#‘ but ​there’s this piece of paper with my name on it either underlined or crossed out that im gonna fixate on forever 👉👈’

[stewykablooey]

kendalls grief guy when he hears about the piece of paper

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

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

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light. 

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday. 

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time. 

 And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why. 

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do. 

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand. 

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag. 

"No. Not at all–" 

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–" 

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk. 

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him. 

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it? 

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible, 

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–" 

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely. 

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it. 

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks. 

He doesn't owe you shit. 

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame. 

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you. 

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone. 

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up. 

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other. 

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens. 

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours. 

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket. 

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while. 

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning. 

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate. 

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze. 

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart. 

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home,  opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it. 

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips. 

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve. 

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody. 

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise. 

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs. 

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response. 

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings. 

Immediately, you pick up. 

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers. 

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears. 

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear. 

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm. 

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms. 

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past. 

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems. 

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh. 

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden. 

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine. 

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock. 

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is. 

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket. 

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment. 

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly. 

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.” 

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail. 

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu. 

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips. 

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?" 

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant. 

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest. 

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask. 

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock. 

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile. 

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–" 

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe. 

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more. 

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles. 

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish. 

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi. 

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't. 

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes. 

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths. 

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough. 

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl. 

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are. 

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him. 

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn. 

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass. 

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road. 

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room. 

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch. 

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly. 

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then. 

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination. 

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room. 

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob. 

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it. 

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself. 

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan. 

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen. 

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first. 

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head. 

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head. 

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow. 

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head. 

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders. 

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

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[maplecornia]

chapter 9

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.61K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: this chapter makes me laugh, especially the scene with Jojo and Namjoon.

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags:@kookaine |@fangirl125reader |@kookiebbyxx |@taradevonne

You’ve been waiting for an hour.

Tilting your head back, you sigh, extremely bored.

You've tried everything you could think of to bypass the time. Reading, writing, watching YouTube, then switching over to Netflix, even attempting to doze in the slightly uncomfortable waiting room chair.

None of them have worked.

Currently, you're doodling in your sketchbook, but no concrete idea comes to mind for the sketch. Leaving you with tiny flowers, faces, and body parts on the page as though it were a practice sheet.

Peering over the sketchbook, you scan the room for any sign of life, but as the day has dragged on, so has the crowd.

You don't see any sign of Kim Namjoon anywhere, and the receptionist hasn't called you over ever since you turned in the forms she gave you. Uninterested, your eyes glazing over, you pull out your phone, peering at the time.

12:30 pm.

Heaving a sigh, you tilt your head back, the music playing through your GalaxyBuds. Yet it does no good to lift your spirits.

You suppose it's only fair, you made him wait, now it's his turn.

Setting your phone down once more, you purse your lips, as your gaze falls on a flower swaying in the wind outside.

It's the only flower you can see amongst the bush. It stands almost forlornly in the midst of multiple of its fellow brethren withered around it. Still, it stands strong, unwilling to fall victim to the harsh weather outside.

A thought crossing your mind, you turn to your sketchbook, quickly turning the page and beginning a vigorous sketch before you lose your idea.

Unbeknownst to you, as you progress halfway through the sketch, Kim Namjoon bursts into the lobby, looking out of breath and flustered.

He wears a bright white T-shirt, one with a small black Nike emblem across his left pectoral muscle. It hangs sort of loose around his neck, his collarbone visible as cooling sweat causes him to glisten like a bright star.

It's not as noticeable, considering that he wears a thick black sweatshirt zipped down around his shoulders. It's simple, with thin white stripes running down the sleeves and white soft underlining to it.

The black sweats he wears seem to fit with the outfit, the same white stripes running down each pant leg. Each piece of clothing has a Nike emblem on it and pairs well with the white Nike AirForces he wears on his feet.

They’re simple but rich clothes and bring to mind the same clothes Jungkook was wearing before.

The cooling sweat on his skin and the way his hair falls a bit messily underneath his cap could lead to the presumption that they were doing a major dance practice before all of this.

No matter the case, he didn't expect the meeting to take this long, and he feels terrible for making you wait, despite everything. As he looks for any sign of you, he doesn't find any.

Worried that you have already left, he knocks on the front desk, gathering the attention of the receptionist that helped you earlier. Kim Jojo raises her head, and as she catches sight of RM, her eyes widen just the slightest bit, but not enough for him to notice.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Namjoon, what can I--”

“Yes, yes hello.” Namjoon interrupts her, too panicked to care about formalities.

He wants to catch you before you get tired of waiting and leave. First impressions are everything to him, and if he has a bad one…Shaking the worry away, he leans forward over the counter separating the receptionist from him and she flinches away at the sudden closeness.

RM either doesn't notice or doesn't care, but either way, he meets her with an intent stare, every word uttered from his lips urgent and careful.

“Has anyone by the name of Lin Yen come in?” The receptionist opens her mouth to respond but before she can say anything, he holds up a finger.

A thought having crossed his mind, he reaches into his back pocket, bringing out his phone. He tries to bring up the picture of you while Jojo stands there, half in shock, half in annoyance. As soon as he finds it, he lets out a little victory shout, one that startles her.

Grinning, he presents it to her, and she peers at a strange picture of you. After she looks at it, Jojo pulls back, her brows crinkling in confusion.

“She looks like this. If she came in, could you please tell me? I've been waiting since 8:00 this morning to meet her.” Jojo sighs, trying to gain her composure before responding.

“Mr. Namjoon--” she begins, but Namjoon interrupts once more.

“She’s my new assistant, you see, and I need to begin her training today. She needs to know the ropes before our busy season comes back around.” He explains, pulling the phone back and trying to pocket it once more.

Instead, he ends up knocking over a container filled with an assortment of pens and pencils. Surprised, he fumbles to pick it up but ends up spilling it all over the floor. Cursing under his breath, he reaches down to pick up some pencils that have fallen.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Jojo picks up the container, righting it on the counter with a loud thud. Startled, RM glances up at her eyes wide, and she smiles sweetly.

“Please, just leave it.” She says between her teeth. He shrugs, almost reluctantly standing. She sighs in relief, carefully putting the pens and pencils back in their place.

“Now...Mr. Namjoon, please listen--” once more, she cannot finish, Namjoon unable to shut up to save his life.

“I’m sorry, but if you need any more information on her I could--”

“Kim Namjoon!” This time it's Jojo's turn to interrupt him, her patience finally wearing thin.

RM instantly falls silent, a bit surprised at the outburst.

Jojo takes a steadying breath before continuing.

“Now, the person you are talking about has already come in. I told her you were in a meeting and had her wait in the waiting room for you to return.” At the information, RM turns to the waiting room where he catches sight of you for the first time in real life.

He notices you vigorously sketching out your idea. Smiling, he can't help but smile at the familiarities he finds in you. You look exactly like the picture Jaejin sent, despite how weird it was.

“I had expected to receive a notice of your return, so I could send her to you, but now that you're here….” Namjoon turns away from you and flashes his contagious smile at Jojo who is once more taken aback.

“Thank you,” Namjoon says with gratitude, reaching across the desk and holding her hand as he bows before turning away.

Jojo, watching him go, turns beet red before collapsing behind the desk in exhaustion. Another fellow receptionist cries out with alarm before tending to her in concern.

You, once more, having no awareness of the events happening around you, continue to sketch. Having finished the rough sketch you begin to define every line, detail, and curve. As you work, you bite the inside of your cheek, sometimes licking your lips in your trance of concentration.

When you're lost in your mind of imagination and creativity, nothing from the outside world can distract you.

And yes, that also includes a very tall, very real version of Kim Namjoon striding towards you.

You don't look up as he comes within a few feet in front of you. You don't even notice as he bends to your eye level, trying to catch your attention. It doesn't break your concentration, even as you reach for an eraser, lightly humming to the music playing in your ears. He smiles, almost laughing at your concentration before he covers his mouth, trying to be quiet so that you don't notice he’s there.

Trying to tease you, he carefully (as much as he’s able) sits down next to you. He was planning on pulling out one of your GalaxyBuds and surprising you, but as he catches a glimpse of your work, he’s stopped cold.

It's breathtaking.

You have created an awestruck image of a woman, on her knees. She wails out in agony as she sits amongst a pile of ash, flecks of it falling around her as though there's a fire burning nearby.

However, that’s not what catches Namjoon’s eye.

Amongst the ash, if anyone looks closely, they'll be able to see that there are small, scattered remains of bones hidden.

She sits amongst them, wailing, the look on her face one of pure anguish and sorrow as the ash from the fading bones stains her skin and her dress.

As though she has lost everyone she’s held, dear.

RM can't seem to look away, entranced by the grotesque beauty of the image and the talent of the artist.

He admires the way you set it up, the way you created the girl imperfectly, but still real. Because after all, who in real life is perfect? As he watches your pencil move expertly across the page, he can't help but think that with each stroke, the creation grows more and more lifelike.

As though she were truly crying out in the pain her heart brings. As though she were alive and breathing.

Almost against his wishes, his hand reaches out to touch the paper, if only to make sure that the actual sketch is truly a mere fabrication of pencil and paper.

As his fingers graze the parchment, that is when you snap out of your concentration.

Eyes widening, you jolt up straight, immediately turning to look at your side.

As soon as your eyes meet Namjoon’s, his hand flinches off the paper. He lets out a soft gasp as he flinches away, surprised by your sudden attention.

Just like with Jungkook, you're frozen in place.

Unable to move.

Unable to function.

Unable to speak.

And just like Jungkook, Namjoon is the same way.

But for a different reason.

He was caught in the act, and he doesn't know what to do.

Your eyes hold him in a sort of bind.

For a moment he forgets what he was doing there, he forgets what his purpose is, for a moment he even forgets why you are there.

For a split second, it's just you and him in a pocket in space.

Your eyes holding his, his eyes holding yours.

Kim Namjoon.

The leader of BTS. The first member of the group you have grown to love. Talented, handsome, a practical genius, he is just as mature and intimidating as you expected him to be.

Despite how close the two of you are sitting, he still seems larger than life, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even real.

He doesn't seem like it after all.

His skin seems too real, too perfect. His hair is too soft, too smooth. His eyes are too warm and too brown.

Almost exactly like the milky chocolate brown you’ve seen so often in so many photos, except for one thing.

As you stare into them, you can see life so clearly alight in them. How they reveal so many emotions at the same time. There are so many that it's almost impossible to read them at all. Serene and peaceful, they are poets' eyes.

So emotional, yet so mysterious and secretive at the same time.

Dreamboat eyes.

“Kim Namjoon?” you whisper, almost unsure if it's him or not.

As you do, his face makes that mixed expression between confusion and amusement as he chuckles softly, looking away and breaking the connection. Holding his hand up to his mouth, he nods, clearing his throat, but not saying anything for a moment.

“Yes, that's who I am, and you must be...Lin Yen?” your heart jumps at the fact that he knows your name.

Speechless, all you can do is nod mutely as he utters another adorable chuckle, one that always seems to remind you of Goofy.

“Jaejin didn't tell me you were an artist.” As soon as he says that, you notice that your sketchbook is still open, and showcasing your imperfect, unready sketch.

Panicking, you fumble to get it closed. Blushing, you hug it tightly to your chest, as though it could erase the fact that he just got a sneak peek into your very soul.

“What's wrong? It was good!” RM asks, worried.

Biting your bottom lip in trepidation, you shake your head, hiding your face.

“Don't lie….” you mumble.

You know it wasn't close to being done, and it wasn't nearly as perfect as it could have been. You're quite disappointed in it at the moment. You feel as though it was too rushed due to the many ideas pouring out from your brain at the exact moment.

As you take an ashamed peek at Namjoon, you find him staring at you, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“What's wrong, are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head as though you were a shy child. You smirk, playing along and nodding very slowly before he continues.

“I see. You should know, however, that you are very talented.” At the compliment, you snort in disbelief, shoving the sketchbook and pencils back safely in your satchel.

“Please.” You sigh. “I know I'm no Picasso, and certainly not talented.”

Finished with packing your art supplies, you are reminded of the reason you are here. A blush of shame appearing on your cheeks, you turn to Namjoon, a bit guiltily.

“And I’m also not known as the bird to rise before the worm.” RM seems a bit confused before you stand and bow to him in apology.

“I am so sorry for being late today. You see I….”

Remembering the receptionist's words from before, you decide to keep the reason to yourself.

“....I have nothing to say for myself. I'm sincerely sorry.”

“Please, there’s no need for that,” Namjoon responds, standing himself and tapping you on the shoulder.

At the touch, you stand straight, only to find an extremely tall man standing before you, looking more intimidating than before. Heart beating fast you gulp, stepping back a bit.

Luckily, he doesn't notice your act of distance and just smiles at you before continuing.

“After all, I was late as well, so let's call it even, huh?”

You smirk and nod, thankful that he’s not too angry about it, but it doesn't completely erase your guilt.

“But now that you mention it….” Namjoon starts and intrigued, you glance up to see him back up a bit as well.

Confused, you raise an eyebrow before he holds out his hand to you.

“My name is Kim Namjoon, I’ll be your boss during your time here. First and foremost, welcome to BigHit entertainment, I hope you enjoy your time working here with us.” He introduces himself, warmly.

Catching on, you take his hand, shaking it gently, and trying to ignore the fact that yours is much more like a child's compared to his.

“Hello, Mr. Namjoon! It's a pleasure to finally meet you, my name is Lin Yen and I look forward to working with you!” you respond, returning his grin with one of your own.

After you're finished introducing yourself, he releases your hand and steps back, taking your satchel in his hands and handing it to you.

“Well, Ms. Lin, are you ready to begin?” He asks, and you accept the offer, hiking the satchel on your shoulder before looking up at him in expectation.

“Where do we start?”

