#the second one has a fifty percent chance of becoming a woman
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pipermintz · 1 year ago
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There's two paths a man will take when he has an addiction to jerking off
- becoming a tradcath semen retention anti-porn guy
- becoming a chaos magician and swearing it's the best way to charge sigils
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evilzoldyck · 5 years ago
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Fiancée
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part II
Suppressing down a burdensome sigh, you  looked back at the establishment who regretfully informed you that you were not able to match the prerequisites that the job description required. You knew all too well the insinuation of that statement, coming from a zero educational background and a rather low income class, the echelon of the societal hierarchy was brutal in your pursuit of a second occupation. Instead of quality, values and work ethic, they chose to look at the brands of your shoes and your status in this highly polarised civil structure.
Perusing through the town for any opportunity you could sought out until your heels formed blisters was a normal part of your everyday life, this day though, you figured you could take a short break by resting underneath a shady spot at the bustling market. While you were rubbing on your sore calves you can't help but overhear the excited prattle of a group of girls nearby. They all adorned leathered purses and scintillating jewelleries; young, beautiful and free of any burdens and responsibilities. 
“Have you heard? The Zoldyck family are hosting a formal competition for the chance to win the noble position of becoming a wife to one of their son!” The blonde haired woman reported with wide eyes. 
“Really? That family of assassins are holding a public trial?” Another one with carefully manicured acrylic nails spoke up. “You’d think as an assassin they’d be less privy about this.” 
“That’s not all, I heard that the winner also gets ten billion jennys,” the last one stated. “The Zoldycks are always ostentatious as ever, probably a marketing strategy to lure more girls in to participate.”
“Who cares about some jennys. I’d want to see the groom in question and if he’s really as tall, dark and handsome rumours made him out to be. If I hadn't been engaged, I'd try it out in a heartbeat.”
The blonde woman scoffed and retorted back, “good luck with that, I heard there’s over a hundred girls coming in from all over the world intending on participating already, and that’s just the numbers on the first day. Who knows how many will actually end up in three days time when the trial officially begins.” The group of girls wandered away until you couldn't hear their idle chats anymore, but their conversation still replayed over your mind like a broken record player. 
Ten billion jennys? In three days time? Those numbers alone made you heart skip a beat. There was a strong urge for you to look further into this for a mere moment before you scolded yourself mentally afterwards. There was no reason for you to get involved with someone as infamous as the Zoldycks. ‘The costs far outweigh the benefits,’ you told yourself. Propping yourself back up to your feet, you began to head home once the sun sets beyond the horizon. 
“Mother?” you called out once you stepped inside the shabby hole in a wall restaurant you ran with her. The candle lights all but one had been melted down, making it hard for you to see through the small, dark space. Once you turned around the corner and into the small kitchen room you spotted her cleaning up after a rather large spill which looked like porridge from the stone pot. “Mother what are you doing? You know you’re not allowed to look after heavy tasks,” you reprimanded, guiding her up back to her feet and wiped off the spoiled food from her hands with a nearby towel.
“It’s fine, just a little accident is all.” she waved you off as you continued to clean her hands where you spotted a rather large bruise on her along her inner arms.
“What happened?” you demanded in bewilderment. “Did that bastard come here today? Did he do this to you?” your series of questions did nothing more than to drive her away from you, but the thought of that filthy loan shark landing a hand on your mother made your blood boil and hands shake until you couldn't see anything else. “I’m going to kill him the next time I see him.”
“Oh hush, there’s no need for that,” your mother dismissed as if it was a trivial matter. “I’ll just clean this up and head on to bed-” you stopped her from bending back down to clean up after the mess and insisted that you do it yourself as you directed her back into her bedroom upstairs. Supporting her weight all the way up the stairs you assisted in preparing her bed and tucking her in. 
“You’re such a good kid,” she suddenly cooed, bringing up her frail and roughened hands from labour comfortingly up to your cheek. You held onto it and smiled down at her softly in response. 
“How did the interview go? Did you get accepted?” Once your smile disappeared into a disappointed frown she immediately soothed you. “Opportunities will come and go, don’t fret about it, darling. You’ll get it next time.” Though you nodded along with her words with a small beam, you knew you couldn't survive on optimism for much longer. 
“Good night,” you kissed down on her temple and blew away the fire flickering beside her bedside table before closing the door. Though it may sound impossibly crazy and foolishly dangerous, you knew where you had to go in a few days. Though the chance of you winning may be less than one percent, you would take any chance you had in order for you both to escape the life you currently had. 
The next two days went by in a blur, monotonous and grey as ever, and when you finally arrived onto the grounds of the Kukuroo mountain on the third day have the reality finally knocked you into your senses. Around five hundred girls filling your very peripheral visions stood and crowded in front of the ill-famed gate. Their mere chatter mass assembled together sounded like a roar, intimidating you by the sheer size of the sound of your competitors. Nevertheless, with a determined spirit, you filled in with the massive crowd around you. 
Suddenly, the noise all but halted once an old, feeble looking man made an appearance before the participants, smiling joyfully as if he knew something you didn’t. “Welcome ladies to the first day of the public trial on behalf of the Zoldyck family,” he greeted mirthfully. “We have expected a big turnout and for that we are more than grateful for. Therefore, this morning and the next marks the first preliminary task.” 
“Without further ado, each of you will have one chance to open the Testing Gate, which all of you must know that the first panel weighs around two tonnes and the ones after weighs twice as more as before, you are free to choose which panel to open. If you fail in opening the gate within the first five minutes I am afraid you are immediately disqualified from the competition. There is no need to label numbers as we expect them to go down drastically, I will monitor the first task for the time being and to all of you, I wish you the best of luck.”
There was an unnerving glances shared with each other by the girls, anxious on how to overcome the first issue with their high end shoes and neatly done hair and makeup. Of course, the Zoldycks won’t be looking at appearance to fit the mold, rather it was strength that they were seeking for. You cursed at yourself for not realising it soon enough too, wearing the nicest clothes you had in your closet and even going as far as spraying a bit of your mother’s perfume.
As the time goes by, the numbers slowly decreased with each failure. Some even left without trying, those who went undercover as a news reporter, a media freelancer hoping to snap a quick picture and those who thought they didn’t bear a chance. So far there were only five who managed to open the gate with one or two choosing the heavier panels. Once it was decided that it was your turn, the sky had already turned dark with the moon and the stars hung high above the skies.
Narrowing your eyes in front of two tonne door, you began to lean all your weight and force into pushing it open. There were sweats beading up to your forehead already as you continued to push on forward. “One minute,” the man stated. The minutes turned into seconds and so far no progress has been made. Gritting your teeth you kept your force constant hoping that you could manage to get a crack soon. 
“Four minutes.” Those very words alarmed you, making you lose focus for a mere moment. Though as quick as it came, you fortunately caught yourself, instead you drowned out the crowd behind you, along with time, sound and your senses and the elements of the world. Carrying that energy you had, you honed in on pushing your momentum forward. Suddenly a gap shifted, making you focus on not losing that velocity.
The older gentleman was counting down the last twenty seconds but you couldn't hear him, the ladies in the back watched in awe as you were the first one in a while to make such progress in the last few hours. When the crack widened to a space that you deemed was enough to slip your body through momentarily before the door swung back and crushed your bones, you managed to squeeze inside within the very last second.
Gasping tremendously for air from the overexertion of your strength, you looked around to find yourself on the other side in a quiet, shrouded forests along with the other girls who made it through before you. Once they've acknowledged your presence, they were quick to assess you head to toe with their sharp eyes. 
Of course, you couldn't forget that this was a competition.There was thick tension in the air between you all knowing that these people did not view you as anything but a rival. Taking your spot wordlessly on a tree stump, you waited for the first task to finish with the others and that meant waiting all night and day until each girl has had her turn on the gates.
This waiting game continued on until the next late afternoon when the sun was about to set again. There was now a total of fifty three of you waiting on the other side, each anxious and tired as every second passes. Suddenly, a pair of finely dressed men arrived bearing a stone faced expressions while carrying finely ornate candlestick to light the way. 
“Congratulations on passing the preliminary round. We now continue on with the trial by heading to the estate. You'll do your best job to keep up with us.” Without any further questions, they swiftly turned around and headed into the direction to the top of the mountain. It took you all a second to process what they said before you all followed and began your long trek uphill.
You were no stranger to walking vast distances but as you were currently running without sleep or food it made it quite strenuous for your journey up ahead. Once you've arrived, you’re greeted with the sight of a gargantuan house and in front, somebody waiting for you. 
“These are the ones who passed?” a woman dressed in a Victorian attire with a mechanical visor implored with a testy tone. 
“Yes Madame, should we escort them to their quarters?” One of the worker asked. The lady raised her hand in objection whilst keeping a steady view on all fifty three of you. 
“No need, I shall take them from here, you may be excused.” Without another word they bowed respectfully and left. “You all are here because you wish to make space for yourself in this family. Before you can idly daydream of such foolish fantasies, I will be here to test you all. You will be subjected to many trials, as many as I deem necessary, it will take days, months or even years but the trial will not end until I am satisfied that one of you is worthy enough. Should you break, cry, slip, scream, fall- should you show any sign of weakness during these times you are immediately disqualified.”
“Those of you who are not prepared for such endeavours, I advise you to head back now,” she stated, waiting for anyone to back out of the competition and when no one did, she narrowed her eyes further. “Very well then, follow me.”
There was an insinuation in her voice that tells you no matter what any of you will achieve you may never be deemed worth enough to earn a place in the family. Following the lady of the house dutifully she showed you all to a large room where fifty three futons are laid out in perfect symmetry on the floor along with a concave wood with a stick attached on the middle of the back and a pair of small bowls, one filled with rice and the other with cherry blossom petals for each bed. 
“You shall all sleep here during your time in the competition, those items you see are crucial to your rest. Place the rice to your left and the petals to your right head. The sticks are to prop your head up while you sleep where you will not make a single movement or sound. We will monitor you all night while you do and if I such as find a grain of rice or a petal out of place from their bowls or even failing to keep your head upright by these sticks, you are finished from here on out.” She instructed and before she could add more, she sniffed and grimaced for a second. 
“Be ready by six in the morning, the showers are down the hall to the left.”
Once she left, everybody claimed their spots on the bed and you took yours near the end of the back where it was the quietest. The one next to you was searching for her bowl of petals and you spotted it beneath her futon, out of her line of sight. When you offered it to her with a small smile she snatched the wooden bowl from you and averted her gaze instantly. 
“You shouldn't be here,” she muttered, sinking in her blanket. 
“What?” You couldn't help but ask. 
She rolled her eyes and huffed out an air of annoyance, “you’re going to get yourself killed.” Propping her elbows up to level with you, she eyed you seriously, “you’re not a nen user. We could all sense that back on the gates. Everyone here is a user except for you and that testing gate was nothing compared to what’s going to come. You shouldn't be here, you won’t come out the same if you do.” 
You watched her carefully rest her head on the stick and shut her eyes. Silently you did the same and through the pain and stress of your neck from balancing your head perfectly upright should’ve bothered you, it didn't do as much as her words. Still, you're willing to put yourself through hell, there was no other choice and to back out now would defeat your purpose.
It was close to dawn, and though you were restless all throughout the night you fought the urge to move and stayed perfectly still. Once you woke up however, you saw ten less empty beds. Frowning a bit, you got up to put your bed away and wash yourself before the clock strikes six.
Forty three people now remain and once you have all assembled in the main room before the entrance, the lady from before along with two other butlers arrived. This time she formally introduced herself as Kikyo Zoldyck, the Madame of the house and family. They directed you all towards a large room where a bowl of rice and soup was already prepared for each one.
“You must all complete your breakfast with proper, courtly manners, anything less revolts me. That means you must at all times during the meal to not slouch or make a sound, sit on your heels and eat a grain of rice one at a time.” She ordered acerbically. 
You took a seat to the one nearest to you and waited for their signal for you to eat. Once it was given, you apprehensively picked up your chopsticks and ate a single grain and more or less swallowed as it was so small you could barely taste or chew it. Five minutes have not yet passed when suddenly a girl doubled over, spilling her food everywhere whilst retching into the floor. Everyone turned their heads over to her in horror as they realised what you have all been eating.
Poison.
The smell of bile filled the room as Kikyo fanned her face to waft the air away from her vicinity and gestured to the guards to take her away. The rest of the meal was unfortunate as you struggled to ignore the groans and nausea of the others who fell victim along with the putrid smell around you. Ignoring your innate instinct to reject the food you chose to focus on your mind over matter, no matter what they were going to do to you, it was not nearly as painful as seeing your mother suffer when you could do something about it. 
It was then that your body went on almost pilot mode as you could not recall having any more thoughts or memories of yourself subjected to various torture trials. The days increased into weeks and the number of girls that were here soon dropped like flies. The woman that you spoke to on your first day, she was gone too by the fourth night as you watched the now empty spot beside you as you went to sleep.
Every day was a routine of testing the limits of your strength. Every meal given was always laced with some poison, it has come to a point where you suppressed your urge to vomit so hard each day that now it had sit still in your stomach. 
The same could be made every time you are sent to the electrocution chamber down in the depths of the cold basement where you could spend the whole day being shocked in miscellaneous voltages by the workers who looked like they were enjoying it too much. Or when snow came in, they would strip you bare of your clothes and drench you all in cold water outside. The lashings were always held arbitrarily though, they would only stop until the markings started to show as Kikyo deemed the sight of a scarred back to be ghastly to gaze upon.
Then there were only three, this time however, the task you were assigned was definitely an odd one. Kikyo was known for her admiration of finer things in life such as traditional japanese and eurocentric arts, this task she requires you was to perform an intricate dance. Beauty and gracefulness came later in the part of the competition you guessed. 
Though the level of difficulty was just the same as the previous ones.There was an emphasis on how every movement from the slightest tip of your fingers could immediately expel you if you strayed from the original choreography. For days at night you practiced until your feet would give out or until you heard birds chirping at the sight of the first light of the day. 
When the day finally came to determine your performance you are finally escorted onto the Zoldyck estate, though only one participant must attend at a time and you settled with being the last. So when it was finally your turn, you arrived at a private room where there was a screen that divided you from your spectators. The room itself was beautiful, lit with red candles and carefully carved up wooden walls that tells infinite stories.
You could see before you that Kikyo was not alone this time, there was another sitting patiently beside her. Before you could pry more to try and make out the mysterious figure, Kikyo’s voice reverberated through behind the screen to instruct you to begin. You inhaled a small breath and blinked in shock momentarily. You hadn't noticed before but the floor was absolutely covered in small broken glasses. You knew better than to expect the least by this point.
Clearing your mind as you do with every single trial that you participated in, you stepped forward. You could faintly hear the sounds of small shards of glasses every time you moved as well as feeling the red liquid slowly pooling beneath your feet. Nevertheless, you began without a moment to waste. Twisting at every turn, sliding your feet across the floor while masking your emotions with a stone, cold exterior. Hanging to every last words of her instructions to follow the exact routine. 
You were halfway done with your performance when the other figure suddenly stood up and came closer to the divider. Though you presumed it was quite unusual, you continued on with your dance until the person swiftly cut the screen seemingly with his bare hands to reveal an expressionless, grim man with long midnight hair and as far as you can tell, endless deep eyes.
The strange man that emanated pure darkness stood before you uttered your name in a low breath. “That is your name?” you halted your routine once he had addressed you as you nodded politely in response, looking down out of respect. 
“A daughter of a mere commoner, you run a restaurant with your poor, ailing mother down on an unnamed street. You don’t come from an impressive background or lineage, nor martial training of any skills and your nen has yet to be awakened.” He stated matter of factly. You held your tongue for you feared that you would be the cause of your demise.
He stepped forward towards you, his bare feet coming on contact with the sharp glass and yet no blood came gushing out like yours did. “You know the ones before you, they were the exact opposite. They came in and used their nen skills to protect and form a barrier against their skin and yet you endured even without having basic nen training which I would find quite impossible until this very day.”
“I could sense you are determined, but your heart is set somewhere else,” he came in closer and Kikyo now stood up, her lips pursed disapprovingly. “It is not me that you desire, is it?” The man was impossibly close to you that you found it hard to catch your breath and answer promptly. Judging by the implication of his words, he must be the son of the Zoldyck family.
“No.” You answered truthfully, not knowing whether or not that was the smartest move. He let out a small hum before asking once again, “then why do you do it? Why do you subject yourself to such extreme affliction without any power? Why do you fight so hard just to live another day?” 
“There are those worth fighting for, for every horrible persecution you put me through I will continue to fight.” His demeaning words spark a gust of defiance within you. “And you're wrong, I am equipped with power, something far more greater that no other kind of nen could reach.”
Furrowing his eyes, he looked at you in disbelief, “you're misunderstood, emotions cannot give you strength, they are mere obstacles in life’s objectives. It makes you weak.”
“Emotions aren't weak, they make me stronger, love made me stronger.” Looking into his eyes you saw no trace of empathy within him, you’re not shocked to learn if this man knows no concept of it. “It’s what kept me standing here after all this time.”
He stood still for a quiet minute, silently staring you down with those cold, dead eyes. He raised his arms and for a moment you thought he would strike you down with it and immediately dispose of you for speaking out of turn towards him. Instead, you're startled to find yourself swept off of your feet and held firmly by him, relieving you of your pain while your droplets of blood fell languidly, making a subtle drop against the wooden floor and glass.
“Illumi! What are you doing?” Shrieked Kikyo, holding up her dress to run towards the both of you. 
“The trial ends here,” he responded absentmindedly. “I have found my fiancée.” 
“No! It's only been a month!” She refuted erratically “She is the weakest of the bunch, her luck will run out soon just give it more time! There are far others more deserving with noble titles and background. You are upsetting the order, she cannot take your place beside you, she is far lesser than-” A look from Illumi caused her to clamp her lips shut.
“The sole objective was to find the strongest one to take the place as my wife and strengthen the Zoldyck family, was it not mother?” he asked bluntly. When she didn't respond he continued, this time facing you as he spoke, “I have seen proficient nen-users crumble under the pressures of these tortures, imagine the strength that she possesses once her nen is awakened.” 
“There is no need to look any further then, send the others home.” Illumi finished and began to carry you away from the room and Kikyo who appeared as if she was about to have a meltdown. 
Once the heavy doors were closed behind you, you flinched once you heard her piercing screams that shook the manor as he gave you a small imitation of a smile all throughout the time. 
You did not know whether to let your heart soar as you won the indisputable prize that could set a proper life for you and your mother or shrivel for the future. You could not have imagined in your wildest dreams for the man you’re sent to be wed off to be one that personified death. Just being held by him shook your very core. His aura radiated nothing but darkness, you felt no light in it that you could almost choke from the tension. 
There was no telling that this man would ever show compassion, there was something that tells you days with him would be worse than what you've endured these past few weeks. Setting your gaze forwards you tensed as you looked upon a macabre painting ahead of you, ironically painting your future ahead. 
In sparing your life, you ultimately gave him yours in return, but he and all his family would be a fool if they think they could take your love away.
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be11atrixthestrange · 3 years ago
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The Loft Chapter 4
After a bad break-up, Hermione Granger moves into a messy and dysfunctional loft with four single men. What starts as a temporary home until she gets back on her feet becomes so much more, as she learns there's a lot of life - and love - that happens at rock-bottom.
Inspired by the TV Series ‘New Girl’
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Also on A03 | FFN
More Chapters
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Chapter 4
[Ron]
Ron would best describe the loft as a mess, but a clean one. After hours of scrubbing, the windows are clear and smudge-free, and the concrete floor shimmers with its long-forgotten natural color. What makes him feel most at home, however, is not the fresh pine scent of the couch cushions, but the fact that they're strewn about the floor like plush stepping stones. The boys have arranged them around the trash can in the middle of the room, which is empty save for a dried-up bottle of Febreeze.
Ron's desperate to know Hermione's opinion on the new decor. Despite lifting an eyebrow at the bad doodles of United States presidents and the cardboard cutout of a bald eagle plastered to the wall, she doesn't say anything. She must know better than to think he'll offer an explanation.
After cleaning and decorating the loft, Neville, Seamus, and Harry dispersed into their rooms to make themselves presentable, leaving Ron and Hermione alone in the kitchen to finish up the last of the dishes. He hands her a plate to dry, and she takes it with a smile.
"Thank you for helping, Hermione."
"Of course! But I'm not sure why we're cleaning so much if it's just going to get trashed."
Trashed might be an exaggeration, but she's right in the sense that the new cleanliness of the loft isn't going to last very long. Tonight they're throwing a party, Hermione's first as a loft resident, and she's in for a treat. The boys have been purposely vague regarding loft parties, as any accurate descriptions might turn her off attending. Ron would hate to have her make other plans tonight, whether those be with the girls, or worse, a date.
"Hey, we're not animals. But if it's going to get trashed, it's nice to know it's new-trashed, not old-trashed," he says, earning an eye-roll from Hermione.
"So I'm guessing that this party is America-themed?"
"No. Why would you guess that?"
"No reason," she says, eyeing the miniature blow-up Uncle Sam doll that the boys have been tossing around like a basketball.
"The decorations are just for the drinking game we're going to play," he says, motioning to the multiple cases of PBR lining the wall.
"Right, how do you play?"
"It's not really a game you can explain. You just have to experience it. Nice try, though."
"Then I look forward to experiencing it." She finishes drying the last dish and stacks it away neatly in the cupboard. "What else do we need to set up? Everyone's coming at eight, right?
Ron checks his watch. "Shit, you're right. People should be here soon. I'm going to get ready. Can you start on the beer castle?"
"The beer castle?"
"Yeah. Just stack beer cans in a castle shape around the trash can in the living room."
Ron doesn't wait for Hermione's reaction before he slips back into his room. He rummages around his closet in search of something to wear, something that makes him look both put-together and laid back, ready to party. He lands on a pair of khaki shorts and a pastel blue t-shirt that looks quite nice with his eyes.
He's pretty sure Hermione hasn't seen him in it. Not that it matters, anyway.
He pulls off his shirt and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Surprisingly, he looks pretty damn good. He's a bit skinny but firm and fit. It comes as a pleasant surprise because he's been slacking on his workouts ever since Hermione moved in and he lost his home gym. It's been difficult to exercise in his tiny bedroom, so he doesn't. He hasn't wanted to work out in the living room for fear of Hermione seeing him, but maybe he should give that a try…
With a shrug, Ron pulls off his pants and stands back up. He can't resist the urge to take another look at himself in the mirror. As much as he wishes he was a bit more muscular, there are pros to being lanky. By comparison, his scrawny self really does accentuate his already well-endowed state.
He checks himself out from a few more angles before deciding that physically, he doesn't have much to complain about.
Before he has the chance to put on his pants, the door to his bedroom swings open. Ron startles when it crashes against the wall and Hermione barges in uninvited.
"Hey Ron, I have a question about the beer can castle—"
"Hermione!" Ron, completely naked, scrambles for something to cover himself with but doesn't have time before she's standing right in front of him. "You have to knock!"
She's staring at the two cans in her hands until she pauses and looks up, but her gaze never makes it to his face. Instead, it lands directly on his penis, and she seems to stare at it for an eternity. Thanks to his utter panic, Ron can't move.
It almost feels like time has stopped, and he's frozen there like the statue of David while Hermione ogles him. She appears to be frozen too, eyes wide, mouth agape, staring.
If his dick could blush, it would match the color of his ears, which are bleeding scarlet.
For a split second, he wonders if it's truly as bad as it seems. Maybe Hermione likes what she sees. A tiny seed of hope takes root.
