#nothing like a near-death experience to force the confessions out of our boys

[kmorelikegay]

rice, tea and chopsticks

Written for Sarumi Fest, Day 5: Fight/Reconcile. (it’s still the 11th here so I don’t even feel bad this time)

This is a follow-up chapter to another fic I wrote, so you may want to read that first or this might not make a whole lot of sense (it’s not that long though!)

Also on AO3 (first chapter is here).

The first time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is to the sight of the Blue King standing over Saruhiko’s sleeping form, lightly touching the back of the hand Yata isn’t gripping. His eyes are closed, and he’s muttering something under his breath, and if Yata concentrates through bleary eyes and a sleep-addled mind he thinks he can see airy blue tendrils drifting into the space directly above where Munakata and his injured friend are touching.

 His immediate reaction is to yank the King’s hand away from Saruhiko and demand an explanation for why he’s touching his Saru, why he’s even here, but – then he really looks at their hands again, really looks at Munakata’s face, and he looks sad, emotional like Yata’s never seem him, and then he really looks at Saruhiko’s face, and even as he watches some of its pallor gives way to a healthier-looking flush, and even the most defensive part of Yata’s brain recognizes that Saruhiko’s King must be using some healing property of the blue aura on him. His body slowly loses its grip on its fight instinct as he recognizes this, and he relaxes, letting the tiredness take over again a little, and turns back to gaze at Saruhiko’s (handsome – has he always been so handsome?) – face.

 A few minutes later, Munakata finishes whatever he is doing, and Yata hears him shift, turns to watch him break out of the trancelike state he was in, watches as his eyes open and sees the worry and fear and relief fill them all at once before he realizes he is being watched. Yata doesn’t think he has ever been this close to the Blue King, and his first thought at he meets that piercing violet gaze is that he doesn’t know how Saruhiko and his coworkers manage it if they have to be the subject of this man’s calculating eyes all the time. But he is Saruhiko’s King, so Yata has some amount of respect for him despite himself, and he forces himself to hold eye contact as Munakata begins to speak.

 “He is recovering well,” he starts, removing his hand from Saruhiko’s as he speaks. “I have helped him where I can, but I believe I have done all I can do. I do not know if they have told you, but he should be able to be released within the week,” he continues, giving Yata a soft smile that Yata thinks should look out of place with his always-professional demeanor but somehow fits him, softens him, makes him look like a concerned parent or older sibling, and Yata relaxes even more; this man is definitely not a threat to Saruhiko, and Yata hadn’t realized how much he cared about his employee. Maybe – and Yata thinks this begrudgingly, but this time with sympathy and even with understanding – maybe this man really was meant to be Saruhiko’s King. Maybe this was always who he belonged with. Yata breaks eye contact at the thought, feeling a confusing mix of contentment for Saruhiko’s happiness, and even his defection from Homra, and of jealousy, for belonging somewhere that isn’t with Yata.

 Before Yata can wallow in his thoughts too much, the man catches him off guard again with an even wider disarming smile, adding, “I think he will be safest and happiest in your capable hands, Yata-kun,” as if he can read Yata’s mind. (Hell, maybe he can; Saruhiko did always say his ability to read people was disconcerting. Maybe he’d meant it literally.)

 Either way, though, Munakata lets his gaze drift from Yata to linger on Saruhiko again, and gives his hand one last gentle pat before turning and striding to the door. Yata notices, then, that he isn’t in his uniform, is wearing jeans and a casual collared jacket instead, and he looks so different and young like that that Yata almost laughs.

 As if the Blue King knew Yata was watching him leave, he turns around after he’s pushed open the door and is standing in the doorframe and says, “I believe you have an apartment nearby, Yata-kun?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “Perhaps Fushimi-kun would be best off there until he recovers completely.” He gives Yata a knowing smile before disappearing through the door, and Yata has a moment to think about his words and his smirk, after which he feels his face flush for reasons he cannot understand. In truth, he had been thinking the same thing; but something about how Munakata suggested it gave Yata the impression he knows something Yata doesn’t. It’s a little unsettling, but not unsettling enough to keep Yata awake when he is so tired from staying up to keep an eye on Saruhiko these past couple of days (has it really only been a couple of days?) and as soon as his head hits the pillow he’d snatched from the vacant second bed in Saruhiko’s room he is out like a light again.

 Even in sleep, his grip on Saruhiko’s hand never falters.

-

The second time Yata wakes up in the hospital room, it is because his hand is being squeezed quite roughly, and he lifts his head to find Saruhiko watching him.

 It is so good to see his eyes again. It had been so good just to see his chest moving up and down with his breath that Yata thought that would always be enough, just to have that evidence that he’s alive, but now, seeing his eyes again, Yata doesn’t know how he ever thought anything else would be enough.

 They are so blue, and Yata is so breathless with relief and something else that his first words to Saruhiko then aren’t anything normal at all. Instead, what comes out is, “Oh, good. I thought you were going to let your rice get cold again.”

 Saruhiko had still been staring at him, but at Yata’s words his brow furrows and he looks down at his lap, where indeed a plastic tray stretched across the bed presents to him a bowl of lukewarm rice accompanied by a cup of tea and a pair of chopsticks. While Saruhiko takes in the food, Yata takes the opportunity to study his profile – the line of his nose, the fall of his lashes against his upper cheekbone, the cascade of mussed and unwashed and beautiful hair over the far side of his face, the part of his lips as he breathes before turning back to Yata and saying, “Misaki.”

 Yata’s grip on his hand tightens even more, and he feels Saruhiko respond with a hard squeeze of his own, and then Yata can’t help it, he falls forward against Saruhiko’s chest and lets all of the emotion that fear and lethargy have kept at bay these past two days flow from his eyes onto Saruhiko’s hospital gown. Some distant part of his mind has the awareness to be surprised when Saruhiko doesn’t hesitate, just hugs Yata to him, tilts his head against the top of Yata’s, keeps squeezing Yata’s hand with a desperate grip. It’s as if he is just as afraid of Yata leaving again as Yata is, and that shouldn’t be possible, Saruhiko is the one who’s been asleep, Saruhiko is the one who almost died, but here he is, hugging Yata as if he could disappear at any moment.

 Yata doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but it feels so good to hold each other, even if they haven’t actually talked beyond sniffles and snotty tears and desperate whispers of each other’s names. Eventually he pulls back, wipes his nose on the sleeve of the arm that isn’t still held happily hostage in their mutual death grip, and looks at Saruhiko for real for the first time since he’s woken up.

 He looks pale and exhausted, but mostly he looks hopeful, and it takes Yata’s breath away. Hope looks good on him. Hope looks beautiful on him, and Yata has to ask, has to know, so he starts, “Saruhiko,” he says, “Saru, do you – do you remember what happened? Why you’re here?”

 Saruhiko regards him a moment longer before breaking their gaze and regarding the rice and tea and chopsticks and plastic tray instead. He squeezes Yata’s hand again, nods slowly, then looks away from Yata at the far wall, but not before Yata sees that he’s blushing, and it’s cute as hell but it won’t do, not since Yata knows it’s not out of embarrassment but out of fear, and he doesn’t want fear on Saruhiko’s face, wants to put the hope back on it (hope looks beautiful on him), so he says in a too-fast rush of breath, “I want it.”

 Saruhiko’s head whips back and his eyes start searching Yata’s face for any trace that Yata is joking, just messing with him, as if he would joke about something like this – and doesn’t Saruhiko know, anyway? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s heart pound, that he makes Yata feel smart and loved and needed? Doesn’t he know that he makes Yata’s life interesting, worth living – that even when they fought more than they talked, he was what made Yata get out of bed in the morning, made him look forward to the day? Doesn’t he know that for Yata, he has always, always been it?

 But he knows that Saruhiko doesn’t know, but Yata is still smiling because he will. He will. And as he leans in he sees Saruhiko’s eyes quickly cycle through the stages of acceptance – denial, confusion, anger, confusion again, and then, finally, understanding – and Saruhiko’s eyes that reflect his happiness and that flutter shut as Yata’s mouth closes in on his tell him the rest of what he needs to know.

 I want it, too.

[parkersbliss]

Stubborn | Minho

Pairing: Minho x Female Reader

Warnings: blood, near death, cursing??

WC; 2.5K

synopsis: yes, it does take a near death experience to finally admit your feelings

a/n: probably my last imagine before 2021 SO HAPPY NEW YEAR BYE 2020

Masterlist | Taglist | Prompt List

—

“I’m just saying,” Newt said, arms crossed. “It would save everyone a lot of pain and headaches if one of you just said it.”

“I’m not a liar,” You replied.

“You’re lying to yourself right now,” Newt smirked, watching as your gaze hardened and you smacked his arm.

Thomas jogs up to the two of you, taking one glance at Newt rubbing his arm and you pursing your lips and looking the other way.

“Newt’s right.”

You spin around, mouth open, “How did you?—”

Thomas shrugs, “Call it a third sense, but whatever he said about Minho, you should listen.”

You scoff at the two boys, thoughts running around in your head.

You were in love with your best friend, it was plain as day.

But saying that to his face? That was something that would never happen. Minho was your best friend, he was your other half and to tell him how you feel and ruin that… well that’s just selfish of you. He was also your running partner, you spent almost the entire day together and the last thing you need is for him to leave you alone in the maze after some stupid confession.

Point is, there was too much at stake. It was an unnecessary risk that you didn’t want to take.

“I bet she’s thinking about his muscles,” Thomas snickers, playfully nudging Newt’s shoulder.

Newt giggles, “When is she not? Who knows what goes on when they’re inside the maze.”

You roll your eyes, smacking both of them, “Both of you, slim it.”

“Can’t handle the truth, (Y/N)?” Thomas teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’ll make sure to leave you alone in the maze next time.”

Thomas’s eyes widen, “Okay, hey we were joking! Minho’s ugly anyway.”

“The hell?” Another voice breaks in. “I’m hotter than both of you combined.”

Heat flares in your cheeks as you glance at your running partners who stumbled onto your early morning conversation.

Newt pats Minho’s shoulder, offering him a reassuring smile, “yes, yes of course.”

Minho swats his hand away, glaring at him, “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say it like what?” Newt said innocently before disappearing to the gardens.

Thomas holds his hands up in defense, “All jokes,” he coughs, meeting your eyes. “I’ll uh, I’ll see you guys later.”

Thomas turns to leave but not before sending a wink your way. You glare at him, mouthing the words ‘slim it' while drawing a finger across your throat.

A small hand on your shoulder brings you out of your thoughts.

Minho looks at you with his brown eyes, and you’re not sure how to act.

You can’t process anything, and if he’s speaking to you, you don’t hear it. All you can focus on is him, and everything about him. He’s clouding your senses, making it hard to see but you don’t mind.

“Did you hear me?” Minho asked, now placing both hands on his hips.

You blink, nodding, “Yes, loud and clear.”

“Okay,” Minho drawls, “what did I say?”

Damn him, you think.

“Gally sucks toes?”

“Cute, but no, Although I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true,” Minho muses. “I said Fry is finishing up our lunches and then we’re good to go.”

You let out a loud sigh, “Do we have to?” You ask Minho, pouting.

He rolls his eyes, bopping your nose, “you signed up for this.”

“Yeah right,” you snort, “more like you forced me to be here.”

“Forced and extensively encouraged are two different things.”

You cross your arms and raised your eyebrows at the brown-eyed boy, “You know what, I’m pretty sure this is just an excuse to hang out with me.”

“Oh you wish, eight hours in the Maze with you and your whining is enough.”

“If I’m that annoying why not go with Thomas sometime?” You challenge.

Minho’s silent, “He's somehow worse than you.”

You pat Minho on the chest as you walk by to pick up your lunches, “Okay, lover boy.”

“It’s true!” He calls out after you, trying to defend himself.

Was he that obvious? He’s glad your back is turned to him and you can’t see how red his cheeks have gotten.

He shakes his head, breathing in deeply. This wasn’t part of the plan, not that he had a plan.

He planned to run until he found a way out of here, but even that plan didn’t work. At some point, he had given up. He had come to terms with the fact that there was no escape. He’s known that for years. It ate him from the inside out, knowing that everyone counted on him to find a way out and he already knew the answer.

But he couldn’t let the other Glader’s feel like he did, he couldn’t watch them lose hope. He’d spend every day running if it meant they didn’t end up like him, empty and cold.

But then you came along.

And when you arrived, Minho had something worth fighting for. A little blossom of hope in his heart that with you here, he had to find a way out.

And then you became a runner, and Minho took his chance.

He was amazed that you didn’t give up, even when he told you that he’d run the whole thing. You had this spark in your eye, you looked him in the eye and you told him,

“There’s always a way out, we’re just not looking in the right place or the right thing.”

Funny enough, you hadn’t made any progress since then.

Unless you count Minho catching feelings for you, but he wouldn’t consider that progress.

“Hey! Think fast,” You said, tossing Minho his sandwich.

Of course, Minho being in deep thought about you slows his actions and he barely catches his lunch, almost tripping in the process.

You’re stood across from him, smirk adorning your face, “Nice catch.”

“Thanks,” he said, “I’d like to see you do better.”

“I probably could,” You shrug.

Minho scoffs, mumbling something under his breath as you drag him toward the maze. Thomas waves from his spot, wiggling his eyebrows at you as you flip him off.

The door slowly opens and once there’s enough space, the two of you take off.

…

You and Minho were a bit more cautious now that Ben had been stung in broad daylight, it was something no one had ever seen in the Glade.

It never really crossed your mind that something like that could happen, but now that it did, everyone was a bit more on edge.

It was like you could sense the trouble looming over you, that the worse was yet to come, but no one said anything.

No one wanted to say anything.

You slow your pace, leaning against a wall to take a sip from your water. You make sure to not let Minho too far out of your sight, the last time it happened didn’t end very well.

You debate calling out to him, but you let him go, needing to save your breath. You don’t doubt he’ll notice soon enough. You close your eyes, resting for a bit… just a little while longer.

“(Y/N)!”

You sigh, pushing yourself off the wall as you jog to catch up with Minho.

“Present!” You announce, waving your hands.

He shakes his head, grabbing your hand, “you’re sticking with me.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” You wink, watching as Minho turns away from you, hiding his flushed face.

His hand fits in your like it’s meant to be, but you don’t believe in stuff like that.

You do, however, believe in how you don’t want to let it go. It made you feel safer, it’s a stupid thought but it does.

You trust that when you’re holding onto him, nothing bad will happen, and if it did, he’s there.

Your run is slowed to more of a walk as the sun reaches high noon, beating down on both of you, sweating accumulating on your neck.

You can feel the strain of your run pulling on your muscles, but you’d grown accustomed to the feeling.

Minho turns back to look at you, he’s about to open his mouth but he’s quick to snap it shut.

“Did you hear that?" He asks.

“Hear wh-”

You fall silent when you hear the sounds of clanking followed by low growls.

Minho’s eyes widen as he looks at you, and you look back at him mirroring the same expression.

“We need to get back to the Glade,” Minho said slowly. His eyebrows are furrowed as he listens for the Griever in order to choose the best path of escape. Your instincts tell you the best plan of escape is the east door, but then the maze falls silent.

The quiet is somehow deafening, save for your heart pounding madly in your chest. At any moment, it could strike, it could walk around any corner and kill you both.

You’d never know until it was too late.

Minho squeezes your hand tightly, his back towards your own as you watch all the possible places the griever could come from.

And the lucky winner was where you happened to be looking. The griever comes racing around the corner, it’s screeching filling the air mixing with your own.

“Holy shit!” You scream, feeling Minho tug on your hand and pull you to what was hopefully an exit.

You push yourself to go faster, the last thing you wanted was to be eaten by a griever of all things. You try not to think about how it’s closing in on you, or how you might die here. Instead, you try and focus on your breathing and the way Minho is gripping on tightly to your hand. You will yourself to try and think of anything else but the creature chasing you. This is what you were training for, running.

Running even when you feel out of breath, running even when your legs are begging you to stop, running because it’s the only thing that’ll save you.

It never ends, and it never stops.

Minho takes a sharp left and you follow, looking behind you for the briefest second only to see the griever reaching out for you.

It happens in a flash, you can feel it’s claw pierce your skin, tearing at it as you run. You grit your teeth, seething in pain as you collapse.

Minho turns around to find you, eyes widening as he sees the griever looming above you.

“Go!” You shout, propping yourself against a wall.

Minho shakes his head, standing his ground as he looks from the griever to you.

“Trust me, Minho! Go!”

Minho’s hesitant, he couldn’t leave you, what if you bled out and died on him? What kind of person would he be then? What would he do when he loses the one thing he has left to fight for?

“Please,” You beg, eyes teary.

Minho feels his heart shatter in his chest as he realizes you’re right, he should go.

But not without taking the griever with him.

Minho finds a stray rock on the ground, feeling it in his hand before he chucks it at the creature.

It makes a sound, one then he could never forget as it turns away from you and lunges for him.

Minho looks to you, giving you a curt nod before making a run for it, the griever following him.

You lean your head back against the wall, ignoring the pain in your leg as you let the tears silently flow down your face as you watch him disappear.

Of course, he had to play the hero. You should be grateful, really, but you can’t. How can you be grateful when he was risking his life for one that was already gone?

You’d accepted your fate, you knew you were going to die here and you could face that.

But Minho had to screw it all up and risk himself too, it wasn’t fair. You didn’t know if he would come back to you, or if he did, If you’d still be alive.

Would one of you die before you get to say the words you’ve so desperately wanted to? Was the world this cruel?

Did it take one of you dying for you to finally accept what you already knew? You couldn’t imagine dying before you tell him, but leaving him with that… was that not crueler than any fate he could succumb to?

You use your hand that’s not grabbing your bleeding leg to wipe away your tears. If Minho didn’t come back, if someone didn’t come back, you’d sure be griever food.

Maybe you’d die before having to be ripped apart limb by limb.

The pain in your leg because nothing more than a dull ache as you breathe out slowly. You let your eyes fall shut, hoping to catch up on some much-needed rest while you pray Minho’s returns.

But when he does, it’s a sight he knows he’ll never forget.

His heart sinks in his chest when he sees you, laying in a pool of blood, chest barely rising and falling.

He kneels before you, brushing a few strands of hair out of your face and hold back his sobs.

“(Y/N)? Can you hear me?”

When there’s no reply he begins panicking, tying to (as gently as possible) coax you awake. He grabs your shoulders, shaking you as he begs you to wake up.

Eventually, your eyes flutter open and Minho feels like he can breathe again as he rests his head on your shoulder.

“Oh thank god.”

“You came back?” You ask softly.

He nods, pulling back you, “I’ll always come back.”

You reach out for his hands, which he gives you, squeezing them tightly.

“I love you,” You said, eyes fluttering shut again as you’re stuck with a wave of pain.

“Lying doesn’t suit you, babe,” Minho replies easily, dismissing your three words. This wasn’t the time to think about it, right now, he needed to get you back. “You’re a bit out of it from the amount of blood you lost, can you walk?” He asked, standing up.

You pull him back down, “Minho, I love you.”

He shakes his head, “we need to get you back to the medhut.”

“Minho,” You plead, you couldn’t die without him knowing.

He ignores you and instead, helps you to your feet leaning you against him and slowly being the journey back to the Glade.

You never asked what happened to the griever.

…

You groan, rolling onto your side as you wipe the sleep from your eyes. You blink when you realize that you were in a wooden hut that was most certainly not the maze, and then you look down at the hand interlocked with yours.

A hand that belonged to none other than your running partner.

When you meet his eyes, he’s already staring at you.

“Hi,” You said.

“Hey,” he breathes out, still taking in two much better you look. He’s still trying to delete the image of you in the maze out of his mind, but it might be something he was to live with.

“how do you feel?”

“Like shit,” you answer, “But it’s okay.”

“How are you?”

“Better.”

A silence hangs in the room, it’s heavy and you know what has to be said to clear it.

“I meant what I said.”

“What?”

You roll your eyes, tugging his hand with yours to your chest. “What I said in the maze, I meant it.”

“You said a lot of things in the maze.”

You stare up at the medhut ceiling, breathing out deeply. “I love you, Minho.”

There’s silence, and then, “Look me in the eye and say it.”

You turn to look at him, meeting his eyes with great ease and seeing the tears pool behind him.

“I love you, Minho. I always have.”

He diverts his gaze away from you, eyes falling to the floor before finally meeting yours again, a smile adorning his face.

“I love you too.”

— END —

🏷 Minho Taglist: @emeliii1 @bwndito @remusflirts

[dinner-djarin]

Until the Sun Rises

Part 1: Chosen or not

Anakin Skywalker x Jedi!reader

Notes: As much as I love Star Wars, I am not completely versed in how the Force works, so I may or may not have made some stuff up. Honestly I'm not really sure, but I tried not to make it too drastic. Also I made up a name for the readers Master (Master Setne). I hope it doesn't take anyone out of the fic. Also this fic is dedicated to @hellotherebonky. Happy Birthday! I hope you enjoy ;)

Word count: 2.9k

Rating: T

Summary: Growing up as a Jedi isn't all you wished it could be. You wonder if this path is the right one for you, that is until you meet a young Anakin Skywalker.

Warnings: Nothing I can think of immediately. There might be light swearing somewhere, but honestly it's pretty PG, being about the Jedi and all. Very Angsty. It's kinda self doubty and there's some negative thoughts about the readers own abilities and stuff (pls be kind to yourself)

The Jedi life is all you’ve ever known. But if you’re being honest with yourself, you aren’t quite convinced you’re cut out for it.

Sure, you want the galaxy to be safe and at peace. Sure, you understand that you have been blessed by the Maker; given the ability to use and understand The Force in a more intimate way than most. But every day that passes in the temple makes you wonder whether this life is the one you would choose for yourself, or if it just so happens to be the life you’ve ended up with.

Being a Padawan is no easy feat. You study day in and day out. You practice and you meditate, and you learn as much as you can, as fast as you can. Your Master has been a guiding lighting through your training, taming your desires and chaotic nature. But as much as you appreciate all they have done for you; they aren't the reason you stay.

