#to be fair you statistically know hardly any of those guys

[risingsunresistance]

i see how it is

[fuckyeahilike]

I'm going to tell this (true) story again, for those who've just started following my blog.

There was this British MRA called Fathers4Justice, that leaned on the completely false, made-up statistic that says that Justice favours women in court cases involving divorce and child custody; and Fathers4Justice was about giving a fair chance to those poor men who totally just wanted to spend more time with their kids. 

In reality women typically get custody because only they love their children and want them, and men do not. When men fight for custody it’s to punish the women, and the courts typically favour THEM.

But I didn’t know that at the time, so I was very touched by this MRA, because all my life I've seen the same pattern: couple gets a divorce, the woman gets custody of the children, man slowly walks off into the distance to hardly ever be seen again, sometimes doesn't even pay for child support. So, like a sucker, I believed that yeah, maybe some guys really wanted to be good dads only the evil, wicked women just wouldn't let them. Even though every mother I knew personally never stood in their way of being with their kids, the men just didn't want to. But maybe there were exceptions, and these guys were an association of those exceptions? Shrug, maybe. And the courts favour women, even though men were the ones who came up with the laws and by and large are still the ones enforcing them? Ok, gee, that sounds terrible, and also doesn't make any sense at all that those in power would rule against their own demography, but I was gaslighted into thinking “whatever”.

Years later one of the founders of Fathers4Justice ended up quitting from the organization, and I love the reasons he gave: one, he was now married a second time with a new batch of children and he was spending so much with F4J stuff that he was neglecting his second family, and he could see it all going in the same direction, of his second wife divorcing him like the first one did, and he losing contact with his second batch of children all over again. He was trying to avoid that.

But secondly, crucially, he had lost all respect for the men whose parental rights he was trying to protect. Why? Because they were everything their exes accused them of: narcissistic, abusive child-men who would only show up for protests where they got to wear batsuits and shout at women and children outside courts and make them cry. What was in it for them was to commit acts of hooliganism and just generally fuck shit up.

The same guys wouldn't show up for the boring meetings, or contribute with any of the voluntary work that is what actually makes charities function. They wouldn’t show up even to boring marches where all you were asked to do was hold up a sign for a few hours... because that wasn’t making women cry.

And I was especially grateful that he made sure to say that, easily, by far and away, the very best volunteers in this MRA were the women. Those were the ones who did all the meaningful, gladly and with no complaints. I can only assume that because just like me, they too were very touched at the thought of, for once, men actually giving a shit about their own kids.

He recalled this one particular woman who showed up for a protest one day, heavily pregnant with a huge belly and swollen ankles, carrying a sign for miles and fighting for men's right to spend more time with their kids. The men whose rights she was defending? They were somewhere else more interesting to them. They were certainly not spending any time with their kids... and not because of any woman standing in their way, that's for sure.

"How a child custody battle becomes an extension of coercive control.

Post-separation control is a form of abuse used by abusive men to exercise control over the woman after the marriage or relationship has ended. It is embedded in a power and control cycle.

Control tactics can include dragging women through expensive litigation, harassment during visitation, gas lighting, legal silencing, isolation, and using children to harass. child contact provides coercive control-perpetrating fathers with opportunities to continue their abuse of children and ex-partners."

Pdf: When Coercive Control Continues to Harm Children: Post-Separation Fathering, Stalking and Domestic Violence

Pdf: The System Had Choked Me Too

If this sounds familiar, it's because a version of this happened to Amber Heard.

This is a tactic that is almost exclusively used by men to punish and entrap women.

[reidsnose]

doodles

overview: reader doodles on her hands a lot and spencer has to give into the temptation of coloring it in

genre: flufffffff

a/n: sorry ive havent posted a fic in like a week, ive been in quite a slump but i had this idea well after midnight but i just had to write it so lmk what u guys think of this one :)

masterlist

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doodling on your hands: a once nervous habit that had seeped into your everyday life and now is just a regular habit. nearly everyday you would come to work with clean hands and get home with a mini art gallery on your non dominant one.

Spencer admired this from the moment he noticed it. at first he thought you had a tattoo but when you came back the next day with it completely gone, he was a tad confused, only to catch you doodling on that very same hand a couple hours later on the jet. he thought maybe it was an occasional thing, a habit you'd quit once you got better situated into the team, but after nearly a year you still left work almost everyday with some cutesy sketches drawn on your hand.

Spencer found himself looking forward to your doodles, imagining in his head what you might draw each day, and thinking of all the colors you would add if you had the time. being the great profiler that he is, he noticed a pattern: you subconsciously correlated your doodles with your mood.

after especially hard cases or just bad days you always drew roses.

when you were very happy you drew all sorts of fruits.

anxiousness bore little swampy creatures and lily pads.

tired days filled your hands with random, intricate designs that you didn't even have to try hard to make.

and content was anything else.

he was so impressed and absolutely adored your little coping mechanism. watching you concentrate on making those teeny pieces of art simply for your own pleasure was definitely a sight to see. the way your eyebrows furrowed and tongue poked out a bit was absolutely positively adorable. and soon he had noticed that he was looking forward less to the doodles and more to watching you draw them. and after that he began looking forward to just you.

you were sat on the jet with your back to the corner of the last seat on the plane, creating a pattern of roses on the back of your hand. Spencer plopped down in the seat next to you, growing tired of watching from so far away.

"that bad, huh?" he asked, noticing the type of flower you were gracing your hand with.

"hm?" you looked up, confused.

"you only doodle roses on bad days." he explained, pointing to your hand.

"what? no i don't!" you defended, " i just think roses are neat."

to be fair, you were having a bad day but he could've profiled that without the doodle. he cant be right, can he? there was no way you had a mood system for your doodles! unless there was.

"repetitive strokes are therapeutic, so roses being rough days make sense. the spiral in the middle followed by however many layered petals you want is a perfectly repetitive while still interesting enough to doodle."

"if i didn't know any better i'd say you've been spying on me, Dr. Reid," you teased, enjoying the slight rouge that appeared on his cheeks.

"what! no! i'm- i'm a profiler i notice patterns! i just- spying sounds creepy." he stammered.

"ok. how about admiring." you jabbed, turning a little red yourself.

"fine. but you know coloring helps too." he flipped back to the old topic of conversation.

"unfortunately i only have the standard blue, black and red ink."

"roses are red." he chuckled.

"interesting point," you bent down and reached into your bag, pulling out a red pen and handing it to him, "knock yourself out."

"what?" he looked at you slightly bewildered.

"coloring is therapeutic, you said it yourself. and you and i both know that you need something to relax you after a case like that. we all do." you explained, trying to be as nonchalant as you could knowing his skin would touch yours.

he grabbed the pen and clicked it open, coloring smoothly and slowly inside the lines you had already made in black, careful not to go over them and smudge the ink. you and him both tried your best to ignore the warmth shooting through your bodies from every place your hands touched. his fingertips lightly grazing your knuckles as he worked.you worked your way up your arm, giving you both space to work and by the time you landed, you had a half sleeve garden of surprisingly well colored (and somehow shaded) red roses.

you went home that night and bought a pack of colorful (washable) pens, hoping this little rose garden with him wasn't a one time thing. and even if it was, you would want to add your own pop of color to your doodles.

thankfully it wasn't.

you and Spencer found yourselves drawing and coloring on your hand a lot. he would catch you doing it and pop in over your shoulder just to add a touch of color where he thought it fit. and you began to feel sad washing off what the two of you had created that day, feeling nostalgic for time that has hardly passed.

and sometimes on the jet you would get tired of your own skin, so you would draw little doodles on his hand, often times leaving a little heart at the base of his thumb. these little hearts he avoided washing off for as long as he possibly could because they felt like a part of you was always with him. he started doing the same thing to your hand, a sort of signature the two of you shared.

most days, the doodles on your hands were pretty much fully colored in.

but now Spencer began to worry. what if you get ink poisoning because of his coloring? sure, the risk was statistically low, improbable even; but never zero. so one night after work he went out and bought a little sketchbook and on the front he scrawled,

"y/n's super duper special sketchbook"

upon receiving it, after giving him a hug he never wanted to let go of, you took a sharpie and started editing the title he had given it. so it now read:

"y/n and Spencer's super duper special sketchbook"

the two of you used up a whole page that day, front and back filled with all types of fruits. Spencer smiled to himself, knowing this had made you very happy. you took a second to take a step back and admire him doing the very thing he admired you for. and you understood why; he just looked so precious and you suddenly realized you craved the feeling of his hand touching yours. so you leaned over and drew a little black heart at the base of his thumb. he looked up at you, smiling widely before returning a red heart to the base of your thumb.

and you guys tore through that book, using a page a day and filling it cover to cover in no time. your own personal handmade coloring book. it turned out to be both of your most prized possessions, a pang of sadness filling your chests as you finished the last page.

you felt bad taking it home with you that night, wondering if maybe Spencer wanted to keep it. maybe you should keep it at work so you can both have it. thats the fair thing to do. you looked down, smiling sadly at the little red heart on your hand.

he did want to keep it. but he had a better idea in mind. he looked down, smiling excitedly at the little black heart on his hand.

the next day when you arrived to work all your worries were solved. on your desk laid a new sketch book entitled:

"y/n and Spencer's super duper special sketchbook: volume ii"

you laughed as you read a small lilac post it note that said, "i want to keep this one please" signed with a little red heart in the corner.

-

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ultra mega super cool taglist:

@mac99martin @imhreid @spencersmagic @hollydaisy23 @raelady1184 @a-broken-pact @padfootswife @hey-there-angels @star-stuff-in-the-cosmos @sonnydoesrandomshit @coffeereid-deactivated20210303 @averyhotchner @laurakirsten0502 @reidyoulikeabook @rem-ariiana @spencerreid9 @vampire-overlord @takeyourleap-of-faith @s1utformgg @violetspoetic

[vitaliciouscreations]

Drop of Paradise - Part Three

First | Previous | Next

Note: Thanks to @dargeon-lissa for helping me with French in the last part.

Multicultural week was an annual thing at François-Dupont, Lila learned from Nino. Doing a presentation was optional, and since it happened every year, most of the kids their age who had a culture worth sharing and were interested in sharing it had done it already.

When Lila asked Ms. Bustier about it, she told Lila that there were going to be fifteen presentations this year. Four each on the first three days of the week, three on Thursday, and then on Friday they would all take a test on what they had learned to make sure they’d been paying attention. Not an important test, she reassured Lila; it was just to make sure the students had taken the week and the opportunity to learn seriously instead of goofing off. Surely someone as well-traveled as Lila would have no difficulty passing the test with flying colors.

From Alya, Lila learned that most of the presentations would be given by students in year six who had just started attending François-Dupont this year. Alya herself had thought about doing a presentation on Martinique, but had ultimately decided against giving herself more work to do when she already had all of her regular homework, her work on the Ladyblog, her babysitter duties with her younger sisters, and her dates with Nino. However, their very own class representative and Alya’s best friend was going to be giving the last presentation of the week after lunch on Thursday.

Apparently Marinette’s presentation was set to be the last one and the only one after lunch on Thursday because the school had decided it would generate much more interest than all of the other presentations. They didn’t want Marinette to accidentally upstage anyone, or rather, Marinette didn’t want to accidentally upstage anyone, and so she had offered to go last. And of course, her presentation was set to be longer than anyone else’s because the school wanted there to be enough time for as many questions as possible to be answered.

Lila would be infuriated about it all if she wasn’t so smart. Fortunately, though, Lila was nothing if not resourceful, intelligent, and clever, so she recognized the situation for the perfect opportunity that it was. Come lunchtime on Thursday, she found herself smirking as she watched Marinette bolt out of the classroom the very instant the bell rang.

She was in a hurry to get home and make sure everything was ready for her upcoming presentation, no doubt. Lila had been keeping an eye on her all week, and it was clear that Marinette had spent most of the time preparing. She was trying so hard to ensure that her presentation would be as close to perfect as it could possibly get. How sad, then, that all of her hard work would be for nothing, because by the time Marinette returned to school, all of her beloved friends would be exactly where Lila wanted them.

Lila carefully schooled her features to replace the smirk on her face with an innocent smile as she collected her lunch tray and headed over to the table where the rest of her classmates were gathered. The seat next to Alya, the place where Marinette usually sat, was vacant. Lila happily took it.

“Yeah, it’s been, like, two weeks,” Alix was saying. She nodded at Lila in acknowledgement when she sat down. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long.”

“I think her cousin is visiting,” Rose said. “We saw her enter the bakery on Saturday when we were getting snacks for our impromptu band practice. Maybe that’s why?”

“Are you guys talking about Marinette?” Lila asked.

“Yeah,” Alix replied. “She said she’d make me some pajama shorts since summer is coming up, but it’s been like two weeks since then. I should probably just buy some, but I don’t want to spend money if I don’t have to.”

“Ask her about it,” Alya suggested. “She could have forgotten about it. That girl is so forgetful. It’s ridiculous.” Alya rolled her eyes playfully.

“She’s also been working on her presentation for multicultural week,” Nino said. “And if her cousin is visiting, she might just be busy.”

“Still,” Lila interjected. “It isn’t fair for Marinette to keep Alix waiting when she promised she’d make her the shorts.”

“Mmph,” Alix grunted. “I’ll just ask her about it after lunch.”

“After her presentation, you mean,” Alya said. “I wonder what it’s about, anyway? The school has been strangely secretive about it, and Marinette’s been ‘too busy’ all week to give me any details.” Alya rolled her eyes again, significantly less playfully.

“I think they’re trying to surprise us with it,” Juleka mumbled, and Lila internally scowled at her. Ugh, mumbling.

“Surprise us?” Nathaniel repeated. “Why would they want to surprise us?”

“They probably want to make multicultural week as engaging as possible,” Lila said. “I mean, hearing about those places first hand is probably the best way to learn about what they’re like in real life. Excluding actually going there, of course.”

“So you’ll have absolutely no problem on the test, Lila,” Rose said.

Lila flipped her hair over her shoulder gracefully. “Of course not.”

“Mmh,” Alya hummed, frowning. “But what about Marinette’s presentation will surprise us?”

“Oh, I know the answer to that,” Lila said. Everyone’s attention focused on her, and she basked in it for a moment before getting back to the task at hand. “I accidentally overheard Ms. Bustier talking with another teacher this morning. Marinette’s presentation is going to be about Eden.”

Alya choked on the water she was drinking. “Eden?!”

Lila shrugged. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

“Statistically, there’s a 91% chance Lila is correct,” Max said, and Lila had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. He was always rattling on and on about his stupid statistics. It was so annoying. “They’ve been working their way east, so to speak. From the Americas to Africa to Europe and today Asia. Additionally, Alya is correct. Ms. Bustier and the other teachers have been oddly close-lipped about the last presentation. It is quite likely that they’re trying to surprise us with something special. An opportunity to learn about the most reclusive city in the world certainly qualifies.”

“That’s awesome!” Kim exclaimed loudly.

“It’s definitely a lot cooler than what they did for last year’s multicultural week,” Nino agreed.

Alya, however, was frowning. “I didn’t know Marinette was from Eden. Why wouldn’t she tell me? Aren’t I her best friend?”

Lila took on a sympathetic look and reached out to pat Alya’s arm. “Oh, Alya. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Marinette is actually from Eden.”

A pause. Alya blinked. “What?”

“I doubt Marinette herself is from Eden,” Lila reiterated. “I mean, think about it. Eden revealed itself a few weeks ago, and Marinette is suddenly doing a presentation on it? It seems pretty unlikely.”

Alya frowned again. “Yeah, it does seem pretty unlikely. But would Marinette lie about something like that?”

“Hmm,” Lila hummed, cocking her head. “She’s probably not lying, per say. Just stretching the truth. It’s probably something like her great, great, great, great grandfather is from Eden, and she’s taking advantage of the recent reveal to make her presentation exciting and relevant.”

Alya thought about that for a couple seconds, and then nodded decisively. “You’re right. Marinette would have told me she was from Eden if she really was.”

“Exactly,” Lila said, stifling an eye roll. For a self-described hard hitting investigative journalist, Alya was super easy to play. “And, honestly, that’s why I’m kind of worried.”

A pause. The class stared at her.

“Huh?” Myléne murmured. She was almost as bad as Juleka. “Why are you worried?”

“It’s just,” Lila cast her eyes down like she was feeling shy. “We’re going to take a test tomorrow about everything we’ve learned this week, right? But I doubt Marinette really knows very much about Eden, so I’m worried about you guys. If Marinette gives you all faulty information about Eden you could fail the test. That would be terrible!”

The class took a few moments to process that. Lila eyed Rose and Juleka rather impatiently, waiting for one of them to speak up.

After several seconds too long of silence, it was actually Max who spoke up first, not Rose or Juleka. “Failing one portion of the test would not cause instant failure, but it could severely affect our grades. However, I see no other alternative. Most of the information online is speculative or entirely made up. We currently have no better source of information on Eden than Marinette.”

Lila’s eyes drifted over to Rose and Juleka again, but again neither of them spoke up. Honestly, must she do everything herself?

“Actually,” Lila said. “I could help you guys out. I mean, if you want me to. I spent a whole year volunteering there some time ago, so I know all about Eden and its culture.”

“That’s right!” Rose finally exclaimed. “Lila even helped me start writing a song about Eden on Saturday!”

Juleka nodded. “Yeah.”

“Whoa, seriously?” Alix asked.

“Yup!” Rose chirped, saving Lila the effort of having to do it herself.

“That’s so cool,” Nathaniel said. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“We can’t wait to play it!” Rose exclaimed, looping an arm around Juleka’s shoulders and putting her other hand on Ivan’s arm. Both Ivan and Juleka gave their versions of a smile, which were hardly worth the title in Lila’s opinion. Apparently “goth” and “socially adept” were mutually exclusive at François-Dupont.

“I want to hear it too!” Kim shouted, and Lila scowled before quickly wiping the expression from her face. They were getting off track.

“Right,” Lila said, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear her. “So if you guys need someone to teach you about Eden, I’d be happy to do it!”

“Really?” Myléne squeaked out.

“That’d be awesome!” Sabrina exclaimed, and Lila grinned viciously when she didn’t see Chloe anywhere in the area. “Please, oh please tell us about Eden, Lila!”

“Yeah, please tell us about it,” Nathaniel agreed.

Lila schooled her face into a hesitant look. She noticeably glanced at a nearby clock. “I really would love too, but I don’t know if I can tell you guys everything you might need to know before lunch is over. I have no idea what questions will be on the test, and there’s so much to say about Eden!” Lila paused for a moment, giving it time, before dramatically perking up. “Actually, I just thought of something!”

“What’s that?” Nino asked.

“They’re not actually taking attendance this week, right?” Lila pointed out. “The school just wants to make sure you know the material. That’s why there’s a test at the end of the week, right?”

“So we could skip for the rest of today and learn what we need to from you instead,” Alix said, saving Lila the effort.

“Exactly!” Lila chirped. “And we could all go out for ice cream while I tell you guys all about Eden. It would be much more fun than sticking around for another presentation, anyway.”

Kim nodded enthusiastically. “Totally!”

Max hesitated, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Getting information from a direct source is likely to be more educational.”

“And way less boring!” Kim shouted, slamming his hands down on the table and jostling everyone’s food. Lila hid her irritation with a well-practiced plastic smile.

Alya hummed loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. She tilted her head. “I can’t deny that a direct source is undoubtedly superior, but what about Marinette’s presentation? She’s been working pretty hard on it.”

Lila frowned. “Are you saying Marinette would want all of us to fail just so we’d see her presentation?”

Alya’s eyes widened. “No! Of course not.”

“Right.” Lila nodded. “Marinette isn’t that kind of person. She won’t care about a silly presentation if it means all of us will be better off. That’s just the kind of friend she is. She’s so helpful, even if she is clumsy and forgetful.”

“That’s right,” Alya agreed.

A grin overtook Lila’s face. “Yeah. So I’m sure she won’t mind you guys skipping out. It’s just a pity she won’t be able to come with us since she has to give her presentation. But maybe I can write up some notes later tonight and send them to her to make sure she doesn’t fail either.”

“That’s so nice of you, Lila!” Sabrina praised.

Lila preened. “Thanks Sabrina! It might hurt my wrists to type that much, but I don’t want Marinette to fail either.”

“What about Adrien?” Nino asked, adjusting his hat. “We can’t leave him out of the loop.”

Lila nodded. “Of course not! I was thinking that we should wait here and see if he arrives early for lunch, and if not, one of you could wait for him and lead him to the rest of us when he arrives. I don’t want to leave him out, and I’m sure Adrien will appreciate a day out with his friends. It’s a real shame his father restricts him to the house so much.”

“Oh yeah,” Nino muttered. “That dude needs to take a chill pill. Or a dozen.”

“But today Adrien might be able to spend a whole afternoon hanging out with his friends,” Lila said. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

“Totally,” Nino agreed. Lila could see he was completely on board now. They all were. She smiled gleefully.

All week long, Lila had kept an eye on Marinette. In between presentations, all she’d done was help her classmates or work on her own presentation. Both were clearly very important to her.

So for her classmates to miss the presentation she’d worked oh so hard on? That would definitely hurt her. And when she was hurt, she was volatile. Easily manipulated. Most people were.

Any way Marinette reacted, Lila had a plan. Angry? It would be child’s play to make Marinette look like a bully. Sad? How could she be upset at the class for wanting to get good grades? Distant? Being passive aggressive is so cruel and manipulative.

And if she got akumatized? Oh, if she got akumatized, Lila would hit the jackpot. Marinette would almost certainly come after her as an akuma, and Ladybug would surely protect her. Lila could reaffirm her claim to the class about being Ladybug’s best friend, and she could pretend to be scared of Marinette afterwards. Every interaction with Marinette from them on would end with Lila on top without her having to utter a single word. All she would have to do is look terrified and everyone would jump to her defense.

If Marinette was akumatized, Lila would be in the perfect position to eliminate Marinette as a problem. Her false trauma would mean she and Marinette needed to be kept apart. And that opened up a world of possibilities.

She and Marinette couldn’t possibly be in the same class anymore if Lila started trembling every time she set eyes on her. The school would be forced to separate them. The issue would be taken to the principal, and that money-grubbing suck up would obviously choose Lila over Marinette because Lila’s mother was actually important. At the least, Marinette would transfer to another class and away from all of her precious friends. At best, Marinette would be expelled from François-Dupont.

Their classmates would also be forced to choose between Marinette and Lila, and they would choose Lila. Who would side with the aggressor as opposed to the victim, after all? And when Lila had everyone else on her side, Adrien would be hers too. He valued his friendships too much to give the majority of them up for one girl who could barely get a sentence out around him, and he was terrified of rejection from his peers.

Yes, Lila wanted Marinette to get akumatized. She could make everything work out perfectly once she was. And she would be. Lila would make sure of that.

@miraculous-of-salt, @plushbookworm, @reyna-avila-ramirez-alreanaldo, @captainmac6, @unmaskedagain, @crazylittlemunchkin, @mochinek0, @diamondheart31, @schrodingers25, @northernbluetongue, @heaven428, @starberry-mina

Tell me if you want to be added or removed from the tag list.

[darkblueboxs]

What does ‘Viral’ Mean?

Read here or on AO3

Roughly inspired by that post going around about Neil and Kevin as sports commentators. 

Requested by @theloveliestfool​ and @revolutionary-magician​

“…and as Thea is in Canada leading a conference on women in sports this week, my co-host for today’s match is Exy Olympian and former striker for the Seattle Seals, Neil Josten.” Kevin fails to hide a wince as he announces Neil’s name. There are a few whoops from the audience at the mention of the veteran Exy hero, and Neil hopes his reputation will be enough to tide him through the event. He’s grown used to the attention of stadiums full of people by force of his Exy career, but sitting opposite Kevin with a mic between them and the expectation that he will spend the following hours eloquently dissecting the ins and outs of Seattle’s face-off against the Dallas Dingos is a far cry from what he’s used to. Neil thought that his publicity agent Carol had learned better than to leave him unsupervised in front of a microphone of any description, but apparently not. Either that or she considers Kevin to be the supervision, which could be an error of career-ending magnitude. 

Then again, it’s been a while since Neil’s days of furiously rebuking nosy reporters live on-air; maybe he’s about to discover that retirement has mellowed him out.

“It’s a pleasure to be back in Seattle for what I’m sure will be a great start to the season,” Neil says placidly. Apparently, he has retained some of his media training after all.

“A start, it will be. But a great one? I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the Seals lost by an unprecedented eleven points to the Dingos last season.” Kevin wrinkles his nose. Neil rolls his eyes, making sure that Kevin catches the gesture. He’s well-aware that he’s nobody’s first choice to cover for Thea, but her scheduled replacement is currently sitting in ER with a dislocated shoulder, and Neil has never been great at saying no to Kevin when Exy is involved. He knows he has no chance of imitating Thea’s calm, professional persona nor her and Kevin’s easy back-and-forth, but he’s not going to sit there and be Kevin’s soundboard either.

“True, but with their star striker benched throughout their last game and with several rookies on their defence line, you could hardly have expected them to-!”

“-and here come the players for their warm-up,” Kevin interrupts smoothly. While the crowd cheers on the arriving athletes, Neil takes the pause as an opportunity to flip Kevin off. Kevin makes a choked sound as laughter rolls across the crowd, and points at the replay screens that are playing a live stream of their booth.