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: first day at work is finally starting, yall excited? eheheehehe get ready for some namjooon and yen moments to come

chapter 10 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

check my BTS masterlist for other BTS content

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[lizbotw]

it’s only sharing a disgustingly sweet milkshake at the local college town diner after both of your evening classes that suna graciously provides the answers to the math homework.

the spongy pencil eraser is easy for you to sink your teeth into as you puzzle over his handwriting. “you know,” you mumble around the nib, trying to figure out if that’s a 5 or a 6, “i never know why you do this to me every week.” this time the drink with two plastic straws floating in an unhealthy heaping of whip cream is a syrupy strawberry flavor.

rintarou tips forward to sip at one of them and in your peripheral, chunky pink-coated fruit pieces travel up the clear tube and disappear between his lips. he releases the straw with an annoying ah that makes you frown, even if you weren’t concentrating in the first place. “aw, don’t tell me you don’t like hanging out with me.” he feigns hurt.

a well placed sip of your own allows you to avoid having to answer that—you have a personal rule of never being sappy in the presence of calculus. if you didn’t like him, suna knows you wouldn’t be hanging out with him—there are just some things you can’t do, even if it’s for the sake of your grade. none of this has to be said out loud of course, but he decides to be annoying and ask anyway.

actually—well... maybe hanging out is... not exactly how this appears to bystanders.

sharing a drink like this, you two probably look more like a couple on a (terribly cheap) afternoon date, rather than two broke college students that split meals to save money and believe that sharing answers for homework isn’t cheating, it’s collaboration.

ha, as if it would ever be different—things like the former never come true. maybe in movies, but that’s about where the line is drawn.

as if he knows what you’re thinking, suna raises an eyebrow at you over the glass, a smile playing on his lips—the same stupid look he always gives you. it feels particularly worse this evening.

it’s hard to avoid eye contact with him mere inches away, but you manage when a car painted a very interesting shade of red rumbles past the fingerprint covered window. you’re grateful for the distraction.

the subject changes when you realize suna has terrible taste when it comes to ordering milkshakes. “what flavor is this?” you spit out the word as though the very concept of calling this a real flavor is more disgusting than the drink itself, smacking your lips and screwing up your face at the excessively saccharine, artificial strawberry aftertaste.

this is no ordinary strawberry milkshake. no, this is a so-bad-only-suna-rintarou-would-order-something-this-horrible-(and-not-necessarily-on-purpose-either) strawberry milkshake.

“valentine’s valor,” he states matter-of-factly like those words mean anything to you. you stare at him until he elaborates. “their valentine’s special,” he clarifies and is gifted with a sarcastic thumbs-up from you in thanks—it is pointedly ignored and suna slings an arm over back of his seat. “dunno the exact flavor though. forgot.”

it tastes like the embodiment of pink, you decide. valentine’s valor. what a stupid name. there are a million and one better words that start with v... you can name at least five with a little thinking. you should ask them to hire you as part of their marketing team, you decide.

maybe it’s fitting title though. you certainly need valor to even think about taking another sip of that... concoction—which you do because you are obsessed with getting your money’s worth.

“valentine’s day was half a week ago?” your mental calendar helpfully supplies.

the clatter of pans in the back kitchen somehow mingles charmingly with the way rintarou throws his head back to laugh—a scene straight out of a movie really. you decide you hate him in the moment. “right you are. want a prize?” ugh. you stick your tongue out at his tone.

great. as if to add insult to injury, of course you’re sharing an out-of-date love holiday special with suna of all people. valentine’s was four days ago and this is where you are on a thursday night. the sticky upholstery of the booth seat, ripped and fraying at the corners, squeaks and groans and attaches itself to the fabric of your jeans as you shift around, suddenly hot. what a strange situation to be in, you think. this has to be a metaphor for life—then again, you’d been thinking this whole... thing has been a metaphor anyway.

yup, ever since suna sat next to you in a calculus II lecture all those fated months ago and took pity on how much you fucking sucked at math, up until the present where he takes slightly less pity on you but does enjoy emptying your dorm mini-fridge and making you pay for his milkshakes—all of it. this entire thing with him. one big stupid metaphor.

the specifics of how you came to have a routine like this are certainly murky, but two things are for certain—one, your calculus grade is certainly a lot better than it would have been otherwise, and two, you have one friend more than you did at the start of the school year. (that last one is kind of a big deal, you think. the college social scene is brutal. the word friend has started to become more disappointing than exhilarating lately though.)

rin reaches to your left to pick at the fries you’d ordered as a side—you’ve learned not to try and stop him. “also,” he adds, mouth full, “you’re totally getting me a new pencil after this.” yes, true, the pencil you’re currently leaving frustrated teeth marks all over isn’t yours. very easy to forget in the moment. you’ve probably destroyed 15 of his pencils by now for the 15 weeks of the last semester—only 7 so far for the current one. you do the mental math.

instead of drawing in the sharp lines of the differential equation that should be going in the question box, you lightly trace in the curves of a 2 and then another one next to it in the corner of the worksheet, graphite underlining them both in one swoop. the horribly thin paper of the school library’s printer is scratchy as you write but soon you flip the pencil over and under your fingers to tap the eraser (that has seen better days) just below what you wrote. “this is pencil number 22.”

suna leans over to look at the number as if you hadn’t just told him what it said. what an idiot. “glad you’re keeping count.” he settles back into his seat. “when can i expect my reimbursement?”

“you’re funny,” you say, without a hint of humor in your voice. the pretty 22 you had written now has flower petals growing off of the sides as you get distracted doodling along the edges of your work. it’s quiet for a moment as he watches you, or maybe as he takes the chance while you’re distracted to shove more french fries down his throat—either option is plausible and you don’t lift your eyes to check.

something occurs to you.

“rin.” you take an extended pause in between the words as you continue drawing, just to annoy him. you don’t continue speaking until he grumbles in acknowledgment (you try to hide your smile). “do you ever doodle in your notebooks?” now that you thought about it, suna was surprisingly pretty straight-laced when it came to class—you couldn’t ever recall him ever slacking off to the degree that meant his pages were filled with hearts and stars and flowers and suns and atomically inaccurate animals and tiny people in different colored ink. your work was always certainly the more vibrant out of the two (perhaps that could explain your grades and how you understand like... nothing in your lectures, but you decide correlation does not equal causation).

“waste of time,” he says around another mouthful of fries, another one already halfway there to his mouth.

suna is also surprisingly negative at times—but the blue book flipped open to his homework says maybe he’s just a liar though. you squint at it.

“it’s still pretty early but we probably should get out of here soon,” suna says, pulling his phone out from his pocket to check the time and leaning his elbows on the table. “i’ll walk you back. your roomie doesn’t leave the gym until 9—before you ask, yes i’ve been keeping track. it’s not stalking if it’s for my own sake.”—rin is, of course, referring to the long standing rivalry between him and your (very nice, might you add) roommate you don’t really understand but which has cumulated in him deciding he would avoid them as much as humanly possible purely out of spite. (“the only person i like in dorm 302 is you,” he’d told you one time and the throwaway sentence maybe made your heart flutter more than it probably should’ve.)

the bell above the front door jingles behind you as another patron enters. rin glances up at the sound and then returns to his phone with a bored bat of his eyes, probably scrolling through twitter or replying to texts, and picking at his teeth with a toothpick (where did he even get that?).

you try to get back to work (copying) but something in your gut tells you there’s more to his notebook than the messy handwriting and crossed out words that meet the eye.

with suna distracted, you take the chance to carefully slide the book towards you and then, in a single quick swipe, pull it into your lap under the table, already leafing to the back pages—everyone knows that’s where the real secrets are—not sure what to expect. a flash of color makes you pause and you flip back to a page that has the corner folded into a tiny, crisp triangle.

whatever you were thinking suna had stashed in the back of his calculus notebook certainly does not match up with what’s staring you in the face currently. sparkly, gel-inked hearts in neon colors glitter under the fluorescent overheads. in each of them, written in capital letters neater than you thought possible for suna, is your initials, a small plus sign in the middle, and then S.R. (for none other than suna rinatoru) next to it. it instantly makes sense to you. “rin, what the fuck.” one side of the book dangles from your hand, pages fluttering, and you hold it up for him to see, other hand flying to cover your mouth because you don’t know whether to laugh or pretend to be mortified or what.

it’s very amusing to watch how suna goes from a disinterested stare, to widened eyes, to reaching over the heaps of school supplies to attempt to grab the book from you, frantic. you hold it just out of reach. “what are you—” an old lady at a table shushes him when he half-screams. “—give that back,” suna whisper-yells instead in the greatest verbal equivalent of tiny caps you’ve ever heard.

“not a chance.”

he looks like he wants to lunge across the table and pry his prized possession from your meddling hands, but also has half the mind not to make a scene. getting kicked out and then subsequently banned from his favorite diner all on a noise complaint and disorderly conduct accusation was not ideal.

you hum, flip back to your place, and observe the drawings covering the lined pages. you shoot him a venomous smirk over the edge of the cover, one that’s more theatrics than anything, and say with all the satisfaction of someone who knows they have all the power, “oh, this is gold.” he deflates and you feel grateful he doesn’t see right through your facade because oh man are you sweating inside right now. what the fuck? no way suna rintarou is drawing little hearts with both of your initials in it like a lovesick middle schooler. no fucking way. you almost want to tell him that you did the same thing once when the thoughts about him had gotten especially bad (you felt guilty afterwards though, thinking you never had a chance with him, but... now... if he’s doing the same—well, that kind of changes everything).

suna is utterly defeated you think—doesn’t even try to defend himself, just slumps in his seat with a groan. you at least expected a “i can explain!” from him, a last attempt at dignity, not the resigned “i’m never going to live this down, am i?” he mumbles after a few seconds. well, either works for you.

“nope,” you quip, maybe a little too cheerfully because the response you receive is a distressed wail and him banging his head against the table. the old lady shushes him again. you chuckle at that (it feels a little wobbly though because once again, freaking out here) and flip the page. you stop.

this one has similar perfect little hearts drawn all over it, but there are other things. cute, standard shaky drawings of misshapen dogs and volleyballs and other things you never thought suna would take it upon himself to create but all of which make sense are there. but there’s something else. little scribbles in the corners with your last name swapped with his and even him trying out his name with your last one—all of them are scratched out but not so much you can’t read them. a list on the right in a very tiny font that makes you think he was embarrassed even penning the words is titled “date ideas?” (the question mark is in red and the dot is a heart) and has several popular spots around town written down in the local lingo of unofficial names for them.

“listen... please let’s forget about this.” rin’s voice is muffled and he’s still faceplanted. “it’s fine if you don’t... you know... yeah.” if you don’t feel that way, he means. true, the doodles were a pretty good indication of his feelings.

what to do...

well... you take pity on him, let your lips upturn and your eyes soften to reflect the sentiment, and shut the book with a quiet thud. you slide it back across the table from where it came and back to him silently. you give it a resounding pat when suna peeks up at you, expression saying it all—he was so going to get you back for this. you stick your tongue out—acceptance of the challenge. and just like that, you’re friends again—maybe that’s what’s so great about suna.

as you get ready to leave and slowly begin the trek back to the dorm buildings with him, street lamps glimmering a pasty yellow, there’s no awkward tension, no need to ask questions, no verbal wonderings about what ifs between you two. it’s just joking and shoving each other around and challenges to see who can run to the next tree the fastest in the middle of the chilly february night. you know, maybe for now you’ll keep your own thoughts a secret.

[last-operator-standing]

Toll Of The Bell

Chapter 3 - Sonder

> Read on Ao3

> Chapter 1 (tumblr)

> Chapter 2 (tumblr)

> Chapter 4 (tumblr)

Summary: What now? He could roll over and accept the fate thrust upon him and die as Adler intended. Starting a new life away from it all couldn’t be that bad either. Or…

Or he could finish the mission.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Warning apply this chapter

Words: 1.8k (7.3k total)

A/N: I'm sorry this one took so long asjdfjf I'm awful at keeping any sort of regular schedule- but i'm going to be trying much harder to keep the chapters flowing :') I'd love to hear any thoughts, and thank you all for the support <3 (p.s. Adler will be here v soon- Promise uwu)

"Please stop staring at me."

Bell has no intention of doing so. He's been staring down Lazar from the moment the man stumbled into the kitchen to join him at the table. The sunlight is harsh despite the closed curtains and the coffee fails to stimulate either agent's mind. This certainly isn't Lazar's ideal morning. The silence stretches on, but the uncomfortable feeling of Bell's eyes on him has him sighing loudly.

"Damn, Bell, alright." Lazar gives in. The chair scrapes loudly against the tile floor as he pushes back to stand, disappearing for a moment and returning with a bag. It piques Bell's curiosity; he was too tired to notice it last night.

A folder slaps loudly against the table and slides a few centimeters towards Bell. The Russian, unable to contain himself, surges forward to snatch it. "You're right about your buddy. Definitely a smuggler of sorts."

Bell flips the folder open and begins rooting through the contents. A picture of Kapano Vang is clipped on the inside. The first page has basic information. Name, call sign, date and place of birth. Bell's more interested in the finer details: A few suspected routes, potential cartel members, a list of what they believe is being smuggled. There's a few recurring words that catch his eye. Golden Triangle Cartel is scribbled at the bottom and underlined twice. Beside it, drawn in bold red ink and circled multiple times, Bell reads PERSEUS?

"What did you see yesterday, in those memories of yours?"

Bell gives a small shake of his head. "It was a bar, I think. He was there." He taps the portrait with a finger. "And someone else who knew us but.. I couldn't remember his face," The Russian gives a disappointed click of his tongue. "Or his name."

Lazar tries to offer a reassuring smile. "Hey, don't sweat it. It'll come back to you."

