#if you saw this before i unfucked the title

[phalangemedes]

Unwanted Guest & Jod's Tablet theory

So, Palamedes realises it's Babs because of erroneous non-Ianthe behaviours, which is enmeshed in the Ace Attorney "Objection!". Which means that was a Babs-ism.

Which means Ace Attorney canonically exists in the Nine Houses….

And John, memelord, pansexual disaster bitch is the obvious one to blame.

Is access to video games seen as a 'high status' thing??

Does Jod just have illegal Nintendo emulators on his devices???

Did he, at some point, take Alecto into the nuclear wastes of the nearest city and dig through the debris of a EB Games??

John, bare foot amidst the rubble, with a basket full of stolen games from the locked cabinet: This is a typical enemies to lovers visual novel but they're lawyers on opposite sides of the justice system; very Montague and Capulet. And this is Phoenix Wright, he's the "good" guy and this is his love interest, Miles Edge--

Alecto staring, unblinking, at her own reflection in the cracked and smeared screen of a Nintendo Switch 3 Lite XXL: What's a lawyer?

[moonshynecybin]

Any updates you’d want to share of your incredible marc 31&unfucked/airport rosquez wip? Or do you move in silence

twink for sale. never fucked. part one here, part two here ! yet again i have not reread the previous parts so these idiots might very well be talkin in circles. c'est la vie i am what i am.

Marc leans against the counter of the bar, a thick slab of slightly sticky wood covered in a mess of elbows and drinks. It’s not exactly a dive, but it’s unpretentious, laid back. Marc likes it. Likes the sound of the music and the smell of cigarette smoke.

The Ducati crew are all here, plus the Gresini people— celebrating an all-Ducati podium that saw Pecco roaring away into the distance before anyone could figure out a way to catch him, shades of Jorge Lorenzo. Marc had snapped up P3. Whatever.

He sighs. Studies the menu like he isn’t just going to order the same thing he always does.

Alex is feeling sick— staying at the hotel— and he doesn’t even know why he’s here. It's nice, but he doesn’t really know anyone. He wants to text Santi, see what the people at Honda are up to, but he balks. Someone might run a headline, and he doesn’t want to deal with that. He'll call them later, when he gets back to Spain, and link up for dinner then.

He orders his mojito and pauses, caught as a warm hand lands on his shoulder. He looks over, expecting one of his mechanics or someone from the factory team. Instead— Valentino. VR46 must’ve been invited as well. 

A grin splits his face before he can help it. 

“You still order the same drink.” Vale muses, like poking that particular bruise doesn’t even hurt him. He just— remembers Marc’s drink order like it’s nothing,

Marc ducks his head. “Shut up,”

“No, it’s just, you said– you are older now, yes? I thought maybe you would make a change?”

“Why should I? I like what I like.”

Vale flags the bartender and asks for a Negroni, curls his long hand against the glass. Marc catches his eyes on the bones of a wrist, the way it looks in the low lighting. He blinks.

He doesn't know what’s going on with him lately. 

Vale leans closer, looks around, conspiratorial. Grin white sharp in yellow light, shirt gaping at the collar to expose the long lines of his neck. He raises a finger at Marc.

“You know, Bez has a bet about you,”

“Bezzecchi?” Marc asks, pulling back into himself— he’s never called him Bez, isn’t about to start now.

Vale tilts a chin over to the corner, where Bezzecchi and Pecco seem locked in some sort of boozy, animated discussion. Marc catches snatches of words in Italian: tattoo, turbo, braking.

“What bet?” He asks, turning back to watch Vale take a sip of his drink. It’s a wonder there’s not a camera on them. Although— he thinks about that headline. Friends again. Maybe he wouldn’t mind.

“That you will not win another title,” Vale says casually, smacking his lips around the bitter of his drink. 

They’ve never been two people known for playing it safe.

Marc hums, fiddles with his bar napkin. “Oh, does he?” He doesn’t mention the bet he’s been told Uccio has. Four thousand dollars towards the same.

Vale nods. Places an elbow next to Marc on the bar and leans. Marc catches a whiff of his cologne— something spicy.

“Why should I care?” Marc shrugs, plays confused. He doesn’t— it’s Bezzecchi. He’s always been a bit weird about Marc. After Valencia last year, Marc has just written him off completely. One of Vale’s devotees too caught up in their history to think clearly for himself.

Vale laughs. “I guess you shouldn’t.”

“And what about you?” Marc prods, a little spiky. He's pretty sure he knows the answer. “What do you think? Will I win?” 

Vale tilts his head. 

“You could do it,” and Marc stares. “—if it rains.” Is the punchline that drags a smile back to him like a punch to the gut.

“Ah, I see. Master in the wet.” Marc waggles his eyebrows and Vale chuffs a laugh, scrubs a hand down his face like he’s embarrassed he finds Marc funny. 

“No no, but you’re the only one crazy enough— Brno 2019,” He reminds Marc. “Why was it raining for us and not for you?”

Marc doubles over, presses his smile into his palm. He still can’t quite believe this is happening— that Vale still knows how to twist the knife enough to make it sweet instead of making it hurt, teasing in ways that make Marc bark a laugh instead of blink away the burning feeling in his stomach. Now the joke is— how bad it got is almost funny. The ludicrousness of their falling out. His injury. Vale retiring. Leaving Honda. and Marc shouldn’t be laughing really, but Vale’s always found a way to thrive in the comedic incongruity of a situation. How the hell did we even get here? Is the question, and they both seem to find it abruptly hilarious, tension snaking ephemerally away from them as they giggle like children.

Vale regroups, catching his breath, “Bah, anyways. Pecco will be very, very strong. Hard to beat when he is giving 100%.” 

It’s probably the truth. It’s what he should say. Marc doesnt think he means it, and his smile grows.

He pretends to think. “Yes. He is. But I'm not trying to be greedy— nine is, nine would be a good number.” Continuing their theme—half a jab, half a joke—a test. Are they there yet, he's asking, can Vale take the same treatment from Marc? Daring Vale to confirm all his worst assumptions. If he’s going to pull back, get it over with. Pull him down to earth from where it feels like he’s floating away.

“Not as good as ten, no?” Vale says smoothly, and it would sound like taking the bait but his voice is still a tease, and his smile is still there, and he’s still next to Marc. Leans closer, even.

Marc doesn’t think he’s blinked in the last 45 seconds.

“No,” Marc lets every bit of his confidence into his voice. Nine times world champion is good, but Vale is right. He wants ten. “No, it’s not.”

“Ah, so that is the plan? Beat me?” Vale pulls another sip from his drink, leaning on the bar like he owns it. 

Marc shrugs, grins hugely. “Beat everyone. These guys— they are not better than you, and they are not better than me.”

“Maybe not.” Vale’s looking at him, eyes sparkling, and Marc’s melting down, like sugar dissolving into tea.

He clears his throat. Maybe the mojito is stronger than he thought. He hasn’t— they’ve never talked about it like this. He hasn’t wanted to talk about this. But he likes that it’s happening now, somehow. That it’s happening like this, like it’s the past instead of the present.

“Eh, you know, you’ve been coming to a lot of races.” 

“I have people I want to see.” Vale says, which could mean a lot of things, and “Old friends included,” which could mean less things but also isn’t necessarily any less confusing. Then he taps a finger on the edge of Marc’s drink, a non sequitur. “Can I try?”

Marc nods, feels like his brain is running a step behind his body. Watches Vale move the straw to take a sip from the rim, then think through the taste hitting his tongue.

“Do you like it?”

Vale shrugs, noncommittal, then pushes his glass towards Marc. He puts his hand on the back of Marc’s neck. 

“Here. Try mine.”

“No, no no— I have had Negronis. Too bitter.” Marc says, even as he raises the drink to his lips. There's no straw in this one, just lips against glass. He wonders if it’s the same spot Vale had been drinking from earlier.

Bitter aromatics burst in his mouth. He makes a face against the strength of it, feels Vale’s laugh through his hand on the back of his neck. He shivers a little, it’s— he doesn’t know why he's doing that.

He decides not to think about it. It could be cold in here, he hasn’t really been paying attention.

“Ah, you’re one of those with a sweet tooth?” Vale takes his drink back from the well of Marc’s hand, and their fingers zap a little static shock that makes Marc feel brave.

Marc winks. “I am guilty.”

Vale just— looks at him. And they’ve done a lot of that in their history, looked at each other, tried to ascertain the next move to make on track or the next mind game to use in a press conference— but this feels different. Marc feels different. His skin feels tight and his head feels dizzy and his heart is pounding, and through it all Vale keeps looking, and he doesn’t quite know what to say or what to do, but he knows he doesn’t want it to stop.

There's a big cry from the other side of the room, breaking his train of thought— some mechanics in a rowdy conversation of some sort, and Marc becomes hyper aware of how exposed they are right now. Anyone could see— well, he doesn’t know quite what, but he knows he doesn’t want them to see it. He shifts, darts eyes to the exit.

He wants to leave, and it could be the alcohol, but Vale’s face is pretty much the exact thing that Marc wants to see right now.

“Want to head back?” Marc asks, feeling a little reckless— it’s a flyaway, he’s pretty sure they’re all packed inside the same hotel.

Vale considers him for a minute, and as Marc waits for him to speak he wonders if the booze is catching up to him. The world feels like it’s rushing around his ears. 

“For sure.” Vale murmurs, and when he takes his hand off of Marc’s neck he can feel it slide all the way down his back.

When they get into the Uber, Marc looks at his phone and gives a little groan. Tries to shake it off. Feel more sober. Reassert some normalcy from their earlier tension. Vale and him– they haven't been friends in eight (Or nine? Marc thinks, Is it nine?) years. There’s bound to be growing pains.

“It’s so early.” He groans.

Vale nods. It is.

“I’m old.” Marc continues, reminded of their conversation in the airport. It’s true now— with Aleix going, he’ll be the veteran. How did that happen. You can’t talk to me about old, Vale had said. But he finds that he wants to.

“You are not old,” Vale echoes, with emphasis, like Marc’s insane. What does he know, he’s even older.

Marc puts a hand on his bad arm, which hurts. Slides down in the seat a little, loose with alcohol. He's such a lightweight now. He lets out a big sigh.

Vale nudges him. He's got a look on his face— that same conspiratorial one from the bar earlier, and Marc cranes his neck up.

“Marc,”

“Yeah?” God, his eyes are blue.

“Tell me— do you want to pay Bez back?”

“What?” Marc croaks, not really processing what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to talk about Bezzecchi— he can still see the skin between Vale’s shirt and his neck, can’t stop looking at it. He leans in heavily. Thinks about a world where Vale puts a hand on the inside of his thigh and leans right back.

“Yeah.” Vale flips up his hand to flash a hotel key card. probably Bezzecchi’s. He grins, waiting for Marc to get the joke, and after a moment— it clicks. Laughter explodes out of Marc’s chest. 

It's been a minute since Valentino and him were on the inside of something. In cahoots, instead of at odds, and he feels— energized. Adrenaline creeping into him like an old friend. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel old at all, and he wants to get out and do something— sweat, dance, move, fuck. Get Vale to keep smiling at him. Ruin Bezzecchi’s day. Win another race this year. Win a championship.

For once, he sure that Vale feels about the same.

He leans into Vale’s space, sees his smile widen in return. “Let’s hide all of Bezz’s socks.”

So they do.

[liesmyth]

and i follow just to find you! ⭐

HORSE GIRL JAMIE FIC!!! <- that's the name it had in my drafts for weeks

and I follow just to find you — (Ted Lasso, Jamie/Roy, Canon-universe AU, Post S2 timeline, Famous/Nonfamous, HORSE GIRL JAMIE)

The one where Jamieʼs not a therapist and Roy is not scared of horses. Really, heʼs not.

I had SO. MUCH. FUN writing this. I noticed doing this ask game that I said "I had fun!" a lot but it's true!!! I get to write Roy scared of horses!!

Roy stares into the eyes of the beast. They are pretty, big and shiny and a deep chestnut colour, but the bloody thing stares right back with supreme indifference. Its lips pull back over terrifying teeth, and it snorts at Roy with supreme disdain. “Oh, fuck off, you fucking twat.” The horse neighs. Roy flinches. He’s Roy Kent — England legend, dusty fossil of a bygone era, larger-than-life Champions League winner, etcetera — and he still jumps because a horse made a sound at him and pawed the ground with those heavy hoofs. He turns around quickly to check if anyone saw that.

This was written for a fandom challenge where one (or both) Roy and Jamie had to have a different profession than in canon. I enjoy famous / nonfamous style AUs so I decided it should only be one of them; I remember I used some random profession generator and came up with "therapist" (or something similar.) I toyed with a few different ideas before settling on this — at one point I was like, canon!Roy should have a highly unethical romance with his therapist Jamie! (Didn't go anywhere because of relative ages). THEN I considered a fic that was canon Jamie / Roy who works as an orderly in the clinic Tartt Sr. is in at the end of S3, because I'd enjoy unfucking that specific bit of plot, but THEN I was like. Wait actually there's a throaway line in the very first draft of the Ted Lasso pilot (before Brett was cast) that had Roy abusing pain meds. So the idea of Roy in rehab was born. I think it was @scoatneyhall who pointed me in the direction of, like, rehab places that do work with animals for therapy purposes. That's when I started calling it Horse Girl Jamie fic in my head :D

There's an elaborate backstory to this fic that I'll never write because I think all the main details made it into the fic anyway: Richmond relegation bot Roy isn't injured, and he does absolutely all he can to make he sure he drags them back up but works himself to the bone and his personal life is a disaster, and when his sister finds out about his painkiller additions she's like, you go to rehab or I can't let you see Phoebe. It's an angsty backstory and even with all of that, I feel like the fic is really pretty cute? I certainly had a delightful time writing it

Hall and I also had a very elaborate chat sequel idea that lives somewhere in my copypasted documents and it's about Jamie going to uni for his master's and Roy's just lowkey hanging around in his students housing because he's retired and BORED and not ready to get near football again yet, and also decides to get Phoebe horse riding lessons because he missed her and he's spoiling her like crazy. Maybe one day it'll see the light of the day.

Title of this fic was from I Wanna Get Better by Bleachers. On the nose! Anyway

[fanfic writers director’s cut meme!]

[separatist-apologist]

It's here, it does NOT get it's own post, but it does have a title:

Darling, I'm A Daydream Dressed Like A Nightmare

Read it on AO3

Come lay yourself at my feet @ablogofsapphicpanic. Tell the internet I'm the funniest person you know.

The rules were simple.

 Twenty dollars. Ten minutes. One outfit. 

Jurian and Lucien had been playing that game since they’d been paired up as roommates in college.The objective was to head to the local thrift store and find the worst combination of colors and pieces to render the other one utterly unfuckable at the bar and then spend the night hitting on whatever woman struck their fancy. They’d get shit faced watching the other utterly strike out before stumbling home when the bar closed down to laugh until they pitched face first onto the bathroom floor. 

“Ready?” Jurian asked, a grin stretching across his face. They were too old for this game now—Lucien was twenty eight and a lawyer, for chrissakes. Jurian, too, though he did something secretive and probably shady for the American government. Lucien knew better than to ask what. They both looked appropriately nice—either one of them could have easily found someone willing to go home with them after a couple drinks blurred out their faces and erased their sense of shame. 

“Ready,” Lucien said, eyeing the dingy interior filled nearly wall to wall with clothing items someone else had deemed unworthy. Jurian pulled out his phone, revealing a cracked screen and an iPhone Lucien was certain didn’t get made anymore. His friend fumbled through the half black screen before pulling up the stop watch.

“Annnnd…wait, hold on, I fucked it up,” Jurian said with a frown. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Lucien grumbled, pulling out his own, protected in a case and practically brand new. They couldn’t have been more comically different.

“Go,” Jurian said, shoulder checking Lucien as he darted off.

“Ass!” Lucien yelled like he was nineteen again. Still, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and made his way to pants first. Lucien wanted to get Jurian a pair of shoes if he could manage it, and pants were always the most expensive. 

He liked this place best—they sorted based on sizes. Some thrift stores didn’t bother to sort at all, which was how Lucien once ended up in that daisy patterned sundress that betrayed more chest hair than he was proud of.

He’d still gotten laid though. 

Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time, but Lucien had an eye for this sort of thing. He was looking for color, and very quickly pulled out a pair of tan joggers cinched at the ankles with the print of two hotdogs over the legs. Lucien checked the tag, cackling when he realized they were in Jurian’s size. 

He tossed them over his shoulder, wheezing with laughter. He almost didn’t need a shirt. Who had bought those, he wondered? They were a steal for only four dollars—Lucien would have blown his whole budget on them. He saw Jurian laughing himself hoarse over by the shirts which didn’t bode well for him, but Lucien figured he deserved whatever his friend was dishing up. They swapped, Jurian racing toward the pants with a quick, “Seven minutes left.”

Lucien went straight to where Jurian had been, noting the empty hanger beside a rather itchy looking maroon vest and a gray polo better suited toward his father. Lucien began flipping, annoyed there wasn’t something as funny as the hotdog pants. 

Come on, he thought, fingers snagging on a casual beige shirt. Lucien nearly skipped it, but the Cracker Barrel logo stopped him. Pulling it forward, he wordlessly read: I got pegged at Cracker Barrel Old Country Store.

The laugh that exploded out of him made several patrons nearby jump into the air. Checking the tag, Lucien saw it was a little oversized, which would do Jurian’s nice physique no favors. The shirt was a measly dollar—he’d only spent five total, not including tax. He could definitely grab a pair of shoes. Lucien swiped a long pair of what he prayed were used, white, gym socks before finding a pair of toeless dad sandals in the ugliest shade of brown. 

Lucien paid a few seconds before Jurian, his total coming to eleven dollars and seventy two cents. He could have gotten a hat if he’d wanted to, but it felt wrong to rob the ladies of Jurian’s handsome face when every other part of him was already so unappealing. 

Jurian met Lucien outside, holding a matching white bag and a grin on his stupid face. “C’mon,” his friend said, gesturing down the sidewalk. Jurian’s bag looked heavy, and Lucien wondered just how much his friend had managed to get. There had been a time when they went in with fifty dollars so they could track down jewelry, too. In the end it felt like trying too hard, rather than just hard enough. 

They made their way back to Lucien’s place, ignoring that Jurian’s was merely a floor beneath his own. It had seemed too pathetic for two grown men to continue living with each other once they hit twenty five. There was simply no need—they made enough money, and people began to wonder if they were deeply co-dependant rather than recognize they were just best friends. So Lucien and Jurian found a nice apartment in the city and rented the exact same unit a floor apart, and spent most of their time bouncing between the two as it suited them. 

“Put it on blind,” Jurian said, eyes bright with amusement. The sun was beginning to set, though Lucien wasn’t a fool—women were exceptionally good at reading terrible lettering printed on shirts, even in dim night clubs. They weren’t planning that, anyway. This was merely a simple night out at their favorite bar that was, tragically, well lit. 

Lucien went to his bedroom, Jurian to the bathroom. Lucien waited, laughing when Jurian’s muffled, “Who fucking buys this shit?!” erupted through the silence. Shaking his head, Lucien dumped out the contents of his own bag, noting the pair of sparkly purple hightops that were somehow a mans size fourteen.

Could be worse, he decided.

The JNCO jeans would hide them, he thought with some disappointment, kicking off his own nice slacks to pull them over his hips. He needed a belt and wasn’t sure that was the vibe. Hadn’t Eris owned a pair of these when they were boys? Did you wear a belt, or did you show off your ass? Somehow, Lucien didn’t think the black pair of Calvin Kline boxer briefs went with the JNCO jeans and pulled a black belt from his closet to cinch them around his waist. 

“Stupid,” he muttered, kicking at the frayed hem. “I look so fucking stupid.”

The shirt was worse. It was just a shade too small, showing off his rather nice body which normally would have pleased him if it hadn’t been for the words emblazoned across the navy blue fabric. In bright red, it screamed, Of course I cum fast, broken up by an open mouth bass staring straight into the soul of whoever read the words. Beneath the fish, it added in glittery blue, I have fish to catch. 

Lucien ran a hand over his face before pulling his shoulder length auburn hair into a half bun. There would be no saving tonight. 

He met Jurian in the hall, shoes on his feet and a grim smile on his face. Jurian looked just as awful, arms crossed over his chest.

“At least I’m honest,” he told Jurian as his friend doubled over with wheezing laughter. “The socks and the sandals tie it all together.”

“You’re a dick,” Jurian informed him without malice, wiping the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. “You look like an asshole.”

Lucien only shrugged. “C’mon. I need a fucking drink.” 

Slinging his arm over Lucien’s shoulder, Jurian headed out with a smile on his face. “Let’s get to it, then.

ELAIN:

It had been easily the stupidest day she’d ever had. Everything was going wrong—she’d messed up three cake orders, had run out of cupcakes before nine am, and one of her front end workers had quit over text to move across the country with a man she’d met a week ago. So when Vassa had texted Elain asking if she wanted to go out and get a drink, Elain had responded without hesitation.

Yes, yes, yes.

It was an excuse to drown her sorrows, to get ridiculously dressed up in the sexiest clothes she could muster for the setting, and maybe sit in some man's laps and lick his neck. She picked a white and blue dress with spaghetti straps, low cut enough to show off her breasts—made fuller by a push-up bra—and tight through the waist so it gave the illusion of curves. The dress hit her mid thigh, and with a pair of heeled sandals, it made her five foot frame seem longer and leaner. Elain rubbed a glittery lotion over her tan legs and hung a gold chair around her neck, pulling half her thick, golden brown curls from her face.

A little winged liner smudged at the corner of her eyes and a subtle pink lip made her seem sultry and mysterious. Exactly the kind of woman you’d pull into your lap, she decided. Delighted she could control this once thing, Elain made her way out of her little apartment 

Elain knew the real reason Vassa wanted to meet at this particular bar, which was hardly their kind of place. Three weeks ago, Vassa had sent Elain a blurry picture of what she claimed was the hottest man she’d ever seen in her entire life. Vassa had been going back every Saturday hoping to run into him again.

Elain supposed she could play wing woman. The bar had a back patio, at least, with hanging lights that cast a rather nice glow over the wicker furniture arranged around individual firepits. The bar itself was filled with people, forcing Elain to wedge between people in order to start a tab. 

Vassa was standing close to the open patio doors that would take them outdoors, her red hair immaculate against her made-up face. Vassa was stunning and more than a few people had noticed. Elain drank in her cerulean eyes, the golden brown of her flawless skin, and the cobalt dress she wore—just as short as Elain’s, and just as tight.

“He’s here,” she breathed, gripping Elain’s arm with excitement. Elain took a drink of vodka cranberry through her little straw. “He’s here and he brought a friend.”

“Is his friend hot?”

“I didn’t even look,” Vassa admitted, red lips parted as she glanced over her shoulder. “But men are stupid and he’ll assume you’re into him if you smile once in his general direction.”

“I thought we were going to talk,” Elain chided without any real malice. Vassa’s last boyfriend, DJ K-Death God, had been a supreme loser of the highest order. She deserved this. One night flirting with some lame guy wasn’t the worst thing. 

“Who is he?” Elain asked, curious who Vassa was pining after. Still holding her wrist, Vassa led her into the rapidly cooling September air and pointed at two men settling into chairs at the far end of the patio. Elain paused, because at first glance, the red haired one was easily the hottest man she’d ever seen in her life. His brunette friend wasn’t bad, either.

It was their clothes that gave Elain pause. Hotdog pants and JNCO jeans were one thing…but the shirts…

“Uh…which one?” Elain wondered, watching the red head run a broad hand over a shirt that announced, Of course I cum fast, I have fish to catch. Why would he own that? His friend wasn’t much better. Had Vassa read it? I got pegged at the Cracker Barrel Old Country Store. 