Neil almost feels guilty until he notices the puce-like colour Kevin’s face has turned and finds himself choking back a snicker. “So,” Neil continues as the players begin jogging up and down the length of the court. “It sounds like you’ve already placed your bets.”

“Betting on match outcomes while commentating would be very unprofessional.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Sounds like you’re rooting for your old team. I’m sure you’re aware that impartiality is a vital quality in any sports commentator, Josten.”

Neil rolls his eyes again as pointedly as he can. Only Kevin Day would criticise his co-host live on-air. “Call it a healthy investment in the match’s outcome.”

Kevin snorts derisively at that, and Neil resists the urge to flip him off again. Carol will ensure that any profanity fines ESPN is hit with because of him will come straight out of Neil’s paycheck.

Kevin rattles through a several prepared talking points while the players warm up; shot statistics, playing history, starting players and strategies. Neil is quick to point out when Kevin isn’t doing a player justice – “Yes, Janice had a low shot rate last season, but remember she was recovering from a broken ankle through her last three matches” – and cuts in with a snarky comment whenever Kevin looks set to be going off on a tangent. He hears a lot of laughter from the crowd and assumes that one of the team mascots is doing some sort of routine to rouse them. Every time he interrupts Kevin, Kevin sends him an arch look, as though he can’t decide whether to be irritated by the interruption or grateful for Neil’s input.

“…and with the three minute buzzer sounding, we are counting down the seconds until we get to see how wrong Kevin is about my old team live on-air, so stay with us folks, because it’s going to be a great,” Neil flicks a pointed look in Kevin’s direction, “great start to the season.”

Kevin huffs. “You always did have a talent for talking big, Josten.”

“And you always had a talent for being an ass,” Neil laughs. “Glad to see we’ve both found ways to put our skills to use.”

“Neil, you can’t say ass on-air!” Kevin slaps a hand over the mike, but it’s too late.

“You just did.” Neil says, unperturbed. What are they going to do, fire him? This isn’t his job. “You heard it here, folks! Kevin Day swore!”

Kevin puts his head in his hands. “This was a mistake.”

“And I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that the refs have just bolted the doors to the court. Dingos have the first serve, assuming, of course, their offensive dealer can remember how to hold his own racket.”

“That’s uncalled for.”

Neil shrugs. “He broke three ankles, two wrists and ended the Bobcat goalie’s career in his first season. That guy isn’t playing exy, he’s throwing himself repeatedly at the nearest flat surface to see what or who he can crush against it.”

“…point.” Kevin admits, somewhat guiltily, as the dealer approaches the starting line.

Three minutes in, the Seals score their first point. Neil smiles at Kevin with more teeth than strictly necessary. “Great game.”

“Screw you, Josten.”

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Day, this isn’t HBO.”

Kevin shakes his head at him, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

They spend the first quarter bickering, with occasional interludes of actual sports commentary. Neil knows that nothing he’s saying sounds much like the kinds of commentators he’s used to hearing on television, but it’s entertaining to him at least. Even after all these years, Kevin still has a way of talking to Neil like he’s a toddler throwing a tantrum and Kevin is the long-suffering parent, and if anything, it eggs Neil on.

Kevin doesn’t smirk, exactly, when the Dingos equalise at the beginning of the second quarter, but it’s close.

“Wow, looks like the Dingo’s number seven has finally figured out where the goal is,” Neil says flatly, and it’s Kevin’s turn to roll his eyes.

“I must say, his footwork does remind me of a certain striker I used to play with.”

“His footwork is sloppy as hell.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, you want to make this personal, Day?” The Seal’s backliners crowd the Dingo striker and the ball tumbles from his racket. “I��m sure the crowd would love to hear about the-”

“-don’t-”

“-the time you-”

“-Neil-!”

“-bet Andrew a hundred bucks you could score on him blindfolded. And drunk.”

“What? That never happened.” The referee’s whistle blows, calling a foul on the Seal’s backliner.

“I have video evidence. Do you think the fans would like it? Fair warning, you did not stay standing long.” Neil waves his phone at Kevin.

“Stop causing a distraction! We’re meant to be commentating on the match.” Kevin reaches out to snatch Neil’s phone, and his elbow catches the edge of Neil’s mug.

It wobbles on the edge of the desk and tips, pouring lukewarm tea all over Kevin’s lap.

“Shit,” says Kevin, jumping to his feet. “I mean, uh, darn.” Neil cackles. Kevin gives him a black look. “This is your fault.”

“Oh, look Kevin. The Seals just scored again.”

Kevin picks up his own mug. The black look hasn’t left his eyes. His drink sloshes ominously within.

Neil sobers. “You wouldn’t.”

Kevin arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Neil tightens his grip on the edge of the table. “Kevin Day, I will call your wife.”

“So? I’ll call your husband.”

Neil sucks a breath in through his teeth. “Shit.”

Kevin pours the coffee on him. It is not pleasant.

The second half is far more entertaining, as both of them, sitting in sticky caffeine concoctions, quickly abandon what remains of their professionalism.

“And with that pass, number eleven proves once and for all that a career in Exy is possible even for those born tragically without any semblance of cognitive thought.”

“An accomplishment that my co-host has been demonstrating unacknowledged for decades.”

“I’m touched.”

They both take a five-minute interlude to cuss out a particularly bad call from one of the referees that puts the Dingo’s offensive dealer on the bench. The ref sends a dirty look in the direction of the commentator’s booth and receives two of equal ferocity in return.

The last quarter starts with both teams sitting at eight points, which doesn’t change for most of the quarter. Neil has to admit that the most satisfying part of his day so far is watching Kevin’s haughty, distanced persona fall apart as Neil goads him into cheering on the Dingos. For every positive comment he makes about a team or player, Neil will trade him a negative one, and vice versa, and together they find a strange balance of insults and praise that carries them through the last quarter. With a minute to go before overtime, a Seal backliner tips the ball from a Dingo’s net and sends it shooting across the court.

“No way, no way, shit, where’s the defence? Where’s the defence?!” Kevin shouts, his grip like a vice around Neil’s arm as he’s swept away by the tension.

“Come on, number eighteen, you beautiful bastard,” Neil says, no longer paying the slightest bit of attention to what his mouth is doing. The ball lands squarely in the net of the Seal’s star striker. She spins in the direction of the goal, rebounds off the wall with less than a second on the clock-

The goal lights up red, and for several seconds the only sounds from the booth are yelling.  

One of the interns delivers a sheet of post-match statistics to slot in alongside Kevin’s prepared post-match talking points, but neither of them are coherent enough to follow them for several minutes. Neil’s pulse is hammering in his neck as his heart tips around with the kind of adrenaline rush he hasn’t felt since-

Well. Since he retired.

He meets Kevin’s eyes across the microphone. Kevin is panting like he just played four quarters himself.

Neil is the first to recover. “Is it always like this?”

Kevin is quiet for a moment. He clears his throat. “It was nice working with you again, Josten.”

“Do you think I got you fired?”

Kevin pops Neil around the back of the head, and the audience laughs.

***

“What does viral mean?”

Carol rolls her eyes in near-perfect synchronicity with Kevin. “It means that someone edited a video titled ‘Day and Josten’s Epic Roast Fest,’ uploaded it to YouTube – do not ask me what YouTube is, Neil, or I swear – and from YouTube it was shared to twitter, where several of your former teammates retweeted it, garnering thousands of likes and shares, followed by reposts to Facebook, Tumblr and so on and so forth. We estimate the compilation received somewhere around 1.2 million hits within a day of posting, and most interestingly, they aren’t all Exy fans. Search results for both your names have spiked along with Seals and Dingos searches, meaning you’ve not only brought this game under the Exy world’s radar but the non-sporting world too.”

“Okay, and?” Neil glances from his agent to Kevin, who’s expression remains unreadable. “That’s fine and all, but why am I here? Did I really get you fired or what?”

Kevin lets out a huff of breath. “Despite your best efforts, no. I’m not fired. The producer isn’t wild about some of the… language we used, but it turns out we got quite a lot of fan-mail. Apparently, we’re hilarious.”

“It helps that you’ve drawn a lot of interest in the teams, which means new fans, which means more money,” adds Carol. “Greasing the wheels, so to speak.”

“What wheels?” says Neil, nonplussed.

Kevin looks to the ceiling like he’s asking it for help. “They’d like us to make a regular segment of it. Not for ESPN, the profanity wouldn’t slide on daytime TV, but they want us to do some live-streams, test the waters, see if we can hold an audience and take it from there.”

Neil opens his mouth to ask what a live-stream is, but Kevin sends him a sharp look that convinces him otherwise. “What about your slot with Thea?”

“She’s about to be taking some time off anyway.” Kevin’s cheeks turn a little pink. “Maternity leave.”

Neil short-circuits. “Huh.”

“Most people would say something like ‘congratulations’ now, Neil,” says Carol dryly.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“So, what do you think?” Kevin asks. “Ready to make a fool of yourself on a national stage?”

Neil grins. “Can I throw coffee at you every week?”

“And here I thought retirement would soften you,” says Carol. She smiles tiredly at them. “More fool me.”

They shake on it.

***

*Bonus*

Text from Andrew: Did you forget they had cameras on you, or did you mean to give the son of Exy the finger on national television?

Text from Andrew: Sir and King very confused. Can’t figure out where your voice is coming from.

Text from Andrew: If Day kills you, I’m not coming down there to save your ass.

Text from Andrew: Junkies.

Thanks for reading, let me know what you think or hmu with a request!

[theofm]

𝐰𝐨𝐰  𝐢'𝐦  𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲  beyond  excited  for  this  !  to  say  i’m  rusty  is  a  total  understatement  ,  but  we  here  to  survive  (  not  thrive  )  in  this  house  while  i  get  reacquainted  ..  my  theme  is  also  a  work  in  progress  because  tumblr  decided  to  ATTACK  me  with  an  invalid  html  error  ,  but  we’re  pushing  through  .  anyway  ,  all  that  aside  ?  i  go  by  leesh  &  i’m  living  it  up  in  the  pacific  tz  (  pst  )  .  my  pronouns  are  she  /  her  &  if  you  want  to  find  me  on  discord  i’m  at  𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 🥳#9405  .

*  𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐠𝐨𝐬  here  and  do  i  have  the  tea  for  you  .  theo  is  back  in  bridgehampton  for  the  summer  ,  living  off  the  richards’  family  $758 million  net  worth  .  must  be  nice  to  come  back  home  to  the  hamptons  ,  i  wonder  what  his  fellow  class  of  2017  grads  think  of  his  return  .  you  know  ,  he  was  known  around  town  as  the  conciliatory  and  for  bhs  senior  superlatives  he  was  crowned  as  most  likely  to  become  a  motivational  speaker  .  i  wonder  if  that  still  holds  true  today  ,  a  lot  can  change  when  you  go  off  to  the  university  of  california  —  los angeles and  study  political  science  &  international  relations  .  either  way  ,  i  bet  he  is  still  very  venturesome  ,  debonair  ,  heedless  and  boisterous  .  hopefully  this  time  next  year  the  plans  to  get  a  master’s  degree  &  get  accepted  into  the  pathways  internship  program  come  true  .  in  the  meantime  ,  i  look  forward  to  seeing  him  blast  3005  -  childish gambino  at  every  hamptons  function  .  it’s  going  to  be  a  wild  summer  home  ,  welcome  back  .  (  jacob  elordi  )  .

.  *     ›     statistics  .

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞  :  theodore  richards 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬  :  theo 𝐚𝐠𝐞  +  𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞  𝐨𝐟  𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡  : august 29th ,  1999  . 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥  𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧  : virgo 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫  +  𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬  :  cis  male  +  he  /  him  𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞  𝐨𝐟  𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡  : new york , new york 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞  𝐨𝐟  𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞  :  bridgehampton  ,  new  york 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥  𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  :  heterosexual 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜  𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  :  heteroromantic 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  :  student 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲  :  american 𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲  :  caucasian 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬  𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧  :  english 

.  *     ›     background  . 

—  born  to  jacob  &  marissa  richards  ,  the  former  a  composer  &  the  latter  to  become  a  u.s.  ambassador  ,  theo  was  the  product  of  a  love  story  for  the  ages  .  originally  marissa  cardiff  ,  his  mother  was  born  into  a  wealthy  and  politically  tied  family  .  the  high-status  claim  that  theo  is  so  accustomed  to  originated  here  ,  privileged  having  been  an  understatement  .  so  when  she'd  fallen  in  love  with  an  aspiring  musician  &  composer  ,  her  family  was  far  from  happy  .  her  &  jacob  hardly  cared  ,  believing  that  they  could  live  a  happy  life  without  the  wealth  and  support  of  the  cardiff  name  .

—  insert  theo  ,  the  pride  &  joy  of  their  marriage  &  for  a  while  ..  the  glue  keeping  them  together  .  co-parenting  was  the  first  of  many  faults  for  the  older  richards  ,  disagreeing  on  matters  constantly  &  beginning  to  struggle  financially  without  the  support  of  marissa's  parents  .  for  the  lifestyle  his  mother  wanted  him  to  have  ,  primed  &  proper  with  the  best  brands  to  his  name  ,  she  realized  she  hadn't  set  him  up  for  success  in  this  way  .  the  household  began  to  erupt  in  constant  fighting  ,  a  battle  that  a  toddler  was  painstakingly  unaware  of  .  jacob's  anger  issues  were  becoming  more  &  more  prominent  ,  continuing  on  until  marissa  eventually  deemed  her  current  situation  no  longer  ideal  for  herself  nor  for  theo  .  she'd  gathered  their  belongings  in  the  middle  of  the  night  &  vanished  without  a  trace  ,  knowing  that  the  cardiff  name  &  the  power  attached  to  it  would  be  enough  to  protect  them  both  from  any  repercussions  .

—  of  course  ,  theo's  grandparents  welcomed  them  into  their  home  with  open  arms  .  they  were  simply  thankful  that  their  daughter  was  finished  chasing  what  they  saw  to  be  a  wild  fantasy  ,  a  romeo  &  juliet  plot  destined  for  failure  from  the  beginning  .  from  then  on  ,  they  both  lived  at  the  cardiff  estate  .  theo  ,  shoved  into  a  private  school  uniform  &  sent  to  become  exposed  to  a  world  of  money  &  power  ,  his  mother  rising  in  the  ranks  to  eventually  earn  her  spot  as  a  successful  u.s.  ambassador  for  the  country  .

—  theo  was  primed  and  polished  to  follow  in  his  mother’s  footsteps  in  politics  ,  the  expectations  in  his  life  having  been  clear  from  a  very  young  age  .  follow  the  sought-after  path  of  the  his  family  ,  or  suffer  the  consequences  .  his  grandparents  ,  though  loving  ,  pushed  obligations  onto  their  grandson  to  make  a  name  for  himself  .  they  ensured  that  his  father  was  kept  out  of  his  life  ,  battling  &  paying  him  off  until  he  had  eventually  stopped  trying  to  reconnect  with  his  son  .  they  told  him  not  to  make  the  same  mistake  as  his  mother  ,  bolstered  him  on  a  path  to  becoming  notorious  in  the  field  of  politics  .  this  came  with  immense  pressures  ,  especially  with  his  own  mother's  absence  due  to  work  (  among  other  things  )  &  wholly  believing  that  there  was  no  other  path  that  he  was  fitted  to  pursue  .

—  however  ,  it  wasn’t  as  if  his  path  of  politics  was  unwilling  in  any  way  ,  his  participation  in  various  policy  projects  throughout  high  school  &  extra-circulars  such  as  model  un  had  piqued  theo's  interests  in  a  different  area  ––  politics  .  as  with  most  things  ,  he’s  motivated  by  doing  what  he  can  to  please  &  earn  the  affection  of  the  people  around  him  .  with  that  being  said  ,  working  in  politics  would  allow  him  to  accomplish  that  goal  .  as  incentivized  as  he  is  by  the  notion  of  making  a  direct  difference  on  the  people  around  him  &  his  country  ,  with  such  a  line  of  work  comes  great  pressure  . 

—  while  theo  was  completing  school  &  living  with  his  grandparents  ,  his  mother  was  either  away  for  work  or  entertaining  the  likes  of  what  theo  had  come  to  know  as  many  different  men  .  following  her  failed  marriage  ,  she  became  a  serial  dater  of  only  the  most  elite  &  wealthiest  that  bridgehampton  had  to  offer  .  eventually  ,  she  settled  down  once  again  ..  but  only  after  theo  had  grown  up  for  practically  his  whole  life  disapproving  of  the  men  she  was  with  .  his  step-father  &  step-sister  joined  their  family  in  theo's  early  high  school  years  ,  &  the  four  of  them  packed  up  &  moved  from  the  cardiff  estate  to  a  mansion  of  their  own  .

—  moving  across  the  country  to  attend  school  at  ucla  absolutely  changed  his  life  .  being  exposed  to  a  whole  new  sea  of  people  did  wonders  for  the  boy’s  social  life  ,  &  being  away  from  the  pressures  of  his  family  made  theo  feel  like  he  could  finally  breathe  for  once  .  he’s  coming  back  to  bridgehampton  with  loads  of  new  memories  &  stories  to  share  .  still  ,  something  about  high  school  resonates  with  him  —  he  holds  the  connections  he  made  there  closer  to  his  heart  ,  &  there  was  no  denying  his  excitement  when  it  came  time  to  return  home  .  he  still  holds  out  hope  that  maybe  one  day  he’ll  be  reunited  with  his  dad  ,  but  he  seemed  to  have  vanished  off  the  planet  .

.  *     ›     personality  . 

—  the  need  to  fight  for  attention  &  acknowledgement  from  his  own  family  remained  strong  .  from  this  ,  a  desire  to  be  liked  above  all  quickly  emerged  .  displaying  an  agreeable  personality  has  always  been  theo's  way  of  life  —  partially  because  the  extrovert  within  him  prefers  it  ,  but  also  because  of  the  male's  constant  seeking  of  approval  from  those  around  him  . theo  struggles  to  always  be  the  guy  that  everyone  expects  him  to  be  &  never  stumble  or  make  a  public  mistake  .

—  high  school  was  certainly  a  whirlwind  for  theo  .  he  was  one  of  those  individuals  that  knew  practically  EVERYONE  ,  &  he  exerted  effort  to  make  himself  particularly  likeable  to  all  .  he  was  rarely  home  ,  either  hitting  after-school  spots  with  friends  or  attending  parties  whenever  they  were  thrown  .  he  was  also  involved  in  various  clubs  ,  teams  &  associations  ,  taking  any  opportunity  to  meet  people  .  undoubtedly  ,  he  managed  to  receive  quite  a  bit  of  romantic  attention  in  high  school  too  ,  &  i  would  have  expected  him  to  date  during  those  years  .

—  paired  with  his  sociability  is  a  certain  level  of  carelessness  that  tends  to  get  him  in  trouble  .  when  he's  out  of  the  watchful  eye  of  those  around  him  ,  he  is  more  than  likely  to  conjure  up  a  few  schemes  despite  the  risk  .  he'll  jump  at  any  opportunity  to  follow  someone  into  complete  darkness  ,  i  really  don't  know  how  i  produced  such  an  idiot  .  but  ,  to  touch  on  another  side  to  him  ––  the  hopeless  romantic  energy  is  strong  in  this  one  .  he  falls  hard  &  fast  ,  is  loyal  to  a  fault  &  is  absolutely  a  relationship  type  of  guy  —  even  if  he’s  had  his  fair  share  of  hookups  in  high  school  &  at  ucla  .  always  being  surrounded  by  people  has  caused  theo  to  develop  a  fear  of  being  alone  ,  the  root  cause  behind  his  attachments  to  others  regardless  of  the  relationship  .

—  it’s  not  always  easy  maintaining  his  composure  .  there  are  many  days  where  theo  naturally  exudes  his  personality  ,  genuinely  enjoying  the  company  of  others  &  wanting  to  earn  approval  from  the  people  he  cares  about  .  other  times  ,  it  proves  to  be  more  difficult  ..  particularly  when  it  comes  to  controlling  his  anger  &  other  impulses  that  can  arise  when  he’s  rubbed  the  wrong  way  .  though  his  mother  &  grandparents  influence  most  aspects  of  his  life  ,  his  temper  is  one  thing  that  he  inherited  from  his  father  .  sometimes  the  thought  of  bringing  dishonour  to  his  family  or  the  repercussions  he  could  face  as  a  result  of  his  actions  are  enough  to  settle  his  irrationality  ,  but  every  once  in a  while  he  loses  control  .  i  wouldn't  put  it  past  him  to  have  gotten  in  physical  fights  or  developed  some  enemies  along  the  way  ,  &  his  temper  could  easily  lead  him  to  end  up  in  a  sticky  situation  .

—  when  theo  is  alone  &  quiet  strikes  him  ,  he  has  a  tendency  to  become  buried  in  the  worries  &  pressures  that  could  very  well  consume  him  at  any  moment  .  the  less  he’s  by  himself  ,  the  less  he  has  to  think  about  the  future  or  his  fears  ..  like  the  possibility  of  ending  up  alone  .  he’ll  take  any  opportunity  to  be  surrounded  by  people  ,  receiving  the  social  interaction  he  craves  &  keeping  his  mind  off  of  the  more  negative  aspects  in  his  life  .  if  that  isn’t  an  option  ,  theo  will  turn  to  spotify  or  his  guitar  instead  —  he’s  always  played  &  has  found  music  to  help  him  drown  out  what  he  otherwise  considers  to  be  the  deafening  silence  that  welcomes  his  deepest  &  darkest  thoughts  .  once  he’s  had  a  night  out  with  those  closest  to  him  or  he  takes  time  to  indulge  in  his  music  ,  he  finds  it  much  easier  to  keep  up  the  demeanour  that  is  always  expected  of  him  .

—  despite  his  distaste  towards  his  mother's  marriage  ,  the  male  is  rather  protective  over  his  step-sister  &  others  that  he  considers  himself  closest  to  .  fierce  loyalty  &  protectiveness  mixed  with  his  anger  are  sometimes  a  recipe  for  disaster  ,  so  i’d  watch  out  for  that  one  .

.  *     ›     headcanons  . 

—  aesthetics  :  blasting  music  while  driving  around  the  city  at  3am  ,  setting  5+  alarms  and  ignoring  them  all  ,  leather  jackets  ,  sneaking  out  ,  empty  beer  bottles  ,  profanity  ,  ray  bans  ,  parties  ,  holes  in  walls  ,  restless  nights  ,  takeaway  coffee  cups  .

.  *     ›     connections  .

if  you  managed  to  make  it  through  my  rambling  mess  ,  i  have  to  thank  you  .  now  we  get  onto  the  good  stuff  ,  huh  ?  i'm  just  going  to  list  some  of  my  most  wanted  connections  ,  but  i  also  love  plotting  based  off  chem  so  you  can  fully  expect  me  to  want  to  learn  everything  about  your  muse  in  order  to  do  so  .  without  further  ado  ..  here  we  go  !

ex(es)  :  like  i  said  ,  theo  falls  hard  &  fast  &  definitely  exudes  simp  energy  sometimes  .  i  could  see  him  having  dated  quite  a  bit  ,  &  i’d  be  open  to  ex  connections  that  ended  on  good  terms  ..  bad  terms  ..  anything  at  all  .

fwb(s)  :  could  be  past  or  present  ,  i  mean  ?  a  man  has  needs  DSKJSDNJKSD  your  muse  or  him  could’ve  caught  feels  which  caused  them  to  end  it  ,  it  could’ve  been  because  he  attends  school  all  the  way  in  cali  ,  maybe  it’s  a  new  thing  now  that  he’s  back  in  bridgehampton  .  just  gimme  ..

bro(s)  :  theo  is  honestly  SUCH  a  bro  .  give  me  his  best  guy  friends  from  guy  school  who  he  always  hung  out  with  ..  give  me  them  treating  each  other’s  houses  like  their  own  ,  all  the  late  night  shenanigans  but  the  occasional  emo  talk  when  things  get  deep  .  the  more  bros  the  merrier  ,  maybe  even  a  guy  squad  ?

idk  i’m  so  bad  at  these  ,  just  give  me  chem  based  things  thanks  !

[thedistantstorm]

Project Compass 29

Read along on AO3 here

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This time: The enemy lies in wait.

Next time: Thrawn makes a choice.

-/

“I was... surprised that you told him what we suspected.”

Thrawn had sat on his considerations for their entire trip back to the Steadfast, almost brooding for how deep he’d been in contemplation. It hadn’t been a terribly long trip, but Eli could tell he’d had questions. And now, for the most part, he could answer them. The human looked comfortable, at ease with Thrawn sitting perpendicular to him in the less formal area of the first officer’s office, a compact sitting area with comfortable-enough chairs.

Eli, who had been reclined in his seat, eyes shut and head tilted up toward the ceiling, cracked his right eye open to regard Thrawn curiously. “After I went through that whole ‘I don’t know if I trust him’ song and dance?”

“That does not translate as well into Cheunh,” Thrawn said, and Eli chuckled. “But yes.”

“Fair question,” The human supposed. “I trust him well enough. But he’s more or less a politician at this point. Ezra’s not the guy I wanted negotiating and unless I missed something, you’re not exactly-”

“I see,” Thrawn said, and folded his hands over the dash. “You knew which parts of our situation he was privy to. That makes sense.”

