#and apparently a kaleidoscope one...whatever that means....................

[cannibalovers]

the way all the gays have fucked the wrong gays in hannibal is very funny to me

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Civilian and the Reluctant Hero

Summary: When Shireen's city falls to a Supervillain, she knows there aren't any Heroes to save the day. So she does in more ways than she knows.

------.

There’s a man in the garbage.

Shireen tries to keep walking. She watches her red heels take one step. Then another. She stops just past the mouth of the alley, unable to keep going. She glares down at her shoes.

It’s not safe to go see if that man is okay. Even before her city fell under the control of a Supervillain, it wouldn’t have been safe. It’s almost two in the morning and the streets are deserted, the only pedestrian being idiots like her who missed their last train home from visiting friends. Only about half the streetlamps are working. The bulbs are shattered in some, switches have burnt out in others. Apparently, supervillain dictatorships don’t care about repairing them. Everybody tries to avoid driving. The asphalt is chewed up by the Supervillain’s henchmen sparring all over the place. The street – once a main thoroughfare – looks like the set of a zombie movie.

Keep walking, Shireen tells herself. Her hand tightens on the strap of her satchel. She doesn’t have pepper spray anymore. If any of the Supervillain’s henchmen caught her with a weapon, they could brand her a Hero.

The whole city knows what their loving Supervillain does to Heroes.

Shireen turns on her heel and tiptoes into the alley. There aren’t any more Heroes here. Nobody to save the day or look out for people who are passed out on top of piles of trash. Maybe that’s why she’s carefully approaching the man in the garbage. She’s not going to save anyone, she knows that. But, maybe, she can help make sure he does whatever he’s doing in a hospital or something.

“Hey,” Shireen says. It’s a short alley with only one door. She eyes it suspiciously, but the restaurant it belongs to is long past close. She turns her attention back to the man lying just in front of the dumpster on several black garbage bags. “You okay?”

The man doesn’t respond. He’s wearing all black and if it weren’t for his shiny chestnut hair, she wouldn’t have seen him. His chest rises and falls which at least means he’s breathing. His head is turned away from her, but his neck doesn’t look broken. There’s blood running from a nasty cut at his temple, but it looks dry at the edges. She circles him so that she can see his face.

Shireen stumbles. “No,” she breathes. “No way.” She feels like the world is spinning, the battered brick walls on either side of her swirling into a kaleidoscope of color. The man is wearing a mask. A familiar gold mask that mimics the face of a porcelain doll with high cheekbones and a small slit where the mouth would be. There’s blood covering the forehead section, dark and ominous against the gold, but she knows this man. This mask.

King Midas. Their city’s strongest villain before the Supervillain takeover. Feared by all for his ability to turn anything (or anyone) into any sort of metal. A B-rank villain who always seemed to be one step in front of the heroes, the media, the citizens. King Midas, the villain responsible for the collapse of the city’s historic clock tower, for the theft of countless masterpieces, for the extortion and blackmail of every major politician to get elected into office.

King Midas who laid down his life trying to help the Heroes escape their execution. He failed. Their villain who always won failed that day and he lost his life in the process.

But he tried. And now he’s alive.

Shireen kicks off her heels and runs to get her car.

----------------.

Shireen stares at King Midas from the doorway to her bedroom. He’s still unconscious, but looks better with the tan bandages she’s wrapped around the cut on his head and the few she found on his torso. It’d been easy to cut off the remainder of his black shirt to get to them. Then, embarrassed by his semi-nudity and her own audacity in cutting his clothes off, she’d thrown her pale pink throw over his chest. He’s too tall for her small couch and his black boots hang cartoonishly over the armrest. On the coffee table beside him are a few bottles of water, a granola bar, a tray of fruit, and some ibuprofen.

She closes the door to her bedroom and pushes her dresser in front of it. Then, for good measure, she sets her laundry basket on top for added weight.

What the fuck am I doing?

Shireen ducks into her closet. She hid here when the Supervillain takeover happened, hunched over her phone as the Heroes were executed on live TV. Ever since that day, it’s been less of a comforting space and more of a suffocating one. She lurches out from behind her clothes and starts pacing her bedroom.

The best case scenario is that King Midas wakes up, takes the offerings, and leaves. Nobody can know that she fished him out of the garbage. Should she have written a note with instructions on it? He’s a villain, would he follow the instructions of a citizen?

She remembers the last time she saw him. The Heroes all lined up in front of City Hall, bound and powerless. The Supervillain twirling his gigantic scythe like it was made of straw. She’d counted the Heroes frantically, hoping that one of them would be free to save the rest. But all three of them were on their knees as the Supervillain raised his weapon above his head.

King Midas appeared just before the first swing. For a terrifying moment, Shireen had been convinced that he was the one who’d let the Supervillain past their city’s defenses. But then he’d spoken. He condemned the Supervillain’s actions. He told the Supervillain that the Heroes were property of King Midas and King Midas alone.

He’d fought. She remembers his mask catching sunlight, a gleaming gold next to the endless night of the Supervillain Apocalypse’s power.

She remembers the dull sound of his body when he fell, the sound transmitted directly into her closet by her phone’s excellent speakers. It had felt like the collapse of her entire world and she’d had to shut off her phone before Apocalypse killed the heroes too.

Why did King Midas try to help them? Why did he go so far as to lay down his life? And why, after seeing the Supervillain’s scythe enter his body, was he still alive?

Shireen doesn’t know. It’s not safe for her to know. She finally settles in the corner of her room so that her bed is between her and the door. King Midas will leave when he wakes up and then it won’t be her problem anymore. She’s okay with not knowing.

Civilians never live long when they know.

-------------King Midas POV-------

Waking up after getting thrown through downtown like a rag doll is not fun. Waking up after thinking he was going to die while getting thrown through downtown like a rag doll?

Priceless.

Grant’s legs are asleep. He’s on the world’s tiniest couch and the armrest is cutting into the back of his knees. He flexes his toes to encourage blood flow and sits up slowly. A soft blanket falls off his bare chest and into his lap. What?

His wounds are bandaged and he’s shirtless. There isn’t anyone in the room with him, but it’s clearly someone’s apartment. There’s a utilitarian kitchen tucked into an alcove, a shoe rack by the front door, and a coffee table between him and the TV. Could he have broken into a civilian’s apartment while concussed?

He feels something strange happen in his chest when he sees the water and food on the coffee table. There’s a tray of fruit, clearly cut by hand, arranged on a plate. There’s a granola bar, several bottles of water, and ibuprofen. He didn’t break into a civilian’s home.

Somebody saved me.

Grant has never been saved before. He’s never needed saving. Or at least he didn’t before this year and that dickhead Apocalypse came to town. Now it feels like he’s needed saving every other day, but nobody’s actually done it.  He touches the granola bar with one finger. It’s a fig and nuts combo which is his least favorite flavor. He glances at the door he can sense his saviour behind. If they didn’t want to see his face while he was unconscious, he doubts they’ll barge in here to see it while he’s awake.

He unwraps the granola bar, removes his mask, and takes a bite.

Scratch that, this is his favorite flavor now. It still tastes like his grandmother’s house, but now it also tastes like the first piece of kindness he’s received in a long, long time.

He’s grateful that his saviour stays in the other room while he drinks the water and finishes the bar. Nobody has seen him cry in a long time. He doesn’t think he’d be doing either of them any favors if he professed his undying loyalty while sobbing, mouth full of fruit and granola.

He wipes at his eyes. He feels like he hasn’t had a chance to rest in weeks. King Midas finally admits that he’s tired. He’s tired of getting beaten up. He’s tired of battling every single day. He’s tired of always losing and never winning.

Honestly, he doesn’t know how the Heroes put up with him for so long.

Grant feels like he’s ten-years-old again as he sniffles. Saving the day is hard, much harder than the Heroes ever made it look. He’s been asking himself for months why he’s even stuck around to try and recover the city when nobody will thank him for his efforts. There are a hundred reasons why he feels obligated to stay, but when has that ever stopped him from leaving? He’s always been a villain.

He twists open a water bottle. It’s the best tasting water he’s ever tasted. He thinks he can finally understand a little bit of why the Heroes do it.

Grant finishes the fruit and takes the ibuprofen. He won’t endanger his saviour any more than he already has, which means he needs to go sooner rather than later. His shirt is in tatters on the floor so he wraps the throw blanket around his shoulders. They gave him food, water and medicine. Surely they wouldn’t mind sacrificing a blanket too?

He puts his mask on and feels better than he has in a long time. Which is saying something since he’s half-clothed and his mouth still tastes like fig and he’s just come to the realization that he’s probably going to get beat up again tonight.

A Hero’s work is never done. If he knew that, he would have never stood up to Apocalypse all those months ago.

He pauses on the way out the door. He has no doubt that his saviour is awake and listening. If he was in their shoes, he’d hide in the bedroom too. It’s safer that way. “Thank you,” he calls.

“…you’re welcome,” a woman says very quietly from the other side.

Grant swallows. Somehow, he expected her to ignore his words. He expected her kindness to go no further than what she’s already given him. But she heard him. She spoke to him.

“Someday, I’ll repay you,” he blurts out. He flushes under his mask. What is he talking about? Repayment? That’s a very Hero thing to say. He’s never felt like he had to repay anyone before. He’s King Midas! It’s his due—

“Oh no,” the woman says in the same trembling voice. “No thank you.”

No thank you? Grant opens his mouth to question that, but he hears another door open in the apartment building. Time to go.

Without another word, he slips out of his saviour’s apartment and back out onto the streets.

----------------.

Grant gets back to the penthouse before noon. He doesn’t bother buying another outfit on the way and the front desk doesn’t even flinch when he comes wandering in with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his mask dangling from his hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Aurum,” Michael says without looking up from his newspaper. “You have no messages.”

Sometimes Grant wonders if Michael even noticed Apocalypse taking over the city. The building’s manager has never missed a day of work and have never asked unnecessary questions. Grant nods and beelines for his private elevator. “Good, thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Grant leans against the smooth, metal walls of the elevator and closes his eyes. It moves without him having to touch a button and he breathes in deeply for the first time in 24 hours. He’s home. He’s done for the day. And, considering it’s before noon, he might even avoid having to answer any unwanted questions.

The doors slide open and Grant steps out into his penthouse. Bright sunlight filters in through the thin curtains hanging over the floor-to-ceiling windows. The gentle sound of running water comes from the koi pound in the atrium to his right. The air conditioner is on at just the right temperature for a nap--

“Yo! Batman’s back!”

Grant barely resists the urge to get back into the elevator. Of course they’re awake. Of course. The one day he doesn’t mind them sleeping until four o’clock and they’re all rushing out to greet him

“I am not Batman,” Grant says for what feels like the millionth time. He fits his mask back on his face before turning to glare at Blue. The teenager doesn’t look the least bit sorry for upsetting him. They’re sitting in the koi pond and grinning up at him. Grant scowls. “Get out of there!”

“I need the water to practice my power,” Blue says. They hold up their hand to show the thin layer of water coating it. The koi swim in lazy circles around them. “Don’t you want me to get my powers back?”

“Yeah, Batman,” Yellow says. She’s eating macaroni directly out of the pot with a metal spoon. She scrapes it along the bottom. “The sooner we get our powers back, the sooner we get our city back. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I wanted my archnemeses to not be actual children,” Grant snaps. Even when he was dying in that pile of trash, he wasn’t this irritated. “Don’t use a metal spoon in the pot, you’ll ruin it.”

There’s a gust of wind and Red is suddenly behind him. The boy is the oldest of the lot, but still barely eighteen. He throws an arm around Grant’s shoulders. “Just buy a new one, Batman.”

“I am not Batman.” He shrugs off Red’s arm and stalks to the kitchen. The teenagers follow him like ducklings. “All of you need to go put your masks on.”

“Why?” Yellow asks. She’s got braces. If she was wearing her mask, he wouldn’t know she has braces. She points at him and then to herself with her macaroni spoon. “You already know our faces.”

“No, I don’t,” Grant says. “I’m blind.” He hesitates in front of the liquor cabinet before passing it entirely. He’s uncomfortable drinking in front of literal children. “I don’t even know your names.”

“I’m Cal—” Blue starts to say.

“ La la la!” Grant rips open the refrigerator and yanks out a canned coffee. “No secret identities!”

“You’re rich, you’re mysterious, you adopted three orphans and spend your time waging silent battle against the evil of the city,” Red says. He’s already sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of orange juice in front of him. He gestures to the stool across from him. “That’s pretty Batman of you.”

“I am the evil of this city,” Grant says but even he can tell his heart isn’t in it. He sinks onto the stool and takes a pathetic sip of his coffee. “I didn’t sign any adoption papers.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Yellow says. She drops her meal into the sink and hops up onto the stool next to Red. “They haven’t arrived yet.”

Grant thinks about responding to that. He could say that he won’t sign them, obviously. He could say that they’re all idiots for living with him, the villain who spent the better part of last year beating them soundly. He could say that he doesn’t like them at all. He could monologue about his evil plan to nurse them back to health only to sacrifice them in the fight against Apocalypse.

He could, but…

At the beginning, all of those things were true. He knew that they were going to lose that day in front of City Hall. He knew what he was doing when he threw himself in front of them. He knew what it would cost him. Turning their clothing to metal at the last second was a Hail Mary move. He didn’t think that Apocalypse would actually fail to realize that all of them lived through the murder attempt.

But he did. And they lived. Sure, Red, Blue and Yellow were burnt out and badly hurt by the fight, but they were alive. He planned to use them to get Apocalypse out of his city…before he found out that the most persistent and versatile group of heroes to ever be assigned to him were children.

He thinks that’s when his plan really started going off the rails.

“You’re back late,” Red says casually. Grant opens his eyes to find the teen studying him. Red frowns at the blanket wrapped around Grant’s shoulders. “What happened to your shirt?”

Grant sighs and removes his mask. They’ve all seen his face at this point anyway. “I found your rocks.”

The three teen superheroes immediately turn serious. Red’s eyes flare with crimson light and Yellow’s long, golden hair lifts around her head in an ethereal breeze.

Blue leans forward. They’re the least outwardly affected, but their gaze is focused and intense. “Did you get them?”

“No,” Grant admits. He tries not to feel guilty when they sag in disappointment. “There were guards everywhere.” He gestures to his blanket-shirt. “I barely escaped with my life!”

“I definitely want to hear the story of the pink throw,” Yellow says. Her blonde hair settles in a puff around her shoulders. “Later. Apocalypse has our power stones? He didn’t destroy them?”

“They’re on display,” Grant says. He pulls out his phone and flicks to the most recent picture. It’s of a glass case on a pedestal. Inside are three crystals. Ruby. Sapphire. Topaz. “In his residence.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I was literally thrown through a wall after taking that picture, so they might have been moved.”

All three teens shake their heads, eyes fixed on the picture. While powerful in their own right, the stones act as some sort of power store for them. At least that’s what they’ve told Grant. Their recovery without their power stones is slow. With them?

They’re basically invulnerable.

“He won’t be able to touch them now,” Red says. He’s the first to tear his eyes away from the photo. “They’re an extension of us. If we’ve got this much power back, our stones will be recharged. It will feel like falling onto the third rail if he tries to touch them again.”

“Either way, I’m going to try again as soon as possible,” Grant says. “I don’t want to risk him destroying them when he figures out who broke into his house.”

“Were you seen?” Yellow asks.

Grant shakes his head. “It’s only a matter of time before he finds someone who did though.” He thinks of fig granola bars and a small voice denying repayment. His jaw clenches. “It’s been getting risker and risker. The sooner the better.”

The teens nod grimly. Grant doesn’t know why they became Heroes. He doesn’t want to know. Nobody with powers enters this field with a good story to tell. But he sees the determination in their shoulders and he’s sad. He’s sad because they’re kids and they’re not supposed to be the ones doing the saving. They’re supposed to be the ones getting saved.

He wonders if anyone ever gave them granola, fruit and water.

It’s in that moment that Grant finally admits that he’s made his decision. He isn’t going to be King Midas ever again. King Midas died the moment that he leapt between these Heroes and certain death. King Midas disappeared when he saw what true evil looked like and how it nearly destroyed these kids.

He thinks about telling them that he has no intention of letting them near Apocalypse again. He’s going to protect them as much as possible from the Supervillain, even if he really dies in the process. He wants to tell them that, someday, they’ll be safe again, but he doesn’t.

Villains might lie, but he’s not a villain anymore, is he?

“I’m going to take a nap,” he says. He pushes back from the kitchen island, leaving his phone and mask behind. They won’t suspect what he has planned so long as he doesn’t have his mask. “Or maybe just go to bed. You kids order a pizza or something. I’m too tired to cook.”

Red and Yellow cheer for pizza, but Blue squints up at him.

“You good?” they ask. Their eyes flick to his blanket and then to the bandage wrapped around his head. “You go to the hospital?”

“A…friend patched me up,” Grant says. Later (if he survives) he’ll ask about how to repay a civilian when they tell you not to bother. Later, when it’s safe, he’ll figure out how he can ever begin to thank that person for their moment of kindness. That kindness is what’s giving him the willpower to do what has to be done. He ruffles Blue’s short and spiky hair. “I heal fast.”

He lets his comforting smile fall as he turns. He does heal fast. Faster than they know.

It’s Grant that leaves that night to defeat Apocalypse once and for all. Not King Midas. Just Grant.

That’s probably why he wins.

-----

Thanks for reading! I do intend for there to be a second part to this which will be posted on my Patreon this weekend and also published in a Superhero Anthology at the end of this month!

Next week’s story is already up on my Patreon if you’d like to support me an see it a full week early :) 

Summary: Dulce is a Hero. The people who made her one better hope they never see her again.

  Thanks for reading!

[thatbanditqueen]

No One Walks Out Ch 5: Salty Lips

Warnings: Tarot misinformation, penetrative vaginal sex, manipulation, fluff, smut, then angsty tears. 18+ Minors DNI.

Apparently I don't know how to schedule things so I am posting earlier than expected. Please file your complaints accordingly.

Word Count: 9.4 K

Summary: Becky has settled into the rhythm of life at Graceland over the first few days there, though she still has not had a full tour. Luckily, her hosts finally get it together to show her around. She goes to visit her sister, but encounters an unexpected guest. At least for her.

I need to first thank my alpha, @whositmcwhatsit for reading the first draft and giving me feedback as she corrected my grammar. Which is generally bad. Thanks Jade, I some how fooled you into hanging out with me and I would feel guilty for asking you to read my stuff, because it takes you away from your own writing which is necessary and needed for the good of the fandom. But you always make my work better so I cannot feel guilty at all. No, I selfishly will take every glance and glint and comment you give me.

Also thanks to my fellow Elvis sister wives for all their morale support and brilliance. Just being in your orbit is a gift: @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @be-my-ally @ellie-24 @from-memphis-with-love

If you need to catch up first:

Chapter 4: Kaleidoscope

or start from the beginning: No One Walks Out On Big Daddy Masterlist

Chapter 5: Salty Lips  

11:45 a.m. Thursday, June 19, 1975

Graceland Estate, Memphis, TN

A cardinal twittered loudly, joined by a chickadee, and Becky was so ensconced in the bubble of idyllic life at Graceland that she wondered if this musical rendition wasn’t just for her benefit. Lisa gave an excited hum where she sat next to Becky on top of the picnic table by the pool and slapped down another tarot card.

“Alright, Becky, ‘Page of Swords’, what does this one mean?”

Becky looked closely at the drawing, closing one eye and squinting nearer for effect.

“Well, babt,” Becky mused, trying to stifle a grin and pronounce the girl’s fortune with complete confidence. “They all go together.” She set it next to the other cards they had drawn: Strength, The Chariot and The Moon. Becky was not sure how many cards you were supposed to put down when reading tarot, but four seemed like a good number.

”So?” Lisa slapped her hand on the table.

“Well, so, Page of Swords, as we can see here now, obviously means you are gonna live on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and you’ll have yellow tights, and a pretty pink dress, and a big ol’ sword that you’ll be very good at using,”

“I’m already pretty good with my daddy’s samurai sword, wanna see?”

“Hmmm, maybe later.”

Becky thought of her shooting lesson the other day and decided against more deadly weapons. Getting through the day without letting Lisa kill or be killed would count as a win for bonding with the kid of her new  - lover? fling? friend? - whatever Elvis was to her. She decided to go with fling. A short fling. They were two grown adults having a casual, fun, very short fling. Well, one rock star and one adult. 

Was she even an adult? She had spent most of the last three days playing with a seven year old until the late afternoon, and then playing with Elvis into the night. She felt like she had wandered into a strange, enchanted land where all the adults acted like children and all the children acted like adults. Water fights, target practice, ice cream for breakfast, and impulsive shopping sprees. 

Not having a schedule or others depending on her had been freeing at first, but now, on day four of life at Graceland, Becky had started to feel somewhat unmoored from reality away from the structure of her daily life back home.

She looked down at the table, where Lisa was tapping on the next card, and continued her tarot reading. 

“Ok, see here, Strength, that’s an angel with a lion. Of course, now, that is just symbolic. The angel is your conscience telling you the right thing to do, but you won’t have this moral confidence until you own a lion. They can be very difficult pets, I hear, I recommend getting an ice locker for all the gazelle meat you are going to need to feed it.”

“You’re silly, Becky, no one owns lions as pets.”

“No one yet, but hey baby, according to your fortune, you are gonna change all that. There’s nothing you can do. It’s in the cards. That means it has to happen.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, her lips betraying a smile. “Ok, what else?”

“Well, here, The Chariot, clearly one day you will go to Egypt and meet a prince -”

“And marry him?”

“Well, that depends. On whether you like him or wanna feed him to your lion?” Becky growled and gashed her teeth playfully as if she was going to eat Lisa’s shoulder. Just as Lisa shrieked and hit Becky, the back door slammed and they glanced over to see Elvis’ aunt Delta stagger out.

“Alright, Lisa Marie now, s’getting to be round lunch time. I just got Ma settled out in the rockin’ chair, so it’s time for you to come eat.” Delta looked Becky up and down as she spoke. 

“Whatcha y’all got goin on?” she said, and Becky noticed Lisa stiffen and gather up the cards.

“We’re just playing Old Maid, Aunt Delta.”

Becky raised her eyebrow at Lisa, who just shook her head with a crafty smile. Becky turned to the older woman. Hmmm, I guess these older ladies don’t approve of mystical practices. Or maybe they only let one resident here get away doing whatever he wanted. 

She thought of Elvis’ grandmother, who had turned to her after he had left the dinner table the night before, taken her arm and whispered low:

“I hope ya don’t break his heart, like all the rest. That young boy ova there has been through so much. Don’t know why he canna find a good woman. Guess they just don’t make us like they used ta.” Minnie Mae had then released Becky’s hand and spit part of her chew into the tea cup next to her dinner plate. 

Becky only had a moment to feel uneasy before Elvis swooped back in and pulled her into the den and onto his lap, where he cajoled Lisa to perform “Crocodile Rock” for the group on top of the coffee table. 

No, I reckon these good ole girls who sit around bemoaning the lack of any good women left would probably not go in for tarot cards, Becky thought, as she looked at Elvis’ aunt.

“How are you doing today, Ms. Presley?”

“Hmmm, it’s Biggs. And it’s Mrs. And never you mind, you can save it, I don’t care for you kissing up ta me. I know your kind.” 

Becky tightened her smile at Delta’s grimace, wondering if that was the faint odor of vodka wafting off the older woman. Just then, Delta weaved towards her and gripped a nearby chair to steady herself. Her eyes narrowed at Becky in judgment. 

“You are like all the others, waiting around for your payday. Out for all you can get. Bout as useful as gum on a boot heel. Humph.”

“Oh brother, here we go!” Lisa jumped up and walked past Delta. “C’mon, Becky Butt, let’s go get some chocolate cake.”

Becky smiled even wider at Delta as she followed Lisa, and watched the older woman scan the pool area, before tottering back to the house behind them.

“Chocolate cake? That doesn’t sound like a good lunch.”

“Oh, it’s the best lunch, don’t worry, I told Nancy before she left this morning, so it’s all ready.”

“They - they  let you have that for lunch”

“Let me?” Lisa grinned a devious grin and her eyes sparkled. “I’m the boss round here when Daddy’s asleep. If they ever give me any guff, I just lay down tha law an let ‘em know how it is, jack.”

“Oh? And how is it?”

“Get with the program or git!” Lisa held the door to the kitchen open for Becky, and grabbed the milk out of the fridge.

Sure enough, there in the middle of the counter was a tall, chocolate cake adorned with a circle of pink frosting rosettes. Lisa poured two tall glasses of milk  and carefully set out china plates with all the hospitality of a true, Southern hostess.

“Don’t worry, Becky, it’s vegetarian!” Lisa announced, grabbing the biggest knife Becky had ever seen, almost the length of the short, seven year old’s arm, as she proceeded to carve two large, unwieldy pieces from the beautiful dessert.

*********************************************************************

Becky was certain that her chocolate cake was about to make an encore appearance as the golf cart whipped around the bend. Grabbing the top of the seat, she looked over at Lisa as the little girl pushed her foot harder on the pedal and yelped with glee while she steered them down the grass behind the carport.

“I didn’t realize golf carts could go this fast.” Becky gripped her seat tighter, her knees jostling up and down against the metal bar at the front.

“Oh yeah, these are top o’ the line, Becky. Watch, I can get it to go even fast—” Becky put her hand up in protest.

“Nope, not necessary, this - this is great. Very refreshing in the heat.”

Lisa pushed her feet down a little further and Becky held on for dear life as the air whipped through her dark curls and reminded her very much that she was alive and wanted to keep it that way.

“Ok, so this is the stable,” Lisa pointed to a large white building coming up on their left side. “It’s called House of the Rising Sun, and most people think it's after a song, but actually, it's named after Daddy’s horse, Rising Sun. Though I always say he should be named Setting Sun, on account of the fact that the sun is usually setting before Papa gets up and goes riding.” Lisa slapped her thigh, as if making a rimshot on a drum set, and Becky realized this was her cue to laugh, so she let out a chuckle and rubbed Lisa’s hair.

“Yeah, that is a much better name. Or Sleeping Bear, hmmm?” Lisa giggled. 

“Or Grumpy Sleepy Bear.”

“That one sounds perfect, what do you think? We have time to paint a new sign?”

Lisa laughed as she drove them on, showing Becky the trailer where her daddy’s nurse, Tish lived, and the other where Billy, Jo and their kids lived, and they wound their way around the back of the paddock.

“That’s where Daddy likes to race his horses with the guys.”

“For special occasions? Or just for fun?”

“Oh, he does it to show off for the fans.” 

Becky snorted down a laugh and and attempted to catch her hair and pulled it back up as it escaped into the wind. 

“Um, ha - how do you know he does it for the fans? He tell you that?”

“No, my mama told me; he likes to race the horses round for no good reason, just to show off for the fans cuz he’s a big show off and he’ll never really be a true questrion.”

“Well, I don’t know, I mean your mom may not know —”

“Oh, she does, she knows everything. Daddy’s always saying my mama’s the biggest know-it-all you’ll ever meet. And hippo cat. Why would he call a woman a hippo and a cat?”

“Hmm.” Becky grabbed the side rail as the golf cart swerved back around towards the mansion, trying not to laugh at Lisa’s casual description of her parents. “I bet he meant something else and said it wrong, cuz you’re right, doesn’t make any sense.”

Lisa seemed to agree, nodding her head. And on to the next point of interest, her proud, confident tour guide voice explained that the house butted up to fence over there used to be her granddaddy’s. 

They drove past the throng of fans at the front gate near the bottom of the hill they were coming up and Lisa asked Becky if she needed any money or a new camera. Becky wasn’t sure exactly how this related to the crowd, but she had some suspicions as she looked over her shoulder at the people mulling aroun down at the gate. So, instead, she rubbed the sweat off her forehead and complained about the heat. 

Parking the golf cart back at the side of the house, Lisa led the way back inside, suggesting they cool down in the pool. Becky didn’t have a bathing suit, but jumped in wearing her tee shirt over underwear, letting her feet push off the rough, concrete bottom of the pool. She felt an almost instant sense of relief and rejuvenation as she sprung up weightlessly through the cool water and floated to the top, rubbing the chlorine out of her eyes. This was, of course, a futile exercise, as more chlorine water was in her face almost immediately, followed by the sounds of Lisa laughing from where she was splashing Becky a few feet away.

“Oh, you are gonna get it!”

Lisa’s screams ricocheted through the patio as Becky swam over, grabbed her and threw her playfully back into the water.

They raced each other like this for a bit, and then played catch in the water. Lisa particularly liked trying to aim directly in front of Becky, and shrieked with delight when Becky let the ball hit the water and then dramatically flustered about in the wake of the splash, uttering out a loud, affected:

“Now heyyyyy! That’s not fair!”

After a while, Mary brought them out some lemonade, and ham and cheese sandwiches, and they dangled their feet in the side of the pool, eating. Becky pulled the ham out of her sandwich, and Lisa opened her mouth, motioning for Becky to drop the cold cut in, chuckling.

“Hmmm, we make a good pair, huh?” 

Lisa nodded, speaking with a full mouth:

“Mmmm choww nuhff.” She swallowed, and took a sip of lemonade. “How’d you get to be such a good swimmer? You don’ all kinds of fancy moves out there, I never seen anyone swim sideways like that or stay underwater so long.”

“I was on my high school swim team. Then I used to lead canoe trips down the Cahaba, that’s the big river where I’m from, over in Birmingham.” She ruffled Lisa’s hair. “And I was a camp counselor for a while in Mississippi, we spent most of our summer in the pool. I reckon I was a fish in my past life, that’s what Helga used to say.

“Your nanny?”

“MMhmm. You have a good memory, kid, I can tell. You’re whip smart.”

Lisa giggled and splashed Becky with her foot. Water was violently flying up in the air as they commenced in an epic foot splash fight when a loud, deep ‘Ahem’ made their feet still. Lisa’s lips were pursed, emitting a nervous laugh and Becky met her eyes with frightened giddy trepidation as they turned in unison to see the tall, broad silhouette of Elvis behind them. Becky coughed nervously.

His thumbs hung down from the belt at his white trousers and he tilted his sunglasses down to look over them, adjusting his stance.

“MMMM what's - a -a - ahappenin’ ova round these parts, mhmmm?” Elvis tried unsuccessfully to keep his lip from quirking into a smile as his voice boomed out comically deep.

Lisa giggled, and pointed. “Becky started it!”

Gaping, Becky pushed her into the pool with a whispered, “Thanks a lot, Lisa Marie Benedict Arnold Presley!” Then jumped up to say hi to Elvis.

His face beamed with a grin but then, as she got closer, his lip tightened and his chin tilted out as he took in her swimsuit.

“Becky, what the hell are ya wearin’, girl?”

Becky pulled her shirt down, and Elvis went to grab her hands to stop her, as it just made her nipples more pronounced through the thin, wet fabric.

“Elvis, I don’t have a bathing suit, I didn’t think it was that big of a differe—”

“Honey, I can see your hair through your panties,” he whispered gruffly, wrapping Becky in the thick, white, suede jacket he’d been wearing. As part of his outfit. Outside. In June. In Memphis. Becky rolled her shoulders, trying to shirk it off, looking into his eyes imploringly.

“Elvis, I’m all wet, it will ruin this suede and get it all dirty. It’s so humid, too, I just th—”

“Becky, don’t worry about the jacket.” He pulled her in, unable to resist flicking her over her nipple imself as he scolded her to cover up. “Anyone could see you out here.”

“Baby, no one is out here.”

“But they could be, boy, they could be.. ‘Sides, think now what if a band of drugged-out commie burglars jumped the back fence, and I, I had to send you running to safety at that motel across the street? You don’t wanna be waiting for me and the boys and the police in public like this.” He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Elvis, that’s ridiculous - what is the likelihood tha—”

“Now, c’mon on, you never know, it’s getting rougher every day out there. These are the things ya gotta consider.”

