#but thank you.. i think. i like to think Screaming Academic means i sound vaguely coherent most days

[xxplastic-cubexx]

I feel like you are an english or art major or maybe both... am I wrong.. the way you speak screams academic.. maybe.. some sort of science

ooooh so close !!!! im a psychology major

[jangofctts]

Sink Your Teeth In (Part 2 of Are You In Or Out?)

Rated: Explicit (Paz is in the next chapter DONT WORRY)

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, the cold?, reader is in PERIL YET AGAIN, vaginal fingering, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (wrap them schlongs yall), brief hand jobs, swearing, angst, very VERY light choking, din is a sub sorta?? bottom energy 

Summary: Well. At least you aren't dead. After a solo hunt gone wrong, you’re dumped in a cave on Csilla. Hopefully someone finds you before you freeze to death.  

a/n: hey…so uh. HOW ABOUT THAT EPISODE HUH?!? aheM anyway--yall I just wanna thank everyone first off for all the love and support!!! I see all of your comments and tags and AH IM SO LUCKY TO HAVE ALL OF YOU GUYS. ALSO SPECIAL SHOUTOUT TO @djxrxn​ THIS WOULDNT HAVE BEEN DONE WITHOUT YOU BB GORL

Well—

Here you are. 

Taken by surprise by another bounty, further proving how irrevocably incompetent you are at this line of work. You blame the binders. An older, clunkier model—easy to pick if you’re clever enough and yes. Maybe you should’ve asked to borrow a carbonite chamber, but hey—where’s the fun in that? 

Not much, as it so happens. 

Your feet had been kicked up on the dashboard, dozing and unaware of the freed bounty creeping up behind the pilot’s seat. Something delightfully blunt smashed against your temple, jolting you into a brief conscious state where the only thing you could think before passing out again, was a resounding— 

Oh, fuck me sideways with a fucking lightsaber—

The rest is hazy. A blur of colors and the fuzzy shapes of your bounty’s face sneering in amusement when she bound your wrists and ankles and left you in the cargo hold. Vaguely you recall your ship being commandeered, swung into an unidentified atmosphere and landing on said unknown planet Or planets. Planet hopping to cover up a trail. 

The bitter cold, sharper than a needle through skin is what shook off the last dregs of unconsciousness. The bounty’s hand was hooked into the collar of your clothes, dragging your limp body through drifts of snow and ice. You would’ve fought back—should’ve even though each extremity felt like a numb block of lead. Not very useful in a fight…

Soon, the snow turned to mud and the mud to stone as a mouth of a cave slid over the impossibly blue sky. Dumped in a cave, and left to die—perfect way to bite the dust. Your bounty turned captor lands a sharp kick to your ribs, mouthing some curse in a language you don’t understand, and left without a second thought. 

Seems about right. You have a knack for lying helpless and half dead in places you ought not to be in. 

Two days and counting, you’ve been holed up in this blasted cave with no food, no supplies and no comlink. It’s going be a fucking chore to find you—nearly impossible. You’re lucky in that aspect you guess—you know enough bounty hunters to sniff out a a needle in a whole stack of needles, so all it is is a race of time against the elements and how long it takes for one of them to notice.            

Aeris is no help. He left a day before you had—hired as personal protection for some syndicate leader halfway across the galaxy. Ives is in a similar boat, off-world and unavailable to drag your ass out of the hole you’ve dug. Which leaves…

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb. Anytime you even think of those two a migraine cumulates behind your eyes. It’s…it’s not like anything bad happened in the aftermath—there’s been no fallout or arguments with barbed words as weapons. It’s been quiet. Like stepping onto a sheet of cracked transparisteel in a library full of tight-lipped academics. 

The questions lurk under the surface of every conversation and longing look cast your way. You’ll need to clarify and sort things out eventually, but fuck—it’s such a mess of frazzled heartstrings and fine strands of impossible thoughts that lead into an endless void of doubt. You’re shoving that emotional time bomb to the very back of your mind—everything is still so raw…  

So you ran. 

Picked up any and all jobs that the Guild provided just to escape the looming decision of confronting a certain pair of Mandalorians. That and with them having their own tasks to complete, it was rare to see them, let alone together in the past few weeks. A simple run in here and there in the halls of the Covert, but you were too busy to stop and chat—forced a chaotic schedule upon yourself as an excuse to avoid staying in once place at a time.    

Coward.

The word knots in your stomach like gnarled tree roots escaping their prison of dark soil on untrodden land.  

Maker—how did everything become so tangled? 

You draw your knees up to your chest and release a long, drawn out exhale that echoes through the cave. You sniff and force the swell of tears that prick at your eyes away. You’re pretty sure they’ll freeze and you’re not hoping to find out. 

The only good thing about being dropped on this Maker-forsaken, wasteland devoid of anything but snow, is the free ice for the nasty gash on your forehead. A nice little parting gift. 

It’s shallow…you think—it stopped bleeding the night before and is now just a scabbed over, tender wound that throbs whenever you move your head too fast. Concussion maybe—a mild one.  

Maker willing when someone finds your sorry ass they’ll have bacta. Or a blanket. Either would be peachy.     

Sitting up with a wince, you shuffle to the mouth of the cave for the thousandth time and scour the skyline for a familiar ship. Or, any ship really. The only thing you do see is a lonesome wisp of cloud against the grayish blue sky much to your chagrin. You scowl and stalk back into your little hovel and slump back onto the ground. 

The hours drag on, the watery light of the dying sun barely doing anything to warm you. Sulking is hardly what you should be doing—not great for the burdened mind and all that, but ah, it’s so fun to wallow in misery. You curl your knees up to your chest and you must slip into a doze because when you’re snapped back into the present, footsteps punch through the frozen tundra outside your cave.  

Adrenaline crackles down your spine—the bounty changed her mind. Ultimately decided she’d be safer in the long run with you dead. Fine.

If this is where your grave is going to be, might as well get in one or two punches. What’s another black eye anyway?

A shadow flickers at the mouth of the cave, curling around the wall as she draws closer. A brown boot kicks through the snow and— 

“Changed your mind? I—“

Your words die on your tongue as relief floods your veins. Din Djarin stands before you, a sight for sore eyes in these trying times. 

Frost glitters on the burgundy chest plate, glinting in the dim sunlight that touches the mouth of the cave. A delicate feathering of the dainty crystals that no high end lace maker could ever hope to mimic curls up the front of Din’s visor and eats away at the edges of his cloak. His heavy step forward reverberates off the walls, some of that ease replaced by the prickle of dread. His silence is unnerving. 

“Din,” you say again, just so he’ll say something. “I can—“

You move to stand, but he interrupts with a halting;

“Sit.”       

Your mouth snaps shut and you drop back on the floor. This…is not good. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches you and every muscle in your frame tightens like a fist wrapping around your ribcage and squeezing. The precise edges of his helmet are not a forgiving sight and even when he kneels onto one knee you have to resist the natural urge to flinch. Like this, despite hunching over, Din is broad. All hard muscle and sinew amplified by the bulky layer of beskar.   

Your tongue runs over the insides of your teeth as you track his hand that he thrusts foreword. You hiss and jerk away at the sudden needly pain when his gloved thumb finds the edges of your head wound. A low sound of disapproval filters out through the helmet in a low metallic buzz. 

“You won’t need stitches,” he says. Din reaches into one of his various supply pouches and pulls out a tiny vile of bacta. He casually pulls off his right glove, unscrews the vile and smears the bacta over his thumb. This time you don’t make a sound, even though your nerves scream at the razor like sensation of his thumb working the bacta into the damaged flesh. He doesn’t ask how the injury happened and you don’t care to tell him. There’s a time and place for stories about battle scars and near misses—it’s much too fresh to be spoken of right now. 

The brief torture finally ends after once last glance over for other presenting injuries. He finds none, replaces his glove and stands with a muted grunt. You know what’s next. You’d rather avoid it—you aren’t keen on the berating lectures—as deserved as they are.      

“I found your ship on Sato 3,” Din begins with a growl. “Imagine my surprise when I found your bounty selling it for parts.”  

Ah, there it is. You wince and study your fingernails. “Pile of junk anyway…”

“I thought you’d be smarter about these things,” he snarls, his sharp tone deadly enough to slice through bone. “Was the hole blown into your lung not enough for you?”

You swallow and bite your tongue.  

The bristling Mandalorian, continues and jabs an orange tipped finger at you. “You are reckless.”

Your chest constricts as you look away, shame blooming in the pit of your stomach.This is a new facet of Din you’ve never encountered. You aren’t naïve—even the most docile of people can harbor a temper, you know that. And you know Din is by no means passive—he’s an elite warrior equipped with a small arsenal at his disposal. You don’t expect him to coddle you or treat you different than any other companion; but…but it’s hard not to take his ire to heart. Not when it’s the kind of anger that boils deep in your chest and erupts with molten streams that leaves scathing wounds and blistered feelings.  

You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood and avoid his piercing gaze. You think if you do you might catch fire and burn to a crisp. “I’m sorry.”   

The meek apology settles in the air like a heavy fog. Din’s anger still brews, looming and dark but he reigns in his temper and switches out the searing cadence of his words with chilly informality. You’re not sure which is worse.   

“No more bounties.” 

“What?” Your brows knit together. The fuck does he mean.  

“No more hunts alone—“  

You interrupt with a scoff. “You’re grounding me?”

He strides across the small space and plants himself on the opposing wall. “Until you’re competent enough, you have no business being out in the field. You might as well be bait at this point.” 

“Competent.” You echo through clenched teeth.  

His helmet dips, leveling a steady glare of indifference. “The Crest is a half cycle’s walk from here. In the morning I’m taking you back to Nevarro.”   

“I’m not a child. You can’t just,” you throw your hands up in dismay, “ban me from bounty hunting.”    

Din’s armor clinks together as he moves to sit. He rests one elbow on his propped up knee, extends his other and rolls his helmet to meet your eyes. “Your actions reflect the Covert now. We can’t risk discovery because of one stupid mistake or a careless loose end.”    

That hadn’t even crossed your mind. Stars, you want to smack yourself. Your ship, as shitty as it was, hosted a good chunk of sensitive information, all encrypted and translated into binary. A mediocre slicer could hack through it in hours. Not exactly foolproof but hey, at least you had something. Good thing your bounty wasn’t in the market of selling stolen ships to the Empire. 

“Din?”

The Mandalorian makes no noise of affirmation that he heard you. You sigh and take his silence as a go ahead and clear your throat. “How long was I gone for?”

Here, in the cave it’s been nearly three days, but the rest of it you’re not exactly sure. Hunting the bounty down took up at least a week or two and even longer to capture her and there’s no accounting for the time lost after your ship was commandeered. Your teeth roll over your bottom lip as you wait for him to respond. 

“Almost two months.” He replies evenly. “Your transmissions were cut three weeks ago and I didn’t think anything of it. Comms are always patchy in Wild Space."

Leather creaks as his fist balls at his side. “You didn’t answer for days. Paz and I tracked the ship to Sato 3, but you weren’t there. Do you know how difficult it was to pick through all the planets recorded on your log?”

You blink and return to picking at your fingernails. 

“You weren’t easy to find, I—“ He severs the rest of his sentence with a crackling sigh and tilts his head back. “You’re lucky.”    

The hesitance lacing his words makes you bite your tongue, the snarky retort crumbling to ash in your mouth. Din doesn’t bother to filter his words—he’s blunt. Efficient and to the point when he does decide to speak. That…well that was different.   

He was worried—

You rub at your cheek—numb with the cold and curl into yourself. Din was worried. Easily the most feared bounty hunter in the parsec, worried that he couldn’t find you.   

A different cold—one that settles deep into the marrow of your bones and hugs your soul with a sheet of frost, makes a home in your heart. The severity of what could’ve happened replaces that sheen of hilarity and fuck. You were closer to freezing to death than Din finding you here—alone in some stupid kriffing cave.  

Somehow the idea of that is worse than the brief brush of eternal slumber you had on Nar Shaddaa. Up to that point you expected to die young—no harm and no foul in it either. You had no attachments, no debt to pay—a drifter in an endless galaxy.    

Now you’re here, buckling under the weight of mismanaged friendships and your uncanny skill at weaseling into any and all trouble. 

Neither you or Din jump to fill the silence. The ashes of disaster settle in nicely with the frozen echo of an endless winter.      

It’d been a couple hours shy from sunset when Din arrived, the sun providing weak light that hardly touched the mouth of the cave. Now as the shadows grow longer and with the temperature dropping, the two of you are swallowed up by the unyielding darkness of night. 

Din shuffles and fishes out the solar light from his supply bag. It clicks on and warm, orange light illuminates the cave. It bounces off his beskar, fracturing the light like a million tiny suns in the tempered metal and in the impossibly dark visor. He looks up, and tosses the light over. 

You catch it easily and despite the warmness of the light it emits, it offers no heat for your chilled fingers. You set it to the side and tuck your hands into your armpits. 

By no means is the cave warm—the natural thermal vents kept the ground dry and free of the ice and snow that rages outside, but it doesn’t protect you from the occasion chilly draft that cuts through each layer you wear. Then again, you weren’t planning on taking an unexpected vacation on Csilla. No time to plan really.  

You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest and cast a glance at your ever radiant ray of sunshine across from you.  

He looks nice and cozy—leaned back against the cave wall, one leg crossed over the other while his hands sit intertwined just below his navel. The beskar must provide insulation—maybe a fancy heater in that bucket of his, or maybe he’s just too stubborn to show anything other than indifference.   

Another bout of shivers tear through your frame and you’re certain Din can hear the enamel of your teeth clack together. You shove your hands deeper into your armpits and tuck your chin into your chest to preserve heat and pray that sleep isn’t far off—can’t be cold if you’re unconscious.    

Metal scrapes over stone as Din readjusts himself and you can feel him looking at you. It’s not a terrible weight to bear; intense and analytic, sure and in the past it would’ve unnerved you. Now, instead of it feeling like he were peeling back each fibre of your soul each time he stares, it’s familiar. A pattern of sorts—

It happens each time Din wrestles with an uncertain question. He deals in absolutes, and it’s no surprise he rarely knows what to say to you. 

“You’re shivering,” he states. You roll your eyes. “Are you cold?”

“Boiling, actually,” you snip. “Why else would I forget a jacket?”

A sharp hiss of air crackles through the vocoder. “Don’t get mouthy with me. It was a simple question.”

“Well—there’s not much to do about it,” you sneer, watching your breath condensate in the air. “I’m freezing, exhausted, and hungry.”       

You know you’re being snide—but your nerves feel like they’ve been severed at the root with a dull vibroblade. You have neither the time nor energy to spare for simple questions. Din should understand that—seeing as he’s a man familiar with short temperament.

The space between you is ripe with crackling tension, and maybe—if you weren’t so fucking cold—you’d play the mediator. Thread stitches into the gash you both sliced into your friendship, as small it may be. You’ve lost friends over less—this could end up no different.

You sigh and turn your head. This is a problem for tomorrow. 

Irritated and upset, you squeeze your eyes shut and chase after sleep. You slip in a doze faster than expected, any and all discomfort fading away a you toe the line between a deeper sleep and waking dreams. You think you imagined Din saying your name—Maker you can’t even escape him in your own fucking head—  

It doesn’t end—like a nagging buzz that swells until it’s right near your ear. Spite spurs you to ignore It and exhaustion convinces you to drift further away. That is, until a hand, gentle and warm curls around your shoulder. You once again hear your name rumble low through Din’s helmet, but it’s much too difficult to open your eyes. Why can’t he leave you be? You barely feel the cold now…

“Stay awake.” Din sounds distant, in some other plane of existence despite the steady hold he has on your arm. “Maker—you’re colder than kriffing ice.” 

“Go away,” you grumble through numb lips. Such a pest.  

He’s talking—but the words don’t make sense. Muddled—split between that hazy line of dreaming and consciousness where you can’t decipher what’s real. His hands however—you can feel those plain as day. A bare palm cups your cheek—shreds through the layer of frost you’re positive has crystalized over your skin and rouses you to a more coherent level of presentness.       

“Don’t quit on me yet—“

“Nah,” you mumble. “I’m hard to…to kill. L-like a scrap rat…”  

Din grunts in response. “Rat is a compliment. You’re more of a spider-roach.”

The ends of your mouth quirk. It’s the best you can do—a full smile just might push you to the brink of death.        

“C’mon—I won’t let either of us freeze,” Din sighs. His fingers find the magnetized latches on his cuirass and it slips off with practiced ease, the armored thigh plating following a moment later. He neatly sets it to the side and grabs his cloak to fasten it around you. With another sigh, Din shuffles in behind you and wraps an arm around your middle, nestling his legs and body snuggly around yours.   

Maker—you don’t have time to bother about the intimacy of this because all you’re drawn to is the furnace like heat. Fuck, he’s so warm. You have only a second to enjoy it before your body begins to thaw—bringing forth waves of achey pain.   

His chest molds to your back, both arms curling over your own arms that are scrunched up tight around your chest. You shake in his hold, vicious waves of cold clashing against his body heat—it hurts—like sticking your bare foot into hot coals.     

You squirm, little gasps of discomfort slipping out that echo around the cave. Din shifts, tucking you further under his body until he’s nearly crushing you. It’s a bit tricky to breathe like this but hey—you’re not complaining. Not when your nose is buried in his soft undershirt that smells purely of Din.   

Your fingers and toes still throb as they thaw, but it’s working. Cuddling Din Djarin to stave off hypothermia—sounds kriffing ridiculous. 

“You’re still shivering,” he says. “I might…”

Your breath catches in your throat as he trails off. “Might what?”

Another shiver wracks through your body as his frosty helmet catches on bare skin when he dips his head in embarrassment. You don’t quite catch what he says and he doesn’t bother to clarify. “Forget it.”  

You turn your head as much as you can, straining your eyes to meet the strip of visor. “Tell me.”

He mumbles under his breath again and cuddles closer, slotting his hips against your ass. “Might know…know another way to keep us warm…”

Oh. 

A spark breathes to life in the pit of your tummy. You wiggle onto your back, your nose brushing the vizor. “Does it involve me taking off my pants?” 

Din huffs, his hands, previously latched onto your hips, starting to crawl up your waist. “It could…”    

You smirk and rock your hips back, eliciting a low growl that rumbles through his chest. With your whine of approval, Din’s hand slips between your legs and gives the meat of your inner thigh a squeeze. You let your knees fall open as far as they can in this position and it’s all Din needs to cup your cunt through the thin material of your trousers. 

Crackling pleasure flood your veins as the heel of his palm grinds into your clit, and while the pressure is nice, it does nothing to satisfy. Only feeds the growing flames of desire with brittle kindling. 

You pull at his undershirt and whimper, thrilled once his deft fingers, calloused and thick unlace your pants and yank far enough down to fit his hand. His fingers trace your outer lips, a ghost of a touch as arousal swells in your stomach. He parts your folds once your wetness begins to dribble out and coats his fingertips with your arousal. 

Stars—you need him. You arch into him and whine. “Touch me. Din, please—“ 

You jerk as Din’s thumb swirls a slow circle over your clit, a rush of endorphins surging out like unrefined fire whiskey. Din’s head tilts to watch you writhe over his fingers and the sudden chill of his helmet touching the inside of your flushed neck steals away your next inhale. Goosebumps race down your entire being, adding to the influx of your excitement that pools in your lower belly.       

Your hands tangle into his undershirt, pulling him closer until you can’t find where he begins and you end. His heart pounds in his chest, thrumming to the dance of your own heart that yearns to break free from your ribcage. Your breath catches when two of his thick fingers tease at your entrance. Your walls flutter around him as the slip in easily.   

His fingers roll forward and stroke against something devastating inside of you, and he when his palm rolls back, it bumps against your clit with that divine firmness you need. Your cunt tightens around the two digits as they curl.  

“Fuck. Can you hear yourself?” He pants, groping your breast to elicit a high pitched wail. “You always make—make such pretty noises.” 

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at his words and fuck. You’re already dipping head first into release. A moment later you’re arching into his chest as every muscle stiffens in a crescendo of bliss, your stuttered breathing harsh even to your own ears.  

Your quick pants fog up his visor as Din rests the crown of his helmet on your forehead, the metal a cool relief to your flushed skin. He slips his fingers out of your dripping cunt, your chest still heaving with exertion as the last strands of your high fizzle and ebb away. Din shifts and and snakes his fingers, still shiny and wet with your arousal, beneath the lip of his helmet and sucks them clean with an appreciative groan.  

“Fuck—“ You breathe, pushing your face into his hand as he cups your cheek. Din’s thumb brushes over your cheekbone and swings his leg over your hips to hoist himself over you. 

“Do you remember...” He starts, his voice buzzing through the vocoder. His fingers tickle down your cheek and trace the parted outline of your lips. “When you let me taste you?”

You nod, and it’s all you’re able to do. You’re not even sure you can formulate words, let alone voice them right now. 

Din’s thumb pulls at your plush bottom lip, and you can’t help but slide your tongue along the digit. He grunts and slips his thumb into the wet heat of your mouth. “I think about you every night…how you came on my tongue—”

Your stomach flips as a rush of arousal sweeps through your tummy. You groan and you’re half sure you’re gonna dissipate into the floor from how hot your cheeks burn. “Din—"  

He continues without missing a beat. 

“You were so fucking wet for me—dripped all over my hand,” he murmurs, nuzzling his helmet, still chilly and frosted over, into the crook of you neck.  “I want to do it again—can I?”

You’re nodding before he even finishes his sentence. He wasn’t the only one longing for his head between your thighs on those long nights apart. Remembering those plush lips and addictive touches could only get you so far and well—he’s here now. You said it once and you’ll say it again—there’s no chance in hell you’d be passing up this opportunity. 

Din lifts his head and as you watch the light glitter in the reflection of the beskar, a sudden stray thought ricochets into the forefront of your mind. “Din, the light—your helmet.”

He pauses, his body tensing as he mulls over his options. “It’s—I—it’s ok…It’ll be ok.”

Din inhales a stuttered breath and casts a brief glance over his shoulder. It’s a dim light, kicked into the corner and laying on its side. From this angle, his face would be partially obscured in shadow…but still. There are easier ways to go about this. Ways that don’t risk jeopardizing the very foundation of who he is—what he stands for and what he so devoutly follows.    

To say you know anything about his religion is laughable. Everything you know can fit on the back of a thumbtack and even still, you’re sure that half of that is still based upon rumor and speculation. But this—what Din is hinting at, you know is not something to be taken lightly. 

He’s stripping his soul bare for you—allowing you to glimpse at that bleeding heart of his he guards so securely within layers of flesh and bone and impenetrable beskar. Din is gifting you his trust and there’s no where else to put it except for the space beneath your breast bone.   

Yet, even still—this could mean nothing at all. You have no way to know the exact magnitude of what this means to him. If he’s alright with this, who are you to question?

He mumbles one last thing about the light and sits up. Goosebumps rush up your bare skin at the loss of the heavy warmth of his body. You whine and curl up closer to his legs, greedy for any spare iota of heat like you’ve been denied it your entire life.   

Maker you hate this fucking planet—   

Your attention snaps back to Din when he makes a noise of uncertainty. His hands are cupped around his helmet—hesitant, nervous and you suspect if Din’s hands weren’t plastered so tight around the metal, he’d be shaking. You chew on your lip and prop yourself up. 

Cautiously, so as not to startle, you reach up and curl your fingers around his wrist. You can feel his pulse thrumming through his veins—alive, flesh and bone like you. Not some heap of sentient metal built for the horrors of war. You don’t know why you do it—just seems right to pull the fragile and vulnerable skin of his inner wrist to you mouth. You plant a gentle kiss there and smile when he cups your cheek.           

“You don’t owe me anything, Din,” you say, staring into the darkened depths of his visor. “Least of all this.”    

Some of that tension held in Din’s shoulders melts. He utters something in that clipped language of his people, and the only thing you can make out is your name. He lurches foreword and fuck—you’re terrified for a split second he’s gonna cave your skull in but instead he lightly bumps the crown of his helmet over your forehead.      

