#but i was essentially doing the work of two people and pulling thousands of pounds of products every day by myself

[peaches-and-honey-and-the-moon]

Im working at an old food place I worked at three years ago, got let go from the stupid corporate job, and it feels like I can finally breath again. Like it feels like my coworkers actually respect me as a human being. And the venders I would see when I worked at the merch job have all told me they're glad I don't work at that company anymore when they see me at my food job lol. Our bread lady literally was like "thank fucking God you got out of there" which I found hilarious.

[ninbayphua-moyan]

Moonlit Sparrow Through Parted Clouds

Thunderous grey clouds hung heavy in the sky as I made my way towards the lecture hall. My body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion and each leaden step I took felt heavier than the last. I stopped, wanting to turn back, but time and time again, my body refused to obey as my legs carried me towards my destination.

          Half an hour later, I found myself standing outside the empty lecture hall despite the countless hesitations along the way. Sighing, I sank to the floor and closed my eyes, too tired to remain upright. That’s what university does to you. It sucks out your soul, your passion, and your youth, leaving nothing behind but an empty husk of a human being.

           A familiar voice calling my name pricked my hazy, sleep deprived brain and I cracked open my heavy eyelids. My facial muscles moved like clockwork, automatically forming a smile to greet my friend.

           “You look like a corpse!” Chu Ying exclaimed worriedly at the sight of the heavy dark circles beneath my vacant eyes.

           “Haven’t been getting much sleep this week…” I replied with a nonchalant shrug as I quickly scrunched up my eyes until they turned into little crescents of laughter, “assignments due soon.”

           Seemingly convinced by my explanation, she gave me a look of sympathetic encouragement and left. The second no one was looking, I let the smile fall. Amazing what a simple smile could conceal. You could probably murder someone, smile, plead innocent and everyone would believe you. Sighing softly under my breath, I grabbed my bag and joined the gathering crowd of students as they trickled into the dimly lit lecture theatre.

           My laptop sat quietly on the desk, an empty word document laid open on its illuminated screen as the lecturer’s monotonous voiced droned on and on in the background. I should have been taking down notes but my mind was too preoccupied with my issues with the Undergraduate Office to focus on what the lecturer was saying.

           A rhythmic vibration drew my attention towards the phone sitting on my lap. Glancing at the pop-up notification, a wave of anxiety and hope surged through my body as I registered who the sender was – the Undergraduate‘s Office. Quickly, I pulled up the email and immediately felt my heart sinking after reading the first line.

          All seminar groups are full and we cannot move students.

          Lies.

          Another notification, this time, from my personal tutor.

          It’s only week 3, relax.

          Disappointment. Betrayal. Frustration. Anger. I clenched my trembling hands into fists as the tsunami of emotions threatened to explode and spill out of my shaking body. Half of me wanted to storm over to the Undergraduate’s office and let loose the unbridled rage coursing through my veins at the unfair treatment. The other half of me wanted to lash out at my tutor’s condescending advice. My body trembled at the barely, ever so barely contained anger.

          Sixteen thousand pounds. That would be eighty-four thousand two hundred and seventy-nine ringgit each year in school fees. Fees which didn’t even include the amount I needed to spend in order to buy the books required for the modules. Sixteen thousand pounds per year just to get an education, an education that I wasn’t even getting at this point and her advice for me was to relax? How could I when my parents worked their entire youth away, saving every cent just so they could send me, all the way to Britain to get a proper education! Did they even know what the stakes of sending me abroad to study was?!

          My father’s average yearly income is twenty-four thousand ringgits, barely twenty-eight percent of my yearly school fees. Was it that unreasonable to want to be in a class that will allow me to learn and improve after paying for that much money out of my parents’ own pocket?! Why would anyone in their right mind come half way across the globe, paying that ridiculous amount of money, and being so far away from family and home for years, just to fool around? If that had been my intention, I wouldn’t even have bothered going to university in the first place, let alone coming all the way to Cardiff!

          University will be fun they said. You’ll meet open-minded people passionate about learning they said. Hah! That’s the biggest misconception if there ever was one. First of all, the university doesn’t care about whether you actually learn anything so long as you're paying the fees. The majority of lecturers or seminar leaders will only do the most minimal amount of work required and by that, I mean three hundred words of prose only per weekly assignment. What kind of creative work could anyone produce under three hundred words? In prose! Some don’t even bother with critical commentary which is just as essential as the creative pieces. Not only does the lack of practice in writing critical commentaries and limited word count for the creative pieces inhibit students from developing any work of significance, it also underprepares students for the three-thousand-word portfolio due at the end of the semester.

          Secondly, British universities are also especially discriminatory towards outsiders or people of colour, often treating minorities and international students with hostility or disregard. I’ve experienced this discrimination first hand upon requesting a seminar change. Despite having emailed the Undergraduate Office at the same time with the exact same reasons, I was denied the change whilst my British classmate was immediately allowed to swap seminars. The office even went so far as to lie about the class being full even though I was told by the professor leading that very seminar that it wasn’t. So much for the integrity of the institution.

          At the end of the day, international students are nothing but cash cows to British universities.[1] Not only do they have to pay double of what British students pay in terms of fees, they also have to deal with the discriminations that come alongside being an outsider. I understood that in this day and age, education was a business, and that the university itself was, essentially, a business, but doesn’t actual passion for learning still count for something? Or was I wrong in believing in that as well? Oh, so naïve, so very naïve!

          Old memories started to surface amongst the turmoil of emotions. My father and his worn-out clothes, refusing each time to buy new ones for himself just to save a little more money. My mother mending them as best she could whilst we slept, never once complaining. Images of my father’s prematurely greying hair and bloodshot eyes as he worked his health away to provide for his children’s future. My mother’s back bent low, labouring away at some project or another in order to make ends meet. Yet, they never once showed us how tired or how tough things were. There was always enough food on the table and they always had a smile on their faces around us. Sometimes, I noticed that they would eat a lot less than usual but whenever I asked, they merely joked and said they were trying to lose weight. They could have enjoyed their youth, their honeymoon, but they decided to save it all, sacrificing their health and comfort just to ensure mine by sending me here.

          I remember the times where they would secretly check their wallets whenever I begged them to buy me a book. Oh, how those very books painted and fuelled my illusions of Britain’s perfection. If only I had known the reality of it all before applying to study here. But it’s too late for regrets now.

          A sharp stinging pricked the back of my eyes, tears threatening to fall as my body shook with suppressed, uncontrollable rage. Maybe if I was a little braver…maybe if I fought a little harder…maybe if I confronted them a bit more…maybe…maybe…maybe…

          Then as quickly as they appeared, the tsunami of emotions faded away, leaving behind an empty husk. My clenched fists loosen and fell limply at my sides as a quiet, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Nothing was going to change. No matter how hard I fought, the end results will remain the same so what’s the point of even trying in the first place?

          As the cold hard reality of the situation finally presented itself, I slumped against the chair, my empty laptop screen staring blankly back at me. Resignation dragged me deeper and deeper into the murky depths of my mind. I was drowning. No one knew and no one cared. But that’s fine. The ending remains the same regardless. Always the same…

          The sound of rustling papers and loud chatter momentarily draws me out of the murky waters. Realising that the lecture had ended, I gathered my things and shuffled towards the exit, my mind returning once more to the depths of the void. Outside, the rain was pouring. I plodded down the streets drenched to the bone as my legs moved mechanically towards my flat. A stifling numbness engulfed my mind as I trudged on in silence, the howling wind battering my shivering, rain-soaked body from all sides. Rounding the corner, I pulled out a key-card and entered the cramped grey flat. Out of sheer habit, I grabbed the letters from my letterbox and stuffed them into my coat pocket before heading upstairs.

           Entering the dingy room, I dropped my backpack on the bed and sank to the floor. Hugging my knees to my chest, I stared vacantly at the bleak wall. My phone rang insistently in my pocket but I didn’t answer, too tired to move. The crushing weight on my lungs forced out whatever little oxygen I managed to draw, making each breath a struggle. The clamouring voices in my mind grew louder and louder, growing in intensity yet forcefully contained, like built-up pressure without release on the brink of implosion.

You’re useless

          I’m…not…

You can’t even stand up for yourself or fight for what you believe is right

          Yes I can! And I’m trying! I’ve –

You’re a disappointment to your parents and your family

          I’m not! I swear! I –

You’ll never amount up to anything

          That’s not true! I –

You’re pathetic

          No –

Nothing but a Failure

          Stop saying –

Human garbage

          Please! Just –

Waste of space

           “SHUT UP!”

           Silence. Nothing but the sound of my ragged breathing in the darkness.

The world would be better off without you

          I don’t know how long I had stayed there on the floor but by the time I came around, my dripping wet clothes were nearly dry. The chaotic calamity within had finally died down and I was filled with an eerie calmness. A deafening silence blanketed the air, pierced only by the hypnotic rumbling of trains across tracks. Ah yes…the railway…my ticket to solving everything…just two blocks away…and it’ll all be over…permanently…

          Forcing my lethargic limbs to move, I wobbled onto my feet and stumbled towards the door. A tiny parcel fell out of my pocket and the handwriting on it made me paused. It was my mother’s. Even under the dimness of the moonlight trickling in, there was no mistaking that immaculately cursive hand.

          Letting go of the door handle, I kneeled down to pick up the neatly wrapped package. Then, slowly, as if afraid it would fall apart at the slightest touch, I began unwrapping the parcel. Upon opening the box, tears welled at the corner of my eyes. Six little cylindrical bundles of haw flakes were carefully packed within, each attached to a tightly rolled up strip of paper. Gently untying the scrolls from the sweets, I began reading them one at a time.

          Jie![2] I got you your favourite sweets! Wanted to buy you more of them but Ma said there wasn’t enough space in the box. Don’t worry, I’ll send you a big box of them once I’ve saved up enough money.

– Di[3]

          My heart ached as I thought about how much it must have costed for them to ship the parcel all the way from Penang to Britain. And with the little amount of pocket money…it must have taken Di-Di months of saving to be able to afford buying that one bundle of sweets…

          Jie, just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you have to hold everything in on your own y’know? It’s okay to rely on others a bit more from time to time. Enjoy the sweets you idiot, you’re crazy about those haw flakes. No idea why you like them either, they aren’t even that nice.

– Mei[4]

          Tears pricked the back of my eyes as my sister’s grumpy voice echoed in my ears. I could even see the disbelieving eye roll at my odd preferences in sweets after the last sentence. How I’ve missed our senseless squabbles and late-night chats….

          A-Yun, being an international student in the UK isn’t always the easiest thing, especially when you’re a minority there. You’ve already taken the necessary steps and have done all you can in that situation. Remember, it’s the end result and not the process that defines a victory. Remember what Sun Tzu mentioned in The Art of War? ‘The most important rule to victory is to know when to pick your fights and how to fight it’. Not all battles need to be fought to win the war. Never forget our family values and never lose sight of your goal. Don’t worry about finances, let me handle that. Just focus on your studies and aim for that first-class honours. The best revenge is to succeed despite their efforts to stop you. Continue to work hard and don’t give up. Know that regardless of the outcome, your Ma and I are proud of you and that we love you very, very much.

– Ba[5]

           A sob catches at the back of my throat as tears flowed freely down my cheeks. Acute pangs of longing weighed heavily on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

          A-Yun[6] ah, if it ever becomes too much to bear at Cardiff, come home. Ma will make you your favourite dishes. I know you want to do well but don’t overwork yourself. Remember to get enough rest and try to change your bad habit of skipping meals. Two boiled eggs alone don’t count as a proper meal either!

– Ma[7]           

          A sheepish giggle escaped my lips despite the tears, Ma’s exasperated voice ringing in my ears. I could almost picture the look of indignation on her face as she judges my terrible meal choices before proceeding to fill my bowl with steamy boiled dumplings.

          Ah…Ma’s famous boiled dumplings…the saltiness of minced pork marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil…the refreshing sweetness of spring onions and carrots contrasting the pork’s saltiness…flecks of finely chopped hei-mu-er adding a chewy texture to the tender meat whilst thin sheets of delicately wrapped dough encapsulated it all…the slight bitterness of the herbal broth complementing the savoury dumplings…[8] My stomach growled in protest as I smiled fondly at the memory.

          Wiping away the remaining tears, I unrolled the last strip of paper. Elegant brushstrokes painted familiar characters in horizontal lines. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I recalled sitting on A-Gong’s [9] lap in the garden as kid, watching him practice calligraphy. I remembered how he used to read his poems aloud as I gaze at his hands guiding the bamboo brush across the ivory sheet, entranced by its flowing movements. Each word written was like a piece of art, each stroke of ink painting a meaning of its own.

Tranquil night’s darkness, the moon shines bright, From the mud the lotus rises, its petals pure despite. Vermillion red blossom like wildly raging flames; Elegant, virtuous, delicate, yet exquisitely untamed. The wise once said that adversity yields flair, An upright heart, oblique shadows don’t scare. Dripping water with time wears the stubborn stone, Sturdy wood too can be cut with rope saws alone! [10]

          A strange tranquility wrapped itself around me as I read the poem, A-Gong’s calm and mellow voice resonating in my ears. It was almost as if he was standing right before me with the usual toothless smile and twinkling eyes on his wizen face. Tenderly cradling the small box of sweets, a faint smile graced my lips. Their vermillion red and gold wrappings shone with a certain warmth under the soft light of the moon. Gently unwrapping one of the thumb-size bundles with shaking hands, I popped a disk-like piece into my mouth.         

          Immediately, a wave of warmth spread throughout my cold and hollowed body, almost as if it was infused with the life-giving heat of home. The familiar tart sweetness of the hawthorn berries cleared the heavy fog that clouded my mind and for the first time in a long while, I felt energy slowly seeping back into my worn-out soul, reigniting the snuffed-out fire within. Strange how something so small, barely the size of my thumb, could bring so much comfort and hope. That night, the moon shone a little brighter than usual, and the normally barren sky seemed to be exploding with billions of twinkling stars.

NOTES

[1] Alina Schartner & Yoonjoo Cho, ‘“Empty signifiers” and “dreamy ideals”: perceptions of the “international university” among higher education students and staff at a British university’, Higher Education, 74 (2017), 455-472

[2] ‘Jie’ means older sister in Chinese

[3] 'Di’ means younger brother in Chinese

[4] 'Mei’ means younger sister in Chinese

[5] ‘Ba’ means father in Chinese

[6] ‘Yun’ is written as ‘云’ meaning ‘cloud’

[7] 'Ma’ means mother in Chinese

[8] Hei-mu-er is the Mandarin term for black cloud ear fungus, a type of mushroom often used in Chinese cuisines.

[9] ‘A-Gong’ means grandfather in Chinese (specifically, the Hainanese pronounciation)

[10] This is a self written and self translated poem I wrote. The original Chinese version can be found here.

[11] ‘Moonlit Sparrow Through Parted Clouds’ is a play on 守得云开见月明 meaning the moon will shine brightly again when the clouds part, and 麻雀虽小五脏俱全 meaning though a sparrow is small, it has all the vital organs.

Author's Notes:

So this is one of my earlier prose pieces from uni (all the way back from first year lol). I don’t usually post prose? Not prose of this length at least. Anyways, I thought I’d take the leap and try posting them online now since I decided to start doing that for my poetry pieces? The rest of my prose pieces throughout uni somehow ended up becoming interlinked with several recurring characters though there are some inconsistencies since they were initially intended as stand-alone pieces rather than a series of somewhat loosely linked short stories. I’ll be posting them in story timeline sequence (or at least as closely to a sequence as I can since I didn’t exactly plan out the timeline of these pieces either) rather than in the sequence it was written in so there might be a slight fluctuation in writing style cuz they do kinda change over the years? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 1~ 

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

[heyheydidjaknow]

I do not have a decent title for this. I’m also not even going to bother with an image (even though I know it would generate more traffic) because I’m not going to steal someone’s shit. It’s about 3500 words, so have fun with that.

Chapter 1

Dying is not fun.

I do not know if you knew that until last night. Maybe you figured that since it was romanticized so much that it would not suck as much as it so clearly and obviously did. Maybe you dreamed of dying relatively peacefully, surrounded by your loved ones. Alas, those dreams were dashed last night when you, oh so wise Y/N, decided that you were going to try baking and forgot the most essential step; taking the thing out of the oven. You remember that night so clearly, the screams of your family begging for their lives still bouncing around in your ears like a torturous golf ball that made a habit of forcing itself into your throat, the feeling of your hair catching alight as your skin bubbled and charred, and rational thought became a foreign concept. You do not remember if you had died from a heart attack or hyperthermia or smoke inhalation, but you had a general idea that, yes, that night had been your last on Earth.

So, where the fuck are you?

You pull yourself into a sitting position, your back pressed against something hard as your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness. The air smells like rotten food and exhaust engines as you pull yourself off the concrete, looking around the alleyway that you had found yourself in. It’s small, narrow, unremarkable in every way, with graffiti covered dumpsters near the entrance. Dazed, confused, generally out of sorts, you make your way to the entrance, patting yourself down for injuries you did not seem to have.

You rub the side of your face with your hand. ‘My head is killing me.’ You slip your hand into your jacket pocket, feeling a key and a piece of paper. ‘God damn it is cold in this alley.’ You zip up your jacket, walking out into the open as you pull the note out, beginning to read.

“Dear Y/N,” you mumble as you read, “we are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into our transference program, yadda yadda yadda, whoopdeedoo…” You skim ahead of some introductory jargon before getting near to the point of the note. “From this point forward, enjoy your permanent residence at ten West.. fifteenth street… apartment number six two two… New York, New York?” You blink. ‘I… that’s not my address.’ You pull out the key. ‘Wait, hold on.’ Your eyebrows furrowed. ‘New York? Wait, I was dead, wasn’t I?’ Your eyes become unfocused. ‘I don’t live anywhere near NYC. Where am I?’ You look around for some sort of landmark, street name, anything to give you some idea of where you are.

You hear a car squeal to a stop on the street corner in front of you, snapping you out of your stupor. As identical men start climbing out of the back of the vehicle, all marching deliberately towards you, a fifteen-year-old girl, your immediate reaction is to run like hell. Unfortunately for you, apparently your speed was not comparable to that of the men who quickly apprehend you, scooping you up and dragging you kicking and screaming into a van. You hear vaguely familiar voices outside, but your focus is less on the mayhem and more on the more pressing matter of getting yourself out of the van. You pound at the door, feel for any sort of locks on the inside, something, anything to get you out of the van, still screaming your head off as you hope whoever was outside had the common sense to call nine one one. You feel your eyelids droop as your breathing slows, your voice dying as your pounding becomes less intense. You slide to you knees, eyes closing even as you mentally scream at yourself to get up, keep at it. You passed out.

--

You wake up laid on the floor this time, the pulsing of electricity above your head almost soothing as you open your eyes. You stagger to your feet, looking around your well-lit enclosure, pink florescent lights lining the ceiling and walls like arteries. After taking note of your new bruises and checking to see if you still have your few personal belongings—you do—you ran over to the door, eyes fixated on the mind boggling, ridiculous scene taking place in front of you.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ You back away from the slot in the door, trying to process the blatant larping headassery. You had not thought that you would honestly be able to say that, apparently, you were kidnapped by the mother fucking Kraang, yet, in some stroke of tomfuckery on behalf of whatever deity controls your universe, you have, obviously, been kidnapped by some seriously hardcore cosplayers. If nothing else, you must admire the obviously advanced set up.

You run your fingers through your hair, chuckling almost manically. “So,” you say to yourself aloud, “I got kidnapped by TMNT fanboys. Great. Fantastic, even!” You pace around the room, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “I guess this makes me April O'Neil, then? Cool.” Your voice is extremely tight as you shake with intense, mostly negative emotions. “So, I’m somewhere in New York, kidnapped by the Kraang in the worst convention ever. Let me guess,” you laugh, losing your mind a little as you speak to nobody. “I’m gonna have a run in with the Teenage Fucking Ninja Turtles next, right?”

As if on que, you hear laser blasts and shinking metal. The high pitched beeping on an alarm sounded as you heard people—‘Male, teenagers… fuck my life,’— talking about power or something as their footsteps approach your room. You pound on the door. “Hey! Over here!”

You see a brown set of eyes look in through the window. Your suspicions are confirmed; ‘Definitely TMNT larping.’

