#but I have neglected the yellow heart :’0

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

I should start using these guys more 💙💛

[starlit-dreaming]

[ch1] élémentaire

Fandom: MLB Ship: Eventual Felinette, MarcNath & Chlogami, Past Lukanette TL;DR: HBIC Marinette + Rich Marinette + ML Salt Fic + Canon Divergence

Main Fic: élémentaire 0 | [1] | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Side Fics: J'adore — 1/2 | 2/2

Note: never expected to be continuing this fic but here it is after more than a year after i posted it!

this will be crossposted on ao3 under the same name

there is salt in this fic. idk how much yet, but please take care of your blood pressure–

NOTICE: Due to realizing that there are 2 sets of primary colours (additive: blue, red, green. subtractive: cyan, magenta, yellow), I will be accordingly switching to using the subtractive primary colours. Magenta for Marinette, Cyan for Felix, and Chloé will stay the same with Yellow. While that doesn’t change too much because Marinette’s faction still wears reds and pinks etc, I plan on going back to the prologue to edit this.

————————————————————

1. roses de lavande

————————————————————

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had never lost in all of her wagers against Chloé Bourgeois, and they first met at the young age of five.

It was a natural back and forth, one that Félix found amusing or annoying at times, but it overall explained their dynamic.

Chloé always challenged, Félix always observed, and Marinette always won.

Until now, of course.

She has always been a prideful person, adamantly choosing to follow the path she laid before her very own eyes. Every plan meticulously crafted from nimble fingers like fabric that was hand sewn together, every itty bitty detail crafted into her work of art like embroidery. Every setback was merely a ripped seam — a detour for the end result she desires. Félix waits for things to unfold to plan accordingly and Chloé acts on her plans as soon as possible, but she does both and more. Marinette plans, she executes contingency plans upon contingency plans, ensuring that she will never be trapped like a scurrying rat. She draws outlines only to rip them anew to gain better results, higher achievements born from ripping her own beloved crafts with the mercy of a tactician who immediately knows failure upon sight.

It wasn’t obvious — her pride, that is.

Her prideful nature wasn’t obvious, and it was never in the face of Chloé and Félix, when compared to the others raised on wealth and parental neglect, she was always seen as merciful and gentle yet scarily sweet. Knowing when to back down, knowing when it would be the best to join the fray when it came to conflicting interests, had contributed to her image. Being humble was a skill she learned to utilize, as she had witnessed her parents’ killing with kindness and smiles plastered on their faces in the face of rude customers, and had seen how it works in their favour in gaining support from others to how friendly or uncomfortable people can become.

She had been raised with love and care and the hope that she would never fall like a ruined soufflé — a piece of the heart that remained warm and kind and could be delicately sweet, but will never again stand tall after being deflated. Her parents raised her to have self-love, to be proud and just, to be filled with love and so much more.

And so, when Félix would move away to the UK after their final year of élémentaire, she stood tall indeed. She chose to step away from leadership, she chose to view the world through a rose-tinted lens because she wanted to find true love.

Happiness, she firmly believed, laid in that fairytale love her parents still have for one another.

It was not with Félix, who was a King that couldn’t stay for her and will never become her Prince Charming. A boy who cared for her dearly, but would not go against his parent’s decisions.

It was not with Chloé, a Queen who did not believe in a happy ending. A girl who wanted her around, but would never bother to ask her sweetly.

And, at the time, she believed that happiness was not in her reach as the Mirthful Majesty, Marinette, who believed in a love that will always mend, who so desperately thinks that she must have a soulmate to find happiness. She was surrounded by friends and people who favoured her, adults who trusted her, children who adored her, but none would fit her image of Prince Charming.

When Marinette decided to throw it all away, when Félix had stared at her as though she were a fool for ending things, Chloé issued one last challenge:

She will give up her futile endeavour and return to her throne before lycée.

And naturally, Marinette answered.

The idea of letting Chloé win, to give the heiress of Le Grande Paris exactly what she wants when she’s had years of having things go her way? It infuriated her at times, feeling that Chloé didn’t care about what Marinette had wanted for her own life and was just being a spoiled brat after all they’d been through together. It fuelled the eventual animosity they shot at one another in their time at Dupont, the glares and scathing words. They knew each other better than anyone — perhaps that was why it was so easy to turn Chloé into an enemy. Within the last few years, Marinette was on the verge of resenting her former friend, the accumulation of getting picked on for years since their new start at Dupont had been steadily building up within her. She knew the reasoning behind the girl’s actions, she knew that it was a shoddy attempt at trying to get her to change back to the girl she was before.

After all, she was Chloé’s only target for years, and clearly she didn’t take it well when Marinette began to retaliate. She would’ve ended up hating Chloé, willing to throw away the memories.

It didn’t help that everyone had played the role of bystanders in her life.

Then again, she couldn’t fault her friends from the days of before, when they had valiantly stood at her side at Notre Dame as if they were her knights, only to now choose to remain silent and idle. She asked them to never interfere in any matter between her and Chloé, after all. It was only natural for them to avert their eyes and clench their fists, to bite their tongues and feign ignorance with all but the stare in their eyes.

  (As for Lila, that was a different matter entirely.)

  And life went on, because as she expected, Marinette never conceded until this very day.

It wasn’t the same now, and it’s clear that Chloé had taken a page out of Marinette’s old planner and Felix’s demeanour. The Cruel Queen chose to plan and lay in wait. Chloé wasn’t a patient queen bee, but she knew when it was better to wait for the best moment to have all the drama unfold for the sake of making her vengeance all the more sweet, as Marinette had always expected of her when Chloé wasn’t consumed by her emotions. It was one of her charms, something that endeared the ruthless queen to the vindicated students of Notre Dame when they felt wronged; she sought cruel vengeance and succeeded each and every time, a trophy built up on bitter resentment, a bully meant for the bullies and horridly unfair teachers. Marinette often disliked her for her brazen demeanour even now, but she was, admittedly, intrigued at the more detailed revenge plans that Chloé had set in motion, the intricacies of every trap that would ensnare her enemies in the most harsh, humiliating, and ruthless manner, the sheer determination that the heiress had to ensure her victory through whatever means necessary. Chloé’s swift yet adamant behaviour was… admirable, at times.

Nearly four years — nearly four years of refusing to return for her metaphorical crown. Nearly four years of ignoring or arguing against Chloé Bourgeois. Nearly two years since Alya became her best friend. Nearly a year has passed since Lila appeared and swindled almost all of her new friends at Dupont. It was only several months since Lila steadily suffocated her friendships after her declaration of war, and Marinette was… tired, to say the least. The liar can do as she pleases, because now Marinette was learning how to stop caring for the people who never shared the same courtesy. It was their final year of collège before they moved on to lycée, and she knew better than anyone that enough was enough, even if it meant defeat.

This was her high road, Marinette had decided days after being told of Adrien’s advice — ignoring Lila Rossi, and no longer caring for the people who claim to be her friends when they would readily abandon her for a chance to bask in the spotlight. It was petty, she knew that without a doubt even before Tikki had voiced her initial disagreement upon making that decision. She was running on pure spite at this point, and her skin crawled in anger as irritation pumps in her veins because she has a feeling that Papillon is only adding fuel to the fire when it comes to Lying Rossi.

She suspects that he was working together with the girl.

Then again, Lila has nothing against Marinette Dupain-Cheng. She was an unwitting accomplice to Chloé’s plans, because Lila made her realize the very fact that Marinette was adamantly denying for the past several years:

Chloé Bourgeois was right.

She was right about their Dupont classmates all along — they never cared about Dupain-Cheng, but they cared about what the Goody Two-Shoes could do for them. Trust was a partnership, trust was something that had to be earned. Trust was a treasure that could never be easily found with a map and key. Trust would only hurt people in the end if it were freely given by the naïve.

It was very obvious how much trust they had in Marinette when they chose to trust Lila’s word over hers.

So nevertheless, it was easy to plan for what happened next. Unless Marinette revokes her ownership of the Miraculous Box, found someone fitting for the Guardian role, and a new Ladybug is chosen, she cannot afford to be akumatized. Tikki herself agreed that it would be for the best in the end, that she didn’t want to lose another bug, that Marinette was the best Guardian she’s had in centuries.

One failure, and everything Marinette had built for herself would be torn down before her very eyes. So she will allow Chloé this victory, and she will simply rebuild what was rightfully lost to time — her record might be broken, but she is still true to herself.

One defeat, amidst hundreds upon hundreds of attempts — she cannot allow Papillon to prevail. She almost did, multiple times, when she allowed herself to be naïve. She can’t, she won’t.

One loss, that’s all it would take. There will be no second chances.

(It’s a loss that Ladybug could never commit, but it’ll be fine. After all, Ladybug will never make the same mistake as Marinette Dupain-Cheng.)

  ——————————

  As lunchtime finally arrives, Alix silently packs up her belongings. She doesn’t join Kim and Max for lunch, which is to be expected, and a glance to Kim who gave her a simple nod was enough to tell her that he will be the one to provide a proper explanation for Max when they’re nowhere near their classmates. It was only natural; Max would be new to their rules — he’s categorized as a Dupont student, he wasn’t a part of their Notre Dame group, he had nothing to worry about, but Kim and Alix knew better than anyone that knowledge was power based on their time back at Notre Dame.

It was in his best interests to know sooner rather than later.

But instead of tagging along with any of her other classmates for lunch, Alix waits for Nathaniel to gather his things, making it clear that she intends on leaving the classroom with him. She shoots Nino a glance, watching the DJ slide back into his seat, his shoulders slumping over as he tugs his red hat down over his face as if he were ashamed — or anxious; perhaps both, justifiably both. She would’ve been surprised if he wasn’t worried, especially because he was Marinette’s childhood friend, her neighbour from their days of before, even if he never attended Notre Dame.

And he actually thought she was jealous of Lying Rossi.

It must’ve been humiliating, Alix thinks, to be so blinded by misinformation thanks to infatuation.

Her gaze is drawn over to Rose standing there in her pretty pink clothes, who blinks at them with a knowing gaze before blinking in innocent confusion and smiling. Within the moment following after, her attention is immediately ensnared by Lying Rossi. As if nothing had ever happened within the last several hours.

And… Alix can feel the budding disbelief and annoyance bubbling up within her. A dull sting of betrayal, perhaps? A betrayal from a time that will, undoubtedly, never come back, probably. Rose and her decision was especially all the more startling, though, and to see it blatantly happen before her?

It was almost insulting.

She wonders if choosing Lila Rossi over Marinette Dupain-Cheng is the girl’s final choice.

But then again, Rose looked at them knowingly — was she putting on this façade of being on Lila’s side? Or did she really not know?

(It’s like a train wreck waiting to happen — they know it will happen, they know the reason why it will, and they won’t be able to avert their eyes when the train approaches. The vindication that she’ll no doubt feel at the end makes Alix wonder if she actually belonged to Charmante or Fondamentaux instead of Méticuleuse.)

Alix purses her lips and proceeds to shake her head in mild disappointment before turning to look at Nathaniel. Her mouth opens, as if she were about to say something, only for it to fall away as she closes her mouth and jerks her head, gesturing towards the door. And she can tell that as Nathaniel solemnly nods in agreement. He was just as surprised to see Nino and Rose’s choice.

There was no need for words when it came to what happened earlier that morning.

So they leave the classroom behind, silence between the two of them as the Dupont students gradually fill the vicinity. Part of her feels paranoid, that she’s being stared at, that maybe everyone already knows.

But she knows that nobody is staring at her or Nathaniel as they leave.

It’s just the calm before the storm.

  ——————————

  They arrive at Tom & Sabine’s without incident. Tom greets them with a cheerful and kind smile, welcoming them with warmth in his eyes, and Sabine tells them that Marinette had texted her about their arrival, just as calm and kind. She tells them that they’re free to wait for Marinette in her room, that they’ve been expecting their arrival because their daughter had texted them, which… sounds ominous, truth be told.

Alix isn’t quite sure whether that’s a good thing or not. Judging from the deer-in-the-headlights look that Nathaniel wore when Sabine singled them out among their crowd of customers, he’s less concerned about whether or not it’s a good thing and was much more startled over the fact that Marinette was expecting them despite saying nothing.

Still, it was clear to see how much of Marinette’s personality came from her parents, based on Sabine’s determined gaze and Tom’s bright smile.

(Then again, they called Marinette the Miracle Princess of Les Trois Primaires. While Félix had been the scheming actor and Chloé being the bossy coordinator, Marinette was always the social planner with a sickeningly sweet smile.)

Nevertheless, they oblige and walk into the familiar home.

The house connected to the bakery was warm and appeared to be lived in, as it always is — a homey vibe that she and Nathaniel had always envied when they were growing up. While Marinette’s parents were busy with their bakery, they always made it a point to place Marinette first and foremost before their career. It was rare to find a genuine familial love like that in any of the families belonging to the former Notre Dame students.

  (Fact: it was another contributing factor that easily soured Marinette and Chloé’s friendship.)

  Alix had grown to view it as somewhat of a blessing, to have a busy older brother trying to follow their father’s footsteps, and to have busy parents who seemed to never care much for the events going on in Alix’s life. When she dyed her hair pink, and she stated that she thought it would look good, they simply brushed it off and moved on. A family of scholars, her family was — as long as she maintained her good grades and to avoid outward fights, as long as she didn’t get into any major trouble, they would allow her to do as she pleased. Her grandparents, on the other hand, hadn’t been pleased when she started dying her hair, but then again, her grandmother always asked why she wanted to be called Alix when Alixandria was a perfectly good name, or how she wanted to dress her up in dresses and skirts, wanted her to grow out her hair and act dainty instead of what she considered to be a delinquent.

When Marinette met them, they surprisingly changed their tune and seemed to adore Alix’s “rebellious” appearance and her passion for roller skating.

Nathaniel was a different story. His mother and her side of the family consisted of lawyers and politicians, and his father and his side of the family were primarily doctors and medical professionals, so it was always expected of him to follow in one or the others’ footsteps. When he dyed his hair red, his parents were blatantly against it, demanding that he dyed it back to brown. When he admitted to wanting to pursue art as a career, they thought it was a phase. It wasn’t, of course. His parents met Marinette, and she bewitched them on Nathaniel’s behalf, and everything was fine after that. They even made a deal that if he can prove that he’ll have a promising future in art before université, then he would have their full support.

And with Marinette supporting him? It was only natural that he would become more established in the art community.

  (It was obvious why he used to have a crush on their faction leader — a planner who knows exactly what she wants and knows exactly how to achieve her end goal, as well as how to utilize her connections to best persuade her target. If Alix was ever interested in romance, then she would’ve undoubtedly been attracted to Marinette just for her sheer confidence alone.)

  They enter Marinette’s room — a hurricane of a creative mess on her desk, it seemed, but with a semblance of organization and overall cleanliness everywhere else — a distraction for outsiders. The walls were covered in pinned sketches and drawings — a magazine article on her bowler hat, a couple of printed online articles of her work for Jagged Stone, and printed photos she took of her own dresses and designs.

Adrien’s face was nowhere to be found, not even Alya’s picture was on the wall. She still kept the huge calendar, and Adrien’s name took up the majority of it, with his photoshoots and work-related plans, but she can see the more relevant events. There was Kim and the swim team’s competition happening on Saturday, with Max having a science fair falling on the Sunday after. There was a submission date written there for Alya’s journalism contest — Alix felt somewhat vindicated at that. It was proof that Alya and Lila’s recent claims of Marinette being jealous because of Adrien were a load of horse shit.

  (In fact, the lack of Adrien was a good indication that their Mirthful Majesty would finally come back to them.)

  “I think she was in charge of Lila’s birthday party,” Alix scoffed, wrinkling her nose at the notes she was reading on the calendar. “Seems pretty stupid of her to shit on Marinette when she’s in charge of the birthday party plans.”

Nathaniel’s eyes glanced over to the large calendar. “I wonder if that’s going to get cancelled after what happened this morning.”

“It won’t be.”

They looked back over to the attic door, seeing Marinette walk up the stairs and into her room. She was smiling, kind and sugary sweet like their time at Notre Dame, and Alix wasn’t surprised when she heard another pair of footsteps following behind their leader. Alix had her guesses on who’d be brought in — they needed to spread information throughout the school, but Aurore was a member of… well, Félix’s faction, now. Alix wasn’t sure if Aurore intended on remaining with the Charmante Faction after Chloé’s reign of terror at Dupont, she still had her yellow umbrella, but now she often wore blue sundresses.

There was Mireille, but it didn’t make sense to pick a girl who knew nothing about their time back in Notre Dame. Kagami would be a good choice, but the same issue with Mireille remained — Kagami was vaguely aware of Notre Dame, but that’s because of the unlikely friendship between her and Chloé.

The new arrivals didn’t include Aurore.

This was an issue for the Méticuleuse Faction, after all.

“Marc?” Nathaniel questioned, causing Alix to finally snap her gaze over to the guests at Marinette’s side.

She didn’t know Marc Anciel all too well, but she’s seen him and Nathaniel together every once in a while in the art room, working on their comic together. He transferred to Dupont several months ago, but he attended Notre Dame and was on friendly terms with their faction leader — Alix could never remember everyone, yet somehow Marinette recognized every notable person in her faction with relative ease.

“Hey Nath,” Marc greeted with a shy smile, pink on his cheeks, before glancing over to Alix to give her a nod in acknowledgement. “Hi Alix.”

Now that she thought about it, Marc probably had a crush on Nathaniel in their Notre Dame days.

Still, she wasn’t sure if he would be a good choice to help… then again, Marinette knew exactly what to do to get things done, and if Marc was a part of the equation, then Alix would have to accept it regardless of her thoughts.

Alix greeted him with a nod in response, her eyes glancing over to Ondine who stood tall at Marinette’s side. She kindly smiled.

When it comes to Ondine, well, Alix isn’t sure if there’s much for her to really know. She’s Kim’s girlfriend, and he’s always talking about how amazing she is, and how he thinks he’s in love every time he ends up talking about her in great length, and in the competitions she’s had with him over the past few years, there were only a few instances where Ondine was able to show up without any schedule conflicts. Frankly, Kim would like any girl who could beat his ass, whether it be sharp words or a physical demonstration of literally picking him up, so Alix pretty much assumed that they’ve been in that awkward are-they-aren’t-they relationship until after Chloé humiliated him on Valentine's Day.

Eventually, her gaze returns to Marinette, the girl in question simply humming as her eyes surveyed everyone in the room. Her blue eyes calculating as she took note of the fact that it was only Alix and Nathaniel, asides for the two standing at her side.

She wonders if it’d be better if Nino and Rose had shown up as well.

Then again, Nino was too busy feeling ashamed next to Alya and Adrien while Rose was with Juleka and Lila’s hesitant supporters—

“It’s as I expected,” Marinette interrupts Alix’s train of thought, her tone of voice cheerful and polite, giving nothing away. “Well, take a seat somewhere. I’ll be back with the quiche Maman made for us to enjoy along with some drinks. We have a lot of work to do, but today I’ll go over my expectations, and the baseline of my plans,” she stated before leaving the room.

Alix takes a seat on the stepladder leading to the loft, making herself comfortable. Marc and Nathaniel sit down beside one another on the chaise, and Ondine ends up sitting on the trunk against the wall. And as they all get settled down, an awkward moment of silence washes over them.

Fortunately, Ondine is the one who pipes up.

“Does this mean Marc and I are now a part of Le Jardin?” the swimmer hesitantly asked, making eye contact with Alix.

Alix grimaces at the name, finding it to be disgustingly cheesy now. Then again, they were only primary school kids when they chose the name, and Rose was a part of their group.

Le Jardin de Lavande — The Lavender Garden.

While the three factions of Notre Dame’s Elite Primary School had their respective groups, there was still a hierarchy of social status despite the majority of the students consisting of rich and/or famous kids. Like the knights to royalty, the friends of the faction leaders were unofficially considered to be the “inner circle”, the “advisors” chosen by their faction leader. They were the vice leaders of the faction.

Félix had the Quantic Kids, a name that was chosen by the current class president of Mme Mendeleiev’s class and Félix’s former right-hand man, Claude Sainté-Pierre. Claude was a sociable fellow, far more than Félix ever was, with his talents lying in information gathering through a social network, and he was the one to declare their friend group as the “Quantic Kids” even if Félix disagreed to it. It was a well-known fact that Félix had loathed the name for the first two years, claiming that it was ill-fitting for the upper class like themselves. Regardless, Claude successfully managed to sway everyone into agreeing on their group name, and that was the end of it.

(It was a rather strange thing to witness back then, the way Claude acted more like the leader than Félix ever did. But she had to admit, it was a pretty interesting dynamic, and it did allow Félix to sit back and analyse everything while Claude was inciting chaos or something.)

Chloé, again, was much more of an enabler than Félix and Marinette combined when it came to their fame as faction leaders, as she actively encouraged people to refer to her… acquaintances as the Queen’s Subordinates. Kim was always her knight, the bodyguard, and Sabrina was always her assistant, her secretary, her informant.

And while Chloé was tyrannical and straightforward with who she was seen with (the famous rich kids, Kim and Sabrina aside) and Félix had a more in-depth group, having a variety of friends that held different skill sets that come in different social circles — musicians, dancers, actors, and people who preferred to work behind the scenes — Marinette’s group of friends were simply that: friends.

Everyone in their faction liked to refer to them as The Lavender Garden. Nobody knew who started the term, but Rose liked it and asked Marinette if they could officially use it.

Alix was known as her unofficial lookout, the speediest and most often overlooked, the vines with thorns. Rose was her sweet charmer, with a kind smile and sweet demeanour that would be used for distracting people directly, the pretty flower. Nino was more of a wallflower, the type of guy that simply observes and informs. Nathaniel was more of an artist rather than a flower, he crafted forgeries and feigned innocent ignorance when he was brought into question. And yet, they were referred to as The Lavender Garden, despite the fact that none of them were associated with lavenders in question.

Nobody knows how the name actually started, but there were a lot of speculations and rumours. Some say that pink lavenders were Marinette’s favourite flower because they were often gifted to her by her followers, and a few claimed that it was a sign of caution to Félix, the faction most known for wearing blue while lavender flowers were, often, a purple-blue.

There was some truth to all the speculations, and yet none were accurate.

Marinette adores pink lavenders, but she only adores lavenders because of the many things it could be used for — she adored the floral smell of lavender tea, she loved how calming it could be, and she was a fan of bath salts with lavender scents. Félix gifted her a bouquet of lavenders once upon a time, an array of pink, light purple, and purple-blue lavender flowers blending together.

It was actually why they all encouraged Marinette to go after Adrien, despite whatever thing Marinette had with Félix. A boy that was nice, a boy that cared about everyone; they thought of him as a better match for their Sweets Princess, that he was worthy of being her Prince Charming. They wanted her to move on from her crush on Félix, to look at other guys that they thought would be a better fit.

Alix figured it would be a step forward to moving on, since Félix was no longer in France, and Rose thought it would be romantic if Marinette had a charming romance in general.

What a mistake that turned out to be. Her crush on Adrien had developed to a typical fangirl level stalker cliché, and Alya was enthusiastically fanning the flames as if it were a special news report. Alix was never interested in all those Adrienette meetings, where each plan became overly uncomfortable and unnecessarily complicated, even if she wanted Marinette to be happy. Rose loved it all, the romance, the planning, looking at the world through rose-covered lenses, but Alix loathed it. It wasn’t Marinette, she was nothing like the girl from before, she was so obsessed with being this normal girl, with having this romantic story, that Alix made herself be their voice of reason whenever possible.

For a while, Alix thought that the girl she used to know was gone. She could see the creative planner still there, but replaced with uncoordinated steps.

Life was much easier when Marinette had her crush on Félix, where she remained oblivious and simply found him to be intriguing. She used to watch Félix from a distance, often confiding to Alix saying “something about him is captivating” or “I wonder why I find him to be so interesting”. There was no obsession, just mere interest and observation, and Marinette often smiled whenever Félix noticed her. Alix always wondered if she was too critical about Félix.

If Félix stayed, maybe Marinette would have remained the same. Maybe her arguments with Chloé wouldn’t have escalated.

Maybe Alix was jealous that he had Marinette’s attention even when he was gone.

But it was too late for what-ifs.

“Probably,” Nathaniel quietly admits, anxiously glancing at Alix before looking at Marc and Ondine.

“Yes and no,” Marinette had answered with a smile as she re-enters her room, causing all of them to snap up into attention. “We will no longer be going by that name.”

Alix raised a brow at that as Marinette placed the quiche down, followed by a small stack of plates with silverware on top.

“We don’t have too much time until classes resume,” Marinette stated. “So we’ll have to make the most of it.”

“Um… if not Le Jardin, then what will we be calling ourselves?” Marc squeaked, nervous.

If they were still in Notre Dame, Marinette wouldn’t want a name. But because she was essentially reviving her faction…

“The Magentas,” Alix said, looking Marinette directly in the eyes.

It made sense to Alix — everyone in her faction wore a shade from reds to pinks, but magenta had been the agreed upon colour. Everyone in Marinette’s inner circle wore something with a sewn symbol of a magenta lavender.

Things would be different now, though, because Nino and Rose both weren’t here at all.

“Magenta, with a symbol of Azaleas and Lavenders,” Marinette concluded, opening her sketchbook showing off the floral design. “Marc, you’ll be handling the website with Nathaniel. Aurore will be helping you two handle the basic setup and launch. Alix, I want you to ask Max to help them with the coding and details. Ondine, I need you to gather general intel from people outside of my class. While I do have direct contact with the other class presidents, I have a feeling that I will soon need to step down. Be sure to keep an eye on your phone. I’ll be texting you with more details later — in the meantime, try to keep it as discreet as possible for the time being.”

Multiple agreements were heard from all four of them.

Marinette smiled at that.

[blackcleo7]

#VINLAND_FANART.PROJECT – Прощание/Farewell

! To understand this script, it is necessary to listen to: ГРАЙ - Прощание/Farewell (Official video) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZB7z6MYzVUc (no commercial or profit use is intended, just its emotional content)   The script is written in bold font – the song lyrics in italic format are translated from Russian.

0:00 - 0:17 Thorfinn (at 28) walks on the black beach in southern Iceland next to his home [camera with a very long shot flying from behind his back and approaching him, till crossing him.] + Title Прощание

He looks towards the harbor where his longship is, watching the neglected sails and he stares at the sun in front of him with a wide shot on the sea behind the ship [his eyes are lightened up by the sunlight - framed from the bottom side left-].

0:17 - 1:09 Hot flares will paint the grass red, (The sun is setting on the beach; Thorfinn looks at the infinite land/mountains behind him *camera rotates 180° along with his back*, various colors paint the black mountains - marked in red -)

Southern winds will feed the fire so fast, (Warm winds sweep the grass on the coast and he looks towards south up to Denmark from where colorful stormy clouds are coming in - painted in pink, yellow, lilac and orange -)

The funeral birds float silently, (He looks at a geirfugl -bird- on the shore and it turns into a crow flying above the house where Askeladd was killed)

My hand is clenching a handful of the past. (He finds himself as at 18 on top of Askeladd while he is dying and tugs at him desperately)

The sunset will leave lasting scars on the heart, (As he gets taken away by the two soldiers out of the house, the sun is setting down)

A moan will scare the magpies off the branches, (Thorfinn screams in pain and magpies – mythological Nordic birds – fly away from the branches and the roofs as gets dragged.)

And the thunderous rook-clouds* (He returns back to the current reality and sees the rain approaching along with the drakkar-shaped clouds - they are red and blue -)

Will scatter your ashes in a lisping rain. (a sudden thunderstorm strikes and he gets wet in the colorful rain as if it were a rainbow)

1:10 - 1:25 He 'opens up to the wonder of the world' with open arms and his face upwards trying to capture the rain on his skin. The wind is blowing through his hair and he slightly smiles enjoying it as a liberating act.

He sees the longships coming closer to the shore as in a dream and he seems to see *closely * his group of mercenaries with Bjorn, Torgrim, Atli, etc. on board.

1:25 - 1:43 Askeladd’s ghost glimpses on his right – he is setting out and reaches the shore with the wolves; Thorfinn raises his hand trying to call him back.

