#i should get a few more hours of sleep i cannot sustain this already

[myrquez]

babe wake up! yamaha is slutting out fabio again!

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 57

Masterlist

A/N: I've decided to use a more omniscient narrator for this chapter to allow me to jump between povs/places. I hope this isn't confusing, I usually don't write omniscient povs.

----

On the first day, the sun rises to a land drenched in blood. Maybe some of the citizens mistake it for the trick of the light at first, the red morning sun reflecting on the water, but soon enough, they realize that this is no illusion.

The news spread through the land like a great weave, bringing panic in its wake. The river running through the Black Land is essential, its water sustaining the life in the region. There are secondary rivers and wells, of course, but those are turned to blood as well. But Fae cannot drink blood, and neither can their cattle. They cannot use blood to water their crops, either.

The humans are not panicking, although the Fae do not notice this (humans are below their notice, and this goes double when they are currently so occupied with themselves). They are giddy with excitement, even though they are trying to hide it. Having been sent to fetch water for their masters, they were the first to notice something was wrong, and in the beginning, they were worried, but it wasn’t long before the first of them found out that the blood turns back to water in their hands.

In the Seraphim army camp, the soldiers are above all confused. It falls to Drakon to explain the situation to them, as Miryam is still resting in their tent, sleeping so deeply she might as well be unconscious. He keeps his explanations short since he does not want to give any spies who might be listening any important information, but he takes care to make it clear that the curse is set to only affect those who have harmed the human residents of the Black Land, so they should remain unharmed.

Later, in a tent with his army commanders, he goes more into detail. The curse is tied, he explains, to the suffering of the humans here, past and present, and it will continue to punish those who caused that suffering until the humans are freed. As long as they aren’t, things will continue to get worse.

After he has finished, his commanders are silent for a moment. Then, Sinna nods slowly. “If anyone disagrees with this approach,” she says, “you are free to return to Erithia. This decision will have no consequences for you, and no one will think you lesser for it.”

Looks are exchanged, some of them wary, others unsure. No one leaves, though.

On the other end of the country, the Alliance council receives the news of what is happening in the Black Land. Andromache smiles darkly, whispering good riddance to Nakia. Most of the Fae frown, muttering amongst themselves. In the end, a missive is sent out to Miryam, asking her to appear before the council and explain herself. It goes ignored.

In her lavish suite of rooms in her palace, Ravenia receives the news that her rivers are now running with blood together with a letter. It is sealed in the Erithian seal and when she opens it, there is only one word written on the paper: Surrender.

----

On the morning of the second day, Ravenia has the two witchers remaining in her service after Artax’s death herd three-hundred-forty-one humans into a witch circle, making it seven times seven times seven people in the circle in total, and orders them to break the curse. The witchers die. The humans die. And in answer, the earth under them rumbles. Cracks form in the land, running through the ground like spiderwebs.

Out of the cracks crawl insects. Lice and fleas and mosquitos. Within an hour, every Fae throughout the land is covered in itching bites. Some try to flee into the water, but the rivers are still running blood and anyone who does dare to go into that doesn’t last long inside.

Before midday, even the last of the Fae have noticed that the humans are miraculously unaffected by the insects.

Drakon spends the day sending out messengers to all the corners of the country. The message they bear is simple: Free your slaves and this will all end. Refuse, harm them, and it will grow worse until your country is reduced to ashes. He prays they will be reasonable.

A few hours later, Ravenia sends out messengers of her own: Every person who chooses to free their slaves and send them to the Erithian army is guilty of treason and will be executed accordingly.

----

On the third day, the livestock begins to grow sick. No one quite knows where it’s coming from. It’s like the grass has suddenly turned poisonous, even if this poison affects only domesticated animals. By now, people are truly beginning to panic. The water being turned to blood is already bad, but most of them still hope it will be turned back to water soon enough. Dead livestock remains dead, though, and it might cause problems for years to come.

Miryam is still in pain from the spell by then, but it is manageable enough that she feels she can probably get up without falling over immediately. Gritting her teeth, she forces herself into a sitting position on her bed and begins to fumble for some proper clothes. Getting dressed takes thrice as long as usual, but she does manage to stand without falling over, which she counts as a victory. (Less fortunate is the fact that her power is still drained.)

Slowly, Miryam pushes the tent’s entrance open. As soon as she steps outside, the entire camp seems to freeze. The soldiers, who went about their activities until a moment ago, stop mid-motion to stare at her. After a heartbeat, they seem to realize what they are doing and quickly look away, most of them returning to their activities with a stiffness that wasn’t there before.

Miryam desperately wants to tell them that they needn’t be nervous about her, but she forces herself to ignore the awkwardness. If they are scared of her, she will not make it better by calling them out on it. At least the humans don’t seem to be wary of her when she visits their camp – they are more excited than anything – and as the day progresses, the Seraphim relax as well.

In Lako, Ravenia’s situation is growing worse by the hour. Not only is her entire body itching dur to these cursed fleas, she is also under more and more pressure from her nobles. They want to see her acting, and ideally not in a way that sets of a plague of insects all over their country. The last thing Ravenia wants is to show any weakness to Miryam, but right now, another meeting seems inevitable, if only to convince her people that she isn’t just sitting around doing nothing. If it was up to her, she would simply attack the army camped before her city, but her own army is still several days away, and besides, her people don’t seem all too eager to provoke the person who is currently holding their water reserves hostage. So Ravenia grinds her teeth and sends a letter to Miryam, asking for a meeting.

When Miryam receives the letter half an hour later, she frowns and shakes her head. “I’m not going,” she says. “Negotiations? None of my demands are up to negotiations, and anyways, she isn’t in a position to negotiate.”

Of course, if Miryam doesn’t go, Ravenia might use it to pretend that there is no peace because Miryam refuses negotiations. On the other hand, if she does go, Ravenia will just as easily be able to pretend that it was Miryam who caused negotiations to fail, since they would be meeting in private this time, away from the palace and any spying eyes. Either way is a mess, and so Miryam will pick the more pleasant option, which is not going.

“I’ll go,” Drakon says, and when Miryam turns around to frown at him, he shrugs. “I know she likely doesn’t mean this offer, but if there’s any way to resolve this without bloodshed, I think we should take it.”

Miryam nods. She doesn’t exactly agree – mainly because she really does not think Ravenia will listen to reason before she is on the brink of dying of thirst – but she can understand why Drakon feels the need to try. She feels bad enough about the idea of him facing Ravenia alone that she almost offers to come along, though. But Drakon didn’t ask her to, and since she doesn’t want to look like she doesn’t trust him to handle Ravenia on his own, she stays silent.

Two hours later, Drakon sets out for the meeting with Ravenia. He is nervous, but not as nervous as he was during earlier meetings. He doesn’t think the meeting is a trap, and apart from that, there’s little Ravenia can do to him anymore.

They meet by the side of the Klei river. It is a strange meeting place, lacking all the splendour and grandeur of the palaces that hosted all their previous meetings. To Drakon, Ravenia looks entirely out of place here. He can only imagine her in palaces, surrounded by servants, guards and courtiers. Not standing alone in the blood-stained earth, no companions to be seen.

“I was expecting your wife,” Ravenia says by way of greeting.

She is wearing a long, loose silk dress and her usual golden jewellery, but even her expensive clothes cannot hide the stings covering her entire body. Somehow, she also seems smaller than usual, far less imposing.

In her palace, she always manages to make herself seem more-than-Fae, invincible and untouchable. Out here, with the red river only feet away, though, it is obvious that she is just a person who happened to be born into power.

“Miryam is otherwise occupied,” Drakon says. His voice is even, and he is surprised to find that he isn’t terrified. For once, Ravenia’s mere presence isn’t enough to make him want to cower.

“And what would I have to discuss with you?” Ravenia asks.

“You called this meeting,” Drakon says. “I’d assume you would know why you did it.”

Ravenia lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I called the meeting to convince my country’s nobility that I am doing something to solve this unpleasant curse business. If you had any understanding at all of how politics work, you would know that.”

The jab fails to hit its mark. Not long ago, it would have stung, but right now, Drakon doesn’t even understand why he ever let her words hurt him. She is a tyrant, a monster and slave owner. Cauldron, why does he care what she thinks of his competence as a ruler? If anything, he should take it as a complement if she thinks him a bad ruler.

“You ought to surrender,” he says. “No one died yet, but if you continue to refuse, people will die. Your people. End this now, before any lasting damage is done.”

He doesn’t even understand how there can be any debate for Ravenia, how she can so casually risk her peoples’ lives over an already-lost battle.

“I have no intention of surrendering to you,” Ravenia replies evenly.

“What other choice do you have?” He shakes his head. “You’ve lost. Do you truly want to wait until hundreds, thousands of your people have died before you will finally admit it? Would that satisfy your pride?”

“If you’re so concerned about my peoples’ lives, you should not have set off that curse. Make no mistake, Your Highness – any deaths that will happen in this will be on you and your wife.” She laughs. “Or maybe only your wife, since I doubt she even discussed it with you first. It must be such a relief for you to finally have handed over your country to someone else.”

Drakon stares at her, lightly shaking his head. How did he ever allow himself to be this terrified of her? She is just a person. Someone with power, yes, but a large part of her power also comes from other people allowing her to have power over them. And right now, in their current situation, she has no power at all if Drakon doesn’t play along with her games.

“I don’t need to listen to this,” he says, nearly smiles at the surprise on her face. “I’m just here because I wanted to see if there was a way to avoid unnecessary deaths. It seems there isn’t, so I’m leaving. If you change your mind, send a letter.”

He winnows away without giving her the chance to reply. The meeting might not have led anywhere, he might not have managed to convince Ravenia of a peaceful solution, but still, this feels like a victory, if a smaller and more personal one.

----

On the fourth day, people begin to grow sick. It’s like the sand has turned to acid – wherever it touches them, it leaves boils and burns. None of it is life-threatening, but it is certainly painful.

The council sends another missive to Miryam, demands that she is to explain herself growing more urgent. She writes back this time, a short, polite refusal. The last thing she needs right now is the council meddling in her decisions.

According to her estimations, the surrender should arrive within the day. Fae can go five days without water. They are on the fourth day and by now, even Ravenia should have realized that there will be no breaking this curse. Theoretically, she has until tomorrow, but it would be smarter to surrender now, when her people aren’t yet on the brink of dying from thirst and she still stands a chance of making her position seem less desperate.

No royal messenger arrives, though. Miryam spends most of the day walking around the camp, trying to hold casual conversations with people. The Seraphims’ nervousness around her has eased somewhat, as they seem to have realized that Miryam cursing a country does not mean that she will be acting any differently towards them.

A delegation from Lako arrives at dusk. Miryam’s heart leaps, but then, she sees that these people don’t come bearing Ravenia’s coat of arms. Their expensive clothes mark them as nobles, and indeed Miryam recognizes a few of them, but they were not sent by Ravenia.

The leader is a woman dressed in a long, purple gown. It is cut longer than is fashion, with a high neckline and long sleeves, but even those don’t entirely manage to conceal the boils and stings all over her body. After a moment’s hesitation, Miryam recognizes her as Lady Seliah, one of the higher-ranking nobles in the city. She bows before Miryam, which comes as a surprise.

“Your Highness,” she says, then bows before Drakon who appeared next to Miryam. “Your Highness.”

“Lady Seliah,” Miryam replies, watching surprise flicker over the other woman’s face. Of course, she wouldn’t remember that they have met before. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“We have come to ask, no, to beg you to end this curse.” Seliah keeps her eyes lowered as she speaks. “We will gladly meet your demands – “

“Will you?” Miryam cuts her off, although she keeps her tone pleasant. “Because I think I made my demands quite clear, and still, I have not yet received news of you freeing your slaves.”

Seliah squirms. “Queen Ravenia has forbidden us from releasing them. We would gladly meet your terms, but there is no way for us to do so without risking our lives.”

“Given how easily you accepted my peoples’ suffering – and, in fact, accept the risk to their lives right now – you’ll understand if I find myself struggling to sympathize,” Miryam replies. What is it with these Fae always thinking that no matter what atrocities they commit, they will come out unharmed? Do they expect Miryam to be moved by them suddenly feeling threatened by the very ruler they supported all these years?

“I’m not asking in my name, but in the name of the innocent people who are suffering,” Seliah says.

A noble dressed in fine silks as a champion for the common people. Well, that is certainly something new. If this was the route they wanted to go, you’d think they would have been smart enough to at least send someone who isn’t noble.”

“And it’s the innocents in this country I am thinking of when I refuse,” Miryam replies, deliberately twisting her words. After all, which Fae here is truly innocent? She shakes her head. “If Ravenia is your problem, I suggest you deal with it. And quickly, since I believe you might be running out of water soon.”

If Seliah is angry, she hides it well. She merely bows her head, thanks Miryam for her time and returns to the city.

By sunset, her and the other nobles who accompanied her are dead, their bodies hanging from the walls of Lako, a message to anyone else in the city who might consider going behind Ravenia’s back to negotiate with the enemy.

----

By the fifth day, the earth has taken to trembling slightly every couple of minutes. That’s not the worst of it, though. When the sun rises, it is quickly obscured by a buzzing cloud of insects. Locusts, who descend upon the fields, bushes and trees with a vengeance. Within hours, they have devoured any leaves they managed to get a hold on, destroying this year’s harvest within hours. People are panicking.

And still, there is no word from Ravenia.

This is not what Miryam planned. Ravenia ought to have surrendered by now. She needs to surrender – without any water supply, she has no other choice. Yet five days are almost over. By now, people must be dying of thirst, and still, Ravenia hasn’t sent word.

Miryam wanders through the camp, restless. Something is going wrong, but she doesn’t know what. She supposes it’s possible that Ravenia has people winnowing water in, but they could never bring enough for the entire population. And surely Ravenia wouldn’t sacrifice thousands of her people, right? (Killing thousands of people was never part of Miryam’s plan. She knew there might be casualties, yes, and she willingly accepted it. She did not anticipate that everyone might die, though.)

She figures out what went wrong a few hours before sunset, when a stack of barrels in the centre of the camp she passes for the fifth time that evening catches her attention. She stops one of the soldiers rushing past.

Nodding towards the barrels, she asks, “What’s in those?”

“It’s mostly water, Your Highness,” he replies. “It is customary to keep some storages in case the river gets poisoned.”

Miryam nods slowly, horror dawning on her at the realization and growing worse as she looks into one of the barrels. The water in those barrels is still water. Every river, every will and spring in the entire Black Land is running blood, but a curse on the land apparently does not affect water that is being stored in canisters and barrels. Most of the Black Land relies on water from the river, yes, but the cities would still have some storages, or at least some other beverages like wine, to last them for a few days.

This is all wrong.

Some part of Miryam is glad that at least she didn’t just cause hundreds of thousands of people to die from thirst, but at the same time… It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

It’s the same thing she tells Drakon, ten minutes later in their tent, after having explained to him and Sinna what happened.

“This isn’t how it was meant to happen,” she whispers, more to herself than to anyone else. “They should have been surrendering by now. Fae can’t go for more than five days without water – they would have had to surrender.”

This was the plan. Take away their water and make them uncomfortable. Scare them, force them into a surrender. This was the plan. No one would even have needed to die if only they had been reasonable.

Drakon’s face is dark. “Will Ravenia distribute her water supplies?” He asks.

Miryam flinches. She hadn’t even considered that angle yet. “I don’t know,” she says.

Ravenia will want to keep enough water for herself and her nobles, that much is certain. But at the same time, she will need to appease her subject somehow if she doesn’t want to risk riots.

“To the nobles for sure,” she says after a moment’s hesitation. “Probably also some citizens. But the poorer ones, those who aren’t living in the city…” She shrugs and shakes her head at the same time.

This isn’t how she meant it to happen. The people who will die will still be slave owners, still criminals, but… It wasn’t the lower classes she meant to hit with this. And she knew people would likely die, both from her curse and the consequences that might follow, but she had thought the deaths would be few and far between.

Now, they likely won’t be.

“Alright, then,” Sinna says, crossing her arms. “What will that curse of yours do next?”

“I don’t know,” Miryam says, voice small. She didn’t plan this far, didn’t think it would get this far. (Didn’t really care, if she is being entirely honest.) “This is complicated magic, and I only really planned it out for five days.” Because after five days, every Fae here was supposed to be on the brink of dying from thirst. “The curse is set in a way that will make it get worse, but how…” She shrugs. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell.”

Sinna is silent for a moment. Then, she says slowly, “So you set a curse on an entire country without knowing what it will do should it go on for longer than you planned.” She shakes her head and cuts a glare at Drakon. “Both of you. And you didn’t think that might turn into a problem?” When neither of them reply, she sighs. “Wonderful.”

Miryam stares down at her feet and doesn’t say that she would do it all again for a chance to save her people.

----

On the sixth day, the sun doesn’t rise. Or maybe it does, but its light certainly doesn’t reach the Black Land. Throughout the country, torches are being lit, but even their light barely manages to pierce the darkness that has fallen. It is a darkness that can be felt, thick and heavy like ink.

Once again, the humans get away easily. To them, the darkness feels soothing and while they can’t see anywhere near as good as in light, they can still easily make out shapes.

Many of them decide to use the opportunity while it is there. Their masters cannot see in the darkness – they can. In thousands, humans flee from the cities, vanish from houses and fields and make for the centre of the country where they have heard they will find safety.

In one of the cities to the west, the Fae leadership decides enough is enough. They will not be humiliated by a mortal like this, and they will not allow their slaves to get away unscathed, to laugh at their misery and celebrate their own victory. They will show to that mortal girl who thinks she can force their hand and attack their country, show to every mortal worm what happens when they try to cross the Fae.

They give out the order to have every human in the city brought to the marketplace and killed.

The news spread through the city like wildfire. The humans clutter together, hold on tight to each other and prepare for the end. Most of the Fae stand tightly together as well – but where the humans are silent, they are whispering, arguing. By that time, it is common knowledge that this curse is punishment for slavery, for harming humans. It is also common knowledge that Miryam’s policy for people who murder humans is simple: Execution. In other words, killing a whole group of humans does not seem to be the smartest course of action in this situation.

The large majority of the Fae in the Black Land, the Fae in this city, doesn’t care at all about human lives. They do, however, care a whole lot about their own lives. And right now, they are quickly discovering that they aren’t ready to die so that their leaders can get a brief moment of empty defiance against the people invading their country – especially when those invaders have already promised to be lenient if their demands are met.

Within a few hours, leadership over the city has quietly changed hands. The city council has been, for the time being, locked into the dungeons. After quite some arguments and even more grumbling, the humans are allowed to leave the slave quarters and instead given proper rooms in the Fae’s houses. No one is quite fond of that arrangement, but well, the curse is said to be tied to human suffering, and since no one is quite sure what counts as suffering, being extra careful seems only sensible.

Of course, the story of what happened there does not stay confined to one city. Within hours, all of the neighbouring towns have heard and many of them quietly decide to follow their example. That there is no immediate reaction from Ravenia only makes people grow bolder.

A meeting is called and held that night, with a good half of the Black Land’s city leadership in attendance. After a few hours of arguing, they come to the conclusion that there is only one sensible course of action right now: To fulfil Miryam’s demands even if Ravenia refuses to, and hope that will be enough to keep them safe. They are all aware that Ravenia would have their heads for this decision, but they have long reached the point where a soon-to-be-dead queen is far, far less daunting than what might happen if they refuse Miryam’s demands for any longer.

Throughout the country, Fae are beginning to die of thirst by now. Some are lucky enough to have found water, and the children, as it turns out, can still drink from the rivers and wells, but the death toll still climbs quickly, reaching and surpassing one thousand before midday. Everyone who survives is hungry and miserable and, by now, ready to do just about anything to end this curse. Still, though, Ravenia does not surrender.

----

On the seventh day, a thunderstorm breaks out. Lighting flashes through the sky, piercing the darkness that is still reining in the country for seconds at a time. Thunder roars, and hail falls to the ground in giant chunks, destroying fields and injuring or killing anyone who is stupid enough to be outside. (Notably, it doesn’t hit a single human although some of them have been sent outside to bring in any surviving livestock.)

Throughout the country, cities and villages are beginning to free their slaves and send them on their way towards the capital. Groups of thousands form, slowly marching through the storm.

On the other side of the Continent, the council is horrified. At least that’s what the Fae members keep repeating, even though most of them are honestly more horrified by the idea of what Miryam being able to completely wreck a country within a few days might mean for them than by the moral issue of sending giant chunks of ice raining down on a country. Meanwhile, Andromache is just about ready to punch the next person to talk about how horrifying Miryam’s actions are, especially when these are the people who, through years and centuries past, were never once been horrified by the crimes committed against humans.

She does not see the undercurrent moving through the Alliance, just below the surface of civility and righteous outrage. She does not notice the looks that are being exchanged while the human councilmembers are no looking, the meetings that are held, in secret and behind closed doors. Zeku notices, though, and he watches the events unfold in silence. He could stop it still, he supposes, or at least try to alert someone to it. But he has his own people to think of, and he cannot throw their lives away over a lost cause. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t try to warn Miryam, time and again. No one can blame him that she never listened.

The seventh day is also the day when Mor finally loses her patience. She has been watching in silence so far, horror growing with each day, unable to comprehend what she is seeing. In the beginning, she tried to tell herself that Miryam wasn’t harming anyone, that she was just trying to pressure the Fae into doing her bidding, but now, people are dying and Miryam still shows no sign of stopping.

She doesn’t understand. Cannot wrap her mind around how Miryam – Miryam who values kindness and hates unnecessary cruelty – can do this.

Mor has come to the decision that she will make her see reason. This needs to end, now, and somehow, Mor will convince Miryam. She steps out of her tent where she was hiding from the thunderstorm outside and begins to search the camp for Miryam.

The Fae camp is emptier than usual. It seems that even with the storm not affecting them, most of the soldiers prefer to hide in their tents. The humans are out and about, though, sitting about campfires and talking. Some of them must have dragged some of the smaller balls of hail over, and now, children are gathered around as some of the adult divide up the ice between them. They seem to be enjoying themselves. And well, why shouldn’t they? After all, none of the curses ever affect them.

It is that precision, more than anything else, that scares more. Because a spell this precise is no accident, no result of a moment’s desperation. It is calculated, and that makes it worse.

She finds Miryam on the second round through the camp, as she is just about to enter her tent. Drakon and Sinna are with her. Mor hurries over to join them.

“You need to end this,” she says by way of greeting. This was not how she meant to approach the topic, but damnit, there are chunks of ice that are bigger than her raining from the sky.

Sinna arches an eyebrow. “Hello to you, too, Mor,” she says. “Pleasure meeting you.”

Mor ignores her and instead turns to Miryam. “You need to end this,” she repeats. “Before any more people die. Miryam, please, so many people are already dead, it can’t go on like this.”

Miryam sighs. “And what other choice do I have?” She sounds so tired. Looks tired, too. Mor didn’t notice the last few days, but she looks like she hasn’t slept at all since she cast the spell. “If I were to end this now – which I can’t, by the way – what do you think would happen? This is the only protection my people have, Mor.”

On another day, Miryam’s words might have gotten through to Mor. Today, though, she doesn’t even notice the implications of Miryam saying that she can’t undo the curse, she is far too caught up in her horror and confusion about how Miryam can stand there and defend what is happening.

She shakes her head. “No,” she whispers. “This goes too far, Miryam.” Miryam doesn’t reply and Mor gestures wildly to the sky. “Have you looked outside lately? There are human-sized chunks of ice falling from the sky. You can’t just destroy an entire country for revenge!”

Miryam’s face hardens. “You think I’m doing this for revenge?” She asks.

Yes, Mor does think that. At least partially. If it wasn’t out of revenge, no one would ever do this. Certainly not Miryam, who hates hurting people.

“Does it matter?” She shoots back, voice rising. Heads are beginning to turn in their direction. “There is no reason good enough to justify this! You are killing thousands of innocents!”

“Funny, because I thought I was saving the innocents, and the people who are dying were all slave owners,” Miryam snaps, although she keeps her voice hushed. Then, she shakes her head and her posture relaxes slightly. “Besides, there’s no point in having this argument. I cannot stop this curse – it’s set to continue until the Black Land frees its slaves.”

Mor shakes her head, a chill running down her spine. Miryam couldn’t have… She wouldn’t have… She would never have set a spell to destroy a country without leaving a backdoor to stop it.

“And what if Ravenia doesn’t surrender?” She asks. She wants to take Miryam by the shoulders and shake her until she understands, but from the way Sinna is currently looking at her, she probably wouldn’t get away with that. “What then, Miryam?”

Now, finally, Miryam lowers her eyes. So she does feel bad after all. But it is clear that she still doesn’t regret what she did. To her, this seems more like this is an unfortunate side effect, something she doesn’t like to consider but still willingly accepted to get what she wants.

“Then I imagine the next Loyalist country will think twice before refusing to surrender,” Sinna answers for Miryam. “And now lower your voice. You’re making a scene.”

Mor stares at her like she’s seeing her for the first time. Then, she turns around to Drakon, who has been watching in silence until now. He has to agree with her. Surely he cannot like this any more than she does.

“Drakon,” she says, almost pleading, “you cannot agree with this. Tell me you don’t think this is right.”

But Drakon, Cauldron damn him, merely shakes his head. “Five hundred thousand people, Mor,” he says softly. “We are talking about five hundred thousand people who will all be murdered if Ravenia gets her way.”

Mor gapes at him, unable to believe that he is taking Miryam’s side on this. If there is one person who she was sure would disagree with this, it was Drakon. But well, Miryam is his mate. Maybe she should have expected that he would back her up in anything, no matter what.

She turns back to Miryam. “There are lines!” She snaps. By now, people are beginning to stop and stare, but Mor doesn’t care. “Lines you can’t cross, no matter what! And murdering thousands of civilians is one of those lines!”

“And what would you have me do instead?” Miryam asks. She doesn’t sound angry, just tired. Somehow, that makes it worse. If she was angry, Mor could at least tell herself that this was a spontaneous decision made out of anger or fear, not a calculated plan. “Do nothing and allow them all to be murdered rather than jeopardize my moral integrity? Would that make me a good person in your eyes?”

Mor opens her mouth – and closes it again when she realizes she doesn’t have a reply. The way Miryam puts it, there is no possible reply she can give. She doesn’t know how to explain that this simply isn’t right, and she’s too angry, too desperate to be particularly eloquent anymore. How did she come to be standing here, arguing with Miryam about whether it is okay for her to take an entire country hostage or not?

Miryam sighs and takes a step towards Mor. “You think I like this any more than you do?” She asks. “Believe me, if there was any other way, I would have gladly taken it.”

Mor takes a step backwards. “Yeah, well, I’m sure Ravenia thought she was justified in destroying Erithia as well,” she snaps.

The tension that takes over the room is almost physical. It’s like everyone tenses at once, like the temperature drops by a few degrees. Sinna takes half a step towards Mor, hand clenched to a fist. Drakon grabs her by the arm and stops her before she can get any further.

“That was a sorry comparison, Mor,” he says softly.

“Oh, yes, my comparison is a problem but Miryam casually killing thousands of people is perfectly fine,” Mor snaps.

She is vaguely aware that she should probably take her comment back, apologize. But she is far too angry and she still doesn’t understand.

“I apologize,” Miryam finally says. Her voice is icy, her face carefully blank. “I assumed I made it clear enough what the goal of this campaign would be, and what I was ready to do to achieve it. I wouldn’t want to make you participate in anything you are uncomfortable with, so if you truly feel this way, you are, of course, free to leave.”

“I certainly don’t need your permission for this,” Mor replies, voice equally sharp. “You go commit all the crimes you feel like, but I want no part in that.”

With that, she spins around and pushes through the newly-assembled crowd of onlookers towards the edge of the camp. She winnows away as soon as she reaches the edge of the wards.

Miryam remains standing in front of her tent, staring at the spot where Mor was standing until a moment ago. Then, she slowly looks up at the soldiers who are standing around, staring. She hopes they didn’t hear everything that happened.

“We should probably go inside,” she mutters, pain twisting in her chest. She tries very, very hard not to think about what Mor said, or about the fact that this might just have been the end of their friendship. (Not necessarily, she tries to tell herself. People argue all the time and usually, they find a way to fix their relationships afterwards.)

As soon as they are inside, she slumps down on one of the cushions lying on the ground. She pulls her knees up to her chin and stares down at the ground. Drakon sits down next to her. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand for her, letting it hover inches away from her arm, until Miryam leans against him.

“Well, that was nasty,” Sinna says.

Drakon nods, face tight.

“I don’t want all these people to die,” Miryam says. “Of course I don’t, I just…” She shakes her head, fumbling for words.

She understands Mor’s anger, doesn’t blame her for it, and yet… She never made a secret of it, did she? Time and time again, she said that she would do whatever it takes to free her people. She always, always made it known that she would do anything, cross every line if it meant her people could walk free. So why is Mor surprised now?