“We found her,” the owner of said eyes, the one cosplaying as Donatello, calls to the others. Lasers shoot by his head as he turns to stare death in the eyes.

“We’ll hold them off. You pick the lock.” ‘Leonardo.’ You breathe a soft sigh of relief; if nothing else, you are apparently on the side of the people trying to get you out in this game. You hear footsteps going towards the firing.

“Don’t worry,” “Donatello” reassures you, voice tight with apparent anxiety, “I’ll have you out of there in a second!”

“Thanks, Donnie.” You give him a half-hearted thumbs up, trying to see what he was doing through the window. “Take your time.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Wait, how do you know my name?”

You sigh. “Look, man, I don’t know the script for the first episode by heart. You’re gonna have to cut me some slack for not being off-book.”

“Off—what?” He stares at you blankly.

You purse your lips. “I’ll explain if you let me out,” you promise. “Just pick the lock before the blue one gives you shit.”

“Oh, right! The lock!” He nods, grasping onto the logical thing you say and leaning down to start working on the alien technology. He pulls the cover off a control panel by your door, starting to fiddle with the wires.

You lean against the door, watching him work curiously. You hear the battle cries of “Michelangelo” and the toppling of robots as he works, clearly focused on his task. You zone out again. “This is some serious shit,” you mumble.

He mutters in frustration. The one dressed as Raph marches over, more impatient. “Oh for the love of—get out of my way,” he snarls, proceeding to take a very real looking sai out and stabbing the panel with a very in-character ferocity. You almost feel the urge to applaud the acting, and you might if this weren’t such a high stakes situation.

The door in front of you and behind you open at the same time and, deciding against getting captured again—you remember something about hanging from a helicopter in that scenario and you want nothing to do with that—you run alongside the turtles like your life depends on it, stumbling to a halt once you reach outside and slamming the doors closed behind you, blocking it with your back.

Your feet scramble to gain some traction on the cement. “Donnie,” you snap, almost impressed by the force used to pound against the doors, “put your staff in the handles of the door. We gotta go ASAP.”

“Wait, hold up.” The one dressed as Raph jabs his thumb towards you. “How do you know his name?”

You groan. “For fucks- it’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, not fucking Happy Sugar Life. Get the thing in the thing before the vine thing kills us!”

“The what?” Donnie and Raph seem much more confused than before, staring at you inquisitively and angrily respectively.

“Uh, guys?” Mikey pointed. “I think she means that vine thing.”

From the shadows emerges a towering creature made of plant life, its vinelike limbs draping across the ground like roots as it rears its ugly head. Its exposed, pulsating heart pressed against what remains of the creature’s ribcage. “You did this to me,” It growls. “Now you’re going to pay!”

“It’s-“

You cut Leo off. “Snake guy. Mutated into a weed. If you wanna kill it, go for the heart.”

He looked back at you, joining the other two pairs of piercing stares. “Cut that out.”

“Then don’t monologue and kill it before it has mobility!”

“On it.” Raph charges at its lumbering form, and within moments, it falls to the ground in a heap.

The pounding against the door is getting more intense. “Donnie! Staff!”

“Right!” He runs over, sliding his staff in between the door handles.

You stumble forward, the pounding already starting to crack the wood. “Alright, now we can leave.” Without waiting for the others, you sprint away from the building like your life depends on it. The others, clearly confused, follow.

You got a fair few city blocks away before you slow down, breathing heavy and palms stamped with the outline of the key you were holding desperately onto. “You run really fast for cosplayers,” you pant, “with all the- the paint and all.”

“Yeah, about that.” Donatello stops next to you, a thousand questions apparently swimming around in his head. “How do you know our names?” His mouth moves a mile a minute. “How did you know the weakness of that vine creature? What do you mean, cosplay? Who are you? Who were they?”

You cut him off. “One question at a time, hot stuff. Deep breathes.”

His pupils dilate. “H-hot stuff?”

Leo cuts in. “How did you know what we were—uh—cosplaying?” he asks tentatively.

“Odd time to cut the act, but alright.” Your heart rate lowers to a decent pace as your mind still struggles to comprehend what had just happened. You slow your breathing. “I mean,” you explain, gesturing with your hands, “it’s TMNT. It’s iconic.”

“Iconic?” He nods. “Well, since you know so much about it, then why don’t we test your knowledge? To see if you’re a real fan..”

“Y-you think I’m hot?”

“I don’t see the point, but I’m down.” You shrug, deciding to ignore the melting turtle for a second. “Shoot.”

He thinks for a moment. “Who’s the main character?”

You shrug. “You four, I guess.”

Mikey jumped in. “What’s the theme song?”

“Gonna have to be more specific there, buddy.”

“Is it really a great idea to just talk out here in the open?” Raph crossed his arms across his front.

“Probably not.” You look around. “Unless you have a map on you, I’d suggest we go back to your lair.”

“Our—what kind of stalker—”

“Look, honey,” you sigh, “if we’re going to go over every aspect of their lives that I know about we’re going to be here for a long time. For our purposes, just assume I know everything I need to know, and if you’re curious about specifics, we’ll go on a case-by-case basis.” You start walking down the sidewalk. “I’m guessing you guys hang out in the sewer, right?” You feel almost tempted to say that they’re just flat out psychotic, their blatant conviction in their own characters almost frightening. ‘I’ve heard of kinning,’ you think, pulling up a manhole cover you see at the end of an alley and wincing at the smell, ‘but this is ridiculous.’ You blink at the surprising lack of weight.

“Yeah.” Mikey—no, the Michelangelo cosplayer—walked over, already hopping in. “Our show must be super popular, right? Who’s the favorite character? How long have we been running?”

“Oh, you guys are—” You stop talking. “Wait, what year is it?” You start climbing down.

“Two thousand and twelve. Why?”

You step off the ladder, starting to walk behind him as he lead the way. “Well, it’s not tweny twelve where I’m from. It’s twenty twenty.”

“Wait, hold up.” He turns around to face you as he walks. “You’re from the future? That is so freakin awesome!”

You rub the back of your neck, trying to ignore the smell. “I mean,” you confess, “being from the future would be cooler if I was from a better time, I think.” ‘I wonder where they—’ You shake your head. “But, If we were running on the same time, I’d only be seven, I think, so it’s pretty cool I get to be here, I guess.”

“Dude, totally!” He turns a corner. “Our first day up top and we meet a time traveler?”

“Technically,” a voice from behind you makes you jump, “if what she’s saying is true, she somehow also knows interdimensional travel as well.”

‘Mother fucking ninj—cosplayers, focus. Don’t let them pull you in too.’ “Well, I really wouldn’t say—”

“Guys, is there not a clearly bigger concern on our hands?” You were already getting sick of not hearing footsteps. “Like, say, I don’t know, the fact she’s claiming we’re fictional characters?”

“Look, man,” you roll your eyes, “I already said I’m more than happy to answer any questions I can. In fact,” you continued, stopping in your tracks as you stared the red—clad turtle in the eye, “I’ll even stay put until we sort this whole situation out.”

“Fine by me.” Leo and Raph both face you, eyes boring into your soul as you stand there awkwardly.

“Let’s start off with the basics.” Leo’s tone is awfully light compared to his blatant skepticism. “What is everyone’s name?”

You force yourself not to roll your eyes again. “You’re all Hamatos.” You point at the tall one with the gap in his teeth. “That one’s Donatello, the yellow one next to him is Michelangelo, you,” you point at the red one with the broader shoulders, “are Raphael, and the sensei appointed leader is Leonardo. Easy.”

Leonardo nods. “Okay, you got the easy one.” It is at times like these when you wish you could read people. “What are we?”

“Teenage mutant ninja turtles.” You don’t have to hesitate.

“How did we become the way we are?”

“Splinter had a Kraang run in and you got ooze on you. Last thing you touched before you transformed was a person, so you became turtle/human hybrids.” You rest a hand on your hip. “Oh, happy birthday, by the way.”

A sea of blank faces face you. “Wait, you know who those things are?” Donatello is the first to speak after a pregnant pause.

“Well, yeah.” You shrug, the reality of the situation not yet dawning on you. “They almost take over the world in at least two season finales.

“They what?”

“Yeah.” You stick your hands in your pockets, fingering the key and note, confused by their apparent horror. “I mean, I’m still on the season three finale, but alien invasion is this show’s bread and butter for the most part.”

“I- what?” Raphael appears to be having a stroke. “What- bre- I- huh? What the-“

“Is he okay?” You look, completely unconcerned, at Donatello, who is swaying on his feet.

“Alien.. invasion…”

You blink, walking over to him and placing your hand on his cheek. You were surprised at the feeling of skin under your palm. ‘Not face paint..’ You look his incredibly pale face over curiously. ‘Not a mask…’ “Oh.” Your fingers slide down and off his jaw, falling slackly. “You weren’t joking, were you?”

If nothing else, he seems less concerned than he did a second ago.

Leonardo—‘The actual—hold on a minute.’—grabs your shoulder. “This isn’t a joke.” His face is stone. “You’re being serious, right?”

You felt blood drain out of your face. “Sadly? Yes.” You force yourself to take deep breaths so as to not pass out. “But, on the bright side,” you smiled weakly, “I can guarantee your survival for at least a few months.”

“What do you mean a few months?” Raphael is shaking as he yells, his voice roar echoing in the enclosed space. “How is it only—what the hell?”

“The show only ran over the course of an in-universe year.” You fight to keep your voice steady as dread seizes your throat. “I don’t know what happens after the year is up, or if it even lasts the whole year.”

“So we have less than twelve months to live?”

“This is so not cool.” Michelangelo is having a bit of a mental breakdown. “So, so not cool.”

“Hey, it’s not a guarantee!” You put your hands up reassuringly. “That’s just how long the show runs. Besides, it’s a kid’s show. There’s no way they’d kill off the main characters.”

“The hell they—who the hell is they?”

“Nickelodeon.”

“What the fuck is Nickelodeon?”

You groan. “Look, I’m just saying that you four are definitely going to survive the next few months!” Your voice rises easily to his volume. “I don’t know what happens after those months are up! I haven’t gotten to that point!”

“Why the hell not?”

You ran your fingers through your hair, laughing incredulously. “What, do you think I knew I was going to meet the IRL Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and had a chance to plan accordingly? No!” You throw your hands up in the air. “I died last night and now I’m here! Hell, I don’t even know where the fuck I’m going to go, fuck knowing who’s going to get the fucking axe between now and the series finale!”

“Will you two both cut it out?” Leo snapped, shutting you two up.

You put your hands up, still fuming and glaring at Raphael. He responds in kind.

“What’s your name?” He looked at you.

“Y/N. Y/N L/N.” Your breathing slows slightly.

“Alright. Y/N, you said you’ve seen up to season three, right?”

“Yeah.” You nod.

“Meaning you know what’s going to happen in the next few months, right?”

You nod at the leader.

He thinks for a moment. “Then we need to stay in contact. If what you’re saying is true, your knowledge of our show could be extremely valuable to us.”

You rub your eyes with your hands, sighing, trying to cool down. “I can do that.” You put your hands down. “If nothing else, I’m more than happy to offer up emotional support. The next few months are going to be extremely physically and emotionally difficult for you guys.”

Donnie pipes up. “Do you have a place to stay?”

You pull out the piece of paper. “I have an address and key, but I don’t know my way around NYC.” You smile slightly at the unintentional rhyme. “Do you guys know where ten west fifteenth street—wait, it’s your guys’ first day.” You nod. “I forgot.”

“It’s alright.” Donatello is oddly quick saying that. “I-if you want, I—we can help you find it.”

You rub your arm, your previous indignance replaced with extreme embarrassment at your previous actions. “Nah, it’s alright,” you reassure him. “I’m sure I can find a map or something.”

“It’s really not safe to just wander around New York so late.”

You pause at that. “That is an extremely good point.” You nod. “Alright. But I owe you guys dinner or something for trusting me this far. Also,” you smile teasingly, “what you’re currently eating is legitimately revolting.”

“Amen to that.” Raphael, if nothing else, seems to have calmed down.

Mikey hopped in. “Oh, we just found this crazy awesome food—”

“I can order pizza,” you reassure him.

He punches the air excitedly. “Let’s go!”

“If you want, you can sleep on the couch for tonight,” Leonardo offers. “It’s going to get light pretty soon, and we really shouldn’t be seen.”

You shrug. “Works for me.

As you follow the teenagers down the sewer, conversating as you walk, you take a moment to reflect on all that has happened so far. A part of you, oddly enough, is almost excited by the prospect of spending time with these guys. But a stronger, darker part reminds you sweetly of the dangers you knew lay ahead.

You close your eyes. ‘I’m never going to see my family again, am I?’

How that is the least of your worries, you don’t know.

Table Of Contents

Chapter 2

[yikesharringrove]

Zoo date as requested by @xgardensinspace

Here is a link to my post about Harringrove for BLM, and here is a link to Writers/Artists Against Police Brutality

Here’s also a link to the Masterlist of Harringrove for BLM coutesy of @harringrovetrashh

Thank you all for organizing, participating, and donating. 

-

Modern au

Please ignore my rhino facts I love them so much

Steve’s encounter with + reaction to the rhino is based on me from a few years ago

-

“Wait, this is, this is where you’re taking me?”

Billy was pulling into a spot in the parking lot of the San Diego Zoo and Safari Park.

“Yeah. You’ve never been to this one, and I know how much you love a zoo.” Steve was vibrating in his seat.

This was one of the best zoos in the country.

He chucked off his seatbelt, making Billy laugh as he scrambled out of the car.

He danced around as he waited for Billy to grab the backpack he had put together for the day, before taking his wrist and dragging him to the ticket counter.

“Baby, I already got us tickets.” Billy shuffled him to the gate, jostling him past the birds at the beginning of the park. “We’re on a schedule, Pretty Boy. Gotta be there in ten.” He led Steve to the Ranger Base, walking up to the ticket window.

“Hi, we’re in the 10 am caravan group.” The woman behind the counter took their tickets, pointed them to another group a little ways away.

“Wait, are we doing one of the tours?” Steve was sitting close next to Billy, all pressed up against him. Billy kissed his forehead.

“You’ll see.”

Their tour leader began explaining a few of the rules of the caravan to them, shuffled them aboard, and set off across the park, leading to the large open African Plains.

Steve cooed at all the buffalo, taking picture after picture of any baby animals they saw, getting yelled at when he excitedly almost stood up in the moving truck.

“So, a few things about feeding the giraffes.” Billy could feel Steve begin wiggling next to him. “You each get three pieces of lettuce. Stand like this, hold the lettuce out, and let the giraffe take it from you. Do not touch the giraffe’s face or neck or anything.”

“Wait, Bill we get to, to feed them?” People had formed a line as one of the giraffes came loping slowly towards them.

“Yeah, this is like, the extra bitchin’ tour. You get to see all the animals real close, and feed ‘em and stuff.” Billy’s mom had taken him when he was little.

Steve was staring up at the giraffe, the first few people posing as the people they were with took pictures of them with the giraffe. Billy pushed him forward a little, taking about a fucking million pictures of Steve looking like a little kid, so fucking excited to feed the tall baby. Billy gave him one of his lettuce pieces so that he would keep smiling like that.

The caravan rattled on, transitioning to the Asian Savanna.

“Oh, my, God. Bill look at the rhino. Bill look.” Steve was slapping his arm. The guide laughed at him.

“You a fan of rhinos?”

“I love them. They’re my favorite.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” The cart stopped as the huge black rhino began lumbering towards them. “So, to feed Edison, our adult male Indian Black Rhino, wait for him to open his mouth, and toss a piece of apple in there for him. Everyone gets four pieces.”

Steve’s eyes were huge.

“You can touch his horn gently, but do not touch his eyes or nose. And he has the jaw power to rip your hand right off, so don’t put any fingers in his mouth.”

Steve’s fingers were tight around Billy’s wrist.

“Indian black rhinos come from northern India, Nepal, and Easter Pakistan. They have one thick horn, whereas African white rhinos have two long thin ones. Unlike most horned animals, a rhino’s horn is not made from bone. It is made from keratin, the same as your hair and fingernails, so it’s essentially like one big fingernail on it’s face.” Steve was nodding along. He knew probably every fact about the different kinds of rhinos. “White rhinos are typically larger, but the black male rhino has an average weight of nearly five thousand pounds.”

The rhino had approached the caravan. Steve was titled over the edge, staring at the thing.

“The Indian black rhino is now longer classified as endangered after the conservation efforts in the Indian subcontinent over the past two or so decades, unlike the northern white rhinos, with a population of two. Here at the San Diego Zoo and Safari Park, we are making conservation efforts in our frozen zoo, where we keep genetic samples from thousands of species. We are currently working on a way to artificially inseminate a female black rhino, or a southern white rhino with a northern white rhino fetus in order to try and grow the population that way.”

Steve was hanging onto his every fucking word.

They let everyone line up before them, Steve was too busy just fucking staring at the animal while he listened to the guide’s speech to move, apparently.

“See, this is why I got us on this one. Knew you’d lose your damn mind if you got to feed a rhino.” The guide handed Steve a few extra pieces of apple, shooting him a wink.

Billy stood behind him as he leaned over the side of the caravan, tossing apple into the rhino’s mouth, patting his horn.

“You’re the sweetest baby in the world. I love you so much. You are perfect, and amazing.” Billy stifled a laugh as he filmed Steve.

When he finally stood up he was fucking holding back tears.

“I just, I love them so much.”

“I know, Baby.” He put one arm around Steve’s shoulder on the ride back to the rest of the zoo.

Steve must’ve thanked the guide about a million times before they set off to do a loop around the park, stopped for close to twenty minutes in the petting zoo so that Steve could pet a little black goat.

Billy lost his fucking mind in the reptile house, spent at least a few minutes with his nose pressed to the glass of every terrarium.

“Stevie, fucking look at that tiny baby.”

The tiny baby in question was a twelve foot anaconda.

Steve kept his distance as Billy cooed over some scorpions, called a Goliath birdeater tarantula a beautiful boy. Steve knew his taste in animals was odd, but then They passed by the giant old tortoises, and Billy went berserk.

“They look like sweet little men. What amazing gentlemen. They are kind and wise.” He was passionately gesturing at the creatures, leaning over the rail around the enclosure.

Steve can’t fault Billy for going all soft at the desert cat nursery, as Steve was shoulder to shoulder with him as they smushed up against the glass to look at the tiny little things.

In the Australia section of the park, Billy only used an Aussie accent, would make Steve laugh because it was actually really good. He would make his voice all deep and say wallaby all drawn out, just to make Steve’s smile get bigger. Steve gasped when they saw the platypus.

“I didn’t think these were even real.”

“Are you serious?” Billy still had that fucking accent.

“Yeah. I mean, they sound so silly. They’re like, a duck and a beaver and a snake. They’re weird little hybrids with venom, Bill. Venom.” They watched the awkward little thing waddle across the field.

“It’s kinda growin’ on me.”

Steve got an amazing picture of Billy with about fourteen butterflies on him in the butterfly pavilion, And Steve got shit on by the parakeet they were trying to feed.

They hit the bird show on their way back to the entrance, would laugh and grab each other’s hands as large birds would swoop overhead.

They finally left the park after spending a minute at the gift shop, Billy surprising Steve with a soft stuffed rhino at the exact moment Steve presented him with a floppy stuffed tarantula. Billy couldn’t wait to put them on their bed.

Billy threw his arm around Steve’s shoulders as they walked to the car, the sun beginning to sink.

“That was a real good day.” Steve was slurping at the remains of an ice cream cone.

“For sure one for the books.” The tops of Billy’s shoulders on either side of his tank top were a little red from the sun.

“Thank you for bringing me. You know how much I love zoos. And getting to, getting to touch and feed a rhino, Billy that made my fucking life.” He kissed the side of Steve’s head.

“I’m glad, Sweet Thing.”

[karasuno-chaos]

Every Game (Daichi x Reader)

Before your final year at Karasuno, Daichi asks you to be at every game and cheer for the team.  You readily agree, but with so many things coming to an end, will there be time for a new development in your relationship?

Word Count: 3,465

When your best friend Kiyoko became the manager of the Karasuno Boys’ Volleyball Club, you knew it was only a matter of time before you became friends with the team.  It wasn’t like you and Kiyoko had a particularly large friend group to begin with, and when you could, you’d find an excuse to stay at school late so you could walk home with her after practice.  Often you’d bump into the players, and a friendship between you, Asahi, Daichi, and Suga naturally blossomed.