But that hope shatters when she opens her mouth to speak and lets out the worst sound he's ever heard. It's somewhere between a scream and a giggle, and he wouldn't wish such a reaction on his worst enemy.
Without further ado, a red-faced Hermione mutters a quick and useless 'sorry' and rushes out the door and slams it behind her.
Ron stands there for a few seconds, dumbfounded, before the reality of what just happened crashes down.
Hermione just laughed at his dick.
Well, fuck.
Now that he knows how she really feels, he'll never be able to look her in the eye again.
Ron stays in his room until there's a knock on the loft's door, and he has to show his face in order to let in his guests. He's opted for a hoodie over his shirt so he can hide behind the hood whenever Hermione looks at him, because when she does, his neck prickles with heatwaves, and he feels like he's naked again.
It doesn't make sense — Ron's never reacted so strongly to having a woman see him naked, and he's had a decent amount of experience in that arena. He's no Seamus, of course, but he's not a stranger to the occasional hookup.
It's just because she laughed—no other reason.
He opens the door to find his sister Ginny, her roommate Demelza, and two of their mutual friends—Dean and Luna.
"Welcome," says Ron, opening the door.
"Hey, Ron!" says Ginny. "Hermione!"
Ginny crashes into Hermione for a hug, then introduces her to everyone else. "This is Hermione, Ron's new roommate."
"Nice to meet you all!"
Hermione falls into easy conversation with Ron's friends before they get a chance to greet him, but they don't seem bothered by it. He watches her through narrowed eyes and doesn't even realize he's glaring at her until she looks at him and scowls.
"What?"
"Nothing." He turns back toward his friends, hoping they didn't notice their interaction. "Make yourselves at home. Drinks in the fridge, food on the counter, and you know where the beer is," he says, pointing at the beer castle.
Harry turns the music up just as their guests crack open their beers, and everyone starts to relax. Except for Ron, of course. Even though he's hyper-aware of Hermione, he still manages to bump into her and make more frequent eye contact than he'd like.
For some reason, they seem to gravitate toward the kitchen to replenish food and drinks at the same time, and they barely manage a conversation when they run into each other.
"Oh, sorry," she says, trying to slide past him, only for him to walk directly into her in an attempt to get out of her way.
"Erm—"
"I'll go left; you go right."
"Yeah, okay."
Are they always this awkward around each other?
Every time he tries to act normal, all he can hear is her weird little high-pitched scream-laugh, and he just wants to disappear into his hoodie. On occasion, Ron can sense Hermione watching him, but she looks away whenever he tries to catch her gaze. Not that he wants to make awkward eye contact with her, he just wants her to leave him alone.
He continues to keep himself at a safe distance to avoid talking to her, making sure he's always involved in a conversation with someone else. Over the course of the party, he becomes progressively more resentful of how much mental space it requires to avoid her.
Then, like a hawk, she swoops in and catches him alone while he's in the kitchen grabbing another beer.
"Ron!"
"Jesus," he says, nearly crashing into her. "You scared me."
"Why are you being so weird?"
"I'm not."
"Is it because I saw you naked?"
"No."
"It's not a big deal, Ron."
Of course, she has the nerve to act like he's the one who's being childish.
"Oh yeah, Hermione?" he says. "Then why did you laugh? Too immature?"
Hermione opens her mouth to answer, but in the moment before she does, he turns away from her and shouts to the crowd, "Who's ready for True American?"
The loft whoops their approval and begins to gather in the living room.
"Right now?" whispers Hermione behind him. "We're still talking."
But he ignores her.
"The game is True American," shouts Ron at a volume much louder than necessary for the size of the room. "Say 'aye' if you've played before."
There's a chorus of 'ayes' and a room-wide scrambling toward the furniture. When everyone hops onto a cushion, a table, or a chair, Ron notices Hermione looking around frantically, her expression disheartened.
"I'm the only one who's never played?" she asks.
"It's okay, Hermione," says Harry. "All you need to know is that it's about fifty percent drinking, fifty percent life-size Candy Land."
"I'd argue that it's seventy-five percent drinking, twenty percent Candy Land, and the floor is lava," says Ginny. "Which is why we're standing on the furniture. Hermione, you're melting."
"Oh no," she says, hopping up onto the coffee table between the beer castle and Demelza, who extends a hand to help her.
"Honestly, guys, it's ninety-percent drinking and has a very loose Candy Land-like structure to it," says Neville. "There's also a truth or dare component."
"I just need to know how to play—"
"You're smart; you'll catch on," says Ron. His tone comes off a little more terse than he'd intended, so he quickly continues, "I'll start. JFK!"
"FDR!"
Everyone but Hermione shuffles to a new location, avoiding the lava floor, and Hermione is left standing in her same spot between the beer castle and now, Luna.
"What just happened?" she asks, looking confused.
"Hermione, since you're the last to find a new spot, you have to pick someone, and they'll ask you a truth or dare question," explains Ginny. "Just answer and drink."
"Okay, then," she says. "Um, Neville. Truth."
"How do you like loft life?" asks Neville brightly, eliciting a groan from the crowd.
"Neville, you can do better—" starts Seamus.
"It's her first game!" he says. "Let's ease her in. So, Hermione?"
"Well, it's great so far."
"Just so you know, not every question will be that tame," says Ginny from her precarious perch on the armchair.
"Go figure," says Hermione before chugging back a gulp of her PBR.
As soon as she swallows her drink, Neville shouts out, "The only thing we have to fear is…"
"Fear itself!"
When the crowd joins in, Hermione looks around the room, dumbfounded.
"Hermione, you didn't complete the quote," says Harry.
"I didn't know I was supposed to!"
"Well, now you do! Drink, and then pick someone."
"I feel like I'm at a disadvantage since you didn't explain the game," she says, challenging Harry.
"We've all been there," Harry says, shrugging, "It's a rite of passage."
"Fine," Hermione takes a long swig and points at Ginny. "Ginny, truth."
"Sweet!" says Ginny, beaming mischievously. "Hermione, are you attracted to anyone in the loft?"
Ron's ears tingle at Ginny's question, and he tunes in for Hermione's answer.
"Nope," she says, taking a hasty drink.
In his curiosity, Ron has made prolonged eye contact with Hermione for the first time since the penis-incident, but when she catches his gaze, he quickly looks away. Ron's stomach clenches. Not that he wants Hermione to be attracted to him, but after she saw him naked, it's quite the low blow. Trying to look casual, he pulls back a swig of beer.
"Really?" presses Seamus. "None of us?"
"Ginny's turn!" says Hermione, ignoring Seamus' question.
"Alright, here we go," says Ginny, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "Abe Lincoln! George Washington!"
"Cherry Tree!" shouts Ron.
"Correct! Pick a person and an amendment!"
"Hermione, second."
Everyone looks at Hermione, and Ginny tosses her an unopened can of beer.
"I don't understand," she says. "You still haven't given me any information."
"You have to shotgun a beer! And then pick someone to ask truth or dare," says Dean.
"Wait, what? That doesn't make any sense."
"Give it time, Hermione," encourages Neville. "I didn't understand it at first either."
Hermione groans and sets down her half-full PBR, and reaches into her pocket for her key. She stabs the bottom of her can, then tips it into her mouth, chugging it down while the loft's onlookers cheer in the background.
Eyebrows raised, Ron watches her shotgun her beer, trying to ignore the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He never thought he'd see that, and he isn't complaining.
"Yeah, there's no going back now," says Hermione once she finishes. "Luna, truth."
"Yay!" says Luna. "Did you and Ron get into a fight? You've been avoiding each other all night."
Ron's face grows hot. He bores his gaze toward Luna, who is staring intently at Hermione and doesn't seem to notice Ron's glare.
"Is that really your question?" she asks.
"Yep!"
"Luna, you've never seen us interact," says Ron. "How would you know that?"
Luna shrugs. "I can just tell."
"You know what," says Harry as he looks between Ron and Hermione. "You two have been acting weird tonight."
"Is it that obvious?" asks Hermione.
Ron feels Hermione's eyes on him, and his palms break out in a sweat. Once again, his refusal to make direct eye contact probably serves as a sufficient answer to Hermione's question.
"Well, fine then," she says, turning back toward Luna. "Earlier, I walked in on him changing. But it wasn't a big deal."
"Ron, is this true?" asks Harry.
Everyone turns to look at Ron, who groans. "Yes, but as she said, it wasn't a big deal."
His roommates might as well be shining an interrogation light on him by the way they all continue to stare.
"If it wasn't a big deal, why are you all fidgety?" asks Seamus.
"I'm not," says Ron, but his defensive tone suggests otherwise.
"Yeah, women have seen you naked before, Ron," says Luna. "Why is it different with Hermione?"
"Whose turn is it?" says Ron, much louder than necessary. Anything to divert the attention from Luna's oddly specific question.
"Oh, it's my turn," says Luna. "One, two, three, go!"
Luna holds up the number five to her forehead, and everyone else follows suit with their own number. Ron looks frantically around the room and breathes a sigh of relief when he matches numbers with Harry.
It appears that Hermione, who was the last to catch on, as usual, is the only one without a partner.
"Not again!" she says. "But at least that one made sense. Seamus, truth."
"Are you sure you want to do that?" asks Ginny.
But it's too late. Seamus, who is already slurring his words, looks at Hermione and asks, "So, Hermione, what does Ron's dick look like?"
"Dude, what the fuck?" shouts Ron.
"Seriously, Seamus," adds Harry. "That's not even an interesting question."
"Sure, it is! I'm interested!"
"Old news," pipes in Neville. "We've all seen Ron's dick."
Embarrassed, Ron glances toward Hermione. She looks lost for words. "You don't have to answer, Hermione."
"No, we haven't!" says Seamus.
"Really?" says Dean as he side-eyes Seamus. "I've seen it, and I don't even live here."
Ron looks toward the loft door. Maybe he can make a run for it.
"Am I the only roommate who hasn't seen your dick?" asks Seamus, now appearing uninterested in Hermione's answer. When everyone in the room turns to look at Ron, he feels like he's naked in a crowd again.
Ron shrugs. "I guess so," he says, casually taking a sip of his beer.
"When? Where?"
"I don't know, dude. Locker rooms, penis fights, I'm sure you'll see it someday," says Ron. "Can we stop talking about my dick, now?"
"Yes, let's move on," says Hermione with an apologetic glance in Ron's direction. "Just ask me a different question."
"Fine," says Seamus, his words melding together, "Hermione, what did you think of Ron's dick?"
"Seriously, Seamus?"
"I guess we can't," mutters Ron.
Hermione rolls her eyes. "Whatever. He has a very nice penis."
"I wouldn't know," says Seamus bitterly. Then, just as quickly, "JFK!"
"FDR!"
Everyone scrambles for a new spot, and this time Ron's the only one left out in the shuffle.
"Fuck," he says, looking around for someone who won't ask him a dick-related question. "Uh, Demelza, truth."
Demelza smiles. "How did Hermione react to seeing your dick?"
"I picked you because I thought you wouldn't ask about my dick, Demelza."
"Sorry," shrugs Demelza.
"It wasn't a big deal," says Hermione.
Before he can stop himself, Ron scoffs, and once again, everyone snaps their heads in his direction.
"Sounds like it was a big deal."
"It wasn't!" says Hermione. "I mean—"
"Hermione, don't," says Ron, but Hermione continues without a missed beat.
"I laughed at first, but only because I was nervous."
"You LAUGHED?" asked Demelza. "No wonder you two are being so weird."
"It was an accident!"
"Let's move on," growls Ron. "Demelza, your turn." He shoots a glare in Hermione's direction.
"Niagara!" says Demelza.
Everyone brings their drink to their mouth and begins chugging. As soon as each person finishes, they toss their empty cans to the PBR castle in the middle of the room. Hermione, having caught on a moment too late, is the last one to toss it.
Hermione groans. "Harry, dare."
Harry grins. "Well, to make Ron feel better, I dare you to repeat after me. I love Ron's cock."
Ron's ears grow warm again, but they're also buzzing from the beer, which takes precedence over his embarrassment. Also, it'll be interesting to hear Hermione follow through with this dare.
Hermione narrows her eyes at him. "Fine. I love Ron's penis."
Ron sends her a curious glance. She said it so… formally, like she was taking an oath in court.
There's a tense silence while everyone stares at Hermione. "Try again," says Harry.
"Why?"
"I love Ron's cock," he repeats. "Say it."
"I did."
"You said penis. Not cock."
"Same thing!" she protests.
"Hermione, why can't you say cock?" repeats Harry.
"Penis is the technical term," she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
Ron chuckles at the argument playing out before him.
"What about dick?" suggests Demelza.
Hermione stares at Demelza, her cheeks flooding with color. "Why?"
"Schlong? Wang? Knob?" offers Seamus.
"Seriously, what's wrong with 'penis'?"
"Nothing, it's just weird that you won't say cock," says Harry. "I think that should require two drinks for refusing a dare."
Ron looks around the room; everyone nods in agreement.
"Fine," says Hermione before taking a second sip.
As soon as she finishes her sip, Harry shouts, "Give me liberty or—"
"Give me death!"
As assumed, Hermione is the only one who doesn't catch on.
"Ugh," she says. "Dean, dare."
"I dare you to make it even!" slurs Dean.
"What does that mean?"
"He showed you his; now you show him yours."
"Executive order," says Ginny. "Vetoed."
"Why?" asks Ron. "I don't think it's a bad idea. Plus, it would make me feel better." He pouts at Hermione with wide, puppy-dog eyes and grins when her cheeks flood with color. He's well aware that she never responded to Dean.
"Too far, that's why," says Ginny.
"Well," says Ron. "You guys are no fun."
There's a moment of silence when no one seems to remember where they are in the game or whose turn it is. Seamus breaks the silence with a question directed at Ron.
"Can I please just see it?"
Ron groans and rolls his eyes. "No. And I'm going to bed."
"Why?" whines Seamus.
"I didn't think my dick would be such a huge topic of conversation, yet here we are."
"More of a slightly above average topic if you ask me," says Harry.
"See what I mean?" says Ron, as he hops off his cushion and turns his back to the crowd. "Goodnight."
x
After chugging a tall glass of water, Ron retreats to his room for the night, ready to escape his roommates' drunken shenanigans. He changes into sweats, settles underneath the covers, and is about to turn off the lights when there's a knock at his door.
"Erm, come in."
The door creaks open, and Hermione pokes her head into his room. "Hi," she says.
"Hi," he responds, raising his eyebrows at his unexpected guest. "Thank you for knocking."
"So—"
"I'm not naked. Sorry to disappoint you." He cuts her off, aiming for an icy tone, but unfortunately, it comes off whiny.
Maybe he has been acting a bit petty and childish.
She stares at him, expressionless, for a few tense moments and then bursts out into laughter. He can't help but follow suit. Her laughter is quite contagious when he's fully clothed.
"For the record, I'm not laughing at the thought of you naked," she assures him as if reading his mind.
"Sure, Hermione. Sure," he says. His cheeks are heating up, but he's glad it's not from embarrassment this time.
"I meant it, you know," she says, as soon as her laughter dies down.
"You meant what?"
"That you have a very nice—" she clears her throat, "cock."
Ron beams — at both the compliment and her word choice. "You said cock!"
She stands a little taller. "I've been practicing."
"Say it again!" he urges.
"Please don't make me."
"Pretty please—"
"Fine," she says, taking a step, so she's fully in the room. The door closes behind her. "Cock. Dick. Schlong. Willy."
"Okay, now you're embarrassing yourself."
"Give me more words," she says, now grinning. "I want to prove that I can do it."
"Okay, why don't you try Peter Pecker. Big Red. The Orange Cannon."
Hermione's face flashes red, and she slaps a hand to her mouth.
"Too much for you?" asks Ron.
"Did you nickname your penis?"
"No!" Ron protests, although his flushing cheeks likely give him away. "Those are from former lovers."
"Oh, well, I'm not going to say them then."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not your former lover," she argues.
He catches a slight emphasis on' former' and forces himself to keep his expression neutral. Maybe some good will come from the penis incident. Either that, or he's imagining it.
"While technically true, I still want to hear you say them."
"Too bad."
Thankful that the awkwardness seems to be dissipating, Ron grins at her. "Then you'll have to make it up to me another way."
As soon he speaks, he winces, hearing the implication of his words a moment too late. Did he actually just say that?
Hermione doesn't waste any time with her response. "How? By making it even?"
Ron cannot interpret her expression — it almost looks like she's trying to keep it neutral. In his effort to decipher it, he hesitates for too long, and by leaving her comment hanging, he might as well have agreed.
"That was actually what I came in here to do," she says, biting her lip.
"Really?"
"Yes."
At this point, it feels like his whole face is on fire, and Hermione's smirk isn't helping at all. He can't bring himself to look away from her eyes nor say anything, as the air feels too thick with tension. She could be bluffing, but he has no desire to call her on it if she is.
Is she joking?
His question answers itself when Hermione averts her eyes to the ground and hooks her thumbs at the hem of her shirt.
Holy shit. She's not.
Hermione keeps her eyes on the ground, and Ron can't help but grin at how her cheeks turn bashfully pink. He wishes he could help it because he's definitely beaming like an idiot. With a deep, nervous breath, she pulls her shirt up and over her bra—
She's not wearing a bra.
Fuck.
Ron lets out a breath that he didn't even know he was holding. "Well damn, Hermione."
Still holding up her shirt, she meets his gaze. "Yes, Ron?"
"You have amazing… knockers."
"Ron!" she says, shoving her shirt back down. He immediately misses the view, but he doesn't regret his word choice. "They're called breasts."
"Boobies. Bing Bongs. Spongey love mountains."
"And I'm the immature one?"
"Jesus, woman, just take the compliment! I'm trying to tell you that I love your tatas." He speaks before he can filter himself, hoping she doesn't read too much into his phrasing. There's nothing wrong with showing appreciation, after all.
She lets a small smile at his admission but quickly narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her now fully-clothed chest. "If I have to say cock, you have to say breasts."
"Sorry, Hermione," says Ron, his tone veering dangerously close to flirtation. Then, feeling a bit bolder, he continues, "what I meant to say is you have wonderful breasts."
Her face tinges red, and she smiles smugly. "Thank you, Ron."
"You're very welcome. Your turn."
"What?"
He motions toward his pants. "I want to hear you say it again."
She groans. "Fine, but this is the last time."
"Sure it is."
She rolls her eyes before continuing. "Ron, you have a lovely cock."
His breath hitches in his throat. Hearing her say that again definitely does something to him, and it's not helped by the sincerity in her tone. She's not lying. As a result, his hair stands on end, heat pools in his stomach, and he's thankful for the positioning of his bed covers.
"Thank you, Hermione," he responds, looking directly into her warm brown eyes. Reflecting her slight smile, they appear softer and darker than usual, as if they're deep in thought.
Ron and Hermione keep eye contact for a few elongated seconds before the awkwardness of the interaction kicks in, and they avert their eyes, looking anywhere but each other. What an odd conversation to have with a roommate.
"I should go to bed," says Hermione, pointing at the door.
"Erm, yeah. Me too."
"So I guess I'll see you in the morning?"
"Good night," he says, but Hermione's already out the door. He sighs.
It shuts behind her, and Ron turns off the light and leans back in his bed. When he closes his eyes, the image of Hermione's perfect breasts is still fresh in his mind, and he makes no effort to let it morph into something else because who knows if he'll ever get to see them again.
Why would he? She's just his roommate.
Yeah. I'm definitely attracted to my roommate.
A smile creeps onto his face. It feels good to admit it, even if it's only to himself.
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seiin-translations · 4 years ago
Text
2.43 S1 Chapter 4.2 - Drifting Yunichika
2. BOYS’ NIGHT
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I’m back...for real this time
Translation Notes
1. Japanese rooms are often measured by tatami mat. A tatami mat is about 1.65 square meters.
2. Vabo-chan is a mascot character created by Fuji TV that shows up during volleyball game broadcasts. It’s basically a white ball with hands and feet and creepy looking eyes
3. The “itoko”/Itoko pun is back! Itoko is the Japanese word for cousin and also Kuroba’s cousin’s name
Previous || Index || Next
Seiin High School was built on a slope at the foot of a mountain. It took fifteen minutes to climb up the hill from the school building, and the training camp was located in a place where you had to push through the woods of the mountain behind the school. It was a one-story wooden house that was in all probability haunted, rumored to have existed before the school was founded. The mountain was also owned by the school, and at the end of the first semester, all the first-year students were sent to collect firewood for the school festival campfire. The memory of being eaten alive by mosquitoes was fresh in his mind. Even though he wasn’t stung, just walking into the woods brought back the itchiness he had felt all over his body.
From July 26 to 30, this would be the lodging house for the boys’ volleyball team’s summer training camp. Two days after training camp was over, the Fall Tournament would be coming up from August 1 to 3. It was a one-off tournament that wasn’t connected to Nationals, but it was a chance for them to check well their team was doing as well as to gauge the strength of the other schools so that they could make final adjustments for the Spring Tournament prefectural preliminaries at the end of September.
The house was a minimalist structure, with a twenty-mat (1) Japanese-style room, kitchen, canteen, and communal washrooms for men and women, and the facilities were also very simple. It of course didn’t have luxury items like air conditioners installed, just an old-fashioned electric fan in the canteen.
“I wish there’s a fan in this room too…”
After the study session in the canteen had finished, he was lying on his stomach at the edge of the Japanese-style room to cool off when Okuma stepped on his back and he let out a “Gueh” like a crushed frog. “Wait, it’s coming out, the food I ate.”
“Hey, where did Haijima go?”
“Please don’t treat us as a set. Didn’t he get caught by Aoki-senpai and is still in the canteen? Aoki-senpai doesn’t seem like he’d be satisfied he can’t do something about his modern lit.”
When they got their results back from their end-of-term tests for the first semester, the academic abilities of the new recruits had become joke material for their seniors. Kuroba was good at Japanese overall, but in most other subjects he just barely avoided failing. Haijima, on the other hand, was…
After the seniors exclaimed “Whoa…” in astonishment at his amazingly high marks in subjects that had to do with calculation and memorization, the eye-avertingly awfulness of his writing subjects made them fall down and say, “Never mind…”
“Haijima seems uncomfortable with Aoki-senpai. He looks like he hates him.”
Futons were already laid out in the Japanese-style room. It was four futons in two rows, with the pillow side facing each other. They had laid them out themselves, so it was quite messy. Hokao and Uchimura, who had already taken up positions on the middle two futons that formed a second-year island and were fully ready to sleep, lifted their heads off their pillows and said, “Oh, that—”
“Haijima got kicked by Aoki-senpai because he pissed him off, right? In April.”
“Has Aoki-senpai ever gotten angry?”
“He’s scary when he’s angry. No, it’s more harsh rather than scary.”
“Aoki-senpai gets harsh when he’s angry, and it’s Kanno who’s scary when he’s angry.”
Hokao and Uchimura looked at each other and stifled laughter. The various sounds of summer insects continually fell like a gentle drizzle, constantly beating against the awning of the porch. When the storm shutters were fully slid open, they felt a moderately comfortable breeze. However, mosquitoes also flew in, so mosquito repelling incense stood in the four corners of the room making thin plumes of smoke.
The mixture of incense smoke and the remaining scent of the yakiniku was already thickly staining the T-shirts they had changed into after practice. I might have eaten too much meat…my stomach hurts… Well, the excess calories could be easily consumed in tomorrow’s practice, and in any case, Kuroba didn’t have such a delicate body that a weight change of one kilogram or around that could affect his jumping power. By the way, Okuma was the only member of the team who was required to lose weight. He had too much muscle mass.
“It’d be boring if Haijima wasn’t here.”
“Is there something interesting?”