The problem, she thinks, is that people use the words “whatever it takes” too casually. It’s just like with the word “hate” – people use it so often, so easily, that it loses its original meaning. When people promise “I will do whatever it takes”, they usually mean “I will try really hard”. There’s always some kind of line, though, something they won’t be able to do. They mean “I will go until a certain point, and if I haven’t reached my goal by then, well, no one can really blame me, right?”

And Miryam doesn’t have a problem with that mindset. People should have lines. It is deeply concerning when they don’t. She doesn’t blame Mor for disagreeing with her methods or not going any further, either. But it’s not like Miryam wasn’t honest.

Besides, lines or no lines, surely what Miryam is doing isn’t that horrible? It is terrible, sure, but Mor seems to be forgetting that the only people who are affected, the only people who die, are slave owners who, through seven years of war, refused to stop owning people as property. It’s not that Miryam wants every slave owner to die, she doesn’t even want these people to die, but they are hardly innocents. Each and every one of them has the choice to free their slaves and convince others to do the same. If they don’t, why would Miryam coddle them, these Fae who committed so many crimes against her people?  Why is it that they get to commit atrocity after atrocity and still be considered innocent bystanders in this conflict?

“I don’t know what she expects of me,” she says out loud, jumping to her feet. She promised herself that she wouldn’t be angry with anyone for being horrified at what she is doing, but right now, she just can’t help it. “That I act perfect about everything? How am I supposed to free a single human if Ravenia can have each and every one of them murdered at will, but I am apparently a monster if I so much as kill a few slave owners?”

Drakon rises as well and puts a hand on her arm. “Mor was just upset,” he says. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

Miryam is far less sure of that. For whatever reason, Mor cannot accept what she is doing and she highly doubts that will change.

“It’s a matter of visibility, I think,” Sinna says. “Wars usually kill far more civilians than this, but what you are doing is very flashy. Besides, those deaths are usually presented as accidents – even if they aren’t – while you appear to be attacking civilians on purpose.”

“Well, those civilians are slave owners and I’m trying to get them free the slaves,” Miryam says drily.

“I’m not saying you are wrong. I’m saying people will be more easily horrified by this because it is so visible.” Sinna shrugs. “It doesn’t make sense. I mean, this entire war killed far more civilians than what you are doing now, yet no one ever blamed you for starting it.”

Miryam freezes, staring over at Sinna. Some part of her realizes that she meant well, but… it’s bad enough to think about the thousand-or-so people who died in the last few days. She really did not need to be reminded that technically, every person who died in the entire war is her fault.

This is all too much. Why must everything always be her responsibility? All these hundreds of thousands of lives… no single person should be responsible for so much. It’s always her needing to make these choices, and while she thinks she is right, she really doesn’t have a way of knowing and this is just too much to handle.

She needs to get away.

“You’ll excuse me,” Miryam says, jumping to her feet. She pushes the tent’s entrance aside and rushes out of the tent.

The moment she steps outside, she realizes that this was a mistake. Soldiers pause to stare at her, their gazes almost a physical weight. Momentum carrying her forward, Miryam keeps walking.

Before she has made it more than two steps, Drakon catches up with her. He must have moved inhumanely fast, because he manages to be by her side quickly enough to make it seem like he was walking out with her all along.

“Sorry,” Drakon says as their guards fall into place behind them. “Sinna was trying to be comforting.”

Miryam nods. “I’m not angry,” she says, and she really isn’t. There’s just a wave crashing down around her and she can feel herself drowning and she needs to get out. “I just need a moment alone.”

She can feel Drakon’s hesitation, and his worry. But she isn’t trying to shut him out, really. She just… well. Sometimes, for some things, she needs time alone. And right now, she desperately needs to be alone, and out of this camp, away from watching eyes.

“Can we talk later?” She asks.

Drakon nods. “Sure. I have a meeting, anyways. I should probably go.” He squeezes her hand. “See you later.”

Miryam nods, manages a smile and hurries off. As soon as she leaves the tent, though, she realizes that being alone is an illusion. A group of five guards is trailing her. In the camp, that might have been easy to ignore, but as soon as she leaves it, it becomes painfully obvious that she is being followed.

Still, she does her best to ignore it, but it is simply impossible. For all that these guards are trying to be inconspicuous, Miryam knows they are there. And as long as they are there, she needs to keep up appearances when all she really needs is some time alone with her feelings to sort through them without constantly being under inspection from others. And she trusts her guards, she does, but there is always the chance that someone might be a spy. Or even without ill intent, they might just end up talking in the camp about how their Princess is losing control, and that would be bad enough.

Her hands begin to shake and she can feel a sob building somewhere in her chest. Somewhere close by, a chunk of ice hits the ground, sand spraying to all sides. Miryam abruptly stops walking and turns around to her guards.

“I would like to be alone for a bit,” she says. “Would you please wait here?”

Her guards exchange looks. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but we can’t… I mean…” He hesitates, looking down at his toes.

“A few minutes alone can’t be too much to ask, can they?” Miryam snaps.

Her guards flinch, and Miryam immediately feels bad. Now she is being an ass to the people whose job it is to protect her. Of course they can’t let her out of sight in the middle of a war, in enemy territory. But she really, really needs to be alone right now, preferably before her control fractures entirely.

Miryam takes a deep breath, trying to fight her rising panic, and looks around. There is a ruin peeking out of the sand in the distance. Not much of it is visible, but it might provide some cover.

“I’ll go over there,” she says and points. “And you stay here. That way, you’ll be able to keep an eye on me and I get some time alone.”

Still, Kalirin, the head of her guards, doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Your Highness…”

Miryam sighs. “If anything happens, I’ll scream. Until then, you stay here.”

With that, she turns around and walks towards the ruin. The sand crunches under her feet and gets stuck between her toes. The camp itself is closer to the river, where the sand gives way to fertile earth and soft grass, but here, she is standing in an ocean of sand. The ruin pokes out of it like a shipwreck, half-buried and destroyed.

The sandstone the building was made of is withered by the centuries, but Miryam finds an entrance. She has to shove a bit of sand aside, but then, there is enough space for her to squeeze through.

As soon as she is safely hidden from sight, her composure cracks. A sob breaks out of her, an ugly, harsh sound, and then she is on her knees, sobbing. She curls up in the tiny space she made for herself and lets the tears flow.

Eventually, the tears stop. Miryam pushes herself up on her elbows and immediately bangs her head on the ceiling. “Ow,” she mutters and leans her back against the wall. She is trembling slightly and her face is probably swollen from all the crying.

She doesn’t want to go back. If she just stays here, she will never have to face the consequences of what she did. (It isn’t realistic, of course, but just for the moment, it’s nice to imagine.) She tilts her head backwards and stares up at the ceiling.

There are figures carved into it. That in itself isn’t unusual – murals and carvings are popular here – and Miryam is about to turn away when she hesitates. Having lived in the palace in Lako for years, she is familiar with the art the Black Land Fae favour as well as the major historic styles. This style is unfamiliar to her, though.

On any other day, Miryam would have dismissed it, but right now, she jumps at the chance to distract herself. (If she is thinking about these carvings, she isn’t thinking about her argument with Mor, after all.) It is too dark in here for her to make out much of the details, so she begins to shove more sand away from the entrance.

It takes a while, but eventually, Miryam has shoved away enough sand that it’s no darker inside the building than outside. (Which means pitch-black in both cases, but this darkness, Miryam can see through with little difficulty.) Now, with more light, it becomes increasingly clear that these carvings are old, far older than Miryam first thought. She twists around a bit to get a better look, brushes some dust away until she can make out one of the carvings, depicting a woman with a spear raised over her head. Her hair is tied back into hundreds of tiny braids, revealing rounded ears.

The woman in the carving is human.

Miryam’s heart leaps. She stares at the carving for a moment, then begins to hectically push away the sand from the rest of them. A group of people sitting around a table. A woman bathing in a river. People celebrating on a barge, a sunset in the background. There are more carvings in the back, but here, the passage gets too narrow for Miryam to squeeze through and there is too little light to make out the carvings.

Every single person in the carvings she found is human, though. And the Fae of the Black Land never depict humans in any way, deeming them too unimportant to commit and effort into creating drawings or carvings of them. Which means…

It means that these carvings were made by humans. Sometime, likely millennia ago, humans built this building and carved scenes from their lives into the walls.

It means that Ghost was right. Long ago, so long it has been forgotten by the world, there were free humans in this land. Maybe one of the women in the carvings is even the queen he talked about, Rashida. This land belonged to them, they spent their lives here in freedom, and they left traces of it in the walls.

Oh, how she wishes Jurian was here to see this.

Miryam runs her hands over the carvings like that will bring the scenes to life, summon some faint echo of the people who once carved these scenes. She so desperately wishes she could imagine what it was like, but she can’t even truly imagine the Black Land under human rule.

In another world, one where the Fae never took this country away from her ancestors, she might have been born free. She might have lived a happy life, never needing to know war and suffering. She might have loved this country as fiercely as she now hates it, loved it as the humans who made these carvings surely did.

In this world, though, Miryam cannot bring herself to feel any sense of positive connection to this land, no matter its history. This will never be here home. But if she succeeds, then perhaps in a few years, other humans will feel differently. If part of the Black Land goes to the humans, there will be human children born in this country who must never know slavery, who will love this land as a home. They will have everything Miryam didn’t, everything humans in the past had.

And if she needs to burn this country to the ground to get there, then so be it.

----

On the eighth day, the sky starts raining fire. It falls from the sky in huge balls, trailing tails of light behind themselves like comets. Maybe the first Fae to see them in the dark mistook them for shooting stars, or marvelled at their beauty. Maybe some even thought the sudden light in the sky might signal an end to this horrible curse.

They soon learn better.

Where the ice was devastating, the fire is worse. It slams through houses, through wood and stone as if it where paper and sets everything in its wake on fire. Soon enough, the darkness that is still reining throughout the country is replaced by the flickering, orange glow of flames devouring anything in their paths. Throughout the villages and cities, Fae are rushing around, trying desperately to put out the fires, forced to resort to blood from the river instead of water. It isn’t enough, though. Even the fire magic so many of the High Fae here have doesn’t manage to keep the flames at bay.

Miryam watches the flames from afar. The human and Seraphim camp is still dark around her, untouched by the flames, but she can make out Lako in the distance, a glowing orb orange light. She wonders if Ravenia is there, wonders how she feels to see her city go up in flames around her. For a brief moment, she wishes she could see the look on her face.

The triumph that flickers through her at the thought is short-lived. For the most part, she feels terrible. If she is being entirely honest, though, terrible is all she allows herself to feel. If she only feels bad enough about herself, maybe the guilt and horror will be able to drown out the part of her that rejoices at the sight of the city she hated so much in flames, these people who caused her and her people so much pain finally paying for it, Ravenia’s kingdom that was built on human blood crumbling around her.

Miryam could have lived, she thinks, without knowing that she is capable of watching a country burn, knowing that this will cost thousands of lives, and feeling triumphant.

Only a few miles away in Lako, Ravenia stands on one of the many balconies in her palace and stares out at her burning city. All day long, people have been rushing around, trying to put out the flames, but what good does it do when new fire keeps falling from the sky without pause? Even now, comets of fire are shooting down towards her city, tearing through buildings and people. Destroying millennia old buildings, killing and burning.

Ravenia tears her eyes away from the flames and looks out into the darkness where she knows the mortal worm who caused all this has set her camp. Oh, what she would give to see her head spiked to the castle walls. She would set fire to her capital herself, burn down each and every house by hand, if it means that she could get her hands on Miryam in exchange.

She knows, though, that Miryam is beyond her reach. With her army refusing orders, she has no way to get to the girl and she knows that by tomorrow, it will all be over anyways.

If it was up to her, she would take this to the bitter end. Let Miryam burn down the entire country, but Ravenia would see to it that she doesn’t get a single human out alive. She would kill them all and leave Miryam alone in the ashes, choking on her empty victory.

But Ravenia’s people are cowards. Weak-willed, traitorous cowards. Even now, she can see them gathering in the streets, whispering, cursing her name. They have been at it for some time now. Yesterday, when the hail started, Ravenia’s spies first reported that they were talking of an uprising, but now that it’s fire raining from the sky instead of ice, they are actually ready to go through with it.

Ravenia does not wish to surrender. Everything in her rebels against the idea of admitting defeat against a mortal worm, one of her former slaves no less. Yet she doesn’t doubt that if she doesn’t, her own people will drag her out of her palace and tear her apart with their bare hands. Maybe they will send her head to Miryam along with the surrender whoever they chose as their leader will sign, and while the idea of having to surrender and be exiled or executed stings, being usurped and killed by her own people is even more unbearable. If this is the end, then at least she will face it proudly.

Ravenia does not wish to surrender. But in the end, surrender she does.

----

On the ninth day, the sun rises to a destroyed country. The rivers may be running water again, but the end of the curse did not erase its effects. The fields are still destroyed, most of the land burned to ashes, the buildings in ruins. Thousands of people dead.

The palace is deserted. Putting Ravenia and her highest-ranking government officials in chains and sending them to Telique was the first thing Miryam and Drakon did upon taking control of the city. The nobles who were not imprisoned fled to their estates in the countryside, apparently fearing that the invaders might change their minds, and any humans who used to work here have no desire to return.

Miryam had no desire to return, either, and yet she did. Drakon merely shook his head when she asked him if he wanted to return to the palace one last time, but she felt she had to go and so she went.

Slowly, she walks through the deserted halls. There are a million memories connected to this place, and not a single one of them good. She isn’t entirely sure what she is looking for. Some sort of closure, perhaps. Not healing – that will take years and years still – but something to help her make her peace. She knows Drakon found it during his meeting with Ravenia, but when Miryam saw the queen being marched off in chains earlier, she only felt a bitter satisfaction. It doesn’t make the memories of what happened sting less, though.

She reaches the throne room. No guards to be seen, she pushes the doors open herself and steps inside. The hall is entirely empty. A polished floor, artfully decorated walls, an empty throne Ravenia will never sit on again. It looks strangely peaceful, deceptively unthreatening.

This is where Miryam watched her mother and so many other humans, more than she can count, die. This is where she stood, day after day for three years, cowering behind Ravenia’s throne. Where she broke into a million pieces.

She doesn’t know what she is looking for. There is no closure here, not for her. For all that she might want to lock her memories of this place away, it is not possible.

But maybe that’s alright. She has won the war, freed her people. Fulfilled her promise. She isn’t fool enough to think that things will be easy from here on, but she has decades to find a way to make it work. Learn to live with the nightmares instead of run from them. Deal with what was done to her, and what she did. Make a world where no one will ever have to go through the same things as her.

She has her entire life left, and she won’t waste another moment of it in this nightmare.

Miryam turns her back on this horrible, cruel place, this lavish palace now turned crumbling ruin. She does not plan on ever returning – not to this place, and not to this country. Slowly, she walks out of the palace gates one last time.

Outside of the city, she finds her people. They are camped below the city walls, thousands and thousands of them. All of them amazingly, miraculously alive. From where she is standing, she can see children running around between the tents, chasing each other. One of them lets out a breathless laugh.

And doesn’t that alone make every bit of blood and pain, every horrible loss and difficult decision that led her here worth it?

Miryam closes her eyes and lifts her face to the sun shining above. I came back for you, she thinks. Nine years and a war and countless deaths between then and now, but I made it. You are free. We are all free.

----

On the other end of the Continent, Ravenia, formerly Queen of the Black Land, is given a truly unpleasant cell. It comes as a shock, at least to her. She is a queen, after all. Surely they are not going to lock her up in a dreary hole like this, even if she is slated for execution? She always knew the Alliance has little manners, but this is even worse than what she expected. (Unbeknownst to her, some of the Fae on the council were in favour of giving her a pleasant suite of rooms, but they quickly got shouted down by their human colleagues.)

While in the Black Land, humans are travelling towards the capital where so many of their peers are already waiting, Ravenia sits in her cell and stares at the wall. While, eventually, Miryam, Drakon, their army and the hundreds of thousands of humans they are escorting make for the Erythrian Sea where they have arranged for a fleet of ships to escort them across the narrow channel into a more friendly kingdom, Ravenia grumbles about her food and the lack of proper entertainment and pretends, for whoever is watching (which, really, are only a few guards), that this cell is her palace and she still queen.

Her solitude is interrupted just over a week after she was thrown into the cell. Emperor Shey steps into the room. He is dressed in a pristine chemise, deep blue coat slung over his shoulders and his light hair shimmering in the candlelight. Ravenia rises, pretending she is as well-dressed as he is, even though her looks have suffered significantly in the last week.

“Your Excellency,” she says. She does not incline her head (after all, she is Ravenia of the Black Land and she bows to no one, even if she is a prisoner). “I would offer you a seat, but I seem to lack a chair to offer.”

Shey nods. “I’m afraid my mortal allies have little sense for hospitality.” He makes to lean against the wall, seems to notice that it is covered in dirt, and wrinkles his nose. “I come with a suggestion,” he says and holds out a hand. A small bronze key lies in his palm, glowing with some enchantment. Ravenia’s eyes dash from the key to the shackles tying her to the walls, then back again to the key.

“It is charmed to allow you to winnow out of the castle in spite of the wards,” Shey says casually.

Ravenia keeps her gaze fixed on the key but doesn’t reach out to touch it. “Betraying your own allies on your day of victory?” She laughs. “Seems unwise.”

“Not much of a betrayal, is it?” Shey shrugs. “You’ve lost the war, and nothing you can do will change that. But if I’m not mistaken, you still have an army under your command – and the person who is responsible for you losing everything would be within your reach, should you get out of this cell.”

Ravenia’s eyes spark. “So it isn’t your precious Alliance you are betraying. Just its leader.” She laughs again.

“I’m getting rid of a problem,” Shey replies coolly. “And you get the chance to get revenge before your death, so I don’t think you get to complain.” He brushes an invisible fleck of dust off his jacket. “Miryam and her husband are marching for the Erythrian Sea, the humans they freed in tow. They have only a small legion with them, less than the soldiers under your command, but they have ships arranged to transport them across the sea.” He shrugs. “Ships are terribly flammable, though, and these might just burn down before they reach them.”

“And I assume you’ve already arranged for someone to set the fire?”

“Me?” Shey laughs. “My people have no fire powers – unlike yours. The idea that I might be behind this seems outlandish, doesn’t it?”

A smile is tugging at the corner of his mouth, but he bites it down. Now is not the time to gloat, although he is rather proud of his plan. Initially, he had considered sending an assassin after Miryam, but that approach seemed far too risky. With assassins, there are always questions, and knowing these obnoxious mortals, one of them might just lay the blame at his feet. But if Queen Ravenia breaks out of her prison and ends up killing Miryam… well, who would ever think him involved in that? After all, she already has a motive, and no one will have reason to suspect anyone helped her flee her prison.

Shey tosses the key into the air once, then catches it. “A bargain,” he says, offering it to Ravenia again. “You get your revenge. All I’m asking in return is that you never let anyone know I helped you.

Something akin to disgust flickers over Ravenia’s face, there and gone in a moment. She hesitates briefly, fighting the pride that forbids her from doing Shey’s dirty work for him. Her thirst for revenge wins, though. “It’s a bargain,” she says, reaching for the key. Only when she has it safely enclosed in her fist does she look back at Shey. “You have even less honour than I thought,” she says.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @femtopulsed @aileywrites

[morkleemelon]

off the ice || chapter 4: don’t look back

previous || m.list || playlist || next

pairing: college hockey player! mark x fem. college figure skater! reader

genre: fluff, sports au, college au

word count: 6.5k

warnings: blood, mention of surgery, description of injuries, swearing, financial struggle

author’s note: huge thanks again to my beta readers @writing-frog​ and @skiimmiilk​ for being a great help to making this story better! the slow burn fire is finally burning in this chapter and I’m so excited :) if you haven’t been listening already, I highly recommend the playlist for this chapter! enjoy~

“What do you mean ‘it’s fine’?,” you sobbed, gripping the side of her hospital bed. You wanted to give your best friend a hug, but you didn’t want to risk hurting her more. Yuna’s right leg was pinned into an apparatus, the intricate metal carefully holding together the broken bones, her usual perfect skin marred by scratches of red and patches of blue. 

“I mean what I said”. Even with a sore voice and her current situation, Yuna managed to speak with dignity.

“And Ms. Kim is right,” the doctor agreed, jotting down a prescription on her clipboard, “the surgeries went well and she is in stable condition. The good news is that with proper rest and physical therapy, she will be able to walk again. Now, it’s my duty to be honest with you. You said you’re a figure skater?”.

“Yes”. Yuna uncurled her fingers, inviting you to hold her hand. You accepted it, bracing both of you for the bad news. Ten sat at the other side of the bed pressing her other hand to his lips.

“While we cannot rule out the possibility, the likelihood of you being able to skate again is very low. Especially for the next few years”. 

Yuna’s tough façade started to crumble at the shocking reality and her lips trembled as she choked back tears. You pressed your forehead to her hand as you hid your own tears from her. 

“God damn it!”. Ten yelled, getting up and kicking away the stool he was sitting on. The loud bang was followed by the sound of quiet weeping. “I shouldn’t have let you out of my sight. I shouldn’t have told you to go to the car first. None of this should’ve happened, god damn it”. The older boy cried into his palms as he placed the blame on himself. 

“Please settle down and refrain from disturbing the patient,” the doctor warned, “but we would like to talk to you about the details of the accident, Ms. Kim, now that you’re awake and stable”.

Yuna nodded, a few tears escaping and rolling down her scraped-up cheeks.

“Your right leg is broken in three places upon impact with the vehicle: two in the femur and one major area in the tibia. You then sustained minor external injury as you fell to the pavement, scraping your arms and face. We will run additional tests later on to determine if you also have a concussion. If you can remember any details of how this accident happened, please describe them to me and we can notify the police to help find the suspect”, the doctor continued.

“I,” Yuna cleared her throat, “I was at a party last night and I had a bit to drink. We stayed pretty late and Ten is close with the host, so we just decided to sleep over. Then this morning, I woke up early and I wanted to go on a drive to clear my head. Ten had to get something so I left the house first. I- I checked both ways before I crossed the street to his car, but before I knew it… it came out of nowhere and I was on the ground. I don’t… I can’t remember anything about it. The next thing I remember was being in the ambulance with Ten”. 

“I heard the whole thing happen,” Ten added softly, “I was inside the house at the time and I heard the screeching tires and Yuna screamed. By the time I ran outside, the car was gone and Yuna was bleeding on the ground”. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist. “All I could do was call an ambulance. I- I didn’t see the car or the bastard driving it. All I could do was sit with her in the street while we waited. She wasn’t waking up and all I could do was sit with her. I couldn’t even move her because I was afraid it would make it worse and she was bleeding everywhere. All I could do was sit there”. 

Tears stream down your face as you listen to Ten break down. The normally bright and optimistic man now had his face in his hands, hiccupping uncontrollably at the thought of how close he came to losing the love of his life.

“Hey,” Yuna groaned, struggling to keep her own voice steady, “baby, I’m okay. When we met, you were hurt and struggling, but you got through it because we were together. We’re still together and we can get through this too”. She touched her fingers through his hair gently. 

“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Kim, and both of your friends. The police are currently asking for witnesses for your hit-and-run case and will update you with any findings. These are your prescriptions”, the doctor slid the piece of paper onto the counter, “the nurse will come find you later to talk about your treatment. For now, I’ll leave you all alone”. 

The room fell silent, only interrupted by the occasional sniffle as the doctor shut the door behind her.

“Hey y/n?”. Yuna turned her head gingerly to you.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I can’t do the competition with you now. I promised I would but…”

“Don’t even… how could you worry about that right now?”, you sobbed, “don’t you worry about it, Yuna, the competition doesn’t matter at all. I’m just glad you’re okay right now. You should focus on getting better, not worry about me of all things”. 

“Y/n is right,” Ten agreed, “you were there for me when I got hurt. And when I thought there was no way out, you held my hand and pulled me up from the darkness. Doctor says you have a good chance of walking, so let’s get you there first. Then we’ll work on beating the odds and getting you back on the ice again”. 

“You guys…” Yuna smiled slightly, careful not to strain her bruised jaw. 

“I’ll come visit you as much as I can,” you promised, “I can bring my sleeping bag, clothes, and a jar of peanut butter. We can just be roommates here instead. There’s free AC and disney band aids too, it’ll be great”. Your attempt to lighten the mood was well received as the couple chuckles together. 

“By the way, I called your parents while you were in surgery and they’re on their way over now. They should actually be here soon,” Ten noted.

“I’ll leave you guys then,” you offered. There was a two visitor limit and you didn’t want to intrude on Ten and Yuna’s chance to have some private time before her parents bombarded her with concern. Not to mention Mark has been sitting in the waiting room for a few hours now and you wanted to be respectful of his time too.

Offering your last words of support to Yuna, you shut the door quietly behind you. Dabbing at your watery eyes with the edge of your sleeve, you attempt to fix your run-off makeup using your phone camera. Everything felt kind of numb. The events of the last 24 hours were surreal and staying up the whole night with Mark certainly did not help as the tiredness was catching up to you. Concern, upset, worry, and frustration formed a thick cloud in your thoughts. Your brain was like a jammed printer and the thoughts were not processing. You were in shock to say the least.

You shuffle your way down the hall to the waiting area and look for Mark’s familiar blonde hair. You spot him fast asleep in his seat, arms crossed over his chest as he leans his head back against the wall. His mouth is slightly agape, forming a soft ‘o’ as he breathed steadily in and out. Seeing him sleep so peacefully made you relax a little. 

At least there was something good about today.

“Hey,” you whisper, shaking him gently. His eyes blink open slowly, wincing at the bright hospital lights. 

“Hey,” he croaks, rubbing his eyes as he sits up straight. “How’s Yuna? Did you get to see her?”.

“She’s…,” you pause, “she’s okay. She said she was okay when I saw her just now and the doctor said she’s stable but…,” your voice trails off. 

“But what?,” Mark asked gently, placing a comforting hand on your back. You look around to make sure there was nobody around who could overhear. A few people sat around the waiting room a ways away, texting on their phones or flipping through the free health magazines. The receptionist’s monotonous voice droned on as she answered a phone call.

“The doctor says that Yuna might not be able to skate again,” you murmured. Even though the doctor made it clear before, saying the words out loud felt extremely surreal. You imagined if it were you lying on the hospital bed hearing this news. To not be able to skate again… it was too awful to comprehend. Tears roll down your cheeks before you could help it, dangling from the point of your chin before falling onto your green volunteer shirt. 

Mark thought about what he could say in reply to the devastating news, but decided it was best to not say anything at all. Pulling you in for a hug, you cry silently into the crook of his neck. You wrap your arms around his torso and hold on for dear life. 

The next few weeks pass by rather uneventfully after the incident, at least comparatively. Police were still on the case of Yuna’s hit-and-run perpetrator, but they struggled to find witnesses when the crime occurred so early in the morning. Even the local CCTV didn’t cover the area where it happened and the driver was still ultimately at large. 

The Lee’s and your other friends texted in the group chat plenty and you grew much more comfortable with having them around. Mark drives you to the hospital to visit Yuna a couple times a week and the three of you would eat lunch together in her room for a small sense of normalcy. It was a tough transition for you nonetheless- your best friend and roommate who you were used to seeing every day now was now seemingly so far away and your time together was reduced to a few hours a week. However, the initial shock of the situation eventually faded and the two of you came to terms with how things were. Yuna and you agreed to not cry about it anymore until she got started on physical therapy and gave recovery her best shot. Thankfully, Ten was there with her everyday and night, so it was bearable for her. 

Mark’s always been sweet about your comfort zone, too, never pushing you to talk about your feelings yet at the same time, always there for you when you needed him. Neither one of you brought up the almost-kisses, the first reason being you weren’t ready to remind yourself of the horrible things that happened afterwards and the second being that Mark wanted to respect that you needed time to process it. 

So the days tick by and seeing Mark became part of your daily routine. It was something you looked forward to when you got ready in the morning and although you didn’t really know it, it was something you needed to make your day feel complete. His good heart shined more and more to you everyday as you chose to continue to accompany him to Sunday volunteering. You got to witness how Mark’s eyes glowed whenever he talked to the people he served. He treated everyone there as if they were his own family and even though many of the people he helps are much older, he continues every conversation with sincerity and maturity. 

In addition to walking you to class everyday, Mark now has a special seat next to you in the front row of your economics lecture, leaving Jeno and Ten snickering behind you as they watch your close interactions. You ate lunch at the willow tree by the basketball court on the days you weren’t visiting Yuna. After a while, you grew used to the dirty looks from the girls across the court, even glaring back when you met Hillary’s fiery stare. Nonetheless, you developed a comfortable social routine and everything was going quite well, except for one abundant issue weighing heavily on your shoulders.

The middle of October rolls by and you grind your way through your evening shift at Frankie’s. Thankfully, it was a Tuesday, so late-night stragglers weren’t an issue. You finish scrubbing down the counters in the kitchen and wipe your hands on your waitress apron. Unfortunately, it was your turn to close so you were the only one left working tonight. Your back ached from the hours of waiting tables and your cheeks hurt from the wide smile you offered all of your customers, rude or not. Sighing, you count your tips for the day.