“I want to. For you—only you.”

Din doesn’t leave any time to unpack all of that. He sits up again, wraps his hands around the beskar— 

The metallic thunk of the helmet reverberates through the cave like a crack of thunder.    

You were right. 

You can barely see his face—if you really look, you can see the murky outline of his nose, dark hair and a sliver of his tan skin that the light touches. Attractive—but you knew that already. You touch his cheek and smile, your thumb catching over wiry facial hair and soft skin. Din makes a sound low in his throat and pushes his cheek into your hand. 

“I still want to taste you,” Din says, his voice richer when stripped of that tinny vocoder. You like listening to him speak without it, you think, and it’s a damn shame you never get to hear it. “Please.”     

Before he can escape and fulfill that fantasy, you yank him into a blinding kiss. He kisses the same—all wild edges and with desperation lining each motion—but there’s a new found tenderness here. Like he’s savoring each gasp and every brush of skin you grace him with like it’s your last night left in the galaxy.   

He breaks away from your mouth and peppers kisses and nips down your jaw, then lower as you arch and expose the bare skin of your throat. There’ll be a plethora of bruises tomorrow, and with no hope to cover them either but fuck it—Din can leave as many hickeys and teeth marks as he wants. 

If not for the cold still latching onto your very soul, you’d ditch the shirt; give Din better access instead of him needing to shove a hand up under and grope at your breasts. He gives the fabric an annoyed tug, but it’s fruitless. There’s no use when there’s better things to be sought. 

He shoves your shirt as far up as it goes, shivering as he mouths down your stomach, licks around your bellybutton and sucks a bruise onto your hipbone. Your pants are already pulled halfway down—one sharp yank and they’re around your ankles and off in the next breath. 

Cupping your knees with both hands he gingerly spreads your legs and drapes them over his muscular shoulders. Din rubs his patchy haired cheek along your thigh and hooks his hands under your ass, his ivory white teeth catching the light as he smiles.  

“Fucking perfect—“ He groans, planting his lips over your inner thigh. His tongue swipes a wet line up, stopping just before your aching cunt to dig his teeth into the sensitive flesh. You jump at the burst of pain and shoot a hand down, tangling your fingers into the soft curls atop his head.  

Din grunts and jumps to your other thigh, leaving no inch of skin neglected and without evidence of his teeth and lips. By the time his thumbs touch the outer lips of your cunt, the aching need for him is burning you from the outside in. He has to still your twitching hips with a calloused palm, and only after you settle does he surge forward. 

His tongue meets your swollen clit, ripping a tangled cry from you vocal cords. He’s just as eager as the first time he tasted you, if not more—every action backed by needy abandon. He sucks at the bundle of nerves then sweeps his tongue lower. Din’s thumbs part your lower lips as he runs his tongue though your soaked folds, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit that send delicious sparks throughout your whole body. Little noises and breathy gasps fill the cave, encouraging Din to push his tongue deep into your aching entrance. 

Your hand fists into his hair as your hips stutter and rock into the searing heat of his mouth. The noises you make are obscene, and Din is no better. Each pass of his tongue over your pussy is matched with his own deep moans that vibrated against your clit. Fucking hell he’s devouring you alive.          

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, robs you blind and crashes over you in deep waves that drag you out to sea and never to be found again as you spill onto his greedy tongue. Your fingers are threaded tight in his hair as you squeak and press harder into his mouth, riding out your pleasure until it shifts and becomes raw and sore.  

Din doesn’t pause for even a second—all too happy to stay put between your thighs for eternity. Your legs are trembling when you force his head away, a nice, tingly warmth settling into your limbs 

A dark thrill rushes down your spine when he looks up, wild hair and mouth covered in your slick. If not for the low lighting you imagine his eyes would be glazed over and Maker you want him again. Din swoops down and presses his mouth to yours, the taste of yourself heavy on his tongue that slips past the seem of your lips. 

You whine after he breaks away and sits up—an opportunity for your eyes to roam down his body. He’s still got his trousers on, a considerable bulge tenting the front. With a smirk you reach up and grab a handful, delighting in Din’s startled grunt. “Easy.”

You flash him a wry smile and give his clothed cock a playful squeeze. “Take them off.” 

Din huffs and pulls at the drawstrings. “Needy.”

He says it with no bite and no coquettish retort on your end springs to mind—especially when his thumbs hook into the waistband and pull. A slow reveal of sun-kissed skin and a sparse happy trail that your eyes eagerly drink up. 

Din’s cock bobs as his trousers fall around his knees, tip shiny and wet and curling towards his navel. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach out, a rush of arousal pulsing through your core at Din’s low moan. He’s heavy in your hand, deliciously thick and throbbing—and all of it for you. 

Din gasps out your name as you lightly squeeze and stroke down, your pace dreadfully slow and teasing. Who knows when you’ll get another chance like this—a Mandalorian willingly on their knees for you.           

Your other hand slips up his chest as you stroke him, intent on grabbing a handful of his thick hair that curls softly against the column of his neck. Your fingernail lightly scrapes across his nipple and he sways, pitching forward before he catches himself and straightens. Din’s eyes are squeezed tight, chest heaving with shallow pants as a smirk tugs at your lips. 

“It’s ok, Din,” you whisper. “I won’t break.” 

Your fingers twist into the hair at the base of his skull and guide him back. He slumps forward with a sweet moan, laying his weight onto your body that you’re all too happy too bare. His nose is nestled into the slope of your neck as his hands lock around the dip of your lower back while the other cradles the back of your head, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. 

Something snaps and crumbles deep in your soul that bleeds the heartstring blues, humming with broken chords in the presence of Din’s soft fragility. Your hand moves from between his legs to instead wrap around the wide expanse of his back, squeezing him tight to your chest. You hold each other like there isn’t tomorrow to look forward to and you wonder if this is how it feels to fall apart. Two spinning halves of a supernova torn apart and destined to collide and shatter into a million fragments of dazzling light.  

Yes, you’re scared he might blind you or burn you with his brilliance, but you can’t look away.      

Your fingers crawl up his muscled thigh and settle on his hip. “Lie down for me?”

There’s no hint of hesitation or complaint as he maneuvers himself onto his back, patiently allowing you to clamber over his legs and straddle his hips. His cock rests on your inner thigh, pulsing and leaving a dribble of wetness every time it twitches.    

“Good boy.” It’s subtle but it ripples out like a heavy stone thrown into a still lake. Din shudders and says your name in a cracked whisper. He rolls his hips, both of you groaning at the sensation of his cock running along your dripping center.     

Another time for that game maybe. 

Your desperation is running hot and wild to have him inside you and you know he’s in a similar boat. You grab the thick shaft of his cock and grind the tip of him through your lips, breath hitching when it extracts such a perfect moan from the man below you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads, clamping his large hands over your hips. “Fuck—I need you.” 

How can you deny such a request?

You line the wide head up with your aching center and slowly work him in. Shivers wrack through you, and Maker—he’s splitting you apart, molding your insides to the shape of him. Beads of sweat dot your hairline by the time you’re seated fully on his member, the both of you pushed even closer towards madness.  

Din squeezes your ass and props his knees up, rolling his hips up into you. You whimper and tip forward, propping your palms over his chest as he sets the pace. You may be on top but there’s no changing the bold colors of power and lust that cloud his mind, fueling the brutal movements of fucking up into you. Your thighs burn already and Maker—why the fuck are you already tired? You’re not doing any of the work.  

Quicker than lightning, Din curls forward and manhandles you onto your back. You squeak as he grips your thigh and yanks it around his narrow hips, thrusting in deeper. His right hand crawls up the front of your shirt and wraps his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. His thumb hovers over the dip at the base of your neck but he makes no move to press down—just allows the weight of his palm to do the work. And fuck—it works. 

Choked garbles of his name pass through your lips as you buck and squirm in his hold, feeling your arousal begin to drip down the back of your thighs. You’re skirting the edge of sizzling release that alights your nerves with liquid wildfire. Your nails harpoon into the meat of his shoulders as your eyes squeeze shut. Din won’t allow it.      

“Look at me,” Din snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “I want to—to watch you cum for me.” 

A blush scalds your cheeks but you listen. Your eyes flutter open for him, sliding to the dark shadows of his eyes that sweep you into their own gravity well with no hope to escape. You don’t mind. 

“You’re so g-good for me—always so perfect.”

White hot light bursts behind your eyelids, and that’s all it takes. Your body seizes, your cunt squeezing impossibly tight around his cock as you cum. This one is different—steals your breath away and leaves you a broken husk of a person lost in most delectable forms of agony and pleasure. The cry of his name pierces the air only spurring the Mandalorian into a jarring pace to seek his own peak of ecstasy.  

Din’s nose nuzzles into your neck, his pants hot and sharp against your flushed skin. “You f-feel so—fuck. Say—say my name.”

You leap to his request and with a playful nip to his earlobe, you whisper it to him with the sweetness of starcherrries and the promise of better things. 

He tips over the edge, his hips faltering into no discernible pace as he cums. Din buries his teeth into the skin below your jaw, a mess of whines and begging gasps of nonsense as he fills your cunt to the brim. 

Your harsh breathing mingles as you both lazily slip down from your high. He rests his head over your sternum, listening to your beating heart that drums in a wild staccato as your fingers carefully comb through his hair. If not for the ache in your hips you’d keep him here forever. Din pulls out and you both groan at the loss. 

He doesn’t completely move away and you’re glad for it. He brushes his knuckles down the expanse of your cheek and dots a tender kiss to your hairline. Your name rumbles low in his throat as he shifts lower and gives your ear lobe a playful nip. His stubble scrapes along your neck, and you can’t help but giggle and squirm—but the weight of his body keeps you pinned. Your name slips from his lips a second time, breathy and drawn out in a sweet sigh, like he’s savoring the sound of each syllable and roll of the tongue. 

Din lifts his head, only slightly—near enough that his nose bumps into yours and his lips scrape along yours that are still parted and wet. “I—can I tell you something?” 

You cup his cheek and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be quick—but instead he leans into it, guiding your mouth into a slow dance of sticky sweet movements that are caught in a slow draw, like crystalized honey abandoned in a glass jar. You’re enraptured by his touch—his skin mottled with scars yet somehow still unfairly soft. He smells of snow—like metal and soap and something gentler, that’s uniquely Din.            

Fuck—you can feel your mind slipping away, wrapped up so snugly in his presence you almost forget to answer. “Yeah—anything.”

Crackling static suddenly rips through the cave, startling you both. A distorted voice chatters on the comlink that lies forgotten beside your pants. It blinks and the transmission ends just as abruptly. With a sigh Din brushes it off and tilts his head to tempt you into another kiss but—

Whoever’s trying to patch through is persistent. 

His lip curls in a scowl and snatches the comm. “Jorhaa’ir.”

You only catch your name being mentioned twice as rapid Mando’a is exchanged. Aeris maybe judging by the tone, but no that’s not right.   

“Wait—is that Paz?”

The muscles in Din’s shoulders tense, confirming your suspicion.

“Is everything ok?” Din doesn’t resist you when you pry the comlink out of his fingers and patch in. “Paz?”

Your heart skips a beat. 

“There you are,” the comlink crackles and you smile. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” 

Stars—you didn’t think you’d miss hearing Paz’s voice. Your chest aches. 

The conversation is short, he asks you how you are and when you’re coming home and in the time it takes to answer, Din is peeling himself from your body. While you're distracted, he pulls on his pants and sits at the edges of your vision.

You both pretend when you say goodnight to Paz, return the comlink and crawl into his arms that nothing has festered with savage detachment. You don't remember to ask him what he was going to say and he lets you forget. The golden heart that bleeds molten ichor slips from your sight and becomes shut behind walls of beskar and bushes of thick thorns and overgrown ivy.         

He still holds you, but it’s the coldest you’ve ever been. 

Tag List: @teaofpeach @corrupt-fvcker @nelba @datmando @ben-is-a-hoe @dreams-like-clockwork @aeryns-library @auty-ren @huliabitch @anxiety-riddled-mando @phoenixhalliwell @cptnbvcks @thesoftdumbass @krissology @starlite41 @legally-a-bastard @basslinedweller @cloud-of-roses @elenamiria @goldafterglow @maybege @equalstrashflavoredtrash @wandxrlust @hdlynnslibrary @calamity-queen @sgtbookybarnes @pinkninja190 @lackofhonor @darthstyles @spacegayofficial @absurdthirst​ @blue-writes-a03​ @max--phillips​

[edelwoodsouls]

maybe in another universe - ch. 1 [fic]

Jon isn’t expecting anything good when he’s evacuated to the countryside. Living with his crush rival he can just about handle. The secret magical world in the upstairs wardrobe, on the other hand, might just break him.

AKA: Narnia AU

Word Count: 2,707 | Also on Ao3 | Other Chapters: 2,

chapter one: the train to everywhere

As the train leaves the station, Jon doesn't look back.

The corridors outside his carriage are filled with other kids, craning their necks out of the windows to wave at their parents, tears streaming down their faces. It's a mess of loud noise and emotion that makes Jon wholly uncomfortable.

There's no one for him to look back to, no one to share tears with. No one to yell at him, you'll be home before you know it! and have fun, dear! it's okay!

He curls his arms around his suitcase and stares out the opposite window, at the vanishing buildings. Smoke shimmers over the horizon, mixing with the clouds, and Jon tries to imagine the view from above. When the planes fly overhead, do they recognise the smothered lights flickering below? Do they spare a thought for the bodies on the other side of the flames?

The corners of his suitcase begin to dig painfully into his skin.

Before he can spiral any further, the door to the compartment rattles open with a sudden gunshot sound that sets every nerve in his body alight.

He flinches and turns to see a girl roughly his own age, head swathed in a dark blue hijab, pressing her lips in an apologetic line.

"Sorry," she shrugs noncommittally, inclining her head. "Is that seat taken?"

"Uh, no."

"So I can take it?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks." She shoulders her way into the room, heaving her own suitcase up onto the rack above their heads with an easy movement. Jon grips his own sheepishly - several blows to the head have taught him that he is nowhere near strong enough to haul it up that high.

The girl settles into the seat opposite him, retrieves a book from the recesses of her thick navy trench coat. It's a weathered copy of The Iliad, well-thumbed and annotated.

He's leaning forward curiously before he can help himself.

The girl looks up with raised eyebrows. "Nosy much?"

"Sorry," he shrinks back behind the large bulk in his lap. "I just- I used to have that same copy. Before..."

The girl's face softens, infinitessimly. "It's one of my favourites," she offers, almost apologetically. "I started keeping all my books in the shelter a few months ago. It's the only reason this survived."

Jon says nothing - there's nothing he can really say. In this moment, they are just two strangers, sharing a burning world.

"I'm Basira," the girl says, with a decisive look. "I'm from Finchley, being evacuated to Dorset. You?"

"Uh- same," Jon blinks, surprised. "I'm Jon. I've- I've never seen you before?"

"I mean, I imagine you go to the boys' school."

"Not until last year."

"Oh."

Jon glances down at his hands, hoping Basira can't see the way his fingers are white-knuckled against his suitcase.

"Well, I was new before-" she waves her arms vaguely, "all this. Home-schooled. So not really surprising."

"Oh." Slowly, one by one, Jon allows his muscles to relax. "That must've been nice. Quiet."

"That's one word for it," Basira mutters in a way that implies a hundred other meanings than nice. "I was really looking forward to actually getting to know people, y'know? New people, my own age."

"Well, you know me now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do."

Jon tries for a smile, but it comes out as something more of a grimace. All the same, Basira seems to get the sentiment, and returns it.

~/~/~/~

Martin hates trains.

In theory, they're the perfect vessel. Hours of uninterrupted time, the world moving beneath your feet as you curl into a seat with a hot cup of tea and your favourite paperback.

But he hasn't been on a train since his mother sent him away to London, and that sort of memory tends to leave one with a distaste by association.

Now here he is, only a few years later, being sent away again.

He's just glad his mother refused to take him in. He's not sure he could bear going back to that house, potentially indefintiely.

All the same, he's trying to make the best out of the journey that he can. He's heard horror stories of other evacuees, forced to work on farms or taken in only to be used for their ration cards. If that's the sort of fate he's headed for, he'll take the luxury of a nice cuppa and the drafting of a few poems whilst it's still there.

And he really is in the perfect place for it. The smouldering London skyline behind him, the fathomless countryside ahead. A world in flux and chaos, defined in fire and water.

He notes that down in his journal.

"Any good thoughts?" Melanie asks through a mouthful of sandwich.

Martin blinks up at the girl sharing his compartment, an embodiment of chaos if ever he's seen one. She's lying across the seats opposite him, her suitcase open and contents strewn everywhere - she'd been digging through it to find something inane which turned out to be in her pocket the whole time, and hasn't bothered to pack it up again.

Martin's hands itch to tidy the space - instead he grips his pen a little too hard and settles for a quzzical smile.

"Your writing," she points with the corner of her sandwich. "You look very deep in concentration and dramatic. Any good thoughts?"

"I suppose," he shrugs, retreating somewhat under Melanie's energetic gaze. "Something about dichotomies. Peace and war, fire and water. City and country."

"Men and women, nurse and soldier. Alive and dead."

Martin raises an eyebrow. "I guess."

"Hey- if there's any time to be morbid, it's during a war, dontcha think?"

"True. Do you write?"

"Nope. I do photography, though."

Martin can feel himself getting interested despite himself. "Really? Do you have a camera?"

Melanie nudges at the pile of clothes somehow still heaped in the boundaries of her suitcase, revealing the packaging of a beautiful, sleek camera piece that makes Martin fall a little in love with this stranger instantly.

"Is that a Retina I?" he asks, unable to quite keep the awe out of his voice.

"You really know your tech," Melanie says approvingly. "Yeah, it is. I'm going to be a supernaturalist."

"A what?"

"A supernaturalist, Martin. I'm going to be the first person to prove that ghosts exist. I'm going to get one on film."

"Huh."

Martin deliberately avoids Melanie's eyes. To believe in the supernatural is not generally approved of, let alone to talk about it with the sudden reverence and conviction that have crept into Melanie's voice.

He's gotten very used to pretending he's never seen anything out of the ordinary. The smoke that follows him around like a shadow, the spiders that seem to understand him just a little too intelligently - they all have mundane explanations.

He's never met someone so open about such things.

He lasts a matter of seconds before his tongue gets the better of him. "What've you seen?"

Melanie grins, as if she's been waiting from the moment they met just for him to ask. "I got shot by a ghost."

Martin almost knocks over his tea. "I'm sorry?"

"I got shot by a ghost."

"Yeah, you said that already. What I meant to say was, what the fuck?"

Melanie looks delighted to have his attention. She reaches down and rolls her sock to her ankle, revealing a garish red scar screaming across her leg. "London's full of ghosts, if you hadn't noticed. They just love the chaos that's going on right now, always wandering all over the place when the streets are empty and everyone's hidden in their shelters."

"I'm guessing you're not one for shelters," Martin says dryly, attempting to smother the sheer confusion and excitement doing battle in his brain.

"Of course not," Melanie scoffs. "They won't let me enlist because I'm a girl, but, I mean, have you seen some of the boys in charge of Finchley's bomb clearance?"

"A lot of them were in the year above me at school," Martin nods. He could say far more bitter things, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"They're kids, just like us," Melanie nods, a furious look in her eyes. "I wouldn't trust them to protect me from a particularly vicious duck, let alone the end of days raining from the sky."

Martin grins in agreement. Despite initial perceptions, he's starting to like Melanie a lot.

A shame they'll only get to know each other for this one train ride, likely never to hear from each other again. Unless Melanie does actually become famous for photographing ghosts, and he becomes famous for his poetry, and maybe they'll meet at a gala sixty years from now and not recognise each other at all.

Martin mentally kicks himself out of that particular spiral. He's always had a problem with melancholy, and the world being on fire has hardly done anything to improve him.

He's convinced it's what makes him a good poet.

"Hey," he says, to distract himself. "Where are you being sent to?"

"Some professor," Melanie shrugs. "Probably a stuffy old bat who'll put you to work if she finds a single fingerprint in the dust. Academics are all the same, from what I've seen."

Martin looks down at his own tag, brown paper tied with fraying string, looped around his neck by a disinterested attendant at the posting office. He hasn't actually had the nerve to read the name yet.

His heart picks up. "Melanie... it's not Professor Gertrude Robinson, is it?"

~/~/~/~/~

"...But Patroclus called to his comrades with a loud shout: “Myrmidons, ye comrades of Achilles, son of Peleus, be men, my friends, and bethink you of furious valour, to the end that we may win honour for the son of Peleus, that is far the best of the Argives by the ships, himself and his squires that fight in close combat; and that the son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon, may know his blindness in that he honoured not at all the best of the Achaeans-"

"Achilles is such an idiot," Basira interrupts, rolling her eyes and flipping the coin in her palm in absent, distracted movements.

Jon raises an eyebrow and lowers the book. "I can stop, if you'd prefer."

"No, no, you're okay. You've got a surprisingly good voice for this stuff. I'm glad you suggested it."

They've been taking turns reading aloud, switching out every few pages to pass the time, since Jon has no books of his own. But Basira seems to have quickly decided that Jon is a born narrator and delegated all further reading to him.

He's been glowing faintly from the praise ever since.

The journey has flown by - as time often does when Jon's hyperfixations make an appearance - but for once he doesn't feel guilty about indulging it. Basira seems just as fascinated, somehow, and he greatly enjoys her interruptions.

"You don't think Achilles is an idiot?" she asks, crossing her legs and leaning forward intently.

"No, I definitely do- he sends his boyfriend out to fight a war he isn't prepared for just because of a grudge and then throws a tantrum when that hubris gets him killed. He's definitely an idiot."

"Oh good," Basira says, visibly relieved. "For a moment there I thought we were going to have to argue."

Jon laughs, and the sound comes easier than it has in a while. This realisation crawls under his skin, cutting the sound short. He looks out of the window for some semblance of escape-

"Hey! Look!" He points out at the approaching train station, a quaint thing, barely more than a slab of stone emerging from a field. But the sign, rusted as it is, reads the same as the looping handwriting on the label around his neck does.

"Oh joy," Basira sighs. "Countryside air and a new family who'll probably hate me."

"Where are you being sent?" Jon asks, more hopeful than he's willing to admit. "Maybe we'll be neighbours."

"The household of Professor Gertrude Robinson," she reads from her own label.

"So am I!" Jon's heart leaps high in his chest despite himself. "You know, if we're with a professor, she might- I mean, she probably isn't a rough work kind of person- so maybe... this won't be so awful after all?"

Of course, Jon has always had a habit of speaking too soon.

~/~/~/~/~

Gathering Melanie's discarded belongings is a predictably chaotic affair, but she executes it with the practiced air of someone who lives that way every day.

Martin can't decide whether he's excited or dreading living with this girl.

As soon as they sprawl out onto the platform with seconds to spare, Martin realises that Melanie's mess is the least of his worries.

Because perched on the station's only bench, face knitted into his iconic perpetual frown, eyes squinting against the sun, is Jonathan fucking Sims.

Next to his suitcase, and wearing a knitted jumper several sizes too big, he looks tiny. The tall hijabi girl standing on top of the bench, looking searchingly into the distant fields, only serves to exaggerate this.

Melanie notices the sudden drain in his skin immediately, and follows his gaze. "For fucks sake."

"You know him?" Martin asks faintly, resisting the urge to brush his hands through his hair, or smooth his clothes. Jon doesn't care what he looks like, doesn't care about him. He should've learnt back in primary school that being rivals isn't something to be romanticised.

But his heart doesn't seem to get the message as a stray gust of wind dances in Jon's dark hair, and it skips a beat.

"Do I know Jonathan fucking Sims?" Melanie grits out, heaving her suitcase roughly over one shoulder. "That guy is such a wanker. 'Ghosts are for idiots, Melanie. Just a romantic ideal made up by delusional people afraid of the dark.'"

"He's not that bad," Martin begins to protest before he can stop himself, "he's just been through a lot."