Bell wishes he could share in Lazar's positivity. He really does. But he can't be sure what brought the memories to him in the first place, or why they were so fragmented. After spending much of the night agonizing over any additional detail he might remember about Perseus or Kapano Vang or anyone else he had seen at that bar and coming up short, Bell's hope started to slip. In the end he could only point fingers at Adler and his MK-Ultra project. "So what's next?"

Lazar doesn't answer right away. He looks thoughtful. Even with their revelation on Kapano Vang and his cartel, they are nowhere closer to finding Perseus than they were before. They are back to square one.

"Well, I could try cross-referencing with MI6 again-" he means Park, Bell thinks with a snort "-and see if they have anything new."

Lazar's looking at him intently and Bell realizes he's waiting for a response. "Oh, uh. Yeah." Bell shifts awkwardly in his seat. "Whatever you say."

A week later, the two man team have no progress to show for their efforts. In that time, Bell's gone over the files at least a dozen and a half times and nothing's changed, nor have any new memories resurfaced. Lazar's cross-referencing has yet to unearth anything new either, telling Bell MI6 is just in the dark as they are.

"This isn't working, Laz." Bell slams the paper back against the kitchen table. His irritation is reflected in the other man's face but Lazar does a better job at hiding it. "We just have to keep looking," Lazar sighs. "We have the answer here somewhere."

Bell clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I've been over these files again and again. There's nothing here. We're not going to find Perseus on some piece of paper-" An idea strikes Bell. Something he never considered before now.

"Bell?" Lazar frowns. "You alright?"

"What if we look for that bar?" Excitement shines in Bell's eyes. Lazar's startled by his suggestion.

"I don't know-"

"C'mon, Laz, think about it. There was more than one Perseus agent there, in my memory." A plan was beginning to hatch in Bell's mind. From the way he's looking at him, Lazar doesn't like where he's going with it. "If we find that bar, maybe we can find one of those agents. Maybe even match some of these faces." He looks down at the file of unconfirmed but suspected Perseus soldiers.

"I don't know about this," Lazar repeats slowly, uncertainly. "If someone recognizes us it could cause some trouble. Especially if they recognize you. You helped stop Perseus the first time. No doubt his people are painfully aware of that."

Bell doesn't want to hear it, though. "It's just a risk we'll have to take," he argues. "I'm a spy, Laz. I know how to keep my head down."

After a bit of back and forth it's settled. First, they'll compile a list of bars in areas known or suspected to be frequented by Perseus. Then, while in constant contact, as Lazar insists, Bell will make his way through each alone and hope nobody recognizes him while he searches for the bar from his memory.

It takes two days to assemble a full list and another day and a half to narrow it down and map a route.

"I'm still not happy about this," Lazar grunts as he drops a duffel bag onto the table. Bell eagerly snatches it and begins shuffling inside. "You worry too much, old man."

The first thing Bell pulls from the bag is a change of clothes. They both agreed he needs something casual. And clean. It would make blending in with the crowd much easier. Too excited about the upcoming mission has Bell stripping where he stands. No time for modesty.

"C'mon, Bell, in the kitchen?" Lazar turns with a light pink tinting his face. Bell grins wide but doesn’t reply. The new outfit fits comfortably. He returns to the bag and roots around for his next prize. There’s a knife with a sheath and a small handgun waiting at the bottom. The knife is removed first. Bell carefully slides it free of its sheath. The blade is unusually slim and dark in color, and sports a dangerously sharp tip with partial serration of both sides near the hilt. Bell’s entirely absorbed in admiring the blade, so much so that he misses Lazar’s amused look until he speaks up.

“I thought you’d like that one.”

Bell returns the smile. “Oh, hell yeah. It reminds me of the one I had in-”

“Hey, Sims! You know reading that shit’s gonna make you go blind.”

“Yep! That’s why I want it alll up here.” Sims shot Adler a lazy grin. The commander slapped the book back against Sims’ chest.

“Bell, you’re with Sims. You usually bring out the best in each other.”

“RPGS! BRACE! BRACE!”

Bell watched in horror as a rocket collided with the chopper beside theirs. It careened dangerously before smashing into theirs, sending their own bird into a death spiral.

Everything was in chaos.

“Grab my hand! I gotcha! I got-!”

“We’ve lost power-!”

“We’re going down-!”

“BRACE!”

Bell blinks hard and his smile falls. There’s a knowing look on Lazar’s face and neither agent speaks a word about it. “C’mon,” Lazar gives a pat to Bell’s shoulder. “Showtime.”

The pair ride in silence. Lazar’s behind the wheel, giving Bell some time to think. He tries to keep the mission center focus, but the memories of Vietnam are overwhelming, fresh in his mind as if they just happened. And they’re not even real. I was never in Vietnam.

The car rolls to a stop and breaks Bell from his thoughts. “Alright, remember, coms on at all times.” Bell rolls his eyes and pops the door, deftly sliding from his seat. “I mean it, Bell!” But he slams the door without reply, turning towards the street. The small earpiece is already safely pressed into his ear and hidden behind his hair.

The checkered brick sidewalks stretch wide on either side of the street. There’s a decent amount of people strolling to and fro, some carrying briefcases and dressed in neatly pressed suits, others in casual attire with seemingly no important place to be. Lazar pulls off, leaving Bell to head for the first destination on his list.

The first thing Bell notices as he pushes into the first bar is the pungent mingling of smoke, alcohol, and sweat in the air. The floor beneath his boots is a glossy hardwood and matches the light oaken walls. The occupants chatter noisily, and although the sound is familiar, the atmosphere is not. This is not the right place. Keeping his appearance as casual as possible, Bell slips through the crowd and retreats out the back door. He glances around to confirm he’s alone before mumbling his findings to Lazar.

One down, seven more to go.

The second bar Bell stumbles into is smaller. There are less individuals milling around and the golden walls are all wrong from the dark cedar panels from his memory. The third bar is even less promising, while the fourth and fifth are so far from Bell’s memory that he’s positive he’s working backwards now.

Bell rejoins the thinning herd on the streets with a dejected sigh. This wasn’t working out. There’s two more bars to check and already it was getting dark. He’d hope for something; A clue, a new memory, a familiar face. Lazar keeps up with words of encouragement but Bell doesn’t have the capacity to share the optimism.

The sixth bar Bell checks holds a notable hushed atmosphere. Right away he’s stricken by the dark atmosphere. It felt.. Tense. Insidious. It doesn’t feel right, but for an entirely different reason. While most of the denizens ignore Bell, a few side-eye him dangerously. He steps to the counter and orders a drink, primarily to alleviate any suspicions from both inside and out.

Bell can’t shake the feeling of eyes boring into his back. It’s somehow different from when he first walked in and was certainly making him more uncomfortable. He shifts in his seat and tries his best to nonchalantly turn and find who the hell was staring at him so hard, but when he looks, he finds nothing out of the ordinary.

The feeling of unease doesn’t leave. He grows antsy and finally after paying with money given to him by Lazar, Bell downs the last of his drink and turns back into the streets. This is certainly not going the way Bell had hoped. The seventh bar is quite the walk from the sixth, allowing him some time to breathe and collect his thoughts.

The feeling of unease melts from Bell’s shoulders the longer he walks. Lazar’s quiet so he turns his attention outward and listens curiously to the broken chatter of the dwindling civilians.

“-think he talks about anything else?”

“Well, it’s not like-”

“Timur?”

“That’s not.. Point.. Why else-”

“Timur!”

“I just think you should consider-”

A hand lands heavily on Bell’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. He turns in surprise.

“Timur!” A man stands before Bell with a lazy smirk and a gleam to his eyes- as if he recognizes him. His dark hair is cropped close to his head and a pair of lightly tinted shades adorns his face. The accent is certainly not Russian, and it throws Bell off guard. “Hey! Remember me?”

[aweebwrites]

The Monastery Massacre Pt.4

Considering that the Monastery wasn't very big to begin with, they found what they believed was the younger brother's room relatively quickly. There are several scrolls dusty scrolls about, some heavily damaged by being exposed to the elements.

“Well, start reading.” Skylor says, picking up the closest one.

The others looked at each other before doing the same.

“These are all old prophecies and fighting styles.” Ash says, tossing his scroll down after a few moments. “None of which are for fighting ghosts.” He added, crossing his arms.

“Nothing here either.” Tox sighed, tossing her scroll down.

“These scrolls don't have anything we can use. There has to be something else.” Neuro says, setting his aside and began to look around for any hidden areas or anything that stood out.

“Woah!” Shade yelped, ducking out of the way of a scroll that went flying out of nowhere.

Neuro frowned as he picked it up from where it landed at his feet. He looked around, trying to spot anyone aside from their shrinking group before he opened it.

“It’s definitely one of them!” Shade says, hiding behind Tox who sighed but didn't comment.

Her last words to Griffin was how much of a coward she thought he was after all.

“What does it say?” Skylor asked, walking over to look in it.

“It's just an old legend. What's more curious is that the word morning is underlined.” He says, pointing it out as she held one side. “Perhaps one of them is trying to tell us something. But who? And why not tell us directly?” He questions with frown, contemplating the word.

“Wait.” Ash says after a moment of thought. “Do you think they're trying to tell us that we just have to last until morning?” He asked, looking to the others.

“What sense does that make?” Neuro questions.

Daylight can't affect them. They're not vampires after all… Or can it?

“Think about it. All of their bodies were found in the morning, right? Which means they were killed at night. Doesn't things like the time they were killed affects their haunts?” Ash questioned.

“... You might be onto something Ash.” Neuro says, considering it.

“But we still don't have a way to fight back. They could attack at any moment and we'll be powerless to stop it.” Tox pointed out.

“You're right.” Neuro sighed, realising that they were back to square one.

“Well, it's 2:59 am.” Skylor says, glancing at her phone that had no signal. “3:00 now-”

Suddenly, both Shade and Tox hit the ground, both of them screaming as they were dragged out of the room.

“Shade! Tox!” Neuro yelled as they ran after them, trying to grab their hands.

“I don't want to die! I don't want to die!” Shade screamed as he clawed at the wooden floors, trying to stop himself but only suffering massive splinters he didn't feel at all due to the fear and adrenaline pumping through him.

“We're done for! Save yourselves!” Tox yelled at them- just before she was suddenly picked up and thrown like a ragdoll outside, her scream cut off suddenly.

“No!” Ash yelled, grabbing and holding onto Shade's hand and pulling back but Shade wasn't budging.

“Don't let me go Ash! You have to help me!” Shade yelled, knuckles white from his tight grip.

“I'm not letting you go Shade!” Ash yelled, pulling as hard as he can.

A figure in white in the doorway to the outside caught his attention and Ash's eyes widened once glowing blue eyes turned to outright glare at him. Ash let go then, making Shade panic even more.

“No! Ash!” Shade screamed as he was dragged outside, the paper door slamming shut behind him.

“No!” Neuro yelled, tugging at the paper door that wouldn't budge.

A look through a hole only revealed heavy snow and nothing else. Skylor collapsed then, sobbing into her hands, the reality of their situation setting in again. What the hell does morning matters? They won't make it that long. They could kill them all in seconds!

“They're gone Neuro.” Ash says and Neuro whirled around to face him before slamming him up against the wall.

“You! I saw you let Shade go! How could you! He was your best friend!” He yelled at him and Ash pushed him off.

“Look, I looked dead into that ghost's eyes and if I didn't let go, it was going to be me instead.” Ash hissed. “Shade will always be my friend but I have to take my chance to get out of this hell hole.” He huffed.

“Now that they have the both of them, the next attack should hopefully postponed. Now I don't know about you but nothing in this monastery will fend off these stu- these ghosts. All but one thing that is. They say a complete circle of salt should keep evil spirits back, right?” Ash says as Neuro breathed heavily. “I know for a fact that Tox likes her vodka salted so she must have some in her bag. It's all we've got but it's worth the try. Are you in or out?” He asked them both before turning away to hear back to the room they were in before.

Neuro glared at him as he went but if they wanted a chance to live, they had to follow him. He looked down at where Skylor was huddled into a ball before walking over to her.

“Come on. We have to go.” He says quietly to her, reaching his hand out and she looked up at him, eyes and face still wet.

She didn't want to move, just to stay here and pretend none of it actually happen but if she did that, her chances of being attacked was much higher. She swallowed then took his hand and let him help her up then followed after Ash.

_____________________

Tox groaned as she came to, her side hurting something fierce. It was really cold too. She blinked her eyes open slowly, seeing nothing but snow. She blinked once more then startled once a man was there, sitting in the snow and was completely unaffected by it. He appeared as if he had rolled around in dirt but the fact that he was in black was what brought everything back to Tox.

'Oh right. I'm about to die.’ She thought, watching him look up at the cloudy sky.

“... W-what's your n-name?” Tox stuttered out from the cold only.

She wasn't afraid. She accepted her faith but she wanted to know his name before he killed her.

'Funny. No-one else bothered to ask before.’ The man spoke, his voice brushing her ear like a distant whisper. 'It's Cole.’

“Cole, huh?” Tox says, testing the name out. “Say Cole. Could you make it quick?” She asked him and he smirked.

The area around her began to crack and she squeezed her eyes shut just before the entire piece she was on collapsed, throwing her over the edge of the cliff. Looking up at the snow drifting down as she fell… She understood why he would want to. It was beautiful.

“Ugh!” She gasped before blood pooled into her mouth.

Her stomach… She reached a hand up to feel what happened- and felt a jagged rock, wet with her blood instead. She… Her hand went limp as her skewered body did, blood draining from her mouth.

_______________

Shade shivered as he walked, arms wrapped tight around himself. The snow was coming down in sheets and he was getting nowhere the more he walked. He couldn't see more than an inch past his nose with the heavy snow. He hadn't dressed anticipating snow. Some degree of cold, yes but not snow.

He took a step further before his legs gave way, leaving him to collapse to his hands and knees. Where was he going again? Why couldn't his legs move. He spotted someone standing just before him then. Were they always there?

