#Cracking his egg would be one hell of a task but i wish i was there to see it (ill make my own aus about it)

[bugstung]

Yeah my conclusion of the day about ruikasa is that Rui is aware of his own feelings, but doesn't want to ruin their friendship (especially since wxs is already on a timer, he doesn't want to cut it even shorter), and think he's selfish for enjoying moments with Tsukasa (like inviting him to that fuck ass lake that is a popular couple spot)

Tsukasa on the other hand is completely oblivious to Rui's feelings as well as his own. I defo think he doesn't get flirting, as well as him being aroace with some kind of internalized homophobia?? I think he's the type of dude that can't wrap his head about people around him being queer (but he wouldn't take it badly if anyone was, he's just surprised when every single one of his friends comes out to him), and not even one second thinks he himself could be queer

[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

How to Plant Snapdragons (pt. 6)

Task Force141 + König + Keegan x Female Criminal!Reader (except Captain Price, because he'll be like a father to the bunch, and König and Keegan won't appear until later on in the story)

CHAPTER SUMMARY: For the first time in your life, you were thankful you had an ankle monitor

You are currently reading Chapter 6. Here is Chapter 5 and the Masterlist!

CONTENT WARNING: Strong Language and Violence, Implied Sexual Content (?) WORD COUNT: 2.6k

“Tie him up,” Price ordered. “Bravo 0-6 to Shadow 0-1, we’ve got the package. I repeat, we’ve got the package.”

“Copy, Bravo-6, the Shadows are still holding down the militia. But better move fast,” Graves demanded through the comms, his voice a bit stifled.

You got up from the man, putting your gun away, and stood beside Ghost, glancing up at him. “What’s on your mind, Lt.?”

“I’m wondering what else ya can do,” he responded in a low voice but kept his eyes focused on the Brazilian.

Gaz and Soap dragged Fabricio up to his feet, trying to remove himself from the soldiers’ death grips, a string of curses in Portuguese and English leaving his mouth.

You chuckled as the sergeants pulled out ropes from the pockets of their vests and bound his wrists on the nearest house’s window railings. “Why don’t you find out, sweetheart?” you questioned, playfully nudging his side.

Upon contact, you felt him stiffen and you quickly withdrew your arm. "Sorry."

He remained silent for a good second and turned to you. "Why not just tell me?"

You looked at him, surprised that he didn’t comment on the nickname you gave him. You smiled. "Eeey, Lt. Ya like to be called sweetheart?"

He frowned. "No, I—"

"Eeey, no need to be shy, buttercup, sweet cheeks, stud muffin—"

"Don't—"

At this point, the rest of Task Force 141 were looking at you two, invested in what kind of cringe name you would give the ever so cool and stoic Ghost. Even Fabricio kept his mouth shut, wondering if you were a mad woman who escaped the Mental Ward and sneaked in with these guys.

"Don't stop the music!" You exclaimed, suddenly pumping your fist in the air and shuffling your feet, before whipping around to Ghost just as he was about to step away. "Where are you escaping, my Pookie, bebegurl, acoochie coochie coo—"

"Enough," he grumbled.

You nodded immediately. "Copy that."

The Sergeants exchanged looks and the Captain sighed, shaking his head.

“Que diabos você quer de mim?!” Fabricio yelled, taking the opportunity to talk, his eyes darting around your figure and the Task Force veiled by the night. Only a flicker of light and your voices could inform him that there were five of you.

“What rubbish is he saying now?” Soap asked, turning to you.

You sauntered towards the target and crossed your arms. “He says, what the hell do we want from him.” Then, you leaned down, leveling your face to his. “Você conhece o inglês?”

(Do you know English?)

His eyes averted for a split second, seemingly thinking, before he shook his head furiously. “Não.”

(No.)

You huffed and glanced over your shoulder to look at the 141. “He knows English, you guys can talk to him instead.” You turned your head back to the Brazilian, who had a frown on his face, knowing you had already seen through his lie. “Say a single word in Portuguese or lie again, you’ll wish you had never messed with these guys.”

Maybe, you were really from the Mental Hospital made in the depths of Hell, because you looked like you added crack instead of salt on an egg at breakfast just now and switched to a seemingly normal soldier who just happened to know Portuguese.

If Bipolarity has four stages, you'd be on twelve.

“I have never messed with any of you!” He shouted, clenching his fist and tugging on the ropes as if he could escape it. “You are the ones who—ugh!”

Soap grabbed his neck and squeezed it tight, his veins raising on his skin. It got you arching your brows, smiling wide, and stepping to the side to let him do his thing, while Fabricio wheezed. What a lucky guy he was to have a beautiful necklace.

“Where is Hassan Zyani?” Johnny questioned, lowering his voice making it sound like a snarl. It made you want to be in the lucky guy’s place, meow, and bark at him if he wanted to.

You were so thankful you had borrowed a mask from the Lieutenant, otherwise, these people would already be dragging you to the mental ward for smiling like a maniac, ready to be a pet for Soap.

Who wouldn’t?

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” claimed Fabricio, his eyes darting from left to right, seemingly looking for something.

You glanced at the other three and it appeared they had noticed the Brazilian had looked around by the way they had also batted their gaze in different directions. Perceiving that as permission to let you and Soap to the rest of the interrogation as one of Price’s tests again, you drew out your knife.

Soap pulled his hand away and stepped aside, eyeing the knife on your hand, before your face covered with mask and night vision.

“It’s no use to lie, sir.” You approached him, holding his hand. “We already know your deals with Hassan. Now, where is he?” you asked and slowly started to drive the tip of your knife on his under the nail of his thumb.

He screamed in pain, his loud voice echoing along the series of gunshots in the air.

These noises were some things you were already used to or rather, they haunted you wherever you went, like a phantom you couldn’t chase away.

Yet it never ceased to be exhilarating.

“I, I don’t—” another scream cut off his words as you lifted his nail from his finger, letting it fall on the ground. Warm blood stained your glove, seeping through the fabric that kept your hand clean.

Just as you were about to do the same to his index finger, he exclaimed, “He’s in Mexico!”

“Where in Mexico?” Soap questioned, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I—” Fabricio stopped as you pointed the knife to his eye and you could see the big yet dry gulp he had, his Adam’s apple going up and down. “Las . . . Las Almas, Mexico. That’s where I last heard he was going!”

“Las Almas, eh?” Price averted his eyes for a second, appearing to be thinking of something before he stared at the man. “What’s he doing there?”

You slowly planted the tip of the knife under his eye, a warning for him to speak only the truth to the Captain.

“I heard he was making a deal with a person called El Sin Nombre.” Fabricio’s eyes then shifted to you, a bit glossy as tears formed, making you smile. “Please, that’s all I know!”

You kept the knife's blade on his cheek as you turned to face the Captain, quietly waiting for the order he was going to bark. He motioned a hand, swiping his neck which got Fabricio to yell curses at you in his mother tongue, struggling to escape his binds to no avail. With one slash through his throat, his insults that swam to your ears died in the breeze of Rio’s summer night.

You stepped away from the corpse, wiping the knife on your pants, and sheathed it back. You looked from yourself to find Soap, staring at you. You tilted your head in question. “Something the matter, sir?”

“Ah,” Johnny turned away, “nothing.”

It neither looked nor sounded nothing.

“Bravo 0-6 to Shadow 0-1, we’re done unpacking the package,” Price announced, beckoning for the four of you to follow him in an alleyway as he started to jog. You and the guys followed his lead, hugging your assault rifle tight to your chest. The Captain and Gaz were in front of you, while Soap and Ghost were on your rear.

“Copy, Bravo 0-6, that was fast,” Graves immediately replied, amazement evident in his voice.

“She did the unpacking, Shadow-1,” Priced told him, his voice cool, and sounded like a bit of a proud parent when their child achieved something, even if it was small. 

You threw your bag on one of the couches and looked around the place, while the guys scattered around, the Sergeant Duo and the Captain yelling at one another when they found alcohol on the shelves.

You and the 141 were currently in one of Graves' facilities, but this one could be called more of a mansion than a facility. You had heard that this one in Salvador was often only used when he and the Shadows would go on a short vacation after missions. And damn, you had always forgotten the prick was rich.

He had let you and the 141 occupy adjoining rooms with a living room, a kitchen, and a dining place. He might as well call this a suite.

You felt your muscles tremble and the wounds, you realized you had when you got on the chopper, ached.

Not bothering to tell anyone you'd be heading to the bathroom, you got your wallet of personal hygiene, sluggishly dragging your feet towards the bathroom. You slipped off your gear, mask, shoes, and shirt. Then, looked down at the monitor—the bane, the pain, the curse of your life.

You slipped off the first half of your pants, freeing one of your legs—Good—and started fighting for your life, pulling the pants past the monitor with one good arm. You even had to sit down on the cold-ass floor but to no avail.

You rolled down on the floor and kicked the air, breathing heavily through your nose, and got back up again to continue your struggle.

"Look at these goddamn pants and monitor having a relationship stronger than most relationships of kids these days," you grumbled, smacking the monitor as if it would break it down to the point your mind became too occupied with your grumbles and constant motivational speeches to realize the voice outside the door and the sound as Soap entered.

And Johnny was too busy to care about the weirdass pose you were making on the floor as his blue eyes raked over every inch of your skin. His brain took note of the curves of your body, the shades of your skin, your toned muscles, and the wounds you had gotten that he wanted to kiss better and caress each part of you gently to make you relax.

Because you looked angry and his instinct was to cover the growing tent on his pants as he locked the door behind him.

"Wait, shite, wrong, wrong—" your foot slammed on the door before he could make his escape, trapping him.

He couldn't help but glance at your leg, eyes traveling to your thighs and to your clothed cunt, making him run his tongue over his lips. Then he continued up to the flat of your stomach where he'd see the outline of his cock if he was pounding you against the bathroom wall, pretty legs over his shoulders, chest bouncing at every movement, and moaning his name.

Oh, you could feel the desire in his gaze right now and you could see the way his tongue moved across his lips and the attempt to hide his hard-on. And you couldn't help but pursed your lips for a moment, bringing your foot down to the cold tile as heat gathered between your thighs.

The sooner he left, the sooner you could take care of it. But you need his help right now. "Take off my pants."

The lingering blush on his cheeks spread to his ears and neck. "What? No, no, I—"

"It's stuck on the monitor."

"It's stuck . . . ?" He looked down on your leg and almost slapped himself upon not noticing that your pants were indeed stuck on the monitor, and couldn't help but cackle, remembering your position earlier. "That's why yer on the floor!"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"I'm Scottish."

"No shit, Scotlock."

"That's even worse. Alright, stand still. I'll grab a bathrobe." He patted your head and picked up your vest, shirt, mask, and shoes from the floor, putting them on the sink's side. Then, he proceeded to get a bathrobe and slipped it on you, even fastening the ties for you.

“Now then.” He reached down and scooped you in his arm, making your lips part and heart leap in surprise. He set you down next to the sink and gave your thigh a small pat. “I’ll get scissors.”

He turned away and opened the door. “Let’s keep this open, okay?"

"Okay," you replied in a small voice and brought your good hand to your face. "God, he's bad for my heart."

But for the first time, you were thankful you had an ankle monitor.

"Did he just come out of here?" Gaz's voice echoed and popped out behind the wall, raising a brow at you. A chuckle left his lips and he approached you. "Ah, no wonder."

"Don't laugh," you whined, waving your leg and whacking him with your pants like a whip.

His laughter only got louder and you pulled a face. He grinned and pinched your cheek. Then, he frowned as he saw blood soaking the white bathrobe. "What the hell, you're bleeding!"

You looked down at your thigh and clicked your tongue. "Damn, it's on the—"

"Got the scissors," Soap announced and his brows flew as he saw his fellow soldier. You noticed that Ghost was behind him, holding a first aid kit. "Hey, Gaz. By the way, I told the Lt. 'bout your wounds." He gestured a thumb over his shoulder.

"He said you have cuts that are large enough to need stitches," Ghost claimed, raking his light brown eyes over your frame. He could see your hand and thigh bleeding.

"Ah, I was planning on taking care of it later," you said as Soap began cutting the pants and finally pulled it off your ankle monitor. He set it aside and inspected the monitor if he accidentally damaged it.

His eyes narrowed as he placed the kit down next to you. "Later won't cut it, sweetheart." He slipped off his gloves and washed his hands clean on the sink, before patting it dry on the towel hanging on the wall. He extended his hand. "Let me see your hand first."

You put the back of your hand over his, showing him your palm. A cut across greeted his sight, blood running out and making him sigh. "Not so deep to need stitches, this one, but we need to bandage it up." He opened the tap and guided your hand under the running water. "Gaz, put pressure on her thigh. It's bleeding too much."

You winced at the sudden sting as the water hit your wound and the Sergeants had begun to press clean towels on your bleeding cuts, but it was nothing you couldn't take. Soon, after cleaning the wound, he applied down ointment and bandaged it up.

"Alright, your . . . thigh." He looked you straight in the eyes. "May I?"

For someone who had strangled you with his godly thighs, he sure was a gentleman. But more than that, you had noticed that as you had grown closer to the Sergeants, it seemed the more you grew distant from the Lieutenant. He had avoided your touches, even a simple nudge.

You nodded. "Of course, sir."

Gaz removed his hand away from your thigh and Ghost carefully lifted it to look at the wound. His rough, scarred, calloused hand felt warm against your skin.

"We'll have to stitch this one," he claimed and gently set your leg down.

"Are you good at it, sir?" You questioned as he rummaged through his kit. He pulled out a kind of needle you were so familiar with—a curved one.

"Very," he said confidently, putting a thread through the eye of the needle, and disinfected it with alcohol. "Go hold onto something. This might hurt."

"Want to hold my hand, Bonnie?" Soap offered, taking your good hand in his grasp.

"Please," you replied, squeezing it.

"Come closer," Ghost demanded and you inched yourself closer to the edge. "Lift your leg a bit for me."

Ah, another one that was bad for your heart.

The next chapter is Here!

Also on AO3!

Taglist: @yyiikes, @the-faceless-bride, @sae1kie, @sarahedwards16, @kenma-izhu, @kkaaaagt

Note: Sorry for the short chap. I got sick for almost 5 days. I was planning on adding more in this chapter but yeah, that happened. Also, please let me know if I got the translations wrong. I was also planning on making a Halloween Special, but idk when or if I'll post it since Halloween is ending lmao

[hangezoeenthusiast]

God(hcs)

c!multiple x god!reader

notes: the reader will be the god of death to make it a little bit more spicy :). c!punz’s pronouns are he/they, i’m not sure about the others, but i know theirs. also why does ranboo take away my gender? /j

word count: 1,672

warnings: arson, violence, cursing, yelling, mention of death, voices in technos part, spoilers for wilbur if you haven’t watch tommy’s lore stream, revival for wilbur, making a religion, time travel, egg, prison, stealing, anarchy, playful name calling

Sapnap

so obviously y’all would be a great match :)

you have creative mode, so when sap would ask you to give him a lighter and tnt, you would GLADLY give it

also, can we talk about him being a nether hybrid

fire squared

like fires left and right, hide your mom and your children in your house lol /j

but besides the whole arson thing, you favor him above anyone else on the server

like if he asks for diamond blocks, well here’s a whole inventory of it, also, here’s some ancient debris and some netherite

if someone asked, you would probably grant them with poison and curses, just because you can’t be “unloyal” to snapchat 

wouldn’t be lonely anymore

Dreamwastaken

this duo is less chaotic, but chaotic enough where people avoid you

he still asks you for stuff, but most of the time, you don’t give him it because he annoys you too much about giving stuff

“hey y/n/n, can i pretty please get some emerald blocks.”

“nope bitch, get it yourself.”

but sometimes, you grant him some op shit, when it’s your good day

“because i’m being nice, here’s some diamond, now, don’t ask me again you little piss baby.”

“shut your trap y/n.”

“or what homeless teletubby, what are you going to do to a god like me?”

“you hang out with technoblade to much.”

Georgenotfound

maybe the least chaotic duo

you guys keep on relaxing and relaxing until the point where you don’t do anything

he barely asks you for anything, but only when it’s really really important, like a house or build

especially when he was building his little cottagecore house, he needed your godly presence to help

“y/n, what should the roof be made of?”

“i suggest brick, it makes it more aestheticy if that makes any sense.”

also barely any drama or tea with you guys

never arguing and never betraying each other is a must

Tubbo

also another least chaotic duo

literally help him with his bee farm, he will (platonically) love you forever

gotta be close to ranboo, that’s the rule

gives him SO much stuff, he’s a precious boi 🙄

also gotta be close to tommy, but not as much unfortunately

you help him pick out things for builds, like what material clashes with another, etc

“do you think that the wool and the netherite blocks look good together y/n?”

“nah, what i suggest is the wool with the gold, it looks perfect.”

sometiems, gotta put him in check because he gets a little ego built up

you definitely yank his horn a little too hard because of your IMMENSE STRENGTH

“OW, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT Y/N.”

“calm down sunny, you were just getting a bit over your head a little.”

Tommyinnit

chaotic duo like sapnap

snaps at anyone who annoys you and vice versa

you give him EVERYTHING, obviously except op and creative

he tries to persuade you to do something, but dreamxd wouldn’t allow it, since he is the main boss

“come on y/n, give me op.”

“no tommy, xd will kick my ass.”

“pweaseee.”

“no.”

you would DEFINITELY help him with the Big Innit Hotel, making the whole layout and color palette.

both of you have an intense hatred for ranboo, since he “stole” tubbo away from tommy

Ranboo

least involved in everything

just stay in the tundra and drink some tea, and you’re good for all of your life

helps him get netherite all the time so your boii can get the good stuff 😬

when he mines to get diamonds, he literally prays to you

“y/n, if you’re listening, please give me a 6 vein, i desperately need it for my collection of diamond blocks.”

and THERE IT IS

more than a 6 vein actually, a 12 vein

guess he needs to pray to you more

daily tea sessions, to talk about the good stuff, and NO, and i repeat NO skipping

threatening to flick water on him check ✅

Wilbur Soot

literally you spoil him

not to be angsty, but when he died and lost his last canon life, you revived him instead of Dream

now he’s practically at your knees

like he’s thinks that he owes you, but actually that’s the opposite

he was revived because you were lonely, and wanted your best friend back :(

prays to you when he goes to bed

“hey y/n, hope you’re having a great day, (platonically) love you.”

“love you too mortal.”

sometimes, to be at the peak of godness, you shower upon wilbur as gold to symbolize blessings, like zeus did before

“omg y/n, what are you doing?”

“i’m trying to bless you, shut up bitch.”

just saying, he would make a religion about you :/

Karl Jacobs

omg don’t get me started on this

first, you wouldn’t codone him going back in time

he would definitely forget your name a lot, so that’s why you hated it

“hey karl, how are you doing?”

“i’m sorry, but do i know you?”

ANGST IS TOO MUCH FOR ME

you were definitely the one to push him towards sapnap and quackity

this is also another spoiled boi

give him the entire world while you’re at it pwease

he wants a few diamonds, nope, give him a chest full of them

Quackity

why are there so much chaotic duos in here?

literally chaos times infinity

energy to the max

literally, did you take an energy drink

grants him every wish he can randomly think off

“can i get a bucket with lava and a fish in it?”

“weird choice, but ok man.”

gotta be close to sap and karl or he isn’t your friend anymore /j

helps with las nevadas a lot, and definitely tries to rig the machines so you get money

“hey big q, i got 10,000 dollars.”

“that’s impossible... y/n, did you cheat?”

“nooo 😊”

help him preen his wings, and he goes “I LOVE YOU, MWAH MWAH.” obviously in his mind 🙄

Awesamdude

definitely helps him maintain the prison

you both love setting up red stone contraptions and pistons and all that giz

“hey sam, do you know where the redstone torches are?”

“yeah, there behind the pistons in the back.”

also you helped build the prison, since he could do that by himself

“are you sure that lava wall will work y/n, your calculations seem inaccurate.”

“i’m sure sam, this will add some more security to this goddamn server.”

nerd squared lol

BadBoyHalo

wouldn’t condone the egg

you warned him multiple times to get away from its grasp, but most of the times he’ll decline

“i won’t y/n, the egg is the future.”

he still, even after all the advancements, even after everything, he tries to ask you to join the eggpire

“come on y/n, you’ll like being with us.”

“i don’t wanna be on a stupid egg side, like let me crack the egg, i wanna eat it and turn it into a omelette.”

he doesn’t like that joke :(

but before he discovered the egg, both of you were joint at the hip

sight seeing was a must

languages being thrown around everywhere, since you were the little language muffin

Punz

steals stuff from everyone

hide your stuff, because the punzo-y/n team is unstoppable

definitely they can be really stubborn and indecisive

like one day, he will be like, “i need gold blocks.” and the next, “nevermind, i need netherite actually.”

like hon, stop switching

also anarchy buddies

burning down forests and buildings are your guys’s specialty

when you give him gold when they doesn’t ask, his heart goes brrr and his brain goes, “pog pog, they’re so cool, lets hug them.”

Technoblade

now this is the most deadly duo in the entire Dream Smp

better not piss you guys off 😐

he’s the Blood God, and you’re the God/Goddess/God being of Death

so if some occasion where you need to battle someone, like Techno’s enemies, *clears throat and murmurs Quackity*, you will obviously back your boy up :)

help him with enchanting and potions and he’s set for life

also you got have to be close to the great Philza Minecraft since him and Techno are buddy buddy

anarchy squared

helps with the voices since you have some of your own

“so what you’re saying is that i need to pay attention to them?”

“yeah, when i first learned that the voices were in my head, i tried to ignore them, but that sucked. so what i did was try to distract myself with various tasks, and that sucked.”

“so what do i do, you’re saying that i should listen to them, but how do i do that when they literally shout at me.”

“just embrace it, obviously when they do their little chant of blood for the blood god, you have to ignore them.”

“you suck at advice.”

Philza Minecraft

so since both of you resemble death, him being the Angel of Death and you being the God/Goddess/God being of Death, y’all are fucking best friends, platonic soulmates if you will

death squared

watch out, because if you piss them off, prepare to d-

gotta be close to Ranboo and Techno, and obviously others who he platonically likes

he doesn’t need to ask you for stuff, he’s the fricking Angel of Death, but he will ask you to preen his wings :D

“ow, not there y/n.”

“oh shut up grandpa, let me do it.”

“I’M NOT OLD DUMBASS.”

Dream XD

two gods at once, damn there is so much chaos

left and right, you guys are noticed by everyone, like purrrr

y’all would be in some fancy shit, to show your power

you would get jealous of him hanging out with george

“why are you jealous y/n?”

“you’re hanging out with george to much, hang out with me please :(.”

gifts are a must, even though both of you have access to creative

[tazatouille]

this is how the story goes

word count: 4249

warnings: mentions of death, disassociation, alcoholism and small mention of toxic masculinity

ao3 link

summary: In which Fabian deals with the fact that he doesn't always have to be the hero.

“Let me read to you tonight, my darling.” Mama says to him, holding out her hand. Fabian, being the small boy he is, lets out a giggle and runs over to her, taking it excitedly. She smiles down at him and he sees his own dimples on her cheeks. Fabian can’t help but think that she must be the most beautiful lady to ever live, because of course that would be his Mama. Her silver hair falls like waves down her shoulders and he wonders if one day his hair will grow as long as hers. 

She leads him to their library, hoisting him up briefly so he can pick out a book. He can’t quite read all the titles yet, so he picks the one he can reach, which is a small picture book. Mama brings him close to her chest, holding him with one arm. “Ah, that’s a fine choice, Fabian.”

“What’s it about, Mama?” He asks her, letting her flip the book over in his hands. 

“Hmm… let’s see.” She says softly. “It looks like you’ve picked an Elven tale tonight, one about a handsome adventurer who sails the seas in search of a great sea monster.” 

“That sounds like Papa!” This earns a laugh from his mother, who kisses him on the cheek.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Mama lets go of the book, letting Fabian press it to his chest. Then she carries him out of the library and towards the stairs. “It’s time to get you to bed now, Fabian.”

---

Fabian recalls that day as one of the last days that his Mama ever read to him before bed.

But that was alright, because he’s been fine with that for a while now. He knew even then when little boys grow up, their mamas don’t read them to bed anymore. 

When Fabian gets up for school that morning, he sees her when he glances out his window. Cathilda is patiently watering the rose bushes as she always does in the mornings and Mama is sitting in one of her kimonos, beautiful as always, but carrying with her the heavy weight of time. Time that has caused bags to form under her eyes, her frame to grow thinner and dull her eyes each passing day. Time that has aged her, with every sip of wine she takes from the glass in her hand. 

He turns away from the window.

Fabian’s morning routine is easy. It’s about a half hour of dancing, then he takes a cold shower to wake himself up. Usually, he would go straight to training afterwards, but his Mama has allowed him this single day without morning training. He takes another hour to do his hair and then his makeup. It’s nothing too fancy, just a bit of eyeliner and the tiniest amount of concealer. If it was too heavy, he would sweat it off during practice and Fabian Aramais Seacaster does not let his makeup run.

By the time Fabian heads downstairs, Cathilda is now cooking in the kitchen. She’s humming an old sea shanty, one that she’s sung for him time and time again as a child. When he walks by, he hums along with her, dancing around her to grab his green smoothie.

“Good morning, Master Fabian!” Cathilda greets him, shaking the frying pan. “Do you mind taking this plate to yer mother? She’s waitin' in the dining room.” 

“Good morning, Cathilda!” Fabian says proudly, placing a kiss on her cheek. “Of course, I can.” He scoops the plate up off the counter, carrying it to the dining room. Mama sits at the head of the table, where Papa used to sit. To her right is none other than Gilear, thankfully not in his father's robes again. Fabian tries hard not to fling the dish right at his head and keeps his shoulders up.

"Oh Fabian, my baby boy, how are you this morning? Off to that little adventuring academy again are we?" Mama says, nurturing a glass in her hand. 

"Morning Mama," Fabian greets, setting her plate in front of her. Mama puts down her drink to lovingly pinch his cheeks. He laughs, hoping she doesn't notice when he slides it further away. "I believe me and the boys are going to meet at Basrar's this morning before school, since we aren't training today."

"We stop training for one day and you're already eating ice cream for breakfast? Whatever will we do with you?" Mama teases with a wave of her hand. He takes the seat to her left, purposely not making eye contact with Gilear.

Here's the thing about Gilear. He may be the Chosen One, something that Fabian is willing to admit and even defend, however, Gilear is still Gilear, and Gilear is a sad, pathetic little man who did not deserve his Mama.

Fabian could admit that his Mama and Gilear did have some similarities, as they seem to be both inept at the simplest of tasks. That being said, Hallariel Seacaster was an accomplished and renowned fencer, who dashingly took his father's own eye. Gilear Faeth was an ex-diplomat who couldn't get the yogurt stains out of his shirt even with the highest levels of magic money could provide.

This isn’t how the story is supposed to go. After Fabian heroically killed his own father, his mother was supposed to find another adventurous and even in some ways, more deserving man. In the story, Mama does not end up with a man like Gilear, but with a man far better than maybe even his father ever was. Or perhaps, she remains a widow, vowing never to remarry because her love for her deceased husband is so strong.

And in the story, Fabian is supposed to feel proud for killing his father, laying the final blow that his Papa craved so adamantly. But all Fabian is left with is a vacancy, the same vacancy that still rests in his mother's heart. 

At times, it almost feels hereditary.

He stares down at his smoothie and thinks he hears Gilear say something to him, but it goes unaddressed. 

Fabian thought it would get easier after sophomore year. Seeing his Papa was a treat, surely. Knowing his father is having such a good time in Hell helps him sleep a little easier, but it’s not enough to snuff out the flames of guilt that still burn in his chest.

Ever since his Papa died, his mother used the sensory deprivation egg less and less. To Fabian’s surprise, it was his mother’s decision, with Cathilda helping her steadily ease out of it. Cathilda told him that if they were able to get her out of the egg, they might be able to move onto her sobriety. He still holds onto that hope, even on the harder days when his mother can only greet him after school and then retire to her room soon after. 

“You know she loves you with all her heart, Master Fabian.” Cathilda said to him one night. “People are complicated, ya see… Just because she’s struggling doesn’t mean she loves you any less.” 

Fabian comes back to reality when he hears his mother’s laughter. He downs the rest of his smoothie, a little too warm now, to distract himself. He pulls out his crystal to check the Boyz’ group chat. “Well Mama, I think I’ll be off!” Fabian says, getting up from his chair. 

“Off already, darling?” Mama asks him, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She’s barely touched her food. “Come here.” 

He leans down and lets her place a kiss on his cheek. “You have a good day, my boy.” She tells him. 

“Of course, Mama.” Fabian smiles at her, then nods his head. “Gilear.”

Gilear nods back. “I wish you a good day, Fabian.” 

He walks out of the dining room, giving Cathilda a wave before heading towards the front door.

“Hangman,” Fabian thinks. “Ready for the day?”

He hears the purr of the engine start up as soon as he closes his front door. “I am ready for anything, sire. Where shall we go?”

“Head to the Ball’s apartment. I’m picking him up this morning.”

“Hangman...” Fabian warns, watching him roll out of the garage in front of him. The Hangman revs in response. “We are picking up the Ball.” 

“Master, I remind you that the Ball no longer needs a ride to school.”

Fabian is sure if the Hangman could, it would sigh in disappointment. “Of course, sire.” He leans slightly to let him climb on. Then, Fabian revs the engine himself and tears down the street towards Strongtower Luxury Apartments. 

---

“Fabian, for the last time.” Riz starts, walking out of the apartment building. “I’m never gonna get enough driving hours if you keep giving me rides to school.”

Riz lost his hat after sophomore year, and thank goodness because Fabian didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t going to work forever. He wouldn’t admit it to Riz, but he was quite fond of the way his hair fell. It seemed impossible to Fabian that Riz didn’t style it in any way, but one day while they were hanging out, Fabian spotted a bottle of all in one shampoo and conditioner and chucked it into the garbage can.  

Fabian laughs, putting a hand on his chest. “As if you would prefer to drive your mother’s car over a ride on the Hangman?” The Hangman revs underneath him for emphasis. He can see the smile creeping on Riz’s lips, so he keeps going. “Besides, everyone lies about their driving hours anyway. Who has the time to drive a whole forty hours both night and day? I certainly don’t.”

Riz looks like he’s about to protest, but instead his face spreads into a big smile. Fabian pats the Hangman’s seat victoriously. “Come on, The Ball. To Basrar’s.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Riz climbs onto the Hangman, situating his briefcase against his chest. Then, his arms wrap around Fabian’s torso tightly. “You aren’t always gonna be around to give me rides, you know. I should-- uh, probably learn how to drive at some point.” He says. It’s supposed to be casual, but in reality, Riz just dropped a whale sized weight on Fabian’s chest. It threatens to leave him breathless and not in a good way. 

Fabian revs the engine instead, letting the purr drown out his thoughts. “Don’t say stuff like that, Riz.” He says under his breath, before taking off down the road. He isn’t going to start thinking about this right now.

They are almost to Basrar’s when Riz shouts over the wind, “Oh hey, Fabian! Do you want to come over to the office after practice?” 

Fabian smiles. “Cracking another case, The Ball?” 

“You know it!” Fabian can practically hear the smile in his voice. “I always need someone to hold my string.”

Fabian feels the laughter bubble from his chest. “Yes, one of my many talents. Fabian Aramais Seacaster, holder of string!”

“It’s extremely crucial to my casework!” Riz adds. “I couldn’t solve them without it!”

Fabian feels Riz’s arms tighten around him and he lets out another laugh, pulling into Basrar’s. 

---

They walk into the cool air of the shop and see Gorgug sitting at a booth in the corner. He waves to them as they approach.

“Hey guys!” Gorgug greets, giving them a toothy grin. He’s hunching over, like always, with a pink milkshake in his hand. He always ordered strawberry with extra whipped cream.

“Hey Gorgug!” Riz greets, letting Fabian take the window seat. “Dude, I gotta tell you about this show I’ve been watching. It’s awesome.” 

“Oh yeah?” Gorgug says, sipping his milkshake. “Zelda’s been looking for more shows to watch, cause you know, all her parents watch is like those crazy reality TV shows.”

Fabian watches as Basrar floats over to their table. “Boys! Good to see you, and so early in the morning too. What can I get you?” 