Becky was about to argue with him further, that he was being paranoid, and where did he even come up with this stuff, commie drug dealer burglars? She thought of Elvis doing some of the karate moves he had taught her as a band of crazy-eyed youths scaled the back wall, and almost giggled. However, she was suddenly distracted by the fingers tracing over her hips, underneath the suede jacket, and she shivered as she felt goosebumps rise up on the back of her neck, still chilled from the water. Elvis leaned in to kiss her forehead, and she closed her eyes with a low gasp, feeling his belly press into hers.

“Good thing you got me around to think of every angle.” Elvis clicked his tongue and point to his head. ”Go on upstairs and get cleaned up, wanna give you a tour of Graceland.” He patted Becky on the butt as he turned her to the house.

Shuffling forward in the comfort of her new mobile suede sauna, Becky heard Lisa pull out of the water and ask her dad if they could have a bonfire tonight with hot dogs and baked potatoes and corn and s’mores and coconut cake and ice cream.

“Course, baby, jus let Mary and Charlie know how you want it.” 

Becky opened the door at the side of the house, she looked back to see Elvis kneeling and smiling as he wrapped Lisa in a towel. 

“You’re the boss, booger, I jus’ work here.”

Becky could feel the brightness radiating from Lisa’s broad smile as she went inside, and she shook her head as she mused to herself how sweet they were together. The way Elvis spoiled his daughter was charming when Becky pushed aside her own parenting philosophy, which she had always considered to be overly permissive until spending this last week at Graceland. 

She frowned at the prospect of having to parent with someone like him, and felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Priscilla, a woman whom Becky had always regarded as a bit of a cold Yankee. As if you could ever know what someone is like from reading gossip magazines, silly girl. 

Getting dressed, Becky chided herself for not telling Elvis about her earlier tour of the estate. It was just that he had looked so intent as he told her what they were doing, and the sound of his voice gently commanding her made her agree with whatever he said, take whatever he offered, do whatever he wanted to do. 

Yeah, a long term relationship with this man is trouble. Becky reflected on how relieved she had been when Lisa didn’t wake up and come get her until 10:30 that morning, instead of 8 a.m., like she had the first day, and felt a bit disgusted with herself. Ugh, Elvis’  lifestyle is warping your judgment. Sleep all day, play all night, and now I have to go pretend that I haven’t already seen the grounds of Graceland.

*********************************************************************

The dirt shifted under Becky’s Keds as she walked beside Elvis towards the stables, holding his hand as he squeezed it tightly and turned to look at her, eyes soft and bright as he spoke. Becky summoned a look of awe as if seeing the building for the first time.

“Right, now this is the House of the Rising Sun, on account of my horse, Rising Sun. Though I reckon I shoulda named him Setting Sun, because, ya know, that’s usually when I’m getting up.” Elvis looked at Becky expectantly, and she forced a giggle, leaning into him as they walked into the building.

The sound of horses’ snorting and whinnying greeted them, and Becky followed Elvis as he grabbed a handful of sugar cubes from the front counter and leaned against the white gate of the first stall, waggling his eyebrows at Becky as she cautiously stepped forward. He took her hand, unrolling her fingers and putting a piece of sugar in the middle, then clicking his tongue as the large palomino nuzzled into him, nickering and searching for treats.

“Now, go on, he won’t bite ya - much.” Elvis smirked, watching as Becky rolled her lips in and put out her hand, shrieking at the tickle of the horse’s chin hairs on her hand.

“Is this one yours?”

“MMhmmm, this is Rising Sun,” Elvis told her, turning to ruffle the blonde tuft of hair between the golden horse’s ears.

Becky cautiously stroked the white blaze down the middle of his face, stopping to rub his muzzle as he sniffed her hand for more sugar. She looked into Rising Sun’s large brown eyes, wondering how such a majestic creature could be tamed, and how quickly he would trample over her for more sugar.

“He’s beautiful. And terrifying.” She said, then looked up at Elvis. “Just like you, I suppose.”

Elvis’ fingers caressed over Becky’s dress, stopping at the small of her back to rub into her tenderly. 

“Oh now, don’t tell me ya afraid of me, now honey. Or these horsies, are ya Becky Butt?” He moved behind her, his hand trailing slowly over her arm, down from her shoulder, until it was over the back of her palm. He slowly guided her palm up to smooth over the side of Rising Sun’s face and cheek, leaning into whisper into her neck. “See, now, now, see? He’s a good boy, gentle and well trained as can be. Ain’t got nothin ta fear from hims.” 

Elvis kisses warmed her skin, and Becky shuddered as his lips crushed into her. Moaning, she dropped her hand and turned into him, biting her lip in anticipation as Elvis rolled back on his feet and then forward, pressing her into the white pole that separated the stalls. Rising Sun grunted at them and blew his nose, and Becky squealed at the feeling of his large, gummy mouth chewing at her hair. Elvis' mouth quirked into a smile, but his hand rubbed her side more intently, and a fierce, starved look animated his eyes.  

“Get now, silly horse, that ain’t hay.” He gently pushed Rising Sun away, and pulled Becky into him, gripping her tightly.

A tingle burned in Becky’s belly and she breathed out in hushed desire.

“Huh. How - how does my hair look?”

“Looks a a a, a whole lot better than it's gonna once I’m through wit ya.” Elvis said softly, through a high breathy giggle. Then he looked down, bashfully, his hand rubbing Becky’s waist up and down then pinching her on both sides. Becky giggled, pulling herself into his frame, her hand working up over his chest as she kissed his jaw. 

“Why, Elvis Presley, I declare, are you - are you trying to seduce me? In the barn?”

He shook his head, a goofy expression pushed his lips into a pout.

“Depends.”

Becky arched her eyebrow, her fingers toyed with the high blue collar of Elvis’ shirt. “Mmmmmm? Depends on what?”

Elvis withdrew, blushing, his jaw tightening, suddenly changing his mind from whatever he had been thinking about doing,  “Neva mind, baby. Here, let me introduce ya to the other horses.”

Becky followed him, brushing her hand over the top of his belt and sweeping along his back. 

“Ok darlin’, you’re the boss.” Pushing her hand around him, Becky leaned into Elvis, and he drew her tighter into his side, looking ahead to give a large, black horse a sugar cube.

“This here, now, this boy is special, this is Ebony’s Double, come from a real champion stud, Ebony Masterpiece.”

Becky put her hand up to the horse’s neck, feeling his muscles ripple under his silky black coat as she rolled her hand over him. Breathing in, her eyes locked with Elvis as she caught him looking down at her, and she thought about reaching up on her tiptoes to try and kiss him, but instead kissed his shoulder. It was easier, and she relished the way he squeezed her into him in response. His bottom lip dropped down with his chin, and his voice came out in a raspy croak.

“Hey there, lil’ girl.”

Becky nuzzled in, and shifted the rubber soles of her shoes to pivot and bring her closer into Elvis' chest.

“Hey,” she whispered into his armpit.

Elvis brought her chin up and leaned down, his hand moving to cradle her neck as she curled her fingers into his shirt. Gentle kisses became more fervent as his hands crept lower until they cupped her bottom and Elvis was holding Becky up. Notched above his tummy, Becky’s knees bumped up awkwardly against his elbows, and Elvis chuckled as he carried her towards the back of the barn, almost dropping her with a mild stumble. That would have been the end of the white suede suit. But he quickly recovered, grunting as he jostled Becky up and smiling at the sound of her breathy chuckles as she held onto his shoulders while they staggered to the back of the barn. Becky could hear the sound of horse’s hooves, grunts and neighs, but they were peripheral to the sound of the heartbeat pulsing through her ears.

Becky felt the edge of the workbench where Elvis placed her atop. They were at the back of the stables, next to a saddle presumably left for repair. Beckys legs hitched on either side of Elvis' body, and she dragged her thumb over his cheek, moaning out as his lips found that spot on her neck once more and his hands moved under her skirt, slowly, carefully, tugging on her underwear.

“Hey,” she murmured. Elvis cheeks reddened above a smirk as his dark blue eyes looked down at the ground.

“Hey,” he breathed out in a deep voice.

Becky fell back on the table, resting on her wrists.

“Hey.” she waggled her eyebrows and dangled her legs, then tightened them at his side.

He shook his head, unbuttoning his trousers and moving over her, his lips feathering above her as he whispered: “Heyyyyyyy.”

Becky gasped as she felt him thrust slowly upwards into her, moaning out into his mouth. 

“Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.”

She wrapped her legs around him, rocking her hips to meet him in the slow, gentle cadence of their love making. His eyes narrowed on hers as his movements became more deliberate, and his thumb found the slick over her clitoris, swirling in time to their needy rolls back and forth over the workbench. Heat coiled in her belly, and Becky leaned back as a guttural cry escaped her mouth.“Heeyyyyyy fucking ohmygod heyyyyyyYYYYYY GODDAMMMIT” as her climax overtook her.  

Elvis leaned forward, peppering kisses over her collarbone and burying his head in her bosom where he continued to slow move in and out of her until he came with a vehement grunt and remained there, head in her chest, panting through the final thrusts before stilling completely. 

Becky relished the weight of his body pressing down on her, insistent, immediate, she wanted it to crush her forever. His shaggy swath of black hair moved as Elvis’ chin protruded forward, and she met his blue eyes, looking up at her from his smug, boyish expression. She melted in the radiance of his smile. “Hey.” Elvis blushed, again, then grunted as he pulled himself up and grinned at Becky’s playfully shove.

“Hey is for horses, Presley,” she gasped, and he laughed as he zipped up, bending down to restore her panties to their rightful place.

She wondered if she had made the wrong first impression on the horses, as they ambled out of the stable and back toward the house.

“Hmmm, so that was the tour huh?”

“I think that’s all the tour I can manage right now, lil girl.”

“OK, well, Lisa already showed me the smokehouse, and I’m definitely not having sex in there.”

“Hmmm, well, figured you should know by now, telling me something isn’t gonna happen just about guarantees I havta try.” He slapped her bottom  and she shoved him away, only to have his arm instantly around her, drawing her into the warmth of his body as he kissed her head.

“Just so you know, Becky, I did not intend to get busy back there.”

Becky nestled into his shoulder as they walked. She could still hear the sounds of twenty horses behind them if she focused, joined by the sound of crickets and cars on the far off roads buzzing into the twilight of early evening. Above it all, she could feel the grain of Elvis' voice as it rumbling into her ear, heating the side of her neck with each word.

“I, I  - I just, well, suddenly couldn’t help myself. Don’t feel that way very often, honey, I think - ” He stopped talking abruptly and turned Becky in to face him.

“Honey, now stop walking already, I’m tryin’ to tell ya something.”

As he looked at her, he noticed that her hair really had come half out of the up twist she had styled it in that evening, and he paused to take out her hair pins, freeing her curls and arranging them over her shoulders.

“There, better.” He nodded with satisfaction. “What was I sayin’? Oh yeah. OK. Here it is. I think I’m starting to really fall for ya, baby. I think, well, I think you should move up here. Can’t bear ta think about taking you back to Jackson next week.”

“This week,” Becky muttered, crossing her arms. “Sunday.”

Suddenly the buzzing, post-coital glow disintegrated and she stood still trying to process what he had said.

He took her shoulders in his hands. “Think about it. Didn’t you say you have a sister here in Memphis?”

Becky nodded, her mind still swimming, wondering if there was any way in hell she could, would, should pursue this. Looking up into Elvis’ eyes was like diving into a sea of endless optimism where everything was possible.

“Hey, I got a business meeting I gotta handle tomorrow night, maybe you could go visit your sister? I was thinking you probably would want to while you're up here anyway. And you can think things over. How it would be, if I got you a place up here, come live with your lil girl in Memphis?”

Becky stood there, nodding again, looking back down at the house. Elvis started to walk.

“Don’t just stand there woman, get in here. The most handsome man in the world just asked if you’d be his baby, least you can do is give him some sugar and say thank you.”

Becky leaned back into Elvis' open arm and kissed his chest. “Hmmm, just took me by surprise is all. I, um, I need to think about it, that’s a big deal, Elvis, I , well, I feel strongly about you too.”

She tickled his side as they walked, and he jerked back with a, *Hey, now.*

“You’re right, though, I should try and see my sister. Tomorrow night, I guess.”

*********************************************************************

6:15 p.m. Friday, June 20th 1975

Still at Graceland, for now…

It was one of the new dresses Elvis had bought her that week, a purple, jersey halter dress, that Becky pulled over her head, before asking Lisa to help clasp the simple, diamond drop necklace around the back of her neck. Lisa jumped back, and put out her wrists for a spray of perfume as Becky doused herself and twirled around.

“How do I look?” Lisa put her hand to her chin, thinking carefully. 

“I think you need more eye make-up.”

“Ha, maybe, but trust me, my sister is the opposite of glamorous. She’s a judge. And I’m crashing a dinner party, so I think modest, simple, less-is-more sort of look is what I want.”

“Well,” Lisa sighed, ”you definitely nailed the less part. You’re hardly wearing any diamonds. Sure you don’t wanna borrow some of mine?”

Becky fidgeted with the ring she was wearing, the gift Elvis had given her that first night at Graceland. It was almost too large and gaudy for her style, let alone her sister Deborah’s taste. But it had come to be a comforting talisman, something she felt and twisted when she felt nervous or out of her element here with Elvis, doing whatever she thought she was doing. *Acting like an immature teenager who just discovered what sex is*, she thought to herself. 

Becky also sensed Elvis would be hurt if he saw her without the ring, because he’d mentioned how nice it looked on her several times, usually taking her hand and kissing the ring there before turning her palm and kissing the center of her hand. And pulling her in for a kiss. *Ughhh, these kisses*. Even the way his dry lips bumped over hers at first touch caused a burning electricity to electrify her face and she became instantly incapable of reason. 

Becky sighed, she had this impending sense of doom, her inner Cassandra, as Ida would say, always on high alert to call out trouble at the slightest provocation. Just trust him. This is fun. This feels right. Everything is ok. Wear the damn ring to Debbie’s dinner party.

Becky’s dress swished around her legs as she carefully walked down the staircase, trying not to trip in the orange platform heels Elvis had picked out at the boutique during a late night shopping spree on Wednesday. As she descended, she saw him whispering with Charlie, then the two men heard her and turned around, smiling in an eerie unison. Elvis was somewhat dressed up for his business meeting, in a dark red suit with a light blue dress shirt with a high, starched collar framing his face.

“There she is, Charlie. There’s the most beautiful gal in the world. And the smartest. And the funniest.”

Becky teetered on her platforms as she put her foot down another step.

“And the most graceful woman in the world.” He let out a low guffaw with out, and Becky narrowed her eyes at him

“Oh, keep laughing, Elvis Aaron Presley, I’mma get you for that. Buying me mile-high shoes an then laughing at how I walk in theses unnatural torture devices!”

Becky ran down the rest of the stairs and leapt onto his waist, ruffling his hair as Elvis chuckled.

“God, crazy woman, tryin’ ta kill me?” Becky kissed his forehead as he jostled her up and down, then placing her safely on the ground.

“Mhmmm. Just wanted to give you a kiss for good luck with your business dinner.”

Elvis kissed her back on the cheek as he ushered her and Charlie out of the door with a swat to the butt and a “See ya later, sweetheart.”

Charlie’s white Pontiac was waiting in front for them and they walked around, Charlie leading to open her door. Just as Becky was about to duck into the passenger seat, she saw the long, black snout of Elvis’ Stutz Blackhawk rolling up the driveway, Jerry at the steering wheel. Next to him sat the thin, blonde frame of Linda Thompson outlined against the dark, red leather interior. Jerry was a statue, stoic and serious as he pulled up and Linda burst out of the car to stride over.

“Charlie Hodge, you handsome man, where you runnin’ off to this evening? And who’s your friend?”

Charlie let out a shrill, high-pitched laugh, wondering to himself how Jerry had managed to arrive twenty minutes earlier than he had been told. Becky smiled awkwardly as she watched Linda give Charlie an air kiss on each side of his face, and then turned to Becky and her tight, wide forced cheerful smile.

Charlie stammered quickly, “Ugh, Linda, this is my cousin Becky, from Birmingham, come up to visit while her kid is at summer camp. I, ugh, well I -”

“He promised me I’d get to meet Elvis while I was here,” Becky gushed, summoning all of her energy to force her tongue to sound excited. She watched Jerry get out of the car and walk to join them. His lips were pursed, and his shoulders were stiff.

“Oh, well, it just dills my pickle to meet Charlie’s family, I feel like we’re practically family ourselves, seein’ how much time I spend with this good ole boy.”

Becky tried very hard not to tense up as Linda threw her arms around her to squeeze her tight. Linda wore a red, satin evening gown with cutouts along the side that emphasized her the curves of her sveltetorso and the wide hips below. Becky felt as though her tall, awkward fleshy figure and bust overwhelmed Linda’s body completely.

“Gosh, I just love that dress,” Linda exclaimed, adjusting the layers of Becky’s hair off her shoulder. “Though I don’t know if I could pull that color off, mhmmm, don’t know if that would be my choice, but it's so you, isn’t it?”

Becky smiled. “That’s so sweet of you to say.”

“So, Charlie, the old boy been behaving?” Linda winked at Becky, then whispered conspiratorially. “You know, Elvis is a good, Christian man, s’just that the devil is mighty powerful, hmmm, know what I mean?”

“MMMhmmmm.”

Becky nodded. It was like she was back in high school and one of the popular girls had waltzed up to her desk at the school newspaper, indirectly ordering her to do a story about the committee decorating the homecoming game bleachers. Ughhh.  Becky steeled herself, falling back on the niceties that she was well versed in.

“I can’t even imagine! Gosh, it’s so exciting to meet you, I’ve seen your pictures in the paper and, of course, Charlie has told us about you. But you are just more precious in person, you really are.”

Linda gave Becky another hug. “Well bless your heart, Becky. Aren’t *you* the sweetest.”

Jerry coughed. “Hm, yeah, we better get going.”

Linda shrugged her shoulders. “Ugh, I know, we got this Police Charity Dinner to go to, I flew in from LA just for this. I guess the Lord saw fit for me to make it. And meet you! I hope I get to see you again while you are visiting, are you staying here? With Charlie?”

“Oh God no.”—“No she aint!”

Charlie and Becky both answered together. Becky smiled big again, hugging Linda one more time. From the big, wide-eyed puppy dog look on her face, Becky felt she seemed to expect it. “No, no, I’m staying with my sis - sorority sister from college, who lives here, we’re actually just heading there now, for dinner. In fact, we better scoot, eh cuz?” Becky looked at Charlie, and sat into the car.

Charlie closed the door, a big  smile at Linda as Jerry led her up the steps into the house, and Linda waved goodbye. “I hope y’all have a the best night, see you again real soon!”

A tense feeling pushed up from Becky’s tummy and seized her shoulders in a tight anxious grip. It was one thing to know you were spending the week with a man who was seeing several women at once. It was another thing to come face to face with one and have to lie about who you were and what you were doing. Becky felt dirty, dirty and sick. She didn’t know how she could possibly face her perfect fucking sister, Deborah, and Debbie’s husband Steve, another lawyer, and the various lawyer professional type guests she expected to be at this dinner party. Charlie patted her thigh, seeming to intuit her thoughts, at least in part.

“Ya know, he’s not a bad guy, the boss man. He carries a heavy burden. And Linda’s moved out to LA to try and break into the movie biz. She had him buy her a home here in Memphis. It’s like they both know it’s over but neither one can bear to pull the trigger. And she knew how it was to date someone like him.”

Becky nodded, telling herself not to cry, and leaned against the window, hitting her head on the cool glass a few times as she swore under her breath at how stupid she was to be here. She muttered to herself in yiddish: 

“Ugh, whenever you have choices, oy vey, my sheyna maidel, boy oh boy do you somehow always manage to pick the worst. Your picker is broken, that’s what it is. When you go home, you are turning your love life over to Ida and her yenta brigade. There is a reason they used matchmakers in the old country. People are incapable of making good choices in men when left to their own devices. Stupid, foolish, idiot girl!” She hit her head on the window one last time, and then realized they had pulled up in front of Debbie’s house.

Charlie rubbed her shoulder. “I’ll be out here waiting when you’re ready. I - he - I - he’s gonna be dropping Linda off at the other house. It was, it is, all part of the plan. You see, her brother’s in the police force here. It, ugh, it just made sense that she would be his date for this big charity ball fundraiser for the cops.”

Becky nodded, half in a daze, trying to mentally prepare for her sister, for the dinner party, and for Elvis later.

“Hmmm, yeah, no, totally makes sense, absolutely.” She breathed in, then looked over at Charlie’s apologetic face. “Wait, you’re just gonna wait here?”

“Yeah, the boss, he, well, he wanted me to look after you. On account of all the druggies running wild these days.” Becky nodded. 

“Right. The drugged out commie burglars, those are clearly the biggest threat to my livelihood right now. Not Elvis Presley and his selfish manipulative ways. Not his powerful girlfriend, or her cop brother. Not my family and their judgment. No, no no, it’s the invisible commie drug criminals supposedly lurking everywhere. Well, thank god you’re here Charlie, I feel so much safer.” 

She slammed the car door, knowing it was unfair to take it out on Charlie, but the look on his face when she bent to the window made her heart sink even further before she uttered one word of apology. Because his goofy, winsome smile told her she was not the first woman to yell at him like this. Not only did he seem to expect it, he had mentally braced himself for it. Becky’s face softened apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, for that. I’ll try not to be more than an hour.”

“S’ok, we’re family now, cuz.” 

Becky knew that Charlie’s smile was meant to be reassuring, but it made her stomach drop even more as she turned and braced herself for a night at the Hoffman - Blumfeld’s (very intentionally hyphenated modern family of the 1970s) Dinner Party.

*********************************************************************

To say the night was uncomfortable and embarrassing would have been generous. Everyone else at the dinner party was dressed in jeans, khakis or linen pants and some sort of comfortable blouse or semi-casual shirt, and Becky felt she stood out like a Vegas showgirl at a library full of nerds. Which was probably the best way to describe Debbie, her husband Steve and their social circle. She was grateful it had been Debbie who opened the front door, so she could walk Becky into the side room and they could make their flustered hellos alone. 

Debbie wore a pair of sensible khakis and a tasteful floral button up top tucked in. As predicted, Debbie wore no make-up. And all judgment, though she tried to repress and be loose and fun.

Six years older than Becky, Debbie had always been half friend/half-parent to her, and this was a characteristic she inhabited calling out “Rebecca, please come in!” when she greeted Becky at the door.

Thank god for wine, the Hoffman-Blumfeld intentionally hyphenated household had some very good bottles of wine on offer and, after sipping one glass gracefully, and the another quickly in the kitchen, Becky was able to exhale and confront the evening with a blundering fort of confidence. She decided to pretend the meeting with Linda never happened, and stumbled confidently through her description of her relationship. She was dating a man who worked in the music business, after meeting him with Danny at a radio event fundraiser for the tornado in Mississippi. Was it serious? Well, sort of, he had invited her to Memphis for the week to meet his daughter, and he was trying to persuade her to move there. But her very successful life managing Saul and Ida’s store, and all her f.’

riends, made her reluctant to leave Jackson.

“I’m just taking a day at a time.” Becky winked and sipped her wine, before taking another mouthful of salmon.

After dessert, Debbie cornered her in the kitchen and asked if they could talk somewhere. Putting up her finger while she poured another glass of wine, Becky nodded and followed Deb to a bedroom, where she sat on a tasteful quilt blanket and had a tasteful restrained conversation about the impossibility of letting her father see Ruth secretly the next time she was in Birmingham.

“She is his only grandchild, Becks.”

“Well, they should have thought about that possibility when they kicked me out. Three months pregnant. Pronounced me a shonda, and disowned me.”

“Do you really want to have Ruth grow up without her grandparents?”

“I didn’t make that decision, Debbie, they did. Maybe, maybe, maybe if Papa was willing to admit how wrong they were, and stand up to Mama, and if he had any backbone at all and publicly welcomed me home for everyone to see, for Ruth to experience a true family, maybe.”

Debbie responded with a knowing look. “Well, I told Papa I was gonna see you when he called earlier, and I promised to ask, but I don’t blame you. I wish Ruth was here now, it’s been too long. And this guy, hmmm? Sounds promising. He wants you to move here?” Becky gulped her wine down first, rubbing her sister's arm. 

“Yup, yes, mhmmm. Oh yeah, finally, right? Everything’s coming up Becky. I can’t wait for you to meet him, because I’ll definitely be back up here with Ruth after she finishes camp. Ah, yes, mmhmmm.” She downed the last sip of wine, smiling so enthusiastically she almost laughed at how absurd the charade was. “I feel like, ugh, finally, right? I’m finally getting that happiness I searched for, for so long. ”

*********************************************************************

“You are never going to find happiness.” Becky said to the fork of coconut cake as she brought it to her mouth, letting the sweet, sticky crunchy sugar do its work comforting her momentarily as she chewed it and swallowed it down with some chocolate milk. The door to the kitchen opened, and she jerked her head up to see little Lisa Marie poke her head around.

“What are you doing?”

“Umm, late night cake?” Becky answered.

“Have you been crying?” Lisa asked as she stepped closer, getting herself a plate and a piece of cake.

“No, honey, no, it’s just been a long day.”

“Is it cuz of my daddy?”

Becky shook her head, too vigorously perhaps. “Npoooo no nononoo. No. It’s just been a long day.”

“You’re a bad liar, Becky Butt,” Lisa said, taking a big bite of cake, and then rubbing Becky’s shoulder. It broke her heart to see Lisa’s genuine look of pity staring up at her as she tried to comfort Becky. “Why is he like this? Mommy says he ruins every relationship and he’ll never truly be happy.”

Becky laughed at Lisa’s matter-of-fact statement. “Oh, my dear, I think your mama is very wise, but who knows what the future will bring. I do know your daddy loves you, that’s a relationship that makes him happy. Trust me, my parents never openly showed me love the way I see him show you. He’s a good man. There are just some things I might do differently if I were him.”

Lisa looked up at her. “Like what?”

“Well, for starters, I’d carry around less guns, I guess, that's dangerous. And maybe wear less jewelry, probably out there blinding people with all those dazzling gems and diamonds all over his person.”

Lisa laughed out loud as she finished her cake, and let Becky walk her up the stairs where she tucked Lisa back into bed and then returned to the kitchen.

Becky was down on her knees, looking through the drawers under the phone when she heard the door behind her slam shut. Glancing up, she saw Elvis’ broad figure swagger slowly toward her in the dimness of the kitchen lit only by one of the lights under a cabinet. He sighed and stopped, hands bracing the front of his hips, spread out fully extending his fingers as they tapped a little ditty over the sides of his belly. 

With his jacket pushed back at the hips, he looked even wider and more intimidating than usual. His lips were pursed in a frown at the sight of Becky in the jeans, converse and Destin tee shirt she had been wearing when she left Jackson the previous Sunday.

“Huh, hey.”

Becky turned back to look up at him. “Oh, hey!”

He adjusted his stance, pivoting his feet and twitching his left knee, his thumbs tapping over his belt.

“Watcha doin’?”

“You don’t know where the yellow pages are, do you? I’ve been looking for a phone book for the last fifteen minutes.”

Elvis sucked in a deep breath and adjusted his glasses. “Why, uh, why ya looking for the phone book?”

“Well, maybe you can help me.”

Becky returned her attention to the kitchen drawers in front of her, trying not to flinch as she heard the thud of Elvis boots walk closer and stop directly behind her. She chose not to twist back around and look at him, afraid she might cry or be dramatic, so she decided to speak directly into the drawers as she continued to look through them.

“You see, I’m trying to find a number for a local cab company, so I can get to the Greyhound station.”

“Mhmmm. I noticed your bag in the foyer.”

“Oh yeah, that,” Becky sighed, shutting one drawer and then opening another. “Well, you see, it just dills my pickle to be all prepared and ready to go when I call up a car to come get me. Although I had rather hoped I would have been gone before you got back, I didn’t want to bother you. But, since you’re here, maybe you can make yourself useful and help find the phone book?”

Elvis bent and leaned over the island that jutted out of the counter at the front of the kitchen.

“Honey, I have absolutely no intention a helpin’ you find a phone book.”

Becky stopped and fell back against the cupboard next to the set of drawers, her legs stretching out over the dark, burgundy carpet that covered the kitchen.She banged her hand back and closed her eyes.

“Why? Why can’t you just give me the phonebook?”

Elvis walked over and stood above Becky, his hand reaching down. “Cuz I don’t want you ta leave, honey. Not like this. C’mon, let’s talk. If you still wanna go home, why, I’ll drive you back to Jackson myself, like I promised.”

Becky glared up at his hand. “No.”

“What, you just gonna stay there on the ground?”

“Mhmmm.” She crossed her legs and her arms and tilted back into the cabinet. “Yup, yessiree. This is my home now, til I get a cab, I reckon.”

Elvis meandered over slowly and groaned as he lowered himself next to her on the floor. He moved his hand out to touch hers, only to be rebuked by their swift retreat back under her breasts in a huff of crossed arms and limbs. He rolled his neck to meet her gaze against the wooden cabinet.

“Honey, you are actin’ like a child. This is all one big misunderstanding. Now, c’mon.”

Elvis put his hand over her thigh, but Becky swatted it away, so he grabbed the foot she had criss crossed over her knee, and rolled into her shoulder as he scooted closer, squeezing her foot.

“Becky, look, you know I have other friends —”

“Girl friends, yes, I know about them, but apparently they don’t know about me. Do you have any idea how horrible that felt? Lying, looking at your beautiful beauty queen girlfriend, pretending to be Charlie’s cousin?” She pressed her face against the cupboard and let the tears come pouring out. “Ugh, I am so stupid, I know this isn’t me. I am not cut out to be the other woman.”

“Sssshhh.” Elvis put his arm around Becky’s shoulder, massaging her as he drew her body into his, bringing her head to nuzzle in his chest, where she gave up and grasped his shirt, letting the sobs come out as she cried into him. “Sshhhh. S’ok, s’ok.”

“No, s’not ok, ugh, I’m a horrible person, a traitor to my sex.” Her fist bumped tepidly into Elvis’ chest. She looked up at his chuckles. “What, why are you laughing at me?”

“Baby, you are too pretty to cry. Now, come on. Linda is not my wife, she knows it, I know it, things haven’t been going well and our relationship has been sorta peeterin’ out. But I have to do things my own way, ok? Her brother is on the police force, it made sense, right now, for me to take her as my date. But I swear, nothing happened. I’m here with you. At my house. Would I have a mistress at my house, where I lived, if I was keeping her a secret?”

Becky wiped her eyes. “You think she knows about me? She knew when she met me?”

Elvis sucked in his breath. “Honey, I don’t know, and frankly, right now I don’t care who knows. I-I, I didn’t wanna get into it tonight. But Linda knows well enough how it is with me. Look, I want to be with you, here, now. So let’s be together, and let’s go to bed.”

He said this with finality, and stood up, groaning slightly and steadying himself against the sink,  and Becky followed, exhaling loudly as she pulled herself up on his outstretched hand and walked with him out of the kitchen, still sniffling and wiping her eyes into his silk dress shirt.

“Ok, but only because the floor was starting to feel uncomfortable. And I couldn’t find the phone book.”

Elvis smiled and Becky watched his cheeks twitch above the pout of his mouth, and she couldn’t help it, she led herself into his embrace.

“There now, lil girl, why you go get yourself all worked up like that?”

Becky looked down, blushing trying to just calm herself and feel good about making peace, or whatever it was she was doing. Giving in. No, you are having fun, she told herself. It’s silly to be upset over Linda, and was the use of fighting? This is a short, fun, little fling. Somehow his logic made sense at the same time that it made no sense at all. Becky’s head ached trying to sort it out, she decided that she was tired and exhausted and still a little tipsy, and needed to stop fighting and let herself fall forward into Elvis’ pliant, warm belly. He took a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and wiped her eyes, then softly pressed his lips to Becky’s mouth.

 “Mmmm, baby, those are some salty lips.” 

