clear beginning nor clear end.

"So much has happened," he breathed, gently pulling back, although you could feel his muscles constrict as if they were protesting, begging him to stay intertwined with you. His gaze, now completely ashamed, fluttered away from you. "But I - I can't tell anyone. And neither can you, okay?"

What did he mean? What was he even talking about? That he missed you? That he apparently had a quirk now, one strong enough to rival that of the biggest Pro Hero of them all? And why? Why wouldn't he want you to be able to say it, loudly and clearly, the next time Bakugou tried to pull something - why wouldn't he want you to simply stand your ground and finally take him down with the simple words, "Izuku is already as powerful as a Pro Hero." Nothing added up, and your mind bobbed in addled confusion.

"But - you have to promise me something. In return, I promise I'll tell you everything, as soon as I can." This came completely out of the left field, and although he was still no longer looking at you, you were now very transfixed upon him. Slowly, you nodded, and a soft 'yes' escaped your lips.

It was only now that he could face you, and it was only now that the pools of tears were growing clear in his eyes. "You have to go to U.A.," he began quietly, as if he couldn't take saying the words himself, "promise me. Even if - even if I don't make it, you have to."

Between his tears, and your own sadness welling up beneath your shaken exterior, and the words spilling from his mouth, cutting deeper and deeper into your skin with each breath, you almost felt the same puddles forming at the corners of your own eyes. "I - I can't promise that, Izuku." You vigorously shook your head, your voice straining to keep any note of calmness held within it. "Because I already promised you, I'd go wherever you went, all those years ago..."

"...Please, [y/n]." His desperation was now evident, in his afflicted posture, his gleaming, tear-streaked cheeks, his wobbling words and darting glances. "Please, just say it. I have to know that you will succeed, even if I can't."

Once more you were upon him, embracing him tightly, closely, knowing full and well that now he could feel yourself trembling beneath him, replying in a whisper, "I-Izuku...I promise. But you have to make a promise to me too, okay?" This time he didn't make any attempt to remove himself from your embrace. "Of course." He merely held you back.

"Try to come around if you can. Even if just for a few minutes. I really, really, really missed you, Izuku."

His voice was so pained it made the agony flood into you. "I'm so sorry. E-everything's just...crazy right now." Now he pulled you tighter than ever, gently, but ever so surely, closer. "I want to make it up to you. However I can. I promise."

And now you were crying, but not from sadness, or perhaps from some perfectly bittersweet mixture of melancholy and happiness, and you lifted your chin up, holding him closer, until there was no more space between the two of you and the two of you were no longer two, but rather one, and you pressed your lips delicately to his cheek, and then quickly pulling away, blushing, "Happy birthday, Izuku. I'm sorry, I completely forgot - to get you something."

Gently, cautiously, he returned the kiss, and you were sure that the butterflies were no longer in your stomach but rather flying, free, around the room, encircling the two of you like the young lovers you were, before his reply, soft and warm against your ear, found its way to you. "Seeing you again is all I could've wanted."

[twentytwo0one]

Yautaung

The Yautaung are a cephalopod-like species originating from the planet Yau in the Minoan Wasteland. They maintain an embassy in the Confederation, but are generally uninvolved in galactic matters.

Appearance

Yautaung look very similar to the cephalopods of earth such as squid or octopi, their “body” is comprised of thick tentacles fused together to form a torso and limbs, with the large head on top and running the length of the back being the converging point for these tentacles, and the housing structure for most of the internal organs. Two or more eyes sit on either side of the head, and the spider-like mouth is constantly hidden by 6-8 tentacles protruding around it. Yautaung have limited chromatophores which allow them to change colour, but only in spectrums most other species cannot see. Otherwise they may appear gray blue or purple. Their DNA is extremely diverse, and one Yautaung may not look anything like another, with small spines, extra tentacles, spots or patterns, and other such differences.

Biology

The Yautaung evolved from other mammal-cephalopods like beings that lived and dwelled in the shallow seas close to land on Yau. To escape the very large predators living in the deep oceans of their home, the Yautaung eventually evolved in order to thrive on land, and adopted the convergent, bipedal form that most sapient spacefaring species possess as well.

Yautaung are invertebrates, their entire bodies comprised of flexible boneless tentacles that they use to walk and manipulate objects. The head, which contains all of the major organs, is very large and extends along the “back” of the yautaung to form the dorsal organ cavity. Most of the primary organs lie in the dorsal cavity, which can be actively protected due to their positioning, but are vulnerable from behind. The “body” which consists purely of fused tentacles, is anatomically referred to as the false torso. The muscles in the tentacles that make up the false torso need to be able to support the individual without bones, out of water, and in an upright bipedal position, and thus are incredibly dense. Despite their flexibility, a yautaung tentacle would feel as solid as wood to the touch, which is mirrored by their innate physical strength; most adult yautaung can crush a human femur to powder simply by squeezing it.

Because most of their bodies are muscle, the Yautaung require very powerful circulatory and respiratory systems. To breathe, a yautaung has hundreds of small spiracles lining the edge of the dorsal cavity where it meets the false torso. These spiracles contract and expand to force air/water in and out over a series of and thus possess five hearts. Four brachial hearts compliment the systemic heart - itself large in comparison to those of most other sentients – and are positioned in pairs along the lower and upper portions of the body, acting as boosters and therefore relieving significant stress off the systemic heart.

Yautaung eyes are each trinocular, seeing three different images separately, and six when combined. They also detect fourteen colour wavelengths. While it is difficult for Yautaung eyes to decipher colours that a human can see, they are the only eyes that can see the colours that their chromatophores can output. While to other species would simply see a yautaung as being grey, another yautaung might see another as any one of a number of alien and unknowable colours. On at least one occasion an individual has had their eyes surgically or cybernetically altered to be able to see these yautaung colours; however, as the brain cannot yet be altered in a way that would allow it to process these new colours, the subject would suffer dementia and at worst permanent psychosis.

DNA of a Yautaung is the most diverse of any recorded species, and results in Yautaung looking severely different from one another. Rarely will one encounter one whose tentacles fuse in the same direction as another. Secondary eyes, spines, webbing and a plethora of other features numbering so many that splitting the yautaung into subspecies would be effectively impossible. The most extreme variances could be the presence of an additional pair of arms, or a lack of individual legs in favour of a single column, that can grind across the ground using muscle contractions. The yautaung genome seems to be highly mutative, and even parents with similar features may not have a child that bears significant resemblance to them.

Yautaung reproduce via females generating unfertilized eggs after puberty. Once an egg is developed, a female lays it’s egg which is coated in powerful pheromones, which (prehistorically) drew a male to the egg. Eggs do not have a hard shell, and need to be laid in water. If the male is unimpressive, the female may turn him away and wait for another. The female may also choose not to lay an egg at all, causing it to be broken down inside and used for nutrients. If the male is suitable, the male swallows the egg through a special canal near the mouth, which brings it into a chamberin the upper chest where it is inseminated, the male will then carry it until it hatches. They usually mate for life and are very social, usually living in groups of several families. A Yautaung separated from its own kind will take to frequenting social abodes, similar to primitive shoaling.

Homeworld

Yau is a world 90% coated in shallow seas and deep ocean, orbiting an energetic white star, resulting in a permanent, but thin blanket of clouds. The only land masses are found in tropical archipelagos along the equator. Fossilized land-based fauna found on the bottom of the seas and a massive crater on the southern hemisphere suggests that this was not always the case and that Yau was once a topographically diverse world with many biospheres like Earth.

Science suggests that while Earth-like once, it was considerably colder and it’s poles were significantly larger, until it was struck by a cosmic body with such force that it was released from stable orbit, knocking it closer to its very active star. The chaos of this event wiped out any advanced life on the planet and warmed Yau enough to melt it’s poles completely, flooding all but the tallest mountain ranges. This occurred approximately five hundred million years ago. Life started over on Yau, evolving into massive creatures not limited by space like land-based animals.

Almost uniquely, Yau’s oceans apparently contain trace amounts of vehementium particles. While slight vehementum concentrations in seas and landmasses is not uncommon on worlds with confirmed progenitor ruins, Yau possesses no such remains, though the deepest areas of it’s seas are as of yet unmapped. Yau’s vehementum contamination is slight compared to the sheer volume of it’s oceans, so the presence of the radically contrary element does not appear to have altered the growth of the local fauna, at least not in any way that can be better justified by other zoologic foundations such as abyssal gigantism.

The Minoan wasteland in which Yau resides is in fact named after it’s evident lack of significant progenitor sites. Whether the area does not contain such relics or if they have simply not been discovered yet is subject to interpretation, but the sector receives little attention from the archeological community, as there are many other unexplored reaches of space with much more promising hints to their contents.

Culture and Government

As the first species the Yautaung encountered were the Ashiik, and considering their social demeanor, many Ashiik cultural traits have rubbed off into that of the Yautaung, particularly in fields where there was little before, like the military.

The yautaung government is officially referred to as the Courts of Yau. They follow the recommendations of Elders, each representing a different island on Yau. The Elders decide all proceedings in any given situation on Yau, and due to their conservative nature, their government is very stable. Any actions taken have been analyzed, discussed, and then analyzed again. This innate caution is reflected by their nature of keeping backups and records, a repository of which is kept in a grand library in the capital. The true downside to their governing methods is that if enough research is done, their methods and outcomes will become somewhat predictable.

Outside the courts, Yautaung live in tightly-knit groups each in control of their own island. While they generally mind their own business, they are almost always welcoming to outsiders. Yautaung are not seen particularly often outside their space or off their colonies. Many have difficulty with the prospect of living in areas where there may be very few or no other Yautaung.

While their economy is relatively small, being only about the general size of that of the Humans, it is far better developed. They do not rush developments and frequently make lengthy, century long development plans. Also, they only ever trade in finished goods, having colonies rich in the resources they need to support themselves. This makes any attempt to embargo their space a fruitless endeavor.

