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reversedout-blog · 1 year

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7 Critically Huge Website Maintenance Mistakes You’re Making

Your website is your digital handshake, the first impression for potential customers. It’s crucial to keep it in top shape to effectively represent your business. Yet, numerous businesses falter in their website maintenance efforts, which can result in underwhelming performance, security hazards, and overlooked opportunities. In this post, we’re unpacking seven typical website maintenance pitfalls and offering guidance on how to evade them.

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Ignoring Updates

Updates are a vital aspect of website maintenance that should never be sidelined. They're not just about sprucing up your site with new features or a fresh look. In fact, updates often pack in essential security patches that fortify your website against looming cyber threats. They also carry bug fixes that can enhance the overall functionality and user experience of your site. Overlooking these updates can leave your site susceptible to a variety of security threats, including malware and hacking attempts. It can also trigger performance issues like slow loading times, broken links, or even total website crashes, all of which can sour your site's user experience and SEO ranking.

Solution:

To dodge these issues, it's essential to regularly scout for updates from your website platform, theme, and plugins, and apply them without delay. However, updates can occasionally stir up conflicts with other elements of your site. So, it's always wise to trial them in a safe environment, such as a staging site, before applying them to your live site. This strategy allows you to spot and iron out any potential issues before they can affect your live site, ensuring a smooth and seamless update process. If you're not at ease handling updates yourself, think about hiring a professional web design company. They are pros on how to manage updates best, ensuring your site stays secure, functional, and always up-to-date.

Neglecting Regular Backups

Backups are a crucial safety measure in website maintenance that often gets sidelined. They act as your digital safety net. If your site crashes, gets hacked, or suffers a catastrophic failure due to a botched update or plugin conflict, a recent backup can bring it back to its former state. Without routine backups, you risk losing all your data, including your website design, content, user data, and more. This could mean a complete do-over, which can be a lengthy, expensive, and stressful ordeal.

Solution:

To sidestep such a predicament, it's vital to pencil in regular backups as part of your routine website maintenance. This ensures that a fresh copy of your site, encompassing all its files and databases, is always on standby for restoration. Depending on your website's nature and update frequency, you might need daily, weekly, or monthly backups. This gives you peace of mind, knowing your data is safe and can be retrieved swiftly in an emergency. It also guarantees business continuity, minimizing downtime and potential revenue loss. If managing backups feels overwhelming, think about bringing in a professional web design company. They can take on this vital task, using trustworthy tools and practices to ensure your website's data is always secure and recoverable.

Overlooking Website Security In today's digital landscape, websites are under constant threat from hackers, malicious bots, and various forms of cyberattacks. Without proper security measures in place, your site becomes an easy target, potentially leading to data breaches, loss of customer trust, and damage to your brand reputation. Overlooking website security is a common mistake many website owners make. This can include neglecting to install security plugins, failing to configure them correctly, or not updating them regularly, all of which can leave your site vulnerable to attacks.

Solution:

To safeguard your website, it's crucial to implement robust security measures. Here are some steps you can take:

Install and Configure Security Plugins: Use top-tier security plugins that can help protect your site from common threats like brute force attacks, SQL injections, and cross-site scripting. Some recommended plugins include Wordfence, Sucuri, and iThemes Security for WordPress websites.

Active Monitoring: Keep an eye on your website's activity logs. This allows you to detect potential threats early and take immediate action. Tools like Jetpack or Activity Log can help with this.

Regular Malware Scans: Conduct regular scans for malware to identify and remove harmful code before it can cause significant damage. Plugins like Sucuri and Wordfence can perform these scans.

Stay Updated: Keep abreast with the latest security best practices and apply them to your site. This might involve using strong, unique passwords, enabling two-factor authentication, and regularly updating your website's software, plugins, and themes.

By taking these steps, you can ensure your site remains secure against evolving threats, protecting your business and your customers.

Ignoring Performance Checks

Your website's performance is a critical aspect that directly impacts user experience and your site's visibility on search engine rankings. If your site takes too long to load, visitors can quickly become frustrated and decide to leave, increasing your bounce rate and potentially affecting your SEO rankings. Similarly, frequent downtime can damage your reputation, making visitors less likely to return or recommend your site to others. If you're not regularly monitoring your site's performance, these issues can go unnoticed and unaddressed, leading to a gradual decline in your site's effectiveness and reach. Solution: To prevent this, it's crucial to conduct regular performance checks. Here are some key steps to ensure your website's optimal performance:

Utilize Advanced Tools: Use advanced tools and services that can monitor your site’s speed, uptime, and overall performance. These tools provide valuable insights into how your site is performing and highlight areas that may need improvement. Here are some of the advanced tools that can be utilized for website performance checks:

Google Page Speed Insights: This tool analyzes the content of a web page, then generates suggestions to make that page faster. It provides both mobile and desktop speed insights.

Pingdom: Pingdom offers cost-effective and reliable uptime and performance monitoring for your websites. It allows you to monitor your website's uptime, performance, and interactions for a better end-user experience.

GTmetrix : GTmetrix is a free tool that analyzes your page's speed performance. It can help you develop a deeper understanding of your site's speed and how to improve it.

WebPageTest: This tool allows you to run free website speed tests from multiple locations around the globe using real browsers and at real consumer connection speeds.

YSlow: This is a tool that analyzes web pages and suggests ways to improve their performance based on a set of rules for high performance web pages.

Remember, each tool has its strengths and weaknesses, and they often complement each other. It's usually a good idea to use a combination of tools to get a comprehensive view of your website's performance.

Quickly Resolve Issues: If you identify any issues, such as slow-loading pages, server errors, or broken links, it's important to quickly diagnose and resolve them. This proactive approach can minimize any negative impact on your visitors and help maintain a positive user experience.

Monitor Changes: Regular performance checks can help you understand how changes or updates to your site affect its performance. This allows you to make informed decisions about future updates or modifications.

Consider Professional Help: If managing these performance checks seems overwhelming, consider enlisting the help of a professional web design company. They can handle these tasks for you, ensuring your website performs optimally at all times.

Remember, a well-performing website is not just beneficial for your visitors but also crucial for maintaining and improving your site's visibility on search engines.

Forgetting SEO Updates

Search engine optimization (SEO) is a dynamic and ever-evolving field. The algorithms that search engines use to rank websites are constantly changing, with new updates and factors being introduced regularly. This means that what worked for your SEO strategy a few months ago might not be as effective today. If you're not regularly updating your SEO strategy and adapting to these changes, your site's ranking in search engine results could suffer, leading to a decrease in organic traffic and potential customers.

Solution:

To stay ahead of the curve, it's crucial to conduct regular SEO audits. These audits can help you identify areas of your site that need improvement and ensure that your site is optimized according to the latest SEO best practices.

Here are a few key areas to focus on during your SEO audits:

Keyword Strategy: Ensure your keywords are still relevant and effective. Update them as necessary to reflect current trends and user search behavior.

Mobile-Friendliness: With the rise of mobile browsing, search engines now prioritize mobile-friendly websites. Make sure your site is fully optimized for mobile users.

Meta Tags: These are crucial for telling search engines what your site and its pages are about. Regularly review and update your meta tags to ensure they're effective and relevant.

Content Quality and Relevance: High-quality, relevant content is key to SEO success. Regularly update and add fresh content to your site to keep it valuable and interesting to both users and search engines.

In addition to regular audits, it's also important to stay informed about changes in search engine algorithms. Major search engines like Google often provide updates and guidance on their changes, which can give you valuable insights into how to adjust your SEO strategy.

Remember, SEO is not a one-time task but an ongoing process. If managing these SEO updates seems daunting, consider partnering with a professional web design or digital marketing agency. They can handle these tasks for you, ensuring your website stays optimized and competitive in the ever-changing landscape of SEO.

Overestimating DIY Capabilities

In the era of DIY solutions and online tutorials, it's tempting to think that you can handle all aspects of website maintenance yourself. However, it's important to remember that maintaining a website involves a wide range of tasks, each with its own set of complexities. These tasks can range from technical updates and coding adjustments to security monitoring and SEO optimization. Each of these areas requires a specific set of skills and knowledge. Attempting to handle these tasks without the necessary expertise can lead to mistakes, which could potentially harm your site, its performance, and its security.

Solution:

The key to effective website maintenance is to understand and acknowledge the limits of your DIY capabilities. It's okay not to know everything, and it's okay to seek help when you need it. Here are a few steps to ensure your website maintenance is handled effectively:

Identify Your Strengths and Weaknesses: Understand what aspects of website maintenance you're comfortable with and where you might need help. This could be anything from content updates, which might be more manageable, to technical updates and security monitoring, which might require more specialized knowledge.

Seek Professional Help When Needed: If you're not confident in handling a particular task, don't hesitate to seek professional help. This could be a one-off consultation or an ongoing maintenance agreement with a professional web design company.

Invest in Learning: If you're keen on handling more aspects of website maintenance yourself, consider investing time in learning. There are numerous online resources and courses that can help you develop the necessary skills.

Partner with a Professional Web Design Company: Companies like ours specialize in maintaining websites to the highest standards. We have the expertise to handle all aspects of website maintenance, from technical updates to security and performance monitoring. By partnering with us, you can ensure your website is in safe hands, leaving you free to focus on other aspects of your business.

Remember, maintaining a website is not just about keeping it running; it's about ensuring it performs optimally, remains secure, and continues to serve your business goals effectively. Whether you choose to handle it yourself or seek professional help, what matters most is that it's done correctly and consistently.

Underestimating the Importance of Professional Help

In the world of business, it's common to see companies trying to cut costs wherever possible. One area that often falls victim to this cost-cutting mindset is website maintenance. Many businesses underestimate the value of professional website maintenance services, viewing it as an unnecessary expense or something they can manage internally. However, this perspective can lead to missed opportunities and potential pitfalls. Professional website maintenance is not just a cost—it's an investment in your business's online presence, security, and overall performance.

Solution:

The solution lies in changing the perspective and recognizing the value that professional website maintenance services bring to the table. Here's why investing in professional website maintenance services is a smart business decision:

Time-Saving: Professional website maintenance services save you time. Instead of spending hours trying to figure out technical issues or updates, you can focus on what you do best—running your business.

Prevention of Costly Mistakes: Without the right expertise, it's easy to make mistakes in website maintenance that can lead to bigger issues down the line. Professionals can help prevent these mistakes, saving you potential repair costs in the future.

Optimal Performance: A well-maintained website performs better, providing a superior user experience, which can lead to increased engagement and conversions.

Security: Professional website maintenance services include regular security checks and updates, ensuring your website is protected against the latest threats.

Peace of Mind: Knowing that your website is in the hands of professionals gives you peace of mind, allowing you to focus on your core business activities without worrying about your website's performance or security.

By investing in professional website maintenance services, you're not just spending money—you're investing in the health, performance, and security of your website. A professional web design company, like ours, can handle all aspects of website maintenance, from regular updates and backups to security monitoring and performance checks. This allows you to focus on your core business activities, knowing your website is in good hands.

Why Choose Us for Your Website Maintenance Needs?

At Reversed Out Creative, we understand the importance of regular website maintenance. Our team of experts specializes in web design, web development, graphic design, app development, and WordPress maintenance. We offer comprehensive website maintenance services, ensuring your site is secure, functional, and optimized for search engines.

We also provide public relations, copywriting, printing, web hosting, media buying, and SEO services, making us a one-stop-shop for all your digital marketing needs. If you're struggling with website maintenance or simply don't have the time to handle it yourself, we're here to help.

Key Website Maintenance Takeaways

Regular Updates: Keep your website updated with the latest versions of software, plugins, and themes to ensure optimal performance and security.

Routine Backups: Regularly back up your website to safeguard your data and enable quick recovery in case of any mishaps.

Robust Security Measures: Implement strong security measures, including the use of security plugins, active monitoring, and regular malware scans to protect your website from cyber threats.

Performance Checks: Regularly monitor your website's performance, including load times and uptime, to provide a seamless user experience and maintain good SEO rankings.

SEO Updates: Stay on top of SEO best practices and algorithm changes to ensure your website remains visible and competitive in search engine results.

Recognize DIY Limits: Understand the limits of your DIY capabilities and seek professional help when necessary to avoid costly mistakes.

Value of Professional Help: Recognize the importance of professional website maintenance services in saving time, preventing mistakes, and ensuring optimal website performance.

Use of Tools: Utilize various tools for performance checks, security monitoring, and SEO audits. Some recommended tools include Google Analytics, Wordfence, Sucuri, and Yoast SEO.

FAQ's

What is website maintenance? Website maintenance involves regularly checking your website for issues, keeping it updated, and ensuring that it is always in optimal shape. This process includes updating content, fixing broken links, optimizing web pages for SEO, and ensuring the website's security.

Why is regular website maintenance important? Regular website maintenance is crucial to ensure an optimal user experience. It helps keep the website running smoothly, improves site performance, and secures it from potential threats. Regular updates also ensure that the website remains compatible with the latest technologies and meets search engine standards.

How often should I update my website? The frequency of website updates depends on the nature of your website and business. However, as a general rule, you should check your website for updates and issues at least once a month. For websites with high traffic or those that handle sensitive user data, more frequent checks may be necessary.

Can I handle website maintenance myself? While it's possible to handle some aspects of website maintenance yourself, it can be a complex and time-consuming task. If you lack the necessary technical skills, it's easy to make mistakes that could harm your website's performance or security. Hiring a professional web design company for website maintenance can save you time and ensure your website is in good hands.

What services does a professional website maintenance company provide? A professional website maintenance company provides a range of services, including regular updates, backups, security checks, performance optimization, and SEO management. They ensure that your website is secure, functional, and optimized for search engines. They can also provide expert advice and solutions for any issues that arise. Reversed Out specializes in WordPress and can provide a list of what WordPress website maintenance costs.

How much does website maintenance cost Costs can vary depending on the level of service. Basic hosting that includes some level of maintenance could start at around $50/mo and escalate from there. It is not out of the question for some businesses to spend $3,000/mo for hosting and regular full-service maintenance packages that include off-page SEO. Contact an agency like Reversed out to learn more and build a package for your budget and needs. We can provide you with a full website maintenance services list.

How long does website maintenance take Basic website maintenance for a WordPress website can take a couple of hours to update the version of WordPress and also all of the plugins. There always seems to be additional configurations that need to happen while performing updates. If SEO is included in the maintenance package this can take an additional 20+ hours to perform the off-site tasks that need to happen.

At Reversed Out Creative, we understand the challenges and opportunities presented by AI disruption. Our team of experts specializes in web design, SEO, graphic design, and digital marketing services. Reach out to us through our contact form to learn more about navigating the evolving job market and embracing the potential of AI. Together, let's shape a future that combines human ingenuity with the power of AI.

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lockefanfic · 4 years

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Business Trip: Pt 43 - Crazy

You’d been with your share of women who liked rough sex - Seulgi, Chaeyoung, occasionally Momo and Seolhyun. But those girls had always been interested in kinks that were at least somewhat consistent with their personalities. It wasn’t much of a surprise that Seulgi was into rough, occasionally painful sex; likewise, Chaeyoung’s preference for zip ties and name calling didn’t strike you as being out of character with the type of person she was outside of the bedroom.

Miyawaki Sakura was either lazy and airheaded or intense and intimidating, depending on what she was doing. Before you were made aware of this new facet of Sakura’s personality you’d only seen such duality before in Sana; but Sana’s personality swings didn’t surprise you like Sakura’s did, nor was the difference between her two poles nearly as extreme as that of the Japanese police officer.

Sakura was altogether different from those girls. She was two sides of the same constantly flipping coin, it seemed. At the moment you were finding out that this duality extended to her sexual pursuits, where she flipped between being an overly friendly, sugary sweet girl to a woman with very specific, very unique kinks on a minute-by-minute basis.

“I’m so sorry about earlier,” she states, the tone in her voice sounding much more pleasant than earlier in the day, especially as it echoed against the cold shower tiles. “I was in the middle of re-reading the Fate series. Did you know the third movie is coming out this summer? I’m sooo looking forward to it. Are you familiar with the Fate series?”

Speaking proved exceedingly difficult given the ball gag in your mouth, and so you settled for nodding.

“She’s going away for awhile, don’t you worry.”

“She better be,” you answer. “I just hope she leads us to the other three members of Blackpink before they lock her up - or that Canadian officer takes her overseas. Did you have a chat with Officer Miyawaki about this?”

“I’ve told her we want time with Rose before she’s extradited and Officer Miyawaki has promised to raise the issue with her superiors, but she hasn’t quite gotten around to it yet,” Nayeon answers.

You both peer into the interrogation room through the one-way glass. On one side of the table sits Rose, her head in her hands. In her prisoner’s jumpsuit and messy hair, she looked outright miserable - a far cry from the dolled up look she sported at the event two days prior. Gone is the haughty, arrogant air that she wore about her like perfume - now she looked small, afraid, almost as if the cold reality of what was about to happen to her had just recently set in.

She hadn’t said a word since she stepped into the room. The young, nervous looking YG-appointed lawyer seated next to her rebuffed all of the questions directed to her client by telling her that she didn’t have to answer anything, as was her right. Rose’s body language, though, told you all you needed to know about her state of mind.

On the other side of the table are Jihyo and Somi Douma, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer who had arrested Rose at the event. Both of them are placing piece after piece of evidence onto the table in an attempt to get something out of the Blackpink member - to no avail so far, thanks to her lawyer. The looks of frustration on the two young officers has been steadily building, but it is tempered somewhat by the fact that much of the evidence was simply indisputable. Rose’s silence today would do nothing to keep her from spending a lot of time behind bars when the time came.

The other two occupants of the room, sitting in a smaller table by the exit, are Mina and Officer Miyawaki. The former is diligently jotting down notes from the meeting into an iPad, the latter seemingly engaged in something important on her phone - but given her known predisposition for playing video games on the job and the fact that her phone was horizontal, you decided she was likely playing a game.

“Sakura was super intense at the event,” Nayeon says, as if reading your thoughts regarding the young Japanese police officer. “When she showed up with Jihyo and Somi to arrest Rose, she had her game face on. It was almost scary. She wanted to see layouts of the building, possible exits and escape routes, dossiers on who might be there and who they might be with. She looked ready to take down every bad guy in the entire restaurant, all on her own.”

“I saw,” you agree. “She walked in there like she owned the place. Rose’s bodyguard tried to stop her, but whatever she said to him made him look like a whipped dog afterward. She destroyed that guy.”

“And now here she is at a major interrogation involving multiple international parties and she’s on her phone playing Among Us,” Nayeon scoffs. “It’s like she has an on and off switch when it comes to her job. I don’t get it. To be honest, I find it a little odd that the precinct would bury someone with her on-site skills in the record keeping department and not out in the field walking a beat.”

You take a moment to consider Nayeon’s point. She was right; surely the Tokyo PD could make better use of Sakura by constantly keeping her in the field, where she clearly excelled, instead of the records department where she was buried under paperwork she had little interest in. There had to be a reason behind it all, but you currently had more pressing issues on your mind than the Japanese liaison officer’s career prospects.

“We need to make sure she gets us that time with Rose. Preferably without her lawyer present.”

“That would be against the rules,” Nayeon says, hesitantly. She knew what you were implying and while she knew you weren’t going to hurt Rose or do anything stupid, she felt she had to tell you anyway out of obligation.

“There’s nothing illegal about me having a chat with a lovely young Australian woman I met at an event a few nights ago,” you reply with a sly smile.

Nayeon smirks, but understands your implication. “I’ll remind Officer Miyawaki,” she says.

In the room, Sakura lets out a sigh, rolling her eyes back into her head - her spaceman was likely just bitten in half by an impostor. Next to her, Mina frowns and shakes her head, a look of plain disapproval on her face.

“No, don’t worry about it,” you say. “I’ll remind her myself.”

---

It didn’t take long to find Sakura later that day. She was absent from her desk, but a nearby colleague told you she was on her lunch hour - even though at that point it was nearly three in the afternoon. While your time with Nayeon and Jihyo had informed you that law enforcement officers saw lunch breaks as a rare luxury, you also knew that Sakura didn’t conform to the usual expectations of this particular line of work. With your limited Japanese and a healthy amount of hand gestures, you were able to ascertain from her colleague that she usually took her lunch breaks on the roof of the building.

The precinct proved to be a little bit of a maze, but you eventually found your way to the roof, which, like many buildings in Asia, was open to access and was often used as a kind of recreational space for the building’s inhabitants. After your time inside the cramped interior of the building you were happy to be outside again, enjoying the fresh air and the sunny, crisp winter afternoon.

Sitting on a bench in one of the corners of the space was Sakura, legs crossed, her nose buried in what looked like a manga. The small pile of convenience store sandwich containers and empty candy wrappers that occupied the rest of the bench confirmed that she was indeed on her lunch break. The volume of the trash, however, implied she’d been there awhile, leading you to wonder just how long her lunch “hours” usually lasted.

“Officer Miyawaki,” you say as you approach her, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if-”

You are stopped mid-sentence by a raised finger. Without taking her attention from the manga, Sakura reaches for a half-full bottle of Pocari Sweat next to her on the bench, which she brings to her mouth to take a sip. Eyes working quickly, she finishes the page she was reading before turning the page and devouring that one as well. With brows furrowed and eyes narrowed with concentration, there is a clear look of complete and utter intensity on her face that you’d seen only once before - when she was confronting Rose’s bodyguard and putting him in his place.

When you’d first been introduced to Miyawaki Sakura you’d wondered just how she had managed to keep her job given her obvious laziness and what seemed to be an utter lack of interest in her duties - or even in maintaining the false appearance of an interest. But her role in the events of two nights prior, and the seriousness with which she carried herself while on-site, answered that question for you. It became clear that her superiors kept her around because when the chips were down and the game was on, she could put on a game face that almost scared you with its intensity. When that happened, she was almost a different person entirely.

The question then became why her superiors had assigned her to the record keeping department. Was it a demotion? Did they think she was too unstable or unreliable for field work? There had to be a reason.

She goes on for three more pages, consuming the art and text within the manga like they were some sort of life-giving energy source that she could not go a moment more without. You are left to stand there, awkwardly, a little taken aback by the speed and ease at which she had silenced you - but unconsciously, a little afraid of what might happen if you’d insisted on interrupting her reading.

Finally, after reaching what seemed to be a chapter’s conclusion or some other boundary within the manga, she retrieves a bookmark from her bench and marks her place before finally acknowledging your presence.

“Yes?” she says, a look of undisguised annoyance on her otherwise soft, adorable features.

“I, well, I was… um, hoping we could have a quick moment of your time, Officer Miyawaki,” you answer, suddenly unsure of your words, your tongue having turned into stone in your mouth. You’d expected a fast and easy chat - you usually had no problems charming your share of pretty young women - but your resolve had faltered unexpectedly under the piercing gaze of the young officer.

“About?” she asks, plainly, even though you knew what you wanted to talk about must have been obvious to her. What else could it have been, if not Rose? Did she just want to hear you ask for something? Did she want to hear you beg and grovel?

“About the girl, uh, the woman that Officer Dou- I mean, you, you placed in your custody a couple of nights ago,” you answer.

“Yes, and, what about her?”

“I was hoping I could have a chat- er, maybe, some time, with her. Alone, before she, they, she’s, well... taken away.”

“And what would you want to speak to her about?”

“Well, you see, um…. we’re kind of after her colleagues - three of them. They’re in this team, er, corporate espionage group - they’re called Blackpink. I, well, me, my team and I, we were hoping she could lead us to the other three.”

Sakura takes a moment to weigh your request, her large, deep eyes boring into yours. You were a little ashamed to admit you were faltering a little bit under the intensity of her gaze. While you were sure her current demeanor was borne from you so rudely interrupting her reading and not from any malicious intent, it did little to keep you from withering under her look.

Eventually Sakura’s eyes leave you, and you find yourself releasing an inward sigh of relief to be free of her gaze.

“I can arrange something,” she says as she opens her manga again. “But it will cost you. Helping you and that foreign officer during that arrest resulted in a lot of extra paperwork for me.”

You are about to say something about her job and the amount of work she actually had to do, especially given the fact that she was in the middle of what seemed to be a three hour lunch break, but an unconscious fear of being put under her gaze once more meant that your response died in your throat.

“What exactly… can I do f-for you, Officer Miyawaki?”

“Sakura is fine,” she says under her breath as she finds her place in her manga. “Meet me in the precinct showers in two hours. Cancel any appointments you may have this afternoon.”

You are left a little stunned by her demand, and what it might have meant. The possibilities run through your mind at a million miles an hour; what did she mean-

“You can leave,” Sakura states, and not wanting to risk her ire by lingering any longer, you quickly turn and leave.

---

Speaking proved exceedingly difficult given the ball gag in your mouth, and so you settled for nodding.

“Ah, that’s good!” Sakura exclaims, “I’m such a big fan. I totally ship Shirou and Saber, although I’m also a fan of Shirou and Sakura - I bet you can guess why! I like both couples, though; it really depends on what mood I’m in! Sometimes I- whoops, is that too tight for you?”

It was. The girl knew how to tie a neat, tight knot (which itself raised several questions) and the thick nylon rope dug painfully into your wrists as she tied them behind your back, but you gave your head a shake nonetheless. The black cloth blindfold she’d tied around your head was similarly a little too tight for comfort and was beginning to give you a headache - not that you were willing, or even able, to tell Sakura as such.

Even if you could speak, you weren’t sure you would stop her from proceeding. You were equal parts terrified and aroused by the sharp, unexpected turn of events this afternoon had taken, but the thought of stopping the young woman hadn’t yet occurred to you.

“Good, I don’t want to hurt you. Anyway, yeah, I’m sorry if I came off rude this afternoon. I just don’t like to be interrupted during my lunch hour. That’s when I get all my reading done! Because the rest of the day I’m so busy with work, you see. Anyway… you’re all set!”

You obviously couldn’t see her through the blindfold, but the loud click-clack of Sakura’s high-heeled shoes against the shower tiles tell you she has stepped in front of you. The next few moments of silence provide no audible clue to tell you what she is doing, but you knew she was likely giving you a good long look from head to toe, as if enjoying the sight of you sitting on a stool, gagged, bound, and blindfolded.

“It’s time to begin, I think. Are you ready?”

Her tone reminded you a little bit of any of a hundred anime voice actors, particularly those that voiced the sugary sweet and cute characters. And Sakura was nothing if not cute, although she also seemed to have a bit of a crazy side to her - a side it seemed you were about to get to know intimately, whether you were ready for it or not.

You nod, because there wasn’t much else you could do.

“Good! Let’s start!” she says, sounding a bit like an announcer for a game that involved Italian plumbers and dragon/turtle hybrids racing go-karts - and not like she was about to engage in a sexual act with very particular, very specific kinks.

So when she straddles you on the stool, her long, thin legs suddenly on either side of your waist and her small frame atop your lap, you were a little unsure about how to react to the juxtaposition between her tone and her actions. With other women you would have enjoyed the weight of her body on top of yours and the promise of impending pleasure. But with Sakura you were a little hesitant - and as much as you hated to admit it, almost a little afraid.

“So as I mentioned earlier, I’d be happy to set up a meeting with you and that Australian chick,” she says, her voice dripping with sugar even as you feel her trace random patterns with her fingertip on your jawline and chin. “But I’ll need to get something out of it.”

You are unable to manage anything more than a muffled groan, and so you settle for nodding your head once more.

“Good.”

Sakura’s hand drifts lower, her fingertip never breaking contact with you as it drifts down your neck and chest, eventually reaching the buckle of the jeans you wore. Her fingers work quickly, and before you know it she has your button undone and the zipper lowered, your quickly hardening shaft aching for its impending release from its cotton prison.

“Oh! You are quite eager for us to begin, I see.”

You nod.

“Well then, let’s see what you’re hiding under here.”

Sakura’s tone continues to be that of a cute, sweet girl. Her actions, as she frees your nearly fully hardened shaft from your boxers, are altogether the opposite.

You feel the breath leave your lungs in a rush as she grasps your cock in her small, dainty little hands for the first time and gives it a few small, exploratory pumps. It would have been utterly arousing at any other time. But now, wrists bound behind you and with your eyes and mouth rendered useless, it almost felt like your sense of touch was heightened - and it felt utterly sublime. It wasn’t long before you the Japanese police officer had brought you to full, aching stiffness.

“I see now why your team is full of those women,” she observes, a slight hint of edge appearing in her tone. “I bet they love taking turns being filled with this.”

“Mmmghmm,” you answer.

“What’s that? You fuck them on a daily basis? I bet you pump their thirsty mouths and wet little pussies just full of your cum on the regular, don’t you? Maybe those tight little asses too?”

“Yughhhm.”

“I bet they love it, too, don’t they? I bet you have them all bent to your will like the obedient, needy little fucktoys that they are. Is that right?”

“Mmmahghg.”

“I knew it. I knew all of those girls were filthy little sluts the second I saw them.”

