#to the 'watching your mistakes fall at your feet' tone with the corporate guys

[its-captain-sir]

One thing in particular that struck me about this episode was the way death was portrayed. Oftentimes I feel like in an attempt to emphasize the effect a death has on the characters and the narrative it becomes dramatized a bit, you know like slow motion moments and screaming each other's names and swelling music all in a way that's basically a flashing sign for the audience saying "be sad now!" And doing it that way isn't necessarily a bad thing, I can already think of a few examples off the top of my head where that sort of thing has been executed wonderfully, but the way Andor chose to go is very interesting to me and I think it fits with the show much better.

At this point we've spent three episodes getting attached to this group of characters. They're in the endgame now, we want them to win, we want them to all survive. A death now would certainly be something that could warrant a longer screentime focus, but instead it's the opposite here. The deaths of the crew are almost blink and you miss it. I actually had to tell my brother that Lieutenant Gorn was dead cause he did just happen to look away for a quick second the moment he was shot. There's no slow dramatic fall to the ground, they just crumple. There's no sorrowful music playing in the background when any of the crew members die, just sounds of continued fighting or dead silence. And everything happens so fast, it's not some long drawn out thing. They are just there one moment and gone the next.

It may not seem like the show gives any focus to their deaths, but that in itself is an emphasis I thought was really powerful. The show Wants you to have that "there and gone" feeling, wants you to feel shock instead of sorrow, at least in that moment, because that's what the remaining characters are feeling. In the span of a couple seconds, companions are suddenly gone, but they don't have the time to register anything but the initial shock of seeing them fall before they have to keep moving forward, and how the scenes are set up makes it so the audience feels that way too. Even the deaths that do have more build up like Skeen and Nemik keep to this sort of under-dramatized style. Things still happen fast. There's no musical tension, just quiet. Cassian and Val move to the next thing right way because there is no longer amount of time to stop and process how the others are gone.

And the fact that the first time the show chooses to portray death like this is with the characters we really had a chance to get attached to and root for is so interesting to me. I really do think it was a strong choice for the narrative at this point in time and definitely an impactful one. I felt it worked a lot better than any other way they could have gone and I'm really interested in seeing if this is going to be a recurring theme at all in the next six episodes

[drakewalkerfantasy]

Consequences: Chapter 6

Synopsis: Two people from two different worlds, two complete strangers come together for a night of solace from their moment of anger and hurt. By consequence, they were brought together and their fates intertwined. What will happen when the reality of the one night’s actions filled with lust and anger will hit them both? What will happen with two complete strangers who seem to have nothing in common? Or do they have more in common than they thought?

Words: 2084

Authors notes: Some chapters maybe NSFW or have a mature content.

Beckett x TE MC (Maeve)

**Warnings: no warning for this chapter**

A/N Sorry for so big delay in releasing this chapter. Holiday's and then other little prompts and Asks took my time and I wrote them. I will try be more quicker on updating from now, but it still may take a week or two, sometimes more. Thank you for being with me. I hope you still will keep enjoying this series.

Shreya stood in front of a small cottage waiting for someone to open the door. Knocking one more time impatiently, almost bouncing in place, hoping to get some saucy details from her friend. She noticed how quickly Maeve disappeared from the party the day before, wondering what made her leave, considering that last time she has seen her was with her ex. Her eyes flickered toward a car park, noting that her friend should be home as her car was standing there near to some fancy SUV parked beside hers. She quietly whistled, calculating mentally that this car should be worth tones of money, ones that none of the ordinary students could afford to spend. While she was still lost in her thoughts door flew open, and Maeve appeared on a threshold.

“At last,” Shreya exclaimed, giving Maeve one-armed hug before entering the house without waiting for an invitation. “What took you so long?” she asked, skeptically checking Maeve’s outfit.

“Spoke with my mum,” Maeve lied, leading Shreya to the kitchen area. “And why are you here so late?”

“I was worried. You didn’t return my calls since Friday night and did not answer my texts. And the last time I have seen you, you were arguing with your ex... And I know that this never ends well for you.”

“Tea?” Maeve asked, turning to her friend, trying to avoid the subject, watching her nod in confirmation. The light blush dusted her cheeks, and her teeth lightly dig into her lower lip remembering the events of past view day and the reason why she avoided her friends.

“Okay, my dear spill it,” Shreya squealed, hopping on the stool at the kitchen island, watching Maeve put a kettle for tea. “I know this face,” singsonged Shreya. “You had sex,” stated she, noticing how Maeve almost dropped two mugs that she now was holding in her hands.

“I didn’t...” Maeve said, trying to hide a small blush appearing on her cheeks.

“Ohhhhhh yes, you did,” Shreya giggled. “Common, tell me all the details. Who was he? Was he any good? Where did you do him? Did he have big....”

“Shreya!!!” Maeve exclaimed, feeling how her face started to burn. “Stop it. I didn’t have anything. And even if I had... I would never tell you the details,” she mumbled, watching at her friend with wide-opened eyes.

“Maaaaaaeve, stop being so prude... I know you have done it, so spill. Do I know him? Pleaaaaase, I always tell you everything.”

“Yep, sometimes even more than I need to know,” Maeve mumbled under her breath.

“I heard this,” Shreya giggled. “So he was so terrible you have nothing to tell at all?” Shreya frowned.

“Will you drop it?”

“You know, I will not. So either you tell me or I will continue to guess.”

“Okay,” Maeve sigh reluctantly. “I... I was drunk and upset after the encounter with my ex. And this was a terrible mistake... And to your great disappointment, I don’t remember much...”

“So he was terrible,” Shreya asked with a heavy sigh.

“No... he--- he wasn't bad. I would even say that he was the best I ever had. At least from what I could remember,” Maeve admitted finally, her face blushing from the memory of the most intense orgasm she ever had, not noticing that Beckett entered the kitchen, stopping abruptly at the entrance. His eyes flew wide open, and his breath hitched, catching the end of the conversation. After a moment of hesitation, he cleared his throat, his face flushing slightly, but he kept his composure, not letting it falter. He watched Maeve abruptly turning toward him, the mug slipping from her hands, hitting the floor and breaking into small fragments.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Beckett, moving toward her to help collect scattered pieces. “Sorry, for intrusion, I thought you and your friend heard me approach.”

“It’s... it’s okay,” Maeve stuttered, her face flushing and her heart thundering uncontrollably, hoping that he didn’t hear what she said. Slowly Beckett kneeled in front of her, his hand reaching for the same piece of glass, and their fingers brushed softly, making their hearts skip a beat. The memory of the kiss and the burning of their lips still fresh, and they both could feel the electricity crackled in the air between them ones again.

“I... I’m sorry that I scared you. I hope this wasn’t your favorite mug,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting Maeve’s, watching her smile weakly.

“No. It’s... it’s just a mug,” she shrugged, feeling Beckett’s fingers brushing against hers, lingering there just for a brief moment, while they collected the broken pieces. The innocent touch of his fingers made her pulse quicken. The warmth from his touch spreading through her and her face flushed when the memory of him touching her more fiercely just moments ago emerged in front of her eyes. Her breath hitched, and she jumped to her feet, not realizing that the same memory coursed through Beckett’s mind too, settling his blood aflame instantly, making him rush to his feet.

Maeve could feel how her body collided with his, and she gasped softly in surprise. Her hands grabbing his shoulders to steady herself, ready for the fall, but before that could happen she felt Beckett’s strong arms wrapping around her waist, bringing her closer to his broad frame. He was so close that she could see every single freckle dotting his face, his gaze stormy and conflicting, and his lips just an inches away. Swallowing hard their eyes met, and they both felt how the world froze around them. The time stopped, and the distance between them started to shorten, before Shreya’s voice broke through their bubble, breaking them apart.

Shit, thought Beckett, taking a step back, feeling how a blush rising up to his cheeks. I definitely can not control myself around her for some reason. Why it is so tempting to kiss her? For fucking sake, I need to keep my distance or next time, I will kiss her or even worse.

“I afraid we weren’t introduced yet,” Shreya chirped, placing her hand on Beckett’s forearm, moving closer to him. “I’m Shreya. Shreya Mistry. And you must be Maeve’s roommate.” she exclaimed excitedly, not letting Beckett say even a word. “You are so strong. I thought Maeve will meet the ground, she is so clumsy sometimes, but you caught her. And you have such nice muscles,” Shreya giggled, squeezing his forearm, not noticing a frown forming on Beckett’s face.

Meantime Maeve rolled her eyes, moving back toward the cupboards taking another mug out and starting making tea.

“It is nice to meet you,” Beckett finally could say a word, unsuccessfully trying to get his hand out of Shreya’s grip, giving up to her attempts to lead him to the kitchen island. “I’m Beckett. Beckett Harrington,” he said, throwing a gaze toward Maeve, who was standing with her back turned to them. His eyes lingering on her slim figure, sliding up her long legs toward her ass, only now realizing what she was wearing, he could feel the heat forming on his cheeks.

“Wait... Are you THE Beckett Harrington,” Shreya exclaimed, her hand still on Beckett’s biceps, and she batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. She sat him on a stool next to her, her eyes not leaving him.

“What that supposed to mean,” Beckett asked, furrowing his brows.

“Like Beckett Harrington, the only heir for Harrington Industry. The same Harrington Industry who have their businesses all over the country and make billions each year. The same Harrington who made a deal with Mistry Corporation just a few weeks back. Maeve, I told you rumors are true.”

“And I told you that I give no damn to the rumors,” Maeve replied, turning back to face them, her gaze falling to Shreya’s arm still wrapped around Beckett’s, the prick of some unknown feeling coursed through her. The unknown feeling that left a taste of metal in her mouth, making her sick to her bones. She could feel how her blood started to boil, making her even more convinced now that he is no better than any other rich boy she ever met. “Also, you should probably let him go, or you will leave imprints on his forearm,” Maeve said coldly, berating herself for saying that a second later.

“Miss Mistry...,” Beckett started before getting interrupted by the girl next to him.

“Please call me Shreya,” she said, sending him a bright smile. “Also may I say how lucky are you that you won't have to share your fortune with your sister? As there were some rumors that your sister got into bed with some guy who got her pregnant and your parents...”

“Shreya,” Maeve growled, looking at her friend, the memory of previous day’s fight still fresh in her, and she threw a subtle glance in Beckett’s direction. Noticing how he clenched his fists and his eyes became darker. “You never can know what happened behind the closed doors, so you never should assume that someone is lucky. And even if you knew for sure, it’s none of your damn business, and you shouldn’t spread this gossips further.” Maeve breathed heavily, not even fully understanding what came on her, the regret of her own assumptions pricking her, causing a feeling of guilt to become stronger. Hesitantly she looked toward Beckett catching his gaze, which froze on her. The awe and something else hiding behind his deep stormy gaze.

Probably we both made too many assumptions before getting to know each other, thought Beckett nodding slightly to Maeve, catching her soft hesitant smile, returning it a second later before turning back to Shreya.

“Miss Mistry,” Beckett repeated firmly, barely holding back anger he felt, trying to ignore what she said. “I’m not sure what rumors did you heard, although I shouldn’t be surprised--- But let me assure you, that I have nothing to do with my family’s business, and in regards to my sister--- Maeve is right is none of your business,” he said, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a second before he spoke again. “And if I may give you and your family advice... if I would be you or your family, I would stay away from making any deals with my mother, otherwise one fine morning my mother will leave you penniless and broken. Unfortunately, I and my sister never had the luxury of a choice. But if I would be you, I really would consider breaking a deal, if this isn’t too late already,” Beckett said, slipping his hand from the weakened grip and quietly exiting the kitchen, leaving two girls in complete silence.

“What was it...,” Shreya’s asked, sharing a confused look with her best friend, before bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Shreya, I think he was serious...,” Maeve said hesitantly.

“Maeve, don’t be so silly who in their right mind would give up owning the whole empire just because of some family’s drama. I and my mother have a lot of differences and we not always see things the same way, but I wouldn’t even think of refusing my share in the family’s business, even though I plan to open my own brand. I’m sure he didn’t mean it, right? He cannot be serious. How could he? He probably just tried to scare me off. Although, I’m surprised he even chose to study medicine...”