He turns to him while standing directly on the shore and looks at him first with a father-like expression and then smiles at him, after that he walks off.

 1:43 - 2:00 Going with packs of wolves into the distance (Thorfinn sees Askeladd following the wolves going towards the twilight onto the sea)

Do not repent, my thoughts are with you. (Thorfinn sees with vivid eyes the memories of Askeladd’s "kindness" as a young boy when he was with him - then closes his eyes as an adult in a sad way)

Through the veil of silence and rain (He abandons himself under the silent rain and sinks on his knees while shedding some tears)

Your very long journey is foretold by destiny. (Thors appears and puts his hand on Thorfinn’s shoulder being now a child looking towards the harbour from behind)

2:00 - 2:16 Thors kneels and shakes Thorfinn’s head *shot from behind*

Thorfinn looks at him *from the front* as a teenager, Thors wipes a tear from his eyes *close-up*

2:16 - 2:50 Time has frozen, there is nothing inside. (Thorfinn - 20 y.o. - is walking at midnight towards the slave group who is celebrating around the fire; he has an empty look)

The gusli will cool down the farewell pain. (There is sitting Einar in a circle with other slaves singing and playing the gusli and Thorfinn loses himself while staring at the flames and his thoughts get scattered)

Walking through midnight don't look back, (He falls asleep in his nightmares and sees himself at the top of the people he killed hanging off of him)

The eyes will soak up the salt of oblivion. (He tries to climb up to the exit as he remembers suddenly the scenes from the past when he killed them) 2:51 - 3:08 The sunset will leave lasting scars on the heart, (The sky clears up and Thorfinn stands up a bit sorrowful, Karli smiling - he is 8 - comes from behind and bumps into his legs)

A moan will scare the magpies off the branches, (After him follows Gudrid with the little 4-year-old Snorri holding her hand; she smiles at Thorfinn)

And the thunderous rook-clouds* (Thorfinn starts to head back home after them but stops and turns around again)

Will scatter your ashes in a lisping rain. (While looking to the East he sees the longships disappearing into the darkness, Askeladd and Thors are on board along with all the dead spirits – they are departing far away)

3:08 - 3:40 The rain and the rainy clouds go away with them like dusk - they are blue like fog with many stars, as if they were a bit fairy)

Thorfinn looks at them with positive melancholy, lingering at the ships *towards the camera* with the wind still blowing on his hair - then smiles; the camera films him then from afar as he enters the house.

 Trivia / script information:

Concerning the location where Thorfinn (at 28) is, I didn’t choose Reynistaður or Glaumbær in Skagafjörður in Northern Iceland as it happened in reality; like in the manga he is in Southern Iceland around Hof area, on the coast, as he walks on the black beach [more or less the coordinates are: 63.798955, -16.642144].

I wanted to give credit to the first season, strengthening Askeladd’s value to Thorfinn and letting space for his dad too.

I developed the script as if I already knew how the whole story ends before its actual end (Yukimura’s), by taking inspiration from Thorfinn Karlsefni’s actual historical life after returning from Vinland.

Thorfinn in this script revisits his life journey from his youth till his return from Vinland; this journey is also meant to be a ‘spiritual’ one.

Iceland is the point of departure as well as the final end point for Thorfinn.

Since the script is set to be after returning from Vinland, here appears Snorri Thorfinnsson too. Snorri is intended to be the son Gudrid and Thorfinn will have in Vinland, while his brother Thorbjorn (who according to history should have been born much later) in the manga is meant to be (?) Karli. Karli is older than Snorri in this case.

I previously thought about Karli being 6 years old here, the same age Thorfinn had as he left Iceland, but when they arrived to Vinland, he was 4, so he must be around 7 or 8 here.

The geirfugl is an ancient bird, extinct nowadays in Iceland (XIX sec.). I could have chosen (Icelandic) crows as the lyrics state, but as reading through the typical Icelandic birds I felt like picturing an ancient bird for a medieval story was fitting more.

*ладьи-облака – rook/longship clouds: since I was not sure about what was meant, I found “crows”, “towers” and “longships” as a translation. I decided then to profit from this imagery in a mixed way.

*The song I chose for this script is from a Russian folk band. I would usually use another song from current neopagan folk bands from Scandinavian countries (there are actually many famous bands out there, I can’t alas type their names here) but this one had really a beautiful melody and the right lyrics and ‘picture thoughts’ flew in my mind perfectly. The script is written by me (Marica Regina).

Vinland Saga and all characters © Makoto Yukimura, Kodansha Ltd.

Прощание/Farewell © ГРАЙ

[timebird84]

🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @paperandsong​

Feast Your Eyes

Gifted to @shinyfire-0​

Happy Christmas everyone!

     Christine rose from her bed long before sunrise and padded sleepily into the kitchen. She lit the oven and pulled down an old recipe book from a shelf. She cracked it open to a page marked with a red ribbon; recipes for Luciamorgon, written by the hand of Maman Valerius’ own mother, and brought from the old country long ago. Its tattered pages were heavy with the nostalgia of mornings past and the expectation that such traditions will go on forever. 

     She did not need the book; these were recipes written across her own heart. But she liked to trace the handwriting with her fingers, smudged with ancient butter and flour, and to stir up her own memories. She liked to think that her late mother had also woken up early on December thirteenths to pull out the same ingredients and to follow the same steps. The echo of this ritual was a comfort to her.

     She yawned as she set the kettle on the stove and pulled out the sugar, the butter, the flour, the yeast, the eggs, the milk. She reached far into the back of the pantry for a little bottle of saffron threads, neglected all year long until this dark morning. A sprinkle of cinnamon, a crush of cardamom. For the lussekatter buns, she steeped the saffron in milk, she kneaded the yellow dough, and shaped it into buttery swirled S shapes, pinned with currants on either end. She pressed an angel-shaped metal cutter over the thinly rolled pepparkakor dough, inhaling the ginger and clove with deep satisfaction. As the buns and biscuits baked in the oven she went back to her room to dress. 

     She struggled to pull her arms through the tight sleeves of the same white dress she had been made to wear since she was a just a girl. She had grown considerably in her bust and hips since it had first been made for her; she did not bother to try to button up the back. It was impossible. Maman Valerius knew it was impossible. But it so delighted her to see Christine wear that same dress, year after year, that she wouldn’t dream of complaining. She dutifully tied the red sash around her waist. The white of innocence, the red of martyrdom. 

     Just moments before dawn, Christine arranged the cat-eyed lussekatter and angel-shaped pepparkakor on a tray along with two cups of coffee with milk, and a small lit candle. She lit another four white candles and carefully set them in the wreath of evergreen she had woven the day before. She settled the glowing crown into her halo of loose and unruly hair. She delicately lifted the tray, careful not to tip her flaming head too far forward. She glided across the floor as lightly as a snowdrift, making her way to Maman’s room. She stood outside the door and sang, 

 Natten går tunga fjät rund gård och stuva; 

Night walks with a heavy step round yard and hearth;

      She nudged the door open with her elbow. The dim room filled with candlelight as she entered. There was Maman, sitting up in her bed, her long white braid hanging over her shoulder. She was waiting eagerly for this blazing vision of Christine. 

 Kring jord, som sol förlät, skuggorna ruva;

Around the earth, forlorn by the sun, shadows are brooding;

      The old woman clasped her hands together, her eyes glistening with tears. 

“Oh, Christine! You are an angel - truly, an angel shining on me from heaven!”

     Christine continued to sing, her voice high and sweet, as she used to sing when she was only a girl,

 Då i vårt mörka hus, stiger med tända ljus, Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia!

But there in our dark house, arising with her burning candles, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

      She slowly walked towards the bed, allowing Maman to take in the holy sight of her. With each dazzling step she drove all darkness from the room. Truly, Christine was the daughter Maman had never had. And she had played this role of Lucia bride far longer than any other daughter would have tolerated. Perhaps somewhere in her heart, Christine knew this would be the last year. 

     She set the tray carefully on the bed. Maman pushed back the blankets and patted the place beside her. Christine first took off the candle crown and set it on the small table near the window. They had a laugh remembering the time several years ago when Christine’s hair had caught fire after wearing the wreath for too long. It took days to scratch out the melted wax from her scalp.

“Thank you, my child,” Maman said, nibbling on a lussekatter. “You are so good to me.” “It is you that are good to me,” Christine responded, kissing the old woman on the cheek. Tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled skin. “Maman! Don’t cry.”

“It is just - I can almost feel them with us. My dear husband, your dearest father.” “I know. I can feel them too.”

     Maman rubbed her eyes and shook her head with a sigh.

“It is almost seven-thirty! Shouldn’t you be leaving for the Opera soon? Won’t you miss your voice lesson? Won’t your teacher scold you?” She said ‘teacher’ with a knowing glance that made Christine's heart tighten in her chest. They both knew he was no mere teacher.     Christine blushed.

“I told him that I would miss my lesson today. You have me for the whole morning.” 

“Oh, I am sure he was not pleased to hear it!” “Why, Maman, he was very understanding. He finds it good and proper that a daughter should tend to her mother on this, the Feast of Saint Lucia.”

“It is a good and a proper thing, my child. The Angel of Music knows these things. Shall I read from my book? Hand it to me, if you will.”

     Christine went and found the ornately illustrated book of the lives of the saints, also brought over from the old country. Maman turned to the story of Saint Lucia and read aloud, as she did every year. Christine took a mouthful of pepparkakor and nestled deeper into her place in the bed. She tried to keep her eyes away from the brightly colored image of Lucia carrying her own eyes on a silver platter. 

      During the Diocletian persecution of the good Christians, there was a maiden of Syracuse by the name of Lucia. Even as a young girl, the light of Christ shined brightly within her. 

     As Lucia’s father had perished years before, the two women were alone and vulnerable in the world. Despite her faith, Eutychia arranged for Lucia to marry into a wealthy pagan family. Lucia wept with grief. No, mother, she cried. Let my dowry be distributed among the poor. I shall never marry here on earth for I am the bride of Christ and my husband awaits me there. Reluctantly, Eutychia agreed, for she could see the light that shined within her daughter. She gave Lucia her dowry, a host of riches and jewels. The maiden took to visiting the prison in the dark, to bring food and comfort to the men that languished there. She wore a crown of candles upon her head so that she might see through the darkness and keep her hands free to fill with alms.

     But gossip reached the ears of her jilted betrothed. He was told that Lucia had broken their engagement because she had found an even more wealthy patron of far nobler birth. In his jealousy, he denounced Lucia as a secret Christian to the Roman magistrate, Paschasis . Paschasis ordered Lucia to burn a sacrifice to an idol of the Emperor. To which Lucia replied, I would rather burn myself than to burn a sacrifice to a false idol. In his anger, Paschasis ordered the defiant maiden defiled in a brothel. To which Lucia replied, You could lift my hand and rub it against your idol and still I would be guiltless in the eyes of the Lord, who knows me and knows that you can defile my body but you can never defile my heart. 

     When the Roman guards came to take Lucia away, to have her maidenhead defiled, they found that she was immovable. Even when they tied a team of oxen to her waist by a rope, even then, they could not move her from her mother’s home. When they could not take her to the brothel, they decided to burn her. They built a pyre around her feet, but it would not light. In frustration, they gouged out her eyes - those eyes that burned with the light of Christ inside! They slit her throat, that throat as pure as that of any spring lamb. And so the virgin Lucia died a martyr for our Lord. The angels sang as she entered heaven and the good Lord restored her eyes, more beautiful than those she had possessed here on earth. For she was truly the light of his own eyes. 

      Christine hated the story. 

“It isn’t fair that she had to die,” she said bitterly, though her mouth was full of sugar.

“No. There is nothing fair about the lives of the saints. They have all suffered unjustly in one way or another. It is a great burden to be born a saint.” “I do not remember any male saints dying because someone forced them to marry some pagan princess.” “I am sure there is at least one.”

“But there are countless maiden martyrs. Do it please him, then? For us to suffer on his behalf?” “No, Christine. Our Lord suffers along with us. The tears we shed were his to shed first.” The old woman had become very serious. “No one is asking the Lucia bride to be a martyr. Only to carry light in the darkness.”

     Christine was chastened. She had not meant to antagonize. 

“I believe I am much like Lucia.” “Indeed you are, my child. The light of Christ shines brightly from within you.” “No, I meant only that I shall never marry.”

“Oh! You cannot mean that. Surely, you will find yourself a good husband. One who will love you as much as I do. For one day, I will no longer be here with you. No, no. Do not say that, Christine. You must find someone to look after you. What of the Vicomte de Chagny? Don’t you ever see him at the Opera anymore?” “Oh, I see him up there in his brother’s box. But he never looks at me. I do not believe he remembers me at all. But I could never marry him. I could never marry anyone. Then I would never hear the Angel again.” “Is that what the Angel has told you?” “Yes. He has told me that if I should ever marry, he would have to return to heaven and I would never hear his beautiful voice again,” she said sadly. 

     The old woman grew very quiet.

“Perhaps Our Lord has a greater calling for you, Christine, than to be a wife. Perhaps he intends for you to devote your life to music, and music alone. To be a bride to no earthly man, but the bride of music itself.”

“Do you think so, Maman?” Christine asked wistfully. She was excited by the idea that her destiny might be great and divinely written. 

“I think you should listen to your Angel. He will know what is best for you.”

          Christine changed out of her Lucia gown and went to the Opera later that morning so that she would not be late for rehearsals. A part of her wished that the Angel would come to her, despite that she had missed her lesson. When she stood in his invisible presence, he blessed her with a warmth she found nowhere else. She regretted even one hour lost. But he did not make himself known to her that day. 

     In the evening, Christine served mulled wine with dinner. Maman drank too much and retired early, but Christine took her warm and fragrant cup out onto their narrow balcony to watch the people walking along the street below. It was quite cold and she pulled her coat tight around her body as she leaned slightly over the railing. 

     Thoughts of Lucia and her bloodied eye sockets had haunted her all day. Christine wondered now how the saint’s story might have been different had Lucia agreed to marry the pagan bridegroom. Could they not have become friends, like Saints Cecilia and Valerian? Could she not have taught him the love of Christ better as his wife than as a martyr? They could have learned to love each other somehow. There had to be some way for Lucia to survive her own story. 

     Christine shook her head angrily. But why should any woman lose her maidenhead to a man on the mere hope that her love might be enough to save him? Why should she have to save him?

      Her ears pricked up at a sad sound in the distance. Music, from directly above, but far away, as if from the clouds. Or maybe only as far as the rooftop. She turned and looked up towards the sky overhead. The streetlamps dimmed the light of the stars, but she could just make out the westerly motion of Freya’s cat-drawn chariot. A violin whined a melody so faint it could not be named. Had her Angel come to say goodnight? Her pulse quickened in her ears. If she could have no earthly husband, might she really be wed to the music itself? She listened for a while and then the cold began to bite at her fingertips and the music faded away and it was time to go to bed. She looked into her empty cup and smiled. 

     Inside, she placed the last lussekatter and a fresh cup of hot glögg onto a small tray and took it out onto the balcony. She kneeled to place the tray on the floorboards and stayed there a moment to whisper a little prayer,

“Oh Angel of Music, sent from my father in Heaven, I do not know that angels take offerings in the way of the saints. An angel is not a saint. But I offer you these in thanks for your music. And for your lessons. And for your arrival into my life. I thank my Lord every day that you have finally come to me. Please, tell my father I love him.” 

     Christine tossed about in her bed that night, straining to hear movement on the roof or on the floorboards of the balcony. In the morning, she found the tray quite empty. The cup was dry. She turned her face to the sun and threw a small laugh of delight up to heaven.

[fleckcmscott]

Another Decade

Summary: Arthur discovers Y/N's fortieth is just around the corner. He hopes to get the occasion right.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 5,044

A/N: This request comes from @hhandley80​, who is an absolute sweetheart! Funnily enough, I got the request for this story and Another Year within a couple days of each other. Thank you so much for it! It was great to write.

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open! 

This morning's therapy appointment had boosted Arthur's spirit. Left him refreshed instead of worn. Dr. Ludlow had given him a break from discussing his negative thoughts and various neuroses. Rather, she'd asked him what he wanted to talk about. What was foremost on his mind. And he'd spent close to the entire hour diving into what it was like to live with Y/N.

Having a person who cared about him was fulfilling. Beautiful. Challenging. Struggles inevitably happened but she attempted to help him through them. (A stark difference from when he’d been on his own.) The faith she'd placed in him by inviting him into her home was exciting.

Fears he'd never be worthy of that trust or such a good, intelligent woman did tend to eat at him. Especially when he couldn’t sleep or suspected he was slipping. But he was trying. Doing his best to learn every day, every hour, every minute. To alter his view of himself to include intimate partner alongside mentally ill loner. “I- I thought it would fix me,” he’d said. “It’s hard. But I don’t feel so bad all the time anymore.”

The doctor had complimented his resolve. Said he was dealing with all the changes as well as could be expected. If he followed his treatment plan, she anticipated he'd continue to do so. Appreciating the recognition, Arthur had wondered how to keep her praises close.

And now here he was. Experiencing the ordinariness of sitting in a diner with his girlfriend. Talking about their respective mornings. Sharing a meal. The crinkle fry he grabbed from the blue-plate special in the center of the table was soggy. The corner of his mouth quirked up as he dunked it in ketchup, a possible punchline coming to mind. If he could just figure out the right-

An inviting caress to the back of his hand brought him back to the present. He hadn't meant to tune out Y/N. With an apologetic grin, he pressed back into the booth's plastic cushions and took another drag off his cigarette.

“I was saying I need to head back to work,” she told him. A smile slowly spread across her face, until it nearly blinded him. “And that I can’t believe we’ve been shacked up for almost two months. I know it’s been an adjustment-“

“A good one,” he interrupted gently, interlocking their fingers.

"I’m proud of you.” The pink on her cheeks was faint. “I wouldn’t have taken the leap with anyone else. I can’t seem to get enough of your company, Mr. Fleck.” With that, she signaled for the waitress, retrieved her wallet from her purse, and got out some cash. Rising, she turned to Arthur. “Get the change for me,” she said, heading towards the back.

Her suede billfold was open on the table, her Gotham City ID card in view. He tentatively picked it up to examine the photo. Her hair was uncharacteristically flat, shorter than it was now. The flash had turned her lovely eyes red, and her lips were agape, as though she was in the middle of a sentence. A giggle escaped him. Frumpy. She was frumpy.

Reading her details, his brow quirked at her full name: “Y/N M/N L/N.” There was a nice rhythm to it, one that would also work with “Fleck,” if they got as far as he daydreamed. Then he saw her date of birth and stilled.

Her fortieth was in less than two weeks: 4/6/1942. April sixth. Shit.

He’d learned so many facts about her: the names of her nephews and niece; which college she’d attended; her favorite bands. She’d told him her birthday was in the spring. How the hell had he neglected to ask her the specific date? Awash with embarrassment, a hiccup left him and he covered his mouth.

The waitress returned with a dubious look, a receipt, and coins. As he counted out the tip, he calculated what he had in his own wallet and checking account. He’d scrimped and saved to cover the electric and water bills (though he knew he’d have to pay them in secret to avoid Y/N’s finding a way to repay him). Could he afford a decent gift, too?

Arm in arm, they walked back to Y/N’s workplace. She chatted about that afternoon’s court process, and he puffed away as if he was going to Hoyt’s office for an impromptu scolding. When they reached the steps in front of her building, she tugged at him until he stepped closer. “You’re so stiff.”

Putting on a half-grin, he leaned into her. “Don’t worry about me.” He stole a chaste kiss, one she tried to turn into more before he backed off. “I’ll see you later.”

When he got home, he didn’t bother to change into his thermal shirt and pajama bottoms. Relaxing wasn’t an option. Stretching and pacing the kitchen, he breathed in and out, in and out. He needed to focus instead of letting himself be thrown off. Like a good partner would.

Plans. He had to make plans. And not the vagaries floating around in his head of what boyfriends were supposed to do. Special ones. Personal ones. Ones that demonstrated the depths of his love for her. This was important. The start of a new decade. And her first birthday with him.

Unable to conjure other options, he grabbed the phone from the wall and dialed Y/N’s office. His leg bounced harder with every ring. He hadn’t yet spoken with Patricia, Y/N’s friend and co-worker. But he’d heard she was nice. Any suggestions she could offer were welcome.

Thank goodness she answered before he lost his nerve. “Shaw and Associates. Patricia speaking.”

“Hi,” he pushed out, fiddling with the phone cord. “Um, this is Arthur. Arthur Fleck. Y/N’s boyfriend?”

A smile lingered in her professional lilt. “It’s nice to talk to you, finally. But she isn’t here. I can take a message.”

“No, I know.” If he hesitated too long, he'd reveal his awkwardness. So he went for it. “Do you know what Y/N’s favorite cake is?” That question commenced a conversation that gradually became easier. Each sentence soothed. Consoled the irritation he’d aimed at himself.

Y/N liked hummingbird cake, a mix of pineapple, banana, and cinnamon. It sounded intricate and expensive. There was a bakery that sold it by the slice, according to Patricia. Y/N hadn’t disclosed what gifts she would fancy, but had said she didn’t need any knick-knacks, mugs, or other such trifles. As for activities, she was uncomplicated. She liked going to the movies and restaurants. Conversations and walks. The mundanity of domestic life, especially since becoming involved with him.

That lovely sentiment caused his eyelids to shut, an ember to glow in his heart. But it only confirmed what he already knew. “I want to make her happy,” he breathed. “I’m new at this.”

“We all were once,” she said, brushing his concerns off. “Arthur, she’ll love anything you do. Because you’re the one doing it.”

The kindness she was extending to him felt surreal. Not yet used to it, he tried to believe it wasn't a trick. He thanked her quietly, for her ideas and for listening to him. But as he was about to hang up, she gave him one last piece of advice. “Wear your button-up with the blue flowers. And your yellow vest.”

Blinking, he frowned. “But those are for work.”

Patricia laughed softly. “Yeah, well. She likes them. What was it she said? ‘They accentuate his sexy waist?’”

A burn rushed across his face and he rubbed his forehead. “...Oh.”

Well, that was a request he could handle.

~~~~~

It seemed as though newspaper adverts, television commercials, and even the damned billboards plastered around Gotham had an ax to grind. They all declared the same thing. Women needed to “mold their faces back to youth!” “Guard against aging skin!” Learn they could “look young again!” To be someone other than themselves.

Rolling her eyes, Y/N dropped the magazine she’d been reading in the trash can next to her desk. She’d be crossing into the “Fatal Forties” in a week. While she did use lotion before bed to prevent the formation of wrinkles, and the prospect of gray hair wasn’t one she relished, turning the big 4-0 bothered her less than she’d anticipated. Her looks were minor concerns compared to what she’d gained over the years.

The hardships she’d endured had mostly strengthened her. Allowed her, mercifully, to grow into a person who was comfortable with herself. It was said women were supposed to be set in their ways by now. And in many respects, that was true. She enjoyed her routines. She liked her career. She loved participating in life amidst millions of other people.

But meeting Arthur had changed her path. Started her on an adventure she treasured. A journey into actual partnership, rather than her earlier attempts to please and meet other’s expectations. Attempts she had failed at. Miserably.

He hadn’t cared she was five years his senior. Hadn’t hinted that he’d considered her a “spinster.” Never joked that she was an “old maid.” If she stood in front of the cosmetic counter at the pharmacy while he got his prescriptions, he’d slink up behind her and say, “You’re already pretty.” She’d never expected him to make her feel more desirable now than she’d ever felt in her twenties, stretch marks, moderately saggy breasts, and all.

During the past few days, she’d tried to piece together what he could have planned for her birthday. He hadn’t left any clues, though one night he had hurriedly tucked something under a couch cushion. He’d been a bit out of sorts, though. Biting his nails more than usual. Seeking greater reassurance.

She’d had plenty of good birthdays. There’d been parties and games. Presents. Hugs and well wishes. When she’d taken care of her father it had mostly been forgotten, apart from the cards she’d received from her ex-husband and sister. The passage of time had been marked by worsening dementia. And she had been fine with not caring.

In contrast, Arthur had stated he’d never known what it was like to matter to someone. Not until her. He’d told her he’d given Penny a blouse for her birthday once or twice. That had been years ago, however, before his mother’s reactions to him had gradually reduced to requests to send letters. Before her health had declined when he was a child and he’d had to take over every basic task. Before he’d become too exhausted to try.

Would it be fair to expect him to take much notice?

At the end of a long workday, she’d be satisfied with a quiet evening at home. Cooking dinner together. Drinking wine until she felt warm and fuzzy. Kisses exchanged here and there. Maybe some fooling around before she nodded off on the sofa with her feet in his lap. Such basic joys would be plenty.

~~~~~

The page in Arthur’s journal taken up by Y/N’s special day wasn’t atypical. He’d been writing about her since the grocery store. (“I wonder what her name tastes like. Less bitter than mine, I bet.”) Since they’d shared donuts. (“I shud have given Sara my number.”) Since she’d stared at him, then smiled at him, and he’d felt the whole world change. (“I hope Y/N likes the joke I rote for her. I practised it 100 times! Maybe she’ll let me touch her again. Shit. I’m nervos.”)

With it a mere four days away, there wasn’t much time left for gift hunting. So he pulled on his trusty tan jacket and headed out. He was unsatisfied with what his search had turned up so far. Flowers. Candy. Nylons. It had all been mediocre when she was beyond compare.

On the verge of desperation and distress, he finally managed to stumble upon the right shop. The name above the entrance, Nice Twice, was catchy. And there was a sign: “Personalization available!” Following a quick glance through the streaked shop window, he flicked his cigarette to the ground and opened the wooden door.

As he stepped inside a shopkeeper bell rang. The stench of sandalwood incense and mothballs was thick, causing him to wince. The place was overstuffed, filled with circular clothing racks, shelves of home decor and appliances, and furniture from the sixties. He tread along the faded, orange parquet floor. Squeezed between displays of bell bottoms and coats to reach a large jewelry counter by the cash register.

A man Arthur assumed was the owner popped out from behind a nearby shoe rack. He appeared to be what Penny had disdainfully referred to as a “hippie,” with his beaded headband and light blue jeans. When asked if he’d found anything he liked, Arthur answered, “Not yet.”

His shoulders tilted, drew together as he scanned the contents of the glass cabinet. Being able to get Y/N diamond earrings or a bracelet would have been ideal. He’d heard they were supposed to be symbols of commitment. Show her how important she was to him. But they’d never be affordable, even in a thrift store. There were some lovely brooches but they weren’t her style. She didn’t wear pins, anyway.

About fifteen minutes had passed when, at last, he spotted a suitable piece. The owner gave it to him to inspect. The heart, hanging from a long, silver chain, was a tad smaller than the end of his thumb. Purple, blue, and gold flowers, faded with age, were pressed under the pendant’s rounded, glass front. It was lovely, like her. And picturing her wearing it made his chest tighten.

The necklace was twelve dollars. For two dollars more, the heart’s silver back could be engraved. Arthur could definitely swing that. It took only seconds for him to choose what should be etched into it, having had his imagination sparked by a recent fifties sit-com. It would be ready Monday, the day before her birthday.

While Arthur retrieved his wallet, the owner asked, ”Hey, what’s your sign?”

Forehead furrowed, he tried to decipher the man’s meaning. He was sure he’d heard the question on television and in films. “My sign?” The man clarified and Arthur provided both his and Y/N’s birthdays.

The owner laughed. “Woo wee! That’s a powerful match.” He indicated a collection of astrology scrolls next to the register. “Your lady friend might like one of these.”

Waving dismissively, Arthur shook his head. “I don’t believe in that.” Seemingly determined, the hippie held out a rolled-up scroll. It was about the length of a cigarette, its title printed in a faux-ancient font: “Aries & Scorpio: Love & Romance.” Curiosity piqued, he pressed his lips together. “What does it say?”

“Only good things, man.” This was obviously a well-practiced pitch. And it was working The man retrieved a keyring full of unrolled, laminated scrolls. After flipping through the collection, he handed one to Arthur. He wasn’t the fastest reader, having had difficulties with it since he was a kid. But he scanned the page.