"Doesn't excuse him being a dick," Melanie grumbles. "Not to mention he used to date my girlfriend. Always having a disaster and blazing back into her life. What I wouldn't give for five minutes one on one, I'd teach him..."

Melanie goes on muttering under her breath, but Martin barely hears, because Jon has just met his eyes and nothing else in the world matters. There's surprise, then panic, before his expression settles back into a frown.

Martin sighs. It's not as if he should've expected anything else.

"Come on," he says to Melanie, picking up his suitcase. "We'd better get it over with."

The walk to close their distance seems to take hours, and somehow no time at all.

"Martin," Jon greets him with a clipped, emotionless tone.

"Hey, Jon," Martin smiles, refusing to let the other boy's walls get him down. "And you are?"

"Basira," the girl nods, still standing high above them and glancing distractedly towards the dirt path, likely looking for whoever will be along to pick up evacuees. "I guess you guys already know each other?"

"They go to school together," Melanie brushes off the explanation, before introducing herself, too. "Now we're all acquainted, how long before we never have to see each other again?"

Basira's eyes flick silently between the three of them, clearly noting the tension, but saying nothing.

"We're in the same house," Jon says stiffly. "I don't know about you two. I'm sure there are other benches you can loiter at."

"Well we're in the same house," Melanie shoots back, linking her arm with Martin and holding tight. She's a lot stronger than she looks.

An awful thought dawns on Martin, quickly encompassing and eclipsing anything else. "Where..." he swallows around his dry throat, "who are you guys with?"

Martin watches as Jon's eyes widen. Glance down at his own label, across at theirs, and back.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Martin wants to burrow into the ground and hide somewhere his blushing cheeks could never be seen. He shouldn't be surprised, really. This summer was already looking down, being far from London, living with strangers, adjusting to pretending to be whatever fit in most.

Living with the crush who hates his guts is somehow the only escalation that makes sense.

[arthurjdrake]

For Keeps : Alain & Arthur

Summary: A phoenix and a hunter go into a bar. (aka Amelie and I somehow never posted a doc we wrote like 3 months ago don’t judge us) >_> Parties: Arthur and @carbrakes-and-stakes

Recent events had come to show that sometimes meeting new people (Leah especially) didn’t always go terribly, and the little he’d experienced of Alain so far from their online conversations gave Arthur a strangely positive vibe. He couldn’t say what it was, but shared interests were certainly a scene setter for an interesting afternoon over beer if nothing else. Though it transpired with recent revelations that his interest in Alain was further vested in gauging just what sort of person he was and just what Evelyn saw in him that made her interested in being with him. Call it protective curiosity. The Perfect Pint was a decent enough establishment and one he frequented if only for the full plate of good food and Guinness they had on tap. A sizeable establishment with light filtering through slightly grimy windows, it smelled like an ashtray but was relatively clean by most pubs standards. Not to mention the presence of several dart boards and snooker tables for patrons to use if they so pleased. Wooden stools lined up against the bar resembled careless soldiers. Two were occupied and Arthur was five minutes early. So he leaned on the darkwood bar, occasionally sipping a cool pint of Guinness while watching the highlights scrolling on the screen and wincing at a particularly nasty tackle.

Alain pushed the door to The Perfect Pint expecting to have a peaceful moment for once. No hunting, no arguing, not questioning everything. Just chatting with someone with common interests and seeing where that led. Not going to the Silver Bullet for once would also be a nice change. It must have been months since he last went to a normal bar. Being greeted by the sound of football matches and people playing pool was a nice change, and it reminded Alain of the few weeks he had spent in Europe a couple years ago. Now he did not care much for the smell of cigarettes, but if this was all he could complain about, then he would not complain at all. Recognizing some customers as he made his way to the counter, he nodded politely and took a seat with the man he figured would be Arthur. If not, then things would probably get awkward really quick. “Bonjour,” he greeted him, figuring that would be enough of a tell. The bartender approaching, he ordered himself a pint of Amber Ale and turned his attention back to Arthur. “I hope I’m not late.”

There weren’t too many people in town Arthur felt he could go down to the pub to simply have a drink with, he was woefully short on friends who weren’t so studiously academic that it was kind of funny to imagine them in a setting like this. Plus, it reminded him of home in an inexplicable way. From the smell to the darkwood features of the pub, like his local back in Twickenham. Occasionally he glanced at his wrist-watch checking and rechecking the time, the smooth carved wood of its casing a familiar comfort in its proximity. As a figure approached and sat down beside him he turned, body-language relaxed and comfortable, an amicable smile warming his features upon hearing the French. “Salut,” he greeted with a small dip of his head, taking a moment to just study Alain, taking in the years around his eyes and features, the stubborn lingering grease around his fingernails and a missing finger as well. Interesting. Arthur vaguely remembered him saying he was a mechanic in a past conversation. A bit rough around the edges but he could see the appeal though it was the personality he was more intrigued to learn more about. “Not at all,” he laughed quietly at the sentiment with a shake of his head “no, I’m just partial to being early.” He let Alain order before he leaned back a little, “so you own the garage in town right? How’s business been going for you lately?”

If Alain could feel like he was being scrutinized, he didn’t mention it to Arthur, and instead, pretended to look just about anywhere else. He had never been here, so this gave him a good enough excuse not to be attentive. “Is it really how pubs look in the UK?” The place looked like a postcard, and a whole lot like pubs that claimed to be authentic, and he couldn’t quite decide if it was really close to the actual thing or a caricature. Clearly, the mime places weren’t as authentic as they claimed to be, so maybe this was the case here as well. He rubbed at the corner of his eye with one finger and thanked the bartender as he came back with his drink. “Do you actually speak French or…” either way, there would be no hard feelings, but once again, he was curious, which was a good indicator : a bored Alain did not ask questions and hardly spoke. Taking a sip from his pint, he leaned back a little in the seat and nodded in reply to Arthur’s question. “Business is doing alright. I’ve had a few good months with the falling fish. Lots of shattered windshields, lots of intensive cleaning too,” scratching the back of his neck, he shrugged. With the big lobsters, a bunch of cars had been roughly damaged, and considering he had to spend some time off work, all those events had helped keeping the cash coming. “What about you. You’re a teacher, right?”

“It’s not a bad imitation of one considering they even have an old geezer eating roasted peanuts” Arthur admitted eyeing another patron at one of the tables in the corner. “Plus this is the only place I can actually catch games when they’re on, even if it is at like one AM… Granted it’s worth staying up if only for the Irish breakfast.” The question was met with a nod, “I speak a little to pass conversation. I’m kinda rusty and the amount of exceptions to all the tenses always catches me in one place or another…” He shrugged a shoulder taking a sip of his beer “personally, I think it’s important especially if you’re going to live somewhere for a while you know? Too many people just expect everyone else to cater to them just because they’re too lazy and entitled to learn another language.” That was a trait that bothered him about most people growing up in an anglophone environment, the lack of desire to even try and relate to people from other walks of life; forcing them to adapt from their culture. It was hardly fair in his mind. “Ha, yeah I can imagine there’s all sorts of interesting things that keep you busy. The newspaper mentioned something about screaming moose you know? I never thought I’d live anywhere that the wildlife would be much of an issue.” Or maybe he should’ve considered that before moving to White Crest. “Yeah! I teach up at the university, history and mythology department. Certainly no lack of folklore around these parts.”

“What?” Alain followed Arthur’s eyes and his shoulders shook with amusement at the sight of the old geezer eating roasted peanuts. “Alright, that is authentic for sure,” he had another sip of beer. Listening to the man talk, his brows furrowed. “You’re kidding? This is like music to my insomniac ears,” of course insomnia was a stretch, but Alain was not about to tell Arthur that he was a vampire hunter, and that as a result, he really didn’t need to sleep that much. Insomniac seemed a lot more simple. “Night entertainment and food, I’m sold,” he scoffed. Now was he surprised to hear that Arthur struggled with the french language? Not really. “Hey, if you ever need practice, you know where to find me,” he offered. It did not cost him much, and he liked chatting in his native language. Really a win win. “I agree. I mean, obviously if you’re only here for a week, there’s only so much you can do, but don’t expect everyone to speak your own language, that’s… logical,” he shrugged, refraining from rolling his eyes. “You just have to be … logical,” he repeated. Clearly things were easier for him when he visited France, but his time in Spain had been quite something, as he could only remember very few things in Spanish. “Screaming moose?” His eyebrows raised and he glanced to the side, clearly concerned. Could it be due to supernatural reasons? Possible. He’d have to ask Kaden about that one. “Clearly not. The area is quite … rich in folklore. I think we’re a good tie with Louisiana and Salem,” he agreed. “What is your favorite folklore story?”

“See?” Arthur chuckled eyes crinkling at the corners in his mirth at the token sight that seemed a staple in most pubs back home, there was always at least one. “No way! I kid about a lot of things but not that. Definitely not when it comes to a full Irish and watching rugby or football. For sure, next time there’s something on I’ll let you know, even if it does mean I have to sit and watch France play--” he lamented with a put-upon look though it was all in jest. Insomnia was interesting but hardly surprising in a town such as this; there could be any host of reasons behind it. “I might take you up on that, I find it hard not to be so formal in structuring the sentences...” Arthur tilted his glass a little “well, yeah sure but I still think if you’re going to visit another country it’s at least polite to try. It’s just always been a pet peeve, just people being so self-involved they don’t think about trying to make an effort for anyone else.” Alain seemed surprised and Arthur’s brows furrowed, “didn’t you see the newspaper? It was a while back but something about Sunday at sundown being when moose would scream? Seemed a bit weird… I didn’t know moose could scream… Just thought they trampled things.” But hey, wild life could surprise you especially in a town like this.

“Rich is an understatement,” he said with a shake of his head. “Issue is most of the stories around these parts were passed down by word of mouth… Not many actual documents to look at.” There was a spark that always seemed to light up his features whenever he got into a discussion about folklore, “oh, would totally have to be the Huldufólk - the hidden folk - Icelanders believe they’re hidden elves that live in the shadows between rocks, it’s said they love to dance and invade farms at Christmas to hold wild parties. That their origins come from the Garden of Eden, when God visited Adam and Eve, Eve was washing their children and hadn’t finished… Embarrassed, she hid the unwashed children and lied about their existence. To punish her God declared that the children she hid would be hidden from all of mankind and so the first Huldufólk came to be.” It was an interesting and unique narrative and one that had always intrigued him. “How about you? Do you take any interest in folklore?”

Pursing his lips, Alain remained silent as he turned to look at the other man, looking as offended as he looked amused by his comment on French teams. “Let’s not mention that England has not won a world cup in football since the 60s, despite being such a great nation of football, then, shall we?” clearing his throat, he took a sip of beer to hide his smile. Such an argument could go on for days, for sure, but it seemed like Arthur was not the kind to start pointless arguments. “There’s nothing wrong with that. I will admit to being less formal than I used to be,” it had been a while since he left the Babineaux household, and his speech level had grown simpler with time. “Of course. Portugal was awkward, I didn’t speak a damn word of portuguese and had to rely on one of those tiny vocabulary books,” he mimed the rough size of said book with his hands and raised his eyebrows in despair as he remembered how thankful he was that most people knew more English than he knew Portugese. “Yeah, some people do have a hard time not focusing on themselves,” scratching at the back of his neck, Alain looked thoughtful for a moment, staring into the gap. “They kind of sound like nazguls when they scream,” he finally commented, but it usually happened a bit later in the year. Alain had not exactly planned to discuss rut season, but if this was where the conversation was heading, why not?

“Like most stories. And it’s not like books or history is any better. It’s always written by those who survive, or those who won,” biased, but at least the version couldn’t change once printed on paper. You could tell how enthusiastic Arthur was about the subject, and it was refreshing. Leaning against his elbow, the hunter listened to the scholar talk about some ancient legend. The story sounded a bit too polished to be the truth, but he did not doubt that Iceland had a bunch of little folks living in the shadow. “It’s hard not to when you spend your whole life in this town. I’m afraid I don’t have stories to tell however,” clearly this was a lie, but Alain knew better than to start telling people he barely knew about his night time activities.

“True,” though Arthur raised a brow in mild challenge, “but what we do have are three six nations titles to the name in the last ten years. So I think that counts for something. You can take football, I’ll take rugby. Issue settled.” It was banterous and Arthur’s grin was cheeky in spite of himself. “You tend to get that way with time, formalities are nice but they can be so constricting to adhere to all the time.” He snorted a little at the comparison, “oh Gods don’t ruin Nazguls for me like that. No no that’s not allowed.” Lord of the Rings was sacred in this sphere and nothing, especially no moose screaming was allowed to ruin it.

“I mean that’s true of almost anything in life. It’s just nice to actually have some hard evidence to work from rather than just the word of mouth. At least that way you can start to deduce what influences there might’ve been on a source.” Perhaps the story was too polished, too easily wrapped up but it was a nice tale nonetheless. Not everything in the world had to be all doom and gloom. So what if there were elves that liked to play games and pull tricks. “Huh, really? Did you grow up here?”

“Heh, fine,” then coughing to jokingly hide what he was about to say, he added in a hurry, “Football’s better anyway.” Obviously coughing was not meant to really hide anything, and he found himself laughing. Shaking his head, he ran a hand in his hair and sighed heavily. “Formalities are fine by me, although I wouldn’t hope to see me ‘formal’,” he scratched at the corner of his mouth, shook his head and took a sip of beer again. Once again he found himself laughing at the man’s reaction. Alain really would have to stop insulting everything Arthur liked. “Nazguls ruined themselves on their own. Moose have the right to ruin them more,” it appeared they had yet another thing in common. Although he was never an hardcore fan, he still remembered the first time he read the Hobbit very fondly.

“Fair enough. I just feel like history is really biased and often misinterpreted too,” you just had to look at what people were taught at school. Maps placing their country in the middle of the world, wars lost barely mentioned… “I did grow up here. But no, no stories,” not any he wanted to tell. “I can however bore you to death about astronomy. Or myths related to constellations, although you probably already know them all.”

It wasn’t the worst, Arthur rather enjoyed a challenge and the fact Alain seemed willing to challenge ideas in a joking fashion was a good sign for the man’s own personality. “Noo!” he protested with a laugh waving his hand as if to try and stop the insults light-hearted as they were “that’s not allowed, only the waters of Bruinen are allowed to completely wreck the Nazguls or a hobbit with a frying pan. Sheesh these are the sorts of debates I used to get into with Evelyn. The real issues of life.” It wasn’t entirely true, this was one facet of many that he and Evelyn had discussed but Arthur was curious to see how Alain would react to hearing her name.

“It often is, but I think that’s part of the challenge of studying it. Knowing you have to work to try and uncover the obfuscated truth behind the fogs of what people want you to believe.” It was countless, the amount of times he’d tried to submit revisions based on contrary evidence, some had gone through while others… It was a tiring endeavor but one he’d continue to pursue regardless. “That would hardly bore me. I’ve been fascinated with astronomy since I was a child. There’s actually very little I find more interesting.”

“I don’t know,” Alain’s brows furrowed at the mention of hobbit held frying pans, and they furrowed some more at the mention of Evelyn. You could see the cogs turning and trying to figure out what this was about. Biting his lip, he shook his head. “You wouldn’t happen to be…” he tried to remember the words she used. “I think she might have mentioned that she had a favorite professor in town,” he scoffed, shaking his head. He supposed that it made sense that she would mention him to her mentor, as secretive as she could be, it was hard not to share some things.

If Alain had often had to do research, it was far from the academic kind, but that did not mean that he couldn’t dedicate entire days to gathering information on certain kinds of undead species. The hardest part was not knowing the species name and hoping to recognize characteristics in his readings. “That’s what I like with cars, they don’t usually tell lies, which makes my job a lot easier,” he doubted that cars would be something Arthur could be interested in, but he was not too surprised to hear that he liked astronomy too, but that did not mean he wouldn’t be excited about it. “Really?!” His tone of voice was unusually cheerful. “Then you have to join me for stargazing sometimes.”

It would be interesting to see what Alain came up with, and while he clearly processed the passing mention Arthur took a sip of his Guinness giving him time to think but out of the corner of his eye watching curiously. “Oh did she?” it was easy enough to feign mild surprise with just a dash of curiosity thrown in for good measure. He made a quietly amused sound, “yes, she does like to remind me of that as often as she can - along with the fact she was one of my brightest students… She’s hardly a forgettable person but if you know her I’m sure you’re aware of that fact.”

“Well, no lies if they’re built well. I once had a guy try to sell me a knockoff Bentley - full look of the thing but the insides were scavenged from hell. Luckily I didn’t agree to that deal.” While Arthur didn’t know much about cars, he knew which ones he liked and back in the day he’d raced the odd car here and there. So it was more a casual interest than a passionate hobby. The enlightened state that seemed to come over Alain’s features on the topic of Astrology - much in the same way his own lit up at the mention of mythology was interesting and Arthur could tell that whatever else, Alain was certainly someone he liked. “Stargazing? Sure, I’ve actually got a great telescope back at mine. Always try to do some Astrophotography when I’ve been out on fieldtrips… Nothing better than a long hike and taking some good photos. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

Alright, so maybe it was not completely a coincidence that he and Arthur had ended up talking to each other, although Alain hoped that they really shared the same interests. “She does leave a strong impression, a good impression,” he clarified. Even knowing that she was not really human, he couldn’t seem to be able to change the way he felt about her, and he was terrified by it, even though he liked to tell himself that if she had fed on him this whole time, he would change his mind about the woman he had feelings for. “I’m grateful we met.”

“The lies here come from that guy, people lie, not cars. If you ever want to acquire one of these, please do tell. I like restoring properly older cars. “The Continental Bentley from the 1950s is a real beauty, but hard to find in good shape these days,” the man’s enthusiasm didn’t waver as the subject changed to astronomy. Quite the contrary. “See, that’s something I struggle with. I never seem to be able to take a proper picture. I tried, but I think I’m just really not good with that kind of technology,” he liked taking pictures, and Evelyn liked having her picture taken which was a great combination, but when it came to space, it was almost disastrous. “You really need to show me. I could use that.”

“That’s true,” Arthur agreed, seeming to take measure of the answer and find it satisfactory “she’s quite a remarkable young woman.” Evelyn had been right, and from what Arthur could tell, Alain was being genuine. “How did you meet? If you don’t mind me asking?” Evelyn had been rather cryptic of late regarding Alain and Arthur was rather curious to learn the story there. “She’s a good friend of mine so I find myself interested in the people she surrounds herself with.”

While Arthur was still taking note of Alain’s general disposition, he seemed to relax into the new conversation put at ease by what he could read from the other man’s reaction regarding Evelyn. “It’s funny you mention that, I’ve got the Bentley Continental V8 here at the minute but back home I have a 1949 Bentley VI Saloon and a 1962 Chevrolet Corvette. They’re some of the best drives I think I’ve ever had on the road.” An understanding nod was given, “ah yeah, often you just have to spend a while playing around with the exposure on the camera and make sure you use a tripod to keep it stable. It’s a bugger but once you get the hang of it it’s not too bad.” He grinned clearly excited by the proposed idea “but sure, next time there’s something astrological going on, send me a message and I’ll give you a crash course. Maybe you can give me a crash course in cars.”

Young woman. He had to wonder if this was meant to be an attack or not. As far as he was concerned, yes, she was young, and yes, he was older, and it was uncommon, but it was something he and Evelyn had discussed. In the end, it was Alain who felt the least comfortable about the difference, not her. “Oh, ahem,” he mused. “Well, I was trespassing on her property, which is a great first impression apparently. I wanted to find a good spot to stargaze, but didn't know it was a private beach,” he trailed off. Yeah, that had been embarrassing, and he had considered fleeing the place the moment Evelyn disappeared to get a cardigan.

Now he was glad he did not.

“Oh.” Well he really was not a fan of the newer ones, as he found them a bit too soft looking, but he kept that to himself. And so it surprised him that Arthur seemed to like some very different cars, but he would not question the man’s taste. To each their own. “See Evelyn, she owns too many cars,” he scoffed. An understatement, although it was not really a surprise. She liked owning things, especially pretty things, and Alain wondered sometimes if there was a reason for that need. “Sure, that sounds lovely. Let’s just hope that my crash course involves no crashing cars,” shaking his head, he took another sip of beer. “I just think that people, just, everyone should know more about what’s under the hood.”

It was less an attack, more a statement of fact and Arthur’s view of evelyn. She was an incredible young woman. There was no further intention to the words than that and if he did notice any discomfort it wasn’t remarked on. He’d learned one lesson lately and that was to let some things lie. So instead, he listened to Alain’s story, leaning a little more on the bar with his interest fixed because he was genuinely curious to learn the tale and get a better understanding of his friend’s mind in this. “And did she stay out?” Arthur assumed so but better to get clarification just to be on the safe side.

“But I do have the other two older ones, I might get them shipped over at some point… I just didn’t know how permanent my residence here was going to be and I didn’t want to ship them and find myself heading back overseas you know? Too much hassle.” Though he had to laugh at the statement of Evelyn and cars, “she has too much stuff period. Always has, but I can hardly blame her for that.” Arthur had his own reasonings about why that might be the case but it wasn’t something to discuss right now. Alain was nice enough but not someone he’d chat in depth to about his long-time friends. Not yet at least. “Yeah, I’d rather not go out in a ball of flames.” The irony of that statement wasn’t lost on him. “You’re probably right, I guess it seems so foreign and alien to most people that even approaching the topic seems like a challenge. It’s kind of the same with history… or language. Some people nowadays are afraid of not being able to overcome the challenge I think.”

“She did,” he wrinkled his nose, “considering the reputation of Harris Island folks, I did consider for a moment that she was staying with me until the police arrived,” which was something that made him feel terrible, but could you really blame him. “I think she had nothing better to do,” Alain might have never been the luckiest person there was, but he always wondered what he could have possibly done to deserve her.

“I mean, that’s fair.” Alain rarely had to get cars imported, but he remembered having to import his own car from France, and how much of a hassle this had been. “I’d love to have a look at those, if you ever do get them shipped here,” he added, finishing his pint and searching for his wallet to pay the bartender. “Glad to know that she always has been this way,” he had a light laugh. Alain had given up on thinking of things he could offer her, hoping that memories could be things she would cherish more. “Let’s avoid that, yeah,” he shook his head. “People probably think it’s too complicated, too hard, too … I don’t know… That only some people are allowed to have this kind of knowledge,” the man had always been curious, and it was no surprise to learn that Arthur, an academic, felt the same way about learning new things.

“Understandable,” Arthur had met a few people that lived out that way and hadn’t been too impressed with them “Harris island folks can be pretty funny about strangers wandering onto their properties. Luckily she’s one of the better few out that way.”

“Sure, I’ll let you know if I ever make the decision to do that… Though considering how much glass damage it seems people complain about online I’m not sure if it’s something I’d really want to expose myself to… But I guess knowing a mechanic doesn’t hurt with that issue.” Setting his glass on the counter he pushed back a little. “Maybe, I guess some people just feel its unreachable for them in particular or they have no effort in pursuing the avenue to acquiring it.” Arthur waved his hand as he saw Alain reach for his wallet, fishing his card out the back of his phone case before good-naturedly adding “don’t worry about it, I’ll get them.”

“I suppose that’s what happens when you get a bit too out of touch with reality,” Alain was certain that his sister, or his parents, were the kind to react poorly to trespassers, and the reason he knew that was because he was himself not really fond of trespassers, and this, despite having spent the last two decades in the middle class.

“I don’t think soundproofing your garage is the answer to big noises, but hey, you now know a mechanic. I’m sure you’ll be alright,” the corners of his mouth tugged up, as he stood up from the stool. “Let me know if you ever feel like learning a thing or two, alright?” He frowned slightly at Arthur’s offer, but didn’t question it for too long and instead nodding, thankful. “Alright, thanks.”

With a huff of amusement Arthur grinned, “good thing people who are rational like us exist then.” With the delivery of a few notes across the bar and a tip for the waiter Arthur pushed to his feet and tucked his wallet away. “Well, nice to meet you Alain. And if you ever fancy watching ridiculously late night rugby matches just let me know.” With a wave of his hand he made his way towards the door and the walk back home in the early afternoon light.