When he tried to get up, Okuma sat astride his back. “Heavy…I really am too full…” And that’s why you’re so irritating… Moreover, he chose the right person. It was detestable that he thought he could get away with this kind of messing around with Kuroba, but didn’t do it with Haijima.
Okuma thrust his cell phone into his face from behind. His phone was the latest model with a big screen. The moment his eyes landed on the screen, Kuroba stopped his complaints with an “Oh? …” and gulped. It was a video of a woman with a lot of exposed skin, so to speak, squirming and moaning on white sheets, with one thing or another being done to her. “Senpai, turn up the volume a little bit. I can’t hear.” He attached himself to the screen in spite of himself and strained his ears.
“Huh, you reacted normally. I thought you’d be more embarrassed since you seem so innocent.”
“I have an older cousin, so he shows me a lot of this stuff. Hey, the volume. How do you turn up the volume on this thing?’
“Idiot, the third-years will hear it. You got a voice fetish or something? Boring, I knew I should wait for Haijima’s reaction.”
“Ah…so mean.”
He was about to grab his phone away, but Okuma snatched it away from him.
“Oh, speak of the devil.”
Kanno and Haijima appeared at the door of the room while talking about something. Judging from Haijima’s gestures, it seemed that they were talking about the duo they had been playing as all day. Or rather, that was the only thing Haijima could talk about in such an assertive way.
“Hey, hey, come over here, you two.”
Okuma was beckoning them over with a scheming look on his face, and the two looked at each other dubiously before coming over.
“What is it?” Kanno said politely, even though they were in the same school year.
“The curry recipe. You two are in charge tomorrow.”
As soon as Kanno peered into the phone screen Okuma pushed into their faces, he let out a “Wah” and turned his face away. While holding the edge of the phone between his fingertips and passing it off to Haijima, he pulled his hood down over his eyes. “I’m not too good with this kind of thing.”
“Oh. I see, I see. So you’re used to seeing it with Suemori-san.”
“Haa!?”
He suddenly snapped. It was the first time they heard Kanno’s angry voice, so Kuroba and Okuma unconsciously bent themselves back. Even Hokao and Uchimura, who had known him for a long time, started on their futons.
“Aren’t you going out with Suemori-san?”
“Absolutely not, and if you ever try to bring that sort of topic up with Ibara-cha…Suemori-san…”
His voice went a tone lower, and there was even bloodlust rising up from his shoulders. The aura of Kanno, who was usually quiet, and if anything, had practically no presence, suddenly swelled, frightening Okuma, who was fifty percent wider. Kuroba took that opportunity to crawl out from under Okuma’s buttocks. Hokao and Uchimura looked at each other under their pillows, whispering to each other, “We warned him that he’d be scary when he gets pissed off…” “Right?”
“S-sorry, sorry. I won’t say it again…” Ibara-chan, Okuma mouthed, looking like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t seem to have the courage to make fun of him to his face anymore.
“As long as you understand.”
Kanno said, then easily retracted his harsh look and reverted to his usual low-key presence. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie, walked with sliding steps to the wall where his things were, looking like a ghost floating a few centimeters off the floor.
“Haa… So which one of us has a girlfriend?”
Okuma sat crossed-legged on the porch, facing the room, and ended up tossing out a blunt question without having learned anything at all. Hokao, Uchimura, and Kuroba all looked away vaguely. If he had one, the most exciting event during the summer vacation of his first year in high school would not have been a boring thing like a team training camp.
“This is so sad. You’re young, so you should be hungrier. The captain doesn’t look like he has a girl at all, and the only one who might be popular is the vice-captain?”
Okuma played innocent and judged others with his own arbitrary impressions.
“So, how about you, Haijima?”
When he finally brought up the subject to Haijima, Kuroba secretly felt something like a sense of superiority, thinking, This guy still has no idea at all.
Volleyball was his lover. Or rather, if volleyball was one of the opposite sex, Haijima would no doubt become her obstinate stalker. If he had a girlfriend, that would definitely be a cataclysm. Haijima, who was watching the video with his fingers pressing the earpieces of his glasses and looking like he was seriously trying to decipher a curry recipe, answered bluntly, “I don’t, and I never had one.” Just when he thought, There you go,
“Well, that’s what I thought. You seem to have completely matured from kind of stuff.”
“I did have a girl I liked.”
He doubted his ears because Haijima had reluctantly answered back to Okuma.
“Se…seriously!?”
Without thinking, he got up from lying on his stomach and crawled over to Haijima. “She’s an actual human being, right!? She’s got proper arms and legs, right!? Ah, Vabo-chan (2) does has arms and legs, but they’re not human, so wake up!” “What are you talking about…Why Vabo-chan?” Haijima screwed his face up. Okuma was doubled over laughing on the porch.
“Vabo-chan! That’s hilarious, Kuroba!”
Hokao and Uchimura had collapsed onto their futons, making strange laughing noises. Even Kanno was crouching in front of his bag with his shoulders shaking furtively. “…What does it mean?” Haijima was looking more and more reluctant. “No, I didn’t say that to make you laugh, senpai. It’s a problem that seriously needs to be examined.” “What do you mean?”
“What are you are getting noisy about? I’m turning off the lights.”
It seemed that the clamor could be heard all the way in the canteen, as Oda looked in from the door with a severe look on his face.
“Good grief, save your strength or you’ll regret it to the point of vomiting tomorrow. And I mean that literally.”
From behind Oda, who lowered his voice and gave off a sense of danger, Aoki also appeared, bowing his head to avoid scraping his head against the lintel.
“You remember me saying that those who can’t sleep will do dashes on the slope, right? Okuma, you seem to be the most energetic one here.”
“Not at all. I can fall asleep in a second.”
Okuma shoved his phone under the stomach of his T-shirt and dived into his futon. Hokao and Uchimura were now pretending to be dead, and Kanno, who was at the bags until just a while ago, was quickly tucking himself into his futon before they knew it. Somehow, the beds were arranged by seniority, with the two third-years on the innermost territory, the four second-years in the middle territory, and the first-years Kuroba and Haijima in the territory near the door.
As soon as the ceiling lights were turned off and darkness fell, the room that had been full of clamor and noise suddenly became strangely quiet. Immediately after, they began to hear someone snoring. Ten to one, that deep and throaty snoring belonged to Okuma. He was jealous that he really could sleep in a second.
Even when he laid down and closed his eyes, Kuroba couldn’t go to sleep easily. It was true that his body was exhausted from the first day of training camp, but his head was strangely clear.
He opened up his futon, turned over, and then stared into the darkness. A blue light, slightly brighter than the indoor lights, shined in from the porch, and the jagged shadows of the trees pierced into the night sky. Mosquitoes buzzed in his ears, and he waved them away in irritation.
…Mmm. Can’t sleep. I feel too excited for some reason.
He turned over again, and this time he was lying on his stomach and hugging his pillow. “Hey,” he whispered, leaning forward. “You up?”
He saw the head moving slightly on the pillow that was lined up face-to-face with his.
“Go to sleep.”
A curt voice responded to him in the darkness.
“I can’t, though.”
“Then go run outside.”
“Hey, when did you like that girl? It wasn’t when we were at Monshiro Middle, was it?”
“I told you to go to sleep. You think this is a school trip or something?”
“It’s definitely not Itoko, right?” (3)
There was the rustling of clothing, and the hair that had been hanging down on the pillow rose up. Haijima also lied on his stomach and stretched his neck towards him over his pillow. His brow was wrinkled and his eyes were narrowed so much that he looked positively villainous.
“Why are you talking about ‘itoko’?”
“Ah, did you just call her by her first name!?”
He was so shocked that his voice became louder. Haijima’s expression became even more grim, and he abruptly swept his hand off to the side of his pillow. When he was wondering what was going on, he grabbed his glasses that were caught on his fingers in a careless but familiar manner, put them on, and then thrusted his face at him again.
“Are you still seeing that cousin of yours?”
“Seeing…wh-what are you talking about, we’re not seeing each other at all! We go to different schools, I don’t really have any feelings for her, and she’s like a sister-in-law.”
As he was listing that off in a shrill and excited voice, …Hmm? Something doesn’t seem to be meshing… When he really thought about it, he didn’t remember Haijima and Itoko having any interaction with each other, and since it was Haijima, he might not even recognize Itoko’s name.
“…By cousin, do you mean Yori-chan?”
Haijima frowned and tilted his head as though to say, What are you talking about?
Yorimichi, his cousin who was three years older than him (but third-rate) had left town in spring to go to university. Kuroba also had the feeling that he was let go because his relatives found him unmanageable.
“I have nothing to do with Yori-chan anymore. We haven’t even been in touch.”
“If that’s the case, then you wouldn’t be getting so worked up.”
“I’m not getting worked up about this…”
The light from the window that was shining in from the balcony was suddenly blocked. He shut his mouth with a start and jerked his neck around, and saw a long and skinny shadow crouched beside his futon, as though one of the creepy trees he had seen outside had snuck in.
“Aoki-senpa…i…”
Two long arms reached out and grabbed the two’s heads firmly. The two drew in their necks with an “Ugu” as their heads were lifted up like in a crane game. “Idiots…” they heard one of the second-years mutter with a mixture of exasperation and sympathy.  
“Since you two seem so eager to go running, I’ll grant your wish. Twenty hillside dashes.”
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transsergio · 4 years ago
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Emotions That I Simply Do Not Have (Read on AO3)
Chapter 3 - His And Hers, For Better Or Worse Chapter 2 - I'm Not Gonna Repeat Myself Chapter 1 - More Like A Relapse
Penemily + Hotchreid / Mature / 2011 words in this chapter
Emily and Penelope put their plan into motion; Spencer arrives. (This is the final chapter of this fic! thank you to everyone who kept up with it this week!)
Hotch’s advances stop. Or, become marginally less obvious.
In his third text this week, Hotch asks, “Do you need anything from break room?” It is only Tuesday. Emily knows that if she lifts her head, she will see his beady black eyes through the glass. He’ll be staring at her, hoping to see her fingers working over her tiny keys, telling him that yes, she’d appreciate a bottle of water or any other menial task that will bring him out to the bullpen. She’d rather text Penelope to peek through the security cameras, to see exactly how far their one-night stand has gotten her. Yes, sleeping with the boss comes with great advantages, like your office becoming a cage.
Emily does her paperwork in silence. She’s hellbent on leaving at four forty-five, no matter what Hotch might throw at her to keep her in his line of sight. At four thirty, Emily turns off her cell’s ringer. She is escaping to her salvation, a night of face masks and a season rerun of the Bachelor with her girlfriend. As she closes down her computer and organizes her files, she glances about. Derek is long gone, citing a date with his television, couch, and dog. Reid finished his work hours ago, but plays chess against himself until Emily’s ready to head out together. And JJ is on a phone call, likely with Will, likely about to tell their son she’ll be home a little late again. Emily doesn’t see Rossi, but at his age, you never know how many bathroom breaks he’ll need.
As Emily rises with her back to Hotch’s door, Reid follows. They head to the elevators. She’s excited to dish about her later plans, as Spencer is her only known ally outside of Penelope. In return, Spencer tells her about his last date.
“You’re saying he forced you to make eye contact?” Emily asks as the elevator encapsulates them.
“Yeah. It was the most uncomfortable dinner I’ve had yet. Every time I was looking elsewhere while I spoke, he’d say, ‘Eyes on me.’ I don’t think we’ll be going out again,” Spencer adds with a chuckle.
Emily raises her eyebrows. “No kidding. Maybe we could get him on some kind of watchlist for bad first impressions.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I did block his number before the night was over.”
Emily laughs and bumps Spencer with her elbow. “I don’t blame you.”
The elevator dings and releases them on the parking level. Emily makes for her car and Spencer for the subway, despite Emily’s repeat offer to drop Spencer off herself. A part of her is glad, though. She wants to get home fast and not leave a second empty.
By home, of course, she means Penelope’s apartment in all its purple and glitter. They’re settled in her living room by five-thirty, television hooked up and face masks elegantly adorned, a blanket solidifying them as one happy mass. They plow through three episodes before they remember the masks could’ve come off halfway through the first, and that they haven’t ordered dinner.
“Pizza sound good?” Emily emerges from their cocoon, stretches, and finds Penelope’s stash of takeout menus in the kitchen.
Penelope joins her at the counter. “Hm. Maybe Thai? Wait, what’s with the face?”
“Nothing.” Emily tries to mask her shudder. “Just… Hotch, he mentioned something about Thai in one of his messages.”
“What, did it give him diarrhea?” Penelope teases. She looks for Emily’s little smile and the crease between her eyebrows, the sign that Penelope was funny even if Emily won’t admit it. It doesn’t come. Penelope recalibrates. “No worries. We'll get something else then.”
“I’m sick of it, Pen,” Emily says. She slaps the menus down. “If he’s making my job harder and me less effective, why should I stay in the department? Our communication is horrible, I’m agitated in the field, and I can’t get him to stop. I’m running out of options.”
“Okay, slow down.” Penelope rubs Emily’s back in light, soothing circles. “You’re hungry and fed up, and you have every right to be, but let’s have some food before making big decisions like leaving the job that lets me call you every hour. I’ll pick. You get comfy. Go, shoo.” And she scoots Emily into the living room with a pat on the ass.
“Fine,” Emily raises her hands in surrender, “fine, I’m going.”
When dinner arrives (gyros from the Mediterranean place a couple blocks over), Emily devours hers. It’s gone before Penelope can pry the foil from her own meal, and Emily’s head is where her plate used to be.
“Oh, Angel,” Penelope sympathizes. “It’s going to be fine.”
Emily nods against the table. “Yeah, I think so. But I don’t want him fired. He’s a good leader, and he needs this job. His wife died, and before that they were in witness protection. That’s got to do something to a person, right? He risked everything and he lost it all.”
Penelope chews thoughtfully. “Maybe we don’t need to get Hotch fired, but we can play it like survival of the fittest – as long as you’re faster than somebody else, he won’t catch you.”
“What?”
“I was watching this thing on the Discovery channel about jungle cats hunting and how they go for the weakest of the pack. It was really sad because you don’t want the lions to starve and at the same time you don’t want the antelope to die, but that’s not the point. If we latch him onto someone else, he’ll forget all about you.” Penelope wipes her hands clean. “Like magic, you’re free!”
For a moment, Emily has hope. Of course they can hook him up with someone else. It’s what every classic sitcom Emily raised herself on has implemented. There’s only one problem. “We don’t know any single straight women.”
A wicked smile flashes across Penelope’s face. “Who said anything about a woman?”
*
“Are you sure you want to do this? A workplace relationship is exactly what I’m running from,” Emily says.
Spencer’s voice crackles over the line. “It’s honestly fine. According to the exit polls of the 2008 elections, about four percent of Americans were gay, lesbian, or bisexual. Roughly one-hundred and thirty-one point three million people voted. If every vote counted also answered that exit poll, that would be approximately five million, two-hundred and fifty-two thousand people identifying as such.”
“Yeah?”
“Hotch could be one of them, is all I’m saying.”
“Right. But I want to be sure you’re comfortable.”
“Emily, I promise. I wouldn’t be going if I couldn’t handle it. Besides, if he’s as straight as he looks, we’ll have awkward small talk and I’ll go home. It won’t kill me.”
“If you say so. Oh, I’ve got to go, Spence. Good luck,” Emily says. She snaps her phone shut and turns.
Penelope stands in her kitchen with two glasses of wine. She wears neon pink lingerie, a 1960’s inspired sheer robe with fur trim, layered over a matching slip.
“You’ve got to go?” Penelope sips her glass and leaves a pink lipstick print around the rim. “You’re going to leave me here all alone?”
Emily bites her lip. “Not a chance.”
*
An hour later, Emily and Penelope are curled around one another in Penelope’s lavender sheets. They’re sweaty, warm, and flushed.
“And you thought I couldn’t take your mind off it,” Penelope smirks. Her bragging is part bravado; she’s honestly glad Emily didn’t rip her robe to pieces.
“Eh,” Emily pants. “All part of my plan. I know how you love to be right.” And wow, did it ever feel so good to be wrong.
Penelope giggles and toys with Emily’s hair. She loves this part especially. When it’s just them, sleepy and well cared for, and Emily seems so defenseless. Her eyes are softer, her muscles lighter, and she lets Penelope put her loose strands into tiny braids. But this time, one of their ringers pops the bubble.
Emily hoists herself up and snatches her cell phone from the nightstand.
She turns to Penelope and mouths, “It’s Spence.”
Penelope hisses back, “Put him on speaker, dummy!”
So she does. The voices on the other end are muffled by fabric. It’s as if the phone is being rolled through a load of laundry. Penelope fumbles for the mute button and silences their side.
“It’s a butt-dial,” she says, her heart beating as rapidly as it was just minutes ago. “Oh my god, we really are secret agents.”
Emily tries not to encourage her. It’s thrilling, obviously, but her stomach twists. They’re invading Spencer’s privacy. “We should hang up.”
“Yeah, we really should,” Penelope agrees. Emily reaches for the red button that will disconnect them when they finally hear clearly.
“Um, is Jack home?” Spencer wonders.
“No, he’s with Jessica. If this is about a case, I don’t need to chance him hearing the details.”
“Actually,” Spencer coughs, “this is more of a… personal matter.”
“Oh? What’s up?” Hotch sounds genuine enough. He probably thinks of Spencer like a son. Emily wants to pull Spencer out and abort the plan. This is too far.
“I noticed you and Prentiss haven’t been cooperating well lately.” Spencer says, so naturally. “Emily’s my friend, and I was wondering if there’s anything I can do to help?”
A beat passes. “No, nothing that I’m aware of.” Hotch answers. “I respect you and your intentions, Spencer, but I don’t know—”
Spencer is curt. “I think you do.”
“I do, what?”
“You know. I think you might be the problem actually, sir.”
When Hotch doesn’t respond, Spencer continues. “I think you and Emily have a sexual history together. I think you’ve been trying to repeat that history, and she doesn’t want to. I think you’re looking for a way to forget Haley while you grieve her, and that you believe Emily is the solution. In reality, you’re looking for someone to dominate and let you feel in control while your life spirals out from under you, and for someone who will reject you so these wishes go unfulfilled and you aren’t at fault – the other party is. I think it stems from the guilt you feel regarding Haley’s death, both in that you blame yourself for making her a target, and that you couldn’t stop Foyet from killing her.”
Emily and Penelope exchange glances. Spencer has said everything the team considered privately, and tied it back to Prentiss in one neat, factual statement. All that was left was the aspect the team couldn’t predict; how Hotch would react.
“Do you want a drink, Reid?”
What?
“Uh, sure? What- what kind?”
“I have scotch, lemonade, and Juicy Juice.”
“Lemonade sounds good.”
“Good.”
Dishes clatter as Hotch pours for them. Emily and Penelope wait, hanging up completely disregarded.
A cushion wheezes nearby. Hotch’s voice is now much closer. They can feel his vibrato through the tinny speakers. He asks, “Are you confident in your profile?”
Spencer takes a gulp of his drink. “Fairly so, sir, yes.”
“And if I asked you to prove it?”
“Sir?”
“You’re positing that I want to dominate someone and simultaneously, am hoping to be rejected. If you’re right, I’ll make my move and be discouraged when you give me the go-ahead. Maybe I’ll even have a breakdown. Sobbing, psychosis, the works. Do you want to find out?”
“Okay,” Penelope throws up her hands. “This feels icky again. No. Uh-uh. I don’t wanna know.”
Emily shushes her sharply. They’ve just missed a piece of the conversation. “Hold on, hold on.”
“And you’re sure about this?” Hotch questions.
“I’m sick of everyone asking me that.” The other line rustles into white noise. Briefly, it clears. They hear two gasps and what has to be the fumble of bodies.
Hotch rasps, “Come upstairs.”
“And that’s enough!” Penelope slaps the cell phone shut. “I need some air.”
“No kidding.” Emily shakes her head. “Maybe I missed my shot.”
“You take that back.”
Emily leans into her girlfriend, grinning all the while. “Make me.”
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fleckcmscott · 5 years ago
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Watch What Happens - Chapter 9
Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.
Chapter warning: Swearing, Angst
Words: 3,977
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"Ms. McPhee, thank you for the tea and cookies," Y/N said, putting her mug on the small coffee table between them. "They were delicious. But keep the box of tea cakes I brought, all right?"
In the dark green overstuffed chair across from her, Ms. McPhee gave her a warm look. "They were no problem. It's nice to have company." She hesitated before speaking again. "Do you think you'll be able to help?"
Y/N reached to pet the cat lying next to her on the worn, gray sofa, searching for an answer. Getting the woman’s hopes up would be unkind. But with all the hours Y/N was working, and what she believed she was finding, she was stubborn enough to try. "I don't know what the outcome will be," she started. A soft smile crossed her face in an attempt to encourage the older woman. "But I'll do everything I can. How long did you and your husband live her?"
Ms. McPhee crossed her ankles as she rocked her chair. "Let me see."
While Ms. McPhee pondered, Y/N's eyes surveyed the apartment. It was tiny, and the living room had an open, cream color kitchenette on the end. A mini-fridge was under the short counter. There was an old oven, but the stovetop must not have functioned, because a hot plate sat on it. Half the cabinets were missing knobs, and the drawers no longer fit in their slots correctly. There wasn't room for a table; a folded TV dinner tray was leaned against the wall. Y/N exhaled sharply. This woman had so little - and here she was, having to fight to keep it.
"We moved here in 1942," Ms. McPhee continued, breaking Y/N's train of thought. "After Phil got hurt at Ace."
"Ace Chemicals? What happened?"
"Industrial accident. He had burns on over seventy percent of his body." Ms. McPhee took another sip of tea. "There was no way for him to keep working. And social security didn’t exist yet. Back then it was harder for women to get a job. I was a secretary for a little while, then an operator. But we still struggled, especially with our daughter on the way." Gesturing towards the ceiling, she continued. "This place was a godsend. Most landlords didn't accept housing vouchers. We were lucky."
Y/N wasn’t sure that was the word she would have used. Luck would have been not having an industrial accident in the first place. Or at least having had to struggle less when misfortune had knocked them down. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but admire Ms. McPhee’s resilience.
“You’ve been through a lot.” Gently, Y/N asked, "When did he pass away?"
"Four years ago. Heart attack." Ms. McPhee's lips pursed. "We went through a lot together. I know it's not much, but I don't want to leave. It was difficult but we built a life here."
That Y/N understood. Her parents had lived in the same house for almost fifty years, and had, as they had continuously reminded her, "held onto it during the depression, so don't take it for granted." And, before he'd completely lost himself, the home's familiar walls, carpets, and furniture had soothed her father. If some faceless corporation had tried to push them out, he would have raised hell.
Blinking the memory away, Y/N grabbed another chocolate chip cookie. "You mentioned earlier that people had come by to talk to you. Did they give you any sort of card?"
 "They were so neatly dressed, I thought they were Mormons." They both laughed at that, Y/N coughing softly on a crumb. "But when I opened the door, they just had questions about my apartment," Ms. McPhee said. “I asked for ID, but they just gave me a Renew Corp. card. Then the letters started coming."
"And how long ago was that?"
"About eight months."
Digging into her canvas bag, Y/N found a pen and paper. She took the cap off her pen with her mouth and started writing as she spoke. "Eight months..." When she got back to the office tomorrow, she'd have to check the dates the Wayne Foundation started filing with the court. She felt Ms. McPhee's eyes on her. "Don't worry," Y/N said. "I'm not writing your name down."
Ms. McPhee chuckled. "I'm not worried, dear. I'm too old for that.” She leaned towards Y/N, then, as if she was spilling a secret. “I think those men wanted to scare me. But they just made me mad. Use my name however you want."