“The brown eyed one,” Vassa murmured, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Elain hadn’t even noticed their eye color, too fixated on their outfits. Had they had a house fire and this was all they could salvage? Were they, perhaps, blind, and unaware of what they were wearing?

Was this some new hipster fashion she didn’t understand? 

“I think they both have brown eyes,” Elain replied. 

“The brunette.”

Small mercies, though just barely. Just to be sure Vassa was still sane, Elain asked, “So I’ll…flirt…with the man who comes fast?”

Vassa frowned. “What?”

“Did you notice his clothes, Vas?” Elain asked, but it was too late. The pair had realized they were staring and with matching, idiotic grins, began beckoning them to join the pair. This could only end in ruin, she thought as Vassa took a step forward, dragging Elain with her. 

“Hi,” Vassa said with a strange, breathy kind of shyness so at odds with her friends. The brown haired man rose to his feet, wiping his hands on those stupid hotdog pants. At least the fish man had the decency not to stand too, legs spread—she thought, anyway. It was impossible to tell given how comically wide his pant legs were. 

“Jurian,” he said, running a hand over the back of his neck. “And this is my best friend Lucien.”

“Vassa—and this is Elain.”

Lucien’s eyes flicked up at Elain, a secretive smile on his face. He knew her role tonight, then. No use pretending, she decided, sitting delicately on the wide arm of the chair he was also in. Was it just her, or was Lucien blushing? He kept his eyes studiously straight ahead, and from close up, Elain could see a trio of scars running from his forehead down to his jaw. His eyes were pretty, she decided—a russet color brown, a match for the crackling embers of the firepit they were centered in. 

Both of them turned their attention to Vassa and Jurian. Vassa, for her part, clearly had no eyes for Jurian’s outfit. Maybe she was already drunk? Elain took a slow drag of her own drink, trying to figure out what to say. She glanced down at Lucien, who was staring at broad, strong hands sitting in his lap. He really was handsome, she decided—a strong jaw, high cheekbones, well-groomed brows and shoulder length auburn hair he’d half tied up. His golden skin was flawless, too, closely shaved. 

He cleared his throat. “So ah…Elain, was it?”

Vassa cut Elain a glance that clearly pleaded, play along. 

This was the DJ all over again. Elain offered Lucien a smile before offering him a well-manicured hand. “That’s right. Elain Archeron.”

“Lucien Vanserra,” he replied.

That was familiar. “Isn’t your brother–”

“A senator. Yeah,” Lucien replied with a grimace. 

“He dresses better than you,” Elain dared to say. She expected a little defensiveness—maybe even irritation. Lucien merely smiled.

“It’s a low bar on that front. You look like a dream, though.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I’m only here for her,” Elain replied, nodding toward Vassa who was very obviously giving Jurian shit. Lucien’s smile didn’t diminish in the slightest. 

“Oh, my hopes are impossibly high. I think you could do a lot better than me,” he told her with a burning stare. 

“Because you come fast?”

Lucien tipped his head back and laughed, a deep and rich sound she decided she liked quite a bit. “I have fish to catch,” he wheezed, one hand on his chest. Elain couldn’t help her own smile, trying to figure out what she was missing. He laughed for a good minute before he caught his breath, broad shoulders still shaking, face lit up with amusement. 

“What am I missing?”

“You know, just because I come fast doesn’t mean you wouldn’t, too.”

“Oh, Mr. Vanserra. I’ve heard that before,” she replied. Lucien cocked his head, lips pressed together. 

“What if I promised?”

“Oh, well, if you promise you’re good in bed, how could I refuse?” Despite herself, Elain was starting to like him. It was clear the outfit he wore was some kind of joke, and Elain couldn’t help but want to be part of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met a man with a good sense of humor. It seemed like everyone she went out with lately was dark and brooding and took themselves so seriously. 

“What about a bet, Elain Archeron?”

“Oh, I don’t think so—”

“Just an hour of your time,” he interrupted, inching his hand closer to her leg. “And if you don’t like me by the end of it, I’ll drag Jurian out of here with just your friends number and remind him he should play it cool.”

“And if I do like you at the end of the hour?” she asked. 

Lucien considered this before smiling again.

“I want you to sit right here. Right atop the JNCO jeans and the purple hightops.”

Lucien kicked aside his pant legs to show Elain a pair of glittery purple hightops that made her laugh out loud again. That had been all she wanted, wasn’t it? Sit in someone's lap and lick his neck? Lucien was a fashion disaster, but he was still hot and the way he was looking at her clearly betrayed him. He wanted her, too. 

Elain extended her hand which Lucien immediately accepted, grin still plastered across his face. “I guess I can give Vassa some time.”

“Oh, she doesn’t need it. Look at him,” Lucien said, glancing toward his scowling friend. “He’s already in love.”

“He looks furious.”

Lucien shook his head back and forth, causing tendrils of hair to spill over his shoulder. Elain could see that Vassa was verbally sparring with him, eyes defiant and delighted. It was a coin toss if men liked that—sometimes it wounded their egos so egregiously they tried to teach her a lesson and got hit in the throat for their efforts. Other times they enjoyed it…to a point. It was cute, and they thought maybe they could soften her sharp edges only to find Vassa had no interest in being anything but the blade of a knife and then they became the first kind of man, too.

Lucien, though, could hear pieces of what was being said it seemed, which was a miracle given how the loud music from indoors infiltrated even this space far back on the patio. “This is his dream. She just called him stupid—I’ll bet he’s in love.”

“I’ll take your word for it. If he’s unkind to her, I’ll have to leave you here for some poor other woman to find.”

Lucien returned his attention to her, placing his hand against his chest. “I only want your charity, Elain Archeron.”

She laughed without meaning to, hating that Lucien was going to win their bet. Elain could be competitive when she wanted to be, and she hated to lose to a beautiful man that knew he was beautiful. Lucien reclined back, letting his ugly, absurd shirt stretch over what she guessed was a very muscular chest. His biceps practically bulged from the sleeves and yeah. She was getting in his lap tonight. It could be a funny story in the morning she supposed.

Remember that time I made out with the guy in the 90’s JNCO jeans? 

“So,” he began, stretching his arm over the chair so his fingers brushed her wrist. “Tell me about you.”

And Elain did, though she usually loathed that question. It wasn’t specific enough—what did they want to know? Elain always picked the easy piece of her. She told him about her bakery thinking he’d quickly change the subject to himself. Instead, Lucien surprised her like he’d done all night. Maybe he knew he had to work harder because of his clothes or maybe this was just who he was. But Lucien asked more questions than her bank had when she’d gone in looking for a loan.

Which meant he’d be coming through her doors with a smile on that beautiful face of his one day, and she’d be pulling him to the freezer to kiss him before the cold set in. An hour had surely passed before Lucien admitted he was a tax attorney. When Elain asked him to explain what that mean, he blushed furiously and insisted it was far too boring to tell her, and instead told her the most heinously embarrassing story about their state senator that would surely compromise his ability to get re-elected should it ever make its way to the press.

She kept waiting for him to remind her that he’d won their bet. It was obvious she liked him. One hour became two in the blink of an eye. Lucien had gone for a second round of drinks, insisting he could buy one vodka cranberry when Elain told him she had a tab and to put her drink on her own. She was nursing it as the clock ticked toward their third hour, waiting for him to make a move when it occurred to her that Lucien simply wouldn’t.

He’d laid his cards on the table right when they met, but he wasn’t going to push it. Which made sliding into his lap with a sigh far easier when it didn’t come with the added pressure of giving him what he so clearly wanted. Lucien, holding a tall, sweating cider in one hand, moved his hands so they weren’t touching her until she settled. Maybe she wiggled on his lap just a little as a tease. And maybe she adjusted herself so her boobs were right in his line of sight on purpose. Lucien kept his eyes trained on her face and for the first time that evening, he didn’t seem quite as self-assured. 

“I think I lost our bet,” she admitted, using her tongue to find her straw. Lucien watched, lips parted, eyes utterly glazed.

“Oh yeah?”

Elain had lost track of Vassa about an hour ago, though she did have a text on her phone with Jurian’s address and a shrugging emoji. Good for Vassa. Elain could have left—she’d done her job, distracting Lucien so Vassa could sneak off with his friend. Elain could thank Lucien for the drink, close out her tab, and walk home alone.

Instead, she lowered her face so she was breathing in the rich, woodsy scent of his cologne. “Yeah,” she breathed, Lucien’s free hand skimmed over the side of her body before settling against her hip. 

He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly as his mind tried to catch up with whatever he thought was happening. Elain didn’t know how to be more obvious, though she did lick his neck, just for good measure.

Lucien huffed out an exhale. “Do ah…christ,” he breathed when she did it again, her hand running down the length of his chest. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Elain looked up the same moment Lucien looked down. Whatever control he’d been employing snapped because his mouth found hers quickly, lips hot in captured, frantic kiss. Elain leaned into it, thinking the last few men she’d been on dates with had waxed poetic about how distasteful they found public displays of affection.

But she liked it. She liked knowing someone wanted her so badly they couldn’t wait for the privacy of four walls and didn’t care who knew it. Lucien tasted like apples and alcohol, his tongue in her mouth before Elain could catch her breath. The grip on her hip tightened until she was pressed tight to his body.

And then it was over. Lucien took a deep breath, looking beyond her. “I’d like to get out of here.”

“Thank god,” he muttered, letting her rise to shaky feet. “My place is just two blocks down. I swear I’m not a serial killer.”

“That’s exactly what a serial killer would say,” Elain teased as he stood. He was taller than he seemed in those absurd pants. Several people turned to look at him, frowns on their faces.

“Wait. Before we go…explain this to me.”

She gestured up and down his body. Lucien offered her one of those smiles again, tighter than before. “Jurian and I like to pick outfits out for each other before we go to the bar. The more absurd, the better.”

“So this isn’t your usual wardrobe?”

Lucien chuckled, one hand on her lower back as he took her to the bar. “You can rifle through my closet if you like. Or I could show you—”

“I don’t want to see you in clothes, Lucien.” Better to be straightforward, right? Just tell him what she wanted? 

He nearly barrelled into a table in front of him. “Right,” he seemed to say—it was impossible to tell given how loud the music was. What Elain did know was somehow Lucien managed to pay both his tab and hers, which was generous of him, and had them back out on the dark street quicker than should have been possible. The bartender clearly knew him, and she’d seen them laughing about his shirt, which meant he probably wasn’t a murderer.

Just an idiot.

She could work with that. 

LUCIEN: 

“So,” he began, closing the door behind him. Would she panic if he locked it? Lucien chose not to, assuming no one was going to just barrel right in. Elain was peering at his tasteful decor with clear curiosity when all he could think about was how to get her to his bedroom. “Are you hungry?”

She glanced over at him with those sultry brown eyes and he thought he might die. “Not really,” she admitted, slipping her shoes off beside the door. She lost about four inches of height that way. Lucien swallowed. Elain was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Was sleeping with her a mistake? Would it be better to take her out a couple times first, let her see his interest in her was genuine? 

“Water?” he offered instead, the word hoarse. 

She shrugged. “Sure.”

Lucien turned his back to fill two glasses with water, and when he turned back, Elain had vanished. 

“Elain?” he called, heart hammering in his chest. She didn’t respond, though Lucien could guess where she’d gone. Abandoning his cups, he found her in his bedroom, standing in his closet with a frown on her lips.

“I thought you didn’t care about my clothes,” he teased, arms crossed over his chest as he lounged in the doorway.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t wear any of this,” she admitted, turning off the light as she faced him. “I couldn’t handle the competition.”

“Trust me,” he began, watching as she came closer and closer. “There is no competition when you’re in the room.”

Licking her lips, Elain stopped mere inches in front of him. “Is that so?”

“I ah…” she had her hand on his chest again and something about the way she touched him made him so, so stupid. “I want to take you on a date.”

Elain smiled. “You don’t have to. This is happening, Lucien. You can relax.”

“No, I mean after,” he breathed. Elain was undoing his belt and forming coherent sentences was becoming more and more difficult. “I want to take you out.”

“Are you sure that isn’t your erection talking?”

“I’ll take you home,” he lied, because Lucien didn’t think he could walk to the door given how aroused he was. “We can go somewhere nice tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said in a tone that betrayed how little she believed him. Lucien had so many questions about the men she’d been with before—how many made the same stupid promises only to disappoint her? He wouldn’t, though. Lucien had plans for her, if she’d let him. Stupid plans, like a trip to Paris and introducing her to his mother.

Elain tossed the belt to the floor laughing when his jeans slipped to his ankles. “They didn’t have your size?”

“I think you hold them up all night,” he admitted, terrified to move when Elain slid a finger under the elastic band of his boxer briefs. “I uh…you don’t have to—”

“Oh, will you stop,” she said sweetly, finger almost brushing his cock. “I’ll tell you if I don’t want to do something.”

“I—-” he froze, because those pretty hands, with the perfect, shimmery pink nails, had vanished entirely and were now gripping the base of his cock. This wasn’t real—there was no way this was happening and yet Elain was pulling out his cock and laughing when she saw it.

“Good for you, Lucien,” she told him, sinking to her knees.

“Elain…” he whispered. Was he going to tell her she didn’t have to? When all he wanted was to see her swallow him? When they’d been kissing on the patio, Lucien had envisioned sliding his hand beneath her dress. He’d imagined she wore nothing beneath it and he’d be able to touch her pussy to find it was already wet.

But now he had new daydreams and all of them centered around her looking up at him through those thick, dark lashes with that wicked smile curved over her perfect face. 

“Are you going to tell me no?” she asked.

“Put my cock in your mouth, Elain,” he replied, gathering up the strands of her hair. Elain smiled, licking the vein running the underside of his erection. A sharp exhale of air left him, legs rigid beneath him. 

“Is this what you like?”

Lucien didn’t know anymore. He might have had preference once upon a time. Now his preference was whatever she was doing. The teasing was, at the very least, going to make his shirt exceptionally and embarrassingly true. He was far too excited and she hadn’t even put him wholly in her throat—she was merely teasing the head of his cock, lightly stroking him with that mischievous smile. 

He’d have to stop her at some point, which he thought would be an excellent opportunity to calm himself down and even the score between them. And if he could bring her to climax before he ever entered her body, that was even better. Lucien was so caught up imagining what he might do to her, he was only barely paying attention to what she was doing to him.

He groaned, his attention returning to the woman at his feet, when she swallowed a good third of him. Lucien didn’t like the sound of gagging, and when Elain widened her jaw in an attempt to take more, he stopped her.

“That’s good, that’s good,” he managed, sweeping his thumbs over her cheeks. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

Elain rolled her eyes, sassy as ever. Lucien liked the sight of her on her knees way too much. He’d also underestimated just how excited he was, because the erotic imagery of Elain taking him with enthusiasm, kneeling between his legs, was unraveling him faster than he liked.

And Lucien would be damned if he proved Jurian’s stupid shirt true. He let her continue for another minute, mostly because he was selfish, before he reached for her elbows and pulled him off me.

“Why did you stop me?”

“The night is young,” he lied, hoping she didn’t look down and see the way his cock was twitching in time with his pulse. “And there are a lot of things I want to do to you.”

Lucien kissed her, somehow managing not to trip over the ugly shoes and pants still tangled around his ankles. Half naked, Lucien got Elain to his large bed blanketed in red before pulling his shirt up off over his head.

“I’ll burn it—”

“Don’t,” she breathed, eyes bright with amusement. “It’s starting to grow on me.”

Laying on her back, Lucien truly didn’t know where to start with her. Elain felt like a dream he’d made up, a hallucination mere moments from evaporating into nothing as a doctor brought him back from the dead. There was no way this woman was in his bed. Smiling at him. Lucien flopped beside her, deciding he’d start with kissing and see where that took them. He was naked and she was still very clothed, but he could work with that. As long as she didn’t think he was trying to entice her into only paying attention to him, Lucien figured he was golden. 

Kissing Elain was almost better than her sucking his cock. She made the sweetest little noises—just like she’d done in the bar. Lucien had been in danger there, because all he’d meant to do was kiss her once so she knew he was interested in her. But she’d sighed into his mouth, fingers curling in his hair and he’d deepened it like an idiot. Maybe some part of him wanted everyone else to see him, to know that they didn’t have a snowball's chance in hell because he’d gotten her first.

Never mind it had been pure luck. 

Elain had moaned when his tongue found hers and Lucien knew if he didn’t get her out of there right then and there, he wouldn’t make it further than the bathroom. They’d be rushed, and then she’d be embarrassed and he’d lose his shot with her. Now he had the time he wanted, and Lucien was going to drag it out until they were both breathless and on the edge of orgasm.

Even if it killed him.

Elain tasted like sunshine. There was no other explanation for it. There was no lingering vodka, no hint of sweetness from the cranberry. Kissing her was like standing outside in June and Lucien was addicted to it. Pinning her to the bed, their fingers interlaced, Lucien kissed her like a man in love. 

He wasn’t chaste about it. Lucien was trying to figure out her dress at the same time. It was tight enough he was certain there must be buttons or a zipper, and when Elain arched up into him, rubbing herself against the thigh wedged between her legs, Lucien found it and pulled it down quickly. 

She didn’t stop him, nor did Elain protest when he pushed the straps over her tanned shoulders, bunching the pretty dress around her waist. A pretty white, lacy bra was another obstacle Lucien quickly divested her of, tossing it to the floor with the monstrosity of items he’d been wearing the day before. There was no logical explanation for Elain’s interest, not reason he had her in his bed at all.

He ought to be alone, hand grasping his cock in the bathroom. Lucien grasped her breast, delighted when the entirety of it fit in the palm of his hand. Elain moaned again, neck arched so he could repay the favor from the bar and lick the smooth column of flesh. He was going to taste every inch of her before the night was through. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against her collabone. “You’re a dream, do you know that?” Elain merely squirmed, pulling out the ponytail in his hair so it tumbled around his face. He’d tell her again in the morning, he decided. For not, it was enough to draw that pebbled nipple into his mouth, teasing it with the flat of his tongue. She was so responsive and Lucien was desperate to get his mouth between her legs, too. 

Slow the fuck down, asshole. 

It was hell. Lucien wondered if there was a future in which he knew her so well that he could spend hours touching and kissing every little place that drove her wild. If a future version of him didn’t have to worry that she might wake up in the morning, thank him for a nice time, and never see him again.

She was panting his name. “Lucien,” she breathed, carding her fingers through his hair. Lucien had to grind his bare cock against the duvet, unable to stand the tingling arousal that shot through him. Elain didn’t notice, eyes half-lidded which was for the best.

He wasn’t beating the charges that he came fast anytime soon.

Dragging his mouth lower and lower, Lucien finally settled himself between her parted legs, delighted when she shimmied the dress to her knees. He helped her, tossing it behind him, leaving only a matching pair of white panties in their wake.

“Oh, come on,” he grumbled as Elain giggled sweetly. 

“In a hurry to see me out?”

“Definitely in a hurry,” he agreed as she slid the panties from her body torturously slow. “I come fast, remember?”

She giggled again, leaning up on her elbows to look at him. “Have you—”

“No, I haven’t,” he said quickly, not bothering to add that he was probably five strokes away, condom or not. “But the sight of you feels like enough.”

“Stop it,” she whispered, a deep pink flush crawling up her neck. Lucien grinned, lowering himself so he was practically eye level with her pussy.

“Someone should say it. You’re beautiful.”

Elain shivered and Lucien wondered if people weren’t saying so. He had a million questions he wanted to ask her, a million things he wanted to know. But right then, hovering between her legs, Lucien truly only wanted to know one thing.

“What do you taste like?” he murmured, holding her gaze.

Elain’s smile was wicked. “Find out.”

ELAIN:

Lucien’s smile was a thing of beauty. He offered it up so easily, in contrast with so many men she’d been with in the past. Elain wanted to revel in it, to drown entirely between his lips. And she would, she realized, when Lucien lowered his mouth and took a taste of her. This was its own little treat—her last boyfriend had refused more often than he hadn’t, deriding the act as emasculating and boring. The fact that Lucien was there, tongue sliding over her clit as his fingers spread her apart…that was a good sign, right? And it felt good, like everything else. Lucien seemed determined to wring every last inch of pleasure from her and Elain was starting to believe that he wanted to see her again. 

She’d let him, if he asked. She’d stay the night and make him breakfast in the morning, even. She’d have dinner with him at night and she’d suck his cock for dessert. Hell, Elain would introduce him to her sisters, her friends, the people she worked with. This is Lucien Vanserra, my—

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hips rolling against the mattress. “Holy fucking shit.” Elain laughed, because what else could she do? He looked so wrecked for a moment, auburn hair curtained around his handsome, flushed face. Lucien looked up at her, unable to smile though his eyes were bright, and pushed a finger into her body.

That shut her up. 

“Kill me,” Lucien whispered, sliding that finger back out of her only to bring it to his mouth. Lucien sucked it clean while Elain watched, breathing between parted lips. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Are you always so dramatic?” she tried to tease. 

“Only with you,” he admitted, sliding that same finger, plus another, back in her body. Elain moaned, arching off the bed because it felt good. He curled them just right, sucking her clit between plush lips to heighten the pleasure she felt. Elains toes curled, knees draped over his shoulders though she couldn’t remember putting them there. He had her obscenely spread, mouth licking every inch of her pussy. 

There was no elegance here, no room for shame. Elain’s thighs tightened around his face, holding him closer while her fingers tangled in his hair. 

“Don’t stop,” she begged him. Truthfully, she didn’t think he could. Lucien was a man possessed and part of her wanted to stop him and demand he fuck her, just to see what he was like when he was sharing her body. The anticipation was enough to drive Elain higher, arousal burning brightly just beneath the electric hum of her skin. 

She needed just a little more. More of his pumping fingers, of his sucking lips. “Lucien,” she breathed, grinding into him. “Lucien, please—”

She didn’t know what he did. The sensations melded together until Elain was flying off the bed, pinned by his one free hand. She had to bite her palm to keep from screaming, a sound she’d never once made in her life. Lucien didn’t stop licking as Elain lost herself for a moment to the wildest orgasm she’d ever had in her life. One became two, ricocheting through her before she’d caught her breath. 

Elain kicked him in the jaw by accident, flailing to escape the overwhelming pleasure. He rolled to his side, dazed for only a moment before he was reaching for her again, dragging her down the sheets for a messy, desperate kiss. They rolled around for a moment, trying so hard to find a position in which one of their legs wasn't dangling off the bed. The obvious choice would have been to just scoot back up to the pillows and Elain thought she’d die if he stopped kissing her for even a minute.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Lucien moaned, rubbing the head of his cock against her pussy. “And I’m probably going to come fast.”

“At least you warned me at the bar,” she replied through rough kisses. Lucien huffed a laugh that quickly melted into a loud moan when he thrust himself into her. It was all she could do to dig her nails into his shoulders, gasping for breath because that big, thick cock punched the air from her lungs. 

“Spend the night,” Lucien babbled, holding himself still as he brushed strands of hair from her face. “Let me buy you breakfast in the morning.”

Elain pressed her lips to his. “How about I cook breakfast, you buy dinner.”

Lucien groaned, sliding his cock from his body only to slam it back in. “Deal,” he managed. For a moment there was nothing else but their shared breathing as Lucien worked himself into a rhythm that worked for them both. Elain could practically taste him—he still tasted like cider, sweet and masculine all at once, mingled with the taste of her own arousal. 

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple and she wondered how much restraint he was employing. The veins in his neck seemed to strain, the muscles in his stomach and back pulled taut. If he’d come, she wouldn’t have begrudge him that—she’d come twice already. Surely he deserved to, too. Any man would have done exactly what he liked with her, and Elain was quickly learning Lucien was not just any man.

She was starting to think he was better. 

Bracing his body against an elbow, Lucien used the other to slide between their sweat slicked bodies for her still aching, clit. “I need to feel you come on my cock,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. 