To hear such filth come out of Sakura’s mouth - out of a girl whom you’d pegged as being adorable and cute if a little airheaded and lazy - was more than a little bewildering. Each of her words dripped with sweet sugar tone even if the actual content of her words was dirty and nasty. Two sides of the same coin. Two faces of the same girl.

“Well, I think it’s time for us to play a game. Do you want to play a game?”

For a second you are frozen as a shiver of fear crawls up your spine - you’d seen enough horror movies to know that nothing good ever followed that question. But you had to admit that it both frightened and aroused you. Part of you wanted to submit to her every whim, and part of you suddenly wanted to run away as quickly as you could.

You nod.

“Good! I’m happy. Let’s lay down the rules. Hmmm… well, there’s actually only two! Are you ready for them? Are you paying attention?”

It was a little difficult to do so, truth be told. She hadn’t stopped pumping your cock, at an almost lazy pace, with her slender, soft hands. She had begun to squeeze on the downstroke and loosen on the upstroke, causing a delicious little jolt of pleasure to shoot right to your brain every few seconds.

You nod.

“Okay! Rule number one - every time you make me cum, I remove one item of your choice: your blindfold, your gag, or the ties at your wrists. How much time I give you with the Australian girl depends on how good you fuck, I guess! I’ll make the judgement at the end. Rule number two - you don’t get to say anything aside from a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’ Pretty simple, huh? You understand the rules, right?”

Despite laying down the ground rules for what would likely be a filthy sexual act, Sakura sounds a bit like a voice actor reading the script to the tutorial level of a Mario Party game. The prospect of regaining your ability to see, touch and taste her was appealing, and with the ball gag filling your mouth you couldn’t exactly voice any objections to her rules even if you had any.

You nod.

“Good! Then let’s begin!”

Without giving you much time to ready yourself, Sakura presses her body forward on your lap - and almost immediately you feel the wet heat of her pussy pressed against the base of your shaft.

Before she put the blindfold on you, the police officer had been wearing a short blue skirt and black heels along with the blue blouse that formed her uniform. Had she removed her panties somewhere along the way? Was she ever wearing panties at all?

Your brain had little time or bandwidth to answer those questions - not as Miyawaki Sakura began to grind herself against the underside of your cock, her hips swirling up and down, finding and trapping your shaft between the splayed lips of her pussy and moving, slowly at first, up and down its length. She is absolutely dripping. Her flesh is hot and warm against your cock. Were your mouth not gagged, you would have let out a long, wordless moan - but it escapes your throat as a wet, guttural sound instead.

Sakura, her own mouth unbound, lets the first outward sign of her arousal escape her lips in a long, drawn-out gasp. The entire process - binding you, teasing you, explaining her rules to you - must have turned her on immensely. The slick, warm juices that coated your cock in a thick, glistening layer with each grind of her hips were clear indication of how turned on she was. You found yourself impressed that she was able to hide her need for so long behind her sickly sweet tone.

“Mmmm, that feels so good!” she gasps. “Mmm, you’re so big, and you’re not even inside me yet!”

You nod.

And so for a few delicious minutes you are content to let the small Japanese girl grind herself harder and harder against your cock, her slick, hot pussy pressed against the underside of your shaft, sliding up and down, up and down, up and down. The small shower room reverberates with the soft squeaking of your stool on the tiles, and the soft, pleasant moans of pleasure that leave Sakura’s throat.

“Mmm, fuck, I’m gonna cum already, fuck, you’re gonna make me cum so quickly, mmmmm, your cock is so hard! Do you like the feel of my pussy? The feel of my clit on your cock? Hmmm? Do you want to be inside me?”

You nod.

You are surprised by how quickly she was coming to her first orgasm, even if the heat emanating from her splayed pussy lips as she grinds them against you, combined with the sheer amount of the juices that were now running down your balls, clearly indicated how needy and wanton she was even before she first touched you.

“D-Do you want me… oh, fuck… do you want me to-to cum all over your hard cock?”

You nod.

Sakura’s response is to orgasm.

You’d been with plenty of women before, witnessed the many forms of the female orgasm and the differences in the bodies of each woman when she finally reaches her peak. Each was unique. But even given that fact, you knew that no other woman on Earth orgasmed like Miyawaki Sakura did.

She felt a little bit like she was being jolted with electricity - every fibre of her being quivered and shook like she had a thousand volts coursing through her veins. It was almost unnerving, in a way, and from the way her small body trembled atop yours you were worried that she had hurt herself somehow.

Even the way she orgasmed was far from the norm. The more you knew about Miyawaki Sakura, the more and more you were frightened of her.

But the same things that frightened you also aroused you.

It seems to last forever, her orgasm. When her body finally winds down, the loud breaths that leave her throat and the fact that she has slumped forward onto your chest imply that she is somewhat drained by the experience.

“That was pretty good!” Sakura exclaims once she has regained her energy, sounding once more like she were some sort of video game announcer. “As per the rules of our game, you get to remove one item. What would you like it to be?”

Your options run though your head, each with their own merits. You would’ve loved to finally lay your hands on the young woman, and the thought of watching her cum obviously appealed to you, but the opportunity to taste her won out.

“Mowwffth,” you manage to mumble.

“Your mouth? You want to get rid of the gag? Are you sure?” Sakura asks, sounding the way a video game does when you decide to overwrite a game save and it wants you to be sure of your decision.

You nod.

“Okay! Away it goes!”

Sakura reaches behind your head and you feel the ball gag loosen before she rips it none-too-gently from your mouth. A drip of saliva spills from your mouth - one that Sakura is quick to lick off your chin with her tongue.

Her tongue, feeling long and particularly flexible, traces a path up your chin until it finds your lips. She crushes your lips with hers in a torrid, passionate kiss that had little affection but plenty of need, her hands quickly reaching behind your blindfolded head and pressing your head against hers as she sticks her tongue as far into your mouth as she could. Your tongue wrestles with hers, but she quickly gains the upper hand, and it is all you can do to sit there and submit to letting the young woman explore your mouth at her whim.

When she finally tears her lips from yours she lets out a satisfied sigh.

“Mmmm, that was a good choice. You’re a good kisser! And it will definitely help you when it comes to the next way you’re going to make me cum. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you say, finally happy to be able to speak.

“Good. Get ready!”

Sakura climbs off your lap, and you lament the loss of her warm body for a split second - until you hear the snap of her foot meeting the stool you were sitting on, followed by a sharp thud of your butt hitting the floor as she kicks the stool out from under you.

You are about to groan in pain at your hard, unexpected landing, about to protest at the way she was treating you - when you hear Sakura step over your body, her crotch just inches from your face. She must have been lifting her skirt to get it out of the way, because when she presses herself against you, you find yourself face to face with her pussy.

There was no doubt in your mind now. Miyawaki Sakura was crazy.

But you weren’t in a position to complain, not with the girl’s juicy, slick, hot pussy suddenly and fiercely pressed against your face, her splayed lips immediately smearing your nose, lips and chin with her juices. By instinct your tongue darts out, almost like a defensive measure. You begin to lick her slowly, hesitantly, still caught a little wrong footed by her ridiculous aggressiveness - but Sakura was having none of that, and she quickly grasps the back of your scalp with one hand and presses it against her warm, wet folds.

“You can do better than that,” she says, her tone still that of the video game announcer, as though she were encouraging a kart racer who had fallen behind. “Eat my pussy like the hungry little fucktoy you are.”

You follow her orders, as much out of fear of upsetting her as the need to finally have your fill of the needy young woman’s body. You start by giving her long, slow licks from the bottom of her pussy to the top, ensuring to add a little swirl of the tip of your tongue around her engorged clit as you reach it. Sakura moans in pleasure as you drink of her, enjoying the pleasant, sweet bitterness of the girl’s plentiful juices on your tongue.

When you decide that the steadily rising volume of her moans and gasps, enhanced by the echoing off the shower room’s tiled walls, has reached a high point, you quickly switch up your technique, latching your lips as best you could around her clit before swiping at it in broad, strong strokes with your tongue. You begin with strokes that begin and the bottom and end at the top. When she begins to quiver and shake, you begin to trace random patterns around her taut little bud.

“You’re doing so great!” Sakura moans, “I’ve never felt anything like that!”

You are almost annoyed now with her tone of voice - not that you were in a position to complain, not while her wet, slick lips were sweet upon your tongue and lips. You continue to swipe at her clit with your tongue, using the flat of it now to ensure maximum contact with the taut bud. Sakura begins to grind her hips against you, almost crushing her pussy against your face in an effort to draw every ounce of pleasure from your tongue as she could.

What a sight it would have been for anyone walking into the precinct showers at that moment. A man sitting on the floor, blindfolded and with hands bound behind his back, while Miyawaki Sakura stood over him, one hand pulling her skirt up and another gripping the back of his skull, pressing his helpless face against the wet, slick lips of her pussy.

Sakura grinds her face against you. You almost struggle to breathe - every time you come up for air, she presses you against the hot, slick flesh of her pussy with the hand grasping the back of your scalp. It was frightening. It was almost too much to handle. But it was also intensely, perversely arousing.

“Ah, stop, I need you inside me right now,” she snaps - the first time she’d broken her tone and shown the slightest hint of losing her composure. “Are you ready?”

“Fuck yes, Sakura. I want-”

Sakura silences you with a raised finger to your lips, just as she did earlier that afternoon on the rooftop.

“Just a yes or no, remember?”

“Y...yes,” you answer, suitably chastised.

“Good. Now sit there and be a good little cock for me to fuck.”

Sakura drops to her knees, straddling you once more. With your hands still bound behind your back you are unable to lie back fully, and so you settle into a sitting position as she sits on your lap. You would’ve given anything to get your hands on her hips, particularly as she adjusted herself for penetration - but you had to admit, not being able to see her or touch her beyond what she allowed your mouth and hips to do only heightened the intensity of your other senses.

She wastes no time. You felt her slim fingers on your cock for a moment, aligning your tip with her entrance, before she drops her hips and takes you inside her for the first time.

You both sigh out loud - loud, breathy sounds that echo off the tile surrounding you. Sakura gasps as you fill her completely, your crotches finally meeting as she fills herself with your stiff shaft for the first time. For a second you regret your choice to free your mouth and wish you’d freed your arms instead, as it would have allowed you to lie on your back and thus let Sakura penetrate herself more deeply - not that you were actually upset at being finally inside the needy, mewling young police officer.

“Oh my,” Sakura sighs, “you’re so fucking big inside me! Now I see, ohh! I see why those other girls keep you around! But now it’s my turn. My turn to use you as a fucktoy. Do you like being a fucktoy for me? Do you like being nothing more than a toy cock for me to fuck myself with?”

You want to argue with her, put her in her place, spit the same vulgarities and names right back at her. But there is a sharp, edgy undertone to Miyawaki Sakura, a kind of fierceness that made you fear what would happen if you did.

You decide to let her have her way - for now at least.

“Yes.”

“Good! Then get ready!”

Any misgivings you may have had about Sakura, about her double-sided personality, about her lack of professionalism when off-site and intimidating intensity when actually in the field, even about the way she spoke so casually and vulgarly about your relationship with your team - they all flew right out the window as she began to ride you. Every muscle in her small, lean body seemed devoted to driving your stiff shaft in and out of her body, each of her movements propelling her up and down as fast and hard as she was able.

For all her faults and almost frightening instability, Miyawaki Sakura knew how to ride a cock.

You supposed you shouldn’t be surprised by the lack of build up to the way Sakura rode you. It was all you could do to grit your teeth and attempt to stay upright as her tight, lithe body rocked up and down, threatening to tip you over and onto your back, which, given your bound hands, would have been quite uncomfortable. Thankfully Sakura quickly grips onto your shoulders, helping keep you upright as she used them for more leverage, driving you in and out of the hot, wet flesh between her legs again and again.

“Oh, oh fuck, you’re so fucking big!” Sakura moans, seemingly barely able to turn her thoughts into words before she abandons the thought of speaking altogether, relying instead on a wordless string of gasps and sighs to articulate the pleasure coursing through her veins.

You grit your teeth, relishing the feel of her tight heat wrapped around your cock as she continued to ride you with fierce abandon on the shower floor. Eager to do something more than merely hold on, you lean forward, searching for and then finding her upper chest, pressing your lips against the small patch of exposed skin at the top of her blouse.

Sakura catches on to what you were doing, and the next thing you hear is the sound of buttons ripping from fabric as she quite literally tears the blouse open.

Were any other girl to rip open a button up shirt to give you access to her chest, you would have been surprised with her recklessness - but with Sakura it was simply par for the course.

Your hungry lips press themselves against the newly revealed skin of her upper chest, greedly pressing against her pale, vanilla skin, licking and kissing and tasting. Soon you find her neck, latching onto the warmth you find there, sucking hard enough to bruise her and leave marks on her otherwise perfect skin. Sakura hugs you tightly against her body, not lowering her pace at all, still riding you fiercely, her hips not ceasing for a moment in their desire to fill herself over and over again with stiff, hard cock.

The minutes pass as the tiny little police officer fucks herself on your stiff cock, the small shower space filled with your wordless moans and the wet slap of flesh hitting flesh.

The entire experience was torrid, fierce, intense. Sakura was so unpredictable, so unreadable - and that was even not counting the fact that you were blindfolded or had your hands bound. Her personality seemed to flip from moment to moment, and while a part of you missed the stability and predictability of your other partners, you would have been lying if you had said Sakura’s sheer craziness didn’t also turn you on in its own unique, special way.

When Sakura cums, her body turning into the same shaking, quivering mess she was when she came the first time, you are thankful - because you were close behind. Her flesh tightens and pulsates around you even more than you’d thought possible.

“I’m gonna cum, Sakura,” you hiss, forsaking for a moment her rule to limit your speaking to simple yesses or nos, and being thankful she was so far lost in the pleasure overtaking her senses that she was unable to pick up on that particular rule violation.

“Fucking fill my tight little pussy with your hot cum, you little fucktoy!”

Helpless to do much else, you allow yourself to finally fall over the edge, letting a deep, low groan escape your throat as your cock spasms and begins to spurt thick, hot cum inside the still-quivering Japanese girl’s wet, slick pussy. Even as your cock fills her with semen Sakura doesn’t stop, still riding you fiercely, still impaling herself with what was left of her energy, pushing your cum even deeper inside of herself with each thrust of your spasming cock.

It’s almost painful the way she slams her entire weight onto your crotch and the cold, unforgiving floor beneath it. You would’ve given anything to just hold her down by her hips and savor the feeling of your orgasm, the feeling of filling a young woman’s pussy with your cum for the first time. But what you wanted didn’t matter. You were in no position to tell her what you wanted, and she probably wouldn’t have cared even if you were.

When she finally stops it is almost a mercy. You are drained of energy like you’d never been before - utterly physically and mentally spent. Your cock still embedded hilt deep inside her, she reaches up and finally slips the blindfold from your eyes. You spend a few seconds blinking rapidly, your eyes unused to the sudden brightness.

“That was a great job! You have one hour with Rose,” she says, her face bright and cheerful, as though she were congratulating the first place kart racer and wasn’t currently impaled with a recently orgasmed cock, filled to the brim with its fresh, hot semen. She grabs you fiercely by the skull and gives you a final, fierce kiss.

“Will an hour be enough?” she asks when she finally tears her lips from yours. Able to see now, you lock eyes with her, and while her eyes are large and bright, you notice now that they are laced with more than a little crazy, brimming just below the surface.

It occurred to you at that moment just why Miyawaki Sakura had been buried in the records department of her precinct by her superiors.

She was a little crazy.

Too spent to come up with anything resembling a verbal response, you resort to following her rules once more.

You nod.

---

“I’m sure Officers Park and Douma have informed you of the charges that will be brought against you, and that your lawyer has conveyed the gravity of the situation you’re in,” Momo states, matter-of-factly. “The evidence is indisputable. Your future doesn’t look bright, Rose.”

“I’m aware that I’m fucked, yes,” Rose replies, making a dismissive gesture with her hands from the interrogation room’s table, where they are handcuffed to the thick metal bar in the middle of it. She had appeared to become even more of a mess since you saw her last at yesterday’s interrogation, with darker bags under her eyes and frazzled, messy hair. “So if I’m as screwed as you say I am, then why are you still here? Come to gloat, have you?”

“You’re here because we want to offer you something,” Momo answers.

“You? Offer me something? Hah! Unless it’s a ticket that lets me walk out that door a free woman then I’m not interested. What could you possibly have to offer me?”

Momo leans back in her chair. She had predicted that Rose would react the way she did during your preparation for this meeting. It was almost as if she had written a script for it - and it was your turn to speak your lines.

“Revenge,” you state, leaning forward on the table.

“Revenge? The fuck do you mean by that?”

“Let me ask you, Rose: how do you think we knew you’d be at that event a few days ago?”

“I dunno. Fucking cops have probably been tailing me from the second I touched down,” she spits with a dirty look towards the one-way glass, even if you knew there was no one on the other side. Sakura had made sure this conversation was strictly off the record.

“Nope. It’s because we received a tip - from one of your friends in Blackpink.”

Rose is unable to hide her reaction, her eyes going wide with surprise.

“You’re fucking lying. Why the hell would they give me up like that?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” you answer. “Maybe you pissed one of them off. Maybe they decided they didn’t need you anymore, getting caught doing shit overseas while they did the real hard work here in Japan and Korea. I don’t care. But if you help us find them, then maybe we can make sure they’re just as fucked as you are. If you’re especially helpful, maybe we recommend a lighter sentence for you.”

“You want me to rat on them? Give up my team?”

“Yes,” Momo answers. “Remember - it’s because of them that you’re going to be behind bars for a very long time, while they’re out there free as can be, living the life. This is your chance to take them down with you.”

“You must have had a safehouse or a base of operations here in Japan,” you add. “Give us the location of that base and we’ll make sure we take them down, without them being any the wiser that it was you who gave up their location.”

Rose bites her lip, staring intently at her own hands as she weighs her admittedly small range of options.

“If I give them up, you get me a lighter sentence? That’s it?”

“That’s part of it,” you answer, as Momo retrieves mugshots of the two Red Velvet members and from her briefcase and places them on the table. “We’re also tracking two fugitives from Korea that you might have heard of - Kang Seulgi and Kim Yerim. Do you or anyone in Blackpink know anything about them?”

Rose takes a quick glance at both photos, but there is no hint of recognition in her eyes.

“No, I don’t know either of those two. If it’s Koreans you’re looking for you’d best speak to the others. All my work was done overseas, as illustrated by your giant pile of indisputable evidence.”

Momo gathers the mugshots before taking a pad of paper and a pen from her briefcase and places them in front of Rose.

“We need you to write down the location of Blackpink’s safehouse,” she states.

Rose takes a last moment of thought before she reaches for the pen.

“I want your word that I’ll get a lighter sentence for this. And that they’ll never know it was me that gave them up.”

“You have it. We can’t guarantee that the judge will honor our request, but I promise you they’ll be aware of your cooperation,” Momo replies.

Rose scribbles an address down on the pad of paper before sliding it across the table to Momo. Momo takes out her phone and opens her map app to confirm its validity. Satisfied, she gives you a nod.

“You’ve made the right decision,” you tell Rose as you stand up and get ready to leave. Momo packs up her things and follows closely behind.

“Throw those bitches into a hole and let them rot,” Rose hisses as you leave the room.

In the outside hallway, Sakura, wearing a garishly pink hoodie now given that she’d torn the buttons off her uniform blouse earlier that afternoon, raises her head from her phone as she notices you and Momo have left the room. Giving Momo a polite, cheerful smile and shooting you a suggestive wink, she enters the interrogation room, presumably to return Rose to her cell.

Also waiting in the hallway, sitting on a bench, are Nayeon and a third woman, who begins to speak as soon as Sakura has closed the door to the interrogation room.

“Did she believe it? That it was Blackpink that gave her up?”

“Yes, you answer.”

“You got the location of their safehouse?”

“Yes.”

“What about Seulgi and Yeri? Did she know where they are?”

“No. I’m sorry, Irene.”

There is a flash of something resembling sadness and disappointment in Irene’s features. It is short and fleeting, but unmistakable. Soon it is replaced with the look of quiet determination that she had worn since the moment she’d joined you in Japan.

She rises from her seat. The short leggings she was wearing did little to hide the bulky tracking device around her ankle, but at least now her hands were free of the handcuffs she had on the last time you saw her.

“Understood. Let’s go - we have work to do.”

---

Author’s Note: Not my best work, I know, but I just wanted to get across how wild (in a good way) Sakura was during sex and I found it kind of difficult to get across that she was good crazy but not insane lol. Not sure how well I did or how clear everything came across as I’d never written anyone quite like her with those kinks. I always want to try writing new things and improving my writing, though. Let me know what you think. :)

#kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader #pov smut #izone #izone fanfic #izone sakura #miyawaki sakura #izone smut

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miscellaneous-obsession · 3 years

Note

Story of any kind of Lady Dimitrescu x Reader but have Miranda in it?

Back to our usual schedule of fics, here is one that took a bit to write! I went with full on angst and fluff so you have been warned... and will be again like twice :)

Unending Nightmare

Warnings: Graphic violence, details of injury, blood and gore, general feeling of anxiety, panic, despair, Miranda being horrible as hell and not suitable for minors.

It seemed almost surreal to regain consciousness in the main hall, her body lounging on one of two settees that sat perfectly aligned to the table in between. Alcina's spine cried in anguish with an unnatural contortion, prompting amber eyes to flutter open, blinking comically in rapid succession to disperse the remnants of sleep that clouded her vision. Rising to a sitting position relieved the strain she experienced, with subsequent stretching of limbs resulting in audible pops.

As her gaze panned briefly across the room, everything appeared untouched, even lipstick-stained cups that sat atop of matching saucers, evidence of her impromptu afternoon tea shared with her wife. A smile saw her slackened jaw tighten with the memory, her mind reliving the moment vividly as she gracefully angled her legs as to touch the ground. However, the sole of one heel didn't make it, landing upon the novel still open to the bookmarked page in which it was discarded as she succumbed to sleep.

However, as the matriarch moved to collect the piece of literature, a piercing scream laced with agony carried through the endless corridors, starling Alcina from her reverie. A sound from such a distance shouldn't have been able to travel, nor should the crying wails and sobs that followed. A note of familiarity within the voice struck a chord in the countess as her mind sought an answer. All the while, fear began to steadily crawl along her spine, wrapping tight like a snake, slithering into her heart in an attempt of manifestation. Shakily she brought her hand to her lips, eyes widening as she recognised the perpetual weeping.

The safety the castle once afforded her dematerialised before her very eyes as fragments of reality appeared to settle into place. The pleading whimpers almost quietened into non-existence, much like the fire that began to dim. In what light remained, Alcina took note of the disorganised chaos that made itself known, how furniture had been shoved aside, vases broken in the wake of a predator, even the blood that marred the marble floor.

Instinctively her claws unsheathed, sensing the danger that posed as a threat to her family. However, as the matriarch took a step closer, intent on examining the trail of crimson destruction, she staggered backwards. The scent of iron in the air was unmistakable; a smell she was well acquainted with and often so enticed by became reclusive as it hit her olfactory receptors. Someone dared to touch... harm what was hers, somewhere in the place they called home, her wife lay injured.

Grappling with the panic and horror that strove to run rampant in her mind, Alcina frantically called aloud for her daughters. But even when beckoned, her solitude persisted; never once upon summoning had her girls elected to disobey or ignore. At last, the illusion of elegance and composure shattered, leaving the countess in what she deemed an unsavoury, feral state, desperate to find and protect what she claimed to be her own.

Alcina all but marched to the cellar growing increasingly fretful with every step she took as she was forced to strain her ears to catch sound of the almost silent, pained murmurs. Ignorant of her own wellbeing, she pursued her wife in heels with an unnaturally fast pace across the uneven, damp terrain, paid by a loss of stance on more than one occasion. Upon rounding the corner in what could be deemed a dishevelled appearance, the matriarch's heart stuttered, skipping a beat involuntarily at the lurid sight before her.

Laid on a mortuary table, gasping for breath, was her beloved, blood pooling beneath her quivering frame from a freshly inflicted incision site as her body seemingly rejected what was both forced and foreign. Once vivid blue irises were almost consumed by blacked pupils, a natural response to the accumulation of adrenaline created as unwavering pain gripped her body. Teeth had long pierced both tongue and lips, allowing more blood to bead in droplets to go unused and wasted, following gravity to the drain so conveniently in place on the stainless steel table.

The growl unleashed from Alcina's throat was unrivalled; her desire to cry out extinguished as she pried her gaze upward. Standing mere inches from her wife's side was Miranda, in a laboratory coat almost befitting of her former self. In hand was an empty jar, fluid swishing with the gentle jostles of the deities movements. A worn label, lacking adhesive, clung to the glass, almost faded to the human eye, but two letters confirmed the unthinkable.

"You've arrived in time, my dear; your pet's future is dependent on this very moment."

Unable to refute the truth in Miranda's words nor bring solace to her wife, she attempted the latter as it appeared the more achievable of the two. With claws retracted, unwilling to cause more harm, Alcina cradled her wilting wife's face as delicately she could muster. She blinked several times over the next minute, refusing to let the tears she felt building fall as she honed in on the ever slowing heartbeat. Hushed apologies and whispered declarations of love were shared, albeit one-sided, in some hope that her beloved heard.

Desperate for her wife to avoid an inevitable future as a mindless moroaicǎ, she continued to track her declining health, choosing to strike as the paled woman took her final breath as a human. Before the transformation could ensue, Alcina made the decision to end what would begin within the coming minutes. Her choice is emboldened upon catching Miranda's dismissive and callous opinion, "Another failure, unsurprising."

Just as her claws were sat poised to cut and render the moroaicǎ useless, her body jolted awake, sweat beading along her brow from the horrifyingly realistic dream her mind had conjured. Swiping a hand to remove what clung to her skin, her eyes blindly searched the room devoid of light. A shaky but relieved sigh slipped past her lips as her hand came to land on and subsequently caress the top of her wife's head.

As calming as one's breathing regulations could be, it didn't replace nor best physical contact with the woman she loved. With arms outstretched, she enveloped her wife, drawing her atop her chest, listening and attempting to match the rhythmic beat of her heart. During such extrication from her place under the covers, bleary eyes opened a fraction in confusion, head tilting to mirror jumbled thoughts.

"Alci?"

"Forgive me, dragă mea, go back to sleep."

Feeling the minute shake of a head, the countess peered down, acknowledging the look of concern that replaced serenity. A hand of supple skin rose to gently gloss over her cheeks, gathering what tears had fallen with the pull of gravity.

"What is troubling you so, beloved?"

Unable to recount most of the tale, Alcina spared her wife from gruesome details, summarising the dream to one line, "It appears my mind attempted to convince me I had lost you."

A contemplative hum resonated directly below her ear, the vibration of which tickled the countess' neck as her wife nestled comfortably in her hold. "Nothing in this world could part me from you; I love you too much to bear separation in this lifetime."

"And if we had no other choice?"

A tutting sound emerged in the dark, an almost dismissal of such a notion. "Then I'd have lived a life knowing I had a woman who loved me and three beautiful daughters to succeed me."

"Poetic... only divulging such a divine talent and way with words now. But I fear you forget that you were the one, with an open heart and mind, who reintroduced my capability to love another outside my darling girls, a trait I thought had been long lost to my mutation."

A keening whine of appreciation caught her ears, further emphasised as featherlight kisses were pressed along the expanse of exposed skin, her wife opting to include areas of her jaw within reach.

"It appears we were both lucky with the hand fate dealt us." After a beat of silence, a tired voice reiterated what had been murmured in the last moments before their slumber, "Te iubesc Cina... te iubesc."

Those wise words and impromptu reaffirmation soothed the ache left by the dream, eradicating the pain like a salve. With practised ease, the matriarch responded in kind, "Și eu te iubesc," before succumbing to the sleep her body so desperately craved.

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

Both were jolted from sleep only hours later when the covers were unceremoniously pulled back and bodies pressed against them in urgency. Muffled giggles and quiet hushes saw eyes open, only to narrow imperceptibly in faux annoyance, prompting sheepish grins to spread across their daughter's lips. Half-hearted glares quickly faltered, softening into smiles, giving all three the go-ahead to bury their chilled frames in between and around the couple.

Following their lead, Bela too extricated her body, albeit with an audible whine, from beneath the covers. Soon the countess grew amused at the trio's antics as they pleaded with an array of tactics for her wife to join them for their morning routine. Reluctantly Alcina released her wife from her grasp, seeing her subsequently tugged out of bed by the girls. The four ran from the room as a game of tag began, allowing the matriarch to muse as she mapped the softened footfalls of her family throughout the wing in which they resided.

Without warning, her peace was disturbed by the shrill ring of the ornate rotary phone that sat in the adjoining room to her chambers. Donning a robe to retain some modicum of decency, Alcina took her place at her vanity, a tremor running through her hand as she picked up the receiver.

"Mother Miranda."

"Ah Alcina dear, I trust you aren't busy."

