#allegedly kissing your master is not a crime

[tennessoui]

14 for obikin pretty please?

here you go!

[from this list of prompts]

[5. 'are you jealous' - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' (LATEST) 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.'

The first time Anakin visits, he's so angry that he cannot speak for the first two hours. Obi-Wan sits against the wall of his cell, on the floor even though the Jedi have provided him a perfectly comfortable bed and chair. The Force collar around his neck looks wrong. His master sitting on the floor, dressed in the dull orange of a prisoner's jumpsuit looks wrong.

Anakin is so angry that he can't speak. He can only look and tremble until he is told he must leave.

Obi-Wan does not speak either. He does not even look at him.

Maybe that's what makes his anger harder to bear. Anakin knows that Obi-Wan has met with countless other Jedi. Visitors, friends, allies, people who are working with him on his defense case. He knows that the other man talks to them, has sliced into security holo footage to see it for himself, though no one will tell him what is said. Everyone always leaves looking frustrated, but at least Obi-Wan talks to them.

But not Anakin. Even though it is Anakin that Obi-Wan has hurt the most. Anakin, who deserves to know why from Obi-Wan's mouth.

After all--

"He was like a father to me," Anakin spits at him on his second visit, only a few days later. Going to see Obi-Wan in the Coruscanti prison cell where he is awaiting trial is like an itch. Scratched once, Anakin finds he cannot help himself from digging his claws in.

Obi-Wan is still against the wall. His beard has grown slightly longer. His head is tilted back against the wall, though when Anakin speaks, his eyes slide down from the ceiling to rest on him.

"I'm starting to think you say that to all the boys," his former master who is a murderer says in that lilting familiar drawl.

"You killed him."

"Yes," Obi-Wan agrees, because apparently part of his defense case is not to plead not guilty to the murder of the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. Anakin would say that may be problematic, but then--there are security holos, soundless and slightly blurred, of the event. Of Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi taking tea with Chancellor Palpatine. Talking in civil gestures for thirty minutes. Requesting, as far as anyone can tell, for the Chancellor to fetch him a pot of sugar. Lighting his saber and beheading him the moment the old man's back was turned. "Yes, I did."

"Why?" Anakin yells, voice cracking on the word. He doesn't understand. He thinks the not-knowing will drive him to madness. He thinks maybe it already has. It has been two weeks since the Chancellor's murder. Half the Senate is seeking Obi-Wan's execution.

The war, theoretically, has paused, like even the Separatists are holding their breath. Waiting. Wondering.

Obi-Wan looks at him quietly for a moment. For five. His face is stoic, resolved. Beloved, even after this.

Then--for a singular second--the mask cracks, and his master stares at him as if he needs to see him in order to survive. He looks hungry and exhausted and relieved, down to the bones.

"How have your nightmares been lately, padawan?" he asks him, and Anakin is so disgusted by the word--by the title that Obi-Wan doesn't get to say after killing the Chancellor, killing Anakin's friend--that he turns and leaves without another thought.

He is back a day later. He has never known how to keep his distance from things that can hurt him, that's what his mother always said. Too curious by half. Too sure of his own invincibility. That's what his master always said.

Anakin isn't sure of anything anymore.

"Why did you kill him?" Anakin asks. Obi-Wan's beard is longer. He is still on the floor. It rankles, the sight of him brought so low. "Did someone tell you to?"

Obi-Wan lets his head fall forward, a puppet with its strings cut. "Do you think me so biddable, Anakin?"

Anakin today. Not padawan. As if Obi-Wan has learned his lesson. As if he is as desperate for Anakin to linger in his presence as Anakin is hopelessly addicted to returning.

Padmé had tried to stop him this morning. Had tried to tell him it would do no good to see him, that the justice system would do its work, that Anakin was only hurting himself by returning over and over again. She pointed out that he had nightmares last night, for the first time since the news of the Chancellor's death reached them.

He hadn't had the heart to tell her that his nightmares were not about the Chancellor dying, but about Obi-Wan facing down an execution squad. About Anakin, standing on the deck of the Invisible Hand, Palpatine's voice in his ear, telling him to do it, do it. Cut off the traitor's head, only to look down and find that the two sabers he is holding are familiar to him, and person on his knees before him is his master.

Anakin had woken with a yell around one in the morning, sweat soaked and shaking. He hadn't been able to sleep again.

Maybe that's why he feels so alive now, slightly manic and still trembling as he paces in front of the Force barrier of Obi-Wan's cell. Did someone tell Obi-Wan to cut him down? he'd had the thought somewhere around five in the morning. Had it been someone Obi-Wan trusted? Someone he loved?

Who stood to gain from the death of the Chancellor? Who had the Chancellor ever hurt or threatened?

Anakin walks as close as he dares to get to the cell. "Master," he says, coaxes really, pushing forward until he can hear the hum of the force field.

Obi-Wan's head thumps back against the wall and he watches him from under his eyelashes.

"Master, I'm with you, alright? Hey, I'm with you, always, alright, always, so if someone told you, manipulated you, just tell me please. I'll find them. I'll get them to turn themselves in, master. Just tell me. Why did you kill him?"

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. He looks for all the world as if he is meditating, save for that collar around his neck. The prison garb. He doesn't look like a murderer, but he is. He is. He killed the Chancellor. He is going to face execution. Anakin is going to have to watch him die too and all he can think is that he knows that Obi-Wan doesn't even kriffing like sugar in his karking tea.

"Answer me!" Anakin yells, lifting his fist and forgetting himself for just long enough that he slams it against the barrier. He pulls it back with a curse as the force field short-circuits his mech arm and the prison alarm blares out a warning siren.

This time, he is led away from the cell by a Coruscanti guard. He is advised to not return for a standard week. The entire time he is exiled from the prison, the only thing he can think about is the expression on Obi-Wan's face as he watches him leave: eyes wide open and forehead wrinkled with concern, as if worried that Anakin had hurt himself.

The day after he is allowed to return, he does. He does not want to seem too eager or desperate, so he waits until it's early in the evening before pointing his speeder towards the prison unit.

"It had to have been someone you loved," Anakin announces as he stops in front of Obi-Wan's cell. He's in his bed this time, lying on his back and looking at the ceiling. He does not twitch at Anakin's voice, though Anakin can tell that he's not asleep, though his eyes are closed. He can tell just from the minute lines of tension he's holding in his shoulders, his neck.

How can Anakin know him so well and not know that he is capable of this? Of murder on this scale?

"Hm?" Obi-Wan finally says, when the silence drags on and it becomes clear that Anakin will not say more until he has engaged. Anakin watches this war play out in the subtle movements of Obi-Wan's facial muscles as well. He knows him so well. He knows him better than he knows anyone else in the galaxy.

"The person you killed him for. You had to have loved him more than anything else in the entire galaxy to kill a man the way you did. Defenseless. Over sugar. You don't--you don't even take sugar in your tea! It was a coward's way of killing--and it doesn't--you would never. Not unless it was for someone you loved."

Obi-Wan's eyes blink open, but he doesn't look away from the ceiling. He doesn't look at Anakin.

"I don't--I don't know what harm you think Sheev Palpatine could cause to anyone, but that has to be it. Nothing else makes sense. You loved someone enough to kill for them, and you killed the Chancellor."

The words come out easily. Anakin has practiced them for a week now; it is the only thing that makes sense. Nothing else makes sense. Nothing else but love could make a man like Obi-Wan do what he did. He must have loved someone a lot. He must love them more than the Republic. More than his own freedom.

The first time Anakin had told Padmé his theory, she'd looked at him for ages, until he'd grown angry and defensive. She'd touched his arm, as if that could hold back this hurricane brewing inside his chest, and said, "I don't know if you're right, Ani. I don't know if I think you're wrong either. It's just...you sound so...jealous."

At least Obi-Wan doesn't say the same thing. But what he does say may be even worse. Because he doesn't deny it. He doesn't protest. All he says is, "And who is it that you think I love more than anything else in the galaxy, padawan?"

Anakin has thought about this, too. "Bail Organa," he makes himself say, even though the name curls his lips up into a sneer. Bail Organa, the man who has been voted the interim Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. The man who has gotten everything from this assassination, while Anakin has had his everything taken away.

On his cot, Obi-Wan's eyes slide closed. His mouth quirks up. "Ah," he says, as if he has had something he has long expected to confirmed to him. He says nothing else.

It makes Anakin want to hit the barrier again. It makes him want to scream. It makes him want to be petty, hurt Obi-Wan back in the same way that Anakin feels hurt even though it doesn't make sense, none of this makes sense. But it feels as if Obi-Wan has kept half of himself secret from Anakin, a whole love, his entire capacity to love, and Anakin wants to prove that he has as well.

So he says, voice mean and sharp, "Padmé is pregnant. The med-droid says it is twins."

Everything else remains unspoken, but surely audible. That they are his. That he never stopped seeing Padmé. Perhaps even that she is his wife.

On the cot, behind the Force barrier, in his chains, Obi-Wan opens his eyes and blinks at the ceiling. His lips form a small smile, as he says, still not looking at Anakin, still not looking at Anakin, "I know, dear one. Why do you think the Chancellor had to die?"

[forasecondtherewedwon]

10. You confessed your feelings and we’re about to kiss but we get interrupted

36. Friends with benefits and both people catching feelings

Wavetide

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E (we’ll be working up to it) Chapter: 1/7

Summary:

She never tells anyone. Well, she admitted it to Ned once because he caught her staring at Peter in a way that was too difficult to deny, but she’s never confessed to the fact that her love for their friend isn’t a solitary tsunami of longing; it sweeps in and out in waves.

Michelle Jones’s life is a world-record attempt at most times falling in love with the same person. She’s loved Peter Parker on-and-off dozens of times since they were 10, and they’re only 12 now, so it’s almost a weekly thing. He’ll make her laugh right when they’re coming in from recess and she’ll love him. He’ll pick her for his squad when they’re doing wind sprints in gym and he’s her thoughtless best friend again. She never tells anyone. Well, she admitted it to Ned once because he caught her staring at Peter in a way that was too difficult to deny, but she’s never confessed to the fact that her love for their friend isn’t a solitary tsunami of longing; it sweeps in and out in waves.

When they wake up, Peter will be 13. A teenager. They’re camped out in the Leedses’ living room in anticipation of the big event. His aunt and uncle are going to host the actual party at their apartment tomorrow, with cake and balloons and everything, but tonight, the three friends have Ned’s pup tent set up indoors (was supposed to be outdoors, but it’s raining). The scenario feels strangely like a farewell to their mutual childhood and Michelle’s having a hard time falling asleep.

Ned’s been asleep for half an hour, but she doesn’t realize Peter hasn’t joined him until she rolls over on the air mattress and he turns his head to look at her. Ned’s on the far end; they always banish him to the edge for snoring. Peter’s hair shushes against the cotton pillowcase as he adjusts, still watching her.

“Do you think it’s after midnight?” he whispers.

“Maybe. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

He smiles at her and Michelle draws her knees up to her chest inside her sleeping bag, hugging them in place. She’s grateful that the three of them are still allowed to do this, have sleepovers in confined spaces and all sleep on the same air mattress.

Peter garbles something through a large yawn and she snickers, shuffling closer. The confusing tug of her reluctance to grow up eases when she concentrates on him.

“What?” she asks.

“I wonder if it’s still raining,” he repeats.

“We could go see?”

Ned’s house after dark is weighted by dense silence. Michelle doesn’t have to ask if Peter feels it too, because they’ve discussed it on other occasions when Ned was the first to conk out for the night. The Leedses’ home is a fascinating place for two kids who’ve grown up in apartments. The lowness of every window looking out on the ground floor, the quiet of no neighbours on the other side of the wall. It’s almost creepy.

They shift their weight carefully, wriggling off the air mattress like commandos crawling under barbed wire, trying not to jostle Ned in his slumber.

“Bouncy castle,” Peter hisses at her and pumps his arms against the mattress to make them both sway on their hands and knees.

“Stop it,” she says, giggling as her eyes flick to Ned. It’s ok, he’s still asleep.

With a rub of nylon, they slither out of the tent. Peter darts his arm back in to snatch his sleeping bag. Michelle glances sideways to see how he’s bundled about half of it into his arms as they pad across the carpet. Ned’s mom drew the blinds and Michelle shuffles over to part them, but Peter pulls her wrist and they go to the back door instead. With a flip of the lock, he slides the glass door open, letting the sound of chittering insects pour through the screen. The rain’s done. There’s a big oak in the yard and Michelle can see the bright lightbulb curve of the moon above its crown before she and Peter sit cross-legged on the floor.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“No.”

But it’s nice when Peter unzips his sleeping bag all the way so they can pull it around their shoulders like two kings with one luxurious cape. Michelle grips the corner over her left shoulder, Peter over his right. Even a year ago, this might’ve been the moment where she confessed to how tired she was and felt him gather her close, making sure the sleeping bag tucked around to cover her knees. Tonight, she has a soft white bra under her pajama top because she’s too aware of her friends being boys to take it off, even to sleep. Under that, she has a heart that gushes and swells with this feeling she gets whenever she sneaks a look at her friend’s sleepy face, the hair that tumbles onto his forehead and curls up above his ears.

“Fireflies,” Peter points out, scratching his finger against the screen when he gestures too fast and misjudges the distance. He’s right. They’re blinking yellow all over Ned’s yard.

“Yeah.”

“You think they’re lucky?”

“Not that lucky. They only live for two months. I read that,” she says. There’s a mosquito bite on the back of her arm that makes her currently unsympathetic towards bugs.

“But what if I want to make a wish on them?”

“On a firefly that’s going to die in two months? Why would you?”

“Lit birthday candles last way shorter than that,” he counters, “and we make wishes on them.”

“Well, that’s just because men are obsessed with demonstrating their dominance over fire. Man master of fire!” Michelle elucidates in a Neanderthal grunt.

“That’s not really why we blow out candles, is it?” Peter asks. She shrugs next to him. “It can’t be,” he says with more certainty. She doesn’t respond. “Still, they’re pretty.”

Michelle looks to see him watching the fireflies, eyes darting to each flare of light in turn. She’s on the dock of her childhood and she can spot the next wave rolling in.

“What would you wish for?” she asks.

Peter scoffs and twists a little so he can focus on her.

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can as practice. The wish only doesn’t come true if you talk about it after you blow out your candles. Allegedly,” Michelle adds, because they aren’t children anymore and she, for one, will not be taken in by nonsense on the arcaneness of birthday wishes.

“A real lightsaber.”

“That’s dumb.”

“It’s not your wish!” he says.

“No kidding.”

He shrugs off her sarcasm.

“I don’t really want anything.”

“Don’t pout just because you can’t be a Gemini.”

“Jedi.”

Oh, she knows what they’re called. She’s employed this particular taunt many, many times.

“Pick something,” Michelle urges.

“I do, uh…”

Peter drops his gaze and plays with the string dangling from the edge of the sleeping bag. This is suspicious behaviour. She studies him, attempting to recall the information on reading body language she’s picked up from true-crime books and fake-crime TV shows. Her parents don’t like her reading or watching that stuff ‘at her age,’ but she’s a firm believer in a running start to teenage rebellion.

A warm breeze rustles the oak’s green leaves and washes over their faces.

“I do want one thing,” he mumbles. It’s barely spoken―the gentle wind is making more noise.

There’s something off and it makes Michelle nervous. Everything inside her, apart from her brain, thinks it knows where this is going when Peter licks his lips and flexes his hands briefly like he does when he’s making a decision. She’s waited for this. She’s scared of this. How it’ll change them. She almost wants to go back to five minutes ago, when they were side by side in the tent with nothing to make them feel older except her feet hanging off the end of the air mattress when she scrunched down to get her head aligned with Peter’s so they could talk softly in the dark. Michelle asks her best friend what it is he wants, but only in her head.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, looking at her.

“Why?” she blurts.

“I just do.”

Her heart’s galloping. The wave’s about to crash.

“I guess it makes sense,” Michelle bluffs. Her whole body feels numb with the anticipation.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll be starting high school in a year and people are going to start getting together so I guess I get why you don’t want to be left behind or whatever.”

Peter faces forward again and she can see him well enough to watch his throat jerk as he swallows.

“MJ, that’s not why.”

“Sure it is. You want practice.”

“It’s not like that,” he says and she’d bet he heard that somewhere, all the old movies he watches, because it sounds too grown up for her Peter.

“Do it then.”

