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imagine-straykids · 4 years

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Han Jisung: Crushed

short summary: when Jisung has a crush on you, he may not be the best at expressing his feelings

genre: fluff x romance

word counts: 5,350 words

Jisung wasn’t sure when or why he started liking you. Maybe it was the way you’d always awkwardly stumble upon your words; maybe it was the way you’d take jabs at yourself sometimes; maybe it was the way you listened to him as if he was the only person in the world. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure. But all he knew was that you stole his heart and he doesn’t want it back.

Who would’ve ever thought that Han Jisung, a music prodigy, basically a star student, would ever fall head over heels for someone like you who admittedly only joined a music course because you needed a filler class.

The first time you guys talked, it was because you needed help identifying some music notes. You were not the best at music--actually not very good at all, but you can sing a little bit, yay? You don’t know why you thought taking this class as an extra would be a good idea. Because it wasn’t. It was much harder than you had expected. Hell, you don’t know what you were thinking, because everybody here was basically legendary at what they do.

Anyways, well, one day your teacher had you guys do this assignment and you struggled like a bitch. While you were still on the first page losing at least 10 brain cells per question, you had noticed that Jisung, who was seated in front of you had already finished. You were amazed--No. Amazed was an understatement. You were shook even though you knew you shouldn’t be. He was pretty much second to no one in this class.

A few moments later, your teacher’s loud voice echoed through the room.

“Okay class! You have 10 more minutes left! I will be collecting your papers after that.” Your teacher sat down after her announcement.

“10 minutes? Crap! I’m not even through the first page yet...” you cursed quietly under your breath out of natural habits. You weren’t expecting anyone nearby to hear you, and you were actually hoping they didn’t. But your words did not manage to miss Jisung’s ears as you had leaned in a little bit too closely behind him when you mumbled.

You were too busy scribbling down whatever you were scribbling because frankly you weren’t really sure what you were doing. As you lifted your head up trying to take a look at the clock, you were instead met with Jisung’s puppy eyes as he had been examining what you were doing for the last 5 seconds or so. A small gasp escaped your mouth and you blinked out of fright, but not loud enough to catch anyone’s attention. Just loud and visible enough for you to make a fool out of yourself in front of Han Jisung.

“Do you need any help?” He smiled.

Ahhhh oh my gosh, he smiled, you internally screamed inside your head.

“I--uhm--uh--yeah, I kind of do--” you stumbled around your words awkwardly.

This shouldn’t have been as nerve wrecking, but why is it.

“I can help you. What do you need help with?”

“Oh uhm... the whole paper to be honest. I’m kind of... new to this kind of class.”

And that was pretty much your guys first time talking to each other. Ever since then, he would always voluntarily ask if you needed any help, to which you were very much appreciative for. He really did not have to be this nice to you, but he was. Bless his whole ass soul.

Little by little, working out assignments together turned into small talks between you guys, or rather silly stories told by himself, and you in return would share stories of your siblings to him and just how annoying they are to you daily. He liked to listen to your tales because he didn’t have any younger siblings and his older brother lived in another town.

Your Music class that used to be so intimidating to you because you were so far behind everyone else, the class that used to make you feel talentless and lonely as hell, you now had something to look forward to.

Oddly, Jisung could say the same thing too. Everyday back and forth to him was just go to classes, head to dance practice after school, go home, study, and repeat. But his somehow repetitive lifestyle started looking a little bit more exciting after meeting you. All his other classes were okay, but somehow he was always looking forward to 6th period; his music class. Looking forward to that special someone he could talk to about how his day has went so far.

Sometimes zoning out in his other classes, thinking about all the kind of things to say or tell you whenever he does get to 6th period. It was a foreign feeling that he had never experienced before. Not for anyone else. He’s had crushes in the past, but they were mostly puppy love, or crushes that would last a week at most. But every time he gets closer to you, every time he’s communicating with you, he feel his heart exploding a million times, and all the little things you would do like mumbling things to yourself thinking nobody would hear, the way you would twitch your nose whenever something upsets you a little, pressing the wrong keys when practicing, or just the way you would laugh at the smallest things he said just does a different kind of twist on his heart string.

Day by day he found himself becoming greedier and greedier, wanting to become something much more with you. But he didn’t know if that was too weird considering you guys don’t interact outside of this class, besides the small gestures you both would exchange sometimes when passing by one another.

He wasn’t sure if he was moving too fast or not, but it was 4 months ago that he started talking to you. 4 months ago when he talked to you, the one who would make him question so many things about himself.

He don’t know if he should wait it out and see if you’ll say anything, but from how you’re acting, it doesn’t look as if any changes was coming soon. He was growing more impatient every time he gets the chance to talk to you, because to him, you were just... so adorable.

One day after class ended, he finally managed up the courage to ask you if you wanted to go for a drink after school, to which you said yes. He was met with pleasure, but at the same time, terror. Was he really about to do this? No no. He was not ready. But he also does not want to be just friends anymore. He was mentally battling his thoughts the whole time walking there that he even missed out on some things you’ve told him.

You became aware that Jisung was not being himself and was rather gloomy today all of a sudden.

“Jisung, are you alright?” You asked him worriedly.

Your voice snapped him back to reality.

“Y-yeah I am fine y/n! Sorry, I was just thinking about how much homework I have today,” he assured you.

Really? A lot of homework? That’s really the best thing you can think of, Jisung criticized himself in his head.

“Oh... I see. Well we should probably go grab a seat so you can let loose some tension.”

Jisung nodded and you guys found a spot in the back corner.

As soon as you guys sat down, Jisung’s face positioned toward his feet as if he’s rethinking life decisions.

This was unusual for him because although you were not with him often, rarely did you ever see him looking so down. He was always jolly every time he entered the classroom. This was a rather new Jisung for you.

“Hey Jisung, you’re a smart person! You will finish all the work alright. And if you need any help, I am always here for you,” you tried to comfort him.

“Huh--O-o yeah. Thank you. Sorry I’m a little bit spaced out,” he said so quietly.

“Jisung, if there’s anything that’s bothering you, you can always tell me. I won’t ever judge, you know that. I just hope you’re okay.”

The more worried you were for him, the more it made him want to throw up from nervousness. Because you’re encouraging him to confess but at the same time, discouraging, because he was just that afraid he might ruin a good relationship with someone like you.

“I’m fine, y/n. You can go ahead and order something. I need to use the restroom real quick.” He stood up and made his way to the men’s restroom.

He quickly shut himself in and slid down the wall onto his knees as he puffed out breath of airs.

After he had situated in a comfortable position, he took his phone out and called Hyunjin.

“Hyunjin, I-I cannot do it. I can’t. I feel so weak and nervous right now I think I might throw up,” Jisung ranted.

“Tell me about it. That was a such a shit show. Dude, I got second hand embarrassment from it.”

“W-wait what. How did you know what happened?”

“Me and Jeongin come to this cafe every day after school. We were seated right across from you guys, but you were too busy being a nervous freak to notice.”

“Oh wow, so Jeongin saw it too. I really just cannot. I don’t think I can go out after this. My hands are sweating. Can you like, make up some kind of excuse for me?”

“Like what kind of excuse?”

“I don’t know... just tell her I went home because I feel sick.”

“What? Then she’s going to say why didn’t you just tell her.”

“Then just say because I was in a rush,” Jisung grew impatient trying to reason with Hyunjin.

“I guess then. At this pace, you’re never going to get a girlfriend.”

Jisung was about to say something back but Hyunjin already cut off the line.

When Jisung came in the next day, you asked him if he was alright, and he gave you a short answer but nothing more than that.

You tried initiating a few more small talks with him but he was really just out of it, you had a feeling you should just leave him to be. He’s probably going through a difficult time right now.

When the bell rung signaling it was time to leave, you bid a small goodbye wave to Jisung before you left but it was only met with an awkward smile from him.

The next three days continued on pretty much like the scenario above. You would try starting a conversation but it wasn’t much of a conversation if you were the only one talking. Eventually, you stopped trying to talk to him.

You would be lying if you were to say you weren’t upset or concerned. You didn’t know if you had said something that offended him, or if he found out that you secretly have a crush on him and is creep out by it. Either way, both situation weren’t going to end well for you.

The day you guys went to the cafe was the day he started acting indifferent. Maybe he heard that small fart you ripped out along the way or something. But you swore on god that it didn’t smell that bad. Maybe that day he meant to tell you he doesn’t want to be friends or talk to a loser like you anymore, but wasn’t courageous enough to finish what he started, that’s why he sent Hyunjin over to get rid of you.

It honestly sucks because your music teacher has recently assigned you guys with a project and in your head, you and Jisung would’ve had a blast discussing about what you guys were going to do for it. All of the things he or you would’ve said kept playing over and over in your head. But then again, you shouldn’t jump into conclusion.

You’ll just confront him on Monday and see what the real deal is. You just hope it wasn’t anything too serious that he’s brooding about. If you had hurt him in some shape or form, you would like to know and apologize dearly.

Jisung felt like an imbecile. An even bigger fool than the one he was before. He couldn’t believe he thought ignoring and avoiding you would suppressed his feelings or prevent you from asking anything relevant.

It probably did, but now the feeling of guilt is just eating him up. Your poor face after rambling and getting no response broke his heart. But he was afraid if he were to say anything less than appropriate, he would lose it.

He just wish you’re doing good for yourself and isn’t taking his actions to heart, because he pretty much acknowledge that he’s being stupid.

When he got to dance practice, he slammed his backpack harshly onto the floor of the studio and sighed.

The frustration of his caught the attention of Seungmin, Hyunjin and Jeongin who got here a little bit early too and was prepping up.

“What’s good bro? You alright?” Seungmin asked as he walked forward to Jisung.

“Yeah. You have been looking pretty sad these past few days. I kind of miss that loud crackhead energy of yours even though you can get carried away with it,” Jeongin sensing the rising atmosphere, tried to lighten it up.

“He probably got rejected by his dream girl,” Hyunjin chimmed in.

“Huh?” Seungmin let out in confusion.

“This one girl in his music class that he has a huge crush on for no reason even though they don’t even interact.”

Hyunjin was of course only teasing Jisung.

“Hey! We do interact! It’s just mostly in class. You’re not even in the class itself so shut up Hwang Hyunjin. At least I can keep my crush on one girl, and not the whole freaking school,” Jisung defended himself.

Jeongin let out a small laughter followed by Seungmin.

“That’s true, Hyung. You really need to stick to one person like seriously.” Jeongin threw his arm onto Hyunjin’s shoulder but Hyunjin slapped it off.

“Whatever.” Hyunjin rolled his eyes.

“And no, I didn’t get rejected... I didn’t even ask her out yet.” Jisung admitted in shame.

“Huh?” Seungmin let out again.

“Then what are you so miserable about?” Jeongin cocked his eyebrow.

“I-I’m scared. What if she says no? What if she doesn’t like me like that. Then it’s just going to be awkward. She’s a really sweet person and I don’t want to ruin our friendship just because I think about her more than a friend,” Jisung’s tone dampen the longer he talked.

“But what if she also likes you like that? I mean, you don’t know... you haven’t even asked her.” Seungmin tried to encourage Jisung.

Jeongin nodded in agreement while Hyunjin just let out a chuckle.

“Dude, if you don’t ask her out, I will. Seeing her the other day at the cafe, she’s kind of cute.” Hyunjin goes into thought.

Jisung’s eyes fired up at what Hyunjin said.

“Hey! Stay away from her! But to be honest, she wouldn’t like you anyways. Sorry but she wouldn’t go for someone who changes girls everyday like he changes his clothes. Anyways--can you tell Chan for me that I will be missing practice today. Something came up. Bye!”

And with that, Jisung quickly grabbed his backpack and stormed out of the building.

“Wow, I’m hurt.” Hyunjin put his hand on his chest.

"Jisung, aren’t you going to eat?”

His door flashed opened with his mom’s head in between the crack.

“Soon! I just need to revise this one more time.” His eyes still not leaving his music sheet.

“Dear, don’t overwork yourself. It’s almost 11. You’ve been working on your song ever since you came home. Please come down to eat and you can continue after.” His mom tried to convince him, not wanting her own son to starve to death.

Jisung finally placed the guitar down at the defeat of his mom’s words.

“Alright mom. See you downstairs.”

“Wow Jisung, this is really good. And the lyrics are, wow...” Chan complimented the younger man who came to him for feedbacks on his sample.

“Do you really mean it? I mean... you really think this is good?” Jisung widened his eyes as he searched for an answer in Chan’s own.

“Yeah, of course! Jisung, are you like, okay? Because usually you’re always so confident in your works and rarely do you ever come to me or Changbin for revision.”

“Oh yeah, I’m good. I just need it to be perfect because I’m performing this song for my project on Monday and I need it to be A plus.”

Chan nodded.

“I am 100% sure you are going to ace this.”

Monday had came super fast, and when reality hit that you’ll be performing in front of the class again, it railed up your anxiety very bad.

The last few projects or performances you guys had was mostly just instruments based, as the teacher wanted to see how well the students were progressing on their skills. But now you needed to dance or sing and you weren’t so sure how this was going to end.

You weren’t no song writing goddess or instruments playing master, so you were just going to do a quick simple cover of Red Velvet Psycho.

As long as you don’t sound like a dying goat, you’ll do just fine.

You were honestly looking forward to Jisung’s performance as well. Because every time he goes up, he always come up with the most creative or mind blowing performances. Jisung didn’t need talents, talents needed Jisung.

Classes passed by like the wind, probably because most of the time you were in your own world.

The closer it was to your 6th period, the more anxious you were, and you were already very anxious to begin with.

When the time finally came, you walked into the class and sat down at your desk. Jisung still hasn’t arrived yet.

With time to kill, your eyes circled the room and for fun, you tried guessing what some of the students would be doing.

Mhmm, that girl Yoona in the back, you’ve seen a few of her song covers on Youtube, so chances are she’ll be singing.

That guy to the right of you performed in the rally last semester, so you wouldn’t be surprised if he bounced out some steps later on.

Your thoughts were intruded when you heard the door slammed shut, your attention shifted to your teacher who stood tall in front of all of you.

“Good Afternoon class, I hope you’re all doing well, and I hope you all have something prepared today as well,” She smiled.

She then does this thing where she’ll move her eyes from left to right, trying to pick out any students who’s missing.

The desk in front of you, which belongs to Jisung, was still empty.

Jesus, does he really hate you that much that he’ll even risk losing points. You really wanted to make things right today. Or at least try working out whatever is going on between you guys, which you don’t even know what is it.

“Jisung isn’t here yet?” Your teacher asked.

You only shook your head.

“Alright, well then it looks like we’ll have to continue without h--”

Your teacher was interrupted when the door busted opened. Jisung showed up looking like he just woke up, almost out of breath like. You could tell his hair was slightly messier and the shade in his pupils darkened compared to other days. His eye bags were also more prominent.

“--Sorry, I got caught up in things.” Jisung bowed down to your teacher and then to the rest of the class.

“You’re fine. Go take a seat.” She dismissed.

Jisung bowed again before trailing to his desk. Along the way, you guys unintentionally met eyes, followed by Jisung awkwardly breaking the contact by looking at the wall, then taking a seat.

All you could think about at the moment was what did you do to Jisung that he’s going to this extent to avoid you. Did he read your diary when you went to the restroom, and found out about that one experience you wrote when you and your family went to the water park and your stomach hurted badly so you did a little oopsie near the kids section and they never found out it was you--Oh gosh, you couldn’t imagine.

Whatever it was, Jisung must have his reasons, and you really need to stop jumping to conclusions. Everything will be okay as long as you talk to him today.

“Now that everybody’s here, we should get started, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Then your teacher started picking out names one after another. You did genuinely enjoyed their performances, but every time someone finished, you just want to crawl into the corner and hide away from the rest of the world, because pray to the lord you don’t get called on.

Everybody was doing so good so far.

“Please give a big round of applause to Saeron,” your teacher followed after Saeron had finished.

Everyone clapped in awed but it’ll always dimmed whenever your teacher call on the next person.

“Y/n!” She held up the piece of paper in her hand with your name written on it.

“Huh?” you were taken back at the sound of your name.

“It’s your turn, y/n.” Your teacher sternly looked at you.

“Oh--right, right.” You sluggishly got up and made ways to the front.

“Uhm, for today I’ll be covering Psycho by Red Velvet. I hope you’ll all like it.” you awkwardly turned to your teacher to give her the go to put on the instrumental.

Your heart was racing so fast.

It’s okay, you can do it.

You got me feeling like a psycho psycho People keep telling us As we fight like it’s our last but then we get along They don’t get it, it’s so funny

The last piece of lyrics escaped your mouth and you sighed in relief. You bowed to the class after you were finished and was met with applause from all around the room.