[justjessame]

Silence Chapter 4

As we grew closer to the meeting point, Negan grew quieter. A blessing AND a curse.

I’d never been gifted at guessing anyone’s age. Even prior to the world aging everyone at an average of five years a fucking week, I sucked at it. The woman waiting for us could have been around my age, or she could have been closer to my mother’s age, had she survived giving me life. She doesn’t seem to take notice of me at all, which gives me time to study her and try to make some sense of her and Negan’s exchange, but that seems less than helpful.

Mostly Negan seems lacking in her esteem.

From their back and forth I gather that it took him far longer to murder/assasinate/decapitate Alpha than the woman he addressed as Carol had expected. While he had technically fulfilled his part of the deal, she wanted more time to complete hers. Instead of rushing to Alexandria, the community they were a part of, she wanted time alone to process. Since I have no background and it would appear that I gained the power of invisibility- Wait, if I was invisible, why not take advantage?

I was about to do just that when the slight movement caught my captor’s keen eye. Damn it.

“Elara,” his tone sounds pleading and my eyes close in an attempt at gaining strength. “Please.”

I go with him, again, and he tells me about Alpha’s daughter. Lydia, a name I didn’t know, but a child I vaguely recalled from the sightings of their group during my travels. He’d hidden her in another spot, to keep her safe from a mother who wanted to end her life. Together we go to the cabin, another of my haunts, one that I use sparingly and only during the harshest weather. When Negan enters first and a fist connects with his face, I’m stunned into submission. A wild, crossbow wielding man stands demanding answers, and I have to say, I’m both impressed and slightly terrified.

“Where’s Alpha?” He’s growling, and I blurt it out. That she’s dead, that her head is lodged on a pike at the border of their lands. “The hell are you?”

I’m glaring now. “Nice of you to ask that NOW.” I manage to bite out with an eye roll. “I’m no one of importance, clearly. Think of me as just an innocent pedestrian.” Innocent pedestrian who’s been taken hostage by a maniac, and then kidnapped by a redneck crossbow freak. My day gets better and better.

“She’s dead?” His eyes land on me again, and I nod. “Do you even know who she is?” the ability this man has to doubt my intelligence both impressive and irritating. Seriously.

“Yeah. Dumpy. Gross. Whispery. Hick. Creepy as FUCK?” Pointing with my thumb at Negan, I tell a secret that even I wish I wasn’t privy to. “He played ‘hide the pickle’ with her.”

I wish I had a camera and film. Something, ANYTHING to capture the looks on their faces. They were PRICELESS. And Negan’s sputtering attempts at explanations.

“Why’d you kill her?” Crossbow was lowered from my person, so now they could get down to the nitty gritty, I guessed. I relaxed marginally, pulling my pack from my back and sitting down.

Negan had recovered from the horrifying knowledge that I’d managed to get Alpha Does Negan Live and in Living Color quickly and started tossing shots about Daryl’s ‘girlfriend’ and some more back and forth that made me consider how many puddles of manly piss I was going to have to dodge before I could escape the testosterone fueled wonderland I’d wandered into.

Eventually Daryl insisted that we vacate the cabin. I started to argue, but I got fucking overruled. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a fucking wonderful good goddamn reason why I am NOT a joiner. Then he went a step further and tied up Negan for the trip.

“Bondage?” My eyebrow raised as I took in the ropes being tied around Negan’s limbs. “Kinky much?” Their heads raised, eyes locked on me as I kept my voice down from habit. “First the whipping thing in the forest, now ropes in this cabin-”

I’d done it again, I created a vacuum of awkwardness. Good. Now maybe they would let me-

“Come on, smart mouth-” the gruff roughneck muttered, pulling Negan’s bonds. “Let’s get goin’.”

We head back toward the fucking border. Negan and Daryl having more back and forth and I feel like the third wheel in the WORST version of a buddy cop/odd couple movie ever optioned. I’m tired, I’m bored, and I am very much overloaded on the too peopley button.

When we get to the border I nearly scream. Her head is fucking gone. And of course, Daryl the wonder brain thinks this means Negan is lying, and by extension he somehow has manipulated me into being his bard. Because Negan is so fucking what? Charismatic that my brain melted and I IMAGINED what I fucking witnessed. Um, OK.

“I saw what I saw,” I offered, moving forward toward the pike where I’d watched Carol pop the weird fucking prop earlier. “They’d never leave her here.” I muttered, thinking about her pack. “They’re creatures of habit. This line is for enemies. For the disgraced. For showing who has been taught a lesson and for a reminder. She was their leader, their saint. They’d never demean her and leave her here.”

“Are you saying-” Negan was watching me like he’d never seen me before, and he probably hadn’t. Not like this, not as the academic version of myself.

“Pack animals, or people who are pretending they’re pack animals, are habitual. Whereas they line their border as a warning for those who break ranks, they would never show their own loss or mourning in the same horrifying light.” I sighed, looking at each spot that was empty. “The last time these pikes were filled, they were filled with-” I looked at Daryl. “Your people?” His nod was curt. “Putting her head here, that’s an act of war and aggression, I hope she knew that.” I was talking about Carol, and I know that they both knew it. “You know that the leader role goes to-” I didn’t have a chance to finish. Men.

They argue about whether Negan enjoyed his time with Alpha, a gruesome topic so I went back to studying the pikes. The markers, the ground. One day, very soon, they’d learn who the new Alpha was, and I REALLY hoped they were both together and I got to see it. Fucking ignoring males.

Daryl gives up on waiting for the elusive Carol’s return to the pike line. He insists that I accompany him and Negan back to Alexandria, and I feel like a prisoner that Negan once mentioned being. Although to be fair, neither of us were bound when we arrived.

I was given a room in a house, and a little girl, inquisitive and cute, wearing an odd hat came to greet me.

“Hello, I’m Judith Grimes,” she was wearing a gun that was almost as long as her forearm and a katana was strapped to her back. I was impressed despite myself.

“Elara,” I held out my hand and hoped I was smiling. Negan stood beside me and she grinned up at him, which I found strange. “I think you must know this one-” I gestured to him dismissively as she shook my hand with gusto.

“Oh me and Miss Grimes are old friends,” he was close enough that his body head was bleeding into me. He didn’t say another word, but she nodded toward a building nearby and his head gave a small tilt that could mean a number of things. “Do you mind showing Elara around?”

“Course not,” her smile grew, and my tour began as Negan headed off toward the buildings nearby.

The community was impressive, but I missed the wildness of the forest. Even the shower and the bed in my temporary room wasn’t tempting enough to make me want to stay. My fingers felt around the window frame, tugging until I could open it enough to get a bit of a breeze flowing. Sighing at that tiny shred of freshness, I sat down on the soft bed and pulled my notebook out of my pack and the pen free from its pocket to fill in the blanks since my last attempt.

I was still writing when I heard the small notice go up that Carol had come back.

The first warnings come and I find it lucky that I wasn’t attached to my new digs. Moving again, this time to an abandoned hospital, a tower where we divy up the chores and tasks, something I am more than capable of aiding and abetting, regardless of how often I’ve managed to run and hide to survive.

I haven’t seen Negan since he rushed off during my tour with Judith and I hadn’t spared much thought for him. I updated my history of the times, so to speak. I managed a nap, for which I was certain to be thankful for later. I’m sent to search for Negan at some point, seemingly to make sure he’s behaving himself, much to my chagrin, and I find him with a young woman. Thinking that I could do with one less Naken Negan Fun Times scarred into my psyche, I’m about to turn and go, when I hear her tell him that most people had hoped he would have died while he was gone as well as Alpha. Oh dear.

I sigh, louder than intended and the dog with the two of them alert them. Shit. “Sorry, I was sent to do a head count.” Using an exaggerated finger point, I do so. “One, two, and puppy makes three,” I’m turning to go, when the girl brushes past me. Fuck fuck fuck. I stop and drop my head. Dear God, if you’d like to do me a serious solid, let this fucking floor swallow me right fucking now. Please. Amen.

“Elara,” quiet again, not pleading, just quiet. Tired. I turned back to see that the dog went with her. Lydia, it must have been Alpha’s daughter, cleaner than I’d ever seen her, but clearly taking her mother’s demise well. He looks beat, worse than I’ve seen him. Not that I’d seen him all that much. Christ. “Come here for a second?”

“I was sent to find you anyway, so look at me, first day on the job and already head of the curve.” I walked closer. “You can’t force it, you know that, right?”

“Who are you?” He was leaning against a wall, staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time again, always so surprised. “Seriously.”

I shook my head. “A lifelong student.” I mirrored his posture and sighed. “It doesn’t matter, Negan. Who I was, who I am? None of it matters anymore.” I shrugged. “Nuggets of knowledge, that’s all I have.”

“How do I help her?” He wanted to, it was so clear and heavy. His need to make it right. To fix it for Lydia. “How can I make her feel-”

“Better?” I was staring at him like he was crazy, because it was insane. “Negan, her mother is dead. You killed her. Her mother wanted to kill HER. There’s no easy fix for that.” I shook my head. “Lydia’s a victim and has been one since the moment she drew her first breath. Until she comes to terms with that, and the mixed up shitstorm of fucking modpodge of shit that she feels for that woman who birthed her? She can’t grieve it, she can’t let it go, she can’t fix it and feel all better.” I pushed off the wall and started for the doorway. “If she can’t, then I hate to tell you Mr. He-Man Alphamale, you haven’t got a prayer.”

I hear that the horde is coming, and calls to each post. Daryl asked that I’m found and given a position near Carol, since he noted my bow and I suspect that he chose to believe it was more than an accessory. She too is an archer, and as I move to stand beside her, I suddenly feel less invisible.

“Didn’t really get a chance to speak before,” she says, as she checks her bow one last time, and I too am doing final checks. “I’m Carol.”

“Elara,” I offer, notching an arrow and readying my first shot. “Are we aiming for walkers first, or Whispering freaks?”

The flurry of activity keeps my mind from thinking about the endings. Endings are the WORST when you become a joiner. It’s why I stay apart. It’s why I don’t introduce myself or learn names or sleep in beds or-

Cause the endings come after the battles you don’t run from and you see the girls or boys you spoke with and learned about piled high or tossed like dolls thrown aside by irate toddlers at the end of a destructive playtime. Endings ruin walls and people and destroy bodies and lives. There are always the both sides' arguments, but the truth is that there is a good side and a bad side, but when the bodies are stacked, when the limbs are entwined and the blood is splashed around, I dare you to separate it into good and bad.

Carol and Lydia lemur the horde, from what I hear later, as I’m being bandaged on wounds that I didn’t notice being given. I’m not present when Negan’s given the title I knew he’d accidentally earned with his decapitation of Lydia’s mother, for which I will FOREVER be saddened, but the look of shock on his face when he tells me about it later, much much later when we have a quiet moment alone will forever be etched in my memory banks.

When he tells me that he and Lydia have made a sort of peace, I roll my eyes.

“What? I didn’t push her.” A raised eyebrow and his smirk is my answer. “I think my charm is growing on you, Elara.”

“You mean like fungi?” I ask, trying to sit up, but he won’t allow it. “I am NOT an invalid.”

“No, but you do have a head wound, you stubborn-” and then he does something that shocks me enough to render me immobile. His lips touch mine, a slight brush, enough to stop me from moving, but not enough to make me freak completely out and hit him.

Not to be outdone, as he’s about to pull back, my hands, traitors that they are, slide through that hack job of a haircut and hold him to me. I can feel the smirk return as his lips press back against mine, but I could give a shit as my mouth opens in invitation and he takes it. His tongue touches mine and then his arms are around my back and I’m not prone anymore, but sitting on his lap wrapped around him. My teeth tease his now kiss swelling lower lip, and he groans as he pulls back.

“We shouldn’t.” That’s my cue to groan. “You have a head wound, Elara, and as much as I want to,” he shifts and I feel just how fucking much he WANTS to. “We can’t. Not yet.”

I shake my head. “Where’s pervert Negan?” I mutter, flicking my tongue against his lip and smiling as he moans. “I REALLY like pervert Negan.”

“Fuck if I don’t LOVE pervert Negan, sweetheart,” he laughed, leaning forward to lay me down on the bed again. “I promise he’ll come out to play with you as soon as you get the all clear.”

I pouted, letting him tuck me in, but feeling quite peeved that I couldn’t have more. More of him. NOW. “Can regular Negan at least hold me while I have forced celibate naptime?” I sighed. He chuckled and slid into the bed beside me. “I guess this’ll do.”

“Course it will,” he murmured into my hair. “Just make a list of all the fun things you and pervert me can get into instead of counting sheep-”

Like that was going to help my sorry ass go to sleep...

[quinnybee-writes]

Title: Fire Meet Gasoline

Fandom: Boku no Hero Academia/My Hero Academia

Rating: T+

Part: 7/?

Story Summary: A chance encounter between a villain and vigilante leads to an unwise deal made between unlikely allies; an unwise deal made between unlikely allies ends in a final stand neither would have ever dared to take on alone. Together, though, they just might have a fighting chance.

Part 7 Summary: Hizashi takes the night off to spend time with some new faces and some old mistakes.

Part 1 on  Tumblr / AO3

Part 2 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 3 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 4 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 5 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 6 on Tumblr / AO3

Part 7 on AO3

“Go-od morning, caller, what can I do for you at this early, early hour?”

It was almost three AM and his midnight coffee was wearing off fast, but Hizashi tried to keep the pep up in his voice for all the late shift workers, insomniacs, and other assorted night owls who tuned in and kept his ratings up.

“Heyo!” Hizashi held back a groan and he recognized Haru’s voice on the other end of the line. “I was hoping maybe I could pick your brain about a problem I’ve been having with a certain brother of mine.”

“I usually don’t give out advice until Friday night’s show,” Hizashi said with a meaningful sharpness, “but I’ll give it a whirl. What’s up?”

“I need some advice on how to get my brother to stop being such a mope-ass and come shittalk his ex over drinks,” Haru said brightly.

Hizashi pursed his lips, rolling his eyes. “Sounds like a real dilemma,” he intoned. “Are you sure he’s moping, or is he maybe just not interested in going out?”

“You don’t know my brother,” Haru replied, her grin obvious in her voice. Hizashi scoffed, clapping a hand over his mouth just in time to make it sound like a blip of static. “He’s usually the first one in line to get white girl schwasted and sing karaoke to get over some dipshit he’s dated, but so far every time I’ve told him he should come out with me and some friends from work he keeps ghosting me.” She paused, then added, “And it was kind of my fault he went out with this particular dipshit, so it’s on me to make up for encouraging bad life choices, y’know?”

“By encouraging other bad life choices?” Hizashi asked, raising an eyebrow even though she couldn’t see.

“By dragging him out of his rut before he fossilizes,” Haru corrected.

Hizashi rolled his eyes, grinning in spite of himself. “I mean, it sounds to me like you have the right idea. Maybe try asking one more time,” he said.

“I dunno, he can be pretty stubborn,” Haru said, fully teasing now.

“Thirteenth time’s the charm, right? The worst he can do is say no,” Hizashi said, texting Okay, okay, message received. Where and when? to Haru as he spoke.

“We’ll see. Thanks, dude. Hey, while I’ve got you on the line, can I make a quick song request?”

“Lay it on me.”

“‘Heroes’, by Bowie,” Haru said, her voice turning a little soft as she said it. Hizashi smiled to himself.

“A favorite of his?” he said.

“Yeah. I think if he’s listening it might cheer him up.”

“Sure thing, caller. I wouldn’t worry about things too much. Sounds like you know your brother pretty well.”

The family joke was that Haruko and Hizashi were actually twins, he’d just gotten lost and showed up three years late. It might as well have been true; both were tall and quick like their father and had their mother’s blond hair and sharp tongue. Haru loved Hinako with all the closeness and affection you had for someone you had shared a uterus with, but there was no denying Hizashi had been her best friend from birth. They’d been attached at the hip basically from the moment toddler Haru had been told she had a new baby brother on the way. So when Hizashi called her in a breathless whirl to say his results letter from UA High had come in the mail, Haru had dropped everything and rushed home.

Hizashi was just about the smartest person Haru had ever met, with amazing recall for the tiniest details and a near-infinite energy for learning new things. Applying that energy, however, had been his downfall from the off; all the brains and ambition in the world didn’t make up for his attention issues, Quirk mishaps, and inability to connect socially with his classmates. He’d spent most of upper elementary school floundering academically, skating by at the bare minimum level to pass in no particular direction.

Visiting Haru at UA during her first year culture festival, however, had been a revelation for him. Seeing the school and all it had to offer someone with a powerful Quirk and a brilliant mind had finally been a tangible goal Hizashi could focus on. He’d immediately buckled down, applying himself to his schoolwork in a way Haru had never seen from him before and he never looked back. He’d blazed through middle school at the top of his class, easily securing his place in the UA entrance exam. No one had any doubts he had blown the written exam out of the water, but it was the practical application exam that really counted when you wanted to be a hero.

And so now here the two of them were, sitting on Hizashi’s bedroom floor with the unopened results envelope between them. Hizashi was vibrating in place, his leg thumping under him and making the rest of him shake. Haru kept looking from him to the envelope and back again, the palpable waves of excitement and nerves rolling off of him making her just as keyed up as he was.

“Want me to do it?” Haru asked, half-teasing.

Hizashi shook his head, still bouncing. “I got it, I just…” he trailed off, the first spots of self-doubt starting to creep in around the edges of his mood. Haru decided to cut that off at the pass, picking the envelope up by one end and holding the other out to Hizashi like it was a wishbone.

“Count of three,” she said. Hizashi nodded, taking his end in both trembling hands. “Okay. One--”

There was a sharp sound of ripping paper as Hizashi jumped the gun and pulled back his end. A single sheet of UA letterhead stationery dropped onto the floor. Haru’s spirit sank as she thought of the thick sheaf of paperwork and the holo-disc acceptance message that had come for her three years ago. Her hope dwindled down to embers as Hizashi shook the letter open. His anxious excitement went out like a snuffed candle, expression falling from eager anticipation to confusion to a blank emptiness as his eyes scanned down the page. His hands were shaking again, clenched around the edges of the paper. His breathing sharpened suddenly into the quick, barking wheezes that usually heralded an asthma attack.

“Hizashi?” Haru asked tentatively, reaching out toward him. Hizashi pulled away violently, snapping to his feet. He looked down at her, breath hissing between clenched teeth. His eyes were wild and unfocused; he looked very young and very lost. “Oh god, Zash,” Haru breathed.

Before she could do anything else, Hizashi bolted from the room and out of the apartment at a breakneck sprint. Haru followed after him as fast as she could, calling after him as she heard him thundering down the building’s staircase. She finally caught him up to him as they both exploded out the building’s side door and onto the street. Hizashi staggered a few steps, barely getting his feet under himself before the next step came. He crumpled forward, back arched into a hard C shape and his shoulders heaving. Haru’s eyes went wide and she clapped her hands over her ears just before Hizashi let out a raw, ear-splitting scream loud enough to make the street jump under their feet. All of the streetlamps flickered and flared as the shockwave hit them and the evening came alive with the cacophonous sound of every car alarm in a two-block radius going off. Hizashi sucked in a hard breath that escaped him as a croaking hiccup as his legs finally gave out. He collapsed onto his knees in the middle of the street, hands buried in his hair as he let out raw, halting sobs. Haru ran to him, wrapping her arms around him and letting Hizashi cling to her and howl into her shoulder. He’d dropped the letter when he fell, and in the dim light from the resetting streetlamps Haru could just make out what it said.

Dear Mr. Hizashi Yamada,

Thank you for your interest in UA High School’s Hero Course academic program. We appreciate your diligence and dedication to completing all required steps of our application and evaluation process.

However, during the course of the practical application exam, an occurrence of your Quirk usage resulted in a one-block section of our video monitoring system being taken offline for a period of approximately 92.8 seconds. Due to a lack of additional coverage angles in this area, we are unable to validate the nine (9) exam points that were registered to you during this outage period.

Unfortunately unvalidated points are not able to be applied to your exam score, bringing your total practical exam score below our passing threshold level.

We thank you again for your interest, and wish you the best of luck in all future endeavors.

The letter was signed by Principal Nedzu and a slew of other names that Haru vaguely recognized as being on the admittance board staff.

Bastards, Haru thought savagely, pulling Hizashi even closer as she stroked his hair. They had no right to dock him that many points over their own carelessness. If that was the kind of regard they wanted to show applicants, then to hell with them anyway. It would serve them right when Hizashi applied somewhere else and became a top-ranked hero all on his own.

But Hizashi didn’t apply anywhere else. UA had been his first and only choice; it had been his dream. Now the dream was gone, taking all of Hizashi’s spark with it. He fell back into his old habits, doing the bare minimum to not fail his classes while his grades toppled around him. Any time not spent sleepwalking through his schoolwork or being nudged into the bare basics of self-care was spent shut up in his room in silence, eyes focused on nothing. Not even their parents’ offer for Hizashi to get a fresh start by moving in with their maternal grandparents and finishing his schooling in America had gotten any kind of reaction out of him. Hizashi had just shrugged, giving a hollow-eyed monosyllable of agreement before asking to be excused so that he could go pack.

The day after his middle school graduation Haru had given her brother the tightest hug she could muster and told him to call her the second he needed anything. Hizashi didn’t respond, turning and trudging listlessly away from her onto the plane.

When he’d accepted Haru’s invitation to “drinks with friends from work”, Hizashi had unfortunately forgotten that Haru had two jobs. Instead of the gaggle of yoga instructors and personal trainers he’d been expecting to meet up with, Hizashi rounded the corner to see his sister standing amid a group of her fellow pro heroes in their civilian finest. He half-recognized most of them by build or face shape, but there was no mistaking the broad frame and wild shock of blue-white hair of the man currently laughing over something on Haru’s phone: the number six pro hero and UA teacher, Loud Cloud himself. A shrill alarm of self-preservation went off in Hizashi’s brain, screaming for him to beg off and leave before things got any worse. Before he could do more than panic and stare, however, Haru spotted him and waved him over.

“Zash! You made it!” Haru said, beaming. Hizashi smiled back weakly and waved as he trudged over, trying very hard to not make eye contact with anyone but her.

“Sorry I’m late,” Hizashi muttered.

Haru waved a hand dismissively. “We only just got here,” she said. “Everyone, this my brother Hizashi. Zash, this is everyone.” She rattled off a laundry list of names that came and went before Hizashi could put them to memory. What did catch his attention, however, was the fact that his presence brought the group to an even number of people. His brilliant mess of a sister had invited him, a multi-platinum wanted criminal, on a group date with some of the most powerful and respected pro heroes in the city. Hizashi bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep in the snort of helpless laughter caught in the back of his throat.

The ploy seemed to become even more obvious as Haru shooed Hizashi down to the opposite end of the table from herself, making sure he sat down across from Loud Cloud (real name Something-Or-Other Shirakumo). Hizashi could feel a nervous sweat beginning to gather on the back of his neck as Shirakumo cheerfully poured him a drink. There was no reason for him to freak out, Hizashi reminded himself sternly. No one at this table save for Haru had any idea he dabbled on the wrong side of the tracks, and not even she knew the half of it. All he had to do was put on a good face and avoid getting “white girl schwasted”, as Haru had so eloquently put it, and he’d be fine.

“So, what do you do, Hizashi?” Shirakumo asked, making Hizashi jump.

“He’s a self-made man!” Haru piped up from the far end of the table. Hizashi rolled his eyes at her.

“Uh, radio,” Hizashi answered for himself. “I’m the operations manager over at Asahi Radio, and I run the overnight show every couple of weeks if they need something to fill the slot.”

“That’s why you sound so familiar!” Shirakumo said, snapping his fingers triumphantly. “‘Put Your Hands Up Radio’, right? We have it on all the time in the office when we have to pull graveyard shifts.”