“You chose it...” Maeve noted.

“Yes, because I want to open my own beauty brand. And why not to study plastic surgery, I could make some money out of it. But for him... He could choose anything, and I know for sure his parents wanted him to study business what would be the smartest choice for him for business inheritance.“

“Shreya, just think about what he said, and please let your mother know. He doesn’t give me an impression of a person who would joke about anything like that. Please?”

“Okay, okay. I will speak with my mum,” Shreya shrugged, taking a steaming cup of tea from Maeve’s hands. “But trust me, he isn’t serious, and he is totally into me. He just doesn’t realize it yet,” she giggled, making Maeve roll her eyes at her before taking a sip of tea, throwing a pensive look toward the direction where moments ago left Beckett, a single thought flying through her mind.

Probably we both made too many assumptions before getting to know each other.

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[god-fucking-dammit-mizutani]

[Title still in progress] Rating: G | Word Count: 2,100 Bokuroo Week: Day 5 - Tattoo Tags: Tattoo Shop AU, Coffee Shop AU, Humor, Romance, Minor Background Relationship(s), Bokuroo Week Day 5 Part: 1 / 2 “I'm new,” Bokuto says. This, Kuroo knows. Someone like Bokuto is hard to forget. “To coffee,” he clarifies with a shrug. Kuroo's not really sure if it was a necessary addition, sensical even, but god if he doesn't feel some type of way just listening to this man talk. “Tea drinker?” Kuroo asks, grinning. Bokuto grimaces. “Not a chance. Stuffs like wet salad.”

“Uh-huh,” Kuroo agrees. It's been so long since he's used his phone to actually call someone that the irritation against his ear feels raw despite how shortly he's been using it. Quickly, Kuroo switches to his left ear and laughs quietly into the receiver, “it sure is a sight. I thought it was a myth, you know? Oh my,” his mouth pulls along both syllables as long as it'll stretch.

The brunette in front of him narrows his eyes up at Kuroo, fingers curling down impatiently against the laminate wood. Watercolor petals and inked vines shine beautifully under the dusty sun, all the way down the length of his arm until they wrap around each digit like rings.

The guy's companion hasn't stopped scowling up into the other's hairline since Kuroo had come to their rescue. He grins.  

“No, no, I'm still here,” Kuroo tells the person on the other line. “Yes, so are they. Don't think they're going anywhere. Like I said,” he squints between them, what little space there is, and tries to hide his amused smirk by switching ears again,”they're very stuck. The stuckiest.”

“Tell hi--” the brunette starts, only for his companion to yowl, choking on, “don't spe--!”

“He's writing something,” Kuroo narrates.

The brunette waves the now ink filled napkin at Kuroo, instinctively moving forward to hand it off, but this jolts the darker haired man to follow. There isn't much give between them, what with the clefts of their mouths held fastly together by golden ringlets.Sun glares off the gold of their combined jewelry,  directly into his eyes and--Ok, serves him right.

Kuroo takes the paper and recites in as a dry tone he can conjure, “Get your ass over here and help me, you owl turd.”

The other line erupts in the loudest, gut deep laughter Kuroo has heard in ages. He checks briefly to see if he somehow cheeked the speaker icon. Even at a distance, Kuroo can hear the laughter ringing.

“Ok, bye bye.” Kuroo hangs up. “You’re welcome,” he tells the two, one glaring straight at him, the other trying to from the corner of his one visible eye.

“You--” the brunette starts before the darker haired man slaps the table. But that's a whole other mistake, because the brunette jumps and they both yelp as their mouths tug away from each other, and then collide.

Kuroo slips his phone into his apron pocket, biting down his laughter.

*

“Thank god,” Kenma groans, slinking into his usual set up, chair turned all the way up to the wall.

Kuroo huffs a laugh as Kenma quickly summons his DS from his pocket. There's a minute of eight bit music before he kills the sound.

“I thought they'd be here forever,” Kenma sighs, resting his head against the wall. Above him this week's current art exhibit sits tilted, a cross-stitched masterpiece that proudly exclaims, Damn with an appropriately centered rainbow accompanying it.

“They're still here,” Kuroo reminds him, falling back into the empty chair. He rests his broom up against the wall and it tilts down and away from him, catching on the main door’s frame. “And I think they can hear you,” he leans back in his chair.

Kenma looks up at the group now huddled a few feet towards the room's center with a tempered scowl. “That’ll teach them to make out in public.” He returns back to his game, unbothered.

One of them mutters, probably a complaint.

“Hold still,” their newest member chastises them. Kuroo’s never heard someone sound so cheerful and commanding before.

Bokuto. Kuroo remembers the name from the first napkin that'd been thumped against his chest, the demand, call him underlined twice.

So late in the evening, the sun has hidden itself quite well behind the taller buildings in the shopping center. He looks through the window sitting between himself and Kenma, watching as people hurry on their way home from work. He thinks about checking again, to see if he really did turn the open sign over to closed, but Kenma will just call him paranoid again.

Kuroo turns at a flash of light. The flashlight of a phone hits him in the eyes. One of them holds it up higher while Bokuto works. Kuroo snickers. Someone had told him the first time he complained about the dim lighting of the cafe's interior, trying to scrub down the dark counters, that it was for the ambiance.

He's not sure ‘customers can't find the connection between two lip rings that idiots got stuck together while making out in the dark’ would be an adequate enough of a need to get the owner's to shell out for better lighting.

“And--!” Bokuto says, somehow sounding like he's got an ensemble drum roll on his payroll, “We're done!”

The bell above the entrance door chimes and slams shut as the darker haired man runs out upon immediate extraction.

It chimes again, a second later, and he's back. Kuroo sees the scarlet hue to his face just before he doubles over in a half body bow.

“Very sorry for causing trouble!” he shouts. The door slams back shut. Kuroo watches him stiffly power walk past the window. Kenma looks up for only a second, shrugging when Kuroo meets his eyes.

“That adorable brat,” the other scowls, chasing his boyfriend? out the door. He doesn't come back.

Bokuto pulls off his sanitary gloves and drops them in the nearby receptacle. He is a stout man, the spring jacket he's wearing perhaps a size too small to contain his arms. He grins at the two of them at the table, resting his hand on his hip as he says, “Thanks for helping Oikawa!”

Confidence exudes from this man.

Kenma doesn't look up. “You did all the work.”

“He's right,” Kuroo nods, folding his arms at his chest. “I wasn't going to touch them with my bare hands.”

Bokuto cocks a dark eyebrow. A single stud just beneath the hair raises with it. “This place doesn't have sanitary gloves?”

Kuroo feels his eyes widen. “No, no we do. Let me rephrase. I wasn't going to touch them.”

Kenma snorts. Bokuto lets out a short, coughing laugh.

“I've got to get back and finish closing up,” Bokuto tells them, waving. Kuroo sees him to the door. Watching the man jog lightly across the street is just an added bonus for his trouble. Bokuto makes it two stores down before disappearing into the tattoo parlor over there.  

Kuroo checks the sign on the outside of the door before locking up again. He grabs for the abandoned broom and gets back to sweeping. Kenma turns the volume back up, and Kuroo sweeps in tune to the background music of TWEWY.

When he looks up, Kenma catches his stare.

“Yes,” he says. “You remembered to change the sign.”

*

Bokuto grins at him from the other side of the counter the next morning, just a little bit too brightly that Kuroo feels himself go still like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Morning!” he greets, cheerily, his voice reverberating over the humdrum of customers who's outdoor voices are barely half what Kuroo suspects is his indoor.

Sans his jacket, Kuroo's eyes lead him to Bokuto's well inked, well muscled arm. 

Damn.

Oikawa's arms had been intricate, beautifully rendered plants that somehow danced between each other as if they had grown together in the wild. Bokuto's different, an eclectic mess of interests and loud colors buzzing up and down the length of his arms, curving at his shoulders and blending into his natural skin.

Kuroo holds back an impressed whistle.

“You work at the tattoo shop,” he says instead. His face burns when he realizes his first words were not the standard, corporate approved greeting. Bokuto doesn't seem to mind.

“Yep,” he says, distractedly, “I help run it.”

His wide eyes run the length of the board, darting about every which way. His gaze never seems to settle and Kuroo wonders if he can read like that.

When he asks, Bokuto goes pink about the ears.

“I'm new,” Bokuto says. This, Kuroo knows. Someone like Bokuto is hard to forget. “To coffee,” he clarifies with a shrug. Kuroo's not really sure if it was a necessary addition, sensical even, but god if he doesn't feel some type of way just listening to this man talk.

“Tea drinker?” Kuroo asks, grinning.

Bokuto grimaces. “Not a chance. Stuffs like wet salad.”

“That's a new one,” Kuroo snorts. “Caffeinated wet salad.”

Bokuto laughs. It is every bit as loud and twice as infectious in person.

“I don't usually take any caffeine,” Bokuto admits, leaning on the counter just a bit.

“Can't relate. I'm on a waitlist for an IV drip,” Kuroo grins. He too leans forward on the counter, crossing an arm in front of him and resting his cheek against the other. Kuroo breathes in and it is amazing that under the burnt coffee and the settled scent of wood around them, that he can smell the thick, heady cologne clinging about Bokuto. “Did you want a recommendation?”

“Sure!”

Kuroo pulls back, grabbing for a small cup and writing the man's name across the bend of it with directions for Daichi. Bokuto watches excitedly as he hands it off.

Those eyes, Kuroo thinks, are so bright, so bewitching when they fixate back on him that he is so very, very glad when Daichi starts the grinder because he thinks his heart could be heard jack hammering away otherwise. He runs his hands against his half apron and swallows thickly.

[supersleepygoat]

Districts and Domains: Part One

Pairing: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

(Spoilers) Commissioned by Anonymous: Part 1: Could you write a series sort of with an abo business au. The reader is an omega office worker and her work gets a new CEO who is Alpha! Sam and she immediately knows he is her true alpha but he gives her space and she doesn't really want to approach him about it since she values being an independent omega. She takes suppressants so that she can still work during her heats but being around her alpha makes them stop working so she goes into heat. Sam brings her back to his house where he Part 2: where he claims her and helps her through her heat. When she comes out of her heat it’s angsty because she never wanted to be claimed and she quickly realized that Sam is a very protective/possessive alpha and barely lets him leave the house. It’s angsty at first but eventually he quells her into a life of submission and they have lots of pups

Summary: Your new boss is an arrogant and dominating Alpha, who also happens to be your true mate. Will he respect your wishes and stay away or will you each give into your basic desires? ABO. Business AU. 

Word Count: 1,720

Warnings: ABO dynamics. (Future Angst and Smut - Nothing in this Chapter)

“Hurry up!” you groan at the dumb mutt who tilts his head at you in curiosity. “You either go to the bathroom now or you’re going to have to wait until I get home around six o’clock tonight!” You threaten your dog as if he could understand you. But the blank stare he gives you tells you your warning tone is pointless.

You continue your staring contest for another minute. The stubborn old bastard finally does his business once he is good and ready. It is the same struggle every morning. Except today, you’re too stressed out to do this usual dance.

The company you work for has been bought out by a larger corporation. Your boss assures you not much will change. But, you’ve done your research. Your buyers, Winchester & Sons, have a reputation. They take over small companies and turn them into profit machines. To anyone else, that would sound like a good thing. But, it has you a little worried.

You had a hard time finding work after college. Nothing seemed like a good fit until you were offered a position at Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. as a member of human resources. They needed to hire an Omega to boost diversity and to make HR seem more approachable. They thought the nurturing presence of an Omega would help that. ‘Nurturing’ isn’t a word you would use to describe yourself. But you faked it long enough to get your foot in the door. You soon showed everyone that you deserve this job not because you’re an Omega but because you’re excellent at what you do. You climbed your way up the corporate ladder on merit, not genetics.