“Good job, y/n. You may now take a seat.” Your teacher smiled.

You walked back to your seat, having felt like you did a decent job, at least by the feedbacks.

“Next up, Han Jisung.”

You had completely forgotten about him, and that he was watching your whole performance. Ahhhhh

But on the flip side, you were excited to see what he had prepared.

The room was filled with silence while waiting for him. He finally grabbed his guitar and went up, gulped, then stared at you for a second, but you weren’t able to read his expression.

He had displayed a more tense body language, his eyes barely meeting anyone’s. The Han Jisung you knew had always been so confident and couldn’t wait for his name to be called, while the one that stood in front of you right now looked like every ounce of his soul had left his body.

Oh man, you don’t know how much more surprises he could pull on you. You just had never seen him like this before. Or is it that you never knew him all along. Your thoughts were cut short when Jisung spoke.

“For today... I’'ll be singing a song that I wrote for uh, a special someone. I-I hope that person will like it.” He threw on a nervous smile and right then, his eyes met yours. An innocent, sweet kind of enchanted look that pulled you right in.

“Oooooooooooooooo,” the students giggled and awed.

Was he talking about me? You thought.

No way. He hates me. But why did he look at me? Oh my gosh, is this song about me? Wait--why is he writing a song about me--wait what?! You continued fighting inside your head but not for long before Jisung began playing his melody.

The calming and relaxing tone of the guitar could almost put you to sleep, of course in a good way. The soft and dreamy tune like this was something only Jisung could pull off.

Then he started singing,

“When I first met you, I honestly didn’t think too much

You were like any other person to me, someone to talk to

but slowly, each day, you’ve showed me that you were someone worth loving, worth taking care of, worth falling in love with

Before I knew it, my heart was yours.”

okay excuse those shitty lyrics, I just made it up

Every words that he said, you could see and felt that he really meant it. He wasn’t just spitting out lyrics for the sake of this project. He was speaking from his heart and mind. As if he was trying to reach out to someone. He wrote those lyrics specifically for a certain someone.

Was it for you? Was it for the girl at the back of you?

You had no idea, but you were still secretly wishing it was for you.

The whole class’s attention and yours were glued onto him, not missing a bit of his performance. Han Jisung really got everyone whipped.

When he finished up on the last part of the song, the class exploded in applause. It was the loudest group of claps anyone has gotten so far. You were also slapping your hands together like a crazy seal.

He may not be acting like himself and is coming off a bit odd right now, but for sure, the boy’s talents is something that would never change.

The rest of the period concluded with other students showcasing what they had prepared. Not everyone got a chance as class was a bit too short, but your teacher reassured the ones who didn’t get to go up today, will be called up tomorrow. Sucks to be them.

You were knocked out for a second before remembering that you were going to ask Jisung today, whether he wants to answer or not. Jisung was still fixated on his backpack, digging and shoving through it, so you waited unsuspiciously.

He stopped the ruckus when he pulled out a piece of white paper with some words on it. You can’t read it but you can only make out the squiggly black lines. It seems that was exactly what he was looking for, so after that, he threw his backpack on.

Panicked, afraid he might leave before you can catch him, you stepped out of your seat to confront him, only for him to turn around, causing you guys to face each other instead.

“I need you talk to you,” You both said at the same time.

“What?” Both of you guys tilted your head in sync again.

“You first,” you gave him the go.

“No, you first,” He declined.

“Fine--I just--wait.” You inspected the surroundings. You guys were still in class and this was not a good setting because anyone can just walk in any moment.

“I think it’s better if we talk somewhere else.” you continued.

You guys stopped at the school garden, and when you made sure that absolutely no one was around, you proceeded.

“I just want to know what’s been going on lately. You’ve been ignoring and avoiding me. Did I do something wrong that had upset you? I would like to know, Jisung. Just completely ghosting me like this hurts.”

You promised yourself you weren’t going to get emotional about this.

“I know I’m a jerk, Y/n. I know. And I’m sorry about that. I just, I just... don’t know how to express my feelings to you, y/n. I’m confused, I’m lost, I’m scared, I don’t know... but I’m also in love...” He said the last part quietly, but you could still hear it.

“In love? With someone else? Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

“No no.” Jisung shook his head, getting more frustrated by the moment.

“And that song you sung in class, was--was that for someone?” you timidly asked. You have a theory it might be for you, but you do not want to say it, afraid you’re going to come out looking like a fool if he meant it for someone else.

“Yeah it was...”

“Jisung, if you have feelings for someone, you don’t have to hide it from me, I’m fine with it. If you like them, go for it. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, like you couldn’t be open about your relationships or feelings.”

“No no, y/n. You don’t get it,” Jisung exhaled.

“What do you mean? What am I not getting?”

“I didn’t write that song for someone else, or anyone else. I wrote it for you. You, y/n. I wrote those lyrics for you.”

You could hear the disappointment in his tone and his head hanging in defeat.

“Oh...” was all you could say. Not because you didn’t like him. No. You like him. A lot. Oh was the only thing you could let out because reality was getting a little hard to accept, knowing Han Jisung likes you, and wrote a song for you.

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s okay if you do not feel the same way. I really only wrote it because I didn’t know any other way to let my feelings out, and music was what I’m best at. I did felt a little better after writing the lyrics, and after performing, knowing you were listening to it. Here, take this.”

He stretched his arm out to hand you something. It was the piece of paper he was holding earlier. It had the lyrics he had written for you on it.

“It’s okay to not feel the same way. But I hope you accept this. I might feel a little bit better if you do.”

You extended your arm to take the white sheet of paper, still speechless.

“I’ll get going now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gave you a small smile combined with a bow and almost walked away from your sight.

“Wait Jisung!” You stopped him in his track.

“I--I, I feel the same way too, Jisung. I like you too. And I have for a while now.”

Jisung could’ve swore he heard that wrong, but he almost dropped his backpack at what you said.

He switched back to you, his face was planted with the biggest smile you’ve ever seen from anyone.

“R-really? Y-you like me too?” He asked again for confirmation.

You nodded.

The next moment happened so fast, and before you can process anything, you were already in Jisung’s warmth. Your chin on his shoulder and his arms wrapping around you.

“I’m so happy! Really happy, Y/n! You don’t know how happy I am!”

uwu He was too adorable.

With your hands on his chest, you pushed a little bit to create a distance.

“Wait, then why were you avoiding me?” you frowned as you gazed at his face for answers.

“Because I don’t know. I was scared you wouldn’t like me back. I didn’t want to hurt my friendship with you. That day at the cafe I was planning on confessing but I got so nervous, I dipped. I’m sorry, Y/n. I’m a coward. But I promise from this day on, I will tell you everything. I won’t ever do it again. I-I really like you. Give me a chance.”

He pouted and trapped you in his hug.

“Alright alright. I forgive you.”

He finally lets go of you, but his idiocy smile still not leaving his face.

“What?”

“I don’t know. You’re just cute.”

“Pfft.”

You cheeks grew red from his remarks. Oh god, this feels so weird.

“Come on, let’s go.” He suddenly grabbed your hand, perfectly aligning it with his.

“Go where?”

“To introduce my new girlfriend to my friends.”

He ran at full speed, dragging you as you were struggling to catch up.

The End :)

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ajoy3fanfics · 4 years

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101 Ways to shut up Granger p.3

Find it on AO3!

Fifth year

Bellatrix Lestrange had been beautiful once; Draco knew that much. Though the Malfoy’s did not hang portraits of Bella in their home, Draco had privately seen pictures of his aunt as a young woman, full of smiles, wide and toothy, laughing with her sisters. She looked striking- hair as black as ink, long and thick, twisted into loose waves that fell around her shoulder. It was a stark contrast to her pale skin, cheeks rosy with youth. She had the same eyes as his mother. Darker, to be sure- Draco had inherited his icy color from his Narcissa- but Bellatrix had the same heavy lidded look; When he looked long enough, he could see traces of his mother in her face. This was the woman his mother remembered. The sister she kept secret, hidden away in nightstand drawers and only took out when she had too much to drink.

The wanted picture showed a different Bellatrix. She looked almost grey, sickly. Her face was gaunt, starved. And her eyes-

She was just as crazed as he remembered.

Draco had only ever met ‘Aunt Bella’ once. Lucius had pulled some strings and made several sizable donations to secure the Malfoy family a visit to Azkaban. He could remember the click of his mothers heels on the stone floor as she briskly walked down the corridors, the blistering wind that cut to the bone.

And the mad woman locked inside. That, he could never forget.

She looked wild as she lunged from the table, chained and dirty. Draco had never seen a creature so unkempt. Her deep voice called out “Cissy!” in such tormented sob that Draco had been afraid that the creature was going to hurt his mother, and was astounded to see his father do nothing but look on as the lunatic pawed at Narcissa. She gripped his mother, the woman's dirty nails digging into Narcissa’s shoulders and wept. It was not until she heard his mother choke out a sad string of, “Bella, Bella” that he realized this was his aunt. Tears trailed down her filthy cheeks as she finally crouched down to inspect Draco. Her bony hand reached out, gripping his chin as she turned his head left to right.

“He’s got a bit of Black in him, eh?” She murmured, a crooked smile revealing rotten teeth. She began to card her hands through his hair and Draco froze, locked up in fright. It was all he could do just to breathe. “A little too much Malfoy, but we can work around that.”

“He’s a credit to both houses.” His mother said proudly.

“He’s a Black, Cissy. The last one. He’s got to carry on the legacy.” She looked at him seriously, leaned in to get a better look, and spoke slowly. Dangerously. “When the Dark Lord calls again, he must be ready to answer for the House of Black.”

He felt his mother pull him back, a hard tug on his shoulders, away from his aunt. When their time was up, they made no moves to visit again.

Bellatrix terrified him as a child. The witch she was before Azkaban was not the same as the one now his mother always said. She had always been a bit untethered, unpredictable. But the time in Azkaban, the isolation, the shame of losing her war, it had driven her mad, depraved. She had once worn silk robes, but now she was draped in chains, stripped rags falling off her shoulder. Snape handed Draco the paper, his aunt holding a placard that read ‘prisoner 93’. She screamed, silent, unheard, as her matted and tangled hair flew around her. Draco swallowed as he tore his eyes away, pushing the paper towards his professor.

“I knew your aunt. In school and from… other associations.” He said evenly. Steady; Unashamed. “She will try to contact your family. She will try to contact you.” Snape looked at him seriously, “You must inform me if she does. I cannot stress the importance of this.”

Draco bit his tongue, did little else but nod. He turned on his heels to head back to the dungeons. He knew all summer that something was going to happen, felt the change in the air. It had been building up, winding towards a climax.

The coil was snapping.

~.~

Draco knew it was his aunt.. But until that moment, she seemed abstract. A portrait hidden away, not a flesh and blood family member. She was not someone he had to claim- not someone he could claim. She was too far removed from his life to be real. Until then.

A few Slytherns clapped him on the back, congratulated him that his aunt was free. Like they had been waiting for it. Like Draco should have been waiting for it.

“To think they put a pureblood witch in a cell, just because she took up against muggles and mudbloods?” one had said. “Maybe she’ll keep up the work now that she's out again, eh? Good riddance!”

They seemed to have forgotten that she did not set her sights on only muggleborns, but on any wizard who disagreed with their cause. She followed blindly, faithfully.

Longbottom avoided him in the halls, and up until that moment he had always thought him a coward. Bellatrix was safely contained by the dementors, nothing to be afraid of. And yes, maybe their interactions did not leave the kindest impression on him, but Draco had never done more than sling an insult.

He was afraid, and had every right to be. It was easy to lock Aunt Bella away for Draco. She could be tucked nicely into a side drawer and forgotten about. For Longbottom, she was just as present and cancerous as the day she cast that curse on his parents. Draco had only tasted this fear, and it left him in shambles.

Longbottom- Shit, he lived with it every day. He was stronger than he gave him credit for; not that he’d tell a soul that. Not when his housemates were giving him sly smiles, whispers of congratulations.

He knew he should share in their excitement; It would look odd if he didn’t.

It made him feel ill.

Draco couldn’t help but notice that Hermione looked as sick as he felt as she read the paper over breakfast. She folded it, a deep frown on her face as she stuck it into her bag. A mass breakout, they called it. He could see Potter and Weasley, shoulders hunched and faces pinched. From his spot, he could pick up bits of their conversation, all focused around Sirius Black. The two oafs were not as quiet and discreet as they thought themselves to be. Unsurprisingly, she seemed to be the only one who saw it for what it was.

He wondered if she felt it too, like they were at a precipice. Wished he could tell her how uneasy he felt.

Wished he could do more than steal glances over his morning tea.

~.~

The days passed, and no mention of Bellatrix came for him. Weeks after, he waited for the owl each morning, looking for clues in his mothers letters to let him know what was happening. They didn’t look any different than usual; she still sent sweets and her warm regards.

Draco held out hope that maybe Bellatrix used this opportunity to start over, to lay low.

All he could do was hope.

~.~

She seemed a little more cheerful, smiled a little more.

It was nice to see the color in her cheeks, the liveliness brought back to her. Felt good to focus on her instead of worrying about a psychopathic aunt raising the manor while he was tucked away at school.

He noticed that she was meeting with a larger number of students. Secretly, of course, and never for long. Never would he tell.

It wasn’t just Gryffindors she was associating with. Every house but his own was making contact with Granger, passing her notes, discrete nods in the hallways. The exchanges happened so swiftly, so often, that it was almost infectious. Several times Draco almost found himself nodding in her direction, before he clenched his fists to remind him that no, he and Granger were not involved in whatever she had going on. Fuck, they weren’t even amicable. It was like she was a damn ring leader in a cult with all the attention she was getting. Not that one would notice on the surface. You had to really watch Hermione to see those things going on. But luckily for Draco, that's all he had to do.

Umbridge had officially asked him to trail her, was sure that Hermione was the key to whatever she was trying to riddle out. He smirked as he accepted the mission, “I’ll be on top of her, professor.”

Fuck, he wished he could be.

Or under, or behind. Hell, he’d settle to just be near her, skirt hiked high so he could see her white panties. In the library, against the stacks. Or in his bed, hands twisted into his sheets as he gripped her thighs and drove into her. He’d take her right on Flintwicks desk if she’d let him. Merlin, he would give her anything if she would let him.

She walked by with Weasley, purposefully leaving Potter alone with Chang. She had her petite hand wrapped around her elbow as she whispered something about ‘space’. She was trying to contain a smile- awful at it, really. And looking at Weasley in a way that turned Draco’s stomach. Big, brown doe eyes, stealing glances. She had thick, heavy lashes- how had no one ever mentioned that? Never talked about her bedroom eyes?

Maybe because they were always directed at a bloody weasel, no one could take notice.

He noticed. What he wouldn’t give to have her look that way at him.

Merlin, they weren’t even amicable.

~.~

It occurred to Draco that he may have a problem.

A small one. People all over the world suffered, people died everyday. He just had an infatuation.

A slight obsession, perhaps.

Mild. Completely mild.

Fucking ludicuris.

He and Hermione were not friends, yet he knew so much about her. Too much, some might say. He memorized her schedule, how she liked her tea. Knew she preferred cappuccinos should they be offered. Knew that when she stretched, she always put her hands high above her head and twisted to the right first. Knew that when she did that, the hem of her shirt would ride up, exposing the slightest amount of skin that left him salivating. Knew she often scoured informational texts, but far preferred fiction. Knew she liked to twist a loose curl around her finger as she read, idle, preoccupied. It drove him mad, made him want to demand her attention. She never fucking noticed.

That wasn’t even the problem. He was perfectly self aware that he was a sick bastard.

The issue was everyone else.

What would Slythern think if they knew Draco Malfoy was half hard every time he watched Hermione Granger take house points away? He’d be exiled, ridiculed. And if the news ever got back to his mother- she wouldn’t be able to handle it. The tears and theatrics that would ensure already gave Draco a headache. Merlin forbid his father found out…

History has shown what happens to pureblood wizards in his family that married beneath station. Marred their bloodlines so badly they were burned out of family records.

And for what?

It’s not like she would choose him anyway.

~.~

Ron Weasley was a terrible prefect. He liked to take house points away as an act of power, a way to boost his ego. Draco found it incredibly pathetic that Weasely needed a silver badge to feel important, but that was not the part that bothered him.

It was that he idiot didn’t even take it seriously! He seemed to make up his own rules, dock points based on his mood. And it became abundantly clear that if your skirt was short and legs toned, Weasley would let you off with a warning.

Even more infuriating was that he was paired with Hermione. He’d have to see them walking together, talking about Merlin knows what. Sometimes he’d make her laugh, but most times, he trailed behind her like a sad puppy.