“Yeah. To be honest, he knows more than I’d like, but I needed some obscure records that Ronan was my best shot at retrieving.” As an afterthought, he produced the chip and slipped it into his datapad. From the angle Thrawn was at, he could see the Aurebesh that popped up, though the information on the screen was hardly Imperial.

“Clone wars?”

“Something like that,” Eli hummed, scanning the information.

“What could the Separatists tell you?” Thrawn’s interest was only as noticeable as the slightest rise in pitch at the end of his question.

Eli scrolled quickly, looking through several tabs of data before sighing and blanking the screen. “Apparently, nothing I didn’t already know from your forays into that time period way back when. But I wasn’t looking for a history lesson,” He admitted. “Seems like the Empire was real thorough,” He scoffed, handing Thrawn the datapad. That figured.

“This could hardly be called a history lesson,” Thrawn said blandly as he took in the very sparse details about separatist aligned houses and senators. “More than half of these contain less than the basic qualifications to establish a profile.”

“Yeah. It’s worthless.” Eli said, covering his eyes with his hands. “It’s not that important, but I had hoped…”

“Had hoped?” Thrawn inclined his head.

“There was a rumor about Count Dooku, that he had some powers nobody who worked with the Jedi had ever seen.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn considered, though he did not know for certain. “I was aware that the Separatist leader was a Sith, and he was executed by Anakin Skywalker. The details were never advertised, even in the highest Imperial circles.” He waved a hand, “That isn’t to say he would have different powers that were unique. There are variances even among Jedi, if Bridger is to be believed. Of course you have that data, as well as everything I’ve ever sent back to Ar’alani, I’m sure. There weren’t many Force sensitives amongst the Imperial ranks. At all, even.”

“Yeah,” Eli agreed, crossing his left leg over his right. “You’re not wrong there. Any idea why?”

“My conclusion was that the Emperor felt threatened by the remaining Jedi. It was never advertised, but those who were not successfully indoctrinated by the Inquisitors were… dealt with,” Thrawn finished darkly.

“What about Lord Vader?”

“I did not entertain the notion of asking him. Our brief time together was more than enough to ascertain how little of the man truly remained.”

“I don’t doubt it. Can’t say I’m sorry I missed that mission.”

“I am certainly not,” Thrawn conceded, “Although I have no doubt you would have been capable of working with him, he was not someone I wished you to be exposed to. You would have been used against me.”

There was a sharpness, an intensity to Eli’s gaze that surprised Thrawn as he murmured, “I know.”

-/

A rather unimpressed, yet fiercely concerned Formbi made himself available for a conference with Admiral Ar’alani less than forty-eight hours after they returned to the Steadfast. In that time, Thrawn, Eli, and Ezra had laid low, gone through the motions required of their respective positions. Everything about their meeting with Ronan had been very unofficial, despite its very official sanction, thus it had been passed off as an errand for Thrawn and Ezra, with any trace of Vanto’s presence scrubbed from the logs.

Part of Eli’s involvement with Project Compass seemed to involve the captain’s tendency to sequester himself away, Thrawn thought, wondering if the bulk of the crew noticed anything amiss. Certainly the Navigators had noticed Eli’s lack of appearances for what it was. Ezra had said that Un’hee did not appreciate them going dark, but she hadn’t appeared nearly as clingy as he usually saw her. There had been another two Navigators with her at the time, both of whom were around Un’hee’s age and very quiet. Most of what Thrawn had taken from the recap of their brief conversation was that Bridger had been displeased that the other Navigators didn’t trust him the way Un’hee and Vah’nya appeared to.

In retrospect, when Faro sidled up to him on the bridge, not aware of anything amiss, he realized that Eli had the tendency to go dark for long periods of time in the heat of statistical analysis, a trait he’d brought with him to the Ascendency from the Empire. His attention to detail was legendary, and there had been times when only Thrawn himself had been able to raise him on internal comms while he’d been on the verge of a breakthrough. Before, Eli had been apologetic afterwards, aware of his low rank when he drew Faro’s ire.

Now, Faro accepted it as one of her colleague’s quirks. Convenient, Thrawn thought.

Karyn Faro looked smug when she spoke to Thrawn. “The Syndic is speaking with the Admiral now,” She informed him. “I was asked to take a walk and figured it wouldn’t hurt for you to know.” She spoke in near-silent Basic, switching to Cheunh when he inclined his head. “Vanto was busy, as usual, but said give you any news that wasn’t mission critical.” Her eyes danced with something mischievous. “Sounds like you two are doing better, if I might be so bold...”

His eyes flashed. On the bridge? Certainly not. “Thank you for the intel, Commander,” Thrawn said. “If you wish to gossip, please do not do so on my bridge.”

“With all due respect, what exactly do you think happened on the Chimaera’s bridge, sir?”

Thrawn looked down at her. She stared back, unafraid. He raised an elegant eyebrow. She shrugged, nonplussed. “Do you require anything further, Commander?” He asked, before she could become cocky enough to probe him further.

Smiling, she shook her head. “No, Captain. I’ll go back and see if the Admiral has completed her conference.”

“No need,” Ar’alani said. She turned to the helm. “Set course for Sarvchi.” Her eyes locked onto Thrawn’s. “We’ll make the delivery in person.”

Trailing along behind her, reaching the bridge as she arrived at the helm, was Un’hee. Her brilliant crimson eyes seemed like they were sharpened into points. She didn’t look at Thrawn, instead turning to look up at Ar’alani. The admiral took her seat in her command chair. “Navigator Un’hee,” She said, placing a hand atop the girl’s head. “You are not-” She whispered something into the Admiral’s ear.

There was something grim in the set of her jaw, even as she inclined her head, dismissing her back to her station. Un’hee looked at Thrawn, then at the Navigator at the helm. She looked at Ar’alani again.

“To your cabin, Navigator. You are not yet on duty.”

Thrawn waited until the tiny Navigator made her way off the bridge, the girl slinking away displeased. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “I have my own misgivings about this plan,” Ar’alani admitted quietly. “However if Chaf’orm’bintrano needs to see the red of my eyes to believe the seriousness of this threat, he will see them.”

Faro arrived at Ar’alani’s side as she’d finished speaking. “Admiral,” She acknowledged. “Course is locked in and on pace,” She indicated the star-streaks outside the ship. “Estimated time is six hours at current speed, give or take a few minutes.”

“Excellent,” Ar’alani said.

“What of the rest of the fleet?” Thrawn inquired.

Ar’alani inclined her head. “I do not anticipate this taking longer than a day, and the fleet is well protected and secure under Senior Captain Kresh’s command.”

“As you say, Admiral.”

When Thrawn looked up, Un’hee was lingering in the doorway to the bridge. Her eyes felt like they bore through him, the semi-darkness of the hallway just outside the bridge. She shook her head when she realized he had met her eyes and turned to the even smaller Navigator that stood in her shadow, taking both her hands and gesturing to Thrawn with a tilt of her head. The girl nodded, looking concerned but resolved. Un’hee pressed the tangle of their hands and smiled bravely before stepping back.

Ar’alani cleared her throat to get Thrawn’s attention, displeased at his distraction. “I did not wish to leave so abruptly,” She murmured to him. He hadn’t realized Faro had left. Her voice did not carry as she continued, “According to Ivant’s calculations, the fleet is due for another ‘shipment’ in approximately thirteen hours.” She looked up at Thrawn, who stood, leaning in, already thinking over her plan.

“Certainly the Senior Captain can handle it,” Thrawn said.

Ar’alani clenched the arms of her command chair with iron fists. “The shipment was scheduled for the Steadfast.”

“Implying-"

"Yes," She hissed, furious. "Just so." There were more traitors on her flagship.

Thrawn pulled back, but Ar'alani's hand reached out, wrapped around his wrist, sharp fingernails scratching his flesh, grip hard enough to bruise if it lingered for long.

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo," She murmured, in the voice she saved for her Navigators. It was meant to be soothing, but all it accomplished was making Thrawn's blood run cold. "Be ready to do what must be done." She remained looking straight ahead, though her fingers gripped him even fighter then, the bones of his wrist creaking at the brink of pain. She was not seeing the present moment, Thrawn knew, though he could not bring himself to take in the faraway sheen in her eyes, all too aware of the horrors they'd faced together in the past, before he'd left on his mission to court the Empire and she'd carried on alone. Horrors that she refused to allow to befall her cherished Navigators.

“Yes, Admiral.” Above all else, Mitth’raw’nuruodo and Ar’alani were warriors.

-/

Ivant kept the lighting in his office dim, mostly as a balm to the very sensitive Navigators he’d come to be in charge of, as well as by personal preference. The low lights allowed the projections he displayed in the open space to be seen with better clarity, and helped to put off the inevitable headaches he tended to get when staring at display screens for too long. To a human like Faro who had come and gone quickly when he’d been too distracted to entertain, it seemed dark. To a Chiss, it was tolerable. The Empire had only come in shades of sterile white and deepest gray-black.

In front of him, the remainder of the poison they had found remained sealed and locked in a blast-proof canister that would not open for anyone found not to have the clearance Formbi and Ar’alani had personally agreed on. He was not thrilled about the prospect of having the stuff in his office, safely sealed or not, but he knew that the crew would not come to him unless they were guilty of sympathizing with the enemy.

Which was why Ezra Bridger sat in the chair across from him, kneeling on the durasteel floor like it was comfortable, deep in what Eli assumed was a meditative trance. It was nothing like a Navigator, his abilities. They had tested, early on. Had laid subtle hints, looking for indications that his abilities could facilitate healing. But no, he was only capable of trances that seemed to help restore his mental and physical well-being, something that Eli knew through copious amounts of testing was not nearly as helpful to the Navigators, who were trained from early on to be balanced mentally.

Bridger claimed to tap into the Force, to sink into it like one soaked in a bath or waded into an ocean. His people, the Jedi, were meant to be guardians of peace. Spiritual shamans rooted and connected with the unseen ribbons of life itself, if the fragments of oral history and scraps of outlawed texts he’d gotten his hands on meant anything. The Force was his compass, the guide he followed.

Navigators were their own compass; conduits through which greater sight could be achieved. Sight that allowed them to safely direct the course of starships at lightspeed or coax into the smallest minutiae of a living being into healing. Sight into pathways that the future could take, one of infinite pathways that they could help breathe into being or cut off entirely.

The overlap in abilities existed, but mattered little in terms of the overall picture. The Jedi’s Force was not meant to be weaponized despite its many uses. Thrawn had recounted the tale of his and Ezra’s confrontation over Lothal, and the Jedi had confirmed the entire exchange verbatim. Eli was certain he would never forget the words for as long as he drew breath.

Eventually, but sooner than the Jedi might think, they would present Ezra Bridger with a choice: return home or stay, forever.

He didn’t need a Navigator’s Sight to know that Ezra would not choose as he had. He understood why, too. Eli’van’to would never truly be a Chiss. He might never have the same rights or privileges. Similarly, Ezra Bridger would always be a Jedi. He could not truly be a Navigator.

Besides, to the Chiss, their Sight was far more than a tool in a peacekeeper’s arsenal. Their alignment was neither light, nor dark, but something in-between. Their ascension and safekeeping was not destined to be a Jedi’s legacy.

“You’re worried,” Ezra breathed into the quiet hum of computers and the dim underlighting of Vanto’s office. “Everything will be fine.”

“Can you predict the future?” Vanto asked, trying and failing to keep the concern out of his voice.

“No,” The Jedi said, frowning. “The future is always in motion.” He shifted and readjusted his legs to sit cross-legged as Eli rounded his desk, leaning against the top of it, opposite of where he’d usually sit. “But you trust Ronan, and even that Formbi guy, whoever he is.”

“We already can’t trust the Aristocra, which means we didn’t really have many other options besides the private sector,” Ivant explained. “Our only saving grace is that House Chaf is a ruling family.” Darkly, he added, “Assuming he doesn’t betray us and go straight to the admiralty. The admiralty will feel that Ar’alani betrayed them by not coming forward with the information.”

Ezra frowned. “Even if she feared one of the Admirals to be compromised?”

“Even if she knows one of them is,” The Captain nodded. “Which, we know one of them must be, but we don’t know who. So now we’re left with a concept you’re familiar with: seeking forgiveness rather than asking permission.”

“Yeah,” The Jedi inclined his head. “So why are you so concerned?”

“It’s Admiral Ar’alani’s career on the line. And all of our lives.” And Project Compass, he thought to himself. If this goes to hell, if she loses credibility, all the data in the universe won’t matter to the council. If she finds herself blamed for anything that happens here, it would be the end of their project, and likely Eli’s life, for how close he was to all of these events. A family like Inrokini with their brutal, unwavering militaristic idealism would find it easy to take advantage in the fallout and topple House Mitth - Thrass’s influence would be reduced heavily for his loyalty to Ar’alani and the CDF as it currently stood. “Things won’t go according to plan,” Ivant said. “There are too many unknowns to plan for.”

“Aren’t there always?” Ezra rose so that he was looking Eli in the eye. “Look, I get it. Things could go wrong. They probably will.” He shrugged. “We’ll adapt. I know it’ll turn out alright.”

“Do you?”

“I have a pretty good feeling,” Ezra said. Despite Ivant’s skeptical look, he added sagely, “Trust in the Force.” Then, younger and more like his age, he added, “Or, y’know, trust me.”

Eli nodded. “Alright, Bridger. I’ll trust you.” He narrowed his gaze. If things really did go as poorly as his gut indicated it might, he might not get another chance. Ronan and the Empire didn’t have any information to give. He did not want Ezra imprinting his beliefs on Thrawn, given their history. Regardless of their relationship, Thrawn would always be a Chiss. He might understand human ethos, but Ezra was not Eli, and his principles as a Jedi would not always allow him to understand what decisions needed to be made - and at what cost. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“When we first questioned you, you mentioned that you had touched the,” Eli searched for a polite word that would hopefully prevent the Jedi from jumping to offense, “A less Jedi-like side of the force.”

The younger man’s eyes turned hard, like precious gemstones. “The Dark Side, Captain. Call it what it is,” He said, and pressed, “What is it you want to know?”

Eli allowed himself to sit atop his desk, legs hanging over the side. He folded his fingers together and laid them just shy of his knees.“You’ve encountered Grysks. You’ve fought alongside Jedi and against Sith. What do you think of the Navigators, after all this time?”

Silence followed the question. Pensively, Ezra looked up into Ivant’s eyes and then closed his own altogether. He seemed to sink back into that trance state as he stood there, reaching out with the Force. The Captain waited patiently for him to return to himself. When Ezra still said nothing, Ivant began to rephrase.

“The Galaxy is more than black and white, Dark and Light, good and evil.” He murmured the next bit even softer. “Jedi and Sith.”

“The Chiss aren’t on the side of the Light,” Ezra mused, making the connection he’d been steered towards.

“I do not believe so,” Eli admitted. “Not entirely. But I do not believe them to be inherently evil like the Grysks, either.” His gaze was contemplative, but serious. “I believe they are both.”

Ezra nodded his head. “The Chiss do not call it the Force. They are not like Sith or Jedi. There are… beings,” Ezra finally said. “Some are inherently attuned to the Force. My master said there were those attuned to the Light, and others attuned to the Dark. But,” Ezra confessed, “Yes. I’ve used the Dark Side. I’m not proud of it, and I hope never to do so again.” He tilted his head, looking at Eli. “If you want me to teach them how to commune with the Dark Side, I won’t.”

“That was never my intention,” Vanto said sternly. “It is only their goodness that will save them. A goodness they’ve forgotten, a sense of self that they have extinguished for sake of their pride.”

Bridger crossed his arms. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“If things go poorly, you are going to see things you should not see. Things I would ask you never to share with another soul. Things that may make you wonder which side the Navigators are on.”

“Even a Jedi has darkness in them,” Ezra said, suspicious. “Picking the Light... It’s a choice you keep making, you don’t just get to decide once and that’s it.”

Eli considered that. “But again, the Chiss do not see light or dark. The Chiss simply are. You have heard of their culture, their legacy as warriors. They do not perceive the Force like you do, though the ways they wield it may seem familiar to yourself and… others you may have encountered in the past.”

“There are Navigators using the Dark Side?” Ezra’s voice rose. “Captain - Eli - that’s not good. They’re just children, they-”

“Even so,” A solemn voice whispered from behind Ezra. He jerked in surprise, unable to hear, see, or even sense her approach. “A Navigator can be capable of weaponizing the Force in self defense.”

Ezra whirled around. “How?” His dark eyes met Vah’nya’s glowing ones. “Why would you want to-”

“I was terrified,” She said softly, speaking of her own experience as the memory played out in her mind’s eye. “I couldn’t help it. All I knew was that I was to suffer a fate worse than death.” She slipped into the room, head held high. “But like you said,” She gestured toward them with an open palm, “There is good and bad in all of us. Do you believe it is evil to be afraid? To be angry?”

“Well, no, but the Jedi code,” Ezra said, strained, “It kind of specifically warns against emotions ruling you. That isn’t - I don’t believe you or the other Navigators are evil, Vah’nya, but-”

“We are the ones in the middle,” Vah’nya said. “We are warriors, servants to those we protect. That is what it means to be a Navigator, to be a Chiss.” Her eyes glowed in the dimness of the room. “Are we the only ones in the universe who are children of both Light and Dark, not one or the other, but both?”

Understanding flickered across Ezra’s face. He stepped to the side, allowing Vah’nya to join their circle. “There is only one being I know of,” He admitted. Ezra looked between them both. “But you’re not entirely the same. He - Bendu was a bit more… cranky. And chaotic. Thrawn told you about him,” Ezra said. “He was the one on Atollon.”

“He used the Force?” Eli asked, voice rising, sounding surprised. There was an edge to his voice as Vah’nya leaned forward in interest, expectantly. “I’ve heard of sentient creatures - big, small, that doesn’t really matter, but-” Eli didn’t have to go on.

“He did. He taught my master how to see with the Force after he’d been blinded,” Ezra said softly, then looked up at Eli, running through what he knew of the planet-side battle from his friends. “Oh,” He said, and swallowed. Kanan had trusted his friend, had trusted Bendu to help them defeat the Empire, even though he’d used abilities that weren’t becoming of a Jedi, that weren’t grounded in the Light at all. He didn’t see the significant look Vah’nya and Eli shared around him, preoccupied with his thoughts as he said, “I see what you mean.”

[junionigiri]

Just Another Secretary Story! Chapter 3 - What I Want

Chapter summary: Todoroki tries to understand what Uraraka wants (and sort of misses).

Rating: T

“So,” Midoriya Izuku begins, struggling to keep his face as serene as a Buddharupa, “she said no.”

Shouto hates that he ends up in Midoriya’s much smaller office in the morning that follows his proposal to Uraraka, yet here he is. To his astonishment, his subordinate was right and he was wrong. The shorter man’s efforts to not say any variation of I told you so makes this humbling ordeal a lot worse.

After some thoughtful silence regarding the look of utter defeat in Shouto, he asks, “What happened anyway? You drove to Uraraka-san’s house last night, right?”

The arduous journey took him forty-five minutes of driving in the opposite direction, ten minutes taking the wrong exit, and another ten minutes of driving at a snail’s pace in that tiny, tiny neighborhood where she lived. He only ran over a grand total of two ceramic pots, resulting in a brief confrontation and him leaving 20,000 yen per pot to the stunned owners. He was told to come back anytime, which was strange, but he wouldn’t have minded it if his travels were worth it.

They were not. After watching him cast his dignity aside and covering the sidewalk with raw eggs, Uraraka merely knelt beside him and touched his forehead to check for a fever. Followed by her asking him if he remembered who he is or where he was and how many fingers she was holding up.

“Yikes.” Midoriya physically winced at that. “And then what?”

Shouto exhales slowly. “And then she said she can’t… won’t marry me.”

Her exact words were, “Director, I can’t marry you, how can you even ask me that? And please get off the concrete right now, your suit will get ruined!!! ”

He supposed he can’t blame her for not immediately picking up on the flawless logic of his plan, so he explained things to her as concisely as he can. “You want to get married. I am the most suitable person for what you want--smart, wealthy, successful, handsome, established, and a fair man who won’t force you to quit your career. There’s no question. You should marry me as quickly as possible.”

He isn’t even bragging when he said those things about himself--they’re just objectively true. She stared at him in a number of ways--curiosity, shock, and an emotion he didn’t know that made her eyes flare. He thought she ended up getting the fever judging by the way her cheeks turned from pink to red and how her hands shook.

“Director… go home. I gotta… have to clean up the eggs.”

After that, she walked away from him without saying anything. She might have been shocked or she might have been just plain rude, which he didn’t deserve at all. Shouto went home feeling irritated.

In an impassioned text she sent him after he demanded an explanation, she tells him, What I want is an ordinary marriage with an ordinary person. Nothing more, nothing less. Goodnight, Director Todoroki.

“Oh no,” Midoriya groans. “Of course it’ll end up like this, Todoroki-kun—I mean, Director. I’m surprised you thought this would work at all.”

His fingers tap against his desk in irritation. “You made that abundantly clear, Midoriya. But tell me why I was set to fail.”

“Well, there are lots of reasons why it wasn’t going to work… I mean, you went there without a plan, you didn’t call her or text her that you needed to see her, you didn’t check if the venue was appropriate for the proposal, your proposal was obviously rushed, you didn’t even have a ring, you caused her to break all those eggs, ruined her dinner, made a big mess in the neighborhood...”

Each point Midoriya stabs him right in the ego until Shouto feels about as alive as the hideous tiger rug his father keeps in their summer home.

“But most important of all… Director.” He pauses to take a deep breath, both to give his superior time to ruminate over his words, and also because he’s already turning blue from talking so much without breathing. “The biggest flaw in your plan was you asked to marry her with no consideration for her whatsoever. You just assumed that she’d marry you just because you said so! That’s not how marriage works! For a marriage proposal like that, no is the only correct answer!”

How is he supposed to know how marriages worked? He didn’t learn anything witnessing the sham of a marriage between his parents. It’s already baffling enough that anyone would want anything as fragile as that. Still,

“I did it for her. I wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want it.”

Midoriya is wrong. This isn’t about what he wanted. Uraraka is the one who wants marriage, not him. He’s never even considered it at all before her.

His best friend looks more frustrated than ever. “No, you wouldn’t have asked if you weren’t going to lose an assistant. You wouldn’t have asked her anything if she didn’t tell you that she wanted to leave! And I get that you’re panicking because you’re afraid to lose her, but I think you need to take time to understand her better!”

Realizing too late how passionately he nagged Shouto like a disappointed mother, Midoriya blushes furiously and clamps his mouth shut.

“You seem to understand relationships better than I do, Midoriya. I’m surprised. You definitely don’t look experienced.”

Midoriya continues to make an impressive impression of a tomato and stammers in protest. “Nghh, it’s not that--I mean--no, you know what, my experience doesn’t matter.” Shaking the red from his freckled cheeks, he points an accusing finger at him. “What matters now is you! Make an effort to understand what Uraraka-san wants and give her what she needs from you!”

“Make an effort to understand what Secretary Uraraka wants,” he repeats.

Midoriya hums affirmatively.

“And give her what she needs.”

The other man nods brightly. “Yeah, you get it now, right Director? The thing you have to do now is to--”

“--understand who her ideal marriage partner is and become that person.”

“--give her some space and-- TODOROKI-KUN, SERIOUSLY. ”

Midoriya isn’t prone to many outbursts, so anytime he has one people have to be concerned. But the gears in Shouto’s head are too busy turning for him to notice.

Of course he was set to fail from the start, because the manner of his approach was wrong. There was meaning to Uraraka mentioning her ordinariness--how could he have missed it? He didn’t think being extraordinary would give him any disadvantages ever in his life. But now that he understands the situation better, he knows what to do next.

“She wants an ordinary person and an ordinary marriage. So, if she were an ordinary person from her age group, what she would be looking for is romance. That’s a statistically sound assumption based on solid marketing research. So if I am able to successfully woo her as an ordinary man--”

“Oh no,” Midoriya whispers.

Oh yes. It’ll be tough to become the ordinary person she wants, but he can make it work. He’ll face the challenges head-on for the sake of her future-- their future. A stable marriage with a smart, wealthy, successful, handsome, established man, and a stable job working for a smart, wealthy, successful… well, you get the idea. She should count herself lucky.

By that time, the green-haired chief looks pretty much done with everything. “I know that look in your eyes, Director, and I know nothing’s gonna stop you whatever I say. So let me know how it goes, yeah? I’ll get to work now, so...”

Gathering his things, Midoriya turns to leave his own office. Unfortunately for him, Shouto isn’t done with him yet. One searing hot hand makes it to the shorter man’s shoulder, making him yelp.

“But Chief Midoriya, I need your expertise in this. Kindly put your bag down and help me strategize.”

“... oh no,” Midoriya repeats helplessly.  

 *

 Ochako hesitates a little as she opens the door to the Office of the Executive Director. Due to her errands the day before, she hasn’t had a chance to sit with her officemates since the announcement of her resignation. In her groupchat with Tooru-chan and Tsuyu-chan from Marketing, she was told that she’s the topic of widespread gossip all over the corporation. So she’s worried--how is the rest of the office going to react about her leaving?

The moment she enters, Monoma Neito, the unit manager, twirls with a fox-like smile. “Well, well, well! And here we have the quitter herself! Welcome to the end, Uraraka!”

