#and theoretically should have my pick of the litter

[476b]

.

[rireraa]

just a little bit of my midorima fanfiction

There was a stuffy air in the room, even though the doors were open. Midorima Shintarō stood in the middle of the field, a ball basket next to him, and tried to throw his famous three-points.

However, none of the balls even hit the basket and bounced onto the floor. His problem would cause us to join forces. At least if I managed to persuade him.

After all the balls were scattered on the floor, he set about picking them up again. He had probably done this process several times today.

While he collected all the balls from the front, I took care of the few that had rolled further back. That would be my moment, I would surprisingly stand behind him, chatter about something and then the matter would fall into place.

He startles when I lay three balls in the ballbasket at once, so he could see me out of the corner of his eye. At first he looked at me with wide eyes, then disapprovingly, then surprised again.

"What are you doing here?"Okay, don't say anything wrong. "Please listen to me. This may sound strange, but I know about your problem and I want to help you. On the contrary, you'll help me with mine.

His face no longer showed any emotion. “I don’t need any help, with training I will get back to my old self.” He threw the remaining balls into the thing, ignoring the last, sad ball in the back corner.

I took a few steps back so that I was standing about in the middle of the field. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. Has it achieved anything so far? You can’t even hit the basket anymore."

My obvious words stung him a little, but he tried to look annoyed. “You should go. I won't help you with your problem, nor continue to tolerate you here. This is a private school, you have no business here."

Just as I expected. Luckily, I had just come up with a new plan. Midorima would now turn around to continue training. At that time I would go to the ball in the corner and throw it there to the basket. Well, whether I scored was another matter, but I had watched enough videos to know what sequences I had to go through to score.

As I thought, Midorima ignored me and turned back to the invincible basket. He thought I was leaving, but here I was, at the other end of the field, about to throw. I just had to hope that this time my skills didn't fail.

Midorima was about to jump, but froze when a ball appeared above him and landed straight into the basket. Lucky. He slowly turned to me and looked all the more surprised when he saw how far back I was standing.

I had to admit, if Midorima could pull off these throws multiple times in a game, it was pretty incredible. I was already exhausted just from this throw, and I hadn't even managed the big arc that he always uses to buy time.

"How did you do that?" He came toward me in a sort of menacing way, but that was only because of his size. Sure, his aura was also shuddering, but I could sense that only his desperation was speaking from him.

I almost tried to push up my glasses myself, like he always did, but I wasn't wearing them anymore and I had actually gotten used to that. “You want to know, then get involved with me. You can help me just as I can help you. What do you have to lose? Or do you want to spend more hours watching your litters become more and more miserable?”

A switch seemed to flip inside him. But something still held him. “First tell me what you helped with.” Distrust and reason. Actually qualities I liked, but right now I was really bothered by him, but it was probably better if he knew what he was getting into.

“I have to take my final practical exam in two months. The theoretical is unimportant. But my professor won’t let me pass if I don’t fulfill his condition.”

“And this would be?”

If I didn't tell him about it now, he wouldn't agree to my deal. I sighed. “He thinks I have to learn to play with my heart, even if I can’t understand it.”

He remained silent. Just when I thought he was declining: “Alright. But we still have to set conditions if we want to work together.”

The tension in my body disappeared. “We can meet tomorrow after your classes, I’m free.”

His gaze turned to the clock on the wall. Half past seven. “How about now?”

dedicated to @shintaru

[mutopians]

Happy Whumptober! To start things off, here's the fic I wrote for Day 1's prompt of "this wasn't supposed to happen". I can very much agree, since i didn't expect a brotp between Skye prime and Katie to be my very first fic.

Dylan, it seems, is safe.

(For now. ;))

The fic is down below, but you can also find it here over on AO3!

arachnophobia is an intense fear of spiders

Something goes wrong after a Weapon UwU mission.

“Does anyone know where Ye Shou’s skin is?” Gladdy asked, tired. The entirety of Weapon UwU was all technically tired, as the group had just spent the day bouncing between three missions of varying importance, but Gladdy’s voice sounded especially tired. 

Ye Shou, who was currently just spiders, rearranged into an I-D-K in quick succession.

“It’s not my fucking job to keep track of her skin,” Katie growled. Now that the missions were over, Skye’s clones had returned back to whatever part of her they went into when she didn’t have them out—leaving only Skye to react to Katie’s response. Skye shuddered and nervously looked at the others. She had known Katie for more than a year at this point, but their personalities were so different. Katie was more like the other Skyes than Skye was. 

“I thought Lou had it,” Maddy said.

Lou frowned. “I thought you had it.”

Maddy turned to Gladdy, an expectant look on her face.

“I don’t know where it is,” Gladdy said, an affectionate yet frustrated sigh leaving her lips. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“I-I don’t know where it is, either,” Skye whispered. Her gaze dropped down to her feet. If she studied the grass, twigs, and leaves littering the forest floor, she could maybe forget about how she was so scared that she was feeling nauseous.

“We should check with the clones,” Lou suggested to Gladdy. “Maybe they know where it is.”

Skye bit her lip, then gave a little nod. A second later, the other Skyes folded back out of existence. Skye was barely paying attention. She felt lightheaded, and dizzy, and like she was about five seconds from passing out. It wasn’t the first time she had felt this way, but it usually wasn’t this bad. Because, usually, she didn’t have to spend long periods of time with Ye Shou looking like-

Skye took a deep breath. Ray said that was supposed to help her with her anxiety spirals, as well as a whole host of other grounding activities, but all Skye could imagine was the theoretical sensations of tiny little legs creeping all across her skin.

“Prime,” Gladdy said. 

Skye blinked. She looked up, still fiddling with her fingers, and bit her lip again.

“You can put your clones back now,” Gladdy said. 

Skye was pretty sure she was freaking out too much for her clones to go back, but they miraculously all did. Now they were just waiting here for Alex to bring them all back home, and oh God was Ye Shou still going to be all spiders then-

“When’s Keepaway coming?” she asked, voice quiet. Normally they would have just messaged, but the service out here was horrible. They had to decide on a pickup time instead. 

“In another hour,” Gladdy replied. Skye squeaked. Katie let out a sudden low growl, which caused Skye to squeak again. Could Gladdy see how scared Skye was of this whole situation? Both of all of the spiders, and of Katie? 

Gladdy sighed.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Gladdy said. Her gaze lingered on Skye. Skye was sure she had been caught. Gladdy could see what anyone’s worst fears were, and Skye ranked arachnophobia very high on the list of things that absolutely terrified her. Then Gladdy looked away, and Skye returned to staring very intently at the ground. Maybe a fear of spiders didn’t register high enough to be picked up.

“We probably left Ye Shou’s skin at another one of the mission sites,” Lou offered.

Maddy thought for a moment, then added, “We could get Keepaway to teleport us back to check the sites when they arrive.”

Gladdy nodded in agreement. 

“In the meantime,” Gladdy said, “we’ll wait here.” 

Skye, feeling a little bit brave for once, had a very stupidly brave idea. She raised her head ever so slightly. 

“...Can I go for a walk in the woods?” she asked. “While we wait?”

Heads spun to look at her with bewilderment and shock, including all of the little spider heads that were normally nice and hidden away in Ye Shou’s skin. 

“I thought one of the clones said that,” Maddy commented, incredulous.

“Are you okay?” Lou asked.

Skye gave a very quick but small nod. She wasn’t going to bring up being absolutely terrified of spiders. That would be too rude to Ye Shou, who was nothing but nice to her most of the time. The others all exchanged a look.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” Gladdy said. “We only just cleared this area out. You should bring out the clones-”

“I’ll go with her,” Katie volunteered.

Skye fought back another squeak. Instead, it just came out as a tiny little noise.

“B-L-E-S-S-U,” Skye watched the spiders spell out, because of course Skye had accidentally raised her head a little too high and had caught a glimpse of Ye Shou again. 

“You don’t have to volunteer,” Gladdy said. There was a twitch of a smile on her face for reasons that Skye couldn’t understand. She said nothing else.

“I want to fucking go for a walk.”

“Go for a walk, then,” Gladdy said, and Katie immediately stormed off into the woods with smoke curling out of her lips. Skye glanced at the others, then raced off into the woods after Katie. She’d take dealing with Katie over dealing with many, many spiders any day. 

They didn’t say much at first. The two of them just walked , Katie huffing and puffing and Skye meekly following in her footsteps. A few started squirrels and birds rushed away when they heard Katie marching through the undergrowth. Skye’s gaze dropped down to the crushed plants underneath her feet.

And then Skye felt the very edges of a rush of heat. 

Skye skid to a stop, eyes alert. Her body itched to let her clones out, but something made her pause. She hadn’t heard anyone else while they were walking. There couldn’t have been anyone attacking them, right? 

She looked up.

Katie was breathing smoke. The charred remains of what had once been a perfectly constructed spiderweb hung tattered between two equally charred branches. If there was a burnt spider corpse anywhere, Skye didn’t see it. Part of her was glad for that. Even though she was absolutely terrified of spiders, seeing a burnt, dead one would only make her think of something terrible happening to Ye Shou. 

“Are…are you-” Skye started to say, but it was the wrong comment to make. Katie spun around and stared at her with unnaturally orange, angry eyes. They were wide with anger, and her skin was pale-

No, wait, even Skye could register that angry people didn’t look so scared. 

“Don’t you dare tell anyone,” Katie hissed.

Skye gulped.

“...You’re also scared of spiders,” Skye whispered, “aren’t you?”

Katie froze up. The smoke leaving her lips disappeared, and Katie suddenly looked a whole lot less dangerous. She still could lash out at Skye, probably. Skye would have likely deserved it. But it was kind of comforting knowing that Katie of all people had the same exact fear she had, and that she had also been hiding it for so long. 

“Not even Gladdy knows,” Katie said. There was a bit of pride to her voice, but also a bit of danger.

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” Skye quickly reassured her. 

Katie studied her for a second, then turned back to the burnt webs.

“I never realized you were scared of them,” Katie finally said. “You’re normally so fucking vocal about what you’re terrified of.” 

Skye gave the tiniest of smiles that Katie couldn’t see. 

“...I guess that’s my secondary mutation,” Skye whispered, “being so scared all the time that no one notices when I’m more scared than usual.” 

When Katie looked at her then, Skye felt like she was seen in a way that none of the other Weapon UwU members had made her feel before. She was just the scared girl with the clones that would always be more courageous than she was. And while she was still very much the scared girl, this was different.

Katie let out a breath of smoke. “My secondary mutation’s being so fucking angry all the time that no one notices when I’m scared.”

“You’re not as angry now,” Skye noted, almost shyly. “You’re less angry than when I first met you.”

“You’re less terrified than when I first met you.”

Skye blinked. “R-Really?” 

Katie nodded. “You would have never hid that she was afraid of spiders for so long. You’re being fucking brave, not wanting to hurt Ye Shou’s feelings by admitting how scared you are.”

Skye’s heart swelled with pride. Someone had called her brave. When was the last time she had gotten that compliment? It was her clones that always were applauded for their bravery, even when they were reprimanded for their recklessness. 

“...Do you think Gladdy can tell we’re scared of spiders?” Skye asked, glancing back towards the clearing.

A sour expression passed on Katie’s face. “She was giving us both funny looks.”

So that sealed their fate, then. Gladdy knew. 

“...I hope she doesn’t tell,” Skye whispered.

“She better fucking not,” Katie said, fire in her voice. She looked ahead of them. “Want to keep walking?” 

Skye nodded. She fell into step beside Katie, a heat as warm as Katie’s flames settling right into her chest. 

[snowmuttgetsweird]

8/9/24, morning

Roommate comes home today I'm so relieeeeeved

It's boring and lonely without him. Just feels like a massive bleak void in my life when he's not here. I'm bored he's not here, I'm lonely, I'm anxious I can't see him, and I get stir-crazy and lost and don't really know how to conduct myself. I would just be standing around thinking about what I should do and then end up doing push-ups or something just to work out some nervous energy.

In the meantime I picked up a handful of groceries yesterday to make sure I can make a nice brunch for him when he arrives, including a couple 5lb bags of rice. I washed out an empty 30lb bucket of cat litter cause it already has a lid and a handle and it seems to work just fine as a rice bucket- not for food storage but as a workout device.

Gave it a shot- get very much covered in rice starch, and the workout is definitely exhausting. Theoretically, it helps strengthen all the micro muscles in your forearms to help protect you from carpal tunnel, tennis elbow, etc; really good for keyboard warriors, artists, heavy lifters- pretty much anyone that uses their hands and fingers for a lot of strenuous or continuous activity. If nothing else, it sure does a hell of a job exfoliating my hands lol. Maybe this will finally fix my fucked up cuticles. Prolly gonna start wearing a mask while using the bucket though- I dunno how much dust it kicks up but I'd hate to develop a rice allergy this way.

Pretty disappointed I couldn't pick up that Gallantmon stuff the other day, but really I should have tempered my expectations more. I'm not as hung up on it now- I'll get it eventually, I just hate waiting for it to happen.

Dunno if I mentioned already, but I started taking metamucil too. I'm not a big milk drinker, but overnight oats and protein shakes and cottage cheese have me consuming a lot more dairy than I usually do, and diets with a lot of meat and dairy tend to cause GI issues, so I figured the extra fiber would probably be a good idea while on a high protein diet. The first few days suck- not particularly painful or uncomfortable, but really gassy, which is just kinda embarrassing and annoying to deal with. It passes after the first three or four days though, and I DO notice that I seem to have more consistent BMs, feel less bloated, less gassy, and a bit lighter. My appetite means I'm trying to pack as much protein into as little actual food as possible too given how hard it is to eat as much as I'm expected to, so I'm actually overeating a lot less, which also probably helps.

That said, I haven't been particularly strict on myself about food- more for philosophical reasons than anything. The goal is just to get the protein I need, and nothing else really matters atm. There's no point in eating anything I don't enjoy, and any goal that's completely miserable to achieve is phyrric. As long as I'm getting my protein and I'm lifting to the end of my sets every time while steadily increasing the weight I lift, I WILL build muscle, and those muscles will burn more calories, which will result in weight loss. As long as I stay on top of it at least 3 times a week (ideally more, but 3 is my bare minimum atm) and don't eat a GROSS excess of calories, all I need otherwise is trust, time, discipline, and patience- all things my ADHD-addled brain struggles with, lol.

I haven't been to the gym the last three days. Skipped one day cause I got home especially late and I was wiped, skipped the next cause I was depressed, skipped last night cause a bit of time-blindness had me going out to the grocery store pretty late at night, etc, so this week has been pretty bad for gym-going, but I'm gonna get back on it. Maybe not tonight cause I close at work and my roommate is finally back home- which does mean I'll be cooking dinner for both of us when I get back- but tomorrow I'm getting back into it with a vengeance.

Wish me luck.

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 16

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

May passes into June and they quietly acknowledge that it has been one year since the day Mulder walked into the autopsy bay. They spend their weekends watching movies, making love, and hanging out with the Gunmen, Missy often in attendance as she and Byers become somewhat of an item. Every other Sunday they have lunch with her mother, Mulder meeting Bill by way of an awkward phone call and a promise that they will come out to visit San Diego sometime soon. The moratorium on weekday overnights fades away and the days they spend in each other’s beds begin to outnumber those that they don’t.

One day in early August, Mulder laments how lonely Priscilla gets when he’s gone for the night, crying and following him from room to room when he comes home and plaguing him with guilt. Scully suggests that he bring her over with him, setting up a litter box and food bowl in an unused corner of the living room. Without the daily need to care for a cat, he spends more and more time at her apartment, his suits taking over half her closet and his T-shirts occupying one of her drawers. He still has his fish to feed and so they can tell themselves that they don’t technically live together, though it’s been weeks since anyone slept at his apartment. The excitement of new love gives way to the familiar comfort of domesticity, questions about their lives prior to meeting morphing into what they’re having for dinner and whether someone can pick up toilet paper on the way home from work. They each visit the doctor for a full workup and, everything coming back clear, stop using condoms, relying on the progestin shot Scully goes in for every three months to prevent pregnancy.

Far from boring, they find worthy sparring partners in one another, debating everything from whether the moon landing was a hoax to the merits of String Theory, arguing their points of view passionately before they agree to disagree and then let their clothes fall to the floor. They discover the things they love best about one another; Mulder’s unrelenting curiosity and Scully’s bottomless compassion, as well as those they like the least; his forgetfulness when he’s focused on something and her tendency to shut him out when she’s upset. Whether completing a crossword puzzle together or watching Jeopardy, they embrace the ways that they are different and how they balance one another out; his creativity to her order, her planning to his impulsivity, his acceptance to her skepticism. Yin and yang, tall and small, bold and tempered; there is a completeness in their union that makes them each feel whole.

Even in their intensity and their commitment, Mulder has never again uttered the words ‘I love you’ and Scully has never said them at all. Far from a red flag or a hesitance to be vulnerable, they simply don’t feel the need to express it aloud. She knows he loves her when he drives forty minutes out of his way to pick up her favorite donuts or reads the latest issue of JAMA just so he can discuss the articles with her. He knows she loves him when she indulges him in theoretical discussions on the mating rituals of Sasquatch, not bothering to point out that the creature doesn’t exist, or wastes entire Saturdays watching movies that were bad enough to earn Razzies because he finds poorly made films entertaining.

Scully has never met Mulder’s parents, accepting his explanation that his mother is cold and his father distant, which is why she feels caught off guard when he calls her at work on a Tuesday to tell her that his mother had a stroke, and he is on his way to the hospital. He doesn’t ask her for anything, but she leaves work anyway, approaching the reception desk of the emergency department with a level of calm only a doctor is capable of.

“I’m looking for Teena Mulder, she should have been admitted within the last few hours,” she says to the young woman behind the desk.

“Yes, she’s here,” the woman answers, “but visiting hours don’t start until 4:00 and someone is already with her now. Are you family?” The woman looks at her expectantly.

“Um, no, I’m not,” she replies, not bothering to explain that Tenna Mulder is her boyfriend’s mother, who she’s never met.