Not for the first time, Draco wondered how different it would be had Hermione been sorted into Slytherin. He was certain she’d look stunning in green.

~.~

It was a hard pill to swallow, knowing how disgustingly one sided it was. Logically, Draco knew that he and Hermione were never going to happen. Never meant to. Never would be.

That did little to curb his imagination. It was so wild that it was hard to distinguish fact from fiction.

She didn’t want him, not like he wanted her. Hell, Hermione didn’t even like him.

No, not Hermione. Granger.

When had he started referring to her as Hermione? When had she begun to feel comfortable, familiar?

Granger. He had to keep reminding himself of that.

Prissy little Granger who was the first to correct someone when they made a mistake. Stuck up Granger who knew better than anyone else in the wizarding world- maybe the muggle one too. High strung Granger, who had one hell of a right hook, didn’t take shit from anyone. Always the boss, had to be the one in charge. It made Draco want to push her down, make her submit. No, that was the wrong train of thought. Prudish- Granger alway had her oxford buttoned up tight, wore sweaters. He’d bet anything she was wild underneath. Granger, who-

Fuck, he needed to get his mind off of her. Needed to get Hermione out of his head.

Draco took a deep breath and reminded himself that he didn’t know her. Not really.

Granger.

~.~

Snape had never been the sort of professor who took an interest in his students, let alone those from other houses. At best, Draco could describe his relationship with Snape as awkward, but tolerable.

When Snape had asked him to stay behind after class, his heart nearly stopped beating. It had to be about Bellatrix. He was delivering news to him, passing a message his way. Something too horrid, too secret that his mother could not even code it in her daily message.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Draco.” He said, much to his surprise.

“What?” He scoffed, both relieved and genuinely confused at what the professor meant.

“You may think you are keeping it under wraps, but you stare far too long at the girl.” Draco swallowed hard.

“Its none of your business.” He spat. “And it’s nothing to get upset about.”

“Perhaps.” He drawled, considering Draco’s words, the defensive way he crossed his arms over his chest. “But, if it were… something…. More-”

“-It’s not-”

“Then I should remind you that your aunt has recently escaped Azkaban.”

“I’m well aware of that, thanks.” Draco snapped.

“If she finds that you hold even the slightest bit of affection for Granger-”

“Affection?” He countered. Snape kept steady, kept pressing on.

“She will crave her flesh clean from her bone. Bellatrix will turn her fingers into jewelry. So should this be anything more-”

“How many damn times-”

“BUT SHOULD IT-” Snape's voice rose to a timber he had never heard, made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “I may be able to help.”

Draco froze, almost too afraid to breathe.

“Help how?”

~.~

Pansy was nothing if not a good distraction. Better than the Greengrass sisters, and aside from them, there were very few options left for Draco.

Yes, there were others available in different houses. Pureblood ones too; but it was expected that Draco would bed and wed a Slythern. Asinine traditions and expectations.

He was becoming increasingly tired of expectations.

Like valentines day.

Whose brilliant idea was it that witches needed the red carpet rolled out for them, just because it was the 14th of February? Chocolates from Switzerland, jewelry that dripped in gems. Cards and romantic gestures, adding layers of intimacy to a relationship. It felt forced and unnecessary; He didn’t give a damn about it.

Pansy, on the other hand, could talk about nothing else. She was good at that, filling the void with conversation. She didn’t prattle on like Astoria did, but kept it going at an easy pace. They were friends, and it somehow made it more bearable to try and replace Hermione’s name with Pansy.

He wanted to hold Pansy. Wanted to lick his way down her neck, grip her curls- no, short, cropped hair, as he brought her head back to bite the junction of her shoulder, suck it until it bruised. It was Pansy he imagined accidently running into in the prefects bath, tanned skin- fuck, pale skin covered up only by a bath towel.

Pansy was the one to enact that with him, but it was Granger on his mind. To be fair, he couldn’t help where his thoughts strayed as he rocked his hips between Pansy’s legs- his blood was flowing away from his brain.

Of course, it left Draco with mixed feelings. The sex was good- of that he had no complaints. But it was unfulfilling. Not enough.

Empty.

At first he had felt guilty about using Pansy, taking his needs out on her while he fantasized about someone else. The first few times the guilt had gnawed at him so completely that he felt sick enough to almost admit it to her. But then he remembered that though Pansy may like him as a person, she liked his Gringotts vault just as much. That without his money behind him, she might not be so keen to take his arm.

They were friends. Cut from the same cloth. They both knew what it was.

When she hinted (heavily, multiple times) that she might like to go out on Valentine's day, Draco didn’t mind taking the trip to Hogsmead. They were official, though no one had publicly said so, and a gentleman must treat his witch right- even if he thought the holiday was total bollocks.

He had met her in the common room, earrings in hand, flowers in the other, bundled and ready to brace the winter's chill. She had accepted the gifts gracefully, tugged on his bottom lip as she kissed him in thanks, and before long, they found themselves strolling through Hogsmead. Pansy looped her arm through his as they headed to Madam Puddifoots for tea, bags from Honeydukes in hand. The day hadn’t been entirely unpleasant, but the throngs of people crowding the street, obnoxious in their love, decked out in reds and pinks set him on edge. Best of all, it was entirely Granger free. A day without running into her. A day without having to see her sandwiched between Potter and Weasely.

That was until they passed The Three Broomsticks.

It wasn’t even his idea to stop in, to freaking spy. But as they walked by the shop Pansy caught sight of Granger and stopped dead in her tracks.

“Is that Granger?” She twisted her neck to get a better look. “At the Three Broomsticks for Valentines day. Oh, that’s rich.” He couldn’t say that she cackled- no wellbred woman would- but the sound was dangerously close.

“Probably just waiting for Weasley.” He answered darkly. He hated the idea of the two of them together. Hated the thought of her waiting for him. Did Weasely know how lucky he was that she even gave him the time of day? What did she see in him anyway? It certainly wasn’t his intelligence. Revolting orange hair, freckles, lanky build, was that really Grangers type? The reason she tied her hair up with red ribbons, wore a red sweater?

“Think Madam Puddifoots was too expensive for a Weasley?” She snickered. “Let’s pop in Draco.”

“In- In there?” He balked. “Whatever for?”

“I want to see what the Golden duo does without their third. I imagine they’re terribly boring. I’d bet Granger quotes from the dictionary and Weasley pretends to understand.”

Draco often wondered the same thing. They had nothing in common. What could the two possibly talk about? He wasn’t eager to find out, felt mouth turning down at the thought of Hermione leaning in to kiss-

“You want to spend our date watching Granger?” He asked.

“And Weasley, yes. Draco, this is loads more interesting!.” She smiled as she tugged him towards the door. “Like dinner and a show!”

Well, she had him there. In his very limited free time, when he wasn’t busy following Granger from one place to the next, he was fantasizing about doing it. Weasley was just never part of it.

No, he was doing this to get away from Granger, not drag others into his obsession.

“Pans, why would we want to subject ourselves to what I’m sure will be a disgusting display?”

“For the laughs, of course.” Pansy tilted her head as she appraised him.

“Seems incredibly juvenile.” He turned his nose up, hoping she would take the bait.

“You used to be more fun, Draco. This sort of thing used to get a rise out of you.” She pulled him forward, dragging him along. Despite having followed her just yesterday, having company made it feel seedy.

He rolled his eyes and allowed himself to be lead forward, quickly claiming a seat near Grangers table. Not too obvious, one would really have to look to catch a glimpse of them- but still close enough to eavesdrop. Draco made sure to get the seat facing away from her. He didn’t fancy seeing her make eyes at a weasel.

“I don't think Daddy exactly pays people to write for the magazine. They do it because it's an honor, and, of course, to see their names in print." He recognized that voice. Draco turned to Pansy and mouthed “Who..?”

“That's loony Lovegood.” She whispered.

"I'm supposed to do this for free?" Skeeter? Why on Earth was Rita Skeeter meeting at Hogsmeade? With Lovegood no less?

"Well, yes.” Draco heard her voice and it sent a shock through him. “Otherwise, as you very well know, I will inform the authorities that you are an unregistered Animagus. Of course, the Prophet might give you rather a lot for an insider's account of Azkaban...."

Draco’s eyes blew wide, taking in the new information. Pansy seemed less interested, though she still listened intently.

"I don't suppose I've got any choice, have I?" He could practically hear Skeeter seething.

Draco couldn’t help the smirk; tried to control it by biting down on his bottom lip. His girl- she was damn good.

~.~

Umbridge is mad. No, that wasn’t even the right word for it. Livid, perhaps. Crawling out of her skin was a rage that was palpable, might be more accurate.

Thanks to his stunt and Hermiones brilliance, students were no longer allowed to read the Quibbler- not that he was anyway. Still, everytime another hammer hung up one of Umbridge's decrees, Draco felt himself suffocated a little more. Nevermind the fact that she was chomping at the bit to get Potter and his accomplices. He had thought that she saw him for what he was, but now he wondered if there was something more. Draco had his own reasons for hating Saint Potter, but Umbridge… it was almost as if she was threatened by him, for how harshly she reacted.

When Goyle had caught him talking with Lovegood and Longbottom in the hallway he had promptly split the trio up, and in the process, Potters glasses may or may not have been cracked.

And because nothing could ever be easy in his life, never achieve any sort of balance, he realized that if Potter was unhappy, so was Hermione. He couldn’t enjoy his nemesis getting what he deserved if he knew it would upset the witch that filled every corner of his thoughts.

He picked a fine time to give a shit about Potters well-being. Umbridge was hungry to make an example of him; it fell on Draco to tell Crabbe and Goyle to ease off.

Life just wasn’t fair.

~.~

He never used to care about what upset her. Used to call her a filthy little mudblood to her face.

Somedays, he missed that. Missed the time in his life when things were so uncomplicated. When he stopped making them complicated. At least if he could touch her, hold her, fucking taste her, it would make it worth it. What was it all for? What was the point of wanting someone so badly, crave them so completely that it made you question everything you thought you knew?

But then Draco would catch sight of her, legs curled as she read one of her blasted books, sunlight catching on her chestnut curls in just the right way that she looked angelic. Unashamed to be herself. Content with her own company. Smiling at whatever nonsense filled the pages. It must be a fiction story; must be one she was familiar with from the way she lazily turned the pages, like she had lived the story more than once. And in that moment, it would feel like Draco could finally breathe; like air was filling his lungs for the first time. It reminded him why it was worth it.

~.~

Why did prefects have to patrol with their houses? Just once- just once, couldn’t Malfoy and Granger be paired on the schedule? Perhaps to patrol someone outside, secluded, away from everyone?

Why was it always Pansy who unfastened his buckle in the empty classrooms, stroking his hard cock instead of Hermione? Pansy, who was caged between his arms, back against the cobblestone wall as she panted into his ear. He’d hike her thigh up higher, grip it tighter to lock her in place as he rocked his hips into hers. And when he’d come down, the ecstasy and joy washing away, he’d wonder “Is this what she’s doing with Weasley? Are they fucking at this very moment?”

The afterglow never lasted long when he was on rounds.

~.~

They caught them inside the room of requirement. Caught all of them, red handed, wands drawn. Dumbledore’s Army they named themselves. Rule breakers was what Umbridge had said.

Draco had to be there. Crabbe and Goyle were practically giddy with excitement a Umbridge cast spell after spell to dismantle the wall. Pansy, who stood to his side, looked like she was going to burst from the drama. All Draco could do was try to remain calm. He willed the wall to hold, said every counter spell he knew to hold it up. He knew what the other members of the squad were doing, knew the curses and jinxes they gave as punishments. For all the rules plastered throughout the school, it was lawless. Worst, he heard rumors of Umbridge, and what she had done to Potter. He remembered the frightened look Hermione gave him as he tugged down his sleeve. Draco worried if she would see the same fate, once the wall was down.

What would he do? If Umbridge was determined to make an example of the golden trio, how should he react? He couldn’t sit by and watch her be tortured. He couldn’t just stand there and let her come to harm. He would have to do something; there was no scenario in Darco’s mind in which he could bear witness to Hermione hurt and in pain, with him on the sidelines.

He could see it all in his mind, a course of actions ready to be played out. All them leadinging to the rescue of his witch and the shame and isolation that would follow. Not just from friends and family, but also from her. She would never want to see him again if she knew in the inner workings of his mind; knew how desperately he wanted her. All of her. It wasn’t worth denying anymore. He was a sick fucking freak, and she would be better off without him nearby. And that would be the end of it- he would never see Hermione again.

He focused, begged, and willed the castle to listen. The room of requirement was supposed to fulfill a need, and all he was asking that the walls would stay up. It wasn’t good enough.

When Umbridge stepped through, the bright light of the corridor bleeding in, his eyes immediately went to Hermione. His stomach sank low to find she was already looking his way, looking at him.

Each one was marched down to her office, made ready to give an account. All the while Draco formulated his plans and readied himself for his move.

~.~

On the list of things that Draco Malfoy thought to be unlikely, Dumbledoor taking the fall for Saint Potter and vanishing into thin air with a bird topped the list. He always figured he’d fuse himself to the chair inorder to avoid being cast out of Hogwarts. Leave it to the greatest wizard of all time to add the theatrics.

The whole school was in an uproar. He was certain his father would march down to the castle and pull him out, drag him back to the manor. His mother was over protective on her best days, and she would never stand to have her only child in a school filled with turmoil.

But when his father did not come, and Umbridge settled in behind Dumbledore's desk, he had a dreadful sense of foreboding that something big was about to change- and not for the better.

~.~

The Weasley's may be a menace, but the twins knew how to leave with a grand gesture. The only thing funnier than the entire fiasco was seeing how flustered Hermione had been.

~.~

Draco hadn’t meant to find her asleep in the library. For once, he was too preoccupied with his own studies to follow Granger around- O.W.L.S. were no laughing matter. The amount they were expected to memorize and recite was borderline criminal. No one would ever use half of the charms he was required to know, but he still had to spend his days practicing with wand and quill.

He had meant to get a book- just pop in and out- but as he walked to the stacks he saw her there, at her usual table, head propped on top of her folded arms. Her breathing was heavy, even, as her chest rose and fell with each intake.

Draco lowered himself to the floor and took a seat near her. They couldn’t sit at the same table, of course. But close enough that he could keep an eye on her while she slept. He picked up his wand and practiced charms, making paper birds dance overhead.

It could have been minutes, maybe hours before she woke. Draco wasn’t sure; it was like being caught in a haze to see her so vulnerable. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked herself awake, stretching high overhead, twisting to the right first, like always.

That was when she saw him.

“M-Malfoy?” She stuttered, embarrassed. It made him nervous to look at her so directly.

“Finally awake, Granger?” He snarked. “Thought you were going to spend the night here.”

“Wh-Why? What are you doing?” She was desperately trying to connect the dots, put the pieces together. Draco longed to drag it on, hold her there in the moment forever.

“You were sleeping, dummy.” It was quick, too quick. He should have put more thought into an explanation. “It's dangerous to be so carefree, you know.” He added.

“I must be dreaming,” She said, giving her cheek a gentle slap.

“Then you must have very boring dreams, Granger.” He smirked at her, unable to control it. “I like mine a bit more exciting.”

“I was sleeping-” She started.

“Thought we’ve covered that-”

“And you thought... you were the one to what, look out for me?” She was skeptical, and it was only fair. “Did you do something to me while I slept Malfoy? Do I have ‘idiot’ written across my forehead or something? Just tell me now and get it over with.”

“I didn’t do anything!” He objected.

“Sure, Draco Malfoy would just watch over me while I slept for no reason.”

He answered defensively. “I may be a lot of things Granger, but first and foremost, I am a gentleman. And a gentleman would never leave a witch in such a vulnerable position. You’ve no doubt studied charms. Not all of them are good natured. So yes, I looked out for you. My training as a wellbred wizard wouldn’t allow me to leave a witch alone like that.”

Hermione frantically ran her hands through her hair, trying to control the frizz and volume. Draco wanted to tell her to stop, that she looked fucking beautiful with it wild, untamed. But instead, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “No matter who the witch is.”

She nodded, as if any of the bullshit he said made any sense. As if he wasn’t watching over her for his own satisfaction, for his own peace of mind.

“Why didn’t you just wake me?” She managed, still eyeing him suspiciously.

Draco shrugged. “Have you seen yourself Granger? The bags under your eyes are incredible. You should submit them to a medical textbook.”

“Ha, very witty Malfoy.” She said, collecting her things into her bag. Draco did the same, stretching as he stood from his chair. “I- I just have been preoccupied- with my studies, I mean.” Hermione looked away from him as he rolled his neck; it made Draco immediately straighten, worried that he had become too casual, made her uncomfortable.

Of course he had! He was fucking watching her while she slept for crying out loud.