You realized something else was blossoming between you and Daichi during your second year.  You noticed yourself staying after school for the chance to chat with him as much as to walk home with Kiyoko.  You even found yourself looking forward to those brief chats.  Sometimes during lunch you’d gravitate to wherever he and the other volleyball players were discussing their schedules and plans for practice.  He was perceptive and humble.  You could see how other people listened to him and valued his advice--yourself included.

You thought about confessing your feelings many times, but you chickened out every time you came close.  You saw Daichi’s dedication to his team and volleyball, and you hated the thought that you might become a distraction to him and his dreams.  You continued to bite your tongue and valued what moments you shared with him.

Now you were preparing for your third year at Karasuno, and you were very aware that time was running out to make your feelings known.  The week before the start of the school year, you took a walk around the city to mull over your thoughts and anticipations for this final year.  You’d come to terms with your feelings for Daichi, but you hadn’t worked out whether to act on them.  Your final year of high school would be full of important finalities.  You weren’t sure now was a good time for a new romance, but it also might be your last chance to let him know how you felt.

“Y/N?”

As though summoned by your thoughts, there he was on the sidewalk in front of you.  Daichi was holding a half-empty water bottle, and a few beads of sweat glistened along his hairline.  He must have been out on a pre-dinner jog.

“Hi Daichi.”

You stood there silently for a moment, wondering what to say next.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Good.  Just out enjoying the weather.”

“It’s been a nice spring.”

“Yeah.”  You fished around for something else to talk about.  “Congrats, by the way.  Kiyoko told me the news.”

“Thanks.”  He rubbed the back of his neck as though embarrassed, but his smile was proud.  “I just hope I can lead us back to Nationals.”

“You will,” you promised.  “You’ll be a great captain.”  You honestly believed it.  You’d seen his drive and watched it inspire the same drive in his teammates.

“We’ll see.”  He twisted the cap on his water bottle.  “It would be easier with a coach.”

You hummed in sympathetic agreement.  The responsibility of preparing the team and running practices would fall to the captain.  Daichi would have a busy year.

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” you offered, “let me know, okay?”

“Hm.”  He rocked on his feet while thinking it over.  “You could come cheer for us at every game.”

“Really?”  You laughed.  “I was thinking more along the lines of doing the team’s laundry or something.”

“I’d never subject anyone to that,” Daichi chuckled.

“Thanks for being so considerate.”

“So what do you say?”

“Sure,” you grinned.  “I’ll be in the stands every game cheering for you.”

-//-

You and Kiyoko wove through clumps of people in the halls, heading towards the stairway to the next floor to find the other volleyball third years.  You hadn't seen them since the Seijoh match.  You knew they were torn up over the loss because you were, too, but you hadn't actually spoken with any of them since the game.  You wanted to know that Daichi was okay.

Kiyoko caught your arm just as you were about to round the corner and head up the stairs.

"What?" you asked, but the pause let your ears catch what hers had already heard.

"It might be better for the team to restructure around these younger players now," Daichi was saying.  You frowned.  They'd been building the team around the first years since they started.  What was he talking about?

"Daichi!"  Suga rarely raised his voice against his friend, and it made you glance at Kiyoko in surprise.  "Is that really what you want?"

You waited in the tense pause that followed, not totally sure what you were waiting for.

"I know being captain makes you responsible for thinking about these things, but I honestly don't think removing yourself is the best plan."

Your eyes widened.  Daichi was thinking about retiring already?  That didn't make sense to you.  He loved volleyball and was an essential part of the team.  Didn't he see how the younger players relied on him?  You took a step forward, but Kiyoko tightened her grip on your arm and shook her head.  As usual, she was better at reading her teammates than you were.

You waited with her, straining to hear what the others were saying.  Your heart swelled when both Suga and Asahi promised to stay on the team until they couldn't or the younger players asked them to leave.  You’d watched how hard they’d worked since their first year at Karasuno and felt the devastation when they’d lost to Seijoh.  They deserved another chance to go to nationals.  Daichi deserved to let himself try again.  You held your breath to hear what he would decide.

“I really want to play, too!”

The amount of emotion in his voice made your throat tighten.  You were relieved that he wasn’t going to give up the sport he loved due to some misplaced sense of responsibility.  You met Kiyoko’s eyes and saw a misty mix of emotions in them.  You knew she felt the same as you did.  The Seijoh match had almost torn the team apart, but they would fly higher after this.  You stepped forward, and she let you slip from her grasp.

“Daichi!” you called, pausing on the bottom step until he and the others turned to you.  “I promised to be at every game this year to cheer for you, so you’d better be on that court!”

He blinked, and you felt your cheeks heating up, but you stood your ground and waited for his response.

“Right!” he promised, face breaking into a smile though you sensed other emotions in his eyes.

“Good.”  You nodded.  Unable to think of anything else to say and desperately needing to escape before your blush deepened further, you turned and headed back down the stairs.  You didn’t meet Kiyoko’s eyes as you passed her, hearing her muffled giggles despite her best attempts to hide them.

-//-

You felt frozen, blood pounding in your ears and your vision wavering from shock.  The gym was uncomfortably quiet as every member of the audience focused on one corner of the court.  This couldn’t be happening.  It couldn’t be real.  This was simply a nightmare, and you were begging yourself to wake up.

You could see Daichi lying on the court motionless.  You'd watched him and Tanaka collide, unable to celebrate the point they had scored because you were waiting for the captain to get up.  Still he lay there.  Why was it taking so long for him to get back up?  He dove for the ball a thousand times before and always got right back up.  He shouldn't still be lying there.

Injury was always a possibility, but it was the type of possibility you could ignore until it threw itself in your face.  A jammed finger, a twisted ankle, a bruise or two...  Those were easy injuries to swallow.  Getting knocked out during a game after colliding with a teammate was the type of injury that pulled the rug out from under you.  You weren't the one lying on the court, but you found yourself struggling for breath.

Finally he moved.  He was slow, you could tell, taking his time to lift himself onto his forearms, then sit up.  Coach Ukai and Mr. Takeda were there kneeling next to him now.  The rest of the team hovered around them.  You saw Daichi start to get to his feet, and for the first time in what felt like hours, you breathed normally.  Somehow seeing him on his feet gave you hope that it had looked worse than it was.

"Yachi, you should go down there," Saeko said, her voice low from worry.

"Right."  Yachi looked bewildered and scared, exactly how you felt.  She seemed to hesitate for a moment, unsure.

"Let's go, Hitoka-chan."  You stepped forward, and that seemed to signal to the younger manager to move.  You quickly followed her down the stairs and around to the gym entrance.  You weren't sure what the policy was for friends accompanying injured players, but you couldn't wait in the stands to find out if he was going to be okay.

By the time you got to the gym entrance, Daichi and Coach Ukai were already partway down the hallway.  You glanced back at the court quickly enough to catch your best friend's eyes, to read her worry, but she nodded to you, and you nodded back.  Kiyoko would keep watch over the rest of the team.  She was entrusting Daichi to you.

"Coach!" Yachi called as the two of you jogged to catch up.

"Hey Yachi."  He didn't seem surprised that you were there, too, giving you a nod in greeting.

"Y/N," Daichi spluttered.

"Your mouth is bleeding!" you observed as he wiped some blood from his lips with a towel he was holding to his cheek.

"Try not to talk," Coach Ukai scolded.  "He lost a tooth."

"A whole tooth?" Yachi squeaked.

"It's just a tooth.  We're more worried about a possible concussion."

You pressed your lips together and didn't say anything more.  In a moment you made it to the medical room.  Someone must have notified them that you were coming, because the nurse ushered Daichi inside immediately.  Yachi ducked in after him, and Coach Ukai gave you a sympathetic look as he followed.

"This shouldn't take long," he promised before pulling the door closed.

You stood in the middle of the hallway for a moment, alone.  You could hear the background buzz of the volleyball tournament echoing around corners and down the stairs.  Warm-ups and games were continuing on around you.  It seemed impossible when you were so worried.  Your brain was replaying the moment Daichi collided with Tanaka and the tense seconds after when he didn’t move.  The fact that he was walking and coherent was good, but you’d feel better once you heard the nurse’s diagnosis.

It felt like you had been pacing the same five feet of hallway for hours when Coach Ukai emerged from the medical office.

"He's fine," he reassured you.  "There are no signs of a concussion.  The pain and bleeding inside his mouth are the current concern, but they've given him some ibuprofen.  He'll be good to go for the next game."

"He won't return to the Wakunan game?" you asked.  You knew Daichi would be itching to rejoin the team and do his part to guarantee their victory.  He trusted his team to get the job done, but he loved playing volleyball.  He'd want to fight for his spot in nationals himself.

"I'm going to let him rest for a while," the coach explained.  "He was shaken up a bit, and I'd rather have him back at full capacity than rush things."

"Right."  You nodded, though your heart squeezed in sympathy for the benched captain.

"I'm going to head back to the match, so you can go in and sit with him if you'd like."  Coach Ukai reopened the door for you, already knowing that you would take his offer.

"Thanks."  You slipped inside, not sure what exactly you would find.  Daichi was sitting on an examining table holding an ice pack to his cheek.  Yachi sat on a chair next to him looking more worried than he did.  The nurse was filling out a form at a small desk and barely glanced up when you entered.

"Y/N, you're still here."  Daichi seemed surprised.  You were glad to note that this time he didn't dribble blood, though the words were a bit clumsy in his sore and slightly numb mouth.

"Of course."  You perched in the only empty chair in the small room.  "I hear you don't have a concussion.  That's good."

"Yeah, I'm fine."  There was a hint of frustration beneath his words.  It wasn’t directed at anyone, but you understood it.  If he’d had a concussion, it would have been easier to understand why he wasn’t allowed back into the game right away.

“You were knocked out for nearly half a minute!” Yachi squeaked.  “You need to give your body time to recalibrate.”

“Yachi’s right,” you agreed.  Even though her anxiety was apparent, Yachi was holding her ground against her captain’s desire to return to the court.  You were impressed.

Daichi exhaled heavily but didn’t argue.  You caught his eye and smiled sympathetically.  The corners of his lips curled in reply before he quickly looked away.  You thought his cheeks looked a little pink, but it could have been an effect of the ice pack.

The nurse set down his pen and turned to his current patient.

“Open up.”

He used a penlight to check the inside of Daichi’s mouth, then inspected the swelling of his cheek.

“How’s the pain?”

“Manageable.  Definitely better than it was.”

“Your mouth has stopped bleeding and the swelling isn’t bad.  I’m going to let you return to the game.  But if you start feeling dizzy or nauseous at all, you need to tell your coaches and sit out.  There’s still a chance you suffered a concussion.”

“Right.  Thank you.”  Daichi was already on his feet, setting the ice pack on the examining table.

“Here’s the paperwork and some notes on suggested treatment and signs of a concussion.”  The nurse held a folder out to Yachi.  She hesitated a moment before taking it.

“Thank you!  I promise I’ll keep an eye on him!”

After another round of expressing your gratitude, the three of you left the medical office.

“They’re probably still in the third set,” Yachi mused optimistically, leading you forward at a quick pace.  You hovered half of a step behind Daichi, watching him out of the corner of your eye just in case he suddenly got dizzy.  You could see the focus on his face as he mentally prepared to return to the game.  It felt too soon to let him go back.  The horrific image of the collision and his suddenly fragile body lying on the court still loomed in your mind.  But you loved him, and he loved the game, so you wanted him to get back on the court.

“They’re still playing!” Yachi announced as she spotted black jerseys shifting past the entrance to the gym.  You all paused outside, watching the beautiful symphony of team coordination and power as Karasuno completed a successful volley.  The cheers of the crowd and energy from the game had adrenaline coursing through you already.  You’d been in this environment so many times this year, but it still excited you.

You looked at Daichi, fully expecting to see the same excitement on his face.  Instead you saw pride and sadness in his eyes as he watched his team.  Some of his focus had faded into a reflective observation.

You suddenly thought of that moment a few months ago on the stairwell.  He hadn’t been ready to leave the team then, but now he was facing the reality that soon he would have to.  One day Karasuno’s season would end, and the third years would have to leave.  Watching them play now was a preview of what they would be without him.

But it was also his legacy.  For the past three years, he had been encouraging his teammates to work for this dream, and the result was before your eyes.  You’d seen every game this year, and you could tell that they were hungry enough for the national stage that they would get there.

Without thinking, you reached for Daichi’s hand.  He looked surprised when he glanced at you, but his expression softened as he studied your face.  He squeezed your hand, and you felt a blush creeping up your neck.

“Daichi?”  Yachi asked, no doubt wondering why he hadn’t entered the gym to rejoin his team.

“On second thought, I think I’ll sit the rest of this game out.”  He dropped your hand.  “I could use the extra rest and give the pain more time to wear off.”

“Oh.”  She frowned a bit.  “Do you need more ibuprofen?”

“No no, I’m fine.”  He grinned as much as he dared without wincing.  “I’m just going to grab my jacket.  You two should get back in the stands or you’ll miss the end of the set.”

You watched him head towards the equipment room where the players were storing their bags while they played.  Your hand was warm where he had held it a moment before.  You wanted to run after him, but you felt conflicted.  He might want to be alone for a bit.

“Is he really okay?” Yachi asked quietly.  You looked at this young girl who would soon replace your best friend on the team.  You were proud of Kiyoko for preparing her for the years ahead, and you were proud of Yachi for already doing so much to take care of this team.  It would be hard to say goodbye, but the team would be in good hands.

“Don’t worry,” you said, squeezing her arm in quiet reassurance.  “I’ll check on him.  Keep an eye on the rest of the team.”

She turned back to the game while you headed to the equipment room.  You weren’t sure what you were going to say to him, but you needed to say something.  The past hour had been too emotionally tumultuous to keep all of your feelings to yourself.  It was now or never.

“Daichi?” you asked softly as you poked your head into the room.

“Y/N.”  He was pulling his arm through the sleeve of his jacket.  He looked okay.  “Come to check on me?  I feel fine.  I don’t need a babysitter,” he chuckled.

“I know.”

“Then why aren’t you watching the game and cheering for Karasuno like you promised?”

“I promised to cheer for you,” you confessed, “and you promised to be on the court.”

“I guess I’m not holding up my end of the bargain.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you asked as you stepped towards him.

“Are you?”  His eyes searched yours with concern and...something else.  Something that warmed you and made you move on instinct, wrapping your arms around him. You let him hold you for a moment without saying anything, taking comfort in the fact that he was here, alive, breathing.  You were almost too relieved to just enjoy how good his hug made you feel.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you mumbled against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I made you worry.”

You pulled back far enough to look at him, and the way he looked back at you brought a blush to your cheeks.  He chuckled.

“What?” you asked, the blush deepening.

“You’re just really cute when you talk to me.”

“Wha-,” you spluttered.  “What’s that’s supposed to mean?”

“I like you, Y/N,” he confessed, and your heart skipped a beat.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.  With everything happening this year, I just never seemed to find a good time.”

“I know,” you assured him, though inside you were giddy with happiness.  “It’s fine.  We’re fine.”

“Really?”  He blinked, and the fact that he was still surprised made you laugh.  You kissed him gently on his non-bruised cheek before pulling back towards the door.

“Really.  Now come on.  The team needs its captain back on the court.”

He was blushing deeply as he took your hand and walked back to the gym.

“Hey Daichi, can you do me a favor?” you asked as Yachi came in sight.

“Sure.”

“Keep winning so you can go to nationals, okay?  I want to keep cheering for you for as long as I can.”

He chuckled and pressed a shy and grateful kiss to your forehead.

“Thanks Y/N.  With you at every game, I’m sure we can win.”

[chosenkeepersworld]

The Curses We Inherit - Chapter 6

Original Work

Date Posted: June 30, 2021 (Tumblr)

Word count: 1, 757 words

A/N: Work is unbeta'd but I do hope you'll still enjoy reading it. Comments are always appreciated! And if you can't wait to read what happens next, this story is also up on Wattpad (under username ChosenKeeper0971) but with way more chapters, I appreciate your support there too!

Thank you so much and happy reading :) Masterlist / Part 5

Sunlight streamed through the slit between the curtains, stretching toward the bed.

Danika groaned and squeezed her eyes shut tighter when the light hit her face, whining the blonde lifted the blanket over her head as she turned on her other side. Her head was pounding and the young woman could feel all her muscles ache. Her mouth felt so dry it was like there was sand in her mouth. Danika stretched her arm but froze when she felt a warm body next to her.

Panic coursed through her and the young blonde yelped and tried to scramble off the bed, but tripped when her feet got tangled up with the sheets.

"What are you doing?" a sleepy voice asked

The young O'Brien twisted until she could face her bedmate, she knew that voice well enough seeing as she spent an entire day yesterday with her.

"What am I doing?" Danika exclaimed "What about you? Why are you in my bed?"

Jacqueline sat up and yawned "The drinks last night really did a number on you didn't they"

"What?" it was not often that Danika would drink so much that she would get a hangover and forget the events of the night before.

Jac sighed "Alright let's start from after we left Krysa's shop"

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

The sky was darkening when Jacqueline offered to drive Danika back to her aunt's house. Aileen had called her niece earlier to inform her that there was a business emergency and needed to return home. The blue eyed woman, overhearing the conversation and concerned for Danika's safety, volunteered to bring her back.

"You really don't need to bring me all the way home" Danika said, fidgeting in her seat.

Jacqueline backed out onto the main road "Absolutely not! You are my friend and I should at least make sure you get home alright"

Danika fell silent.

Friends. Majority of the blonde's life was propriety and phoney smiles, friendships were never easy or sincere. There was always a motive to someone's actions, it was exhausting to a child.

But now, there was this stranger with an easy smile and open expression offering friendship. A true and real friendship.

Maybe it was the exhaustion or the overwhelming feeling of loneliness that's been present since her childhood but Danika could only feel something light settle in her chest. She quieted, smiling in her seat as her new friend drove on.

They arrived at Aileen's home by dinner to which the older O'Brien invited Jac to, insisting all the while that the brunette should have something in her stomach before she went home. With that Aileen left them to rest and wash up before the meal, Jac was too stunned to make any protest.

The events of the day had been exhausting and Danika was in need of a good wine on days like this.

Much to the youngest O'Brien's relief her aunt felt the same way, or just took a look at her niece's face and thought she could use a drink.

Once the wine was poured Danika snatched up the glass and brought it closer to her face, sniffed delicately at the pale lemon colored drink then sipped. Danika closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure.

At the sound Jac and Aileen exchanged smiles before drinking the wine from their glasses.

Time and wine flowed as the moon rose higher and higher in the sky. The youngest O'Brien resisted, insisting on drinking more, trying her hardest to drown her emotions.

It wasn't difficult getting the glass and the fourth bottle of wine away from the drunken girl but Jacqueline, just as drunk or arguably more, had difficulty moving her limbs properly.

The two burst into Danika's bedroom with Aileen behind them, tipsy but still aware enough to get two young women into bed before collapsing into her own.

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

It was officially day three of the young heiress' trip but she still had no leads and she was losing time. Danika was restless, during breakfast she was constantly fidgeting, playing with her food and refilling her water every time she took a small sip.

"Do you want me to talk to her or do you want to do it?" Jac whispered

Aileen sighed "I'll talk to her. I have an idea on what might be bothering her."

As the older woman stood up a ringing could be heard from from the entrance. "I'll get it" Jacqueline hopped out from her seat and headed to the front door, allowing the O'Brien women to have some privacy.

Danika lifted her head when she heard the taller girl speak but Jacqueline was already out of the room.

Silently, Aileen went over to her niece and set down two sets of cups and a steaming pot of tea.

Aileen poured the tea in both cups and pushed one toward the younger woman.

"Whenever I was feeling...off, my mother could always tell and would make tea to comfort me" she lifted the cup to sip at the hot drink "After dinner, and after you went up to your room, Jacqueline and I had a few drinks and she mentioned that you're looking for a 'very fancy necklace'"

Danika froze, her eyes were wide as she stared up at her aunt's face. The younger O'Brien had always kept her reasons for coming to the island to herself. Danika knew that the reason would be considered ridiculous to a lot of people.