One of the reasons you came to work for this company was because they have great benefits, especially for Omegas. They offer time off for heats and special leave for raising Pups. You always work through your heats thanks to suppressants. Plus, you have no intention of having Pups. So, you don’t need those policies. But, it’s nice to know they are there just in case. What is more important for you, is that suppressants are actually included in your medical coverage. Benefits like this are rare. Most companies don’t even hire Omegas, let alone have specialized policies. So, you have a hard time imagining your new owners will make Omega welfare a priority. The Winchester men are notorious in the business world for putting profit ahead of personnel.

But, the main reason you came to work here is because it is a welcoming environment. No one assumes you can’t or won’t do your job simply because you are an Omega. Everyone knows you are a damn hard worker. They know you will come through and get the job done, even if you are in heat. If that environment changes, you may have to start looking for work elsewhere. You won’t let anyone make you feel incapable.

You pull into your unofficial parking spot and walk into the building. The second you walk into the lobby, you smell something amazing.

“Henry, did your wife make you another loaf of banana bread?” You ask the old security guard who mans the lobby. His wife has a habit of packing him a lunch that makes the whole building drool with envy. Luckily for you, you’re the only person he sometimes shares his goodies with.

“Not today, Y/N. Actually, my Greta has been out of town visiting her sister for the past few days. That’s why I’ve been having to buy my lunch like the rest of you schmucks lately,” Henry laughs.

“Oh, you poor soul!” you tease the old man. “I hope she comes back soon so you don’t have to keep slumming it,” you say as you hand him your pass.

“Don’t worry, kid. She’ll be back on Thursday. Got any requests?” he asks as he scans you card without looking.

You walk through the metal detector and turn around to walk backwards as you reply. “When have I ever been able to pick a favourite? Besides, you know I love surprises!” You wave to the old Beta as you near the elevators. You are still walking backwards when you accidently bump into the wall. Your ankle teeters in your thin heels. You start to stumble over upon impact.

To your surprise, the wall has arms. Two strong arms wrap around you and prevent you from falling onto the marble flooring. You turn in the hold and realize what you thought was the sold wall of the building is actually a solid wall of muscle.

“I too like surprises. Especially clumsy ones,” the man who caught you smiles down at you.

“I - I’m not clumsy,” you defend yourself. You can’t think of anything else to say. The handsome stranger has stolen all your coherent thoughts.

He only lets you go once he makes sure you are steady. “Sure you’re not,” the sarcasm is almost palpable as he steps into the newly arrived elevator.

You follow him in. “I’m not. You try wearing these heels on this type of flooring. You wouldn’t last two feet,” you explain.

“Probably not,” he agrees with you. But before you claim your victory, he speaks again. “But at least I don’t have two leftfeet.” He continues to push your buttons. “Which floor?” he asks as he smiles at the offense written across your face.

You don’t answer him, you push your own floor. You don’t need his help. The second the elevator doors close, the mouth-watering scent from the lobby intensifies. You expected it to dissipate but it is only getting stronger. There is still the intoxicating essence of baked goods. But as the scent envelops you, you notice undertones of burning wood and pine.

Your eyes go wide when you realize it isn’t someone’s lunch or new laundry detergent. The scent belongs to this guy, this Alpha. You scoot a little further away from him. You had been too caught up in your conversation. You hadn’t realized you had gotten into an elevator with a strange Alpha.

As an unclaimed Omega, you usually don’t make a habit out of being in confined spaces with unfamiliar Alphas. He could flip the emergency switch and try to mate you. He could be in rut. By the size of this Alpha, he could over power you in a second and –

“Relax, Omega,” the man’s voice breaks through your nervous thoughts. “I can feel you getting worked up. You don’t have to be scared of me,” the stranger assures you.

“What did you just call me?” you bark at the man. It is highly offensive and presumptuous to call an Omega by her title if you are not her Alpha. You muster up as much anger in your voice as possible. You do that to mask the fact that you almost bent over and presented the second your title left his lips. What the hell is wrong with you?

“I- I am so sorry,” the stranger corrects himself. “I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know where that came from. I would never-” the man starts rambling and you can tell his apology is genuine.

“It’s fine.” You feel an unprecedented need to ease the worry from his brows. “It was a mistake. No harm done. But just so you know, I’m not scared of you.” You return your attention to the previous conversation.

“Of course you’re not. That’s why you’re practically hugging the far wall, because you’re notscared of me. My bad,” the man tries to lighten the mood by teasing you.

“Maybe I’m not scared of you. Maybe I just don’t like you. Maybe you forgot to put on deodorant this morning and you’re kind of smelly. Did you ever think of that? Maybe you’re stinking up this joint with your BO,” you are purposely trying to embarrass the stranger. You know it’s not a very nice thing to do but he’s annoying you. He is putting you on edge and you’re not sure how else to handle yourself. When you are conflicted, you have the tendency to lash out in unbecoming ways.

The man doesn’t seem to mind though. He lets out a soft laugh. “That’s not it and you know it,” the man looks down at you and gives you a knowing smirk.

Goddamn him. For all you know, he can smell the slick his scent is generating in your panties. Had you forgotten to take your suppressants this morning? Why is your body reacting this way? And, why does he have to be such an asshole about it?

“How long is this freaking elevator ride?” you blurt out.

He laughs at your flustered state. The elevator dings and you reach your floor. He puts his arm out to keep the door open. “Ladies first,” he all but purrs and you clench your jaw. You clench another part of you too but he will never know. Why are you letting this guy get under your skin?

You walk out of the elevator without a word. You get further down the hall when you hear your boss’ voice sound more cheery than usual. “Mr. Winchester, Welcome! Would you like me to show you to your office?”

You turn around hoping to catch a glimpse of the infamous Winchester. Your face pales when you see your boss is talking to the Alpha from the elevator.

“Please, call me Sam,” the Alpha says as he turns to face where he knows you are watching him. The self-satisfied smile he sends your way makes you knees wobble.

You turn on your heel and try storming away but accidently crash into a mail cart you hadn’t known was behind you.

“You may want to be more careful on those two left feet of yours. I won’t always be around to catch you,” Sam whispers as he and your boss pass you in the hall.

You bite your tongue to hold back the choice words you have for the arrogant man. Now that you know he is your new boss, you’re going to have to work extra hard to keep your big mouth shut. It may be best to try avoiding him all together. But, a part of you knows that won’t be an option.

Forever Tags:

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@itstuesdaytoo

@andkatiethings

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@cherry-3point14

[dragonwitchgaming]

Across Space and Time- Chapter 5

Hay guys I want to wish you a good summer vacation! AST will be on hold while I'm on summer break but when school starts back up I will be releasing chapters 6, 7, and 8 (possibly chapter 9.)

As a reminder I mentioned in chapter 4 and the announcement that I will be starting a specialty series. Make sure you go check them out as well! Keep an eye out for further updates on AST.   

Make sure that if you enjoy to like and comment!

2562 Words

GENRE: Fluff, Slight angst, crack

PAIRING: Levi X OC (platonic) 

WARNINGS: none 

masterlist

TWO AND A HALF YEARS LATER

   Year 849, June 3rd 

   The wind whipped past me at starling speed as I flew past trees and used the blades of my sword to carve out a slice of the dummy titan’s neck. The feeling of the almost flying was exhilarating. Going back to a world that didn’t have that was almost unthinkable. Currently I was in the top ten ranks in training but just barely. I was ranked ninth. Although, it wasn’t always that way. One the first day of ODM gear flight training I hit my face on a branch and gave myself a concussion, nocked me down to twelfth. 

   I was now best friends with the odd trio. Eren and Armin treated me like a sister and Mikasa would watch out for me if I happened to be causing trouble with the brunet.

   “You stole my kill!” Connie shouted in disdain. Giving me a sharp glare as we zipped though the forest side by side. Connie Springer, a 5 foot 2 inch, bald male that used to live in the Ragako village within wall Rose. His biggest motivation being his wish to make his family proud. He ranked 8th in our class and was damn good at what he did. He had become a good friend over the 2 years I had been here.

   “Be faster then.” I japed playfully at his ego and sped up. The others of my class zipped by such as Eren and Jean Kirstein who seemed to be having a contest. Jean being a 5 foot 8 inch egotistical prick who lusted after Mikasa like a rabid dog.

   Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a hidden 10 meter dummy titan. Hidden well enough that it wouldn’t be seen by anyone who had not been paying attention to the field itself, I had almost not even seen it. A mistake like that could get someone killed on the real field.

   “Connie!” I called grabbing his attention. I pointed in the direction of the dummy clueing him. He nodded sharply.

   “I’ll cover you!” he yelled over the howling wind, making a sharp right while I swung to my left avoiding an incoming tree with a narrow dodge. My body falling back to avoid the following branch. With the titans nape in sight I moved swiftly aiming for a deathly strike. Only the swivel motor turned the titan to face me with almost startling speed. Launching myself back and onto a higher tree branch to avoid what would have been my death if it were a real titan. This movement had left an opening to the unnoticed Connie, giving him all the time he needed to take the kill. He took the opening slicing the dummies nape landing on a branch to my right.

   I looked to my left and noticed a different trail of titans then the ones we were assigned and deliberated on ‘taking them out’. Was it a different field training or was this a test. I stood on a branch not far from the most resent ‘kill’. “You think we should take them out?” I asked the bald boy.

   “Wouldn’t there be an instructor there if we weren’t supposed to?” He shrugged.

   “I suppose your right. alright lets go get em’” I cheered, launching myself forward taking down dummy after dummy with the help of Connie. The path had lead us to the rest of the group as they continued to push forward.

………

   “Where were you?” demanded Eren curtly as he caught up with me.

   “I had noticed a branch path and Connie and I took it. Don’t worry about it.” I sighed as I sliced through another dummy with precision. 

   As the last dummy was finished off and we made it back to the rendezvous we were ordered to gather in the plaza for evaluation. My score was relatively high but was defiantly outmatched by some of the others. I had come out with 15 solo “kills” with 7 assists. 

   “Cadets!” Instructor Shadis boomed from the small stage. “All of you have been put through a test to see if you can efficiently and affectively take out a titan! However, this was not just testing your ability to kill this was also a test of your observation skills. Which all but two of you failed to pass!” I looked over at Connie who gave me a look of ‘I told you so’.

   I stuck out my tongue at him in spite. As Shadis continued his droning speech I looked to find Levi Smiling proudly at me. the amount he had changed was very little but it was enough for hi mama myself to be considered friends. He was still cold to everyone but he tended to smile a bit more then when I first met him. Well I had considered him like a friend but technically he was my “adoptive father” now. About a year and a half ago, to avoid government officials getting involved in my world hopping, Erwin had the raven adopt me and my story was that I came from the slums and had been orphaned during the attack on the outer wall. So legally Levi was my dad and he sure as hell acted like it. From making me clean or holding me to a higher slandered then the other cadets. It was all fine and good though. I knew he didn’t mean any harm. 

   “Dismissed!” the sharp command brought me from my thoughts violently. I walked over to Connie who smirked at me.

   “Don’t even.” I sighed, shaking my head. 

   “Told you so.” He laughed, shoulders shaking. Shadis had approached us with that permanent scowl of his.

   “Aurora Ackerman and Connie Springer, please report to my office after dinner.” Shadis barked at us. Oh, had I forgot to mention that my last name had been changed? Well not really changed, more or less in this world it was changed but really it was the same in mine. Man this was confusing. 

   “Sir!” We saluted at the same time. He turned and left stalking away in the direction of the main building.

   “What was that about?” Eren asked as he joined us.

   “Shadis wants to see us after dinner.” Connie explained. I scanned around the remaining cadets to find Mikasa and found her with one of the guards discussing god knows what.

   “Don’t start falling for her. You know she only has eyes for Eren.” Armin’s voice startled me causing me to jump almost four feet in the air. 

   “Armin!” I snapped turning to the blond in blind fury. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” a red hue painting me cheeks.

   “You were the one lost in your daydreams. I called your name so really I wasn’t sneaking.” He said throwing an arm around my shoulders.

   “I wasn’t day dreaming!” I snapped.

   “Really? So staring off in the distance while happening to be staring at your crush is totally not daydreaming.” He smirked. 

   “Sh-shut up!” I blushed harder. The embarrassment was agenizing as Armin continued to tease me mercilessly. “I don’t have a crush on her!”