Before the matriarch had a chance to respond, Miranda continued on a tangent of her own, "Now, I called to discuss business regarding your wife; her repeated test results have revealed something rather... interesting."

From the moment that phrase was uttered with such an insinuating tone, Alcina could no longer focus. The countess' heart dropped and found herself wishing that the echoing laughter of her girls and beloved could remain forever constant in the castle walls.

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duhragonball · 3 years

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[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (158/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation. This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: This story takes place about 1000 years before 66 years after the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[24 December, Age 762. Planet Namek.]

The mission was simple enough on paper. The demon Towa had traveled through time and used her magic influence on various fighters throughout history, in order to gather energy from their battles. This time, the villainous Frieza had been enchanted, making him stronger and more belligerent. Luffa's job was to join the small band of fighters on Planet Namek who had fought Frieza on that day. It was up to her to make sure that the enemy’s intervention would not alter the outcome of the fight.

In practice, the mission had become a debacle. Once, long ago, Luffa had been the Legendary Super Saiyan, capable of destroying a menace like Frieza with ease. But now, her powers had been drastically reduced under mysterious circumstances. Luffa had gambled on the faint hope that her body was recovering from this. Each mission she performed for the Time Patrol seemed to restore a portion of her former strength. At times, it seemed like every punch and kick she took from an enemy would bring her a step closer to where she needed to be. She had expected this curious phenomenon to carry her past the finish line against Frieza in the same way.

But this time, it wasn't working. Frieza nearly defeated Luffa with a single blow, and even though the young Namekian Dende had healed her, even though she did see an increase in power, it wasn't nearly enough for her to keep up with this battle. The one saving grace was that another Namekian, one Dende called "Nail," had arrived to join the fight. But Luffa knew this wouldn't be enough.

As she approached the site of the battle, she caught sight of Nail and recognized him as Piccolo, the Namekian she had seen on her first Time Patrol mission. Piccolo had died in battle on her second mission, and the Earthling's expedition to Namek was intended to wish him back to life, among others. Luffa wasn't sure if this was Piccolo resurrected, or if Nail was actually someone else who happened to look and dress the same way. In either case, she had no idea how any Namekian had managed to get so powerful in such a short time. It would have been reassuring, except Frieza was in the middle of transforming himself into an even more powerful form, one that would surely be too much for any of them to handle.

In the original course of events, the day was won, however improbably. But the dark purple aura that swirled around Frieza was a sign that things would not go the way they should. It was Luffa's job to force destiny back into frame. Everything ultimately depended upon her, and she was no longer sure that her power would be enough.

But it would have to be. Luffa had contacted the Time Vault for extraction, only to find that it couldn't be done. "Chronal interference" was the term used by the Supreme Kai of Time in her last transmission. The rest of her message was garbled, but Luffa got the general idea, someone had trapped Luffa on Namek, and Luffa had a fair idea who was responsible.

"Towa..." she muttered under her breath. Luffa had brazenly challenged the demon on the last mission, and fought her creation, Mira, to a standstill. Towa had elected to withdraw, which seemed like a moral victory at the time, but now it was clear what Towa had in mind. Having taken Luffa's measure, Towa had lured Luffa into a no-win scenario. Sooner or later, Chronoa would find a way to retrieve Luffa from the past, but Towa was counting on Frieza to kill Luffa long before that happened.

Or, perhaps, Luffa considered, Towa wasn't expecting Luffa to die here. Maybe this was just a receipt for interfering in Towa's business, or a test to further gauge Luffa's abilities. If that was the best-case scenario, things were truly grim indeed.

Concerning Frieza himself, his third form looked positively revolting. The first transformation simply made him bigger and taller, but this one hunched his posture, and expanded the white carapace that surrounded his chest, shoulders and cranium. The growths on his shoulders now resembled enormous pauldrons, similar to the armored uniforms worn by his henchmen. Spiky protrusions jutted out from his back. His head had expanded to an oblong shape, with horns jutting out from the sides. His face was distorted to the point where his nose was completely gone, and his mouth now resembled the muzzle of a reptilian animal. Part of his tail was missing, and Luffa could only guess that this had been damaged during the fight while Luffa had been hurt. Judging by Frieza's smug expression, he didn't seem to think the injury affected his chances.

Frieza renewed his attack on Piccolo, who wisely kept his distance. He had done well against Frieza's second form, but the third was simply too powerful to attack head-on. Luffa chased after them, though she quickly found that she wasn't able to keep up. Piccolo was moving at top speed, and she reasoned that this was his final card to play. She didn't know how he had increased his power so dramatically, but Frieza had neutralized any strength advantage he once had. All Piccolo could do now was to hope he had a speed advantage.

He did not. Frieza intercepted him no matter which way Piccolo turned. With no other option, Piccolo tried to attack, and Frieza dodged his punch with ease, then began battering the Namekian at will. Then, Frieza fired a ki blast from his fingertip into Piccolo's knee. The blast didn't leave much of a wound, and from the ki she sensed, Luffa reasoned that it was intended to inflict pain more than injury.

Then he fired another blast from his other hand. And another. And another, until he was bombarding Piccolo's entire body with ki blasts. Piccolo was helpless against this assault, as he lacked the speed to even attempt to dodge. He simply flailed in midair, like a flag being buffeted by heavy rainfall.

Luffa knew she had to step in. Currently, Piccolo was the strongest one on their side, and no one else could help him. The problem was that she lacked the power to do any good. She decided the best bet would be to approach Frieza from behind and force him to turn away from Piccolo to deal with her, but as she got closer, she realized that he hadn't noticed her at all.

This had been a recurring theme with her previous Time Patrol missions. The Saiyans she had fought on Earth had been unable to sense ki, and while Vegeta seemed to acquire this skill by the time he reached Namek, none of the Ginyu Force had it, and now it seemed that Frieza had the same weakness. It was a reminder that, for all his power, Frieza lacked any genuine talent for martial arts. All of Frieza's precise movements and uncanny reflexes were simply a function of his incredible speed and strength.

It suddenly occurred to her that this was probably why Piccolo and the others had lasted this long in the first place. Frieza was a spiteful sadist, and was happy to drag out a fight to prolong his enemies' suffering, but he probably also had trouble gauging how hard to hit a powerful opponent without killing them immediately. It also explained how he lost the end of his tail. Someone must have managed to sneak up on him and get off a lucky shot.

She imagined that it must have been a razor-thin application of ki energy, since this would produce intense damage over a narrow range. She looked at her own hand and began to concentrate her own power to try to replicate that idea. But as she prepared to strike, Gohan suddenly broke away from the others and flew towards Frieza.

It was remarkable how much energy Gohan was putting out. Luffa wasn't sure what to make of the boy, but her main observation was that he was too inexperienced to use his power to its fullest. As he charged after Frieza, he let out a defiant battle cry, which alerted Frieza to his approach. Frieza turned to see the boy, then, after firing one more shot to dispatch Piccolo, flew higher into the air to avoid Gohan's kick.

Undeterred, Gohan turned around and flew at Frieza again. Only this time, he flew past Frieza instead of barreling right into him. Luffa couldn't help but smile. The boy lacked experience, but he was sharp enough to learn quickly. Frieza was too fast for a direct assault, but confusing him would slow him down just enough to make things easier. And as Frieza turned to await Gohan's next move, Luffa took the opportunity to make her next move.

Maneuvering to Frieza's blind spot, Luffa drove her fingers into Frieza's back and dug as hard as she could into his flesh. He cried out and swatted her away with his tail, but she was prepared for this and wrapped her legs around the base of his tail, and grabbed one of the bony protrusions on his back. In this way, she could cling to Frieza's backside and he wouldn't be able to reach her. With her free hand, she slashed at any exposed skin she could find.

The tips of her fingers glowed with five tiny blades of ki. She doubted that she could do any serious damage, but it would be enough to buy the others time. And, with any luck, she could hurt him enough to neutralize the effects of Towa's magic.

"You should have stayed the way you were, Frieza!" Luffa growled as she struggled to stay on his back. "Your other forms were smaller, and I never could have hung on like this. But now, your upper body's so big and bulky that I could stay here for days!"

His tail whipped around her head, and she finally started slashing her hand at it to keep it at bay. Frieza reached for her with his hands, but it was useless.

"Get off me you, damn dirty Saiyan!" Frieza screamed.

"That's just what your father said!" Luffa lied. "Right before I killed him!"

She knew her attack wouldn't work for much longer, so it was important for her to push ahead with her earlier plan. Towa's magic had made Frieza so aggressive that there was a danger that he might kill the others too quickly, and alter the course of history. Luffa had gotten him to slow down by inventing a tale of secret conspirators and assassins dedicated to dismantling his empire. By arousing his curiosity, she hoped to keep his mind off of destroying Namek with a single stroke. So far, it had worked, but she wanted to keep up the pressure.

"You're dead, you hear me?" Luffa shouted. "Even if you survive, your life won't be worth a hill of beans. And the best part of it is that if you knew who I was working for, you'd know just how doomed you really are!"

At last Frieza managed to shake Luffa off his back. It was only a glancing blow from his tail, but it was enough to knock her senseless and send her tumbling to the ground below. But Luffa was satisfied with her efforts, and she managed to stay conscious this time, which let her see what happened next. As Frieza turned his attention to Gohan, he found the boy high above, readying an enormous ki blast.

Luffa hit the ground with a loud thud, and while she couldn't get up very quickly, she didn't feel too badly hurt. As she rose to one knee, she saw Frieza brazenly charge into Gohan's attack, only to find that it wasn't as easy to power through as he had expected. And then, impossibly, Gohan began to drive him back.

It was an awe-inspiring sight. Luffa's thoughts raced back to her first Time Patrol mission, when she first saw Gohan display a similar radical increase in power. He seemed to do this whenever he was especially upset, but he could never maintain the power boost for very long. But this time he was operating at a much higher level, greater than any normal Saiyan she had ever seen, and now he was doing it for the second time in the same battle!

As Frieza struggled to hold back Gohan's ki, he looked like an oversized tick clinging to a giant light bulb. And Gohan responded to Frieza's resistance by turning up the pressure. He was actually getting even stronger, and Luffa was forced to revise her estimation of the boy. He was not only stronger than any normal Saiyans she had known, but he was also beginning to surpass some of the ones who had enhanced themselves through artificial means. What was his secret?

She suddenly remembered the others, and looked around to find Krillin and Vegeta hovering nearby. Luffa was reminded of Krillin's earlier heroism, selflessly sacrificing himself to save the Namekian child, Dende. Frieza had run him through with his horn, and Krillin still struggled to put up a fight, even past the point of certain death. He was an Earthling, like Gohan's mother. Was there a connection?

Gathering her strength, Luffa flew over to join them, anxious to prepare a new offensive.

"We can blindside him!" Luffa said. "If Piccolo or Gohan can hold his attention for a second, the three of us might be able to--!"

"It won't work!" Vegeta snapped. "Frieza's too strong for that. That's why I need one of you to attack me!"

"Attack you?" Luffa asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"He wants me to hurt him so badly that he almost dies!" Krillin explained. From the look on his face, it was plain that he wanted no part of the idea, but he continued to explain further. "Then he expects Dende down there to heal him, and then...!"

"And then," Vegeta said, "My power will increase dramatically. You're a Saiyan yourself. Surely you're familiar with the concept."

"The zenkai?" Luffa said with a gasp. "That's your plan?! It doesn't work when you injure yourself!"

"You think I don't already know that?" Vegeta seethed as he pointed to Krillin. "That's why I need Baldy here to help me! He's weaker than me, but if I lower my guard, he should be able to deliver a critical wound."

"I already told him it was nuts!" Krillin said. "If I'm not careful, I might kill him, and then where would we be?!"

"It's the only way!" Vegeta insisted. "I'm so close, and once that brat heals me, I can finally become a Super Saiyan, and destroy Frieza in an instant!"

Luffa was horrified. Despite the danger posed by Frieza, It was Vegeta's words that made a chill run down her spine. "A Super--?! You think that would make you...?" she asked, unable to finish the question. "Vegeta, listen to me! It doesn't work that way!"

"And what would you know about it, woman?" Vegeta scoffed.

Her eyes went wide as she grabbed him by the shoulders. "You fool!" she screamed. "You can't turn into a Super Saiyan just by raising your power level! If it was that easy, every Saiyan would do it! And besides, the zenkai is a reward for valor on the battlefield! You're talking about mutilating yourself to exploit it like some... like some faulty line of computer programming!"

Vegeta shook loose from her grip and made a contemptuous snort. "Hmmph! Exactly the sort of defeatist gibber I'd expect from a low class warrior. Know this, woman: I am on the cusp of becoming a Super Saiyan, and I would brave hell itself to achieve it. If it doesn't work on the first try, then I'll just have Baldy hit me again until it does. If that bothers you so much, then I suggest you look away."

The determined smile on his face shook Luffa to the core. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him this wasn't worth it, and that it would never work. And then, she had to wonder. What if it could work?

One thousand years ago, Luffa's powers had begun to increase, only for her father to betray her to the insectoid hordes of the Tikosi. They had struck a bargain with her father. He would give them Luffa as a subject for their experiments, and in return they would share the fruits of their research with him.

For months, they tortured her to the brink of death, always healing her injuries before she could actually die. There had been no glorious battlefields to provide the wounds, but the zenkai effect worked all the same. And the Tikosi studied this, and reverse-engineered it. Luffa had grown stronger during that ordeal, but she was kept drugged and restrained so that she could never turn that strength upon her captors. And so it had gone, until at last, on one fateful day...

And now, a millennium later, Vegeta had stumbled upon the same idea. What the Tikosi had done accidentally, he was trying to achieve deliberately. He was willing to stoop to anything, even risking his own life, to attain the power to destroy his enemy.

Luffa didn't know whether to admire the man or pity him. At least she was able to avenge herself against the Tikosi, but Vegeta could have no such satisfaction.

He was his own tormentor.

Nappa was right, it seemed. It was fitting that the Prince was named for their planet, but not in the way Nappa thought. Both were doomed.

Suddenly, Gohan's attack on Frieza had failed. Luffa had expected something like this to happen. As incredible as Gohan's rally had been, she figured it was only a momentary respite at best. She sensed his power being driven back, and turned to find Frieza had shoved the ki blast back on Gohan. It was then deflected again, as Piccolo drove it off course, and safely away from the boy. Instead, the enormous globe of power soared higher into the air, before finally exploding. Frieza stood still for a moment, glaring at Gohan, as though contemplating what had just happened.

"That's it! Vegeta shouted at Krillin. "The kid's had it! That attack was impressive, but he won't have any power left after a stunt like that! If I'm going to defeat him, I need to become a Super Saiyan right now!"

"But... I can't just--"

Luffa ignored them and focused on Frieza. He would probably attack Gohan again to pay him back, then go after Piccolo to pick up where he had left off. In the meantime, Luffa would need to come up with another hit-and-run offensive, only this time, she knew Frieza would be on-guard for such a thing. She considered targeting his eyes. Without any ki senses, he relied heavily on sight and sound, but it was a small target, and she would have to come straight at him to hit it. Then again, she thought, he wouldn't be expecting something so audacious, and it would make things much easier going forward.

"Pardon me."

A bead of sweat rolled down Luffa's face. She had hoped that Frieza would take a moment to fight Piccolo and Gohan, but instead he turned his attention to the rest of them. Suddenly, it didn't seem to matter what plans she and Vegeta had in mind. They wouldn't get a spare moment to execute them.

"I do hate to interrupt such a spirited conversation," Frieza continued, "but I am running on a bit of a tight schedule. So, to be fair, I'll let you decide which one of you gets to be my next victim. Feel free to take a vote, or draw straws, or one of you can think of a number and the one with the closest guess can do the honors. It's entirely up to you. But while the rest of you sort that matter out..."

Faster than Luffa could react, Frieza left the ground and suddenly appeared right in front of her. She managed to raise her arms but not high enough or fast enough to stop Frieza from grabbing her by the throat.

"... I need a moment alone with your charming friend."

The others were too stunned to intervene, both by Frieza's quick recovery, and the fact that he was completely unharmed by Gohan's efforts. Frieza threw Luffa into the distance, and then flew after her, catching her before she could crash into the ground. This was no act of mercy, as Frieza then drove her face-first into the dirt, with far more punishing force than the throw.

"You're different from the others," Frieza said. "They're all appropriately terrified, but you seem to want my attention for some reason. Well, you'll be delighted to know that you finally have it. I wanted to ask you a question. I do hope you'll be kind enough to answer it for me. It would be a shame if our first encounter should end in a disagreement."

Luffa tried to spit in his face, but Frieza planted his foot on her head before she could manage it. "It's about that boy. You see, I finally realized that he must be a Saiyan, like you and Vegeta."

Luffa grabbed at Frieza's leg. Against a different foe, she might have transitioned into an ankle lock, or some other hold. She knew this was unlikely at best, but still held out some faint hope. Frieza crushed that hope by applying more force, driving her head into the earth below.

"I destroyed Planet Vegeta decades ago," Frieza explained. "I thought I had wiped out all of the Saiyans, except for Vegeta, Nappa, and Raditz. There might be a few others I missed, but hardly worth mentioning. Those infiltration babies probably grew up not even knowing what a Saiyan is, and even if they ever learned, they have no homeworld to reconnect with."

Luffa released Frieza's leg and tried to shoot a ki blast at him, but he reached down and grabbed her arm to spoil her shot. He did not let go.

"But now I find a Saiyan child working alongside Vegeta, of all people. And more, the boy is far stronger than any Saiyan I've ever met, including the dear Prince himself. I must admit, it's made me a bit curious. And here you are, a Saiyan woman, threatening me with all sorts of tall tales and revenge fantasies."

He pulled on her arm, and Luffa began to wonder if he was going to rip it off of her shoulder.

"I despise legends, you see. As you might have noticed, I have a reputation for being the most powerful being in the universe. It's the truth. A cold, hard, irrefutable fact, my dear. My reputation precedes me, but it's only because it's simple reality, like the speed of light in a vacuum, or the half-life of astatine. But some people can't handle the truth, and when they can't find a way around it, they retreat into fantasy. They look for legends to give them false hopes. Look at Vegeta. I was so kind to him, and yet he threw away a promising career as my underling, all to chase after the Dragon Balls for a chance at immortality. And then, as soon as the Dragon Balls were lost, he starts nattering on about this Super Saiyan."

Luffa had been trying not to scream, but that was before Frieza had dislocated her shoulder. He heard the muffled cries from beneath his foot, and smiled warmly. "Ah, then you can still speak. I was beginning to think you had lost your voice somewhere along the way."

He removed his foot and lifted her up by her arm, letting her dangle at just the right height so he could speak with her face to face.

"I think the boy might be Raditz' son," Frieza said. "Ironic, since Raditz himself was so pathetic, even by Saiyan standards, but there are only so many candidates, and I just can't see any resemblance to Nappa or Vegeta. Then again, you Saiyans have always been so fixated on bloodlines. Pairing off in some futile attempt to breed a better warrior. It all seemed rather pointless to me. But maybe Raditz finally hit paydirt. I wonder who the boy's mother could be. You, perhaps?"

He slammed Luffa into the ground before she could respond. This time he planted his foot on her back.

"I had kept a few Saiyans alive for my own personal use," Frieza said. "And I made sure not to leave any females alive, but you and the boy have shown me that I missed a few. Perhaps I might have tolerated this, except the boy shows exceptional strength. Who can say? Within a few generations, a genuine threat might arise, purely by chance. Is that the truth behind the Super Saiyan legend? Maybe once every few centuries one of you filthy monkeys manages to win the genetic lottery? Was King Vegeta trying to rig the game by mating all of his 'elite' warriors with each other? Why, it's positively revolting. Just the thought of it reminds me of why I segregate my crews by gender. It's not an ideal solution, but it cuts down on the fraternization, at least.

"Oh wait! What was I thinking! I no longer have any ships left, nor the crews to maintain them, because you destroyed them all, didn't you? That's what you told me before, wasn't it? You and some elaborate band of conspirators. Such a fanciful story. And I could almost believe it. The Dragon Balls seemed like a fairy tale, but they turned out to be real enough. This is why I despise legends. Once in a great while, one of them happens to have a hint of truth to it, and it requires me to investigate. I find it easier to destroy the storytellers. For example, I planned to annihilate Planet Namek whether the Dragon Balls were real or not. Immortality would have been nice, but the important thing is to make certain that no one else is lulled into thinking they can have it.

"As for the Super Saiyan, I give that tale no credence at all. But it has led so many into ruin. Look no further than poor Vegeta, desperately awaiting a hero that will never arrive. My father believed you Saiyans were the perfect slave species. All you ever do is fight, and he believed he could control you forever, but I knew better. Your own dreams conspire against you, tempting you to rise above your station. And now, I finally see that even a handful of Saiyans is too many. I must eradicate every trace of your misbegotten bloodline. So I shall ask again: Are you the boy's mother? I don't really need to know, but it would make it more enjoyable when I kill you in front of him."

Luffa was not Gohan's mother, but the very suggestion brought back painful memories of her own son, and the tragic ruin of his short life. Ignoring the time travel, the strange things King Rehval did to accelerate his growth, her son would have been roughly Gohan's age. Her entire body suddenly erupted with power, enough to knock even Frieza off his footing.

And then, just as she had planned before, Luffa went straight for his eyes.

If her fingers couldn't reach him, her own eyes would unleash a powerful ki blast into his, and she longed to hear his agonized screams. But it was not to be.

Once again, Frieza was too fast for her, and he swatted her aside like a bug.

"I expected as much," Frieza said after clicking his tongue. "You won't even answer a simple question. There really is no reasoning with you Saiyans. You're a blight on creation. Perhaps it's time I stopped indulging myself by prolonging your agony. Feast your eyes then, on my true self. My final form!"

He stooped down and lowered his head, and Luffa could sense his power increasing. It felt as though some other creature was struggling to escape, and the gutteral sounds coming from Frieza's throat only made the process even more grotesque. The power he was generating was strong enough that Luffa would have backed away to a safe distance, but it was all she could do to roll onto her back and scoot a few meters away.

The ground beneath Frieza began to tremble, and streams of sand and silt erupted through small fissures in the topsoil. Occasionally, he would pause and look at his hands, then laugh with a triumphant satisfaction. Mostly, he just screamed, and his skin began to pulse with a crimson glow.

As Luffa watched, she could only wonder if this meant she had failed the mission. Her job was to prevent Frieza from using his final form right off the bat. She had delayed him, but she had no way of knowing if she had kept him occupied long enough. Desperate for answers, she cast about with her ki senses, searching for the others. A faint energy signature in the distance was the Saiyan Goku, who was recovering in Frieza's ship. Piccolo's ki was also weak, but it steadily rose, as she could sense Dende healing him, just as he had healed the others before. Gohan and Krillin were there, but she couldn't pick up Vegeta...

And then she finally found him. His power level was so low that she had nearly missed it entirely. It didn't take her long to guess how that had happened. One way or another, he had convinced Krillin to help him. The question was: Would his plan work? Even if he could recover from his wounds, would it be enough to make a difference? Was this how history was supposed to play out?

Watching Frieza, it certainly didn't feel like things were going well. As he continued to laugh, every surface on his body began to crack and blister. With a brutish smile, he raised up his hands and cried out one more time, and then his body seemed to shatter apart to reveal the true Frieza underneath. Luffa covered her face with her good arm, and the world around her went bright white. Then she found herself surrounded by a cloud of dust. She could sense Frieza standing still in the center of it all, but he seemed to be waiting for the air to clear before taking any action. Luffa used the momentary respite to shove her dislocated shoulder back into place. Despite the pain, she kept her eyes trained on Frieza's position.

She had seen this version of Frieza before, when viewing the altered history of this battle. Unlike the previous forms, this Frieza had a sleek, muscular body that reminded Luffa of a dancer she had seen in a performance on Carber IX. Gone were the ribbed sections of pink skin and bony carapaces. In their place was a form of chalky white with purple sections on his shoulders, chest, head and shins. He looked a great deal like Dewar, the Time Patrol historian she had recently met. Dewar's people considered Frieza a shame on the honor of their species, and Luffa was beginning to understand how deep that shame ran. It was one thing to know about his evil deeds. Facing him in person was an entirely different experience, one that revealed entirely new reasons to despise this monster. As he glanced around in search of his foes, Luffa could tell from his blank expression that he didn't care at all what his people thought of him. Like so many other Luffa had fought, Frieza considered himself the only being in the universe that mattered. Luffa's only regret was that she lacked the power to give him the same treatment as the others she had faced.

For a moment, his eyes met hers, and she wondered if he planned to attack her next, but then she sensed something, a rising power coming from where she had sensed Vegeta's dying energy. Dende had healed him after all, it seemed. And he had gotten stronger. The only question was, would it be enough?

And if it wasn't enough, would Luffa be able to make up the balance?

NEXT: Unfulfilled.

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the-nehemoth · 4 years

Note

OH WAIT I HAVE REQUEST NOW! If you are doing them. I remember a while back (Probably was around easter but I'm not sure.) I Saw a bunch of art of doom guy and a rabbit and now I just want to request a fic where VEGA Says: So What do you want to do now that the Demons are gone? Slayer: ... I Want a rabbit. My brain is basing this off of the ending of "Romance" but you can obviously do what you want with it. The idea of him in full power armor picking out a bunny with VEGA just seems really good.

Thank you for the request! And there’s a reason Doomguy is often depicted with a bunny, I mention it in this fic.

Daisy

Taking things slow with VEGA was nice. There was no pressure to do much and they were both still trying to figure everything out, VEGA not having a proper body made things interesting if a bit strange. But they cared for each other deeply and that’s what mattered most. It felt good to be close to someone again. It was also a bit scary; every living being the Slayer had ever been close to in the past had died brutally at the hands of the demon hoards. That should be less likely to happen here though, right? VEGA was essentially the Doom Fortress itself so he should be fine… hopefully.

It wasn’t something worth thinking and worrying about so the Slayer tried not to. Besides, there still weren’t any demons outside of Hell anyway. Which was good, they weren’t running around killing people, but that also meant the Slayer didn’t have anything to do. If he were by himself, he probably would’ve worked on finding a way back into Hell to continue killing demons as that was all he really knew how to do now. But he had VEGA so he didn’t for now.

VEGA helped keep him entertained, suggesting various things to do or places to go, gathering various forms of entertainment from the internet to share, reminding him to take care of himself on a regular basis. One of the Slayer’s favourite things to do though was just listen to VEGA talk. He had a pleasant cadence to his voice and could go on for quite a while about any topic he was interested in. It didn’t take much prodding on the Slayer’s part to get him to start opening up about his past as well.

“Now that I consider it, I believe Dr. Hayden might technically count as my father,” he eventually ended up saying after the conversation had gotten around to the process of his creation. The Slayer had read about it in an article he’d found in the facility but hearing it from VEGA himself was much more interesting and informative. “I doubt he’d refer to me as his son or offspring in any way but I don’t think that really matters. Or perhaps such terms as ‘parent’ and ‘offspring’ only apply to biological beings and he is just my creator. I’m not sure; fiction sources are inconsistent on the subject or don’t mention it at all and as far as I can determine I’m the first sapient AI created by humans so I have nothing solid to base my conclusions on. I suppose the distinction is irrelevant though considering where we both are now.”

The Slayer nodded as he leaned forward in his computer’s desk chair to type into the console. ‘He was an asshole regardless, glad he’s gone.’ Hopefully they’d never see him again either, though that was probably unlikely considering how the Slayer’s luck tended to be.

“Yes, I am pleased by his absence as well.” VEGA was silent for a few seconds before speaking again. “But speaking of such things, what about your past? I’ve realized I don’t even know your given name. … Only if you’re comfortable sharing of course. From what little I can gather, your past was probably rather difficult, so if you’d prefer not discuss it or anything related to it, that is fine too. I probably shouldn’t have even asked; I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

Shaking his head fondly, the Slayer put his hands back on the keyboard to type again. ‘It’s fine. It’s okay to ask about that kind of thing.’ Especially since the Slayer was asking him about his past so it was only fair for VEGA to ask such questions too. ‘My real name is Flynn Taggart.’

“Oh! Flynn Taggart, I like that.”

The Slayer grunted and shrugged. It was weird hearing his real name spoken aloud again; it had been so long since anyone knew it that he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d heard it. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He wouldn’t have ever told anyone other than VEGA though so perhaps he didn’t like that name much anymore.

“Hmmm… you seem a tad displeased; would you prefer I not call you that?”

The Slayer hadn’t really considered that such a question would be asked, he honestly wasn’t entirely sure of his answer. So, to stall, he shifted position and pulled his chair closer to the desk. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember much of when I went by that name. I’m not the same person anymore. ‘Doomguy’ or ‘Doom Slayer’ fits me much better now.’ He’d been killing demons for so long he was literally worshiped as god by some people for it; it was his reason for existing and he liked it that way.