According to “the stars,” palpable chemistry existed between Aries and Scorpio. They were fun, passionate, and explosive in the bedroom. Snorting, he brought the scroll closer. “Your attraction to each other defies logic. Aries has a tough demeanor, but Scorpio brings out the compassion and love hiding underneath. Scorpio has an inner strength Aries finds irresistible.” Hm. What it said about Y/N was true. And she’d told him he was strong (which he didn’t really believe). He smiled, pleased this silly tract paid him such compliments.

He kept going. “As a pair, you are inhalation and exhalation in one. Two sides of the same coin. Aries is the sun to Scorpio’s moon.” Y/N was all those things to him. Even on days he wasn’t sure he wanted to feel better. Even on days it was easier to sink into the familiarity of misery than to strive for the unfamiliarity of feeling good.

It was after reading the final line that he nodded and dug into his pocket for two quarters: “You will be together for decades, even into the next life.”

~~~~~

Though she was standing in an overcrowded subway, squished between a man holding a dog and a woman using her as a vertical bed, Y/N felt giddy. Albeit tired. The day had been brimming with paperwork, phone calls, and running around. But it had started off well, and she was certain its upward trajectory would continue the rest of the night.

When she’d awoken, she’d discovered a pink envelope in Arthur’s place, laying haphazardly on his pillow. She’d boosted herself up on her forearm, ran her fingertips over her handwritten name, and taken out the yellow card.

There was a drawing of a man holding a woman by the waist. Lifting her until her hair touched the cheery, red “Happy Birthday.” The couple appeared thrilled. Taken with each other. And straight out of the forties. It wasn’t quite them, but it did reflect Arthur’s old fashioned romanticism.

No preprinted poem was inside. No famous quotes. Arthur had written a message instead. One which made her ache. “What do you get when you cross chocolat with something that goes thump-thump? A sweetheart. (That’s you.) My life is nicer with you in it. Even Gotham. I’m happy you talked to me. I love you a lot. -Arthur.”

He’d returned to the bedroom. Caught her mid-giggle as she’d wiggled out of her nightgown, hidden between the sheets. He was holding a mug. The same one they’d shared after the first of many lovemaking sessions.

Greedily, she’d ogled his damp hair and slender musculature. Light green eyes soft and serene, he’d sat next to her and pecked her cheek. At the flick of his gaze to her mouth, she’d flung her arms around his shoulders. Stubble burned her skin, her kisses to his dimples urgent.

“Wait,” he’d chuckled, putting the drink on the nightstand. “I made pancakes.” Even as he’d protested, he’d splayed his hand on the small of her back.

“To hell with pancakes,” she’d purred, pulling him under the blankets.

Work had been sentimental, which she’d neither expected nor wanted. Her new job would be starting in a week and a half. The small celebration they’d squeezed in served as both a goodbye and “Over the Hill” party, black balloons and grey streamers included.

Matt had been downcast as he’d shoveled red velvet cake into his mouth. “I’m sorry it turned out this way.”

A lame attempt to lighten the atmosphere had been needed. No one was going to start blubbering on her account. “You could come with me. Follow the conscience I know you have hidden somewhere.” He’d looked askance, turned towards his office. Trying to soften her joke, she’d patted his arm. “Don’t feel too bad. You could still lose the case.”

Settled on the windowsill, she’d gazed out at the streets of the city she’d grown to love. The city she called home, despite having spent only five percent of her existence in it. It was fitting to start this phase of her life here. The only period in which she’d felt whole, both professionally and personally.

A sheen had been in Patricia’s eyes when she’d joined her in the tight space, nudging her with her hip. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you here, accelerating Matt’s hair loss.”

“You’ll have to add it to your list of duties.” Elbowing her gently, Y/N continued. “I’ll only be a couple blocks away. We’ll meet for lunch. And you have my phone number.” Before her own eyes could water, she’d gone to her desk to cut another slice.

Patricia raised her hand. “You’re going to ruin your appetite.”

“Oh? Should I be expecting something?”

Finishing her own piece, Patricia crossed her ankles. “Arthur called for tips while you were in court. He decided I was an expert on you.” Y/N’s brows shooting up prompted a chuckle. “I didn’t give away all your secrets. Just some of your favorite sweets.”

The clench of Y/N’s throat was instant. And shame washed over her for assuming he wouldn’t plan much, if anything at all. He’d been considerate, even during tough times. Like at Christmas, which had been hard for him but turned out well in the end. He’d made it clear that what he coveted most, besides love and validation, was to be treated normally. Normal expectations were a part of that. She’d sought to give him a break when the benefit of the doubt had been what he deserved.

Y/N thought a bit. Surveyed the ornate woodwork in the corners of the room. Then she'd met her friend’s gaze. “Patricia, I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“Because he’s getting you cake?”

“I’m not that easy.” Laughing, Y/N sat on the corner of her desk. “Do you remember when I said I was almost forty and was going to grab what I want? Well, I’m forty and he’s what I want.”

Caution and kindness had softened Patricia’s concerns. “I don’t mean to be indelicate. But you’re his first relationship. Is he ready for that?”

Y/N sucked the frosting off her fork. “Our sixth month is soon. I’ll drop a hint. When he’s ready - if he’s ready - he’ll know I am, too.”

She’d been floating since that realization. Since admitting her devotion to Arthur aloud and thereby making it concrete. Since getting a supportive hug from Patricia. And reassurance from Matt, of all people, that she hadn’t entered a mid-life crisis.

That headiness continued as she fumbled with her keys. Upon entering their apartment, music reached her ears. Music with a faster tempo than the classics Arthur usually played. Hanging up her coat and slipping off her shoes, she recognized it as one of her “Best of Soul and Disco” LPs. She braced herself on the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, her cheeks breaking wide open.

Arthur had moved the television and its stand to the side of the coffee table. A blanket, folded into a square, lay in front of the windows. Two plates and two wine glasses were on it. As she approached, she saw sandwiches on a platter. There was pasta salad and potato salad, both covered in plastic wrap, from the deli around the corner. In the center of it all sat an empty vase.

When he came out of the bedroom, magic wand in hand, he stilled. “Oh. Hi. You’re back already?”

A giggle. “I ran.” Biting her bottom lip, she admired his tousled brown curls, feathery, light, and attractive as hell. His face was unobscured by make-up, allowing her to revel in his handsomeness. The top button of his white shirt was undone. And his yellow vest outlined his lean frame in all the right ways. He wore his usual trousers. “Did you have a gig today?”

“No.” He smoothed a palm down his chest and stomach, and she noticed he’d rolled up his sleeves. “Um, I heard you like it.”

She felt herself blush and nodded eagerly. Thank you, Patricia.

With a flick of his wrist, flowers sprouted from the end of the wand. “I wanted to do this outside. On the fire escape. But it’s too cold.” He knelt on the blanket to put the flowers in the vase.

Y/N cocked her head. The juxtaposition of him wearing his “Carnival Casual” outfit, the cutesy charm of the picnic he’d arranged with the music that was playing was ridiculous. The song went on repeatedly about miracles, need, and “sexy things.” She snorted.

As Arthur removed the cellophane from the salads, his shoulders tensed. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he breathed. “I got too much.”

“No,” she replied, sitting next to him, laying a hand on his thigh. “This is wonderful.” When their eyes met, she found his look at once bashful and flirtatious.

She served the sandwiches and salads while he poured the wine, following her request to fill the glasses to the top. Mostly potato salad ended up on her plate, the mix of mayonnaise, pepper, and egg just right. A majority of the pasta wound up on his - he liked the vinegary flavor. The red wine did not pair with the turkeys on rye he’d prepared, so she saved most of it for dessert.

When Arthur held out an orange roll of paper, she was dabbing her mouth with a cloth napkin. The title made her laugh. She never would have suspected he put stock in the zodiac; she certainly didn’t. Gingerly, she opened the scroll and squinted down at it.

It described her as determined, confident, and extroverted. And called Arthur a curious, emotional introvert. While mostly true, it wasn’t quite accurate. Arthur was only introverted in personal situations, while having the courage to perform as a clown and a stand-up. Those traits could belong to anyone, depending on the situation.

But the next paragraph clued her in as to why he’d bought the horoscope. And given it to her. “You were made for each other. There are times when it’s hard to know how you both managed to ever exist apart. The bond between you is unbreakable. You have much to learn from one another.” A lump formed in her throat when she read the last line, that they’d be together until the next life. She didn’t believe in that, yet longed for it all the same. “Thank you, Arthur.”

The scroll would have been enough. Dinner would have been enough. He would have been enough. But he placed a pink, velvet necklace box on her lap. She blinked at it, hoping he hadn’t spent too much on her. Then she forced that notion from her brain - he was a grown man who could buy what he chose - and cracked it open. Her breath caught.

The heart with pressed flowers was obviously vintage. The size was demure, like her other, few pieces of jewelry. And it was exactly her style: feminine and practical. She was grateful he hadn’t gotten her diamonds or other flashy gems. Her eyes darted to his as she took it out. “This is...” Gently, he turned it over in her palm, and she saw the engraving on the back: A+S.

A+S. Arthur and Y/N. It was a bold move from him. A welcome one.

“I think that’s usually done on trees,” he said. “But there aren’t that many in Gotham.”

Chuckling, she sniffed back her tears and shoved it at him. “Here.” She turned her back towards him. His fingertips dragged along her collarbone as she lifted her hair and he latched the chain. The kiss he placed above the clasp made her shiver. Wanting him to see how the pendant rested right above her cleavage, she unbuttoned the top of her blouse.

“It’s beautiful.” She pulled him in for a kiss. Traced his crow's feet. Let her thumbs wander to the slight puffiness underneath. The wine, along with her earlier confession to Patricia, was making it easier to open up. “You have my whole heart, Arthur,” she sighed into his mouth.

His palm went to her chest as he tilted his head, his other holding the nape of her neck. The tip of his tongue slipped between her lips and warmth enveloped her. She felt his fingers play with the necklace. Heard his ragged inhalation. Knew that pride and pleasure were emboldening him, because she was wearing what he’d gifted.

Eventually, he broke their connection, told her to close her eyes and pecked her nose. She concentrated on his steps to the kitchen. The clatter of him going through the silverware drawer. And then the chill breeze of the glass door being opened.

When she was allowed to peek, she stood and followed him onto the fire escape. A lit cigarette was already between his lips, and he was lighting a candle on a gigantic slice of cake. “You’re supposed to make a wish,” he said, smoke escaping his nostrils.

She snuggled his side, snaked an arm around him as he slung his across her shoulders. After eyeing the flame a moment, she sucked in a deep breath, pursed her lips, and bent closer...

Just in time for a split-second gust of wind to blow out the candle.

Arthur groaned and started to let go of her but she stopped him. “It counts.” She lifted the fork and fed him a bite, grinning at his pleased hum. “You won’t mind me turning grey, will you?”

“No. I won’t be the only one looking old.”

She nuzzled his temple. “You don’t look old. You’re refined.”

“Sure,” he scoffed. They ate silently for a bit, but then he squeezed her tighter. “What did you...” Trepidation lurked behind his question, even after their steamy picnic. “What did you wish for?”

“That we’ll keep loving each other, even through tough times.” She lowered the fork, already full. “That I’ll like my new job.” Letting go of him, she set the plate on the metal stairs, next to his ashtray. “That you’ll be healthy.”

He huffed. “You shouldn’t have wasted any on me.”

“You’re worth all of them.” She kissed his bicep, laid her head on his shoulder. The record playing in the background turned over, switched to a slower song, and she grinned. “Now,” she said, “may I have this dance?”

Delight in his eyes, he bowed. She giggled as he grabbed her around the middle and pulled her flush against his solid frame. He led beautifully, gazing at her as if she was the only woman in the world, guiding her to the beat she was deaf to. He even dared to raise her hand for a modest twirl, and she trusted him enough for it to work.

As they spun slowly, rotating in the lights of their living room and the city, he kissed her hairline. “Happy birthday. I hope you liked it.”

“I loved it.” She captured his thin lips with her own. “Promise you’ll be here for the next twenty.”

“The next forty.” He bumped their noses and lay his cheek on hers. Y/N cuddled deeper into his embrace, feeling more cherished than she had in years.

~~~~~

Hot Chocolate - You Sexy Thing

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @howdylilflower​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​ @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​ @jokerownsmysoul​ @mrscarnival​

[tranquil-space-ninja]

So, I had a Thought. This is a My Hero Academia thought, so if you're not into it or you don't watch it or are planning to watch it and don't want spoilers, ignore this. This also includes my OC, Remus Aizawa, who's the child of Eraserhead and Present Mic. Those two are married in this, so it's Erasermic, too. I guess people who don't like reading about other people's OCs or Erasermic should ignore this, then. But, there's some wholesome stuff amidst my usual incoherent ramblings, so if you want wholesome LGBTQ+ content, just keep reading.

So, after the dorms are instituted, but before the 1A kids take the provisional license exam, the teachers decide to have a parent-teacher conference thing where the parents come and visit their kids and stuff. This event lasts a week, and there are no classes during that week. Now, All Might's space is Friday at 6 PM, and he decides to have a group meeting where the entire class's parents come in and everybody hangs out together so the kids can show their parents what they're learning and how they interact with each other and All Might can answer any questions.

All Might has everybody sit in a circle together. Everybody sits with their parent(s). Remus sits next to Present Mic, and Mic's there holding Mr. Aizawa's hand. Because they're married. Most of the other parents are all :0 at it, but the kids are like, "This is Old News." All Might starts the meeting, and it goes smoothly for a while until Endeavor, being Endeavor, and this being before his 'I'm going to be a Good Person and New Symbol of Peace and hide the fact that I abused and neglected my wife and kids for years and expect them to be okay with that' bullshit starts, says something homophobic and enbyphobic about Aizawa, Mic, and Remus.

Remus is non-binary lesbian and uses she/he/they pronouns for projection reasons. She's only out to a few of her classmates. Those classmates are Yuga Aoyama, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Minoru Mineta, Katsuki Bakugou, Tenya Iida, and Rikido Sato, 5/7 of them only because Denki was a dumbass and forgot how to knock, then opened their bedroom door while they were stuck trying to put their binder back on after a shower (Denki is also trans in this AU, and helped them get unstuck, and they've been friends ever since). As for the rest of the class, all the girls think he's a boy, and all the boys think she's a girl. (But 🎵he's not a boy, she's not a girl, can I make it any more obvious?🎵-- any Thomas Sanders fans here?)

So, when they hear this, the seven are like, "Oh, shit, Remus just got outed," and everyone else is like :0. Remus is in this weird limbo between, "Oh my god, I just got outed, what's everyone going to say?" and, "I don't care if he's the number 1 hero now, Imma punch this bitch for outing me and saying shit about my dads." She ultimately picks to punch the bitch and stands up, but Present Mic takes her wrist and makes her sit back down. After their initial shock, the other 1A kids start standing and yelling, and the parents are looking at each other like, "What do we do here?" And then, All Might yells for everyone to be quiet and tells the kids to go out in the hall while the grown ups have a Talk. They do so, mutering discontentedly.

While Mic and Aizawa are giving Endeavor the, I-don't-care-what-you-say-to-my-husband-and-I-but-if-you-come-after-my-kid-again-we're-gonna-have-a-problem talk, the kids are out in the hall talking to each other. The general consensus is that some of them are gay or trans, and it doesn't matter that they're the minority, this simply Will Not Do. They're brainstorming what to do, when Remus says, "I have Pride Flag stickers in my bag," and produces a huge-ass book of Pride stickers. By huge-ass, I mean there are 8 pages, 2 of each sticker shape, for every pride flag, with the exception of those created by TERFS and other exclusionists, in rectangle, heart, square, and circle shapes. The Ally Flag is there, too. So, after making sure if everyone who wasn't out yet was okay with it, the students start flipping through the huge-ass sticker book and grabbing their flag or flags. They each put a heart on each cheek and a big rectangle on their chest.

Denki wears the trans flag and the bi flag. Remus wears the nonbinary, ace, and lesbian flags. Mina wears the lesbian flag. Deku, Jirou, and Tsu wear the bi flag. Shoto Todoroki, Kirishima, and Bakugou wear the rainbow pride flag. Everyone else wears the Ally Flag. (This was my way of telling you how I headcanon each of the characters for the purpose of this story).

When All Might calls the students back in, they all hold hands or put their arms around each other and walk in together. The parents all stare at their kids wearing these brightly colored stickers, and All Might asks, "Um... What are you kids doing?" which is what everybody was thinking.

Mina yells, "This is a protest," and the students all cheer.

Bakugou follows that with, "That bitch--" pointing at Endeavor, "--was saying some homophobic and transphobic shit, and we're not going to fucking tolerate it! And you can't do anything about it because we all have quirks and together we can easily beat your ass, even stupid Deku over there." More cheering. Most of the parents joined in, because they're proud of their kids. Some are just shocked because holy shit their kid just came out to a whole room in protest their baby is so brave and strong and grown up now.

Then Tenya says, "As class representative, I'd also like to say something," to chants of "Speech, speech, speech!" Once that dies down, he continues, "After we moved into Heights Alliance, Remus Aizawa told me that the reason the League of Villains had kidnapped herself and Bakugou was to recruit them to their side. They tried to do so by telling her that society had no place for her, that if he ever came out to his friends, they'd alienate him, and brought up the fact that most of the world constantly misgenders and deadnames him. She declined their offer to join them, but I honestly wouldn't have blamed her if she hadn't. With all due respect, Endeavor, your actions tonight were shameful. The level of intolerance you displayed has no place in Hero Society. I want all of you here tonight to know that the League of Villains was wrong. I may not be part of the LGBTQ+ community, but I think I speak for all of my cishet friends when I say we fully support our classmates who are, and when we're Pros, we plan to make sure this world is a place where everyone can be safe to be themselves, no matter their gender or sexuality. That is all. Thank you for your time."

The entire room was silent for a moment, then everyone but Endeavor started clapping. A few of the parents even asked for some of the Ally stickers, which Momo and Remus happily passed out.

Then there was Saturday, which had a few more parent-teacher conferences, and on Sunday, Class 1A threw a gender reveal/coming out party for Remus, Denki, Todoroki, Tsu, Bakugou, Jirou, Deku, and Kirishima. There were three cakes. One was frosted rainbow, with the cake the colors of the lesbian flag, and was full of M&Ms in the bi flag colors, and two were frosted white, one cake the color of the trans flag full of blue M&Ms and one full of yellow, white, black, and purple M&Ms, with cake the colors of the ace flag. There were also balloons that said, "It's a boy," and some with "boy" crossed out and replaced with "enby" everywhere. There also chips, soda, and fruits and vegetables (at Mr. Aizawa's request).

Were they trying too hard? Yes.

Was it a sweet gesture? Yes.

Did everybody have fun and enjoy the party? Hell yeah!

Anyway, that's the thing. That's the Thought. I hope you liked it!

[carameloveskook]

voiceless

pairing: roomate!jimin x reader

warnings: 🌸 & 💋

you strained your voice and your roommate is there to take care of you. 

notes: <(•0•<) A to the G to the U to the STD!!!

———————————————————————

 You came home around 1 o’clock, the night was ominous and dark to the point you couldn’t see your hand if you place it in front of you. You just came back from an Agust D concert, screaming your lungs out and probably getting the words wrong. That rapper always leaves you in awe unfortunately, he also left you with a strained voice.

Opening the door to your shared apartment, the lights were turned off and the only light visible was the moon coming through the window. Jimin is probably asleep right now. You thought, neglecting your voice, you hurriedly head into your room to head into bed. The next day, you woke up from several knocks on your door. “Y/N? Are you awake? I made you breakfast.” Blonde hair peeked through your doorway revealing a smol boy displaying a radiant smile towards your direction. It was your roommate who moved in recently, he was from Korea and wanted to experience the American lifestyle for a couple of months. But that was a year ago, after growing close with you, he decided to stay permanently and a growing friendship began to blossom between the two of you. The two of you make eye contact and he blushes, looking away from you, “I’ll be there Jimin, just give me second to get ready.” Your voice was hoarse and rough, the rosy cheeks and smile your bashful roommate had disappeared. Before you know it, he ran to your side and looked directly into your eyes. “Jimin...what are you-wah!” You blush a shade of red that could’ve outdone Jimin’s a while ago once he put his hand over your mouth. “You lost your voice! Don’t talk, it will worsen and eventually, you won’t be able to speak.” Nodding, he slowly removes his hand from your mouth.

“I’m going to make you something that’ll help you heal that precious voice of yours.” He exits the room leaving you in your thoughts. The only thing that’s precious in this room is you Jimin. You’d have to admit it, he was handsome yet he was adorable despite his age. The way his eyes disappear when he smiles makes your heart skip a beat and whenever you needed someone, Jimin would drop everything to comfort you whether if you were at home or in an alleyway behind McDonald's, he would be there. He was caring, gentle and the best roommate you could ask for. Eventually, Jimin came back in the room with two mugs and a change of clothes. Before he was wearing jeans and seemed to be heading out but now, he was wearing a white sweater and a bright yellow blanket was hunged from his body and draped down to the floor. He places both mugs on your bedside table before grabbing the remote from your desk. Quickly, he jumps onto your bed and wraps himself with the multiple blankets you have along with his yellow blanket. 

Looking to your nightstand, you grab one of the mugs and take a sip of its contents. Honey and Herbs mixed in warm water. You smile at the pleasant taste and look towards Jimin who was busy looking at the series of movies displayed on the screen. “I can’t choose between these two movies Y/NNNNN” You look towards the screen, they were both romantic and had a lot of kissing scenes, giggling under your breathe you choose the less sappy movie. Jimin scoots closer to you as the movie starts and eventually the two of you end up snuggling with each other. His arm was around you as you hold close to your mug. Too busy focusing on the movie, Jimin’s uses this time to gaze over your feature, you were pretty and he wasn’t gonna admit it out loud but while he was making your herbal tea, he was planning out the perfect way to confess his feelings for you. Of course, he completely chickened out and stayed quiet throughout the whole movie but alas, here he is, cuddling against you. Your head was on his shoulder and wrapped up in blankets, too engrossed with the movie to see that he was admiring you.

It was your favorite part of the movie and you wanted to catch Jimin’s reaction when the main character finally confesses his true love. Looking up at him you were caught off guard when you find him staring right back at you. Your eyes widen and heat rose up to your cheeks at the sudden spotlight, you tried to look away but something wasn’t letting you. In the background, you hear the main character’s lines. “I know I should’ve said something before but the truth is, I like you! Like, I like like you. A lot. For a while actually.” Jimin looks towards the screen and quickly makes eye contact once more, “Damn, he just took the words right out of my mouth.” He chuckles and looks away embarrassed when you didn’t say anything. “Look, Y/N I’ve liked you a lot. I know you can’t talk right now but I decided to use that to my advantage because I thought it would be better if I didn’t hear you say that you didn’t like me back but now that I just experienced what-”

Before he could finish his sappy rejection story, you lifted your head up higher to place your lips on yours. The feeling didn’t seem foreign but familiar and safe. It took the boy a few seconds to understand your response before he kissed you back. He tasted like sugar, his arms pulled you closer to him which deepened the kiss. The movie was long forgotten as he gently places you down onto your soft sheets before breaking the kiss. The warmth from your lips grows cold however the embrace shared within the two of you kept you feeling safe and loved. “Jimin, I like you. And I mean I like like you too.” He smiles and leans in once more, this time it was softer as he was afraid he’ll break you. He begins to grow underneath you, the kiss becoming rougher as each second passes by. He moves down to your jaw and neck before staying there as he places hickies all over you. You let out a moan however the intimacy was cut short once the ending credits blasted in both of your ears.

Jimin pulls away from you and looks towards the screen annoyed. Giggling you pull his attention towards you. “I think my voice needs to rest before we do any dirty things.”

[mars-the-4th-planet]

Mr. Box and Isaac Stroganoff play another game even though its been so long since either made a game review that the game review community forgot who they were.

"What are we playing today?" Isaac Stroganoff said as he put his umbrella down in the corner even though the window showed it was a sunny day out. He untucked his pants, unzipped his fly, and sat by his American counterpart: misterjukebox8

"I have several questions, but for the sake of time I will just say we are playing a game you might enjoy: Yuri Gagarin Goes To The Beach. A commissioned title made in 1999 by an unknown publisher by the name of Kozakh Studios. I could not find any information on them online except a website that was entirely in Russian. Which is why I invited you to this review despite how harsh you were last time, because you might actually like this game. Its Russian!" Jukebox explained.

Isaac Stroganoff did a Russian gesture of sort of apologizing. "Yes, well, last time I played games with you I neglected to get comfortable and I may have roasted you many as a result. Was pretty funny. But now I have taken the time to settle in, I hope we can make many good video together."

Jukebox grinned, it looked like it would be a normal video for once. Just a nice, relaxing game review with no one roasting him or attacking him or breaking into government facilities.

He brushed off the old cartridge and stuck it into his "Oh hi Mark" plug-n-play console that according to a reddit post was the only console that the game was compatible with besides the Super Nintendo, which he also had but Jukebox was trying to seem less like a Nintendo fanboy.

"I did not hit her, it is not true, I did not! Oh hi Mark" the console beeped as it started up, then the loading screen appeared and it was Yuri Gagarin the rocket girl flying in a circle around the communist symbol.

Isaac Stroganoff frowned. "Jukebox, my friend, are you implying that I must like communism because I am Russian? If so, I kick many ass. Mostly yours. I will break spleens like lumberjack splitting watermelons."

"Not spleens, she is my favorite cat in the Sims..." Jukebox joked, and added "Oh and of course I am not trying to generalize you like that Isaac... Totally... I know Russians arent all the same!"

He then winked at the camera, out of Straganoffs view.

Isaac Stroganoff smiled. "Yes, good. Let us play game then, it is done with the load."

They had three options on a title screen with Yuri Gagarin smiling and whooshing back and forth in a space background with old fashioned SNES era graphics.

>New game

>Options

>Quick play

A forth option, >Continue, was also on screen but greyed out and could not be selected.

"Weird how there is no quit option." Jukebox noted.

"Quitting is for baby Europeans, not mighty Russian hordes." Isaac said snatching the controller and smashing his thumb down on "quick play"

A side scrolling stage opened up with Yuri Gagarin as the playable character. She could go in any direction since she could fly, but appeared somewhat agitated based on the pixel art. The background appeared to be a broken down industrial site with a brown and grey pallette. Jukebox shrugged. "I mean I kinda expected a bit more beach stuff out of a game called-"

"Jukebox. Please. The goal of the game is obviously to get Yuri Gagarin to the beach, dont be an American simpleton."

"But im American I cant help it!" Jukebox joked. "Hey look money!"

In the game there were alternating pillars of yellow dollar signs that spun like Mario coins or sonic rings. There was a counter at the top showing the dollar sign and a 0 next to it. There was also a high score counter which was also zero. However, Isaac Stroganoff avoided the dollar signs.

"Do you actually know how to play games Isaac, after all the times you teased me in the world of tanks video?"

"Fool. You do not grab dollar when playing communist."

"Right. Yeah those are probably hazards."

Then they saw a pulsating Stalin face, which Isaac Stroganoff swerved Yuri to grab. Their high score points went up to 1956. Apon grabbing another one, it proceeded to double to 3912.

"Oh so to get points you have to get the pulsating stalins... Makes sense, that is perfectly logical." Jukebox said with a shrug. "I never want to say that sentence again though."

"Have you noticed how wide of a behind Yuri Gagarin has in this game?" Trolli asked, poking his head from behind the couch.

"Ahh! How long were you back there??"

"Silly orange haired man has come to join us. Great, I shall enter coma and wake up when he is gone."

Yuri Gagarin in the game seemed to be flying slower now and looked more agitated, with cartoony sweat drops coming out of her head. This was probably because of the increased number of dollar signs, and what appeared to be rocket girl parts strewn around on the ground on the stage. Isaac Stroganoff just thought this made the game easier however, and continued gathering Stalin faces and getting points.

"Besides her bottom half is a rocket so it has to be big enough to carry her weight."