Riz orders a weird concoction of chocolate mint, coffee, and pistachio ice cream topped with gummy bears and chocolate drizzle. Fabian never understood why the gummy bears had to be added to it, something that Riz no doubt picked up from Fig. The gummy bears become hard as rocks because the ice cream makes them too cold, but he’s been friends with Riz long enough to know he would eat almost anything. And so, Fabian orders a simple banana split with caramel sauce.   

By the time their ice cream gets here, Riz is already waist deep in the intricate world building of the tv show he’s been watching. The thing about Riz is that whenever he got really excited about something, he’d explain it so fast he’d have to keep back tracking and then return to his previous thought. It could get a bit confusing at times, but the Bad Kidz, at least Fabian, didn’t mind. They just made sure to ask a lot of questions. 

"Here's the real catch, though. It wasn't the butler, but it was actually--" Riz gets cut off by his crystal ringtone buzz loudly on the table. He grabs it immediately and presses it to his ear. A few moments pass before he says, "Mom? What's going on?"

Fabian immediately sits up straighter before Riz holds his hand out. "I'll be right back." He mouths to them, scooting out of the booth. Fabian watches as he walks out of Basrar's.

Gorgug plays with the straw of his milkshake for a moment."So… how are you and Aelwyn doing?" He asks innocently, because Gorgug would never ask a question he didn't want the answer to. Fabian suddenly feels a little sick, putting his spoon down.

"It-- uh, well--" Fabian is tripping over himself now. He hates when he gets like this. His thoughts race through his head and try to force themselves out his mouth all at once before he can even think of what to say.

"I--I get it, if that's like--" Gorgug stumbles a bit. "Too private or something, I just, you know, was wondering."

"No, no, it's fine, Gorgug. We just… broke up a few weeks ago."

"Oh." He says simply. "Why didn't you…"

"Say anything?" Fabian finishes for him. "I guess it was somewhat embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Did she break up with you?" 

Fabian shrugs. "No, it was more mutual, if anything." He starts playing with his ice cream now, getting spoonfuls of caramel sauce and pouring it back into the bowl over and over again.

"Then why would you be embarrassed?" Gorgug presses. "I mean, my parents would say that's pretty mature."

"It just wasn't what I-- We? Expected it to be." Fabian admits. It feels weird to say it out loud after it's been rattling in his head for weeks. "I guess, maybe I expected it to be like you and Zelda. Two matches made in nerd heaven." 

"You know, not every relationship is gonna be perfect, Fabian." Gorgug reminds him. "Zelda and I get along great, sure, but that doesn't mean I don't fuck up every now and then or that I never get upset with her." He shrugs. "But that's a part of like, I don't know, loving someone. You guys kinda just get to figure stuff out together." 

"I guess Aelwyn and I never really tried figuring anything out together."

"Maybe you just expected too much from each other." Gorgug shrugs again. "Cause, you can't only love the best version of someone, you know?" 

Fabian opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, the front door jingles and Riz makes his way back to the booth.

"Sorry about that guys." Riz says, sitting back in the booth next to Fabian. "My mom needed to know where I put the law books I borrowed from her last weekend. Where was I?"

Gorgug responds, but not before casting a reassuring glance at Fabian. "Uh… I think you were about to tell us who the killer was, right?" 

Fabian can't tell if Riz notices and adds, "Oh yes, something about how it wasn't the butler?"

"Right, right!" He says excitedly. "Okay, so…"

He continues telling them about the tv show, which Fabian doesn’t mean to tune out of, but he can’t stop himself from thinking about Aelwyn. 

Their breakup had been mutual. They quickly realized that they simply weren’t compatible with one another. Fabian wishes he didn’t take it hard, but Aelwyn was technically the first girlfriend he ever had, and his first kiss.

Fabian was supposed to go straight to Fallinel, take on the Elven army and break Aelwyn out of imprisonment in a feat of gorgeous heroism. Which, if you left some parts out and moved a few things around, he did, technically. But then Aelwyn was supposed to be so impressed with his prowess that they would start dating, eventually get married out on the sea and then have beautiful children, born out of both Aelwyn and his exceptional talents. 

At least, that’s what he told himself. 

But when they actually got together, Fabian realized that he didn’t understand Aelwyn at all, and she didn’t understand him. They had both been through copious amounts of stress during sophomore year, with Aelwyn having to adjust to a new life without her parents, and Fabian having to grapple with the events of Leviathan and his own residual fears. It was just too much for them to sort out together, too many parts of themselves that they didn’t understand, so how could they ask the other to?

“You have this version of me built in your head, Fabian.” Aelwyn said to him. “Maybe, before all of this, I could have been that person for you. But, I’m not even sure who I am right now.” 

And he agreed with her, and that was that. 

Their crystals all buzz on their table, and Fabian reaches over to check the message.

figgy pudding: Hey losers, where you guys at? 

He types back. 

fabian: Basrar’s, be there soon.

“I guess that’s our cue, huh.” Gorgug says, gathering the dishes onto the table, like he always does. “Make sure to text me the name of that show, Riz, so I won't forget.”  

“Will do.” Riz replies, already sending the text to Gorgug. He gets up from the booth to let Fabian out and turns to him. “You ready to go?”

From the way Riz is looking at him, he can’t help but feel like he’s asking a different question, but he brushes past it. “Yeah, of course.” 

---

"Is something wrong?" Riz asks that night, because Riz is too perceptive for his own good and Fabian acknowledges that he hasn't said a word to him in over 10 minutes. “You were kinda acting weird today.” 

"Hm? Oh it's nothing, The Ball. Don't worry about it. What were you saying?" Fabian replies, sitting up a little straighter. 

They are sitting in Riz's office, with it's stale mugs of coffee and scattered evidence. If this was anyone else's office, Fabian would hate being here. Sometimes, Riz is so deep in a mystery it becomes cramped with case files and boxes, but it always feels good to be in a space that is truly lived in. It’s nothing like home, and maybe that’s why Fabian likes it. 

"You can talk to me, you know." Riz says, taking the red string Fabian's been playing with out of his hands. He pins a photo up on his corkboard.

Fabian doesn't respond. He knows he should, but at this moment, talking to his best friend seems like one of the hardest things he can do.

Riz notices this, and looks at him. "I know how you get. We don't have to talk about it." He runs a hand through his hair. "You, uh-- wanna watch a movie, maybe?"

Fabian blinks at him for a moment before replying, "You want to take a break?"

Riz laughs at that. "Come on, Fabian. I'm not that bad."

Fabian scoffs. "Please, you almost missed homecoming because you were here piecing together your clues." He gestures to the corkboard.

"And then I closed that case the same weekend." Riz says proudly, puffing up his chest a bit. 

Fabian smiles, then makes the mistake of looking down at the floor beneath them. He runs his fingers over the scratch marks carved into the wood. 

He tried to call and Riz didn’t pick up. Riz never ever misses his calls and his ringer is always on, so why wasn’t he--

Riz’s eyes go from soft to panicked almost immediately. “Hey, don’t do that.” He tells Fabian, pushing his hands away from the floor. “I, uh-- still need to get someone to fix those.”

“I could get someone to do it.” Fabian says immediately. Riz shakes his head.

“You know I wouldn’t let you.” 

“But I could.” 

“Fabian, it wasn’t your fault.” 

And when Riz says this, Fabian lets out a breath of air. 

Because he knows, deep down, the situation with Riz last year wasn’t his fault. But maybe if he had been a better friend and called more, or came around the office more, or had just been there when it happened... then Riz wouldn’t have to pay someone to replace his floorboards. Maybe, he wouldn’t have such a hard time looking at himself in the mirror.

“You aren’t the only one who fails, Fabian.” Riz continues, seemingly reading his thoughts. He sighs. “Y--You do this thing where you think you are the only person in the world who can do anything. The only person who can save the princess in the tower, the only person who can kill your father’s rival, like you are trying to hold the whole world up on your shoulders because you are Fabian Aramais Seacaster. And I get it, you know? I’ve had some pretty big shoes to fill myself.” He lets out a short laugh. “But, you don’t have to… prove yourself to me. Or to-- uh, anyone, really.”

“Riz, I--” Fabian’s words fail him, because figuring things out was always Riz’s job. He knows he will pay to get Riz’s floors done, because maybe Fabian didn’t have to prove himself to anyone, but as well as being a Seacaster, he was also Riz Gukgak’s best friend, and that he needed people to know. 

“It’s okay, Fabian, really it is.” Riz says, interrupting him. “I’m not gonna lie, you haven’t always been-- uh, a perfect friend. I know I haven’t either.” He shrugs. “But you always try to be, and that means more to me than you probably know.” 

Fabian reaches over and pulls Riz into the tightest hug he’s given since he got out of the Forest of the Nightmare King. He feels Riz tense up at first, but then his arms wrap around his neck. 

“You are my best friend.” Fabian says into Riz’s shirt, because if he doesn’t say this now the flames that stir inside his chest will burn the words to ash before they reach his mouth. It was easier to say when Riz wasn’t staring back at him, picking him apart. A habit that Riz could never shake, but sometimes, Fabian welcomed it. He didn’t have to say much, because Riz always just seemed to understand. 

Fabian has never had a best friend before. His family sailed so often when he was younger that it was hard to make friends with any of the kids. He was constantly being pulled out of school and thrown into the next. Every time he did so he would play his little charade of being Fabian Aramais Seacaster, impressing the children in his class, and then his family set sail once again.

Near the end of freshman year, Riz pulled Fabian aside to thank him for the briefcase and the business cards. Fabian had brushed it off, saying it wasn’t that big of a deal, but it took him hours to hand write all those business cards. Something that, to this day, Fabian still hasn’t told Riz. 

After that, Riz never stopped calling him his best friend, and Fabian quickly realized that Riz is one of the only people who had ever really tried to be his friend. He denied it at first, but eventually he came to accept it as a fact. 

And maybe it was the same for Riz too. Like Fabian, he didn’t like talking about personal issues. It wasn’t until sophomore year when Riz was finally able to talk about his dad in front of everyone. And much like Fabian and his own charade, he much preferred his role as a detective versus a teenage boy trying to figure the world out. 

But that was just it, wasn’t it? Because maybe, they could be two teenage boys trying to figure out the world together. 

And so, Fabian may not write his name upon the world. Every living being in Spyre may not know the name Fabian Aramais Seacaster, but he is okay with this. 

Because Fabian doesn’t always need to be the hero, the knight who saves the princess, or the son who kills his father’s rival. Because even when he’s not the hero, there are people who still love him. And to be a part of a story that continues to write itself, that is bigger than his own, with Riz and the rest of the Bad Kidz?

Fabian couldn’t think of anything else he would rather do. 

[amive2567]

Snowy sneezes

Class 1a x GN! Reader

Quirk: Snowman ~ can produce snowmen with everything that includes water. They can't melt (only by other quirks, not through natural causes), and they do whatever the host wants. If the host doesn't give any tasks immediately, the snowman becomes a body of its own forever. Unfortunately, they can't speak :( The more water there is in the air, (or any other source of water), the bigger the snowman gets. 

Warning: Crack, Fluff, mention of sexual content (because Mineta), swearing (because Bakugou), a bit OOC Midoriya

Summary: Y/n is sick, and every time they sneeze, little snowmen appear in their dorm. They are listening to music and study. Because of that, they didn't even notice that the snowmen disappeared and caused trouble. 

Disclaimer: My hero academia and the characters belong to Kohei Horikoshi.

Words: about 2.489

Masterlist

Inspiration by Frozen Fever

Your head pouted, and you barely could keep your eyes open. You had a quirk about snow, so why did you get sick from a snowball fight. "L/N-san, could you please lift your head from the desk and focus on the lesson." admonished you Cementos. "I am sorry, Ishiyama-sensei." you apologized. He continued to teach, but you couldn't focus on a word he said. The lesson dragged on like forever. 

After the day ended, you went straight to your dorm room to replicate the knowledge you got taught today. 

After some time, the headache disappeared, and you could finally focus on your unfinished notes. Your nose started to tingle, and with a loud achoo, you sneezed.  A cold shiver went down your spine, but you didn't think much of it. You were so caught up in the work that you didn't notice how a small snowman waddled quietly around the room. Since listening to music helped you while studying, you didn't hear the rustling steps on your carpet.  The cute snowman watched your back and looked around your room. He investigated your plant in front of your bed. His tiny form tried to stroke the plant, but his short snowy arm couldn't reach the plant. The small snowman was determined to stroke the plant, so he tried to climb up at the plant pot. Since he didn't think about the consequences, the plant pot fell over and covered him with the potting soil. Anxiously he watched if you had seen his plight. You didn't seem to notice it. So he tried to clean himself with his tiny arms. 

Another sneeze shook your body, and another tiny snowman appeared. He looked around the room and found his buddy. The two jumped happily around, and the new snowman helped to clean up his pal. The two snowmen happily discovered your room, as quiet as they could. After they were done, your room looked like you had a fight in it.  They also tried to open the door, but they were too tiny. Exhausted, the two snowmen settled in front of the door. 

A sneezing fit hit you, and about five snowmen developed in your room. The two snowmen got right up and wobbled to the new snowmen. They hugged each other like they were old friends. Silently the two older snowmen convinced the younger ones to open the door together. They built a ladder out of snowmen by stacking themself on their shoulders. With a soft click, the door opened, and they left your messy room.

Your classmates were occupied with their interests and tasks. Some were reading, training, baking, showering, or learning. So they were either outside, in their rooms, or in the common room area. This meant that the hallway in front of your room was empty. The snowmen waddled quietly around the enormous building. 

Since they discovered their new skill, they opened another door. In the room was a blond boy, who laid on his back with a manga in his hand, called Snow white with the Red Hair. He was completely caught up in the book, so he didn't even notice that someone entered his room. The snowmen inspected his room. It has the theme of yellow and blue, and on his shelf were tons of All Might figures. One snowman got his snowy hand on a manga and tried to read it. He failed because snowmen can't read, but the pictures were interesting. He wanted to read it later, so he took it with him. 

The gang of snowmen went downstairs to explore the other parts of the dorms. Loud singing caught their attention. They followed the singing and landed in a steaming environment or, to call it something more simple, the bathroom. It was hot in there, and the snowmen were happy that they couldn't melt by natural causes. Since the bathroom was really a boring place to be, they climbed on the shelves and searched through the products. After the other snowmen had left the room, the last one of them was mesmerized by a big red bottle with the label: red hair dye. He took the bottle with him and followed the other snowmen fast. 

The next stop of the seven snowy figures was another room. They used their secret method again and opened the door. The room was cramped with bookshelves that reached the ceiling. Another weird thing was that there was a shelf only for tons of glasses. No one was there. The snowmen wandered around the room like it was an old museum. The two snowmen that stole something hid in the corners of the room, so their misbehavior wasn't noticed. The smallest of the snowmen looked around and climbed up on the shelf with the glasses. Unfortunately, one of the spectacles fell on the ground and broke. No one seemed to witness it, so the tiny snowman grabbed them and hid them behind his back from the others to see. After they discovered every inch of the room, they made their way to the next one. 

The room wasn't much different from the first one, but it had a more pleasant atmosphere. It was bright and happy. Some snowmen were bored because of the All Might figures they had already seen, but one of them got interested by the rarest of all time. The bronze age All Might figure. Only fifty got produced, and the owner of the room had one. The snowman needed this figure, so when no one watched him, he took the opportunity and stole it. 

They went into two other rooms before they finally got to the common-room kitchen. There stood a tall brown-haired boy with a tart pan. He studied a recipe and was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't even notice how a snowman stole his eggs. After the boy wanted to reach for them, they were gone, and he questioned himself if he forgot to lay the eggs on the kitchen counter. He opened the fridge and saw no eggs. But he was sure that he bought them with Koda yesterday. They couldn't be gone, only if someone used them. And he was sure who it was. With angry steps, he walked to the room of a certain angry pomeranian. 

In the meantime, the snowmen discovered that everyone had stolen something. They laid their stolen objects in the middle of their circle. The items they had stolen were a romance manga, red hair dye, a pair of glasses, a rare All Might figure, eggs, lipstick, and a book. All of the snowmen had a panicked expression on their snowy faces. The humans aren't dumb they would soon find out, so they have to hide their items somewhere. Fearfully they collected the things and quickly set about hiding with the stuff in a nearby room. 

It was a dark room, and it got lit by a small source of light. Unearthly sounds could be heard from the computer screen in front of a short, purple boy. The older snowmen tried to cover the eyes of the younger ones. So they couldn't see the horrific show that played on the screen. It was dangerous to be in such a gross environment with young snowmen, but it was better than getting caught. 

"I didn't steal your lame eggs. Now leave me alone fat lips." cursed Bakugou as Sato confronted him. "But I am sure you know where my manga is, don't you?" Bakugou questioned harshly with a raised eyebrow. "Why would I want a manga from you?" Sato asked him. The blond one scoffed and pushed Sato out of the way. "I bet shitty Deku got it," he grumbled and stamped in the direction of his room. Without knocking, he kicked the door open. "Oi, shitty nerd. Give it back," he yelled. But what he didn't notice that the room was messy as hell. "Ah, Bakugou, I wanted to talk to you," Midoriya spoke slowly. His expression was horrifying. Even when Bakugou wouldn't admit it, he was scared of the shorter green-haired boy. "Now, where do you have it?" Bakugou asked, unimpressed. "What should I have? I wouldn't even give it to you. You stole my All Might bronze age figure." Midoriya yelled. He activated his quirk, and before he could Detroit Smash Bakugou into nirvana, Kirishima intervened. "Wait, that's not really manly of you, bro. My hair dye also went missing. I think someone is stealing from us." Sato followed the red-haired. "I think he's right," he said. "Let's meet up with the other ones and think about it before we hurt each other." mediated Kirishima. Still, with rage in his eyes, Midoriya let got of his powerful quirk and noded. "Alright, but I am not done with you, Kacchan." proposed Midoriya. "Whatever you say, shitty nerd." scoffed Bakugou.

As they got everyone except two persons in the common room area, the yelling began. "My lipstick went missing. How can I be able to rock my hero costume." Mina cried and hugged Uraraka desperately. The short brunette patted her back, comforting. "A book of mine also went missing," noted Momo. "Did someone saw my pair of glasses? I need to find Marry the third. Without her, my collection is incomplete." Iida yelled and made his typical hand gesture. At his comment, more than half of class 1a had to suppress a burst of laughter.  "My hair product also went missing," said Kirishima. "My limited All Might figure in his bronze age is missing," said Midoriya grumpily. "You look a bit scary, Midoriya. Is everything ok?" Todoroki asked. "Yeah, of course. I didn't need my All Might figure anyway." he sarcastically answered. "It's just a figure," Todoroki mentioned, and every chatter died down. "Dude, does he have a death wish?" asked Kaminari quietly. "Maybe," answered Sero noiselessly. "A figure... A figure..." Midoriya yelled and wanted to charge for a punch, but a frustrated screech interrupted the argument. 

You finished the last sentence of your work. So you turned around and stretched yourself with closed eyes, but as soon as you opened them, you were met with a tremendous mess. "The sneezes and the...oh shit," you yelled out in frustration. You were so occupied with work that you didn't even notice that you let go of a bunch of snowmen. Your steps stormed to the common-room to start the search for the tiny, snowy trouble makers. The yells in the common-room got louder and louder as you got nearer. "Guys," you yelled over the screeches of Midoriya. "I let go of my quirk, and some snowmen are probably starting some trouble. We need to find them." you got straight to the point. Everyone looked at you with expressionless faces. "Why is even every one of you here?" you asked now, confused. "Your tiny snow fuckers stole our stuff," Bakugou grumbled. "What was actually stolen from you, Kacchan ?" Kaminari asked.  "A manga," answered Bukugou grouchily. "Uh, which genre?" questioned Kaminary. "Shut it, dunce face," Bakugou yelled. "Just asking." waved Kaminari away. 

"Do you know where they possibly went, or how we can get rid of them?" asked Momo calmly. "I don't know where they could be," you answered, a bit disappointed. "If we find them and want to get rid of them, we need to destroy them with fire quirks. They don't melt of natural causes," you explained. "Alright, I think we build two teams. One team goes with Bakugou and the other one with Todoroki," suggested Momo. "Why do I need to be in one team. I can do this on my own." Bakugou protested. "Do you want your manga back asap?" Momo asked after that the ash-blond boy was quiet but still grumpy. "I am not going with Kacchan." Midoriya angrily said. "I don't want to go with you either," shouted Bakugou. "Just like an old married couple." laughed Kaminari. "Shut it, dunce face." yelled the blond boy. 

After you build up the teams, you started to search for the cold troublemakers. The team of yours consisted of Todoroki, Aoyama, Tsuyu, Iida, Uraraka, Yaoyorozu, a grumpy Midoriya, Tokoyami, Shoji, Ojiro, and you, of course. The other ones had fewer patient people in their team. Bakugou got Sero, Kirishima, Kaminari, Ashido, Jiro, Sato, Koda and Hagakure in his team. Your team searched on the second and third floor for the stolen things and your snowmen. 

The third floor was clear now you searched on the second floor. "Waa, how did snowmen came into my room?" a high-pitched yell caught the attention of your team. You neared the room and opened the door. Mineta was standing in front of a bunch of tiny snowmen. Everyone in the room turned, slowly their hats to the door. "Yeah, gotcha," you shouted happily. The snowmen suddenly let go of the stuff they hoarded and ran in different directions. "We need to catch them. Todoroki, Tsuyu, Iida, Momo, and I are catching them, and the rest of you secure the missing stuff," you ordered. During this time, Momo produced earpieces for communication. The people named ran with you to catch the snowmen.

Since the snowmen were fast and not as dumb as you wished they were, you had to separate. The snowman in front of you ran fast, and you yelled after him. As the snowman had to take the elevator, you could easily catch him. "I got one. Does someone else has one?" you asked in your earpiece. "I've got one too." answered Iida "Me too," said Tsuyu. "I have already burned two," said Todoroki in his calm demeanor.  "I am currently trying to catch one," yelled Momo hectically. "Thanks, guys, that means only one is missing," you said. A loud explosion roared through the dorm-building. "Now, I think only one is left." you corrected yourself. "I got the penultimate snowman," said Momo proudly. "Great." you cheered. As the elevator stopped at the ground floor, the snowman in your arms tried to wiggle himself free. "We need to met up in the common room, so we can get rid of the captured snowmen," you said to the others. 

After you got rid of the captured snowmen. Bakugou stormed into the common room area. "We found only one, are all gone?" he asked grumpily. "Only one is missing," you answered as you watched the penultimate snowman melt. "I got the last one he was hiding in the fridge," said Sato and brought you the last one. 

"Thanks, guys, for helping. I am so sorry that my quirk got out of hand and caused such trouble," you apologized to your classmates. "No problem, that could happen to every one of us. You don't need to apologize." Midoriya said reassuringly. A small smile spread across your face, and you were relieved that everyone agreed and wasn't angry with you. Except for Bakugou, but that was to be foreseen. 

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Come As You Are

Summary: Dean takes Y/n dress shopping for a hunt, both of them blissfully unaware of where it will lead. 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus Size Reader

Word Count: 3.9K+

Warnings: Language, self-esteem and body image struggles, public intercourse, unprotected intercourse (wrap it before you tap it)

Author’s Note: This was written for an anonymous request, 

“Hey babe I don’t know if your taking requests but I had a groovy idea dean x shy plus reader where they have to get the reader nice sexy clothes but she feels really uncomfortable in them and refuses to leave the dressing room and dean confess how he feels and they have sex in the dressing room ? Fluff and smut” 

I truly enjoyed writing it so I hope it lives up to your expectations anon. Remember, feedback is like crack to writers, and we always love to hear what you thought xoxo Alex

Consider checking out a book from Alexandra’s Library!

A frown etched itself on her face as she ran her hand over the fabrics hanging from the racks. All of it felt foreign underneath her fingertips. Satin, chiffon, and everything else that was far more expensive than she was used to. Y/n’s wardrobe mostly consisted of denim and polyester blends that tended to fray after two washes. It was all that a hunter could afford, after all. 

“How in the hell are we gonna afford any of this crap?” She whispered to Dean, who was eyeing the rack behind her, the gowns in front of him all a deep shade of red. 

“Charlie’s miracle card, remember? There is no limit,” Dean raised his brow at her, a grin etched across his perfect face. 

“Fine,” she groaned. “I still don’t see why I even need to go dress shopping, I’m sure I could find something in my closet.” 

“I’ve seen your closet, and none of it is right for this case. You’ve got to distract the coroner for the night and you can’t do that in baggy jeans and flannel.” Dean huffed as he picked a dress off the rack. Y/n’s eyes went wide as she took it in, the hem was short for anyone’s standards, then add in the plunging neckline and this dress left nothing to the imagination. 

“That is so not happening,” Y/n pointed at the offensive garment, her stomach fluttering at the simple idea of even trying to slip into it. Every spot on her body that she hated would be on full display in that thing. Her thick thighs, the roll that sat on her bra just under her arms, and don’t get her started on her abdomen. 

“Come on, just try it. You never know ‘till you try it on.” 

“Ugh,” Y/n snatched the dress from his hand before stalking off to look at more dresses. There were a couple more options that she grabbed to try on that were closer to her comfortability level. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be caught dead in any of the items in her arms. But Dean had this way about him, always able to convince her to do anything without question. Maybe it was the way his skin crinkled around his eyes or the brightness that always seemed to live behind those deliciously green eyes? Who was she kidding, it was all of that and then some. The huntress had fallen hard for him from that first meeting. Sometimes she wondered why she chose to torture herself. 

Dean Winchester was the cream of the crop when it came to hunters, as was his baby brother, Sam. The whole world knew who they were, including heaven and hell, so how could she be expected to resist him when he smiled at her the way he does. Or even when he made her coffee in the mornings just how she liked it and picked up chocolate and pain killers for her when he knew it was that time of the month. He was exceedingly attentive to her, something that she was sure he only directed at Sam. It was just another thing that surprised her about the legend of a man. 

Yeah, like an idiot she fell for the eldest Winchester. There was no stopping it even though she was certain that her feelings would never be reciprocated. Y/n wasn’t like the other woman that Dean went for when he was on the prowl at bars. It’s not that she was ugly, it was that she was plain at best. People didn’t turn their heads when she walked in the room, men’s gazes didn’t linger on her from across the bar, no, Y/n was merely average. That’s how she knew that Dean would never see her as more than a friend because he had never looked at her in any form of want. 

“Are you ready to try those on?” A sales woman’s voice broke her out of her unrelenting train of thought. Dean answered for her before she could process the woman’s words. 

“Yes, please.” He smiled brightly and Y/n watched as the woman’s face flushed under his gaze. Y/n almost felt bad for the woman who was now just another victim to his charm. The saleswoman at least would be able to relish in his attention, wondering about what could have been had Y/n not been there with him. Y/n on the other hand already knew her fate. But mostly, if she was being honest, she was jealous. 

Dean put his hands on her shoulders and guided her along behind the boutique worker who took them into the back of the store where the dressing rooms were located. The area was mostly quiet, just the music from the speakers could be heard in the space. Three large mirrors sat in front of a stage on the far wall, the rooms spaning out on either side of it. In the center of the room were three plush chairs for those waiting for others to sit in. 

The worker unlocked a door for her as Dean plopped down in one of the chairs. Y/n slipped behind the door, letting out a deep breath as it closed behind her. If there was one thing she hated it was trying on clothes. Nothing ever seemed to fit her right or look anything like what it did on the hanger. It made the task a constant battle with her self-consciousness. 

Y/n had always carried extra weight on her body. It wasn’t that she didn’t live an active lifestyle, she was a hunter, after all, it was the diet that hunters were accustomed to. It was fast food and dives in every small town in America. Not many mom and pop places tended to offer an egg white omelet, and it wasn’t her inclination to eat them either. So, she had always been bigger than most, and if she was being honest she had grown used to that. Maybe she used it as a shield to protect herself. Making connections with people as a hunter only tended to end in heartbreak, so this was easier. 

The hunter hid the scary red thing Dean had selected behind all the rest of her haul, hoping she would find something before she ever even got to the thing. Y/n stripped from her flannel and jeans tossing them on the bench in the corner. She also added her bra to the pile, knowing all of these garments necessitated that she did not wear one. That left her in her favorite pair of panties. They weren’t anything special, but they made her butt looked its best.

The first dress in the line up was a straight black dress that hit just above her knee. The neckline wasn’t anything too crazy but the sleeves rolled off the shoulders a strip of fabric wrapping around her bust. Y/n was able to slip it on and tug up the zipper on the side. With a slide of her hands against the fabric, she frowned at her reflection. Not that it would flatter any figure, in her opinion. 

“What’s taking so long in there?” Dean called out from his spot in front of the mirrors.

“I’m not coming out in this thing,” she called back as she began to take the dress back off. 

“Oh, come on sweetheart,” 

“Nope, next,” Y/n heard him huff even through the door and she imagined he rolled his eyes as well. 

The next dress was a deep blue color. It had a wrap and pencil skirt, with an asymmetrical shape between the hem and the neckline. She supposed it was pretty but it also kind of looked like she had wrapped herself in a towel. Mostly, she felt like the point in the neckline was going to stab her in the throat, and she was not sure how to be sexy when she was trying not to die. It was another pass for her. 

There was only one dress left, and at that moment she was wishing to whoever was listening that she had picked out a few more choices. Dean was whistling now, some Zeppelin tune she couldn’t exactly identify and she knew he was getting impatient. Y/n swapped the fabrics on her body, pulling the thin straps of the red satin piece up onto her shoulders. The dress clung to her skin, the fabric lightweight. 

“Y/n/n,” Dean’s voice was just outside the door, the new proximity of it startling her. “Come on, you have to show me at least one. I know you and you’ll just try vetoing them all.” Y/n swore under her breath because he was right and it pissed her off that he knew her that well. The zipper was out of her reach on her back and she supposed she wouldn’t be able to truly see what it looked like on her unless she zipped it up. 

“Fine, I need help with this zipper anyway,” she sighed and held the fabric against her naked chest while opening the door with her other. Dean was beaming when he came into view on the other side of the door. He snuck inside faster than a flea, the slamming of the door startling her again. 

Get it together woman, you kill monsters for a living, Y/n cursed herself. 

“Turn,” Dean instructed her with his fingers, and the woman obliged as she faced the mirror. Dean brushed her hair off her shoulder with his fingertips, the action barely distinguishable but it sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention. With one hand holding the bottom stop, he used the other to tug on the pull tab, sliding together the teeth in one fluid motion. 

“Thanks,” Y/n’s words were soft as she made eye contact with the green-eyed hunter in the mirror. He ran his tongue of his bottom lip, pulling the plump flesh between his teeth as his eyes wandered over her exposed skin. 

Y/n visibly cringed as she looked at herself. Unfortunately, this was her favorite out of the three, but that didn’t mean she felt like she could venture anywhere in public in the thing. “Sweetheart, if that coroner hadn’t already been eyeing you up today, he would not know where to start when he sees you in this.” 

“Shut up,” Y/n scrunched her nose as she spun around to whack Dean’s shoulder. “You are so full of it.”

“Am not,” Dean scoffed, his eye softening before he continued. “Y/n, why don’t you see how beautiful you are?”

Y/n whipped around to stare at him, her arms crossing over her chest, not believing that those words come out of his mouth. Surely, he was playing with her…

“Have you looked at me, Dean?” Y/n slapped her hands against her thighs, emphasizing their jiggle upon impact. “I’m nothing special.” 

“I have looked at you,” His gaze traveled down her body again, his breath hitching slightly as he did so. “I’ve been looking at you for a while now.” The drop in Dean’s voice sent heat rushing through her body, the gravel undertone making her shiver. 

“Dean--” words escaped her as the hunter stepped into her personal space, pushing her back against the mirror. Dean’s left hand came to rest against the reflective surface just beside her head as he chewed on his lip. 

“I don’t think you know how hard it is for me to keep my eyes off of you,” he leaned into her, his nose brushing alongside hers. “And now, seeing you in this dress, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands off you.” 

A rush of confidence coursed through her blood as his hot breath fanned over her face and Y/n slipped her hands behind his neck, pulling his lips down to meet hers. The movement was anything but smooth, though the action sent both of the hunters into action. Dean growled as he nipped her lower lip and she opened up to him, allowing his tongue to invade her mouth. 