A bell chimes from the door.

“Sorry we’re closed-,” you stop your words as you see the figure illuminated by the low diner lights. 

“Is it too late for me to talk with the pretty waitress?” Mark grins, unzipping and taking off his wind breaker. You roll your eyes but your smile tells him you aren’t actually annoyed.

“The pretty waitress is covered in barbeque sauce and all purpose cleaner. Proceed?”

“Oh no, not barbeque sauce! Cancel request! Cancel Request!”

You laugh, throwing a nickel at his dramatic show. 

“Wait, give that back to me. I need every tip I can get,” you say, holding out your hand to receive the coin. Mark obediently picks it up, handing it to you as he takes a seat at the bar. You thank him, flipping through the crinkled, greasy bills from the tip jar. The creeping disappointment must have shown on your face because Mark broke the silence.

“Not a good night?” His words were careful. He understood you were under a lot of stress recently, but he didn’t have the heart to pry further and make you tell him why, which you appreciated. Mark assumed it was about Yuna or grades, but you never confided the real reason of how much your financial situation really scared you.

“Not a good…” you debate telling him everything. On one hand, you didn’t want to come off as needy or desperate. You were infamously bad at sharing your burdens with others. On the other, you wanted to tell Mark because you know he would listen and it would make you feel better. “Not a good anything,” you finally admit, setting the scraggly bills down on the clean counter between you. 

Only $26.84 for the whole night.

Mark’s soft brows were creased in concern as he waited for you to elaborate. He rested his chin on his knuckle, watching you pensate your feelings carefully. You meet his soft gaze, his eyes telling you that it’s okay. You let your shoulders relax, not even realizing the tension they were carrying.

“I…,” you start, letting out a small sigh as you walk your way around the counter to sit on the stool next to him. He spun his stool so he was sitting facing you. You pick at the mysterious stain on your apron. 

How do I even tell him about this? Hey Mark, I’m broke! I might drop out because I don’t have money for school, thus ruining everything my parents and I have worked for. 

“I guess I’m just worried,” you resolve after a minute, “I’m worried because, well, because of money”. You wince at hearing the words out loud but continue before you could take it back, “my parents are working really hard to get the money for my tuition, but things aren’t looking good for next semester”. You continue to tell him about how you’ve been picking up extra shifts to try to save up, but skating fees and money for basic necessities eats whatever you earn right up. The thought of quitting skating to save money came to your mind, but you never followed through because that was as much of a necessity as anything. A miracle occurred with the skating competition, only for some sick bastard to hurt Yuna. You asked around but everyone already had a partner or were too busy to participate in the competition. So now you could either go rob a bank or take a gap year and hope you’ll be able to return. Mark listened to your qualms quietly until you finished.

“The competition, did you ask people who aren’t on your team?,” Mark inquired, resting a reassuring hand on yours.

“Yeah, I even asked the girls on JV, but nobody wants to do it since they think they can’t win,” you confirm with a sad nod.

“That’s so dumb,” Mark stated, “you’re like, the best skater ever. Even the worst girl on JV could win if they did it with you”.

You look at him in surprise. His thumb ran comfortingly across your knuckles, sending tingles down your arm. A blush creeps onto your cheeks as you look back down at your joined hands. To be honest, you weren’t really sure what you guys were: officially, you were just friends at the moment, but anyone could see that there was something there. As of late, too much has been on your mind for you to possibly sit down and ponder it. Neither one of you has confessed feelings of any sort, but the night at the lake couldn’t just be ignored. And do normal friends hold hands like this?

“Right, tell that to them. Nobody wanted to be my partner, so yeah, I’m kind of in a pickle with tuition right now”

“Well can anyone be your partner?,” Mark asked.

“What do you mean? Like, just ask random strangers to skate with me?”

“No I mean like… I could do it”. His expression was serious, alluding that he meant every word of his ridiculous proposition.

“You could-” you stop to consider, “I mean I guess? I don’t think Coach Tanya said anything about the participants needing to be on the team… or be a girl. But there’s a big problem we’re not considering.”

“What problem?”

“You don’t know how to figure skate”. You free your hand from his and punch him lightly in the arm. 

“But I play hockey and I’ve skated all my life,” Mark bargained, pointing to himself smugly and shrugging, “how hard can it be?”

“How hard-” you wheeze. You laugh out loud as the serious boy looked on indignantly. “Figure skating is miles different from what you guys do. Y’all go, what, forwards and backwards? Can you do a jump?”.

“I can too do a jump,” Mark defended.

“Okay, what about a single axel jump?”

“Uh…”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” you giggle, grabbing the counter and spinning your stool around. Mark watches you endearingly.

“Y/n” the sound of your name stops your childish break and you look at him expectantly. “What if I practiced every day. I can learn your uh- single axis”

“Axel,” you correct.

“Axel. I can learn this axel jump and I can practice it and whatever else you need so you can do the competition”. You couldn’t tell if he was being serious, but your heart skipped a beat nonetheless.

“Deadass?” 

“Deadass,” Mark nodded. 

“Why… why…”. You struggled to find the right words.

“Because I like you,” Mark interrupted, “and I want to do this for you because it would make you happy. I’d streak across campus fully nude and screaming if it made you happy”. 

Did he just...confess?

“It would,” you nod seriously.

“It would? Which part? The competition or-”

“No, the streaking,” you shake your head, ignoring the steady increase of your heart rate. You press your lips into a flat line and nod to feign seriousness. Mark paused before getting up. He reached for the hem of his shirt, sighing before lifting it up over his head. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he sighed, reaching for his belt buckle. You shriek, shielding your eyes from his half-nude appearance. Although you didn’t want to admit it, you let your eyes linger on his lean torso through your fingers.

Damn, maybe hockey does have some benefits. 

“I was kidding! Please put your clothes back on!,” you cry. You heard him laugh as he pulled the fabric back on. 

“Okay I’m decent. I’m decent,” Mark assured, taking his seat next to you again. “But seriously, I meant what I said and you don’t have to reply until you’re ready. I completely understand if you don’t know yet. Just know that I am here for you and I,” he grabbed the edge of your stool and pulled it firmly so you were facing him, “really like you. As more than friends”.

You felt surprisingly confident; the stress of life always went away when Mark was around and you forgot all about the scattered pennies and nickels on the counter. Although his confession was so sudden, you had a feeling it was coming eventually. It didn’t feel shocking, but more like… finally. That being said, you were unsure of what to say. You weren’t sure you were ready for a relationship and most of all, you weren’t sure about your feelings for him. The last thing you wanted was to say you like him back and have it end up not being true. 

Like always, the understanding, patient look in Mark’s eyes told you that he would wait for you to reply when you’re ready.

“Okay”. You smile. 

“Okay”. He mirrors.

“Let’s do it, the competition,” you decide.

“Really?”

“Yeah, let’s give it our best shot! After all, it’s a crowd vote and your popularity might gain us favor,” you tease, poking his chest. “What time is it?”

“It’s 9:48pm, why?,” Mark replied, checking his lock screen. You hopped off your stool and began untying your apron.

“You drove here right?”. He nods. “Then there’s somewhere I wanna go if you’re willing to drive”. You shove your tips for the night into your bag. 

“You know I’m always down for you,” Mark smiled, grabbing your jacket off the rack and helping you into it. He stood in front of you and zipped you up without you asking, fixing the hood so it was proper. You watch him in silence and awe as he smooths down the wrinkles by your collar carefully and slings the strap of your bag over his shoulder without a word. It’s always these things, the little things, that leave you speechless.

The drive was pleasant. Mark put on your favorite radio channel and the two of you vibed comfortably to the acoustic music, the only interruptions were your quiet directions to the desired destination. You examined Mark’s face as he focused on the road, tipping his head back and forth to the beat with one hand on the wheel. It was dark, but the passing street lights illuminated his features in mesmerizing flashes, almost as if they were afraid to show his face for too long, the beauty would be too much to handle. His cheekbones were especially accentuated by the small smile on his lips. Looking at him made you feel… calm.

You pulled into the familiar parking lot. The blue neon lights above the building reading “Skate City” buzzed with electricity as the two of you got out of the car. 

“You wanted to come here? To a kid’s roller rink?”. Mark chuckled as he shut the driver side door. 

“Make fun of me now but you’ll see why” you rolled your eyes, walking through the building door which Mark held open for you.

The interior of the building was just like you remembered: the dark, ragged carpet was covered in colorful squiggles and dots resembling an abstract representation of worms and confetti. If that wasn’t bad enough, the matching wallpaper and UV lights topped off the hallucinogenic nightmare of a roller rink. Usually, it was also filled with the screams of children. Due to the lateness in the day, the rink was empty and usual disco funk was turned off. You would think it was closed if it weren’t for the man watching TV behind the counter.

“Mr. Joseph,” you call out with a wave. The man grunted, pulling his feet from off of the counter and shuffling through the mess of papers to find his glasses. He was an unassuming man in about his early forties, balding, pot-bellied, and proud. Nobody would guess that he was the man who taught you to skate all those years ago.

“Why, is that Miss y/n?,” Mr. Joseph exclaimed, rounding the counter to hug you.

“How have you been, Joe?”

“Well, you know me. I’m gettin’ by. Who’s this fella over here?”. Joe adjusted his specs and squinted at Mark.

“This,” you nudge the shy boy forward slightly, “is my friend, Mark. Mark, this is my family friend and former coach, Mr. Joseph. Also known as Joe,” you introduce.

The two men exchange a firm handshake.

“Nice meeting you, Mark. You treating her right?” Joe narrowed his eyes.

“Um so,” you cough, saving Mark from the awkward question, “Joe, we need skates for Mark”. 

“Wait but I already have skates, y/n-,” 

“No, you have hockey skates, Mark. You’re gonna need proper figure skates if we’re gonna do this competition right,” you explain. 

“Competition, huh,” Joe gruffed, waddling into the back room and motioning for you to follow. 

“Yeah, I don’t know if my parents told you, but Yuna was in an accident and now she can’t do the pair skate with me. Mark’s a hockey player but,” you glance at him with a smile, “he offered to pick up some skills and be my partner”.

“Here,” Joe smacked a pair of skates into Mark’s arms, “try these, boy”.

“Thank you, sir”. Mark bowed and went out to the bench to try them on.

Once he was out of sight, Joe leaned down to you, “you like this boy?”.

“Stop!,” you cry, covering your reddening ears with your hands.

“I’m just saying,” Joe held up his hands innocently, “I can tell he likes you by the way he looks at you. Even from meeting him just now”.

“Yeah… I just,” you stop to think about it. Well it’s true he likes you...

Do you like him?

You look to the door where you could see his shadow lacing up the new skates. You wish he would hurry back. Being without him felt like something was missing. Even if he was right around the corner, it didn’t feel good that you couldn’t see him and feel his reassuring presence. Realization began creeping in and you turn to look back at Joe’s I-told-you-so expression. He gave you a pat on the shoulder, “Make sure he’s good to you”.

Mark’s figure reappeared at the doorway, oblivious to your pounding heart and emotions which were becoming slowly more apparent. You watch endearingly as he stepped awkwardly into the room wearing the skates, stretching out his arms to maintain his balance. 

“I think they fit!,” Mark beamed at you, causing the butterflies in your stomach to migrate all around. 

“That’s good, boy. Take them on the house,” Joe guided him back out to take them off before he could hurt himself. 

“Oh no, sir-”

“Please, they were collecting dust in that storage room. Nobody wants men’s figure skates anymore these days and I’m glad to help y/n out” Joe dismissed. 

“Joe,” you stop him, wrapping your arms around Joe’s neck to give him a big hug, “thank you,” you whisper. 

“Of course, kiddo” he pat your back, “you make me proud”.

After chatting for a bit longer, you bid your goodbyes to Joe as he locked up Skate City for the night. In the car, you hold your breath and turn towards Mark. Strangely, your head was in the clouds as you examined his face, a face you’ve grown so familiar with in the past few weeks, yet seemed brand new. Suddenly, he leaned in close, close enough to count his pretty eyelashes, warranting your breath to hitch in your throat. Unaware of your, Mark places the box of skates in the backseat and sits up straight again to buckle his seatbelt. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Right, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.

“So, are you tired or do you wanna do some skating today?,” you finally ask.

Mark flashed you a crooked smile, starting the car, “Y/n, I’m always down for you. School rink?”.

You nod. 

The whole drive back to the school was noticeably more awkward, at least to you. You tensed  at every word he said and felt your heart clench when he hummed along to the soft radio tune. Saying nothing or giving short, one word replies, you didn’t trust your voice to say more. Instead, you opted to look out the window at the passing scenery for the fear of Mark noticing your flushed expression. You tug uncomfortably at your jacket collar, beginning to regret asking him to skate tonight. Ironically, and perhaps foolishly of you, you’ve received his confession yet you’re unwilling to admit the good news of mutual feelings to yourself. What should you do or say? Surely it’s not right to just say ‘I like you! I figured it out haha let’s date!” out of the blue. 

Pulling into the sports center parking lot, you notice the locks on the front door.

“Oh crap, I forgot it’s a weekday. The rink is closed after 11,” you mutter, slightly relieved at the thought of heading home to sort out your feelings alone. 

“Don’t worry, we can sneak in through the side door,” Mark answers nonchalantly, getting out to open the car door for you. You don’t disregard the kind gesture and instead feel the familiar pressure in your chest again. 

And sneak in you did. 

Mark had clearly done this a few times judging based on the way he led you confidently to the obscured side door which was propped slightly open with a rock.

You went your separate ways in the eerily empty stadium to your respective locker rooms. Splashing your face with cool water, you attempt to rein in your fiery flush. 

How should I bring it up? Or do I wait? He already said he likes me, but what if he didn’t mean it? 

After changing into your skates, you take a deep breath and head out to the ice.

He was already there waiting for you by the railing. Mark must have heard your footsteps approaching and he turned to give you a warm smile. 

“You’re right, y/n, these skates are kinda different”. He tapped the toe pick into the padded floor.

“Yeah… right,” you mumbled, struggling to meet his bright eyes. 

He’s so cute.

Pale moonlight streamed through the glass ceiling panels and illuminated your surroundings. Mark’s hair made his face glow silver and his eyes sparkled with the reflection of the moon. His face fell at your weak response, reading it as disinterest.

You open the gate and skate out onto the ice in front of him. Mark tentatively skated out to follow you, wobbling slightly at the different sensation. You reach out to grab his arms and steady him, meeting his gaze briefly before blinking away. You loosen your grip on his sleeves, the contact making your feelings go wild.

For a few moments, the two of you silently glided across the ice. For the first time ever, it seems, you weren’t sure what to say to him.

“Listen,” Mark finally spoke, struggling to a stop. He looked down at his skates thoughtfully, “If it’s about what I said earlier, if it’s about me liking you and that made you uncomfortable, I- I take it back. I feel like I didn’t give you a chance to say no if you wanted to-”

“No it’s-,” you interrupt, skating slightly ahead, “It’s not that”. 

“Then why are you acting so strange?,” Mark asked, struggling to keep up.

“I just,” you circle to a stop at the middle of the rink. How do you even begin to explain how you feel? Never in your life have you felt like this about anybody. Never in your life have you felt so special and so cared for than when you were with Mark. You would have been lucky enough just being able to know him, but he even likes you. Out of all of the people he could have chosen, he chose you.

Mark careened to a halt behind you, waiting for you to finish. You take a deep breath.

Now or never.

You turn around to face him. 

“What you told me in the diner, tell it to me again”. Your voice came out weaker than you had intended.

Mark’s eyebrows were furrowed in confusion and worry that you were upset with him. He wanted to pull you into a hug, tuck that piece of hair back behind your ear and tell you it’s okay if you didn’t love him back.

“I-,” Mark cleared his throat from his emotions, “I said that I like you, y/n. I like you as more than friends”. He looked down towards his feet but before he could blink, he was crushed in between your arms as you jumped to hug him. Your face fit perfectly into the crook of his neck and you breathed in his familiar, warm scent as he wrapped his arms delicately around your waist. The force from your impact caused both of you to drift slightly, but you kept steady. Not brave enough to look him in the face, you whisper your confession to his ear.

“I’m ready to answer you. I… I like you too. As more than friends”

Mark’s grip tightened around your waist as he lifted you slightly off the ice. Spinning around, he curled his fingers into the fabric of your sweatshirt as if he never wanted to let you go. Your heart swelled at the feeling as you held onto his sturdy shoulders. Neither of you needed to say anything more. He pulled you close so there was no space left and you listened to the gentle rhythm of his heart beating for you.

Pulling away at last, you rest your forehead against his. Your eyes fluttered closed but you could feel the tip of his nose brush gently across yours, his warm exhalation fanning across your lips. 

“You don’t happen to have your phone on you, do you?” Mark mumbled deeply, savoring the moment.

You let out a small giggle, “no, do you?”.

“Nope”

And with that, you tilted your head up ever so slightly and Mark cupped your cheek to bring your lips together. You melt into his kiss and touch, allowing the way his soft lips moved against yours to express his silent affections. Exhaling through your nose, you sigh into the kiss, moving your hand to rest at the back of his head to pull him in deeper.

Finally.

Mark ran his thumb affectionately across your cheek, his lips speaking of all the times he’s wanted to do this. Your fingers lace their way through his soft hair, loving the way he reacts as you tug against the strands slightly. 

A loud bang from a closing door causes you to pull apart finally. The bright beam of the security guard’s flashlight flashes across the ice as the two of you look on like deer caught in headlights. 

“Hey, you two! Get out of there!,” the guard shouted, pointing a finger at your embracing form.

“Run!,” you whisper yell, pulling him quickly towards the gate. The two of you run as quickly as you can in your skates, pulling them off before you enter the hallway. 

“Hey! Stop right there!,” the guard yelled, stumbling down the stadium stairs.

“Quick! In here!” Mark tugged you into the boys locker room, shutting the door before the guard could see and ushering you quickly to hide in the gap between two lockers. You squeezed in with him, panting softly as the adrenaline pumped through your body. Mark’s arms wrap around your body to pull you closer as the guard opens the door. The flashlight flicked menacingly across the dark room. You hold your breath as it comes particularly close. Finally, seconds that feel like hours pass and the security guard grunts before deciding to move on. You exhale in relief. 

Mark rests his chin on top of your head and you realize how closely you’re pressed together. You giggle into his chest, loving how warm he felt. 

“I can’t believe that I get to hold you,” Mark whispers. His fingers draw invisible shapes across your back.

You nuzzle your face into his tee shirt. “Well I can’t believe we’re doing this in the boy’s locker room after being chased down by security,” you mumble against the fabric. His chest sounded a low vibration as he chuckled back, moving his hand up to stroke your hair. 

“You are so, so beautiful, y/n,” he moves to kiss the top of your head, “I don’t know the words to express how beautiful you are to me”. 

You press deeper into his body at the words you’ve always wanted to hear. Lifting your face up from his chest, you press a small kiss to his lips, heart jumping at the still-new sensation. It was sweet, his lips ghosting over yours breathlessly as you nestle your nose gently against his in a slow eskimo kiss. 

“I’ve liked you for so long,” Mark whispers in between kisses, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long”.

You answer by gripping the fabric of his collar to pull him in deeper, moving your lips rhythmically against his. 

“I think I’ve liked you for a while too,” you admit as you catch your breath, “I just didn’t understand it. Or some part of me wasn’t ready to admit it”.

“That makes sense” Mark rests his forehead on yours, smiling, “I would have waited a thousand years if that’s what you needed”.

Again and again, he captivated you with his words. He was so good to you and never made you feel like you were anything less than perfect. Day after day, his patience with you never faded and slowly, you let him break down your walls. His comforting smile and optimism always filled you with reassurance and peace. 

So standing there, making out in the boy’s locker room, illegally, in the dead of night on a Tuesday, you became sure. You were sure that you wanted him in your life. You were sure you wanted to try to be a part of his. As you pressed your lips to his and as he ran his fingers through your hair, there was no turning back.

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[sezja]

Sleeptalker, Part 5 [End]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Ship: Guydelot/Sanson

It took altogether too long to write and submit his report on their most recent mission - successful, by all accounts, though Sanson had struggled mightily with his conscience on precisely how much detail he ought to include regarding some of the more brazen choices the members of his unit made, including Okhi and Guydelot’s creative attempts at what a more tightly-calibrated moral compass might call extortion. But the report is written, lies by omission and all, and after too long on the road, Sanson is more than pleased to return home at last. Well after nightfall, with the moon riding high overhead, full and bright in a clear sky.

He should be grateful the mission turned out as well as it did, he knows; no casualties, few injuries. Sanson touches his own lip, split and bruised: one of the worst injuries they’d sustained, and that from an ambush! All things considered, he realizes, things did turn out remarkably well, and he owes much of that - as usual - to Guydelot.

It will be good to be home again.

He’s unsurprised to find the house dark… but he is surprised to find Guydelot’s boots already by the door; ‘twas far more common for Guydelot to celebrate a successful mission by joining the others at a tavern for the evening, and though it’s late, it’s far too early for him to retire. Frowning, Sanson sheds his own boots and the gloves, coat, and hat that mark him as a Serpent Captain, wandering toward the bedroom.

Asleep already?

Painted by the moonlight spilling through the open window, limned in silver, Guydelot is a sight to behold, and Sanson leans in the doorway a moment, simply admiring the view. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a bard’s poetic tongue, the better to capture in words what a rare and special creature Guydelot is: even with his hair as ruffled as a bird’s nest, even snoring quietly, even sprawled like an awkward colt across the bedsheets, Sanson finds him beautiful. More beautiful still when Sanson notices Guydelot’s fingers moving: not merely twitching, no, but familiar - he knows those movements, from watching the bard play his harp hundreds of times. Sanson has heard him sing in his sleep before, as well. Even in sleep, Guydelot reaches for song.

How in the world had Sanson Smyth, no particularly grand romantic, stumbled into love with someone like this? His heart aches, in the best way - he’d never particularly thought himself capable of tenderness, but rooted to the spot, his throat tight, he cannot feel anything else. His conflicted feelings about their mission, even the pain of his lip; none of it mattered. Those were concerns for the outside world, not here, not their quiet little sanctuary.

Sanson lets them go, and lets himself revel in his own fortune, instead.

How did I manage to get so lucky?

With a drowsy murmur, Guydelot’s eyes open, bright in the moonlight. They settle on Sanson in the doorway, as surely as though he’d called the man’s name, and Guydelot’s lips curl into that familiar slow half-smirk that always makes Sanson’s heart stutter.

“Look at you,” Guydelot says, his voice hoarse with sleep. “How’d I luck into you, eh?”

“I was just thinking much the same thing.”

The smirk becomes a grin. “What, about how I got so lucky? Smug bastard.”

Sanson sighs in rueful affection, pushing away from the doorway and peeling off the rest of his clothes. Though he’d like a bath, he suddenly realizes he’d like Guydelot a good deal more, and too much time on the road without much time alone together…

“There you are.” Guydelot reaches out a hand and Sanson takes it gladly, letting himself be drawn down to the bed and the familiar warmth of Guydelot’s embrace. “What kept you so late?”

“What sent you to bed so early?” Sanson counters, tracing idle patterns on Guydelot’s bare chest with his fingertips. “I’d have expected you to be out for hours yet.”

Guydelot catches his wandering fingers, pressing them briefly to his lips. “Might be I was tired?”

“Mayhap.” And mayhap he’d simply wanted to be home alone with Sanson after weeks on the road, behaving themselves because they were on duty, and had a certain responsibility. Sanson suspects he knows the feeling. The taverns will wait. This hunger is more urgent, though gentle.

That smile resurfaces, and Guydelot releases Sanson’s fingers to trace the curve of his cheek instead, resting his thumb gently on Sanson’s injured lip. “How bad’s that hurt, anyway, Chief?”

Sanson pulls him in. “Best we find out.”

The first kiss is gentle, careful, almost chaste. Almost, if not for the heat in Guydelot’s eyes, and the way Sanson’s heart leaps when their lips meet. The second kiss is hungrier - and he jerks, hissing in pain. But when Guydelot goes to draw back, concerned, Sanson holds him in place, hands firm on the back of his neck.

“It just stings,” he breathes. “Don’t stop.”

Guydelot grins against his lips. “Yes sir.”

[alyssaallyrion]

Truth. (Iruka x Kakashi)

Rating: T

Summary: In which an accident on a mission forces Kakashi to admit his true feelings to Iruka.

A/N: Written for KakaIru Month ( @kakairu-fest ) Day 6 & Day 12 Prompts: Flowers & Hospitals.

ao3 link

When the village finally emerges on the horizon, Kakashi lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Pulsating pain from the injury to his right side makes it hard to breathe, but Kakashi tries to ignore it – he doesn’t want to worry Tenzo more than he already has.

“Is your wound feeling worse, senpai?” Tenzo asks, making Kakashi wonder if he has gotten worse at pretending over the years or if Tenzo grew more attentive.

I’m feeling much better, Kakashi wants to lie.

“I think it’s gotten worse,” he says instead, barely able to suppress a frustrated sigh.

Of course, his rotten luck would have him encounter Truth Flowers while on the mission. 

Their assignment in Hyougagakure was supposed to be a simple elimination mission, and all was going well until one of the targets tried to get away. Kakashi pursued the man deep into the village, following him into a strange greenhouse-like building. Inside, there was a myriad of flowers with crystal-clear petals, filling the air with sweet scent and low humming melody.

Kakashi knew that something was wrong – the moment he breathed in the scent of the flowers and heard the low hum emanating from the petals, his mind went hazy. There was no time to dwell upon it, however – the other shinobi attacked, and Kakashi had to fight. He prevailed – but not before sustaining a nasty kunai injury just below the ribs on his right side.

“Senpai, are you ok?” Tenzo asked him, worried, once Kakashi emerged from the greenhouse.

Kakashi was never the one to complain about injuries – and he didn’t want Tenzo to be concerned.

I’m fine,he was prepared to say.

“This stab wound hurts really bad and makes it hard to breathe,” fell from his lips instead.

Kakashi paused, confused. Why did he say that?

“We should get out of here quickly before the patrol returns,” Tenzo frowned, eyes full of concern, “And tend to your wounds.”

Kakashi nodded, pushing the question out of his mind and blaming his sudden bout of candidness upon the adrenaline from the battle and the pain from the injury.

By nightfall, he’d almost forgotten about the incident when his tongue betrayed him again – this time by letting Tenzo know that the soup he had cooked for dinner was unbearably salty. A cold, sinking feeling in the pit of Kakashi’s stomach told him that it wasn’t a coincidence, and still, he tried pushing the thoughts away.

I’m just tired, Kakashi told himself, I should be all better by the morning.

Tenzo took the first watch, letting Kakashi rest. When he finally managed to fall asleep, he was haunted by dreams of darkness, disturbing and strange, filling him with the sense of frazzled terror. Kakashi woke up long before the sunrise, panting and sweating and utterly overwhelmed by suffocating anxiety. Putting his vest on made the pain under his ribs radiate towards his right shoulder, but Kakashi didn’t care. He couldn’t be in this dark tent anymore – he needed to be outside.

“You don’t look so good, senpai,” Tenzo glanced up at Kakashi from his place by the campfire, “Is the wound preventing you from sleeping?”

“I was having nightmares,” the moment the words left Kakashi’s mouth, he knew for certain that something was wrong – he’d never admitted to having nightmares to anyone, and that fact wasn’t lost on Tenzo.

“Is…is everything ok?” Tenzo started carefully, looking Kakashi in the face, “You have been much more…candid with your insights today.”

Kakashi wanted to lie, to say that he was just tired and in pain, but he knew before he opened his mouth that his tongue would betray him. This time, he didn’t try to fight it.

“I think there was something wrong with the flowers in that greenhouse,” he said, “Ever since I walked in there, I can’t stop myself from saying what I’m thinking. Even when I want to lie, only truth comes out.”

The look on Tenzo’s face was equal parts concerned and amused.

“I think I’ve heard of flowers like that,” he replied after a brief pause, “It’s called Truth Flower, if I’m not mistaken, and works a lot like truth serum.”

A shiver ran down Kakashi’s spine at Tenzo’s words. Wonderful.

“And is there any antidote?” Kakashi asked.

“Not that I remember,” Tenzo shrugged, “I’m pretty sure its effects last only a few days, so you should be able to wait it out.”

Kakashi could barely suppress a sigh. Just what he needed.

Tenzo was a better man than most – on their way back to Konoha, he had barely spoken to Kakashi, lest an accidental question makes Kakashi reveal something he didn’t want to tell. Kakashi knew he owed him one for the consideration he had shown.

“If the wound’s gotten worse, you should go to the hospital,” Tenzo’s voice drags Kakashi out of his thoughts, “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No,” Kakashi replies, “You must go to the Hokage with the report right away.”

Tenzo gives Kakashi a hesitant look.

“Go,” Kakashi repeats, “I can take care of myself.”