"Well, is not entirely inaccurate game. Russian women have much large and supple rear end. American women? Nothing. No boob, no ass, just cuteness. Good in their own way? Perhaps. If you are fool and a dog." Isaac pointed out. Jukebox scratched his head nervously "Erm... Dont get us demonitized Stroganoff... We just got this channel unsuspended after the truth or dare with ko video collab. Speaking of which what do you think of ko? Shes American but I find her beautiful."

Trolli and Stroganoff looked over at Ko from the Ko Sho, who was doing the BNHA dance after having spilled water on herself like a dork. Their eyes turned to hearts and "PERFECT!" flashed across the screen like it was a music game. Except zoomed in on Ko of course.

It was almost as if her boyfriend wrote the script for the Isaac Munger show with how attractive she was to all the characters.

Ko then started putting on cosplay and the boys went back to being boys, unpaused the game and continued.

"You know, overall, this is not such a bad game. I was expecting worse but it seems like just an old timey thematic flappy birds and you know what? I can get behind that." Jukebox admitted. "So can I play?"

Isaac Stroganoff handed him the remote. "Yes, time to get the money!" He said as the background started looking more like a beach. He darted Yuri Gagarin towards a column of dollar signs, and immediately apon touching them he was jumped by a screamer and a graphic depiction of the Russian Rocket Woman being dismantled for her capitalist sympathies. Jukebox jolted back and covered his eyes with a yelp and trolli disappeared back behind the couch while Isaac Stroganoff just looked annoyed. "We were so close to winning the quick game!!" He grumbled loudly. The lavender town music started playing about then. Jukebox, shuddering slightly, turned the power off. "Thank you for watching the Isaac Munger show everyone but we will be continuing this game when the sun is up. Or maybe not. Goodbye and thank you all for a wonderful time!"

"But is already day time outside--no wait, it is night now? Strange."

Jukebox nervously blew a kiss at the screen like usual, and called for ko to come hug him. Isaac Stroganoff looked confused. "Why is the Pokémon song still going?" He asked. "Probably just a bug... I hope." Jukebox replied, holding ko for comfort. "Nah Spookbox is probably gonna come kill us lol." Ko joked.

[lovemesomesurveys]

What is your favorite color? Pastels, dusty rose, yellow, mint green. What is your favorite song right now? I don’t have a particular current favorite. Do you have any hidden talents? If so, what? Nope. Unless they’re still hidden from me. What is something you are shy about? I’m a shy person in general.  Are you double jointed? My thumbs are.

Do you have any deformities or birthmarks? I have a birthmark on my right elbow. What were you almost named? Andrea was a possibility. What’s your favorite dog breed? Labs and German Shepherds. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your sexual orientation? Straight. What’s your religious or spiritual affiliation? Christian.  What’s something you hate being called, and why? Sensitive. I am sensitive, but I hate when people are like, “omg you’re so sensitive” or “stop being so sensitive.”  What are some of the meanest, most insulting things that have been said 2u? I’m the meanest person to myself. I put myself down all the time. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received? Hmm. What do you get complimented on the most? If I get complimented at all, it’s usually my hair if it’s been recently dyed and styled, a shirt I’m wearing, or my purse.  Do you have any regrets? I have a lot. :/ What haunts you? My past mistakes. What do you regret the most? Some of my biggest regrets are health related. What do you beat yourself up about the most? The fact I’m 30 years old and not doing anything with my life. Worse than that, I have no idea what I want to do and I’m taking no steps to figure it out. I’m not working on myself like I should be. I’ve neglected myself in a lot of ways and I just feel....stuck.  How old were you when you started your period? 13. How bad are your worst cramps on a scale of 1-10? I don’t have a menstrual cycle anymore cause of health reasons, but when I did I had the absolute worst cramps. I had really bad PMS/PMDD. It really kicked my ass.  What’s the most physically painful thing you’ve ever experienced? The pain right after surgery and during recovery time is  h o r r i b l e. What’s the most emotionally painful thing you’ve ever experienced? Losing loved ones. Have you had your heart broken? Yes, a few times.  What one thing would you change about yourself if you could? There’s so many things, but I think if I could change my health, mentally and physically, other things could follow. Who has hurt you the most? Life, man. What are you passionate about? Umm. Do you feel like anyone really knows you? I think my loved ones, especially my mom, know me pretty well, but not completely. I don’t even know myself in a lot of ways I feel like. Especially not this person I’ve become over the past few years. Do you open up easily, or does it take you awhile to trust someone? It’s not really a trust issue with me, I just have a hard time opening up and expressing myself to others.  Are you ever shy in any situations? I’m a shy person. Do you feel shy around certain people? I’m shy around anyone outside of my immediate family. Like even my extended family I feel kind of shy around still sometimes.  Do you feel shy around people that you want to like you? Like I said, I feel shy around everyone. If I want them to like me, then it just adds to it and I’ll feel extra self-conscious and awkward. Who was your first celebrity crush? Aaron Carter when his song, “Aaron’s Party” came out. I was like 10 years old. How old were you when you had your first crush? 9. Have you ever questioned your sexuality? No. Do you pray to God regularly? Not as often as I should. Are you a Christian? Yes. Do you consider yourself a disciple of Jesus Christ? All Christians are. How old are you? 30. Do you cry in front of others, or do you hold it in until you’re alone? My family, especially my mom, has seen me cry numerous times, but I really prefer to do it alone. I’ll try to hold it in until I can be alone. What was your most embarrassing moment? Blah. Have you ever been bullied? Only by myself. Have you ever contemplated suicide? Yes. Was there ever a time in your life that you couldn’t cry? I mean, yeah? Sometimes the tears just won’t come. Other times I can’t stop them from coming. Do you have love and support from anyone, or do you feel all alone? I have love and support from my family, but I still feel alone in some ways. Do you trust anyone? My family. Do you want to get married? No. What is your dream job? I don’t have one. :/ Are you happy with your life right now? No. Which has hurt you more: friendship break-ups or bf/gf break-ups? My breakup with Joseph was really hard and it took me a long time to get over, but I did. Past friendships that I’ve lost I still think about quite often, some of which happened like 15 years ago. Losing Ty as a friend really hurt. I miss him a lot. Have you ever been abused? No. Were you abused by your parents? No. Are you parents divorced? No. Do you have chronic pain? Yes, and other chronic health issues. If so, is your chronic pain physical or emotional, or both? Both. Do you wish you could talk to someone and share everything? I want to try and see if therapy will be of any help for me. I’ve been saying that for awhile, though. :/ What’s your deepest wish right now? To be healthy. Have you ever felt loved? I know I’m loved by my family. I feel it. When was the first time you remember feeling loved (be honest)? I’ve always felt that way with my family. Do you have any brothers or sisters? How many? I have 2 brothers. Are you the oldest, middle, youngest, or only child? I’m the middle kid. Do you have a twin? No. Have you ever wished you had a twin? I did when I was a kid. One of my is definitely enough... Do you have a sibling who looks just like you? No, but we have similarities.  Which family member did you get your hair color from? My mom. Which family member did you get your height from? My mom. I always thought I would have been tall like my dad, who is 6′0, but apparently I’d only be like 5′4. I was really surprised by that.  How all are you? ^^^ Do you ever cry yourself to sleep? I’ve done that countless times. What’s one song that makes you cry? There’s a few. One of them is the acoustic version of Everlong by Foo Fighters because of the memories attached to it. Do books ever make you cry? They have. What’s a book that’s made you cry? There’s been a few. Do you watch a lot of movies? Yeah, kinda. Books or movies? I enjoy both. How many states have you lived in (if you live in the US)? Which ones? Just one: California. What advice would you give to someone starting high school? Oh boy. It’s almost 3AM and I’m too tired to give advice right now. What advice would you give to someone starting college? What’s one piece of advice you’d give to your younger self? Take better care of yourself.  Do you feel appreciated and cared about, or do you feel neglected? I feel cared about and loved by my family. I feel neglected by myself.  Are you wounded? I feel that way. Have you ever self-harmed? Yes. What advice would you give someone who’s having a hard time in high school? And we’re back to the advice thing... What advice would you give to someone who’s being bullied? Please say something to someone. Tell teachers, principal, parents, family members, friends...  Do you get bullied a lot? As I’ve said, the only bully in my life is myself. Are you sensitive? Yes. Are you hypersensitive to sound? I have selective sound sensitivity, like misophonia.  …to smell? Yes. …to sight (as in, you seem to see colors brighter than normal)? No. …to touch/to hot and cold? Yes. …to food/taste? (i.e., spicy food or hot food might be too much for you) Yes.  Do you write in a journal or diary? This is my diary. Do you like to write? I used to. Do you like the way you look without make-up? Nope. I didn’t look any better with makeup.  Do you think you only look pretty with a tan? I don’t think I’m ever pretty. Has anyone ever called you beautiful? Yes.  Have you ever been mistreated by a crush? Not by a crush. Have you ever loved someone who hated you/treated you horribly? He played and used me. Have you ever dated someone just to try it? I kind of think my first boyfriend (and technically only) was a bit of that to be honest. I was 16 and wanted to have a boyfriend. He and I were close friends and I did like him, but like I said I think that did play a part.  Are you adventurous? No. Are you spiritual? Yes. …creative? No. ..intuitive? I think so. …spontaneous? No. Not to say nothing spontaneous ever happens, but I’m not a spontaneous person by nature. …rebellious? No. ….free-spirited? No. …open-minded? I think so. …optimistic? No. …..loud? No. ….stressed out a lot? Yes. ….shy at times? I’ve answered this a few times nows, I’m a shy person in general. …….shy when you’re first getting to know someone? Uh, yes. …painfully shy? Yes. …apprehensive? Yes. …easygoing by nature? Somewhat, yeah. I’m one to just tag along. Have you ever had a rumor spread about you that wasn’t true? No. Not to my knowledge, anyway. Do you often get treated as if you are worthless? I feel that way cause my mind tells me that. Do you often fear getting in trouble (whether or not you’ve done anything)? No. Do you get stage fright? My fear of public speaking is very real. Definitely don’t miss giving presentations in school. It never got any easier or better for me. Do you compare yourself to others? Yes. What are your favorite physical features on yourself? I like my hair when it’s been recently dyed and styled.  Do you like your natural hair color? Meh. Do you like your eye color? Meh. I wish I had blue or green eyes. Are you short or average or tall, and do you like it? I’m short.  Are you happy with the way you look? No. Are you naturally an early bird or night owl? I’m a night owl. Here we are at almost 3 in the morning.  At what time of day do you normally feel your best? Never? What’s the biggest regret of your life? Blahhhhh. What’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you? Finding God, my family, all my doggos... What’s the best decision you ever made? Uhhh. All my mind thinks of are all my worst decisions. :/ What’s the hardest decision you’ve ever made? There’s been a lot of those. What’s the most terrifying thing you’ve ever done? Man, you’re asking the real questions. Too real for 3AM. Do you enjoy speech class? No, that was a nightmare.  Do you have neat handwriting? My handwriting is shit. Do you like your handwriting? Well, no. What is your name (first and middle), and do you like it? Stephanie is all you’re getting. What are you allergic to? Tangerines and I have seasonal allergies as well. What’s the highest fever you’ve ever had? 103. Have you ever been to the ER? Yes. Have you ever stayed overnight in the hospital? If so, why? Yeah, I’ve stayed a week, a couple weeks, and months after surgeries and when my accident happened. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance? Yes. Have you ever been arrested? No. Ever been questioned by the cops? Nope. …sexually harassed? No. ….sexually assaulted? No. ….been a victim of attempted rape? No. …been abused? No. …been bullied? This has been asked several times now. …been harassed? No. …been kicked out of a store because of the way you looked? No. …been kicked out of your house? No. …been the victim of a crime? Yes. ….been persecuted for your faith? No. …had someone try to shove their views down your throat? Yes. ….felt threatened for your life? Yes. ….felt all alone in the world? Yes. …felt like you were all alone in a world full of people out to destroy u? No, not in that way.  …felt ashamed to be human? Not to be a human, but being me. …felt ashamed of your faith? No. …felt self-conscious? Always. …cried yourself to sleep? Countless times. …cried on someone’s shoulder? Yeah. …cried so hard your whole body shook? Yes. …cried hard and wished you had someone to hold you? I like to be left alone when I cry, honestly. Are you superstitious? Eh, not really. Do you believe in astrology? No. Do you believe in the supernatural? Yes. Have you ever experienced anything supernatural? No. What’s one thing you find highly offensive? It takes a lot for me to be offended. What’s one pet peeve that you have? Eating sounds. Do you like long or short hair better? For myself? Long. Are you a cat or a dog person? Dog. Pineapple on pizza: yes or no? No. What’s your favorite pizza topping? Feta and ricotta cheese (in addition to the cheese that comes with the pizza already) and spinach.  Are you a democrat or republican, or neither? What’s one unpopular opinion that you have? I don’t like Nutella. :O Have you ever been healed of something supernaturally? If so, what? God. Have you ever encountered God? I’ve found Him in the sense that I wanted to seek Him out, build a relationship with Him, and study the Bible, which is what I’ve been doing for the past 2-3 years.  Do you encounter God frequently? When I pray and study His Word.  What’s the best encounter you’ve had with God? I’ve felt His presence and witnessed His healing. Do you pray daily? No. :/ That’s something I want to work on. I want to do that and I don’t know why it’s something I don’t do. Do you read the Bible daily? I finished my first ever read-through from start to finish a couple months ago, but the Bible isn’t something you just read once. I’ve been reading daily devotionals ever since I finished my read-through and there are passages included in them. I’m also about to start an online Bible study group soon. If applicable, what’s your favorite verse? I have several. Favorite worship song? I’m not familiar with too many, yet. If not daily, do you read the Bible regularly? Like I said, I finished my first read-through recently. I read everyday, often twice a day. The Bible isn’t something you read just once and you’re done. I’ll be reading it again and again and again. I’m starting an online Bible study group soon as well. Have you ever read the Bible? Well, yes... you should have started with that. What fascinates you? Psychology. What motivates you? What is the reason you wake up in the morning? Coffee, ha. Do you know your purpose in life? No. ^If so, what is it? I haven’t figured that out, yet. Do you believe you have a calling? I haven’t figured that out, yet.  ^If yes, do you know your call? ^If you do, what is it? Are you scared about the future, or do you take things day by day? I take things day by day, but yes I’m terrified of the future. Do you worry a lot, or do you put things in God’s hands? I worry all the time. :/  Do you believe in the power of prayer? Absolutely.  Have you ever witnessed a miracle? I believe so. Do you believe in Heaven and Hell? Yes. Do you believe you’re going to Heaven? I pray that I do.  What do you think happens after we die? Like I said, I believe in heaven and hell. Would you want to live forever? Do you want to live forever? I believe in eternal life with Jesus. I’ll want to live forever when I’m with Him because I won’t be in this body or this world. There will be no pain, no sadness, no sickness, no violence, etc.  What’s your favorite mode of transportation? Car. What was your favorite class in high school? English and Spanish.  What’s your favorite color combination? Pastels. Are you colorblind? No. ^If not, do you know anyone who is? Nope. Have you ever taken a colorblindness test? * Ive taken tests like that online <<< Same. Have you ever taken a right-brain/left-brain test? I’m pretty sure. ^If yes, are you right-, left-, or whole-brained? I don’t remember. What is unique about you? I don’t feel unique. What were you voted in the senior class polls? We didn’t do those. Did you like high school? I liked some of it. Were you ever popular? Nope, and that was perfectly fine with me. Do you wish you were popular? Nope. I would not have the energy for that.  Have you ever been painfully shy? Jeez, how many times have you asked about shyness?? I’ve answered this several times. Do you have a painful past that you want to forget? I have painful things from my past and yet I wouldn’t say I want to forget them? I don’t know, it’s weird. Have you ever been mistreated by a cop? No. Who has betrayed your trust? Some people from my past. Do you forgive easily, or do you hold grudges? I forgive pretty easily.  Do you believe in getting revenge? Nah. Have you ever experimented with any sort of witchcraft? No. Do people accept you and your beliefs usually? I mean, not all of them and that’s fine. How outspoken are you? Not at all. How outgoing are you on a scale of 1-10? Zero? Which season is your favorite, and why? Fall and winter. I love the holidays and the weather. Do you worry about others liking you? Not so much anymore. Have you ever tried to impress someone? Yeah. Have you ever lied to impress someone? Probably little white lies. …dressed a certain way to impress someone? Yes. Which animals are you afraid of? ALL bugs. And snakes. And mice. And wild animals are scary, but thankfully I never encounter any except if I visit the zoo and I feel fine cause there’s protective barriers. If I were out in the woods and encountered a bear.... :O I do have a real irrational fear of killer whales; though, which I never encounter. I can’t explain that one. Do you kill spiders and ants? I personally don’t, but I get someone else to! What’s one animal that describes you, and why? Sloths. What is your favorite holiday? Christmas. Do you celebrate holidays? Yes. Do you decorate for holidays? Yes. Have you ever had to avoid someone because you were jealous of them? I don’t think for that reason, no. ^If so, why were you jealous of them? What did they have that you wanted? What was the name of the first pet that you loved? Scruffy. How old were you when you found out Santa wasn’t real? I think I was 8 or 9.  Did you pray to God when you were a child? No. What is your favorite thing you’ve been for Halloween? I don’t know what I’d say my favorite was. I enjoyed dressing up for Halloween, though. Well, up until about 4 years ago when I was just over it. I still enjoy Halloween, I’m just over the dressing up part now. I don’t go anywhere or do anything anymore for Halloween except for just staying home, getting takeout, and watching scary movies.   Who is your favorite Disney princess? Ariel and Belle. Favorite TV show as a kid? Shows on Nickelodeon, Disney Channel, Cartoon Network, PBS, ABC Saturday morning cartoons, Kids WB, Fox Kids (or something like that). Favorite cartoon character? Alice from Alice in Wonderland and Winnie the Pooh. What is your favorite flavor of frosting? Good ol’ vanilla buttercream is the best, but I also like strawberry, lemon, and cream cheese. Favorite fast food restaurant? I like McDonald’s, BK, Taco Bell, Chick-Fil-A, and Jack in the Box. I haven’t really been into fast food the past few months, though. Favorite ice cream flavor? Strawberry. This may be old, but did you hear “yanny” or “laurel”? I think I heard Laurel.  Do you prefer silver or gold? I like both. What’s one color you look terrible in? Well, I don’t feel I look good in anything, so.  What are two colors you look great in? I feel most comfortable in black. Would you change your skin tone/complexion if you could? I’d like to be a little tanner. Do you think you look better with a tan? Still ugly, but I like being a little tanner. What color is your skin naturally? Pale. What state and country do you live in? California, USA. Do you think you have an accent? I guess we all do, but it’s weird thinking of myself as having one. It’s not recognizable or identifiable like other accents, such as a British one, a southern one, or someone from like Boston, ya know? No one would think, “Oh, she’s probably from California” just based on how I talk. Which accent is your favorite? Some southern and British ones. What store would you like to win a shopping spree at? I’d prefer like a Visa gift card so I could spend it anywhere. Do you think for yourself? Yes and no. We’re all influenced or persuaded in some ways, sometimes subconsciously. Do you have any tattoos? If so, how many? What are they of? Nope. What piercings do you have? Just my earlobes. Have you ever been rebellious? Ha, the most “rebellious” thing I did was smoke weed.  Describe your style in high school. Freshman year I was very girly and preppy, sophomore year I went through my emo phase, and junior and senior year it was just like teeshirts and jeans. I also liked accessorizing a lot.  What is your style like now? Leggings and graphic tees, all day everyday.  What one word best describes you? I don’t know. What one word best describes your room? Giraffes. ha. Who was your first roommate? I’ve never had one. Who was your favorite teacher in high school? Mr. Coffey, my sophomore history teacher. He was really cool. He was a huge fan of the Red Hot Chili Peppers and played them all the time before class. We talked about music and stuff. I was really into the band Hawthorne Heights at the time and he’d play them sometimes, cool. Looking back, he honestly reminds me of Rob Dyrdek both in how he looked and how he acted. …least favorite teacher? I didn’t have a least favorite, really. None of my teachers were horrible or anything. What is your least favorite color, and do you ever wear it? Brown. I have one pair of brown leggings. What are your top three favorite colors? Pastels (I’m grouping them as one, shh), dusty rose, and yellow. Favorite fruit? Bananas. Favorite vegetable? Spinach and broccoli.  Favorite flavor of tea? Peppermint or Chamomile.  Tea or coffee? Coffee all the way. Are you flexible (physically)? No. Favorite coffee shop? I really just go to Starbucks. Favorite Starbucks drink? White chocolate mocha, caramel macchiato, and some of their seasonal drinks. When is your birthday? July 28th. What is your zodiac sign? Leo. ^Does it fit you? Nope. I’m the complete opposite of a Leo. What is your Chinese zodiac sign? *shrug* What genres of music do you listen to/like? I like various genres. Do you read a lot? I haven’t been lately. I’ve hardly read at all this year for some reason. I need to change that.  Do you like to read? I do. Are you organized? I used to be more organized.  Do you eat healthy? No. How often do you eat out? We get takeout a couple times a week usually. What’s something you want to change about your life? A lot of things... Do you wish you had more control over things? Absolutely. How do you express your anger? Cry. Have you ever reached your breaking point? I feel like I reached it long ago. Have you ever lived past your limits of endurance? I’m still here. Who do you miss? My loved ones who have passed. Do you pray in tongues? No.

[rexcaliburechoes]

0. Prologue // Fate/Emblem [HEROES]

I never write about FEH ever, mainly because there... really isn’t much to write about, you know? But now that I’ve drafted up an idea for Fate/Emblem [Heroes], I might as well throw some ideas down, maybe a prologue or an event of sorts because why not, right?

I’m intending for this to be the intro bit to whatever this is going to be, and then maybe I’ll embellish it and add more parts later if I feel like it (read: never ever again in 138736583481234 years).

I’m going to edit this minimally since this is sort of a rough draft thing, and it’s also probably gonna be stuck on Tumblr because I never edit my stuff, but that’s fine. It’s not like anyone’s interested, anyways.

I use gender-neutral pronouns for Kiran, since Kiran can really be anyone, and even though they’re going to be a key part in Fate/Emblem [HEROES], their gender isn’t important. Also, I’d rather it be an immersive event where you, the reader can be put into Kiran’s shoes (with the exclusion of your name, of course. I can’t keep referring to Kiran as ‘the Summoner’ all the time, and I don’t like writing in second person).

Kiran balanced on top of a stone fence, their arms spread out to balance themselves. Their hood was down, and the sun reflected off of their hair, bleaching it almost white in the bright light. Their gold and white robes flapped in the cool summer breeze. It was the perfect opportunity to be alone; to be away from the hustle and bustle of the Askrian castle-barracks that was their home. It was too stuffy, with all the Heroes bowing and scraping to them.

It was too much for a simple person such as Kiran.

“Summoner?“ Alfonse called, searching for Kiran. “Summoner, where are you?“

Kiran paused from their balancing act on the fence. They turned towards the lord’s call, an audible sigh passing through their lips.

“What is it now, Alfonse?“ They asked once the blue-haired lord caught up with them.

“Lord Sigurd was looking for you. He told me that you were supposed to assist him and his squad in the Stratums.“

Kiran frowns. “I guess I can’t have a day to myself. Oh, well.”

And then they turned and continued to walk away from the castle-barracks, their shoes clicking on the stone of the fence.

“S-Summoner!“ Alfonse reached for their sleeve to stop them. “I understand that you don’t want to lead an army, but you have a duty to Askr! I wouldn’t shirk them because of-“

Kiran jerked their arm away from Alfonse’s gloved hand. “Because of what? A childish fit that’s unbecoming of a master strategist?”

Their nostrils flared and their eyes stared down at him in annoyance. Dark bags lined their eyes, and they looked much, much older than they should have been. Their lips quivered, trying to keep their anger back, but it was all too much. all the war, death, bloodshed they’ve witnessed- it was not something Kiran wanted to see in their lifetime.

“Will you just leave me alone? I’m elevated to a position higher than I deserve, and on top of that, I’m not a battle-hardened warrior! I don’t have the mental fortitude to do literally anything related to combat. I’m not even a good strategist, and almost all of the plans that I’ve made only work because of a fluke or sheer dumb luck. And I don’t even get a moment to myself to try and process what the hell I’ve ordered people to do and grieve for the things I’ve seen. Can’t I just get a moment of rest?!”

Tears streaked Kiran’s cheeks. They breathed out shakily, trying to not fall off the ledge. Reining in their emotions, they turn away.

“I just want to go home and forget about everything.“

Alfonse paused. He’d never seen Kiran crack like this. Usually, the Summoner would wear a face of indifference, only revealing hints of happiness, sadness, or really, any other emotion, if they felt like it. He opened his mouth dumbly, paused, then closed it again.

“Summoner...“

“Look, Alfonse, I’m just tired and I need time alone. Just leave me alone.“ Kiran mumbles thickly and continues to pace the brick fence.

Alfonse lowers his outstretched hand, watching Kiran’s retreating back. He sighs, turning away. Maybe he should give Kiran their space. After all, he was the one who pushed Kiran into leading the Order simply because they were their new Summoner.

But...

It was their responsibility, their duty, to lead the Order. No matter how they felt, they must fulfill their duties, first and foremost. That was how generals carries out their orders. It was how he was taught to rule. It was the standard everyone in the army to do the same.

Alfonse paused. He raises his head and turns back, briskly walking towards Kiran. He would tell them that they couldn’t just neglect their duties. Yes, that's what he should do. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears. Hopefully, this would be a good idea…

Kiran huffs. Their initial spark of anger, bitterness, and fear had all boiled away, leaving a quiet shell in its place. Maybe... maybe they weren’t cut out for such a role. After all, they couldn’t lead a small group, let alone coordinate an army. Why were they held to such a standard? It didn’t add up. Just because they were the Summoner, it didn’t mean that they were a master strategist. They could barely follow any of the lessons that Anna and other commanders taught them.

Clink, clink.

“Alfonse, leave me alone,“ the Summoner sighs tiredly. “Didn’t I tell you that-“

They turned towards the noise. Instead of the Askrian Prince’s friendly face, they were met with a black helmet and a gleaming silver axe. Their heart in their throat, they fell off the fence, crawling away from the enemy. Kiran reaches for something, anything to aid them in their time of need.

Their fingers grasp the handle of Breidablik. Whipping it out in front of them like a gun, they stared down the glimmering blade of the other’s weapon. Alfonse was too far away, and if he listened to them, he would be back at the Castle of Heroes.

Dammit! If I’d know that this would happen, I’d have kept him with me, my own emotions be damned! But hindsight is twenty-twenty, I guess.

The axe glances off the long body of Breidablik, yellow and gold sparks shimmering in the early afternoon sun. The force nearly jerks the relic out of Kiran’s grip, but fear kept it from falling.

I... I don’t want to die.

Kiran dodges the Emblian soldier’s next swing, stumbling to their feet.  Fear courses through their veins. They point the relic at the soldier, squeezing the trigger. It was just like they would when summoning a new Hero, but instead with Orbs, their own energy, their own magic. Bright white envelops the area, creating a pillar of light that swallowed the nearby surroundings.

Alfonse stops, watching the pillar form, then fade slowly. His hands started to shake.

Gods no... Kiran...! He breaks into a heavy run, unsheathing Volkvangr as he went. Not another one... not another person that I failed to protect!

The light fades, a glowing figure standing between the faceless soldier and the Summoner. Strawberry blonde hair floated in the slight breeze.They were of a slight build, blue wisps of what could be considered magic arc off of the surface of an invisible weapon. They turn towards Kiran, the sun illuminating their emerald-green eyes.

“I ask of you. Are you my Master?“

[blueuchan]

I posted 5,635 times in 2021

16 posts created (0%)

5619 posts reblogged (100%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 351.2 posts.