   “Could have fooled me.” He shrugged playfully. 

   “Who has a crush on who?” Levi’s voice sent chills down my spine as he decided to make an appearance at the worst time possible. His steely gray eyes boring into my green.

   “No one has a crush on anyone!” I cried in embarrassment, turning away from the man to hid my blushing cheeks. Damn Armin to hell and back! Levi hummed in mock belief but said no more on the subject.

   “Aurora, come with me please… there is something we need to discuss.” Levi’s emotion was undecipherable but it was evident whatever he needed to discuss was important. Everyone knew Levi had adopted me but none of them knew why. Some chalked it up to business matters, others suspected the Corporal had gone soft for an orphaned kid much like himself, but none knew the real reason. This made things a little trickier from time to time but it wasn’t too much for him to handle.

   “You’re in trouble now Aura” Armin teased yet again. I elbowed him sharply in the ribs to silence him, and followed my adoptive father to his office. The path though the main building to his office was familure to the point I could probably walk to it in my sleep. 

   Once inside I took my usual spot on the couch that was seated on the left side of the room. His desk per usual was cluttered with unfinished paperwork; sat center about a third of the from the wall opposite the door. Bookshelves lined the right wall, filled to the brim with books on History, titans, and files on cadets.

   “So what did you need me for dad?” I joked giving the glowering face a bright smile.

   “Real funny Aura.” He sighed before sitting at his desk. He folded his hands on his desk and looked at me sternly.

   “You said your mother’s maiden name was Jain Lee correct?” I vaguely remember about a year ago telling him about my family life back at home, excluding my father of course, I only mentioned he had died. For some reason he had not revealed at the time, he began doing some investigating after hearing my mothers name. 

   “Yes why?” I asked cautiously. Levi was usually never this serious around me if we where alone. 

   “Is this her?” he handed me a drawing like picture. The woman in the frame was gorgeous. She had long flowing hair that framed her soft jaw line. Perfect lips smiling brightly without a care in the world. Her thin and petite form clothed in the uniform of the Survey Corps. There was no logical way, however there was absolutely no denying she was in fact my mother. 

   “How…?” I trailed off in absolute shock and confusion. 

   “Her name is Jian An Lee, she was a Lance Corporal much like myself. I worked under her and Erwin in my earlier years in the Survey Corp. Until she disappeared and never came back when we went on a mission. We all thought she had been eaten by a titan.” Levi said with a sullen tone. 

   “But that’s without a doubt my mother. Yes she’s aged but I’ve seen…” I stopped. Remembering the box my mother used to keep locked in her closet. As a kid, I was only eight at the time, I had once got ahold of the key and looked inside. The memory came flashing back.

 ______  

   I snuck into my mom’s office, curious as to what was in the large brown box she kept locked and tucked away. Daddy always said is was a vary important secret so I would have to be sneaky. 

   Mom and Dad were outside working on the garden so now was the perfect opportunity. I quickly grabbed the key from her hidden drawer and rushed to the closet. Jamming the jagged and hardly used key into the lock twisting to the left sharply. The clock of it unlocking cueing me to open the box. 

   Inside was a bunch of things I couldn’t quite tell what they were. I first examined the clothing that was primarily tan and white. The jacket had a weird wing like symbol on the back and sleeves. Leather straps with buckles all over the place, and a brown skirt like piece with white pants. All of them dirtied with a dried blood stains. Next I looked at the metal pieces that seemed to have no purpose. Why would mom need this junk? I dug through the metal until I found a blade of some kind. It was sectioned into 6 segments. Nine more blades just like it sat at the bottom of the box. “I don’t understand? What is this stuff?” I questioned myself.

______

   “What?” Levi cocked an eyebrow at my silence.

   “When I was about eight years old, my mother had a large locked box in her office. I happened to sneak in while my mom and dad were busy outside and I found… I found ODM gear and a Survey Corps uniform inside.” I revealed. “I didn’t know what it was at the time and I wasn’t supposed to know what was inside because my mother forbid me to look, so I didn’t ask…” the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. “Dad was in on it too!” I gasped. “He knew! But grandma? How dose this make sense? My grandmother was born in my world? Her birth records and everything check out!” I racked my brain for any logical reason.

   “I adopted you didn’t I? I’m sure that’s a thing in your world.” Levi sat forward, leaning onto his desk. 

   “Yes… it is… but wait my mother was born here right? My father was born in my world… there’s more to this then we first thought.” My mind was sent reeling at this new information. “I need to tell Erwin!” I quickly got up to go but my arm was caught by Levi’s firm grip. 

   “Relax Aura.” His voice calm and assertive, his eyes searching mine. “I’ll worry about Erwin. You sit.” He said pointing to the sofa. I obeyed his command and sat back down. He handed me a cup of cool tea and went back to his desk. “You can’t freak out like that. You’ll cause not only panic but suspicion. Your world hopping is to be kept under wraps at all costs.” He stated matter-of-factly. 

   Once calm I started to see the reasoning he gave. “Sorry. It’s not every day that you find your ancestry is from two different worlds.” I muttered. He huffed out a small laugh but didn’t answer. 

   “So you worked for my mom?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. “If you think about it that’s kind of weird. Especially since your like my dad and all now.” I half joked. Levi rolled his eyes but answered no less. 

   “Yes, your just like her to. A smart ass that always makes snide and unnecessary remarks or jokes, always showing off, challenges authority, and is always going out of your way to tease me even though you know it only pisses me off.” He growled but there was no anger. There was a small smile on his face when he continued. “Although you both are very good at making friends with anyone and everyone, you look out for others, independent, talented, and you both are important people in my life. Her as a friend, and you as my daughter.” 

   “That’s it people! Corporal Levi Ackerman is soft!” I cried out in celebration, throwing my hands in the air and flying back into the couch. 

   “Damn it Aura! I try to be nice and this is what I get. I should have killed you when I had the chance.” He grumbled. 

   “Nah you love me to much.” I laughed as I got up and gave the salty man a hug. “It’s okay your my irreplaceable dad now.” I let him go and made to leave the office.

   “I’ll look further into your mothers case, meanwhile don’t do anything stupid.” He warned me with a firm glare. 

   “Ya, ya, whatever ya big softy!” I waved without turning back and left to go to dinner.

[unsettlingshortstories]

Dial Tone

Benjamin Percy (2007)

A jogger spotted the body hanging from the cell tower. At first he thought it was a mannequin. That's what he told Z-21, the local NBC affiliate. The way the wind blew it, the way it flopped limply, made it appear insubstantial, maybe stuffed with straw. It couldn't be a body, he thought, not in a place like Redmond, Oregon, a nowhere town on the edge of a great wash of desert. But it was. It was the body of a man. He had a choke chain, the kind you buy at Pet Depot, wrapped around his neck and anchored to the steel ladder that rose twelve hundred feet in the air to the tip of the tower, where a red light blinked a warning.

Word spread quickly. And everyone, the whole town, it seemed, crowded around, some of them with binoculars and cameras, to watch three deputies, joined by a worker from Clark Tower Service, scale the tower and then descend with the body in a sling.

I was there. And from where I stood, the tower looked like a great spear thrust into the hilltop.

* * *

Yesterday—or maybe it was the day before—I went to work, like I always go to work, at West Teleservices Corporation, where, as a marketing associate, I go through the same motions every morning. I hit the power button on my computer and listen to it hum and mumble and blip to life. I settle my weight into my ergonomic chair. I fit the headset around my skull and into my ear and take a deep breath, and, with the pale light of the monitor washing over me, I dial the first number on the screen.

In this low-ceilinged fluorescent-lit room, there are twenty-four rows of cubicles, each ten deep. I am C5. When I take a break and stand up and peer into the cubicle to my right, C6, I find a Greg or a Josh or a Linda—every day a new name to remember, a new hand to shake, or so it seems, with the turnover rate so high. This is why I call everyone you.

"Hey, you," I say. "How's it going?"

A short, toad-like woman in a Looney Toons sweatshirt massages the bridge of her nose and sighs, "You know how it is."

In response I give her a sympathetic smile, before looking away, out over the vast hive of cubicles that surrounds us. The air is filled with so many voices, all of them coming together into one voice that reads the same script, trying to make a sale for AT&T, Visa, Northwest Airlines, Sandals Beach Resorts, among our many clients.

There are always three supervisors on duty, all of them beefy men with mustaches. Their bulging bellies remind me of feed sacks that might split open with one slit of a knife. They wear polo shirts with "West Teleservices" embroidered on the breast. They drink coffee from stainless-steel mugs. They never seem to sit down. Every few minutes I feel a rush of wind at the back of my neck as they hurry by, usually to heckle some associate who hasn't met the hourly quota.

"Back to work, C5," one of them tells me, and I roll my eyes at C6 and settle into my cubicle, where the noise all around me falls away into a vague murmur, like the distant drone of bees.

* * *

I'm having trouble remembering things. Small things, like where I put my keys, for instance. Whether or not I put on deodorant or took my daily vitamin or paid the cable bill. Big things, too. Like, getting up at 6 A.M. and driving to work on a Saturday, not realizing my mistake until I pull into the empty parking lot.

Sometimes I walk into a room or drive to the store and can't remember why. In this way I am like a ghost: someone who can travel through walls and find myself someplace else in the middle of a sentence or thought and not know what brought me there. The other night I woke up to discover I was walking down the driveway in my pajamas, my bare feet blue in the moonlight. I was carrying a shovel.

* * *

Today I'm calling on behalf of Capital One, pitching a mileage card. This is what I'm supposed to say: Hello, is this _______? How are you doing today, sir/ma'am? That's wonderful! I'm calling with a fantastic offer from Capital One. Did you know that with our no-annual-fee No-Hassle Miles Visa Signature Card you can earn 25 percent more than regular mileage cards, with 1.25 miles for every $1 spent on purchases? On top of that, if you make just $3,000 in purchases a year, you'll earn 20,000 bonus miles!

And so on.

The computer tells me what to tell them. The bold sections indicate where I ought to raise my voice for emphasis. If the customer tries to say they aren't interested, I'm supposed to keep talking, to pretend I don't hear. If I stray too far from the script and if one of the supervisors is listening in, I will feel a hand on my shoulder and hear a voice whispering, "Stay on target. Don't lose sight of your primary objective."

* * *

The lights on the tops of cell towers are meant to warn pilots to stay away. But they have become a kind of beacon. Migratory birds mistake them for the stars they use to navigate, so they circle such towers in a trance, sometimes crashing into a structure, its steadying guy wires, or even into other birds. And sometimes they keep circling until they fall to the ground, dead from exhaustion. You can find them all around our cell tower: thousands of them, dotting the hilltop, caught in the sagebrush and pine boughs like ghostly ornaments. Their bones are picked clean by ants. Their feathers are dampened by the rain and bleached by the sun and ruffled and loosened and spread like spores by the wind.

In the sky, so many more circle, screeching their frustration as they try to find their way south. Of course they discovered the body. As he hung there, swinging slightly in the wind, they roosted on his shoulders. They pecked away his eyes, and they pecked away his cheeks, so that we could see all of his teeth when the deputies brought him down. He looked like he was grinning. 

At night, from where I lie in bed, I can see the light of the cell tower—through the window, through the branches of a juniper tree, way off in the distance—like a winking red eye that assures me of the confidentiality of some terrible secret.

* * *

Midmorning, I pop my neck and crack my knuckles and prepare to make maybe my fortieth or sixtieth call of the day. "Pete Johnston" is the name on the screen. I say it aloud—twice—the second time as a question. I feel as though I have heard the name before, but really, that means nothing when you consider the hundreds of thousands of people I have called in my three years working here. I notice that his number, 503-531-1440, is local. Normally I pay no attention to the address listing unless the voice on the other end has a thick accent I can't quite decipher—New Jersey? Texas? Minnesota?—but in this case I look and see that he lives just outside of Redmond, in a new housing development only a few miles away.

"Yeah?" is how he answers the phone.

"Hello. Is this Pete Johnston?"

He clears his throat in a growl. "You a telemarketer?"