Elvis lifted his hand, thumbing over her lower lip slowly, it made Becky gasp and she watched him respond with a smirk. He leaned in slowly, and Becky shivered when he breathed on her, watching with anticipation as he  licked his own lip and hesitated with a wider smirk before pressing his mouth into hers. More forcefully this time, his hands soothing up her sides. 

“S’alright now, s’alright, no more cryin, ok, lil girl? Too pretty ta cry like this. Goin’ on and making my favorite lips all salty. "

taglist:

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[swaps55]

So I was reading through your biotics tag because I ran across one of your biotics headcanon posts and just went 'YES I need more!' And I saw you mention Reave not being canon in Opus, and apparently I completely forgot about the healing/damage protection effects because I was imagining it as just a weird more difficult but in some situations better variation of Warp this whole time?

What I was thinking was that Reave does basically what Warp does, but it's a) more targeted at specific weak points, which is why it causes more damage to armor and barriers than Warp, and b) it lasts over a period of time rather than being instant, giving the brief stunning effect it has when used on organics because pain, but that means it requires focus/effort for that time period. Both of which would make it more difficult than Warp to learn, and the precision part would require a biotic to either know or be able to correctly guess what to target, which would add additional difficulty to using it effectively.

I also discovered by reading your headcanons that apparently I have a surprising amount of thoughts on some of the topics in question that I've come up with at some point while thinking about some facet of biotics, and I might write some of those down and post later maybe.

I love hearing other biotic headcanons! I think reave being a variation of warp is great - it definitely lends itself to shearing fields, and definitely agreed that whatever reave is, it probably requires a great deal of skill to achieve. I did come up with a unique scenario in which reave could technically exist in Opus, but it's under very specific circumstances, and not really...repeatable. But it does function like a spinoff of warp.

Which also begs a question I ask myself a lot when it comes to biotics: if it's really difficult, why do it, if there's a simpler solution? In my world, biotics are taxing and resource intensive, so you want to make sure you're getting the right return on investment when using them. Though, sometimes the answer for why you do it even if its working harder not smarter is just, "because it's fucking cool." XD Either way, the thought exercise is always fun.

I try not to think about biotics in terms of "damage," because damage is a game mechanic. In reality, people don't have health bars or take damage the way they do in a game, and likewise, the way biotics interact with armor, kinetic shielding, and other biotic barriers is going to be more complex than doing damage to an armor bar. If you're writing it from a harder science perspective, anyway, which no one has to do. Asking "so what actually happens when a biotic uses a shearing mass effect field on a kinetically shielded target?" is, again, a neat thought exercise, and because the mass effect breaks the rules of physics to begin with, there isn't a Single Correct Answer.

The kaleidoscope of world building ideas people come up with when we're all ultimately playing in the same sandbox is one of my favorite things about fandom.

I hope you do write your ideas down!

[basicallywhiterice]

on top of the world (dong sicheng/winwin)

pairing: sicheng/winwin x reader

genre: angst, fluff, flangst. friends to lovers, highschool!au, dancer!sicheng, spring break trip

summary: The fall to the ground doesn’t seem so daunting when you’re living on top of the world.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: cussing

a/n: if enough people get mad at me i’ll write a part 2

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

this can be read as a standalone, but it is part 1 in the on top of the world series. crossposted on ao3 here!

Chinatown, Washington, D.C., 7:01 p.m.

“Honest Abe? More like, honest babe,” Lucas hollers to Kun and no one in particular, drawing a few disgruntled looks from the pedestrians waiting for the walk signal to flash again. He winks at a man in a navy suit, who rolls his eyes and looks away. Yangyang reaches over for a high-five.

“Dude was 6′ 4″, of course he’s a babe,” Sicheng whistles, leaning behind Yangyang and craning his neck to steal glances at Kun’s phone.

To your right, Ningning flits around, snapping pictures of the street displays and assorted neon lights on the storefronts. You watch her alongside Giselle, who pops her bubblegum, periodically glancing at the traffic light at the bustling intersection. Standing shoulder to shoulder with you to your left, Kun rattles off a hodge-podge of facts about Abraham Lincoln and Ford’s Theatre, which you just passed by, from his phone screen to a faux-enthused Yangyang, who shakes Sicheng by the shoulders every time Kun reads a new fact. He occasionally gets pushed into Lucas’s side, rolling his eyes while doing little to hide the growing grin on his face.

“... and apparently they planned his assassination in the building the Wok n’ Roll restaurant we passed used to be,” Kun remarks.

“OH MY GOD SICHENG ISN’T THAT SO CRAZY?” Yangyang all but screams. “IT WAS IN THE WOK N’ ROLL!”

As you glance over fondly, your eyes linger on the orange hues and kaleidoscopic shadows the nearby “do not walk” signal spills over Sicheng’s face. After a moment, he looks away from Yangyang’s exaggerated bouncing. His gaze flits upwards, meeting your stolen glance with his own.

The world grinds to a halt beneath your feet when a strong gust of wind blows through your hair, propelling you into free fall into the depths of his eyes until Giselle tugs on your arm, pulling you back into the present.

She gestures toward the “walk” signal on the traffic light, and you fall in line with her quick footsteps as you stride across the crosswalk.

“We should go there later,” she suggests. “Try summoning Lincoln’s ghost or something.”

“The Wok n’ Roll?”

“Yeah. Do you think his ghost would have his top hat?”

“I thought ghosts were just spirits and didn’t take material possessions with them?”

“Yeah, but then every ghost would be naked, which would be hella inappropriate.”

Ningning overhears, skipping up to you and looping her arm through yours. “You have to prove the existence of ghosts and take them out to dinner before you get them naked, you pig.”

“I made yo momma sound like a ghost last night,” Lucas quips. “I skipped the ‘getting dinner’ part, though.”

“Goddamn,” Giselle exclaims as you burst into laughter, throwing jokes and jabs at each other for the rest of the trek to the ramen restaurant where you eat dinner.

Hilton Garden Inn, Washington, D.C., 9:13 p.m.

After helping Giselle and Ningning unpack, you knock on the communicating door between your hotel room and the boys’ in order to bother Kun.

Sicheng answers, moving aside so you can step across. Their room is surprisingly clean, although you chalk it up to the limited amount of time they had to unpack earlier today. Lucas sits at the desk in the corner near the window, hunched over his laptop while Yangyang peeks over his shoulder. You glimpse a few pictures of the Washington Monument on his screen before he scrolls down to other marble structures.

“Are you looking up other places to visit?” you ask him.

He glances up, cracking his neck before responding. “Yeah. I can’t find anything special that we don’t know about, though.”

“It’s boutta be lit,” Yanyang chimes in.

“Ayeee,” Lucas responds. They start aggressively patting each other on the back and arms, and you take that as your cue to leave before they wrestle you into whatever weird ritual they’re performing.

Turning, you see Sicheng flop down onto the bed closest to the windows where Kun lays, sprawled out. “Hey,” Kun greets, lifting his head from his pillows.

“Hey,” you reply, remembering the reason why you came to the room in the first place. “Oh yeah! I found a stop sign a few blocks from here on a decently busy street. It’ll take ten minutes to go there and back, tops.”

He groans. “I would love to go, but I just got a stomachache. Tell you what. Sicheng,” he says, propping himself up at a snail’s pace and clasping Sicheng’s shoulder, “you can accompany her there, right?”

“To a stop sign?” Sicheng asks, looking up from his phone.

“A hand-picked, top tier, magnificent stop sign,” you proclaim. “Whenever me and Kun travel, we always get a random passerby to take our picture in front of a stop sign like it’s a tourist attraction. Are you down for potential social awkwardness?”

The corner of Sicheng’s lips tugs up into a grin. “You know it. I’m not ruining your tradition with Kun, am I?” he asks, glancing sideways at Kun for confirmation.

Kun flops back down on the bed. “Nah. If I went right now, I’d probably ruin the tradition by shitting my pants there or something.”

Sicheng chuckles. “Promise? We could print out those pictures and mail them back to your parents like a postcard.”

“I like the way you think,” you say with a scheming smile, nodding at Sicheng before turning back to Kun. “Anyways, drink some warm water to help with your stomachache, maybe? What do you think caused it?”

He shrugs. “Not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that trashcan pizza slice in the subway.” Sicheng reaches over and flicks his forehead. “Ow! I’m kidding! Why would you torment a sick man like this? Go away and take your pictures already.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” you ask as Sicheng asks, “You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. Worst comes to worst, I’ll take a Pepto-Bismol in fifteen minutes. Go and have fun.” He waves you off, grabbing a spare pillow and lightly smacking Sicheng with it.

“Fine, mom.” Sicheng stands, pocketing his phone. “You ready? I just need to put on my shoes.”

“Yeah.” As he walks over to the closet, you sneak a peek at your reflection through your phone screen. Fighting back a sudden bundle of nerves, you discreetly smooth your t-shirt down, running a hand through your hair. Kun wiggles his eyebrows when he notices, and you flip him off, silently warning him to stay quiet.

He doesn’t. “Have fun on your date with loverboy,” he whispers.

“Shut up.”

“After you leave, should I check out the pool?” he murmurs. “Lucas and Yangyang said they don’t feel like swimming tonight.”

“What, isn’t your stomach—”

“Oh my, would you look at the time? Off you go!” He shoos you away, almost standing up to push you away and laying back down before Sicheng can turn around. You’re almost impressed by how well he set you up.

Still, though. If Kun weren’t your best friend, you’d shove him into the hotel’s fountain.

H Street Northwest, Washington D.C., 9:40 p.m.

Half an hour later, you give up on the facade of collecting anti-tourist pictures after the third stop sign, stopping by the Chinatown Express to grab a bowl of noodles with roast duck to go. You walk for a few blocks before finding a bench to sit and split it at, slurping them up in an appreciative silence.

“Oh my god,” Sicheng intones around a mouthful of noodles. When you look over, his cheeks are puffed, an empty spoon descending to rest inside the soup container.

“You look like one of those baby birds eating scraps,” you giggle.

“I’m certainly skilled with chicks,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes, then scoot closer to pick up a piece of roast duck. Your knees touch, but neither of you move away. “Do you think there’s a more advanced form of life than humans, like aliens, and they view us how we view animals?” you ask, resuming the conversation you had about the meaning of life before you sat down. “Like we don’t think birds could become self-aware, no matter how intelligent they are, so then we can’t achieve the alien version of self-awareness no matter how philosophical we get.”

“Good question. Uh, alien self-awareness would probably relate to the meaning of life or something, right? Or the secrets of the universe and breaking the laws of physics. And because they’re so big brained, they could control things with their minds and be enlightened with telekinesis. So hypothetically, if I were a wise, sagely alien,” he says, gently picking up your hand and laying it flat against his palm, “I could make my hand pass through yours if I had enough brainpower.”

His hand is warm, and you hope furiously that your palms aren’t sweating. “Was this another excuse to hold my hand?”

“Well, did it work?”

You raise your eyebrows and fail at biting back your smile. “You already know, you just want to hear me say it.”

He grins. “Then say it!”

“Yes, Sicheng, it worked.”

“Awesome.” He moves his right hand to pick up his spoon, briefly tugging your hand with him until he realizes. “Fuck. Sorry, I have to let go of your hand while I eat. Unless you wanna see me struggle with my left hand.”

“As much as I’d love to watch you do that, I feel like that’d be an insult to the rest of the noodles.”

When you finally remember to stand up and throw away the long-forgotten remnants of your food, he holds your hand carefully but firmly as you walk past the White House, and you imagine his hold on your heart must feel the same.

Lafayette Square, Washington, D.C., 11:16 p.m.

“Dance with me,” Sicheng pleads, pulling you under a streetlight. You nod, but your feet stay cemented on the brick-paved sidewalk.

“I don’t know how to.”

“That’s fine.” You place your hand in his outstretched one, and he lifts your other hand to rest on his shoulder. “No one’s around to judge, so just do whatever.”

“Wise words,” you deadpan, but you let his hand on your waist guide your swaying.

He’s right, though. After the initial awkwardness fades, you find that waltzing around isn’t so bad after all—especially when he twirls you around the pocket of light underneath the lamppost so gently it feels like you’re dancing on air.

And when he dips you as you throw your head back, laughing, you think you finally understand why his eyes light up every time he finishes a dance performance.

“Is this what you love about dancing?” you ask once you’ve come back up.

He nods, eyes closing briefly. “Partly. The grand choreographies are the showstoppers, but the simpler moments keep me sane.” His eyes flutter open. “I haven’t let anyone see me dance with such bad technique in a while. I’m usually not this bad, I promise.”

“I know,” you grin. “I saw you at the winter showcase. You were amazing.” Then you take a deep breath, and brace for the worst. “The lyrical piece you closed with was the one you used for your audition, right?”

“Yeah, I—yeah.”

Abruptly, he releases your hands and steps back. You allow yourself to feel a twinge of guilt for mentioning the elephant in the room before you steel yourself for the impending conversation.

“We should probably talk about that,” he says.

“We should. Do you want to walk around the National Mall? You said you liked it earlier today.”

“Sure.”

The walk is quiet enough for you to overthink. Sicheng got accepted by a dance studio in Korea, after months of submitting auditions and traveling back and forth between countries. He’s leaving soon, even if he says he’s still waiting to hear back from Juilliard and keeping his options open. You see it in the goodbyes he keeps subconsciously saying and the memories he drinks in like it’s his last chance to, and you’re terrified of what your life will look like without him.

You glance over at him periodically, and he seems to be lost in thought too, staring straight ahead down the well-lit path. His eyebrows furrow as you pass under a streetlight, and you wonder if you brought it up the wrong way.

You’re disappointed in the crude way you shoved the future into a perfectly happy moment, then mad that you’re disappointed. It was inevitable that you’d have to talk about what would come after graduation, and it was inevitable that he’d have to remove himself from your side to chase after his dreams. It’s a wonder he hasn’t pulled away already.

Stupid, you chide yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid, loving so hard that your chest implodes from all the weight it carries, already drifting through the pangs of hurt and the wisps of melancholy bringing about a premature nostalgia.

“I’m really going to miss you next year,” Sicheng confesses out of the blue.

You glance up. His hands are shoved into his pants pockets, his eyes roaming over your face like he’s trying to remember all the secrets it hides.

You think you might always run back to him. You’re not sure how to feel about that.

National Mall, Washington, D.C., 11:33 p.m.

“So.”

“So,” you echo. “Have you looked at decisions yet?” It’s a pointless question. You know he’s not going to Juilliard.

“Yeah, I looked at them this afternoon in the theater.” He clears his throat. “I got waitlisted.”

“Ah.”

“I’m not going to accept a spot on the waitlist.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “I had made my decision anyway.” Then he sighs, his nonchalant facade dropping for good. “You can probably guess.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m accepting the studio’s offer,” he whispers, as if the air is glass and the moment could shatter at any moment. The words float there, above your head, and you imagine grabbing them and hugging them close to your chest before they slip away.

You don’t. “I figured.”

“Yeah. You knew.”

You stare ahead and will the tears not to fall.

“I’m leaving as soon as school ends,” he says, with the sideways glance that marks the start of his rambling distraction process, “and flying there on—”

“I’m gonna miss you,” you blurt. He pauses mid-sentence. “I’m gonna miss you like crazy. Can we talk about this, for real? You can tell me all the details later, I just—please,” and your voice cracks, “don’t dismiss this.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

A blink, and the first teardrop traces its way down your face.

You waste away the hours of your stolen youth with a boy who wipes your tears away and comforts you over the future that you’ll no longer be a part of.

National Mall, Washington, D.C., 11:57 p.m.

“Before I leave,” Sicheng says, scuffing the heels of his shoes on the gravel pathway, “I know I’d regret it if I didn’t say something. I mean, I’m going to leave anyways, so why not, you know? I have to say something before I’m gone. Um, so, you know this by now, but I… I—” and you already know what’s coming.

“Stop. I know what you’re going to say. Give me a minute to think.”

You make the mistake of glancing up at him, his eyes wide and shining. “Yeah. Alright. Take all the time you need, please.”

In half a year, Sicheng will be gone and you will be left to pick up the pieces of your life that don’t involve him, piecing them together the best you can and carrying on like there isn’t a hole in your heart.

“I’m in love with you.” One thud of your heartbeat. Then another. “Sicheng.”

In half a year, this chance will be long gone, and if you let it slip through your fingers without grabbing on, you’ll never forgive yourself for letting Sicheng become your biggest what-if.

“I’m in love with you too.” He raises his hand to cradle your face in his palm. “Y/n.”

“I’ve wanted to say that for a while now.”

“Me too. It’s not just because I’m leaving, you know.” You nod, his palm momentarily pressing against your cheek. “You knew.”

“Yeah.”

You stare up at him, the boy who wears his heart on his sleeve and holds entire galaxies in his eyes.

“What are we?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“How do you feel about dating?”

You freeze like a deer in headlights. “Dating?”

“Yeah, would you? Like to date me?”

And then Sicheng turns into a what-if again. “I don’t know,” you confess. “I don’t know if I could handle the split.”

“We don’t have to break up when I leave. We could do long distance,” he suggests, but it sounds flimsy even to your ears.

“I don’t know, Sicheng. I don’t want to end up losing you.”

“I know. We don’t have to, especially if you don’t want to.”

You nod once in acknowledgment, and then you’re stepping into his arms again. He holds you securely, stroking your hair and waiting for you to collect your thoughts.

“I wish we had more time,” you whisper into his shoulder an eternity later. “Could we have been doing this earlier?”

“It would’ve been too fast,” he reasons, and you’re inclined to agree. “We didn’t really… not until this year…”

“Yeah.” You’ve known Sicheng for years and have been close with him for months, but you only fell in love with each other when it was too late. “I wish we started hanging out sooner.”

“Maybe things wouldn’t have turned out this way.”

“Maybe.”

You pull back enough to glance up at him, gaze dropping to his lips at the close proximity before immediately bringing it back up. His eyes follow the movement, a smile creeping up his face.

“One kiss wouldn’t hurt, right?” he asks, and he says it so earnestly that it’s hard to believe he’d be wrong.

“It wouldn’t,” you agree. His nose bumps with yours and you blink up at him once, twice, and then you’re leaning in until the faraway sounds of the city fade away. He’s purposeful and patient and when all you can think of is the brush of his lips against yours, it’s just you and him against the world.

One kiss might not hurt, but one turns to two and two turns to too many and when you finally pull away and stare into his eyes, dazed, your lips tingle from the ghost of his mouth on yours.

At that moment, the way his mouth slowly stretches into a grin does something to your heart, and you think you’d let it break a million times just to be the cause of his smile.

“Yes, Sicheng. Let’s date.”

He kisses you again, beaming so wide that his teeth knock against your lips and pulling you closer, almost picking you up in the process.

You wonder if you made the wrong decision.

[shijiujun]

Hope everyone is partying (by yourself, spiritually, or with people, all are totally fine) well into the Christmas weekend! I am back with even more recs (I’ll prolly give it a rest at the 10th one sorry for the spam guys)! This one I just finished a few days ago, because CHINA BOOKSTORE PUBLISHED THIS ON CHRISTMAS WITH MANY GOODIES!! And I was like oh cute long-hair dude, let me read this.

Anyway this is a fengshui + supernatural + body-switching type of novel, with a heavy focus on fengshui! I don’t know if everyone knows what fengshui is (I will prolly do a list for Chinese New Year) and I am no expert, but it’s basically like Chinese geomancy where you can calculate a person’s fate, wealth, marriage suitability etc. with things in an individual’s environment. 

So a lot of Chinese people, for example businessmen when they have new offices or when couples renovate their homes, they may get a feng shui master to arrange furniture and add crystals or talismans or whatever to increase wealth/prosperity/happiness or harmonize bad energy etc., just an example. When you want to check the compatibility of yourself and your SO, some people do go to the fengshui master and calculate their 八字 (day, hour, time they were born + other things) to see when is an auspicious day to marry etc. 

My ex-editor really believes in feng shui masters because hers really predicted a year that her husband got into hugeee trouble like almost to the day itself apparently. And she always wear an accessory with a snake on it because the master said

Written by the same author (Xi Zi Xu) who wrote Kaleidoscope of Death!

- Part of Min’s ‘Why You Should Read’ Series -

Summary:

This book is set in the normal, regular, law-abiding modern city world where fengshui is heavily believed in, and skilled masters can see spirits, bad energies. Where dogs can be reincarnated as humans, and there are demonic pets that humans can keep, and paper dolls can come to life basically.

Zhou Jia Yu is a government office worker who dies in a car accident one day, and wakes up in the body of another Zhou Jia Yu - a handsome man whose name is the same as his. He’s brought back by this spirit bird in his head called Ji Ba (pun not intended), who says that Zhou Jia Yu is fated to save Lin Zhu Shui, the young, blind fengshui master who has caught him.

Unfortunately, this second Zhou Jia Yu is a con-artist who has cheated the money of several families via fraudulent fengshui schemes, and his scams have led to the death of several children in the process. Legendary fengshui master Lin Zhu Shui and his disciples have caught/imprisoned this Zhou Jia Yu, not knowing that original conman Zhou Jia Yu has died (and therefore his soul is gone), leaving good citizen Zhou Jia Yu in the body of a conman.

Lin Zhu Shui intends to kill conman Zhou Jia Yu (not really kill, kill but probably will do something to his soul, considering there are laws against murder you know) when good citizen Zhou Jia Yu wakes up in this body, but because he has come back from the dead, his body and soul is considered an extremely yin (cold) body, which allows him to attract more bad spirits and energy, giving him an extraordinary, gifted ability to excel in the fengshui line. Of course, being the master that he is, Lin Zhu Shui also realizes that this Zhou Jia Yu (and his soul, in particular) is not the one he caught, and as he has an extremely yang (hot) body, the both of them are compatible with each other. Lin Zhuo Shui realizes that he can train Zho Jia Yu and then takes him on as his disciple.

Cue Zhou Jia Yu being tossed into a dangerous fengshui competition as he figures out just what Ji Ba wants him to do about Lin Zhu Shui. In the meanwhile, he falls in love with amazingly handsome, cool and aloof Lin Zhu Shui (who threatens to murder him if he doesn’t come out first in the competition), who keeps him warm when he gets unbearably cold due to his body condition. They also have to deal with an evil person working behind the scenes, and how Zhou Jia Yu eventually returns back into his own body at the end.

Read:

Novel (Online) | Novel (Print) - Dec 2020 Print | Novel Translations 

Characters:

1. 周嘉鱼 Zhou Jia Yu (third from right) - A really cute government office worker whose soul was pulled into a conman’s body, who has the same name as he, when he got into a car accident. Has an extremely yin (cold) body which attracts spirits (good and bad), and allows him to see, smell or hear them more clearly than everyone else except for Lin Zhu Shui. He cooks extremely well too and is considered a treasure in the household by Lin Zhu Shui’s other disciples because none of them can cook for shit. They don’t initially know that this Zhou Jia Yu is not conman Zhou Jia Yu, although they suspect it, and once they fall in love with his cooking no one doubts him anymore HAHAHA.

He gets a feng shui tattoo personally done by Lin Zhu Shui who already knows that his soul was switched, a tattoo which is supposed to help him in feng shui matters. Gets a paper doll son halfway through the story, who he calls Xiao Zhi (little paper), which calls him Dad (and calls Lin Zhu Shui Big Dad - da baba) ;-; It’s the cutest shit ever.

There’s a mystical creature in the back of his head that speaks to him and helps him out on certain feng shui things, and helps him to explain what he’s seeing, but aside from telling Jia Yu that he’s supposed to save Lin Zhu Shui, the mystical bird thing is unable to tell him anything else. Within a few weeks of him waking up in this body, he’s sent by Lin Zhu Shui on an international feng shui competition without having any sort of basic knowledge, only innate talent, much to his panic XD As Lin Zhu Shui continues to protect him, teach him and tease/smile at him, Jia Yu, who is certified gay af, falls totally in love with the seemingly aloof and strict feng shui master.

They probably would have continued like this if not for Jia Yu’s body deteriorating because his body is technically not his and not compatible with his soul, and Lin Zhu Shui tries to find a way to save him, after seeing the future where Jia Yu’s body is rotting as he dies slowly over months and begging Lin Zhu Shui to kill him and let him die.

2. 林逐水 Lin Zhu Shui (third from left, right next to Jia Yu) - Long-haired, wears changshan perpetually and is blind, but can see more clearly than most people. He knows where everyone’s positions are exactly, and can see spirits etc. very well despite being blind. Considered a genius of the feng shui world and is the patriarch of one of the big feng shui families in the world - the Lin family. He’s a master at drawing talismans, carving crystals/gems and feng shui tattooing.

He’s so well-known that everyone wants to be his disciple, everyone wants to get a talisman/crystal/tattoo from him, everyone wants him to come and look at their houses, but he can’t be bothered with most people. He’s also super handsome? So a lot of girls (and guys) are always drooling over him.

He has an extremely yang (hot) body, which is supposed to naturally help to repel spirits and what not, but because of this he suffers a lot in the summer. His body condition is very rare and when he was younger, others said he would not live past 18 years old, and his parents gave up their lives to change his fate so he would survive. The feng shui master also predicted that Lin Zhu Shui would experience another calamity when he was 30 (thereabout), and that year, thankfully he has Jia Yu as his entire house caught on fire in the summer while he was in it (and cooling talismans and the house item placements meant to keep the house entirely cool in the summer were no longer working). Jia Yu helped him to cool down with his incredibly yin body.

Knows right off the bat that this is a different Jia Yu, and starts teaching him as one of his disciples. Can only eat the food hat Jia Yu cooks because his yin qualities transfer to the food he cooks as well, and Lin Zhu Shui usually cannot eat anything else that’s cooked outside. Gives Jia Yu a carved jade pendant he made himself that’s apparently worth thousands of dollars to keep him safe, and is a dumbass when it comes to confessing to Jia Yu hahahaha (although he’s successful at the end!)

3. 沈一穷 Shen Yi Qiong (second from right, dark skin tone) - Lin Zhu Shui’s youngest disciple and also Jia Yu’s best friend, technically. Brash but smart, and is always thirsting openly after his shifu Lin Zhu Shui, it’s hilarious! He’s a little jealous in the beginning because his shifu is showering Jia Yu with so much attention when he’s only been around for a week etc., but quickly gets used to it and supports Jia Yu. Jia Yu always makes fun of his tanned skin, then makes fun of his singlehood HAHA, while Shen Yi Qiong provides emotional support to Jia Yu, and by emotional support I mean when Jia Yu asks him what will happen to him if he loses the feng shui competition, Shen Yi Qiong pats him on the shoulder and asks him to choose a vase/pot pattern (like a ceramic pot where you put cremated ashes) = shifu will kill him if he loses the competition, so gets Jia Yu to choose a pot he likes so Shen Yi Qiong can help him put his ashes in HAHAHAHA. He is the last one to find a significant other, but the one he finds is like a legendary mystical creature who half deceives him into promising to marry him and then keeps chasing after Shen Yi Qiong so he can marry him XD

4. 林珏 Lin Jue (first from left) - Lin Zhu Shui’s cousin but technically his older sister because she brought him up after his parents died. Spends most of the novel being sad about her past lover who died because of an illness, and is wooed a few years later by a legendary golden dragon.

5. 小纸 Xiao Zhi (that little cute white thing on top of Jia Yu’s head) - A paper doll who’s given to Jia Yu after he helps out at the paper doll village/tribe, and grows up with Jia Yu and Lin Zhu Shui taking care of him. Is the cutest little shit ever, can speak, and calls Jia Yu ‘baba’ and Lin Zhu Shui ‘da baba’ i.e. dad and big dad. Very strong, and can protect Jia Yu very well.

Other Things I Like in the Novel:

Jia Yu basically goes to the feng shui competition and destroys everyone else because he’s just gifted in this aspect - When he wakes up, and in the days leading up to the competition, he doesn’t have a cellphone (Lin Zhu Shui and his disciples live in a remote part of town, a traditional-type house, one with nature) and after he wins the competition, other people want his phone number to contact him and he’s too embarrassed to say that he’s basically too poor to have a phone after rising from the dead, so he bluffs everyone and says “My shifu says that handphone signals and radiation will interfere with advanced feng shui readings so I don’t have one” and LITERALLY half of the feng shui training population gets rid of their phones on that day, gullible af

Everytime Jia Yu runs cold, he has to drink some of Lin Zhu Shui’s blood mixed with water/milk, and the man’s yang blood warms him up immediately

Jia Yu has to deal with four of Lin Zhu Shui’s disciples, all who are really suspicious of him because they think he’s the conman, and Jia Yu doesn’t realize they already know it’s not him until they defend him in front of other people, and he’s so touched

Shen Yi Qiong gets his marriage fortune told during one of the cases by accident. He asks when he’ll get married, and the thing replies “Seven Three” AND HE’S SO DEPRESSED BECAUSE he thinks that it means he’ll only get married when he’s 73. It’s a source of jokes between him, his other shixiongs and Jia Yu, but then towards the end he realizes what it means - His supposed match, a legendary mystical male weasel who’s 73 years old XD

Jia Yu keeps thirsting after Lin Zhu Shui, fully aware that he’s very gay himself, and he’s confessed to while he’s stuck in the haze of a high fever, so he thinks it’s a dream. Lin Zhu Shui doesn’t realize he forgot/thinks it’s a dream and is pissed that he’s rejected HAHAHA and then Lin Jue reminds him to not be a dumbass and confess properly, and so he does so again in an empty amusement park, after summoning evil spirits so they can fly in the air and make a heart shape just for Jia Yu while they’re on the ferris wheel XDDDD

[probablyevilideasafterdark]

An Earth Trans in Urtrament ch 1: "Just Like My Japanese Animus"

I’m sitting at my computer, staring at an endless scroll of meaningless stimulation, for… the third night in a row? I think it’s the third. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I have nothing to do tomorrow. Nowhere to be. No one to see, all my friends are busy with real lives. I don’t even have a job to be at. I’m not sure there is a job for me, at least, not one that is willing to accept some overweight queer who resents the necessity of work like me, let alone one that will also play nice with my fucked up brain and terminally fucked body.

Basically, right now, my life is a long stretch of dissociation, with occasional moments of me having to pull my head back on long enough to do some necessary task, like buy groceries because I’ve already put it off for a week and there’s nothing in my fridge.

I look at one of the clocks on my desktop (the other is on my second screen for when I’m using the entirety of my main screen). Apparently it’s 6am.

Fine, I guess that means I might as well go do that grocery thing. Some close-by store will be open and I don’t have to go across town to the only 24-hour one, even if it’s my preferred store. I’m used to it, but… I can’t waste the gas.

I pull myself away from the computer, putting it to sleep, and go throw on clothes I can leave my apartment in. They’re not nice clothes, but they’re not pjs I’ve been wearing for a week straight. I slip on my shoes, throw a bottle of vape juice and some earbuds in my purse, my phone in my back pocket, tell my cat “I’ll be back, be good,” and go and get in my car.

It’s ten minutes before I set my phone in the cup holder and actually leave my complex parking lot. ADD is a bitch of a mental condition. Sometimes I wonder about seeking hard street drugs that might give me the serotonin my brain is so starved of. But I have no money, so. Maybe I could suck dick for whatever makes my brain work, but… maybe not. It is what it is.

I wind up driving across town anyway. I’m not paying attention, driving on autopilot, and just wound up heading that direction. I’d have to stop, and find wi-fi, and spend time googling to find another store that’s open now and then turn around, so… fuck it. I’ll go to my old standby from when I lived on that end of town.

But I never get there.

My car crashes into some asshole not paying attention to signs who comes out of nowhere as I’m doing 50. Just as I’m turning my car off and grumbling about the whole thing, swearing about how this was the last goddamned thing I needed, the lights hit me.