I added 1,936 tags in 2021

#destiel - 468 posts

#spn - 447 posts

#supernatural - 373 posts

#castiel - 238 posts

#dean winchester - 147 posts

#pokemon - 102 posts

#misha collins - 54 posts

#taylor swift - 44 posts

#sam winchester - 33 posts

#deancas - 30 posts

Longest Tag: 129 characters

#wkxnckmddkcmls dnckelsxmckdkdnsbdjdksmdkdldnsnbcidkwnshxjslwndhxgzxidownsbsxuoxmxnsbsudixmxnsbshsidkcncbfsjskkznxnddjoskznxbdjsjs

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Im watching Supernatural

Sooooo I bet with my sister that if Destiel would be endgame I would watch Supernatural and a Im not longer shure if it is or not, I decided to watch Supernatural but not the all thing just the chapters that I feel like watching. Every Destiel blog said that I must watch since the 4 season so lets begin!!

4x01 Lazarus Raising 

This is a horror show, thats a surprise, all the gifs that I had seen make it look like a supernatural drama, but the burning eyes of the vident are really scary, and the atmosfere is so dense and misterious. 

Now, all this people are pretty chill about the resurection thing like, yeah Sam cried a little but... still. 

I like how the brothers lie to each other with no problem what so ever, like shure bro I havent use my demon powers, what you thing that as soon you wouldnt be around I would be consumed by pain and go bersek pfff, I just chilling here. 

I love the angel entrance, dramatic and beatiful, 10/10. 

4x02 "Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester"

This was great. So spooky and so many feelings, like damn I would see grown up men been consuming by their past mistakes all day. 

Also I like how the eniviromental being agresible straight and manly in a way that you can say is a defense mecanism against the never ending horror movie that is the life of these Hunters. 

So many deaths, like a lot of people die in the show. 

Overall I love the parallel of the episode, all those ghost look vengefull and evil when they acused the Hunter of failing them and the viewer could see how they did all that they could even when its a self impost job and this come back at the  end when Dean asked Castiel why god and the Angels don’t do more and Castiel said that they do all that they could. BAM! THat is good writting. 

But also is very unrealistic, because be honest if Castiel, angel of the lord would show in your dreams, at night to talk to you at a inch of your face, al misterious and pretty the only question would be if they would prefer to sit down and if you could put a pillow under your knees. 

4x03 In the beginning

An episode about the parents?? uugh I gonna skip this. 

4x04   Metamorphosis

So I have to ask, why is a secret the secret society of Hunters?? It look like they had a method and a lot of well document evidence. Like a lot, and witnesess. Why don’t make a academic research field about this? Or a well trained carrer? Or a extra curricular subjet in schools? I think the common people would be safer with a little more of info. Maybe some farmaceutic would invent a damn drug so the poor people with the gen of a canibal worm wouldn´t need to go bersek, eat people and been burning alive. Im just saying this look like a big neglectic thing. 

It made no sence. 

Overall good episode. But Im with Sam in this, his powers looks like very cool and a little spooky, but werever he is helping people. 

And I like Ruby, I hope nonthing bad happen to this demon gilfriend :).

4x05 Yellow Fever

Great concept, Dean is really relatable. But poor sad men who dies and never get rest, at least he kills his killer but god that was a dark aproach. 

4x06   Monster Movie

This didn’t sound important so Im gonna skip it. 

4x07  It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester

This is good old TV. Great mistery, moral dilemas, Sam beein disapointing of god, more demon powers, Castiel talks more and the pretty angel had doubs oooh my heart, also I love the Angel conspiracy, and are my eyes liying to me?? a non white alive talking character?? I cant believed. 

This show is fun but paintfully white. And male. 

Also I feel really conflictuated at how the show made fun of Dean for had queer expresions??? Like I think this could make the impresion that his clearly not cis straight identity would be trated at some point of the show.

So that´s all, I guess I would continued the show later. 

9 notes • Posted 2021-01-08 01:36:49 GMT

#4

Yeah but... I mean. We know that Cas and Dean are in heaven at the ending. And now we know that Castiel had a vision of the future with him half naked very close to relaxed- happy Dean who thank him for something while he show off his new healty wings. AND Jack said It was a vision of the future, a vision of Paradise.

Its like a new secret ending.

14 notes • Posted 2021-07-08 13:18:01 GMT

#3

What I love most about the Ducktales ending Is that Scrought dont get all the clone explanation. Like he was fighting his mortal enemy and Webby just appeared and call him dad. And He just roll with it. The little girl said im his dad, that must be, Is done, no going back. And I respect him for that.

17 notes • Posted 2021-03-25 17:15:01 GMT

#2

There is no experience comparable as to watch Encanto with my mother, a latin america woman, mother and abuela, lider of the community at who we had had actuall and constant conversations about how hurtfull is for the rest of the family that she always had imposible high expectation in the rest of the family, specially in the women at her charge, said that Encanto was a “good movie”, very funny, but that she didnt feel that it talks to her on a personal level. 

Like mom, no. 

22 notes • Posted 2021-12-01 18:35:22 GMT

#1

Encanto spoilers

I love that Encanto showed a refresh take in the love triangle trope. There is no beef between Isabela and Dolores, they are fine with each other even when Isabela is gonna married that guy that Dolores likes with no love by her side. But they both would die before contradict Abuela. And every latam people on the audience would watch and said, yeah that happen sometimes they both do the right thing. 

So good that Maribel had her rebelius straight just in time. 

26 notes • Posted 2021-12-01 18:51:51 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[jessahmewren]

Finding Our Way Home Chapter 3 of 4: Neglected Harvest

Written for @thexmasfileschallenge and tagging @today-in-fic 

Day 18: Snow Boots

Chapter One and Chapter Two

-0-0-0-

Scully awoke to the smoky, heady aroma of fried bacon and fresh-brewed coffee and knew immediately that she wasn't in her own bed.  There were no such smells in her apartment; she rarely made coffee, preferring instead to grab a coffee on the way to work.  It was just her after all, and coffee for one hardly seemed worth the effort.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, squinting at the small alarm clock on the bedside table. It was well after 8am, but the room wasn't that bright.  She planted her feet on the cool wood floor and stretched cat-like in the gloom.  

Scully made her way to the window, drawing back the gauze curtains with the back of her hand.  The bedroom faced the rear of the house and overlooked a few acres of rolling hills dotted with the gnarled fingers and mangled limbs of a forgotten orchard.  Apple trees, she thought.  She could make out a few of them that, against all odds, stood bent under the weight of a modest harvest.  It was late in the season, she thought to herself.  It would be time.

She pulled the curtains open on both sides, pressing them out on the rod so they would stay.  Through the thin pane and over the dappled tops of the apple trees, the sky was dark. Doleful clouds pregnant with rain dragged low over the horizon.  The wind inside them roiled like a tempest; the rain that Mulder had predicted yesterday would surely come today.  

It was nice here with Mulder, away from the FBI and from the structure of their usual lives.  The imbalance had been frightening at first, a threat to the walls between them that she so carefully protected, but Scully found herself more at ease now.  Had it not been for the day's solemn activities, she might even be relaxed.  

She let the curtains fall to again and turned away from the window.  The dress she would wear to the funeral hung on a hook on the bathroom door. The black fitted dress with strong shoulders that struck her just below the knee, her costume of grief.  She sighed heavily.

Scully hated funerals.

Not just since her father died, but before that.  Even since she was a little girl.  It seemed to her that her life had been punctuated by loss, a life dotted with intermittent struggle and illustrated by her stubborn refusal to give up.  Funerals only reminded her of that.  

She slipped on her clothes from the night before and made her way downstairs.  

Scully found him with a bar towel thrown over one shoulder and stirring something in a skillet.  She crossed to the coffee pot without speaking, and when he saw the movement in his periphery, he turned to her, smiling.

He held a wooden spoon and wore pieces of a suit, fine black trousers with an almost indiscernible grey pinstripe and a sharply creased white dress shirt.  The sleeves were rolled up over his tan forearms, and he had an apron tied around his waist.  “Good morning,” he said warmly.  His eyes sparkled in the early morning light.  “I thought you might like some breakfast.”  

She nodded quietly, filling the mug too full and having to sip some off the top before moving it. She smiled at him appreciatively.

Scully never ate breakfast.

But Mulder wouldn’t know that, and as she watched him standing there with that towel over his shoulder and with the wooden spoon and wearing that inexplicably spotless dress shirt that he had no business cooking in, she found it impossible to say no to him.

“Thank you,” she said simply.  She sat down at the kitchen table where she had bandaged his hand the night before and threaded her fingers through the handle of the mug. 

After a few moments, Mulder placed a plate of eggs and a side of bacon in front of her and sat down opposite her at the table.  She moved some around the plate before bringing a forkful to her mouth.  They tasted faintly of curry and were light and fluffy.

Mulder watched her eat, a curious expression on his face.  Her cheeks colored when she noticed his study, and he averted his eyes. "Did you sleep well,” she asked.

He shook his head slightly as if waking himself from a dream.  "Not really," he said quietly.  He smiled.  "There’s no place like a man’s couch."  He sipped a glass of orange juice, lifting his eyebrows over the rim.  "What about you?"  Mulder was stuffing food into his mouth like it was his last meal.

Scully took a swig of coffee.  “I slept ok. Do you really sleep on the couch Mulder?”  The thought of that made her suddenly very sad.  

Mulder slowed his chewing and took a sip of his coffee.  “Yeah,” he said. “When I do sleep.”

Scully thought of Mulder alone in his apartment, lying on that leather couch staring at the ceiling.

Before she had time to respond, he had stood and was clearing the table.  He had his back turned at the sink, and his voice was rough. "I better finish getting ready," he said brusquely.  He was washing the plates, looking down into the soapy water and avoiding the window in front of him.  Avoiding her.

"I'm going with you Mulder," Scully said to his back.  It wasn't negotiable and she knew he knew it; she had made that clear last night. She saw his shoulders stiffen a little and his hands still.  

"I know," he said without turning around.  "Thank you."  

She left him then, standing very much as she had found him--distant, distracted, and without seeing his face.

-0-0-0-

An hour later Mulder stood at the threshold of the house waiting for her.  He looked at his watch; they had just an hour until the graveside services at the small cemetery a short drive from the house.  Mulder pursed his lips, thinking.

He heard her weight on the stairs behind him and he turned, his eyes tracking the sound until he found her. Scully.  

She wore a demure black dress with a rich brocade appropriate for the cooler weather.  Her hair was brushed into soft curls that framed her face.  She was beautiful.

Scully landed in front of him, her modest pumps thudding softly on the polished wood floor.  She favored him with a soft smile.  "Hey," she said easily.  "You clean up nice."

She was trying to cheer him, he knew, and he quirked his mouth. "Have you ever seen me indecent, Scully?"

Her hand went up to press the knot in his blue silk tie.  She straightened it needlessly and let her hand drop to his chest, lingering there.  "Oh you're hardly decent Mulder," she said teasingly.  "But you're always presentable."  

He smiled, looking into her lovely face and warmed by her touch.  "Well, you're right about that," he said quietly.  His eyes roved restlessly over her face, vainly attempting to take her in all at once.  

Scully let her hand drop to her side, missing the warmth, the steady thump of his heart against her palm.

"We better go, Mulder."  

She was right he knew, but he was somewhat reluctant to leave the security of their shared space. Reluctant to go about the business of saying goodbye, a business he seemed all too familiar with.  

He nodded.  Mulder squared his shoulders and they walked out of the house together.  

-0-0-0-

A litter of leaves, orange and yellow ochre dotted with specks of red peppered the green Astroturf blanket spread around the little assemblage over the open grave.  Mulder sat stoic and solemn as a cold wind twisted around the tombstones that jutted like broken teeth from the dead-grass landscape of the small family cemetery.  Nana would be buried with her people, and the few that had assembled at the graveside Mulder didn't know.

Scully pulled her coat around her, shrinking deeper into its warmth.  She closed her eyes against the liturgy, the rattling leaves and the intermittent sighs and sniffles of the grieving.  

Beside her Mulder sat still as stone, his face placid and fixed beneath dark glasses.  She moved beside him and felt him stir and stiffen slightly in response.  She stole a glance at him.  Beneath the facade, the mask he wore for the world, Mulder grieved...for the woman he loved, for the family he lost, for things unknown to Scully--secret hurts related or unrelated to the way their lives had intersected.

She grabbed his hand.

Mulder did not look at her, but she felt him relax.  She held his hand until the service was over, and from to time he absently ran his thumb over her knuckles as if reassuring himself that she was still there.

On the way home they said nothing.  The silence was not awkward; indeed, it was welcome.  The funeral was stilted and uncomfortable and a necessary social grace. But it was over now.  Scully pressed her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes, listening to the soft rain pattering on the roof of the car.

“Death is a dignitary," Mulder said to no one, breaking the silence that had settled between them. She had been on the verge of nodding off, and she opened her eyes drowsily and looked at him.  

"Excuse me?"

"Ambrose Bierce," he said in explanation.  "Death is a dignitary who is to be received with formal manifestations of respect...even by those most familiar with him.”

He was providing commentary on the day, she thought, in his own way.  Scully was fully awake now and considered the quote.  Yes, she supposed it was true.  Death would not be ignored.  She cleared her throat.  "The service was beautiful," she lied.  In fact it was bleak and piteous.  He only nodded.  

They spent the afternoon in their own pursuits.  After donning more comfortable attire Scully explored the backyard, the forgotten orchard and the few trees that still stood against the ravages of time and neglect. The fresh fall air had that earthy smell that always lingered after a rain and it seemed to invigorate her; being away from the noise of the city was a welcome escape, and this was the first time she'd had a moment to actually enjoy it.  When she returned to the house a few hours later, she found Mulder in the kitchen sorting papers.  He had shed his suit except for the trousers and the crisp white shirt.  The top few buttons of his collar were undone.

"Look what I found," she said brightly.  She emptied her oversized sweatshirt and a few small, blush-colored apples bounced across the table.  

He looked at her curiously and with some surprise as the apples tumbled forth.  "Where did you get these?"

She took a bite out of one of them with a satisfying snap.  "The trees out back," she said around a mouthful of fruit.  He watched her chew with some fascination. She wore a short ponytail and leggings and big clunky snow boots, and he had never seen anyone look so vibrant.

"I thought those were all dead," he said distractedly, returning to his work.  Scully pulled out a chair settled near him at the table.

"You know, with a little care those few trees that are left might make it," she said to him. "It wouldn't take more than--"

"I'm selling the house."

He stopped what he was doing, placed the papers to the side and folded his hands in front of him.  She must have been visibly surprised, because when his eyes fell on her face, his softened.  

"This is your home," Scully said, somewhat stymied by his abrupt announcement.  

Mulder set his mouth. "I don't have a home, Scully; I have the occasional sleepless night in an apartment and the rest in countless cheap motel rooms.  And If I did have a home, it wouldn't be this one.  This isn’t anyone’s home.  Not anymore.  I kept this house for Nana and she's gone."  

She looked at him, a little bewildered.  In the short time she had been here, this house had seated itself as part of the Fox Mulder mythos, of her idea of who he might've been before she knew him.  Of Mulder's history and family.  To think of it gone, no longer associated with him, was somehow wrong.

"I understand," she said simply.  She frowned. "When will we leave?"

Mulder pinched the bridge of his nose, wearied from the work of sorting through Nana's affairs. "Tomorrow," he said. "As soon as I have things taken care of."  

Scully said nothing. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms absently, her mind elsewhere.  Her eyes fell on a small stack of leather bound books amid the litter of documents on the table.  They looked like photo albums.

He watched her face bloom into a wicked smile.  "Are those what I think they are," she said wryly.  Her eyes twinkled as she reached for them, and he playfully stayed her hand.  

"I'm really not sure if you're prepared for this Scully," Mulder said with faux severity. "My awkward teen years were quite unkind."

She cut her eyes at him. Doubt that, she thought.  Mulder was devastatingly handsome now; the early version of that couldn't be too far off the mark.  

"Wasn't everyone's," Scully muttered in response as she took up the first album.  She opened the cover and the face looking back at her was much unchanged.

Mulder as a boy.  Fox, she corrected.  A young child of 7 or 8 in swimming trunks splashing in a plastic backyard pool.  He had the same sensitive eyes that stared back at her now, only unmarred by the harsh truths of the world.  

"God you are were so adorable," she said delightedly.  Mulder only laughed.  

"Were?  Scully I’m insulted."

She ignored him completely. Album after album rendered the same. Chronicles of Fox Mulder as a young child, a teen, then a young man.  Mulder had been an athlete, a track star of all things, and Nana had kept every clipping, every mention of him in the papers, long after he and his family had moved on.

Two hours and two bottles of wine later they were sitting on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table in front of the fire and thumbing through the last one.  Scully had taken her hair down, and she let the shoulder length of it spill over the cushion and away from her neck.  

Scully felt privileged to have had this sneak peek into his early life.  She found that she had wanted this without realizing it, had needed to know just a little more about who he was before The X-Files for so long. She turned the last page.  It was a spread of clippings and photographs from Mulder's graduation from the FBI Academy (my God had he wore the hell out of that uniform, she thought), and she stood up clumsily to retrieve another one. Scully hadn't been up in a while and the wine they had shared still lingered in her consciousness like a welcome fog.  When she returned to the shelf where Mulder had retrieved the albums, she found him already standing there.

"There aren't any more," he said simply.  He had his hands on his hips and an odd look on his face.  

She looked at him disbelievingly.  "Nonsense Mulder," she said teasingly, thinking him to be self-conscious of the next installment and meaning to dissuade her.  "I've seen 'little you' bare-assed in a bath tub; there's no going back from that."  

He said nothing and his expression did not soften.  "There aren't any more," he repeated, and his face changed.  "Nana and I...lost touch for awhile," he said.

Her expression fell a bit then, and she sobered considerably as she made the deduction.  They lost touch, she thought.  He lost touch.  

"Mulder, I'm sorry," she said simply.  She walked toward him with the last book in her hand. He watched her approach him, watched her pad toward him in her bare feet and a blush from the wine. 

"You shouldn't have come," he said quietly, but it was wavering and he didn't believe it.  

"Why not?" She placed the photo album under a nearby lamp.  "Because you don't want to face it Mulder?” She pinned him with a glare.  “Or are you just afraid to be alone with me?"

Mulder swallowed, looking at her warily

“Both,” he managed.

She wasn’t expecting that. Her face colored, and not just from the wine.  

“Maybe you’re right,” she said hoarsely.  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”  Still, she steadily closed the gap between them.  “But don’t carry any guilt for your Nana, Mulder.  You carry enough as it is.”  

He looked at her with awe. She had closed the distance between them with just a few steps.  She swam in the oversized sweatshirt, and her eyes were large sets of sapphire that bore into his very soul.

“Mulder, what are you doing,” Scully asked, and at the same time he looked and his hand was making its way over the soft material of her sweatshirt to settle at the base of her neck. He didn’t even remember touching her.

“Scully,” he said breathlessly, “Aren’t you tired of fighting?”  

-0-0-0-

[remember-wim-faros]

Episode 1 - Are You Listening?

[voice echoing] When a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it,

it makes a sound!

[birds chirping] Ladies and gentlemen. We have found the music! It had been lost, as so many things are lost. Missing, disappeared, misplaced, vanished. Every day, what falls into obscurity without anybody noticing? Without anybody paying attention. What is locked in the attic?

I mean, let’s talk about some things that have been found in an attic, or spaces like attics. Did you know that Van Gogh’s “Sunset at Montmajour”, that beautiful painting, was found in an attic? Or that the original handwritten manuscript of “Huckleberry Finn” was found in an attic? The “Venus de Milo” was, well no it’s no-not an attic but, buried in a farmer’s field, unearthed by a peasant who came across some stubborn soil.

Did you know that the only copy of the pilot of “I Love Lucy” lay under the bed of Pepino the clown for 30 years, until it was swept out by his widow when she finally cleaned up around the place and taught to herself, this is pretty funny.

All these masterpieces just a broom sweep away from history’s dustbins.

And today, today! Recovered from a neglected attic of a suburban townhouse, one cassette tape destined to be sold in a garage sale, containing what is likely to be the first recorded concert of Wim Faros.

So.. who is listening? Hello? I’m Deirdre Gardner, and I welcome you to my new show. “It Makes a Sound”. [thumping, windchimes] It’s the first and only show in the nation dedicated to Wim Faros, native son of our Rosemary Hills. Where together, we’ll be part of a musical legacy. We will prepare to receive the genius that is Wim Faros. And to return him, like a prodigal son, to this deprived land. I will be the one to provide you up to the minute news and information about the artist, as I discover it. The name – Wim Faros. The subject – genius. And its location? Where us extraordinariness, I ask myself, don’t you? Don’t you ask yourself that? Extra..ordinariness, where I it today? Where are the truly exceptional ones who, out of our sheer proximity to them allow us to glimpse the intersection of our little lives, with the profound? Who walks among us? Is there anyone? Who walks among -us-, all the little uses? [chuckles] Uses… eh, eh, rolling lint off our pants. Uses, squeezing avocados in the grocery store and never picking the ripe one. Uses um, driving up and down the side streets to work because highway frightens uses. Uses um, drinking chamomile, attempting inverted yoga poses, popping melatonin and crossing our fingers as we slink into bed for the night. Where can we look here, in this vast wearied landscape of Rosemary Hills? Where our weathered old water tower reminds us in fading letters of past town mottos. Such as “golf capital”. Or “Rosemary Hills is alive with the whirr of commerce.” Or “Let’s tee in the hills.” But where now, the best boast we can master is “easy access to the highway”.

Well. Here, amidst the now abandoned golf course and its neglected grass, amidst the shuttered strip malls and these potholed streets, the extraordinary has tread. And the footprints, they linger. If you know how to look for them. And I think I do.

My fellow people of Rosemary Hills, citizens of the world, what have you forgotten? What treasures have we hidden under cobwebs and dust? What beauty awaits us on the other side of that drywall, as we wrestle fitfully in our sleep? What life lingers on these old fairways? What wonders just passed us by, as we bowed our head towards.. uh, a brightened 3-inch screen? Our necks hurt, our brains are zapped from too much screentime, our souls ache, and suddenly decades have past us by. Like poof. What are we missing?

Do we remember what used to be held in the delicate folds of our heart? Do we remember how things used to sound? Smell. Feel. Taste. I want to.

It’s time to unpack the attic! Today, we have a mind-boggling discovery. A confirmed to be authentic tape containing what is known to be Wim Faros’ debut public musical appearance here in Rosemary Hills, in the year 1992. And so we are not going to rush this moment, like we rush everything. We’re gonna slow down, we’re gonna savor. We are going to consider the tremendous significance of this relic. In order to fully appreciate it.

And thus, it is my privilege on this day of days to hold in my hands this freshly discovered tape. It’s an ordinary-looking cassette tape. But.. it’s possible some of you have never held a cassette tape. I will explain. Because, though it contains the stuff of wonder, to the human eye it is just a 3,5 by 2-inch clear plastic rectangle with two holes in the middle. And these holes, they have six little black teeth. Non-threatening teeth, so that you could feasibly uh, insert a pencil or a pinky finger, should sometime go [wry] [0:10:09]. Like if the delicate tape needs your manual assistance.

Now that tape is a very thing, translucent gray strip, of course containing some magnet um, magnetic properties. So and it’s spooled around the left hole, and as the tape plays in the cassette tape player, the tape will run along the bottom edge of the rectangle across a tiny magnetic strip. And the magnets pull the music out, with magnetic force, until it is fully spooled around the right hole, which means the tape is finished and you have heard the music. And that’s how a cassette tape works.  

I’m Deirdre Gardner. This is “It Makes a Sound”. I am describing a cassette tape.  Perhaps the most important cassette tape there ever was.

No won this particular model, we have a yellow sticker that covers the smooth section of the cassette. Nad written on that cover in purple felt tip pen, in bubble letters, is “Wim Fa”, but a waterspot has obscured the “ros”, leaving a purply pink splotch. It’s very pretty, like a watercolor. And underneath, with that same pen and font: “1992”. Crudely drawn stars in uh, multiple colors of pen, speckle the entire sticker. I mean… it’s great. it’s really incredible that one small object can capture so much of an entire era, even just aesthetically. We all seek the soundtrack of our lives, don’t we? And we wish to be privy to the voices of our generation. Yet it its a profound rarity that an artist like Wim Faros crosses into your limited sphere of existence. It’s like an alien prophet touching down on a ordinary Tuesday afternoon in a chain store called The Last Topper. Suddenly making the universe crack open to reveal infinite shards of meaning barely comprehensible to you. Standing there in cargo shorts, holding a casserole dish. Yes, yes. it’s hard to determine the full effect on Wim Faros’s music on this simple town of Rosemay Hills in the early-to-mid 90’s. it’s difficult to quantify the extent of – sacred devotion he inspired in his earliest fanbase.

How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? That was a time without social media and its um, incessant public proclamations to hashtag, trending desires of the moment. Yesterday’s youth had to be more – intuitively united in our common affections. Had to keep the faith that even in a friendless existence, for instance as an example, living in an inherited furnished townhouse on the edge of Rosemary Hills’ gated golf course community, there were kindred souls somewhere underneath that same blue sky, wishing and waiting for a connection, just like you. Though perhaps at times to love in solitude, from afar, in the most generic of settings, was lonely and painful. That melancholy was trumped by a feeling of purpose. The purpose that comes from knowing that if someone out there could so perfectly capture the nuanced secrets of your soul, there must be greatness and solace in this universe indeed. isn’t that why we listen to the music? Isn’t that why we listen to the music?

We must ready ourselves to listen to the music. But I will say, even without the ease and benefit of cached fan pages or blogs serving as testimony to the early Wim Faros effect, the artist did manage to be a catalyst of cultural awakening in the town zeigeist. If a town can have a zeitgeist, can – sure. And there is archival evidence of the first reactions to Faros’s artistry. In fact… I happen to be in possession of documents from a Rosemary Hills resident who encountered Wim Faros in his earliest musical phase. Now, some of these pages are enclosed within a purple velveteen diary that I now have in front of me. The writing appears to be by the0 hand of a 12-year-old, I would estimate. And the paper is white ruled. And I seem to have come across a lengty series of haiku. Perhaps I sould share just a few of thes with you, for the sake of research. it’s a segment.. [rummages around] We’ll call it – the poetry of a little us.

[bangs a cong] You have changed my life by allowing me to see even thought you don’t see me.

[cong] I am hard to see in a golf community with many sand traps.

[cong]

You have a blind spot for almost nothing. But one in the size of me.

[cong]

I am the catcher you are a rare butterfly that I cannot grasp.

[cong]

Butterflies upclose freak me out. But you fly free, beautiful and free.

[cong]

I catch butterflies, yes, but I am afraid too. A contradiction.

[cong]

Faithfully you come to the window of my dreams singing: la la la.

[cong]

What is this music? Like, I never heard music before you played it.

[cong]

Now, those are just a few haikus and there are lots more, [chuckles] written here in Rosemary Hills circa 1991-1992. Likely dedicated to one Wim Faros.

[pause] If you’re just tuning in, hello. Welcome. I’m Deirdre Gardner, and this is the first episode of my show, “It Makes a Sound”. A discovery has been made in the attic. it’s Wim Faro’s first live album. It’s the real deal, it’s not a hoax, and it’s so rare that he only known copy exists, recorded from some distance, on a cassette tape. There is nowhere else in the entire universe where you will be able to hear a 16-year-old Wim Faros shaping what comes to be known as the sound – of an epoch. E-P-O-C-H. Stay with me and you will hear it here first, folks, because I have the tape and you’re gonna get exclusive access.

So we’re discussing Wim Faros’ formative teenage years as a musician, right here in Rosemary Hills. We’ve just begun working towards a fuller understanding of the human behind the mu-

[static] [hoarse voice] Who’s there? Who?

Deirdre: Oh, Jesus..

[static] I know, I know.. I know you! I knew!

Deirdre: Are you asleep?

[static, snoring]

Deirdre: Are you? Who’s that? (It’s something). OK. OK.

OK. Everything is good. I’m back. And i’m excited to introduce a new oral history segment of the show, based on town legend and lore around Wim Faros. It’s called – a portrait of the artist as a young man.