The rest of the five-man team--Senior Officer Iida Tenya and his two assistants Ashido Mina and Kirishima Eijirou--let their things clatter noisily on the table upon her entrance.

“G’morning guys-- gah-- ”

Everyone is already around her before she can breathe. Predictably, it’s Iida who reaches her first by stomping across the room at the speed of light. “Uraraka-kun, tell me it isn’t true! Are you truly abandoning the Executive Director in favor of a different company in Korea?”

“No, Iida, you got that wrong!” Mina says, shoving him away from her face. “Ochako-chan, I heard you’re quitting ‘cause you’re getting married to a childhood friend from Mie-ken! That’s it, right? Right?”

“No way, Mina!” Kirishima shoves her face with his own so he can look at Ochako in the eye. “It’s medical, right? Uraraka, if you need a blood or organ donor, you know you can just come to me, right? I’ll give you my kidney and I won’t even say ouch , so--”

So they’re not mad at her for leaving. She’s hardly able to get even an awkward laughter in when Monoma shoves the enthusiastic group away from her with a snooty tsk, tsk, tsk.

“Now now, you lot. We all know what this is about.” With his usual flourish and spread of the fingers, he deems himself to explain. “Uraraka has been the most faithful aide to the Director for the past nine years. No other secretary is able to achieve the feats that she has. Therefore we owe her the courtesy of her privacy when it comes to the personal reasons of her leaving work.”

Ochako stares at the usually prickly manager in awe. “Wow, Monoma-kun, that’s awful decent of you.”

“Can’t be helped. I am an extraordinarily decent person, after all. So when you marry that Mie-ken guy and move to Korea within the next three and a half months for work and treatments, it’s really none of our business~”

So he’s still the same snake. She wonders why anyone would still believe anything this guy has to say.

“That said, Uraraka,” Monoma continues, batting his eyelashes innocently, “if you’re looking for a new chief secretary to replace you, look no further, for I--”

“Ah! That’s right!” Iida interrupts them with a swift karate chop in front of the blonde’s face. “Uraraka-kun, if it is so, we must create a task force to find your replacement! As such, I would like to verify the imminence of your resignation, so that I can act accordingly!”

Ignoring Monoma’s offended scoff, Ochako beams at Iida like a lightbulb. “It’s true, Iida-kun! Like I told the Director, I’m gonna start turnover of duties as soon as we find a replacement. So I’ll only be here for another month!”

“Oh my god, Ochako-chan! You’re really leaving us! I can’t believe it!” Mina says tearily, “Oh, but you’re not dying from an illness or anything like that, are you?”

She smiles. “Nope, I’m not dying! Don’t worry!”

“OMG! How about marriage then?!”

Ochako tries not to cough remembering the whole debacle from last night. “... nope… not yet...”

The entire office sighs in relief (except for the snickering Monoma, the obvious source of all gossip). “But this is great, Uraraka! You work the hardest out of all of us, but now that you’re resigning, it means you’re finally going to have some time for yourself, huh?” Kirishima says.

“Well… yeah, there’s that too,” she answers coolly. When she beams again, the four other executives had to literally shield their eyes from her.

“Gah, my eyes,” Monoma mutters, wiping his eyes. “Is this the smile of a woman who’s finally going to have time for dates? I’m ~thrilled~ for you, Uraraka.”

The spring of her youth came late, but boy is she going to enjoy it. The vision of holding a special someone’s hands as they walk under the cherry blossoms seems a little less impossible now.

Mina gasps.”That’s right, Kiri! Ochako-chan can go on dates now!” When the redhead only stares at her blankly, she rolls her eyes. “You know! That time we went to the barbecue place in Wookiess, he asked you about Ochako after seeing our pictures?”

Kirishima gasps. “Yeah… yeah, yeah! Hey, Uraraka, if you’re up for a blind date, there’s a good buddy of mine who--”

Before any of them can process what the boisterous couple is actually trying to say, a flash of red and white enters their peripheral vision. As a conditioned reflex, they all shut their mouths, turn to the entrance and simultaneously do a half-bow. “Executive Director,” they greet in unison.

Todoroki Shouto glares at them more severely than usual. “Secretary Uraraka,” is all he needs to say before Ochako is on his heels the next second.

She hears a soft and scared bye from the rest of the team. It’s the same air of villagers watching the human sacrifice get thrown into the gaping maw of a volcano. The difference is, the villagers only have to do this once per season, whereas the Office of the Executive Director does this every single day.

Just a month longer, Ochako, she tells herself before going over the day’s agenda with the Director. 

 *

 The Director’s mood is in a different level of hell than any of them had imagined. Oddly it was Kirishima who ended up with the bulk of the workload that day. No-one dared to question why.

So much for talking to him about the blind date. Ochako’s definitely interested in learning more about the guy they had in mind. Even though it isn’t very likely that this random guy will be ~The One~, it’s still a great chance to test the waters. 

I wonder if he’s a nice guy. There’s a good chance that he is, right? Kirishima’s one of the nicest guys in the universe, and it makes sense to have a ‘good buddy’ who’s as nice as he is. Oh, maybe he’ll have puppy dog eyes. Like a Pomeranian. Gosh, it’ll be cute if he were just like a Pomeranian.

Wait. I’m at work. I shouldn’t be thinking of dates with guys I haven’t met yet. She shakes her head and continues typing up a letter to HR for her replacement. Okay, qualifications, qualifications...

A nice guy, nice hair, stable job, intelligent. He definitely has to be tall. Muscles are good. Sharp eyes? Red is a nice eye color, but that might be too intense. Purple is good too. And blue. Oh, grey. Blue and grey…?

A muscle involuntary twitches on her face.

Sneakily, Ochako peers over to where Director Todoroki is speaking in rapid French to a client from a different continent. The awkward encounter of last night flashes back in front of her eyes. Did the worst marriage proposal ever to have happened really happened? The Director didn’t mention it or even gave any indication that it happened at all, so she seriously wondered if she just dreamt the whole thing.

But she really sent him that message last night didn’t she??? What I want is an ordinary marriage with an ordinary person --she didn’t think she’d be so angry that she can snap at the Director like this through text. But he came at her with that ridiculous proposal of his just so she can keep being his secretary forever and ever, of course she’s going to snap!

Plus, as clueless as the Director is it’s so infuriating that he said something as borderline romantic as I want you by my side forever. Now that Ochako knows exactly what he meant by that, she really hated how fast her heart started beating when he said that while holding her hand. Universe, isn’t it unfair that the guy you sent to make her heart skip a beat for the first time in a long time is the clueless demon Director who just doesn’t want her to quit?

Oof, double oof. Well… if he acts like it didn’t happen, she’s more than happy to comply. It’s better this way so they can work together efficiently. It’ll only be for another month. One more month, Ochako!

Well... the eye color doesn’t matter, as long as he feeds me mochi until I explode. Must like dogs and babies. Cats…? Shelter cats should be okay. If it’s a British Shorthair...

Why is she thinking of British Shorthairs. Why is she thinking of snooty ol’ Victoria running around her dream house with her dream guy. It’s thanks to that proposal that she’s weird today. Stupid Director, messing with her good time like this!

“Uraraka-san?”

Blinking out of her reverie, she shifts into work mode and gives a half-bow to her unlikely visitor. “Chief Midoriya,” she greets respectfully. “I’m sorry, were you standing there for long?”

Midoriya Izuku shakes his head. “You were really enjoying what you were doing, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He gives one hecking bright smile which leaves her partially blind. Is this guy really Director Todoroki’s best friend? He must be a saint. “The Director is in the middle of a teleconference now so he can’t be disturbed. If you can come back after half an hour…”

“No, it’s okay! I was actually looking for you.”

Midoriya pulls out a floppy folder from under his arm. There are papers there filled with what look like detailed scribbles and anime doodles. To the intrigued Ochako he hands a form.

“Oh… a survey?”

“Yup!” Midoriya shows her the entire questionnaire, which is just one page. “We’re working on booking services that target women working at corporate. You know, usual things, nothing different from the normal things my department works on, not like this survey is weird or anything. Anyhow, since you’re part of our target market, I was hoping you’d help us out…”

Strange, since when did Chief Midoriya hand out surveys personally? If the employees in Endeavor needed to answer surveys, he usually gets Tooru-chan to send the forms via email. So has he been giving this to all the girls in the building? Is that why he’s sweating and murmuring more than usual?

It doesn’t look like Midoriya’s having an easy time with this survey, so she decides to help him out. “No problem, Chief. I’ll work on this one during my break,” she says with a smile. “I’ll give my form to Secretary Hagakure when I’m done.”

“Oh no! No need! Please don’t--” Midoriya coughs so hard he gags. Ochako moves to help him, but he stops her by holding a shaky hand up. “This…. I mean, Secretary Hagakure’s got other important, er, things going on. Uh, so when you’re done, I’ll just come by to pick up your form, okay?”

He’s so stressed Ochako‘s half expecting him to throw up right there and then. “Oh… kay then.”

“Okay that’s settled! Thanks for helping me, er, us out. Bye~~~”

Heaving an oddly relieved sigh, the haggard chief of marketing speedwalks out of the office without sparing a second glance. It’s well known in the company that Midoriya is very bad at talking to women, but this was worse than usual. Must be extra pressure from above...

She browses the survey briefly. There are three questions on it with plenty of space underneath to write her answers:

   Describe your ideal partner. (A complete description by physical attributes and behavioral traits are considered optimal).

Describe an ideal excursion with your ideal partner. (Provide as much detail on the location, ideal time, and weather conditions of said excursion).

Describe an ideal product that you would like to receive from your ideal partner. (Dimensions, color options, and other details are required). 

  Weird. Really weird. She can’t put her finger on it, but the blunt and commanding style of writing reads so familiarly. She’s sure that it isn’t Midoriya or his assistant Tsuyu-chan or Tooru-chan who did this one. Maybe they hired someone new?

Oh well. The questions are pretty interesting, so she’ll give herself time to think about them. Maybe once Kirishima sets her up with her blind date, she can actually claim some of her answers for real. 

 *

 As promised, Midoriya runs right into their office when she tells him she finished the survey. The executive bows to her about half a hundred times before running off and disappearing without any further explanation.

“I wonder if he’s okay,” she asks worriedly as Midoriya almost bulldozes Monoma on the way out.

“Don’t mind him,” Director Todoroki replies coldly. As that guy’s best friend, he sure seems to make an effort to disregard his existence. “You were going to show me those files from HR.”

“Yes, Director.” Ochako places an armful of files over his left, a short summarized list on his right. “These are the candidates for the secretary position. We coordinated with the department head for the interview schedules. The earliest batch will be interviewed next week.”

Todoroki taps his fingers thoughtfully over the desk. “Next week.”

“Yes, Director.”

There’s an anxious moment where Ochako expects him to push back the dates further to keep her working there for longer. But instead of that, the director takes one glance at the list of candidates and points to a name smack in the middle.

“You want to finish the turnover of duties as quickly as possible, right?” His right eye disconcertingly dark, he taps the list menacingly. “Let’s interview the first batch tomorrow. Starting with this one.”

Utsushimi Camie. Ochako raises her eyebrows at the choice. She isn’t a bad candidate at all--she finished university in the prestigious Shiketsu, she has prior experience at a respectable law firm, and she speaks English, German, and Russian fluently.

She also had a long, detailed list of her interests and hobbies that filled up half her resume, which was odd, but it only made her seem more interesting. She’d be a great replacement for Ochako. “Understood, sir.”

Director Todoroki drops the subject and continues with the rest of their daily report. Ochako keeps up with him without much problems, although with the excitement of the things to come it’s more difficult to keep her face carefully neutral.

Things are falling into place for her, aren’t they? 

 *

 It’s nighttime when she’s able to leave the office, but thankfully she’s only an hour late for her next meeting. At an eatery not far from her apartment, she easily spots her dates for the evening.

It’s easy to find them in a dingy diner like this. There are two beauties sitting with half-finished plates of dumplings and Chinese-style fried rice on them: one with dark hair, dark eyes and a gracefulness that makes her stand out, and one with pale skin, pale hair, an exquisite fashion sense and a different charisma that would make anyone do a double-take.

“Yui-chan!” Ochako rushes over to her and gives her a big, warm hug. “And Reiko-chan, oh my gosh, it’s been so long!”

“Yeah, well who’s the idiot who hasn’t taken a single day off for the last nine years?” Reiko gives her a fond smile and another bear hug. “Yui, come on, guilt-trip your cousin a more, she deserves it!”

Yui gives her a sharp look.

“I know, I know, sorry, but I’m here now, right?” Ochako takes a seat and munches on a dumpling. “Oh my gosh, I’m starving, I’m glad you ordered ahead.”

“We’ve been doing this for a long time. Give us some credit.” Reiko tells her flatly.

Kodai Yui is her quiet cousin from her mother’s side, practically a sister from how they were raised. Yanagi Reiko is their closest, snarkiest childhood friend who is also close enough to be their sister. Throughout high school and beyond they made it a point to eat at this diner once a week. Needless to say, their weekly meetings were more difficult to keep once Ochako started working at Endeavor Inc.

“Anyway, enough about that.” Ochako takes some beer and raises it to them. “This is the first time you’re meeting me without owing a single yen to the banks, so… yay me!”

“Yay, Ochako!” The glasses clink and they down their respective drinks, followed by a satisfied ahh~ in unison. As they set their glasses down, all Ochako could think about is how great it felt to know that she’d be able to do this more often.

Reiko squints her exposed eye to her, full lips pursed. “Yesterday, Yui here called me about the thing you told her about. She was so excited she said five full sentences to me. So is it true?”

“Yui-chan, you were that happy for me?” Ochako smiles at Yui brightly, who nods. “And yes it’s true, Reiko-chan! I’m leaving Endeavor Inc!”

“Oh my god, finally? I think I’ll congratulate you more for finally quitting and leaving that brat!”

Ochako giggles at the simultaneous flash of irritation on the girls’ faces. “Wow you guys really hate Director Todoroki that much, huh? ”

“And you don’t?” Reiko looks insulted. “Ochako, your nine-to-five was actually five-to-nine or worse. He forced you into a lot of his stupid business ideas, hung up on you constantly, woke you up in the middle of the night at least three times a week for new deadlines, made you wait on his girlfriends hand and foot, made you take care of his snooty cat--”

“Victoria-chan’s good,” Yui mumbles over her beer, “but, yup.”

“--and worse of all, he expected you to treat him like a prince while he treated you like shit. ” Reiko chugs down the rest of her beer in one go, she was that irritated. “And he did that for nine years. Nine years, Ochako!”

“I know,” Ochako smiles serenely. “No regrets for me though! Ma and Pa are okay in Mie, and look, Yui-chan’s an engineer now! Isn’t that great? Plus now I can do what I want, so--”

Suddenly, tears are falling quietly from Yui’s eyes. Ochako yelps in shock while Reiko scrambles for tissues.

“Yui-chan, come on, you promised not to cry over this anymore.” Ochako pats her silent cousin at the back as she pats her eyes dry gracefully. “You didn’t force me to pay for your tuition, you know? It was something that I wanted to do ‘cause I know it’ll make you happy.”

“Mhm.”

Reiko hums. “You also lent me a lot of cash so I can finish fashion school. Now I’m pretty happy being Yaomomo’s stylist, but… you know we’re both going to feel guilty for making you suffer under that asshat for longer than necessary.”

“Mm.”

“Yeah, that reminds me, shit, the nerve of that guy breaking up with Yaomomo! Oh my god, I need more beer over here, please!”

Ochako pointedly does not tell them about how the break-up happened. She might end up with an angry drunk Reiko sleeping on her couch again. “But he isn’t a bad boss. I mean, even if he pushed me too hard, he always treated me fairly. He’s just clueless about a lot of things. Besides, I learned a lot from trying to keep up with him, so…”

Reiko and Yui give her mildly disappointed looks. “Ochako… he didn’t just push you too hard. He’s practically got you on a ball and chain!”

She scoffs. “You’re exaggerating.”

Out of nowhere, Yui snatches her handbag right from her grasp. Despite her protests, the taciturn girl opens the contents for all to see, which are just standard items in an OL’s handbag--phone, wallet, Suica card, keys to her apartment, keys to the penthouse, a spare handkerchief, Tylenol for the Director’s migraine, a pair of men’s Raybans, the Director’s favorite Waterman ivory fountain pen, peppermints, cat treats--

Reiko simmers a little more. “What are you, his wife? Why the hell is your bag full of his shit?”

She scowls at the meaningful glares directed at her and grabs her bag back. “You know how clueless he is, I have to be ready for everything… It’s part my job to take care of him!”

Yui gives her a pitying look. “Stockholm Syndrome,” she mutters darkly.

Ochako scoffs. “I told you a million times already, Yui-chan, it’s n-not that. He’s my infuriating boss, nothing more, nothing less.”

Reiko narrows her eyes at her. “Hey. You stuttered.”

Under the two accusing gazes, Ochako covers her face with a mug of beer. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. Oh my god.” Reiko looks about ready to flip the table and cover the entire restaurant in dumpling sauce. “Ochako. Don’t you dare.”

“No, Reiko-chan, I swear!”

Yui tugs on her sleeve with a grim determination in her eyes. “Todoroki…?” she asks.

Ochako swallows nervously. Judging by the stares coming her way, this wasn’t going to be easy, and won’t become any easier if she prolongs the agony.

“... proposed,” she finally mutters.

The two girls look at her dumbly. “Proposed?”

Ochako nods. Reiko looks about ready to upend more furniture like an irate poltergeist. Ochako has to pick her next answers carefully. “And… you didn’t say yes, did you…?”

“N-no, of course not!” Ochako sputters. She feels her cheeks light up in protest. “It came out of nowhere! He did it so I won’t quit! Besides, even if he proposed to me better, (like, in a planetarium or something), I’ll never ever ever ever ever say yes to him!”

Yui crosses her arms over her chest. “... stutter,” she says accusingly. 

Ochako makes a sound of frustration. She really doesn’t deserve all the judgmental looks coming her way. She mustered up all that courage to quit, didn’t she? And yeah Director Todoroki proposed to her just the night before and made her question his sanity, but she said no, right? Every single bone in her body told her that she couldn’t ever be with Todoroki Shouto, not in that way--

I want you by my side forever, he’d told her, with her hand in his--

“B-blind date,” she sputters forcefully. “I’m going on a blind date with someone! Someone else. Not Todoroki Shouto. So there! Stop ragging on me, ‘kay?”

She hates how hot her cheeks can get. She chugs her second beer a little faster than she’d like to try to cover it up, and thankfully it works. Yui and Reiko share a sigh of relief. “Details,” Reiko demands, to which she complies happily.

“He’s the best friend of one of my co-workers, Kirishima,” she begins, rifling through her chatlog with the redhead. It’s good that he snuck in some time to text her about it after all his work was done. “The guy’s a journalist! Neat, huh? Kirishima says he asked to meet me after seeing my face on Instagram.”

“Huh. Just your face? What a straightforward guy.” The two girls are mildly impressed. “So, what’s his name? And he’s not ugly or anything is he?”

Ochako laughs. “No, not ugly at all! So this is the guy I’m meeting next week. His name’s Baku--”

A lick of flame appears at the periphery of her vision. It’s small in reality, but in Ochako’s mind, it starts to spread. Suddenly, the whole diner is on fire. There’s ashes and debris falling over the exits, trapping them all. Someone with cold, white hands is telling her to leave and take… someone… out of there...

She can’t move. She’s about to die. They’re both about to die.

“...chako… Ochako…”

She blinks, and suddenly the fires are gone. Her body isn’t cold but she’s shaking all over. Yui is above her, cradling her and keeping her still. She hears Reiko yelling at someone in the kitchen for being too showy with their cooking.

“N… no fire?”

Yui shakes her head. “No fire.”

Reiko reappears next to Yui. “They hired someone new who didn’t know about your pyrophobia. But it’s okay now. I think we should take you home.”

Another night ruined. If it isn’t her schedule, it’s her paralyzing fear of fire. She hates that she has to ask the girls to take care of her again. She hates that the few times they meet, she has to become this broken little person again.

Yui’s too kind. Reiko’s too kind, and also badass. She really doesn’t deserve sisters like them.

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Yui tells her kindly. “You’re a great person, Ochako. One day you’ll see that. And one day, someone special will see that too. Just you wait.”

There’s nothing as comforting as Yui saying so many words while being tucked into bed. It’s good enough that she isn’t afraid to get to sleep and confront the nightmares again.

She dreams of many things, but what she remembers when she wakes up is red, white, and the smell of strawberries.

[afterglow-prompts]

a hundred dialogue prompts

hey all! awhile ago i decided that for every 25 sets put out, i’ll be doing mass prompts! i hope you enjoy this. i have each original prompt list linked in each number for your convenience. also, i’ll link the other ones below this note as soon as i put them out! thank you all so much!

this is going to be long lol, all prompts under the cut

fifty otp prompts                         

#1

“That was my sarcastic voice.” “That sounded a lot like your normal voice.” “So I’ve heard.”

“I’m going to lose my last shred of sanity.” “You can’t lose what you don’t have.”

“I can’t tell if they’re enemies or lovers.” “Neither can I, but I can sure as hell say that they’re entertaining.”

“I’m going to need you to put on pants before we do anything else.” “I am wearing pants!” “Male booty shorts in the dead of winter do not count as pants.”

#2

“Do you want to know what you’re feeling right now?” “And what would that be?” “Absolute stupidity.” 

“Even if I had a week, I couldn’t list all the reasons why this won’t work.”

“I’m going to need about six more cups of coffee before I lose the nerve to do this.”

“I may act like an angel, but I’m definitely not Cupid. Do you know why? First, I can hardly find a date for myself. Second, my butt only looks semi-fabulous in a diaper.”

#3

“See, someone thinks I’m funny!” “Well statistically, someone has to.”

“Both of you have been glancing at each other for the past two fucking hours when the other isn’t looking. Will you please make out already!”

“I read a lot of fanfiction. Trust me, I know how this will turn out.”

“Don’t put money on me losing, you dipshit.”

#4

“Stop fighting over her, we don’t have time for a love triangle right now!”

“I’m the world champion of laziness. I’d go and grab the fake belt my parents made as a joke, but it’s all the way upstairs.”

“Let me help you, I know you’re not that strong.” “I’m strong enough to carry your corpse into the woods, so I suggest you shut up.”

“People say I act like I don’t care. It’s not an act.”

#5

“My feelings for you are like the colors of the night sky, blinding, beautiful, and seemingly endless.”

“I can’t tell them I’m writing the love notes, they’ll kill me!”

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with them, it kind of just happened.”

“I’ll be yours until all the stars fall out of the sky.”

#6

“Are you allergic to happiness?” “No, but I’m allergic to your stupidity.”

“You can’t lose weight by running away from your feelings.” “I can damn well try.”

“You should apologize.” “Fine. Unfuck you or whatever you want me to say.”

“I could hurt you if I wanted.” “So could a dedicated duck. You’re not special.”

#7

“I’m here to save you, of course.” “Sorry to ruin your fantasy, but I don’t need to be saved.”

“My mood is currently screaming into oblivion.”

“Are you okay?” “No, next question.”

“You’re cute as hell.” “Coincidentally, that’s where I came from.”

#8

“Why for the love of everything good and holy are you screaming like your ass is on fire?”

“I am nothing if not consistent.” “Yeah, a consistent pain in my ass.”

“This is the most humiliating thing to ever happen to me!” “What about the time where-.” “Let’s not do this!”

“Sorry I hit you, my first instinct was to attack.” “You didn’t know it was me?” “Oh, I knew.”

#9

“You need to lay off the caffeine.” “Do that and you might need to lay off your life because I will make it a living fucking hell.”

“You made me chocolate chip cookies? How thoughtful! You are the best person ev-. OH MY GOSH. THIS HAS RAISINS IN IT YOU ASSHOLE! YOU KNOW I HATE RAISINS GET BACK HERE.”

“There are 1,013,913 words in the English language, but I could never string them together to accurately enough to explain how much I want to hit you with a chair.”

“I love you dearly, but I am going to shove you into a trash can the first chance I get.” “Fair enough.”

#10

“If you take that cupcake, I will hit you with a chair. Repeatedly.” “Don’t do it. They’ve done it to me before.”

“Be polite.” “Go fuck yourself.”

“Sing this with me or I’ll kick your ass.”

“When every door around you is closed, kick one in with brute force.”

#11

“I dreamed about you last night.” “I’m just the pizza delivery guy. Please sign the receipt and let me leave.”

“Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘pick your battles’?” “Yes, and I pick all of them.”

“I will not hesitate to strangle you.” “Can you even reach my neck?”

“I hate you with every inch of my being!” “That’s not a lot of inches.”

#12

“For fuck’s sake, stop, stop talking about yourself like that! It makes me sick!” “Why? You don’t care!” “The fuck I don’t! I love you. Every single part of you.”

“Breathe for me, my darling. You have to breathe to live.”

“This unworthy heart of mine will always be yours, do not forget that.”

“A warrior without scars is either play-acting or very, very good.” “Who said I didn’t have scars?”

#13 (what is it with me and the terrible angst?)

“C’mon, they’re only a few scratches.” “You were in a car crash you insolent little shit!”

“I thought I lost you. Do you have any idea, even a minuscule one, on how much that hurt me?”

“Don’t you dare lie to me. Not about this.”

“Giving away love never hurt anyone.” “But if you give away too much, what is left for yourself?”