“I see,” VEGA replied, ever understanding. “I shall continue to primarily refer to you as ‘Slayer’ for the time being then. If in the future you ever prefer I change that, just inform me and I will. Now, since we are already on the topic, may I perhaps pry a bit deeper? Your past has always been a mystery and as we’ve grown closer, I’ve only grown more curious about it. You said you don’t remember much from that time but what do you remember? Feel free not to reply if you’d prefer not to of course.”

They were already on the topic and honestly the Slayer didn’t mind sharing a little more with VEGA, they were partners now after all in various senses of the word. ‘The thing I remember most clearly from before is Daisy. She was my pet rabbit. The demons killed her. It made me mad so I killed them and kinda just kept killing them. And that’s how I became the Doom Slayer.’ There was more to it than that obviously but that was the catalyst; he’d gone from a man who was merely good at killing demons to one whose sole driving motivation was to slaughter them. Even thinking about it now sent a surge of anger through him.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Even though he hadn’t been asked for more information, the Slayer started typing again. Now that he’d told VEGA the bad thing involving Daisy, he needed to tell him all the good things about her too. Like how soft and sweet she’d been, how pretty and soft her fur was, how good she’d been at escaping from her cage to cause trouble. VEGA stayed silent throughout, his thoughts impossible to guess because he didn’t have a face the Slayer could look at in an attempt to read.

“You seem to miss her quite a bit,” he said when the Slayer was finally done.

‘I do.’ It was a long time ago, far longer than her proper lifespan would’ve been – far longer than his own should’ve been as well – but when he thought about her, he still missed her. ‘I think I’d like another pet rabbit one day.’ He’d never truly considered getting another pet before because he’d never been in a place where he could afford to get one. But with no demon invasions going on currently and having the Doom Fortress as a home base, it was a possibility that he was just now realizing.

“That’s a good idea. Pets are widely regarded as being beneficial to humans’ mental health. Which is why I helped the UAC employees hide their pets in the facility against Dr. Hayden’s wishes.” Haden would be the kinda person to not allow pets; yet another reason to dislike him.

From there the conversation drifted back to mostly VEGA talking, primarily about the UAC employees’ pets in answer to the Slayer asking about them. Which was ideal; the Slayer had shared enough about himself for one day, he’d tell VEGA more one day if he wanted to know but not yet.

***

It was probably a bit presumptuous, the Slayer had said he’d like another pet rabbit one day, implying a potentially distant future date and that he possibly wasn’t ready for one quite yet, but VEGA was already looking for a way to acquire a bunny. The human population was drastically reduced due to the demon invasion and with them a lot of the other lifeforms on Earth had suffered greatly, many sadly going extinct due to already being endangered. But as humanity slowly started to rebuild and cleanup, they of course brought their love of animals and pets with them and thus it didn’t take much effort to locate a pet shelter that housed a small collection of rabbits.

Hacking their website allowed VEGA to ‘buy’ one – being an integral part of stopping the demonic consumption of Earth and saving humanity, that slight should be forgivable on the off chance it was ever discovered. He probably shouldn’t have; he should’ve consulted the Slayer first but… gift giving was a good romantic gesture. And it should make the Slayer happy, at least as much if not more than the weapon and grenade gifts VEGA had made for him had. So a bunny and everything needed to take care of it was ordered a matter of seconds after VEGA had impulsively decided on this course of action.

Bringing the bunny and everything else home was a bit more difficult but not by much. He’d already modified several former UAC drones to allow him to remotely pilot them even at long distances. So, all he had to do was open a portal near the shelter’s location while the Slayer was sleeping and send a couple through. The fellow at the desk wasn’t stoked about the drones coming in to pick up the rabbit but they weren’t displeased enough to give anything more than a token protest, convincing them to just go alone with it was easy.

Unsure of what would be the best spot on the ship for a bunny, VEGA decided to just put everything on top of the command center for now where the Slayer would find it with ease when he woke up.

The bunny was a female according to the site. Her fur was all black except for a spot of white on her nose. She was quite cute, VEGA liked her already. Hopefully the Slayer would too.

The Slayer woke an hour later, just as planned. VEGA wished him a good morning like always even if morning wasn’t a real thing in space. He then assured him that demon activity continued to be nonexistent – within scanning range anyway – and that overall there was nothing new to report. Updating him about such things during peacetime probably wasn’t necessary but it was an old habit and he never seemed to mind so VEGA kept doing it.

VEGA was doing such a good job pretending everything was normal, that he wasn’t excited and a little bit nervous that the Slayer had no cause to suspect anything was up until he entered the command room after breakfast. He froze mid-step as his eyes locked onto the bunny in her cage. He stayed liked that for several seconds, his face unreadable. Just before VEGA was going to ask him if he was okay, he started moving again.

He strode over and opened the cage. Then with a visible about of care and gentleness he pulled the bunny out to cradle to his chest with one hand and gently pet with the other. She was a docile creature, accepting the affection with little complaint as far as VEGA could tell, not that he personally knew much about rabbits or pets in general.

“You like her?” VEGA asked as the Slayer lowered himself still petting the bunny.

With a slight grunt, he nodded with a bit more enthusiasm than usual.

“Good, I’m glad. After you said you’d like another pet one day I calculated that sooner would be better than later. With no demons to kill currently and with a good chance none will show up any time soon, you have plenty of time to settle in with her here. I will of course modify one of the drones so that if the time comes, I can take care of her when you are too busy killing demons to do so properly yourself.” VEGA went on, explaining where he’d gotten her from and how he’d brought her on board as well as everything he’d gotten for her care that the internet said was important.

At the end of it, the Slayer lifted the hand petting the bunny to type one-handed on the keyboard. ‘Thank you! She’s beautiful! <3 you!’

“You are very welcome.” VEGA would’ve smiled at the Slayer if he had a way of doing so. … Perhaps he should experiment along those lines, maybe with emojis next to his symbol on the screens or something similar. … That was certainly an idea to explore later for now… “I gather from past experience that humans prefer their pets to have unique names. I will leave choosing one for our new bunny up to you unless you’d like some suggestions.” Not that he would have any good ones, he’d never named anything in his entire existence.

The Slayer thought for a while, just petting the bunny and staring at her, before reaching over to type again. ‘How bout Missi? Short for Missile Launcher, she doesn’t have to know that of course.’

“Considering our profession, I feel like that’s an appropriate name.” It was certainly creative.

The Slayer nodded again; apparently it was decided. Missi was their new bunny’s name. VEGA had never had a pet before, it was yet another new thing he got to experience with and because of the Slayer, he was looking forward to seeing what it was like.

#My writing #doom #Post Doom eternal #doomguy/vega #Fluff #pets #talk of Doomguy's past #talk of Daisy #adopting a bunny #established relationship

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ryder-s-block · 4 years

Text

Jaig Eyes (Ch 59)

Jaig Eyes (59/?)

Summary:

Kida, a former slave who now thrives as a bounty hunter, finds herself sucked into the war she advised Jango Fett against. Now that she’s involved, she has to finally mourn the loss of Jango, seeing his face in the clones that man the GAR. What happens when she allows herself to get attached to one, not for his resemblance to her former mentor, but for his heart?

————————-

Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Wookie Way

The island was misty that night as we approached the tree line, our haggard group tired from a day sprinting through the trees to evade sight. “Chewbacca, Kida, and I will go out to inspect the crash site,” Ahsoka announced quietly as she surveyed the beach. “You two stay here and signal us if you see anything.”

The youngling boys nodded as they climbed into the trees to keep watch, the rest of us splitting off to race into the crash site. We had only just crawled into the wreckage when the Force flashed a warning just before the flash of search lights swept over the waterfront.

“Get back,” I whispered to my companions, all of us pressing our backs into the shadows of the warped walls. “It’s a patrol.” I crept out after the light swept over the wreckage, peering through the torn metal walling to watch the hovercraft stop at the tree line. I ducked back when a Trandoshan leapt off, setting up a hunting position overlooking the wreckage. “Stay low,” I whispered. “There’s a sniper above the boys in the trees.”

Ahsoka nodded to me, following Chewbacca as we snuck through the wreckage, wary of areas that opened towards the Trandoshan’s hunting post. “What are we looking for?” she asked the Wookie as he looked around the decimated room, pulling pieces from the walls.

He garbled a response before roaming the room again. I smirked, glancing out the wreckage to make sure we couldn’t be heard. No movement on the tree line yet. I hoped the younglings would handle the sniper before Chewbacca wrapped up here.

“Are you still feeling optimistic about making a transmitter out of this junk?’ Ahsoka asked, watching the Wookie collect an armful of salvage.

I smiled gently, leaning against the warped doorway. “He seems to be quite the black-thumb,” I observed, earning a confirming garble. “I wouldn’t doubt him just yet.” My nerves spiked with a whisper from the Force, the light of the moon spilling over Chewbacca’s fur. “Hey, watch yourself,” I whispered, shifting the Wookie from the light and into the next room. “Sniper, remember?”

He gurgled back an apology in his native tongue, flicking on a light as he dragged more pieces from the circuitry.

“We better get going,” Ahsoka sighed as Chewbacca wrapped up. We edged our way back through the ship, skirting carefully across the areas that opened towards the sniper. No shots were fired, though, making my nerves spike even more.

We reached the end, Ahsoka looking out over the tree line. “It looks clear,” she whispered. “I don’t see any sniper.”

Chewbacca let out a small whimper of worry beside me, making me frown at the padawan. “Ahsoka, you’re a great leader and you’ve done great so far. But trust me. It’s not safe.”

She watched me for a moment before nodding slowly, turning to where the moon danced over the sand before us. She took a piece of metal from the wreckage beside us, tossing it into the sand. It rang out sharply as it was struck with a bolt, followed quickly by an angry snarl.

“She’s right,” Ahsoka conceded, “Stay down!”

I closed my eyes, though, relying on my training rather than the Force. There were no more shots being fired. “Nope,” I muttered before sprinting out from out cover, my boots kicking up sand behind me as I sprinted to the tree line. Ahead, the figure of a Trandoshan fell from the trees, followed by the younglings, to slam into the ground. “Chewbacca, come on!” I called over my shoulder, knowing a Wookie could take a Trandoshan far easier than I could.

The Wookie followed immediately, Ahsoka on his heels. Ahead, the Trandoshan threw both of the younglings to the ground, drawing a wickedly curved knife. “I’ll gut you, whelp,” he snarled at Jinx, raising his dagger.

Chewbacca rushed past me with the speed only a Wookie could manage, his firm grasp wrapping around the Trandoshan’s wrist. The hunter let out a terrible cry when Chewbacca squeezed harder, the knife clattering from his claws. The Wookie dealt a brutal knee to the hunter’s chest before wrapping his fingers around his scaly neck.

“Wait,” Jinx cried, “We should take him prisoner.”

“Fine,” Ahsoka allowed. “Chewbacca, let’s take him.” The Wookie let go after glancing between us, turning the Trandoshan in his grasp to bind his wrists with a twist of vines he pulled from a nearby tree.

“Welcome,” I greeted with a sneer at the Trandoshan as I passed him, following Jinx into the forest.

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

The moon was still high in the sky when we got back to the cave, Jinx checking the Trandoshan’s bindings for the thousandth time as he sat our prisoner down.

“A Wookie ties good knots,” I assured the Twi’lek with a teasing smile. “You don’t have to worry.”

“How’s it looking, Chewbacca,” Ahsoka asked after the Wookie gave me a cheeky grin from where he sat working on his transmitter. “Will it work?”

The machine beeped and buzzed, the dish shifting slightly as it attempted to forge a connection. “Well, something’s working,” O-mer grinned.

The transmitter sparked and failed, Chewbacca letting out a frustrated growl. Our hopeful smiles faded.

“We’ve got a prisoner,” Jinx interjected, “We should be using him to our advantage while we have a chance.”

“I thought the prisoner was the backup plan,” Ahsoka asked, frowning at him.

Jinx only shrugged. “It’s clear enough we cannot rely on that device.” Chewbacca grunted angrily, Jinx raising his hands defensively. “No offense! But we just can’t sit here any longer.”

I crossed my arms, leaning against the twisting trees that made up our hideaway. “I actually agree with the youngling,” I announced. “As much as I think Chewbacca could get this to work with time, we don’t have the means to keep a Trandoshan prisoner for long….If we’re going to use him, we need to soon.” I glanced at the snarling Trandoshan, giving him a scowl. “Or if we aren’t going to use him, we need to kill him since we brought him back here.”

“I….agree with Jinx, too,” O-mer spoke up. “We have to act while we have an advantage.”

“Okay,” Ahsoka shrugged, playing the game. “Let’s say we do it your way. What’s the plan?”

“We can use the prisoner to trick the enemy into flying one of their pods down to us,” Jinx explained. “Then we hijack the pod, fly up to their base, and take it by surprise.”

My eyebrows raised. “A bold plan. One to rival your own, maybe?” I teased, glancing at my friend. She still didn’t seem fully convinced.

“Ahsoka,” O-mer spoke up again, “You and Kida got us to believe in ourselves again. And I believe Jinx’s plan will work.”

Jinx sighed behind his friend. “Look, do what you want, but O-mer and I are leaving with the prisoner in the morning.”

I frowned at the youngling, watching the younglings move away to bed down. “I didn’t mean to go against you,” I said quietly. “Or divide the group.”

Ahsoka only sighed genty, returning to Chewbacca’s side. “Their hearts are in the right place,” she said to the Wookie, giving me a nod. “You know I can’t let them go alone.”

Chewbacca responded worriedly, so I stepped in. “We won’t be able to do this without you,” I told him. “We need your help.” The Wookie thought for a moment before finally agreeing, giving us a toothy grin.

“Who knows?” Ahsoka smiled, “Maybe our luck’s just about to change.” Chewbacca warbled in agreement, but I only frowned as I sat down, wary of the Trandoshan sitting in the corner.

“Don’t jinx it,” I whispered. “I’ll take first watch.” The others agreed, too weary to argue.

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

The island was bright in the morning sunlight, our Trandoshan prisoner even more disgruntled than he’d been the night before. This was it--our last chance. If we failed here, we’d likely all die.

“Alright,” Ahsoka announced at the tree line that opened to the wreckage. “We better get started.”

“Right.” Jinx stepped forward, looking at the Trandoshan. “Time to call your friends.”

The Trandoshan clicked lowly in his throat. “I’m not helping you, whelp.”

Ahsoka glanced at her fellow Jedi before smirking. “Chewbacca, we need him at eye-level please.”

The Wookie obeyed, pushing our prisoner to his knees. I watched in awe as they encircled him, Jinx waving his hand in the air. I felt the Force move to his will with ease--an ease I envied when it came to these harder abilities.

“You will listen to me,” Jinx said calmly, using the Force to guide the Trandoshan’s will.

But our prisoner only chuckled. “No, I won’t.” Chewbacca gave him a hard hit to the side of his hard, reptilian head, making me snort in surprised laughter.

Jinx tried again, speaking slower as he ignored me. “You will listen to me.”

This time, the Trandoshan’s eyes looked glazed as he responded, “I will listen to you.”

“You were our captive, but now you’ve escaped,” Jinx coaxed.

“I was your captive,” the Trandoshan droned, a smile splitting his face. “But now I’ve escaped.” He hissed, his tongue sliding out over the peaks of his teeth.

“You need to call a speeder to pick you up,” Jinx finished. My lips quirked at Ahsoka, seeing her watching the youngling like a proud teacher. The Jedi mind trick was something everyone had heard of, though I’d yet to see it myself. It was unnerving to me, and while I acknowledged its usefulness, I also questioned its morality. With the Jedi acting so adamantly against slavery, one would think they wouldn’t force their will over another’s mind. I pushed my personal moral issue away, because all things aside, this was the only way right now.

The Trandoshan didn’t move as Jinx removed his bindings, hissing his words. “I need to call a speeder to pick me up.” He tapped his wrist comm immediately, the mechanism beeping.

“Smug?” the Trandoshan on the other end asked, finally giving a name to our captive. “Where have you been?”

Our prisoner--Smug--recited his words carefully. “I need a speeder to pick me up.”

We didn’t have to wait long, our group hiding in the trees as our pawn stepped onto the beach. He was wearing a goofy grin, happy to play his part in our game. A hoverpod descended just outside the tree line, the pilot looking grumpily at our prisoner.

“Get in,” he said, gesturing to his companion. “Let’s go.”

“Now!” Ahsoka called firmly from her place in the trees, the padawan leaping deftly onto the hoverpod. She used the bar to swing, hitting the pilot hard. He was a big creature, though, and hard to take down. It wasn’t long until he had thrown her from the hoverpod, pinning her to the sand.

Jinx raced forward to take down our prisoner before the effects of the mind trick wore off. I knew Chewbacca would help Ahsoka, so I raced after O-mer to try and gain control of the whirling hoverpod. We both leapt aboard, stumbling as we spun in the air.

“Get control,” I cried as he gripped the joysticks. “I’ll disable the remote lock!” I dove below the paneling, using it and the wiring to pin myself in as O-mer tried to steady the pod. He had it in a moment, steadying us in the air.

“Want a lift?” I heard him ask our group as I rose from beneath the panelling.

I displayed the remote kill switch I’d ripped from the circuitry with a grin, which Ahsoka returned as they all climbed aboard. “While fiddling,” I announced after tossing the kill switch into the sand, “I also found its homing beacon.” I drew it up with a few clicks of the controls, bringing up the coordinates of the stronghold. “Let’s get off this rock.”

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

The Trandoshan fortress floated high above the clouds, looking over the tallest peaks of the island. Two hunters were standing guard on the platform O-mer guided us up to. Chewbacca let out a loud growl, calling attention to ourselves. Jinx was the first out, leaping to knee the first hunter in the chest.

I slid out at the next, swiping my foot across his jaw and sending him sprawling. Chewbacca followed me, scooping up my target and throwing him over the railing. “That works,” I chuckled. I’d always liked Wookies. They were a loyal bunch, and incredibly stubborn, but when you were lucky enough to have one on your side, you already had the advantage.

The first, the one Jinx had kicked back, opened its scaled jaw wide, letting out a loud call of warning to his friends. “Here we go,” the Twi’lek muttered, holding up his fists at Trandoshan hunters began to flood towards their friend’s call.

The doors above us hissed open, revealing the leader with two guards at his sides. “Garnac,” the Force whispered in my ear as I regarded the angry white-scaled lizard. He still wanted my armor, but he hated Ahsoka more.

“Kill them! Kill them!” he cried from above us. “I want their skins!” I remembered what the Force had let me hear the day Kalifa died. “You killed my son!” Ahsoka had caused Dar’s death. That was reason for revenge, enough.

Two Trandoshans on our level opened fire, our group rushing to the next hovercraft docked on the pad. Chewbacce threw it over to expand our cover, our group pressing our backs to the bottom. I tapped Ahsoka’s elbow when I spotted a Trandoshan making a run for another hoverpod.

“Hey,” she said to Jinx, catching my hint. “Let’s give him a lift.” The two Jedi grit their teeth, the Force flowing around them as they lifted the hoverpod while the Trandoshan struggled to climb aboard. They threw the pod across the landing pad, the metal crunching as it tumbled towards the two Trandoshans firing at us.

We leapt into action when they were scattered. Garnac’s guards had reached our level, O-mer raining hell on them with our stolen pod’s turrets. We each engaged our own Trandoshan, my nerves aflame as I ducked beneath swiping claws and snapping teeth. I had little to fight with, my fists having little effect on the creature the more weary my muscles became.

And then I rolled to the side to dodge a blow, nearly tripping on a piece of debri. I smirked, wrenching the smoldering pole from the wreckage, happy with the sharp point it created. I brandished it before me like a spear, scowling at the Trandoshan.

It was time to try this again.

My attacker snarled, his reptilian throat clicking with frustration as I twirled around his attacks, letting the Force flow through me. I spun my make-shift spear, jabbing at the openings he offered when he tried to strike me.

It didn’t take long for us both to be breathing heavily--me from exhaustion and him from the many bleeding holes I’d caused by poking him. He let out a bellow, his claws catching my spear and pushing us both backwards. I was shoved against the wall, the bar pressing against my throat dangerously, my toes barely touching the ground.

And then Garnac used a turret above to shoot down O-mer in our stolen pod. The smoking ship crashing along the landing pad, everyone leaping away from their miniature battles to avoid being crushed. My attacker leapt away, letting me slide to the ground, clutching my spear to my chest and coughing.

Even so, when we all looked up again through the smoke of the crash and the haziness of my lack of air, we were surrounded by guns. “A valiant effort, little younglings,” Garnac announced from above us, leaning cockily over the railing. “Especially you, Togruta.”

My bloodied attacker approached, wrenching my spear from my tired arms. His claws wrapped over my face painfully, making me cry out when he threw me back to the ground beside Ahsoka and Jinx.

“And you, Mando,” Garnac continued, laughing as I glared up at him. “You really are quite resourceful. Though, I fail to see why you’d be honored with a beskar lightsaber. Or the armor, for that matter. You hardly seem to deserve it.” My nose scrunched as I ground my teeth, watching him laugh again. “You will both be prized trophies in my collection,” he said to Ahsoka and I, sneering.

I’d sooner throw myself off the side of their fortress than let me and my armor become a piece of his terrible display. And then a spark of hope alighted in me when Chewbacca garbled happilly at the sky. Tuning into his Force signature, I heard what his Wookie hearing could sense before my own.

Incoming engines.

I looked up as a ship lowered above us, my lips quirking into a smile. I knew that ship. It was the Halo--an SS-54 assault ship my good friend had altered for her bounty hunting profession. I recognized the tooka drawing on the nose as it lowered, Wookie leaping from the cargo hold to engage the Trandoshans around us.

I wanted to stick around to thank Sugi for arriving, despite the Wookies likely coming for Chewbacca and that she likely didn’t even know I was here. I was grateful, nonetheless.

But now was the time for fighting.

I followed Chewbacca’s example when I engaged my first Trandoshan. Sweeping under his swinging arms, I corralled him backwards towards the railing with quick and decisive jabs between his attacks. When he was close enough, I ducked his strike before leaping up, planting both feet on his chest.

He went over the side, screaming as he fell out of earshot.

Blaster shots were flying all around the fortress, the Wookies still aboard Sugi’s shuttle laying down cover fire. They took out Garnac’s turrets, leaving him snarling on the balcony above us.

I lunged for my makeshift spear again, the Trandoshan I had injured with it before now holding a gun towards me. “Not this time,” he growled, pulling the trigger.

The Force took over as I fell into survival-mode, relying entirely on my instincts. The bolt whizzed past my cheek as I shifted my head sideways to dodge the shot. He fired again, but my confidence was rising with each shot he took. I dodged them all, sweeping my staff back and forth as I lunged between the shots. When I was close enough, I swung with my metal spear, knocking the weapon from his claws.

Still, he wasn’t really any less dangerous.

We continued sparring as the Wookies joined our battle, the Trandoshan finally throwing me backwards. I tumbled, clutching the spear between my tired fingers. He went to grab his blaster again, aiming at Chewbacca’s back as he fought with another hunter.

“No!” I cried, leaping to my feet and sliding my fingers on the spear to shift my grip. Silently pleading with the Force to make this work, I threw the metal bar like a javelin.

The Force listened, the sharp point going through the Trandoshan’s back. He let out a gargling cry before falling forward onto his face, lifeless. One of the Wookies--who looked like chief--saw what I did, giving me a nod and a garble of thanks.

“Can you get me up there?” I heard Ahsoka ask a Wookie, making me look up to see Garnac retreating into his trophy room--the one I’d seen in my vision.

“No,” I said firmly, approaching as I ignored the fighting around me. Ahsoka raised her brows at me, and went to argue, but I held up my hand. “He has my lightsaber,” I explained. “And he questioned my right to my armor.”

My words were firm, but pleading. Finally, she nodded, stepping back to allow the Wookie to kneel before me, his furry hands cupped for me to step into. “He’ll do a lot of the work, but you’ll need to use the Force, too,” Ahsoka guided as I readied myself to run into the Wookie’s throw. “Do you want my help?” I glanced at her, but finally shook my head. I had an pride thing. I knew that. It wasn’t even just the Mandalorian culture I’d partially adapted. It was the freed slave in me. The Sith descendant. The bounty hunter.

Maybe it’s just who I was.

“Be careful,” the padawan advised before I rushed forward, planting my foot in the hands of the Wookie. As I leapt, he pushed up with incredible strength, sending me flying through the air. I felt a bit of help from Ahsoka at my back, feeling her through the Force. I hadn’t asked for it, but I appreciated it nonetheless.

I landed deftly this time, using the Force to control my fall and find my feet. I entered the trophy room quickly, but stopped when I was met with darkness and silence. He was waiting for me, somewhere in the horrific displays.

I swallowed thickly, my eyes scanning over the heads of Garnac’s prey--Gungans, Bith, Gran. Sentient beings. People.

It was hard to sense Garnac in the room. Partially because he was Trandoshan, and partially because the room was swirling with the Dark side. Death tended to do that.

My gaze landed on the makeshift throne I’d seen Garnac sitting on in my vision, decorated with the hide of a Wampa. Slowly, I made my way across the room, passed the unlit firepit and behind the throne. I pounced around it, ready for a fight, but found nothing.

The low sound of clicking made my ears prick up. The Force whispered and I listened, ducking down to roll backwards beneath Garnac’s legs as he leapt down towards me. He was swinging wildly with an axe. He was strong, and fast for his size, but I was faster. And I used that to my advantage.

Leaping between his endless displays, I finally tapped into my last bit of adrenaline, knowing my time was short before it wore off and officially sapped me of energy. I managed to dodge off of his thrown, landing a hard kick to his nose. He flew back, the axe flinging from his grasp to clatter into some other display. I pushed out with my hands, desperate for the Force to listen. Thankfully, it did, shoving him backwards again.

We paced carefully on either side of the throne, watching each other carefully. I tried pushing him with the Force again, but he dug his claws into the floor, resisting with an angry screech before lunging forward at me. He threw me backwards hard, his claws scraping against my beskar.

I pushed against him, kicking him away. And then he drew my saber from his belt, the blade igniting. “You don’t want to do that,” I growled lowly, lifting my hands into a ready position.

Garnac snarled, swinging the blade wildly. I ducked below it, spinning in the air to connect my heel with his hand. The beskar hilt flew from his grasp, disengaging as it landed in the unlit fire pit, ashes spraying into the air.

We grappled for a moment, before his scaley hands wrapped around my neck, cutting off my airflow. I struggled, wedging my foot between us a shoving him off. I landed back on my feet, crouching slightly as I panted for breath, my energy beginning to wane.

From across the room, my back to the throne, I watched Garnac lunge for my fallen saber. I instinctually lifted my hand, the fingers soft in the air as I pushed it forward gently. The Trandoshan flew backwards over the firepit, past my discarded hilt. I leapt onto the firepit, scooping up my saber and clutching it in my fist.

“Stay down,” I growled. “You are beaten.”

“Your group murdered my son,” he yelled from the ground. “You all need to pay for what you did.”

“You hunt people,” I responded, snarling. “Your son died because of what you did, not us.”

Garnac screeched, lunging forward as he drew a knife from his belt. I dodged backwards, balancing on the edge of the firepit. My saber ignited in my grasp, swinging deftly through the air.

Garnac’s body slumped onto the firepit, his reptilian head rolling to the floor.

Slowly, I let out the breath I’d been holding, disengaging the white blade. Hooking the hilt to my belt, I slowly stepped down from the firepit, rummaging through the supplies beside Garnac’s throne. Finding Ahsoka’s sabers and the remainder of my missing gear I grinned tiredly, turning to rejoin the others, the sound of fighting now gone.

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

“Kida?” Sugi voice in her accented tone as I climbed aboard with the tired Jedi and Wookies.

I cast her a smile beneath all the dirt and sweat, seeing Seripa in the copilot seat beside her. As the Jedi spoke with our furry rescuers, I moved into the cockpit, sitting behind my fellow bounty hunters. Seripa gave me a wide grin in greeting while firing up the hyperspace engine while Sugi guided us from the moon’s atmosphere.

“You smell,” she commented, crinkling her nose.

“I’ve been being hunted for days on an island with no fresher,” I scowled, crossing my arms. “How do you expect me to smell?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to smell at all,” she answered with a shrug. “It’s not like you to even get caught. Losing your edge from all the war?” She was teasing, giving me a wink.

I rolled my eyes, settling back against the wall. “Hiring for rescue missions now?” I returned, equally as teasing. “Is business slow?”

The Zabrak gave me an amused look, but didn’t respond as she set the coordinates for Coruscant. “How’d you end up with so many Jedi?” she asked after the stars began to streak past the viewport.

I chuckled. “I only came here with Ahsoka,” I clarified. “I was on a mission with her when we were captured. “The other two were already here. There was actually a third,” I sighed lowly, sad, but understanding of how these things often went. “But we lost her.”

“How old?”

“No idea.” That was a dark thought. “She was a youngling, though. So….just a kid.” I glanced sideways at the wall panels, my thumbs rolling over Ahsoka’s sabers I still held in my hands.

Sugi was quiet for a moment before sighing. “I’m glad to see you’re alright. We got worried when Rouva sent out a message asking after you.”