"My mother told me the story too, Mo stoirín" Aileen reminded her gently. "She told the story every chance she could, during bedtime, dinners, family gatherings. It's impossible to forget. A prince makes a choice, the woman who loves him dies because of those choices and a friend who loved her curses him and his descendants' loved ones to die, forcing his entire line to feel the same way she did. Now that I think about it, it is not an appropriate story for children" she said thoughtfully, a sad, far away look entered her eyes.

Danika looked away, turning to watch the trees sway in the light breeze. She had forgotten that it wasn't just her who had lost someone important, everyone in her father's family had lost someone too. Her mind drifted back to Sean and Cara starting their own family and shivered.

The young woman turned back to her aunt "Do you believe it?"

Aileen took a long sip of her tea "Why does my opinion matter?"

"Don't you think I'm being ridiculous? Still believing in fairy tales after all these years" Danika asked

Aileen sighed "There are times when I do believe and there are times when I don't, but my opinion shouldn't matter. What's important is what this little quest means for you. Will you finally find peace after everything?"

Danika fell silent again, there were still things she had to think about.

Loud footsteps could be heard racing down the hallway and Jacqueline was back, panting "Hey, uh Danika you need to come with us right now. We might find a potential lead to that fancy necklace you're looking for"

The blonde could only blink "We?"

Outside, Danika was surprised to find Krysanthe standing by Jacqueline's car, the short blonde smiled shyly at the two as they came closer.

"Good morning Danika." she greeted "I hope you're well this morning"

"I'm..." Danika paused, trying to find the right word "fine-ish" she then frowned "Why don't you come inside to talk. Jac said you had a lead"

"Actually, I need you to come with me. The lead is back at the Antique Shop"

A little later the trio arrived at the store. Krysanthe quickly unlocked the door and went in, Jacqueline and Danika followed her inside.

The store was actually quite large inside, the first thing people would see upon entering the establishment was the counter and register, the rest of the store were the different items displayed for customers. There were two other doors in the store, one on the other side of the store and one behind the counter.

"What made you change your mind?" Danika asked taking in the contents of the store, there were a variety of items, and while the young heiress couldn't be sure of the details she could tell by the quality of some items that they should be more expensive than the price displayed.

"Jacqueline forwarded a picture of the necklace and honestly I have personal interest in the necklace." Krysanthe admitted "The necklace has been in this shop since I was a child, when I saw it something just came over me. I kept going back to look at it whenever I could even though I was prohibited from going anywhere near it.

"One day the owner of the store found me really close to touching it and essentially locked me out of the store for almost a week. By the time she let me back in here, the necklace was gone." Krysanthe continued as she went behind the counter to unlock the door behind it.

"Follow me." Krysanthe took a step forward before stopping to face Jacqueline.

"Touch. Nothing." the shorter girl said with a hard glare.

Jacqueline gasped dramatically, putting her hand on her chest "How dare you assume I would cause any damage just by touching-"

Krysanthe raised an eyebrow "You caused almost eighteen thousand euros worth of damages in my flower shop just by touching the display"

Pink stained the brunette's cheeks, she laughed sheepishly "Oh right, I forgot about that"

Behind the counter was a small office, the room itself had minimal decor but there was a desk at the center of the room with four metal cabinets behind it. On the desk was a computer and a few personal items.

Krysanthe made quick work going through the drawers of the cabinet before pulling out a folder, she sifted through the papers before pulling one from the pile.

"Alright, so there was a meeting set up earlier this month for the necklace, the buyer came and they discussed the terms of the sale" Krysanthe's face fell as she read through the page

"Does that mean we can't get it now?"

The shorter woman flipped through the pages and her face brightened "The buyer wanted the necklace for an auction" the dark blonde grinned "We still have a chance"

Danika moved closer, peeking over the woman's shoulder "When's the auction?"

"It's..." her green eyes scanned the paper, her eyes widened and her face twisted in distress "Three days from now" Taglist: @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @dustylovelyrun @woodhousejay

[pernatius]

Lost in Space Part 9: Ch 4

Previous

Summary: Syco and the unnamed Space Explorer question their choices.

Lost in Space on Tumblr

Lost in Space on ao3

“Human,” he exclaimed. A book, which is angled against the wall he tried hiding behind, began to wobble. It shook as if an earthquake had suddenly slammed against the library. Then, it flew into his hand. Its spine is the first to make contact. Its cover and back come next with the gripping of his hand. Fearful one moment and as irritated as the Lord in the next, he pulls his hand back. He threw the book, but it was halted from its destination, my face, with the Lord’s dexterity. Their contact sounded like Cala rose from the grave and made his return by crashing through the library’s one window, breaking the metal bars encasing it, and into the library itself. Cracks all around, a massive crater, and the rise and eventual fall of the millions of books and us. Because of how close I am to the handrail, I would fall into the hole and instantly be deleted from there if the library did not just collapse in on itself before then. 

“My intentions are to understand and bring understanding. I usually see no point in violence. It almost always turns out to be a waste of my time. That being said, if I have to discipline, then I will do so. Do not forget you are before a Lord.”

He bows and continues with, “I-I...forgot my place. Forgive me, Lord.”

“Most importantly, you are before me. Compared to the other Lords, I am the least patient. Do not test that. So, speak unless spoken to and do no more. How many of you are out there fighting against the rebellion?”

“Currently, a little more than four hundred, Lord.”

“Interesting. I will be blunt with the following because I want this done as soon as possible. It is rare for me to find a day like this one. The Lords have long comprehended what is happening. They know of your efforts, and if they knew you were here, they would thank you. That is why I am going to hand you this book.” One golden mist engulfing their hand later, and a book, far thicker than the many others I have glimpsed, lays flat on the hand. The Lord hands it to, at first, the hesitant anti-rebellion member who nearly drops it because of its weight. “This should be all you need to know. Now off with you.”

He reads the title and shakes with excitement. His hands turn page after page before the Lord repeats themselves. He scampers away but glares in my direction before leaving.

“The Lords have grown lazy. True, they have slacked before, but now it has become completely unacceptable. After thousands of years, they still believe mortals are primitive. This is why they have not done anything to quell the anarchists but instead use the same things they claim are beneath them to do their work. Their hands would not get dirty, sure, but it would send the wrong message. It will give people a reason to question.”

“Then.” I gulp. I gulp twice. I think of words. I make a sentence or two in my head. I think of things to say, but nothing comes out. Was the Lord's whole body glowing? They looked ironically heavenly. “Why did you let them go with that book?”

“Why did I help further the agenda of something I so clearly detest? Well, one reason is that I want to give them what they want. I want them to feel a moment of success, but I also want them to realize the consequences of their actions. They will beg for my forgiveness. Hopefully, finally, respect me after. The next I will not say, but I can say the last is, funny enough, one of their reasons. This will be interesting.

“Now, I no longer need your presence. Be off as well.”

Up above, three moons lit up the night sky. I bathe in their light. They shine on the dusty books around me as well. They sparkle. They look fantastical, magical. I would look heavenly if this body was not made from binary code. If I was, I would not feel heavenly. Heaven. Hell. Two different places, both used to explain what happens after death. The good go to Heaven, and the bad go to Hell. They help explain the universe to many, but it just leaves more questions to be asked. Like why should we be judged for things He could have prevented? Why must we suffer for caring about the wrong things?

Four hundred. There are four hundred just like Sakhra’s ex-brother. There is also the rebellion and what Sakhra has in store. The war continues from beyond that window. Casualties, thousands of them. Trillions are in the middle of it as they have yet to choose their side. I am not sure what to make of the Lord perched up and walking along the slender handrail that is barely the width of one of his feet. Essentially a war on all sides, one that I instigated. I started this, but I am not sure how to end it. 

The Lord, now the biggest person I know, danced along the handrail. They spun, raised one of their legs, and jumped. Lots of leg movements. They pranced. They were delicate, even more, delicate from the long-gone cloaked man. A beautiful show, but it is a warning. They are balanced, and I am not.

I did not know I dozed off. I woke up to Saamuki softly calling out to me and blinking my eyes open to her waving her blurry hand across my face. I said something, but I think it came out as a mumble, stutter, and a ramble all at once because she takes a moment to respond with, “I finally found what I was looking for. I found this secret room first, and then bam, I found this. Would you want to take a look?”

“Sure,” I slurred out. 

It is still night, but only one moon lit up the night sky. I must have been asleep for a while, but I am still sleepy. I nearly dropped the heavy book she handed to me. We both fumble with it until I get a grip on it. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Whoopsie. I think we should head back in case I get butterfingers again, and the book actually drops this time.”

“Agreed.”

That woke me up. Back on the ship with the book remaining in my hand, I tighten my grip on it. Should I tell the others that I met one of the Lords? Should I tell Syco? I thought about it until Saamuki brought my attention to the absent Shiitakee. He is nowhere in the room. 

Both of us think it is unusual, but it is Saamuki that voices our concern. “Weird,” she turns to me, “Do you know where he could have possibly gone?”

I am about to reply, but I am cut off by the shout of two distinct voices that seem to be coming from the end of the hallway. We do not hesitate to follow the sounds. 

“You bastard,” Syco shouted. Who he is shouting at is unclear, as his and a handful of crewmates’ backs are facing towards us. The two of us, Saamuki and I, squeeze past them. Most do not mind. The second-in-command looks at us with a frown. We ignore and try to look over Syco’s massive figure. 

Shiitakee, who is the one being shouted at and has acquired a black eye in the time we separated, replies with, “Syco, I have known you since the beginning. We know each other better than anyone else, so you have to know what I am doing is for you. You are not well. You keep making rash decisions.”

“You dare to use our friendship right here, right now, after what you have done? How long have you been plotting against me?“ His black-eyed friend looks away. Ex-friend now? Spy, obviously. “I said how long, Shiitakee. How long?”

“Six months ago when your predecessor was killed. Supposedly, he was,” the black-eyed spy blurted out.

“And what do you mean by that last statement?” 

“I know what you are doing to him. It is sick, Syco. Sick! You need help. You know I am right. You had a feeling I would do this because you let her join your little meeting. I have known you far longer than her, but you have never let me come with you. I should not be surprised, considering you never listen to me. You fear for my advisement.” Syco's ex-friend grew heartbroken. “Listen, I wished this did not have to come to this. At first, for some time, I did not want to do this.”

Interjecting, I asked, “What are you two talking about? What happened?”

Syco, still eyeing Shiitakee, ignores my question. Instead, it is his second-in-command that elaborates, “Commander Syco found out Shiitakee has been backstabbing him. Shiitakee has been sending information to our enemies about the commander's plans for years. Recently, which is how Commander Syco found out, he sent the schematics of our ship.”

“Tell me why I should not send you out an airlock?”

“Because I would survive.”

“I do not care whether you do or not. I just want you gone, far away from me, and I want you to suffer. Grab him and send him out the closest airlock.”

Those around us, Tauvoxes besides Syco and his second-in-command, head towards Shiitakee. Shiitakee, determined, with a fighting spirit, refuses to be captured so easily. He dodges their reaching arms, and with both of his hands, he punches. Two stumble back, but two come forward to confront him. They swing, which Shiitakee dodges by lowering, but the two kick in unison. Their knees smash his face. His back hits the wall, and he gets less than a second to relax before the two come at him with their horns. They pierce into him. I squirm at this, and I meet Saamuki’s eyes. He spits out blood before several holes appear on his cap. They open wide. 

“Fools, get out of the way,” Syco told his men, but it is much too late before they realize it. The gas, this time red, quickly spreads around them, causing the two Tauvoxes to immediately pluck their horns out as they stumble away and cough. One of them pukes. The two in the back try to crawl away, but it is soon too late for them too. They cough as the rest of us try to get away. We do, but Shiitakee flees. 

While Shiitakee can go one way, we are forced to take the other. It was a longer route, though, so we met him almost too late. He has his hands on an escape pod, but he does not know how to use it. If he did, he would have been gone by now. 

“Shiitakee, open this door right now! Stop being a coward and face me.” He can not hear Syco even as Syco pounds his fists on the escape room’s door, but I think he sensed a few eyes on him because he turns away from the pod and jumps. The spy frantically presses buttons. When that fails to work, tries to move the pod by pushing it towards an airlock. Saamuki and I are bystanders, not sure of what to do. The second-in-command does not join this role as he gets out a screen and proceeds to try to unlock the door. It is after the third attempt that Syco slams himself against the door, hoping to break it down. Right when he is about to hit the door for the fifth time, the other Tauvox unlocks the door. Syco tumbles to the floor, which the smaller of the two apologizes for, but Syco ignores and presses towards his ex-friend. He gets a punch on Shiitakee, and when he is going for a second, the vegetation binds his hands together. They rapidly grow, lengthening. It creates a shield, protecting him from the punch, but it does not protect him from Syco striking above him. A headbutt from Syco towards Shiitakee’s cap and the mushroom humanoid falls to the ground. 

[tsthrace]

White Knuckles

Awhile back, I asked y’all to send me a song so I could take its energy, lyrics, and/or feeling and write you a 1,000-word Clexa fic.

This one shot meandered way beyond 1,000 words. It’s based on White Knuckles by Tegan and Sara, as requested by @damiana-atx.

Angsty academia AU. No content warnings except for some swearing.

You can also find it on ao3.

-----------------------------

“Fuck, this is good,” Clarke said aloud to no one as she tossed the journal on the table. She leaned back in her chair. Godlessness Centered: Negotiating Queerness in The Left Hand of Darkness by Alexandria J. Woods, PhD. When Clarke had first picked up the journal, she scoffed. The Left Hand of Darkness? Really? And queerness? How overdone.

But it was brilliant. A discourse on Le Guin’s own spirituality and how it defied casual dualities.

I should have thought of that.

She looked at her watch. Twenty minutes.

---

Lexa smoothed the lapels on her blazer, though they were already perfectly flat. She gazed at herself in the hotel mirror, staring at the buttons on her shirt. She had a choice to make—the choice of the one awkward button. Button it, and she would seem, well, buttoned-up, uptight. But unbuttoned, it was a bit...revealing. There was no middle ground.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and took a breath. Then buttoned the button.

---

They met in Bloomington, Indiana. All the sci fi literature conferences seemed to be in random small cities in the Midwest. They were strange events. Mostly men in khaki and tweed carrying beat-up leather satchels, experts on Vonnegut and Wells (H.G., that is). But there was also the overt geek element. Undergrad boys carrying frayed copies of Asimov and Gaiman, their laptops covered in Star Trek and My Little Pony stickers, and the occasional girl wearing a Strong Female Character t-shirt.

Then there was Lexa, sharp in a plain black cashmere sweater and grey herringbone slacks, her glasses suggesting both intelligence and the ability to break you. The geeks followed her but kept an admiring distance.

Clarke, for some reason, seemed more approachable. As she sipped her gin and tonic at the hotel bar, the kids (as she called college students) would creep up to her, their eyes down.

“Dr. Griffin?” they’d ask.

“Call me Clarke,” she’d say, smiling.

“I just had some questions on your takedown of the Darkover series.”

Clarke would always give them about twenty minutes then politely end the conversation, turning back to her drink.

She had had three such conversations when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Clarke didn’t mind the attention, but she was getting tired. She spun around, ready to dismiss herself.

“Dr. Griffin.” Lexa stood above her.

“Dr. Woods,” Clarke replied, nodding politely. She had read all of Lexa’s work. She had to. They were two of the only feminist sci fi lit scholars who were regularly publishing. But they’d never actually met.

“I don’t really prefer the term ‘doctor.’” Lexa said, looking just past Clarke. “It’s a little....” She didn’t finish her thought. After a moment she tilted her head. “Do you really think we should stop reading Bradley because of her scandal?”

Clarke put her drink down. “Scandal is kind of an understatement. And I didn’t say we should stop. I just said it’s hard.”

Without invitation, Lexa sat down at Clarke’s table. “If we bring every artist’s personal life into how we engage with their work, we probably won’t be able to enjoy anything.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “I never took you for a modernist.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That sometimes shitty people create amazing art.” Lexa’s eyes lit up with her smile, like she was issuing a friendly challenge.

“Are you flirting with me?” Clarke returned her version of the same smile.

Lexa sat back and shrugged. She took a sip of her martini.

---

A few hours later, Clarke was sprawled across Lexa’s bed looking up, her hair in tangles across the pillow, a corner of the sheet pulled over her midsection. Lexa was curled up next to her, sweaty and wondering what just happened. She took a few breaths, looking for words. She squinted to herself, couldn’t think of anything to say. She felt Clarke shuffle a bit and prepared for the awkward banter that would come when they’d get up to look for their clothes.

“Do you believe in God?” Clarke asked instead. She didn’t get up.

“Pardon?”

“Do you believe in God?” Her tone was so casual.

“I...I don’t know.” Lexa looked up at the ceiling. She suddenly felt cold and reached down for a blanket. “Why do you ask?”

“I think I do,” Clarke said, not answering the question.

“Why?”

“I just look around this world, and it seems pretty incredible to me. Like it wasn’t an accident. Someone had to have created all this. Created us. Then made us creators.” Clarke shook her head and looked past Lexa. “It all seems like such a miracle.”

“Are you a Christian?” Lexa felt her face crumple.

Clarke laughed. “I don’t know. I do like the idea of the trinity.”

“When I grew up, my parents took me to one of those born again churches.” Lexa looked down. “It was mostly Jesus. I mean, I know what the trinity is, but…” Why was she telling her this?

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Clarke shook her head. “Not like God as some guy who makes you love him or else you burn in hell. That’s bullshit.”

Lexa squinted.

“The trinity. It’s like a dance between these three ways God reveals herself.” Clarke smiled. “It’s beautiful actually.” She looked at Lexa. “Did you ever read A Wrinkle in Time?”

Lexa side-eyed her. “Clarke, I’m a sci fi scholar.”

“Okay, so there’s Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which…”

They stayed up the rest of the night, moving from L’Engle to Shelley to Jemisin and the spiritual worlds of their stories. Evil and suffering, goodness and hope. Retribution, sacrifice, and justice. Beauty and joy. Mouth to neck, hands to curves, skin to skin.

By dawn, Lexa had found God.

---

Lexa went back to UC Irvine and Clarke returned to her adjunct job at Georgetown, but they emailed constantly. Long, meandering messages about particular chapters of The Stone Sky and Spinning Silver. Clarke sent her Marilynne Robinson essays, and Lexa responded with questions. Together, they laid theologies over imagined worlds, mapped them out and connected them to other imagined worlds. They took down Ender’s Game, built up The Hainish Cycle, and even let themselves dabble in Stardust, which they both had to admit they secretly admired. Back and forth, tens of thousands of words over the course of months. They only talked on the phone a few times, but the emails were constant.

Not long into their messages, Clarke had mentioned how her father had died when she was young. Lexa hinted at being on her own at age 16. These details were wrapped in blankets of analysis and metaphor, the theological undercurrents of the imagined worlds they studied, the anthropology of beings who only existed on pages and in minds.

They made plans to meet in Cleveland to present together at a lit crit conference. A week before, Lexa bailed. “Sorry,” the text said. “An emergency came up.”

“Everything okay?” Clarke responded.

Nothing.

The conference was rough. Clarke knew it would be, but she thought she’d have Lexa’s powerful presence demanding attention. The lit crit crowd all secretly loved what they called “genre” fiction—sci fi and fantasy—but they publicly derided it as “unserious” or “not literary.” She held her own, but it wasn’t fun.

She texted Lexa when she got back to her hotel room. “Wish you had been here. Same straight white male bullshit as usual.”

Silence.

“Did I say something wrong?” Clarke texted a few days later. At that point, though, she knew Lexa was gone.

A heaviness set in on her. Clarke reread their messages looking for hints, but Lexa’s words seemed wide open, even joyful. What happened?

She immersed herself in a chapter she was writing for a textbook on book fandoms and lecturing on feminism and postmodernism in Harry Potter—not her favorite topic, but it was a popular course. She had almost let herself forget about Lexa when, six months later, she was flipping through Foundation: The Journal of Science Fiction and saw her byline in the table of contents. Justice & Joy: The God Revealed in the Feminist Imagination. By Alexandria J. Woods, PhD.

Clarke turned to page 137 and ran her eyes down the columns. She bit her lip. The essay was essentially a catalog of their emails, one idea bridged skillfully to another by Lexa’s pointed and lucid prose. But they weren’t just Lexa’s ideas. They weren’t just Clarke’s, either, but a stream of their thoughts flowing together like a river. It was beautifully done.