“Excuse me…” He spoke but his words were so slurred together that it was impossible to make out what he was saying.

He was so tired. The snow looks so nice and cozy. How long has he been walking?

'You're tired. You should take a nap, don't you think?' The figure in white says, crouching before him.

“Nap?” He slurred and boy does that sounds like a good idea, despite something nagging at him, telling him he had to stay away. “Five minutes won't hurt…” He mumbled, laying down.

'That's it. Now close your eyes. They must feel so heavy, don't they?’ The person says, their voice sounding like it's been dipped in honey.

They did. Just a short nap and he'll continue doing whatever he was doing. His eyes fell closed and Zane watched as he stepped, his breaths coming out as fog until the little puffs stopped completely.

'A nap never hurts anyone.’ Zane says mockingly before getting up and walking over to Cole.

'She actually asked for my name.’ Cole huffed, still sitting at the edge of the ledge.

'Isn't that thoughtful of her.’ Jay says condescendingly as he, Nya and Kai appeared.

‘Three left.’ Nya says, looking back to the monastery.

'Don't worry. Their time is now.’ A new voice says and the five apprentices bowed in respect as they laughed.

_______________

(Back at it again with killing innocent characters! Cole literally up and yeeted Tox out of there! Lol. So! I think I made it pretty obvious who the new person is but news! I should be able to wrap this up with two more updates so this series will be over soon! Knowing me, I'll think of something to fill the void. Until next time lovelies!)

[klypso01]

Inner Child

Lately, in my counseling, I’ve been studying the idea of having an inner child. Believe me, it’s a rather difficult idea to delve into as it involves being really vulnerable, but one way I’ve found to connect with my inner child has been to write down my meeting with her. Beware, this is going to be a long post, but I wonder how many of you will be able to relate. Her name is pronounced A-kiss-edge, just so you know, don’t worry, I won’t use it much.

***

The room was mostly silent as I peered around, as was the case with many of these types of situations the only sound was a sniffling that was obviously coming from the closet. I wandered over and pulled the sliding door open looking around at the clothes in confusion… The sound was coming from here, but all I could see was clothes and a million papers strewn throughout the space.

“You can’t be here!” A small voice yelled from the depths, which made me lean in slightly to see who had said that, “Please close the door, it’s dangerous!”

Finally, I was able to see the origin of the voice, a young girl was hiding behind several rows of clothing, only her right eye and a small sliver of her face was visible behind the dresses that provided good camouflage for her, “Dangerous?” I murmured out, careful not to do anything that could startle her, “What’s dangerous?”

Her eye widened and the clothing rippled, indicating she was moving, “You don’t know?” When I shook my head she seemed to think about that carefully, “Okay, you can come in then, just close the door behind you.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle slightly as I did what she said, she sounded so bossy at that moment, it really was cute, as soon as the sliding door was closed behind me, the clothing rippled again as the young girl sat forward, her whole head popping out as she stared at me nervously.

Her hair was a light brown that reached her shoulders before it ended raggedly, as though it were chopped off in hasty strokes. Her eyes were underlined with dark circles, but even that couldn’t cover up her inquisitive, hazel eyes that watched my every move cautiously. Just judging by her face and neck, I could see that the poor girl hadn’t eaten in a while, which, paired with the quiver that hadn’t stopped since she first came out led me to believe that she had been living in fear for quite some time.

“Who are you?” The young child stammered out, a look of complete and utter panic embedded on her face. It was heartbreaking, to say the least, and if things continued the way they were, I would likely have to leave her here too…

“My name’s Jessica,” My voice was calm as I bent over so I could look her in the eyes without appearing to look down on her, “What’s your name, my dear?”

Silence filled the closet for several seconds as we stared at each other, the dried tears obvious on the girl’s face, “My… My name is Acissej, but, but my friends call me Aussie,” Acissej paused looking back down into her lap, “At least, they would if I had any friends. I used to, but I don’t know any more… Its been so long.”

Carefully I moved aside a whole heap of clothes that were on the floor as I shifted to sitting, being careful not to rip the papers, “How long have you been in here?” I needed to get her story, that was what mattered right now.

I could see the gears moving in Acissej head as she considered that, “I…” She started before her breathing began to pick up, “I don’t know, it isn’t easy to remember in here!”

This was fairly usual for this type of situation, so I wasn’t too surprised, “That’s okay,” I said quietly, not wanting to touch her in case that was a trigger of some kind, “You don’t need to know that. Is it okay if I ask you some more questions?” Finally, the young girl looked me in the eyes before she nodded slowly, “You mentioned that it’s dangerous outside, what’s out there that is so scary?”

Once again, her breathing picked up as tears welled in her eyes, “You… You really don’t know?” I shook my head and she sobbed, “No one seems to know, it’s like I’m the only one who has to be scared. I don’t like being alone like this, I wasn’t even given a choice, I was just thrown in here one day, and ever since then whenever I try to come out a monster yells at me, tells me that I’m bad, sometimes it even pushes me.” Acissej’s head was buried in her knees as she cried, making everything inside of me want to reach out and pull her into my arms, “What did I do that was so bad? What could I have done to make everyone hate me?”

That last question broke me, I scooted forward as much as I could before reaching out and pulling her into my arms. She stiffened slightly, but soon enough she had snuggled into the warmth that I provided, throwing her arms around my neck as she continued to cry. My hand gently stroked through her hair and I murmured quietly, “It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.”

Slowly she regained control over their tears and sat back, wiping her eyes as they slowly continued to leak out, “If it's not my fault, then why does everyone push me away? Why do I get treated like a terrible person? It just doesn’t make sense any other way.”

She certainly was perceptive, the soft light of the closet illuminated the situation dully as I considered my answer carefully, she would be able to tell in a heartbeat if I tried to lie to her, “It isn’t your fault, people just…” I faded off, slightly unnerved by the careful way she watched me, this was harder than I thought it would be, “People don’t understand you as much. To them, you are the scary one, so they push you away, even if it isn’t nice.” Yeah, that was probably as much as I could say without hurting her more.

It was easy to tell that she didn’t entirely believe what I was saying, but she still nodded wearily, as though she had heard that before, “Okay, sorry about that,” Quickly she shifted off my lap, retreating to the back of the closet as she brought her knees back to her chest, “So why are you here?” I could still hear the slight hitch to her voice that showed she had been crying, but now it looked like she was determined to play cool.

“I’m here to see you, actually,” My voice was casual, but I could feel the anxiety picking up, this could go so badly, but I needed to talk to her, “I heard about you not long ago, so I wanted to meet and get to know you. If that would be okay with you.” I shrugged slightly, desperately trying to make it look like I didn’t feel awkward right now.

My words seemed to shock her, as she looked at me in shock, allowing her arms to fall by her side as she stared, “Me? Why would you want to see me?”

Carefully, I reached down and picked up one of the papers on the floor, it was covered in barely legible scribbles that, if I could read them, I had no doubt would form a random, stream of consciousness story, “You are someone I look up to,” I murmured, smiling fondly as I remembered the story that was posted on the page, “You think so freely and don’t worry about what you write or say, or even think. You’re so hopeful and willing to put yourself out there… I look up to you more than you would think.”

A silence fell between us as I continued to look through the papers on the ground, remembering each one as I grabbed it.

“You’re me, aren’t you?” Aussie muttered, causing me to look up. Her gaze was riveted on the floor and I couldn’t help but realize the fact that neither of us could make eye contact, “You’re the one who locked me in here, aren’t you?”

Shoot, here came the especially awkward part, “…Yeah,” Slowly I leaned back in the small space, allowing my back to rest on the wall behind me as I stared up at the ceiling, “Aren’t I just such a hypocrite?” I asked bitterly, “Coming here to rub your captivity in your face while I can come and go as I please. You must hate me.”

“I guess… Maybe a little,” Her voice peeped out, but I just couldn’t bring myself to look at her, “But, it’s not like your free either, so I think I might understand, at least a little.”

That caught my attention, but she wasn’t done yet, “You know when I was first put in here, I was so scared and sad, I wasn’t wanted, and for a long time I nearly gave up. I think I did hate you for a while, but, now that I see you…”

A soft hand touched my face, drawing my attention back to Aussie, “Your eyes,” She said quietly, “They’re just like mine.”

That finally brought my gaze back to hers, for the first time, we looked each other in the eyes, which, in turn, allowed me to see a reflection of myself, sad hazel eyes looked at each other for several seconds as I tried frantically to stop the tears that were welling up, but she wasn’t done.

“And it’s not like you left me in here with nothing to do,” A small smile crossed her face briefly as she gestured to the mess of papers that surrounded her, “I’ve been writing stories this whole time, some that were more important than others. Do you want to see what I’m most proud of?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned around and reached into the den of dresses that were behind her, grabbing out several stacks of paper that had been tied into groups with ribbon, “You actually let me out to write these,” Her voice wavered as I looked down at the substantial books, “Anime was a good choice, you should keep going with it.”

I chuckled weakly as I grabbed the novels, books I recognized immediately as the fanfictions I wrote… Obviously, they were possessions that held a dear place in both of our hearts, “Don’t worry, I don’t think I could stop if I tried.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was a bit more comfortable, I was simply thumbing through the words I could nearly recite in my sleep. Each of these had a piece of my heart poured into them, which made them far more special than most of what I had written.

“What other things do you like?” I murmured, still preoccupied with our stories.

Aussie snorted, causing me to look up at her, “Shouldn’t you know that already? I like the same things you do, everything you love, even if you are a bit ashamed of it.”

I nodded, acknowledging the pain that resonated behind the words. “Yeah, I guess you do, don’t you.” Sighing, I put the books aside, impressed with how heavy they were in physical form, “I’m working on getting you out of here, you know.” My tone was casual, but I could see the surprise flash across her face as I spoke, “It’s about time you see the sun again, isn’t it?”

“You…” Aussie started but quickly she stopped herself, perhaps to hide the tremble that I could clearly hear, just in that one word.

“You’re such a big part of my life,” I spoke before she could pull herself together enough to continue, shifting uncomfortably on the hard floor, “I need you, especially if I want to make my whimsical side my career. I need you, so that means I need to learn to let go of all the crap that’s holding me back because my insecurities have made me put on a mask for too long as it is.”

I watched as a tear tracked down her cheek, her mouth was hanging open slightly and her arms were resting on the floor by her sides. She was shocked, not that I could blame her.

I stood carefully, trying not to disrupt the mess too mess as I turned around and took a step towards the sliding door, “Just wait a bit longer, Aussie,” I said over my shoulder with a sad smile, “It’ll take time, but I promise not to forget you, I promise that I’ll get myself out of the hole I’ve dug.”

With that, I slid the door open and left, shutting it carefully behind me as I saw for the first-time what Aussie was afraid of; a black mass swirled in the middle of the room, hissing angrily at me. Inside the mass was a collection of many different things, a chimera head, my father’s face, every single scary thing that I could think of was there.

So, I wasn’t just fighting against myself, was I? I was fighting against my imagination, but this was the dark side, the side that saw everything wrong and amplified it by a million. The side that even now caused me to tremble in fear slightly as I edged around it, trying to avoid even getting close to it.

It would be a long time before this side of me was contained enough to let Aussie out… If it terrified me even now, the question was, how did I go about this?

[theswiftarmy]

#28 - The Jitterbug Mystery

Music has a way of bringing anything back to life after it’s gone, or over.  If you don’t get this now, you’ll understand this when you listen to a song years after you’ve lost a friend, a lover, or a family member.  Music becomes a magical doorway into a world you once knew but lives in the present inside you.  But with every magic music memory doorway, exists a second door that can open unexpected memories.  It’s a bit like that scene in the movie Labyrinth, one door leads to the castle, the other to certain death, well, certain not death, but it can certainly bring back those memories you’d rather forget.  Good with the bad.  Some songs fish out good memories and some fish out creatures from the sea of bad memories.  Memories tucked away in the pages of a journal that sits on your shelf, and you stare at it from time to time, but don’t dare to open it up for fear of remembering that past.  Click click click… Flash flash flash…

The street was empty.  Kymmie Lawyer opened her closed eyes and found herself standing outside The Microsoft Theater.  Everyone seemed to be gone.  The sun had set.  The streetlights glowed.  The show was over.

“Where is everyone?!”  Kymmie said to herself.  Then she shouted looking around.  “Hello!  Anyone!?!?”  She felt tightness in her chest.  She was on her own, lost on this empty street.

“I don’t know.”  Her dad replied from beside her.

She smiled at him, just glad she wasn’t alone.  The fear in her chest dissipating.  She took a breath in as the tightness eased.

He looked up and down the street.  “This place is a ghost town.  There aren’t even any cars driving around.  I’ve never seen LA like this before.”  He looked at his phone, trying to get a signal.  “Hmmmm…”

“What is it dad?”

“I can’t seem to get a signal.  It just says SMPTE error.”

“You mean a Swiftie error?”  She looked up at him.

He pulled the phone in closer and squinted at it, “No, it says… SMPTE.”

She shrugged back.  “SMPTE.  Never heard of it.  Weird.  Maybe try walking around in circles.”

Carl knew what SMPTE was, he just wasn’t sure why his phone signal would have been replaced with the words SMPTE error.  He’d certainly never heard of a SMPTE error.  SMPTE stands for Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers, and to have an error with SMPTE didn’t make any sense.  “I think I might do that, I won’t go far, just stay here.”