“You can take a seat then,” the woman says with a well-practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

She finds an empty seat and pulls in a deep breath, taking out her cell phone in hopes she can reach Mulder, though cell reception in hospitals is notoriously bad.

“Excuse me, are you Dana?” someone says from a few seats away, and she turns to see an older man, perhaps in his sixties, with receding dark brown hair and tired bags under his eyes.

“Yes,” she replies, eyeing him skeptically as he rises from his seat and takes the one just beside her.

“I’m Bill Mulder, Fox’s father,” he says, offering his hand.

She takes it, scanning him for similarities to Mulder and finding none, other than his complexion and hair color.

“Oh, hello, it’s nice to meet you Mr. Mulder,” she stumbles, a bit confused. As Mulder tells it, his parents are divorced and not on friendly terms.

“Please, you can call me Bill,” he says with a small smile, and she nods. “Fox is with her now, though I don’t think she’s awake,” he offers.

They sit in awkward silence, Scully realizing she has absolutely no information with which to start a conversation. Mulder has told her nothing about his parents, aside from the details relevant to his sister’s abduction. She doesn’t know what Bill Mulder does, or did, for a living, or where he lives. Just when she’s considering going home, Mulder emerges from a set of double doors.

He was clearly looking for his father, but when he sees Scully his eyebrows knit and his chin puckers in relief. She stands and he scoops her up, squeezing her so tight it hurts.

“Thank you for coming,” he whispers hoarsely into her ear.

They part, hands clasped, and he addresses his father.

“Mom just woke up, you can go see her soon, but since Scully is here I’d like to take her back first.”

Scully gives him an incredulous look.

“Mulder, I’m sure your mom doesn’t want to meet me for the first time from a hospital bed,” she pleads.

“I know, but I want you to look at her chart. I just want to make sure that what the doctors are saying is accurate,” he says with desperate eyes, and she nods.

He leads her back through the double doors and into a room where a tall white-haired woman is reclining in the bed, an oxygen cannula tucked under her nose. While she saw little resemblance between Mulder and his father, the likeness to his mother is almost jarring; her stately nose and hooded eyes curating in Scully an immediate fondness for her. She blinks slowly at them, confusion furrowing her brow.

“Mom, this is Dana,” he says, and her expression shifts into one that is slightly pained.

She attempts to speak, one side of her mouth rooting for words that she can’t quite find.

“Hi Mrs. Mulder, I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances,” Scully offers, “I’m a medical doctor, Fox asked me to take a look at your chart, if that’s okay?”

Teena nods and closes her eyes, and Scully goes to retrieve her chart from near the door. After she’s looked it over, they say goodbye and return to the lobby to find Mulder’s father.

“Go ahead, Dad, I’ll see you in there,” Mulder says, and then walks Scully to her car.

“So, what do you think?” he asks as they stand next to her open car door, worry crumpling his features.

“I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, Mulder. Her stroke was significant, you can see that by the degree to which it’s impacting her speech and gross motor function. It shouldn't get any worse, but she’ll need to go through rehab, and likely need some in-home care for a bit until we know the long term impact. It’s very possible that she’ll be able to continue living independently, but not right away.”

Mulder heaves a big sigh and nods. “I’m gonna stay here for a bit, but I think I’ll be home before you go to bed.”

“Of course, whatever you need,” she replies, bringing her palm to his cheek. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Thank you, again, for coming down here. You didn’t have to.”

“Mulder, of course I did,” she says with concern. “I’ll see you when you get home, okay?”

He kisses her one, two, three times, pulling her close for a beat, clinging to her for dear life.

“I love you,” he chokes out, and she hugs him tighter.

“I love you too,” she replies, her chin tucked tight into the crook of his neck.

When he releases his grip on her, she brings her hands to his jaw, brushing her thumbs over his cheeks.

“We’ll get through this, okay? We’ll figure it out,” she assures him, and he nods tersely.

———

She’s in bed reading, Priscilla curled up on her stomach, when she hears the thunk of the deadbolt.

“Mulder?” she calls out, and he pokes his head through the door.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower, I’ll be in in a minute,” he says, then disappears again.

He returns ten minutes later, shower-fresh and warm. She sets her book aside to envelop him in her arms, his head finding a home on her chest as his arms snake around her ribcage.

“How is she?” she asks as she strokes her fingers through his hair and down his neck soothingly.

“The same,” he says with a defeated tone, “they might release her to rehab tomorrow.”

“And how are you?” she asks, giving his neck a little squeeze.

He groans. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot.”

“About your mom?”

“No,” he says, propping up on his elbow to look at her, “about life, I guess.”

She lifts her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t want to toil away in the BSU for the rest of my life, Scully. If I die tomorrow, what will I have to show for it?”

She frowns at him sympathetically.

“You make a difference in the BSU, Mulder. You help catch murderers, prevent further loss of life. It may not seem like it because you’re so far removed from the people it impacts, but you do.”

He flops back onto the bed, eyes on the ceiling.

“You’re probably right, but it still feels pretty pointless.”

“What would you rather be doing?” she asks gently, rolling on to her side to face him.

“Honestly?” he steals a glance at her before continuing, “investigating The X Files. Making progress in understanding what happened to my sister. Working to expose those who are responsible for the coverup of secret government operations.”

“Maybe you should talk to AD Skinner, try again. Maybe The X files could be reopened,” she says softly, brushing her palm over his arm.

Mulder shakes his head. “Nothing has changed, Scully. They won’t let me operate without a partner and no one wants to work with me.”

“I’d work with you, but that’s against bureau policy,” she says with a small smile, and he looks at her with an affectionate gaze.

“I’m sure you’d have a field day debunking all my work,” he says coyly.

“I would never,” she retorts sarcastically.

He rolls back towards her, pulling her close with her head tucked under his chin.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says, his voice full of emotion.

“Well you do have me, so there’s no point in thinking about it,” she replies.

He sighs deeply, reaching past her to turn off the bedside lamp, and they sleep.

[incomingalbatross]

"A Study in Family Portraits (Sherlock Holmes)" please?

Thank you!

This is my master doc for my modern Holmes AU (quote taken from the Hounds line, “A study in family portraits is enough to convert a man to the doctrine of reincarnation.” I think I’m funny).

I’ve posted my “first meeting” ficlet on here before, I think, but now this doc also has incomplete drafts of modern Holmes and Watson touring Baker Street for the first time, and of them unpacking together. I’m not sure if these will make it the theoretical final draft (for one thing, I keep bouncing between third-person and Watson’s narration in my preferences for this AU) but here are a couple excerpts from the latter:

“I have a question,” Sherlock Holmes said, as he looked through the boxes that littered their shared space. “Do you own anything other than books?”

John flushed. “There’s a box of kitchen things here somewhere.”

“And another single box in your bedroom,” Sherlock said, still sounding amused. “You travel light, aside from the complete library.”

“Some of my things are at my parents’,” John said defensively. He knew he was a nerd and a bookworm, and he was hardly ashamed of that, but he didn’t enjoy being made fun of for it either.

Sherlock turned. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely taken aback. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I just let my tongue run away with me. It’s a bad habit of mine, I’m afraid.”

“It’s all right,” John said quickly, feeling his irritation evaporate. He smiled ruefully. “Being touchy is one of mine. Although, in my defense, it’s not all books—I do have an entire box of DVDs in here somewhere.”

Sherlock snorted in laughter. “Ah, variety.”

(They proceed to talk about books for two entire pages, because I wanted to get my headcanons down in writing)

“P’Smith?” Sherlock said aloud, looking at the titles.

“The ‘P’ is silent,” John said automatically. “Have you not read them?”

“Never heard of them. Are they good?”

“They’re…early work,” John said. “They don’t really become full comedy until the last book.” He picked up Leave it to Psmith from its spot next to the other three in the Psmith series. “It’s certainly the most Wodehousian of the lot.”

“Hm.” Sherlock glanced keenly at the books, then back to John. “You like them all, though.”

John paused. He did, but he could never quite explain his attachment to this quartet. He’d read them over and over as a kid, immersing himself in the stories, ever since he first ran across them. It wasn’t a reasoned liking, like it was with Dickens or mystery novels; it just was. They’d clicked with him—maybe because he’d identified with stubborn, proud, socially-awkward Mike Jackson, maybe because Psmith’s brilliance and drama and hidden warmth had hit his idea of what a hero should be. Whatever the reason, these books were some of the few that really felt like a part of him.

“…They’re childhood friends of mine,” he said aloud, smiling a little.

I enjoyed writing all of their literary discussion, but this honestly felt like one of the most important parts.

(John Watson also has a lot of opinions about mystery novels, by the way. A lot.)

[spicykoreantatertots]

With love, from J

Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: G

Genres: College AU, Roommates to Lovers, Fluffy Fluffy Fluff

Summary:  A beautiful bouquet of peonies are left on your doorstep, the only problem is, you don’t know who they’re from.

Warnings: none! this is just sweet fluff. 

A/N: It’s finally here! This piece is a gift for Ashley aka: @taehyungforreal​! I was honestly stunned when I found out that you were my Secret Admiree! I’ve been such a huge fan of your work for a while now and it’s such an honor to write for you. This is currently a very G rated, but I am toying with the idea of doing a smutty one shot down the line. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Thank you to everyone who helped me with this fic and encouraged me along the way: @ho-baebae​ @lovely-literati​.

~~~~~~~

Trudging up the stairs to your third floor apartment, you can't help but wonder if the $50 a month discount is worth all the extra effort. Especially when your backpack is full of Thicc text books. But at least tonight you don't have to leave again. It's Roomie Night.

Roomie Night is a tradition started way back when you and Jungkook first started living together. The two of you had been in the same group of friends since Freshman year, but weren't very close. But when it was time to leave the dorm, and both of you needed a place, you ended up together. In an effort to get to know him better, you proposed Roomie Night. Once a week the two of you set aside time to eat dinner and hang out with each other.

The idea worked, because now Jungkook is one of your closest, if not best friend. Tonight, Jungkook is bringing home takeout from the Chinese place you love and you've rented some action thriller that he's been dying to see. Should be a really fun night if you can make it up these stairs.

When you do reach the landing, you spot something outside your front door. Peonies? A whole bouquet of them in a beautiful purple vase. They must be from your mom, it is almost Valentine's day after all.

You unlock the door and pick up the vase to bring inside. Peonies have been your favorite flower since you were a child. You had spent many afternoons with your Grandmother as she tended to her flower garden. She often told you what each flower represented and Peonies represent good fortune and a happy marriage. Two things your Grandmother had, and two things you desperately wanted.

After losing the heavy backpack, you pull the card out of the Peonies. It simply says, "With love, from J.”

"From J?" you muse out loud to yourself. Could it be... Could they be from Jungkook? You had never seriously entertained the idea of dating your roommate. Not because he isn't gorgeous. He is. Not because he isn't sweet and caring. He is. Not because he doesn't have a great sense of humor. He does. Wait a second, so why haven't you considered him an option??

But wait, these just say, "from J." Maybe it isn't Jungkook. You don't call him J, nobody does. So maybe it's from someone else? You snap a picture and send it to another friend of yours, Seokjin. 

You: any idea who these could be from??

Seokjin: are they from Jungkook?? how many times do i have to tell you to get on the Jungkook train Y/N???

Seokjin: theoretically they could be from Jimin, but i'm pretty sure he's got a thing for Taehyung...

Seokjin: wait what's that guy you were flirting with at work??

You: Jackson!! Omg... maybe it was him... he did ask if i had a valentine this year, but i thought he was just making small talk

Seokjin: only one way to find out

You: wait until someone comes forward so i don't have to awkwardly put myself out there :|

Seokjin: right...

~~~~~~~

Jungkook drags himself up the stairs, legs weak from his intense workout. His long dark hair is damp with sweat. Chinese food in hand, he walks through the door to see you texting away at the kitchen counter.

"Hey how's it going?" The soft smile blush on your face confuses him slightly, he wonders who you're texting.

"Oh it's going." Jungkook walks toward you, setting your dinner down on the counter. "Are you going to shower before we eat, I can smell you over the take out." You laugh and he knows you're kidding. He loves the sound of your laugh...

"I'll shower, you can go ahead and eat, I won't be long." Jungkook goes to the bathroom to start the shower before he walks off toward his bedroom down the hall. He's still thinking about who you're texting, who is making you smile like that. It should be him.

As he picks out some clean clothes he can't help but think about how badly he wants to be with you, but he can't bring himself to cross the boundary from friends and roommates to something more.

In the bathroom, the steam is rising from the shower and Jungkook is so ready to get into the hot shower. He opens the cabinet for a towel, but doesn't find any.

"Y/N! Where are all the towels?" Jungkook calls from the bathroom.

"In a basket in my room, I was gonna put them up later!" You call back to him, mouth full of noodles.

Jungkook slips out of the bathroom and moves quickly to your bedroom to grab a towel. He finds the full basket near your desk where he also notices a large bouquet of pink flowers. His heart stops for a second when he reads the card placed next to them.

From J? Who got you those flowers? Valentine's Day is around the corner and Jungkook realizes he might be too late. He may have already missed his chance to be with you.

~~~~~~~

Empty take out cartons litter the coffee table, the credits from the movie are rolling, but you can't move. You're afraid to move even an inch because Jungkook's head is in your lap. He fell asleep before the first explosion even happened. At first he was just resting his head on your shoulder, but in his sleepy state he eventually made it down to your lap.

You gently brush his hair out of his face and you can admire his beauty. God is he beautiful. The way his nose curves, the sharp edge of his jaw line, each of his cute little moles - all handcrafted by God himself.

Your fingers are still absentmindedly stroking through his locks. The motion of it slowly wakes him.

"Hello sleepy head." You smiled down at him. He quickly sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"So how did it end?" He looks back at you. God how did things change so quickly? Because all you want to do right now is kiss him on his perfect mouth. "The movie? Did they vanquish the evil doers?"

"Oh! Yeah yeah, they all exploded and the hero got back in time for his wedding."

"So all was well." He hums to himself. He'll probably watch the movie again later. He can never stay awake when he eats that much food. "So listen... next week Roomie Night is on Valentine's Day..."

Your stomach twists. Is this it, is he about to ask you out? He looks around the room before looking back at you. All you can do is hope that the blush on your face isn't too obvious in the dim lighting.

"Are you planning to..." He starts, shakes his head, tries again. "Are you gonna have a Valentine this year?" Why would he ask that now if he already bought you flowers, they must not be from him.

~~~~~~~

He reads your face carefully for a reaction. He's put it all on the line, he's got to know who the flowers are from. He waits for you to answer, but the longer you wait the more he realizes you must be trying to find a way to break the news to him.

You must be seeing someone.

"I'm not... expecting anything. If that's what you mean." What do you mean by that? Where did the flowers come from? God he should just ask you. But he can't bring himself to do it.

"Okay, so Roomie Night is on just like always?" He grins, starting to clean up the mess from dinner.

"Just like always." You return his smile, but it doesn't quite meet your eyes. Jungkook is still so unsure about what's going on inside that beautiful mind of yours.

~~~~~~~

Both you and Jungkook have full time course loads and part time jobs, so you don't see each other everyday. You don't really get to see him again until four days after Roomie Night. The two of you are going to be meeting up with your friends for dinner and game night at Namjoon's apartment.

You're waiting, sitting on the couch while Jungkook is getting ready. You're scrolling through your twitter feed when you hear the door open.

Jungkook walks out, shirtless. H-has he always had abs like that? He's towel drying his hair as he walks down the hall to his bedroom. The lean muscles on his back lead down to his slim waist. You hope he didn't notice you staring.

~~~~~~~

Once he's fully dressed and his hair is mostly dry, Jungkook joins you in the living room. He's wearing black jeans and his favorite Nirvana shirt covered by his denim jacket.

"It's pretty nice out for February, wanna just walk?" Jungkook shows you the temperature from his weather app, clear skies and it's almost 60 degrees.

"Sounds good. Got the keys." You respond, getting up from the couch. He watches you grab your coat and open the door, turning the lock from the inside. 

"Let's go!"

The walk to Namjoon's apartment flies by. It's about five blocks away, but the time he spends with you always seems to move too quickly. He could honestly listen to you complain about customers from work all day long. And you listen intently as he talks about the latest album he's listening to. The way you giggle when he tells a dumb joke makes his heart soar.

Your cheeks are rosy from the cool wintery breeze that blows the hair out of your face. Jungkook is pretty sure God is playing a cruel joke on him, or maybe it's just a sign. A sign that you are meant to be his.

~~~~~~~

When you arrive at Namjoon's place, Seokjin is in the kitchen finishing up dinner with the help of Jimin. Taehyung is setting the table and Namjoon is in the living area looking through his extensive collection of board games.

Before too long, the six of you are around the dinner table, Jungkook by your side as always. His energy does feel a little bit different tonight though. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but it does feel like he's looking over at you a lot. And he's laughing at everything you say. And maybe he's sitting a little closer to you than he has to.

After dinner, you help Seokjin wash the dishes while the other boys set up Clue. A classic.

"Okay listen he's totally into you. The flowers have to be from him." Seokjin whispers so that no one can hear him over the sound of the faucet.

"Jin! You can't just say things like that!" You whisper back at him.

"I'm not just saying it! God Y/N! How did you not see the way he was looking at you during dinner?" You look over your shoulder and see Jungkook play fighting with Taehyung. He's smiling, he's happy, and suddenly he's looking back at you.

~~~~~~~

Were you just looking at him? Jungkook lets Taehyung out of his grasp and stares back at you until you turn back to the sink. Taehyung punches Jungkook's arm, regaining his attention.

"What was that all about?" Taehyung glances over at you.

"Nothing." Jungkook tries to shut down his friend's snooping. "I don't know what you're talking about.

"Okay so we're just gonna pretend like you weren't in your own little Y/N-loving world during dinner then?"

"He's right." Jimin chimes in from his seat at the table and that's when Jungkook notices Namjoon is listening too. "You two would be great together, you should just go for it." Jimin continues. Jungkook looks to Namjoon for his thoughts.

