#more alluring however less intimidating (which i suppose is the whole point)

[skloomdumpster]

someone who's smarter than me pls put in words the insane shift between rosalind s1 and rosalind s2

[dusky-dancing]

The Prince and the Pirate - CH 3

For SoKai Week - Day 3

Story Summary: Sora finds himself far away from the walls of the Radiant Garden he's known his whole life, kidnapped by a rowdy group of pirates whose captain is as alluring as she is mysterious. What he thought was a simple hostage negotiation turns into an adventure that Sora couldn't have anticipated. He doesn't know which is worse, not knowing what's up ahead, or liking it that way.

Rating: T

Genre: Romance, Adventure, Pirate AU

Length: ~ 3700 words

——————————————————–

Links for story navigation:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

——————————————————–

Over the next few weeks, Sora found himself beginning to feel a surprising kinship with the crew.

He met the remaining three crew members, Tidus, Wakka and Selphie, who acted as the ship's lookout, navigator, and boatswain respectively. With no land or help in sight, Sora was stuck with acting the part, so he swabbed the deck, scrubbed their dishes, and entertained their banter.

Little by little, each of them let him into their circle. Biggs let him judge his fencing matches with the other crew members. Wedge let him steer the ship once, which fulfilled some juvenile wish deep within Sora. He learned Jessie's name for each of the canons. Wakka taught him rope-tying techniques. Tidus even allowed him up into the crow's nest, though Sora couldn't stay up for long without getting vertigo. Selphie did a bit of everything aboard the ship, though cooking and keeping most of the men in order seemed to be her muse.

Then there was Kairi.

Just like her appearance, her leadership differed greatly from how pirate captains were supposed to act. Instead of ruling strictly with a sharp blade and even sharper tongue, she commanded the crew with respect and trusted them to carry themselves.

Bigg's lack of concern about sea monsters made sense, for none ever came to attack the ship. If Sora hadn't heard the first-hand witness of their danger, he would've doubted they existed at all. Maybe Kairi's magic went even further.

Sora was stuck with scrubbing the deck again when Tidus's voice boomed over the deck.

"Captain! Ship ahead!"

Sora's head snapped to attention. Could the navy have found him again already?

Soon after, Kairi's small form emerged from her quarters, strode across the deck without paying Sora any mind, and fixed her focus on the horizon through a spyglass.

"Aye, merchant ship!" She shouted, and Sora's shoulders fell.

Tidus called out again. "Captain, their colors-"

"I see who they are," she spat with a venom that even Sora hadn't received before. "Hoist our own, Tidus. We owe them a visit."

In one swift motion, she snapped her spyglass closed, spun around, and sped to the upper deck.

Sora's gut tensed. He'd never witnessed such a malevolent side to her before, and he couldn't help but feel they wouldn't just be "visiting" this merchant ship.

She was a pirate, having survived for so long on the seas with a loyal crew, for a reason. He'd denied the reality thus far, but as a pirate, maybe even Kairi wasn't above pillaging and looting.

Sora dropped the mop and marched up to where she was on the upper deck. Her stance told him she was already preparing to use her magic to catch up to them. He grasped her wrist to stop her from finishing. Her eyes snapped to him, losing none of their fire.

"I thought you were above this," he said, mustering all of his conviction to not waver under her gaze.

She chuckled and, with surprising ease, freed her arm from his grasp. "This isn't a children's bedtime story, Sora." Her attention didn't stay on him for long, more focussed on the distant sails. "Some things are necessary."

Sora's heart sank with betrayal. Sure, she'd kidnapped him, but he'd thought they were different from the pirates he'd read about - greedy and blood-thirsty. He felt foolish, placing his trust in Kairi so quickly, believing she had good intentions behind her actions. If she was willing to attack an innocent merchant ship for supplies, then what else would she be willing to do?

The conventional flag was lowered and replaced with a flag Sora hadn't seen before. Dark blue covered most of it, with a white sea serpent elegantly twisting throughout the frame. When the wind caught the flag, it appeared as if the creature were flying through the air with its mouth open towards its destination.

Sora recognized depictions of the Leviathan in his studies, but he'd never seen such an illustration before.

The thought of pirates appropriating the image of the sea goddess for their own work only made his gut sink even further. With Kairi's magic, they caught up to the ship in no time, close enough to notice they had no canons.

He pulled Kairi back again by the arm, disrupting her magic and slowing the ship down. "Stop! They're unarmed!"

The rest of the crew reacted quickly, drawing their swords and directing them at him.

Her amusement fell, replaced with frustration. Much like her stature, her expression wasn't intimidating by nature, but the way she held herself made him want to be anywhere but on the receiving end.

"To the brig with you, then, if you're going to get in the way."

Next Sora knew, several hands pushed him to the ground, holding his wrists behind his back and his legs flat on the ground.

"Hey!" He managed to shout, but when he lifted his head, she was already walking down the steps to the lower deck.

The weight on his heart felt heavier than the three bodies on top of him. After spending all this time with them, why would they suddenly change so much?

They hauled him back to the cargo hold, where he'd first awoken aboard the ship. He offered little resistance, acting as more dead weight than anything. Even as they tied him back up to the post, he could barely lift his head to look them in the eye.

"Sorry, Sora," Biggs sighed. "There's no time to explain. You just have to trust us, okay?"

He couldn't. How could they expect him to? The despair in his heart reignited into anger as they tightened the ropes.

"Trust you?!" He faced his captors, the familiar faces of Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie. Their expressions all contained different levels of amusement and hesitation. What about this could possibly be entertaining? "You're all pirates. I could never trust you!"

The only face that changed was Wedge's. A frown pulled hard at the corners of his mouth, and his grip on Sora's arm wavered ever-so slightly. Jessie noticed his change too, and offered him a comforting touch on the shoulder.

Wedge nodded to her, and she turned back to Sora, her gaze much less light-hearted now. "Just...sit tight a minute, okay?"

"But-"

"I know!" she interrupted. "Evil pirates, yada yada yada. Don't feel too down, yea?"

For a moment, they all stood in silence before him, as if waiting for him to say something more. If that was what they wanted, he didn't satisfy them. His head turned away, as far as his restraints would let him, and let the heavy silence hang over them.

Finally, they left in a rush back up the stairs. Soon after the door above closed, the fresh sea air waned, replaced by the musty smell of old wet wood.

The room had no light this time, leaving him along with the rocking of the ship and the creaking of wood all around him. The ship swayed heavier than usual with the waves moving unnaturally beneath it. The shouting and footsteps above grew more distant.

As Sora's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized that, for the first time on the ship, he was alone. They hadn't bothered to restrain him painfully tightly or knock him unconscious.

For the first time, he had a chance to escape.

Sora took a deep breath and wiggled his hands underneath the rope. If he positioned himself just right, he could get it in one swing.

He closed his eyes and focussed. He felt himself fall deeper into his own consciousness to call upon the light that slept within him. With each inhale it swelled and grew, and with each exhale it released itself into his body, out of his chest, over his shoulder, down his arm, and into his palm.

His hand opened on reflex, and the light flashed out of it to form the long silver blade he'd always known.

Immediately, the ropes around him fell slack as the magic cut through them, and his wrists felt relieved to breathe again.

He stood, and the dark, stale room lit aglow with the golden light that shone from his blade. It had been so long since he'd summoned it, and Sora missed the peace that washed over his heart whenever he held it.

From first glance, one would never think his gift to be a weapon at all, with its bulky form and blunt key-shaped blade. Its name fit it justly, however.

The Keyblade.

He turned his gaze to the door. There was no time to waste if he was to save the merchant ship and escape.

The door didn't budge. Locked. But the setback only caused a giddy smile to form on Sora's face. He stepped back and pointed the tip of his key to the door.

"Finally, something useful," he muttered.

On a concentrated exhale, a narrow, precise beam of light burst from the blade and into the door. Though this side had no keyhole, the lock clicked and the door swung open. With the smile still painted across his face, Sora eagerly took one step closer to freedom.

It must have taken him longer than he'd thought to break out of his bindings, because the ship was completely empty. Clanging metal, shouts, and cries for help from the side caught his attention. They'd already boarded the merchant ship and begun to seize it.

The space between the two ships was large, but not uncrossable if he jumped far enough. Sora took a few readied steps backward and released his Keyblade. Filled with nervous anticipation, he spent a few too many beats just bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Just as he readied himself to run forward and leap across, however, a grappling hook struck the mast above him. Biggs swung across and landed directly in Sora's path. He didn't come empty-handed, but instead of carrying across cargo or coin, he held a child firmly but carefully in his grasp.

Biggs stood up straight and regarded Sora with a smirk. "Well, that was a quick escape. Glad you decided to join us."

The confusion and anger from before flared up again within Sora. "I'm not-!"

"Say, kid," Biggs ignored Sora completely and placed the kid down, "why don't you hang with our friend, Sora, while we get the rest of your friends, huh?" The man glanced at Sora with a look that said 'don't say no'.

The child's small hands clung to Bigg's shirt as he tried to set him down. He was a boy, maybe no older than six, and his eyes squinted like he hadn't seen the sun in weeks. Biggs gently pried his clothes free and gave the boy a reassuring pat.

"Don't worry, he'll protect you."

"What's going on?" Sora asked, but before he could get an answer, the boy ran to him and hid near his legs. With Sora's baggy pants, the boy was practically invisible behind them.

Biggs chuckled and pulled his grappling hook free with a whip of the rope. "Captain will explain everything, but we're the good guys here."

The man was off without another word, leaving Sora alone with the trembling child hiding behind his legs. He knelt down and straightened out the boy's ragged clothing, wiping the tears and snot from his face.

"What's your name?" Sora asked.