#14

“You are the human version of a migraine.”

“Is it too early to have a breakdown this week?” “It’s Monday.” “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“In your opinion, what is the height of stupidity?” “How tall are you?” 

“I may be a mechanic, but I can’t fix stupid.”

#15 

“Why do you have a picture of your dog on the top of your tree?” “Because he’s the brightest star ever.”

“It’s Christmas!” “Yeah, it’ll also be your death date unless you let me go back to sleep.”

“And you put a picture of Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson in my stocking because?” “Because I couldn’t find any coal or other rocks so I put that in there instead.”

“Christmas is overrated.” “There’s the door, I think it’s time for you to go through it and leave.”

#16

“You really think you can beat me at Mario Kart? I have spent years studying the game and developing my skills. I spent hours upon hours training until my hands cramp. Even my TV is judging the amount of time I’ve spent playing, and you think you can beat me? Let’s fucking go.”

“Shut up? Shut up? I haven’t shut up for seventeen years and I’m not about to start now!”

“Um, did you tell me it was impossible to sing along with a guitar solo? Stand back. Your insurance doesn’t cover blown minds.”

“My songs are lost on you. You simply don’t know how to enjoy them.”

#17 (this is my most popular prompt list & it is full of the fluffiest prompts)

“Did you just kiss me?” “Was I not supposed to?” “I don’t know, but could you do it again?”

“I might be in love with you.” “That’s great to hear since I am in love with you.”

“I’ll be yours until all the stars fall out of the sky.”

“You missed. Your lips were supposed to touch mine, you dingbat.”

#18

“You’re really good at Mariokart.” “You say that like you’re surprised. It’s almost like I didn’t train for years to be the best.”

“I need to be twenty times hotter than I am right now.” “Twenty times zero is still zero.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being arrogant or ignorant.” “Both, probably.”

“Let’s not do this.” “What could go wrong? We’re all wearing helmets and the shopping cart is fully padded!”

#19

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” “Well if I didn’t have sarcasm, I’d have to flat out tell people that they’re an idiot. My mother raised me better than that.”

“It’s what’s on the inside that’s beautiful.” “Oh yeah, my intestines are blushing up a storm right now.”

“Why are you laughing at a picture of a potato?” “It reminded me of you.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult, you unimaginative dishrag?”

#20

“Get over here, being apart of the group means being apart of group hugs.”

“My pants may be down around my ankles, but judging by your blush, I look very attractive in my underwear.”

“I’m sorry for all the stuff I said.” “And the punch to the jaw?” “No, you definitely deserved that.”

“Bad things keep happening to me. It’s like I have bad luck or something.” “No, the reason you have bad luck is because you’re a dumbass.” 

#21

“You have beautiful eyes.” “Thanks, I need them to see.”

“Fuck off, it’s three in the morning.”

“Definitely not my finest hour.” “Do you think?”

“We do not have time for theatrics, move your ass!”

#22

“I have updated my list of people I trust and things I believe to NO ONE and NOTHING.”

“Do you think I have anger issues?” “Well, I wouldn’t call it an issue. An issue is something you can fix.”

“I’m sorry I called you stupid, I thought you already knew.”

“You said you wanted my honest opinion, and there you have it. You’re a dumbass.”

#23

“Don’t underestimate us.” “Our team motto is maybe we’ll get lucky this time.”

“What am I allergic to?” “Blueberries, roses, and the full spectrum of human emotions.”

“Don’t look at me, this isn’t my fault.” “But aren’t you the one who set the kitchen on fire?” “How was I supposed to know that a slim jim is flammable?”

“Fuck off.” “It’s always nice to feel wanted.”

#24

“As the saying goes in Shakespeare’s time, goest fucketh thyself.”

“I am sixty percent water, twenty percent mountain dew, twenty percent pizza, and one hundred percent swag.” “That’s two hundred percent.” “I’m twice the person you’ll ever be.”

“Go crawl up Satan’s ass.”

“I wish I was one of those people who thrives on the danger of leading a double life. You know, Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Hannah Montana.”

#25

“Why must you attack me with your words.” “Do you want me to use rocks?”

“On a scale from one to ten, you’re a nine and I’m the one you need.” “No, what the fuck, I’m a ten.”

“You have a cute nose, don’t make me break it.”

“It’s been a long week.” “It’s the middle of a Monday.” “As I said, it’s been a long week.”

[thesoftsoobin]

➳ part: 3/?

➳ pairing: taehyung x yoongi

➳ genre: angst (with a happy ending), hanahaki au

➳ warnings: mention of death, non-kinky choking

➳ word count: 8.2k

Read on AO3 or below the cut.  

yoongi was letting sunflowers overtake his lungs, and taehyung had a hard enough time watching him slowly die instead of telling hoseok his true feelings. but taehyung’s own crush was getting the best of him, and life managed to complicate itself even further when he began coughing up flowers, too. and not just any flowers, either. they had to be cherry blossoms, yoongi’s favorite.

“Oh my god,” Taehyung gasped. Jeongguk unlocked the door, and the dorm swirled around Taehyung as he stumbled in after him. With his hands on his frozen cheeks, he squeezed his eyes shut and repeated, “Oh my god.”

He felt numb, partially from the cold air they just spent fifteen minutes running in, but mostly from the panic stabbing its way through him. His chest was tightening by the second, and the flowers weren’t helping any.

“Hey,” Jeongguk turned to face him, placing a hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze through his winter coat. But all Taehyung could focus on was the gym bag hanging off of Jeongguk’s shoulder. “It’s okay. We did a good thing, right? It’ll help him.”

Taehyung nodded and looked away from him, down at his own gloved hands. He tried to hold them still, but they wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Uh…Gguk?” Jimin asked. Jeongguk spun around and immediately turned sheepish.

Jeongguk and Jimin had pushed both of their beds together to make one full-sized bed, fairy lights strung around the headboard, and Jimin was sitting with his legs crossed in the middle of it. He sat up straight as soon as they burst in and was watching them closely.

“I thought you went to the dance studio on Wednesdays.”

“I do,” Jimin said. “But I had to study for the math final. It’s tomorrow, remember?”

The words of Jeongguk’s response blended together, and Taehyung’s heart was still hammering in his chest. He used the opportunity to try to even his breathing while the attention was off of him, tapping his fingers on his thigh and counting back from 20.

Everything was fine, they didn’t get caught, and he was going to help Yoongi live longer.

“Seriously, what’s going on?” he thought he heard Jimin whisper, and he opened his eyes. Jimin was tiptoeing over to them, his concerned eyes set on Taehyung before they flitted back to Jeongguk. “You stole the oxygen tank, didn’t you?”

Taehyung’s heart rate picked back up. It was that obvious?  

“No, of course not,” Jeongguk said.

“So, if I looked in that gym bag, I wouldn’t find an oxygen tank?”

“Okay, fine. Listen, babe,” Jeongguk said, and Jimin lifted his eyebrows, “you guys said doing the surgery would be a bad idea, which, you know, fair. But Tae said he was down for this, so,” he slipped his hands into his coat pockets and shrugged, “yeah, there’s a stolen oxygen tank in my bag, along with a regulator and a few cannulas.”

“Jeon Jeongguk,” Jimin said, reaching behind Taehyung to slam the door shut. The sound made Taehyung jump, and he sucked in another breath and covered his face with his hands again as if breathing into his gloves would make it easier. “You might want to stop talking so loud.”

“Park Jimin,” Jeongguk said. “You said it first.”

Their voices still sounded like faint echoes, and Jimin’s arm wrapping around Taehyung’s shoulders only made him startle again.

“I whispered it,” he said. “Also, you’re an idiot. Tae, everything’s okay. Alright? You’re safe.”

Taehyung nodded into his hands, but the panic was disrupting the cherry blossoms in his lungs, and he had to lift his head to start coughing. At the very least, the room was beginning to stop swirling as he alternated between the gasps of a panic attack and the coughs of yet another episode of his disease.

“I’ll get him water,” Jeongguk said, dropping the gym bag onto the bed before slipping out into the hallway. Jimin led Taehyung to sit down at his desk chair and gave him a garbage can to start spitting blood-stained pink petals into.

“Were you really down for it?” Jimin asked. “Or did he talk you into it like he usually does?”

“It was—” Taehyung cleared his throat, coughing once more and producing three more petals. He shook his head. “I wa-wanted to do it. I had the idea before he even brought it up.”

He sighed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He was starting to sweat through his jacket, but he hardly had the time to talk before he started coughing again, let alone unzip and shrug off his winter coat.

“I just didn’t—I’ve never done anything like that.”

“Did an alarm go off or anything?” Taehyung shook his head. “Try not to worry, then. Everything you got can’t cost more than thirty thousand won.”

“Mm,” Taehyung mumbled with his head in the trash can. “I guess.”

He felt Jimin poke him in his shoulder, “And at least invite me next time, especially if the next step is grand theft auto.”

Taehyung lifted his head to see Jimin giving him a playful grin, the one he always used to try to make Taehyung laugh. And he tried to laugh, he really did, but it ended up sounding more like another sigh.

“I just want Yoongi—” More coughs, more petals. “I want him to be okay. Why doesn’t he get to be happy? Why don’t I—”    

And he was cut off yet again by the floral arrangement in his lungs. There was the click of the door opening and closing and Jeongguk tossed a water bottle over to Jimin, who placed it delicately on the desk beside Taehyung.

“Have you thought any more about telling him?” Jimin asked, and Taehyung couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

He understood now why Yoongi got so annoyed with him. It really was pointless to let yourself get rejected when you knew that’s what the outcome would be, and having others try to get your hopes up about it only made it worse.

Maybe resigning himself to death without doing anything about it seemed stupid or pessimistic from the outside, but if that was the only possible end to all of this, why would he even bother?

He let himself be sent into another fit of coughs, rough and tortured enough to hopefully make Jimin forget his question.

Once his lungs finally stopped seizing some 20 minutes later, he uncapped the water bottle and let the cold water burn the back of its throat on its way down. It was best he got back to his dorm before, well, before the whole theft was rendered pointless.

The thought made him choke again, and another flower petal found its way into his lap. He tried to stand but found himself falling right into Jimin, who hadn’t left his side. Jimin gripped his shoulders tightly as he staggered backward.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Taehyung nodded with his eyes closed. Even so, he felt Jimin’s worried gaze on him. “You should stay a while and relax. We could catch up on One Piece since we’re like five seasons behind.”

“No, I…I should get going,” Taehyung opened his eyes and tried to stand up straight. “Yoongi’s been really depressed since everything with Hoseok. I don’t want to leave him much longer.”

Jimin watched him for another moment before letting out a sigh. “I’ll walk you, then.”

He bundled up in his bomber jacket and sat beside Jeongguk on their bed to pull his boots on, and Jeongguk leaned back on his hands to frown at Taehyung. “If anything happens, I’ll take the blame. We don’t want you dying in prison.”

He let out an ‘oof’ as Jimin smacked him in the chest with the back of his hand, but Taehyung cracked a small smile. “Thanks, Gguk,” he said, holding out his palm. Jeongguk glanced at it and up at Taehyung before, for the first time in a year, they did their secret handshake.

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back,” Jimin pulled the gym bag up on his shoulder and gave Jeongguk a quick kiss on the cheek. Jeongguk leaned into it and looked up at Jimin with a soft fondness that Taehyung couldn’t help but feel bitter about. Even with his feelings for Jimin gone forever, his longing for love remained, and it was a wish that was going to die with him. “Be ready to be quizzed on statistics formulas.”

“Aye aye,” Jeongguk saluted playfully, but even he had worry in his eyes as he watched them leave.

The walk to Taehyung and Yoongi’s dorm was quiet, save for Taehyung clearing his throat every so often. It was perpetually sore at this point, but he mostly did it as an awkward way of filling the silence.

As he leaned against Jimin, arm hooked in his, he knew Jimin wanted to press the matter further. Tell Yoongi, he could hear him thinking. You never know what could happen.

But he didn’t say a word until they stopped outside of the dorm and he passed the bag to Taehyung, who bowed under its weight. Jimin brought his hands up to warm Taehyung’s cheeks, his own cheeks flushed under his fluffy white hat, and Taehyung looked down at his feet.

“You’re my best friend, Tae,” he said, and everything Taehyung knew he was thinking was behind those five words. Do something. Don’t make me miss you, was among them most of all.

The light was on when Taehyung unlocked the door to his dorm, and Yoongi was surprisingly awake. He sat up in his bed with a comic book in his lap, and his tired eyes followed Taehyung as he shook his boots off in the doorway.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, voice hoarse. It was dark out, and the twenty minutes Taehyung was coughing up flowers may have been more like 45, now that he’s looking at the clock.

“Art studio,” he lied. “My portrait for painting and drawing is due Friday.”

He didn’t know why he said it. He was about to pull out the very oxygen tank he and Jeongguk stole and present it to Yoongi like a gift, anyway. But he looked at Yoongi, at his pale skin and dark circles, at his thin frame beneath the sheets, and he wondered if maybe he could pass it off as something they got by more honest means. He didn’t want to stress him out any more than he already was.

“Did, um,” he started, setting the bag down gently on his bed. His entire body, still weak from before, sighed in relief once the weight was lifted. “Has Hobi talked to you yet?”

“Not since I told him,” Yoongi said, and he groaned a bit as he shifted in his bed. “Joonie said Hoseok thinks if he keeps his distance, I have more of a chance of getting better.”

“Is he right?”

“Does it look like it?”

In the past couple of weeks, Yoongi had only gotten worse. He’d longed for Hoseok to break the distance and talk to him again, the sudden radio silence from his best friend keeping him awake at night. He choked up whole sunflower after whole sunflower into the trash, and his throat was too raw to eat much more than beef broth. Some days, it was a wonder how he was still alive.

Taehyung averted his eyes, and Yoongi quickly changed the subject.

“Since when do you go to the gym, Taehyungie?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s,” Taehyung glanced at the bag on the bed behind him, “it’s Jeongguk’s. He let me borrow it.”

“You’re only starting to make sense,” Yoongi said, a small playful grin on his face despite his condition, despite the entire situation at large.

Taehyung met his expectant gaze and was out of time to come up with a lie. The question about Hoseok was a way to gauge Yoongi’s mood and to see how he might react to more stress, but the difference in the way he responded to that and the way he was teasing Taehyung now only made it harder for Taehyung to think. He had no clue where else he could have gotten an oxygen tank without going to the doctor.

So, he stammered, “I got you something,” and turned around to unzip the bag. The zipper snagged, and he let out a heavy sigh, tapping his foot on the tile floor. It was stupid to break the law to get this, especially when he had no clue how to use it. Yoongi was going to think he was so stupid.

“You…got me something?”  

When Taehyung faced Yoongi again, he was sitting up at the edge of his bed and leaning forward to look. “It’s, ah, well,” Taehyung rung his hands and decided to just bite the bullet. Maybe Yoongi wouldn’t ask how he got it. He slid the tank from the bag and set it at his feet. “Since you refuse to go to the doctor.”

He had to physically force himself to look at Yoongi, and when he did, Yoongi was giving the oxygen tank a once-over with that playful grin still on his face.

“Did you steal this?”

Taehyung opened his mouth to deny it but was rendered absolutely speechless. “Wh—Why would you—”

“First of all, I know you, Taehyungie. Better than you think,” Yoongi said, and Taehyung shut his mouth. He did? “Every time we finish arguing about the doctor, you have this look on your face like you’re determined to find alternatives.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean—”

“Second, I know Jeongguk,” he said. “And he tweeted ‘007 time baby, do do dodo, do do dodo,’ two hours ago. I’m just connecting the dots.”

Taehyung blinked. He should have known Jeongguk would tweet that, with the way he was singing it the entire walk to the nursing building.

“I know it was stupid, but—“ he started, just so he could say it before Yoongi.

Yoongi cut him off, though, voice still light and teasing. “You know you can buy them on Amazon, right? For like 50 thousand won.”

“What?”

“They ship empty, but if Jeongguk is friends with those nursing majors, they’d probably find a way to fill it for him.”

“Okay Detective Min,” Taehyung started to relax. Yoongi wasn’t mad or stressed; he was more resigned if anything, as if this wasn’t actually happening and was one big joke. Taehyung would have liked it to be, so he played along. “If you’re so smart, help me connect the dots on how this thing works.”

“Suddenly the sunflowers have eaten my brain matter,” Yoongi gave a wide, gummy smile this time. He fell backwards into his bed with his legs still hanging off the edge, and he let out a groan that was somewhere in between real and exaggerated.

Taehyung watched the way Yoongi’s shirt rode up and revealed just an inch of his torso, but Yoongi pulled his hand away from his face too quickly. Panicked, Taehyung took the regulator and a cannula from the bag and knelt on the ground beside the oxygen tank.

He did all he knew to do, pulling up YouTube and searching ‘how to use an oxygen tank.’ Somewhere within the course of the 6-minute video, Yoongi ended up on the floor too, hunched over with his chin in his palm, watching Taehyung try to figure it out.

“So, he says this goes--” Taehyung mumbled, sliding the regulator onto the tank. “Wait.” He leaned back over his phone and restarted the video, biting down on his bottom lip and trying to put all his focus into what he was doing and not on the way Yoongi was watching him.

“At this rate,” Yoongi said, shifting his chin into his other hand, “I’m going to die before you get it set up.”

“Don’t say that,” Taehyung breathed out, but Yoongi was laughing at him. “You know random facts about everything. Don’t you know anything about this?”

“Oh, I do,” Yoongi said. “It’s just fun watching you try to figure it out.”

Taehyung cleared his throat, his cheeks burning, and he forced a grin as he shook his head. Yoongi did end up helping him eventually, once he spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to unscrew the tank’s valve. But he mostly did it himself, and as he took the nasal cannula out of its packaging, he made a hasty decision to keep doing it all for Yoongi.

He hooked the tubing up to the tank and fumbled with it, turning it over in his hands. And there, on the tile floor of their tiny dorm room, he scooted over and reached out to put it on Yoongi.

“Ah, so if it’s--um, if it’s anything like the dramas…” he said, pulling his arms back for just a second. “I think it just…”

Yoongi’s shoulders sagged, and he let out an awkward chuckle.  “I can--I mean, you don’t have to--”

He put a light hand on Taehyung’s arm but immediately went still as Taehyung pressed the cannula into his nose. Taehyung brushed his hands over Yoongi’s cheeks and hooked the tubing over his ears, holding his breath the whole way through.

The thing was, Yoongi wasn’t the touching type. He and Taehyung had never hugged or even been this close to each other in the year and a half that they’d known each other. With each second that passed, he fully expected Yoongi to push away and finish putting it on himself.

But he didn’t. He let Taehyung touch him, and for the briefest of moments, Taehyung thought he saw a glimmer of what wasn’t there. They looked at eachother, Yoongi’s eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion and Taehyung’s hands still on either side of his face, and he thought he saw a glimmer of hope.

But as soon as it was there, it was gone. So fast that Taehyung knew it was his own illness clouding his vision.

He pulled his hands back and jumped up before he could give himself away. He could practically feel the flowers growing in his lungs, his chest getting heavy.

“So, that should be good!” He said, his voice a pitch higher than it should be. “I hope it’s okay. The guy in the video said too much oxygen could be really bad, so I set it on one of the lower flow rates. But, uh, I don’t know. You really should see a doc—“

“It’s fine, Tae,” Yoongi said, gazing up at him from the floor. Even now, with the cannula draping his face and the sickness taking over every inch of his body, he looked so handsome. So cool, like the first day they met. “If I have to die, it’d be kind of cool to die at the hands of the thing meant to keep me alive.”

“Would you stop talking like that?” Taehyung whined. Yoongi held out his hand for him to help him up, and although he winced the entire time it took him to stand, he still chuckled.

“I’m just joking.”

“Well, it’s not funny.”

Yoongi’s smile fell and what looked like confusion overcame his features. He started to pout, and they met eyes, his searching Taehyung’s for some reason. Taehyung could feel him getting ready to ask why it upset him so damn much, and he instantly thought of what Jimin said.

He could easily lean in and kiss Yoongi right then, explain all of the times he had seemingly overreacted or cared far too much. He could take his chances before it was too late, and see if the odds of Yoongi reciprocating before he inevitably died were in his favor.

He just had to work up the nerve.

Before he could make any decision at all, though, Yoongi’s features softened. He shifted his weight and cleared his throat, wincing again. “Agh, sorry,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head. “Hey, um...you don’t usually go home for winter break, do you?”

Taehyung snapped himself back to reality. “No,” he said. His family had stopped celebrating Christmas after his grandma died, and his parents started taking a long vacation during the holidays when he went to college. “No, I stay here. It’s kind of nice.”

Yoongi glanced down at the oxygen tank and then back up at Taehyung, taking a deep breath. It sent him into another fit of coughs before he could speak again.

“Would you, ah,” he started, voice rough now, “would you mind coming home with me? To Daegu?”

“Oh,” Taehyung let out involuntarily, taking a step back. He was so distracted by his thoughts, he didn’t even consider where Yoongi was going with that.

“It’s just that, well,” Yoongi sighed before he began to stammer, “I have to tell my parents, and it’s stressing me out. Joonie usually stays here too, but he’s going home with Seokjin this year, since they’re apparently dating now. And I’m not even sure I can make it to the train station by myself, if I’m being honest.”

“They’re dating?” Taehyung asked. He could have seen that outcome to Namjoon and Jin’s 7-year-long friendship from a mile away. When he first met them, he thought they were already dating. The question was only to give him more time to process Yoongi’s request.

Jimin asked him to come home with him for Christmas a few days ago, just like he did last year. And just like last year, Taehyung insisted that he’d be fine on campus by himself. He didn’t want to impose, and he needed time alone to process everything that was happening.

But this was...this was Yoongi. And the last time he declined the offer from the person he was growing flowers for, Jimin came back to their dorm with the news that he had a crush on Jeongguk. That they spent the entirety of winter break texting and he thought Jeongguk might have been flirting with him and Wasn’t he just so cute, Taehyungie? He shouldn’t make that mistake again, no matter how slim his chances are.

“Yeah. Namjoon coughed up like two daisy petals before Jin hyung found out and kissed him or whatever,” Yoongi said, and he laughed humorlessly to himself. “I guess I’m the one who drew the short straw in this friend group.”

His weak smile fell again, quickly, before Taehyung could even say anything.

“Well, I guess you did too...with Jimin and everything,” Yoongi shifted again. He plopped down onto his bed and shook his head. “You have a second chance though, you know? A guy in your one of your art classes or something. I’m happy that you get that at least.”

“Hyung…” Taehyung started. This was his opening, as clear as day, to just say it and see what happened. It couldn’t be any worse than what was bound to happen anyway.

Hyung, you are my second chance.

But he couldn’t get himself to speak, not before Yoongi continued, and the opening that was there disappeared in an instant.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Yoongi said. “I know. I’m being depressing again. Uh...so, will you? Come to Daegu with me?”

Taehyung took a breath, shaking the possibilities out of his mind, and he felt the petals of another cherry blossom creeping their way up his throat.

His own interests aside, this was the only time throughout this whole thing that Yoongi had asked anything of him. He’d been so stubborn, so himself, and now here he was stumbling over his words, asking Taehyung for the support he’d already been trying to give him. So what was he supposed to do, say no?

“Of course, Yoongi hyung,” Taehyung choked out. There was a petal in his mouth now, accompanied by the metallic taste of blood, and he bit down and tried to swallow it back down. “Anything you need. Of course I will.”

“Thanks, Taehyung-ah.”

Taehyung gave a curt nod and side-stepped toward the door. His chest was getting more and more congested, and if he waited any longer, he’d cough a flower up onto Yoongi’s feet.

“I have to pee,” he said. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back.”

-

For the rest of finals week, Yoongi continued to crack jokes from his bed, some hilarious but most of them tasteless, while Taehyung studied or worked on projects. Despite being too out of it to take any of his own exams, Yoongi kept a brave face.

The vulnerability that made itself known on his face when asking about Daegu didn’t show up again until the day they were supposed to leave.

Yoongi tapped his foot on their dorm floor, his suitcase and oxygen tank on either side of him. “I have to sit down,” he said, taking a few steps to fall onto his mattress. His breathing was loud and heavy as the oxygen flowed through the cannula.

He spent all of his limited energy on making his bed, protesting every time Taehyung offered to do it for him, and spent a whole twenty minutes straightening his comforter. Now that the guys were on their way over, he could barely stand.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s--I’m fine,” Yoongi waved him off, but he was struggling to catch his breath. “Everyone is--” he swallowed, before letting out a few dry coughs. “Everyone is still coming over?”

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t tell them I’m practically on my deathbed, right? Namjoonie is the only one who knows?”

Taehyung hesitated. “Yes, but hyung, I think it’s pretty obvio--”

“This is going to be like any other goodbye before break, okay?” Yoongi said, voice rising. It was still quiet, his throat too destroyed to even speak normally, but he was getting as loud as he could. “I’m not attending my own fucking funeral, Tae.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung nodded and pulled out his phone. “I said, and I quote. ‘Me and Yoongi hyung are leaving for Daegu soon, please come by the dorm if you can! We want to see all your pretty faces before break.’ And everyone said they’d be on their way soon like a half hour ago.”

Well, everyone except Hoseok. But Taehyung wasn’t going to say it unless Yoongi asked.

While he had his phone out, Taehyung opened up his group chat with Jeongguk and Jimin.