There’s only one person who keeps you trapped in the life you wish you could leave. He’s the only true friend and family you feel like you’ve ever known. Even though Master Setne has been there for you through all your highs and lows, only Anakin Skywalker feels like home.

Your first few years at the temple felt so dark and clouded, but the day you met the young boy changed everything. His aura was warm and inviting, and it blended so beautifully with yours - his light blue the perfect complement to your vibrant orange.

You were acquainted quickly, and inseparable from that moment on. Your training was slightly slower than his, but still you made the point to work hard and stay close to him. Even as younglings, any time you could be together, you were. Later in life, Anakin would taunt you for this, saying you were always chasing after him, following him like a lost Loth-cat. But you knew in your heart that he never wanted to be without you. He felt protective over you. He liked knowing you were with him should anything go wrong, as if the boy could do anything to stop impending threats. It brought him joy and comfort to see your smile as you chased him down every hall of the temple.

Later on, however, your training would take you down slightly separate roads. Obi-wan insisted that Anakin’s training be practical and hands-on, something you wished desperately for. However, you were stuck at the temple, learning theory and force abilities, glued to holo-screens full of ancient texts, your brain overwhelmed and understimulated. You longed for the day you got to experience a fight; you craved danger and secretly wished for an outrageous calamity on a far-off planet where you could sweep in and save the day.

However, the days where Anakin joined your studies kept you hopeful. The stolen glances behind monitors and quiet laughter that arose from your persistent silly faces kept a smile plastered on your face for weeks. Any moment shared with Anakin filled your days and nights with a longing bliss; a dream of what life could be like when it was just the two of you, the rest of the world falling away. Every responsibility or dread of impending doom faded to a place you could not reach and did not care to look. Only he mattered. And you hoped - dreamed - that he felt the same for you.

You wondered if maybe when he was on assignment off world, facing unknown dangers and near-death experiences, if you were on his mind. If when he came back bloodied and bruised, he wished for you to greet him first, for you to comfort him at his side in the infirmary. Obviously, you were important to him, being one of the only other people willing to put up with his boyish arrogance, but still you feared you may not have brought him the same comfort that he did for you.

As you grew older, you were lucky to find your bedchambers right next door to those of Anakin’s, and even more lucky to know that your headboards fell against the same adjacent wall. The two of you spent countless nights reaching out through the force to feel each other's presence. A tease for what you could have, had your barrier disappear. As you tuned your skills, you were able to do more than feel each other's auras. Eventually, you lay awake night after night speaking to each other in a way most could never understand. It was more than words shared amongst friends. It was a swirling mix of emotions and images and fears and dreams, blended together intimately between the wall which kept your physical forms separate.

When you were teens - almost adults - you found ways to become more reckless. Sneaking out to roam the temple halls and explore to places previously forbidden. Finding your way to rooftop balconies of your own making and watching the stars of Coruscant’s sky. Anakin would list off the plethora of different systems he had been to, whereas you were only able to name a handful that you’d visited yourself. You followed his lead, as he yearned to push every boundary in his way. He had never been one to follow commands blindly, and it leaked into the life he shared with you. Your stolen moments were often a direct product of Anakin’s juvenile disregard for the Order’s attempt to control him.

One night, you were readying yourself for sleep when you heard your door quickly slide open and shut before you could even turn to observe it.

“What the-” you start to question as you turn to face the intruder.

“Your senses must be dulling, young Padawan” he starts with a whisper. “If you cannot sense my presence after so many years together.”

“First of all, Anakin, you’re a Padawan as well, so don’t even start that. And second, as much as I wish I could ignore your cocky presence in the Force, I tend not to expect anyone's presence when I’m about to go to sleep for the night.”

“Well, if you can only feel my presence when you are expecting it, you won't be a very efficient Knight, will you, little one?”

“Anakin, I swear. I’m only a year younger than you, please stop calling me that!” Every time he talks about how young you are, your heart splinters just a little. Every day you wished he saw you in a better light, saw you for the woman you almost were, instead of the child he first met. “And I would be a better Jedi if Master Setne actually believed in me. But no. I’m stuck here while you get to go wave your saber around every star system in the galaxy. I mean come on it’s not like you're so special. Hmm Mister ‘Chosen One’”

“Erg, I wish you’d stop that.” He grunted quietly.

“What? I mean Obi-wan believes it. His master believed it too. It’s not so crazy-”

“No. I wished you’d stop. Stop thinking of me like that.” His words pierce you like ice, a harsh grip at your throat. Stop thinking of me like that. His words brought an irrational wave of confusion to your thoughts. Every fear you’d known came bubbling to the surface in a moment, fearing he knew of your affection… and subsequently didn’t return it. “And I wish you didn’t think of yourself like that. You are talented, little one. You're brilliant and cunning. I’ve sparred with you enough to know that you would be able to hold your own out there.”

He moves to sit on your bed, although you remain frozen on the spot. Anakin gazes out of your floor-to-ceiling window, “I’m not better than you. I’m not who they want me to be. I’m not Chosen.” He whispers quietly, almost low enough that you wonder if he even intended for you to hear.

Slowly, your heartbeat evens out and you think you begin to breathe again. It's not your feelings of love that he despised, but your eagerness to view him as superior to you. The feeling in your fingertips and toes returns and it is enough to get you to move towards the window as well.

You move carefully to sit cross-legged beside him, and you join him in watching the bustle of Coruscant in silence. After several minutes of gazing at speeders pass by and store signs blink repeatedly you place your hand on his thigh and gently tilt your head to rest on his shoulder.

“I know you Anakin, arguably better than most, and you are talented. You’re amazing. There’s a reason you're out there keeping peace, while the rest of us barely get to leave the temple. You may just be the best Jedi of our age one day. Chosen or not.”

“I doubt that very much.” He spoke plainly, almost compulsory. Like he knew your words were true, but he had to deny them anyway. Anakin had always been self-assured. He never tried very hard but could somehow always tackle any difficult topic during training. Something that might take you a month to master took him mere minutes.

“Modesty doesn’t look good on you.” You note, as you take in the way his brow furrows and his lips scrunch into a frown. He always looked good, the damn jerk, but poking at his ego always came easy to you.

“I won’t lie to you,” He starts as he meets your examining gaze, and you dare to raise your brow, “You’d see right through me if I even tried,” he smiles, and you stifle a giggle as you listen closely to his next confession, “I do think I could be great. I notice how easy everything comes to me, how little work I have to put in, especially compared to you. Sometimes I even think Obi-wan is running out of things to teach me. He deals more in life lessons now than saber training. And I do wish to one day be on the council, maybe even lead it-”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream that far Anakin,” you cut him off, and you don't miss the worry that fills his face. Eager to ease him, you finish, “I doubt you’ll be able to outlive Master Yoda. 900 years he’s going on, if I’m correct? Good luck topping that.” And with a wink you see ease wash over him, with a huff of laughter barely escaping his nose.

“You’ve got me there, little one.” He says as he turns his stare back to the city. “Regardless, even though I know I could make it, I wonder if it’s truly the place for me.” He finishes. But in a second you whip your eyes around to meet his staring back at you.

“What are you talking about Anakin! You’re everything the council looks for. Brave, talented, brilliant, and even after all that, you care. You care about protecting the galaxy, keeping peace. You care about everyone around you. They should count themselves lucky to have you amongst their ranks. And besides…” You start to confess, but quickly lose momentum.

After a moment of quiet, Anakin presses you, “Besides what?”

“Anakin, if you don’t belong here… You have to because…”

“Little one?”

“If you don’t belong here, how can I?” You finally admit, both to him and yourself. You know it is foolish, but you’ve always thought of him as the ideal Jedi. Perfect in every way. Ready for battle, or negotiation. Wanting to save everyone with his kind heart. If he didn’t believe he fit here, how could you? How could anyone?

“Hey, don’t say that. You’re an amazing Jedi, well Jedi-in-training.” he corrects himself, “I just think sometimes I’m not made to sit and talk about issues. And I worry that when I have the freedom to be a fully-fledged Knight, I may not agree with the council. Even now I often wonder if their decisions are the best, or most efficient. They seem so detached from it all…” His eyes fall to his lap, and from only his profile you can see how worried he truly is about the matter.

“You’re right.” His eyes dart up to meet your own, that lost look beginning to melt in the presence of your agreement. “They do seem detached but isn’t that the way it's supposed to be. ‘No attachments’ and all that. If they - if we - attach ourselves to things, we cannot make educated decisions. We must trust in The Force for guidance. And since our Master’s have developed their connections fully, we must trust their decisions as they work through The Force.”

“Yes. You are right.” Anakin begins, a tone of disappointment lodged in his voice.

“But we must also trust ourselves,” you counter, “And know that our own connection to The Force might guide us differently from what the council suggests. If we can’t trust ourselves, we have no business being Jedi, in-training that is.” You finish, and you hope that Anakin has not lost hope in your words. He basically told you that he feels the same struggle that you do, but you were too ashamed to admit that. You wish to yourself that you could be like him. Brave and courageous. Daring and bold. Willing to bare himself to you so openly and knowing full-well what consequences may come. “Anakin,” your voice now only a whisper, and you make your way to hold his hand, “I hope you know that you do belong here. Even if you never make it on the council.” His eyes now full of confusion and hurt from your words, but you persist. “Even if you are the Chosen One... or not. All I know is what I’ve seen. And I have seen you become a strong, caring man. A man who does what he believes is right, no matter the consequences to himself. Even the things you neglect to tell me, I hear from the Temple gossip. I know how close to death you’ve been, for the sake of others. You’ve risked your life, even for your Master on occasion. I mean come on, Anakin. How could we not be lucky to have you here? One day you will do something incredible for the Jedi order, I know it. Even if you don’t think so, I know. I know you belong here, and I know you will be the best of us. So, if you don’t trust yourself, or your Master, or The Force... then trust me.”

The words tumbled from your tongue like an avalanche, unstoppable and devastating. The moment they left you, you wished for your Life Force to be sucked away on the spot. But Anakin just stared at you. He stared and you stared back. And if not for the noise of the upper levels of Coruscant, you might have thought you had been transported somewhere new; to a place where only you two existed. You could feel his body heat diffusing through his fingers to your frozen clutch, yet still your blood ran cold out of the fear for what might happen next.

“What will come of us when we are Knighted, little one?” He asked through an equally hushed tone. “What will I do without your constant guidance?”

“What will I do without you, Anakin? I already can’t stand being left here alone so often, watching you traverse the galaxy with Obi-wan. When you’re Knighted, which could very well be any day now, you’ll be gone for so much longer. And I’ll still be here.”

You barely manage to breathe in the presence of the suffocating silence that follows your words. But soon after, you hear Anakin's quiet unassured voice return. “I could take you with me?”

“Stop it, Anakin.” You playfully retort.

“I’m serious.” His voice becoming stronger in his conviction, “Once we are Knighted - the both of us - we can ask to be assigned together. It would be unwise for the council to deny how well we work together. You’d only have to wait until you face the trials, which I know won't be long either. You work hard enough, and Master Sente would be a fool to keep you locked up here much longer.” The dream of partnering with Anakin brings warmth back to your body, and you allow yourself a moment to indulge in the picture. You and Anakin defending each other, protecting each other. The long trips through hyperspace where you could strategize, and train together. You could spend every day and every night with each other. The dream is delectable.

But it is just that. A dream.

Not only would you need the approval of the council and need to wait until whenever your Master decided you were ready for the trials. But you also knew that new Knights were rarely assigned together. If anything, they were often stationed with their Master’s for months until it was assured they could handle any troubles on their own.

“It’s a nice idea,” you placate his wistful thinking, “I truly hope we get to see that day soon.” And with those words you decide the night must come to an end. You nudge Anakin's side and remark the hour, “Our Master’s will have us running drills for days if they catch us up so late past curfew.”

“Well then. Until the sun rises,” He says with a wink.