I turn just in time to see another asshole not paying attention, bearing down on my crashed car. This time in a semi. I have just a moment to swear and reach for the door handle, and then…

Blackness. But blackness with texture and depth, and yet like a thin sheet laid over some brilliant kaleidoscope of color. Like the blackness wasn’t a color or an absence of light, but a thin plush blanket, and the colors behind it weren’t simple light or visual information, but an endlessly varied landscape of shapes. All you see is the blanket, all you can technically feel is the blanket, but under it lies shapes and forms, and you can make them out through the fabric of the blanket.

I look down, and don’t see my body. I don’t see ground, either, just more blackness over a riot of color. I don’t know if this is Hell, or the last visions of an oxygen-starved brain, or… a genuine Heaven, a heaven tailored to each experiencer, and this lush, brilliant darkness with no aching body was mine.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t know where you are, do you?” says a voice from everywhere and nowhere.

“...should I?” My voice… well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that it likewise comes from everywhere and nowhere. I mean, I didn’t see a body when I looked down, so where do I expect my voice to come from?

The disembodied pantheonic voice giggles, a light, chiming sound but overlaid a gutteral chuckle, and a hacking laugh, and other sounds of amusement that I couldn’t begin to describe. A part of me says I’m the joke, but the voice, the sound of the laugh, is reassurance itself. The voice isn’t laughing at me, just a funny thing that happened, no mistake or slip of mine.

“I’m sorry, you’re… not from… here. Even the people from here probably wouldn’t recognize where they were in your place. So, it’s my mistake for not thinking about how confused you would be.” The voice pauses, a silent “hmm” reverberates, “I think you’d call it an ‘outside context problem,’ but… also that you’d then say that’s wrong. Well, no matter, you’re… Let us say you are in Æther. And that Æther is… a substance, and a place that substance comes from and… well, me.”

I cocked a non-existant eyebrow and spiritually smirked, “Well, I’ve always wanted to wake up inside of someone who sounds as beautiful as you, but usually I’m more of a bottom…” I couldn’t resist. My mind, all I am now, I guess, is by nature much like how Edgar Allen Poe died–dirty, delirious and in the gutter.

The voice giggled with a symphony of voices again. “Charmer.”

“Of a sort, so I’ve been told. …so… are all religions wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh, the religions of your world, you mean?”

“Ye- ah, right, you said I’m not ‘from here,’ so… I take it I’m not ‘in’ my world, and Æther isn’t connected to it, right?”

“Correct. Æther is connected to a world known as Urtrament. Don’t worry, you’ll probably find it quite familiar, even if only as something you’ve… played in? I’m not sure I understand those memories. Imagined, it’s a world similar to those you’ve imagined many times.”

“Just like my Japanese animus…” I mutter, wryly.

“Y…eeess… I’m sorry, I can read that you’re making a reference, but I don’t understand it.”

“Don’t worry, most people in my world I hung out with didn’t get my references, either.” I look around, and settle for imagining that I’ve lounged myself over a handy chair. To Æther’s credit, I feel it, after a fashion. “So… why am I here? Is this really like one of my ‘Japanese Animus’ and you’ve brought me here as some chosen one you can throw at an evil overlord?”

“No, you just… you seemed so unhappy. And then you died, and in such a painful and unjust way.”

I shake my head in essence, “Not so unfair. I’m not the most attentive driver, either. And there are people who die far less just deaths than mine every day in my world. It wasn’t that painful, either, to be honest. Too quick for pain to register.”

I could sense my conversation partner nodding, “this is true. I can’t capture every soul so callously or unjustly snuffed out, however. I could grasp yours, though. My realm is Urtrament, not your world. At best, I can nudge things, just a little, and catch the occasional queer soul.”

“Queer as in odd, or is liking the same gender’s bits actually a requirement?”

“Well, I do consider Urtramentis who are like you in that to be more tied to me than their fellows, but, no, queer as in odd.”

“Tsk. Woulda been nice for there to be something that was just ours,” I snark again. “You can nudge things in my world… I think my cat has plenty of food, but, if you could just… nudge the bag over, if necessary, until someone comes by to take care of my effects? And maybe, if this counts as a nudge, make sure my little notebook of last wishes is in a conspicuous place in case my parents are the ones who show up?”

The voice smiled in benediction, “your concern for your cat does you credit. I’ll see if I can nudge those couple of things for you. Cats help.”

“Thank you. Tell my cat I love her, if you can?”

“She knows, in the way that animals can know such things.”

I sniffle ephemerally. “So… what did you pick up my tarnished little soul for?”

“Do not sell your soul so short. You couldn’t see it, perhaps, but… your soul is vast. It reminds me of some of the most magnificent spirits to have sprung from me in Urtrament, not only vast like those of my beloved primal beasts, but radiant like theirs, too. And not so tarnished. Patinaed, maybe. Broken in, perhaps. Your soul is not dirty, or ragged. It is not some worn-out threadbare thing. It has been shaped, and given character, in the same way a shield or a bulwark is made unique by the blows it deflects, or a crucible is blackened by the flame that cannot consume it, and colored by the metals it renders. Even some of the gods of Urtrament do not have souls such as yours. Though, and I think you’ll enjoy this, there is a devil whose essence is much like your soul. Misused and discarded by their creators, all because they found a purpose and a meaning that ran counter to their creators’ beliefs. Look into Lahanael, when you can.”

If souls can cry, I’m certain I’m watering this otherworld now. I sniffle again. “...thank you. …how will I be able to look into Lahanael?”

“It so happens that… someone in Urtrament was… similarly unlucky at the same moment as you. But where as your body was destroyed, and survived by your soul, her soul was snuffed out, to be survived by her body. And I think… you would be a good fit for the hole she left in the world. If you would like to take it.”

“What happened to her?”

“There are… beings in Urtrament with immense power and greater callousness. She thought she could bear the weight of a pact with one such being, a pact for power. To her credit, she did, for a moment. Long enough for some of the physical boons to materialize and be bound to her mortal form. But, her soul was obliterated. Which ended the pact, as while the boons were bound to her mortal body, the pact concerned her soul. If you decide to step into what was left, you will not be party to the pact she formed. But you’ll receive the tangible boons.”

“...would this create a pact between you and I?”

“In a sense, but I’m a patron of no demands, save that you do your best with the gifts I give. Our pact will not obliterate your soul, I’m certain of that.”

“Who was she?”

“Cassiel Oredenark, a daughter of a Templar from the cult-nation of Ny-Aarnd. She had been disowned already for seeking such heretical power, but she persisted, believing it to be no different from how Ny-Aarnd himself gained his power and that she could show that she was as worthy as her father, as Ny-Aarnd himself, that she was strong enough to own power such as what she sought, and through that strength, as free as her father and their hero-god-king. Having been disowned, she reached out to The Oroboric Coil and Pergamano University, colleges of magic, to see if either would take her. Having little magical ability of her own yet, and having sought power that many would consider of a dubious nature, she had higher hopes for The Coil, but her status meant that she expected Pergamano to at least consider her application.”

“So… I would be some young noble woman turned occult petitioner, on my way to a school of magic?”

That smile that was more a feeling than a sight came over me again, “yes. If you wish to tread the path she charted. You could abandon all of that, but… I did say I felt your soul would be a good fit for the hole she left. Part of her pact involved certain physical changes, and mental ones, as well. I can… co-opt some of the transmutative energy created by such changes and tailor your new form to your wishes, to some extent. I… it would take too much of my power to completely overwrite whatever changes she agreed to. I don’t know quite what would happen if I poured my power into Urtrament in such a magnitude, but I’d rather not learn. So, you will end up with some physical and mental traits that you may not entirely want.”

“But you’ll help me make some I do?”

Æther nodded holistically.

“Well, how can I not accept?” I smirked, conceptually rubbing my hands together.

“Oh, one more thing I feel I should disclose… certain… aspects of your mind will mark you as a goblin in Urtrament. From what I can see of your memories, you have a certain conceptualization of what goblins are, and… Urtramenti goblins match well enough, as a whole, but in this world, goblinness is a… Condition. It is characterized by a complex of mental and physiological traits that occur at random, or apparent random, among all mortal peoples. I believe that Cassiel held some of these traits, but concealed them well. I can help you erase some of these mental traits, or, if you wish, we can shape your new form to embody the goblin-ness of your mind. But you needed to know this to be the case.”

I chuckled, “fucking point my ears and paint me green, Æther, I’m already a goblin where I come from, lets make it explicit.”

The atmosphere giggled again, “You truly are one of mine. You’ll need a new name, might I suggest Wreaz? It is the word for myself and my realm and substance in the Goblin cant. And it is very subtly feminine by connotation.”

“I would be honored, Æther.”

[kareofbears]

plainly in truth, chapter 2/5

“Without you around, it’s sorta like stuff is just kinda…bleh.“

—

Or: hiding, confiding, and misguiding.

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

Yusuke wasn’t too sure if what he was doing was of the right mind, but his heart is definitely in the right place.

There’s a lapse in time between Jails and hitting the road. Everyone is out soaking in the last of Sendai; Ryuji and Akira (and by extension, Sophia) are on a quest to buy any last minute supplies that they might need while the girls and Morgana are taking in the sights that they didn’t quite manage to explore as much as they’d like.

Well, the girls who like crowds and sightseeing are on a quest, at least.

Futaba and Yusuke are in the trailer by their own volition—he didn’t need to see anything else that wasn’t a timeless statue, and he learned early in his life that if you pace your spendings, you can then use that money to spend in the future. Quite the contrary, Futaba has had a little too much excitement these past few days and is more than happy to hide away in her top bunk with only her laptop charger peeking out from the bottom of her fleece blanket.

(A cartoon rendition of the Sendai temple is printed onto the fleece. Apparently Haru had yet to see Futaba purchase anything ‘tourist-y’ and action figures of various anime characters don’t seem to count.)

He tugs on her laptop cord. “Hello.”

“...What?” she grunts, voice slightly muffled. Through the thin fabric, he can see the illumination from her screen.

“I need help reacting to something.”

“And you decided to ask me?” she deadpans. “The literal shut-in?”

“The previous shut-in,” he corrects. “You haven’t been a shut-in in nearly a year. A marvelous feat, if I do say so myself.”

“Yeah, and this is my way of celebrating.” The lump on the bed seems to curl further in on itself. “Begone. Do a painting or something. This is my me time. The equivalent of guzzling down a boat load of Arginade. There’s barely any time to be by myself considering the whole group is treating this RV like a pimped out party bus, so shoo.”

J-pop starts playing from inside the blanket fort, and even Yusuke knows a dismissal when he hears one. That won’t stop him, though.

He tugs again, harder. “That is the reason I’m asking you now. I can’t have this be heard by prying ears.”

Had there been a cat on the bunk bed, its ears would have twitched. “Is this…?”

“Yes,” he nods sagely. “It’s a secret.”

Futaba’s head pops out, eyes wide and nearly glowing in excitement. If there was one thing that she liked more than recovering her energy, it's uncovering every nook and cranny of people’s lives, whether they want it or not.

“Inari, you should’ve said something!” She throws the blanket off herself, snatches her laptop in her arms and jumps down. Slamming it down on the booth, she throws herself on top of the smooth faux leather. “Tell me everything. The deets, the specs, all down to the last dirty drop of tea.”

He slides in to join her, albeit much slower. “Before you tell me that I misled you, I want to make it clear: I don’t know what the secret is.”

“What!” she slaps her forehead, groaning. “Yusuke, why would you do me like that? That’s false advertising to the max, and I do not appreciate you tricking me.”

“There wasn’t a trace of trickery. What I’m about to say really does have to do with a secret, but I need your help with how to deal with it.”

“I’m gonna level with you here pal,” she puts a hand on his wrist. “I’m not the right person for this, but I’d be darned if I let you walk away without telling me anything. So let’s hear it! I’m ready for some juicy goss. Oh! Can I guess? Is it about Haru?”

He frowns. “No. Is there something about Haru?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I was asking you!” she says, patting her hands rapidly on the table. “Come on, just spill the beans already.”

“There are no ‘beans’ to spill yet, and besides, that sounds like a waste of perfectly good food.” He leans back against the plush cushion. Only a pinch of guilt arises in him as he says it. “It’s about Ryuji.”

“Ooo, Skull himself. Gotta admit, I wasn’t expecting him.”

“It relieves me that you said that. I share the same sentiment—it wasn’t until I had run into him the night before when I had started to truly suspect something. And what I found was…” he trails off.

Her lips pull downwards. “That bad?”

“It was worrying, to say the least.”

She sighs. Most of the energy in her seemed to have filed out in the presence of a more serious topic. “Dang. I knew it was fishy when he left, but he’s always been able to just hash things out on his own.” Her expression changes as an idea pops into her head, and it morphs into one he recognizes. “Does—?”

“No. Akira doesn’t know, apparently.”

Futaba splutters, and he has to resist the urge to nod his head at her reaction. “He—Akira—wait, what? He doesn’t know? Oh, it must be bad bad.”

“My thoughts exactly. Initially, I had thought that whatever this was, it was manageable. Like that time he had spent his month’s allowance on a claw machine to win Makoto that light-up buchimaru.” Idly, he touches her keyboard lightly, appreciating the kaleidoscope of colors that emanate from it. “You know how I feel. We’re the Phantom Thieves; we can’t allow anyone to suffer alone, even if the one we’re helping is a Phantom Thief himself.”

Futaba raises an eyebrow. “And how do you want to help him?” she asks. “By talking to him? Let’s be real, you and I have the lowest social stat in this group. Combined, we can maybe reach the nerd student council president, and the guy who can and should handle this doesn’t even know about it!” Biting down on her lip, “Should we tell Akira?”

“Absolutely not. That was the one thing he had requested, and we cannot go against it. By extension, I don’t think we should tell anyone else.” A thought comes to him. “Wait, he mentioned that Ann knows of his situation.”

“Great! Someone who knows how to deal with people’s problems and isn’t us. What are we waiting for?” She reaches for her phone, and Yusuke proceeds to smack her hand out of the way. “Ow?”

“Don’t call her!” he hisses. “Ryuji said that she’s, and I quote, ‘part of the problem’. We can’t have her knowing that we know something.”

“Ann is?” Futaba exclaims, shoving her glasses up her nose. “This is getting too deep. We don’t even know anything yet, and it’s really starting to feel like we’re part of some conspiracy.”

“That’s right, we don’t know anything, and it is our largest road block.” Yusuke crosses his arms. “We don’t know what happened between Ryuji and Ann, or if something even occurred between Ryuji and Ann. What if they had an argument? What if they’re fighting, and it becomes irreparable between them? What if it begins affecting our Jail runs?”

“You really gave this some thought, huh?”

“But of course. I must nurture the few friends that I have managed to treasure.” He glances outside and sees the crowds clambering to see their tourist spot. “We may be different from most teenagers, but I don’t believe we’re immune to the nature of cliques or dramas or even insecurities.”

“God, what a good friend you are, it’s bugging me,” Futaba accuses. “So what the heck, Mr. Philanthropist? We’re stuck between a rock and our friend group here. This mission was doomed before you even dragged me out from my hideout,” she says, eyes drifting away to stare longingly back at her bunk bed.

“Stop making that expression. There’s a reason why I talked to you about this.” He leans forward. “What I’m asking is, to be frank, unfavorable, but I really do believe that it’s worth it to do this.”

She looks at him, and it only takes her a few seconds for realization to set in. Her jaw drops. “Oh Inari, that’s vile.”

“If you’re uncomfortable with it—”

“I didn’t say I was uncomfortable with it,” she cuts in. The grin on her face is wide; a woman in her element. “I just thought you’re the one who’d be all against this kind of thing.”

Futaba pulls her laptop towards her. “Sit back and observe the master at work.”

He watches as her fingers breeze through the keyboard, eyes inscrutable as light reflects off of her glasses. “So you can do it?”

“I’ve hacked into the Diet Building’s security cameras on a dare back when I was twelve,” she snorts. “This is Mario Kart Baby Park with the railings up.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It means—” With a flourish, she hits a key before glancing up at him, smug. “That this will be very easy. I’m thinking we can start with their text messages and work our way up to the big stuff.”

“Oh, right. You can go through our phones,” he grimaces. “You’ve stopped doing that, yes?”

“Of course I have! By the way, did you figure out what courses you wanted next term? I saw your advisor was bugging you about it, you should really email her back.”

“Yes, I’ve finally decided on sculpting as opposed to visual photography since it lets me focus on the anatomy of...” he pauses. “Wait—”

“Okay, looks like I got his text messages with Ann, so let’s all focus on this now!” she says loudly. “Scooch over, let’s go through ‘em.”

He does, and she moves to sit next to him. Yusuke peers at her screen. “Nothing out of the ordinary. There is a significant drop in the frequency of his replies, but that’s been the case for me as well.”

“Same here.” She continues scrolling up rapidly, so fast he wonders how she can keep up with herself. “Memes, memes, lots of ‘where you at’ texts, more memes…”

Something catches his eye. “Hold. Go down slightly, I think that link might be interesting.”

“‘How to treat knee pain: 11 steps with pictures’?” she reads aloud. “His knee is acting up again?”

“What’s peculiar is that I haven’t seen any sign of it.” He squints at Ryuji’s response to it—generic gratitude. “Even in Jails, he runs around without a care in the world.”

“What’s even weirder is that Ann is actually sending Ryuji wikihow links on how to treat his knee,” she snorts. “Let’s put a pin in this one and move on, Ann’s chat is chalking up to be a dead end.”

Rubbing her hands together, she straightens up like a professor in front of a lecture hall on the first day of classes. “Now Yusuke, when you’re looking to crack someone open like a tasty, moist omelette, there are two things that you must look into: their email and their bank account.”

After some clicking, Ryuji’s email pops up. “Email is obvious, since this pretty much tracks anything big. Delivery shipments, subscriptions to websites, acceptance letters. It’s all here in a neat little bow, ready for us to read.”

“‘Manga’s are 20% off for this weekend only,” he reads. “‘Anime convention next weekend’, ‘Pizza coupons’.”

“Ugh, he’s so boring! Next!” Clicking sounds through the RV, emphasizing how much they were snooping through their friend’s private life. “Bank account, show us your wisdom.”

“My word,” Yusuke gasps when the tab opens up. “That’s quite a lot of funds.”

“Inari, four thousand yen is definitely not a lot of money. How much do you have in yours?”

“I don’t have an account,” he admits. “I was on my way to the bank to open one, but I ran out of train fare. By the time I had gotten there, it was already closed. Quite rude, considering that it was only two o’clock.”

She levels him with a look. “Was it a Sunday when you did all this?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Never mind,” she shakes her head. “Okay, so nothing conclusive or even embarrassing. That means that whatever this is, he really doesn’t want anyone knowing about it.”

Futaba hops out of the booth and starts rummaging through everyone’s luggage. “That means we unlock the secret, classic, never goes out of style method of snooping—” with an expression of triumph, she showcases Ryuji’s backpack to him. “Going through their stuff IRL.”

Yusuke winces. “Don’t you think we might be going too far?”

“Hey, what’s with the cold feet? Where was your ‘justice’ from before?”

“I’m all for justice,” he watches her unzip the backpack, recoiling. “But even this seems a little excessive.”

“Look, we already went through his email, his bank account, his text messages. At this point, it’s kind of weird if we don’t find anything. Like—” she throws a pair of shorts behind her as she rummages. “What kind of teenage boy doesn’t have anything to hide? And also, it’d be kinda messed up to go through his stuff and come up empty-handed. If we didn’t find anything—” she pulls out several t-shirts and a crowbar and places them on the ground next to her. “Then we’d just be a bunch of snoops.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he reluctantly agrees. “Above all else, we need to find out what’s happened in his life to make him so upset.”

“Exactly. Oh man, wouldn’t it be crazy if we just found some porn mags or something? Retro to the max, but I can totally see him as the kind of guy to lug something like that along. Unless it’s of Akira.” She makes a face. “Ew. Funny thought is no longer funny.”

“Karma, if you will.”

“Shut it. Oh ho ho, what do we have here?”

“You found something?”

“It’s some fancy looking letter.” Futaba flops herself on the ground. She clears her throat. “'Sakamoto Ryuji. This letter is to inform you that…'” she stops all of a sudden.

“Futaba?” he probes.

“Um,” she blinks, and laughs nervously. “Um?”

He reaches over, and she doesn’t resist when it slips out of her hands. Skimming through the letter, only his eyes dare to move. When he finishes, he lets out a breath. “Oh no.”

“We shouldn't've read that,” she whispers, a perfect summation of what he was feeling. “We really should not have read that.”

—

There’s something to be said about the quayside in Sendai, in the way that it’s almost exactly like Tokyo.

Sure, the buildings here are definitely shorter—gone are the towering structures back home, and instead they’re replaced with shorter structures with cute local designs and colorful patio restaurants. The people here are different, too. Maybe it’s something to do with the water here, in how it’s cleaner and how you can actually see some fish down in the canals if you know where to look. Don’t even get him started in the air; jeez, do they infuse the oxygen here with something? He hasn’t stopped taking deep breaths ever since they got here.

But despite all of those discrepancies, the feeling of Akira’s hand in his is just like being home.

“And it’s actually really interesting,” he hears vaguely. “Because back in Leblanc, there used to be a couple issues about the temperature and stuff, but in my hometown there’s…Ryuji? Are you even listening to me?“

Akira’s telling him something. A story about Morgana? And Ryuji’s sure it’s very interesting, but he’s too focused on the way that sunlight hits his cheekbones.

“I’m listening,” he lies. “Keep going. This is just my listening face, I promise.”

“Sure, sure,” Akira agrees easily. “That’s just your listening face, rather than me and my wicked good looks, right? I totally believe you.” He wiggles his fingers. “Give.”

Ryuji offers him the caramel ice cream cone in his other hand, letting him bite into it like some kind of psychopath. “Done?” he asks, shifting the tote bag tucked into the crook of his elbow, careful not to rattle the eggs inside. Akira bravely offered to carry the groceries, but he had obviously refused.

“Mmm. That’s good stuff.”

“Right? I read about the ice cream here when I was younger, and they were really hyping it up on the ad.” He takes a lick, grinning when the taste hits his tongue. “And on a summer day like this? Unbeatable. It’s really reminding me of last summer when we hung out everyday in your room eating crap, taking naps, and playing games.” It also helped that hanging out with his crush was a daily thing, he thought.

“And I got to hangout with my crush a lot too, so that’s always a plus,” Akira adds.

Ryuji stops, and Akira turns around to give him a weird look. “What?”

“You get me,” he says in awe.

“I sure hope so,” he tugs him forward, and they continue their walk, their shoes rhythmically landing on the wood in unison. A comfortable silence takes over, but that’s no good. Ryuji wants to hear him talk.

“So imagine you get ten million yen,” he starts. “What do you do with it?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked this. They discuss it often, eagerly like the dreaming boys they both are. Akira considers it and Ryuji loves that about him. It doesn’t matter how stupid his questions are—he will always answer them with as if it were a serious question.

“For starters, Yusuke’s getting a place as soon as possible.”

“Duh,” he snorts. “Apparently, his roommate brought someone back to hook up with them. Poor guy got so traumatized he slept over at Haru’s.”

“We should be glad that he didn’t ask them for poses,” Akira laughs. “Next, I’m making sure that Sojiro has enough for retirement.”

“Obviously. Rest in peace Leblanc—you make fire coffee, but no one’s there to drink it.”

“And then I’m making sure your mom has the funds for retirement for sure.”

“I love you,” he sighs.

“I know.” Akira starts swinging their hands back and forth. “Then with the rest, I’ll buy us some new shoes for when we start training again together, and whatever’s left we can split it up with the rest of the Thieves and they can do what they want with it.”

“I bet Ann would go on a shopping spree in France,” he says.

“Haru would probably donate hers.”

“Makoto’s is going straight into university. I can see her going in to get a Masters with that kind of money.”

Ryuji refuses to let his expression fall. “That’s her. Big bookworm with a capital B.” Stop talking about this, stop talking about this. “How about you, Sophia? Any clue what you’ll do with a boatful of moolah?”

A harmonic beep rings through the air and Akira passes her over to him. “I would invest in cryptocurrency and turn ten million into one hundred million,” she says cheerfully. “Then I would take that hundred million and turn it into one billion yen.”

Ryuji coughs, sliding her into his back pocket. “You know what? That’s my bad. I should’ve expected that, honestly.”

Akira plucks the remainder of their ice cream cone from his hand and throws it in his mouth, munching. Wordlessly, he takes out a pack of wet-wipes from his pockets and hands it to Ryuji.

“Thanks.” Reluctantly dropping his hand, he thoroughly cleans through his sticky fingers. “You didn’t ask me what I was gonna do with my money.”

He nods in a go ahead way.

“After I give most of it to my mom, I was just gonna give the rest to you.” Ryuji kicks a stray pebble. It skirts off the edge of the boardwalk. There’s a tug on his arm. “Yeah?”

Akira covers his mouth with a hand, before making an incomprehensible garble of noise.

“Huh? My bad, I didn’t catch that.”

A few seconds of vigorous chewing, he swallows. “I said,” Akira says, eyes glimmering the way it does when he gets really excited. “I was going to do the exact same thing.”

“Dude!” Ryuji throws his arm around his shoulders, tugging him in close. “You understand me like no one else does. What the eff!”

“I’m glad,” he says softly. Wrapping his arm around him, Ryuji blinks at the unexpected hug. “It’s nice that we're on the same wavelength.”

Suspicion tingles across Ryuji’s skin. “Hold up.” Pulling away, he squints his eyes at him. “No.”

Akira immediately looks to the side. “What?” he says, defensive. “It’s nothing.”

“No freaking way.”

“I think I saw a cool arcade back there, it has cool prizes that I think you’d like, and—“

“Kurusu Akira,” he says sternly, grabbing his face between his hands. “Don’t tell me that you’re jealous.”

“I’m not!” he insists, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “I’m not, you know I’m not that type of guy.”

“But?” Ryuji prompts.

“But…” he hesitates. “I’d be happy for you, if you find that it’s easier to talk to other people that aren’t me.” Akira straightens up, pulling out of Ryuji’s grasp but inspects his hand like it were something to be studied. How strange it was to see his long, elegant fingers grasp his brutish, blistered ones. “I’m relieved that I didn’t leave you alone. I just...miss being your go-to, I think.”

“Akira.” He says slowly. “My man. The love of my fucking life. You are never not gonna be my go-to. You’re my go-one.” Rapping his knuckles against Akira’s temple carefully, “Your hometown is messing with you up here, making you say weird shit like that.”

“I know, I know.” Running his index finger down his wrist, Ryuji can feel how cold he is. “You knew what you were getting into when you started dating an overthinker.”

“As a chronic underthinker, no, I did not.” He kisses Akira’s palm. “But it works out, so it’s all good.”

Turning them both around, Ryuji starts walking. “I know this is super duper impossible for a guy like you, but I’m gonna have to ask you for a favor.”

“Anything.”

“You have got, to the best of your ability,” he bumps into Akira’s shoulder. “Stop stressing out.”

He frowns. “It’s my job to stress out.”

“It’s our job to stress out,” he corrects. “You and me. Founding Thieves. We share the burden, bro. We got into this together, we’re getting out of it together. That includes you worrying about our relationship outside the ‘Verse, and extend it all the way to what dingy hometown you took the bullet train from.”

“I’ll try,” he says doubtfully. “You’re kind of enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean? No way I can enjoy the most perfect person on the planet be a little jealous over his boyfriend getting attention, what kind of asshole would I be?” And before Akira can say anything, “I know, not jealous, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“I love you.”

“I know,” he flashes a peace sign.

“I know you know.” A group of middle schoolers pass them, chattering about nothing and pointing out random things on the quay, all enjoying their summer vacation. “You know that you can tell me anything, right?” he asks suddenly.

Unable to help himself, he ruffles Akira’s hair, pitch black and hot to the touch. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“I don’t?”

Gray eyes look into his brown ones, earnest and trusting. Just like that, the light feeling in Ryuji’s chest vanishes. “No,” he responds slowly. “You don’t.”

“Good,” Akira nods, and sees where they were heading towards. “Oh, you took that seriously?”

“You bet your crisp ass I did,” he says, pushing the glass door open. The arcade is bright, neon, and littered with claw machines. Add that to the list of similarities from Tokyo. “I don’t fuck around with arcades. I’m in the top hundred players in the Gun Gale in Shinjuku.”

“Was that with Shinya or without?”

“Not important.” He surveys the area. “There it is. Can you grab us some change? I’ll pay you back.”

Akira waves his hand, walking towards the coin machine. “Don’t. What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I let you pay for our dates?”

“A hot one!” he yells. When he turns the corner, Ryuji collapses into a bright red racing chair. “Fuck,” he hisses, heart beating too damn fast for it to be normal. “Chill out, Sakamoto, jesus.”

It only gets worse when a familiar beep rings out. “Ryuji, your heart rate is at 160. Is everything alright?”

“Sophia!” he wheezes out, relieved. “Can you—will—” he stops, scrunching his eyes closed. “I’m having a panic attack, I think.”

“Searching for how to treat panic attacks,” she says immediately, and he sags into the cool plastic gratefully. “Deep breaths will help, slowly to the count of ten.”

His heart is beating so hard that he can barely hear the jingles and the whirrs of the machines around him. “Count out loud. Hurry, before he gets back.”

She does, and he grips the side of the chair as he focuses on breathing. The attack passes by faster than he hoped it would. “Thank god,” he breathes. “Thank you.”

“No prob,” she says, before hesitating. “Akira—”

“Will not know about this,” he cuts her off, rubbing his hand over his face. “I’ll tell him eventually, don’t worry, et cetera. I know all this. Ann’s been hounding me non-freakin’-stop. Just don’t tell him, Soph. Please.”

Before she can say anything, Akira comes back, pockets full of change and that signature small smile resting on his lips.

—

The bright side about missing out on Sapporo’s snow festival is having its tourism as its lowest point when you visit it in the summer.

Even the shopping district just outside Susikino isn’t very crowded; there’s the usual street vendors and shops with bright pastries and cute clothes. But even having it right beside the Sapporo Tower, it’s still nothing uncomfortable. At least, it’s not uncomfortable when you get to observe the environment through a phone lens.

“This is nice, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve had much of an opportunity to talk to you yet, which is quite rude of me.”

“No prob,” Sophia replies easily. She was swaying from Haru’s neck, hanging by a silicone phone holder that she had bought from a convenience store. Futaba had guffawed when she saw it, but Sophia’s happy about the purchase. It’s fun, and it lets her people watch from the perspective of one of her friends. “I have been meaning to talk to everyone one by one as to better understand each of you.”

“Oh, good! What better use of a nice chat while doing some shopping along the way?” Haru chirps, thumbing through a rack of out-of-season clearance sweaters as they pass. “I have to admit, I’m not the best when it comes to fashion and whatnot. Most of the time, I ask Ann-chan to accompany me.”

“I can try my best! Online websites are constantly updating in order to provide their readers with the newest trends.” Idly, she takes a peek. “Wide-legged pants are back in style.”

“That’s a relief,” she sighs. “I never pulled off skinny jeans too well. Long, flowy skirts have always been my thing. It just gives off such a nice aesthetic, doesn’t it?”

Sophia smiles. “I think you’d look good in anything. Have you considered going punk? You’d look very dope and intimidating with a black streak in your hair and a leather jacket.”

“Now that I can agree with, but that’s more Mako-chan’s style, I’m afraid.” She pauses. “Actually, I bet Mako-chan would actually like that. Sometimes I feel as though she isn’t willing to branch out of her circle of clothes past a pair of Oxfords and a deep-coloured sweater. A push might be what she needs.”

She considers this. “Is it possible to buy clothes for her? That can be a possible ‘push’, quote unquote.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so. She would never let us do such a thing.”

“One moment.” Pulling out a few files from inside her memory storage, she clears her throat. “According to my data analysis, Niijima Makoto has high difficulty straying away from well-mannered behaviours. Do you think that includes saying no to gifts given to her? That can be advantageous.”

Haru stops walking and pulls the phone up so that they’re at eye-level. “Sophia-chan,” she beams. “I have a feeling we’re going to be very good friends.”