Y/N couldn't stop the corner of her mouth from turning up. "I admire your spunk, Ms. McPhee. You're a tough old bird. That's a compliment."
"Well, then, I'll take it as one."
Y/N stretched her arms and leaned forward. "Do you have anymore of those letters, like the one you gave me when we first spoke?"
Nodding, Ms. McPhee stood and left the room. Rising from the couch, Y/N perused the photos on the opposite wall, hanging over the small TV set. She recognized Ms. McPhee, with whom she assumed was her husband. Pictures of Thanksgivings and Christmases with undersized turkeys and tiny trees. Seeing the memories this one family had created in this undersized apartment, knowing how many more people were in this exact same situation, made her more determined to find out what the hell was going on and who was behind it.
Ms. McPhee came back, holding two shoe boxes. "Here. You can have them both."
Taking them from her, Y/N lifted the lid of one and carded through the red envelopes. There must have been close to fifty. "You got all these?" she asked, trying to hide her slight alarm.
"Some are from neighbors. You wouldn't know it, looking at me, but I can be persuasive."
Y/N snorted, remembering their first encounter. "These are very helpful. Thank you. I'll keep in touch, all right?"
Ms. McPhee nodded gratefully.
"Now," Y/N said, closing the box. "Can you tell me where Anderson Avenue is?" She pondered on to say next. Was Arthur her boyfriend? They hadn’t discussed it. But she thought it would seem odd not to know where her boyfriend lived. "I want to visit a friend before I head home."
"What's the address?"
"225a."
Ms. McPhee pointed as she gave directions. "It’s close. When you leave here, go right, then take another right at the corner."
"Thank you," Y/N said.
Passing her, Ms. McPhee opened a kitchen cabinet. "Let me get a bag. You can take some cookies with you."
~~~~~
Stretching her shoulders, Y/N hastened up the sidewalk. The shoe boxes were tucked safely in her bag, making it cumbersome to carry. It felt funny, knowing she'd have to keep evidence, at her apartment. But that was the only way she'd know it was secure. If Matt found the letters, she didn't think he'd kick her out on her ass. There was a good chance he'd shred them, though. That was too big of a risk. Tomorrow, she'd have to invite Patricia over to talk about the bullshit she'd found and, hopefully, enlist her help.
As she approached the courtyard of Arthur’s building, she ran her hand through her hair, then smoothed her pencil skirt with her palm. She wondered if he appreciated pop-ins. It was early Sunday evening and most places were closed, so it seemed unlikely he’d be out. Maybe she was being too impulsive. But it had been nearly two days since she'd seen him. It felt like two weeks. They'd had their nightly phone call, but it wasn’t enough.
After their dinner, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. For most of the evening, he’d seemed comfortable, needing reassurance only once or twice. The conversation had been enjoyable, even when it got heavy (though he still didn’t talk much about himself), and his company a warm presence. She loved how he'd tenderly held her as they'd danced, with her trying not to step on his feet. And the way his hesitancy had temporarily fallen away when he’d kissed her with what felt like his whole body.
If she was honest, she’d been forcing herself to see him less than she wanted to. Having him around her everyday would have been too much for her to think clearly. And clarity was what she needed. She didn’t want to rush into a fling that would flame out in a week. Their connection had become too important for that.
He’d worked his way into her heart so quickly, faster than she could have predicted. When she was at the office, a sarcastic remark or joke brought him to mind. She would recall the feel of his lips on hers at random. When shopping, she sometimes saw an item he might like, a sweater she thought would actually fit or a fancy lighter, and have to fight the impulse to buy it. She didn’t want to freak him out by showering him with gifts before they were a couple.
She took a deep breath to clear her head as she entered his building, then went to the mail area to find his apartment number. It didn't take long: "P. Fleck, 8J." When she went to the elevator, she paused. It looked rickety. But she had enough reading material if she was stuck for an hour or two. Stepping into it, she pushed the button for the eighth floor. The lift thought it over before closing and starting its slow ascent.
Once she arrived, she went the wrong way down the corridor and had to double back. She laughed at her mistake. At least the extra steps helped build her excitement. When in front of Arthur’s door, she bounced quickly between her toes and her heels, then pressed the buzzer.
"Coming!"
The sound of his soft, raspy voice, the anticipation of knowing he'd be with her in a few seconds... She smiled. As she heard the chain lock being slid over, she bounced again, once, feeling simultaneously ridiculous and perfect.
The door opened quickly and Arthur stood there, a dishtowel over his shoulder. Y/N didn't miss how his gray thermal shirt clung to his torso and arms, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He braced himself against the door, his eyebrows creasing in the middle. "Oh, hey. What are you doing here?"
She stared at him, his slicked-back hair from what she assumed was a recent shower, his eyes piercing hers. It took a moment for her to process his question, and she swallowed before answering. "I was working in the neighborhood and wanted to wish you luck before your show."
"On a Sunday?"
She gave a shrug. "It's unusual, but it happens."
"I thought you'd call," he said.
That wasn't what she'd expected. Ugh, he had been busy. She scrunched up her face. "Am I interrupting you? I wasn't sure if I should just show up. I can go if-"
"No." Arthur shook his head and looked down, sighing. "That's not what I meant."
She saw his shoulders tense as his hand moved to the doorknob, which made a jiggling sound when he fiddled with it. Y/N took a step towards him and leaned against the frame. "I've missed you since Friday."
A smile came across his face, slowly spreading from cheek to cheek. "Really?"
"Really." She dug into her bag, then, and held out the bag of cookies. "The client I was with gave me these. They’re for you and your mother."
Eyes flicking to hers, he took them. "That’s sweet." His hand was so close - he hadn't drawn it back completely.
Y/N pursed her lips, a tad frustrated. He wanted her to touch him - hell, he'd come right out and told her. And she hadn't missed the feel of his erection against her when she’d been in his arms. "May I kiss you?" she asked.
A breath of relief came out of him as he chuckled. "Yeah." The cookies were quickly put on the side table. He leaned into her a bit, his voice lowering. "You don't have to ask, Y/N."
"Good to know," she said, grinning at him. Her bag fell to the floor as she wrapped her arms around his neck. It only took a second for his right arm to pull her closer, his hand splaying on the small her back. “You don’t have to ask me, either.”
He tilted his head, nuzzling at her cheek before their lips met, his left hand going to her hip. The warmth of his lithe form against her went straight to her core. A low moan left her throat. The way his lips pulled at hers, a bit clumsy but eager, made her arch against him. She could tell he was holding back, causing heat to settle deep in her abdomen.
He tasted of nicotine and coffee, neither of which were particularly pleasant, but were definitely him. The artificial fragrance of the shampoo he'd used smelled like cheap musk, but was nice nonetheless. And she could have sworn he was wearing aftershave. She sighed happily as their lips parted. "Mm. You smell good."
"Thanks," he answered, backing away, his face flushed. He turned his body so she could look into the apartment. "Come in?"
"I'd love to." After stepping through the doorway, she put her bag down next to the side table and hung up her coat. "I can't stay long, though. If you peek in my bag, you'll see paperwork waiting."
He stepped to the kitchen sink. "I was just doing dishes," he said, indicating the dish rack with his hand.
She went to his side as he put his hands in the water, and took the dish towel from his shoulder. "Let me dry." As they worked in tandem, Y/N heard the radio on the windowsill was playing at a low volume. He had been listening to an oldies station. She wondered if he always had music on when doing housework.
Arthur’s expression was content. He looked her way every so often, his dimples showing when he did. "How's your job?” he asked.
"It's fine." She started drying the cutlery, and putting it on the opposite counter, unsure of where it should go. "My boss called yesterday. I have to go to some benefit on Thursday at Wayne Hall. I'm going to have to find something decent to wear."
His response came quicker than expected. "You always look nice."
She blushed. "Thank you." Grabbing a plate, she continued. "I wish I could bring you with me. I hate these things. Thank god there's an open bar.” She scooted a bit closer. “How about you? Have you had any clown gigs?"
His face remained steady. “It's slow this time of year.”
When Y/N put the plate on the counter, a row of prescription bottles caught her eye. They all had Arthur's name on them, and they were mostly empty. A couple of the drug names were familiar to her: Ahenelzine, Diazepam... Those were for depression and anxiety. She'd taken something for depression herself for a time when she was back home. Without that extra help, she wouldn't have been able to deal with being a caretaker.
She flushed, turning away before she could read the rest. Apart from what was on his laminated card and his terrible smoking habit, she'd simply assumed he was healthy, if a bit tired. Maybe he had a thyroid issue - that would help explain his figure, though she adored it. Or perhaps he just needed help dealing with his mother.
Guilt welled in her. His medicine and medical history were none of her business this early on. She wanted to give him that respect. Until there was a problem, if there was a problem, it wouldn't matter. Not unless he wanted to share that part of himself.
But there were quite a few bottles...
Y/N watched him as he washed a bowl, thinking of the isolation he'd described on their first date, his excitement at being able to show her around his city. The happiness she felt when she was around him, even if he constantly second-guessed himself and was often unsure of what to say. The way he’d tried to comfort her when she’d started crying on her couch. Her heart did a little flip.
He was the same Arthur as sixty seconds ago, before she’d spotted the prescriptions. The medication could wait.
"After the show, I was thinking we could get something to eat,” he said, putting a glass in the drying rack.
She sidled up next to him. "I'd love to. Pogo's is in Chinatown, right? Kao Wah is pretty good. It'll be my treat."
He let the water out of the sink, then took the towel from her and dried his hands. "But I'm asking you out.”
She leaned back on the counter, facing him. "Yeah, but it's your night. It can be a congratulatory dinner and a date."
He turned to look straight at her, his hip against the sink's edge. A small smirk was on his mouth as he shook his head. Y/N saw amusement and disbelief in his gaze. With his arms folded over his chest, he still held himself with reservation, even after taking her breath away at the front door.
She took his hand; it was still warm and damp. It opened as she brought it to the dip of her waist. His eyes dropped to her mouth before a bashful smile took over and he looked away from her. He was so hesitant, it felt like he was teasing her. She cleared her throat. "In case I hadn't made it clear earlier, you can touch me, Arthur. I want you t-."
His mouth was on her almost immediately, and groaned softly in this throat as she brought her palm to his chest. She felt his other hand grasp at her side and pull her close, while at the same time he turned to pin her gently against the counter. Giggles bubbled up in her throat as his kisses changed, surprising her when he pressed soft pecks on her cheeks and forehead. He hugged her close, then, and buried his face in her hair, sighing.
As she ran her fingers up and down his back, she closed her eyes. All right. That display had provided some clarity. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "How did I get so lucky to run into you at the store and the donut shop, hm?" she asked, squeezing him tighter. "And on the train?"
Grip loosening, he stepped away, frowning. "You're not the lucky one." He reached for his cigarettes and lighter, which were behind him on the breakfast bar. He rubbed his fingers together, then put a cigarette in his mouth. "I wish I-"
"Happy? Are you home?" a voice from the bedroom sounded.
Arthur plucked the smoke from his lips, putting it on the counter. "Hold on, mom."
Y/N winced. "She won't be upset I'm here, will she?"
Shaking his head, he turned towards the living room. "I just need to help her get up. Give me a couple minutes."
She watched his form until it disappeared into a hallway to the side of the apartment. Stepping further into the it, she checked out the living room. The place would have been something twenty-five years ago. Now it was run-down, but clean and well kept. The plaid wallpaper, stained from cigarette smoke, wasn't one she would have chosen. Her eyes roved over the furniture. A brown notebook was on the coffee table. And the pillow, bed sheet, and blanket on the couch made her brow furrow. Arthur didn't have a bed of his own? How long had he been sleeping on the sofa? At least she'd had a room in Boonville.
It occurred to her, looking around, that apart from an ashtray and some shirts hung haphazardly in the corner, nothing in the apartment said Arthur. Not the ugly cat candle on a nearby bureau, not the paintings on the wall behind the TV, not the wax fruit on the weirdest metal stand she'd ever seen. It was like he was an afterthought in his own home.
Arthur's voice caught her attention. "Here you go."
The sight in front of her was well-known. He guided the older woman to an easy-chair, one arm under her shoulder, the other holding her hand. She looked at Ms. Fleck's face and faded red hair. It was obvious she'd been beautiful when she was younger. Arthur looked nothing like her, but Y/N thought he must have gotten whatever genes made him handsome from her.
Once settled, Ms. Fleck turned to her. "Who's that?"
"She's Y/N, mom. The woman I told you about." He flicked on the TV.
Y/N approached her and crouched down to be at eye-level. "Hi, Ms. Fleck. It's nice to meet you. Arthur's said such nice things about you." She stuck her hand out to the woman and flashed a smile at Arthur. He grinned.
Ms. Fleck didn't respond at first, almost looking through her. Then she lifted her hand and took the one proffered to her. "I never thought my Happy would find a girlfriend. Especially one so pretty." Her lips turned up. "He talked about you, but I don't know where his head is sometimes."
Y/N flinched. Gently, she let go of Ms. Fleck's hand, then rose to stand and look at Arthur.
He looked as if his mother had struck him, standing stock still in front of the TV with his eyes shut. Y/N had never seen him angry before, but his clenched jaw and the fists at his sides made it obvious.
Ms. Fleck spoke again. “Happy, did you check the mail?”
Arthur’s face fell. “There’s no mail on Sundays.” His answer came softly, voice low and trembling.
Y/N reached and took his hand, then guided him back to the kitchen, away from his mother. "Don't listen to her. It's her illness talking," she said. It was an assumption, but it felt right.
He braced himself against the archway as he lit a cigarette, staring at the floor.
Not wanting to cause him pain, but needing to know what was going on, she asked her next question carefully. "Why does she keep calling you 'Happy?'"
Smoke left his mouth and nose as he spoke. "She's always done that. She's always told me to smile and put on a happy face." His shoulders shook as soft laughter escaped him. "I don't want to be angry around you. I'm sorry." The hurt in his eyes betrayed the smile he wore.
"Arthur, stop, stop," she said, bringing her hands to his face. After kissing him firmly, she put her forehead to his cheek. "It's all right." She carded a hand through his now nearly dry hair. "I'm sorry she said that."
He didn't put his arms around her, instead standing stiffly against the wall. "You should go. I know you have work to do." He said it quietly, almost a whisper.
She worried her lip, wishing he would let her comfort him instead of shutting her out. "Do you want to come back with me? Have some space?"
"No," he said. "She hasn't eaten."
"Are you going to be all right?"
"Yeah. I'll give her dinner and she'll want to go back to bed. Murray Franklin isn't on tonight."
Reluctantly, she let go of him. "Okay." He followed her to the door and helped her with her coat. Her throat clenched - he was still being thoughtful, even through his upset. She grabbed her bag and gave him a quick peck. "I'll call you when I get home. I already can't wait to see you. Pogo's at eight?"
Opening the door, he nodded, his eyes darting to hers for only a moment. "Pogo's at eight."
Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @clowndaddyfleck​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @sweet-nothings04​
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jehaatiade · 5 years ago
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Knight in Tarnished Armor
An Ezra x OFC fic
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Violence, blood, description of injuries, drug misuse.
Summary: Ezra makes a new friend under fortuitous but less than fortunate circumstances.
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“Eight men,” Ezra mutters to himself as he slogs through the hip-high fronds of ferns heavy with sporangia. “I came to this hellacious veridian globe with eight men. Fourteen days from planetfall, and how many of them are left? Not a one. Just me.” 
He kicks a fallen log in passing, trying to vent his frustration. The rotten wood crumbles unsatisfyingly under his boot, and tiny pseudocrustaceans flee for cover as their shelter is destroyed. “Somehow,” he tells the absconding insectoids, “I imagined being the monster to be more gratifying than that.”
He plods on, moving through the small clearing and back into the dense arboraceous embrace of the forest. “No one to blame but myself, I suppose,” he says, continuing his monologue. “I should’ve known better than to sign on with a crew of kips. But they promised me a twenty-percent stake just to teach them how to dig. That could hardly be a herculean task, could it?”
He huffs out a short laugh at his own foolishness, and almost misses the brief crackle of static from his comm. Almost, but not quite. As he fiddles with the modulation settings, the conversation slowly becomes coherent.
“- told you it was a fifty-fifty chance of the cat blowing, and you said hit it!” A woman’s voice, irate, is the first to come through clearly.
“I swear to Kevva, woman, if you don’t fix this then I’m gonna carve you up like an aurelac sac and use your guts for fishing line,” a man growls back at her.
“Oh, fuck you!”
Ezra keys his transmitter, cutting in before the man can reply. “Loath as I am to interrupt a spirited debate, I could not help overhearing your dilemma. It so happens I have some mechanical equipment I am seeking to exchange for supplies.”
“Get the fuck off our channel, floater!” the man yells.
“What is your problem, Pásovec? You’re gonna tell somebody who might have parts we need to get lost just because you’re in a bad mood?” the woman asks. “You’re welcome to join us, friend. We’re at eight-oh-four point fifteen by thirty-seven point twenty-” The number is cut short by a yelp. “What are you doing? Get off me!”
“I have had it with your big fucking mouth,” Pásovec snarls. His statement is quickly followed by a cry from the woman. Ezra’s already at eight-oh-four point one by thirty-six point five; he can make it to their location in under three minutes if he drops his heavy supply-filled pack. “And your bleeding fucking heart!” Pásovec continues. Another cry, this one a short, high scream of pain. “You’re useless to me, and I’m sick of you using up the oxygen I paid for!”
Ezra shoves the pack under the bole of a toppled stump and runs.
The Green has never been more of an adversary than it is now. Vines underfoot grasp at his ankles. Broken branches snatch at his protective suit as he pushes through the trees. Dangling moss leaves protoplasmic ooze in smears across the faceplate of his helmet. Pásovec is muttering in a language Ezra doesn’t understand, but rage needs no translation. Every few breaths, the man’s rant is interspersed with another cry from his victim. Ezra is almost to the site, able to see a small ship through the trees, when her exclamations turn to desperate gasps: “No! No! Get off! No, don’t!”
He skids into the clearing, thrower already drawn, and sizes up what he sees in less than a second: one figure sprawled on the ground, and one figure kneeling on the other’s chest, trying to wrench the other’s helmet from them. He shoots the one on top, and they topple to the side in graceless languor mortis. The violent cacophony over the comms stops abruptly, leaving only the sound of someone hyperventilating.
“Are you all right?” Ezra asks. He holds his position, scanning the clearing for any other crew.
“Y-Yeah.” The woman’s voice belies her claim, shaking like a sapling in a high wind. The figure on the ground starts to leverage themselves into a sitting position, and she grunts with the effort. “You s-saved my life.”
The Green is still, other than the omnipresent dust, with no indication that there’s other living beings within any near distance. Ezra lowers his thrower and starts to approach. “It seemed in my own best interest to assist the individual amenable to trade,” he says as he moves closer.
She gives a sharp bark of laughter, then shudders and makes a noise akin to a sob. “He was gonna kill me,” she gasps. “F-Fuck, I knew he was an asshole but I didn’t th-think he was that crazy.”
“I dare say we have all misjudged someone’s character at some point.” He takes a knee beside the woman, his thrower pistol still in his hand but held casually at his side. She lifts her head to look at him. The inside of her faceplate is smeared with red from a bloody nose that still drips across her lips to trail toward her chin. Beneath the blood, her face is pale. She’s pretty in an angular fashion, especially with those sea-and-sky blue eyes. “Would I be far off the mark to surmise you’d welcome further aid?”
She swallows and shakes her head. “Help me get inside. I’ll make you a- a mutually beneficial proposition, how about that?”
“I do like a bold woman.” Ezra grins, holstering his thrower before he offers his hand to her. “Such a prodigious vocabulary is a marvelous supplement.”
“Oh, fuck you,” she says without malice. She clasps his forearm, and he stands to heave her to her feet. Something in the effort goes awry, alas, and she collapses into his arms with a scream that escapes from gritted teeth. “My knee,” she groans. “I can’t put any weight on it.”
“Don’t fret, now, little bird,” Ezra says, trying to reassure her as he draws her arm over his shoulders. He clasps his arm around her waist, taking as much of her weight as he can. “We’ll have you flying again in no time. Left foot first, now.” Her movement forward on her good leg is more like a hop than a step, but she makes it with only a stifled gasp.
Under mundane circumstances, the walk to the ship’s airlock and the lone step up would be a matter of no more than half a minute. Instead it’s a torturously slow process, punctuated with suppressed sounds of suffering from his new acquaintance. At last, the airlock doors close behind them and the filters begin to cycle.
“You know, you haven’t done me the courtesy of telling me your name,” Ezra says in the dimly red-lit closeness.
She’s still panting from the struggle of motion, and he counts her breaths, reaching four before she answers. “Leda.”
“A fine appellation, heavy with mythology. I myself am Ezra.”
“Ezra,” she repeats. The airlock doors in front of them hiss open, and she gestures forward with a nod of her head. “The med bay’s right there.”
“Then we had best proceed.”
The med bay door opens at a touch of Leda’s hand, and Ezra can’t help but take in the bounty with raised eyebrows. Spotless, sterile, and stocked with enough supplies for years, he can only imagine the amount of aurelac that harvesters would hand over for this level of medical attention. It’s far easier to picture the kind of violence they’d do to get access.
Leda shifts forward when he doesn’t move, listing precariously toward the examination table. Reminded of why he’s here, he helps her put her back to the table and then lifts her bodily to sit on it. She undoes the seals on her helmet, setting it aside, and Ezra follows suit. Free from the confines of the cover, her dark blonde hair just barely brushes her shoulders, and the evidence of her bloody nose is smeared all the way down her throat.
“I’m gonna need your help getting this off.” She pops the pressure seals on her suit, unzipping it down to her belly and shrugging out of the upper half. Underneath, she wears only a white tank top. Ezra notes with appreciation the corded muscles of her shoulders and arms; no mere miner’s mascot, this one. “I can push myself up, and you can pull it over my hips, yeah?”
“A sound plan,” he agrees. He moves closer, unzipping the suit a little more before he grasps the fabric at either side of her waist. “On three?” She nods briskly. He gives the count. On three, she pushes herself up off the cot, creating a few scant measures of space for Ezra to yank her suit down to her thighs. Without being asked, he crouches to remove her boots and free her legs from the heavy tangle. When he looks up, he’s on a level with her knees. He grimaces at the sight; her right knee is already swollen to half again the size of her left, and a dark angry red that heralds catastrophic bruising. “This is bad.”
“No fucking kidding!” she snaps, high and breathless. He raises a single eyebrow and stands once more. “Fuck, I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for.”
He accepts her apology with a nod. “It was hardly the most astute observation I’ve ever made.”
Leda returns his nod before she reaches for an item stored in a case on the wall. He recognizes it when she sets it in her lap: a diagnostor, latest generation, ten leads and a battery life of six months. It’s worth fifty thousand, at least. She unspools the leads from the body of the instrument, placing the unipolar heads on and around her knee gingerly. For the last lead, she pulls up the hem of her shorts to place the head on her inner thigh at her femoral vein. 
Ezra catches himself watching and turns away before she looks up, stepping back and starting to remove his own protective suit. The further he undresses, the more he feels out of place; his clothes are grubby and stained, and he stinks of dirt and sweat. One day I’ll have all this, he tells himself, same as he always does when he measures up against the rich and successful and finds himself falling short. One day I’ll have all this, and we’ll see who’s out of place then.
“Hey, would you do me a favor?” Leda’s question pulls him out of his thoughts.