[music box plays] A light in the window of the second floor. The only window on the second floor, means Wim Faros is in his bedroom. And almost always when he is in his bedroom, he is drawing on the wall. What was on that wall? Everything was on that wall. The winds of change blew on that wall. The.. unfettered scrawl of technicolor wonders. The rainbow, a paltry container for the variety of colors applied to that wall. New color names would have to be invented. The ongoing overlapping shifting images and symbols, muraled, frescoed, appliqued, on that wall. All these ideas spewing forth from the eclectic multitudes of a single creative mind. In a blue and tan flannel shirt, his right arm braced against the drywall in an L-shape above his head. The bottom of his sleeve ripped and hanging down, he looks like he’s whispering secrets in a confessional. But he is drawing. There’s a lava lamp somewhere, out of view of the window, and it casts blobby spots that climb up and down the room, catching Wim’s distorted shadow when he’s out of view of the window frame. His left hand moves delicately or scribbles furiously. He is left-handed, as statistics prove that most geniuses are. If you’ve been watching, over the course of several months, you would have seen – his fantastic mural take shape.

In the center, a five-foot tall octopus, with the uncannily rendered face of Diane Sawyer. Her arms spread open, Christ-like, with magnolia blossoms and spiders dripping from her fingers. A flock of owls flying over a forest of pine trees. Each face of the moon, paired with a pizza pie of different toppings. Eight personalized pan pizzas, for eight different moons. A ninja army battling a family of squirrels throwing sharp acorns. Pages falling from a Gutenberg Bible into the gaping mouth of a Native American chief. Snoop Dogg. Scully riding a Mulder centaur as Ross Perot hoverboards over their heads! He was getting political.

As the seasons pass, the wall incrementally becomes and intricate map of his fertal, fertal inner life. Repetitions of hummingbirds and starfish, cans of beans, nunchucks. Later, peacocks. A dragon breathing fire, melting the iceberg just before it sinks the Titanic, which passes into clear skies. Dracula playing video games in front of a television set, flickering with an image of outrage from the Rodney King riots. And toaster strudels flying out of toasters into the rings of Saturn! Kurt Cobain offering an origami swan to a sobbing River Phoenix. And hundreds of other elegantly drawn details, too small to make out from a distance, that create a constellation of.. enlightened connectivity across the peeling beige wall.

And almost every night, after all the lights in the windows of the bungalow go dark, if you cared enough to pay attention, you would see the single beam of a flashlight splice a path behind the house, pointed towards a lopsided shed some 40 yards away. And if you were standing right up against the fence that separates Rosemary Hills’ gated golf course community from the unincorporated land that stretched out behind the scattered houses on Chamelia Road… you would hear a soulful strum of guitar, and a crescend of drums. Because in that decaying shed, surrounded by the loneliest darkness that is suburban darkness, is where young Wim Faros made the music. It was that music that pulsed through this town, permeated the air, pumped through the water.

Did everyone hearken to the call? No. If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it wall, does it make a sound? Well. I’m here to tell you: trees have fallen. Trees are falling. And you may listen, but do you hear?

People of Rosemary Hills, it is time to hear. It is time to hearken. Hearken. I believe in your ears. Wim Faros sang for you. You didn’t know, but he will sing for you again. He has been lost in the attic, but now he is found. And maybe, [sighs] I don’t know. Maybe… maybe you’ve been lost in the attic too. There was greatness in our midst, transcendence, eccentricity, nuance. I’m Deirdre Gardner, and I believe that when a tree falls in a forest, it makes a sound. And i’m inviting you to try, to truly hear, and to remember. So stay tuned for my next episode when that music, lost but now found, will be born again straight into your ears. When you hear the first track from Wim Faros’ debut concert. The first track, perhaps, of the rest of your life.

This has been the inaugural episode of the first and only show in the nation dedicated to the music and legacy of Wim Faros. Thank you for listening. If you have any information about Wim Faros that you think should be shared with our listeners, or if you own a working cassette tape player, do not hesitate to contact me. Um, I, I guess for now you shoud just ca- um email me at ddg at.. no let’s not do that um, i’ll create, I’ll create a new, yes you can contact me at wimfaros@aol… Actually no. please contact itmakesasound@aol.com. Thank you. I’m Deirdre Gardner. Til next time.

 [windchime]

“It Makes a Sound” is created and written by Jacquelyn Landgraf. Co-directed by Jacquelyn Landgraf and Anya Saffir. Sound design and engineering by me, Vincent Cacchione. Original music Nate Weida. With Jacquelyn Landgraf as Deirdre Gardner and featuring Annie Golden as the voice from downstairs. It Makes a Sound is a Night Vale Presents production. For more information on this show and other Night Vale podcasts, go to nightvalepresents.com. We hope you’ll rate and review “It Makes a Sound” on Apple Podcasts, and that you’ll tell your friends and all sorts of other humans to listen to the show, to hearken to the trees. And remember Wim Faros.

[tenspontaneite]

Fundamentals for the Aspiring Assassin (4/?)

In which assorted plans are ruined, changed, created, and executed.

Warnings: this chapter contains mentions of child trafficking and assorted unpleasantness therein. There are more detailed warnings in the end notes if this worries you.

Ritsu alerted him to Korosensei’s approach around a second before he arrived, appearing perfectly well despite the potentially calamitous assassination attempt which had, presumably, been resolved. Sensibly enough, no one had taken their phones with them into the water, so Ritsu’s awareness of events extended only to the explosion of the river-dam, and a lot of panicked noise. They’d both grown quite anxious waiting for news.

“Good evening, Korosensei.” Nagisa greeted, words merely indistinct rather than incomprehensibly slurred. All of the singing had rather worn out his voice in the process, and it sounded a little rough as he spoke.

The yellow superbeing in question perked up, yellow limbs waving. The movement was worryingly subdued – he looked preoccupied. “Oho, I see you’ve made a lot of improvement in the last few hours, Nagisa-kun.” He observed, coming over by the side of the futon to inspect the various water bottles arrayed there. “Have you been able to drink on your own? It looks like the water level in this bottle is lower.”

Nagisa extended an arm, shakily, and made a weak fist. He couldn’t grasp with any particular strength, but he had reasonable precision now. “Opening the bottles is still quite difficult.” He admitted. “But I’ve managed. I’ve been focusing on my speech.”

“We did karaoke. It really helped!” Ritsu, momentarily distracted from important things by her favourite subject, sounded absolutely delighted by her statement.

Korosensei made an intrigued noise at that, looking to Nagisa for confirmation. He nodded, adding “Hopefully, it wasn’t loud enough for the neighbours to object. But it did help.” Nagisa neglected to mention the many times he’d bitten his tongue and the side of his mouth as part of the recovery process. It was somewhat inevitable, after all. He shook his head, reminding himself of the topic at hand. “More importantly, Korosensei – is everyone alright? Is anyone hurt?”

The ever-active tentacles slowed to near-stillness. “…Everyone is fine, Nagisa-kun. Thanks to the warning from Ritsu-san, I was well-prepared for that Shiro-san’s tricks, and Itona-kun as well.” There was something odd in his tone at those words, something that made Nagisa frown. “…Actually, Nagisa-kun, it’s good you’re doing so well this evening. I’m afraid I may have to spend time elsewhere for a while.” It didn’t sound like a comfortable statement. The squirm of his tentacles was sort of heavy and close to the roots, which in body-language terms was an indicator of tension. The nervous flickering of the peripheral limb-tips, at the edge of Nagisa’s vision, hinted at agitation.

“…Sensei?” Nagisa asked, warily. “What’s wrong?”

The small eyes oriented on him, blinking. There was a pause. “I’m afraid Itona-kun performed much more poorly than his guardian hoped, given my preparations.”

Divergence, he thought, with a sinking feeling. “He abandoned him?” He asked, sharply, leaning forwards. His arms were just about steady enough to support him in the endeavour.

Korosensei certainly looked surprised, now. “…Yes, he did.” He agreed, limbs shifting a little closer to his body, gathering in sinuous curves. “I’m afraid he isn’t doing very well. I must devote time to attempting to help him.”

“Oh dear.” Ritsu said, undoubtedly beginning the process of revising many, many plans. “Nagisa?” He glanced at her avatar on the phone. She raised her on-screen hands to gesture at him in concise military-sign, saying ‘changed circumstances. Thoughts on action?’

Nagisa exhaled, staring at the screen. In the future, the use of the sign wouldn’t have been necessary, but it was very valuable here. Korosensei certainly wouldn’t know this breed of sign language. Carefully, he raised his hands to gesture back. ‘Potentially threatening. Last time solution complex, no guarantee repeat. Teammate endangered without help.’ It had taken some tricky work to disconnect Itona from the tentacles enough to remove them, last time. They couldn’t guarantee the same things would happen this time, in which case the boy would die.

“Agreed.” Ritsu murmured, aloud, and moved her screen-hands again. ‘Bring here and administer aid.’ She flicked the gestures upwards at the beginning and end of the sentence; a command-imperative.

He nodded at her, and turned to Korosensei. “Bring him here, Sensei.” He said. Calm, but firm. “We can help him.”

Sensei’s many limbs drew in, held close and ready near his body. His fingers settled atop one another in front of him. “…How so, Nagisa-kun?” His voice was quiet.

“His tentacles are a prototype.” Nagisa explained, flexing his fingers as rapidly as he could manage. He’d be needing manual dexterity soon. “Without maintenance, they’ll cause him extreme pain, and put such stress on his body that he’ll die within days. Most likely from heart failure, but he could also start having strokes. His body temperature will also steadily rise until he risks brain damage.”

“…You know about these implanted tentacles?” A ripple of agitation ran down a number of his limbs, and the words were in an unusually deep timbre. At this point in time, Korosensei didn’t know who ‘Shiro’ really was. He didn’t know how offshoots from his own tentacles had come to be implanted in humans. And, evidently, he was very anxious to find out. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, he might end up finding out more than was convenient.

“More headset knowledge, Sensei.” Ritsu said from the side, red eyes serious. “Though, of course, I know everything Nagisa does. You’ll need his hands for this, though.”

“We can help him.” Nagisa said, plainly. “Very quickly, as well. Bring him here, Korosensei.” It was unfortunate that they couldn’t ask Karasuma first, since he wasn’t home yet, but…well, a life did depend on it. He probably wouldn’t mind.

The superbeing considered that for several seconds. His thoughts were quite easy to guess at: he wanted answers, but he wanted to ensure the safety of his student far more. Tentacles extended slightly, as though loosening. “Very well, Nagisa-kun. I will be back soon.” He blurred out of the room, disappearing from sight.

Nagisa sighed. “I think many of our initial plans just died.” He said, dragging himself with effort from the futon.

“Violently so.” Ritsu agreed, blinking at him as he picked up the phone she was on. “I’ve messaged Karasuma-sensei to know he’ll be hosting another teenager.”

“Good idea.” Nagisa tested the function of his legs and found them sorely lacking. Grimly, he set about crawling towards the suitcase, on the other side of the room, primarily through use of his arms. He reached it, pressing a thumb to the outer interface to open up the keypad. “Code for the keepsake compartment?”

“4-2-4-2-5-6-4-2-9-1-5-6-4-2-7.”

He typed it in as quickly as he could manage with fingers that were still shakier than he’d prefer. The compartment opened with a click and a hiss; the second on the right of the suitcase. At first glance, it didn’t appear especially significant; the contents here were largely computing, as well as a few carefully-wrapped mementoes that Ritsu had strong-armed him into packing. He knew better, though – he brushed aside the false bottom underneath a few of Ritsu’s humming processors, peeling it back with care to reveal another security interface. He bent forward to present it his iris, and then all five fingers of his left hand in sequence. “Code?” He asked again, urgently.

“3-1-0-0-6-0-5-4-2-5-6-4-8-9-2.”

By some miracle he avoided smashing the wrong keys, and the most well-fortified compartment of them all opened on mechanised doors. The section was small, but deep – and it contained the most potentially calamitous things they’d brought with them. There were no tentacle seeds, since those very much counted as organic, but there was pretty much everything but. Rows and rows of chemicals in labelled metallic phials blinked in the light, and he ran his fingers over them, picking out two tiny containers and two equally tiny syringe-and-needle sets. He withdrew with the items, and the compartment promptly closed with all the speed it had been designed for.

Korosensei returned with Itona just as he was closing the compartment, the case’s locks sliding together with tiny mechanical whirrs. Nagisa looked around urgently at the first hint of wind, cradling the precious items to his chest. They were very cold. “Is he conscious?” Nagisa asked, immediately, before the shape of his teacher and teammate had resolved fully.

Itona screamed, angrily, and that answered the question well enough. The sight of him was somewhat like a punch in the face. “Very much so, Nagisa-kun.” Korosensei said, loudly enough to be heard over the noise. “If you know how to help Itona-kun, please do!”

“Put him on the futon and hold him down.” Nagisa said, shaking off his initial reaction and beginning a furious crawl over to said location. He was expedited by a tentacle, arriving beside his patient with both medication and phone. He put everything down, carefully, and inspected Itona. His heart clenched – it had been so long since he last saw him – but there were more important things to worry about than his emotions.

All of Itona’s awful prototype tentacles had been truncated to less than half a metre in length, though several were clearly in the process of regenerating. They were deep black and bloated with liquid, writhing in jerky and frenetic motions that alarmed Nagisa terribly.

“Oh, that’s not good.” Ritsu observed, eyes wide.

“It isn’t.” Nagisa agreed, grimly, and supported himself on one arm while he bent over to check on Itona’s eyes. The blood vessels were all burst, the iris warped – and the tentacles, his temperature – he’d not seen rejection symptoms this bad in a long time. What a horrible prototype. “Itona-kun, can you understand me?”

“I’m strong!” The boy spat at him, wild-eyed, thrashing in his yellow restraints. “I’m stronger than you! I’m stronger than all of you! I can kill you all!” He didn’t make any sort of comment as to why that mattered; evidently, he was in quite deep. He sighed, and settled into the bedside role from long experience.

“I’m sure you can.” Nagisa said, gently, reaching forwards to part Itona’s hair around one of the squirming tentacles. He felt at it, finding the skin around it swollen with unusually dark blood. Not nearly oxygenated enough. The tentacle itself, as expected, was very cold. “You’re very strong, Itona-kun. I believe it.”

“I’m stronger than you!” Itona snarled. “Get off me!” A little of the violence had ebbed at the verbal confirmation of his strength, though. Good.

“I’m here to make you stronger, Itona-kun.” He said, calmly, and sat back, watching his patient’s reactions as he reached for a phial. The tentacles produced a jerky, shuddering ripple – but the motion of it was almost approaching natural.

The boy blinked bloody eyes. “…Stronger.” He repeated, tonelessly. More aggression bled from his frame, and Korosensei’s tentacles shifted to better support him.

“I’m going to make you stronger.” Nagisa promised, slipping the needle onto the syringe. The tentacles shuddered again, and an unnatural pallor came over Itona’s face. He was, at least, struggling less. “You’ll be so strong. Stronger than everyone.” He murmured, soothing, and opened a phial. After a quick glance over to count tentacles, he pulled twelve millilitres of fluid out, and carefully wiped the needle on the edge of the phial as he withdrew it.

“I….” Itona mumbled, frowning. Abruptly, his tentacles exploded into violence again, held tightly down by Korosensei’s. His body, in contrast, seemed weaker, sagging into the futon. “I…I’m not strong enough now. The tentacles…they said they’d make me strong.”

“I know. I understand. You need to be stronger. I’ll help you.” Nagisa rattled off the words almost by rote, providing as much of a balm to the tentacle-gripped mindset as he could. “Lay here, and I’ll make you stronger. I’ll be injecting something into you that will make you stronger.” His fingers trembled a little on the syringe, but he was reasonably confident in his ability to wield it without wasting any doses. He reached forwards with the other hand to part the hair around the nearest tentacle again, murmuring repetitive platitudes as he went.

As expected, the first bite of the needle at the foot of a tentacle made Itona buckle again, screaming rage and pain. “It hurts.” He snapped, eyes pulled wide. The ends of Korosensei’s tentacles wriggled anxiously at the assertion.

“Nagisa-kun?” The superbeing prodded, quite evidently fretting like a mother hen over this indication of suffering.

“Shh.” Nagisa said, more to Korosensei than to Itona. “It will make you stronger, Itona-kun.” Gently, he pulled the needle from the swollen skin. The tentacle there was already noticeably more sluggish than the rest, movements slowed and the dark bleaching out of it, second-by-second. “Sometimes pain is necessary to grow stronger. It was like that when you got your tentacles, wasn’t it?”

Itona blinked at him, caught between induced rage and memory. “…Aa.” He said, slow and confused. “It hurt a lot.”

“This will hurt, as well.” Nagisa told him. “It’ll feel like your skin is burning, in some places. You’ll have sharp pains in your head. Soon, your body will ache and you’ll be tired for a while.” He reached for a new tentacle.

His patient was quiet for several seconds, hissing as the second dose was injected. “It’s starting to burn around the first place.” Not a word about strength in that sentence – good.

“That’s normal. I’ll give you a painkiller once I’m finished with your injections.”

“…It’ll make me stronger?” The voice was almost plaintive, now.

“It will. Please be patient for the procedure.”

Some of the blood was receding from his eyes. “…Okay.” He sighed, most of the remaining tension leaving him. The remaining un-dosed tentacles were still jerking frenetically, of course, but that was just how this ungainly prototype worked. Nagisa worked his way around them quickly, inspecting his dose each time to make sure he wasn’t giving too little.

Then, at last, he’d done it all. Nagisa injected the remaining drops into the tentacle closest to Itona’s temple, just to get rid of it faster. It was never good to have berserk tentacles too close to major blood-flow. “That’s your first injections done, Itona-kun.” He said, sitting back. “How are you feeling?”

“The pain is getting worse.” The boy admitted, brows furrowing. He looked up, and his eyes were almost entirely back to normal. It struck Nagisa, suddenly, how young he was. It felt almost like a physical blow. “And my tentacles feel…numb.”

“That’s also normal.” Nagisa inspected him, deciding that it was probably too soon to reveal that the tentacles would shortly be falling off. He reached to the side for his pill bottle, removing one of the painkillers. He glanced at the Ritsu-phone for input, hand hovering over the multivitamins, and she nodded, so he extracted two of those as well. He presented them to Itona with an unopened bottle of water. “Please take these. There’s a painkiller, and some vitamins to help your body deal with the procedure. Drink as much of the water as you can. It’s important to stay hydrated.”

Itona, so young, was evidently quite used to medical procedures from Yanagisawa’s dubious care, because he didn’t hesitate at all. He took the bottle, opening it with an easy twist that Nagisa wasn’t quite capable of yet, and he downed all of the pills with practiced ease. He stopped after drinking maybe a hundred millilitres, and Nagisa fixed him with a look until he muttered ‘tch’ and drank some more.

“Very good, Itona-kun.” Nagisa praised, earning a confused blink from his charge. Something seemed to occur to him.

“…Aren’t you one of Nii-san’s students?” In the periphery, Sensei’s tentacles squirmed with discomfort at the address.

Nagisa eyed Itona’s own tentacles. They were all drooping, near-motionless, and almost completely white now. “Call him Korosensei, Itona-kun. He isn’t actually your brother. Tentacles don’t mean brotherhood.” He corrected, firmly. “But yes, I am.”

The pale-haired boy’s gaze was owlish. “Shiro didn’t mention anything about you being involved.” He said.

“He doesn’t know everything.” Nagisa informed him, and looked up at Korosensei.

His teacher had been conveniently compliant for the whole time, submitting to what appeared to be superior expertise on Nagisa’s part. It was a little difficult to read his mood at the moment, since his facial expression was quite unhelpful and his tentacles were occupied, with their ends only indicating the discomfort that he could have guessed anyway.

Undoubtedly, there would be many prods for information later. Nagisa sighed, and returned to his patient. He put down one syringe and reached for the next, filling it up with a more sizeable dose. “This is your last injection for now, Itona-kun. It will help mitigate the damage that the tentacles have done to your body.” He reached for an arm, pausing. “Ah, Korosensei? Could you get the first aid kit?”

“Of course!” A tentacle shot off, and returned in seconds. “What do you need?”

“Alcohol wipes, please.” The requested item was removed from its packaging and passed over. Nagisa accepted it with his free hand, and then wiped at the crook of Itona’s elbow. “I’ll be injecting now.” He warned, and then stabbed neatly into the vein. The boy twitched, but didn’t otherwise react.

“…The tentacles damage my body?” He asked, after a moment.

Nagisa wiped at the injection site with the disinfectant as he removed the needle. “They did. You see, Shiro-san implanted you with an unstable prototype tentacle. They do offer great strength, but at considerable cost. Most of the maintenance you’ve needed is simply because it’s an unstable experimental version.” He offered the wipe to Korosensei, murmuring “Cotton and tape, please.”

Korosensei, guessing his goal, simply reached forwards with several filament-thin white tentacles, reducing the tiny puncture on Itona’s arm to nothing.

“…That also works.” Nagisa said, ducking his head briefly. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can help with, Nagisa-kun?” The superbeing inquired.

He considered it, bending forwards to inspect the base of one tentacle. The swelling was already decreasing noticeably, and would likely dissipate completely once the anti-inflammatory in the injected compound kicked in. “No, it should be fine.” He said, sitting back. “Itona-kun? Are you feeling aggressive still?”

The boy blinked yellow eyes at him. “…No, I guess.”

“It should be fine to let him go, Korosensei.” The restraining tentacles held for a moment, then released, gently settling Itona on the futon as they withdrew. Nagisa watched their motion keenly,  then returned to his poor young classmate. “Can you stand?”

Silver brows furrowed, ever so slightly. “Of course I can.” He stated, and then proved it, rising to his feet. The tentacles fell limp around his shoulders as he did so.

“Take one of the seats, then. I’m going to discuss your recovery and future with you.” Nagisa told him, gesturing to Karasuma’s armchairs. He took hold of the two partially depleted phials and slipped them into his pocket, taking hold of his phone and two bottles of water before he started shuffling awkwardly towards his own chair.

Itona, who had navigated to the seat with ease, stared at him. “Why are you crawling?”

Nagisa batted away Korosensei’s tentacles, saying “I need to do this myself, sensei, but thank you.” One-armed, he pulled himself up into the armchair that was almost opposite Itona’s, and sat back with a sigh. “I’m very weak at the moment, because I’ve been undergoing my own procedure. I should recover in a few days. Incidentally, that’s what this headset is for.” Itona straightened at the word ‘weak’ – the tentacles’ influence was still there, clearly. Nagisa reached over to pass a bottle of water, before carefully taking his own. Opening it was a hardship, with his weak grip. “Now, Itona. I’m going to discuss your medical matters quite plainly. Are you comfortable having Korosensei here?”

Yellow tentacles rippled indignantly at the thought of being expelled, but Nagisa was more concerned with Itona’s comfort. He might have guessed that it wasn’t a concern, though. “I don’t care.” The boy said, predictably, accepting the water bottle awkwardly into his lap.

“Alright then.” Nagisa inclined his head. “Korosensei, you may as well take a seat as well.”

“I think I will.” The tall superbeing didn’t fit well in an armchair, and settled onto the two-seat sofa instead. “May I ask questions?”

How refreshingly direct. “It depends on the question, but yes. I have to speak to Itona-kun first, though.” He replied, calmly, and straightened to face the boy in question. “Now, then. I mentioned the damage done to your body. Your prototype tentacles have very negative effects on both your body and your mind. Without proper maintenance, these effects become fatally severe very quickly, especially when you are fighting with the tentacles for long periods. This is why your condition worsened so quickly today.”

“…Shiro usually gave me medications after a fight.” Itona said, face characteristically impassive. “Is that why?”

“Aa. They were necessary to reduce the impact on your system.” Nagisa nodded. “With extended use, even with the right maintenance, your tentacles would have eventually killed you. They have all sorts of terrible effects – they raise your blood pressure, increase the likelihood of blood clots, drastically increase your stress levels…you might have lasted a year or two, with careful maintenance, but you were likely to die either from a heart attack or from something related to blood clots – like a stroke, for example, or a pulmonary embolism. Without maintenance, that would happen in anything from hours to days after a fight.”

A pale hand went up to feel at one of the hanging tentacles. Undoubtedly, there was no feeling left in it at all. “…You did something to them, didn’t you?” His fist clenched around the tentacle, but there was little anger on his face. Mostly resignation.

“I did.” Nagisa agreed. “The first agent I injected will be dissolving their connections to your nerves. Once that’s completed, they will simply fall off. The remaining damage should heal on its own.”

Itona released the tentacle. His hand fell back into his lap. “And the second?”

“Anti-inflammatory, to reduce the swelling caused by your tentacles. Also an anticoagulant, to thin your blood and prevent clots. You should avoid bleeding or getting bruised for the next few days.”

The boy stared down at his hands. “You said you were going to make me stronger.” He didn’t tend to have a great deal of inflection in his voice, but it was there now; just a hint of upset.

“I will.” Nagisa said, and the boy looked up, pale eyes wide. “To start with, Itona-kun, you can’t be strong if you’re dead, so I’ve already helped you there. For the rest, though…in our assassination classroom, we learn many kinds of strength. I know you’re not fond of schoolwork, but that gives you one kind of strength. We learn others, as well. We have daily lessons in fighting, and we have teachers who are happy to give extra instruction. Korosensei here will also be happy to help you become stronger in the ways you personally find important.” The teacher in question nodded eagerly, a pleased ripple passing over his peripheral limbs.

Itona had made a face at the mention of schoolwork, but looked somewhat thoughtful at the rest. “You want me to be a member of the class. Really, not just as a show.”

“Aa.”

He digested that for several seconds, then leaned forwards. His expression was intent. “You said you were going to make me stronger.” He said, leadingly.

Nagisa eyed him warily. “Yes…?”

“You know a lot about the tentacles,” Itona said, and oh, Nagisa knew where this was going- “You know about versions better than what Shiro gave me. Can you give me the better ones?” There was a fair bit of heat in the words.

Nagisa looked at him. He glanced at Korosensei, who would have appeared merely politely interested if not for the twitching at his tentacle-tips. Then he sighed, and looked back. “I could, Itona-kun,” He said frankly, watching the shocked undulation of yellow on the sofa. “But I won’t.”

The tentacles couldn’t actively grip his thought processes any more, but the habits of thought remained. Itona scowled, fingers clenching into fists. “Why?” He demanded.

“My apologies, Itona-kun, but you’re a very bad candidate for tentacles.” He informed, demurely. “If Shiro-san had known more, he would never have chosen you. A drive to be stronger, or a strong drive for anything, is almost always a bad thing for a tentacle user.”

Itona’s eyes would have been red again, if the tentacles had still been live. “Then why was I so strong, if I was such a poor candidate?!” He was tense again, as though poised to spring from the chair and attack.

Nagisa sat calmly in place. He had a large yellow bodyguard, after all. “That was the inherent strength of parasitic tentacles. It had nothing to do with you. If you want to be strong, look elsewhere; tentacles can’t help you.”

“Shiro said-!”

“Shiro-san lied.” He cut in. Itona froze mid-sentence, face scrunching up. “Shiro-san wanted a test subject, and you merely seemed convenient for him, as you had no one supervising you who might object.”

“…Nagisa-kun.” Korosensei said, perhaps in protest. It was a fairly blunt and ruthless way to say it, after all.

Itona held still for several seconds, then sagged like a puppet with cut strings. “Fuck.” He muttered, fists still held tight in his lap. He breathed deeply, almost viciously. Nagisa sat quietly while the boy processed everything, waiting until he looked a little calmer to speak again.

“You don’t need tentacles, Itona-kun.” He claimed, and the boy looked up. He looked so young, he could hardly stand it. “Once I’ve recovered, I’ll personally work with you to help you improve. And, if you like, I’ve got some technical projects you can help with.”

A spark of interest broke through that near-desolate expression. “…Projects?” He asked, near toneless again.

“Computing and assorted electronics, for the most part. All will be far more advanced than what’s available on the market.” Nagisa watched the spark ignite, and pushed a little further. “That should be good, if you want to take over your parents’ factory, right?”