"Based on both of your body language, I think there might be something there." Namjoon states matter-of-factly. Jungkook gives one last longing look in your direction before he put Taehyung back in a chokehold.

~~~~~~~

"Alright the game is Clue and to make it a little more interesting we are going to be playing in teams. Me and Jimin, Taehyung and Jin, and Jungkook and Y/N." You look over at Namjoon, but he is busying himself with shuffling the cards.

Throughout the rest of the night, Jin kicks you under the table anytime Jungkook does something that could be even slightly flirtatious. Every laugh, every smile, every secretive whisper in your ear that sends a chill down your spine.

When the two of you decide it's time to Make the Accusation, Jungkook stands dramatically. He looks around the room before proclaiming that it was, in fact, Professor Plum with the Dagger in the Library.

After checking the envelope and announcing your team's victory, you jump up and wrap your arms around Jungkook. He doesn't hesitate to return the hug and judging by the smug look on Seokjin's face, the hug lasted a little too long.

"Good game everyone!" You shout, suddenly embarrassed. "I guess it's getting kind of late, we should get going since we walked." You're now speaking to just Jungkook and he nods in response.

~~~~~~~

The walk back to your shared apartment is a little bit more awkward than Jungkook would have hoped. The temperature has dropped significantly and he can hear your teeth chattering. But your hands are hanging by your side rather than in your pockets. Maybe you want him to grab your hand.

"Do you have work tomorrow night?" He asks you, thinking maybe he'll finally have the courage to ask you out.

"Nope I'm free!" You turn and look up at him slightly, your pace slowing down. Jungkook takes a deep breath.

"Do you maybe wanna..." He starts, but he second guesses himself. Why would a girl like you wanna go out with him when you've clearly already got an admirer. He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Maybe we could study together then?"

"Yeah sure sounds great."

~~~~~~~

You thought that was it, you thought he was going to ask you out, especially after the fun night the two of you had with your friends. The chill of the night is starting to really set in as the two of you approach your apartment. Trying your best to not sound out of breath, you wait for Jungkook to unlock the door.

"What are you waiting for?" Jungkook motions toward the door.

"Well you're the one with the keys." You retort, ready to be inside.

"No! When we left you said you had the keys." You look up at him, confused.

"No... I was asking if you got the keys! So neither of us have keys?" You groan, slapping the palm of your hand against your face. "It's COLD!"

~~~~~~~

Jungkook calls the emergency maintenance line for the apartment complex to have them bring a spare key.

"It'll be about fifteen minutes." He puts his phone back in his pocket. He can see you shivering in the dim lighting of the walkway. After some silence he adds, "I'm sorry."

"It's not totally your fault... I guess." You exhale with a chuckle, music to his ears. You close the distance between the two of you and Jungkook almost gasps when you nuzzle your nose in his jacket.

"It's so cold." Your voice is muffled and he almost can't make out what you said. He wraps his arms around you to try and help warm you up. And this feels so right. You belong in his arms, he's sure of it.

The two of you stand like this for a few minutes, really he wasn't counting, but he does feel you pull away after a while. Before he can be too disappointed, he hears people climbing up the stairs. Your neighbors, Yoongi and Hoseok are coming home from what looks like a shopping trip.

~~~~~~~

"Hey guys." You stuttered behind your chattering teeth. You're feeling the cold all over again after you peeled yourself off of Jungkook.

"What's up?" Yoongi asks, probably wondering what the two of you are doing standing outside in the cold. "Locked out?"

Both you and Jungkook nod in response. Hoseok offers to let the two of you in while you wait for the maintenance man, but you turn him down, he should be here any minute now. Before going into the apartment, Hoseok turns back.

"Have either of you seen a bouquet of Peonies anywhere?" Your stomach turns upside down. "I ordered some for Yoongi, they're his favorite. They were supposedly delivered, but they weren't here when we got home."

"Oh yeah, they were delivered to our door by mistake." You've never been so mortified, especially considering Jungkook is here watching this unfold. "They're my favorite flowers too, so I thought they must be from..." You pause, not wanting to keep that train of thought going.

"See Yoongi! I told you I ordered you flowers!" Hoseok calls into the apartment. Yoongi pokes his head back out.

"I'll bring them over when we get in. Oh but, the card said that they were "from J?" Hoseok blushes in response to your question.

"That's one of my nicknames for him..." Yoongi winks at you before they both retreat to the warmth of their apartment.

~~~~~~~

"So who did you think the flowers were from?" Jungkook teased. He was beyond relieved to know that the flowers weren't actually for you. Relieved that maybe he still had a chance with you. You roll your eyes at him, but Jungkook notices some sadness in them.

Before he gets the chance to say anything else, the maintenance worker comes to let the two of you in. Jungkook watches as you head straight to your room. He lingers in the kitchen, waiting for you to come out with the peonies. 

“So are peonies really your favorite?” Jungkook asks.

“Not another word Jeon.” You announce as you leave the apartment with the bouquet. The flowers are just beginning to wilt, hopefully Yoongi will still like them. In the silence of the apartment, Jungkook decides it’s time you get some peonies that are actually meant for you. 

~~~~~~~

When you come home from class the next day, your ascent to your apartment brings back all the embarrassment from the night before. At least this time you have your keys. 

You are surprised to see that Jungkook beat you home, he’s rummaging around in the pantry for something to eat. Usually he stays late to work out at the rec center after class. Jungkook stops when he hears you enter. 

“Hi.” He says shortly, wearing a big contagious grin. 

“Hi?” You repeat back to him, hanging up your coat and bag near the door. 

“Wait here.” Jungkook saunters off down the hall.

“Okay?” You reply, slightly confused. What is he up to?

From his bedroom, Jungkook emerges with a large bouquet of pale pink peonies. You cover your face with your hands and laugh to yourself. There is no way he went out and bought peonies for you. 

“These are for you.” You uncover your eyes and look up at Jungkook’s radiant smile one more time before looking at the flowers. The petals look so soft and you reach out to touch them. Then you notice a card sticking out. The card says, “With love, from J(ungkook).”

“They’re beautiful.” You try to speak through your laughter. Feeling emboldened by his gesture, you tilt your head up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Listen... I was thinking. Maybe we should cancel Roomie Night.” Jungkook is blushing, his hand resting back behind his head. “We could call it Date Night instead?”

“Date night?” You smile. “I like the sound of that.”

~~~~~~~

Happy Bouquet Day sweetie! Sorry I posted a bit late in the day, but I hope you enjoyed it! @taehyungforreal​

[kentuckywrites]

Imperium 2: Chapter 7

Tu reliquisti me. (You left me.)

The further inside they got, the worse it became. Nessa found herself sickened by all the bodies they had to tiptoe over, and as they made their way into what appeared to be the central building, they were forced to navigate rubble and debris as well. Some of the walls looked torn and thrown apart, as if something had taken them and thrown them across the halls like a toy. The chilly wind seeped in through these holes, and it did nothing to stop Nessa from shivering, her arms folded in an effort to ward off her fright. 

“Was this...it couldn’t have been Starr, right?” Nessa tried to fool herself, though the moment she spoke her theory, Solstice’s shoulders slumped.

“This could very well have been Starr. I am not an advocate for the Ganglion by any means, but this...this is a massacre.”

Nessa could only afford to nod once, forcing herself to continue on into a stretch of the building that seemed more sturdy and undamaged. Claw marks and dents still littered the walls, but the wind couldn’t reach them this far in. Nessa was thankful for that, for the time being.

The hallway they’d entered continued for a long and winding way, until it opened up into a room far too large for the purpose it likely served. In the center of the room, a large towering console that connected the floor and ceiling, dull and lifeless. Around the console were more bodies, even more bodies, and a startling amount of debris and rubble compared to what they’d found outside. The source became apparent once they’d fully entered. One of the adjacent walls was completely ripped apart, a giant gaping hole where someone - something - had forced its way out. Tables, chairs, documents, all scattered across the floor, bodies of their own accord, with information and evidence just as comprehensible as the organic dead. 

For a change of pace, however, two living beings were stationed next to the center console. Elma waved them over, her guns both drawn and at the ready, while Lin was hunched over one of the console’s many screens, looking quickly between it and her comm device in her left hand. Nessa approached first, her brow furrowed.

“Looks like you guys won the race. Don’t tell me you caused all this.”

“I did a sweep of the entire fortress before you both arrived,” Elma relayed her information with a solemn heart, “Everyone was already dead. No signs of anything living in here. The bodies aren’t fresh, but Ganglion tend to decompose at a slower rate, so I want to say this likely happened within the past few weeks.”

“So the likely conclusion is that this is Starr’s handiwork,” Solstice put their head in their hands, rubbing away at more unborn tears, “This is horrific. I should've worked faster, I should’ve done more to arrive in Cocytios sooner so as to avoid this mess -”

“Hey, Sol, this isn’t your fault,” Nessa reassured them, “Besides, better Ganglion than humans, right?”

“Their species does not matter. What does matter is that this is a tremendous loss of life.”

“I agree,” Elma said, “Though that doesn’t mean this is your fault. I don’t believe anyone could have thwarted this. That being said, Lin is hard at work attempting to unlock the computer and access its data. We’re hoping to discover what truly happened here, as well as uncover any existing files on Starr or Pongo.”

“There wasn’t any sign of him here, then?” Nessa asked, slightly hopeful.

But Elma shook her head. “None, I’m afraid. I even checked amongst the bodies, but there’s -”

“No. No, he’s not dead,” Nessa interrupted, suddenly defensive and colder than she felt, “I refuse to believe he’s dead. He probably picked up a brain cell and stayed as far away from here as he could.”

Elma opened her mouth to object, but before she could speak, the computer Lin was standing in front of lit up, emitting a soft static to indicate that it was awake, that it was powered on and ready to go, though likely damaged. “There! Looks like this one still works.”

“Great job, Lin,” Elma commended her efforts, and everyone quickly gathered around the young Outfitter to gaze at the currently black screen. Letters decorated the edges and some of the sides, a language Nessa couldn’t understand. However, Lin pieced things together and started to tap random sequences, unfazed. 

“You can read Ganglion?” Nessa asked.

“I can’t exactly read it, but I know enough from my past attempts at hacking these to know where things are, if that makes sense,” Lin explained, pulling up a long string of letters accompanied by tiny thumbnails Nessa couldn’t quite understand. “This subsection is full of videos. Might be worth watching them, since...well, can you read Ganglion?”

“Nope,” Nessa scoffed, “But we should start somewhere, I guess? Mira, can you confirm that you’ll be able to translate the Ganglion if they’re speaking in the video?”

Yep. No worries there.

“Okay, it’ll translate. Pick a video and pray.”

Lin tapped on one of the lower video entries, and the screen switched to a new interface. Solstice flinched as a Ganglion appeared on the screen, a Misaaldi in standard attire. She spoke clearly, staring into the screen with such a silent rage that it made the hairs on the back of Nessa’s neck raise.

“Entry 22 in the superweapon experiment. We believe we have identified the ritual’s formula in the creation of an endbringer. The puny natives utilized ether in their day-to-day lives as easily as air. If we can collect enough ether from the surrounding environment and consolidate it into one location, we could theoretically force a subject to intake that ether and transform. The specifics of this process shall be outlined by Sharnaak, once he returns from his journey to the lava continent. We have great hopes for this next step in the experiment. The Great One shall be pleased with our hard work in restoring his honor. End log.”

“They...they replicated the ritual?” Solstice’s hands began to shake, and this time, Nessa didn’t hesitate. She took one of Solstice’s hands, squeezed it tightly, felt them squeeze back. Their eyes remained glued to the screen, attempting to say something, though words failed them. Elma was the one to speak in their stead, taking a deep breath in, exhaling out.

“The superweapon experiment...and what exactly is the ritual you’re speaking of?”

Solstice looked to Nessa, and with a small shake of their head, Nessa stepped up to the plate to explain. “The Telethia in Noctilum was created through an ancient ritual. It’s a person - or it was one, a very long time ago.”

The lie flowed easily, and Elma and Lin believed with with all their hearts. However, Elma’s confusion was still apparent. “So then, the Ganglion tried to harness this ritual and create their own Telethia? That would explain Starr, as well as his behavior.”

“Find another video,” Solstice finally managed to stutter, “I-I need to know more.”

Lin scrolled through the available videos for a moment, clicking on one that was farther away from the one they’d watched. Once more, the screen switched to the same Misaaldi, still in standard attire, though far more activity behind them indicated that something in the atmosphere had changed.

“Entry 59 in the superweapon experiment. We’ve successfully completed the ether serum. We will begin testing on our human subjects shortly, and I shall report back the details at a later time. Pause recording.”

The video cut to black for a second before returning to the Misaaldi woman, who wiped her brow before addressing the camera.

“Resume recording. All five human test subjects did not survive the injection. We have reason to believe that, once they successfully transformed, their consciences remained in tact, and they utilized their newfound strength to turn against us. We are awaiting data analysis from Sharnaak before conducting more experiments, as we wish for his input before proceeding. End log.”

The video ended. Lin didn’t waste any time in picking a new video log, and the Misaaldi soon reappeared, now wearing a confident and knowing smile.

“Entry 81 in the superweapon experiment. As per Sharnaak’s guidance, our team has created a secondary serum to combat the existence of being. Finely crafted and tuned, this serum is far more technological in nature, as the human body is not organic. The serum shall enter the data bloodstream of the human and remove everything that makes them human - their puny dreams and desires, their personality, their useless memories. Their mind shall become a blank slate, and thus, their transformation shall not be hindered by their humanity. Now, we must locate another test subject, and perhaps this shall be the final experiment required before we complete the transition. The Great One will be pleased to see that his servants have gifted him an army, forged from his enemies, forged into mindless, willing servants. End log.”

“A serum to erase someone…” Elma’s voice cracked, the fear radiating from Solstice contagious. “That…”

“There’s only one more video,” Lin told everyone, her voice barely a whisper, hushed and quiet and full of dread. “Should I…”

“We have to know.” Nessa said, clearing her throat. “Play it.”

And so, with that final, resolute command, Lin pressed the final file. The scene changed, though the Misaaldi still stood in front of the camera. Behind her, Nessa could make out a steel board, with cuffs placed where wrists and ankles would go, a larger strap where hips would likely be. Many other Marnaak and Misaaldi stood nearby, some walking around with medical tools, others standing guard off to the side, bystanders to the beginning of the end. The Misaaldi chuckled before starting her speech.

“Entry 82 in the superweapon experiment. We’ve found a perfect candidate. Alone, rather strong for a human. We think he will make the perfect base. As such, Sharnaak has given us the all-clear to begin the test.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and her voice rose as she ordered, “Bring him in!”

Nessa held her breath as, from off screen, she heard the sounds of protest, wincing, startled yelps and cries. Two Marnucks dragged another humanoid in, his legs kicking and struggling, though because of the Marnucks’ height advantage, she couldn’t see the human, couldn’t identify him. They brought him to the board, strapping him into place, all while the human continued to cry out, begging, pleading with them to stop, to tell him what was going on. When the Marnucks finally stepped away, and they had a clear visual on who was strapped to the board, who the Ganglion had picked as their test subject…

Nessa was met with a pair of pupiless indigo eyes, identical to her own. Wide with fear, obscured only slightly by long black hair, draping over pale skin and a torn purple combat vest. 

No one said his name. Everyone was frozen, watching, waiting. 

The Misaaldi stepped up to him. She had the nerve, the fucking nerve, to reach out and place her hand on his cheek, shushing him with one of her fingers. 

“Not to worry, my dear. It will all be over soon.”

She then addressed the Marnucks standing slightly behind the board, to the Marnucks that were standing close by in preparation. “Inject the first serum. Let us put an end to his suffering.”

On command, a Marnuck with a syringe stepped up, tall enough to look him in the eye as he forced his head up, exposing his neck fully. The syringe went deep inside, and he screamed, and Nessa nearly covered her ears because it shattered something deep inside her that she didn’t know could shatter, and tears were forming in her eyes, obscuring her vision, what was happening to him, what were they doing to him, make it stop make it stop make it stop -

He stopped crying. He stopped screaming, he stopped struggling. He simply went limp, head dropping as if he had no energy left, no will to fight or to live or to escape this madness. The silence was overwhelming. 

Then, his head picked back up.

Nessa was met with a pair of dead, pupiless gray eyes. Void of life, obscured only slightly by long black hair, draping over pale skin and a torn purple combat vest. 

The Misaaldi returned her hand to his cheek. He did not respond.

“My little puppet...it’s time to give you strings.”

She waved another Marnuck over, another one holding a syringe. The injection was performed without resistance into the same place as the former. It took a good ten seconds for anything to happen, and his eyes suddenly began to shift, his body started to swell, his fingers formed claws and tried to scratch at the air as he let out a howl, not a scream, a full blown howl, guttural and from the deep confines of his empty body -

Nessa couldn’t watch. She squeezed her eyes shut and simply listened to the sound of metal snapping under pressure, the howls turn into roars, the tearing of flesh and the new symphony of Ganglion screams as heavy thuds echoed against the walls, as structures began to tumble and fall and collapse under pressure, and it only kept going and going and going and -

Silence. 

Nessa opened one eye, and the video had ended abruptly. Its aftermath, however was clear as day, scattered around them, the remnants of a massacre.

It was her turn to start shaking. It was Solstice’s turn to squeeze her hand. Elma and Lin sat, staring at the screen as if they were hoping it’d provide something else, a little message saying “it’s all a prank”, “it’s all a dream”, “none of this is real”. But nothing came. They were only met with darkness. Quiet. Nothingness.

But of course, even if Nessa asked for nothingness, she would always have a little voice in her head, a separate being acting as her inner conscience.

My...my baby…you...

She didn’t think she’d ever hear Mira’s voice waver, she didn’t think Mira was capable of showing such a parental kindness. But here it was, and it sounded so torn, so lost. 