“I don’t think I can,” she replied, though that wasn’t entirely true. She’d managed to give herself multiple orgasms. Why shouldn’t he, too? Elain concentrated on the pad of his thumb rubbing tight circles over her clit and the way his cock felt stroking in and out of her body.

But it was his mouth, kissing relentlessly, his tongue stroking her own, that drove Elain back into the fire.

“You’re so tight,” he panted. “Fuck, Elain—baby, come for me. Please come, baby, please—”

He was babbling, whimpering with each new stroke. Elain clamped around him tight, pussy pulsating as Lucien got what he wanted. Just in time, because he gasped, his thrusting erratic, before he came with a loud, desperate moan of pleasure. 

They were kissing before she ever caught her breath, his arms tight around her body to roll her over. Elain didn’t complain, his legs wrapped around her waist to keep himself from slipping out of her. She thought, foolishly, he meant to go again.

But Lucien’s arms flopped to his sides once he was flat on his back, eyes locked on her face and cheeks bright red from exertion. “I’ll take that water now,” he gasped while Elain laughed, palms pressed to the defined pectorals of his chest.

“And something to eat?”

“If it's delivered,” he managed, a smile on his face. “I’m not getting out of this bed and I’m sure as shit not putting on pants.”

“Should I get an Ub—”

“Under the blankets? Yes,” he said, yanking her back when she tried to get up. “Don’t you dare get out of this bed.”

There was a pause as Lucien considered what he’d said. Elain waited, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

“Unless you want to leave?”

“Nope,” she replied. “But there will be no fishing in the morning, Lucien.”

His smile returned. “That won’t keep me from coming fast, you know.”

Elain smiled too. “I know.”

THREE YEARS LATER:

“You can’t be back here, moron,” Vassa hissed, looking Lucien up and down. “Go back downstairs.”

“I’ll close my eyes. I just want to give something to my wife—”

“Not yet,” Vassa interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. “She could still change her mind.”

Gently, Lucien moved Vassa from the front of the door and squeezed his eyes shut tight before entering. There was a soft squeal from Elain, and the whisper of satin and lace as she moved across the room.

“This is such bad luck, Lucien,” Elain complained. She smelled floral and he bet she looked beautiful. He wanted to open his eyes and look, and knew he wouldn’t—this mattered to her, and Lucien wouldn’t take that away from her.

“I’m not looking at you. Just imagining,” he replied as he reached into the pocket of his suit pants. “I have a gift for you.”

“Your penis is not a gift—”

“You shush,” he said with a laugh. “It is a gift, first of all. I’m saving that for later. My gift is something old and something blue.”

“Nesta gave me…Lucien…is that a garter?” 

He’d had it made weeks ago, and had been daydreaming the reveal. He wished he could see her face as she saw the now stretchy piece of blue t-shirt fabric he was offering her. Petal soft fingers brushed his palm and it was like touching her for the first time all over again. Swallowing, he waited a beat.

“Is this—”

“It’s from the fish shirt. From the night we met. I had them cut a strip from the bottom of…for luck, too. So whatever bad luck it is to talk to you before the wedding is canceled by this shirt.”

“Lucien…” but he heard the rustling of her dress and the shift in her breathing while she shimmied it up her thigh. 

“Do you like it?”

“I feel like I shouldn’t…but I do,” she admitted. A moment later he felt her press her lips to his jaw, laughing at whatever she saw. “Don’t wipe that off.”

“Why would I?” he replied with what he hoped was a charming grin. “Let it be known I’m in love with my wife.”

“Debatable, given the cursed fish garter wrapped around my leg.”

“I’m going to take it off with my teeth,” he promised, excited at the prospect of climbing beneath her skirts. “Take your underwear off and give me a little show.”

“You’re terrible, Lucien.”

He was making his way back to the door, still laughing. “Just because you don’t want anything smashed in your face doesn’t mean I feel the same.” Elain’s small hands pushed against his back, shoving him back into the hallway. Still, Lucien heard her peals of laughter trailing behind him like bells. Lucien didn’t have it in him to feel an ounce of regret. After all, this was exactly what he’d wanted the moment he’d seen Elain standing across that crowded bar patio, frown on her perfect face as she read his shirt. 

The fact that he’d somehow managed to bring her back to his place, nevermind that she’d agreed to marry him a year and half later, was a miracle in and of itself. He still walked around in a daze, marveling at his good luck. 

Lucien made his way through the little house they’d rented, toward the garden where he’d see Elain for the first time in three days. Where she’d swear, in front of their friends, their family, and the very gods themselves, that she wanted to be with him until she died. 

Lucien smiled broadly.

That shirt was the luckiest damn thing he’d ever owned in his entire life.

Modern AU, Lucien meets Elain while wearing this shirt. She decides she needs to find out

I wasn't going to post this but I want everyone to see how dumb you are and how you harass me when I'm just trying to live a peaceful life

[katsukikitten]

Ready Set COOK!

A/N have this random ass fic I cranked out cause I watched some food network. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did writing it!

"Y/N is arguable the best cook in the dorms." Mina says salivating over the thought of dinner as 1A figures out what they are going to try to convince you to make.

"Tch. Yea fucking right. I cook the best!" Bakugou chimes in suddenly flipping through the channels with fever.

"Ha!" You laugh dryly, "Maybe when I'm having a bad day."

He grinds his teeth as he glares at you, channel surfing forgotten.

"Let's settle this." He snarls although he barely moves from his lounging position.

"How do you declare we do that spicy boi?" A hush suddenly falls over the room at your most recent and his most hated nickname.

Explosions threaten to pop but the TV blares before he can.

"THIS WEEK ON COOK OFF!"

"OH OH!" Kirishima pipes in, jumping up to point at the TV frantically.

"Fuck no." Bakugou bites out, sending daggers the red heads way.

"Oh come on Bakugou it will be fun!" He whines only to be shut down again. This time with an explosion. The hot head jumps to his feet with smoking hands.

"I SAID FUCK NO!"

"Why? Too scared you'll get your ass kicked?" You prompt, looking at your nails as you speak. He stalks your way leaning over you as you sit on the couch.

"I'm too scared you'll lose so badly you'll have to commit seppuku to regain your honor." The tension is palpable in the large living room, making some of the students feel small from its weight.

"Oh so you admit you worry about me?" You say in your most flirtatious voice, placing your hand onto his shoulder because you love to get under his skin. He jerks back with crazed eyes.

"I don't give a fuck about any of you extras!"

"Good! Now we need judges. Todoroki?" You ask but Bakugou shakes his head.

"His palette is as expanded as a fucking toddler's." The ash blonde shakes his head, "Mother fucker eats cold soba for breakfast lunch AND dinner."

"Ouch." An invisible arrow pierces the two toned boy in the chest.

"Well..." You look around the room, "It can't be biased..."

"Deku? Oh no wait then you'll use him as an *excuse* when you lose." You giggle, his cheeks burn from the sound.

"Fuck you and fuck Deku." He snarls, "What about Shinso?"

"Aaahh that's a good one. He hates everyone equally." You chime in, placing your hand in your chin as you look over your peers.

"Wow glad you noticed." He rolls his amethyst eyes although he does not object.

"Oh Denki!" You point at the electric

"OMG YES MY TIME TO SHINE BABY!" He fists his hands into the pants of your legs, so happy to be included.

"NO! Not pikachu! His brain is FRIED!" Bakugou snarls and Denki let's out a sad 'hey' while a crocodile tear rolls down his cheek.

"Yes, that's what would make him the best wild card! You'll never know what he's gonna think!" You absentmindedly let your hand pet over the curve of his skull.

Part of you wonders if suggesting him is a bad idea. Your eyes flicker to the TV just to see someone asking the sweating chefs what they are planning.

"Kirishima can be the host!" You say with excitement, "Now we just need one more judge. Someone who likes to eat."

Silence settles over the room aside from the now low roar of the TV

"I've got it!" Your new ruby eyed host pipes in, "I'll ask Sun Eater senpai!"

"He's so meek. How are you going to get him to agree?" You ask as a some what devilish smile crosses his face.

"Oi, I forgot you came in after. Poor guy got pestered by shitty hair until he said yes to taking him to his agency." Bakugou crosses his arms.

"We'll compete tomorrow! I've got to prepare!" You stare after Kirishima who runs to get his phone, you cant see him bullying someone into helping him.

×××××××××

You had never been proven more wrong as you stand in the dorms over sized kitchen in front of the panel of judges.

Shinso who looks bored, Denki who reminds you of a kid hopped up on sugar and a petrified Tamaki.

"Welcome chefs!" Kirishima announces, it's funny how quickly he made the kitchen look much like the studio. Even forcing you and Bakugou into real chef jackets while Kirishima wears one of his suits.

"Oi, you really went all out." He growls, somehow making the compliment sound like an insult. You roll your eyes before you let them linger over Bakugou. Much like you he wears the black jacket with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, he has a towel resting over a broad shoulder.

Somehow this outfit makes your cheeks burn. You swallow, looking out over the "live" audience, aka class 1A with every chair they could find in the dorm piled into the smallest part of the kitchen.

Sitting on the edges of their seats.

"Today the two of you will be placed head to head agaisnt one another to become UA's top chef!" Kirishima announces with gusto even earning a small cheer from the audience.

"Tonights prize does not only include bragging rights BUT this!" He gestures widely to the obviously paper mache trophy, Bakugou snorts.

"Really? You could have asked Momo over there?" He points in the dark and Kirishima blushes a bit. Although he is saved as Momo walks towards the front, not breaking the attire with her long sleep dress that looks more like a ball room gown. Kirishima thanks her silently before punching the old trophy off with the new one.

"Who will when this amazing trophy and the title of UA's top chef?" Kirishima looks to the audience before adding, "Let's find out!"

"Contestants, today's challenge is broken down into three parts. Appetizer, entree and dessert! The three dishes must meld flawlessly with one another! You have ten minutes to look over the ingredients and come up with a meal plan. Starting.....now!"

The two of you jump, pulling open at the two large fridges behind you to be met with an array of vegetables and meats.

"Are they like timed?" Shinso asks, as he twirls his fork.

"Good question, Shinso. Yes each portion of the competition will be timed!"

As you begin to put together your game plan you rush towards the pantry. Fear making you hesitate, the pantry was mostly empty just yesterday.

"Oi! Open the fucking door!" A yell behind you before you rip open the cabinet with blatant rage.

Surprisingly the pantry is popping at the seams, ingredients pop out at you that you hastily grab.

"Chefs your time is up! You have fifteen minutes to begin prepare your first dish! GO!"

Excitement pushes your body into motion as you slice bacon strips down the middle. Your thoughts compete with the vigorous chopping from the station next to you as you delicately wrap sliced puff pastry around the now bacon wrapped asparagus.

"Chef Bakugou what are you preparing?"

"Use your fucking eyes." He growls, adding something to a bowl.

"Hey..." Kirishima sounds crestfallen, almost hurt and its hurt enough for Katuski to sigh.

"Alright alright. I'll tell you. Stop pouting!" He chops into a radish harshly to emphasize his point before going on.

"I believe its important to go a little on the lighter side for a starter. Almost refreshing cleanses the palette." Your ears perk at his deep voice as you pull your starter from the oven, "So I'm making a radish and cucumber salad with rice vinager and chili flakes for a small kick."

"It looks wonderful chef!" Kirshima comments before adding, "Five minutes to plate!"

"Shit..." You hiss to yourself as you delicately arrange your asparagus twists, while popping hands roast sesame seeds in an instant before tossing them into the salad.

The two if you plate, arrange and present until kirishima finally shouts

"TIMES UP! STEP AWAY FROM THE PLATES!" Both of you back away with raised hands.

"First up. Y/N-chan." Kirishima says happily as the judges look over their food.

Shinso takes a bite first.

"Flavorful. Savory. Its delicious." Is all he offers as he eats his second.

"Kaminari?" Kirishima prompts. Denki is smiling ear to ear before a rare seriousness washes over his features as he chews.

"I dont like asparagus." He states with a harsh tone.

"IM FUCKED!" You scream internally.

"But you've made me like it."

"IM UNFUCKED!"

Kaminari takes another bite, thinking it over

"The puff pastry is airy and buttery and surprisingly the bacon is crispy without your vegetable drying out. Very well done."

You glance at Bakugou who mouths

"Is he fucking Gorden Ramsey now?" To which you giggle.

"Tamaki senpai, please do not judge on usefulness for your quirk but by taste." Kirishima encourages as Tamaki almost shrinks away. He takes a bite before smiling.

"I..its delicious. Togata would enjoy this."

"Next up Bakugou!"

"Nice kick, cool cuc flavor. I like it." Shinso nods to Bakugou as he makes a mark in on the pad provided.

"Honestly, Chef Katsuki. I was really worried about the heat level when I saw your heavy handed toss of pepper flakes into the salad. But the flakes really bring out the tang of the rice vinager, the smoky flavor of the sesame seed while the radish and cucumber take the edge away *just* enough." Kaminari says before taking another bite, scribbling as he chews.

This time Bakugou looks to you and you laugh aloud at his bewildered scarlet eyes.

"Just got with it!" You call from your station. Struggling to keep your giggle.

Who knew confusion could look so cute?

"Its just the right amount of spice. Togata would enjoy this."

"Take your station, Katsuki as we will now begin the main course. You have thirty five minutes to prepare!"

Time ticks by faster than you'd like as your watched pot of water finally boils. You add in chopped golden potatoes setting a timer before butter flying your chicken breasts for a more even cook and better grilled sear.

Bakugou works furiously with his steak, pounding at it to quickly tenderize it, adding an aromatic garlic herb butter to a heated pan. He swirls the melting blob until it coats the bottom of the pan.

Both of you are about to start your meats before Kirishima breaks your concentration.

"Chefs! I've found an ingredient you HAVE to incorporate into your main dish." He presents a rectangular package that has you seething.

"KIRISHIMA WHAT THE FUCK?!" You both yell in unison, slamming your meats on your cutting boards.

"Dry packs of ramen noodles!" He announces in case either of you couldn't read the damn packaging!

"What the fuck?" Is all the two of you can say as you're tossed the package of ramen noodles. You stare at your dish, you couldn't easily shift your meal plan into Asian like Bakugou could thanks to his universal salad. The dishes had to be cohesive and you had fucking POTATOES BOILING TO BE MASHED

You stare almost stunned as the red rectangle stares back at you.

You hated ramen.

Meanwhile Bakugou grumbles to himself as he slices his steak into thin strips, adding ginger, a bit of sesame seed oil, green onion and some beef broth to boil.

He tosses in the package of ramen.

"This is cheap shit." He grumbles to himself before adding the steak in a few moments later slamming a lid onto the pan. He was lucky he picked a deep pan as opposed to his original idea of a shallow one.

"Half of the time is remaining chefs!"

"Perfect!" You slam your fist into your palm as you make haste. Quickly grabbing eggs, milk, flour and the food processor.

You begun to crush the noodles until they become a fine grain.

"Eji do we have to use the stupid flavor packet?"

"Fucking why would you ask?!" Bakugou snarls your way, ruby red eyes slide to the panel.

"Judges?"

"No." They answer in unison and you both sigh in relief. For you it would have been hard to incorporate to your sudden idea of fried chicken while the flavoring would be too salty and undercut the flavor building he had done for his dish.

You mash your potatoes, adding in garlic cloves, cubes of butter, a bit of season salt all before emulsifying it to a whipped state.

"Five minutes chefs!"

You begin to really sweat now, you didnt want to rush your chicken for fear of the batter not becoming crispy enough or worse yet an undercooked breast.

"Three minutes chefs!"

"Fuck! Cook chicky cook!" You mumble to the fryer, scarlet eyes shift to your bouncing frame, plating his own food, swiping juices that splatter.

"Come on plate damn it! It's done!" He shouts to you.

"You *do* care!" You tease, although your heart is in your throat as you place the chicken onto the plate, drizzling a honied mustard over the breasts.

"Like hell. It's just winning by default is boring. I want to watch them spit your food out." His voice comes out soaking in malice but his eyes say otherwise. Mischief and excitement dance along his scarlet iris.

"AND TIME!" You both step away from your plates. Breathing heavily as the two of you look down at your master pieces.

Bakugou places his hand on the small of your back to guide you in front of the panel as Kirishima grabs your dishes.

"Bakugou you're up first."

"This is not thirty cent ramen." Is all Shinso says as he slurps up the noodles before biting into the beef. No one misses his eyes flutter.

"Wow." Is all Kaminari can say chewing with delight, "Just wow. I would have thought the noodles were homemade. The beef is tender, all cooked evenly. The sauce flavorful, a hit of ginger and I'm surprised you hadn't added any heat. I would have loved to have seen a five alarm ramen from you."

Bakugou grinds his teeth to keep from shouting at his last remark.

"Togata would enjoy this."

"I'll be sure to make him a to go plate." Kirishima winks before presenting your dish.

"I never would have thought to use ramen as breeding." Purple eyes glitter as he devours the chicken.

"Me either. Its excellently light, you matured everyone's favorite honey mustard by making it with a sharper brown mustard and the potatoes are soft, beautifully whipped and garlicy!"

"This is 'southern food?'" Tamaki asks, "Togata would like it."

You smile warmly.

"Last round chefs! You'll have forty five minutes to prepare a dessert with *this* ingredient." He holds up a green can and your stomach sinks.

"Is that fucking wasabi?" Bakugou snarls, even the heat king is stunned.

"Yes chef it is. Please incorporate this ingredient into your dish. Starting...NOW!"

You stare at the green can. What in the actual fuck? Maybe you should have made a menu more geared towards Asian cuisine.

I mean you were in FUCKING JAPAN AFTER ALL.

You snatch onto the can, now was not the time to damn yourself. You could do this. You could beat Bakugou!

Even if it killed you.

You decided to taste it, youd never actually had it, just knew that it was potent.

"That's too much idiot!" Bakugou yells from his station just as your about to put a heaping teaspoon into your mouth.

"Like scoop with a chop stick." He says, showing you himself. His chopstick dips into the wasabi to return with the smallest of green.

You mimic him, popping it into your mouth as instant regret washes over you as you try to break down the components of the flavor.

It was hot with underlying notes of freshness, almost herbal as the heat began to fade.

But with that regret comes an idea.

You work vigorously grabbing all the chocolate you can find before making a batch of brownies, wasabi mixed into the batter.

Nothing was more southern than cake or a brownie.

"I'll fucking tell you what..." You finish the thought aloud as you worked.

All the while Bakugou glances to you with concerned eyes before he measures out the perfect amount of coconut milk to reduce with almond milk, a split vanilla pod, some sugar, honey and wasabi powder.

Soon his odd mixture becomes fragrant, the freshness of it competing with the richness of baking brownies.

Time ticks by too quickly as you snatch the wasabi powder from Bakugou adding the smallest amount to powdered sugar, cocoa and milk as you make the frosting to your brownies.

You feel like you're ahead of time as your plate, eyes looking over to Bakugou who is garnishing ramekins with edible flowers and flakes of coconut.

"Fuck." You murmur before pipping on some icing. Smoothing it out with a knife. Plating it as Kirishima obnoxiously counts down.

"Time!" He yells. You're shaking before glancing at Bakugou who seems nervous himself. Again he guides you to the panel, you lean into him for a bit of support.

Your heart was racing, sweat still dripping down the nape of your neck and beading on your brow.

You couldn't tell who's dishes they favored and there was a chance you could very well lose.

You'd hate to admit but Bakugou's station smelt fucking amazing all night.

"Y/N!" Kirishima smiles a wide tooth smile, "Wasabi brownies. Interesting."

"You mean fucking fire." Shinso says.

"Its astounding how the chocolate adds to the heat with out one overpowering the other. A delicate scale was balanced today."

You find Bakugou's hand by his side. giving it a squeeze to keep yourself form laughing. He leans towards you and whispers into your ear.

"Bet you're regretting adding Flavor Town onto the board."

A giggle escapes your lips that drives Katuski mad.

"Togata would love this! Please save a square for him!"

The judges cleanse their palates before moving into Bakugou's dessert.

"So delicate." Shino adds, looking down at the purple flowers.

"Watch it." He bites but you again squeeze his hand, this time whispering to him

"That means he likes it. You did an amazing job plating."

He watches you smile as you drink in their comments about *his * dish.

"I like that you start and finish things with a refreshing yet memorable dish. The edible flowers add immense color to this dish, the wasabi heightens the sweetness of the honey and the coconut flakes add a little bit of both crunch and depth. Excellent."

"So pretty..." Tamkai stares at his dessert before adding a small bite into his mouth. His eyes flutter and you know then that you've lost.

That's two different judges with different meals that he has impressed. He squeezes your hands, you look up to him expecting a smug smile only to see nervousness.

"The judges will now debate. Please sit in the waiting room while they discuss who will be UA's top chef!"

"Where the fuck is that?" The blonde snarls.

"The living room!" He whispers as you drag an agitated Bakugou with you.

The two of you sit in silence, sinking into the couches with tired bodies.

Adrenaline can do that to you. Minutes tick by before you sigh out.

"I'm pretty sure you won. You..." You gush, "Amazing. That salad looked so damn good!"

Katuski cannot help the smile that spreads across his face as he watches you sing his praises.

"Honestly your southern dishes were something new to them. That's far better and seriously ramen as a breeding? Innovative as fuck." He sags in the couch closer to you. The two of you half fighting over who really one by pointing out the best moves the other did.

Gradually gravitating closer to one another with heatedexcitement fueled by friendly competition. The two of you are butting foreheads as you argue.

"But the flowers were stunning...." The vigor in your tone dies down as you stare into something else that else stunning.

Scarlet eyes sparkle like gems in the low light of the side table lamps. Suddenly you are hyper aware of your proximity to him. You try to scoot back only for your hip to hit the arm of the couch, barely moving a centimeter. You were safely nestled between the couch and his amazingly muscular arms.

Bakugou swallows his desire as he drinks you in this close, having never realizing how pretty you actually were.

Add that to your ability to kick ass on the battle field and in the kitchen had Bakugou looking at you in a whole new light. He seems to choke on his desire as one strong hand finds the nape of your neck.

"I bet nothing tastes as delicious as your lips." He says before pressing his own to yours.

The saying alone has your body flushed and a small whimper erupts in the back of your throat as you closed your eyes.

Shit.

You liked arrogant, smart mouthed, excellent chef handsome ass Bakugou.

And now that you've tasted him, you'll never want to eat anything else again.

You kiss him back with matched passion and the two of you forget about the competition for a moment. Foot steps had the two of you breaking apart, cheeks burning brighter than the boy's hair whose entered the living room just missing everything.

"They are ready to announce the winner." He turns on his heel, expecting the two of you to follow. Both of you share a look before standing. Bakugou wraps his arm around your waist pulling you close to him so he can whisper in the cockiest tone he can muster.

"After they announce me as winner. Let me make you dessert."

@we-starlight-in-the-making @kiribakuho @babybakuu @zbops @crimsondream-1 @alwaysmy crazy ass did it. I made the fic I wanted

[twinsky]

everybody we’re fucking 1k away from 100k of trwamtp. unfucking real yall

-

Title: The roles we (are meant to) play Summary: It’s an eerie feeling of déjà vu that overtakes him when he opens his eyes and sees Ouma hovering above him, blocking everything else from sight. And, for a moment, it’s almost like being back in Gonta’s lab with fourteen of them still alive.

Or, Saihara moves that little bit faster and Ouma ends up with a different hostage in the hangar.