A moan involuntarily came from her as his hands moved to her hips, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin material where his finger pressed into her flesh. He stepped back, pulling her after him as he backed up and dropped to sit on the plush bench. Dean bunched up the material to her hips as he urged her to straddle his lap. Y/n used her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, the new bulge in his pants a surprise to her as she settled in his lap. 

“Yeah, and you thought I was kidding,” Dean took in the slight rise in her brow, leaning forward to run his lips across her jaw, taking note of the places that made her shiver. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she allowed Dean to explore her body and let herself just feel him. Dean raked his teeth along with the shell of her ear, causing her to buck her hips and both of them to groan.  

“Fuck,” her words were a breath on her lips as she repeated the action, the roughness of his jeans just enough friction on her aching sex. 

“That’s it, beautiful, take what you need,” Dean sat back and used his hands to keep her body moving against his own, watching the way her brows scrunched together in the center of her forehead. With a shift of his hips, he had her pushed back and straddling his left thigh, his hands still in their place on her hips. “Can you come like this, sweetheart?”

“I don’t--” a jolt of electricity had her halting her denial, instead she chose to just nod and place her hands against his chest to balance her movement. She could feel Dean’s heart hammering in his chest under her palm and the quick rise and fall of his breath. Even at this moment, she was disbelieving that he was that turned on watching her get herself off on his thigh, but she had the proof hammering under her fingertips. Y/n was biting her lip to keep quiet in the small room. “Dean, I’m so close.” 

“I’ve got you, come for me, Y/n,” he husked as his grip tightened, though she wasn’t sure how that was even possible, seeing as there was already gonna be bruises there later, that she was sure of. The sound of his voice reverberating in her head had the coil snapping inside of her, heat flooding her body as every nerve sparked and faded out. A rush of air left her lungs, her body slumping as her muscles relaxed post-orgasm. 

“Oh my god.” As her arousal ebbed from her body and the reality of what just happened came to her sense, Y/n clammed up and she tried to climb from his lap. Blood rushed to her face and her hands flew to her cheeks to hide the heat settling there.

“Woah, where are you going?” Dean stopped her from making a hasty exit, his eyes searching hers in question. 

“Dean, what the hell just happened?” 

A smirk replaced the confusion on his face as he leaned forward and nuzzled his face in her neck, tracing his tongue up her pulse. “You just got yourself off on my thigh while I tried not to cream my jeans,” he breathed in her ear. It was like he already knew every button to push on her body, his dirty talk doing everything she needed it to for her body to already be aching for him again. 

“I--”

“Shh, sweetheart. That was hot as fuck, and all I want now is to be buried deep inside that pretty pussy of yours.” 

“Jesus,” her eyes shifted to his, taking in the mischievous glint shining behind his iris. “You aren’t kidding.”

“Nope,” he popped the ‘p’ at the end of his word and Y/n nodded as she climbed off him. She turned her back to him so he could undo the zipper, and it took a second for Dean to catch on to her silent action. He jumped to the edge of the bench and tugged down the zipper before sliding the material down her shoulders. Dean hooked his fingers into the edge of her panties, placing a kiss on the dip in her lower back before pulling the soaked material to pool at her feet along with the dress. He stood then as she turned back to him and pushed his jacket and flannel down his arms, adding it to the pile of discarded clothes in the room. 

“Come, on we don’t have a lot of time before someone gets suspicious.” There was a quiver in her voice as she lifted the hem of his tee and tugged open his belt. It was taking everything in her to quell the shaking in her hands. Dean’s fingers came down to wrap around her wrists, halting her movement and she looked up at him. 

“Y/n we don’t have to,” he was trying to read her mind as he examined her face. The trepidation was seeping through her pores, but not because she didn’t want this. Hell, the painful ache between her legs told her how much she wanted this, but her brain couldn’t help to race through the million thoughts about what it all meant. 

“No, I-- God do I want this,” Y/n began chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tried to come up with the words to explain to him what she was thinking. But the longer the time passed the more nervous she grew, standing there stark naked and he’s still basically fully dressed. “I think I’ve wanted this for a long time now, but I’m just scared.”

“Of?” He urged her to continue.

“That this doesn’t mean the same thing to you,” Y/n cast her glance down, her eyes fixated on the way the fluorescent light glinted in the metal of his belt. 

“You think that this is about getting my dick wet for me.” It wasn’t a question, because she had all but spelled it out for him. “Y/n,” He put his fingers under her chin and turned her head back up to his, brushing his lips against hers, the action soft and unhurried. “I told you, I’ve been watching you for a while now, trying to learn everything I could about you. I would have done this the first night I met you if I hadn’t thought about what it would do to you. But I’m done being scared because I think I fell for you a long time ago and no amount of whiskey or other women could make me forget that. So I’m done fighting it.” 

“Yeah?” Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears now, and Dean answered her with another kiss, pulling her body flush against his own as he invaded her mouth. The pair only pulled apart when they could no longer fight the need for air. “Dean--”

“Yeah,” he breathed, dropping his grip on her to finish what she started with his belt. Y/n watched his movements, her breath getting caught in her throat as she watched him pull his length from its cotton confines. Dean signaled for her to turn with one hand as he stroked himself with the other. She obliged, of course, and Dean pushed her gently between her shoulder blades until her hands were pressed against the mirror. He nudged her legs to open a tad wider, meeting her gaze in the mirror. 

“Do we--” 

“I’m good if you’re good,” she told him, knowing where he was going with his question. He nodded to her before lining himself up with her entrance. Dean held her gaze as he entered her from behind, both of them sighing together as he became fully seated. Y/n closed her eyes as she tried to compose herself, her head falling between her arms. 

“Fuck, open your eyes, look at yourself,” Dean was biting his tongue as he swatted her ass to get her to lift her head again. She indulged him, looking at herself in the mirror before turning her eyes back to his in the mirror. “There you go,” he praised her, the words like music to her ears as he pulled back out and slammed into her hips. 

Dean set up a steady rhythm, careful to not shake the walls of the dressing too much with his movement. The couple kept their eyes on each other in the mirror, the moment the most erotic thing she could ever remember doing, but for the life of her, she couldn’t be bothered by it. Even from her vantage point, she could see how blown his pupils were, the black of his iris’ all but drowning out the green that she loved so much. To be honest, she wasn’t sure which she liked more now. All she did know was the feeling of him moving inside her and the way her muscles were shaking. 

A small knock had Dean stilling his movements, and Y/n stood up, pressing her back against his chest. He slipped an arm around her chest as she signaled for him to be silent. “You doing alright in there?” 

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat and let out a breath, “Yeah,” she called back, afraid her voice would be too wrecked if she said anything else. 

“Is there anything else I can get you? Maybe some different sizes?” The saleswoman tried again. 

“Nope, I’m all set, thank you.” 

“Okay, just let me know.” The sound of her footsteps could be heard retreating from the dressing room, and Dean pressed his face into her neck, the pair of them chuckling. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” he adjusted their position, resuming the movement of his hips as he snaked his free hand down to rub against her clit. Y/n jolted in his arms at the contact, this time closing her eyes as he built her back up. “I’m right behind you. Can you come for me again?” Y/n nodded against him, her hands flying to his forearm as she felt herself jumping over the cliff, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her knees buckled and Dean had to adjust himself to keep her from falling, still fucking her from behind as her fluttering walls milked him to his own orgasm. He bit into her shoulder to keep himself from groaning out loud. 

“Sweet Jesus,” her body went limp in his arms as the pair of them caught their breath in the now muggy space. 

“Yeah, you are so not going out with that coroner tonight. We will find a different way.” Dean admitted as he pulled his now softening cock from her. Y/n flinched at the feeling and the subsequent rush of his release inside her. 

“What?” She turned to him as he began righting himself, not understanding why he didn’t want her to do her job.

“‘Cause you are all mine now,” Dean tugged her into his chest, his fingers around one of her biceps. “And I want to spend all night making sure you can’t walk tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Dean laughed as she blinked at him, clearly lost for any sort of coherent answer to what he just told her. 

“Get dressed so we can get out of here and kick Sammy out of our motel room.” Dean tapped her ass again and she pushed him away from her, a stupid grin on both of their faces.

Forevers: @22sarah08​ @akshi8278​ @anathewierdo​ @atc74​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​​ @callmekda​ @dawnie1988​ @deanwanddamons​ @ellewritesfix05​ @emoryhemsworth​ @flamencodiva​​ @foxyjwls007​ @hobby27​ @janicho88​ @jensengirl83​ @katehuntington​ @lyarr24​ @malfoysqueen14​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @msmarvelouswinchester​ @polina-93​​ @sleepylunarwolf​ @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan​ @smol-and-grumpy​ @superfanficnatural​ @supraveng​ @talesmaniac89​ @tranquility-or-chaos​​ @waywardbeanie​ @winchest09​

[whumpcollector]

Safe Haven

Hey all. I come bringing gifts in the form of writing. I’ve been playing around with these characters on my head for a bit so hopefully you all enjoy!

CW: Slavery. Dehumanization (kind of)

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Kai let out a small sigh as he looked down at 07. The poor thing was curled up on the floor of the closet, arms wrapped around themselves and head tucked into their chest. It looked like they were trying to hide themselves, making themselves small so they wouldn’t be noticed. 

Or maybe so they would be harder to hit.

A grimace crossed Kai’s face as he looked at the bed in the room. It was a small guest bed, a bit old but still comfortable. The covers were pristine, 07 hadn’t even lied down on top of them. They didn’t take any of the blankets into the closet either; a short draft reminded Kai how cold the nights were getting. 07 felt it too, shivering in their sleep. 

Kai was conflicted. He wanted to pull one of the blankets off of the bed and wrap 07 up in them, given them some protection from the winter chill. On the other hand, for whatever reason, 07 didn’t want Kai to know they weren’t using the bed. Why they felt the need to lie about this was something to be handled later. Right now Kai had two options. Put a blanket over 07 and risk them freaking out or let them lie there on the floor in the cold. 

Another draft and another made up Kai’s mind. He walked over to the bed and pulled off the comforter before walking back and gently placing it over 07. They didn’t wake up, thankfully, and now they had something to fend off the chill. 

Kai walked out of the room and back towards his own. 07 was probably going to be in a bad way tomorrow morning, but this was something he would need to address at some point, might as well do it now. As he laid down in bed he wondered how exactly he was going to tackle this. An answer didn’t come to him; he would have to wing it. Well, at the very least he had plenty of experience doing just that.

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Kai awoke to the smell of cooking bacon and hot coffee. 07 was already awake and busy cooking breakfast. Kai got out of bed, taking a quick shower and throwing on a fresh set of clothes before walking into the living room. 07 was still busy cooking breakfast, a variety of smells coming from the kitchenette they were working in. They hadn't noticed Kai walk into the room, and he watched them for a few minutes. They were scared, close to panicking. They moved quickly and jerkily, shifting from one task to the next as if leaving something alone for more than a moment would set the house on fire.

‘Well,’ Kai thought, ‘no reason to put it off.’

“Good morning 07.” He really wanted to give them a proper name, but one thing at a time. “I see you’ve started breakfast.”

07 froze up for a split second before turning around and bowing their head. “G-good morning master Kai. Breakfast will be ready s-soon.”

Kai nodded before walking past 07 and grabbing the coffee pot to pour himself a cup. 07 went back to cooking breakfast. Kai spied pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and biscuits in various states of completion on the stove and counter. They were really going all out. 

Kai sat at the table, circling his finger around the rim of his mug and pondering how to handle this. He couldn’t and wouldn’t just ignore it. Trying to coax out a confession would just torture them for no reason. Looks like the only way out was through. 

07 brought a plate piled high with food to the table, placing it in front of Kai alongside some silverware. There was a slight tremble in their hands, small enough that it didn’t make the plate shake but enough to be noticeable. After serving Kai they knelt by his chair, eyes cast down. Another habit Kai wanted to break, but again, one thing at a time.

The food was good. Really good. Perfect in fact. 07 had outdone themselves. Kai ate in silence, savoring the food and also, maybe, possibly, putting off having to bring up last night for a few more minutes. Unfortunately the food didn’t last forever, and once the plate was clean Kai was out of excuses. 07 stood up and took the plate from the table, walking to the sink in order to start washing it. Well, now or never.

“So…” Kai began before trailing off and turning to 07.

They had frozen in place. Kai could hear their breathing go shallow.

“I uhh...I um...I checked up on you last night and...well...I was just wondering if there was...” Fuck’s sake man just get it out already. “Why were you sleeping in the closet?”

07 stood frozen for a few seconds more before clumsily putting the plate on a counter and rushing towards Kai. They fell to the ground, going prostrate and grasping Kai’s ankles.

“I-I’m so sorry master. I’m sorry. Please, please I didn’t mean to insult you. I-I jus-”

“Hey, hey.” Kai said, crouching down and trying to soothe the slave at his feet. “It's ok. I’m not mad. You’re not in trouble. I just...I just want you to be honest with me. Can you do that?”

07 nodded timidly.

“Ok, well first of all can you look at me?”

They looked upwards, tears in the corner of their eyes and lips trembling. Kai gave them a, hopefully, reassuring smile. 

“Good, good. Ok, now I just want you to be honest. Have you slept in the bed at all since you got here?”

07 hesitated before nodding once.

Kai raised an eyebrow, leaning his head in a bit closer. “Do you promise?”

They didn’t respond, casting their eyes back down. A second passed, and another, and then they slowly shook their head. 

So they’ve been sleeping in the closet on the ground for more than a month at this point. Kai cursed internally, he should have paid more attention. It's a wonder they haven’t gotten sick. 

“I see,” Kai said slowly. “That's ok. I just wish you would have told me.”

Shit, wrong thing to say. 07 tensed up, curling into themselves further and trembling. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-I…” They trailed off and looked back up, a strange desperation in their eyes. “Please forgive me master.”

Kai nodded. “Ok. I forgive you.”

07’s eyes widened and they started backwards slightly. A combination of disbelief and hope crossed their face. “R-really?”

“Yup.” Kai nodded again. “You are forgiven. I asked you to be truthful with me and you were, so I forgive you.”

“Thank you! Thank you, I promise I won’t lie ever again, I promise!” 07 buried their face in Kai’s ankles, clinging to his legs like a lifeline.

Kai patted them on the head. He wanted to explain that they hadn’t done anything wrong, that there was nothing to forgive. But, well, one thing at a time. One thing at a time. 

If only there were less things to take care of. 

Kai took a deep breath and looked out the window. Snow had come down hard last night, and the driveway was covered in a fresh white blanket. Well, it would be good if 07 had something to do to distract them, and Kai needed them out of the house for a bit, he had a plan brewing. Besides he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to shovel snow, either.

“Hey, 07. The driveway is pretty covered right now. Would you mind heading out and clearing the way?”

07 nodded, standing up and heading towards the front door. 

“Hey wait,” Kai called after them, “don’t forget to put on a coat and some gloves.”

07 paused and turned back. It looked like doing so had never crossed their mind. They nodded and headed towards the closet by the front door, pulling out one of Kai’s old coats and a pair of gloves. The coat looked almost comically huge on 07, but it would keep them warm. Once they were properly dressed they looked back at Kai. He nodded in approval and they bowed their head before walking out the door. 

Kai let out a sigh and walked back into 07’s room. He looked at the closet. There were no clothes in it; no one had used the room for a while. Hell it didn’t even have a door; the thing broke off after an earthquake a few years ago. As it was, the closet wasn’t fit for anyone to sleep in. 

Well no shit, it was a fucking closet. 

Still, Kai could change that. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck. Time to get to work.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

07 shoveled the last bit of snow out of the driveway, taking a moment to appreciate their work. They had done a good job. The driveway was completely clear, you couldn’t even tell there had been any snow. Master would be pleased.

They hoped that Master would be pleased. 

They needed to please master. They had lied to him. They had insulted his generosity. They should have been punished, they should have been beaten or burned or cut or whipped or drowned or something. But Master didn’t do any of those things.

Master didn’t do a lot of things. 

Master didn’t yell when they were stupid. Master didn’t hurt them when they failed. Master didn’t even seem to mind their constant stuttering. Master was...different than what they had expected, what they were used to. 

They weren’t sure how they felt about that. It was all so uncertain. They had to be wary of every move, every word spoken. Who knows what would set master off. They wished that Master would just tell them, lay out the rules clearly so they would know what to do and what to avoid. That would be so much easier, so much nicer than having to walk on eggshells until they inevitably stumbled into a punishment. 

At least so far they had managed to avoid doing anything that would anger master. It was a miracle they had gotten so lucky so many times. They had thought today was it. Master had learned that they had scorned his gift to them and lied about it. By all rights they should have been punished, but they weren’t. 

It was almost frustrating.

07 shook their head, they had no right being frustrated. They should be nothing short of grateful for the mercy they had been given. It was more than they deserved, far more.

They walked back into the house, taking off Master’s coat and gloves and carefully placing them back in the closet before taking off their winter boots. Master wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen, and they didn’t hear anything from the forge in the backyard so he wasn’t working. Their pondering where he might be was cut short as Master entered the room carrying a cardboard box.

“Oh, hey 07. You finished with the driveway?”

07 nodded. “Yes Master, the driveway is clear. I hope I did a satisfactory job.”

Master strained his neck, looking out a window before waving his hand. “You did fine, don’t worry.” He turned to walk away before abruptly stopping and turning back. “Ah wait. I should have mentioned this earlier so you didn’t put away the coat but could you bring in some blades I left out in the forge? I don’t want them to get damaged from the cold.”

07 nodded and walked back towards the closet. Pulling their coat, gloves, and boots back on and making their way towards the backyard. The blades Master had left out were easy to find, and they were on the lighter side so carrying them into the garage wasn’t too difficult.

Master kept 07 busy for the rest of the day, having them do a variety of small tasks and chores until it was time to cook dinner. That was odd. Usually Master left them to their own devices, only occasionally ordering them to perform anything specific. Maybe this was supposed to be a punishment? Taking away 07’s relative freedom for the day. They didn’t know, and decided it would be best not to think about it too much as they started cooking dinner.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kai leaned back in his chair, letting out a satisfied sigh. Dinner was good, it usually was when 07 was cooking. He should get them to teach him, god knows he couldn’t do anything more complicated than boil water without hurting himself. Or setting something on fire. Or both. 

It was usually both.

Speaking of 07, Kai was anxious about how they would take the surprise he had prepared. It might be too much; they hadn’t been too receptive of gifts in the past. Hopefully everything would go well. Hopefully.

Well there wasn’t anything to do except wait for things to play out. 07 usually went to bed an hour or so after dinner. All Kai could do was wait. He stretched his arms and stood up, grabbing his plate and bringing it to the sink. 07 was already doing the dishes, and Kai stood next to them and began to dry what they had finished cleaning. It was a routine that had developed between the two of them. It was probably one of the only times 07 wasn’t nervous around him. 

Once the dishes were done Kai and 07 moved towards the living room, or more accurately Kai moved to the living room and 07 followed him. They tended to shadow him when they weren’t doing anything, staying just on his peripheries. It kind of reminded him of his old cat Rumble. It was cute. 

Kai took a seat on the couch and 07 curled on the floor off to the side. He had tried to invite them onto the furniture but they had always resisted. Pushing the issue always got them worked up so he stopped bringing it up, at least for now. One thing at a time and all. 

There was a nature documentary on, one about ocean life. Kai couldn’t say he cared much for the ocean but David Attenbourough could make wet paint the most compelling thing on the planet. 07, on the other hand, was utterly enthralled. They tried to hide it at first, but soon enough they were leaning forward with wide eyes and an open mouth. Kai could have sworn they even let out a small “ooohhh” when a particularly impressive shot of a whale played on screen. 

By the time the documentary had ended it was well past midnight. 07 stood and turned to Kai. “M-master. May I have permission to retire for the night.”

Kai gave them a nod and they left to clean up for the night. Kai waited for a couple of minutes before walking towards their room. He found them staring at the closet in complete disbelief. 

Kai walked towards them, casually looking into the closet. He had to admit he didn’t do a bad job. A thick sheet and comforter covered the floor, providing a softer surface than just the carpet. The pillows from the bed had been moved into the closet as well. A few strings of fairy lights connected to a somewhat jury rigged switch provided some lighting, and an old curtain had been hung up to allow for some privacy. 

It wasn’t much, but it was a hell of a lot better than just an empty closet.

07 turned to face them, confusion written all over their face.

Kai threw up his hands. “Surprise.” He placed a hand on their shoulder and gave them a smile he hoped was reassuring. “If you don’t want to sleep on the bed I won’t make you. But, you shouldn’t just have to sleep on the floor so I thought I’d, well, make it a bit more liveable.”

07 just stared at him before suddenly falling to the ground prostrate. “T-thank you. Thank you Master Kai. Thank you.”

Kai knelt down, running his hand through their hair. “You are welcome 07. Let me know if the lights stop working. I’m not amazing at wiring or electrical stuff so it might break down.”

07 merely nodded before standing back up and approaching the closet. They hesitated, pausing and turning back to Kai with a worried expression. They thought it might still be a trap, or a test. 

“It's ok,” Kai said softly. “Go ahead.”

07 gave one last tentative nod and entered the closet. They slowly lowered themselves down, pulling the comforter open and slipping beneath it. They let their head hit the pillow and a look of pure bliss crossed their face. Kai smiled and pulled the curtain closed.

“Goodnight 07.”

He left the room and made his way to his own, a warm feeling of satisfaction bubbling in his chest. He didn’t always get things right when it came to 07, but today? Today he got something right. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

07 stared up at the fairy lights hanging above them. They didn’t know what to think. Not only had Master not punished them, they had been given a reward of all things! The comforter was thick and warm, and pillows were soft and the lights were beautiful. It was almost too much, they wanted to cry. They didn’t though, best to not do something that might annoy Master. 

Master. Master Kai. Master Kai had given them this gift, this wonderful gift. There had to be a catch, there had to be. Slaves weren’t just given these kinds of gifts, especially not slaves that had just lied to their master. There had to be a catch. Somehow, someway, at some point they were going to pay for this. They shuddered at the thought, memories of what they had to do in the past to pay for these kinds of gifts intruding on their mind. 

But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Master had been nothing but kind and merciful to them since he had acquired them. Maybe whatever they would have to do to pay would be mild. 

Master was still an enigma to them, one that continued to grow more and more confusing. A part of them hated it, hated the guessing and worrying and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Another part of them didn’t care. Sure Master was confusing, and unpredictable, and different, but maybe that wasn’t so bad. Maybe they could get used to it.

For the first time in a long time, 07 slept peacefully through the night.

Tags: @haro-whumps​

[tundrainafrica]

Title: Division of Labor (4/?)

Summary:  

“The past years, we have noticed a lot of our fresh high school graduates knew nothing about responsibilities the that awaited them outside high school and even college. Many students do not master budgeting, taxes, household planning, loans and we hope to raise a generation who can navigate the adult world without the consequences of bad decisions they are bound to make going in blindly…”

Paradis High school starts a program incorporating adulting into their curriculum and Hange and Levi are paired together.

Note: From request of @a-golden-hearted-snk-fan. See this link for the request

So here is the next chapter of division of labor. I had intended to drop it today for a long time. I didn't expect it to coincide with leaks so sorry for the slight mood whiplash.

Anyway, thank you to the anons on tumblr for asking about this fic. I still find it pretty surreal that people actually think about my work, let alone send asks about it.

Other Chapters: 1 2 3

Link to cross-postings: AO3

Having lived alone for all of his high school life and some of his middle school life, Levi was sure of one thing.

Cooking is fun. Except when it is graded.

In fact, nothing can be fun when someone is behind them watching their every move telling them their performance in that one activity can determine a grade and that grade can determine their future. As Levi and Hange surveyed the ingredients in front of them, Erwin was behind them. Of all the workstations he had chosen to hang out in, it happened to be theirs.

As Levi looked at the other workstations, he could see Nanaba to his left already cracking two eggs into a bowl next to Mike. Bertholdt who was working in front of them with his pair Reiner was already cutting up what looked like cheese cubes. To his right was his own pair Hange who was shaking the eggs to her ear.

“Just to check if they’re boiled,” she explained. Levi did not even notice he had given her a judgemental look until she avoided his gaze looking a little self conscious.

Of course they wouldn’t be boiled. They were supposed to be doing everything from scratch. Why did he and Hange in particular look the most clueless? Why weren’t they doing anything? Levi looked behind him again to see Erwin still staring at both of them. I’m not clueless. Levi had to remind himself. He preplanned and prepared meals multiple times a week. He could make anything from the ingredients laid out in front of him. Eggs. Cheese. Celery. Instant noodles.

Why the hell is there instant noodles. What am I supposed to be making?

That ordeal only fueled his hatred for surprise tasks. He hated pop quizzes. Particularly because he had the cursed history of not knowing exactly what would be asked during the actual quizzes but having comprehensive knowledge in another facet of whatever topic they discussed in class. At that moment, he could have gladly given an oral exam about why exactly putting a washing machine in the bathroom was a good idea. Hange probably would have been able to do a practical exam or presentation explaining why a rent-to-own scheme was the best option for homeowners.

Both he and Hange though, probably spent at the most ten minutes running through that meal plan which was biting them so painfully in the ass at that moment. On top of that, the restrictions were ridiculous and unnecessary.

“No checking the recipe?” It was Connie that time towards the front of the room who was protesting the ridiculous restriction put on them. “I thought you’re supposed to be simulating adulthood. In real life everyone could just research the recipes? ”

“What if you don’t have wifi but you have eggs and vegetables in front of you and you need to cook breakfast?” Erwin challenged.

“We’ll have recipe books.” Sasha answered.

Erwin raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at the Connie and Sasha pair. “Will your current financial situation allow that?”

Levi found some solace in Erwin’s comment. Maybe, just maybe that meant that they weren’t the only pair currently burning in hell financially in this little game of adulting. He looked to Hange and the face she made as Erwin had said the words `current financial situation’ and “allow” in the same sentence, Levi guessed that Erwin’s comment probably applied to them as a pair too.

“It is important at least for all of you to know the basics of cooking a nice meal even without the recipe.

Levi sighed. He lived alone and he knew they didn’t need it. Levi had a recipe book for easy recipes at home and almost always had wifi anyway. Nobody actually needed to memorize recipes. He was aware though of the culture of schools to know that schools always made things harder than they were supposed to be.

At least when you’re in the real world, things will be so much easier because you’ve had it hard already. Some teachers would defend. Making things unnecessarily hard though wasn’t at all an effective way to get people good at things. Sometimes, making things unnecessarily hard only left students with chronic unresolved tensions with certain formulas, academic concepts and sometimes even mundane objects they had encountered too many times in an academic setting. In fact, he started to feel the beginnings of it when he encountered washing machines and Japanese style house designs while he went grocery shopping that weekend. A few times he also could have sworn he’d seen Hange recoil at hearing the words ‘debit’ and ‘credit.’

“Maybe we should boil the eggs?” Hange lined up the ingredients on the counter.

“What the hell are you doing?” Levi asked, or more specifically panicked. Around him he could see the others already turning on the stove. Watching Hange observe the ingredients was only a grave reminder of their own incompetence.

“I’m just trying to arrange the ingredients in different ways. Maybe a good idea will come to mind.” She paused for a second. “Scrambled eggs?”

"Hear me out Hange, what if it isn't scrambled eggs." The ingredients all pointed to scrambled eggs or an omelette. In front of them there was a pan, a skillet, eggs, butter and vegetables. That seemed like the most reasonable option. Having taken tests and quizzes for most of his life though, Levi was a master of the art of ‘doubting one’s self’ in high pressure situations where every decision equated to a deduction. “Why is there a pack of instant noodles?” Whether he had intended to or not, Levi had ended up saying his thoughts out loud.

Hange paused for a second, pressing her thumb to her lips in thought, her eyes completely fixed on the pack of instant noodles in front of her. She looked like she was starting to doubt herself too. “You’re right. Levi, why are there instant noodles? Didn’t you make the meal plan?”

“Didn’t you check it?”

“I did check it. If i remember correctly, there was a recipe for scrambled eggs. But there should have been vegetables.” Hange brought the instant noodles pack closer to her and closely read through it. “Wait a minute. This is chow mein? I thought chow mein was a type of vegetable. Why the hell would you put instant noodles in scrambled eggs?”

Instant noodles and scrambled eggs. For some reason, it hadn’t clicked when all he saw were the ingredients in front of him. With Hange bringing up the two key ingredients of eggs and instant noodles, he started to remember what revisions he had made to that particular recipe. “It’s cheaper to make omelette rice with instant noodles than with actual rice.” He admitted lightly.

“Levi! We’re graded for nutritional value. Did you not read the rubrics?”

Levi looked away. In fact he had failed to read the rubrics. “Weren’t you supposed to be checking my work?

“I did check it.”

“Then why did you think chowmein is a type of vegetable? Aren’t you a fan of botany?”

“Levi there are at least one thousand vegetables to think of. You can’t expect me to keep track of all of them.”

Levi then realized that maybe having too much information in one’s brain was a little disadvantageous. Hange may be right that there are thousands of types of vegetables in the world. Levi was sure though that only at least fifty of those types would have been available in an average supermarket. You don’t really go grocery shopping much do you? A part of him had wanted to criticize her and maybe start a little argument.

The clatter of pots and pans around him and the urgent sounding voices was only telling him one thing, time was running. They had to churn something up or risk failing that quiz. He wished at least he could have double checked the rubrics. Alas, their phones were in their bags, all gathered towards the front of the rooms. All they had armed with them then was their procedural memory and the many ingredients in front of them.

Maybe, just maybe though we could do a little improvisation. Levi made eye contact with Hange as he said it. It looked like she had read his mind, Hange reached out for the instant noodles in front of him, ready to slip the pack silently into her pocket.

“If I find out any of you revised any of your recipes or you miss out on one ingredient, expect a 50% deduction for this test,” Erwin announced from behind them.

Within a second, the pack of instant noodles was back on the table and that flash of understanding between Levi and Hange had changed to one of horror and panic. Did he notice?

“Marco, I really cannot remember why the hell I needed so many of these spices in the first place.” Jean said apologetically from his station to their right.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have asked your mom to make the meal plan in the first place then.” Marco sounded surprisingly pissed.

At least they weren’t the only one in hell’s kitchen.

                                  Division of Labor

By some silent agreement, all meetings with his actual friends were cancelled. It was as if everyone in the room had unanimously decided to make up for that disaster of a kitchen quiz by working on the next deliverable days before it was due. It was as if everyone was sure they had failed Erwin’s little pop quiz

Or long test. Erwin though never gave the breakdown of how much of their grade that disaster in the kitchen was. Levi found some assurance at least in the fact that everyone did look as unsure as they were about it. They can’t fail the whole class right?

Either way, a failing grade is still a failing grade. Levi and Hange had gone for the plan of omelette rice having kept the instant noodles revision. And with nutritional value a 60% of their grade for the actual meal plan, their expectations for their grades were low. On the bright side at least, Erwin said that there would be more pop quizzes in the kitchen, so they just had to memorize the recipe of whatever they put in the meal plan the next time around.

It would be painstaking, Levi was sure. But as students he and Hange had been forced to memorize formulas, kingdoms and phyla, vocabulary words, thesis statements, poems and dialogues. That should be nothing. Levi though had a building resentment for the subject, particularly the fact that no one had prepared them for that type of stress at all. None of the seniors ever had to do this type of program and thus, Levi was completely unprepared mentally for ‘adulting.’

Welcome to adulthood. That was what was written on the top of the questionnaire he and Hange were supposed to be submitting by Friday midnight. It was Wednesday afternoon of that week and he was grateful Hange had even suggested they start earlier. Only that morning, Erwin had submitted a new list of deliverables which seemed more comprehensive than the last.

September*

Week 1

Meal Plan

Investment Plan Part I: Disposable Income

Pop quiz

Week 2

Education Plan for Kids

Module 2 (See attached fail)

Pop quiz

Week 3 - 4

TBA

While Hange answered some of the questions on the questionnaire, Levi could only stare at the module in his email. He had promised Hange he would look into it while she filled out her part of the questionnaire. His eyes though were stuck on the little typo

Fail. He was sure Erwin meant file. In that type of module though, he would consider that typo almost fatal since the whole program was already screaming the words ‘failure’ at him.