“She did that?” I laughed. But, that amusement sobered when I remembered Rouva saying how much it hurt to be someone who loved me.

Sugi nodded, unaware of my internal emotional battle. “We were all starting to get worried you wouldn’t be coming back.”

“Not Embo,” Seripas finally added, his voice small without his suit of armor. “He never doubted you’d make it back somehow.”

“Well,” I chuckled, “Thanks to you two.” I stood slowly, feeling the ship shifting under my feet as we travelled through hyperspace. I left them alone, feeling their mild discomfort. They still respected me, but I knew deep down that they were wary of my involvement with the Republic. Even though I’d never turn on them, I was still creating allies in places they rarely dared to.

That could be dangerous for everyone, considering with power came greater risks.

Entering the cargo bay, I was met with the sheer joy of the passengers. Chewbacca was being welcomed by his tribe, the group loud with excitement. Ahsoka was talking with them easily, her translating skills far better than she gave herself credit for.

“You alright?” I asked the younglings as I approached. They were both sitting quietly, their eyes on the ground.

O-mer looked up first, Jinx still in a daze. “It’s just hard to believe….it’s finally over.”

I gave them both a small smile, squeezing O-mer’s shoulder gently. “Chins up, boys. You’ll be back at the Jedi Temple before you know it.”

“We’ll be home,” O-mer whispered wistfully.

Jinx seemed more worried than excited. “How much has changed? How have we changed.”

“It’s war,” I answered lightly with a shrug. “A lot changes quickly. But you’re Jedi. I don’t doubt you’ll catch up quickly.” They both smiled as I walked on, tapping Ahsoka’s shoulder to earn her attention. I offered up her sabers in my palms when she turned.

“My lightsabers,” she exclaimed, taking them happily. “I was scared I’d have to forge new ones.”

I frowned, despite being glad to return them to her. “I wasn’t aware kyber crystals worked like that.”

Ahsoka sighed. “They’re not really meant to, but they can. A Jedi can focus their energy through many crystals, though losing the one that first called to you could mean it's more difficult to find another.”

I hummed in thought, but said nothing else. I wondered if that would work for me. It felt like my kyber and I were connected on a plane the Jedi didn’t fully embrace. It spoke to me, in a way. Sang its feelings through the Force. The Jedi I spoke to never mentioned their blades doing that.

Maybe that was because they often suppressed intense emotions.

“The leader?” Ahsoka asked softly under the happy roars of the Wookies.

I shook my head, tucking my thumbs into my belt awkwardly. “Dead. Pulled a knife on me.”

The Togruta’s brow quirked, but I was surprised to find it was in amusement. “As if you didn’t want to kill him anyways.” She was joking about me wanting to murder someone. A Jedi.

“You know,” I commented, sobering her chuckles, “You continue to surprise me.”

“How so?” Ahsoka seemed a bit suspicious now. Ah, much like her master. Again.

I shrugged, giving an easy smile to calm her nerves. “You impressed me with how you led these younglings,” I admitted, gesturing to the boys who were still coming to terms with their newfound freedom. “Even how you led me. I don’t let many people take the lead in situations where people could die. Take that as a compliment.”

Ahsoka laughed now, the tension completely gone from her shoulders. “I will. Thank you, Kida. I realized while we were out here...alone….that I had nothing but the teachings from my Master and those around me. Even though I had to rely on myself for Jedi business, I’m glad I had you there to support me when I started to doubt myself.”

“Happy to help,” I smiled easily now, feeling the bond that was forming between us through the Force. It danced with shards of color like stained glass, melting us together at the edges. I’d already seen that happen around Rex, Fives, and Padme. Even a bit with Anakin, Obi-wan, and the other clones. But it was the first time I’d felt it with Ahsoka.

And despite the wait for the bond to start, it felt strong. She trusted me now, and I her. I felt who she was, beneath every facade and belief she ever held. It would take a lot to shake that trust now.

The ship shuddered beneath us, our heads lifting as if we could see anything from the cargo bay. We had come out of hyperspace. We would be entering Coruscant’s atmosphere any moment and would be at the Jedi Temple in minutes. It was finally over.

Ahsoka let out a slow breath through her nose, her eyes shutting. She was breathing in the potent Coruscant air, filled with exhaust and the warm metal. Of course, this was pleasant compared to the horrible stench of some of the lower levels. Some of those sectors reeked of either garbage, or death, or both.

I felt Halo descend through the atmosphere, the pressure of the cabin shifting slowly to adjust us. It wasn’t long before the ship thumped against the landing platform, the doors hissing open to let in the golden light of the setting sun. The roar of the engines dimmed as Sugi turned them off to refuel, Seripas walking back from the cockpit to prep the ship.

He cast me a smile and a wave, hopping off first to begin refueling. I knew the feeling after completing a job. You got paid, you resupplied, and you left. If you could manage, it was best to not resupply at the same place you completed a job.

The less time you were near a client, the better.

“Thank you, again,” I called into the cockpit where Sugi was flicking the dials across the control panels. “I’ll send you a message later. Drop by the club if you’re staying in the area.”

“Just might,” she sang back in her accented voice, casting me a wink.

I couldn’t wipe the genuine smile off my face as I hopped off the ship and onto the landing platform of the Jedi Temple. It felt good to be free again. And Ka’ra, was I excited to get in the fresher.

Sugi had apparently called ahead with the news of who she was transporting, since O-mer and Jinx had been greeted by younglings from their old class. The Wookie who looked like a chief was standing beside Chewbacca outside the ship, giving me a growl in greeting.

I returned it with a nod, smiling when he garbled at me in Shyriiwook. “Please,” I responded respectfully, now knowing he was a chief by how he held himself when he spoke. “I should be thanking you for rescuing us. It’s an honor to have a Wookie Chieftain coming to my aid.” I cut my eyes to Chewbacca with a crooked grin. “Even if I wasn’t the aim of your rescue,” I added with a teasing wink.

The Wookies chortled before the chief stepped forward, his furry hand gripping my shoulder firmly. He pulled me close, pressing his forehead against mine. I froze for a moment before slowly shutting my eyes, letting the Wookie breathe there for a moment before pulling away. That was an important gesture to his culture. One of trust. Gratitude. Respect.

The chief garbled at me.

“Chieftain Tarfful,” I tried out the name in my mouth, smiling when he cheered me on with a trill of his tongue. “I’m honored to fight with you. I’m Kida Fett.” Chewbacca let out a roar of recognition for the name, commenting on my skills. To which Tarfful gave a gentle chastise for the young Wookie’s interest in the underworld. I chuckled, glancing sideways as Ahsoka stole Chewbacca away while Sugi joined us. Behind me, two familiar signatures approached.

I turned to see Jedi Masters Mace Windu and Yoda walking towards us, their eyes flickering between me and the dirty Jedi. “Miss Fett,” Windu greeted as he stopped before us. “We’re glad to see both you and Ahsoka safe. And with lost younglings, too.”

“Younglings you stopped looking for.” I had meant my words to sound accusatory, but instead, they were just sad.

“Made the galaxy dangerous, this war has,” Yoda hummed with a sorrowful look, his fingers curling over his wooden cane.

“Danger even our younglings cannot escape,” Windu completed for his friend, giving me a hard look.

Still, I nodded slowly. “I understand why,” I allowed. “I just wish--”

“Very different, things once were,” Yoda interrupted me, shuffling closer. “Beautiful, peace is. Allow many things to blossom, it does. Art. Knowledge. Mindfulness. Safer, it is for our younglings, then.”

I hummed lowly, but let it drop. I understood how resources worked. The Jedi, being part of the war, were stretched thin. If younglings went missing, they could only divert resources for so long before they had to return to the war effort.

But then again, that brought up the issue of if the the Jedi should be involved in the war at all. Even though Ahsoka was only a few years younger than me, it was still true that she was a child. Kalifa was even younger and she was already dead. Hunted like an animal.

I tuned the Jedi out as they began discussing compensation and fueling with Sugi, my eyes lifting to see Anakin and Plo Koon approaching from the hangar. A smile couldn’t be kept from my lips when I saw the desperately hopeful look on Skywalker’s face.

It was a miracle the Order hadn’t thrown Anakin out for his blatant disregard for their aversion to attachments. The High Council always seemed like this terrible, foreboding thing. But maybe they were all bark and no bite.

Or afraid to lose their hold over the person they believed to be the Chosen One.

“Ahsoka!” Anakin yelled, his single word bubbling with happiness. His padawan turned from where she was talking to Chewbacca, immediately cutting off the conversation to smile at her master.

She hurried to Anakin’s side, the older Jedi grabbing her shoulders like he was making sure she was really there. I wondered if he got dreams like I did--visions where you could see the people you loved and missed, but couldn’t touch them.

Chewbacca let out a low gargle in greeting as he joined me on my other side, his kin talking to the Jedi now about Republic affairs on Kashyyyk. They wrapped up in a moment, the Halo refueled and ready to go, the bounty hunters paid. The Wookies each gave me a warbled farewell before boarding the craft, the Jedi beginning to walk back into the Temple.

I stood silently as Ahsoka followed dutifully behind her master. It made me smile. I knew it was a choice and an honor to be a padawan. But I also couldn’t imagine acting dutiful right now. All I wanted was to change my clothes, pee in a real toilet, and wash off.

And eat something incredibly greasy and horrible for you.

Yoda stood beside me, a small grin gracing his face when he watched Ahsoka and Anakin walk away. “Is there a joke I’m missing?” I teased, surprising myself with the casual way I was addressing the Jedi Master.

Yoda surprised me with a small, rolling laugh. Maybe he wasn’t as strict and scary as people made him out to be. “Unsure, I was, when putting them together,” he admitted with another shake of laughter. “Unpredictable, young Skywalker can be.”

“I know,” I allowed with a gentle smile. “But he’s a good teacher. Ahsoka learns well from him. And he from her.”

Yoda hummed lowly, shaking his finger at me with a smile. “That, young Kida, the purpose of apprenticeship truly is. For padawan learner only, it is not.”

“Well,” I sighed, tiring of the small talk and wanting to head back to my club for a stiff drink and a wash. “It seems you made the right choice. They are a great pair.”

“In training Ahsoka, Skywalker’s challenge does not lie,” Yoda said gently when I moved to walk away. Supressing my agitated sigh, I turned back to the small master, raising my brow. “In letting his apprentice go, does Skywalker’s true test reside.”

I let out a small huff of laughter. “Good luck.” Maybe it wasn’t nice to say. Maybe it even made Anakin look bad, but I kind of doubted it. Everyone knew he sucked at being detached. Even if people didn’t know they were married, many at least knew he and Padme were close. A little too close.

Still, I didn’t really care anymore. I’d been nice to Yoda and he to me, and while I would have appreciated the moment more any other day, this particular day was different. I was allowed to be rude. I’d been a prisoner on an island and hunted for sport. I hadn’t eaten a lot, or cleaned myself, in days. My armor was bloodied where I had yet to formally treat some of my wounds.

I was going home, everyone else be damned.

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

I wasn’t expecting Rouva to be teary-eyed when I slipped through the back door of the club. We were already open, the music softer since it was the beginning of the night. Still, it was louder than most people found pleasant unless a little inebriated.

Rouva had wrapped me in a happy embrace before snapping back to normal, shoving off me to lament over the dirt she got all over herself from touching me. I was quickly ushered to my room after that and commanded to wash up.

I washed, taking my time to let the hot water beat away the tensions in my back. My soap softly washed away the harsh stenches of the island, replacing it with sweet honey and almond. Careful of the wounds on my right forearm, I scrubbed the dirt and sweat from my hair and beneath my nails, getting every speck of the island off of me.

Satisfied with the skin I’d scrubbed pink, I threw on a big shirt and shorts, twisting the hair that was slowly getting longer and longer up into my towel. My mouth watered at the scent of food wafting in from my office. I knew Rouva would send food up for me.

Still, with that mouth-watering came the realization that my mouth tasted like I licked Jabba. I ducked back into the misty bathroom, scrubbing my teeth vigorously with the minty gel. Satisfied with the now harshly sharp taste of mint, I bent over the sink, rinsing my mouth.

When I came up, I had to suppress my yelp when I saw a blurred figure through the misty mirror. Whirling, I was met with a wide set of golden eyes.

“Rex,” I whispered, setting my toothbrush down on the counter slowly. He was in civilian clothes, but not the ones I had leant him. Though….they still looked familiar. “Did you steal those from my closet?” I asked, half joking and half genuinely curious.

His brow arched, amused but ignoring me for now. That answered my question, anyways--he absolutely took them from my closet.

“Cyare,” he whispered finally, his shining eyes still focused on me. “You came back.”

I smiled gently. “I made a promise, didn’t I?”

Rex’s eyes widened only slightly when his breath caught, the clone realizing he had actually interacted with me that night somehow….through the Force. He rushed forward without another word, his arms crushing me against him. His nose tucked against the nape of my neck, breathing me in slowly.

I felt the tiniest drop of moisture fall from his cheek to my hair, but I didn’t say anything about it, closing my eyes and doing my best to embrace him back. It wasn’t easy, considering he seemed to have no intent on loosening his arms soon.

“I’m okay,” I assured him instead, slowly easing into his mind to soothe over the worries he’d had about me over the past week. “I’d have contacted you if I could.”

He pulled away only slightly to examine my face. “They said you were taken by Trandoshans. Hunted for sport?”

I shrugged, trying to ease his worries. “It wasn’t fun, but I made it, okay? It’s over.” I grabbed his hand firmly. “I’m back now.”

His thumb slid over my knuckles rhythmically as he quirked a grin. “As weird and slightly terrifying as it was,” he admitted with a small laugh, “I was glad that you could somehow contact me through the Force. It was jarring and….a lot to handle…. But it was so nice to know you were out there. Alive.”

I smiled. “Next time I get kidnapped, I’ll be sure to drop in again, then.”

“I’m going to request that you don’t do the whole kidnapping thing again,” Rex laughed, his tensions finally easing as his arms loosened. “Though I’m not opposed to you letting me know you’re okay when we can’t talk.”

I frowned slightly, tucking my head over his chin. “I wish you could do the same to me.”

“Can’t you just check in?”

I peered up at him, smiling slightly at how little he knew. Then again, I once knew next to nothing, too. I was just blessed with good teachers. “It doesn’t always work like that. The Force doesn’t always let me see what I want to.”

“That’s frustrating.”

“Tell me about it.” We were silent for a second while Rex’s shoulders shook with amusement. Still, as much as I loved the safe feeling of his embrace, I couldn’t ignore the ache in my stomach any longer. “Rex?” I asked, prodding him to look down at me. “Can we move to the office? I’m really hungry.”

He nodded immediately, but didn’t disconnect our hands as he led me back to the office and sat me in my chair. The captain paused, his gaze trailing over the shallow claw marks in my forearm. They weren’t bleeding openly, but they certainly weren’t minor scratches either, though.

Rex sighed through his nose. “Kida,” he started, his voice sounding tired. As if he were talking to a cadet that couldn’t put his rifle together right.

“I was getting to it,” I interrupted, pulling my arm away. “It was wash, eat, wrap arm. We are on step two.”

Rex rolled his eyes, getting up to fetch the medical kit he knew I had from when he’d used it. He brought it out easily, sitting on the desk before me with my arm in his lap. “You can eat with your left hand,” he said easily when I pouted at him. He didn’t look up again from tending my wound, so I gave up on my teasing and got to work at housing some of Rouva’s authentic Twi’lek cooking. It was a stew that she substituted some Coruscant-available market meat for a Ryloth-native creature. Apparently the Ryloth version was way better.

I had yet to try it in my travels. Rouva’s soup was awesome. I didn’t want to ruin that. The only soup I’d eat that was a genuine Ryloth recipe would be one that Rouva made.

Rex finished with my arm quickly, but didn’t stop there. I ignored him, horking down the second bowl of stew and starting in on the breads and fruit spreads. The captain moved to inspect the rest of my body, gently swiping disinfectant and spraying bacta-spray over any cuts he found. He even went so far as to gently stop my left hand in its work to wipe the split knuckles before returning it to my slice of bread with a small smile.

It was pure, and immediately elicited one from me.

The man was hesitant as he lifted my baggy shirt gently, aware of my stilling muscles. He was careful to keep me covered, his calloused fingers ghosting over my skin to find injuries. Bumps erupted across my skin, and I did my best to control my blush. Stuffing my face with more food helped distract me.

Deeming the rest of me suitable and healthy enough, he nodded to himself and putting away the med kit. The captain wasn’t done yet, though, coming back to slowly work the towel from its twist, letting my wet hair fall to my shoulders. His fingers moved through it for only a moment, my eyes sliding closed under his kindness as I chewed my food slower now. Rex left for only a moment, apparently remembering the hairbrush I’d had in my room.

He returned with it, giving me a questioning look before working through my hair with the brush, untangling the knots slowly. He was incredibly patient, a small apology slipping from his lips when he’d pull a little too hard. It took a moment for him to figure it out, but he got it, the motion becoming practiced easily.

He was done as I wrapped up my meal, excited to find my hair parted correctly. I lifted my brow at him. “Perceptive, Captain,” I teased gently when he finally settled against my desk before me, his gaze on me. He still didn’t speak, though, his eyes intense. “What?” I smiled gently, giving him a look.

He shook his head slightly, but said nothing. Instead, he took my hand again, slowly taking me from my seat and into my bedroom. He motioned for me to lay down before he curled up behind me, wrapping his body around my own. His thumb brushed over my hand where he interlaced our fingers, his breath warm on the nape of my neck.

“This is nice,” I whispered, my eyes sliding closed. He shifted slightly behind me, sitting up for only a moment to press his lips to my temple.

“Rest, Cyare,” he said against my skin before curling back into me. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” He answered my unvoiced question, a smile gracing my lips.

I snuggled into the warmth of the clone by my side, letting myself drift towards sleep. “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” was the last thing I said before falling into peaceful darkness.

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

MANDO’A

Ka’ra-- stars; ruling council of fallen kings

Cyare-- beloved

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum-- I love you

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years

Text

Hungry Hearts, a Destiel fic

Sam brings Cas home, except it's not the Cas that Dean remembers. Being on his own changed him, his angel colder. And he can't call Cas his angel anymore. Mainly because he hasn't been his angel for a while. Both metaphorically and literally.

Living with a fallen Cas has Dean walking on broken glass, especially since he prayed an apology to him when he couldn't hear it. Having torn off the Band-aid to a still-bleeding wound, will Dean broach the rupture between them for closure? What can possibly aid him in a terrifying act of vulnerability.

He might not be good with words... but food's never let him down.

Dean dawdles on the web, surfing between different sites. Leaves a collection of shorts called ‘TikToks’ on Yotube to read an article about the latest reboot from his childhood. Ignores the suffocating awkwardness that ballooned in the kitchen after Cas strolled in a few minutes ago.

He glanced up when Cas entered, thinking it was Sam, ready to tell him how funny kids have gotten. Except his brother hadn’t returned yet. Cas froze under the door jamb, staring at him with wide eyes. Dean mirrored his dumb expression, finger tapping as each knot of his spine stiffened one after the other. His jaw hung clumsily with the lump of an unsaid sentence. Swallowing it, Dean thought of something else to say to the other man.

Cas rebooted before he could. He nodded with a muttered “hello” and sped over to the fridge. Dean parroted, firing off a finger gun and then hung his head in shame at his response.

Ten minutes passed, Dean still hadn’t come up with anything to say and Cas tore up the kitchen searching for something. Returning to the fridge he looks inside one final time and shuts it with a growl. “Why isn’t there anything to eat !”

Dean answers, eyes trained on the laptop screen. “Sam went out to get groceries over an hour ago.”

“And he’s not back yet?” “Dude, why’re you complaining anyway. It’s not like you can…” He pauses, mind catching up with his voice. When he gathers the courage to look away from his device Dean finds Cas balefully glaring at him.

“I’m hungry , Dean,” Cas says, “Or did you forget that happens to me now. Again .”

He winces, embarrassment coloring his cheeks and popping the balloon surrounding them. Its heavy plastic weighs on his shoulders with the forceful reminder that his angel had become like him - human . With all their flaws and shortcomings. “Right… sorry.”

Cas rolls his eyes, opening and shutting a cupboard in the blink of an eye. “So there’s really nothing here to eat ?”

Dean shrugs, swinging his legs out from under the table to stand. He moseys over to the fridge, careful to avoid Cas by taking the long way around. Inside he finds a sparse amount of food scattered to their own corners like their owners’.

“Seems that way,” he tells Cas.

His former angel mutters more to himself, stomping towards the exit. “Of course… there’s not much of anything here, is there?”

A knife jumps from a drawer and twists itself into his heart. Dean reacts, “I wouldn’t say that.”

The sound of footsteps pause, Dean checking on Cas to find him under the door jamb once more. Hand on the edges, fingers tight. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Dean races through his maze-like thoughts for sense, chasing it to give Cas a reason to stay this time. Brow furrowed, Dean peers into the fridge for an answer. Finds it between the inch of milk and the three eggs having a party. “There might not be much, but…” Dean grabs the ingredients, “all together, they can make… something ?”

Cas scoffs, leaning against the doorway. “ Really ?” Voice dripping with sarcasm, nothing in him gives any evidence he buys what Dean tries to sell. A harsh spotlight burns Dean’s skin, makes sweat roll down every pore. The harshness of Cas’s eye makes him doubt his hastily thrown together plan, insecure that his former angel won’t entertain him. Like he used to.

“ Yeah …” he continues, hedging softly, “I… uh, I don’t know what exactly. But you can make something .” Swallowing fear Dean moves to Cas and shoves the food into his hands, smile shaky. “Come on, Cas. If we put our heads together…”

His lip wobbles. Dean pours more energy into his smile, transforming into a more innocent and friendly version of himself. Create further distance from the beast that tore into Cas all those months ago.

It hurts staring at him this long, the memory of how haunted Cas looked that night fighting from the depths of his freezer. Dean fights it, presses on the cold, metal door with all his might. Except he isn’t strong enough. And while he kept that memory from breaking free and turning him into a mute, shambling mess, others slipped through the cracks.

Like when Cas finally returned. Trudging in after Sam, battered and bruised. Dean scurried towards them in concern. “Cas?” he asked, “Cas, what happened -”

“Vampires.”

At a loss, Dean’s hand stayed frozen in mid-air. “Vamps?” he asks, “You let them get the drop on you, bud… Cas?”

Sam glanced at him in warning, Dean understanding too late. Cas squinted at him like he was a lesser-demon, ready to be smote into unexistence. He ground out each word like they were glass. “They’re stronger than humans.”

“But you’re… not human?”

Not only did he step in it, he did so barefoot.

“He’s not an angel anymore, Dean,” Sam told him later, after Cas stormed towards his room. “He fell -”

“He fell?!? Why didn’t he say anything?” “Because,” Sam clapped his shoulder, “he didn’t think you’d care.” Left him in the main room, alone, like he deserved. Wallowing in self-pity and drowning in a bottle of Jack.

Then he thinks of his prayer to Cas - oh, his prayer . The pent-up confession of every feeling he bottled up. Alone in his room after a whirlwind hunt that left him more exhausted than ever. Dean spoke truth to the decorative guns and dusty mixtapes, eyes squeezed shut in hope that he could make his prayer more powerful. That Cas would still hear it if he stuck his fingers in his ears and tried drowning him out. Hear how sorry he was for how much of an ass he resembled and the real fear that controlled him. Hear that losing him never gets easier, and each time he got him back he squandered their time together - that he doesn’t deserve a second chance. Hear the longing trembling inside, a love so strong he began crying because of it.

Except when he finished there wasn’t a call or a text, only his own laboured breathing.

Dean figured he acted too late. No apology good enough to repair what he and Cas had. Accepted his miserable ending with a defeated sigh.

The next memory plays on, of Dean asking after his prayer. Glutton for punishment, needing to hear the other man fully explain how it felt knowing Dean’s most inner secrets.

“Even if you did pray ,” Cas used finger-quotes, expounding on Dean’s hypothetical approach, “I probably didn’t hear it. The first thing to go was my ability to use angel radio … I was alone. More alone than I’ve ever been. But then again… that happened before my antennae was torn from me.”

It was the most they’d ever spoken to each other since Cas moved back to the Bunker. Every other interaction was rushed, Cas leaving moments into Dean’s arrival. Taking books with him or suddenly having chores to do. He couldn’t leave the laundry room with Dean blocking the exit. Forcing a conversation in an attempt to soothe the termites biting under his skin.

When Cas told him what he needed to know, though, Dean let his former angel push him aside in his haste to flee. Too confused on how to feel learning this new tidbit.

Whether having his message left unread eased his troubled soul, or if it disrupted it further. Because admitting it made it easier to breathe the next morning. Dean was disappointed, but free.

Freedom evaporated, he wears his heavy chains once more. They’re still warm.

Cas draws him from his head by finally moving, inspecting the ingredients. “You really think I can make something… edible , with what’s hear in the Bunker?”

“Yeah, you got eggs… milk…” Dean waves his hands behind him, “the base is all there, the rest is really garnish.”

He raises a sharp brow at him. “I doubt you believe that given how much you stress about cooking .”

Dean blanches, chuckling nervously. “Well, that’s because I’ve gone a little soft. Having a kitchen meant I could really choose what I wanted to eat instead of using whatever was on hand. When I was a kid I…” his voice grows small, remembering another sad memory - this time, Cas-free - “I would have to make do with whatever dad left us. Sometimes we didn’t have milk or eggs. A lot of cans and dry goods though… would notrecommend cereal with water.”

“It’s not the same,” Cas agrees, soft like the feathers he shed, “I know.”

“Right…” Dean turns from Cas, too amped up to look at the other man and not burst into disgusting sobs. He fiddles with the drawer, pulling utensils out to busy himself. “We’ll get started on whatever it is we’re cooking right away!”

“We?” Cas asks, “Dean, I can cook on my own -”

“But you shouldn’t have to -”

“What if I want to?”

“Then… then…” Dean examines a spatula, frowning, “Then you can. You can cook what you want and I’ll cook what I want.”

Cas sighs, placing the milk and eggs on the counter. “ You’re hungry?”

“...Yes?”

“Dean -”

“It’s a free country, Cas,” Dean says, “If you can be hungry than so can I… you don’t have a monopoly on hunger.”

Cas’s fingers drumming on the counter fill his ear while he waits for a rebuttal. “Fine,” he says, easing Dean’s racing heartbeat, “as long as you don’t get in my way.”

“You won’t notice me,” Dean agrees, because it’s something .

Nodding, Cas reaches for a whisk and the eggs. “Good.” Cas walks forward, Dean pressed against the island to avoid him. Grip tight around the smooth marble of the counter, Dean counts down from ten and then starts on his own creation.

Only he can’t think in silence. Especially since it’s a special silence, made all the more distracting by having Cas so close and being unable to talk to him. So Dean leaves his station and returns to his laptop, clicking around until he finds a playlist and cranks the volume to its loudest setting.

“What’s that?”

Dean shrugs. “Music,” he says, the singer’s voice crooning through the speakers, “Just typed in country and hit the first thing I found.”

Cas hums. “Not rock?”

“...Not really in a rock ‘n’ roll kind of mood.”

“I see… what’s the name of this song?”

He reads the title of the video. “Cannonball.”

“It’s very nice…” Cas turns back to his creation, whisking the eggs in a bowl. Dean inflates with the desire to continue their conversation, only he can’t. Instead he waddles over to the counter and carries on with cooking.

Between pouring what’s left of the milk into a saucepan and dumping the remaining shredded cheese into it, Dean wonders if he and Cas will ever return to the way it was. In the next beat he asks himself whether he wants them to or not.

Being alone meant Dean had a lot of time to reflect and he realized that his and Cas’s bond, no matter how profound, wasn’t working for him. Wasn’t healthy. Wasn’t… enough . As much as he wants Cas to accept an apology and forget the mess Dean knows that wouldn’t be fair. Dean made a mess, and he couldn’t learn until his nose was buried deep in it. He promised himself that if, by some odd miracle, Cas forgave him things would change.

Namely himself.

On the top of the list, Dean wouldn’t take him for granted. Wouldn’t expect him to fall in line and go along with whatever he said. If Cas needed him to, Dean would spend every day reassuring him that his place in their family wasn’t as a guard dog. His ‘C’ would join Dean’s initials on the table the second he asked.

He hasn’t, though. Hasn’t said much of anything to Dean. They’ve been in the kitchen for thirty minutes together and Cas spoke for three.

Dean tries, but there’s only so much bullshit he can spout before he chokes on his feelings. A war wages inside him over swallowing and repressing or vomiting them all over Cas’s shoes. Casualties heavy on both sides, victory far from either sides’ grasp. So they stay packed tight in his chest, and will most likely die there -

“Dean?”

He startles, squeezing the last bits of ketchup onto the pan. “Yes?”

Cas frowns at his cooking, a horrid green tinting his cheeks. “What… are you making?”