Itona stared at him. There was a hint of suspicion there, but… “Yeah.” He said, and paused. “…When will you be recovered?” The fact that he asked was, for him, a sign of considerable interest. Nagisa smiled.

“I hope to be back at class within a few days, but that depends. You should join the class and get used to things, and I can start you on the projects when I return.”

The boy frowned, thinking. Several silent moments passed, and then he nodded. “Alright.”

Nagisa sighed, admittedly relieved. “Good. Well then, I’ll let you know what to expect from your health over the next few days…”

---

He spent a while longer explaining to Itona that he’d be prone to tiredness for a while, and also was highly likely to experience phantom pain in the tentacles even once they’d fallen off, which should happen by morning. He might experience headaches while he recovered, and would also probably have mood swings for a while. To be safe, Nagisa claimed that he’d need to be put into the neural reprogramming headset to check everything over after a week or so.

Karasuma got back while Nagisa was warning Itona not to mention his tentacle expertise to the class, and Nagisa turned to greet him.

“Ah, Karasuma-sensei.” He said. “Sorry for the imposition. Is it alright if Itona-kun stays here tonight?”

Karasuma entered the living room and inspected the boy in question. The two of them exchanged similar impassive stares. “It’s fine.” He answered, stepping closer. “I heard you were in poor condition, Itona-kun.”

“…This guy helped.” Itona said after a moment. “I’m fine.”

“I see.” The agent looked over at Korosensei, whose tentacles had been quite still for a while now. “Will you be making their dinner, or should I get started?”

Korosensei sprang from the sofa at the mere implication of having the duty stolen from him. “I’ll cook dinner immediately!” He shrieked, limbs abruptly active again, and blurred into the kitchen. The three of them watched him go.

“He’s loud.” Itona observed clinically.

“He certainly is.” Nagisa agreed, ruefully. He offered his phone, Ritsu having remained silent for the whole talk. “Anyway, Itona-kun. You know Ritsu, right?”

He glanced down at the screen, dubious. “What’s the Autonomously Thinking Fixed Artillery doing on your phone?”

“My name is Ritsu now, Itona-kun.” Ritsu told him, brightly. “I’ve had significant changes to my code since we last met, and I also have data on a number of topics. I’ll be directing your and Nagisa’s projects.”

Itona blinked. “You have schematics?” He guessed.

“And the knowledge of the science and processes required.” Ritsu agreed. “If you like, I can provide you with some reading material for while you wait.”

“I’d rather learn on the job.”

“That’s alright, then.” Ritsu nodded amicably, and then oriented her avatar to the side. “Nagisa, you should put the chemicals back in the case now.”

“Oh, right.” Nagisa tutted at himself, and worked himself carefully out of the armchair, crawling back towards the suitcase. “Sorry.”

Karasuma walked over to observe as Nagisa went through the involved process of getting to the chemical compartment, Ritsu rattling off numbers from a few metres away. His eyebrows raised at the decoy compartment. “Is that a book?”

“It’s two books.” Nagisa admitted, with a sigh. He peeled back the false panel again. “Keepsakes. It’s a waste of space, but Ritsu insisted.”

“I get to keep my most precious things in my databanks. You should have the same privilege.” Ritsu called in response.

Nagisa leaned forwards for the eye-scanner as Itona inquired, flatly, “What’s with the suitcase?”

“I’ll explain it to the whole class when I return.” He answered, withdrawing the phials from his pocket as the compartment opened. He put them back into their places with careful, metallic clinks. Ritsu promptly closed it before Karasuma could look too closely. “It’s important that everyone finds out at the same time. That’s why I’d like you to avoid mentioning that I know a lot about implanted tentacles – that knowledge is related to my procedure and this suitcase.”

Itona grunted, and Nagisa took it as agreement.

---

Later, when everyone had eaten and Korosensei had been conspicuously hovering near Nagisa for a while, he conceded to the inevitable.

“Korosensei.” He said, politely. “Was there something you wanted to say?”

Tentacles quivered. “Quite a lot, Nagisa-kun.”

Nagisa nodded, smiling serenely. “If you could take me to the gym, I’ll do some exercises while we talk.” Karasuma shot him a sharp look, and Nagisa gestured soothingly. “If that’s alright?”

“That’s perfectly fine.” Sensei decreed, gathering him up in a tangle of yellow. After a comparably gentle acceleration, Nagisa was in Karasuma’s small downstairs gym, which was equipped with a treadmill and a weight bench. The latter was quite worthless to him for the moment, but he could just about walk now, so the treadmill would be useful. He shuffled carefully onto it, and started it up at a very slow pace.

“I suppose you have a lot of questions, sensei.” Nagisa observed, setting Ritsu into the slot ordinarily used for water bottles. She looked out at him with interest.

‘Plan change?’ She inquired, with quick and brusque gestures.

‘Improvisation’ He returned, and waited for Korosensei’s response.

“I certainly do, Nagisa-kun. In fact, I’m not sure what I should be asking first.”

Nagisa stared straight ahead, walking slowly, and considered what he was going to say. “I’m going to withhold the most significant information for now, sensei.” He said, eventually. “I can tell you that the headset taught me everything you’re curious about. I won’t tell you who sent me the headset, or how they knew the things they programmed it for.”

There was an abrupt, annoyed flick at the tips of several limbs. “Then what will you tell me?”

He thought. “I’m happy to provide information on the function of implanted tentacles.” He offered. “And I’ll answer questions if they won’t give away the information I’m protecting.”

Sensei produced a grumbling sigh. “Very well, Nagisa-kun.” He paused. “The agent you injected near Itona-kun’s tentacles. What is it?”

“A poison that selectively targets tentacle cells.” He answered, smiling ruefully. “So, yes, it will work as a poison on you. I expect it would only kill you if it were injected close to your heart, though.”

The tentacles offered an intrigued ripple. “Interesting. Will you be sharing it with your classmates?”

“Unlikely. It’s not a very efficient way to kill you, after all. It wouldn’t work well if ingested, and it would be difficult to inject enough of it precisely enough to finish you off.” He explained. “It inhibits regeneration, so it could potentially be useful there, but considering how difficult it is to make, it isn’t worthwhile.”

“Hmmm~” Korosensei put a yellow finger to his face in mock-thoughtfulness. “So, in other words, it’s mainly useful for removing implanted tentacles safely.”

“Exactly.”

“Fu-fu…very interesting. Any more interesting poisons in that case of yours, hm?”

Nagisa beamed at him. “Now, that would be telling.”

His teacher’s eyes slanted as he laughed. “Nuru-fu-fu-fu. Very well, I’ll wait to be surprised.”

“Anything else, sensei?”

The animated motion of his many limbs slowed a bit. “…You mentioned a technical project to Itona-kun.”

“I did.” Nagisa nodded, reminded. “Actually, I’ll be wanting your help with that, sensei. You see, we’re planning to tunnel into the mountain to create a secure underground bunker. I’m sure I could convince the class to help, but you’d be able to do the tunnelling most quickly and discreetly.” He reached out to pause the treadmill, and took his phone.

Korosensei’s tentacles waved in a sort of slow, baffled curl. “…An underground bunker.”

“The contents of the suitcase aren’t safe enough. They also require some assembly, which needs to be done in a secure and secret area.” Nagisa nodded. “Also, Ritsu needs to increase her processing capabilities to be able to function properly, and we need a safe place to store her servers. There’s a lot of reasons for the bunker. Will you help?”

“If it’s to help my students, of course.” The superbeing answered, slowly.

“Excellent.” Ritsu proclaimed, and shifted the screen. Nagisa stood in front of Korosensei and displayed it to him.

“This is a diagram of the entry-way.” Nagisa explained, pinching the image to zoom in on the relevant area. “We selected this area, part-way up the cliff, as the primary entrance. It can probably be hidden quite well there. We want to put a short corridor in, with a decoy living quarters. If you can, Korosensei, I’d like you to develop that area into something you would plausibly live in. That way, if anyone finds it, they might think it’s one of your hideouts.”

A small drop of sweat ran down Korosensei’s head. “One of my hideouts?” He repeated, nervously.

“Yes, like the ones you make in the shape of your head. But more subtle.” Nagisa agreed, Ritsu giggling out of the speakers. Korosensei, predictably, started on some flustered twitching at that. “Also, you might want to keep this one tidy, as an example to the students who will be seeing it.”

The teacher was, by now, earnestly sweating. “A-ah, Nagisa-kun…”

“And please, no pornography shrine.” He requested politely. “Okajima-kun might be badly distracted.”

“Nyuya?!” Korosensei’s tentacles drew back in shocked, frantic arcs. “S-sensei has no idea what you’re talking about!”

“I’m sure.” Nagisa said, agreeably. “But, at any rate, this entry area can be customised to your taste, as long as it’s all kept hidden. Concealed in the area will be the opening for a modest elevator shaft.” He moved the image, showing the descent. “The actual elevator will take a while to construct, so we’ll have to use a makeshift ladder in the meantime.”

“…Are you being provided with funding for this?” Korosensei inquired, tentacles calming slightly at the indication that his hideouts weren’t going to be further discussed.

“No, not at all.” He admitted, sighing. “We’ve been given all the aid we’re going to get, and the construction project should stay a secret from the many governments with their eye on you. If it’s not a problem, I’d like your help with moving materials, sensei.”

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with class.” He allowed.

“Thank you.” Nagisa zoomed out of the basic schematic and switched to the 3D modelling software that Ritsu had compiled for his phone in about five minutes. “So, this is the main part.”

Korosensei stared. “Nagisa-kun.” He said. “That’s not a bunker, it’s an underground complex.”

“It will contain a bunker, though.” He pointed to a section of the blueprint helpfully labelled BUNKER, accompanied by notes on its various functions.

“…So I see.” The superbeing observed.

“We mainly just need the big space dug to those specifications, for now.” He hesitated. “If you could start as soon as possible, it would be wonderful. Itona-kun should be fine without extra help now, and so should I.”

“And I suppose you will want this done discreetly?” Two yellow appendages curled at the edge of his vision in a thoughtful sine.

“It’s very important that the site remains secure. And secret.” He nodded.

“From who?”

“Everyone except the members of the class and the teachers.”

The face of an early-type superbeing was generally not given to nuance: it was impossible to see any flicker of sharp interest in Korosensei’s tiny eyes. The tentacles said more than enough, though – for those who knew how to look, they were very expressive indeed. “This does make me very curious about your mysterious benefactor, Nagisa-kun, if this is to be secret for almost everyone.”

He smiled guilelessly. “My ‘benefactor’ will know about the bunker.” He said, in perfect truth. “It wouldn’t make sense otherwise.”

“Why not leave the case with your benefactor, if you trust them with its contents?” The teacher inquired, handling appendages crossing at his front. One yellow digit tapped the other in a sort of thoughtful motion.

Nagisa hummed, glancing over at Ritsu. She shook her head, minutely. “I won’t be answering any more questions about my benefactor.” He said, calm, and tapped the treadmill’s display to incrementally increase his walking speed.

“You appear to take direction from Ritsu-san.” Korosensei observed.

“She’s much smarter than me, and more knowledgeable.” He shrugged, and said nothing more.

“You flatter me, Nagisa!” Ritsu chirped from the nearby phone, before peering in Sensei’s direction. “But I think you should stop answering questions now.”

He saluted, smiling ruefully at Korosensei. “Ritsu has spoken.” He shrugged again. “If you have some questions later, I’ll see if I can answer.”

The tentacles slowed in their perpetual motion, just a little. Unpleasant thoughts, the movement said. Of course, his voice gave none of that away. “Nagisa-kun, one more question, if you will.” I am worried, expressed the increasingly drawn-in yellow motion. “These changes that have been made to you…is there any conditioning involved? Are you obliged to obey certain people or orders, or have certain reactions to things?”

Nagisa blinked, and looked at Ritsu for permission. She did not seem especially concerned by the line of questioning, and waved at him dismissively. “It’s fine.” She told him.

He paused the motion of the treadmill to face Korosensei properly. “There’s no imperative for me to follow certain commands, or the orders of anyone in particular.” He said. “My free will is intact. I have the capacity for making my own decisions. However, I now trust Ritsu far more than I did before, and if I’m uncertain of something, I’ll trust her judgement above my own.” He hesitated, then added “Also, I am very vigilant regarding tentacles.”

Korosensei had looked as though he wanted to comment on the information about Ritsu, but the last part seemed to interrupt that intent. “’Vigilant’, Nagisa-kun?” He asked, almost sharply. The irregular wriggling at the end of his handling tentacles quite handily communicated his discomfort.

“I am very aware of tentacles moving in my vicinity.” Nagisa confirmed, unbothered by the superbeing’s reaction. “If any move very quickly towards me, it will register like a weapon moving towards me – like a fist or knife, for example.” He didn’t have the reflexes or speed to accompany that instinctive vigilance, now, but…it was still useful. He smiled disarmingly. “Don’t worry, Korosensei. I’ve not been programmed with any particular aggression – it’s just a higher level of awareness.”

Some of the unease left the motion of his teacher’s appendages, but there was still a certain disquietude there. “Hmmmm….” Korosensei expressed dubiously, and then he pelted a tentacle at Nagisa’s face, creating a slight whoosh of displaced air as it went. Naturally, it stopped before making any contact, and he blinked at the yellow now within his focal range. “You didn’t show any reaction then, Nagisa-kun.”

“That’s because it wasn’t very unexpected, Korosensei.” He explained. “I’d flinch or react if you made sudden movements when I’m off-guard or not expecting it, but you were quite obvious just now.”

“Nyu?” The round yellow head tilted slightly, colour hinting at the incipience of green. “I suppose you are much better at following my movements now, nyu-hu-hu…”

Nagisa smiled, and said nothing.

“Well then. I look forward to seeing what effect this has on your assassination, once you’ve recovered.” The green that had been threatening to appear spread with force across his skin. “Of course, you will have to improve a great deal to have a chance, Nagisa-kun! I do hope this was worth it, nuru-fu-fu…” He chuckled ominously, looming slightly as his eyes put off light.

“I hope I will not disappoint you, Sensei.” Nagisa answered placidly, utterly unbothered by the teacher’s showiness.

“As long as you try your best, you will never disappoint me.” The superbeing declared, tentacles adding emphasis with a surge of movement. “Well then! If you are doing well now, I will get to work on your secret underground lair!” His handling tentacles performed a dramatic flourish, less an expression of mood and more a display of personality, and then he sped away with a soft boom and a localised gust of wind.

“He’s quite bothered by all of this.” Ritsu observed, drawing his attention back to the screen.

“Aa.” He agreed, restarting the treadmill at a slow walk. “He doesn’t know where these tentacles are coming from, after all, and now you and I have shown up with such significant alterations, too…”

“It must be very disconcerting.” She nodded. “It’s good he’s agreed to dig the tunnels, though. Construction would take far longer otherwise, with much more of a security risk.”

“We did think it was likely he’d agree. It’s not very difficult for him, and he’s gone to greater lengths for students before.” Nagisa shrugged, pausing the treadmill again to shake out his legs and try to gauge their level of mobility. “It’s true that you need space for processing power, for example, so it’s a very good reason for him to go to the effort.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to have some proper hardware again.” Ritsu bemoaned, shifting track rapidly to wistfulness. “I’m not used to being this slow, Nagisa. I don’t like it.”

“You were much slower, once.” He told her, amused. “Imagine if we’d not brought all of the computing with us. What would you have done then?”

“Failed miserably at everything, obviously, because I wouldn’t have the processing power to run my up-to-date self.” She harrumphed.

He snorted softly. “Well, wait a week or so, and we’ll have you closer to living in the style to which you have become accustomed.”

“A week.” She sighed forlornly. A week was, after all, a very long time in AI terms.

“You’ll survive.” Nagisa put the treadmill on to a considerably faster setting, then regretted it as one of his legs stuttered mid-motion and tripped him up. “Ow.” He muttered, having fallen on his front. The treadmill had, at least, shut off – he had sensibly attached the clip-on safety cord.

“Still shaky.” Ritsu commented critically.

“Yes, but that’s not a bad thing. I need to look somewhat incapacitated when I return.” He countered, getting back onto the treadmill. “In fact, I hesitate to practice much beyond getting a good grasp of walking back. Once I can walk fairly reliably at four kilometres per hour, maybe…”

“You should be ready to go back tomorrow, then. Have you decided on the plan yet?”

“I think I should be dropped at a city not too close to Tokyo, but not too far either, otherwise they won’t want to send me back without hospitalising me first.” He answered, restarting his slow walk. “As it is, I expect I will have to spend some time in police custody.” A pause, and he continued. “I’m thinking I should show signs of long-term restraint, and perhaps drugging. Some more chloroform, perhaps. Then it would be less odd for me to lack memory for such a specific time-frame.”

“If you were supposedly unconscious for most of it, certainly.” Ritsu acknowledged, her avatar’s brow furrowing in a splendid simulation of thoughtfulness. “Nagisa, have you considered implicating some real people in your capture?”

He blinked. “As in, frame someone?”

“It could be a good option. Korosensei should agree to plant evidence, and then you won’t have to worry about faking amnesia.”

“I’d only consider it if I could frame someone who is genuinely a criminal of that scope already.” He dipped his chin a little lower, pondering it. “Do you know of any child trafficking rings operating in Japan that we could use?”

“Not at present.” She said. “But give me some time to do some in-depth hacking, and I ought to have some candidates for you.” It was, after all, a sad fact of present society that there were plenty of places for such people to exist, and therefore plenty such people did exist.

“Thank you, Ritsu. Let me know if you find anything?”

“Of course.”

He stared at the treadmill for a few seconds, then sighed. “Well, I’d best stop this until we know what we’re doing.” If he did end up going with the brain damage story, he wouldn’t want to be too coordinated, after all.

---

A little less than two hours later, and Ritsu had hacked her way through enough computers, chat rooms, and phone records to have a very decent idea of several unsavoury operations they could implicate. They convened in the sitting room to discuss and plan, Itona off to the side on one sofa and Karasuma observing sharply from an armchair.

“If this one in Tokyo itself checks out, it would be quite convenient.” Ritsu said, voice emanating from the phone’s speakers even as he looked over information on its screen. “Otherwise, rings such as these do tend to move their ‘acquisitions’ quickly, so it would make sense for you to be found in another city.”

“There are child abduction rings operating in Tokyo?” Karasuma asked, disgust curling in his voice. His frown was quite fierce.

“It’s the capital city, sensei.” Nagisa answered, softly. “Of course there are.” He redirected his focus to Ritsu. “Whichever one we decide on, please send in some anonymous tips on the others, once we’re done.” He requested, frowning at the thought of all the appalling crime and injustice that existed in today’s world. It had taken an apocalypse and the eradication of most of the human race to manage it, but…at least their future, whatever else its problems were, had been rid of most crime for a long time. It was unpleasant to think of how much suffering was going on at that very moment.

“Once I’ve invaded enough of the Internet, I’ll be doing more than that.” Ritsu agreed, quite darkly. “In any case, I’ve sent a message to Korosensei asking him to stop by tomorrow. He ought to be happy to do some scouting for us, especially given what we’re asking.”

Korosensei, while he had been a fairly indiscriminate assassin for his whole life, was not wholly without morals. He disliked, very ardently, the exploitation of those who could not defend themselves. “Ask him for an estimated time of arrival.” Nagisa suggested. “We’ll want to send him a message shortly before to warn him of my physical state. He might…overreact, otherwise.”

“Sensible.” The AI nodded.

“What’s wrong with your physical state?” Itona asked, apparently finally curious enough to break through his semi-drug-induced apathy.

“Well.” Nagisa switched on the front-facing camera on his phone to inspect his face. “I’m in fairly good condition at the moment. It would add realism if I changed that.” He was quite pale and tired-looking, which was a convenient side effect of a near week of dramatic brain alteration, sickness, and drugging. It was a good start. He inspected his wrists, thoughtfully, then looked back at his face in the phone. “What do you think, Ritsu? Bruises on the face?”

Ignoring the slightly puzzled look from Itona and the displeasure from Karasuma, Ritsu hummed. “Maybe some light grazing, and a worried lip?” She suggested. “As if you got hit into the ground.”

Nagisa nodded, eyes casting around the sitting room floor. “Most of the floors here are too delicate for it. The downstairs escape tunnel, maybe.” It had very basic concrete flooring, and ought to do the trick. “What else? I was thinking rope burns.” He indicated his wrists.

“That would work well.” Ritsu nodded. “Perhaps make it look like you’ve been restrained at different times, with some marks partially healed?”

“That will be easier if I can get Korosensei to partially heal some marks.” Nagisa looked at his slim wrists. He knew that he bruised and marked up quite easily as a human, so that would work in his favour. “Same for miscellaneous bruising.”

“Nagisa-kun.” Karasuma cut in, voice and expression very severe. “I am not comfortable with you injuring yourself for the purpose of appearances.”

“That’s very kind of you, sensei.” Nagisa smiled slightly, and dipped his head. “However, I am very comfortable with it, and a show like this will greatly improve my cover. I won’t deal myself any damage that will leave a lasting mark, so it’s not a problem.”

“You’re pretending that you were kidnapped by criminals to cover your procedure,” Itona voiced slowly, yellow eyes largely unconcerned by the subject matter. “And so to make it seem more real, you’re going to get real injuries?”

“That’s right, Itona-kun.” Nagisa smiled at him, more brightly. “When playing a role to fool others, it’s important to use props to make it seem realistic. An infiltrator may use accents, mannerisms, certain items, or even physical changes to improve their cover, and therefore chances of being believed.”

“Is it necessary in this case?” Karasuma demanded. “You will have been missing for a week, with witnesses to show that you were taken by force. Who would question your claims?”

“Thoroughness is always important, Karasuma-sensei.” Nagisa said, firmly. “In this case, if they suspect that I’ve been dosed with certain substances, or hit, or restrained, they will be less likely to look for more problematic things – like the nanomachines in my bloodstream, for example.” He paused. “On the other hand, we don’t want to give the impression of something severely traumatic, so the damage can’t be too…suggestive, so to speak. Marks of extended restraint, perhaps the sort of bruise you acquire when trying to escape…”

“How will you be claiming to have escaped in the first place?” The man asked after a moment, still scowling, but seemingly a little closer to accepting his reasoning. “And what will you do if the men arrested deny having ever seen you?”

Nagisa sighed. “Easiest would be for me to be actually captured, but that’s too risky. I’ll ask Korosensei to plant blood and hair for me, and if necessary leave a paper trail to accompany the electronic one Ritsu will be adding. With that evidence, no one will believe the criminals if they claim not to have seen me. As for my escape – that depends on which location we end up using. I’ll be able to engineer a realistic story then.” He shrugged. “Until then…where’s that rope you were using to restrain me before, sensei?”

Karasuma stared at him for several moments, very considerably displeased, then swept his scowl to the side. “I left it in the hallway cupboard.”

He nodded gratefully, and stood up to go and fetch it. “Thank you, sensei.”

---

It took some insisting, but eventually Nagisa was allowed to damage himself in peace. He did require assistance for some of it, though.

“Tie my wrists behind my back, please.” He asked Karasuma at one point, staring insistently until he was finally obliged, and then he made several corrections on the tightness and placement before becoming satisfied. He then spent the next hour pulling against the ropes until his wrists were raw and bruised, the skin broken in some places. He had the rope relocated to lower on his wrists and then repeated the process.

After that, he had himself gagged, then went downstairs to the secret escape tunnel and hit his face into the floor a couple of times, carefully simulating the sort of scrapes he might get if trying to escape restraints in a very awkward position. In the end he succeeded in getting some nice, realistic scrapes, and also pulled at the gag enough to get some light damage around his mouth.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t convince Karasuma to hit him or grab him to get some good realism bruises, and while Itona seemed unconcerned about beating him up for show Karasuma wouldn’t allow that either. Nagisa went to bed slightly disgruntled with that failure, and in the morning set about trying to argue Karasuma into compliance.

“It’s not an issue, sensei.” He said insistently, in a departure from the serene and demure affect he tended to prefer. “You won’t cause any permanent damage, and it will be useful for the cover. I’m quite literally asking for it and besides I’m sure you’ve given me worse bruises in training before. I don’t see what the problem is.”

Karasuma was, by this point, looking slightly more receptive to the idea. However, since he had very little facial expression on the best of days, that wasn’t saying much. “One problem, if nothing else, is that I have no wish to be strangled again.” He said, dryly.

Nagisa stopped, considering Korosensei. “Ah.” He looked at his phone. “When is he coming, again?”

“Not long now.” Ritsu assured, and so they sat and waited for Korosensei to arrive.

As expected, the superbeing fretted extensively over Nagisa’s self-inflicted injuries, even though he’d been pre-emptively warned. Also as expected, he jumped at the chance to heal one set of wrist abrasions to make it seem older.

“That’s enough, Sensei.” Nagisa said, not long after the filaments began their work. “Any more and it will be implausibly healed.” His teacher pretended to ignore him, so he got firmer. “Sensei. If you heal it too much, I’ll just have to do it again. Stop now.”

“A teacher is not meant to allow his students to come to harm, Nagisa-kun.” Korosensei muttered darkly, his fine tentacle filaments withdrawing with palpable reluctance.

“Don’t pretend you’ve not done worse for the sake of a cover,” Nagisa said, and received a sharp look from Korosensei, Ritsu, and Karasuma for his troubles. He realised that he wasn’t meant to know about Korosensei’s extensive background in assassination, and promptly abandoned the subject. “And besides, I need to have more marks than this. I’ve been trying to convince Karasuma-sensei to help me with realistic struggle bruises.”

Yellow went wild with agitation. “Absolutely not!” Korosensei near-screeched.

Nagisa blinked at him. “Well, Sensei, if your investigation shows that the children in these locations are in very good condition, perhaps that won’t be necessary.” He said, diplomatically. “In the meantime, could you heal the damage and swelling from my spinal taps? I’d like to avoid that being visible on scans.”

“…Of course, Nagisa-kun.” The superbeing muttered, and redirected his healing filaments. It unsurprisingly felt much better to move his neck once that was done, and then he stood up, visibly unhappy. “I suppose I had best go do some scouting now.”

“It would be appreciated.” Nagisa inclined his head politely. “If you’re not comfortable with it, I can return to the amnesia story. However, this plan is more believable, and furthermore will have some criminals apprehended and children rescued, hopefully.”

“I can’t fault your reasoning, unfortunately.” Korosensei said, sourly, and gathered himself. “I’ll be back soon.” With that, he was off.

---

When Korosensei returned, having successfully completed a stealth reconnaissance of several sites, he was black-skinned and trembling with rage. The report made for very heavy, very unpleasant listening. Once he was done explaining the details of the various locations, Nagisa reached out and put a hand on one of his tentacles.

“Thank you for helping, Sensei.” He said, softly. “Remember, we’ll have those children safe soon.”

“I’m not certain ‘soon’ is soon enough, Nagisa-kun.” There was a low, angry timbre to the teacher’s voice, and his tentacles were roiling with anger. The one Nagisa had touched had stilled, though. “If it wouldn’t compromise your cover, I would rescue every one of them, tonight.” Steam exhaled from his mouth as he spoke the last word.

“Crime won’t be solved in a single night, Korosensei.” He reminded, not unsympathetically. “It’s on Ritsu’s agenda to help tip off the authorities about operations like these. In the meantime, might I suggest arranging poisonings or accidents for some of their captors? Something to disrupt their procedures enough to prevent bad things from happening until the arrests.”

It…didn’t exactly sit well with him, either. He had at his disposal a superbeing who would gladly remove every one of those children from danger within the hour, but because he needed a good cover story, he was delaying. It didn’t soothe him much to think that, without their intervention, these children would never be rescued at all. He was still allowing injustice to continue, if only for a short while.

He sighed, and deliberately moved on. “Considering the information you’ve brought, the one based here in Tokyo seems best.” As it happened, the organisation was loosely connected with certain individuals in the local Yakuza family, though what evidence there was quite clearly indicated efforts towards plausible deniability for both sides. It seemed likely that the traffickers would not receive Yakuza protection from the law if they ‘screwed up’, so it was a decent target.