They continue walking down the street when Haru gasps suddenly. “You literally can’t shop, can you?”

“Of course I can. I can get anything in the world for you,” she says proudly. “Anything.”

“Alright, we’ll have to test that later, but I mean you can’t use what you buy,” she frowns, eyes troubled. “Your sweater is adorable, but you’re forced to wear it everyday, right? Can you even do your hair differently? Is it possible for you to pin it, or even let it down?”

Sophia finds it endearing that she would let such a thing bother her. She doesn’t even have a social insurance number, but Haru’s worried about hair clips. “No, but I quite like it the way it is. It doesn’t get in the way when I do my work, and in the Metaverse, it gets completely hidden as to let me do my fighting,” she explains, karate chopping in her screen. “But I can understand the human desire for change.”

“Would you like that?” Haru asks gently. “To change? Um, change out of your clothes, and change mentally. Either one.”

“Change mentally, of course! I’d love to understand my friends better and understand how to help them. It’s a vast mountain of knowledge, but I’d want nothing more than to decode the mystery of the human heart,” she says eagerly. “But for clothes...I’m not sure. I haven’t tried it. I’m pretty sure I can’t try it.”

“That settles it,” Haru looks both ways before crossing the street, jogging slightly.

Sophia perks up. “If you’re heading somewhere specific, I can give you directions.”

“No need.” She has an intense, hungry look on her face, not unlike the one she had when the new axe Akira bought had finally arrived at their RV. “We’re just about here.”

They stop in front of a store, and she can barely read the sign from the phone’s angle. “‘Case in Point’?”

Haru pushes the glass door open, greeting the cashier. “It’s a phone modifier shop.”

There’s no effort to explain anything else, but Sophia can confidently add ‘anticipation’ onto her growing list of experienced feelings.

—

“Out of curiosity—” Haru begins as they exit the modifier store, the cashier still bug-eyed from the tip she had left at his counter. “Can you see everything inside Akira-kun’s phone?”

“Yes,” she replies. The environment that she lives in, and more specifically, Akira’s phone, is now a bright, perfectly polished shade of rose gold with a mint outline. A far cry from the matte black that it was before. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Her voice is sweet as sugar. “Out of curiosity once again, is there anything interesting? Anything worth noting?”

She jumps as Sophia’s voice suddenly morphs into Akira’s without warning. “Nice try,” the phone plays. “But no.”

And just as quick, Sophia comes back to the phone. “Sorry about leaving,” she says. “Akira had asked me to play that clip if someone ever, and I quote, ‘tried me.’”

Haru giggles. “Just like Akira-kun to be so thorough. Impressive as always, leader.” She peers down at her watch. “I suppose it’s about time to head back, isn’t it?”

“We still have eight minutes to spare.”

“We do. Perhaps we should take a stroll around the park?”

“Cool,” she says. “Wanna ask Futaba and Yusuke if they want to come with?”

“Sure?” Haru blinks. “That’s very specific.”

“On your two o’clock,” she points out. “In front of the book store.”

They watch as Futaba and Yusuke stand across the street from them. Futaba is aggressively pointing her finger at the books on display, then slapping her fist against her palm like she was devising a war strategy. Yusuke shakes his head wildly, comically putting his hands in his pockets and revealing that there was nothing inside. She sighs and walks away, tugging along a dejected boy behind her.

“Aren’t you going to ask them?”

“In a moment.” Haru takes them to the front of the store. “This isn’t a bookstore, I don’t think. What’s it called Sophia?”

After a quick search: “‘Sapporo’s School Supply Store’,” she says. “The alliteration makes it fun to say.”

“Indeed it does.” Peering into the store, Haru makes an introspective noise. “Now isn’t this interesting?” she hums. “Do you mind if I make one more purchase?”

“Not at all,” Sophia says, thrilled to add another point she had learned: If Haru wants something, there’s nothing that will get in her way.

—

“So,” Makoto starts, and Ryuji has to hold back a groan. He knows that tone. He’s memorized that tone. All the second years can feel her tone from a mile away. Hell, Ann probably took an instinctive step back just now. “Have you started to think about university?”

“Nope,” he says, wiping the sweat off his brow as they jog around the corner of Odori park. Back before he had left for his hometown, Akira and Ryuji would be up at dawn to train. Lately though, he’s been using any free time he has that isn’t planning for, prepping for, or actively doing a Jail run to sleep in the RV. And hey, he has no beef with Makoto, and it’s not like she can’t keep up with his training (she can most definitely kick his ass in hand-to hand), but she has a tendency to push when it comes to this sort of stuff. “Not a single thought towards it. It’s been pretty good, actually.”

“I can tell,” she agrees. “It’s almost like you blocked my number.”

“I did not!”

“So you actively choose not to answer any of my texts?”

“Ugh, don’t set me up like that,” he winces. “You know I’m stupid enough to fall for shit like that everytime.”

“Hold on.”

Ryuji grunts as he feels a hold on his shirt, forcing him to stop. “Ew, don’t touch my back, it’s Nigeria there.”

“First of all, it’s Niagara.” She spins him around. He’s only a little taller than her, but something about her always seems to tower over him. “Second, do you know why I keep pushing all of you to go to university?”

“Because you hate us?” he mumbles.

Makoto glares at him. “Try again.”

“...Because you don’t hate us?”

“Because I don’t hate you,” she repeats. “You’re all rowdy and wild and sometimes I don’t understand the jokes you make—”

“You’re just mad ‘cause you fell for a deez nuts joke.”

“But I do, inexplicably, love all of you,” she pushes on, and that shuts him up. “I know what you’re all capable of. Amazing things! I understand you all believe that I’m the be-all end-all, and I appreciate your compliments, but there are some things that only Ann can do, or Akira, or Yusuke.”

Makoto continues running, and he reluctantly follows suit. “And you. You can achieve things that I can’t even dream of, Ryuji.”

He resists the urge to yawn. “Thanks for the pep talk, Niijima.” Looking left, the gelato is looking real good. “Wanna get something to eat? I’m starving.”

“You aren’t very good at hiding secrets, Ryuji.”

Now that grabbed his attention. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, prez!” Speeding past her, he holds out a hand to make her stop. “What do you mean by that?”

She raises a brow. “Nothing in particular, but your reaction is showing me that I should have meant something by it.”

He gnaws on the inside of his cheek roughly. “Okay, but why did that come into your brain? Why do you think I have some kinda secret?”

“I live with a prosecutor everyday of my life, of course I know when something’s afoot.” Pushing her hair back, she squints up at him. “You’ve been more...jumpy lately, yet somehow more laid-back than usual. I wanted to talk to Akira about this—”

Blood pours into his mouth when he accidentally bites too hard. “You talked to Akira?!” he half yells, red dribbling from the corner of his lips.

“Oh my god!”

“Fuck,” he clamps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Bit too hard.”

“N-no! Don’t apologize!” she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a napkin, pulling him to a stone ledge. “Sit and take this so you don’t bleed all over yourself. I’ll be back.”

He doesn’t bother speaking, only nods as she turns around. When she comes back, she’s holding a water bottle. “Here.”

Taking it gratefully, he takes deep gulps before spitting it out. “Why the hell does this taste like the beach?” he splutters.

“I didn’t say to drink it! It’s salt water to get rid of infections!”

“Why would you do that to me?!”

“Because I thought you knew to do that from the second-year health class!” she shoots back. “Gargle it and spit. Near the gutter, mind you, it’s rude to spit in front of kids. They might get the wrong idea.”

As if kids are gonna see him and think that there’s something worth remembering. He sips, sloshing it around his mouth before gently letting it dribble into the grated sewer. “Blegh.”

“You’re welcome. Keep at it. And while you’re doing that,” she sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “Do you want to tell me what’s been making you anxious?”

He pauses. “Anxious?”

Makoto gives him a stern look. “‘Experiencing worry, unease, or nervousness, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome.’ It was covered in your midterm.”

“Ah, right,” he mutters. Gripping the fabric of his shirt, his heart is beating too quick for it to be normal. Then again, when was the last time it wasn't? “You think I’m anxious?”

“I’m not sure. Keep gurgling,” Makoto chides.

He does, the salt water still red whenever he spat, and she continues. “All I know is when my anxiety gets really bad, I chew on my lip. Sae used to chide me when we were younger, but you know, she got busy,” she shrugs, as if he didn’t know how much it pained her to lose her only family member to a career of protecting the wrong people. “When I mentioned it to Akira, he took it upon himself to check up on me regularly during exam weeks.”

To prove her point, she takes her lower lip and flips it out for him to see—white teeth marks, but old scars instead of anything fresh. Letting go, her expression is smug. “He hasn’t felt the need to check in for a while now.”

Spitting, water finally running clear, he grins. “Good for you. I’m glad to hear that, dude.”

“Thank you, but that wasn’t the point. My point was that I was only able to get better because I told someone about it. Someone I trusted.” Makoto turns to him, her gaze serious. “I know that’s what Akira is to you. Habits like these are harmless at first, but they can turn into something else more dangerous. I won’t stand for that. My own justice won’t stand for that.”

Ryuji opens his mouth, before closing it. I’ll tell Akira, he wants to say. How many times does he have to repeat that line before he starts believing it himself? “Okay,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can say without hating himself even more.

“Okay.” She pats his knee before standing. “I can get us some gelato.” She stretches, wincing as her joints crack into place. “If you’re feeling up to it, start your cool down. Unless you wanna keep training?”

“I’m good. Felt enough blood rush for the day.”

She goes to the ice cream stand, and he stares up at the blue sky.

Makoto’s right, because of fucking course she is. She’s right, he knows she’s right. But she doesn’t get it. To her, Akira’s a friend. A guy who helped her out and changed her life, yeah. If he hadn’t met her when she did, maybe she would’ve become a scummy adult who didn’t look up from market pricing and hedge funds.

But Ryuji? Ryuji would be dead without Akira. That’s a fact and a half.

To Makoto, Akira’s a friend. To Ryuji, he’s Akira, and you can’t be on a higher pedestal in his mind than that.

—

It was Yusuke who took the first step.

“Ann,” he greets cordially. “How do you do?”

She gives him a weird look. “Kinda trying to focus here,” she says, gesturing at the scene in front of them. They, Morgana, and Sophia were in the B team as they watched the rest of them try and get rid of the remaining Shadows in Mariko’s Jail, tersely attentive and waiting on Joker’s word in case they needed a last minute switch. The Jail was environmentally brutal; the ice underneath the soles of their shoes makes them skid more often than they’d like. It almost makes the fights seem quicker, one notch faster than usual.

Yusuke pays her dismissal no mind. “I, myself, am learning many new things lately. Can the same be said about you?”

In the corner of his eye, Futaba pauses typing on her laptop to face palm.

“Are you...” Ann says after a brief pause. “Is this a threat? Are you threatening me?”

“No—”

“Panther!” Akira’s clear voice rings out.

Ann dashes forward without question, high-fiving Morgana as they trade spots.

Futaba marches forward, glaring at Yusuke like he was crazy. “You dolt!” she hisses. “What was that supposed to be? I said be slick and cool, not act like a fool!”

“While I admire the rhyme scheme, I don’t understand what you want from me. That was as ‘slick and cool’ as I’m capable of,” he furrows his brow. “I even opened with a question that seemed as though the conversation would be a normal one, but then used that to transition into what I actually wanted to discuss.”

“Stop looking so proud of yourself and—”

“Fox!”

“Back in a moment,” he says before he’s gone, Makoto taking his place, leather uniform still smoldering from when she took a fire move head-on.

“What was that about?” Haru asks, swinging her axe like a picnic basket.

“Nothing, Noir,” Futaba sighs, plopping back into place where Ann had stood. Carmen had kindly left a warm patch of concrete in her wake. “Just Inari became a big ole’ dumb-dumb.”

“I see,” she hums. “So this has nothing to do with what you two have been conspiring about lately?”

Her eyes shot wide open. “Con...conspiring?” she stutters out. “What do you mean by—”

A particularly loud scream rips into the air, and everyone turns their heads to see Captain Kidd slam his hook into the ground, purple arms erupting from the snow and wiping out a huge chunk of Shadows all in one go.

“Hot damn,” Futaba says, directing her focus back to her laptop and making sure Ryuji has enough health to keep going.

“He’s strong,” Haru observes, all playfulness gone.

“Too strong.” After Futaba gives everyone on the main team a good amount of health, something on her screen makes her pause. “Huh…?”

“Noir.”

Haru turns around to see Makoto waiting for her. “I need to discuss something with you.”

“Of course,” she steps closer to her and drops her voice. “Is everything alright?”

“I’d bring this up with Joker, but I don’t want to bother him if I’m not sure if there’s anything wrong yet,” Makoto pushes her mask up. “But have you noticed Skull's been acting strange lately?”

“Mona!”

He swaps with Ann, her pigtails covered in snow. “Ugh,” she grimaces as she shakes it out. “I could try and melt it, but it’ll just drip down my back and freeze later on, and I do not want that.”

“Panther, I’d like your input as well, if you don’t mind,” Makoto says.

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I was just talking to Noir about this, but did you notice anything strange about the way Skull’s acting lately?”

Ann takes a step back. “Well, what—No—I mean, that’s your opinion, I think!” she exclaims. “To me, Skull's acting is completely normal. He’s normal—actually, scratch that, he’s better than usual. Nothing about him is wrong, I think, and that’s pretty outstanding and impressive once you consider that he’s the one with the life-long injury. Not that that has to do with anything!” Ann yells. “I just wanted to point out how far he’s come, and how much he’s kicking ass right now. Actually,” her voice shifts to a stage whisper. “Don’t mention this because I don’t wanna cause drama, but Fox has been a little weird.”

“Weird how?” Makoto whispers back, looking extremely lost.

“Just earlier, he asked me how I was.”

“...I’m not following.”

“No, Panther-chan has a point,” Haru breaks in. “I can’t say for certain, but I have a strong feeling that Fox and—” she points at Futaba conspicuously. “Are up to something.”

“Sophie and Fox?” Ann breathes.

“Panther!”

“Damn, again? That’s what we get for going into an ice Jail,” she grumbles, swapping with Yusuke.

Haru sighs. “Panther-chan isn’t the best with context clues, is she?”

“Hello ladies,” Yusuke greets. “What were we discussing?”

Makoto gives him a suspicious look. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His jaw drops, bewildered, but before he can say anything, Futaba waves him over. “Get your fox butt over here!”

“I...Alright,” he says, resigned.

“Look at them,” Makoto nods at the pair. “I think you’re onto something.”

“I think so too, but I don’t want to be too hasty. After all, the two of them are such good friends now; it would be unfair to assume negative outcomes without evidence, or at least confront them first,” Haru says nonchalantly.

She understands immediately. “You have evidence?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Noir!”

“Duty calls,” she gives her a thumbs up, before Ann comes back once again.

“I can’t wait for us to go to a really hot place again,” she kicks the snow with her heels. “Then I’ll be comfortably in the B team because all the Shadows have fire resistance to the max.”

“Oh good, she’s back,” Yusuke’s expression is one of relief.

“Fox—” Futaba warns without looking up from her laptop.

“Come here. There is something we would like to discuss with you.” Whether or not it was intentional, he rests his hand on the handle of his katana.

“Okay but before we start, I just wanna ask—what are you doing with Sophie?” Ann accuses. “It’s fine to be friends with her, but you have to be careful. She’s really susceptible to what we say right now, and if you try anything funny—”

“What are you even saying?” he says, offended. “I barely even talk to her!”

They all glance at Sophia, who had been standing perfectly still and silent. She gives them a wave. They all awkwardly wave back.

Makoto places a hand on Ann’s shoulder. “Panther, Noir meant Fox and Oracle.” Ann flushes red as she continues. “And while we’re all here, I wanted to bring this up with you as well. Have you all noticed something strange with Skull?” Futaba stops typing. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but I think he’s extremely anxious about something. You all know that I’m an overthinker, so I might have the wrong idea but…” she trails off.

Futaba glances at Yusuke. Yusuke glances at Ann. Ann helplessly glances at Ryuji, still fighting alongside Akira and the others.

“I know nobody asked me,” they all jump a foot in the air when Sophia speaks beside them. “But I can at least confirm for suresies that there is something strange with Skull.”

“Which is…?” Makoto prods.

“I don’t know the specifics.” Ann, Yusuke, and Futaba let out a breath. “But he did have a panic attack recently.”

“I knew it!” Makoto snaps her fingers. “He’s had signs of being anxious, but I wasn’t too sure about it.”

“Queen!”

She runs out, and Ryuji comes in, looking exhausted but pleased. “Hey y’all, what were we talking about?”

It was dead silent before Sophia steps forward. “Look what I can do!” she exclaims, changing the expression on her screen to be an emoji with a flower.

“Whoa!” His eyes bug out, and they all sigh in relief. “That’s awesome! Can you do more?”

“That’s super cool Sophie, but,” Futaba looks at Ryuji, skeptical. “Don’t you feel weak right now? Your health is way down.”

“Oh, I didn’t even notice,” he rubs the back of his neck. “Sophie, you mind?”

“Not at all.” She calls for Pithos and green sparkles fall on him. “Better?”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Skull!”

“When the king calls, his knight answers,” he salutes, sprinting out as Makoto comes back in.

“So,” she glares at the rest of them. “What do the rest of you know?”

Ann groans. “Even if I did know something, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“Wait,” Futaba points an accusing finger at her. “What do you know?”

“What do I know? What do you know? And for that matter, what does he,” Ann points at Yusuke. “Know? Noir said you guys are doing secret stuff together!”

“That’s preposterous,” he scoffs. “If it was secret, she wouldn’t have known.”

“That’s the dumbest argument I’ve ever heard.”

“How is it dumb?” he asks. “You can’t possibly think that just because Futaba and I are doing ‘secret stuff’ that it has anything to do with Skull’s situation!”

There was a pause. “Are those two connected?” Sophia asks. Futaba buries her face in her hands.

“That was...not the question I expected,” Yusuke answers weakly.

“Sophie!”

“God, I wish Joker would call for Inari instead,” Futaba groans.

Rushing out, Sophia high-fives Ryuji on the way. “Guess who’s back, motherfuckers?”

In an effort to bury their conversation, they all begin cheering overenthusiastically, Yusuke clapping politely. Bewildered, Ryuji instinctively gives them a thumbs up. “Thanks guys. Usually, my jokes don’t really land, but that made me real happy.”

“Uh, Skull,” Futaba raises an eyebrow. “How do you keep losing health? I didn’t even notice you taking a hit.”

“I’m low again? Damn, I didn’t even notice,” he groans loudly. “Queen, can you—”

“I’m on it.”

Just as Johanna heals him, Akira calls out once again: “Skull!”

“Joker really does rely on you, doesn’t he?” Yusuke observes.

Ryuji laughs. If they didn’t know any better, they would think it sounded a little nervous. “Well, gotta jet!”

High-fiving Makoto, he runs out. She stares at the remaining members of the B team. “You all know something,” she accuses. “And I understand if you’re all being loyal to him by keeping what you know close to your hearts. But remember this:” she takes a step forward, and they all take an unconscious step back, Futaba scooting from where she sat on the ground. “There comes a point where it’s actually more important to keep a person safe and healthy than to uphold a potentially dangerous secret.”

They all digest her words for a second, and flinch when a flash of blue flame appears, taking Akira’s Persona away.

“Finally.” He stretches his shoulders, satisfied. “That took awhile. Good work everyone, let’s keep going.”

Making their trek deeper into the Jail, Futaba half-jogs, half-speed walks to Ryuji. “Your health again,” she chides. “Seriously. I know I like to play around, but I always have my eye on you guys when you’re fighting. I literally have not seen you take a hit, but you’re getting drained like milk in a sink.”

He shrugs, unperturbed. “Whatever. You see my hits today, though? They were tough.”

“Yeah,” she agrees reluctantly. “But your health is still low. I’ll call Joker about that.”

Before she can turn, he grabs her wrist. “Nope,” he says. “I’ll ask Panther. Thanks though!”

Ryuji goes to Ann, and he can feel everyone’s eyes on him, watching him, surveying his every move.

All eyes except for the one that really matters.

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 1

Prompt: Mind Control @febuwhump

read on ao3

A Magnet for Trouble

"This," Anakin kicks at a ball of dust, causing the particles to go flying everywhere. "blows,"

His Master coughs, and Anakin looks up to see he has kicked the dust directly into the face of Obi-Wan. He supposes he earned the disapproving scowl this time.

"Not every mission is going to be exciting, Padawan. Sometimes we receive tasks that are a little more on the mundane side."

Anakin examines his Master's face as he continues to brush dust out of his bearded face. Though he has the typical Obi-Wan Kenobi stoicism, Anakin has known him long enough to see that he too isn't exactly pleased about their task.

Some random Outer Rim planet claimed to have found some ancient Jedi artifact, so the council sent them to go fetch it. Literally, anyone could have done this, but they decided to send a Jedi knight? Master Nu would probably love this kind of thing, but Master Obi-Wan wouldn't let him suggest that to Master Windu.

So now they're searching through this dusty old house that smells like bantha poodoo and mildew because the local officials were too afraid to touch it. Apparently even too scared to get close enough to the artifact to get a decent holo. From the dark image, it looked like a deactivated Holocron, so Anakin isn't sure what all the fuss it about.

"Why would the Jedi leave something valuable in this kind of place?" he asks, crinkling his nose at a pile of something in the corner that seems to be a source of the horrible smell.

"This house is old, Anakin. I suspect long ago it was quite elegant and beautiful. During the Great Peace, Jedi Masters often opted to retire in their home worlds or places they liked. It is entirely possible this was the residence of a Jedi Master."

"I thought Jedi didn't like material things, though. This place is huge!" They'd spent the last hour or two making their way carefully through the three-story winding home.

Obi-Wan chuckles. "We are taught not to keep material things, but that does not mean some Jedi don't like them anyway. I'm sure you and that desk of projects you have can relate."

"Those are practical, Master."

"A bolt slingshot is practical?"

Anakin looks away from the wry gaze of his Master. He may or may not have broken a mug or two with that slingshot, but it was a prototype.

They go into the next room. It's the largest bedroom by far, with a canopied bed and large heavy furniture in various places. White sheets haphazardly cover the tables and paintings.

"Surprise, surprise. Another dusty bedroom." Anakin sighs, tugging down one of the sheets to look at the painting. In the dark, it is difficult to see, but he can tell it's a portrait of a woman.

"This is the main bedroom. Perhaps our artifact is somewhere in here."

"You'd think they'd tell us where they found it."

"I suspect they forgot which room it was."

Understandable, I suppose. There are literally over twenty different bedrooms that all look similar. While Master Obi-Wan looks through the drawers of the bedroom, Anakin continues to take interest in the painting. He pulls his lightsaber out, igniting it to get a better source of light.

"What are you doing?" Obi-Wan asks, his back still turned to him.

"Need more light." He waves the lightsaber close enough to the painting to see the face of the woman. Intense golden eyes stare back at him, almost like they are locking him into a gaze. He is entranced by her dark shiny curls that cascade down her shoulders and seem to fade into the elegant dark robes she is wearing. His eyes settle at the necklace that hangs from her neck, its dark metal forming a teardrop shape with a red gem in the center.

The woman is beautiful. Scarily beautiful. Were her eyes brown she might look a little bit like Padmé, or at least how Anakin remembers her. It's been nearly eight years since he's seen her, and he misses her sweet smile dearly.

"Anakin, what have I told you about gawking?" Obi-Wan teases, tugging at his padawan braid as he passes.

"I'm not-- oh nevermind," he groans, pulling his braid back in front of his shoulder.

"I'll check the closet, keep looking here."

"Yes, Master." He lowers his saber, about to turn it off when something catches his eye. The glow of his saber shows a space at the base of the wall. Anakin crouches down, placing his hand at the baseboard, and indeed feels a bit of a draft coming from underneath.

Interesting. He puts his saber away and stands, running his hands along the sides of the painting. To his excitement, he finds a seam in the wall, hidden well by the frame. He grins and reaches out with the Force. If this is the home of a Jedi, they undoubtedly would have a secret door that is Force activated! Maybe I can figure out how to put this in my room...

The section of the wall shutters and then slides backward, revealing a darkened room.

"Oh wizard," Anakin mutters to himself, pulling his saber out. He is about to walk into the room when he turns, looking to see if Obi-Wan is anywhere near. He probably should tell his master what he found, but maybe checking it out first would be a good idea. He would hate to take him away from his search for a dead-end...

He will call for him if he finds something. If this is where the artifact is, then he can say he found it all by himself!

Anakin steps into the room, using his lightsaber to light his path. It is larger than he expected, just a desk in the far corner and a bookshelf that is now empty and covered in cobwebs. He walks right up to the desk, giddiness running through him as he spots a cube in the center of the table. He picks it up, turning it around in his hands to examine it.

The holo they gave was dark, but this seems to be the artifact! It is a dark metalloid material with markings that do look like a Holocron, but it doesn't glow blue as the ones he has seen. In fact... it doesn't seem to be a Holocron at all. If it is a Jedi thing, maybe it too responds to the Force? He closes his eyes, trying to get some sort of signature from the object, but it is like it is just out of reach for him.

Strange. He decides to show Obi-Wan and walks out of the secret room. In the light of the main room, now Anakin can see there is a latch. Oh duh, it's a box!

"Hey Master, come look at this," he calls, as he undoes the latch.

"One moment, Anakin."

With the latch open, Anakin tugs at both ends, and the cube opens at the center, sending something from within rattling out and onto the floor under the bed. He cringes, hoping he didn't break whatever it is. He crouches down, feeling around the dusty floor until his hands lie on something cool and metalloid. He draws it out, his eyes widening when he realizes it's a necklace.

The necklace from the portrait. Its teardrop design is smooth in his hand as he examines it. Somehow, as old as it must be, it isn't tarnished.

Skywalker.

He looks over his shoulder, but there is no one there. Anakin could have sworn he heard his...

Skywalker, come to me.

He looks the other way. The voice is quiet, indistinguishable of gender though it is definitely speaking basic. When it whispers his name once more he looks down at the necklace, suddenly realizing that the voice is not coming from around him, but from it.

He flips it over, revealing the beautiful red stone. It shimmers as though it is its own light source, entrancing Anakin in its kaleidoscope of colors. He runs his thumb from the side of the necklace to the stone to feel the smooth-looking gem.

The moment he touches it, he is struck with an icy chill that runs from his fingertips down to his toes. Terror fills the Jedi Padawan, and he staggers backward, his mind telling him to drop it but his body not listening. He clenches the necklace in his freezing hands, and the world around him tunnels.

Obi-Wan is going to be so mad at me...

And then there is only darkness.

_______

A clatter and a thump resonate from the other room. Obi-Wan sighs. What has he done this time? He found nothing in the closet so he heads back to see what his padawan has gotten into this time. While he had hoped Anakin would outgrow his propensity to attract trouble, it seems the sixteen-year-old is still well endowed in finding mayhem.

"Anakin, if you managed to break something--" he trails off as a chill runs up his spine. A warning in the Force. Obi-Wan puts a hand on his lightsaber and reaches out through their bond.

On the other end, he feels nothing but static.

"Anakin!" he calls, now running into the bedroom. He skids to a stop at the sight of one of the walls caved in, an open box lying on the floor, and Anakin's body slumped to the side. Though he still senses danger, he doesn't see anything that could be causing it. He drops to his knees beside his padawan, rolling him so his head lies atop Obi-Wan's legs. He lays a hand on Anakin's cheek and pulls away in horror at how cold he is. "Anakin, wake up!" he orders, shaking him firmly.

Obi-Wan gets a sudden feeling like he's been here before. For a split second, his teenage padawan becomes his graying Master lying motionless in his arms on Naboo. Panic grips him, and he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. As quickly as he sees it, it is gone.

Freezing fingers enclose around his wrist and Obi-Wan's eyes snap open to see Anakin staring back at him, but there is something off about him. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he has time to process what is happening his body is being flung across the room with tremendous force. His back slams into the wall and he sags to the ground, vision spotting with black dots.

Anakin stands now with his lightsaber in hand, and Obi-Wan realizes what is wrong with his padawan is that his bright blue eyes now shine a dusty gold.

"Padawan," Obi-Wan says carefully as he pulls himself to his feet. He doesn't dare reach for his own lightsaber. "What happened?"

"I am no padawan," he says back, his ashen face devoid of any emotion. Though it is Anakin's voice it isn't Anakin. Obi-Wan has never heard him speak in such an inflection.

"Then do tell me who I am speaking to."

"Anakin Skywalker."

Obi-Wan shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."

"I am Anakin Skywalker, and you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, will die by my hand."

Anakin raises his saber, not in his usual starting position but in Form II-- Count Dooku's preferred form for its elegance and dueling superiority. Anakin has never once taken interest in the fluidity and discipline it takes to learn Makashi.

Obi-Wan still doesn't grab for his own weapon. Anakin lets out a guttural yelp and darts forward, jabbing his lightsaber aggressively. Obi-Wan twists out of the way much to the displeasure of whatever is controlling Anakin.

"Draw your weapon, coward," he hisses.

"What have you done to him?"

Anakin's face twists into a sinister smile that Obi-Wan has a feeling will likely give him nightmares in the weeks to come. "He is my vessel. A strong one, at that, for an apprentice. I have inserted my Life Force into him, and now we are one."

The boy lunges at him again, and Obi-Wan is able to evade him once again, but this time his shoulder is grazed by the tip of the lightsaber. He bites his lip at the red-hot pain igniting his upper body but swallows it back.

"So what is the plan then? What is your purpose?"

"Does there need be a purpose besides the chance to walk the galaxy once again?"

He stares at the boy, recognizing the tell-tale shadowing of him about to strike once again. If whatever is occupying his padawan is telling the truth, then Obi-Wan knows what he must do. He finally draws his lightsaber grimly, raising it above his head parallel to the floor in the opening move of Soresu. He points in Anakin's direction.

"You will not take over the soul of a boy for your selfish purposes," he says, and then Anakin's saber is crashing against his.

Obi-Wan has sparred with Anakin so many times throughout their training. The boy is a natural with a lightsaber, and one of the best padawan fighters among his age mates. He is quick and decisive, pouring every ounce of his endless supply of energy into each brutal strike. Even with another controlling his mind, his body still moves like Anakin. Thankfully, this is a feat Obi-Wan can easily accomplish. He blocks every strike, knowing exactly what he is planning before Anakin even knows it. Every one of his jabs is met with Obi-Wan's lightsaber waiting patiently for him to catch up. With every crackle of their blades striking another, he can see the fire in Anakin's eyes grow. His golden eyes are not unlike the piercing yellow of Darth Maul, filled with hatred and anger.

Through his anger and fatigue and many minutes of combat, Anakin becomes more and more sloppy. Obi-Wan takes this opportunity to lash out with a rapid kick to the center of his chest. He goes staggering backward in surprise, and Obi-Wan is quick to sweep his legs and cause him to go tumbling to the ground.

"I see you are not used to the awkward body of a teenager," Obi-Wan says, kicking the lightsaber out of Anakin's hand and using the Force to pin him to the ground. He thrashes against the hold, but Obi-Wan is tapping deep into his Force abilities to hold him still. He can already feel the tremendous headache blossoming in his temples.

"You know you will have to kill him to stop me," The thing says lowly. "There is no other way."

"No," Obi-Wan shakes his head. "There is always another way."

"The boy is kin to the darkness. It wraps around him and he accepts it with open arms," he grins. "Anakin Skywalker is a natural in the dark side, and so you must kill him to free him."

Obi-Wan kneels down beside the restrained boy, placing a hand on his forehead despite his attempts to pull away. He looks Anakin-who-is-not-really-Anakin in the eyes, reaching out once again through their bond.

Anakin. He calls against the distant sliver of his padawan's Force presence. Come back to me, my padawan. You are stronger than it is. Fight against it. Take hold of the light.

A girthy cackle. "You think the boy can fight me? A Master of the ancient Sith arts?"

Obi-Wan smiles. Through their bond, he hears the quiet voice of his padawan. Distant, but determined.