Hizashi grinned in spite of himself, a flattered heat in his cheeks. “My sister has a way of inflicting her bad taste on other people,” he joked apologetically. Haru blew a loud raspberry at him but Shirakumo just laughed, shaking his head.

“Nah, we’ve been listening for years, even before Haru hired on. It’s a good pep-up when it’s two AM and you’re still chained to your desk.”

Hizashi couldn’t help preening a little. “Glad to be of service,” he said, bowing.

“How long have you been in radio?” Shirakumo asked.

“Uh.” Hizashi paused, trying to do math despite the ebbing panic scrambling his concentration. “Twelve years now?” he said, almost sure that was right. “I did an internship right after I graduated high school and then I ended up just kind of sticking around. They haven’t gotten rid of me yet, so I must be doing something right.”

The Hizashi that stepped back off the plane after three years in Boston wasn’t the same one who had left, but Haru was glad to see the change. Hizashi saw her waiting inside the doors to the baggage claim and ran full-tilt through the crowd to scoop her up in a tight bearhug.

“Gah! Break my ribs, why dontcha?” Haru laughed, hugging him just as tightly. Hizashi had sprouted up while he was abroad, towering over her by at least three inches even without the tall fluff of hair gelled up over his forehead. He was still the same grinning dork she remembered, though, from his chunky hipster glasses to the way he immediately pulled her into a second hug just as tight as the first.

“I missed you so much, though!” Hizashi protested. Haru grinned, squeezing him back.

“Yeah, me too,” she said. “Now go get your bags and let’s hop-to,” she added. “I’m not the only one who missed your ugly mug.”

Hizashi chattered the entire cab ride back to their parents’ apartment, barely containing his excitement at being home. Haru kept thinking back to the sallow-faced, wilted scrap of a boy she’d seen off at the airport compared to the sunny freckled giant on the seat beside her and had to scrub the corners of her eyes dry before she made a fool of herself. Hizashi made no such attempt to contain his emotions as he walked into the surprise welcome back party everyone had put together for him. They buried him in affection, glad to finally have their family whole again. The gap in their ranks had almost fallen to the back of their collective minds in his absence but having Hizashi back made his absence sharper in retrospect. Hizashi spent the night regaling them with stories about American high school life that sounded to Haru like something out of a grimdark John Hughes movie but he swore up and down weren’t exaggerations. He kept in motion as he spoke, buzzing around the room to emphasize his points with some kind of elaborating miming or clearing away dishes or just pacing the room in the flurry of enthusiasm he always had when he was entertaining an audience.

Late into a story about the hellish test of fortitude that a square dancing unit in gym class was when you were in the middle of a growth spurt, Hizashi was interrupted mid-thought by the phone ringing.

“I got it, Ma,” Hizashi said, waving for their mother to sit back down as he headed off to grab the handset in the hall. “Yah-mada residence!” Haru heard him beaming into the phone. She caught their mother’s eye and they shared a snort and knowing grin. He’d been back all of a few hours and was already running full steam ahead, Haru thought, shaking her head. She could pretend to be disapproving, but there was nothing that made her feel more relieved than knowing he knew he was finally home.

She expected him to come loping back down the hallway after a few minutes after confirming to their grandparents he was safe, but the moment of absence began to stretch out uncomfortably. Haru got up and followed him, a sudden sinking in her chest at the thought that Hizashi’s cheer had been for their sake and he’d taken the excuse to break off and be upset on his own.

“Hey, didja fall in?” Haru asked, trying to keep her voice light as she poked her head around the corner. Hizashi visibly jumped at the sound, fumbling the phone’s handset before slamming it down into the cradle.

“Sorry, what?” Hizashi asked breathlessly. He looked very pale all of a sudden and his eyes had a faraway, glassy sheen to them.

“Everything okay, Zash?” Haru asked, the clench in her chest tightening another notch.

“Huh? Oh! Oh, yeah, I’m good. Wrong number,” Hizashi said, gesturing vaguely at the phone. “Got kind of shitty when I told them. Some people, right?” He gave a slightly unsteady scoff, rolling his eyes. Haru raised an eyebrow.

“Uh...huh,” she said slowly. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Totally,” Hizashi said, brushing past her back towards the living room. “Anyway, where was I?”

The odd hiccup in Hizashi’s mood kept eating at Haru over the next few days, all the more because of how otherwise normal he was acting. He spent his days out of the apartment, nominally looking for a job now that he was settled, and his evenings scouring want ads during commercial breaks while they all watched television together. He was buoyant and excitable, especially the night he came home exclaiming that the webcast talk show he’d spent the last few years running as a hobby had landed him a paid internship at one of the downtown radio stations. Everything was smiles and normality with occasional bouts of especially good news, and that more than anything was putting her on edge.

Hizashi begged off to bed early one night, claiming he wanted to get to sleep early before his internship started the next day. Slowly the living room emptied without Hizashi’s inexhaustible energy to keep them awake. Haru dozed off on the sofa in the middle of texting one of her friends, too lazy to drag herself to bed.

She was shaken awake by the sound of her keychains clattering together as someone took them off the hook by the door. Haru peered blearily over the back of the sofa just in time to see the back of Hizashi’s head disappearing out the front door. Her heart sank as she checked the time: two-thirty AM. A tired, scared part of her wanted to believe it was just nerves keeping him up and he was going out for some air. The look on his face after the phone call at his party came to the front of her mind, though, and wouldn’t let her put it aside.

Haru followed Hizashi at tailing distance, having to quickly duck behind whatever cover she could find as he got turned around and had to retrace his steps. Another nail in the coffin for this being a quick trip out for some fresh air; between his terrible sense of direction and having been gone for three years Hizashi would know better than to wander around unfamiliar territory in the middle of the night. Unless of course, Haru thought as she crouched behind a dumpster and watched her brother knock on the employee entrance of Hanajima’s Garden Supply and Boutique Florist, he had planned to meet with someone.

She tiptoed forward as Hizashi was waved in and the heavy steel door shut behind him. Her heart rattled painfully in her throat as she did her best to peek through the slats of the vent in the door. Haru only caught a flash of Hizashi’s hair and the back of his neon blue windbreaker as he disappeared deeper into the shop. Haru chewed her lip, a fist of panic threatening to squeeze the breath out of her. She wished she’d been thinking clearly enough in the moment to grab her phone on her way out. The smart thing to do would be to go find a patrolling hero or a police station or at least a payphone nearby, but the thought of leaving Hizashi alone to fend for himself if something went wrong made her stomach seize. No one on the up-and-up had meetings in the dimly-lit backroom of a flower shop at three in the morning, that much she was sure about.

Haru shifted from foot to foot, mind racing at a hundred miles an hour but getting nowhere. Hizashi was going to have to tell her the truth now; he couldn’t keep up his facade when he’d been caught red-handed doing something this level of sketchy. She would just have to stick around and find out what the hell he was thinking and the two of them would figure out where to go from here. Haru slowly backed away from the door in case someone inside the shop was watching and crouched down with her back against the shop’s wall to watch the door and wait for Hizashi. She tried to stay calm but as the minutes stretched into decades she had more and more time to stew on the audacity of it all. She and Hizashi had been best friends since they were babies, they’d never kept secrets from one another. It was against every tennant of the unspoken code of trust the two of them held sacred. Now here he was, barely a month back from doing god knew what in America and sneaking around behind everyone’s back. Behind her back. By the time Hizashi stumbled back out the employee door, pushed over the threshold by someone inside, Haru’s temper had risen to a barely-restrained boil.

Hizashi sighed, sniffling hard and scrubbing under his nose with the back of his wrist as he turned to walk away. Haru followed him as he reached the sidewalk, a whole slew of new terrible thoughts sprouting in her mind in the wake of that gesture. Hizashi’s mind seemed thoroughly elsewhere as he walked, not reacting to the sound of Haru’s footsteps behind him until her patience snapped and she spoke.

“Funny,” Haru said, relishing the way Hizashi jumped and staggered around to face her, “this doesn’t look like being in bed by ten because you have work in the morning.” She crossed her arms and channeled her mother’s most intimidating “all right, start talking” eyebrow raise.

“H-Haru--you--what are you doing here?” Hizashi spluttered. His eyes were wide and scared and there was a dribble of blood trickling down from his nose. Concern sparked in Haru’s chest, but she did her best to push it aside for the moment. She could afford to be worried about him once she knew what she was worried about.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Haru said tartly.

“N-Nothing, it’s just. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Hizashi rambled, using a lot of words to say absolutely nothing. Haru bristled.

“Hizashi Yamada, I swear to god--” she began.

“Haru, seriously!” Hizashi snapped, cutting her off. His voice cracked high at the end the way it always did when he was trying to keep himself from crying. Haru realized he was shaking all over, pale and wild-eyed in a way that was horribly familiar.

“Hizashi, is this about that phone call?” Haru asked, her tone softened but no less stern. Hizashi flinched, then nodded hesitantly. He dropped his eyes away from hers, arms wrapping protectively across his chest.

“Mr. Hanajima called. He. He thought I was Dad, and.” Hizashi broke off, shaking his head. “Mom and Dad were in trouble, but I took care of it. Just forget it, okay?” His voice was shaky and pleading.

“What do you mean, they’re in trouble?” Haru asked, a cold chill running up her spine.

“Were, they were in trouble, but it’s fine now, I swear!” Hizashi said. He tried to smile reassuringly but the faltering expression just made him look more scared. “They just. They owed Mr. Hanajima some money, and they were late on payments. He said he was going to have to find a new way to enforce the deadlines if they didn’t pay it all off soon, so I told him I’d take care of it instead.”

“What? Why?” Haru asked. Her tone came out too sharp again and Hizashi flinched away from her again.

“On the phone he kept talking about how it was irresponsible to borrow so much money without a good way to pay it back,” Hizashi mumbled slowly. “And how the university board and Mom’s promoters would want to know about how reckless their employees were being. And how the hero certification board would want to think twice about hiring out someone with parents who were so financially unsound, and the medical board and the admittance committees for all the high schools in town and...and the whole stupid thing is my fault anyway, so I handled it, okay? It’s no big deal.” He pushed the last part out in one rapid, shaky breath.

Haru stared at him. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing; her parents had never mentioned anything about money problems to her, least of all the kind that required the help of some racketeering florist. “You lost me,” Haru admitted flatly. “I mean, I get why you’re worried, but. Mom and Dad are grown adults, Zash. If they felt like they were in that kind of trouble they would tell us--me especially! I literally went to school for this kind of thing. How is any of this your fault?”

“What do you think they needed a whole lot of quick money for, Haru?” Hizashi asked, a snippy tone of exasperation coming into his voice. “For their adult daughters who have their own jobs and pay their own bills? For--For the preteens who are acing every one of their classes and are gonna have the world on a string after they graduate? Or maybe it was for their fuckup middle child who decided he needed to have a breakdown over not getting something he wanted!” His voice rose to a frantic, angry shout, echoing loudly enough in the early-morning silence to rattle the glass in a nearby shop window. Hizashi clapped his hands over his mouth, shoulders heaving as he breathed.

The last flicker of anger went out of Haru as she watched him struggle against the impulse to scream. She wondered how long that had been boiling under his skin, waiting to emerge. “Zash, that wasn’t your fault either,” she said gently. “They made a stupid, bad decision and you got screwed. You’re allowed to be upset over something like that.”

Hizashi scoffed, hands dropping to wrap around himself again. “Two hundred forty million yen’s worth of upset?” he asked hollowly.

Haru’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“It costs a lot of money to raise your kid from six thousand miles away,” Hizashi said bitterly. He shook his head hard and looked back up at Haru. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said. “I already said I’d take care of it. It’ll take a while to pay off, but I’ve got plenty of time. It’s fine.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself and Haru at the same time. Neither of them were buying it if the current mood was anything to go by.

“Zash,” Haru said slowly. She tried to think of a way to phrase her objection as something softer than “don’t be stupid”. “What are you supposed to do if they decide that paying them back isn’t good enough?” she said finally. “Just keep working for them until you die?”

“I. I dunno,” Hizashi mumbled, shrugging. “I guess I’ll figure that out if it happens. Right now all that matters is making things right for Mom and Dad, and I did that.”

Haru sighed. An exhausted, selfish part of her wished it had been something more straightforwardly wrong that had them hashing things out in the early morning air. Something she could feel justified in yelling at him about, at the very least. “You aren’t going to tell them about this, are you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Hizashi shook his head firmly. “No,” he said. He hesitated, then asked, “Are you?”

Haru snorted out an exasperated laugh. “What good would it do?” she asked, throwing her hands up. “They didn’t want to tell us, what good is it going to do to let them know we know by getting them wrapped up in it all over again? I’d run your dumb ass to the cops, but at this point they’re probably in Hanajima’s pocket already.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Just. I want you to promise me something, okay? I’ll keep out of it for now, but you have to swear to me the millisecond that this gets too big for you to handle on your own, you let me help you, got it?”

Hizashi looked uncomfortable giving his word on something like that, but Haru didn’t relent. She set her jaw and held out her hand with the pinky extended. He hesitated a long moment, then linked his pinky with hers and they shook on it.

“I promise,” Hizashi said quietly, meeting her eye again. Haru nodded authoritatively, shaking one last time before letting go.

“Okay,” she said, letting her breath out slowly. “That internship you told us about. Is that a for-real thing, or was it a cover for this whole...thing?” Haru asked, waving a vague hand to encompass the tangled mess the night had turned into

One corner of Hizashi’s mouth quirked up and he brightened very slightly. “Yeah, it’s real. It really does start tomorrow, too. Er, today, I guess,” he corrected himself awkwardly.

Haru nodded. “We should get home, then,” she said, turning him the right direction down the sidewalk. She took his hand as they walked, relieved that his hand was shaking just as much as hers.

Haru hated feeling like she couldn’t trust Hizashi’s word that his internship was real, but that was exactly why she was in the front lobby of Asahi Radio at lunchtime the next day. The receptionist told her it would be a few minutes until the interns were free, so Haru wandered off to kill time reading the wall of award plaques they had on display.

Haru heard her brother’s cackling laughter trickling down the hallway even before she saw him. Hizashi came strolling up to the front with a whole entourage of kids around his age, arms full of boxes and in the middle of one of his many stories about living in America. He beamed as he saw her, almost dropping his boxes as he tried to wave. The interns went in a side room with their load and were dismissed by the woman overseeing the work-study. Haru grinned in a combination of relief and genuine pride as Hizashi jogged over.

“Hey, kid,” Haru said, reaching out and ruffling his hair. “Thought I’d take you out to lunch to celebrate your first day. Pick something expensive, it’s a special occasion.”

“You’re gonna regret that,” Hizashi teased brightly as they walked out the front door. Haru privately doubted that was the part of all this that she’d come to regret.

“Have you guys been having to pull a lot of all-nighters?” Hizashi asked, trying his best to make the question sound casual.

Shirakumo frowned slightly, nodding. “I wish we weren’t,” he said, “but it seems like every time we get a handle on a case we’re working on, three more complications crop up overnight.”

“Which is the boss’s nice way of saying if any of us meet Mockingbird face-to-face, we’re going to kick his teeth in,” the woman sitting on Shirakumo’s left said, jostling Shirakumo with her elbow.

It took more self-control than Hizashi thought he possessed three beers into the night to hold back a bark of laughter at that. He waited until he thought he could speak without giggling, then asked, “He’s still active? All of our news contacts are at loose ends trying to come up with anything new about him.”

“That is a whole-ass mood,” the woman said, nodding. “Hey. Haru says you’re pretty brainy,” she added, pointing speculatively at Hizashi.

“I guess so,” Hizashi said with a shrug.

“Maybe you can riddle this out for us,” the woman said. “Say you were tracking a criminal, goes by a code name that rhymes with ‘blocking herd’. The guy by definition is a lone operator, and he follows a pretty standard pattern of ebb and flow in what he does. Then one day he falls off the face of the planet. Not a peep out of him. Well, other than a couple tangents that people blame him for, but you can’t pin ‘em on him, so they don’t really count. Then right in the middle of that, suddenly there’s a whole new face who shows up and causes a scene, supposedly on the first guy’s behalf. But there’s still no sign of the guy himself in any of it. What say you?”

“I would say maybe you need to switch to water for a while, Misa,” Shirakumo said meaningfully, tugging the half-full glass of beer out of her hand and swapping it for a glass of water. Misa frowned at him, but chugged it obediently. “None of that constitutes an official statement from the agency or anyone affiliated with it, by the way,” Shirakumo added to Hizashi. He was still smiling, but there was a definite “or else” hiding in his tone.

Hizashi nodded dismissively. “Obviously. Just a hypothetical over drinks with friends,” he agreed. He took a long sip of his drink, pretending to be thinking the situation over. The fact that Aizawa was now officially implicated caused a sharp squirm of guilt in his gut, but he did his best to ignore it.

“I see what you mean about one problem being solved causing three more in the process,” he said finally with a thoughtful nod. “Assuming the new face is legitimate, that opens up a couple options. It could mean your main suspect is getting cocky and adding to his ranks, or he’s getting scared and wants some insurance that he won’t go down alone,“ he continued, ticking the options off on his fingers. “Either way, you at least have your reason for him staying quiet.”

“How so?” Shirakumo asked. He was looking more closely at Hizashi now, an impressed interest clear in his expression.

“Why would he risk showing his face if his pets are walking around doing his wet work?” Hizashi explained, wondering too late if that skirted too close to the truth. “Cockiness leads to laziness, fear leads to paranoia,” he added, weighing the words in his hands. “Either way, not great. And then you also have to consider the option that the whole thing’s a lie, and the supposed new muscle is just a contractor for a competitor or someone your guy pissed off who’s trying to get him into extra trouble by pulling stunts in his name behind his back. If so, who’s behind that?” He shrugged, very sure now that everyone was looking at him that he should have kept his mouth more full of booze and less full of words. “Sounds like a total headache. No matter what solution you’re looking at you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

“Damn,” someone muttered from the other end of the table.

“Told you,” Haru replied, preening. Hizashi shot her a look that she cheerfully ignored.

“So, we’re hiring this dude for our analysis team, like, yesterday, right?” Misa asked Shirakumo. Hizashi laughed awkwardly, shaking his head.

“Thanks, but nah. I’m not really the hero type, I’m just a DJ with an overactive imagination. I’ll leave the crime fighting to you guys and just use the talents I was given to help wherever I can,” Hizashi said, raising his glass in a salute down the table.

Haru drummed her heel against the floor, arms crossed tight across her chest and her back against the closed door of her room. Hizashi was sitting at her desk, eyebrows tightly knit together and a hand over his mouth as he re-read the handwritten letter in front of him. Haru’s fist was clenched around the envelope it had come in so tightly she could practically feel her parent’s names written on it along with the return address of Hanajima’s Garden Supply and Boutique Florist.

“This is insane,” Hizashi said finally, his voice hollow.

“Not the word I would have used, but. Yeah,” Haru sighed. She was doing everything she could to suppress the urge to say “I told you so”, but the words kept bunching up in the back of her throat if she thought about them too long. She could only thank her lucky stars she’d been the first one to get home and check the mail today. Right at the top of the pile had been the letter from Hanajima. Haru had snatched it up and ripped it open before she even bothered to take off her shoes. Haru had already been dialing Hizashi to come home before she reached the end of the letter; all it had taken to get him moving was the word “Hanajima”. The two of them had barricaded themselves in Haru’s room, reading the letter one after the other in tense silence.

Dear Yamadas,

It has been quite some time since we last corresponded, and I wish that it could be for a better reason.

Some years ago, you were granted forgiveness on a large lump-sum loan debt to me due to outside assistance. However, it had recently come to my attention that, putting aside the forgiven amount, there was unaccounted for interest remaining on the amount registered as paid off which has in turn gathered interest in the intervening years.

Per our previous agreement, as this amount was accrued prior to your loan forgiveness, the sum total of seven hundred eighty-thousand yen remains on your account in need of repayment. I understand that you may need some time to gather such an amount. I am willing to work out an attenuated payment plan similar to your previous repayment schedule, should you need such accommodations.

I hope this letter finds you all well, and I look forward to hearing from you regarding the issue I have outlined above.

Sincerely, Keijiro Hanajima

Hizashi sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “He’s got to know he can’t pull this over on me,” he said, thumbnail scraping irritably at the corner of his mouth. “I’m too deep in his money, I know this is wrong.”

“He was probably counting on Mom and Dad not telling us,” Haru said. “He knows they didn’t tell us about the loan, and that you still haven’t told them that you’re the one that got them off the hook.”

Hizashi’s expression clouded over even more at that. He chewed the inside of his cheek, then shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.” He said it like that was the last of the conversation, holding out a hand to Haru for her to give him the envelope as he dialed a number into his phone. He looked up at her when she didn’t hand it to him, flexing his fingers in a “dude, c’mon” sort of getsure. “Mr. Hanajima, it’s Yamada. Yessir, I’m well, how are you?” he said, glaring at Haru when she moved the envelope to her far hand.

“Put it on speaker,” Haru mouthed, signing the words as well to make sure he got the point. Hizashi widened his eyes meaningfully at her as he shook his head sharply.

“I’m handling it,” he mouthed back. “Yessir, everything’s fine, I just had something to talk to you about if you have a minute,” he said brightly into the phone. Haru replied by signing “Not leaving. Speakerphone. Now.” and crossing her arms. Hizashi gritted his teeth, grudgingly putting his phone down on the desk and turning on speakerphone. He put his middle finger to his lips, reminding her to keep quiet and flipping her the bird all in one motion. Haru rolled her eyes at him but did her best to not to exist for the moment.

“I’d say there were better times, but I’m sure you’ll get to the point,” Hanajima was saying from the other end.

“Of course. It’s about a letter that was sent to my parents today,” Hizashi said. He was keeping his voice on the lighter end of neutral, but his expression was stormy and his leg had started thumping irritably.

There was a short silence on the other end of the line, then Hanajima asked in a pointedly calm voice, “Do you make a habit of reading other peoples’ mail?”

“Only when I assume from the return address that it’s mine,” Hizashi said, coldly chirpy. “There, uh. Seems to be a discrepancy between what I was told when I signed on and what you’re telling them in this letter, sir. Something about unforeseen interest?”

“I know my own business, Yamada,” Hanajima said coolly.

Haru barely held in a snort, rolling her eyes. “What a tool,” she mouthed to Hizashi, who bit back a grin and waved for her to keep still.

“I’d never dream to imply otherwise, sir,” Hizashi said. “It’s more a question of numbers. I’ve been keeping a log of my payments and theirs for a while now, sir, for my own records. There’s nothing that would add up to the kind of money you’re asking for.”

To Haru’s surprise, Hanajima gave a sardonic, almost patronizing snort of laughter. “I’m sure that’s how it is in your records,” he said. “It would be rather inconvenient for all of you if it suddenly happened that you owed an even greater sum to me than previously thought, wouldn’t it? But unfortunately sometimes that’s just how these things go.”

“With all due respect, sir--” Hizashi began, his thinning patience beginning to show in his tone.

“Which is a lot, Yamada, and I would hope you and your parents keep that fact in mind,” Hanajima said. “You have a diligent mind, Yamada, but human error can make numbers do a remarkable amount of things, particularly when there is a conflict of interest to spurr it along. Money is owed and money will be paid. That’s just business.”

Hizashi’s jaw went rigid, hands balling into tight fists on the desk. “Of course, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. “My mistake. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Hanajima agreed. Without any kind of pleasantry or signoff he hung up, leaving Hizashi seething in his wake.

Haru let out a long, low whistle. “That went well,” she muttered in a half-hearted attempt at levity. Hizashi didn’t reply, his eyes staring hard into the middle distance. He straightened up in the chair, coming to some grim decision.

“Haru?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“I need you to do me a favor,” Hizashi said as he stood up.

“What?” Haru asked warily. Hizashi fixed her with a determined stare. She had the sudden thought of how grown up he looked now; the past five years had taken the last of the adolescent roundness out of his features and made him all sharp angles and seriousness.

“When I go out tonight, don’t follow me,” Hizashi said.