He has no plans of going to the hospital, but what he says isn’t exactly a lie, and Tenzo seems satisfied with the response.

“Very well,” Tenzo nods, “I’ll come to see you at the hospital as soon as I’m done with the report.”

With that, Tenzo flickers away, leaving Kakashi to walk the remaining short distance to the village gates by himself. Pain under Kakashi’s ribs radiates through his right side, and all he can think of is the moment he will fall into his bed and sleep for hours on end. Or at least, for as long as is necessary for the effects of this flower to wear off. Distantly, Kakashi remembers that he didn’t close the window in his bedroom and hopes that it hasn’t rained – if it has, his entire bed is likely wet, and changing the bedding is far beyond his strength at the moment.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Kakashi doesn’t notice how he reaches the gate – until his eyes catch the sight of a familiar silhouette. Kakashi’s heart skips a beat – he sees Iruka sitting on one of the benches just by the gate. Warmth rises in his chest, and his heart flutters, as he almost believes for a single moment that Iruka’s waiting for him.

Bitter smile blooms on Kakashi’s lips. Of course he isn’t.

Kakashi would be utterly delusional to think otherwise – after all, Iruka had no idea about his feelings, about Kakashi’s desperate dream that they could grow old together. And even if he did, what good would it do? Kakashi is damaged and broken way beyond measure, and Iruka deserves much better.

He realizes that he should walk away – given the impact of the flower, it’s dangerous for him to be around Iruka, lest the truth slip out - but it’s too late.

“Kakashi-san,” Iruka calls out, standing up from his seat.  

“Iruka-sensei,” Kakashi says softly as he approaches Iruka.  

The bright smile on Iruka’s face makes Kakashi almost forget about the pain in his side.

“You are back already?” there’s a slight surprise in Iruka’s voice, making Kakashi wonder if he knew what kind of mission he and Tenzo were sent on, “I hope your mission went well.”

“It did,” Kakashi nods before adding, “Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes,” Iruka smiles, “Naruto should be back soon, and I was hoping to take him out for ramen.”

The words hurt more than they should – Kakashi knows, of course, that Iruka wasn’t waiting for him, but for a moment, it was nice to pretend.

“I see,” he says, simply. A sudden jolt of pain shoots through Kakashi’s right side, making him double over.

“Kakashi-san,” Iruka’s next to him immediately, hands-on Kakashi’s shoulders, steadying him, “Are you hurt?”

Kakashi doesn’t want to answer – the last thing he needs right now is to make Iruka worried, but he cannot stop the words escaping his lips.

“I got stabbed on a mission,” Kakashi explains, wincing as another wave of pain spreads through his body, “And the wound won’t stop bleeding.”

“You need to get to the hospital,” Iruka frowns, “Here, let me help you.”

“I can walk,” Kakashi replies, more curtly than he intends, “And I wasn’t planning on going to the hospital. I’ll deal with this myself.”

An angry, incredulous look crosses Iruka’s features.

“You can’t be serious,” Iruka exclaims, “You’ve been bleeding for days. You need to see a doctor.”

“I can take care of myself,” Kakashi protests, feeling lightheaded. He doesn’t want to argue with Iruka, but there is no getting away, it seems – he doesn’t have the chakra to flicker away, and he’s pretty sure that Iruka’s hands on his shoulders are the only thing stopping him from falling over.

“Can you?” Iruka asks, his voice suddenly almost dripping with venom, “Because Naruto tells me you end up in the hospital after half your missions precisely because you don’t take care of yourself.”

“And why does that matter to you?” Kakashi almost spits out, feeling hot anger rise in his chest, “We aren’t even friends.”

Iruka has always been politely distant with Kakashi – what gave him the idea that he could scold Kakashi like he was one of his students?

Iruka looks at him, speechless, and, for a moment, Kakashi almost believes that he will drop the issue so they could both move on with their day. And then Iruka shakes his head, and a strange, unfamiliar expression crosses his features.

“Why does it matter to me?” Iruka repeats slowly, looking Kakashi straight in the eye, “You know, I ask myself the same question all the time, and the only answer that I’ve come up with thus far is that I must be an absolute fool for falling in love with Konoha’s most reckless jonin. You are all reckless, of course, but you, specifically, I swear…I wish I was less of an idiot and could simply not care about you, but I can’t.”

Kakashi’s head spins, and the sound of his own heartbeat threatens to drown him. He can hardly believe his ears - Iruka is in love with him?It feels too much like a fantasy, but Iruka’s hands on his shoulders are steady and warm, and Kakashi knows that it’s not a dream. Iruka’s staring him straight in the face – still incensed and flushed with anger – and there’s nothing Kakashi wants more at that moment than to kiss him.

His mind’s racing as he tries to stop the inevitable, tries to prevent the fateful words from escaping his lips - after all, Iruka deserves so much more than he could ever offer - but the Truth Flower is merciless.

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” Kakashi breathes out.

Anger and color both drain from Iruka’s face, and he’s staring at Kakashi wide-eyed. There is a pit at the bottom of Kakashi’s stomach, and his heart drops, but there is no taking back his words. Whoever said that sharing a secret makes one feel better was a liar, he thinks, a wave of suffocating anxiety washing over him as silence stretches.

“What did you say?” Iruka finally asks, voice no louder than a whisper.

“I said I’m in love with you,” Kakashi repeats, “And have been for years.”

“What…what brought about this sudden bout of honesty?” Iruka narrows his eyes, looking at him suspiciously.  

Kakashi hardly wants to recount what happened on the mission, but his tongue betrays him yet again.

“I’ve run into a greenhouse full of Truth Flowers,” he explains, “And now I cannot lie, at least for a while.”

Iruka looks at him for a long moment – and then something shifts in his face, and a small smile appears on his lips.

“Oh,” is all Iruka can manage.

Another jolt of sharp pain through Kakashi’s side makes him almost fall, but Iruka holds him up.

“Well,” Iruka laughs awkwardly, “Now that we’ve gotten the confessions out of the way, we need to take you to the hospital.”

Kakashi doesn’t want to go – now that he knows Iruka loves him back, there’s nothing he wants more than to stay by his side, so he tries to argue.

“Naruto told me you’ve had some medical training,” Kakashi says, leaning against Iruka’s side for support, “So maybe you could help me, and there would be no need to go to the hospital.”

“Trying to use my feelings against me already?” Iruka chuckles, “But it won’t work – we are going to the hospital so that your wound can get treated properly.”

Kakashi hardly has the energy to argue, so he lets Iruka lead him away from the village gates towards the hospital. Feeling Iruka’s warm, steady presence against his side almost makes Kakashi forget about the burning pain under his ribs. The moment they enter the hospital, however, Kakashi feels completely lightheaded, and all his remaining strength is gone as the room spins around him. He wants to ask Iruka to stay by his side, but no words leave his lips before he sinks into the darkness.

When Kakashi opens his eyes, he’s lying in the hospital bed. Bright light streams into the room through the half-open window, and he knows that he must have been unconscious for at least a day. As he glances around, warmth rises in Kakashi’s chest – Iruka’s sitting on a chair next to his bed, looking exhausted yet relieved.

“How long was I out?” Kakashi asks, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Two days,” Iruka tells him, “Your wound has gotten infected, and you needed emergency surgery – but the doctor said you should be all better now.”

Kakashi takes a deep breath and nods.

“Also,” Iruka continues, leaning slightly closer, “The effects of the Truth Flower should have worn off by now.”

Kakashi raises an eyebrow, confused. Iruka’s right, he can feel it, but how would he know that?

It seems Iruka understands him without words.

“I’ve done my research,” Iruka shrugs, lifting up the book that’s resting in his lap.

“I see,” Kakashi murmurs.

Silence falls upon. Kakashi wonders if he should pretend that their conversation at that gate has never happened – after all, Iruka deserved much better than the likes of him. But he’s always been weak and selfish, and he’s yearned for this for so long that he cannot stop himself.

“So…” Kakashi starts carefully, his heart racing in his chest, “What does that mean for us?”

By the look on Iruka’s face, it’s clear that he knows precisely what Kakashi’s referring to – their love confessions.

“I don’t know, Kakashi,” Iruka says after a brief pause, and Kakashi’s heart drops – until Iruka reaches out and takes his hand, “But I think we could figure it out – together if that’s what you want.”

Kakashi can hardly stop himself from smiling as he gently squeezes Iruka’s fingers – there is nothing he wants more than what Iruka’s offering. It still feels so surreal that the object of his secret, desperate pining, returns his feeling, but Kakashi knows he’d be a fool to complain. And, though a man like him has no right to be as happy as he is at the moment, now that he has felt this happiness, he’ll never let go of it. Not if he can help it.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Kakashi says softly.

Perhaps they will grow old together, after all.

[pansypr3p]

Concept:

(Before season finale (goldifying) but after the big mega bunny-explosion thing)

The Mod Frogs are short on food because of Scarlemange taking food for his coronation. Harris is considered a low-ranking frog due to Jamack’s exile, and others (besides Kwat, of course) don’t care for him because of this and his combined unusual appearance, so he is given a very small, non-sustainable ration amount.

So, Harris eventually gets desperate enough to try and steal food, and gets caught. This gathers a crowd, and eventually Kwat comes out to see what the ruckus is. Kwat sees Harris cornered, without Mrs. Sartori or any other authority figures in sight, and so Kwat backs him up.

Unfortunately, this only gets the both of them exiled. To add injury to insult, the group of frogs, meant to shadow them as they leave in order to make sure they actually leave, end up attacking them to try and steal their meager items. Kwat manages to get out of the fight relatively intact, having had a larger ration amount and as such, being stronger, but Harris is pretty heavily injured, having been mildly dehydrated, and hungry. The bruises littering his unusually pale skin were much larger than they really should have been, his eye was partially swollen, and the large gash on his arm was slightly inflamed, which was concerning.

Tie already cut, and his suit now in tatters, it broke all illusions of still being a Mod Frog. Harris hadn’t even bothered even trying to button his suit back up, he knew it was useless. He just discarded the external suit jacket, and tore his already ravaged sleeves all the way off so they could be used as bandaging for his wounds. His colorful arms were now showing clearly now, which was certainly a shocking act, considering all of his… hang-ups about them.

Kwat did the same, throwing aside her suit jacket and rolling up her sleeves. She looked more intimidating this way- her undershirt showed off her muscular frame well, and she knew it.

They traveled aimlessly for a short while, before deciding, albeit a bit hopelessly, to try and find Jamack. So, they set out to search for clues and information on where Jamack is. It takes a month or so of traveling through Las Vistas and other nearby parts of the wasteland, and way too many deals and��� favors, but eventually they figure out he’s in Timbercat Village.

Luckily, since they’re relatively near the Timbercat Forest, it only takes another half month or so of traveling to get there. Unfortunately, they’re in the driest area near Las Vistas, and even less fortunately the half-month they travel is full of small but nonetheless harmful skirmishes, and the two combined work to worsen Harris’ already poor condition.

Kwat grows increasingly worried as Harris seems to get more and more tired, more and more quiet, but whenever she brings it up he simply shrugs it off, until one day, after a particularly harsh battle with some of the Umlaut Snake gang, Kwat suggests they stop and rest for the night, and Harris snaps. “No! We will not stop until we reach Jamack, we cannot afford to! Don’t you dare forget about what we’ve gone through to get here! What I had to do to get us here!” He yelled, throwing his hands up and tossing his spiked bat on the ground. He turns away from her, and crouches on the ground, hands on his face, “We- we need to reach Jamack as soon as possible, Kwat- I… Kwat… I don't think I… I don’t think I- I’ll make it much longer l-ike this,” He drags one hand down his face, voice breaking, and Kwat can see the shine of his tears in the last rays of the yellow-orange sunset.

They had become... closer, in the time they traveled together, and so Kwat felt she could get away with comforting him as he was currently. She approached him, and sat down beside him. She draped her arm across his slim shoulders, and pulled him closer. He leaned into her, and let out a strangled croak of distress. She spoke quietly, “Harris, we need to rest. I’m sorry about… what we had to do get here, I- I’m sorry that was ever necessary. I can’t fix that for you, Harris, hell. I can’t even fix it for- for m-myself,” She let out a strangled laugh, and Harris looked up at her sympathetically, “Just.. know I’m here for you. We’re in this shithole together. And… Look, you need food, and we both need water and sleep. Let’s just set up camp here, and I’ll go see if I can find anything in those stores we saw earlier. Okay?”

Harris takes a deep breath, and nods shakily, “O-okay. I… I can do that. Thanks for.. that. I.. Try not to get into any trouble, Kwat. Just…please stay safe. I.. I need you here with me,” His voice got quieter as he spoke, and remained shaky, but it still brought a small, sad smile to Kwat's face. She nodded to him, and grabbed her bag before getting up to travel back in the direction of the small town they passed earlier.

Harris focused on getting their, albeit limited, supplies out and set up, ready for when Kwat was back, which wasn’t for another hour and a half. When she did finally return, it was thankfully with a day or two's worth of food, a small sum of water, and the metaphorical holy grail, medical supplies.

Not just any medical supplies either, but pain killers and vaseline, which could be mixed and applied to their skin so they could easily absorb it. Kwat helped prepare and apply it, which was… a bit awkward, considering that his injuries were virtually everywhere on his body, but nonetheless it helped, immensely so. After they were done with that, they snacked on some of the food, and Kwat insisted Harris take the majority of the water despite being almost as dehydrated as he was. Kwat took first watch, of course, and Harris slept.. reasonably peacefully, bearing in mind what he’d been through.

After another few days of traveling, they come across their worst fight yet. They had been raiding a small apartment building that turns out to belong to the Humming Bombers. Harris manages to pack up a fair amount of stuff and run while Kwat holds them off, but this results in Kwat obtaining a substantial burn injury on her abdomen from one of the nectar bomb blasts. Now, with both of them having potentially lethal injuries, their only hope is to make it to the Timbercat Village before something terrible happens.

Finally, they make it to Timbercat Village. After weeks of traveling with injuries, having to scavenge for even a little food, they make it to their destination. They manage to limp their way to the entrance of the Main Hall, where Jamack comes out to see what the ruckus is about.

Harris passes out nearly immediately.

He manages to croak out weakly, fallen, hands and knees on the ground, “Jamack…I-I’m sorry for what we did, f-f-for what I did.. but I…I j-just… hnngh,” he groans, arms buckling and giving out, he continues in a raspy whisper, “Help us… a-at least help her… sh-she deserves it… please, Jamack… p-please,” before he completely passes out.

Kwat falls with him, sitting next to his prone body, breath shallow. She presses a hand to her chest wound, and hisses out a strangled “F-fuck,” Trying, and very nearly failing, to contain a pained croak. Jamack is still standing in the entrance, mouth agape, trying to find his words.

“Kwat, what… what happened? I.. I thought…” he trailed off, as Kwat chuckled, and then coughed. She put a hand to her mouth as she coughed, and it came away stained with red. Jamack gave a small gasp, followed by an aborted move to try and put a hand on her.

“There’s a food shortage back ho- back at The Pond. We- Harris needed more food. We got caught, and… and we paid the price for it,” she looks away from him. “We’ve been on the road for about a month and a half, now. Harris.. Harris isn’t doing well, Jamack, I know…” Her breathing stutters and Jamack rushes forwards and sets his hand on her shoulder before jerking it back, as if burned.

She continues, “I know we didn’t help you, when you were… exiled, but, please Jamack. If you really want us gone… well. You know what to do if you- you really want us gone. I.. I wouldn’t blame you. But, please, just let us rest here for a day or two. We haven’t made camp in days, a-and-“ A coughing fit overtakes her for a moment, before she continues, raspier and quieter than before, “I don’t think he’ll make it much longer, Jamack. He.. he’s not good. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll make it much longer,” she looks at her blood stained hand, “I don’t think I will. So, wh-hat do you say, Jamack, for… for old times sake?”

She looks at him, staring right into what feels like the very center of his being.

He shakes his head, trying to wrap his mind around this. Misinterpreting this as a ‘No’, Kwat very nearly starts crying, letting out a small croak.

Jamack rushes to correct her, lifting his hands up towards her “No- no, not like that, I- I mean, yes, of course, you can stay- please stay, let me take care of you, let me help you, you- you’ve always been my family, you’re so important to me, Kwat, I- I’ll never stop wanting you and Harris near me, just- just stay with me, please,” his hands relocate themselves, one ending up on his leg, the other on his face.

Kwat lets go, and tears stream down her face silently. She laughs, swears to herself that this is fake, we could never get this lucky- except for this is real, she’s always known Jamack was emotional, she just thought his ability to hold grudges would hold out more.. more than his love for them. She was sure it was love, from the look in his eyes to knowing what he was feeling, she felt the same. They were family. They always had been, since when they were tadpoles.

She hesitantly holds her arms out, and Jamack practically dives in, careful to avoid her injury. Kwat’s hugs are the best.

[amxwolf]

Here is why conventional healthful-thinking is not working on Millennials.

Have you ever had that terrifying dream where you are stuck in a dark forest or sketchy alley, frantically running for your life from some kind of feral monster or mad man? Most of us can personally recall at least once being roused from sleep in a cold sweat because their brain had spent the last few hours perfecting the latent image of a made-to-order nightmare. While that experience is certainly not exclusive to Millennials (rather quite the opposite), the waking reaction or at least how it is processed later by this roughly categorized group of mislabeled people is unique to say the least.

For years now, people in marketing have been fervently dissecting and attempting to recreate what has been loosely categorized as "Millennial Humor". And in all of their efforts to connect with this flock of black sheep, the grand majority of them seem to be missing a key factor in the psychology at work here. For all the unwarrantable bilge that modern advertising haphazardly cobbles together, only a small percentage of the nonsense is seasoned perfectly with the secret ingredient. What is this singular spice? Well, while indulgent to profess and speculative, from someone "sitting in millennial class”, it's obvious: A touch of salt.

Never will I sit here and cry to the general public about how unhappy I am that the modern advertising industry is just not scratching my itch for the wares it’s peddling, but I think it's important for us now to look at how this systemic lack of understanding is reaching beyond the world of subliminal profiteering. Society has other significant quality-of-life effecting systems that are also missing the mark when trying to aim and reach out to help this specific group of people. Puns aside, "a touch of salt" as I quipped, is flavoring the lives of a lot of people in their mid to late 20's and early 40's. And the most frustrating and difficult to reconcile attempts that I personally have made to better myself, have been those that were guided by people who just cannot seem to put their brain into that salty head space.

For example, trying to focus on and internalize a well-organized medical presentation about the encompassing negative effects of stress or insomnia and its seemly simple solution of just "changing your thinking", is about as easily digestible as a two-decade-year-old fruitcake for someone who is imprisoned daily by the symptoms of chronic stress. While I may sit there and give listening (ironically) "the old college try", the sound quickly turns to fuzzy white noise the deeper the lecture dives into positive thinking.

You see, Millennials are not generally fluent in positive thinking. More and more of them seem to be speaking a very distinctive dialect of realism, which incorporates a robustly cultivated sense of sarcasm and a somewhat grim shade of hopelessness. A lot of millennials grew up with a laughably poetic twist on "Growing Up" and "Being Successful", which in turn has colored their day-to-day interactions and created this defeatism-culture. Millennials will openly joke about their death as a needed release, their eulogy as a retirement card, or emotionally decompile themselves over something simple like saying "you too" in a situation that doesn't warrant it.

A good percentage of Millennials were old enough to understand the destructive consequences of the most recent housing market disaster on a very personal level; At an impressionable age, watching their own parents, who may have worked excruciatingly hard at the expense of any number of personal or family goals, lose just about everything resonated in a way that cannot be unheard. Then add the borderline criminal and unscrupulous "sheep-shearing" that became common place when the generation was herded off to college, trade school, or other form of career-building education. Not to mention the fact that upon completing said programs, a proverbial "step-in-the-right direction", a substantial number of these "hopeless wanderers" were faced with yet another barbed-wire hurdle when the job market in countless fields were oversaturated with potential employees. Many positions had not been vacated as they normally would have been with the age of retirement being stretched further and further down the road due to increased cost of living and financial demands; the finish line or lap marker was just not getting any closer. To add insult to injury, Millennials, sometimes unbelievably hardworking, are frequently being listed as perpetuators of the clashing reality we have today. This being what the modern media is calling "The Great Resignation"; a dubious combination of a labor shortage amidst an unemployment spike fueled by uncompetitive wages left unchecked, the government's inability to reel in the situation, and a general devaluing of laborers overall.

Oh. And also, we were killing the diamond industry at the same time. Or was it simultaneously the marriage and divorce industry? Wait! I think it was cinema? Or no....maybe it was fabric softener. For a complete dissertation of all the things Millennials brutally murdered over the last two decades, perhaps I'll include a link below if for no other reason to drive my point home.

You have this group of people who are conditioned to endlessly swimming upstream, against the current, with nothing but chastising and bitterness to listen to. So, when it comes to something universal like learning to "sleep better" or "problem solving", the indifferent but somehow time-honored approach of saying "it's as easy as just taking control" is over time if not immediately rejected as dissonant information.

These people don't feel like they have control; some of them feel like they never had any to begin with.

Why is this a problem?

Our society is not developing a taste for "salt" at a pace in which it can prepare social-sustenance for its population. We're not getting any younger, and neither are the generations in front of us.

Millennials are already, by some definitions the mass-population of workers, voters, and other titles that we've yet to embrace. And our lack of interest is not because we do not have a passion for positive change (even on a global scale). Millennials have voiced over time that they feel they are the silent majority amidst a group of people who will not give them breathing room and don't respect the validity of their opinions and ambitions. And it is by no means restricted to one region or country on this planet. This is a global phenomenon.

I could spin a vast yarn about the political ramifications of continuing to exclude the Millennials from the metaphoric Counsel of Elders, but I'm more concerned about the neglect that is spreading elsewhere. We need our leaders in the medical and social fields to really respect and dig deep into how to incorporate "Millennial Thinking" into their treatment and development plans. A large amount of the global population is going to need carefully tailored treatment for things as old as depression, bi-polar tendencies, or schizophrenia as well as newly discovered mental encumbrances like imposter-syndrome.

While “positive-thinking” may have been easily cultivated in the past, we may need to start from a more negative approach and build from there to educate and treat a group of down-on-their-luck millions. Pumping drugs into a populace is not going to permanently patch the leak either, so there truly is precedence for a rehashing of how we should prioritize mental health in modern society.

Stop spending so much time and energy assigning blame to modern technologies and social norms. Are these going away? No? In that case, those things are much like our other daily stresses that are unavoidable. Yes, you can change your nightly routine to de-stress the same way that you can change a job or a daily commute, but there needs to be a fundamental shift in accountability divvied to circumstances out of a person's control rather than scolding them for not being able to manage it.

Do I have all the answers? No.

But this was less about offering a solid a solution and more about opening a dialogue. A starting point.

So yeah. I've had that dream of being chased through the woods by a life-leeching alien. It felt very similar to being sucked dry of my pitiful wages for an education that was at the time, barely panning out. Even now, as a 32-year-old, slightly more successful version of the starving student I've become, I still feel as though my rat race will end when my heart gives out; and all I can hope for is enough money when I drop to cover the ambulance ride to the over-crowded emergency room and a large pit to rot in. But I just hope that the generation behind me has the benefit of a system that understands how to create and sustain “Millennial Inspired” social structures that will allow them to flourish in what little we can leave behind for them.

Also, could you pass the salt?

[skvaderarts]

Hiraeth Chapter 39: Sleeplessness

Masterlist can be found Here!

Chapter Thirty-Nine:

Notes: And it’s on time today! I didn’t oversleep! YES! Let’s go!

(-~-)

Although largely unnecessary, no one had thought to inform them of just how early everyone in the manor rose from their slumber in the morning. And that was if they had actually gone to sleep the evening before. It was entirely possible from what little they had come to understand about the Ludwig family that they might not be the kind to sleep in the evening, instead choosing to stay up and practice… whatever it was that they practiced. They had somehow managed to dance around the topic altogether while still giving them a basic overview. It was enough to make one wonder if they were worried about judgment should they actually reveal their secret, or perhaps they studied so many things that they simply didn’t know where to start? Who was to say but them?

Breakfast was served at 6:30 sharp for some reason, although they were all informed that it would continue until 10 am for the mercy of those unable to pull themselves from the grave that early. A fortunate thing indeed considering the fact that as comfortable as the beds had been in their individual suites that none of them had wanted to. But despite that, Nero had forced himself to get up and go to the dining room once he'd been informed of the starting time. He couldn’t say that he’d ever been awoken at 5 in the morning to be invited to eat by literally anyone before, but if the smell that he had been greeted with upon waking up was anything to go by, the last thing that he was going to do was complain.

Making his way down the corridor, the young demon slayer yawned, stopping to lean against a nearby wall so that he could stretch out his back slightly. Upon turning back towards the direction he had been going in previously, he was surprised to see Sirrus sitting upon the ledge of a tall window just above his head. Nero couldn’t recall if he’d noticed his presence before, or if he’d even been looking for him. For a moment he considered the possibility that the adjudicator might be capable of doing more than he continued to let on.

“Hey. Didn’t know you were awake. Are you still reading?”

Sirrus looked down at him, seemingly noting his presence for the first time since he’d entered the hallway. He didn’t seem startled so much as he was surprised that he hadn’t noticed his presence up until now.

“As a matter of fact, yes. Your brother and I spent some considerable amount of time going over a few standouts from Aluta’s privately curated collection, and we believe that we have something.” Sirrus swung his legs around and allowed them to dangle instead of remaining in his resting position before continuing. “I trust that you slept well, then?”

“Pretty much. Yea. I had a lot going on in my head, so it took me longer than I thought it was going to to actually go to sleep, but once I did, I was out cold. You?” Nero said with a shrug. He was sure that there was a lot on the minds of basically everyone right now. Considering what was going on, it was hard to consider that very exceptional. Still, his mind wandered and he found himself contemplating the possibilities laid out before them. There was an awful lot going on in the grand scheme of things that didn’t make that much sense in his mind, and he had a fair number of questions. Maybe Aluta and Sirrus could fill him in?

“Oh, me? I don’t really sleep.”

“You can’t sleep?” That was admittedly strange to him as well as being an interesting revelation. He and the others had just both Sirrus and V sleep for the better part of a day or so after they had returned from Belial’s domain. What in the world was he talking about? Had he simply been faking it?

“No, it’s not that. I just… don’t most of the time.” The adjudicator smiled slightly and hopped down, standing before Nero. The younger of the two shifted slightly, seemingly stiff but otherwise fine.

“So you can just kinda choose not to, then?” Now that was weird even by his standards.

“Generally speaking, yes. I can stay awake for extended periods of time, just as easily as I can sleep for long periods of time. I simply don’t feel like sleeping right now. There is far too much to do to waste my time like that at this juncture.” He seemed both serious and half-joking when he made that statement, so it was decidedly difficult for Nero to tell if he was being entirely truthful, or bullshitting simply for the fun of it. Either way, that was all that he could go off of for now, so he would just take his word for it.

“What about before? You were out for like two days.” As far as he was concerned, that was the only true outlier to that statement. He’d seen him asleep with his own eyes just after arriving to see what had become of his brother. Unless he had been faking for some inconceivable reason, then he had been asleep at the time. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he had been unconscious. The two things were not exactly the same, after all.

“Due to a need to recover. I recover much quicker when I am asleep, especially when I am mortally wounded. I dare say that I still have yet to recover from my injuries, at least in a non physical way. I’ve healed, but my power reserves are utterly depleted.” Realizing that he probably needed to clarify the fact that he had been a bit more than asleep during that time. “I had simply been rendered unconscious and then chose to remain that way. It was in my best interests that I allowed myself the time necessary to recover so that I could be of use again.”

Nero took in this revelation, seemingly surprised by how straightforward yet strange that was to him. He could only imagine how strange that must be. But to be fair, it would also be useful. Being able to regulate your energy levels at your own discretion like that had to come in handy, unless that wasn’t the case. The better question might be…

“But… do you feel tired at all, then, or can you just turn that on and off, too?”

Pausing for a moment to consider his response, he made a strange face. “... Is that what you would consider the urge to rest? Because if it is, then no, I can’t say that I really feel that to begin with. The only thing that I feel that is similar to that is the need to rest and recover my strength after an injury, but it isn’t strictly necessary. I won’t pass out if I choose not to like a normal person would. I am incapable of overexerting myself in that manner.”

The young devil hunter had to admit that the more he learned about Sirrus, the more confused and fascinated he was by him. He already knew that he wasn’t human, at least not entirely, but that still didn’t explain away some of his… irregularities. One of these days he hoped that he could truly learn what he was, even if only to satiate his only curiosity. There wasn’t really another reason that he could come up with for why he would want to know something so personal about the other man, so he’d leave it be for now.

“Makes sense, I guess. What about eating? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that, either.” He asked casually, noting that they had gone to the kitchen last night together and the man with the red hair hadn’t bothered to do anything more than taste a thing or two with a spoon and a small glass dish. He never fixed a plate or bowl for himself as the rest of them did, and he disappeared while they were eating only for them to run into them about an hour later when they were heading up to their rooms. It was interesting in retrospect how he hadn’t noticed the strangeness of this at the time.