The boy sniffled. "Gula"

"Well, Gula, have you ever seen a magical sword before?"

The boy's eyes grew wide, the fear within them replaced with curiosity. Sora smiled and summoned his Keyblade again. He hadn't used it in so long, but doing so for the second time that day felt much more natural.

A bright smile grew across the boy's face. Wonder filled his eyes, like whatever had been troubling him moments ago didn't even matter anymore. He reached a small arm out for it, but pulled back at the last second.

"It's okay. You're my friend, so you can touch it without getting hurt." Sora held it forward.

"Friend…" The boy repeated before he accepted the invitation, first with a poke on the golden handle, then with fingers running down the blade and over the crown-shaped teeth of the key.

Warmth filled Sora's chest at the sight. His heart knew that this, even the smallest comfort, was what his gift was supposed to be used for, but he'd never been given the chance to his whole life.

An explosion on the other ship strong enough to rock the boat made him stumble and snap back to attention. He stood, and the boy returned to a fearful state as he sought cover behind Sora.

Jessie had made a dramatic escape from beneath the ship with not one, but two children in her arms. Both young girls around the same age as Gula. She readied her grappling hook, and Sora released his Keyblade again and rushed to the railing to catch them.

Sora caught her as she clumsily landed. The girls were uninjured, though they still clung to their rescuer for life.

Jessie stood and eyed him. "Hey, didn't we…? Oh nevermind."

"Will you tell me what's going on here?" Sora asked.

"Nope!" she rubbed his head. "Still alota work to do. Keep these girls safe, aye?"

"Aye," Sora grumbled, though one look in the girls' eyes told him that he had the most important job. What would merchants need to transport children for?

The girls looked past Sora and immediately ran to Gula. All three kids embraced as if they were long lost friends.

Everything happened so quickly after that. More children were brought over until they numbered nine in total. There was no hiding behind Sora anymore as they huddled with each other.

Finally, the sounds of combat died down, and the only faces that emerged were familiar ones. Biggs laid down a wooden plank, and they all returned.

Kairi emerged from the ship's quarters last, carrying a small toddler in her arms. As she crossed the plank, the crew parted to make way for her, directly towards Sora. She was busy coddling and comforting the child in her arms, so she paid Sora no mind until she stopped in front of him.

The eyes that met him looked like they wanted to say, I told you so, but instead she glanced at the kids huddled behind him and smiled.

"You'll notice, Sora, that I never used my canons on that ship." She bounced the toddler in her arms. "This is why. Those weren't merchants, they were smugglers posing as merchants. We only knew because we've encountered them before."

Sora knew he should've still been angry. All she had to do was communicate, to say what her plan was, but she'd conveniently developed an unspoken language with her crew and left him in the dark. Even so, the almost motherly look of relief and satisfaction in her eyes made it difficult to cling to that anger. Everything she did was beginning to make sense. Perhaps he was the fool for believing that, after weeks of being compassionate, she'd betray that character.

She hadn't so much as stolen a single piece of cargo from the other ship.

A gentle tug at his pant leg pulled his attention down, where several of the kids now gathered behind him.

Kairi giggled. "You're good with kids, I see."

Sora couldn't understand why. Growing up sheltered within the castle, he'd never even had little siblings to look after.

Suddenly, he found the small toddler being placed into his hands. "Think you can look after them for a while?"

She was letting him decide again what his role would be. Maybe she genuinely cared, or maybe it was another test for him. Regardless, he couldn't say no.

He nodded. "They're probably starving. I'll take care of them."

The uptick in her smile told him he'd passed, and the soft sparkle that crossed her eye was his reward.

"There is enough food in the captain's quarters for them all," she nodded to her doors. "You can sit them around the table."

By the time Kairi returned, all were full and tired, though still wary of everything and everyone around them, including Sora.

She leaned into Sora and whispered, "We learned where they were taken from. We'll need to go off course to return them home first."

"Ironic for you to return kidnapping victims," Sora responded, then realized that all eyes were on them.

Gula shuffled forward and asked, "What's gonna happen to us?"

Kairi knelt down to meet him and smiled. "We're taking you all home!"

All of their little eyes, even the most tired ones, lit up with excitement. She was so approachable, especially to children.

"Think you guys can sit tight on a ship for a few more days?" Kairi asked.

Some of their faces fell again. They were tired of being at sea and just wanted to go home like any other kid. Sora related to that primal need to return to comfort and familiarity. But the more he thought of it, the less he wanted to return to how things were. Maybe his predicament wasn't ideal, but Kairi was right when she'd guessed that he wanted more from life.

While he reflected, Kairi had opened the door to her bedchamber and sat on the edge of her bed. Hesitantly, Sora followed.

"Gather around," she gestured all around herself, "maybe a little story will help you sleep."

The eyes of the younger ones immediately widened again, while the older ones tried a bit harder to mask their excitement. Sora took that as his cue and turned to leave.

"You stay too, Sora. You'll want to hear this one," she winked. Turning the focus of her attention back to her audience, she began in a much softer voice. "How many of you have heard of the Leviathan?"

A few hesitant hands raised themselves halfway, while the rest merely exchanged wandering glances. Of course Sora knew, so he confidently shot his hand into the air. Suddenly, all eyes were on him, and Kairi giggled.

"I see many of you don't know the goddess of the sea. Legend tells of a majestic sea serpent nearly as long as the sea herself, atleast she appeared so to the men who encountered her."

"Like a monster?" a little girl asked, cowering behind her knees.

"Not at all. Though enormous, she nurtured all life in the sea like a mother would. She protected her children and fostered their growth. She was beautiful too, with scales that shimmered a deep ethereal blue and graceful fins that danced endlessly in the waves."

"What happened to her?" a boy asked. "Why don't we see or hear of her?"

"Uh-uh," Kairi wagged a finger, "don't get too far ahead now," she smiled. "Leviathan wasn't alone in her power over the sea. There soon grew another creature of sizable strength, the Kraken!" Her voice, as well as her gestures, grew more exaggerated. "How many of you have heard of him?"

This time, each hand in the room shot into the air, including Sora's. No child was a stranger to the frightening tales of the Kraken told by their parents to steer them from the waterfront.

Kairi allowed a moment for the kids to settle down before continuing. "You see, where the Leviathan was good and nurturing and filled with light, the Kraken was filled with darkness, envy, and hunger. He wanted her power all for himself, but he knew he couldn't win against her head-on. Instead, one day he attacked and corrupted her children of the sea, and she was quick to come to their defense. Because her focus was on keeping the ocean safe and not herself, the Kraken was able to overpower her."

Every kid in the room now leaned forward intently. Sora himself had become completely enraptured, not only in the story, but in how she told it. From her voice, to her movements, to her expressions, he would have listened to her tell stories for hours.

One of the older kids finally spoke, "He...he killed her?"

Kairi's gentle expression never left. "I would not have told you a story if it didn't have a glimmer of hope at the end," she smiled. "You see, Leviathan cannot be killed. Instead, the Kraken sealed her heart and light away, in hopes that it would never be found." She held up a finger. "But, he was unable to contain all of her light. Some say it escaped into the world."

"Where would it go?" many of them asked.

"Well, to another heart for refuge, of course. Leviathan's Blessing, as it's called, is gifted by her to one heart in each generation. In doing so, she grants them an innate love of the sea and incredible powers to harness it as their own. Though it is a fraction of her power, she is still able to watch over the sea through this heart."

Her gaze found Sora for a brief moment, and he understood. Her adventuring spirit, her magical gift, her nurturing nature, had all been a result of this 'light'. Though those traits were such a deep part of who she was, he refused to believe she wouldn't be all of those things without her gift.

"So you see, wee little ones, no matter how bad things may seem, there will always be a sliver of hope left."

The kids now were all completely scrunched up beside her feet, all trying to get as close as possible. One of them yawned, which caused a chain reaction throughout the small young audience.

As Kairi wrapped up the story, Sora couldn't get his mind off of the revelation. He'd always been told Leviathan abandoned the mortal world long ago, never to return, and if sailors asked her, she might grant them protection from the monsters at sea. He never considered the possibility that her forced absence was the reason for the growing danger.

Next he knew, the kids were shuffling out to their own beds. Kairi waited expectantly by the door for him to follow. As he passed her, he turned around.

"You know, that's not the story I know," he smiled, "but I like yours better."

——————————————————–

A/N: Thank you for reading! I know the chapter lengths are going up, but I promise it won't get longer than this haha.

Happy Day 3 of SoKai Week! I always headcanon that Sora and Kairi would be great with kids, and that Kairi would inherit her grandmother's love of storytelling. I hope you all are enjoying the story so far!

[arisenameoba]

Bad guys gone good

Part 1: 

   It had been a couple months since you graduated from UA. Your time there was definitely unforgettable. The friends you made and the lessons you learned were what helped you pull through till the very end, along with the dream of becoming a Hero. 

   Being a Hero...it was something that held all of us strong. The day of finally going off to save people’s lives and fight villains was what we lived for, and it was definitely something that you lived for. The only thing you ever wanted was to give people hope and a sense of security, so after graduating from UA you wasted no time in finding an agency to work under, and within just a couple months you were out there with the Pro Hero’s, assisting them on their missions. You had never felt more alive in your entire life. 

   Of course, working as a Hero came with its consequences. Big organizations run by villains were one of the major focuses, considering that they were constantly out to get the heros. Though, one particular organization called the LOV, or the League of Villains, was your main priority. Granted, they weren’t as active as the others, but they were still number one on your list as the most dangerous. 