“And until the sun sets.” You finish as you watch your door slide shut between you and him.

~~~~~~~

Part 2

Thanks for reading!

There will be 3 parts to this story, so if you enjoyed, stay tuned!! Its gonna be tragic..

[the-anxious-gay-drummer]

Agnes' JatP fics masterpost

Thought I might as well clump together all the thingies I wrote for this fandom so far.

*all fics that are not marked otherwise are completed

UPDATED: 16 March 2021

ASHES WE ARE AND FROM ASHES WE RISE

Bobby/Alex/Luke/Reggie

4.8k words

Supernatural elements, polyamory, love confessions, angst with happy ending

Mom catches him after sundown, copper bowls laden with candles and fruit and herbs clutched to his chest and steers him back inside the house with a firm hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t yell and she doesn’t lecture and Bobby asks her, “How did you know?”

“Because,” she tells him, putting away the bowls, “death is also lonely.” She turns to face him, draped into the sunset colors slipping in through the window, her eyes dark and strong, and says, “You need to learn to put things to rest.”

BOBBY'S SEXUALITY CRISIS SUMMER

Bobby/Reggie

3.8k words

Coming out, fluff and humor (attempted?)

The tank top is black, Reggie's skin is pale, shoulders and face pinked from the Sun. And his arms are not as scrawny as Bobby remembers them being. He blames tingly, tight feeling in his chest on the fact that Alex is a drummer and Luke has been prancing around in his cutoffs since they hit puberty and Bobby had to ask Carrie to open his peanut butter jar yesterday because he couldn't do it.

GENTLE HAUNTING

Willie/Alex

2.6k words

5+1, near death experiences, happy ending

As he loses his balance, there’s a dull noise of wheels rolling over the sidewalk and in his periphery, a splash of bright colors- yellows and blues and reds and greens- so vibrant that, for a moment, Alex forgets that he’s falling.

AKA "Five times Alex sees Willie while he's alive and one time they finally meet as ghosts"

KISSING THE LIGHTS

Willie/Alex

1.1k words

Fluff, kissing

“What are you doing?” He asks quietly, not wanting to disrupt the soft, quiet atmosphere. He feels too lazy to open his eyes.

“Nothing,” Willie whispers in response, voice tilting like he’s smiling. “I’m just watching.”

1k of pure fluff and soft ghost boyfriends

COLORS BURST AS I CLOSE MY EYES

Willie/Alex

1k words

Fluff and angst, boys kissing, implied/referenced homophobia, cemetery

If Willie finds it strange that he’s lying on his own grave- his body six feet below him, rotten along with the coffin and reclaimed by the earth- he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he says, “Hey, Hotdog,” and gets down on his knees near Alex’s shoulder. His hair is spilling down around his face in soft waves and looking at him feels like looking at an old photograph, bleached into golds and browns and bronzes by the light.

PEANUT GALLERY

Willie/Alex

800 words

Fluff, Christmas fic, movie night, outsider POV

He turns to his right, hoping to commiserate with Alex, who now has a hot boyfriend and thus is assumably over his teenage movie crush- and then he freezes, mid-chew.

NO ONE LEAVES HOME

Alex & Bobby

1.3k words

Angst and fluff, friendship, implied/referenced homophobia

He strides to Bobby’s car with purpose and drops his backpack on the floor of the passenger seat before asking, “How do you feel about skipping the first period?”

Bobby, who was sucking on a mint until now, bites down on it. Alex hears it crunch as Bobby’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay,” he says despite his surprise.

I needed some Alex&Bobby friendship. So.

ANGELS CAN FLY INTO THE SUN

Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Alex Mercer & Luke Patterson & Reggie Peters

1.5k words

Cathartic blasphemy, religious imagery & symbolism, implied/referenced homophobia

Luke won’t tell him where they’re going, but eventually, the streets morph into a familiar path, down past his parents’ house that stands unchanged despite everything, and then Bobby is parking them in front of Alex’s old church.

EXISTENCE SLIPPED LIKE SAND THROUGH OUR HANDS (BUT NOT ANYMORE)

Willie/Alex

2k words

Fluff, kissing in the rain

“Hm, looks like it’s going to rain,” Willie comments, head tipped back. Everything around them is colored in monochrome; reality is a far-away, unimportant concept, all the edges blurred and softened. It’s a good day to be content and in love, Alex thinks, touching the tips of his fingers to his breastbone.

YEARS I SPENT ON THE EDGE OF DISAPPEARANCE

Willie/Alex

SPN & JatP crossover

53k words

WIP (work in progress)

Alex spent 4 years living in Los Angeles (during which he met only the best people ever and found his passion for music) so his oldest brother and father could check up on his other brother (which is a healthy way of saying "stalking him"). When everything goes downhill and he's forced to move away with his family, he runs away to pursue his dream.

And then he fucking dies. Which would actually be a minor hitch in their plans- if Dean could just stop investigating his death.

I think it's safe to say SPN crossovers are my writing niche now, and I'm absolutely obsessed with JATP and Alex rn. So. This is what I have to offer to you guys.

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 80: Pulled From Orbit

As two empires threaten to fall, Lance and Keith part ways

Hot Take: the paladin armor actually kinda sucks and my children deserve better

First  Previous  Next

Despite his insistence that Keith act like, well, like someone who is pregnant, Lance is not at all surprised when the Galra pulls a Marmoran suit of armor out of the bottom of his old chest from Daibazaal. He doesn’t even protest. He’ll take anything at this point.

“Listen to me.” Lance comes up behind him as he finishes dressing, gently draws the gold and amber comb from Keith’s hair, replacing it with a set of black pins. BleepBloop watches from the ladder to the loft. “Whatever happens next, I love you, and I love your people, too.”

“What happens if we must choose between your people and mine?”

Lance inhales sharply, gripping Keith’s shoulders tight. “Raze the current rule to the ground and start our own allied regime?”

Keith works up a smile. “Yes, let’s. You can rule by my side. I’ll allow it.”

Lance doesn't manage a smile, but his eyes soften for a moment, that warrior's gaze faltering in a surge of fondness.

Keith eyes their profile in the mirror, watches Lance’s hands travel down to his fingertips, up to his waist as he lays his scaled cheek on his shoulder. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in armor, the first time their sharpest edges are in bold.

Lance’s armor is as fine as anything, white metal inlaid with his token deep, bright blue. A breastplate, greaves and boots, bracers, all made of metal plates. Instead of a plackart, cuisses, and other minor plates, Lance has scale and fine mail, and Keith notices that the pauldrons are made of many small, reinforced plates to allow more flexibility in the shoulders. More than suitable for someone with a mixed fighting style. And, of course, beneath all that is a flight suit, air tight and climate controlled the moment Lance’ helmet locks into place.

The contrast, the incongruity between them has never been more apparent, Keith’s dark, minimalist armor casting a shadow over his mate's starbright form. Lance is armed like a hero, and Keith looks like a thief in the night. He’s okay with that, happy to be underestimated. A small man with a knife and a secret skillset is far more dangerous than a big man with a large sword. The growing wolf at his side only adds to their disparity.

He is Lance’s thorn, his last resort.

“Your Majesties.” Adam steps into the room, face grim. “King Alfor has summoned you to the Situation Room.”

Keith nods, clasps Lance’s hand, laces their fingers together. He will have to let go far too soon for his liking. The Altean prince snatches up his helmet, rushing after Adam, wolf at their heels.

The situation room is dark, lit only by a large, round holotable and the pale blue accent lights on peoples' armor. There are screens hovering over the table, lit up with interfaces, statistics, and control panels. Alfor is waiting for them. All of the lines in his face are chasms, his eyes glowing a dim, pale blue. It strikes Keith suddenly how washed out Alfor’s quintessence is, how little person is in the man. He wonders who the king might have been, had he been allowed.

“Boys. I know you expect to be sent away, lives preserved. But I offer you the option to stay, and act as leaders in my stead. Of all the things I have prepared for, I am not prepared for this.”

“Neither are we,” Lance confesses. Keith grips his hand tighter, trying to regulate himself. He can’t afford to lose it now. “But I will stay, and do what I can.”

Silence, only for a moment, before Keith realizes that they’re waiting for him. “My place is here, with our peoples. It always has been.”

Alfor nods. “Tell us what you know.”

Keith’s eyes finally register other faces, Iverson, glaring at him. Griffin, surprisingly not glaring at him. “We received a message from my mother. She says that the Imperial Compound is under attack, and that rebel forces are heading for Altea.”

“You don’t seem very surprised.” Iverson’s tone is more than a little accusing. Some of the other high-ranking military members seem to share his disposition. Keith ignored them. He's used to the prejudice by now, and there are more pressing concerns.

“We’ve been aware of unrest on Daibazaal for some time. Weight discrepancies in shipping containers, people going missing, a sudden increase in deserters. Emperor Zarkon dismissed said deserters, saying that it was to be expected following the unwelcome alliance with Altea. It’s unclear if he knows anything about the shipping containers.”

“So the emperor’s allegiances are unclear?” Griffin asks.

“Yes,” Lance sighs. “As are Honerva’s.”

Pidge’s face appears on screen. “Hey, I have something to contribute to that. Not that I’ve been eavesdropping or anything.”

“What do you have for us, Pidge?” Alfor leans on the holotable, gaze severe.

“So remember how Lotor helped me hack into his medical records for reasons?”

“Yeeees?” Lance frowns, not sure he wants to have this conversation with everyone else in the room. But it’s hardly the time for tiptoeing. “Why? What did you find?”

“Turns out Honerva’s been experimenting on Lotor his entire life. See, as a result of his hybrid status -at least, that’s what I’m assuming- Lotor can only absorb quintessence, not redistribute it. It looks like Honerva was trying to artificially recreate that power. She keeps referencing this… thing. The Komar Experiment-”

“Oh, that’s not good,” Keith mutters. Under everyone’s gaze, Keith takes a steadying breath. He’s starting to feel queasy, like adrenaline or simply time has cut through the antinausea medication. He strokes Wolf's head with his free hand. “The word ‘Komar’ doesn’t directly translate into Common or Altean, but it means, ‘large breath that takes’. It um, it’s like the first breath a baby takes, or like after you break the surface of water after near drowning. It’s Galran folklore that-” He swallows saliva, skin feeling hot. “-that when someone takes a lifegiving breath, another life ends.”

Adam slips something into his palm: a small pill. He dry swallows quickly, in the wake of what he’s just suggested.

“Are you implying,” Iverson growls. “That Honerva experimented on her son in order to invent some device that absorbs quintessence?”

Alfor falls into a chair, eyes glassy. “Honerva is perhaps the greatest inventor I have ever known. Lotor is thirty-two years old. She’s had more than enough time if this is what she’s been up to.”

"Her notes are... specific. Lotor has been surprisingly unattached to his parents, despite his Galra blood," Pidge murmurs. "I would not be surprised if it's a result of the invasive procedures he was subjected to in infancy. Trauma he doesn't even remember. Honerva would put him in situations with the intention to cause distress in order to activate him limited alchemical abilities so she could study him. She would neglect, frighten, and even harm him in order to get the desired reaction."

“And that's horrible. Truly. But we don’t know that’s what she’s up to right now,” Lance cuts in. “What we do know, is that the Imperial Compound is under attack, meaning that these attackers staging a coup. If they succeed, they’ll come for us next. According to our sources, ships are already on their way here.”

“So we have a planet to defend, a coup to stop, a prince, princess, and consort to rescue, and possibly a horrifying weapon of unknown size to find and destroy. One that could, for all we know, be capable of draining our entire planet and others,” Griffin summarized. “How the quiznak do we do this?”

Silence. Keith takes in a deep, slightly-less-nauseous breath. “We split up. Lance will go to Daibazaal, rally the citizens, and take Daibazaal back from the rebels. I will stay here, and lead the defense.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Griffin mutters.

“No, he’s right. Lance will go to Daibazaal, and I will go with him. We will determine who is in the right, and join their side. He and I will rally the civilians, form a small team, and find a way to infiltrate the Compound.” Alfor gets to his feet. “Keith, rally your men. Defend this planet, and its people. But if we should fall, you are to escape by any means necessary. Do you understand?”

Keith can feel the eyes of everyone in the room, soldiers, analysts, Adam, Lance. Waiting for his answer, putting two and two together, realizing exactly what’s at stake.

“I understand. My life, by any means necessary.”

“I will stay with him, and watch his back,” Adam declares.

Keith nods, turns to Griffin. “The battalion will meet in the courtyard. They have three dobashes to form up.”

“They already are,” the aubergine-scaled Altean says, dark blue eyes hard. “We are ready, and await your orders.”

Keith nods. “Have someone ready a ship. We’re putting King Alfor and Crown Prince Lancel on the ground in Daibazaal, just outside the Compound. Lance, rally the people, follow their lead. Trust them to know which side to be on. They want peace, just as we do.”

“I know, beloved.” Lance squeezes his hand. Keith hadn’t realized he was still holding it. The Altean heaves in a great breath, forces a smile. “Will you come see me off?”

“Nothing short of death would stop me,” Keith promises.

The royals and their entourage sprint through the halls toward the courtyard where a small craft shaped like an arrowhead is already waiting. Alfor climbs right in, datapad in hand. Lance lets go of Keith’s hand, ready to board. He pulls Adam into a brief, strong hug. “Take care of yourself, and him.”

“Always, your Majesty.”

Keith notices a dangerous shine in the attendant’s eye, a kind of terror he himself is feeling. He says nothing, not even as he watches Adam’s body tremble. Adam is fearful, but ready. No matter what lies ahead.

Keith is not ready. He snatches at Lance’s arm, fingers pressing into the armor of his suit. Those blue and pink eyes he loves so much find his immediately, strangely open, ready to see anything and everything all at once.

Lance’s face is not without fear, body humming with quintessence, red and blue hovering over his form, shimmering in his eyes. The prince smiles, paper-thin. He removes his circlet, hands it to Keith. “I won’t need this where I’m going.”

Keith tosses the circlet aside, where it skitters over the ground. He pulls Lance to him, kisses him soundly, fingers in white hair, sliding over the scale at Lance’s waist. A single twist of their tongues, all they have time for, and he pulls away, noses touching.

“No matter what, I am so, so proud of you. I am proud to be your mate… Please-” He gulps. “Please come home to me, if you can.”

“Beloved…” Lance presses their foreheads together, brushes thumbs over Keith’s cheekbones. “Not even death could keep me away.”

Keith takes in one last deep breath, rubs his cheek into the gloved palm of Lance’s hand, a very subtle way of letting the other Galra know this man is his. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Lance pulls away, eyes not leaving Keith’s face for a long moment. Then he leans up, whispers in Keith’s ear, “You, and little one. With all my heart.”

And maybe Keith knows that’s not true, that if it came down to him or Atlea, Lance would choose Altea. But Keith would make him, agree with him, even though he knows it would break Lance to do it.

The prince puts on a crooked smile, kisses Keith’s cheek one last time before he puts on his helmet and turns away, following his father into the craft.

Keith watches as they lift off, just until they’re out of sight, before he turns to Griffin. “You’re going to follow my orders, and you’re going to like it, or you’re going to get the fuck out of my way, understood?”

Griffin nods, letting his visor drop down over his face. Iverson just sighs. “What’s our move then?”

“Order the civilians to go into lockdown. Any former or current soldiers who have a weapon should stand by in case of attack. Send a runner into the lowlands. Then we assign pilots to the MFE crafts. I want a squadron, broken into four flights of six. Initiate land defense and mobilize drones-”

A screeching flare of light, and a tower at the corner of the courtyard explodes.

“Brace yourselves.” Keith’s eyes find a pinprick in the swath of blue sky. He pulls his hood up, mask sliding down to cover his face, sealing his suit. “This will not be an easy fight.”

“We stand with you,” Adam murmurs, taking a polearm from a passing soldier. Each end is armed with a wicked, barbed glaive.

Keith draws his knife, feeling the blade shift in his hand. He doesn’t know who these people are -hopefully- but he will rip apart every last one of them.

Whatever it takes.

Lance stares out the front window, despairing at the sight before him. An armada of Galra ships, painted with strange symbols.

“Can you read that?” Alfor murmurs, clearly putting a lot of faith in their cloaking technology.

“It says, ‘The Fire of Purification’.”

“Oh, wonderful. We’re dealing with elitist thugs. My absolute favorite,” the king growls. Lance licks his lips, apprehensive. “Here, I want you to have this.”

Lance stares at the strange weapon his father is offering him. White, black, and his own special shade of blue, the weapon seems like two halves of a hand guard with a handle in between. “What is it?”

“I call it a bayard. It will shift into whatever you need it to, whenever you need it, and is absorbed and stored in your armor just like your shield.” Alfor inhales, holds his breath until they’ve slipped past the armada. “It will serve you well. You won’t waste time juggling weapons.”

A stretch of silence, and Alfor murmurs, "I wanted to wish you happy birthday earlier. I have an actual gift for you, if we ever get the chance."

Lance nods, drops his sword, bow and quiver, knowing he might never see any of them again. “Did you- Have you called Dad?”

“I sent him a message… He sends his love.”

“Just a message?” Lance asks. “That’s- That’s all you need? That’s all you’re giving him?”

The king takes a deep breath. “Your dad… He’s been prepared for anything for a very long time. Whatever happens this quintant, he is ready for it.”

Lance finds himself a bit envious of that, that his parents have had centaphoebs together to reconcile with what it means to be part of a colonialist empire. Of what it means to be a warring planet. Even if they’d started the day they met, he and Keith would not have been prepared. They haven't even been married haven't known each other a full decaphoeb.

Down on the ground, Lance can see fire, people running, rubble in the streets. Whoever the aggressor is, it’s clear that they are his enemy. He gives his bayard blade a good swing, flips the blade in his hand, only for it to morph into a bow in his hand, and arrow made of light already knocked.

“Father? Are you ready for this?”

“I’m about to go to Daibazaal to rescue them from an apparently elitist regime and possibly kill my only surviving friend. I am not at all ready for this.” The ship enters the atmosphere in a blaze of heat, effectively giving them away as they look for a place to land. “Are you ready?”

Lance gulps. “No. I know these people. I broke bread with these people. I defended them from a monster, I’ve watched their children, cooked them food. And now, I might be about to kill them.”

“And somewhere down there,” Alfor murmurs, searching for a place to land, “is a Galra thinking the same thing about their kin, and possibly about you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It wasn’t meant to.” Their craft begins losing altitude. “It doesn’t matter what happens next, son. We all lose today.”

That much, Lance thinks as the craft settles just outside of town, is very true.

[ficrecsgobrr]

━ 𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘

ETERNITY ( WAS IN OUR LIPS AND OUR EYES ) by thespacenico | 1/1 Chapters

RATING && TAGS: Teen and Up Audiences // canon compliant + following up The Fued! episode + angst + hurt && comfort + misunderstanding + near death experience + oblivious!lance + pining!keith + angst with a happy ending + langst + klangst

SUMMARY

Lance feels like he's on the cusp of a life-changing revelation.

"I told him not to tell you."

And this time, Keith doesn't seem to have trouble asking the unavoidable question: "Why?"

Lance looks at Keith, and everything falls into place.

A life-changing, mind-blowing, head-splitting, earth-shattering revelation.

EXCERPT

"I didn't ask for that!" Keith snaps back, his eyes burning with something Lance can't place. "Lance, I never asked for—to be away for so long—"

Lance wants to scream at the irony. "Keith, you absolute moron, what did you expect? You left us!"

"I left because of you!"

The words hang in the air for a fraction of a second, shocking Lance back into silence before they hit him full force. And they sting. They sting and burn and bite and fill Lance with such an overwhelming sense of hurt he can't believe he's still standing. It hurts.

He blinks the tears out of his eyes. "I can't believe you," he whispers.

MY COMMENTS

*to the tune of Final Countdown* it’s a mental breakdown 

Honestly, I don’t know what else I was expecting. Even from the first words, I knew it was going to be angsty, but I pushed forward and read it anyway and I regret nothing. Oblivious Lance in this is so painful and the way Keith thought Allura and Lance were a thing when really, they were just discussing about how Lance was feeling after the thing with Bob. The dynamic in this fic broke my heart and the way Keith literally risked it all for Lance ?? Added with the angry confession ?? And the misunderstandingTM ?? Hoo boy, I’m crying

[miss-choco-chips]

Worshiping at your altar

“He confesses how long he’s looked

for a place to worship

and, oh, you put him on his knees.”

PROFANE by Ashe Vernon

A Paladin and an artificer fall in love.

Or- how Langa learns that worship comes in more than one form.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30430242

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

One of his earliest memories is this:

He sits by his father’s feet. They are in their living room, in his childhood home back in Canada. There’s a fire crackling behind him, the warmth of the flames licking his back even from the distance. His mother’s steps could be heard in the kitchen, but he can barely focus on that, utterly entranced by Dad’s stories, by the hand softly combing his hair back. He feels safe, comfortable and probably the most at peace he’s ever been. 

“A lot of people are going to get hurt tomorrow. All we can do is stand in the way of that and say, 'Not them. Me. If you need to hurt someone, hurt me'”, Dad reads. Langa’s tired eyes look up, eyes tracing the golden letters on the spine of his father’s favorite book, the tale of  ‘How the Paladin Got His Scar’. “Because the alternative is to look at someone else, someone weaker and more vulnerable, and tell them that you want them to be hurt instead of you.”

He squirms a bit in place, and Dad waits, just like every time they reach this part. He’s heard this story hundreds of times, could probably recite it himself from memory alone, but this passage is one that never fails to make him feel off. Weird, uncomfortable. As if he’s failing in some way, because…

“I don’t get it”, he says, like clockwork. Dad’s stopped reading, a single finger keeping the page bookmarked, in preparation for Langa’s usual interruption. Back in the kitchen, his mother’s footsteps fade away, as if she, too, is waiting for her son to ask. “Why do I have to hurt in someone else’s place? I don’t like to be in pain...”

As always, Dad smiles. He’s never mad about Langa’s selfishness, but, again, a five year old can’t really be expected to understand self sacrifice like this, no matter his Class. He never stops patting Langa’s head on his lap.

“It’s not about our pain. It’s about others’ joy.”

There’s usually where it stops, his curiosity sated, and lets Dad go back to his reading and Mom to her cooking. But Langa remembers something else, a new question bubbling up from him. He was in that age, Mom would say, where children stop taking everything their parents say at face value.

“But I thought us paladins were supposed to only serve a God? Why should we care about other people?”

It sounds awfully mean, he knows, but his father only laughs.

“We are not Clerics, son. As much as divine beings love us, we’re not bound to them. That’s why we have our Vow, remember? We can choose. I wasn’t forced to serve the Snow Deities, I wanted to do it. And I never regretted it.”

Langa’s frustration only grows more.

“But I don’t want to do that! To… to give...me-self…”

“Myself”, he remembers Mom calling softly from the doorway, but never how or when she got there. Only his father’s patience as Langa tried again:

“I don’t want to give myself away like that.”

“That’s because you haven't found your Worship yet, Langa. You’ll know, when you do. Because taking your Vow…”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Moving to Okinawa feels strange, in more than one way. 

For starters, it's weird to adore the Snow Deities with no snow in sight. But, to be completely honest (as he tends to be), he hadn’t felt any real pull in his nightly adoration. Not ever since his father died.

(How could he offer sincere praise to the beings that sent dad to his death?)

Still, he kept up with it. As a Paladin with no Vow, he’s taken to adoring the Snow Deities the same way a chronic smoker would use an e-cig.  Not the same, not nearly as invested, but it scratches the itch he can feel building inside him (his divinity begging for release, for reverence, for him to fall to the ground in awe) just well enough that he doesn’t go insane. It’ll be different, once he’s worshipping for real, his mom tells him. He’s not overly enthusiastic about the idea.

Something else that’s different is the quests. Official ones are offered in schools or extracurricular centers, just like back home, but he can’t even begin to imagine himself fighting his way through forests instead of frozen mountaintops. And just what creatures would he even be fighting? Snow Wassets, Kamaitachis, Wendigos… They were all born from ice, and darkness, and cold. Not exactly your native Okinawan monster.

He sighs, head resting against the car window. Watching the trees fly past as mom drives them to their new place, he starts to feel the itch under his skin again. Moving so far away had helped, the deities’ reach weak against the warmth of this land, but still notable enough to demand attention. 

It’s annoying, painful at times, and the last thing he wants to do after losing his dad- but he closes his eyes, spite burning at his core like acid, and adores.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s laying on the floor- no sword in sight, vulnerable, helpless to this person approaching him at high speed, unrelenting- but the pain never comes.