The Yautaung as a collective are extremely talented geneticists, having accomplished much even before being introduced into the galactic community. The genetic diversity shared by them and the animal life native to Yau allowed for experimentation and developments not possible for many other species. This aptitude has inevitably carried over to medicine, and Yautaung founded corporations are responsible for many of the galaxy’s most cutting edge medical tech. This applies to both sides of the moral spectrum, an infamous example of which is GenEx Industries, who created the potential for clones to inherit the memories of their hosts. Splicing together specific Yautaung genes allowed for their genetic memory trait to carry over. How GenEx developed this technology would most likely have been through extensive (and illegal) experiments, and there are no public records on the development of this cloning technology. In addition to the taboo nature of cloning, the process of introducing yautaung genes into any clone is an unstable one due to the radical diversity of their species, and will inevitably cause medical complications later in a clone’s life. (Note that the cloning of sentients is not currently possible)

Religion

The polytheistic mainstream Yautaung religion is Zindro, which teaches the Yautaung that they have souls separate from their bodies. When death occurs, the soul leaves the body through the eyes, and it departs for Zeymah, the great underwater city; the body is not prepared in any special way, unless the eyes have been damaged and the soul cannot escape, in which case it is burned instead. Zeymah – the city of the dead – supposedly lies in the deepest, fathomless depths of the global ocean, and is extremely hard to get to as it is guarded by evil monsters. The religion contains at least thirty two deities including Bahlok, the god of land, time, communication, mercy, and funeral rites, Vaal god of destruction, change, revolution and ambition, and Maatim goddess of the sky, rain, love and sadness. It is also host to countless other minor beings such as Meibelmok the soul eater; a beast whose sphere is storms, the unknown, forbidden knowledge, secrets and fear.

While a great many Yautaung are religious, since encountering other space faring species many older ways have begin to die out as younger generations turn to other ways to interpret their place in the universe.

War Doctrine

The Yautaung as a body rarely if not never engage in active combat, and instead prefer to keep to diplomacy. This does not mean however that they are incapable warriors, as they have suffered assaults from organized crime groups, hoping to gain access to their medical technologies or considerable supply of unrefined resources.  The Yautaung keep their own small military force, mostly comprised of atmospheric combat vessels –of which they have a considerable preference - and planetary troops. Their space fleets are quite small, and mostly rely on the neighbouring Ashiik for support in that field. The Ashiik will aid the Yautaung in any war they may find themselves in, and the Yautaung will do the same for the Ashiik. They have only ever produced one warship - the Tuanuk - that while the only ship of it’s class, is remarkably well armed. It’s broadside cannons and main gun are all MHD-U and MHD-O beams respectively, and it probably is the most powerful individual ship of its kind to date.

The Yautaung method of organizing their military strongly resembles that of the Ashiik, units are organized not unlike tribal bands organized by locals. The more populous the area, the more well equipped and sizeable the unit will be. Their military is still not an irregular militia however, and again like the Ashiik, those who serve are full time professionals. There is no uniform standardized for troops either, as Yautaung biodiversity would make distribution of one similar suit a difficult undertaking.

Yautaung ground and space forces are generally very limited, relying heavily on the ashiik for support; where they excel however is in the atmosphere. They prefer airpower when dealing with threats, and maintain several flotillas capable of combat in any atmosphere, deployable from carriers in space. Their atmospheric forces are alone capable of defending their homeworld from most threats that get close enough, as the lack of solid land gives them a significant advantage.

Because of their reliance on allies for combat, most technologies used by the Yautaung are utilitarian in nature, and ships are usually designed for support roles next to larger, more front-line capable vessels. The most often used technologies in vessels include fusion thrusters and reactors, radar sensor, weak linear shielding, carbide composite armour plating and almost exclusive reliance on MHD beams for offense.

History

[bountyofbeads]

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-7367511/amp/Prince-Andrew-pictured-inside-paedophile-Jeffrey-Epsteins-63million-mansion-depravity.html?__twitter_impression=true

Sometimes maybe the video does arrive after all.

Was Andrew aware? Did he ask no questions? Epstein had just been released from a prison sentence for abuse, after all.

EXCLUSIVE: Prince Andrew is pictured inside paedophile Jeffrey Epstein's £63million mansion of depravity nine years ago... so how did he miss signs of the billionaire's sexual deviance?

By Caroline Graham In Los Angeles | Sunday21:00 17 Aug 2019, updated 00:22 19 Aug 2019 | Daily Mail | Posted August 19, 2019 9:14AM ET

Duke was spotted peering around the door of the billionaire's Manhattan home on December 6, 2010 

The footage of the Duke was taken less than an hour after Epstein left the house with a young blonde woman 

Epstein's alleged 'sex slave' Virginia Roberts claims she had sex with the Prince at financier's New York home

Buckingham Palace has denied any wrongdoing on Duke's part and the Queen has showed him her support

Standing by the towering 15ft-high solid oak front door, Prince Andrew gives a nod and a cheery wave to the pretty brunette as she leaves the £63 million Manhattan mansion.

He appears entirely at ease but then, for a split second, glances around the door as if to check that no one had witnessed the brief encounter.

As well he might.

For these exclusive pictures come from a never-before-seen video of the Duke of York staying at the New York home of convicted paedophile Jeffrey Epstein. And some of the other images caught on camera make for disturbing viewing.

The footage of the Duke of York – then the UK's Special Representative for International Trade – was taken less than an hour after Epstein, who had been convicted of sex with a child in 2008, left the house in the company of a young, shivering blonde woman.

The video was shot on December 6, 2010, during a visit by the Prince to Epstein's nine-storey 21,000 square foot mansion dubbed the 'House of Horrors' by many of his young victims.

By then Epstein – who took his own life last weekend – was on a child sex offender register, yet one observer told The Mail on Sunday that several of the women leaving and entering the home while Andrew was apparently inside 'looked very young indeed'.

The Duke has vehemently denied claims by Epstein's alleged 'sex slave' Virginia Roberts that she had sex with the Prince on three occasions, the first when she was 17 and once at the US millionaire's now-notorious 40-room mansion at 9 East 71st Street in Manhattan, the setting of these pictures.

Her allegations, submitted to a court in 2014, were later thrown out by a judge who ordered them to be struck from the record as 'immaterial and impertinent'.

Since Epstein's suicide last weekend as he faced further child sex trafficking charges, Buckingham Palace has repeated its denial of wrongdoing by the Prince.

'Any suggestion of impropriety with underage minors is categorically untrue. It is emphatically denied that the Duke of York had any form of sexual contact or relationship with Virginia Roberts,' it said.

Any claim to the contrary is false and without foundation.'

The Queen also made a public show of support by allowing Prince Andrew to sit next to her as they were driven to a church service near Balmoral last Sunday.

However, these images are sure to raise fresh questions about the 59-year-old's judgment as they place him inside the private, inner sanctum of Epstein, who continued to abuse young girls even after a controversial 2008 plea deal that saw him serve just 13 months, much of it on day release.

'The Prince looked entirely at ease in Epstein's house,' a source told The Mail on Sunday last night. 

'There were girls coming and going. One, who came out of the house with Epstein about an hour before Prince Andrew said goodbye to the brunette, was tiny and shivering.

'It was a particularly cold New York December day. What I remember most is the constant procession of girls and women going to and from the house.

'It was chilling to see. Everyone knew by that point that Epstein was a convicted paedophile, yet he was flaunting his lifestyle in plain sight.

'When the Prince came to the door I was stunned. He looked totally at ease. He said a few words to the girl, who was very pretty, and then she walked off down the street in the direction of Central Park.

'If I hadn't known it was Prince Andrew, I would have thought he owned the place. He looked so comfortable and relaxed as he stood there at the door.

'He didn't appear to have a concern in the world as he smiled and waved goodbye to the girl.

'It was only as the girl walked off that he glanced around the door frame, almost as if to check no one was watching.'

The video was taken less than 24 hours after the Prince was infamously photographed walking through Central Park with Epstein.

He had met the US businessman through Ghislaine Maxwell, the daughter of disgraced tycoon Robert Maxwell and a woman the FBI says is now of 'renewed interest' in its ongoing case into allegations made by scores of women that they were sexually abused by Epstein and his wealthy friends at homes in London, New Mexico, New York and the US Virgin Islands.

Ms Maxwell has repeatedly denied that she acted as a 'madam' for Epstein and has described Ms Roberts's claims as 'malicious lies'.

Epstein's New York home was as weird and twisted as the man himself. The entry foyer where Prince Andrew stood to wave off the brunette was decorated, according to an account by writer Vicky Ward in Vanity Fair magazine, with 'row upon row' of individually framed artificial eyeballs – imported from England.

The video footage shows the initials 'JE' in raised brass letters on the wall next to the front door. 

What is not seen is the heating element that Epstein had installed beneath the concrete pavement to melt the New York winter snow.

On a wall in the hall was a bizarre portrait of former US President Bill Clinton in red heels and the infamous stained blue dress worn by Monica Lewinsky when she performed a sex act on him.

Nearby hung a giant painting of Epstein inside a prison surrounded by barbed wire and gun-toting guards. 

The disgraced financier reportedly said the artwork was 'to remind me that I could go back to prison any time'.

A chandelier had a 'life-size female doll hanging from it, and one woman who claims to have been assaulted by Epstein said a bathroom had prosthetic breasts on the wall 'so he could play with the nipples as he took a bath'. 

Dozens of photographs of Epstein with his famous friends, including Bill and Hillary Clinton, Saudi Arabia's Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman and filmmaker Woody Allen, were on display in his study beside a life-size stuffed tiger and a stuffed grey poodle.

One can only wonder how Andrew missed the procession of women or the signs of Epstein's sexual deviance.

Indeed, Epstein's 'pride and joy' was a large 'human chessboard' at the bottom of the main staircase which had customised figurines modelled on his female 'staff members wearing suggestive clothing'.

Then there was the life-size statue of a naked African warrior. Not to mention the 'leather room'.

When the FBI raided the house after Epstein was arrested last month, it reportedly found 'thousands' of indecent images of under-age women on computer hard drives locked in his office safe.

Others have claimed that Epstein had photographs and videos of his famous friends 'engaged in sex acts' which have now been seized by the FBI – prompting conspiracy theories that Epstein was murdered despite official autopsy results released on Friday stating definitively that the cause of death was suicide.

The video obtained by The Mail on Sunday is particularly shocking for the fact that – even two years after his 2008 child sex conviction – Epstein was seemingly flaunting his penchant for young women in plain view and in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world.

The footage begins just before 2.30pm on December 6, 2010, as two security men leave Epstein's mansion and chat to another security man in a waiting Chrysler.

Epstein's black Bentley arrives in the street about 20 minutes later, shortly before a delivery man from Le Gourmet delivers a parcel.

Shortly after 3.10pm, an unidentified young woman in a red 'beanie' hat leaves the house. She heads in the direction of East 66th Street, where Epstein owned a flat and where, according to some alleged victims, he 'kept' young Eastern European girls as virtual prisoners.

About 25 minutes later, an older, professional-looking woman with blonde hair leaves the house.

One minute later, at 3.35pm, Epstein, wearing a thick white fur-lined winter coat, leaves his property, followed by a young-looking girl dressed in a flimsy grey top. She appears to be carrying his glasses.

In a deeply troubling scene, the blonde-haired woman – who barely reaches Epstein's shoulders – appears cold and shaking as she walks with the millionaire to his Bentley.

Epstein clambers into the back seat as the young woman stands on the street, seemingly being given instructions. An older passer-by glances at the incongruous-looking couple.