Clarke didn’t notice that her hands were balled into fists until she felt her nails cutting into the skin. She opened her laptop and pulled up the messages. Lexa had been careful to rephrase Clarke’s words, but it was all there, even with citations of Marilynne Robinson. The Death of Adam.

Clarke pounded out an email. How dare you...couldn’t even ask for me to be a coauthor...you hadn’t even thought about these things until you met me. She knew Lexa wouldn’t see it. She probably had blocked her address. She didn’t bother hitting send.

Her face fell into her hands. She remembered that night in San Diego. Lexa’s smile—that curiosity despite herself. The way her hands traced the skin over Clarke’s side.

That woman wouldn’t have done this. But there it was. Twenty-six pages of shared conversation now claimed for Lexa only.

---

Clarke’s department was buzzing about it the next day. The religious studies chair was also a huge geek who kept up with Foundation, and he had been blown away by how seamlessly interdisciplinary the article was. “I hadn’t thought to connect the Christian trinity and A Wrinkle in Time, but it’s really so obvious when you think about it.”

Clarke seethed. She thought about printing up the emails, sending them to Foundation and the UC Irvine Disciplinary Committee, but something stopped her. Allegations of plagiarism would ruin Lexa’s career as a scholar. And was it really plagiarism? Clarke wanted to be sure, but she wasn’t.

So she wrote instead. A deep and cutting rebuttal highlighting where Alexandria J. Woods’ religious arguments were rudimentary at best, illustrating how shallow her connections were, and then plunging further, mining Catherine Keller and other theologians for an even deeper exploration of the worlds of Butler and Clarke (Arthur C., that is). Foundation published her essay the next quarter. Lexa answered, bringing in Buddhism and Humanism. A spotlight grew around their debate, so they continued writing—back and forth between literary, cultural, and religious journals. WIRED magazine picked up the story: Feuding Feminists Shifting the Sci Fi Landscape.

That’s when the invites started rolling in. A conference on spirituality and pop culture invited them to speak on a panel together, but Clarke refused. She couldn’t bear to see Lexa in person. Instead, she accepted an invitation to lecture at NYU while Lexa spoke at Cal.

Clarke’s classes filled with long waitlists every semester, her success intertwined with Lexa’s and their endless intellectual feud. They both thrived. Lexa’s ideas sharpened Clarke’s, and Clarke’s sharpened Lexa’s. She couldn’t admit it, but she needed Lexa as much as she despised her.

---

Lexa was in her office when the call came.

“Dr. Woods?” A male voice.

“It’s Professor Woods.”

“Excuse me, Professor Woods,” he corrected himself. “This is Dr. William Porter at Georgetown. The chair of the Department of English.”

Lexa felt something jump in her chest. “Good morning.”

“I’m calling because a very generous donor has recently endowed a tenure-track professorship here specifically for women in science fiction studies.”

“You’re kidding me.” it felt like a prank, and a mean one at that. Lexa had never heard of such a thing.

“Uh, no.” Dr. Porter seemed thrown off. “We’re inviting only a few people to apply, and you’re on our short list. Is this something you’d be interested in?”

They hung up with lingering plans to arrange flights and meetings.

Lexa sat for a few minutes, her fingers tapping idly on her closed laptop. Clarke would be one of the other candidates—and maybe the only other candidate—she was sure. She looked down and shook her head, thinking back to that day when she made the worst decision of her life.

She had printed out some of the emails she had sent Clarke to reference them against some short stories when the dean knocked on her door. He noticed a copy of L’Engle’s Walking on Water open on her desk.

“What’s that about?” he asked.

“Uh, just a side project I’m working on.” Her face burned with the exposure of her new interest in religious studies.

“Mind if I look?” he asked, picking up one of the print-outs before she could answer.

She bit her lip as he read, his forehead creasing.

After a few minutes, he looked up. “Professor Woods, this is good stuff.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “Thank you. I’ve been working with Professor Griffin at Georgetown—”

“But these are your words, right?”

“Yeah, what you’re holding. That’s mine.”

“You need to publish this. It could be really good for you and the department.”

“Yeah, Professor Griffin and I—”

“Lexa,” he said in that kind but firm I’m-A-Man-In-Charge voice, “there’s a distinction to be made between attribution and inspiration. I’m inspired every day by the ocean, by James Joyce.” Lexa hid her contempt. Scholars who pretended to understand Joyce were pretentious liars. “But I’m not citing them.”

“Dr. Titus.” Her voice was firm. “I couldn’t have written that without Professor Griffin.”

“Professor Woods.” He looked her straight in the eye. “This department doesn’t need a co-authored paper with someone from Georgetown. We need a win.” He tapped the paper. “These are your words. Are they the product of a broader conversation? Sure, but what isn’t?” He looked out the window at the budding trees. “We took a chance on your genre work. And I’m seeing some good stuff. But I need to see more if we’re going to keep you on.”

Lexa looked past Dr. Titus and took in a silent breath. Jobs in her specialty was rare. UC Irvine had invested more than most schools to create a department where someone like her could thrive. She nodded.

“Get me an abstract and outline next week,” the dean said. “The managing editor at Foundation is a former student.”

When he left, she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She would need to cancel her panel with Clarke in Cleveland. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to look at her again.

---

Clarke let out a deep breath as she stepped into the crisp fall air. It had been a long day of interviews. She stopped on the stairs. She knew Lexa was close by. She had to be. They were the two people in the country most qualified for the job. She’d been on these interview panels before. Two, sometimes three, a day, candidates rotating between deans and panels. Clarke was surprised she hadn’t seen her yet.

She shook her head. Maybe she should have said something about that first paper. The job would be hers if she had. But would she even be considered without that paper? It had launched her career. Her public debate with Alexandria J. Woods, PhD, got her lectures around the country, a longform article in The Atlantic, and the keynote spot at conferences that two years ago would have never taken her seriously. Their refusal to appear together added to their mystique. Geeks and academics alike lined up on reddit and twitter to take sides.

Her success was bound to Lexa’s, two sides of the same double helix.

She bundled a scarf around her neck. It didn’t matter where Lexa was. Clarke loved the work she did, and she had rocked the interviews. But she was tired. It was time for a drink. She pulled out her phone to call a Lyft. Something about the fading purple sky changed her mind, though, and she decided to walk.

The cobblestones on O Street felt somehow comforting under her feet. Solid. Old. Not going anywhere. She thought about calling Dr. Reyes from the engineering department to join her—Raven was always good for either a loud night of much alcohol or a quiet night of raw, stinging truth—the latter of which was why Clarke had never told her all that had happened with Lexa. She shook her head. Maybe she just needed some gin and silence.

She sat at the bar at L’Annexe and ordered a Tom Collins. Bartenders always smiled curiously at her when she ordered one. Funny, you don’t look like a 75 year-old man to me. She’d smile back impatiently. Just make my damn drink. When the drink arrived, she took a sip and let out a deep breath as the gin started to glow through her. No one can fuck up a Tom Collins. It was simple and always felt good and sharp and bright going down.

She was halfway through her drink when a man sat next to her and ordered a scotch. Clarke glanced at his plaid scarf, wool sweater, and worn leather shoulder bag. Definitely a TA. He noticed her looking at him and smiled.

“I’ve seen you,” he said. “You teach that Harry Potter course.”

Clarke’s stifled a sigh. “That’s me.” She tilted her head back and drank the rest of her Tom Collins in one swig.

“Can I get you another?”

“No,” she said, picking up her bag. She made eye contact with the bartender. “I need to pay.”

“Whoa,” the man in the scarf said, raising his hands. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

“And I was just trying to be alone.” Clarke nodded towards the guy sitting on the other side of him. “Maybe you can be nice to him.” She dropped some cash on the check that had arrived and made her way to the door.

It was darker outside than when she’d arrived. And colder. She buttoned her wool coat and started making her way down Pennsylvania Ave. towards the bus stop.

---

Lexa was sipping a Syrah at a window table when she saw Clarke walk by outside. She took in a breath, remembering how Clarke’s eyes got soft when she asked, “Do you believe in God?” She shook her head. She could just let her keep going, and they could go on avoiding each other forever. Unless Lexa got the job.

Shit.

She grabbed her coat, leaving a $20 under her mostly full glass. By the time Lexa got out the door, Clarke was halfway down the block, almost lost in a crowd of loud students. Lexa didn’t button her coat, and it billowed out as she jogged down the street.

“Clarke!” she shouted as she got closer. She saw Clarke stop, her back straighten and stiffen. She didn’t turn around.

---

Clarke wanted to be angry. When she heard that voice, she wanted to spin on her heel and unleash a cascade of expletives that would make the passersby uncomfortable. She not only wanted Lexa to hear the words traitor, cheat, betrayed, she wanted her to feel the force of them rip through her body like a landmine.

But she froze. When she heard that voice, she felt tears sting at the corner of her eyes. She felt a slow storm in her chest, all rain and no lighting. She closed her eyes. She wanted to be angry, but all she felt was heaviness. She held her breath and waited.

When she opened her eyes, Lexa was in front of her, her eyes uncertain and her arms folded in front of her. “Hey…” she said after a few moments.

Clarke bit into her lip, hoping not to draw blood. She looked up, her blue eyes blazing, about to spark. She could tell Lexa was waiting for her to say something, so she stayed silent.

Lexa nodded. “I’m so sorry, Clarke.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Clarke’s eyes locked on Lexa’s, but she refused to respond.

“I don’t expect you to understand...” Lexa trailed off. “It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.” She looked past Clarke to a stoplight turning from yellow to red.

Lexa’s open coat revealed a gray plaid suit, smart and uncompromising, the top button studiously and chastely buttoned. So she had interviewed today. In this moment, though, it all felt wrong. Lexa seemed so small to Clarke. She wasn’t the woman she met at the hotel that night, but she also wasn’t the woman who submitted that article. This woman was drawn in on herself, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. Clarke remained silent.

Lexa sucked in her lips. “I know you probably hate me, and I get it.” She looked down. “I hate me, too.”

“No.” Clarke’s voice was deep and quiet. “You don’t get to do that.” She felt confused when she saw a shadow of relief cross Lexa’s face.

“You’re right,” Lexa said. “That’s not fair.” She took a long, deep breath and let it out. “I’m going to tell them.” She looked Clarke in the eye. “I’m going to tell Georgetown, and I’m going to tell Foundation. I’ll—”

“Don’t.” Clarke cut her off. “It’s done.”

“But—”

“Fuck you, Lexa.” She barely looked at her as pushed past, a slow fire burning through her as she walked briskly towards Dupont Square.

---

Lexa was freezing by the time she got back to her hotel room. She had stood on the sidewalk for a long time, watching Clarke get smaller and smaller. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Forgiveness? Punishment? Clarke had given her neither, which is what she knew she deserved.

She had never written a paper more carefully, never thought about the ideas so closely, never danced so delicately around sentence structure and tense. In a twisted way, she was proud of it. It was sophisticated but accessible, and completely defensible. Even if Clarke had tried to accuse her, she was sure she would have won.

She shook her head sharply. That’s not who I am. But it was. She was intelligent and ambitious and ready for a breakthrough. She knew Titus had been threatening her, but she also knew that what she had been writing with Clarke was good. Really good. She had never felt so alive in her work as when she was in conversation with Clarke. No one had ever challenged or inspired her like that. Even after that first paper, her debates with Clarke from essay to essay were electric, almost feverish. Clarke tapped something in her that was insatiable.

She picked up her laptop and opened some of the first emails she and Clarke had exchanged after Bloomington. She couldn’t help but smile. There had been a giddiness to them, this breathless excitement to constantly share new discoveries, interesting connections. They had sent seven, sometimes eight, messages a day. Thousands of words.

And that night in Bloomington.

She closed the laptop. Was it worth it? For months, Lexa had tried to convince herself that it had just been one night, that she didn’t even really know Clarke. When she saw Clarke on that sidewalk tonight, though, she knew that was all bullshit.

They had been falling for each other the best way they knew how. Lexa had betrayed all of it.

—-

Lexa was sitting on the floor outside Clarke’s office when she arrived the next morning.

Clarke sighed. “Seriously?” She didn’t look at her as she slid her key in the lock. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a meeting to cancel.” Lexa shrugged, not getting up.

Clarke pushed her door open. “I don’t have anything else to say to you, Dr. Woods.”

“I withdrew my name.”

Clarke froze. “Why?” Clarke noticed jeans and a sweater under Lexa’s coat. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. She was serious.

“You know why.”

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Lexa said steadily as she stood up. The smallness from the night before was gone. She stood tall, her shoulders thrown back. “I don’t know who else they’re interviewing, but I’m not your competition anymore.” She swallowed and looked into Clarke’s eyes. “I don’t want to be your competition anymore.”

Clarke let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She wanted to say, Good luck, Dr. Woods, and close the door behind her, but instead she felt herself pushing the door open, heard herself saying, “Come in.”

Lexa bit her lip. “You sure?”

Clarke nodded and ushered her in. The door clicked as it closed behind them. Clarke set her bag down and sat at her desk. She shook her head, frustrated. “I just want to hate you. That’s all. I want to tell you to fuck off, and I want to go on with my life.”

Lexa sat in the reading chair in the corner of Clarke’s office. She nodded, looking down at her hands. “Then why don’t you?”

Clarke huffed, a cynical laugh. “I can’t get away. You’re everywhere.” She threw up her hands. “I saw you on the fucking New Yorker site this morning. How did you land that?” A rhetorical question. “I assign your essays for my classes. I have to. I hate how good you are.”

“You’re good, too, Clarke,” Lexa said quietly. She looked up. “Very good. I keep researching and writing because you keep responding.”

Clarke closed her eyes. She knew it was the same for her, but she didn’t want to say it. Finally she looked up. “Why did you do it?”

Lexa looked past her at Clarke’s diplomas on the wall. Undergrad at Cornell. She shook her head, almost said I don’t know, but she didn’t want to lie. “I wanted to do something big.” She gathered the courage to look at Clarke’s face. “I wanted to do it with you, but my dean pressured me to take solo authorship.” She closed her eyes, ashamed. “And I was a coward.”

“Yeah.” Clarke leaned back in her chair. “You were.”

Everything that came into Lexa’s head to say felt like an excuse, so she kept her mouth shut. They both did, the loud ticking of the cheap clock on the wall cutting through the silence.

Finally Clarke shook her head. A corner of her mouth curved up. “It was really beautifully done.”

Lexa looked up, her head tilted.

“I was so fucking angry, Lexa.” Clarke breathed out like she was letting something go. “I should have been a coauthor, but, fuck, it was well written. Like it was on a whole other level.”

Lexa’s green eyes were bright as they locked in on Clarke’s. “You inspire me, Dr. Griffin.” She sat back. “It’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She paused and sucked in her lips. “I think we should write a book together.”

As soon as Clarke heard the words, she knew it was a good idea. Maybe the best idea. But all that would come out was, “Fuck you, Lexa.” It was almost a laugh.

Lexa’s face was stone, but her eyes were alive. “An editor already approached me. If I brought you on…”

“You can’t buy your way out of the shitty thing you did, Lexa.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Lexa ran her hand over her hair then looked up, her face suddenly soft. “I meant it, Clarke. I’m better with you.” She shrugged. “And I think you’re better with me, too.”

Clarke bit her lip. She took in a heavy breath, and let it out in a long sigh. She stood up. “Come here.”

Lexa squinted her eyes.

“Just come here, please. You owe me that.”

Lexa stood up in front of Clarke. Clarke lifted her hand to her face and leaned in, her lips barely touching Lexa’s. Lexa didn’t move, but Clarke felt her shiver. She leaned in and kissed her softly. Then she pulled back.

“I just…” Clarke didn’t know where the end of that sentence was supposed to go, and she didn’t tried to find it. Instead, she lifted her eyes and looked at Lexa as her chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

Lexa held her breath.

Finally Clarke smiled, almost laughing at herself. “That’s not a yes, Dr. Woods. But it’s not a no.”

[parischangedher]

this love came back to me.

Ideas/Requests/Tags: “Plot twist: Tony and Ziva took the couch in Paris. Together.” -- @factoffictionwriter @tivajunkie @coffeedepablo

So...this took a turn. It’s not at all realistic, but realism left this show a long time ago, really. Otherwise, they would’ve been canon years ago. But I digress...

TW: very brief mention of Somalia

Word Count: 5.8k

Links: AO3/FF

“Allons-y, ma chérie!” Tony exclaimed as he dropped their bags on the floor of the hotel room. 

It was classically Parisian, he thought as he took in the space. The suite was adorned with gold wallpaper and a small chandelier. On one end, there was a wide window above an inviting king-size bed, a desk, and a television. On the far side, where Ziva was currently sitting, was a matching sofa and armchair. They were the type that looked far more decorative than comfortable, complete with dark wooden frames and old fabric pulled taut.

“Où, mon petit pois?”

He grinned at the old moniker and raised his eyebrows playfully, stepping a bit closer and offering his arm. “You show me.”

Ziva laughed. “Tony, we have work to do. This is not a vacation.”

“We have nothing to do until tomorrow, Zee-vah. Come on, it’ll be fun.” He paused before continuing, his eyes meeting hers. “If it helps, I will give you complete control of our itinerary. We can avoid all the tourist spots.”

She considered his request more carefully, then. Whether it was the way he was staring at her, the fact that they were thousands of miles from home, or that they were in one of the most passionate cities in the world, she couldn’t tell. But, before her common sense could kick in, she smirked, stood and stepped closer to him, tilting to expose her neck suggestively as she always used to do.

Lowering her voice a few octaves, she thickened her accent and completed her assault on his personal space. “Complete control, huh?”

Tony’s smile fell for a split second as he subconsciously stood straighter, clearing his throat and quickly remembering what it was like to play with fire. 

“That is, uh, what I said.”

Ziva made a show of glancing down at his lips before meeting his eyes again and quickly backing away, her face and voice returning to normal. “Okay.”

She gathered her phone, badge, weapons and wallet while Tony remained still. With three words, he was transported back to four years ago, when he first met the only woman who could intimidate him, who could match him blow-for-blow without batting an eye. (Besides his mother and divorce lawyers, who don’t count.) 

 Ziva turned back to face him and smirked, again.

“Tony,” she said, stepping closer and putting a hand on his cheek. “Are you ready?”

Her touch snapped him out of it. Smiling, he responded.

 “Oui, mon Ziva. Après vous.”

+++ 

“You have to be kidding,” Tony exclaimed as he strolled down the cobblestone streets in the most under-rated parts of Paris with Ziva on his arm. 

They had spent the afternoon in a whole other world--one in which their normal boundaries seemed incredibly out-of-place. Investigating small shops, hidden bakeries and quintessential sights when they were off-duty built an atmosphere of intimacy. It encouraged personal conversation about everything from daydreams to childhoods.

Ziva smiled and playfully rolled her eyes. “I am not, Tony. We were a little too busy training to have the time for stuff like that.”

“That’s just, like...a sin,” he said. “It’s something you have to experience at least once. What if your kid wants to do it someday?”

It took everything in Ziva not to freeze at the question. Instead, she slowed and only allowed her smile to fade slightly. She knew it wasn’t his fault, not really. He was just making conversation. She was the one with the issues.

Sensing his mistake, Tony backed off and quickly changed the subject, asking questions about the best food she had in Paris and whether customs would allow him to bring it back to the States.

+++

Her jaw dropped when she exited the bathroom, her hair still wet from the shower and her body clothed in the lace pajamas she may or may not have packed on purpose. Just in case.

“What is all of this?” she asked, incredulous at the sight before her. 

The bed had been stripped of its blankets and pillows, which had been expertly relocated to the floor in front of the couch. Above it, a sheet lay draped neatly across the sofa and armchair. The lights were dimmed and a small stack of movies was on the end table.

“Over here,” Tony said as he poked his head out from under the sheet, flashing her one of his classic grins. 

Ziva smiled back, still confused and remaining still. “Tony, I--”

“Come on. I have a bribe,” he said as he held up a bottle of red wine.

She rolled her eyes but obliged, sliding onto the blankets and facing him. She pushed a stray curl behind her ear and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“Well,” he replied as he poured a generous amount before handing her the glass. “This way, we won’t fight about who gets the bed.”

"Tony,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “You and I both know we would not have fought over the bed.”

Tony laughed to himself and looked down, suddenly finding the pattern on his shorts very interesting. “Yeah.”