Opening his eyes, he looks up. And time stops, just like it did every time Langa interrupted his father during story time for a question. The world itself holds its breath, waiting for him to catch up.

And he stares at this boy, suspended above him. He sees his red hair, contrast jarring against blue skies. Sees golden eyes, bright and open and full of a life that seems to be avoiding him.

His senses are telling him- he’s a human. There’s no divinity in him, no godliness.

But his heart beats hard, almost pushing his chest open, and he’s breathing the air this boy left behind when he jumped over him. And he feels a spark catching fire behind his eyes, travelling down to his stomach, and nesting there in a way that suggests ‘I’m in no rush to leave’.

And he thinks, briefly- no one ever told me that Fire Deities liked to skate in Okinawa.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He learns the boy’s Class before his name. He’s an artificer, and he’s called Reki.

He thinks it means something, that he introduces himself like that, but Langa isn’t sure what, because all he can hear is an echo of his voice and the afterglow of the smile he shoots his way.

Reki becomes too much, too fast. He shows Langa his favorite invention, a magic skateboard, and he himself feels instantly charmed by the simple genius he exudes. He’s helpless as he follows Reki to the shop he works on, where he finds himself employed as well before he can even catch his bearings. Something about his divinity being harnessed for potions, and protecting the store. He’s not hearing very faithfully, but it sounds good enough that he nods. Without his weekly quests to the mountains, there’s few other ways for him to earn his own money and help support his mother. Though he can’t deny he’ll miss the thrill of it...

Then Reki takes his hand again, and he solves that problem as well.

The S circuit, an illegal quest spot. A rocky mounting, with its surrounding forest littered with abandoned buildings, chock full of all sorts of creatures to hunt, or other adventurers to spar; not for the money, or the honor, but for fun.

Fun is a weird concept for Langa, these days, but he can’t deny the thrill he feels when he burrows Reki’s sword (it's not like the other boy can use it, with his hand hurt as it is) and forces the man that wanted to bring pain to his new friend to the ground. When he’s standing up, looking down at this Rouge, hearing Reki’s excited screams getting closer and closer until the boy is near enough to jump to Langa’s arms, he thinks… that if this is what Dad felt on his quests, it’s no wonder he gave up his life in one of them.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s never met an artificer before, and Reki has never encountered a Paladin either. It's an experience for both of them.

Reki seems determined to make Langa a new sword, one that adapts to the training he received back in Canada but that he can use here, in S. It’s a challenge for him, he says, and Langa doesn’t mind the long hours spent in Reki’s workshop, as the boy tries new materials, different welding techniques and a wide variety of spells, exchanging questions back and forth.

Learning about Reki feels a little like when Dad taught him how to fight, everything new, shiny, a little scary but at the same time so safe. He finds out that his friend still hasn’t decided on a specialty, and that choosing one is in a way a little like a Paladin taking a Vow, and at the same time, nothing at all. They focus on a single path, do their best to become masters of it, but once it's perfected, they are free to pursue a different one. He’s secretly enchanted by the idea- the freedom of it. Or maybe it’s just Reki that makes him feel like that.

“I thought you guys just… fought for good? You know, to save people, end wars, stuff like that?”

Langa lays back, weight resting on his arms as he looks up to the stars . They are outside for a change, as Reki is trying to cast a few attack spells on the sword (as in, writes runes and splashes potions over the blade, occasionally cutting himself on it; Langa longs to take it away from him before he loses a finger), and refuses to do so in the relative fragility of indoors. The night sky is very pretty, the company is good, and he feels too comfortable for someone sitting on the ground.

“That’s what’s told in schools and stories, but reality is different”, he answers, eyes dancing between the stars and Reki’s eyes (just as bright, just as pretty). “‘Good’ and ‘bad’ are very subjective terms. What’s alright in some cultures is a sin in others.”

“One man’s heaven is another man’s hell”, Reki murmurs, stopping his motions as he thinks Langa’s words through. 

Langa nods. “Paladins- we do have a connection to the Gods, in a way. So it’s very common for us to give our Vows to them. But, unlinke Clerics, we’re not irredeemably bound, so there’s more of a choice factor. A Paladin can give their Vow once in their life, and then has to commit to it, but that we can decide who or what to Vow to is our form of freedom.”

Reki looks back at Langa then, sword almost forgotten in his lap. They were sitting quite close, now that he thinks about it, barely enough space between them to fill with a whisper. His entire right side felt scalding hot, like when he was a child back home and sat a little too close to the fireplace.

That heat spreads to the rest of his body when Reki throws his head back and laughs.

“That’s the longest I’ve ever heard you talk, dude!”

Time resumes, the night moves on, Langa walks home. But the warmth never leaves his body.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Reki being an artificer doesn’t stop him from participating in quests and spars. He throws himself into them, headfirst, like he’s desperate to prove something to himself. He only ever seems to take it easy when he takes Langa with him; when he holds his hand as he walks him through the differences and similarities of adventures back home and here. Rattles out information about monsters jumping them in the woods, and statistics about the adventurers they stumble upon. He seems like a never ending fountain of information, and oh is Langa thirsty. 

He doesn't think he’ll ever get tired of hearing Reki speak. And even when he slowly becomes better at it, when the newness of the creatures crawling the forest stops scaring him and he feels comfortable enough to set loose and have fun, he still clutches Reki’s hand in his. And together, they brave whatever the fates throw their way.

It's more fun, that way.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He spends the night over at Reki’s place a lot in the following weeks. They both seemed full of excuses for him to stay, to fall asleep side by side, skin on skin. Reki’s hands, always twitching for his tools to tinker with, slowly stilling, peaceful, when Langa holds them between his.

He doesn’t realize until after many, many nights together like this- that, distracted as he was with his friend, he’d totally forgotten to praise and adore. The itch of murmuring in awe about the Deities has all but vanished from him, and its- it's a freedom he had never known before.

(Reki’s hands are smaller than his, so even when he holds them, folded and sweet, the tips of his fingers meet, like a small roof over Reki’s knuckles.

It looks like he’s praying, and he wonders if that’s why the Snow Deities had left him alone. If it’s because they see these sleeping boys, see the peace in the young Paladin’s resting face, and think- ‘this one is already lost in adoration’.)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

This must be what a role reversal feels like, he thinks. Paladins are supposed to be this- this paragon of goodness, righteousness. 

But Reki is the one that, after Langa had defeated the young Sorcerer in combat, offers a hand and a smile. Even when the kid has thrown nothing but insults his way, Reki still stands straight and proud in front of him when a new enemy appears. Challenges this newcomer to a spar, to protect someone he should not be giving a fuck about.

And when the Warlock crushes him to the ground, his artifacts destroyed and blood painting the arena, he still looks Langa’s way with an apology in his eyes. 

Langa remembers when he was younger, when he wondered how someone would choose pain to protect others from it. He still can’t understand the desire to do so for a complete stranger, but for Reki-

He would brave way worse dangers than an obsessed Warlock for Reki.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He’s drowning- 

He’s drowning for days on end. The flame eating at his flesh from the inside has been burning bright ever since his interrupted combat with Adam, the press of his steel armor- Reki’s armor- against his chest worsening the pain. It fills his lungs, his core- doesn’t let him breath. He didn’t know that it was possible to suffocate in fire.

-but it's not until Reki walks away from him under the pouring rain, that he understands that the pain of drowning is nothing compared to the emptiness of death. That the itch to fight Adam pales in comparison to the all-encompassing desperation of his yearning for Reki.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He holds Reki’s hands under the stars again, and painful fire becomes soft warmth. It takes him back to his childhood, to sitting by his dad’s feet, head on his lap, hearth at his back, mom moving around in the kitchen.

He’s on his knees in front of Reki, but it’s the other boy the one who whispers words of reverence. He’s looking down at Langa, washed in moonlight and surrounded by divinity, and there’s defeat and victory in his face all at once.

He looks like he’s fallen, but he’s happy about it.

Langa is-

“I’ve decided about my specialization”, Reki confesses. His eyes don’t wander, his hands aren’t twitching. He looks the most secure in himself Langa has ever seen him. It fills his chest with a warm sort of pride. “I’ll become a Battle Smith. They are experts at defending others and repairing both materiel and personnel”, he continues, one hand dislodging itself from within the protective cocoon of Langa’s hold to trace the contours of his face. Langa feels it when he finds the thin scar in his cheek, from his latest spar in S. His fingertips tremble a bit as they touch it.

“Why?” he asks, because he knows Reki longs, too, for the thrill of a quest, for the joy of surviving the dangers thrown his way.

“I can always make my own weapons, there’s no need for me to make a specialty out of it”, he shrugs, as if reading Langa’s mind, “so I’m good to participate in quests myself. But if you’re gonna insist on throwing yourself headfirst into unprecedented danger, the least I can do is make sure you’ll be damn well protected against everything you can’t kill on sight.”

All air leaves Langa’s lungs, but at the same time, it’s like he’s never really breathed before this exact moment. He imagines being a worshipped Deity can’t feel all that different.

And he remembers his Dad again, his words when he first told him about Vows. 

‘Taking your Vow isn't subjecting yourself to a leash; it's not about servitude. To Worship is to feel the highest you've ever been, even while down on your knees’

Kneeling before Reki, holding one of his hands between his, feeling the other one caressing his cheek, looking up at his face outlined by the moon... it’s like he has stars at his fingertips and fire in his veins. He’s flying with it, touching the sky but standing straight and firm as well.

He’s never felt this way. He doesn’t want it to ever stop.

So he bends his head down over Reki’s hand, eyes closing in reverence and lips touching rough, calloused skin. And in the silence of the night, the words of his Vow sound as loud as if he’d shouted them.

Reki’s hand is in his hair now, like benediction, and he thinks- If falling is this sweet, it’s no wonder so many angels changed their wings for horns, their clouds for fire. 

It's just divine luck that he’s now sworn to someone who can give him both.

[grownups-are-the-real-monsters]

Here Today

Summary: Beaver spotted the man first as he & Jonesy strolled towards Derry’s kissing bridge, hand-in-hand. He was hunched over himself in a way that had to be might uncomfortable. Beaver stopped his loud laughter when Jonesy let go of his hand. For safety. 

They’d just bow their heads, walk past and maybe come back later to attend to their business if they saw fit. At least, that could have been the plan had Beaver not recognized the stranger. 

Fandoms: IT & Dreamcatcher 

Ships: Reddie, Jonesy/Beaver 

Word Count: 3,708

There was a man with bad posture sitting on the kissing bridge. 

A couple of things were wrong with him. Some were simply symptoms of a common cold (the cough, the stuffiness & the sneeze). But what was left (the breakdowns, the depression & sudden fondness for his hell-hole hometown) were signs of a problem much larger than that of a ‘sick-bug’.

The man with awful posture was re-entering a period of mourning. Like the time of the werewolf; the moon snuck up on Richie Tozier two nights ago and reduced him to a sad, hairy man. Slobbery too. But slobbery with tears.  

Each of his loser’s club pals had reached out to him that morning. Their texts were loving & perfect but awkward (through no fault of their own). Who knew what to say to their best friend who’d never officially come out of the closet on the anniversary of the man he never got to confess his full-love to’s death? Hallmark didn’t have the best cards for that. Some. But not a lot. 

Mike Hanlon had encouraged his Idea to come on down to Derry over the phone when he’d hesitantly pitched it. Once Richie told him about the carving, Mike told him to go on & head-out. Pay a sentimental visit instead of succumbing to his usual coping mechanism of crying & watching movies for straight men. ‘She’s Out of My League’ had been his original plan for the afternoon.

But sweet Mike was right, as he often was. So Richie negotiated a week off with his agent before the ‘real work’ in his schedule started. He came home...to the place where he’d grown-up...the place which housed some of his fondest and some of his most horrifying memories. It was that strange sort of balance that kept any feeling but numb at bay. 

{R + E}

It had still been there, of course. He hadn’t expected any Derry hooligans' to scratch it off or some shit. But it was still sort of surreal to be back again. He traced his fingers along the thick, cut-open lines just as he’d done down the tender ripped skin of Eddie’s wound two years ago. He shouldn’t have been as squeamish this time, considering it was only carved wood not the yanked-open & festering skewer hole of his loved one (Ha! He laughed like a disturbed & deeply depressed Fozzy Bear at that one!)

That had been a little over twenty minutes ago but Richie still hadn’t left. He sat now at the edge with his legs hung over the side. Not completely ready to go back to his lonely motel room. He thought about the Losers having to pull him off Eddie’s body down in the sewers which eerily lead him to his Halloween costume six or so years ago...Tom Petty’s get-up in the ‘Mary Janes Last Dance’ Video. 

He felt a sudden urge to vomit and cry at the same time. Because there was truly no way to avoid the pain. It would just have to hammer in his chest until it either passed or killed him. He couldn’t run from himself or his memories for very long. He felt a sick sensation of missing the time he’d first left Derry & was forced to forget everything and everyone. At least then...

No. He hated that he could even think about wanting that. He would just have to keep learning how to live without Eddie Kaspbrak. Shouldn’t be too damn difficult, huh?

: : : : : :

Beaver spotted the man first as he & Jonesy strolled towards Derry’s kissing bridge, hand-in-hand. He was hunched over himself in a way that had to be might uncomfortable. Beaver stopped his loud laughter when Jonesy let go of his hand. For safety. Derry was nowhere near as bad as it’d once been but you couldn’t be too careful when it came to displaying your sexuality in front of strangers, sadly. 

Though still, the boys held love for their home-town. After all, it was the setting of their found family and nothing was more important than the good ol’ SSDD gang. 

They’d just bow their heads, walk past and maybe come back later to attend to their business if they saw fit. 

At least, that could have been the plan had Beaver not recognized the stranger. “Jesus Christ-Bananas!” he yippee’d in that voice Jonesy usually adored but was slightly annoyed by in the moment. “That’s Richie fucking Tozier!”

“A very distressed looking Richie Tozier.” Jonesy corrected, hoping they were giving the man enough space & privacy that he couldn’t notice them yet. He nver understood his boyfriend’s obsession with the guy. To Jonesy, Richie Tozier seemed like any other straight white comedian. “We should probably leave him alone, Beav.” 

Beaver’s beautiful joy snapped into an accepted disappointment as he observed the man in front of them. Jonesy could see the ache to rush over was hard for him to hold back. It pained him just to see his boyfriend so deflated. Teased by such a great possible experience-

“I’ll be leaving soon, if that’s what you’re worried about!”

Came a sudden friendly & very Richie Tozier like voice. Beaver just about shouted as they jumped their eyes over to meet the stranger’s. He was tall and a little gangly with Buddy Holly glasses sliding down his nose. 

“Actually we were just trying to decide which one of us was going to rob you...” Beaver chuckled awkwardly & so unlike him. “We were gonna do a coin toss for it.” He added before slamming his hand against his forehead (quite forcefully too). “That was a joke, sorry...a dumb joke...” He mumbled. Jonesy couldn’t hold back his amused grin but resisted his urge to pull Beav closer. Instead, he walked forward to their conversation ahead, an eager yet embarrassed boyfriend following him. 

“You’re Richie Tozier!” Beaver repeated. 

“Beaver’s a bit starstruck.” Jonesy smirked. “He gets this same way whenever he sees a famous comedian just chilling in our hometown.” He chuckled and pretended not to notice Mr. Tozier’s red eyes. He got the feeling---actually it was more than that, he could very well tell the man was caught between a rock & a hard place with the little...trick he & the gang each possessed. 

“Hey, that’s ok with me.” He laughed & pushed his glasses up his nose. “Don’t see any paper...want me to sign a body part or something?” He joked and Jonesy knew exactly how Beaver would try and continue the joke so...

The taller friend slapped his palm over ‘Beavers’ mouth which made that squeaky old man laugh escape Richie. 

“Gary Jones. You cane call me Jonesy.” The young man held out his free hand to shake in a charming gesture which said ‘We do this bit all the time’. It hit Richie right in the grief bone again. 

“Joe Clarendon. But my friends call me Beaver.” And just like that, Beav’s confidence was back. 

Richie noticed the way Jonesy practically glowed when his friend spoke. “Richie Tozier.” He felt the need to introduce himself, like an idiot, even though they obviously knew his name. “But you can just call me ‘your hero’, I guess.” He laughed at his own lame joke which seemed to make the Beaver-guy light up again. 

He looked them up and down. They looked about twenty or twenty-one to Richie. Beaver was a short but made up for it in hair, which was long & hippie-like. He respected that. Most of his body up top was covered by a large Fonzie-Jacket & the bottom was all about the Doc Martens. Richie felt like he was looking at a bit of a modernized version of his younger self. 

Jonesy was going for a much calmer look of a light-blue flannel and sneakers. They looked like quite the pair. 

“What’s a guy like you doing in a town like this?” Beaver grinned, charm oozing so easily off him. One of the reasons Jonesy fell in love with him so quickly. 

Richie chuckled, swiping his thumb under his nose. “Thought I’d visit my old stomping grounds.” He shrugged. 

Jonesy shared a quick look with Beav as a feeling shot up his body. He got the idea through their...special talent that there was more to that story. And by the look of it, so did Beav. 

“There’s no way you grew up here. I would’ve known that!” Beaver smacked a hand to his chest. “Jesus-Christ-Bananas!” 

Richie quirked his brow at the Beav-ism & Jonesy briefly thought he might ignore it or roll his eyes like most strangers but instead...“Mary, Joseph & the whole fruit basket!” He shook his head. Beav looked like he might burst with respect and adoration. It was just about the cutest thing Jonesy had ever seen. “I can’t believe it myself sometimes.” 

The Beav takes a toothpick from his new wooden container (a gift from Mrs. Cavell) and pops it between his teeth. He thought-no-he knew that Rich Tozier was doin’ a voice. Not an outrageous one like he sometimes did on stage but one that said ‘I’m alright. Doing just fine. Nothing to see here’ and all at once Beav felt a little bad for bothering him again. 

“I ran around with a little gang of dorks.” He laughed, 100% sure he was about to dumb a lot of his tory onto these poor boys. Not all but some. “Lost one of them two years ago today...” He frowned and looked conflicted before adding “In the flood.” 

The boys started to nod but where Jonesy felt a pinch of something wrong in his mind, Beaver started having a full-on attack about it. Like in the old days. Days of Grenadeau and Josie. Jonesy felt his boyfriend shaking and looked to see him trying to repress it to the best of his ability before lurching forward with a grunt that sounded painful.

Richie ducked down like he might try to catch him if he fainted but Beaver popped back up with sweat running down his temple. 

‘What happened?’ Jonesy sent a message through his mind almost completely accidentally. 

Beaver looked up, looking deeply deeply disturbed and scared. He’d seen images he could not for the life of himself comprehend. ‘Dark places. Large sharpened legs stabbing through somebody's body? Something like that. Screaming and...?’ He looked at Richie. “New shit today, Jonesy.” He felt vomit whirl up his throat but he swallowed quickly. “I saw a clown?” 

Richie widened his eyes before vomiting over the edge of the bridge.

“Major gross-out!” Beaver whistled as he heard the plops of chunky puke hit the water. Jonesy looked a little green himself after Rich came up, wiping his mouth with general looking shock. 

Beaver was about to make another kind of joke when he noticed the guttural growl the comedic-stranger made as his body lurched forward. He hoped the guy could catch his breath before he choked on any more reverse meals. 

He stepped forward to offer him the bandana he kept in the jacket pocket but when they briefly touched hands, another sight hit him that was just as shockingly awful as the last-----

‘Beads of blood dotted the corners of Richie’s torn lips. Hands incapable of remaining clutched with the slickness of the sweat pooling in his palms. He had Eddie kneeling between his skinny legs who was trying to communicate something to him but the most Richie could think to do in those fatal seconds was to hope for a few things. 

The kind of hopes that were important to someone at the delicate age of forty. 

A large thump above his head made him flinch, Eddie’s fist briefly slamming hard under his chin. He fought back his pain filled yelp by clasping his palm over his wet mouth. His eyes darted wildly back and forth behind the minimal cracks on his glasses. 

The second hand dirt that he’d gathered on his piss colored shirt was now having a wipe down of maroon. 

Only the dye-job didn’t come from him. Rather, Eddie Kaspbrak who was now wailing above him as Pennywise waved him around like a magic wand. 

The hair on the back of his neck stood. He popped his hand off the tight grip he’d had on his chin. The satisfying pop sound came with a small following gurgle. Gasps of choked breaths rushed out from his clotting throat. 

But none of that mattered because the love of his life was being murdered right in front of him.

He screamed.’ 

Beaver screamed too. Not as loud but just as horribly pained. 

                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So let me get this straight...” Richie paced back-and-forth on the bridge while Beaver & Jonesy tried to follow him, amusingly. They’d each given each other new and semi-honest backgrounds now. Richie’s was hard to understand without all the pieces but beyond crazy still. “You’re in a group of friends, from Derry-” He laughed like a crazy person. Beaver loved it. And oddly, so did Jonesy. “And you all have these...powers?”

Jonesy nodded, now walking in-pace with the older man. “You got it.” He chuckled. 

“There’s five of us. How many do you have?” Beaver added, standing on his tip-toes. 

Richie stopped moving. “There’s seven-” He paused. Thinking of the cruel way Stanley & Eddie had been taken away from them. “Five left though.” He looked like he wanted a cigarette so Beaver instinctively held out a tooth-pick. 

When the comedian actually took it, Jonesy saw Beaver smile so wide it looked like it might break his gorgeous little face. For a moment the pair so alike just stared at each other. It was something of a little stand-off that Jonesy was about to question when a different thought popped into his brain. “Whoever died this day-?”

Richie slid down against the wood and sat. “Eddie.” His eyes glazed over for a moment before falling on tiny Beaver’s huge Doc Martens. 

Jonesy swallowed, hoping yet knowing he wasn’t wrong. “Was he your...?” He licked his lips in thought. But Richie cut him off by looking back up with freshly-red eyes. 

“Almost. Maybe.” He shrugged, rolling his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Slipped through my f-f-fingers-fuck. Starting to sound like stuttering Bill.” He laughed but the boys weren’t sure who that was. 

The three of them were now sitting on the bridge together. 

“He didn’t know. We left him down there and he didn’t even fucking know I was in love with him.” He sighed, not wanting to think about how weird the day was starting to become. “He was afraid of the dark.” He shrugged, holding the tooth-pick between his fingers, rolling it back-and-forth.

“Taste good like a cigarette should, huh?” Beaver mumbled after a few minutes and again Jonesy was sure that Richie wouldn’t appreciate that reaction but the man surprised him with a hearty laugh. 

“It’s like the song says; I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. Seen sunny days that I thought would never end. Seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. But I always thought that I’d see you again...” Beaver raised his tooth-pick, Richie followed without question & Jonesy raised his pinky finger. 

“How’d you get to be such a funny kid, huh?” Richie quirked his brow. 

Jonesy smiled. “Born that way.” He slapped Beav’s knee gently. 

“Overactive imagination and anger issues.” Beaver pushed Jonesy back by the face and giggled when Jonesy just let him do it. 

Richie watched the short little spitfire slap-fight his pal and felt sick to his stomach by how much the young man reminded him of himself...and of Eddie only with a tooth-pick holder clutched in his hands instead of the inhaler.

Jonesy felt a short breeze pass over them. “Beav brought me here to show me some carving he did when we were little.” He glanced at his boyfriend with extreme affection. Both knew Richie was safe now. 

“Our initials in a heart!” Beaver whistled. “Because little Beav didn’t know how to express his feelings.” He mocked a sweet voice. 

Richie laughed, chin to the sky. “You gotta be shitting me.” He leapt to his feet and gestured for them to follow him. Which they did without hesitation. “I came here for a reason today too.” He pointed towards his old carving with an unbelievable amount of pride and utter amazement. Another coincidence. 

{R + E}

The younger men each stared at the carving with wonder and appreciation. Beaver kneeled down and traced it with his fingers just as Richie had done just a half-hour ago. Jonesy simply looked off with vague amusement as he threaded his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair, Richie supposed he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. 