After around two minutes, the girl jogs back to the house when she stands on the front step and presses the doorbell, visibly shaking with cold.

It is opened by a professional-looking brunette woman closely resembling Sarah Kellen, Epstein's former assistant whom several alleged victims have dubbed a 'co-conspirator' in Epstein's crimes.

Kellen, who is now married to a US race-car driver called Brian Vickers, has never commented publicly about the Epstein case.

However, she appeared in court during a defamation suit brought by Ms Roberts against Ms Maxwell and 'pleaded the Fifth' when asked about her role in Epstein's sex trafficking scheme.

In America, invoking the Fifth Amendment is a legal term which means you do not have to give evidence that might incriminate you.

At 4.30pm, the door opens and a pretty brunette emerges. She pauses and turns back to the house where Prince Andrew can be seen at the door.

The pair chat for a few seconds before the woman walks away, leaving Andrew to glance up the street before closing the door.

Forty minutes later, as the light begins to fade, another young-looking dark-haired woman arrives at the house.

In an unpublished manuscript released in the US as part of a huge trove of documents related to a defamation suit brought by Ms Roberts against Ms Maxwell, which was subsequently settled, Ms Roberts talks about meeting Prince Andrew in Epstein's New York home.

She gives an account – supported by another alleged victim – of how the Prince sat on a sofa and posed with a Spitting Image puppet of himself.

'When Andrew cupped my breast with a doll made in his image I only giggled away,' she wrote in the book, described in court documents as a 'fictionalised' account of her life.

Last night, the source of the video said they had decided to go public with the footage to encourage further victims to come forward.

'I'm haunted by the shivering young girl who was with Epstein. What became of her?' asked the source. 'Now I'm reading everything that went on inside and know the full horrors of what went on, I'm wondering, was she a victim too?'

This weekend, Prince Andrew was relaxing in the sunshine in Spain on a holiday with his ex-wife Sarah Ferguson.

The source said: 'When the video was taken he looked like a man without a care in the world.

'You have to wonder if that's still the case.'

So many disturbing questions. It’s time Andrew answered them…Royal Author ANGELA LEVIN on how the Prince MUST disclose everything he knows about Jeffrey Epstein

BY ANGELA LEVIN FOR THE MAIL ON SUNDAY

 The last time we saw Prince Andrew, he was stepping off a flight to Malaga in the company of his former wife Sarah Ferguson before taking a limousine to the luxury resort of Sotogrande. 

Business as usual, in other words.

Andrew will be glad of the chance to get away from it all, no doubt, as friends say he has been unusually stressed of late –and no wonder.

For the 59-year-old is once again in the spotlight over his close friendship with convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein. 

Only days before Epstein’s prison suicide, a number of legal documents had been unsealed by the US courts and one of these included lurid allegations about Prince Andrew’s conduct with a 17-year-old girl – something he has always denied.

Last week, his lawyers repeated the same brief formula they have stuck to all along: ‘It is emphatically denied that the Duke of York had any form of sexual contact or relationship with Virginia Roberts. Any claim to the contrary is false and without foundation.’

No doubt they are correct. Yet hiding behind lawyers is no longer enough for Prince Andrew, a father of two daughters and a man who holds a pivotal place in British national life.

Day by day, the evidence of Epstein’s nauseating crimes mounts up – and the true extent of Andrew’s friendship with Epstein grows ever clearer.

The shocking video evidence in today’s Mail on Sunday makes it all-too-plain the Prince remained on friendly terms with Epstein even when it was obvious just what sort of man he was. 

This was no brief acquaintance.

They had known each other for some time, ever since Epstein’s former lover and alleged fixer Ghislaine Maxwell introduced them in the 1990s.

The Prince became a regular guest at Epstein’s celebrity-filled dinner parties in Manhattan and, as their friendship grew, the invitations were returned.

In June 2000, Epstein and Ghislaine attended the Dance of the Decades, a spectacular party at Windsor Castle hosted by the Queen to mark Andrew’s 40th, Princess Anne’s 50th, Princess Margaret’s 70th and Prince William’s 18th birthdays.

In the autumn of that year, Andrew flew to New York and attended a Halloween ‘hookers and bondage’ party in Manhattan, where Ghislaine dressed as a prostitute.

In December of the same year, Andrew threw a birthday bash for Ghislaine at Sandringham, which Epstein attended before all three went to Phuket in Thailand, to celebrate the New Year.

Andrew was snapped sunbathing on a yacht with topless young women.

The criminal nature of Epstein’s interest in very young women became clear when this newspaper revealed the shocking case of Virginia Roberts, who says she had been recruited to work as a 15-year-old masseuse for Epstein and had been treated as the billionaire’s ‘sex slave’.

There is an infamous photograph from early 2001, believed to have been taken in Ghislaine’s Belgravia home, which shows Andrew with his arm around the bare midriff of Ms Roberts, while Ghislaine is grinning in the background.

It is all the more worrying, then, that Ms Roberts – who is now a mother of three living in Australia – claims she witnessed Epstein having sex with underage girls on a daily basis.

Still worse, Ms Roberts has alleged Epstein ‘forced’ her to have sex with Andrew in London and on two other occasions when she was 17.

There has been no claim that Andrew was aware she had been acting under duress – and in any case he denies that any such incidents happened at all. 

It is important to stress also that an American judge threw out the allegations against the Prince and ordered them to be struck from the record as ‘immaterial and impertinent’.

In another of the witness statements now open to the public, alleged Epstein victim Johanna Sjoberg claims Andrew touched her breast while sitting on a couch at Epstein’s New York apartment in 2001.

The Prince continues to vehemently deny all such claims, but what is beyond doubt is that shortly after Epstein was released from jail for child sex offences, his old friend came to stay.

A now familiar photo of the pair strolling through Central Park showed a level of misjudgment which we simply would never expect from our Royals.

The MoS’s exclusive clip of Andrew grinning as he waves goodbye to an unidentified brunette from behind Epstein’s oak door underlines just how close the pair were.

In the minutes before Andrew appears at the door, women are seen coming and going from the mansion – many of them questionably young in appearance.

Was Andrew aware? Did he ask no questions? Epstein had just been released from a prison sentence for abuse, after all.

It has been reported Epstein paraded his sexual perversions in his homes with naked photos of young girls and soaps in the shape of male and female genitals. Did Andrew see any of this? If so, why did he continue the friendship?

It is clear there are serious questions that need answers – and it’s high time we heard them. The Duke of York is not an ordinary citizen, but a senior Royal and father to two grown-up Princesses.

He was made Britain’s special trade representative on his retirement from the Royal Navy, a post he still held in 2011 when the MoS first exposed his friend. Andrew remains Commander and honorary Vice Admiral of the Royal Navy.

These enormous privileges bring great responsibility – but they don’t seem to have had much effect on his social behaviour.

Instead he has garnered a reputation for a self-indulgent lifestyle that includes meetings with unsavoury Middle Eastern tyrants and potentates. He seems to lack self-awareness and appears unconcerned that his actions risk grave damage to the Royal Family.

Sarah Ferguson has said: ‘We really believe in being good parents for our girls. In our every day [life], we really respect each other and honour each other.’

Yet her former husband seems unable to see any disconnect between standing proudly in morning dress for the wedding of his daughter Eugenie last October and the seedy friendship with a criminal abuser he would rather not discuss.

Why has he got such a high-handed and reckless attitude?

His childhood might help explain. Born in 1960, Andrew quickly became an adored second son, one who the Queen hoped would stabilise her marriage. It was said at the time Philip felt constrained by Royal life and that the relationship was tense.

But Andrew’s arrival did the trick. It also tied in with the Queen’s wish to be a more involved mother. She even wrote to her cousin Lady Mary Cambridge: ‘The baby is adorable. All in all, he’s going to be terribly spoilt by all of us I’m sure.’

Perhaps this was a sort of compensation for her earlier strictness with Charles. But the result has been unfortunate: Andrew behaves as though he is free to do exactly as he chooses. 

Does he not know how shocking his friendship with Epstein appears? It is time for the Duke of York to accept the serious misjudgment he has made and co-operate with authorities to disclose everything he knows about Epstein’s lifestyle and actions.

Has he contacted the police in Britain or America to try to help shed light on what by any standards was a horrific series of crimes committed by his former friend? It’s impossible to know because Buckingham Palace refuses to say.

But if he hasn’t, he should. The alternative is to try yet again to bury it in soft sand, to hide away and, like a coward, hope his 93-year-old mother will make things better.

[ghostmartyr]

Fic: A Terrible Idea [13/?]

Fandom: Attack on Titan Title: A Terrible Idea Author: Immi Rating: PG-13 Summary: Ymir’s pursuit of the hot cheerleader was meant to stay strictly lustful. But it’s a high school AU with a ship tag, so you know, fuck that. Notes: This chapter was going to be longer, but it got split for reasons I’m still not sure on.

Segment summary: They should probably have a candid conversation or five. But consider this: They could also not.

I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII

Ymir and feelings had a great relationship. They said hi, they did Sunday brunch, smiled for the camera, then went on their merry way. No muss, no fuss, no clubbing anyone to death in a back alley.

That didn’t mean she wanted them for a house guest.

Porco, in typical Porco fashion, wasn’t helping.

“You kept saying you didn’t like her.”

“We’re a little past that, try to keep up.”

“But you said—”

For someone who’d been so offended by the idea that a person could want a strictly lustful connection with someone, he was taking the idea that Ymir might have been underselling the value of Historia’s pretty eyes very hard. Ymir could have mustered up an imitation of sympathy, but he was supposed to be helping her, and his current level of contribution was making his eyes go as wide as his mouth. Besides that, the other exciting new developments a new dawning school day was lobbing towards them made her problems way less fun.

First though, there was the morning after. Enter Ymir having finished up brushing her teeth in the cramped bathroom and while she gave her beloved housemate a few token moments that more awake people would appreciate for thinking.

“So,” Porco had said, speaking through gravel, “you like her.”

“Sure seems that way.”

“Historia.”

“Are you going to be like this all day?”

Porco had dunked his head in the sink and came out splashing water all over both of them. Marcel had crashed so hard his bed was still buffing out the dents, so for a brief segment of time soon to be all but erased, all this was his fun to miss. With a breath Ymir hoped he’d found fortifying, Porco wiped his face raw. “How badly did you screw up the kiss?”

Ymir rolled her eyes and came up with several biting retorts that made him cry, then they never spoke of it again.

If fucking only.

Instead, what had actually come out was, “I didn’t screw it up, I was savoring it. Standing still for romantic moments is what you’re supposed to do.”

Porco mumbled something which the record could not verify was actually, “Not that still,” so murdering him would not be the easily excusable brand of crime Kenny let slide, and Ymir still, in theory, had someone to bounce the wondrous trauma of emotion off of.