“It’s much the same thing. Don’t get me wrong, I love eating. I just don’t strictly need to in a biological sense. I guess you could say that my power sustains me. I can’t really starve to death, much as many demons cannot. If they could, the demon world would have fallen long ago, I suspect. Mortal blood is nothing more than a delicacy to them.” Sirrus stopped then, seemingly reconsidering his choice of words. It was thought he had just said “no, that can’t be right” to himself in his head. “... I could be wrong, however. I know that human blood is the source of much of the power that more powerful Devils seek. Perhaps there is something more to it than that. I’m probably oversimplifying things. Perhaps that would be a better question for your father. He seems thoroughly knowledgeable. I can’t pretend to know everything, after all. I’m no devil. All I can say is that I myself do not require such things like a demon or devil would.”

Before Nero could follow up, Sirrus turned his head slightly to the side, seemingly noticing something. Nero followed his gaze until it landed on V, realizing for the first time that the young Summoner had walked up on them both without drawing too much attention. But a quick glance at Sirrus indicated that he had noticed his presence long before now and had simply elected to not mention it. These questions and answers had been directed at both of them, not just Nero.

“Hey, V. What’s up?”

Looking at both of them through a set of heavy, half-lidded eyes, was V, having clearly just awoken from his much-needed rest. It had been a long night for him. Or perhaps a short one, depending on the time that he had gone to bed. He looked as though he might simply slump back against the wall and doze off, or just slink back to bed without a moment's notice.

“... Breakfast?” V said feebly, his brain failing to assemble a more noteworthy statement.

Nero and Sirrus glanced at one another before shaking their heads and laughing slightly. V was clearly tired, and it was probably best that they get him downstairs before he keeled over and hit the floor from apparent exhaustion. He wasn’t much of a morning person to start with, but it seemed that the events of the night before and the residual exhaustion that he probably still felt as a result of the damage that he had suffered at Belial’s hands was still weighing heavily upon him. A good meal and some additional rest was probably in order before he was able to so much as call it even.

“I must confess, it was a long night. We spent several hours together pouring over documents and scrolls and generally enjoying one another’s company. But it was a productive evening, I assure you.” Sirrus smiled brightly, something that genuinely took Nero off guard as they gently guided V towards the stairs. It was probably best that they feed him now and simply send him back to bed. No one that they needed to see was probably up yet anyway. And if they were, Nero couldn’t imagine that they wanted to be bothered this early in the morning. They would try again around noon.

A quick look over at V was enough for Nero to come to that conclusion. V desperately needed sleep, and he had the feeling that he would find a way to achieve that goal, one way or another. And if what Sirrus said was true, at least his brother had had a pretty good time last night. It was rare that he heard anything about him having a good time. “Um, yeah, I can kinda tell. V looks like you poured him into the bed like an hour ago and snuck out of his room so that none of us would realize that you were still awake.”

Laughing in a slightly nervous manner, Sirrus shrugged and gritted his teeth, batting his long eyelashes as he looked down at his feet. He’d been caught red-handed. That was basically exactly what he’d done, if he was being honest with himself. Slithering away at the crack of dawn like some renegade teenage misfit beset by the fear of the wrath of his parents. How very much like him.

“Unfortunately, as a direct result of my lack of a need to rest, I often underestimate the need to do so that others around me possess. I believe that I may have inadvertently forced your brother to stay up far beyond his prime. But at least we had some wonderful conversations.” He shook his head, glancing with fondness over towards the young devil summoner. V would never cease to interest him.

Nero had to admit that he was curious now. What on Earth had they spoken about so late into the night? V had never struck him as much of a conversationalist, except perhaps on the few short occasions that he had made the mistake of allowing him to speak openly about his love of literature. He suspected that his brother was quite literally capable of going on for hours like that if someone didn’t put a stop to it. Perhaps that was what had occurred? Either way, he found the notion that V had stayed up late into the night conversing with Sirrus to be intriguing. His older sibling so very much loved his rest, so the idea that he had delayed it to spend time with someone was… odd.

“Really now… you're gonna have to fill me in over breakfast. I think he’s gonna end up sitting this one through.”

Another soft laugh. “You assume that he will be sitting. He may very well be lying. On the floor.”

“You're not wrong. Let’s get downstairs. He’s pretty light, but if I accidentally bash his head against the wall or something on the way down there my dad is gonna be livid, and honestly, I just don’t want to hear that shit today.” He adjusted the half-asleep summoner, shaking his head again at the sheer state of him. It was almost funny how utterly exhausted he looked. V needed to take better care of himself. He knew that this had to be an awful lot for him to take in. “And I don’t think that my brother would really appreciate that, either. He has enough problems.”

“That is a fair point. We should hurry. I’m sure that everyone has picked the good options dry by now.”

(-~-)

They had spent the better part of the night going over the options presented to them, unsure as to what they could do in a time like this. Dante had been able to do very little with the books presented to him the day before, and not entirely sure what he was reading. Though he had managed to find a few interesting things, they had turned out to all be red herrings. This wasn’t really his forte. The youngest of the Dark Knight Sparda’s twin sons was a bit more hands-on when it came to seeking out information, and he couldn’t say that he really knew what to do with himself.

Lucia yawned sleepily, glancing over towards the far window. They were surrounded by paper and stacks of general reference books. There was simply too much going on in this room, and they knew that they weren’t getting anywhere with this. All attempts at organization had gone out of the window as soon as they had started to become tired, and so had their ability to properly process information. Everything was a mess.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. I need a nap.” Dante said as he stretched and let out a lazy yawn, completely aware of the fact that he just didn’t have the energy reserves to deal with this right now. It was a shame, but it was the truth. He would be more useful after his brain had undergone a little reset.

Nodding in agreement, Lucia stood from her spot on the floor. She’d been full of useful ideas and propositions yesterday, but for now, she was stumped due to the all-nighter that she had just pulled with her longtime friend. She wanted to do her best for everyone, but at the rate that she was going, there wasn’t a whole lot of useful assistance that she could offer.

“You’ve got a good point. I believe we should both…” She trailed off then, walking over towards the open window behind Dante with a slightly perplexed look on her face. From her spot, a procession of servants and worried-looking young women had all started in the direction of something on the other side of the manor, seemingly headed towards something with a frantic pace. “Dante… I think that something might be wrong.”

Upon hearing her declaration, he stood up, redirecting his attention towards what she was talking about. If Lucia had a bad feeling about something then he was going to look into it. It was that simple. She followed her gut, and he got the impression that her gut was normally correct in regards to these sorts of things.

He noticed the procession of members of the Ludwig household and folded his arms over his chest, seemingly as innately uncomfortable with it as she was. The pair turned and looked at one another before heading out of the door, intent on heading over to the other wing of the property and seeing what was going on. They needed to see what was going on over there.

Where were the others?

(-~-)

Hmm… Should we be worried about what’s going on? Because I feel like that might be the case. All the commotion kinda makes me feel uneasy, you know? But that’s a matter for Friday, so I guess we all have to continue suffering until then lol!

So anyway, how is everyone? Sorry for any delays? I’ve sorted out most of the book distribution things… I think. Anyway, I’ll update you on that soon! 

[livsoulsecrets]

Chaos - Fairstairs fic

Part 1

Summary: "It was almost as if thinking of Matthew brought him to her when she needed him."

Cordelia and Matthew continuing to find each other in the middle of chaos.

-

It was a beautiful night. The London Institute was full of people Cordelia loved and admired; it was all so lovely she could almost pretend it wasn’t all so false. She was sitting by James’ side, facing Will and Tessa. Lucie was on her other side, followed by Alaistair. By Tessa’s side, sat Cordelia’s mom, delighted with the company of her daughter’s future in-laws.

She had barely touched her food, too disturbed by the lies she was telling to really enjoy the delicious dinner Bridget had put together. Instead, she chose to observe those surrounding her, not participating in their conversation.

Will was whispering something to Tessa, that covered her mouth, barely suppressing a laugh. It was definitely inappropriate because she slapped him in the arm shortly after that, rolling her eyes. She still seemed delighted by him, as usual. Being a witness to their little bubble of love was doing nothing to repress the shame Cordelia felt for lying to them, but she couldn’t help staring at them. It was like Tessa and Will were magnets, attracting all the looks whenever they were together, their bond so strong it touched anyone’s heart that was open enough to believe in love.

Despite everything, Cordelia still did.

— Cordelia? Cordelia! — Lucie’s voice startles Cordelia, pushing her thoughts to the back of her mind. — Are you feeling good? You seemed distant. — Her friend got close-up, speaking in a low voice, in order not to draw attention to them.

— I am fine, thank you. — She answers, but Lucie’s eyes stay on hers, her head tilting to the side, a gesture Cordelia knew very well as a signal of pure Herondale stubbornness. She had to act quick before Lucie grew too concerned. — I just need to use the bathroom, I will be just back. — Before her friend could say anything else, Cordelia got up, carefully avoiding facing anyone when she said: — Excuse me.

With that, she left the dinner room, without looking back. Once away from everyone else, she started walking, not knowing where she was going, just hoping it would clear her head enough to get her through the rest of the night without breaking down.

It was all too much: her mother’s bright smile, her pride written all over her face, heart full with happiness for her kid’s future; Will’s radiant spirit, his long speeches about the Carstairs and the Herondales being bound together for all the generations to come; Lucie’s playful smile that was supposed to comfort her, but only served as another remember that Cordelia was marrying a man that didn’t love her, that could never love her the way she wanted him to.

Cordelia stopped, realizing she had walked far enough to reach the Institute’s entry. With a sigh, she laid her head against the closest wall, taking a deep breath. The place was dark and Cordelia took the refuge of the shadows gratefully. She closed her eyes and searched her mind for anything that could give her solace from the hurtful thoughts crossing her mind. That is when Matthew’s words from weeks ago came back to her, his voice echoing in her ears.

You are anything but a fraud, Cordelia. You are formidable. And brave. And willing to do whatever is necessary to be the hero you are destined to be. If that includes pretending for a year that you and James are in love, then, be it. Think of this as a step that must be taken to ensure nothing gets in the way of the history you are bound to make.

A small smile emerged on her face, the power of Matthew’s faith on her overcoming the guilt eating her alive for some precious moments. So many people spoke ill of Matthew Fairchild all the time, called him deviant and outrageous and broken, but, if only they could see what Cordelia saw when she looked at him, if only they could experience the side of him that was careful, dedicated and comforting, if only they knew the beacon of light he could be in midst of the chaos. Only then would they really know who he is.

She is brought back to reality by the sound of the door opening. Cordelia straightens her posture, finding it very strange that someone would pay the Institute a visit at that hour. The shape of a man comes up, fair hair and a long waistcoat. It takes her only a second to realize Matthew is standing in the doorway.

— Lucie? Lucie, is that you? — Matthew’s voice was hoarse, the words barely making it out. Cordelia blinked a few times, surprised to see the boy in the Institute so late at night. It was almost as if thinking of Matthew brought him to her when she needed him.

— No- It is me, Cordelia. — She spoke, stepping away from the shadows. — Is there a problem? I didn’t expect to see you here at this hour.

— Everything is fine. — Matthew says, closing the door behind him. — I just could not handle my empty house any longer. It was as if, the more I drank, the more alone I was. — Cordelia looks down at the mention of drinking, thoughts of her dad and his secret adding up to her inner turmoil. — That is my excuse, what is yours?

— The usual one. Just needed some time to breathe. — Cordelia answers, bringing her hands together in front of her body.

— I can relate to that. — Matthew smirks, but something looks off with the gesture, the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. — I take you are here for dinner with the Herondales? — He takes a step forward, towards her, but his legs fail him, making Matthew reach for the wall to stand up. Cordelia moves quickly, reaching for his arm to steady him.

— You are not wrong about that, but are you sure everything is fine? — His eyes were glassy and his hair was wet with sweat. Standing so close to him, most of his weight was laying on her. Her stomach turned, remembering all the moments she had done the same thing for her father, the only difference being that she didn’t know then the cause of his problem was the same as Matthew’s.

— Yes, I am sure, Cordelia, there is no need to get worried. I will not ruin the dinner. I will just sneak into James’ room and sleep there. — Matthew brushes it off, trying to break away from her, but Cordelia maintains her hold of him. In this state, he doesn’t have the strength to resist when she pulls his arm over her shoulders.

— It is not the dinner I am concerned about. It is you. I will not leave you alone to wander through the Institute like this. — Cordelia started guiding him towards James’ bedroom, her hand in his waist to sustain him. She doesn’t think she was ever this close to a boy that wasn’t James or Alastair, but pushes the though away almost immediately.

— Are you sure you should be leading a gentleman to a bedroom at this hour of the night, Miss Carstairs?

— I am already ruined, Mister Fairchild, what else could be done to me? — He laughs, which makes him feel lighter against her.

— You never fail to surprise me. — Matthew announces when they reach James’ bedroom.

— I could say the same about you. — She answers. Cordelia walks him to his parabatai’s bed, sitting Matthew down. He takes off his boots and his waistcoat, that Cordelia carefully puts aside in the nearest chair. — Thank you. — He murmurs before laying down.

— You are welcome. — She answers, covering him with the blanket. — Sleep well, Matthew. — Cordelia moves to get up, but Matthew holds her hand, keeping her still.

— Stay with me until I fall asleep? Please, I do not wish to be alone again. — His voice is quiet, like he is ashamed of the words that come out, but cannot stop them from doing so. Cordelia’s heart breaks hearing the vulnerability in her friend’s voice.

— I will stay. — Cordelia complies.

She is concerned about how to explain her disappearance to everyone else in the dinner room and she certainly shouldn’t be alone with a boy in a bedroom, like Matthew said, especially when said boy was not her fiancé, but she is incapable of walking away and leaving Matthew alone when he seems so fragile and tormented.

— My hero. — He whispers, closing his eyes, his hand still holding hers. Cordelia does not comment on that, realizing she enjoys the feeling of his soft skin against hers, despite the inappropriate situation they are in. — Sorry for barging in and bringing chaos into your night.

— No need to apologize. — She lowers her voice, like she is telling him a secret. — Maybe I like the chaos you bring to me. — A smile forms on his lips, his features peaceful for the first time in the night while he drifts off to sleep. Cordelia wonders how long has it been since he properly slept, considering the state he was when he stumbled through the Institute’s door.

She stays by his side until his hold on her hand weakens, until his mouth is slightly open and his breath has slowed down. She stays even for a while after that. The sight of a vulnerable Matthew Fairchild curled up over himself warms her heart and is a welcome substitute to the mess that was overcoming her mind until a few minutes ago. Somehow, the vision calms her more than any of the people she was surrounded by before.

— Good night, Matthew. — Cordelia finally whispers, her fingers lightly touching Matthew’s hair, pushing it off his forehead. She gets up just after that.

Cordelia hopes he regains some peace in his sleep. After all, he had unknowingly helped her regain some of hers.

[itscalledbisexualcrisis]

Scrap Metal - Chapter 6

Summary: Hiro broke off her engagement to Kuvira three years ago and left Zaofu. All she wants is to live her quiet life in Republic City, away from her haunting past. Kuvira's catching up to her, but is she going to find what she's looking for? Or is she only going to reveal the secrets Hiro kept hidden from her all these years?

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“We have been informed that there are dissenters in the western city of Omashu. They are requesting assistance to take down the rebels,” relays the scout. Kuvira is leaning on the table, flipping through the detailed report in front of her. Omashu had been one of the later acquired cities. She found them to be quite irritating to negotiate with and spent many months going back and forth with the old king about their treaty. It was easy to assume that rebel groups would pop up within it.

“We can send Commander Guan, he’s the closest in proximity and has the troops to take care of any dissenters,” Baatar suggests. “It’s about time we reel in Omashu, once and for all. Who better than our Southern Commander?”

Kuvira continues reading the report, letting the rest of her inner circle pipe up with suggestions and requests. Even though it does make sense for Commander Guan to go, due to the location of Omashu, it was hard keeping a stronghold of the mountainous city. They needed a consistent leader for the mountainous region in general. Especially since their plan to take Republic City was fast approaching, Kuvira needed to be at headquarters focusing on the Spirit Canon and Colossal. Her eyes scan across the table, eyeing her inner circle carefully.

She limited the amount of people allowed in her highest ranks. Various men and women of the sergeant and commanding rank sat around the circular table, all capable and willing to fight for their country. She needed someone unrelenting and dominant to maintain balance in the mountains. Most of all someone who she trusted, and the list was few and far between.

“Well, from previous reports, Commander Guan is already struggling to hold together the South East and coastal regions. Do you think it’d be wise for him to take on a new battle when he’s in the middle of one?” Kuvira turns her attention to a voice with sharpness that cuts through the room’s ardent dialogue. Sergeant Anjij was one of Kuvira’s oldest friends from Zaofu who joined her when she first began uniting the nation. She was a talented water bender, a rarity for the Metal Clan, but nonetheless accepted for her talent. She was an expert in combat and one of the front line soldiers during the first siege on Ba Sing Se. Her thick dark hair was held back in a high ponytail and eyes a dark sea foam color. She was known for being a serious no-nonsense woman by her colleagues, a quality Kuvira admired. “We cannot possibly let him leave the Southern coast unguarded.”

“I agree,” Kuvira speaks up finally. Any conversation left was shut down immediately. She turns her head slightly to face the woman. “Commander Guan is occupied with the coastal regions. We need to maintain order within the entire empire. Which is why it is important we have trusted leaders to ensure that the empire is united. Sergeant Anjij, how would you like to be the new Commander for the Southern Mountainous region?” It was an on the spot decision by Kuvira, but seeing Anjij’s cocky smirk only reassured her of her choice.

“It would be an honor, Kuvira.”

“It’s settled then. We will head to Omashu tomorrow afternoon,” Kuvira instructs, standing from her seat to regard the rest of the room. She turns to Baatar sitting directly to her left. “Send word to Commander Guan to send a small battalion to meet us there. We will be taking a few rations with us for Omashu. Bringing in supplies will be better for negotiations and to reassure the people that we are not their enemy. Baatar, I want you to keep working on the Spirit Canon. I expect you to have it done by the time I come back.”

“Yes, Kuvira.”

“With that, this meeting is adjourned.”

---

“Oh thank Spirits!” Hiro threw her arms around Kuvira, not even getting a chance for the woman to take off her helmet. She inhaled the scent of metal and filth, taking in her lover for the first time in what felt like the longest week of her life. All week she’d been sitting near the control center, awaiting news on a mission from Suyin and the Metal Clan Guards to rescue the Air Nomads. This wasn’t something that happened often, but the few times Suyin took the special task force outside the domes was always a big mission. Especially ones that involve the Avatar. Kuvira usually went on these missions and even though Hiro should be used to it, she wasn’t. It didn’t make her feel any more reassured that they would be facing the Red Lotus again. She still gets shivers thinking about their attempt to kidnap Avatar Korra in Zaofu. 

Kuvira smiled and stroked Hiro’s back, hands gripping on to the material of the shirt. She exhaled and made sure to squeeze Hiro a little tighter. The smell of clean laundry and lavender shampoo filled her senses and she could rest easy now, taking in the heavenly scent of her fiance. 

“I’ve missed you too, darling,” Kuvira muttered with her face buried into Hiro’s hair. She could tell that Kuvira was exhausted. They had just stepped off the airship, most of the other guards visibly wounded. She spotted Anjij limping out of the ship with a fellow guard towards the infirmary. Hiro cupped Kuvira’s face and started to examine it for any noticeable damages. It made Kuvira chuckle at the silly face her fiance was making. “Are you broken? I don’t want to send this one back for a refund because of brain damage.”

Kuvira swats Hiro’s hands away, but it only seems to make Hiro even more clingy, draping her arms comfortably around her neck. The reassurance she got back were calloused hands caressing circles on to her hips.

“I’m fine, no brain damage,” she teased. Humor danced behind the irritation in her eyes. After hours of being stranded in the mountains, all Kuvira wanted was a bath and a long sleep with her lover.

“What happened out there?” Hiro’s eyes glaze across the rest of the injured team. “Everyone looks shaken.”

“The Red Lotus were difficult opponents, but the mission was a success: Avatar Korra and the Air Nomads are safe, and the Red Lotus has been apprehended,” Kuvira reported.

“No bruises or new scars for you?” Hiro asked. She wanted to try to keep the air light between them, but her concern showed through brightly. It made Kuvira feel proud, in a way. It was the way Hiro was so openly worried about her that made her want to tuck woman away in her arms, away from all of the dangers in the world. When she was in the mountains with no real indication of when Suyin would return for them, Hiro didn’t leave her thoughts. There was no doubt in Kuvira’s mind that Suyin would come back, but the slight possibility of losing to the Red Lotus also came up. She vowed that she would make it out and return to Hiro just as she promised. Even when she saw the flying bison coming over the tops of the snow capped mountains, she still wasn’t satisfied until she saw the Zaofu domes come up from the horizon. It was only when she had Hiro back in her arms, did Kuvira feel that her mission had been complete. 

“A couple of bruises, sore muscles,” she said offhandedly. “My shoulder in particular. I had to catch and heave a grown man from falling off the side of a cliff, but it’s nothing compared to the injuries everyone else sustained.” The thought of Kuvira carrying the weight of a man twice her size made Hiro blush and her jaw drop. Sometimes she forgot how strong Kuvira was and how intense those gentle green eyes could be.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Hiro wanted to laugh, but could only muster a smile. This week had been very difficult and upon seeing everyone else’s current roughed up state, she didn’t let her guard down when Kuvira said she wasn’t injured. She definitely will be looking into that shoulder later.

Hiro held her face, this time gentler. Kuvira let a quiet moan escape her lips as she let her head be cradled. Hiro thought the tired pout on her lips and scrunch of skin between her eyebrows made Kuvira look unusually vulnerable. It must’ve taken a lot out of her for her to be sharing such a tender look with her in such a public area. It wasn’t easy for Kuvira to communicate her emotions, and Hiro never pushed her to do more than what she was comfortable with. At most, Hiro could get a short squeeze of her hand letting her know that she was okay or a hug that meant she just needed something to ground her. But it seemed that at the end of the day, her strong Captain was still a human who craved affection. And she was so honored to have the privilege to take care of such a powerful and beautiful woman.

She left a careful kiss on her lips before pulling her to go home, promising to draw a hot bath and warm spicy curry for dinner. 

---

Hiro tapped the pencil on the table as she looked over her notes again. Zhu Li gently set the cup next to her. 

The two of them had been pretty silent this morning, going about an easy routine with an ease they’ve created. Hiro spreads out the notes on the table to be examined. Truly she was getting down to having nothing left to share. She had drawn up an updated map of the city. Due to the renovations, some streets were shut off and new buildings erected in previous vacant lots. Most of it was resource centers for impoverished citizens amongst other government buildings. There was a network of phone wires that had been cleaned up to maximize contact for the police force radio communications. A more linear pipeline system replaced old lines that appeared to not have been changed since their existence. It was all in actuality mostly maintenance stuff, and if any of it could be of use to the Empire, she had no idea what for.

“You ever thought about working in urban development Zhu Li?” Hiro asked offhandedly. She was seated at the table with her feet kicked up on the metal surface and leaning on the back two legs of her chair. Zhu Li set down the teapot and quietly examined the new documents handed to her.

“No ma'am.”

Zhu Li was a quiet woman. She limited most of what she said to short questions and nods. Hiro didn’t mind her, but she noticed with the addition of Zhu Li that Kuvira wasn’t coming around anymore. It definitely made things harder for her because how could she take down the Great Uniter if she can’t even see her. As much as Hiro wanted to ask Zhu Li, she kept the small woman at arms length. It was too soon to let down her guard and start asking her questions about Kuvira. She needed to feel out the situation before making her next move.

Hiro realized soon after Zhu Li’s appearance as her ‘assistant’, that the air changed around the maglev. The guards watching over her were more lax, probably because they realized the Great Uniter wouldn’t be paying them as frequent visits. Occasionally Zhu Li would leave and deliver the completed workbooks to an unknown receiver.

This was disadvantageous. She needed to get Kuvira’s attention. She was running out of time before they deemed her as unusable and sent her off to a reeducation camp. I mean, she used to know what would get Kuvira’s attention back at Zaofu. The thought was quickly erased from Hiro’s mind and she let out a small cough. Zhu Li glanced up briefly in suspicion.

Honestly, the thought did cross her mind to potentially seduce the Great Uniter, but even she had to laugh at that idea. She hadn’t forgotten about the interaction she witnessed between Baatar and Kuvira the other night, but ever since then she hasn’t seen either of them. This isn’t working. She needed to think of something else. Hiro gnawed on the inside of her cheek, looking at the map of Republic City in front of her. I won’t run away again. But I can’t do this alone-

“This is quite the setup you have here.” Hiro turned her head to see a familiar dark haired woman coming down the steps. “It’s been a long time, stranger.”

“Anjij? I didn’t realize you were here.” Before all of the nonsense with the Earth Empire and Kuvira taking control, Anjij had been one of the few people Kuvira considered a friend. It wasn’t atypical for Hiro to find them engaged in a thoughtful conversation while waiting at the transport station or grabbing a casual lunch on their break together. When Hiro was stationed in Ba Sing Se, Anjij was occupied on the front lines and Hiro only saw her in quick glimpses and at meetings. Now it was clear that Anjij was doing very well for herself. Even after years apart, Hiro still remembered the higher pitch and smooth melody in the way she spoke.

Anjij definitely broke enough hearts in her life and will definitely break more. There was an intimidating aura to this woman and it certainly attracted people. This harsh demeanor was accentuated greatly with her crisp Earth Empire uniform and sly smile.

“Well not for much longer. Kuvira and I are headed to Omashu tomorrow,” Anjij explained. She looked around at all of the scattered maps and diagrams. “Looks like the same old Hiro. Tell me, are you still a pro Pai Sho player?” Hiro smiled slightly. Although it was comforting having someone so friendly and familiar, she still felt out of place. Afterall, the armbands indicated on Anjij’s armband had moved up to be a Commander now.

“I’m a little rusty,” she admitted. Zhu Li was silently setting up an additional teacup, but Hiro couldn’t help but feel that the other set of ears was taking in this interaction carefully.

Honestly Zhu Li was very hard to read. When she first started coming a few days ago, Hiro was very cautious. They talked minimally, only when Hiro showed her what she had written down or drawn up. If Zhu Li asked a question or implored Hiro to explain further, it felt like a business transaction. She gave no indication of her personal opinions or thoughts about what Hiro was sharing to aide in Kuvira’s empire. As someone quite reserved herself, Hiro knew better than to underestimate her. “You said you were headed to Omashu?”

“Correct. Have to whip those mountaineers into shape, you know?” Anjij chuckled at her own light heartedness and Hiro tried to match it. “Your name came up in today’s meeting. I wanted to see for myself, Hiro Zhao, returned in the flesh.”

Hiro tried to keep the surprise from her face.

“Well, in case you don’t know, this isn’t a willing return.” Anjij raised an eyebrow. “From the looks of it, you’re anything but a prisoner right now.” Anjij glanced over at Zhu Li placing the delicate teacup on Hiro’s desk. “But, regardless of the reason, I’m glad I got to see you.”

Hiro’s face faltered. Hiro wanted to reciprocate Anjij’s honest admission, but she couldn’t let their current standings overcome that. In the end, Anjij was a Commander for her enemy that kept her prisoner. And the reality was also that they were no longer young women in Zaofu inviting one another over for dinner or sparring together. 

“You too, Anjij.” Anjij’s gaze shifted as she carefully took in Hiro’s tense expression. She lifted a hand to gently rest it on her shoulder, and Hiro had to resist wincing. She had been touch starved this past week, mainly keeping to herself and shying away from guards when they escort her to her room. She would be lying to herself if the little human contact didn’t comfort her. If Anjij noticed any of this, she didn’t show it.

“Let me know if you need anything. I’m your friend, Hiro, prisoner or not, and I mean that.”

Hiro wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe Anjij when she shot her a determined look of comfort. She wanted to trust Zhu Li as a possible ally to her mission. She wanted to believe that she had someone on this damned maglev to help her. But no matter what Anjij said, she had no one.

---

Most nights Kuvira ate alone. She always opted to eat alone in her office so she can work simultaneously. It was efficient and productive on her part. Sometimes Baatar would join her, but with his dedication to the Spirit Canon, he would be in the lab all night. So when she heard a knock on the door she was surprised.

“Kuvira, mind some company?” Anjij asked through the door. Kuvira called for her to enter. Anjij walked in confidently and shut the door behind her. “I don’t mean to intrude, but there are a few more things I want to go over before we leave tomorrow.”

Kuvira nodded, putting down her current work and giving Anjij her full attention. The taller woman took a seat at the chair facing her desk. 

“The dissenters seem to come from civilians, mostly destroying incoming Earth Empire rations and supply lines,” Anjij reported. “We should be safe passing through on our own as no one will be expecting our arrival. We have suspicions as to the exact perpetrators, but if you ask me, I think the previous king and his council are calling the shots.”