Before she could respond, a distant roar echoed across the skies, and Solstice looked up to meet it. There, behind the clouds, descending towards them…

Solstice stared dead into Starr’s eyes as he landed, teeth bared, ready to fight. They addressed Nessa without looking at her. Their hands remained intertwined.

“Your brother has great timing,” They whispered.

[sonicgetsrawed]

Cass and Hugo Save the Tangled Universe

Started as a cracky fic about everyone getting thanos snapped, turned angsty, but we got the crack a bit in the end! Hope y’all enjoy!!

“What does this do again?” Cassandra asked, lifting one of the various items on Varian’s workstation.

The young man, and wasn’t that strange to think of Varian as anything other than the small fourteen year old with a crush on her, quickly grabbed it out of her hand. “Don’t touch that. I have a system and everything needs to stay in place if this is going to work.”

“And this piece of metal helps how?” She asked, watching as Varian placed it back on the counter where she had grabbed it from.

“That,” Cassandra rolled her eyes at the new voice. It had been a month since Varian had returned from his own adventure and brought with him, she shuddered, Hugo. “Is a very important piece of metal. It makes sure the radiation and oxygen levels stay where they need to be so we don’t, well you know, die.”

“Sounds fun.” Rapunzel said, sounding more or less unconvinced at her own words. “And this will really help?”

“Theoretically.” Varian started, rubbing the back of his neck. Cassandra repressed an eye roll, she hadn’t been back for long herself and it was still hard to get used to the fact that not everything Varian created anymore was bound to blow up. “If this works,” and there was that little snort laugh she was used to hearing, at least that hadn’t changed. “Corona will have an unlimited supply of power.”

“No more lanterns or candles.” Hugo added, wrapping his arm around Varian’s waist. Her eyes narrowed slightly. She knew she was the last one that should judge, but Hugo had betrayed him and now he was apparently dating Varian. She was trying to be supportive, that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“And everywhere will have hot running water, with a reliable system!” Varian squealed excitedly, a wide smile on his face.

“Well, what are we waiting for?! Let’s turn it on!” Rapunzel said, just as excitedly as Varian, her hand reaching for the on switch.

“No, no, no. It’s nowhere near ready.” Varian said sheepishly, grabbing Rapunzel’s wrist to stop her. “There’s still so much we don’t know about how the library works. It’s like a limitless energy source, but also very heavily magic based and we all know magic can be-“

“Unpredictable.” Hugo finished, his eyes darkening just a hair, but Cassandra recognized something in that look. She didn’t know much about what happened inside the library other than they couldn’t save Varian’s mom, if that look was anything to go by it hadn’t been good.

Rapunzel tapped her finger against her chin, before her eyes lit up and she grabbed Varian by the hand, effectively pulling him out of Hugo’s grip. The other did not look happy about it, although he didn’t say anything. “Then we have much to discuss. Do you think you could have a presentation ready by the next council meeting? I’d really like to get everyone’s opinions on this.”

Cassandra tuned out the rest, she had no place in that conversation anyways. Rapunzel may have welcomed her back with open arms but not everyone was so kind, unlike Varian she was replaceable, good fighters could be found anywhere. A mind like Varian’s was not something so easy to come by, and strategy wise it was something one would do better to have on their side. Her eyes snapped up at the sound of metal clanking together. They narrowed when she saw Hugo tampering with the machine. “Varian said not to touch that.”

“Correction, Varian said for you not to touch it. I on the other hand know what I’m doing.” Hugo drawled, continuing to do who knows what to the machine.

“Just because you think-“

“Know!”

“You know what you’re doing, doesn’t mean you should.” Cassandra sneered, electing to ignore his interjection lest she strangle the younger where he stood. Instead she opted to grab whatever odd tool he had been using to do whatever it was he was doing.

“Hey!” Hugo shouted, reaching for the tool. “I was trying to fix something.”

“You were being annoying.” Cassandra corrected, expertly dodging Hugo’s advances.

“Guys, is now really the time?” Varian interjected, moving back towards them, eager to stop the little skirmish before something bad happened. He was too late. Hugo surged forward, grabbing Cassandra’s wrist, but not being able to stop his other hand from reaching out and breaking his fall while simultaneously hitting the on button. The machine whirled to life, the green of the portal filling the space. “What did you-“

Cassandra watched in horror as Varian dropped to his knees, a pained expression on his face as he shakily held his hand up, or what was left of his hand. He was fading, bit by bit, disappearing.

“Varian? What happened?” Hugo let go of her, joining Varian on the ground, taking what little remained of him into his arms.

“I- I think I miscalculated.” Varian’s lips twitched into something more reminiscent of a smile. “Fascinating isn’t it? The science I mean, just…. fascinating.”

“No, I mean yes, but, Var, I can’t lose you. Not again.” Hugo cupped his face, Varian placing his hand over his.

“I-“ and then he was gone, Hugo left on the ground staring at nothing. Cassandra felt just as empty as he looked, Varian was gone. Her pseudo little brother gone, all because she couldn’t let his sleazy ass boyfriend do whatever the fuck he was doing to the machine. They could find a way to reverse it, surely with the three of them they could bring Varian back.

“Cass?” A feeling of dread filling her once again. She turned slowly, Rapunzel already halfway gone. “Cass, I don’t know what’s going on, but I believe that you can fix it. You-“ Her crown clattered to the floor, the only piece left of her.

“Raps?” She knew she would get no response, she was gone, still a part of her hoped this was a cruel joke. She picked up the crown, running her fingers over the cool metal, she’d bring them back, she had to. “Come on, let’s go get someone who can help us figure this out.”

“I can figure this out. I worked on this with Varian, you know.” Hugo responded, finally standing. She decided it was best not to acknowledge his red rimmed eyes.

She sighed, placing the crown down on the counter. “It still wouldn’t be a bad idea to get someone else’s help. Maybe they could see something we don’t.”

Hugo rolled his eyes, if he hadn’t told Varian he’d try to get along with his friends he would’ve argued, instead he just bit his tongue, forcing back the cruel words that threatened to slip past his lips. “Fine. Whatever, let’s do it your way.”

They made their way through the castle, not a single soul in sight. The halls littered with abandoned maid carts, linens, and other various items. The kitchen wasn’t much better, food left on the stove, the fires still burning. Even the dungeons were empty, spears abandoned where the guards once stood. It was like everyone dropped what they were doing and left. The town was very much the same, every last person, no, every last living thing, was gone. Not even the birds chirped in the trees, or the crickets played their little songs nearby. It was all so eerily quiet. Just her and Hugo. And wasn’t that odd, that after everyone was gone Hugo still remained. She turned sharply, sword drawn and at the ready. “What the fuck did you do?”

Hugo stepped back, eyes narrowed as he held up his hands. “What did I do?! You were the one that caused this! If you would’ve left me alone none of this shit would’ve happened! Take responsibility for your own fucking actions for once in your fucking life!”

This time Cassandra stepped back, her sword lowering ever so slightly. “I have! I know what I did was wrong. I’m fixing it, but this, this, isn’t my fault.”

Hugo laughed, the sound cold and bitter, and every bit judgemental. “You didn’t fix shit. You ran from your problems. Set off on this big fucking grand adventure because you couldn’t take the heat. Own your fucking mistakes like the rest of us.”

“Oh, like you? Because from where I’m standing all it looks like you’ve done is weasel your way into Varian’s good graces so you don’t have to face the consequences of your actions. I swear if you even think about hurting him-“

“Like you did?” Hugo cut her off, stepping forward, no longer caring about the sword between them. “You’re a fucking hypocrite you know that? I may have lied, and cheated, and fucking shattered Varian’s heart to pieces, but I own my mistakes. I work my ass off every fucking day to make it up to him. I never claimed to be a good person, I never said I never hurt him, ‘cause I fucking did. I’m not proud of it, I know I don’t deserve someone like Varian. But you can bet your hypocritical ass I’ll spend every fucking second of every fucking day for the rest of my fucking life making it up to him. And I don’t give a shit if you like me or not, but this isn’t going to bring them back. So get off your high horse and fucking work with me.”

Cassandra stood, shocked for a moment as his words sunk in. He didn’t wait for her to respond, already marching back to the palace. She wasn’t running from her mistakes, she had faced them and earned back Rapunzel’s trust, hadn’t she? She wasn’t running, she wasn’t. She clenched her fists, jogging a bit to catch up to Hugo. “Hey!” He didn’t even acknowledge her, which pissed her off more. “Hey! You can’t fucking say that shit and walk away, you fucking jackass! I earned my redemption, same as Varian! So you don’t get to call me a hypocrite, you little piece of shit!”

Hugo turned suddenly, his face dangerously close to hers. “You didn’t earn shit. You just think you did because you’re the princess’s friend and she used her power to keep you from suffering any real consequences. You’re fucking entitled and you’re too fucking stubborn to see it. So, shut the fuck up and help me. Or don’t, at this point I don’t really give a shit about what you do. But I’m bringing them back one way or another.” He didn’t even raise his voice, but something about its lower, quieter tone made it all the more dangerous.

There was no room for argument. Not that she wanted another one, he was right about one thing, they needed to save their friends and it wouldn’t get done with the constant arguing. She could recognize that much, they could always hash out their problems later, once everyone was safe and sound. “Fine, I’ll help.” Cassandra agreed, Hugo finally backing up.

“Good. I’ll need someone to hold the light.” Hugo said, his tone no lighter than before, not that she could blame him, she was still pissed herself. They just needed to get through this, then they could go back to hating each other. She’d done worse, she had pretended to be interested in Hubert, she could put up with Hugo to get their friends back, how bad could it be?

Really bad, apparently. Just five minutes into trying to figure out the machine the arguing had already started back up. “I thought you said you worked on this with Varian.” Cassandra said, holding the little glowing vial so Hugo could see whatever schematic he was looking over now.

“I did. That doesn’t mean I remember everything about it. There’s a shit ton of trial and error in this.” Hugo huffed, adjusting his glasses for the millionth time as he squinted at the paper in his hands. “Varian, I love you, but goddamn it you have to be more organized.” He mumbled under his breath, she still heard.

Cassandra sat up straighter, suddenly at full attention. “You love him?”

Hugo stiffened, but nodded nonetheless. “Of course I do. I just haven’t told him yet, so keep your mouth shut.”

Love was not a subject she was comfortable with, not something she fully understood, but talking about that was infinitely better than the stifling silence or the arguing. “Why not?”

Normally he wouldn’t have answered, he shouldn’t have, it was frankly none of her damn business. But if this didn’t work and he never got Varian back, if they never got anyone back, would it matter? Hugo shrugged. “I wanted to do it right, I guess. Take him on a proper date for once, all that romantic shit he deserves. Tell him then.”

Cassandra hummed, maybe she had misjudged him, he was still a little shit, but he did seem to truly care for Varian. “Well when we get them back-“

“If we get them back.” Hugo interjected, frowning harshly at the paper.

“When we get them back, you can take him on that date. Now, let’s see those schematics.” Cassandra reassured, grabbing her own handful of the papers. She hoped they got Rapunzel back soon, she was already sick of being the positive one. She glanced at Hugo, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She hated to admit when she was wrong, the more time she spent with him though, the more she could see why Varian was drawn to him and how much Hugo cared for him. “I appreciate how much you care about Varian. He needs someone like you in his life. I still don’t like how you got here, but I think you’re good for him.”

Hugo chuckled lightly, his darker tone gone, a bit of light returning to his eyes. “Was that an apology?”

“Not a chance in hell, kid.” Cassandra shot back, her eyes narrowing at the paper in her hands, just looking at it gave her a headache.

“Hey! I’m not even that much younger than you!” Hugo protested, a smile overtaking his features before Cassandra could respond. “You sly little bastard. Of course you’d fucking encode it and not tell me.”

“So, you found something?” Cassandra asked, leaning over to look at his paper.

Hugo hummed in confirmation, grabbing a blank piece of paper and begun writing on it. “Yes! All we need is-“ his eyes drifted to her chest, and for a second she thought she was going to have to slaughter him on the spot. Did it really count as murder if no one would be around to accuse her? “That! Give me your necklace!”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow, instinctively reaching for her necklace. “My necklace?”

“Yes, give it. I need the Cassandrium.” Hugo clarified, holding his hand out for her to drop it in. She complied, not bothering to ask what he needed it for, she wasn’t likely to understand anyways. She patiently watched Hugo work, doing whatever he told her to, until finally he stepped back, wiping the grease off his face. “That should do the trick. Would you like to do the honors?”

“Sure.” Cassandra agreed, taking the offer for what it was, an olive branch. She flipped the switch, holding her breath as the machine came to life once again. Hugo looked just as nervous as her. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, Hugo covering it with his own. They both sucked at words and emotions, but it was their silent acknowledgement of working through their problems together. “It’ll work, and if it doesn’t we’ll try as many times as it takes.”

Hugo sucked in a breath as the room lit up, both covering their eyes at the sudden onslaught to their eyes. When it subsided they slowly lowered their hands, Hugo laughing at the scene in front of him.

“Hugo!” Varian laughed, running forward, Hugo meeting him halfway. Their lips locking in a kiss as soon as they were close enough. “I knew you’d figure it out.”

Hugo laughed again, pressing their foreheads together. “Would’ve been a lot sooner if you’d left me the code.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” Varian teased, capturing his lips once more.

“Cass?” Cassandra turned, smiling as she faced Rapunzel, the other looking disoriented but otherwise in one piece.

Cassandra wrapped her in a quick hug. “You’ve got to stop scaring me like that, Raps.”

Rapunzel laughed. “No promises.”

“Is anyone going to explain to me what the fresh fuck just happened?!” Eugene exclaimed, running down the steps, towel wrapped around his waist and soap in his hair. “I was taking my bath, disappear who the fuck knows where, and then I’m returned to a fucking ice cold bath! If this was a prank I swear I’m skinning all of you alive!”

The group of four exchanged a look with each other, before simultaneously scattering across the room. “Not it!”

[chaptersinprogress]

demolition lovers  |  4

"P'King!"

Sighing, he closed his eyes and sent the heavens a quick prayer for patience. Speak of the devil.

Rating: T

Warnings: mild swearing

Pairings: Ram/King; Bohn/Duen

King frowned as he checked his watch. What was taking Bohn so long? Surely the meeting with the professors hadn't run that late. He sighed and shot Mek a text.

K: I'm at the Gear Statue. Where are you guys? Is the case still being discussed?

M: Still outside the Dean's office. They're taking longer than expected. Might be more serious than we thought.

K: Damn. Still can't believe it was the archi department the nongs brawled with. We've always had a decent relationship with them.

M: Yeah. But don't worry, we haven't seen any sign of the med kid yet. We'll make sure Bohn doesn't run into him.

K: Thanks. Sorry for taking up your afternoon.

M: Bohn's our friend, it's nothing.

King pocketed his phone with a smile. Mek and Boss were far too good to them. He swung his bag onto his shoulder as he got up. He'd better go find the Year 1s now, or he'd be late for their tutoring session.

"P'King!"

Sighing, he closed his eyes and sent the heavens a quick prayer for patience. Speak of the devil. Opening his eyes, he found Duen standing in front of him, holding a bouquet of flowers.

"N'Duen," he said coldly.

Duen flinched slightly at his tone. "Ah, sorry to trouble you, P'King. Do you mind helping me pass this to P'Bohn? I didn't manage to find him this morning to pass them to him myself."

"Don't worry, you can consider the deal over. You needn't bother."

"But I want to," Duen replied slightly desperately. "I have to make it up for hurting him."

King let his eyes fall to the bouquet Duen clutched. Purple hyacinths were interspersed with daffodils, all enclosed within a ring of fresh snowdrops. He mentally catalogued the flowers - forgiveness, new beginnings, hope.

"And why should I pass this to Bohn?" he asked. "What are you expecting, N'Duen?"

"I...I..." began Duen, stammering. He took a deep breath. "I wish to court P'Bohn!"

King raised his eyebrows. "Oh? But I thought you found his attention... troublesome."

Duen flushed. "I didn't mean it that way! It's just... P'Bohn can be kind of forceful. And there are a lot of people who aren't happy about his attention being on me, so...um... they take it out on me. It's a bit scary sometimes," he admitted.

King felt himself soften slightly. He'd grown up with Bohn and knew first-hand just how aggressive he could get when he wanted something. That and people could get very ugly sometimes, especially when it came to matters of the heart. 

No wonder the kid had reacted so strongly. The stress of being pushed around by Bohn and the others had slowly built until he'd finally exploded. Bohn had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"But are you willing to deal with this?" King pressed. "There will probably be many times in the future that situations like this occur again. Who's to say that you won't react the way you did again? I don't want to watch my best friend get hurt."

Duen considered the question carefully. "P'King, I cannot guarantee you that I will never hurt P'Bohn again. We are both human, and we will end up making mistakes, some of which will hurt each other."

"But I can promise you that I've had the week to think about this,” he continued. “And I'm sure that P'Bohn is worth the effort. The future may be uncertain, but I'm willing to apologise for the mistakes I've made and will end up making. And if P'Bohn will have me, I hope to stay by his side for a long time."

King searched Duen's face for the slightest hint of insincerity, finding none. And the fact was, the type of relationship Duen and Bohn had was between the two of them. He had no right to determine it. Caving, he took the bouquet.

"Fine. I'll help you pass this to Bohn. But- !" he said as a smile spread across Duen's face. "First you'll need to convince Bohn to accept you on your own. Then you'll have to convince me that you're a good match for him."

Duen nodded frantically. "Yes, P'King! Thank you for giving me a chance!"

King sighed, already beginning to regret the decision. "Alright, alright. Scram," he said, walking off to find the Year 1s.

"P'King, over here!" shouted Phu.

King raised his hand in acknowledgement and strode over to the group of Years 1s huddled together at a bench in the Engineering Faculty's garden.

"Hello nongs, I've heard that you need some help. Your midterms coming up?" he asked, leaning against the side of the table.

Phu nodded frantically. "Yes Phi, but we're all lost when it comes to indeterminate forms of limits and L'Hospital's rule."