“Zash,” Haru sighed, just on the edge of wheedling. Hizashi’s expression didn’t falter. Haru frowned, nodding in grudging agreement. “Fine. But you remember that promise you made me, got it? If this goes to shit, you call me,” she said, poking him meaningfully in the chest.

Hizashi’s mouth quirked up into a very slight smile. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a tight squeeze. “I know, I will. Everything’s going to be fine, I promise.”

“Oh my god, did you guys hear about what happened with Mr. Hanajima from the flower shop?” Hoshi asked a few days later over dinner. Haru’s head jerked up at the sound of the name, heart in her throat. She shot Hizashi a glance out of the corner of her eye, but he had his eyes locked on his plate as he calmly cut his steak into increasingly smaller pieces.

“Who’s that?” Hinako’s stepson Hitoshi piped up.

“An old friend of Nan and Jii-chan,” Hinako said, motioning for him to not get distracted and finish his dinner.

“What about him?” Haru asked as Hoshi all but vibrated in their chair with the barely-restrained excitement of a teenager with hot gossip to share.

“Okay, so get this: everybody thought he was just a florist or whatever, but he’s actually been running this huge money scheme out of his shop and loansharking all these people and has all these ties to, like, yakuza and stuff,” Hoshi said.

“What’s a yakersha?” Hitoshi asked around a mouthful of vegetables.

“It’s ‘yakuza’, don’t talk with your mouth full, and never mind,” Hinako’s wife Mara said, once again turning the eight-year-old’s attention back to his plate.

“Fumiko Nakamura from the second year class says she heard from her uncle that Hanajima lost it and just spilled everything to the cops over the phone,” Hiro added, catching the spark of his twin’s infectious energy. “They got him on tape and everything.”

“He totally got arrested right in front of me and Hiro while we were walking to school today, it was crazy!” Hoshi finished, eyes bright.

“He always seemed so...legitimate. You never do know with some people I suppose,” their father said haltingly with a slightly strained laugh. Their mother reached out and squeezed his hand.

Haru stared hard at Hizashi, not so much as blinking until he finally relented and looked up at her. He met her gaze smiling calmly with nothing behind his eyes. It was disconcerting how easily he could switch himself off like that.

“How?” Haru signed to him, using the smallest motions she could.

“Don’t worry. It’s over,” Hizashi replied. Haru frowned, having had about enough of his sideways, noncommittal answers.

“You two all right down there?” their father asked before Haru could press him for details.

“I took the last popover and she needed to call me a few things she can’t say in front of the shortstack,” Hizashi said brightly, grinning over at Hitoshi.

“Language,” their father teased with a faux-stern look at Haru.

“He started it,” Haru groused, sticking her tongue out at Hizashi. Hizashi gave her a tight smile of thanks for playing along. Haru rolled her eyes but nodded back. This would just get added to the mounting pile of things about her brother she was never going to get a straight answer about, she supposed moodily.

“It was really cool to finally meet you, dude,” Shirakumo said as he and Hizashi walked down the street towards the train station. “Haru talks about you all the time, I think we were all kind of chomping at the bit to finally meet the mythical Hizashi.”

“I am pretty great,” Hizashi joked, tossing his hair over his shoulder. Shirakumo let out a loud, snorty laugh. It was really no wonder he was such a popular hero, Hizashi thought. His height and broadness gave the impression of an intense bearing when you first met him, but it was quickly balanced out by his open ultra-honest personality. Even the jagged scars that cut through his right eyebrow and down the side of his face seemed charismatic in their own way, giving him a well-traveled, swashbuckling kind of charm.

“Sorry about Misa jumping on you like that, by the way,” Shirakumo went on with a self-conscious grimace. “It’s been so long since we’ve taken a break from work that I think we’ve all kind of forgotten how to switch off and chill out.”

“No worries, I know how that goes. You should ask Haru what it’s like trying to get me to shut up when we get someone interesting in the studio for an interview,” Hizashi replied, waving the apology away. “I end up annoying myself half the time.”

Shirakumo snort-laughed again. “I dunno, that seems pretty interesting to me. Maybe we could grab something to eat sometime and you can tell me about it instead.”

He said it so smoothly that Hizashi almost agreed offhand without thinking about it. The word caught behind his teeth just in time as his brain caught up with what was actually being said. “Erm. Right,” he said instead, not having to force the awkwardness in his tone. “Haru told you I’m fresh off a breakup, didn’t she?”

Shirakumo flushed. “She...might have mentioned something about you being in kind of a funk,” he hedged.

Hizashi smiled in spite of himself. Two for two on dashing heroes who can’t lie to save their soul, he thought, amused. “I appreciate the offer, don’t get me wrong. But I, uh. I’m not sure it’s a great time for me to have something going on with someone,” he said, trying to be as gently vague as he could.

“Yeah, no, I totally get that,” Shirakumo said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to push, I just--”

“Haru made you promise to hit me up at least once tonight,” Hizashi guessed, letting him off the hook of trying to put it into nicer words. Shirakumo grinned.

“Guilty,” he admitted. He paused, then added. “I think she’s been worried about you, to be honest. I mean, Haru isn’t really the worrying type, but you can tell sometimes.”

“Yeah, she does that,” Hizashi agreed, fondness creeping into his tone. For all the shit he gave his sister about meddling and fussing over him, he couldn’t help being grateful for the concern. “It really wasn’t as big a deal as she seems to think, though. We went to coffee a couple times, for drinks, hung out at his place, nothing too intense.” Aizawa’s face flashed to the front of his mind, twisted in terrified fury as he called Hizashi nothing but a problem in his life. Hizashi shook his head. “We just realized we wanted different things out of the relationship. People are people, what are you gonna do?” he added with a breezy shrug.

“True,” Shirakumo said, nodding, as they reached the train station doors. “So, can I maybe platonically give you my number instead?” he asked with a slightly cheeky grin. “I wasn’t just hitting on you when I said it was cool hanging out with you tonight.”

Hizashi hesitated, drowning in irony with no hope of explaining why to Shirakumo. He needed to let Shirakumo down gently and walk away, but his brain seemed to want to help him precisely not at all in thinking of a way to do that. “Sure,” Hizashi said finally, unlocking his phone and handing it to Shirakumo. “I’ll text you the next time Haru threatens to muzzle me for talking her ear off about celebrity gossip.”

“Deal,” Shirakumo said, handing his phone over so that Hizashi could put his number in as well. “Don’t be a stranger!” he added as they swapped phones back and he turned to head home.

Hizashi considered doing just that most of the train ride home, staring down at the newly added “Oboro Shirakumo” in his contacts. As an extra little flourish, Shirakumo had added a fortissimo and a thundercloud emoji after his name. On the one hand, this was a terrible idea and Hizashi needed to lose Shirakumo’s number before he ended up doing something stupid. On the other hand, tempting fate by doing stupid things with heroes was practically his signature move at this point. With Aizawa freezing him out, keeping Shirakumo on deck was the only way for him to stay on brand. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? Hizashi shoved his phone into his pocket, hating the weight of preemptive dread that settled on his shoulders as he tried to preserve this small bubble of normality that had come into his life.

[ayellowbirds]

Sixth night of writing! Up to 10,952 words, more than half a day’s writing over the target number for last night. I’m almost up to a full week of working on this; what do you all think so far?

i’m currently only able to work for 14 hours a week; donations to support this are welcome! Feel free to let me know when you’ve donated, I’ll see about including a tribute of some sort to you in the text of the story:

https://www.paypal.me/ayellowbirds

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Click the Read More to continue, or click here for the previous part, and here for the first part!

“Tasty, though.”

“The trick of it is cutting out the core,” Menax explained. “There is some property of the juices in the center that is excellent for tenderizing meat, but can be most unpleasant to the mouth in more than small quantities, unless it is well-cooked.”

He popped a small section of a ring into his mouth, and chewed at it a bit. He looked around the room; Belaset was taking her time to enjoy the ring, taking small nibbles that seemed even more delicate for all her height, while Musick had swallowed down all that she had been offered and was licking her chops. Her ears perked for a moment, and Menax smiled.

“I learned that the hard way,” he added, speaking around the morsel. “That classmate of mine had given a very large quantity in exchange for, ah… assisting him in some unpleasant business. And I found that eating too much in one sitting could even cause the soft palate to bleed. So, I am always overly cautious in cutting out the core, when I can get an ananas to myself.”

Belaset swallowed her mouthful. “Wait, so you mean that, while you were eating the—ananas?—it was as if it was biting you—”

There was a loud and unmistakable thudding sound from directly beneath them. Belaset and Musick both looked to Menax, who swallowed hard. He found that his hand was on the cutting board behind him, already grabbing the knife. The question went unspoken as both of his guests looked down towards the secret cellar.

“Yes,” he said. “We had best investigate.”

Menax’s mind raced as he moved towards the study, grabbing a skillet from a hook on the kitchen wall and holding it as if it was a shield. There was a ventilation grate—doubled up and leading to his small backyard, where nobody out to be entering without his notice. It was possible some intruder had been keeping an eye on his home, and had pried it open while he was distracted in the kitchen. It was just wide enough that a smaller person than himself could fit through.

There was another exit besides that, but he was certain it was even more secret, and he was all but certain it could not be discovered even under extraordinary circumstances, and he had never revealed it to anyone.

But then, if it was his worst fear and the imperial authorities were there to arrest him for theft and experimentation on bodies—he had conducted more than one study specifically of Icosan remains—then it was possible there was sorcery involved, and any number of explanations could be at hand. It could even be a sheyd, having found some way into his home from the other world.

“I’ll keep here the door,” Belaset said, standing between the kitchen and the study. “Might need to shut it, might need to hold it open for you, right?”

“Sound reasoning, Miss Alazraki,” he replied. He noticed that Musick was simply letting out a low growl rather than speak, her muscles taut and her ears held back.

He moved to open the secret door.

BEFORE

Pain!

Cold, much, much too cold.

Never such a cold, empty, too empty, hungry thirsty feeling too dry and wet at the same time—cold outside, colder inside, darkness on darkness.

Where? Think, remember.

A fight?

“Wait, stop, I’m Icarian Se—” pain!  “—you’re screwing up weeks of investigation, look, my badge!” SHARP! Burning, fire, angry! Hate! Screaming! Teeth, hooves? White and red and red going white going black.

Don’t belong there? Where? Why? What do you mean, won’t have me? What did you call me? I—maybe?

Where are you going, where am I going, where am I?

Can’t talk! Can’t move? Move, move, move—something—my throat?

My mouth? Clay? Stone?

Bone?

Got to get out!

Move!

PUSH!

Where? Cold, cold box, get up, still cold inside, too cold inside, too dry, too thirsty, too hungry, too empty, move!

Can’t move right, where—table, floor, walls, air flowing—a grate?

Can’t move it. Sound? Footsteps, one, two. One very big. No, three, an animal?

Above! Above, so—stairs?

There, stairs!

Sound, light, warmth!

Too cold, too dry, too empty, thirsty, too hungry!

Light, more light, opening—it’s warm it’s big it’s hot meat blood I’m empty I’m cold I’m dry I’m HUNGRY!

NOW

As Menax opened the door, too many things happened at once. Something that should not have been up and moving about loomed over him, very much up, and lunged at him, very much about.

He somehow had the presence of mind to realize that the cadaver, the distinctly and definitely deceased body, was attacking him. He managed to thrust his knife into its—her?—raised hand, but a fleshless jaw closed on his shoulder.

He was ever so thankful that his daily attire involved several layers, including a durable undergarment.

Dropping the pan and letting go of the knife, he brought up both hands and all of his strength to push the walking corpse away. Questions sprang into his mind as his body acted. A dybbuk? He knew that sometimes the dead could possess unliving things if they were in the likeness of the living, and some were quite hostile.

The corpse paused, chewing cotton shreds, and slowly looked at her hand, where the knife was embedded. She mouthed something, seeming unable to speak—the vocal cords were part of the damage to the throat, of course—and with a strange stiffness, settled into some kind of fighting stance, holding out the knife as if wielding it.

Menax was vaguely aware of Belaset swearing in incredulity, while Musick uttered a long string of prayers; all he could do was fall back on the two ways he had been trained. The first, was academic—the second moved his hands and feet, and he did not dwell on it as his mind raced. If not a dybbuk, a vampir? No, this corpse seemed to conscious, now. He had studied cases of vampir attacks, and although they looked like the living, they were feral things driven solely by bloodthirst.

His opponent was measuring his own stance, taking in the situation as he made adjustments in his footing, retreating in a way that he hoped was not too obvious, to invite another attack. His hands were raised, fingers ready to curl into fists but not openly presenting either a threat or an invitation.

Not a vampir, and not a phthisick, either. The cause of death had been injury, not a wasting illness such as consumption, and he seemed to recall that pthisicks did not move their physical forms much, preferring attacks of an invisible nature.

The corpse’s yellow-stained eyes moved to the windows, to the door Belaset was blocking. Her feet moved back just a touch, as if considering retreating back to the cellar.

Certainly not a neveylah, as there had been no proposal of marriage, nor one of the headless hunters, as the body quite plainly still bore a head.

Slowly, cautiously, the corpse crouched. Not readying to lunge again, no. Hands held up—then pausing, lowering the hand with the knife in it, wincing. One hand still raised. A gesture of caution, or conciliation. Sitting, watching, waiting.

Menax moved back with more haste, keeping one hand up and using the other to gesture to Belaset and Musick.

“Back, back up,” he said, and as they moved through the door into the kitchen, “shut it—hold it!”

Belaset did so, putting her whole body against the door.

FIVE YEARS AGO

“I’m just saying, this is, like, the third time you’ve volunteered to disguise yourself as a girl,” H. said, rubbing a salve into his cheeks and forearms. His appearance changed slightly as he did, looking older, gruffer, more worn. His clothing fit the look more than his casual attire did, dressed like some kind of laborer, with an apron covered in stains of uncertain origin covering most of his body.

“And I’m just saying, it just works out that way,” V. replied, rubbing a differently-colored cream into… her, yes, that was appropriate right now. Rubbing it into her chest, reaching down through her collar. She felt the ache of fatty tissue growing where there had been flatness a moment before, a few nascent hairs falling away. “F. is disguised as a boy, we had to balance things out for this mission. They’re expecting even numbers.”

“Yeah, but—” H. gave up, throwing his hands up in the air. “Whatever. You’re not my row, anyway.”

True, F. Ferdbin had disguised herself as a boy because her natural appearance was the closest fit to that of the person of interest she was replacing, and that her expertise in chemicals made her the best choice to eliminate the target up-close. The rest of them were just meant to be the schoolmates of the boy whose visiting uncle was, in secret, a notorious firebrand.

And while it was true that the letters they had intercepted suggested a group of five other friends—D. joining H. as the other boys, with B. and N. together with V.  on the girls’ side, while O. and J. observed the situation from a distance, ready to effect their ‘exit’—V. had to admit to herself that there had been no particular statement of the actual genders of the rest of the party.

But it gave her an excuse to be, well, her, at least for an hour or so, as long as the mission went according to plan.

An hour or so later, all had gone according to plan, the mission was entirely successful, and V. and F. were dead.

ABOUT A YEAR AFTER THAT, OR FOUR YEARS BEFORE NOW

“Me? Specifically, me? As… a girl?” V. asked, surprised.

“Yes, you’ve demonstrated exceptional skill in taking on disguises regardless of gender,” Chief Nurse Eciurtal explained, reviewing V.’s records. “The officers have taken note of this, and in light of your exemplary performance as a member of  the Corpse—”

Not exemplary enough, if she was still ranked just number four, she thought to herself. She was leader of a whole row, and still only counted as four out of twenty? It was absurd. And what a rank. Out of all the parts of the metaphorical “Corpse of the Empire” represented—‘corpse’ being in the more general sense of a body and not just a dead one, or even an organizational ‘body’—she was….

The “Pit”. The lowest point of the stomach, the point in the abdomen where ‘gut’ feelings laid. Oh yes, important. But not The Brain, not The Crown. Not even one of the eyes, ears, The Neck. On the diagrams they used to map it out when they explained it to her and the rest of them all those years ago, the part circled to indicate The Pit included, well. Well! It was an unpleasant, smelly area. Including some parts she didn’t like being reminded of, much.

And the damnedest thing was that her own body decided that was correct. She always had excellent ‘gut’ feelings, an instinct for things. It felt like the center of her balance, too. And she effortlessly shrugged off certain illnesses and poisons, like that one time that left the rest of Row Four in the latrine for a whole day. At least that, she was glad for. But, well. There were other things. Things that she was told were the result of being particularly healthy there, ways her body was betraying her hopes.

So, she was very glad to be receiving this assignment.

And she was trying not to think too deeply about the fact that she was thinking of herself as “she” before even putting on the disguise.

[mrkwonandmrchoibabygirl]

50 SHADES OF KWON JI YONG PT.4

A/N JUST ENJOY!

Genre:Romance/Smut/Fluff/Angst

Rated: Rated-R

Pair: Kwon Ji Yong(aka G-Dragon)x reader

Word count 5,527

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5

Kiss me damn it! I implore him, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by him. I’m staring at Kwon Ji Yong’s exquisitely sculptured mouth, mesmerized, and he’s looking down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening. He’s breathing harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m in your arms. Kiss me, please. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives me a small shake of his head as if in answer to my silent question. When he opens his eyes again, it’s with some new purpose, a steely resolve. “Y/N, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you,” he whispers. What? Where is this coming from? Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown up at him, and my head swims with rejection. “Breathe,Y/N, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says quietly, and he gently pushes me away. Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the heady proximity to JiYong, leaving me wired and weak. NO! My psyche screams as he pulls away, leaving me bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, watching my reactions carefully. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and he didn’t do it. He doesn’t want me. He really doesn’t want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning. “I’ve got this,” I breathe, finding my voice. “Thank you,” I mutter awash with humiliation. How could I have misread the situation between us so utterly? I need to get away from him. “For what?” he frowns. He hasn’t taken his hands off me. “For saving me,” I whisper. “That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?” He releases me, his hands by his sides, and I’m standing in front of him feeling like a fool. With a shake, I clear my head. I just want to go. All my vague, unarticulated hopes have been dashed. He doesn’t want me. What was I thinking? I scold myself. What would Kwon Ji Yong want with you? My subconscious mocks me. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face the road and note with relief that the green man has appeared. I quickly make my way across, conscious that Kwon is behind me. Outside the hotel, I turn briefly to face him but cannot look him in the eye. “Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot,” I murmur. “y/n… I… ” He stops, and the anguish in his voice demands my attention, so I peer unwillingly up at him. His brown eyes are bleak as he runs his hand through his hair. He looks torn, frustrated, his expression stark, all his careful control has evaporated. “What, JiYong?” I snap irritably after he says – nothing. I just want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health. “Good luck with your exams,” he murmurs. Huh? This is why he looks so desolate? This is the big send off? Just to wish me luck in my exams? “Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Goodbye, Mr. Kwon.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving him a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage. Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. Why am I crying? I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was – my dashed hopes, dashed dreams, and my soured expectations. I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay… so I was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball – but I understood that – running and doing something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a serious liability in any sporting field. Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity – I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So I have always been the one to rebuff any would be admirers. There was that guy in my chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest – no one except Kwon damn Ji Yong. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Paul Clayton and Song Min-ho, though I’m sure neither of them have been found sobbing alone in dark places. Perhaps I just need a good cry. Stop! Stop Now! - My subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in frustration. Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about him… Now! And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap. I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up. Get it together Y/L/N. I head for Rin’s car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of him again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams. Rin is sitting at the dining table at her laptop when I arrive. Her welcoming smile fades when she sees me. “Y/N what’s wrong?” Oh no… not the Min Hyo-Rin Inquisition. I shake my head at her in a back-off now Min way – but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute. “You’ve been crying,” she has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious sometimes. “What did that bastard do to you?” she growls, and her face – jeez, she’s scary. “Nothing Rin.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my face. “Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” she says, her voice softening. She stands, her green eyes brimming with concern. She puts her arms around me and hugs me. I need to say something just to get her to back off. “I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best that I can do, but it distracts her momentarily from… him. “Jeez Y/N – are you okay? Were you hurt?” She holds me at arm’s length and does a quick visual check-up on me. “No. JiYong saved me,” I whisper. “But I was quite shaken.” “I’m not surprised. How was coffee? I know you hate coffee.” “I had tea. It was fine, nothing to report really. I don’t know why he asked me.” “He likes you Y/N.” She drops her arms. “Not anymore. I won’t be seeing him again.” Yes, I manage to sound matter of fact. “Oh?” Crap. She’s intrigued. I head into the kitchen so that she can’t see my face. “Yeah… he’s a little out of my league Rin,” I say as dryly as I can manage. “What do you mean?” “Oh Rin, it’s obvious.” I whirl round and face her as she stands in the kitchen doorway. “Not to me,” she says. “Okay, he’s got more money than you, but then he has more money than most people in Korea!” “RIN he’s– ” I shrug. “Y/N! For heaven’s sake – how many times must I tell you? You’re a total babe,” she interrupts me. Oh no. She’s off on this tirade again. “Rin, please. I need to study.” I cut her short. She frowns. “Do you want to see the article? It’s finished. Mino took some great pictures.” Do I need a visual reminder of the beautiful Kwon I-don’t-want-you JiYong? “Sure,” I magic a smile on to my face and stroll over to the laptop. And there he is, staring at me in black and white, staring at me and finding me lacking. I pretend to read the article, all the time meeting his steady Brown gaze, searching the photo for some clue as to why he’s not the man for me – his own words to me. And it’s suddenly, blindingly obvious. He’s too gloriously good-looking. We are poles apart and from two very different worlds. I have a vision of myself as Icarus flying too close to the sun and crashing and burning as a result. His words make sense. He’s not the man for me. This is what he meant, and it makes his rejection easier to accept… almost. I can live with this. I understand. “Very good Rin,” I manage. “I’m going to study.” I am not going to think about him again for now, I vow to myself, and opening my revision notes, I start to read. It’s only when I’m in bed, trying to sleep, that I allow my thoughts to drift through my strange morning. I keep coming back to the ‘I don’t do the girlfriend thing’ quote, and I’m angry that I didn’t pounce on this information sooner, when I was in his arms mentally begging him with every fiber of my being to kiss me. He’d said it there and then. He didn’t want me as a girlfriend. I turn on to my side. Idly, I wonder if perhaps he’s celibate? I close my eyes and begin to drift. Maybe he’s saving himself. Well not for you, my sleepy subconscious has a final swipe at me before unleashing itself on my dreams. And that night, I dream of brown eyes, leafy patterns in milk, and I’m running through dark places with eerie strip lighting, and I don’t know if I’m running toward something or away from it… it’s just not clear.

~

. I put my pen down. Finished. My final exam is over. I feel the Cheshire cat grin spread over my face. It’s probably the first time all week that I’ve smiled. It’s Friday, and we shall be celebrating tonight, really celebrating. I might even get drunk! I’ve never been drunk before. I glance across the sports hall at Rin, and she’s still scribbling furiously, five minutes to the end. This is it, the end of my academic career. I shall never have to sit in rows of anxious, isolated students again. Inside I’m doing graceful cartwheels around my head, knowing full well that’s the only place I can do graceful cartwheels. Rin stops writing and puts her pen down. She glances across at me, and I catch her Cheshire cat smile too. We head back to our apartment together in her Mercedes, refusing to discuss our final paper. Rin is more concerned about what she’s going to wear to the bar this evening. I am busily fishing around in my purse for my keys. “Y/N, there’s a package for you.” Rin is standing on the steps up to the front door holding a brown paper parcel. Odd. I haven’t ordered anything from Amazon recently. Rin gives me the parcel and takes my keys to open the front door. It’s addressed to Miss Y/N Y/L/N. There’s no sender’s address or name. Perhaps it’s from my mom or Ray. “It’s probably from my folks.” “Open it!” Rin is excited as she heads into the kitchen for our ‘Exams are finished hurrah Champagne’. I open the parcel, and inside I find a half leather box containing three seemingly identical old cloth-covered books in mint condition and a plain white card. Written on one side, in black ink in neat cursive handwriting, is:

IWhy didn’t you tell me there was danger? Why didn’t you warn me?