His head snaps up and he looks at her.

“What?”

“Do it. Kiss me.”

She tries to square her shoulders and be the self he knows her to be. The Michelle who steps between bullies and her boys. The Michelle who isn’t scared to hold a bug or go to the section of the Halloween store with the really disturbing rubber masks that have, like, eyeballs dangling out of their sockets.

“You want me to?”

“Yeah, I want to see if you’re good at it,” she says toughly, chin up in a challenge.

“You’ll probably be good at it,” Peter mumbles under his breath as he scoots to face her instead of the door. Michelle mirrors him.

As he leans towards her, she can feel herself inside the wave―water all around and her twirling in a complicated pattern as it decides what to do with her. Not wanting Peter to get all the credit for going through with this, Michelle bends in his direction. Their knees make contact and she glances down at where her best friend’s shins cross. She sees fine brown leg hair, then squeezes her eyes shut as she tilts her face up, scared of however he appears in this moment. She’s surprised that she doesn’t flinch when his fingertips touch her cheek. He exhales in a soft puff, close.

“I really like you,” he murmurs.

Michelle’s underwater and can’t speak.

And then, “COOKIE!” someone yells in the night. A dog yaps sharply in response.

Michelle and Peter spring apart at the sound of one of Ned’s neighbours. Are they going to persevere? Get back in kissing distance and find out if they have some kind of spark that’ll tell them they’re meant to be more than friends? That’s how it seems to work in the old movies she watches and doesn’t tell the boys about. She’s not sure yet where rom-coms fit in the image of herself she’s only beginning to sketch, so she keeps them quiet.

Because she’d rather make a wrong action that’s all her own than react to whatever Peter decides to do, Michelle scrambles swiftly to her feet.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she says. It seems like the least romantic thing she can say. Peter stands too, eyes searching hers uncomfortably. The shared sleeping bag is neglected at their feet.

She strides off and he doesn’t try to grab her to stop her. She’s not sure what she’d do if he did. The bathroom’s down the hall and when she looks back, she sees him in his t-shirt and pajama shorts, scooping up the sleeping bag. A distinct longing to swim out to him surges inside her, but the wave of more-than-a-friendship-kind-of-love flings her away and she faceplants on the beach of Unrequited Crushes. Maybe… soon… they can still try? Because they’re both too embarrassed tonight when she eventually returns to the tent. And she acts like nothing happened during his birthday party. When his uncle dies suddenly and terribly, she can’t put any kind of expectation on Peter for them to be anything but friends. He needs her as a friend. The memory of him standing at the back door with his arms full of sleeping bag lingers. In Michelle’s mind, she turns away from the ocean. If she doesn’t look, she can’t see the wave.

To be continued!

[30secondfics]

EAT OR BE EATEN (A/U) 6 OF 6

~ Author’s Note ~ “Before the renaissance we had the Black Plague.” 

- @thekingoflegoland

Rated M

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3 > Part 4 > Part 5a > Part 5b > Part 6

Seattle, January 2021

Gabriella Torres stepped out of her rideshare and studied the house she stood in front of. A small shingled house, hunter green, the grass browned from the cool weather and the paint of the white front door chipped from years of neglect. She knocked.

A woman with a black lacquered cane opened the door with widened eyes, pale, as if she had just seen a ghost.

“Hi, I’m looking for Calliope Torres-”

“She doesn’t live here.“

“My name is Gabriella Torres. Aria Torres is my mother—was—my mother.”

The woman sighed and eyed the young woman. “You're a spitting image of your mother. Come in.”

The sunroom of the house was clean, sterilized. It still smelled of cleaning products and polish; it was well tended to, unlike the exterior of the house.

“Can I get you a coffee or a tea?” the woman asked.

“Water, please, if you wouldn’t mind,” Gabriella answered. She took the glass the woman offered her and took a generous sip.

“What did you say your name was again?” the woman asked, taking the seat in front of her guest and leaning her cane against the side table.

“Gabriella.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

The woman paused in thought.

“I’m sorry to come out of the blue, but I thought you would prefer meeting in person rather than starting a paper trail…  Aunt Calliope.”

Calliope nodded in agreement and cleared her throat. “So how did you find me?”

“I just started grad school at the University of Washington, I’m doing my masters in library studies-”

“Impressive,” Callie nodded, glad and relieved to learn her niece was educated.

“Thank you. I was in foster care my whole life, you see, I knew nothing but my mother’s name. I swore to find her one day and I searched for her for years and years. Then, finally, I came across her obituary and I found out she lived in Miami… and, well, my research led me to you.”

“So you know who I am…” Callie cleared her throat and picked at the cotton of her pants.

“You’re Calliope Torres. You were the head of the Torres Crime family. You were responsible for the Miami Mob Massacre of 2013 when all of the heads of the city’s crime families were murdered.”

“Allegedly,” Callie corrected.

Gabriella nodded in agreement. “Early in 2014 the Feds gathered enough evidence to put you on trial-”

“Alex Karev and George O’Malley came forward and turned themselves in, in an attempt to put me away,” Callie informed. “Even after I paid them a very generous amount of money to leave town. It seemed that it wasn’t enough for two men who felt overpowered by a single woman.”

“You were on trial for 21 days,” Gabriella continued. “Until you were proven not guilty. After 21 days they were going to let you walk free, you were free—then you were showered with bullets on your way out of the Miami courthouse. A man named Robert Stark was arrested; he claimed you destroyed his life over unsettled debt.”

“And yet he’s still in jail and I am not,” Callie couldn’t help but smirk.

“My mother perished that day, and you were airlifted to Miami General with life-threatening injuries,” Gabriella added. “Some articles reported that you wouldn’t make it out alive, while others rumoured you would never fully recover. You were mentioned in the papers for months, until suddenly you weren’t. New leaders of the other crime families began to take their place, and new gang wars plagued Miami. By the time you walked out of the hospital a free woman, you were old news and the Torres empire had crumbled. You’ve been laying low ever since.”

Gabriella was nothing but correct in her explanation. The Torres empire crumbled, and it crumbled hard. In Callie’s absence, and Alex and George’s incarceration, other members of the corporation fought for themselves, fought amongst themselves, stole for themselves, until there was nothing left but a few skids of canned peaches scattered across the city. The Torres mansion was looted and then destroyed by opportunistic rival families. The Torres name became irrelevant. A name no longer feared. A name no longer remembered, despite the damage it did in the past decades. Bigger crimes flooded Miami, and though grudges still existed, seeking revenge against the Torres family was no longer a priority. 

Callie remained silent. It had been years since she lived that life, it was hard to believe its vibrant contrast to the life she lived now.

“Sorry,” Gabriella brushed. “I was just searching for my mother, I didn’t mean to uncover so much more about you.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Callie reassured. “That was my past, and I will take what I did to my grave.”

Gabriella remained silent.

“So what do you want to know about your mother?” Callie asked.

Gabriella released a sigh with both grief and relief. Grief of the loss she had held in her heart for so long, and relief that she was finally going to get some answers.

“I want to know why my mother left me at the hospital that day, knowing she had the means to raise me.”

“I can’t answer for the dead,” Callie shook her head.

“I know that, but you at least knew her…”

“And I know giving you up was probably the best decision she could have made for you.”

“What?” Gabriella asked with furrowed brows. She spent her life in poverty. She was alone. She moved from foster home to foster home. The closest thing she has to a family is an old college roommate.

“My sister Aria was… impulsive. Especially when it came to money. She and my father would always clash on her irresponsible spendings. I believe she had you the year she just about had it with our father and so she disappeared for a year to travel across the country in a van with some friends. She was in no state to raise a child, even if we had the money.”

“But I grew up poor, without a family-” Gabriella began to argue.

“Do you think a crime family would have been any better?”

“Maybe,” Gabriella shrugged.

“It cost us your mothers life,” Callie reminded. “It nearly cost me mine.”

Gabriella remained silent.

“A life of riches is far from a fairytale when it’s funded with bloodmoney.”

Gabriella avoided her aunt’s eyes.

“So if it’s money you want from me I no longer have much of it,” Callie admitted.

“I don’t need money,” Gabriella promised. “I just wanted answers.”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer anymore than that,” Callie replied. “I didn’t even know my sister had you until this morning.”

“Would you have stepped in if you knew back then?” Gabriella asked.

Callie paused in thought. “Probably not,” she answered honestly. She believed the mob was no place for a child.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Callie glanced at the clock.

“Then I won’t take up much more of your time,” Gabriella promised and stood from her seat. “Thank you for your time.”

Callie simply nodded.

“Can I ask how you found out where I live?” Callie asked before the younger woman could leave.

Gabriella signed. “Seattle Grace held a Gala last week. I was sorting the newspaper section of the library when I saw your face. Your hair is much shorter now but I had studied the family so much I recognized you right away… it wasn’t hard after I ran a search for you in Seattle.”

“What newspaper published that article?” Callie needed to know: if her niece could recognize her, how many more people could.

“Seattle Local. Don’t worry, I’ve already shredded as many copies of the paper as I could find,” Gabriella reassured.

“Thank you,” Callie sighed in relief.

“Can I ask you one last question before I go?” Gabriella asked.

“You just did.”

“Do you think there are people out there who still want you dead?” Gabriella proceeded to ask.

“I know there is,” Callie nodded. “Dozens of them.”

“How do you bear it? How do you live in fear?”

“I don’t,” Callie answered confidently. “Knowing my life could end at any moment is what makes every day so worth living.”

000

There was one part of Gabriella’s story that was missing; one part of the Calliope Torres story that was very private and protected from the public eye. Down a long hallway, two feet and a cane dully tread across grey terrazzo floors. The door at the end of the hall held a plaque, yielded the Seattle Grace Hospital logo and the title Chief of Surgery. She opened the door.

Large windows letting in lights from the Seattle Skyline also enclosed the spacious and personalized office. The walls were decorated with various frames, some with photos, others with accomplishments and awards. One of which was the 2014 Carter Madison Grant and a photo of a small clinic in Mawali. 

Arizona Robbins glanced up from her laptop and over reading glasses arched a single eyebrow.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Callie apologised.

Arizona smirked and motioned for her lover to come closer with finger.

Callie rounded the cherrywood desk and gave her wife a kiss.

“Hmm,” Arizona hummed with satisfaction.

“Missed you.” She said this every day.

“Missed you too,” Arizona replied with a smile. “How was your day?” she asked, pushing her chair back to make room for her wife.

“Well…” Callie leaned her cane against the desk and pushed the laptop back to sit on her wife’s desk, “I had a visitor at the house today.”

“A visitor?” Arizona repeated, intrigued. “We haven’t had a visitor in a very long time. Who was kind enough to send you a hitman this time?” she asked sarcastically. 

“Not an assassin,” Callie informed with a small smirk. A very small part of her missed when an assassin or two would shake up their home. It had been so quiet the past few years since they moved to Seattle, Callie could almost say she was starting to get bored. She and Arizona had become so good at silently putting hitmen away; they made great fertiliser for the flowers in the back garden. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, it turns out I have a niece. It looks like Aria forgot to mention she had a kid twenty-two years ago.”

“No way…”

“She looks just like her, Arizona, if she’s a con artist she sold it really well.”

“How’d she find you?”

“She saw a photo of me in a local paper, from the Gala.”

“Oh, Calliope… I didn’t know you’d be photographed.”

“It’s fine,” Callie shrugged. “I’m sort of glad she found me. It was nice talking about Aria again.”

“Are you going to keep in touch?”

“I didn’t want her to feel obligated to keep in contact. She’s a smart girl, she’ll come back if she wants to.”

Arizona gave her wife a sympathetic smile.

“Anyways, tell me about your day…” Callie encouraged her wife.

“I think I’d rather save the talking for later,” Arizona said with a smirk.

“Oh…” Callie chuckled and moaned when her wife pressed their lips together. Arizona’s hands were on her waist and they slowly made their way up her shirt as they kissed.

“You called for me, Doctor Robbins?” Callie teased, between kisses.

“I did, and you’re late,” Arizona played along. She loved her wife for a hundred million reasons, and one of them included how ungodly good she was at getting her off.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Callie apologised in her bedroom voice.

“Y-you’d better be,” Arizona gasped when her wife’s mouth wrapped around the skin on her neck and began to suck. “D-don’t leave a mark…” she scolded, “again.”

Callie smirked and slipped her hand into the white lab coat and down the navy blue scrub top. She cupped her wife’s breast; soft, warm, and a bit more plump than she remembered.

Arizona felt wetness begin to grow between her legs. Slick. Heat. Then a gush of fluid like the breaking of a damn.

“Callie!” Arizona shrieked.

“Arizona...” Callie gasped when she felt the wetness run down her leg, “was that?”

“I think my water just broke,” Arizona said with widened eyes.

“It’s a good thing we’re already at a hospital,” Callie chuckled and took her wife by the hand before leading her towards the maternity ward to have their baby.

Callie and Arizona rushed down the aisle, hand-in-hand, away from the altar where Elvis stood to officiate. With no family left between the two of them, they spent their wedding night celebrating their rather spontaneous wedding with a rather expensive bottle of wine and room service.

Overlooking the city of Las Vegas, a city also once ruled by crime families such as the Torres’s, Callie held Arizona in her arms as they watched the night lights.

“I never pictured myself getting married,” Arizona admitted softly.

“You’re telling me this now?” Callie arched her eyebrow, taking hold of Arizona’s hand that was now weighed down by a wedding band. 

“No, Calliope, I mean… I never pictured myself getting married in the white dress and large crowd. But this… this was perfect.”

“Oh…” Callie smiled mischievously and planted a hot kiss on her wife’s neck.

“Callie!” Arizona squinted her eyes and stopped walking.

“Breathe…” Callie coached.

“I am breathing,” Arizona gritted through her teeth, freezing for a couple of minutes before gathering up the strength to walk again.

“We’re almost there,” Callie reassured.

Arizona puffed air out of her cheeks and followed her wife’s lead. Moments later, she found herself on a hospital bed, monitors attached to her belly and her wife by her side.

“Push,” Arizona encouraged.

Callie let out a long grunt as she pushed against the resistance band that Arizona was holding behind her. She took three bullets in her arm, two in the gut, and one in her femur which left her with a permanent limp. She had accepted her fate of the cane, but she had yet to give up on rehabilitating her dominant hand.

“Good,” the physiotherapist praised. “You’re really motivated today!”

“Motivated to use my good hand in bed again,” Callie pushed against the purple band again.

“Callie!” Arizona gasped, not impressed with her lover’s vulgarness in front of the physiotherapist.

The therapist couldn’t help but chuckle, “It’s good to have goals.”

“Let’s see how your baby is doing…” Doctor Carina DeLuca snapped on a clean glove and placed herself between the patient’s legs. “Oh…” 

“What?” Callie and Arizona said in unison.

“When did you say your contractions began?” Carina  asked.

“I guess, this morning…” Arizona thought out loud.

“This morning?” Callie repeated with disbelief. Her wife had been in labour all day and she didn’t receive a single text of mention.

“I thought it was just a stomach ache from all the poundcake I ate for breakfast.” Arizona admitted. 

“Did you eat the whole coffee cart too?” Callie teased.

“I only had three...” Arizona defended, “this time.”

“Move to Seattle with me,” Arizona said, her head nestled on her wife’s chest. Las Vegas streets were loud but she could still hear Callie’s pounding heartbeat.

“Seattle?”

“They’ve offered me a job as an attending… if I accept it, we can have our own life there. Just you and me, far away from the craziness in Miami. You don’t belong there anymore, we don’t belong there anymore. We both need a new start, somewhere we can raise a family.”

“You want kids?” Callie asked, surprised. With all the commotion, they forgot to talk about having children.

“I want a family, whatever that may look like. I’ve never had one and I want one with you.”

“You can start pushing on your next contraction,” Doctor DeLuca instructed.

“Callie, I’m scared,” Arizona told her wife.

“You’ve made it this far, Arizona, I believe in you.”

“What if we lose this baby too?”

“We can’t think like that right now, Arizona, you need to focus on having this baby, okay?”

Arizona nodded her head and grunted as she pushed as hard as she could.

The house was so quiet.

With Lucy’s passing, there was no longer pitter patter of paws against the hardwood as she played around the house. Now their house filled with the noise of Arizona turning the page of her newspaper, and Callie watching car review videos on her phone.

“You think it’s too soon to get another dog?” Arizona asked.