“So?”

“So,” he started again. “I just thought that, as your partner, I should make sure that you’re prepared for all scenarios.”

“Tony,” she said again, putting her hand over his and encouraging him to look at her. 

He finally met her eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It didn’t come out right.”

“So...you built one of those pillow huts you were talking about to make it up to me?”

“Fort. A pillow fort. And...yes.” He searched her eyes before nervously continuing. “What do you think?”

Ziva smiled softly with a look in her eyes that was too scary for either to name. She was deeply touched: No one had ever done anything this thoughtful for her before.

“I think--” she started as she brought her hand up to cup his cheek. “--that it is a perfect introduction to the world of pillow forts.”

+++

Two hours later, with the movie over and the wine bottle emptied, Ziva lay flush against Tony’s side. His arm wrapped lightly around her waist as her head rested on his left shoulder.

"Do you want children, Tony?”

“I--” he started, absentmindedly running his hand down her arm. “I suppose, someday, it might be nice. Assuming I can do better than Senior, of course.”

"Of that I have no doubt.”

They stayed in comfortable silence for some time, enjoying the intimacy of the moment and the feeling of lowered walls.

“What about you?” he asked quietly.

She sighed. “I...I do not know. My life was, as you know, complicated, growing up. It still is. I do not think I would be the best example.”

“Ziva David,” Tony stated, tilting his head back a bit to look at her. “You would be an amazing example.”

She rolled her eyes and drew circles on his chest, avoiding eye contact. “That is sweet, Tony. But you and I both know it is not true.”

“You tell me a reason you think so, and I’ll shoot it down with a thousand to the contrary.”

 “Well, until today I never experienced a pillow fort. You said yourself that it was an essential prerequisite to parenthood.”

“Ziva,” he said softly, moving his hand to her cheek and encouraging her to look at him.

She reluctantly met his eyes with misty ones of her own, immediately recognizing the same loving look that she gave him earlier. Of course he wouldn’t accept that deflection.

She contemplated changing the subject, as they usually did when things got too serious. But in that moment, in his arms in the middle of the night in Paris, she felt...safe. For the first time in a long time.

Or maybe it was just the damn fort.

“Tony,” she smiled sadly. “I was raised to be a killer. A spy, a heartless soldier.  And for most of my life, that is what I was.”

“You are not heartless,” he replied. “Even if that was true at some point, it’s not anymore.”

“Maybe,” she said. “That part of me likely died in...in Somalia. But it does not change what I have done.”

“You can’t let your past--especially the parts that were influenced by being the daughter of Mossad’s director--control you now. You deserve better.”

Ziva scoffed. “Not according to some people.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Vance.”

“What did he say? He will regret it.”

“No, Tony. I do not want to visit you in jail.” 

She hesitated before continuing. She had not voiced this to anyone, and she still wasn’t quite sure that she should--especially to him. 

When the hood had been lifted, she suddenly realized that she truly could not live without him. Although the rational part of her knew that he felt the same--he told her himself, after all--she was scared to do or say anything that might make him think less of her, or treat her differently. Or not want her anymore.

But, studying his face--full of raw emotion, safety and something that looked a lot like unconditional love--somehow made her brave.

“When I returned--when you brought me back,” she said slowly, heart pounding in her ears. “He said that I was damaged goods. He was not wrong.”

“Screw him,” he said immediately with fire in his eyes. “You are not.”

“I am, though, Tony. Even if you do not count anything I did while working with Mossad,” she said, her voice shaking. “Being in Somalia...what Saleem did...hurt. He and his men...they left their mark.”

She looked at him again, this time letting a stray tear escape. He wiped it away and interlaced his fingers with hers, kissing the top of her hand.

“I’m so sorry, Ziva.”

"I know.”

His watery eyes bore into hers, desperately trying to send all the love he had for her into her soul. 

“But, even that does not make you broken. You’re not...damaged goods.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. His heart ached as he saw the internal battle raging in her.

“You trust me, right?” Tony asked softly.

“Of course I do.”

“Look at me.”

When she finally did, he continued.

“You’re the strongest person I know, Ziva. You have gone through unimaginable horrors and made it through the other side. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you a survivor, and for that reason alone, you will make an excellent mother someday.”

Ziva nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak as a few more tears slipped down her face. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you, Tony,” she said quietly as she settled back against him. He gently rubbed her back and kissed her hairline, hoping he alleviated at least a little bit of her self-doubt. They stayed like that, talking softly and enjoying the embrace, until sleep eventually claimed them both.

+++

“Just put it on the counter, Tali,” Tony instructed as he unlocked their apartment door and stepped inside.

“Okay, Abba,” she said as she placed a grocery bag in the kitchen and rummaged through its contents. “Can we watch a movie tonight?”

Tony chuckled and rubbed a hand through her hair. “Are you kidding? Why did you think we bought extra ice cream?!”

After they finished putting the food away, Tali and Tony walked into the living room, the latter frowning at the sight before him. Pillows, blankets and comforters were piled haphazardly on the floor in front of their sofa, and their spare sheet was draped awkwardly across it and two kitchen chairs.

“Tali, how many times do I have to tell you to please clean up after you’re done playing?” 

“I didn’t do it!”

“Tali,” he said sternly, about to chastise her for lying, when she ran to her room and shut the door. He turned to follow when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“She is right, you know,” Ziva said, crawling out from under the sheet with a shy smile on her face.

Tony’s jaw dropped at the sound. He turned to finally see his love, standing in front of him, in his apartment, alive.

“Ziva.”

“Hello, Tony,” she said. “I am sorry. I meant to be finished before you came back. But, I have never actually made one of these before. It is much harder than it looks.”

Tony smiled with misty eyes and stepped closer, immediately wrapping his arms around her waist. Ziva’s smile grew wider as she put her hands around his neck, basking in his presence. His face looked a bit older, his hair a bit grayer, his eyes a bit wiser--but he still radiated calmness, safety and love, much to her relief.

“It’s really over?”

She nodded.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.”

He pulled her flush against him and touched his forehead with hers, tightening his grip to make sure she was actually real. She slowly looked down at his lips and then back up to his eyes, leaning in a bit--a silent, hesitant question. It was one that Tony answered immediately when he gently cupped her jaw and met her halfway. 

Unlike their goodbye kiss, their heated ones in Israel, and their time undercover, this embrace was slow and strong. Tony’s tongue begged for entry, which Ziva happily granted. He cradled her head in his hand and deepened the kiss, never wanting to let go; her skin burned under his touch. She moaned quietly when he moved from her lips to her neck, briefly sucking on her pulse point before reclaiming her mouth. Ziva ran her hands under his shirt and up his back, causing a shiver down his spine. They spent several minutes reacquainting themselves with each other, reveling in the moment until she eventually broke away.

“Now that is a hello,” she said, breathing hard.

Tony chuckled and ran a hand through her curls. “Well, we have a lot of making up to do.”

“I know. And, we have a lot to discuss,” she replied, avoiding eye contact as fear started to rise. “Despite that lovely greeting, I do not want to presume anything, Tony.”

“Hey,” he said warmly, gently stroking her cheek and leaning in close. “We will talk. About everything. But right now, I am just happy to see you. I’m still not sure this isn’t a dream.”

She smiled weakly but it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Ziva...It might take time--and a lot of work. But, I will do whatever it takes to make us okay. There is absolutely no way I’m losing you again. I promise.” He paused briefly before continuing. “I don’t have a choice, really. I can’t live without you. I tried. I couldn’t.”

“And I you.” She met his eyes, then, with watery ones of her own. She put her hands on his shoulders. “I am not sure what I did to deserve you.”

“See? We’re on the same page already,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Ziva chuckled and cupped his jaw. 

“Shall we let her know she's off the hook?”

"I suppose,” she said, her anxiety rising again. “Does she remember anything?”

“It’s hard to tell. But, no matter what, she knows all about how strong her mother is, and how much she is loved. I made sure of that. I even taught her--and myself--a little Hebrew.”

Ziva smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Tony. Now, I know that I do not deserve you.”

“Cut that out,” he said with a playful glint in his eye. “Or I’ll make you stay in that fort until you do.”

“Is that a promise?" she asked, glancing quickly down at his mouth again.

Tony smirked, raising his eyebrows and thoroughly enjoying the first flirtatious moment they’ve had in years. There was still a lot to discuss, feelings to express and questions to ask. But, for now, with her in his arms, everything was perfectly aligned. They stayed like that for a few moments until Tali came bounding out of her room, evidently tired of waiting for her father.

Ziva froze as she took in the sight of her daughter up-close for the first time in three years. She was even more beautiful than she was before, if that was possible, with all the best parts of her and Tony. Her heart ached for the missed time, and it pounded as everything she had been working for was finally happening. This was it.

“Tali,” Tony said, breaking away from Ziva to meet her at the entrance. He took her small hands gently in his. “Listen, I’m sorry I yelled at you before. I know you didn’t make a mess.”

Tali grinned. “I forgive you.”

"Good,” he laughed. “And, honey...there is someone here who would really like to see you. Is that ok?” She nodded but looked at him curiously as he stepped aside and gestured to Ziva.

She made eye contact with her mother and studied her carefully, as only the daughter of a trained spy could. Ziva smiled softly and stood still, not wanting to spook her. Eventually, Tali recognized the necklace and instinctively raised a hand to clutch the one around her neck.

“Ima?” she asked hesitantly.

Ziva broke into a wide grin as she nodded, raising a hand to grasp the pendant. “Yes, Tali, it’s me.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes bright with possibility despite the touch of disbelief.

“Yes, ahuva sheli. Bo Hena?” she asked, opening her arms and gesturing for her to come.

Tali grinned and ran into her mother’s arms. Ziva knelt down to meet her and hugged her tightly. Gently stroking her back, Ziva buried her face in her daughter’s hair and started to sob, finally able to release the breath she has been holding for three years.

“Why are you sad?” 

Ziva chuckled and pulled back a bit from Tali to look at her. “I am not sad, Tali. I am crying because I am happy. I am so, so happy to see you."

“I’m happy to see you too,” Tali said softly, reaching out a hand to carefully touch the pendant around Ziva’s neck, as if it was made of glass. It was a sharp contrast to the yanking of a toddler that she remembered.

If it was possible for a heart to explode with joy, it would have done so in that moment. Ziva wiped her face and couldn’t stop smiling.

“Is that for me, Ima?” Tali asked, eyes wide as she took in the mess in front of the sofa.

“Yes, Tali. Ken.”

Tali grinned and took Ziva’s hand, pulling her over to the fort. They ducked inside and Ziva waited as Tali took in the space. Tony watched from a distance with a wide smile, wanting to give them both the time they needed.

“Toda, Ima. I love it! Can I eat the ice cream in here after dinner?”

Ziva laughed. “I don’t see why not. But we should probably ask Abba, too.”

Tali grinned and stuck her little head out from under the blankets, just as Tony had done years ago. “Abba!” she yelled.

“Yes?” Tony replied.

“Can we eat the ice cream in here later?”

“Of course, kid.” 

Getting the answer she expected, Tali popped her head back under the sheet and turned to face Ziva.

“Ima?” she asked shyly, fiddling with a thread on the blanket as her previous smile faded. The novelty of her mother’s reappearance wore off and was replaced with questions that only Ziva could answer.

“What is it, tateleh?” Ziva asked nervously, trying to ignore all the dark possibilities that immediately sprung to mind.

Tali looked away, then--a move she must have inherited from her mother--and paused before answering.

“Why did you leave?”

“Well,” Ziva started, her pulse racing as she tried to find words that would make sense to her. “What did Abba tell you?”

“He said you had to do something very important.”

“That’s right,” she said. “There were some...bad people who were mad at me. So, I had to try to fix the problem and let you stay with your Abba for a while.”

Tali nodded in understanding beyond her years. “So you had to keep us safe?”

“Yes.”

Ziva saw the fear in her daughter’s eyes, which almost broke her heart. “Come here, Tali. Bo hena,” she said, holding her arms open.

She obeyed, snuggling against her mother and burying her face in her shirt. Ziva stroked her hair softly. “Everything is better now, Tali. You, and Abba, and I are all safe. It is over. And I am so, so sorry I had to leave you for so long. Please forgive me, ahuv sheli.”

Tali nodded into Ziva’s chest. “Where are you going now?” she asked apprehensively, tightening her grasp around her mother.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tali. Ani lo e’zov. I promise.”

Tali leaned back a bit, a heavy weight off her growing shoulders. She raised her hand to gently grasp the Star around her neck.

“You probably need this back then. Abba said it was yours.”

“Oh no,” Ziva replied, shaking her head with a soft smile. “It is yours now, Tali. It looks beautiful on you.”

She grinned, finally, and hugged Ziva again. “Toda, Ima. Ani ohev otach.”

“Ani ohev otach, tateleh.”

+++

After making dinner, eating ice cream and watching Frozen, Tony and Ziva had finally convinced Tali to sleep. It was strange, having their bedtime ritual joined by the missing link in their trio. But somehow, it was also as natural as ever. Tali reveled in spending the day with both of her parents, showing Ziva all of her drawings and talking endlessly about how much she liked Olaf. Ziva tried to let Tony take the lead, as he was the one who had been raising her for the past three years, and she didn’t want to intrude or usurp him. But he would have none of it, consistently telling Tali to ask her mother what she thought, encouraging their bonding and stepping back to let them begin to make up for all the lost time. They were stumbling blindly through this new reality, taking it one moment at a time--but they were doing it together, as partners, just as they always had.

They spent a few hours after putting Tali to bed enjoying each other’s company, not yet daring to breach any sensitive topics. Still, they were content, lounging with the television in the background. Tony’s feet were up on the coffee table as Ziva’s were folded under her; her head rested on his shoulder with his arm around her back.

When a half hour passed without a comment from Ziva, Tony turned slightly to sneak a glance. He smiled when he saw her nearing the brink of sleep.

“Hey,” he said, just loud enough to rouse her. Ziva blinked a few times and looked at him with sleepy eyes. “Come on,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to his bedroom. Or, their bedroom. Maybe.

Ziva opened her mouth to object, as they had not yet discussed sleeping arrangements--among many other things. She did not want to disrupt his life more than she already had. The words died on her lips when she saw the intense, loving and determined look on his face.

She smiled back and obliged, following him into the room and graciously accepting his old Ohio State t-shirt to use as pajamas. 

They climbed into bed and reached for each other without hesitation. Turning to her side, Tony immediately followed and pressed up against her back. Draping a protective arm around her side, he pulled her close. That from any other man would have felt threatening, but after everything, Ziva had never felt more at home.

+++

Tony awoke to the feeling of loss. Realizing that the space beside him was cold and his bedside companion was missing, he sat up straight and tried to quell the rising panic.

He threw the sheets off, pulled on a t-shirt and opened his door, walking through the apartment until he saw a lamp on in the living room.

“There you are,” he said in relief as he walked to the entrance of the pillow fort.

Ziva smiled apologetically and reached out her hand. “I did not mean to worry you.”

Tony smiled back and climbed under the sheet with her. “You okay?”

“Not really.”

“Bad dream?”

“Something like that,” she said quietly. “We need to talk.”

“Now?”

“Yes. If you are able, of course,” she added hastily.

"Whatever you need, Ziva.”

She made eye contact with him then, letting him see the anxiety, fear and regret sketched all across her face. It looked like she’d been crying. He took her shaking hand in his strong one, waiting patiently for her to begin.

“I am so sorry, Tony.”

“I know,” he said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “I got your letters from Odette.”

“I thought as much, when you did not shoot me out earlier.”

“Throw you out. And I would never do that. No matter what.”

Ziva squeezed his hand. “Are you...are you angry?”

“No. Well, maybe a little bit.”

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Tony. What I did is almost unforgivable. You have every right to be furious.”

“Operative word being almost, Ziva,” he said softly, stroking her hand with his thumb. He paused for a moment before continuing. “I was angry, when I first found out about Tali. Of course I was. But that was also tangled up in confusion, denial, and grief. It’s hard to pick it all apart.”

“I am sorry about that too.”

“Hearing the news about your ‘death’...even though I had my doubts from the beginning...it almost killed me, Ziva. It probably would have, if it wasn’t for her.”

She nodded but said nothing, urging him to continue.

“I understand why you did it. I do. I know that once the threat began, you were trying to protect her, and that you believed the best way to do that was to keep a low profile and eventually use the attack to disappear.”

“But?”

“But,” he continued. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me the moment you found out you were pregnant. Did you really think that little of me? That I wouldn’t want to know?”

His eyes bore into hers, exposing the pain and rawness that he had been suppressing since she broke into his apartment. She wiped a tear from her face and forced herself to respond. Not to run.

“Of course not, Tony. I knew you would have been perfect. Honestly,” she said sadly. “I do not think there is any reason in the world that could justify what I did. I will always regret it.”

“Try me.”

Taking a deep breath, she tried her best to explain her deeply flawed thought process.

“After you left Israel, Tony, I was not doing well. I thought that spending time there would help me heal, bring me closure. Help me put an end to everything I hated about myself. I was wrong.”

He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“Instead, it just made everything worse. I convinced myself that you--that everyone, really--would be better off without me. I thought that little of myself. Not you. When I found out I was pregnant, I did not know what to feel. There were days when I wasn’t even sure I would keep her. It was...a very dark time,” she admitted.

“I still deserved to know, Ziva,” he said, his voice breaking.

She put her hand on his cheek and felt his stubble underneath her fingers. She gave him a pleading look, one that begged him to understand what was not understandable and forgive what was nearly unforgivable.

“I know. And, I eventually figured that out too. Having her, holding her in my arms, allowed me to finally dig myself out of the dark hole I found myself in. It was then that I realized what a horrible mistake I made. But by then it was too late. The danger was already present. I simply could not risk it.”

“And then of course, once I heard of the pending attack, I knew that I had to disappear. There could be no doubt that I was dead, or they would have used Tali against me. They would have used you against me. So, I did the only thing I could do. I faked my death, and I sent Tali to the only person I could ever trust to protect her. And...you know the rest.”

“You didn’t have to do that, though. I could have helped protect you.”

“I know you could have. But I simply could not risk anything happening to you, Tony. Leaving Tali without both of her parents, or leaving myself without--without you. I just could not take that chance.”

He said nothing, still processing what she said. She waited patiently for as long as she could in vulnerable silence.

“Please say something, Tony.”

A tear escaped and traveled down his face as met her eyes. She padded it away and took his hands in hers.

“We really screwed this up, didn’t we,” he said.

“I suppose we did.”

“I am sorry too, you know.”

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

“I shouldn’t have left you in Israel to wallow by yourself, Ziva. I should have stayed with you, if you didn’t want to return. Or at least made more of an effort to check in on you.”

“Tony,” she said sadly. “I did not want you to. And you had your whole life in DC.”

He laughed softly, running a hand through her hair. “That’s where you’re wrong, sweetcheeks. I left my life in Israel--I left you. And her, although I didn’t know it then.”

He paused before continuing, not wanting to stumble this next line. “At ha’or shel hachayim sheli, Ziva.” 

[You are the light of my life.]

Ziva smiled and leaned forward, kissing his cheek.

“So what now, Tony?”

“Now, I think we should really try to get some sleep.”

“Tony,” she said, clearly not quite finished with the conversation. “I need to know what it is you want.”

He studied her briefly before responding.

“Well, that depends. Do you promise not to run again?”

“Yes. Ani lo e’zov, Tony.”

[I won’t leave.]

“Good. Then...come here,” he instructed, rising and stepping out of the fort. Ziva did as he requested. He led her over to the bookcase and turned away to rummage through an old shoebox he kept at the top.

“I saw this when Tali and I first arrived in Paris,” he rambled as he continued, increasingly frantic. “And I knew it was a long-shot, probably a stupid idea, but I didn’t care, really. I just had this feeling that I--”

“Tony,” she said, exasperated. “Please answer me.”

“I will. Right...now,” he said with a wide smile as he finally found the object of his search.

He turned to face her with a wide grin on his face. “I never thought I’d have the chance to use this. Hoped. But I never thought it would actually happen.”

Ziva smiled softly, still a bit confused until he opened his hand to reveal a small  velvet box.

Her jaw dropped when she realized his intentions. “You’ve had that all this time?”

“Yes.”