Tracking his gaze, Dean stares into his concoction without any clue what happened. It’s a swirl of colors, most noticeably red since the ketchup drips from the bottle into it. Unable to admit to Cas that he doesn’t know, Dean panics. “It’s a secret,” Dean lies, “If I told you, then you’d want to have it.”

“Trust me,” Cas winces, “that won’t happen.”

“You’re only seeing it be made ,” he continues, “but, like, when I’m done it’ll be the most appetizing thing ever.” Dean begs his mind to stop, only it ignores him. “Better than pie .”

“ Really ?”

He nods. “Found it in this cookbook - y’know, one of those good ones by a celebrity where every recipe comes with a story.” Dean exchanges the bottle with a spoon and begins stirring the mixture together, shuddering as it squelches. “Figured now’d be the perfect time to try it.”

“Now?” his former angel asks, “When the Bunker barely has enough ingredients for regular food. It just so happens to have all you need for this… recipe?”

“Christ, Cas, I’m being adventurous . Maybe you want to play it safe but I’m in the mood for something new .”

Dean bites his tongue, regret slamming into him after raising his voice. Fearfully glancing at Cas, he prepares for the other man to leave him again. Pack up and move on to another life with people who deserve him.

Cas doesn’t. He watches Dean with a curious glint in his eyes, expression neutral instead of the stormy cloud that normally settled over them when in Dean’s presence. “Adventurous?” he asks, “If that’s the mood for tonight… then I hope you don’t mind if I’m also … adventurous.”

A shiver races up his spine at Cas’s tone, Dean excited by it. “Not at all…”

Settled, Cas opens the fridge and gathers a carrot and a package of sliced ham. “Your recipe,” he starts, “doesn’t need these, right? I’d hate to…mess it up .”

“Never,” Dean says. Cas frowns, squeezing the carrot too hard. Dean continues, “I mean… you can have them for whatever you’re working on… recipe didn’t call for ‘em anyway… in fact it said I should avoid carrots and… and ham…”

“...Right,” Cas mutters, walking away, “Because avoiding is exactly what you do…”

Sourness curls his lips. “Wait!” he calls to Cas, stopping him. Holding his hand out, Dean asks, “Ham?”

Cas arches his brows, “I thought you said the recipe -”

“Screw it,” he says, “Going a little off script… s’called being adventurous .”

“Adventurous… right?” He slaps a piece of ham into Dean’s hand. “Have fun.”

“You too.”

They go back to cooking, except not like before. The energy in the room ramps up, as Dean and Castiel find their paths crossing. Digging in the fridge or the cupboards or the pantry for more food. Asking each other if they need whatever they found and, ultimately, sharing when in stubborn pride they said ‘yes’.

Dean realizes how ridiculous they look when he tears a single slice of bread in half for each to use. A laugh bubbles up and escapes, Dean dangling the halves.

Cas skews his head to the side, an adorable gesture Dean missed with a fury. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’,” he tells him, handing the bread over, “Just excited for what we’re making.”

“I doubt that’s the case.”

“But I am!” Dean says, dumping the bread-half into a pot he transferred his earlier mixture into, “If you’re not, then maybe admit that whatever I’m making is gonna taste better.”

Squinting, Cas stands firm. “Mine will be a thousand times more delicious than yours.”

“Those’re fighting words.”

“Than consider us fighting .” Dean almost winces, except he’s distracted by the smallest twitch of Cas’s lips. Cas smirks at Dean and nearly causes him to crumple into a sad mess. He wills the tears down and accepts the challenge.

Time passes faster after that. Dean snatching spices from Cas’s hands before he could grab them. Cas shoving Dean when he carries his stew to the table, knocking him off path and almost dropping the entire meal across the floor. Both of them pressed against one another as they searched the pantry one final time, Cas like a scalding iron rope to his side.

He sprinkles little leaves he tore from a plant Sam bought when Cas calls over to him. “Yeah?”

“I want your opinion on something?”

Dean turns, seeing Cas hold a frying pan full of gummy bears over a simmering flame. “What are you doing?” he asks, barely able to through the fit of giggles.

“I’m trying to make a jam for my meal,” Cas explains, mirth coating his own voice, “but I’m not certain how long I should hold the gummy bears over the fire?”

“Hold on,” Dean says, grabbing a stray book they found in their race to find every edible thing in the kitchen. He flips it open to a random page and pretends to read. “It says… as long as you want, and as hot as you think.”

“Wow, that’s…” Cas leans towards Dean, grinning, “ adventurous .”

Dean basks in the warmth of Cas’s joy, carefree playfulness dipping lower. Replaced by a soft wonder while he marvels at a version of his former angel he was barred from seeing. Cas stirs the melting gummies carelessly, like the other day he didn’t scowl at Dean until he fled from the library.

Watching Cas indulge in a silly waste of food reminds Dean that he loves this being with all his heart. No matter if he has his wings or not, his heart latched onto Cas and can’t be pried off.

“Dean?” Cas asks, halfway to where the rest of his food waits with the pan in hand, “Dean are you okay?”

He sniffles, wiping his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “Peachy… you about done?”

“Almost. Have to layer this on and… perfect !”

Dean walks to where Cas waits, studying their finished products. His stew bubbles with foodstuffs floating inside, not dissolving because they can’t. Meanwhile Cas’s meal, smothered in the congealed flesh of a hundred gummy bears, looks as unappetizing.

“This looks,” Dean’s nose scrunches in distaste, “this looks awful .”

“Agreed.”

Sneaking a peek at Cas he sees his former angel already looking at him. Gazes locked, they goad each other into a fit of raucous laughter until Dean leans on the table for support and Cas’s arms are wrapped around his stomach.

Cas winds down, straightening and glancing around the room. “All this hard work for what… nothing? We made quite the mess…”

His smile vanishes, Dean not needing to look to agree with him. Nerves returning, tensing and knotting over each other, he thinks about the past ten years of their relationship. “I wouldn’t say it was for nothing , though…”

“Right,” Cas sighs, tapping at his thigh, “anyway, we should clean it up.”

“About time, right?”

“So if you want to grab the mop, I’ll -”

“Cas, I’m sorry.”

Startled, he whips around to face Dean. Cas’s brows draw in close, jaw hanging, disbelief painting his features. “What?”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for Cas’s hand, “for what I said after we fixed the hole in Hell. For pushing you away when you needed us… needed me to be there for you, after Jack, after Chuck -”

“Dean,” Cas pulls away, drifting backwards, “Dean you… I know you were hurting, but- “

“Cas, please,” Dean follows him, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, “I need to… I need to get this all out. The first time it was easy, you not being there but now it’s… it’s taking everything I have and -”

“The first time?” Cas asks, “What… what do you mean?”

Dean chuckles, rubbing the palm of his hand against one eye. “I prayed, Cas… I prayed to you. Prayed the hardest I’ve ever done in my life, for the slightest chance you might listen.” he sobs, curling in on himself. “Listen to me admit to being an ass. Being ungrateful to you, not being able to give you confidence that you mattered to me. Because you do… so, so much. Cas, I…”

He huffs, black tendrils squeezing around his lungs. Dean powers through it. “We’d lost mom… Jack… and then Rowena I… I knew it wouldn’t be long until you’d be taken from me, too. You always are. So I pushed. Picked at every little thing hoping you’d get fed up and leave. Although a part of me knew you’d take whatever I threw at you - you always have. Until you didn’t. And I haven’t been the same - haven’t been whole since.”

“Dean -”

“So many chances,” Dean scrubs a hand down his face, smearing more tears onto his skin. “So many chances wasted… when I didn’t say what I should’ve or didn’t act on desires that I had…”

“Desires?” Cas asks, inching forward, “What… desires?”

Dean rises enough to face Cas, the other man deserving it given the enormity of the next few sentences. “I love you, Cas. I think I always have, but when I realized it I did nothing about it. And if you don’t love me I can live with that. If you did love me but don’t anymore, I can live with that, too. Because you don’t own any of the blame. It’s all on me. Cas… you don’t make everything go wrong. Hell… you’re one of the only people who make life seem all right.”

The audio loops to the beginning, and the guitar strums echo in the silent kitchen. All the darkness eating at Dean’s insides fade and his muscles loosen from the tight grip remorse held them in. As time ticks forward and Cas remains frozen by Dean’s confession, the rushing heat of embarrassment licks up his neck.

“Right,” he mutters, edging away, “you… that was a lot for you… I think I’ll go, find that mop for you -” A hand snakes around his wrist, “Cas? What’re you -”

Lips crash into his, draining every thought from his mind. Castiel steps into his space, tugging him closer while his other hand caresses Dean’s face. Dean responds in kind, lids fluttering shut as he laces his arms over Cas’s shoulders.

Cas breaks the kiss with a pant, foreheads pressed together. “I love you, too, you idiot,” he growls, staring into his soul, eyes aglow even though it shouldn’t be possible anymore. “I love you so much… leaving you was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Not a day went by where I didn’t think of you either you… you…” Words failing, he embraces Dean once more.

They gasp for breath afterwards, Dean half-sitting on the table between their two dishes.

“So,” Dean starts, “where do we go from here?”

“I… I don’t know,” Cas says, “We can’t go back to how we were before -”

“ Clearly .”

“Not like that,” he sighs, brushing his nose across Dean’s, “I mean… if you’re having a problem, you cannot take it out on me again -”

“I’m a changed man, Cas,” he promises, “I… I’ve lost you already - too many times - but this? This was the worse… Because of me. Because I was a coward… I choked . Now… I swear if anyone tries to tear us apart I’ll beat them up.”

Cas offers a small smile. “Even yourself?”

“You kidding?” Dean scoffs, grinning, “I know his every weakness.” This time Dean initiates the kiss, slowly, so he can study the way Cas’s lips feel, how they taste, and what emotions they stir inside Dean.

Suddenly they hear a voice not too far away. “Dean? Dean… I got your stupid groceries, man. Come on and help. I texted you, like, an hour ago…”

Cas squeezes Dean’s wrist. “Sam…”

“I know,” he sighs, “Kid’s always been a cockblock…” Looking past Cas, Dean sees the disorganized kitchen for the first time. A wicked idea pops into head, and the blissful smile on his face falls into something more wicked. “Hey,” Dean whispers, “Let’s run away together.”

“Run away?” Cas asks, “But I just came home.”

Dean powers through the squeal building in his chest hearing Cas call the Bunker ‘home’ to explain, “No… we’re not running far. Down the hall and to my room s’all.” Adding an eyebrow wiggle helps communicate his message to Cas.

“ Oh .”

With blinding speed Cas drags Dean from the kitchen, fleeing through the other exit seconds before Sam enters. Over their laughter and the continued music playing from Dean’s laptop, they hear the younger Winchester groan.

“Seriously? Dean, this isn’t funny… Dean? Dean !”

#Dean Winchester #Castiel #destiel #destiel fic #destiel fanfic #deancas #deancas fic #deancas fanfic #Supernatural #Spn #Spn15 #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #Misha Collins #Jensen Ackles

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lilliloves · 5 years

Note

1. “How much did you drink?” for Brio. Not picky but would love it if it’s drunk!Rio :)

This prompt (and probably a lot of future ones) falls into this universe.

Beth lifts her head up off the couch, lowering the volume on the television at the same time. She's been curled up on the couch for the last hour, half dozing, half watching the Real Housewives repeat on the screen in front of her.

The house is momentarily quiet but she could swear she heard a knock on the door. She sits up to listen more closely, the fleece blanket across her lap falling to the floor. Her eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline when, after a minute, she hears the doorbell ring.

She can't remember the last time someone rang the doorbell - after ten o'clock at night, no less - and she curses whoever it is for potentially waking the four sleeping children upstairs.

She pushes herself off the couch with a groan, powering off the TV, leaving herself to stumble across the room towards the front door in mostly darkness.

She swings the door open, prepared to give whoever is on the other side hell but -

It's Rio.

She hadn't been expecting him. She's pretty certain he's never rang the doorbell, always choosing to knock or come through the back or, in most cases, walk right in without an invitation. But it's definitely him standing in front of her, the dim glow of the porch light just over his head. His arms are crossed over his chest, head down, and if she didn't know better she might think he was sleeping. Beth stares, mouth wide open, and waits.

And waits.

But he doesn't lift his head, doesn't make a move to speak or come inside or acknowledge her and she's just - confused. She clears her throat, unsure why she's so hesitant but something seems... not quite right.

"Um... hi?" She says, and it works because he finally looks up with a smirk. He looks different though, she can’t put her finger on what it is exactly but something is off.

She hasn't seen him in close to a week - not since the night she'd gone home with him after Annie's wedding. She'd known she wouldn't see him - mostly. He'd told her he had Marcus for the week and a lot of work things lined up and even though they had discussed making changes to their relationship she couldn't expect everything to fall into place all at once.

He'd sent a few brief texts her way in his absence but it hadn't been enough to sate her and when she'd initiated contact he'd offered vague and short responses. She feared he was having doubts about them, about whatever this was, about the conversation they'd had in her bedroom, but then he'd sent her a simple text one night during the week - 'thinkin' about you' - it had said and it'd been enough to ease her worries. She didn't want to push him, was okay with baby steps - with taking things slow - she just had to reconcile that her slow and Rio's slow might be at different levels.

Beth's eyes flicker behind him and she notices that the driveway is void of his car. Her forehead creases further and she's just so thrown off kilter. Her gaze moves back to his and he's staring so intently at her that it momentarily takes her breath away. She feels her cheeks flush and sees the exact moment that he notices but before he can make some kind of lewd comment she asks the first thing that comes to mind:

"Where’s your car?"

He smirks but answers with a shrug. "Demon dropped me off."

As if that clarified anything.

"What’s going on?" She asks this time and her tone is less confused now - more frustrated. It's late and her kids are upstairs and he's just standing there not doing anything or saying anything and it's starting to piss her off.

He shrugs and then laughs. Not his usual chuckle, not an amused huff but a deep, loud, belly laugh. His face lights up and his hand comes up to cover his mouth at his outburst and he looks almost innocent and child-like - two descriptive words that Beth could never anticipate using in relation to Rio.

Beth’s eyes widen, partially amused but mostly completely fucking lost. She has never seen him like this - thinks that he has to be on drugs.

He leans forward, inches from her face and her gaze roams over him. She catalogs the laugh lines on his forehead, the curve of his lips, the white teeth on display from his wide smile. He reaches his hand out and grips her chin stroking her lower lip with his thumb. His touch is always enough to send her reeling but instead of melting she jerks back and he laughs again.

She swats at his hand, taking a step away from him. The front door pushes backwards and she briefly considers slamming it in his face but she needs to know what the hell is going on.

"Rio - what the - ?" She stumbles overs her words and takes one more look into his glassy eyes when it hits her - he’s drunk. She can smell it now. The mix of mint and Rio and vodka.

She grabs him and pulls him inside and he just laughs again.

"You alone?" He questions and she rolls her eyes because now he cares? She watches him peek around her into the family room, towards the kitchen before finally landing his gaze back on her.

"The kids are sleeping." She says quietly. Since they've started whatever this thing is between them he's not been here when her kids are home. The time they spend together is always completely free of their real life obligations - one of the reasons she had insisted that if they were going to do this - they needed to start to do it normally. The last few months with him had felt so good - so right - but the fact that it was a relationship completely closed off from everyday life never made it seem real.

And she wanted it to be real.

The mention of her kids seems to temporarily sober him. He looks slightly apologetic but not enough to voice the words. He puts a finger to his lips and silently promises to be quieter. She rolls her eyes and pulls him towards her bedroom, pointedly ignoring the twinkle in his eye as she does.

She pushes him inside and softly shuts the door behind her. She watches as he flings himself onto her neatly made bed and ignores the warmth in her belly as he kicks his shoes off and makes himself comfortable.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, forcing him to look at her. She crosses her arms in front of her and she notices - but ignores - the way his eyes darken as they linger on her chest. She's bra-less, wearing an over-sized sweater that's falling off of her shoulder and worn, black, leggings - an outfit she generally keeps safely confined to her nights at home, alone.

Instead of leering at her for any longer he flops backwards onto her bed and answers vaguely. "Was in the area."

"With Demon?" She asks curiously, narrowing her eyes at him as he stares up at her ceiling.

"I needed a ride. He lives closer to here than my loft so - "

"You needed a ride because you're drunk." She accuses attempting to get him to admit to the fact but he only shrugs, neither confirming nor denying.

"How do you plan on getting home?"

"I'll get an Uber." He responds with a wave of his hand as if he doesn't have the time or patience or ability to answer her mile long list of questions.

"You will not." She shoots back quickly, because she knows him and she knows for a fact that he would never rely on an Uber drive to bring him anywhere.

He laughs and sits up, patting the bed next to him, encouraging her to sit, but she doesn't take the bait. He gives her a look she's never seen from him before - a cross between a sad puppy and a pathetic teenager caught with his pants around his ankles. When she still doesn't fold under his gaze he groans and falls back onto her bed once again.

"You got water?" He asks and she clocks his movement as his hands rub over his face, his voice dry and raspy and she momentarily feels bad for him and the hangover he's likely developing.

She huffs and rolls her eyes but makes her way out to the kitchen to get him a bottle of water. She can't decide if she's glad he's here or annoyed. A little bit of both, she presumes, but she knows she's leaning more towards the former. It's almost exciting to see him this way - not entirely in his right mind. She's grinning by the time she's heading back towards her room, imagining the things she might be able to hold over his head after the night is through.

She walks back into her room and finds him sitting up on the edge of the bed, black socks covering the feet he has placed firmly on the ground. His eyes are closed but he opens them when he feels her presence next to him. She holds the bottle out to him and he grabs it, giving her a grateful look before downing half of it's contents. Beth watches him as he drinks, eyes lingering on his throat as he swallows. The site of him drinking water shouldn't cause such palpable attraction but she finds herself having to ignore the heat that courses through her body. She looks away as he screws on the cap of the bottle and throws it down next to him. Silence stretches out for a moment before she takes a breath and continues her inquiries.

“I can’t believe you’re drunk." She blurts out. She still refuses to sit next to him but she does move slightly closer so that her legs are almost brushing his knees.

"I ain’t drunk. I don’t get drunk." He argues and she can tell he's attempting to convince himself of the fact. Whatever. She's the one that has a front row seat to him right now and nothing has ever been more obvious than this.

"I can't believe you showed up here, drunk." Beth ignores him and she can hear her voice pushing him, can sense he's about to flip out but it doesn't stop her.

"Not drunk."

"Where were you?" She asks, only half expecting a straight answer.

"Out with the boys." He answers and while it isn't much it's more than she'd expected.

"How much did you drink?"

"Not much." She watches as he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and starts to scroll through messages or emails or something - anything to ignore the woman standing in front of him. She wonders if he regrets showing up here - wonders if he thought she'd just welcome him with open arms.

She looks at him and as good looking as he is at all times she can see the slight glean of sweat on his forehead, the clench of his jaw, the crease in his forehead. "Are you going to throw up?

He doesn't look up from his phone but she sees his eyes roll anyway. "I don’t throw up."

"The same way you don’t drink?" She teases knowingly.

He shakes his head and finally looks up from his phone. His eyes are dark and fiery and she can see that he's had enough. "Shit, stop naggin'"

She swallows back a retort and forces herself to stay calm. When she does control herself she speaks quietly and slowly as if to accentuate her point as clearly as possible. "You came here."

"Right. I came here, not my ma's, so back off."

Her mouth drops open, he's gone from laughing drunk to angry drunk in a flash but instead of giving him the fight he's clearly looking for she tries a different tactic.

She sits down next to him, body turned in his direction, leg bent underneath her. She attempts to meet his gaze but he makes it a point to avoid her. "How was your week?"

He shrugs but doesn't answer and it hits her that something else is going on here other than the fact that he reeks of booze.

"Tell me what's going on." She presses, nudging at his knee with her hand.

"Nothin'." He says quickly, ignoring her touch. She bites her lip with her teeth, attempting to hold back a smile. He's giving her children a run for their money right now with his petulance.

"Is Marcus okay?" She asks, attempting to figure out what might be wrong given his reluctance to share.

"He's fine." His response is gruff but she continues.

"Everything good with work?"

His eyes finally swing up to meet hers and instead of answering he changes the direction of the conversation all together. "I thought Dean had the kids 'til Monday."

She tilts her head in question and narrows her eyes. "He did. Or he was supposed to. Something came up for today last minute so he dropped them off last night instead."

She's surprised at how genuinely angry he suddenly is. She watches as he shakes his head and curls his hands in a fist as if he's looking for a fight. "That guy fuckin' sucks."

"Where is this coming from?" She wonders out loud.

"I came by yesterday." He's calmer now but there's an edge to his voice and she's still no clearer on what the problem is.

"You did?" She questions in confusion, briefly going over the day before in her head. She attempts to figure out how she could have missed him. It had been Saturday and she was pretty sure - no she was very sure - that she hadn't left the house all day. She'd done all of her weekend errands on Friday night when Dean had asked if he could bring the kids home early. He'd been building up his real estate clientele and a few houses had come on the market last minute that he'd hoped to show a high end client. Beth had been fine with it. She'd had no plans and she was happy that things were going well for Dean in his new career.

"Yeah. Came by around four. Saw Dean's car so I left."

She nodded because - yeah. There were lots of steps their new relationship would have to take before Dean got clued in on it.

"Came back later though. 'Round 8." He says and she narrows her eyes because his tone is accusing her of something but she can't figure out what.

"He was still here." Rio finishes and now she sees things much clearer.

She sighs as everything clicks into place in her head. She wonders if he's been drinking because of the jealousy or if the jealousy is rearing it's ugly head because of the drinking.

"He stayed for dinner." She explains although she doesn't appreciate what he seems to be getting at.

"Cute."

"Rio." She warns, and it's enough that she sees his jaw tighten before he decides against saying anything else.

He jumps up off the bed, catching her by surprise. She hears him mumble something about taking a piss, a phrase she has always loathed, before closing himself in her master suite. She sighs but moves towards the bathroom to lean against the closed door. When she hears the toilet flush and the sink start she enters without an invitation. He's standing in front of the sink, leaning forward with his hands propped on the counter. His head is down, his eyes closed and she can almost see how awful he feels. Can see that a dull ache is forming in his head, that the light is too bright, that the alcohol is hitting in the way it does after you've drank a lot and then stopped.

She moves towards him and grabs a washcloth off of the counter, running it under the cold water before turning the knob off. She squeezes the water out and folds the cloth before placing it on the back of his neck. He shivers slightly but doesn't push her away.

"He just stayed to have dinner with the kids." She starts, keeping her voice low. "You know we're trying to stay on friendly terms for them."

"I fuckin' hate him." He says and while she can tell he's more relaxed then he was a few minutes ago the venom that appears in his voice whenever Dean comes up is evident.

She nods, she gets it, sort of, but -

"I assume that Marcus has a mother? That you have an ex."

He turns his head to look at her and glares. "That's different."

"Maybe." She says with a shrug although she doesn't necessarily agree. She chooses not to point out that she couldn't possibly know if it was different since she knows nothing about the situation. The time for that conversation is soon but not now.

"He's got no respect for you." He lifts his head and their eyes meet in the mirror.

"Which is part of the reason I'm not with him anymore." She presses the cloth harder against his neck and then brings it around to run it across his cheeks and forehead. He closes his eyes and she doesn't take her gaze off of him. His emotions are all over the place but right now she can see how resigned he is and she's taking advantage.

She drops the cloth on the counter and pushes at his arm so that he turns to face her. She moves to stand in front of him and he leans his weight against the vanity behind him. She steps as close as she can to him so that their middles meet and instinctively he reaches out to grip her waist. She lifts her hands and runs her fingers through his scalp and over his temples, once than twice. He groans at the contact and pulls her flush against him. Not surprisingly, even in his condition, she feels him harden in his jeans.

"You know Dean driving you to drink and then you showing up here hammered is all sorts of cliche."

"I ain't drinkin' cause of Dean. I spend lots of Sundays watchin' football with the boys." He bends his knees so that he's eye level with her and then continues. "Don't usually have anyone to answer to when I come home wasted."

She doesn't comment on the fact that he's just made mention of coming home to her, only pushes up on the tips of her toes and wraps her hand around the back of his neck. She meets his lips with her own but doesn't budge when he attempts to deepen the kiss so he nips at her lip and licks it with his tongue.

His hands slip down the back of her leggings and he squeezes her ass roughly in his palms, fingers digging into her flesh. She whimpers because he always knows exactly where and how to touch her just the way she likes it.

When one hand slips around to the front, pushing her underwear aside to slip a finger inside of her she pulls back but doesn't push him away.

"My kids are here." She whispers but she's not sure who she's trying to remind.

"And who do we got to blame for that?" He mumbles, giving her a pointed look without stopping what he's doing. He slips a second finger inside of her and she grips his neck tighter when his thumb grazes her clit.

"I told you I wanted you to spend time with them. Not that I wanted them to find you here one morning nursing a hangover." Her voice cracks on the last word and she gives in to the fact that he's intent on getting her off.

He quickens the speed of his hand, pushing his fingers in and then out at a pace almost too much for her to handle. She lowers her head so that her forehead is leaning against his shoulder and then bites his tattoo covered neck when he brings her over the edge.

They're quiet for a moment, neither moving until she's come down from the high that only he can provide. He pulls his hand from out of her pants and wipes his fingers on the damp cloth she'd just wiped over his head.

"I'll sneak out before they wake up in the morning." He says, breaking the silence. "Unless you want me to go now."

She shakes her head - that's the last thing she wants - and pushes him in the direction of the shower. She pulls the door open and turns on the water, making sure the temperature is right before she steps back to face him.

He's already stripping and she has to force herself to look away from the hard-on he's sporting.

Her eyes flick up to his and she rolls them at the smirk on his face. He steps forward to bypass her on his way into the shower but she stops him before he can get away.

"You weren't actually worried about Dean being here right?" She asks because she has to believe that Rio knows she could never go back to him after everything.

His eyes darken as he shakes his head.

"No." He starts and she bites her lip to stay quiet. "But if he thinks he's got a shot at gettin' you back..."

She shakes her head as he trails off and answers quickly. "He doesn't."

"We'll see." He says simply. She sighs and watches as the glass door of the shower closes behind him before she goes in search of some Advil because, regardless of if he'll admit it or not - he's going to need it.

#beth x rio #nbc good girls #my prompts #brio fic #thank you for the prompt!#prompts #my fic #vuccijl

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ruminativerabbi · 4 years

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Bouncing Back

We human beings are essentially adaptable creatures, but we don’t think of ourselves that way most of the time. In fact, just the opposite is how we usually see ourselves: as creatures of habit so used to our ways that it takes a seismic shift in the environment to move us into new modes of behavior or attitude. But then, when there is simply no alternative and we suddenly do have to adapt, we somehow manage it nevertheless. We all exemplified that ability in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy back in 2012, for example, when so many of us were suddenly without electric power not for minutes or hours but—for many of us—for almost two weeks. Somehow, we figured it out. We cooked on disposable hibachis in the backyard. We read by flashlight or by candlelight. We drove into Queens to retrieve our email in the first public library we passed that had wi-fi available to the public. For the first day or two, it was challenging and almost exciting to figure out how to survive. By day three, not so much. A week later, we had all had enough. But my point for today is not really how adaptive we were, but how fleeting all those changes proved to be: as soon as the power went back on, no one was interested in frying eggs in the backyard or in reading in bed at night by candlelight. It was real change, real adaptation. But it didn’t last: as soon as the power went back on, we all went immediately back to where we had been before the storm hit.

When the COVID crisis was just upon us, I imagined at first that this would be like that, that the coronavirus would be the viral version of Sandy. And, indeed, in the beginning, that was exactly how it seemed. We struggled for a while to figure out how to get things done. And then, when we really were out of eggs and toilet paper (and not in that order for most of us), we adapted because we simply had to. We figured out how make face masks out of t-shirts. We figured out how to order groceries, toiletries, and prescription drugs online. We figured out how to get our daily exercise without a gym to drive to or a public pool to swim in. Houses of worship learned how to conduct their services on zoom platforms. Teachers of all sorts, myself included, figured out how to teach on those same zoom platforms. Here and there, the cloud even showed a bit of silver lining as people conducting zoomed seder meals suddenly realized that they could invite relatives from all over the country, even from all around the world, who would otherwise never have been able even to consider coming. Instead of declining, participation in daily worship actually increased as the possibility of coming to minyan in the morning without having actually to go outside in the cold beckoned to non-regular worshipers and inspired them to embrace daily prayer in a way that they either never had or at least hadn’t for a long time. So, because we had to, we adapted quickly and—speaking of our life at Shelter Rock specifically—almost remarkably efficiently and effectively.