From: Taehyung

In: two soulmates and their child

Sent: 14:34, Dec. 13

please please please please act like you don’t know Yoongi hyung is dying please I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone

He never got a reply, and a light tapping on their dorm door less than a minute later told him exactly why. His eyes fluttered closed as he pulled it open. Great. He was going to upset Yoongi even more.

“Hyung-ah!” Jimin’s voice rang through their room as he bounced inside, Jeongguk trailing in after him.

“Jiminie,” Yoongi pressed his lips into a smile, and Taehyung could tell he was trying not to wince. “How did your finals go?”

“Good, good,” Jimin said. “I think I failed statistics, but that’s for future Jimin to worry about. Did your Ethics exam go okay?”

Jimin sat down beside Yoongi, and when he and Taehyung met eyes, Taehyung was able to let out a breath of relief. He read his text after all.

“I, uh, I think I failed that too,” Yoongi lied, chuckling lowly. “But who needs ethics? Everyone knows anarchy would be superior.”  

“That’s a debate we’ll save for another time, hyung,” Jimin patted Yoongi’s leg, and damn, he was good at this. He paid no mind to the oxygen tank on the floor or the tubing snaking its way up and around Yoongi’s face. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t there.

Jeongguk, however, was the complete opposite. He pushed his long hair out of his face to reveal bloodshot eyes, hopefully only to Taehyung. His gaze kept flitting to the oxygen tank he stole, and he wasn’t saying a word.

“Gguk,” Taehyung said, and it only served to startle him.

“Huh?”

“Did Namjoon hyung tell you if they were--”

Another knock at their door cut him off before he could finish his question, this one heavy and rhythmic. Taehyung opened it again, hoping Hoseok was accompanying them, but it was just Jin and Namjoon in their winter coats.

Yoongi seemed to have been thinking the same thing, face brightening at the knocking only to darken when he counted two instead of three.

“Is Hobi coming?” he asked, which to be fair, would have been a normal question a few months ago.

“He, uh,” Namjoon was in the middle of taking his coat off, and he looked to Seokjin for help, eyes wide.

“He had to say goodbye to...someone else first,” Jin supplied, and Taehyung could see him squeeze Namjoon’s arm from behind. “But he should be here soon.”

The hush that fell over the room was proof enough that everyone knew what Yoongi desperately didn’t want them to, and they knew enough to guess what it all meant. Hoseok had stopped growing cherry blossoms, while sunflowers continued to take over Yoongi’s lungs.

Namjoon took his phone out and sent a text, hopefully to Hoseok.

“I can’t believe you got Taehyung-ah to come home with you for Christmas!” Jimin was the first to break the silence. “He always tells me he’d rather stay here. Alone. Instead of coming with me. It’s so annoying.”

Yoongi shook off whatever thoughts he had running through his head, and he looked at Taehyung. His expression turned foolish, the way it had been all week every time he’d tease him.

“Yeah, I had to practically beg him,” he said. “He’s so stubborn.”

“What are you talking about?” Taehyung whined. “I said yes right away.”

“Oh,” Jimin leaned back, mocking disdain. “So you’ll say yes right away to him but not me, your platonic soulmate? Okay.”

“I thought I was your platonic soulmate,” Yoongi said, despite Jimin never having said that to him in his life.

“You know what, Yoongi?” Jimin said. “At this point, you just might be.”

“As long as the word platonic is in front of it, I’m cool with whoever,” Jeongguk added despite the frown he was still wearing.

“You guys are so mean.”

Everything started to fall back into normalcy, or at least as normal as it could get with everyone but Hoseok there and the hint of death lingering over them like a shadow.

Jin ended up beside Yoongi, telling him about some American recipe he found on Naver the day before, and how Yoongi will ‘have to help him make it when they get back from break.’ Meanwhile, Namjoon was showing Taehyung photos from a Surrealist art exhibit he went to for his Humanities class and expressively telling him the stories behind each painting and its artist.

Every so often, Yoongi would butt in to say Namjoon was ruining the post-finals vibe with his academic art history talk, which made it easier for Taehyung to focus on Namjoon’s words. If Yoongi was still teasing, that meant he wasn’t folding into himself, and Taehyung didn’t have to keep checking on him.

Jeongguk had his face buried in Jimin’s shoulder, leaning forward so much that they both wavered and stumbled around. Taehyung could hear him sniffling and mumbling sad words, but every third sentence, he’d lift his head and kiss Jimin’s neck or jaw. Jimin was rubbing Jeongguk’s back under his shirt, and to the untrained eye, it would appear to be the same type of PDA they always did when Jeongguk was stressed about grades or petty family drama.

It was normal. As normal as it could be. Until there was another knock at the door.

Hoseok was flushed, with swollen cherry-red lips and a fleece headband over his ears. Yoongi instantly brightened upon seeing him, as though all of his energy was replenished by the mere sight, and Taehyung realized he didn’t stand a chance.

“Sorry I’m so late,” he said, pulling his headband off as he took a step through the door. He managed to look everywhere but Yoongi, from Jimin and Jeongguk’s connected bodies, to Namjoon’s phone, to Taehyung’s heavily rising and falling chest.

“You’re here!” Jimin exclaimed, still playing the nothing-is-wrong part well. He was now hanging off of Jeongguk, who kept his hair in his face and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

But the greeting came a moment too late, just as Hoseok let himself look at Yoongi. He took everything in, seeing what Taehyung saw every day for the first time, and it was like something shattered in him. All brightness left him upon seeing the oxygen tank and Yoongi’s frail body slumped over.

“Hobi,” Yoongi whispered, starting to cough, “I’m--Thanks for--”

“You told me you thought he was getting better,” Hoseok broke his distraught gaze to snap at Namjoon. The thin cloak of normalcy was now gone. “What the hell, Joon-ah? He’s fucking dying.”

“I’m right here,” Yoongi bit out. “I told him to say that. I didn’t want you to--I didn’t want you to w--”

His coughing became more violent, and Hoseok took a step back. As Hoseok’s eyes filled with tears, Yoongi spit out three yellow petals onto his bedspread.

“I-I can’t,” Hoseok took another step back, widened eyes set on the petals. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

The coughs turned into choking, and Hoseok escaped out the door. With four boys rushing to help Yoongi, Taehyung took after him. He was quick, nearly out of Taehyung’s sight already, and it wasn’t until they reached the stairwell that Taehyung caught up to him.

“What are you doing?” he asked. Their footsteps echoed over the walls as he took two steps at a time to keep up.

“My best friend is dying because of me, Taehyung,” Hoseok finally stopped when they reached the ground floor. “I can’t just watch that happen and pretend like it’s not my fault, or-or like it’s not happening. He’s dying because of me.”

“So you’re just going to leave?” he asked. “You’re just going to keep avoiding him like a coward? Like you’ve been doing for the last week and a half, and let him die without doing anything?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Hoseok asked. “If I could force myself to see him that way, I would. He’s like a brother to me, and I’d do anything for him, but there’s nothing I can do to stop any of this. I can’t handle it.”

A group of girls came cascading down the stairs, talking loudly amongst themselves in their peacoats and earmuffs. Taehyung was getting so frustrated that he hardly noticed the odd looks they gave him as he side-stepped out of their way.

“So you pretend,” Taehyung desperately spat out. “The disease thrives off of your perception. If he thought you loved him like that, it would at least slow the growth, wouldn’t it? You have to do something.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Taehyung, and you know it.”

“You could at least try.”

“I can’t lie to him, and as soon as he realized the flowers weren’t clearing up, he’d know it wasn’t real.” Everything he said made sense, but Taehyung couldn’t help but see it as one excuse after the other. “It would just hurt him more. And besides, I...I’m dating Jackson now.”

Taehyung clenched his fists, and red hot anger started swelling in his gut. His head was spinning.

He had a million feelings: anger toward Hoseok, love for Yoongi, worry for Yoongi, and fear for his own life. Usually, they all swirled around inside of him and he couldn’t pick one out to focus on if he tried.

But now, he threw himself into his anger. It was the one thing that his love and worry and fear came together to be, so he raised his voice and used it as a catharsis.  

“Jackson? Like Jackson Wang?” he asked. “So you’ve been right across the hall this whole time? All week? While he was dying behind our door and waiting for you to text him back.”

Hoseok pulled his head back, eyebrows coming together.

“He could have heard you! He probably did!” The back of Taehyung’s throat began to tickle, but he went on, unable to stop himself. “No wonder he’s been getting so much worse. You care more about getting laid than doing anything to help him.”

“Wh--no, Taehyung. No, I wouldn’t do that.”

Taehyung crossed his arms and his breathing started to get heavier as he seethed. “Well, I wouldn’t put it past you at this point.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Hoseok asked. “I know you and him are close, but I’m your friend too, and you’re doing nothing but make me feel worse for something completely out of my control.”

Hoseok’s question and the flower petals coming up Taehyung’s throat brought him back down to Earth. He covered his mouth with his arm and tried to hold back, but he started coughing before he got the chance to give Hoseok an excuse for his outburst. And while he turned away from Hobi, so many petals spilled into his hands that he couldn’t possibly hide them.

“Wait,” Hoseok said with caution while Taehyung gagged. “Tae, do you…”

Taehyung shook his head and pushed past him into the dorm lobby to find a trash can. Multiple petals fell out of his cupped hands and onto the carpet behind him, and Hoseok trailed after him.

If he could breathe, he’d be panicking about someone that wasn’t Jimin or Jeongguk knowing about this. But all he could focus on was getting all of the petals out of his lungs before he fainted.

Luckily, or unluckily depending on how he looked at it, he’d already spit up flowers just a few hours earlier. Most of what he had left in him came up in the first few coughs, and he was standing up straight with a clear esophagus in mere minutes.

“Taehyung-ah, were those cherry blossoms?” Hoseok asked. When Taehyung didn’t answer, trying to catch his breath with his eyes squeezed shut, Hoseok reworded his question. “Taehyung-ah, are you...are you in love with Yoongi hyung?”

Taehyung opened his eyes, a blush surely dusting his cheeks and his stomach turning. His secret was exposed, and it was going to be passed along to Namjoon and Seokjin, and eventually to Yoongi himself. He felt like he may actually throw up.

“Just leave it, hyung,” his voice cracked as he muttered. He tried to push past Hoseok again to get back to the stairwell, but he stumbled and Hoseok grabbed his arm. Against his wishes, Taehyung’s eyes welled up with tears.

“Tae, I’m really sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Taehyung said. He pulled his arm from Hoseok’s grip, but lost his balance again and Hoseok placed his hands on either of Taehyung’s shoulders to steady him. “You can’t do anything to stop any of this, remember? So just go invite Jackson to your apartment or whatever you’ve been doing.”

He finally successfully removed himself and took sweeping steps toward the stairs, but Hoseok stayed on his tail.

“I stopped talking to Yoongi because I thought it was the only way to fix it,” Hoseok said. “I thought not seeing me or hearing from me would, I don’t know, help him get over me.”

Taehyung’s feet dragged with each step he took, throat burning from the strain of coughing up petals and holding back his tears, and he squeezed his hand around the railing to start climbing the stairs.

“Ghosting my best friend was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. You have to understand.”

Taehyung sighed, stopping with one foot on the first step. He needed someone to blame, but he knew, even still, that none of this was really Hoseok’s fault. That if put in the same position, he’d probably do the same.

So he turned halfway to face him and said, “So talk to him.”

When they returned to the dorm after Hoseok’s reluctant agreement, the pre-break farewell had turned into exactly what Yoongi didn’t want it to be. The room was overwhelmed with a depressing aroma cocktail of pungent blood, sweet sunflowers, and the stale heat coming from their radiator, and Yoongi lay in his bed with everyone surrounding him.

Jin was propping up his head with another pillow, while Namjoon held his hand and begged him in a high-pitched whisper to make it back for spring semester so that they could write that song they always talked about.

“No shit, Joonie,” Yoongi rasped. “You think I’d die before we wrote the biggest rap song in Korea?”

Jeongguk was completely open with his crying now, and Jimin being the sympathy cryer that he was, was right alongside him. Namjoon forced out a laugh, and his eyes were welling up too.

“Right,” he said. “That was the goal, wasn’t it?”

“You could do it without me, though,” Yoongi said. “I hope--I hope you know that.”

“Don’t say that,” Namjoon said, and tears started to streak his face. “Please.”

Taehyung stayed in the doorway with Hoseok, who watched the whole scene with a faraway expression. He crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders tense, and looked like he was ready to bolt again any second.

“Stop crying,” Yoongi whined at him, then glanced between Jimin and Jeongguk. “All of you. You’ll all be fine...you’ll all be fine.”

“Hyung--” Jeongguk started, but Yoongi cut him off.

“Don’t you all have trains to catch? Have you finished packing?” he asked, clearing his throat. “Hyung will be--I’ll be back, okay? So stop crying unless you want to look--look foolish in January.”

Seokjin frowned and put a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder. “We do need to get going, Joon-ah. My parents are meeting us at the station.”

“Right. Um, right.” Namjoon said, and he gave Yoongi’s hand a squeeze, using his free arm to wipe under his nose. “I’ll see you in January, then?”

“Of course.”

But he, Namjoon, and everyone else knew that wasn’t true.

Seokjin ruffled Yoongi’s hair, and at least he still groaned like always. “Have a good Christmas, Yoongi.”

“Nnnh, yeah, you too.”

On their way out the door, Namjoon took slow steps, and Seokjin stopped in front of Taehyung. “Will you let us know when you guys get to Daegu?”

“Sure,” Taehyung said, but Yoongi groaned again.

“I’ll let you know,” he said. “My fingers still work.”

“Okay, Yoon-ah,” Jin laughed, staring down at his feet. “Have a safe trip, then.”

Jeongguk and Jimin were saying goodbye shortly after, Jimin mumbling something about still having to pack and Jeongguk nodding solemnly in agreement.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk said, pulling an Iron Man comic book from the shelf over Yoongi’s desk. “Can I take this to Busan to read over break?”

“Anything you want, Gguk,” Yoongi said, which only made Jeongguk start sniffling again. He nodded, shoving the book inside his coat to protect it from the snow.

Taehyung didn’t know what he would have done had this been the last time he was going to see Yoongi. There was comfort, at least, in the knowledge that he got him all to himself for a month, and he wouldn’t have to say his goodbyes for a while.

And any thought of how painful that would be was pushed from his mind.

Jimin crawled onto the bed and gave Yoongi the gentlest of hugs, as though worried he might break him. “I love you, hyung-ah.”

Yoongi hesitated. He was never a fan of displays of affection, much less such an open one. But his face softened as he looked at Jimin, and he pulled his lips into a tiny smile.

“Love you too, Jiminie,” he said. “Try not to eat so much at the buffet this year. I don’t need to see another selfie of you and your food baby.”

It made Jimin giggle as he stood back up, blotchy face brightening. “Well, I need more pictures of Holly. So do try to cuddle him as much as last year.”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi’s rough voice teased. “I’ll have Taehyung to cuddle this year.”

Taehyung’s stomach plummeted, and immediately he felt Jimin and Hoseok’s eyes on him. Jimin laughed it off, his eyebrows coming together in some kind of concern that Taehyung could only begin to unravel.

It may have been easier to understand if his brain wasn’t now stuck on the thoughts of spooning Yoongi, their legs intertwined under the thick comforter of his bed that he’d only seen in photos up until this point.

“Photos of Taehyung are good too,” Jimin said.

As he and Jeongguk left, Jimin stopped in front of Taehyung just as Seokjin had. But instead of asking to be informed of when they got to Daegu, he took Taehyung’s face in his hands and gave him a kiss on his forehead.

“You’re my best friend,” he repeated his words from the other day.

“I know,” Taehyung said, and again he knew what Jimin was asking of him. He was going to have to tell Yoongi how he felt before break ended. Even though it was so obviously pointless, he’d try to have hope for Jimin’s sake. “You’re my best friend, too.”

And then it was just Yoongi, Taehyung, and Hoseok. Taehyung shut the door before Hoseok could bolt again, and Yoongi did his best to sit up. He seemed to jump at the sight of Hoseok in front of him, too caught up in everyone’s goodbyes to have seen him return.

“Oh,” he said. “You--you came back.”

Hoseok nodded, gesturing to the spot beside Yoongi. “Can I?”

“Sure,” Yoongi said. “I won’t die just from sitting near you.”

“Oh, um,” Hoseok said, and he left a few inches between him and Yoongi when he sat, “I know.”

Yoongi looked at him, watching his expression change from discomfort to grief to a mix of the two, and he looked as though he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch him. He clasped his hands in his lap and broke his gaze to stare down at them.

Taehyung knew that he should leave them alone, but Yoongi could start choking again any second, and he knew Hoseok would panic again. He had to be there, just in case. So he resigned himself to being a fly on the wall, to letting himself see this and get hurt.

“Sorry,” Yoongi sighed. “I think I’m using humor as a coping mechanism, but most of what I say is just stupid. I’ve...I’ve missed you, Hobi.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Hoseok said, mostly to the ground. “You must hate me.”

“Are you kidding?” Yoongi said. “The whole reason this is happening is because I’m in fucking love with you. I love you, Jung Hoseok, and if that’s going to kill me, then so fucking be it.”

Taehyung took a step back and thanked his lucky stars that he just coughed up what was in his lungs.

Hoseok finally met Yoongi’s eyes. “I wish I could--”

“So you don’t love me,” Yoongi said. “I wouldn’t either.”

Taehyung and Hoseok both frowned in time with each other.

“I do love you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Hyung, I’m sorry,” Hoseok’s voice broke, and tears spilled from his eyes like a dam suddenly burst.

From that point on, that was all he knew how to say.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling Yoongi into a tight hug that looked like it could break him. “I’m so, so sorry.”

[princesssarcastia]

Cassandra Cillian: Hitter

this is titled “you don’t have to be a ghost here amongst the living” because I was going through a F+TM phase when I started writing it.  

remember like, a year and a half ago when I planned out a librarians-leverage fusion (and also a leverage-librarians fusion?) because I do!  And I finished the first bit.  

here’s 3k of not!fic about how Cassandra Cillian starts down the road to being a legend. 

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my first concrete though when I started daydreaming about this was “oh my god Cassandra is the hitter”

no, really

I blame the apple of discord episode. her analysis of force needed to kick ass and take names and initiate a nuclear meltdown makes her perfect.  utterly ruthless, just hiding under a cutesy facade instead of Eliot’s dumb-hick one

with the tumor in her head ticking down, down, down to zero, her self-preservation is pretty low.  not necessarily in a death wish way, not yet.  but when she fights there’s no holding back, and no fear of what the other person can dole out.  what could they possibly do to her that she isn’t already doing to herself?  death looks like Cassandra Cillian staring in the mirror.

I’m willing to negotiate about anything else you find here but this.  in this house we stan Cassandra as the hitter in the leverage fusion au.

all this begs the question, of course: how does sweet cinnamon roll math geek Cassandra Cillian become a mean lean recently reformed killing machine?  and this is where our story begins.

Cassandra Cillian is a teenager who’s just been told she’ll never see the other side of 35.  there’s a tumor sitting in her brain sending her senses haywire, giving her visions that break down every aspect of the world around her to the smallest components.  math isn’t just like breathing, anymore: it’s her heartbeat.  even though its killing her, she can’t help but enjoy it a little. and it’s not just math.  everything around her is worth noticing, studying, learning.  the doctors are calling it hyper-vigilance, like her new fascination with her surroundings is just a way to channel all her rage and grief into something she can control; like since she can't cut her death out of her brain she’s going to make damn sure that nothing else gets to get near her without her consent.

they’re probably right, but she’s not going to admit that. all she knows is that the way her senses are linked to each other and her visions, there’s not a goddamn thing going on around her she doesn’t notice and catalogue immediately.

the next step, of course, is her shitty parents.  when they hear the news it’s like Cassandra’s already dead.  they take away her trophies, all those shiny pieces of proof that she was worth something, that mom and dad were proud of her sometimes, gone.   the pair of them loved their dreams for their daughter more than the person she was, and those dreams had just been crushed.  they pull her out of school, because her visions were “a disruption to the other students”

no one needs the crazy dying chick breaking down in the middle of calculus crying with a nosebleed, apparently.

maybe she could have lived with this.  maybe, in another life, another world, she could have buried all of her hopes and dreams deep inside herself and forgotten about it, until a man and a woman burst into the hospital looking to save her life (oh, the irony). this is not that world.

instead Cassandra gets furious.  

how dare they decide her whole life is over just because this tumor is going to cut it short.  how dare they take away everything they said made her special: her grades, her stem fairs, her college applications. no; no, they don’t get to do this.

so she runs away.  seventeen years old and in the wind.  fine.  if they won’t help her live her life, she’ll do it on her own.

she lands in Boston eventually.  crossing state lines helps confuse jurisdiction over her missing persons case, if her parents even decide to file a police report.  hiding in a larger city decreases her odds of being found, because cities are big places. easy to get lost in, to find a job in, and everyone seems to have a rule about asking questions.

where in Boston, you might ask, does Cassandra end up staying? where does she work?

well, funny story, actually

She ends up working at John McRory’s Place

god this is so long I'm sorry

it turns out mob bars don’t ask too many questions about why a just-18 young woman with no emergency contact needs a job.  Cassandra just gives them her bright, fake smile and says she's applying for classes at the local college and means to pay her own way.  they respect her secrets and her work ethic, and voila! a job busing tables and occasionally manning the bar when the owner has special customers to see to in the back room

her bright red hair and Irish heritage don’t hurt, either

it’s not an Ivy League school, nothing like what she imagined her future would be a year ago, but it’s something, which is more than she’d be getting at home.  all it took was a request for records from her old high school, some placement exams to confirm her genius level intellect, and the college was giving her a spot in their line of incoming freshmen.  

even with merit scholarships, tuition is a bitch to pay for.  it gets worse once she has another attack and needs some of her funds to go to the hospital bills, and the drugs the doctors there prescribe her.

Cassandra expects her boss to kick up a fuss at all that time missed, but he waves her off with a kind smile and says she can take all the time she needs to get back on her feet, because he’s never had someone so smart working for him before (she helps out with the accounts for the bar, sometimes)

one night after she starts back to work, it’s late, and the bar is empty of everyone except the Irish.  they’ve taken over the pub and the territory surrounding it.  Cassandra is cleaning up, closing down the unused tables and being as unnoticeable as she can

because let’s face it, she is not stupid.  by now, she knows exactly what’s going on here.  and maybe before it would have bothered her more, maybe her principles and respect for the rules would have had her out the door.  but she needs this job so she can continue her classes and pay rent on the space above the bar (which she’s getting at a discounted rate), and pay for her pills and the occasional overnight in the hospital.  besides, the owner is kind, even if his friends aren’t quite so nice, and his little girl is adorable.

anyway.  the Irish are here, letting off steam and worried, because their “accountant” just got put in jail.  everyone in the Family is prepared to play patsy, but losing an enforcer is nothing compared to losing the guy who keeps track of their money, their lifeblood.  those people aren't a dime a dozen, and pretty soon the Irish won’t have two nickels to rub together if they don't find someone new fast.

and cassandra just.  pauses.  just for a moment.  glances up to meet old McRory’s eyes behind the bar, just for a minute.  because.... she could do that.  Cassandra started balancing her father’s accounts for him when she was twelve, and they were hardly middle class: the Cillian’s had money in savings, but also tied up in investments and stock, and assets, too.  but that was nothing to her mind.  she could do it in her sleep near the end. hell, she’s been helping John with the bar’s funds for two months now, and not all of their revenue was clean , but she kept her mouth shut then and made the numbers work.

John wasn’t exactly a member of the Family, but he was a, a Friend of the Family.  so when she nods at him, I can do it, I need the money, just give me a chance, he casually picks up a glass to clean and mentions that she’s got a head for numbers, if they’re really that desperate

they are.

they take her to Callaghan, and he might be a little charmed by her bubbly smile and her red hair, but what really gets him is the way it takes her thirty minutes to decipher the codes the old accountant used for the ledgers, balance them out, shift funds between businesses and make sure to account for the statistical probability of amounts of cash-paying customers they can make up for car washes, bars, laundry mats, mattress firms, and movie theaters.  

that’s how she becomes the numbers guy for the Irish mob.  

Cassandra was never going to be Eliot, running away to the military with god in her heart and a flag on her shoulder and becoming disillusioned with doing dirty work for her country.  she needed to get slowly pulled into the criminal underworld.  I figured Irish mob was a good way as any to start, and what better way to pull her into that then math?

she spends some time doing that.  becoming more and more involved.  and she’s cute, like a little puppy, so the others like her.  enough to maybe give her a few self-defense lessons, because this is a dangerous life she’s leading now.

they go...okay??  taking care of her body is one of the first things the doctors recommended to her when she started getting sick, so she’s already in pretty good shape.  It’s just the basics at first; keep your thumb outside your fist, always go for the throat first—Cassandra calculates that three fingers-width above the hollow in a person’s throat would be the best place to strike, because then their voice box gets damaged, too.  

None of the lessons ever go much further than that, because these are brawlers who prefer to use a gun to send a message.  Sometimes the way they move when they show her something tickles the back of her brain, like there’s more to uncover there, but she can’t figure it out until the first time a brawl breaks out in the bar

Two of their patrons start throwing punches right in front of her and suddenly their movements are all angles: she catalogues their weight and height and how drunk they are and how much force they’re putting behind their swings and just…neatly steps out of the way, perfectly avoiding getting elbowed in the face. This…this has never happened before.  But, like everyone always says: there’s math in everything.  Even fighting—especially fighting.