“Right.” His throat felt dry as he swallowed, then turned to leave. Two steps forward, and she in front of him, chocolate eyes holding him in place.

“Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t- I mean-” Hermione bit her lip as tried to gather her thoughts. It wasn’t often he got to catch her off guard, to watch the wheels work in Hermione’s head. When she spoke, her voice was lower, a sexy timber that shot right to his groin. “Thank you.”

Hermione took off in a brisk walk, leaving him behind.

It was a good day.

~.~

They had caught them by Umbridge's office. All hands were on deck looking for the group. Umbridge made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that nothing, barring death, was off limits. It set the group alight with a hunger for the hunt. Even Draco felt fired up to catch them.

If he didn’t get to Hermione first, who knew what would happen?

It was easy to find her, easy to know which set of footsteps were hers. He had trained for that moment, laid in wait, and now she was his. He’d crucio anyone who thought to put a hand on her. Draco led the charge, determined to be the one in control, needed to be the one.

Her hand reached out, ready to grip the door handle when he found them. They were quiet, even charmed their shoes to not make a sound, so to say Hermione was surprised to find Dracos large hand clamped over her mouth was an understatement. He worried that his ring knocked against her teeth, because the next thing he knew, he could feel her tongue dart out, as if licking a bloody wound. Her breathing came in quick bursts, hot and panicked. Draco’s other hand splayed across her stomach, pulling her in, closer than they had ever been before. The rest of the squad had followed suit, the sound of a struggle behind him.

She was making a strangled noise in the back of her throat, and Draco could feel the fear coursing through her. He leaned in, so small a movement it would be missed, until his lips were near her ear.

“Shh.” He begged, and felt her try to twist to look his way. Weasley let out a mangagled scream as his arm was bent backwards. “I won’t hurt you.” It was barely more than a breath, hardly a whisper. Hermione froze, eyes wide. Longbottom groaned as Crabbe knocked his head against the wall, a small trickle of blood running past his eyes. Hermione's voice began to hitch.

“Shh.” He begged, flexing his fingers that dug into her hips. “Please.”

Hermione was a smart witch- the brightest of their age. Draco silently willed her to understand.

If she made noise, if she struggled, it would have to look like he was hurting her. And for the life of him, Draco had no idea how to do that without traumatizing her. He ran his thumb over her cheek, small enough that it would appear to be a twitch, delicate enough that he prayed it was soothing.

“You got her, mate?” Goyle asked.

“Just brains and no brawn in this one.” He joked. “Granger barely put up a fight.” He squeezed her again, hoping beyond hope that his comment would not make her fight harder.

Remarkably, she stood still, her chest rising and falling as his arm crossed over it.

He didn’t miss the way Pansy looked him up and down, Granger held flush against him. He way his hands lingered on her skin.

“Let’s bring them into Umbridge’s office.” Pansy offered, “that’s where she’s expecting them.”

~.~

He should have kept a tighter hold on her- should have known she’d insert herself into any problem, try to solve everything.

Umrbidge had been tickled pink to see a job well done. More than happy to peg Potter as the main culprit. She wasted no time interrogating him; When Potter would not budge, not give up their secret weapon, she held her wand up, on the brink of the cruciatus curse. Draco felt his muscles weaken, his jaw go slack, felt energy drain. He heard her rumors, but that was nothing in comparison to seeing a professor ready to torture students. Wizards his age. Peers.

And if Harry was first, he could guarantee who was next.

Turns out, he didn’t need to wait for Umbridge to drag her forward; his damned witch offered herself up. Hermione rushed forward, and just like that, she was out of his grip, slipped away from his grasp. She was shouting, claiming that she knew where the secret weapon was, that she could take Umbridge to it.

In the woods. Of course it was in the bloody woods.

The headmistress pushed Potter and Hermione out the door, ordering the squad to keep a close eye on the rest of the group.

~.~

As Draco watched Ron Weasley run out of the office, he knew that the twit would brag to everyone that he had bested him in defense.

Not even in his damn dreams could Ronald Weasley beat him in defensive spells. Did he know that every summer, every holiday, his father made him train in them relentlessly? Did he moron really think he was able to bloody his lip and get that many right hooks in if Draco hadn’t thrown the match? Hell, he leaned in to every punch. When he let the jinxes render him paralyzed, Weasley hovered above him, examining his work. He smiled- wide, far too much gums, as he walked over him, stepping on Draco’s hand along the way.

He was oozing satisfaction, brimming with ego.

He could practically see him puff his chest out as he ran to Hermione to save her.

As long as he saved her.

~.~

#Harry Potter #harry potter fan fiction #draco malfoy #draco x hermione #Dracos side #draco smut #hermione draco #hermione granger #dramione #dramione fanfic #dramione fandom #dramione fic #fanfiction #ajoy3

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theholycovenantrpg · 4 years

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In the beginning was RAHMIEL, an ANGEL loyal to the cause of the ANGELS. He is said to be IMMORTAL and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as THE ADVISOR to the KINGDOM OF CAELUM. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

He serves as the Advisor to the Kingdom of Caelum -- is their steward, their ward, and their assurance that they will thrive. His subjects trust in his determination to be a voice of the people, but moreover they count on the knowledge and wisdom that he has accumulated over the eons that he has spent at God’s side. When Michael is unable to visit other kingdoms, they send Rahmiel in their stead. It is because, wherever he travels, there is the assurance that the angel will be able to slip from the grasps of any malevolence that might threaten him. This is owed to Rahmiel’s siren-like abilities -- whenever he sings, it is as though all who hear him are placed under a trance of utter ecstasy, unable to do anything other than slip into bliss at the sound of his voice. Even God was subjected to this unique defenselessness, which is in part why he kept the angel tethered to his side. Only those who are prepared for the assault are able to keep their wits about them through studious concentration -- but who would ever want themselves to be deprived of such serene divinity?

THE HISTORY.

He was born from the sound of laughter -- unrepentant and bold laughter. The mouth that it came from was not one filled with merriment and giddiness, no, it was the laughter born of unabated grief. The embodiment of defiance in the face of God, spurred by loss and made all the louder by the fury that belied it. He had cursed them with mortality -- taking from them their children, their kin, those that they loved -- and in turn, they had howled with wide mouths and aching cheeks. From that, he was born, spun into being by God whose fascination with such a display of dissent needed to be made tangible in the form of Rahmiel; a creature of boldness and melancholy, of insolence and mourning. He was a creature of conflict and God had thought nothing more of the curse of his creation than the satisfaction of knowing He had the power to do so. So Rahmiel was left to his own devices, an immortal creature with an endless existence and no purpose to be found within it, aside from swallowing down the grief of humanity and wondering when the fleeting joy to be found within it were to diminish before mourning overwhelmed them again. Beside God he wandered, the ceaselessness of his own existence weighing heavier upon his shoulders than the wings that clung to his bent back. With wearied hands, he rendered the tale of humanity -- from the inception of all creation to their lowliest of ages, and with forlorn lips he sang of their hardships and glory. And mankind heard it and listened, they heard it and felt within their hearts longing for more.

And so he gave them more. As a scribe of God he was trusted, so much so that no one thought to question when he would steal away what divinity there was and share it with the artisans of mankind. He gave to the composers and musicians, to the sculptors and artists what remnants of divinity that he could -- bidding them to inspire and create sights of beauty. Seeing that he was an angel, they owed it all to God, thinking that He was the one to praise for this blessing. But it was only ever Rahmiel who thought to give them something good and beautiful in all the frightful despair that they had to bear. Bit by bit what grief had been on the precipice of devouring him began to abate until it became easier to let that mischievous little grin pull at his lips, let that light of grace flicker in his eyes once more. Though no human ever sang his praises or created hymns and litanies to him in offering, he was content to hear their merriment and see hope within them -- even in the midst of their wars, famines, and disasters. God turned no eye to them, thought nothing of the fact that his praises were now rising from the earth and pervading the kingdom of heaven. He merely thought that He was finally receiving the love and adoration that was owed to Him, while Rahmiel merely looked on, fingers dancing on the strings of his instruments peacefully.

It was easy for him to pluck at the strings of his instruments while the world began to fray at its edges. None of his brethren paid him any mind, nor he them -- passing the eons by rendering God’s and mortal’s stories in ink, creating poems and ballads of their great conquests and demises. He watched idly as his brethren’s dissent began to stir among the ranks, watched as God’s pride began to blind Him to His own ego and obsession. For his perceived faithfulness, he was granted the title of Cherubim, an honor that was to be appreciated and reverently received. Rahmiel, however, thought nothing of it -- he cared not about titles or honors, he knew that there would be no need to pay them any mind. Why should he when the kingdom was rotten at its roots? There was no honor to be taken in a throne that was built on artificial gold, nor was there any pleasure in basking in a society that was smothered in its own self-importance. So when Michael rallied its people into a better age, Rahmiel merely looked on in wonder at the beauty that could be wrought from utter decimation. There was something beautiful about the undoing of things, just as much as there was unsightliness to be found in the act of creation. He remembered the taste of the words on his tongue when he saw the inception of the new world. He remembered how potent they were, how quickly they came.

The world’s new covenant was Rahmiel’s own remaking. No longer was he quietly observing from the heavens, content to do nothing more than look on -- no, Rahmiel wanted to shape the world into something far better than it had been before. There was no place for tyrants or dictators, not within the utopia that they were all determined to create. He no longer remained quiet about the knowledge that he held from his days by God’s side, instead he reveled in his cunning and stratagem, becoming a rather formidable weapon among the angels. At Michael’s behest he took on the title of advisor, bending their ear on matters of importance -- the shadow behind the throne that shaped the kingdom into something far more beautiful than God could have fashioned. Now, though, he sees the seeds of tyranny being sown, sees the undoing of centuries of bloodshed and sacrifices made in the name of peace. He no longer questions how mortals managed to persevere in the face of despair. He knows too intimately the savage determination to continue in the face of darkness and defeat. Just as he knows the beauty that can live on despite all of it. This world is his and under his watchful eye it shall thrive.

THE CONNECTIONS.

GABRIEL: Champion. Within the pearly gates of heaven, not many had taken note of the friendship that had been fostered between Rahmiel and Gabriel. The two of them had been rather intrigued by the indulgences that humanity had taken for themselves, and had thought to mirror it within the serene kingdom. Upon that penchant for mischief they had built with one another a partnership that has lasted the test of differing loyalties and the overthrowing of monarchies that were thought to be eternal. Rahmiel had resigned himself to the notion of solitude, being God’s confidante and scribe, and yet within Gabriel he had found kinship. This is why Rahmiel has offered his services as the eyes and ears of Gabriel where his reach is less influential than he would prefer. With the freedom to pass between the kingdoms comes invaluable opportunities to create ties and alliances -- all of which Gabriel knows is necessary for ensuring peace within the Holy Land and throughout the New World, so that the testament that they are creating is less bloody than the one they had left behind. Rahmiel trusts in his vision, in the heart that lies within the Sun’s chest and in the future that they can create.

EVANGELINE TRAME: Reprieve. There is a certain levity to their interactions, a certain freshness that Evangeline has about her. He knows, of course, why this must be. How could one not find the illustrious Eve utterly and completely captivating? He derives an entirely unique pleasure from their conversations, mischievous and wily as he slips in little phrases that tie into the life she had once lived. Though it always gives her pause, she seems just as delighted by his company as she is with his. There are secrets, no doubt, that she tries to coax out of him, keen to be let in on the joke that only one party seems to enjoy. Yet, he always takes care to mind his tongue so that it does not loose the truths that she is not quite yet ready to endure. There are times where he cannot help but let his concern slide, curious as to the nightmares or memories that might chase her into the long hours of the night, when she is no doubt at her most vulnerable to their assaults. But, until the revelation of her old life comes to light, he is all too happy to continue on with the little game that they play.

JUDAS: Ploy. He knows what Judas thinks of him -- how the great betrayer had witnessed his complacency when he was shackled to his pen and paper in the heavens. Judas thought of the angel as overlooked -- as someone not properly used and consistently placed into the shadows so as to make room for the more glory-ridden creatures. And Rahmiel lets him continue to drown himself in his own delusion, so as to ensure that there is always opportunity for glimpsing into the mechanisms and politics of the realm of Infernum. In their encounters Rahmiel can’t help but contemplate how easily Judas’ tongue wags, on the blindness that he exhibits. Perhaps in the comfort of his power he has grown lax, but the path that is being paved by the demon’s folly. It would be a rather comedic story to write, he thinks, about how an angel betrayed the great betrayer.

ORIAS: Tale. They are a creature that thousands of stories might muse upon -- they might be rendered as a sweet witch that is more akin to a saint, or perhaps depict them as something more grotesque. Regardless, Rahmiel can never tire of the conversations that occur between them, delving into the wonder and mystery of their abilities as well as the many encounters that he has witnessed with their worshippers. Though it may be his unfailing ability to romanticize things, but Rahmiel cannot help but take comfort in their existence. God had never accounted for many things, but the vastness and unknowability of their capabilities is perhaps the greatest of them all. He understands that they likely do not think much of their meetings, but he cannot help but treasure each and every one of them. Every word that slips from their lips, every demonstration of their power, and every time they bid him good night -- he treasures it all. More than they could ever hope to understand.

Rahmiel is portrayed by Diego Luna and was written by ROSEY. He is currently OPEN.

#literate rp #fantasy rp #lsrpg #new rp #rpg #om #o #m #a #rahmiel

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luki-fanfic · 5 years

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Dr. Stone Fanfic: Crossed Your Mind - Part 1

Yes I know, it’s not KHR. But I’m liking this fandom and it’s proving frustratingly effective at distracting me from my other works, so bear with me.

WARNING: suicide of OC, and some minor manga spoilers (end of the stone wars)

—

“Remember Gen, you must always give them enough reason to doubt.”

It’s the mantra his grandmother had uttered every day, before he’d head to school. They’d lived on the outskirts of the town, inside a traditional Japanese home, and the family bitterly held on to every acre around them they could find, no matter how good the offer that came.

It was so isolated, you could almost pretend you were the only one for miles.

Almost, anyway. And Gen enjoyed the quiet. It certainly didn’t last long when he had to walk into town, and sound started to echo in his head. While the citizens and his fellow classmates kept their voices low and polite, their inner voices were no such thing.

‘God, when is he going to call me?’

‘Okay, so if I get A Meal today and the C Meal tomorrow, maybe I can afford two B meals-’

“Ugh, I’m so not ready for that test today. I’m so screwed!”

‘Dammit, I’m going to be late again!’

Gen winces and resists the urge to cover his ears.

Physic powers are a real burden sometimes.

—

In a place like Japan, filled with overpopulated cities, telepathy is not so much a gift as it is a curse. It normally runs down his mother’s side, but Gen happened to be one of the lucky males to have it passed down. While movies and comic books might suggest to the common man on the street that having real life super-powers would be cool, Gen will quite happily tell them otherwise.

For one thing, it doesn’t turn off. It’s a sense, as much as sight and taste, and Gen’s only saving grace is that his own seems to be limited to hearing range at the moment. His grandmother hears significantly further, and his mother…

Well, she’s not hearing much of anything any more. But it had been far.

His father does the best he can, raising Gen with his grandmother. For someone without mind-reading, his father had been a rock. A psychologist, who worked regularly with police, and had studied ESP as a hobby. It’s how he’d met his mother, and his days spent analysing witnesses and criminals made him a natural at reading people.

“If I didn’t know he couldn’t read minds, I’d honestly think he could,” his mother had told at age five, in one of her better moments. “He knew everything I was thinking just from a smile and a twitch of my hand.”

She wasn’t wrong, and it’s quite frustrating to grow up when both of your parents are impossible to lie to. On the plus side, they couldn’t lie to him either, and his younger memories are fully of happy moments.

Unfortunately, those became a lot less when his mother’s gift spiked.

—

It gets worse in your mid twenties. That’s the one thing that seems constant. While the radius remains almost tolerable through childhood and the teens, by 25, the mental reading spikes. How far varies, but both his mother and grandmother had been brutally honest on what his future entails.

His grandmother is the only one in the family with the gift to make it past thirty for generations. And she hasn’t left this house since she was 23. Not even the threat of bombs during the war had pried her out. She’d tried to get her daughter to do the same, but she’d ran off to university, positive she could handle it.

At first, she’d been fine. She’d studied, she’d met Gen’s old man – who found her ability fascinating, and could keep up with her despite his lack of it. They’d been married in six months, and Gen came along a year later. When he was two, they learned he’d inherited his mother’s gift, and celebrated his luck.

He was five when his mother started screaming, with the entire city suddenly pounding into her head, and they’d all packed up and moved to the house in the forest while her sanity bled out her eardrums.