Kymmie smiled at her dad, and then turned her attention to something fluttering in the wind.  Pages turning.  A small notebook on the ground.  She walked over to it and picked it up.  She inspected the notebook for a moment then opened the first page.  “The Perfect Playlist…”  She read out loud.  Maybe it was a journal, or a diary.  There were numbered lines but they were all blank, like someone had decided to make a playlist but never started it.  She flipped through the notebook noticing small bits and pieces of incomplete information.  Some celebrity must have dropped this, she thought.  It had to be someone from the red carpet!  She felt a rush of excitement.  They were standing very close to where the red carpet had been.  There were random doodles and a note here or there.  Some looked like lyrics, or perhaps poetry, some looked like movie set notes and reminders, photo-shoot dates in the margin, costume notes, make up, hair, tiny journal entries, tiny stories, tiny entries.  This IS a celebrity’s notebook!  She quickly flipped through the pages wondering whose it could be.  There were Ideas and doodles here and there.  But the center of every page was blank except for the numbered playlist on the very first page.  ‘The Perfect Playlist…’ Kymmie decided it needed to be filled in.  The notebook, or journal, or whatever this was seemed like it was meant to be written in.  She was now tasked with the responsibility to create The Perfect Playlist.

“Dad!  Can I have a pen?”  She yelled in his direction.

“Sure.”  He stopped walking in circles trying to get a signal and jogged over to her.  He handed her his special lawyer pen.

“Can I keep it?”  She asked.  Examining it.

“Well, how about you hold on to it until I need it back.  Okay?”

“Sure.”  She thought for a moment then wrote her name on the very first page.  She pressed the pen to the paper and went over the letters multiple times when she was finished Kymmie Lawyer displayed in bold at the top corner of the journal.  She closed the notebook and placed the pen back in her pocket.  She wasn’t quite ready to start filling in the playlist.  After all, how does one decide the exact songs that are just the right fit for a PERFECT playlist?  “What now?”  She asked.

“Let’s just wait here for a bit okay?  We’ll see if anyone else shows up.”

“Okay.”  She looked at the journal in her hands.  She felt another wave of excitement rush over her.  Then she looked up again at her dad.  He was restarting his phone.  “Are you trying to call your boss… Mr. Whale?”

“I was trying to call your mother, actually, but I’ll need to call him at some point too.”

“Why do you call him The Whale?”

Carl reflected for a moment.  “It’s a long story, a whale is a person with a lot of money.  It’s an old term.”

“Oh, so it’s an olden days thing.  I was going to say he doesn’t really look like a whale.”

Carl laughed and shook his head no.  “The nickname has nothing to do with his physical appearance.”

She blinked, then blinked again, thought about it for a moment, then moved on.  She opened the journal once again.  She decided the playlist NEEDED to be filled in and since she needed SOMETHING to keep her mind occupied now that her phone was broken, this would have to do.  Mostly, it was hard to leave a waiting playlist empty.  It was pulling her in.  The question was, what songs made the perfect playlist?  Kymmie couldn’t decide.  She would have to think about it.  Maybe just add some of her favorite artists.  She turned to the second page and created a new list, she called it ‘STAN LIST’.

Kymmie wrote ‘Stan Ariana Grande’ at the top in the number one spot.  Then she wrote ‘(OBVIOUSLY)’ in big bold letters.  She made a small heart drawing beside her idol’s name.  Then she wrote on the next line ‘Justin Bieber (is okay too).  Then she wrote, ‘Billie Eilish is pretty stylish’ on the third line.  She wasn’t about to full on stan either of them but she decided they were cool.’  She made a little smiley face.  Then she wrote Taylor Swift’s name down below that with an undecided question mark.’  Then she thought of the cat and drew a picture of the cat next to Taylor’s name.  She wasn’t sure how she felt about Taylor right now, she knew how other people felt, some loved her, some didn’t, but she wasn’t entirely sure about a lot of things at the moment.  She moved the pen back up to Ariana Grande and underlined her name. Okay, she knew that much at least, she’d do ANYTHING for Ariana.  Arianator for life.

She turned to the next page and wrote PLAYLIST POSSIBILITIES at the top.  She added more artists on her mind besides Ariana , Justin, Billie, and Taylor.  Cardi B DEFINITELY, and Roddy Ricch. She paused, thought, then continued writing, The Weeknd, Harry Styles, CHVRCHES.  She wasn’t sure what order and what songs she wanted this playlist to be in, she would reorder it later, right now she was just writing down artists she liked.  “I’ll just make a list and then cross the numbers out and change it later.  Ugh, paper.  Why do you have to be so difficult?”  She was talking to herself.  She tried to remember what she had saved on her phone.  She wrote down more names, Drake, Tones and I, Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Lewis Capaldi, DJ Khaled, Dua Lipa…

She stopped writing for a moment trying to think of more.  She was drawing a blank, there were so many more SOOO many more she just couldn’t think of them!  Instead, she wrote down, ALL OF COACHELLA, even though she’d never actually been to Coachella, because her mom wouldn’t let her, but she watched it on live stream and it seemed like the best ever.  She thought back to Ariana’s Coachella performance, so amazing, ohhhh and Beyoncé!  Beychella.  She wrote down Beyoncé.  Then she went back up and underlined ALL OF COACHELLA.  Then wrote “ARIANACHELLA GRANDECHELLA”.  She lifted the pen again and looked up at her dad trying to get cell service.  “Hmmmm… THIS THING IS SOOOO COOOL!  I love this journal dairy book thing.”  She flipped through a few pages and found some writing in the margin.

The Jitterbug Mystery

“The Jitterbug Mystery?”  She read it again.  “Dad, what’s a Jitterbug?”  She yelled in his direction.

“It’s an old dance.”  He said back in her direction after looking up from his phone thinking for a moment.  He started walking towards her still not having any luck with getting service.  “I thought you didn’t like bugs?”

“Hmm, well, yeah, but this bug sounds interesting.  Is it as old as The Whale?”

Carl laughed.  “I’m not going to comment on the age of my boss.  If it gets back to him, I could be in some hot water.  I will comment on the dance, the Jitterbug dance is pretty old.  Why do you ask about The Jitterbug?”

“It’s written here.”  She pointed to it in the journal.

Carl looked over at the faded and worn looking notebook his daughter was holding up for him to see.  “Where did you find that?”

“It was over there.”  She pointed to where she found it.  “Someone dropped it.  It’s mostly blank, but…”  She pointed back to The Jitterbug Mystery writing.  “There’s some notes written here and there.”

He eyed the cover, it looked vaguely familiar, like an Art Nouveau painting, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it. “Well, if you find a name, or figure out who it belonged to, we will have to return it to its rightful owner.  Just don’t get too attached to it, okay?”

“Ummm, I already wrote my name in it.  Sorry.  No big deal.  Where’s the undo on this tablet thing.  I’ll just undo it!”

“It’s pen and paper, you can’t undo it.”

“Oops.  Ugh, pen and paper, it’s like making life mistakes, you can’t go back!  It’s like that time I un-friended one of my best friends because they couldn't stan the same musician as me.  And then I was like, I miss my best friend.  Life is so hard when you can’t undo!”

Carl chuckled.  “I don’t think I’ve ever met this Stan friend of yours is, but hopefully you learned a valuable lesson from losing your friend.  Just remember, someone else is missing that book right now.  It will be up to you to take care of it for them.”

“Dad, stan isn’t a friend, it’s when you… Never mind.”  She pulled out the pen and thought for a moment. “Hmmmm…”   She pressed the pen into the paper and underlined The Jitterbug Mystery.  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this Jitterbug Mystery”, she said to herself the noticed more writing below, written in ink the same color as the paper, nearly invisible, but it was there if you held the notebook at just the right angle.

A perfectly imperfect playlist

Me… The right songs in the wrong order.

You… The wrong songs in the right order.

Us… The right songs in just the right order.

She read it again.  Kymmie let a feeling of awe wash over her.  “A perfectly imperfect playlist.  Me… You… Us.”  She ran her hand over the words.  Someone else’s words were grabbing her; the journal was pulling her into its mystery, its Jitterbug Mystery.  She started to wonder about its history, “Who are you?“ She said to the journal.

She removed the pen from the page and paused again to think for another moment, wondering which shelf this journal would sit upon were it not for this fork in the road, then turned back to the playlist page.  She wasn’t going to fill it out yet but, why not… it’s not like it was going to be a perfect playlist, at least not at first anyway, it was going to be perfectly imperfect, the wrong song or the wrong order, a perfectly imperfect playlist.  Kymmie decided to add her missing friends to the playlist.  She wrote down Justin Bieber, then moved the pen to the next line and wrote Billie Eilish.  She left the songs blank, she decided she would fill those in later.

Kymmie looked up from the journal after writing their names and spotted Billie and Justin walking down the street.  Billie was holding Justin up every few steps, but he seemed okay.

“Dad!  Look!”  She yelled.  “BILLIE!  JUSTIN!”

They picked up their pace, walking quickly over to her and Carl.

“Are you two okay?”  Carl asked.

“Yeah.  I think so?  I mean, we feel okay.”  Billie pointed to Justin and herself.  “I’m… just not exactly sure what happened.  I remember going through that doorway and then, it was a bit like that scene in Contact when Jodie Foster goes through that space gate, you know when she falls right through and no one believes her journey story because there’s nothing on the tape, it was a blank tape but then the one person points out that sure the tape was blank, but it recorded 18 hours of blank tape and then you’re mind is blown because you’re just like WHAAAAATTTTT, THIS IS REAL!  I love that part.  Anyway instead of space this was… what was it?  Some kind of an earworm wormhole?”  Billie looked at the others and they shrugged back at her.  The agreed to call it an Earworm Wormhole as that seemed to work.  “After the wormhole, everything went hazy and we were just here in the street.  To be honest, I was expecting something cooler at the end of the earworm wormhole.”

“Yeah, me too.”  Bieber added.  He looked a little like he was about to throw up, but then seemed okay again.  “So it kind of is like contact, all that wormhole traveling and you end up right back where you started.”

Everyone nodded. “Yeah.”  Carl replied with a furrowed brow.  “It was more of an exit door than an earworm wormhole.  One heck of an exit door though.”

“Where are the others?”  Billie asked.  “Where’s Lizzo, and Kanye?”

Carl looked back at Billie unsure.  He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.  “I don’t know.”

“Ohhh!  I should add them to this playlist too.”  Kymmie fished her hand into her pocket and pulled out the pen her dad gave (loaned) her (we all know he’s not getting it back), she opened the journal and wrote Kanye West and Lizzo on the playlist.

“I hope they’re okay!”  Billie looked up and down the street.

“Wait, Kymmie, you said playlist.  What playlist?”  Justin asked.

“This journaling book I found!  I don’t know… it was just lying over there.”  She pointed to the spot on the ground where she found it.  “But you're on it now!  See!!!  I added you, it was blank when I found it, but now you’re in it.  And Billie, so are you!  I just haven’t decided what songs of yours I want.  But don’t worry, I’ll pick something from each of you.”

“She’s going through phone withdrawal.”  Her dad said to Billie and Justin.

“Oh.”  They nodded.

“DAD!  I am not going through phone withdrawal.”

“Yeah, you are.”  He smiled at her.

She shook her head and rolled her eyes.  Kymmie pulled out her phone, it was still locked on the same screen.  Even a secret doorway couldn’t fix it.  She held it up.  “An earworm wormhole couldn’t bring my phone back!”  She put it back into her pocket.  “Oh well.  At least now I have this cool notebook journal thing.”

“You’ll just appreciate your phone that much more when you finally get it back.”  Billie smiled at Kymmie.  “Just keep writing in that book.  It IS pretty cool looking!  Look at that cover!”

“Yeah.  It is pretty cool looking.”  She repeated and smiled back at Billie.

“Kymmie, do you mind if I take a quick peek at that notebook journal”  Billie asked, eyeing the notebook. “Just real quick?”

“You promise to give it back?”

“Yeah.”  She crossed her fingers behind her back.

“Okay.”  Kymmie handed the mystery book over to Billie.

Billie’s thoughts flashed to what she was told backstage about the fabled celebrity suicides book, not that she was sure it even existed, but if THIS was it, Kymmie wouldn’t be getting it back, Billie would burn it, destroy it, without question, there’s been enough suicides in the world, let alone celebrity suicides in the world already.  She decided if that journal did exist, she could find it and destroy it, ESPECIALLY if The Whale was using it to gain control of valuable art assets to build his stronghold over all of streaming media.  She took a deep breath and opened the mystery notebook.  She quickly scanned through a few of the pages then breathed a sigh of relief.  It didn’t seem to contain any suicide notes.  Perhaps Emma Watson really was keeping the real collection of notes hidden somewhere only she knew, Emma and her mental fortitude not to read it.  How impossible it must be to have a book in your possession that you are never to read.  Billie returned the book to Kymmie.  As the journal left her hands she suddenly realizing if it HAD been the suicide book, what then?  She opened the book so eagerly, as if, she wanted to know if it was THE NOTEBOOK, it was as if she HAD to know.  ‘Don’t read it… don’t open it’ was her first thought, but, ‘I have to know!’  …was her second.  Maybe that’s how it worked, maybe you had to know.  You had to read it.  The curiosity of its mystery as it sat on the bookshelf drove you mad.  You knew what it did, you knew it was cursed; you knew it was destructive, but you couldn't stop, you wanted more.  She felt dizzy for a second, sick.  Billie made a small wish under her breath…

Emma Watson, don’t let a soul near that book.  If you really have it, if you REALLY do, it’s up to YOU to save the lives of anyone who might otherwise get their hands on it.  Keep it locked up tight.  And whatever you do, never open it, please, please, PLEASE, never read it, no matter how curious you might get.  Promise you’ll never read it.  You need to promise me you’ll never read the notes, not even one, because that’s how it starts, you read the first one, and then you can’t stop until it’s too late.  Like reading every terrible troll social media comment about a celebrity, each one burrowing its way into your mind with just a tiny bit more of that melancholy mixed with infinite sadness.

           “Wait where’s uncle Scott?” Kymmie asked.  She had been holding his hand when they went through the earworm wormhole.

“He’s your uncle!”  Justin exclaimed.  “Are you related to everyone!?”