“My friend, Mike...Mike Hanlon. He thought it’d be good for me to come up here today just to...” He faded off to wave his hands about, not knowing how to finish. The boys looked up with happy looking grins. 

“Mike Hanlon?” Jonesy shook his head with joy. “He was our childhood librarian.” His tongue ran across his lips & he was most surely seeing flashes of his childhood. And maybe feeling a bit like time was passing by too quickly. 

‘Damn kid was barely twenty-one though’. Richie thought bitterly & fondly. 

Beaver nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Nice guy. He helped me check out my Playboy’s that one time.” He stuck a thumb into Jonesy’s shoulder which was slapped away with amusement. His smile faded to an exaggerated grimace. “It was always weird to go there after that.” 

Richie couldn’t help but laugh again with the jovial young men. It lasted about twenty seconds before it turned into hoarse sobs. He turned away from them, chest hurting. “Fuck, man! This is embarrassing as shit.” He managed a small chuckle through it. 

Jonesy looked at him sympathetically, hearing all of Beaver’s thoughts of ‘I wish Henry were here’.

“SSDD, huh?” Jonesy did the best he could and took pride in himself when the man turned. “Same shit, different day.” He added. 

Richie chuckled again, a beautiful one. “Yeah--yeah, I’ve heard it before.” He shook his head and leaned onto the railing. He genuinely looked cheered up by that simple phrase, sharing a private & entertained look with Beaver, who Jonesy would later call his soul-son. 

“We should give you our other friend’s number, he’s studying to be a psychologist--”

“Psychiatrist, Beav.” Jonesy corrected.

Beaver shrugged, waving his hand. “Psychiatrist, whatever. He may be able to help your fragile mental state.” 

Jonesy accepted just then that his boyfriend could never push too far when it came to Richie because the Tozier man recognized the Beav for what he was. And that would be someone very similar to himself. 

It was strangely beautiful. 

“What I saw was...” Beav faded off, eyes twitching. It was hard for him to put to words just how gut-wrenching the scene was. “Awful. I can’t imagine what you must have gone through or are going through.” He shook his head. 

Jonesy nodded, rubbing a comforting hand down his boyfriend’s arm. “I only just felt it & I wanted to die.” He wondered if that was extremely rude to say. 

Richie squinted. He was reminded of a younger Stanley Uris & his ability to see...to understand things past the other loser’s comprehension. He felt a strong urge to insist his losers come back down to Derry just to meet these home-visitors too. Maybe it was meant to be. 

“It’ll be hard to get over the fact that my vision of Eddie & I getting together in my head....” He bit into his cheek “Well, it’s going to have to stay there forever.” He looked up at the happy former Derry citizens couple as they instinctively held each-other’s hands tighter. He nearly choked with jealousy. “I loved him for a few years, forgot him for a good twenty-seven more and now...” He waved his hand in-front of him in a tight spiral. 

“You’re lonesome all the time since leaving your baby behind on Blue Bayou, huh?” Beaver flicked his tooth-pick. The sky grew a little bit cloudy over their heads and Richie Tozier burst into a fit of giggles. 

“You could say that, kiddo.” He crossed his arms, looking ready to drop the subject all together now. “And I’m not gonna say anything more about that fucking clown before you ask.” Rich smiled, pointing a finger at Jonesy who truly was about to ask more about that creature the comedian briefly mentioned only enough to explain Beaver’s vision. 

“I’ve made your nice little trip about me, sorry.” He added. “See, making people miserable is a talent of mine. I’m a great comedian in that way.” He rolled his eyes, standing up straight. 

“You’d be better if you wrote your own material. I’d like to hear some jokes about that horrible trauma you talked about.” Beaver giggled as he bit hard into his toothpick. Richie burst into another fit of genuine laughter. “My trauma is the center of my comedy-” He smirked. 

Jonesy frowned, thinking of the past and of men like Richie Grenadeau who they had once dreamed dead. He softly pinched the back of his boyfriends palm. If Tozier could keep some cards close to his chest, so could they. At least for now. 

“Ow! Bitch-in-a-Buzzsaw!” Beaver whipped his hand back and sucked on his skin like a child. Jonesy tried not to giggle as Richie looked on with confusion. 

He shrugged in response. “I just-”

“Nah, I got it.” He waved a hand from his temple to the vague direction of Jonesy’s. “We don’t have to tell each other everything. Hell, we’re still strangers.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked off in the direction of his carving. 

“But soon to be best friends.” Beaver added, breaking his lips free from the moist spot on his hand. Richie and Jonesy had a nice shared laugh at the charming boy. 

They walked a ways up the bridge to see Richie Tozier off, in some silent agreement. Jonesy felt a rush of disappointment pass through him but it was quickly squashed by the eagerness he had for his date with Beaver. 

As the group walked him over the bridge, Jonesy caught sight of little Beaver’s old carving...in the shape of a heart...

{B + J} 

[hopelesslygazingthestars]

When Elia was a child her mother told her that the women in her family were known for being touched by the Gods. It started with Nymeria, the warrior-princess, who the other kingdoms later called witch, for her dizzy spells and prophetic dreams which drove her to commandeer ten thousand Rhoynar ships to the shores of Westeros and unite the small, warring factions of Dorne under the banner of House Martell.

Sometimes, the visions skipped generations, but their familial gift persevered through the generations bestowing a somewhat cursed inheritance upon the daughters of Nymeria’s descendants. Elia would never be so well regarded as a true conduit of the Gods like Nymeria, but she had the gift of prophetic dreams which allowed her to interpret the will of the Gods and the fate of herself and those around her.

It was not a present that was always there as it had a mind of its own; choosing when, where and, most of all, who was the subject of her dreams. Elia praised it in the past when her visions of purple stars led her to Starfall, led her to Ashara Dayne. Even though her head ached for many moons prior, her heart found a joy she could not explain when she met a young Ashara. Other times, she cursed the nature of her gift for the unbearable silence that came when her father died suddenly with no explainable cause.  

Thus, on the eve before the Dornish Party would leave for the Lannisport Tourney, to celebrate the birth of Prince Viserys, when Elia again dreamt of Prince Rhaegar she was certain to take it as a sign.

Rhaegar visited her fantasies as he had the year past; haunting Valyrian eyes drawing her in as he walked on water with his arms outstretched, wordlessly calling her to make a choice. Although, this time, while one hand was outstretched with a fist of dripping crimson rubies; in the other, the Prince held onto the hand of a young boy. The boy, who was no older than five, had hair so dark it resembled her own, Rhaegar’s pale skin and the darkest indigo eyes they appeared near black; and in small chubby fingers lay a crown of winter roses. Although the pair did not speak, nor did they smile, Elia was filled up with a love she could not explain.

In the end, she accepted the offerings, rubies and roses, and took the extended hands. She could not see where they led her, only that she too walked on water, and when she awoke, her skin tingled with the feeling of fate.

The fact that her dreams led her twice to the man that would one day be known as the King of the Seven Kingdoms could be nothing less than a gift, no matter the outcome or the pain it would cause her in the end.

Staring down at her bed companion, Ashara’s warning circled about her mind; the foretelling of the Prince’s infectious sorrow that would drown whoever dared to get close. Yet, with the ghost sensation of that boy’s hand in her own, and the image of Valyrian eyes boring into her own, she could not force away the visions which seemed fateful. Her heart ached for the child in her dreams she was certain was her son. Children were Elia’s greatest want. She yearned for nothing more than the experience of motherhood, had wanted it since her own mother gave her domain over the Water Gardens protecting children; noble and smallfolk alike, ensuring childhoods filled with love and joy.

Therefore, Elia left a sleeping Ashara and headed to the Princess’ solar and explained her dreams to her mother. Afterward, she watched a fire return anew in the Princess Furiosa she had not seen since long before her father’s death.

In the years past, Elia saw and felt the disappointment in her mother’s aging dark eyes, in that she had not yet found a worthy match for her only daughter. She was her mother’s most beloved child. Furiosa often spoke of the painful years in which she tried for more children after Doran. Two sons were lost before Elia came along, and she too nearly died. A tiny thing, born blue and waited a long few minutes before she gave the wailing cries of life. For the struggle Furiosa experienced bringing Elia to life, she had sworn her a future worthy of the pain. Elia was Dorne’s prized sun.

“You are fated to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Furiosa concluded.

Uncertainty swirled about the pit of her stomach. She remembered her reception in Kings Landing the year previous, there was little love for Dorne or their royalty.  

“How can you be so certain of my dreams, mother?”

Furiosa shifted a little on her enormous bed bringing Elia closer in their embrace.

“You are the blood of Nymeria. You are touched by the Gods.” She stated as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“How can that be true when the Gods saw it fit to bless me a sickly princess?”

Elia’s malady was something she fought every single day. She exhausted herself trying to keep up with those around her, and despite all the potions, poisons and infusions, no treatment ever worked so well as to keep her permanently healthy. Inevitably, she always fell to crippling exhaustion that would see her off her feet for weeks at a time. How could she possibly be destined to be the Queen?

Furiosa turned sharply to face her. Their eyes met, and Elia saw certainty reflected in the dark orbs that mirrored her own.

“When you were born, so small, so frail, I thought it was my duty to love you more than any of my children. I thought your infirmity a weakness… I was wrong.”

Elia aspired to be a woman as formidable as her mother. She grew up watching the mere mention of her name earn respect or instil fear into the hearts of many a man. Furiosa was named appropriately, for she was truly the mistress of rage, and even if Dorne was not loved in Westeros, none would ever cross her for fear of the Princess.

“Your infirmity has given you a strength even your brothers do not possess. Doran is your father’s son, patient and thoughtful, and Oberyn is my rage, but Elia – you are the best of us all. The Gods have come to you and shown you the future. It is your duty to see Dorne rise.”

Although the confession was the greatest thing her mother ever told her, Elia could not help but feel the weight of Dorne placed upon her shoulders.

Furiosa was headed towards the afterlife. For the past few years, she had been preparing her children for her end, but none knew how she wished her legacy to carry on. Now, she passed the fate of Dorne into Elia’s delicate hands and they trembled from it.

“What would you have me do?” Elia wondered.

“Lannisport shall be where you show your sun-fire. I shall deal with the King’s Hand, I have waited many years to enact my retribution…”

The Martells still sported deeply injured pride over discussions of marriage with Tywin Lannister from seemingly an age ago. When the Princess first ventured out of Sunspear to find matches worthy of her children, their destination had been Casterly Rock, owing to plans made by the ladies-in-waiting of Queen Rhaella. Despite Lady Joanna Lannister’s death after giving birth to Tyrion the Imp, the Princess expected Tywin to agree to the betrothals. They discussed marriages between Tywin's children, Jaime and Cersei, to Elia and Oberyn. To the ruling family of Dorne’s dismay, Tywin scoffed at their offer, proudly claiming that Cersei was meant for the Targaryen prince, and the only match he deemed worthy was sickly Elia to the Imp babe.

“… You shall dance to Rhaegar’s songs, charm the King and his advisors with your intellect, care for the Queen and little Viserys as if you were already her good-daughter…”

Furiosa conceived a plan so easily that Elia wondered how long she waited for this moment.

“… It is in your hands to win over the Prince and the hearts of the Westerosi, for it will be your child – the one that sits on the throne – that will give power to Dorne, such that none will ever again look down upon us.”

Elia had the tools to conduct every task her mother instructed her toward. The many long conversations regarding the histories of the realm, her domain over the Water Gardens, her mission to the Scorched Rock; and the constant encouragement of dancing and merriment; it seemed her education had been intended for a Queen

“A queen is not the king’s property. You shall be equal in your marriage even if not in the realm. If Rhaegar is anything like his mother, he will recognise that. It will be your duty to stand at his side and guide him to usher in a new age and make the realm a better place. While I do not expect it to be easy, I know you have the strength to endure. You are my daughter and the strength of Nymeria is in you, Dorne is in you, and you will remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken.” Furiosa described earnestly, as if she knew what was lying in wait for her.

Growing up, Furiosa often sat Elia and the other maidens down and spoken of marriage; what it was to be a dutiful wife; the sacrifices, the pain, the joy. This time, Furiosa taught Elia what it was to be a Queen.

“Will you accept the path the Gods have laid out for you?”

Elia gave pause and contemplated the meaning and implications of their conversation. Despite the unease which crept down her spine, Elia relented. For it was the will of the Gods and as devout as she was, she would accept for the love of the Seven.

“Yes mother, I shall follow the Gods to the end.” Elia vowed.

The two remained there a while as the low bustling of Sunspear waking begun. Eventually her mother spoke again, as if she heard the incessant thought that ran around Elia’s mind.  

“What of Ashara?”

Furiosa regarded her with a sad smile, like she understood exactly what she was feeling.

“Ashara…” Elia began.

Since their falling out at the Warriors day celebrations, Elia and Ashara came to a wordless agreement to push all discussions of boys and marriage away. Ashara seemingly matured overnight, and whilst the flirting continued, the string of whirlwind romances stopped.

“…remains devoted as always. She does not see reason to not be at my side forever. Seven and ten now, and she still does not dream of the things normal maids do. She would happily dance with me and poke fun until the end of our days.”

“She makes you happy because she is not afraid to treat you as Elia.” She stated.

The smile that had been pulling at her cheeks faded when she wondered how this particular pairing might affect their relationship. A marriage would certainly change things between the friends but one to the crown prince might fracture them in ways they could not predict.

“I had not expected change to come so soon for us…this will be hard for her.” Elia revealed.

‘This will be hard for me.’ A lingering thought of stolen kisses, hammering hearts and dreams of forever were pushed to the back of Elia’s mind where she kept all impossible ideas locked away, even from herself.

Her mother stoked her hair gently with her soft wrinkled hands.

“The Water Gardens would have you believe you could be girls forever.”

Furiosa loved Ashara like her own, and of those that ever questioned their closeness, her mother had never been one of them.

“Long ago, when your father pointed out the connection between you two, I worried for you. Yet, as the years have gone by, I have come to see that Ashara is good for you. I have witnessed the way she is with you, she will always be loyal to you, and for that I can’t help but feel it was always meant to be. I would not see you broken apart, though I might suggest you keep it from her until all is done, such that you might have the last of your girlhood together.”

Despite the guilt which settled in her bones, Elia knew her mother was right. Therefore, for all the love she had for her dearest Ashara – that, and some unknown fear in disappointing the violet-eyed beauty – she remained quiet about her prophetic visions and the Princess’ schemes.

When the tourney of Lannisport commenced, competitions for sport and plays for power ensued. As the newly knighted silver Prince won the events of the days, proving himself a true Targaryen heir; Elia won the competitions of the night, proving herself a formidable player in the game of thrones.

During the feasts, ladies squawked and simpered, lords boasted and brawled; threats of war broke out at least three times before each was forgotten in hearty flagons of gifted Dornish wine, and unfailingly, all eyes drifted at some point during the festivities from the taciturn King Aerys who sat upon his vaulted throne, to the irate Tywin Lannister to his right, and finally, to the plotting Dornish ruling Princess on his left. It was only a little satisfying for Furiosa that she would slight Tywin as collateral in their plans.

When Elia found herself repeatedly seated beside the silver Prince, much to the Lannister’s dismay, she understood it to be her mother’s work. She followed Furiosa’s lead and helped conspire for a match she deemed fateful. She danced to all of the Prince’s rhythms, cried at his solemn tunes; she impressed the King with her sweet wit, charmed his lords with her knowledge; and although the Queen and Prince Viserys were absent, she attentively and publicly cared for her niece, Princess Arianne and young Allyria Dayne.

Whilst the Great Houses fell for Elia’s act, Ashara did not. Except, if she knew exactly what was up, she did not confront nor question it, she simply mused quietly from the side-lines and accepted Arthur’s victorious crown of white lilies as Queen of Love and Beauty, and Elia’s performance.

At the beginning of the tourney, attendees whispered that the tourney had been meant as no celebration for the King’s son at all, but the announcement of a betrothal between Rhaegar and Cersei, securing Tywin Lannister the throne for generations. However, by the end of the competitions, the discontent between the King and his Hand were revealed for all to see; for there would be no betrothal for the lioness cub and dragon, and nor would there be a celebratory feast. Dorne won the competitions of the day, and the games of the night.

[piperemerald]

Olive Branch

@lawlightweek Week Day 7: Renewal 

The orphanage was smaller than Light had expected. Truth be told, he didn’t know what he’d expected. L had given him so little to go on. That was fair. Light would argue that was the only thing about this that was fair.

“We’ll do the tour later,” L informed him as they entered Wammy’s House. “You’re jet lagged, you should sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Light said. 

That was a lie and they both knew it. Light was confused. He was frustrated, and relieved, and scared at the same time. He was not fine.

“It’s better if you rest before you meet anyone,” L went on. “Trust me, you’re going to want to be at the top of your game when you do.”

“If you say so,” Light shrugged. If there was anything he’d gotten used to over the past few days it was going with what L told him. Right now, L’s word was the only thing he had. 

“Our rooms are this way,” L lead him down the empty hall.

The house felt like something Light would have read about in one of those British novels Sayu had briefly been obsessed with. From the vine covered walls, to the stain glass windows, stepping inside felt like he’s stepped into another century. 

It was almost comforting to see all of the computers and lack of decor that L’s room was furnished with. Light’s room was connected to L’s through an adjoining door. It didn’t look like it locked. 

That was fitting for a convict. Light just didn’t understand what kind of prison this was supposed to be.

L hadn’t sent him to jail. Instead, he’d informed Light that he was going to be accompanying him back to England and that from now on he wanted Light to assist in the education of his successors. Light thought L was going to give him to the gallows, instead he’d given him a job.

Nothing here made any sense.

—

“I’m Kira.”

For a moment, Light didn’t know if L could heard him over the pounding for the rain. Then L looked at him and that expression silenced any doubts. Light could count on his hand the amount of times he’d seen this man genuinely shocked. This was one of them. 

“Why?”

Why tell him this? Why confess now? Why when they both knew he was so close to winning—to actually winning after so long?

Light felt a smile break across his lips. It was the same smile he’d worn for every little victory he’d been able to succeed over this mental war. It was Kira’s smile. 

“Thanks,” he said out loud. 

Because even if he was surrendering, even if he was letting go of everything he’d worked so hard for, at least he’d be able to keep this with him. At least he’d know that at the very end, he’d stumped L. 

That felt close enough to winning for him.

—

Light was sitting in what he had to assume functioned as L’s office. In the back of his mind, he’d wondered if L had instructed the staff here to add a second desk for him. It didn’t make sense for there to be two, Light was certain that whatever was going on with him was the first this had ever happened.

In front of him was the computer L had given him.

“You can’t bring any personal belongings with you,” L had said before they left.

“Of course,” Light had replied as if he understood any part of what was going on.

Light had just finished the lesson plan L had tasked him with creating. He had a few days before he was supposed to start teaching, but L had stressed that it was important for him to prepare since the children he’d be working with were high maintenance.

Well, no, that wasn’t right. L had briefly mentioned it. Watatri had been the one to give Light a solemn expression and tell him that this was going to be a very challenging experience. L hadn’t offered much guidance. 

“Are you done?” L’s voice broke through Light’s thoughts.

Light turned his gaze to him.

“You look absent minded,” L explained the questioning. “I assume that means you’re either finished or bored.”

“Actually, I was thinking,” Light started.

“I’d be concerned if you weren’t.” L closed his own computer and focused his attention on Light. 

After everything they’d been through, Light would have liked to think that he could read L. It was difficult task, but there were times when Light was certain that he knew what was going on in the detective’s head. He wouldn’t have gotten as far if he couldn’t understand his opponent. 

Only, since the moment Light had waved the white flag he had no idea what game L was playing. Every time he’s reached for answers, L had brushed him off. It was infuriating, but he didn’t know how to get mad at the man who had made the choice to keep him alive.

“You’re concerned about the amount of trust I’ve placed in you.” L apparently had no trouble reading him.

“This place is important to you,” Light said. “These kids are your heirs—and even if they weren’t, Ryuzaki, they’re kids for fuck sake.”

“And?” L knew what he was thinking. Of course he was going to make Light say it.

“And I’m a murderer.”

“Yes,” L seemed disinterested now. That pissed Light off.

“How do you know this isn’t part of my plan?” He demanded. “How do you know you’re safe right now?”

“Well, the fact that we’re having this conversation goes at the top of the list,” L answered.

“L, I don’t know what’s going on!” 

Light never called him that. He always used the alias. Everyone did.

“While you’re here you’re under twenty-four hour surveillance,” L informed him. “Everyone is, it’s safer that way.”

Light didn’t ask what that meant. That was a conversion for another time—another time that he shouldn’t be alive to get. “Still.”

“If you try to hurt anyone in this building, I will kill you.”

L’s voice held no emotion. His eyes were the same cloudy gray that the sky had been the day Light gave up everything so he wouldn’t have to give up the only thing that mattered. It grounded him. Knowing that L wouldn’t hesitate grounded him.

“Is that what you need to hear?”

Light nodded. 

“Well,” L sighed. “Now that we have that out of the way, let me see your lesson plan.”

—

Light hadn’t realized the building had a cell until now. He sat behind the metal bars, on the other side was L and the rest of the task force. He looked at his father’s face once. The disappointment there should have cut through him, but Light just felt numb right now.

He was just going through the motions he’d already calculated. Honestly, he just wanted this part to be over already. He wanted all of it to be over.

“The thirteen day rule is fake,” Light told the group and the running camera. “I had a shinigami add it so I would have an alibi.”

“Who is the second Kira?” L asked.

“There is no second Kira,” Light told the only lie he’d worked into his story.

He’d made Misa give up her Death Note and all memories of being Kira. Then he broke her heart. She’d stay away from him and anything having to do with Kira now. That was the only way he’d be able to ensure that Rem didn’t kill either him or L. 

“There is another notebook,” Light said. “I made other people use it with my notebook. When their time ran out I gave it to someone else.”

“And the evidence we found in Misa Amane’s apartment?” L asked.

“Was planted,” Light lied. “By me.”

“You framed an innocent girl?” It was surprising that it had taken this long for Matsuda to speak. Light figured he’d be the most angry. He’d trusted him too much—they all had. There were all fools.

“As I said before, I think it would be best if I conducted this interrogating alone.” L only sounded mildly annoyed.

The shocked look had long since faded, but each time L met Light’s eyes (he was the only one of the group who seemed to have the stomach to do so) the question was still there.

Why?

—

Light’s first day of teaching was the most exhausting day of his life. His class consisted of only three students, all of which went by fake names. The youngest seemed to be around twelve, while the older two couldn’t be older than fifteen. The loudest seemed to make it his personal mission not to give Light a break.

That was fine, Light hadn’t expected one. He was slightly surprised when L informed him that he wouldn’t be monitoring the class.

“It disrupts their focus if they know I’m watching,” he had explained.

By the end of Light’s three hour class he was ready to pass out. The older students left the room as soon as they were dismissed—they at least gave him the respect of waiting til then—while the younger lingered in his seat.

“Everything alright?” Light asked Near.

He was the age Sayu had been when he would constantly help her with her homework, though Light doubted any of the skills he’d learned from teaching his younger sister would help with L’s successor.

L had given him a briefing on each of his students. Light knew facts about this boy, but that didn’t mean he knew how to talk to him.

“Mello will get used to you,” Near informed him. “He doesn’t like change.”