Her mother had seen it coming, and tried to help traditionally. Meditation, and long walks into the country. Gen, his mother and father, would spend their weekends hiking in the forest, camping in the wild, trying to find areas that were isolated enough to make his mother’s headache tolerable. Gen is not the outdoors type, but he appreciates the lessons as things he’ll need to learn for his own safety. If he’s honest, there’s something soothing about the wild – while it frustrates his father, he likes to take off his shoes and wander barefoot when he can. It genuinely makes him feel at peace.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for his mother. The trips only help so much. Japan is a populated country, and it’s nearly impossible to find yourself outside of civilisation. While Gen might find it quiet, neither woman ever finds true success.

His father had tried to help her through modern means. Reduced his hours and thrown himself into parapsychology. Prescribed any medication that might possibly help. Sometimes it did. But she kept getting stronger. Sometimes, the voices were so loud, she couldn’t even tell who was saying what. Her mental state is so bad at times, his father sometimes thinks to himself she might have genuinely developed schizophrenia. Which is a dangerous thing to think in a house of telepaths.

On the worst nights, his mother will attack his father, both with her fists, and her words.

“You hate me!” she screams, hands trying to claw at his father’s face.

“I don’t, I love you!” his father screams back, pinning her hands down.

From his room, Gen just turned and fell into bed, burying deeper into his pillow, pretending that would drown out the words not being spoken.

Once upon a time nobody in his family ever thought to lie.

But that was a long time ago.

—

If there’s one thing Gen’s ability has taught him, it’s this. Everybody lies.

It’s a universal constant. A lot of people don’t even seem to know they’re doing it, but you can’t hide your true feeling from him. He learns quite young to never trust a smile, or a tear. He sees and hears first hand someone uttering words of affection while screaming abuse in their head, seen teachers feign affection for eager students when they’re mentally begging them to vanish so they can go drinking.

‘I like you.’

‘It’s no trouble at all.’

‘It’s not that impressive, really.’

‘Gen, I promise, I’ll never hurt you, my baby boy.’

Lies. Lies. Lies.

—

When Gen was eight, he woke up to hear his mother singing in her head. A happy, ditzy tune, that almost made him hopeful that today was a good day. That this set of drugs had finally calmed down her hysterics. In the back of the house, he can hear his grandmother thinking something quite similar, and they laugh to themselves at their need to be hopeful. It’s a thought that stays with them, right up until his mother’s musings cut straight out, leaving frightful silence.

His grandmother screams out loud. Gen doesn’t, merely jumping out of bed and running towards his mother’s bedroom.

She’s in the cupboard. She’d used a scarf. Gen thinks it might have been one he gave her for a birthday, once upon a time. His grandmother tries to usher him away, but the same thought is going through her head.

His father was away during the incident, and after the funeral, starts looking at Gen differently. He doesn’t say why – he doesn’t have to. Gen doesn’t need telepathy to know that his father has suddenly realised his son has a bomb trigger in his head, and his police work falls to the wayside, focused completely on looking at psychic research, looking for something, anything, that might save him. Gen leaves him to it – it means they speak over phone while he travels, and it keeps things quiet and less depressing at home.

His grandmother has always been the bulk caretaker for him, and that definitely doesn’t change when his mother passes. If anything, life becomes easier, because they don’t have to worry about her episodes. A thought that makes both of them feel overwhelmingly guilty, so they never mention it.

To recover, his grandmother teaches him meditation and yoga, ways to calm his mind, and digs out decks of cards to show him tricks. Given their natural talent, some of ancestors were known in the magic circles – when the world was smaller, and their skills not quite as strong – they worked as magicians, or magicians assistants. She’s happy to give Gen a hobby that keeps his mind of…well, his mind. Playing the magician is what allows their family to survive in this modern era - a way for people to explain away their uncanny ability to know all.

Then, his grandmother dies when he’s fourteen, and he’s the only voice in his head for now.

—

When he turns sixteen, he moves to Tokyo, and gets an agent.

His father thinks he’s an idiot. Begs him to reconsider. In this day and age, Gen can still be home schooled, and go to university online. He can have an entire life without ever having to leave their little corner of the world.

Gen is mature enough to admit he might have a point – both of them understand that he has a very tight deadline on his life. But he wont live like his grandmother, caged in her own house for her own sanity. And his mother had done everything right and still ended up the way she did. Why spend years studying for a job he might not have the mental faculties to do in a decade? If that’s his inevitable fate, he’s at least going to enjoy the time he has left and spend it being rich and adored.

Knowing that people lie, is his strength. Knowing precisely what they lie about, is something he can use. While his father might suggest using it to better society, Gen won’t take the risk. Too many dark and dangerous people to interact with, and the concept is still laughed upon in a lot of enforcement agencies. Entertainment is far safer – he won’t even be the first in his family to use his skills this way.

The term is ‘Mentalist.’ An entertainer who feigns mind reading or other psychic abilities. His grandmother had taught him some family methods and the basic card tricks, so he has a pretty good base to start on. A natural talent at mental tricks, and long, painful hours in a cheap apartment, trying to block out his neighbours voices until he can manipulate a deck backwards and forwards, get him his first gig. His attractive features, and a knack for knowing just what to say, get him his first TV performance.

A year later, and he’s doing full on shows to a sold out crowd. Up to a thousand people, all watching him. All loving him both in their applause and heads.

It’s a drug. A beautiful, wonderful drug that makes up for living in one of the worlds most over populated cities.

Granted, there’s always a few that don’t enjoy it. Gen takes pleasure in trying to seek them out whenever he needs an audience member to help him. The ones that are looking for the trick – Gen does try to keep his act within the realms of possible most of the time. There needs to be some way for people to guess how he does it, but every now and then, he’ll show off. Get the biggest disbeliever in the room on stage, and mentally take him apart. The look of shock, of horror, and astonishment, as this simple being had their entire world view shaken. When the revelation that they can’t tell anyone because they won’t be believed crosses their mind. It’s a beautiful thing - Gen thinks he’s personally made at least a dozen sceptics full on psychic believers by this point.

On one occasion, it’s another celebrity. He’s been booked for a special on exceptional young Japanese citizens, and he’s there for both his psychology and magic credentials. The piece was fairly run of the mill, with one exceptions – a teen by the name of Shishio Tsukasa.

Although ‘teen’ is a bit of stretch – muscles like that shouldn’t be possible on someone that young. He’s attending as an example of psychology in fighting – how the state of mind can improve anyone’s abilities. During his own display, Gen can’t deny he’s impressed. Tsukasa’s mind is calm, and focused, and terrifyingly powerful.

But he also doesn’t believe in magic. He looks over Gen with the usual polite respect that one in the media masters, but his dismissal of Gen’s talents rings clear as day to him.

As such, when the show cuts for a break, and the two of them are alone in the green room, Gen hides a vicious smirk behind a glass of water, and gets to work. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, trying to block out the voices around them and focusing on Tsukasa’s own thoughts, he’s ready to go.

“How is dear little Mirai?”

The reaction is beautiful. He waited until Tsukasa was drinking, and he has to fight back the smirk as the taller teen chokes on the liquid, hand trembling as he drops it to glare over at the mentalist.

Gen gives an innocent smile.

“It’s quite an impressive feat, to soldier all those medical bills on your own. For what it’s worth, I can completely sympathise.”

That’s not even a lie. Throwing yourself into work, desperately putting money together to help a family member that has no hope of ever getting better?

Oh, Gen can definitely sympathise. Tsukasa however, doesn’t seem amused.

“How do you know about Mirai?” he asks, voice low. Gen completely understands – the teen has gone to extraordinary lengths to keep his little sister’s state out of the media. There’s only a handful of people who know the Strongest Primate High Schooler even has a sibling.

“It is my business to know, Tsukasa-chan,” Gen offers, leaning back and resting his hand on one cheek. “I make a point to know everything about everyone I deal with. You’d be amazed at the secrets I know.”

“Is that a fact?” Tsukasa asks, body tense, and Gen grins.

“My dear Tsukasa-chan, my entire career is built on reading people,” he says. “I am young, I am pretty, and I am new to the game. On the one hand, it works for my brand, but on the other, people always think they can use me for their own good fortune. If I don’t learn how to manipulate, how to get into the heads of people, I’d never survive.”

He flashes Tsukasa a dark smirk.

“I’m sure you understand this as well as I do. This world is not fair one, but if you know that, you can still come out on top.”

Tsukasa stays silent, but gives a nod of comprehension, and Gen settles back, satisfied that the indifference in the fighter’s head has been quite firmly replaced with respect.

—

A few months later, Gen is sporting a new black and white hairstyle, and is running through a stage performance to a regular audience. It’s a small crowd, and there’s nobody he can pick up that’s not genuinely enjoying his act, so there’s no need to psychologically gut anyone in the finale. Everyone seems happy, and he’ll give them the best show he can to reward that.

Next week, he’ll probably show off, because his father will be attending. Right now he’s in America, attending some medical conference. Gen has only seen the man in person since he left for Tokyo three times, but they call regularly. He’d come to see Gen perform twice, and once come just to yell at him, having taken great offence at Gen’s ‘psychology’ book, especially considering Gen hadn’t even finished High School – but Gen could have seen that coming without psychic powers. No doubt, he’ll roll his eyes when Gen publicly dissects the biggest sceptic in the crowd for his finale, but then he’ll laugh, and take his famous son out to dinner, before going over the newest research he has in how to keep Gen’s mind sane.

Gen looks forward to it. Even though he already knows his father has no faith whatsoever that they’ll find a cure in time, no matter what words he might offer.

He’s just completed his final act, one of the more standard ‘magical’ aspects of his performance, where he escapes from a box stabbed with knives, basking in the approving minds, when something dark and ominous hits him like a sledgehammer.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.’

‘Am I dying? What is this!’

His smile falters as the voices scream inside his head. But before he can process the danger, his arms stiffen, his vision vanishes, and he has nothing left but the voices.

Oh god, there’s so many…

‘Is this part of the act? I don’t like this!”

‘Mom! I want my mom!’

‘Can anyone hear me! Help me!’

‘Please! I’m scared!’

‘HELP!’

He wants to scream. Wants to run away from this darkness and their screams. But he’s as frozen as everyone else.

Has it finally happened? Has he succumbed to his family’s curse? He’s only 19, he supposed to have time left…

But there’s no answer, and the crying, sobbing, frantic minds don’t let up for hours. But eventually, they start to quiet, and Gen becomes even more alarmed when he starts to realise he can pick out individual voices – the crowd thinning for unknown reasons.

It should be comforting, but with nothing to see, hear, smell…those voices are the only thing keeping him sane. He cries every time a voice tapers off.

‘Stay! Come back!’ he begs in his own head. ‘Don’t leave me alone!’

He doesn’t know how long it takes for the last voice, a young woman whose last thoughts are of her fiancé, to drift away. But the time after is horrifying. He’s never been so alone. There’s always been someone on the edge of his head. This silence is terrifying.

So, when his own mind starts to drift away, its nothing but a relief.

—

Several thousand years later, he meets Shishio Tsukasa again. The teen is even more impressive, and the army of stone behind him does not fill Gen with confidence. Neither does his mental state –and Gen suddenly becomes exceedingly grateful his father would have been in America and is far, far away from him.

He is given clothing, which to his surprise is slightly more elaborate than everyone else, and based on traditional Japanese garb. It’s the style he’s admitted in interviews and TV appearances to being his preference, and it doesn’t take much to realise he’s being buttered up. Better clothes to elevate his position in Tsukasa’s new world. The girl who made them is torn between being happy at making something creative, and being terrified of Gen’s existence. She knows exactly why Gen’s been revived, and she’s not happy about it.

Granted, Gen also knows why he’s been revived, but he can’t tell Tsukasa that. Any more than he can tell him the one called Senku is still alive. At this point, he’s not even supposed to know the scientist’s name, so he stays mum.

He’s given a tour of Tsukasa’s kingdom, the strange caves utterly alien to him. It’s difficult to imagine that this is where Tokyo once stood. Or that this simple little cave holds the key to their revival. It’s there that he finds something truly phenomenal. The date.

Tsukasa had told it to him, but he was still wrapping his head around the concept of what happened that it didn’t register. But here it is, written on a tree, plain as day.

Gen’s reeling. Someone was awake during the petrification? The whole time? And stayed coherent enough to keep track of the date? Gen had stayed conscious longer than everyone because he had mental stimulation, and even he’s still iffy on exactly how long he was functioning. The mental feat this must have taken…

He laughs long and hard in his head when he realises Tsukasa has revived him to track Senku down. A man Gen suddenly realises he has to meet, no matter what.

So he plays along, trailing after Tsukasa, acting the role of shallow egoist, looking at his options and realising Tsukasa was his key to success in this new world – the person Tsukasa, and most of the modern world, believed he was – looking over Senku’s abandoned hut, and being directed to where Tsukasa had once left a strange blonde girl, only to return and find her missing.

Gen is given a fortnight to hunt down Senku or the village, or Tsukasa will send out a rescue team. He’s rather surprised that Tsukasa is willing to let him go alone, but then again, a more censored version of his family’s hiking trips have also made it into his biography, so perhaps it’s just rationing resources. And it does make Gen’s plans so much easier.

—

Once he’s stepped into the forest, and Tsukasa’s mind is no longer close enough to be heard, Gen immediately kicks off the primitive shoes he’d been offered, and sits in the crook of a tree to process what’s just happened.

The world is so quiet. That’s the first thing he truly registers. Now that he’s out of the Kingdom of Might, and away from the half dozen people up and running, it’s truly alien at how quiet his head is. There is nothing but the sounds of wildlife in his ears, and not a single stray thought in his mind.

He hasn’t been this alone in years. It’s kind of soothing…normal people don’t know how lucky they are, to have this every day.

But as much as he’d love to bask in this quiet, he somehow needs to track down this now infamous ‘Senku’ over untamed wilderness, and figure out a way back without issue. While he has some outdoors experience, he had modern clothing and supplies on hand, and there’s no markers to help him out, or minds to pick up.

Thankfully, Senku and his blonde friend didn’t do much to cover their tracks. They’re faint from time, but he does manage to follow a trail, finding an old campfire, and then wheel tracks. He also stumbles across a hot spring, which he admittedly spends a day at before moving on.

Between marking a trail, and his wrong turns, it takes four days before he comes across civilisation. A beaten mud path that’s probably used by hunters, and when he follows it, he picks up the sound of an instrument, too melodic to be natural. A few minutes later, he rests at the top of the hill, grinning at the village on the water.

The grin gets wider when he picks up an amazing smell too. It’s not perfect, but that’s definitely ramen. And the idea of eating something he didn’t have to gather himself is too good to pass up.

When he walks out of the forest, he settles on a grouping of rocks, just out of sight. A passing glance at the locals make it clear his getup will stand out like sore thumb, so he needs to stay in observation mode.

Most of the village are hoarded around a bamboo cart, and everyone’s thoughts are filled with only one thing. How phenomenal this strange food is. They’ve never tasted anything like it.

But there’s one mind that’s running at a frantic pace. Gen’s almost taken aback – it’s practically speaking another language compared to the more simplistic thoughts around him. The owner is going over the components of ramen, a string of insanely long chemical components, and most curious of all, counting seconds almost subconsciously.

Gen smiles.

Hello Senku.

Now, how to approach? The last time Senku met a fellow modern man, he was supposedly killed. Gen can’t imagine he’ll be received with much trust. Gen himself has gone and put together makeshift armour just in case the reaction is more extreme than he expects, so he should expect Senku to be at least that paranoid.

He’s still mulling it over, when an utterly adorable slip of a girl wearing a watermelon on her head hands him a bowl of ramen. She’s so focused on handing food out, she doesn’t even seem to realise he’s not a villager. Or perhaps that mask is obscuring her eyes?

The ramen itself is…well it’s a painful example of why MSG is in so much food, but the sensation of eating something cooked, that’s been even a little bit processed, is a glorious feeling. The general aura of delight and joy surrounding him definitely sweeten the bowl too. One girl even thinks about how they should stretch the rules to get the stranger into the village if he cooks like this.

The teen that can only be Senku is starting to slow down at his cart, and the crowd is dispersing in order to eat, so Gen makes his move. Something that will get Senku’s attention, but wont appear threatening.

“This ramen is making me wickedly thirsty,” he says with a smile. “A cola would be great…”

#Dr. Stone #Dr. Stone fanfiction #Asagiri Gen #not on AO3 because I have enough projects without committing to this little distractor

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pennywaltzy · 5 years

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Ever Changing, Ever Growing (5/6 - A “The Curious Case of Love & Family” Story)

And here is John’s introduction into the series and a bit more of how Sherlock and Margaret interact with each other.