"Ah. Yeah, it can be a bit tricky to wrap your head around at first. Let me see, we can work through an example together."

King spent the next ten minutes explaining the concepts, first to the entire group, then tailoring the explanation to suit the individuals who still couldn't fully grasp it. When he had satisfactorily cleared the theoretical doubts, he assigned the group a set of questions from the textbook to try applying what they had learnt.

After giving them five minutes to attempt the questions on their own, he began walking around, checking their work and offering corrections and guidance to those who needed it. As he pointed out a mistake to one of the students, he heard Phu call out.

"Ram! I saved you a seat. Hurry up, P'King has already started tutoring!"

King felt his heart rate pick up. What were the chances that this was some other 1st year engineering student also named Ram?

He felt more than saw someone settle down opposite the student he was helping. King's palms grew sweaty. Still torn between wanting to know and remaining ignorant of who exactly had joined them, he forced himself to focus on the worksheet.

When he finished pointing out the errors and could delay no further, he slowly straightened up. His eyes dragged across the books stacked on the table to muscular forearms encased in a crisp white shirt, travelling along the length of a slim black tie, before arriving at a familiar face.

King swallowed heavily as Ram looked up at him, expression carefully blank.

"Ah P'King, do you mind explaining the concepts again to Ram?" asked Phu. "Sorry he's late, I forgot to mention to you that he had a prior commitment."

King hastily turned to face Phu, grateful for the opportunity to look away. "No worries, Nong. I'll be right there."

He made his way over to Ram at snail-pace, desperately trying to prolong the time it took to reach his ill-fated crush. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was about to burst right out of his chest.

Finally reaching Ram's shoulder, King took a deep breath before speaking. "So, um, do you have any particular questions or do you want me to start from the top?"

Ram nodded sharply. King waited for Ram to clarify which of the two he was referring to but received no answer.

"You do understand Thai, right?" he asked carefully.

Ram gave another jerky nod. When no further reply came, King ran a hand through his hair. "From the top then, I assume. Turn your textbook to the chapter on indefinite limits, we'll start from there."

He muddled his way through the explanations, relying on Ram's nods and head shakes to gauge his understanding. Assigning Ram a couple of questions, he stepped back and took a few moments to collect himself.

Shit. Having to tutor his crush was pure torture. He had been hyper-aware of himself the entire time - every breath, every tiny motion he made, and even the volume of his voice. The stress of having to be near Ram was going to be the death of him.

"P'King," Phu called. "Ram's having difficulty with this question."

Pulling himself together, King braced a hand on the table and leaned over Ram's shoulder to study the problem. As he did so, he caught a whiff of Ram's cologne - a heady blend of musk, wood and leather. The scent hung seductively in the air.

King inhaled deeply, subtly trying to fill his lungs with it. Too distracted by the smell to concentrate on anything else, he stared at the paper blankly, not processing a single word.

Ram turned his head slightly to stare at his suddenly all-too-quiet senior. The movement caused his nose to lightly brush against King's cheek. The touch burnt like the white heat of a comet trail and yanked the senior back to the present.

King jerked away like he'd been stung.

"I...er...I forgot about a meeting. Gotta go now," he stammered, grabbing his bag and the bouquet from Duen off the bench. "N'Phu, send me a photo of the question. I'll get back to you later," he said before promptly fleeing, leaving the 1st year students staring after him in confusion.

Bohn stroked a smooth petal delicately. "What did you say the flowers meant again?"

"Forgiveness, new beginnings and hope," came King's muffled voice from where he'd buried his face in the mound of pillows littering Bohn's bed.

Bohn hid the smile that had slowly begun to spread across his face in the bouquet. "King, he went through the trouble of making an apology bouquet."

"Yay... lucky you..."

Bohn shot his friend a glare. "What's your problem? You've been like that for half an hour already."

"Don't remind me," King moaned, attempting to smother himself with the pillows. "Or better yet, just kill me now."

"You have five seconds to start talking before I come over there and make you talk," Bohn threatened. "Five. Four. Thre-"

King threw a pillow at him without looking. It bounced off the edge of the couch, nowhere near Bohn. Grabbing it, Bohn chucked it back at King, and unlike his friend, nailed him right in the head.

"Ow! Alright! He was part of the group I had to tutor today and then I went and fucked it all up with my stupid crush, happy?!"

"What did y- "

Bohn's phone pinged. Deciding to drop the subject for the moment, Bohn reached over and picked it up. Reading the message, he whooped and jumped on top of King.

"He asked me out! King, Duen asked me out!"

King lifted his head up with a groan and wheezed, "He did what now?"

"He asked me out!" yelled Bohn into his ear. "Our usual bar, tomorrow night at 9!"

"Ok, ok, I heard you now get off me," King pleaded, gasping for breath.

Bohn promptly rolled off him and moved to text Duen. King put an immediate stop to that by grabbing Bohn's arm.

"Wait, are you sure you want to accept? This is the same guy who rejected you a week ago that we're talking about."

Bohn raised an imperious eyebrow. "Of course I'm sure. I always get what I want."

King sighed and let Bohn get back to texting Duen. He pulled out his own phone. Like hell was he letting Bohn walk into this on his own.

K: Our resident idiot has decided to accept that kid's request for a date tomorrow

P: You serious? The same one he was avoiding at the fundraiser?

K: Yeah. A bouquet of flowers is all it took for that resolve to collapse like a house of cards.

P: What's the plan?

K: I'm gonna go with. No way in hell am I going to leave them alone till I'm sure of his intentions.

P: Text me the address and time, I'll be there

K: No way. You have your hazing trip the next morning. Are you not planning to sleep? You're not coming.

P: You're not my dad. And that's my problem. Besides, Bohn's given you the slip plenty of times. As long as he doesn't know I'm there, we can keep an eye on him.

K: Fine. The usual bar, 9pm. I'll let you know if there's a change of plans.

P: Got it

[rimmers-swimming-certificate]

Red Dwarf Fanfic - Names (2/2)

Part 1

“Sirs, you do realise that you’re not actually married, don’t you?” Kryten told them.

Lister and Rimmer glanced at one another. “That’s not the point,” Rimmer told him.

Kryten nodded. “Of course not, sir. It’s just that even if you wanted to get married, technically you wouldn’t be able to, so I really don’t see why you’re both getting so… so argumentative about it.”

Lister frowned. “Hang on, why wouldn’t we be able to?”

Kryten glanced from Lister to Rimmer and back again. “Well, for various reasons. One of which is that it isn’t legally permitted for holograms to marry.”

Lister hadn’t known that, actually, but he didn’t care. He glanced at Rimmer and shrugged. “Well, yeah, but that’s discrimination, isn’t it? We’re not into that round here, so we decided to ignore it. Anyway, we know we’re not married, but we’re as good as, aren’t we?”

Kryten hesitated. “I suppose, looking at it from a certain point of view. But still, it is the law. Or at least it was the law, at the last point in history from which we encountered an updated guide to legal practises on the inhabited worlds of the solar system. None of them allowed deceased people to marry, therefore, legally you are not permitted to marry someone who is dead.”

Lister shuddered at that. “Don’t say it like that, Kryten. You make it sound like I tied the knot with a corpse or something. Just say hologram, okay?”

“Why should he?” Rimmer asked. “I am dead, after all. If that makes you uncomfortable, maybe we need to apply for an annulment.”

“You can’t,” Cat interjected. “Didn’t you hear him? Nobody tied any knots with anybody.” He looked at Lister. “That’s a good thing, by the way, imagine being tied to this guy for the rest of your life.” He indicated Rimmer with a wave of his hand and pulled a disgusted expression. “What would you do if you needed to visit the litter box?.”

Lister sighed. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t bothered. “Cat, there’s no actual tying of knots involved,” he said.

“Well, sometimes there is,” Rimmer corrected, with a sly smile.

Lister looked at him sharply.

In swift response to Lister’s reaction, Rimmer immediately sprung to his own defence. “Uh… I didn’t mean that how you might have taken it,” he said. He spoke far too quickly and a hint of a blush spread across his face. “I just meant some marriage ceremonies involve knot… Pagans! They tie knots I think.” He frowned. “Don’t they?”

Lister shrugged.

“Unless you’re into that kind of thing,” Rimmer continued. “Tying knots, I mean. Because if you are, then maybe we could… I mean, just to try it out. I really don’t mind…”

Lister sighed and ran a hand over his face. He shot a glance at Rimmer that he hoped communicated that they could talk about that later, then turned back to Cat and Kryten. “Guys, you’re missing the point,” he said. “All we’re doing is trying to figure out what we should be called. You know, theoretically. If we got married. Rimmer thinks one of us needs to change our name, but I don’t want to be a Rimmer and he doesn’t want to be a Lister.

“That’s easy,” Cat told him. “Do away with them altogether. I never understood you monkeys with your name obsession anyway. And you don’t just have one, either. You gotta have two of them. Goalpost Head even has three, and now you’re thinking about swapping them around? What for? Dump them, problem solved.”

Rimmer shook his head. “No, you moronic moggy, that doesn’t solve anything.”

Cat shrugged. “Fine, you love your names so much, keep them. But why not squish them together?”

Rimmer frowned. “What?”

“You know, like…” Cat paused, frowning thoughtfully as he tried to puzzle out what he was trying to say. “Like Rimster, or Limmer, something like that.”

Lister shook his head.

“Not bad, actually,” Rimmer said, nodding appreciatively. “Not bad at all. We still keep elements of our names. It would have to be Rimster, obviously. Limmer just sounds ridiculous.”

“Rimmer, ‘Rimster’ sounds like…” Lister smirked. “Well, like something you wouldn’t want as a name.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Lister shook his head again, “never mind. And yeah, I’m with you on Limmer, it’s terrible. But you know, depending how you do it, it’d be possible to combine our names together and get ‘Lister’ or ‘Rimmer’, so how about we do that? I’ll take Lister, you take Rimmer, problem solved.”

Rimmer shook his head. “Problem not solved. The whole point was to have the same name. Not the same names we already have.”

“Sirs, you haven’t even had a marriage ceremony,” Kryten said, continuing his train of thought from earlier in the conversation. “Some form of exchanging of vows is traditionally required in every single culture in order to seal a marriage.”

“Alright,” Lister said. “Let’s do that, then. You know the words for a wedding, right Kryten? If we just do it, then will yo let us talk about this?”

Kryten hesitated.

Rimmer raised a finger. “Hang on a minute, Listy,” he said. “What kind of a proposal is that? Like I told you earlier, I consider myself a fairly traditional guy. If we’re going to get married, at least one of us should be getting down on one knee, holding a ring and popping the question. ‘Oi Kryten, you can marry us,’ just doesn't cut it for me, miladdo.”

“It’s a moot point anyway, sirs,” Kryten told them. “I do know the words I would be required to say, but I’m not qualified to perform a marriage ceremony.”

“Does that really matter though?” Lister asked him. “I mean, it’s not like someone’s going to show up and arrest you, is it?”

“Well, probably not,” Kryten agreed, “But still, it seems wrong, somehow. Anyway, even if I did agree, you would still need two witnesses, and you only have one.”

“They don’t even have that many,” Cat told them. “Ain't no way I’m accepting a wedding invitation without at least a month to plan what I’m going to wear. What if there was some cute bridesmaid there and my badly planned outfit put her off?!”

“There’s not going to be any bridesmaids, you idiot,” Rimmer told him. “There’s not going to be any bride.”

“There’s not going to be any wedding,” Kryten added. “Although, if you would like me to pretend to marry you, I would be willing, though it would be a purely symbolic act.”

Lister glanced at Rimmer. “What do you think?”

Rimmer shook his head. “Not until we sort out this name thing. And not without a proper proposal.”

“Well, I’m not changing my name to Rimmer, and I’m not changing it to smegging Rimster either.”

Rimmer folded his arms defiantly. “Well I’m certainly not changing mine to Lister. I’m not going to let you win this.”

It always had to be about winning and losing with Rimmer, didn’t it? Lister sighed. “That settles that then, doesn’t it?”

Kryten stepped forward. “Sirs… If I might make a suggestion, if you are absolutely adamant about having the same name…”

“We’re not,” Lister interrupted.

“I am,” said Rimmer.

“Well, how about an entirely different name. Something unrelated to either of your existing names, that way there are no winners or losers.”

Rimmer pulled a face. “And how would we come up with this name? Just pluck it out of the air, I suppose?”

“Well, there are ample numbers of worthy people throughout history whose name it would surely be an honour to take,” Kryten told him.

Lister frowned. Kryten was probably right, but the chances of them agreeing on one were practically zero. And even if they did come up with a name they both liked, it didn’t change the fact that Lister didn’t want to change his name. He didn’t even want Rimmer to change his name. Things were fine as they were.

Cat grinned. “Hey, that’s a great idea! Can I pick the name?”

Rimmer and Lister looked at each other and shook their heads simultaneously. “No,” they both said.

“We’d never agree anyway,” Rimmer said. “I’ve got an idea. A contest! The winner gets to pick the name.”

Lister folded his arms. “But you’d pick Rimmer,” he said.

“Yes, that’s the point. And I assume you’d pick Lister, ergo the winner of said contest gets to impose their name upon the other.”

Lister shook his head. “That’s stupid, Rimmer. I don’t want to impose my name on you.”

“Yes,” said Rimmer, “But I want to impose mine on you. So, what do you say? Settle it with a game of Risk?”

“No way. I don’t even know how to play that, and from hearing you go on about it, it sounds more boring than an evening listening to your hammond organ music collection.”

Rimmer nodded. “I know you can’t play. That’s why I picked it.”

“Yeah well, in that case, how about the one that can eat the hottest curry wins?”

“Absolutely not,” Rimmer told him. “I can’t stand spicy food.”

Lister grinned, “I know.”

Rimmer pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Fine, fair enough. It needs to be something that we’re equally good, or equally bad at. Something that we both at least have a chance of winning at. How are you at chess?”

Lister shook his head. “Pool?”

“Backgammon?”

“Twister?”

“Poker?”

“Snakes and Ladders.”

Rimmer frowned. “Actually… that’s not a bad idea,” he said. “I mean, it’s down to pure chance, isn’t it? Who rolls the best numbers, who’s unlucky enough to land on the big snake right at the end… There’s no skill involved at all. So at least neither of us could claim that the other has an advantage.”

He wasn’t serious, was he? Lister looked Rimmer up and down, trying to decide. He looked serious. He looked exactly like a man who was willing to bet his name away on what was essentially a game of chance. “Really?” he said.

Rimmer hesitated. He folded his arms and stared at Lister as though trying to decide the same thing about him. Finally, he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Really. Unless you want to back out, of course.”

Lister considered it. He really did want to back out, but he couldn’t. Not if Rimmer wasn’t going to. Not unless he wanted to be subjected to months of insults and snide comments about how he had chickened out., and he really didn’t want to have to put up with that. Anyway, he had as much chance as Rimmer did of winning. “This only counts if we actually get married,” he said. “Right?”

Rimmer nodded. “Only if,” he agreed.

“Fine. Snakes and Ladders. One game, no do-overs. Winner gets to pick our name.”

Cat grinned as he placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Alright, great!” he said. “I love Snakes and Ladders. I get to be red, okay? And I already chose what name I’m gonna give you guys if I win!”

“Er, no…” Rimmer’s eyes widened in panic. “Cat, you don’t get to… Lister, tell him!”

Lister shook his head. “He’s right, Cat, it’s only me and Rimmer that… Wait, what name did you choose?”

“I’m not gonna tell you guys,” Cat told them. “So, shall we play?”

Lister hesitated as an idea occurred to him. It was a gamble, but it might just work... “You know, Rimmer,” he said, “maybe we should let him play. I mean, why not? It might be fun to have a mystery third option.”

Rimmer swallowed slowly. He walked across the room, turned, and walked back again. “Actually,” he said, “now that I think about it, maybe you’re right, Lister. Maybe there is something to be said for both of us keeping our original names. I mean, there’s much less paperwork, for a start. I think if we did get married, I’d be willing to forego that one tradition.”

“You sure?” Lister asked him.

Rimmer nodded. “Definitely. Just that one tradition though. All the rest, that would be non-negotiable.”

“The down on one knee stuff, and the ring and all that?”

Rimmer nodded.

“Okay then, problem solved.” Lister turned and headed for the door.

“Hey, where are you going?” Cat called after him. “Are you going to get the game?”

Lister shook his head. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and headed in the direction of the crew lockers. All he needed now was a ring, and he knew just where to find one.

[hg80summer-blog]

Untitled or (The flute of Azathoth)

(This story is conceived and finished during the Fall of 2018)

Newspapers as a dying medium had struggled for a while by now, and the descent into the complete and utter abyss of extinction seemed to be accelerating in a jaw-dropping velocity. There was no wonder why her press was struggling financially, every newspaper outlet was, hers was just more severe. She was now standing in the line, waiting for her coffee, and that bastard of a teenager standing in front of her was texting on his phone while blasting loud and obnoxious music out of that headset around his neck, which kinda defeats the purpose of a headset. She was beyond annoyed, of course.

“Kid.”

The kid raised his head up, saw this middle aged red-haired woman standing right in front of him.

“What?”

“Would you mind turning off the music.” She said, tried to be as kind as possible, “This is a coffee shop, not a public park, nor it is the subway, though you really shouldn’t be doing this kind of stuff in those places either.”

The kid turned off the music, visibly fuming, but didn’t say a word.

She smiled. Proud of her own work, of talking a kid out of his annoying and selfish behavior. The line before her had shrunk, and now finally after a 20 mins long wait, which for sure would be the reason that she would be late for work again today, it was her turn to order the coffee.

The guy behind the counter was visually disgusting. Obviously of his teenage, pimples and blemishes were all over his cheeks, two bloodshot eyes suggested an intense binge the night before, or the influences of pots. Droopy nose, dull gazes, and a messily worn uniform, all permeated the sense of purposelessness and a faineant. She chuckled to herself, found that description of the cashier formed by her own head to be extremely amusing.

“Miss!” The teen was almost shouting at that point. “What can I help you with today?”