Chapter 14 Short Summary: our trial comes to its close and not everyone is pleased with its results.

ao3: [chapter 14]/[start from the beginning]

“You saw… Kaito,” Harukawa says haltingly, like the words don’t quite fit right in her mouth, openly confused. “You’re sure you saw Kaito talking to Monokuma and not someone else.” She says, an almost pleading tone to her voice and Shuichi, Shuichi he gets it. Of all the people he had expected to have been the culprit of that conversation Momota had not even been on the list. Not just because Momota wasn’t even on the list of people Shuichi could imagine speaking in a private conversation with Monokuma, but also while at the very least Kiibo and Ouma were comparable in height, and even though Shuichi himself was taller, he didn’t put up an imposing figure. Momota however, was tall, and broad, and loud.

Even if tired why would Yumeno not recognize him?

“I did! I’m absolutely sure of it!” Yumeno says, head turned upwards with pride.

“You didn’t sound so sure earlier,” Kiibo says, looking as unsure about this as the rest of them, “and I must confess that I can’t agree with your statement.”

“I couldn’t remember because my head was clouded by a sleepiness curse that dulled my senses.” Yumeno says, stamping her foot to the ground, “And I told you, I didn’t just remember who it was, I remembered why it was so hard for me to remember.”

“Well, why was it?”

“Thanks for asking,” Yumeno says with a flourish Shuichi is sure is usually reserved for her magic acts. “It’s because there were two people there, not just one.”

“Huh?”

“There were two people talking to Monokuma you mean?”

“No,” Yumeno replies, shaking her head, “It was a couple days ago, I was leaving my lab to get something to eat and then go to sleep but as I rounded the corner I heard arguing.” The confidence that had overcome her seems to vanish as she curls inward slightly. “I got scared so I hid but I saw them, Monokuma and Momota-kun arguing about something –or at least Momota-kun looked upset, Monokuma looked the same as ever. I was too far to hear them but…” Her face twists, "I saw Ouma, he was hiding in the little walkway that separates the front half of the first floor from the back half."

"And then what happened?" Harukawa presses but Yumeno shakes her head once again.

"I was tired you know… and sitting there huddled on the ground I fell asleep. When I woke up they were all gone and I was still so sleepy I just assumed it was a dream and went to my room. I had forgotten all about it until Saihara was talking about how he hasn't seen Monokuma since the gym."

"So that's all you know?"

"Yeah," Yumeno says through a yawn, "and all that remembering has made me sleepy."

"Where does this leave us, if Momota-san was really the one who knew the motive then… he's dead now, we still don't know what the motive was." Kiibo laments.

"No, that's not entirely right," Shuichi says, heart thrumming an unsteady beat in his chest, “If what Yumeno-san saw is true, then there is one person left who might know something.” But even before he finishes, he knows the other won’t. Why would he when he’s been so unhelpful so far.

“Ouma.” Harukawa says, the air around her looking demonic in its intensity.

“Why yes?” Ouma says cheerily, “Whatever could I do for you?” He asks, batting his eyelashes at them.

“What did you hear?” She asks, but the question comes out so flat it seems more like a demand.

“Hear? I’m not sure what you mean, I hear plenty of things, you’re going to have to be way more specific if you want me to know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play around.” She hisses, “Not now, not about this, we all heard Yumeno’s story, we know you were there, so just what were Monokuma and Kaito talking about. Tell us now, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Ouma hums, doing a great job of being absolutely disinterested in Harukawa’s threat. “You mean a tired delusional girl’s hallucination? You actually believe that? I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. Sorry.” Ouma pauses, mouth forming a small ‘o’. “Oh, oh! Maybe I do, but I just,” he shrugs, “it’s just not coming to me, actually, I don’t think I’ve ever even spoken to Momota-chan before! Sorry, maybe try again later.”

“Don’t lie Ouma-kun,” Kiibo chastises, “We’ve all seen you running around chasing after Momota-kun as of late. If anything the fact that you may have overheard something between the two of them makes that seem all the more suspicious.”

“Not ringing a bell!” Ouma sings, “But what do you expect when a hunk of metal is trying to tell you it knows your own memory better than you. Barely any better than Ice Queen over there.” Ouma says, and then his entire posture falls, hands that were playfully lifted to his cheeks falling limp beside him as his expression clears. “Seriously, just get over it.”

“Why you –” Harukawa growls, reaching over her stand arms outstretched as if she wants to reach out and grab and twist.

“Let’s just, let’s just move on.” Shuichi interrupts, trying to ignore the heavy feeling growing inside him. Ouma knows something. Ouma possibly knows everything about this case but he won’t tell him a word. And Shuichi trusts him, Shuichi wants to trust him.  He’s spent all this time with Ouma, he knows they’ve gotten closer but something about this situation just leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He doesn’t think Ouma did this, his attitude and general demeanor despite the contrary just reinforce his belief.

If Ouma had done this he would be doing a better job of hiding it, the way he’s acting now it’s so obviously suspicious. Refusing to give information, acting cagey, with four trials under their belts, they’re all used to the way the blackened seems so positively normal until the second the charade ends. Until the moment it becomes all too clear it couldn’t have been anyone but them and what little composure they have left just snaps into nothing as they give one last ditch effort at making it out of this alive. Ouma has done none of that, in fact he seems to be doing his best to do the exact opposite of that. But, why would he be trying so hard to make it look like he’s the culprit… unless.

No, he doesn’t want to think that could possibly be true.

“Maybe we could try discussing the murder weapon?” He hears Kiibo ask, pulling him from his thoughts and back into the present. He doesn’t have time to be thinking of things that don’t matter right now.

(Even if Ouma’s behavior is absolutely relevant to this trial, Shuichi can’t focus on it when there’s still so much else to discuss, because he doesn’t think he likes where he can feel this heading, isn’t sure what he’s going to feel when they reach the end of this.)

“Well it’s poison isn’t it?” Shirogane asks, looking more and more irritated the longer this trial drags on, and he wonders if there’s anything they could possibly say or discover that would result in her changing her mind about Ouma. If they worked together and found all the evidence pointing towards someone else, would she still refuse and vote for him? Would her belief that Ouma and him are remnants override her common sense at that point? Outweigh the facts as they are?

(Or maybe it’s him that’s being delusional.

But he can’t think about it that way.)

“Maybe?” Kiibo replies, looking intensely at his Monopad as he fiddles with it, “If you read the Monokuma Report it doesn’t actually say what killed him.”

“What do you mean?” Harukawa asks, “Of course it does, it mentions that poison was found within Kaito’s body, what else could have killed him.” She continues but Kiibo just shakes his head again, still looking through the file.

“Well,” Yumeno says, “Are you gonna tell us or just keep staring at it?”

“What he means,” Shuichi says, replying in his stead because he had noticed that discrepancy too when looking over all the clues he had gathered so far. “Is that the Monokuma File doesn’t actually state a cause of death. It says that Momota-kun had no life-threatening wounds and it said a variety of substances were found inside him but it doesn’t exactly say what killed him.”  Shuichi hadn’t thought much of it, so it didn’t explicitly say Momota had been poisoned. There weren’t many other options when he had no real wounds to have caused his death. It had to have been internal for that to be true and when trapped in a room of poison what other options were there.

“So you’re saying it doesn’t even say what kind of poison it was that killed him? That there was more than one?” Harukawa asks, seemingly perturbed, and sure it’s odd but he can’t think of why it would produce that kind of reaction from her.

“Harukawa-chan did you even read the file?” Yumeno asks and Harukawa turns away, the bright red in her ears becoming apparent with the action.

“I skimmed it,” She replies, combing an impatient hand through her hair, “I did not think it would have anything of relevance in it given the circumstances but. This is odd, you’ve all noticed right?”

“Odd?”

“Kaito was poisoned.” Harukawa states and when her pause extends the rest of them nod, “Even an inexperienced killer can kill with poison, perhaps not as well or as discretely but poison has been a common method of murder for centuries for a reason. Common household items can be used as poison if taken in enough quantities or for a long enough period of time. Though as Saihara has said, all the poisons I can remember from his Research Lab are relatively fast acting. There was no reason to use more than one, in fact using more than one can be dangerous, some of them might neutralise each other like some kind of faux antidote. The fact that there are so many doesn’t… it doesn’t make sense.”

“Well,” Yumeno says, twiddling her fingers, “not everyone is a trained assassin, maybe they didn’t know? Or,” she says a bit louder, holding her hands out, “maybe they just had a whole bunch set up to make sure Momota got hit by at least one but something happened and he got all of them. Like, they had a whole buffet of poisoned food out and ready for him because they weren’t sure what he liked but Momota arrived and was just like, everything looks amazing! And just ate all of it no problem.”

“… You’re suggesting that the blackened provided a… buffet for Momota, in a room full of poison, and he just ate it no problem?” Kiibo asks incredulously, looking over at Shuichi as if silently asking if they had heard the same thing. He smiles tiredly in response. He’s not entirely sure what to make of that either.

“I -I mean, I’m just saying,” Yumeno stutters, “it could happen, it’s not impossible.”

“Even Kaito isn’t that much of an idiot, I’m afraid.” Harukawa retorts and it’s the closest she’s come to looking less than murderous and righteous anger since the trial began, closest she’s come to looking almost cheerful.

“So then how did the poison get in his body?”

“Ingestion is the most likely cause,” Shuichi interjects, thinking back on his investigation of the body. “The poisons were found in his stomach after all and while he did have a couple of scratches and cuts on his palms they didn’t seem to be connected to the poisoning.”

“How though,” Kiibo repeats, eyes closed in concentration, “did the killer get Momota-kun to ingest it? Though exaggerated Yumeno’s scenario holds merit, when it comes to ingesting poison the most likely way to get your victim to do it is to put in their food. At the same time though, Harukawa-san has a point, Momota-kun is no idiot and anyone would be wary of food or drink given to them in a room full of poison I would think.”

“Not unless it was someone he trusted completely.” Shuichi replies in agreement.

“Well that would rule out Ouma-kun.” Yumeno mutters.

“I suppose it would.” Kiibo nods.

"So then it wasn’t him?"

"He just would've had to make him ingest it another way "

"Like what? Forcing him to drink it? Ouma's as small as me that never would've worked." Yumeno rebuffs.

"Ouma is devious," Harukawa defends, "if he wanted to I'm sure he could have found a way to do it."

"Even if he did," Kiibo behind, "there is one thing that strikes me as peculiar. If Momota-kun was poisoned inside the lab could he not have simply taken the antidote? Unless the poison killed him in seconds, I don't understand why he was just sitting down as he died."

"Did you not see the mess?" Harukawa questions, one eyebrow raised.

"Well I, you and Saihara-kun… you know, almost immediately as I entered and after. After I felt sick standing there, Saihara-kun and Yumeno-san insisted that I go."

"It was pretty gross," Yumeno agrees, "but thankfully Saihara was the one who inspected the body."

"Not like that," Kiibo replied with a shake of his head, "I don't mean sick like queasy, or at least not just like that. I’m not capable of that kind of illness anyways. Something about that room just made me feel like my wiring was about to short-circuit, or faint in more understandable terms. It got worse the longer I was there." Kiibo sighs, "I had wanted to help investigate but…"

Harukawa, apparently noticing she has stepped on a sensitive subject opens her mouth before closing it once again. She is silent for a moment before speaking. "At least you attempted to help, that's more than some of us can say. I only noticed in the short amount of time I was there because I am adept at noticing such details. The area by the cabinet full of poison was pretty much destroyed, tumbled and broken bottles, even one of the glass windows was cracked." She tilts her head, pensive. "It's the kind of mess that would imply a struggle but."

“But the state of Momota-kun’s body doesn’t support that right?” Shuichi guesses and Harukawa nods.

“Yes, the few cuts on Kaito’s hands don’t abide by the kind of bruising one might expect from a struggle unless the blackened had been wielding a knife and even then, those cuts are just superficial if the Monokuma File is to believed,” She adds, looking down at her Monopad as to confirm and when she looks up Shuichi nods at her statement. He had noted the same thing in his investigation. “If Kaito had fought or struggled with someone there would be some kind of wounds on either him or his murderer, even if weakened by poison Kaito was a strong enough person to have still put up a fight. As it stands it seems as if Kaito just… passed on with no struggle whatsoever.”

“Then who caused that mess?” Yumeno asks, “Or are you saying it just appeared out of nowhere?”

“The blackened then?” Kiibo suggests, “Perhaps they tripped trying to grab it and caused the mess?”

“So your suggestion is that the blackened somehow made that mess before Kaito showed up and Kaito saw that and walked in anyways?” Harukawa questions flatly and Kiibo laughs quietly, refusing to make eye contact.

“It was just a suggestion…”

“Momota-kun was there,” Shuichi says, “he was there,” he repeats when all eyes turn to him, “when the mess happened or, at the very least he approached it.”

“Oh? What makes you say that.”

“There was glass on his shoes, like he had stepped on something made of glass, which coincides with the more shattered bottles in the mess. Most of the glass was concentrated in that area so it’s unlikely Momota-kun stepped on it as he walked into the room.”

“So Momota-kun was by the cabinet.” Kiibo clarifies.

“And then the blackened did nothing?” Yumeno asks, “That doesn’t make any more sense than the other way around. Either the killer was there and didn’t stop him or they weren’t there and Momota wasn’t able to find an antidote in time.”

Harukawa hums, tapping harshly upon the podium. “The second scenario is more likely, there is just no plausible scenario in which a killer would watch their victim attempt to save themselves and do nothing to stop them.” She pauses, as if remembering something. “Unless they were truly sadistic, then it might bring them some perverse sort of joy to watch Kaito suffer as he did.”

Shuichi knows that Harukawa is a trained assassin, that she has definitely killed her fair share of people in the past. It still strikes him as spine chilling, hearing her say something so horrid as if it’s nothing, as if the thought of someone watching Momota die and finding amusement in it is an everyday occurrence for her. And perhaps it was, Shuichi only knows the small bits of her life Harukawa has shared with him but even those are enough for him to know it was no where near kind, that imagining her seeing this as someone if not mundane, at the very least not worth the surprise and sickness that it is causing in him.

“You know who would take perverse joy in the suffering of an ultimate? Of Momota-kun who such a shining beacon of hope?” Shirogane says, perking up.

“Shirogane.” Harukawa replies, voice too cold, too steady. “If you are going to supply nothing but comments that Ouma is at fault, when no one has yet to deny that he is the most likely culprit, then I would prefer you say nothing at all. I am not here trying to prove Ouma’s innocence, but to prove without a doubt it was him, so he has no choice but to admit it because only then can I even hope to find out why he picked Kaito as his victim, because there is no chance in hell I’ll ever get that information from him as it stands.” She spits, glaring at Shirogane and than transferring her gaze over to Ouma who grins as he notices her attention but otherwise says nothing about her statements.

Shirogane on the other hand looks angry at Harukawa’s words, despite the fact that she had not disagreed that Ouma is at fault. And even Shuichi must admit that while their end goal might be different the fact of the matter is that no one, not even him, and especially not Ouma, can deny that Ouma is the one amongst them who seems the most likely. Even barring the whole remnant thing Ouma has always been the one who was the odd one out so to say, and it’s been no secret that he Momota have never seen eye to eye. Kiibo had even mentioned it earlier, Shuichi had witnessed it, Ouma had been harassing Momota about something, there was something between them.

There was so much pointing towards Ouma being the blackened to the point that Shuichi just kept coming back to the thought that it was too obvious, too on the nose.

“Who cares about any of that! We’re here dragging this out when we could end it right now.” Shirogane shouts, “I don’t –I don’t want to keep hearing you guys discussing the death of one of our friends like it’s nothing, I –” she stops, eyes welling up with tears.

“Goooooooooooooooooood,” Ouma says, “Could you just, shut up? I for one am having a great time here and considering I’m the one up for execution I think my opinion matters just a little bit more here, right? So let me enjoy this will you, it’s just getting good man.”

“You’re making fun in a situation like this? What’s wrong with you?” Shirogane asks, looking absolutely horrified, and Shuichi sighs. Now isn’t the time for this, it’s never the time for whatever it is the two of them keep doing.

“Hey.” Yumeno says, looking more annoyed than Shuichi thought her capable of. “Stop talking, if you guys aren’t going to say anything useful maybe don’t say anything at all.”

“I agree and I suggest both of you listen; I’m not sure how much longer Harukawa-san is going to able to restrain herself.” Kiibo adds, eyes flicking over to her as he finishes. Shuichi follows his gaze and sure enough Harukawa looks incensed, eyes almost glowing as her breath comes out in large, pointedly steady and deep, breaths.

“If we are all in agreement.” Harukawa says slowly, deliberately, as if each word is a struggle. “Can we continue?” She asks but again the question comes out too flat to be anything other than a demand. When no one speaks up again she nods, satisfied. “Saihara, you were saying?”

“M-me?” Shuichi says, unable to stop the way his arms move up reflexively in a defensive position. “You were the one talking before we got interrupted.” She glares, “Ah, I mean…” He rubs the back of his head; what does he mean?

“Shirogane-san isn’t entirely wrong though,” Kiibo says, Shuichi’s saving grace since he can’t seem to figure out what it is he wants to say, “a remnant would be someone who fits that bill.”

“That would apply to me too wouldn’t it.” He tries, though isn’t surprised by the looks that garners. Even when they denied him for that very label they’ve never quite held him to the same standards they held Ouma to.

“You’re too soft,” Yumeno says, wagging her finger at him, “I told you right, I think maybe I’ve fallen into despair too, and I gotta tell you even under the effects of despair I don’t feel like watching someone suffer in pain. And if I can’t, with all the horrifying rituals I’ve performed than you definitely can’t.”

“Yumeno-san!” Kiibo exclaims, “Just what are you saying!”

“It’s just a joke,” Yumeno says, putting up a lazy peace sign, “I’m not any different than I usually am right?”

“I suppose not,” Kiibo says, deflating with the words, “But don’t joke about that,” He reprimands, “it is true though, imagining Saihara-kun in that scenario just doesn’t seem right to me at all.”

“And,” Harukawa says, “even if Ouma is the more likely two of the scenario, I don’t think he did it either. Ouma is smart, he’s devious, I don’t see him allowing such a risky scenario even if it’s for so called despair. No the more likely scenario is that Kaito was on his own when this occurred, perhaps he had faked already having died and once his killer had left he attempted to find the antidote to his affliction only to… pass away before he could find it."

"Then what about the mess?"

Harukawa shrugs, "Frustration maybe? I can imagine that as the poison took its toll he was perhaps exasperated and throwing things around. Still, even with that explanation there's one thing that still doesn’t make sense."

"The fact Momota-kun was found sitting." Shuichi says before Harukawa does, because he couldn't figure that one out either.

 "Exactly," she says, "for that scenario to be true Kaito would have had to have spent his final moments moving towards the sofa to sit instead of continuing to search.”

“Maybe he was tired?”

“So he chose to die instead?”

Yumeno scratches her cheek, “Well, when you put it that way.”

“Is it that important?” Kiibo says, “It’s odd, but what Momota-kun chose to do in his final moments is not something we can really ever know, not even his killer would, if we believe he died on his own.”

Harukawa huffs, crossing her arms. “You’re right but,” she sighs, “it doesn’t sound like him.”

“Wait,” Yumeno says, “I get that something happened by the cabinet to cause that mess, but how does that explain what I found by the door?”

“Oh,” Shuichi replies, he had forgotten about that until now, “that’s right. Yumeno-san found a shattered bottle near the door.”

“He threw it at the wall perhaps?” Kiibo suggests.

“There wasn’t anything on the wall though,” Shuichi says, “the contents of the bottle had stained the floor but the wall itself was clean. There would’ve been something left from the impact if it was.”

“So… something got in the way?”

He shakes his head, “I didn’t see anything like that either.”

“I searched that room top to bottom and didn’t see a single stain outside of the one I found,” she pauses, “aside the one by the cabinet of course.”

“Then it was someone.” Harukawa concludes.

“The killer?”

“The chances of it being someone completely unrelated are low.”

“Is there any way to even prove who it was?”

“Hmm,” Yumeno hums, “Oh I know, I can cast a truth spell to make everyone confess their sins. Then we’ll definitely know who it was in there.”

“Yumeno-san, if you could do that, we could just find out who killed Momota-kun.” Kiibo says, looking slightly confused, “Also if you could do that why haven’t you done it before? For any of the trials? It could have saved us a lot of trouble and time if you had done it.” He lifts a finger, “Not that you could, as magic is not real.”

“Magic is real, and the reason I haven’t done it before is because it requires a lot of MP that I didn’t have before. But finally, after all this time, I’ve stored enough to perform it.” She sniffs, “But I won’t, nonbelievers don’t deserve to see the glorious magic that I have spent decades perfecting. You’ll just have to figure this one out yourself.”

A deep sigh echoes through the trial room, loud enough to halt conversation as they look over to see Harukawa pinching the bridge of her nose. “Does anyone have any useful suggestions, anything that we can actually do right now.”

“The bottle would have most likely left a stain on the culprit but,” Kiibo shrugs, “you all change your clothes every day, and we can’t exactly leave and check the laundry baskets of each of you.”

“Well what about you Kiibo?”

“I –” Kiibo begins and then stops, “Well I don’t wear clothes.” He says slowly as if he doesn’t particularly understand what he’s saying. “You’d have nothing to check in my room, I would have just had to have wiped the stain off if it was me.”

“So you admit it was you?” Yumeno accuses, pointing her finger at him. “And that you’re just talking about this to distract us.”

“N-no, absolutely not!” Kiibo defends, waving his arms out in front of him, “What reason would I have to kill Momota-kun.”

“Well what reason do any of us have, not when we don’t even know what the motive was.”

“I’m just saying that—”

“Stop.” Harukawa says, then nods her head over at Shuichi, “He’s figured something out.”

“Ohh,” Yumeno says, “He definitely does he has that look on his face. Do you think if we leave him like that long enough he’ll figure out who did it?”

Harukawa smiles just slightly, “I don’t think it works that way.”

“With Saihara-kun you never know.” Kiibo says sagely, just in time for them to watch Shuichi’s eyes widen in realization.

“Ouma-kun,” he says, rolling his eyes at the way Ouma brings both hands to his chest in shock, “Roll up your left sleeve for me please.”

“You want me to undress, in front of everyone! Saihara-chan I never knew you were so daring.” Ouma grins, fanning himself lightly.

Ignoring the blush that is most surely crawling up his neck he shakes his head, gripping the stand before him tight to keep him steady, “I’m not joking around here, please roll up your sleeve.”

Ouma tsks, “You better be treating me to a nice dinner after this, my services don’t come cheap.” He grumbles, but complies nonetheless, slowly running up his sleeve.

“Now, Yumeno-san you’re closest to him, can you check his hand, or maybe his wrist but if I’m right he should have something in that general area.”

Yumeno gives him a weird look but complies nonetheless, reaching over to grab Ouma’s arm while ignoring his indignant shout. “Uhhh,” she mumbles, turning Ouma’s hand over and around. “You’re right,” she says, somehow finding the strength to lift Ouma’s hand above her in a way that Ouma is forced to stand on the tips of his toes. “he has a cut from the corner of his palm down to his lower wrist.” She squints, “Looks new too, it’s barely scabbed over.”

Ouma grunts, pulling his hand away from Yumeno with a huff, “Are we done manhandling me? Did you have a reason for that or did you just want to watch that?”

He takes a breath, Ouma is riling him up on purpose. “I did have a reason for that. Like Kiibo-kun said a stain can be washed off but if Momota-kun really did throw it, with enough force that it shattered on impact, it should have been hard enough to cut.”

“So Ouma was in the room with Kaito, he was there and he did it.” Harukawa spits and Shuichi can already see the rage growing inside her.

“Wait,” He says quickly, “I’m not done yet.”

“What more do you need to say, he was there, he did it.” She says through a growl.

“No, no. Remember what we talked about earlier, if Momota-kun was the one who caused that mess, why didn’t the blackened stop him? It only made sense if he had  been alone when it happened, but he wasn’t so what does that tell you?”