   You remembered your fellow colleagues discussing rumors and personal experiences they’ve had with the LOV, but you had yet to see one of their members in the flesh, and you planned on keeping it that way. Despite the months you had fighting difficult villains, you knew you weren't ready for anything as big as the LOV. Not yet at least. People as evil as them, you had to make sure you were trained enough. You never know what to truly expect when you come in contact with the ones causing all the mayhem. 

   “Y/n! I think this is the last block to portrol. After that, Team B will switch with us.” (?) said as he pointed back towards the direction of our agency. 

   Turning around, you gave (?) a thumbs up. “Okay, I’ll make sure we’re all good here!” 

   (?) smiled. “Good luck!” 

   Turning back around, you began walking down the sidewalk to make sure there weren't anything out of the sorts going on. Checking each alleyway, you made sure no one was there. Once you reached the end of the street, you peered down the very last alleyway to find nothing. Everything was the way it was supposed to be. 

   As you began turning away to head back to (?), a sudden rush of indescribable heat radiated from the dark alley. Whipping your head around, your eyes fixated on a bright blue flame that glowed in the blackness. It’s colorful light was almost hypnotizing as it restlessly danced by itself. 

   Where the hell was this light coming from? You thought. Everything was perfectly normal just a second ago. 

   Hesitant at first, you checked back to see if (?) was anywhere near, but when the coast seemed to be clear, you slowly inched your way deeper into the alleyway, the flame appearing closer and brighter with every cautious step you took. The heat seemed to increase as well, keeping you from getting any closer. 

   The blue flame stood idly, flickering, with no particular purpose. You just stared at the beautiful ombré colors in awe, ignoring the heat that caused you to sweat excessively. 

   It was just so alluring. What could such a flame be doing, floating in the middle of a dark alleyway? Could it mean something? 

   “I see that you’re fascinated by my blue fire.” a chill voice chuckled, causing you to quickly turn around and put up your fists in defense. 

   “Who are you?” You asked, immediately gripping your fists tightly. Did I just fall into a trap? 

   “No need to get all worked up.” The voice seemed to be coming from the same spot, but you weren’t exactly sure where that was. “I just wanted to warn you that you should be more weary of your surroundings.” 

   Not being able to pinpoint the man's location, you slowly began to back up. While doing so, you noticed stepping onto something wet. Looking down, your eyes widened to find yourself walking on spilt blood. 

   Gasping, you jumped back to only unravel something far worse. The blue flame wasn’t floating in midair, but in fact roasting a human body. 

   How? How did I not notice the body? You thought to yourself in distress. 

   “I tried to warn you.” the cold voice spoke once again, this time sounding closer than before. 

   Frantically searching for the man in the shadows, you hold onto your mouth in shock as the pungent smell finally registers into your brain. “You did this, didn’t you?” 

   Suddenly, a new blue flame appeared, but not from thin air. 

   You watched as the blue light revealed a man with the mix of purple and pale skin. The purple skin seemed to have a rough texture as it appeared to be stapled against the parts that weren’t affected. He also had hair so black that it blended into the darkness and eyes the same color as his blue flame. 

   Something about him seemed automatically familiar to you.

   “Let’s say that I was responsible,” the man said, keeping a good distance between you too. “what do you suppose you’ll do?”

   Without wasting another second, you use your quirk called Tsunami to create a large flow of water to launch towards the villain, but it was clear he saw your attack coming from miles away. 

   “Nice attempt, but you’re going to have to be less predictable next time.” the villain’s voice suddenly whispered into your ear from behind, causing chills to run down your back. 

   Yelping, you swiftly turned around and threw some water in an attempt to cause some damage, but you only ended up burning out the fire on the body, which was your only light source other than the moving fire from the villain's hand. 

   Clenching your fists, you could feel your entire body began to shake with confusion and anger. It was obvious you were off your game today. I mean, who wouldn’t be if they were unexpectedly met with a villain? 

   “Is that all you’ve got?” the man questioned, his voice hinting a bit of disappointment.

   Taking a deep breath, you gather your nerves and look up at the glowing blue eyes already staring you down. “Who are you? Answer me now.”

   This was your lame attempt at coming off as intimidating, but you had to get a grip of yourself somehow. 

   The man remained in his spot, eyes not leaving you. “I’m surprised that you haven’t heard of me or at least recognized me.” 

   Your mind began to race. Was I supposed to know who this man was? 

   “I’m only giving you another chance. Tell me who you are now.” You demanded. 

   Although the concept of his look rang a bell in the back of your head, you couldn’t seem to piece together the whole picture. Could he be a villain on the list back at your agency? 

   “Fine, if I have to.” the man sighed as he lifted his hand higher, the flame’s shadow swaying against his face. “The name’s Dabi.” 

   Dabi? Why did that name sound so...? 

   Then it hit you. You did know the name Dabi. It was the name of one of the members of the LOV, the top most dangerous villain associations. 

   Your brain began to pulsate with a headache from this new information. Despite a member from the LOV standing right in front of you, you knew you weren’t trained enough to handle him on your own, so the overwhelming feeling was getting the better of you. 

   “Come on, hero.” Dabi chuckled. “don’t tell me this is the end of the line for you.”

   Come on, y/n! Get a damn grip! All you have to do is call for (?)! He’ll come and save you! 

   Your mouth refused to open, however. No matter how hard you tried, not a single sound would escape. 

   Pressing the palm of your hand against your forehead, you decided fighting back was your only option. 

   Slowly lifting up your free hand, you hoped that the water on the ground from earlier would react fast enough, but Dabi’s immense blue flame evaporated the water within seconds, leaving only the hard, dry concrete.

   This can’t be happening! You screamed inside your head, causing the pain to increase. 

   Your years of wanting to be a hero lead up to this very moment, but it seemed that the feeling of it actually happening was something you could have never prepared for. 

   Excessive sweat followed by heavy breathing, you began to lose feeling in your arms and legs, until the lids of your eyes were too much of a weight to bare any longer, so you closed them, causing Dabi’s blue light to slowly fade away into the darkness. 

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Confessions of a Coffee-Eater | 01

Genre: Smut, College/University AU

Pairing: Student!/Poet!Namjoon xStudent!/Poet!

Warnings: Public male masturbation, sub!Namjoon, allusion to smoking and poverty, swearing/cussing

Summary: It is in hard times beautiful things can occur and the addiction of primal instincts be suppressed in their proximity. However, when two souls from different social worlds meet in a poetry class, any former urges gain a new direction.

Some of which are sensual in emotion.

And may not be reciprocated.

Masterlist

Next part

Not everything starts off smoothly, time occupying more of the mind than the designated task or destination. Students tend to deal with this occurrence more often than it would like to be admitted, especially on the first day of the new academic year when everyone has the silent resolution to begin with a clean slate. Withal, there remain some who, nevertheless, manage to sneak into the classroom as the introductions have almost come to an end and thus go from being an absent first to a present last. 

Hence is why regardless of the few remaining students introducing themselves all eyes in the vast yet bare space shift to the tall man entering the room in a wake of smoke and cologne. It is not unlikely to think they are as intimidated by the painted canvas on well-defined arms as the girl sitting right next to them after furiously wishing to be left alone, the desire denied as it is the sole empty chair left.

Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.

Nevertheless, the thought does not mean a glance at the artwork covering alluring honey-toned skin cannot be stolen. And the gained treasure is the sight of an intricate tribal design flowing over from bright turquoise into sleek black on the left arm and a Victorian clockwork overlapping with a nautical map and a compass, the former element stopping at the wrist after peeking out underneath a feather. That is all that can be picked up on from the side.

But almond eyes immediately sneakily take revenge by also looking at a source of interest for it is the natural thing for an individual to estimate the nearest person when being in an alien environment without a point of support consisting of friends. Unfortunately, each of them from private personal circles has chosen a different direction within the study, none of them daring to take on or simply interested in poetry. 

‘And who might you be?’ The round of rapid-fire introductions ends at the newcomer, who flinches as if waking up from a dream with the heavily blushing cheeks of a crumpled composure.

Which are mirrored in the flustered expression of an embarrassed heart futilely trying to cover up the chest area more by means of pulling up the slightly see-through white loose top thinly striped with lines of black. Regardless of the attempt, the pastel pink push-up bra decorated with a beautiful flower pattern in onyx remains visible very much so from above and a tad less from the front. Thus, when realizing the uselessness of the endeavour, the worry of coming across as an indecent person increases as now not only the professor is taken into account but the still nameless newcomer as well.

‘Oh, ehm, I’m- I’m Namjoon, an exchange student from Dongguk University.’ Eyebrows rise at the baritone voice trying to speak in a composed manner, miraculously managing to do so to a fair degree though fiddling fingers give away the surprise of suddenly being called to attention. Oddly, a thought pops up which almost encourages hands into action to calm tanned nervous ones but just in time can they be lowered into the lap while watching the speaker politely. ‘As for poetry, I believe it’s an expression of a person’s mind. However, this also means they are puzzles to be solved because a thought is chaotic and can have a double meaning.’

‘Very well. It’s funny you should mention poems being like puzzles. My son is currently in high school, also studying poetry and he and I had a conversation about it recently. He could not for the life of him figure out what any poem meant and was astounded I do this for a living. But, as any fifteen-years-old with a literature professor for a father, he wants to become a game designer.’ Chuckling arises in the classroom at the enthusiastically told analogy and all tenseness disappears thanks to the dry humour of the resident Manchester man. At the same time, eyes which swiftly avoided each other find one another again only to repeat the rapid break of contact, those of the too-exposed girl wavering instantly after strangely wanting to make sure Namjoon is more at ease like the others. Why the deep-voiced man looks back with the intention - if there is any intention at all - to lock gazes instead of, fortunately, accidentally letting focus wander lower to bared skin, shall remain a mystery.

For blushing cheeks to never unravel.