He had to note at least that Erwin put the words pop quiz there for every week. He couldn’t help but think it was due to the fact that everyone had failed that last cooking exam and that was a sign of some mercy on the teacher’s side.

He clicked the module below the email to find that the file was too large at least for google to open. Oh, I guess it’s too large to open on my phone. It might slow it down after all. A petty excuse but he was just tired and instead decided to entrust the responsibility of opening said document to the Levi of a few hours later who would be in front of an actual computer.

“The file is too big to open on my phone. Sorry, I didn’t think about bringing my laptop today.” Levi’s words weren’t too sincere. A part of him was telling him never to bring his laptop on campus in the first place and was thankful for that bout of irresponsibility. Delaying the inevitable at present is always such a sweet feeling after all.

“It’s fine, it wasn’t too hard to fill out what’s needed. We just needed to assign rooms for Flora and Fauna…” Hange started looking pointedly at the flour babies who were leaning by the window of the diner they started to frequent. “Then break down our budget for other things like furniture, groceries, household necessities…”

She slid the paper over to Levi. As if by magic, his brain just shut down at seeing the numbers out there. A part of him though, a more tenacious part was nagging at him to comment at the computations in front of him.

He focused on the words not the numbers. There were calculations for household necessities like detergent and cleaning wax, groceries, baby stuff, utility bills. Somehow it was only making Levi feel more useless for not even understanding what she was writing.

So you have to comment. Levi willed himself to open his mouth and rack his brain for something reasonable and useful to say. Those thoughts on his end all culminated to two words. “Washing machine... “

“What? You’re still not over that?”

“You really don’t want the washing machine in the bathroom?”

“Levi, we’ve been over this!” Hange said, looking exasperated. Within a split second, her look softened into something else then within a second twisted into what looked like shame or embarrassment. “Yeah, I don’t think we even have the money to pay for that in installments now. But hey, a washing machine isn’t a necessity right? Like handwashing is still a thing.”

Levi didn’t agree. He knew in the back of his mind that anything that made cleaning easier was a necessity. Hange though had made the calculations and as a form of respect for her hardwork and a punishment for himself and his inability to have been of any use with that questionnaire, he kept quiet.

He just had to trust her. Group works were all about trust after all.

                                      Division of Labor

“Your answers were all a fucking mess. If adulting was a war, none of you would make it back alive. All of you will starve with your shitty planning and resource conserving skills.” Shadis waved a wad of papers so magnificently over his head as he slammed them on the table. “I want to hear your justifications for making such idiotic decisions. Maybe that can bring up your grade to a D at least.”

“Blouse Springer!”

“Yes sir!” Sasha stood up instinctively.

“Connie join your partner!”

“We have to sta---?” Connie’s eyes widened as if he realized a second later the disrespect in what he had just said. He stood up a split second after. “Yes sir!”

“Tell me again. What are your jobs?”

Connie looked at the documents and back at him. “Is what we put in the document… wrong… sir?”

“What. Are. Your. Jobs?”

Sasha and Connie exchanged glances and looked back up at him. “I’m a marketing specialist…” Connie started. “And Sasha---”

“Journalist sir.”

“So you have eight to five jobs right?”

“Yes we do,” Connie answered.

“And three kids?”

The two nodded in sync. “Yes sir,” Sasha said. “Or that’s what I remember…” In fact, she shouldn’t have had to recall that. The three flour sacks were on their desk after all. “Did we miss one?”

Shadis ignored them. “Then why did you tick ‘no babysitter’ here?”

“Are we supposed to tick it sir?” Connie asked. A brave question that had everyone in the classroom more silent than they had been a second ago.

“You have eight to five jobs and three children. So are you telling me you will take the kids to work?

“Are we allowed? The fee for a babysitter everyday just seems… extravagant.”

That wasn’t the right word. The right word was exorbitant. As some of the people in the class would have agreed. Many could see though that Connie was shaking at the incessant questions and that should have been the last of his concerns.

Shadis though seemed unpreturbed at the wrong word choice. “Well what if your boss doesn’t allow you to bring three kids to work?”

“Then we leave them at home?”

“And you know that’s illegal?”

The silence in the room had become deafening.

“You can be sued for child neglect,” Shadis expounded

“But how would they know?” It was a bold question from Connie

The room exploded in hesitant mutters only silenced a second later by Shadis’ eerily cold reply. “Social workers are very perceptive people, Connie. I’m surprised you’re even underestimating them. Be ready to pay attorney dues for this.” He wrote something on the paper on his desk which was probably Connie and Sasha’s submission before pushing it to the bottom of the pile.

“Next pair…Ackerman Zoe. Stand up.”

By lunchtime, Levi was in a trance, a very strong strance. He did not even notice the students who had filed out of the classroom for lunch, his eyes completely fixed on the beautiful view of the school courtyard as the leaves started to change color.

That was not what he was admiring though. He wasn’t actually admiring anything. Although his eyes were fixed at such a beautiful view, his brain had done nothing to process it.

“So… You wanna talk about the next output?” That familiar voice sounded like a screech to Levi and it was more than enough to pull him out.

“We are so fucked.” Levi’s words were almost instinctive. It was as if just hearing Hange’s voice sent his whole body into panic mode. Of course he would, having just been grilled by Shadis and having one’s incompetence exposed could do that to anyone.

“There’s an output every week. We’ll be fine,” Hange assured.

Levi could only stare at Hange. He had know idea what kind of face he was making. All he could think then though was the fact that she out of the two of them should have been in a worse state of panic than he was.

And her calm ironically only stressed him out further. Having been reeling from the stress of it for almost four hours, Levi still remembered their exchange perfectly.

"Okay Ackerman… Just a homemaker. And Zoe. You’re working freelance?

"So Levi and I decided that I'll be a scientist and he'll take care of the house," Hange had said so confidently.

"What about taxes?"

“Taxes?”

“I looked at the breakdown of your budget Zoe. You didn’t mention anything about taxes.”

“I’m freelance sir.”

“Zoe, has it ever occured to you that freelancers pay taxes too?”

And their lesson of the day came soon after that exchange. The tasks were detailed and demanded a lot of thought. Through all they had learned over that one painful exchange and maybe through the glimpses of the next few exchanges he had so half heartedly watched, he had learned a lot.

He could have easily summarized it all into one sentence though. Do not take Erwin's tasks with a grain of salt.

Erwin had thought everything through. It could have been by coincidence or it could have also been just a lack of thought on the side of the students but somehow the set up Erwin had was exposing the weaknesses of the students when it came to learning, and possibly their potential weaknesses when it comes to actual adulting.

"I’m deducting the taxes already."

"You heard Shadis, It's too late the hypothetical government is out to get us.” Levi added the word hypothetical to at least help himself bask in the fact that it was still a simulation. “We’re getting penalized.”

Hange smiled wryly. “Fine, we’re kinda financially… going through a rough patch,” She admitted. “But we’re not the only ones going through this type of financial bump. Eren and Mikasa, Sasha and Connie, Reiner and Bertholdt, Petra and Oluo…” Hange trailed off. “I mean okay Armin and Annie looked like they were doing fine but back in the supermarket, they looked kinda confused too.”

“A failing grade is a failing grade.”

“But Levi, they can’t fail the whole class.” Hearing that Hange was somehow very reassuring.

Hange was right. Teachers can’t fail a whole class and Levi was aware of two methods teachers tend to employ when dealing with an underperforming class: employ a curve or give extra credit.

Levi should have known though from his short yet very tumultuous few weeks with that adulting program that a curve would have seemed a little too merciful for their teachers.

With the uncomfortable look Erwin gave the class, Levi was sure at least a majority of the class had fucked up financially. How exactly, he was unsure.

Right after they had finished their own mini oral exam, Levi had fallen into a trance. A trance, trying to think up a back up life just in case he never manages to graduate high school or make it to college.

Misery though loves company. Especially when it’s a whole class failing. Levi was not the type to want to wish misfortune on anyone else. Being as completely idiotic and dense as he and Hange were though, Levi found himself grateful for the unfortunate situation the class found themselves in,

“It looks like a lot of you are struggling financially. Zeke and I had a quick talk about this actually…”

Levi’s blood ran cold at the name, Zeke. At that point, he didn’t know if he hated Zeke or he hated Math. Looking back at Zeke’s unfavorable personality, he was guessing probably both.

“And we realized it would be beneficial if we introduce the possibility of finding other sources of income which would be a good lesson in financial management.”

There were some sighs of disappointment among the class. Levi empathized. In fact, he probably would have joined them as well if he weren’t so jaded by the course of events already. Still, a small part of him had hoped as well that they would just raise their salaries.

That was the equivalent of a curve though and Levi somehow knew, grading on the curve was just not Erwin’s style.

“So I am introducing two options to increase your income. One is through investments which will be taught by Zeke another day and another one is through this ‘new system’ I thought out.” Erwin looked a little too proud of that ‘new system.’

“We will be offering extra tasks you may choose to take around the school, these include cleaning, admin tasks, lab work and anything else the teachers may need help done. Each task will have a corresponding pay which can be added to your income for that month.”

So it’s exploitable free labor. Levi thought to himself. He was sure he wasn’t the only one thinking of that. Everyone in the room was desperate though. In the end, despite the questionable set up, it had come out looking like a gesture of generosity from their teacher. Levi saw that in the way a lot of the students around him looked relieved to hear that announcement.

“Or we can just choose to budget within our means?” Annie spoke up from her place on the front next to Armin. She was notably calmer than a lot of people in the room. Levi had suspected for a while though that Armin and Annie weren’t in as much trouble financially.

“I’m sure though a lot of you would want to earn more money,” Erwin said, a knowing smile on his face. “You can exchange these for this thing I will be introducing called ‘disposable income tokens’ and if you collect enough, you can get a free ticket out of doing one of the modules or the pop quizzes of the week of your choice.”

[tokyoghoose]

birthday boy!

pairing: oboro shirakumo x reader

summary: baking a cake with the birthday boy :)

announcements!

happy birthday to the loml, wish you were here

fuck kurogiri lmaoooo

I just wanted to write something quick to celebrate him 🥺 just a heads up, you bought him a new pair of crocs bc its canon thaf he wears them

—————

"You know you aren't supposed to help with your own cake, right?" You snicker, watching him decide between funfetti and chocolate cake batter. He hums in reply, setting the chocolate back onto the shelf before turning to face you with one of his famous toothy grins. He drops the box into the basket with a shrug.

"And what about it? I have to make sure you do it right anyway."

His teasing makes heat go to your cheeks and you scoff, continuing to another aisle to find ingredients for cream cheese frosting (per his strange request), sprinkles, and candles.

"Yeah right. You're just gonna sit around and watch me."

"Is that such a bad thing? Maybe I just like the view."

You almost choke from his words, lightly pushing his shoulder with your own to cover the fact you're probably as red as a tomato. Even after a year of dating, you couldn't adjust to his teasing nature. But maybe that's what drew you to him in the first place. His outgoing personality and charm, leading you right to the palm of his hands.

He never took it too far, always knowing people's limits to his jokes and jabs. He's confident in his ability to befriend anyone—even someone like Aizawa Shouta. He's quite the spectacle and you're suddenly aware of how glad you are that someone somewhere took the time to craft him and bring him to earth for he's surely not of this world. And you're even more thankful that they brought him to you. You'd have to make sure to let him know that one day.

———

Honestly, you aren't sure how Oboro had managed to make baking a box mix of cake into such a challenging task. Not that you're complaining.

"Stop eating the frosting, shirakumo."

Your words have no bite to them when you glance out of the corner of your eye to see the teenager sticking his finger into the canister before popping a dollop into his mouth and staining his finger blue and green. It doesn't help that your smile gives you away, his own cheeky expression meeting your eyes when he takes another scoop.

"It tastes kinda funny, actually. I think something's wrong with it.."

You raise your brows, almost in worry when you turn to grab the container, only to be met face to chest with the cloud boy himself. He snickers, a mischievous grin crawling its way onto his features before he slowly wipes the frosting down the side of your cheek with his thumb, stopping at your bottom lip, "Here, have a taste."

The tension in the air could've been sliced by a knife as you stand there with your jaw to the floor in disbelief. What the hell did he think he just started. Oboro steps back, furrowing his brows when you start to laugh, your body shuddering with giggles without your control. It's not long before his own smile reappears when you grab the frosting container, taking a scoop with your thumb and swiping it quickly against his forehead.

"You're in for it now, baby." His boisterous laugh seems to shake the house then he takes an egg and your arm, holding you close to his chest before cracking it over your head. The yolk slides down the side of your face, leaving a trail past your closed eyes before falling to your shoulder. It's colder than you thought it'd be and it's absolutely disgusting to touch and feel in your hair. You push him away to wipe your eye, an open mouth chuckle slipping last your lips before humming and taking the cup of milk on the counter and sending it his way.

It's not long until the only sounds in the kitchen are your laughter and his and the occasional fall off food. There's flour everywhere, dusting your clothes and his bandanna, defining the crinkles in his face like clown makeup. Eggshells are cracked on the counter and there's yolk all over the floor along with milk and butter that's melted and you briefly wonder how long it'll take to clean up. The thought doesn't find you for very long however because before you can get in another good attack, Oboro has his you engulfed in his arms, pressing every ingredient you carefully aimed at him into your back.

His chest is heaving while he catches his breath, giggles coming from his parted lips before he digs his face into the crook of your neck, pressing a kiss there. You hadn't taken the time to actually look at the mess you've made of him with blue and white and yellow painting his face. He smells like vanilla, which is weird considering you didn't have any vanilla extract on hand. Had he always smelled like vanilla? As long as you could remember he only smelled slightly of fresh rain in the evening, refreshing and clean. It takes you by surprise but you welcome it, wrapping your arms around his to pull him closer.

The laughter has died down now, just the two of you swaying slightly in each other arms. It's a memory you decide to burn into your brain to hold forever. One you'll hopefully tell your future kids—not that you were thinking about marriage anytime soon, but it wouldn't be horrible to marry him. Especially when you're certain he's 'the one.' Oboro wouls probably think you sound silly saying that, laughing at you but ultimately agreeing loudly. He was never one to hide his feelings, and even if he wanted to his eyes gave him away every time.

Shirakumo presses another light kiss to your neck before you turn around in his arms, reaching up to wipe some flour off his face and that dorky smile. If anyone else were to see such a raw, soft display of affection they would think he's whipped for you, but then again it's no secret. He'd gladly yell it from the rooftop so the whole world would know. He reaches for your hands on his cheeks and squeezes gently before pressing his forehead to yours.

He tastes like spearmint and you hum in appreciation before closing your eyes. It's such an intimate act between the two of you. And for only being seventeen, you're sure you know what love is now, at this moment.

You hardly feel him trace a heart on your cheek with the sticky frosting, crinkling up your nose when he chuckles before pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. They're always on the intense side, eager to deepen the kiss to move it somewhere more comfortable, yet soft when need be.

He pulls away with a satisfied sigh, placing his forehead back to yours and biting his lower lip in anticipation while you twirl his hair between your fingers. He mutters a sweet thank you on your lips, nudging your nose with his to make your sigh:

"Happy birthday, baby."

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Four; Acquaintances.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: Nothing much to trigger in this chapter - just as the title suggests, a swooning moment or two perhaps-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

The sky remained hard. Resolutely letting snow sift from the thick great heavens, like icing sugar drifting down. The ground also continued to be frosty hard and scattered with patches of hidden silvery ice.

 No sooner than the sun had risen over the tumbling flat frosty vista of Hampshire hills and frost crusted meadows, than Iris is up, and going about her daily chores all in the life of a gently bred - yet unwed- daughter, of fairly considerable means.

 She takes food parcels to the poor. Calls on sick relatives or companions for tea. Pays calls. Fetched supplies for cook from the butchers or the grocers, or the fishmongers in town.

 When one of the maids is ill, or is suffering a passing heartbreak until the next suitor comes along, Iris is the one to step into the void and fulfil their tasks. She collects the eggs from the chickens at the farm, or makes the ailing girl a hot milk posset or a cup of hot chocolate to cheer them.

 It seemed like every other week their maids, Meg and Julia, seemed to go getting their hearts broken. Some farm hand. Or the boy from the butchers shop. The milliners son, or the strong handsome one who works in the drapers shop. As ever; Iris steps into the fray when - another - devastating crisis comes their way. She helps cook in the kitchen with supper. Or she helps out with idle cleaning around the house. Or see’s to the chores on the farm.

 This morning is no different. Meg took to her bed with an ailing heart of the most acute kind. For the boy she fancies had become engaged to another girl. Iris brings her a cup of chocolate after breakfast and lends her a handkerchief and a shoulder so she can have a good long cry about it.

 So household tasks fall onto her today. Fetching in what cook needed from market for supper. Even though she’d have liked to have spent a morning reading her book, or helping Julia get on top of the household washing. She’s wanted to take down the parlour curtains and give them a good scrub, for weeks now.

 Or today she had ideally wanted to lend Flora and Posy a hand in drying some flowers, and french lavender and roses. For perfumes and bathing oils. They had to use their home grown stock from the gardens carefully. It was a long winter. And the convenience of summer blooms are far off yet. Dried flowers cost a pretty penny up the market.

 Her duties are endless. She’s got calls to pay. Off to the butchers to buy sweet meats and game for the jugged hare cook is making tonight. She needs to buy beeswax candles and salt, and some more soaps.

 And Posy and Flora are allowed to purchase two new ribbons each. They’ll walk into the village with her. No doubt nattering all the way there about what colours they want. And all the way back that they should’ve chosen different ones.

 Iris steps outside in her wintry best and her cracked leather boots. Two pairs of wool stockings this time. Her navy blue wool pelisse over a thick white cotton dress. For good measure, she puts a bonnet on to keep her ears warm, and wraps a gold embroidered shawl around her shoulders.

 Posy and Flora are trussed up as if they’re off to go personally meet the Prince Regent. Flora is in her gold pelisse with her pink dress under. And Posy had her powder blue coat over her mint green dress. They’re both wearing bonnets that they made up themselves. Their hats staggering under the weight of ribbons and cloth and trims and flounces.

 Iris’s was far simpler - No fuss. No trims. A gold straw bonnet with grey ribbon tied under her chin.

 Iris has to chide Posy, when they step out of doors, for forgetting to wear her gloves. She insists she hasn’t a decent pair and slips back into the house to go up to Iris’s room to conveniently borrow her grey rabbit fur lined gloves. Making her elder sister roll her eyes. The plot was clear.

 They had a heavy basket each to carry. Some old granary loaves, soused herring, and some jars of Jam from their kitchens to go to the poor. They’re not even at the end of the drive and Flora is whinging about the weight of her basket. Iris heaves a sigh and grabs it off her.

 She trudges behind them. Both arms carrying heavy baskets.

 Her and Posy link arms, giggling, walking along merrily, animated and discussing last nights ball. Or, more accurately; making sport of the people who’d attended.

 “Did you see that awful Lavender gown Jane Penwell had on?”

 “I thought it suited her very ill indeed.”

 “And did you hear about Lawrence Fisher? Apparently he’s now to be courting Lucy Miller.”

 “I cannot stand her. Last night she was so boastful about the lace trim on her dress. She’s vile. And I haven’t had any new lace on my dress for over a year! Not since last summer. I’m sure she does it deliberately, just to vex me.”

 “You are far prettier than Lucy Miller. She has ten million freckles and no conversation at all. She’s a pale ugly little thing.” Posy’s insisting fiercely to her younger sister.

 Iris is amused by the sheer frailty of their worries.

 “And besides, Mama said she had a letter from Mrs Thornby today, and apparently Lord Ren and Iris were the talk of the ball all night, last eve.” Flora says cheekily.

 Turning over her shoulder to scrutinise her sister with a smug grin that flashes her straight little row of teeth.

 Iris rolled her eyes. Strongly suspecting that as of now, her and Lord Ren would be gossiped about in front parlours for weeks. This was a sleepy country village with little amusement and not much variety to sustain it.

 Mama’s and girls of the Ton would fall on the new shred of tittle-tattle like wolves.

 “He left the ball last night without talking to any other girl, mama said.” Posy explains.

 “The poor man probably didn’t have time enough to get through all the desperate Hampshire girls, eagerly throwing themselves at him to make an acquaintance.” Iris thinks aloud.

 They walk up Westwell’s frosted drive and out onto the snowy lanes that cut through quaint countryside and woods.

 The golden sun is in its early rising, striping ribbons of thick satin gold through the trees. The ruddy browns and ash greys and ochre coppery rusts of the Turner-esque English countryside. Of fields and hedgerows and treetops. The grass is no longer green. It’s a musty white. And that same cloying powder clings onto the dead taupe leaves and branches of every tree. The air is bitter to breathe in.

 Iris takes a deep lungful of it, and its like a chest full of sharp pins. Needling at her lips and her neck. She should’ve thought to employ a wool scarf. As it is she can only tuck her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Tucking the heavy baskets into to dig deeper into her elbows. The frost numbs her feet, and sneaks up her skirts and snatched cruelly at her legs.

 She clenched her numb fingers, scrunching and unscrunching them up in her much too thin gloves.

 Posy and Flora continue their giggling and swapping tidbits of gossip about Lord Ren.

 “You know he didn’t even dance with anyone!”

 “A great sin, I’m sure. Punishable by death.” Iris thinks to herself under her breath.

 “He probably didn’t have time-“ Posy remarks.

 “Or he doesn’t know how.” Flora supposed.

 “A man that lofty, of course he can dance. Maybe he prefers not too.”

 “Maybe he has a false leg, or, or a war wound!”

 Iris rather wishes her ears were purely ornamental by this point.

 Give me a pair of vestigial ears anytime you wish. She idly prays. Turning her eyes skywards.

 “Maybe he’s shy-“ Flora squeaks. Posy clasps her hand over her mouth and laughs so loudly it startles the chaffinches out the trees.

 “I don’t think he can afford to blend into the wallpaper with a stature like that.” Flora grins.

 “His shoulders were twice the width of me.” Posy says dreamily.

 “Did he have soft lips Iris? For you must’ve felt them through your gloves... Were they heavenly?” Flora demands to know. Both sisters walking in step alongside her now.

 She side eyes them. “That is not a proper thing to discuss. And well you know it Flora Jane Ashton.” Iris insists. Concealing her secrets to herself.

 She wasn’t telling her sisters how her whole body burst into shivers popping and skipping up her spine. How his touch made her skin feel like it was dancing of its own accord. Free from her body. She shivered yet she was blushing hot.

 His lips were the softest, sweetest things that had ever come into contact with her body.

 Her whole arm felt dizzy afterwards. It wasn’t possible. But that’s how it felt. Hours after she was still rubbing the patch where his lips had lain on her satin gloves.

 When she got home after the ball, she peeled her glove off and looked at her hand.

 It still looked ordinary. Her skin wasn’t red or marked - but it felt like it should be. It felt as if something utterly astounding had happened to her.

 The memory of his eyes gazing their arrow-striking glare into her own haunted her head all night long. Swam behind her closed eyelids in her sleep. Those opulent piercing eyes.

 “We won’t tell a soul.” Posy promises

 “Oh, look. Here is the Barton’s cottage. Flora pass me the ointment for Mr Barton.” Iris demands.

 Seeing the little boxy cottage coming into view. Roof thick with iced thatch. Walls butter yellow. With fat pink sickly rose vines creeping up the walls. Iris sees the chimney is smoking. They must be home keeping warm on this frigid morning. Acrid woodsmoke from the house drifts across the woods.

 They deliver the ointment into Mrs Barton’s hand. Along with some jam, a loaf, and pickled goods to see them through the wintry cold week. They were a frail elderly couple after all. And Iris likes helping people. She always had. Her mother always insisted she’d been cursed with an unshakable vein of kindness.

 Which often meant as a child she was forever taking in birds wounded falling out their nests in the gardens. Leaving carrots out for the wild rabbits. Seeds for the birds. Feed for the little monk-jack deers. She shared all her dolls as a girl. Forever saw to caring for the people and creatures which surround her. She visits the infirm with medicine. Reads to the lonely old matrons who’d lost all the grandchildren of their own.

 Now she’s grown that inclination hasn’t left her. She likes making sure none of the infirm elderly, or the more impoverished friends of her acquaintance suffer through the bitter cold climes. They never have to struggle alone. Iris is a balm to the hurting. She gives what she can. And is a friend to everyone kind enough to recognise it.

 Before long, the trio of ladies dispense their generosity upon those who need it. Giving what sustenance and leftovers they can spare. It’s not much really- when all is said and done. But it’s helping in any little way possible. And that’s what matters.

 They come eventually into Pembleton high street. The every busy and jagged row of higgledy Tudor houses. Separated by a lane of sticky brown mud where horses hooves and carts churn up the dirt. Carts and stalls line the streets. Modest shopfronts sell their wares. The air is full up of woodsmoke and the scent of roasting nuts from the brazier on the stand nearby.

 Iris loses Posy and Flora very quickly to the haberdashers, where the ribbons hang from great silken trails in racks from the ceiling. Every colour Imaginable.

 She sees them fussing over Belgian lace and leaves them be. She steps into the butchers for Cooks desired hare and sweet meats. She buys the candles, salt and the paper wrapped little cakes of soaps from Mr Milton’s shop next door.

 She crosses the street to the grocers. Fills her basket with green leeks, onions, potatoes and carrots. She tucks everything in her basket, around the poor lamented hare with its fur still on, and covers it with a patterned linen cloth.

 She has a shilling spare- she wanders over to Mr. Greeley. The proud proprietor of the roasted nuts stall. She buys a bag of warm, buttery sweet chestnuts.

 Hides them from Posy and Flora. This was her one little indulgence for today. She sneaks one of the hot things onto her tongue and savours it.

 She strides back up the line of shop windows. Looking and listening to the clack and bustle of the street behind her. Clopping hooves, rattling carts, ponies and traps clunking along the high street. Friends and acquaintances stopped to gossip and chat in the street. Young and old. Of every walk of life.

 She looks in the drapers window. The reflection off the glass, showed her a watery image of a gaggle of matronly mamas stood behind her across the street, loudly gossiping in her direction. Pointing and gesturing toward her.

 She rolls her eyes in huffing annoyance.

 She wasn’t enjoying being the inconstant centre of attention. Open to such censure and fascination in odes to the Hearst’s ball last night.

 Also in odes to the mysterious new stranger to these shores, too. The dark, dashing, and taciturn Lord Ren.

 Every wet-behind-the-ears girl in all of Hampshire was busy envisioning their swirled initials joined with his in their embroidery. A big handsome stranger from far off lands. It was the precursor to the stuff of romance from drippy novels. A harbinger of a great love story.

 Maybe not hers. Lord Ren may have kissed her hand and called her handsome. But so have countless other rich suitors, and then two months later them and their pretty blonde heiress of ten thousand pounds, are lavishly married and installed in a house in Brunswick square. She’s sure he’ll eventually find some far more moneyed girl to march into matrimony.

 It won’t be her- not her turn to pick out her wedding clothes. It never is.

 She lets the whispers and doubts about her, flourish from unimportant mouths.

 She never cared for the savagery of society. She won’t start being missish about it all, now. It won’t serve her any purpose-

 She can only hope the next scandal or engagement or elopement, or any other source of fascination to the bored inhabitants of this county, comes flooding in quick to snatch away all unhealthy - and rather undue - interest in her.

 She waits outside the haberdashers for her pair of silly sisters. They eventually come out. Comparing their new ribbons with each other’s. Flora has a pink, Posy has some frothy white lace.

 Posy hands Iris a teal silk ribbon. “For your hair. It would become you so well. And it will go with your eyes.” She insists.

 Iris smiles. Wrapping the long length of satin around her grey glove. It was very pretty.

 “Pray how did you afford this?” Iris narrows her eyes in smiling suspicion at the pair of them.

 “I saved up my allowance.” Posy insists plainly. Iris continues her look. She tilts her chin down a notch. Let’s her eyes harden to steel. Arched her muddy shaped brows.

 “...And the haberdasher’s son is so very obliging.” Flora beams. The younger Ashton’s giggle together knowingly.

 Iris sighs again. Strongly suspecting she could safely boast that she had two of the silliest siblings in the entire country. Hell, in the entire British Empire.

 “Let’s take our leave shall we...” Iris says. Slowly heading away. Down the street in the opposite direction they came. It took them home down on the woodland path.

 She picks up her pristine white skirts and steps over the mud. Baskets heavy with her goods now thunking against her hip as they walk. One filled with meat. The other with candles and potatoes and other luxuries for supper.

 Posy and Flora trail behind her. Discussing how best to use their ribbons. On bonnets or around the waistline of their favourite dresses. Iris drowns them out and listens to the crunch of her feet on the frost. The silver wisp of her breath as its whisked away up into the reach of the sky. She likes how sun glimmers off frost like sparkles and diamonds and gems. Like something fine and rich.

 They just come across a curve in the lane. Leading through an open meadow full of frosted grass and withered wildflowers. When a thundering sound gallops into being, hitting the hard ground in succession from beyond the bend.

 Iris looks up, attention captured swiftly by the beast of a large rider atop a colossal shimmering black horse, moving quick towards where they are walking along the quiet little lane. The peace shattered by the horses hooves pounding the earth.

 A great hulking beast of a man sits astride it. Who indeed almost matches the brutally-enormous muscled intensity of the creature he rides.

 Lord Ren.

 Iris startled and went to move aside. But he sees them and is already slowing the horse. She draws a deep breath and watches as he tugs the reins to reel in his galloping mount. Reducing to a canter, a trot and then to a slow stop. Hooves churning up frost and spitting wet and crushed muddy grass, under its enormous stomping treads.

 The sun in fiercely shining behind him. So Iris can only make out the silhouette at first. There’s no mistaking that singular body for another man. The primal size and bulk of him is unmistakable.

 But then he shifts forwards on his horse as it stops. Lumbering towards them all. And that winter sun shines amber over his shoulder and she’s met with the full face of the handsome man she became acquainted with yesterday. His breath and that of his horses turn to silver smoke in the cold air

 He passes the strops of its black reins into one gloved leather hand. His attire not much changed since yesterday. Still all black. The shining calf riding boots. The breeches that sit entirely too snug to the sturdy trunks of his legs and hips. The tailored black wool coat. White shirt tied with an elaborately knotted wine coloured cravat. Diamond pin studded central into the tie of the cloth.

 His hair is free and rumpled by the wind. Desirable and untamed. Wild. He wears no top hat on his head like most gentlemen of civility did, when out riding.

 Something about that lack of full dress she admires. Maybe he likes to feel the wind tangle his hair. The suns kiss his pale skin. The wind stinging at his cheeks. Likes galloping across the terrain at full speed on his mammoth sized beast of a horse.

 “Good morning ladies.” He nods to them all. Still seated on his horse.

 “Miss Ashton.” He smiles directly down at Iris as his horse shifts and stomps and nibbles the dewy wet grass below.

 She ducks her head and curtseys. “Good morning. Your Lordship.” She says politely. Dwarfed by his horses shadow.

 He holds her gaze for a second and smiles. Eyes more opulent charcoal in their shade than ever, this morning. He even had a kiss of pink colour in his cheeks. He looks healthy. Less alabaster pale. She strongly suspects its because of the icy wind stinging his cheeks as he rode.

 He unlatched his right boot from the stirrup and smoothly swings himself off the horse. Grips the pommel at the front of the black saddle and swings himself down. Feet land to earth with a crunching thud. Frost and grass crushed underfoot.

 His long wool riding coat flaps at his knees. Billowing open at his chest to show just his white shirt beneath it. Such thin layers. He must’ve been freezing.

 “If I may be so bold, Miss Ashton, allow me to see you along to your intended destination?” He asks kindly. One big hand patting the solid flank of his horses shoulder when it huffs at his dismounting.

 Iris’s cheeks go flaming red. She’s sure of it. Throat dry she manages to answer.

 “Oh. Forgive my impertinence Lord Ren. But I don’t wish to take you out of your way. Only we are heading in the opposite direction to your path.”

 “With your permission. I should like to walk with you. I’ve done a sufficient amount of riding for this morning.” He tells her.

 Iris smiles. Flattered that he’d rearrange his ride, just to see her safely home. Just to walk with her for a moment or two.