“No… We just call people my dad knows aunt and uncle, I don’t know why we do that.  Dad why do we do that?”

Carl Lyle Lawyer shrugged back at his daughter Kymmie Lawyer.  “Ummm… It’s just something we’ve always done.  I don’t really know either, my dad and used to do that, so I do too.  I never really thought about it before.  I honestly have no idea where it came from.”

It’s a curious thing to consider, not knowing the origin of something in your life that you do.  Everything came from somewhere.  There’s a history to everything about everyone.

“Do the others make music?”  Kymmie asked suddenly, seemingly out of the blue.

“As far as I know they all play instruments, I mean Oak is a famous music producer and writes music and Pop too, Scott plays an instrument, I believe.  Why?”

“I was going to add them to my playlist.  You know what, I’m going to put them on this playlist anyway.  I can always scratch their names out, TAKE THAT PEN AND PAPER!  You aren’t so permanent after all!  And anyway, everyone has the ability to make music!  Who am I to judge?  I’m not a judge, I’m a lawyer.”  She started to write down each name on the playlist beside a number.  She even wrote down the man of mystery who opened up the earworm wormhole that they has just traveled through, William B. Way.

“Oh Kymmie.”  Billie rolled her eyes laughing at Kymmie Lawyer’s joke.

Justin and Carl laughed too.

“I mean, that was kind of funny.”  Justin cracked a half smile.  “You know, for a lawyer you’re funny.”

Carl stared at Justin with a very serious look on his face.

“It… Umm..” Justin pulled at his collar, “It was a joke.  I tell ya… can’t get no respect.  Soooo… how about that unrelated sporting event?  Go Maple Leafs!”

Carl continued to stare at Justin.

“Look!”  Kymmie yelled and pointed, as if she were recognizing some old friends at a concert.  Lizzo, Oak Felder, Scott Borchetta, Kanye West, Pop Wansel, and even Will B walked out of a shadow and into the street.  “HEY!”  Kymmie waved.  “OVER HERE!!!  WE’RE OVER HERE!”  She waved her arms wildly jumping up and down.

They ran down the street to make the group whole again.  Everyone had made it safely to the other side of the wall of sound earworm wormhole.

[ywhiterain]

Early draft of Hope’s Education is The Priority

Klaus and Elijah are nuts re: Hope getting a ‘C’. Kol watches. First draft, will revise later.

"I had initially planned increase state funding for education," Elijah said, "however, with murder off the table, it's a slower process than I expected." He put the paper in in jacket pocket. "I expect I shall have things fixed up by the time she's in middle school."

"This is absurd!" Klaus declared with the kind of rage that tended to be reserved for politics and religion - so Kol supposed it was probably just another day. "If not for the decree I've set to limit murders to only the absolutely necessary - "

Okay. No. "That was Hayley," Kol said. "And I'm still cross that you unilaterally agreed we'd all abide by it without bothering to ask."

"I don't even see why you keep bringing that up," Klaus said. "You'll behave as long as Davina is around."

"That's not even the point," Kol snapped, standing up. "It's that - "

"I don't care to hear your complaints," Klaus said, waving his hand aside like Kol was still six and too little to join in sword fighting practice, even though everyone but Father knew Klaus was teaching little Rebekah the ways of the sword.

"And what makes you think I'd care to hear about yours?" Kol said.

"It's about <em>Hope</em>," Klaus said. He looked pompous and stupid and Kol wanted to strangle him for having the ultimate trump card.

Before Kol could come up with a retort, Elijah strode in. Either he knew something was amiss with his beloved niece via some sort of sixth sense or he was in the mood to dole out a lecture; both were equally valid.

"If you two must fight, I'm going to have to ask you to move it outside," Elijah told them.

Kol flopped back down on the couch and folded his arms. "Last I checked, this house was still in Marcel's name."

Just like Klaus, Elijah waved him off. "It's only a technicality. Freya is able to do a few protection spells if the house isn't in our name." He looked down at Kol and gave him a disappointed frown. "However, the details of home ownership is not the point here."

"Why are you getting onto me," Kol said, "Klaus started it."

"I'm sure he did," Elijah said.

"I resent that implication against my character," Klaus said, "and while I would normally be more than willing to state my case, we are currently in a crisis." He held up a piece of paper covered in crayon scribbles and pointed at the big 'C' on the top left-handed side. "Mrs. Clover is attempting to undermine Hope's achievements, destroy her self-esteem, and leave her with crippling self-doubt for the rest of her very long life."

"Mrs. Clover?" Kol said as Elijah grabbed the paper, frown on his face.

"Janet," Klaus said. "Janet Clover is currently enemy number one of our family."

Kol stared at him.

"Hope's first grade teacher," Elijah said as he examined the crayon marks on the paper like they held the answers to every question he could ever have. "She is actually a fine teacher I hand selected her from from a small pool reputable teachers and compelled her to start a new job in New Orleans."

"Of course you did," Kol said, mostly to himself.

Elijah folded the paper in half. "I have, of course, accommodated the decrease in pay with a small portion of our own fortune." He frowned. "However, it would be ideal if she was actually paid her worth. It won't do for Hope to grow up surrounded by children undeserved in their schooling."

Kol sighed deeply.

"I had initially planned increase state funding for education," Elijah said, "however, with murder off the table, it's a slower process than I expected." He put the paper in in jacket pocket. "I expect I shall have things fixed up by the time she's in middle school."

"We can talk about her long term goals later," Klaus said. "Right now, we need to attend to the problem at hand."

"I agree," Elijah said and Kol wished Davina was back from college in California so he could make out with her instead of listening to his brothers agree with one another, "however, Janet is not the problem."

Klaus gave Elijah a sharp look. "Are you in league with her?" He reached into Elijah's jacket and pulled out the paper. "I should have known your motives were murky once you started to speak so highly of her. You and your pet humans -"

Kol brightened a little. In addition to the attention being off his behavior, he was about to entertained. His brothers fighting was usually interesting, after all.

"Enough," Elijah said. "The assignment was for Hope to draw a map of her neighborhood and she put next to no effort into it. It's unlike her." He pursed his lips together. "I shall speak with Hayley about this - I have no intention of allowing her to fall into bad study habits."

"First of all," Klaus hissed - and he was moving like an angry cat to, prawling around the room, on the hunt with nothing he could dig his teeth into, "that map was brilliant. In fact, it should replace the ones that are sold in tourist traps. In fact, I have half a mind to commission Hope to map out the entire city. Anything she makes is bound to be better than the - "

"Niklaus!" Elijah's tone was too much like Mikael's for his younger brothers not to flinch at the tone. "Hope is a very studious child and its unlike her to preform so poorly. There may be an underlining issue at hand."

"Or maybe she rushed through it so she could watch TV," Kol said. Klaus and Elijah turned in unison and glared at him. Kol rolled his eyes. "Or maybe she's suffering from the trauma of being related to you two."

"There was a My Little Pony marathon on this weekend," Elijah allowed.

"It doesn't matter what bloody cartoon my child enjoyed," Klaus said. He held up the homework and banged his hand against it. "This is quality work that demands A+ at the very least."

"Would me pointing out that that's the highest grade deter your crazy ranting at all?" Kol asked.

Klaus ignored him. "Hope Mikaelson is a brilliant scholar and a talented artist and I won't have her talents overlooked!"

"I still need to talk to Hayley," Elijah said, sounding pained as he walked over to the stairway, "we need to have a long talk with Hope about setting prioties."

"HOPE'S PRIORITIES ARE PERFECT!"

[employsophiejackson]

19 Reasons Buzzfeed Should Employ Sophie Jackson (#13 is questionable)

1. I write every day of my life. Yes, even when I’m not being paid for it.

My whole life is basically just an endless series of things I become passionate about. How do I express these passions? I write about them - at great lengths, and with a lot of enthusiasm. 

2. I’m your target market.

To attract a Buzzfeed key demographic, one most think like a Buzzfeed key demographic. 

Obviously the appeal of pop culture bulletins and informative listicles is fairly universal. Your typical reader, however, is the Western millennial spending their coffee break glued to a smartphone, and I fit in there quite comfortably. 

3. There is not a meme that eludes me.

In most job applications, this wouldn’t really be the kind of quality one boasts about. Spending every spare moment browsing Reddit, Tumblr and Twitter might not be the coolest of hobbies, but it does mean the I see practically every meme that comes into existence - however short-lived, however nonsensical.

And I’m not just talking about viral memes. Those alternative memes one only discovers when browsing the dark corners of Tumblr at 3am? I see them. I know them. I know them all. If anyone’s gonna earn a job at Buzzfeed solely for their meme expertise...

4. I’m extremely flexible.

No - I’m not just talking about my enviable yoga postures. I adapt to new environments like a Victoria Secret model adapts to the latest fad diet. Whether you need me to travel, stay put, work weekends or switch between tasks - it’s all fine by me.

5. I’m as familiar with past pop culture as I am with contemporary pop culture.

From The Bell Jar to The Fault in Our Stars, from Pissaro to Koons, from Blackadder to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia - I spend as much time obsessing over past icons as I do over today’s hottest releases. Good pop culture tends to remain relevant, so for every American Idol episode I've seen, I’ve watched just as many Top of the Pops re-runs. Whether you want me to cover David Bowie or Beyonce, I’m just as happy either way.

6. I have live reporting and interviewing experience.

I’ve professionally and confidently conducted interviews with a number of high profile figures including representatives of global charities, industry leaders, social media influencers and world league professional poker players. In the past two years I’ve also gained experience reporting at live sports events watched by thousands.

7. I know a thing or two about SEO.

Just kidding, I know like twenty things about SEO. Whether it’s in relation to social media marketing campaigns or the optimization of home page navigation, this is the field I’ve known from the earliest days of my career.

I could tell you, for example, the most competitive keywords for whatever you’re promoting. I can point you to the latest Google updates and explain what they mean for content strategy and link acquisition. My SEO crush is Rand Fishkin, and I know what Matt Cutt’s dinosaur impression looks like.

8. I’m a meticulous editor and fact-checker.

Living in what is becoming known as a ‘post-truth’ society of misinformation and fake news, impartial and factual journalism is as essential as ever.  

Even if written with a light-hearted tone or for entertainment purposes, I believe there’s rarely a publication that is justified in foregoing thorough fact-checks.

As such, it has become second nature for me to cross-reference, double-check, triple-source and provide ample citations for anything I write. In short, I do not take lightly the responsibility that comes with producing content for an internationally respected brand.

9. I’m not one to shy from politics.

And in this current political climate, one doesn’t really have the luxury of staying quiet. I appreciate the importance of delivering criticism and drawing attention to issues in a respectful manner that helps create productive debate and engagement.

With an education in UK politics, US politics, modern political history and Western political theory - I write about political matters with confidence and passion. If there’s one thing Buzzfeed does well (and Buzzfeed does several things well), it’s presenting a light-hearted and accessible examination of complex issues at a time when such media is especially needed.

10. I’m totally comfortable writing in whatever style a piece of content calls for.

My experience in writing has been varied and far-spanning. I believe this to be useful, in that appropriately repurposing content for different platforms while maintaining consistency in tone is now a necessity for any online brand marketing.

My thorough grasp of the English language is one of many reasons I am highly qualified to undertake this task. Whether you want a blog post, informative review, promotional copy, argumentative op-ed or journalistic analysis - I can adapt my editorial style accordingly. One moment I can be writing a political take for The Hill, the next moment I’m focused on comparing Jeff Goldblum to pasta for The Reductress.

11. I’ve spent the last three years writing articles on every subject under the sun.

From beauty guides to morbid crimes to album releases to terrifying advancements of artificial intelligence - there’s not a subject I won’t or can’t write about. 

‘Research’ is my middle name. I didn’t always know a lot about Bitcoins, Bill Clinton’s diet or Niagara Falls - but when my job calls for me to research something, I’m going to be an expert by the time I put pen to paper...or fingers to keyboard.

That being said - there are some subjects on which I am especially well-versed, and therefore love writing about the most. These subjects include, but are not limited to, intersectional feminism, contemporary art, modern history, animal welfare, mental health, science fiction, alternative fashion and classic rock.

12. I’m on the lookout. 

I have an eye for interesting stories and upcoming trends. My mornings are defined by two activities in particular; 1) drinking coffee with obscene amounts of sugar, and 2) checking the BBC, The Guardian, The Verge, ThinkProgress, Buzzfeed, ATTN:, Vox, The Washington Post and a bunch of other cutting-edge news publications. Not only do I stay-up-to-date, but I know how to translate news into clickable, shareable and relatable content that gets people commenting.

13. I bake the most divine Victoria Sponge cake and would bring it into the office.

“Feast upon my creation, colleagues” is something I would not say because that is weird.

14. I’ve done a fair bit of travelling.

Globetrotting is an interest that has taken me from the coffee shops of Amsterdam and cathedrals of Rome to the forests of Sweden and beaches of California. A global perspective is important when writing for a global platform, and I believe my travel experiences will enrich what I can contribute to Buzzfeed.

15. I’m a quick learner.

There’s no doubt I’ve still got a lot to learn. Fortunately, I pick up most things quickly and have no problem putting aside extra time for studying should I lack any particular experience or know-how when it comes to my career. I would like to improve my GIF making game, Photoshop abilities and a couple of other mostly self-taught skills. Buzzfeed seems like the kind of environment to facilitate that growth and development.

16. I’m a closeted Yankophile.

Yes, I may devour crumpets and Earl Grey tea for breakfast, but deep down there’s a part of me that just wants to live my life like an American hipster in an innocuous coming-of-age comedy. I grew up on a diet of American TV and literature, so writing for an American audience comes as naturally to me as writing for British readers.

17. I pride myself on being a good colleague. 

Respect, positivity and open-mindedness - those are the principles I believe underline a healthy work environment.

I perform equally well in a team as I do independently. My management experience has taught me how to recognize and encourage my colleagues’ strongest traits, while giving them a space in which they can feel heard and supported.