“Um...” She came back from her daze, “A cup of coffee will do. Lots of cream lots of sugar.”

As she held the hot coffee with both of her hands to help combat the chilling weather of the recent days, the front door was pushed open and a gust of breeze rushed into the store. Then the door just stayed open, and the cold air just kept pestering her scarfed neck. Finally, after a few moments of tolerance, she turned her head to see who was so irresponsible to not even close the door on their way in.

It was a sickly obese man sitting in a wheelchair, trying to get through the narrow doorway of the coffee store. The staff came to his help, but his scooter was just way too big to fit in. His oily face was filled with anger and the expression of dissatisfaction and discontent, his floppy arms were flying in the air, and his mouth was uttering the voice of complaint. Those who had suffered greater for a better cause, and now there is this fat guy standing in front of the coffee place wailing at the waiter because the door was too small for him and his enormous scooter. She tittered at the concept, took another sip of the coffee.

They didn’t put enough cream in it. It was bitter. 

* * *

“So. Are you free tomorrow?”

She raised her head.

“Hilbert.” She sighed.

“Are you that disappointed to see me?” The man languidly leaning on the glass panel of her cubicle was wearing a grey sweater, and always had been wearing a grey sweater.  Ever since the first day she met him, he was wearing a grey sweater. He pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand, “What are you working on right now?”

“Editing the report of that one ghetto.”

“How is it.”

“It’s um… it’s alright.”

“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”

“Well, you know.” She turned her gaze back onto the screen.

“Listen, you care for a drink?”

The blue light illuminated her face, drenched her expressionless features with a somber tone. The cubicles of their publishing house were all so small and squishy, and dark as well for some reason, the light just couldn’t reach here it seemed. She often compared this place to that torture chamber in Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, where a pendulum axe was hanging above the stomach of the tortured inmate, and as time run off it would slowly descent and brings the inevitable doom to the poor soul, presenting the most gruesome death to any spectator too sick to not turn their eyes away. Weren’t they the readers? The idea popped up in her head just as her gaze locked on the statistics provided in the article that she was editing. The article was riddled with grammatical errors and faulty statistics, to the point of near incoherence. The writer of the piece was this overweight old fart, who practically lived in the publishing house since he owned no property whatsoever besides all his stationeries, the old fashioned typewriter of his and a seldom working printer, along with all those borderline trash hoarded in his own dorm room. He divorced a decade ago, lost his house to his wife, estranged with his son and daughter, and had been diagnosed to be severely diabetic. Though he had one thing to be proud of -- being the oldest employee of this publishing house, working here for at least twenty-something years. She found that funny, very funny. The old fart had lost all his abilities to write an adequate article for the press, but the house would never fire him just because he was the most senior member of them all. The reader was the sick one. She realized. When the reader read that short story, they were the one expecting the axe to cut the man in two, and even though in that story of Poe’s, the man escaped, but if theoretically the axe did come down and the man did got split into two parts, the reader would not turn away from the gore, because they yearned for it.  

“I presumed you don’t have anything to do this afternoon.”

“No.” She then realized he was still there. “I am free.”

“Care for a drink in my place?”

“How is your work?”

“It’s um… it’s alright. I need to review a play before I could go any further though, so that is bummer.”

“Tea?” She pulled out her draw, “Got some bags here. I could get you a cup if you want.”

“No thanks… listen…”

“Ey.” The receptionist, April, walked to her cubicle, with a commanding tone of voice and an everlasting despise on her face, “Someone was at the door. He said he came to see you.”

Obsequious sycophant, the harlot blew our boss under the desk. But it was rather a pleasant surprise. She had no relatives around this state, let alone with this city, nor did she have any friends laying around, so someone coming to visit her during work was actually a change of pace that she was not expecting.

“He said his name was John.”

The bench in the front door bore quite a bit of history actually. This press house was fairly old after all, but before its time, the building was actually a police station for the local towns. The bench was there for those who were arrested to have a rest before being dragged into whatever room that was needed for them to be dragged into. Unlike those things, the bench remained.

“I got you some tea.” She said.

He took the cup with the coaster, took a sip, and an expression of disgust emerged on his face.

“You never liked my tea, uh?” She said. “You never liked it, not even for a day.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said that quite often, actually.” She sat down on the other end of the bench, “How is ma?”

He frowned at the question, took another sip of the tea. It was bitter. She knew it. She made it that way, and she wanted to say she made it that way unconsciously, but it really was not that convincing, not even to herself.

“She was feeling better.” He said. “She is feeling better.”

“Like how? Has she gone back home yet?”

“She is feeling better.”

“Is she still in the hospital?”

“You should be asking her that instead of me.”

“What do you mean I should be asking her?” She said, unintentionally raising and heating up her voice.

“I mean you should go ask her how she is.” He said, then he took a huge gulp of the tea, swallowing it with a painful and totally not exaggerated countenance.

“You do not like the tea. I see.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did.” Anger brewed within her, and slowly but surely she was edging on the cliff of an outburst. “You hate my tea. You always had. Now stop jumping all over the place. I know how much of a busy gentleman you are, and coming to visit me was merely the byproduct of a trip or something. How is ma doing? Answer me!”

“DON’T YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!” He suddenly yelled out, almost spilling the rest of the tea, “I AM YOUR BROTHER!” Acerbate, his eyes bloodshot, and veins walled off his forehead like the defense lines from the battle of Stalingrad. He composed himself in mere seconds though, then made a deep breath, “Do not raise your voice at me.” He said, trying to be as calm as possible.

Silence dawned.

She stared out the front door. The long cold breeze blew through the empty but littered street. The press house located at the unheeded corner of the city, so of course vacancy and dead silences were the prevalent frequenter. The winter was longer than before, and harsher. The blanket in her house couldn’t even provide enough warmth for her to fall asleep without being bedeviled by nightmares and long dreams, which was why she was planning to go shopping for a quilt this afternoon to get her through the winter.

“Have you cleared the payment of your house?” He suddenly asked.

“Yes.” She said, still gazing at the street.

“So you own a house now.”

“An apartment, to be exact.”

“How is it?”

“It’s um… it’s alright.”

“It’s interesting. It’s not… great?”

She turned her gaze at him, and didn't answer.

A short pause. He looked at his watch, “Shoot, gonna go. The plane is flying in two.” He stood up. “Thanks for the tea.”

“You are welcome.”

He walked out of the building with festinate steps.

She picked up the cup he left behind, not a drop of tea was left behind.

As she was walking back to her office, or cubicle, she was stopped by the receptionist sitting at the front desk, once again.  

“Ron wants to see you. Like right now.”

She definitely swallows. She thought to herself.

“Thanks, April.” She said with a smile on her face. “I am going, right now.”

When she came back from her boss’s office, she saw Hilbert was still standing around her cubicle.

“Why are you still here?”

“Tea break. Where else can I go in this dreadful place.”

Truly it is a dreadful place. Not just this place. The city in general. What a hell hole. What an absolute hellhole. A place where gun shooting can happen so regularly it became one of the mundane. A place where sunlight was toxic and rains were acidic, umbrellas became a necessity on every day of the year. A place where morality is nothing but a piece of shredded newspaper flying across the empty blocks, so the homeless people will stab those who offer alms and helping hand, and bosses will force their female, or male who give a rat crap, force their female employees to suck their phallic one, and fat people would roam around the street while someone else starve to their lurid death. This place is dreadful. Truly dreadful. She could feel her spine split open from the middle, and raised into the sky like the skeleton of the birds' wings, so she could crash through the window of their press and leave this place once and for all.

“It’s alright.” She said, sat back down in her cubicle, and started to pack things up. “I need to finish my work now, you should get going as well.”

“Yeah… yeah… of course.” He said. After a small pause, he turned and about to leave.

“Hey. Hilbert.” She stopped him.

“Yes?”

“Where are we gonna meet for the drinks this afternoon?”

* * *

His house was as dilapidated as ever, with its shoddy door frame and chintzy carpets, molded corners and peeled off ceilings. Just like before.

"Is Bourbons on rocks okay with you?" He pulled out some glasswares and a bottle of Bourbons, cheap.

"I am alright. I don't drink no more."

He was pouring the liquor, and her words paused him, "When did that happen?"

"Happened a long time ago."

He resumed pouring a glass, clearly for himself, "Well, what can I help you with then?"

"A cup of hot coffee will be alright."

"Sugar and cream."

"Yeah."

The backyard still had that one tree in the middle. It had shed all its leaves, and what remained of it was only a wizen skeletal contour of its former self. There was a working table right underneath it, clearly, a birdhouse was in the making.

"Dickinson kept bugging me about this birdhouse. Really don't know where the obsession for birds came from." He said, walked up to the table. "It's almost finished by now."

"I can give a hand." She really did not want to, but the fact that he brought up Dickinson and the birdhouse kinda made it no longer a viable option.

"That would be so nice of you."

The squirrel on the street looked anemic, lack of food source might have already taken a toll on it. What a pathetic sight. It just oozed with dreariness, which made it quite fitting for this place. This abhorrent city, abhorrent place, where the winter is so goddamn long.

“Someone is getting laid off, let me tell you that.” He said, cutting down the pine board as he was speaking. “Someone is gone, that is all I know. The house was not profitable, they had to kick someone off. For sure wouldn’t be that geezer sitting in the back of the office all the time being as unproductive as possible. Bunch of schmucks, am I right?”

She didn’t answer. She simply helped him attach the board onto the tree with some deck screws, then she just stood aside, watching him nailing down every single one of those holes.

“I need to visit ma.” She uttered.

“Oh? You planning to take out the rest of your yearly vacation leave already?” He said, “You know there is still Christmas.”

“I don’t need to take out anything.”

Just as he finished cutting the corner of the birdhouse floor, he realized. “Oh my lord…” He moaned, then he drank all the remaining Bourbon in the glass in one gulp, “What have they done? How could they…”

“I need to visit ma.” She interrupted him, calmly, “Would you be so kind and drive me to the airport this Sunday?”

“Sure, when are you gonna be back?”

She handed him a bunch of finishing nails, “Nail them.”

He did. Then he just stood there, looking at her. She remained unmoved, stared back at him with a gaze just as bleak as ever. “Are you serious?” He asked.

She handed him the last bit of nails.

“You are for real. Are you just gonna leave all these behinds?”

“Like what? What will I be leaving behind, Hilbert.” She raised her voice ever so slightly, and the tone of anger would not go unnoticed.

He still seemed determined to convince her, but after a ponder or two, he stayed silent. He couldn’t even come up with an excuse. The sheer incompetence of it bemused her.

There was no proper answer besides silence, so he nailed down the floorboard with the rest of the nails.

“Would you hand me the roof?”

She did. He put the roof to the side with some more deck screws.

The birdhouse was finished. They stepped back a little, observing their work.

“Well, you would at least be leaving something behind now.” He said, tittered.

She found that humorous. She truly did, but she didn’t laugh, not even a chuckle.

On their way out, Hilbert invited her to dinner, and a play. It was the play he was supposed to do a review on, and it would be performed in the local theatre on Thursday night. He said he got two tickets from the press, but he had no one to go with, so he was thinking of selling that ticket to earn some extra cash. Now that she was leaving, he wanted this to be to their farewell event. As she was imaging burning the theatre down, she accepted the offer.

The play’s name was John.

* * *

She walked out of the theatre with a face of complete shock. It was a mind contorting catharsis. She felt sick, so she bent down and tried to puke out whatever the dirt and smut that was in her, but she hadn't eaten anything since yesterday, so she gagged on dirty airs, and choked on her own cold dark pride. Now she felt better, and her eyesight was now expanded for at least thirty degrees more than normal. Limbs felt duplicated, like many copies of them were behind each and every single move she made, shadowing her actual limbs with poor imitations. The play resonated. She could feel the play, and the storyline was giving her romantic kisses on her cheek along with the winter wind like she was being loved in the most intimate way that was possible. Making love. The play had made love with her.

She stood straight. The street was clean, people were walking out of the theatre, discussing the masterpiece they just saw.

Hilbert was standing next to her.

“Wow.” He said, seemed to be dazed by what he just saw.

“Indeed.” She answered. “I felt kinda sick.”

“Oh… I am so sorry.”

“In a good way.”

“Oh. It’s… alright.”

It's not alright, it’s great! She screamed in her heart.

“You need to head home then if you are feeling sick.”

“I will. Thanks for the play and dinner.”

“You are welcome. You have a way back right?”

“Yeah… buses.”

“I will see you around…”

She lolloped along the street for a bit, then she called a cap. Dragging herself onto the car became a harsh and relentless mission, but she did succeed at it. The taxi driver was this benign old man, with a green cap and a grey sweater on. He asked her if she was alright because she looked pale and sick. His face was furrowed beyond belief, but his voice was so mellow and chummy, and his expression so elder and kind. Befuddled by the nice old man, she told him the destination and closed her eyes shut pretending to be asleep. When the taxi got to her house, and as her feet were stepping out of her car, the driver gave her his blessing by telling her to have a good one, even though it was already two in the morning.

She got home, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and laid down her bed staring right at the ceiling. The alcohol ran through her throat like a double-decker bus operated by an inebriated Scottish man, and they burnt. She felt enlightened. The play she just saw sang songs within her head, and her mind became its backup singer. She had never felt so understood, no one had ever given her this feeling of absolute empathy, like the one who wrote this play actually knew her personally and knew her entire life up until this point. She gave a standing ovation when the curtain was drawn, and even now when she was already on her bed in her own soon to be former house, she still wanted to give the play another standing ovation. The script of the play had literally zero paid off, but the sense of loss and bloatedness and purposelessness and loneliness of life it had provided literally synchronized with her most inner emotions, like two magnets left near each other would just crash into each other with full forces, or two teens in their nonage with their unhinged hormones sucking each other’s face off in their embrace, or that one meteoroid leaped into earth during the extinction of dinosaurs.

She was drunk. She knew that, because she could see her own pallid volitant soul gyrated to the ceiling, ululating the sound of liberation. It flew all over the place, every corner of the room, and even tripped over the glass which still had some remaining whiskey in it. Elated by its presence, she cackled, then burst out in braying laughter. She would continue to lay on her bed, downing glasses after glasses of whiskey, and laugh and cry herself into sleep. She would do that because, for the first time of her life, she felt understood.

* * *

April looked just as beautiful as ever, with all the makeup and ludicrously expensive headgears. She was so young, and the blossoming youth could be seen from her ample bosom and ripe torso. She still got such a bright future ahead of her. She thought, so she walked up to the front desk. April saw her walking towards her, and gave her a giant PR smile. She smiled back, and thanked her for all the help she offered all these years.

As she cleaned out all of her belongings and cleared out her cubicle, sentimentality flooded her mind. She would miss this job, no matter how bad it may be from time to time, maybe she would miss this city as well. This job, this press house, was the epitome of a good chunk of her life, pleasant or not. Life was just too floaty and vacuous for one to insist it to be something enjoyable. All the bitterness she had gone through in this less than six feet square cubicle, now only amounts to a faint, lingering sweetness aloft her tongue. She smiled at the past, put the last of her possession, a Japanese peace Lily, into the cardboard box.

She was about to turn off the computer, and leave this house for one last time, but then she decided to read the newest draft of their newspaper, to see her final contribution to this press house. The last of her presence in this place that represented so much for her.

There was her work. The report about a slump near this area, written by that well-respected senior, edited by her.

Then she scrolled down a bit. Another article emerged.

The Cynical Banality -- A Critique of John

by Hilbert Johnson  

The latest trend among the circle of artsy, pretentious writers had slipped further into the depth of inanity it seems. The newest sensation, John, by Annie Baker, was truly the greatest piece of theatre work I have ever seen, due to how revealing it is, that through simply watching the play we can truly and intimately feel the cynicism of those writers and how little respect they held for both writing and the art form of theatre.   

The play followed a vacation of a damaged couple, and through piles amongst piles of useless dialogues and set up, we got to an ending that is so shocking, the only proper emotional response I can contribute is a simple sigh and a “meh” if I was having a good day. This is probably the most time-wasting theatre experience I have ever been through, and with my whole heart and with all my respect to anything holy above, I mustered all of my strength just to not walk out in the mid-act, and after the play had ended, I wish I could scorn myself for holding up the integrity of being an audience, because clearly, the creator of the thing has no intention of holding up anything.

Anton Chekhov’s principle of firing a gun in the third act if the gun was presented in the first act, had been defenestrated in the most violent way that is possible. The number of guns this play had thrown out was truly mind-boggling, and of course, none of them even made a spark by the end of the play, let alone firing any of it. The amount of subverted expectations become mere statistical numbers by the second act, and none of them can induce any emotional response besides simple ennui. Set up led to nothing, and half of the stuff the script had offered was useless beyond belief. The story threw out countless dots to encourage the readers to connect them by themselves, but by the end none of them had any pay-off and audiences and readers just left wondering why they wasted their time with it. It was like if there is this breadcrumbs trail in the forest, it is interesting so you follow it, and the trails just lead you to more forest, and more forest, and finally the end of the trail is just more forest and nothing else. It is an infuriating experience. 

Besides the problem of having no paid off, the story was also clogged with useless assets that have no use whatsoever. To demonstrate the point, there is this entire scene in the play dedicated to a reading of the work from HP Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu, with no particular reasons and contributed nothing to the story. Why Lovecraft? Why not Edgar Allen Poe? Why The Call of Cthulhu, why not The Shunned House? No one would know the answer to those questions, because it doesn’t matter. It is like the writer just put some useless trash in between the actual story, just so it is different than the “normal” and “mundane” stories of the others. The play felt wider than an ocean but shallower than a piss creak, but somehow those high tier critiques now consider that quality of one that is a compliment. Maybe I am too stupid to realize the symbolism these informations, but isn’t it equally problematic when your play had nothing but symbolism?

Which leads me here. Not only the content I must criticize, but I also need to criticize the mentality of it as well. Critics say the play had perfectly captured the nature of human life, and the loneliness it had offered, praised it to be one of the best plays that year had to offer. How the play subverted the expectations of the audiences, bringing them to an emotional rollercoaster. How the play successfully captured human’s inner nihilism.