“Yeah, I got that impression.”

“He also doesn’t like his position as L’s favorite being compromised,” Near’s voice held no emotion. It reminded Light of L’s. Maybe that was why Light knew there was no point in arguing to this child that his mentor didn’t have favorites. 

“I thought you were L’s favorite,” he said honestly.

“I’m the most likely to succeed,” Near replied. “There’s a difference.”

“I see.”

Light turned to the chalk board behind him and started to erase the equations he’d written on it through the course of the class. Dust littered the air, settling on his black shirt in little white clumps. Light had a theory that the other classrooms had dry-erase boards and L had purposely given his this room to torment him.

“Are you Kira?”

“What?” Light turned back to the boy calmly sitting at the little wooden school desk. 

His expression was relaxed, he looked like he’d just asked Light what his favorite food was. Light hadn’t expected this. Maybe he should have given this was L’s successors he was dealing with, but why would this kid think that L would let a mass murder into his home? Well, that conclusion could only be ridiculous if it wasn’t exactly what was happening. 

For a moment Light considered denying it. He considered calling this kid crazy or riddling this off as an attempt to upset him. But that would be pointless. If Near had the resolve to ask him, he was most likely already certain that he was correct.

“How long have you thought that?” Light asked instead.

“I was suspicious when Roger said L was going to be staying for a while,” Near told him thoughtfully. “The timing is odd.”

“So that made you assume he was bringing a serial killer with him?” Light raise an eyebrow.

“No,” Near shook his head. “Meeting you did that.”

“I seem like a serial killer?”

“You seem like Kira,” Near said. “You’re not denying it.” 

“L said I’m supposed to take you seriously,” Light shrugged. This was his new normal. He might as well get used to it. “Did you finish your assignment?”

“No.” Near glanced at the paper in front of him. Light had noticed him working on it at the end of the class. He hadn’t stopped him, knowing full well that some students could work and listen at the same time. 

“You should be working on it, then.” 

“I’m stuck.”

“Really?” That surprised him. 

“It’s not that appalling.” Near deadpanned, the first emotion he’d displayed so far.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” Light crossed the room to sit in the desk next to Near. “What’s confusing you?”

—

“I should be on trial by now.”

It was the fifth day since he’d given up. Light was still in the same cell. He was still waiting to die and L was still asking him questions he already knew the answer to.

“There’s more I don’t know,” L hummed. He was the only one on the other side of the bars. Light hadn’t seen the rest of the task force since that first day. He wondered how his family was, then had to stop himself from thinking about that.

“I confessed,” Light didn’t need to remind him. “You found the second notebook in my room. What else do you need?”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“That’s why you’re keeping me here?” Light was angry now. 

“This could be a plan of yours,” L said. “Until I know why you’ve turned yourself in, it would be unwise to place you under arrest.”

“I’m sure the rest of the task force loves that,” Light spat.

“The rest of the task force trusts my judgment and is none of your concern.” 

If there was one thing they’d all been forced to accept it was that L had been right from the start. Light was sure that stung their pride. No, they weren’t like him. It wasn’t their pride that had to be wounded right now. Light was sure that every member of the task force was disgusted—especially his father.

“It’s because I don’t want to do this anymore,” Light tried.

“And I don’t understand what lead you to that conclusion.”

“Maybe the fact that I don’t want to be a murderer,” Light said through his teeth.

“It’s unlikely that you would feel remorse now,” L mused. “After all of the lives you’ve ended to get here.”

“Fine,” Light closed his eyes. He didn’t want to do this. He thought that he’d at least be able to hold a little bit of his dignity. “You want the truth?”

“That has been my goal from the start, yes.”

“I’ll tell you everything, but I need you to come here.” Light doubted L would comply, even if he was handcuffed and L was as strong as him when he was at top form (given the strain the past few days had put on him Light doubted he’d last a minute in a fight even with his hands free).

He is chest tightened when L stood and walked to the bars. He produced a key from this pocket and undid the lock, sliding them open with ease. Before Light could say anything, L sat down on the cell bed next to him. They were inches away, but it wasn’t like L had ever cared about his personal space before.

“Satisfied?” L called his bluff.

“You’re insane,” Light breathed out.

“And you’re Kira,” L replied. “Will you answer me now?”

Light kissed him.

Read the rest on AO3

[cinemavariety]

The Director’s Series: Andrei Tarkovsky

The director series will consist of me concentrating on the filmography  of all my favorite directors. I will rank each of their films according  to my personal taste. I hope this project will provide everyone with  quality recommendations and insight into films that they might not have  known about. Today’s director in spotlight is Andrei Tarkovsky

#7 - Ivan’s Childhood (1962) Runtime: 1 hr 35 min   Aspect Ratio: 1.37 : 1           Film Format: 35mm

Poetic journey through the shards and shadows of one boy’s war-ravaged youth. Verdict: About as poetic a cinematic debut that you will ever likely come across in foreign cinema. Tarkovsky lays the foundation of the rest of the career with Ivan’s Childhood with his signature long takes, poetic musings, and quiet spirituality. It comes off as a stream of consciousness retelling of a boy’s memories as he is thrust into a hopeless war. It’s the one Tarkovsky film I don’t revisit often, but an important contribution to his body of work nonetheless.

#6 - The Sacrifice (1986) Runtime: 2 hr 29 min Aspect Ratio: 1.66 : 1 Film Format: 35mm

Alexander, a journalist, philosopher and retired actor, celebrates a birthday with friends and family when it is announced that nuclear war has begun. 

Verdict: The Sacrifice was Tarkovsky’s final film - released just shortly before his death from lung cancer. And it’s a swan song if there ever was any. The maestro somehow masterfully takes a culmination of themes, ideas and moods from all his previous six films and blends them into an “end of the world” tale that’s never been told in such a fashion. The Sacrifice contains some of Tarkovsky’s most philosophical and religiously charged dialogue. Andrei’s commitment to emotion before logic is always an admirable feat.

#5 - Nostalghia (1983) Runtime: 2 hr 5 min Aspect Ratio: 1.66 : 1 Film Format: 35mm

The Russian poet Andrei Gorchakov, accompanied by guide and translator Eugenia, is traveling through Italy researching the life of an 18th-century Russian composer. In an ancient spa town, he meets the lunatic Domenico, who years earlier had imprisoned his own family in his house for seven years to save them from the evils of the world. Seeing some deep truth in Domenico’s act, Andrei becomes drawn to him. In a series of dreams, the poet’s nostalgia for his homeland and his longing for his wife, his ambivalent feelings for Eugenia and Italy, and his sense of kinship with Domenico become intertwined. Verdict: I view Nostalghia as Tarkovsky’s biggest cry of pain as an artist, and possibly his most personal work. It’s a cry of shattered memories from a homeland in which you no longer feel belongs to you. Andrei was exiled from the Soviet Union due to his creative tendencies coming off as a threat from the government who tried to control creative expression. The story of this film mirrors his own circumstance and it’s a deeply moving insight into what society considers madness and what society considers normal - and the blurry line in which people create while making these differentials.

#4 - Stalker (1979) Runtime: 2 hr 42 min Aspect Ratio: 1.37 : 1 Film Format: 35mm

Near a gray and unnamed city is the Zone, a place guarded by barbed wire and soldiers, and where the normal laws of physics are victim to frequent anomalies. A stalker guides two men into the Zone, specifically to an area in which deep-seated desires are granted. 

Verdict: One out of two films from Andrei’s work which could hold the only title as pure “philosophical sci-fi”. It’s such a breath of fresh air in comparison to other popular entries within the genre for the simple fact that Stalker seems to have a real soul and a real pulse to be found within the roots of the storytelling. It’s a story about the deepest most subconscious desires of the soul, and the resistance to these desires coming into fruition when the opportunity is offered. It’s about the conflicting forces that exist within our soul. Dark fighting light, and light fighting dark, until the two merge into union. Stalker is a haunting portrait of men traversing to the darkest places both physically and mentally in search of what was in front of them the entire time.

#3 - Andrei Rublev (1966) Runtime: 3 hr 3 min Aspect Ratio: 2.35 : 1 Film Format: 35mm

An expansive Russian drama, this film focuses on the life of revered religious icon painter Andrei Rublev. Drifting from place to place in a tumultuous era, the peace-seeking monk eventually gains a reputation for his art. But after Rublev witnesses a brutal battle and unintentionally becomes involved, he takes a vow of silence and spends time away from his work. As he begins to ease his troubled soul, he takes steps towards becoming a painter once again. 

Verdict: Andrei Rublev takes the spot as Tarkovsky’s longest and most expansive film. It is epic not only just for its scope, but also for its ambitious themes and ideas. To think that this was the director’s second attempt at a feature film is almost incomprehensible (it’s that good). This is huge step up in quality in relation to his more minimalist debut with Ivan’s Childhood. Andrei Rublev is when Tarkovsky started to experiment more with his signature style: arresting images, long takes, and an enhanced focus on sound design. It’s also the auteur’s most religious and historical work. Scenes such as the Pagans being hunted by the Christians, and the Tatar invasion of the village, are absolutely sublime. The acts we are witnessing are savage and brutal, but Tarkovsky’s framing and visual expertise make them nothing short of beautiful.

#2 - Mirror (1975) Runtime: 1 hr 47 min Aspect Ratio: 1.37 : 1 Film Format: 35mm & 16mm

A dying man in his forties recalls his childhood, his mother, the war and personal moments that tell of and juxtapose pivotal moments in Soviet history with daily life. 

Verdict: Recalling memories isn’t always the easiest thing. We don’t always remember the most specific details in regards to time or location. But they always seem to leave a specific flavor in our mouths, or a specific scent in the air. Memories, just like Tarkovsky’s films, are oftentimes meant to be “felt” more than they are meant to be “understood” on a logical level. Tarkovsky takes the near impossible feat of conveying the language of memories and created a perfect piece of art that both reflected the inner turmoil of his own soul, but also a lot of innate fears and desires of any human who experiences a lifetime on this planet. It’s as if Tarkovsky knew of his own doomed fate ten years previous to his actual demise with Mirror. The end result is a montage of scenes from the director’s adulthood and childhood. Fact and fiction are blended, just like the actors who play dual roles within the story. Mirror has grown on me more than any Tarkovsky film over the years, and is one of the most soul stirring portrayals of human life and death that I have ever seen in a film.

#1 - Solaris (1972) Runtime: 2 hr 47 min Aspect Ratio: 2.35 : 1 Film Format: 35mm

A psychologist is sent to a space station orbiting a planet called Solaris to investigate the death of a doctor and the mental problems of cosmonauts on the station. He soon discovers that the water on the planet is a type of brain which brings out repressed memories and obsessions. 

Verdict: I sometimes feel like a “Tarkovsky newbie” when I confess that Solaris is my favorite of his work, especially considering Andrei himself regarded it as one of his lesser works. I am by no means saying that Solaris is Tarkovsky’s best film, but for me, it is simply my most favorite and the one that I have revisited the most often. Maybe it’s because it was the first Tarkovsky film I ever saw and it struck such a strong cord within myself. However I think it’s even more so that it’s a space exploration film that was never, and still has never, been surpassed in its spiritual and emotional intelligence. Coming out only just  a few years after 2001: A Space Odyssey, Tarkovsky’s Solaris feels more like a distant cousin than it does its opposite. However Solaris, unlike 2001, is more organic than it is mechanical and is more emotional than it is objective or scientific. What if a planet truly was conscious? What if that planet could materialize a previously deceased animal or person who meant the entire world to you? These are some of the ideas that are at play in Solaris and it ends up being an examination of identity and consciousness. The organ-heavy score stirs up an unfounded nostalgia within myself. It’s score and soundscapes transport me to a place that I feel like I have been before in a long lost life. The ending shot doesn’t fail to send shivers down my spine in its poetic ambiguity.

[theparanormalperiodical]

Halloween (1978) - Based On A True Story

It’s the tagline that haunts the horror film industry: Based on a True Story.

Typically, it roughly translates to “a door moved several feet so shit this is a haunted hizzle ma dudes”. Or, it represents some of the most iconic moments in paranormal phenomena.

It was Halloween (1978) that surprisingly slotted itself into the second category of films.

Halloween is famous for several reasons, indeed, it’s one of the most celebrated horror films to have graced your not-so-legal streaming site. 

It’s a cult movie for slasher fans, and it’s name has centred it as a must-watch during this season. And it’s all because it echoes out those eerie vibes of urban legends, but snaps us back to the chilling reality of pyscho-killers when we need it most.

It even started the slasher film craze that would tumble one corpse-domino into the following decades.

And it’s based on a true story.

Which, ya know, that’s fine, this is so fine, this is great.

So, it got me thinking: what was this true story? And are there any other similar stories that we need to know about come Halloween night?

Unfortunately, there are.

There are so many.

Today’s post is going to take us back to the story that inspired the Halloween series, the similar stories that bulked up the shocking reality of the 11-film saga, and the urban legends that still echo out these themes.

So, whether you’re carving a pumpkin, or piecing together your costume with a hot glue gun, settle in.

Let’s get spooky!

First, let’s recap the Halloween saga.

And lord, she’s a saga.

Across 11 movies we witness one plotline: this bloke, Michael Myres, stalks Laurie Strode.

No, he is not the lovable voice behind shrek.

And no, ‘shaggable’ is not used as a comical easter egg mid-murder in these movies.

But despite this basic plotline, normally a dash of back story is chucked into the occasional prequel-sequel-who’s-a-what’s-now to shake things up and drag it across 11 films.

Take the backstory of Laurie Strode - she’s his estranged sister, a connection which is dragged down to her daughter, Jamie. This is the central line that the series dances around.

It’s a bit like American Horror Story - you know when every season has a different setting?

There’s been a college massacre; there’s been a hospital of horrors. There’s been more reboots then Britney Spear’s career!

But pushing aside the mess of writers chipping in a line for each screenplay, and wiping off the fake blood coating the legacy of films, one thing is for sure:

We centre on a psycho-killer who defies all psychological analysis.

Michael Myers is pure evil.

That’s the point. 

It’s the true fear that I think we all have - it’s this unrelenting force that’s out to get you and will not stop, will not sympathise, will not suffer nor scar.

And so we arrive at the true story behind this phenomenon of a franchise.

Unless you’ve been stuck under a rock for, what, 40 years - no seriously, I did maths and everything - then you will be oblivious to the Halloween saga.

But for everyone else, there is only one image that pops into the head when it comes to these films - and it’s Michael Myers in his white mask, and cloaked in a blue jumpsuit.

#OOTD

And he is based on a true story.

The OG director and co-writer of the OG film - John Carpenter - was approached with the premise of a film many moons ago.

And let’s be honest: it’s more basic than I am.

The whole idea was that this psycho-killer slits bitches up on All Hallows’ Eve. Simple, right?

Well it was Carpenter that added the twist on Myers that sent this flick head-first into film history.

Carpenter was reminded of an encounter he had at University whilst visiting a mental institution. He came across a boy, maybe 12 or 13 years old.

And he had this look.

He had this look that he could only describe as emotionless, as pure evil - and this probably inspired this quote from the film from Myers’ psychoanalyst:

"This blank, pale emotionless face. Blackest eyes. The devil’s eyes. I spent eight years trying to reach him and then another seven trying to keep him locked up, because I realized what was living behind that boys’ eyes was purely and simply evil."

Oh, you thought it stopped there?

Oh, my little ghoul.

No, it continues.

Myers is believed to be complete and utter evil. And this is based on the historical root of Halloween.

Samhain is the celtic celebration behind the best day of the whole entire year. And in basic terms, it is the conflict between summer and winter, or, between good and evil.

Sound familiar?

Okay fine, every horror film - no, scratch that - every goddamn film is about the fight between good and evil.

But it’s Halloween that brings this up. Halloween drags it up from the depths of hell and puts a white face mask on it.

However, legend has it that there is another real life story that directly influenced it: and that’s the murders committed by Stanley Steirs.

Take yourself back to 1920. 

On Halloween night, Stiers went on a killing spree, going so far as to murder his own family.

Carpenter - nor, anyone affiliated with this cult series - makes mention of Stiers. But it’s safe to say that the sheer volume of murders that happen to fall (or purposefully striking) on Halloween is nothing short of inspiration.

The film might stick to the big screen, but the reality is never too far from the cinema doors.

It’s here that we turn to these real life events.

I’ve found five major events of murders, assaults and kidnapping that have collided with Halloween, mirroring the images on the big screen.

(Yeah, it wasn’t a positive google search experience.)

And none of them fall short of the actual movie inspiring this post.

We start in 1975, a mere 3 years before the original film hit the cinemas.

It was the morning of Halloween when Martha Moxeley was found beneath a tree in her backyard. She was dead, murdered via a beating with a golf club. 

It was 25 years later that Michael Skakel - then, a 15 year old body - was arrested and convicted for her murder. This story gained attention not for the gruesome circumstances of Martha’s death, but because of the sheltered, and famous life he had lived.

He was the nephew of Robert F Kennedy’s widow, and had spent him life swanning around the elite circles.

His alibi? Well, it’s just as disturbing as her death. 

He claims that the reason his DNA was on her body was because he was masturbating underneath the tree she was found under on the same day.

These themes aren’t so unheard of in Halloween - indeed, the opening scene features the uncomfortable sex scene of Michael’s sister and her boyfriend before he stabs her to death, completing his first kill.

We then jump forward a few decades, and dive headfirst into arguably the decade of the most Halloween related murders. Indeed, given the stretch of slasher films before this decades that were spiked by the movie inspiring this post, the film itself could have figured as an ambition for these murders.

And it starts in 2002.

Chris Jenkins - a student at the University of Minnesota - was last seen alive at a bar on Halloween night. Four months later, his body - still clad in appropriate Halloween get-up - was found in the Mississippi River.

This is not the first halloween-related catastrophe to be witnessed in this river. 

Obviously someone falling into a river on a infamous night of parties and revelry can be seen as either an accident, or a suicide. But it was 4 years later that the death was reclassified as a homicide.

Even though someone did confess to the police that they witnessed a murder, it is still shrouded in a mystery fit for an urban legend.

Particularly as it is rumoured to be a victim of the Smiley Face Murders.

Basically, 40 male college students in the US died of drowning around the same time, and graffiti of smiley faces was found around the sites of the murder.

The murderer was never found.

Next, we turn to a similarly urban-legend like story: the murder of Leslie Mazzara and Adriane Insogna.

It was 31st October 2004, and three roommates - including those that were murdered - were enjoying Halloween night. Having handed out Halloween candy all evening, Lauren Meanza awoke to the sounds of a scuffle at 1am.

She fled the house in fear, and turned around to see someone climb out of one of their windows.

She ran back inside, only to be greeted by the corpses of her roommates.

Nearly 1500 people became persons of interest, but it was when Eric Copple - who was apart of this pool - refused to cooperate by handing over DNA, suspicions were roused.

A year later, he confessed to the murders.

No motive was given, but he was engaged to a friend of one of the victims, creating a peculiar link that must’ve inspired the events of that fateful night.

6 years later, an Ohio teen encountered a similar situation.

He returned from a church service to the bodies of his murdered family, including his new stepfather, William Liske.

The killer behind the murders was found to be Liske’s son from a previous marriage who had a history of violence and schizophrenia.

2009 too witnessed a grotesque event.

3 teenage girls were held at gunpoint and abducted following an evening of trick-o-treating, and were sexually assaulted in a wood. Luckily, one of the girls was able to use her phone to call for help, causing the kidnapper to flee.

When he was eventually arrested in 2012, it followed a string of previous sexual assaults that have occurred since the late 90s.

Our final murder takes us to Halloween night, 2011.

Taylor Van Diest was believed to have just left a Halloween party when she was beaten to death near railway tracks.

The story only gets ever-more terrifying considering she texted her boyfriend shortly before the attack to tell him that that someone was following her.

The police eventually found DNA of the killer underneath her fingernails, leading them to the culprit.

Traumatised? Me too.

But these tales don’t end with finished cases, and they certainly don’t end with the credits of the films they inspire.

They come back to haunt us in the urban legends set on Halloween.

Clearly, halloween-inspired murders make the most iconic urban legend concept. It’s the scariest time of year, and what’s scarier than, well, murder?

One of these legends sticks to this theme, closely mirroring the film in question.

It’s affectionately known as the 1962 Idaho Massacre. The story goes a man in a black mask attended a Halloween party in - you guessed it - Idaho.

He proceeded to lock all the doors, and then murder each and every attendee of the party. Well, he is believed to have killed 7 before escaping.

He was never found. But it is still claimed that his mask was found by the FBI in 1969.

The murder train continues with the most noughties urban legend ever.

In 2008, an email chain warned people that a gang was to hold an initiation on Halloween night.

And the task that needed to be completed?

The murder of 31 women, each death a day of the month.

And in true urban legend fashion, 140 women were to be killed in another version of the email, and so the list of variants continues.

Our next tale of terror sticks to a more classic halloween story - that of the haunted house:

Well, this house either exists in Pennsylvania, Detroit, or Chicago; regardless, this is a typical and twisted tale often encountered with urban legends.

The story goes that a haunted house with 13 floors exists. I mean, fuck that’s a tall house, how did they get that signed off?

But the legal repercussions are not the frightening feature of the story.

The challenge is to make it to the top floor alive. If they do, they win some cash. If they don’t… well they're dead, so there's that.

Legend has it that no one ever made it to the top floor.

It also doesn’t exist, but anyway.

What about the campus massacres of halloween night?

Every year, from 1960 to 1998, psychics would make the same prediction for Halloween night. No points for guessing what the prediction was…

Next is the rumoured threat to animals.

Satanists have always been supposedly murdering black cats on Halloween for decades. Or maybe it’s witches capturing them for ceremonies? Or maybe its National Kill a Pit Bull Day, the all-American hoax that cropped up in 2012?

Either way: no one is safe. Not even ya doggo.

Our final urban legends prey on children, and infer that they will either be drugged, poisoned, or stabbed on some sort of sharp implement.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

These are the most prevalent legends, especially since trick-o-treating and dressing up are children’s activities, even if we all like to partake - child or not.

Some real life cases have even informed the fears that candy has been spiked with poisons, such as the case of the poisoned Pixy Stix.

It was Ronald O’Bryan who spiked his son’s candy with cyanide with the ambition of receiving a hefty insurance cash payment.

There have even been rumours of temporary tattoos being laced with LSD!

The original icon for this was a blue star, but this eventually included other unsuspecting images such as Mickey Mouse.

Cause nothin’ says drugs like Disney.

Now we turn to pointy things.

Commonly needles and razors blades are rumoured to be concealed among halloween treats handed out to kids. This was even proven in 2000, when a man was charged with concealing needles in chocolate bars.

Not convinced by razor blades? What about drugs being smuggled across borders, or handed out to children?

Fact is, these urban legends could go on forever.

They twist, they turn, they come back around full circle, and they pack up shop to move to different parts of the world.

And when we finally think we are safe from the myths and legends that haunt halloween…

Tragedy strikes.

Fact is, Halloween isn’t just based on the demeanor of one psychotic teen. 

It’s based on stories that happen year upon year, reminding us that urban legends are never too far from the truth. 

[amsrober02-blog]

That Perfect Cup of Coffee

The photo says it all. Is God good when life isn’t? Look at the world today. We have a worldwide pandemic and riots. Locally we have a two year old boy that was taken too soon from his family, a man who drowned in the river, a little boy who had to go through intensive chemotherapy and surgery to overcome brain cancer. Is God good when bad things happen or is He only good when the outcome is?