“I suppose that would be contingent upon the specific request.” Ezra tucks his thrower into the waistband of his pants before he steps out of his boots and sets his suit aside. Turning back to face her, he finds himself trying to measure her up. Is this her ship? Her riches? What woman with this kind of money would come to the Green Moon to grub for more?
“There’s gauze in the first drawer on the right over there,” she says, pointing at the cabinets along the wall. “Would you grab a square and get it damp for me? I’d like to clean up.”
He does as she asks, removing the gauze from its packaging and wetting it with water from a squeeze bottle before bringing it over to her. She thanks him, taking it and starting to remove the drying blood from her face. Still in her lap, the diagnostor beeps quietly to itself as it works. “I find myself overcome with curiosity,” Ezra says as he watches Leda methodically wash her jaw and throat. “This breathtaking craft. Is it yours?”
“No, Pásovec’s,” she answers without the hesitation that would betray a lie. “But when I make it out of here, a few thousand in the right pockets will put the registration in my name.” She meets Ezra’s eyes and gives him a wolfish smile. “I knew one way or another, I was making a fortune on this job.”
“Speaking of a fortune, I believe you said something about a mutually beneficial proposition?”
Leda nods and sets the dirty square of gauze aside. “To borrow your turn of phrase in return, would I be far off the mark to surmise you’re out here on your own?”
Ezra crosses his arms, considering his answer before he gives it. Trusting a stranger in the Green is the surest way to get to Kevva quick. But she’s unarmed, unless she wants to hit him over the head with the diagnostor, and he’s sanguine about his odds of outrunning her. “I might be,” he finally allows.
“This isn’t my first time in the Green, handsome. You wouldn’t be looking to trade components for comestibles if you weren’t neck-deep in some form of bad luck.” She raises her brows expectantly.
Ezra sighs and rubs the back of his neck. Caught out by a pretty face. “The crew I came with got themselves killed, to a man, and got our ship blasted beyond use while they were at it. I’ve been looking to barter aurelac for a ride.”
“I’ve got supplies for twelve weeks, enough for me and a partner,” Leda says. He blinks at her, taken aback by her forthrightness. Sharing information on your supplies is akin to hanging a sign around your neck saying This is how much you’ll get if you kill me. “I can pilot, I can repair, and I can harvest. But the way my knee looks, I think it’s going to be a while before I can dig. I don’t want to leave here empty-handed. And as thanks for saving my life, I’m willing to go sixty-forty in your favor on takings before overhead.”
A smile slowly creeps across Ezra’s face. “I suppose it is my deed that has put you in the market for a new partner. Perhaps it would be only equitable to fill the position myself.”
“Shake on it?” Leda asks, holding out her hand. Ezra clasps it and gives her a firm shake. As soon as he releases her, the diagnostor trills to announce the completion of its task. Leda picks it up and starts to read from the screen: “Grade three medial collateral ligament injury. No surgical intervention required, estimated six weeks recovery time. Son of a bitch.” 
The last, Ezra presumes, is her own judgement. “What do you need?”
Leda huffs and starts to remove the diagnostor’s leads from her leg. “There should be crutches in that locker,” she says, pointing. “I need to get into the workspace and get the printer started on a brace. That’s going to take a couple of hours.”
“Anything else?” he asks as he retrieves the crutches. 
“There’s a cryotherapy unit in the locker two to the left of that one,” she continues. The unit is about the size of a shoebox, but considerably heavier; Ezra tucks it under his arm to carry it and the crutches over to his new partner. Leda sets the unit on the cot and accepts the crutches with a sigh. “And a painkiller shot, in case I fall off these things. First cupboard, bottom shelf, on the right.”
Ezra finds the box of syrettes easily and gives a low, appreciative whistle as he digs one out. “The good stuff. You are exceptionally well-stocked, my friend.”
“When Pásovec hired me, he said to send him a list of supplies. I wasn’t expecting him to buy everything on it. Not exactly an unpleasant surprise, though.” Leda takes the syrette and raises it in a parody of a toast. “Here’s to rich idiots, huh?”
“To rich idiots and the riches they leave behind,” Ezra agrees.
“I like you,” Leda says, and slams the syrette into her thigh with no further ceremony. She gives a groan and rolls her eyes as the medicine dispenses automatically. When the cartridge is empty, she removes it and places it in a sharps bin on the wall. “Okay. I need you to carry this-” She holds out the diagnostor. When Ezra takes it, she taps the case of the cryo-unit beside her. “And this, please.”
“Reduced to menial labor so early in our relationship,” Ezra sighs dramatically as he tucks the unit under his arm again. “This could bode ill for our continued collaboration.”
“Maybe I ought to bat my lashes and say how I find myself in desperate need of a big, strong man,” Leda replies. She shifts forward as Ezra laughs, carefully putting her weight on the crutches. After testing her balance, she moves toward the door, her gait punctuated by the click of the crutches. In the narrow ingress beyond, she turns to the right and limps through another door.
Ezra bites his tongue to keep from whistling again at the workspace. It’s state-of-the-art, more something he’d expect to see in a slick hi-tech zine than in any ship to set landing pads on the Green Moon. In the near corner, a printer large enough to fit a small child in its bay hums quietly to itself. There’s a workbench along the same wall, the space above it taken by shelves of neatly organized bins. Opposite the workbench is a modest kitchen unit, more storage, and a plush-looking L-shaped couch. A sturdy metal table stands in the middle of the room, flanked by plastic-and-steel-tube chairs.
“Do you know how to plug the diagnostor into the printer and tell it to make the recommended brace?” Leda asks, pulling his attention away from the extravagant accommodations.
Ezra eyes the printer. “At a guess, connect the printer’s data input cable to the diagnostor’s cat-six port and hit the big green button?”
“Look at that, beauty and brains.” Leda turns away and starts to click toward the couch. Ezra, in turn, approaches the printer. He’s only just taken the input cable from its slot beside the controls when there’s a thump and a groan behind him. He glances over his shoulder to see Leda slumped on the couch, her injured leg stretched across the cushions. He looks back to his work, but he’s still able to hear her speak, softly enough that he isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or to herself. “I should be more useful. I’m making a bad impression. First day back on the job, my boss breaks my leg and I make friends with the guy who shot him to death. At least I get the ship for my troubles.”
The printer cheerfully beeps confirmation of the design order and whirs to life. Ezra sets the diagnostor down and hefts the cryo-unit before he crosses the room to Leda’s side. “Where do you want this?” he asks.
“Just on the floor is good,” she says, still speaking softly. “I’m sorry, that shot was a lot stronger than I thought it was. I should’ve only done half.”
Ezra chuckles. “Flying high, little bird?” he teases as he pulls the tubing and straps from the unit. Leda sits up with a grunt when he places them in her lap, and starts to wrap the apparatus around her knee. “If you don’t need anything else, I had best head out and retrieve my pack. Won’t take me but a little while.”
“If you want a clean filter, they’re, um-” She gestures vaguely at the storage on the near wall. “Um. Third shelf, on the… left.” Instead of going to grab a filter, Ezra sits on the low metal caf table, watching Leda thread and tighten the straps with the excessive caution of the intoxicated. When she completes the task, he switches on the unit rather than make her lean over to get it. She hisses as the pressure in the tubing increases, the cryo-unit pumping ice-cold gel through the tubes and over her injury. “Thanks.”
“I do happen to have a few inquiries before I go, if you wouldn’t be troubled to resolve them.” Ezra cocks his head and gives a winning smile; Leda glances at him and gives a vague nod before she lays back down. “Now, I would be the first to confess that I rarely lay all my cards on the table in a negotiation, and it is not so much an accusation as a recognition of good business practice when I insinuate you may have done the same.”
Leda only blinks at him. It seems if he wants to take advantage of her brief pharmaceutical-induced vulnerability to interrogate her, he has to pander to her temporarily reduced faculties. 
“What haven’t you told me?” he rephrases. “Do you have other crew?”
“No, it was just me and the asshole. He was convinced there was a deposit near here worth hundreds of millions, but he needed somebody to do the prospecting.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “I figured he might try to kill me if I found the deposit, but I didn’t think he’d try before then.”
“What else? You were arguing when I found your channel.”
“The LXH catalyzer is bust,” Leda says, eyes still closed. “I can put something together to replace it, it’ll just take me a few days. I wouldn’t want to try and break high orbit on it, but it’ll get us up to the transport.”
“And the deposit? Do you know where it is?”
Leda shakes her head slowly. “It was Pásovec’s secret. He had a notebook he always kept on him.”
“Anything else? Anyone going to come looking for Pásovec?”
She opens her eyes to blink up at him for a moment before she shakes her head again. “Nobody knew anything. I’m pretty sure he killed the guy who told him about the deposit.”
“I’ll look for that notebook, then,” Ezra says. “You gonna be all right here on your own? Want me to grab you a thrower in case any uninvited visitors drop in?”
“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Armory’s over there.” Ezra stands and retrieves a pistol from the locker beside the workbench. When he gives it over to his new partner, she checks the cassette with the swift muscle-memory of a professional. She sets the pistol on her stomach, her hand draped over it with a feigned nonchalance that conceals her readiness to draw. “I might fall asleep before you get back. Just shout when you come in so I don’t shoot you.”
“I will most certainly do that,” he promises.
Leda watches as he moves over to the nearby shelves to search out a new filter. The one currently hooked into his suit is adequate for a few more hours, but being forced to repeatedly purge and re-use the handful of functional filters he salvaged from the destroyed pod has left him with a vexatious persistent cough. A clean filter, fresh out of the packaging, is just what the non-existent physician ordered. “Would you do me another favor?” Leda asks as he starts to comb through the other storage bins to see what else he can find.
“I offer no guarantee but an inquisitive ear.” Ezra delves deeper into one container, digging out a shiny new hunter’s knife with a sheath that should attach nicely to the leg of his suit.
“If you’re going to take care of Pásovec’s body, would you give him a kick in the ribs on my behalf?” The request startles a laugh out of Ezra. “I know he won’t feel it, but it’ll make me feel better.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he assures her as he shoves the crate back into its place.
“Okay,” Leda says quietly. When he glances over at her, her eyes are closed again and the thrower on her belly rises and falls with her slow, even breaths. “I hope you don’t rob or murder me. You seem nice. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
“There’s no call to impugn my honor, now,” Ezra scolds, no more sincerely than she had spoken. “We shook on the deal, didn’t we?”
She smiles faintly. “You’re right. We did.”
(If you liked this fic, the best way to show it is by sending me prompts and requests! Tagging a few friends: @rzrcrst​ @tarrevizslas​ @lannister-slings-and-arrows​ @pascalisthepunkest​ )
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atths--twice · 4 years ago
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Okay... we are now heading into the last five chapters of the story. Also, we are now on the last episode of the revival. God... there is so much I wish we would have seen. So many things, that would have wrapped things up in a better way, especially knowing, at the time, that it was most likely the very last time, ever. Instead, we saw what was mostly nonstop car chases. 
But... once again, that’s why we love fanfic so much. Amirite? I hope you enjoy these final chapters. <3 Thank you for taking this journey with me. 
Chapter Forty One 
Echoes of the Past
Scully has an appointment with a doctor, sure she knows what is wrong, but is in for a big surprise. Then the day goes to hell and their world is turned upside down.
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March 2018
The rustle of the paper under her, made Scully feel anxious. Well, more anxious than she felt when she first walked into the hospital. She had not been back for a visit or to check in with any fellow doctors since she had been back at the FBI. Except for an occasional email from Doctor Clark, and of course Alan, she had not spoken to anyone.
Today, she squeezed in time to see Doctor Clark, who hopefully could figure out what was wrong with her. She had been feeling tired, occasional dizziness, chills, and simply feeling off. She could have chalked it up to numerous things, moving recently, the healthy amount of sex she and Mulder had been having, and simply getting older, but she knew that was not it. Something was not right.
The tiredness she could understand, but the chills and dizziness added to the fact that her menstrual cycles were becoming even more sporadic than normal, she knew she needed an exam. It was the start of menopause, she knew it had to be, but she needed to be sure. The thought of cancer or some other illness crossed her mind, but as she touched the back of her neck, she knew she was okay, yet she was still scared.
Better to know, than worry, she thought.
A knock sounded and then the door opened and Doctor Clark walked in, shutting the door behind her. She smiled and walked over, putting her arms around Scully. “You look wonderful, Doctor Scully, Dana. It’s great to see you,” she said, pulling back as she looked at her and smiled. “I love your hair like this, it’s very cute.”
“Thank you,” Scully said with a nervous smile. “It’s good to see you too, Charlotte.”
“So, what brings you in today?” Charlotte asked, walking to the sink to wash her hands.
“Well, I’ve been feeling … off the past few days. Something has had me feeling … I don’t know and … I think I might know what it is, but I want to be sure,” Scully said quietly. Charlotte looked at her and smiled, raising her eyebrows, causing Scully to sigh. “I’m almost certain it’s menopause, and I’ve been in denial about it, but I can’t be anymore. I’m in my fifties, I know it’s going to happen, but …” she sighed and stared at her. Charlotte smiled and walked over to her, her stethoscope out.
“Well, let’s do a checkup and see what’s going on. Quiet those worries you’re having,” she said, listening to her heart and lungs. Blood pressure was next, and Scully felt it would be higher than normal with all the anxiety she was feeling. Surprisingly, it was still in her regular range, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Let’s get a blood draw and some urine,” Charlotte said and Scully nodded. She rolled up her sleeve and the sample was taken. Getting off the table, she grabbed the urine sample cup and then went down the hall to the restroom.
She stared at herself in the mirror before using the toilet, saddened by the fact that she had not ever asked her mother when she went through menopause or known when her grandmother had for that matter. She laughed out a breath as she shook her head. So much had happened to her in the past twenty-five years that she doubted her body would have behaved accordingly anyway. Sighing, she stepped to the toilet to move this along and find the answers she needed.
Sitting in the exam room and waiting for Charlotte to come back was excruciatingly painful. Glancing at the clock, the twenty minutes she had been waiting felt like two hours. Finally, she heard a knock on the door and then Charlotte walked back into the room. She turned and closed the door, taking a second before looking at her.
“Jesus, is something wrong?” Scully asked. “Is … it’s just menopause, right? Not something terrible? Charlotte ... please …”
“No, it’s not menopause, Dana,” she said quietly, with a look Scully could not place. She stepped closer to her and then took her hands, causing Scully’s heart to race, knowing she was trying to soften the blow of the news.
“Charlotte,” Scully whispered.
“It’s not menopause,” she said with a squeeze to Scully’s hands. “You’re pregnant.”
Scully stared at her in utter disbelief, pulling her hands out of Charlotte’s grasp and leaning back to stare at her. Her unwavering expression was sincere, causing her pounding heart to stop beating altogether.
“What? That’s … that’s impossible. More than impossible. The test has to be wrong. I cannot be pregnant. Have them test it again. Please, Charlotte.” Scully felt tears in her eyes, and she wiped at them quickly.
“Dana, they ran the test three times. I watched them the last time so that I could be one hundred percent sure. You are pregnant.” Charlotte smiled, and Scully shook her head.
“You don’t understand, I can’t be pregnant. I …” Scully said, unable to continue.
“It’s not a regular occurrence, but it has been known to happen to women in the fifties …”
“No, it’s not the age thing. It’s … I’m not able to get pregnant. It’s not possible,” Scully said, getting off the table, feeling the need to move around ... to do something. She stopped and looked at Charlotte, shaking her head. “How could this have happened?”
“Dana …” she said with a chuckle and a shake of her head. Scully felt her cheeks grow warm, and she started moving again. “Like I said ... it’s not unheard of for a woman of your age to become pregnant. The body is changing and perhaps it’s a … last chance kind of occurrence. If you thought you were unable to conceive it stands to reason that you were not considering birth control. But unprotected sexual activity generally has the possibility to lead to pregnancy.” Scully stopped and stared at her. A hard stare that had made suspects confess to crimes, but simply made Charlotte laugh softly. Scully started pacing again but stopped when an arm was placed in front of her.
“Dana, how about we do an ultrasound? Let’s get a look and see how far along you are ... give you some peace of mind?” Charlotte asked kindly, touching Scully’s shoulder. Swallowing hard, Scully nodded, her heart racing again.
Charlotte left the room to get the ultrasound machine as Scully stood frozen, her hand going to her stomach. No way it was true. The first time was surprising enough, but this? How? And what? This could not be true. After all these years, after everything they have been through, after … William, and praying for the possibility of a second miracle and getting nothing in return, why now? The test had to be wrong, it simply had to be.
She placed both hands on her stomach, fear and worry over what this meant, weighing heavily on her mind. Yet praying that it could be true even as her mind raced with the odds against her. A second chance … could it be? Her eyes filled with tears, and she closed them, not letting her heart be set on this hope. 
Just wait. Wait for the ultrasound, she thought.
“Baby,” she whispered. “If there’s a possibility that you’re in there, please understand my doubts and my worries. Please…” She wiped her eyes and put her hands back on her stomach, rubbing them around, worried, fearful and praying,
“Here we go,” Charlotte said, pushing the ultrasound machine into the room. She glanced at Scully with a smile and walked over to her, guiding her back to the exam table. “Come on, Dana, let’s see about that little one.”
Scully sat on the table, and Charlotte laid it back, guiding her into the best position. Her hand went to Scully’s forearm, giving her a brief squeeze before she went to prepare the machine. Scully closed her eyes as she listened to Charlotte typing at the keyboard, her hands on her stomach again, taking in and blowing out deep breaths.
“Okay, we need to lift your shirt and get your pants down a little. This will be cold, but you know that,” Charlotte said, as Scully lifted her sweatshirt, and unbuttoned and opened her pants. When the cold gel was squeezed onto her belly, she gasped.
“Sorry,” Charlotte said, before taking the wand and moving it around on her belly. Scully kept her eyes closed, waiting, not daring to believe it could be true.
Then she heard it, a sound she never thought she would ever hear again and she began to sob. The heartbeat, a steady whoosh whoosh that filled the room and her ears with hope. Her eyes opened and through her tears, she could see the fluttering heartbeat on the screen. Undeniable proof that she was, indeed, pregnant.
“Oh my God,” she cried, watching the screen and seeing the little person inside of her. “Look at that.” Crying again, she shook her head, amazed at the alien looking image and imagining what Mulder would say.
Oh, Mulder.
“So, looking at size here, I’d say you’re about eight weeks along,” Charlotte said, taking photos and measurements. 
Scully did some fast math and laughed internally. The doppelganger case, of course.Never could they ever do anything simply or normally. The first time back to being together, and they made a baby. 
Or maybe it was the second time, she thought with a grin. She shook her head again at the image she saw on the screen. Not out of the realm of extreme possibilities, indeed.
The sound of pictures being printed shook her from her thoughts as she wiped her eyes. Charlotte grabbed some tissues, handing her a few, before gently wiping the gel from Scully’s stomach, smiling at her as she did. Her stomach cleaned, Scully buttoned her pants and pulled her shirt back down, her hands staying on her stomach, holding onto the child inside her.
“Everything looks great, right on track to where the baby should be at this stage, but you still need to follow up with an OB soon,” Charlotte said, taking the photos from the machine and handing them to Scully. She sat up and gazed at them, her heart pounding with fear and excitement. What did this mean? Jesus …
“I would assume an amniocentesis will need to be done, but it will be up to your OB,” Charlotte said, touching Scully’s shoulder. “I know you know this, but you need to take it easy and be aware that things are going to be a bit different now. I don’t know what your current work entails, but I’m sure it’s more physically demanding than working here. Just be careful. You’ve got some precious cargo there,” she said with a nod to the papers in Scully’s hands. Scully smiled slightly as she looked down, nodding her head as she looked again at the photos in her hands.
“Kid’s gonna be gorgeous, male or female, with the two of you as parents,” Charlotte said, making Scully look up at her again.
“How did you know it was him? Mulder, I mean? I could have been seeing someone else since you saw me last,” Scully asked.
“Dana, please,” Charlotte said with a stare. “You two were made and meant for each other. I’ve seen you together enough times over the years to see it. No, it wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. I have never seen a couple like the two of you. How he watched you, the way you had conversations with your eyes ... your smile when he was around, and your lack of one when he wasn’t. When you two were in a room it was like nobody else existed. It was beautiful, and I doubt that has changed. I knew the two of you would figure out a way back to each other.” Scully stared at her, and she nodded. “Yes, I noticed you weren’t together, your face had lost its smile. But,” she gestured to the photos, “it looks like you found it again.” Scully blushed again, and Charlotte laughed.
“Congratulations, Dana. I know it’s scary and there are a million thoughts running through your head, but you’re going to have a baby. That’s fantastic,” Charlotte smiled, and Scully nodded again, her worries taking a backseat for a brief moment. She stepped off the table and hugged Charlotte.
“Thank you, for everything. Now I need to go and tell Mulder,” she said, stepping back and putting her photos into her pocket. She smiled again and held onto Charlotte’s hand, nodding at her, and heading out the door.
Fear and excitement coursed through her equally as she drove home. She could not stop the smile that sporadically came across her face, but then she began to feel anxious the closer she got to the house. Could this really be it? Somehow she had been given a chance to get it right, to be the mother she always wanted, but never truly had the chance to do.
Not long enough anyway, she thought, remembering the feel of William in her arms, the delicious baby scent of him. They were given a second chance. For everything, and right now, she was determined that nothing could ruin this moment.
Her cell phone ringing interrupted her thoughts. She answered, even though she was pulling up the driveway, believing it was Mulder.
“Hello?”
“Dana? It’s Monica Reyes.”
______________________
In a blur that left her dizzy, Mulder was gone. The words she had been ready to spill out and any happiness she felt on the drive over, gone like a leaf in the wind. She stood in the middle of the room and tried to process everything that happened in the past few minutes. Monica knew where William was, that he was in danger, and Mulder was going to find him. But it was wrong, she knew it was and she needed to stay, as much for William, as for the new child inside her. What good would she do anyone, putting herself in danger? No, she needed to be smarter. Safer. Watching Mulder leave without her, running toward danger, toward what she knew was wrong, resurrected the worries from the past, and she was scared.
"Just come back alive.”
God, she could not lose him again, not now and not ever. Turning to do what, she did not know, the door burst open and she spun back around. Mulder stood in the doorway, his eyes searching hers, before stepping toward her and pulling her to him. She exhaled a breath of relief and wrapped her arms around his waist, closing her eyes as she laid her head against his chest. He said nothing, just held her tight before letting go and stepping back. Looking into her eyes, he held her face in his hands and kissed her softly, twice, then stared at her again.  
“I’ll find him. I promise,” he said quietly, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he held her face. She nodded as he kissed her once more, stepping back, and walking out the door, slamming it behind him.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she heard the car drive away and closed her eyes, praying for his safety. She turned in the silence of the house and began to pace, not sure if she made the right decision. The baby needed to be protected, but what about William? What if she was wrong and he was on that plane?
She sat at the table and put her head down on her arms. Moving one hand down to her stomach, she took deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Mulder was an hour away from that airport in Maryland and yet, she knew it would be a dead end. But what if she was wrong?
Her ears began to ring from the quiet in the house and she needed to move again. She paced back and forth, around and around the room. Putting her hands on her stomach again, she closed her eyes as she stopped walking, worry for the future weighing heavily on her.
Please God, she thought, please don’t let that life be what’s in store for this baby. I couldn’t take it, not again.
She began to pace again and decided to do some searching online, see if anything odd or different popped up that could possibly be William. Searching around, she found a cluster of lotto winners in northeastern Tennessee, maybe that was how they found him.
She tried calling Mulder, but he did not answer, and she began to pace again. Three more attempts to get to him and he answered.
“Mulder, you haven’t been answering your phone.”