“That we were wrong,” she hisses, staring at him like she would love to lunge over and grab him. “Clearly I underestimated the effects despair has on one intelligence.”

“Think rationally,” he snaps, “I know you want someone to blame, someone to answer your questions, but jumping to conclusions isn’t going to get that. When you agreed to this trial you agreed to see this to the end.”  She glares at him and he glares at her right back, something that is not quite rage fueling his actions.

“So,” comes Yumeno’s meek voice, “what do you think happened then?”

“I,” he starts, then stops, closing his eyes. He’s gone this whole trial trying so hard to fight for Ouma’s innocence, trying to find that one thread but… “You two.” He says, gesturing towards Yumeno and Kiibo. “The trail of blood you two spotted, where did it come from?”

“Why would we know?”

“Take a guess,” he prompts, “I don’t expect you to.”

“Momota-kun?” She replies, but then starts speaking again. “But he died of poison, and in your lab, he wouldn’t have left a blood trail leading to courtyard.”

“Oh,” Kiibo says, “Ouma-kun! He had that cut on his hand, it bled as he walked back to his dormitory.”

“See,” Harukawa says, “proof that –”

“—That’s not right either.” He interrupts, “Harukawa-san you saw me coming out of Ouma-kun’s room. I saw him when he came in, it’s how I knew to make him roll down his sleeve, I had seen the faint stain from the bottle.” He sighs, hand reaching up to grab his arm. “I didn’t see blood, which I think would’ve been more obvious than a pale stain. And Ouma-kun didn’t know I was in his room, he didn’t even notice I was there at first. There was no reason for him to have already have hidden it.”

Harukawa opens her mouth then shuts it was a click as if it pains her to hold her words back. He wonders if it’s a victory for her to hold back what was surely accusations that he was covering up for Ouma on purpose, that he was somehow colluding with him to get him out of his presumed execution. As if doing that wouldn’t end with Shuichi dead as well.

“If you’re going to shoot down the only possible options, then tell us what you think happened.” Is what she eventually settles for saying.

“Harukawa-san,” he replies, “how was Momota-kun’s health?”

Her face goes pale and she turns her head away.

“He told us he was getting better and we believed him because it made things better, but you were always watching him, what was the truth.”

She grits her teeth, “Kaito was, Kaito insisted he was fine,” she says, still not looking at them, “But I didn’t believe him, no one who coughs up blood is fine. So you’re right, I kept an eye on him. I never saw him cough up blood again but I’m not stupid, I saw how increasingly tired he looked, how in the morning he always looked pale before cheering up the second he saw one of us.” She takes a deep breath. “He wasn’t well.”

He nods, it was what he had expected to hear, even if thinking of Momota suffering in silence like that causes his stomach to twist painfully. “I checked Momota’s dorm room after inspecting my lab. I thought maybe I could find something that led him there, a note or something.”

“Did you?”

“No,” he denies, “but I found blood… I found a lot of blood. On the bed, on his clothes, in the sink in the bathroom, and so much on tissues he had thrown out.”

“So he was poisoned before the lab?” Kiibo theorizes.

“I don’t think so, so much of the blood was old and dried, you and Yumeno-san saw the pile of clothes, there’s no way that was just from that night, that’s a collection from at least a week. What I think is that Momota-kun was sick, I think he’d been getting worse.”

“And how does that lead to your Research Lab?” Harukawa accuses.

“Well,” He says, “We never did figure out what the motive was…”

“Don’t change the subject.” She threatens.

“I’m not,” he replies, shaking his head, “Momota-kun knew it, it’s what makes the most sense given what Yumeno-san saw, but what didn’t make sense was why Monokuma would tell him first. Momota-kun who was so against murder, who believed we could work together to end this. What could Monokuma possibly have to offer Momota-kun that could ever entice him to murder?”

“A cure,” Kiibo breathes, “If Monokuma could offer a cure to his illness in exchange for a murder that could convince anyone, especially if it was as bad as it seemed.”

He nods, “Exactly, and it also gives a good reason for why Momota-kun wouldn’t want anyone else finding out about this.”

“Because I’d do it.” Harukawa says quickly, voice that too cold tone once again. “If it would save Momota-kun from death I would’ve done it, and he knew that, and would never let it happen.”

“Correct,” he says, “At least I think… did we guess it Monokuma?”

“OH abso-bear-lutely!” Monokuma cheers, “I’m so glad you guys figured it out, it hurt your headmaster’s heart so much to keep a secret from you all.” He continues, wiping a tear from his eye, “But you guys got it on the nose, and as I promised I won’t tell but I will confirm. Kaito promised me that if I didn’t tell anybody he’d have me a body within the week! The body might have been his… but a body’s a body and I’m a bear of his word. So mums the word! Until now that is.”

“… Thank you,” He says after a pause.

“Anything for my dear students!” Monokuma says dreamily and Shuichi sighs, choosing to ignore him for now.

“Anyways, I think… Momota-kun woke up that night, or just couldn’t get to bed, because his illness was getting worse. So, in a last ditch effort to save himself he went up to my lab hoping one of the antidotes might alleviate his symptoms for a little while longer. But –”

“How does Ouma-kun tie into this?” Yumeno asks, interrupting his explanation.

“I was going to get to do that. Ouma-kun overheard their conversation, that means he knew the motive, that Momota-kun was only getting worse. I assume Ouma-kun was keeping an eye on him and when Momota-kun left his room he followed after him. As I was saying though, the trail of blood is Momota-kun’s, probably dripped down from his hand or chin after coughing it up in his room. Led all the way to my lab where –”

“—I killed him.” Ouma finishes for him and no –no that’s not what he was going to say, it’s not what happened. It can’t be. He doesn’t want it to be. “Ya got me! I did it! No hiding from it now.” He says, face that terrible mask he has only seen during Gonta’s trial.

“You admit it,” Harukawa hisses, hand curling so hard around the stand Shuichi can hear the distinct splitting sound as it splinters apart beneath her grip. “You killed him, I knew it, it had to have been you. Did you have fun watching him try to defend you?”

“Fun?” Ouma questions, “It wasn’t just fun it was… I can’t even describe it, the feeling welling up inside me,” he sighs, “I wish I could live in this moment forever.”

No this can’t…

“See I told you it was him, why did you even let this disgusting trial happen.” Shirogane says.

“Because he’s going to tell me why,” Harukawa demands, “Why Kaito of all people.”

It doesn’t make sense why would he…

“No reason,” Ouma says cheerily through a face that looks far too demonic, “I knew with that motive he’d be on his own at some point, so I was just biding my time to kill him. But the look on your faces when you saw the body, that was definitely a bonus!”

“You bastard, I should’ve killed you after that second trial, I should’ve ended you right there then none of this would’ve happened.”

He’s playing this up too much, Ouma isn’t like this. Shuichi would stake his life on it, he already has. So what is he missing?

“But ya didn’t!” Ouma says, “So come on, let’s put this to vote. Sentence me to execution so we can end this whole thing once and for all.”

It clicks then, what exactly it is Ouma is trying to do and for the first time… He feels so angry, for one long moment he thinks he can imagine the kind of rage that makes Harukawa reach out and choke because he thinks he might be feeling it right now.

After everything he still… still doesn’t…

“Gladly,” Harukawa says, “I’ll watch your execution with a smile.”

“Harukawa…” Yumeno says softly, though cowers when Harukawa turns to look at her.

“What could we have possibly left to discuss? He confessed, he gave his reasons, there are no questions left to ask, answers left to find.”

“Still…” Kiibo says weakly.

“No, we’re done with this, Monokuma we’re –”

“No!” He shouts just that simple action leaving him breathless. “No, not yet!”

“Saihara what more do you want, so we got the order wrong, Kaito had already been in the lab and then got murdered. Ouma was able to take advantage of his weak state due to his illness and forced him to drink a bottle of poison.”

Think, think, think. There has to be something left that absolves Ouma of guilt. A clue he looked over, a testimony he didn’t see through well enough.

A testimony… testimony, that’s it.

“Shirogane-san, tell me again how you found the body.” He asks through gritted teeth.

“Saihara stop prolonging this –”

“Please, Harukawa-san, just this one last thing.” He begs and she relents, irritated, looking over at Shirogane and prompting her to speak.

“I told you already, I found Yumeno-chan and together we searched the school –apparently for Momota-kun, not that I knew that at the time. We we’re both together when we walked into your Research Lab. The announcement rang as soon as we saw the body and Harukawa arrived right after.”

“Wait…” Kiibo says, “It was just you and Yumeno-san when the announcement rang?”

“No, Harukawa-chan was there I’m pretty sure.”

“I was not.” Harukawa says slowly and he can tell both she and Kiibo are seeing what’s wrong there. “I was already on the fourth floor when I heard your screams, I ran as fast as I could but the announcement was already playing before I reached you two.”

“You see what’s wrong with that right? The announcement plays once three people have seen the body, but Yumeno-san and Shirogane-san are two people.”

“There was a third person… before them.” Harukawa says, eyed wide.

“Exactly,” Shuichi replies, heart racing, “It couldn’t have been either of them because then the announcement still wouldn’t have rung. It’s not me or you, we can both attest to being in our rooms, or at least the dormitory during that time. Kiibo-kun doesn’t have the strictest alibi, but he does have something that I think proves who it was.”

“I do?” Kiibo asks, looking confused but then the expression clears. “I do! I saw Ouma-kun, twice.”

“You did and I think I know why. The second time was when Ouma-kun went back and found Momota-kun’s body, Ouma is the only person who had the reason and motive to be there but he couldn’t have been the killer because then he couldn’t be recognised as the first person to find the body.”

“That idiot,” Harukawa says, tears streaming down her face, “I don’t care what he would’ve thought if it had saved him I… to die like that.” Her shoulders shake as she curls in on herself.

“He died of illness…” Yumeno whispers.

“So it seems.” Kiibo agrees softly.

“Alright,” Monokuma announces as Shuichi looks up meeting eyes with Ouma. “That’s enough talking, it’s voting time!!!” The other looks furious and Shuichi stares right back, he’s not the only one who’s angry.

He’s not the one who has a right to be angry, but whatever, that can wait until Ouma is saved from execution, or, considering he didn’t do it, saved from all of them dying terrible deaths.

   -

  RESULTS:

H.M:

K:

M.K: ||||

O.K: ||

S.S:

S.T:

Y.H:

  -

 “And the blackened you’ve chosen is… Momota Kaito!” Monokuma announces with a flourish, twirling around, “And you’ve got it right once again so congratulations you all get to live another day and—”

“Just shut up!” He shouts at Monokuma, anger coursing through him as he pushes away from his stand and marching over to Ouma’s. “You lied to me, after everything, after we promised. You told me all that last night and it didn’t mean anything to you did it? You knew we would find Momota-kun in the morning and you were planning this. This stupid idiotic plan that I already told you in the hangar wouldn’t work.”

Ouma scowls, pushing back from where Shuichi has leaned forward. “What do you know! Everything I’ve been working towards, everything I’ve sacrificed for a chance like this! This could’ve worked, it would’ve worked. How could I have passed an opportunity like this up?”

“That’s the problem! It’s not I, not anymore. I said I’d help you, that we’d do this together, you don’t need to sacrifice your own life for this, we could’ve worked someone out. You could have told me that Momota-kun was dying.”

Ouma stares at him, face contorted in anger before he turns away, staring at the ground instead. “This is my fight, it’s been my fight long before you even knew there was a fight to fight.” He opens his mouth, then closes it with an audible click.

“I’ve…” he says and is forced to pause, trying to swallow through the lump forming in his throat, “Did all of this mean nothing to you? Did you ever really not for a second think you could trust me? After everything? I -I, I let them all hate me for you, I lied to Momota-kun just to try to get you to trust me, I spent this whole trial trying to save you but why did I even bother.”

“Saihara-chan…” He says, softly… too soft and it just makes him all the angrier.

“Don’t call me that!” He shouts, reaching out and holding him by the shoulders. “This isn’t a joke, this isn’t a game, these are our lives you’re playing with. What if your plan had failed? We all would have died, was the victory you wanted? Boring enough for you?”

“It wouldn’t have failed.” He says firmly, but he still won’t look at him.

“Because you planned it? And it always works out so well for you right? It’s your fault the cameras weren’t working, right?” He accuses, “I knew it was odd Kiibo-kun felt so ill in my Lab but it was you. You set off an electrobomb to disable the cameras so you could enact your plan, so you could get yourself killed.”

“It would have worked,” he repeats like a broken record.

“You can’t know that,” he says, anger puttering out of him, instead just leaving him feeling empty, “I promised you I wouldn’t leave you alone, not anymore, but apparently that doesn’t mean much to you anymore, if it ever even did.” He lets the other go, stepping back away from him. “Don’t –stay away from me, got just a little bit. Please, if you have any consideration for me left.”

Ouma looks at him and smiles, except it’s wrong, not wrong like he sometimes smiles where it leaves Shuichi feeling faintly terrified but wrong in a way that hurts. In a way that makes Shuichi’s heart clench as he looks at it. And that’s, that’s not fair, Shuichi is the one who gets to be upset here, distraught, betrayed. Not Ouma who did this knowingly, not Ouma who after everything still thought dying by himself was better than working together with him.

“Of course, my beloved,” Ouma says, still smiling that same smile, “but take this will you?” He says, stuffing something into his pocket and ducking underneath him and escaping into the room.

Following his escape causes him to turn and face the rest of the group who are staring at him, some more openly than others. He tries to work up the energy to feel embarrassed, or anything, but instead he just feels tired.

“Anyways!” Monokuma says quickly, laughing just one notch too loud, “I know we’re all pretty disappointed by the end of this trial. I mean, the blackened was already dead. That’s boring and also so been done before. How are we supposed to have a fun exciting school life when can’t even watch an execution to get our blood pumping.” Monokuma sighs, drooping, “It makes me so bear-y sad.”

“Actually, we’re all pretty okay with that,” Yumeno interjects, having at some point moved to stand behind Harukawa who is staring at him with an expression he can’t decipher. He hopes its not judgement, he doesn’t think he could handle that right now. Eventually though, she looks away, turning her gaze instead to Ouma with another look he doesn’t get but is decidedly not anger. He doesn’t know what to think about that.

Doesn’t know what to think about anything anymore.

“So bear-y sad. But don’t worry about it, your precious headmaster has figured out a way to make everyone happy so stay tuned.” Monokuma announced, jumping up in the air and then disappearing into the ground as he falls.

“Where did he go?” Kiibo asks, inching towards where Monokuma had been standing before he up and disappeared.

“Don’t move,” Harukawa shouts as Kiibo nears and he freezes instantly, almost falling forward with the momentum still pushing him.

“Harukawa-san,” Kiibo says shrilly, sparks seemingly to float around him as he anxiously flutters from his spot, “Don’t speak so forcefully so suddenly, if I had a heart it would have surely stopped at that.”

Harukawa scowls, glaring at the empty space Monokuma left. “Don’t go there, something’s coming, and you don’t want to get caught.”

“Something’s coming, what do you mean?”

“He’s obviously coming back, do you really want to be there when he does with whatever contraption he’s decided to bring.”

“Ah,” Kiibo says, taking another step back, “I see what you mea–” his reply is cut off with a shout, as the ground beneath him crumbles, falling into the abyss beneath them. Harukawa shoots forward, reaching out to grab Kiibo and pull him back. The two of them stay on the ground as something seems to rise from the hole that has appeared, obscured by smoke and dust as loud rumbling echoes through the trial room.

As soon as the sound settles, he, Yumeno, and Shirogane rush forward to join them. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ouma follow them, slowly but surely.

With the sound stopping so does the movement, and the dust and smoke around them begins to dissipate revealing Monokuma sitting a top a box a rocket resting menacingly behind him, the destroyed ground once again restored to its pristine state.

“Like I was saying,” Monokuma says, swinging his legs back and forth, “It’s just not a trial without an execution! I mean it’s what everyone has been waiting for right? All that talk is just a set up for this glorious, stupendous, exhilarating, execution.” He sighs running his hands down his body. “So I’ve decided to have one anyways!”

“None of us did it,” Yumeno says, looking up from where she had kneeled down next to the two of them, “you can’t just execute one of us because you think it’d be fun.”

“Go ahead and try,” Harukawa says, pulling a knife out, “if you want to break your own rules than I’m happy to participate. Try to touch a hair on any of our heads and I’ll make you regret it.”

“No,” Monokuma laughs, “I would never hurt my precious students –not unless they deserved it of course. This is something else, someone else.” He drums his hands atop the box he’s sitting on, “Ta-dah!” Monokuma exclaims, rolling backwards off the box and it springs open as he removes his weight from it.

“Rise and Shine, Ursine!” Comes a chorus of voices as they spring upwards from the box they had been trapped in. Shuichi sighs, they were the last people – bears, animatronic things – he wanted to see right now.

They all start speaking, voices overlapping in increasing volumes and Shuichi neither can, nor wants to, make out. He would’ve been fine if they had never appeared again.

“Silence my dear cubs!” Monokuma announces, spreading his arms out, paws down as he appears once again this time from atop the rocket. “My adorable little children we’re meant to make a surprise appearance in the next trial, but I thought this way would be more fun –for me anyways.”

“Papa?” Monophanie asks, apparently the first of the lot of them to sense that something is amiss.

“Now, now my dear daughter, nothing to worry about.” He says placatingly, “Just get into the rocket and everything will be fine.”

“But –” Monotaro tries to say.

“Get in now.” Monokuma says, cheery demeanour belied by the ominous red glow in his eyes as the rocket splits open, the stricture dividing itself in half, leaving only a small platform to stand on.

They reluctantly abide, climbing onto the small compartment one by one and as the last one files in the entire structure snaps closed like the doors of an iron maiden, their small frames unable to be seen through the small window on its front.

“And now,” Monokuma says, holding a switch up in the air, “The moment we’ve all been waiting for.” He continues as he flips off the rocket towards them, “Execution Commence!”

He presses the button and the rocket fires up, flames sputtering out from the bottom as it rises into the air and then pauses doing a complete 180 and spiralling into the floor and out of view.

They stand there in awed silence, taking slow steps away from the crater its descent left. Would this have been one of them, had it not been Momota meeting his own unfortunate end? Would he have had to watch another of his classmates die a terribly gruesome death?

If it had to happen, he’s almost sick to admit that he’s glad it’s the Monokubs and not any of them. The Monokubs aren’t alive, they aren’t real, and they’ve done nothing but make all their lives miserable since they appeared way back when.

Despite his better judgement, he chances a glance at Ouma who is staring at the hole in the ground with a look of absolute rage painted on his face. His hands are clenched into too tight fists and he just imagine the angry red marks his nails must be leaving on his palm. He wants to reach out, to uncurl his fingers. To reach out and offer the comfort Ouma had offered him in his own odd way so many times before.

And then he remembers what the other did and forces himself to turn away.

Turn away just in time to hear the approach of the rocket once again, the ceiling above them rumbling as bits and pieces of it rain down on them. It comes up all at once, shooting back up and bringing a river of rocks and debris flying at them.

“Watch out!” Kiibo shouts, moving to stand in front of them, arms raised defensively, as he take the brunt of the oncoming debris to shelter them. It crashes loudly into the ground before them, the rocket swinging open to reveal the broken bits of each of the Monokubs, blood colour dyed oil intermixed within it.

Even though Shuichi holds no love for them, even though he knows they aren’t real, the sight makes him sick, blood curdling in his veins. Their family might’ve been a charade but did Monokuma truly feel nothing after killing his supposed children?

As if to answer his question Monokuma sighs, the sound muffled through the helmet of his spacesuit. “Now wasn’t that just wonderful?” He breathes, panting heavily. “The beautiful despair of watching my own cubs die I can barely take it. And I won’t have to! This killing game is never going to end so I’ll keep myself in this feeling for the rest of time.” Monokuma concludes with a swoon.

His heart stutters, no, they just can’t keep doing this.

He needs to end this now, somehow.

For everyone’s sake.

[dragonnan]

Author Interview Tag

Tagged by @aelaer a week or two ago, thank you!

Name: Tanya (among family I'm Nan or Auntie Nanny)

Fandoms: Sherlock, MCU, Psych, Prodigal Son, and a goodly collection of others

Where you post: For a number of years I posted on FFN but between the really shitty reviews and extremely cumbersome posting process I finally quit.  I posed on Psychfic while still an active part of that fandom but that, too, has pretty much ended.  I put a few stories on Wattpad but found it to be pretty meh. I now post exclusively to AO3.

Most popular multi-chapter fic: It's a tossup between “Fury” on Psychfic and “All Nighter” on AO3 – one based on comments and the other on Kudos.  Frankly “popularity” is really subjective because there's also stuff like read count and with comments, at least nearly half are replies from me and read count also includes re-reads as well as every time I clicked on the damn thing to edit so....

You know I'm just really not sure how to properly answer this??

Favorite story you’ve written so far: Like others have stated you can ask me this on three different days and get three different answers and there will be more than 1 fic mentioned every time so.... Because I write in different fandoms I just absolutely can't list a single fic.  The best I can narrow it would a fic from my top 3 fandoms.

Psych: Paint it Black.  I had read a fic where Shawn was gradually going blind and had really been enjoying it and the challenges it presented.  Sadly it was never completed.  As has happened before I decided I would write my own damn fic if I couldn't get a completed story so that was the primary motivation to start this.  What I most love about this is writing from Shawn's perspective as he navigates being blind and not knowing whether or not his condition is permanent.  I did my best to honor the experience of blind and partially blind people and tried to look beyond the cliché.

MCU: I have so much fun writing these stories! In spite of the dumpster fire the film canon became I do so love this sandbox and employing various forms of unfucking it.  So I'm gonna cheat a little and pick two for my faves here since one is a WIP.  Sed Diabolus.  I don't need to have completed it yet to know this will be my all-time favorite.  This is the first fic that has been entirely plotted out and OMG I'm so excited for iiiit!!  The second is Simple Math which seems like an odd choice given there's zero action – mostly just one character – hell, not even any whump.  But there is something about that deep dive into Tony's mindset that keeps this as a fave even though it was the first thing I ever wrote for the MCU.  I learned about Tony as I wrote this and I also worked my way through those motivations that bothered me regarding Stane.  Even years later I still mentally go back to this fic whenever I write Tony because I feel encapsulates the essence of how I see him as a character.

Sherlock:  Compared to other fandoms I'm still quite new to this fandom so I don't have nearly as many fics.  But I still have a favorite!  And, like with the MCU, it's the first story I ever wrote for this fandom; The Tiger and the Shark. Returning to a plot device I've employed in other fics, this one is built around a sexual assault and taking the character on a journey from that terrible event to the point where they rediscover themselves.  PTSD ever being my favorite form of whump I employ that fairly a lot in this story and employ some kinda radical methods for coping with those memories.  

Fic you were nervous to post: I mean until I start getting comments I'm a world of anxiety with every story I post.  But grabbing a specific fic that hit my nerves – that Sherlock fic I'd said was my fave certainly qualified.  Not only was it my first Sherlock fic – it also was charging out of the gate with a very heavy topic so yeah – I wasn't sure if people would absolutely hate it or find my characterizations totally off or what.

How you choose your titles: It varies a bit.  In some stories, like Sed Diabolus, I actually consult friends on various ideas.  Other times I'll consider songs or lyrics and my favorite thing is if I can alter the known title just a bit to make it more relevant to the fic (I did that a LOT with Psych fics which was the method the show also employed for its episode titles).  One of my favorite Psych titles is “The Wizard Was the Wicked Witch and the Scarecrow Lost His Courage”.  

Do you outline: Almost never – not until “Sed Diabolus”.  That story, though, is so astoundingly complex that without an outline I'd be hopelessly lost.  I am, though, trying to make a practice of outlining more because it helps SO much!

Complete: If we count every one-shot collection and challenge collection it likely is over 200 stories. Of course a lot of those are one-shots.  My total completed chaptered fics number maybe around 34?