I know I often say God is good when I get good news or when something good happens- a new job with better pay, a good diagnosis, when the kids make the cut for the team they tried out for.

What about when you get laid off? What about when your child dies? What about when you are given 3 months to live? Is God still good then?

I read about a family today. Their seven year old daughter had a diseased pancreas that required several surgeries. In the midst of that, the husband lost several family members, leaving one left who was then diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer and and then passed away, the husband’s job laid him off, the wife became pregnant with several complications. The family held to their faith, trusting that God was at work in the unseen. She made a deal with God- she would endure the trials as long as He didn’t cross that line..... and then the line was crossed. She gave birth to a stillborn baby girl. Their lives were shattered in a matter of seconds. Her oldest daughter was still sick in the hospital and now her baby was gone. Fear set in and her faith began to crumble.

This spoke to me. I have that line in the sand. My line looks like this, “I will worship you everyday of my life, but do not take away the lives of my family.” I’m sitting here in my living room asking myself, what does this say about my faith? What does this say about what I believe about the character of God?

I do know that God is sovereign and never-changing. He is the same God when good things happen as He is when bad things happen. He is still near when I am happy just like He is when I am sad. The only thing that changes is that my heart doesn’t reflect a need for Him when life is easy. The reality is, I always need Him. Every part of my life is woven together to make something good.

I read a really cool analogy. Idk about you, but I’m a coffee drinker. Like.... coffee and I are BFF’s. However, you couldn’t give me a coffee bean or coffee grounds and expect me to drink that. I can smell it and see that it is good, but I can’t fully experience the awesomeness of that coffee until I add water. Just the same, I can’t drink a cup of hot water and leave out the coffee grounds. I also need a filter and some sort of contraption to make that coffee. All of this together makes something so beautiful, so delicious. Any of those things by themselves are gag worthy or worthless. Isn’t this just like our life? Sometimes the bad thing may look bad until we realize the good that can come from it. Sometimes the good thing looks good, but we don’t realize the bad was needed in order to make them good look good.

I look at how my perspective has changed over the past several months. I might have been annoyed to sit outside and listen to Hunter and his friends have farting contests and hear their silly YouTube videos or watch them play some boring video game. Not today though. If none of this bad stuff would have happened, I wouldn’t be able to sit and relish in the mundane. I love coffee dates with my daughter. I cherish those moments in the car together and the conversations that we have. I appreciate sunshine and rain. Even the colonoscopy prep seemed not so bad compared to the chemo I have to endure (I bet not many people can find joy in something that makes your colon clean out😂).

“It is impossible for the Almighty to do evil,” Job 34:10. God permits tragedy because of the fall of man in the garden of eden. He allows satan to cause trouble, but He doesn’t allow Him victory. Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.” We have to let God show us what is good. I’m sure that Jesus’ family had a hard time understanding how it was good for Him to be crucified on a cross. I’m sure they didn’t think it was good to watch Him be beaten so badly that His skin hung from His body. I’m sure they didn’t think it was good as the soldiers nailed His hands and feet to the cross. I’m sure they didn’t think it was good as they watched Him suffer and cry. I’m sure God struggled as He watched His one and only son hang there on the cross. But that horrible day led to one of the greatest victories in the history of the world. That death led to resurrection. That death lead to forgiveness. That death led to the greatest example of love that a human would ever take upon themselves. That death allowed every single one of us the chance to experience grace, forgiveness, love and a chance at eternity in heaven. Eternity- forever in heaven.

Here is the most convicting quote that I read from “You’ll Get Through This,” by Max Lucado: “Our choice comes down to this: trust God or turn away. He will cross the line. He will shatter our expectations. And we will be left to make a decision.”

God promised that those who love Him would experience trouble. I don’t know many people who love the Lord who haven’t gone through something hard. But in these dark times and pits of despair is where the coffee is made. This is when the bad stuff mixes with the good stuff. God is brewing something amazing, but many times we can’t smell it. We can’t taste it. We can’t see it. We can’t hear it. Sometimes we don’t even get to see the fruits of His plan in our lifetime. It’s incredibly difficult to intentionally choose faith when we can’t see what He is doing. Trust me, I know. It’s exhausting and frustrating. It can feel defeating. But it’s ok to ask Him to help you have faith. A friend reminded me of this in Mark when a man is asking Jesus to heal His son. He cried out, “Lord, help me have faith.”

God doesn’t force us to do anything. What He desires most is for us to just rest in His presence. He wants us to battle and fight and ask questions. When we ask the hard questions and when we confess our struggles to Him, He will reveal the truth that we need.

So is God good all the time? He is. Even when bad things happen. I know this in my heart even though my mind doesn’t agree all the time. “He expects nothing from us that He did not experience Himself.” “Our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all,” (2 Corinthians 4:17). This life is nothing compared to eternity. It’s a blink of an eye. It’s a moment. “Whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has in store for us,” (Romans 8:18).

So I will take a deep breath. I will cry out to God when I doubt and when I don’t understand. I will ask for faith. I will ask for understanding. I will trust that He is brewing that perfect cup of coffee that I have been yearning for.

(Based on You’ll Get Through This by Max Lucado)

[uncommonfauna]

In 1972 Janet Clifton, an Osage woman, walked into the IHS in Clairemore, Oklahoma. For years she had been having severe pelvic cramps and they had become too much to bear. She was put in a gown and lead to a room in which sat the dreaded stirruped chair many women have despised since it’s invention. The anxiety is understandable even in modern times when women’s healthcare is arguably the most advanced it’s ever been. It’s frightening, then, to imagine approaching that chair in the 60’s and 70’s, when modern women’s healthcare was in it’s infancy, and for a Native American woman, it could be absolutely terrifying. 

When Janet signed in to the clinic, she’d been asked the usual questions, one of which was ‘are you married’, which she was, and was asked if she had any children, which she did. Three to be exact. She was only twenty-five and all her children were born just under three years, so it is no surprise that when she was asked if she was religious she replied that she was Catholic. Christianity and native Americans have a strange relationship. The religion was used to justify atrocities done to us too numerous not only for this paper, but for anyone to ever list. Arguably it’s greatest crime was to mold itself into a cardboard beacon, offering native Americans sanctuary from it’s own ugliness. For centuries Native American men made the decision to convert for the rest of the family. The rules of life changed for them, but it’s unclear if they realized the changes it meant for their wives. Their roles in many nations were reduced, as was their agency over their bodies. Contraceptives in their earliest days were known throughout the world, including the Americas, yet now they were forbidden. As ridiculous and ineffective as they could be, they at least offered the illusion of body autonomy, mostly for women. 

When Janet went to the IHS the Women’s Health Movement (WHM) had only recently begun, along with second wave feminism. It spoke loftily and justly about abortion rights and about changing the traditional maternity ward practices into more family oriented ones, with the fathers allowed in the delivery room. There was a resurgence of midwifery. However, these improvements did not scratch the blood soaked surface of Native American health care. As Janet lay in the chair, three white doctors entered the room. The Indian Clinic did not have any native doctors, so doctors were driven in from nearby Tulsa Oklahoma, thus continuing the tradition of white doctors working with an exclusively non-white clientele. “I felt like I was being experimented on,” she would later say. She would be in good company. A Google search of “experiments on native women” will instantly bring up several articles about the forced sterilization of Native American women, and many give examples of experimental procedures that were performed in front of many doctors under the guise of research. Janet, who only wanted treatment for what we now know as polycystic ovary syndrome, never knew she would join their ranks. “One of the doctors told me that they were going to burn the cysts off. The procedure was never really explained to me and it was probably a combination of me being a woman and being Native American. They thought I was too dumb to understand anyway.” Had she known more on the subject she might have thought he was referring to a ovarian wedge resection, a common treatment at the time. It involves opening the patient up in an operating theater and exposing the ovaries. The cysts are then carefully removed with a cauterization tool not only keep the cyst from bursting, but to ensure the ovary heals properly. Instead of doing this, Janet and her doctors remained in the exam room where he gave her a local anesthetic, inserted a cauterizing into her vaginally, and performed what was most likely a tubal litigation. This is the most common form of female sterilization and only severs the fallopian tubes. My grandmother’s painful ovaries would remain untouched and untreated.  

“I remember smelling something burning,” recalled Janet, “I looked down and saw smoke.”She was sent home directly after the procedure, unaware of what had actually happened to her and uninformed of the possible side effects. There was pain, of course, and in a candid moment she also confessed that she was never able to feel sexual pleasure with her husband again. Worst of all, because there had been no attempt to treat the cysts, and the pain that started the entire ordeal returned within weeks. 

Pain seems to be woven into the fabric of every Native American woman’s life and this has not gone unnoticed artists, native and non-native alike. When native women are not posing nude on a biker’s bicep, we are huddled into blankets, riding our horses, our backs bent and heads hung low. Sometimes we stand on hills, gazing at nothing with blank faces and sometimes we kneel by our tipis and look at the ground. Though the past few decades have brought forward more animated depictions of Native American women, my grandmother’s house was filled with the old fashioned kind. As a child, I thought they were pretty, if boring. I never perceived any greater meaning than a woman simply looking down. Maybe she was watching a bug. As a child I was also blissfully unaware of the majority of the atrocities faced by our people and what I did know, I largely new in name only. It wasn’t until I grew older that I’d look at these paintings and think ‘huh, she actually looks kinda sad’. Now I look at these paintings and think ‘she looks utterly defeated’. Knowing what really happened to us makes me notice details I never had before, like how so many of them have textbook thousand yard stares while portraits of chiefs and warriors in the same stye still seem to have fire in their eyes. The men are also more likely to be depicted upright, whether standing or on horseback, still tall in some way or another. The woman have deflated. We slump over our horse’s necks, we kneel, we sit. It seems as though these women have accepted that pain is just something they must endure silently and with dignity, whatever the source. My grandmother is not like these women, so when the pain that had sent her to the doctor in the first place returned, so did she. 

The doctors made little effort with pretense this time - she would have a hysterectomy and that was that. At this point there was no reason to try and treat her as Janet could no longer have children, and in the end her hysterectomy would succeed in ridding her of her pain. Why then does it seem to hold so much more significance? European invaders managed to erase many aspects of various indigenous cultures, but some roots run too deep to be completely torn out and in so many of our cultures it was the female ability bring forth life that created the world. The association with women and new life was so strong that even in some nations it was observed that women sewed the seeds for the new crops and tended to them, but it was the men who reaped them. Their reasoning was that women brought life, and men took it. Some Lakota Sioux would not acknowledge a girl’s transition to womanhood until she has had a child. This doesn’t mean that a woman’s only value was her ability to have children and in many nations women held high political power, were religious leaders, and even warriors. Still, it is virtually impossible to completely separate a woman’s potential reproductive capabilities and how she was viewed in societies that place more value on the concept of new life, birth, or rebirth. So many Native American nations fell into this category, and on some level or another, a woman’s womb was sacred. In 1972, at age 25, my grandmother’s was ripped from her body.

From an outsiders perspective, it seems as though these sterilized women have become those broken women from the paintings. In doing research for this paper, I found very little. The ambiguity is unsettling. Is the near total absence of initial medical documentation a result of apathy towards Native American health, or an intentional coverup? Did the women affected not speak out about this at the time because of the taboo around reproductive systems? Was it shame, or a feeling that no one would listen anyway? I have to wonder, too, how many woman are like my grandmother who only now realizes what was done to her. Whitehorse also did not realize what happened to her until later. “I was trying to have more babies, but was having trouble getting pregnant, so I went to the IHS clinic. That’s when they told me about what they did to me,” She said. She had been sterilized during a previous surgery.“I was in so much pain when I went in for the appendectomy; they gave me a bunch of papers to sign. They never explained anything to me; I had no idea I was giving them permission to sterilize me.” she said. It wasn’t only abdominal pain that allowed doctors to trick women into sterilization. One of the more famous cases of sterilization involved two girls, both under fifteen years old, who were sterilized during surgery to remove their tonsils. It’s been estimated that between 1960 and 1970, for every seven native babies born, one woman was sterilized, culminating in roughly 25% of the potentially fertile female population. Even this was not enough of an attack on the Native American woman. Native American boarding schools, run by the BIA (Bureau of Indian Affairs) where still common in that era. A 1971 census stated that approximately 35,000 Native American children lived in boarding schools rather than at home. In these schools, children were stripped of their language, their culture, their religion, their names, and often, their sanity. Abuse was rampant and the chances of escape were bleak. While non-native children were begging for bell bottoms and watching t.v, two native boys fled, only to freeze to death in their attempt to return home. Suicide rates amongst teenage boarders could reach as high as one hundred times the national average. The rest of the nation, if it noticed, soon turned away and continued to focus on disco. Native mothers could do little to stop the abuse of their children, but a growing number were being offered a choice. If they agreed to be sterilized, their existing children might be allowed to stay with them. It can’t be said if it was in defeat or defiance that a mother made her choice, whichever it was. It would a lie to say that no woman was defeated, and sat slumped over a bottle of whiskey rather than a horse.

However, when my grandmother was wheeled into the recovery bay, she discovered that she was not the only woman who refused stoop down and be silent, though she did not yet know what bond she shared with these women. They were a small group, all in various stages of recovery. They smiled and chatted if and when they could, and because the nurses were about as helpful as a match under water, they tended to each other. The women adjusted each others hospital beds by hand, fetched each other glasses of water and just as importantly, they kept each other in good spirits. Decades later, Janet will still smile and laugh when she remembers a woman that was truly fed up with the barely edible hospital food. “You guys want some pizza?” The woman had asked, and then she got up and climbed out the window. A while later she returned the same way, pizza in hand. They might have been neglected and in pain, but in that moment they were normal women diving into a pizza and giddy with their own mischief. It seems like such a small gesture, valuable in that it’s a light hearted tidbit from an otherwise tragic story, but it is so much more than that. Expand the perspective and you’ll find it’s really the story of how a Native American woman was had her reproductive organs seared into oblivion against her will by white doctors, was neglected by nurses in a recovery room filled with strangers, and this woman still had the strength and spark to climb out a window and return with pizza to share with her sisters. Our solidarity is our fortitude. Native women have an incredible ability to come together and to accomplish incredible things. One of they key elements that allows us to do this is our ability to communicate with each other, and despite what modern white hippies may think, we can’t do that with telepathy and talking animals. I would not have been able to tell my grandmother’s story without calling her and having several lengthy phone calls. This chapter of our history is in danger of being forgotten. It’s imperative we learn as much as we can, but that is not enough. It’s through communication that bond over our people’s losses and triumphs and encourage others to learn along with us. If I am to end this essay with one request, it is that when you read this chapter of our history, please read it out loud. 

—- This essay is dedicate to Janet Stork, I cannot give enough thanks to my grandmother for letting me interview her. Rather than mourn her loss, she seemed happy throughout every conversation, as if she was glad that someone wanted to hear what she had to say. This is such a sensitive topic, one that would make many young students here cringe and shy away from, but my grandmother made every conversation a comfortable one. No question was off limits, there was no withholding of details. I feel so lucky to have a grandmother like her, and I’m amazed that it’s through her strength I exist today. 

[wickednerdery]

Title: FrostBitten: Cracks in the Ice Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Loki x Reader (& Jotun!OC) Rating: Mature Summary: “The real you.” Notes: This is a series/multi-chapter fic - Masterlist Here. Ulfr is a Frost Giant, more clearly so than Loki, and “played” by Lee Pace. This piece is two sections, one with Ulfr and the other with the reader and Loki. The whole thing in general is dark, this one’s mostly just angst and violence though…For consistency and length it gets a “Read More”.

Ulfr freezes his door, his room, to a thickness that assures privacy from all, save perhaps Loki. He growls irritation seeing Tia’s body still on the bed; he forgot about her. Lacking his usual patience he simply opens a window wide and tosses her out. Her frozen form smashes upon landing...interesting, but there’s no time for experiments or play just now.

Settling into an overstuffed chair Ulfr works to relax, to clear his mind. It proves more difficult than usual as his mind returns over and over to you. Your interest, your sundae, your delight at his ice wolf, your body...he growls a heady mix of jealousy and arousal in the memory of Loki forcing you to suck him off.

Fucking Loki.

He shakes it away; he’s gotten so far, he gets closer every day, he can’t let one little Midgardian derail everything. He can’t let Loki’s childish games get to him. Deep breath in, slow exhale...

At his best he’s still little more than intermediate in his magic skills beyond the ice-based that come naturally to his people. It takes focus, a clear mind, as eyes fade shut - deep breaths in, slow exhales - and the second layers of magic flow across the room. These hide not just body, but mind and heart.

The world refracts, mirrors, around him and he becomes his true self. As fascinating as the dimension is, Ulfr never feels fully comfortable in it - needing the other to pull him in and out, it’s far too close to the containment rooms of SHIELD for his comfort. More so when the other isn’t there to greet him, like now.

He would say they’re partners, even if only in this task, but that’s still no where near accurate. They neither like nor trust one another and do not share the same goal in the end. Another world, another opportunity, they could just as easily be enemies in battle.

“Have difficultly?” His deep voice announces the sorcerer’s existence on this plane.

Ulfr’s lips curl slightly as he looks for the man. “At least I’m here in full.”

Strange appears before him, cloak billowing in attempts to intimidate. “I’m here.”

“And I’m ready.”

The moment you’re left alone you scramble to redress and return to your own quarters. With chair firmly under doorknob you run to the bathroom to vomit. You brush teeth, even attempt to clean out the taste of him with soap, before throwing up once more then showering.

It’s no use. You can still taste, feel, Loki all the way down your throat. You can sense him in the pit of your stomach and swimming through your veins. It’s like he’s entered your core. It isn’t even the act this time - distasteful as it was - it’s the feeling of being a pawn. That Loki might not even be attracted to you, but thinks Ulfr is and that alone is enough to degrade you.

You look in the mirror, examine sallow and bruised skin, thinning face, and force a deep breath through raw throat. He will not break you. Not for his pleasure, not for another’s pain. Not for anything. You have to be stronger, learn more. Find a weakness, a way to his humanity. If Thor had it, if Ulfr does, so does Loki...no matter how deep it’s buried under sadistic acts and frosty blue eyes.

As the hours pass you force yourself to think on your interactions with the god. Each one. In detail. His peacocking destruction of the city...the sadistic, preening, delight of your first night...the angry disregard afterwards...the playing gentleness of the bath...the events of this morning. Every one a display, every one a tableau of... Your mind falls to the terrible, haunting, ice in Loki’s gaze and the way it counters the bloody red warmth of Ulfr’s…

“Did you truly believe your pathetic attempts at keeping me out would work?” Loki’s voice breaks your thoughts so that you jump. He gives a malicious chuckle as he stands at the end of the bed, over you, as you sit. “I suppose I could admire it...” he slinks around to the side. “The tenacity of it.”

This time you stay in the center, focus on him, refusing to show on your face the fear given away in pounding heart and shaking body.

“Of course, I could also consider it a great disrespect to your king.” Eyes shine their blue at the veiled threat. “Everything is mine. Your room, your bed, you. It’s all mine and I’ll not be denied it.” He flashes an image of himself in full armor, horned helmet, scepter in hand.

You lean back, but do not actually move away. “I know, my king.” You play in.

The vision fades; Loki returns to more regal dressings, pleasantness on his face. “You’re learning.”

“Of course, your majesty.” You smile softly. “Though, I confess, I have much to learn still.”

“Naturally.”

“May I ask a question, my king?”

“Very well.” He’s too cocky to be wary.

“...Why are you doing this?” Loki tilts his head in puzzlement, but lips show amusement; you press on to clarify. “Not taking over Earth, not ruling, I...I get that, I suppose. I mean...this.”

“What?”

“This.” You stress the word, continue. “You’re not a fool, you understand our cultures and you know you’re hurting people. I can see you enjoying it. But...why?”

“I am a god.” Loki insists.

“Gods aren’t sadistic.”

He chuckles. “Clearly you haven’t done enough research.”

“We haven’t offended you.”

His amusement is fading. “You’re getting close to it.”

“Please, your majesty, I merely want to understand.” You get up on knees. “I could supplicate myself and I think...I think you’d treat me worse. Certainly not better.”

He says nothing, only examines you.

“I would think you’d have an easier time getting loyal, truly loyal, followers with kindness. But you just...” The blue in his eyes seems to fade briefly, you swear they go green. “Hurt. Degrade. Why?” You move closer to him cautiously. “I know there’s a good king, a good man, in you Loki...”

Eyes go greener still as the god looks off somewhere you can’t reach, fathom, his face losing all fierceness, all confidence. His face, stature, change...he looks like a lost boy, unsure where he is, what he should do. It’s more haunting a look than he nastiest one could ever be.

“It’s okay...” you whisper, shift closer still. You’re getting through; whatever his guards, his walls, you can see the cracks in the small quiver of his lower lip.

What you can’t see is what’s beyond those cracks. Those memories buried in the darkest parts of him. That pain - searing, cracking, throbbing, burning - dug so far into him it’s settled into his heart. The abyss and those in it churning him through humiliations in the name of preparing him for this. Loki can feel it all, the seeming eons of it, and all at once as he shudders. The Tesseract’s power muffles his scream as tears slip out of green eyes.

You reach out. “I just...want to know you, Loki...” Hand reaches up, brushes a soft, cool, cheek. “The real you.”

In a snap it’s gone. All of it. His eyes flash blue rage and your head crashes against the wall on the other side of the bed. Vision blurs, spins into stars. You kick out under him, claw at hands squeezing your throat. This isn’t an act; he truly rages, hates, for whatever you’ve done to soften him in that moment.

His lips curl over teeth. “You presume to know me?! A god?! You stupid, fucking, mortal whore!!” He shakes you like a rag-doll, head bouncing off the wall, the mattress. He straightens up, lifts you in the process. “Tell me why I shouldn’t end your miserable existence right now.”

You only wheeze.

“Where are your pretty words now?” He sneers, drops you back onto the bed. “Good, stay silent, I’ve no use for your mouth beyond its pleasures. Speak out of turn again and I’ll cut your tongue from between those lovely, cock-sucking, lips of yours!”

Even after he storms out, door locking behind, you don’t move. You let tears stream down your face, wheeze breaths, but don’t dare move. You found a raw spot within Loki’s perfect exterior, the humanity behind the exhibit, and rattled him out of his illusions...but you know deep down that you’ve not yet paid the full price for it.