Ladies know what to guard against,because they read novels that tell them of these tricks... I

I recognize the quote from Tess. I am stunned by the irony as I’ve just spent three hours writing about the novels of Thomas Hardy in my final examination. Perhaps there is no irony… perhaps it’s deliberate. I inspect the books closely, three volumes of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I open the front cover. Written in an old typeface on the front plate is: ‘London: Jack R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891.’ Holy shit - they are first editions. They must be worth a fortune, and I know immediately who’s sent them. Rin is at my shoulder gazing at the books. She picks up the card. “First Editions,” I whisper. “No.” Rin’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Kwon?” I nod. “Can’t think of anyone else.” “What does this card mean?” “I have no idea. I think it’s a warning – honestly he keeps warning me off. I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m beating his door down.” I frown. “I know you don’t want to talk about him, Y/N, but he’s seriously into you. Warnings or no.” I have not let myself dwell on Kwon Ji Yong for the past week. Okay… so his brown eyes are still haunting my dreams, and I know it will take an eternity to expunge the feel of his arms around me and his wonderful fragrance from my brain. Why has he sent me this? He told me that I wasn’t for him. “I’ve found one Tess first edition for sale in New York at $14,000. But yours looks in much better condition. They must have cost more.” Rin is consulting her good friend Naver. “This quote – Tess says it to her mother after Alec D’Urberville has had his wicked way with her.” “I know,” muses Rin. “What is he trying to say?” “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t accept these from him. I’ll send them back with an equally baffling quote from some obscure part of the book.” “The bit where Angel Clare says fuck off?” Rin asks with a completely straight face. “Yes, that bit.” I giggle. I love Rin, she’s so loyal and supportive. I repack the books and leave them on the dining table. Rin hands me a glass of champagne. “To the end of exams and our new life in Seoul,” she grins. “To the end of exams, our new life in Seoul, and excellent results.” We clink glasses and drink. The bar is loud and hectic, full of soon to be graduates out to get trashed. Mino joins us. He won’t graduate for another year, but he’s in the mood to party and gets us into the spirit of our newfound freedom by buying a pitcher of margaritas for us all. As I down my fifth, I know this is not a good idea on top of the champagne. “So what now Y/n?” Mino shouts at me over the noise. “Rin and I are moving to Seoul. Rin’s parents have bought a condo there for her.” “waee, how the other half live. But you’ll be back for my show.” “Of course, Mino, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I smile, and he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me close. “It means a lot to me that you’ll be there Y/N,” he whispers in my ear. “Another margarita?” “Song Min-ho – are you trying to get me drunk? Because I think it’s working.” I giggle. “I think I’d better have a beer. I’ll go get us a pitcher.” “More drink, Y/N!” Rin bellows. Rin has the constitution of an ox. She’s got her arm draped over Louis, one of our fellow English students and her usual photographer on her student newspaper. He’s given up taking photos of the drunkenness that surrounds him. He only has eyes for Rin. She’s all tiny camisole, tight jeans, and high heels, hair piled high with tendrils hanging down softly around her face, her usual stunning self. Me, I’m more of a Converse and t-shirt kind of girl, but I’m wearing my most flattering jeans. I move out of Mino’s hold and get up from our table. Whoa. Head spin. I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila based cocktails are not a good idea. I make my way to the bar and decide that I should visit the powder room while I am on my feet. Good thinking, Y/N. I stagger off through the crowd. Of course, there’s a line, but at least it’s quiet and cool in the corridor. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the boredom of waiting in line. Hmm… Who did I last call? Was it Mino? Before that a number I don’t recognize. Oh yes. Kwon, I think this is his number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time is, maybe I’ll wake him. Perhaps he can tell me why he sent me those books and the cryptic message. If he wants me to stay away, he should leave me alone. I suppress a drunken grin and hit the automatic re-dial. He answers on the second ring. “Y/N?” He’s surprised to hear from me. Well, frankly, I’m surprised to ring him. Then my befuddled brain registers… how does he know it’s me? “Why did you send me the books?” I slur at him. “Y/N, are you okay? You sound strange.” His voice is filled with concern. “I’m not the strange one, you are,” I accuse. There - that told him, my courage fuelled by alcohol. “Y/N, have you been drinking?” “What’s it to you?” “I’m – curious. Where are you?” “In a bar.” “Which bar?” He sounds exasperated. “A bar in Gangnam.” “How are you getting home?” “I’ll find a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected. “Which bar are you in?” “Why did you send me the books, Ji Yong?” “Y/N, where are you, tell me now.” His tone is so, so dictatorial, his usual control freak. I imagine him as an old time movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old fashioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud. “You’re so… domineering,” I giggle. “Y/n, so help me, where the fuck are you?” Kwon Ji Yong is swearing at me. I giggle again. “I’m in Gangnam… s’a long way from Seoul.” “Where in Gangnam?” “Goodnight, Jiyong.” “Y/N!” I hang up. Ha! Though he didn’t tell me about the books. I frown. Mission not accomplished. I am really quite drunk - my head swims uncomfortably as I shuffle with the line. Well, the object of the exercise was to get drunk. I have succeeded. This is what it’s like – probably not an experience to be repeated. The line has moved, and it’s now my turn. I stare blankly at the poster on the back of the toilet door that extols the virtues of safe sex. Holy crap, did I just call Kwon Ji Yong? Shit. My phone rings and it makes me jump. I yelp in surprise. “Hi,” I bleat timidly in to the phone. I hadn’t reckoned on this. “I’m coming to get you,” he says and hangs up. Only Kwon Ji Yong could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time. Holy crap. I pull my jeans up. My heart is thumping. Coming to get me? Oh no. I’m going to be sick… no… I’m fine. Hang on. He’s just messing with my head. I didn’t tell him where I was. He can’t find me here. Besides, it will take him hours to get here from Seoul, and we’ll be long gone by then. I wash my hands and check my face in the mirror. I look flushed and slightly unfocused. Hmm… tequila. I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of beer and eventually return to the table. “You’ve been gone so long.” Rin scolds me. “Where were you?” “I was in line for the restroom.” Mino and Louis are having some heated debate about our local baseball team. Mino pauses in his tirade to pour us all beers, and I take a long sip. “Rin, I think I’d better step outside and get some fresh air.” “Y/n, you are such a lightweight.” “I’ll be five minutes.” I make my way through the crowd again. I am beginning to feel nauseous, my head is spinning uncomfortably, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet. More unsteady than usual. Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am. My vision has been affected, and I’m really seeing double of everything like in old re-runs of Tom and Jerry Cartoons. I think I’m going to be sick. Why did I let myself get this messed up? “Y/N,” Mino has joined me. “You okay?” “I think I’ve just had a bit too much to drink.” I smile weakly at him. “Me too,” he murmurs, and his dark eyes are watching me intently. “Do you need a hand?” he asks and steps closer, putting his arm around me. “Mino I’m okay. I’ve got this.” I try and push him away rather feebly. “Y/N, please,” he whispers, and now he’s holding me in his arms, pulling me close. “Mino, what you doing?” “You know I like you Y/N, please.” He has one hand at the small of my back holding me against him, the other at my chin tipping back my head. Holy fuck… he’s going to kiss me. “No Mino, stop – no.” I push him, but he’s a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift him. His hand has slipped into my hair, and he’s holding my head in place. “Please, Y/N, yeobo,” he whispers against my lips. His breath is soft and smells too sweet – of margarita and beer. He gently trails kisses along my jaw up to the side of my mouth. I feel panicky, drunk, and out of control. The feeling is suffocating. “Mino, no,” I plead. I don’t want this. You are my friend, and I think I’m going to throw up. “I think the lady said no.” A voice in the dark says quietly. Holy shit! Kwon Ji Yong, he’s here. How? Mino releases me. “Kwon,” he says tersely. I glance anxiously up at Jiyong. He’s glowering at Mino, and he’s furious. Crap. My stomach heaves, and I double over, my body no longer able to tolerate the alcohol, and I vomit spectacularly on to the ground. “Ugh – joesong haeyo*, Y/N!” Mino jumps back in disgust. Kwony grabs my hair and pulls it out of the firing line and gently leads me over to a raised flowerbed on the edge of the parking lot. I note, with deep gratitude, that it’s in relative darkness. “If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you.” He has one arm around my shoulders – the other is holding my hair in a makeshift ponytail down my back so it’s off my face. I try awkwardly to push him away, but I vomit again… and again. Oh shit… how long is this going to last? Even when my stomach’s empty and nothing is coming up, horrible dry heaves wrack my body. I vow silently that I’ll never ever drink again. This is just too appalling for words. Finally, it stops. My hands are resting on the brick wall of the flowerbed, barely holding me up - vomiting profusely is exhausting. Kwon takes his hands off me and passes me a handkerchief. Only he would have a monogrammed, freshly laundered, linen handkerchief. KJY. I didn’t know you could still buy these. Vaguely I wonder what the J stands for as I wipe my mouth. I cannot bring myself to look at him. I’m swamped with shame, disgusted with myself. I want to be swallowed up by the azaleas in the flowerbed and be anywhere but here. Mino is still hovering by the entrance to the bar, watching us. I groan and put my head in my hands. This has to be the single worst moment of my life. My head is still swimming as I try to remember a worse one – and I can only come up with Ji Yong’s rejection – and this is so, so many shades darker in terms of humiliation. I risk a peek at him. He’s staring down at me, his face composed, giving nothing away. Turning, I glance at Mino who looks pretty shamefaced himself and, like me, intimidated by Kwon. I glare at him. I have a few choice words for my so-called friend, none of which I can repeat in front of Kwon Ji Yong CEO. Y/N who are you kidding, he’s just seen you hurl all over the ground and into the local flora. There’s no disguising your lack of ladylike behavior. “I’ll err… see you inside,” Mino mutters, but we both ignore him, and he slinks off back into the building. I’m on my own with Kwon. Double crap. What should I say to him? Apologize for the phone call. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, staring at the handkerchief which I am furiously worrying with my fingers. It’s so soft. “What are you sorry for Y/n?” Oh crap, he wants his damned pound of flesh. “The phone call mainly, being sick. Oh, the list is endless,” I murmur, feeling my skin coloring up. Please, please can I die now? “We’ve all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you,” he says dryly. “It’s about knowing your limits, Y/N. I mean, I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?” My head buzzes with excess alcohol and irritation. What the hell has it got to do with him? I didn’t invite him here. He sounds like a middle-aged man scolding me like an errant child. Part of me wants to say, if I want to get drunk every night like this, then it’s my decision and nothing to do with him – but I’m not brave enough. Not now that I’ve thrown up in front of him. Why is he still standing there? “No,” I say contritely. “I’ve never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again.” I just don’t understand why he’s here. I begin to feel faint. He notices my dizziness and grabs me before I fall and hoists me into his arms, holding me close to his chest like a child. “Come on, I’ll take you home,” he murmurs. “I need to tell Rin.” Holy Moses, I’m in his arms again. “My brother can tell her.” “What?” “My brother Taeyang is talking to Miss Min.”(boi i hope you get the refrence u know taeyang and min hyo rin...) “Oh?” I don’t understand. “He was with me when you phoned.” “In Seoul?” I’m confused. “No, I’m staying at the Heathman.” Still? Why? “How did you find me?” “I tracked your cell phone Y/n.” Oh, of course he did. How is that possible? Is it legal? Stalker, my subconscious whispers at me through the cloud of tequila that’s still floating in my brain, but somehow, because it’s him, I don’t mind. “Do you have a jacket or a purse?” “Err… yes, I came with both. Jiyong, please, I need to tell Rin. She’ll worry.” His mouth presses into a hard line, and he sighs heavily. “If you must.” He sets me down, and, taking my hand, leads me back into the bar. I feel weak, still drunk, embarrassed, exhausted, mortified, and on some strange level absolutely off the scale thrilled. He’s clutching my hand – such a confusing array of emotions. I’ll need at least a week to process them all. It’s noisy, crowded, and the music has started so there is a large crowd on the dance floor. Rin is not at our table, and Mino has disappeared. Louis looks lost and forlorn on his own. “Where’s Rin?” I shout at Louis above the noise. My head is beginning to pound in time to the thumping bass line of the music. “Dancing,” Louis shouts, and I can tell he’s mad. He’s eyeing Jiyong suspiciously. I struggle into my black jacket and place my small shoulder bag over my head so it sits at my hip. I’m ready to go, once I’ve seen Rin. “She’s on the dance floor,” I touch Jiyong’s arm and lean up and shout in his ear, brushing his hair with my nose, smelling his clean, fresh smell. Oh my. All those forbidden, unfamiliar feelings that I have tried to deny surface and run amok through my drained body. I flush, and somewhere deep, deep down my muscles clench deliciously. He rolls his eyes at me and takes my hand again and leads me to the bar. He’s served immediately, no waiting for Mr. Control-Freak Kwon. Does everything come so easily to him? I can’t hear what he orders. He hands me a very large glass of iced water. “Drink,” he shouts his order at me. The moving lights are twisting and turning in time to the music casting strange colored light and shadows all over the bar and the clientele. He’s alternately green, blue, white, and a demonic red. He’s watching me intently. I take a tentative sip. “All of it,” he shouts. He’s so overbearing. He runs his hand through his unruly hair. He looks frustrated, angry. What is his problem? Apart from a silly drunk girl ringing him in the middle of the night so he thinks she needs rescuing. And it turns out she does from her over amorous friend. Then seeing her being violently ill at his feet. Oh Y/N… are you ever going to live this down? My subconscious is figuratively tutting and glaring at me over her half moon specs. I sway slightly, and he puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me. I do as I’m told and drink the entire glass. It makes me feel queasy. Taking the glass from me, he places it on the bar. I notice through a blur what he’s wearing; a loose white linen shirt, snug jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a dark pinstriped jacket. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and I see a sprinkling of hair in the gap. In my groggy frame of mind, he looks yummy. He takes my hand once more. Holy cow – he’s leading me onto the dance floor. Shit. I do not dance. He can sense my reluctance, and under the colored lights, I can see his amused, slightly sardonic smile. He gives my hand a sharp tug, and I’m in his arms again, and he starts to move, taking me with him. Boy, he can dance, and I can’t believe that I’m following him step for step. Maybe it’s because I’m drunk that I can keep up. He’s holding me tight against him, his body against mine… if he wasn’t clutching me so tightly, I’m sure I would swoon at his feet. In the back of my mind, my mother’s often-recited warning comes to me: Never trust a man who can dance. He moves us through the crowded throng of dancers to the other side of the dance floor, and we are beside Rin and Taeyang, Jiyong’s brother. The music is pounding away, loud and leery, outside and inside my head. I gasp. Rin is making her moves. She’s dancing her ass off, and she only ever does that if she likes someone. Really likes someone. It means there’ll be three of us for breakfast tomorrow morning. Hyo-Rin! Jiyong leans over and shouts in Taeyang’s ear. I cannot hear what he says. Taeyang is quite short with wide shoulders, short black hair, and light, wickedly brown gleaming eyes. I can’t tell the color under the pulsating heat of the flashing lights. Taeyang grins, and pulls Hyo-Rin to him, I am shocked. She’s only just met him. She nods at whatever Taeyang says and grins at me and waves. Jiyong propels us off the dance floor in double quick time. But I never got to talk to her. Is she okay? I can see where things are heading for her and him. I need to do the safe sex lecture. In the back of my mind, I hope she reads one of the posters on the back of the toilet doors. My thoughts crash through my brain, fighting the drunk, fuzzy feeling. It’s so warm in here, so loud, so colorful – too bright. My head begins to swim, oh no… and I can feel the floor coming up to meet my face or so it feels. The last thing I hear before I pass out in Kwon Jiyongs’s arms is his harsh epithet. “Fuck!”

a/n it is fun for me to edit these chapters so please leave a like and reblog to share it!

[dawnonice]

Writing Tag Meme

Thanks @eternalsunshine13 for tagging me <3 The answers get a little long, so they’re under the cut

1) HOW MANY WORKS IN PROGRESS TO DO YOU CURRENTLY HAVE?

Uh... one that actually has a decent chance of getting to the public someday... and four others that I can’t seem to make work (but they’re kinda fun to mess around with anyway). And the Fire Emblem AU but shhh it’s not abandoned but it’s not exactly on my mind a lot, either. Plus, like, 12 ideas that currently only exist as brief notes to myself but would TOTALLY make great fics someday if I’d write them

2) DO YOU/WOULD YOU WRITE FANFICTION?

I only write fanfiction :)

3) DO YOU PREFER PAPER BOOKS OR EBOOKS?

Theoretically, ebooks (because you can fit your entire library into one device, and you can change the font size and colors and stuff so you don’t hurt your eyes, and also they’re usually cheaper) but... I only like them on tablets/e-readers... and while I have a tablet, it only gets used for Very Professional things... so in practice, I usually end up buying physical copies (I’ve been meaning to try my local library’s ebook app, though)

4) WHEN DID YOU START WRITING?

Uhh I was probably like 11 or 12... I wrote Warrior Cats fanfiction in the form of poems, lol.

5) DO YOU HAVE SOMEONE YOU TRUST THAT YOU SHARE YOUR WORK WITH?

Haha... Not unless you count me posting vague things about my wips to my tumblr followers. I feel guilty when people like a wip and then I don’t finish it see, e.g., Fire Emblem AU  so I try not to show too much of anything I don’t feel confident I can finish (if you ask me specifically about what I’m writing, though, I absolutely can scream about it for hours. I have a lot of feelings when I write.)

6) WHERE IS YOUR FAVOURITE PLACE TO WRITE?

When I’m at home I always do all my computer-ing on my couch, so... my couch. :) Haha, but when I’m in my on-campus apartment, I just write at my desk... I mean, if it’s good enough for my academic papers, it’s good enough for my fanfics, right? (I generally prefer to wait until I go home on the weekend to write, though... unless I’m just so excited about the fic that I can’t wait, haha)

7) FAVOURITE CHILDHOOD BOOK?

W a r r i o r  C a t s 

(The series is still ongoing and tbh I still read it... but I’m a little behind on it at the moment)

8) WRITING FOR FUN OR WRITING FOR PUBLICATION?

For fun! Writing is my hobby, so I don’t want to make it into work!

9) PEN AND PAPER OR COMPUTER?

Computer! I can’t read my handwriting at all! And also, I wouldn’t want anyone to nose around and find my writing, haha (yeah, you COULD do that on a computer, too... but it’s less likely to happen accidentally)

10) HAVE YOU EVER TAKEN ANY WRITING CLASSES?

I mean, like, many of my standard English classes have had writing requirements. And one time in college I took an Expository Writing class (because it sounded better than Comp 2, and indeed it was). But as far as specifically taking a class for creative writing, nope!

11) WHAT INSPIRES YOU TO WRITE?

I want to bring positive emotions like love and happiness to my favorite characters! (And even if they suffer a bit in the beginning, it’s only so they can feel even more overwhelming relief and happiness later on. I don’t like tragedies.)

Also, I dunno what it is about Victor and Yuuri specifically (I mean, they’re my otp, but I’ve had otps before, and this is... so beyond that), but I just want to write thousands and thousands of words about them cherishing each other forever. The longest thing I’d ever written before I joined the YOI fandom was a little under 3k, I think? And then Victuuri happened and all of a sudden I can write novellas (not quite up to novels... yet, haha)

[serpent-bearer]

Vivienne - Chapter 3 Flight or Fight

look: this, light spilling like honey

from our lips. this, stars finding homes

in the leftover curves of our necks,

bleeding something holy into our skin.

look: this, where you sang until the moon

fell in love with us too. where we wrote

all our sins and set them on fire and danced

until the rising sun kissed wings onto our backs.

look: this, the exit wound you healed

by telling me it was a place for the cosmos

to enter and make me whole again. this,

the castles we built in our heads for each other.

look: let’s go and splinter the stars.

let’s run until we can fit the light in our bodies

and teach it not to escape anymore.

let’s run until we can find our way home again,

until we realize home has been inside of us

the whole time, waiting for us to return.

  - how to be whole again, Arlen  C.

  Astronomy was one of those funny subjects when taken in an academic environment.

 When she was at the Academy of Magical Astrophysics, Aurora would spend one week in theory lectures and classes, and the alternate week continuing her practical research in one of the Academy’s many observatories. The alterative day/night routine suited her body clock much better than the shitstorm of the mixture of day and night classes Hogwarts had given her to deal with in her profession. In her younger days, she used the one week of free nights of catch up on readings (and perhaps a casual fling or two with a few extremely willing astronomer wizards…), and the free days to catch up on well needed sleep. It had worked well.

 Under Dumbledore’s regime her sleeping patterns and mental health in general were not doing so well. Theory classes in the day and practical classes at night, coupled with the incessant worries about what currently lay in wait outside the walls of the castle had left her feeling nothing more than an empty husk of a woman. She could no longer look at herself in the mirror. The droopy bags and sharply deepened frown line was too much to take.

 It had been a very thrilling afternoon for her seventh year N.E.W.T. students – they had just begun to get their final year research projects underway… projects that could consist of astronomical and magical theories and experiments of their choosing, projects that could gain one or two keen future astronomers entry into her old haunt of AoMA. The small group had spent the majority of the afternoon of her theory class huddled in chattering, excited groups over sprawled out pieces of parchment… musing on the brink of the rest of their professional and academic lives, seemingly without a care in the world but with all the murders and war that surrounded them this year Aurora assumed the cheeriness was nothing but a farce; a way to cope with the day to day. She knew the inside of that mask well.

 Sinistra was glad that she could set them to task without much of her teacherly input today. She had been up half the night with the first years during their midnight lessons, and up the second half of the night tossing and turning in simultaneous hot and cold sweats… nightmares of Dark Marks burned into her abdomen and sounds of Severus screaming in bone chilling pain clouded the few moments of sleep that had been sanctioned to her.

 Was it just her, or did the skies look greyer nowadays than they ever had before?

 A vague ringing in her ears should have signalled the end of class, but it had completely washed over Aurora. It was only when one of the seventh years had called, “Professor Sinistra?” that she lifted her chin from her hands and snapped her gaze back into the classroom.

 “Mr. Morgan?”

 Mr. Morgan was currently gawking at her - clearly looking for the most refined way to say “can we get the fuck out of your class now?” – but he needn’t bother. She just caught sight of the clock.

 “Oh… yes…” she sighed, running a trembling hand over her tired eyes. “Go. Get out. See you all next week.”

 There was a sudden, deafening sound of about ten chairs skidding across the floorboards. A collection of noise that only ceased when the door to the classroom had slammed shut, leaving Aurora feeling just as alone as she had felt when the room had been fully occupied. She spent a few moments simply gazing, her eyes glazing over at the blackboard behind her: full of complex and blissful calculations… numbers that would never make her feel the way everything else was making her feel… numbers that wouldn’t attach their talons to her ribcage and refuse to let go…

 Just as she felt the sting of bubbling emotion begin to well up in her eyes, a knock at the door shocked her back into dignity.

 “Yes?” she called, straightening herself up in the chair and trying in vain to look remotely presentable.

 And she almost laughed out loud at the sight of who stood there, because it was the last person in the world she was expecting to be standing outside an Astronomy classroom door at the present time.

 “Good afternoon, Aurora” Professor Dumbledore called quietly from the entrance, bowing his head politely.

 Is it now? She thought bitterly.

 When he was met with nothing but indifferent silence, he continued.

 “I was wondering whether I could perhaps come in for a little chat?” he motioned to one of the students desks directly in front of her.

 Aurora gave an extraordinary melodramatic shrug. All manner of respect for the old man had long since flown out of the window.

 “Can hardly deny you, can I? It’s your school.” We’re all property of Albus Wulfric Brian Whatever Manipulative Geniusbastard Dumbledore after all…

 Ah, acquiring the skill of Occlumency gave her such vindictive pleasure sometimes.