“I don’t know if I want another dog,” Callie admitted.

“Can I finally have my chicken coop, then?”

“No…” Callie slowly shook her head.

“Well, we’re certainly not getting a ferret, Calliope-”

“I’ve been thinking… it’s a good time to have a baby.”

Arizona’s face brightened into a smile. “A baby?” she breathed out.

Callie nodded, “A baby.”

“Your baby is almost here…” Carina announced.

“Really?” Arizona phanted.

“Do you want the mirror?”

“Oh god, no,” Arizona shook her head in denial.

Callie couldn’t help but laugh.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” Arizona scolded her wife. “You owe me a new vagina after this!”

“I’m sorry…” the doctor repeated herself. “Please stay and use the room for as long as you need to.”

“Thank you,” Arizona nodded at the doctor and continued to console her wife.

Callie watched the doctor leave with blank eyes. The news hurt her more than she thought it would. She didn’t even know she wanted kids until she married Arizona, and now that she found out she couldn’t, she was heartbroken. Her life of crime, the bullets of revenge, had already taken her sister from her; she was saddened to learn it also took away her chance of having children of her own.

“What do you need from me?” Arizona said softly.

“I don’t know,” Callie shook her head.

“I’ll have them, Calliope, I want to have them,” Arizona offered for the hundredth time.

“I…” Callie gulped to rid of the dryness in her throat, “I thought we could have some of yours and some of mine too.”

“Oh, Calliope…” Arizona sighed in defeat. “It would have been amazing to have a little you running around the house, but I promise you they will be our babies no matter what.”

“She’s here…” Carina announced.

“It’s a girl?” Callie asked with surprise, relief and excited butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

“It’s a girl,” Carina confirmed.

Callie and Arizona smiled at the crying infant. Carina placed the child on Arizona’s chest and Callie wrapped her arms around her family. She was so little yet so loud, and mighty. Her hands were bronze like a Torres and her eyes were blue like a Robbins. She was there and she was theirs.

“I love you…”

“What?” Callie said past dry lips. She thought she would never see Arizona Robbins again, let alone have her visit her hospital room every day for the past three months. 

“I love you,” Arizona nodded her head. She had known, deep down, for a long time. But she was at the airport, ready to leave for Africa, ready to truly move on from her tango with the mob and start a new life, a new clinic, for children in a new land, Malawi, when she saw the Torres heir fall to the ground in front of the courthouse. She hated that she had to see Calliope Torres get shot multiple times on television to realise it. She loved the notorious boss and she couldn’t leave Miami without her.

“Arizona, you can’t-”

“You’re not my boss, Calliope, you can’t tell me what I can and can’t do anymore-”

“No, Arizona, you need someone... normal,” Callie defended her stance. “Someone who can give you the easy life you deserve. Someone who doesn’t have a past-”

“I know your past, Calliope, and I know the kind of woman you are deep down. Do you think it was easy to let someone else run my clinic in Africa, to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity so I can spend three months in this hospital with you? I know love isn’t easy, but I choose it because—because life without it is dull and cold.”

Callie eyed her lover.

“I know there are people who want you dead...” Arizona continued, “that danger will follow you, but—why live in fear when we can take our chances at being happy?”

“Jeez, okay, enough with the dramatics,” Callie teased.

Arizona gasped, offended, then laughed. Her speech was quite cheesy.

“I love you too. I’ve known for a while,” Callie admitted. “But I want what’s best for you. That’s why I let you go...” 

“And I know what I want,” Arizona countered. “That’s why I came back...”

Callie cradled baby Sofia as Arizona finally fell asleep in her hospital bed. Sofia had that intoxicating new baby smell and Callie soaked in every minute of it. Swaddled in her hospital blanket, Sofia was content and happy to be in her mother’s arms. 

Callie glanced at Arizona and watched her peacefully rest. She deserves it. Arizona let out a soft snore and it made Callie smile. Her mob career started in her father’s hospital room. Her love for Arizona blossomed in her hospital room. Now their middle family had grown by one in the hospital room.

Callie Torres was working in a cubicle, in an office, on a floor, in a building full of cubicles. She was the daughter of a notorious crime boss and she was in an office working a nine-to-five desk job. Despite her upbringing, she went to college. She attended Penn State, the first in her family to go to college. She told herself that she needed space from the mob, but deep down she knew she left home because she resented her father for not being a good husband to her mother. Over a decade later, she still blamed him for making Lucia Torres flee. So Callie moved away, to a city where nobody knew her name, and for four years she studied literature, made an honest living, and lived a modest lifestyle. She was set. She had financial independence from her father and no ties to the life he lived.

Until a single phone call changed her projection. She came back to Miami after years of avoiding the city and the chaos within it. Giovanni sent one of the drivers to pick her up at the airport and she felt helpless in the backseat of the Cadillac. She hated it: the feeling of being the young woman with no independence, thanks to the nature of the family business. There was a reason why she moved out: to be able to do things on her own.

The short car ride felt like hours, but soon she was at Miami General: pushing through a crowd of news reporters hoping to get information and FBI agents hoping to find dirt that will finally warrant the arrest of the biggest mob boss in the city. The FBI were always around—ever since Carlos himself was a child—but they could never find enough evidence to take the family court. Thus, they tried to get close whenever they could. It disgusted Callie. Her father was ill and all people cared about was exposing him. 

She ran to his bedside the moment she squeezed past the door and took his hand into her own.

“Calliope…” he coughed up.

“I’m here, papa.” Callie soothed, combing what was left of his hair with her fingers.

“You came home,” Carlos smiled.

“Of course I did. You take it easy, okay?”

Carlos closed his eyes and nodded his head. He was weak, and he drifted off to sleep shortly.

“Miss Torres?” a soft knock came from the door. “I’m Dr. Teddy Altman, your father’s surgeon.”

Callie turned around and stood to politely shake the woman’s hand. “Call me Callie,” she insisted. “Can you tell me what happened? ”

“Callie…” Teddy sighed, “From the looks of things, your father has had heart failure for years.”

“He’s never mentioned it...” Callie insecurely crossed her arms, “Is he going to make it?”

“He’s responding to the ‘tropes, the medications we’re giving him, but that’s all I can say for now.”

“Is he going to make it?” Callie repeated.

“It’s hard to say…” Teddy trailed off, “But I can tell you that we’re doing everything we can.”

“Is he going to be treated just like everyone else?” Callie asked. She knew the doctor wasn’t oblivious to who she was taking care of. A high-profile man like Carlos Torres drew attention wherever he went.

“We provide treatment solely based on the patient’s clinical needs...” Teddy promised, “without moral discrimination.”

She stayed by her father’s side—only going home to get cleaned up and sleep. When she wasn’t tending to him, she was making sure his casinos were running smoothly. She became a frequent customer at the cafeteria, and even the girl at the coffee cart knew how she took her coffee. She didn’t know if it was love or guilt that made her stay by her father’s side. She felt guilty that she had deserted the family, all those years ago. And if she didn’t keep her head down that day, she would have ran into the blonde-haired blue-eyed surgical resident that stood in front of her while she waited for her coffee.

“How are the casinos?” Carlos asked one day, when he had the strength.

“Don’t worry about them,” Callie insisted, “I’ve made sure Alex and George stay on track; you just work on getting better.”

“You’re getting involved with our operations?”

“Yes, it’s fine, everything is fine.”

“You know, I always thought it would be you that I’d leave the casinos to…”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t cut-out to be a boss,” Callie hung her head in shame.

“Don’t say that, mija, I’m so proud of you,” Carlos admitted.

“You are?” Callie questioned softly.

“Always,” Carlos promised. “My smart, beautiful, girl.”

Callie wiped the tears that trickled down her cheeks and held onto her father’s hand.

Later that evening, Callie was leaving her father’s room to go home when she realized the watchman that usually guarded the door was not at his post. She grabbed her phone to call Giovanni and sighed in relief when he told her that he would fire the man for leaving his post and send over another member of his security team immediately.

In the meantime, Callie waited by her father. It was highly unlikely that any harm would come, but she still had an unsettling feeling in her gut—which amplified when she heard the door open, and she turned her head in time to see a grey-haired man.

“You must be his little girl,” he chuckled.

“What do you want?” Callie asked harshly.

“Well…” he shrugged his shoulders, his hands in his pockets. “I’m here to take him out. I don’t want to hurt anyone else, but now that you’re here... I don’t have much of a choice.”

Callie stood from her seat and took a step back. She was scared—initially— then anger sparked within her. Suddenly, she wanted to get him before he could get her or her father. She quickly weighed out her options. She was unarmed, and had been for years. She knew he had a gun, she could see the outline in his pants. She glanced around the room and in a matter of seconds she had a plan.

She grabbed the flower vase from the nightstand behind her and threw it across the room. Distraction. He lifted his hands to block the glass from hitting his face, and she rammed her right shoulder into his sternum, pinning him against the wall. Attack. The impact caused a couple of his ribs to break, and the noise of the vase shattering onto the floor caused the nurses to start peering into the window. He was able to strike her cheek with the gun, causing the skin to break, but she didn’t feel the pain. Her adrenaline was pumping through her veins and she wanted nothing more than to see him dead.

“Bitch,” he spat, trying to point the gun at her head, but bone-breaking strength pinned his body against the wall. The Torres heir was stronger than he thought.

Callie groaned and struck her elbow against his windpipe. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound of his cartilage breaking from impact. At this point, he was still alive, but the injury to his neck narrowed his trachea and he struggled to take the faintest breath of air. So Callie stepped back, letting him fall to the floor, and she kicked the gun out of his hand. She glanced back, her father was still asleep. She looked forward, the nurses had called security and they were waiting outside the door. She opened it, stepped outside, and a nurse walked to her side.

“You want me to look at that, Miss Torres?” the nurse asked.

“Look at what?” Callie mindlessly asked, still in shock from the events that took place moments ago.

“Your cheek is bleeding…”

Callie took a seat on a nearby chair, exhausted. She couldn’t believe it. She won her first fight.

“What should we do with him?” one of the security guards asked, wanting to be of assistance but also not wanting to get too involved with the mob.

“Leave him. Someone will be here to clean up shortly,” Callie sighed. It was only now that the blood from her cheek trickled down her neck that she realized she was bleeding. “I’m sorry for the noise…” she told the hospital staff, and the few patients that watched the scene unfold, “But nobody saw anything, right?”

All watching eyes turned away and went about minding their own business. Except the nurse who had offered to help, she had gone to get a dressing kit and returned to tend to Callie’s injury.

When Carlos Torres came to consciousness and learned of his daughter’s doings, that Callie was managing the casinos quite well and taking care of business in his absence, he knew what to do before his inevitable death. With her father’s ring on her finger, Callie Torres took her place behind the desk in the office she was forbidden to be in at her childhood home.

“I can’t believe she’s home…”

“I can’t believe she’s ours…”

Callie and Arizona cooed at the sleeping infant in the crib.

“We should go to bed and get some sleep while we can,” Arizona suggested. “She’ll be up wanting a feeding before we know it.”

“You go to sleep before she needs you. I’ll stay up a little longer, just in case she needs anything else...” Callie volunteered.

“We’re across the hall, Calliope, she’ll be okay on her own for an hour or two,” Arizona promised. 

“I don’t mind,” Callie insisted.

“Come to bed with me, please?” Arizona pleaded.

“Arizona, I…”

“What is it, love?” Arizona asked, placing a soft hand on her wife’s arm.

“I think I’m scared…”

“She’s safe here,” Arizona promised.

“What if something bad were to happen to her, to us, to our family? I don’t want her out of my sight. I know you we’ve been safe here but you know my past-”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with your past, Calliope,” Arizona couldn’t help but smile. “That’s called being a mother. We’re going to worry about her for the next eighteen years, at least. We’ll have eighteen years to worry about her so please, can we go to bed for now?”

Callie sighed then nodded her head in agreement. Why live in fear when we can take a chance at being happy? She had chosen happiness these past few years, she took a vow to choose happiness with Arizona. Now she vowed this: if anyone laid a finger on her baby, she would hurt them before they could hurt Sofia.

FIN.

[darkdevasofdestruction]

I'm into legend of the phoenix too! I'm happy you're taking request :') so...I would like to request hcs for fu heng, pan an and yin zhen finding out that reader is trying to take revenge from the crown prince :') I'm definitely addicted to this game xD

I don’t know who you are, but I love you so much for requesting for this fandom omg!! I never expected anyone to be into it tbh x And honestly, you got  Yin Zhen, who’s my babe, Fu Heng, who’s my friend’s babe, and then Pan An, that celestial cutiepie, for whom I fought and grinded so much in Royal Chaos to get, but I got so fast in LOTP xD

Also, I hope I won’t spoil anything from the story x I’m on chapter 100, almost done with it, and since you literally requested the first 3 confidants you get in the game, and the first half of the story, idk what chapter are you on <3

Hope you like it!! <3

---

FU HENG

As much as he is shy, he’s still a very perceptive warrior that wants to protect you with all that he’s got, so of course, he’ll keep close to you as often as he can, going as far as to question you and the reason you just can’t seem to get out of trouble.

He knows very well that most of the women of the palace are cruel harpies who’d do anything in their power to trample over others, just to get higher in rank.

So, one day, you explain to him your goal of getting revenge on the Crown Prince, letting the reason behind a bit vague, knowing very well that he wouldn’t believe something so insane.

But with a bit of proof and knowledge of the past, present and future outcomes, he’ll get persuaded that yes, you truly were reborn from your own ashes, and you just want to live a peaceful life, knowing that your tormentor, who’s also the one who ultimately killed the Emperor in a past life, was dead and could do you, and the Kingdom, no more harm.

You can imagine how incredibly pained he was when you told him about the assassination of the Emperor from your past life, which made him be even more on guard, but not even a triple amount of guards and incredible vigilance could protect him from his shattered heart, once the feast happened and his nightmares became reality.

It was just as you said, assassins were going to try to kill the Emperor, but he never expected them to swarm the place and to be so powerful.

So he wasn’t there to protect the Emperor.

But you were. 

And now, he held your bleeding, unconscious form in his arms, running to take you to the imperial physician, while all the other guards were making sure the Emperor was under no more threat, and escorted back to the Palace of Mental Cultivation.

He starts praying very hard and making offerings to the Gods so they will take mercy on you and keep you alive, all while never leaving your side and holding your hand in his.

That’s when he vowed that he will help you out with any plan and execution needed, just so the Crown Prince will finally be eliminated from the picture, and you’d be in no more mortal danger like that.

As soon as you wake up, he lets out a sigh of relief and confesses all his feelings for you, kissing your face, not even caring how embarrassed he was, how his heart was racing, or his face was red.

He just wanted you to be okay, by his side, and smiling.

PAN AN

Pan An isn’t really a man of the palace, but a constable, so of course, he always feels the need to protect others and make sure there is peace and balance in the city, no matter what.

He just can’t stand injustices.

It doesn’t take him long after you tell him about how truly vile the Crown Prince actually is, behind that royal facade of smoke and mirrors, so he starts looking into matters very carefully.

With some insight from your childhood friend, Murong Chong, you get some leads, and since you already had some pointers from your past life, you knew who the Crown Prince’s allies were, and what to do to avoid trouble, even while playing his ally.

When he heard about the numerous attempts on your life, including the Empress trying to poison you, he almost went livid, but since he has to keep his calm and collected composure, he started praising how shrewd and intelligent you are, being able to play the double agent role.

But he’s also very curious about your actual reason, knowing that keeping the peace in the Kingdom couldn’t be the only thing.

So you explain, making sure he keeps an open-mind, and despite all the skepticism, it kinda makes sense, and connecting all the dots, putting all the evidence together, and showing him there was actually another woman who was reborn, just like you, in the Hard Labour Camp, he accepts things as they are.

It’s a little sad that Pan An can’t always be in the palace and make sure you’re okay, that no more attempts on your or the Emperor’s lives are made, since he has his own job, but worry not, your cause is his priority and he’ll actually work with Murong to bring about more evidence of the Prince’s treacheries and won’t stop until he sees both him and his mother convicted for their atrocious crimes.

It’s a long journey, but when that happens, he swears to himself that he will ask you to marry him, since he can’t bear the thought of being away from you and not knowing you were protected all the time.

There is no greater force in the world, not even the earthly calamities or the Emperor himself, that could stop Pan An from loving you.

YIN ZHEN

This guy...OH, this guy is a true piece of work, I’m telling you.