18. London is one of my favourite places in the whole world.

Why does that make me an ideal candidate? Well, in a way my love for London is irrelevant - except that my excitement over living in the coolest city on earth will probably manifest itself in the form of a big smile each morning. I’d be over the moon if I could relocate to that rainy hub of art galleries, innovative music scenes, cultural merging, vintage street markets and lush city parks.

19. I aim for excellence.

If there’s a sentence you’ll never hear me say, it’s “that’s not in my job description”. I genuinely enjoy pushing myself and always aim to impress. No matter what project is at hand - I won’t stop until I’ve put my 100% into the job. If I work for you, you can rest assured you have a driven, reliable and problem-solving employee at force.

[writerspink]

K-12 Words

K

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1.1

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1.2

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2.1

paragraph weather window third believe discovered simple gone paint new store form cells matter follow perhaps cannot good means around line center kind reason move forest sentence return instruments beside represent wild study back farmers sum difference product quotient remainder mother animal land region record summer general caterpillar scratch modern adjust passenger promise equal creak almost croak book dainty song high every near add food between own below country plant last school father keep tree never start city earth eyes light thought head under story saw left don’t few while along might close something seem next hard open example begin life always those both paper together got group often run

2.2

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3.1

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3.2

being instead ache exactly hard speed buy age late artistic close affordable fraction eyes appetite complain sleep seem eat below remove rusty grow glum stormy trust enormous scale open add grab upset weed denied expensive story terrified lead jumped died basket side bear bend list tomb while batch grateful father gleaming dress light sprinkle amount exclaim result yank leave cheat whimper angle outside remain heap champion surprise dodge moment fancy squeeze pretend village shriek city thunder rapid iron striped don’t attitude bell hat tug isn’t applause children honest cross spring freezing listen wind rock space covered fast several hold himself toward five step morning passed vowel true hundred against pattern numeral table north expert slowly money map farm pulled draw voice seen cold cried plan notice south sing war ground fall king town I’ll unit figure certain field travel wood fire upon

4.1

pattern cave hope mile group travel blush killed seed bottom hide important let ticket timid pounds restart silent cranky keep real bright quite curved repeat trip without dart consonant mountains quiet apologize roar grip groan bolt food injury century exhausted cabin atmosphere floor it’s scold transportation delighted giant hill something build fog method rough left everyone obey deserve speak therefore soon french switch until pushed state knob hobby between surround collect fire I’ll arrive road happened certain top order astronomy inches club catch farm nibble color yourself received connect told gaze check wear English half ten fly gave box finally wait correct oh quickly person became shown minutes strong verb stars front feel fact street decided contain course surface produce building ocean class note nothing rest carefully scientists inside wheels stay green known island week less machine base ago stood

4.2

round award crowd slowly yet products, goods, services vowel himself strange whose draw team hold feel flood sent save stood yard notice warn enemy deep please flap coast music wrote safe blast behind island lizard figure famous garden correct whisper listen joined clear share net thus calf maybe cried piece fold seen england decided bank fell pair control clean telescope trouble glass float morning horse produce course hunting rest step statement contain shouted filled zigzag accident cents instrument fly single express visit desert seeds chew dome experiment break gravity against branch size low plane system ran boat game force brought understand warm common bring explain dry though language shape thousands yes equation government heat full hot check object am rule among noun power cannot able six dark ball material special heavy fine circle include built

5.1

mark wealthy row feeling across attention ran map students inside design art mouth ring skill hot during shelter full till log (book) blossom discard bring quickly scientists party town covered wise early cram grain harm goal pause inform heal clue fame freeze badge pimple dim missionary diet dumb rod march agree stick government bulb mall ban greed skiing poison stove image grew fact material dangerous flow gap ago stack explain didn’t strong voice true drawing surface gift corner cloud since king dawn pulled dozen friends greedy burning upon knew insect decimal nervous pay foot weak smooth aware steady serve lost nonetheless beach front atlas questions less cost slight motor banner wire area carefully separate equation local minutes fast table plan fine waves fair sing dive suppose boat thousands shape among toward gas factory birds wait understand sure ship report captain human game history reflect special brave bounce though else can’t matter square syllables perhaps bill felt suddenly test direction center farmers ready anything divided general energy subject Europe moon region return believe dance members picked simple cells paint mind love cause rain exercise eggs train blue wish drop developed window difference distance heart site sum summer wall forest probably

5.2

include cage language base red brain building feast better built demolish excess leap tower ocean plains cold claw information scholar climbed woman worry strand heavy herd common ground damp pack choose president least increase half english invent class measure dash tremble object become doubt became bare wheels continued shiver engine core couple business stars week peak numeral brought nothing touch reached uncle symbols however rumor evening inasmuch (as) force curious heat career system valley dust flock spray robber practice lonely remember luxury warm heard calm rock frighten leader difficulty best gum cheer key support universe stream bit usually fish parade balance money note cliff stand proof you’re pale machine complete cool shown street today shy easy several search unit war power caught settle itself fuel mention fresh planet plane straight period person able direct space wood seal field circle lady board besides hours passed known whole similar underline main winter wide written length reason kept interest arms brother race present beautiful store job edge past sign record finished discovered wild happy beside gone sky grass million west lay weather root instruments meet third months paragraph raised represent soft whether clothes flowers shall teacher held describe drive appreciate structure visible artificial

6.1

afraid absorb british seat fear stretched furniture sight oxygen coward rope clever yellow albeit confess passage france fan cattle spot explore rather active death effect mine create wash printed process origin rose swift woe planets doze gasp chief perform triumph value substances tone score predict property movement harsh tube settled defend reverse ancient blood sharp border fierce plunge consider terms vision intend total schedule attract average intelligent corn dead southern glide supply convince send continent brief mural symbol crew chance suffix habit insects entered nursery especially spread drift major fig diagram guess wit sugar predator science necessary moisture park ordeal nectar fortunate flutter gun forward globe misery molecules arctic won’t actually addition washington cling rare lie steel pastime soldiers chill accordingly capital prevent solution greek sensitive electric agreed thin provide indicate northern volunteer sell tied triangle action opposite shoulder imitate steer wander except match cross speak solve appear metal son either ice sleep village factors result jumped snow ride care floor hill pushed baby buy century outside everything tall already instead phrase soil bed copy free hope spring case laughed nation quite type themselves temperature bright lead everyone method section lake iron within dictionary bargain loyal resource struggle vary capture exclaim gloomy insist restless shallow shatter talent atmosphere brilliant endure glance precious unite certain clasp depart journey observe superb treasure wisdom

6.2

prepared journey trade delicate arrived track cotton hoe furnish exciting view grasp level branches privilege limit wrong enable ability various moreover spoil starve dollars digest advice sense accuse pretty wasn’t industry adopt loyal suggested blow treasure cook adjective doesn’t wings tools crops loud smell frail wisdom fit expect ahead lifted deed device weight gradual respect interesting arrange particular compound examine cable climate division individual talent fatal entire advantage opponent wouldn’t elements column custom enjoy grace theory suitable wife shoes determine allow marsh workers difficult repeated thrill position born distant revive magnificent shop sir army struggled deal plural rich rhythm rely poem company string locate church mystify elegant led actual responsible japanese huge fun meat observe swim office chart avoid factories block called experience win crumple brilliant located pole bought conditions sister details primary survey truck recall disease radio rate scatter decay signal approach launch hair age amount scale pounds although per broken moment tiny possible gold milk quiet natural lot stone act build middle speed count consonant someone sail rolled bear wonder smiled angle fraction Africa killed melody bottom trip hole poor let’s fight surprise French died beat exactly remain fingers clever coast explore imitate pierce rare symbol triumph ancient cling disturb expose perform remote timid bashful brief compete consider delightful honor reflex remark brink chill conquer fortunate fury intend pattern vibrant wit

7.1

capture remark western outcome risk current bold compare resident ambition arrest furthermore desire confuse accurate disclose considerable contribute calculate baggage literacy noble era benefit orchard shabby content precious manufacture dusk afford assist demonstrate instant concentrate sturdy severe blend vacant weary carefree host limb pointless prepare inspire shallow chamber vast ease attentive source frantic lack recent distress basic permit threat analyze distract meadow mistrust jagged prefer sole envy hail reduce arena tour annual apparent recognize captivity burrow proceed develop humble resist peculiar response communicate circular variety frequent reveal essential disaster plead mature appropriate attractive request congratulate address destructive fragile modest attempt tradition ancestor focus flexible conclude venture impact generosity routine tragic crafty furious blossom concern ascend awkward master queasy release portion plentiful alert heroic extraordinary frontier descend invisible coax entrance capable peer terror mock outstanding valiant typical competition hardship entertain eager limp survive tidy antonym duplicate abolish approach approve glory magnificent meek prompt revive watchful wreckage audible consume glide origin prevent punctuate representative scorn stout woe arch authentic clarify declare grant grave opponent valid yearn admirable automatic devotion distant dreary exhaust kindle predict separation stunt

7.2

evade debate dedicate budge available miniature petrify pasture banquet pedestrian solitary decline reassure nonchalant exhibit realistic exert abuse dictate minor monarch concept character strategy soar beverage tropical withdraw challenge kin navigate purchase reliable mischief solo combine vivid aroma spurt illuminate narrator retain excavate avalanche preserve suspend accomplish exasperate obsolete occasion myth reign sparse gorge intense revert antagonist talon aggressive alternate retire cautiously blizzard require endanger luxurious senseless portable sever compensate companion visual immense slither guardian compassion escalate detect protagonist oasis altitude assume seldom courteous absurd edible identical pardon approximate taunt achievement homonym hearty convert wilderness industrious sluggish thrifty deprive independent bland confident anxious astound numerous resemble route access jubilation saunter hazy impressive document moral crave gigantic bungle prefix summit overthrow perish visible translate comply intercept feeble exult compose negative suffocate frigid synonym appeal dominate deplete abundant economy desperate diligent commend boycott jovial onset burden fixture objective siege barrier conceive formal inquire penalize picturesque predator privilege slumber advantage ambition defiant fearsome imply merit negotiate purify revoke wretched absorb amateur channel elegant grace inspect lame tiresome tranquil boast eloquent glisten ideal infectious invest locate ripple sufficient uproar

8.1

apprehensive dialogue prejudice marvel eligible accommodate arrogant distinct knack deposit liberate cumulative consequence strive salvage chronological unique vow concise influence lure poverty priority legislation significant conserve verdict leisure erupt beacon stationary generate provoke efficient campaign paraphrase swarm adhere eerie mere mimic deteriorate literal preliminary solar soothe expanse ignite verge recount apparel terrain ample quest composure majority collide prominent duration pursue innovation omniscient resolute unruly optimist restrain agony convenient constant prosper elaborate genre retrieve exploit continuous dissolve dwell persecute abandon meager elude rural retaliate primitive remote blunder propel vital designate cultivate loathe consent drastic fuse maximum negotiate barren transform conspicuous possess allegiance beneficial former factor deluge vibrant intimidate idiom dense awe rigorous manipulate transport discretion hostile clarity arid parody boisterous capacity massive prosecute declare stifle remorse refuge predicament treacherous inevitable ingenious plummet adapt monotonous accumulate reinforce extract reluctant vacate hazardous inept diminish domestic linger context excel cancel distribute document fragile myth reject scuffle solitary temporary veteran assault convert dispute impressive justify misleading numerous productive shrewd strategy villain bluff cautious consist despise haven miniature monarch obstacle postpone straggle vivid aggressive associate deceive emigrate flexible glamour hazy luxurious mishap overwhelm span blemish blunt capable conclude detect fatigue festive hospitality nomad supreme

8.2

exclude civic compact painstaking supplement habitat leeway minute hoax contaminate likeness migration commentary extinct tangible originate urban unanimous subordinate collaborate obstacle esteem encounter futile cordial trait improvises superior exaggerate anticipate cope evolve eclipse dissent anguish subsequent sanctuary formulates makeshift controversy diversity terminate precise equivalent pamper prior potential obnoxious radiant predatory presume permanent pending simultaneously tamper supervise perceived vicious patronize trickle stodgy rant oration preview species poised perturb vista wince yearn persist shirk status tragedy trivial snare vindictive wrath recede peevish rupture unscathed random toxic void orthodox subtle resume sequel upright wary overwhelm perjury uncertainty prowess utmost throb pluck pique vengeance pelt urgent substantial robust sullen retort ponder whim saga sham reprimand vocation assimilate dub defect accord embark desist dialect chastise banter inaugurate ovation barter muse blasé stamina atrocity deter principal liberal epoch preposterous advocate audacious dispatch incense deplore institute deceptive component subside spontaneous bonanza ultimate wrangle clarify hindrance irascible plausible profound infinite accomplish apparent capacity civilian conceal duplicate keen provoke spurt undoing vast withdraw barrier calculate compose considerable deputy industrious jolt loot rejoice reliable senseless shrivel alternate demolish energetic enforce feat hearty mature observant primary resign strive verdict brisk cherish considerate displace downfall estimate humiliate identical improper poll soothe vicinity abolish appeal brittle condemn descend dictator expand famine portable prey thrifty visual