In progress: 16 – between Psychfic and AO3.  All Psych stories are on long-term hiatus for the foreseeable future (some, honestly, I will never finish as they are many many years old and I've lost the inspiration for the plot). Several MCU stories are also on the back-burner while I focus on “Sed Diabolus”.  I admit I get LOTS of story ideas and staying focused on a single fic is not something I've ever been greatly successful with.

Coming soon/not yet started: I meaaaan.... lots?? I have probably several hundred ideas and partially started fics across many fandoms.  As to “imminently coming soon...” I don't think I currently have an active story that I haven't already posted at least a first chapter.  Sadly I have zero patience for developing something for months before posting which is why I have so many WIPs.  That said I DO have a Sherlock au that has been poking at me now and then involving the witch trials that started in Denmark and, eventually, made their way to Salem.  The idea would be that Molly Hooper is accused of being a witch.  She, of course, is innocent but cause this unfortunate attention due to her “uncanny” ability to heal the sick and injured (not so much uncanny as opposed to employing methods that aren't so reliant on superstition and folklore).  

She is scheduled to be tortured and executed but is saved by Sherlock – a strange recluse primarily ignored and given a pass as he solves mysteries for people. He and his friend John save Molly from this awful fate. The twist is that Sherlock is a sorcerer (bit of marvel crossover-ish) and able to transport them to safety.  

Do you accept prompts: I wish I could cause I love ideas but I don't have the time/energy to always work on what I already have and I'm awful at follow thru.  Like I will never turn away an Ask wanting to share ideas but I can't promise that I can actually write anything.

Upcoming story you are most excited to write:  As was the reply to a previous query – I have lots that are ideas that will linger in partial stages for sometimes years.  If it's “upcoming” I've already posted the first chapter lol!  But, again, I have several story ideas that whenever I poke through my folders I get excited about someday actually writing them.  Here is a teaser for an MCU fic involving Tony Stark and Obie (I still feel this was never explored enough – certainly not in fic):

They were doing a retrospective, ten year anniversary kinda... whatever.  Unofficial, of course. Certainly nothing Pepper would have dreamed up even at her most drunk (which, honestly, was never her scene.  Tony had sorta owned that space well beyond the time it had started owning him).  Whose idea it ultimately had been?  Frankly Tony couldn't give a fuck.  That he was asked to be one of the speakers was slightly more... awkward. Awkward was the right word, yeah?  Nauseating was certainly another and possibly a bit more accurate.

Dead for a decade and Obadiah Stane still managed to fuck with his life.

But... it hadn't always been that way. At least, not as he'd believed back when the Walkman had been on every kid's Christmas list.  

He'd thought it was bonding; at the time.  His dad had never been one for just hanging out; shooting the shit; telling tales out of school.  No, Pops, when he bothered to interact, led with questions.  “You keeping your grades up?” “You still seeing that floozy?” “When are you going to pull your head out of your ass and grow the hell up?” “You do realize it's my name you're disgracing every time you go on a bender?”

With Obie it was just, easy.  Obie might ask about school but it was always with approval and pride.  He would discuss Tony's conquests as though Tony had climbed Kilimanjaro wearing nothing but underwear and a cape.    

Obie was there when his father wasn't. Which meant that Obie was always there.  The first time he got astoundingly drunk on his father's scotch, Obie was the one to help him hunch over the toilet and vomit expensive, aged booze into the toilet.  Obie was also the one to replace the depleted bottle to keep Howard in the dark.  For a fourteen year old kid still trying to gain his dad's favor, that had meant everything.

He saw his first porn with Obie; sex education ala Traci Lords, three months shy of his fifteenth birthday.  That was the same time he was introduced to weed.  Obie had cautioned him to use it sparingly; didn't want to fry that genius brain, he'd say, and ruffle his hair.  The porn had made him uncomfortable.  Obie had turned it off and told him they could watch whatever Tony wanted.  They'd ended up changing the station to Knight Rider; smoking and munching Cheetos and laughing over their orange fingers.

It was Obie who was there, arm around his shoulders, after his parents died.  He desperately didn't want to sob in front of the man.  Things were so complicated with his dad that all he felt was blinding guilt... as though some part of him had caused this.  But Obie had filled him with bourbon until the emotions got soft around the edges and he'd sat beside the older man, head tipping gradually to the right until he was held up by Obie's shoulder.  Obie had just slung an arm around him and let Tony pass out while he rubbed a broad hand up and down his bicep.

It was strange, now, looking back with adult perspective.  A perspective that included Afghanistan and his intended execution while Obie talked about legacy and responsibility while Tony's lungs slowly seized.  He'd taken the time to sit there – arm around Tony's shoulders while one broad hand traveled up and down Tony's bicep – just like when he was a kid and Obie was the whole world.

He'd tried to remember if it had felt so... tainted... at the time.  Or if he'd always believed it was love.

Obie had never quite crossed that line. Though hindsight offered a peek into that possibility with enough clarity Tony had fought with his cramping gut for nearly thirty minutes.  He'd staved off vomiting though he was fairly certain his dignity had still been in tatters what with Bruce wandering in on his misery.

Upcoming story you are most excited about (this is basically a repeat of the above question so I decided to change it.  Do you have a future story idea you'd like to write that is not yet beyond the vague idea stage?  I love stories that put Molly in some sort of jeporady and I have a barely formed idea to someday write a “stalker fic” of some sort and not I don't care that this trope had been done on  repeat – I still love it lol!  I have a smidge of writing for it:

“I need your help.”

As afternoons at Baker Street went, this was a mundane request heard so often that Sherlock's typical reply, “Obviously, or you wouldn't be here”, could have been printed on flash cards.  The detective had actually made the suggestion after a particularly full day at the flat and having heard the statement no less than twenty times.  

Today, however, Sherlock merely blinked for a moment.  Then, with an awkwardness rare to a man with a lethal sort of grace in his movements, Sherlock gestured to John's chair, JOHN'S CHAIR, before taking his usual seat.

Molly didn't exactly smile but her lips edged up a bit before she sat.

John cleared his throat before pointing a vague hand towards the kitchen.  “I'll just go make some tea, shall I?”

“No, please, I...”  The stammer in her speech was not uncommon; though John couldn't recall such obvious fear.  Forgoing the kitchen he, instead, took the hard wooden chair facing the other two.

“Molly, what's wrong?”

Tagging: @kitcat992 @mizjoely @sgam76 @ariaadagio @hanuko @ceruleanmindpalace 

[janeaustentextposts]

I saw a quote about how Jane Austen is a white author for white readers and like I get it totally cuz like with the exception of mentioned romani in Emma and a few mentions of the slave trade in Emma and Mansfield Park, it just had me curious as the the roles of colored people back then? I know Jane Austen had some pretty liberal views about race but like with slavery on british soil recently abolished but still going strong in English territories and America, what was the general opinion?

Look, I’ll level with you, I was born and raised in a colonialist nation and as far as I’m aware all my ancestors could be traced to a pretty tight section of northern Europe, so that’s that on that. And Austen is, in many respects, peak Englishness, and of that certain class which often had the foundations of its prosperity in the exploitation of colonized peoples and places. There’s really no escaping that context. The institution of society in which Austen was living and writing was, without a doubt, racist in ways both blatant as well as insidious, and she would have operated on the same benefits of privilege which white, Christian, English-speaking people still do, today.

So the slave trade was abolished in the British Empire by an act of Parliament in 1807; (though slave-trading was merely punishable by a fine at this point which would be a negligible amount to an established slaver, and the crime only became a felony in 1811,) however slavery itself was not abolished until 1833; and the British Empire being the British Empire, I’m not gonna be handing out many backpats for their glacial rate of progress here in unfucking what they fucked. The Navy established the West African Squadron to patrol the west coast of Africa and suppress the trade, and the Anti-Slavery Society was formed in 1823 in London. It is believed, however, that the slave-trade continued in clandestine operations throughout the Empire for many more decades, and legislation was enacted or updated in a patchwork application which did not result in immediate and joyous liberation for former slaves, and slave-owners were recompensed for their ‘loss’, rather than any effort being made at reparation being made to those who had been enslaved.

I don’t know that I can tell you in a succinct fashion, in a tumblr ask-answer, what The General Opinion was. In theory you could suppose that many proud Britons talked a good game about emancipation and abolishing the slave trade...while continuing to smoke tobacco, eat sugar, and wear cotton sourced from plantations. (Some more ardent abolitionists did make an effort to abstain from the use of these products as a means of protest, but they would be a decided minority.) And one could absolutely be against slavery in principle and still be a ragingly blatant racist supremacist in every other possible respect.

Likely, if asked directly, many people WOULD manage to say something to acknowledge slavery is a dreadful sort of thing, of course; but the more one digs into how the profits of the slave trade and plantations were disseminated through most of British society, it suddenly gets a lot closer to home. How do people react to being reminded of their privilege, today? I know the internet tends to bring out the worst/loudest responses, so the pessimist in me feels like a lot of people would dig in their heels and start acting like the worst thing in the world is to even admit that they have benefited from tacit racism inherent in the system rather than doing any self-reflection, coping with their white guilt without pestering POC to help them do so, and taking steps to redress structural power imbalances by performing acts of allyship and amplifying marginalized voices. But then I like to think that there are people doing just that--quietly, very likely imperfectly--but making the effort to grow, all the same.

The institutions were stronger back then, of course. People--particularly those in power--could get away with much more open excess of wretchedness than we would condone, today. We’re still working to dismantle the Old Boys’ Clubs and cultures of shame and superiority that shut out so many from equal opportunities to flourish and be happy; but perhaps I naively console myself in thinking that there have always been good people around, and their stories don’t seem to get spread half so quickly as the negative ones. Most of us want to recognize humanity in each other, and have it recognized in ourselves.

In Austen’s day I suppose it would be easier to be ignorant, is the problem. For better and for worse, it was probably startlingly easy to cut oneself off from outside opinions, and even news, in a bucolic bubble, surrounded by the same sort of people for generations. Once change begins, though, who’s to say where it ends? Sometimes it’s easy to admit to being wrong, to change one’s mind, and breathtakingly simple to try to do better the next time. Say a south Asian journeyman comes to work in the village and make a home, or his lordship’s son returns home newly married to a black lady--this is your community, and these are your neighbours, and there’s no earthly reason not to show some grace and a warm welcome. (Though some places are so insular that anyone so much as from the next parish over might be viewed as a Stranger.) I won’t pretend it’s a bed of roses and everyone rolled out the welcome mat, but people of colour existed and lived full and varied lives before, during, and after Austen’s time--and unfortunately period dramas and adaptations largely tend to filter out this fact when it comes to casting, even for background actors, giving a false sense of segregation in historical populations which quite frankly was not the case. There have been rich and influential black people living and working in England for hundreds and hundreds of years.

I know I’ve probably missed some good points or made some of mine poorly, but I’m one very underqualified blob of mayonnaise. I’ll recommend Gretchen Gerzina‘s Black England for further reading (sometimes I’ve seen it called Black London, but I believe it’s the same text published under different titles.)

[igotthatggukgguk]

low fidelity → jjk pt.2

pairing → fratboy!jungkook, fem reader, fratboy!taehyung genre → college!au, fratboy!au, fluff, comedy, smut in the future? warning/s → MATURE CONTENT ( SCOOT AWAY LITTLE CHILD)

You seriously didn't remember what happened between you and Nancy that she managed to successfully convince you to attend the party at Beta Tau Sigma, because you are starting to regret it. Really regret it.

It was friday night and you were wearing a backless black dress that displayed your flawless bare posterior. Well, of course not on your own accords. Your prior choice of clothing was a pair of black tights and a baggy sweatshirt but Nancy couldn't stop rambling about how you look like an unfuckable dry nun so she pulled out the sluttiest possible outfit in her wardrobe for you to wear.

"Nance, this thing isn't doing me justice. It literally covers nothing." You whined while pulling the low neckline up to cover your chest as the both of you made your way to the entrance of the frat house. Nancy was a bit plumper than you were so the dress was a bit loose around the boob area but you were a lot taller than her so the hemline that was supposed to reach your mid-thigh, stopped just below your ass.

"Good." She giggled.

There were people from other sororities and frats too. Like, well-known people. Literally. You saw YouTubers, instafamous even new actors. As usual, BTS never failed to maintain their title as the best party host in the history of LAU.

Once you two were at the door, you were met with two freshmen which you assume were the designated bouncers of the night.

"Hello, ladies." The shorter one greeted.

"Hi, we're with Yoongi."

"Alright, miss. Might as well get a little comfortable. It's gonna be wild in there." He said as he handed use two cans of beer.

"Thanks." You smiled half-heartedly in return.

Oh boy, the boy wasn't kidding when he said it would be wild. The party was feral. When Yoongi invited Nancy, he might've forgotten to mention that it was going to be a foam party. Loud EDM music was blaring at the maximum volume and the lights inside were dim and purplish. People were doing all sorts of things. Dancing, drinking, talking and doing god knows what. A few brothers were situated on the second floor, splashing more foams on top of the party crowd. They seemed like they were having the time of their life when they succesfully poured the foams on the targeted group of hot girls as they shriek sheepishly.

"Holy fuck, Y/N. I've never been to BTS' party before. I never thought it would be this lit!" Nancy exclaimed, gaping at the boisterous scene in front of her. "Oh look! there's Yoongi!" She gushed, pointing at the red-headed dude. It wasn't long until the man finally notices us and made his way closer.

"Nancy babe! Glad you could make it tonight! You even brought a friend. Hi, I'm Yoongi." He said, giving Nancy a chaste kiss not too long after.

"Yeah, heard a lot about you. I'm Y/N by the way." You smiled back. Yoongi was noticeably tipsy, that explains his overfriendliness when he pulled you into a side hug. He guided the two of you through the house and hung out a minute or two at the back porch. Soon, Nancy and you parted as she followed Yoongi somewhere else and you were left alone at the bench outside.

Thanks a lot Nancy. You were the one to drag me to this hell hole and now you're leaving me alone. Just my fucking luck.

You opened the can of beer from earlier and chugged down a big gulp, wrinkling your nose at the unfamiliar taste. When was the last time I've had alcohol? Yikes.

You took some time to scan the environment around you. People were dancing and grinding against each other. Intoxicated and very visibly horny. It seemed like most of the girls were aware of the theme since the majority of them wore bikinis and shorts. You could count with your fingers how many girls you've spotted wearing a dress. One girl from Kappa Zeta, Bae Irene and one girl from your own sorority, Jungah.

You were too engrossed with the scene in front of you to notice the presence next to you. "Y/N?"

You turned your head abruptly, eyes meeting a familiar pair of brown orbs. Oh shit.

"Is that really you? God, it's been years since I've last seen you here. I think the last time you came here was during freshman year and you were definitely not this hot. Damn." The boy chuckled, biting his lips.

"Yeah, I've been occupied with studies Taehyung. If you're not aware, that's the actual reason we go to college." You said, a tinge of sarcasm masking your sentence.

"Damn Y/N, you really know how to suck the fun out of things." You shrugged nonchalantly at the remark.

"Guess there's a reason why they call me 'fun sucker'."

Taehyung laughed boyishly.

You could feel his eyes raking your body intensely as if he was a dog and you were a piece of meat.

"Seriously though, you look hot tonight. I don't know if it's the makeup, the dress or just you, but it's working. I've had 4 brothers asking me about you." Really? You thought.

You blushed and playfully hit his arm. "Oh shut up, Tae. You're just trying to kiss my ass."

"Literally or hypothetically?" He joked.

You gasped at his innuendo looked at him in shock. Taehyung giggled, clearly amused with your reaction. He slinked an arm around your torso casually making you flinch. You looked at his face. Taehyung smirked down at you. Damn you, pretty boy. You marveled the sight of Taehyung in fornt of you, his short chestnut brown hair, his smug expression, and boy does he look good in black t-shirts.

"You're so pretty." He said. "Has any ever told you that, baby?" His voice dropped an octave lower. You stomach churned at the endearment. Taehyung used his other free hand to pull you closer to him as he pushes your body against a wall. His face was painfully near that you could even smell the alcohol in his breath, mixed with his cologne. That painfully familiar cologne.

Your heart was beating like crazy. It was going haywire but you were determined not to be lured into this trap. Again. But no matter what you do, Taehyung has this effect on you where he makes it hard for you to do things at your own consent. You were too stunned by him to do anything.

He leaned his face closer and closer to the point that your noses were touching. You stared into his eyes half-liddedly. You were sure he was going to kiss you until...

"Kim Taehyung!" A voice interrupted. You heaved a sigh of relief mentally. Thank god. Taehyung pulled back from you and rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed by the intrusion. He looked at you one last time and ruffled your hair playfully.

"You should come here more often, babe. I've missed you so much." You just nodded.

"Oi, Kim Taehyung! Get your fucking ass over here." The same voice called again.

He looked at you for assurance. You gave him a tight-lipped smile and motioned him to go along.

"Move along, freak." He gave you a slight chuckle before walking away. You stared as he made his way closer and closer to whom you assumed was Park Jimin, a dance major. It's not like you stalked them or anything. It just happened that BTS is so popular because they literally have slept with almost every girl on campus, including you.

Jimin grabbed Taehyung by his neck playfully as he dragged him to the other side of the room where two girls were waiting and giggling. You decided not to stare anymore. The sight of Taehyung with someone else somehow still managed to leave a some sort burn in your heart.

You decided to grab some more alcohol so you made your way to the kitchen where you knew where they kept their drinks.Once you were there, you opened the cabinet in the corner and found the hidden stash of good alcohol. You took out a bottle of tequila and a glass shot from the counter.

"Hey, that's not allowed ma'am!" A voice interrupted. You startled and turned around to see who it was.

The guy was wearing an LAU shirt with denim button ups as a cardigan and a camera was around his neck. His has was messily pushed back revealing his handsome forehead and his brown eyes were piercing into yours. You swore you weren't drooling as he made his way closer to you.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know." You apologized.

He frowned in response just to laugh it off after. "You're not really thinking of drinking that all by yourself, are you?" He asked jokingly and you just smiled back. "Wanna have some drinks?" You invited. The boy nodded. "It would be rude to decline an offer from such a beautiful lady." He winked at you. You felt you cheeks heating and becoming hot as a flaming hot cheetos. You couldn't keep yourself from smiling.

"I'm Jungkook, by the way."

"Y/N"

"Oh, aren't you Taehyung's girlfriend?" He exclaimed. Your chest tightened at the mention of his name.

"Ex-gilfriend." You corrected, emphasizing the first word.

"Sorry to hear that, what happened between you two?"

"It's a long story."

Jungkook frowned at the tone of your voice.

"Wanna talk about it?" He suggested as he poured in some liquid in the shot glasses. You were a bit taken aback by his forwardness. You literally just met him for like 10 minutes and he's already asking you the details of your past relationship?

"I barely know you." You scoffed.

"That doesn't make me less of a good listener." He confided.

You deliberately nodded, agreeing with his response. "Well, if you insist."

You took a shot of the cheap tequila, a burning sensation flooding throat. Jungkook did the same, except he didn't looked bothered in the slightest.

You asked if there was somewhere more private where you could talk and he somehow took you to the balcony of his room.

"You share your room with that Jimin dude?" You asked at the sight of Jimin's picture at the side of the bed.

"Yeah, he's a cool guy. Totally pure when he first joined, look at him now." He exclaimed making you laugh.

"You're a bad influence."

"How am I a bad influence? I don't even do those type of things. If anybody were to be a bad influence, it would be Namjoon and his porn addiction." He added.

You chuckled and shook your head lightly in amusement. Jungkook slide the door open to access the balcony and the two of you settled on the bean bag that was placed on the floor.

"Spill the tea, sis." Jungkook said as he crossed both of his arms behind his head. Your eyes automatically focused on his biceps as he flexed his arms.

You shook your head to snap out of it. You couldn't believe the fact that you're telling this to a stranger. Heck, you've never even told Nancy about what happened between you and Taehyung. Well, I guess someone has to know. Who could be better than a stranger? Well, now that you've thought it through, Jungkook's not really a complete stranger. You've had your call of small encounters with him at school, you definitely recognise his face but you never got the chance to actually know him.

"Well, how do I start?"

•Freshman year in college•

You were on your way to a cafe nearby your campus to grab some light snacks before the next lecture starts.

You looked at your phone to check the time and realised that it was still kinda early so you decided to stop by and have some coffee and unwind for a bit.

The bell chimed as you walked into the cafe and the workers greeted you.

"I'd like an iced frappe and a scone. Do you think you could also pack me two ham sandwiches? Thank you."

"Yes miss, the total would be 12 dollars."

You were just about to take your wallet out when a hand appeared from behind and handed the money for you.

"It's okay, I'll pay." You wanted to decline the offer but as soon as you turned around to see the owner of the money, you froze. Gawking at the man like he was some type greek god. He was wearing a white button down his top two buttons were left undone, revealing his honey tan skin.

"I-It's okay! I can pay for my own food." You said, face flushed and stuttering.

"No, I insist. You can pay me back by going put with me though." You eyes went wide as saucers at the latter statement.

Am I hearing things here? Is he really asking me out?

"Princess? What do you say?" He confirmed your thoughts.

"Sure!" You beamed at him.

"Great, I'll pick you up at 7. You're from Chi Omega, right."

"Yeah, how'd you know?" You asked, grabbing the coffee and pastries before taking a seat at the nearest table, the boy doing the same.

"Well, don't be scared but I might've stalked you a little." He confessed.

The two of you talked for a while and you found out that his name was Kim Taehyung and he was an art major from the fraternity Beta Tau Sigma. You were a bit shocked when he said it because as a freshman, you knew BTS was the big deal. The jocks of college.

You went back to the campus and got to class just in time when Professor Jung entered with her big computer in hand.

Throughout the class, you had the focus level of a labouring cow. You couldn't stop thinking about him and you counted seconds before the lecture was over and rushed back to your sorority.

You kicked open the door of your shared room and squealed. "Nancy, nancy, nancy!!! Guess what? Kim Taehyung from Beta Tau Sigma just asked me out today!"

"No fucking way! You lucky bastard!"

Nancy was your best friend since high school. It so happened that she also applied to LAU to do fashion modelling. You were elated to have found out that she was going to be in the same sorority as you and even more so when the two of you became roommates.

____________________________________

It was 7 and you couldn't tame the butterflies in your tummy. You had chosen to wear a white halter top lace dress and nude sandals, paired with a natural makeup. Not gonna lie, you looked stunning in the outfit and you hoped he liked it too.

A few minutes later, a black BMW drove into the drive way and a man in a black leather jacket came out. Your stomach churned at the sight of Taehyung in the manly outfit with his hair pushed back messily, but in a good way that made him look so delectable.

The worst thing was, you were ovulating. That meant, everything he did was extra sexy and you couldn't contain yourself from having dirty thoughts about what you wanted to do with him.

" Wow y/n, you look stunning."

You giggled as he took in your appearance.

"You too."

Taehyung had taken you to a nightclub. Interesting choice of place, I know. You did have fun though and you drank so much that night, you were positive you passed out.

The next thing you knew, you woke up in a completely foreign room. You were wearing nothing but an oversized black t-shirt and you felt heat radiating from behind you and turned around to see Taehyung still soundly sleeping.

A sharp pain shot through your head as a reminder of last night's event. Crap.

"Taehyung, man. Have you seen my — woah." A boy clad in just his boxers came blasting into the room and grew speechless at the sight of you and Taehyung.

"It's not what you think!" You explained.

"Chill sister, it's college. You can do whatever you want."

Taehyung groaned from behind you. "Babe, you up already?"

"Yeah, thanks for last night Tae. It was seriously fun but I've got to get going. I have a class at 10." You said and kissed his forehead.