“Did you even talk to her after?”

“And ruin the mood?”

Porco had dropped his towel and looked close to a stroke. “Are you for real?”

“Between the two of us, my date’s the one that ended on a kiss.” A kiss which, Ymir had found out at that point, was not a good thing to reference if she needed more words to complete a burn. She rallied like a champ, though. “Unless you’re holding out on me, you don’t have much room to criticize.”

On another morning, the pale look of panic that bunny-hopped across Porco’s face would have been of interest. In a twist of very bad luck for one of them, they’d been living through this particular morning, where Ymir was trying not to hit the ground too hard from cloud nine, and Porco had not yet been embarrassed into silence.

“Maybe you should check your phone,” Porco had said, sure to have nightmares about the suggestion for another week. “Thing’s almost surgically attached, she might’ve sent you something to work with.”

All previous arguments to the contrary, Ymir had known by then that she was in some massive fucking trouble with the Historia situation. Her brain periodically turning to sappily romantic fuzz all night long when she was supposed to be sleeping was a good hint.

But when she’d turned her phone back on and found a waiting link to Pieck’s homecoming photos, she’d fallen down a whole new rabbit hole of emotion, and fuck Pock’s comments, if Historia had been in the room, she would have kissed her until she was the frozen one.

Needless to say, the conversation took a turn after that.

A turn Porco was still trying to skid out of as they walked to school the next morning.

“Your girlfriend,” he said acidly, for the fifth time, “told Pieck she could collect the Homecoming Queen crown for her. Pieck’s legs were acting up, so she gave it to me, and the King and Queen dance is traditional. It has nothing to do with anything!”

“Oh my gosh you two are so cute together,” Ymir said for the seventh time, scrolling delightedly through the shots Pieck had collected of the crowned royals dancing through the night.

Pock made a failed grab for her phone.

“Aw, and here your boyfriend is with Marcel. It’s so nice when everyone gets along.”

That locked Porco’s jaw right up, along with his fists and his gait. Probably because he could see the same smitten look Reiner was wearing in the Marcel pictures as he didn’t see in their pictures together.

Ymir didn’t mean to have a feeling about that, but she cuffed Porco on the shoulder anyway. “Don’t be like that, they’re best friends. It’s easy for a budding relationship to feel threatened by that kind of love, but I have faith—”

“Enough,” Porco said.

Ymir shrugged as gaily as she did everything. “Suit yourself. You should thank Pieck; she made sure to get your good side.”

He would, knowing him. With her around to nudge the thought into his head. Some of the stony redness taking over Porco’s everything backed off to plain ol’ redness. With an extra shoulder hunch for pity points.

Ymir didn’t need the pictures to know that he’d failed completely to turn his date into a date. She also didn’t need photo evidence to know that didn’t mean anything, because Pieck took care of Pock’s heart the way more sensitive people looked after a baby bird, but Porco didn’t know a thing about relationships. He’d be riding the sad until the next time Pieck smiled at him.

Or the grudgingly bitter. “What are you going to do about Historia?”

Ymir kept her eyes on her new prized possession. Pieck had caught the one nanosecond of Porco actually smiling when Reiner dipped him. “Are you back on that?”

Porco had the herculean nerve to roll his eyes. “Like you ever left?”

There was also a great shot Pieck had convinced Marcel to take of all three of them, both boys playing diligent honor guard to the lady joining their midst. The angle wasn’t perfect, but Pieck’s contented smile and Porco’s dopey one next to Reiner’s bursting grin made up for it.

“You barely even thanked her for those things,” Porco was saying. “Do you have some sort of plan?”

Ymir pulled a wrinkle out of her sleeve absently. “Things have been going fine so far. Why would I need a plan?”

The flummoxed silence was gratifying, but it didn’t last.

“You like her,” he said, more confused than horrified for once.

“Right.”

“…Shouldn’t you tell her that?”

“I don’t think dodging a confession for over a decade makes you an expert.” Ymir kept going before Porco’s softened nerves could pick up too bad of a bruise. “Look,” she said, “it isn’t something to rush into. I’m not gonna switch gears on her out of nowhere. She might not even be into that.”

The photos on her phone lost some of their luster with the words. To go with the excruciating pang in her heart saying them caused. The least punkest of rocks.

Porco, responding the way he usually did to being mined for mockery for a solid day due entirely to his own actions, said, “You mean what if she’s been a pervert all along who’s only interested in you for your body?”

“Hey. Hey. Hey Pock. Fuck off.”

----

She was not going to make it weird.

There was no reason for it to be weird.

The whole school already thought they were a thing.

They’d done it last week and no one cared.

Ymir was standing at the end of the fucking cafeteria line, wondering why in the fuck her legs couldn’t seem to move. Her only answer was an image in the back of her mind of what happened at one of the dances she’d actually attended, watching Porco watch Pieck. She didn’t care for it.

Historia was already seated, and looking at her was on par with how multiple lightning strikes probably felt.

The last time they were in the same room they’d kissed.

…Fuck.

How the hell was this doing this to her? Historia had always been beautiful. Her hair had always had that shine to it. Her legs had always gone on for days despite being a modest half-day, at best. Her arms always looked incredible. The very faded blue face paint on her cheek hadn’t been around long, but there wasn’t anything uniquely special about it. They hadn’t even kissed that time. Wanted to, very much, and oh hell that just put the time the want had entered reality back, and—

She always looked up and let the world stop when she saw Ymir.

So it was just going to be fucking weird.

Okay.

Ymir made her legs work. She made them drag her over to the table, and she made herself sit down, and she didn’t make herself stop thinking about kissing Historia because having all the romo didn’t mean she was suddenly a saint.

“Hey,” she said, sliding across the bench. “Thanks for the pics.”

“No problem,” Historia said.

Her phone wasn’t in her hand. The Tamagotchi was.

Ymir had a very serious problem. One the giant lumps taking up root in her throat were not helping with. Such a problem. A problem an overabundance of bad pop songs were written about.

Historia wasn’t going to bring it up. Ymir couldn’t call that a good thing, but she wasn’t going to complain. Who was to say there was even a reason to bring it up, when the whole stated excuse had been getting under her parents’ skin. A kiss here or there in the pursuit of pissing people off wasn’t anything at all.

What the hell was she supposed to do if Historia believed that?

What else was Historia supposed to think, when she went for a kiss and got jack back?

What if pissing people off was the only reason she’d gone for it?

How did people do this?

“Did you have a good… yesterday?” Historia asked.

“Yep,” Ymir said, like it was easy. “Bothered Pock, went for a run. What did you get up to without me?”

The somehow living bit-creature in Historia’s hand waved. “Not a lot.” Historia shifted slightly on the bench, putting their knees within a hairsbreadth of touching. Ymir could feel them both watching the splice of space, and it brought some very vivid memories back. “My life’s pretty boring without you.”

Was that flirting or just the truth? Both?

“I guess I should find more excuses to stick around, then,” Ymir said.

They were sitting too close for the kind of eye contact that brought on. Ymir tried not to look at Historia’s cheek. Barely any of the wing left, glitter lurking invisibly, and it gave her a thrill that went down to her toes.

Historia looked at Ymir, and Ymir could see stars in her eyes.

“You should,” she said.

Next

[chiseler]

The Bombing of Black Wall Street

On the night of May 13th, 1985, as Derek Davis has so eloquently documented in previous issues of The Chiseler, the Philadelphia Police Department dropped a packet of C4 explosives onto the West Philly house occupied by MOVE, a black radical group whose sociopolitical agenda was fuzzy at best. You should read Davis’ stories to more fully understand how and why this came to pass, but suffice it to say in the end eleven people in the house (including several children) were killed, and some sixty surrounding homes—an entire city block’s worth—were allowed to burn to the ground.

At noon on September sixteenth, 1920, a group of anarchists detonated a horse-drawn cart packed with explosives and shrapnel in the middle of Wall Street, killing thirty-eight capitalists and sending hundreds more to area hospitals.

Nine months after the Wall Street bombing and sixty-four years before MOVE, an incident which in a way echoed both events took place in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but with far more devastating results. The Bombing of Black Wall Street, as it was sometimes known, would go on to be just as forgotten, at least in white history books, as both the MOVE and Wall Street bombings.

In 1906, a wealthy black entrepreneur named O.W. Gurley moved from Arkansas to Tulsa, where he bought up forty acres of land on the northern outskirts of the predominately white town. He had a plan in mind, and would only sell parcels of the land to other African-Americans, especially those trying to escape the brutal economic conditions in Tennessee.

Within a decade, the resulting thirty-four square block community, which had been dubbed Greenwood, had evolved into one of the most affluent regions of the state, and certainly the wealthiest and most successful black-owned business district in the country. A few of the new residents had even struck it rich when oil was discovered nearby. Along with the grocery, clothing and hardware stores that lined the main commercial strip, Greenwood boasted its own schools, churches, doctors,  banks, law offices, restaurants, movie theaters, a post office and a  public transportation system. The houses had indoor plumbing, and, even that early in the history of aviation, six of the residents owned private airplanes. Thanks to Segregation laws which prohibited blacks from shopping in nearby Whites-Only stores, the African-American residents of Greenwood shopped at their own local stores, which kept money circulating in the community, only bolstering their economic strength.

By all accounts, the people who lived there were extremely proud of what they had forged, especially the school system, insisting each and every child of Greenwood receive a full and solid education.

Although generally referred to as “Little Africa” or “Niggertown” in the Tulsa Tribune, Tulsa World, and other local papers, the residents of Greenwood preferred to think of it as Black Wall Street, a nickname that has stuck to this day.

As you might imagine, the much poorer white residents in surrounding Tulsa resented the wealth and success of their black neighbors. This resentment was only fueled by the local papers, in particular the Tribune. Taking their lead from the local chapter of the Klan, more often than not the Tribune’s writers insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary, on caricaturing the residents of “Little Africa” as either stupid, shiftless, shuffling drunks or drug crazed, wild-eyed criminals and rapists running wild in the streets. Meanwhile, editorial writers over at the World even recommended conscripting the Klan to restore law and order to the community.

Combining the reality with the grotesque cartoon proved to be a poor white racist’s worst nightmare. Not only were those blacks in Greenwood subhuman, they were rich subhumans. Jesus God Almighty!