"And you think you can silence my padawan? I assure you, I have tried. Many times."

The darkness that taints the Force suddenly begins to flicker, and the Sith's prideful face flickers with sudden worry. "This is-- this is impossible," it says.

Master! Obi-Wan hears Anakin saying with great distress, and he lays his hands on either of his cheeks.

Anakin I am here! I am with you, keep trying! Obi-Wan is growing wearier and wearier by the moment trying to keep Anakin still.

"I will not be bested!" the Sith grunts and Obi-Wan is thrown back. He manages to stay on his feet, but his hold finally slips. The bedroom erupts in a whirlwind of raw power. Loose objects and a cloud of dust fly around at terminal velocity. Obi-Wan squints through the dust storm and sees Anakin now on his feet, his saber back in his hand and ignited in front of him. His eyes stare wildly at the blade as he rotates it in his hand before looking back up at Obi-Wan with a sinister look. "Not by you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and certainly not by a padawan."

Obi-Wan's eyes widen, "No!" he yells, lunging forward as Anakin's wrist turns to point the tip of his blade toward his own heart. Naboo flashes before him once again, and Obi-Wan is filled with a burst of energy from the Force.

He will not watch the Sith take another from him.

Obi-Wan flips through the air and manages to jam his blade between Anakin and his own lightsaber, deflecting it away from his chest and smashing his wrist in the wall. Anakin's cry of pain rings out as his shoulder dislocates from the force Obi-Wan uses. It makes him feel like his heart is tearing in two, but a dislocated shoulder is worlds better than a lightsaber through the heart. Anakin's lightsaber drops and Obi-Wan summons it to his hand with the Force. Now he is restrained once again, this time physically rather than through the Force. He can feel the heave of his padawan's chest, and the feral thrashing of his body.

Obi-Wan blankets himself with the Force, allowing it to take control of his strength. He reaches through their bond once more, pushing past the barriers the Sith had placed. To his relief, he finds Anakin's Force presence shining brightly, just lost.

I am here, padawan. Come back to me.

__________

Anakin opens his eyes and immediately closes them. His head hurts.

As his grogginess begins to clear, a few questions prod at him. Why does my head hurt? Why am I on the floor? Where is Obi-Wan?

An exacerbated exhale beside him makes him realize maybe the answer to his last question is easily answered. Anakin rolls to his side, squinting through the pounding headache at his temples. Obi-Wan lies on his back next to him, head flopped to the side so Anakin can clearly see his face. Shock pangs through him and he ignores the pain and makes himself sit up.

Bad idea. His shoulder now erupts in shooting pain, and he looks down to see it is not in the correct position. He blinks back some tears that have formed and tries to focus on his master.

Blood drips down from Obi-Wan's nose, coloring the mustache of his beard a dark crimson. He spots a char mark across his left shoulder-- from a lightsaber?-- and dark circles so dark they look like two black eyes..

"Master!" Anakin yells, grabbing him by the lapels of his robes.

He doesn't remember what happened. How they ended up unconscious in the bedroom-- which looks war-torn with kicked up dust and broken objects. A glint of metalloid catches his eye and he picks up his own lightsaber that lies in Obi-Wan's other hand. His stomach drops. What could make Obi-Wan need to dual-wield? He isn't sure he's ever actually seen Obi-Wan fight with two sabers.

Anakin reaches out through their training bond, and his master winces in his sleep. He immediately withdraws, eyes wide. Their bond is strained. Obi-Wan's shields are simultaneously locked tight and clearly on the brink of collapse. Force exhaustion.

His master isn't the only one suffering from it, either. Anakin slumps himself forward to lay on Obi-Wan's chest, careful of his dislocated shoulder. He matches his master's even breaths to calm himself down and ease his own pain. He is nearly falling asleep when he feels movement below him and fingers carefully rifle through his hair.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says stiffly. "Why are you on top of me?"

He perks up, turning around with glee at the sound of his Master's voice.

"Have a nice nap, Master?" he says, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Obi-Wan slowly pushes himself to a sitting position. He leans his head back against the wall. "Oh, a lovely one," he says dryly. Then his expression shifts to worry. "What do you remember, Anakin?"

Question of the year. "I remember finding the secret room. And opening a box that had a necklace in it. And then... I woke up here."

"Nothing else?"

He takes a slow, deep breath. "I kind of remember hearing you telling me to come back, or something," his eyes flicker up to meet Master Obi-Wan's. "Did I pass out? Were we attacked?"

The Jedi Knight stares at him for a long moment-- so long it begins to feel uncomfortable. Anakin can tell he is not saying something important, or at least debating whether or not to actually say it.

"It seems your snooping got you into trouble again, my padawan. That necklace... held the Force presence of an ancient Sith who managed to... control you for a small while. I suspect the request was forged to lure Jedi here."

Anakin blinks with confusion. He looks at the lightsaber mark on Obi-Wan's shoulder and the pieces start to fall together.

"We fought... I did this... and I hurt you," he says, shame filling him.

"To be fair," Obi-Wan shrugs. "I accidentally injured your shoulder so don't feel bad about something you didn't consciously do."

Still, Anakin bows his head and stares at the floor. He messed up and got them both hurt in the process. Probably lost the artifact as well. When will I stop being such a screw-up?

A finger taps at his chin, and Anakin looks up to see Obi-Wan looking at him with a comforting gaze. There is no anger or disappointment in his face or the Force that flows between them. "This was not your fault, Anakin. In fact, you did amazingly. You were the one who stopped the Sith, forced it from your body and sent it back into the Force where it cannot hurt anyone anymore. You were brave and strong and didn't give up."

Anakin smiles, the negative feelings melting away easily now. Obi-Wan slowly pulls himself to his feet and reaches his hand out to help Anakin up as well.

"Come, padawan. I've had quite enough of this mission."

They begin to stagger toward the door. Anakin looks over at the painting and feels his heart skip a beat. The woman is gone now, leaving only the simple background on the canvas. In the back of his mind, he can hear her now. Feel the darkness surround you, Skywalker. Embrace it. Use it. Fuel your power and extinguish the light.

But more clearly, he can hear Obi-Wan. You are stronger than it is. Fight against it. Take hold of the light.

Their commands echo through his mind, the Sith one becoming quieter and quieter until it is gone completely. Relief finally washes through him as the darkness fades away.

They walk back through the dusty halls, slowly and leaning on one another. Anakin remembers their conversation as they walked these corridors earlier and smiles.

"I suppose this wasn't a boring mission after all,"

Obi-Wan sighs. "I should really stop wishing for mundane missions. There seems to be no such thing. We could be farming and you would find a way to attract trouble."

[parksseonghwas]

espresso martinis and red hair.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

part one!

a/n: there is some wording that, now that i read it, implies???? seonghwa drugged the reader.

i promise he did not!!! for those who aren’t very knowledgable in drink/alcoholic beverages, vodka is a really strong alcohol no matter what it’s mixed with (oftentimes it’s >=30% alcohol) so if the reader has a particularly weak alcohol tolerance it won’t take much vodka to make them very drunk!

that’s how i’ve intended for it to be written! this kinda turned into seongsang x reader sorry :\

another point is that the alcohol names? they’re from irish pubs or bars haha, i’m irish and yeah,,, please don’t joke about the stereotypes

i’m so sorry to the requests i put off to write this

ೃ❅,. ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ┊͙ w/c: 2,316

—

park seonghwa was skilled at his job. he grabbed the bottle of kahlua—topped by a speed pourer, of course—with his index and middle finger, flipped it to pour the intoxicating liquid into a metal, double-sided cocktail measure, which would soon flip into a shaker made from the same material. alongside other ingredients, he threw in vodka, espresso, and a handful of ice. the top was shoved onto the container, slapped, and there was a rough shaking sound emitting from the metal as he wasted no time with theatrics or shoddy cocktail shaking. his movements were oddly poetic though.

once he was satisfied with the amount of condensation gathering on the metal, he slowed his rigorous motions and his hand smacked the side of the cups, loosening the top and setting it aside to be washed. he disappeared for a moment to grab glasses that steamed and were surrounded by cold smoke, having been in the refrigerator. a strainer came into view, and the deceivingly shallow glasses were filled with what was known to many as an espresso martini. seonghwa delicately placed two coffee beans in the centre of the drink, and the display was complete.

you didn’t order this. you were about to order, but your ever-so-knowledgable friend told you that “seonghwa makes a drink that he knows you won’t be able to resist”, but... an espresso martini? one of the most basic cocktails? there would have to be a fucking bunny rabbit appearing from the glass for you to be impressed or found to be unable to resist it.

your mouth opened to make a snarky comment, but the bartender’s eyebrow raised in a “you dare to challenge my intuition?” manner, and you found yourself sheepishly accepting the drink. the knowledge that he made you weak would later make seonghwa’s ego inflate like a damn balloon.

the man was all chains, piercings, and cockiness. the bar was a small joint, cosy, but not too comfortable. dimly lit, not dark. it felt shady, but homely. he was free of customers after he made your drink so he danced to the beat of the music pulsating through the speakers, hips swaying and his body completely under his command. his dyed red hair fell over his eye as he watched you take the first sip. a smirk grew on his face as he saw the look of surprise, confusion, and awe overtake your features.

another point to hwa, he laughed internally. really, he’d lost score of how many customers he pleased.

“okay, what the fuck did you do to this drink? why does the martini taste so good?” the snappy words were in the open before you had a chance to filter them, and the previous cheeky smirk was replaced with a laugh and a warm smile. he guessed the reaction, he’s used to it.

the last thing you remember him saying is, “a magician never reveals his secrets.”

NIGHT TWO

the next morning you woke up alone, thankfully. nonetheless, his words echoed in your head, no matter how loud your music blared and wrecked your head. the crimson red colour of his hair would come to your memory every so often, and you hated that he had such a magnetic presence. if you weren’t so hungover, you would have considered going for a second round of drinks with your friend. you guessed he used a higher quality vodka, or a better coffee liqueur because damn just a couple of those martinis made you paralytic.

to your dismay, a magician would never reveal his secrets.

the sound of ice and alcohol mixing in the shaker. the almost kaleidoscopic vision of his hands gripping the metal. the scent of intoxication with a faint coffee undertone in the air. the taste of pure heaven on your tongue as a new style of a basic drink flowed from the opening of your lips right down the back of your throat.

fuck seonghwa.

fuck seonghwa!

his cocky attitude, the smile on his lips once he noticed that his prediction was correct. you could kill him, really. you could kill your dear friend too, she probably told him about the drink, the fucker.

your mind was made up. when the bastard hangover shifted, you made your way to your wardrobe. not long afterwards you were dressed up, not to the nines or anything fancy. it was a bar, not a nightclub or an upscale restaurant. you were trying to prove a point to a skilled bartender who just happened to put a satisfying spin on a drink you hadn’t tasted in months.

high heels emitted a muted clack against a sticky floor, a constant reminder that the owner of the bar probably didn’t give a fuck who dropped their drinks. similar music blurred into the background, the bass vibrating below the soles of your feet as you made your way to the remaining empty barstool.

a cloth squeaked and twisted against a glass as seonghwa cleaned the remnants of beer from it. he wore a white and red patterned shirt, the sleeves rolled and crunched at his elbows. his forearms tensed and flexed as he cleaned, his voice low and smooth as he converses with his fellow bartender, who you knew—or rather... your friend knew—as hongjoong.

the pair discussed whatever topic came to mind, and they seemed comfortable with each other. the elder of the two lifted his head as though he sensed your presence, and swivelled on his heels to face you with a devilish smile. hongjoong simply went to serve another over-eager customer who was practically begging to be slapped.

“espresso martini girl. i’ll assume you’re wanting the same drink again?” a barely there glint in his eye meant that he was enjoying this, revelling in the thrill he got from knowing you were getting more and more flustered.

“i’ll have you know i do have a name.” the words came out sharp, snappy, snarky. you hated that he brought out this nature in you, but you really couldn’t help it. his playful attitude combined with his stunning looks was an equation that equalled you being an internal mess.

a mirthless laugh filled the short space of air between you and the mixologist. either he was impressed by the balls you thought you had to speak to him in such a manner, or he was pissed off. the second option sounded rather terrifying, though.

“i know your name. you were wasted last night and shouting it at the top of your lungs while you ordered rounds for the whole bar.“ the sharp clunky against the bar signalled that seonghwa was satisfied with how clean the glass was.

a flash of a memory came at his description of the night previous.

a loud cheer resounded from your lips as your friend tried to quieten you down, and you mimicked her shushing action overdramatically. “a round of shots for everyone in the bar!” you cried out, brandishing your empty shot glass in the air. seonghwa himself suggested that shots may be a better option since the martinis were loaded with vodka.

“really, i think you were lucky i knew you were fucking wasted and didn’t mean a word of it.” he pulled out a footed pilsner glass, tilted it, and pulled the lever on the coors light tap, then poured the drink with an expert hand. with little foam gathering at the top, seonghwa gave the drink to an older man who seemed knowledgeable in his alcohol taste; judging from the cold glass of coors light sitting in front of him, you knew different.

your eyes rolled instinctively, and your blood boiled with the knowledge that he was right. or... was your blood boiling because you were too hot in the small bar? you weren’t wearing heavy layers or large coats, so what was the explanation for the amount of heat rushing through every inch of your skin?

“fuck you, i wasn’t wasted!” you retorted weakly. both of you knew it was false though.

“wasted or not, did i get your order right last night?“ he leaned over, arms crossed and propping him up just mere centimetres from

you. the scent of various drinks cling to him like a newfound lifeline, and inhaling felt like taking a new drug.

“no, i drink cosmopolitans. but it was a nice shake-up, if you’ll excuse the pun.” cheeky smiles warped your features, knowing you had outsmarted the apparently all-knowing bartender. you watched his own expression contort into one of confusion.

how did he get it wrong? how did he manage to fuck up the one thing he thought set him apart from other mixologists and bartenders? he’ll admit that the pun was mildly amusing. however, if it was to be paired with the fact that he messed up that badly? he was never going to forget it.

you were never going to let him live it down either, and the hours of relentless teasing made the minutes slip away into nothing. you didn’t even feel the time pass, or maybe that’s because he made you a couple more martinis, and you were tipsy once again.

though... you couldn’t really tell if it was the alcohol or his presence that was intoxicating you. maybe it was a mixture of both.

before long, hongjoong was gone and replaced with a completely different presence. the new worker was threatening, yet he seemed comforting. sharply contrasted hair, large numbers of piercings, dark makeup and outfits made him seem... too scary. he smiled at his coworker, seonghwa, and his lips curled to reveal a smiley piercing, almost complementary to the bar that ran through seonghwas bottom lip.

“yeosang, you look like a fucking ghoul mask with that makeup.” seonghwa laughed, a smooth sound you had become all too accustomed to.

imagine hearing it when he’s teasing you relentlessly in bed.

woah. where did that thought come from? you screwed your eyes shut and your hand came too sharp to your forehead with an unflattering smack. maybe it triggered more lewd thoughts, but you’d never tell them to the stranger across from the bar, especially when you weren’t totally sober.

pulled by an invisible thread, yeosang took seonghwa’s place in your line of sight. he got to be centimetres away from your face, and he was almost mocking you. you were tipsy from little to nothing. hell, you even asked seonghwa to “slow it down!” when he was pouring the cîroc. you knew your shit, that was 40% alcohol and 100% a bad decision if you weren’t intending on getting wasted.

he picked up a glass and poured water into it, pushing it back across the bar to you, “i think we can safely cut you off there, hm?” he teased, knowing full well he had no control over how much a customer can drink. still, the gesture sent a fluttering feeling to your chest. he was all piercings and hard exterior, but god he seemed soft.

the aftercare must be godly if he’s like this when you’re sober.

maybe you need to get away from the bar. the bartenders being pretty and your mind being intoxicated was doing nothing to stop any new thoughts from flooding in unwarned and unannounced. yet, the horror on your face after four futile attempts at turning on your phone alerted yeosang that something wasn’t right.

“what’s happened? you look worried.” his features warped and his previously stone cold expression changed into one of pure concern. you laughed mirthlessly, and you watched as the mixologist tilted his head in confusion. what was so funny to you?

“my phones dead. i was about to call a taxi and get out of here but my phone battery clearly had other plans.” your elbows came to rest on the surface of the bar, your chin in your palms and your head shaking in pure disbelief. this night was fantastic, you were bantering with the pretty bartender who blew your mind, and now there’s another equally pretty bartender pitying you as you lamented the loss of your one connection to a way home.

“what phone do you have? one of us might have a charger we can lend you.” after he finished speaking, one of your hands went into your jacket pocket and feebly threw the phone on the bar. yeosang inspected it under the lights—or lack thereof—and huffed out a breath of air in exasperation, “fuck. not the same charger we have, sorry.”

you raised your eyebrows with a flat expression, unfazed by the unfortunate news.

“we don’t have a freephone yet, so is there anything i can do?”

“unless you can personally drive me home, there’s not much you can do.”

maybe yeosang would regret his next words, maybe he wouldn’t. he didn’t really know because he was so used to being teasing and relentless in his mocking ways. if he was to wreck his image over a cute bar-goer, so be it!

“well... where do you live?”

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 15

Chapters: 15/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14]

Almost a year into their relationship, Martin's lease comes up.

There's brief romantic talk of them all moving in together, but they're all attached to their own spaces, especially with Gerry needing to keep his art studio, and it trails off without any real resolution.

When Martin's landlord doesn't want to renew and he essentially has no choice but to find a new place to live, he panics.

Jon is with him when he opens the letter, and witnesses the heartbreak on his face, a look far more appropriate to the death of a loved one than to having to move house.

He understands though. This is Martin's first home. The first rent he paid, the first freedom he claimed. The first place he had whispered 'I love you' to Jon, and the first place Gerry had pressed his lips to Martin's.

Jon is settled in his own flat in a more practical way. It's close to the library, Gerry's bar and also to Martin's bookstore, but he still understands Martin's heartache, even if it is detached from his scope of personal attachment.

As Jon takes the time to think things through, he knows they're being silly. When was the last time he had commuted to work from his own flat? And if Martin had to move anyway, why shouldn't the three of them be living together? Gerry would happily spend every spare second with them and frequently tells them so.

At their knock, Gerry opens the door in a pair of leather pants and not much else, hair faded out from navy to a soft violet.

He physically reacts to see Martin tear-stained and Jon frowning intensely at his side.

"Why tears? Who do I need to murder?" Gerry mutters darkly as he draws Martin inside and into his arms.

"He has to move out of his flat," Jon tells him angrily, still standing in the doorway.

"Oh, love." He whispers, rocking Martin gently.

"It's so stupid to cry about it. It's just a shitty little flat." He hiccups into Gerry's chest.

"Fuck that. We all know better than that. That flat was important to you," Gerry retreats further into the studio, dragging his weepy partner with him and leaving Jon to shut the door. "And you're important to us, so here's the plan. Gertrude and I are gonna dig up some dirt, we're gonna have a little chat with your landlord, and he's gonna agree to sell you your flat. Problem solved."

Martin laughs wetly as he is deposited in the cushion pile and Gerry follows him down to sit in front of him and take his hands.

Jon strips his jacket and scarf off and tosses them on the couch (the biggest indication of his upset, really, as he normally always meticulously hangs things up), before flopping down on the floor with them. Martin and Gerry offer a hand each, and they sit in a triangle, connected.

"Gerry, you can't blackmail my landlord into selling me my flat." Martin starts, voice still choked with tears, "Not least of all because I can't afford to buy it anyway. I already have a business loan, not to mention all the debt from before my mother died."

Apparently able to sense any great excess of emotion, Luna and Saturn wander in and both attempt to curl up in Martin's lap. Jon takes Saturn, leaving Luna to her tearful human. Martin smiles gratefully and disentangles his hands to pet behind her ears.

There's silence for a moment as they consider Martin's words. Gerry opens his mouth, closes it, then decides to say what he wants to anyway. "I could lend you the money. Or give it to you. Whichever you prefer."

The look on his face could be accurately described as casually angelic, and he reaches out a hand to stroke Saturn benevolently.

Martin and Jon stare at him, stunned.

"What do you mean?" Jon eventually prods him, incredulously.

Gerry opens his mouth to respond, but Jon senses the sass coming and adds, "A real answer please," rather firmly.

"Fine then," Gerry mutters, rolling his pretty teal eyes. "I have some money in savings. And in investments and stuff, I'm not actually irresponsible, despite what my appearance might imply. And the years I spent galivanting about the county. And Europe." He shrugs, rambling on, "Okay, maybe I am irresponsible."

His partners stare at him for a moment, then exchange a look.

“Define some money?” Jon says, poking him in the ribs. Gerry tells them.

“What!?” At Jon’s exclamation, Gerry blushes from the roots of his hair, and all the way down his bare chest.

"Where did you get it?" Martin finally asks.

"From selling my paintings?" Gerry responds, but it comes out as a question, and he rubs his burning neck in embarrassment.

"And," Jon says, voice carefully neutral; having regained some sense of composure, "why do you keep your job at the bar if you have enough money to casually offer to buy Martin a flat?"

"Don't feel left out Jon, I'll buy your flat too." Gerry offers, smiling at him beatifically.

"Gerry…" Martin lets out his name in the significant tone of voice that lets him know this is a 'serious conversation'™ and to get his shit together.

"Okay, okay," Gerry flaps his hands uncomfortably. "At first it was just because I was convinced that the painting money was gonna dry up and I didn't want to be left in the lurch. I've always operated anonymously and that made it hard to make money as an artist, it was only when Gertrude joined the crusade that I found any success. She insisted that people would buy prints online, and she was right. The digital art and prints were really popular, and it led to people wanting the originals." Gerry pauses and shakes his head in disbelief. "And Gertrude always has to be extra about everything, so she sold them at fucking auction instead of pricing them, which made me seem edgy and exclusive."

"You are edgy and exclusive," Jon interrupts to insist, a slight petulant edge staining his voice.

"Thanks," Gerry mutters, still blushing. "Anyway, so then I had all this money, but I was convinced it wouldn't last and now it's been years and it's only gotten worse and I was panicking so Gertrude took half the money and helped me put it into investments, which have mostly been pretty successful too, so now I have all this fucking money that I don't know what to do with, so Martin, would you like a flat?" Gerry ends his monologue slightly hysterical and Martin laughs out loud at the slight desperation in his voice.

"Do you even own this flat? I've been wondering how you could possibly afford it." Martin asks him, gesturing around at the massive space in one of the most up-and-coming parts of London.

"Yes, it's one of the only significant things I've ever actually paid for with the art money. You know, to do art in."

"And were you ever planning to mention this?" Jon queries, sounding slightly put out. He frowns down at the cat, instead of his ridiculous boyfriend. Saturn decides at that moment that he's had enough belly-rubs, and without warning, sinks his claws in, bites Jon's hand and then scurries off. Jon glares at his fluffy black tail as it disappears up the stairs and Gerry tries very hard not to laugh at him.

"Jonathan!" Martin scolds him, pushing his shoulder gently to regain his attention. "Gerry doesn't have to tell us about his finances."

Jon pouts even harder.

"Jon's right, I should have said something. I just didn't want it to be a big deal." Gerry responds, voice quiet and unusually reserved. He looks a little adrift and helpless, and they can see just how uncomfortable the money talk has made him.

Jon sighs and dislodges the stick from up his ass. "It's not a big deal, love, I'm only surprised. I'm glad it's out the way now." He collects Gerry's hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Gerry relaxes and tugs Jon closer to kiss him, before offering the same to Martin.

They all sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, digesting the day's many revelations.

“Not that I’m not incandescently happy to see you both, but why did you actually come over?” Gerry asks eventually.

“Oh,” Martin sits up straighter, remembering their original objective. He looks down at the cat in his lap, stroking its back in an effort to distract himself. “It’s a little awkward actually.”

Gerry raises his eyebrows, thinking of what could make Martin feel awkward after all the things they’ve done together, occasionally right where they are currently sitting.

"Do tell." Gerry urges him. Martin and Jon share a look. Gerry rolls his eyes at the pair of them. "Come on, guys, whatever it is, just tell me. It can't possibly be that bad. Unless you're breaking up with me? Because fuck that."

"No, Gerry," Jon says, sounding amused. "The opposite."

"The opposite?" Gerry asks, frowning.

"Yes, the opposite," Jon tells him more firmly. "We were thinking," Martin makes a small nose at this, "that is, I was thinking, that since Martin has to move anyway, the three of us should finally take the plunge."

"You know," Gerry mutters peevishly, "I love riddles as much as the next overdramatic goth with a young adult book obsession, but could you please spit it the fuck out."

"Jonthinksweshouldallmoveintogetherhere." Martin finally rushes out, breathlessly.

"Martin, baby, those are separate words."

He takes a deep breath and tries again. "Jon thinks we should all move in together, here, with you."

Gerry sits up taller abruptly, a wide grin spreading over his handsome face. "What, really? You actually want to."

"Well, yes," Jon says, although his voice still sounds nervous.

"Okay great. Luna and Saturn are gonna love this." Gerry jumps up excitedly. "So I know you guys like having your own personal space, and I always have my art shit everywhere, but I've been thinking and I think we can make you both comfortable here too."

Martin and Jon share a perplexed look at Gerry's sudden frenetic burst of energy.

"We'll be comfortable here no matter what," Martin rushes to reassure him.

"Hush," Gerry speaks over him. "We both know you're just saying that because you feel like an inconvenience. But you're not and we all have to make this our home. Come, come on, I want to show you."

Gerry grabs a hand from each of them and drags them behind him and around and under the wide stairs that lead up to the loft space.

He leads them to two doors under the stairs, leading them into one. It's a large storeroom, technically, and Gerry has filled it with extra paint, canvases of many different sizes, and a plethora of other painting supplies. There aren't any windows, and the industrial light makes the space look stark. The scent of oil paint and turpentine is pervasive, but homey since those are things they associate heavily with Gerry himself.

"They're both the same. I've been thinking that if you two ever did want to move in here, you could take one each. A creative space just for yourselves, or your own bedrooms if you need some space once in a while. If you want them." His typical self-confidence is slightly lacking, the nervous twist of his fingers belaying his nerves at the admission.

"Oh Gerry," Martin says with something akin to wonder in his voice.

"But aren't you using them?" Jon asks, never one to let romanticism come in the way of practicality.

Gerry shrugs, "I've been thinking of having cupboards installed in the studio space and moving all this in there anyway. It will be more convenient for me when I'm working and it will be worth it to have you here all the time."

Gerry pauses, brow furrowing. "I've also considered moving the art studio in here so you two don't have to trip over my art stuff all the time."

Martin and Jon both understand the significance of that offer, knowing that Gerry's favourite things about this place are the high ceilings, giant windows, and natural lighting at most times of the day and even at night.

"You would be willing to give up your art space for us?" Martin asks in some wonder.

"Well yeah, of course," Gerry says as if it's obvious. "We'll all have to share the bedroom then, but the living space will be bigger. Whatever you would prefer."

"Just like that?" Jon's blunt incredulity finally tips Gerry off to their shock.

"Oh come on. I obviously haven't been a very good boyfriend if you two don't already know that you're more important to me than painting." It was the most romantic thing Gerry could say to anyone, really.

Martin kisses him, tearing up again.

"What did I say? Don't cry, love." He reaches up to wipe the tears away, and Martin offers him a wobbly smile.

Jon goes over to kiss him too. "You love us more than art."

"We're going in circles here. Yes, I love you both more than literally anything." Gerry is starting to wonder if they're being obtuse on purpose.

"We love you too," Jon tells him emphatically.

"Of course you do. I'm delightful." They all dissolve into laughter at that, the weighty mood breaking with it.

"So do you think you'll both be happy here?" Gerry asks when the laughter has faded.

Even standing in the mildly dusty storeroom and breathing in paint fumes, Jon knows the answer already. "I think we might be able to make it work."

[p-artsypants]

I’ll Handle This (6)

In Which Plagg is Annoying

So, my beloved Fiancé really likes Magic: The Gathering. He’s taught me how to play it, and talks about it a lot, but I still don’t really understand it. It’s a complicated game. So this chapter has sections of me purposefully badly explaining the game, sorry if that bothers you lol. 

Ao3 | FF.net

—

Adrien awoke curled in a ball. His bed was extremely soft, and he sunk right into it. 

Oh, except it was a pillow. He was still in Plagg’s tiny Kwami body. Great. 

He yawned and stretched, realizing that he was alone in his bed. 

“Plagg?” He asked the room. 

There was no answer, but the bathroom door was closed. 

Plagg was most likely getting him ready, or his human body, ready for school. 

Before Adrien could imagine the worst case scenario, the bathroom door opened, and Plagg emerged. 

Adrien stared, and then declared loudly, “NO.” 

“Yes!” Said Plagg, flouncing into Adrien’s closet. 

“How—why? When?!” 

Plagg brought his pre-chosen outfit into the main room, and started to get dressed, carefully slipping the purple tiger striped shirt over his expertly gelled Mohawk. 

“Did you not see me buy that ultra super strong hair gel yesterday?” 

“I didn’t see anything you bought yesterday,” said Adrien with frustration. “I was in your pocket the whole time, remember?” 

“Oh, then you’re in for a treat!” He slipped on an over shirt, that was black with orange leopard spots. 

“Oh god...”

“You should have been more careful about what you brought home from shoots,” Plagg sang. “Love the leopard spots. Though I’m just a black cat, mixing up my coat on occasion would be fun.” 

“I kept that shirt because I thought it was funny, or it would be good for a costume. You can’t honestly wear it!” 

Plagg blew him a raspberry. “Oh suck it up buttercup! It’ll be fine!” 

Adrien watched with other things on his mind as Plagg finished dressing. Brown pants, rolled up with mismatched argyle socks, and then the same green sunglasses to cover his cat eyes.

“I think I have a photo shoot with Lila after school,” said Adrien. 

“And?” 

“And you should probably attend it. I know you want to piss off my dad and blow off responsibilities that aren’t Miraculous related, but modeling is my job. I’m still under a contract and I get paid for it. That money goes to my college fund, which I intend to use to pick my own career.” 

“What’s one missed shift to the son of the company?”

“A strike against me, and a loss of around a thousand euros.” 

Plagg swiveled his head to look at him. “That much? Is Lila making that too?” 

“No.” Adrien chuckled. “I am in high demand and so I make more. She makes around 15 euros an hour. That’s why she always drags photoshoots on for so long. Me and some of the other models get paid per gig.” 

Plagg scoffed. “That’s stupid.” 

“So will you behave for three hours?” 

“No,” said Plagg, smoothing his shirt and hair. “But I’ll participate in the shoot and play nice with the photographer. Lila, on the other hand, I have plans for.” 

Adrien looked at him warily. “...alright.” 

Doing a once-over, Plagg declared, “just one more accessory, the piece de resistance...” he reached into a plastic bag from his shopping yesterday. 

Adrien gaped in horror. “NO. NO NO NO!” 

—

Gabriel walked from the kitchen back to his office, coffee mug in hand. Dealing with Adrien’s rebellion had been a PR nightmare, but he was able to spin Adrien’s outfit yesterday, as out of character as it was, as merely a phase. A phase which he would grow out of soon, but one that was necessary for Adrien to grow, to explore his own style, to learn fashion in his own mind. The media ate it up, and several articles would be coming out in the next week or so. 

Then the boy in question streaked by him in a kaleidoscope of color. 

Gabriel sputtered on his coffee, staining his suit with the brown liquid, but not caring a bit.

“Adrien?!” He shouted, beyond horrified. He couldn’t tell what was worse, the patterns? The colors? The hair? NO. 

“Where did you get crocs?” Gabriel asked, as Adrien reached the unfortunately unlocked door. 

He turned for just a second, long enough to shout. “Ask my butt, old man!” Before the door shut behind him. 

Gabriel had to call those magazines back. 

—

Plagg arrived at school, drawing the attention of every student mingling there. Some stared in horror, while others held in laughter. 

A student passed Plagg and raised a fist. “Nice duds, dude! Stick it to the man!” 