 Posy digs a sharp elbow into Flora’s ribs. Which jolts the youngest into speaking. “Iris. We were just going up the lane here to call on Charlotte Morris.”

 Iris gazes pointedly at Flora with a piercing state that could’ve rivalled a dressmakers needle. “How remiss of you not to bring it up until now...” Iris glares a little.

 “Should you mind?” Posy asks. Fluttering her lashes.

 “Of course not.” Iris says flatly. “Mind the hour home and do for heavens sake be sensible.”

 “We are the very vision of sensibility.” Flora beams.

 Iris quirks a wry brow at the both of them. Teeth grit.

 The two most transparent pests on the planet. Their plot was clear as day- One of sneaking away and leaving their elder sister unchaperoned and alone with him.

 They turn away giggling and make for the little lane opposite. Gabbling and whispering all the way. Loud giggles follow them like fluttering birdsong.

 When she turns back to Lord Ren he looks slightly amused. She blushes.

 “I feel I ought offer an apology, your lordship. They are- most puerile and trying at times.” Iris offers as she shifts to step nearer to where he is.

 He smiles gently. “They are young girls who fancy themselves cunning, I wager. No apology is necessary for that.” He declares affably. Patting his horses neck.

 He brings the big horse around. Holding the gathered reins in his left hand. He leads his gigantic horse around with a click of his tongue and some soft words in urging Bavarian. The big creature follows his lead. She moves and alters the heavy baskets on her arms.

 He sees this. Kylo frowns at the heavy weights at both her elbows. She shouldn’t be tasked with fetching and carrying like a damned pack horse. He extends a hand. “Allow me, Miss Ashton.”

 “Oh, no it’s- I couldn’t.” By the time her protestations die on her lips. He has one basket in one hand, the other, he tied the handle to a saddle bag strap on his horse. Lays it rest against the saddle.

 She’s mortified that a Lord offers to carry her basket for her.

 “That’s truly a magnificent horse. I’ve never seen the like before.” She says. The steeds eyes glitter as if it knows it’s being discussed. “What’s his name?” She asks rummaging in her basket he holds. Hand slipped under the cloth.

 “Erland.” Kylo says. The horses ears twitch.

 “Erland. A majestic name. For a majestic beast.” She smiles at him.

 She steps up to the horse and strokes her gloved hand down the flat bone between his eyes, leading down to his snout. Scents of hay and oats and animal sweat pour musky off his coat.

 “He’s a lovely animal.” She says. Stroking his solid flank.

 “Percheron. He’s a French draft horse. His breed originated in the Huisne valley in western France.” Lord Ren tells her.

 “Bred for use as war horses, and pulling stagecoaches. This one has a fair mount of Arabian blood in him too. Makes him far too proud and headstrong.” He announces. Erland flicks his swishing tail at his owner. Snorting at him.

 “I bought him with me from Bavaria. He’s the best riding horse I’ve had for a while. Stubborn temperament.” He offers. He watches her stroke his head. Touch the soft spot behind his ears.

 “You like animals, Miss Ashton.” He states.

 Most girls, as far as he’s aware, deigned horses as smelly, ugly creatures, whose only purpose was beneath them. Or to pull their carriages. She seemed to like this big equine creature very much.

 “I do. Especially ones who are as beautiful as him.”

 “Careful. Or else that flattery will shoot right to his ego.” He warns lightly.

 She smiles.

 Erland’s hairy velveteen muzzle cheekily nudges at her shoulder for more affection. He clearly likes her touch. Kylo tugs on his reins and frowns at him.

 “Benehmen Sie sich.” Kylo rumbles in a firm Bavarian command at his horse. Calling him back. Telling him to be good. Rubbing his stocky shoulder. The round strong bones of him and the hot silk of his coat underneath his gloved palm.

 She smiles. Lets the carrot she fetched from her basket, sit in the flat cradle of her gloved palm. She offers it to Erland, who snuffles it up and crunches on it. Breaking the frail vegetables skin with his big teeth. Munching it all down. Nuzzles her for more when he’s done.

 He snorts when Kylo speaks up. “Anymore and you’ll get fat. You great beast.” He assures his horse in that soft foreign dialect. Shoving his snout into Miss Ashton’s hand for yet more treats. Erland’s head was so big and his power so strong, he could’ve very realistically knocked her over with one push.

 She steps back and takes her place alongside a Lord Ren so they can continue in their walk. He’s a busy man. She doesn’t wish to hold him up. They fall into step easy. Her on Kylo’s left, Erland in his big lumbering enormity on Kylo’s right. His master has his right hand holding his stallions reins. The other easily carries her basket for her.

 “Did you enjoy your introduction into Hampshire society, Your lordship?” Iris can’t help but ask him with mirth creeping into her voice and on her smile.

 He turns his head to look at her. “The sheer amount of handsome and accomplished young ladies hereabouts is staggering.” He comments with dry humour. “I wonder if this isn’t the most accomplished county in all of England.” He states.

 Iris finds herself smiling. Every desperate mother worth her salt last night would be crowing her daughters praise to high heaven. Enough to induce the possibility that her very accomplished, pretty and upstanding daughter might have a chance at landing him.

 “Mothers can be so very domineering when the subject of marriage arises.” Iris promises. Looking down to step over a particularly frosty puddle.

 Kylo looks across at her. Watches her profile. Along the curve of her nose and the swell of her smiling lips. It occurred to him then, that she didn’t know of her beauty. She was not aware of its potency. He could sense it; this was a girl who overlooked her own worth and highly underestimated her attractiveness.

 With her pebble-ash eyes shining in the marigold sun like that, sparkling as if made of moonstone gems, and her rosy smile so unguarded and free. She didn’t see her beauty then. Not the way he could. Didn’t see it lay in the kiss of pink in her cheeks or the merriment of her face. On the geniality of her laugh and smiles.

 “I know I shouldn’t comment on such things. But I do feel so dearly for every new suitor who comes to this village. Every Mama and every daughter must veritably drown poor men with their female offspring.”

 Kylo raises one brow. “Rest assured. I’m not a man so inclined to favour polite safe conversation.” He promises her. He doesn’t tiptoe around propriety.

 “And I will admit I lost count of the young ladies I was introduced too last eve. My ears were quite ringing with names and sickly smiles by the end of the evening.” He confesses.

 She smiles wide again. Looks across. “I do sometimes wish that the people here could look beyond the scope of their own ignorance. To look beyond the defining goal of matrimony.” She confesses.

 “Why should a woman’s worth be tied onto who she weds? Can she not be her own person and find a man to suit that.” She avows. Letting her stalwart brain run away with her rather passionate mouth.

 “That’s very forward thinking of you.” Kylo says to her with a kind smile. Her face falls. She’s inspired insult with that comment.

 She’s flushing with embarrassment.

 “Mother would faint if she heard me confess that to you. Do forgive me, for the impertinence of my tongue.” She begs. Face wrinkling into a worried frown.

 “You have a mind. Miss Ashton.” Kylo says. “It’s entitled to make itself known.”

 “I’m a gently bred, unmarried, woman. And the eldest daughter, Lord Ren. My mind should be silent at all times. And possessed only, night and day, by thoughts and longing for matrimony.” She says. Quoting one of her mother’s rants.

 “Well. You have my word. I’m most blessedly glad it’s not.” He says. Turning to look deep into her eyes.

 She seems curiously confused. “You are?”

 “Indeed.” He answers plainly.

 “It means you are the one woman in this entire county with whom I can conduct a refreshing conversation. One that doesn’t revolve around reminding me again and again, that I’m a rich man who desperately needs a wife.” He offers.

 “I’m glad to hear it.” Iris says laughing. “Not often I happen find someone on the same page as myself.”

 “English men may find your so called ‘impertinence’ intolerable, Miss Ashton. For they were raised to know no better. But I am not a English man. Where I came from, it is applauded that a woman might speak her mind and have judgements and executions of her own.” He supplies.

 “Our way of life here must seem so strange and strict to an outsider.” She dares. The defining pinnacle of English country society was its savage nature, after all.

 “I don’t see much of the society in Bavaria.” He explains. “I see to the welfare of tenants on my land. I go hunting every season to pass the time. I’m afraid I rarely indulge in attending parties and balls.” He tells.

 “A castle must be an incredible home.” She guesses.

 “Even so- it can be very limiting being confined to it in the cold dark winters. Very little company. Little to entertain. I found myself wanting a change of scene. I had looked for some land opportunity’s to enclose in over here. When Hellford became available. It seemed a good opportunity to travel. Sink my teeth into a new venture.” He smarts. Eyes darkly roaming over her face with that handsome smile.

 She nods. “I quite understand.” Erland clops alongside them in the misty morning sunshine. Snorting breaths silver and wispy still in the biting air.

 “What are the winters like in Bavaria?” She enquires.

 He smiles. “Beautiful. But bitter.” He explains. “The snow can be deep. As tall as me some days when it falls.” She smiles at his description.

 “The castle stands out of a tall pine forest. A lake and a river to the east. One of the biggest woods in the country. Full of wolves, boars, and deer. It’s quite a wilderness in its own right.”

 “Goodness- wolves. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?” She frets.

 Not as much as me. He thinks. Matter of fact, when he steps foot in that forest, he is the most bloodthirsty dangerous animal in it.

 “The beasts respect the boundary of my castle. I respect the forest is theirs. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” He tells her.

 “Surrounded by wolves. You must feel very at home here too, then.” She jokes.

 He laughs. “There’s something familiar I grant. Though the wolves back home don’t don lace caps and thrust all their daughters at me.”

 She laughs at his remark. And suddenly, she goes spinning off course. Her worn boots slipping on a sneaky patch of frost and ice. No grip to their soles in this devilish cold. A yelp leaves her mouth as she skids. Blood flashing flushing hot and terrible suddenly. The shock of slipping stabbing at her stomach.

 He acts quick. He lets go of Erland’s reins and steps that big form forwards and snatched one arm out to grab her. Slips back around her waist, cups the back of her hip, and yanks her tight to him to stop her falling.

 She gasps and trembles as her vision spins, to be quickly halted by a sheer wall of cold, dark clad muscle. She barely registers where she is now.

 Because she’s pressed right up into Lord Ren’s redoubtably firm chest. Her palms crushed flat on his lapels. His arm seizing her back and cupping her onto him to stop her slipping. She can feel under her coat how her breasts are crushed flat to him. Can feel his breathing heaving up and down, much like her own.

 A shaky gasp leaves her mouth as she looks up, peering past the peak of her bonnet with flaming cheeks. Realising that they are slanted very close together. His face is right there, and he’s gazing down at her.

 She’s in his arms. Buried into his chest. And it feels incredible. Such musculature and sheer masculine mass under her palms. Her head swims. He’s dizzying. Hypnotising.

 Eyes as dark as burnt-ember molasses flecked with gold, and his lips look so invitingly pink ripe and soft- she curses at herself for that treacherous thought and her blush rises more. His wool coat and cologne nearly smacks her in the nose as she almost collided into his pectorals.

 Kylo can hear her fluttering heartbeat. Like a racing preys pulse beating wild. Frail and fast, like a baby birds. A huge drift of her fragrance absolutely drowns him, pulls him under. Clary sage, French lavender and peppermint. Sweet and calming. Addictive. He wants to lean down and taste the salt of it off her neck...

 It seems an eternity passes before he speaks.

 “Are you hurt?” He asks. Making sure she didn’t turn one of her ankles. Or damage the bone

 “T-Thankyou. I’m, I’m well.” She gasps. “I’m so sorry- I” She explains moving her hands down off his chest. He nearly swept her up off her feet. Now only her tiptoes brush the icy ground. The only part of her barely rooted to earth. Lost in those eyes.

 Domineering, commanding, brutal, eyes. Eyes that had seen this world ten times over. But never gazed upon anything comparable to her-

 Erland brings them both back down to earth. Snorting and fussing. Swishing his tail and nudging his nose at his masters shoulder.

 Sense swims back through the fog of attraction and the heady bloom of lust. Kylo unleashes her back and her hip from his hold.

 Quite liking the feel of her he accidentally - and literally - caught underneath her coat. The plump of her thighs and the shapely flesh of her hip and her bottom. There’s doubtless a figure to rival Venus herself, under this shapeless coat and thin dress. She slowly drags her hands off his chest and steps back. Avoiding the ice beneath her toes. Her gloves rasp on his fine wool coat.  

 “You fell. Miss Ashton. No need to be sorry for such a thing.” He tells her.

 “You’ve a steady hand, Lord Ren.” She compliments. Thanking him further. He still held her basket in the arm that had not reached out to catch her. He looked as if he barely had to flex out an arm to catch her. Just twisted his body. His reflexes were sharp and cunning. As strong as he was.

 He reached out and retook Erland’s reins.

 They continue walking carefully along the little lane. For Westwell is just beyond the tree line now. It saddens her that she’ll be home soon.

 Back to her daily chores. Back to scrubbing curtains, and helping cook roll pastry and mediating the silly shouting screeching arguments that Posy and Flora have over who gets to take turns to wear their favourite bonnet

 She reflects how restoring it is to talk to someone so fully - without having to watch or guard her tongue. It’s even more enlightening to talk to someone such as him. Someone who, like her, feels like an outsider. Never fully fits in. And harbouring no desire too.

 She feels her heart sink, morbid mournful and grey settling in her ribs, when they come to the meagre gateway along the short drive to Westwell. The twin stone pillars signifying the gateway were old and crusted with frosted moss.

 Kylo calls Erland to halt. She pats the wonderful beasts strong shoulder in goodbye. He rubs the great velvet plain of black his forehead at her. Kylo untied her basket and handed it to her.

 “I’d have no hesitation in seeing you to the door directly. But I fear your mother might see fault with our being left unchaperoned.” He disclosed. Giving her back the groaning full wicker basket with a clever grin.

 She shivers when their hands brush. If she had any doubts in her attraction, that betraying little Judas of a tingle that thrashed her body, made her realise otherwise.

 She likes him-

 “Astute observation, your lordship. I Thankyou for your discretion.” She blushes. Hooking the baskets back on her arms. Adjusting the shawl where it had slipped down from her shoulders.

 She looks down into her basket, and smiles. “A token of gratitude.” She explains before handing over the still warmed bag of chestnuts across to him.

 He cradled them in his leather gloved hand. Appreciative of the gift. He rarely ate food. There wasn’t much need for it and it wasn’t the manna that’s sustained him. He had little joy in any human sustenance - apart from humans themselves.

 When he did eat food, it was red meat that was still rare, juicy, and dripping blood. And he only drank sharp deep red wine.

 He reaches over and took her hand. Once again dropping Erland’s reins. He took her dainty hand and brought it up and bows to kiss her palm.

 He’s tired of satin and calfskin under his lips. He rather wanted to grasp a taste of her skin. Soon.

 “Always a pleasure, Miss Ashton. I hope the experience of your company repeats itself shortly.” He compliments.

 She smiles, apples of her cheeks creasing dimples with her widened smile. She nods politely and curtseys. “Your Lordship.” She curtseys gently. Bonnet tipping forwards. Criminally covering that beautiful face of hers.

 She turns and he watches her walk up the pale lane to home. Sun striping through the trees onto her bleached linen white skirts. Bleached by sunshine. And softly scented of fresh cotton and French lavender.

 Miss Ashton is made up of good intentions and possesses a giving heart as pure as gold. Pure. That’s his little dove all over-

 He looks down in his hand and weighs the small bag of nuts she’d gifted him. He lifts it to his nose and inhales their scent. Buttery, sweet, burnt and acrid.

 He tips his eyes back up to watch her. Thought creases up his brow. He’ll never know how it is to have such a virtue as a kind heart.

 She was made up of honour and purity and softness. Doves feathers, lavender and rose petals. And he is made of cruelty. Of war and broken glass and shards of steel. He was made between ash and snow and a landscape soaking swimming festering in blood. 

There’s no kindness in him. No mercy. Barely any love in him either. 

 He cares little for humans. After he was turned. That’s just how he became. They became meaningless specs of nothing to him. She has no idea what he is- who he is- he’s sent entire scores and countries of men shrieking to their deaths and writhing in agony into hell, cursing his name on their lips.

 And here she was handing him this little harmless gift, like he wasn’t one of the most fearsome beasts put on this earth.

 She’s not far away when she turns back - just as he’s about to mount Erland to ride back to Hellford Park once more. He tucks her meaningful present into his coat pocket.

 “Erland... Is that a Bavarian name?” She turns and asks curiously. A kind frown on the lintels of her eyebrows. She tilts her head curiously. Her grey eyes glitter innocently off the sun like honey poured onto slate.

 She’s so innocent. And it strikes him so deeply right then. How much he admires that.

 He hoists himself into the saddle using the pommel. Feet slipping in the stirrups. Hips resting back onto the cantle behind him.

 “It is a Norse name.” He calls to her. Erland is whinnying excitedly. Stomping his hooves to get out to the open fields and get his blood pumping. Kylo can feel the excitement shivering through his stocky legs.

 “What does it mean?” She seeks.

 “In old Nordic tongue, I believe it means ‘Outsider.’” He tells her.

 She smiles. “Well. I trust you both know you have atleast one friend in this Hampshire county.” She smiles.

 “Good day, Lord Ren.” She beams brightly. She turns away and she’s already missing the gaze of those melting cocoa eyes appraising her warmly.

 Her skin still thrashes from the memory of his touch. All over her skin is alive with the memory of that strength of his. His chest under her hands she’s never felt the like- he was as cold and solid as marble. Some Greek god manifested out of carved stone and come to life.

 He turns Erland back onto the snowy road. Clicks his tongue and urges him to run with a sharp dig of his shoe into his side. He feels the ice and the wind sting his skin for all the ride home.

 He thinks about her parting gift and her touch against his body for the rest of the day - truly he does. It’s moved him.

 He hasn’t been moved so much by another being in all of his years.

   ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

[shirtlesssammy]

10x21: Dark Dynasty

Welcome to Hell! I feel dirty recapping this episode, but we’re completests here at Shirtless Sammy. Enjoy hating with us!

Omaha, Nebraska

A young woman arrives for a completely legit, totally true eyesight research study interview. Styne Brother #? looks over her credentials and then examines her eyes. Well, he swoops her hair behind her shoulder and grabs her face and it’s THE WORST. But then he pulls a fancy knife and slits her throat, so there’s also that. As she dies, he gets a melon baller and scalpel and scoops out those perfect blue orbs #bucklemingfanficwedonotwant. 

A maintenance guy hears the commotion and knocks on the door. Styne Brother #? puts the eyes on ice and jumps from the third story just as the janitor busts into the room. 

Sam and Rowena have started their dance of enemies to...something more. Rowena is chained and tasked with cracking the codex for the Book of the Damned. Sam wants results but tells her she can’t use witchcraft. 

For Holy Hell Science:

Shreveport, Louisiana

Styne brother #? gets a dressing down by Father Styne. He was sloppy with the eyeball harvest. 

…

…

Whoa, they talked and talked and I kind of zoned out. Words were said.

Um, Styne brother #? has to track down the Winchesters and kill them. Styne cousin #?!@! Is tasked with finding Charlie. 

Sam arrives back at the bunker. Dean asks if Sam’s been sneaking around with a woman he hasn’t mentioned. <EYEBALL EMOJI> (Listen, I LOATH this episode with all the fiber in my being and NEVER rewatch it. Gotta find fun where I can with this recap.) 

Sam gets tired of Dean’s interrogation and asks about what Dean’s been researching. He’s been learning more about the Styne family. That’s funny, because I want to know as little about them as possible. 

Dean wants to check out the Omaha case. Dean heads to bed. Sam heads to pick up Charlie. He fills her in on his plan to break the codex to read the Book of the Damned to help Dean. He tells her that he saved the book before burning a fake. Charlie wants to know how Dean feels about all this.

Charlie is a little upset with Sam’s actions. He then tells her she’ll be working with “one of the most dangerous witches in the world.” LOLZ. 

Charlie sets to work on her SURFACE PRO. 

Rowena and Charlie banter back and forth a bit. 

Rowena gifts us with a reaction that should be used for everything that’s wrong and unholy about this episode. 

Sam is pleasantly humored by Rowena’s attitude.

Cas arrives. (God, I know I said there was nothing redeeming about this episode but Rowena, Sam, Charlie, and Cas all in one scene???!?? OKAY THEN.)

Sam’s apparently brought Cas in to babysit. Rowena sees right through Cas to his weak spot and reveals that Sam hasn’t told Dean about this plan. Cas is livid. Sam gives a rousing speech and they all agree. “For Dean.” Well, not Rowena. “I barely know the man.” (AND NOW I HAVE StUPID SEASON 15 FEELS ABOUT ROWENA. This show is THE WORST.) 

Crowley gets word that his mother is missing. He’s mad. 

Sam and Dean head to Omaha to check out the crime scene. They watch a security video of Styne brother #? jump to the ground and start running. Sam notes the tattoo of the Styne family and then gets a call from Cas. He tells Dean it was a telemarketer. The brothers head out but the guy they were talking to gets cornered by Styne brother #? and gets knifed in the stomach. 

Charlie gets to work breaking the codex but taking pictures with her iPhone and running code on her Surface Pro. Hrmph. I find this VERY ANNOYING product placement the second most offensive thing about this entire episode. 

Cas brings snacks. Rowena is not impressed.

Rowena talks a bit about Agnes, the rogue hermit nun who wrote the codex. She understood the need for balance between good and evil. Also, the church burned her at the stake. And now let’s wallow in this pain:

Charlie: Poor Agnes. Ahead of her time.

Rowena: Much like you and I.

And now they’re both dead, killed by the church show hierarchy. 

Rowena continues to press her point about their similarities. I LOL at her drawing the line at blind devotion to the Winchesters. ROWENA, YOU’RE KILLING ME. “You’ve made them the family you don’t have. Foolish.” 

Back in the Impala, Dean and Sam discuss the Stynes as well as the Mark. Dean glosses over a list of maladies he’s been enduring including dark thoughts and creepy visions. But that’s water off a Winchester’s back, right? While they drive, Eldon Styne trails them. 

Later, at the bunker, Dean picks up Sam’s phone while it rings. It’s Cas! 

Cas is I N C R E D I B L Y awkward and hustles off the phone in record time. This sets Dean’s spidey sense to tingling. When Sam swears that he hasn’t talked to Cas in ages, Dean knows something’s up. 

Crowley interrogates Olivette, who is still a mouse. They talk about cheese pairings…I mean, they chat about Rowena including, presumably, her weaknesses. I kind of love that demon powers include talking to magical mice.

Dean picks up pizza and gets jumped by the Stynes. He kills one of them and captures Eldon.

Cas and Charlie talk at the weird cathedral warehouse in which they’re holed up. Charlie can’t concentrate under Rowena’s constant interruptions and begs to be set free for a couple of hours so she can think. I do 100% get that. Why is it easier to plan on my couch than at a desk? And people making noise around me? So aggravating. 

Dean locks up Eldon for a little Q&A. Eldon tells them that the Styne family is huge and powerful. They’re war and disaster profiteers who’ve amassed tons of wealth over the centuries. They want the book to help enhance their power.

Cas interrupts the interrogation by calling Sam, who steps out to talk. While Dean’s alone with Eldon, the Styne bro tells Dean that they surgically enhance their bodies by stealing parts from other people. Eldon reveals the Styne secret: they’re the FrankenStyne family. Excuse me while I roll my eyes eight THOUSAND times.

Sam tells Cas to get control of the volatile Charlie and Rowena situation, and to under no circumstances let Charlie go off alone. Eldon reveals to Dean that the book can’t be destroyed. When Dean realizes that Sam lied to him, he storms after Sam. The Most Awkward Winchester looks like a bug under a magnifying glass, but he’s saved by a bang from the dungeon. Eldon ripped his arm off and escaped the bunker. Shoulda tied his feet, friendos. 

Cas locks up Rowena in another room.

Rowena reveals that Crowley is her son. “That explains a lot. I'm sure that was quite a challenge,” Cas muses. Parenting, amirite? It's a good moment of levity! Let’s quit this recap right here.

Oof.

Fine. Whatever. 

Eldon and some other dumb Styne talk about Charlie’s whereabouts. She’s at the cutest, most adorably named motel and I wish it hadn’t been used for this. 

For PLEASE for the love of god design my house, Wanek Science:

At the bunker, Dean and Sam talk about the Styne family. Dean brings up the book, and Sam starts to crack like a raw egg. Cas calls him and reveals that Charlie’s missing. 

At the motel, Charlie cracks the code juuuuust in time for the Stynes to pound on her door. She calls Sam in a panic. 

Sam tells her to give them the book, or anything she has in order to survive. She refuses, sending a packet of information to Sam. Eldon bursts in and she smashes her computer. 

The next time we see her, it’s when Sam and Dean find her…dead in a bathtub. BRB, off to burn this episode in a trash can under the grim light of the waning moon. Pretty sure that’s how you rewrite cursed endings. 

Natasha: This episode will forever be in my EXTRA HATE BANK because it killed Charlie. Confusedly, it also has a very cute Cas and Rowena! I have actually rewatched this before and just stopped it before Charlie dies la la la it didn’t happen fingers in my ears.

None of These Quotes are Real and We Have All Just Had a Bad Dream:

I'm not a witch. I'm a nerd. And I know all the great centers of nerddom

Just for once, I wish you trolls would bring me some good news. "Sire, Missouri has boils." Something cheerful

This call is pointless

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[princehec-tor-kur]

Perfectly Normal

Sorry for spelling mistakes, but I don't care anymore, I've been writing this for weeks. It deleted itself like three times. Dear lord help me. I'm so exhausted. Basic premise is: Prime's a creep and after the brainwashing he trapped Hordak's mind in a dream world so that his body acts obidiently in the real world.

The doors of the elevator slide apart opening up to the corridor. Hector stepped out. Attempting to balance four grocary bags he was carring, two in each hand. Hector was a regular man, with a regular wife and a regular life, but what was strange was he swore he was wet from the howling rain outside, just a minute ago. And now. Completely clean. Strange indeed.

BUT! No time for that, for as he leaned down to open his apartement door, it opened from the other side and a pair of stronge hands pulled him in. Into a warm embrace. He smiled ear to ear as his towering loving wife planted a kiss on his lips long and hard. He almost ran out of breath. His head was spinning. Hahahaha! Annie was a blessing from above, the greatest wife Hector could ever wish for. She took the groceries off of him and closed and locked the door behind him. Annie announced that she was going to get a quick shower and offered him to join. Hector however rejected the offer and got straight into the day's tasks.

Annie went off and Hector began to crack the egg shells and pour the contents into a bowl. Every egg cracked one the first time perfectly. And the yokes off the eggs incidently managed to form a smile. How amusing?! Hahaha! Hector looked outside throught the window, it framed a beautiful picture of a shinning, scheamering and glimmering city. Once again the thought crossed Hector's mind: wasn't it just pouring? Wasn't it just night? He must've remembered it wrong. He is quite forgetful. He forgets things a lot. That's why Annie is so great, she always reminded Hector things. She always told him what to do. Where would he be without her.

He shifted his attention to the sound of water running in the shower. The shower was on obviously, but no sound of movement. Hector shook it off and decided to check over his email. All it was, was some updates to the script, apparently Noelle had to do some last minute changes. Nothing to do with him though. He closed his laptop and just sat in the same spot for a while. What was he supposed to do? What a silly forgetful boy. Hector felt a something small in his pale. Strange. Did he pick this up? From where? It was... well, he wasn't sure what it was. A purple diamond of some sort, a vertical pattern he didn't recognise. A necklace? An earring maybe?

Just then he heard a voice above him clear it's throat. He didn't know why, but he jittered, a chill went down his spine. It was just Annie. He relaxed a little as she sat next to him, wrapped her arms around his abdomine, tightly. Annie was a head taller than Hector, so his head perfectly fit under her chin.

Hector lifted the crystal up, he asked if she seen it somewhere before, because he felt like he did. Annie just giggled at him, cupping his face, like she did always. She called him silly and reminded him it was a gift she bought for him on their honeymoon. The one in France, remember? And he did remember, the memory suddenly flew into his mind as Annie's silvery locks fell over Hector's face. She was very close. Hector began to get tense again. What was it.

Annie told him to relax. Hector closed his eyes. His eyeslids covering the world. All he saw was black. Which was slightly comforting. Annie began to scratch his just under his chin, she knew it was his weak spot. He loved it. Hector felt the resistance melt off of him and sank into Annie's arms. His lovely wife asked him what he felt. Which was difficult to answer, because Hector didn't feel much.

He never felt hunger or thirst. Never needed or wanted to sleep. Always had nightmares if he tried and always felt like Annie was awake all the time as well, which was strange because she never said anything. He lied and said he felt 'good'. He didn't know what that meant. A mischievious drin played across Annie's pale face. Hector knew that look, he didn't like it. He didnt want to. But he never had much of a choice.

Soon his dress was off and once again found himself staring at the ceiling on the couch. Hector never said 'no' to Annie, he never wanted to disappoint her and she meant so much to him. Plus it was what normal couples did. She enjoyed it. A lot. He could tell by the way she laughed during. She enjoyed it, that's all that mattered. Annie said it'd be good for him. To clear his head. It was normal. He didn't have to make a whole deal out of it. She knew better. He owes her everything. He'd be so lost without her. She was his one and only, one true love. He's blessed to have someone like Annie. No one loved him like her. No one. He was so lucky. Even if it hurt sometimes, ...everytime, he still pretended to enjoy it.

Day rolled around. Hector felt like it lasted an eternity. Today was Saturday, meaning it was his therapy meeting. Hector signed himself up a while back, not sure when, he couldn't remember. Money wasn't an issue. It was perfectly fine. But Annie seemed to disapprove. He knew how she looked at him when he wasn't looking. Annie insisted on going with him, to keep an eye on him. To support as best she could. Like couples do. She wanted to know what was wrong with him, how could she fix him? Hector didn't want to be fixed. He's life was perfect. The only reason he really went to the therapist was, because he liked her.

Plus, he didn't want to trouble Annie with all his faults and silly thoughts. He was sure she had more important things to do, like... well, Hector didn't really know what Annie did when he wasn't home. Did she have a job? How did he not know where his wife worked? He must've forgot. He was bad at remembering things. Did he mention he was bad at remembering things?

It was strange how he knew so little about his special, beautiful Annie, she practically knew everything about him. He opened the door and left, but not before Annie remembered him something. But he didn't remember what.

Hector made it to the session just in time. He sat down on the sofa. The doctor sat on his opposite. She was very short, informally dressed, acted like what she looked like: excited and cheerful. Hector wasn't sure, but the doctor sounded like she constantly had a cold and a blocked nose. He started to worry for the woman, she seemed slightly reckless. He liked her hair. He didn't know if that was weird. It was soft. He didn't know how he knew that since he never touched it, but he had a feeling it was. The session was ordinary. The doctor, Ester, was her name, asked him about his day. Did he read anything interesting lately? Did he have any new hobbies? Was he taking his sleeping pills?

Hector stated that he tried to read something, but he couldn't. It was too hard. He often went to a local library and the scene played out the same. A book was pulled from its shelf, it was opened, and Hector would proceed to stare at it for several minutes before ultimately placing it back to it's original spot. The librarian would ask if she could help in anyway. Hector would say no. And leave the front door. Words just didn't make sense to him. Especially in those 'self-help' books. Some alien dialect to him.

As for new hobbies... well. He bit his nails in embarassement. He began to play with his hair a few days ago.In the bathroom, when he was pretending to take a shower. When Annie wasn't watching. He liked changing it's colour. Dying it. He liked working with it.

And as for pills. Yeah, he was taking them. They didn't help. Hector still couldn't sleep. That lead on to she asked a curve ball. Whether or not his favourite colour changed. He said no. It was still black. Ester giggled that cute way she always did and stated that that wasn't a colour. She stated that black was the absence of colour, while white was every colour. Black was the absence of white, and white was the absence of black. She asked again. Hector was slightly confused. He didn't really like colours. They were too loud, too bright. Chaotic, blinding and distracting. Colour was alll around them, everywhere, around everyone. Creepy. Hector liked black because it was dark, you couldn't see very well in it. You could hide in it. Cover yourself with a blanket of it, so that nobody finds you. Fold him up and put him somewhere safe.

The doctor caught onto that. She asked curiously. 'What are you hiding from Hector?' 'What are you scared of?'