Ever Changing, Ever Growing - They make the arrangement to present what society wants from them to the world as husband and wife, but childhood friends Sherlock Holmes and Margaret Hooper agree that their lives are their own. But what happens when the agreement for their marriage of convenience is rewritten to allow experimentation of a more intimate nature between them?

Sherlock’s partner was at Baker Street when Margaret arrived back there, and Sherlock gave them a relatively brief introduction before turning back in on himself. He had smiled at the sight of the purple sash on her shoulder so she assumed he did not have any mind to her working on the suffrage movement, though John grimaced slightly. “My wife’s doing?”

“And my...sister-in-law,” she said, almost calling Beatrice by her proper name. “They’re lovely women. Very opinionated and very brash. I enjoy the company.”

“Well, we love the women we love,” he said before running his fingers on his mustache. “And I think Sherlock cares for you as well, in his own way. Until we received the case this afternoon, he talked of nothing but you. I told him it was a travesty we had to wait so long to meet.”

Margaret blushed slightly. “Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said as she sat across from him and helped herself to Sherlock’s cup of tea, as it was growing cold. She knew he would not mind; he enjoyed the new drink, coffee, much more. Said it stimulated his mind more, though she knew he occasionally dabbled in his seven percent solution as well, much to her consternation. John grinned and chuckled softly as he watched.

“I assume the two of you acted much like a married couple before you made it official,” he said.

“I suppose we did,” she said, tilting her head. “It just seems we have settled into this easily, but today is the first day of truly being man and wife in the eyes of all. We shall have to see what it brings.”

Sherlock blinked and then took the cup from Margaret’s fingers, taking a sip. “My cup.”

“Well, you were ignoring it,” she said. “And you know I prefer my tea slightly cooled.”

Sherlock made a face as he tasted it and then pushed the cup towards the saucer she was holding. “How? It’s ghastly.”

“I’ll make you a fresh cup, then,” she said with a soft laugh, leaning over and kissing his cheek. Though she knew John was among those who knew the marriage was simply one of convenience, it would help to occasionally be affectionate, to get in the habit, especially if they were to show society up, so to speak.

“You did pick a good one,” John said as she walked away to get more tea.

“Indeed I did,” she heard Sherlock reply before she left the room. It took time to heat the water and brew the tea, but when she returned John had left and Sherlock had moved to look out the window. “Thank you, Molly.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, handing him the fresh cup. “What case did you get?”

“A most peculiar one,” he said. “From my brother. There is a woman he has asked us to look for, a mistress of disguise. She has, apparently, escaped from an asylum and goes by the name Eurus.”

“Frightful,” Margaret said. “What is his interest in her?”

“He hasn’t said, but he has told us she’s dangerous. But without further information, I cannot even come up with an apt description, much less her motivations for escape.” He moved a hand to finger the sash at her shoulder. “Votes for women. I had the feeling the two of them would convince you to attend at least one of their meetings.”

“I’ll be going to a march in a few days,” she said. “I never would have dared before.”

“If you face arrest, I will come and claim you and rescue you from jail,” he said. “Who knows? Perhaps I will don the sash myself and join you in the march if this case goes nowhere.”

“Are you sure?” she said. “I mean, I have been interested in this subject but I’ve never broached it with you, and I don’t want to presume--”

“Equal say is important in making sure the government works,” he said. “All people with the proper standing in life, which is life itself, should have the right to vote at a certain age. We’ll start with women and then work from there till the right is given to all. It’s what’s...right.”

“I believe, then, your presence may well be welcomed at the march,” she said, looking up at him with a warm smile and getting one in return. This boded well for them. Hopefully, this fake marriage would not complicate the matters of their friendship much if they were to have any disagreements.

#sherlock #sherlolly #mollock #fanfic #fanfiction #molly hooper #john watson #sherlock holmes #multipart: ever changing ever growing #my au: the curious case of love & family

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eleanor-writes-stuff · 6 years

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i miss the thought of a forever you and me [one-shot]

Kylo Ren has spent what seems to be the entirety of his adult life working towards a partnership in Snoke's firm. Now that future is finally within reach, and only one thing stands in his way.

So maybe he hasn't spoken to Rey in eight years. And maybe he's still not quite over her. But getting in touch with his ex-girlfriend to have her take down their old webcam videos shouldn't be an issue... right?

This is far from my best work, but I haven’t posted anything in nearly a month so here, have a two-tropes-in-one fic: exes getting back together and ‘we were young and broke and webcam porn seemed like a good idea’. Is that last one even a trope? Who knows. I wrote it anyway. If a bunch of fluff and pining sounds like a good idea, this might be the fic for you.

Also available on AO3.

Kylo Ren has been working towards this moment for the entirety of his adult life.

“If all goes as planned,” Snoke finally says after a long, roundabout conversation about legacies and partnerships and apprentices becoming equals, “the announcement will be made this Monday.”

The announcement – the one that will cement his place as a partner of the firm, the one that will ensure his name lives on forever, the one that will overshadow anything and everything that has come before. “Sir, this is–”

Snoke holds up a hand, all paper-thin skin and arthritis-curled fingers; it’s a wonder, really, that the man is still alive at all, let alone sharp enough to continue running his firm. Some will see this announcement as a sign of weakness, as the beginning of a transition of power – and perhaps they’ll be right. Two years ago, Kylo would have entertained the thought in the back of his mind, might even have come up with the outline of a plan to begin the process of supplanting Snoke entirely.

As it is, he can barely even muster the energy to fake excitement at the news.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself just yet, boy,” Snoke warns him. “Once the announcement goes out, it won’t take long for everyone to start looking you up. While I trust that Kylo Ren has been nothing but professional, I cannot say the same of Ben Solo – and I refuse to have another Hux situation.”

Just last week, Hux had been his sole competitor for this very partnership – until a quick Google search by Snoke’s assistant had yielded pictures of Hux in a Nazi costume plastered all over the Internet. The idiot had worn the costume not one, not two, but five Halloweens in a row, and any effort on his part to contain the damage would have been hopeless.

He was fired that very day.

“I assure you, sir,” Kylo speaks firmly, with all the confidence of someone who was born into the spotlight and has almost never done anything stupid, “that will not happen.”

Snoke pins him with a look that might have been intimidating once, back when he still cared about the man’s opinion and approval. “See that it doesn’t. Take the rest of the week to get your affairs in order.”

He’s dismissed with a limp wave of Snoke’s hand – has he really grown that frail in just a handful of years, or was Kylo simply too blinded by his promises of greatness to notice before?

Kylo thinks he sees that same blind loyalty in Mitaka as he walks past the assistant’s desk. The man is terrified of him and had been just as scared of Hux, but that hadn’t stopped Mitaka from bringing his findings to Snoke anyway, even at the cost of making a lifelong enemy out of Hux.

Maybe someday, Kylo thinks as he returns Mitaka’s curious gaze with a curt nod, you’ll wake up too. You’ll realize that the voice whispering in the darkness is filling you with empty promises, that greatness and power mean nothing without all the other things he’ll make you sacrifice first.

But then what? Kylo himself came to that realization years ago, and here he is anyway because what else is there? Maybe that’s the truly frightful thing about Snoke – even if he can’t deceive you forever, he’ll make sure that there’s nothing else left for you, that there’s no reason to break free of his trap.

Maybe once there would have been a reason, a person–

But that was years ago. Now there’s no one else, and nowhere else, so he might as well just stay and keep going down this path strewn with material comfort and little else.

Kylo returns to his office and settles in to retrace every single step he’s ever taken online. There’s nothing left of pre-college Ben Solo – he’d made sure of that the summer after high school in a foolish attempt to present himself with a clean slate for college, as if his last name and his parentage didn’t cast a longer shadow than anything his idiot fourteen-year-old self could have said on Myspace. After college there was no more Ben Solo, only Kylo Ren, and an intensive Google search (he’s on the seventh page of search results by the time he clicks away) reveals nothing but a handful of professional profiles used for networking and the occasional write-up about him or his cases.

Which leaves him with one last concern: college Ben Solo.

College Ben Solo has a Facebook account that he never posted on, one he used only to interact with his classmates and lecturers. He has a Twitter account with zero tweets, and an Instagram account with zero posts but a hundred or so tagged photos.

That was the only reason he’d signed up for Instagram in the first place: to see what kind of pictures his friends were posting of him, to see (and like) everything Rey tagged him in.

He would have deleted his Facebook account years ago, but he’s a sentimental fool and that was where he and Rey first got to know each other, really, when she chose to write to him instead of the literal dozens of others in their class for help. (It’s Rey from poli sci. I wasn’t in class today. Did I miss anything?)

He should have deleted his Twitter account the day he graduated, but sometimes he scrolls through all of his Favorites and their relationship plays like a movie in his head, each milestone – no matter how tiny – recorded for posterity in 140 characters. (The summer before their third year, a picture of her rolling her eyes at the camera and him talking to a realtor in the background: house-hunting with the pickiest guy in the world. I swear to god, @Ben_Solo, if you don’t pick an apartment by today I will kill you.)

And Instagram… Instagram is an exercise in masochism. Pictures of them in class, when Holdo was running late and she was bored. Pictures of them hanging out at parties Hux dragged him to and Finn dragged her to. Pictures of her tucked into his side on movie night, of him turning his face away from her camera while he made them breakfast, of the two of them building an entire life together. (A caption to accompany the last picture of them she ever posted, her head on his shoulder and his arm around her waist: Who needs a space heater when you’ve got this guy? #lifehacks #savingafortuneonheatingthiswinter #agirlcouldgetusedtothis)

It’s painful to look back on, every single bit of it, but there’s nothing here that would actually have a negative impact on his reputation. His Twitter account is already private and his Facebook reveals nothing but a string of perfunctory, impersonal birthday messages from former classmates. He double-checks that his Instagram account is locked, and then he looks up her account too – just to be safe.

Rey Niima | Cali Full-time software engineer, part-time app developer, occasionally an actual human with a social life.

The bio’s changed since he last saw it a year ago – I almost never post but don’t worry, I’m (probably) not dead – but the account’s still locked, which should mean no one can see her pictures of him. He’ll have to check with someone who’s more familiar with social media – maybe Phasma, who’s gotten surprisingly good at this stuff since she started developing a social media presence for her gym – but Kylo’s pretty sure this means he can keep all of his shrines to the past without exposing himself as a lovesick fool to the public.

All except one, that is.

Kylo exits Instagram, sets his phone aside, and reluctantly turns to his laptop. He types a URL into the box – one he visits far more than he’d like to admit – and watches as a few dozen thumbnails for corresponding videos begin to appear.

Because while college Ben Solo had maintained a minimal, barely-there presence on social media, there’s one particular corner of the web where he had been very, very active.

There’s a reason he waited until he was safely locked away in his own house to conduct this online purge, and the revealing thumbnails make him glad he did – limbs splayed wide open and miles upon miles of bare skin but no faces, never any faces, they were always so careful about that. It’s probably the only reason no one’s ever found out about this.

He’s never forgotten about it – having sex with your girlfriend in front of a live online audience isn’t exactly something you can just forget about – but Kylo’s felt fairly confident in their anonymity for the past few years. No names, no faces, shitty audio that completely distorted their voices – they’d thought of everything, discussed it all at length when she first approached him with the idea. But now… now he can’t risk it any longer. So as much as he’s going to miss being able to watch these whenever he really, really misses her–

It’s time to call Rey up and ask her to take down all of their videos.

“Hello,” she says distractedly – he can picture her pressing the phone between her ear and shoulder, her hands busy at work and her mind half-focused on a dozen different things. The image is so vivid it hurts, and her voice – the voice he used to wake up to a lifetime ago – isn’t helping.

He takes a deep breath. “Um, hey. It’s…” Not Ben, not for a long time now, but would she even remember Kylo Ren? The name he only adopted towards the end of their time together, the name she laughed at once or twice before telling him to stop being an idiot, Ben Solo is a perfectly good name–

Over the phone, Rey makes an almost imperceptible sound – a gasp, maybe, or a sharp inhale. “Ben,” she breathes, not even the slightest hint of a question in her voice after all these years.

He was always Ben to her, even right up until the end. It doesn’t feel right to change that now. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to just call you up like this–”

“It’s okay,” Rey cuts him off, her words tumbling out in a rush. Maybe he should’ve asked if this is a good time to talk. “Really, it’s fine. What’s… what’s up?”

“I’m… this is going to sound weird, but I’m in town and I need to talk to you about something… private,” he grimaces as it finally hits him how ridiculous this all is, how pathetic and see-through his excuse is. They could’ve had this phone call even on opposite ends of the world; he could’ve checked the website after to make sure she’d gone through with it. There’s absolutely no reason for him to have flown across the country just for this.

But here he is anyway.

Rey is quiet for the longest while. “Oh,” she finally says. “I… um. Okay, I guess. Do you want to tell me what this is about or would you rather–”

“I’d rather tell you in person,” Kylo says quickly, before he can lose his nerve and fly back without ever laying eyes on her. “Can I- are you free now?”

“Now?” she echoes questioningly. “I’m kinda at work right now, Ben.”

Because of course she’s at work, of course she has a routine and a life and none of it is going to stop just because he’s unceremoniously dropped himself back into her existence. His life in New York feels so distant now, almost like a dream, but it’s unfair of him to expect her to drop everything and rush to him the way he’s rushed to her.

“Of course,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, I forgot that–”

“But my lunch break is in two hours, if you’d like to drop by then,” Rey offers haltingly, her tone somewhere between a suggestion and a question.

“Yes,” the word tumbles past his lips without a moment’s thought. “Yes. Great. That’d be great.” He clears his throat to shut himself up and stop rambling at Rey.

“Great!” she agrees brightly, her cheery tone the slightest bit hysteria-tinged. “So I’ll just text you the address?”

He could easily look it up himself, of course, but he’ll take any form of contact with her – Kylo’s not above admitting that to himself. “Yeah, sure. Thanks. See you in a bit, Rey,” he makes himself say, because who knows how long he’ll keep her on the phone otherwise, keep her voice in his ear and her presence in his life.

When Rey speaks, he likes to think he can hear a smile in her voice. “See you, Ben,” she says quietly, and a moment later her voice is gone and his phone is buzzing with a message containing directions to Resistance Tech.

The company sounds vaguely familiar – he must’ve read about her getting a job there at some point, maybe gleaned it from one of her bios or a congratulatory post on Finn’s Facebook account. There’s so little about her that he actually knows, but the bits and pieces stored in the back of his mind are still more than he should have, more than he’s entitled to, given that they haven’t spoken in eight years.

He wonders when she stopped working with Skywalker, and why; wonders if she still hates coffee and chugs way too much Coke in the mornings to get her caffeine hit instead; wonders if she ever reaches out across the bed at night only to remember there’s no one there anymore, the way he still does.

Thirty minutes later he hops into an Uber and stares out the window at the bright sun and the swaying trees, thinks of how much Rey must love this place, all her favorite parts about her desert home and their rainy college town rolled into one city.

The car pulls up to Resistance Tech more than an hour later, and his Uber driver tells him that’s considered good time given that it’s the middle of the day and they made their way here all the way from the airport. He thanks the guy, shoulders his weekend bag, and opens the door to a beautiful, sprawling, horribly familiar sight.

Rey never stopped working with Skywalker, Kylo realizes belatedly. Resistance Tech is just the new name his mother had chosen for the company when she decided to quit politics and partner up with her brother.

The receptionist calls for someone to escort him upstairs when she recognizes his name, and Kylo finds himself deposited in an empty conference room on the seventeenth floor shortly after.

The hallway outside is barely lit, and the entire floor seems abandoned for now. He sits down for a bit, re-reads Rey’s message a couple of times before he takes to restlessly pacing the length of the conference room and then parting the blinds to look at the courtyard below.

Benches and picnic tables dot the open space, and food carts begin to appear seemingly out of nowhere as lunch hour draws near. He thinks he spots Finn amongst the throng of employees spilling out of the building, accompanied by a man and a woman, and idly wonders if maybe he’ll catch a glimpse of Rey rushing to get a bite before she comes up to meet him.

An achingly familiar voice draws him away from the window.

“Hello, Ben.”

She’s eight years older but somehow still exactly as he remembers her, all thin sweater slipping off one shoulder and loose hair framing her face and a soft little smile on her lips. He’s seen her like this a thousand times, in memories and dreams that always leave him wanting.

“Rey,” he whispers, curling his hands around the back of a chair to anchor himself. The urge to wrap his arms around her, to sweep her off her feet and pick her up the way he used to, the way that never failed to make her laugh in delight, is overwhelming. “You look… the same. Beautiful, I mean,” he adds in a hurry before she can wonder whether that’s a good thing. “You look beautiful. That’s all.”