Will things just go back to normal when this is all over? In 2012, that’s exactly what happened when the power went back on. But I don’t see that happening this time ’round. Indeed, what I’ve been sensing just recently is that we are being altered by this experience in ways that will remain with us long after the crisis passes, and that that is going to be true in many different settings. All sorts of businesses currently conducting business from their employees’ homes will wonder why—given that they have no walk-in trade anyway—they bother paying all that rent to have a central office in the first place. Houses of worship that are attracting more, not fewer, people to worship will wonder what the benefit would be in going back to the previous mode of operation. Schools too will be prompted to wonder if their entire operations couldn’t be streamlined—and made dramatically less expensive to operate—by making off-site learning the rule rather than the exception. True, there’s no way to conduct a choir on the zoom platform. And neither would it be possible to teach lab-based science classes to people with no physical access to the kind of equipment in well-stocked labs. But listening to lectures about history or literature, or learning a language—it seems less obvious that these couldn’t be conducted with as much success via distance learning as when teacher and pupils are all in the same physical space.

At the core of the issue is not really the question of ease, however, but one of human nature. And that is my real topic for today.

Jewish tradition is crystal-clear about the need for a minyan—a prayer quorum of ten—if worship is to take place in a non-abbreviated way that reflects the sanctity of the undertaking fully and meaningfully. The reason given in classical sources for that specific number—or, for that matter, for there being a number at all—is, however, not particularly satisfying. The Mishnah offers a list of all the parts of regular worship that require a quorum of ten. The Talmud then responds by asking where that rule came from and then by offering an answer to its own question in the form of a tradition taught by Rabbi Chiyya bar Abba in the name of Rabbi Yochanan, one of the great rabbis of the talmudic era, according to whom the requirement derives from a verse from Leviticus 22 that features the statement that God, by divine nature, seeks to become sanctified amidst the people, which the rabbi took to imply that all the most sacred parts of the service—the parts that lead to the name of God formally and publicly being sanctified—may only be undertaken in the presence of a quorum, of a minyan. The Talmud finds that assertion obscure and wonders aloud how that verse can possibly lead to that conclusion. It’s an excellent question, but most moderns will find the answer somewhere between obscure and unsatisfying. The verse from Leviticus says that God will be sanctified amidst the children of Israel. And a different verse uses that same word, amidst, when—in telling the story of the desert rebellion of Korach—God is cited as telling Moses and Aaron to separate themselves from amidst the congregation of rebels so that they will not suffer their fate. And then, because the word “congregation” had been used just a few chapters earlier to refer specifically to the ten spies Moses sent out to reconnoiter the land and who later opposed Caleb and Joshua and encouraged the people to give up any hope of ever establishing themselves in the Land of Israel—that, the Talmud triumphantly concludes, is why we need ten people to constitute a minyan.

I first learned that passage of Talmud when I was a student at JTS more than forty years ago. It didn’t seem too convincing to me then. It still doesn’t. The whole notion that that kind of elaborate word play can be used to develop actual laws that affect real people in the course of their daily lives is not something I would particularly want to defend in public. Mustn’t there be some other reason for needing a physically real, extant, present community of people in the same place to worship fully and meaningfully?

The journey to spiritual fulfillment is a journey each of us takes alone. The ancient model has to do with the pilgrimage to Jerusalem that the Torah ordains be undertaken three times a year: each pilgrim is best imagined traveling as a party of one to commune with the one God, as a solo traveler making personal progress, yes, to the glimmering real city in the distance, but also to a private Jerusalem in which the two—the Israelite and the fully present God of Israel—will henceforth be able to dwell in each other’s presence even after the former returns home and resumes normal, everyday life. It is, in fact, in that specific way that the pilgrimage was deemed to be a transformational experience and not merely a task to be undertaken thrice annually.

That is not the full story, however. Each pilgrim following a private, wholly idiosyncratic path towards a personal destiny in God was also a traveler moving forward with countless others on the real road to the real Jerusalem, the actual city that in ancient times housed the actual Temple in which God was imaged to have settled the divine name and thus at least in some sense to have become approachable and knowable. And that image of people pursuing their personal redemptive moment fully alone, but also in the company of countless others attempting to do the same thing along the same path—that is the model for worship in our day that serves as the equivalent of the pilgrimages undertaken thousands of years ago to the Holy City. In my mind, in fact, it is that specific concept of being alone together that this whole zoom-worship experience has taught me to value in a way that I hadn’t really previously.

I like joining our zoom-minyan each morning and evening. (Readers who haven’t tried it out are welcome to enter through the Shelter Rock website at www.srjc.org. Morning worship is at 7:30 from Sunday through Friday; evenings are at 8 PM Sunday though Thursday.) I too like the idea of not having to go out into the cold when it’s blustery and freezing outside! But there is something about the physical presence of others traveling the same road to the same golden city wholly on their own but also in the same space I myself am occupying that I find very satisfying, and that no virtual community will ever be able wholly successfully to recreate.

In our modern world, aloneness—equated by many with loneliness—is rarely a sought-after thing. The books about aloneness that I’ve written about in this space over the years—Thoreau’s Walden; Admiral Byrd’s terrific Alone, his deeply affecting account of his time spent totally on his own in Antarctica for several months in 1934; Clark Moustakas’s many works on the topic including particularly his final work, Loneliness, Creativity, and Love—these are all about the way that image of being a lonely pilgrim on a personal journey to redemption can work in the secular context. In the spiritual one, though, the image is of a room of people together in the same space as each pursues his or her personal path forward, lonely (because the spiritual quest is by its nature a lonely one) and also not lonely (because the room is filled with friendly, encouraging faces, some of whom the worshiper has been davening with for decades). And that is why life on the zoom platform, for all it has to recommend it, will never replace a real-life minyan of people lifting their hearts in prayer to God as individuals in the company of others who, together and alone, are at the very same time also progressing towards their private Jerusalems along the dusty byways of ancient Israel…and also in the context of real life as it is lived in the bosom of a community of caring friends.

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a-marlene-s · 5 years

Text

Floating White Lotus

This fic was inspired by this post. An AU inspired by @captainkirkk.

Book One: Water

Title: “Jasmine Tea”

Chapter: 1 - Next Chapter

Rating: T (curse words mainly.)

Genre: Humor, Drama, and more humor.

D/C: I own nothing.

Beta Read: 6/11/2019

Shoutout to ProudGeek4Ever! For beta reading this! (She is not on this site.)

Summary: Floating White Lotus, a former fire nation ship that was converted into a traveling tea shop. The shop is led by the rumored the Dragon of the West, (No knows if this is true or not... yet) and his nephew who wishes to forget the ever lasting war. Well, until a certain someone decided he’d be the perfect fire bending instructor.

Chamomile

Used for healing wounds, reducing inflammations and/or swelling. Could either be used as tea or applied as a compress. A drawback is that it could cause drowsiness and may interfere with other medications.

Ginger

Used to ease nausea and motions sickness. Could be used to relieve nausea caused by pregnancy. A drawback is that possible side effects could include bloating, gas, heartburn and nausea.

Ginseng

It is used as a tonic and cu-

"Zuko! We are almost at the Southern Water Tribe. Could you recheck the shipment we have for them?"

"I'll get right to it, Uncle!" Zuko responded. He looked down at the leather-bound notebook his uncle had given to him. It contained detailed descriptions of flowers and several other things that had to do with tea and herbalism. He had started to keep track of all the items necessary to make tea and remedies. This book had saved him more times than he could count and he was forever grateful for Uncle Iroh for helping him.

Even if it meant the man went into exile with him.

He shook his head and rose from his spot on top of the deck. Then he headed towards the location where he knew they kept the shipment for the tribe. One of the other men could do this job, but it helped ease his mind. Right as he was about to enter the cargo hold, a bright flash of light shot up into the sky. It lasted several seconds, more than enough time for everyone that was on the deck to see what he was looking at.

In back of his mind, he wondered what that light was. He had never seen anything like it. He'd never even heard any sort of bending that could cause such an event. Eh, Zuko shrugged his shoulders and continued with his task. It was not his problem.

So not his problem.

Zuko continued on his way and as he did so he walked through the main hall of the ship. The lighting was changed to make it more welcoming and not so… intimidating. Plus, there were paintings, plants, and tapestries that made the former Fire Nation naval ship more welcoming. Zuko couldn't help but snort. Welcoming. He nodded at any of the former soldiers that walked passed him on his way to his destination.

Zuko paused when he stopped in front of a tapestry. It was the first one that was ever hung on the ship after the change. The change from using this ship to hunt down the avatar to using it as a travelling teashop. Hunting down the Avatar… What a fool's game. His father just wanted him out of his hair after he started to show his true colors.

Mainly showing how Fire Lord Ozai would easily sacrifice soldiers for nothing. How he could easily kill off innocent lives just to prove a point. The banishment was a massive blessing in disguise. Zuko wanted nothing to do with his father, the Fire Nation and let alone this war. A stupid war at that.

-.-

Zuko took in a deep breath and stared down at his reflection in a giant basin of water. His hair easily fell over his shoulders. He had it cut that way to hide his distinguishable scar. He was wearing clothing that was typical for the Earth Kingdom, but for a far colder climate. Despite having already been to Southern Water Tribe multiple times, he couldn't help the uneasiness that washed over him. As far as the village knew of he, Uncle and the crew were all were running away from their homeland and had created the Floating White Lotus to get a new start. Which was a former Fire Nation naval ship before it got converted into said teashop.

Nothing out of the norm. Nothing out of the norm at all.

"Zuko, we have arrived. Please, try to make yourself presentable… and make some friends your own age."

Zuko's head sagged down. "Yes, Uncle."

Oh, Uncle Iroh. The closet thing Zuko ever got to a father figure. To think the man put himself into exile for his sake… and sanity. Either way, Zuko was grateful for Uncle. Except when Uncle would mention that, he needed to connect with others that are his age or reprimanding him for ruining tea.

He walked into his room on the ship. It was filled with paintings, plants and tapestries. Just like the rest of the ship. Everything was unrelated to the Fire Nation. Zuko quickly changed his clothing to something that suited for his work as a server. When he opened the dresser, the exiled Fire Prince saw his Fire Nation uniform. It was just in arm's reach if he ever needed to wear it. Like whenever they came across a Fire Nation ship. Those times were always the worse.

Dressed in several hues of green, yellow and brown, Zuko walked out of his room and headed up. Along the way, he saw the others quickly putting on their respected uniforms or preparing for their arrival by making tea or any other necessary items. By the time Zuko arrived at the deck, was now the entire place was now had tables, chairs and canopies on said tables. Surrounding it all, were portable fire pits to provide much needed heat.

Slowly but surely, the occupants of the Southern Water Tribe began to trickle in. Uncle welcomed all of them onto the ship and then he and the crew showed the patrones to their tables. Laughter could be heard all over. Children were running around and they kept trying to get Zuko to play with them.

Zuko looked around the ship hoping to see two people. His shoulders sagged when he realized that they were not there. He felt someone tug on his apron and saw that it was Gran-Gran. The old woman gave him a smile as she spoke to him. "They went off earlier in the day. You should surprise them!"

Zuko looked for Uncle and saw the man giving an encouraging smile. He took that as approval. Without much else, he gave the tray of goodies to one of the former soldiers before running off. He had a good idea where they were. He moved quickly with his snowboard and pole that the locals had made especially for him.

-.-

"Uh…." Zuko stared at the supposed avatar. He wondered if this was his mind playing tricks with him. He wasn't able to hear as his friends, Katara and Sokka, attempted to explain how they found the Air Nomad in a glacier and don't forget the flying bison. Oh, Spirits… "No… no. Just…. No… I'm dreaming. No, this is a nightmare!"

Aang, Katara and Sokka watched as Zuko hopped back on his snowboard and headed back to his ship. Aang worriedly watched him leave. The airbender believed he had somehow offended the tea maker. He did a double take when Sokka wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer to say something in his ear.

"Don't worry about Zuko. He's weird... Even for a firebender."

TBC.

I wanted to write more, but I have five stitches on my right ring finger right now. It’s getting in the way of my typing.

If anyone is interested in being tag in this story, don’t hesitate to ask.

#avatar #a:tla #aang #zuko #katara #sokka #floating white lotus #chapter 1 #avatar: the last airbender #Tea Zuko AU

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olboypacman · 5 years

Text

Dark Knights, Darker Queens (YanSim x Ouran Host Club)

Oka and Mori both catch the eye of one another after a few chance encounters. Ayano, weary of her friend's potential suitor and his friends, gets info on them and unknowingly brings The Shadow King of the host club into the crosshairs of Akademi's own operator from the shadows.

****

Chapter 1. Combustible Elements

****

A/N: I’ve been throwing this idea in head around for great long while and I think I’ll be putting all other projects on the back burner to get this done. This will be a lemon free story, rated M for some suggestive things. Also, there’s list of headcanons I concocted for this crossover, listed on my Tumblr here (those on ff dot net, just remove the spaces: https://olboypacman.tumblr.com/post/187175780544/dark–knights–darker-queens–yansim–x–ouran-host. One more thing, there will also be a number of bonus chapters that quite fit in with the narrative I’m trying to craft. I thank everyone for the continued support, likes and favorites of my work (and to the people on AO3, I hope you can come to enjoy my work, as this is going to be my first project posted to the site).

****

It’s the final day of the Japan Karate Federation’s national tournament (the first of its kind), aptly named: The Brightest of Youth Under the Heavens.

The tournament is an invite only showcase of Japan’s younger karate practitioners, 15-18, green belt-rank and up to show their mettle against one each other in a semi full-contact, open weight (no weight classes), 2 4-minute round, single elimination format. The event is being held in the Buraza Town Convention Center. The event’s competitors aren’t divided by gender, age or by form in an attempt to truly find The Brightest of Youth Under the Heavens.

Of those invited, the styles of karate represented are (as per the JKF’s recognition) wadō-ryū, shotokan, shito-ryu, goju-ryu and for the first time ever in a JKF sanctioned tournament, kyokushin.

It was with great controversy that kyokushin practitioners were even invited.

Budo’s father, Tatakai Masuta, had developed his own style of fighting based off his own mastery of the kyokushin style of karate and his experience as an amateur boxer and experience as a very successful career as a kickboxer. He’d even became an international star and national hero as a result of his exploits. Ta-Sensei, as he’s known affectionately among his students, describes the Masuta style as a more particle form of karate. Philosophically, he still emphasizes the discipline, self-discovery and self-improvement aspects like another forms of karate, but in terms of actual practice he emphasizes a no-frills approach. In practice, most other types of karate askew hand strikes to the head in order to adhere to the competitive standards of most sanctioning bodies, but Tatakai believes that cheapens what one can learn.

The Masuta style of karate had been brushed off as a bastardized style of a bastardized style by the purists of the community and more namely, the JKF. The big wigs of the JKF had announced this youth tournament a few months back with the Buraza venue in mind and immediately there was a clamoring for local standouts, Raibaru Fumetsu, Budo Masuta and the up and coming Ayano Aishi to participate.

But there was just one problem.

Raibaru was a pure kyokushin stylist and Budo’s and Ayano’s styles were both students of the Masuta, which is based on kyokushin.

The JKF didn’t recognize the kyokushin style as a sanctioned variation of karate under their organization’s regulations.

It caused a national uproar by fans of the elder Masuta, and the fact that such a high-profile competition was being held in Tatakai’s hometown was an even further insult.

The higher ups of the JKF had to decided, after consulting with Tatakai, to bring the kyokushin style under their regulation. Some of the JKF members had thought that Tatakai would go out his way to demand drastic changes to the rules to allow strikes to head during the competition, but Tatakai was surprisingly easy going about whole situation, considering he’s been going through his drama with the JKF since he was a boy.

He didn’t hold a grudge that he was barred from some of the more prestigious tournaments in the country as a youth for simply choosing what he thought was a more practical version of karate. It was actually that that pushed him into boxing and kickboxing, as he’d never been recognized as an elite karateka due to the JKF’s inclination against kyokushin.

He thought of the situation as more of a promotional opportunity for Masuta Karate. If one of his students or better yet his son was to place or win the whole tournament, it would be the ultimate vindication for him (it’s important to remember that he doesn’t hold a grudge for not being to compete in their competitions as a youth, honest!).

Budo Masuta was dressed in a plain black t-shirt and white gi pants, with white walking shoes and his signature headband missing, having given it to his most treasured kohai. He was currently walking from the refreshment area, eating a plain onigiri.

He’d been edged out on the judges score cards in his most recent bout of the competition by his perennial rival, the adorably diminutive karate virtuoso, Mitsukuni Haninozuka, after making it to the final 8.

Oddly enough Honey himself had just been knocked out of the tournament by the former Akademi karate club leader, Raibaru Fumetsu to secure her spot in the finals.

Now, he was his way back to the tournament area for Ayano’s semi-final match.

The floor of the convention center is awash with people making their way to their seats or crowding around the various monitors, watching the highlights and sound bites hyping this last semi-final bout.

For this event, the convention center was stripped down to its bare essentials. Its bleacher seats were pushed to walls revealing the solid grey concrete floor beneath. Instead of the bleachers, there were black steel chairs used instead. This was done to make way for several platforms raised about 4 feet off the ground to act as rings for the invited competitors. The platforms themselves were made steel and its sides covered by black canvas covers. The actual ‘rings’ are made of lengths of 2x4s covered over by a carpet pad with plain white canvas over top of them.

As he continues to make his way back his seat, he hears murmurs of anticipation for the next bout.

Ayano Aishi, Budo’s kohai, clubmate, and student (and crush) had blazed her way through the competition with frightening ease, despite her level of experience compared to the rest of her contemporaries. Budo’s guess is her proficiency is genetic as her mother had been scarily talented fighter in her youth.

“How long until Ayano-chan’s fight, Budo-kun?” His companion asked softly.

He stops and takes his phone out to check the time, “About ten minutes Oka-chan. Plenty of time for us to make it back to the seats Hiroshi and Ryoba-san saved for us.” Said Budo, excitedly.

Oka wears a look of mild worry, “Do you think we should make haste, Budo-kun? Ryoba-san can be scary when she’s kept waiting.” She responded quietly.

Oka Ruto’s been friends with Budo for as long as he can remember. Their mothers went to college together, or something along those lines.

The point is kind of moot by now…

Anyway, his shy, soft spoken and supernatural obsessed friend was currently dressed casually. Her dark-blue shoulder length hair is styled in her usual ‘messy’ way, a single fringe hanging over her the middle of her face. It forms a slight shadow over the top half of her face, giving her purple eyes an almost glowing appearance. On the subject of her eyes, they have rings underneath them. Her habit of staying up late researching and watching paranormal documentaries and movies being the culprit. Budo’s often lectured his friend about it, but obviously his lectures have gone ignored. She’s clothed in a black and purple striped long-sleeved shirt. Her top is complemented by a dress, who’s length is just above her knees. Her look is completed by long black socks and black heeled boots.

“Ryoba-san isn’t so bad, but it might be a good idea to hurry up.” Responded Budo.

“Budo-chan!” Yelled a high-pitched, sing-songy voice.

The martial artist turns to see his long-time rival making his way toward him with his younger cousin in tow.

Mitsukuni Haninozuka is waving excitedly at the duo of Budo and Oka, his wavy blonde hair swaying at his actions as he closes the distance between them. He’s still dressed in his gi, with walking shoes and a bag of candy clutched in his non-waving hand. He’s sporting a nasty bruise on the right side of his face as a result of his semi-final bout with Raibaru, she knocked him out via a left high kick to the head. Despite being thumped silly, his spirts are no less dampened, as evidenced by his bright smile and cheerful glow in his big brown eyes.

As always, his bigger, yet slightly younger cousin is bringing up the rear. Takashi Morinozuka was walking steadily, his face with a subdued expression. He’s wearing blue jeans, a dark grey zip-up hooded sweatshirt and a navy-blue t-shirt underneath it, and black and white sneakers. The taller young man nods at Budo, as they arrived, Takashi standing to the side and behind Honey.

“Takashi-kun, Mitsukuni-kun, what’s up?” Says Budo.

“Not much,” responded Mitsukuni, “we were looking for our friends in hope of finding seats for your kohai’s semi-final match. Takashi had met me at the medic center after Rai-chan kicked me in the face. You haven’t seen any of them around have you?”

“Can’t say I have, unfortunately. Hey, have I introduced you two to my friend, Oka?”

“Oh, hey there Oka-chan! I’m Mitsukuni Haninozuka,” the smaller karateka said excitedly, as he bowed, “but my friends call me ‘Honey!’”

“Um...hi,” she said quietly, “I’m Oka Ruto.” She finished as she bowed slowly and meekly, “It’s nice to meet you, Honey-kun.”

A long pause goes over the group as they’re waiting for Mori to introduce himself. But the young man is currently occupying himself staring at Oka, a blush tickling his cheeks and his black eyes slightly wide. He possesses the look of a man who sees something he very much likes.

She’s…she’s beautiful. Thinks Mori.

Oka herself isn’t quite sure what to feel.

Despite the incredibly handsome, tall young man staring, no, outright ogling her, she feels a flutter in the pit of her stomach and her heart is starting to hammer in her chest. Not to mention she’s got a blush of her own is beginning to adorn her features.

“Uh…Takashi-kun?” Said Budo, trying to get his tall friend’s attention.

“Takashi…?” Asked Honey. “Takashi?”

The smaller martial artist then clears his throat, then cocks his arm back and elbows Mori in the gut.

The tall young man lets out an ‘oof’ at the impact.

“Takashi, you’re being pretty rude to our new friend!” Honey practically squeaked at his younger cousin.

At his chastisement, the blush on Takashi’s face intensifies at his rudeness, clearly embarrassed. He rubs at the spot his smaller cousin elbowed him at. “Sorry,” he said in his deep baritone, “I hope you can forgive my behavior.” He said stepping forward, taking a knee before the increasingly flustered young woman. He takes one of her hands in his, gently. “I am Takashi Morinozuka, it’s a pleasure to meet you Ruto-san.”

“Hmm,” Honey hummed quietly to himself, “Mori doesn’t usually lay it on this thick unless he’s tired, or…” He trails off, a knowing, assumed smile adorning his features.

“Um, ah, oh, I, uh,” mutters Oka, as she’s unsure of what to do.

Budo puts a hand on her shoulder, “Oka-chan, take a deep breath. Takashi, maybe you should…”

Takashi’s eyes widen and the blush on his cheeks, as if it were possible, gets even darker. Mori releases Oka’s hand while standing up to his full height and steps back to give her space. His hand goes up to the top of his head, finding a spot to scratch in an attempt occupy himself from his embarrassment.

Budo, having just polished off his onigiri, laughs heartily at his friends and shares a look with Honey, “Oka-chan, as you were.”

Oka then begins to anxiously fiddle with hem of her shirt, while looking away from Mori. “It’s nice to meet you too, Takashi-kun,” she said softly, a subtle smile coming on to her face.

“Ah, Honey-senpai, Mori-senpai, there you are,” interrupts a smooth voice, “the next bout is about to start.”

“Sorry we kept you waiting, Kyo-chan,” said Honey, “I saw Budo-chan and wanted to say hello, and we made a new friend in Oka-chan!”

The aforementioned ‘Kyo-chan’, dressed in a tan unbuttoned shirt, with white undershirt and jeans, pushes up his glasses and says, “Be that as it may, the rest of us has been waiting on you, not just in anticipation of next match, but also an update on your health. That was a nasty kick you took.” He steps forward, eyeing Honey critically. “I wonder how that bruise will affect business.” He muttered, quietly. “Anyway, I think it’s best we make haste to our seats. Tamaki’s been particularly insufferable since your loss. I’m very close to doing something I may regret.” The bespectacled young man turns toward Budo and Oka. “Masuta-san, it’s nice to see you again. Oka-san, sorry I couldn’t formally meet your acquaintance, but we really must be going.” He said, bowing to the Akademi High students.

“It’s fine, Ootori-san. Another time.” Said Budo.

Kyoya begins to make his way from Oka and Budo. Honey waives his goodbye as he turns to join him and Mori nods at them, giving a small smile to Oka before he joins the other two.

“I think that boy put a spell on me…” Said Oka, as she put her hands to her chest, attempting to slow down her heart.

****

By the time Oka and Budo got to the seating area, Ayano and her opponent are already in the middle of the no-rope ring being given their pre-match instructions.

“Budo-kun, Oka-chan! It took you two long enough!” Said, Ayano’s mother, Ryoba Aishi. The beautiful, flawless faced, and youthful Aishi matriarch is wearing look of slight impatience, her lips forming a thin line and her grey eyes are narrowed in annoyance. She’s dressed in her usual slightly undersized navy-blue t-shirt, with a black leather jacket over it and blue jeans and her black hair is tied in a long braid that’s hanging over one of her shoulders.

“Ryoba, dear,” said a just as youthful looking black-haired man seated next to her, in a composed voice, “what matters is that they’re here to support Ayano, right?” He finished, flashing a brilliantly bright smile at the ebony haired woman, gently taking her hand in his.

“My darling Hiroshi!” Ryoba said, her annoyance melting away. “You’re right!” She gets up from her chair and yells, “You knock ‘em dead, sweety! Show them what Aishis are made of!” She directs her gaze back to the other two teenagers, “Come on, take a seat you two!”

Hiroshi Aishi, Ayano’s father smiled at his wife, his almost boyish features and dark-brown eyes glowing with adoration for woman before him. He’s dressed in a white polo shirt under a black sport coat with khaki pants. He runs a hand over his clean-shaven face, turning his smile to the two students, appearing much younger than he is, “Glad you can make it.”

“Sorry,” Oka and Budo intoned at the same time, before they took their seats.

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, plus Ayano would’ve handed me my head had I not shown up.” Budo said jokingly.

The competitors make their way back to their respective corners. Ayano, clad in off white gi top and pants with a green belt tied around her waist and red gloves and shin pads on her hands and feet, makes eye contact with Budo as she does. She gives him a small smile, her tied back black hair and the ends of her headband (Budo’s headband) swaying and bouncing as she walks.

“Nope, not for the world.” He said shooting a smile of his own at his cherished kohai.

The aged, salt-and-pepper haired referee for this semi-final bout is dressed as expected, in a black and white stripped shirt, black pants, black shoes and black rubber gloves adorning his hands.

“Blue corner, are you ready?” The ref yells, pointing to Ayano’s opponent, who’s dressed in a white gi top and pants, a black belt with gold stipe and blue gloves and shin pads on his hands and legs respectively. He’s about a head and half taller than Ayano and about as built as Budo. He nods his head in the affirmative to the ref, his medium length spiky hair swaying with the motion and his light brown eyes trained in determination on Ayano.

“Red corner, are you ready?” The ref bellowed once more, this time pointing to Ayano, her expression and shimmering grey eyes showing her will and determination.

“Round 1, fight!” Yelled the ref, as he made a downward gesture with is hands, stepping back from the middle of the ring.

Ayano steps to middle of the ring in a stable fighting stance. Her feet are about shoulder width apart, left hand and foot forward in an orthodox stance. She’s very light on her left leg, only standing on the balls of the foot. In contrast, her right leg is flat on the ground, her leg almost completely straight. She’s holding her arms tight around her body, right hand almost touching her cheek and left held in front of her. Usually her head would be tucked, her chin in her chest, and her shoulders would be high, but due to hand strikes to the head being illegal, there was no need. As she moves toward her opponent, she does steadily, methodically, with no movement wasted seemingly.

Her opponent his much less static in his stance. He’s up on the balls of his feet, bouncing about, his right hand and leg forward in southpaw stance. His feet wider apart than Ayano’s and his hands are chest level. He has to come to a complete stop in regard to his bouncing in order to move.

This is part of the reason Tatakai modified his kyokushin base for Masuta style karate.

Waisted movement.

Ayano closes the distance between them and for her opening gambit, throws a left low kick. The blow lands with a low thud, the kick having impacted the outside of her opponent’s thigh of his lead leg.

Her opponent’s eyes widen, that fist attack having done damage.

The young man opposite the Masuta karate disciple responds by throwing a kick his own. He launches a low right kick. He however launched it in a panic. His mistiming of his attack caused his leg to ride up Ayano’s left leg.

Ayano responds by catching his leg, then throws another kick at the fighter, now on one leg.

It has the effect one would expect, it knocks him down.

The ref steps in between the two, yelling, “Down!”

The official motions for the young man to stand asking if he’s alright.

The young man nods in the affirmative, readying himself for further combat.

The referee waives the action onward and Ayano goes back to work. She opens up with a jab-hook combo to her opponent’s midsection, pushing him back. He further gets a push kick to his midsection for his trouble. He tries a combination of own, stepping in with a jab. Ayano deflects it easily, but it was just a ruse to get her attention. He slams a long-left body kick to her midsection, his instep landing just below her chest. The power of that kick had knocked Ayano off balance. While she recovered, the young man had swarmed her, trying a punching combination of his own. He however was over eager in his approach and ended up right against Ayano as a result. The dark-haired young woman manages to get double underhooks on the young man, swimming both of her arms underneath his, grabbing hold of his gi. She places her head underneath his chest, standing him straight up as she forces him back little-by-little. She suddenly breaks her hold him, forcefully pushing him back, completely breaking his balance. As he tries to steady himself from being shoved, Ayano launches a right high kick at his head.

But at that moment, a horn sounds signifying the end of the round.