“Tony, I...I do not want you to do something impulsive, or feel a sense of obligation, or--”

“Ziva," he said, his eyebrows raised. “I promise you that I’m not, and I don’t. I got this because I knew that if I were to ever find you again, I wanted to be ready.”

She was silent for a moment, processing his response. “I...I do not know what to say right now,” she said, laughing softly to herself as her eyes started to grow misty.

“I’ll take that as my cue, then.”

Their hearts both raced as he lowered himself to one knee. 

"The past six years and, especially, the last three, have been the hardest of my life,” he started. “But, what they’ve taught me is simple. We’ve wasted so much time, and I don’t want to spend one more second without you. So...what I want--or, what I need, really--is you. Us. All the good parts and the bad parts, forever. If that’s, of course, what you want.”

Ziva smiled wide as she wiped her eyes. “That is the only thing I want.” 

He smiled back and stared deeply into her eyes, exposing his nervousness and vulnerability as he opened the box. He let out a shaky breath as he prepared for the most important question he’d ever have to ask. 

She saw the worry in his face and stretched out a hand to cradle his head, nodding in encouragement. “Ask me, Tony,” she said quietly.

With a new bout of courage, he gently took her hand. “I know we still have a lot to discuss and work through. I really wasn’t planning on springing this on you so fast after you got back. But, our timing has never been good anyway, I guess,” he chuckled to himself.

“None of that matters, though. The only thing that does is that I love you. I have for years. I am hopelessly, hopelessly in love with you. And I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how much I do. So...Ziva David, will you marry me? Titchatni iti?”

“Yes” she said immediately, grinning as the tears she had been holding back flowed freely down her face. “Yes, a million times over.”

He grinned like a kid on Christmas morning as he placed the ring on her finger. As soon as he did, she pulled him up to her and kissed him deeply. He returned the embrace and pulled her closer to him, marking the beginning of the rest of their lives.

“I love you too, you know,” she whispered when they finally broke apart. “I have for a long, long time.”

Tony smiled and stroked her cheek, both reveling in the happy silence for a few moments.

“Come here,” she said as she started to pull him away from the shelf and walked backwards toward the bedroom.

“Finally ready to sleep?” he asked lightheartedly, following her without hesitation. He’d follow her anywhere.

She smirked, tilting her head suggestively and shooting him a look that could set water on fire. “Not in the slightest.”

He grinned and bit the corner of his lip. “Good. Neither is your fiancé.”

[danetobelieve]

A Seal, A Mage and A Hunter Walk Into A Bar || Orion, Ricky and Winston

Winston hadn’t expected Rio’s message. They hadn’t expected them to be coming over and honestly they were somewhat concerned about the sudden change in the perspective that their new friend had. But they were glad that they had chosen to turn to Winston and they weren’t going to let them down. The thunder rumbling in the background was somewhat atmospheric, night must just be falling as darkness was enveloping the exterior of their house. Hearing the knock on the door, Winston turned back to Ricky doing their best to hurridly explain. “Rio messaged, I don’t have time to properly explain the very little that I do know, just be your usual gregarious and welcoming self and he’s underage so you can’t try and get him too drunk I don’t think he’ll appreciate the hangover tomorrow.” Winston turned to the door as they heard a second knock and dashed over, adjusting their glasses and smiling at Orion as they pulled the door open. 

It was one of Ricky’s favorite kinds of weather; dark and stormy, and as Spring still hadn’t really managed to find their little corner of Maine, he’d lit a fire in the fireplace to really round out the whole atmosphere. He and Winston had just been relaxing, something playing on the tv in the background, most of his attention turned to the 3DS he’d bought himself to keep from dying of boredom as he recovered when several things happened in quick succession and his poor mind tried to keep up. There was a knock on the door and Winston suddenly started talking a thousand miles an hour, “One I resent the implication that I’m some sort of weird “get the kids drunk” guy and two what? What’s going on?” Gregarious and welcoming were Ricky’s standard MO and it wasn’t hard for him and he somewhat stiffly pushed himself off the couch and towards the door that Winston ran towards, smiling broadly as it was opened to reveal a very wet Orion. “Hey man. Welcome.” 

Orion hadn’t had much time. He had left his family in the guest house and sprinted to his bedroom, quickly grabbing a duffel bag and trying to stuff clothes and some essentials into it before his parents made their way into the main house. He escaped out of the front door before he could hear his parents. They probably weren’t in any rush. It was clear they hadn’t wanted him there anyways. It wasn't until after he was out onto the street that he realized it had started raining. Usually he would have heard the rain, or smelled the moisture in the air, but his senses must have been off tonight. He shot a message over to Winston, confirming that the invitation they had extended was stil open. Winston and Ricky didn’t live far away, so he walked over slowly, giving Winston time to reply and letting the rain soak him along the way. It wasn’t until he got to the door that he became self conscious of the blonde hair. He hadn’t had blonde hair since his eighteenth birthday, and anyone he had met in the last few years would have never seen it. But he couldn’t exactly hide it right now. At least one good thing about the rain meant that it washed away any evidence that Rio had been crying. So he sighed and knocked on the door, smiling as normally as he could when the two answered. “Uh- hey there. Thanks for letting me stay over.”

Winston shot Ricky a warning look. The truth was that he knew little more then their friend. The second thing Winston did was raise and eyebrow at the Blonde hair. They were sure it was a better look when Rio wasn’t soaked to the bone by the torrential rain. Winston stepped back and let Rio into their home, leading them towards the kitchen. “Don’t worry at all you’re always welcome bro…” they looked them up and down for a moment, “no offence dude but you look very wet, I could’ve come and got you if I had known you needed me man…” they trailed off suddenly aware that it was hardly a useful suggestion now. “Do you want a hot drink or a towel or something?” Winston hoped that their things hadn’t gotten too gross in the rain, but they also wanted an explanation. There was plenty of time for that though and Winston didn’t want to push the matter.

It was one of the many gay-red-flags that Ricky knew when somebody who’d been conspicuously radio silent showed up with freshly dyed blonde hair. But Winston’s quick warning made him think this was anything but being upset over a boy. “Towels and tea.” he kept his smile wide and warm as he turned on his heel and made his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on and then to the closet to grab one of the spare towels down from it, “Do you have dry things? If you don’t between the two of us Winston and I can cobble together something dry and warm for you. We can throw your wet things in the dryer for you.” He offered the towel to Rio, shooting a confused and slightly worried look over to Winston, “Have you had dinner? I can whip you up something real quick. Something warm.” 

For some reason, this wasn’t the first time that Orion had been around Ricky completely drenched and being offered a change of clothes. Though it didn’t make him any less nervous about it. At least this house offered more places to change than the workshop had. Orion could tell the glances at his hair. He didn’t blame them. It wasn’t like it had been professionally done. Just a sloppy quick bleach to appease his parents. The first chance he got he would be dying it back or shaving it off. Now that he was away from his parents the last thing he wanted was to continue looking like them. “I should be fine. Well as long as the duffel bag kept the rain out.” He shrugged, glancing down at the bag. Hopefully he could find something in the bag that was semi dry that he could change into. He went into the house but stayed hovering by the front door, accepting Ricky’s towel but not wanting to continue dripping across the house. He set his duffel bag down and began wiping off what he could, though there wasn’t much he could do for his clothes. The hoodie felt like it weighed an extra twenty pounds and clanged to him uncomfortably. He’d have to get into the safety of a bathroom before he could take it off. “Um yeah… just some tea or something would be great thanks. And uh- no food needed. I’m not hungry. Thanks though.” After what he saw, he wasn’t sure he would ever have an appetite again. “Sorry for the short notice. I just need a night or two to figure things out. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

As Ricky made tea, Winston grabbed some clothes which had been neatly folded and were sat waiting to go up to their rooms and directed Rio to the toilet downstairs so that he could get changed. “Can I get a coffee Ricky,” Winston was wondering if perhaps Rio needed some of the whiskey that Ricky loved so much but tea would do for now, or coffee if you weren’t planning to sleep which Winston wasn’t, they had too much left to do. They needed to research the squid lake demon, they needed to try not to obsess over Athena after last night and they needed to keep working on their project. It was getting close to the end now. “You didn’t interrupt anything,” Winston replied dismissively even though they were half way through dry running a sub routine that ran the graphics vectors for their project, but that could wait, Rio was more important, “and like I said you’re welcome here as long as you need or want to be here, we never managed to find a third room mate so there’s still space.”

“This close to bedtime?!” Ricky kept the shock in his voice light and jovial, an attempt to lighten what was becoming an oppressively dim atmosphere, “Fine, but I’m not reading you a bedtime story when you can’t sleep tonight. You’re on your own.” As Winston and Rio both disappeared he quickly ducked back towards the front door; keying in his passcode on the alarm so that it armed the mundane and magical systems Winston had been installing on the house. He didn’t know exactly what was happening, but people didn’t show up soaking wet with a duffle unless something was wrong, and this way they’d know if anyone turned down their drive. “Oh yes, my attempts to catch a Cutiefly for that bitch in the pokecenter were really eating up my evening.” He poured the coffee and the tea and brought them back into the living room, setting Rio’s by the chair closest to the fire, “You’re never interrupting, and like Winston said, “You’re welcome here whenever and however long you need. Our house is yours.” 

Orion wasn’t surprised that Ricky and Winston were being this welcoming, but they were certainly emotional about it. But Orion kept his nerves at ease. The last thing either Ricky or Winston needed was for Rio to break down in front of the two of them. They deserved better than that. Plus, it wasn’t like Rio could exactly explain the situation to them. The truth wasn’t going to help anymore. It was too late for that. Instead, Rio silently accepted the clothes and went into the bathroom to get changed. After switching into drier clothes, he stared at himself in the mirror for a long time. His eyes were less noticeably red than they had been before, but that was because the rain had made his entire face red and puffy. Great. His blonde hair hung, wet and ratty in his face and he rifled through his bag until he found the one snapback he owned, some zoo hat that he had bought at a thrift store and put it on to push the hair from his eyes. He already felt better, being here instead of his home. He knew he’d have to go back eventually. He still had things there. Plus his phone. His car. Well… maybe he couldn’t keep the car anymore. It wasn’t his. Despite the relief, everything still weighed on his shoulders. He had so much to do, to worry about now. He was exhausted. But he would try to stress about that another night. He went back into the kitchen area, meeting the two back in there and trying again for that smile. “Yeah, of course. Thanks.” He didn’t want to impose on them. Not without a job or anyway to pay rent. But Winston spent enough time at the Scribe Headquarters now that he couldn’t exactly hide out there without Winston finding out. “Thanks for the tea.” He grabbed onto the cup to warm up his hands, blowing at the liquid to try to cool it off before taking his first sip. The tea stung when it touched his busted lip. He hadn’t even realized that it had been hurt until now. It had probably happened when Athena had punched him in the face earlier. Then again, he would have taken that over what had actually happened anyday. “So uh.. What are you both up to tonight?”

Looking Orion up and down, Winston reached out and topped up their cup of tea, hoping that it would prompt Orion to in turn spill their own tea but apparently that wasn’t to be and both Winston and Ricky were going to have to ask. Winston decided that as they were mostly responsible for this they were going to have to be the person who made the first step. “It was just a normal night, Ricky and I kinda do whatever the fuck we want usually, but obviously you coming over changed our plans a little, which I am not complaining about because it is much cooler to have a friend over then do something on my own…” Winston tried to think of the best and most sensitive way to phrase this, after deciding that their own addled brain apparently couldn’t quite manage that level of emotional sensitivity, Winston decided that ripping off the bandage might be a good idea. “Rio, what’s going on? You show up soaked? Is everything okay at home?” 

Ricky made himself a mug of tea as well, stirring in some honey as he made his way gingerly back to his spot on the armchair, “Not shit. I’m still stuck in the house on practically bed rest so… it’s just me and Winston in front of the fire like some alternate universe Norman Rockwell painting.” He took a sip, watching Winston refill Rio’s mug and attempt gingerly to eke some sort of story out of him. “I’ve gotta side with my better domestic half over here. You know we love seeing you, and you’re welcome here anytime day or night, and for as long as you need to be, but this is honestly a little worrying. People don’t generally show up dripping wet at my door, as this is not a scene from The Notebook. I’m hotter than Ryan Gosling for starters.” It wasn’t going to go anywhere if the atmosphere turned intense or if it seemed like they were grilling him for answers. Ricky could at the very least help keep it light and pleasant. 

Orion laughed nervously at Ricky’s joke, welcoming the humor dispersed through what was otherwise a pretty serious conversation. He supposed he couldn’t be surprised that the two were curious about Rio’s sudden appearance. He wasn’t exactly very subtle when he frantically messaged Winston and asked to crash for a couple of nights. If it hadn’t been so late Rio probably would have ran to the Scribe Headquarters, but their house was closer and he hadn’t exactly been in the right state of mind to think this far in advance. He didn’t want to lie. He was so sick of lying. But he couldn’t tell the whole truth either. Not without the obvious repercussions. More people would be in danger if they found out. It was better to keep the whole truth a secret. “We had a fight.” He sighed, settling on a vague version of the whole truth. “They want me to be something I’m not. And I can’t-” What was he going for here? He could tell them about him being a hunter. So what was he going for then? The idea came to him in a moment of deluded brilliance. Or maybe stupidity. The other thing that Rio would rather die than have his parent’s find out about. “I came out to them.” Guess he was lying again. “It didn’t go so well. Clearly. I couldn’t just stay there.”

Raising an eyebrow gently, Winston had to admit that they had known that Rio’s parents were that Christian then they might’ve been a little firmer in their offer. But Winston listened carefully at what their friend had to say before frowning gently and running their hand over the handle of their mug of very milky coffee. “Okay, that makes a tonne of sense,” Winston had to admit that this entire situation made them feel a little uneasy really, “you told them that you’re not …. Or that you are whatever and they took it badly?” Winston cast a critical eye over the bruising and cut up lip that Orion was sporting. “Rio, was it something more then just an argument? Did they hurt you? We can call the police if they touched you or you can just stay here….” they swallowed, worried that their friend might be in even deeper then before. 

Ricky prided himself on his ability to always keep if not a pleasant face then at the very least a neutral face, but when Rio’s story slowly unspooled he felt his blood run ice cold and his eyebrows furrow into a frown. It reminded him of another fight, a long time ago, about something similar. “Well…” He took a sip of his tea to give himself a moment not to erupt in rage at Rio’s parents. “That is… profoundly upsetting to say the very least. I’m very sorry that happened. It’s not… that’s not a great argument to have. Winston’s right. Next steps are entirely up to you; I’d be more than happy to help you file a police report if you want or you can just stay here. But,” he could feel a shake in his hands and held his mug more tightly, “Let me make something super clear. You staying here has no time limit. As long as you need; no questions asked and nothing required in return. If you need to get stuff from your place one or both of us can go with you if you’d like. Or you can bring Dee. She’d be happy to. Ever seen an elderly woman threaten someone with a shotgun? It’s a fun time. But really. This house is your house too. We mean it.” 

It was nice to have such supportive friends. And it would have been even nicer and felt more genuine if Orion had actually come out to his parents earlier that night. But who knows, the night could have gone even worse if everything had come to light. “No! No.” Rio could absolutely not go to the police. That was the worst case scenario. “They didn’t do this to me. I promise.” At least that was the truth. Sure, they were definitely involved. And they were absolutely to blame. But they hadn’t been the one to deck him in the face earlier that night. That had been his sister. Ironically, he blamed her the least for what had happened. He could see it, finally. Something in her that understood him. Maybe not entirely, and maybe she was too afraid to do anything about it as well. But she had even doubted their parents for a minute. That alone was enough to make Rio think there was still something there that was redeemable. “It’s- I think we all knew, y’know? It’s just never been said out loud before. I’ve always been different from them. Never quite fit in like they wanted me to. I think they thought I could still be saved or whatever.” Orion shrugged. He supposed it didn’t matter anymore. He was gone now. Hopefully for good. “Thank you, but I can go get it myself.” The last thing he needed was Ricky going over there. He was already 90% sure that he wasn’t human, and he didn’t need his family figuring that one out too. In fact, Rio didn’t want them to know where he was at all. He knew when they would all be out of the house. He knew all of their schedules by heart. He would just sneak in during the day. “I really appreciate you both. So now we can definitely talk about not me right?”

Swallowing gently, Winston listened once more and did their best not to roll their eyes at the story they were being told. But they weren’t ready to stop talking about their friend just yet. Winston also knew that Orion wasn’t entirely human, Skylar had told them about Orion being a hunter and Winston wasn’t about to judge them for it. Especially because they knew that Ricky was safe. But they didn’t know if they completely believed everything that was happening here. “If they didn’t do this then who did?” Winston wasn’t going to let anyone get away with hurting their friend, even if they had to call the cops themselves. “Listen, I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this, but maybe you should let one of us drive you to get your stuff later just so that you don’t have to haul it across to here on your own again,” and just so that they didn’t hurt Orion anymore, “we can wait in the car or something.” Swallowing once more, Winston glanced at Ricky and wanted to push the matter. “I think, that after that you’ve earned your privacy, so if you’d really rather talk about something else then of course we can, do you want a drink? Something … stronger then tea? I think you’ve earned it here…” 

Taking a long sip of his drink Ricky shot a glance over at his housemate over the rim of his mug. As someone whose public identity and private life were a semi-complicated network of various lies and half-truths it was pretty apparent they were being told a version of the truth. “Like usual, Winston’s the smartest one in the house. I absolutely don’t think you should go alone. We’ll wait in the car, or Dee will. I was super serious about that. She’d do it in a heartbeat, with or without the shotgun. But… it’s not a good idea to do it alone.” Ricky didn’t share Winston’s belief that this conversation was over but, he also knew that pushing wouldn’t get them anywhere. This was a story that could only be fully told at Rio’s own pace. Wandering over to the sidebar he pulled out three rocks glasses and poured a decent slug of whiskey into each one, “Well. We’re not terribly exciting over here. I mean. I almost died a couple weeks ago but that’s already old news.” 

While Orion appreciated how much Winston and Ricky seemed to care about his well being, their insistence on keeping him safe was really getting in the way of Rio’s ability to keep lying to them about tonight’s events, which he would rather slink away and sleep at the bottom of the lake than drag the two of them into. Lies or not, Rio knew it was best to keep them out of the Quinn affairs. He didn’t need anymore collateral damage. “My sister did it, actually.” he answered honestly, trying to disperse the truth throughout the lies to really weave the whole story together. “But uh- not because of the gay thing.” He didn’t know what made him defend her, but he wanted it to be clear that she hadn’t done it in some homophobic fit of rage. “We train together sometimes. Self defense.” Yeah, that was pretty much the truth. “She’s better than I am.” That was definitely the truth. “Fine, fine.” Rio admitted defeat and gave into Winston and Ricky’s demands. He wouldn’t go back alone, “But not tonight. I have plenty of stuff for a few days. I want to go during the day, when no one’s home.” Look at that, he could be honest about a few things. “Stronger than tea?” Rio questioned, confused. He didn’t drink coffee. Oh. Never mind. “Oh! Thanks. I don’t really drink. But I appreciate the offer.” He had heard about Ricky’s accident, but hadn’t exactly had a chance to visit considering everything. He was glad to see that he was out of the hospital and back to mostly functioning, “How has the recovery been?”

“Your sister?” Winston asked with a deep frown before pausing an sighing. “Well, that’s pretty fucked up, I didn’t know that you had your sister and I guess we can only deal with this in the way that you want, but you know, we’re here for you I guess, sorry, this is really new to me and I get that you guys train together but that seems a bit much…” Orion’s sister was clearly a hunter too and they were training together. “We don’t really know or do self defense,” Winston paused and frowned, “but maybe we should start, so if you …” they awkwardly fell silent and took a long breath. “No definitely not tonight, we can go back tomorrow or we can go back next week and I can take as much time to help you as you need or Ricky can or whatever,” Winston paused and nodded. Honestly at this point in time they were thinking that they might need the drink. “Sure, no problem….” they looked around at the room, waiting for Ricky to respond about the recovery.