"You know what? I'm gonna go." The boxer boy exclaimed, clearly disturbed with the public display of affection.

"Hey Namjoon, put a sock on the door knob will ya?" Taehyung shouted as the boy made his way out and shut the door.

You're not that naive, you know what he meant when said it. You were confused.

"Gross!" Yes shouted but did so nonetheless.

Taehyung laughed at you baffled expression. You eyes bulged when he casually pushed you on your back and straddled you.

"You have a dirty mouth, baby." You squinted your eyes at him.

"You drove my nuts yesterday, whispering dirty things you wanted to do to me." He said in a hush tone, his lips subtly teasing your the side of your jaw.

Shit.Shit.Shit.Shit.Shit. I'm never gonna fucking drink anymore. You cupped your face in embarrassment.

"What did I say?" He chuckled at your cuteness and pried your fingers off of your face. Your lips parted in awe of his gorgeous face, his bed head made him even sexier.

"How about I show you instead? Just skip the class and I'll show you." With that, he took the opportunity of your parted lips to swoop you into an open-mouthed kiss, his hands pinning yours at the side of your head.

And that was it, you had your virginity taken by him. Kim Taehyung.

After the event took place, you started to spend more and more time with Taehyung and that also meant you spent more and more time at the beta tau sigma house until everybody there practically knew you.

After a few weeks, Taehyung asked you to be his girlfriend. For once, you thought everything was perfect. Every girl in your college would die to be in your place and Taehyung was the sweetest thing ever.

Or that's what you thought.

After half a year of dating, you found out that Taehyung had been cheating on you all along. He never actually stopped seeing other girls while he was with you. He treated you as a joke.

Heck, Taehyung never even bothered to say sorry or anything when you finally told him that you wanted to end the relationship. He didn't even bother.

From then onwards, you never really go out anymore. You stopped going to parties, you stopped hanging out with the popular kids and you never really tried dating again. All you did was focus on your studies and luckily Nancy was always there for you during the heartbreak fest.

Not gonna lie, it hurt like a bitch. But you moved on eventually. Of course it wasn't easy because you see him everyday at campus, but you forced yourself to be strong no matter how much it hurt.

But deep down, you really do still care about him. He was after all, your first. Your first boyfriend, the person to take your virginity, your first love.

"I'm sorry you had to through all that because of Taehyung. That prick is gonna get it, I swear."

Jungkook rubbed your back comfortingly. You smiled sweetly at him, appreciating his effort.

"Don't bother, Jungkook. I'm a fucking diamond, a mere fuckboy couldn't break me." You said playfully, balling your fists to prove your strength.

[shadowsong26fic]

Coming Attractions!

First Monday of the month (and year!!), which means it’s time for a Coming Attractions post!

(This has been crossposted to my new Dreamwidth fic archive here.)

So, overall analysis--I didn’t get as much done as I would’ve liked, either over the past month or the year as a whole, but I think I did produce some decent content, so there’s that!

Precipice:

Yep, I’m super behind where I wanted to be, lol…Arc Six took me almost the whole year, damn. Uh. I think what I’ve learned from this experience is next time I plan out an arc, however plot-necessary, that is going to be 99% fluff, I need to re-evaluate my life choices and not do that because this is really super not in my wheelhouse. Not on that kind of sustained level, at least. Saw is also not particularly easy for me to write, so hiding in the other half of the plotline wasn’t really an option either. It probably didn’t help that I changed where I was going with that half partway through (in my original version, he was actually behind the bombing/kidnapping attempt, but then I realized that that made absolutely no sense while he still has custody of Jyn…). Ah, well. At some point, I should probably sit down and reread the entire arc because maybe the finished product, with some distance from the uber-frustrating process, won’t feel as forced/not-good as it does to me now…

Anyway. Now that my whining is out of the way...there’s one more chapter in this arc! It should go up sometime in the next couple days. Featuring the Jedi reuniting and comparing notes; and Padme finally reading her parents and sister in on a few important details. And then we get to Arc Seven, which has had like five working titles over the past month, and I still haven’t settled on one, lol…This arc will pick up roughly three years after Arc Six, and involve more Infernalis, a key turning point with Luke and Lavinia, and Anakin and Leia probably going to Jedha to achieve a specific milestone. (Because I decided to stick closer to canon than Legends on this particular topic and I don’t want to straight-up invent a planet…should be fun!)

As I think I’ve mentioned before, after Arc Seven, (which I’m guessing will be roughly 15 chapters; as amusing as it would be to end these first seven arcs on Chapter 75, there’s way more to cover than I can fit in nine chapters), I’m going to split the fic into another document. Partly for length/convenience--this thing is going to be over 200k by the time I’m done with Arc Seven, I’m 99% sure--and partly because there’s something of a tone/focus shift for arcs 8-14. Also, there’s a longer timeskip than usual--six years between Arcs Seven and Eight. (Which, if you’re counting, you can probably guess what’s behind the shift… :D )

Also, as per usual, I’ll probably do a couple bonus fics this year--not sure when, exactly, or under what context, but I like bonus content.

Other Fanfic Projects:

I’m hoping to actually get back to Distaff and/or Auxiliaries and/or Phoenix!Verse this year. And put out some more Valdemar AU, probably--I do still need to write, at minimum, Hera, Obi-Wan, and Ezra getting Chosen--maybe some more Handler AU, too. Plus an AU outline or two--finishing Let’s Go Steal a Crossover; adding more to Ventress and Her Tiny Time-Travelling Conscience; a few other concepts kicking around in my head...

In terms of other long-form/fulltext projects, I am participating in SWBB again this year, but I’m now finding myself without a plot. I was going to do either our faces like a mirror or the Untitled ObiAniDala AU Epic, but over the past few days I’ve come to the conclusion that these are both massive undertakings and I am vanishingly unlikely to finish even a rough draft of either by the time said rough drafts are due. So, as much as I’d like an extra Incentive to finish OFLAM before the new Clone Wars episodes air and potentially Joss significant chunks of it, this is not going to be it.

The reason for this is that, for OFLAM, I have to do a lot of buildup if I want the ending to pay off. Plus, I have a whole bunch of white space to fill in during the eight years between when Bo comes back to Sundari after the civil war ends and when she leaves to join Death Watch. …most of which would involve that buildup. I mean, I could probably finish the first chunk, which covers Bo-Katan’s experiences while she’s on the run/actually during the civil war, but that doesn’t feel like a complete story to me? (Also, 95% of it would basically be Bo-Katan and miscellaneous OCs, with a brief appearance by Pre Viszla and maybe Jango Fett will turn up? Anyway, I’m not sure that kind of setup is appropriate for challenge purposes.) So I’m reluctant to do that.

(The title for this project, for anyone who’s curious, comes from Vienna Teng’s “Antebellum.” The first verse doesn’t entirely fit, but all the rest…)

As for the Untitled ObiAniDala AU Epic, it, uh. Look, the timeline diverges 25+ years before AOTC. I actually have a lot more of the plot worked out for this one, but it involves a) a crapload of worldbuilding and b) a primary-focus courtship narrative, which is also not super in my wheelhouse. I can do it, I just don’t think I can do it in the couple of months I have, you know? Especially since about half of what I’ve written so far deals with the backstory around the breakpoint, mostly focusing on Bail. The other half does deal with the main plotline, but…yeah.

So, yeah. I’m working to come up with a new concept that is simple enough for me to finish in time but engaging enough to keep me Invested without wandering off into too many recursive AUs, lol. One possibility would be to turn my Bail Unfucks the Timeline AU outline into a fulltext fic, but it doesn’t really have an ending, even in my head…ah, well. I’ll pick something, hopefully soon, and get it done. I do pretty well when I’m working to an externally-imposed deadline, at least…?

Anyway. As a bonus, some teasers for OFLAM and the Untitled AU Epic!

Satine wasn’t in the main audience hall, or our father’s old study. She was, as it turned out, in the little cramped closet of a room she’d always liked, when she was doing homework or writing letters or whatever she decided she needed privacy for.

I took a breath, wondering exactly what I’d find--if she’d changed as much as I had, if she’d…

I shook it off, raised my hand, and tapped on the door four times quickly, then twice slow, just like I always had. To let her know it was me.

I didn’t wait for her to answer, because I couldn’t bear the suspense anymore. (Also, I had never really waited for her to answer, why start now?)

Satine had half risen behind her desk, even paler than usual, and--stars above, her face was a little leaner, her eyes a little darker, but that was my sister. Still my sister, my beautiful, charismatic, powerful older sister.

My Duchess.  -- our faces like a mirror

“Look, you need someone to break into places, I’m your guy. And Ahsoka fits into ventilation shafts,” [Anakin] went on, before Obi-Wan could actually object. “I may not have tried anything as complicated as an Imperial prison, but I can do this. And you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

“Face it, Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka said. “You don’t get to do the noble lone-wolf Tragic Hero thing on this one. You’re stuck with us.” -- Untitled ObiAniDala AU Epic [based on this prompt from @obianidalasuggestion]

Original Fiction:

Definitely hoping to do more in 2019 than I did in 2018. Starting with writing stuff outside of the big Summer Challenge on rainbowfic…

Goals:

Last year, my goals/New Year’s Resolutions were:

1. Keep up with Precipice updates, complete Arc Seven by the end of September. …yeah, this one, uh. Didn’t happen. 2. Write at least 15k of original fiction Closer to 2k…Lux and Farglass Cycle archives. …nnnnope.

And here are my 2019 goals:

1. Finish Precipice and at least one full arc of Protectors/Precipice II. 2. Write at least 7.5k of origfic content. 3. Start posting OFLAM and/or Untitled ObiAniDala Epic AU. 4. Revive a semi-hiatused fic (Distaff or Auxiliaries or Phoenix!Verse) 5. Update Lux and Farglass Cycle archives, and transfer tumblr archive to DW. 6. At least for AU outline installments of some kind. 7. Complete BB submission, and keep an eye out for other challenges/exchanges/whatever.

[romiinam]

Using Business as a force for good

Societies most pressing problems cannot by solved by nonprofits and governments alone. The B Corp community wants to achieve reduced poverty, reduced inequality, a healthier environment, stronger communities and higher and more purpose driven employment. It aims also to create benfit not only for the shareholders, but rather for all stakeholders. The title is one of the slogans of the B Corp movement. The B stands for benefit. It is a “new kind of business that balances purpose and profit. They are legally required to consider the impact of their decisions on their workers, customers, suppliers, community, and the environment. This is a community of leaders, driving a global movement of people using business as a force for good” (https://bcorporation.net/).

I wrote my bachelor thesis about the relevance of B Corps basics for companies and consumers in Germany. I did interviews with consumers and companies which was super enriching. Companies that you might know that have this certification are for example Patagonia, Ben & Jerry’s, Danone North America and Ecosia. The B Corp movement incorporates five areas:

- Community

- Workers

- Governance

- Environment

- Customers

So the certification does not only focus on assessing one product but rather assessing the whole company behind it. Even the legal governing documents are changed in a way that the board of directors will balance profits and purpose. The certification is given by the non-profit organisation B Lab.

I am currently reading the book: “A world of three zeros” by Muhuammad Yunus (winner of the nobel peace prize). Yunus mentions in his book a survey by experts at Harvard University which shows that just 42% support capitalism while 51% say they do not (https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/04/26/a-majority-of-millennials-now-reject-capitalism-poll-shows/). So in my opinion and according to the majority of the youth there should be a change of our current economic system.

Corona is changing the world. Waldemar Zeiler, founder of Einhorn (B Corp) has wirtten a great article on how to unfuck the economy (https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/unfuck-economy-jetzt-erst-recht-waldemar-zeiler/?trackingId=XvAXcH%2BPS%2B6wsJSDJtfSSw%3D%3D). In the following you will get a short summary of the article:

He states that Germany has decided to support the economy with a protection umbrella of over 353,3 Billions euros. To compare: after the financial crisis Germany got 44 Billions euros. This investment represents an incredible chance for sustainability! Waldemar asks whether we want really to return to the economy before Corona. We will see bigger suffering than Corona, as we saw during the fires in Brasil and Australia and about 200 Million people will be forced to flee until 2040. Furthermore, by 2050, we might have more plastic in the oceans than fish:

26 persons own half of all wealth worldwide.

The economy before Corona was not even always as efficient as it seems. The estimated global market value of 10 trillions per year in Agriculture for example. However, hidden costs are estimated of 12 trillions per year. In Germany the proportions are 21 billions turnover against 90 billions costs (BCG).

Also a lag of diversity is part of our current economic system. Only every 10th board member is female.

Regarding the happiness of people a german health insurance found out that  the number of days of employees being on sickleave due to psychlogical issues tripled compared to the previous 20 years. The GDP might not be the right indicator to measure the success of a nation.

According to Waldemar Corona is showing us how fragile our economy is. After decades of economic growth we have to stabilize our economy with massive financial investments after a few weeks of a pandemic. Billions of people lost or will loose their job and companies will go bankrupt due to a lack of savings. “All this because people only buy what they really need to live!?“ Think about it...

Possible solutions could be based on for example the B Corp philosophie, the Purpose Economy, non-violent communication or the Common weal economy (Gemeinwohlökonomie).

I hope you are all doing well!

[hellsbellssinclub]

Fic Rec Time!

These will all be Star Wars with maybe a crossover but they are all the ones I love to read and reread when I am supposed to be asleep. There are only a few right now but I will make another rec soon!

Frisson Au By @poplitealqueen

Qui-Gon survives his duel with Maul, only to ultimately leave the Jedi Order.

He disappears completely for over ten years, only to return in the midst of the Clone Wars under the new title, Darth Serenus...

(Aka a Qui-Gon Lives AU with a bit of a twist. Sections will be put in order as they are added.)

This Au is wonderful. Absolutly wonderful. Poplitealqueen is a word smith and weaves words like magic to draw you into her world. I orginally found this Au on Tumblr and you should all check out Pop’s writing tag for more insights to the Frisson Universe but I really have to say that it is amazing and well put together. Pop has several OC’s that are so well created and fleshed out that you are left wondering if they really were Canon characters or not. (Seriously, if Pop hadn’t written that it was her OC I would have just assumed that it was a canon character.)

You are seriously missing out by not reading this AU. Or any of Pop’s other fics like her the Force Awakens fic Renegade or her ‘Everything went bad because Obi-Wan didn’t cut Anakin down like he should have’ fic Go Away Closer.

Re-Entry and Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills by @deadcatwithaflamethrower

Re-Entry is an alternate universe epic that spans time and possibility. Obi-Wan Kenobi, while still a young Padawan, suffers an injury and wakes up with all of the memories, experience, training, and Force-strength of Old Ben Kenobi. It isn't long before the Jedi discover that Anakin Skywalker, a five-year-old slave from the Outer Rim, has undergone the exact same change. Obi-Wan and Anakin bear the scars of harsh lessons learned; those who love them must learn those lessons quickly, before the mistakes of old are repeated.

When I first saw these series I bulked at the word count and went looking for something a little less long. When I was ready (and curious) enough to read it, I was taken aback at how well written and thought out it was. It was like reading a novel. I became drawn into the story quickly and was amazed at how it all flowed together. There were times where I had to look up characters (and occasionally found out those characters were actually OC’s) but that was more to do with my film only knowledge (which has now expanded because of these series!)

Flamethrower draws you into this amazing universe and makes the old ‘gone back in time and is super powerful now’ au work. All the relationships, platonic and other wise, are well written and fleshed out. This is an gem to read and if you haven’t done so already, please go and read it! You will enjoy yourself!

Oh! And don’t forget to read her book! Ashlesha: Part I of Awaken the Stars It was great read and you will not regret it!

Tano and Kenobi by @fireflyfish

Master Skywalker always said “The Force works in mysterious ways” and Ahsoka Tano has to admit, getting thrown backwards in time by about forty years was very mysterious. Now she just needs to figure how to get back home and how to get Master Qui-Gon Jinn to take Senior Initiate Obi-Wan Kenobi as a Padawan before the young boy is shipped off to Bandomeer to take up the quiet life of a farmer.

Of course, that’s assuming she doesn’t take him as her Padawan first...

This fic is great. Ahsoka goes back in time and meets BB!Obi and Firefly has beautifully meshed in the right amount of angst and humour for this fic. BB!Obi-Wan is depressed about the possibility of being sent away to the Corps and Ahsoka wants him to be happy and to be taken as a Padawan and Qui-Gon Jinn makes a right ass of himself.

This is a great fic and one that you will enjoy if you like seeing Ahsoka accidentally (sorta) going fully Skywalker on Qui-Gon.

While you are there, you should check out her other fic Where shall we three meet again?. It is funny and well paced. Three Obi-Wan’s from different Universes stuck together, trying to find a way home.

he leaves sane and stardust in his wake by Cross_d_a on Ao3.

Obi-Wan Kenobi has lived. Has died. And lives again.

The one thing I aboslutly love about this fic was how realistic and heart breaking it is. Obi-Wan wakes up with all of his memories from his past life. And at the start he has a hard time to process what and who he is.

The most heart breaking thing about this fic is that it does not just focus on Obi-Wan. It focuses on the people around him. His friends, former Masters, people he is now interacting with. And we see how the change in Obi-Wan has affected them. We see doubt and pain and loneliness. Along with friendship and brief moments of joy. There are three parts so far and I highly recommend it. 

No Galaxy for Good Jedi by @theanniewalker

Obi-Wan Kenobi was only a young padawan when he ran away with three-year old Anakin. He had no choice after his Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, fell to the Dark Side by Master Dooku’s manipulations. To protect the Chosen One, Obi-Wan did what he had to do and now he and Anakin live as outlaws of the Jedi Order and the Republic, being hunted by both Jedi and Obi-Wan’s former master and grandmaster. Now, it’s up to Obi-Wan to train Anakin in the ways of the Force while also stay one step ahead of Qui-Gon and Dooku.

I found this completely by accident while cruising Tumblr and wow, let me tell you that this is a fic you need to read!

Obi-Wan does his best to protect Anakin and it is heartbreaking as the fic goes on at how no one believes him when he says that Qui-Gon and Dooku have turned, or that he took Anakin because the Force told him to.

The last several parts that have been on tumblr have left me wanting to cry for Obi-Wan. Someone please save that boy.

Beekeeping and husbandry by @meggory84

Everyone changes.

After barely surviving the Theed Generator Complex, Qui-Gon discovers this truth.

Who here has read the Mace Windu Unfucks The TimeLine posts?

meggory has taken those post to the next level with this fic. This story is an amazing experience, let me tell you. From Qui-Gon getting therapy and realising what he has been doing and saying has been wrong and down right horrid to Qui-Gons recovery from his injury and how it effects everyone to Dooku’s deep love and care of Qui-Gon to Mace’s worry and heartbreaking attempt to do everything himself and failing.

All of it will wrench your heart and make you feel these characters pain and joy. It is extremely enjoyable to read and reread.

[surly01]

This Week in Doom: A Crack in Everything

Originally published on the Doomstead Diner on November 13, 2016

"Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering / There is a crack in everything / That's how the light gets in.… " -Leonard Cohen 1934-2016

Many of the bells I listen ring discordantly or not at all this week, as the improbable has occurred, and serial pussy-grabber Donald J. Trump has been elected President-elect. That alone is enough to recommend the reappearance of this infrequent franchise, heralding as it does the apocalypse.

The pervasive story retailed in the weeks leading up to the election was that "Hillary had a durable three to four point lead." Repeated on cable newz and the better boutique websites, like fivethirtyeight.com, where even on election day, they moved a story titled,Final Election Update: There’s A Wide Range Of Outcomes, And Most Of Them Come Up Clinton. Now hiding behind the hedge known as "margin of error," they are pretending that this was not the narrative they marketed, quickly moving to shove all that down the memory hole with stories like, Why FiveThirtyEight Gave Trump A Better Chance Than Almost Anyone Else. You can't make this stuff up. If indeed "The Arc of the Moral Universe Is Long, But It Bends Toward Justice", Nate Silver will be stocking shelves at a Wal-Mart by Christmas.

And the punditry of the execrable cable "news product" networks certainly did their part.

Since election day, I have not watched the "news" shows on CNN or MSNBC, which both gave Trump millions of dollars of free advertising over the past 18 months, while constantly preaching, as experts do, that at best he had a "narrow path" to victory. It's funny that Trump keeps lambasting the press; it played a major role in his electoral college victory. With news networks giving him billions in free publicity (Phil Griffin in particular should roast in hell), the Fox "News" entertainment net gave him millions more in sheer advocacy. And let's not allow Les Moonves' quote on Trump to be forgotten: "It May Not Be Good for America, but It's Damn Good for CBS." This is what happens when news becomes entertainment and has to sing for its supper. Shareholders' interest uber alles.

Trump drew 60.1 M votes, compared to Romney's 60.6M in 2012. Clinton underperformed Obama by 9M from 2008 and by 5+M from 2012. Dems stayed home in droves. Michael Moore noted that 90,000 Michigan voters voted a complete ballot but left President blank. Your margin in Michigan was 11,000. In Michigan and Wisconsin, county after county that went twice for Obama went for Trump.  And yes, now we get to enjoy AG Giuliani and Secretary of Interior Palin along with our new retrograde supremes.

I blame the DNC on tipping the scales away from an electable candidate and for their preferred insider. They ran a status-quo candidate in a change election, and turned a continued deaf ear to the plight of people in flyover country. They didn't listen- now we all inherit the wind.  And yes I know about voter suppression, and that remains a problem, but the so-called Obama coalition did not turn out. Putting the lie to "elections don't matter." If you continue to believe they don't matter, prepare to enjoy life under Trump, Pence and Ryan. And lose my number.

Perhaps William Rivers Pitt has said it best:

“Trump didn't win because your friend criticized Clinton on Facebook, or because your sister likes Jill Stein, or because Bernie sold out to Hillary or because of any of the galaxy of stupid self-destructive pissy pissant excuses I've been hearing and reading today.

“Unfuck your brain pans, folks. Trump won because millions of people have been getting jackhammer-fucked for decades by nearly a half century of trickle-down economic thievery. Millions of people live paycheck to paycheck, and pay through the nose for health insurance, and have no equity in their homes any more, and have an expensive degree that can't get them a job, and they think they have no future, and maybe they're fuckin-a right. Economic inequality has been mother's milk for bigotry and hate since before the pharaohs built those big pointy grain silos.”

People are justly pissed because America has been a shell game since before Reagan, a long con to extract wealth and resources, and the people never get to find the pea under the pistachio. So along comes this gifted grifter from the TV who tapped into that angst and ran wild with it. THAT'S why he won, because he cannily capitalized on a decrepit system, and millions who don't know where else to look or who to blame after years of trying said fuck it, why not. They're not stupid. They're exhausted and fed up because they've been let down over and over again. It worked.

Reaction has occurred in many cities, with people marching in the streets. While mobilization is important, my brief experience with Occupy has taught me that ad hoc assemblies let off steam but do little more without a more extensive agenda. Strategy is what is needed. There will be time for that. Also, let's not forget that we are about to turn over the immense surveillance power of the NSA to a serial tweeter who maintains enemies lists.

There has been some violence, much dramatized by the alt-right. During Occupy. It was pretty obvious that anybody exhorting people to violence was probably collecting a government paycheck. After all, in activist politics, the FBI plant is the guy who offers to get the dynamite.

They call it "political correctness" when the oppressed tell the privileged they're tired of putting up with their shit.

Marchers and others are amazed that the people of the US voted to elect a man who bragged about sexually assaulting women, and who tweets gleeful posts about deporting families, other examples of casual cruelty, and thinly veiled, dog-whistle racism. Plenty of Trumpeters demand that the unhappy line up behind the new "President of all of us," when they never returned the favor. We are supposed to forget the plotting in a DC steakhouse on Inauguration night of 2009, where R s plotted to obstruct Every. Single. Thing. Obama proposed. And then was the demonization of him and his family, the birtherism. The reflexive racism, the monkey memes… we're supposed to forget all that. I promise a President Rich Asshole the same tender consideration that his fellow travellers offered Barack Obama.