He suspects something all the time, no matter how much he’s smitten with you, he still can’t help himself and will tease, mock, taunt and pressure you to hell and back, just to get you talking, or at least sketch some adorable reactions, since you seem to master them.

Of course, Yin Zhen is the 4th Prince, and the next best contestant to the throne, after that Crown Prince that everyone hates so much ( at least from the line of princes, that is ), so when he found out you want to bring him down, you better believe you’ve got yourself an ally for life.

Although he will claim it’s a mutual alliance, he still loves your presence around him, and won’t hesitate to tell you, even if you think he’s making fun of you...Again.

It won’t take long for him to find out that in a previous life, the Crown Prince gave you poison to drink and that’s how you died - Allegedly - So even if that’s true, or you’re just dreaming and need a reason to get rid of that guy, he’ll make sure that’s how his elder brother will fall.

Sure, you don’t believe him all the time, Yin Zhen is as mysterious as the dark side of the moon, so you automatically doubt him sometimes, but when he got himself in the crossfire, going as far as to forge things to incriminate him, just to get punished by the Emperor, it was enough proof for you that he’s all in with your alliance and will go at all lengths to kill that guy.

It’s kinda endearing how he can be so sharp, cold and determined, while also being able to be so soft, gentle and loving with you.

That makes you even more determined to catch that bastard, so you tell Yin Zhen exactly what happened, while bringing him some osmanthus cakes and rose tea, and this at least makes him understand why you’re so afraid of princes and love in general.

He won’t show it, but Yin Zhen is beyond angry and will make sure to hold you while you watch that jerk drink poison and struggle to breathe at least one more time, clinging desperately to his consciousness for one more second.

And when that happens, Eunuch Gui is there, at the jail the Crown Prince was kept in, holding him while you and Yin Zhen smirked triumphantly, pouring the poison in his mouth, watching with satisfaction as he was twitching on the ground, in complete agony, trying to live, like a fish on land.

It was then that Yin Zhen turned to you, a wave of calmness and peace obviously having splashed you, and he cups his face, kissing you passionately, and telling you how much he loves you, and that he will be there to support you no matter what.

He doesn’t care if he’s the Emperor or not, as long as he has you by his side, and you’re happy, he’s content with being just a Prince, very in love with you, and being able to drink wine outside, in the beautiful plum and cherry garden, by the lotus pond.

[rosepyrearchive]

𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

an  experiment  of  posting  a  drabble  a  day,     from  a  few  sentences  to  a  paragraph  or  more.     i  posted  them  on  my  old  blog,     now  i’m  going  to  compile  them  all  here !

i.

fingers  carefully  shift  the  lavender  crystal  in  betwixt  her  thin  fingers.     for  years,      it  had  remained  faithfully  at  the  base  of  her  throat,     the  way  wolves  protect  each  other’s  most  delicate  parts;     her  father  always  did  the  same.     now,      there’s  somewhere  else  she’d  like  to  place  that  power,     that  protection.     what  color  would  the  crystal  turn,     when  placed  in  anakin’s  palm ?     blue,     like   his  eyes,     or  red,     like  the  blood  he  sheds ?     the  choker  she  once  wore,     pastel  colored  velvet  around  her  neck,     has  an  empty  slot  where  she’d  pulled  the  gem  from,     and  now  it  finds  a  new  home  on  a  long  chain  of  beskar;     where  she  imagines  it  will  press  right  in  the  middle  of  his  chest,     beneath  his  tunic    &    tabard.     no  matter  what  becomes  of  him,     or  what  tries  to  hurt  him . . .   the  chain  and  crystal  will  remain.

ii.

in  her  mother’s  arms,     she  is  just  a  daughter,    a  doll.     on  stage,     she  is  better  than  a  mortal  girl,     or  even  the  immortal  one  she  became;     she’s  a  ballerina  in  tufts  of  pink    &    tulle.     i  am  a  good  girl,     even  now  when  they’re  all  in  the  ground.     now  that  the  curtains  of  earth  &  velvet  have  fallen,     though,     who  is  she ?     who  does  she  become,     without  the  pale  pink  ribbons   &    tight  bodice  of  her  costumes ?      the  voice,     the  visions,     the  hallucinations  seem  to  answer  for  her;     a  ghost,    a  hazy,     obscure  daydream  who  cannot  truly  exist.     who  is  she ?     where  does  the  camouflage,     the  eagerness  to  please  end ?     serena  supposes  it  doesn’t  end  at  all;     and  in  that,     she  is  a  russian  doll  of  nothingness.

iii.

she’s  never  seen  him  without  his  helmet.  no  one  has,     serena  imagines  —  not  in  this  state  of  his  life,     where  removing  it  means  deprivation  and  vulnerability;     the  simple  act  and  thought  is  filled  with  an  intimacy  serena  knows  she  could  never  earn  from  him,     but  …     the  yearning  doesn’t  stop,     nor  does  the  longing  and  curiosity  to  see  his  pallid  skin,     scarred  &  tainted,     the  marks  that  must  cover  his  cheeks  and  chest.     where  do  they  end ?     are  they  like  ripples  in  waves  or  a  pattern ?     and  …  when  she  stands  near  him,  does  he  ever  look  at  her ?     the  blackness  of  his  shield  hides  it  all,  and  it  does  it’s  job  in  making  her  nervous;  serena  can  never  stand  still  in  his  presence,  thighs  shaking  and  nails  digging  trench  tracks  into  her  soft  palms.     darth  vader  is  terrible,  awful,  even  cruel  …     so  what  is  it  that  allures  her  so  deeply,  and  why ?     then  again,  if  she  knew,  perhaps  the  shimmering  butterflies  would  subside  and  she  could  see  clearly,     see  this  for  what  it  was.  he  wasn’t  even  using  her  —  and  she  is  the  very  picture  of  devotion.

iv.

to  what  end  does  the  fae  steal  a  fair  maiden ?     or  is  it  truly  a  crime,     when  the  victim  is  so  terribly  willing ?     allie’s  feet  move  so  mesmerizingly,    around  &  around  while  flowers  and  mushrooms   bloom  from  beneath  her  soles;     her  palm  is  so  open  –     ❪   come  to  me,     serena !   ❫     perspiration  of  late  summer  sticks  to  serena’s  forehead,     betwixt  her  rosy  fingers,     ❪   𝙾𝚁  𝙸𝚂  𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃  𝙽𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂 ?     𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙴  𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝙳  𝚃𝙾  𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻  𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃  𝚆𝙰𝚈 …   ❫     and  without  a  regret,     she  lays  her  hand  in  the  other  girl’s.     she  sups  on  honeyed  milk,     gives  her  name.     the  fairies  covet  gold,     and  what  is  serena,     if  not  well - dressed  in  a  golden  shroud,    from  her  crown  to  the  hem  of  her  long  dress ?     what  does  she  have  to  fear,     when  she  is  magic  all  on  her  own ?     allie’s  hand  lifts  both  of  theirs  high  as  she  twirls  serena  amidst  the  flowers,     and  she  swears  she  can  feel  grass  grow  from  her  steps.

v.

calloused  fingers  dig  deep  into  serena’s  sweet,     soft  dimples;     and  from  her  jaw,    trickles  of  sweet  wine  drip,     down  her  neck,    like  spilled  rubies  on  her  pale  skin.     you  hurt  me,    she  wants  to  say.     you’ve  hurt  me,     and  i  am  the  one  who’s  sorry.     hollis  draws  his  thumb  down  to  her  chin,     leaving  perfect  smudged  fingerprints  across  her  the  way  one  would  drag  their  fingers  across  a  fogged  glass.     his  eyes  are  a  dull,    venomous  green  as  he  calls  her  a  name  that  doesn’t  belong  to  her.    that  isn’t  me,   serena  wants  to  cry.     non,    mon rêve,     you’re  much  prettier  than  she  ever  was,     hollis  would  reply,     because  this  isn’t  the  first  time.     he  squeezes  bruises  into  her  little  arms  as  he  kisses  her,     and  serena  thinks  she  kisses  him  back.

vi.

allow  the  camera  to  pan  upwards,     from  her  pale  pink  ballet  slippers  into  her  soft  cotton  dress,     her  feet  turn  out  in  first  position  as  she  raises  her  hands  into  fourth,     pulled  up  by  soft  silk  strings  by  an  invisible  puppeteer.     the  stage  is  her  church,     a  massive,     all  encompassing  world  of  history  &  grace,     and  then  the  world  becomes  it’s  own  stage;     and  serena’s  performance  is  all  consumed,     like  an  apple  in  the  garden  of  eden.     isn’t  she  so  lovely,     so  flawless,     our  little  ballerina  ornament ?     serena  doesn’t  know  who,     or  what,    controls  her  actions   –   her  lies,     her  pliés.     some  entity  who  refuses  to  present  themselves,     only  bothering  to  choreograph  her  life  &  watch  her  from  behind  the  scenes;     she  is  both  fresh  as  a  flower,     brought  up  in  springtime,     &     as  broken  as  skeletons  that  have  long  withered  to  dusk  in  their  caskets.     even  in  her  most  secluded  moments,     she  does  not  feel  alone   –   not  truly.     this  puppet master  is  always  watching,     writing  their  script,     judging  her  arches  and  how  gracefully  she  can  slide  across  the  floor  in  her  pointe  shoes.     when  she  takes  her  final  bow,     it’s  only  the  studio  mirror  that  gazes  back  at  her,     her  own  doelike  brown  eyes,     her  own  slim  form  –  there’s  no  cables  attaching  her  to  the  ceiling.

this  life  is  so  very  boring,     so  unlike  the  dreamy  world  she  longed  for  as  a  foolish  girl.     i  had  long  ruined  my  own  life  with  my  own  dissatisfaction  before  someone  else  destroyed  it  for  me.

viii.

longing  lurks  deep  behind  a  golden  -  brown  gaze   /   what  comfort  can  she  take  in  the  jedi  code,     when  it’s  cold,    hard …     and  ben’s  hand  is  warm,     all  encompassing ?    the  code,     the  code …     the  temple  is  a  stage,     and  the  council  pulls  her  strings,     but  the  one  thing  they  can’t  take  from  her  is  her  mind;     in  there,     she  is  strong,     stone.     they  encourage  compassion:     but  no  attachments.     what  is  that,     to  her ?    what  is  it  compared  to  the  sunlight  she  feels  in  ben’s  eyes  when  he  leans  down  to  kiss  her  temple,     or  the  delight  serena  can  see  in  him  when  she  enters  the  room ?     ❪  because  love  is  the  death  of  duty,     as  wiser  men  say   ❫     in  many  ways,     she  is  greater  than  other  girls;     a  doll - like  padawan,    bright,     intelligent   –   but  in  the  end,    she  is  still  human,     and  she  finds  no  love  within  the  code   /   only  does  she  find  the  serenity  it  speaks  of  in  ben’s  embrace,     and  the  way  he  bends  over  at  the  waist  to  hold  her,     and  he  is  all  around  her  like  cologne.     that  is  a  glory  &  a  tragedy  worth  dying  for.

viii.

fear  has  always  cut  deep  within  serena’s  soft  skin;     it  was  easy  to  pull  her  apart  like  a  pomegranate,     see  the  little  pin - prick  razors  of  fright,     but  nothing  had  made  her  so  afraid  since  meeting  the  jedi.     she’s  a  fragile  heart  wound  tightly  in  red  ribbons  and  strings,     each  tied  to  the  pinkie  finger  of  every  person  she  loves.     some  of  the  ends  are  cut,     some  fray  towards  the  latter,     but  she  doesn’t  forget.     she  doesn’t  let  go,     not  in  her  deep  heart,     where  they  are  safe.     the  jedi  don’t  agree;     and  her  body  wracks  with  guilt  as  she  resists  placing  ribbons  on  their  fingers.     they  cannot  love  me,     she  knows   /   so  why  isn’t  it  enough  to  stop  her ?

ix.

every  part  of  my  body  aches.       serena  sits  on  the  hard  bathroom  floor  like  a  stain  on  the  tile,     the  tulle  of  her  practice  skirt  shimmering  in  the  dim  fluorescents.     the  plastic  stall  divider  is  freezing  against  her  shoulders,     and  it  hurts  when  her  head  falls  back  against  it.     the  bathroom  is  empty,     but  the  room  is  loud.     DISGUSTING  GIRL.     IT  HURTS.    what  hurts ?     I  CAN’T  FIND  IT  ANYMORE,     IT’S  SPREAD  LIKE  A  POISON.     she  finds  sanctuary  in  her  own  little  white  lies,     and  this  stall  where  none  of  the  other  ballerinas  go  –  she’s  a  soloist,     a  prima;     she  is  special.     allegedly.     she  barely  notices  the  wine - red  trickle  of  blood  that  spills  from  her  nose,     gravity  pulling  it  down  her  perfect  pale  face.      the  relief  is  nearly  instant,     whatever  ache  she’d  had  seems  to  fade  away   /   her  eyes  hone  in  on  the  empty  plastic  bag,     only  remnants  of  white  pill  powder  left.     the  same  resin  seems  to  linger  on  the  tip  of  her  pointe  shoe,     that  she’d  used  to  crush  it  all  up.     the  urge  to  smash  the  wooden  end  of  her  slipper  into  the  stupid  godforsaken  plastic  container  as  hard  as  she  can  and  see  how  much  damage  she  can  do  washes  over  her;     but  she’s  too  shocked  by  the  sudden  violent  urge  to  act  on  it.     instead,     serena  lets  the  clarity  &  ability  to  focus  drown  out  the  voices  that  scream  in  her  tender  head,     and  brings  herself  to  stand.

x.

❪   𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐊  ❫

pink  silk  shimmers  in  the  early  morning  sun;     her  blush  is  just  as  pretty,     sitting  across  from  her  father  at  the  iron  balcony  table.     he  is  her  king,     her  first  love,     and  serena  revels  in  the  attention  her  father  lavishes  on  her.     everything  is  still  so  new,     so  beautiful,     when  she’s  young  –  serena  dreams  of  the  future,     of  white  veils  and  cotillions.     her  distance  isn’t  yet  defensive,     but  a  sweet  daydream,     of  romantic  notions  &  hopes.     serena  dreams  of  the  far  away,     of  paris  and  rushing  crowds.     you  have  the  carlisle  look,     julian  had  told  her,    once.    your  brother  has  it  too.     someday,     this  world  will  be  wrapped  around  your  little  finger.     be  kind  to  it.     serena  had  smiled  so  lovely  at  that  –  let  the  world  be  kind.     let  it  show  her  kindness.

xi.

❪   𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘  ❫

this  is  a  private  moment;     but  serena  can  feel  the  hidden  camera  lenses  on  her,     seeking  that  million  dollar  photo of  palpable  grief,     or  the  bullet  hole  in  her  father’s  chest,     as  if  it  weren’t  hidden  from  view  behind  his  favorite  suit.     she  won’t  cry.     serena  had  already  emptied  herself  of  every  golden  tear  when  she’d  cleaned  her  father’s  face,     when  she’d  combed  his  hair.      she  was  the  one  who’d  laid  his  arms  over  his  chest,     with  her  favorite  stuffed  animal  between  them  to  keep  him  company.     august  pulls  all  her  curls  behind  her  head,     and  lays  his  hands  on  her  thin  shoulders,     squeezing  just  enough  to  be  a  reassurance.     a  million  questions  ran  through  her  head  –     every  single  one  beginning  with  why.

her  fingers  drift,     softly,     for  the  last  time,     over  her  father’s  cheek.     she  pretends  it’s  warm  with  life,     and  not  chilling  to  the  bone.     if  he  could  be  killed,     then  no  one  is  safe.

xii.