“I had some payback to pay back. But you were right, Scully, he wasn’t on that plane.”
Scully felt fear and relief course through her and she sighed. “Look, I found something on the web. I think it’s how they found him. There was a lotto cluster in northeastern Tennessee. Eight recent winners in a ten-mile radius.”
“Where was the last winner?” he asked, and she heard his tires squealing.
__________________________
Hours later, unable to stay at the house and simply wait any longer, Scully changed and went to find Skinner, needing his help. Aside from Mulder, he was the only person she trusted to ask for help where William was concerned.
Finding him in the waiting area of Kersh’s office, she felt her heart racing, but a small sense of calm came over her. Skinner would help, but how much should she tell him? Even after everything, Mulder was the only one she trusted implicitly, and Skinner was still lacking.
“You’re asking for my help. When I’ve been asked to take your badges,” Skinner said, breaking into her thoughts.
“Who said that, Kersh? Is he in there?” she demanded, stepping toward the office, but Skinner stopped her.
“Dana-”
“He doesn’t understand what’s happening right now.”
“Mulder has lit a fuse that you can’t put out. He’s made outrageous public statements on an Internet site,” Skinner told her, and she knew he needed the truth.
“That wasn’t him. That was me,” she said quietly. “And they’re not outrageous.”
“Where are they?” he asked and still she hesitated, deciding how far to go. “I can’t help you Agent Scully, if I don’t know what’s going on.”
Her phone rang in her pocket and she saw Mulder’s name on the screen. Thank God, she thought.
“Mulder,” she breathed.
“You can’t believe what just happened. I lost him, Scully. He’s gone,” he said and she could hear his exhaustion through the phone.
“Just tell me where you are.”
“I’m still in Norfolk.”
“Mulder, I’m coming down there.”
“He won’t listen to reason.”
“He’ll listen to me,” and she knew it without a doubt. “I know he will.” She hung up and looked at Skinner. “I got to go.”
“I’m supposed to rein you in,” he said, and she knew he would not be doing that.
“This isn’t about the FBI, sir. This is about our son,” she said and knew that was enough. He would be helping them.
“I’ll drive.”
________________________
Skinner's words to her, words spoken to him by the Cancer Man, made her blood freeze. She did not trust a word that disgusting man said, he was a goddamn liar, always had been, and yet … her own fears, doubts, and thoughts after all this time, could there be any truth to what he said?
Her ears were ringing and she began to breathe hard, Skinner’s voice muffling as too many thoughts crowded in, threatening to choke her. Then she saw Mulder’s car drive quickly past and they followed him, her heart in her throat.
________________________
Running through a warehouse, she saw William run past her. She called to him, pleading with him to wait, to stop running. Rounding the corner, she ran into Mulder, and he stared at her.
“It’s me,” he said, as if she was not aware.
“I just saw him,” she told him, looking away to see if she could spot him again. Gunshots rang out and she looked back at Mulder. “That’s Skinner.”
“Wait!” Mulder called, and she paused. He stepped closer to her, putting his hand on her shoulder, and she looked at him. “He’s here.”
“I know! I just saw him,” she said, not sure why he was telling her what she already knew.
“Yeah, he doesn’t want to be found.” Scully looked at him, not understanding what he was saying.
“I just want to talk to him, Mulder.”
“I talked to him. He told me everything, what he’s afraid of.”
“I know what he’s afraid of,” she said, confusion still coursing through her.
“Stop. It’s no use.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m asking you to let him go.”
“What are you talking about, Mulder?” Anger and confusion in her words, not understanding what he was doing.
“There’s nothing we can do.”
“We can protect him.”
“No, we can’t protect him. No one can,” he said, and held her gaze. “He knows that you love him.”
“How can he know that? How can he possibly know that?” She watched him touch his forehead and she stared at him, waiting for him to continue. Then a noise pulled her attention.
“Scully!” Mulder called, and she looked back at the man next to her, his hand squeezing and then letting go of her shoulder, before he ran away. “Stop him!”
But Scully was frozen in the knowledge that it had been William speaking to her the entire time. Her legs moved, chasing after him, Mulder somewhere close by, even as she tried to come to grips with what was happening.
William. Her son. Their boy. But … was he? He came to her, wanting her to know he knew she loved him. It was too much. Too much was happening too fast and she needed time to think, to process and break it all down, examine it from every angle.
“He’s in the other building!” She heard Mulder call out above her on the stairs.
“Go!” she shouted to him, running to find her own way out of the warehouse.
A door was up ahead when she suddenly stopped running, her breath catching as she did. She saw him, the Cancer Man holding a gun, could see him through William’s eyes, but heard Mulder’s voice as he spoke to him.
You have to let me go, William’s thoughts called out above everything else, and suddenly she could not breathe.
I can’t. Please, William, please.
I know. I do. I need you to.
I want … so much. I need …
And then she heard a gunshot and she started running again, needing to know what happened, needing to see her boy.
More gunshots and she ran faster, her heart breaking, believing Mulder was hurt. Coming out of the door, she saw Mulder’s back and she wanted to weep. He was okay. But where was William?
God, please no, she thought as she walked up to Mulder, looking over the edge of the dock into the dark water below. Someone was in there, and seeing the body, she hoped beyond hope that smoking bastard stayed dead this time.
“He’s gone. He’s gone, Scully,” Mulder said beside her. “He shot him. And he shot me.” He reared back and threw his gun in the water, the splash incredibly loud over the ringing in her ears.
“Mulder … he wants us to let him go. He wasn’t meant to be.” She heard herself saying, feeling things she did not understand.
“William was our son,” he said incredulously.
“No …” she said, shaking her head, still not sure, but needing him to listen to her. To hear what he may not want.
“Scully, he was our son!” he shouted.
“No.” She stepped closer to him. “William was an experiment, Mulder.” She needed him to stop spiraling, to bring him back to the possible reality of what she had heard.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mulder … he was an idea, born in a laboratory.” Her own fears and worries manifesting, but still knowing there could be a chance.
Never give up on a miracle.
“But you were his mother.”
“No, I … I carried him. I bore him. But I was never a mother to him, I wasn’t. William … William was …” she tried to say what was on her mind, to tell him everything, but there was too much. She was not his mother. Not how she wanted to be. Not how she or William deserved. She did not get that chance. It, like so many other fucking things, was taken from her. Taken from both of them.
“For so long, I believed,” Mulder said and she felt his sadness. “What am I now, if I’m not a father?”
She exhaled a bittersweet laugh, knowing the small bit of good to come from all this horrible sadness. “You are a father.”
“What are you talking about?”
She took his hand and put it on her stomach. He frowned at her and she gave him a sad smile.
“That’s impossible,” he said, stepping closer to her, his hand pressing tight against her.
“I know,” she said, crying. “I know it is. It’s more than impossible.” She knew it as much as he did. And yet …
Never give up on a miracle … or the possibility of two. They defied the odds now, why not then?
He pulled her close and she cried against him. Holding him tight, they grieved for the son they lost, worried for the child growing inside of her, and found comfort in the fact that despite it all, they were still together. They clung tightly to each other knowing that if they were to let go, they would surely crumble.
___________________________________________________________
So now we are truly at the end of the series. The show has officially ended, well, two years ago to be precise, but you know what I mean. : ) God, I miss them so much. Seasons 10 and 11 had their issues, but shit, was it not the most amazing thing to see them back on our televisions after so many years? 
I’ll go now, before I get too weepy... 
5 notes · View notes
krreader · 6 years ago
Text
swim | chapter 5.
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pairing: min yoongi x reader fandom: bts warnings: non idol!au ; sex shop!au ; college!au ; language previous: 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4
summary: what he wanted was someone he could have casual sex with. what he got, was a co-worker that he wanted much more from.
a/n: aaaaah, at first I thought this would be like suuuper smutty and now I’m turning Yoongi into this whole ball of fluff and I kinda like it (but don’t you worry, the smut will come)
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“Shut. Up,” your friend started laughing on the other end of the line, clearly kicking her feet in the air from excitement, “Oh my god, I can't believe this..-”
“Well.. what do you think then?” you nervously bit your lip and sat down on your couch with a cup of tea.
“What I think? I think your hot-ass colleague jerked off to you today. I'm so proud of you. My baby is finally getting some dick.”
“First of all, only because he MIGHT have jerked off to the thought of me doesn't mean that he and I are going to have sex now all of a sudden.”
“Listen, you need to be more upfront with him, okay? You need to dress sexier and you need to act really sexy around him. You need to drive him crazy, until he can't take it anymore. Trust me, it's such a nice feeling when a guy you like just pulls you towards him and kisses you like you're the only woman for him.”
“What? No! I won't change who I am..-”
“Theeen, you'll end up with fifty cats and die as a virgin,” she shrugged.
“He jerked off to me without me pretending to be something else, though! So he liked the real me, not me trying to be slutty to not be a virgin anymore!”
“He jerked off to you because you wore a sexy bra, my dear.”
Fuck.
That was true.
You fell to the side, hiding your face in the pillows, “Why is this so complicated?”
“You know what? I have an idea. His frat house is having a party this weekend..-”
“Hold on. How do you know that?”
“I'm friends with Taehyung. Well, sort of. He's friends with one of my friends and she's..- never mind, it's not important. What's important is that you and I are going to that party. You're going to surprise Yoongi there.”
“But we've never even hung out outside of work! What if he doesn't even want to see me.”
“Keep reminding yourself that he literally jerked off in a bathroom stall because of you. I'm almost one hundred percent certain that he's going to be thrilled to see you.”
The thought of finally seeing him outside of work did make you giddy and excited. And nervous. Not only weren't you good around guys, but also not good with the whole partying thing. You didn't like to drink and most of your friends became really obnoxious when they were drunk, so you were already seeing yourself standing somewhere at the side, completely uncomfortable and wanting to go home.
But that other part of you was hoping that if all of that happened, Yoongi would come to the rescue and spend the night with you.
Only you.
And that little flame of hope made you say: “Okay. Let's go then.”
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“Come oooon, hyung. This is going to be fun,” Jimin started massaging Yoongi's shoulders, “There's going to be a lot of girls here tonight. I'm sure you're going to find one that's interesting.”
“You mean one I can bang? Because I don't care about being interested. I just want to have sex.”
“God, I wonder what it's like being you,” Taehyung cocked his head to the side, “Even Kookie has more sex than you.”
Jeongguk looked up with a big, ass gummy grin, but that quickly disappeared when Yoongi threw him a death glance.
“Whatever. I think I'll just hang out in my room until the people come. Let me know if you need anything.”
The boys continued to set everything up for the party. Which actually just meant making sure that there was enough booze, that a beer pong table was set up, that there were snacks around and that the music would be good.
The house would be filled to the brim apparently and they wanted to make sure that everyone had a great time.
“Hey, hyung?” Taehyung walked over to Hoseok, still staring at his phone, “What did you say that name of your new co-worker was?”
“(Y/N).. why?”
“A friend of mine told me she brings a few more people over. And when I asked her who, she named her as well.”
“Shut up!” Hoseok grabbed his phone out of his hand to take another look and then bubbled with excitement, “I'm finally going to meet her!”
“You should tell hyung! Tell him to take a shower if she shows up. Maybe he manages to score a date with her..”
“But I want a date with her as well.”
“Yoongi hyung called dibs on her, you can't steal her away from him. That’s going against our bro code.”
True. Yoongi would probably kill him if he asked you out anyways. And he could be scary when he was angry.
Yet, he didn't tell him about it. He wanted this to be a surprise. Wanted to see his face when you suddenly showed up.
In the meantime, your friend and you were getting ready. Well, it was mostly your friend doing your make up. And when she was done and you looked into the mirror, you looked like a fucking prostitute.
“What the hell?!”
“I told you. Sexy is the key. Now you're sexy.”
“No, I look like I give free blowjobs. I don't like this!”
“Stop complaining and thank me when you finally get dick tonight.”
“Oh my..- I don't fucking want dick tonight! I just want to see Yoongi and talk to him. I just.. want to get to know him.”
You were so frustrated with everyone around you telling you to get laid.
Why was everything about sex these days? You were okay with not having dick, you were okay with not having a boyfriend. You were slower than others and you had finally come to accept that and even be a little proud of it.
And so whenever someone like her - friend or no friend - said something like this, it made you extremely upset.
But she only rolled her eyes and grabbed her bag, “We don't have time to take it off, so stop whining and grab your things. I don't want to be super late. I still want the good alcohol.”
You tried telling yourself that it was just make-up and that, maybe, it did look as good as she said. However, it didn’t make you any more comfortable.
Because even though all your other friends were dolled up just like you, maybe even more, you couldn't help but feel completely weird like this.
You weren't desperate to get men to stare at you or tell you how good you looked. You never wanted this kind of attention and you didn't want it now. So all the way to the frat house, you kept your head low and let your friends enjoy themselves and the attention they got.
And as soon as you were inside the house, your eyes were looking for one person and one person only.
“(Y/N), right?” you were a bit startled when someone else talked to you, but relaxed when you saw the face of the other guy that worked at the sex shop. You knew he was called Hoseok and that he was working the weekends, but apart from that, you didn't know anything.
“Oh, sorry. Yeah. Hi, nice to meet you.”
“Yoongi told me a lot of good things about you. I'm glad he has a co-worker like you.”
“Did he?” oh my god, he was talking about you. You immediately blushed and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
And even if Hoseok had thought he might stand a chance with you, it was clear who you were interested in. Not that he'd ever steal you from Yoongi.
Bro code, and all that.
“I'll try to find him for you. Enjoy the party, okay?”
You nodded and watched him go, only to realize that all your other friends had left, leaving you standing in the middle of the room without seeing a single person you knew.
Well, you did.
Two actually.
Because there he was, standing on the other side of the room, talking to one of your friends you had come here with and.. rather closely.
Were they a thing? And if so.. why didn't you know? No, he wouldn't jerk off to you when he had a thing with someone else, right? That was like cheating.. just in your head.
But the second Hoseok walked over to him and told him you were there, his attention shifted. And that flirtatious smile was replaced by a genuine one, leaving your friend to make his way over to you.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he laughed happily.
“My friends dragged me here. I hope you don't mind..”
“Not at all, I'm just surprised,” the first thing he noticed was the kind of make-up you were wearing, “You.. look..-”
“Like a prostitute, I know,” you chuckled, “My friend thought it would be a good idea to make me look like this.”
“It's not that you look bad, I'm just not used to it,” he shrugged.
“Me neither..”
“Uh, anyways,” come on, Yoongi. Don't let it become awkward, “Do you want something to drink?”
“Do you have anything non-alcoholic?”
“Sure,” he laughed and walked with you into the kitchen, making your way through tons of people, some already drunk, others on their best way to be.
Yoongi noticed how close you were to him, but not because you tried to flirt, but because you seemed to be uncomfortable. Which he understood. Drunk people were pushy, careless and rude.
So he made sure to keep you close and keep an eye on you.
“You're not big on parties then?”
“Not at all,” you chuckled and took a sip of your water, “Are you?”
“Sometimes I don't mind, but they can really get out of hand. I'm not usually one to get drunk, so being the sober one can really get on my nerves sometimes.”
“You have to play the mom-friend? I do too!” you grinned from ear to ear, happy to have something in common with him, “The amount of times I had to stop my friends from going home with creepy dudes..”
“Well.. usually my friends are the creepy dudes, so..-” both of you started laughing and while your gaze shifted towards the crowd, his eyes were still on you, “Do you.. want to go upstairs?”
“Huh?” oh my god, was he asking you to sleep with him?
“No, wait, no not for sex!” he shook his head, “I just meant.. well, it's quiet upstairs and because you don't even like parties..- but if you're uncomfortable I totally get it, I just wanted to..-”
“Wait,” you raised one hand and then you smiled, “It's fine. I misunderstood for a second but.. I'd love to. At least for a while.”
Good. Because he didn't want to be down here either. 
He said he wanted to get laid tonight, but now all he wanted was to have a conversation with you without people nearly throwing up on you.
The amount of times he had been downstairs for maybe five minutes, only to say fuck it and go back upstairs to watch a movie.. he was glad that you were the same.
“Oh, I like it,” you smiled as you walked inside his room, immediately noticing the amount of instruments lying around, “You do music?”
“Uh, I try,” Yoongi bashfully scratched the back of his head. He didn't usually like to reveal things about him, always being the guarded one. But with you, it was just so easy to let his walls down.
And that was a little scary, truth be told.
“That's so cool!” you pressed a key on his piano and grinned happily, “I wish I could play, to be honest.”
“I could.. teach you..-”
Great, Yoongi, great. Now you're offering to spend even more time with her. What happened to not developing feelings again? What happened to ‘I only want sex’?
“I'd love that,” you nodded, a small blush spreading on your cheeks.
Yoongi decided to sit down on his bed and waited for you to do the same. It was a bit awkward at first, especially with that space between you two, but when you saw your reflection, you started laughing.
“God, I really look like a whore.”
“Did you bring make-up wipes?”
“Why?”
“You could just take it off,” he shrugged, “I think you're beautiful without make-up anyways.. you don't really need it.”
The corner of your mouth curled into a smile and you instantly started rummaging through your bag before you pulled out what you had quickly snuck in before you and your friends had left. Just in case. And now you did need it.
And while you took off your make-up, Yoongi turned on the TV and made himself more comfortable on the bed, occasionally glancing towards you.
“Do you want to wear something of mine?”
“What?”
“To be more comfortable, I mean,” and because he really wanted to see you in one of his hoodies. And this turned from sexual to domestic real quick.
“Would you mind? That dress is so uncomfortable.”
“Not at all,” he walked over to his closet and pulled out a hoodie that would be way too big for you, “Here.. I'll just.. uh.. turn around.”
“Well, you've seen me in my underwear before,” you chuckled as he turned around, referring to the bra situation.
And he would like to see you in your underwear every single day, but he obviously didn't say that. He just walked back over to his bed and pretended to focus on his phone, when all he could do was force himself not to look up. Especially when he heard you unzip your dress.
This was this weird situation where he didn't know if you were this comfortable around him because he was already in the friendzone, or because you liked him as much as he liked you.
“Thank you,” you smiled happily as you sat down on his bed, only wearing his hoodie now and looking at him without any make-up.
And god.. you really took his breath away.
Much more than any dolled up face of yours could.
“You look beautiful,” he breathed out eventually, loving the way you blushed yet again and quickly averted your eyes, but then you made yourself comfortable next to him and tried to focus on the TV.
“Thank you..-” you said again.
The next two hours were spent with you and him watching a movie together, your shoulders touching, but neither of you saying anything to the other.
The party was in full-motion downstairs, but neither of you thought about going back, way too content with lying in this comfortable bed and watching that movie.
It was around midnight when the movie slowly came to an end.
It was around midnight when he suddenly felt you shift next to him.
And before he knew it, you had fallen asleep, cuddling so close into his side, that he thought you'd never let him go again. Or maybe that’s just what he hoped for.
At first he was a little lost, not knowing what to do, but eventually he wrapped an arm around you and slid closer, so that you were both more comfortable, turning off the TV and darkening his bedroom completely.
Yoongi put his hand over yours that was lying flat against his chest, his thumb gently brushing over it, as he couldn't help but place a soft kiss against your forehead.
And with the faint party noise downstairs and your even breathing, he whispered: “I think I'm falling in love with you, (Y/N)..”
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docholligay · 5 years ago
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Im Kino
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I go to Holocaust movies alone.
Mostly I tell people that I don’t watch Holocaust movies, that I don’t go to Holocaust exhibits, because I am not the target market. I don’t need to be reminded that the Holocaust happened, I don’t need to remember that human beings were murdered because they had the misfortune of being born the scapegoat, masterminding the world from their tailors’ benches and lawyers’ offices, as if we found the cunning to run the world but had not yet figured out to convince people we were human.
But I do go, sometimes. And I go alone.
It isn’t even a matter of not wanting to go with goyim--it’s true that I don’t watch Jewish movies with them, that I never trust them to understand and I am unwilling to be their Virgil in the Inferno that is the layers of Jewish thought and ethics and culture, some circles so intangible to me that I am not certain I have the words to explain what they misunderstand. It’s true that I hate they way they look over at me every five minutes as if to gauge my reaction, as if to see if they are experiencing it enough. It’s true that I won’t let them mine my pain for their clarity, and It’s true that I get tired of how lapsed Christians never really lapse in their hearts, the same as a Jew can only wish to stop being one. We are always a part of the things that built us, even if we hate them.
Maybe this is why Jews are comfortable hating God as they walk into temple.
Bold of him to assume it’s even about him.
But no, I don’t watch Holocaust movies with other Jews either. In this, I am as solitary as an oyster, to steal the wisdom of Charles Dickens, and that feels right. I have long taken my pain and my irritation and tried to turn it into something beautiful, even as I tell myself it’s alright to let it sit. Its alright to let sand be sand.
But here I am again, writing about why I don’t let anyone come with me, thinking I can make it poetic. Sometimes hermit crabs make their shells from trash, you know. They’re adaptable.
The movie was about Jews who hid in Berlin, after it was declared free of Jews. People who hid who they were and who passed through the streets brushing shoulders with goyim who maybe didn’t want them to die but maybe didn’t care if they lived.
My throat caught three times. I am a Montanan as much as I am a Jew, and so I choked it back, and I looked away from the screen, and I ate the genocide of a family I should have known but that the Germans shot into a ditch, and that salt tore into my throat.
I just took a drink.
I was the only Jew in the room, and I know this because there are only fifty or sixty of us in the city, and there were maybe forty people in the theater, and the quick math I did in my head made me silently thankful that I wouldn’t have to deal with the spectre of talking to someone about my feelings. Out of our fifty or sixty, only fifteen or less of us are Fievel goes West Jews. Only fifteen of us know to pray in Hebrew and shut up in English, and have no trouble with these two truths.
I’ve known the guy who sells tickets behind the counter since I was twelve years old. He looks at me with a sense of pity and tells me he hears this movie is wonderful, and I hate him instantly. I don’t watch Jewish movies with goyim. Except when I’m outnumbered in a tiny one room art theater where the tickets and the popcorn and the screen are all run by the same guy, who knows I’m a Jew and for one miserable second I think he’s going to ask me to say something. He gets a line forming. I’m lucky.
What should I say? What could i say that would not be laying out the loss of fifty percent of the Jewish population like a goddamn breakfast buffet, so people can take what they want and feel satisfied, so they can leave the rest and never think about it?
Judaism teaches us that anger is useless and worse, that you must turn it into love and into action. That you should learn that so well that you should have to feign anger when someone trespasses. Y’Israel doesn’t mean “struggles with God’ for nothing. I’ve never gotten there. All I do is burn with a white-hot heat as the woman on screen dyes her hair blonde. All I do, as Cioma fakes a passport, is look around at the goyim in the crowd, and wonder how many of them would turn me in for a free year of Amazon Prime. The stakes in my head become losing their jobs, and I wonder instead how many wouldn’t.
I hate them all. But I say nothing, because anger is useless, and because you pray in hebrew but shut up in English, and because I couldn’t even answer the cries of whoever it was that was machine gunned into the dirt, a language I don’t speak and world I don’t know, but one that grabs at my ankles, like a hound from hell, since I was six years old.
The men are outside, smoking, after Berlin falls. A Russian soldier comes to shoot them, and they yell, over and over, that they aren’t Germans, they’re Jews, that Germany would never let them be both and so they are Jews.
The soldier doesn’t believe them. Hitler killed all the Jews, he says, his gun cocked and pointed and full of fury. But he has a moment. Where God pins him and he believes.
“Say the Shema.” He says.