 Dumbledore faltered for just a mere millisecond (which gave Sinistra gratifying tingles in her belly) before allowing himself to stroll casually into the classroom, his sparkling blue eyes washed over all the slowly rotating planetary spheres and walls of equations as he did so.

 “Ah, the perihelion and aphelion orbits…” he mused nonchalantly, taking note of some of her scribblings on the board. “The different ecliptic effects on various mind-alerting spells, I’m assuming?”

 Sinistra nodded, rather disinterested in the casual talk. Dumbledore sighed audibly at the sight of the hundreds of little diagrams.

 “Ah, to be a N.E.W.T. Astronomy student once again… if I recall correctly, my final research project comprised of astronomical units and the effects of the outer uncharted galaxy on various curses…”

 Of course your project would comprise of the possible prospect of you boldly discovering new planets and systems, wouldn’t expect anything less.

 “And as far I recall, there was no such effect. Not unless you refused to submit your findings to publishing and you’ve kept the secret locked away in one of your drawers somewhere,” Aurora replied tartly. She flashed an ironic smile at the old wizard, and she could tell by the way he was smiling back that he was thinking the exact same way about her but would die before he ever admitted it. He was far too noble for all of that, of course.

 “May I sit?”

 “Please. By all means,” she waved her wand and one of the many chairs sitting in rows skited across the floor in front of her. Dumbledore nodded a thank you and took his place in front of her desk.

 “I’ve just come by to enquire how you are going with your syllabus for the beginning of the year. Are you managing to cope with everything?”

 Aurora countered with a deep frown.

 “Of course I am,” she shrugged. “I’ve been teaching the same subject for ten years – you’d hope I’d be able to manage it. Wouldn’t be worth my wages if I couldn’t, would I?”

 “1986 when you first walked through these doors as a Professor, yes?”

 “I believe so.”

 Dumbledore gave another infuriating smile.

 “You know, I cannot help but be slightly intrigued,” he began, leaning back in his chair slightly. “I remember you were rather… reluctant when I first wrote you offering you the position after Professor Alcor left us. You were off travelling the world researching for all the wizarding astronomy journals I can think of. I almost saw your name pop up weekly in British Magical Cosmology Monthly: Professor. A. N. Sinistra. You were a professor even before you walked through these halls and up into that tower; it was not a title simply bestowed upon you. It was earned. I never did quite ask you what persuaded you to change your mind, and more importantly…” his eyes glittered ominously at this “… what persuaded you to stay so long.”

 Immediately she knew what he wanted her to say. But she would throw her most prized telescope out of the tower before she ever admitted the answer to the latter part of that question.

 “I suppose I needed some stability for once,” Aurora said, absentmindedly scratching an old ink stain off her wooden desk. “Since… well… since my mother...” he voice choked at the mere mention of the woman who was so brutally taken away from her life. “Since I was taken in by my brothers – since leaving Mali and coming here -”

 “Of course. It must’ve been hard for you.”

 “Being completely displaced after losing my parents was not quite something I was prepared for at thirteen, no,” Aurora replied quietly. The tone had suddenly become far more serious than she would have liked and she could tell he was eyeing her with something remarkably close to pity and she wanted to slap it out of him.

 Something happened then which Aurora would not have been prepared for in a million years of existence, and something which initially caused her to jump out of her skin. She felt a bony, cold, slightly trembling hand make contact with the back of the hand she was still using to scratch the bejesus out of the desk with.

 He’s holding my hand? I mean, he’s HOLDING MY HAND?

 “Er…” she mumbled cautiously, wanting so badly to pull away but simultaneously not wishing to seem completely startled and foolish.

 “I remember it well, you know,” said Dumbledore. “That fateful day… ’73, or ’74, I can’t quite recall - ”

 “’73,” Aurora muttered darkly. She certainly would never forget that year.

 “’73…” Dumbledore nodded. “You arrived in my office, along with your eldest brother I believe. I can’t quite imagine how you felt. So much had happened to you all in that twenty four hours. Your mother, shifting entire continents to escape the massacres in Mali, an entire new school and new classmates who had already known each other for four years before you came along. It must have been quite the lonely existence.”

 All this sudden outpouring of sentiment from the Headmaster, someone she merely considered her boss and nothing more, finally got the better of the Astronomy professor. She pulled her hand away from his and started ruffling through her seventh years’ project proposals.

 “It was a long time ago. I don’t wish to delve into such things it if it’s all the same to you,” Aurora countered severely. “I have about a billion and half of these to read and approve to the AoMA board. Half of these students won’t get their approvals if I don’t crack on. Was there anything else you wanted to pity me for?”

 “My caring about your wellbeing is not pity, Aurora.”

 “Well, thank you for finally noticing my existence 23 years after the fact.”

 She had no idea why this sudden anger was finally seeping out through every pore. She had always managed to keep it well under control, for all these ten years she had been employee under him; though she had always still felt it - ever since he had sorted her as a thirteen-year-old in his office, and marched her down to the Slytherin dormitories and never since bothered to check on her and her mental state again. Like she had been some soulless bacterium incapable of nightmares and excruciating loneliness and endless flashbacks of her mother being murdered right before her eyes. None of that had ever mattered to him… and now he obviously wanted something from her, false sentiment had reared its ugly head. And she could hardly bare to look at him.

 “I can assure you I have noticed your struggle, no matter how well you attempt to hide it,” he replied as calmly as he could, though she could sense just a tiny bit of impatience in the back of his throat.

 Aurora sniffed dubiously.

 “Yeah,” she quipped, rising from her desk, “when it suits you, perhaps.”

 She didn’t bother to look back at him as she collected all the students’ proposals from their respective desks – she could have so easily used a summoning charm to pull them toward her desk, but the thought of looking at him anymore made her feel nauseous. They spent a few tense moments in obstinate silence… but she could feel his piercing gaze upon the hairs on the back of her head; so much so that Aurora shivered uncontrollably.

 “There are many dangerous forces at play outside these walls…” his voice finally carried to her from the back of the classroom. “I want all of my staff safe and out of harm’s way.”

 Sinistra, at this stage, could not help a snort of contempt.

 “Safe and out of harm’s way?” she echoed. “All of them? Or just us lowly mortals who are worthless to your great cause? Or is it just me you want ‘out of the way’?”

 “Aurora… let’s not go down this path…”

 “Why have you come here, then?” she snapped harshly. Finally ready to face him, she stormed back to her desk with the mountain of parchment in her hands and slammed then down between them.

 “Was it to try yet again to have me give in my notice?” Aurora said with a mocking grin. “Or are you just going to give up the charade and sack me on the spot. To finally have me out of the picture?”

 “You are one of the most competent teachers I have ever had the pleasure in hiring,” Dumbledore countered, his face remained impressively controlled, but the line between his twinkling blue eyes had deepened just enough that it transformed his entire demeanour. “Of course, I am not quite used to being so rudely spoken down to by such a highly-esteemed employee – but why on earth would I wish to sack you? I merely wished to give you a warning, as I have done with every single one of your colleagues and friends. To give you a choice.”

 “And what choice is this?”

 His stare would have split her skull wide open if she hadn’t the tools to protect herself. And she could tell by the way in which his shoulders dropped in disappointment, the way he gave a barely audible sigh, that he had found out her secret.

 “It would not be wise…” Dumbledore said as diplomatically as he could seem to manage. “… to be seen to be associated with members of the Order. The Dark Forces that are amassing are greater than you could possibly know. Your life is in great danger by doing what you are doing, and I merely wish to warn you.”

 Aurora shot him a look of complete bewilderment, as she worked harder than ever to prevent mental images from floating to the very top of her grey matter.

 “Associated with whom, may I ask? I am associated with many members of your ‘Order’; a lot of them I would consider my very good friends, and who I worry myself sick over daily. You think He Who Must Not Be Named is interested in my measly personal concerns?”

 “He will when he finds out.”

 “Finds out what?!” Aurora had now completely lost the ability to keep her voice down. She beared over him and smacked her hand down threateningly on the table, just daring him to come out and say it, to stop his fucking charade, to be honest with her – with anyone – for once in his life. Sinistra laughed bitterly in the silent old man’s face.

 “As much as I would gladly exchange war and gloom and pain and bloody Scotland for swimming naked under the stars in the Red Sea with copious amounts of booze – I’m afraid that for the time being, I am staying put,” she said defiantly. “My family is here. Therefore, I am here. No amount of threatening on yours or anyone else’s part is going to make me abandon him… them…” she corrected almost a millisecond after that unfortunate slipup.

 Dumbledore continued to survey her cautiously. His chin rested on the one hand that was blackened and mangled – what the hell happened to that hand? She made a mental note to ask Severus before she remembered that she was avoiding him at all costs lately.

 “My brothers and I are fighting in this war as well, you know,” she said, leaning back into her chair and attempting to further deflect where the argument was headed. “Maintaining a safe portal between Hogwarts and Uagadou is no easy feat.”

 “No, I daresay it is not,” Dumbledore agreed. The tension between them starting to lift just ever-so-slightly. “But having that safe passageway for victims has been invaluable to the Order and the greater wizarding community.”

 “Up until that point that he finds it…” Sinistra bit ominously. “Then it’s not just wizarding Britain who is at war - it’s wizarding Africa too. I am placing my birthplace in much danger by doing what I’m doing.”

 “I think if we allow his to continue it will consume the world as a whole.”

 Aurora nodded.

 “I don’t doubt that.”

 “Where are Mithras and Aion at present, by the way?”

 “Safe, I hope,” Aurora sighed. An unwelcomed weight had settled itself once again in the pit of her belly. “Aion has been away for quite some time… helping to seal Uagadou in as many shield and protective charms as possible. We haven’t spoken for months. Last I heard he was busy gathering secret forces in Uganda, and back home in Mali and Ghana. But if wizarding war is unleashed in West Africa… I…”

 Merlin, the mere thought set her nerves on fire. The utter chaos that even wizarding Britain could not fathom. The Muggle community in the sub-Sahara was not oblivious as British Muggles were. They were ready to find anyone of magical blood – they were ready for their own war. There would be nothing but bloodshed and death in every direction.

 “It’ll be what happened to my mother all over again, by the hundreds of thousands,” she ended quietly.

 The Headmaster almost looked as despondent as she felt. Good, I’ve finally been able to reach him, she thought. Maybe he realises how much this is going to cost me.

 “I promise you,” he assured. “I and the Order are doing everything in our power to ensure that the greater community is protected at all costs.”

 “It’s my brothers’ safety I am concerned about – not your ‘greater community’,” Aurora interjected, a slight tinge of venom on the tip of her tongue. “What price will they pay to keep that vessel open?”

 “You are maintaining that vessel just as much as they. You are the one guarding the Hogwarts gate. What price are you willing to pay?”

 Images of brothers who had raised her; a mother, long dead, who had loved her; the Ancient Runes teacher – Professor Lhoridi -  who had become the best friend she never thought she could have; and the greasy-haired Arsehead who had inadvertently become her Everything in this arcane cosmos… all of them simultaneously walked into the room. They had become so tangible that she could almost reach out and hold them to her ribcage and never allow them to leave her presence.  

 “Me…” Aurora started, mental barriers still black and unfathomable behind her eyes. “I’d gladly step off the edge of the universe itself.”

 The old wizard smiled, and finally she could feel something genuine radiate from him.

 “I know you would,” he nodded frankly, pushing both mangled and healthy hands upon the arm rests and raising himself slowly from the chair.

 “And I know he would do just the same for you…”

  Aurora felt a sudden stab of validation deep within her.

 Finally. He had finally admitted it, and she was still completely safe… he had not had to use Legilimency to find out the truth and it was sort of an unbearable kind of relief, even if he would still continue to drive them apart relentlessly.

 But he would never drive them apart. Oh, she would make sure of it.

 Dumbledore’s deep plum robes had almost skirted the edge of the door before he turned around.

 “You are a most impressive Occlumens, Professor Sinistra. You must have had quite the gifted tutor.”

 Ah… our games will never end, will they, Headmaster?

 Aurora snorted as she began to scribble notes upon the first piece of parchment in front of her, entitled: Refuting the Significance of Sun Signs and Birth Charts – A Study to Completely Debunk the ‘Art’ of Divination: by Jessica Campbell. Well, Miss Campbell was going to get top marks for this, Sinistra was sure. Suck it, Trelawney, my N.E.W.T. students can eat yours for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

 “They might call themselves a gifted tutor,” she retorted without looking up. “I call myself the perfect student. And I think we both know who’s right.”

 She heard him chuckling in the distance as the sounds of his footsteps drew further and further away down the corridor. Aurora tucked one wayward dreadlock back behind her ear and refused to muse on Dumbledore’s real intentions no longer… she would never get far, and she didn’t quite care to devote so much of her time to him anyway.

 No.

 She held out the anti-Divination thesis proposal in front of her instead and smiled emphatically at it.

 This was definitely finding its way into Sybill’s pigeonhole tomorrow morning…

[randomkidwithastory-blog]

I’m Sorry

A NOTE OF APOLOGY AND CLARIFICATION TO MY FRIENDS

I first off would like to thank all of you who have received access to this lengthy note. I would not have invited you to view this unless you had, in some way, greatly impacted my life or were just an amazing friend. I ask that you read this note all the way through so you may have some degree of closure and aren't left standing with the crowd asking why it happened. The contents of this note will be saddening to some and angering to others. One of the recipients of this note specifically told me there is nothing I could do to make them hate me but I believe the contents of this note will prove otherwise. Please try to understand and please don’t hate me.

I would now like to take a short period of time to apologize for being such a burden throughout our friendships of varying length. As much as many of you denied it when asked, I know I was a burden. That’s just who I am. I am a burden. My constant messages asking for people to talk to or play with. My constant pessimistic and downing messages that ruined the mood of or annoyed all recipients. My constant cries for help that, when help was offered, were denied and pushed off with a simple “I’m fine now,” or “It’s okay.” I was a burden, and now I must leave you with one last burden before you can permanently remove me from your mind and forget any memories of me. I must leave you with the burden of clarity. In this note I will detail, not the events themselves, but the thoughts that flooded my mind and drove me most literally to the brink of madness. I am so very sorry, please don’t hate me.

This note itself is being written on the seventh of January in the year 2018 but the problems themselves date all the way back to my elementary school years so I may seem vague or lost trying to accurately remember things from so long ago.

For the longest time I have always been praised for my unnatural level of maturity for my age. My teachers and counselors have made comments about it every year since first grade. It was in fact true. Starting in late Kindergarten I began molding my mind into a state of near absolute maturity. I tried to cut myself off from what may be considered immature or childish activities and people, resulting in my still ever present social disabilities. My push for maturity resulted in me becoming almost a social outcast to everyone but adults. I was always so alone, I still am. Locking away your true feelings, ideas, and personality for such a long time begins to wear on the mind and body. Friends of my age became so rare that I feared abandonment to the point that I strangled any person I considered a friend with my constant presence and affection. I still do today. I can’t cope with losing the last people I have left. My social disabilities spread like a mold to all aspects of my life.

When not at school I faced more problems. A very unstable and toxic homelife, the details of which I will not go into, contributed to a different subsection of my fake mature personality forming. I was forced to adapt and overcome. I built up what my dad calls “an absolute and iron will.” It was almost as if my maturity had festered into something else. I kept all thoughts to myself as not to offend or disrupt the balance of life. If I had a problem, I dealt with it by myself on my own time. When you must endure constant berating and hate from those you thought you love most, you naturally change yourself to ensure survival. My maturity and iron will changed me further. I distanced myself more from even those who considered me their friends and I refused to burden anyone with my personal plights even slightly. If you simply seclude yourself and always smile, nothing can be wrong, right?

Before this, many of the aforementioned things all happened in my elementary-middle school year, but now you will begin to see a shift as I enter into high school with advanced classes and ROTC. It is also key to note that I had skipped seventh grade, virtually abandoning the last few people who might of in fact cared all to further challenge myself academically. I still personally feared abandonment, but at this point in my life I had so many conflicting ideas and personalities vying for control that I had no idea what to do other than not compromise my outward image. If everyone thinks you look fine then despite what is truly going on you have to be fine, right?

As I move into high school everything seems okay. I am expanding my circle of friends for the first time in many years and ROTC is providing a place of logic and stability for me to escape to for an hour most days. Everything was nice, but I don’t deserve nice. My constant push for a better and better outward image had finally caught up to my actual capabilities with the addition of ROTC. The expectations were high and I am, by this point, a weak and defeated boy. I struggled. When I failed to meet expectations I was berated and therefore I had to further strengthen my iron will. It worked. A battered and cracked shield held together with materials scrounged from the many failed ones before it. It worked. I could successfully and easily take any blunt attack thrown at me, but it had its flaws. Areas where precise blows could shatter the shield and send me either into a blind rage or into a near absolute depression. It was exhausting, but if I smile and make everyone around me laugh those precise blows will never be thrown and I must simply endure the constant blunt blows. I was scared, so very scared. It was only freshman year.

To force your mind to undergo such drastic amounts of conditioning in small periods of time across your entire life results in sacrifices being made. My sacrifice was my happiness and love. I laugh because it’s normal. I show affection, kindness, and care because it’s expected of any good member of society. I feel nothing. When not in the presence of the public, I shed these false actions. I’ve adopted a pessimistic but realistic view of everything. I am able to deeply analyze my more emotional actions when they do occur but I am helpless to do anything. By this point in my life I was split into so many different pieces and people that I didn’t even know who I was. I simply let the right one guide me for any given situation, but none of them were real. None of them were me. I could be logical, iron willed, and mature. I could be caring, kind, and affectionate. I could be spontaneous, carefree, and hilarious. I could never be all at the same time. I could never be whole.

A failed test was what finally broke me entirely. I had never had a girlfriend before that fateful day in July 2017. Two weeks later I had never had a kiss before. Maybe, just maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could love. I was wrong. I am to scared to ever try again. My final acceptance of my lack of love drove me into a very deep depression starting in late October that persists until now, January 7th, 2018. Starting just before Winter break I finally received “help” in the form of a therapist and depression medication. I hate therapists and the medication has only made my plight worse. The medication does nothing to stem the flood of thoughts relating to depression. It's nothing like the romanticized version you see on TV or made popular by movements trying to fetishize depression. It’s impossible to explain what it’s truly like unless you experience it yourself but that is something I wouldn’t wish on even my greatest enemy. I will still try.

Imagine one day being devoid of everything and having no idea why. You stop eating. You lack the energy to maintain your own body. You are complacent with the mounds of trash and clothes building up around you. You are exhausted but cannot sleep because when you go to lay down at night and close your eyes, it is there waiting. It forces you to seclude yourself where it can eat away at everything that once made you, you. I can only describe it as the prolonged decay of your own mind. It’s terrifying. I attempted to deal with it as I had done so many times before, by myself. This is where depression thrives. When you’re sitting alone paying no heed to its presence. That is when it hits you. You could be having the greatest day but the second you realize your alone again it gives you its full attention. It is as if depression is a sentient being. It knows when and when not to attack you to ensure it’s at its peak when you are at your low. Attempting to deal with it alone allows it to fester until it consumes you entirely. Why did I think it possible. It forced me into a survival mode fueled by a medication that simply made me hyperactive and loose tongued. I entered a war with myself.

Parts of me took every chance they could to get anything. “OH GOD PLEASE HELP ME” they scream with the voice of a thousand tortured souls. It comes out as messages with double meanings and random awkward comments that I feel forced to make. It’s maddening. Parts of me took every chance they could to silence them. “Don’t be a burden. Don’t annoy others with pleas for help. They’ll hate you. They’ll leave you.” they whisper into my ear in a voice that sounded so similar to my own. It comes out as my constant apologies and begging for you to please not hate me. It’s maddening. I can’t take it anymore. It forces me to continue conversations with nonsensical rambling and leftfield comments as I attempt to break through a concrete wall by bashing my head against it. I want so desperately to say something. If I continue the conversation I keep your attention. Every second I hold it is another second that maybe, just maybe, I will be able to say something. Something will be able to slip through. I fight this battle inside my own head all while attempting to maintain an ever faltering outward appearance. It’s maddening. I fight this battle in my head and outside my body all while attempting to maintain some degree of social life where people don’t hate me. IT IS MADDENING. Everything is against everything and it is oh so maddening. I say things fueled by one side of me or the other resulting in awkward conversations with hidden meanings that I can never truly tell anyone because I’m afraid if I were to just say it they would hate me and leave me. I don’t want anyone to leave me. I’ve been alone for so long that I am scared to be alone again but I already am alone as a personality I dare not call my own dares not burden those around me with the thoughts in my head because even he is afraid of the consequences. Even he is afraid to be alone. its maddening.

I’ve reevaluated myself and maybe the purpose of this note will change. It was supposed to be a suicide note, but depending on which part of me is in control when I am finished. It might just be a final plea for help. I don’t even know anymore. I am just so scared. I don’t know what to do. I just want to curl up and waste away into nothingness, but even then I will be a burden. Why am I like this. Why is everything so wrong. Why.

If I surround myself with smiles everything is fine. If I surround myself with laughter everything is fine. If I surround myself with people who in some way show a degree of legitimate care for me, everything is fine. If I am the only one frowning then I am wrong and must conform. I don’t know. I’ve finished my story but now I can’t stop writing. There is something more I have to say but I don’t know what it is.

Maybe that is what is motivating me to write this. Some deep, buried feeling that is motivating me to still care. That is motivating me to not let go yet for greener pastures may be on the horizon. Dare I say it’s love for one or multiple people who were intended to receive this note just before my death? How can I even think that. Who in their right mind would even for a second be willing to reciprocate such feelings. If that is somehow the motivator then it is a single abnormality in this universe and like me is alone.

My note is done but I can’t let go. I am shaking right now in this very moment at 1:25 pm on January 7th, 2018. I don’t know. Horrible images and thoughts flash through my mind at a blinding speed. I want to send this note to someone as one last plea for help, but to who. Who wouldn’t hate me for sending this oh so truthful note to them. Who wouldn’t view me as a burden. Who would be able to look me dead in the eye and not react next I saw them. Who would be able to read this and not have their life ruined by me being a burden once again. Who wouldn’t just cast me aside as so many others have before. Who would still be willing to call me a friend and not forever hate and curse my name. I don’t know. Maybe I just let this note sit until the day it is needed to establish clarity for my death. If you're suddenly reading this without warning. I am dead and I am sorry. If I asked you if you were willing to bear some of my burden then this is a plea for help. I have no idea how you might be able to act on it, but simply being one person who understands and knows my plight is relief enough for the time being. I am sorry for being a burden.

If I send this note out I risk losing the last people who care. I risk losing the last people who are there. What’s to stop them from reading this and ignoring me for the rest of our high school years. What’s to stop them from hating me. What’s to stop them from becoming yet another person who I must hold my shield against. Every fleeting glance of the eyes is filled with hatred for what I’ve done.

If this note was sent out suddenly to multiple people, I am sorry. I am so sorry. Just know there was nothing you could’ve done. I was to weak to bear my own burdens. I am sorry. Please don’t hate me. If I somehow survive my attempt on my life please don’t hate me. I can’t stop you but please. If I do survive after sending out this note I will be unable to look upon any of you because of the burdens I’ve forced you to endure. I just hope my passing or failure of doesn’t impact your life in any way. If this is all for nothing and I fail to end it, please don’t hate me.

If this note was sent by your permission lone reader or readers, please don’t hate me, Please don’t hate me. I am so sorry that I felt you were the one who would be willing to bear the burden of my mind. I am so sorry that I thought you could read this without forever hating, leaving me, or accusing me of just wanting attention. Please don’t hate me, and please don’t change your life for me. I am so sorry.

I’ve finished this note yet I still find myself drawn to it. It is incomplete in some hidden way that I don’t know. I still don’t know. What is this note for. Maybe it just must be sent. Maybe if not as a plea for help or clarification of death, simply as a clarification. Maybe with this knowledge you might be able to actually understand my actions and awkwardness. Just try to think back to the last time I randomly apologized or said something very weird or out of context and apply this new insight and maybe you might be able to understand.