Later that day Hector found himself in a crowd of people. It was sufficating. Too loud. Too LOUD! Everyone was shouting and scwobbling, all moving and shifting out of turn. Hector wasn't used to it. He was used to humming. Of machinery. Why machinery?Hector couldn't take it anymore. He pushed through the crowd and run to the other side of the metro.

Hector relaxed as he laid his back against a concrete collumn, hiding him in it's great shadow. He kept to the dark, they couldn't see him there. 'What are you affraid of, Hordikins?'

A train zoomed past, using it's cover he sprinited like the hounds of hells were chasing him. He made it to the next pillar. They were staring. He knew it. They were watching him, like owls, with those big eyes. Owls eat bats, in the moonlight. No light! Must stay in the dark. They were whooting. Asking questions. They want to get close to you. Lie their way into your attic. DON'T LET THEM. He ran off as fast as he could. The cold night air rushing against his face. He ran so fast he thought his thin legs would snap off. Like match sticks.

He dashed across back alleies. Much less people there. Good for scaring people away. Less eyes. Navigating the streets was like being in a labyrinth. What did Annie remind of? Oh yes. The outside world is very scary. And it's always safe inside, with her. Noises came back, a crowd of people murmuring and whispering behind him. Insult sand jokes, about him no doubt. Blue and red lights blared, colours coming togther to judge him, curse him. A woman yelled for him to freeze.

Retreat! RETREAT! Fall back! I'll be back! This isn't over, mark my words Terrific Man! I will win next time! You'll see! I will enact my revenge! There was an old timey cartoon playing on every screen in every TV in a display window of an electronics store. A kids cartoon. Hector noticed it on his way. It stopped him. He swore he could almost hear his own voice in the screen. It put him in a transe, glued his eyes to the window.

The evil man lost. The good man won, stood over him victoriously. Grinning. Asshole. Your evil ways will never win! You'll always loose Marodar! As long as I live you will fail! I am destined to be Nebulosa's saviour and king! And you were always predestined to get the snot beat out of you! Haha! Good will always triumph over evil! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Stop laughing.

HAHAHAHA!!!

Stop it. I'm serious.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

I SAID SHUT UP!

The good man began to unload on the evil man. One hit. BAM! Broken nose. Second hit. POW! Two teeth missing. And a third. BIFF!

Biff?! What the hell is biff?! What kind of stupid noise is biff???!!! That's not real!!! Is this a joke to him?! Is this just a game to him?!! You don't get to joke!!! Not in war!!! Stop acting like a child!!! YOU'RE AN IDIOT!!!

Another hit and another and another. The pain doesn't stop. The crowd cheers him on. Hector gets cross. He slams his fist against the glass window.

STOP.

He doesn't stop. Hector slams his hand against the glass again.

STOP! IT!

People at the bus stop near Hector begin to turn around to look at him. A woman huddles one of her children closer to her, away from Hector. Everyone giving him judgemental looks. Hector doesn't even notice. He doesn't care about the kids looking at him, who cares about kids?! Creepy little monsters. They all look the same. All colours are white. The spectrum is a lie. Individuals. Ha. Idiots. All of them alike.

POW!

Marodar The Lord of Darkness is defeated. Children cheer. Hector doesn't cheer. The white screen turns to the audience and smiles with a bing in his teeth. Teeeeerrific ;)

SHUT UP! SHUT UP! THIS ISN'T A JOKE! LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Hector pounds the glass with knuckles twice, before they start bleeding. The laughing doesn't stop. Hector yells and slams his forehead into the glass, the window bends inward, the entire sheet of glass cracks.

Remember kids. He's wrong. Always wrong. And he will alway, always fail.

A wink.

And the screen cuts to black.

Hector sees the world in red. His face covered in running blood. He was loosing conciousness. Breaking down walls hurt. His legs wriggled like jelly as a hand landed on his shoulder. It was a woman, middle aged, white, blond with a uniform and badge. Hector tried to resist, but he couldn't, he was too weak. Hector was placed on the back seat of the cop car. The officer stated that Annie was worried about him. He wasn't answering his phone, he wasn't in before curfew. She called the police, they've been looking for him all over. She said that she found him talking to himself. Not true. Hector was talking to the asshole in the TV..., but he didn't say that, he knew she wouldn't understand him.

She said that he was lost in the streets again. Like the time he stole four bags worth of groceries. People called in his sighting when he was found sculking in the metro. She called him something, some name, term... scichaniac? Sci- scicha-...

Schizophreniac. That's it.

You know, you people should be in those mental hospitals. Somewhere they can fix you. Hector said he didn't need to be fixed. He was beautiful with all his imperfections. The officer laughed. Well, that was a lie. Cause look at you, you look terrible. Hahahaha!

A joke. A joke? This is a joke to you?

The car arrived at Hector's house, weird, Hector thought he lived in an apartement block. Maybe he just remembered it wrong. It was a suburban house, with a mailbox and a white picket fence. Idealic. Perfect. Too perfect. When he first stepped back into his home, a huge weight lifted off of his shoulders. He was home. Safe. Away from the colour and the noise and the insanity. The big bad world vanished behind those doors and Hector was free to roll up into a ball in the bathroom. He could hear Annie through the wall.

Static.

Annie came back into the bathroom and brought him into a warm embrace, peppering him with a shower of kisses. She was too close again. She told him she was worried sick, that she didn't know where he was. Didn't he tell her about his sessions? Why didn't he? Annie cupped his cheek and lifted up his chin, so that he stared into her eyes. She said she'd make it all better. She said she'd make him forget all about that awful day. Hector didn't want to forget. Her hand trailed down to his dress. But Hector wasnt in the mood. Stop it he said. But Annie didn't listen. Not anymore. Before he realised that he was doing, he slapped Annie's hand away, he pushed himself away from her.

I SAID STOP IT!

But he soon found to regret that as Annie narrowed her green eyes at him. She was disappointed. So much progress, gone, backward, down the drain. Annie's expression morphed into something darker. She was angry, displeased. Tears began to stream down Hector's face, for he knew what was about to happen, he knew that look. He tried to apologise, to beg.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, forgive me. I- I won't do it again. P- Please anything, but that, don't- I dont want to forget again! Please! Brother! PLEASE! Annie kissed his cheek, wet with salty tears.

She grinned.

POW!

The screen cuts to black.

Hector awakened to a beautiful new day in his bed, with his amazing wife next to him. She's already awake. She greeted him, a smile and a warm embrace. What a perfect life. That exact thought processes played in his head all morning. He decided to make breakfast for his lovely partner as she took a shower, pretty quickly too, since he didn't even hear her wash. He served the plate of eggs and bacon to Annie. However, her smile faded, a confused expression came over her.

When did you dye your hair? She saided with a quirked brow and narrowed eyes. Hector ran his hand through the now dark blue hair. He had no idea.

He didn't remember.

[michael-langdon-appreciation]

part 11 of the foursome please queen? ❤️

Your wish is my command. 

Hold onto tight and keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times please. 

Part 11

——————————————————————————————-

JIM

He knows he’s being a helicopter dad, but Jim can’t help himself. Nothing matter more in the world to him than the health of his little baby. It is paramount as he lifts his head up from Y/N’s laptop for the third night in a row. Her hand strokes his back gently, a cup of coffee wafts in front of his face as Jim blinks and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

Y/N’s expression is forlorn, ‘You can’t keep doing this to yourself.’ She cautions, her voice light as if speaking to a nervous cat. ‘You’re burning yourself out.’

The research has become one big fog of mumbo jumbo for Jim anyway. He takes the mug of coffee and blows on it, ‘Anything I can do, anything I can try to help-’

‘You aren’t helping anyone by not taking care of yourself.’ 

Jim swallows a big gulp of coffee. It’s strong and a little too hot still as it travels down his throat, ‘You’re right.’ He mutters, putting the mug down. ‘I just-’

‘You just can’t help yourself.’ She finishes off, making Jim smile. 

‘Bingo.’ 

Y/N pulls up a seat beside him, sharing the desk space with him. She closes the laptop lid and ruffles Jim’s hair, ‘You’re going to be an incredible father.’ 

Bitterness burns Jim, the rage he still carries with him every single day. The outrage and spark for justice, that his baby is fighting for its life every day, every minute, every hour. His hand falls onto Y/N’s stomach, the bump noticeably prominent since Jim has been living at the apartment. ‘It’s only been two weeks,’ Jim mumbles. ‘But already they are getting so big.’ 

‘They are playing hell on my back.’ Y/N smiles, ‘Every time I wake up I feel completely wrecked.’ 

‘A good wrecked?’ Jim asked, ‘Like you used to say after we’d gone a few rounds?’ 

His hand squeezes her thigh as Y/N’s laugh fills the office, ‘You could say that I suppose. But a bath would usually fix me right up.’

‘Then that’s what you need.’ Jim decides, finding the energy to drag himself and Y/N to the bathroom. ‘A good long hot bath. Some aftercare, just like the old times.’ 

Jim starts running the tub, putting the plug in and dumping in some bath oils. Y/N watches him, her tongue poking out of her mouth, it’s adorable to Jim, mostly because Y/N never realises she does it. It’s a habit she displays whoever being spoiled. Usually Duncan was the most privy to it, but Jim’s vision seems to brighten as he drops a couple suds on her nose. ’Are you going to pamper me, Jim Mason?’ She asks, her voice coy. Y/N teases the bottom of her pyjama shirt, running her fingers along it to expose a hint of flesh. 

Jim’s eyes are glued to it, ‘Yes.’ 

‘Will you do whatever I want this morning?’ The top slips higher, revealing the bump and just under Y/N’s breasts. It reminds Jim of his favourite swimsuit at once, the one that teases him all day with the under-bust visible for everyone’s eyes. Jim swallows, forcing down the rush of blood that is running to his cock. 

This morning is about Y/N, not him. 

Y/N’s eyebrows rise, waiting for his answer and Jim supplies it on instinct. ‘Yes.’ 

She could have asked him to jump off Mount Everest and Jim would still say yes. 

Jim tugs off his own shirt, along with his trousers. ‘I’m getting in.’ He decides, ‘I think we are long overdue for some alone time away from Duncan and Jerome.’ 

Y/N climbs into the tub, waiting for Jim to take his place. ‘Such much male ego about the place, it’s nice to have some time just us.’ 

Jim leans back against the bath, his muscles singing at the hot water. Bubbles flutter around him as Y/N relaxes back against his chest, jasmine and honeysuckle trickle through the air as she presses a kiss to his chest. Jim’s eyes fall shut, his girl’s weight resting against him. His fingers dip into her hair, stroking gently. 

Paradise. 

How Jim took the simple things for granted. 

‘I’m glad you stayed.’ She murmurs, ‘You’re growing Jim. You put aside your temper and…possessiveness for the good of us and our baby.’ She peeps up at him, ‘That’s still so weird to me. Our baby.’ 

The chloroform rag dances in Jim’s mind and he squashes it immediately.

No.

He’s past that. 

Y/N right, never again will he resort to such levels. 

‘I was reading about this hospital in Philadelphia who specialises with difficult births.’ Jim reveals, ‘They have an incredible success rate. Most of the births happen in water and stuff so it’s natural and helps. You know, gravity and stuff.’ Y/N nods, her mind not really with him. Her eyes have that far-away look as Jim peers closer at her, ‘What is it?’

She hesitates, and then plunges on, a finger tracing over Jim’s chest. ‘I know you have your concerns.’ She begins, ‘But I believe with every fibre of my being that Michael will never let anything happen to our baby.’ 

‘It’s about precautions.’ Jim fights to keep the edge from his voice, ‘It’s about being in the right place. Michael is…many things but he isn’t infallible.’ 

‘I have faith in him.’ 

‘Yeah.’ The mood has been ruined for Jim, he’s over-heating in the hot water. He wants to be back at the laptop, just as he does every time the Antichrist is mentioned these days. 

‘You won’t keep him away Jim.’ Y/N’s voice too has hardened, ‘No one will be able to keep Michael from the birth of his child.’

‘As long as he stays back unless needed.’ Jim says, ‘And lets me have my moment with my child.’ 

Y/N’s eyes glint, ’Our child.’  

Jim smirks down at her, ‘My apologies, our child. Of course.’ His lips press against her forehead, ‘Our beautiful child.’ 

The moment relaxes, Y/N turning round to rest her back against Jim. His hands skirt over her belly, cupping water to pour over her exposed shoulders. ‘Have you thought about names yet?’ 

Jim thinks, ‘Not really.’ He admits, ‘I’ve been too focused on making sure the pregnancy goes well. That our baby survives.’ 

‘Maybe we could look up names that mean fighter, or survivor?’ 

Jim scrunches up his nose, ‘Nah, I don’t want this moment to define her.’ 

‘Her?’ 

‘Them.’ Jim corrects himself, ‘I feel it’s a girl.’ 

Y/N hums, ‘I’d like a girl and a boy.’ 

Jim grins, ‘Well what you want, baby. You get.’ 

Y/N splashes some water at him, ‘I’m not that entitled.’ She protests, ‘Not my fault Duncan likes to splash his cash.’ 

‘Yeah adding a specially modified twin baby-seat to his jet was real necessary.’ 

Y/N giggles against him, some of the water slopping out of the bath. ‘Oh absolutely.’ She grabs the shampoo bottle and squirts some into her hand, reaching for Jim’s head. ‘Either way, they will be…blank Mason.’ 

‘Blank?’

‘Till we have a name.’ She grins, ‘But the baby will carry your last name.’ 

‘I never expected anything less.’ 

The bathroom door swings open as Jerome walks in, newspaper in hand. Y/N freezes beside Jim, her hands stuck in his hair. Suds drip down Jim’s face as he makes sure Y/N is obscured by bubbles. Jerome recovers first, ‘Can I join?’

‘Get out!’ Jim bellows, tugging Y/N to him.

Jerome smirks, ‘You really should lock the door, that’s what it’s for.’ 

‘Out, Jerome.’ Y/N echoes watching as the Salesman backs out of the bathroom with a snicker. 

‘Well don’t be long.’ He calls, Shepherd is in the en-suite and you know it takes him an hour to do his beauty routine and my bladder won’t hold out that long.’ 

——————————————————————————————-

DUNCAN 

The bathroom door squeaks, the hinges protesting horribly as it is treated to yet around round of pounding. ‘You’d better be taking that long cause today’s the day.’

‘None of your business.’ Duncan calls back through the door. He smoothes a strand of hair into place, his fingers jumping through the array of hair products dumped along the sink. 

‘Come on man I’m dying.’ Jerome whines, ‘Y/N and Jim are having a precious moment in the bath and you’ve beaten your hourly record. I’m sure you’re beautiful, sport. Now let me in!’ 

Duncan sighs, opening the door as Jerome barges inside. ‘You’re welcome.’

Jerome stops his watch as he sits on the toilet, ‘An hour and twenty minutes, congratulations on the new record.’

‘Fuck you.’ Duncan turns back to the mirror as the Salesman starts undoing his belt, ‘Seriously?’

‘You won’t leave.’ The trousers fall down, ‘I’m desperate. This is what you get, buddy.’ 

Duncan rolls his eyes, abandoning the task. ‘Fine, but you’re cleaning up.’

‘Abuse the Nanny, I see how it is.’ 

Duncan slams the door shut and leans against the wall. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t left as he waits for Jerome to finish up, ‘Maybe today is the day.’

The toilet flushes and Jerome emerges, his eyes triumphant. ‘It’s about time. I’ve had to hide the ring twice to stop Jim finding it.’

Duncan’s insides twist. He is hiding this from Jim, isn’t he? 

Jerome leads the way to the kitchen, ‘So how are you doing it? Dinner? Walk by the beach? Take her up in the jet?’ 

Fear grips Duncan for the umpteenth time that day, ’I….don’t know.’

‘You’ve had two weeks.’ 

‘Someone else plans events for me.’ The panic is evident in his voice, but Duncan can’t calm himself down. He twists his fingers together, ‘My Mom or someone. I don’t do this kind of thing for anyone.’ 

‘Well it’s time to toughen up, cookie.’ Jerome starts cracking eggs into a pan. ‘If you don’t do it tonight, I’m telling her.’

‘You’re an asshole, you know that?’

‘Yes.’

Duncan groans, ‘Fine. Tonight I will do it.’ 

The bathroom door opens, Y/N emerging first in just a towel. She smiles at Duncan, before catching Jerome’s eye. ‘Be out in five for breakfast, thank you so much Jerome.’

The Salesman winks back at her, ‘Sure thing. Just no Round Two with Jimmy boy in the bedroom.’ 

Her cheeks flood with colour, her eyes skipping too Duncan. The spark of jealousy is there, but not as strong as before, as if the tip of the knife has been dulled. 

Duncan offers her a small smile, ‘When you’re out, can we talk?’

Y/N frowns, ‘Never good words, Duncan.’

‘I promise it is.’ 

She nods, ‘Sure. I’ll just-’

Jim appears in the doorway. A towel hangs low on his hips, exposing that perfect V sculpted from so much swimming and surfing. He flicks his wet hair out of his eyes, droplets dancing on his chest. ‘Do I smell bacon?’

‘In the oven.’ Jerome supplies, busy slicing peppers. 

Duncan tears his eyes from Jim to help with breakfast. From behind he can hear the shuffle of Jim as he shuffles into the spare bedroom while Y/N makes her way to Duncan’s. 

Jerome eyes him over the omelettes he’s got on the go, ‘You don’t get mad, seeing them like that?’

‘Like old times.’ Duncan says, pouring orange juice into four glasses. ‘You get used to it and cooking for four.’ 

There’s a slight pause, the absence of Michael echoing in the air. 

Duncan presses on, ‘Besides, Y/N sleeps with me every night. It’s only fair Jim gets to spend some time with her on their own.’ 

‘Seems like things are back to normal than for the three of you.’

‘It will never be normal without Michael.’ Duncan blinks, having spoken before he realises it. He brings the glasses onto the dining table and rests his hands on it. 

Jerome brings over the plates, ‘Well you said it. Not me.’ 

The weight of his words drags Duncan down. 

He misses Michael. 

It’s not that surprising. Not really. Michael has been there since Day One, a couple days after Duncan was released from prison. Together they scraped Duncan’s life back together, Michael giving Duncan a senior position with Kineros before the Media Mogul had enough to win back his empire. But Duncan cannot overlook what Michael has done. Every time he sees Y/N, sees that bump and how Jim isn’t functioning properly out of fear and desperation. He cannot forgive him for putting the two people he loves through hell. 

Maybe that is what Michael will always do.

He is the Antichrist. 

Jim emerges first. His denim jacket is strung over one arm as he takes a seat at the table, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ 

‘More like thinking about one.’ 

Jim’s eyes flick down to his lap, ‘I miss him too.’

‘We all do.’ 

When Jim’s eyes flicker up again there’s something defiant in them. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’ He spits, ‘I won’t kill him when I see him, I won’t do anything stupid but I’m not having him near my kid.’

‘That’s your decision to make.’ Duncan nods, he knows it isn’t his place to fight Jim on what the beach boy thinks is best for his child. Duncan takes the seat opposite Jim and waits till Jerome is out of earshot before speaking. ’Does that mean…the plan is off?’

‘I…don’t know.’ Jim’s fingers run over his plate, ‘I kinda made a promise to myself not to do underhand shit again. Trying to be a better person.’

The ring flitters through Duncan’s mind.

He has to tell Jim.

If he doesn’t, he’s just as bad as Michael. 

Isn’t he? 

‘You two seemed to have a nice bath.’ 

Jim smiles, ‘It was nice, if not punctuated with Michael.’

‘He’s everywhere.’

‘Always.’ 

‘I’m going to ask Y/N to marry me.’ The words rush out of Duncan before he can stop himself. ‘I have a ring, I’ve had it for about two and a bit weeks now. Made my mind up before you came back.’ Jim’s eyes burn into him. He doesn’t say a word as Duncan rushes through his words, ‘You have a baby coming.’ He says, ‘Michael has a baby too. ‘I….’ Duncan gulps, ‘I have nothing. There’s nothing that ties me to her. To all of you, not in the same way. Nothing that meaningful or official. You’ll always be together because not only do you both adore each other, but you have a child to care for. I….I need something like that too. And the only way I can think to do that is to marry her-’

‘Okay.’

The air is punched out of Duncan’s lungs. ‘What?’

Jim’s eyes are soft. The softest Duncan has seen them in a very long time. His hand reaches out across the table and rests over Duncan’s. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is for you. Seeing Y/N pregnant. You knew before anyone else and you’ve done nothing but respect her and me. You’re a good guy, Duncan.’ Jim presses his lips together, his eyes becoming glassy. ‘I know you’ll give her the life she deserves. I hope I can continue to be part of it, God I need it so bad. But you should marry her. You deserve each other, so…you have my blessing. If that’s what you want.’

Tear tracks drop down Duncan’s cheeks, he sniffles hard unable to keep himself in check. Jim stands and crosses round the table, Duncan stands too as Jim pulls him in for a hug. Duncan holds his Beach Boy as tight as he can, taking in the scent of jasmine lingering on his skin. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘Don’t cry.’ Jim orders, ‘Ask her, today. You put a ring on that finger and make it the most special proposal a girl has ever had.’

‘She still has to say yes.’ 

Jim smiles, ‘Do you think she’ll say no?’

‘Maybe!’

Jim chuckles, ‘She shares a bed with you, Duncan. You have nothing to worry about.’ 

They pull away as Jerome sets down breakfast. The Salesman is astute enough to make himself invisible, but Duncan catches his smile of approval. 

Bastard must have been listening in.

‘This doesn’t mean you aren’t in her life.’ Duncan is quick to say it as he takes his seat again, ‘It’s just like before, before this whole mess. When we’d go to dinner all of us and get up to…things under the table and have fun and love each other. That’s all I want.’

‘Just with babies added in the mix.’ Jim supplies, making Duncan smile.

‘I guess it was gonna happen someday.’

Jim glances at Duncan’s bedroom door, ‘As for the plan…I think we keep it on the back burner and see if we need it. She’s only like…three months right now. Anything could happen.’

Duncan downs his orange juice, wishing he could slip a little vodka in. ‘If that’s what you think is best, I’ll respect your decision.’ 

Y/N emerges, her hair up in a towel as she takes her place at the head of the table. ‘Sorry! I was trying to get the hairdryer to work but the fuse has blown. It’s just growling at me and might explode so….’

Jerome is the last to take his seat. Together the four begin eating, Duncan shoving his omelette down as fast as he can to try and settle his stomach. 

Jim is okay with it.

Jim said yes.

Now he has to do it. Now Y/N has to say yes too. 

Her eyes slide to Duncan, Y/N putting down her knife and fork, ‘So Duncan. What did you want to talk to me about?’ 

——————————————————————————————-

MICHAEL 

He knows the risk she is taking by seeing him. Michael has the evening set out with the most perfect precision. A finger straightens the wayward fork, just a centimetre off-kilter. Before it threw off the perfection of the night, but now, now Michael is sure that nothing can ruin the evening. He waits sitting in one of the chairs, his jacket pressed and freshly dry-cleaned. The velvet, so luxurious against his skin comforts him. The only friend he’s had for a month, the only touch he’s received. 

Tonight that all changes.

Tonight he will remind her why she loves him. 

Why it is he who she risks everything to see. 

The knock comes and Michael opens it with a wave of his hand. No one can see him at the door, he cannot trust Shepherd not to have had her followed. 

Y/N steps into the apartment, her eyes roving round the dark interiors. Everything is black marble and stonework, the high arched windows each a work of art. Michael rises to greet her, taking her coat in his hand. She hands it to him without giving anything away. Without the coat there, her baby bump is evident. Peeking through and smiling at him through her red dress. The dress Michael gave her, his beast purrs with satisfaction. 

It proves she cares. 

‘I am so glad you came.’ 

‘It isn’t right to deny you the chance to see your child.’ She says, ‘To have a part in the pregnancy.’ Michael’s arm beckons her to the dinner table, the single candle flickers and illuminates the two plates set out. The silverware glimmers as Y/N ventures closer, ‘This is very elaborate.’ 

‘You know that’s how I do things.’ He turns her round, capturing her lips with his before she can protest. Michael engulfs her, his arms holding her gently to him as he takes her breath away. He’s determined to give her his entire everything in one kiss. To show. To prove to her. When they slip apart, Y/N’s eyes are wide. She has that same look in her eyes she did that first night, when Michael stole their first kiss, sucked on those succulent lips and bruised them as he pounded into her. 

‘That may not be such a good idea.’ She whispers in the gap between their lips. 

‘Why, because of this?’ Michael lifts the ring, nestled on Y/N’s finger. ‘You must know I’d find out about it.’

‘It wasn’t a secret.’ Y/N pulls her hand, complete with the engagement ring out of Michael’s grip. 

‘I’m happy for you.’ 

‘Don’t lie. She scolds, crossing to the dining table. 

Michael’s jaw clenches, ‘Do I wish it was me, of course. But I understand Duncan’s desire to make you his. I know it all too well.’ 

‘You’ve made your claim pretty clear.’ 

Michael takes his seat opposite her, ‘Yes, I did.’ He uncorks the wine and pours a decent measure into her glass, Y/N holds it aloft in a practised manner for him. She makes sure to sample the wine with her engagement ring on show. ‘Let me guess, Harry Winston?’

‘You know my motto.’ Y/N smiles, ‘If it isn’t Harry…’

‘Don’t marry.’ Michael finishes, ‘You used to love singing that whenever we were in Barneys.’ 

‘Jim said I was spoiled.’ She says, ‘I think maybe he’s right.’ 

‘You are completely spoiled.’ Michael smirks, ‘But we can’t resist treating you. You’re so precious to us. I’d do anything for you.’

She nods, Y/N’s eyes flickering back round the apartment. She takes a long drink from her wine glass, ‘They’d be mad if they knew I was here.’

‘I’m sure they would.’ 

‘They don’t trust you.’ She offers, ‘But they do miss you. I heard them talking about you.’ 

‘I miss them too.’ Michael makes sure he is looking directly into her eyes, ‘They may think all I wanted was to put my child in you, but I want all of them.’

‘Seems like we all want the same thing.’ 

A silence falls as Michael rises to take dinner out of the oven. It’s takeout, he can’t cook for shit but he knows Y/N will appreciate it. He puts the steak with Bourderlaise sauce before her complete with new potatoes and asparagus. ‘I don’t think that’s exactly true.’ 

She doesn’t take a bite. Michael knows that Y/N knows him well enough to catch the subtly in his words. ‘Why am I here, Michael?’

Michael sighs, putting his own plate down. ’Straight to it then.’ He laces his fingers together, ‘I would give my life for you and our child. Do not think I don’t know my actions have caused me to be ostracised. Perhaps I was right to do so, perhaps I went too far. What I do know is the plan that Jim and your fiancee are planning. Something I will not let happen.’ 

She stares at him. ‘I am sick and tired of your drama, Langdon.’ 

‘Oh believe me, I would rather my own Grandmother rise from the dead before this happened.’ Michael’s tone has a bite, ‘You will hear me out.’ 

Y/N sits there, waiting for him to continue. She waves her hand, gracing him to do so. ‘When you check in for your next appointment, Duncan has the measures in place to abort my child-’

‘Our child.’ 

‘Our child.’ Michael nods, ‘It’s been in place for rather a while now, but ever since the Doctor’s last reports indicated the runt’s trouble with getting enough nutrition they’ve become desperate.’ Michael leans forwards, ‘When you next go in, they will drug you and remove our baby. They will kill it, the monster, to ensure Jim’s lives.’ 

He watches as the horror slowly expands all over Y/N’s face. ‘You’re a liar.’ 

Michael’s hand slams on the table, ‘I have NEVER lied to you.’ 

She’s stuck to her seat, completely frozen in place. ‘I…won’t let them.’ 

‘They won’t give you that choice.’ The Antichrist explains, ‘It’s already been decided for you. They’re going to force your hand.’ 

‘I can’t believe you.’ 

‘Because you thought they had changed.’ Michael nods, ‘I had hope for Shepherd. I thought he would be shining example for the rest of us. But sadly, it isn’t the case.’

‘I won’t marry him. I’ll fight it. I’ll go and challenge them about it right now.’ She stands, heading for the door. ‘Why would you go through all this just to tell me!’ She demands, ‘You have a dinner in place with fucking candles only to tell me one of my babies is going to be ripped from me.’ 

She tries the door, but it doesn’t move. Y/N doesn’t face him, ‘Unlock it. Now.’ 

‘I’m afraid that isn’t going to happen.’ Michael drifts closer to her. His hands ghost along her shoulders, ‘You see, my sweet Y/N I cannot take any chances when it comes to my child. You are potentially carrying the next Antichrist in your stomach, our child.’ His hands snake around her middle, resting over her bump. ‘I will make sure both your babies are born alive, happy, healthy.’ He coos into her ear, pressing a kiss to her temple. ‘But you won’t be leaving this apartment again until after they are born.’ 

——————————————————————————————-

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[arcticdementor]

Two years ago, when reviewing “The Benedict Option”, I wrote, “Almost all Dreher’s critics accuse him of crying wolf or being a Chicken Little at best … Meanwhile, I’m saying that Dreher is underestimating his enemy, painting an overly rosy picture, and not being nearly alarmist enough.”

This is still true.

“Wait, what?  Totalitarianism!  Gulags!”

I know!

Let me explain; I promise hope, this will be shorter than last time.

…

First, Dreher’s critics, while still far too blasé and insouciant about the end-game-level crisis racing straight for them, have at least started to acknowledge that something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear, but that some greater degree of consternation and freak-out is now warranted.

But they are still far, far behind the power curve on this one.

As a friend of mine put it, “The single biggest problem is lag-seriousness.  We are always just at best about grim enough for yesterday’s battle.”

That is where “Dreher’s Law of Merited Impossibility” comes from.  “It will never happen, and when it does, you bigots will deserve it.”  If it were possible, despite denials, and by pointing out a clear logical implication of progressive ideology – and even going so far as to supplement with the early appearances of those explicit proposals – to scare conservatives enough, early enough, to do whatever it takes to avoid it, then the impossible wouldn’t keep happening to them, over and over again.

But it’s almost never feasible to do this.  It turns out this is the one impossibility.  The frogs never jump out of the pot in time to avoid another scalding.  The need is not to be grim enough for yesterday, but for today, so that tomorrow won’t bring your final sunset.

That puts Dreher in the position of a Cassandra.

…

In “Live Not By Lies”, Dreher seems to assume that something like faithful Christianity as we know it today is going to go through a profoundly difficult era of persecution, but still, its adherents having prepared for it, it will persist at some level despite intense suffering until, well, ‘deliverance’.  Perhaps not in the Acts 12:3 sense, but then again, maybe so.  How else?

…

That’s why even Dreher isn’t radicalized enough yet, because he doesn’t seem to fully grapple with the gloomy prospects for his tradition that is the clear implication of his own arguments about the overwhelming magnitude of the problem.  That is: termination.  Slow and steady and (mostly) gentle evaporation under the relentless heat of the sun until the last drop of water finally evaporates and the spiritual desert goes completely dry.

It would be like Travis telling the defenders of the Alamo that Santa Anna was sending a force in the morning that outnumbered them ten to one, that supplies were nearly exhausted, and reinforcements too far away to help.  But with a tone of brutal optimism, “It’s going to be really rough boys, but if we’re tough enough, we’ll make it.” – “Um, rough?  Well Travis, come hell or high water, I’m happy to make a stand and fight by your side.  No rendirse!  But to be frank, from the way you put it, I reckon it sounds like we’re all going to die.”

…

Now, before I explain why, let me get to the second piece of good news and commend Dreher for a wonderful second half of the book, which contained the inspiring and gut-wrenching stories of what it was like for people of faith behind the Iron Curtain to be the subjects of Communist anti-Christian oppression.

As I look over my notes, I see almost no comments or criticisms in that half.  The testimonies speak for themselves.  These harrowing and moving tales of triumphs of fidelity and perseverance in the face of the hardships and miseries of hard totalitarianism don’t need any gloss.  The stories of these brave people deserve your study, and their memories your honor.

However.

What is both terrible and true is that a month later you are probably going to forget all their names, forget the details of their persecution, and come away with the same rough impression and vague understanding you already have. This is that Christians had it really bad in a place where Christianity was once all of life but had been evicted, that some of them nevertheless stayed devoted, and others gave the last full measure of devotion.  Others resisted, and some of them even lasted long enough on the road through hell to make it through to the other side.