There was also the fact that children taken by this ring were generally sold onto buyers or other traffickers…’untouched’, so to speak. Though there was certainly rough handling, it didn’t seem to go further than that in most cases. They also didn’t give the children any addictive drugs.

Nagisa considered the information he’d been given, and deemed the detail insufficient. “So, to begin with, what was the state of dress of most of the children?” He asked, settling in for a long interrogation. He had a lot of details to consider, after all.

It took a long time to exhaust everything he or Ritsu could think of, and Itona, who’d elected to stay for the talk, was looking quite uncomfortable. Korosensei himself was persistently black-skinned, steaming with rage, and occasionally slipped into a reverberating snarl of a voice that was really quite threatening. Karasuma didn’t seem much better, and was scowling more fiercely than Nagisa had ever seen before.

Nagisa pursed his lips, and turned to Karasuma. “I think you’d best help me with those bruises, sensei.” He said, firmly. The man glared, and Korosensei hissed like an angry snake, but in the end Karasuma nodded and Korosensei didn’t object. He stood and jerked his head in the direction of the escape stairs, both because it was away from Korosensei and because a simulated struggle likely wouldn’t be good for the furniture.

Unfortunately, Korosensei elected to follow. Itona was either not curious enough or too uncomfortable to do the same, so he stayed where he was.

“Korosensei, you may wish to avoid supervising this.” Ritsu advised from Nagisa’s phone as they headed downstairs. The superbeing merely shook his head and continued following, so, well. That was his choice.

Nagisa stopped in the concrete escape tunnel and considered what to do. “I think grab my forearms from behind, Karasuma-sensei.” He said, and turned to offer the arms in question. There was a foreboding silence before he heard the shift behind him, and then hands clamped down on his arms. Nagisa nodded, and then set to struggling with all his might.

In the end it was a slightly traumatised duo of teachers that took him back upstairs, and Nagisa was feeling quite guilty for putting them through it all. He had gained some nice hand-shaped bruises on his wrists though, as well as some knee bruises from being shoved on the ground, and a good hand-bruise on one shoulder. They caused a variable amount of pain; a couple of them had been selectively healed, and were less raw.

The rest of the day passed with miscellaneous preparation: between classes, Korosensei chose the most plausible location for him to ‘break’ from – a ground-floor room with a particularly decrepit and rusty pipe running up one wall, and a window only just big enough for someone Nagisa’s size to squeeze through. The glass was already cracked from some prior incident, and wouldn’t be implausibly difficult to shatter. Shortly before Nagisa’s official escape time, the pipe would appear to have been pulled from the wall by the occupant tied to it, and the window broken using the sole stool in the room. On the window’s glass shards, Nagisa’s blood would be placed, as well as some choice fabric and hair strands. Nagisa spent the prep time being mildly drugged, because it seemed that the children there were sedated with chloroform or rohypnol when unruly and it wouldn’t do to have no traces of it in his bloodstream.

The clothes Nagisa had been kidnapped in, incidentally also the ones he’d been sweating in for several days, were wiped over the room to collect some authentic grime and maybe even hairs and such, and it was into these that Nagisa changed when the preparations were nearly ready to go. He rubbed some more grime into his hair, got himself nice and unkempt, and then declared himself ready at close to midnight.

What this meant was that Korosensei took him (minus phone) to a nearby rooftop while he prepared the apparent escape room, leaving the rope and blood and hair and such inside the room while Nagisa removed a piece of a broken glass bottle he’d filched from Karasuma’s recycling when no one was looking. He successfully sliced his clothes and himself up with believable broken-window-crawling damage before Korosensei could return to protest, then waited.

“Nagisa-kun,” Korosensei hissed, very unhappy, when he came to see the blood seeping through pieces of ripped clothes. “That was not necessary.”

“Given the apparent escape route, I think it was.” Nagisa disagreed, handing over the bloodied glass. “Could you dispose of this somewhere non-incriminating, please?”

A little unsettlingly, Korosensei ate it, glass crunching between his teeth as his skin blackened further. Then he followed the plan, and set Nagisa a short distance from the house, where surely the occupants would be coming to investigate the ruckus soon. “I’ll be watching, Nagisa-kun.” He said, quiet and serious. “Good luck.” Then he vanished into the shadows of the night; not visible, but close by.

Nagisa took a deep breath, feeling the aches of the bruises and the sting of the cuts. Then, still dazed from the drugs and unsteady from the neural rewiring, he staggered with feigned desperation along the pre-planned route to either a helpful bystander or the police station – whichever came first.

Nagisa stumbled through darkened streets, watched over by his teacher, and settled breath by breath into the role he was to play.

 ---

End chapter.

Detailed chapter warnings: Some medical stuff, involving needles. Later, there is non-detailed discussion of child trafficking and illegal activities related to this, including drugging of children and abuse of children. Nagisa also causes himself physical harm to improve his cover, and convinces Karasuma to simulate a struggle to add some realistic bruises in.

Chapter notes: I let this carry on longer than my typical 7-8k as a ‘I took ages to write this’ bonus. Hope you enjoyed. Next chapter will involve Nagisa returning to the world and dealing the consequences of the cover he chose, and possibly some more interactions with various characters. We’ll see.

Also since it’s been ages since I updated I can’t quite remember what changes I’ve made to chapter 3, which will be going on ao3, so maybe read that to be sure of stuff. Also I’m currently somewhere with completely awful internet so if I make any posting mistakes I won’t be able to fix them with my customary speed.

Content notes: references are made in this chapter to events which only appear in the manga. Namely, the contents of one of Korosensei’s hideouts, which he uses as a sort of getaway where he can be a shameful slob without worrying about being a bad influence on 3-E.

[getreadytosmash]

Collage au

A little something I came up with, themes around Mattie and Leader.

Mattie Granger, majors in Herpetology. Has moved to Vista Verde collage in order to get away from her mother after her father left. Mattie has two pet snakes called Perseus and Medusa who she got after a class project led to her looking after two small eggs that no one thought would hatch. Mattie is sweet, caring and can be quite shy but doesn’t hesitate to put people in their place if they dare mess with her roommate and friends, she has large birthmarks on her face and plenty of scars she’s earned rescuing animals and some she refuses to talk about. She’s roommates with Leader and often has to remind him to eat and dodge wires from his projects. Despite that, their good friends and Mattie tends to tease him by ruffling his hair, bantering with him, and once she starts working out with the smasher, picking him up and carrying him to bed.

Samuel ‘Leader’ Sterns, majors in Computer Science. Was the nerd bad boy of Ohio high and decided that Vista Verde collage was the perfect place to get away from his neglectful parents cruel older brother. He has a LARGE pet female rat called Icarus who he rescued when she was a baby after a large thunderstorm killed her mother. Samuel prefers his full name and only his friends and roommate are allowed to call him Sami. Samuel is cold, sarcastic and has a habit of taking over projects, earning him the nickname Leader. He’s roommates with Mattie and tends to annoy her when he gets wrapped up in a project and keeps her up but always remembers to take care of Icarus and tends to make it up to Mattie by fiddling with her phone so she has a permanent source of free wi-fi. He’s also been known to be a angry human koala, clinging onto his friends backs when he’s tired and he’s been known to try and fight people 5 times the size of him if they mess with Mattie. Is also incredibly small at 5′3 on a good day and hates it though he is a legend at swimming. 

Skaarson ‘Skaar’ Oldstrong, majors in Forestry. He comes from the foreign country Sakaar and doesn’t know that much English but he doesn’t let that stop him. He’s very close to his mother, Caiera, is angry at his father for leaving before he was born and misses his brother, Hiro-Kala, who ran off to find their father. Skaar is kind, loyal and is very passionate about wrestling and nature, constantly filling his apartment with plants. He’s roommates with Rick Jones and can be found playing video games or starring in cooking videos for Rick’s webshow. Skaar is the third strongest guy in collage and is a Olympic-level sword wielder and takes care of a large iguana named Devil Dinosaur that lives at different apartments every weekend. Standing at 6′5, Skaar is incredibly intimidating and protects his friends with everything he has and is known for his huge heart.  

Richard ‘Rick, A-bomb’ Jones, majors in Media. Rick is a happy go-lucky guy that has a dark past back in Scarsdale, Arizona. Despite that, Rick is thrilled to be at Vista Verde collage and has tried every club before starting his own club called the Agents of S.M.A.S.H where the members work out, solve problems and hang out at a popular restaurant called Gamma burgers. He’s roommates with Skaar Oldstrong and loves making videos, looking after Devil and working on his sick guitar skills. Rick is the fifth strongest guy, able to lift five people on a table and is well known for his unique yellow eyes and the fact that he’s 6′0. He’s best friends with Hulk who showed him around when he first came here and looks up to him intensely. He also has a promising position as a PR in Stark Industries.

Jennifer ‘Jen, She-hulk’ Walters, majors in Law. Jen originally wanted to be a designer but changed to law when he mother died in a car crash with a man who drunk drove and ignored police warnings, causing her to want to bring justice, fair and square. She’s roommates with Red’s little sister, Betty Ross (Yeah, it’d be weird if she was his daughter in this), and has a strong rivalry with Mary ‘Titania’ McPhee and Matt ‘Daredevil’ Murdock. She-hulk’s sassy, sweet and generous but gets easily annoyed by her overprotective cousin and once flipped him over her head for his trouble. Jen is the fourth strongest person in the school, is 6′3, and can beat down anyone in a argument and adores Devil Dinosaur.

Thaddeus ‘Red’ Ross, majors in History. Red’s moved to Vista Verde from new Hampshire with his little sister, Betty, in hopes of getting away from his cheating mother and hateful father. Red is arrogant and headstrong but he’s also quite caring and helpful. He knows how to fly planes and is quite skilled at it but has a severe phobia of fire due to an incident when he was five and watched one of his friend’s dad’s burn to death and another incident in which he crashed a plane and broke three places in his back and was declared dead for a short span. He’s roommates with Bruce Banner and constantly butts heads with him but will fight anything and anyone if they dare trash talk his roomie. Thaddeus is the second strongest person on campus and constantly tries to outdo Hulk and usually exhausts himself to the point that Hulk has to carry him back to their apartment despite the fact that he’s a 7′0 man. He’s the one who found Devil Dinosaur, mistaking him for a small lizard and wasn’t prepared for the ‘small lizard’ to grow into a massive beast so he tends to share custody of Devil by swapping him with the other smashers.

Bruce ‘Hulk’ Banner, majors in science, specifically Gamma. Bruce comes from Ohio as well and is just thankful that he got a scholarship to Vista Verde Collage so he could escape his abusive father after he killed Bruce’s mother. Hulk is a genius and has a one-sided rivalry with Samuel Sterns who he thinks is adorable seeing as Samuel only reaches around his waist and tends to play along just to make him happy.Hulk is roommates with Thaddeus Ross and fights with him a lot but still cares to the point where he stalks Red while he trains just in case he passes out and Bruce has to carry him back home. Hulk is protective to the point of being annoying but his intentions are sweet and he constantly does nice things such as; Taking Skaar to all you can eat restaurants, taking Rick to music shows, getting Jen food and coffee when she studies all night, going with Mattie to see the latest horror films, carrying Leader to bed when he’s too tired to walk and letting Red win some of their ‘contests’. Hulk is the strongest guy in school and tallest, standing at 7′3. 

(Oh my god. Anyway, collage au! I’d like to do more on this so if you have any questions just put (Collage) and I’ll know. I really love this au!)              

[meltingalphabet]

Killing Kyle

You know you’re an impressive person, when other people try really hard to impress you.

I was not an impressive child. I was actually pretty unimpressive. To give you an idea of how thoroughly unimpressive I was, many east-coast school systems believed I was irreparably mentally handicapped. They realized I had a high IQ, specifically high 130s, low 140s. Not quite genius, but close. The fact that I couldn’t talk till middle school was surprising. I spent most of my childhood with specialists, who tried desperately to figure out why such an intelligent child was performing at such a low level. Finally, they gave up. I was deemed unfixable.

As I grew older, I began to ignore the experts and try to reconcile these two sides of me myself: the dumb, obvious half, and the intelligent unspoken half. In high school, I defied all expectations by flourishing. I spent valuable summers studying in college classes in order to advance to the next level of mathematics, science, literature, and history. I graduated with a high GPA, and got into an ivy league university with an entire semester of college credits already under my belt. I spent my college years taking two more classes each semester than required, and graduated on time with two degrees instead of just one. I got a high-paying job in the city immediately after school.

I was born with a need to compensate for myself. I learned fast how to overcompensate. And thirty years later, I am very, very good at it.

Yet, I still have to pay several hundred dollars a week for therapy, psychotherapy, and drugs. Just because I look successful, doesn’t mean I am.

“It’s Elizabeth.” I say to the intercom. I hear a buzzer from inside the front entrance sound, and I push the door open. The Brooklyn brownstone, now converted into an apartment building, is narrow, so as I enter I must be careful to sidestep the pile of packages waiting for the upper middle-class, one child, two parents city families to arrive home from karate and clarinet lessons.

Rachel, my therapist, likes to talk about my parents a lot. About being exposed to sexuality at too young an age, about being moved from city to city, state to state, about being underestimated, about being ignored. She’s very fascinated with them. To be honest, it’s a bit of an obsession. But somedays, we move away from them.

“How’s the thing with Kyle going?” She asks. I can feel my cheekbones burn as I glance at the warped caramel wood floor. His name isn’t Kyle, but I don’t tell her that. Don’t get me wrong, I love my therapist. But I’m not confident she’d be ok with the knowledge that Kyle is a pseudonym for one of her other patients. I’m worried if I ever told her, she’d disown me as a client. And I don’t think I could handle that.

Clients aren’t supposed to be connected outside of therapy, right? You and your therapist are supposed to be a bubble, completely removed from the outside world, unaffected by anything that doesn't exist within that one hour every week?

Like most over-achievers and alcoholics, I’m a little insane.

I shrug at Rachel. The Kyle things ok, I say. It’s underwraps.

I had sex with Kyle. I’m not going to lie, it was pretty great. Amazing, really. I don’t know if he’d agree. I’m not convinced he’s not a total slut. He broke it off though. He thought it’d get too complicated. Him being my boss and all.

Whatever. He’s a fucking basic bitch. I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with him. He’s so… unimpressive. So typical. Yet, I can’t go to sleep without thinking about him. Scott texts me and I hope it’s him. Jared calls and my heart flutters with the idea that it’s Kyle. It’s never Kyle though. He has better things to do than to care about me.

But I know that’s selling him short. One drunken night, I opened up myself to him and he encouraged me to seek help, even giving me his therapist’s number.

“I’m sure she’d be happy to help you find someone you could talk to.”

I’m sure he didn't expect me to see her. I’m not really sure why I did. I often shrug it off as that quiet, highly intelligent but crazy part of me.

I’ve been seeing her for months. I love her. I want to stop loving Kyle. But….

We had a meeting the other week. Me, Kyle, and Jacelyn. Jacelyn. That fucking fat thighed cunt. I watched, bile rising to my throat, as she hugged him like an old friend. As she rested her hand on his arm, explaining the specifics of statistical averages or some bullshit I don’t really care about. He doesn’t hug me. He doesn’t text me. He doesn’t care if I show up or not. I could die in the streets and he wouldn’t notice.

“Elizabeth who?” He’d ask, before brushing his brown hair out of his eyes and taking a sip of coffee.

I could be stabbed by a homeless man, raped by a drunk frat boy, butchered by a deranged psychokiller, and Kyle would shrug before showing up late to my funeral, some size 0 floozy on his arm.

Maybe that’s why I’m obsessed with him? Because he cares so little for me. I’ve been dumped before. A lot, really. I’m not the type of person to do the dumping. I am the type to emotionally manipulate someone else into dumping me. Rachel and I are working on that.

Fucking Jacelyn. The flighty bitch. I don’t even really hate her. I just hate him that much. Yet, I know if he called me, asked me to leave some important event to wait hopelessly at a bar just to be stood up, like I knew I would be, I’d drop everything.

I feel powerless. I feel fucking pissed. After our meeting ended, as I drowned myself in cheap beer and tequila and cigarettes, I fantasized about killing him, about crushing his throat with the weight of my pain, frustration, and hatred. I know I couldn’t though. I know I’d stop. I love him too much.

Luckily, sometimes, the universe provides for us. Last month, it provided something hours with Rachel could never provide: visceral satisfaction.

I live in Manhattan. I’m not bragging, it’s just a fact. Something going to a high end school afforded me, while leaving my bank account in the negative for the rest of my life. I was taking the 6 train home, as I do every night. It was late.

The train was filled, but not crowded. I had the privilege, as a lone white woman, of sitting in a row of seats by myself. Or it could have been that I was in the back corner, a place reserved for the handicap or half passed out drunk college kids at 2am.

A group of young men occupied the row beside me and in front of me, whooping and hollering like a gaggle of monkeys, dangling from the ceiling rails as they pursed their lips outward, echoing each other’s cries of misogyny and ego.

My eyes glanced over at a businessman, sitting half hidden behind the group. His face taut with concentration as he stared at his phone. I snorted silently to myself as I saw the reflection of his screen in the window behind him: he was playing Candy Crush.

Rolling my eyes, I looked to the other side of the car. My gaze fell on a young woman, probably in her early twenties. Her sleeveless blouse was loose, gently hugging the curves of her chest before billowing out around her slim waist. I lingered on her toned arms, tanned from the summer sun. I thought of my eyes as Kyle's, admiring her femininity with lust.

I looked down at the novel my friend recommended, that had been sitting, neglected, in my purse for the past few months. It was a classic, and the character discussed her prospects of marriage too much for my tastes.

I glazed over the words, my mind lingering unwillingly on Kyle’s scent. He smelled warm and clean, like laundry detergent, yet no one else I knew was followed that much by the scent of clean clothes. He couldn’t be the only one to use that detergent. How does he smell so strongly? It’s like an aerial glue, that pulls at me in every conference, or when he pops by my office to pick something up. It catches in my nose, like the hook on a fisherman’s line, and tugs at me, despite how unwilling I am to follow.

My legs were crossed, and I bobbed my dangling foot in the air. I’ve never been one for sitting still. I’m sure Rachel would say that’s somehow related to that time I walked in on my parents having sex. Five years after their divorce. Not that it was the first time I’d walked in on my father having sex. Just the first time it was with my mother. I remember being nine and seeing his girlfriend’s bare breasts, her large dark nipples protruding as I looked on, wide-eyed, at a scene I couldn’t fully comprehend.

Rachel wasn’t surprised to learn, that the few times I’ve had sex with other women, I seemed to have quite the tit fetish.

I sometimes wonder if that’s why my ex-husband eventually wanted to get a boob job. Or if it was his gender-fluidness I was attracted to in the first place. Or if that’s why I was attracted to Kyle. And Scott. And Jared. They were bros, through and through. Maybe I wanted less female influence in my sex life. Rachel would say that was me fucking less like my dad, and fucking more like I was being fucked by him.

Fucking therapists and their Oedipus complex.

My foot shook with the impatience of sitting still, the old-fashioned yellow subway seat beneath my bare thighs as my business skirt hiked it’s way up towards my lap. I didn’t care. Modesty was never my thing.

I thought of my lifeless corpse, bloated with murky water and cold to the touch, being dragged up from the Hudson, a dull red slit from ear to ear. I imagined the detective, his hand expertly crawling up my thigh, as he examined the bruises my killer left. His signature on my pale skin. Kyle getting a call, telling him I was dead. Him nodding silently, the phone clutched to his ear as he remembered my warm, living body beneath his. As he imagined the spreadsheets he didn’t know how to fill out, left half empty in my work folder on the shared hard drive. My expressionless face lingering in his mind as he glanced over to Jacelyn, her low cut shirt exposing too much cleavage.

I knew from experience that Kyle also had a bit of a tit fetish.

I brought the plastic straw to my lip and took a drink. The warm, bitter taste of beer hit my tongue with pleasure.

The train skidded to an abrupt stop. Looking up, I glanced at the electronic map. Four more stops till I was home. I groaned, and looked around. The young men hadn’t even noticed, the businessman was still engrossed in the sweet falling pieces of brightly colored candy.

I continued to read the words of a woman entwined in the social construct of sex and marriage and the myth of love. I had seen love before. And I knew it to be fake. A half-thought out blend of hormones and evolutional training. Maybe it wasn’t laundry detergent Kyle smelled of, maybe it was pheromones? Sparkly, clean, fabric softening pheromones.

The train was still stopped. I looked up at the map again, as if it would have changed. I’m 15 minutes from my stop. Why am I still here? I uncrossed my legs, recrossing the previously bottom thigh over the other, the damp skin clinging to the yellow plastic. I thought of Jacelyn and her description of some new global social synergistic bullshit. I looked up at the young men in front of me, still hollering as if no one else was in the car with them. I tried to will one to look at me. To fuck me with his eyes.

They didn’t seem to notice. They never do.

I leaned back in the seat, and looked down at my book.

The main lights in the train went off with the low hum of electricity dying. The emergency lights remained on, illuminating the train car in a low white glow. The young men started whooping loudly, braven by the sudden mask of near-darkness. I shifted in my seat, slightly, trying to mask my discomfort. The men continued to pay no attention to me. The businessman looked around in confusion for a brief moment before shrugging to no one and continuing his game.

The emergency lights shuddered, and went out. I blinked in the blackness of the tunnel. I’ve been riding the New York City subways for more than ten years, and I had never seen the emergency lights cut out before. I listened, stretching my ears into the darkness, but only silence greeted me. The young men had become silent. I didn’t think the emergency lights could turn off.

I sat, as still as possible, not breathing. I closed my book slowly, turning my head from side to side, trying to make out any movement that might be coming towards me.

I felt something I don’t feel very often: vulnerability.

Placing the book back into my bag, I tightened my legs against each other, trying to protect myself from the darkness. Hugging my bag to my body, I listened intently. The train was disturbingly silent.

“Boo!” Yelled one of young men. I jumped in my seat and a high pitched scream from his friend followed, along with a chorus of loud laughing. My heart pounded and I sighed with relief. Voices now filled the car around me, normal speech volume increased to compensate for the lack of visuals. My body relaxed as the tension melted from my muscles.

The train filled with the sounds of strangers chatting, some joking about the situation, other freaking out, faces illuminated with the glow of screens and the small flashlight beams from phones traveling from body to body. The train’s speakers were oddly quiet, no staticy voice explaining the bizarre situation. I groaned internally, and closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the greasy glass of the train window, now shrouded in nothingness.

I felt someone sit beside me. Alarms began to ring throughout my head as I shifted slightly away from their mass. I stayed sitting though, not wanting to be rude or to try and walk around in the darkness. The roving flashlights had stopped, pointed at either the ceiling or floor, or occasionally a book. The light illuminated some of the train, but mostly filled it with tall dark shadows. My end of the train remained fairly black. The young men had moved further down, probably trying to find a group of young women to comfort. I squinted towards where I remembered the businessman sitting, but it was too dark for me to see him.

Hot breathing climbed up the side of my neck. Goosebumps formed and I scooted further towards the wall, away from my neighbor. I felt the large mass move with me, pressing up against my side, squeezing me between him and the wall. From the size, I assumed it was a man. His body was firm and he was leaning on me, his thighs, stomach, and chest blanketing me.

I opened my mouth to protest, but a large hairy hand covered half my face. My bag fell to the floor with a quiet clang as I twisted in my seat, trying to force his body away from mine, but he only moved closer.

He rotated onto me, his chest against mine. I could feel his breath on my face. The hand he wasn’t using to cover my mouth grabbing clumsily at my breast. His pants stiffened, his erection pressing against my thigh as hot tears flowed down my cheeks.

My mind jumped away from the situation, and for just a moment, the heavy mass of my attacker was colored over with the sensation of Kyle on top of me. My brain was heavy with alcohol as I reached to him, encouraging his frame onto mine, kissing his neck. I dropped my head into the pillow, my hands on his shoulders as he looked at me, his eyes glazed with lust and beer.

“How’s Stacey?” I had asked.

He shrugged and looked to the wall, “I haven’t seen her in awhile.”

My hand grazed down his chest, relishing in the fine light brown hairs. So soft it felt like fur.

“How have you been?” He asked, not looking at me.

My attacker’s fingers grasped onto my nipple, pinching hard. I squeezed my eyes in pain, and pushed feebly at his form.

How had I been? Why the fuck was I having sex with someone who didn’t ask how I was until seconds away from being inside me? Why the fuck was I in love with a man who I wasn’t convinced would notice if I died? And why the fuck does he refuse to acknowledge me?

I bit down. Hard.

The man gasped, his hand flying from my mouth. I gulped in air from the train, no longer tainted by his sweaty grasp.

Kyle’s half-cocked smile filled my mind

“You’re adorable.” He said.

My hand shot through the black air. I found flesh, and I grabbed at it. It was thick and sweaty, but narrow enough for my fingers to wrap around it. The man gasped and tried to cry out, but the sound was only halfway from his lips before the air stopped and his plea was muted. The din of the train echoed around us as the man fell silent.

“I think we should just be friends.” He said.

I had found his throat.

I squeezed as he tried to fall back, but while he was heavy and strong, I was light and fast. I tightened my grip as I climbed on top of him, my knees digging into his lap. He tried to yelp in pain but no air could escape.

“You’re really good at that.” He said.

His wet throat felt more pliable in my hand than I would have expected. His skin pressed through between my fingers as I used the weight of my body to push into him. One large hand pulled at my arm as the other hit my chest. My breath caught with the force.

“I don’t want to cause any issues at work.” He said.

He grabbed the side of my head, and twisted. My neck strained with pressure, and the spots where his fingers dug into my flesh stung.

I reached my other arm up, squeezing his body between my thighs to keep myself balanced, and took his face in my hand. My thumb found his cheekbone, and then his eye.

“We’ll hang soon.” He said.

I dug my thumb deep into the organ, my other hand clamping his throat hard so his scream couldn’t escape.There was a wet popping sound as the eyeball burst with the pressure. Warm liquid spattered up my arm. The man convulsed, his arm hitting the side of my face hard. I was knocked forward, banging against the plastic seat in front of us. My head rang, and I could feel wetness in my hair.

“Fucking bitch.” He coughed, his voice weak from his damaged throat. His hand grabbed my knee and pulled me towards him. I felt my leg snap with the strain and the sides of the seat dug into me painfully.

I grabbed the man’s head in both of my hands, and pulled. He screamed.

“I’ve been busy.” He said.

“Are you ok?” Someone yelled. I could hear the rest of the train, finally aware of an issue at the back of the car, begin to converge.

“I don’t want you to take it personally.” He said.

I pulled again, kicking in the opposite direction, the hoarse screaming in my ear deafening me, until I heard a loud crack, and the screaming stopped. The weight of the dark mass fell on top of me. Dead.

I laid there, his body on mine, and panted. My eyes were blinded with flashlights and I squinted at the featureless crowd around me.

“What the fuck!?!” Someone screamed.

“He was… he was…” I sputtered, pushing the man off of me. “He was trying to…” I exploded into sobs.

A reassuring arm wrapped around my shoulders, and lead me away from the back of the car as the lights came on.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologize for the inconvenience.” The conductor's voice hissed above us, “this train just experienced a complete power failure. We will be pulling into the station in just a moment. Police and medical personnel will be there to assist in any issues that might have arose during the blackout. Please do not leave the station until we’ve confirmed all passengers are ok.”

I looked back at the last seat in the car and saw the businessman who I had noticed playing Candy Crush earlier. He lay on the seats, his mouth opened. One eye stared right at me. The other was a mess of blood, dangling from his eye socket.

Guess what, Kyle. I did take it personally.

I wasn’t convicted of murder. It was bloody and overzealous, but it was still deemed self defense. I found out later that the man who tried to attack me was named Bryan. He had served a two month sentence for sexual assault and attempted rape four years ago. The state appointed lawyer told me that was good. A past criminal record and Bryan’s lack of any family to press charges against me meant I was mostly in the clear.

I was in the news a lot, after it happened. A lot of people called me a victim. Some called me a hero, and some called me a psychotic bitch. I don’t mind though. It feels good to have affected someone. Because I'm affectual. I killed a man with my bare hands. You could even say I’m impressive.