The movie explains it for the forty nine other people in the room, but I know instantly, it wouldn't matter if they had never set foot in temple since their bris, they would know the shema, our prayer, our central call and the thing that should be on your lips as you die, and they do. They recite it beautifully and perfectly.
The Russian soldier nearly sobs. I bite my tongue and take a drink.
He was a Jew, too, serving in the Russian Army. He believed Hitler had done it, killed every German Jew, but here were two men reciting the Shema and living. Two Jews, if nothing else, had fought through all the years of war to live, and so we were not done yet.
They cast him well. His blue eyes are like mine, and I recognize the rage in them as he pointed his gun.
I go to Holocaust movies alone, because you never point a gun at anything you don’t want to kill.
I slip out as soon as the movie ends, when the lights are barely up. There��s a voice echoing in my head, one that says I have a responsibility to everyone who didn’t make it. I’ve never hidden. Maybe that’s the benefit of living in a place with almost no Jews. I fought for every point of that star my entire life, and I refuse to give an inch.
There’s a Nazi resurgence in the west. From Portland to Pierre, there’s flyers and threats and decisions to be made. My great grandmother said that if you are where people want to kill you, don’t be there. But she wasn’t a Montanan. She moved here from the present day Ukraine, and she was that until the day she died, whatever else she tried to be. We are always a part of the things that built us, however much we hate them.
I press against the door, and go out into the street and the grey and the coming night, the thoughts of a family with no papers and no chance to run on my mind.
The cold wind hits me in a staccato beat the way I imagine the bullets hit their bodies. But I’m a Montanan as much as I’m a Jew. I’m a grizzly bear with a tallit draped across my shoulders. I feel the bullets.
All it does is piss me off
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christinaroseandrews · 5 years ago
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Randomization and You: How to ask the right questions, know when to roll the dice, and decide when to invoke the word of God
One of the problems that writers often run into is when they’re world-building, plotting, and character-creating, is finding the answers to every foreseeable question ever.  Which is your main character’s dominant hand?  When were they born?  Did someone get pregnant from unprotected sex? Who dies in this horrific event that didn’t happen in canon? What race is this random side character? You get the picture.  
You can answer all of these questions on your own, and if they’re important, you absolutely should.  But when it doesn’t matter, when you don’t care, or if you’re unsure, sometimes randomization can help.  Randomization takes out bias. Or, conversely, a roll of the dice can clarify the direction that you actually want to go. 
The two of us use randomization a lot.  Not just in our fanfiction, but in our original works as well.  We do it for everything from character birthdays to ethnicity to who a background character might end up with to who lives and who dies.  Randomization is a nifty tool if you know how to use it.
In this meta, we’re going to go over when and how to randomize.
A note: there are major spoilers for some of our fanfic and minor spoilers for some of our original fiction.  If you want to know what those spoilers are, please feel free to message us.
oOo
When is it a good time to randomize?
Randomization is best done in the planning stages.  It’s not something you want to do halfway through the story (although you can, if you discover you need to -- we certainly have!), but it’s best done early on, when you’re still world-building, plotting, and creating your characters.  
Say you’re creating a fantasy world.  You know you have three countries that are going to be your primary focus.  But does the world have more nations?  You might not know the answer to that.  In which case, it might be time to randomize.  
It can also be used in character creation.  Sure, you’ve got your main characters and you know what their main traits are, but do you know when their birthdays are?  Or other seemingly unimportant details that may end up being important later, like religion, physical characteristics, or taste in entertainment.  This is especially important when you’re dealing with secondary characters who may not be as fully fleshed in your mind when you’re in the character creation phase. Because seriously, unconscious bias will come into play here. The number of books and stories we read where the only characters are the ethnicity of the author is staggering. This is especially problematic when it comes to creating accurate representation. Randomization can solve this. Want to write a story about 5 friends who kick ass and take names? You can literally randomize every major trait -- age, gender, sexuality, race, religion, skillset… you name it. You don’t have to randomize everything if you have a vision, but you should randomize things that “don’t matter” like the doctor or the secretary or the janitor. Randomization can remove stereotypes and bias. It’s colorblind casting but for the author. 
You also can choose ranges within which to randomize -- for example, if said story is about 5 teenagers, your range can be 14-18.  You are definitely not required to use all possible options while randomizing.
Then there’s randomization when you develop your plot.  Say you’re writing a romance.  You know your main characters will end up together.  But what about your secondary characters?  Your main characters’ best friends/siblings are going to end up meeting.  Do they hook up?  Are they interested?  Believe it or not, Prim and Bing getting together in Floriography was entirely randomized.  (Floriography has since been turned into an original work, The Language of Flowers -- but we kept said randomized relationship.)
Another thing -- in a romance, you know your main characters will end up together and you may know how they get there.  But what if you don’t?  You can randomize where they have their dates (using both typical and atypical choices such as a restaurant or a monster truck rally), other events that might interfere, and various other beats in your plotting.
Or the biggie... who dies in a major event? Plot Armor is lovely. The trio in Let Me Fly has Plot Armor. (We are not killing our trio, stop asking!) But everyone else… nope… no Plot Armor. That meant when Johanna Mason failed her rolls to survive the flu, she died. We love Johanna. Love her. She’s a blast to write. But she wasn’t crucial to the story we wanted to tell, so she died. The same is true for a lot of other people in our stories. Some deaths we’ve planned. But some that happened ended up changing the story… we’re looking at you, Third Quarter Quell deaths in Let Me Fly. Don’t think we don’t see you. Justice for Justus, indeed!
So yeah. Randomization can completely change your plot and understanding of the characters. It can even help you out of an “I don’t know what to do!” slump.
You want to go wild with the randomization?  Go to TV Tropes and pick a list of tropes that would make up a main character.  Pick a list of villain tropes.  Pick a list of plot tropes, romance tropes, whatever.  Number them all, shove them into a list, use a randomizer, and pick ten of them.  Congratulations, you now have the outline for a short story.  Think this doesn’t work?
Well… here goes.
We went to TV Tropes Character pages first to get our protagonists and antagonist. And this is what we picked.
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  Sounds fun, right? I bet you can start imagining stories that could fit these tropes already. 
We ran these through the randomizer and got the following:
A Gentleman Thief and a Big Beautiful Woman Wake Up in a Room on a spaceship wearing matching rings. The door opens to reveal a notorious Space Pirate who congratulates them on their Accidental Marriage. Unfortunately they won’t be able to enjoy the honeymoon Mwah-ha-ha-ha! While they are making their escape, they end up someplace where they have to truly pretend to be newlyweds and they realize that somehow along the way they’ve Become the Mask and are truly in love. YAY! 
Sure it’s pretty rough and there are some parts missing, but it’s an absolutely viable plot… and I’m fairly certain I’ve seen something like this before. This is a great way to get out of a writing slump or even your comfort zone.
It’s all about asking questions and deciding if you know the answer, if the answer is necessary, and what the possible answers can be.
oOo
How do you randomize?
Randomization isn’t always as easy as rolling a die or flipping a coin.  Sometimes it takes creating spreadsheets or lists, while other times it involves understanding probability and percentages.
For example, say you’re writing a fantasy novel that features swordplay.  Knowing if someone is left or right handed is actually plot-relevant.  However, fifty percent of the population isn’t left handed.  Here, Wikipedia is your friend.  Knowing the percentages will help you know what numbers to use.
Another common time to do randomization is pregnancy.  Depending on what method of birth control and/or pregnancy prevention your characters are using, you can research the failure rates.  For example, when figuring out if Katniss was going to get pregnant during the arc of Brand New Breeze (second arc of Let Me Fly), we looked up the failure rate for the rhythm method and applied it to each menstrual cycle she had -- which, by the way, the length and duration of her menstrual cycle was also randomized.  She did okay for the first few months, and then all of a sudden, right around the time that the three of them got married (which was not randomized), she got pregnant.  
That opened up a whole slew of other randomizations, including: did the egg implant?  Did she have a miscarriage?  Was she carrying twins?  Who was the father?  Was the baby a boy or a girl?  What were its eye color, skin color, and hair color (based off of the parents and what was genetically possible)?  How difficult was the pregnancy?  When exactly did she give birth?  How long was the labor?  How difficult was the labor?  What time was the child born?  What were its length and weight?
You notice that was a lot of questions.  But they came in order.  The first question that got asked was: did she get pregnant?  The rhythm method is one of the least reliable forms of birth control.  Without proper medical data, Katniss was guessing, which increased her chances.  According to the Mayo Clinic, thirteen out of every one hundred women get pregnant.  Because of other reasons, we upped it to twenty percent for Katniss.
Using random.org, we rolled on a 1 to 100 scale for each menstrual cycle, with a roll of 81 or higher being a pregnancy.  Katniss did not get pregnant on her first two; she did on her third.
After conception, there are two primary hurdles to a pregnancy.  The first is implantation.  Many fertilized embryos never implant.  The numbers change based off of the age of the mother, the health of the mother, and other environmental conditions, but it’s estimated that at least 30% of fertilized embryos never implant.  So Katniss got randomized on that with a roll of 30 or below being a failed implantation.  She rolled higher.
Then there’s the risk of miscarriage, which, considering Katniss’s environment, health, and activity levels, we gave her a flat 30% chance of miscarriage.  Again, she did not miscarry.
Then it was just answering a lot of yes/no questions and looking up pregnancy-related details.  Did you know that the chance of twins is about 10%?  Identical twins is 1%, so the other 9% are fraternal.  If there are fraternal twins, they can have different fathers.  
We didn’t roll for anything higher than twins because the chances of Katniss surviving a pregnancy with triplets or more with no medicine are extremely low, and that’s if she even got pregnant with more than two babies at once -- which is highly unlikely.  We did not roll for Katniss dying in pregnancy.  That was us invoking the word of God.  
But wait, you ask.  Didn’t Katniss have a chance of dying?  
And you would be correct if this were the real world and not words on a page, Katniss would absolutely have a chance of dying in pregnancy.  However, that was a direction we were not interested in exploring, and that’s when invoking the word of God becomes necessary.  You have to know what you are comfortable writing as an author.  Not everyone wants to write a pregnancy, so they might say, “Nope! This unprotected sex did not result in a pregnancy!”  While others, like us, will occasionally roll for this -- while other times we’re like “Nope!” Trust us, we’ve totally noped Katniss getting pregnant… random.org has it in for her, I swear!
Some people might’ve said “oh hell no, I’m not dealing with a pregnancy in this story” and that’s perfectly fine.  They wouldn’t even have rolled for it.  It depends on what you’re willing to do as a writer.  But often that’s something that randomization can help you with… knowing your own mind. Because oftentimes people don’t know where to go next because they have choice paralysis… randomization can help solve that problem. 
oOo
So when do you invoke the word of God?
Well, here’s a secret.  The two of us invoked the word of God when it came to both of the Hunger Games in Let Me Fly.  
For the 74th Games, the original randomized winner was the girl from Three.  Unfortunately, that did not work with our plot.  Three was too far from our group for Cressida and her group to flee from there and conceivably make it to our characters, which was a plot point we wanted to happen.  So we rerolled with an eye toward what would work, and Taylor, the girl from District Eight, won.
For the 75th Games, the initial randomized winner was the woman from Eight, and -- having plotted the 74th Games -- we realized that the Capitol really wouldn’t be okay with back-to-back winners from an outlying semi-rebellious district.  So we rerolled and got Chaff.  (By the way, some of the side characters -- the infant for instance -- had zero chance of making it out of the bloodbath alive, and each other character had a percentage for what their chances of winning were based on their age, skill, and other factors, and we used a 1-100 scale for randomization.)  
However, there was another thing that happened that basically has colored our plot from the moment that it happened.  
Justus came in second.
The six-year-old kid only had a two percent chance of being picked at any specific time.  But he came in second.  And we took that and ran with it.
That is how randomization can end up creating plot for your story, and also why you want to do it fairly early on.  If your outline changes, you may need to do it later.  Or if you’re a pantser.  But if you’re a plotter, you’ll want all your ducks in a row before you get started.
In reality, randomization is all about asking questions and figuring out probabilities.  And sometimes the questions can tell you which way you want to go -- and you end up answering the question itself without randomization ever coming into play.  Or the randomization tells you which choice you wanted… something you often know by your reaction to the choice you rolled.  (If you groan at something you roll, it is probably a choice you’ll want to override.)
Remember that you are not bound by your randomization.  If you absolutely hate something that randomized and can’t figure out how to make it work, throw it out!  It’s still giving you valuable information, because it’s telling you something about where you don’t want the story to go.  
Sometimes it’s even fun to work with the hard things, the complicated things, the stuff you never expected to roll.  Making something surprising work is a challenge -- and a way to grow as an author.  But if you can’t or don’t want to, you can always toss your randomization. 
oOo
So why would you want to randomize?
One of the downfalls of being a writer is that you know everything about your story.  Where it’s going, the relationships, everything.  Randomization creates that feeling of wonder that you experience when doing something new.  It allows you to brainstorm, and it can force you down paths you might not otherwise have chosen to take.
The two of us were very hesitant about pairing up Prim and Bing in Floriography (later The Language of Flowers).  They were the siblings of our main characters, they were seven or eight years apart in age, they lived a good four, five hour drive away from each other, they’d just met… and would they even want to be together?  We asked the question on a whim.  And then we rolled it.  And then we ran with it.  And it’s become one of our favorite pairings ever.
We would’ve never paired the two together if it weren’t for the randomization.
We’ve even done this when writing whole fics… like we didn’t know what we wanted to write, just that we wanted to play in a particular fandom. So we rolled what characters we were going to play with.  This is how we ended up with a Darcy/Tony/Sif threesome because Why Not? 
We also do this with original fiction all the time. As stated above, it deals with the unconscious bias that we carry in regards to racism, sexism, and a whole slew of other -isms/-phobias. It can also help shape directions where you might take a story. Like our Adeniyi Siblings Series… we initially had all of the siblings paired with white characters… but then (thankfully) we realized the serious Unfortunate Implications… so we broke out the randomizer. Other than Paige (who we’d already written her story). All three of the other siblings’ significant others changed, and it made our series better in the long run. 
In addition to removing bias and answering questions, randomization can be fun.  Even if you never incorporate what you’ve randomized, you’ve got these little details, special things that you know about the character or the plot or the world.  We can tell you EVERYTHING that Katniss and Prim hunted and gathered in Damaged, Broken, and Unhinged. We can tell you every single character who got sick from the flu in Let Me Fly. This is information that none of you need, but gosh darn it it was fun to find out, and it colored how we wrote the story even if the specifics never made it on the page.
As we’ve hopefully explained, randomization can be a powerful tool in the writer’s toolbox.  But like any tool, it’s about knowing when and how to use it. We recommend using it to answer questions. Develop plots and even plot twists. And most importantly, remove unconscious bias. 
Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a Gentleman Thief and a Big Beautiful Woman demanding that their story be written.
Until next time!
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tessatechaitea · 5 years ago
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Scarab #1
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As I picked this up, I said, "If that's not a Glenn Fabry cover then I'm not a virgin!"
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Look out! We've got a real barn burner of a tale starting here!
Louis, the old man, gets interesting when he reveals that his wife, Eleanor, has been locked behind a door in his house since 1945. And it's not a normal door! It's a door his father brought home and threatened him with the cutting off of his hands if he ever touched it. He said his father became Bluebeard but I think that was just metaphorical what with the door that nobody can look behind and all. I don't think he really had a bunch of dead wives' heads behind it. Although Louis here now had one wife's head behind it! Probably still attached to her body and possibly not dead, what with the door being magic and all. According to Louis, even Scarab couldn't get the door open. I guess Scarab is a superhero? And maybe it was Louis's alternate identity? Or maybe Louis knew him. I think I'll discover the answer to that question when I read the next page. Well, it's not actually the next page. That page describes how Louis's father disappears inside the door for months at a time and returns with strange items and new venereal diseases. It's the page after that page where we learn that Louis became the Scarab by messing with one of his father's treasures.
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Fifty percent chance this isn't a superhero outfit but an alien S&M getup.
I'm not good with double negatives and I just got concerned that the initial caption reads wrong. Just make sure you read it to mean I'm totally not a virgin! Meanwhile, Eleanor lives in the Labyrinth of Doors now. She gets to be eternally young and have grand adventures every day. Sometimes she finds locked doors that can't be opened. Exciting! Other times, she'll find empty rooms behind the doors. Dramatic! Occasionally, she'll discover old appliances and housewares in piles. Swoontacular! How boring is my life that reading about a life where you get to open mystery doors that lead to stupid bullshit gets my heart racing?! Eleanor is living the dream! When I was a kid, one of my fantasies was that somebody would create a game which was just a neighborhood or city void of people. But their houses were all still there and you could go from house to house snooping at all of their possessions. I was so boring that my fantasy wasn't even about the end of the world where I could do that for real. I only wanted to do it from the safety of my room on my Vic-20! Oh, and how delusional was I that I thought a game like that would run on my Vic-20?! What a stupid jerk I was. I heard that, you smart ass! Questioning the tense of that sentence!
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See? An assassin! Look at me doing actual research instead of just ejaculating my own precious opinions!
After the Sicari's ritual to find the door is over, he relaxes naked under a ceiling of swords while holding back his orgasm (so as not to commit the sin of Onan (which he wouldn't be committing because the sin of Onan is not a sexual sin but a breach of contract. But since religious people are obsessed with sexual desire (having so much pent up inside of them at all times), they've consistently demanded that the Onan story was something the Onan story was not. Just go read it yourself) and "shivering ... with a terrible sexual longing for death." It's too bad the Sicari is the bad guy because he just became my favorite comic book character. I wonder if Vertigo ever sold t-shirts of the Sicari? Can you wear a t-shirt in public that shows some leprous man whose skin is half barbed wire naked and holding in his orgasm? That sounds more dangerous than holding in a sneeze. While Sicari doesn't come, Louis sits at home thinking about his comic book battles as the Scarab.
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I don't remember the time Doctor Fate fought Conjoined Twins Brain Man.
I hope the previous panel is ildchay ornpay! I'm using King Beauregard's suggestion to fool Tumblr's censors! But wouldn't be weird if you couldn't even talk about the negative aspects of ildchay ornpay (which I think are all the aspects, just to be clear!) without Tumblr censoring you? It would almost be like Tumblr didn't want people to be educated on how terrible ildchay ornpay was! Oh, I hope I didn't drive away all of my ildchay ornpay loving readers! Sorry for being critical of you with that whole "it's all negative" take! Eleanor's next adventure is a room full of electric fans. Can you imagine standing in front of not one fan but dozens?! Oh the heights of excitement she must experience every day of her life! So many fans blowing on you all at once! It's erotic!
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Holy crap! This is a Vertigo title! They mentioned the lady's curse!
Remember the good old days when you didn't know what a period was or what the word virgin meant and your only wish was to search through a stranger's sock drawer? Oh to be young and naive again! To not have your body betray you and say, "No! Today you are a woman! Put away your childhood things and bleed!" To not have people at school pointing and laughing and calling you a name you had to look up in the dictionary later that day which led you to think, "Everybody else in seventh grade has fucked?!" To never be burdened by the shame of your first forays into masturbation, splashing loudly in the bathtub in such a way that, looking back, you know your mom totally fucking knew what you were doing in there. To feel the sweet granular relief that it was Chris Huff who got labeled "the breadbox masturbater" in junior high and not you (not that you'd ever even though of jerking off into a bread box. Nor did you think Chris did either but some kid has to become the scapegoat burdened with the rest of the school's masturbatory sins!). To never be so old that you find yourself sitting in a dark room thinking, "How fucking terrible must that burden have been for Chris back then if I can still, thirty-five years later, remember his whole Goddamned name?!" I never felt more empathy for a person, before or since, then when Chris Huff's name was said at 9th grade graduation and nearly the entire auditorium laughed. I swear I almost cried right there among all my peers. But I held it in lest I get labeled a bread box masturbator sympathizer! The night Eleanor finds her first window in the Labyrinth of Doors (and thinks about her period) is the night the Sicari finds the door and murders Louis. Or probably tries to murder Louis. He'll probably get his S&M costume on before he dies and it'll heal him because it's magic. I'm only speculating that it's magic because it's created by a scarab and because the Scarab fought alongside Doctor Fate. The Sicari throws Louis out of the second floor window which means I now have to believe that, broken and bleeding, Louis is going to crawl back upstairs to get to the scarab. You know, comic book, it would have been a lot easier on my psyche if you'd just let the Sicari dump Louis by the bottom drawer of the dresser. Sure, I understand it's less dramatic! But realize that just asking me to believe a 78 year old man can survive being dumped on the floor is already straining the limits of my disbelief! You can't also ask me to believe all of his bones didn't shatter after going out the second floor window! My God, I'm already invested in believing in a magic door and an evil being whose brain is composed of conjoined twins! How much more work do you want me to do here?!
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No Louis. You're dead and this comic is over.
Being that this is a Vertigo comic book, Justin probably is dead and the rest of this story is just Justin Jacob's Laddering the last few seconds of his life. The Sicari realizes the door to Alamut (whatever that is. I can't constantly be asked to do research while reading comic books. Somebody expects me to check Wikipedia twice in one sitting?! The nerve! (okay fine! I checked. It's a region in Iran! Happy?)) doesn't exist. And in his rage, he does something that would be unthinkable to non-Comicsgate comic book readers in 2019: he threatens to rape Eleanor's corpse! Man, that Vertigo sure knew how to do horror! He also threatens to shit in the Scarab's heart when the Scarab finally shows up. That's the kind of thing that made a person reading comic books in 1993 think, "Whoa! This is cutting edge adult stuff! I can't wait to tell my first boss that I'm going to shit in his heart!" Yes, Louis manages to crawl upstairs and open the dresser drawer and put on his sex suit. He then somehow manages to find Eleanor but not in time. She's been killed by The Sicari. So the Scarab tells the Sicari that he's dead and he dies. And as he dies, the Sicari realizes there is no afterlife, no paradise, waiting for him and he loses his death boner and weeps like a baby that's dying. What a fucking wuss. I don't know why the last scene takes place on a plane but it does. I guess the bathroom door on this flight was a magic bathroom door that led to the Labyrinth of Doors. Maybe all doors sometimes lead there! The Scarab Rating: I rarely get excited by what I might discover on the other side of a door which seems odd when you realize one of my biggest fantasies as a kid was basically just that. Maybe I've been taking doors for granted? From now on, I'm going to stop expecting the room I've always known to be behind the door to be there. I'm going to hold my breath and hope that it will lead somewhere fascinating, like a room full of hatstands or urinals or electric fans or some other noun writer John Smith could come up with off the top of his head to take the place of something mysterious and exciting. Seriously, John Smith. You could have at least filled Eleanor's rooms with fornicating sloths and newscasters eating shit. But I guess the point was for Eleanor to be lonely so every room had to just have useless, inorganic bullshit. Just like the rooms in my house. Oh my God! I'm Eleanor!
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owletstarlet · 6 years ago
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Owlet’s inevitable Natsume Yuujinchou movie spiel
Ok, so the Natsume movie. This is a collection of my impressions and things I found significant, but it is spoilery as hell so it's under a cut, so if you want the plot to be a surprise maybe don't read this. And this with the caveat that I understood the gist of the movie but my Japanese is still really, really awful, so anyone who sees the movie who can understand Japanese well (like the folks at @apta-scans) are more than welcome to correct me on any of the details.