The simmering anger reached the boiling point on May 30th, 1921 when seventeen-year-old (and white) Sarah Page accused nineteen-year-old (and black) shoeshine man Dick Rowland of rape. Page worked as an elevator operator in Tulsa’s Drexel Building, and claimed Rowland attacked her while she was  on the job. No one really knows to this day what happened in that elevator, but later investigators who’ve looked into the case genrtally agree there was no rape. Rowland would claim he either bumped into Page accidentally or stepped on her foot—he couldn’t remember. At the time it didn’t matter. The following morning’s Tribune ran a racially inflammatory, lurid account of the fictional crime in which they essentially declared Rowland guilty. A hearing was scheduled for that afternoon, and the paper further erroneously reported the gallows was already being built outside the courthouse for that night’s hanging.

Whether or not a rape had occurred was, to be honest, irrelevant. It was simply the easiest and cheapest way to rile up the angry white masses. If the paper had run an article about economic disparity and racial class resentment turned on its head, all it would have encouraged its white readers to do is flip forward to the sports section.

The residents of Greenwood understood this, and on the 31st, the day of the hearing, a group of men, some of them armed, showed up outside the courthouse in hopes of protecting Rowland.  When they arrived they found themselves facing off with the much larger (and better-armed) angry white mob, there to ensure Rowland was hanged, trial or no trial.

Words were exchanged and a few scuffles broke out. A white man reportedly approached an armed African-American WWI vet, and demanded he hand over his gun. When the vet refused and the white tried to wrest it from him, the  gun went off, and the riot was underway.

Realizing they were outnumbered, the mob from Greenwood retreated towards home, only to be pursued by the white mob, both on foot and in pickups.

It’s worth noting that the confrontation outside the courthouse had gone on for several hours before the few cops onhand to keep the peace finally called for backup. When all hell broke loose after that gunshot, the cops quickly began deputizing whites on the fly, giving them the authority to make arrests. A few did, and an internment camp set up at the local fairgrounds quickly began to fill. Most of the new deputies didn’t bother, and just started shooting.

As the white mob entered Greenwood, they immediately began looting and torching every building they passed. For the next twelve hours they rampaged through the neighborhood, whooping and hooting as they smashed windows, kicked in doors, took potshots at fleeing residents, and set fire to anything that wasn’t already ablaze. Several eyewitness reports claim two small planes flying over the community started dropping what some believe were kerosene bombs and others believe was dynamite on the already raging inferno. Firemen who arrived on the scene to douse the fires were turned back at gunpoint by the rioters.

The number of white families from nearby neighborhoods—a lot of mothers and children—who gathered around the edges of Greenwood to watch the carnage has led some to believe the attack was planned well in advance, likely by the Klan. They were just waiting for an excuse.

The National Guard arrived shortly before noon on June 1st, but by then most of the rioters had gone home. Along with trying to control the flames, the Guardsmen also began arresting Greenwood’s residents. By the time the fires were put out, all thirty-four square blocks of Black Wall Street had been burned to the ground. An estimated three hundred had been killed, another eight hundred hospitalized, ten thousand were left homeless, six thousand were being held in the internment camp at the fairgrounds, and six hundred businesses had been destroyed. No whites were arrested or charged for their role in the massacre.

Some of the dead, it was reported, were buried in mass graves, others dumped in a nearby river, and still others dropped into the shafts of a local coal mine.

The coverage of the destruction of Black Wall Street in the following day’s Tulsa World included the headlines “Fear of Another Uprising” and “Difficult to Check Negroes.” To this day, white media outlets continue to refer to the incident as “The Tulsa Race Riot,” when they refer to it at all. The Tribune quietly removed the front page story about the alleged rape from all their bound editions, and all police and fire department files about the incident mysteriously vanished.

The day after the riot, all charges were dropped against Dick Rowland (who had been safely hidden away in a jail cell throughout it all), and upon his release he quickly and quietly left town.

Only one of Black Wall Street’s buildings was left standing, and those who survived vowed they would rebuild. They did, too, to an extent, but they were never able to fully reclaim the spirit and status the community once had. Making things more difficult, Greenwood was in a prime location in terms of business expansion. City politicians, anxious to reclaim that land, began devaluing Greenwood property, hoping they might encourage residents to sell out and move far away.

Ironically, the real death blow to Black Wall Street came when Segregation was overturned in Oklahoma in the late ’50s and early ’60s, and most Greenwood residents decided they were happy to take their business to formerly whites-only stores.

Seventy-five years after the massacre, the state of Oklahoma ordered an investigation into the events of May 31st-June 1st, 1921. When the investigation ended in 2001, it was suggested a scholarship fund be set up, and reparations be paid to the families of the victims. A few scholarships were handed out before the program was discontinued three years later, but no reparations were ever paid.

by Jim Knipfel

[marypsue]

Something Borrowed, Something Blues 7 / ?

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / ?

So I have to apologise for the unannounced, unexpected month-and-a-half hiatus. I found out by trial and error (mostly error) that I can’t consistently update two longfics while also consistently working on a novel. I’m going to finish this and Imbalance, but after that, I’m planning to take a step back from fic to focus more on my original fiction. I hope you’ll check out @katesummervsthemultiverse  if you’re interested in what I’ve been getting up to!

I’m also on AO3 as MaryPSue!

...

The first thing that caught the eye, entering Gravity Falls, were the cliffs.

It had been true in 2012 and it was true now, a little over a thousand years later. The valley in which the town nestled sloped gently downwards, only to abruptly terminate in a towering wall of rock. The cliffs loomed over the valley like enormous sentinels, keeping watch over everything that lay before them. One of the huge outcroppings of bare stone that hung over the valley had lost its top, a chunk of rock almost the size of the town itself sliding off and crashing into the base of the opposite cliff, but the distinctive UFO shape could still be made out, if you knew what you were looking for.

Gravity Falls had changed too much, and not at all. 

The landmarks that Dipper remembered, like the cliffs, had all been weathered or beaten or even completely broken down by the inexorable passage of time, the one force in the universe that even he couldn't overcome. And yet, when you looked at them with an eye that knew what they once had been, it was impossible to miss the way the new still wrapped itself around the bones of the old.

The borders of the town had sprawled out into the encroaching forest (and fought some pitched battles to do so), but at its core it remained the same small town Dipper remembered. The people, if the handful of locals he'd run into since arriving could be considered statistically significant, hadn't stopped being quirky and full of personality - and almost preternaturally unobservant. The original building housing Stanley Pines Memorial Library of the Supernatural had long ago disappeared into the forest's depths, but the town was still a go-to for scholars of the supernatural. The storefronts had changed, probably hundreds of times, but the layout of the streets in the centre of town were the same. Dipper could stroll through the town core with his eyes closed, and only have to worry about cars and hovercraft and the occasional pedestrian. 

He wasn't closing his eyes on this particular walk through downtown, though. He had a breadcrumb trail to follow.

The path that Mira had taken into the woods was clear, bright as a trail of searchlights leading down the street from the hotel and out to the edge of town. They were getting closer and closer to the cliffs, Dipper noticed uneasily. He very, very gently let his ‘Tyrone’ disguise slip another few notches, just enough to see the world through a few more senses humans didn’t have.

Mira’s trail flared to brilliant life before him, a rainbow of glittering colours the height of a human trailing down the street. Dipper breathed out, long and slow, when he didn’t see any traces of yellow or gold hanging around it. There was a thread of brighter green twining its way around the rainbow, a little like ivy, but it didn’t smell of Bill.

He could have seen more, of course, if he’d been able to shuck the human suit altogether, but -

“How can you tell which way she went?” Sun-mi...’complained’ wasn’t the right word. Maybe ‘demanded’ was closer. “I don’t see anything but street.”

“I think my senses are probably a little better than yours,” Dipper muttered, not particularly caring if Sun-mi heard him. It wasn’t all that unusual for someone to look human and not be, or to look human and not be entirely. He’d found over the years that it was much easier to misdirect people into thinking he was a different, more benign supernatural entity than he actually was, rather than trying to convince them that he was 100% authentic hand-squeezed human. 

Of course, he wouldn't have had to bother pretending anything if the only one of Mira's friends who didn't know about him hadn't insisted on coming along, but - fine. This was fine. He probably wouldn’t have been able to stay behind and let somebody else handle things if his best friend was mysteriously missing either, even if anyone else could have found Mira in the first place. Or, at least, found her trail, which was the problem. 

Dipper should have known exactly where Mira was. Her soul belonged to him, for Pete’s sake! He could always find her!

The fact that right now, all he could find was her trail did not exactly give him confidence in his decision to let - to help her come to Gravity Falls. He'd let his own nostalgia blind him to all the red flags. He'd thought, irrationally, that they'd be safe here. That Gravity Falls, despite all evidence to the contrary, wouldn't let anything happen to Mizar. He'd thought - 

Well, it didn't matter what he'd thought. Because he'd thought wrong. 

And now Mira was missing and it was all his fault.

"Werewolf?" Sun-mi asked, a trace of interest breaking through the irritable worry in her voice. It took Dipper a moment to backtrack far enough in his train of thought to figure out what she was talking about.

"Kind of a personal question, don't you think?"

"Are there any questions I could ask to learn more about you that aren't personal?" Sun-mi shot back. "How did you and Mira meet? How long have you known each other? Why hasn't she ever mentioned you? Who are you, anyway?"

"Not a werewolf," Dipper muttered, turning back to the trail.

...

The path ahead of Mira brightened slowly, from dark to dim grey to rosy, dappled with bright spots of gold where the sun slipped through the endless trees. The curious hush of the sleeping town was slowly but inexorably filling with birdsong. It was getting closer to morning the deeper she wandered into the woods.

Maybe she should have turned back the moment she'd realised the sun was starting to rise. Everyone would be worried - she hadn't left a note. 

Even as the thought crossed her mind, though, her feet still carried her forwards, the soft patter of her bare soles against the packed earth never faltering. Something swelled strange and fierce and triumphant in her chest, even as she ducked to avoid an overhanging branch. She wasn't sure if she remembered why, but - let them worry about her a little. She'd done enough worrying, for what felt like far too long, and the woods were peaceful and calm.

And welcoming.

...

The line between town and trees seemed weirdly abrupt.

Ian stared at it distrustfully. It stared distrustfully right back. If a solid wall of dark green could have a facial expression, he'd say it looked smug.

It absolutely wasn't frightening. Ian wasn't scared to go in.

"You're sure she's in there?" he asked, and Alcor - 'Tyrone' - grimaced.

"I'm sure she went in there." 'Tyrone's' eyes flicked over to meet Ian's, and Ian caught the unspoken flicker of worry in his expression. It was the opposite of reassuring.

"Then we're going in there too," Ian said, and started forward. Nobody tried to stop him, and he reached the treeline in only a few steps.

The pines and spruce towered overhead, like the walls of some huge fortress. A breeze eddied past, carrying the fresh scent of greenery, and for reasons he couldn't explain to save his life, a shiver danced up the back of Ian's neck. 