“As far as we know, they’ve been complicit in their surrender of Omashu,” Kuvira answered back. “But you’re correct, they’ve given us the most resistance since their acquisition. We must approach this with discipline. No one is above my mercy. Not even a former king and his court.”

They continued like this, exchanging knowledge and strategies to finding the dissenters to crush their uprising. It was easy to get people to do what you want, it was harder to keep them in line once you had them. If anyone were capable enough to be her commander, Anjij had shown her worth.

As they wrapped up their conversation, Anjij shifted as if weighing her next statement.

“Before I leave, I wanted to mention...I saw Hiro today. She seems off .”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing obvious! I know from today’s meeting she was regarded as a recaptured Earth Kingdom citizen seeking redemption, but don’t you think that’s a bit brash?” Anjij asked. She quickly followed up upon seeing Kuvira’s gaze harden. “With all due respect of course! I am not trying to question your course of action, but have you thought of a smoother way to transition her to the Empire?”

Kuvira eyed her commander carefully.

“Continue,” she demanded. She saw Anjij’s shoulders relax as she patiently waited.

“Well I was thinking, if you made her a corporal and gave her more leniency, she might be more willing to be of service to the Empire.”

Kuvira scoffed. “I didn’t take you to being so keen to Hiro before? What, an afternoon rekindling old memories made you soft?”

Anjij didn’t react.

“She doesn’t have to know that she’s still being closely watched,” Anjij calculated. A growing smirk danced on her lips. It was one Kuvira was familiar with. It brought her back to days in the Metal Clan. It mirrored the look of success and satisfaction every time Anjij would get the upper hand in sparring matches. Their subtle rivalry was what drove them to excel in their field. As time went, Kuvira turned out to be the stronger opponent, but she never forgot that when she saw that smirk appear, there was a deceptive move coming next. “The false comfort to do what she’s good at, will make her let down her guard. Meanwhile, we keep a close eye on her, make sure she doesn’t slip up. And when she inevitably does, we let her think she has the control-”

“When in reality, she’ll play right into our cards,” Kuvira finished. Her calculating gaze never wavered from Anjij. Her blue eyes were piercing with deceit and Kuvira could see how she was enjoying the idea of this. “What do you mean we?”

She shrugged.

“A first step could be bringing her with us to Omashu. Keep a close eye on her and away from the rest of the troops. The more you let her open up to you and see the work of the Earth Empire helping people, the more she’ll be inclined to help us,” Anjij said simply as if it was the easiest thing in the world. She leaned back comfortably in the chair across from Kuvira. “C’mon Ku, this is Hiro we’re talking about. She’s practically a genius with her technology and can learn any new skill like it’s nothing, but what she doesn’t have is a backbone or awareness.”

Kuvira clenched her fists on the table.

“Fine. You’ve made your points. She will be joining us on our mission to Omashu,” Kuvira concluded. Anjij nodded with the cocky smirk still on her face and got up to leave. “But Commander, I do need you to keep your guard up. Like you say, she’s a genius. We cannot let ourselves be underestimated by her.”

Kuvira didn’t like how her words came out like she was defending Hiro rather than warning Anjij.

“Of course, Kuvira.” The words were empty and it was clear Anjij didn’t see Hiro as a threat. She left Kuvira to eat her now cold meal.

“Commander,” Kuvira piped up, stopping Anjij as the door was halfway shut. “This was your idea. So if anything is to go wrong, I am holding you accountable.” Anjij studied Kuvira carefully once over before nodding once and leaving Kuvira with her thoughts.

The thought of manipulating Hiro into the guise of comfort had crossed Kuvira’s mind. And Anjij was right, Hiro isn’t aware enough of her surroundings to judge twice. But something in her gut told her it wasn’t a good idea to play this game. If she were to do this, Hiro would be moved up the ranks and would be working a lot closer with Kuvira, something she just told Baatar she would be doing the opposite of.

The more she thought about it though, she didn’t mind having Hiro around her. As annoying as she was, she was useful. And that’s what mattered. She was useful.

---

“Have you been to Omashu before?” Anjij asked.

“Never,” Hiro answered. She stole a glance from the Pai Sho game in front of her to look out the window of the maglev. A thick fog coated the outside as they traveled to a higher altitude and through the mountain range. She was never a fan of heights, but what made her more uncomfortable was sitting at the meeting table with Anjij across from her and Kuvira to her left, examining documents. Kuvira had been studying them as soon as she stepped in the room, not even acknowledging Hiro’s presence or the fact that they were playing a Pai Sho game in what was supposed to be the meeting room. Anjij called her in for a friendly game and a debrief of their current mission.

“We’re providing extra aid to the people of Omashu. Due to their location, it’s hard to get supplies out there so we try to deliver big bouches at a time,” Anjij explained, moving another piece of the game. “We’ll be here for about a day or so, but I’ll be staying behind to make sure the rations are properly distributed.”

Hiro anxiously glanced over at Kuvira for any reaction or addition, but the woman seemed very engrossed in the designs she was looking at. If Hiro had a better angle she could see what had all of Kuvira’s attention. Quickly she drew her eyes back forward and Anjij was giving her a kind smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Hiro moved a piece in the game, not thinking much of it.

“And that's the game,” Anjij boasted. With her final piece moved, Anjij had successfully completed her Pai Sho board. Hiro folded her hands on her lap, accepting her defeat.

“I told you I was rusty,” she shyly admitted. “It’s been a while since I’ve played an actual game.”

“No one in the big city plays Pai Sho?” Anjij questioned.

“Not really, not like how we played in Zaofu. Most people played fast Pai Sho,” she explained. Asami was the only people she knew in Republic City who still played the traditional form of Pai Sho with slow methodical moves. It had been a while since Hiro played against someone new.

Anjij stole a glance at Kuvira before getting up.

“I’m going to check on the conductor and the other guards. We should be arriving within the next hour. Zhu Li, if you will come with me please, I’d love for you to make more of that jasmine tea,” Anjij flirted. Kuvira resisted rolling her eyes and a clipped warning. Zhu Li simply nodded and followed. Anjij, a flirt as always , Hiro thought.

It left Hiro and Kuvira in an awkward train car alone with cold porridge and documents stacked on the table. Hiro started packing up the Pai Sho game, letting her thoughts take her away from this maglev. As this was only one of the few train cars taken for their mission, it was very quiet. This was the first time she’s seen Kuvira in almost a week. It was almost unnerving how stoic the woman was.

“Do you still play?” The question stuttered out hung in the air, but Hiro couldn’t back out now that the words were already spoken.

“Are you asking for a game?” Kuvira asked carefully. She glanced down at the neatly set up Pai Sho board in front of her. Hiro shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and took a big gulp of the scorching tea to calm her nerves. She was surprised when Kuvira set the papers down and moved to sit across from her in Anjij’s previous seat. Hiro noticed how she placed them face down so she wouldn’t be able to sneak a glance at what she was looking at. “I’ll go first.”

The first few moves were done in silence. Hiro tries to focus on the game and not how this game brought back nostalgia. They’ve played plenty of Pai Sho games in the past, and Hiro knew Kuvira's strategies. Even though it was just a game, something told her that she had to win this one. So she maneuvered her pieces with deft and purpose, different from how she played with Anjij.

“Why did you let Anjij win?” The question caught her off guard and Hiro hesitated while picking up her next piece.

“What do you mean?” She placed the tile down, realizing now that Kuvira was already going in for an attack strategy to win. 

“You had her cornered for most of the game. All of a sudden it was like you stopped playing,” Kuvira observed, moving her tile to another space. “So tell me, why would you let her have the upper hand? Most of all, why make her think she got it in the first place?”

Hiro wasn’t surprised by Kuvira’s observation. In fact she knew the whole time that even though the other woman was engrossed with paperwork, she was acutely aware of her surroundings. Nothing could get past Kuvira...which is exactly what Hiro wanted. Her lip quirked up in a half smile.

“Still being very attentive of me, I see. I’m flattered,” she taunted. Her eyes conveyed that she knew what kind of dangerous game she was playing alongside the Pai Sho game. She smoothly transitioned her next piece over by the one Kuvira just moved. “Anjij was always a challenging player. She moved her pieces seemingly sporadically without thought, when in reality she’s trying to out maneuver her opponent as quick as she can, that way she can finish her board. If you play against her the way she wants you to, she won’t even realize you’re the one winning. Pai Sho when played quickly can be fun and exciting and Anjij has found a way to mix the two.

But I’d argue that careful and thoughtful movements with purpose allows you to see your opponent clearly than going fast can. I could’ve slowed Anjij’s gameplay down and ended it sooner, but she’s the type of woman who likes the thrill of the game.

And once she’s won, she’ll utilize the same strategy until she realizes too late that she’s used up all of her cards and tricks… and you as her opponent have bested her at everything she can give.”

Hiro had been studying Kuvira’s body movements this whole time as the woman played with the piece in her hand, eyes drifting up to meet Hiro’s in what looked like surprise. Hiro bit the inside of her cheek as her face broke out in a smile and crossed her arms.

“I believe it is your move.”

While speaking, Kuvira didn’t even notice that Hiro had successfully cornered her, one move away from winning.

---

Kuvira narrowed her eyes. Her keen ears perked up and she turned her head from the game abruptly to the windows. She squints, no longer paying attention to Hiro. Somewhere within the fog, a shadow moved. It was swift and if anyone else had seen it they would’ve waved it off as a mirage. But Kuvira knew better. She knew to trust her own instincts.

Without another thought, she gets up and grabs on to Hiro’s arm, pulling the other woman up with her. Some of the Pai Sho pieces jerked across the table, messing up their almost completed game.

“H-Hey!” Hiro stuttered, surprised at the sudden jerking movement.

Kuvira shoved Hiro to the floor with her falling on top. Soon after, the window that was previously next to them exploded in a flurry of shards and the train car lurched. Hiro gasped, her next words choked in shock. Kuvira felt the rest of the metal churn and jerk as the rest of the windows blew out in the left side of the car. It’s when she feels the train rocking to the side that she feels panic bubble up. But Kuvira wasn’t paying attention to that; not the way her body was being thrown around or the ringing she felt in her ears. 

Kuvira closes her eyes and lets her senses take over on the metal around her. That’s her default, she centers on what feels familiar and how she can regain control. Her awareness focused on the metal lining of the train, the plates of metal on the floor, the armor attached to her body. It felt like time slowed down as the train tipped over the edge. Hiro’s screams were only vaguely in the background of the ringing of metal hitting metal and the creaking of the maglev as it tipped over the mountainside, completely detaching from the tracks.

“Hold on.” She felt two arms wrap around her shoulders tightly and bury her face into Kuvira’s collarbone. The car tipped on its side and the rest of the windows shattered underneath them. By now the once pristine meeting room was trashed as furniture, documents, and weapons were tousled to the side of the train. Hiro grunted as they tipped alongside with it, their bodies crashing into a nearby table as the train began sliding off the mountain. Kuvira opened her eyes and inspected the shattered window now above them. The train began skidding down the mountain and slowly building momentum, tumbling further into unknown depths.

I have one shot. One move. Only one split second to get this right.

Fluidly, her arm shot out and with it a thin metal cable attached to her belt. The end of it escaped into the white abyss of the train car empty window. It all depended on the angle, the speed and most of all, luck. Kuvira searched aimlessly for something sturdy to hold on to, but the panic was settling in her bones as they skid further and further down the mountain. Hiro clung to her crying helplessly. She clenched her teeth. C’mon. There has to be something-

There

The green in her eyes sparked to life and the tug from her cable told her to hold on tight. With a flick of her wrist, she latched on to whatever support she found. And the next, she was hoisting both her and Hiro out of the train car and into the white chasm. They flew through, suspended in the air at a fast speed. 

Kuvira twisted her body, feeling the ache in her arms and back as she was trying to control her momentum while carrying both of them through the air. Hiro gasped and Kuvira felt her grip loosen slightly. Kuvira was quick and with her free arm, and held Hiro tight to her. In response, Hiro wrapped her legs around Kuvira’s waist, holding on as tight as she could.

She couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her, but the dark mass of rock was a breath of relief. It came a lot faster than she intended and her body harshly crashed against the side as they bounced off.

“Do not let go,” she grunted, seeing the mountain coming up again as they swung back towards it. With another grunt and contortion, she managed to get one foot settled firmly on the mountain. All it took was for her to feel the familiar rock underneath her feet, for her to finally let go of the breath she was holding. Her chest heaved and she heard a large thud from far below. She couldn’t completely relax yet, because she still had Hiro clung tightly to her chest. With her bending and pure physics on her side, her metal cable was holding on to something far above them, keeping them from tumbling with the fallen train car. The sweat poured from her forehead. “Hiro, I’m going to pull us up.”

Hiro blinked a couple times, her small body still shaking. Kuvira feels the woman nod against her chest and clench her body even closer. With the reassurance that Hiro wasn’t going to fly off, Kuvira’s attention settled on the metal and slowly they began moving up. Hiro unconsciously gnawed on her bottom lip as they ascended, careful not to make too many movements to disturb their rise. Meanwhile Kuvira focused on keeping supporting both of their weights as they ascended through the misty mountain air.

It was a gangly looking tree growing out of a shallow cave that saved them. It wasn’t very wide and  it sloped off to only hold enough room for both of them to lay down and catch their breaths. The cave was damp and cold, but all Kuvira could feel was the burning from her muscles ache. She moved on to her hands and knees, the adrenaline still pumping through her as her hair flew out in tangles against her face. Leaning down, she pressed her forehead against the damp ground, thankful to feel the comforting rock beneath her.

Kuvira cursed, letting herself settle and finally picking up to the frantic shouts coming through the radio attached to her hip. It was staticy and hard to hear, but she could just make out Commander Anjij’s shouts.

“Kuvira! Are you there!” She presses the button on the radio, trying to catch her voice. She sits up, letting her elbows fall on to her bent knees. Looking over at Hiro next to her, she sees the other woman has rolled on to her side with her back facing her. She didn’t seem to have any visual injuries, which was a relief. 

“Yes I’m here. Are you hurt? How are the others?” she asked.

“We’re all fine! What about you?” 

“I’m alright. Hiro and I are safe.”

“Thank Spirits you both survived!” Anjij sighs. “Where are you?” “In a cave on the side of the mountain. I can’t tell how far we traveled down.” “We’re coming right now! Hang tight!” With that the radio died on the other end. Kuvira gripped it tightly and resisted the urge to crush it or throw it off the ledge. It was her only contact with the rest of the world now. It was the only chance she had to escape this. She looked over at Hiro again, who seemed to finally quake her shaking body.

“Hiro, are you alright?”

“I think so.” The other woman sat up carefully, and despite definite bruises and scrapes, she was safe. The thick material of the Earth Empire uniforms definitely took on most of the impact. Her glasses are gone, and her weary brown eyes fixate on Kuvira. “Thank you.” Kuvira doesn’t respond, but lets out another sigh and leans back against the wall of the cave. Her eyes fall on the empty whiteness outside the cave.

“Don’t thank me. I should’ve taken more safety precautions,” she muttered bitterly to herself. It was a mistake to go into Omashu blind. At this point she knows it was the previous king of Omashu who attacked her. No one else had known that they were arriving. The thought of being crossed made her jaw clench. They would not be getting away with this blatant terrorist attack on her train.

“Kuvira? Are you okay?” the voice cut through her negative thoughts. It was the genuine concern in Hiro’s voice that made Kuvira look up. She didn’t even realize that her hands had balled into fists and the small sliver of earth beneath them was shaking. Looking over, Hiro sat on her knees with a tentative gaze. She kept her hands firmly on her thighs, but she wrestled back and forth reaching out and holding Kuvira’s hand.

One side broke over and Kuvira felt the warmth of Hiro’s hand settle atop her clenched ones.

“I’m alright,” she let out a long shaky breath through her nose, slowly easing her nerves. The feeling of Hiro’s hand touching hers all at once put her at ease and made her nervous. “They are coming to rescue us now.”

Hiro shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, taking away the contact between them. It was quite cold and the harsh wind that occasionally passed made it worse. The adrenaline was wearing off now and Kuvira realized just how much of a dangerous predicament they were in. It was still the morning so there was plenty of light out, but if they weren’t found before sunset, they wouldn’t survive the night. Kuvira stood up abruptly, trying to peer up through the fog at anything. Even if she could launch herself up there, there was no way she could carry both of them all the way back up by herself. And there was to guarantee that there’d be another ledge stable enough to hold them. Right now she could only hope to be found.

---

Hours passed. Even though dusk was still many hours away, their ledge had become freezing. This whole time they were silent and sitting apart with what little space they could find between them. Hiro tried to keep her shaking to a minimum, not wanting to set off the other woman in any way. Hiro’s mind had been racing. Ever since the attack, she couldn’t ease her mind. Did that happen often? Kuvira seemed to be fairly calm about it. It didn’t occur to her before how dangerous being a leader of an empire could be.

“You’re going to get sick.” Kuvira reached out and offered a hand, making Hiro flush. When she didn’t move, Kuvira rolled her eyes. “You either come here and we try to salvage body heat or we both lose a few toes.”

Hesitantly Hiro obliged and pressed her body next to Kuvira’s, making them shoulder to shoulder. She resisted the way her body wanted to sink into the other woman’s unusually warm body as they leaned against the cave wall together. Kuvira’s hair had been let out completely now, and she felt it tickle against her skin.

She felt a shaky breath brush across her neck and she shivered, but this time not from the cold. Kuvira instinctively tucked in closer, making Hiro tense up. If it wasn’t awkward before, it was now with Kuvira’s face practically buried in her neck. Despite the warmth admitted from her, Kuvira’s face was freezing against Hiro’s skin.

“Please,” the word whispered past her ear. “If we’re going to survive this, we’re going to need each other.”

She sounded so sure of herself that they were going to be okay. It was the confidence that made Hiro finally relax into Kuvira’s body and let herself rest. She felt Kuvira’s body slouch as the woman drifted off to sleep. It was clear that carrying them up the precarious mountain had taken a lot out of Kuvira, and Hiro had mixed feelings about the situation they were in now.

She took a risk and reached out to hold Kuvira’s hand in hers as she let the exhaustion take her.

[jokertrap-ran]

(未定事件簿) EVENT! 「消失的黄金」 [Tears of Themis] EVENT: The Lost Gold Translations (Mo Yi Chapter 3-04: Temporary Camp)

“You've chosen to travel with me, therefore I am responsible for ensuring the safety of your passage throughout this journey. I cannot stomach putting you in danger whilst we wait for others to come rescue us.”

*Tears of Themis Masterlist is under construction. *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *(y/n) is your name when in direct referral; otherwise referred to as MC. *I’m finally done with Mister Psychiatrist’s route!!!  (´・ω・`)9

Location: Temporary Camp

It was already mid-day when Mo Yi and I finally got out of the Mountains.

We had made haste, rushing to the nearest camp overnight where our safety would be ensured. The sky was already bright by the time we arrived.

MC: I'm exhausted. I think if I were to weigh myself now... I'll be at a record low.

Mo Yi: The camp has Solar Water Heaters installed, so go take a hot bath and relieve yourself of the fatigue before getting some sleep.

MC: I still can't believe we "flew" across the cliffs like that, Dr. Mo! That was really exciting!

MC: I might be physically tired, but my mind's racing!

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

A few hours ago.

Location: Prison's Secret Passageway

A cliff lied outside the Prison's hidden trap door, the wooden planks leading to safety down below having long since rotted into oblivion. There was drop that ran a good many tens of meters from the cliff to the underground river that ran below it; jumping down directly was definitely out of the question, considering how unfeasible it would be.

MC: I remember you that you said something about how you're best at shooting on horseback out in the Wilderness?

Mo Yi: Indeed. So how could I possibly have not brought a bow and arrow with me when coming to a Deserted Island?

Mo Yi withdrew a foldable bow from his backpack.

The black bow was about the same size as a foldable umbrella when folded, but it spanned out to be the size of a common bow when opened.

MC: I never thought...

But how can a bow and arrow help get us out of here...?

A couple of scenarios floated into my mind, but they were all things that would only happen in Television and Film.

MC: Dr. Mo, surely you don't intend to tie something akin to a steel cable to the arrow and shoot it into the rock wall opposite us?

Mo Yi: Sometimes, I do wish you were a little dumber.

Mo Yi: How am I to make you happy if you can always figure out what I'm thinking inside this head of mine?

MC: I really wouldn't have guessed that you'd...

A warm palm fell atop my head, giving me a gentle pat.

Mo Yi: Give me a moment and we'll... Try out an exciting game.

Under my curious gaze, Mo Yi took out a coil of steel rope from his bag.  He fastened one end of it firmly to the iron bars of the fence in the room, and secured the other onto the end of his arrow.

Standing on the edge of the cliff, he drew his arrow and pulled back the string...

The lights of the Cell behind him illuminated his upright figure, his golden eyes fixated on the wall opposite us he stood between the light and the dark. He was searching, scanning the wall for a crevice that'd hold the arrow securely enough. But the aura he exuded...

It was akin to the arrival of a King, facing the masses, for even the current of the underground river seemed to have fallen silent at this moment in time.

I involuntarily held my breath.

MC: ......!

The arrow finally flew off the string of the bow. It whistled as it tore through the air, embedding itself firmly into a crack in the rock, at a height where one could easily drop to the river bank down below.

Mo Yi tested the strength of the newly constructed make-shift zipline before turning his head to me with a smile.

Mo Yi: It's done. I'll use the foldable bow as a makeshift zipline catch later, which we can use to glide over to the other side.

Mo Yi: You...I might have to impose on you by asking you to hold onto me while I glide us over.

MC: ......

I couldn't help but to feel my cheeks heat up at the mere thought of the position I'd be in if I heeded his words. But this was obviously not the time to be dawdling...

MC: I'll... I'll be in your hands then.

Securing my backpack on my person, I walked up to Mo Yi. I wrapped my arms around his neck a little hesitantly under his gentle, watchful gaze.

MC: Like this?

Mo Yi: A little lower; hug my shoulders and place your hands between my back and the backpack.

MC: Huh...

I adjusted my position accordingly, the end of my nose filled with his delectable fragrance.

Maybe the heat of his body amplified his scent, for smell of juniper berries was particularly distinct, coupled with the light and faint sweetness of roses.

Mo Yi: Hold on tighter; you can lean your head on my chest.

Mo Yi: You may shut your eyes if you're afraid, but from my calculations, it'll only be a few seconds at best.

I closed my eyes and listened as the winds whistled past my ear as we glided across. Perhaps it had been a mere couple of seconds, perhaps, even a century... before we landed onto the mountain on the other side.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

MC: Dr. Mo, didn't you land onto the Mountains back first when you glided us down? Are you hurt?

Mo Yi: You've already asked this many times before. Of course I'm fine; I even have a backpack attached to my back.

MC: I was so nervous and filled with adrenaline back then that I couldn't think straight, but now...That was a little scary, now that I think of it.

MC: Maybe we should have just called for rescue instead of risking our lives like that.

Mo Yi: That is indeed a much more logical and safer method, but I, for one, cannot simply accept that.

MC: Huh?

Mo Yi: You've chosen to travel with me, therefore I am responsible for ensuring the safety of your passage throughout this journey.

Mo Yi: I cannot stomach putting you in danger whilst we wait for others to come rescue us.

Mo Yi: But of course, I'm not fiercely adamant about it. I'd undoubtedly choose to call for rescue if I had failed to find us both a way to get out of a pickle.

MC: This is the first time I'm ever seeing such a childish side to you, Dr. Mo.

Mo Yi: I'm just fond of keeping appearances in front of you.

Mo Yi: But, I did consider other factors aside from that.

Mo Yi: The whereabouts of the gold is still unclear, and the location we were in was not part of the area that the Event dictates. I was afraid that news of the gold would leak if we were to call for rescue without a second thought.

Mo Yi: There are still many Treasure Hunters atop this Island at this current moment in time. It might only serve to cause more chaos if they were to learn that there is gold on the Island.

MC: That's true; and we don't know where Wang Xian has gone off to either...

Before I could finish speaking, I heard Emergency Personnel shouting at the entrance of the Camp.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Mo Yi and I rushed over, only to find that the person being carried in on a stretcher was none other than Wang Xian himself.

MC: His shoulder...is that a gunshot wound?

I knelt in front of the stretcher, looking at Wang Xian. His face was pale, covered in cold sweat. He had lost all color on his lips and his expression seemed to be scrunched up in pain.

Mo Yi: I've asked someone from the Emergency Team; he was shot and lost too much blood.

Mo Yi: They had apparently been alerted by a group of Treasure Hunters.

Mo Yi: They'll be transferring him to the Base Camp after giving him Emergency Treatment here.

MC: Did he get into a scuffle with Dong Hechuan?

Mo Yi: I asked in regards to that on the Encrypted Channel just now. It looks like the person he encountered was not Dong Hechuan, but Lin Dahai.

MC: Lin Dahai!? Did they have grievances between them?

Mo Yi: Not at all. I'm guessing that they were both being used by Dong Hechuan.

Mo Yi: Moreover, Zuo Ran said that Wang Xian had left something at the scene of the conflict; and that Lin Dahai has sustained injuries as well.

MC: It appears that we have to make haste to meet up with the others at Base Camp, if we are to get a proper grasp of this matter and clarify the ins and outs of everything.

Mo Yi: Don't worry. It'll take a while to get Wang Xian's injuries treated so use this opportunity to take a break.

Mo Yi: We'll make haste to Base Camp, Godspeed, once you're well rested.

☆⋅⋆…⋅─────────── ⋆⋅✾⋅⋆ ───────────⋅…⋆⋅☆

Previous Part: (Mo Yi 3-03: Abandoned Prison) | Next Part: (Chapter 4-01: Seaside Ferry)

[intersex-ionality]

What follows is a continuation of this discussion with @korrasera .I’m unclear on whether korrasera wants to continue talking about the matter, and that thread is itself extremely long. So, I’m making a new post to explore the matter further and explain my reasoning.

Brooklyn 99 is a magnificent show that portrays black men as wholly rounded, sympathetic characters. That portrays Latina women as diverse and intelligent. That portrays the exhaustion of being a Jew in a Christian society with grace and humour. That portrays the complexities and hurdles of queer life, without turning queerness into a tragedy.

All of these things are true, and all of them are good.

And all of this goodness comes from police.

The show consistently, relentlessly, presents police as good people who sometimes get caught up in a bad or corrupt system.

In fact, these police are so good that they can single-handedly counter the entire history of police violence in the lives of the people around them.

Let’s begin with Captain Holt’s husband, Kevin.

When introduced, Kevin is cold, passive-aggressive, and generally unpleasant towards the police his husband works with. This is portrayed as a terrible character flaw which he must ultimately overcome.

It’s revealed that his distaste for Holt’s coworkers is because for the last 40 years, they have been destroying Holt’s life and their marriage, through sustained, relentless bigotry, both racism and homophobia. But, you see, those were the bad cops. Good cops like the show’s main characters would never do something so horrible.

Therefore, Kevin's perfectly justified, and frankly, correct discomfort around police is a flaw that he needs to fix, and that he is ultimately able to fix when the good cops prove to him that, actually, those other cops were just some bad apples and there are good apples too (and please don’t pay any attention to the fact that bad apples spread rot so quickly through an entire warehouse).

It is only once he gives up his completely justified distrust of people who have been destroying his family for decades, that he is seen as a compassionate and caring character. Only once he accepts that Not All Cops Are Like That does he become the empathetic and kind character we see in later seasons.

There are people who believe, wholeheartedly, that because B99 shows that there are bad cops in the world, it cannot be pro-police. But, most people in the world don’t think all cops are good people, just that most cops are, and that when police violate human rights, they do so for a justified reason. A reason like imprisoning murderers or removing other, corrupt cops from the force.

The reasons that the main characters of B99 also always have for their actions. In the narratives of B99, when police violate human rights, they are always justified in doing so.

When Captain Holt makes a deal to help a mob boss, rather than facing any meaningful consequences for this action, his whole precinct joins together to cover up the deal. They do so by “ensuring” that the mob boss can’t do any harm to anyone. But, they nonetheless engage in a department-wide cover-up of police corruption. This is portrayed positively, as a coming together for the team.

The fact that the department reveals and overcomes other forms of police corruption on sere to prove that when these cops, the good cops do it, it’s justified. It’s righteous. Because they are doing it for good reasons, not bad ones.

When Holt and Jake take recording and observation hardware from the precinct without permission (this is theft, this equipment is stolen), and use it to trick someone into making a confession on tape, then use this recording as a bartering chip to get the criminal to do what they want, this too is justified narrative. They don’t have another choice! Besides, undisclosed recording is legal in New York (though, blackmailing people with those recordings is still illegal, and so is stealing police grades observation equipment, but don’t pay that any mind).