If such a story and writing concept were executed in a short story, I would not even have said a thing. But to put it in such a drag out script, was truly an insult. The play felt like it was written to subvert the audience’s expectation, for the sake of subverting the audience's expectation. It was breaking the golden rules of storytelling, for the sake of breaking the gold rules of storytelling. It was being special, for the sake of being special. It has this immunity of criticism since whenever anyone points out the flaws within the story of the storytelling techniques, it could be brushed under the rug by simply saying it was the intention of the script so it could mimic the meaninglessness of real life. It failed at every level of providing a joyful or anything remotely close to an enjoyable experience for the audience, then turned its head and said it was doing so intentionally. It felt like a work created by the most high-end writer, just so he or she could break more new ground and receive more praise from all of her also high-end colleagues, the top five percent of the population. But this play was also genius enough to pander to the bottom five percent of the population, by presenting nihilism as its topmost quality. According to anecdote, when the play premiered at Paris, viewed by normal theatre-goers, all of them walked out in protest, but when the play was put on the San Francisco Prison, all of the prisoners gave it a stand-up ovation for how close and real the play had represented life itself.

How benevolent of an idea. In that case, whenever criticisms was brought up, this anecdote would just be the last nail of the coffin for the critique. Who you would want to side with, the poor and oppressed prisoners from San Francisco, or the smug, overprivileged theatre-goers from Paris? Case closed.

Truly cynical. To make a play so intentionally abhorrent for any normal viewer, and so pandering to those who are the most vulnerable along with those who are on the very top. It is truly disgusting to see the current mentality of creating art had regressed to a point where a Pulitzer Award-winning writer would write something like this, just to poke and enrage the normal viewers, then slap them across the face and scorn them for not understanding true hardship of human life, and being a privileged arse.

Art is based on real life, and above it. Imitating real life with art in this fashion, truly could only be described as pathetic. 

If I am being as cynical as the writer, I would answer the previously asked question like this:

Who actually, wholeheartedly, wants to side, or go along with the prisoners in San Francisco, rather than those so-called fancy theatre attendees from Paris. Sure, everyone would say they would go for the prisoners, and condemn how privileged those theatre-goers are, but are we honest to ourselves? Between the Id, ego, and superego, which part of us is speaking when we said we would side with the prisoners?

I don’t want to be so cynical, I truly don’t. But when faced with a play created for the top five percent and the bottom five percent of the population and no one else, created to break all the established rules for the sake of breaking established rules instead of breaking traditions because it would help the storytelling or the style of the work, created not to express a message to or provide any entertainment to the public but rather to scorn and educate them for being one of the mundane, created to be as artsy as possible and as high end as possible, I don’t really know the way to keep my cynicism in check. I am just a mundane guy, who went to a theatre expecting something, anything that is not a cynical piece of esoteric mock, and before I can do anything about it, my money and my time were wasted into the thin air in return of absolutely nothing.

I still haven’t mentioned how western-centric this play is, how any other culture that values practicalism and collectivism instead of romanticism and individualism of the westerners would despise this play with their most core value, and how racially insensitive it is for it to be exclusively enjoyed and judged by western audiences, but I have had enough. If I keep talking about this thing, the seed of migraine in my head will be out of control.  

This is true cynicism.

It has some terrific writing techniques, and the restraint and subtlety of the writing were all beautiful, but it can’t amount to all the other issues I have with the script, not even close.

I gave it a strong two to a light three, out of ten.

John, by Annie Baker, 3/10

By Hilbert Johnson

  * * *

Look at this fat bastard. Oily and greasy, how in all the bloody but holy hell can he get a job? She thought to herself, as the waiter standing in front of her was waiting for her to order something. What a waste of resources. Truly morality had got itself into some sort of unremitting horror, just so this creature can serve in an overpriced airport cafe.

“Nothing. Thanks.” She said.

“What you two want for drinks then?” The waiter asked, clearly empty-minded at this moment.  

“Uh I would want some sweet tea, and for the lady here, a cup of hot coffee, lots…”

“Black.”

Hilbert paused for a second. “Make it black then.”

The waiter walked off, and a cup of sweet tea and coffee were put on the table.

“So that’s it.” Hilbert said, taking a sip of the sweet tea, “No way to convince you.”

“You do not have to. Nor is there a necessity for you to do so.” She said, took a sip of the coffee.

Bitter.

“How about the apartment? You just clear your debt for it.”

“Sell it. Or rent it. You don’t have to worry.”

“You sure you don’t want to eat anything before you got on the plane?”

“No. I am fine. You can get something to eat if you want.”

“No.”

“Then we can just have a drink can’t we?”

Pause. Silence. Just the noise of her sipping her coffee.

“I want to apologize.” He finally spoke.

“Not necessary.” She then followed it up with: “For what?”

“I am so sorry about that play that night. It was truly not my intention… I don’t know better.”

“It was a pleasant night.”

“It was truly awful to waste our time like that. I don’t know what the play was about. I should’ve done some more research on it before inviting you…”

“I am actually kind of hungry.” She suddenly uttered. She waved for the waiter, this time the waiter was no longer fat and ugly, but still possessed the same uninvested attitude and disgusting demeanor for a waiter to have. “May I have a slice of the cheesecake, the plain one.”

“Yea, and what the good sir wants?”

“Huh… refill my tea.”

The cheesecake tasted like anesthetic, and it was also bitter.

“I just want you to know, I did not intend for the play to be that... indescribable.”

“It is alright.” She said, finishing the cheesecake with her fork.

“So uh… this will probably be the last time we have a meal together, in a very long time.”

“You want some cheesecake as well?”

“No… thanks.”

“The play was very good.”

“You really don’t have to say that… I felt guilty enough as it is…”

“My plane is almost here.”

“I will walk you to the…”

“You still have work, Hilbert. Thanks for all these years.”

“For sure.”

“Take care.”

“Yea.”

She left, leaving him alone, sitting in the airport cafe.

The cup of black coffee she ordered was not finished.

* * *

The old man laying on the bed looking unfamiliar and strange, elder as well, like some kind of eldritch monster. The bed was made with a clean white sheet, and the flowers next to the bed were all withered and shriveled. The Filipino nurse came in and took those flowers out of the vase, and replaced it with fresh white lilies. That corner of the room looked so clean compared to the rest like it was just created out of thin air minutes ago, like no one had ever walked into that corner of the room ever before. She walked around the room, confused, walked back to the front desk. The receptionist there looked like even more of a whore than April, which was quite an achievement considering the environment they were now in was not the most casual place for one to be working in, she was expecting some kind of professionalism at the very least. The nurse pushed her away because she was blocking the hallway, she stepped back a little, asked the receptionist, who was also a nurse.

The receptionist spent forever going through her computer, then she pulled out a bunch of paperwork and asked her to sign.

She was confused, she asked her the question again. The nurse stared back at her with the most intense gaze like she had just accused her of murder.

Murder.

Like an unclogged sink, she now realized why.

* * *

Rustling leaves and moaning sky, darkening the land with argentine clouds, screaming winds and blinding rainstorm. Somehow the moving company was still working even under such harsh conditions. Laborers and workers carried out those old familiar pieces of furniture and threw them onto the truck with the most apathetic attitude one could have ever have, but who could blame them, not a single person would be glad to work amidst an incoming storm, but uncultured man do uncultured job, who could blame anyone for it? She walked past those people, walked directly into the house. One of the workers stopped her, said the house was under construction and unrelated personnel should stay away, she said I am more related to this house than I would ever want to admit to myself and the police would be on their way if you keep blocking my way. The worker, of course, stepped back.

He was sitting on one of the wooden antique chairs of theirs, in the middle of a practically empty living room, seemed like the movers were doing their job quite efficiently. He was reading a book. Atlas shrugged. What a surprise. Men love it. They goddamn love it. Hilbert once read that book as well, and he wouldn’t shut up about it for the next three months. Truly one has to treat themselves with godhood to think of themselves worthy of the position of Atlas where he could have just shrugged away all of his weight. She had never read the book.

He rose his head and saw her standing at the door, with a black bedraggled umbrella on her hand.

“Holy moly! Why are you here?”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“When are you back? You should have told me about it.”  

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Why would you be here anyway? I really didn’t expect you to come.”

“Answer me.”

“You want some tea?”

“John.” She was gnashing. “Answer me.”

“There is still some coffee lying around.”

A short silence.

“A cup of coffee would be nice.”

“I don’t have much sugar though, and I think those creams have certainly expired…”

“Black.”

There were two wooden antique chairs in the living room now, and a small wooden teapoy between the two. A cup of coffee and a cup of sweet tea were placed on the teapoy, along with the book Atlas shrugged.

“When was ma gone?”

“Two weeks ago.” He took a sip of the tea. “Ah… perfect for a rainy day like this. A cup of hot sweet tea.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Do you know ma was extremely proud of us?”

She didn’t answer.

“Of course you don’t. Why would you? She kept telling me not to bother you. She didn’t want to bother you. She said to me, don’t bother her because her job working for that international trading company must be straining.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“She said not to bother you.”

“What?” Truly enraged, she was progressively getting angrier as the conversation continued, “You didn’t tell me ma is gone, because she told you not to bother me?”

“Well, she didn’t want to bother you! You have a busy job.”

“So you didn’t tell me my mom is dead!? When exactly did she die again?”

“Uh… the funeral was this Monday…”

“Funeral? What funeral?”

“Funeral for ma. Everyone was there…”

“And you didn’t tell me my ma is dead! And you didn’t tell me about the funeral?”

“She said not to bother you… I listened to her.”

“What are you, mad?” She stood up in rage. “You didn’t tell me my mom is goddamn dead because she told you not to bother me?”

“Yes exactly!” He was vexed as well, for some reason, he was clearly in the wrong here so god knows what could possibly be fueling his fury. “Exactly, I didn’t tell you ma is dead because she told me not to! And by god! It took some amount of repetition to get this across that thick goddamn skull of yours!”

“We met on Tuesdays! We talked in the press house! And even then you still lied right to my face!”

“I didn’t lie to you. She told me not to bother…”

“You lied to me! You sultry little squid piss lied! You told me…”

“I DIDN’T LIE TO YOU! SHE WAS FEELING BETTER! SHE IN ALL HELL GODDAMN WAS!”

The scream was ugly, intense, and truly horrifying. Every other screams before this one shivered in its presence.

“I couldn’t drink tea no more.” He sat back down. “They all tasted bitter.”

“Me neither. I couldn’t drink coffee, because sugar and cream just make it more bitter…” She sat back down also.

Silence. The storm outside bellowed.

“I enjoyed some theatre art recently.” He suddenly voiced. “Have you heard of a play called ‘John’?”

Just when she was about to answer, a mover walked in.

“Sir, the furniture is all loaded on the truck now.”

“Sure, have a break, wait till the storm blows over.”

The worker gave her a gaze, then walked out of the house.

What a fat piece of trash. She thought.

The End 

[ineffablegame]

Also published on my Ao3.

Sick

Angels do not, as a rule, fall ill.  They simply don’t have the fortitude for it.  When you take a celestial being and cram it into a fleshy, juicy, human-shaped corporation, you risk causing a fair bit of trauma without adding the possibility of said corporation malfunctioning in a variety of horrific ways – the fevers, the pus, the clogging of various valves and vessels and orifices, and so on. Besides, falling ill would distract an angel from their heavenly duties.  It’s very difficult to spread peace and love and suchlike when you are battling the urge to vomit or, as the charming human colloquialism goes, “shit your brains out.”

This wisdom is by no means theoretical.  In The Beginning, Upstairs was very keen on making the angels’ experiences on Earth as lifelike as possible.  And lo, the first corporations were endowed with all the weaknesses of a human body. Angels were just as likely to suffer boils, dropsy, leprosy, and baldness as any old human.  It was assumed that, in the event a disease grew truly deadly, an angel could miracle themself well.  

(In fact, the only illness exempt from the first corporations was epilepsy.  The humans were convinced epileptic fits were caused by demonic possession, and it wouldn’t do any good to give the opposite side free points, as it were.  Crowley got a commendation for epilepsy.  This both baffled and amused him.)

The old, disease-prone versions of corporations fell out of favor when the angel Gabriel, after being sent to inform Mary of her pregnancy, developed a head cold which clogged up one nostril and left the other free to breathe.  This caused such epic strife and whinging that subsequent models of corporations were rendered disease-free.  

Therefore, angels do not, as a rule, fall ill.

Most angels, anyway.

The angel Aziraphale had been using his corporation since The Beginning.  Before Armageddon, he’d never seen a need to swap in for the newer model. He was the equivalent of a man using messenger pigeons in the time of the iPhone C.  When Adam Young removed Aziraphale from Madame Tracy’s body, he restored him to his old self – in effect, giving him a fresh pigeon and bidding him get on with it.

There is precisely one angel in all of existence who can fall ill, and he is currently in the back room of a bookshop in Soho, lying on a battered sofa as he sweats and moans.  

“You’re what?” Crowley says.  

“Ill, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale croaks.  “I won’t make good company tonight.  You had better take your drinking elsewhere.”

Crowley sets down the twin bottles of Romanee-Conti and crosses to the sofa, staring down at the prone angel. “You’re in my seat.”

Aziraphale, pallid and sweat-soaked, musters a weak smile.  “I know.  Terribly sorry.”

Crowley is torn between horror and incredulity.  “How did this happen?”

“Occupational hazard. Comes with the body.”

“Thought your lot didn’t…” Crowley trails off, brow furrowed. Then he nods.  “Ah.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley goes to his knees so he is at a level with Aziraphale.  “This is what you get for not updating, you know.  I’ve only told you to do it a dozen times.”

Aziraphale miracles a hot water bottle onto his brow and sighs.  “Some things are worth caring for.  If you throw away things willy-nilly when they’re no longer of use to you, everything loses its value.”

“That’s all very well and good,” Crowley says, “but you’ve still got snot all over your face.”

“Ugh.”  Aziraphale casts about for a tissue box, looking crestfallen when he finds it empty.  Crowley miracles it full with a snap of his fingers.  The angel beams, radiant in spite of the snot and sweat.  “Thank you.”

Crowley is, for perhaps the billionth time, grateful for the concealment of his sunglasses.  He gestures to the angel’s face.  “Can’t you miracle this away?”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, managing an indulgent smile.  One billion and one, Crowley thinks.  “You should know there’s no cure for the common cold.”

Crowley stands, surveying the back room.  Snot-encrusted tissues litter the floorboards, swarming around a closed book like a flock of doves.  He stoops and picks up the book.  “The Picture of Dorian Gray.  Is this one of the comedies?”

Aziraphale sneezes, wipes a string of snot off his nose.  “No.  I suspect it would be rather maudlin for your tastes.”

Crowley makes a noise of disdain.  “Why was it on the floor?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale moans, “I wouldn’t normally treat a book like that, of course, but my thoughts have just been all over the place with this blasted cold…”

Crowley looks at the book in his hands, so old and so worn.  A faint aura of love emanates off the scuffed binding, the creased pages.  He glances at Aziraphale, finds him watching with bleary, heaven-blue eyes.

“A cuppa would do me very well, I think.”  The angel places each word with care, like steps on a wilderness path.  His eyes are wide and pleading.

Crowley curbs the impulse to yield to that look.  “Miracle one for yourself, then.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale says, a whine creeping into his voice.  “This cold has completely scrambled my mind.  Can hardly tell up from down.”

“You did just fine with the water bottle.”

“I wanted whisky.  The water bottle was a lucky accident.”

Crowley rolls his eyes so extravagantly he’s certain the angel can see them behind his glasses.  “Right.  You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He snaps his fingers and a cup of Earl Grey appears in his other hand.  He offers it to Aziraphale, who struggles into a sitting position to accept it.  The angel takes a cautious sip, nose wrinkling.  “Crowley, I hate to put you out, but I had rather hoped—”

“Keep pushing and pushing, why don’t you,” Crowley mutters.  With another snap, the Earl Grey turns into Oolong.  Aziraphale’s mouth curves in a smile as he takes another sip.  Crowley’s heart kicks at the sight.  

“Come sit by me,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley finds himself helpless to refuse.  In no time at all, he is seated beside Aziraphale, the warmth of their bodies bleeding into the battered leather beneath them.  The Picture of Dorian Gray is open in his hands, and as he reads aloud of starving souls and rose-red youth, Aziraphale leans his head on his shoulder. His touch is fever-hot.  Crowley, ever the serpent, is warmed down to his bones.

[latristereina]

‘It cannot be doubted’, she writes to her father à propos of the unspeakable De Puebla, ‘that nothing contributes more towards the prosperity or adverse fortune of kingdoms than the sufficiency or incompetence of ambassadors.’ Her interest was practical as well as theoretical. She had, she wrote to Ferdinand’s all-powerful Secretary, Almazan, ‘deciphered the last despatches without any assistance’. Now she ‘wishes she were able to write in cipher’ herself. Could she have the keys? Ferdinand had heard this easy authority once before from a woman. It was from his wife, Isabella. He responded in the same way. Picking up a hint from Henry VII, who had told him that he ‘liked to hear [his news] from her [Catherine] better than from any other person’, he decided that, in the interim before a new ambassador could be sent to England from Spain, Catherine herself should act as his envoy. She was sent credentials in form to present to Henry VII while De Puebla was instructed to share all communications with her. It would be difficult to imagine more uneasy bedfellows. Catherine, starved of purposeful activity as well as affection, threw herself into the new task. She presented her credentials to Henry VII. She started to write in cipher (braving, as she said, the laughter of Almazan and her father). And, above all, she learned the black arts of diplomatic deceit and double-cross. There was ample scope for these in her principal mission. This was to negotiate another dynastic marriage between England and Spain. The groom was to be her father-in-law, Henry VII, and the bride Catherine’s own sister, Juana. The English King had been a widower since the death of Elizabeth of York in 1503, while Juana had been widowed three years later in 1506, when the King-Archduke Philip had died shortly after arriving in Spain to take possession of his wife’s kingdoms. Juana was the beauty of the family and Henry VII, always susceptible to feminine charms, had been much smitten by her when he had briefly seen her at Windsor en route to Spain. That she was mad, or at least mentally unstable, counted for little. That she was young enough to be Henry VII’s daughter counted for less. Nor was Catherine herself squeamish or scrupulous. Instead, she saw such a marriage simply as a device which could redress the balance of diplomatic forces between England and Spain. At the moment, these were wholly in Henry VII’s favour. Ferdinand was eager for Catherine’s marriage to Prince Henry; Henry VII was indifferent if not hostile. If, however, Henry VII wanted, or could be made to want, to marry Juana, then an obvious quid pro quo suggested itself. Catherine, forced for so long to play a merely passive role, rejoiced in this opportunity to turn the tables. ‘I bait [Henry VII] with this [the marriage with Dona Juana],’ she proudly told her father. Miraculously, her own treatment improved, which she pretended to take at face value. She even pretended to be happy with De Puebla’s conduct of affairs: ‘I dissimulate with him [her letter to Ferdinand continued] and praise all that he does. I even tell him that I am very well treated by the King, and that I am very well contented; and I say everything that I think may be useful for me with the King, because, in fact, De Puebla is the adviser of the King and I would not dare to say anything to him, except what I should wish the King to know.’