Get yourself together, Y/N. I don’t know him and he’s clearly more interested in my chest than myself. Although... just now he looked at me. And he’s kinda adorable. And handsome. No, no, no! Jesus, what am I thinking?

Professor Brown happily continues, pacing the room. ‘But if we think about encoding and poetry, they are similar on the grounds they are both, indeed, essentially the same in the manner they are carefully composed in order to work.’ Steps halt in the middle of the space, academic sight switching from one face to the next as hands fold behind the back clad in a neat black jacket. ‘There is something I would like to ask you. Does any of you write poetry?’

The majority of the students' palms rise in response, including one of which the arm is decorated as if by a traveller of old and one which finds purpose after being mentally prevented from ridiculously serving as a means of soothing. This risen pair does not go unnoticed by the minds which control them, the air in the narrow space between bodies filled with silent curiosity pertaining to the written work. The possible style, the possible words, the possible message.

The possibility to hear it being spoken.

The possibility to connect.

But neither says anything, focusing intently on the empty pages of the notebooks lying on the elongated table and clumsily fiddling with pens between fingers. Notwithstanding, every move is carefully composed to not make a wrong impression, both parties trying to prove a point which is supposed to be interpreted without any double meanings. Certainly so when rejoining each other’s company at the end of a swift ten-minute-break to allow room for breathing something else other than poetry in four hours dedicated to it.

Nevertheless, it cannot be helped but let shoulders relax when smelling nicotine mixed with sharp cologne and sensing two intricate paintings in contrasting styles settle on the empty chair again. It can even be admitted the presence is liked, certainly when from peripheral vision perceived americano irises follow the movements of the pen noting down a random lyrical thought.

And thighs have to clench together in slight awkwardness when unconsciously sensing them looking away swiftly after likely having been distracted anew by the revelation of the shirt that does not want to stay in place. However, the emotion changes when remarking upon an almost anticipating shiver disturbing the fairly intimidating man’s aura as knees accidentally touch.

Panic.

But something undefinable and incomprehensible forms its undertone.

‘I’m sorry.’ Clenching the jaw, the contact is immediately made undone by crossing legs and focusing on the penning down each poem, any poem that comes to mind. 

But nothing appears at hearing the shy stumbling over words, picturing all too well how Namjoon’s face is adorably flushed with timidity. ‘Ah, i- it’s- doesn’t matter.’

Which only worsens the uncomfortableness of a consciousness slowly turning corrupted as the long hours of the seminar pass, wondering what lies at the heart of the cause to behave so jittery and rush out of the door to smoke. Wondering is the wrong choice of words for it are more sensual ungrounded fantasies which rise one by one while listening to the flustered ocean deep voice answering a question here and there.

Fancying how it would sound when being completely controlled by the girl keeping up an innocent façade.

Me.

God-fucking-dammit, focus on class and not your own perverted imaginations. You’re here to learn, not to lose control like this.

This warning spins around a chaotic mind at least every quarter of an hour, swirling among the perversion and bringing common sense back for perhaps a good ten minutes before either Namjoon’s voice is heard or a glance is thrown in the man’s direction. Then the whole circus starts anew without hope of redemption.

Henceforth, it comes as a relief when the class is over at last and everyone packs their things to rush to the nearest bus station to make it home.

The first to disappear are arms made of ink and smoke.

Restraint is one of humankind’s most difficult issues to face on a daily basis, seeking refuge in what brings tranquility to a tempted consciousness. Withal, the nicotine purchased with the little money put aside from working the night shift at a nearby gas station did not help erase the vivid memory of pastel pink embroidered by lace as black as night. If anything, it was all in vain as the confrontation with it happened as soon as walking back into the room to which all of us are confined for four hours once a week.

Igniting a type of hunger which has not been felt towards any other girl in Korea, too busy working the same job as now to help make ends meet and send the little brother with big aspirations to high school because the sibling deserves a proper educational basis as well. Hence is why there was no room for letting attention stray towards anything but the means necessary to help pay for the rent.

  Three people could barely manage to bring it up each month. But out here on foreign soil and alone, being kicked out of the rented place nearby the university is not so much a surprise. Fortunately, the boss does not come in until seven in the morning which allows for two hours of sleep before packing up the makeshift bed consisting of a jacket for a mattress and rucksack for a pillow. It is difficult, but hardship is inevitable for those who are seen as pariahs, the people who do not fit the norm in one way or another.

Yet, strangely, Y/N - the name glanced from the improvised name tags the professor asked to be made to make it easier for everyone - was not as tense as the rest of the students. In fact, intrigued is perhaps the best description to give the overall attitude of the girl caught occasionally glancing sideways.

I did fuck up great time, though. Why did I stare at her boobs?

The painful twitch below that had to be awkwardly shielded against all the eyes of the room, certainly the pair of newly met ones on the adjacent chair for they are the cause, makes the memory of flesh resurface as a rapid turn is made towards the abandoned unisex restroom. Swiftly, the lock to the tiny space is turned.

Alone.

God, I really blew my chances with her. I should apologize.

The phantom of touching knees makes lashes flutter shut and teeth bite down on the bottom lip as a hand brushes over tight grey denim.

Obsidian with a pearl undertone.

A cute black bow from which a small diamond dangles between breasts.

‘She’s so pretty.’ A squeeze sends the mind reeling further away from sanity, recalling the warm scent reminiscent of the autumn which hangs in the air. Wild berries, dark plum and bergamot.

Her.

‘I could be so good to you. For you.’ Tanned fingers barely possessing a sliver of logic undo the zipper concealing heated hurt, firmly enveloping the source for distraction when slipping past the rim of plain grey boxers. To suppress any sound, their counterparts fold over the mouth on the brink of falling into whimpering submission, trembling like during the seminar in the sudden craving to be touched.

By Y/N.

If only I’d push my thigh a bit more to the side, she’d have caught on. What am I thinking? You’d never do that.

After all, what does have a poor man from Ilsan to offer to a foreign woman who is better off without an outcast glued to her? Moreover, there are financial priorities that have to be taken care of and it is highly improbable there is a willingness to help a wretched soul out of the gutter with money.

She does not know me. 

I do not know her.

We are strangers.

But lovers in this fantasized instance, having pretty small hands replace clumsy desperate ones as ears naturally attune to the echo of what little has been heard from a charming voice. Howbeit, it is speaking in a sweetened tone furiously wished to ever be heard truly in private. ‘Namjoonie, why didn’t you tell me you were so needy?’

‘I- I didn’t want t- to- we’ve just met and- and- fuck~’ The curse comes out on a breathless whimper as the chin is flicked up to gain access to the neck, glossy lips kissing the warm skin at random as the thumb circles the heavily leaking part of corrupted fancy.

‘If I’d known you’d be submissive like this, I’d done this to you sooner. You wanted to grab my hand earlier, didn’t you? Place it in your lap to rut against during the rest of the seminar?’ A cheeky grin chisels itself onto the coy mistress’s delighted expression at the unashamed nodding confirming the intention dismissed in the last second after the second smoking break. ‘Make sure I know what I do to you? Who would have thought that such a big buff tattooed boy,’ a whine falls into an appreciative growl when the stimulating palm tightens its hold significantly, the reaction eliciting a chastising click of the tongue, ‘would be such a mess. So cute, all submissive.’

‘O- only for you.’ Hips snap in time with the movements below, aching for release from the building tightening in the lower stomach. Breath comes at a greater difficulty as speech becomes harder to manage as well, feeling too heated to think properly and dwindling further and further into the urge to please the one who ignites a sense of safety. ‘Wan- Wanna be goo- ngh, ah, ehm, b- be good for you.’

‘As you should be as my baby boy.’ Y/N stands on the tippy toes of obsidian and alabaster Puma sneakers, arms suggestively snaking around the back of the neck and nails digging wonderfully into skin when whispering. ‘If you actually do grab my hand next time in class to rut against, I’ll jerk you off under the table but make you cry in overstimulation for being impatient. Am I understood?’

‘Y- Yes, M- Miss.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

‘C- Can I- Need to- shit!’ All attention of action shifts wholly to the most sensitive part, erasing every last sliver of sense while barely refraining from coming undone without permission. ‘Plea- Please, ah, ah, Miss, m- may I!’

However, the request remains unfinished as the stimulation becomes too much to handle and the world is sucked away into pleasant nothingness, taking fantasy along and leaving a poor man from Ilsan alone in perverted satisfied warmth.

Together in an imaginary self-made world. 

Alone in a bathroom in reality.

Stained in more ways than with solely thick ivory. 

Yet having to say sorry.

[asilverjackal]

ok, ya’ll wanted it.

–1982, BEDFORD-STUYVESANT.