Though, in a way, it was lucky for them there was the other side: that didn’t happen everywhere.  If the Soviets had then what the Chinese have now, likely there would have been no interviews or happy endings.  You can’t even forget a martyr’s name if you never got the chance to hear about his martyrdom in the first place.

…

Alas, this is not really a manual at all, and regardless of whether Dreher is dropping some kind of Straussian signal with that, it’s surprising that few of his critics have noticed the problem.

An actual manual is more than just general rough guidelines; it has clear, specific, step-by-step instructions for how to accomplish some identified, well-defined task or troubleshoot typical problems.  It cannot be a bunch of personal narratives, and, “Follow their lead; just be like them.  Refuse to bend, like Benda.”

If one picked up, say, a survival manual, one would expect to emerge knowing how to start a fire and build a shelter.  A beginner’s cookbook will at least tell you precisely how long to boil an egg.

What does Dreher tell us to do in an age of persecution?  “Embrace Suffering.” “Choose a Life Apart from the Crowd.”  “Reject Doublethink and Fight for Free Speech.”  “Cherish Truth-Telling but Be Prudent.”  “Cultivate Cultural Memory.” “See, Judge, Act.”

He doesn’t get much more specific.  I think he believes he got more specific – “form small cells … read other books,” and the recitation of Solzhenitsyn’s Six Hard Rules on page 18 – but it’s not actually the case.  “See, Judge, Act” is just a description of any rational decision-making process, and “Yeah, but this is Persecuted Christian decision-making,” doesn’t actually put meat on the bones.  These are mostly motivation stimulants and abstract encouragements of the right general attitudes, but those do no a ‘manual’ make.

These are like ordering the military to “Be able to fight and win wars,” and then someone else develops the *actual* doctrine and writes the field manuals.  These commandments, like the Decalogue itself, just raise a host of questions, “How much suffering?  How far apart from the crowd?  Which crowd?  How do I identify doublethink?  Fight for free speech how?  Fight for hate speech too?  Where is the line between prudence and paying so much lip-service I lose my soul?”

…

But how is some ordinary person who needs an actual manual supposed to live not by lies, if the famous, influential guy writing the admonition feels just as compelled by circumstances and prudence to live by omitting the lies?

There should have been at least one page that went like this:

You as a Christian are going to be strongly pressured to “wear the ribbon” and to say the following things which do not accord with the truths of our faith, and in order to live not by lies, you must be willing to sacrifice, suffer if necessary, and never say …

Never say what, exactly?  Yes, integrity in general is a virtue, but obviously Dreher is talking about the Big Lies.

But in his book, there is a surprising paucity of actual lies.  Isn’t that something?  First it’s strange, then it’s puzzling, and then when you solve the puzzle, demoralizing.

My take is the answer to the puzzle of absence is Dreher’s actual manual, the one you are supposed to figure out.  The most critically strategic task is to preserve precisely this kind of room for maneuver: the freedom to speak the truth and to condemn the lies.  If you still can, if there is still some crack open in the window of opportunity, then you must band together and stop your opponents from being able to impose their rival orthodoxy on you, which forces that absence and omission and uses that dominance to call your lies truth and your love hate.

If you can’t do that, if you missed your chance to make that stand, then like the Alamo, it’s only a matter of time.

…

Otherwise, without the list of lies one lacks a clear idea of the threat one faces, and so vague guidelines are all that are left and there is no possibility of a manual with precise instructions.  But with the lies, the enemy hears his own name like the aliens hear a scream in “A Quiet Place”, and then come down on you like a ton of bricks.

VI. From whence the cascade

Well, look, no sense getting some bricks in the face if one can avoid it, that’s just being smart and prudent.  Though, inconveniently, it’s Dreher himself who quotes Milosz to argue against this kind of seductive logic.

Better logic would be to say that one can reason that the intended audience probably knows the lies already, and knows that they have been weak, acquiesced, and lived by them.  They know what they are supposed to stand up for already, and they know they have failed to do so.  They know who their enemies are, and they know they have failed to resist them.  You don’t need to list the lies to send a signal to all these people that, by the very fact of this book existing, knowing that it is being digested by so many other people, they are not alone, and they can act differently.

But what the audience still doesn’t know is what to do about it.  Dreher may not know either.  Notice: a thousand Benedict Option startups have not bloomed.  The Benedict Option was criticized as crazy and alarmist, but again, the ugly, gloomy truth is that it’s actually the hopeful, optimistic, and practically wishful-thinking take on things.  Most likely, there is no such option.

…

The anti-audience already believes Dreher is far more of a kook and Chicken Little than his Christian critics do, and just a continuation of “The Paranoid Style In American Politics.” To them, Dreher can get in the back of the line behind the McCarthyists, “Eisenhower was a Commie!” John Birchers, QAnon conspiracy theorists, and low-status judgment-day-is-just-around-the-corner-all-the-signs-are-actually-happening prepper types.  They are once again proclaiming the first half of the law, “It will never happen.”

And without the list of lies, their argument wins the day.  It seems fully plausible and convincing.  It sounds like this:

Oh look at these idiots going off again.  Here we are, just trying to make sure love wins and hate loses.  Our ‘radical ideology’ amounts to “Don’t be a bigot, help your fellow man, and keep your toxic hatefulness to yourself.”  Everybody should be included, and nobody ought to be unjustly discriminated against.  Simple, self-evident, human universals, really, do real, loving Christians really disagree so much with any of those?  And because the white supremacist homophobes can’t think of anything else to say in response, the hide behind ‘Christianity’ as a pathetic rationalization for their simple irrational animus, and resort to inventing fantasies like gulags and torture rooms and KGB agents.  Like *they’re* the victims!  Delusional!  What kind of creepy psychological problems do they have to really imagine that with all their wealth, comfort, freedom, privilege, and petty first world problems, that they are remotely spiritual kin with people who endured the worst suffering possible?  Crazy!

Do you see the problem?  It’s the ‘merited’ part of the law.  Dreher wants to respond with the simple truth, “We’re not bigots, and we don’t deserve it.”  The response would be, “Ok, let’s find out.  What is it exactly that you are going to insist on believing or doing, that we would possibly think was worth throwing you into a gulag?”

He can’t beat around the bush with something general and evasive, “For being devout Christians.”

The response (at least from the rare one who knows anything about Christianity) would be as follows:

Look, we just think your religion is mostly a collection of mythological fantasies and superstitious prohibitions, but combined with a salvageable core of a worthy moral perspective that, like almost all ancient and traditional lines of philosophy, represents an incomplete and imperfect grasping toward the same ethical framework we now hold dear.  That’s why Jefferson rewrote the bible, removing all those superfluous distractions.  Following the actual bible seems kind of nutty and backward to us, but now that it’s in clear political retreat in terms of numbers and influence, and since most self-identified Christians don’t really seem to live like they take most of it seriously, we regard it as mostly harmless.  So long as you keep it to yourselves.

So, nobody is going to throw you in the gulag for going to church.  Or for believing Jesus is Lord, that he is the Savior of humanity and God’s only son, that he was born in Bethlehem of the Virgin Mary who in turn was immaculately conceived, that he performed miracles, made water into wine, multiplied bread and fishes, walked upon water, healed the sick, raised the dead, died for our sins, and was resurrected.  That he saves his people by means of their repentance and confession to sin and commanded his followers to love each other and their neighbors and their enemies, and to spread his word and the gospel of the good news of their salvation to every soul.

Seriously now, is that not Christian enough or you?  Are these not the central claims of Christianity?  Is that not enough freedom to be a Christian?

And we aren’t going to do a single thing to anyone for any of that.  Why would we even care?  Maybe if proselytizing is done obnoxiously in an imposing manner and makes people feel unsafe and not included.  But let’s face it, 99.99% of American Christians aren’t ever doing that anymore, so it’s kind of absurd to spook them, right?  Now we will insist that you not discriminate against LGBTs, and not to teach people to hate them, and yes, you will indeed get merited punishment if you persist in doing so.  But seriously, is Hate the hill you are choosing to die on?

As another friend of mine put it, “We do not want you to subtract from your faith, only to add to it.  Just don’t be a jerk and you’ll be just fine.”

One simply cannot give this line of argument anything like an adequate response without getting right into the contrasts between what one believes and what one’s opponents believe, that is, between the truth and the lies.  It’s a no-win situation.  Without naming the lies, the progressives will suspect Dreher’s audience are closeted bigots.  Naming the lies, open bigots.  C’est la guerre.

Unlike in the Soviet Union, the progressives don’t see mere belief and worship as inherently threatening, and so aren’t interested in prison and torture for merely belonging to a faith, going to church, being a priest, and so forth.  They look at ‘worship’ in “freedom of worship” in the same ’boutique’ manner that Fish explained as the way they look at culture in “multiculturalism”.  That is, by definition, non-threatening to the imperialist program of imposing progressive orthodoxy on everyone, everywhere.

In other words, Fake Religious Tolerance, and Fake Multiculturalism.  Fake, because it is precisely at the important friction points that the freedom or the multi ends.  Now, as Winnifred Sullivan explained, whether genuine religious freedom is even possible in anything like our system is an interesting question, but the point is that one can’t have any coherent discourse on the subject real or fake tolerance, without identifying those points of difference.

…

Now, the approach Dreher has taken has been to say that, of course it won’t actually be ‘hard’ torture and gulags, it will be ‘soft’ totalitarianism.  Dreher would have given his argument much more punch had he marshaled the parade of horribles of all the “never going to happen”s that are definitely going to happen, probably soon.  Without getting into the lies, he could still have collected in one place the likely sequence of escalation of oppressive state policies and mob pressures which will be brought to bear against Christian (and other) holdouts in the mopping-up operations.

They’ll penalize or dis-accredit private school, take away homeschooling, have child protective services yank your kids away if you try, mandate offensively heretical curriculum on core moral issues, kick your kids out of athletic competitions and related chances for scholarships, boycott your businesses, commercially excommunicate you as unhireable, and ineligible to use the internet or transactions system, give your kids abortions or sex hormones behind your back, take away your guns, allow the mob to walk right up to your front door and smash your windows with impunity, and if you try to defend yourself, you’ll be the one who gets arrested.

To his Christian readers, that parade of horribles will feel closer and more plausible and real, thus helping to raise their alarm to more accurate levels.  Some may reject these claims at first, but as they start coming true, one after the other, he will seem nothing less than, well, prophetic.  Cassandra was cursed, but Dreher can build a track record.

The trouble is, while all these things will happen, unlike in the Soviet system, they will never need to be ubiquitous or even common, so they can always be rhetorically dismissed as rare aberrations.  No one is going to publish a ‘study’ with some nice scatter plots showing the increase in the persecution index.  In the contemporary media environment, one hanged admiral – a pizza shop, a cake decorator, an expelled student, a heterodox professor – encourages millions of the others, to just give in and side with the strong horse, the cool horse.  You only have to hang one or two admirals a year, (only after groveling apologies of course) and soon enough, the whole Navy has surrendered, concludes that those admirals had it coming, and that they “weren’t being smart.”

…

The thing about hard totalitarianism is the fact of brutal oppression is inescapably clear to everyone.  Sure, it will be rationalized and justified, but that people know it’s there if they step out of line is half the point.  And if one is not enjoying being on the delivering end, the common human psychological instinct is to resent such domination.

‘Soft’ is totally different.  People will still have choices, but if they choose ‘wrong’ in the eyes of the elites, then they will just be seen as weirdo losers and low-status pariahs, not martyrs.  The flip-side of resenting domination is admiring, conspicuously affiliating with, and imitating the prestigious.  People – your own fellow Christians too – will look at the refusal to pinch incense for Caesar the same way they look at a hermit’s refusal of all society.  When you think about it, the hermit who could fit in if he wanted to is just persecuting himself.

…

The perception of dual loyalty would mean that you would be spied on, that your closest friends would be recruited to inform against you, and that you would hit an unacknowledged but hard glass ceiling in your career path, “Performance Assessment: A highly competent and reliable professional with unlimited leadership potential, but … does not adequately demonstrate he fully shares our values and commitment to progress.  Pass over for promotion absent a critical personnel shortage in his field.”

And of course, you would never be told: a breeding ground for paranoia and self-doubt.  Nevertheless, if you kept your head down otherwise, you could enjoy a normal life and even some measure of personal success and respect.

Sometimes, to remind people who’s boss, an ‘informant’ would be told to make up some baloney accusations and the local priest would get arrested and interrogated, maybe leaned on to make more false accusations of his colleagues.  No one would hear about him for days.  Then, usually, he was released with a stern warning to watch his back.

When he showed up again at services, what happened?  His whole congregation would weep for joy and relief, hugs and handshakes for hours, invitations and offers of support.  He would be a kind of minor hero, a kind of minor martyr, honored and dignified.  There were thousands of such events in the second half the 20th century.  That’s worthy suffering; inspiring, socially productive suffering.

XI. Live Hard

But what about someone who gets ‘canceled’ today?  Most of the time, it’s the Big Meh, no welcoming arms and no heroic status in one’s reference social group.  Without that, there is no utility in withstanding the suffering, because there is no power of example or remembrance.  Today, if you are accused of ‘hate’, things are such that most of your fellows will feel obliged to act like they believe it, dump you like a bag of dirt, and avoid you like the roof over reactor number three.

Dreher and Benda like to use the example of “High Noon”.  But try to imagine “Low Noon”, where, at the end, all the townspeople ganged up on the sheriff saying, “What the heck did you do that for, you psycho?  Those guys didn’t deserve that!  Now you’ve just gone and made trouble for the rest of us.  Get the heck out of our town, monster!”

…

To throw this into even sharper relief, and to demonstrate the absence of a true ‘manual’, instead of ‘Christianity’, imagine that one is trying to preserve and propagate some even more unpopular views that, while one believes them to be perfectly true, are deeply hated by just about everyone.  Any manual for dissidents necessarily works in general for any strain of persecuted dissent, and if it speaks to a particular kind of dissident, it is only because is it written in the language they are best able to comprehend.

Now, imagine a group of scattered people who were trying not to propagate Christianity and persevere as Christians, but as Confederates.  Some kind of secret society that saw it all coming since Calhoun and had, against all odds, continued for two centuries to the present day, who believed in the lost cause as the right cause, hereditary racial slavery, and all the rest.  What concrete advice does Dreher give that these people could use?  What advice could anyone give them?

There isn’t any.

This hypothetical makes it easy for everyone to immediately grasp, at this stage in the game, that it’s an impossible task.  The powers that be and 99% of society are fully committed and determined to thoroughly eradicating any remaining trace of those ideas and traditions.  They can do it, they will, they are, they are almost done.  Either the hypothetical Secret Confederates get nukes, or the protection of someone who has them, or (if they weren’t already extinct), their days are numbered.  That’s it, game over.

XIII.  Other Feet

The point is, the Soviet context is simply not the proper analogy for our situation.  That ideas makes it seem like the familiar image of the Romans throwing Christians to wild beasts in some arena.  But the right way to look at it is the other way around, once the Christians had won the upper hand.

The right context is something like Watts’ “The Final Pagan Generation”.

In late antiquity there were still sincere worshipers of Minerva and Apollo and Jupiter, continuing a religious tradition that went back, as it happens, about two thousand years.  And then it ended.  It’s a long story, and yes there was a fair amount of actual persecution as the shoe gradually moved to the other foot, but it wasn’t the key factor.

Gradually, there were fewer and fewer of these people, until there really was a last one.  And when he died, the faith died with him; the chain linking 100 generations was broken, and the line went completely extinct.  The last drop of water evaporated and the ground was dry.  Now, no one praises Jupiter, because their great-grandparents praised Jupiter.

…

Dreher’s “Why Communism Appealed to Russians” is, unfortunately, typical progressive mythological narrative (i.e., widely-swallowed propaganda) and mushy-headed nonsense drawing a line from “poverty and oppression” to the allure of Socialism.  The material circumstances of various populations simply do not constitute the proper explanation for how that particular idea – or any idea – spread and came to dominate.

…

If our own past is a foreign country, the past of foreign countries is too weird and alien to grasp without extensive immersion in its particular history.  We are taught to think of tsarist-era exile in Siberia as a retroactive extension of the Soviet gulags, but it wasn’t like that.  Siberia was like their Australia: a far away place you could send prisoners of all kinds with minimal supervision and the understanding that it was really hard to get back.  You might even hope they would try to take a go at making a life for themselves out there like colonists, because you needed to populate the vast, mostly unpeopled wilderness.

So “exile” at that time was mockable as a kind of Siberian summer camp.  Many of the Bolsheviks who experienced it were practically unguarded and made many successful and attempted escapes.  Stalin wrote of his enjoyment fishing with Tunguses, horseback riding, and of fornication (and procreation!) with 13 year old locals like Lidia Pereprygia.  Brutal, I tell you.

…

By page 41, Dreher admits that “Intellectuals are the Revolutionary Class,” but he might have just said ‘elites’.  Major historical events and struggles between groups are always and everywhere a phenomenon of disputes between classes of elites.

But then a few pages later he goes off course, “To be sure, neither loneliness, not social atomization, not the rise of social justice radicalism among power-holding elites – none of these and other factors discussed here meant that totalitarianism is inevitable.”

Unfortunately, when you are dealing with a replacement religion on the rise, and all the elites believe either in the latest edition of it or the version of it from ten years ago, yes it does.

…

With Chapter Three Dreher gets into Progressivism as Religion, but instead of accurate anthropology, we get the enemy’s version of the story about themselves, which is, as in all similar cases, slightly less than perfectly reliable.

…

If one looks under the hood, one sees that what leftism is mostly about is “redistribution of stuff and status.”  The political formula is a tacitly understood bargain to clients that offers, in exchange for political support, the use of state power to take from the enviable and give to those who envy.

…

Here’s another example of bad history:

The original American dream – the one held by the seventeenth century Puritan settles – was religion: to establish liberty as the condition that allowed them to worship and to service God as dictated by their consciences.

Actually, the Puritans immediately established a suffocatingly strict theocracy that did not tolerate heretics except by necessity, and in which ministers were public officials.  Nathaniel Ward’s or Winthrop’s ‘liberty’ was the liberty to be a pious Puritan, and the lack of liberty to be anything else.  If you were not a member of the church, you were officially a second-class citizen, and they would throw you out for anything.  The Puritans did not give people freedom to make choices according to their consciences about living virtuously or not, see, e.g., Platform of Church Discipline (1648).

Most of this ‘liberty’ story was retconned in the late 18th century during the establishment of the popular mythology of American History.  Once upon a time people like Rothbard thought that perhaps one day American society would come to be so confident and mature that it could replace the white lie mythology with the reality.  No such luck.  Instead we got a new religion that is just replacing it with a much more sinister and malevolent mythology.  That’s how it goes.  There is always a de facto state religion, and it will spread the myths it finds most useful.

…

Dreher does a good job in summarizing some of the claims of progressivism and “critical theory”, but he presents them as if they are to be taken at face value.

There is no such thing as objective truth, there is only power

Yes, you will hear this kind of rhetoric mindlessly parroted all the time, but it is by no means some kind of metaphysical principle consistently applied.  It is little more than an opportunistic tactical pose and a weapon to be deployed only when convenient, just like any double standard.  “Out truths are real, whereas your ‘truths’ are just useful lies you can shove down people’s throats and get them to repeat because you can intimidate and bully them into it.”  The fact that one can’t tell which side is making that statement about the other is what gives that perspective its robustness.

Progressives believe in rule by (credentialed, prestigious) experts, a rule that is legitimated by appeal to superior knowledge of objective truth.  Consider: “Reality-based community” or “Climate change is real.  The science is settled.”  None of that is compatible with the “no such thing” claim.

What about the “Myth of Progress”

It seems to flow naturally from the Myth of Progress as it has been lived out in our mass consumerist democracy, which has for generations defined progress as the liberation of human desire from limits.

No, just Christian limits.  This is an important point, and I think one that Dreher resists or finds hard to appreciate, mostly because progressives usually want mandatory toleration for everything Christianity prohibits.

But progressives are not libertines and have their own comprehensive sexual morality that is in some ways even more restrictive than that of traditional religions.  Is it not actually based on “live and let live,” “different strokes for different folks,” or the “anything goes with consenting adults” principle of volenti non fit iniuria, because in the progressive conception ‘true’ voluntariness and consent can only be valid in the absence of a whole host of pressures, undue influences, and power imbalances.  Contra Dreher, this imposes all manner of limits on human desire, as one can witness watching any tribunal of sex bureaucrats on any American college campus.

…

XX.  Woke Capitalism

At the same time, Big Business has moved steadily leftward on social issues.  Standard business practice long required staying out of controversial issues on the grounds that taking sides in the culture war would be bad for business” – now not taking sides is bad for business. … A powerful coalition of corporate leaders … threatened economic retaliation against [Indiana] if it did not reverse course.

Somehow I missed the reporting about all the progressives who screamed in outrage at this corporate interference in our democracy.

Still, the reason they were able to make these threats is pretty obvious: no one was credibly threatening back.  In a ‘manual’, Dreher would tell his readers what to do about this, but he presents it as a fait accompli and new normal Borg against which all resistance is futile.

…

The real issue is the surveillance, and the power of modern capabilities.  Without going full ‘technological determinism’, my impression is that the reality of software eating the world coupled with the constant tracking and surveillance by all entities with the wherewithal and reach is inevitable and unavoidable.  It is in the basic nature of technological change that once the capability is there, Pandora’s Box cannot remain shut for long.  We are already well past the tipping point on that one.

Yes, all the big institutions constantly spying on everything you do for the rest of time is very creepy and disturbing.  But if one is worried not so much about privacy in general but about persecution in particular, then from a more abstract perspective, there is really no reason to implicate ‘capitalism’ except as yet another mechanism by which powerful social coalitions can apply extralegal coercive pressure while circumventing the rules limiting direct state action.

If the state tolerates this, it is allowing an effectively collateral state to fill the power vacuum by abandoning the field of certain sovereign prerogatives.  This is the real “parallel polis”, much like the mafia is a parallel government on its own turf when the official state is unable or unwilling to take it on.  If the state does not protect its claim to a monopoly on all coercion, hard or soft, then someone else is going to pick up the coercion left lying around.

Then again, sometimes the state wants it that way.  If the mayor needs an inconvenient opponent to disappear, he probably can’t ask his chief of police to get it done for him.  But if he tolerates a Don, he can go to the Don.  If the state is not technically allowed to persecute you directly, if it tolerates some persecutors, it can have them do the persecuting.  In either case, when you pierce the veil, the rectified name for it is conspiracy.  The tragedy is that the veil has countless defenders who will insist that if it didn’t come from behind the veil, no harm no foul.

…

Two decades ago, when we started to become aware of this problem, people guessed that a combination of (1) new cultural adaptations to avoid these hazards, (2) new generations being raised from birth to be familiar with the risks of the internet, and (3) an increasingly long track record of lots of people having their lives publicly ruined, would encourage people to “adjust trim” and be much more cautious and prudent.  

Some people did just that, but, in general, it hasn’t turned out that way.  It seems that psychological effect of the way we interface online – when it seems as if it’s just you and your screen in your own little virtual secret world – makes people feel too “alone and private” to keep their guard up.  Unfortunately, if one assumes this isn’t going to get better any time soon, then one can only conclude that in a time of Christian persecution, ordinary people are going to slip up sooner or later if they touch networked devices at all, and if they refuse to do so, they will out themselves all the same.  Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

What that means is that there is no longer any possibility whatsoever of evading the notice of powerful people who are out to get you.  From the perspective of any serious, capable, and determined state (cough, China) this is now a solved problem.  There can be no secret meetings or clandestine samizdat printing operations or anything like that.  Near the end of the book, Dreher advises, “Christians should educate themselves about the mechanics of running underground cells and networks while they are still free to do so.”  As the Uyghurs would tell you, if they could, that ship has already sailed.  The old mechanics are obsolete and no longer work, and there are no new mechanics.

…

Hard cases make bad law, but there is nothing but a hard choice to make about this undeniable situation.  Either one embraces the principle of “they are private companies so they are free to do whatever they like and the state has nothing to do with it,” and accept, well, ‘extinction’.  Or one says no, undermines the principles of free enterprise and private property, but creates a terrible state power that, eventually, can and will be used by ones enemies too.

On the other hand, all the undermining and regulation has already been done in every other possible way in every other industry and sector, especially all those rules insisting on equal treatment.  Frankly, it’s bizarre to watch advocates insist on straining out the gnat of just this one thing that apparently crosses the line though it threatens half the country with political neutralization, when they are unable to summon up ten percent as much passion for having swallowed as many camels as there are pages in the Code of Federal Regulations.

Speech Is Special.  You can’t argue to get it back once it’s gone.  There can be genuinely free platform companies, or universally safe platform companies, but if companies are only free to the extent it is safe for our enemies to use the platforms to crush us, then crushed we will be.

…

“The essence of modernity is to deny that there are any transcendent stories, structures, habits, or beliefs to which individuals must submit and that should bind our conduct”

He says ‘modernity’ but my impression is that he means modern, secular, leftist progressivism.  But if you are not a progressive, ask yourself, do they seem like they aren’t interested in making you submit and binding your conduct?  Do they lack for stories with unfalsifiable elements that explain why they are entitled to do this?

The progressives imagine that they’ve solved for objective morality.  There is no “dictatorship of relativism.”  The Jacobins are not libertarians “At the heart of liberty is the right to define one’s own concept of existence, of meaning, of the universe, and of the mystery of human life.”  They have a perfectly well-defined concept, and it applies to you too, without any right to define a different one, because error has no rights.

XXV.  Velvet Samizdat:

Perhaps nothing helps to highlight the contrast between Soviet-era or North Korean-style Communist oppression and the current circumstances in America than the irrelevance of ‘samizdat’.  Yes, there is certainly a fair bit of purging and memory-holing, removal of items from curriculum as well as chilling, suppression, and intimidation out there for present-day writers and publishers who wish to go off-narrative.

But all of it has a mostly prospective, deterrent character.  The robust strength of the current system of opinion management is perhaps in no way better demonstrated than by the fact that there is mostly no problem with actual eliminative censorship of the past, with preserving cultural memory, archives, records, and so forth.   Because none of that makes any difference.

All the old books are still out there, accessible to anyone, instantaneously, in their own language, and free, and one doesn’t have to go back very far before most of them have the “currently regarded as problematic” volume knob pegged to eleven.  Don’t even get me started on Greek philosophy!  But almost nobody cares, and it goes unread, and even more unread than one would figure correcting for our increasingly post-literate society.  The ‘soft’ system is so much stronger than the ‘hard’, it is nigh invulnerably, such that brazen, obvious, and easily-disproven falsehoods can be printed without any concern on the part of the authors or publishers whatsoever, who know they’ll win prizes anyway.  

The counterarguments will be allowed to exist, just not allowed to make a difference.  They will never get any attention, buzz, or amplification from prestigious, cool people, and so can be ignored just as if they had been censored.  This is deeply demotivating; why even bother?  In a way, it’s actually better when your enemies know you’re lying and know you can get away with it.  Show’s everyone who’s boss.  No need for samizdat, no point.

…

Dreher is particularly inspired by the Bendas and their commitment to turning their home into a sanctuary, place of refuge, and the ‘parallel polis’ of an alternative community.

But Vaclav Benda had advantages.  The Communist takeover of his country was recent and had been widely predicted.  That meant there was still a large population of people who had grown up in the old days and were formed by that previous order to be loyal to pre-existing commitments, traditions, habits, institutions, and, most importantly, to each other.  That includes Benda himself.  His activities depended on being able to rely on the remnants of that inheritance, along with the nationalistic perception of a brutally oppressive *foreign* occupation.

But pressure and time wears down all things, and another generation or two of persecution, combined with the psychological enervation from a fully indigenous phenomenon such as that in America, and it would have been impossible.

Benda also lived in a time and place where physical proximity was essential and common.  Today it is like herding cats to bring people together, and so the internet is now where all the “private home” discussions are had.  There are plenty of virtual Bendas and little digital salons out there.  They are a great source of consolation and solidarity for dissidents, and the quality of gallows humor is top notch.  But mostly these venues have proven to be impotent and incompetent for any other purpose.  Probably the last old pagans gathered around to drink and talk about their plight, and to joke and complain about those darn Christians as they tried to figure out if there was anything else to be done.  There wasn’t.

XXVII: Man and SuperBenda

If one doesn’t have a manual, perhaps one can imitate a model.  But can the Bendas be models?  A model provides an example that an ordinary person can feasibly replicate.  But the Bendas put the extra in extraordinary.  Inspiring cases of astonishing and, frankly, naturally elite people with incredibly strength of will who are one out of ten thousand are wonderful to hear.  But if that’s what it takes, then any project which relies on typical people following in their footsteps is altogether hopeless.  Consider:

The Benda family model requires parents to exercise discernment.  For example, the Bendas didn’t ops out of popular culture but rather chose intelligently which parts of it they wanted their children to absorb.

I am somewhat less than perfectly confident in the capacity of most ordinary Christians to exercise anything approaching this level of judicious discernment, including the abilities to both choose wisely and intelligently and also to maintain the strict discipline and constant overwatch needed to keep it going, day in, day out.  “Be Like Benda” is a tall order, and if we’re being honest, too tall for too many.

This is a different context from the one in which one would encourage sinners to try to live more like saints, or to imitate the lives of the holy family, as every little step in that direction is an improvement.  As it is in horseshoes and hand-grenades, so it is in holiness: getting closer counts.

But when it comes to resisting overwhelming social pressures, one has to clear tall hurdles, and if one can’t, one cannot move forward.  Imagine you are in the ocean near the beach and someone spots a man-eating shark.  Michael Phelps is there and can out-swim the shark to shore, because he is an extraordinary man.  We all admire his prowess and we can try to imitate what he does, but in our cases it won’t be enough.  Phelps is going to make it, but we will be shark food.

…

Near the end of the book, Dreher writes, “The culture war is largely over— and we lost.  The Grand March is, for the time being, a victory parade.” Dreher has repeated this over many years, and I have been reading a similar lines for two decades at least, and it probably goes back long before that.  In a way it’s true, and, depending how you define terms, it’s been true before any of us were born.  But in a way it’s not true, because there is a great deal of ruin in a culture.  As much as has already been taken, there remains so much more territory left to conquer, and it’s odd to say one has lost a war when the battles never end and new fronts keep opening up all the time.

It’s more precise to say that if non-progressives keep doing what they are doing now, following the conventional rules of the game, then like the Pagan, what they are giving up is the capacity to hold ground.  That means the best they can do is slow down the advance and retreat and retreat and retreat until, one day, they are on the beach, backs against the ocean.

The real trouble with “Live Not By Lies” is that the encouragement of the stories (which are inspiring) and the instructions of the manual (such as they are), are simply not remotely adequate to arrest the trend of the progressive progression, which ends in The End.

The good news is that it doesn’t have to end like that, and it is still not too late to choose a different destiny. The bad news is that it would require measures far more radical than 99.99% of Christians and other non-progressives are currently prepared to accept.  The proper task of a prophet is to expand that acceptance by making them understand they don’t have any better options.   At least, not if they don’t want to end up like the Pagans.

[foxtophat]

here’s chapter 4!!! it’s been about a week and a half, two weeks since John Seed reappeared, and now nick is ready to take his vengence!  by... having john do basic tasks to repair the homestead.  hey, this isn’t eden’s gate -- what do you expect, skin flaying and long-winded religious diatribes?  (weird, that’s exactly what john expects, all the time, from everyone!)

i really love this story and am so thrilled that other people seem to enjoy it too!!! it’s fun to write, and since i know it’s just full on self-indulgent bullshit, i don’t feel guilty for not being ~~realistic~~ about the whole thing.  fuck it! nick is a pacifist now!!!

i’ve included today’s chapter under the cut so you don’t have to leave tumblr if you don’t want to.  if you’re enjoying this story, please consider reblogging so your friends can also enjoy my hellscape! or, you know, do what makes you happy, it’s not like i can force you to ruin your aesthetics blog on my behalf. stay frosty my dudes, i’ll see you in 2 weeks!