And just in case that early-season blackmail story-line wasn’t enough, the latest season ends with almost beat for beat the same blackmail story-line, except this time the recording equipment isn’t stolen. Instead, a confidential cell phone is illegally cloned and used as evidence to blackmail the chief of police into stepping down. But it’s okay for the heroes to steal the private property of a public figure because he’s a bad guy and they’re doing it for the right reasons.

And, if you’re already inclined to think positively about police, then, when in the real world you see someone do the same thing, you might be just that little bit more willing to believe that their justifications make up for it. Because, again and again, even on exceptionally progressive, well-crafted shows like B99, when the “good cops” engage in flagrant violations of human rights, they’re doing it for the right reasons. They’re working outside the law, but it’s okay because we can trust them to ignore the safety protocols.

Any time the narrative discusses the rightful consequences the main characters should face for these absurd miscarriages of justice, they are proven to have been right all along. Jake goes to prison for being a “corrupt cop” because he is framed by a much worse policeman. But the things he’s framed for are all things he has actually done. Breaking the chain of evidence, taking restricted materiel out of lock-up, keeping confidential case records in his home instead of in the records rooms. He’s “framed” in that we, as the audience, know he did those things for “the right reasons.”

And that gives people a reasonable doubt, when a real-world corrupt cop does all the same things, except he actually is doing them for the sake of corruption. Because we have been primed to see those actions as “technically against the rules, but only if you’re a bad guy.” And the cops on B99 aren’t bad guys. They’re the good cops! The progressive ones! The compassionate ones!

The ones who lock sex workers up in & make fun of them for having STIs. But it’s fine when the good cops do it, again and again, as a recurring gag. Because, hey, they’re diverse!

When Jake Peralta keeps a man trapped in an interrogation room for almost a full 24 hours without sleep or food and screams loud, relentless music at him, lies to him about what they know, threatens a young black man with jail time to force a confession out of him?

Sleep deprivation, isolation, exposure to loud noises, threats, all of these are forms of torture. But Jake’s right. The man was a murderer. And technically, those tortures are legal, so it’s fine. Jake himself, in the episode, talks about how it’s actually really fucked up that he can do all of these things. And then he does them anyway and is rewarded for it.

Again and again, the show says, “police malpractice and violence is bad,” and again and again, it tacks on, “except when our protagonists do it because they're doing it for the right reasons.” The thesis of the show could easily be described as, “police malpractice is a horrible crime that must be overcome., and the only way to overcome it is with more police malpractice.”

And that feeds directly into people believing that when the cops in their home town do something horrible, they were probably justified too. Because the police in their town are “the good ones” too.

This isn’t like anti-shippers with their proclamations that fan-fiction is making people think raping children is totally a good thing. As a general rule, it’s accepted in our culture that raping children is fucking heinous. Fan-fiction isn’t going to stand up in the face of that. In fact, it’s so accepted that actual science doesn’t stand up in the face of it (what a great time to remind everyone that most rape of children is not perpetrated because of sexual attraction but because of violent power-seeking behaviour, the same as any other type of rape, and pretending otherwise makes it harder to combat this specific form of rape).

The general opinion of policing in the US, however, is positive. The consensus of most people is that “most cops are good, it’s just a few bad apples who need to be thrown out before they rot the rest of the barrel.” B99 espouses that exact same message. It completely matches the general perspective of police in the US. And for people who already hold those views because they’re the dominant ideological framework? Shows like B99 reinforce them. For people who are on the fence, shows like B99 make supporting police even when they’re miscarrying justice and abusing human rights, seem normal.

Pretending that this unfortunate truth is just “overly simplistic” and an attempt to silence discussion is wildly misrepresenting the facts of the show, the fandom, and the way propaganda works.

Propaganda is biased media that influences other people to share those same biases. And while most of B99’s biases are positive, and most of its goals are laudable, the fact of the matter is, it’s a show where cops are the heroes. Full stop. There are bad cops, too, but the heroes of the show are the police. And their heroic actions are justified, no matter how extrajudicial or immoral they are. Their ends always justify their means, because they’re the heroes.

B99 is magnificent as a piece of representative media. It strives to make the world a better place!

It also does so by portraying cops as the ones making the world a better place even when they’re behaving immorally.

Both of these things are true, and in fact, it is the excellence of the show as a whole that makes it such compelling police propaganda.

ETA: For whatever reason, korrasera is now claiming that I blocked her so that she would not have the chance to respond to this post. That’s incorrect. I have not blocked korrasera, and she is welcome to respond if she likes, just as you all are. I’m happy to continue this discussion if you all like.

I misunderstood that post, but nonetheless, I’m open to continuing this discussion.

[justsomeartsthings]

Print Me A House And Home

Summary: Sans breaks the lab’s printers while Alphys is away. With a little applied quantum theory, this somehow leads to his boss becoming his flatmate. Pre-Sanster, Sans POV, Fluff (with a sprinkle of Angst).

.

“ya gotta be kiddin’ me.” 

You rap your knuckles on the side of the printer. There’s a click and a foreboding thump from inside. You take a cautious step back, hands raised. 

“uh. hey, doc, is al in today?”

No response. You glance into the empty office behind you.

“boss?”

No dice.

“…i’m stealing your snacks. speak now or forever hold your chisps.”

Nada.

“your loss, dude.”

You snag the bag of popato chisps off of his desk and pop them open. The noise is like a firecracker set off inside your skull.

…Still ix-nay on the eleton-skay.

You toss a few chisps past your teeth and knock on the printer again. No one home. Not even a suspicious ticking noise. Lame.

You’re halfway through the chisps bag, tapping an absent rhythm on the printer, when there’s footsteps and the rustling of papers in the hallway. A few seconds later, Dr. W. D. Gaster strides through the doorway, head bowed. It’s a rare candid moment; he’s too engrossed in the notebook in his hands to notice you.

You watch him for a bit, debating whether to spook him.

“‘sup.”

To his credit, he doesn’t physically startle. He does snap his notebook shut, abruptly alert. “Sans. What are you…?”

“had to use your printer.” You extend the open pop bag. “chisp?”

He doesn’t even check to see if they’re his. He takes one. “The vending machine is two floors down.”

“eh. too far.”

“You could use the elevator.”

“why bother. it’s just gonna let me down.”

“Mm. And I suppose you’ve vetoed the stairs because they are ‘up to something’.”

“hey. don’t knock my jokes. they’re hy-stair-ical.” You crumple the empty chisp bag and toss it at Gaster, who catches it and drops it in the bin. “is alphys clocking in anytime soon?”

“She’s at a seminar in New Home. She won’t be back for another four hours.” He places the notebook on his desk. “Is there something wrong with your own printer?”

“yup. i tried to print a report of some results for an experiment this morning. somethin’ went wrong, think i jammed it. figured i’d use yours.”

His eyelights snap to the printer. “And it’s jammed mine as well?”

You chuckle. Break into the man’s office under printing problem pretenses, and watch him squirm. Give him a printer to fix, he’ll hyperfixate on it so hard he almost seems sane.

“looks like it. same thing happened to al’s printer, too.”

“That would explain why I couldn’t print my notes a few hours ago.” He approaches the machine, huffing. “It’s only Tuesday, and you’ve already managed to break all three of our printers.”

“i call it a magic touch.”

“I find it highly unlikely you would ever employ percussive maintenance. Especially of the bullet pattern variety.”

“heh heh. point taken.” You shrug. “wrong on the first count, though. i gave ‘em a few love taps.”

“Mm. Bandages are on my desk.”

“cute. i can take a printer, old man, and i could take you.”

“That would put you at two counts of theft and one of kidnapping. Tread carefully.” He removes the back panel of the printer and peers inside. “That’s peculiar. This experiment report— was it for the causality trials?”

“just the test run.”

“And your printer has the same kind of jam?”

“same jelly, same jar.”

“It appears to be routine.”

“bread n’butter.”

“It looks fried.”

“that’s probably a doughboy, then.”

“It can’t be a coincidence.”

“i didn’t say coincidence, i said doughboy.”

He snaps out of his thoughts at that. “What? What’s ‘doughboy?’”

“uh, s’like pre-bread? don’t call me ‘boy’.”

“I didn’t—” He shakes his head, baffled. “What in Asgore’s name are you going on about?”

“the printer. you sure you know what you’re doin’?”

He shoots you a glare just before shoving his hands all up in the printer’s mechanical guts. “I’m a highly skilled engineer who just so happened to design and construct the self-sustaining generator which the entire Underground, including this lab, runs on. I can handle a jammed printer.”

“ok, jeez, doc. no point tryin’ to print receipts, the printer’s already doughboy-ed.”

Gaster doesn’t reply, but after a few moments of tinkering, he does squint in a concerning manner. “Hm.”

“hm?”

“Hm.”

“i’m no printer engineer, but ‘hm’ doesn’t sound like a technical term.”

“It is when I say it.” And, well, he’s got you there. “It appears Alphys has been printing Mew Mew Kissy Cutie posters on her work printer.”

“uh,” you say. “what? how do you know?”

In response, Gaster pulls out an impossibly large poster from the back of the printer. It’s slightly crumpled, due to its dimensions being bigger than the printer could ever realistically print, and even laminated, which you’re pretty sure Gaster’s printer can’t do.

“Something tells me we will find your test results in Alphys’ printer, and my notes from this morning in yours.”

“woah. you’re kiddin’. scoot over,” you say, sidling up to him to peer inside the printer’s exposed mechanics. “you think alphys’ printer and my printer are superposed in yours?”

“Potentially.”

“that’s… uh,” you say. “impractical.”

“To say the least.”

“alphys is gonna have a field day with this when she gets back.”

“I’m sure the eventual clutter of dismantled printers will speak for itself.”

“heh. i gotta say, i’m kinda disappointed. i expected superposition to sound a lot more chaotic.”

He makes an assenting noise. You look over at him, and then nearly do a double-take. You didn’t notice before, but he’s as tense as a compressed spring, very intently inspecting the Mew Mew Kissy Cutie poster. Or, more likely, very deliberately not looking at you. 

Upon second glance, you are a lot closer to him than you reasonably need to be.

“heh. whoops. my bad,” you say, stepping to the side. “didn’t mean to crowd you.”

“…Not at all,” he says quietly, then clears his throat. He puts the back panel over the printer again and straightens up. “We should, er, go check the other printers. Just in case.”

“sure,” you say.

“Good,” he says.

“great,” you say.

And you go.

It’s kind of funny, this sort of dance the two of you have fallen into. Stepping on eggshells, tiptoeing around each other at work. Ignoring that you’ve got a crush on him. That he’s got a gigantic crush on you. It’s ridiculous, and hilarious, mainly because he’s centuries old and you’re, well, not.

For whatever reason, whether he’s worried about being deemed a cradle robber or a douchebag boss, or something else entirely, he hasn’t made a move on you yet. But hey, that’s fine by you. You’ve got all the time in the world.

Though you do hope it won’t actually take him that long.

“It will be faster if we split up,” he says, once you reach the intersecting hallway between your office and Alphys’. He starts to take off by himself, leaving you behind.

You reach out and grab his wrist.

“hang on a sec. if you’re right about superposition—”

“It’s very likely that I am.”

“then you realize checking the printers separately could affect the outcome. ‘that which is observed is changed’, n’all that?”

“Well, yes. But it may be an inevitability anyway,” he says. “And even so, the replication of this event is statistically extremely unlikely. This may be our only chance to see whether our theory of personal observation holds true.”

“but it’ll kill the control variable, won’t it? we already saw your printer—”

“Oh, it could, most certainly— but not if our current theories of quantum entanglement hold true.”

“quantum—? for a whole printer? boss, we’re years away from proving that particle entanglement exists on the subatomic scale, never mind above it.”

“Not once we check the printers, we won’t be,” he points out. “There’s a chance the only way to trigger binding entanglement at such a large scale is through unrelated proofs.”

Unrelated—?

And, oh. 

You’re physically incapable of gaping, but the sentiment must show in your eyelights, because he grins down at you, the smug bastard.

“All caught up?”

“we’ll know entanglement can occur if our personal observations affect the outcomes of a superimposed subject— and if it doesn’t, we’ll have potentially disproven three separate quantum theories at once, since each cannot exist without the other. it’s… extremely assumptive and unreliable science—”

“Unless it works.”

“uh, no, i’m pretty sure it’s still unorthodox and totally fallible,” you say. “but hey. personal confirmation’s gotta count for somethin’, right?”

He laughs, bright and clear. “Yes, yes, I suppose. In a sense.”

“well, then, in a sense, it’s genius.”

More than genius, really. And Gaster knows it is, going by the look on his face. For a moment, time slows, and you take in his eyelights, fuzzy and dilated. How his entire silhouette brims with restrained excitement. Riding on the high that comes just before a dramatic breakthrough.

And yeah, maybe there’s more important things at hand, but god, he’s beautiful when he gets like this.

“heh. how ‘bout we save the ego inflation until after we get results,” you say. The cusp of quantum discovery isn’t the time or place for mutual, unspoken workplace crushes.

“Right. Then we’ll meet back here as soon as possible,” Gaster says, and turns to go—

Only to be yanked back by your hand, clasped tightly in his.

Oh.

You stare at your joined hands, soul fluttering. His fingers are intertwined with yours, slender phalanges and thick knuckles complementing each other like a welded whole.

At some point, you must’ve let go of his wrist and taken his hand instead. You hadn’t even noticed.

“uh. eheh. whoops.” You let go and try to pull away. But Gaster’s hand doesn’t budge. “doc?”

He’s as still as a statue, his eyelights focused somewhere over your shoulder. A flighty feeling grows in your bones the longer you have his hand in yours. 

And then he says, quietly: “Have you been sleeping here, Sans?”

Your soul wrenches itself in another direction.

“what?”

Gaster gestures behind you with his other hand, but you don’t turn to look. In a rush, it comes to you, what he must be looking at. 

You’d had a long night, then a rough morning with Pap. This afternoon, you weren’t as careful as you usually are. You remember leaving your office door open, and, like the idiot you are, you remember leaving out your sleeping bag, your cheap diner food wrappers, your half-sharpied sneakers. And then you got so caught up in causality, your experiment, and printing those results— 

You forgot to hide your mess.

Fuck.

“You’ve been sleeping here overnight.”

“it’s not, uh,” you begin weakly, but it really is what it looks like. And judging by the way Gaster hasn’t torn his eyelights from your mess, he knows it. 

There’s no point making a fool out of yourself by lying. 

But that doesn’t mean you don’t hate the way your voice goes quiet without your consent. 

“…it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“What about your brother— Papyrus? Is he—?”

“no. god, no. trust me, you’d know if pap was loose in this place,” you chuckle a little desperately. “he stays with a couple of friends in new home while i work. temporarily, y’know. just while we’re between houses.”

“Between houses,” Gaster echoes, finally looking down at you again. It’s fine. You’re fine. “I locked down the lab last weekend— were you on the streets for that time?”

“nah, we, uh. heh.” You clear your throat. Look to the wall. Shove your free hand in your pocket. 

Anything to distract from the fact that you can’t keep your voice steady.

You’ve never talked about it to anyone before. Out loud. You didn’t expect it to be this difficult. And it doesn’t help that Gaster doesn’t give you an out. He just stares at you, expectant. You have no idea how to read the expression he’s wearing. 

So you gather yourself and let your mouth run like a loose motor.

“we house-hopped for a while, ‘til we could make it to snowdin. there’s a place out there i’ve been savin’ up for. real spacious, real cheap. y’know. somethin’ decent we can handle the mortgage for with my salary. and the guy who owns it wanted to meet up anyway. so th’ timing worked out.”

“Sans—”

“it’s fine, doc. really. trust me. been doin’ this since i could remember,” And it is fine. The more you talk, the less he’ll hear. You’ll be fine, as long as you don’t let him speak. “listen, i’ll pack it all up when i clock out, i’ve got friends we can bunk with—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—i can make it work, but, uh, y’know, i’m sorry i—”

“Sans.” He squeezes your hand, tight. Your soul scales your throat and smothers your protests. “You’re staying in my apartment until the house is yours.”

You blink up at him, uncomprehending.

“Asgore rents the place out to me, as per our contract. I can assure you, you would not be imposing.”

Slowly, the words start to trickle in. Imposing. In his apartment.

He wants you to stay. With him. In his apartment.

“oh,” you say. Like an idiot.

“It’s fully stocked, and more than big enough to house you, your brother, and I.”

The mention of Papyrus is enough to get your thoughts moving again.

“wh— uh. hang on. slow down, doc. i can’t do that.” He doesn’t reply. You shake your head, even as some part of you starts to settle into the idea. A house, regular meals. Gaster sleeping in the neighboring room. “no, no, c’mon. i’m serious.”

“As am I.”

He is. And you hate that. You hate that he’s serious. 

You hate that you want him to be serious.

Now you can’t stop yourself from considering it. Your thoughts run ahead of you, wondering what you’d be able to do if you weren’t constantly worrying about food on the table or the roof overhead. What a relief it would be to have a stable home life, not in a few years, not in a few months, but now.

No more bed hopping, or borrowing clothes. No more stretches of time spent starving in dank alleyways.

No need to worry about transportation to the lab or to wherever Pap ends up staying during the work day.

And not just that, but someone to secure it for you. Someone you know for a fact won’t toss you out at the drop of a pin, who won’t hold it over your head, or pander ulterior motives. 

Someone who doesn’t think you’re a disgusting excuse for a monster.

It sounds too good to be true.

And to top it all off, here Gaster is, looking at you like he knows he’s offering you dinners and bedtimes and breakfasts and domestic things and stability and a normal life that you could never get on your own merit.

And the only objection you can think of is:

“doesn’t that break some sort of— i dunno, fraternization rule, or something?”

Gaster blinks down at you. You’re slightly relieved to see his expression change into something more familiar.

“We are a collective twenty steps away from an immense scientific discovery that could redefine the way we conceptualize reality itself,” he says, “and you’re worried about fraternization.”

Which, okay, that’s a little unfair.

“doc, we’re twenty steps away from an immense scientific discovery, and you wanna argue about where i sleep at night.”

He takes a breath to argue, then cants his head. “You have a point.”

“don’t i.”

“This can wait.”

“can’t it.”

“I suppose we should… get on with it.”

“uh-huh.” You swallow around the lump in your throat. “as soon as you let go of my hand.”

“Oh. Right. Yes.” He releases your hand a little sheepishly. Centuries, you have to remind yourself. “Apologies.”

“don’t sweat it.”

As soon as he starts moving, you turn heel and make a beeline for your office. 

You shut the door behind you and slide down the back of it until your knees hit your chest. Then you tuck your head between your legs and you breathe.

You’re fine. It’s fine. You just— you need a minute. Just a minute. In a few seconds, you’ll open your eyesockets, and you’ll be fine.

Alone. Safe.

Fine.

You open your eyes.

Your mess awaits you, splayed at your ankles. It spirals far into the room like an extension of yourself. You stare at it with the appropriate amount of disgust.

Strewn wrappers, unwashed laundry. Empty bottles and cans you planned to sell for a couple G apiece. You never left any of it out during the daytime before. Not where the stark laboratory overhead lights strip it of nighttime’s leniency. Right now, it’s all there, laid bare for the world to see.

It’s just things. Fabric and plastic and glass and other meaningless things. 

It is what it is, but it’s not. It’s more than that.

And you know, if it would’ve been Alphys, it would’ve been easier. Because you’re not ashamed of your situation. Really. It sucks, but it happens. You get that. She would get that. It’s just. You just didn’t want anyone to know. You didn’t want Gaster to know. 

You didn’t want Gaster to look at your things and see more than just quirks or weird habits. But he did. Almost too quickly. He saw right through you. 

You wouldn’t have pegged him for a monster who has fallen on hard times. Not like you have.

But it happens. You get that.

So…

So maybe you have less to worry about than you thought.

You swipe at your eyesockets and take to your feet. Either way, you shouldn’t dwell on it, not now. Not when you have work to do. 

...Not when you have three quantum theories to potentially disprove, what in Asgore’s name are you doing?

Your printer is just as you left it on your desk. You loop around the back of it, kicking a stray ketchup bottle out of your way, and take off the panel without a hitch.

No Mew Mew Kissy Cutie poster in sight. Small mercies. You plunge your hand into the printer’s depths.

“yahtzee,” you mutter under your breath, once you’re elbow-deep. 

Anticipation sneaks past your defenses, as you pull out the piece of paper touching your fingertips. Your shambles of a home life aside, this is a big moment. You should be enjoying it.

You shake out the page, flatten it against your desk, and quickly scour its contents.

...It’s Gaster’s notes. In his handwriting, scanned and copied and printed.

Unwittingly, you start to re-crumple the paper between your fingers. The mess in your office melts away, suddenly distant and small in comparison to the realization cresting your thoughts— the mantra ringing through your head over and over like the chiming of the Judgement Hall’s bells— 

He did it.

He was right.

Superposition, entanglement, personal observation— everything. He was right.

You don’t get the chance to bolt out of your office— he meets you at your door. You swing it open, blustered by the draft, and hold up Gaster’s notes. He starts laughing before you even see your experiment report in his hands.

“holy shit,” you breathe.

“Indeed.”

“holy shit.”

“I am treating both you and your brother to dinner tonight,” Gaster pants, slapping the report into your hands. “Until then, we can discuss a more suitable salary for your expenses. Come evening, we’ll pick up Papyrus…”

He keeps talking, but you can’t process a word of what he’s saying. It doesn’t occur to you that you probably just got a raise, or that you won’t be dumpster diving tonight, or even that you’ve somehow completely accepted the fact that you’ll be roommates with your boss for the foreseeable future.

None of it matters, because Gaster is grinning, eyesockets wide, breath stolen from wonder, his hands planted firmly on your shoulders. He looks barely in control of himself.

You can’t believe you thought he was beautiful before. You’ve never seen him look at you like this.

You don’t want him to stop.

Eventually, however, he realizes you aren’t listening to a word he’s saying. So he stops talking, rolls his eyelights, and abruptly turns around to lead the way back to his office.

You blink after his receding outline, still blinded by the afterimage of his expression. Something brushes your side, and you look down.

One of his conjured hands is clutching yours. The asymmetry of the grip is just as perfectly aligned as it was with his real hand. 

You give the mimic a squeeze. It squeezes back.

With one last look at the chaos of your office, you shut your door behind you and drift along in Gaster’s wake, smiling.

.

AO3

[spiffypony]

Some thoughts on amateurism and “high performance” in sport

Alright @thehorsethief and @sanddancingwithanxiety, I have a 5 hour layover and no desire to do real work so here goes. Also fair warning, chrome isn’t playing nice w tumblr on my computer so this is all from mobile.

First let’s define a few things. 1) an amateur is someone who participates (in this case) in a sport without receiving any substantial compensation in the way of goods or currency. 2) high performance is a modifier referring time athletes, programs, strategies etc at the top of their sport (the highest level/most competitive/what have you). 3) a professional athlete is someone who participates in a sport for compensation, often from sponsors.

Additionally, this is coming from my own experience as an amateur equestrian, highschool varsity athlete (basketball and powerlifting), and NCAA Division III athlete (rowing). I am not a professional, I have never been, and, and this is something I’m going to emphasize: I’m not a high performance athlete. While my experience with amateurism in sports runs the gambit from v casual to quite structured, and I do participate in a program that prioritizes competitive success, I really want to be clear, I am not the pinnacle of amateur athlete.

Now then, something I see in a lot of (highschool) programs and a mindset that seems pretty common amongst horsblr is people believing themselves (or their children) in their athletic pursuits to be on a path to or on par with high performance athletes, often pros in the horse world. This is usually an inaccurate notion and in highschool sports it leads to parents pushing their kids into toxic and/or overbearing programs where kids end up burnt out or permanently injured or both before they could ever reach the desired outcome (often getting monetary assistance for college). This affects parents, it affects coaches and it fucks kids up. I have lots of feelings on it having been through it and having witnessed it, but that’s another post quite frankly. In the equestrian world, it is the primary fodder of self identified underdogs and outcasts. In the equestrian world it seems to translate into an overly high regard for one’s own knowledge and training program. This is ultimately less damaging than the highschool case generally. Also as a note here, participation in sports, and especially equestrian sports is a huge privilege of time, money, and location, and participation at a high performance level is even more so and lack of privilege is a major limitation to most people’s participation. That doesn’t diminish the importance of this conversation though.

To give an idea of what I mean, I’m going to compare the commitments of collegiate rowing to dressage in my own life. We’ll start with dressage, currently it’s in the backburner because I’m a college kid with no money and less time, I take lessons with a trainer who has a good name and has proven themself in competition and with other students weekly when I’m home. When I had a horse, I rode 3-4 times a week when I was home (about 4 months out of the year) and at school I take lessons through a club at a h/j barn for about 8 weeks a semester. In highschool I rode 2/3 times a week and spent another 2/3 hours a week on education for dressage. This adds up to an average of ~10 hours a week when you include transit time, it’s easily down to 6 or 7 if you cut the drive time out though. Additionally, dressage didn’t impact much outside of itself in my life, I was already lifting for powerlifting and rowing and it never had an effect on my diet, sleep schedule, or life rhythm. I’d say that this level of commitment is about average, and I don’t mean to disparage it, I love dressage and I do want to consistently improve in it and build skill in it. But that’s nothing compared to rowing. Rowing has two seasons a year, a 6 week season in the fall and an 8 week season in the spring. In season I have morning practice 5 or 6 days a week with one day also having an afternoon weights session and another being back to back practice and weights, so average 8 hours of practice a week, and that’s rounding down. Now add regattas (meets), they are invariably 5+ hour events, and in the spring we have them every weekend, so I’m up to an average 13 hours a week in season. Out of season we have captains practices. 5 days a week, so 5 hours a week. Additionally mid semester breaks we practice between 1.5 and 2 times as much. And over summer and winter break, we’re expected to work out 4 days a week. And that’s just pure practice time. Rowing isn’t like dressage, I get up at 5 am for practices, so I have to go to bed before 11 or I fall asleep in classes, I’m doing Hard physical exercise daily, so I have to make sure I’m not only eating enough, but eating well. Having regattas means I can’t pick up work shifts on the weekends usually. Hour wise it’s double what dressage is, at their most intense, but it’s also a more sustained substantial commitment and it has a material effect in most aspects of my life (food, sleep, work, free time). Oh, and my rowing program? It’s DIII, it’s Collegiate AthleticsLite™️. They can’t even give athletes scholarship for being on the team.

Real high performance athletes are always training, their diets, their sleep schedules, and everything else in their lives revolve around their sport. It’s why NCAA DI sports are rife controversy about whether the technically amateur athletes should be able to receive compensation. Those horror stories you’ve heard about college athletes? That’s DI. The football coaches who make more than double a professor’s salary? That’s DI. NCAA DI Sports are almost without exception high performance programs. They obtain and produce athletes who are at the top of their sport and the consequence of that is that the sport is the athlete’s life.

To be clear, not all equestrian pros are high performance athletes. Even if we rightfully exclude the “pros” who teach beginner lessons to offset board or who schooled the problem lesson horses in their youth, there’s a huge proportion of equestrian pros (specifically trainers and riders) who compete primarily at lower levels and provide basic guidance and safety to their clients. But like high performance athletes, regardless of the level of the sport, the truth remains that for pros, as with high performance athletes, the sport is their life. It’s literally how they live. They certainly do it at a greater scale and more frequently than most of their amateur clients. This has gotten rather lengthy, but really the point is this: if you do not compete at the highest level, you are Not a high performance athlete and quite frankly there’s nothing wrong with that, realistically, you probably don’t want to be a high performance athlete.

What is bad is equating yourself with a high performance athlete. It sets you up for disappointment and digs you into a pit of self pity that’s very difficult to dig out of. In dressage in particular one must be careful, because if one fancies themself on par with a pro, one will be let down always and may eventually determine that the guidelines of the sport they’ve pursued are wrong and be driven from the sport rather than learning to set reasonable goals and balance desired progress with leisure. To be clear, falling into the pit of self pity so to speak is not a moral failing, it’s a mis judgement. And it’s one most people make at some point in their life. Certainly it can have bad consequences, like a loss of drive to critically analyze ones own actions and a tendency to reject any actual outside input, but these things are temporary and are best overcome not through self brutalizations but through careful, constant consideration of the context of our participation in sport.

Now for the actual point: this has an application to conversations about high performance in sport. Namely: your experience as a non high performance athlete is of limited if any significance to such discussions. The things said and suggested in those conversations are also of limited application to your pursuit of your sport. Charlotte Dujardin’s hand tailored Pilates routine is going to do a low level rider whose only exercise is riding about as much good as going for a jog a couple times a week. Michael Jung’s favorite bit in the hands of a novice eventer on their packer is not going to shave even seconds off a xc run. Likewise, just because you wouldn’t run your bucket list foal through a jump chute at a year old doesn’t mean it’s inappropriate for a breeder advertising to higher performance athletes than you to do so on occasion. So. Stop comparing yourselves to high performance athletes. Stop pretending high performance athletes participate the way you do. You are not them. You cannot fathom being them. There’s nothing wrong with your current level of participation but for your own sake, stop equating yourself with that. Accept that your trainer gets the best out of your horse because they are on a different level than you. Accept that you cannot understand the practices of a horse pro through the context of your own experience. When you read prescriptive posts about how to be a better horse person that frustrate you think: “is this targeted at someone of my participation level” no? Move on.