"How are you doing today, sir?"

"Bad."

"I'm calling on behalf of—"

"Look, cocksucker. How many times I got to tell you? Take me off your list."

"If you'll just hear me out, I want to tell you about a fantastic offer from—"

"You people are so fucking pathetic."

Now I remember him. He said the same thing before, a week or so ago, when I called him. "If you ever fucking call me again, you fucking worthless piece of shit," he said, "I'll reach through the phone and rip your tongue out."

He goes off on a similar rant now, asking me how can I live with myself, if every time I call someone they answer with hatred?

For a moment I forget about the script and answer him. "I don't know," I say.

"What the—?" he says, his voice somewhere between panicked and incensed. "What the hell are you doing in my house? I thought I told you to—" 

There is a noise—the noise teeth might make biting hurriedly into melon—punctuated by a series of screams. It makes me want to tear the headset away from my ear.

And then I realize I am not alone. Someone is listening. I don't know how—a certain displacement of sound as the phone rises from the floor to an ear—but I can sense it.

"Hello?" I say.

The line goes dead.

* * *

Sometimes, when I go to work for yet another eight-hour shift or when I visit my parents for yet another casserole dinner, I want to be alone more than anything in the world. But once I'm alone, I feel I can't stand another second of it. Everything is mixed up.

This is why I pick up the phone sometimes and listen. There is something reassuring about a dial tone. That simple sound, a low purr, as constant and predictable as the sun's path across the sky. No matter if you are in Istanbul or London or Beijing or Redmond, you can bring your ear to the receiver and hear it.

Sometimes I pick up the phone and bring it to my ear for the same reason people raise their heads to peer at the moon when they're in a strange place. It makes them—it makes me—feel oriented, calmer than I was a moment before.

Perhaps this has something to do with why I drive to the top of the hill and park beneath the cell tower and climb onto the hood of my Neon and lean against the windshield with my hands folded behind my head to watch the red light blinking and the black shapes of birds swirling against the backdrop of an even blacker sky.

I am here to listen. The radio signals emanating from the tower sound like a blade hissing through the air or a glob of spit sizzling on a hot stove: something dangerous, about to draw blood or catch fire. It's nice.

I imagine I hear in it the thousands of voices channeling through the tower at any given moment, and I wonder what terrible things could be happening to these people that they want to tell the person on the other end of the line but don't.

* * *

A conversation overheard:

"Do you live here?"

"Yes."

"Are you Pete Johnston?"

"Yes. Who are you? What do you want?"

"To talk to you. Just to talk."

* * *

Noon, I take my lunch break. I remove my headset and lurch out of my chair with a groan and bring my fists to my back and push until I feel my vertebrae separate and realign with a juicy series of pops. Then I wander along my row, moving past so many cubicles, each with a person hunched over inside it—and for a moment West Teleservices feels almost like a chapel, with everyone bowing their heads and murmuring together, as if exorcising some private pain.

I sign out with one of the managers and enter the break room, a forty-by-forty-foot room with white walls and a white dropped ceiling and a white linoleum floor. There are two sinks, two microwaves, two fridges, a Coke machine and a SNAX machine. In front of the SNAX machine stands C6, the woman stationed in the cubicle next to me. A Looney Toons theme apparently unifies her wardrobe, since today she wears a sweatshirt with Sylvester on it. Below him, blocky black letters read, WITHCONTHIN. She stares with intense concentration at the candy bars and chip bags and gum packs, as if they hold some secret message she has yet to decode.

I go to the nearby water fountain and take a drink and dry my mouth with my sleeve, all the while watching C6, who hardly seems to breathe. "Hey, you," I say, moving to within a few steps of her. "Doing all right there?"

She looks at me, her face creased with puzzlement. Then she shakes her head, and a fog seems to lift, and for the first time she sees me and says, "Been better."

"I know how you feel."

She looks again to the SNAX machine, where her reflection hovers like a ghost. "Nobody knows how I feel."

"No. You're wrong. I know."

At first C6 seems to get angry, her face cragging up, but then I say, "You feel like you would feel if you were hurrying along and smacked your shin against the corner of the coffee table. You feel like you want to yell a lot. The pain hasn't completely arrived, but you can see it coming, and you want to yell at it, scare it off." I go to the fridge labeled A-K and remove from it my sack lunch and sit down at one of the five tables staggered throughout the room. "Something like that, anyway."

An awkward silence follows, in which I eat my ham sandwich and C6 studies me closely, no doubt recognizing in me some common damage, some likeness of herself.

Then C6 says, "Can't seem to figure out what I want," nodding at the vending machine. "I've been staring at all these goodies for twenty minutes, and I'll be darned if I know what I want." She forces a laugh and then says with some curiosity in her voice, "Hey, what's with your eye?"

I cup a hand to my ear like a seashell, like: Say again?

"Your eyeball." She points and then draws her finger back as if she might catch something from me. "It's really red."

"Huh," I say and knuckle the corner of my eye as if to nudge away a loose eyelash. "Maybe I've got pinkeye. Must have picked it up off a doorknob."

"It's not pink. It's red. It's really, really red."

The nearest reflective surface is the SNAX machine. And she's right. My eye is red. The dark luscious red of an apple. I at once want to scream and pluck it out and suck on it.

"I think you should see somebody," C6 says.

"Maybe I should." I comb a hand back through my hair and feel a vaguely pleasant release as several dozen hairs come out by the roots, just like that, with hardly any effort. I hold my hand out before me and study the clump of hairs woven in between the fingers and the fresh scabs jewelling my knuckles and say to no one in particular, "Looks like I'm falling apart."

* * *

Have you ever been on the phone, canceling a credit card or talking to your mother, when all of a sudden—with a pop of static—another conversation bleeds into yours? Probably. It happens a lot, with so many radio signals hissing through the air. What you might not know is, what you're hearing might have been said a minute ago or a day ago or a week ago or a month ago. Years ago.

When you speak into the receiver, your words are compressed into an electronic signal that bounces from phone to tower to satellite to phone, traveling thousands of miles, even if you're talking to your next-door neighbor, Joe. Which means there's plenty of room for a signal to ricochet or duplicate or get lost. Which means there are so many words—the ghosts of old conversations—floating all around us.

Consider this possibility. You pick up your phone and hear a voice—your voice—engaged in some ancient conversation, like that time in high school when you asked Natasha Flatt out for coffee and she made an excuse about her cat being sick. It's like a conversation shouted into a canyon, its words bouncing off walls to eventually come fluttering back to you, warped and soft and sounding like somebody else.

Sometimes this is what my memory feels like. An image or a conversation or a place will rise to the surface of my mind, and I'll recognize it vaguely, not knowing if I experienced it or saw it on television or invented it altogether.

Whenever I try to fix my attention on something, a red light goes on in my head, and I'm like a bird circling in confusion.

* * *

I find myself on the sidewalk of a new hillside development called Bear Brook. Here all the streets have names like Kodiak and Grizzly. All around me are two-story houses of a similar design, with freshly painted gray siding and river-rock entryways and cathedral windows rising above their front doors to reveal chandeliers in the foyer of each. Each home has a sizable lot that runs up against a pine forest. And each costs more than I would make in twenty years with West Teleservices.

A garbage truck rushes past me, raising tiny tornadoes of dust and trash, and I raise my hand to shield my face and notice a number written on the back of it, just below my knuckles—13743—and though I am sure it will occur to me later, for the moment I can't for the life of me remember what it means.

At that moment a bird swoops toward a nearby house. Mistaking the window for a piece of sky, it strikes the glass with a thud and falls into the rose garden beneath it, absently fluttering its wings; soon it goes still. I rush across the lawn and into the garden and bend over to get a better look at it. A bubble of blood grows from its beak and pops. I do not know why, but I reach through the thorns and pick up the bird and stroke its cool, reddish feathers. Its complete lack of weight and its stillness overwhelm me.

When the bird fell, something fell off a shelf inside me—a nice, gold-framed picture of my life, what I dreamed it would be, full of sunshine and ice cream and go-go dancers. It tumbled down and shattered, and my smiling face dissolved into the distressed expression reflected in the living room window before me.

I look alarmingly ugly. My eyes are black-bagged. My skin is yellow. My upper lip is raised to reveal long, thin teeth. Mine is the sort of face that belongs to someone who bites the heads off chickens in a carnival pit, not the sort that belongs to a man who cradles in his hands a tiny red-winged blackbird. The vision of me, coupled with the vision of what I once dreamed I would be—handsome, wealthy, feared by men and cherished by women—assaults me, the ridiculousness of it and also the terror, the realization that I have crept to the edge of a void and am on the verge of falling in, barely balanced. 

And then my eyes refocus, concentrating on a farther distance, where through the window I see a man rising from a couch and approaching me. He is tall and square-shouldered. His hair is the color of dried blood on a bandage. He looks at me with derision, saying through the glass, "The hell do you think you're doing on my property?" without saying a word.

I drop the bird and raise my hand, not quite waving, the gesture more like holding up something dark to the light. He does not move except to narrow his eyes further. There's a stone pagoda at the edge of the garden, and when I take several steps back my heel catches against it. I stumble and then lose my balance entirely, falling hard, sprawling out on the lawn. The gray expanse of the sky fills my vision. Moisture from the grass seeps into my jeans and dampens my underwear. My testicles tighten like a fist.

In the window the man continues to watch me. He has a little red mustache, and he fingers it. Then he disappears from sight, moving away from the window and toward the front door.

Just before I stagger off the lawn and hurry along the sidewalk and retreat from this place, my eyes zero in on the porch, waiting for the man to appear there, and I catch sight of the address: 13743.

And then I am off and running. A siren announces itself nearby. The air seems to vibrate with its noise. It is a police cruiser, I'm certain, though how I can tell the difference between it and an ambulance, I don't know. Either way, someone is in trouble.

* * *

The body was blackened by its lengthy exposure to radio frequency fields. Cooked. Like a marshmallow left too long over flame. This is why the deputies shut off the transmitters, when they climbed the tower.

Z-21 interviewed Jack Millhouse, a professor of radiation biology at Oregon State. He had a beard, and he stroked it thoughtfully. He said that climbing the tower would expose a person to radio frequencies so powerful they would cook the skin. "I'd ask around at the ER," he said. "See if somebody has come in with radiation burns."

Then they interviewed a woman in a yellow, too-large T-shirt and purple stretch pants. She lived nearby and had seen the commotion from her living room window. She thought a man was preparing to jump, she said. So she came running in the hopes of praying him down. She had a blank, round face no one would ever call beautiful. "It's just awful," she said, her lips disappearing as she tightened her mouth. "It's the most horrible thing in the world, and it's right here, and we don't know why."

* * *

I know I am not the only one who has been cut off by a swerving car in traffic or yelled at by a teacher in a classroom or laughed at by a woman in a bar. I am not the only one who has wished someone dead and imagined how it might happen, pleasuring in the goriest details.

Here is how it might happen:

I am in a kitchen with duck-patterned wallpaper. I stand over a man with a Gerber hunting knife in my hand. There is blood dripping off the knife, and there is blood coming out of the man. Gouts of it. It matches the color of his hair. A forked vein rises on his forehead to reveal the panicked beating of his heart. A gray string of saliva webs the corner of his mouth. He holds his hands out, waving me away, and I cut my way through them.

A dog barks from the hallway, and the man screams a repulsive scream, a girlish scream, and all this noise sounds to me far away, like a conversation overheard between pops of static.

I am aware of my muscles and their purpose as never before, using them to place the knife, putting it finally to the man's chest, where it will make the most difference.

At first the blade won't budge, caught on a rib, and then it slips past the bone and into the soft red interior, deeper and then deeper still, with the same feeling you get when you break through that final restraining grip and enter a woman fully. The response is just as cathartic: a shriek, a gasp, a stiffening of the limbs followed by a terrible shivering that eventually gives way to a great, calming release.

There is blood everywhere—on the knife, on the floor, gurgling from the newly rendered wound that looks so much like a mouth—and the man's eyes are open and empty, and his sharp pink tongue lolls out the side of his mouth. I am amazed at the thrill I feel.