“Um, thanks. I like your hair,” Rey replies in kind as she steps into the room and shuts the door behind her. He resists the urge to run a hand through his hair self-consciously; he hasn’t worn it short-short since he was a teenager, grew it out to hide his ears even when they were together, but now it’s shorter than it ever was in college, only half of his ears hidden underneath black waves.

She used to run her hands through it absent-mindedly, coo at how soft it was and lament that there wasn’t more of it for her to braid. He wants nothing more than to feel her blunt nails scratching down his scalp again, her fingers tangled in his hair to hold him close.

“Sorry to make you come all the way up here,” Rey says as she takes a seat and motions for him to do the same. “It’s just… I know you and Leia still aren’t talking that much, and you never know where she’ll be during lunch hour. I thought this would be the safest option.”

Leia. Back in college she used to call his mom Mrs. Organa, and they’d met all of two times when Leia dropped by campus unannounced to confront him about the growing rift between them. Now she knows his mom well enough to be on a first-name basis, has probably spent more time with her in the past year than he has in the past decade.

Kylo slowly takes a seat opposite her. “Thanks. That’s… very considerate of you.”

Rey simply nods in acknowledgement, and they stare at each other across the wide conference table until–

“Why are you here, Ben?” she asks softly, no hint of hostility or frustration in her voice. Maybe the years have mellowed her out, maybe more than a decade of not having to fight for survival on a daily basis has drained her of the hardened, confrontational nature he remembers from their earliest interactions and allowed her true personality to emerge - the one he’d begun to see glimpses of during their last year together, the one he used to think he’d have the rest of his life to get to know.

“I…” he can’t help but drop his eyes down to the table, finds himself focusing on the way she fidgets with a bracelet around her wrist as he speaks. “I’m being promoted, next week. Snoke’s making me a partner.”

Her hand stops moving at the mention of his boss. “Oh. Um, congratulations,” Rey offers weakly.

Kylo forces himself to look at her. “Thanks. But… that’s why I’m here, basically. Snoke demands that all of us carry ourselves in a manner befitting of the firm’s reputation, which means no hidden skeletons or potential scandals. And now that he’s about to announce me as a partner…”

“You’re worried people out there might do some digging,” she fills in, nodding in comprehension.

There’s no need to talk about what exactly people might find, what kind of scandal they’d have on their hands. There’s only that one thing.

“Do you still have the login information?” he asks bluntly.

“I…” Rey pauses, and the slightest furrow emerges between her brows; he wants to lean across the table and smooth it out, wants to tuck her hair behind her ear and– “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I still remember everything. But um,” she gives him an apologetic smile, one marred by a wince. “I’m not that comfortable logging in here at work, so maybe…?”

Kylo nods. “Right, of course. I completely understand.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I get home, I promise,” she assures him. “Really, I should’ve done it years ago. It just… slipped my mind, I guess.” The casual shrug, the light tone – none of it is the least bit convincing. This isn’t the kind of thing that just slips your mind.

He plays along anyway, just as guilty as her of… whatever this is. Keeping a shrine to the past? Getting off to your own homemade porn? Holding on to memories of the happiest time in your life? “Yeah, same.”

Rey moves as if to get out of the chair, as if to leave, and he panics, grasps desperately at straws for something to say–

“How long are you in town for, by the way?” she asks, getting to her feet but making no move to leave.

“I… I don’t know,” Kylo realizes out loud. “I just packed a bag and hopped on a plane. Fuck, I haven’t even gotten a hotel.”

She studies him, head the slightest bit tilted to one side in suspicion. “Ben, did you fly all the way here just for this?”

He can’t exactly admit that his brain had short-circuited at even the slightest possibility of seeing her again, that he’d fly halfway across the damn world if it meant getting to be in the same room with her for five minutes. “No,” Kylo croaks, clears his throat and aims for nonchalance. “No, definitely not. That’d be… that’d be ridiculous. I just. Work’s about to change in a big way and I needed some time to myself, you know?”

Rey simply stares at him for the longest while. “Right,” she finally says. “Of course.” After a moment’s consideration, she adds, “This might be weird but we did part on good terms and all, and you just said you haven’t found a hotel yet so… I mean. I have a spare room. That you can stay in, if you’d like.”

It takes him a second too long to process what’s happening here, to understand that Rey is inviting him into her home for the night. “Yes!” he blurts out when it looks like she’s starting to regret the offer. “I mean, yes. I’d love to. If it’s okay with you.”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” Rey smiles. “So I’ll just send you the address and let you know when I’m home?”

“That sounds good,” Kylo nods, following her lead as she moves out of the room. “Thanks, by the way. I know this is all really unexpected and–”

She turns in the doorway, places a hand on his arm. “It’s no problem, Ben. Really, I don’t mind.”

It burns where she touches him, in the best way possible.

But Rey drops her hand as if she’s been singed, and quickly leads him out of the room and down the darkened hallway. “I’d walk you out, but then people might stop us to talk to me and who knows if they’ll recognize you.”

“It’s okay,” he says as they wait for the elevator. “I know my way around.” After all, he used to spend entire summers exploring this place as a child. “Hey, what happened to Skywalker, anyway? Why the name change?”

They get into the elevator and Rey presses two buttons – twelfth floor for her office, he can’t help but note. “Luke disappeared on some kind of soul-searching mission shortly after Leia retired from politics and came here to join him,” she explains. “So your m- so Leia said that if he was going to make her do all the work of running the company, she might as well make the company her own. Gave it a total overhaul, rebranded and everything.”

Twelfth floor, an automated voice chimes before he can voice the thought that that sounds entirely like something Leia would do.

“Well, this is me,” Rey says as the doors begin to slide open. “I’ll see you at home?”

It feels like a dream to hear her say that again after all these years. Rey realizes her slip-up the second she steps off the elevator, and her eyes grow wide as she frantically shakes her head. “I mean, at my home. Which you don’t share. Because you’ve never been there. Because we–”

Kylo smiles, braces one hand against the door while the other reaches out to finally, finally tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “See you later, Rey.”

Her eyes close when his fingers graze her jaw, and he thinks she even leans into his touch. But then there’s a voice from down the hall, an awfully familiar one, and their eyes meet in a moment of total panic.

“Rey, is that you? I was wondering where you’d gone! Would you like to have lunch together?”

Leia’s voice grows dangerously close.

“Go,” Rey urges, and Kylo turns his back on her to conceal himself while he frantically jabs at the button to close the doors.

He finds himself in a café five minutes away from Rey’s office for the rest of the afternoon, scrolling through Instagram and Twitter despite his better judgement.

But the way she said see you at home, the way she sighed and leaned into his hand–

At five, his walk down memory lane is abruptly cut short when his phone lights up with a text.

Leaving work now, home in twenty. Come over whenever.

Kylo makes himself sit still for another ten minutes, even if it’s the hardest thing he’s done in recent memory. And then he calls for an Uber and promptly gets stuck in traffic.

Rey opens the door nearly an hour later and laughs at the sight of his disgruntled face. “You called for a car, didn’t you?”

“Mistakes were made,” he acknowledges, stepping into her apartment. For a moment there it’s almost like he’s stepped back in time, like he’s walked into their old home again.

But her plants are in proper pots now, not chipped mugs and emptied-out jars of food with the labels still on them. And the furniture is significantly nicer, not a single piece rescued from the curb and given a total makeover. It still screams Rey though, at the very heart of it, and he instantly feels more comfortable here than he has anywhere else since they moved out.

“That’s why I bike everywhere,” Rey says as she closes the door behind them, oblivious to his reaction to her home. “Have you eaten? I was thinking of calling for Thai. There’s this great place–” her voice carries as she heads for the kitchen, and he follows her once he’s successfully snapped himself out of it.

“Thai sounds great,” he tells her, watching her retrieve the menu from a drawer stuffed to the brim with brightly colored flyers. The genie drawer, Rey used to call it back in their kitchen, even put up a nice little chalkboard label proclaiming it as such. Like so many other things about her, it had been both endearing and heartbreaking to see how excited she would get about something as mundane as being able to simply place a call and know for sure that your next meal was taken care of, that you wouldn’t have to starve that day.

They settle on their orders, and Rey heads into the living room to get her phone and make the call. He looks out her kitchen window while waiting for her, pictures her standing in this very spot every morning, quietly cradling a mug of tea in a stolen moment of peace before the day ahead. It’s what she used to do, at least, back when their kitchen was barely functional and the view from their window was just a dirty alley.

“Hey,” Rey says as she returns to the kitchen, and when he turns around she has her laptop in hand. “I thought we might as well get it done with, while we’re waiting for food to arrive,” she explains, her smile too tight and close-lipped to be anything but nervous.

“Good idea,” he nods, and moves away from the window to join Rey at the kitchen island. There are two small barstools tucked under one end, and he follows her lead when she slides into one and logs into her laptop.

Rey types in the URL. “So,” she says a little too loudly as they wait for the page to load. “Excited about your promotion?”

“Not really,” Kylo mumbles as thumbnails begin to pop up.

They’re… well, as explicit as you’d expect them to be. But nestled amidst all of that is the occasional image of them just wrapped up in each other, Rey’s arms around his neck and his hair falling forward to obscure them from view as they kiss.

And always, always the slightest hint of a smile on her barely-visible face. He’s beginning to forget what it felt like, to have Rey smile into a kiss. Because for all the tiny details that furnish his longing dreams, there are just as many that have started to slip through his fingers – and he hates it, hates the way each missing detail feels like a fresh cut over a barely-healed wound, hates that time is chipping away at his most precious memories, hates that they’ve been apart for so long, that they’ve been apart at all.

Kylo sighs. “What happened to us?” he murmurs unthinkingly, and from the corner of his eye he catches movement – a flinch?

“Life,” Rey says easily, suddenly fascinated by her own hands. “We went down different paths, grew apart… it happens. People change. You changed,” she shrugs.

She’s never said so before, ended their relationship with a casual looks like we’ll be going to opposite ends of the country, let’s keep in touch rather than any complaints about him changing. He inhales sharply, snaps his head up to look at her. “What do you mean I changed?” His voice is too sharp, too demanding and accusatory, but it’s too late to take it back now.

Rey looks him in the eye, doesn’t falter or hesitate as she confronts him. “When I met you, you said you’d never go into politics because you wanted to actually make a difference, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to do that from within the government,” she reminds him. “And then the next thing I knew, you were working with Snoke and defending the very people you used to rail against, the ones who stood in the way of the change you used to want.”

Kylo takes a deep breath, counts to ten and pays close attention to his tone before he speaks. “I grew up, Rey,” he tells her stiffly, evenly. “That boy – he was naïve and idealistic and he would’ve starved to death working pro bono for every sob story he came across,” or so Snoke has said a hundred times, whenever he feels Kylo is in need of a reminder and some gratitude. “Snoke saw my potential and rescued me from that.” It feels wrong to parrot his mentor’s words back at Rey, especially when he himself stopped believing in them a long time ago. But what else is there to say?

“He didn’t rescue you,” Rey spits bitterly. “He hollowed you out and destroyed everything that made you you! He stripped away your morals and your beliefs and filled the void with a fuckton of money to hide it from you.”

“I’m not– Rey, I’m still me!” He gets to his feet so abruptly that the force of it sends his stool skittering across the floor. “I’m still the same person you knew, I’m still the man who took a job he couldn’t care less about because I wanted a roof over our heads, because I wanted to give you everything–”

Rey shakes her head at him. “I never asked you for everything, Ben. I was happy with what we had, I was happy with you.”

What they had? What they had was a tiny apartment and a mountain of overdue bills and a barely-defined thing between them because Rey never asked for anything but she never let him ask for anything either, never agreed to a proper date or labels or anything real, anything that would have given him the power to hurt her.

“I wasn’t!” Kylo snaps, running a rough hand through his hair, tugging at a tangle in frustration. “God, how do you think I felt, Rey, knowing that other people were getting off to my girlfriend just so that we could pay rent? The things they said about you–”

“Hold on,” Rey stands up, raises a hand in protest. “I was never your girlfriend, we were just–”

“Just what, Rey?” he snarls. “Just living together? Sleeping together? Talking about our future together? I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but that sounds like a relationship to me.”

Rey’s breathing hard and glaring at him and out of nowhere it occurs to him that this is their first fight, that they dated for three years and have been broken up for eight but somehow this is the first time he’s ever raised his voice at her.

“The only reason,” she says slowly, deliberately, bites off each word with thinly-veiled anger and coats it in false calm, “we were living together was because neither of us could afford to pay rent separately. You said so yourself, when you suggested it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rey,” he sighs, brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose where he can already feel a headache coming on. “Did you really think that was… I mean, come on. If all I wanted was a roommate, I would’ve just asked fucking Hux. He would’ve had a bigger budget. He would’ve had his share of the rent on time every month.”

And this cannot be news to Rey, but still uncertainty casts a shadow over her features as she asks, “Then why…?”

Kylo shakes his head, closes his eyes and runs a heavy hand down his face. “Because I wanted to be with you,” he whispers, something so obvious he’s always just assumed Rey – and the whole wide world, really – must’ve seen it from the very start. “Because I loved you.”

Rey makes a tiny sound – he can’t tell if she’s choking or gasping, not with the doorbell drowning her out so that all he can see is the way her lips part infinitesimally in shock.

“I’ll get it,” Kylo sighs when the bell rings again, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket. The fact that Rey doesn’t even react when normally she’d be fighting to split the bill makes him wonder if he’s broken her.

Did she really not know? How? God, the way he’d look at her, the way he’d hold her close and sigh her name – wasn’t any of it obvious enough? Wasn’t it written in big red letters across his forehead that he had been a fucking goner for her from the very start?

When he comes back into the kitchen, Rey is still standing in the exact same spot. He leaves her be, busies himself with taking plastic containers of food out of the bags and setting them out on her countertop.

“Ben?”

He turns around to find her hugging herself, arms wrapped around her waist and shoulders hunched in on herself so that she looks even tinier than usual, lost and scared and–

“Did you mean it? That you loved me back then?”

Kylo brings his hands behind his back, wedges them between his body and the kitchen counter to subdue the urge to cross the room and hold her. Rey stares at him unblinkingly, even as her arms grows tighter and she grows smaller, even as she sinks her nails into the soft flesh of her waist.

It hurts, to see her like this. Eight years and still all he wants is to always be there for her, to make her feel happy and safe all the time.

“I think I still do,” he admits quietly.

Rey makes that sound again – it’s a sob, he can hear it clearly now – and runs into his arms.

The food grows cold, forgotten on the countertop as they stumble into the living room.

After, snuggled up together on her tiny couch that’s so small she has to sprawl out on top of him rather than beside him, he gives voice to a dream he buried long ago.

“I thought I was going to marry you.”

Rey lifts her head from his chest, props herself up with her palms braced just above his shoulders. “What?”

“Back in college,” he explains, one hand drawing circles into her hip while the other brushes her hair out of her face. “Back when we… I’d look at you, sometimes, and out of nowhere I’d think, I’m going to marry her someday.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Rey asks gently, leaning in to brush the lightest of kisses against his lips.

“Didn’t want to scare you off, at first,” Kylo shrugs. “And then everything else happened so fast and we’d already made plans to move to opposite ends of the country. You know what’s crazy?” he asks, exhaling a short, bitter laugh. “Even then I thought we’d make it. I thought maybe I'd work with Snoke for a couple of years, save up enough for us to be okay while I looked for a better job where you were. Or maybe you'd hate it with my uncle and decide to fly out and find something closer to me. But then…”

But then there was talk of keeping in touch, a request to just text me once in a while, Ben, it won’t kill you to stay social, and with it came the heartbreaking realization that they weren’t anything worth holding on to, not to Rey.

He tears himself away from the memory. Just minutes ago she had hidden an endless string of I love yous in the crook of his neck, and that’s enough for him now. That has be to enough, because it’s already more than he’s ever dared to so much as daydream of.

“You never said anything,” Rey murmurs now, dropping her head back onto his chest. “I thought…”

“I wish I had,” he whispers into the silence, shifts slightly to nuzzle her temple.

Rey pushes against his chest, moves until they’re both sitting on the couch facing each other. “But…” she pauses, takes a deep breath as if to brace herself. “But things are different now, right? I mean, you’ve got everything you wanted now, what with the promotion and–”

He laughs bitterly, anguished enough for Rey to fall silent and stare at him wide-eyed. “Rey, you are everything I wanted. The rest was just… I don’t even know anymore,” he admits in defeat, can’t think of a single reason he left her behind for such a hollow life. “I hate it, all of it. I hate my job, I hate my apartment, I hate my life.”

She stares at him thoughtfully, nibbling on her bottom lip as she considers the situation at hand. The shirt he’d scooped up from the ground to drape around her shoulders is dangerously close to falling off as she shrugs and says, “Then quit.”

Oh, how he wants to. But – “And then what?”