Plagg responded with a gleeful grin and matching fist bump. 

“Oh my god,” said Nino, as he arrived. “You look amazing.”

“My dad spilled coffee on himself this morning, and the look on his face was totally worth it.”

“God, I wish I could have been there.” Nino sighed. 

“It was pretty amazing, not going to lie.” 

“Oh, while we have a second...I was hoping to have a sleepover this weekend. Marinette and Alya would come over for the evening, and then leave in time for dude’s night. You in?” 

“Just you and me?” 

“Yeah, if that’s cool.” 

“Absolutely! After school tomorrow?” 

“Yeah! Marinette said your schedule was open.” 

“Marinette knew that? I didn’t even know that.” 

“I think she keeps track of that stuff for class activities.” He cleared his throat, not looking at him. “And for no other reason besides that.” 

Plagg chuckled to himself. God, Nino was the worst liar. “I understand. Someone’s got to know my schedule if I don’t.” 

“Marinette is the best, after all.” Nino puffed up his chest, doing his damndest to be a good wingman. 

Plagg didn’t think he needed to try so hard, but props. “She is the best, isn’t she?” 

Nino smiled widely, like he had a secret joke that wouldn’t make sense to anyone. 

A pair of arms wound around his own, squeezing tightly like a boa constrictor. “Good morning Adrien!” Lila chirped. 

“Morning,” Plagg returned, playing casual in front of Nino. 

“I need to talk to you about the photoshoot after school.” She turned to Nino. “Can I borrow your buddy for a minute?” 

“You can have him for five minutes.” Nino winked. 

Lila giggled, sounding pretty realistic to an untrained ear. “Thanks Nino!” Without waiting for Plagg’s permission, she dragged him away to a sequestered corner of the courtyard. 

Before Plagg could even ask what was in her mind, she turned and faced him, expression full of vitriol and rage. It was not a face he’d seen on many mortals. 

“Don’t think I can’t see what you’re trying to do, Adrien.” Her voice was cold, sharp, and harsh. 

Adrien shivered in Plagg’s pocket. 

“And that would be...?”

“Trying to weasel your way out of our little agreement.” 

Plagg blinked, remembering the arrangement they had prepared a while ago. It’s what had gotten Marinette un-expelled. Just schmooze with the brat and she’d leave Marinette alone. But it was very apparent she was ready to take any violation of this agreement as an invitation to jump right back into her conniving ways. 

Plagg would hold out for now, play the long game. He had a plan, and if that failed for some unexplainable reason, then he had another one lined up. It was just a matter of finding out what bait Lila would take. 

He feigned a gasp, as well as she would, and laid a hand on his chest. “Oh Lila, whatever are you talking about? I’m just having a little disagreement with my dear old dad. It’s nothing against you! Honest!” 

She squinted at him. “You’re still on the schedule to model with me later today, so I’m assuming you didn’t actually quit modeling. If you had, this would have turned sour.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Modeling is our ‘fun friendship’ activity, and if you try to get out of it, I’m going to assume you don’t care about Marinette after all.” She shrugged. 

He laughed, a dark sinister laugh that didn’t belong on his handsome, sweet, cherubic face. “You mortals are just so cute when you think you can win against me.”

The look on Lila’s face was perfect. Part confused, part terrified. “What?” 

He spoke with a voice older than time, conjuring magics from the ancient unknowns. “Dos valok th’um krosis!” 

“Did...did you just cast a spell on me?” 

“I don’t know, you tell me. How do your lips feel?” 

She pursed her lips. “I don’t know, a little—“ 

“CHAPPED?” Provided Plagg, with a shit-eating grin. 

“Oh my god.” 

“Do not test me, Lila Rossi. You won’t win.” He gave her a pleasant little smile. 

She stared in bewilderment, before chuckling right back. “Boy, you had me for a second.” She pulled out a tube of chapstick and applied some. “Are you trying to psych me out? Cause it’s not going to work.” 

“Well darn,” said Plagg with a little snap of his fingers. “Thought my necromancy could spook you off. Well, if that didn’t do it, I guess you really do want to be my friend, no matter how quirky I can be.” He gave a happy little sigh. 

Lila was immediately suspicious. “Sure, I want to be your friend...?” It wasn’t supposed to be a question, but Lila wasn’t convinced. 

Unless Adrien really was that naïve. 

“Great!” Plagg clapped. “I have to go talk to Marinette, but we’ll hang out at the shoot! It’s going to be so much fun!” And he hurried off. 

Lila narrowed her eyes back in his direction. There was definitely fishy about that exchange. She couldn’t very well text Gabriel and say, “there’s something suspicious about your son. He actually wants to be my friend. Also he chapped my lips.” That would be too confusing and send all the wrong messages. 

So she resigned to wait until the photoshoot after all. Since, of course, he couldn’t keep up this act for several hours in a row. She could, but she was a professional. 

Her musings came to a halt as she heard the wonderful noise of Marinette’s scream. “MY EYES!!” 

Lila hurried from her nook to find out what had happened. Had someone sprayed her with mace? Pocket sand? 

No. Adrien was merely striking poses in front of her, and she had recoiled in horror. 

“Adrien!” She stated, aghast. “How could you?!” 

He posed again, butt in her direction. “You like?” 

“It’s foul. Are those crocs?!”

“Yep! I contemplated on getting the little ladybug plugs for the holes, but I didn’t really think it was worth it. After all, how often do you look at a man’s feet?” 

“In that outfit, it’s going to be too hard to tell what part is the worst.” Her eyes bounced over the competing patterns and made her dizzy. “Well here,” she handed over a hanger covered with a trash bag. “Your sin against fashion has been committed. I’m willing to do more, but don’t attach my name to it.” 

Adrien just laughed. “Don’t worry, Pooh Bear, your secret is safe with me.” 

Lila’s lips curled in disgust at the nickname. Obviously, she would tell Gabriel that Marinette was enabling his behavior. Maybe she could spin it as her influence all together. Yes, yes, that would work. Two stones and all that. 

—

After school, Lila rode with Adrien to the photoshoot. 

Boy, if she wanted a taste of what the day would be like, she certainly got it. And she should have taken the chance to run. 

“So Nino and I started playing this game with the guys in class,” Adrien had begun, without so much as a greeting. “Have you heard of Magic: The Gathering?” 

“...no?”

“Oh okay, so I’ll tell you all about it.” 

As a master manipulator, Lila understood the masterful art of conversation. There were several strategies she had developed over the years. Her favorite was ‘talk passionately and allow for natural lulls in explanation so they can ask questions’. It made people feel engaged and kept them coming back for more, while she was perceived as interesting and smart, but also humble.

However, it seemed that Adrien was utilizing the beginners mistake of ‘poorly explain a subject you’re not really passionate about without letting the other person talk’. Like an underpaid substitute teacher filling in for a class they don’t know much about.

“So like, there are these cards with different landscapes on them, and they’re all different based on color, right? So there’s water or islands for blue and mountains and stuff for red, right? And each one is worth mana. And you have to use mana to play a card. Except for lands, I think. You can play those whenever, except you have to draw them, you can’t just go searching through your deck. Unless a card tells you you can.” 

Finally, they arrived at the shoot, and Lila nearly fell out of the car in her haste to get away for some peace and quiet, just for a second. 

Who knew that boy could talk so much? 

—

Plagg and his mohawk were led to the makeup trailer. Thankfully for the hairstylist, it came with a salon sink, so Adrien didn’t have to go home and shower. 

“Sorry, Mr. Agreste,” the stylist said as she draped a cape on him. “We have to flatten the mohawk.” 

“That’s alright,” Plagg assured with a polite smile. “It served its purpose.”

“It was very well done, honestly,” she said with a laugh. “For not having the sides of your head shaved, that is.” 

“I had to work with what I had.” 

The stylist just hummed in understanding, as she started to rinse his hair, the gel melting and washing down the drain. 

The stylist sighed, and gave a little huff to herself. 

Plagg normally wouldn’t care, but if his meddling had inconvenienced someone else’s job, that would reflect poorly on Adrien. So, he asked. “Is everything alright?”

“Umm...” she paused, biting her lip. “Look, we’re friends right?” 

Plagg didn’t even know this person’s name. “Of course.” 

“Are you close to Miss Rossi? I know you guys are friends...” 

“I hate her guts.” Plagg declared with a broad smile. 

“Oh good!” She relaxed. “I really really hate working on her. And so does everyone else, and last time she was here, she was just—Ugh, the worst. I got so frustrated because Giuseppe and your father like her, so even if I complained, nothing would happen. Likely, I’m the one that would get in trouble. You remember Alexander, right? The lighting assistant?” 

No. Not one bit. “Yeah?” 

“Well, she yelled at him one time during a shoot, in the back. Apparently, she wanted coffee and he wouldn’t get it for her, even though that’s soooo not his job. So she complained to Giuseppe and got him fired! Honestly, I don’t know how he didn’t get akumatized over that.” 

“I don’t either!” Plagg said, with surprise. “I knew she was a pain, but yikes...” 

“I think you’re a really cool kid, Adrien. But she’s going around and telling everyone you got her this job and—“ she sighed. “People are getting resentful.” 

Now Plagg was mad. It was immediately apparent that Lila had a ‘if I can’t have them, no one can’ attitude, turning the staff on Adrien if she couldn’t win them over with her outlandish lies. Adrien couldn’t afford having that many enemies. He was too soft. 

“Actually...” Plagg began to explain how Lila had wound up with her job, lying to Nathalie and Gorilla to get access to his house, lying to his father to get on his good side, and all the things she did to Marinette, who he took the bullet for to protect. “She means a lot to me,” Plagg said, in regards to Marinette. “So I didn’t mind having to pretend to be Lila’s friend if it meant she could come back to school and not be harassed anymore. It seems that Lila has a loose form of friendship.” 

The stylist wiped her eyes. “Oh Adrien, you’ve got such a heart of gold. I’ll set everything straight with the team. Don’t you worry!” 

“I actually have a plan, that you might let everyone in on. And I apologize in advance.” 

“Lay it on me.” 

—

By time Lila was called in to get ready, Plagg had been groomed into a normal looking boy with normal looking hair and clothes. Though normal protocol usually had Lila in hair and make-up alone with the stylists, Plagg sat in a chair nearby, separated from her by a curtain. 

“Adrien? Shouldn’t you be out there?”

“Oh it’s okay, I wanted to keep telling you about this game.”

“Oh, well, you shouldn’t keep Giuseppe…”

“He won’t mind. So, there’s a bunch of colors, right? Red, Black, Green, Blue, White, and…one more. I think there’s one more.” 

A sigh was heard from the other side of the curtain. 

“No, no I was right, there’s only five. But you can combine them. But not like, mix them? It’s like, Blue-Black, and Red-Black. And Green-Blue. And so different colors have different themes, right? And the themes are different based on the set. Oh yeah, there’s different sets and Wizards of the Coast release like, two or three sets a year. I think. Like they had this one that was all about Dinosaurs and pirates. But they usually aren’t that wacky. Unless it’s a joke set. Which that one wasn’t. I can’t remember the name of it right now, but it started with an ‘I’.” And he was off, explaining all he could remember of the game, from what Adrien had told him, to what he had heard while the boys played at school. If he could find a point to elaborate on, he did. 

Every once in a while, he’d make eye contact with a staff member, who would in turn grin and give a secret thumbs up. 

He started to run out of steam while Lila was in makeup. 

Thankfully, one of the technicians with a grudge noticed, and helped him out. “Would you ever play competitively?” 

Through the mirror, Plagg could see the lightbulb go off over Lila’s head. “You know, my grandfather was one of the chess masters of the world. He won lots of tournaments, and I’m sure he’d love to give you some pointers if you were interested, Adrien.” 

The technician answered for him. “Chess? We’re talking about Magic: The Gathering. Two totally different games. The tournaments are pretty fun too, but I really enjoy playing at pre-releases. They usually only allow you to play with the set you’re buying, so you can’t look at them beforehand…” 

Plagg beamed at the guy, thrilled with how quickly he had shut Lila down. 

Lila, however, was undeterred. She met the eyes of the female stylist and just shrugged. “Boys, right? So, this weekend—“ 

“Shh,” the stylist hushed. “I’ve been trying for weeks to learn this game.” 

Lila crossed her arms and sat silently for the rest of the session.

Once the models were all dolled up, they were escorted out to the set, and Giuseppe got to work with posing. 

Here’s where Lila tried to make up for lost attention. 

“Oh Giuseppe! I had such a wonderful idea for the shoot today! Since the gardens are in full bloom—“

“Which reminds me!” Plagg snapped his fingers. “Green-Black combination cards are really unique because they create a bunch of minions. Like, the cards in them have the ability to spam the battlefield with like a bunch of little guys called tokens that take a lot of extra work to get rid of. Well, like, not a ton of extra work, because they only have like one HP, but like, it's more work then you would have had to do. Wait, white, not black. Actually, I think white is the best at tokens, my mistake.” 

Despite her best efforts, Lila could not suppress a full body eye roll. 

It was exactly what Plagg was waiting for, and he jumped in for the finisher. He turned his sad kitten eyes to her, looking like Puss in Boots from Shrek, and asked, in the most pathetic voice he could muster. “Am I annoying you?” 

Lila stared at him, as the staff and Giuseppe looked right at her, to see her response. 

“I…I…” she stammered. “N-no, not at all, Adrien. I…love hearing about this game.” 

He beamed. “Good! Because I have to tell you about my favorite combination of Blue-black. It’s really high in conditions and making things difficult for the opponents, right?” 

Lila’s nostrils flared, but she held back any other sign of frustration. It was remarkable, really. 

Plagg was quiet while Giuseppe gave directions, and during the actual shooting, but in between takes, when he didn’t have to be ‘professional’ he filled in the silence with whatever jargon he could find. He was wearing her down. 

“Alright,” Giuseppe finally said. “We’re all done with you, Lila. Now it’s just Adrien’s solo shoot. But you can stay if you like.” 

Lila was already halfway to the trailers. “I’m so sorry Giuseppe, I have somewhere I have to be this evening, so I’m going to head out. I’ll see everyone next time!” And she practically sprinted off set. 

Once she left, Giuseppe gave a loud sigh of relief. “Now let’s get some real work done.” 

—

Later that evening, when Adrien and Plagg had returned to the mansion, Adrien sat on the desk as Plagg scrolled online. Homework had been completed with ease, and it was still too early for bed.  

“What are you reading?” Adrien asked. 

“I’m trying to slog my way through the lore of that video game you like, the one with the Dragons. I have to have more ammunition the next time I deal with Lila. I almost ran out today.” 

“Is that what I sound like?”

“What?”

“You today, when you were talking about Magic. Is that what I sound like to you? Do I ramble on?” 

Plagg screwed up his lips in thought. “Mmmm, sometimes.” 

Adrien hunched in on himself. 

“But look. Culture and creative medium has grown astronomically in the last 200 years since I’ve been asleep. I want to know about what’s out there. I like hearing about things that you enjoy. Even if it is annoying sometimes, I still care about you. The reason I pulled this strategy is because Lila likes to talk, and she doesn’t like to listen. Even if I was talking passionately about something I knew a lot about, I doubt she would have cared. I hear how often she interrupts class.” 

Adrien hadn’t thought about it like that. 

“You know who Pavlov is, right?”

“Uh, the guy that did the experiment with the dog, right? He rang a bell and gave his dog a treat, and eventually the dog came to associate the bell with treats.” 

“Precisely. Humans are the same way. Knowing this principle is the easiest way to win people over. You have to make them associate you with good feelings. If you treat people well, be friendly, courteous, and funny, eventually, people will like to be around you. The same works in reverse. If I can associate myself with frustration and annoyance for Lila, she won’t want to be around me. Being straight up mean to her won’t work because she’ll see that as a challenge.”

“So you have to be subtle,” Adrien concluded.  “Thats…that’s genius.” 

“I know.” 

“So you don’t think I’m annoying?” 

Plagg rubbed him between the ears. “I only found you annoying when you would complain about Ladybug, your dad, or Lila. But now, in your shoes, I’ve realized how easy it is to get frustrated about these things. But hopefully soon enough, you won’t even have to worry about it.” 

Adrien smiled brightly. “Thanks Plagg. I hated this at first…but you really are making some progress.” 

“Told you. Now, help me pack. You have your first sleepover tomorrow night.” 

“My first sleepover, and I’m going to spend it crammed in a bag!”

[jasontoddiefor]

As Lightning to the Children Eased Chapter 5

In which we are still not back on Naboo but Anakin has a Force-breakdown! Read on AO3!

Padmé hadn’t been sure what to expect of their Jedi protectors when she had first met them. They had certainly protected them well against the invading droids, but they had still come too late. Her planet had been invaded, her people hurt, beaten, and forced to endure whatever cruelties she didn’t even dare imagine.

And all of that because the Jedi had been too late and hadn’t been able to talk to the Trade Federation.

For the first few minutes, adrenaline rushing through her veins, fear clinging to her heels and guilt squeezing her throat shut, Padmé had been angry like a child. She had been so incredibly frustrated at them and her own helplessness, even though intellectually she knew very well that it was not the Jedi’s fault that Naboo’s situation had come so far. If anything, she should be glad the Jedi had come at all.

Without their aid, Padmé would likely be rotting away in a cell now, or perhaps even be tortured, or be forced to watch her best friends be hurt just so that the Trade Federation would gain whatever advantage they were aiming for.

For the first time since she had been made Queen, Padmé truly doubted her chosen path. She wondered if any of the other candidates would have done better than her, but when she looked at Eirtaé she only saw the same worries staring back at her. In that split second Padmé was glad that it was Sabé acting as the Queen and that she as Padmé, the Handmaiden, could allow herself a moment of weakness where she didn’t have to hide her emotions.

It had been easier to be Queen when she was a mere representative of the government and not its whole body. The emergency laws now in power gave Padmé much more power than she should carry. They had been created when entertaining the possibility of an invasion, not because they had actually thought it would come this far.

Naboo was a part of the Republic – what use was the Republic if it could not protect its own?

She was bitter and exhausted and she wanted to go home. Not back to the suit in the palace, she wanted to go home to her family. She wanted to hug her parents and play games with her sister and leave this all behind and for once let somebody with more experience deal with it.

Unfortunately, this was not meant to be.

And whatever she had hoped to achieve in the Senate had also crumbled to dust with the Trade Federation once more speaking out against her. Bastards that they were, Padmé wanted to take out her hairpin and stab it right into the representative’s chest, see how he liked it when his heart broke as his people suffered and starved.

“Do you think going back is really the wisest option?” Sabé asked her as they got dressed. Padmé became the handmaiden once more as Sabé took on the appearance of Queen Amidala. It was really been a miracle and a blessing to have Sabé at her side. The Naboo were skilled in hiding their faces and their intentions, but Sabé and her had a special connection, or so it felt at times.

They were closer than sisters. Padmé would even go as far as to call them soulmates, two halves of the same mask.

“I’m not sure,” Padmé replied. She ought to be lying, to be reassuring her friends, but they would all just see through it. They had been taught to read her entire mind by the curl of her painted lips. “But what other option do we have?”

“Think the Jedi will come with us again?” Eirtaé asked. “They were useful, even little Ani.”

Rabé snorted out loud and tugged her hair beneath her hood.

“'Can I fly the ship? Do you know what planets are in this system? Have you ever had Alderaani pudding?’” Rabé’s voice was a little high pitched as she tried to copy the voice of the boy. “’Do you know what makes a star collapse?’”

They all sobered up at that last question.

Anakin had truly chattered endlessly during the whole trip, seemingly untouched by the events that had taken place around him. While his sunny demeanor had been nerve-wracking at first, Padmé had come to enjoy it. It was nice to focus on something that wasn’t politics for just a few hours at a time. Besides, Anakin had been so sure that they would manage to save her people. He had looked so serious as he had said it then, as if it was a fact already. Something about that had just made her want to believe him.

Truth be told, Padmé hadn’t thought that Anakin was old enough to be accompanying them, he was so young for such an undertaking. The Naboo were known for getting their children involved in politics at an age most systems wouldn’t even consider doing such, but he had still looked so much younger than them. Nevertheless, Master Kenobi and Jinn had treated him as their full mission partner.

But who was Padmé to judge the Jedi for their practices, especially after they had helped them so?

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t hurt to ask,” Padmé replied. “And Sabé never did get to share her famed pear pie recipe with him.”

“Oh, don’t remind me!” Sabé groaned. “I’d kill for one of those now!”

The group of girls descended into blissful laughter, the death threats hanging over their heads fading into the background.

X

Anakin was distracted, Qui-Gon was exhausted and Obi-Wan had to prove to the Council that he was a capable Master and that this mission had gone as well as it could have. From the way the other Jedi Masters were staring at them, he got the vague impression that he was not being as convincing as he could have been.

“-and that was when we landed here,” Obi-Wan finished his statement. “Anakin has proven himself capable and followed my directives exceptionally well.”

The slight joke hit its mark as it did make many Masters smile, if not outright grin. It was well-known that Anakin Skywalker was a little stubborn and all too willing to do things his own way if he thought he knew better. Oftentimes, that ended in utter chaos, for all that Anakin had the knowledge of the entire galaxy stored in his head somewhere, he was still a nine-year-old boy and kids his aged tripped and fell.

It was Obi-Wan’s job to ensure he would also get up again.

“The Queen wants to return to her planet,” Qui-Gon added after he’d been silent throughout the entire briefing.

Obi-Wan barely managed to hide a wince. He had taken over leading their mission briefings a couple of years ago, preparing for his Knighting. Qui-Gon only really spoke up to add to it or, in the cases that had them all stuck up here for hours, to argue about whatever conclusion he had reached and attempt to convince everyone of his opinion. In that way, he was very much Anakin’s grandmaster. “She has called for a vote of no confidence after her Senator’s urging.”

And that move was more than just a little shady. Destabilizing the Republic leadership now was not exactly the smartest move, but Obi-Wan was not a politician and chances were that whatever upheaval would come, it wasn’t going to do much to the Jedi Order. The Senate leadership had become stagnant over the years and their relationship with the Order hadn’t changed much. With every changing terms, the Order maybe got some more requests from Senators that were usually talked over as everybody else was busy gearing up for a campaign. Involving Jedi in your political campaign was always a risky move as public opinion of the Jedi tended to vary a lot. It was a safer bet to keep them out of politics.

“They have requested that we accompany them again,” Qui-Gon finished.

“A wise course of action you think this is?” Master Yoda asked. “Tired Padawan Skywalker is.”

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan both looked down at Anakin. He was exhausted, yes, reaching to somewhere far away, zoned out right up until Yoda addressed him.

“I need to go,” Anakin insisted, back straight. “It’s important.”

Obi-Wan actually wouldn’t mind handing the mission off to another pair of perhaps a more experienced Knights, but he knew that expression on Anakin’s face better than anybody else. He was determined to see this through and there was no telling what he’d do if he wouldn’t return to Naboo. Perhaps sneak onto the ship of the ones who would go.

“Are you sure?” Obi-Wan asked.

Anakin nodded, his sun-kissed face oddly pale. “Something’s coming. I need to be there.”

His tone of voice was ominous, his words dripped from his lips like a poisonous prophecy. The Force called and Obi-Wan heard its echo.

And with that their decision was settled.

X

They made a small stop at the crèche to greet Ahsoka. The excited youngling lit up as soon as she saw them and excused herself in only a short few words before she rushed into Anakin’s waiting arms. From there she quickly climbed upon Obi-Wan’s back and let herself be carried throughout the temple. They didn’t have much time here, not for more for a meal which they had to eat in the cafeteria as Shmi was apparently not in the temple.

“Where is Shmi Skywalker?” Qui-Gon asked the nearest Jedi, a Nautolan Master only a few years younger than himself, as he got something to eat for himself.

“Padawan Skywalker you mean?” the Knight asked, their eyes twinkling with amusement.

Qui-Gon stopped shoveling fruit salad onto his tray. “Padawan?”

The other Jedi Master grinned. “Oh, yes. Haven’t you wondered why Yaddle didn’t attend the Council meeting? She decided to take on Shmi as her Padawan. It was the most brilliant thing.”

Obi-Wan turned to Anakin, who had been caught up in a silent conversation with Ahsoka, miles and two realities away from where they were. “Did you know?”

Anakin tilted his head at the question and closed his eyes for a brief moment, concentrating. When he opened his eyes again, they were a kaleidoscope of colors, a thousand worlds within his sight.

“Yes,” he said his teeth just an edge too sharp in Obi-Wan’s vision. “The kyber’s whispering to her now. She’s going to bring the cleansing fires.” Anakin’s eyes faded to their usual blue color, though the flicker of sunlight didn’t leave them as he reached for Ahsoka’s hands, holding them tight. “It’s not going to like it.”

“It? Who?”

But Anakin stayed silent.

X

After their meal, Qui-Gon got the notification that the Queen’s departure was delayed and so they had another two hours to relax. As expected, Qui-Gon was dragged back to the Skywalker’s rooms where Anakin and Obi-Wan repacked for their mission. Qui-Gon spent that time napping on the Skywalker’s sofa with little Ahsoka sitting on his stomach, rambling about what she had been up to since they had left the temple. Qui-Gon was fairly sure that when he had been her age, his teachers hadn’t let him even touch a training saber, but the child described in detail how much fun she had had training with one. Saying goodbye to her again hurt a little and silently Qui-Gon vowed not to abandon his lineage or active mission duty until he got to see Ahsoka fight and grow into the terror she was bound to be.

They took a speeder to the hangers of the Senatorial suits where the Queen’s party was already waiting for them. Qui-Gon was glad to see that all the girls were accounted for and visibly perked up when they spotted the Jedi approach them.

“Master Jinn, Master Kenobi, Padawan Skywalker,“ one of the Handmaidens greeted them formally. “We are glad you’ve decided to return to Naboo for us.”

“Of course,” Qui-Gon retorted. “That’s what we are here for.”

“Still,” she replied. “The Queen is aware that you are doing more than we can ask of you three.”

Qui-Gon inclined his head and opened his mouth to speak when suddenly the world shifted-

Pain ripped through him, through the Force, sharp as a lightning strike. A sudden nausea overtook him and Qui-Gon felt as lost as he never had before, not even after Thal’s death. He thought he was drowning, lost in a storm, suffocating endlessly. Something was pulling him into the dark depths of an endless ocean. The void engulfed him and no light from the surface fell into his eyes, leaving him not just blind, but deprived of all sensations. Ice froze his flesh, broke it to pieces, chipped away more and more of himself until only his very soul was left and even then, sharp claws dug into him, pressed intensely into his mind like needles. His consciousness began to bleed, red drops of innocent compassion dropping to the floor like raindrops, becoming muddled with darkness and dirt on the ground.

He vaguely registered Obi-Wan next to him, Anakin too, his shields frayed and bleeding out like a body on a surgical table. Qui-Gon could feel Obi-Wan reaching out, tugging at his own light and crafting bandages out of them, helplessly wrapping them around Anakin’s very being in hopes of mending the never-ending number of cuts. Where he succeeded, the shields that had always been a little like mirrors, transparent glass reflecting your self in the Force, became durasteel walls of protection, cutting Anakin off so rashly that Qui-Gon was caught off balance. Anakin’s presence in the Force was near unbearable when they had first met him, but his absence was even worse, leaving Qui-Gon a starving man in the desert. On unsteady feet, Qui-Gon stumbled after Obi-Wan and Anakin, whom he thought to see running into the ship, fleeing from the monster they had uncovered.

“Master Jedi?” He thought he heard the Handmaiden ask.

He wanted to reply, and perhaps the words ‘security check’ did leave his mouth, but he couldn’t be too sure, caught in this cruel spiderweb where every move only entangled him more, a prey ready for slaughter. He just walked forwards, hand pressed to his mind, clinging to the cool walls of the hsip, trying to stitch together what had been ripped wide open.

When he came to, he found himself rushing towards the fresher.

Obi-Wan sat there in the small room, looking so much like the boy he had taken as his Padawan in the aftermath of a terrifying trial he shouldn’t have had to go through in the first place. Qui-Gon had been so blind then and now he found himself struck with the same blindness, except the image that was starting to unravel was even worse.

Obi-Wan had collapsed against the wall and Anakin was half in his lap, clammy fingers holding onto Obi-Wan’s robes while his head was lowered above the toilet, vomiting up the few greens he had eaten for their last meal. His whole body seemed to twitch unnaturally like there was something hidden beneath his skin which was even paler than before. Anakin appeared like a ghost only inhabiting this shell for as long as it served its purpose, something much too grand pressed into this small body and rebelling against its constraints. Anakin kept throwing up until only acid burned his throat. He cried, tears running over his cheeks as the cold got closer and closer, so much that Qui-Gon expected to see his own breath as a hazy fog.

“Sssh,” Obi-Wan tried to calm his Padawan, his own eyes bloodshot, the afterimage of a night terror. “All is well, I’m here, we’re warm, we’re safe, all is well, I’m here…”

His ramblings were almost meditative, repetitive, drawing the same pattern, guiding Anakin towards steady breaths as much as they grounded Qui-Gon.

It took another few minutes, or perhaps hours, time slipped away as easily as the light of stars already dead thousands of years, Anakin managed to calm down. He was still a shivering mess in Obi-Wan’s arms, but he was no longer vomiting up his guts or crying uncontrollably.

“What-“ Qui-Gon couldn’t speak. He didn’t know how to describe it, this pain, this agony, the-

Poison, darkness, decay, tor, burn it, BURN IT, IT IS KILLING ME, US, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF MY CHILDREN-

“There was nothing,” Anakin mumbled his soft voice a contrast to the screeching in Qui-Gon’s heart. “It was nothing, just the absence, the end of space and of time and of life and he will deplete us of everything and there will be darkness and there will be no death, there will be nothing!”

Anakin’S voice grew more frantic, louder until Qui-Gon wasn’t sure if Anakin was truly speaking anymore or just carving his words into Qui-Gon’s mind.

“It’s infecting us, I’m sick, sick, bilious, and all that bubbles up my throat are decaying orbits. It’s devouring my flesh and I will leave and the fractures and bigger and bigger and it’s ripping me apart and I can see my heart beating!”

At this Anakin began to curl into himself, placing his hands on his heart. His eyes were glassy, seeing a world Qui-Gon couldn’t perceive and he couldn’t shake this double vision off. “It’s awful, take it away Obi-Wan, I don’t want to be here, I want to go, I want to go, it’s hurting me, I don’t want to be bound anymore, help me, Obi-Wan, please-!“

Anakin began to cry again, scratching at his own skin, deeper and deeper until the scratches turned red.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, his voice in a realm beyond panic. “Anakin, no, no, no, dear one, don’t do this.”

He took Anakin’s hands in his own, so he would stop harming himself, but Anakin only began trashing, resisting. They needed to sedate him and they needed to do it now.

“Sleep,” Qui-Gon ordered, focusing on Anakin.

He’d always been good with mind tricks.

Slipping into another’s mind, finding cracks where to insert your own thoughts and demands. His Master had been worried about it when Qui-Gon had been young. It was an ability easily misused, an ability that made him quite valuable in the right circles if word got out about it and his Master had been keen to protect him from it.

Qui-Gon would be the last to claim that he didn’t rely on it a little too often, but he was also one of the Jedi often sent into the worst of the worst situations. He had never dared to use it on another Jedi, would never think of using it on Anakin whose mind was an uncomfortable place to reside in even when he was peaceful.

There were certain boundaries in every mind. They shifted ever so slightly in every person depending on what you had experienced, but with Anakin, it was simply as if they had never been there in the first place. Qui-Gon didn’t want to look at what rifts ran through Anakin’s mind because he wasn’t sure they wouldn’t lash out and pull him in and swallow him whole. He’d be entrapped in the universe, in the melting point of a star, the heart of existence and he wouldn’t be able to escape.

But what other choice did he have?