- David Starkey, Six Wives: The Queens of Henry VIII

Catherine had already implored her father to send a new ambassador, someone who was straight-talking and, preferably, had experience of England. This, she explained, was a country ‘remote from all others’ and with such strange forms of behaviour that it needed special treatment. Soon the credentials naming the new ambassador chosen by Ferdinand arrived. Who could serve his interests better than a loyal, loving and noble subject already living in London and with excellent access to Henry VII? Catherine herself was to be his ambassador. It was an extraordinary move on Ferdinand’s part. Women, however high their status, were rare in the world of power and diplomacy. She was joining a select group of sixteenth-century women, most of whom owed their position or their power to blood ties or marriage. Perhaps Ferdinand, like others, saw something of her mother in Catherine. She was instructed to work in parallel with the increasingly sickly De Puebla – who had to be carried to court in a litter. Catherine presented her credentials to Henry VII early in the summer of 1507.

Catherine may have had more of a role in fixing her own marriage than we know. Her father certainly trusted her to carry out her own negotiations. ‘Shortly before the other king died you said that his death would ensure your marriage,’ he reminded her. Now it was her task to prove those words true. ‘You must use all your skill and prudence to show what you can do, telling my envoy what he should do to swiftly close the deal.’ His instructions were not needed. The deal had been struck even before he wrote to her. Ferdinand was impressed. His daughter’s role in persuading Henry, he felt, must have been crucial. ‘I trust so much in your virtue and prudence that I not only leave to you the direction of your own affairs but would entrust the salvation of my soul to you,’ he told her. 

- Giles Tremlett, Catherine of Aragon: The Spanish Queen of Henry VIII

[cadday]

Collateral Damage: Chapter 7

Even is the worst, and Braig hated lab duties. He’s pretty much sprawled across a table instead of using the perfectly serviceable chair next to him. Even is on a tirade, lecture, rant or something about whatever it is he’s working on. Ienzo is chiming in every now and then as much as the pint sized genius can contribute. Kid’s a mini genius, which is why Even and him get along so well. He can keep up with the tirade’s of science the blonde goes on. Braig not so much. He wasn’t stupid, and he had taken part in a fair share of experimenting, technically he’s gone further with experiments that Even would never consider now…

Regardless though he just didn’t have the attention span for this. He was more hands on and discussing and documenting and all that jazz was just not something he could focus on. Eventually Even just kinda droned in the background as he let his mind wander. This went on for a while until Even at some point made his way over to him and dropped a stack of books on his chest.

“Hey what the hell!” Braig sat up and the books toppled to his lap. He looked around and realized it was just the two of them and sighed.

“You could at least make an effort to pretend to listen.” Even sat in the chair Braig hadn’t used and began to write something on the stupid clipboard of his. Braig picked up one of the books in his lap and frowned down at the title. ‘Beyond Light and Dark, the theory of the balance of a heart’. Braig waved the book in Even’s direction.

“You don’t read this crap do you?” Even looked up from what he was doing and shrugged. Before sticking a hand out as if he was afraid Braig was going to smack him with said book. To be fair it was a possibility.

“It’s research, honestly all of this is theoretical anyway. It’s not like we have any subjects we can use and the morality of that is dubious at best. So theory it is.” Braig snorts and opens the book with a frown.

“Shouldn’t believe any of the drivel Dr. Hollander wrote. Man’s view on the world is freakin warped as hell and don’t even get me started on how wrong this stuff is. ‘The balance of ones heart can create a perfect superior being. A strong heart can maintain and control the darkness while also keeping their light…’ Total bullshit my dude.” Even looks up from his clipboard with an odd expression.

“I wasn’t aware you had read any of Dr. Hollanders work. I had meant to send that with you as a punishment for lying about the whole time. I wouldn’t have taken you to read a theoretical book on hearts on your own time,” He hadn’t, Even had made him or was supposed to make him read it for homework last time as well. “How do you suppose he is wrong? None of this can be tested.”

“Can’t be tested by people with morals and ethics, what makes you think this Dr. Hollander guy had any? Wasn’t he a member of the same lab that one guy was? The one who did child experiments?” He ignores the fact that once upon a time a man with white haired had distorted Even’s morals so much that he had done the same. 

“That story is closer to a ghost story it happened well before we were born and the actual ‘child experimentation’ has no real documented proof to speak of.” Braig shrugs and shuts the book before dropping it on the floor.

“It’s absolute drivel Even. Darkness can’t just be controlled and still allow you to maintain your light. Shit like that has consequences.” Even rolls his eyes and when did this become him lecturing the other because Braig was beginning to feel uncomfortable being the responsible apprentice. Change of subject was in order.

“Where’s Ienzo run off too?”

“He was given an errand to run with a vague enough time frame that he can abuse it and act like a child with those brat’s Isa and Lea that are now running around the castle as well.” Braig lays back against the table again and opens the other book that had been dropped on him, ‘The light in all of us’ by some Dr. Crescent. Seemed more promising.

“Look at you Even, such a good Dad you are.”

“I am not his…”

“Aw now don’t be like that, singles with kids are very attractive these days. We can finally set you up with a nice guy, Master Ansem will be thrilled to walk you down the aisle.”

“Would you cease your ridiculous…”

“Hey I am only trying to keep your best interests in mind. As an older brother…”

“Older brother my ass, you're more like an infant. Would you care to be the flower girl for this imaginary wedding of mine.”

“Excuse you I am at least a toddler. Also I would be the best flower girl.” Even smacked his leg with his clipboard and Braig made a half assed attempt to kick him back. “Ienzo get’s to be ring bearer obviously. Dilan and Aeleus can be your Men of honor.”

“Why am I fulfilling the female role of my hypothetical wedding?”

“Because that waistline deserves a proper tailored dress dude.” Even’s face turned so red that Braig nearly fell off the table laughing. 

“You are the worst. The absolute worst.” It’s said with no real bite though and eventually the conversation lulls and they both turn their attention back to what they had at hand, or literally in their hands. Braig would read in silence till he read something he disagreed with or just seemed bizarre. Even continued to scribble down who knows what but would listen and comment on Braig’s opinions. It was familiar, and Braig thinks he should have more memories of similar events but for all it feels like they do this all the time he finds the memories varied and mostly infrequent. He assumes it’s more things missing from his mind and he wonders how much of these people who are so important to him he has forgotten. 

Ienzo wanders back in eventually making an attempt to look nonchalant and not like he had just been running around the halls with the red and blue messes looking for the girl they were set on finding and then getting distracted by doing something like stair sledding. 

“Ienzo do you want to be the ring bearer at Even’s wedding?” Ienzo looks startled by the question and then looks between him and Even as if he is trying to unravel the world mysteries.

“Even is getting married?” He says it slowly as if he isn’t certain the words are right.

“Braig I swear I am going to…”

“I mean maybe one day but like planning ahead, I already called flower girl.” Even hits him with the clipboard again and Braig makes a show of flinging himself off the table dramatically holding his leg where he was hit. Ienzo though is standing by the door seriously contemplating something when Even turns back to him to try to stop the nonsense.

“I suppose ring bearer could be entertaining. You have my blessing for your wedding.” 

“I am not getting married and why would I need your blessing?”

“Do kids of single parents not get to give input into these things?” Even does this gaping like a fish thing before flinging his arms dramatically in the air and glaring at Braig before he flees the room.  Ienzo, who had moved over to the stack of books littering the desk that he had taken over long ago, looked very proud of himself as he began sorting through his organized chaos.

“Congrats kid you win the day.” Ienzo doesn’t look up but he’s definitely smiling.

[naegiriweek]

Day Two: Puzzle

A/N: Here’s my entry for Day Two of Naegiri Week 2019.  This takes place shortly after the Class 78th Survivors join the Future Foundation.  Enjoy!

Day Two: Puzzle

The Ultimate Detective and The Ultimate Hope Gaiden: Makoto Learns to Fight?!

  “Makoto…come with me.”

Makoto looked up from his spot on the communal couch to see Kyoko staring down at him.  Curious, he stood up to face her.

“O…Okay.  Sure.  Where did you want to go?”

“…You’ll see.”  Turning on her heel, she started walking, advising “Hurry up!”

Realizing she was almost out of sight, Makoto started running, yelling “Kyoko, wait up!”

XXX

Kyoko pushed open the double doors in front of her to reveal what looked to Makoto like a stereotypical high school gymnasium.  Weights, mats, and other exercise equipment covered the floor.

Seeing Makoto’s confused expression as they walked in, Kyoko explained “The Future Foundation set up this gymnasium as an exercise facility.  It’s open to all Future Foundation employees.”

“Okay…so why did you want to bring me here anyways?”

“Combat training?”

Makoto gaped as he repeated her nonchalant revelation “Co…Combat training?”

Nodding Kyoko continued “That’s right.  I’m going to teach you how to fight.”

Taken aback, Makoto protested “Me, learn how to fight?  But Kyoko, I’m a pacifist, you know that!  There’s no way I’d ever try to fight anyone…”

“This isn’t about training you to pick fights.  What I’m going to train you in is how to protect yourself should you be attacked.” 

Kyoko flashed back to their last few days at Hope’s Peak, when she barely saved Makoto from getting killed by Junko’s knife assault.  Holding back her tears at the guilt-ridden memory, she took a deep breath to compose herself, which didn’t go unnoticed by Makoto.

“I won’t always be there to protect you, Makoto.  Especially in the world we live in now, there may come a time when one of the Remnants tries to attack you, and I’d feel a little more at ease if I could be certain that all of my employees were proficient in basic self-defense.”

She…she’s really serious.  Keeping me safe, really means a lot to her.  And if doing this gives her some peace of mind, how can I say no?  “…Alright Sensei, it would be a privilege to learn from you.  Now, where do we start?”

Rolling her eyes at Makoto’s attempt to lighten the mood, Kyoko smiled and gestured over to the closest mat.  As they arrived, Kyoko stated to explain her knowledge of combat theory.

“The first thing to take into account is…”

XXX

“AGH!  OOF!”

Makoto fell down on his butt for what seemed to be the thousandth time that day.  Kyoko taught him some basic arm and leg movements, and when it came to basic repetition drills, he seemed to do just fine.  But when they moved to doing mock fights, Murphy’s law seemed to take effect; his punches flew way off target, and he would put way too much momentum into his kicks causing him to fall and bump his head.  By the end of the day, Makoto was covered in bruises from head to toe, and Makoto hadn’t even come close to breaking her incredibly basic defense.  To say that Kyoko was frustrated would have been an understatement.

I’m not even going all out!  I made sure he knew the theory and could do the basic repetitions before we started doing this for real.  So why does he keep slipping?  What am I missing as his teacher?

“I…I’m sorry.  I’m probably your lousiest student, aren’t I?”

Not able to find the words to refute his self-depreciation, Kyoko suggested “Why don’t we break for now and pick this up again in a couple of days so your bruises can heal?  Maybe we’ll have better luck next time…”

“Oh, okay.”  Turning around, he started to walk back to his dorm room, calling back “See you tomorrow, Kyoko.”

Frowning as Makoto hung his head dejectedly while exiting the gymnasium, Kyoko pondered “How can I train Makoto as a combatant?  What’s the answer to this puzzle?”

XXX

Several hours later, she still hadn’t found her answer.  Kyoko’s room was littered with pieces of crumpled paper, scrawled with discarded ideas on how to alter her teaching regimen to better make her lessons click with Makoto.

“I don’t get it!  Training Makoto in martial arts seems to be next to impossible!”  Shaking her head at the thought of giving up, Kyoko declared “NO!  Get a hold of yourself, Kyoko Kirigiri.  You’re the Ultimate Detective.  You’ve solved greater mysteries than this!  You’ve just gotta play to Makoto’s strengths.  So think; what is Makoto good at?”

Kyoko instantly flashed back to the various trials at Hope’s Peak, remembering how she was constantly impressed at how easily he pieced together how the murders occurred and who the blackened was.

“He easily gave me a run for my money.  He solved all of those mysteries, those puzzles…”  Kyoko’s eyes widened as she realized “Wait, puzzle!”

She grabbed her notebook again and started writing again, hit by an instant flash of inspiration.

“Maybe…if I present it like this…and get him to analyze it…yes, that could work.  I think I found it!”

XXX

Kyoko threw open the doors of the gymnasium, dragging Makoto by the hood of his signature hoodie with one hand as she held several loose papers in the other.

Okay, what’s going on?  I know she said we’d pick up combat training again after my bruises healed, but why did she feel the need to drag me along without even a word?  And what’s with those papers in her hand?  And why is she smiling?  She looks way too happy!

After approaching the same mat they trained on last session, Kyoko finally let go of his hoodie, bluntly informing him “Your bruises have healed, so we’re going to resume training today.”

Chuckling, Makoto replied “…Yeah, I figured as much.  So what are we starting with?  More drills?”

Kyoko shook her head, much to Makoto’s surprise as she explained “We’re not jumping into physical exercise just yet.  Instead, we’re going to do some theoretical exercises first.”

“Theoretical…exercises?” Makoto asked, baffled and not having a clue what Kyoko even meant.

“…Perhaps an example will make my intentions clear…”

Kyoko sat down on the mat and crossed her legs, gesturing for Makoto to sit down next to her.  Unsure what she was planning to do, but trusting her nonetheless, Makoto followed suit, sitting down on her right.

She handed Makoto a piece of paper and instructed “Read the paragraph aloud.”

Nodding, Makoto read “A local yakuza corners you in an alley and throws a straight punch at your ribcage using his right fist.  What is the optimal course of action for this assault?”

So…she’s trying to teach me with theoretical examples?  Unable to resist, he smiled awkwardly and joked “Run and hide while I wait for you to come kick his butt?”

Rolling her eyes, Kyoko slapped him on the back of his head and admonished “Focus, Naegi-kun.  You need to take this seriously.”

It was rare to hear Kyoko refer to him by his surname, and it only happened when she was lecturing him after making a blunder.  Getting the hint, Makoto rubbed his head and focused, trying to remember her prior lecture about straight punches.

Let’s see…they have a lot of power, but have no directional control once they start.  Reminds me of how Mondo knocked me out during Hope’s Peak.  Shaking the distracting thought away, Makoto thought Lack of directional control, lack of directional control…I got it!  “Well, it would probably to circle your primary arm around his so that you could parry his elbow.  Then you could throw a punch with the same motion to his shoulder to make his stumble and create an opening for escape, right?”

Smiling in victory, Kyoko replied “Very good.  That’s an excellent counterstrategy.  Care to put it into practice?”

Gulping, Makoto nodded and agreed ”Sure, why not?”

With that Kyoko cleared her papers to the side as they both stood up, taking proper stances as their new drill began.

XXX

“AGH!  OOF!”

Kyoko fell flat on her back, shellshocked at how far Makoto had come.  He had executed that first example scenario flawlessly, making her spin as her punch was deflected and his counterattack hit her right shoulder with accuracy.  After that, they rinsed and repeated with all of the other example scenarios Kyoko had written. 

He did them all perfectly.  After just one try.  ONE…FREAKING…TRY!

“Kyoko!  Are you okay?  Did I hit you too hard?”

Kyoko looked up to see Makoto’s worried face staring down at her.  She couldn’t help it; she laughed.  Not just a quiet laugh that she showed more often; this was a full belly laugh. 

“Kyoko?  Are you alright?”

It wasn’t that Makoto never wanted her to laugh, but the current magnitude was uncharacteristic of her, which made him worry that something was wrong.

Finally quieting down, she stood up and assured him “I’m fine, Makoto.”  A proud smile on her face, she praised “Congratulations, Makoto Naegi; you’ve graduated!”

A gleeful grin growing on his face, Makoto bowed and exclaimed “Thank you for your instruction, sensei!”

“I knew this was the best way to teach you.  After all…” Kyoko smirked and finished “You’re really good at puzzles.”

“Puzzles?”  Makoto cocked his head in confusion until he realized “Wait, so those example scenarios…they were…puzzles?”

Nodding, Kyoko explained “I remembered how well you did in the Class Trials, how you pieced the evidence together to solve the mysteries of Hope’s Peak Academy.  You have a very analytical mind, Makoto; all it took was knowing how to apply it.”  Kyoko turned around and said “Well, I’m going to head to my room now; after all, I now have some bruises of my own to nurse.”

“W…wait.  I’ll come with you.  I’ll grab some ice from the kitchen.  It’s the least I can do after I…”

Chuckling, Kyoko acquiesced “Well alright.  I’ll be waiting for you in my room.”

As they temporarily split up, Kyoko couldn’t help but smile as she continued to think of her pupil.

Whether I simply trust him or love him…that’s the real puzzle…one I still can’t figure out…