Ricky split the contents of the third glass between the other two and offered one to Winston. “You know it’s like Winston’s in my head and saying everything I’m thinking. Because that is fucked up and I’m not the fuck about it. Thank you, though, for allowing us to go with you. I know I’ll feel better if you’re not going back there alone.” He slugged back the whiskey and set the empty glass down on the side table. “I mean. Speak for yourself. I can take care of myself. Self defense not required and if you make a comment about the car accident I’m gonna pull a shard of rib out of my chest and stab you with it.” He shrugged and sat back down in the chair, “Which brings us neatly around to the recovery thing. I”m over it. I’m super over it it’s so boring I might die from the boredom. They say the danger is infection… that’s bullshit. The danger is boredom.” He returned to his mug of tea, “But that’s about it. Moving on. We’ll clear out my random-ass art room and make it a bedroom for you tomorrow, but tonight we’ll have to set you up on the couch.” 

“Yeah well, my sister’s a bit intense.” Orion shrugged. She had only done what she was forced to do. Not that he forgave it or understood it even, but he accepted it. He wasn’t ready to try to be friends with his sister or to rebuild bridges, but he didn’t hate her. Not entirely. “It’s not important, really. This bruise will clear up in no time. But no more self defense is fine with me. I’m not really much of a fighter anyways.” He wouldn’t miss the training sessions, not that he ever did much fighting back during them anyways. He listened as Ricky recounted his recovery story, or rather his recovery rant. Clearly he wasn’t a homebody, and he must have hated being trapped inside this place. “Can you at least go to the workshop?” He asked curiously. He wished he had some kind of craft that he could practice with the two of them in the workshop. But Rio wasn’t much of an artist, nor was he a computer genius. He wouldn’t have much expertise to add to the table. “Oh you don’t have to move your stuff out of the room. The couch is fine. Seriously. I just really appreciate you both.”

“A bit intense? Rio you have a split lip, I know you were sparring or training or whatever but that is a bit more then intense.” Winston replied with a tone of disdain to their voice. What kind of sibling did this to their own brother? The thought alone sent shudders down Winston’s spine. “Hey, self defense classes are fine, it’s the injuries that I’m concerned about, but yeah we can take a break and I am sure I can find you a sparring partner who won’t beat the shit out of you.” Winston wasn’t about to forgive whoever had done this to their friend.  “Please do not say that, I’ve been begging Ricky to clean his shit out of that room for months, there’s so much goddamn clutter all the time and if you’re the reason that I get to avoid being on a program for hoarders then I won’t be complaining. Besides, the couch is only comfortable for one night.” Winston held their whiskey, not drinking it. They were lying of course. Ricky didn’t have a clutter problem and they hadn’t ever asked them to clear that room out. But Orion needed to feel like not a burden now and this was the only way Winston could think to do it. 

Ricky watched silently as Rio and Winston talked about the incredibly transparent lie Rio was using to cover for his split lip. Whatever the actual story was, it was becoming incredibly apparent that he wasn’t going to share it with them… yet. If there was anything Ricky was good at it was being aggressively supportive and caring until people opened up; and a very nice pancake breakfast in the immediate future was going to be his first plan of attack. He tuned back into the conversation just in time for Winston to spin a ridiculous lie about the state of his studio, one he found himself narrowing his eyes over the top of his mug at Winston for, “It isn’t my fault that you don’t understand the complicated and incredibly personal way my art is organized. I think it really speaks volumes to the fact that you haven’t gotten to know me in the deepest parts of my soul that you think it’s messy. But Winston’s right about the couch. We’ll have a room made up for you tomorrow. Maybe take a little ikea road trip. Get some of those swedish meatballs and a bed with a name that has too many vowels.” He levered himself off the couch and started to gather the empty glasses, “Don’t worry about my recovery,” He gave Rio’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as he walked past, “Just worry about yours.” 

Okay, so clearly they didn’t believe him. Orion was at least telling like 60% of the truth. 50/50 at the very least. But they seemed to be playing along for now at least. He figured they would come back to it eventually, but he seemed to be safe for now. “Okay. Got it. But no Ikea trip. I don’t have enough money yet. And you aren’t buying me anything. I have a sleeping bag that I can use until I can buy more stuff.” He did not want them paying for any of his stuff. He already had a free ride here as it was. At least until he could find a job and have some kind of income. They had already done way too much for Rio. “The only thing I need is a wifi password. If I have that I’ll be happy.” He sighed when Ricky dismissed Rio’s concern over Ricky’s health. “My recovery is a bit different… I didn’t break anything.” And if he had, it would heal within the week anyways.

Winston was glad that Ricky wasn’t pushing the split lip and that they had gone along with Winston’s incredibly transparent lie. Ricky was a neat freak and the idea that they could be a hoarder was beyond belief. But they knew that it made things somewhat better for Orion and they were happy that it made things a little easier. Laughing, Winston shook his head. “Rio you don’t get a choice about the IKEA trip, Ricky did the exact same thing to me when I moved in, I think he just likes an excuse to eat nothing but a plate of meatballs. But you can say no as much as you like, you’ll just wake up to a room full of flatpacked furniture or a you’ll find yourself on your way to IKEA without knowing about it.” Winston paused for a moment and nodded. “Of course, this is the wifi password and you should be able to connect to extenders throughout the house, there’s also a sound system you can connect your bluetooth too and you’re welcome to use the TV or the PS4 or any of the other stuff until we’ve got your stuff set up…” they shrugged. “Every wound is different Rio, you’ll just complain less about yours then Ricky does about his.”

“Listen to them. They speak the truth. You either get to help pick things out and listen to my amazing roadtrip playlists or you miss out on meatballs and get a surprise as far as furniture goes. Your call. But we’re turning that into a bedroom. After we clean up……. My mess.” from behind Rio’s back Ricky flipped Winston off and moved back to the kitchen, rinsing out the glasses and putting them in the dishwasher as he attempted to listen to the conversation from a slight distance, “Exactly what they said!” he called back, before walking back to the living room wiping his hands on a side towel, “Also all the food in the fridge. It’s not… overflowing right now because we need to make a grocery run but anything that’s in there you’re welcome to. And if there’s anything you want us to pick up at the store just let one of us know.” Flipping Winston off again he gave Rio one of his warmest smiles, “You can complain about it as much as you want. We’ll always listen.” 

Orion sighed again. Apparently he couldn’t escape the Ikea trip. No matter how much he argued. He could find a way to pay them back eventually for anything. He just needed to keep a tab on the things that he owed. He wondered if he could casually ask what a reasonable rent was. Considering it was Harris Island, Rio figured that it was not cheap. His mind began racing, trying to decipher how he was going to juggle a job with schoolwork and what he was trying to do with the Scribes. But he was going to avoid stressing about that for the time being. He had some ideas in mind on how he could lighten the load. He would figure something out. Tonight was about trying to destress and relax. As much as possible. “Okay, okay. Just- I do own some things. So we will move my stuff into here and then we will assess.” At least he was here. And not with his family. This was way better. “Thanks, I appreciate it. I will keep that in mind.” They pretty much told him he had free reign of the house. As if he was already their roommate. Good people. “So are there any like ground rules? Like a sock on the door thing or something? Not for me, obviously. I won’t be having anyone over. But like uh- in case one of you does? Should I steer clear?”

Smirking at the surreptitious middle finger that was shot their way, Winston grinned a little and nodded. “I’m glad that you’ve accepted your inevitable fate which includes copious quantities of flat packed furniture,” Winston winked playfully before swallowing a good portion of their whiskey. “Sure, we can go round to your house and grab whatever you need whenever you need it,” Winston gave them a reassuring smile, “and if you need to borrow anything in the meantime we’ll try and sort you out.” Winston frowned before nodding. “I guess the first ground rule is just be honest with us, we’re not unreasonable guys and I’d rather get a shitty text about my dishes not being done then a passive aggressive post it note. Second, we’ve got a security system that isn’t completely … mundane. You’ll be fine because you’re not really what it is aimed at but just keep that in mind. I’ll show you how it all works tomorrow and I’m actually working on a phone app so we can control everything in the house all at once in one place. As for having people over, I’ll give you pre-warning if I’m having guests….” they hadn’t thought about Athena in a bit, they wondered how she was doing.

[thegreatantonchekhov]

Love

By Anton Chekhov

Translated by Constance Garnett

“THREE o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy!

“My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange, incomprehensible feeling. I can’t analyse it just now -- I haven’t the time, I’m too lazy, and there -- hang analysis! Why, is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?”

This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole pages, and copied it all over again. I spent as long over the letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order. And it was not because I tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one’s study and communes with one’s own day-dreams while the spring night looks in at one’s window. Between the lines I saw a beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at the same table writing with me, spirits as naïvely happy, as foolish, and as blissfully smiling as I. I wrote continually, looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that trellis Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was saying good-bye to Sasha I was thinking of nothing and was simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty woman; when I saw through the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly, as though by inspiration, knew that I was in love, that it was all settled between us, and fully decided already, that I had nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities.

It is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly putting on one’s hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and to carry the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky now: in their place there is a long whitish streak in the east, broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale light. The town is asleep, but already the water-carts have come out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle sounds to wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox, slightly moist with dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter, wearing a bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but something between.

If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble air. I, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings.

I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain.

Well, to facts.... Next morning at midday, Sasha’s maid brought me the following answer: “I am delited be sure to come to us to day please I shall expect you. Your S.”

Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation, and the misspelling of the word “delighted,” the whole letter, and even the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart with tenderness. In the sprawling but diffident handwriting I recognised Sasha’s walk, her way of raising her eyebrows when she laughed, the movement of her lips.... But the contents of the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, poetical letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why should I go to Sasha’s house to wait till it should occur to her stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone together? It would never enter their heads, and nothing is more hateful than to have to restrain one’s raptures simply because of the intrusion of some animate trumpery in the shape of a half-deaf old woman or little girl pestering one with questions. I sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to select some park or boulevard for a rendezvous. My suggestion was readily accepted. I had struck the right chord, as the saying is.

Between four and five o’clock in the afternoon I made my way to the furthest and most overgrown part of the park. There was not a soul in the park, and the tryst might have taken place somewhere nearer in one of the avenues or arbours, but women don’t like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a penny, in for a pound -- if you are in for a tryst, let it be in the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one runs the risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up to Sasha she was standing with her back to me, and in that back I could read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that back and the nape of her neck, and the black spots on her dress were saying: Hush!... The girl was wearing a simple cotton dress over which she had thrown a light cape. To add to the air of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a white veil. Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak in a half whisper.

From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point of the rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha was not so much absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of the gloomy trees, my vows.... There was not a minute in which she forgot herself, was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from her face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor Ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. How is one to make out in such circumstances whether one is loved or not? Whether the love is “the real thing” or not?

From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the beloved woman in one’s bachelor quarters affects one like wine and music. Usually one begins to speak of the future, and the confidence and self-reliance with which one does so is beyond bounds. You make plans and projects, talk fervently of the rank of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance of life to assent to it. Fortunately for men, women in love are always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of life. Far from not assenting, they actually turn pale with holy awe, are full of reverence and hang greedily on the maniac’s words. Sasha listened to me with attention, but I soon detected an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not understand me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its external aspect and I was wasting time in displaying my plans and projects before her. She was keenly interested in knowing which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room, why I had an upright piano instead of a grand piano, and so on. She examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked at the photographs, sniffed at the bottles, peeled the old stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something.

“Please collect old stamps for me!” she said, making a grave face. “Please do.”

Then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate it.

“Why don’t you stick little labels on the backs of your books?” she asked, taking a look at the bookcase.

“What for?”

“Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to put my books? I’ve got books too, you know.”

“What books have you got?” I asked.

Sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said:

“All sorts.”

And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what convictions, what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way: “All sorts.”

Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially engaged, and was so reckoned till our wedding. If the reader will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, I maintain that to be engaged is very dreary, far more so than to be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man is neither one thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not reached the other, he is not married and yet he can’t be said to be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of the porter whom I have mentioned above.

Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my fiancée. As I went I usually bore within me a multitude of hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. I always fancied that as soon as the maid opened the door I should, from feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my neck into a sea of refreshing happiness. But it always turned out otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fiancée I found all her family and other members of the household busy over the silly trousseau. (And by the way, they were hard at work sewing for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles’ worth of things). There was a smell of irons, candle grease and fumes. Bugles scrunched under one’s feet. The two most important rooms were piled up with billows of linen, calico, and muslin and from among the billows peeped out Sasha’s little head with a thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed me with cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room where I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are permitted to behold. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in the dining-room and converse with Pimenovna, one of the poor relations. Sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some other boring object.

“Wait, wait, I shan’t be a minute,” she would say when I raised imploring eyes to her. “Only fancy that wretch Stepanida has spoilt the bodice of the barège dress!”

And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went out of the house and walked about the streets in the company of the new cane I had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a drive with my fiancée, would go round and find her already standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and playing with her parasol.

“Oh, we are going to the Arcade,” she would say. “We have got to buy some more cashmere and change the hat.”

My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with them to the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to listen to women shopping, haggling and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt ashamed when Sasha, after turning over masses of material and knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop without buying anything, or else told the shopman to cut her some half rouble’s worth.

When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared and worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake, having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being too dark, and so on.

Yes, it is a bore to be engaged! I’m glad it’s over.

Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study reading. Behind me on the sofa Sasha is sitting munching something noisily. I want a glass of beer.

“Sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . .” I say. “It’s lying about somewhere.”

Sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three heaps of papers, drops the matches, and without finding the corkscrew, sits down in silence.... Five minutes pass -- ten. . . I begin to be fretted both by thirst and vexation.

“Sasha, do look for the corkscrew,” I say.

Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her munching and rustling of the papers affects me like the sound of sharpening knives against each other.... I get up and begin looking for the corkscrew myself. At last it is found and the beer is uncorked. Sasha remains by the table and begins telling me something at great length.

“You’d better read something, Sasha,” I say.

She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her lips.... I look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink into thought.

“She is getting on for twenty. . . .” I reflect. “If one takes a boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them, what a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions and some intelligence.”

But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and moving lips are forgiven. I remember in my old Lovelace days I have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one foolish word, or for not cleaning their teeth, and now I forgive everything: the munching, the muddling about after the corkscrew, the slovenliness, the long talking about nothing that matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort of will, as though Sasha’s mistakes were my mistakes, and many things which would have made me wince in old days move me to tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness of everything lies in my love for Sasha, but what is the explanation of the love itself, I really don’t know.

NOTES

Lovelace: Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) was an English poet

[larryfanfiction]

Fairy! AU

🍃 May We Stay Lost On Our Way Home by LoadedGunn (74k)

Harry thought he had a handle on things. He hasn’t gotten papped in over a month, even the most zealous of fans have given up on finding his location, the Fortress is starting to look hospitable, and Niall just learned how to make shrimp bisque. Even having a massive crush on a gorgeous mythical woodland creature was working out for him.

Most of the time.

On March 31st, Harry Styles disappears. Though many speculate, only two people know where to find him: Niall, his former guitarist, and Zayn, who follows where Niall leads.

The fact the biggest boy band in the world broke up two weeks earlier might be related to the disappearance. The fact Harry meets a fairy named Louis in the woods is a whole other matter.

(Liam is a centaur.)

🍃 hold on to your stars before they fade by adelagia (31k)

The first time they meet, it is sunrise, and Harry is naked.

(Or, the one where Harry is a lost fairy, and Louis takes him in.)

🍃 got me losing every breath (i’m latching onto you) by kissingiscool (14k)

It’s a blur to him, chasing Louis down from point A to point B, through a maze of pathways and a chorus of short giggles, chromaticity of canary and fern as dirt sticks to the soles of his running feet, and he feels alive, more alive than he’s ever felt in all of the twenty-five years of his life. More alive from the time he first when skiing. More alive than from when he had his first kiss. Just looking at Louis gave him a new definition of alive. He doesn’t know how long he’s been chasing, but the pounding of his heart and huff and puff of each breath that’s punched out of his lungs is so addicting that he doesn’t ever want to stop chasing him.

(or an au where louis is a fairy with a fear of thunderstorms and a talent of knitting and harry is a vet with three cats and a lot of love.)

🍃 Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule (93k)

“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?”

Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.”

Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?”

“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.”

or: Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren’t exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

🍃 Away With The Fairies by Snowy38 (22k)

Harry liked pretty things.

Mostly the ornate flowers that grew around him, the trees majestically climbing towards the sky, sometimes the little colourful birds that flitted around in the branches of those trees.

Harry’s wings themselves were considered beautiful, big butterfly-like shaped things glistening pink in the light but white underneath, almost translucent.

He fluttered them behind him, feeling the breeze brushing off them. He was high up where he could see the most, studiously watching the human life on the ground below.

He shouldn’t be here of course, he was beyond the borders of the part of the forest where his kind lived, but he couldn’t help it.

Because Harry had found the prettiest thing of all.

🍃 Collision by itjustkindahappened (207k)

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

(Featuring Liam, the big and not-so-bad wolf who’s got a thing for humans, Zayn, a human with supernaturally good looks, and Niall, the cupid who just wants his job to be easier.)

🍃 I Won’t Treat You Like You’re Typical by moutonrose (5k)

Louis is a pixie and Harry is an elf. They meet at X-Factor auditions and fall in love.

🍃 Boiling Blood Will Circulate by whoknows (42k)

The wait isn’t long before something starts rustling in the bushes. Harry takes aim, squeezes the trigger, body moving unconsciously. They’re motions he’s done a thousand times before, and his body knows how to do it without the input of his brain now. It’s what makes him such a good shot.

He misses. The shot misses.

Something howls in the woods, a pretty clear indication that Harry hit it, but there’s no telltale sounds of a big body dropping, no animal charging out at him to take him out before he can finish the job.

Something does turn and run, though. “Fuck,” Harry spits out, scrambling to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, giving chase. He’s not going to lose this hunt.

The trail of blood goes on longer than Harry thought it would. He doesn’t know how long he runs for, but his muscles are burning, chest heaving with exertion, until the trail just - goes dead. No more blood, just like that.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

🍃 Gently As She Goes by graceling_in_a_suit (33k)

Louis had been Harry’s best friend for as long as she could remember. She was a shoulder to cry on, a head of hair to practice braiding on, a mind as mischievous as Harry’s to scheme up antics and pranks with, someone to fall asleep next to when the nights were cold or when they both got lonely. Someone to dance with, to learn with, to laugh with.

They were girls together.

Then Louis left.

A modern fairytale (literally!) featuring a quest to bring a lost girl home, celtic goddesses, braiding, friendship, true love, and magic.

🍃 Delight in Masques by kassio (27k)

Popstar Louis Tomlinson has been pulling one over on the mortals for years. In the five years since he put on a human illusion and tried out for the X Factor, none of them have realised that he’s one of the Fair Folk – a cat shapeshifter, to be precise – and he’d like to keep it that way.

When he returns to the X Factor as a guest judge, the last thing he expects is for some half-Siren fool to use magic on the judges. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Harry Styles does. Now Louis has to track down some rogue changeling before he exposes them all. Even worse? Apparently, Harry doesn’t even know what he is.

(An urban fantasy adventure, set in the world of - but not crossing over with - the October Daye book series. No need to be familiar with those books; I just want to give credit where it’s due on a lot of the worldbuilding.)

🍃 The Prince Of Light by jacaranda_bloom (35k)

Louis was found abandoned at a hospital at six months old and adopted by an older couple who raised him. Now twenty, he studies by night and by day works as a live-in au pair for a family with three little girls. One of the girls, Holly, swears there is a Garden Fairy coming and eating treats she leaves out in the cubby house each night.

When the family goes away for a two week holiday, Louis is secretly tasked with feeding the Fairy. While laying out the food one night he falls from the cubby house and is found by Harry. Harry is different and Louis is fascinated. But as Louis learns how different Harry really is, he discovers his own true home and a very surprising past he never knew.

Cue badgers, bananas and cookies, soulmates, a whole other world, and a future he’d never imagined.

🍃 The Fairy Ring by thedeathchamber (46k)

Harry has dreamed of a world outside the tiny village of Holmes Chapel for as long as he can remember… a world full of magic and adventure and true love. It was nothing but a childhood dream, however, until an old family friend comes bearing word of a plot against Harry’s life and a very dangerous truth: Harry is the rightful heir to the crown and must embark on a perilous quest to reclaim his throne from the ruthless would-be King Simon. But in the end Harry will find himself fighting for more than a crown, and on the verge of losing something much more precious than his sovereign power. Because magic might be real, but life is not a fairy tale, and Harry is a prince up against a very big dragon.

Or: a medieval fantasy AU in which Harry is a prince in disguise and Louis is the king of the faeries.

More Masterposts