She puts on diamond earrings. Salvatore likes her to dress up, after all. Now, Delores’ maternal-stand ins had not only been the occasional aunt who believed in what was essentially conservative wear, but these figures were primarily women such as Bertha Jones, Lorna Howard. Two who a very young Delores knew, on a practical instinctive level, that she had to not aspire to be, but become if she desired to be a woman worthy of respect. Salvatore, however, has a particular taste in which prevents Delores from fully following the image the old women laid out in her youth. What he finds alluring is a shade of red on full lips, a hue so strong that she would have once considered it whorish. For rich perfumes that maintained their fragrance in full strength after the first hour. And for a dress that clung to her figure in the right places, also exposing the right amount of cleavage. While wearing such a thing, it was expected that Delores would appear respectable. The black furred caplet draped over her slim shoulders truly brings forth that sort of look. “Mrs. Lombardi.” Upon the sight of the adult descending from the stairway, Roxanne the babysitter stops her pursuit in making Isabelle squawk and coo. Bashful yet bold, that Southern accent her step-mother scolds her for is laced in her starstruck observation: “y’look like a movie star.” Much to Roxanne’s dismay, ‘Mrs. Lombardi’s’ face does not light up. To an unworldly sixteen-year-old, she looks indifferent responding, “thank you.” This was Salvatore’s taste.   He is no slob, but Delores believes age is doing him well all the same. Despite his upbringing, he holds fondness towards what she deems ‘high art’: stories from foreign cultures, statues where men and women bare it all with no shame have a place in their home, she believes he wants to learn another language, too. Whether he will achieve it or not, she does not know. But all and all, he was looking to life beyond Brooklyn - and yet, he was not truly refined in Delores’ mind. For not only was he ‘the most talkative man she knew,’ but he failed to observe social rules in ways he ought to have. Instead, he approached all matters as though he was a King who ran the entire borough, businesses and all. This is why he would sweep his dark locks back, don a three-piece suit and shamelessly lay his whole palm against the horn. Ignoring Cassie’s pleas to tell Daddy ‘hi,’ Delores bids Roxanne goodbye. Entering the dark evening with one eyebrow higher than the other. “What is your problem?” The question slides off her tongue remarkably smooth. He lifts his hand, gesturing to nothing with a little smile on his lips. As though he didn’t just wake many sleeping babies. “I wanted to make sure you were ready!” “Have I ever been late?” She sits beside him. In a moment of thought, lips pull to the side in a moment of thought. Soon he’s nodding. “I can recall three times!” Love. It’s why this sort of conversation is meaningless in the long term of things. In moments to come, lips will lock, a teasing question will be uttered: “did you miss me?” As if his absence has occurred over hours and days.

“How could I when I knew I was going to see you?” And though her answer is one of blunt honesty, tenderness is attached to each word.  

Sal believes Delores holds obligation to Cassandra and Isabelle, the house has to be cared for in a similar sense as well. And between this and that, nights like these were very essential to him. Delores acknowledges that the areas he enjoys taking her to have changed with age, as well. In the very beginning, there was a focus on fun. But now, Donna Summer’s voice could only be heard on record as more silent settings were traveled to.

In this restaurant, she gathers lettuce and tomato on her fork. Meanwhile, he savors the taste of soft ice cream, his dinner plates have been long-gone. Delores lifts her gaze, sights traveling to her left. As expected, those blue eyes were still on her. “That woman has been looking at me the entire night.” Too good to return a long-term glance, to above it all, she focuses on her business and the remains of the salad before her.

Surely, the young woman is wondering how these two could sit at a booth without the company of four. They dressed although they came from a background with money, yet there had been something so ‘shady’ of such a couple.

Salvatore has no problem making prolonged eye contact with the culprit. A blonde twenty-something, maybe thirty. Her hair has a lot of volume, a lot of body. Shoulder-pads protrude in her own suit. Her own partner is a man, suited and young. Yuppies, he concludes. It’s not enough to witness her surprise at the sight of him gazing her way, Sal is shameless enough to raise his hand in greeting.

And for that Delores hisses low and sharp, “Salvatore!”  

“What?” He knows he’s done wrong, and yet he looks to her with curious eyes. Almost childish, “she’s wondering if you’re real!” What he receives is a hum of disapproval, his innocent demeanor dissolves. “Hey. Look at me.” She’s focused on the leafy greens, “Dolly, look at me.” There’s still no meeting of the eyes, but he goes on to speak carefree, “the service was respectable, the food was good, what else could we want?”

Delores looks at him, but it is a cold gaze he receives. “I want people to mind their own business.”

He smiles, “Forget about them. Get closer to me – c’mere Dolly.” Fork down, she obliges. Scooting close, allowing his arm to fall over her, allowing herself to inhale his cologne. Of course, the twenty-something couple fully in her view range now. They dare not look now even as the interracial pair grows more intimate. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”  

“Like what?”

“Well.” There comes a grunt as he grows more comfortable in his seat, “I’m going over some old ground, that’s all. I told you, what I think I would like-“ think, not certain. “-is a big family.”

“I remember.” Even with a nod, she is also perplexed at the concept. Cassandra was an unexpected pregnancy, Sal wanted Isabelle. And Delores could understand why: she has no fond memories of being an only child. Child birth was unpleasant, though delivering both girls was a smooth process. Yet, from what Delores knows, her own mother passed on through giving birth to her. So even after Cassie, after Belle, succumbing to a similar fate stays in her mind.

“So, if we have more kids.” A pause, he begins to think of a good number, “ten, thirty…”

“Thirty?” She knew he couldn’t have been serious.

“I said big!” He laughs, “But, really Dolly, in the long term of things I don’t want any of our – future girls, or current girls, to wonder why we have different last names.” No breaking eye contact, she feels drawn in – yet intimidated all the same. Her breasts rise, they fall as she watches him fish in his back pocket. Butterflies even come, fluttering in her abdomen. Before she knows it, a box is presented to her. A small silver band inside, “I want you to marry me.”

She stayed in the moment longer than she should have. 

“You hesitated.” “I told you yes.” And this is how their night ends. Sal’s hands on the wheel, looking forward into the night. Delores’ hands in her lap, finger without a ring. The box has returned to Sal’s pocket, and Delores supposes she will never see it again as he said this was all okay. He would get his money back, get something she wanted.

“You told me yes after seven seconds!” “You’re going to sit here and act like I don’t love you or something.” “Look,” He gestures to himself, one hand on the wheel. “I get that you love me. I don’t have doubts about that, Dolly. But do you know what you always do?” She looks to him, eyes squinted and a tone so sharp it could cut: “what do I do?” With a nod to himself, he answers, “you pussyfoot around. That’s what you do.” Had they not been on the road - had Delores not desired to return home to her daughters safe and sound: she would have slapped this man across the face. “Don’t say that to me.” “Well!” A rough shrug, “It’s what you do! We wouldn’t be where we are now if it weren’t for me!” Rather than responding, Delores huffs. Head forward, hands folded. “Like when you didn’t want to meet Aunt Penny.” And yet Sal still speaks, determined to make a point. “What?” “I told you, ‘Dolly, I want you to meet my aunt.’ But! Back then you didn’t even hesitate! You bluntly said no to my face!” His recount is not even slightly exaggerated, Delores had done this. Yet, she had done this for personal reasons that she feels far too embarrassed to disclose. “I’m not the person I was then.” But Delores can admit this. “Ah,” He parks at the curb of their home, “we never really outgrow all our traits.” Her lips part as he unfastens himself and steps out the car. Only thinking that if she had not been blessed with the patience of a saint, if she did not care about Roxanne seeing her employers in a state less than ideal, she would have backhanded him now. However, as he unlocks the door, she ensures he hears her low hiss. “Damn you and your masculine pride.” Sal had to blink. “What?” At this point, Delores had no desire to speak to the teenager in their home. It would be rude of her, Delores felt, but at the same time no obligations bounded her. Therefore, she marches up the stairs in her heels, ignoring the fact she was even greeted. The payment and send-off were left to Sal and his smart mouth.  

Diamond earrings were the first to be removed, then the necklace. She was in the process of removing simpler rings when spotting Salvatore’s reflection at her vanity. “So why are you in a bad mood?” He speaks so curious, it’s a wonder she fails to roll her eyes. “Salvatore, I’m not playing into any more of your little games tonight.” “Hey! I’m just letting you know that Roxy was wondering what was wrong with you.” “Roxy can stay in her place.” Hearing such a apathetic sneer is how Salvatore knows he has pissed her off. Delores is not an aggressive woman – Sal deems her to superbly sweet, but her mouth is full of venom when enraged. The critical thoughts in her mind are released, and even if it does not wound someone: such exposed scorn has you bewildered. He has never seen Delores at a limit in which all her rage is unleashed – part of him doubts she could ever be filled with rage. And again, another part of him does not wish to know if such a part exists. And for that, he desires to calm her down. “Hey, Dolly.” Hands rub at slender shoulders, sliding down to her upper arms. “I’m sorry.” Lips are pressed at the top of her head, she shuts her eyes when he kisses the space between eye and ear. “Damn me. Damn me and my masculine, Italian pride!” “Um-hm.” His descend to the floor is a gradual gesture. A position no other woman, or man, would dare find him in for any context. Below her, he takes slender, dainty hands into his own for a caress. “But you gotta understand this wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. I’ve been thinking of this for a very long time.” He raises her palms, lips pressing against brown knuckles. “I expected a nice dinner.” An ordinary dinner, she means.  “Why are you above this?” She gives no reply, but her stare does not wander or weaken. “I wanted you to have the sort of engagement story that – that you could tell our youngest granddaughter when she’s in need of advice.” Delores finds herself shaking her head in disbelief. But contempt is not in this gesture, his silly nature has charm. “I want you to be my wife. I want you to be Delores Lombardi…” she can hear him utter this among other sweet little declarations. “I’m not above any of this.” Delores finally speaks, “I love you.” A pause, “I want to marry you.” “Then why did you hesitate?” “Because.” Because she thought of change. But now, here in the privacy of her home she is thinking of their wedding, where Italian men and their wives sit. Associates of Salvatore, not her own. She wonders what could that publicity mean, even in a small circle? “I’m scared.” “Of what, Dolly?” He’s looking up, “I know you’re not scared of me. We’re basically married right now. I moved you here. We had Belle. The neighbors know us. But when I look at your pretty hands, I don’t see a ring. And that throws me off.” She watches as he pulls into his pocket: performing an action all too familiar. And before her is the silver band that he slides on her digit himself. Delores finds her breath hitch; her whimper is odd, bursting from her mouth without control. A lover of romance, many of the books she read would conclude with a proposal. But she never imagined what a proposal would be like for her in reality. She refused to lay in bed beside Sal at night, thinking, obsessing when he would show her a ring. Perhaps she did believe herself to be above it – if not excluded from such a gesture. Those she desired in her youth, she never spent time with. She was far too quiet for a bad boy’s taste.  Years would pass, and Delores felt her likely spouse would be far older than her. Age would have him understand her, and her own history with elders would cause her to understand him. And though they would be wed, Delores knew it would in ways – be a marriage based upon circumstance and benefits. Again she feels butterflies, looking down to the man knelt before her. A mere three years older, handsome, he makes her scoff, he makes her roll her eyes. He talks too much and yet, she loves him more than she has loved anyone. And the circumstances of this love terrify her. Still, it’s tears of glee, not sorrow, that slide down her cheeks. “Look at you.” He’s teasing, she feels embarrassed. “You’re beautiful.”  Delores can feel his hand gently stroking at her inner thigh, Salvatore has that access from this position. “Lean back.” She complies.