❪   𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋  ❫

be  kind  to  the  world.    serena’s  innocence  had  died  screaming,     yet  she  still  remembers  the  words  her  father  had  told  her.     sunlight  streams  through  the  trees  above,     but  she  is  too  stiff  to  move  just  yet;     so  she  lies  there  in  the  grass,     flowers  having  bloomed  over  the  years  of  her  sleep  through  her  hair  and  around  her  body.     a  new  era  has  begun,     everything  she  knows  is  gone.     everyone  she  loves  is  gone.     maybe  it’s  the  haziness  of  first  waking  up  after  a  half - century,     but  there’s  a  determination  beneath  her  silk  skin,     her  ivory  bones.     serena  has  become  something  new,     just  as  the  world  has  –  beneath  the  porcelain,     her  ribs  have  grown  steel.     she  will  not  be  so  breakable  ever  again.

xiii.

in  the  movies,     pearls  are  always  being  yanked  from  necks,     the  precious  little  beads  clattering  to  the  hardwood  floor  in  bunches.     serena  allows  the  pretty  necklace  to  drift  through  her  fingers,     remembering  the  time  her  mother  had  wrapped  it  around  her  neck.     she’d  felt  like  such  a  little madam  in  her  maman’s  pearls.     there’s  a  little  secret:     those  pearls  in  films,     dramatic  as  they  were,     were fake.     maman’s  were  genuine,     and  the  little  pieces  were  knotted  in  between,     meaning  even  if  she’d  ripped  them  from  her  throat,     only  one  or  two  at  worst  would  go  missing.     her  mother  was  too  much  of  a  lady,     anyway …     prone  to  melancholy  and  hurt,     but  not  quite  fits.     what  a  complicated  love,     the  one  between  a  mother  &  a  daughter …     serena  finds  herself  missing  her  mother’s  arms  more  often  than  not  these  days,     and  the  security  that  came  with  them.

xiv.

valentine’s  day  has  always  been  a  non - affair  romantically;     her  favorites  were  dinner  dates  with  her  family,     the  men  being  the  gentlemen,     and  the  one  day  her  maman  would  let  her  wear  her  red  lipstick.     the  couples  on  the  street  below  her  balcony  make  her  feel something,    but  is  it  jealousy,   or  nostalgia ?     her  palm  cradles  her  jaw  as  she  leans  against  the  iron  barrier.     a  man  kisses  a  woman,     and  why  does  her  heart  lurch  for  something  so  impossible ?    to  love,     to  be  loved …     she  would  never  be  capable  of  it,     her  last  boyfriend  had  told  her  so.     adam  had  as  well.     anyone  who  would  want  to  spend  this  day  with  her  is  dead,     and  no  one  else  could  accept  the  things  she’d  done,     the  person  she’s  become  beneath  the  lace  and  ribbons.     hallowed,     broken.

xv.

i   hate  the  dirt.     i  hate  the  grime  that  i  can’t  wash  away,     and  the  fingerprint  i  leave  on  the  pristine  envelope  that  the  postman  gives  me,     his  gaze  apologetic.     until  i  look  at  the  handwriting,     i  don’t  understand  why.     it’s  been  a  week  since  he  could  last  reach  us  on  the  battlefield,     to  give  us  some  form  of  comfort  and  relief,     and  he  only  gives  me  a  single  letter.     there  should  be  more.     serena  writes  to  me  every  day,     there  should  be  at  least  six  or  seven,     all  beginning  with  my  dearest  brother;     but  even  the  single  letter  isn’t  from  my  sister,     but  my  wife.     i  should  be  excited  for  that,     but  i’m  not  –  not  when  i  can’t  fathom  why  there’s  only  this  one  letter.     when  i  tear  into  it,     a  picture  falls  out:     my  wife,     holding  our  son.     this  is  a  happy  moment,     and  i  can  feel  pressure  build  behind  my  eyes,     but  it’s  distracted,     because  serena  should  be  in  this  photo.     she  isn’t,     because  for  some  godforsaken  reason  she’s  here  in  europe  –  and  that’s  enough  to  push  the  tears  from  my  eyes.     i  should  be  there,     and  serena  should  be  holding  her  nephew  and  accepting  our  request  to  be  his  godmother.

but  she  isn’t,     and  i’m  not  either.

xvi.

the  streets  of  new  york  now  aren’t  so  different  from  the  streets  of  new  york  in  my  childhood.     the  fashion  is  different;     women  wear  shorter  skirts,     deeper  cuts  to  expose  their  collarbones,     and  these  are  changes  i  like.     the  buildings  still  creep  into  the  clouds  like  pillars  of  divinity,     and  the  sidewalks  are  crowded,     but  no  one  pays  too  much  attention  to  anyone  else.     the  men  dress  differently  too,     and  those  changes  i  don’t  like,     but  if  i  sit  and  close  my  eyes …     it’s  still  all  the  same,     and  i  can  picture  the  cars,     the  pretty  women  and  handsome  men …     even  my  silly  little  girl  friends,     the  ones  who  would  walk  with  me  during  breaks  in  ballet  when  we  had  so  little  else  to  do.     when  i  close  my  eyes,     it  doesn’t  feel  like  a  lifetime  ago.

xvii.

it  happens  gradually,     then  all  at  once,     like  the  impatience  of  waiting  for  a  rose  to  blossom.     one  day  you  wake  up,     and  it’s  simply  bloomed,     petals  spread  wide  in  the  sunshine.     in  that  case,     serena  wonders  which  moment  it  was  that  made  her  realize  her  feelings  for  ben  had  flowered   ──   was  it  the  time  his  fingers  grazed  hers  on  the  piano  keys,     and  he  played  the  wrong  note  to  make  her  laugh ?     or  perhaps  when  he  smiled  at  her  so  earnestly,     all  white  teeth  and  curled  lips  that  met  the  crinkles  by  his  eyes ?     she  can’t  pinpoint  the  exact  moment  she  realized  she  loves  ben  kenobi;     serena  only  knows  what  she  feels  now,     the  safety  of  his  warm  hugs,     the  way  the  word  ‘graves’  slips  between  her  teeth  and  she  doesn’t  choke  trying  to  reel  it  back  in.     home  was  something  impossible,     turned  to  ash  &  bone,     but  then  she  finds  herself  sitting  at  their  table  in  the  coffee  shop  &  she  thinks  perhaps  a  home  can  be  rebuilt.

xviii.

prayer  used  to  come  first  thing  in  the  morning,     a  mantra  spoken  breathlessly  to  open  air.     it’s  not  an  ideology  that  serena  subscribes  to  anymore     ❪   part  of  her  wonders  if  she  ever  did   ❫ ,     but  old  habits  had  died  hard.     she  wants  to  enjoy  a  new  one.     ben  is  there,     barely  awake  while  thick  raindrops  smack  against  the  balcony  doors,     and  serena  shimmies  his  boxers  down  his  thighs.     she’s  already  asked  him  nicely,     with  her  polite  manners  and  pretty  mouth     ──     and  she  tries  to  mask  her  eagerness  with  languid  movements,     laying  her  cheek  to  his  hip  and  letting  her  long  curls  fall  over  his  body.     serena  knows  he  can  feel  her  by  the  way  he  shudders  when  her  eyelashes  flit  over  him,     her  rose - petal  fingers  everywhere  and  nowhere  because  they  aren’t  exactly  where  ben  wants  them.     you  should  tell  me  what  you  like,    serena  offers  with  a  wicked  little  smile,     dragging  his  hand  until  he  can  grip  her  curls,     holding  sunshine  in  his  palms.

xix.

when  the  legs  beat  against  each  other  in  the  midst  of  a  jete,     it’s  a  battu  jete …     beaten.     everything  is  more  beautiful  in  french,     and  serena  thinks  it’s  true  of  herself  as  well.     she  had  been  her  company  director’s  little  princess,     sliding  into  his  queen;     she  would’ve  been  the  youngest  prima  ballerina  in  history.     she  would’ve  had  a  life.     she  would’ve  had  a  brother.     orson  does  so  much  for  her,     and  serena  can  hardly  find  it  in  herself  to  be  grateful,     can  hardly  repeat  the  pleasantries  and  manners  she’d  been  taught  to  sing  since  she  was  a  little  girl  letting  words  tumble  from  her  mouth.     instead,     serena  tries  to  create  a  peaceful  world,     she  jumps  at  the  chance  to  redesign  the  building  he  buys,     create  a  setting  of  her  own  making;     only  to  lay  under  the  covers,     sleeping  next  to  a  pillow  she  pretends  is  august.

xx.

disgusting.     vile.    serena  watches  august  rip  a  newspaper  in  half,     once,     twice,     then  three  times,     letting  the  pieces  fly  onto  the  floor  and  cover  the  coffee  table.     the  headline  had  once  read  about  her,     calling  her  a  top  three  debutante  in  new  york’s  uppercrust  society.     not  just  in  the  top  three,     but  ranked  number  one.    shouldn’t  we  be  proud ?    serena  asks  him.    shouldn’t  i  be  flattered ?     august  had  fallen  to  his  knees  in  front  of  the  chaise  where  she  sat  after  that,     holding  her  little  hands  in  his  own.     he  squeezes  them  so  tight  serena  winces.    tell  me,     he  begs.     tell  me  if  anyone  ever  touches  you.     tell  me,     and  i’ll  kill  them.    with  all  the  naivety  in  the  world,     serena  giggles,     shaking  her  head.     nonsense,     my  darling  brother.     the  only  man  i  love  is  you;     and  the  only  man  who  shall  ever  touch  me  is  not  here  yet.

xxi.

the  sunlight  doesn’t  seem  so  bright,     but  the  city  is  just  as  bustling  as  the  last  time  she’d  seen  it.     what  year  had  that  been ?     somewhere  around  nineteen  forty,     serena  thinks.     her  old  ballet  studio  has  moved;     it’s  previous  location  now  just  another  parking  lot  in  new  york  city.     everything  about  it  gives  her  whiplash.     it’s  all  the  same  and  all  entirely  different.     she  almost  expects  to  see  august  across  the  street,     handsome  smile  &  hair  swept  back,     but  she  knows  she  won’t.     he’s  dead,     and  so  is  everyone  else  she  ever  knew.     there’s  a  pressure  on  her  shoulders,     wondering  when  someone  will  notice  the  imaginary  blood  seeping  out  of  her  core,     or  when  someone will  realize  she’s  half - dead.     little  walking  dead  girl,     schrodinger’s  girl,     dead  and  alive.

xxii.

photographs  from  another  era  are  spread  all  across  the  wooden  table  serena  sits  at,     glimmering  and  shining  in  their  black  and  white  glory,     sepia,     and  even  a  few  colored  ones.     they  all  had  a  touch  of  grain  to  them,     the  consequence  of  new,     unperfected  technology,     but  serena  adores  them.     after  all,     in  every  photo  she  sees  the  face  of  someone  she  loves.     her  grandfather  royce,     cradling  the  toddler  version  of  herself  in  his  arms,     and  then  them  at  a  later  age,     serena  with  her  arms  wrapped  tightly  around  him.     in  another  photo,     serena  sits  in  his  lap,     while  her  grandmother,     the  woman  for  whom  she  was  named,     hugs  them  both  from  behind.     so  many  lost  smiles,     shining  with  no  idea  of  what’s  to  come.     her  finger  traces  along  another  photo,     of  her  mother  posing  with  her  in  her  first  pair  of  pointe  shoes.     she’d  been  so  proud  that  day,     and  serena  can’t  help  but  smile  back  at  her.     these  little  moments  are  all  she  has  left  now;     what  if  she  forgets  it  all  someday ?     at  least  she  won’t  forget  their  faces.     serena  glues  the  back  of  the  photos,  pasting  them  into  a  scrapbook.     there  are  new  people  she  doesn’t  want  to  forget  someday  as  well,     and  for  them,     serena  glances  at  a  newer  camera.     she  doesn’t  have  to  forget.

xxiii.

moy  lebed.    my  swan.    mr.  nikolaev  calls  her  that,     from  the  first  moment  he  saw  her  complete  the  thirty - two  fouettés  in  odile’s  coda.     serena  sighs  into  the  open  studio.     the  sky  has  long  gone  dark,     and  every  other  dancer  and  crew  member  has  gone  home — but  she  remains.     this  is  the  dedication  that  will  make  me  the  prima,     serena  reminds  herself.     this  is  what  sets  me  apart.     she  counts  the  steps  in  her  head  until  she  loses  herself  to  the  imagined  music,     eyes  closed  while  she  moves  her  arms  and  tip - toes  across the  floor.     serena  is  the  very  picture  of  a  music  box  ballerina  when  she  kicks  her  foot  up,      finding  her  north  star  and  turning  in  pirouettes.     not  even  the  quiet  opening  of  a  door  interrupts  her  focus.     august  takes  her  little  waist  in  his  hands  and  helps  to  give  her  the  extra  momentum.     then  he  hoists  her  over  his  shoulder,     telling  her  how  mother  is  so worried,    and  she  has  to  come  home  right  away…     all  spoken  with  his  hidden,    wry  smile.

xxiv.

i  had  never  tried  to  impress  anyone  the  way  i’d  tried  to  impress  mr.  nikolaev,     my  ballet  master  and  choreographer.     my  every  waking  moment  was  spent  under  his  scrutinizing  gaze,     attempting  to  dissect  his  utter  dissatisfaction  with  the  world  for  it’s  lack  of  grace  and  beauty  and  what  he  felt  towards  me  specifically …     all  in  a  leotard  and  tights  that  would  only  leave  the  color  of  my  skin  to  our  imaginations,     and  mirrors  on  every  wall  reminding  me  of  that  fact.     i  don’t  know  if  i  tried  harder  to  gain  his  attention  in  the  first  place,     or  if  i  would  have  killed  myself  trying  to  keep  it.     no  girl  is  ever  more  beautiful  than  they  are  at  sixteen,     and  though  i  didn’t  realize  it,     perhaps  if  i  had  lived  to  see  him  again  in  my  later  years  he  would’ve  been  impressed  with  my  freckles,     my  dimples,     and  my  big  eyes  at  the  age  of  twenty  –  i’ve  heard  i  don’t  look  so  different.     still,     i  was  even  more  girlish  then  than  i  am  now,     and  three  times  as  shy ;     ballet  was  all  i  could  use  to  get  him  to  look  at  me,     to  make  him  pay  attention  &  perhaps  remember  why  he  took  this  job  in  the  first  place  after  his  own  short,     but  famed  career.     i  would  be  perfect ;     not  just  for  him,     but  for  myself.     it  didn’t  hurt  anything  that  i  was  his  little  prima  prodigy.     he  smiled  for  the  first  time  when  he  called  me  his  moy  lebed,     his  swan,     and  i  can’t  remember  the  last  thing,     even  now,     that  had  made  my  heart  soar  so  much.

xxv.

‘are  you  ready?’     on  the  cusp  of  spring  in  the  midst  of  march,     lies  serena’s  birthday.     thirteen  is  such  a  special  age  for  a girl ;     not  quite  a  woman  yet,     not  quite  a  girl  anymore,     but  leaving  the  throes  of  childhood  behind.     august’s  question  comes  with  an  excited  edge  to  his  voice  and  a  slim  box  in  his  hands,     with  pink  wrapping  paper  and  white  ribbons.     the  other  guests  at  the  party  had  long  dissipated,      and  serena  sits  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,     feet  swinging  back  and  forth  to  dissipate  a  bit  of  the  thrill  she  feels.    ‘i’ve  been  waiting  all  day!’     is  what  serena  replies,     taking  the  gift  into  her  lap.     her  brother  sits  down  next  to  her ;     he’s  twenty,     seven  years  older,     and  a  man  grown,     but  it’s  as  if  there’s  no  difference  between  them  as  august  wraps  his  arm  around  her  waist,     matching  brown  eyes  gleaming  as  he  watches  her  carefully  pry  apart  the  paper  to  reveal  a  box  of  velvet.     ‘it’s  sentimental,’     august  had  said,     as  to  why  he  couldn’t  let  her  open  it  amongst  the  guests.     private,     serena  thinks.     her  brother  was  always  a private  man.     when  she  lifts  the  lid,     and  august  uses  his  other  hand  to  fold  away  the  white  paper,     it  reveals  a  precious,     heart - shaped  golden  locket.     he  pulls  it  out  by  the  chain,     letting  the  pendent  rest  in  serena’s  palms.     ‘it’s  the  most  beautiful  thing  i’ve  ever  seen,’     serena  says,     eyes  glimmering.     august’s  fingers  snap  the  clasp,     and  inside,     a  photo  of  himself  on  one  side,     and  then  a  photo  of  their  parents  from  their  wedding  day  on  the  other.     serena  beams  as  august  closes  it  then  places  the  necklace  around  her  neck,     the  pendent  falling  just  at  her  collarbones.    ‘it’s  beautiful,     my  wonderful  brother,’     she  says,     and  august  kisses  her  crown.     ‘it’s  almost  as  lovely  as  you,     my  sweet  little  sister,     and  you  deserve  lovely  things.     this  way,     we’ll  always  be  with  you.’

xxvi.

julian’s  wedding  band  was  like  him ;     it  was  a  simple  golden  band,     with  ivy  growing  around  it,     interrupted  only  by  a  diagonal  line  of  diamonds.     when  serena  tilts  it  back,     she  can  see  her  mother’s  name  engraved  in  it.     eirene’s  was  a  little  flashier,     with  a  bigger  diamond  in  the  center.     it  wasn’t  because  of  her  personality,     though …     in  that,     serena  can  still  see  her  father,     wanting  to  impress  her,     wanting  to  give  his  wife  the  world.     julian’s  ring  occupies  her  left  thumb ;     she  couldn’t  bear  to  get  it  resized  for  her  dainty  hands,     so  it’s  the  best  she  could  manage.     he’d  had  a  lithe  frame,     and  for  that  she’s  thankful  –  serena  remembers  sliding  the  ring  off  of  his  finger  when  she’d  crossed  his  arms  over  his  chest,     holding  it  between  her  fingers.     she  had  to  have  it.     her  mother  had  worn  hers  until  the  very  last,     until  she  had  slipped  from  serena’s  hand  into  the  ocean’s  embrace.     serena  had  only  been  able  to  just  clasp  the  ring,     before  it  too  could  fall  from  her  grasp.     now,     it  rests  on  her  index  finger,     where  at  least  on  her  hands,     her  parents  could  still  be  together.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “The Cuddling Room”

“The Cuddling Room” is a unique idea Y/N came up with when her relationship with The Joker started to fall apart. The awesome plan worked for a while…until it didn’t. Maybe the sanctuary’s purpose wasn’t to mend the present, but to heal old wounds that will never fade unless given a chance.