Somewhere above him, where the treetops took jagged bites out of the blue overhead, a crow's coughing cackle mocked Ian's bravado. Go on, then, it seemed to be saying. If you're so tough.

Ian gritted his teeth and stepped into the shadow of the trees. And then took one more step, into the forest.

The moment he lost sight of the sun behind the evergreens, it was as if he'd stepped into a cave. The air around him turned cold, the summer heat he'd taken for granted fizzling away into the cool, green, underwater dimness of the woods. The light shifted, shimmering through the trees and picking up a pale greenish hue as it fell. Even the background noise of the town seemed suddenly muted, like someone had turned the volume most of the way down. Ian had never been particularly outdoorsy, but he was pretty sure the entire atmosphere around him wasn't supposed to change that fast.

He turned, half-expecting to find himself alone, with only miles and miles of forest stretching out behind him, as far as he could see. But there was Gravity Falls, just the same as it had been half a second ago when he'd walked into the trees. Alcor was just a step behind him, Rosa and Sun-mi trailing a little further behind.

"This way," Alcor said, passing Ian and pointing them towards a bend in the path. Sun-mi hurried after him, dogging his heels, while Rosa slowed to wait for Ian.

"Doin' all right there?"

Ian managed a grimace that might, in the right light, be mistaken for a grin. "Don't worry about me. We've got a Mira to find."

"You know that don't make me worry any less, right?" Rosa said, looping her arm through Ian's and all but dragging him after her.

"There's just something creepy about these woods. Something more than just the fact that they apparently ate my fiancée," Ian admitted. "I feel like something's watching us."

Rosa jerked a thumb over her shoulder, to where a pointy red hat was just visible in the undergrowth.

"Ha ha," Ian said, yanking his arm back from Rosa. Or trying to, anyway. Her grip was like iron.

"Beale -" Rosa started, but Ian cut her off.

"Rose, please, I asked you to stop calling me that."

Rosa recoiled, looking stung, and then scowled. "All right. I'm sorry for that. But I'm just tryin' ta help -"

"Yeah, like you helped last time?" Ian muttered, and Rosa's scowl deepened.

"Fine. Be a miserable cuss if it makes ya feel better. But Mira's my friend too, an' I'm not sittin' round with my thumb up my ass whinin' while she's missing."

With that, she hurried ahead to catch up with the other two, leaving Ian alone with the feeling of eyes on his back.

...

"Changeling?"

Dipper paused, shut his eyes, and opened them again to a world overlaid with aura colours. Mira's trail was getting harder and harder to find in the layers of green, and somehow that worried him almost as much as the cave in the cliffs. Mira's trail should have been growing stronger as they got closer to the source, not fainter. True, they were in what was probably the most magical forest the world, but...

"What kind of changeling?" he asked. At least Sun-mi's incessant questions were a good distraction.

"Mm." Sun-mi was silent for a beat, surveying Dipper, which was not a good distraction. "Not troll, I don't think. Fey, maybe - I mean, you did just lure us all into the woods. I suppose there's also deal-born, though most of the deal-born meet unfortunate and ironic fates around puberty, it doesn't mix well with demon magic."

Dipper took a breath and let it out carefully, making sure it didn't sound too much like a sigh of relief. Mira's friend was just a shade too knowledgeable for comfort. Dipper was just lucky she'd been knowledgeable enough to talk herself out of getting too close to the truth.

"Not a changeling," he said, and paused. Ahead of him, the trail forked, and though he could still make out the vibrant colours of Mira's trail through the thick, cloying green of the forest's own magic, something made him stop and drop an arrow of gold light into the trampled-down earth and leafmould of the path, pointing back in the direction they'd come. It shone preternaturally bright in his second sight, but even as Dipper watched, that green crept in and around and over it, dimming its brilliance and dulling its sharp edges. Well, that probably wasn't good.

"Wizard?" Sun-mi asked. "I know they're not naturally gifted in the senses department, but there must be spells -"

"Sun-mi, A-Tyrone, how're we doing?" Rosa interrupted, throwing an arm companionably over Dipper's shoulder. Judging by the expression on Sun-mi's face, Rosa had done the same to her with the other arm. "Please tell me we're gettin' close."

"Hard to say," Dipper answered, grateful to have something to talk about other than magical-creature-twenty-questions. "You know how they say Gravity Falls is the most magical place on Earth? The town's got nothing on the woods. It's making it really hard to tell where Mira went or even how long ago she came through."

"The forest's magical field interferes with your tracking abilities?" Sun-mi said, and Dipper gave himself a sharp mental kick. "Interesting."

Rosa shot her a confused look, before turning back to Dipper. "That don't mean you can't find her, though, does it?"

Dipper wished he could take it as her being spoiled and demanding, and ignore the note of plaintive worry in her voice.

"I sure hope not," he muttered, and, before anyone else could ask any questions, plunged forward down the path where Mira's trail had gone.

...

The path, Mira noticed with interest, had all but disappeared under her feet. A soft, plush carpet of fallen leaves and moss cushioned her every step as she wound her way around the trees, brambles and low bushes almost seeming to curl back out of her way with every step. 

They were growing fewer and farther between, though, as the trees grew larger and farther apart. A vague memory from a long-ago science class told her that as she moved deeper into the forest, she was also moving back in time. These trees must have been here for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Their branches arched overhead like the vaulted ceiling of an ancient cathedral, a reverent hush gathering among the enormous trunks.

Even without a path, Mira found, it was impossible to get lost. Her feet seemed to know where they wanted to wander, and she was content to follow them. 

It was strange. She'd left her hotel in the middle of the night to walk into the woods, without leaving a note or telling anyone where she was going, with no clear plan or destination in mind. And now it was morning, and she was still walking, into the very oldest depths of the most magical, least trustworthy forest on Earth. She could swear that the plants were moving to guide her and clear her way, and she had the faintest feeling that the movement she'd been seeing among the trees wasn't only birds and squirrels and gnomes.

And yet, she wasn't afraid. She wasn't even worried. That in itself might have worried her, but - how could it? She wasn't lost. She didn't exactly know where she was going, but her feet knew how to get there. And Dipper would always know where to find her. 

And the woods weren't frightening. In fact, much like the clearing they'd first arrived in, they felt - not friendly, maybe, but welcoming. Familiar. Like - like an older relative's house she'd visited lots when she was younger, well-known but still a little bit mysterious, but still safe, still comfortable. Almost, but not quite like...

Home.

...

The path Alcor had been leading them down had long ago faded into the underbrush. Ian's arms were scratched and bruised where he'd tried (with varying degrees of success) to push the brambles and bushes out of his way. He really hoped he didn't have any ticks embedded in his legs after all this tromping around in the brush, but he wasn't going to count on it. Rosa's petticoat had gotten so hopelessly snarled that they'd all had to stop and untangle her twice, and Sun-mi had finally conceded defeat and tucked her silky scarf away in her purse after it had caught on a branch and nearly strangled her.

"Can't you do something about this?" Ian grumbled to Alcor, once he was sure Sun-mi's attention was fixed on liberating her scarf.

"I'm trying," Alcor muttered back, turning to look at Ian, and Ian took a sharp step backwards before catching himself. 'Tyrone' looked terrible, pale as death but with a bright fever-spot of red on each cheek, and his eyes - they looked normal, at first glance, but when you were paying attention and knew what you were looking for, it was obvious that the yellowish cast to his skin was at least partly due to the glow coming off his eyeballs. "But it's fighting me."

"I thought you were the most powerful -" Ian started, his voice rising, but Alcor glanced pointedly over in Sun-mi's direction and Ian swallowed the rest of the sentence. "Are you saying this patch of trees is stronger than you are?"

"No! I'm saying the further in we get, the harder it is to keep this forest from doing what it really wants to do and just throwing us out!" Alcor reached up, like he was going to adjust the brim of a hat he wasn't wearing, then huffed out a frustrated sigh and ran his fingers up into his hair instead, grabbing a lock so that it stood up in all directions. "Okay, maybe that does mean this patch of trees is stronger than I am, but it was here before I was Al- was me, and it's had more practice!" His voice went suddenly small as he added, "Believe me, I'm doing everything I can."

Ian managed to bite back the complaint that had been lining up on his tongue, ready to spill out. It wasn't like he couldn't see that Alcor was trying. Or like he didn't know Alcor wanted to find Mira as much as or more than he did.

"Okay," he sighed. "Is there, I don't know, anything I can do to help?"

Alcor started to shake his head, and then stopped. "Actually, if you and Rosa can keep Sun-mi distracted so she stops trying to figure out what I am and how I fit into Mira's life -"

Ian nodded. "Say no more."

...

Ian stepped away from Dipper's side, and Dipper breathed a mental sigh of relief. It was enough work just keeping 'Tyrone' intact while holding the forest at bay, trying to hold a conversation at the same time was borderline impossible. And he hadn't actually lied to Ian, but - it probably wouldn't increase anybody's confidence if they knew that the further into the forest they went, the weaker Dipper was starting to feel. 

Of course, that still made him more powerful than ninety-nine percent of demons, but - this wasn't supposed to happen. He'd gotten so used to being the strongest that suddenly having that pulled out from under him was not a fun or pleasant experience. Nothing was supposed to be able to do this to him anymore! And yet, he could still feel the slow, steady sucking that was draining his power, little by little, growing stronger the closer they drew to the heart of the forest - and, if his sense of direction wasn't as clouded as his sixth sense was, the cliffs. 

Just as it had with Mira and her trail and the breadcrumb arrows he'd left along their way, the thick green web of the forest's power obscured Dipper's Sight, making it impossible for him to tell what it was that was leeching off his power. Unfortunately, Dipper thought he had a pretty good idea what it was anyway.

He cast a wary glance back at the trio following him, his eyes landing on Ian's back with a wince. It probably hadn't been a good idea to bring him. If Dipper wasn't putting two and two together and coming up with paranoia, then Mira'd been taken as bait. Bait to get him within range of the thing that was stealing his power. Bait to get Ian up to the cliffs.

Bait to get them all assembled, again, in a place where Bill Cipher could be summoned.

Rosa let out an uproarious laugh about something and punched Ian in the arm, and for a moment, Dipper was forcibly reminded of another trio who'd trailed after him like this, so many lifetimes ago. Just being here was dragging so many old memories he hadn't thought about in forever back out of the depths of his mind, and Dipper had to admit that it was bittersweet. Everything had changed so much since the last time he'd set foot in these woods.

Well. Almost everything.

Dipper turned back to the faint echo of Mira's aura hanging in the air. It was all but swallowed by green now. They'd have to make better time.

And he'd have to figure out what he was going to do once they reached the cave.

...

The trees and the undergrowth finally started to clear, but while it made it easier to walk, it didn’t actually make things better. Mostly because it meant Ian could now see the birch trees all around him. Hundreds, maybe thousands of big black eyes surrounding him on all sides, boring into his back no matter where he turned. 