When I surprised him, only a few minutes ago, he was on the phone. I spot it now, on the shale floor, with a halo of blood around it. I pick it up and bring it to my ear and hope for the familiar, calming murmur of the dial tone.

Instead I hear a voice. "Hello?" it says.

* * *

One day, I think, maybe I'll write a story about all of this. Something permanent. So that I can trace every sentence and find my way to the end and back to the beginning without worrying about losing my way.

The telling would be complicated.

To write a story like this you would have to talk about what it means to speak into a headset all day, reading from a script you don't believe in, conversing with bodiless voices that snarl with hatred, voices that want to claw out your eyes and scissor off your tongue. And you would have to show what that does to a person, experiencing such a routine day after day, with no relief except for the occasional coffee break where you talk about the television show you watched last night.

And you would have to explain how the man named Pete Johnston sort of leaned and sort of collapsed against the fridge, how a magnet fell to the linoleum with a clack after you flashed the knife in a silvery arc across his face and then his outstretched hand and then into that soft basin behind the collarbone. After that came blood. And screaming. Again you stabbed the body, in the thigh, the belly, your muscles pulsing with a red electricity. Something inside you, some internal switch, had been triggered, filling you with an unthinking adrenaline that made you feel capable of turning over Volkswagens, punching through concrete, tearing phone books in half.

And you would have to end this story by explaining what it felt like to pull the body from the trunk of your car and hoist it to your shoulder and begin to climb the tower—one rung, then another—going slowly. You breathed raggedly. The dampness of your sweat mingled with the dampness of blood. From here—thirty, then forty, then fifty feet off the ground—you could see the chains of light on Route 97 and Highway 100, each bright link belonging to a machine that carried inside it a man who could lose control in an instant, distracted by the radio or startled by a deer or overwhelmed by tiredness, careening off the asphalt and into the surrounding woods. It could happen to anyone.

Your thighs trembled. You were weary, dizzy. Your fillings tingled, and a funny baked taste filled your mouth. The edges of your eyes went white and then crazy with streaks of color. But you continued climbing, with the wind tugging at your body, with the blackness of the night and the black shapes of birds all around you, the birds swirling through the air like ashes thrown from a fire. And let's not forget the sound—the sound of the tower—how it sounded almost like words. The hissing of radio frequencies, the voices of so many others coming together into one voice that coursed through you in dark conversation.

[yourlocalyorozuya]

Title: Martyr Burnout Rating: K+ Warnings: None

@ignoctweek day 1:

Simple: Falling in Love >Situational: Taking care of each other

Summary: After a tiring couple of days fighting for their lives, Ignis and Noctis find that it’s difficult to keep some things under wraps.

A03 Link

[[technically this only has hints of romance or pining but its there so it counts]]

[[have fun]]

Martyr Burnout

A Final Fantasy XV fanfiction

He notices during the later hours of the night. Maybe even earlier than that, but these last few hours had been somewhat of a blur.

The last few hours whence the gang had made the fatal mistake of jumping down a trapdoor. One particular trap door in the vicinity of the Crown City barricade, to which they'd realized it led to a veritable network of sewer tunnels, with the lovely addition of daemons, switch-opened doors and the ever-classic sewer water sloshing at their feet. Sometimes even pulling them down into an actual demon ambush.

"I'd hoped to arrange some food before the inevitable dogpile on the beds." Ignis says, just then. He gestures to his left where both Prompto and Gladio were fast asleep, facedown and in somewhat strange positions.

"Yeah. What time even is it?"

"4 in the morning."

"Seriously?" Noctis checks his phone and grimaces, "How long ago did we even eat?"

"Possibly stretching the limits of starvation right about now."

"Sleep sounds good, though. Better."

"Tell that to yourself the next morning when your stomach starts digesting itself."

"Cannibalism later. Sleepy now."

"It's more along the lines of auto-cannibalism, that."

There's a slight lag in Noctis' reply now, mostly due to the fact that it's taking him several minutes to blink. Even when he manages one, all he can muster up is a simple, "Mmhm. Whatever."

"Noct."

"Mmhm."

"Noctis."

"Mm."

"This is getting us nowhere." Ignis sighs, "...If you're that tired, sleep on the bed. I can't imagine that chair would be too comfortable."

"Feet burn. Foot burning." One of those was correct probably.

Words are really weird, Noctis thinks, Just switch the 'o's in foot, to 'e's and you have the plural. Whoa.

For some reason, Noctis' mind is whirling with this new information, seemingly preoccupied with the semantics of the English language.

"Noct."

"Hm?" When did his eyes close? Noctis opens them again with slight difficulty and blinks. Ignis seems to have turned his back to him at this point, taking his coat off. Evidently, he's given up on the food run.

"You're quite tired. And take your shoes off, that'd help avoid spreading the stench of sewage everywhere."

"Oh. Right."

Through some miraculous feat, Noctis manages to kick his boots off without using his hands and lies back in his chair for just a little longer. Until he starts staring at the bed and figures that yes, Ignis had a point and it'd probably be more comfortable.

Whump.

"Oh." Ignis looks behind him to see the bed he was sitting on was now currently occupied by a sleepy, dirt-smeared prince.  "I suppose it'd be too much to ask to have you take a bath before you doze off?"

"I'm definitely going to doze off in there and drown."

"Rather hard for me to help you while you're in there, so best to avoid that."

"Mm." Noctis looks at him then. And Ignis knows that look all too well.

Pinched lips, uncertain eyes, a furrowed brow.

"Is something the matter?"

"Are you alright?"

An odd question."Yes, I am. Why?"

"You're...sitting around kind of awkwardly." And an odd answer.

"Awkwardly?"

"I dunno how to explain it. It's like you're holding yourself up kind of carefully. Like you're..." Noctis frowns then, as a new thought seems to have dawned on him.

"Ah. Well, it's nothing. It's just..."

"Ignis." Noctis' tone is stern now. He sounds a good deal more awake than he did a few minutes ago. "Don't even try."

"...Try what now?" Ignis still asks, anyway. He looks away now, as he carefully folds and places his coat next to the bed.

"Lying. And I know when you're lying." Noctis says somewhat stubbornly. The bed creaks a little, possibly him pushing himself up a little to face Ignis.

"I wonder if I've really become that easy to read."

"Nope, just the opposite. But we've known each other for how long now?" A rhetorical question, but Noctis still lets it drift in the silence. He's pulled himself up into a sitting position again, next to Ignis.

"That's true. But there's nothing to worry about. All that fighting from before has just left me somewhat bruised, is all."

"...Bruised?"

"Potions can only heal so much, even with your power behind it, your Highness."

"That..." Noctis looks more worried than ever now and Ignis silently curses his tactless words. Perhaps the late hour had gotten to him more than he realized.

"It's nothing I can't handle."

"Still!" There's a flash of blue and Ignis just then realizes that there's suddenly a potion bottle being pressed into his hands.

"...Noct, I'm fine. I don't have anything serious that I need to seek immediate attention for."

"Forgive me if I don't believe that." Noctis grumbles, leaning in a little closer and frowning. As if he could survey any injuries for himself.

And Ignis leans back, just a bit. "Believe me, then. I'm fine."

"Uh-huh."

"...You don't sound like you believe me."

"Wow, you really are a genius." Comes Noctis' sarcastic reply. Complete with eye-roll.

"You don't look so good yourself."

"I'm fine."

There's a significance in the look that Noctis gives him. Ah, so that was the issue.

He's able to recognize this, because it was another iteration of something that they buried between themselves as the years go by.

"If I was significantly injured, I wouldn't be so foolhardy to go into battle like that."

"You would, if I was in danger." Noctis says quietly, firmly.

They were close enough now that Ignis could see the magic burn in Noctis' eyes.

"I would." Ignis says simply.

"And I don't want that." Noctis takes Ignis' hand now, carefully pulling the glove off with unexpected tenderness.

When he sees the cut on his palm, he pales a bit. "This..."

"Is something easily fixed." Ignis attempts to pull his hand back, but Noctis' grip is as stubborn as it could be.

"It looks like you've done a blood sacrifice in King's Knight." Noctis says sourly, "By impaling yourself on a rusty dagger."

"It looks worse than it is."

"Like hell!"

His voice is a bit too loud and Prompto mumbles sleepily and rolls over.

Ignis tries to look back at the others, but Noctis holds his gaze.

"Just because I'm the prince doesn't mean I need to be protected!"

Pain.

Nothing corporeal, not like that. His wound stung, but it was nothing, nothing like it always was.

It bites at Noctis' expression, in the way he ducks his eyes down, his head down and his shoulders that carry the weight of a world.

At the fingers that cradle Ignis' palm, that feel far too cold.

.

"You've proven more than capable of protecting yourself."

"It's not enough, apparently." A bitter chuckle and a sigh.

"Sometimes, I think so as well."

It wouldn't be enough.

When gods fall and extend their hands to one man and one woman, with their backs to the wall and the nights growing longer and longer and daemons clawing at their heels...

How on Eos could that possibly be enough?

For one man, let along a lost prince?

"What?" Noctis snaps, but he falls short at seeing Ignis' expression.

"But we don't have the leisure of time for such reflections." Ignis takes his hand away, "I'm merely doing what I always have."

"...You're gonna burn out like this."

"I'll be fine."

"...I don't want to lose you too."

The admission catches Ignis off-guard.

He feels Noctis bury his face against his shoulder.

"Not you too. Not those guys, or anyone else. Not...dammit." He takes a breath and Ignis could feel his hand clutch at his shirt, breathe out softly.

"Nor I, you." Ignis says.

Noctis leans heavily on him now and the fatigue leaks back into his tone, his words.

"Because you've been watching over me."

"I wouldn't be able to bear it either."

Honest, too honest now. Ignis closes his eyes and catches the rest of his thought.

Noctis looks up at him then, he seems to be searching Ignis' expression.

Close. Too close.

Ignis leans back and Noctis looks back down.

"...Sorry. Shouldn't be talking about things like that."

"It would do to open up once in a while, you know."

"Not if it's...nah. Nevermind."

As emotionally tongue-tied as always, Noctis lets his sentences drift into silence.

A slightly awkward silence, more comfortable than it should be.

"Well, we can have another talk like this again, about whatever ails you."

"Yeah, sure. Me losing my shit over dumb things. I'm looking forward to that."

"While you're sarcastic about it, it is in my job description."

"I know. But first and foremost, you're my friend. And I am yours."

The potion bottle is insistently pressed into Ignis' palm again and Ignis relents. He takes it this time, and Noctis sighs, murmuring, "It's not a one-way thing, you know."

"..."

"If that makes any sense."

"It does."

"Cool. I'm...just gonna...nap here for five seconds."

"...What?"

"I'm tired. And you're comfortable."

"Noct, that..."

Too late. There's already a light snoring sound in the air and Ignis looks over, incredulous.

"...Good grief. What a willful prince we have here."

In such an awkward position like this. Ignis resists the urge to laugh, instead heaving a defeated sigh and looking up.

Even now, there's still a mite of heaviness in his heart. Like the tension in the air that surrounds them.

Carefully, so as not to jostle Noctis, he takes his coat again and places it over the boy's shoulder, a makeshift blanket.

Just for a little while.

Just...

His glove lay untouched, off to the side, and his hand under Noctis', strained a little in their rather uncomfortable position.

And Ignis doesn't move it, doesn't pull away. Just settles down, leaning ever so slightly against Noctis' touch.

It was enough.

A pillar to lean on, a shoulder to support him. That's what he spent years as, serving as, being.

It was enough. It has to be.

He feels his own eyes close, with a heavy sigh.

Noctis' hand closes ever so slowly on his.

This was enough.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

[juggydunes]

Would it be a sin? Chapter 3

This is becoming a habit, where I try to write and all I do is staring at a blank page.

Anyhow, this is part 1 of this chapter. I decided to cut it into two smaller ones because the time jump that happened made it weird (at least for me) to put them together... I dunno. Part 2 tomorrow-ish I suppose. Writing it as I post this. 

Hope you guys like it anyways. You have all been nothing but amazing about this fic, I’m sorry I’m not able to update as much as I’d like to. *hug*

Unbeta’d. Any mistakes are mine. 