 The Joker walks the hallway leading to the kitchen, dreading the imminent reality: after another horrible fight last night, Y/N is probably gone. Terrible things were said in the hit of the moment and The King of Gotham abandoned the Penthouse, leaving a heartbroken girlfriend behind.

No texts and no phone calls; you are always the first one to reach out and J sort of got used to it. Since you didn’t bother to contact him at all, he assumed you had enough and left.  

Nobody lasts in a relationship with The Joker anyway.

Why?

Because he “doesn’t do” relationships: The Clown Prince of Crime is truly clueless on how to handle them, especially when he actually likes someone. It’s a paradox he can’t escape: the more J tries to hold on, the more his urge to mess up exponentially increases.

He passes by the studio and can’t help but notice the flashy hand written sign hanging on the door: “The Cuddling Room.”

Lots of thumping sounds and the door is cracked opened: The Joker peeks inside only to see Y/N running around in order to finish the project she worked on for hours in his absence.

The small room is entirely remodeled: there are decorative lights dangling from the ceiling, candles and books scattered on the shelves, flowerpots plus a twin-size bed moved from storage courtesy of Frost and Shark.

“What are you doing?!” J crabbily mumbles, not that he would admit how relieved he feels you’re still on the premises.

“I’m not talking to you,” you pout and fluff the pillows.

“You just did,” he brings it to your attention, very intrigued while analyzing the surroundings. “What’s this supposed to be?!”

“Sanctuary,” the clarification briefs the puzzled Joker. “If we have an argument and things go downhill…” you take a deep, strenuous breath, “…and want to work it out, we can use this place. We can be mad and resentful, yet here we can be together without being together.”

“Huh?” J has a difficult time processing the peace offer because nobody else went through so much trouble for him before.

He’s just not worth it.

“The mattress is tiny; two people have to cuddle if they want to fit…That’s why it’s called the cuddling room,” you grouchily finish your speech.  

You hear him huff and slam the door, meaning he’s dismissing your idea.

We’ll see how it goes, you sigh and grab a book, deciding to dwell into the newly transformed oasis.

About half an hour later, The Joker sneaks in and you completely ignore him. He took a shower, changed into a pair of sweatpants and decided to pop in for additional criticism that will promptly be addressed towards Y/N and her silly experiment.

The blinds are closed; the string lights and candles glowing in the darkness make the room very cozy: The Queen of Gotham reigns her minuscule kingdom quite relaxed after she lost hope The King will join.

He slowly drags his feet on the rug, adamant in not giving into the tempting thought of compromising for once; nevertheless he winds up in bed by a sulking girlfriend.

“Scoot,” J hisses and the reply clarifies your denial:

“I’m at the edge on my side.”

He groans, squirming to get comfortable and you snatch the cell phone out of his hand, hiding it under the cushions.

“No electronics!”

He puckers his lips, irritated.

“Excuse me?!”

“Read a book!” you cut him off.

The Joker is outraged at your behavior; he mutters several complaints that you disregard. You’re getting ready to turn the page and he protests:

“I’m not done!”

Apparently J is reading your book now.

“That’s crazy!” he scoffs at the story and elbows you.

You lastly turn the page and he continues to scan the novel until there are no more words: he passed out nuzzling to your shoulder; the lack of space gave him no other option, which is literally the point of Y/N’s attempt to save their affair.

You cover him with the blanket, annoyed he’s purring in his sleep; The Joker often does it when he’s totally carefree and you’re definitely jealous at his detachment from stuff that keeps you up at night.

He senses wiggling and wraps his left arm around your waist, a natural reaction to what he would usually do. Even if you’re aware he’s unconsciously responding to the closeness, you can’t resist the impulse: you slide on the pillows, touching his nose with yours.

“Mmm…” he moans, opening one eye. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” you yawn and hesitantly kiss him, immediately smiling when he kisses you back.

“Then stop fidgeting and let me rest,” The Joker scolds without any trace of bitterness in his voice.

“I’m almost falling off the mattress,” you lie and don’t wait for an invitation to snuggle to his chest.

“Then got to the master bedroom,” the fussy Clown reprimands while holding you tighter.

“Maybe later…” you sniffle and stroke his hair, grateful your skills aiming at reconciliation are paying off.

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

Your awesome plan worked for a while…then it didn’t.

Later in the year, succeeding another dreadful confrontation, J was a no show in The Cuddling Room for eight days in a row; he barely spoke to you and was gone most of the time. I guess that was his method of telling his woman it was over; she expected a bit more after 23 months of being part of The Joker’s life and his indifference hurt more than it should have.

One morning he came home and the view of suitcases piled up by the elevator made him frown.

“Y/N?...” he shouted and there was no reply.

J searched the Penthouse and found a teary Y/N boxing items she purchased to adorn the special haven that meant so much to her; might as well take them away since The Clown Prince of Crime had no need for such trivialities.

He watched you in silence, bothered to see the consequences of his actions: after struggling on a decision, The Joker was at last coming to use The Cuddling Room. Instead of disclosing his intentions, the opposite came out of his mouth:

“You finally got the hint?”

You grabbed the crate in a hurry and rushed outside the studio, not looking at him. He had no clue how deep of a wound he inflicted that day; The Joker should have put his wretched temper on hold and confess why he was there for.

But he couldn’t… To him, it was easier to end it.

So he let you go.

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

It wasn’t easy to endure J’s presence at certain meetings you had to attend due to your involvement with the same entourage as his. God knows you had issues to get out of your chest, yet pretending to be fine suited you better. You mostly kept your distance, avoiding dialogue at all cost.

In a way, one could say he respected that: your ex didn’t attempt to chitchat either, especially when he realized you seemed happy when Tony Bianchi, everyone’s favorite smuggler developed an interest in you.

For several months you two would show up everywhere and soon after the engagement ring on your finger got rumors circulating, The Joker and the rest of the world noticed the baby bump too. Although it wasn’t a secret you were dating Tony and accepted his marriage proposal, you maintained your private life off radar.

The reason was plain and simple: besides your tumultuous relationship with J, the new found love appeared to be a walk in the park; you didn’t have to resort to extreme lengths in order to keep things afloat. You and your fiancée worked together in fixing problems that would seldom arise because that’s what couples do: if they want to thrive, they will find the middle ground. Y/N didn’t feel she was alone against the odds; having a suitable partner was her special paradise and she fully enjoyed the opportunity of being cherished like she deserved.

How life works it’s a real mystery: some facts can’t be explained, others happen for a reason and just a handful are the universe’s manner of rebalancing events that should have occurred differently due to stupid human errors, even if changing the final result meant to destroy and rebuild from scratch.

To this day, The Joker perfectly remembers his heart stopped at 6:37am on September 23rd ; he was cruising in the back of his favorite SUV, still sleepy and discontent for the emergency meeting requested by a few business partners at such an early hour. J didn’t know the reason why but agreed to go; Frost was on the phone trying to find out more details and Panda was driving as smooth as possible, not wishing to aggravate his boss more than necessary.

The King of Gotham was kind of dozing off when Jonny finished his phone conversation and got his attention:

“Sir…”

“Mmm?...” he lifted his nonexistent eyebrows and made an effort to gather his thoughts.

“Tony Bianchi was murdered last night, the victim of a home invasion, possibly a score settling with the deceased. The allies want to meet and assess the damage since everyone constantly invests huge amounts of money with the smuggler. Now that he’s history, they’re not sure who’ll replace him.”

The Joker’s heart stopped.

“And Y/N?” he flatly asked, allegedly composed for the shocking blow; after all, inquiring about his former girlfriend might have been perceived as weakness and he had none.

“I guess she wasn’t home.”

The Clown hummed incomprehensible sentences, calculating how much venue he might have lost in the messy situation. He didn’t allow himself to admit to the obvious truth: once he heard Y/N wasn’t dead, his heart started beating again.

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

Three months following Tony’s death, J had the chance of an encounter with you and to classify it as awkward wouldn’t do that evening any justice.

Richard aka Panda was finishing his cigarette behind “Neon Devil” club, when the bouncers engaged into an escalating confrontation got his attention; he was preparing to take over Nixon’s shift as main security for the back entrance and had to check in anyway.

“The club is closed; are you deaf?” one of the guys pushed the lady on the sidewalk and she almost fell.

“Is Tony here?” the seven month pregnant Y/N insisted, getting ready to stroll into the place.

“Let me repeat myself!” another guard shouted. “We have no Tony working here, capisci?! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you on drugs?!”

“I have to see if he’s in there,” you passed your fingers through your hair, visibly distressed.

“Are you kidding me?!” Mike grumbled, fed up with the crazy babbling. “You have five seconds to scram, understand?! Five, four …”

“What’s going on?” Richard approached and recognized you instantly.

“She keeps on asking about a Tony; we told her we have nobody with that name employed here but this wacko doesn’t get it!” Nixon reported.

“I know her so back the fuck out!” Panda threatened the newbies that had no idea who you were. He took your arm and guided you inside, making you sit in the lobby while he called his boss.

“Mister Joker, Y/N’s here,” Richard announced before taking you to the VIP room.

“Huh?”

“Ummm… she’s here looking for…e-hem…Tony. Can I bring her up or should I take her home?”

Long moments of silence and J made his decision:

“Bring her up.”

You were accompanied upstairs and Panda helped you settle on the couch opposite The Clown’s while he quietly analyzed you: he could tell that something was off.  Your cheeks were flushed and you nervously played with your t-shirt, the dark circles under your eyes bearing witness to the numerous sleepless nights tolerated in the past weeks.

The rumor was you suffered a nervous breakdown and had this recurring “episodes” consisting of wandering off to familiar places in search of your departed fiancée. The pregnancy made it impossible for you to use any medications that could have aided with your frail mental state; counselling and therapy could only accomplished that much and The Joker could entirely observe the transformation in the woman he once dated.  

“Is…is Tony here?” you whispered, investigating the room.

“Nope. Didn’t see him in a while.”

“I don’t know where he is...” the tears rolled down your face. “I can’t find him…”

“Jesus…” The King of Gotham mumbled under his breath. “How’d you get here?” he crossed his legs and caught you ogling the food: J craved Thai and immediately changed his mind as soon as the courier arrived.

“I…I took a cab and then… then… walked,” you seemed confused and he slid the foam container on the coffee table, making it easy for the future mother.

“Are you hungry?”

Y/N nodded a yes and The Joker examined her scarfing down the freshly cooked dish, still warm since the restaurant wasn’t far from the club. You kept sobbing and chewing, wiping your tears from time to time.

“Here’s some water,” he opened a small bottle and offered it to his grieving ex: she was definitely famished.

J sighed and reached for his cell phone, dialing Soraya’s number: she was appointed to take over for Tony because you were in no shape to do so.

“Are you missing a valuable member of your crew?” he barked when she answered.

“Oh my God Mister J, please tell me Y/N’s with you!”

“She is.”

“Thank heavens! We’ve been seeking for her: she had an ultrasound this morning and vanished from the doctor’s office afterwards,” the agitated 50 years old brings to The King’s knowledge. “I’ll send a car to pick her up.”

“No need to,” he interrupted her tirade. “I got it.”

J hung up and patiently waited for you to finish eating: since you were wearing your maternity jeans plus a basic t-shirt, he clearly noticed the baby moving under the thin fabric. It was slightly fascinating and weirdly enough not a dull spectacle.

“Come on, I’ll give you a ride home,” he uttered and you stood up, eager to comply:

“Is Tony there?”

The Joker said nothing; he escorted you to one of the vehicles stationed in the underground parking lot and dodged your questions regarding the assassinated smuggler.

He kept navigating the streets until he realized why you quit talking: Y/N loved car rides and completely crashed after scarcely napping in the last months.

The green haired man has always been a reckless driver, yet he didn’t speed nor take sharp turns with you in the passenger’s seat.

The traffic was harrowing and he just calmly went with the flow instead of having a tantrum; such a rare occurrence that he managed to stay cool. J was practically at your house when he switched the plan: he turned the signal on and took a right, skeptical about his own judgement.

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

You slowly blink, adjusting your eyes to the decorative lights hanging from the ceiling.

“Where am I?...” you toss in the small bed, disoriented and groggy after snoozing for 10 hours straight.

The electronic clock on the wall near the windows show 5 am; which windows though?... They don’t resemble the ones at your house, but somehow summon past memories: a few candles, scattered books on the shelves, flowerpots… and the handwritten sign you scribbled almost three years ago pinned on the wide opened door: “The Cuddling Room.”

You touch your tummy and get on your elbow; the little unborn girl keeps kicking and you moan in pain at the splitting headache menacing to burst full throttle in the next minutes.

“It’s fine sweet pea,” you caress your bump and contemplate the peaceful environment, frowning when you discover The Joker gazing at you from the recliner.

“Hi,” he sucks on his teeth for the lack of a better tactic.

“Why am I here?!” you grow exponentially alarmed at the baffling reality: shit, it’s The Penthouse.  Not that you recall how you got here; last evening is an absolute blur.

The Joker lifts his shoulders up, not possessing a logic rationalization himself.

“I don’t like this place,” you struggle to stand up, more and more upset at the idea you were brought up to a spot you hate without your consent.

“I do,” J serenely admits. “It’s calming.”

“Why is this stuff still here?!” your bottom lip quivers at the sight of everything you left behind when you vacated the premises in a hurry.

“I didn’t have time to clean.”

“Really?!” you start crying and accomplish to roll off the bed.

“I’m a busy individual,” he watches you stumble on the carpet and rushed to help. You reject his assistance, bothered he dares taking such liberties: 

“Please don’t touch me!!”

J halts his movement, receptive to your demand; he’s aware of your precarious relation and it makes him grasp the basic notion: bringing you to The Penthouse was a huge mistake.

“I have to go home,” you sniffle and stomp around him. “I need to find Tony.”

“You won’t find him…” The Joker bites his lip.

Y/N ends up in front of her former boyfriend and the hurt look on her face accentuates the sorrowful plea:

“Why would you say something like that?...”

“You know why… He’s gone,” J growls and surprisingly regrets his words when you collapse on your knees, bawling your eyes out at the cruel statement. Unfortunately it’s true also.

On the good days you remember and the person to remind you shouldn’t be the man that shattered your heart to pieces with his indifference; he shouldn’t have the privilege of harming you again.

Yet The Joker doesn’t appear to be overjoyed at his accomplishment; he frankly wasn’t aiming for a meltdown.

He lowers his body next to yours, attempting to hug you; you keep on pushing him away until he finally mutters:

“I didn’t mean it… alright? I didn’t mean it,” he forcefully holds you as you squirm to escape the unwelcomed intimacy. “I’m trying to apologize, ok?!” he raises his voice and reaffirms: “I didn’t mean to say it!”

You dig your nails in his shirt, not used to hear such compromising sentences from his part.