9.1

stance vie instill exceptional avail strident formidable rebuke enhance benign perspective tedious aloof encroach memoir mien desolate inventive prodigy staple stint fallacy grope vilify recur assail tirade antics recourse clad jurisdiction caption pseudonym reception humane ornate sage ungainly overt sedative amiss convey connoisseur rational enigma fortify servile fastidious contagious elite disgruntled eccentric pioneer abet luminous era sleek serene proficient rue articulate awry pungent wage deploy anarchy culminate inventory commemorate muster adept durable foreboding lucrative modify authority transition confiscate pivotal analogy avid flair ferret decree voracious imperative grapple deface augment shackle legendary trepidation discern glut cache endeavor attribute phenomenon balmy bizarre gullible loll rankle decipher sublime rubble renounce porous turbulent heritage hover pithy allot minimize agile renown fend revenue versa gaunt haven dire doctrine intricate conservative exotic facilitate bountiful cite panorama swelter foster indifferent millennium gingerly conscientious intervene mercenary citadel obviously rely supportive sympathy weakling atmosphere decay gradual impact noticeable recede stability variation approximately astronomical calculation criterion diameter evaluate orbit sphere agricultural decline disorder identify probable thrive expected widespread bulletin contribution diversity enlist intercept operation recruit survival abruptly ally collide confident conflict protective taunt adaptation dormant forage frigid hibernate insulate export glisten influence landscape native plantation restore urge blare connection errand exchange

9.2

feasible teem pang vice tycoon succumb capacious onslaught excerpt eventful forfeit crusade tract haggard susceptible exemplify ardent crucial excruciating embargo disdain apprehend surpass sporadic flustered languish conventional disposition theme plunder ignore project complaint title dramatic delivery litter experimental clinic arrogance preparation remind atomic occasional conscious deny maturity closure stressed translator animate observation physical further gently registration suppress combination amazing constructive allied poetry passion ecstasy mystery cheerful contribution spirit failed gummy commerce prove disagreement raid consume embarrass preference migrant devour encouragement quote mythology destined destination illuminating struggle accent ungrateful giggle approval confidence expose scientist operation superstitious emergency manners absolutely swallow readily mutual bound crisp orient stress sort stare comfort verbal heel challenging advertisement envious sex scar astonish basis accuracy enviable alliance specific chef embarrassed counter tolerable sympathetic gradually vanish informative amaze royal furry insist jealousy simplify quiver collaborate dedicated flexible function mimic obstacle technique archaeologist fragment historian intact preserve reconstruct remnant commence deed exaggeration heroic impress pose saunter wring astound concealed inquisitive interpret perplexed precise reconsider suspicious anticipation defy entitled neutral outspoken reserved sought equal absorb affect circulate conserve cycle necessity seep barren expression meaningful plume focused genius perspective prospect stunned superb transition assume guarantee nominate

10.1

install reticent corroborate regretfully strength murder concise cunning intention holy satire query confused progression disillusion background mundane abrupt multiple enormously introduce emulate harmful pragmatic pity rebut liberate enthusiastic elucidate camaraderie disparage nature creep profitability impression racist sobriety occupy autonomy currently amiable reiterate reproduce cripple modest offer atom provincial augment ungratefully expansion yield rashly allude immigration silence epitome exacerbate somber avid dispute vindicate collaborate manufacturer embellish superficial propaganda incompetent objective diminish statistics endure ambivalent perpetuate illuminate phenomenon exasperate originality restrict anxiety anthropology circumstances aesthetic manufacturing conventional dubious vulnerable reality precedent entity success term critical repair underscore stepmother republican hesitantly classic wary contents prediction immediate invoke notorious implicit excluding input skeptical foster element punish frank humanity profound dessert orthodox substance disappear encourage neighborhood elder superfluous naive ascertain complacent resilient deafening military tend prudent glare acceptance skillfully induce monster beam gullible conciliate vessel petty cantankerous disclose archaeology anecdote disdain electronics substantiate subjective tourism advisable joyful incredible provocative psychological ruins discipline condone indifferent misfortune judgmental industrialize tasty assume astute mission mar protective definitely escape oppress shocked virtual zealous endorse qualification hostile eccentric abstract disparate geographical scrutinize generalization tolerate activity claim dogmatic influential obsolete extol implausible subsequent resource chronic benevolent improve confidential ambiguous seriously dearth perplex hatred throughout dine contemporary evoke essentially economic flagrant obscure alleviate eloquent dreaadful clumsy sympathy victim condemn vigor condescend spontaneous quell reprehensible substantially sleeve equivocal ironic decry errand articulate progressive eradicate refreshments elicit aspiration recently exemplary bribery theoretical disingenuous partisan revere particle nostalgia self-aggrandizement debunk tyranny rhetoric hierarchy warning whimsical venerate commend assert miserable awful vibe constrain undermine explicit differentiate compliment scrupulous contempt erroneous ideal refute imply cynical rash presume insight revival vary delay renounce indignant offensive temperate circumstantial export peep logo advertise suppress distort chunk convoluted denounce overwhelming fertility rigorous acquire arrogant university antagonize profitable indulgent strategic breathing idiosyncrasy profession frugal discern accommodation adversary incredulous disturbance digress social belie roam smug continual pertinent voluntarily elite subtle blame sincerity lick horror censure involvement candid infer futile impetuous exploit bewilder sustain diligent sincere protect sealed musical empathy callous parenthetical insure acorn sarcasm seize sacrificially allege emphatic irrelevant progress diplomatic stunned improvise deride reconcile meticulous deject scientifically incontrovertible pressure justify gloomy depict supplant endurance analogous diary bolster slip contemplate pesticide glow religious advocate negligent creator lament fundamental embrace throne inherent inferior valuable thrive trivial pretense reserved capricious refresh refusal flight boost explanation coherent prevalent tenacious official royalty assassin rub poach delete

10.2

warrant circumscribed somewhat explosive optimistic mandate previously detract opinion intuitive feasible intimate persistent humble simplicity tempt deliberate painful unethical fundamentals discrepancy remorse pessimistic possibility conclusion acknowledge impregnate soberly creation paralyze suitability oblige tranquil medal arbitrate pacify illusory susceptible vibrate vengeance infection democratic stressful grave speculative sample identification stifle obligation revenge organization namely mediocre practical scream weaken consensus affectionate deficient treacherous console isolation ingenious memory melodrama despair awestruck composition regret recommendation celebrity decision devoid opaque ornamentation longevity participate dread restore interrogate aid accordingly mislead embarrassment optimism domestic apt funds virtue geography fundamentally thoroughly press despite horrible chilling rental esteemed disappointment innovative contemplation assign popularize haunt deafen serene percent estrangement suffer extravagant throng estimate comment priesthood mass dreadfully promote periphery animated saying relate clarity triple derivative succeed distortion register suicide improvement discreet inquisition probable curative incident praise convenience baffle covet dreadful genuinely weary undisturbed disgruntled humility renown nonchalant monopoly comedy vague decisive inconsequential announcement fabricated nevertheless vigilant scarce neglectful hushed attainment tedious explode snatch pslm agency sentimental tension adhere meanwhile sacred avert conformity likewise challenger accessible responsibility peril contact event roast fallible catastrophic competitor violate resolute deceive exaggeration discredit intolerable approve paste dimly novelist demeanor norm politician satisfaction obvious vehicle reservation defer involve restoration crush audible assistant backpack attain inanimate commemorate confrontation emigration parasite disperse quantitative laughter policy vulgar occasionally repay effective eulogy starvation empty therapeutic overall immortal encompass inappropriate opportune engagement illustrate turmoil observatory classification expression reminiscence comedian invention depress remedy protagonist gesture texture diplomatic election prolong conducive emotional invigorate curiosity expressive %

K-12 Words was originally published on PinkWrite

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Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà

New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/you-have-the-right-to-always-remain-silent/

You have the right to always remain silent!

by Pepe Escobar (cross-posted with the Asia Times) by special agreement with the author)

The date – April 11, 2019 – will live in infamy in the annals of Western “values” and “freedom of expression.” The image is stark. A handcuffed journalist and publisher dragged out by force from the inside of an embassy, clutching a Gore Vidal book on the History of the US National Security State.

The mechanism is brutal. WikiLeaks co-founder Julian Assange was arrested because the United States demanded this from the Tory British government, which for its part meekly claimed it did not pressure Ecuador to revoke Assange’s asylum.

The US magically erases Ecuador’s financial troubles, ordering the IMF to release a providential $4.2-billion loan. Immediately after, Ecuadorian diplomats “invite” the London Metropolitan Police to come inside their embassy to arrest their long-term guest.

Let’s cut to the chase. Julian Assange is not a US citizen, he’s an Australian. WikiLeaks is not a US-based media organization. If the US government gets Assange extradited, prosecuted and incarcerated, it will legitimize its right to go after anyone, anyhow, anywhere, anytime.

Call it The Killing of Journalism.

Get me that password

The case by the US Department of Justice (DoJ) against Assange is flimsy at best. Everything has to do essentially with the release of classified info in 2010 – 90,000 military files on Afghanistan, 400,000 files on Iraq and 250,000 diplomatic cables spanning most of the planet.

Wikileaks founder Julian Assange speaks on the balcony of the embassy of Ecuador in London in May 2017. Photo: AFP/Constantin Eckner/DPA

Assange is allegedly guilty of helping Chelsea Manning, the former US Army intel analyst, to get these documents. But it gets trickier. He’s also allegedly guilty of “encouraging” Manning to collect more information.

There’s no other way to interpret that. This amounts, no holds barred, to all-out criminalization of journalistic practice.

For the moment, Assange is charged with “conspiracy to commit computer intrusion.” The indictment argues that Assange helped Manning to crack a password stored on Pentagon computers linked to the Secret Internet Protocol Network (SIPRNet).

In March 2010 chat logs obtained by the US government, Manning talks to someone alternatively named “Ox” and “press association.” The DoJ is convinced this interlocutor is Assange. But they must conclusively prove it.

Manning and this person, allegedly Assange, engaged in “discussions.” “During an exchange, Manning told Assange that ‘after this upload, that’s all I really have got left.’ To which Assange replied: ‘Curious eyes never run dry in my experience.’”

None of this holds up. US corporate media routinely publishes illegal leaks of classified information. Manning offered the documents he had already downloaded to both the New York Times and the Washington Post – and he was rejected. Only then did he approach WikiLeaks.

The allegation that Assange tried to help crack a computer password has been doing the rounds since 2010. The DoJ under Obama refused to go for it, aware of what it would mean in terms of potentially outlawing investigative journalism.

No wonder US corporate media, deprived of a major scoop, subsequently started to dismiss WikiLeaks as a Russian agent.

Supporters of Julian Assange gather outside Westminster Court after Assange’s arrest. Photo: AFP/WIktor Szymanowicz/NurPhoto

The nuclear option

The great Daniel “Pentagon Papers” Ellsberg had already warned back in 2017: “Obama having opened the legal campaign against the press by going after the roots of investigative reporting on national security – the sources – Trump is going to go after the gatherers/gardeners themselves (and their bosses, publishers). To switch the metaphor, an indictment of Assange is a ‘first use’ of ‘the nuclear option’ against the First Amendment protection of a free press.”

The current DoJ charges – basically stealing a computer password – are just the tip of the avalanche. At least for now, publishing is not a crime. Yet if extradited, Assange may be additionally charged with extra conspiracies and even violation of the 1917 Espionage Act.

Even if they must still seek consent from London to bring further charges, there’s no shortage of DoJ lawyers able to apply sophistry to conjure a crime out of thin air.

WikiLeaks editor Kristinn Hrafnsson, right, and Assange’s UK lawyer Jennifer Robinson, left, outside Westminster Magistrate’s Court. Photo: AFP/WIktor Szymanowicz/NurPhoto

Jennifer Robinson, Assange’s very able lawyer, has correctly stressed his arrest is “a free speech issue” because it “is all about the ways in which journalists can communicate with their sources.” The invaluable Ray McGovern, who knows one or two things about the US intel community, has evoked a requiem of the fourth estate.The full context of Assange’s arrest comes to light when examined as sequential to Chelsea Manning spending a month in solitary confinement in a Virginia jail for refusing to denounce Assange in front of a grand jury. There’s no doubt the DoJ tactic is to break Manning by any means available.Here’s Manning’s legal team: “The indictment against Julian Assange unsealed today was obtained a year to the day before Chelsea appeared before the grand jury and refused to give testimony. The fact that this indictment has existed for over a year underscores what Chelsea’s legal team and Chelsea herself have been saying since she was first issued a subpoena to appear in front of a Federal Grand Jury in the Eastern District of Virginia – that compelling Chelsea to testify would have been duplicative of evidence already in the possession of the grand jury, and was not needed in order for US Attorneys to obtain an indictment of Mr Assange.”

The Deep State attacks

The ball is now in a UK court. Assange will most certainly linger in prison for a few months for skipping bail while the extradition to the US dossier proceeds. The DoJ arguably has discussed with London how a “correct” judge may deliver the desired outcome.Assange is a publisher. He leaked absolutely nothing. The New York Times, as well as The Guardian, also published what Manning uncovered. Collateral Murder, among tens of thousands of pieces of evidence, should always be at the forefront of the whole discussion – this is about war crimes committed in Afghanistan and Iraq.So it’s no wonder the US Deep State will never forgive Manning and Assange, even as the New York Times, in another glaring instance of double standards, may get a pass. The drama will eventually need closure at the Eastern District of Virginia because the national security and intel apparatus has been working on this screenplay, full-time, for years.

As CIA director, Mike Pompeo did cut to the chase: “It is time to call out WikiLeaks for what it really is: a non-state hostile intelligence service often abetted by state actors like Russia.”What amounts to a de facto declaration of war underlines how dangerous WikiLeaks actually is, just because it practiced investigative journalism.The current DoJ charges have absolutely nothing to do with the debunked Russiagate. But expect the subsequent political football to be bombastic.The Trump camp at the moment is divided. Assange is either a pop hero fighting the Deep State swamp or a lowly Kremlin stooge. At the same time, Joe Manchin, a southerner Democrat Senator, rejoices, on the record, as an ersatz 19th-century plantation owner, that Assange is now “our property.” The Democrat strategy will be to use Assange to get to Trump.And then there’s the EU, of which Britain may eventually not be part of, later rather than sooner. The EU will be very vigilant on Assange being extradited to “Trump’s America,” as the Deep State makes sure that journalists everywhere actually do have a right, to always remain silent.