Sooo...this is the “work” Ulfr had to attend to and, obviously, Loki doesn’t know about it, hahaha! This Dr Strange is from the future and Ulfr’s main source for magical training (outside whatever Loki decides to teach him)...both men may have similar goals, but certainly not the same and that’s all I’m saying on that at the moment, lol! (And forgive any magic-logic lapses, I’m working under the “for the story!” principle, lol!)

(Gif made by me via two gifs I found on Google.)

Tagged: Tagged:  @welcome-to-fangirl-hell @chibiyanai @wadeyouwitch @creedslove @lady-crowned-with-stars @moonfaery @annievvv7  @ladyfluff @holykryptonitekitten @lokilvrr @janebrownnie @lokis-little-kitten @alexakeyloveloki @theangelsfightwithdevils @the-blue-tiefling @lokis-lady-death @dangertoozmanykids101 @prometheasmother @vethrvolnir  @wintertink  @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @drakonwild @starscreamloki @helayes​  @hiddles-rose​  @the-lady-witchitery …I think I got everyone, if you want on or off the list, just lemme know!!

[minah-delacroix]

Cherries and confessions

Minah Delacroix - Paris, France 

Summer of 2015

The world of Minah Delacroix had been nothing but glamour and fancy soirées for as long as her memory allowed her to remember. For the young girl, watching men in tailored suits and women in couture dresses flock her family’s residence to swoon over her grandmother’s latest fashion event or to discuss politics with her grandfather, was a daily life occurrence.  Aged fifteen, Minah was regarded  -not without a certain degree of envy- as the perfect heiress for the Delacroix family. Among the exclusive circle of French ruling class, many wished their children had grown up to become such perfect prospects. And just as many couldn’t wait to be spectators of yet another high-society tragedy, when -and if- Minah happened to fall from grace after becoming one of those horrible teenagers who stumbled drunk at parties or liked to get experimental with forbidden potions.

That’s why la crème de la crème of French wizarding society had gathered that evening so willingly at the Delacroix Manor for ‘Le Bal Rosé’, an old-fashioned tradition the Delacroix family had kept for centuries to introduce the young women of the household to society. Minah had described the event, to her friends, as a celebration as equal parts wedding feast, prom, and cotillon where she would officially be presented to the French haut societé, just so her family could reaffirm their social superiority and prove that despite it all, the Delacroix attracted substantial public attention and its rituals continued to command near-universal respect. However, not everybody was there to show their respect to the family, some only wanted to criticize the lavishness of the event, the choice of flowers decorating the ballroom, or the dress pick of the young heiress.

It was not a shocker that the only grandchild of Duc Louis Pierre Philippe Delacroix, one of the richest men in Europe, excited as much admiration as it provoked resentment. Everything about Minah was graceful and delicate. Her every movement was elegant, her words rolled off her tongue with effortless eloquence and her beauty was unique and -as her aunts’ friends put it- ‘exotique’. Elizabeth Delacroix’s delicate fairness and Junho Kwon’s striking facial features had combined to create a peculiar beauty in Minah. She was slender, with long legs and beautiful eyes; her face was finely chiseled, her skin pale and her hair a unique shade of chestnut.  Minah was by any means, the perfect heiress for a household as honorable and prestigious as the Delacroix and so, everybody expected to see her reputation tarnished with one of those shameful scandals that made it to the headlines of heinous tabloids. People like the Oliviers, a wizarding family with delusions of grandeur and an openly recognized dislike for the Delacroix were sure it was only a matter of time before Minah’s image (along with her family’s prestige) crumbled, bringing shame and dishonor to her household.

However, in the modern world that most “mythological mummies” (like Johannes Casablancas called anyone older than thirty) didn’t understand just yet, falling victim of a real scandal took more than just a casual hook-up or a crazy party night. Kids those days were far ahead of their clumsy parents and above those ridiculous life-shattering scandals that seemed to have been pretty common in the past.

“Teen pregnancies are for dummies and uneducated Americans” Jane Durand scoffed as she put away the latest issue of “Witch Cosmo” with a disgusted face. The girl had been lying on the carpeted floor of Minah’s study room for solid twenty minutes, kicking her legs up in the air as she chewed a strawberry flavored bubble gum whose scent now lingered in the air mixed with the fragrance of the freshly cropped lilies Julien had gifted Minah and the seawater smell of his perfume. “What can’t adults understand about protection and contraceptives?” She inquired, glaring at the magazine open to an article titled ‘Why abstinence is the right choice for young witches?’

Her comment made Antoine de Lapin, her best “guy friend” blush like the inexperienced teenager he could’ve been if it wasn’t for Jane’s willingness to teach him one or two -or dozens- things about women. Sitting on the desk, he fidgeted nervously with the silver wristband Minah had gotten him for his birthday a few weeks ago and avoided looking at Jane or Julien, who was clicking his tongue at the blonde’s rambling.

“Don’t tell Minah her aunt gave us that magazine or she’ll avoid us for the rest of the summer out of pure embarrassment” Julien warned, although he didn’t really believe his friend could keep her mouth shut about Minah’s grandaunt, Adelaine, trying to give them ‘the talk’.

“You aren’t worried she might feel strongly inclined to follow that advice, right?” Jane retorted, eyeing the open magazine once again, this time with a huge smirk crossing her lips.

Before Julien managed to scold Jane for even suggesting his words held anything other than sincere preoccupation for their friend, there was a loud thud. The three friends immediately turned their heads to find Johannes Casablancas lying on the floor, eyes narrowing in pain after failing to properly climb the last step into the room, through the open window, and landing on his bum.

“Ugh. I did not need that mental image” The guy skipped any greeting and frowned, turning to give Jane a severe-looking glare. Johannes Casablancas was the eldest of the bunch and by far the most judgmental, although Jane liked to point out, whenever the opportunity arose, that he was also the most experienced and a hypocrite.

“Why? Does the image of Julien wanting to-” Jane made a popping sound with the gum in her mouth “-Minah’s cherry disgusts you?”

In unison, the three boys turned to look at Jane. A mixture of reproach and disgust replacing their usually undisturbed demeanors. Johannes scrunched up his nose and Antoine looked frankly scandalized, but Julien’s face twisted into a grimace that made him look as though he had just been forced to swallow a lemon whole.  If anything, Jane had always believed Julien’s problem was how much of a prude he was. Otherwise, he would’ve probably been dating Minah for months and her best friend wouldn’t have to make all those questions she had been asking lately about her virginity-loss experience.

“Ugh. How charming, Jane!” Johannes snorted “Where did you pick those euphemisms fr-?”

“How can you even say that, Jane? It’s our best friend you’re talking about, not some fictional character from those books you read!” Jane chuckled at that, frankly unbothered by the way Julien’s voice went up “Don’t ever repeat that again, especially not in front of Minah.”  As complacent and forgiving he usually was with the blonde’s slips of the tongue, Julien looked truly offended this time. The way his jaw locked and his eyebrows furrowed only proved Jane she had really crossed the limit of what he could bear.

An odd feeling of pride filled up Jane’s chest as she rolled eyes at the boy. Then, a brief, but uncomfortable silence settled over the room.

It was brief because a few seconds later the door flung open and Minah Delacroix materialized into the room, cheeks flushed pink and panting as though she had just crossed the finish line of a marathon.

“What happened?” She inquired, looking perturbed by the obviously charged atmosphere. Julien made an attempt to smile at her, but he was interrupted by Jane.

“Nothing, just Julien being a pru-“

“What’s that?” Thankfully for everybody, Antoine de Lapin was tactful enough to stop Jane from splurging her nonsensical comments. Instead, he pointed at the package Minah was holding with force against her chest.

“Oh, this…” There was a moment’s worth of hesitation from her part. “Uhh… This… Nothing!” Minah stuttered, hiding the package behind her back. “Just one of those gifts from my grandparent’s business partners”, she said once she managed to pull herself together.

“Wrapped in a paper from the Owl Post Office?” Johannes asked from behind her, forcing the young heiress to turn on her heel, slightly startled at his unannounced presence and even more unwanted question.

“No-“ Minah shook her head. She didn’t look very amused about Johannes almost causing her a cardiac arrest. “When did you even get here? In fact, why did you come this late, the party is almost over.“ She complained, anger progressively replacing her shock.

“I think that’s exactly why he came” Antoine enlightened, a soft laugh accompanying his words as Johannes gave a confirmation in the form of an energetic nod.

Minah turned to look at the oldest of her friends and her gaze traveled meticulously up and down as if to take in the full scale of Johannes’ appearance. Bulky leather jacket, dark jeans and scuffed leather boots, everything about his outfit seemed out of place in that room and the whole Delacroix Manor. Minah was almost relieved he hadn’t shown up earlier, otherwise, Aunt Adelaine would’ve gone through a second near-death experience in less than a day. The first one being Minah’s choice of dress. A long, but almost transparent Dior gown with a daring low cut that revealed the creamy milk of her skin nearly down to her navel and allowed her to show off her long and toned legs.

“Well, at least you didn’t ditch us for the next girl in your list” Minah let her guard down and sighed resigned, plopping onto the sofa Louis XV, a family relic.

“So while you were gone, we were planning our next night adventure-“ before Minah could react, Jane snatched the mail package resting on her lap “Aha!” She looked triumphant as she read the name written on the box. “Lee Sungjae!” She said out loud, ecstatic as if catching one of Minah’s lies merited her a Medal of Honor.

“Who’s that?” Julien wished his words had not come out as reproachful as they did, but he had already jumped to his feet and strode toward Jane to see the name with his own eyes.

“He’s just a friend,” Minah said wearily.

“I had no idea you had friends outside us four” Johannes also joined Jane and Julien on the task of inspecting Minah’s mail. “Oh… nice handwriting, it seems like he put a lot of effort-“

“Oh, come on, give it back!” Minah protested, jumping to her feet.

“How come we’ve never heard of this Sungjae?” Julien asked trying to sound as casual as ever. It made Jane chuckle, but Minah was too flustered to notice.

“He’s a friend from England. Goes to Hogwarts.” She explained, snatching the package from Johannes’ hands.

“Oh… a Brit…” Julien wrinkled his nose in disapproval.

“So why is this Sungjae owling you? Good news? Is he probably coming to visit this summer?” Jane asked question after question, earning herself a glare. “Oh, mon Dieu! Minah, is that why you’ve been asking me about how I lost-“

“Jane!” Minah gasped scandalized, raising her voice a bit too high for what it was considered appropriate and ladylike in the Delacroix Manor. Everybody flinched, half out of surprise and half out of the sheer volume at which she had screamed. It was almost a miracle Aunt Adelaine had not appeared in the room to scold Minah for her inobservance of social protocols.

“But-“

“No.” Minah cut her off “Sungjae is just a good friend, I asked him to send me a book I couldn’t find here and he was kind enough to do it. That’s it. That’s the story!” She picked the package and shoved into the first drawer of her desk. “Now, let’s get going before I regret it”

There was an evident contrast between the old-world elegance and luxury of the Delacroix Manor, its museum-worthy objects and the impassible facade of its residents, and the rawness, avant-garde atmosphere of Piscine Molitor, its concrete walls and the group of loud teenagers breaking In at night. Minah decided that after a long day of forced smiles and rehearsed greetings, she liked the latter best. Especially when Julien was included in the whole package; especially when times like those seemed to be about to slip through her fingers.

Despite the stress, the heartbreak and the uncertainty of the past days, Minah suddenly felt submerged in a perfect state of peace and relaxation. The soft nocturnal breeze had stilled and the moon hung bright over her head as the latest track Antoine had composed for the guys’ band played in the background. Minah had slipped into a modest jumpsuit that didn’t show as nearly much skin as her ball dress and was lounging on the chairs with a plastic cup of something that tasted like ten percent spirited water and ninety percent ethanol. At her right, Julien dressed in a pair of shorts and a simple sleeveless tee smoked a cigarette as though it was a heavenly experience, his lips sexily parted in a silent gasp as he released the smoke from his mouth. At her left, Johannes —still sporting his leather jacket—, chanted the lyrics of their unreleased song, high on his drug choice of the week. Jane was off somewhere, probably corrupting the morals of the only decent teenage boy she knew and Antoine… well, everybody knew Antoine was that boy.

“Were you talking to him the other day?” Julien’s voice suddenly interrupted Minah’s silent musings. There was evident confusion in her face, so he quickly clarified “The Brit… At my house, when you were whispering on the phone… were you talking to him?”

The young girl didn’t understand whatever Julien meant by that, but once she processed his words, her heart seemed to stop violently for a second.

“No, I was talking to someone else” The memory was still fresh in Minah’s head. It was her mother, but Julien didn’t need to know that because her mother worrying about her was a rare happenstance and it only led to more questions. Questions Minah didn’t want to answer at that moment. “No, it was someone else,” she said.

“I thought you said it was a friend”

Minah took a sip of whatever Johannes had brewed in the plastic cup. “Do we really need to talk about that?” She said dismissively, “You’ve never really been interested in my social life outside you four”

“That’s because we had no idea you had a social life outside us four” Johannes chimed in, before jumping to his feet and claiming he would look for Antoine, who had confiscated whatever muggle substance he had been getting high on.

Minah rolled eyes at her friend’s blatant lie.

“A someone, no gender, just someone?” Julien wasn’t usually so insistent, so Minah let out a frustrated sigh involuntarily.

“Yes, just someone I don’t see often and was delivering some news. Nothing important”

“A friend who lives abroad? Someone from our childhood? Do I know them?”

Minah had never thought a conversation with Julien Toubeau could ever become so unnerving, so she took yet another sip of Johannes’ cheap alcohol and rolled eyes. “Merlin, you’re not going to stop, are you? Seriously Julien, you four know everything you need to know.” ‘At least for now’ a voice spoke inside Minah’s mind. “So stop stressing and let’s better plan our trip to Montenegro. I’m seriously dying to see the Venetian Forts and-“

“I feel you’re hiding something from us” Julien almost sounded angry. “And you’ve never hidden anything from me” He added solemnly. Then he stood up, stripped his shirt off, tossed it on the chair and jumped into the water as if to avoid dwelling on the same topic (which he would have done, had not been for his dignified sense of pride).

Standing by the pool, Minah gulped down the content of the plastic cup as she concluded that Julien Toubeau wasn’t angry. He was disappointed. And somehow that was even worse.

It was past midnight when Jane and Antoine reappeared trying a bit too hard to look casual. Minah and Johannes, who had been sitting by the edge of the pool, drinking the remaining of the unlabeled bottle he had stolen from his father’s bar, only exchanged knowing glances and quietly went back to munch from the platter of red fruits and macarons that Minah had summoned from the Delacroix Manor —leftovers from ‘Le Bal Rosé’, probably—.

“What’s with this mood?” Jane complained with a frown. The set of French muggle music playing in the background could barely be heard over the water splashing sound of Julien swimming his nth lap of the night. “And why is Julien acting as though he’s training for the Olympics?” She inquired with a darting accusatory glance at Minah’s direction.

“He’s just working out” Johannes shrugged nonchalantly. “You know Julien and his quirks”

No one bought that lame explanation, but Jane was particularly convinced that Julien didn’t really enjoy the nocturnal workout. The girl had the strong feeling that her friend was just avoiding Minah for some reason she was yet to know. And she wasn’t mistaken.

In fact, Julien Toubeau didn’t have any intention to talk to Minah for the rest of the night, so he thought it was more convenient to stay in the pool and save himself some pain and humiliation. However, the second he spotted Jane, Julien climbed out of the pool and joined his friends on the uncomfortable task of sitting in silence, which somehow resulted ironic if you considered the animated music playing from Minah’s phone. Antoine knew that Julien was just worried about Jane having another slip of the tongue, so he was closely keeping an eye on her, but he still laughed at the way Julien’s eyes widened when Jane opened her mouth to say something.  

“I’m getting bored here, let’s play truth or dare!” Jane proposed, ignoring the way Johannes’ nose crinkled in disgust.

“Hell no!” Minah jumped on her place, almost surprised her eardrum had not exploited at Johannes’ strident refusal. “Oh, no, no, no” He yelled again right into her ear. “I’m not gonna sit here for an hour while you make out with Antoine and Jules and Minah play coy. I’m out of it” The guy stood up and sat at the nearest chair. Jane pointed out the hypocrisy of his actions because he didn’t want to play, but he refused to leave and apparently he wasn’t against the idea of watching his friends make out.

“Voyeurism” Jane concluded, shaking her head reprovingly.

If she hadn’t been so high in alcohol, Minah would’ve probably recognized Jane’s proposal as the horrible idea it was, but she stayed on the same spot and picked one of the cherries from the platter of fruit, popping it into her mouth in a way that made Julien blush when he recalled his conversation with Jane earlier that day.

“I guess I’m in,” Julien said with pretended nonchalance, which seemed unnecessary since Jane had already caught him gulping nervously.

Ten minutes into the game and Antoine had already ended up confessing he sneaked out with Jane every night of full moon to stargaze, but everybody understood that was a euphemism for fucking under the stars; Julien admitted to using a little bit too much of his perfume when he wanted to make an impression which, Johannes pointed out, had definitely been the case earlier at ‘Le Bal Rosé’; and Minah was challenged to feed Antoine strawberries mouth-to-mouth. Naturally that last part had been an idea from Jane to get on Julien’s nerves and to continue working on Antoine’s confidence, but Minah had shrugged nonchalantly, lifting a strawberry from the bowl and putting it on the tip of her lips before leaning in so Antoine would bite down on it. The juice of the fruit dribbled over their mouths and before Antoine could realize the magnitude of the act, they had delved into a hungry kiss. The kiss could’ve as well lasted a minute or an hour, but when Antoine pulled away Minah noticed with fainting sensation that Julien was on his feet and before she could register he was moving, he had already turned on his heel and left fuming.

Minah found Julien hiding in the dimly illuminated comfort of the locker rooms. He already had a half-hearted insult cresting on the tip of his tongue by the time the young heiress slid on the spot beside him. Of course, he had been expecting to see Antoine or Jane, so his mouth went dry at the sight of Minah.

“Jules” The girl called softly, pronouncing that endearment name she had given him when they were nothing but kids. “What happened out there?” Minah inquired, watching him intently as Julien apparently collected his thoughts. He had known Minah for as long as he could remember and he had never succeeded at staying mad at her for too long, especially when she pronounced THE question he knew she was about to ask. “Are you mad at me?”

Julien felt an icy chill run down his spine as Minah’s gaze fixed on his face. She was looking at him expectantly with those beautiful eyes of her, blinking at his every slight move until he mutedly said “no” and buried his face in his hands.

“Jules…” Minah softly pulled at the sleeve of his t-shirt, forcing the boy to look at her “Why did you run away? You still believe I’m lying to you?”

Julien shook his head

“Then…” If Minah had been better at picking signs, she would’ve stopped asking questions right then, but growing up with Jane Durand had not been a particularly good lesson on subtlety. Minah tilted her head and placed her hands on each side of Julien’s face.

“I am jealous, Minah. That’s it!” Julien pulled her hands away from his face and before she could muster a complaint, he blurted “It was me who you should have been kissing. Not Antoine” Minah evidently wanted to chime in, but Julien took a finger to her lips, asking her to stay quiet. “I know we grew up together as family and I know you don’t see me as a boy, but I do like you Minah and today when you received that owl from whoever this guy is, I just felt like I’ve been wasting time and I was angry-“ He immediately caught the way Minah’s eyes widened and he hurried to add “but not at you, I can never be mad at you, I was angry with myself because I never seem to gather enough courage to tell you the truth, to tell you that I like you and-“

Minah gave Julien no time to complete his confession. She fitted her lips to his and kissed him with a soft sound of satisfaction that resembled a lot to a moan. The kiss started off gently, but thoroughly and Minah didn’t dare to move until she felt her whole body tingling. Julien kissed her back, simultaneously feeling a sense of floating and falling. He had waited for it for so long that now he could barely restrain himself.

“I- I- also- I - like- you- too,” Minah said, panting for air, once they finally pulled away. “I like you too, Jules. I thought you knew. I like you too”

Out of pure instinct, Julien got his arms around Minah, pulling her closer to him. His mind had gone blank and he could barely hide a blissful smile making its way onto his face, but Minah’s next words took him out of that trance.

“I know I will sound crazy, but that’s exactly why I want you to be the first one” Minah grabbed one of his hands and looked up to him with her round eyes, and long lashes batting. “I want to have sex, Jules-“ She shook her head “I mean, I want to lose my virginity with you”.

Minah was already overwhelmed with emotions and shivering beneath Julien’s touch when he pulled her up on top of him and kissed her forehead. He tightly clung to her naked body, wrapping his arms around her tiny waist and watching her with adoration. “Be my girlfriend?” His words came out in the form of a low whisper, causing Minah to tense up almost automatically. An older Julien would’ve never dared to ask a similar question, especially not after ‘deflowering’ the girl of his dreams in a soggy pool locker room. But the fifteen-year-old Julien was still too young and too whipped to understand why his question was so inconvenient. He was also too hopeful to anticipate what happened next.

Minah broke down in tears.

For a second, panic whirled through Julien’s mind. He felt disgusting and guilty at the mere thought of having caused Minah physical or emotional pain. He thought that he should’ve known better than to give in so easily to Minah’s suggestion. He should have told her to think through, he should’ve probably waited and planned a special night for her.

Was she probably regretting what they had just done? Was she revolted after loosening her strict moral values? Maybe it was normal for a girl to bewail the loss of her virginity…

“I can’t, Jules” She said in between sobs. It wounded his ego.

“But-“ The boy let his arms fall to the sides, disappointed and humiliated. It was becoming a recurrent feeling whenever Minah was involved.

“It’s not you…” She interrupted, looking up to him with her rounded eyes glistening.

“No, of course not. It’s probably you, non? He couldn't stop the sarcasm dripping from his words, but Minah didn’t take the offense. Instead, she forced herself to smile at him as she reached to caress his hair.

“I’m moving, Jules” She looked into his eyes, so he would know she wasn’t bluffing or making up an excuse. “To London, at the end of the summer. They are transferring me to Hogwarts”

“Your parents?” There was a turmoil inside Julien’s head. He didn’t know what to say or how to begin, but words seemed unnecessary once he noted Minah’s eyes filling up with tears. “I don’t care. I will wait for you to come back”

“Jules, please” Minah let out a derisive scoff “You’re going on a tour with the guys. Chances are you meet someone and you want to date.”

“I won’t,” Julien said firmly, he ran his hands up and down her back and planted a sloppy kiss on Minah’s neck. “Not after this,” he said, pulling her closer to him, so he could feel the way her whole body responded to him.                 

“Jules, don’t be ridiculous. You know-“ Minah’s words died in her throat when Julien captured her lips in a heated kiss that made her groan.

“Why? Do you plan to meet someone else there?

“In Hogwarts?” Minah rolled eyes in pretended offense.

“Then, there’s no reason to worry” Julien skimmed his hand along her shoulder and up to cradle her head in the crook of his neck. “Whatever spell you’ve put on me will surely keep working until next summer, at least…”  He chuckled lightly, making Minah hide her face in embarrassment.

“Jules…” Minah called his name and hesitated for few seconds before daring to ask a question that Julien had also been meaning to ask —not as openly, of course— for some minutes now. “Can we make it again?”

Julien wasn't sure how they'd ended up there, but he was feeling like the luckiest bastard on the planet.

“Is that even a question?” Minah’s body softened into his while the fingers of his right hand slid into her hair and his free hand pulled her hips toward him.

They say that first times are always painful and messy. There is awkwardness and regrets and even disappointment afterward, but Minah Delacroix was actually glad and satisfied with every step along the way. For one thing, she was glad she wore that lacy set from La Perla that aunt Aurelie had bought her as a birthday gift; she was also glad she bathed in floral essences before sneaking with her friends that night; but first and foremost, she was glad she had picked Julien to be the first man in her life, as cliched as it sounded. Although it had happened in the abandoned headquarters of what once upon a time had been the most stylish Art Deco building of Paris; although Julien improvised a bed on a sports mat. Although there were no candles or lilies or champagne for that matter.