Anyways I’m done now.

Tldr: A lot of equestrians are very casual in their participation if their chosen sport which is fine, good even. This means their experiences are not comparable to pros and those at the highest level. Equating ones casual participation with that of those at the highest level can cause distress to ones self as well as hinder their progress. Additionally it can cause one to make a fool of themself. For the sake of your own enjoyment take stock if your participation level and keep it in mind when setting goals, seeking advice and judging the choices of other athletes.

[bazzybelle]

Carry On Countdown - Day Eleven

Notes: So… I wrote this story (the first half) during one of my spirals. Go find my WLW fic if you’re that curious, I don’t want to word-vomit about my mental health again. I had originally wanted to just keep the first half, but @fight-surrender helped me to find a little hope (some that I was missing, to be honest).  

Lyrics/title are from the song “Let It Be” by The Beatles. This is my favourite song and never fails to help me cry out my emotions and help me calm down when I’m too in my own head. It’s what’s playing in the background, as I try to make sense of the jumbled words/emotions bouncing around up there. 

Also, a disclaimer, I am aware that everyone’s experience with depression is different. I am coming at this fic based on my own personal experiences and spirals. 

All my love go to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for talking me through this fic and encouraging me to post it despite its grim tone; to @fight-surrender for listening to me during my thought spirals and for being a beacon during my dark moments (also, for giving me the idea to add some hope/reflection into the story); and to my husband who makes me tea when I’m sad and doesn’t push me to talk about my sadness and has been nothing but supportive though my journey of returning to writing. 

I’m also gonna give love to @giishu and @f-ing-ruthless-baz because my newfound friendship with them has given me life. Thank you.

I’m working at being ok. Love to you all. Be kind to yourselves and to each other. 

If you’re going through a hard time, I send you love and support. My inbox is always open to talk/cry/laugh about stupidities. 

TW: Depression, thoughts of worthlessness. Suicidal thoughts.

Day 11 Prompt: Angst Day

Title: Let It Be

________________________________________________________________

When the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow, let it be.  

SIMON

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa. 

That way, I can’t muck up anything more than what I’ve already mucked up.

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa. 

That way, I don’t have to see the looks of pity and sadness on Baz’s and Penny’s faces. That way, Baz won’t have to look at me and realize that I’m not worth his time. I’m not worth anyone’s time.

It’s better if I lay here on the sofa. 

That way, the constant light and hum of the television can help numb me of whatever I’m feeling inside. 

Useless, wasted, worthless…

A fraud, a phony, a fake. 

The colours outside my window turn from orange to yellow, to white. Then back to yellow, and orange, and finally to the deep blue of night. The cycle repeats day after day after day. I run the risk of losing track of time completely, if Penny and Baz weren’t here all the damn time.  

And they are always here. 

Always hovering, always asking me questions, always trying to get me to talk. 

I don’t want to bloody talk! I want to sleep. I want to be alone. I want to disappear and no longer burden anyone. 

Maybe it would have been better if the Humdrum had finished me off completely. Maybe it would have been better if I wasn’t around. Penny would be in America, with Micah and Baz would be moving on with someone more worthwhile. They would have moved on and found their place in this world. A world that I no longer belong to. A world that I never really belonged to. 

It was all really a lie, wasn’t it? A beautifully crafted, perfectly executed lie. I was never meant to exist in the World of Mages. I am and have always been, just a Normal. Everything that I felt during the last 8 years of my life have been a part of that elaborate lie.  The happiness, the power, the sense that I was a part of something amazing. All of it was a lie. 

The friendship I felt with Penny, the love I felt with Baz; also lies. Those are the lies that hurt me the most, because they are persistent. They didn’t go away like the other lies. They didn’t go away with my magic. They didn’t go away when The Mage and the Humdrum were defeated. They didn’t go away when I failed to save Ebb’s life. 

Instead, they stick around because they pity me. They stick around because they both made promises to me, and they don’t wish to break them. They stick around because maybe I make them feel better about themselves. If Penny or Baz have an off-day, well, at least they aren’t like me. At least they have their magic and at least they belong somewhere. No matter how much the world hurts them, they will never be as fucked up as me. 

I can hear them now, in the kitchen, making some food. They’re always making me food, trying to get me to eat something. Just the thought of eating something makes me sick to my stomach. The smell is nauseating. I haven’t been able to keep anything down for very long. I mostly just eat the crisps I buy from the corner store and wash it down with some cider. Penny has nagged endlessly at me that I cannot sustain myself on a diet of crisps and cider. It was annoying at first, but now I’ve learned to drown her out. 

A small voice inside is telling me that they’re doing it because they’re concerned for me and that they just want to help. I shut that voice up and insist that they see me as so pitiful that I can’t even cook for myself. 

They’re probably right. I’d probably just end up setting the flat on fire. Let’s hope Baz isn’t nearby if I ever do attempt to cook for myself. 

I know what will happen next. They’ll finish cooking whatever it is they’re cooking. One of them will sit at the table and do schoolwork while eating. The other will sit down on the sofa’s armrest and try to get me to eat something. Then they’ll switch places. That goes on for about a couple of hours, until the food’s gone cold. They’ll then wrap the food up and finally leave me in peace. They’ll study together for a few more hours until Baz decides he’s had enough and leaves for the night. Penny will usually go to bed once he leaves.  

It’s at this time, where I finally get off the couch. I will walk to the balcony of the flat and just stare outside at the other buildings, the sky, the people, and the ground below. I will lean my body halfway over the edge and just stare at the ground below. I’ll stare and I’ll think and maybe I’ll push myself a little further over the edge. Maybe I’ll bring myself closer to the ground this time. Maybe I’ll finally have the courage to let go. Maybe I’ll finally have the courage to finally let Penny and Baz free from ever worrying about me again. 

Or maybe I’ll be a coward and make my way back to the couch. More likely, it’ll be that outcome because I’ll think of their faces and how I just want to see them for one more day. 

But, who’s to say really?

“Snow? Would you like some of this fettucini? Bunce has tried a new recipe and she’s convinced it’s good enough for Ramsey. I personally think she’s daft.” 

So Baz has the first shift today. Very well then. 

Here we go.  

*****

I close the notebook and take a deep breath. The entry I’ve just read was from a very dark moment in my life. Or rather, it was a recollection of a very dark time in my life. I had written it at the suggestion of my therapist. He suggested that I start keeping a journal as a way to track my thoughts. That way, it would be easier for me to isolate the negative thoughts in my head. The belief was that, by isolating my thoughts, it would become easier to challenge them. By writing them down, they become tactile. By becoming tactile, they become easier to fight and replace with more positive thoughts.

I thought it was all bollocks at first and was not very good at tracking my thoughts. That is, until one of my intrusive thoughts settled into my brain and would not leave. It sat there and festered and festered, until it completely took over. That day, I nearly returned to the sofa and threw away everything that I had worked so hard to achieve. That day, I looked at Baz, and thought about the ways he would be better off without me and that maybe I should end it right now. 

Instead of giving into my dark thoughts, I asked him if he had an empty notebook and a pen I could borrow. And because he is an absolute intellectual wanker, of course he had a spare notebook in his bag, as well as a burgundy pen (Baz likes to use non-conventional writing tools. He’s currently very excited about using fountain pens). I could tell from his eyes that he wanted desperately to ask me what was wrong. I gave him a sad smile and sat down at the table and began to write. 

I wrote and I cried, and I thought back to that dark, depressing part of my life. Baz had made me some tea and sat down next to me, rubbing my shoulders and grabbing my hand when I needed it. I continued to write as he brought me some food and reheated my tea when it got cold. I cried, as he held my hand and ran his thumb over my rough knuckles. When I was done, I closed the book and let him hold me. I let him hold me while I cried onto his expensive shirt. 

I now look at the entry and think about how far I have come since not only the day I wrote the entry, but also the time where I felt no hope. It’s been almost seven years since my last year at Watford, and I can’t believe how different my life has been since then. It hasn’t been easy and I still slip up from time to time. 

My notebook has grown into a collection, spanning throughout my experiences volunteering with displaced youth, throughout my work as a counselor, and throughout my decision to go to University, specializing in Psychology. I turn to the framed diploma on the wall (Baz had wanted to get the most distinguished looking frame; I veto-ed it right away considering it was just an undergraduate’s diploma), and to the acceptance letters in my hand. I had gotten accepted into a Master’s program at both University College of London as well as Cambridge fucking University. 

Imagine… Me, Simon Snow attending a University as prestigious as fucking Cambridge. 

Cambridge.

I haven’t yet told Baz about my acceptance letters, but I have been talking about and stressing over this application process for nearly all of last year. I had gotten the letters this morning and I was planning on waiting until he got home before telling him. 

Baz.

I think about Baz and how far we have come as a couple. When I think back to how we went from enemies, to lovers who could not communicate, to now being a healthy stable relationship. I can’t believe it sometimes. We do slip up and we do fight occasionally (rarely… if ever at all), but we always come back to each other. We needed some help in learning how to bridge that gap in communication, but after a lot of work, I think we’re starting to get to a point where we’re just happy together. The doubts about us barely linger in my mind anymore. Now, I just want to focus on making sure that Baz feels happy and secure with us. I do that by letting him know that I love him and care about him and that I will always be there for him. 

We had been living together for almost a year (Penny had moved in with Shepard, after convincing him to stay in London -- like he was EVER going to leave Penny, the man is mad about her) (Baz’s aunt moved in with a Normal woman she had been seeing for years, so she wasn’t upset by the loss of a flat-mate) and I would say the biggest challenge has been learning how balance giving space and receiving love and affection. I would say that we’re not doing too shabby.

As if my thoughts summon him, Baz steps through the threshold of the flat, groceries in his arms. “Hello Love. How was your day?” He asks me. I love it when he calls me that… Love. I’m his Love, and he is mine. I smile and blush. It makes me happy that even after all this time, Baz can still make me blush like this.  

“Hey babe… I uhhh… I have umm... some news.” Baz raises an eyebrow at me. He places the bags on top of the kitchen counter and walks over to me. He places a kiss on my head, when he notices the letters on the table. His eyes widen and he grabs both letters from the table. 

Baz is quiet. I start picking at my cuticles and my leg starts to bounce. Baz looks at me, and it can only be described as a look of complete adoration. Seven years ago, I would have hated that look and fought it. Now, I smile back at him and grab his hand as I nod at him.

“Simon…” he breathes out. He settles slowly into the chair next to me. He looks at me and back to the letters. He gives my hand a squeeze and lifts it up to his face. He gives it a small kiss and nuzzles it softly. “Love, I knew you would make it in… Bloody Cambridge. I am so proud of you, my darling.”

I blush and momentarily look away from him, before I remember that it’s alright to feel vulnerable and that I’ve earned this moment of bliss. I look back at him and I can feel a few tears in my eyes. Baz cups my face in his hands and draws me into a deep kiss. I grab onto his face and I take in everything about him. His scent (still the same combination of cedar and bergamot that he’s always had), the cold of his hands, the softness of his lips. The light hum of his voice as he takes me in as well. He breaks our kiss and places another one on my forehead. 

“Bloody Cambridge…” I gasp out, shaking my head. I still cannot believe it.

“Love… You’ve earned it!” Baz is running his fingers through my hair. I tip my head towards him, enjoying this calming touch.

“Can I handle it?”

Baz barks out a laugh. “You’ve killed a dragon during first year. You defeated a chimera during our fifth. You graduated Uni with honours! You can handle anything and everything!”

“But it’s so pretentious…” I make a face and stick my tongue out in disgust. Honestly, the thought of being surrounded by people who were probably more pretentious than Baz (wait… that may not be possible, no one is more pretentious than my posh boyfriend).

“Simon…” Baz raises an eyebrow at me. “I think you can handle a few pretentious snobs. You won me over without even trying.”

“I’ll be so far away.” I move closer to him and wrap my arms around his waist. Baz pulls me onto his lap and I settle into the crook of his neck. I nuzzle him a little and think about how crazy I’ll be without him near me everyday. 

“I’ll come visit. Crowely, maybe I’ll even move there with you until you’ve done your Master’s.” Baz is lightly scratching my back and I let out a tiny moan. I fucking love it when he does that. I pull away from him for a second and wrap my arms around his neck. I stare into his stormy-grey eyes. 

“I’m fucking terrified.” I whisper. 

Baz’s lips curl up into a gentle half-smile. He trails his fingers over my arms. “And that’s alright. We’ll figure it out.”

“Together?”  

“Together.” 

Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be. There will be an answer, let it be. Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be. Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

[fleurie3am15inspo]

Everyday Hero: Dad-Aizawa Fic

Hey there @the-lupine-sojourner​ !!! It’s me, Fleurie 😁 I bet you’re wondering, “huh, I wonder why she’s tagging me in this fic?” Well, I got news for you, buddy! I was your Secret Santa for this @dailybnha​ BNHA Secret Santa event! 😄 Surprise! What are the odds, ey? 😂 I hope I didn’t give it away in my anon asks cuz with me sounding all nervous all the time :p try as I might, I cannot shake it, lol. Well, anyway, this is all still a little new to me, writing bnha centered fics and whatnot. And as I mentioned before, it came out a little more on the slice of life side than fluff. Sorry, but I hope you like it anyway! Enjoy some Dadzawa and I hope you have a Merry Christmas!

The baby in his arms reached her tiny hands up, grasping at a few strands of his hair. It was different than before. No more did he feel that irk of annoyance when she did that. Instead, it felt warm. Innocent. And filled with love. Eraserhead blinked in surprise and tugged his head back. The movement caused him to wince and the child to laugh a colorful, sweet, twinkling laugh. Despite himself, Eraserhead felt a smile broaden over his own face and a soft laugh break through.

“Fukukado,” he warned, still laughing, “Turn it off.”

She quirked a brow, a smirk playing on her lips. “It’s not me, Eraser.”

“Don’t lie to me,” His hair rises (save for the strand in the infant’s hand) and his eyes glow red as he attempts to erase a quirk that was never even activated.

What? Curiously, he sneaks a glance at Yoshiko. Nothing.

“It’s not her either,” Emi says chuckling, “It’s you. It’s all you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“NO.”

“Oh come on, Shota! You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”

“I don’t need to. The fact that you’re asking me is enough.”

“Since when is me asking for a favor a bad thing?”

“Since you haven’t visited for years and only show up whenever you need something.”

“Okay, I know I haven’t had the chance to visit lately, but I know for a fact you haven’t made the effort either. The way I see it, it’s the classic kettle calling the pot.”

“I have a responsibility to my agency.”

“As do I to my city,” Sigh, “Look, it’s just for a few days. I need to attend the conference per company regulation. It’s just a series of meetings and trainings, but I can’t bring Yoshiko with me. I need someone to look after her while I’m gone.”

“Why don’t you get a babysitter for her?”

“I’m not trusting my baby to a stranger! Especially not now where there’s been undocumented kidnappings in the area. I don’t have time to do background checks on everyone. I know you. And I trust you. Please, you’re the only one I trust to look after my daughter.”

“...How long?”

“Just the weekend. The second the conference is over, I’ll be on the next flight home. I promise.”

“Alright. Bring her by the house later when you’ve got all her things. Stay safe up there.”

“I will. Oh, thank you Shota! You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Don’t mention it. Though, in exchange, you need to stop with these out of nowhere favors. Come by and visit sometime.”

“Of course! Yoshiko needs to get to know her godfather, afterall.”

“Her what?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been four years.... I miss you, Aneko.

Indeed, four years have passed since the disappearance of his cousin. What had only meant to be a three day weekend of watching his newfound goddaughter had taken a somber turn when news spread of a massive villain attack in the city where his cousin’s agency was undergoing their annual battle training. Normally, such an outright attack on a congregation of heroes would be wildly unsuccessful, if not laughable. But this instance was far from normal. In broad daylight, the entire building just vanished. Along with everyone inside it.

Investigations were still underway to locate the missing heroes. But in the four years of the aftermath, too little leads yielded little hope. Many families were grieving and others were moving on, adjusting to their new lives; Shota included. Suddenly, he found himself to be the only family baby Yoshiko had left. Her mother was missing and as far as he knew, Aneko had been on her own.

Once he came to terms with the fact that he was now her legal guardian, he had pulled out all the stops. Parenting books, crib shopping, taking a leave of absence from his agency, and enlisting the help of a few friends like Ms. Joke and Present Mic. Despite not having any children herself, Fukukado was great with children. She always seemed to know what to do to get a laugh out of the child without the use of her quirk. Mic knew some good lullabies to lull her to sleep.  

Even with all the help he had been receiving from those around him, he still found himself questioning his abilities. How was he supposed to raise a child? Aizawa never had any siblings growing up and was raised to be independent from the get go. Aizawa knew he couldn’t rely on their help forever, so he spent countless hours practicing on his own. In no time at all, he learned to change diapers, properly prepare bottles, braid hair, put outfits together, etc. and as Yoshiko got older, he was constantly finding himself picking toys off of the ground, trying to get her to eat her vegetables, preparing special meals for her, struggling to get her to sit still in the morning long enough to brush her hair. It was hard work. And he loved every minute of it.

Finally, in the blink of an eye, Yoshiko was old enough to start school. It should have been a relief to have her start school. It would mean that she was being kept under close supervision at all times for the better part of the day so that he could focus a little more on his work. As it was, being a single, working father was hard enough. Having somewhere she could be safe while he worked gave him a little bit of breathing room, but lately, he had been reminded that villains didn’t seem to care for heroes’ personal lives and would make their little heists at ungodly hours of the day. Or just any time he could have spent with his daughter.

With a sigh, the erasure hero pulled his goggles over his eyes and refocused on his current mission at hand. His agency had gotten word of suspicious activity on one end of town and had sent him to investigate. Silently, he crept towards the edge of the building overlooking an alleyway. It looked to be some sort of contraband deal. There were six figures in total; nothing too serious. Working quickly, he made sure to apprehend them and made short work of them in no time. The only injury he sustained was a cut along his upper arm from one of the thugs’ talons when he let him get too close. All things considered, that injury was the least of his problems.

“Shoot!” The injury could wait. He was nearly two hours late picking up Yoshiko from pre-school. Working quickly, he made sure to bind the thugs together away from the contraband and contacted the authorities. It took forever for them to arrive, it seemed. By the time the first cop car arrived, Eraserhead was already wrapping his scarf onto the building ledge.

“Wait!” The cop called, “Eraserhead, we need a statement!”

“That’ll have to wait,” He responded curtly, “I’m already late picking up my daughter.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a little girl with violet hair and yellow floral overalls is sitting in the doorway of a classroom, drawing in the dirt with her finger. Her backpack is lain against the wall. Two of her teachers are watching from inside the classroom and exchange worried glances. The younger of the two, Akiyama, approaches her and kneels down next to her.

"How are you doing, sweetie? Your dad still isn't here yet?"

"Nope."

"Do you want to come inside? It’s going to be dark soon.”

“No, thank you.” she replied, not looking up from her drawings, “Daddy will come.”

“I know sweetie, but we need to get you inside. We’ll call your dad again in a few minutes.” She holds out a hand towards Yoshiko. “Come on. You can have a snack if you want, too.”

Yoshiko finally looks up at her and stares at her hand blankly. She hums in hesitation before glancing out one more time at the empty parking lot. “I don’t…”

A loud screeching of tires sounds through the air and a taxi is seen skidding past the pickup area, grinding to a halt a few feet away from where the classroom door is. The poor teacher’s aide next to Yoshiko screams and falls back, but the little girl smiles with glee. Aizawa jumps out the driver’s side and a very frightened taxi driver scrambles out of the passenger side.

The driver clutches his stomach and raises a shaking finger at Aizawa, “Y-you! What are you crazy?! You could have killed us!”

The other teacher rushes out of the classroom and kneels down at the side of the petrified aide. She shoots Aizawa a very angry look. “Sir!” she screamed, “This is a school, for Heaven’s sake!”

He pays no attention to them, instead, focusing on the one shout that mattered.

“Daddy!”

He rushed around the car to the little Yoshiko who is bouncing up and down excitedly. She’s raising her arms and he scoops her up into a hug with an apologetic look on his face.

“Hey, hey…” he murmured, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect work to keep me out so late. I’ll be on time tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

“It’s okay Daddy,” she said snuggling her face into his shirt, “I knew you’re coming!”

The older teacher, Hayashi, is helping up Akiyama while holding a steady glare at the “Sir,” she reprimanded, “This cannot continue. We have told you countless times that we are not a daycare center. When 3 o’clock rolls around, you are expected to be here, on TIME, to pick up your child. I understand you’re a busy man, but given that you are already aware of these instances, I implore you to make arrangements at an actual after school child care facility-”

“I am not trusting my baby to a stranger,” Aizawa interrupted, holding Yoshiko tighter,  “The background check process took long enough with this school, I don’t have the time to interview other daycares.”

“Well, I’m sorry, sir, but something has to be done. Take it up with your employer; we can’t keep doing this.”

The tension hung in the air for a brief moment before Aizawa finally relented with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Hayashi crossed her arms and said, “See to it that you do.” before leading Akiyama back to the classroom by the elbow.

“Looks like I have work to do,” Aizawa humphed. He pulled Yoshiko away from him and placed her on his shoulders. “You want to take the scenic route home?”

“Yes!” she cried, clapping her hands happily. Aizawa wrapped one end of his scarf around her like a makeshift seatbelt and readied the other in his free hand. Before taking off, he dug around in his pocket for a few bills. He promptly handed them to the taxi driver who, though no longer shaking, still remained a little green from the incident.

“Sorry about that. We’ll take the high road home from here. Let’s go!”

Yoshiko waved bye-bye to the taxi driver one last time. And with that, he swung off high above the building tops.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright, Yoshiko,” he said putting her down once they got home, “go put your backpack away. I’ll clean up a little and get dinner started.”

“Okay!”

While she bounded off to her room, Aizawa made his way to his own room to grab a fresh set of clothes and get changed. He winced a little at a small pain in his upper arm and remembered his wound. The cut wasn’t deep. Nothing a bandage shouldn’t be able to take care of. After wrapping it quickly, he headed back to the kitchen and set some noodles to boil on the stovetop. While that was cooking, he found Yoshiko sitting at the table with crayons and pages scattered all around her. Most were adorned with colorful doodles of cats and flowers. She had her head bent low over her current project and was scribbling feverently. Aizawa took a spot next to her, leaning over curiously.

“What are you drawing there?”

Donning a wide grin, she proudly holds up her drawing, “It’s you!”

Indeed it was. As close to resembling Aizawa as a four year-old’s crayon drawing could be, anyway. Yoshiko had drawn a tall box looking man with wild black sticks for hair and giant pink swirls for his eyes. Beside the figure was a smaller box girl with violet sticks of hair pointing downward that seemed to be both holding hands with the Aizawa figure and holding this giant pudgy looking cat in her other arm. (Said cat was now rubbing himself along the feet of her chair, meowing for attention.) And on the top of the page was scrawled the words “ME AN DADE” Warmth blossomed in his chest as he took it all in. Yoshiko leaned over with big gleaming eyes. “Do you like it, daddy? Did I do good?”

Aizawa chuckled and pulled her over, giving her a kiss on the forehead, “I do. It’s beautiful, thank you. And you know what? I know the perfect place for this.”

She jumped off of her chair and followed him back to the kitchen where she watched him proudly stick a magnet on the corner and stuck it to the fridge. “How does that look?” He asked her. Instantly, she squealed and bounced around in joy. “It looks perfect!!”

He picked her up and planted another kiss on her head before setting her back down again. “I’m going to finish up here. Go draw me another one, okay?”

“I’m gonna make a big one!” she cried, running back to her crayons and starting on a clean page with a renewed vigor.

As he stirred the soba, Aizawa got to thinking. How did he end up with such a beautiful little girl? A small pang hit his heart as he recalled the specific details as to how he came to be her guardian, but it was replaced with determination to raise his goddaughter as if she were his own. So far, it looked like he was succeeding. She was growing up so fast, and so patient for her age. She had to come first, always. It wasn’t fair that what happened today was commonplace for her. At this rate, it could spiral out of control and he could be missing out on larger parts of her life.

No. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Working at the agency and trying to be there for Yoshiko was becoming too much of a losing battle. He would just have to take a break from hero work for a while. Try something else, teaching maybe. A lightbulb went off in his head and he grabbed his cell, dialing a certain blonde pro-hero.

“Hizashi? Could you come over and watch over Yoshiko for a little while? There’s something I need to do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Principal Nedzu, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice”

“Not at all!” The small rodent hoisted himself up on a chair and settled down happily with his cup of tea. “I have often told you in the past that if you ever needed anything, all you had to do was ask. Surprisingly, not too many folks are too keen on the idea of coming to me when they need assistance. I ask for nothing in return; I’m so glad you are finally coming forward to speak with me. Just tell me what you need and we can work something out. Are you having issues in your current place of employment? Perhaps if we discussed it at great length-?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aizawa interrupted hastily, “I am experiencing some difficulty with time management in my current agency. I called hoping to meet with you to discuss an employment opportunity you had offered to me in the summer.”

“Ah, yes!” Nedzu exclaimed, “I do recall contacting you. We are in need of a new homeroom teacher for the hero course. Have you reconsidered my offer? The position is still available if you are interested.”

Aizawa set his own cup down and leaned forward in his chair. “As a matter of fact, I have. I will be leaving my current agency soon in favor of a job with more manageable hours. Financially speaking, we are well off. But practically, I cannot raise my daughter if I am never home. And now that she has started school, I am having a difficult time finding a middle ground”

Nedzu nodded understandably, “Yes, I see. It is no easy task raising a child alone. But rest assured, here at U.A. we take care of our faculty members. Believe it or not, you are not the only teacher who has had difficulty with after school childcare. We have a daycare center in our main building. You are more than welcome to make use of it for your daughter. We can send someone over to retrieve her every day precisely at three o’clock and have her wait here until the school day has finished.”

Aizawa stiffens a little at the mention of someone else picking up Yoshiko from school. Nedzu catches the hesitation, “I see you are a little uneasy still? Not to worry, Eraserhead, we are all trained professionals here. Your daughter will be in safe hands. You have my word”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, Aizawa took special care in brushing and braiding Yoshiko’s hair. He sat with her on the bed while she busied herself with annoying the old black and white kitty by hugging him relentlessly. While he brushed, he pondered how to ask his next question.

“Yoshiko? I want you to tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“How does it make you feel when I am late picking you up from school? Or have to leave early sometimes and you have to stay with aunt Fukukado or uncle Hizashi until I get back?”

The question makes her pause and think. The cat uses this opportunity to flee but she makes no effort to grab him again. “Well...sometimes when you’re late, I feel sad. I have to wait longer to see you. And when you’re really late...I get scared…”

A surprised look comes across Shota’s face, “Scared?”

She nods in affirmation, “Uh-huh. I get scared...cuz what if you don’t come for me? I don’t want you to forget about me…then I would be alone...”

At that, he pulls her in for a hug, “No, no. I could never forget about you. I’m sorry that I’ve scared you so much that you even had to think that. Look at me,” He lifted her face to look her in the eye, “I promise-”

“Pinky promise?” she asked, holding up her little finger.

“Pinky promise,” he confirmed, hooking their pinkies together, “that no matter how long it takes me to get to you, or how far I go, that I will never, ever forget about you. It’s impossible. You’re my little girl. I’ll always make my way back to you, even if I have to fight a million monsters to get to you. I’ll fight a million and one, just to keep you safe.” He kissed her forehead and scootches her over to the pillow end of the bed, tucking her into her covers. “Now you rest easy tonight, okay? Daddy got a new job, so I’ll be there right on time waiting for you after school. How does that sound?”

Yoshiko smiled and yawned, turning into her covers, “Every day?”

“Almost every day. If I can’t, I’ll have your uncle come get you. You won’t be alone again. I’ll be here. I promise.”

The smile on her face grew wider and more content as she begins drifting off into sleep.

“Thank you.”

He ruffles her hair in response, “You’re welcome.” He picks up her teddy bear from the floor and places it next to her as he gets up to leave. He stood at the doorway, flicking off the light when she spoke in a soft whisper.

“Daddy?”

He turned his head back to his little girl, already cuddling with her bear and falling half-asleep, “Yes?”

“You’re a hero.”

Aizawa snorted a little chuckle, “I know. That’s my job.”

“No,” she opened her eyes a little, “You’re my hero.”

A sudden burst of warmth exploded in his chest. To hold that mantle in your daughter’s heart...it almost made him want to cry. Almost. One thing he knew for sure: he would never let anyone hurt his child. He would protect her with his final breath, fight off any monster she feared, and make sure that she would be loved and safe for the rest of her life.

Sometimes he would think back to his life without her and think of how it was so different since she came along. His life was a better place. And it was all thanks to her.

“I love you daddy.”

“I love you, too.”

FIN