How you longed for him to give you a small token of his affection when you were together; why doing it now when it’s pointless?

J takes advance of Y/N lowered resistance and squeezes her closer, pleased that she gradually lets him embrace her without fighting his grip. It’s strange for this to happen in the tiny sanctuary that meant hope for them many years ago.

Maybe because The Cuddling Room’s purpose is not to mend the past, but to heal old wounds that will never fade unless given a chance.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Wattpad and AO3 under the same blog name: Diyunho.

[nctzenblurbs]

Victim Number 30 | Part Two | FBI Agent!Jaehyun x Cafe Owner!Reader

Genre: Crime, Angst, Suspense, a touch of fluff

Word count: 3,617

Summary: FBI Agent!Jaehyun is currently working on a homicide case where 15 victims were found dead within 4 months. Deciding to take up on Partner!Doyoung’s offer for a coffee break at a new cafe where he met Cafe Owner!Reader, fallen in love at first sight. But are you who Jaehyun thinks you are?

Warnings: Cursing, mention of blood, death, murder (nothing too extreme but if you are uncomfortable with this kind of story, i suggest don’t read it)

a/n: Here’s the second part for the FBIAgent! Jaehyun fic, sorry it took too long, i’ve been busy. A little reminder that this part has not been proofread so there could be grammar errors and misspelling. Have fun reading 

6 months in, 21 victims and counting, 13 males and 8 females, between the ages from 21 to 57; no clue leading towards the identity of the killer, Jaehyun sighed loudly, leaning his head back against his swivel chair, spinning around a couple of times. Stopping when a knock on the door was heard; you stuck your head in, sending a soft smile towards your boyfriend. You made your way around the desk to wrap your arms around Jaehyun neck. Jaehyun buried his face on your chest, inhaling your sweet scent arms tightly around your waist, bringing you closer to him. You run your fingers through his hair, receiving a delighted groan from the man beneath you. “Take a break, baby” you place a soft kiss on top of his head “You’ve been wracking your brain on this case long enough that you forgot to eat” you left a small chuckled when your received another groan from Jaehyun “This case is driving me crazy” “That’s why you need a break, come on Mr. Big Size, dinner’s ready”

Jaehyun and Doyoung walk through the yellow tape before entering the house; they went upstairs towards the master bedroom. Broken perfume bottles spreading it sweet fragrance but it wasn’t enough to cover the metallic scent, objects scattered across the room, scratches on the floor board from the bedroom door to the bathroom. The two men made their way towards the bathroom, red splashes on the pristine wall, blood pooling in the bathtub where the body was found; Their 22nd victim. Taeyong stood tall in front of the meeting room, making eye contact with each of his subordinates. His eyes lands on Yuta, understanding his boss silent gesture, he stood up from his seat and cleared his throat “Mrs. Bong Young-Hee worked under KRW Enterprise for 5 years as a regular office worker, she was then promoted and work as secretary for the vice chairman for a year. Mrs. Bong and Mr. Bong Yong-Chul got married 2 years ago. We also learned that she was a track star throughout her university years” Yuta clarified with confidence lacing in his voice before sitting back down “The body was found with abrasions on her arms and abdomen area and I found fragments from the floor board under her nails, our killer dragged the victim by their leg which explains the scratches on the floor board and how the victim received her abrasions” Jungwoo explained “The victim then was dragged toward the bathroom and our killer proceed to stab the victim 22 times; 13 stab wounds across the chest and another 9 stab wounds on the victim’s heart and left her body in the bathtub, leaving the scene without a trace”

“22 four stab wounds, 13 across the chest and 9 on the heart” Taeyong scoffed “Seems like our killer is keeping track of their victims” “Mr. Bong was already at work during the attack but he forgot his employee’s ID card and went back home to retrieve it. That’s when he found his wife dead in the bathtub” Kun said “Mr. Bong said he wanted to file a divorce because his wife has been distant towards him, always coming late for work, and she does not wish to carry his child” “Do we know the reasons why?” Taeyong asked “Mrs. Bong committed infidelity with the vice chairman”

A loud sigh left Taeyong’s lips, he leaned his body forward on the table; head hung low “What about the black CR-Z, Johnny?” “There’s a lot of black CR-Z in Seoul, trying to find a specific one without a license plate will take longer than usual to find” Johnny said while stretching his long limbs “Mr. Choi was allegedly seen getting inside a CR-Z by one of the neighbor, but the neighbor could be mistaken the car for a different model”

Jaehyun was sitting across from you; the two of you were having lunch together at an Italian restaurant. Jaehyun had already finished his plate, waiting for you to finish yours as you are a slow eater. You took a last bite of your food asking the waitress for the bill; your attention went back to your boyfriend, sending worried looks as you watched him stir his now empty glass, with the plastic straw “Jaehyun baby, you okay?” Your hand reaching out for Jaehyun’s, rubbing small circles on the back of his hand; Jaehyun sends you a tired smile and nodded his head “Just a little stressed with the case as usual. We found our 22nd victim this morning” Jaehyun explained, looking down at your interlocked hands, failing to catch the unbothered look on your face “is that so?” you replied nonchalantly “what happened this time?” “The killer broke into the house while the victim was getting ready for work, the room was a mess, it was clear the victim put up a fight but got dragged by the feet and stabbed to death in the bathroom” a another sigh left his lips before continuing “I found it strange though” you cocked your eyebrows at him “why didn’t the victim just bolted out of the room? There was broken perfume bottles scattered all over the room, other items were also thrown, there’s a chance at least one of them hit the killer, buying a little time for her to escape and the victim was a track star so she had a higher chance of survival”

“The victims lived in that old neighborhood right? The house there are old designs and it’s common to have doors that can be lock from the outside, especially the master bedroom’s door. The killer probably locked the victim in her bedroom before climbing through the bedroom window” you said as you took a sip of your drink. Jaehyun just stared at you, startled by your words “How do you know the door can be locked from the outside?” Jaehyun watch your expression carefully, he noticed your eyes went wide for a split second; you stopped sipping your drink and slowly place the cup back down “I used to have a friend who lived in the same neighborhood and she stayed in a similar house” you explained softly, before he could ask you another question, hoping to get more details, he was interrupted by a waitress, placing the bill between the two of you. Jaehyun took his wallet out from his pocket to pay but you stopped him by placing your hand on top of his. Your hands were smaller compare to his, however it felt cold. You took the bill in your hand and handed the waitress the right amount of money whilst sending a warm smile at her. Jaehyun couldn’t help but notice a small cut just beneath your hairline.

After dropping you off at your café, he couldn’t help but recalled your words and your expression, it was very unlike you. You always had a smiling face and a cheerful voice but during lunch he had with you, your voice was monotone, the sparkle in your eyes were gone and your face hold no emotion. You were like a different person; he didn’t know you were capable to make such an expression. He drove back to the crime scene to investigate. He shortly arrived at the house, cops still surrounding the area; he showed his badge before stepping inside the house. He stopped just a couple of feet away from the closed door that leads to the master bedroom, his eyes rested upon the golden key in the key hole.

A week later after the lunch with (y/n), he couldn’t shake off the feeling he had. He felt uneasy, shocked at how you seem to know the details of the door being locked from the outside beforehand, and the cut beneath your hairline that day looked fresh. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprise of you knowing about the door. Turns out majority of houses in the neighborhood had at least one door that can lock from the outside. You mentioned having a friend that lived in the same neighborhood so you were probably just stating a fact.

Jaehyun entered the meeting room, surprised to see Doyoung alone, sitting on one of the swivel chairs, spinning mindlessly “You’re early” Jaehyun rested his hand on Doyoung’s chair, stopping him from spinning “And you’re early yourself” Doyong replied before proceeding to spin in his chair again. Jaehyun sat down next to him, letting out a sigh, folding his arms on the table before he lay his head on top of it “What’s wrong with you, trouble in paradise?” He lightly nudge Jaehyun with his foot, earning a groan from the man next to him “I wouldn’t say it’s a ‘trouble’” Jaehyun voice muffled “Come on, spit it out, I could give you some love advice if you want” “Why would I want love advice from a person who bought a mini fridge and place it in their room because they were too lazy to go to the kitchen” “It’s not being lazy, it’s saving energy” Doyoung grumbled, kicking Jaehyun’s chair to push him away but ended up pushing himself away while Jaehyun stay rooted to his spot, earning a laugh from his partner “Well, what’s going on in that head of yours. I haven’t seen you like this since you got rejected by a girl back in high school” Jaehyun shook his head upon remembering the old memory “It’s (y/n)” he said after some time “Oh no, really?” Doyoung faked his surprised, placing a hand over his mouth, only to get hit on the arm “Shut up, anyway, I had lunch with her last week, I explained to her about Mrs. Bong’s case and I found it weird, that after buying some time to distract the killer by throwing objects at them, why didn’t she attempt to escape the room and (y/n) point out that the door could be lock from the outside prior to the attack. It’s like she knew it from the first place” Jaehyun finished explaining

“How did she know the door could be locked outside?” “She said she had a friend who used to live in the same neighborhood” Doyoung hummed while nodding his head “Maybe she was just stating a fact” Doyoung shrugged his shoulder “After connecting the door being lock beforehand and Mrs. Bong failed attempt to escaped, it made sense. If the door wasn’t lock, Mrs. Bong would’ve have escape and we would have a visual on how the killer looked like, their gender, and their height. It seems like (y/n) was able to piece those two together quickly” After letting Doyoung’s words sink in, it does made more sense now and it is true that Mrs. Bong could escape if the door wasn’t locked and when you look back through Mrs. Bong’s history as a track star, she could easily outrun the killer. Maybe he was thinking too much, he shouldn’t jump to conclusion so quickly.

“Well aren’t you two early for the meeting” a voice announced, the two men stopped and looked at the door, seeing their boss, Taeyong by the door, they quickly stood up to greet him. Taeyong raised his hand, returning their greeting and made his way in front of the room “Is there a new victim, sir?” Doyoung asked after taking his seat “Fortunately we don’t have a new victim and I wished it stayed like that because I want this to end as quickly as possible. Apparently, Johnny asked me to gather you all for a meeting, for what reason, we will soon find out” Taeyong said, hands stuffed in his pocket while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet

“Why, good morning gentleman” Yuta greeted, he sauntered around the table before taking his seat across from Jaehyun “You guys are early today” He addressed towards the two men in front of him. “Knock knock, Johnny’s here” Johnny’s tall figure walked inside the room with his laptop in his arms, followed by Jungwoo “Knock knock” He softly repeated Johnny’s words. After the two men took their seat, they both eyed Jaehyun and Doyoung “Quite rare seeing you guys arriving early for a meeting” Johnny spoke “Do we always arrived late for meetings?” Seeing everyone in the room nod their head silently, Doyoung slumped back in his seat, letting out an annoyed puff “Let’s just start the meeting so I could leave early as well” flailing his hand in the air

Johnny connects his laptop to the projector then proceeds to stand in front of the room to start the meeting “I was right about Mr. Choi’s neighbor recalling the wrong car model” Johnny grinned “It was a black 2001 Civic Hybrid, this footage here was taken by a traffic light camera at 6:15 a.m” Johnny pressed the play button, the video shows the said black car slowly stopping at the intersection, a clear view of the vehicle, Johnny then paused the video “Now, if you zoomed in and made some few adjustment with the footage for a clearer view, you can see Mr. Choi, in the car with a women” Johnny tapped away on his laptop and the screen showed a picture of Mr. Choi with an unidentified women sitting in the driver’s seat “It could be two friends sitting in a car together until you looked at the next frame” The next frame showed the two people leaning forward, lips melding together “It seems Mr. Choi had a lady friend. We also have a witness; the car was spotted once at a park 6 kilometers from Mr. Choi’s apartment around 7:30 a.m, the car was seen rocking back and forth” Johnny wiggled his eyebrows

“Do we know the identity of this woman?” Taeyong asked “25 years old, Lee Eun Bi is a fellow co-worker of Mr. Choi” Yuta answered “She is soon to be brought for interrogation later with Kun” “We also found out the whereabouts of Ms. Chung” Johnny continued “There was footages of her in a hotel with an unknown man. Taeil will bring the results- speak of the devil” Johnny stopped when Taeil entered the room “I apologize for my tardiness but I have the results” waving the paper in the air before handing it to Taeyong “Ms. Chung booked 5 rooms from different hotels with the same man named Jong Youngjae and I can confirm that both of them had perform sexual intercourse. I also found Mr. Choi’s sperm inside of Ms. Lee’s car”

Taeyong sat in his chair quietly, looking through the papers before looking up “Does this lead us anywhere closer to our killer’s identity?” “Honestly sir, not really, we just discovered a dead couple’s disloyalty to each other”

“They did what?” you cried. You were sitting on the couch next to Jaehyun with your legs rested on his lap meanwhile his hand rubbed circle on your bare thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze “Apparently Jihyo booked 5 different rooms and fucked a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend while Yoonwoo fucked his mistress in her car” Jaehyun repeated his words, you had a dejected looked on you face, his hand reached over to brush his finger in your hair to help you calm down “but I remember them being so happy together so why would they do that to each other?” “Sometimes acting like the happiest couple is their way to cover up their toxic relationship” “Now that I think about it, Jihyo did put more effort on her makeup that day” you sighed “Guess, Jiyho, Yoonwoo and Kang Hyun-Jun are the victims that committed infidelity” Jaehyun cocked his eyebrows at you “Actually it was Jihyo, Yoonwoo and Bong Young-Hee that were caught” Jaehyun corrected, emphasizing the word ‘and’, your eyes widen and you let out a nervous laugh “Right, Mrs. Bong, there are just so many victims that I forgot sometimes” You smiled sheepishly

“By the way, last week when we had lunch together, I can’t help but noticed a cut underneath your hairline” Jaehyun asked “How did you get that?” “Oh this” You brush away your hair from your face to reveal an already healed cut “I dropped a mug before you picked me up, guess some shard flew up to my forehead” Jaehyun studied your face for a while, looking for any signs of nervousness or panic, after finding none he softly rubbed over the scar with his thumbs “Be careful next time, alright?” He then focused on the screen in front of him, not noticing you fiddling with your fingers

“Guess Jihyo, Yoonwoo and Kang Hyun-Jun are the victims that committed infidelity” your words keeps replaying in his head, how can you get mixed up between a recent victim and the 15th victim? He doesn’t seem to recall about telling you about Mr. Kang, let alone his full name. ‘Could it be?’ He made his way to Kun’s office, knocking the door before entering

“Oh Jaehyun, nice timing actually” Kun smiled warmly which Jaehyun returned with a small one “Could you hand this to Taeyong, it has all the information about the last interrogation with Ms. Lee and Mr. Jong” after the papers were taken away from his hands, Kun sat back down behind his desk “So, what do you need?” Jaehyun sat down on the chairs that were placed in front of Kun’s desk “Can I have the contact information of Mr. Kang Hyun-Jun’s family?” Kun cocked his head to the side “Sure I can do that but why do you need it for?” he asked while he rummaged through the files “I just need to confirm something” “Is it important?” “I still have no clues but if my assumptions are right, maybe we are able to find out about our killer” Jaehyun explained, Kun let out a soft cheer after finding the contact list and hand it to Jaehyun “Here, have the entire contact list of our victims, whatever you are looking for, I want to help as much as I can” “Are you sure?” he asked worriedly “What if I lose it?” his shoulder slightly shakes as Kun let out a soft laugh “No worries, I have another copy of it” He patted his shoulder, Jaehyun stood up, thanking the older man and walked out of the office

“Thank you for taking your time to come here” Jaehyun shook hands with Mrs. Kang “Please, I will do everything in my power to help you find my husband’s killer, as well for the other victims” Mrs. Kang smiled softly. “Do you have any leads so far?” “Unfortunately, we haven’t gotten anywhere but I hope today you can help me with something” earning a nod from the women, Jaehyun took out files from his breifcase “These files contains information about our previous victims, possibly the same killer. We discovered that these 3 victims has one thing in common, which was disloyalty towards their partners” Jaehyun explained slowly “Mrs. Kang, if you don’t mind me asking, but has your husband been acting strangely before his murder?” Mrs. Kang expression fell, she looked down at her clasped hands on her lap “I was aware that love him too much and I know if I confront him about it, it’ll destroy our family” The women cried, gently wiping her tears “I thought I’d be fine if I just go on with it and act dumb as long my daughter is happy” Jaehyun sat quietly, giving time for Mrs. Kang to calm down “Do you possible know the women that your husband cheated with?” “I believe it’s one of his colleagues but it hurts me too much to know who it is, so I never know”