[withyouandthemoon]

This has been sitting in my head ever since 5x06 aired. I guess you can see it as my little piece of footnote to some of the lines (one in particular) from the Klaroline scenes in this episode. Set around TVD 4x17, after Caroline killed the 12 witches (and Klaus dug 12 graves for her like the dutiful suitor that he was). Titled Creep because I’m predictable like that.

Creep

The man I met back then terrified me. I was intrigued, but I never felt safe. Or relaxed. Or myself really. –Caroline Forbes, The Originals 5x06

The days had long since passed when Caroline Forbes was still a fussy, irritable, normal teenage girl who was not a fan of the woods. Or the dark.

To speak the truth she was never the out-door type of person. Sure, it was nice showing off her perfect body clad in a two-piece bathing suit by the falls, or flirting with some random boy around a bonfire, but other than that she’d much prefer her own room with her comfy bed and comfy clothes. Or the mall, really.

To her the woods was downright boring-it was all trees and dirt. And the woods after nightfall just spelled danger. She was the sheriff’s daughter-she may not listen to everything her mom said, but she knew better than to venture into the dark wilderness on her own.

Yet right now, trudging through the woods in the middle of the night, she couldn’t help but feel that things had irreversibly changed. A feeling with which she had gotten quite acquainted ever since she became a vampire.

This was not the first time she had experienced the pull of the dark.

She had thought that the saying about vampires being “creatures of the dark” was only metaphorical, that it had only been that way because not every vampire had a Bennett witch as a best friend to make them a daylight ring.

But every night as she lay in her bed, the darkness outside her window rattling her sills, calling to her like the Pied-Piper’s tune, drilling into her pores and rousing a cold, crawling desire under her skin, she knew the saying to be true. She knew that it was in her nature to go out there and prey on whoever fell victim to the dark.

Most nights she just downed her bed-time blood bag and willed herself to sleep.

Not tonight though.

She had felt restless all day. She’d pegged it as stress over the whole Silas situation and tried to take it easy by skipping school and going shopping instead, but an inexplicable thirst was clawing from inside of her to the point where her fangs almost came out when she was standing near the sales girl.

And things only went downhill when night fell. Her vampire senses seemed extra-sensitive tonight, burning Caroline’s nerve ends with each and every signal they latched onto. Caroline swore she could hear the rapid heartbeats of every damned bunny in a five-mile radius, thump-thump-thumping like a stampede.

And every thump was luring her out. The longer she stayed in, the longer the night dragged at her-for a moment Caroline almost felt actual pain on her skin, and she wondered if that was what the darkness actually wanted-to tear her apart with the ridiculous urges and feed on her dead blood.

However, as her feet led her steps and steps closer to a certain point on the map, it dawned on her that it wasn’t the darkness that was after her blood.

Her own guilt was more like it.

As if to torture herself she walked over in a trance, from the first grave to the last. One, two, three…she compulsively counted the marks of newly-dug-up soil in her heart, until she reached twelve. No tombstones, no names, no flowers. Just the smell of already-rotting bodies and death.

Twelve graves for twelve witches.

Caroline shuddered involuntarily like the first time she heard those cruel words. Cruel, because they were true. She did this-for a friend, for herself, or just a misstep in the heat of the moment-it was her that drove the knife deep into the witch’s heart. The feeling of the blade cutting through flesh was still vibrating in her palm.

For reasons she couldn’t explain Caroline knelt before the twelfth grave and grabbed a handful of earth. She squeezed it hard until it seeped through her fingers like blood, a freezing sense of power whirling in her head.

“I’ve heard that revisiting their crime scenes was a typical behavior of perpetrators.” A voice behind her startled her out of the limbo. She could recognize that voice anywhere, especially when it had been replaying in her mind for a whole day.

“What are you doing here?” Caroline jumped up from her spot and turned around to glare at him.

Klaus smirked, “not reminiscing my most recent kill, apparently.”

Caroline sucked in a breath. She knew he was being purposefully harsh because he was still mad at her, but he had no right. “Only because there were too many you’ve lost track.”

“Well maybe I should gather them in one place to be massacred then.” He quirked an eyebrow, “sounds familiar?”

“Yes.” Caroline bit out, “because you already did that. With your hybrids.”

Klaus winced for a split second as if he’d been stabbed, flames flickering hot in his eyes like they always did before his attack. Caroline took an inconspicuous step back and bit down on her lips hard, bracing for the strike, which to her surprise never came.

Instead the smirk was plastered back on his face, “don’t be like that, love. We had a spat,” the corners of his lips turned a degree higher, “I’m over it already.”

Caroline eyed him suspiciously, her tone still cold, “repeating your own words doesn’t make them any more true.”

Klaus huffed, “something you should take into your own consideration.”

“What does that mean?” The shrill in her voice wasn’t supposed to be there but Caroline couldn’t help it. The answer was playing on mute in her mind like a horror movie and Klaus had to be the one to voice it out loud.

“Let me freshen up your memory, sweetheart.” Slowly and menacingly he paced towards her like a predator, his eyes fixing her to the spot, “less than twenty-four hours ago, less than two minutes’ run from here, you said, and I quote, ‘there is no allure to darkness’. And now…” he opened his arms wide, “here you are. Alone in the darkness, accompanied by the darkest of them all.”

Caroline’s hands balled into fists at her sides, but her voice was low and small, “I didn’t ask for your company.”

Klaus’ jaw clenched, his eyes roaming over her face as if trying to figure out the weakest spot to tear into. With one final step he closed the remaining distance between them and reached a hand into his jacket while the other grabbed her wrist. Caroline flinched at the touch, his fingers searing against her ice-cold skin, but his hold was surprisingly gentle as he pried her fingers open and wiped away the dirt with the handkerchief that he magically procured.

“What are you doing here, Caroline?” He eyed her from under his lashes, his tone turned almost soothing.

So soothing that Caroline was seconds from relaxing into his touch and pouring her right-now-too-fragile-to-her-liking heart out.

In a swift move she snatched the handkerchief from him and finished wiping her hand roughly, “none of your business.”

“It is if your actions play a part in my plans of defeating Silas.” Klaus furrowed his eyebrows, annoyed, “which you’ve already sabotaged by recklessly helping him complete the expression triangle.”

Caroline threw the handkerchief on the ground, her own tempers flaring, “you know, this wouldn’t even have happened if you didn’t just stand there like a statue!”

“What did you expect me to do?” Klaus shouted back at her, “kill the witches for you?”

Caroline snapped her mouth shut before the word “yes” rolled out of her lips, which were trembling from the cutting realization. The unvoiced truth was now burning at her throat, bringing unbidden tears to her widened eyes.

Apparently her face had said it all, as Klaus’ eyes turned cold, his lips curling into the shape of a sharp sickle, “I see.” His velvety voice somehow propelled her backwards and Klaus was quick to follow, each step and each syllable more intimidating than the last, “so it’s fine as long as your dainty little hands and your precious conscience stay clean?”

“No…” Caroline choked out but he didn’t seem to have heard her.

“After all I’m all rotten black, and what’s one more drop of poisonous blood to a sea of darkness, am I right, sweet Caroline?”

She was transfixed by his raging stormy eyes, unable to utter a word until the back of her knees hit something hard and solid. She numbly registered that it must be the big rock she sat on when Klaus was digging the graves for the witches.

The witches that she murdered.

“No! No, it’s not fine!” Her sudden outburst surprised Klaus into silence, but she was too far gone to notice, assaulted by the myriads of emotions erupting out of her, the sheer force sending her catapulting into a moment of chaos, “it’s not fine, if it’s me, or you, or anyone else! It’s bad and I hate it!”

She was hyperventilating by this point, her chest aching from tears, but not one drop leaked out. She felt like her whole heart was soaking in the salty water and she felt so, so thirsty. From the distance the heartbeats of some poor creature in the woods were still haunting her, thump-thump-thumping and it took all her strength to push the vicious craving out of her, its invisible little claws scratching the inside of her veins, leaving her hurting all over.

Feeling completely drained, she sat back onto the rock when she realized that Klaus had been quiet all this time. She looked up to find him studying her with an unreadable expression-it always irked her not knowing what all his weird, complicated, I-know-something-that-you-don’t looks meant, but this time she didn’t even have enough energy to care.

“Three massacres,” she threw him a wry smile, “crazy Professor Shane, you, me. I excuse none of us. So congratulations, I’m officially as bad as you.”

“I doubt you could share my ranking on the supernatural evilness leader board, love.” Klaus backed away a few steps to lean against the closest tree, arms crossed over his chest.

Caroline snorted, “I guess not. Or I wouldn’t be here, up in the middle of the night, visiting the graves of my victims.”

“So you think it was the guilt that drew you here?”