Many survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault awoke on Wednesday morning to the realization that a man who said his accusers were too ugly to assault was endorsed by nearly half the country as a leader. They woke up to newspapers splashed with pictures of a man who said that he could “grab women by the pussy” without their consent because he’s a "big, big star."  Friends of color saw a man elected as their president who was willing to hire as his campaign CEO one of the most vile racists that exists, and who began his campaign by calling them, their friends, and their family members who face racial violence every day “rapists” and “drug dealers.” They watched a man become president who called the first black president “evil” and illegitimate, and heard him tell them they were “living in hell,” accuse them of dupes for voting Democrat for several decades now, and demonize the only movement working toward ending the murders of their sons, mothers, brothers, fathers, and friends at the hands of police. And those that are gay, or Muslim, or Latina, or undocumented fear for their lives and for their children’s safety. The simple fact is that the vast majority of those not part of the one per cent and living off investments or trust funds are hurt and grieving, and the half of the electorate that voted for Trump don't realize what is about to happen to them.

My neighbors, co-workers and family helped elect that man. And we all have to live with that. Some of us are more prepared than others.

Meanwhile, The Fed/Wall Street elite and private military contractors have never been happier and rub their hands together at the feast about to unfold. They have thoroughly divided and propagandized the American public and in Trump have a camera-ready stooge to turn over the keys to the Treasury. Meanwhile, the D vs R, liberal vs conservative divide and conquer techniques continue, and the same interests make off with the boodle. Wash, rinse, repeat.

In other news, Ku Klux Klan announces Trump victory parade in North Carolina. It was on the website of the kkkknights but is no longer on their main page. It was scheduled for December 3 at an undisclosed location in NC. Perhaps they have had second thoughts- or have been encouraged to have them. And I was ready for a road trip.

As Trump puts together a transition team, we receive early word that one of his selects is one Myron Ebell, described as one of seven “climate criminals” wanted for “destroying our future.” This means a reversal of the tepid Obama climate change policies and an unshackling of energy companies' plunder of public resources and public waters. From the NT Times:

In looking for someone to follow through on his campaign vow to dismantle one of the Obama administration’s signature climate change policies, President-elect Donald J. Trump probably could not have found a better candidate for the job than Mr. Ebell.

Mr. Ebell, who revels in taking on the scientific consensus on global warming, will be Mr. Trump’s lead agent in choosing personnel and setting the direction of the federal agencies that address climate change and environmental policy more broadly.

Mr. Ebell, whose organization is financed in part by the coal industry, has been one of the most vocal opponents of the linchpin of that policy, the Clean Power Plan. Developed by the Environmental Protection Agency, the plan is a far-reaching set of regulations that, by seeking to reduce carbon emissions from electricity generation, could result in the closing of many coal-burning power plants, among other effects.

Remember the plunder of the EPA, the selloff of national parks to private interests, and poisoning of the nation's fresh water when your grandchildren curse and spit at the mention of your name.

As of this writing, we hear from Trump that that wall thingy might have been a little overreach. Future Secretary of State Newt Gingrich gave us a new term for deception. Describing Trump's now deleted pledge to have Mexico build a wall on its border, he dubbed it a "great campaign device." Trump and his advisers have backed off major campaign pledges, including Obamacare and the wall.

President-elect Donald Trump and key advisers in recent days have backed away from some of the most sweeping pledges that the Republican candidate made on the campaign trail, suggesting that his administration may not deliver on promises that were important to his most fervent supporters.

Trump built his campaign message around bold vows to, among other things, force Mexico to pay for a massive border wall, fully repeal the Affordable Care Act and ban Muslims from entering the United States. But in the days since his upset election victory, he or his advisers have suggested that those proposals and others may be subject to revision.

Trump also avoided answering whether he would follow through on a campaign vow to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton's use of a private email server while secretary of state. "It's not something I've given a lot of thought, because I want to solve health care, jobs, border control, tax reform," he said.

That ambivalent tone is a far cry from Trump's sweeping rhetoric on the campaign trail, where he repeatedly vowed to repeal and replace the ACA and led crowds in chants of "Lock her up!" in reference to Clinton. His lack of clarity on these and other issues has added more uncertainty to an already chaotic presidential transition, as he scrambles to build a team.

And in other Gingrich news, Newt Gingrich wants new House Un-American Activities Committee. Put me on record right now that I will be deeply offended if not named on a list.

And in breaking news Sunday night calculated to make one yearn for the good old days of George W. Bush, Trump chose Reince Priebus as White House chief of staff, and Steve Bannon as top adviser. "Draining the swamp" directly into the Oval Office. This is what we get for failing to have hanged 5000 seditionists at the end of the Civil War. Now we have a Republiconfederacy.

What could possibly go wrong?

The passing of the great Leonard Cohen this week reminds us of some of his most poignant lyrics. Those quoted above seem apt. At such a moment of darkness, we are called to remember that there is, indeed, "a crack in everything." And we must remember that the light always gets in. Whether the light can penetrate in time remains to be seen.

Surly1 is an administrator and contributing author to Doomstead Diner. He is the author of numerous rants, articles and spittle-flecked invective on this site, and quit barking and got off the porch long enough to be active in the Occupy movement. He shares a home in Southeastern Virginia with Contrary in the triumph of hope over experience, and is grateful that he is not yet taking a dirt nap.

[gravetells]

Author Amy Lane on what makes Green’s Hill so special #Quickening #LittleGoddess #UrbanFantasy

If you’re a fan of urban fantasy and you haven’t read Amy Lane’s Little Goddess series, you MUST check it out. The series has a lot of similarities to Laurell K. Hamilton’s Merry Gentry series, but without the retina-burning horror elements and the out-of-control menage. Little Goddess is what Merry Gentry could have been. Don’t let that fool you into thinking this series is “safe”. Vulnerable (the first book in the series) will break your heart, and each new book after it will shock you in ways you can’t predict. But that’s what makes this series dynamite. Author Amy Lane is here today with some personal perspective into what makes Green’s Hill (the series’ home base) so very addicting.

Welcome, Amy Lane!

Why Green’s Hill

I’ve heard it from a lot of people over the years—they wish there was a place like Green’s hill. I mean it’s not perfect—privacy is an illusion, monogamy has all sorts of drawbacks and somebody is literally trying to kill you at every turn.

But the pros are also easy to spot: beautiful people, sexual freedom, guaranteed job security doing whatever you like that helps the collective, and let’s not forget immortality or at least a generously increased lifespan.

Who wouldn’t want to live there?

But people who stop at eternal sex and excellent job training are missing the point.

Mental health problems and drug addictions are sort of my milieu. Not mine personally—in fact, a lot of people I hang out with would be hard pressed to remember seeing me drink more than a glass of wine or a single mojito, and there’s a reason for that. But I’ve seen up close the damage done to lives and promising futures and families when self-medicating one problem with another gets wildly out of hand.

When I was teaching, there were a lot of times I saw the signs of kids who were about ready to fall through those same cracks. There wasn’t much I could do for them—helping them pass English, telling them they had a future, helping them find someone to talk to—in the end, I spent less than 4 ½ hours a week with a kid, and much of that was in the company of 35 other people. (California public schools, where class size is no joke.)

And I had a fondness for kids that nobody else seemed to see. The natural smartass—that was my kid. I didn’t care much if they were always on time—what I liked was a kid who knew how to be late. If a kid got to school late every day, entered the room, sat down, and started the warmup so silently that I didn’t see her, seriously? Why get mad? My personal rule of thumb was that if it didn’t disrupt the learning, I didn’t give a rat’s ass, and the kids who bought into that idea were the kids I showed up for every damned day.

So one day, I was driving to work, and got stuck behind a giant hulking land yacht, rumbling at the U-turn where most of the late-ish teachers were idling. As I was staring into space, pondering the latest urban fantasy novel I’d read, I saw a hand with a cigarette hanging out of the window—the sort of bored smoking that a veteran nicotine addict indulges in.

Then I recognized that kid.

I loved that kid.

She was one of my favorites—she’d already submitted to nursing school, and while she wasn’t top of her class, she was definitely going somewhere.

But the nicotine addiction made me so sad.

Because she wasn’t even eighteen, and that was a thing that would follow her through her entire life. I wanted a do over for her—a chance to re-negotiate that part of her life, to come out with the promising future she’d earned and the zero addictions she deserved.

And then (because seriously, this was a frickin’ long light) I thought about fantasy stories. Why did they only serve the introvert, the super smart kid, the exiled nerd? That always seemed sort of self-aggrandizing to me. I mean, yeah, I was that kid, but I didn’t see any of my favorite kids in my books. The disenfranchised. The ones who didn’t test well, or whose hostility got in the way of their brains sometimes. Remember—this was 2000/2001. There was an entire market of YA books of kids who got addicted to meth and then raped by their dealers (no, I’m not kidding!) but there wasn’t much hope in the way of redemption for those kids.

And not only that, but those books… they always made sex seem like such an awful thing. If you have sex, you’ll break up and you won’t be a virgin for your next boyfriend and that’s BAD! Don’t have sex or do drugs because you’ll become perfectly irredeemable as a person and nobody will ever want you again EVER. OH MY GOD, EVERY MISTAKE YOU MAKE WILL BE HELD AGAINST YOU AND YOU WILL BE JUDGED FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!

That’s not the way life works!

Or it shouldn’t be.

One kid doing X at a party shouldn’t get him put in jail for years. One kid who gets high and laid shouldn’t be given up on—ever. And once the addiction started, what then? What happened to that kid whose self-destructive spiral just can’t seem to end?

Because we all know where it does end, don’t we? We’ve seen the commercials and read the literature often enough.

I didn’t make a conscious decision to write Green’s hill that day—but I was writing. When I wrote Cory and Adrian—and then added Green to the mix, I needed Green and Adrian to have a bigger purpose than themselves. They needed to be doing something important, otherwise if Cory ended up with them, she was just trading in one small town dream for another.

And then I realized what job Adrian would be perfect for. What purpose Green’s skill at sex and healing seemed to lend itself to.

If your number one tenet is no shame, and your creed is sensual and consensual, you are the perfect beings to help unfuck the young and the lost, the addicted and the despondent

These two characters—they were agents of redemption. If your number one tenet is no shame, and your creed is sensual and consensual, you are the perfect beings to help unfuck the young and the lost, the addicted and the despondent, those who have been told that their mistakes have rendered them worthless, when the human being who made those mistakes is, in fact, shining and pure and good.

This idea of the found family has become the cornerstone of my writing since then. The theme of forgiveness and empathy being stronger than hatred and shame has crystalized as one of my most dearly held beliefs.

And when I write about Green and Cory, Bracken and Nicky, and dear, darling, beloved Adrian, I am drawn again to the magic of Green’s hill, and reminded that the true magic—forgiveness and unconditional love—are the most human of enchantments.

Forgiveness and unconditional love are the most human of enchantments @AmyMacLane #GreensHill Click To Tweet

  New to the Little Goddess series?

Start with Vulnerable. This is a series you definitely need to read in order! Grab your copy on Amazon below*:

Buy or reserve your copy online at*: Amazon (Kindle) | Dreamspinner Press

Quickening by Amy Lane Published by DSP Publications on May 2nd 2017 Genres: LGBT, Gay, Fantasy, Paranormal, Urban Pages: 316 Add it to your To Read shelf: Goodreads

Find the Author: Website, Blog, Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, Amazon

Little Goddess: Book Five, Volume One Cory thought she’d found balance on Green’s Hill—sorceress, student, queen of the vampires, wife to three men—she had it down! But establishing her right to risk herself with Green and Bracken had more than one consequence, and now she’s facing the world’s scariest job title: mother. But getting the news that she’s knocked up takes a back seat when a half-elf hunts them down for help. Her arrival brings news that the werewolf threat, which has been haunting them for over a year, has finally arrived on their doorstep—and it’s bigger and more frightening than they’d ever imagined. Cory throws herself into this new battle with everything she’s got—and her men let her do it. Because they all know that whether they defeat this enemy now or later, the thing she’s most afraid of is arriving on a set schedule, and not even Cory can avoid it. The trick is getting her to acknowledge she’s pregnant before she gives birth—or kills herself in denial.

About Amy Lane

Amy Lane has two kids in college, two gradeschoolers in soccer, two cats, and two Chi-who-whats at large. She lives in a crumbling crapmansion with most of the children and a bemused spouse. She also has too damned much yarn, a penchant for action adventure movies, and a need to know that somewhere in all the pain is a story of Wuv, Twu Wuv, which she continues to believe in to this day! She writes fantasy, urban fantasy, and gay romance–and if you accidentally make eye contact, she’ll bore you to tears with why those three genres go together. She’ll also tell you that sacrifices, large and small, are worth the urge to write.

Website | Blog | Twitter | Facebook | Goodreads | Amazon

*This post contains affiliate links.

from Author Amy Lane on what makes Green’s Hill so special #Quickening #LittleGoddess #UrbanFantasy

[pankopop]

Berry in the Scheme of Things

As the giants of 20th century pop music are ending their graces with out mortal coil, backwards schemas of musical evolution are showing themselves in the way we remember them.

Let me first of all get this across – I’m not here to be cynical about anyone’s mourning.

Any kind of mourning is valid, and mourning in online spaces makes absolutely no difference to how unique, deep, shared or private your grief might be. Mike Rugnetta of PBS Idea Channel sums it up really beautifully and kinda furiously in this video.

Yet still, I have an uneasiness that I’d like to articulate, if you have the patience for me. Most of all, I feel that there’s a teaching moment here.

As of this writing, Chuck Berry died yesterday. Chuck Berry has so often been synonymous with titles like “the grandfather of rock and roll”, along with numerous artists who have been culturally associated with “inventing” new musics that influence our current day to day.

In one way, this is trying to celebrate someone’s importance and influence. It’s a manner of finding that bridge into the past that connects us to a mythological figure.

But in another way, there’s something that this obfuscates about the musicians as people. So much of their humanity and personhood becomes abstract next to their works. Especially if their songs are “foundational” works.

This is where things start to feel wrong to me.

The standard, canonical history of pop music sucks. It reads like a shitty fable. Let’s review:

***

THE EVOLUTION OF POPULAR MUSIC

(AS I HAVE OFTEN HEARD IT)

Part One: From Blues to the Beatles

First there were blues musicians. Just swathes of them. They apparently came from Africa and were given guitars and then blues music happened.

Elvis snuck into a house and stole the blues while it was cooling on a window sill, and thrust his hips on TV. Priests were mad because they liked country. He did a Jailhouse Rock. Chuck Berry was there, but he was black, so technically he was playing blues first but then played it faster and did Johnny B Goode. (Source: Grease, Back to the Future)

Then The Beatles came and they were English and much better. Lots of girls screamed. There was a shitty ripoff called the Rolling Stones but the Beatles were really the best for some reason. They did acid and made went to India.

After that, hippies happened in San Francisco and they did drugs and protested the Vietnam war. Woodstock was a hippy party and Bob Dylan played folk music and who is Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix was there to reassure us black people still exist. The Beatles also split up so music wasn’t good anymore.

Part Two: Everything Sucks Now

Don’t know where it came from, but seventies had disco (Source: Saturday Night Fever).

After that, maybe prog rock like Rush and also ACDC is in there somewhere? Then the Ramones didn’t know how to play instruments good like Rush so a bunch of angry poor people with ripped clothes who weren’t smart enough to play music showed up and were too loud and that was punk.

After that, some punk got faster and louder and heavy metal happened and went goth and priests were mad again. Oh! Remember black people? They made Rap music, it was like poetry but to record scratches. RUN DMC did a music video with Aerosmith and ended racism. Rap started off good but now it’s all about gangstas and hoes and bling.

Then… Techno? Did we forget to talk about Eighties music? Anyway Nirvana died and pop music is a bad culmination of all these things and the only thing we listen to is BOY BANDS and JUSTIN BEAVER and SPICED GIRLS, which is evidence of why mainstream music sucks now. Except like Adele and people who listen to the music I listen to. They’re my fav.

The End.

***

Okay, so I might not have portrayed it in the most intellectual of lights. Nonetheless, doesn’t something seem off? 

This history includes almost no women at all, and largely erases non-white experiences, and involves only the English-speaking Western world. Obviously we have a problem with representation, but most of all the biggest issue I have with it is this linear path of history. In many ways this linearity is down to people’s understanding of pop music history being down to shareable quotes and cinematic story arcs that curiously feature John Travolta.

We really need to let this story die and unfuck ourselves here. In it’s linearity, it paints people of colour as a precursor to a white legacy. The Beatles are celebrated because they are the consequence of white people improving black culture, and women as entirely absent creatively. When The Beatles aren’t in the scene any more, they’re often credited with inventing everything that came after (punk and metal in Helter Skelter, rap in Get Together), or those musical genres aren’t given any context whatsoever. Worse still, degradation narratives are a constant, specifically robbing rap and hip hop from legitimacy. We celebrate black culture for being part of the process that made The Beatles, but we spit on their works when we don’t think it helps white assimilation.

When we talk about foundational artists in this scope, we are really just lumping their work into another artist’s success. Generally, if we don’t have context for them beyond the “from-blues-to-Beatles” half of the story, they appear to be anomalies or cheap imitations. No past, and no impact. They just did a good song and I saw them on Robot Chicken that one time.

The canon fable of pop music crams everything on a chronological path from the 40’s to the present.

But like, people don’t work like that. Music doesn’t work like that. It’s not like people sat down with a guitar and asked themselves “What’s the next step”. There are communities – not just singular innovators. There are political, geographical climates and identity for fuck’s sake. All of these disparate parts are replaced with a void that paints everyone who’s not a stepping stone for the Beatles

The “evolution of music” concerningly aligns with the folk misunderstanding of the way actual evolution works – as a singular path from worse to better. Like an Animorphs book cover going from monkey to human. From primitive to complex. From black to white.

So when Chuck Berry dies, people talk about how rock and roll wouldn’t be the same without him. How pop music wouldn’t be the same without him. That’s a weird thing to say. Obviously he had influence, everyone who got a song on the radio has some influence. But is he just a brick in the foundation? Is he a simply hoisting a corner of the throne that the Beatles sit on?

This is what feels weird about people being remembered as foundational. What about them was actually special? How do they exist outside of the “evolution” as humans and individuals?

There’s value to Berry’s story that we can talk about today, throughlines that go beyond “I like Springsteen and he liked Berry so I guess he’s pretty important”. What might be  really learn from Berry’s successes? His history and influences? How have things changed and how have they stayed the same? Are there intersectional artists we’re neglecting now that would have been his contemporaries in the fifties? How does his influence go beyond Jack Black’s power hour?

Honestly, for as long as I remember, Chuck Berry was having publicized medical troubles on stage. A guitar teacher of mine noted that he was known for demanding a specific set up of amps and gear before he went on stage. He’d never rehearse with the local backing band beforehand (because they goddamn should know his shit through and through). And yeah, he demanded cash up front.

Apparently he was a bit of a bastard as well – I mean, having to cut your teeth in an America that hated you, they fought for their pay and their recognition. But his sound is warm and punchy, with a Memphis shuffle chug providing background to his cheeky accounts of distinctly young, othered experiences. He was living proof that you can claw your way through a shit world doing your craft how you please. Unfortunately, his story is kind of common. There were far too many artists in a racist, sexist, Jim Crow America who ended up truly emotionally damaged in their fight.

I think most importantly right now is we can glean insight into the sacrifices made to make the art you want in a political climate that hates your body. Because there’s a lot of people right now who likely hate your body, and hate your art because of it. How do we learn from the past struggles to survive in this one?

Recently during an interview, Ed Sheeran talked about African/Caribbean music as being the foundation for music “forever”. It was bollocks, it was racist, it was portraying Africa as a monolith historically and geographically. But he we was just spouting the folktale. Black music influenced white people to make black music (but better).

Even if he was a bit of a bastard, we at least afford Chuck Berry real personhood in our little twitter obituaries. God knows he fought tooth and nail for it.

(image sources, are from metalsucks.com, beatlescollege wordpress and the New York Times respectively)

[shadowsong26fic]

Sup

It occurs to me that I keep forgetting to do Coming Attractions posts, whoops...will try to remember for August, but here’s an informal one while I’m thinking about it.

Behind the cut I talk Precipice, AU Outlines, and a few other miscellaneous projects I have potentially in the pipeline...

Next Precipice chapter--plan is this weekend at some point. More with Saw and Ahsoka and Rex and also there was a whole, y’know, bombing thing that happened on Coruscant, and certain interested parties probably have Opinions on the subject...

Not 100% sure how long this arc is going to be. I’m shooting for I think ten-twelve chapters? So not an uberlong one like Part 4 was.

After this, there will be the as-yet untitled Part 7, which will take place after a three-year timeskip. Among other fun plot points, Leia has a key milestone to meet...

Following Part 7, right now the game plan is to split off into a second fic/sequel, working title Protectors, the first arc of which will (probably) be called Escalation. There’s a couple reasons for this.

There’s a much longer timeskip in play here; six years.

If you’re counting my timeline, you can probably guess where that’ll take us and ergo reason 2.

Also, this fic is...like, super a whole lot longer than I ever thought it would be???? It would not surprise me if the rest of Reunion plus Part 7 brings me to 200k. I’m not going to specifically aim for that, necessarily, but. You know.

My original goal, back in January, was to be done with Arc 7 by the end of August. That’s...that’s pretty clearly not gonna happen at this point (updates have been much slower than planned, plus I’ll be travelling for a few weeks...) But I should be done by the end of the year, and then on to Protectors!

AU outlines--I have a couple in the pipeline.

Let’s Go Steal a Crossover background went up...heh, like two months ago whoops...I keep getting stuck on who to sic them on, though. Everyone I can think of is either too important or dead or both...

...honestly, part of me is just tempted to, rather than a full-on Outline, do a couple of brief vignettes/drabbles so I don’t have to pick that right away and I can get out some of the stuff I already have in mind. I.e., the two teams crashing into one another...IDK, thoughts?

The California Gold Rush/Mask of Zorro Fusion AU No One One Person Asked For. Because the only way to make the PT Trio Even MORE Extra(tm) is by making them straight-up masked vigilantes in 1840s California.

(This will, incidentally, end in an Anakin-centered vee.)

At some point I’ll probably update Ventress and Her Tiny Time-Travelling Conscience.

I feel a little weird calling this next bit One Shots, but...standalones! That’s the thing I’m looking for!

I’m going to do Big Bang again next year, and so I’m not scrambling to finish in the last week of April, I want to try and start ahead of time? Back when I was in SPN fandom, I did that for a couple BB projects and it worked out pretty well.

(Especially for The Promises of Angels,��aka my 100k epic about a tertiary character who had, at the time, been dead for five seasons...I ended up writing that one over the course of like a full year.)

Anyway, I’m toying with a couple of different ideas. All of which I plan to write at some point, I just don’t know when...big bangs tend to be good for me, in terms of finishing projects that I would otherwise drag on and on and on...

(i.e., if I had done the sensible thing and waited to find a big bang for it, I probably would’ve finished Distaff ages ago, lol...)

At some point, whether for a challenge or something else, I plan to turn Bail Unfucks the Timeline into a proper fic.

I’ve also been toying with a Thing about Satine and Bo-Katan.

And there was a prompt that I considered for last year’s BB that I ended up rejecting because whodunits are not in my wheelhouse, but it involved poking at a timeline inconsistency and Sabe and Padme investigating a murder together shortly before ROTS.

Also trying to do some original writing over the next couple weeks, which may or may not show up here, we’ll see.

...that about sums it up, I think. Thoughts? Comments? Questions? Prompts? What’s on your minds?