So first off, the youkai (the main one, though there are actually three in the story). He's the spirit of an old tree, and he has the power to alter memories, and to impersonate humans and use memory manipulation to integrate himself pretty flawlessly into people's lives. And everything about him breaks my heart. There's an elderly woman in the story who'd met Reiko once when she was a teenager (who Natsume comes across because he saw her in another youkai's flashback while returning a name), and the youkai is pretending to be her adult son so that she won't be lonely. He'd been hiding away in the tree for years and years before that point, but the woman came first as a child to the small shrine beside the tree and kept coming back throughout her life, and the impression I got was that she' s unable to have children (I may be vastly wrong about that, again anyone feel free to correct me), but the bottom line is she's lonely, and he doesn't have anyone either, so he finally leaves the tree so he can give her a family. I won't say how it all pans out, but in typical Natsuyuu fashion I wanted to ugly-cry in the theater. 
Second, the mini-Nyankos, if anyone wants to know how that went down, more or less what happens is that Sensei eats fruit produced by the youkai's tree (three gourd-looking things that have little cat-ears and are striped orange and gray, hrrrrm....), and then the next morning he becomes three of himself and none of them are able talk. And the Dogs' Circle is unsuccessful at both babysitting the minis and keeping them from running away and getting lost. It becomes clear that the minis have some of the effects of the tree in making people forget things/altering people's memories (Taki finds one of them, and ultimately winds up believing she's the granddaughter of the elderly woman, and forgets who Natsume and Tanuma even are). Also. I don't need to say this but they're so cute, holy shit. 
Third, it was brief but I think that the most poignant moment in the whole movie for me is when, after it's clear that the minis are altering people's memories, Natsume wakes up from a nightmare that the Fujiwaras straight-up forgot who he was. He wakes up yelling, and he just. Scoops up the only mini-Sensei that hasn't run away by that point, wordlessly holds him close, and is just so visibly shaken. Just the prospect of it is so terrifying to him, because for him the Fujiwaras are the foundation of his entire current life and without them he's faced with the prospect of having nothing and nobody all over again. Very well-done and very *ouch*.
Fourth. Tanuma, my boy. When Natsume loses two of the three minis, and Taki's mysteriously vanished too, Tanuma asks him what's going on, he sits him down and explains everything, and accepts Tanuma's help. CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT, ahem. And we got, just. A whole bunch of screentime of the two of them working together to Solve Problems (and my shipping heart was thrilled). And I think it's telling in terms of Tanuma's character development, too, that when shit hits the fan and Natsume knows he's going to have to face down a Big Bad Youkai (different one, not the tree youkai), he tells Tanuma to leave and go meet up with Taki, and Tanuma immediately agrees and goes. Was it hard for him to do that if Natsume was going to be in danger? Probably. Has he learned after Omibashira that he needs to trust Natsume's judgment and recognize his own limitations? Yes, and I am very proud of him.
Fifth. Natori. He does have a legitimate plot-pertinent reason for being there (he and some other exorcists have heard of the aforementioned Big Bad Youkai and are in the town to try to stop it), and in the end Natsume does need his help to seal the youkai, but the other fifty percent of his being there is absolutely for fanservice purposes (complete with his skeevy soundtrack theme that I hate). And naturally, he shows up and tries to exorcise the tree youkai, who is not the youkai he's after, and Natsume steps in to stop him like Oh My God Why Are You Like This. However. The two reasons I was glad he was in the movie are: him laughing at one of the mini-Nyankos and then promtply (and satisfyingly) getting whomped in the face for it; and then all three of the shiki getting a chance to shine and demonstrate what sexy scary badasses they are while aiding the exorcism.
Sixth. I'm not completely clear on everything that happened here because the language barrier really got in the way here, but Natsume meets someone who at one point was a childhood friend (I think Yuki was his name?). And when Natsume goes to move towards him to say hello, the kid kind of freezes up then flinches away, and Natsume's pretty bothered by it. We get a flashback of the two of them in elementary school, and they were friends for a short time (I *think* he may have told him he could see youkai, this is what I'm not clear on, and I wanna say that Yuki wasn't bothered by it and thought it was a neat secret, but I didn't understand enough to confirm that). Anyways the two of them go off into the woods to a waterfall one day, and there's a youkai there that threatens them, and Yuki goes to throw a rock at the waterfall and Natsume tackles him to the ground to stop him. And it shows them walking back home, and they're both a little battered and dirty, and Yuki's walking way ahead of him obviously hurt/confused/mad and Natsume just looks miserable. Anyhow, the movie ends with the two of them meeting back up in the present, and reconciling (I'm not sure but I think Natsume tells him he was just lying about the youkai stuff and that he's sorry, I really need to watch the movie translated because I want to know exactly what was said). I think it's good that the movie depicted that Natsume did have people who wanted to be his friend, but that those people ultimately hurt him or didn't stay. But the reconciliation scene showed that the bad endings didn't have to stay bad (Shibata's character serves the same purpose, what a tool, I love him). 
Anyways. My general takeaway from the movie is that all your memories are crucial to who you are as a person, the bad and the good, and for Natsume personally, the bad gave way to the good and was necessary to arrive there. That's all for now, I'm probably going to see it again with a friend next weekend so I'll add more to this if I see fit but mostly I can't wait for there to be a translation available. This movie was so amazing, and so very worth the wait.
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crimsonamethyst-blog · 6 years ago
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Penis enlargement is such a favorite subject for spam emails and snake engine oil salesmen that it's a worldwide joke. All of these fools being parted from the money of theirs in pursuit of an unimaginable dream.
But imagine if it was really easy to enlarge your penis?
They're little known, mainly since they do not involve whatever costs money, therefore it's not in anyone's economic interest to market them.
Additionally they require attempt on a routine basis for a good period of time, therefore few individuals who come to find out of these methods ever truly use the knowledge of theirs and create a noticeable consequence.
I've 2 male friends ( I understand of) who've used the method described below to boost the duration of the penis of theirs by more than an inch (2.4 cm).
Preferably, find somebody that understands the method and can respond to some questions you've during the process.
Penis enlargement like a spiritual practice
They lengthened the penises of theirs to such an extent which all of the internal structure was destroyed.
They'd, naturally, stop well before there was clearly some loss of functionality, because sexual power is a vital component of Tantric spiritual practice.
Fathers will teach their sons penis enlargement methods as puberty was approached by them, so they might have well proportioned penises by time their parents have been negotiating matrimony contracts, and the potential in laws demanded to find out the apparatus.
Boys would apply the method for thirty mins each day from puberty until the marriage of theirs, and each additional morning after that, to keep the strength of the erections.
How real penis enlargement works
Firmness and erection size count on the circulation in the groin region. The circulation is increased by these techniques, and therefore the quantity of blood typing the penis while it becomes erect.
The penis likewise includes internal dividing tissues, that create pockets to remember the bloodstream during erections.
These methods let you separate the micro-connections between the inner tissues. Keep in mind that when you've broken a connection, there's no chance to put it too. Proceed with caution!
Before beginning Penis Enlargement
Ensure you want to devote to at least a couple of months of an uncomfortable and time-consuming practice. Is the evaluation of yours of your respective penis size reasonable, and are you looking at yourself with porn stars?
Remember, the typical woman will not want the penis of yours to be way too big, simply because that can get not comfortable for her. Guys with really huge penises rarely get to enjoy complete penetration and tough banging, because they've to hold again for their partner's coziness.
Toning the pelvic floor
Just like the body and also muscle tissues have to loosen up before various other training exercises, therefore does the penis.
Start having a flaccid penis. Take a great hold around the head, although not difficult regarding bring about discomfort. Make a powerful pull up and forward, and sense the stretch in the root as well as along the shaft. Make ten pulls, each lasting ten seconds. During fifty percent of the pulls, spin the penis ten times in every course.
After stretching, use a big washcloth soaked in water that is hot (approximately forty C/104 F). Wrap the damp cloth within the penis and testicles for approximately 2 minutes. The cloth is going to feel hot against the epidermis, but try to handle the heat. It is going to diminish quickly. The high temperature is going to increase blood circulation, that will dilate the bloodstream vessels and also make them much more flexible. This makes the strategy more potent.
An alternate means of warming up this area is by way of a warm bath or sauna. Move it ahead & spin it both ways for aproximatelly ten to fifteen minutes, while keeping in the bathtub. Stay away from remaining in the tub much too long to avoid exhaustion and dehydration.
It is going to support better and faster outcomes, moreover the training will provide fewer blue marks.
Basic education for penis enlargement
The most effective lubricants are Vaseline or baby engine oil, because they typically last longer than conventional lubricants. The Tantrics of India recommended ghee (clarified butter).
Develop best hold right around the root on the penis, squeezing the thumb as well as index finger therefore the blood remains within the penis.
Maintain the squeeze within the penis with all the thumb as well as index finger and gradually slide forward. The blood inside the penis is forced ahead into the corpora cavernosa, the top of the penis.
While a single hand slides as much as the top of the penis, walk up a great hold around the root on the penis (like before) with another hand. Let go on the hand which has come to the head, and also continue the movement with another hand. Repeatedly other hands, at a slower speed. Each milking movement should keep going around one to 2 seconds from the root on the suggestion.
In the beginning, you might discover red patches or superficial bluish marks on the top and neighboring location of the penis. This's very natural, and will steadily diminish after the very first week. Proceed more cautiously in case these marks are observed by you. Remember, easy will it - even more is not better!
Additional method for improving penis length
To achieve results that are good both in circumference and length, it's suggested using both the milking procedure and the length-increaser.
If pain is felt by you, release the hold immediately. It's essential to stretch gently and slowly, to stay away from injury.
Repeat 5 to 8 times in every training session.
Instruction program
Generally start and finish together with the suggested warming exercises.
During the very first week, do 300 milking moves and at least hundred PC squeezes each day. This helps increase the blood flow and build up power in the penis.
Each and every morning in the next week, do ten minutes of constant milking, accompanied by 200 PC squeezes. Don't let go unless there's pain, which is not likely.
Continue this system for another 5 weeks.
Nearly all males won't have the ability to do the advanced exercise until they've perfected the initial exercises.
Sophisticated program
Apply oil, and conduct around hundred gentle jelqs, then keep on doing 500 slower and better jelqs. Finish with another 200 mild jelqs at an also speed.
Stop if the desire to ejaculate becomes way too intense.
This program is going to take around forty minutes each day. After doing it each day for a few days, there'll be a visible difference in performance and size.
Understand, dedication is required by this program. It will take months of daily knowledge and tenacity to see results. Consistency is mandatory; single can't pause during the system. After about six weeks of regular training, it is going to become a practice to do it daily, but until in that case, you'll need to exert willpower.
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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years ago
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A Padre Pio Inspirational Story
Think of the love that the Father has lavished on us, by letting us be called God’s children; and that is what we are. – 1 John 3:1
________
With Image:
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/padre-pio-inspirational-story-harold-baines-6436991563963916288/?published=t
Image of: Ann Wilkinson (Caption for linked image)
THE HEALING OF KELLY WILKINSON
Through Padre Pio’s Intercession — as told by Ann Wilkinson, County Louth, Ireland
“On December 5, 1976, my second child, Kelly was born in the Mater Hospital in Belfast. She was delivered by cesarean section because it was discovered before her birth, that her heart was beating very rapidly and that she was very distressed.
While I was still under the anesthetic, I remember a nurse telling me that the little girl I had just given birth to was very ill. They needed her name, because they were going to baptize her.
Kelly had been born with a congenital heart defect which also caused her to have a grossly enlarged liver. She wasn’t expected to live through the night.
I lay in bed in the hospital and prayed that this little girl would live. I always had a great devotion to Our Lady and I said my rosary that night as if I was sending a message with no room for error.
I thought about all the babies that had been aborted or given up for adoption. I knew that at birth, Kelly had been very blue and didn’t breathe for a few moments. It was suspected that she might have brain damage as well. In my prayer I told Our Lady that I didn’t care whether my little girl was deformed, handicapped mentally or physically I wanted her and I’d accept her however the good Lord would give her to me.
The next morning, Dr. Muriel Fraser told me plainly Kelly wasn’t going to live. They had discovered her heart had not developed properly. Instead of the normal two ventricles, there was only one. The older Kelly got, the greater strain it would be on her inadequate heart. Inevitably, death would come from a massive heart attack. If they could get her stabilized, Kelly might have a future but only for a short time. We had to try and accept that she wasn’t going to be part of our family for very long.
My husband Jim went to see Kelly in the special pediatric intensive care unit of the hospital. He remembers looking at all the little babies in incubators, some of them deformed and some of them who really didn’t look as if they had much life left. Then he came to our baby. He told me later that our baby looked so perfect in every way that he said to the doctor how terrible it was for all the other babies that were in the ward— they looked so ill, as if they weren’t going to survive long. The doctor replied that the other children had between a thirty to fifty percent chance at life but our baby had not even a one percent chance of survival. There was, the doctor said, absolutely nothing anyone could do for her.
My mother handed me a prayer for the intercession of Padre Pio and said,”Say the prayer to Padre Pio and leave it all in God’s hands.”
My mother told me a few words about Padre Pio’s life. She said that he was such a holy man that he could look into your soul and tell you what sort of person you were. Instantly, I took a dislike to him. I smile thinking about it now but I felt, “Well, if he looks into my soul, there’s no way he’s going to give me the miracle I need.” Sinner that I knew I was, I decided then and there that Padre Pio wasn’t for me.
For at least the first nine months of Kelly’s life, she couldn’t lie back. She had to sit up in a chair or her breathing became quite erratic. Kelly seemed to sleep all the time, got tired very, very easily, distressed very, very easily. At the least exertion whatsoever, her lips would turn blue.
My mother said a novena prayer every day to Padre Pio. I still couldn’t find it in my heart to turn to him. I didn’t honestly believe I was a good enough person to get a miracle through him. I felt he had been such a good and holy person in his life that he would accept nothing less from anyone who wanted his intercession. How wrong I was!
Every month we took Kelly for her checkup and every month we were told the same thing. Her condition hadn’t changed.
It was nearing Kelly’s fourth birthday and she was very ill. The doctors wanted to do another heart catheterization. I think they felt things were becoming crucial. I was going to have to make a decision about having this test done, knowing any little trivial operation could kill her. But I had to give her any chance I could.
She was due to be admitted to the hospital the next Tuesday. On Friday, a woman I knew asked me if I had ever gotten Kelly blessed with the mitten of Padre Pio. She told me there was a lady in the Skerries who had a mitten of Padre Pio.
Considering my relationship with Padre Pio, I wasn’t too sure about this, but my husband and I decided to go to the woman’s house and get Kelly blessed. The woman who had Padre Pio’s mitten was named Kay Thornton. She was getting ready to go to San Giovanni Rotondo (where Padre Pio lived and is buried). Kelly was blessed with the mitten in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I also asked Kay to have a Mass said for Kelly in San Giovanni. Kay gave me magazines and prayer leaflets on the life of Padre Pio which I rolled up and put in my handbag. As we were driving back home, Kelly fell asleep in the back of the car.
As she was still sleeping when we reached home, I picked her up and put her to bed. I went to bed myself, and for the first time I said a prayer asking the intercession of Padre Pio.
Barely had I finished my prayers when Kelly came into the bedroom and said there was an old man in her room. I told her she was only dreaming. “No, Mommy, there’s an old man in my room. Come quickly so you can see.”
I took her back to her room, where she pointed toward a corner and said,”Mommy, look! There he is!” I could see absolutely nothing, so I tried to explain to her that there wasn’t anyone there. “Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I’m not afraid, Mommy,” she answered, “but he’s there.” “Look!” she insisted.
By this time I was getting a bit cross. I said, “No, Kelly. Come on, you have to go to bed now and go to sleep, because you’re going to the hospital tomorrow.” But as I was tucking her in she was still insisting that there was an old man standing in the corner of her room. I went back to bed and wondered if she could be hallucinating. As I lay in bed I could hear her laughing and giggling in her room.
The next morning as we were getting ready for the trip to Belfast, I asked Kelly to get something from my handbag. When she opened my handbag she called, “Mommy, Daddy, come quickly!”
We ran into the living room and there Kelly was sitting with a magazine that Kay Thornton had given me which pictured Padre Pio on the front.
Kelly pointed to the picture and said, “Mommy, that’s him. That’s the man that was in my room last night!” I said, “No, Kelly, that’s Padre Pio.” “But he’s the man, Mommy, who was in my room last night,” she insisted. She didn’t say, “That’s Padre Pio.” To her it was just an old man. She had said the night before that he was an old man with a black coat. Now as I looked at the picture and saw the dark Capuchin habit, I had to accept the fact that it could have been Padre Pio that was in her room.
When we got to Belfast, I told my mother what had happened and she was delighted. She was fully convinced that Kelly was going to be all right.
Kelly was admitted to the hospital and had her catheterization. Afterward the cardiologist met with me to discuss Kelly’s condition.
The cardiologist began: “Mrs. Wilkinson, I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you but I’ll try. For the past four years you have been coming here religiously with your daughter and we haven’t been able to give you any consolation or hope. And for that I’m very sorry. But I have in front of me Kelly’s catheterization done at birth and it clearly shows she has a single ventricle, a congenital heart defect, and a grossly enlarged liver. And then I have here the catheterization done today. It shows absolutely no congenital heart defect. Kelly’s heart today is perfectly normal. The piece that wasn’t there is now there. And the liver has reduced in size.”
“Now last night we were keeping a close eye on Kelly because her heart seemed quite normal for the first time and her liver seemed to have reduced in size. I was quite baffled, especially when we did the catheterization, because they both look so different. My diagnosis today is that Kelly is a perfectly normal, healthy child. I can’t explain it. There is no medical reason for it. Somehow you have obtained a miracle. So take Kelly home, because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her.”
I burst into tears and babbled that I knew exactly what had happened, that I had been given a miracle, and the man through whom it came to me was Padre Pio.
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asmasheikh · 4 years ago
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The epidemic has paralyzed the event management industry
The event management industry has been crippled by the coronavirus epidemic, as revenues have fallen to virtually zero during emergencies, and mass events, which are a livelihood for this sector, will certainly be banned for some time to come. According to those working in the industry, many companies will not be worth next year.
Probably in their darkest nightmares, couples dreaming of the big day of their lives would not have thought when they decided they wanted to get married in the spring and summer of 2020, this would fail for reasons beyond their control.
In the middle of a similar nightmare, the event specialization industry, which has become increasingly prosperous in recent years, has found itself virtually overnight with restaurants, photographers, bands and bridal shops in addition to event management companies. . Although something has moved since the state of emergency has been lifted, such as some baptisms, family events, and small weddings, most of which are organized by the family, they do not seek the help of specialists or tailor-made events, weddings for hundreds of people are the revenue. These, however, are not allowed to this day.
Thus, in the current situation, the event organizers’ priority has been to find new dates and possibly venues, and they are trying to find the most optimal solution in cooperation with the couples. As it began to become clear that there would be no mass events in the second half of the summer, some couples, confident of a coronavirus pandemic, began sorting through this fall’s free dates, while the other camp didn’t want to go uncertain, starting the wedding right away by 2021. Re-organize.
Many will not survive
The size of the outage in recent months is such that many companies will not survive, says Ibrahim, a representative of the Royal Party event management company, who has been in the business for fifteen years. To our interest in the number of dropouts this year compared to the summer period of previous years, which is the peak season in this industry, the expert said, according to him, the loss of income is 100 percent compared to previous years.
“You have to know that wedding planning has grown into an industry in the last 25 to 30 years that has provided jobs for many people. Thus, the loss of revenue in recent months has also adversely affected many background providers, producers and traders, all those who have supplied their products to the wedding and event industry. How big the dropout is, unfortunately, I can say: it’s so big that a lot of companies won’t survive.
My company has contracts with four big restaurants in the county, and certainly eight a week, and when there was a wedding on Friday, we organized even more events. We were not only organizing weddings or other events, but also decorating the halls and flowers, renting supplies, so we perform very complex tasks. During this period, everyone is struggling, some have managed to re-profile somewhat, some have been looking for other jobs. I don’t want to be pessimistic, but since we don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel and there are no positive predictions yet, unfortunately our situation will only get worse. Those who only lived from this, and this was their job, have to switch. I did my best to do this myself, but until this situation stabilizes, I have to make up for the loss of other work, the event organizer pointed out.
When asked how the couples concerned relate to the situation, whether they will postpone the big event to a later date, possibly next year, or rather keep it in a close family circle, respecting epidemiological restrictions, Ibrahim explained: they do not treat the situation equally. Some have postponed the date next year, some have hoped for this fall’s wedding, but unfortunately they also need to be postponed.
– Like I said, I don’t want to be pessimistic, but if the number of illnesses still increases after six months, I’m wondering how to proceed, what will happen in the next six months, because then the weddings for 2021 should be organized with great force . That is the issue that concerns us, he added. As he said, after the restrictions have been partially lifted, very little progress has been made in organizing events, they find that perhaps people are more considerate, think more about what they are spending and order only the bare minimum.
The current situation will continue to make its mark next year
Photographer Ab Majeed believes that the current situation will have its mark not only this year, but also next year, as the events – especially the weddings – for which they have been contracted this year need to be rescheduled. As he said, couples definitely want to have a big day of their lives with a crowded guest army as originally planned and are looking for alternatives to that. It is not an easy task, as it is necessary to look for a date next year – in line with the bookings for next year – so that the entire staff, the restaurant, the musician and the photographer can be free. Many have taken a later fall date as a first step, but – as it looks like there will be no larger events in the fall – they will be carried over to next year, and another logistical task is to make it work for everyone. Because of this, that in the future the season will shift even until late autumn. Ibrahim admitted that, fortunately, in addition to event photography, he also works as a cinematographer and promotional material, but many of his colleagues, who specialized in event photography and were normally scheduled from spring to mid-October, undertook up to two weddings a week, with huge losses on Saturdays and Sundays.
Rather, they reduced the number of guests but celebrated the big day
In recent years, more and more young couples and families with small children have chosen Haller Castle as the venue for their wedding and baptism of their children, due to its elegant, unique halls and wonderful castle park. The wellness center, which is part of the catering unit, was very popular among families organizing birthdays and children’s parties. The wellness center has been closed since March, but smaller events can be held in the courtyard of the castle since June. , Ltd. operating the castle hotel our director told us that they had to reschedule more than ten weddings due to the restrictions caused by the epidemic, some couples have already set a date for next year, and others have the exact date pending. From the beginning of June, when the regulations made it possible to organize smaller events, life also started around Haller Castle, baptisms were held in the open air, and there were couples who reduced their 100-person wedding to fifty, which is the maximum number allowed for an outdoor event, they did not want to postpone the event any further. However, the outdoor events are a headache, as they are weather-dependent, and if it rains accidentally that day, more than twenty guests cannot be admitted to the indoor rooms, said Ab, who emphasized that she was glad that no one had to lay off the staff despite the difficulties members and plans to build a larger outdoor terrace next year in case
In the coming season, most of the weekends are already booked
The service providers with whom they had a contract for their wedding scheduled for mid-June were extremely cooperative, from the photographer to the function room operator, the musician and the costume rental, a young woman asking anonymity told our paper. As he said, when the epidemic broke out, they hoped things would recover by June and they could hold the wedding planned for nearly two hundred people, but as time went on, it became clear to them that the chances of that were practically close to zero. They were also worried that the down payment they had paid to the restaurant or the musicians, for example, would be lost, but each provider was extremely flexible in their handling of the situation, trying to offer new dates at no extra cost. The young couple finally held the civil wedding in a close family circle a few weeks ago, and plans to celebrate the event with distant relatives and friends in the future. The problem is that the restaurant already has a lot of dates for next year, it is very difficult to reconcile the date so that the restaurant is free, and the photographer and the musicians all get it, as they already have a lot of contracts for next year. They were also told to consider the possibility of scheduling the wedding on Thursday or Friday.
Courtesy: Farmhouse Events in Lahore
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