“Wasn’t it? I’ve been unable to concentrate all day, I couldn’t sleep, the memory of…of killing those witches kept popping into my mind. It’s clearly eating at me.” She shrugged a little helplessly, “that’s what you get for committing homicide.”

The smirk on his face grew wider, “we vampires have a complicated relationship with our preys, love.”

“What are you getting at?” Her stomach churned at the glint in his eyes and she quickly snapped at him.

“Well I’m just saying, that we aren’t in it just for the food. We also enjoy the kill.” He slowly licked his lips and Caroline’s eyes followed the trace of his tongue, the rich raspberry color discern-able even in the dark, “it’s thrilling, having the power to take someone’s life. To rouse fear and despair, smell it ripen in the air, and be the one to end it, whenever and however you want.”

The last few words were so soft and silky Caroline could feel them clinging to his tongue, their shape warping and molding as he liked until they finally reached her hearing and it was almost like his tongue was on her ears, making her shiver with want.

Klaus chuckled, and the sound seemed to be resonating in her own rib cage, “consciously or not, we all have our own ways to memorize it. Like a token of sorts.”

Caroline inhaled sharply, her voice but a whisper, “I’m not creepy like you.”

“It’s quite common actually.” Klaus raised his eyebrows tauntingly, “I’ll have you know that our dearest Stefan kept every single name of his victims on the wall of his apartment in the 20s.”

“Yeah, when he was with you!” Caroline jumped up, inexplicable frustration once again flooding her.

And Klaus had the audacity to smirk in her face, “I guess I just have a knack for making people embrace their nature.”

“It’s not nature.” Caroline glared at him, “it’s sick.”

The smirk finally disappeared from his lips as Klaus pinned her down with his intense eyes, irises glowing from suppressed anger, but hidden deeper was a trace of something akin to sadness, which Caroline disregarded as soon as detecting, “is that really how you see yourself, Caroline?”

To her credit Caroline managed to keep her accusing eyes on him, her lips locked into a thin line, her face perfectly stoic to mask the panic wrecking her inside.

He always did this. Dropping some preposterous nerdy questions to throw her off, to make her doubt herself and everything she’d ever believed in, to plant unrealistic ideas in her head that weren’t there all her life.

If she wanted to die.

If she missed being human.

…how she saw herself as a monster.

And as always, he had no right to stir up her already self-struggling mind.

“You know what? I don’t need you to psycho-analyze me and don’t you dare pull that ‘I’m gonna teach you to be a better vampire’ crap on me.” She marched over and pointed a finger to his chest, “pick someone else to be your pet project of My Fair Baby-Vamp!”

“Well, my fair Caroline,” Klaus smiled devilishly around the slowly-uttered words, his eyes growing a shade darker as he pushed her pointy finger down with one hand and took a firm hold of her waist with the other, “now I’m tempted.”

Before Caroline could protest they were flashing away to a clearing not far from there, and Klaus had a scruffy-looking young man pinned to obviously his own car when Caroline was still registering their surroundings.

“Pleasure meeting you, mister.” He was standing upright and relaxed, even bowing a little, and the civilized tableau would have convinced anyone if not for his right hand gripping hard on the man’s neck and the strangled screams that were squeezing through his crushed throat, “it would be nice if you stayed quiet for now.”

All voices were instantly gone from the young man as if someone had hit pause on him, an eerie silence falling on the clearing like the moonlight that was absent that night.

“What are you doing?” Caroline rushed over but was interrupted by Klaus shushing her.

“Listen.” He whispered by her ear, his breath tickling the skin along the side of her neck.

Caroline briefly wondered if she was compelled like the poor dude pinned to his car, because her own hyper-active senses followed his instructions immediately. There it was, in the drowning silence, that particular noise that had bothered her, disquieted her, called to her all through the night.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Her sense of smell caught up even before her brain does, as her fangs painfully but eagerly broke out of her aching gums for a sweet taste of the warm liquid pumping through those veins that were just within her touch and she felt her face change. Caroline snapped her eyes shut and took long, deep breaths, trying to control herself like she’d done thousands of times.

Willing the hunger away was like hanging onto a cliff with the tips of her fingers. It was unacceptable to let go, but also impossible to pull herself fully up. The only way was to hang in there as long as she could, with every set of muscle and every shred of will power.

It was the single most brutal ordeal she’d ever had to endure-even worse than torture, because she had to deal with it every second of every freaking day.

Well, some times worse than others.

When she finally opened her eyes Klaus’ smirking face was inches from hers, a sadistic gleam to his eyes, “you see, sweetheart, every time you let the beast out of the cage, it becomes harder to shut it back in.”

Caroline felt cold all over, her breaths ragged and raw through her closing throat, “what do you mean?”

But she already knew what he meant, like she always did. She just didn’t know if it would be less disturbing to hear it from him, or herself.

Clearly tonight Klaus was in no mood to indulge her. With his eyes steadily trained on hers he reached a hand out and tore the young man’s chest right open, the blood splattering over the three of them as the man’s face contorted into a grotesque picture of extreme pain without sound, his legs giving out from the unbearable agony while Klaus held him up with his other hand still gripping his neck.

The smell of fresh blood permeated the air, but all Caroline could focus on was the sound of a beating human heart, doubled in volume, drumming in her blood-hazed head.

“You heard that all along, didn’t you?” Klaus licked the drops of blood which landed on the corner of his mouth, his own fangs baring, “deny it all you want, love, but you got wired from yesterday’s killing. You were drawn here not by guilt, but desire.”

No longer able to push back her fangs, Caroline hissed at him through the sharpness in her mouth, not caring if she cut herself along the way, the anger the only thing that was keeping her increasing urges at bay, “why didn’t you tell me in the first place? Why didn’t you-”

“What?” Klaus barked a laugh, “whisk you away? Save you from the beast inside you? Or should I say, the beast that you are?” He lifted a finger and stroked lightly under her eyes, grinning with fake-innocence, “now why would I do that, Caroline?”

Caroline batted his hand away fiercely, “get away from me!”

“Contrary to what you might believe, love, I’m not here to teach you, or save you, or corrupt you even. You need none of those.” Klaus stuck his chin out defiantly, and even in her unbridled anger and bloodlust Caroline was still momentarily distracted by his delicious jaw line, “you already are a true vampire. You are just fighting it. But guess what? That fight is a part of vampirism. Always has been.”

Caroline opened her mouth ready to protest, but couldn’t find the words. Her mind was turned upside down by his last words, and more importantly the accompanying look in his eyes of long suffering and ancient grief. A million questions crammed into her head like a whirlwind, spinning and hollering nonstop.

Had he fought against it? Was he still…fighting?

Sensing her confusion, Klaus on the other hand feigned surprise, “you think it’s pitch black in the darkness? Oh, sweetheart,” he shook his head and chuckled, the sound chilling Caroline to the bones, and for the first time ever she felt young and naïve in his presence, something that bothered her more than she would ever admit, “but don’t you see? It’s also the flickers of light struggling to resist,” he looked down at the young man whose eyes were already dimming from the blood loss, and carelessly sliced the side of his throat open with a lengthened fingernail, “and how they are suffocated to naught.”

The sight of the thin stream of blood trickling down from the wound played in slow motion in her vampire eyes and the temptation was overwhelming. Everything was red, everything smelled like blood and her eardrums hurt from the excessive heartbeats. “You are doing all this…just to prove a point?”

Klaus didn’t answer her question. His eyes were back on her, mesmerized and awed, the way they were when he showed her his precious art collection, the way they were whenever he was alone with her, when the rare silence took over their constant bickering and acting, “your face is beautiful like this, Caroline.” His voice was low and thick, dark and soft, like the night itself, “the veins…ebbing and flowing, like tides.”

She found herself inching forward, towards his voice or the man’s blood, she wasn’t sure. In the blink of an eye her hands were on the man’s shoulders holding him down, her lips mere breaths from the wound on his neck and she could already taste the stench of iron on her tongue. She could feel Klaus hovering over her at the side, his fingers threading through her hair, reminding her of the night that she fed from him.

The memory only fueled her thirst further.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Her breaths were coming out in tiny gasps as she held on to the last of her strength to restrain the bloodlust, “why me?”

Klaus lowered his head till his lips were mere inches from hers, the yellow light in his eyes burning her cheek, “so you’d rather I do this to someone else?”

Would she? Would she wish the amount of fear and struggle on another? Would she rather he took his intense eyes and gentle hands and hot breaths all away, to anyone but herself?

Caroline could no longer think straight. She couldn’t even tell which was closer-his perfect lips, or the beating pulse right in front of her.

Eventually her most primal instinct won over and her lips were on the open gash, warmed by the fresh running blood, every cell waking up from the satiating sensation. As she closed her eyes and let her fangs descend, she heard Klaus whispering in her ear, “you like it, don’t you?”

As if stricken by lightning she jerked back with a start, her whole body trembling from the backlash of the bloodlust being so drastically reined in. She glanced at Klaus, who had a half-smile on his blood-smeared face. The beast was still roaring inside her, clawing and scratching without care, and Caroline’s voice was weak but final, “doesn’t mean I have to act on it.”

With that she flashed away as fast as her tired legs could carry her. In her wake she could vaguely hear the sound of Klaus tearing into the man’s flesh and feel his eyes burning into her back all through her retreat, but she failed to see that his lips landed on the exact spot that hers had grazed seconds ago.

Maybe she’d never know.

[mvsicbookfrxndom]

OKAY, LISTEN UP, EVERYONE, 'CAUSE I HAVE THE BEST MOTHERFLIPPING STORY EVER TO TELL YOU!!!