When it looks like the two men are going to start breaking chairs, she hesitates for a moment, but…the knee is a hinge joint.  Thirty pounds of pressure pushing it the wrong way will snap it; twenty-five will seriously damage the attached ligament.  She blinks. Steps up to the closest one.

He’s on the floor before John can make the corner of the bar, screaming his head off, and the other guy is backing away with wide eyes, shocked sober by fear.  Cassandra pulls back, letting her right foot settle behind her and point away from them, and balances on the balls of her feet for a moment.

John gives her a startled look, because she’s never done something like that before. Someone calls the guy’s friends to pull him up off the floor and drive him to the hospital

She grabs a rag to wipe up the mess they made of the counter and thinks.  Because that felt…good.  Really good. Using her hallucinations to dosomething, to affect the real world, gave her a rush of adrenaline and satisfaction.  Not just theory, like in her classes, but real application of the way she sees the world.

Like any good academic, she does her research (in her mind, this is ostensibly still for self-defense—just in case something like that bar fight happens again.  She ignores the giddy little voice in her head talking about how much fun this will be).  Her upper-body strength isn’t great, so something that uses joints and core muscles would be best.  Her size is a disadvantage, too: she can’t afford to go to the ground grappling with someone twice her height and weight.  She’s not looking to compete in a tournament, and she can’t afford to buy any equipment.  The best technique for her will probably be Krav Maga.  (For now, the excited voice in her head whispers)

Her search turns up a little studio on the west side of town that teaches Krav Maga to women for self-defense.  Perfect. The instructor, Miriam Epstein, was a course instructor for the IDF for twenty years before she immigrated to America and got certification from the KMAA.

Cassandra goes to observe a class before she signs up, and the moment she steps through the door her brain is set alight:  everything she sees goes a deep, brilliant hue of scarlet, finding the angles of their feet and arms and their centers of mass based on weight and height; herfoot is seven centimeters too far to the right and that strike would give hermore leverage if she moved three centimeters up from the elbow.  She has to stop for a moment to breathe and process all the information her brain displays in front of her.

That becomes the hardest part: not the constant exhaustion, or the bruises everywhere, or her aching muscles, but the overwhelming flow of information about body movements and the correct place to strike.

She is tired, though; working at the bar takes time, if not mental energy, and her classes take both. Add in balancing the ledgers for Callaghan and now these lessons twice a week, and the exercise she does on her own to keep up, and her schedule is completely full.

The Irish start letting Cassandra layer their funds, obscuring where the extra profits in their businesses came from.  Turns out she’s pretty good at that, too, though it’s not like it’s hard given they own a bank in Boston.  Loans are a great way to integrate funds, and their interest rates are always better than the next three competitors.  She tries not to think about the other differences, how the people she’s working for go to collect that debt.  

Construction is another great way to hide their funds, and from what Cassandra can tell from watching the stock market (which is considerably more than most people) real estate is on the rise.  When she carefully suggests that Callaghan try investing more money in that area, he actually listens to her.  Puts her theories and calculations into practice because he trusts her to be right.  

It feels almost as good as tearing that man’s quadriceps tendon.  Practical applications, she muses.  Sometimes she lets herself wonder how it would feel to take her theories all the way down the rabbit hole

Meanwhile, it only takes her four months to move to P2 in Krav Maga.  The average time spent practicing moves for each level is six months; she’s learning 33% faster than that.  Her muscles are adjusting better than she expected, and her skin stops bruising as easily, but she suspects she’ll always tire quicker than everyone else.

Miriam pulls her aside after class one day and asks why she hesitates so much when they practice moves on each other.  Nothing but the lightest sparring, of course, and nothing dangerous.  But Cassandra can’t turn her brain off, and now that she’s starting to learn the more painful moves, she can’t help but see them every time she stands across from someone.  (thirteen pounds of pressure at 125 degrees from her back to hyperextend her arm; plant your foot six inches from her spine and pull to dislocate her shoulder; 3,300 newtons of pressure delivered at 1.5 seconds would have a 25% chance of cracking her rib and sending a fragment into her lungs.  All this would take less than thirty seconds)

None of this makes it past her lips, but she thinks maybe Miriam can see it in her eyes.  We’re moving on to fighting armed opponents next week, she says, maybe you’ll feel more comfortable with that than basic strikes and take-downs.  She taps the side of her head in farewell and Cassandra tastes copper and sees the spot on her temple where the cranial bone is weakest; a quick jab with the second knuckle of her index finger extended could put her on the ground.  Shaking her head, she dislodges the scarlet diagram and shoves down the curious voice of, but you could do it, you could actually do it.

In another four months she’s at P3, and Callahan is actively seeking out her opinion about investments because she’s been right every time.  

Another four months and she’s almost 20 years old.  She’s almost gotten her degree in mathematics, somehow, even though she can’t qualify as a full-time student.  Part of it is the half-ton of college credit built up during high school, part of it is testing out of a third of their program when they wanted to place her, and the rest is just her ruthless pursuit of academia.  

Her attacks don’t become less frequent, or less powerful, but Cassandra still feels better.  Maybe it’s because she’s actually living her life on her own, even if it isn’t what she thought it would be; even if what she’s doing is wrong.  Because not only is she learning more, but she’s usingit.  She’s using her brain to dothings and affecting the world around her instead of just living in it. No matter what happens, no matter how much she changes in the years to come, she’ll treasure that.

Enter Lamia, stage right

See, Dulaque is Damian Moroe; boogeyman and semi-god of the criminal underworld.  You can’t spend more than six months involved with dirty money without hearing about the man who bankrolls terrorists and buys countries to launder his money through. He’s a legend, untouchable.

Almost as infamous is his right-hand woman, Lamia.  A trained killer with no hint of a past before she showed up as Dulaque’s chief…well, he’s too classy for the word enforcer, and so is she.  But if they were anyone else, that’s what she’d be. As it is, just a whisper of her name will send some grown men running to give up whatever she wants in exchange for safe passage.

And see, Dulaque has caught wind of the irish mob’s sudden financial success and wants to know how it’s happening.  Take advantage of it if it’s luck, invest in it if it’s skill, and perhaps recruit whatever or whoever is responsible into his own enterprise.

Lamia doesn’t always like to trade on her name, though, so she comes to Boston quietly, and investigates how the Irish are doing so well—not just in the American markets anymore

(Callahan called his friends in the old country and told them about the redheaded accountant with a genius-level intellect who could analyze the stock markets to a T; suddenly Cassandra had a whole lot more to balance than a few local business and investments. Suddenly, she’s the lodestone to an entire financial criminal empire that’s only growing.  And that little voice in the back of her head sighs in contentment as her reach extends, her area of effect getting bigger and bigger. Whenever the air in front of her lights up blue and smells like oranges, she smiles a little and hums, because this feels right.  Follow the money and see where it leads, all the way down)

It doesn’t take long before she finds John McRory’s place, where a petite little redhead still waits tables and occasionally mans the bar; locks up more often than not, now, because her place is right upstairs.

There are a couple ways she can do this.  She can go from the top down, approach Callahan and demand to speak with the girl. She can have her brought directly to Dulaque, where he can make an intimidatingly persuasive offer the girl won’t be able to refuse.  Or…

Her eyes are rather striking, in the warm light of the bar.  

After Lamia finds Cassandra Cillian, she spends another week watching her, and the girl is interesting.  Balancing all that money, layering and incorporating it in three different countries and seven different cities, would be too much for any one person.  And yet she seems to slot all that work neatly into her afternoon, after her classes at the local college and before her shift starts at the bar.  What really draws her attention, though, is that little studio she visits twice a week for “defense lessons.”  

Krav Maga is brutal and straightforward, a beautiful Frankenstein of a martial art that takes the easiest parts of a handful of the others and sharpens them into something dangerous.

Lamia sits in on one of the sessions.  The instructor she immediately pegs as former military, that’s a very distinctive stance, but the way the girl holds herself…now that, that’s something to watch out for.

P3 after less than a year of training is impressive, but not unusual enough to matter.  What matters is the way the girl locks her eyes onto the instructor while she demonstrates a move, all cold and calculating; the way her gaze flickers over her sparing partner’s feet, hands, arms, shoulders, hips, like she’s finding every angle and weak spot there is to be found.  

Finally, Lamia smiles as she hesitates just before moving into action.  Oh, that look.  Not fear of her opponent; fear of herself.  And buried beneath it, a bone-deep desire and curiosity. Ah, she thinks.  Gotcha.

Cassandra is smarter than probably everyone Lamia has ever met, so there won’t be any straight-up conning her into what she wants, and that visit to the hospital had been unfortunately enlightening, because threatening probably won’t work either.

Dulaque, she knows, will want the girl’s head for numbers.  And he’ll get it.  But perhaps if Lamia asks very nicely, he’ll let her keep Cassandra to herself for a little bit and show her what she could really be capable of.  A little push, someone to tell her it’s okay to crave that violence, and Lamia can have danger thrumming under her skin right next to those numbers in her brain.

She waits until the class is over, nods to the instructor, and walks up to her.  Cassandra squints at her face for a moment, but it isn’t long before a bright and surprisingly genuine smile breaks out.  “Hi!  You know, you look really familiar.”

Lamia smiles; it’s more of a smirk, really.  Lying is a bad idea, so, “I think you work at that bar I was in the other night.  What was it…”

“McRory’s?”

“Oh, yes, that’s it.  I was kind of surprised to see you here, actually, you don’t really seem the type.”

“Well, knowing how to defend yourself is important!”  God, everything about her is bright and bubbly, isn’t it?  It begs the question how much of that is real, and how much is a front, a persona.

“Anyway.”  Lamia holds out her hand.  “Lamia.”

“Cassandra.”  The girl takes it, and she makes sure to grip her hand warmly.

“Cassandra,” she rubs her thumb over the back of her hand and curls her lips.  When she leans forward, Cassandra does, too.  Neither of them lets go.  “Have a drink with me.” Not a question, not a demand.

Her eyes focus intently on Lamia’s, something like real happiness lingering around her mouth. “Yes.”

And so it goes.

[flowerspecial]

Calum College Series: Part 8

Warning: There is a little bit of alluding to depression and struggling to cope with pressure. If you feel similar to any of the characters, please find someone to talk to. Whether it be a friend, or a parent, find someone that you can confide in. If you feel like you don't have anyone to talk to, my inbox is always open 

Calum hissed as gingerly lowered his aching body into the ice bath. He welcomed the freezing water as they gave relief to his screaming muscles. He tried to relax, closing his eyes, as much as possible as he submerged deeper into the water.

Soccer practice had become very intense as his coach prepared them for match season. Weekly practices turned into daily practices, and the drills became harder. His coach became a harder taskmaster, and every small mistake was scrutinised. Calum usually thrived off being pushed beyond his limit, he enjoyed the challenge. But as the semester went on, his impending exams loomed over him like a dark cloud. His studies were becoming more complicated just like his soccer practice. He felt like his judgment was becoming more cloudy, and he was struggling to concentrate.

“Are you heading back with me mate?” Ashton asked as he snapped Calum out of his daydream. Ashton had climbed out of his ice bath and wrapped a towel around his torso. Calum rolled his head on the side of the tub and looked at Ashton with a sigh.

“I don’t think so. I might go to the library actually, get some revision in.” Calum knew full well that it would be unlikely that he going to get any revision in, but he thought that is would be better to at least go to the library with the intention of revising than not to go at all.

Calum felt as if he was being pulled in so many directions that he couldn’t put his feet down in one for too long; otherwise, he would be behind in other areas. People were always trying to help him, Ashton was always willing to go with him to the library to work together, and Mollie would repeatedly make doubles of any study notes she created so Calum could have a copy. Calum couldn’t help but feel guilty that they were going to so many efforts for him. His guilt and his stress were causing him to distance himself from everyone. He hadn’t gone on a proper date with Mollie in weeks, not wanting her to see how much of a mess he had become. He didn’t want to trouble her with his insecurities, so thought it would be better just not to say anything at all.

“I don’t know why he’s ignoring me, Ava. What have I done wrong?” Mollie asked Ava as they headed back to their dorm from the library. She ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation.

“You haven’t done anything Mollie. Maybe he’s just busy?” Ava tried to reason.

“It just seems weird, we were fine at his birthday party, and as soon as we had sex, boom, he vanished.” Mollie was really racking her brain trying to understand why Calum was so distant with her. She really didn’t want him to be one of those guys, she didn’t think he could be, but the facts were not lining up in his favour.

“Why don’t you text him or something?” Ava felt terrible for Mollie. Mollie was obviously so besotted with Calum and for him to just go silent on her was awful. Ava also felt horrible that while Calum and Mollie were drifting apart, she and Ashton were getting closer and closer. She definitely didn’t think it was fair on her best friend.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that?!” Mollie shouted in exasperation. “He either replies to me with really short sentences or doesn’t reply at all. It’s like I’m not important to him.” Mollie didn’t want to be one of those girls who cried over a boy, but a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.

“If you want I can try and talk to Ash? He might be able to say something?”

“Would you?” Mollie turned her head to Ava in hope.

“Of course, I’m meeting him tonight. I’ll ask him then.” Ava placed her hand on her shoulder in comfort. Mollie smiled glumly at Ava, appreciating the efforts.  

Calum made his way to the library and took a seat in one of the spare rooms with a whiteboard. He began to work through some of the questions that his physics professor had set him that week. Thanks to Mollie’s little study guides, physics was probably Calum’s best class, so he managed to breeze through the questions rather quickly. When he completed them, he sat back in his chair and took a deep breath stretching his arms out in front of him. He was about to start on some work from his statistics class when the door was pushed wide open to reveal a rather upset looking Mollie. Calum stood up instantly ready to speak, but Mollie managed to find her words quicker.

“What have I done that’s annoyed you so much?” Mollie said, searching Calum’s eyes for answers. “You won’t text me, you hardly talk to me in class, and you never ask me to spend any time with you!” Mollie was trying to keep a level head, but she could feel herself getting more and more angry as she spoke.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Calum muttered quietly. He looked up at her and reached out his arm to try and hold her. His heart sank as she took a step back, denying him her touch.

“Then can you care to explain to me what is going on? Because right now Calum, you are coming across as a complete dick.”

Angered by her words, Calum bit back in retaliation, “how am I coming across as a complete dick? It’s not my fault that you want to be with me every bloody second of the day! We are separate people! It’s not my fault that you’re clingy” Calum regretted the words as soon as he spoke. He always knew that he had a temper, saying things before he had thought them through. Another one of his flaws was that he was stubborn, so he wasn’t about to back down either.

“I am not clingy Calum! I’m sorry for actually giving a damn about you, but you know what, if you don’t need my help, that’s absolutely fine with me!” With that, Mollie turned back on her heel and stormed out of the room.

Calum watched her go without even an attempt of stopping her. He felt stupid that he escalated the argument that quickly, Mollie hadn’t done anything wrong, he knew that. He couldn’t let someone who he cares about so dearly, point out his flaws, so he would instead shout inaccurate hate speech just to feel some sort of satisfaction. But that was just it, Calum didn’t feel the satisfaction that he usually does when we wins an argument, because he didn’t feel like he had won. He questioned what he had just achieved by that hateful comment. Instead of explaining and apologising to Mollie for ignoring her, he had only driven her away even more.

Calum fell back onto his chair and ran his hands through his hair. There was no way that he could return to studying, so he let his head fall onto the desk and just sat there for a while. He wasn’t aware of how much time had passed, but once he felt like he was ready, he grabbed his bags and walked back to the dorms.

He thought it was quite apt actually, as he walked home he was caught in a torrential downpour. He was absolutely drenched from head to toe, but he thought he deserved it. Lugging himself up the stairs, the weight on his shoulders was almost too much to handle. He was struggling to cope with it all and couldn’t see a way to make it better. He knew he had people who cared about him dearly, and he had so many great opportunities that people wished they would have. Yet he managed to push them all away and wasn’t handling the pressures of everything. He knew he should be happy, he knew he was so fortunate, but he wasn’t.

Calum pushed the door open and shuffled his way into the room. As he entered, Ava was quick to jump off Ashton’s bed and stormed over to Calum angrily.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Ava said as she pointed a finger into his chest. Calum could only guess that Mollie had told her what had happened. Calum stayed silent though, he didn’t even want to reply, he knew he was wrong and wouldn’t even know where to start trying to explain himself.

“You have probably the sweetest girl on campus looking for you trying to help you. Yet you decide to shout in her face and call her clingy!” Ava screamed at him. Calum looked visibly deflated and was staring at the ground. He felt awful for how he had dealt with the whole situation, but he couldn’t come up with any solutions to make it better.

“Are you not going to say anything?” Ava attempted to provoke him. Unlike Mollie, Ava thrived off confrontation, and growing up with 4 older brothers, she was always ready to stand her ground or defend someone.

“I honestly have nothing to say,” Calum whispered beneath his breath. Calum looked like a man who had had all the wind knocked out of him. He looked sad and destitute. Ashton felt a twinge of empathy for his friend, he could see how genuinely distraught Calum was over the situation. Ava, however, was not willing to take that weak answer. She was not about to let him off the hook that easy.

“How about starting with ‘I’m sorry’, that’s usually what people want to hear,” Ava said crossing her arms trying to make herself look more prominent.

The problem was though, Calum knew that apologising wouldn’t be enough, he was never brilliant with his words. The look on Mollie’s face when he made his little outburst kept replaying in his mind. Her face contorted into an expression somewhere between distraught and fury, and it made his heart drop to his stomach when it flashed in his mind.

Looking at Ashton and Ava, Calum knew he had no words to reply with. Thinking on his feet, he grabbed some clean clothes, shoving them in his bag,  and walked back out of the room. Not really knowing where he was going, he let his feet make the decision for him and headed out of the building. He wandered through the streets, trying to clear his head even the slightest bit. As he was walking, he came across a local cafe that was lit up in the night sky by its neon signs.

Calum entered the cafe and took a seat in a booth at the back. He looked over the menu, not really taking it in, as he was approached by a young man.

“What can I get for you?” He asks.

“Whatever you recommend.” Was all Calum said as he handed back the menu. The young waiter looked a bit taken back but could see that Calum was clearly struggling with something, so took the menu out of Calum’s hands and headed to the kitchen.

Calum was left alone to his thoughts once again, and he was struggling not to let himself spiral into a small breakdown. On the outside, it would look like Calum is overreacting, it was only a tiny argument. It was nothing to react this strongly about. But it wasn’t just that. Calum felt like everything terrible had come at once, and everything was all a bit too intense for him. He was struggling to cope, and this little argument was the tipping point. He felt like he was drowning in air.

“Here’s your food,” the young waiter said timidly as he placed the food in front of Calum. Calum noticed the waiter’s unease and felt bad that he was so anxious around Calum.

Wanting to reassure the waiter that he wasn’t volatile, Calum gave the waiter a small but genuine smile and said: “thank you mate, appreciate it.” Calum noticed the waiter’s shoulders drop with the release of tension as he walked away.

Calum wasn’t really that hungry, so he picked at his food slowly. The food was delicious, Calum thought that he should bring Mollie there one day. But then he second-guessed himself as he thought whether Mollie would even want to eat at the cafe with him. He leaned his head on his hand as he thought about his next plans. Calum didn’t want to go back to his dorm, because he knew he would get the first degree from Ava again. However, he knew he couldn’t just stay in the cafe all night, the waiter would probably get a bit annoyed with him to be fair.

He stayed in the cafe for a few hours, getting lost in his thoughts. The young waiter tidied his table around him and topped up his coffee periodically. Calum was grateful for such a kind gesture from a stranger, he thought it was sweet. He decided though that enough was enough though and pushed himself from his seat and grabbed his bag to leave. He left his money and a generous tip on the table and made his way out of the cafe. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was going, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they directed his body onwards and forwards.

Before he knew it, Calum was stood in front of his car that was parked outside the dorms. Grabbing the keys from inside of his bag, he climbed inside the car. He sat there for a few seconds while he collected his thoughts deciding where to go. He put the car into the ignition and pulled away. Calum always thought something was relaxing about driving, so he hoped that this might clear the fuzziness that is going on inside his brain. This time though, he was driving with a purpose, so he was a lot less relaxed than usual.

He drove for around hours, the only source of light being the headlights on the passing cars and the lights from shops he drove past. When he began to drive on familiar grounds, he sighed in relief. There was something about driving on the roads of the town that he grew up in that made Calum feel safe. He could feel his mind gain more clarity with every familiar place that he passed. He smiled to himself with nostalgia as he saw his old high school. It was crazy to think that less than a year ago he was there, dreaming about college and all the great things that he was going to entail. It reminded Calum just how hard he had worked to get into college like he had told Mollie at the beginning of the year, he always struggled with school and tests. Looking at his high school also shed some perspective on Calum’s current situation. Taking that step back from college, even for a couple of hours, he could see that this negative spiral he had found himself in was only small compared with the many happy memories he had made already. The spiral felt significant because he knew he was focusing on it as one big unwinnable thing, as opposed to looking at each problem individually.

He felt this sense of refocusing, and he wanted to tackle his problems head-on, but he knew that tonight wasn’t the night to start. He needed to give himself the night to recharge, so he drove to the driveway of his childhood home. When he walked in he was greeted by his mother who was equally happy to see her son, and confused as to why he had paid her this visit. Calum hugged his mom tightly and held her like that for a few moments. She guided him into the living room while she made them a cup of tea. Calum proceeded to explain everything to his mom, knowing that she would listen to him judgement free.

His mom gave him her advice on how to tackle the negative spiral that was whirling around in Calum’s head. He was happy that he made this trip to see her, even if it wasn’t entirely planned. He was almost excited for the new day, between them, he and his mom had made a complete list of everything that Calum could do to get through this small rough patch. As the night developed, Joy decided that it was time to go to sleep, and kissed the top of his head softly. Calum made his way to his childhood bed and rested his head on the pillows, falling into a peaceful slumber.

[andrethegiant3001]

You’ve Gotta be (Psych)idding Me (WIP)

Prologue: Only Time will Tell

The future is a funny thing. Everyone spends so much time trying to prepare for it, control it, understand it, predict it. But the only thing that truly knows the future is the future itself. It’s the runner at the head of the race, always two steps ahead.

Lizzie Bennet likes to think that she’s one of the few people that can interpret the vague and elusive nature of time. She knows that time is a circle, not a line, spinning around and around until it settles on a narrative it likes, a narrative that the people within it spiral into. She understands that the future and past are fragile and tangible things, breaking and bending to the whims of those around it. She remembers that the future is a promise, not a guarantee. Promises can be broken.

And yet, with all her otherworldly knowledge, idiots like the one standing in front of her still feel the need to doubt her.

“No offense, but psychic powers are usually… a farce.”

No offense, but you look like you belong in a shitty version of ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’.

The teenage girl standing next to him shoots him a wary look, momentarily pulled away from the homemade essences she had been drawn to originally. Lizzie bites her tongue and gives the stranger a cursory once over. He’s wearing slacks and an Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing strong, tan forearms. She doesn’t need to be a psychic to guess that he’s an asshole.

He’s also really hot.

(She’s really unimpressed with the lack of correlation between physical attractiveness and positive personality traits. The world isn’t a fair place.)

“You realize that you basically just said ‘no offense, but I think you’re scamming people out of their money’? How exactly am I supposed to not be offended by that?”

The girl sighs in exasperation, “Can’t we do one thing without you pissing off a random stranger?”

Lizzie feels an odd surge of affection for the girl that she hadn’t previously expected. Then again, she had sensed a positive aura when the two walked in, she just hadn’t been sure which one of them was emitting it. Now she’s definitely sure that it isn’t coming from him.

“Stay out of this Georgy,” the guy snaps before turning back on Lizzie. “Look, I’m trying to be polite. I just don’t believe in what you do.”

“A murderer in a nice suit is still a murderer.”

“That’s a terrible analogy.”

Lizzie scoffs, “Whatever, the point stands. Just ‘cause you dress your bigotry in a bow doesn’t make it okay.”

“It’s hardly bigotry when most psychics actually scam people out of their money. That’s called statistics.”

“So you’re telling me that statistics give you the right to come into my store and insult my career choice?”

“First off, career is a bit of a strong word-”

“Do you get off on being condescending?”

“Secondly, statistics give me a right to be wary of people trying to take advantage of me.”

“I’m pretty sure profiling works off of the same logic.”

“You’re kidding,” he says blankly, “the difference is people can’t choose their skin colour. You can choose your job.”

“I didn’t choose to be a psychic.”

“Oh, so we’re going off of the assumption that you actually have spooky psychic powers? Hang on, let me recalculate my line of argumentation.”

“Fuck you,” Lizzie says with a saccharine smile. Then she swivels to face the girl, “Can I help you.”

Her face lightens up a little in response, but before she can respond, the guy butts in again, “I get it. Now that you’ve realized you’re not going to get any money out of me, you’re turning to my kid sister. Real ethical.”

She’s going to wring him with her bare hands.

(Un)fortunately, his sister decides to step in before Lizzie murders him. “Please Will, I’m not a kid,” she says breezily, “could you try not being a dick for once in your life?”

He scowls, “Don’t swear.”