AO3 

They arrive to the parking lot 15 minutes early to the time they were told to be there, partially due to Jughead’s excitement… okay totally because Jughead was an impatient little shit that may or may not have lied to Archie about the departure time so his chronically unpunctual friend would be ready on time.

“I told you we would get here early.” Archie says, huffing on his way out of the UBER.

“Oh, I’m sorry, would you rather we arrived just before the bus is bound to go like you usually do?” Jughead replies, adjusting his sunglasses and giving his friend the finger. “Besides, the bus is already there. We can put our luggage in and chill while everyone freaks out around us. Hell yeah.”

Jughead doesn’t wait for Archie to follow him as he makes his way to the buses, barely managing to carry his instruments and his luggage. He’s so excited he can practically feel his skin buzzing, his heart beating quickly inside his chest. The air smells vaguely like gasoline and metal, the dull grey of the parking lot clashes against the bright red lines decorating the bus but Jughead can’t help but think that this is what happy looks like to him.

There’s nothing like the first day of the tour, spirits are high, everyone is getting along nicely.  Later on, issues always appear but for now he relishes the first day of tour and the fact that he’s going to be two months on his favorite place… the road and the stages. Jughead sighs, nodding to a couple of roadies on the parking lot.

“Pops!” He yells, calling out to the driver leaning on the huge vehicle. The man looks at him with a smile on his face and warm brown eyes. “We meet again! You’re going to be our driver?”

“Looks like it. How is fame treating you, kid?” Pop asks, gently squeezing his shoulder when Jughead finishes leaving his things on the side.

“Having to tolerate Archie is keeping my feet on the ground.”

“I heard that, asshole!” Pop and Jughead chuckle at Archie’s words, his friend stopping to carefully leave his things on the side of the bus. “Hey Pops.”

“Hello Archie. You’re both looking all grown up.”

“Thanks, apparently going to the gym is good for you.” Jughead says, smirking at Pops.

“And it makes the young ladies look at you more, too.” Pop jokes, wiggling his eyebrows before he moves to open the storage compartment for them to put their luggage.

“I’m in a serious relationship with music, Pops, you know this.” Jughead teases. “It’s the love of my life.”

“I’m sure she’d understand if you got a real-life girl who is actually corporeal.” Pop replies, winking at him.

“For corporeal stuff we have Archie, who can’t keep it in his pants.”

“At least I’m getting some, buddy. You should try it.” Archie tells him, punching him softly on the shoulder.

“Why are we having this conversation?” Jughead mutters, rolling his eyes.

They continue catching up while they load all their stuff into the bus, people arriving shortly after. Valerie arrives first, punctual as usual, Betty and Kevin quickly following.

“Hi, guys!” Betty looks super awake and refreshed to be 6am in the morning. It’s not fair because he’s aware his bedhead is horrible and the bags under his eyes are even more terrible from being too excited to sleep much last night. At one point in the night he’d decided he wouldn’t be falling asleep so he re-arranged everything once more until it was time to go.

“Hey Betty.” Archie says, smiling at her. “Kevin. How are you feeling?”

“Hello! Is it legal to be awake this early?” He asks, smiling at them. Jughead smiles back, knowing the sentiment.  

“Oh no, but we musicians must always live in revolution, it fuels the artistic angst. Also, pro tip… the busses have coffee.” Jughead tells him, getting closer to help them get their stuff on their separated bus.

He’s silently grateful they’re travelling in separated buses, travelling while restraining himself would’ve been torture. They’ve never really been friends with their supporting act, not as they’re becoming with them anyway. All of the had become a pro at composing and playing on the road while also not letting anyone know Jughead was the main writer. They had a strategy and all, but Jughead couldn’t help but think that this newly found friendship would make it a little bit more difficult to hide.  

“I’m usually awake at this hour.” Betty says, frowning at them. Jughead can see it, the way her clothes are wrinkle free and carefully chosen to be both comfortable and nice while Jughead has a grey hoodie and some black track pants.  

“That’s because you’re insane and go on runs early in the morning.” Kevin tells her, glaring.

“Wow, Betty… I didn’t know you were a masochist.” He teases, narrowing his eyes at her as he lifts her -huge- luggage to the bus.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Betty glares at him but the small smile on her face defeats the effect. “I like to be healthy, so what? I can’t sing and walk around the stage otherwise.”

“We’re joking, Betts.” The nickname falls from his lips easily and the smaller suitcase in his hands slips a little in shock, but he covers it by lifting it and putting it on the bus. Betty has a small smile on her lips.

“I’m aware, Juggie.” Betty says, intentionally pausing before the nickname. He rolls his eyes good naturedly at her, secretly reassured he didn’t step over some invisible line. He thinks of how Jellybean used to call him like that when she was little and the corner of his lips tick up.

“I know what you mean, Betty. It’s easier to stay in shape than not be able to move around the stage, I’ve had to drag this one to the gym as of late.” Archie joins the conversation, pointing to Jughead.

“Yeah, but I already get a good workout in by carrying your ego around, pal.” Jughead says, making all of them laugh.

“Isn’t Cheryl coming?” Kevin asks them, frowning.

“No, she has other businesses. We mostly talk on the phone and skype daily.” Valerie answers. “She’s developed this whole organization system for us, but she’s been in the game for a long, long time.”

“Yeah, she’s kickass.” Archie tells them. “Scarily so.”

“Hello losers.” Veronica’s voice says suddenly, they turn to look at her walking towards them with two matching purple suitcases and a black dress that doesn’t look like it was made for traveling comfortably.  

“Veronica, hey!” Archie says, smiling wide at her. This time, he’s the one that comes to help her with her luggage. Jughead moves to the side and raises his eyebrows at Valerie, who rolls her eyes at him playfully.  

“Thank you, Archiekins. Such a gentleman.”  

“Here to serve, ma’am.” He replies. Jughead bites his bottom lip hard to keep from laughing. Betty is looking at them with a slight frown on her face but there’s a glint of amusement.  

Jughead ignores the weird feeling in his gut at her look, it’s confusing and he’s not letting anything ruin his amazing mood this evening. Luckily for him, his phone vibrates on his pocket. He takes it out and smiles.  

“Hey Peanut.” He says. Archie lifts his head up at the name and waves towards him before pointing to the phone. Jughead moves to find somewhere it isn’t so noisy.  “Archie says hi, by the way.”

“Hey Jug. Tell Archie hello too!” Jellybean’s voice comes through the phone. “How’s tour life?”

“Haven’t left the parking lot yet, actually. We’re leaving in five.” He tells her, leaning on the side of the bus. “How’s college life?”

“A pain in my fucking ass.” Jellybean sighs and he can imagine her picking at her nail polish with a frown on her forehead.  

“Nothing out of the ordinary, then.” He teases.  

“Not that you would know any of my struggle, Mr. I’m-in-a-band.”

“You wound me, peanut.” Jughead laughs at her response, suddenly missing her a lot.  They haven’t seen each other in months and It’s beginning to annoy him, but they were both very busy.

They talk about nothing in particular until he hears his name being called, Archie telling him they’re ready to get moving.

“Oh, hey, I gotta go. We’re about to go. I’ll see you soon, okay?” Jughead is a little ashamed of the wistfulness in his tone.

“You better take a day off in New York, you jerkface.” She threatens him. “I love you, big bro.”

“Love you too, peanut.” He hangs up, pocketing his phone in his back pocket, coming closer to the group. “JB wishes us good luck…We leaving soon?”  

“Yeah, let’s go.” Valerie says, already walking to their bus.  

“I’ll see you guys in a couple of hours.” Jughead tells the group, stopping on Betty, who is looking at him with a weird expression in her eyes. “Enjoy the first ride on it and cherish it for when you’re homesick and tired of people being around your personal space.”  

With that, he turns around to his bus. This was going to be a great tour, he can already feel it in his bones. Jughead enter the bus, high-fiving Pop on his way in, his band-mates already waiting for him. They get up as soon as he enters and they gather in the middle of what would be the living room area.  

After all these years of friendship and of making music, they had started a tradition every time they enter a tour bus and are about to leave for a tour. They are standing in a circle, watching each other for a second before coming closer, putting their arms around each other.

“Okay, another tour, guys.” Archie begins, voice only loud enough for them to hear him. “I’m incredibly proud of how much we’ve accomplished, how far we’ve come from playing in my garage, how much we’ve grown as humans and bandmates. No matter what, we stick together. We are the priority, always.”

“Let the music we make flow through our soul, making us stronger and happier. Let’s not stress over mistakes or problems, we can fix them and overcome anything as long as we are together” Jughead continues. “We know the truth in our hearts and how much we love what we do, let’s share a little bit of it with other humans and hopefully make someone’s day, shall we?”

“Onwards and upwards.” Melody and Valerie say at the same time, making all of them chuckle.  

They break apart but Jughead comes and hugs each of them separately, lingering a little with Melody who gives the best hugs in his opinion and who often needs them most. A few moments later, he lets himself fall on the couch, grabbing a joystick from the PlayStation and giving it to Archie before grabbing one for himself.  

“Now, let’s get this show on the road, Pops!”

[sending-the-message]

Those Crazy Tibetans by subliiime4668

Back in the early 70's, a mass exodus of Tibetans entered India to escape religious persecution. From there, a fair number of Buddhist teachers leapt to America in seeking a larger audience for their lessons.

See, in Buddhism, spiritual fulfillment is granted through the knowledge one gains.

Recently I've sought to expand my own knowledge. In particular, I've been reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

The more you learn, whether from another practitioner or from books on the subject, the closer you get to enlightenment. Teachers seek to disseminate their knowledge among as many followers as possible, so that more people have the chance to achieve Nirvana.

My mom and dad were such people. Their enigmatic teacher had been a tulku, someone especially gifted in spiritual power, and they advanced quickly under his tutelage. I think he loved them; or, at least, felt a degree of responsibility for their fate, because they'd fallen in love with each other while studying with him. He passed away about 14 years ago. In his will, he left them ownership of a small church, in an even smaller town, in Oregon. Along with the gift came a responsibility; being left such a building carried the implication that my parents would have to stay with it, practicing and striving for Nirvana, and converting townspeople, until a suitable owner was found to replace them.

Nobody suitable was ever found.

At the time we were living in the Trinity wilderness that made up northwest California. All dirt roads, bears and pine trees. Grove City, our new home, was considered rural by most standards, but we were coming from somewhere downright Paleolithic.

We bought a house about half a mile from the church. On what they called the "outskirts" of that town.

Grove City took some adjusting; our closest neighbor had formerly been miles away, and now we had four corners ringing us in, with families on the other side. The atmosphere in this town is hateful; meth labs fill the countryside, tweakers shoot and stab each other on the street. There’s a strong Klan presence, and most kids marry at 17. Over the past few years, my parents have been growing apart. More fights, Dad's been drinking more. Big hospital bills, after both of them fought cancer. My mom took me aside a month ago to say that she and Dad are probably going to divorce after I leave for college. I’d known deep down it was coming. Maybe it wasn’t the town’s fault; people fall out of love, after all; but something felt off about it.

I wasn't very affected when we left; at the time, I'd been 3, and Oregon is all I've known. But moving was really hard on my brother, “Sam.” In the woods, he'd had free reign, miles and miles of unsettled territory to play in. He used to plead with my parents that we go back to our old house, and when they said no he'd stay up crying. I don't know why he argued so much; we both knew they would never leave the church behind. He didn't try to make friends while here. A few found him anyways, before he went off to university studying something even he knew he hated. We weren't surprised when he dropped out.

*After death, the soul enters an intermediary state known as the Bardo. At this point, your soul’s the most vulnerable it will ever be.

Vulnerable to corruption.

If someone’s soul is corrupted in the Bardo, chances are, they’ll come back.*

I'd never managed to make many friends in our town; I'm quiet and awkward. But one girl, Sara, had seen through all that. She's had my back for the past two years, and between you and me, I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life at her side.

About a month ago, I was driving home past the church, with Sara, when I noticed a light on upstairs.