It was unnerving enough on its own, but that wasn’t all. The first few times he saw it, Ian thought it was just trees swaying in the wind, that he’d glimpsed out of the corner of his eye, green sweeping across his peripheral vision and then vanishing again. He’d only realised it couldn’t possibly be trees when one of them flickered red. 

After that, they were impossible to miss. It didn’t take long before the others started to notice, too. Rosa’s elbow in his side and raised eyebrow said everything, to Ian. Sun-mi was a little less tactful.

“We’re being followed,” she said, shortly. 

“No, we’re not,” Alcor said. “I lost Mira’s trail fifteen minutes ago.”

There was a moment of quiet as everyone tried to work out what he meant. The creatures following them, the lightening undergrowth, the way the forest had seemed to stop fighting them -

“You’re saying we’re being herded,” Ian said. 

Alcor just grimaced, and kept walking.

...

It felt like hours, or maybe days, before Mira's feet slowed and then came to a stop, hours that still somehow passed in the blink of an eye. Time seemed to have bent dreamlike around her, leaving her here without a real sense of how she'd gotten there.

For the first time since she'd entered the forest, Mira paused and looked around. The sunlight finally burst through the canopy in full, pouring down around her and flooding the clearing laid out before her with golden light. Every blade of pale green or gold grass, rippling gently like a shimmering sea in the faint breath of breeze, every needle on the branches of the towering evergreens and every silver-coin-flashing leaf bursting from the birches that ringed the open space, every delicate petal of the explosion of multicoloured flowers filling the clearing, were gilded with light.

But, beautiful as the whole scene was, one thing inexorably drew her eye.

The tree standing at the centre of the clearing was unlike the other trees around them, and not only because it was the only apple tree Mira had seen so far. Nor was it simply because it looked like the oldest apple tree in the world, so fantastically gnarled that it almost looped in on itself, its explosion of branches twisting like serpents. There was something about it that seemed to have its own gravity, strong enough to draw her all the way from town into the middle of the woods. It was in full leaf, its branches laden with perfect fruit. Mira's mouth watered at the sight of them.

She took a step forward, into the clearing, her mind empty of everything but the brilliant red glint of sunlight off the flawless skin of the apples.

And that was when she saw the figure standing at the base of the tree, its bare, branching antlers almost hidden by the leaves.

...

The half-glimpsed green creatures left them at the edge of a clearing. Ian could still see their flowing garments and shocking red hair peeking out from behind the birch and spruce that ringed the small circle of grass, though. The message was clear: there would be no going back the way they came.

He stepped reluctantly out into the clearing, uneasily watching the birch trees watching him. He'd had nightmares that started like this. Lots of them, in fact. Ever since he'd had a lifetime's worth of memories that didn't belong to him dropped into his head.

Ian's attention was so focused on the trees that he didn't notice Alcor had stopped walking until he collided with Alcor's back. Alcor was frozen, staring at something in the centre of the clearing, and if it could make the world's most powerful demon look like that, then Ian wasn't so sure he wanted to look and see what it was.

He finally forced himself to step out from behind the demon, to confront what Alcor had seen. If it had anything to do with what had taken Mira, then he had to face it, had to know what it was.

At first, though, he wasn't sure what the big deal was. All he saw was what looked like the oldest, ugliest apple tree in the world, the dark wood of its trunk twisted and knotted until it almost looked like it had been carved into the rough shape of a crouched human body, the bare branches springing from the bulbous knot that represented its 'head' pronged like antlers. Someone had left an axe leaning against it, and though the handle was weathered silver and half-overgrown by the tree, the blade still glinted deadly sharp.

Then it opened its eyes.

Twin blue stars flashed to life in the middle of the creature's face, blue stars flaring in the depths of impossibly deep sockets, like gazing into infinity. They seemed to bore straight into Ian, as though they were looking into his soul and out the other side.

The creature slowly unfolded itself, its body wrenching away from the tree, Ian now saw, it had begun to grow into. And it kept unfolding itself, unnaturally long limbs extending, until it towered over the four assembled searchers, seven feet or more of gnarled dark wood and inexplicable malice. One of its gangling arms ended in a clawed hand, fingers like questing roots, pointed and irresistible. The other ended in the axe.

Rosa gasped, grabbing Ian's shoulders. Sun-mi also gasped, though it was an entirely different-sounding gasp, and took a step forward, one hand scrabbling blind for her phone, her eyes never leaving the creature's face. Only Alcor didn't move, didn't react, almost like he'd known this was going to happen. Which, Ian reflected, he probably had.

The creature's knot-face cracked, splitting right across the middle, jagged edges like sharp teeth, and it let out a bone-shattering roar. Crows scattered from the treetops around them, the trees around them shook, even the ground seemed suddenly unsteady under Ian's feet.

Sun-mi jumped back, and Rosa ducked down behind Ian's back. Alcor didn't move. He stood, perfectly still, until the creature's roar slowly petered out into a curious sound, and then stopped altogether. Ian couldn’t see any real change in his appearance, but Alcor still somehow seemed taller, almost towering. Ian could feel the press of Alcor’s power on his skin, not unlike the pins and needles of blood flowing back into a limb, insistent and uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.

In the ringing silence after the roar, Alcor's voice was like a bell tolling.

"Woodsman. Where is my Mizar?"

[mohini-musing]

Dancing In the Dark

I posted this one on AO3 close to a year ago. It’s still one of my favorites and I’m still quite proud of the way it turned out. So here I have for you, some AU Stucky, set in a modern world where Bucky came home from war with a few lasting reminders that nothing is as enduring as the lies we tell ourselves.  Except for maybe the people willing to tell us the truth instead.

“Should someone cut him off at some point?” Steve asks Sam, inclining his head toward James at the bar. He’s slamming back yet another shot of something and Steve’s almost certain that he’s well into double digit territory now.