Rey shuffles closer on her knees, climbs into his lap and plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Then come here,” she suggests easily. “Look for a job.” And then, after the slightest pause– “Marry me.”

His ears are ringing. He can’t possibly have heard that right, because Rey is still giving him that nonchalant look, still absentmindedly playing with his hair. “What?”

“That was your original plan, right?” Rey reminds him. “Quit after a few years with Snoke, move here to find a job, marry me someday,” she says it so softly, so lovingly, and in her eyes he sees all of it, sees that life he gave up on years ago. “I know it’s been a while, Ben, but… it’s not too late, if you still want it. If you still want us.”

“I– of course I still–” The idea that he might not is impossible to even wrap his head around. “But… Rey, are you serious? I know what I said, and I meant it, but you don’t have to… I mean, we can take it slow, if you want.” They’ve already wasted eight years, after all. What’s a few more so long as it means he gets to be with her, wife or not?

Rey shakes her head, surges up to kiss him all desperate and needy and so, so sure in her actions, her suggestions. “I’ve spent every single day of the last eight years,” she confesses against his lips, “trying to pretend that there isn’t a giant you-shaped hole in my life. So yes,” Rey gives him one last peck before she pulls away, “yes, I’m serious. Come back to me, Ben. It’ll be different this time, I promise.”

Her eyes are wide and earnest, and of course he knows exactly what she’s talking about, feels his heart get stuck in his throat at such a promise. “I feel like I should be the one asking to come back,” Kylo mumbles, thinking of how he left her behind all those years ago, of how much Rey has always hated being left behind and sure, this time it was different, it was just a day before she left for a new life of her own, but still. Maybe if he’d fought harder then, if he’d been willing to make sacrifices… “Feel like I should’ve been the one to ask you to marry me, too.”

“And you will,” Rey smiles, taking his words as a yes. “This isn’t a real proposal, Ben Solo,” she warns him playfully, jabs one finger at his chest. “You’re still going to have to gather up the nerve to ask me properly, some day. But for now... for now it’s a plan.”

She looks at him expectantly, as if there’s any world out there where he would say no to this. “It’s a good plan,” he tells her, pulls her in for a lingering kiss and rests his forehead against hers. “I like it.”

“Good,” Rey murmurs against his lips, and they don’t talk again for a good long while.

“We should probably still take those videos down though, right?” she asks the next morning, right after he hangs up on a puzzled Mitaka who’s still struggling to process his resignation.

Ben chucks his phone far, far away before Snoke can start to bombard him with calls and angry emails, pulls Rey into his arms and drags her back down under the covers. “I guess,” he sighs mournfully, dotting kisses along her bare shoulder.

“Babe,” Rey laughs, squirms in his arms when he focuses on a particularly ticklish spot under her ear and turns to face him. “You do realize that I have backup copies, right?”

He had not, in fact, realized that.

“God, I love you.”

Anything Reylo is usually soothing to my soul so I'm posting this in the hopes that at least some of you will enjoy this silly, tame take on the 'we were young and broke and needed the money, plus we were already having sex anyway so why not?' trope. (Seriously though, is that a trope? I don't know anymore.)

As always, I hope you guys enjoyed this even the tiniest bit. If you did, please don’t hesitate to like/reblog/leave a comment/scream at me in the tags.

I'm planning to participate in the Reylo AU Week happening later this month, so... see you guys then. In the meantime, thanks for reading!

#reylo #rey/ben solo #rey/kylo ren #kylo ren/rey #ben solo/rey #modern au #star wars #rey #ben solo #kylo ren #fic: a forever you and me #fic archive #my fics

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socialjusticeartshare · 4 years

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Detained immigrants across Deep South feel like ‘sitting ducks’ as ICE ignores their safety amid global pandemic

COVID-19 began to infect the nation at rapid speed in March, reaching every corner of the country and taking the lives of more than 6,000 people by April 3. The United Nations has dubbed the coronavirus the “most challenging”crisis the globe has witnessed since World War II.

But amid this global pandemic, people held prisoner in remote immigrant prisons throughout the Deep South have become increasingly panicked as they, along with advocates fighting for their release, report that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) – the agency keeping them locked up – is doing virtually nothing to keep them safe. Whistleblower medical experts for the Department of Homeland Security have even said that immigrant detention centers are inherently unable to protect people from the spread of the virus.

Since early March, the Southeast Immigrant Freedom Initiative (SIFI) – a project of the SPLC that offers pro bono representation to detained immigrants in the Southeast – has received numerous calls through its helpline, which conducts screenings of clients from detention centers near SIFI offices in Georgia and Louisiana. Callers report that ICE has not provided the most basic of necessities, including hand sanitizer or soap. They report that no literature has been provided to immigrants informing them of how to take precautions against the virus and that the only information they receive about COVID-19 is through the television.

“We just watch the news, but they haven’t spoken to us about it,” said one man detained at Irwin County Detention Center in Ocilla, Georgia. “We feel like we’re sitting ducks in here.”

For Francisco, a man being held at Irwin County who is at risk of contracting COVID-19 due to a pre-existing illness, being worried is a “mild way” of describing the feeling that invades him every day, he said.

“ICE is providing no health control – at all,” Francisco said. “We do not receive information from ICE about prevention. They’ve not even given us a list of symptoms. We are in bedrooms where it is impossible to keep the social distance recommended by health authorities. My concern has become fear. Now I’m terrified.”

Francisco’s fear is justified.

On April 1, a guard tested positive for COVID-19 at Stewart Detention Center in Lumpkin, Georgia. Holding roughly 2,000 people, Stewart – labeled as the “black hole” of America’s immigration system – is one of the country’s largest detention centers.

Speculation that the virus has reached detention centers is now fact.

“Immigrants are our neighbors, our family,” said SIFI Director Laura Rivera. “It may shock people to learn that our government confines them against their will in prisons simply to await their day in court. Most of these places are privately run and chronically understaffed. They are places where immigrants cannot take the basic steps of social distancing and other public health practices to protect themselves from COVID-19. ICE simply cannot keep people safe inside of them. They need to release our neighbors now, or they will be responsible for illness – and death.”

A 72-hour wait

In Louisiana, a state that recently implemented a stay-at-home order, SPLC Outreach Paralegal Jaclyn Cole reported that a Cuban asylum seeker detained at Pine Prairie ICE Processing Center in Pine Prairie, Louisiana, said officers wore riot gear and used chemical agents on detained individuals and shot at them with rubber bullets after they had a dispute with guards. Cole heard between 10 and 15 shots fired as she spoke on the phone with the man detained.

Immigrants also told SIFI that some detained people who report flu-like symptoms – breathing problems, fevers, shortness of breath and persistent coughs – are not being tested for the coronavirus. Some have been told by medical staff employed by the detention centers that they are “fine.”

One man who reported having blood in his feces, along with other extreme, flu-like symptoms, said ICE only provided him with ibuprofen, along with a syrup and salt concoction.

Should symptoms arise, ICE tells them they must “make a request” if they want to see a doctor. It takes roughly three days for this request to be granted, Francisco said.

“ICE has completely neglected the health problems of its detainees, leaving the responsibility fully in the hands of the detention centers, where we have to ask ICE agents for water and soap,” Francisco, whose name has been changed to protect his identity, said in Spanish during an interview in March. “The average response time is 72 hours. In that time, many things can happen.”

According to Francisco, Irwin County is “totally at odds” with how to provide an appropriate diet for detained individuals and that he and others are fed only a handful of food, such as bread, potatoes and corn. He reports that he is certain that Irwin County is housing people infected with COVID-19 – people with whom he is forced to interact, due to ICE not implementing a social distancing procedure.

“[T]here are infected people in this center,” he said. “But no one asks [the guards] directly if they are infected or not. COVID-19 has no borders, and [the guards] know it.”

In fact, a kitchen worker who contacted SIFI recently claimed there were confirmed cases of COVID-19 inside of Irwin County, and that the detention center was under quarantine. The man was instructed to replace plastic ware with paper plates as a precaution. Given that he suffers from diabetes and high blood pressure, he expressed concern of contracting the virus and experiencing respiratory complications.

For his part, Francisco is deeply concerned about the influx of new people detained daily – people who recently have been outside of detention, where they could have easily contracted the virus.

“We will be affected by the impact of the virus, and that will cause a wave of infection,” he said. “The only way to avoid it is to be outside of this place. The imminent impact of the virus will end our lives, and once it spreads among the detainees, it will be overwhelming. Even if ICE decides to stop bringing in new detainees, there’s nothing in place to prevent [all of us] to be easily infected.”

‘We only have God with us’

The Guardian reports that guards at LaSalle ICE Processing Center in Jena, Louisiana, allegedly sprayed a man with what he called “toxic gas” after two other detainees warned him to skip meals because the food could carry COVID-19. Moreover, a woman detained at ICE’s South Louisiana Correctional Center in Evangeline Parish, Louisiana, believes she saw officers in hazmat suits feeding someone through a slot in a door.

At Folkston ICE Processing Center in Folkston, Georgia, a SIFI attorney observed an ICE officer walk into the facility from the parking lot and deliver a thermometer to detention center staff. After overhearing that the officer had driven to various drugstores to find a thermometer, the attorney surmised that most likely, ICE headquarters had not yet supplied the facility with sufficient thermometers to meet its needs.

Said one man detained at Folkston, “It’s very frightful in here because there are many people, we only have God with us.”

‘Sentenced to certain death’

The situation that faced Robert – a man who had been detained since October 2018 – was perhaps more grave than most. SIFI secured his release from Stewart on April 1, the same day the detention center reported its first case of COVID-19.

Robert – who the SPLC previously interviewed – said that not only is there a lack of proper resources to ensure basic preventative hygiene measures, but necessary items like soap can only be obtained by purchasing them through his commissary account.

Over the past two months, Robert said, the situation inside Stewart has been extremely tense. Two units, including one next to his own, were quarantined. He said guards would not go inside the units, and that they would simply leave food on the floor, next to the door.

When Robert grew ill, it took him six days to be seen by medical staff. He was forced to sleep less than a meter away from another person, who slept a meter away from someone else. Social distancing was impossible. Making matters worse, Robert also said that more than 60 people share three toilets in his unit. As the outbreak officially reached the detention center, fewer guards began coming to work, he said.

At Folkston, where Robert was originally detained, he worked for $2.50 a day cleaning the toilets. When he was moved to Stewart, he became unable to work due to a medical reaction he had while working in the laundry room. As someone with diabetes, high blood sugar and high cholesterol levels, Robert was already extremely vulnerable to contracting the worst of COVID-19. He had no money in his commissary account, and no way to protect himself when the detention center falls short of providing basic hygienic supplies for him.

The SPLC and its allies recently asked a federal court to issue a preliminary injunction requiring that ICE take immediate steps to protect people in its custody, particularly those who have medical conditions making them more susceptible to serious illness and death from COVID-19.

Although Robert was released, Francisco and thousands of others are left behind, trapped in rural detention centers in the Southeast. Francisco said he feels like he’s been given a death sentence.

“Being [here] in the middle of this pandemic is like being sentenced to certain death without ever having committed a crime that merits such sentencing,” Francisco said. “We are estranged from our loved ones and uncertain about our immigration cases as we face one of the most difficult moments of humanity in modern history.”

Read this story for perspective from a coordinator for the SPLC’s Southeast Immigrant Freedom Initiative who regularly visits the Pine Prairie ICE Processing Center in Louisiana.

Photo by Reade Levinson/Reuters

Article Source

#ICE #detained immigrants #Deep South #safety

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apsbicepstraining · 7 years

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5 Actors Who Do The Same WTF Specific Thing In Every Movie

Many actors have a signature form. Tom Cruise loves to pas, Nicolas Cage can never be more than six inches from ardor, and Sylvester Stallone likes to add a brief fart announced to the centre of every word. But those can easily be explained away — by vigour, lunacy, and mouth-full-of-farts, respectively. But no one can explain why the next 5 aces continue using the same bizarrely specific stuffs happen to them in every single movie.

Arnold Schwarzenegger Is Constantly Perturbed About Forgetting His Partner To Leering Shitheads

Arnold Schwarzenegger has returned himself into a glistening cistern of a human, but all those thousands of hours at the gym seem to have obliged him unusually insecure about his house life. In True Lies , he plays a top-secret authority ultra snoop pose as a run-of-the-mill 300 -pound bodybuilding software salesman, but he gets murderously anxious when his ignored partner strives out “adventure” in the form of sleazy employed vehicle salesman Bill Paxton.

20 th Century Fox “Guess your partner likes the confidence that comes from being a total fucking douchebag, bro! “

Then, in Jingle All The Way , Arnold reprises his role as “shitty inept spouse, ” sans being an ultra spy( he’s precisely a regular superhuman whale ), and again gets insanely resentful where reference is finds his wife’s been spend time with a certain popular-with-the-neighborhood-housewives Phil Hartman.

20 th Century Fox “I couldn’t help but notice your stupendous muscles. Well, I simply work out one muscle, and here’s a clue which one: THE PENIS.”

In Total Recall , Arnold’s wife-stealing fears play out in the most frightful direction possible: He experiences out the status of women he thinks is the adoration of his life is actually a double agent who’s secretly with Richter, a villain who embed phony retentions into his intelligence to stir him think he and his wife had a life together.

TriStar Pictures “What are the last five statements you’d ever expect a mortal with my face and hairline to say? No , not ‘THIS HAIRCUT WAS 60 DOLLARS.’ The reaction was ‘YOUR WIFE IS FUCKING ME.'”

All three cuckolders get their comeuppance, though. Arnold expends a vast quantity of CIA resources to illegally stage a escapade to get Paxton to pee-pee his gasps, Hartman goes refusal eggnog thrown on him when he goes full sneak, and in Total Recall , Arnold killed his bogus partner in the pate, says, “CONSIDA DAT A DIVORCE, ” then snaps Richter’s arms off and drops-off the rest of him down an elevator gibe. So in all cases, love triumphed in the end.

Hollywood Will Always, Always Destroy Mads Mikkelsen’s Eyes

Take a look at Mads Mikkelsen’s face. Particularly his eyes.

Sony Pictures Television Now, if you even can, try to tear your eyes away.

They seem all right, as far as seeings start. Nice brown pigment, good spacing and symmetry … no real troubles worth mentioning. And yet for some ground, every filmmaker’s action when they read those seeings is “I must exterminate them at all costs. Cut them out! Ignite them out! Accompanied me the moaning children of Mads Mikkelsen’s eyes so they are unable look upon their father’s ruin !!! “

We … we should probably start explaining.

The veer started in Casino Royale , Mikkelsen’s introduction to the world outside Scandinavia. In that movie, his character’s left gaze is horribly scarred, leaving him weeping blood in moments of high-pitched stress.

Eon Productions We’re talking about the one that had all the coloring carved out of it with a dull fork.

Mads’ gooey eye isn’t a plan extent, or even a setup for one of Bond’s one-liners. Instead, someone was look back Mikkelsen and expected that they fuck up his left attention before filming. And then someone completely different chose the same stuff two movies afterwards in Valhalla Rising . Mikkelsen’s character not only has a wad of joint scalp for a left see in the film, but he is actually announced One Eye.

Scanbox Entertainment Danish pinkeye does not fuck around.

Mikkelsen’s rising star intended his agent had more strength to bargain, so they must have reached a endanger in the movie after that. In The Three Musketeers , his reference is utterly still missing a left eye, but he gets to wear a cool attention patch over it instead of a prosthetic ball sack.

Summit Entertainment “I’m here to talk to you about the Musketeers initiative.”

But instead of slaking their hate of Mikkelsen’s eye, such an affront only formed Hollywood’s anger grow. The Union of Hollywood Theatrical Artists Specifically for Mads Mikkelsen’s Eyes affirmed, and so in Doctor Strange , Mikkelsen’s eyes are two burning embers at the center of eight pounds of makeup.

Marvel Studios In other statements, FABULOUS.

It’s obvious that Hollywood will not rest “until youve” pried those orbs right from Mikkelsen’s head, so Mads built the wise men move to branch out to other media. He became best friends with Metal Gear builder Hideo Kojima and agreed to wizard in his next tournament, Death Stranding . And if you’d like to see the brand-new and interesting direction Kojima is taking Mikkelsen, here’s a screenshot of what his attribute will look like!

Sony Interactive Entertainment You, uh … you got a little something in your …

Keanu Reeves Desires Being Strapped Into A Cyber Chair

Over the course of his movie busines, Keanu Reeves has traveled through time, goes in superman combats with infantries of computer programs, and once helped Sandra Bullock launch a bus in accordance with the arrangements that spat in the very mouth of physics. But the most frequent shenanigan Reeves guides into is finding himself tied to a cybernetic chair.