Well, John doesn't die. Despite that being the only good thing the man could possibly do, he manages to hang on through the first night, looking better before the week is out. It's a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Nick no longer feels like he's serving a skeleton its last meal; on the other, it means that John is more than likely here to stay. Every time Nick goes to give him food, he finds the room just a little bit more lived in, the tarp turning into a makeshift bed as John struggles to settle in. Just yesterday, Nick had noticed a short series of tally lines scratched in the wall, marking each day of his sentence as though he were confined to solitary.

Nick should probably be happy with how smoothly things are going. He should probably be glad that John is keeping quiet and politely recuperating without so much as a snide remark. It's what he wanted, after all — for John to wave a white flag and agree to an unconditional surrender. And yet Nick can't help but feel short-changed, as if John owes him at least one opportunity to punch him in the face for being an asshole. It used to be something Nick dreamed about doing; he'd fantasized about beating him to a bloody pulp even as John had ripped his skin from his chest. Now, he's not willing to deal with the guilt that would undoubtedly follow.

Nick wishes he could go back to his "fight everyone" thirties. Being a mature adult sucks.

It's bright and early one morning when Nick decides it's past time to do something about the ceiling, which is warped and sagging beneath the nursery. Nick suspects it's a cracked joist, but considering his lack of carpentry skills, he doubts he can do anything to repair it. Right now, all he can do is try to support the weight of the second floor with something other than a wish and a prayer. Thankfully, he saved some of the posts when he dismantled the back porch — now if only Kim weren't going to be busy all day with Carmina, they could actually get some work done.

Except, maybe not!

John has been looking a lot better these past two days, since all he's been doing is resting and regaining his strength. Nick's heard him rummaging around at night, and he's been making himself something of a nest out of the crap left with him. Nick's even heard him talking, although it's anyone's guess who he thinks is listening. Considering how quiet and withdrawn he is when Nick brings him his meals, he doesn't seem interested in what real people have to say.

Honestly, if Nick hadn't been an integral part of John's survival for the past week, he'd think the whole thing was some kind of ploy. Nick's not sure what John would be planning with this act for sympathy, but he isn't going to make the same mistake he did all those years ago and write him off as some rich, coked-out jackass with no thoughts to his name. He's not going to let John sit around and finalize whatever evil machinations he's got brewing in his mind. He's gonna work that sad-sack until the only thing John's thinking about is collapsing from exhaustion.

Nick doesn't reveal his plans until after breakfast. He doesn't want to ruin his favorite meal of the day, not when he can rest aimlessly beside his family around the table, eating ham and eggs while Kim brews coffee. It's the closest they'll ever get to the way life used to be, and Nick can pretend that everything is back to normal as long as he has a cup of coffee in hand. Hell, it's not like watching his eight-year-old daughter methodically clean the family rifle during breakfast is all that weird for Hope County, with or without the apocalypse.

It's probably a good thing that Carmina is distracted. If she realized today was the day John would be seeing sunlight, she'd refuse to go anywhere until her curiosity was satisfied. They've told her as little as they can get away with, given that they're keeping a man prisoner across the hall from them. Mostly that he's a very sick stranger who could make little girls very sick too. She'd bought it for the most part, but Nick's afraid that she won't be able to contain her curiosity for much longer.

"Think I'm gonna get some stuff done while you're gone," he tells Kim, glancing significantly towards the stairs while Carmina isn't looking. "We need to deal with the second floor sooner rather than later."

"Are you sure?" she asks, raising her eyebrows meaningfully back at him. "Is this something you can do on your own?"

"Better to not put it off anymore," Nick replies. "It'll be easier if I have the place to myself, anyway. Less, uh, confusion."

That said, he puts the chore off for almost half an hour after Kim and Carmina head out. He tries to prepare, but there's not much he can do to close off the exits, and it only takes a few minutes to drag all the necessary supplies into place. All he can do at this point is hope that John is only strong enough to help, and not strong enough to run at the first chance he gets. If he does that, Nick's going to have no choice but to shoot him.

Nick does his best to hide his nerves as he unlocks the door. It feels weird to knock so he doesn't, pushing the door open slowly enough for the hinges to creak. John should just be thankful Nick bothers to try giving him any sort of head's up.

John, ungrateful bastard that he is, sleeps through Nick's entrance. He's found the cheap wool guest blanket that Nick would never dream of actually offering to guests, which seems fitting. His shirt is crumpled next to him, leaving Nick with the unfortunate view of his bare torso.

Nick's seen John shirtless a few times now, but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach. His skin is stretched over his jutting shoulder blades, clinging to every sharp, bony angle of his spine. Nick knows there's not much else for it to cling to - he's seen the way John's stomach sags, too much skin with not enough meat to hang on to. It's all been eaten away from months, maybe even years , of malnutrition and inactivity. The only thing left of the man Nick remembers is a goddamn shadow. Looking down at John, Nick's left to wonder how he had survived at all.

Nick nudges John unkindly with his boot, ignoring the grunt of discomfort he gets in return. "Come on," he snaps, "It's morning. If the sun's up, you're up — this isn't the goddamn Hope County Hilton."

John groans, biting his tongue against whatever snide comment might come to mind. That's too bad — Nick would love to start today off with an ethically-sourced beat-down.

Even though he wants to, Nick refuses to look away as John sits up, revealing all of his tattoos and scars. The tattoos are nothing new, and some of the scars look pre-Collapse old, but John obviously didn't let the bunker curb his self-mutilating tendencies. Some of the tattoos have been ritualistically carved out, leaving flat slabs of scar tissue behind. Others have been scratched out less completely, seemingly at random. The worst part is seeing the ten deep, half-moon gouges in his shoulders, leaving behind raw, fresh scars. Nick can only imagine what led to their creation, but he would really rather not.

"Put your shirt on and eat quick," Nick tells him, setting the plate near enough to John before retreating to wait by the door. The more space he has between them, the better. If John is going to pull something, Nick wants to have room to grab his gun, or at least to brace for a fight. And anyway, John still eats like a mongrel and it's uncomfortable to watch.

"Time to put me to work?" John asks skeptically as he drags his shirt over his torso.

"You bet," Nick replies. Should he be a cagey dick about it? Part of him thinks so, out of spite, but realistically he should temper John's expectations. Nick isn't going to be capable of putting John through the kind of torture he's probably expecting. So, he points out the dipping corner and says, "This whole floor is gonna give out if we don't do something about it. Well, I say we , but I mean you ."

John regards the spot with more skepticism. "That's it?"

"You haven't even seen how much of the house you're going to be digging out of the dirt," Nick points out. "Come on, hurry up already, I don't have all day."

——

Despite being sick as a dog, John's strength is still something to be reckoned with. Nick watches uneasily at first as John makes short work of clearing space for the beam to stand, heaving shovelfuls of dirt out the open window without regard to his wasted muscles. If John decides to come at him with that shovel, it's going to be Nick's reflexes that save him, not his brute strength. Nick's reflexes aren't exactly the best these days, so Nick hopes it doesn't come to that.

It doesn't seem like John is interested in fighting, though. Nick sets him to work with the shovel and he takes it up without so much as a snide comment about Nick trying to order him around. He slings dirt silently, practically zoning out over the manual labor as Nick watches from his side of the room. It's almost like he's in a trance or something, and it's only broken when the shovel scrapes against the wooden floorboards. He comes to a sudden stop, staring at the floor in surprise. He looks up and around, fixing a sour glare at the wide-open back porch that Nick is standing guard in front of before finally looking at Nick himself.

"That's it?"

"Hell no, it isn't," Nick sighs, gesturing towards the beam that he'd dragged in from the woodpile outside. It doesn't rain much nowadays, so it hasn't gone to rot, and it should be just about level with the supports in the ceiling. Plus, it's already got the right hardware attached, and most of it even survived the nuclear blast.

"Come on," he tells John, "You're putting this up."

Still no backtalk, not even as Nick gets his own hands dirty and helps John prop the beam up. He remains silent as Nick fastens it in place with the only three-inch bolts left in America. It's a temporary solution, but Nick's proud of it anyway, and he steps back to admire the work. He has to admit, even if John is planning something, at least his plan involves actually being useful.

"That should work for now," he says. He scratches the back of his head as he regards John — what does he do with the guy now? It seems like a waste to just... jam him back up there. He's obviously capable of working, and that's what Nick said he'd do — break his back with manual labor, right?

"Well, now that we're done with that... I guess you can get to work shoveling the rest of this dirt outta here. It's been pretty low on the list, but it's not like you've got anything better to do."

"No, I suppose not."

"Hey now, what happened to just saying yes ?" Nick grins, feeling mean but still pretty funny for it. John scowls, but he's just not the right audience for the joke, so his opinion doesn't count.

" Yes, sir ," John replies. He's probably just being a dick, but the way he says it roils Nick's stomach on impact.

"Hey, none of that shit," Nick snaps, even though he probably should lean into the boss role while he can. "Just — don't be a fucking weirdo about this, okay?"

John frowns and doesn't respond. He doesn't need Nick to instruct him any further, returning to work with the shovel as though he's forgotten he ever stopped. Nick keeps an eye on him as he has lunch, waiting for John to drop the weird, quiet obedience act that he's been putting on. It has to be an act. John's just using their mercy for his own ends, using them for shelter and food while waiting for the opportunity to strike. To take the house and the guns, to take control of everything that he'd felt so obligated to eight years ago.

An hour goes by in silence. John works steadily, almost meditatively shoveling down to the floorboards, dumping shovelfuls of dirt out the nearest window to him. He's lost in his thoughts, so much so that he doesn't seem to notice as he clears out nearly half of the living room, the shovel scraping against wood like the beat of the drum that's distracting the poor motherfucker.

Eventually, Nick can't help but point out, "You don't talk as much as you used to."

John doesn't so much as look at him, which is more irritating than Nick wants to let on. What, is he supposed to shut up now, too? Forget that !

"I mean, you used to never shut the fuck up. Guess even you couldn't stand listening to yourself for eight years solid, huh?"

John grunts in response. He doesn't look so hot; his face is pale and drenched in sweat, and he seems to be relying on the shovel to steady himself. Nick squints, trying to figure out whether or not the guy is trying to pull a fast one on him — it's exactly the kind of thing Nick would do, if he were being held captive — but John doesn't seem to notice Nick's scrutiny at all. He seems miles away from the house, from himself.

Goddamn it. The more Nick watches, the less comfortable he becomes. "Alright, come on," Nick sighs, exasperation masking his discomfort at seeing John near-fainting. "That's enough for one day, now sit down before you fall down."

It's a toss-up which of those options John takes, but moments later he's flopped backward into the mound of dirt. He leaves streaks of mud across his face where he wipes away the sweat. Nick watches, waiting for the asshole to spring his trap, but John looks sincerely too beat up to try wrestling the gun away or making a break for it. His hair, thick with dust, clumps over his face, dropping into his eyes no matter how many times he tries to smooth it back.

To his personal horror, he finds himself offering John his canteen. He should leave John to drink his own spit with their fresh water supply as low as it is. It's what the man deserves. But they've wasted too much time and supplies on John to be stingy with the water now.

"Don't get too comfortable lying in the dirt," Nick points out, "I'm gonna put you back before Kim and Carmina get home."

John nods without complaint. He takes careful sips of water, like he's trying to mind how much he's taking, which is a fucking riot coming from the guy who did nothing but take, take, take for years.

"It's the nursery, isn't it?"

Nick stares down at the dirty bastard in confusion. "What?"

"The room," John repeats with a suspicious lack of irritation. "It was going to be the nursery."

Nick scowls. "Yeah," he says. "Not that it ever panned out."

John holds the canteen out for Nick to take back, which he does. "No," he admits, "It certainly did not."

"No thanks to you." Nick takes a thirsty swig of water. "None of you got a chance to raid our bunker, but there were a lot of other people who weren't so lucky. Lots of people didn't even have a house to hide in."

"Yes," John sighs, "I know."

The nerve John has to brush aside the damage he's done momentarily overwhelms Nick, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's chucking the canteen at John's head in a vicious game of dodge-ball that John just barely wins. "No, you don't know. You managed to find somewhere to survive for eight years, while good, honest people were left to rot away on the surface and suffer through nuclear winter because you burned down their houses, you stole their supplies, you ruined their lives! You destroyed everything before the police ever showed up! You sorry assholes kept talking about the Collapse while all of us were already living through it! Because of you ! You know ? Fuck you!"

Nick reaches his hand out to grab John, to — to strangle him, to shake him , anything to stop him from sitting there and staring cow-eyed up at him. Waiting for Nick to exact a physical price for all the anguish that he's caused, waiting for the inevitable retribution that he deserves.

But eight years is a long time to carry so much righteous anger. Nick must've set it down somewhere along the way; now that it's time to resume that bitter loathing, he finds himself coming up short. Honestly, he's too goddamn old for it. He's too tired. Eight years of fatherhood and living past the end of mankind has run the rage right out of him. The idea of expending that much effort just exhausts him. What would even be the point? John isn't even worth it.

"Just — get up," Nick sighs at last. "Kim'll be back in a while and I... don't want to look at you anymore."

John slumps into himself as he stands, shoulders caving in as he avoids looking higher than Nick's boots. He proceeds without complaint or comment up the stairs; despite that, Nick still braces himself for a surprise attack, his hand clinging to the holster. He stops at the doorway behind John, waiting for some trap to spring and feeling oddly put out when nothing happens.

"I'll bring you dinner later," Nick tells him. "From now on, you're only getting a second meal on days you work."

John nods in response, falling into his makeshift bed with as much grace as he had the dirt pile downstairs. Nick's not sure he's gonna be awake the next time he checks in, but that's probably for the best. Nick doesn't like watching the guy eat, and he hates having to interact with him.

When John fails to say anything, Nick uses his silence as an exit and quickly locks John away. He'll probably sleep until dinner, which means he'll spend all night muttering to himself again. That's just what Nick needs.

There's still time before Kim gets back with Carmina. Nick drags the dining table into the living room, taking a minute to marvel at the amount of dirt John managed to clear out. Maybe tomorrow, Kim can take Carmina on a hike or something so that he can have John do the rest of the room. Once the dirt's all cleared out, they'll be able to build proper doors for the back porch, instead of leaving it open to the elements and potential prison breaks. After that, who knows? Maybe they'll be able to string lights up in here like they did back at the Spread Eagle. They could actually find a use for the generator. Hurk was on the radio recently, boasting about party liquor and gasoline — maybe they could barter for fuel?

Thinking more than a year ahead is jumping the gun a little, especially considering they have to get through another winter without heat, but this is the first time Nick's let himself imagine that far. Kim is already prepping for next year, of course, but Nick's still a little stuck on bunker time, where everything felt like a tightrope walk to survive and keep sane. But now, well — there's floor space, and Nick's even stacked plates and silverware on the kitchen counter for dinner. It's progress that he can't miss, and for once he breathes a sigh of relief and actually feels relieved.

Kim and Carmina come back before dusk with three rabbits and, in Carmina's case, a turkey so big that it nearly drags on the ground as she carries it on her back. "Shot it herself," Kim tells him, dropping the rabbits on the table. She does it almost without a second thought, wrapping her arms around Nick before realizing, "Oh, the table's back!"

Nick grins. "Figured we could use the extra space. Look at you, kiddo!" Nick turns his attention to Carmina, who still has the turkey slung triumphantly over her shoulder. "That is one big bird."

"Yeah," she says, trying to look as casually confident as her mom. She can't help but brag, "It was coming right at us. I had to do something. "

"That's my girl," Nick says, "I need somebody to protect your mom whenever I'm not around."

"Hey," Kim protests, playfully shoving out of her supposedly loving husband's grasp, "I can protect myself, you two. Carmina, take that thing into the kitchen and start plucking."

Heaving a very exasperated sigh she must have lifted off of her dad, Carmina drags the limp poultry away. Kim watches her go with a satisfied smile, telling Nick, "She's got great eyesight. I didn't even notice it in the grass."

"Thank God. Can you imagine if she needed glasses out here? We would be royally screwed. So! What do you think?"

Kim looks back at the clear floor and the table with four legs on solid ground. "I admit, I'm impressed," she says. "I expected to come back to a funeral pyre. But look, you even got the support in!" She furrows her brows at him. "Did you have any trouble?"

"Nah. Actually, it was... uh, painfully easy. He didn't put up a fight or anything."

"Hmm."

Nick's not sure what Kim's thinking as she eyes the progress that's been made. Maybe she's wondering what John's endgame is, the same way Nick wonders. She's probably worrying about how to explain it to anyone who might ask about it — Grace, mostly, maybe Jerome, if he'd ever come out this way. Nick's sure he can just take credit and leave it at that, but maybe she's seeing some hidden angle that he hasn't caught on to yet?

"If we string some lights up in here," Kim points out thoughtfully, "We might actually be able to use the bottom floor, instead of camping outside all day."

"Hey," Nick laughs, "That's exactly what I was thinking."

"Am I supposed to pluck this whole thing myself ?" Carmina exclaims in horror from the kitchen.

"I'll be right there, honey," Nick calls, offering Kim a chair at the table. She takes it with a grateful smile, leaning into his hand as he briefly strokes her hair. "Not bad for a day's worth of work, huh?"

"Not bad," Kim agrees. Nick heads for the kitchen, unable to keep from humming some old-world song he can't remember the words to, happy to put aside his doubts about John for a couple of hours yet.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

The Scent of Failure

The sun glared on a bright day near the end of a suffocatingly cold winter. The many buildings and streets of the city of Crimsonport teemed with life. A horse-drawn car thundered over the cobblestones. The driver reined the horses in and they neighed as the wagon came to a halt.

From its side door emerged a man in a dark coat, carrying a small black bag. He combed his hair down with a fine hand, but the curly mane popped right back up into the unruly shape his rough night had given it. He placed his hat on top of it and barely straightened the collar of his shirt while giving a curt nod to the driver in parting.

With a pleasant sharpness, the fresh air stung Doctor Theodore Carnaby’s nostrils. He rounded the wagon just before it took off with the crack of a whip and the clopping of hooves. The chatter of passersbys in the vicinity reached his ears but remained unintelligible to him. His head still swam from his recent visit to the opium den.

Approaching the entrance to the house on Miller’s Street, he looked the quaint and narrow row house up and down. Broken thoughts spun around and clouded his mind, distracting him from the task at hand.

Doctor Carnaby waited. A minute or two since he had rapped upon the door for entrance, feeling like eternity, passed. He had filled the time with a haphazard attempt at discerning the smell of his own breath, and reminiscing about his encounter with a curious lady dressed in men’s fashion.

He took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. The fresh air carried a hint of upcoming spring and worked wonders on his spirits. He had work to do.

The door opened by the hand of a short elderly woman in her sixties, by the physician’s estimate. Missus Gillis cracked a smile at Doctor Carnaby, from which a few front teeth were missing. She looked otherwise to be in good health and possess good posture.

“Oh, you are much younger than what I had imagined, Mister Carnaby.”

He removed his hat and returned the smile with a brief introduction.

Missus Gillis allowed him inside, closed the door behind him, and guided him past the narrow stairways leading up.

Something unpleasant hit Carnaby like a slap in the face. His nostrils flared and he could not prevent his face from wrinkling in disgust. A terrible smell lingered in the air here and reminded him of rotten eggs. Or rotten cabbages. The awful combination of different stenches blended together while remaining just faint enough to defy definition.

Carnaby paused and pointed up at the stairs.

“I gather there are other parties living in this building?”

Gillis looked back at him and nodded. When she smiled this time, it did not reach her eyes.

He could sense the awkward air between them—she expected him to pose another question about the smell, but he remained silent about it. He then gestured to the door at the end of the entry hall.

“Shall we?”

They moved on and entered the Gillis residence proper, a simple flat on the ground floor. Carnaby spent the next half hour tending to his patient, William Gillis. The doctor identified two issues plaguing the elderly man—a case of bronchitis and influenza coming together to weather William.

All the while, Missus Gillis watched with hawkish attention, posing questions. Carnaby was used to this and performed his work with the patience of a saint, displaying diligence and professional swiftness that appeared to impress her.

All the while, he tried to ignore that smell. Although its strength in the hall outside the flat proved to be far greater, a faint reminder of it lingered in the air, even in the couple’s flat. Carnaby’s work and dedication distracted him well enough for the time being, taking his mind off of the smell itself.

The clock tower’s famous bell ringing pulled him out of everything and reminded Carnaby that he had more patients to visit that morning. After giving Mister Gillis some instructions and a prescription, Missus Gillis quickly ushered the doctor out the door.

Outside the flat and between it and the building’s front door, the smell hit Carnaby’s nose in full force. It reminded him of something in between the smell of a barn and—now that he thought of it more carefully—a morgue.

Before reaching the front door, he swiveled and asked. He had to ask.

“Excuse me, but what is that—that, you know?”

She stared intently into Carnaby’s eyes. Something about her expression struck the doctor as grim, but he could not quite explain why.

“That smell? Oh, I don’t know,” she said. Then her voice lowered into a whisper before adding, “Our upstairs neighbor, Gregory Gardiner, bless his soul. I am not one to judge personal hygiene, for he has always been a lovely neighbor. Quiet, always keeps to himself.”

Carnaby looked past her, up the stairs. Just shadows. A darkness loomed above the steps. He felt watched and once she had stopped talking, things had turned so quiet inside the building that he could hear Mister Gillis cough through the walls and someone talking outside on the streets.

His chin crinkled and he gave Missus Gillis a feeble smile, wishing her a good day.

Only after leaving and hearing the door click shut behind him did it occur to Carnaby—Missus Gillis’ hands had been balled into fists during their last exchange. Everything added up to leaving an unsettling feeling within the doctor’s stomach.

He walked to his next home visit, hoping that the fresh air would clear his nose and mind of that damned smell.

It lingered far too long for comfort, and wondering what might have caused it continued to resurface and occupy his thoughts for a while.

Doctor Carnaby had forgotten about it come next week when he visited Mister Gillis once more. Upon Missus Gillis admitting him into the entry hall, he paused again.

The smell had not gotten worse, nor had it gotten better. Carnaby reckoned last time that it reminded him of rotten things, but this time it reminded him of raw sewage.

Missus Gillis turned when she noticed he had paused once more in the hallway. She gave him that smile again—the one that never quite reached her eyes. Unlike all the other smiles she gave the good doctor for his work and earnest care, this one puzzled Carnaby. He could not make sense of what she meant to convey with it.

“How long has this been—”

“Just a few weeks,” she replied, cutting into his word.

Ever fiber of her, every limb had stiffened with tension. Carnaby clicked his tongue and nodded. They must have gotten used to the smell by now.

He mustered a feeble smile and gestured to the door to the flat. Missus Gillis led the way once more.

In his peripheral vision, Carnaby saw someone standing in the darkness atop the stairs. Discerning the gaunt, frail figure of the person sent a shiver down his spine, even though he could see little more beyond a silhouette and thin fingers curled around the banister above.

He blinked and looked up, disbelieving that the fingernails he had seen were pitch-black like tar. But the hand had already retracted and the mysterious figure melted into the shadows. This made the doctor shiver again.

Carnaby shook off the eerie sensation, shook his head to match, and followed Missus Gillis. She already stood by the open door to her flat and stared at the doctor. Judging by her eyes, she had noticed that Carnaby witnessed something odd. The tense air about her remained, and she stiffly directed him to enter.

The smell’s potency waned inside the couple’s home, but the doctor could have sworn that it had grown stronger than it was last time he had paid William Gillis a visit.

In a spot above the room in which Mister Gillis rested in his own bed, the ceiling had developed an odd discoloration—a dark spot, like mildew spreading. Carnaby wondered if it had been there last time and he had simply not noticed it, as the sunlight flooding the room shone brighter this day.

For now, he paid little attention to the spot and focused on his patient. He communicated his assessment to both Dorothy and her husband: William was recovering gradually and the doctor had no serious concerns regarding his health. By the time he visited them again next week, William should be fully cured again—hell, he might as well visit Carnaby in his own practice.

On the way to the door, Missus Gillis knocked over a vase and it shattered. Shame about the old relic, Carnaby thought. Not only had it looked like something from the far east and valuable, but quite pretty. The woman scurried to clean it up and Carnaby offered to see himself out, which she greeted with gratitude.

Almost having forgotten about it and gotten used to the smell himself, a foul stench struck him again when he exited the Gillis flat. More powerful than ever before. Carnaby closed the door behind him and gagged upon trying to catch his breath.

Just by the door leading outside, he heard a faint groan from upstairs and stopped dead in his tracks. The cold fingers of dread tickled the back of his neck and skull as he looked back over his shoulder, peering up the stairs. No figure to be seen, he stared into that darkness.

Part of him would have felt a strange sense of relief to see that slender figure there, but no such luck. The absence of any person around unsettled him even more, and some part of him considered leaving to fetch a police constable to investigate.

Something was wrong here.

He weighed his oath to do no harm against the possibility of intruding on someone’s privacy. Meanwhile, the aromas of rotten eggs and feces assaulted his sense of smell. How in the blazes could the Gillis’ ever get used to such a stench? He nearly lept out of his skin when a door upstairs slammed shut.

Taking that as a cue, Carnaby left without further action.

Again, his personal life and work kept him busy enough to push the experiences in that building back into the darkest recesses of his mind. They did creep up on him one night when he whiled away his time in the opium den. In a quiet moment of sobriety, the image of that slender figure and those spindly fingers crossed his mind. He broke out in a cold sweat and pushed the memory back down, as deep and far away as he could.

A week later, Missus Gillis summoned Carnaby back to their home. Contrary to the doctor’s predictions, something was wrong—William was bed-ridden again. Immediately upon reading her letter, a palpable dread overcame the doctor. He remembered that foul smell and the vision of that figure atop the stairs. He had hoped in his heart of hearts to not have to go to that damned house ever again.

Thick clouds hung low in the sky on the day he made his visit to the couple’s home again. A mist rolled through the streets. Tiny needle-pricks of drizzle amidst the cool spring air pelted Carnaby’s exposed skin.

Arriving outside the building, his hand froze before he rapped his knuckles against the door. His stomach knotted and his heart raced. Strange apprehension overcame Doctor Carnaby. He felt like something awful was about to happen.

Instead of knocking, he tried to open the front door.

The lack of resistance meant it was unlocked. The handle turned according to Carnaby’s will and the door swung inside.

And there it was again. That terrible smell. The most powerful it had ever been.

Carnaby covered his mouth and nose with a hand and nearly choked on it. His breathing turned labored because he tried to keep it shallow. In his mind, there was no doubt—he smelled death.

He stood by the entrance, frozen with fear. No figure stood up there, though he expected the silhouette to appear before him. Every single fairy tale and scary story he had ever heard shot through his mind like lightning. But he refused to give those superstitions any quarter.

Just when he closed the door behind him and took his first step towards the Gillis’ flat, he heard a faint groan from upstairs. And then again.

Louder this time.

Just like the awful smell reminded him of the worst his work could offer, he recognized the tone—the dark and bone-chilling melody—of those groans. They reflected pain and suffering. His heart pounded to a mad, deafening beat.

He had to do something.

So he did. He crept up the stairs, careful as not to make a single sound. Midway, one of the steps creaked underneath his shoe and caused all the blood to drain from his face. He broke out into a cold sweat that took him back to that night in the opium den when he remembered the eerie figure from here. He expected the gaunt apparition of Gregory Gardiner to spring up in front of him and stare at him.

Moments dragged on like molasses and he started to feel ridiculous, though not one bit less afraid.

Carnaby continued his ascent, arriving outside the door to a flat on the second floor. The smell was much worse up here and clearly wafted from that door. Around its cracks, the carpet and wood on the floor had developed the same dark discoloration which the doctor had seen on the ceiling in the flat downstairs.

He began to second-guess himself and almost turned around. Almost, had it not been for another groan. It came from behind that door and being this much closer allowed Carnaby to recognize it as a woman’s voice. His concern and courage trumped the dread that kept him from proceeding more decisively.

Gagging again, he stood in front of the door to Gardiner’s flat. He knocked at it.

Instead of someone opening up, another groan erupted inside. Louder. This time, he heard a word in it, though the door muffled it too much for him to understand its meaning.

The doctor gripped the handle with a clammy hand, shivering as he found it deathly cold against his skin—colder than the air outside.

He twisted it and the door opened a crack, light as a feather. He let go, afraid that something might jump out at him. Carnaby stiffened as the door swung open and revealed a ghastly sight. A thin, emaciated body lay on the floor inside, sprawled out. A shirtless, skinny man whose skin had turned a pallid, unnatural gray; and fingernails rendered black with filth. The man lay face down and a tangle of greasy hair concealed his face.

Carnaby hesitated to enter, though part of him felt the urge to check on the man and see if he was alright. The smell of death was omnipresent in here and overpowering and deep down, he knew.

He knew this man was dead.

The next groan startled the doctor and he wondered how many inches he must have jumped off the ground upon hearing it. It came from a room, deeper inside this flat. Despite Carnaby’s expectations, the pallid body on the floor did not spring into motion. It did not budge. It continued to lie there, still, like a corpse.

The doctor crept through the room, giving the dead body—of what he presumed to be Gregory Gardiner—a wide berth. He stared at the corpse, squinting and desperately trying to discern what conditions had eaten away at the man’s skin. Finally, he had rounded it and reached a bedroom.

The smell shook Carnaby to the core and he coughed up bile from his stomach. At first, his mind failed to make sense of what he beheld. The sheer stench dominated everything: excrements, urine, vomit, and rotten flesh.

Something like mildew blackened the walls of this chamber from their bottom edges; but more prominently, strange, arcane symbols marked the walls—painted in dark red or black, drawing all of the doctor’s attention, causing his eyes to dart back and forth over them, unable to make sense of what they meant.

On the center of the bed’s mattress lay a woman—though Carnaby refused to consider this a human being. She looked like a rotten corpse, with weeks of decay having ravaged the remains. Flesh sloughed off of bone like melted cheese.

Milky-white eyes turned, glazed over, and he felt her stare upon him. She groaned at him and lifted a skeletal arm. Chains and shackles held back the wrists of this horrifying thing, tied to the bed’s frame. Feeble fingers pointed at the doctor. Words like sand, like a rasp running over wood, poured out under a groan, in the weakest whisper.

“Kill me.”

Carnaby nearly threw up on the spot. The world spun around him and dizziness nearly made him lose his consciousness. Darkness closed in from the edges of his vision and he braced himself against a wall to prevent himself from falling. But his hand touched something cold and wet and slick and the doctor nearly screamed.

He stumbled into a dresser and his hands came to rest on the damp pages of a thick tome. Splayed open, many of the strange symbols that adorned the walls in blood were mirrored here, littering the pages on display inside this book.

The doctor’s vision blurred and he could not decipher the strange glyphs and between the sketched symbols. He struggled to keep his eyes open. Instead of keeling over, he grabbed that book and clutched it till his knuckles turned white. Later on, Carnaby would have no explanation for why he did that—by taking the tome, he acted upon a strange instinct he would never understand.

“Take me,” whispered the book. He imagined that—Carnaby thought. For it was neither the corpse-woman in the bed, nor was anybody else present who could have uttered those words.

“Kill me,” the corpse-woman said again.

He regretted looking back up at her and staggered back out of the bedroom. He shielded his eyes with a hand as to not have to look at that abomination again. His nose burnt with the horrid stench. Every fiber of his body wanted to escape.

Carnaby slapped the book shut and curled an arm around it as he fled the flat.

The doctor nearly fell down the stairs on the way out, holding on to the banister and sliding down a few steps. He stumbled all the way outside, emerging onto the cobblestone-covered streets, wondering for a second if he had even bothered to shut any doors behind himself.

The stench remained. He cared not for the funny looks that pedestrians gave him while he staggered forth. He just needed to get away from that awful smell. His head throbbed with the sounds of people and life in the city, now louder than ever before in his life. The way to the safety of his practice and home turned into a blurry haze and he could barely recall the rest of that day.

Yet more days later, upon studying the ancient book, Carnaby would learn and understand more. He bathed extensively and burned his clothing to rid himself of the stench, but the memory of it continued to haunt him. He sometimes thought he smelled it when eating or drinking tea.

The book contained instructions for magick rituals. Alchemy. A scholar and scientist at heart, Carnaby figured that Gregory Gardiner had been experimenting with the animation of a corpse. Whose, he had no clue.

Gregory must have done something wrong in the process. The source of that stench was not just death.

It was failure.

—Submitted by Wratts