“Not a good idea,” Sam replies smoothly as James comes towards them. His eyes are glassy but he smiles at them as he distributes the beers he picked up for them while he was knocking down more liquor. The man is sex on legs in tight jeans, a fitted Henley, and the tiniest hint of liner around his eyes. “Wanna dance?” he asks Steve before taking him by the hand and leading him towards the floor.

~~~

Two hours later, Steve’s in the apartment he shares with Bucky, Sam, and Nat. James is barely capable of hauling himself up the stairs under his own power and Steve is shocked he’s still conscious. Nat’s still out somewhere, and probably won’t return until dawn. Sam went home with some twink, which leaves Steve with a very, very wasted James who is currently doing everything in his power to convince Steve that he’s capable of sex, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“Y’know, I betcha’d do me if I wasn’t scarred to hell,” James slurs as Steve removes his hand from his waistband for the thousandth time on their way through the common area. It’s the first time Steve has ever heard James mention the burns on his upper arm and shoulder. He’s only rarely seen them despite them sharing a room, mostly when James is on his way from the shower to the bedroom and even then he tends to dress in the bathroom more often than not.

“I don’t care about the scars,” Steve tells him, his voice deliberately calm. It’s most definitely not the right thing to say.

“Yeah, yeah, no one cares about em. Went to fucking war for no good fucking reason but no one goddamn gives a flying fuck about it,” James growls. “Fuck. Fucking ugly as hell. Fuck,” he mutters and his voice breaks on the edge of a sob. Steve wraps his arms around him, certain that it’s not just the scars he’s talking about now.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Steve whispers, easing them both to the floor with the other man’s knees buckle.

James is shaking now, and Steve tugs him close, holding him tight and repeating what reassurance he can in hopes that some of it making it through the alcohol haze. “I’ve got you, shhh, shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Steve keeps telling him, even as James is sobbing in alcohol fueled hysteria. He’s known him since they were too young to shave, and he knows exactly how James was treated for any hint of emotion that wasn’t anger by his father. He’s never seen James cry sober, but this kind of breakdown is exceptional even for him.

It seems to take forever before the man in his arms begins to calm. The sobs edge slowly into quieter tears, and eventually stop altogether. “Stevie?” James asks, his voice raw.

“Right here, it’s all good,” Steve replies automatically.

“I don’t feel so good,” James tells him.

“Think you can walk?” Steve asks.

“Help me?”

“Always,” Steve tells him, pulling them both to their feet and tossing one of James’ arms across his shoulders to haul him to the bathroom.  James has a hand clamped over his mouth and is fighting back heaves by the time they cross the threshold.

Steve crouches next to him as he holds the edges of the toilet and unloads what sounds like a truly unfortunate amount of liquor. When he’s down to heaves, Steve rubs his back in slow circles, quietly talking to him reminding him to breathe, that it’s okay, that he’s not alone. It takes a while to wind down, but once it does he lets himself collapse against Steve.

Steve reaches forward to flush away the mess as James slides down his chest and into his lap, head coming to rest on Steve’s thigh, one hand clutching the fabric of his shirt and the other splayed across James’ stomach.

Steve runs his fingers through the close cropped dark hair as James cries quietly in his lap. “Shhh, Bucky, shhh, I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Steve tells him, reverting to the name James discarded before he shipped out to war.

“Gonna puke,” James whimpers, and Steve pulls him upright a second too late. James clutches the toilet as he keeps bringing up more, even as the liquid cools and soaks into his and Steve’s clothes. Steve shucks out of his foul jeans before shedding his shirt and reaching forward to ease the Henley off of James. It’s the first time he’s seen the scarring up close, and he has to admit it’s awful. The skin is pitted and shiny, the grafted areas raw looking even a year after the mission James was on got blown to bits on the side of some road in a place Steve can barely pronounce.

“M’sorry,” James keeps muttering, and Steve reaches around him to undo the fly of his pants as well.

“You have nothing to apologize for here, you’ve held my head plenty of times. Let’s get you out of these, alright? You’ll feel better.”

“Not likely,” James replies, though he manages to shimmy out of the jeans by some miracle. Steve helps him out of his boxers as well, soaked through with vomit and, if the smell is anything to go by, not a small amount of piss.

“Think you can stay conscious long enough for a shower?”

“Bath?” he asks, and the haunted sadness in his eyes is enough to make Steve want to kill anything and everything that took his snarky, carefree friend and made this wreck out of him.

“Sure,” Steve tells him, turning the taps and helping him step into the tub and sit down. Steve coaxes him to sit close to the faucet, cupping his hands under the water and rinsing the grime from James’ body. He dampens a cloth and rubs a bar of soap across it, gently washing his friend and speaking softly the entire time, trying to keep James awake and alert.

“I’m going to turn on the shower for a minute, get your hair clean for you,” he tells him once he is finished washing his body. James nods, and sits in silence as he rinses him, washes his hair, and rinses the shampoo from it. He helps him from the tub, wrapping him in a towel and settling him against the wall before stepping into the bath himself for a shower that takes all of three minutes time.

When he steps out, James has passed out cold on the floor of the bathroom. It’s not the first time he’s carried him to bed. He doubts it will be the last. James could hold his liquor better than most before he left. Now that he’s back, he seems to have forgotten where the line between drunk and wasted lies. No one has the guts to say the words, but they all know this goes well beyond hard partying and firmly in to straight up alcoholism.

He wakes to James stumbling from the bed and into the bathroom, strangled retching filling the early morning silence. He goes to him, rubbing his back and offering him water to rinse his mouth. When he’s finished, he grabs a bottle of mouthwash and passes it over, instructing him to rinse his mouth. James takes it and does as he asks. “I’m sorry, Stevie. M’such a fuckup.”

“Nah, you’re just hurting. It’ll be alright. I’ve got you.”

“M’always hurting, Stevie,” James whispers. Steve’s not at all certain he was meant to hear the words, but he wraps his hand around Bucky’s shoulder and tugs him toward him.

“You’ve got to let me help you,” Steve says quietly. “Please just let me in. I hate watching you hurt yourself like this. Please, baby, just let me try.”

“Not worth it,” James murmurs.

“Worth it to me,” Steve tells him.

“M’sorry,” James repeats.

Steve can feel him trembling in his arms. As much as he longs to take this vulnerability and dig deeper, force James to talk to him about whatever is driving this self destructive train wreck, he knows it would backfire in horrible ways. “Shhh, I’ve got you,” he says instead, holding him close and waiting out the shaking, politely ignoring the dampness of tears soaking into the thin jersey fabric of his shirt.

When James pulls away to sit up on his own, his eyes are red and puffy, his face pale and exhausted. “Stevie?” he asks so quietly Steve has to strain to hear him.

“Not going anywhere,” Steve replies.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore, Stevie. M’so tired. Of all of it.”

“Lemme get you off this floor, we’ll talk, figure out what we need to do,” Steve tells him, and James nods his agreement. It’s easier than it should be, to lift him from the floor. He’s lost weight again, not that he’s skinny by any means, but he’s definitely not as solid as he was even a few weeks ago. He follows meek as a kitten to their room and curls up in a ball on the bed. Steve wraps himself around him, and holds him close while James sniffles and shakes, letting what feels like a lifetime of hurt out in shuddering gasps. He can’t talk, can’t even try, but he presses himself as close to Steve as he can get and cries himself to sleep.

Steve stays with him all morning and well into midday. Tasha comes in to check on them near noon, shakes her head at James’ still form in his arms and brings a protein drink with a straw popped through the seal for him to drink while she holds it for him, allowing him to keep a grip on James without being an unholy kind of hungry.  She brings a bottle of electrolyte drink as well, placing it on the nightstand before slipping back out of the room.

It’s well into late afternoon when James wakes again, blinking up at Steve and watching his face in that hypervigilant way of his, scanning for any potential threat. “Hey there,” Steve tells him, hand automatically moving to rub small, soothing circles between James’ shoulders. “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired,” James replies flatly. “I’m sorry, Stevie. You shouldn’t have to babysit me like this.”

“My choice,” Steve counters. “You shouldn’t have to deal with whatever the hell this is on your own. Wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

“I swear I’d explain it if I could,” James tells him.

“Try anyway,” Steve shoots back.

“I’m broken. My brain’s fucked to hell, Stevie. It’s like it’s going too fast for me to make sense out of anything and everything changed while I was gone and nothing works the way it was supposed to and I can’t make me fit anymore.” The words come out in a rush and Steve wonders just how long James has been trying to find a way to say it without being able to.

“That why you’re drinking your way to an early grave?” Steve asks him.

“Mostly. Yeah. I don’t know. It helps, for a little while. Slows shit down enough, then it just makes it worse and I just, I want it to stop, Stevie, I’m so tired. I’m just so fucking tired.”

“At the risk of sounding like a Lifetime Movie, you trying to tell me you’re suicidal here, Buck?”

“Jesus, no. Fuck, if I wanted to die I’d eat my gun.” Something in the matter of fact way he says it makes it hard for Steve to breathe. He knows James has a Glock in the closet, knows that it’s in a locked case because Nat insisted.  He’s suddenly immeasurably grateful that Nat also insisted on the key being in her possession.

“Alright. Not actively going for offing yourself, then. What the hell are you doing? Cause from where I’m standing, you’re scaring the fuck out of me. You barely eat, you cry in your sleep, you’re drinking more than the rest of us put together, hell, I don’t even think Nat can keep up with you anymore. I don’t remember the last time we went out and you didn’t drink yourself sick.”

“I’m sorry,” James mumbles.

“Stop apologizing. That’s not what I need from you, Buck. Tell me what to do. Please. I can’t keep watching you self destruct.”

“Please don’t leave me,” James whispers and his eyes are too bright, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as his chin begins to quiver. Twenty years they’ve known each other. For the last ten, they’ve danced around what they mean to each other. With James out of the service, away from the toxic Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell environment, the natural thing to do would have been to give in to what they’ve both known good and well for a long time. Instead, it’s been relegated to James’ drunken antics, to Steve caring for him when he’s too far gone to know who he is. Those barely voiced words, with James clinging to him as he holds tightly to the last threads of control, bring the dance to a screeching halt.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers, pulling him close. “I’m never leaving you, Buck. I love you, all of you,” he assures him.

James drags in a shaky breath and Steve holds him as tightly as he dares, whispering to him that he’s got him. James lets out of a noise that is barely human, shaking his head even as he buries his face deeper against Steve’s body.

“Breathe, Buck, you’ve gotta breathe,” Steve tells him gently, and James wheezes another breath in and out before he’s gritting his teeth and holding his breath again. “Come on, Buck, in and out, nice and slow for me. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re safe, Buck. You’re safe,” Steve keeps up a litany of murmured attempts at comfort. James gasps in occasional breaths, his body shaking so hard he’s practically vibrating as he whines an endless, mournful sound. Steve’s not sure if he’s glad James is finally letting his guard down or deeply disturbed that it’s gotten this bad.

When the tension finally goes out of his body, James’ breathing slows to a cadence that Steve is fairly certain is sleep. Cradling him against his chest, he gently eases them both onto the mattress, stretching out on his back with James held close and safe. Night comes, deepening the shadows in the room and dragging Steve into an uneasy sleep of his own. He’s hyperaware of the man in his arms, of the tiny whimpers that escape even in rest. When morning brings sunlight through the windows once more, they stare at each other in silence, neither sure where they stand now.

Steve decides that he’s been edging around this too long, and leans in to bring his lips to James’ in a soft kiss. “Morning,” he tells him. James nods, watching him, but the lines of tension in his face ease and Steve is finally, finally certain that his Bucky is still in there somewhere.  

[marshunter06]

I ended up writing it, well, kinda

Contrary to popular belief, Duncan isn’t anything like his bad boy persona. He was a good kid, up until he hit his teens where he was linked to a string of crimes: vandalism, burglary, arson, and a few other less serious crimes. He always maintained his innocence, he thought his family would have his back especially since they were police officers themselves, but instead they turned their back on him. His mother was too afraid to speak out against his father, how could she when she betrayed her husband and brought Duncan into this world despite knowing he wasn’t his father’s son? Years of going through the system jaded his once optimistic attitude, he no longer believed there was anything good in the world. Not when he could be charged with crimes he didn’t commit due to some bullshit about his prints being the key evidence when he was never in that area of town. He was being set up, and what hurts the most was that it must be the man he called dad who forced this fate upon him.

If his own family was ready to shun him along with the rest of society, then the least he could do was have some fun. He started to actually rebel, petty thefts here and there leading to grand theft auto. If he was going to be accused and locked up anyways, he might as well be guilty, there was no justice in this world. He’s seen enough of innocent people being thrown into jail and wrongly sentenced to death. He was simply taking the path of least resistance, there wasn’t any hope left for someone like him. He’s all but given up, until he met her.

She was untainted by the cruel opinions of those who did not matter, a breath of fresh air into his life. She was too good and pure for this world, too good for him, but still she stayed. They met by chance outside of the police station where he was detained for over four hours illegally, he wasn’t sure why someone like her would be at a place like this, but the moment their eyes met, he knew she was the one. He didn’t believe in soulmates, but he was certain she was his. In this world, soulmates have the same fingerprints, and while not everyone meets their soulmate, he was determined to claim her as his. She wasn’t put off by his appearance, she smiled and said hello. When they exchanged information, he couldn’t believe she wanted to see him again. She reached out less than 24 hours after their first meeting, they’ve been going strong ever since. He comes home to her every night finally getting the love and warmth he’s been deprived of since his childhood. She helps him turn his life around, his entire being revolved around her and her happiness. He would do anything she said as long as she asked, luckily all she wanted was him to be happy too. Together they work towards a better future, she helps him find a job, shortly after they move into their first apartment.

He’s now 25 and still grateful for his princess who managed to change his life, he’s thinking of proposing soon. He can’t wait to call her his wife after being together for seven years. He doesn’t doubt her devotion, but every time he’s brought up marriage, she would always shrug him off and tell him she didn’t need a piece of paper to know he loves her. He knows she sees him in her future, but call him traditional, he just wants to have a solid foundation before they bring a child into this world. She was barely showing, but he still frets over her, she’s single handedly given him a new purpose. The least he could do is promise to cherish her until they meet again in the next lifetime.

He looks over at her sleeping form, she had just barely fallen asleep from a long day of work at the law firm. He couldn’t be more proud to know she was helping hundreds of other wrongly accused victims just as he once was. He places a kiss on her forehead as he grabs her buzzing phone to turn it off, it was work again, he lets it go to voicemail. Satisfied when he sees her lock screen with the missed call notification, he smiles at the picture of the two of them at the beach two months ago, that was where he found out he was going to be a father. His thumb hovers over the picture then out of habit, he rests it on the home button, to his surprise, it unlocks. He never set up his finger print on her phone. He should set it down and ask if she did it while he was sleeping, but a message from Cate pops up.

Are you going to tell Duncan the truth?

He tenses, did the love of his life hide something from him? Against his better judgement, he texts Cate back, he should really just leave it and wait till she wakes up, but his anxiety was getting the best of him. He had to know.

What is the truth?

He waits for a reply, his heart rate speeds up with every second that passes. He tries to calm himself down, it can’t be anything serious, Courtney’s the most honest person he knows. If she can accept him for his past, then he can accept whatever this small misunderstanding this must be. She stirs from her sleep right as he reads the message. They were always meant to crash and burn.

That he’s your soulmate.

Everyone's soulmate has the same fingerprints as you. One day, you find someone's phone. It unlocks.