“It’s not swearing if I’m referring to you by your middle name,” she flashes him a wicked smile and turns to Lizzie, “I’m actually interested in a tarot reading.”

“Sure-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouts, “I’ll even pay for it myself.”

He laughs, “It’s not paying for yourself if you get your allowance from me. Besides, it’s not about that. It’s about the principle.”

“The principle being sticking to your guns when you’re being an ignorant dipshit?” Lizzie raises an eyebrow. “You’re a stellar role model.”

“No,” he rolls his eyes and speaks slowly, like she’s a child, “the principle is that I don’t give money to scammers with shit customer service.”

Lizzie feels her temper rising, but purses her lips and makes sure her voice is level in order to keep her cool, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“You’re kicking me out,” it’s a question, but it comes out as a statement.

Instead of answering, she turns to the girl (Georgy?) and smiles warmly, “I can do a tarot reading now or some other time as long as he’s out of my general vicinity.”

At that, the guy laughs sardonically and brushes past her to stalk towards the door. But when his arm skims hers, something weird happens. A sensation spreads through her entire body, like she’s suddenly been set on fire. Her mind flashes, an image of hands on skin, tugging at her waist, teeth nipping at her lips, dragging a heady moan out of her mouth. The scene changes to Georgy laughing loudly as she jumps into a pool, her cannonball formation spraying Lizzie with water before Georgy reaches up to pull her in too.

But she doesn’t only see her two customers. She feels Jane across town, putting the finishing touches on a wedding cake she was commissioned to make. Her eyes flash to her mother’s house, where the woman stands in the center of the room, performing a ritual for onlookers all around. Then she catches a glimpse of the people walking on the sidewalk in front of her shop, the acute feeling of… irritation taking over her body as she looks from them to her sister back in the shop, still talking to that woman who seems intent on exploiting her-

Lizzie snaps out of it, her eyes flying open to the girl standing in front of her.

What the fuck just happened?

She blinks slowly and looks around the room before looking back to Georgy, trying to gauge if she’s disoriented in any way by what just happened. The girl looks fine though, a little put off by the immature behaviour of her brother, but otherwise completely tethered to reality.

Lizzie shouldn't have expected anything different. Others never see.

Georgy is grimacing when she looks over at her, “I’m sorry about him, he’s just…” she trails off and looks over to where he’s waiting for her by the door, “the worst.”

That brings Lizzie back to the present and she laughs lightly, “That’s an understatement.” If anything, the pained look on Georgy’s face grows stronger at the comment, like she wants the ground to swallow her whole.

Lizzie can sympathize. She’s had quite a few I-wish-the-ground-would-swallow-me moments.

“He’s actually not as bad as he seems,” she starts, but quickly realizes by the look on Lizzie’s face that there’s really no use in defending him. “Anyway, I’ll stop by sometime for a tarot reading. Without him.”

Lizzie nods approvingly before relenting a little, “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to skeptics.”

She thinks of her mother, faux psychic extraordinaire.

She almost doesn’t blame him for his doubts. Almost.

She huffs out another sigh, “Sure, but he has this nasty habit of thinking that the world actually cares about his shitty opinions,” Lizzie laughs out loud at that, surprising even herself. Georgy gives her an award winning smile before turning towards the door. Lizzie takes the hint and heads back to the counter, arranging a set of lighters with cheesy inspirational quotes twisted around to make puns. She tries really hard to distract herself and not look back at the guy or think about the guy or analyse what the guy’s touch did to her.

She just doesn’t understand how someone like him could bring on such a strong connection to the spiritual world.

She’s just finished adjusting a lighter that says ‘you’re a-MAZE-ing’ with a little design of a maze in the background when she hears it.

“You’re not coming back to this crap shack.”

She looks over to the door where Georgy catches her eye and gives a little wave before saying, “Like you could stop me.”

Lizzie simultaneously feels the need to either laugh out loud or punch something as hard as she possibly can.

You can read the rest of this story on my fanfiction.net account linked here: You’ve Gotta be (Psych)idding Me

[mdwatchestv]

Game of Thrones 7x05: Suicide Squad

Gather children for it is time for ye old Game of Thrones. We got people zippin all up and around this great land of Westeros, just zappin from one side of the world to the other. I guess they finally unlocked all the fast travel check points on the main map. After last week's dragon battle we are back to our regularly scheduled plotting and planning. Plans were planned, revelations revealed, and players travelled around the board at rapid pace. So let's break down everything we learned and bore witness to this week!

First off it is immediately revealed that Jaime and Bronn survived their dive into the drink and conveniently floated a short distance away out of harm's way. I had thought they would perhaps be taken prisoner by the Dragon Queen herself, but turns out they were able to (swim?) to safety just in time. But not all of the Lannister Army were so lucky, and the notably downtrodden survivors were marched in front of Dany's congregation. Dany offers the singed soldiers a "choice" to either bend the knee (her fav) or meet with fiery death. This is about as much of a choice as cake or death, but those pesky Tarlys opt for death rather than defect their loyalty. We hardly knew ye Tom Hopper and now you are ash. RIP Tarlys. Tyrion is notably disturbed by this turn of events, even though Dany claims to be a benevolent ruler she is exerting her rule in the new land by using fear rather than mercy. For Tyrion this iron fist approach to conquering feels a little too reminiscent of Cersei or the Mad King for comfort. Although Dany clearly sees herself as the tough but fair type, Tyrion is still left wondering where he is going to draw a morality line in the sand. This is still a guy who killed his old man on the shitter though, so I think he can grant Dany some wiggle room for now at least.

After dealing out some fire and brimstone justice Dany jets back to Dragonstone and meets up with Jon who is back brooding on his brooding cliff. Khaly K lands her giant sky lizard in front of Jon and what does this fool do? He reaches out to pet that scaly monster like it's the only cat at a house party. Not only is this a nice friendship moment (let's keep it platonic here people), but it seems like Drogon has also gotten the memo and is acknowledging Jon's true lineage (more on that later obviously). As always there's a lot of beautiful storytelling being done in the mise-en-scène, and I particularly liked Dany's fur-lined gown which hinted at her newfound Stark alliance.   Anyway Jon gets the memo from Winterfell that Bran the Seer of Sucktown has seen the Night King's Army descending rapidly on the Wall and he gots to go. Dany's war council decides that, rather than finishing off Cersei in a blast of magma and death, they are going to negotiate an armistice with the Lannisters in order to focus on the undead. To be perfectly honest I wasn't 100% clear on why we are doing this and not just invading King's Landing, but whatever. The new game plan is to go North of the Wall, kidnap a zombie solider, and bring it back to King's Landing to show Cersei. Again, not totally sure what the most desired outcome here is, Cersei surrender? Ceseri alliance? Cersei go into the corner and be quiet? I feel like even when confronted with a wiggling, murderous, undead corpse Cersei is not going to play nice with the new kids. Look, I'm not totally sold, but please don't bring a zombie to my apartment in order to convince me. 

First step of this new plan is to establish communication with the inhabitants of the Red Keep. This plan has a lot of steps, and I am already exhausted by it. But Ser Davos gamely smuggles Tyrion to have a bro-to-bro chat in the Dragon Skeleton Room and talk living dead. While Tyrion and Jaime exercise their dramatic acting muscles, Ser Davos goes to casually pick up GENDRY. When Joe Dempsie's name popped up in the opening credits I shrieked like a banshee for I knew the day had finally come for Gendry to return unto us. If you recall (and how could you not) last time we saw good old Gendry he was rowing away from Dragonstone after Melisandre attempted to assassinate him for his sweet, sweet royal blood. Many a meme has been made surmising old Gendry has just been rowing around aimlessly for the past 4 season to one day wash up on the shores of plot once more. Well today is that day, and boyfriend has been in King's Landing THE WHOLE TIME. He just went right back to blacksmithing and has been hammering away drama-free for YEARS. I am not even mad though, I am just happy to have Chris Gendry back in my life. Welcome back young man.

Jaime and Tyrion have a semi-productive secret conference, productive in the sense they effectively communicate their ideas to one another, not productive in the sense that it is in any way a secret. Cersei lets Jaime know she is on to his sneaky shit, and then drops the bomb she is pregnant with his baby and doesn't care who knows it. This emotional assault of intimate news sandwiched between two scary threats binds Jaime even more tightly to Cersei. However one does have to wonder if Cersei is truly carrying a child or simply attempting to secure one of her last remaining loyalties. Only time and fashion will tell. Boy, she’s a scary hugger. 

Step number one of the 50 Step Zombie Plan completed, Davos, Gendry and Tyrion zoop back to Dragonstone where Gendry is introduced to Jon Snow. Their dads were friends, they're both bastards, they're bros, good times, let's get on the boat and hammer some zombies, wham bam thank you Sam. Except, wait, hold on, I'm getting a breaking news alert- let's cut to our correspondent Gilly for more on this developing story.

"Hello yes, this is Gilly reporting live from The Citadel. I am reading a book about steps, shits, and various other statistical sundries and I have just come across a word I don't know. That word is annulled, and it is next to another word which looks like a name, and that name is-"

GREAT JOB GILLY NOW SHUT YOUR BIG LADY MOUTH. As you clearly heard here first it looks like Jon Snow is NOT A BASTARD, I repeat, NOT A BASTARD. But seriously, while Sam is busy feeling sorry for himself Gilly stumbles upon a pretty major narrative bomb that Sam proceeds to COMPLETELY ignore. Samwell really blew the chance to be one of (arguably two) characters who know the truth of Jon's lineage. What Gilly discovers is that Rhaegar Targaryan (aka Jon's real dad) annulled his marriage to Elia Martell and was remarried to, presumably, Lyanna Stark (Jon's real mom). Now we knew that R+L=J, but this new info means that Jon is NOT a bastard! He is a legitimate son! And most important the REAL HEIR TO THE IRON THRONE. Sorry bout it Khaly K, but if we are going by Targaryan inheritance rules it's all Jon all the time. Not that this matters much to Jon, he's going North of the Wall to get a zombie pet, obviously.

Before we get to the Zombie Acquisition and Retrieval Task Force (ZARTF) and it's many members, let's skip on back to Winterfell. Game of Thrones characters can apparate all over the map, and so can I. Back on the ranch Arya is growing increasingly suspicious of Sansa's potential ulterior motives. So much for a happy sister reunion. Arya thinks she is being super clever following Littlefinger around and getting proof he and Sansa are secretly attempting to overthrow Jon. But Arya's been gone a minute and she has forgotten she is not the creepiest creep in the creeper anymore. Yes Arya learned some sick skills from no one, and can wear other people's faces, but Lord Baelish has been perfecting his spy game since before she was born. Baelish plants an incriminating letter written by Sansa for Arya to find (like come on Arya you think Lord Petyr Baelish hides shit in his mattress? Girl) hoping to further drive a wedge between them. Littlefinger knows that a Sansa without allies is a Sansa ripe to be preyed upon, because he’s gross and a predator. Hopefully Arya will figure this out and rather than lash out at Sansa instead form a positive bond of sisterhood with her. Hopefully.

As you can see a lot of plot happened, there were revelations, machinations, and congregations. A plan to kidnap a member of the walking dead was hatched and set into rapid motion. Jon does not pass Winterfell, and does not collect $200, but rather hops right up to the Wall where he assembles an A-team coalition of male supporting characters who are all vaguely the same. ZARTF ROLL CALL:

Jon Snow! Ginger Beard! The Hound! Ole One Eye! Top Knot McGregor! Papa Jorah! Gendry!

None of them really like each other, and certainly more than one is going to die. TBH I would be fine with losing any of them except Ginger Beard (I just love him okay). Next week they're going on a zombie hunt, they're gonna catch a big one etc etc.

Stuff I didn't get to:

Chronic quitter and non-listener Sam peaces out of the Citadel 

Daddy Jorah came home!

MVP: Gilly

XO MD

Bonus Daddy time:

[piratefalls]

posting because my friend @ampersandy doesn’t have facebook anymore.

this is what i took from my experience at my local women’s march.

--

When I debated going back to college – a luxury I am lucky to have, especially with the knowledge that I will not be accruing new debt – I struggled with where I wanted my education to go. I had no idea what area of study I wanted to fall in, having too many interests that rarely intersect to decide on just one department. I applied anyway, knowing that at least being accepted gave me more options than I had as someone on the outside looking in. Most of the classes I was interested in were full by the time I was allowed to register, and one of the only classes left that I had any interest in was a Gender and Women’s Studies course titled: “Queer Lives, Queer Politics.”

After yesterday, I don’t believe that this was in any way a coincidence.

All semester long I learned about power structures, both social and legislative, that put certain groups of people at a disadvantage the further they are from that power source. That power source, generally speaking, is a white, able-bodied, straight, cisgender male. Are you a person of color? Take a step back. Are you employed? If you are, stay put. If not, take a step back. Are you poor? Take another step back. Are you disabled? How’s your access to healthcare? Higher education? Take a step back for every one of these things you do not have at your fingertips. That is your relationship to power and the people who have the most influence. I want to make this post, and my experience at yesterday’s Women’s March on Champaign-Urbana, about those power structures.

Yesterday, I stood in a muddy park on an unseasonably warm, beautiful January afternoon, surrounded by women of color, of different ability, of different socioeconomic status, of varying levels of education, women who are transgender, and I listened. I was given a reminder that I desperately needed.

This is about more than just fair wages, but I want to break something down here really quick. I know everyone gets tired of hearing the phrase: “for every dollar that a man makes, a woman makes $0.79.” This is both true and misleading. For every dollar that a man makes, a woman does make less. The year after President Obama signed the Lily Ledbetter Fair Pay Restoration Act (2010), the statistics broke down as follows:

White men: 100 Black men: 74.5 Hispanic men: 65.9 White women: 80.5 Black women: 69.6 Hispanic women: 59.8

Wage discretion is real, but it is more real for people of color than it is for me.

This is about more than just sexual assault and rape. Now, if you know me at all, you know that violence against women is an issue I hold close to my heart, for reasons that don’t need to be rehashed here. But when we think about sexual assault and rape, what is the kind of person who comes to mind when you think of a victim? If you pay attention to the media at all, you probably imagine a white woman in her 20s. What they don’t tell you is that while 80% of all victims are white, minorities are somewhat more likely to be attacked. This breaks down as follows:

All: 17.6% (approx. 1 in 5) White: 17.7% Black: 18.8% Asian/Pacific Islander: 6.8% American Indian/Alaskan: 34.1% Mixed Race: 24.4%

And that doesn’t even include rape and sexual assault committed against men. Yes, women can be rapists too. According to a 2002 NCVS report, one in every eight rape victims were male. When we have a conversation about sexual assault and what needs to be done to end rape culture, we must include ALL victims, not just women. This also does not include rape and sexual assault committed against members of the trans community, which most studies reveal a whopping 50% will experience sexual violence at some point in their lifetime.

This is about more than reproductive rights. This is about access to life-saving healthcare. Viagra and vasectomies are covered by insurance plans, and no one bats an eye. When women want access to birth control, suddenly everyone is in a tizzy. You see what I’m getting at here? Dudes want to prevent pregnancy and that’s fine, but when we want to take control of our ability to get pregnant, suddenly we’re making irrational choices and need the government to intervene. Never mind the fact that the pill is not prescribed SOLELY to prevent pregnancy, but is also used in treatments for endometriosis, PCOS, and adult acne.

Also, please do actual research on Planned Parenthood, because they really are an incredible organization that provides sex education, whose goal is to reduce teen pregnancy through education, and provide women – a good portion of whom are low income and cannot afford hospital visits – with quality preventative healthcare like pap smears, mammograms, cancer screenings, and STD testing. If you can’t do it right now, that’s fine. In the meantime, let me give you a short primer: taxpayer money does not pay for abortions because Title X exists, abortions are 3% of their total services, and someone getting an abortion is none of your damn business anyway.

This is about more than just an Electoral College-elected leader we feel does not represent us. Or, at least, represents some of us. “How did this happen?” we kept asking ourselves on November 9. “Aren’t we better than this?” I thought we were, too. But, again, that’s my privilege speaking.

However – and this is something I find incredibly interesting – the exit polls of this most recent election tell a very interesting story. Most of the people I saw on Facebook after the election who were angry, or saddened, or just lamenting the fact that we’d elected probably the least qualified individual in recent history to our highest government position, were predominantly white. You want to know who put him in office? Predominantly white people. Exit polls in CNN show that 62% of white men and 52% of white women voted for Trump, with only 7% and 5% voting for neither candidate or not voting at all, respectively. Everyone else – black men and women, Latino men and Latina women, and other minority groups – overwhelmingly voted Clinton or didn’t vote for either/vote at all. I’m still trying to parse how I feel about this one, honestly, but I’m sure I’ll let you guys know when I figure it out.

I wanted to believe that we were better than a person who sought to divide us under the guise of making this country great again. America is, and can be, great, despite the fact that its history has not always been great. I know, I know, “We weren’t part of slavery, so why do I still have to defend myself against it? I didn’t kill all those Native Americans when Columbus sailed the ocean blue!”

First of all, DUH. You were born in 1993. This is hardly something I can put solely on your shoulders. BUT - and this is the part we struggle with - these terrible things ARE part of this country’s history, and we DO have to own that. Do we have to be proud of it? No. In fact, I’d encourage you to not be proud of it. However, as a historical moment, are we not supposed to learn from it? Are we not meant to arm ourselves with information so that we do not repeat what’s been done? That is why these conversations still take place: because we keep forgetting.

What this is about is togetherness. This is about recognizing where your place is in this world and using it in whatever way you can to lift up those who are not as fortunate as you. This is about the importance of mobilization. It is about feminism that is not limited to just white women, but is inclusive of all people regardless of gender expression, sexual orientation, race, creed, socioeconomic status, and physical ability. This is about the importance of knowing when to speak and when to sit down and listen; the importance of me, as a white woman, knowing my place at a table that is not designed to make me feel comfortable, or congratulate me for finally catching up with everyone else, but rather teach me how I can be better even if it involves hearing hard truths. My job, as a white woman, is to listen, to get educated, and to amplify the voices of women and men throughout history that our textbooks have silenced for far too long.

This is about learning the meaning of true ally-ship, that not all things are about you, but are about others and how you can do something that benefits them. Being an ally is hard work, and it’s supposed to be. We must not let our sisters be swept aside because of their skin, or their queerness, or their religion or ability or the life she chooses to lead. We must embrace them, encourage them, raise their voices when they are not being heard. True equality cannot be achieved until we are ALL equal players on the same field, in all facets of life, status, and government. We do not yet have these things.

Being brave is not about convenience. Being brave means stepping up to the plate even when it’s hard, when there’s nothing in it for you, when it scares you. Being brave is a lot of things, but it has never been, nor will it ever be, easy. I will be the first to admit that I have not always been brave. But I am going to try. I’m going to get more involved. I’m going to be a voice, a mouthpiece for other women who need to be heard much more than I do.

Whether you believe it or not, as a white individual, you ARE privileged. Having the luxury of not noticing that privilege is something women of color, trans women, poor women, and disabled women do not have.

At the end of all of this, all I’m asking is that you think about where you stand in this world, and the power you hold simply by existing. Have you ever gone to sleep wondering where your next meal will come from? Have you ever gone to sleep cold because you couldn’t pay your bills? Have you ever missed out on important moments in your kid’s lives because you had to work to make sure they were fed? Have you ever been followed around in a shopping mall because someone decided that YOU were the sketchy person they needed to police that day? If you haven’t experienced these things, you might be privileged.

The question is: what will you do with it?

[junker-town]

Our very early picks to start the 2019 NBA All-Star Game

2019 NBA All-Star voting is now open, which means it’s time to pick the starters.

The NBA released its All-Star ballots on Tuesday, this year partnering with Google to get lots of votes. (RIP, #NBAVote.) It appears that the same ballot formula will be used in 2018-19, with the media (weighed 25 percent), players (weighed 25 percent), and fans (weighed 50 percent) each getting a say in who will be the 10 starters in the All-Star Game. The top vote-getter in each conference will be captains and pick teams regardless of conference.

The twist is that you are given an opportunity to vote for a player when you search their name in Google. For instance, if you search for “Svi Mykhailiuk” you are presented with a box that allows you to vote for Svi as an All-Star starter. (This is not an endorsement.)

All that said, here’s The Hook’s official Dec. 26 NBA All-Star starter ballot, with some explanations. A lot of this is easy. Some is not. Disagree at your own peril.

West

James Harden

Harden has been the league’s most effective scorer this season (this is becoming a trend) and continues to make plays for others at a rate unmatached by any of the other top 20 scorers. The Rockets aren’t great, but they are in the playoff picture primarily because of Harden’s explots. He’s an obvious All-Star starter.

Stephen Curry

This was a little tougher than you’d think, as we’ll discuss below. Curry missed a good chunk of games, but when he’s played, he’s been as special as ever, scoring with absolutely unbelievable efficiency (including 45 percent on threes and a True Shooting at 66 percent).

It’s worth noting too that the Warriors struggled a little with Curry (and, in fairness, Draymond Green) out of the lineup despite still having Kevin Durant and Klay Thompson out there.

Anthony Davis

Davis is having an MVP-caliber season for a team lilting just under .500. As of Wednesday The Brow is No. 4 is scoring, No. 2 in blocks, No. 6 in rebounding, and No. 9 in steals. All-around excellence despite uncertainty about his future.

LeBron James

This is an obvious pick as LeBron has single-handedly made the Lakers 20 wins better. He’s offering up the usual 28-8-7 on really efficient shooting (No. 3 in effective field goal percentage among the top 20 scorers).

The real question is whether his new L.A. base can help him beat Curry to be the No. 1 overall vote-getter.

Kevin Durant

Durant has to be an All-Star starter, even if he’s hardly the most popular player around these days. His numbers are ridiculous — just about 29-8-6 on 50-36-92 shooting.

We don’t make this comparison much because their aesthetic styles are so, so different. But Durant is pretty similar in statistical profile to LeBron, isn’t he?

Others receiving consideration

There are three frontcourt players who should absolutely get nods on the reserves list but simply couldn’t jostle Davis, LeBron, and Durant out of their God-given spots: Paul George, Nikola Jokic, and Tobias Harris. Barring immense slumps or injuries, those three should absolutely be All-Stars. Just not starters.

(PG-13 would have a case as a starter if we picked the 10 starters regardless of conference, but Jokic or Harris wouldn’t make that cut. Frontcourt is so loaded. Jokic would be a starter if center was still segregated as its own position in voting.)

The other debate here was between Curry and Damian Lillard, who has been healthy and is putting up incredible numbers. Curry’s numbers are like historic, though, and I’m betting that Steph will play all or most games between now and the end of balloting, narrowing that gap.

Lillard’s been spectacular and worthy of a starting spot. He’s just in a tough, tough conference.

East

Kyrie Irving

The Celtics have been a little disappointing, but Irving hasn’t. Kyrie is at 23-6-5 for a team seven games above .500. Boston’s defense is amazing, so you can’t really knock him there. Irving’s efficiency has been quite nice as well: he’s shooting 41 percent from deep and his True Shooting percentage is in the range of the MVP contenders.

This is an easy call: Irving should be an All-Star starter.

Victor Oladipo

This was not an easy call, and the pick could change on a daily basis. We’ll discuss the other contenders below.

Oladipo’s case is that the Pacers are good, Oladipo is their best player, and he’s a better defender than the other Eastern guards in the mix. Just don’t look at his shooting percentages, please.

Giannis Antetokounmpo

Giannis is the MVP favorite at this point, both because the Bucks have been awesome and because Antetokounmpo’s excellence is totally central to everything great about Milwaukee.

Critics might chide his low three-point percentage. The counter is that despite a lack of a three-point stroke, Giannis is more efficient than any top-20 scorer other than Steph Curry when you consider total points per shooting possession. Antetokounmpo is shooting 65 percent on two-pointers. No other top-20 scorer is shooting better than 58 percent (LeBron).

Joel Embiid

Embiid is also in the MVP conversation. (Most All-Star starters are in the MVP conversation.) No. 8 scorer, No. 3 rebounder, No. 9 in blocks, efficient scoring despite his three-point stroke abandoning him. Jimmy Butler gets a bunch of credit for Philadelphia sorting themselves out, but we’ve seen Embiid be incredible before Jimmy. We know this guy has it.

Kawhi Leonard

Kawhi has rested a lot, but no other East frontcourt player not named Giannis or Joel are particularly close in terms of impact, so Leonard gets a nod here. His scoring output has been incredible at a shade under 27 per game on 60 percent True Shooting. That, plus the world-class defense, is all you need. Good player.

Others receiving consideration

The next best East frontcourt option is ... Blake Griffin? Nikola Vucevic? Jimmy Butler would probably get the nod if Leonard weren’t around. Compared to who the West is leaving on the table, that’s a stark difference. The East reserves are going to be fun to debate. And by “fun,” I mean, “bury me under 20 feet of sand.”

That second East backcourt starting slot has some real competition, though. Oladipo’s main competitors are Ben Simmons (good all-around game and efficiency for a good team, but he’s the team’s second-best player and scores less than the other contenders), Bradley Beal (good scorer but not a ton else for an awful, depressing team), and Kyle Lowry (great playmaking for an elite team, but low scoring numbers on average efficiency).

But the top Oladipo competitor is Charlotte’s Kemba Walker, who is providing good scoring on average efficiency for a middling team. The question here is whether Walker’s somewhat better stats outweigh Oladipo’s defense and much better team.