Here's a mental image to paint in your mind:

A socially impaired, lonely teenage girl is hiding in the bedroom she shares with her younger sister from her parents, reading fanfiction on a device she isn't supposed to be using because she's a rule-breaking savage. It's spring break, which should be really fun and awesome, but it isn't because her home life isn't really all that great. Which is why she's hiding in the bedroom she shares with her younger sister from her parents.

She isn't just reading any old fanfiction, either. She's reading Monsieur George deValier's Hetalia: Axis Powers fanfics. They transport her to a world of ubiquitously inclusive homonormativity and give her hope that true love always wins in the end, because its love. No matter what gender anyone happens to love.

Her parents would pass out if they knew what kind of scandalous stories her eyes gobble up while they converse suspiciously about whether or not their rogue daughter is slitting her wrists upstairs.

Which she isn't. She's doing something almost more painful - imagining what it would be like to come out of the closet. To openly admit to the whole world that she isn't monosexual - in fact, she's the furthest thing from it. To have more accepting parents, to have more accepting people around her in general. To not be judged, to be safe in her home instead of being cast out, abandoned. To find her one true love and be devoted forever, whatever gender they might identify as, because that couldn't matter less to her.

George deValier's works have brought to her life a new dimension she never imagined she'd discover. She wishes she could meet him - who knows if he's even a man at all? - and hug him. Tell him he's changed her life forever. Thank him for existing. If only anyone knew who he was so this could happen.

TL;DR: I love George deValier more than my own family.

There's my "setting the scene" portion of this post. Now here comes the crazy story portion!

So I'm reading Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart, the first deValier work my eyes have ever had the blessing of experiencing, and there are no words - in any of the multiple languages I am fluent in - for how much it's affected me (not even French, the most romantic language on earth).

I've probably read half of the works on fanfiction.net and AO3 combined, but nothing has come even close to this. At all. The writing is sublime, the plots intricate beyond belief, and the character development positively shocking in its detail. The dedication and talent spent on this is almost scary to think about, not to mention the research that must have taken years to complete, so the stories could be as historically accurate as humanly possible. What's the point in writing fanfiction if this is what you're up against? I'm close to giving up one of my favorite things to do in the whole world because of how shook I am, but if this is how I go down, I'll be going down happy.

Though I've been reading for hours, I've only reached chapter 5, since my eyes have been taking their time to lasciviously devour every letter and fully grasp the meaning of each delicious sentence before allowing further conquest. However, I am no less enamored by the magnificent, captivating story than when I just started it at what seems like a lifetime ago.

As I near the end of ch.5, I almost screech out loud when I read the conversation between Feli and Ludwig about the latter's fighter aircraft Greta. About a quarter of the reason why is because Ludwig just confessed that there is no special girl of his, and my angsty soul is ripping me apart because I need one of them to confess their love for the other RIGHT NOW OR ELSE I'LL DIE.

The rest of the reason is because of who appeared in my mind when I read this scene. The worst person on the planet to think about when you're reading a homoerotic fanfiction is your female ELA teacher, but that's what happened, but not for the reasons you're undoubtedly assuming.

You see, my ELA teacher's name is Mrs. Schmit.

I lose my utter shit. I'm going insane, absolutely bonkers, over the fact that my freakin' ELA teacher's name is in this book, discounting the extra T. Of all the places to find her name, of all the things to remind me of her...

So I come up with the most bloody brilliant idea in the history of the world. I screenshot this section of the book, taking way longer than needed so I can be positive there's no evidence of two men lying next to each other in a field of flowers and tall grass having a "no homo, I'm just wondering, I'm not interested in you at all" chat about their lack of girlfriends to each other by making the font super big and swiping the page up so the dropdowns can conceal Feli's obviously masculine name. By the time I'm done working my magic, the conversation is cutesy and innocent, and, most importantly, there's no mention of anything scandalous. All that's left of the passage is the Greta Schmitt joke, which I consider adorable, clever, and laugh-out-loud funny. At the very least, it's mildly amusing.

Then I send her a picture attachment with the screenshot, along with this exact message, through my school email:

"Hi, Mrs. Schmit!

"I really hope you are having a fantastic spring break so far!

"I'm just sending you this email because I was reading a story and a little part of it brought you to mind immediately (for reasons that will become obvious if you look at the file I attached). This scene was also funny, so I thought it would be something interesting to send you. Maybe it will be a source of amusement for you during this leisurely time off from school.

"Have a great rest of your break, and see you on Monday!"

And then, of course, I sign off the email with my name.

The file I attach to the email is the original screenshot I took. The picture I've attached to this post is a screenshot of that screenshot as it appeared to my teacher. It's pretty meta and rad since I screenshot-ed the screenshot at the same time of the original screenshot one day later.

They're also the same except in the picture in this post, which is the latter picture, the portrait orientation lock is on and in the bottom left hand corner the previous page arrow isn't glowing. I feel the need to point these discrepancies out because they wreak havoc on my perfectionist OCD and if they are destroying you inside as well, I want you to know that I'm aware of these mistakes and I'm incredibly sorry.

On a lighter, less soul-crushing note, what about proposing a fun drinking game? Throw back some liquid every time the word "screenshot" appears in the paragraph before the one above. You'll be sloshed by the third sentence.

Oh yeah - and if you were wondering why my phone says 1:17 WD instead of AM or PM, that's because my device's preferred language is Oromoo. WD is ante meridiem - AM.

At first I hesitate to send the email immediately, because of the indecent time of day it is - i.e. not daytime at all - and the fear that I'll really piss off Mrs. Schmit by sending her a completely unnecessary email at 2 in the morning in a week when she shouldn't bother dealing with anything having to do with her students. It's break, after all.

And if there's one thing I don't want, it's Mrs. Schmit to be annoyed by me. Even though she's very intimidating and I can't help but be extremely scared of her, she's an absolutely fantastic teacher (though I don't think she'd believe me if I told her so) and I like her a lot as a person. Thus, I don't want her deductions on me to be negative, especially since I'm pretty sure she finds me very book smart with good grades, but flighty and scatterbrained (which I am, but not in a cool way). If this rather risky email backfires, it won't improve her opinion of me at all.

Another possibility also occurs to me - what if she finds out what kind of story the picture is from? Or the story itself? It wouldn't be hard at all; it would take me two milliseconds to locate that story. I could be in deep shit, but... In that moment, it doesn't matter to me. I'd probably laugh my ass off. She'd die of shock. It would be hilarious.

To be completely honest, I don't even enjoy the story more because of the gayness, or the lust, or the sex. Meaning, it seems more taboo that a presumably straight girl is reading a mildly erotic gay fanfiction as opposed to a straight one, presumably to get a sexual high from all the possibilities and fantasies manufactured by manipulated attraction, but for me that isn't it at all. The sex isn't even a bonus. I don't mind it, but it isn't the reason I love the story so much. If anyone saw me reading it, that's what they'd automatically think, but I'm not drawn to that. I'm asexual anyway, so I'm not even planning to ever have sex. It just doesn't have that allure or even stigma for me. An example: I occasionally watch porn, but it doesn't turn me on in the least, contrary to what one might assume. I just find it fascinating and laughable, not to mention disgusting and more proof of the downfall of humanity.

When I read books like George's, I adore them because of the writing prowess and talent. The plot twists. The characters. The worldbuilding. That's the shit I'm obsessed with. Not the literary porn in the least! Although it does provide amusement and intrigue.

I feel like I should just clear that up. I wish the story was more... ahem... appropriate, or my motivations for consuming it more ubiquitous, so I wouldn't have to worry about sending an appropriate snippet of it to my teacher, but it's George motherflippin' deValier, so nothing else needs to be said. It's perfect. (Just like you, dear beloved darling reading this!) No further explanation needed.

Also, I'm fairly certain her curiosity wouldn't be piqued enough to actually track the story from my email down, which is a comforting thought. Then again, every time I'm left alone with my thoughts, they conjure up an image of Mrs. Schmit sitting at a computer in a dark room, the artificial blue light illuminating her face as if she's some deep web underground black market Anonymous hacker, Googling the transcript of the fated snapshot, her green eyes widening as she begins reading.

I fucking hate my brain. It hates me too.

So before I can change my mind, I hit send and continue through the glorious Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart, a devilish, Alfred F. Jones-type smile spreading across my face. There's no going back now. It is done.

Exceeding my highest expectations regarding a response, I don't even need to wait a full 24 hours before my unread emails total increases by one.

To anyone who's gotten the far, it's been an unjustly long post in the making. The moment you've all been waiting for with an anticipation that rivals that of a beat drop in a particularly lit dubstep track. Don't get too excited, though, because I have this frustrating habit of letting people down and I have a feeling this is no exception. You know, since you're all the way down here, you deserve a treat. What'll it be? Tea and biscuits? Nachos? Poutine? It's up to you. Ask and you shalt receive. I am your humble servant, friends.

Here is her response to my groundbreaking, world-changing email:

"Hi __{my_name}__,

"Yes, that was cute and made me smile!!! I hope your Spring Break is going well.

"Thank you,

" "Messerschmitt" "

DID YOU SEE THAT, GUYS???

SHE PUT THREE EXCLAMATION POINTS AND SIGNED OFF AS "MESSERSCHMITT".

I HAVE WON LIFE! I'VE SUCCEEDED! I AM A CHAMPION!!!

Mon Dieu, she liked the deValier excerpt. She made a fucking reference to it. She's got to be my favorite teacher now.

Don't know how to end this, so I guess...

...y'all, we need to start an international manhunt for our Lord and Savior George deValier. If we find him I can do all the things I said I would. If I get cancer, that's what I'll ask Make-A-Wish.

HIS STORIES NEED TO BE MOVIES I SWEAR TO HIMA-PAPA OR ELSE...

ok I'm done now