“Obi-Wan,” he said, his Padawan’s name command, prayer, and apology all at once. Obi-Wan was the only one so deeply connected to Anakin that he could bear to stand in his revelation. He understood Anakin as much as anybody ever could, to a degree that was foreign to even Shmi and would likely also never be within Ahsoka’s reach. The bond Anakin had forced upon Obi-Wan when he had been driven more by instinct and need than wisdom and control sang with power.

Qui-Gon begged for the same strength.

There was no gentle way of doing this with Anakin.

Qui-Gon took one last breath of sweet air, then he stepped into the wildness of space. It was freezing, but not the all-consuming cold of before, that took from him until he had nothing left, not even his mind. This was cold of existence, the contrast between the endlessness and points of existence near stars that were just ticking bombs, waiting for their final explosion.

All of this was Anakin and Qui-Gon didn’t know what to reach for.

He followed a path of broken glass, sharp emeralds, kyber, dug into his bare feet, leaving cuts all over. Every step was agonizing, depriving him of his strength and taking more than a century. Around him planets were born and destroyed in the same breath as Qui-Gon moved past them into the tangled cadences of orchestras, strings tugging him in different directions, asking him to follow their tune. His vision swam with colors repainting the world he saw.

And still, despite it all, he carried on. The temptation was sweet, he knew he could be home here, in this place where he had been born and where he would go once he ended.

He was one with the Force and the Force was with him, always.

But Qui-Gon refused that they truly wanted him to remain here. This was like Ilum, the innermost sanctums of the temples he had visited, a trial to prove himself.

And Qui-Gon would not fail this child who needed him.

He pushed through another door and found himself embraced by the most humbling of experiences.

“How cruel they were,” Qui-Gon muttered, gazing upon eternity imprisoned in a mortal mind. “Forcing you into this.”

Anakin wept and tried to tear at the chains pinning him down, keeping him constraint in the body that had been crafted for him. He was a mess of blood, stars, nebulas, stories written in languages that had never been spoken and never would again.

Anakin hadn’t been meant to possess a consciousness, Qui-Gon realized. He hadn’t ever been supposed to exist at all. The Force had pushed a scalpel into itself to carve out something that could eradicate all its other infected wounds, but, as with all self-inflicted injuries, this action too had damaged it.

It was the utmost cruelty, to themself and to the being they had created. This task was too much for one person. The entire galaxy was a bleeding, festering wound and Anakin couldn’t be enough to clean it, never mind do all the stitches to close it afterward.

And here Anakin was now, trashing because he had become aware of the darkness growing right beneath their noses. He was panicking because he had glimpsed upon his purpose in this world and had understood down in his very core that he was lacking despite all the gifts he had already been given.

Anakin cried and cried, and Qui-Gon had to watch as the same gentle feathers he sometimes saw flickering outside his vision on his Padawan’s back were trying to cover Anakin’s many all-seeing eyes, take away that horrible truth he had choked on.

But Obi-Wan, for all that he likely understood more of the Force now than Qui-Gon had up until now, was still so young and not strong enough.

Qui-Gon didn’t know if he would be strong enough, but what kind of Jedi would he be if he didn’t at least try?

“Let me teach you one last thing,” Qui-Gon muttered.

Messing with memories was a delicate task. Qui-Gon had read as much about it as the temple archives had permitted him too. He had been terrified at fifteen that he might overpower his hold on another’s mind and would erase their self completely. That in his demand of obedience the Force had gifted him with, he wouldn’t heed its gentle encouragements and push beyond all reasonable requests.

The Jedi were skilled when it came to the manipulation of ones’ self or mind. Revan came to mind, a Jedi made Sith and forged into Jedi again. It hadn’t been perfect, hadn’t been stable, but this needn’t be either.

It just had to be enough.

Qui-Gon laid one hand on the first chain tying Anakin down and tugged at the Force and the way they bound the world together. He just had to reshape it, turn cold metal into warm blankets, not keeping him chained up, but giving Anakin a place to rest and retreat to. If Anakin forgot that these chains were meant to bind him, then perhaps he would cease struggling against them.

One by one Qui-Gon reworked the chains into sweet comforts and watched as Anakin closed his eyes, returning to a peaceful slumber. The child, so much larger than Qui-Gon in his own mind, impossible to entirely understand his beginnings and endings, didn’t grow any smaller. He nevertheless calmed, stopped struggling so that Qui-Gon had to worry less and less about Anakin accidentally cutting himself at these manipulations.

Only the future would tell how long these would hold him back and grant him peace of mind.

Or if Anakin would ever forgive him for this once he discovered how Qui-Gon had warped his reality just to keep him tied to them a little longer.

“It is done,” Qui-Gon announced, his voice echoing in the small fresher.

His knees buckled under him and he caught himself on the washbasin only in the last second.

Anakin was asleep in Obi-Wan’s arms, dead to the world.

“Is he- is he alright?” Obi-wan asked, clinging to his Padawan as much as Anakin was holding onto him.

Qui-Gon observed the steady rise and fall of Anakin’s chest, then sighed only tiredly. He felt much older than the years he had counted, the millennia within Anakin’s heart not fading away as quickly as he’d like them to.

“He will be,” Qui-Gon promised.

He didn’t know if he was lying, but he knew he was not speaking the truth either.

[knightofthecourt]

Love Bites - Chapter 7

Belatrice Gray was a TA at Belgrave University, working hard to stay on top of her marking and trying not to flunk her own studies, when a night out with her bff Randall and his roommates, changed everything.

Hamish Duke x OC fiction with fluff, romance and angst. OC description has been left out to allow for reader personalisation!

Hamish was awoken by the watery light streaming in through his bedroom window. He turned his head away from the intrusion, desperately chasing the last remnants of sleep.

He’d been having the most unusually vivid dream. The taste of Bela’s lemon-tinted lips on his, the sound of her gasping his name as he grasped the soft curve of her hip, the taste of flesh, flashes of blood.

His eyes flew open. He sat up suddenly, heart racing and looked around the room. 

Next to his own unclothed form, there she lay, curled around his duvet, sleeping peacefully. His breathing slowed as his eyes traced her outline, searching for signs of injury.

There was no blood, no torn flesh, no sign of distress, but… he brushed aside a lock of hair, careful not to disturb her. On the patch of skin below the back of her neck, smooth and even, as if they’d been painted on, sat two faint red crescents. A bite mark.    

Hamish’ stomach plummeted. It hadn’t been a dream, he’d lost control and he - well, Tundra - had bitten Bela last night. As he scanned the discoloured marks that marred the previously unblemished area he began to feel more and more uneasy. He could still feel the pressure of his teeth sinking into her neck, the taste, but this bite looked like it had healed years ago. It didn’t make sense. 

Hamish rose from the bed, quickly and quietly and grabbed the closest outfit he could find. Bela wasn’t safe with him here, something was very wrong.

He needed to get to the Den, now. 

- - - - -

“So, you didn’t bite her?”

Hamish raked a hand through his hair as he stared at Randall. “No, I- Tundra did. It’s like I couldn’t keep him out, I had no control.” 

Lilith shook her head. “But it wasn’t there when you woke up? And Bela didn’t say anything?”

“What would she say,” Jack said, “Morning Hamish, I had a great time last night - by the way, did you turn into a werewolf and take a great big chunk out of my neck?”

“No,” Hamish said, “I told you, the bite had healed somehow and I left before she woke up.” 

“Ooh,” said Jack “Maybe she’s some sort of vampire with superhuman healing abilities”. 

Randall grinned, “Or a mutant, like Wolverine from X-Men.” He paused when he saw the look on Hamish’s face. “No, probably not a mutant. Definitely not a mutant... are you sure it happened? Maybe the mark is from something else - I fell asleep on a textbook after finals, had a line on my arm for three days.” 

Hamish’s head throbbed as he looked across the room at Jack, Randall and Lilith. He’d been glad to find all three of them in the Den when he burst through the door half an hour ago, strewn across the living room. Judging from the state of the place, they were recovering from a beer pong session.

After they’d finished making comments about his uncharacteristically haphazard appearance and lack of tie, he’d managed to explain what had happened with Bela - the bite, blacking out after and waking up this morning with her still in one piece.  

As he watched their conversation turn to the different ways they’d managed to injure themselves in their sleep, his mind drifted to the woman he’d left in his apartment. He wondered whether she’d found the note he’d left yet, a carefully crafted lie to explain his unexpected absence, propped against a glass of juice and packet of Advil on the bedside table. It took more willpower than he expected not to lean down and brush a kiss against her temple before he left, but he couldn’t risk waking her.

“Enough.” Hamish snapped, pulling the trio from their hungover musings. “This is serious. I’ve never seen anything like this, never even read about anything like it and… things have been different recently. I’ve been losing control. I’ve put Bela in danger - I’ve put all of you in danger.”

His three friends looked up at him, all traces of humour gone.  

“Ok,” Randall said. He threw off the blanket and walked over to the bookshelf in the corner of the room. “Let’s hit the books then.” 

- - - - -

“Wha-!” Hamish ducked as a leather bound volume went sailing past his head. 

“How could you?” Lilith was furious, her face a mask of rage, eyes flashing between silver and brown in a kaleidoscopic blur. 

Randall spun on his heels as Hamish regained his composure. “What the hell Lilith?”

“Without her consent Hamish? You mated with her without her consent?”

“Woah,” Jack chipped in from his perch on the stairs, “Even I know that’s wrong, dude.”

Randall spun back to Hamish, who looked baffled, and then held up his hands in an attempt to keep Lilith and Hamish apart. 

“Haim,” he said, keeping one eye on Lilith, who was now shifting from foot to foot, as if readying herself to launch at their leader. “What did you do?”

Hamish raised his hands in defence. “Nothing. I asked before we were intimate. I would never...” He trailed off when Lilith let out a small snarl. 

“I’m not talking about sex Hamish, you marked her - read the damn book.”

Hamish didn’t move. He looked stricken, the blood draining from his face. 

Randall retrieved the book from the floor and opened it to the page Lilith had marked with a scrap of paper. “Though often depicted otherwise in folklore, most werewolves will never find a mate. Those who do are rare.” He began, glancing up at Hamish who had placed his head in his hands. 

“Once a mate is identified the hide will compel the wearer to bond with their potential partner, before marking them as their own. This stage of the mating process is dangerous and, if the champion is not in control of the hide, often results in the death of their mate.”

Hamish swayed a little on his feet.

Randall continued. “Those who survive have little recollection of this process, though it is not known why. As well as providing a euphoric effect, the saliva produced by the wolf during mating causes the mark to heal quickly. The bond created through mating is irreversible and can only be severed by the death of the hide’s host, or the death of their mate. The benefits of mating include an incomparable sense of loyalty, enhanced resistance to magic and the ability to bear -”.

“Stop.” Hamish’s voice cracked. He lowered his hands from his ashen face.     

Lilith was ready to punch something, or someone. “Loyalty?” she snarled, “It’s brainwashing Hamish. How could you do this to her? She’s our friend - you didn’t even give her a choice.” 

Randall scoffed as he placed the book on the table next to the sofa. “Your friend, Lil? When was the last time you two hung out on your own.” 

“Stop.” Hamish’s voice was barely more than a whisper. 

“Well, apparently she’s going to be our new werewolf step mom or something so -”

“As if that makes you best friends. Wait a second - does that mean Hamish is our werewolf dad?” 

“More like grandad,” Jack piped up. 

“Urgh!” Lilith let out a wail of frustration and rounded on Randall, her eyes finally settling on silver discs. She growled again as her nails lengthened into claws. 

“STOP!” For a brief second Hamish’s eyes flashed and his face contorted as a change washed over him, then he took a deep breath and the anger seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders slumped as he pushed past Randall and Lilith and sat heavily on the sofa.  

Randall glanced at Lilith, eyes wide. 

“I didn’t know any of this,” Hamish said, looking up at them. “I never would have gone near her if I’d known. And now I can’t... I can’t take it back. She could have died because of me - because I care about her and -” He broke off, placing his head once again in his hands. 

Randall sat down next to Hamish and put a steadying palm on his back. “Bela is my friend,” he said, emphasising the word 'my' as he glared at Lilith. “You both are - I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. And she likes you, she really, really likes you, even without this mate stuff.”  

Lilith looked at Hamish, her eyes clouded. “I’m sorry Haim, we’ll do whatever we can to help.” 

“No.” Hamish stood suddenly, jerking away from Randall. “I need to stay away from Bela. I can’t undo what I’ve done but if I keep my distance maybe she’ll be safe. I can’t lose someone I love. Not again.” He strode out of the Den, slamming the door hard enough to rattle its hinges on his way out.

“Right,” Jack sighed from the stairwell, “good to know we have a solid plan.”

[skrltwtch]

iMessed-Up

Prompt: Person A means to send a message to Person B saying, “I love your hair” but accidentally sends “I love you”. It turns out Person B loves them back. Not wanting to break the latter’s heart, Person A asks them out. They date for six months before Person A realises they’ve fallen head over heels for Person B. (Source of prompt in link at bottom of post.)

Word count: 1,430

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Y/N, 8:05 p.m.: Geoooooorge

George, 8:05 p.m.: Yes, hi it’s me.

George, 8:06 p.m.: What’s up?

George, 8:06 p.m.: Honestly, this doesn’t sound good.

Y/N, 8:06 p.m.: Shut

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: Up

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: I want to share pictures of last night

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: And …

Y/N, 8:07 p.m.: I know you’re not on like, anything

Y/N, 8:08 p.m.: Weird flex, but okay [smirking face emoji]

George, 8:09 p.m.: It’s not weird.

George, 8:09 p.m.: Is it?

Y/N, 8:10 p.m.: Nope. It’s commendable, really

George, 8:11 p.m.: You can quit, you know.

Y/N, 8:12 p.m.: I can, but do I want to

George, 8:12 p.m.: [man shrugging emoji]

Y/N, 8:14 p.m.: Anyway, what I wanted to ask was — I wanted to run some pictures of last night by you because you’re not on anything and I don’t want to be that person who uploads terrible pictures of their friends, especially someone who can’t defend themselves

George, 8:15 p.m.: That’s … sweet.

George, 8:15 p.m.: Thank you.

George, 8:15 p.m.: But I’m certain I look good in all of them.

George, 8:15 p.m.:

Y/N, 8:16 p.m.: You’re grossly photogenic

Y/N, 8:16 p.m.: And I hate you

George, 8:16 p.m.: LOL.

Y/N, 8:18 p.m.: Ok, incoming pic spam. Don’t say I didn’t warn you

Y/N, 8:19 p.m.: Pick three, please?

Y/N, 8:19 p.m.: The best

Y/N, 8:19 p.m.: Your favourites

George, 8:20 p.m.: Bring it on.

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:24 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:25 p.m.: I picked the best of the bunch. There were more

Y/N, 8:26 p.m.: Lots more

George, 8:28 p.m.: These look great.

George, 8:28 p.m.: You look great.

Y/N, 8:29 p.m.: [blushing emoji] [blowing a kiss emoji]

Y/N, 8:29 p.m.: Thank you!

Y/N, 8:30 p.m.: You look smashing, too

George, 8:30 p.m.: Thank you.

George, 8:31 p.m.: Um … I’d go with these.

George, 8:32 p.m.: [image]

George, 8:32 p.m.: [image]

George, 8:32 p.m.: [image]

Y/N, 8:33 p.m.: Yeah, I was thinking of those, too

George, 8:34 p.m.: Don’t we just look cute together?

Y/N, 8:34 p.m.: Absolutely

Y/N, 8:35 p.m.: Ok, I’ll share them — slap on a filter or two first — and I’ll show you the comments

Y/N, 8:36 p.m.: Like I always do [smiling emoji]

George, 8:37 p.m.: I bet most of it will be ‘Why isn’t George on here?’ and ‘That wanker George doesn’t know what he’s missing’.

Y/N, 8:38 p.m.: Eh, that’s about right

Y/N, 8:38 p.m.: But it is your choice

Y/N, 8:39 p.m.: Some people really could afford to not be on Instagram

Y/N, 8:39 p.m.: Not that you’re one of them. But I’m glad you let me post stuff of you

Y/N, 8:40 p.m.: Especially since, you know, you’re in movies now

George, 8:41 p.m.: That doesn’t mean anything will change.

Y/N, 8:42 p.m.: I know

Y/N, 8:42 p.m.: And I’m really happy for you

Y/N, 8:42 p.m.: And proud of you

Y/N, 8:43 p.m.: I like this picture a lot

Y/N, 8:44 p.m.: You’re right. We do look cute together [smiling face with hearts emoji]

George, 8:45 p.m.: Have I ever been wrong?

Y/N, 8:46 p.m.: Shut up

Y/N, 8:46 p.m.: God, I love you

I put my phone down slowly, knowing that all I needed to do next was absolutely fucking nothing. Stupid fingers. Stupid, stupid fingers. I didn’t not love George. I loved him — as a friend. He was nice, and he was so lovely, and so sweet, but it never once crossed my mind that we could be … more than. I hadn’t even finished processing the fact that he’d still hang out, and want to hang out, with me and our other, childhood friends after having landed a couple of roles in which he received top billing. Damn it. ‘Your hair’ was how that sentence was supposed to end. Now I had no idea what kind of end I had sentenced our friendship to.

His sudden reticence after providing such swift responses wasn’t helping. He had read the message. For once I’d welcome the ominous pulsing three dots, just so I’d know he was still there and hadn’t — I couldn’t imagine how he might’ve reacted, and I didn’t know either what kind of reaction I wanted him to have. I did know that what I had to do next depended on his response. And damn it, I needed it now.

‘…’

Look at those dumb dots, bouncing away without a care in the world.

‘…’

Imagine being on the verge of an anxiety attack because of three damn dots. And because the connection between your brain and your fingers picked the best moment possible to fail you.

‘I love you, too.’

My face drained itself of all colour.

Be careful what you wish for, am I right?

He followed up with a heart emoji. No, two. No, three.

I screamed into the nearest pillow. He was serious. This was serious, because he tended to use emojis like they were rare, precious resources on which the world was running low.

I hadn’t a clue what to do. The state of things was undeniable: I was now living in a universe where I told my best friend I loved him when I didn’t, not in that way, and he told me he did, too, yes in that way. I needed counsel. And the one person I could turn to in times like this, and come away enlightened and empowered, was what I happened to need help with. Of course. There was no second best. There never was.

I sighed; my phone felt like a brick in my hand. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t break his heart. I didn’t want to. I’d never dream of it. But would leading him on amount to the same thing? I had seen and read plenty of stories in many forms of media about people who’d chosen to tell or fudge the truth in similar situations, and guess what? Neither course of action culminated in happy endings. If there were any that didn’t make it to online forums about laughable or cringe-worthy attempts at backpedalling, I wasn’t aware.

I needed space. I needed time. To think. I needed to see him. His presence would be calming, even if he’d caused this state of emergency in the first place. I’d know what to do when I see his face — in person, because the sight of his contact picture on my phone and the photos I’d filled our chat with were, for some reason, sending all the circuits in my brain crashing into one another.

I released the breath I’d been holding since the third heart emoji made it from his phone to mine.

I sent him a heart emoji, and I asked him out.

Not like, you know, on a date.

Just out.

✦✧✦✧

I pulled my chair closer to his, leaned into his shoulder, and shoved my phone in front of him. ‘Look at this,’ I said, ‘this’ being a photo of us on our most recent date: our third visit to the Barbican Conservatory after my blunder — one of the classics, just next to getting involved in a land war with Asia — saw us fancying ourselves as a couple.

‘That’s us?’ said George. He took my phone and stared at the picture. ‘We’re fucking adorable.’

It could be the 7,827th time he’d say that about us, and my stomach would still find itself host to a kaleidoscope of butterflies. I’d come to love the idea of an ‘us’. And so did everyone in our social circles, apparently, some well before George and me being an ‘us’ turned out to be one of the rare positive outcomes of me being an arse. He didn’t know about that, and he’d never know about that. I wasn’t in the business of being cruel — I’d clearly never been. Hell, after a certain point, I started to count my blessings daily that I took this gamble: it wasn’t long before I found myself falling head over feet for him. I remembered berating myself once for not seeing this sooner.

‘Everyone agrees,’ I said. ‘Read the comments.’

‘I am,’ he said. ‘It never fails to amuse me how people make such a big deal about me not being on Instagram or whatever. I’m perfectly fine raking in social clout by proxy.’ He took a sip of his salted caramel mocha. ‘Besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be on social media now, not when I’m about to start this new project. I think it could be big.’ His fingers interlocked themselves with mine.

‘Of course it’ll be big. It’s with Sam Mendes.’ I grinned. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ I said into his ear.

He leaned in to thank me with a peck on my cheek. That simple act warmed me up better than my pumpkin spice latte.

He passed me back my phone, after which I went back to mindlessly scrolling through my profile, a careful curation of photos of us, food, my outfits, my cat, and just about everything else. It didn’t take me long to reach the catalyst of our relationship: an innocent wefie at Columbia Road Flower Market, where I’d spotted the most beautiful peonies and couldn’t pass up the chance for a commemoration of my latest purchase with my favourite person in the world. My heart swelled. The one visible comment on the photo, made judiciously by a friend, read, ‘Fucking hell, get together already, you two. And tell George his hair’s out of control’.

I put my phone face down on the table and turned to George. ‘I love you,’ I said, ‘and your hair.’

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 84

Somehow I managed to get this chapter written, despite a pinched nerve that left me, essentially, on bed rest for two days.  I keep telling myself I need to make a buffer of chapters, but my life has decided not to cooperate...

I hope everyone out there is staying safe and healthy. Where I live, we are currently under a stay-at-home order, and my company (essential) finally got us up and running to work from home this past week. So I at least have that, and I’m aware how fortunate I am for that.

As always, my inbox and ask box are wide open, so feel free to drop me a line.  I love interacting with people on a normal basis.

Somewhat more disturbed than usual, I left Xiomara’s office with Charly in tow.  I was about to let her know she was okay to head home when I realized I didn’t really have a choice - Xio made it very clear that I needed an escort with me at all times.  Conor was still at work, Tyche stayed behind with my fellow Councillor, and Maverick was likely off work but at home.  Charly, however, was right here and one look at her face let me know she was taking her new duties seriously.

“I can call GK,” I tried in vain.

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ emphatically. “I have a job to do, and ulterior motives. Ninja grandma isn’t taking my spot.” I arched a brow in inquiry, and wasn’t left disappointed. “Ma’am. Suspected cult leader? Attempted viking overlord? And this person clearly has it in for you? Do the guys know? Does Derek know? Hell, does Arthur know?”

“Why do I feel like Arthur outranks my actual partners in that list?”

“He was a warlord, and apparently your bestie in a past life? Stop stalling and talk. Start at freaking cult leader?”

“Alleged.”

“Sophia Michelle, I swear to - “

“That’s not my middle name.”

“And that’s not the point!”

Well, I tried. With a sigh, I surrendered to the inevitable.  “A bunch of people have been acting suspiciously lately, all over the Ark.  Anti-social, darting eyes, hushed whispers, all that stuff.  Tyche and I thought it was just us, until Noah and I were walking one day and a group of them just plowed into us.”  I stopped and ran a hand through my hair anxiously. “If it had happened even a week earlier, I would have just shrugged it off and been done.  The issue was this.” I tapped my temple emphatically.  “Tyche insisted that I get the proximity update to my implant, to avoid being triggered by people walking into me.”

“Well, yeah, that makes sense,” she shrugged brightly.  “Not like I didn’t notice… I can’t exactly sneak up and hug you anymore.” She scowled comically.

I let a small smile creep onto my face before continuing. “Right. Well, this was a group of about eight people.  They either all ignored the alert, or somehow turned it off.  We - well, Derek and Zach - are still trying to figure out which it was. Either way, it was a cause for concern, so a bunch of us brought it to Xiomara. We suspected it might be a cult, so Grey was also consulted.  They agreed there was a possibility, but pointed out we need inside information. Jokull Bjornson, recipient of your feral tendencies, is our best guess for the leader if it is a cult. So, Xio said she would look into it, but essentially told me that anyone associated with me would be out of the loop.”

“So why is Tyche…?”

“I don’t knowwww!” I whined in frustration.  “And it’s not like she can tell me, so I can’t exactly ask, because I don’t want her to feel bad, right?”

“Ugh, that sucks,” she agreed.  “And you have no idea why this guy hates your kidneys?”

“Eyeah, as far as that goes? You know as much as I do, and I know that isn’t much right now.”

She shrugged before bouncing on her toes. “Don’t worry.  I’ll talk to Coffee, he’ll probably agree to shadow you some of the time.  And it would be from a distance, so you wouldn’t feel like a kid being walked to kindergarten.” When I looked at her, skeptical, she shrugged again. “He likes you.”

“He’s spoken maybe four words to me,” I pointed out.

“And yet, you understand him.  That means he likes you.”

My mind reeling, we made the rest of the way to my quarters with small talk.  However, when we arrived, Charly refused to head home until she saw Maverick and the door closed behind me.  I swear, I get confronted once…

“Why did Charly look like an attack marten?”

Nuggets. “There was an incident today,” I groaned before peeking up at the ceiling. “Miys? Were you recording in Xiomara Kalloe’s office between 1800 and 1900 subjective ship time?”

“I was not, Wisdom.”

Figures.  Special ops of whatever flavor Xio had been did not lend well to being surveilled.  “Okay, thank you.” I looked back at Maverick.  “I don’t want to explain this again, so give me a second.  I was recording, because I knew this would happen.”  After some fidgeting to isolate the conversation in Xio’s office, I flicked the file over to Maverick.  “It’s audio only, but it at least saves me some time.”  I left him to watch it while I wandered into the food prep area for a drink.

I managed to swallow my second sip of wine before an angry shout came from the living room. “What the hell!?” was followed by Maverick striding into the kitchen and checking me over. “Were you hit? Did he fucking touch you?”

My arm was tangled in my shirt before I was able to stop him. “Mav… Maverick.. Babe! Stop! I swear, I’m fine.  Even Charly is fine - “

“Charly being fine is Coffee’s concern - “

“But we are both okay,” I finished.  “I swear, he didn’t even touch me.  Charly shoved me out of the way before he could.”

“I’m gonna - I need to get Conor, we’re gonna kill - “

“Listen to the rest of the recording,” I begged.  “He didn’t just walk away, I promise.”

After a couple of deep breaths and another glance to make sure I was okay, Maverick nodded. “I’m going to play this entire thing when Conor is home, probably after securing him to something that is bolted to the deck.”

“Well, that’s one way to keep him from flying off the handle,” I mused.

“Uh huh,” he replied sardonically, not even a bit fooled by what I was implying. “I don’t think even that is going to distract him.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“I think French toast has a better chance.”

“Gotcha.  French toast and lots of restraints.”  

That got a laugh out of Maverick, and he finally let go of my shoulders.  While he shot a message to our third to skip the overtime, I started getting ingredients together for a hearty breakfast-for-dinner meal.  We managed to time it just right, so the main dish came out of the oven just as Conor was finishing his shower.

Any hope that we even partially fooled him was dashed right after he sat down and saw the spread.  First he grinned, then got serious, and one glance at the broiled tomatoes gave it away.  “Neither of you like those,” Conor pointed to the offending dish with a whine. “Something bad happened, didn’t it?”  He glanced at our expressions before sighing and filling his plate.  “Alright, what gives? Another plague?  Ship stalled in space? Lost forever in subspace or whatever?”

“Something happened today,” I ventured carefully.  “I sent Maverick a recording, and he can play it if you want…”

To his credit, Conor held up one hand while he shoveled a piece of French toast into his mouth as fast as he could chew, quickly followed by one fried egg and two pieces of sausage. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Got enough to make sure I’m not reacting on an empty stomach.”

“I just ask that you listen to the entire recording, no matter how bad it is at the beginning?”

He sighed again, held up his hand, chugged a glass of milk.  “Okay. I will do everything in my power to sit right here and not touch anything fragile or talk until I hear the whole thing.”

I really couldn’t ask for more than that, so I nodded to Maverick. Once he pulled up the audio recording, we sat tensely until it finished.  The only sounds outside of the record were Conor grinding his teeth and both men clenching their hands tightly enough to pop the joints.  Their expressions were a kaleidoscope of emotions, finally settling on determination when they heard Xiomara insist that I have an escort until further notice.

Snagging seconds of everything, Conor nodded to Maverick. “Us, Tyche, apparently Charly.. You think that Farro bloke?”

“He would,” Maverick agreed, digging into his own now-cold plate of food.  “Don’t forget Grandma Kim.” Conor pointed emphatically with his fork at the suggestion.

“Wait, what are you two doing?” I sputtered.  “Putting together a hit squad?”

“Ach, no,” Conor dismissed my suggestion.  “Escort detail.  If we wanted to take the fucker out, we’d leave it to Tyche and Farro and be done.”

“Not you?” I was so confused.

Maverick shook his head, gesturing with one finger between the two men. “We would feel guilty and regret it, probably the rest of our lives.  Those two, especially with someone who is endangering you again?  Probably would sleep better the night they did it.”

Conor nodded enthusiastically. “But I’m rather fond of your sister, and the Farro fella is alright I guess, so I’d hate to see them sedated and popped out an airlock at FTL speeds.”

“Oh,” I replied dumbly. I expected to have to calm them down, not to see them make such merciless decisions so quickly. “Um. In that case.  Charly said she’d talk to Coffee about shadowing me some of the time?”

I jumped when Conor hit the table with one hand. “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! We’ll keep you safe, Sophie… Aw, shit…” He jumped up and knocked the chair over as I dissolved into tears.

My eyes were closed so tightly that I actually lashed out as arms circled around me.  It was only when a smooth cheek pressed against my own that my body recognized it was Maverick and surrendered to protection.  Vaguely, I could hear Conor speaking, but just enough to register that it wasn’t directed at me, so the words just didn’t register as important.

When I finally calmed down, I was curled tightly in a ball on a soft surface, black hair obstructing my vision.  Maverick’s voice was speaking, an almost-chant that was soothing me. “I’m right here. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe. I’m right here…”  I realized he was rubbing me briskly, alternating between my arms and my legs.

With a sniff, I lifted my head.  “I’m sorry,” I started.

He shushed me. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he assured me.  “It was a tense situation, and you expected one of us to get angry, so when Conor hit the table, your body didn’t realize it was a cheer and not anger.  You just heard someone you expected to be angry hitting something. It’s okay.”

“Conor…?” I started to ask, not able to make the words go.

“Not mad,” a voice from the door assured me.  When I wormed my way to see his face, Conor was sitting on the floor, back against the door frame.  “As soon as I saw your face collapse, I realized what I did.  I’m sorry, Sophie.  But I swear I’m not mad. Or upset, or disappointed, or any of those things that your mind is trying to over-pick at.  I just feel like an idiot, that’s all.”

“You’re not a idiot,” I insisted.

He grinned. “And you’ll defend me to your dying day, I think. But I should have been more mindful, and I will be. I swear. No loud noises when Sophie’s nervous - it isn’t a huge request.  I can leave the room, just like when I’m mad, right?”  That grin never lost its sunny nature, and I knew he meant it.

He stood to come over, and I felt Maverick’s arms tighten around me. “You upset her again, I’m going to knock your lights out,” a voice warned over my shoulder.

“I’d let you do it, mate,” Conor replied sincerely, holding out his hand.  I reached for it, but he merely squeezed my fingers before reaching further.

He wanted Maverick’s permission, I realized. Not just mine.  Tension flooded what I now realized was our bedroom before Maverick finally took Conor’s hand.  “I mean it,” he insisted with a warning tone.  “Do better, or I’m going to knock you out every time you, personally, upset her.”

“Someone should,” Conor agreed sincerely.

“Violence is not the way to handle this,” I sniffed. “There’s a learning curve, but it’s pretty steep with all the anxiety on the ship right now.” Wriggling so I could see them both, I tried to muster a stern look. “Episodes like this are going to happen. We’re just going to have to learn, together, how to navigate them.”

“Still, no loud noises when Sophie’s nervous.”

Maverick nodded. “That definitely seems like a good starting point.”

I couldn’t exactly argue with that.

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