After a short banter on who should pay for the drinks; Mrs. Kang ended up paying despite Jaehyun’s refusal; he was back in his office, sitting in silence. After meeting with Mrs. Kang, his suspicions for his girlfriend only grew. ‘She knows something’ he took out his phone, searching for your name in his contact list. It rung once, twice, it’s not until the fourth ring is when you answered the call “Hey, baby” You greeted warmly through the phone, your voice is music to his ears, but this time it felt deafening “Sorry, the café is a little pack today but do you need anything?” “Yeah, could we meet up tonight; I need to speak with you” Jaehyun spoke lowly “Oof, tonight’s is not the night; I’m hanging out with my friends at this restaurant near street 135, how about tomorrow?” Jaehyun agreed, biding you goodbye before slouching back into his chair

The clock reads 01:27a.m, Jaehyun is back home, tossing his keys on the table. He sat on the living room couch, head in his hands, file records displayed across the small coffee table. ‘Jihyo, Yoonwoo, Bong Yong-Hee and Mr. Kang’ Jaehyun thought, you were right about Mr. Kang, how were you right? You said it yourself, there were too many victims, of course you get mixed up but it felt too strange that you specifically said Mr. Kang’s name. His eyes fell upon the contact list of the victim’s family, ‘what if-‘ The phone rang, interrupting Jaehyun’s train of thoughts, he looked at the caller ID, Doyoung was calling him

“What is it this time?” Jaehyun answered quickly “Bad news, we found our 23rd victim” Doyoung’s rough voice could be heard through the phone, he sounded distraught “What happened this time and where are you?” Standing up from the couch, he quickly put on his shoes and his keys before rushing towards his car “It’s messy, our killer is feeling bold tonight, we’re waiting for you at street 135”

[bowsersprincealbert]

Master of Disguise - Don’t Speak

    “Kiss me you fool,” I’d gasped, falling against him like he was the only thing able to keep me upright. That devilish grin flashed across Julian’s lips as he responded.     “If you insist,” he’d said it like I was doing him a favour, but his hands felt as desperate as I was.      The cool leather sent shivers down my back as his hands caressed my neck, distracting me from the other hand sliding down my back and resting above my ass. A gasp escapes my mouth as I feel myself falling backwards, my arms wrapping around Julian in an instant. His grip on me tightens and I can feel his smirk against my lips. He tensed just in time to keep us both from collapsing over the desk and I feel myself relaxing into him. I kiss him harder, nibbling at his lip gently. In response Julian’s heartbeat quickens and I hear a soft sigh leaving his mouth. He rests me against the desk, but his body refuses to calm itself, so I start running my hands along him. I gently rub his back and sides, sliding one hand near his shoulders and moving it up to his neck. He pulls away, looking down at me as though he was about to discuss the meaning of life and our purpose in the universe.

“Don’t speak,” I whisper as my hands gently rest on his cheeks.     He nods, and I press our lips together once more, slowly pushing him against the edge of the desk. I can feel him swelling against me, a sudden sigh following the movement closely. Julian manages to pull away, but barely enough to qualify as pulling away. He speaks, despite my instructions and I can feel the movement of his lips. “Oh, if we had the time,” he looks me up and down, biting his lip hard, “The things I would do…”     “Did I say speak,” I say firmly, looking into his eyes as seriously as I’m able in this moment.     He bites his lip and shakes his head gently. “No,” he says with a moan, his grip tightening just slightly on me.     I’m determined to enjoy the time we do have together, so I set my jaw and pull him in for another kiss. My thumbs gently stroke his cheeks as we kiss, and I can’t help but push him towards the desk more firmly. He sighs and one hand slides into his hair, my other resting on the back of his neck. The soft sounds he makes drives me up the wall, they’re impossible to resist. For the first time since I asked him to kiss me, I feel panic. Could we be caught? How high are the chances of that happening? This is the palace where he allegedly murdered the count three years ago and I am the one investigating his disappearance, even if our chances of being caught are low it could be disastrous if we were caught. I’m about to stop everything when I feel Julian lean back, his back resting against the desk as I’m forced to climb between his legs if I want to continue touching him. The books fall to the floor and the fear of being caught frightens me again. Could a few falling books be what dooms us?     Julian speaks softly against my lips, “Don’t mind those.” I nod quickly, deciding he would know best considering the time he had spent here.     He pulls me against his lips again and I move further up his body, feeling his long legs resting on either side of my legs. I press against his growing member, feeling a moan escape his lips. The sound is more exquisite then the finest music and I want to hear more. I continue pressing my body against him, moving firmly and slowly against him. Julian’s moaning continues, echoing softly throughout the library. Were it not for my lips I’m sure he would’ve alerted the entire castle to what we were doing. He arches his back, fingertips digging into my neck. His lips are pulled away from me, so I move my kisses to his neck, all the while grinding against him. He seems quieter now and I almost feel disappointed, but as soon as I place a gentle bite on his collar bone his beautiful moans pick up again. I leave gentle love marks everywhere I can reach, peppering his neck, shoulders and upper chest with faint pink marks, some of which will likely turn to purple or red later. I worry about how he may react when he sees the sheer number and I make a mental note to apologize and make up for them when we get out of here.     Suddenly his moans pick up, sounding high pitched and desperate. He’s on the verge of finishing and I’d hate to leave him with a mess in the palace of his supposed crime, so I reach into my pocket and pull out a handkerchief I keep for emergencies. Though this wasn’t what I would have had in mind for its use, it is getting a use either way. I slide my hand with the handkerchief down his trousers just in time, feeling the spray being mostly caught by the thick cloth. His face is contorted and he’s biting his lip hard, clearly encompassed by the feeling. He can barely move for a few moments, but soon relaxes, looking up at me with a tired smile. I pull out the handkerchief, tossing it into a waste bin beside his desk.     “Oh, dear god,” he sighs, slowly sitting up and wrapping his arms around me. “You are absolutely incredible.”     “You are so very gorgeous Julian. God just the sounds you made,” I groan, pulling him in for another kiss.     “Your turn,” he chuckles against my lips, somehow managing to turn us around so he is on top of me. Though I’m not sure how he managed to move so fast and efficiently, all I’m truly focused on is his lips and the heat in the room.     His hands slide down my body slowly as I run mine through his hair, my pulse quickening the closer he gets to the waist of my trousers. I feel his gloved fingers just start to touch my bare skin when we both hear noises coming from the door. “AH! Milady! Finished up so soon?! That’s a surprise!” Portia’s panicked voice reaches me immediately, but it seems Julian takes a few more moments to recognize the sudden danger we’re in. Nadia’s voice comes through the door, not close enough to be sure of what she said but close enough for Julian to jump up, adjust his clothing and yank me into the shadows as I adjust mine.

[stephenjaymorrisblog]

Trump

(The Invincible)

By Stephen Jay Morris

February 18, 2022

©Scientific Morality

Intro: Some of the wealthy who despise the Middle Class and the poor use ways to anger the lower classes. The Aristocracy of old Europe had five acres of lawn comprising their front yard, as if to say, “It’s my property I’ll do what I want with it!” Then, there are wealthy philanthropists who maintain that they are helping the poor through various charities. However, they are not as stupid as the reactionary rich pigs. The rich Liberals know that if they do not treat the lesser classes nicely, then the poor will rise up and establish a communist government, in which case, they’d lose everything they own.

As for the Right- wing rich pig? Well, he will stand upon an antique table at his exclusive country club and shout to his capitalist compatriots, “FUCK THE POOR! They are poor because they want to be!” The rich Liberals have more finesse than the Conservative rich. They do not flaunt their wealth, nor do they boast their wealth. Whenever they shop their exclusive stores, they wear blue jeans. The conservative movement wants you to think that these Liberals are the problem in the USA. They make fun of them via their media.

But, no, they are not a class problem. They are the sole villains in this story. The real elites are WASP oil company magnates. They panicked when the pandemic hit two years ago. Stay home for safety? Who is going to buy our beautiful fossil fuel? Excuse me, I mean, “energy.” So, they financed the Anti-Vaxxer movement and, presto! We got us a fake Libertarian issue: Individual Liberty!

You see, the pandemic quarantine is like a general strike. In a general strike, everything shuts down! When France had a general strike in 1968, there were no lights for the darkness and no water for your toilet. Such a situation terrifies the Ruling Class: ‘No workers! No money for me!’ I’ve already explained this in previous articles.

The main point: Trump quote from 2016: "I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn't lose any voters, OK?" referring to a major street in New York City that cuts through Manhattan's large commercial district. "It's, like, incredible." This quote is the most honest statement he ever made. Trump is not really a billionaire, but he used to play one on TV. So, by default, he is a member of the Ruling Class. Is he a Maverick of the Ruling Class? Let’s think about this for a minute. Why would he give other billionaires a giant tax break? Because he wants their respect, and he is a love-starved, mental case. All you’ve got to do to win respect from Trump is to say, “Nice shoes, Mr. President!” He would then ask you, “How would you like to be Secretary of the Interior?”

Back to my question: Hell, no! Trump is no Maverick! There are no strings attached to such an entity. Trump, on the other hand, is a puppet with many strings. Liberal and reactionary rich people think he is an economic court jester and that he is cute. They are the puppet masters.

In 2016, Trump went to Palm Springs, California to kiss the Koch brothers’ ring. Some agreement was reached and the Kochs allegedly financed his campaign. He then promised every CEO a piece of the action. However, like the senile mental patient he is, he never delivered. Trump might be an insider among the American Ruling class, so they are very protective of his general welfare.

The question of the hour is: If Trump is guilty of all the crimes cited to date, why isn’t he in jail? Can you answer that question? This is not a conspiracy piece. However, I am entitled to my theories. One being: The Ruling Class potentates, who are white as snow, are not going to let a mentally ill scoundrel tell the American people where the bodies are buried. Let’s say some child sex trafficker has a black book of names of the wealthy men who use their services, so these men hire a hit man to kill the sex trafficker and make it look like a suicide. My second postulate is not as exciting but well-founded: Most rich people can get away with crime, even murder. If you pay millions of dollars for lawyers with the best legal minds, you can get away with anything. However, if you are poor and appointed a lawyer who’s fresh out of law school, or completely disenchanted with his job, you will most likely get the death penalty for the crime of unpaid traffic tickets.

I am so cynical of the justice system that I highly doubt Trump will be given a jail sentence. If he is, then he will turn state’s evidence against his rich buddies. Of course, the 1% has their lawyers, too.

Perhaps, Vladimir Putin is worried about Trump? Maybe Putin is threatening the USA if it does something to Trump? Nah! I’m running out of ideas. If there was any chance that Trump was going to be arrested, then he’d be out of this country so fast, his image would be a blur!

So, if you want to commit a capital crime (i.e.: kill somebody) and get away with it, become a billionaire. Nothing will happen to you.

[atraceofhonesty]

All the ones you haven’t answered yet😌

I despise you for this.1- The meaning behind my url: it’s a petty callout to my ex, no further questions your honour.7-Biggest turn offs: Poor hygiene, obnoxiously long or unkempt nails(I mean you do you, it’s just not my thing, if it’s what you want, I’m not bashing), smoking(sorry, I lived with a girl whose mom chain smoked and I lived with her for 2 years and...it hurt me).  I’ll stop there I’m feeling bad for disrespecting peoples life choices lol.8- top 5 (insert subject) - Weeeeellllll moving on9- tattoos I want- uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh so many we’re not doing this on this “master” post 11- Age: I am 23, and will be 24 in October12- Ideas of a perfect date: I’ve never been on a “date” so I really don’t have any preferences because I don’t know what I don’t know.13- Life Goals: A spouse and child who love me, a job I actually want to do, a living space I want to be in and feel comfortable in.14- Piercings I want: I want my ears pierced, I want my septum done, and I think like, my cheeks would be neat.15- Relationship Status: single af17- A fact about my life: I have poor impulse control, and commonly disassociate standing up at work18-Phobia: Spiders, easily, and I guess I have a new one, because I had a dream last night where I was tied down and had bees put into my mouth.20-Height: 5′11″21-Are you a virgin: Nope22- What’s your shoe size?: 10 sometimes 11 depending on brand23- What’s your sexual orientation?: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)24-Do you smoke, drink, or take any drugs?: caffeine.  That’s it.25-Someone you miss: my grandma, and grandfather26-What’s one thing you regret?: December 13th 201727-First celeb you think of when someone says attractive: Jason Momoa28-Favourite Ice Cream: Orange sorbet 29- One insecurity: only one? my legs30-what my last text message says: “I MAY have already ordered food lolol oops”31-Have you ever taken a picture naked? yes32- Have you ever painted your room? no33- Have you ever kissed a member of the same sex? yesHave you ever slept naked? yesHave you ever danced in front of your mirror? yesHave you ever had a crush? not on your life. yes.Have you ever been dumped? yesHave you ever stole money from a friend? not unless you include like, less than a dollars worth of change from their couch cushions lolHave you ever gotten in a car with people you just met? yesHave you ever been in a fist fight? yesHave you ever snuck out of your house? basically impossible lol all of my doors were like suction cups and were so loud to open.Have you ever had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back? yesHave you ever been arrested? nopeHave you ever made out with a stranger? yesHave you ever met up with a member of the opposite sex somewhere? “met up” looooool noHave you ever left your house without telling your parents? oh hell yea lolHave you ever had a crush on your neighbor? yesssssHave you ever ditched school to do something more fun? yesHave you ever slept in a bed with a member of the same sex? yes but not in the way you’re implying.Have you ever seen someone die? I saw my cat die does that countHave you ever been on a plane? yes, once.  Twice if you count the return flight.Have you ever kissed a picture? ironically, yes.Have you ever slept in until 3? LOOOOL yeaHave you ever love someone or miss someone right now? that’s a wonky sentence, but yeaHave you ever made a snow angel? I live in Canada, it’s basically a requirementHave you ever played dress up? not sure what this is implying Have you ever cheated while playing a game? oh absolutely.  I’d be maximum sneaky and then gradually get more and more bold with it until i’m caught, or I win.Have you ever been lonely? That’s like asking if someone blinked todayHave you ever fallen asleep at work/school? The first 2 periods of the first semester of my first year of highschool I spent unconscious and just zombied to the next class LOLHave you ever been to a club? noHave you ever felt an earthquake? yes but it was a baby oneHave you ever touched a snake? I don’t believe soHave you ever ran a red light? noHave you ever been suspended from school? yesHave you ever had detention? yesHave you ever been in a car accident? noHave you ever hated the way you look? HAVE IHave you ever witnessed a crime? bish i’ve committed crimes.  Allegedly.Have you ever pole danced? noHave you ever been lost? yesHave you ever been to the opposite side of the country? nope sadlyHave you ever felt like dying? yesHave you ever cried yourself to sleep? yesHave you ever sang karaoke? oh hell no, this human is ruined, look at it, it’s got anxietyHave you ever laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? Came out?  no, but like, it went in my nose lolHave you ever slept with someone at least 5 years older or younger? noHave you ever kissed in the rain? yes we actually did it because it was cliche and we wanted to say that we did it lolHave you ever sang in the shower? no I’m always too worried someone will hear me Have you ever made out in a park? I almost fked in a park >.>Have you ever glued your hand to something? Not since like.  2006Have you ever got your tongue stuck to a flag pole? no I was never silly enough to tryHave you ever ever gone to school partially naked? what does this even MEAN, no probably notHave you ever been a cheerleader? nah my schools never had themHave you ever sat on a roof top? yes, quite recently in factHave you ever brush your teeth? twice a day friendoHave you ever ever too scared to watch scary movies alone?  you really like the word have, don’t you?  And yes, it comes with the territory of having a paranoia disorderHave you ever played chicken? not in the physical world, no lolHave you ever been told you’re hot by a complete stranger? yesHave you ever broken a bone? a fewHave you ever been easily amused? yesHave you ever mooned/flashed someone? yeeeeeep lolHave you ever cheated on a test? I went to a public high school, hell yea I did.Have you ever forgotten someone’s name? I’ve worked with someone for 3 days now, and I still don’t remember their name.  Not only that but like, half of the people I even liked in high school I.  It’s all just a big blur :) WELL I DID THAT, ARE YA HAPPY?least it can’t get any worse