It was about 12 am. Earlier, she'd done my makeup, and we wanted an audience to show off in front of, so we pranced around Walmart for an hour, laughing our asses off. People in this town aren't accustomed to a 6 ft 4, broad shouldered guy wearing eyeshadow and purple lipstick.

The light wasn't too concerning. We'd had some problems with homeless people recently. The back lawn of the church is massive, with an overgrown garden and easy access to a main road. The house was vacant at night, and the street wasn't busy. Most importantly, though, it was safe. Someone had been preying on vagrants. Normal haunts were found empty, and, according to the police, several missing persons reports had been filed. This isn't very uncommon; my criminology class had a unit on serial killers, and hobos are a typical target. It's likely none of those missing person cases will ever close.

*A powerful practitioner can deliberately corrupt the Bardo, even in life.

Corruptions in the Bardo awaken certain beings. Beings which feed on souls.

I believe one of these beings was awakened. And it’s been feeding ever since.*

I decided I should pop in and kick the guy out. I ask Sara to pull over, and I take out my keys. I go around the back, and groan when I realize the door's unlocked. My parents must've left it open earlier, and someone wandered in. I stepped over the frame, and looked around. I'd come in through the kitchen door.

On the bottom floor of the church was a kitchen and a large room the practitioners taught in. It was an old building. The kitchen floor was the newest part of that entire place; no creaking or groaning there. I took off my shoes, socked feet sliding over the cool tile. I could see the moon through high, wire-framed windows; it was fat and full, offering up more than enough light to make my way to the adjacent room.

I didn’t know I was hearing breathing at first; everything else, including my cushioned footsteps, was so quiet that all noises were amplified. It had a steady tone, very little variance, sorta like a fan. Then it started sucking in, tightening into something of a shriek, strained like it came from under a plastic bag.

Crossing over to the wall, I flipped the lights, and a pale hand from behind me turned it off again.

*Most traditional Buddhist texts won't discriminate between good and evil. According to them, the two are indistinguishable in normal situations.

The Book of the Dead isn't written for "normal situations."

If someone’s soul is corrupted in the Bardo, chances are, they’ll come back.*

My brother used to go camping with me, in our backyard. It was the closest thing to our old life that he could get, I think, and he loved it. I, on the other hand, hated being outside in the dark. When I was really young, maybe 5 or 6, I'd get so scared I'd start crying. To calm me down, Sam grabbed my shoulder and pointed to the sky. He picked out constellations for me, conjuring my favorite cartoon characters, so I wouldn't feel so alone. He thought it helped; really, it was just hearing his voice, and knowing someone human was within arm's reach, that calmed me.

There was nothing human in this house. I stood still in that darkness for a long time, believe me. But I did finally move forward. One agonizing step at a time. I could almost feel jaws closing around my limbs, knives raking into my flesh, reflective eyes watching at every angle. My feet fell hard, and they fell slow, and it felt like each footfall was into the mouth of a beast. Every movement I made was absolutely deliberate, yes, but at the same time incredibly hesitant.

Whatever was in there with me was behind, though, so I stalked forward, feeling corporeal resistance from the choking darkness, like coats in a closet. I didn't want to imagine the stretched and coiled figures I passed around. It must've been at least a dozen; the furniture squirmed and I realized it had been more of them, waiting for me; somehow I found my way across the room, at the staircase. Dim fluorescence filtered through the windows a level above me, falling over the steps.

At this point, my mind wasn't doing much other than recording what happened and trying not to think. I should've turned around; but of course I didn't. To go back into that blackness, where the low sounds of a motor were turning to whines, and sharp cracks echoed out to me, would be the bigger mistake.

The building had been a boarding house before the tulku converted it into a place of worship, and my parents hadn't done much remodeling since. Upstairs were bedrooms and a few closets, and the top floor was another kitchen. I made it to the second floor landing before looking back. At the bottom of the staircase, there was...something. I’m...not sure exactly what it was. It had a human shape, yes, it was man shaped, with ribs sticking out of bare skin and long arms holding onto the railing. It walked up slowly behind me. It was very deliberate, extremely deliberate. Its head had three fleshy horns on it, like a crown, and it watched me. Its upper body was always fixed on my position. I couldn’t quite make sense of that face; but I wasn’t sure why. And as I tore my eyes away, I noticed another dark figure standing at the end of the landing. I promptly booked it into the nearest room.

My parents kept their religion at church; with one exception. When Sam dropped out, he sat down with them, at our kitchen table, and bared his soul. He asked them for their advice; he didn't know what he was doing, but whatever it was didn't feel right. And they responded (in probably the most Buddhist way possible) by telling him to figure it out himself. Sam thought about it for a week, sleeping on our couch and watching the winter sun from a lawn chair. And, finally, he decided to find his answers on the roads. So, my brother emptied his savings into my account, and packed everything he had up in a spare room at the church. My parents were happy for him; but I was upset. It felt like losing your best friend.

Looking around, I realized I'd ducked into Sam's closet. As I closed the door and tripped over a cord, a voice rang out, and I almost had a heart attack. "You have two new messages:" Just the old phone. I'd knocked the receiver loose. Christ. "[My Dad's Name], it's Andy.” A family friend; and one of the biggest hippies I know. “So, I finally got the other teachers to open up, and I think I figured out why the tulku gave you guys the church.” What? We knew why. “You were right. He didn't mean for you to set up a practice; he wanted you to exorcise some kind of naga [a demon]. Some kind of 'red woman.'" I looked out the window; Sara's car was still there. I realized I had no idea what time it was anymore. This whole situation just kept getting better. "Fuck whoever translated his will, man. Who knows how much harm that thing's done in the past, what, dozen years? Guess this means you guys can leave that fucking town, after doing the deed." There was a pause. "Listen, I, I'm real sorry we didn't find out sooner. I know how you hate it there. Anyways. Best wishes." I sat down, dazed. Andy always called home, too. It was strange to think our house was just half a mile away. Maybe my parents were coming to perform the exorcism right now.

*A powerful practitioner can deliberately corrupt the Bardo.

This corruption can lure a naga into an exorcism.

It isn’t without danger.

Nagas have a vengeful streak.

They’ll eat away at a community for years, just to get at the practitioner.*

The phone beeped. "One new message." "Hey, this is Sam, just calling to let you all know I'm gonna be heading your way soon.” It was like hearing a ghost; and after what I’d seen, I’d know. “I think I found what I was after; I think I'm gonna go back to school. I don't know yet, though. Mostly I just want to see you guys. Especially Mark. Anyways. Just a friendly warning. I might camp out at your church. Called here cause I didn't know if your home number had changed, but I knew you'd never leave your faith behind.” He laughed. “Anyways. Goodbye." I wish it hadn’t been so brief. Both calls must've come in within the past few hours; my parents were here at church earlier, teaching, but I had been the first to listen to the messages. My mom or dad would’ve listened to the messages already had they come in earlier.

As I stood in the following silence, one of the shadows started...pooling. I can’t describe it much better; it grew darker and darker, splattering the choking body of a man onto the ground. The body lay between me and the door. It squirmed towards me erratically, like an epileptic. Knocking a stack of books onto it, vaulting over blankets and old video game cases, I fled to the hallway.

Andy must’ve called home to warn them by now. If my parents were coming soon, which I had to believe (I cursed myself for leaving my phone in the car) I just had to last a bit longer in here. Down the stairs, the darkness in darkness still lurked; shadow people were on the second floor; so I ascended to the third. The floor which, if you recall, had had the light on.

I'm not sure what kinds of people would've lived in the church building, back when it was a boarding house; but apparently they really like rickety stairs and narrow hallways.

I opened the door onto the horned creature kneeling before a shrine. It had placed a red statue on top of two stacked chairs; candles flanked each side of the figure.

The creature spoke soft words.

"She's my friend, where I had no others. I talk to her on the edge of that black ocean. It'll swallow the world. I'll give it all to her."

There were lip prints down its viscous, alabaster shoulders, and I could see organs pulsing under its skin. It turned that strange face towards me, knocking the red statue off its altar. I saw now what had disfigured it; the whole front side was distorted, like a ship’s prow, or a bloody blade. It stepped towards me, silent.

I vividly remember the last time I saw my brother. We played a lot of video games back then, often late into the evening. That night, Sam set down his controller and turned to me. I kept playing for a few minutes, neither of us saying anything. Then he spoke up. "I know this seems like home to you, but it never has for me. I can't claim to belong here, or anywhere, really." I kept silent. "And that's such a vital part of life, that just sort of living is hard for me. I've felt that way since I was 6 and you were, what, 3? I think you know that." I kept mashing buttons, spraying down aliens. "I say that because, no matter what, you've always been able to turn me around. You always know when I need it. And you're the only reason I've stuck around so long." Heads explode into pixels. "In more ways than one." I die. I set down my controller and turn to him. "Mark, I'm leaving. But it isn't because of you, okay? I-" I threw my arms around him. "Big fucking idiot," I muttered into his chest. I felt him smile.

*The soul makes its home where it feels loved. If, in life, your soul had no home, your body can corrupt the Bardo.

Corruptions attract certain beings, as rotten meat attracts maggots.

These beings can corrupt your body, like illness in a wound.*

The creature reached for me, but flew backwards, through its shrine.

Those corrupted by the Bardo can be freed, should a person with a strong enough soul come into contact with them.

The creature sat, broken and swaying. It began fading like old film. "Girl in a haunted church. Pretty...typical..." it said in a halting monotone. I was confused; then I realized I was still wearing the make-up. It stopped swaying for a moment. "M...ark...?" Oh my God. It was his voice.... The red statue had broken on the floor. Something was coming out of it.

My head split open and I fell inside of myself. It was a black plain, with a black sky.

Bardo.

It was endlessly, terrifyingly flat. The horizon was a flat line, and the earth made an even flatter line with the sea. I heard rolling waves; but they were different. Wrong. Before me, I beheld a red woman. She walked deliberately. The shoreline was suddenly close. Brine began to swim around my ankles, and something in it swam too. Her body looked like it had been turned inside out, it was such a vivid red. Skin, flesh, and face. Her hair was dark brown, and her lips smiled at me. She walked closer and closer, but I couldn't move anymore. The water had risen up to my waist; I realized now that the waves weren't flowing back to the black sea, just continuously rushing in. She leaned in, and I heard her say, in a mother's voice, "Not yet." I had one more thought, about the black ocean swallowing the world, before she kissed my cheek and the things beneath the surface dragged my mind back into time.

The room, and the church, was empty when I came to. My brother, the bladed man, had been haunting the house. He was the root of this corruption, that trapped the vagrants. The naga had only been lured in. It caused none of the suffering. That was all Sam. I freed him. And upon his liberation, the other souls fled too. I didn’t understand any of this as I climbed back to Sara's car. God I love her. She'd been waiting for half an hour, scared shitless. She asked about the lip marks burned into my cheek, and I asked her to drive us to the police station. I didn't say much more. She and I haven't spoken since; I don't know what to say to her anymore. I so wish I did, but I really don't.

Over the next few days, they exhumed dozens of bodies from the overgrown garden. Including one which I identified as my brother's. I wonder about the cause of death, which for all the victims seemed to be some cancerous reaction, fusing organs together into new growths and bursting them open, their carcasses broken and corrupted.

I know, though, why the naga appeared. My parents took me aside after visiting the morgue, and told me that he and I were both born tulkus. We had far more spiritual ability than normal people; but my parents wanted us to live lives on our own terms, not being forced into Buddhist practice. So they never told us. When Sam had put away his things in the church, his soul brushed against the naga. It spent years trying to lure him back, killing the other vagrants along the way. The only reason I could free him was because my soul was even stronger.

All that doesn't matter. Most importantly, my brother is gone. There’s no one to hold my shoulder and point out constellations. There’s no one to play video games with. His future, all his worrying, was for nothing. He lived almost his whole life out of place, in anguish, wanting to die, but I know that at the end he wanted to live.

And he didn't.

These days I've been reading a lot, to try and make sense of it all.

Particularly the Book of the Dead.

The naga is still out there. Make no mistake, I will find her. And when I do, I’ll be prepared.