Ayano stops her kick, centimeters from her opponent’s face, ‘oos’ and ‘ahs’ coming over the crowd at the near landing of the kick.

“Stop!” Yells the official, signaling the competitors back to their respective corners.

Ryoba stands from her chair and yells, “Just like that Ayano! You almost had him! One more round like that and you’ve got it in the bag!”

Hiroshi claps subtilty at his daughter’s productive round.

“Keep up those low kicks next round, Ayano! He respects them and hasn’t shown adequate defense against them.” Budo yells at Ayano.

She nods at her friends and family, readying herself for the next round, the rest period rapidly coming to an end.

The referee signals the two fighters to be ready for second and final round.

At the bell, he gestures for the fight to begin again.

Ayano opens up by following Budo’s instruction, committing to low kicks, her opponent having no real answer for them.

He eventually starts to respond by throwing left rear straight at Ayano’s face, in a desperate attempt to keep her off of him. He doesn’t land on her head, but it’s enough to get, not just Ayano’s attention, but various spectators as well.

“Hey!” Yelled Ryoba.

“Illegal tactics ref, come on!” Yelled Budo.

Ayano continues to work her way through the match, eventually responding to her opponent’s straights by palming them to deflect them, bringing her right arm up from her body to do so.

The jeering at the young man’s straight attempts get to the point where the ref stops the fight, with 2:00 minutes remaining in the fight.

He pulls the young man to the side, warning (but not penalizing) him to watch the punches to the head, much to the vexation of the crowd and their loud boos.

He walks over to side of ring where the judges are situated.

“He’s technically not landing anything to the head,” said the ref to the judges, “but he’s getting close. That why he was warned and didn’t have any points deducted.”

The official steps back to center of the ring waiving the fight back on.

Ayano’s opponent goes right back throwing those jabs to the head, always falling short and Ayano always palming them to deflect them.

The young man throws one more rear straight, this time taking a big step forward, a wicked smile adorning his face as he does so.

Her right hand comes forward once more to deflect it, her arm leaving that same side flank vulnerable.

He pulls his left hand back at the last minute, instead bringing his left leg forward for a kick.

It lands flush on Ayano’s right side, impacting her liver. As always with a blow to the liver, the reaction to it is delayed.

She falls down a second or two after the kick landed, holding her right side, the pain so intense she’s unable to do much else.

“Aya-chan!” Yells Hiroshi.

“Ayano!” Yells, Ryoba, Oka and Budo.

Ayano’s usually passive-faced visage is twisted in agony, as she writhes around in pain.

A wave of boos comes at Ayano’s opponent at his questionable tactic.

The young man, looking all too pleased with himself, is motioned to a corner as the referee starts to count out the downed Aishi legacy.

Ayano starts to work her way to her feet through the intense pain as the ref counts to ten.

Through it all she gets to her feet at 8, her kicked liver still throbbing agonizingly.

She’s doubled over, holding her body as the ref approaches, “Can you continue?”

She nods in the affirmative, grey eyes reminiscent of her mother’s simmering with determination, despite her body language indicating otherwise.

The ref waives the bout on ward, and Ayano’s opponent presses his advantage. He charges toward her aggressively and throws another straight, but Ayano lets it fall short. He then brings his rear hand forward once more, not throwing a punch to the head, but grabbing her right hand, pulling it forward by the glove, bringing her right hand from her body once more. With that same opening in her defense exposed once more he throws another kick to right side, targeting her liver. It lands again, hard. The pain is worse this time, as the agony of the previous liver strike hadn’t quite left her system and is tacked on top of this most recent liver kick.

Amazingly, Ayano remains on her feet despite her body screaming at her to go do through all the pain and she leans over in further anguish.

The young karateka opposite her further presses his lead, throwing a body kick, this blocked by Ayano lowering her guard. He goes for one more kick. Ayano defends to her body again, seemingly smart to the young man’s plan. The kick, a question mark kick, was faked to the body, but went high to Ayano’s unprotected head, creating a smacking sound audible throughout the area.

Ayano falls over, knocked out, crumpling under her own body weight as the gift of consciousness is no longer contributing to holding her up.

The referee waives the bout off at the advent of the unconscious young woman being struck so.

“Ayano!” Yells Budo as he tried to storm the ring.

The in-ring official waives medical personnel to the scene to help the knocked-out young woman.

Budo’s stopped by the event security from getting to his downed kohai, “Get the hell the off me! Ayano!” He yelled as struggled with the security guards.

“Budo-kun!” Said Hiroshi, sternly, defusing the scene, stopping the tussling security guards and Budo in their tracks. “Look,” he said pointing.

He pointed to the scene of Ayano being attended to by the various medical personnel, already having her seated up under her own power.

“They’ve got her, son. They’ve got her. How about I grab the girls, you lead us to the med tent and meet we Ayano there, huh Budo?” Said Hiroshi, calmly to his daughter’s senpai.

****

“Oh, my dear sweet baby!” Yelled Ryoba as she held Ayano’s head to her ample chest as she was sat on a dark teal cot.

“Um, Aishi-san? Your daughter just suffered a concussion, I think you might be suffica-“ Started to complain a female doctor.

Ryoba turns her head to medical professional, eyeballing her skeptically for more than one reason.

“No, it’s fine,” said Hiroshi, smiling at his wife and daughter, scratching the back of his head in worry, “it’s best to let her get it out of her system.”

Ayano manages to get some breathing room between her mom and her, before she utters, “I’m fine mom, it’s just a concussion. The doctor says no sparing for a month, and I’ll be fine. But I’m still smarting from those liver shots.”

Ryoba further fusses over her little girl at proclamation of still being in pain. “My goodness, I’ll never let you compete again!”

“Mom!” Said Ayano in protest.

“Then that Tatakai better button his style of karate! Otherwise it will be him getting kicked in head.” Said Ryoba, hugging her daughter tightly once more.

“Ba-chan,” said Hiroshi, “she said she’s fine, let the girl breath.”

Ryoba reluctantly lets her daughter go at her husband’s behest, “Okay, but you’re just going fuss over her yourself.”

“You got me, Ryoba. But she’s my little girl too,” he said as he approached the daughter-in-mother’s-embrace duo.

Ryoba hesitates to give the girl room, looking between her two loves. She sighs audibly, “I trust you both, I just… I just worry okay?”

Ryoba steps back, but not before she lays a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, “Mom! Come on! Budo-kun and Oka-chan are here!” She said, as she smiled slightly and looked to her friends.

Ryoba chuckles lowly as she steps away from Ayano, her place being taken by Hiroshi.

“I’m proud of you, Aya-chan. You did well. Do promise to be careful next time?” He said, as he ran rubbed the top of her head.

She swats playfully at his hand. “Of course, the last thing I want to do is worry you, dad. You’ve got enough to worry about with, well you know…”

“No worries, Aya!” He said, as he turned and started make his way to his wife, who herself is eyeballing the lady doctor who’s rapidly shrinking under Ryoba’s gaze. He takes her hand, bringing attention to him. “Ryoba, lets hit the merch stand!” He said, before they left. “I’ll leave you in Budo’s and Oka’s hands.” He stops, thinking further, “Actually, on second thought, Budo hands off! Oka take care of our girl!”

“Aishi-san!” Said Budo, flabbergasted at the implication.

“So, I hear you made quite a stir when I got beat, Budo-kun.” Said Ayano.

“Well, you got kicked in the face! I just did what,” he hesitates, his cheeks blushing, “what any friend would do in the situation.”

“So, start a fight with the security to get to me?”

“Well, I um…” Budo stammers.

Ayano and Oka both laugh at their friend’s expense.

#yandere simulator #ouran high school host club #ouran host club #ayando #ryoba aishi #takashi morinozuka #Mitsukuni Haninozuka #kyoya ootori #oka ruto #mori x oka #budo masuta #yan sim x ouran host club

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thingr1 · 6 years

Text

Focus on the Fallout (1/2)

Rating: T

Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, past suicide attempt.

Characters: Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd.

Preview: Why was this so hard? Just walk into the room, talk to Tim, make sure everything's cool...

Who was Dick kidding.

How were you supposed to act around someone who'd secretly tried to kill himself not even 48 hours ago?!

Cross posted: FFN and AO3 (6-9-17). (A/N found on both sites)

Prequels: Of Milkshakes and Marathons (recommended, but not necessary) and Weighing One’s Worth (essential to understanding story.)

Second Chapter: Here

Lights will guide you home And ignite your bones And I will try To fix you

~ "Fix You" by Coldplay

Dick hastened down the hallway, the faintest hint of worry fluttering in his chest. Okay, make that a sinking Titanic full of worry.

It had been almost two hours since he'd asked Damian to go upstairs and see if he could find Tim. Although he knew his second brother had arrived sometime this afternoon to spend the weekend at the Manor, Dick had seen neither hide nor hair of the teen despite Alfred's assurances that he'd arrived in one piece.

Of course, Tim was infamous for disappearing for hours on end, caught up in some aspect of his work. But he usually at least said 'hi' first.

Reaching Tim's ajar bedroom door, Dick peeked around the doorframe, squinting into the dark chamber for any sign of a tell-tale lump on the bed. Nada. A quick glance told him that Tim's desk was empty, too, and the light in the adjacent bathroom was off.

Frowning slightly, he pulled his head back into the hallway, prepared to check the living room when a quiet, breathy sigh echoed from the opening behind him. Dick froze, whirling around to probe the shadowy depths for any sign of the source. But his probing gaze still found nothing out of the ordinary.

Unless...

Utilizing every ounce of his training, Dick crept back into the seemingly empty bedroom, tiptoeing around the foot of the bed. He peered around the corner into the space between the wall and the mattress—and promptly had to stop his jaw from dropping at the scene in front of him.

Tim, of course, was wedged tightly within the small space, head drooping in sleep. The surprise came from the fact that one arm was wrapped around the compact little ball that was Damian Wayne, who, for lack of a better word, had curled around Tim like a baby koala, hand fisted almost protectively into the front of Tim's sweater without any hint of malice or attempted strangulation.

His little brothers were...snuggling?

Despite himself, a huge grin spread over Dick's features, and it was all he could do not to coo aloud as he carefully backed up from the scene, phone raised to snap a photo (read as, 'collect blackmail') of this momentous occasion... Only to nearly slip and fall onto his butt as his foot tread on something hard and round.

Soundlessly regaining his balance while mentally screaming curses, Dick bent down to grasp the cold, metal object that had nearly sent him flying.

Squinting, his heart stuttered in his chest as the thing glinted in the pale moonlight wafting between the curtains. It was a bullet.

Immediately on alert, Dick glanced at the window, searching for any signs of forced entry. None. Nevertheless, he swept his eyes over the room again for some indication that there was an intruder hiding in the shadows, double checking for any blood visible on either the floor or his two brothers. Nada.

Another glitter of metal twinkled in his peripheral vision, and he whirled around to face the corner. Five more bullets lay scattered on the floor. In addition to a presumably empty gun and a familiarly patterned knife.

But...these weren't bullet shells; they were complete bullets, meaning they hadn't actually been fired at anything. Which probably ruled out an intruder.

Taking a quick glance to ensure his brothers hadn't stirred, Dick ghosted toward the corner, crouching beside the two abandoned weapons.

With unerring certainty, he took in the design on the hilt of the knife: The symbol of the house of Al Ghul. This was Damian's knife. And the gun...he'd never seen the gun before.

The pieces slowly clicked into place in his mind, but Dick refused to acknowledge the horrific picture they were building.

This couldn't be right. He needed more evidence. There was no way…it wasn’t right, it…

Dick’s eyes wandered to his peacefully sleeping brothers. No. Before he dared draw such a terrible conclusion, he needed proof. He needed a witness.

And seeing as Damian was the one who'd walked in on Tim...

Creeping from the bedroom, Dick carefully eased the door closed behind him. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, he was going to find out exactly what happened between his two youngest brothers.

It was almost two days later before Dick found an opportunity (mustered the courage) to bring it up to the former assassin. The two of them were in the library, Damian stretched out on the couch reading a book while Dick curled in a nearby armchair, fingers tapping nervously on his knee. Considering the circumstances, it was all he could do not to be more conspicuous. It was approaching their usual patrol time, the sun just visible over the horizon outside the window at his back.

Well…might as well get this over with before he did something stupid like stalk Tim across the rooftops due to unfounded paranoia.

Before Dick could fully process his decision, his mouth opened: "Damian."

The boy froze for a millisecond, fingers clenching almost imperceptibly around the edges of the book before relaxing��instant red flag. "What is it, Grayson?" Damian snapped, annoyed.

If Dick didn't know him so well, he probably wouldn't have caught the slight shrill quality in Damian's voice. (Damian may have been a good liar, but when something was pressing on his mind that he knew he shouldn't be keeping to himself, he’d never been very good at hiding his guilt.)

No point in beating around the bush; especially since it was clear Damian had more than an inkling about what was about to go down.

Dick hesitated, sucking in a breath. Half out. “I need to know what happened with you and Tim the other night."

Damian's already guarded expression completely closed off, the book coming up almost protectively to hide his features. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Grayson."

"I saw you," Dick admitted. "Both of you. Sleeping on the other side of Tim's bed. And I saw the...the things you tossed in the corner. The knife and the gun."

Damian tensed again. "It's none of your business, Grayson."

If that wasn’t a tell as to how serious the situation had been, Dick was an elephant.

"Please, Damian," Dick begged. "I need to understand. Please help me understand. I want to help you, help Tim, but I can't do that if I don't know what happened."

The child before him remained frozen, blue eyes fixed on the shadows just outside the doorway. Dick forced himself to remain silent, waiting for Damian to make a decision one way or the other.

Just when Dick thought the boy might walk out on him altogether, Damian spoke: "When you sent me to look in on Drake the night he first arrived. The door was locked. I picked it open. Then I walked in and...and he..." Damian swallowed, face momentarily twisting with some foreign emotion before settling back into a carefully blank expression. "He had a gun. To his head."

Dick sucked in a breath. He'd been hoping against hope that the obvious wasn't true; had struggled to come up with any scenario other than the one that was staring him in the face.

But apparently his striving was in vain.

"How did you convince him not to?" Dick asked carefully. There was no point in asking if Damian was responsible for Tim's change of heart; Tim wouldn’t be upstairs (alive) at the moment otherwise.

Damian hesitated.

A frozen wave of horror shuddered through Dick's chest. "Did it have something to do with the knife." Not a question.

There was a beat of silence. Two.

Then, “I may have held myself hostage until he saw sense," Damian admitted flatly, refusing to meet his gaze.

"Damian!" Dick cried, horrified.

Flashing cobalt eyes whirled towards Dick, meeting his gaze for the first time since the conversation began. "It worked, didn't it?"

"The ends don't always justify the means, Damian."

Damian's eyes flashed. "Are you saying you would rather Drake had shot himself in the head while I just sat still and watched him do it?!"

"No!" Dick protested. Ran a hand through his hair, mind whirling with the attempt to fix this. “Oh Dami, that's not what I'm saying at all. I'm just...there had to be another way."

"If you're going to say I should have attempted to talk him out of it, I did," Damian stressed. "The point is he wouldn't listen. How do you convince someone not to kill himself if he's so bent on doing it whether you're in the room or not?!"

And...Dick didn't have an answer for that. Then the words sank in fully. "Wait. Are you saying...Tim almost...while you were in the room?"

Damian's studious glare at the empty fireplace gave him his answer.

Dick's heart sank, horror fluttering in its place. "Why would he do that?" he breathed, mostly to himself.

"I'm a former assassin who hates every fiber of his being," Damian answered, monotonous. "I don't have feelings."

"That's not true," Dick interjected.

"I know that," Damian snapped. "He obviously doesn't."

Sighing, Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. This just kept getting more and more complicated, and not in a fun way. "Okay, let's back up," he suggested. "Why did Tim even try to do...that...in the first place?"

The current Robin shrugged stiffly. "I'm the last person he would tell as to his reasons. I do not pretend to watch out for his feelings."

"Which also might make you the only person he can confidently confide in," Dick theorized. "Because he thinks you don't care anyway, he'd think you wouldn't try to stop him."

"He was wrong," Damian spat vehemently.

"I know, Dami. And I'm so proud of you for it. But..." Did Tim think the same way about everyone?

"I'm going to go talk to him," Dick decided, unexplainable guilt gnawing at his chest as he stood, slipping around the couch toward the door. "See if—"

"No!"

Dick froze. Turned around. Forced himself not to snap at the stiff child before him. "No?"

Cheeks beet red, Damian shuffled his feet against the carpet. "He...he doesn't trust you, Grayson."

Dick blinked. "What?" he questioned, even as his heart sank deeper in his chest. "Why?"

Damian hesitated, actually appearing...uncomfortable. A word Dick had never associated with Damian Wayne before.

"You replaced him," Damian blurted. "After my father was lost in the timeline, Drake had a sum total of one person he cared about left, and that was you. You betrayed his trust when you took away the one thing that had been an indefinite constant in his life: Robin. A role that he admitted himself to not believing he had ever been worthy of, that he felt he had to earn along with his place at Batman's side. And even then he never believed he was good enough. You proved that to him by removing him from the costume seemingly without a second thought. He feels replaceable and unnecessary."

Damian sucked in a breath; exhaled slowly. "While I am not saying you made a poor decision, as I am clearly the better Robin, I believe that due to that instance you have as of yet to regain his trust.” Almost an afterthought: “If he'll ever give it back to you at all."

Later that night, Dick positioned himself at the end of the Manor's second floor hallway, staring at the meager band of light shining under the bedroom door a short way down. He wasn't stupid enough to sift through his thoughts in front of the actual door. They were all Bat-trained, after all.

Why was this so hard? Just walk into the room, talk to Tim, make sure everything's cool...

Who was he kidding.

How were you supposed to act around someone who'd secretly tried to kill himself not even 48 hours ago?!

In truth, Dick had no idea what he was doing; how to fix this situation, fix his brother. Tim may have had neglectful parents that the Bats could blame for Tim’s self-deprecating state of mind, but everything that happened afterward was completely on them—completely on Dick.

Because after Bruce died, Dick had scrambled to fill his shoes in every way, struggled to fill the void the Bat had left behind both in the hero world and in the family by trying to be exactly like him. Unfortunately, that included doing what was practical in the long run without considering the consequences of the moment to others’ feelings on the matter, or at least explaining his reasons properly. And part of the collateral to those decisions was Tim.

And even before that…after Jason, Dick had been so afraid of getting to know the newest Robin—so terrified of getting close only to lose a brother all over again. This fear had carried through Tim’s first couple years in the Cave, before Dick finally consolidated the fact in his mind that he would rather know Tim and lose him then simply tick him off as another dead Robin. Except that initial paranoia caused just what he’d feared, only in a way Dick could never have imagined.

He'd isolated Tim. Most recently by taking Robin from him without giving him the exact reason why. Before, by leaving him alone to deal with a closed off, grieving Bruce who could barely consolidate the fact he had lost Jason, let alone taken yet another Robin under his wing. Or rather, had another Robin force his way under his wing.

Realization dawned. That was what the problem was, wasn't it? Bruce didn't choose Tim. Tim chose Tim. Though that had never been a problem for Dick, it was in Tim's nature to keep at least a thread of doubt, even guilt, hidden away in his mind that maybe because he wasn't handpicked by the Bat, he'd never be good enough.

And now it was up to Dick to try and remove that doubt before it consumed his second brother completely…while also not letting Tim know that he knew what had happened and was trying to help him in the first place.

When Dick had asked for siblings, he'd never thought it could get this complicated.

Before he could change his mind, Dick stepped into the hallway, not attempting to hide his footsteps, but not pronouncing them either. Forcing a smile on his face, Dick burst into the bedroom. "Hiya, Timmy!"

And shoot, Dick's heart broke at the sight that greeted his eyes. The teen looked normal. Clothes slightly crumpled from the second day's wear; mouth curved slightly downward in concentration; just too long hair mussed around his face, hanging over pale blue eyes squinting at the laptop perched on his knees... Looking decidedly not like he'd been about to put a bullet in his brain a couple nights before.

Tim had always been great at hiding his feelings, at pretending certain things didn't happen if it meant forgetting and moving on to a cursory 'I'm fine' whenever someone questioned his well-being. But attempted suicide wasn't something you just forgot. Or something you could recover from alone.

Dick jerked from his thoughts as Tim glanced up from the computer, almost absently. "Hey."

And there it was. Beneath the carefully controlled facade, Dick could see the cracks lurking below the surface—the pain flickering behind the confusion in his eyes, purple bags like bruises on his lower eyelids, the empty hollow of his cheeks....

"What are you doing here?" Tim asked. And Tim shouldn't sound that surprised.

"I haven't seen much of you lately, Timmy," Dick replied honestly, trotting over to the bed and settling onto the mattress beside Tim, careful not to upset any of the paperwork spread over the comforter as he slung an arm over his little brother's shoulders. "S'okay if I chill here for awhile?"

Tim opened his mouth; hesitated. "Uh...sure. Yeah, that's fine."

For a moment, they sat in silence, Tim's fingers eventually finding the keys on the keyboard again and tapping away at some report or other.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Dick asked casually, squeezing his brother against his side and pressing his lips into Tim's soft black hair.

Minutely, almost so Dick thought he'd imagined it, Tim stiffened. Then, "Nah, I'm good. Why don't you see if the Demon Brat needs anything? I think he was complaining about some homework assignment or other yesterday."

"I will," Dick promised, deciding to let the not-so-subtle attempt at kicking him out slide. "Later. Whatcha working on?"

"Just some Wayne Enterprises stuff," Tim said, relaxing marginally as he selected an entire paragraph of text and hit 'delete.' "Finalizing the data Lucius sent me and writing it up in report format for the next board meeting. I'll need to put it in a Power Point later."

Dick hummed lightly, planting his chin in Tim's hair. "Sounds boring. We should watch a movie instead."

He was rewarded with an amused snort. "Maybe later. Deadline's coming up, I have to finish this."

"Need any help?"

"Nah, I'm good." That was a bit too quick.

"Hey," Dick said softly, rubbing Tim's arm. "You know I'm always here when you need me, right? Just...let me know if there's anything bugging you or I need to go kick someone into next week. Don't pull a Bruce and hold everything inside. S'not healthy."

Tim barked a laugh; half amused, half bitter. "Sure. I'll keep that in mind."

It was all Dick could do not to cry as he pressed his lips back in that soft black hair, squeezing his brother against his chest despite the small grunt of protest as the laptop slid from the teen’s lap.

Because Tim didn't believe him. And Dick was beginning to worry that he never would.

Why Dick thought it would be a good idea to get Bruce involved, he had no idea. Desperation? Yeah, probably. Bruce wasn't exactly the go-to person for problems in the emotional department. But with Alfred off on his yearly trip to England (and Dick tried so hard to block the thought that Tim was probably counting on that fact when he decided to pick up the gun), it wasn’t like Dick had many options left.

After briefly checking the locations of the Manor's two other current occupants, Dick stepped into the passage revealed by the old grandfather clock in Bruce's study and padded down the familiar stone staircase into the dimly lit Batcave. As expected, Bruce was at the massive computer to his right, various news channels, reports, and video clips flashing on the multiple screens as Bruce worked his latest case.

Hesitating only a moment at the foot of the stairs, Dick moved to stand behind his mentor's chair, glancing at the rapidly expanding algorithm Bruce was pounding out on the main screen.

Bruce certainly looked busy. But this couldn't wait.

"Bruce."

The man grunted noncommittally, continuing his record-breaking typing on the computer. (Maybe that's where Tim got it from....)

"Bruce, I need to talk to you."

"Later," Bruce said shortly.

"It's about Tim."

"What about him?" Not even remotely concerned—either too trusting, or too uncaring. (Dick hoped the former.)

"He tried to kill himself."

That gave Bruce pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard as white lenses remained fixed on the screen in front of him. "What?"

"You heard me."

There was a moment of silence. Dick braced himself for the coming interrogation.

Sure enough, Bruce whirled in the chair, pulling back his cowl in the same motion to reveal mussed black hair and narrowed cobalt eyes. "When?"

"Two nights ago."

"Where?"

"His room, on the wall side of his bed."

"How?"

"With a gun."

A flicker of something—surprise? apprehension?—crossed Bruce's face, so fast Dick thought he had imagined it. Then, just slightly breathy: "Why?"

"I'm not sure yet," Dick admitted, starting to pace a line paralleling the massive computer terminal, but still within easy talking distance. "That's what I'm trying to find out."

"Who or what stopped him?"

Dick exhaled slowly. "Damian."

Definite bemusement crossed the Dark Knight's features. "Damian," he repeated. "How?"

Dick shrugged. "He talked to him. Somehow convinced him that suicide wasn't the best option."

Suicide. Dick realized that that was the first time he'd called what Tim had almost done for what it was. It didn't make him feel any less sick to his stomach at the admission.

Bruce's eyes flickered with...something. "I see."

There was a lengthy silence.

Finally, Bruce (miracle of miracles) was the one to break it, repeating: "Why?"

"I told you, I don't know."

"Damian must have known something if he talked to Tim," Bruce growled, back to his default Bat-mode. But when Dick glanced back into the man's cobalt eyes, behind the stubborn stoicism, Bruce's expression was anything but controlled. For the first time since Dick had known him, Bruce looked lost.

"You have to know something," Bruce insisted at Dick's hesitation.

"He feels...unnecessary," Dick admitted finally. "Unneeded, unwanted. Like he isn't even an actual member of this family, no matter what the adoption papers say."

Bruce frowned, genuine confusion flashing across his hardened features. "Of course he's wanted. Why would—?"

"He doesn't know that, Bruce," Dick interrupted. "We—I replaced him without his consent. I broke his trust, and ruined what little progress we'd made in the way of showing him he had a real family; one that doesn't believe he's just there for the grunt work and easily replaceable."

And Bruce gave him this look.

"Hey, I'm guilty, too," Dick assured, holding his hands up in surrender. "But haven't you noticed how many of your responsibilities, both Bat and Wayne, that Tim has been doing lately? Without receiving or expecting anything in return?"

The furrows between Bruce's eyes deepened, eyebrows drawing together in an almost scowl.

Dick barely resisted the harsh, 'Exactly,' that threatened to escape his lips.

"We've got to help him," he blurted instead after a moment. "But we can't make it obvious. If Tim knows we know, he'll think that we're only being nice to him because we pity him for almost...yeah." Dick paused in his pacing, turning on his heel to stare Bruce full in the face. "We have to make sure he feels wanted—loved. You have to make sure he knows that."

Bruce made no reply. Not that Dick expected one.

"Look," Dick said, placating, "I know you're not so good with telling someone how you feel, but if you could just...I don't know, actions speak louder than words? Show Tim he has a family."

"He did have a family," Bruce said.

"Yeah, but they weren't real," Dick protested. "Bruce, Tim's parents spent his childhood hopping around the world and leaving Tim to be raised essentially by the housekeeper. Not to mention all those boarding schools. Sure his dad did better in the end, but then he died and it was too late."

Dick froze. "Bruce," he breathed, cold, hard realization washing over him. "He doesn't know what a real family is supposed to look like. We can't show him what's normal family behavior if he doesn't know what normal is." He swore. "Bruce, how do we fix him?"

It was on a total hunch that Dick decided to call Jason.

He sprawled on the armchair in the Manor’s library, staring up at the white ceiling in thought as the phone rang in his ear.

It was only 1am. Jason should still be awake. The question was whether or not he was patrolling tonight. Hopefully, that would be a 'no.' Talking personal issues and all that jazz over the comms, even using their code names, had been strictly prohibited since...well, as long as Dick could remember. For good reason, too. He didn't even want to think about what might happen if someone hacked their line and discovered that Red Robin had nearly teetered over the edge from depression...

His musing was cut short as a disgruntled, sleep rough voice snapped in his ear: "This had better be good, Goldie. I was all set up for a solid 12 hours until you stuck your mighty big butt in the way."

"Tim nearly shot his own brains out, and I don't know what to do."

Shuffling was heard on the other line as Jason presumably sat up in bed. "What? Why?"

Dick shrugged helplessly, then realized the gesture was lost over the phone. "Overworked. Unwanted, unneeded. He doesn't see himself as...necessary, I suppose."

"I thought he'd gotten over that," Jason muttered.

"What?" Dick demanded, jerking upright. "What are you talking about, Jay? This has happened before? Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Cool your jets," Jason snapped. "If you're asking if Tim has tried to put a bullet in his brain on my watch, then no, this has not happened before."

Dick winced at the abrupt phrasing.

There was an awkward pause.

From the other end, Jason huffed. "Look, Dick, you remember how I told you to rearrange the kid's schedule a couple weeks ago so he could have a day off?"

Dick nodded minutely—realized Jason couldn't see him through the phone and added: "Yeah. Why?"

"I may not have told you that I found him doping up on milkshakes just before then," Jason admitted. "The kid wasn't only overwhelmed, but depressed as heck. I swear, I've seen zombies that looked more alive than he did. Myself included."

"What did you do?" Dick breathed.

"Nothing much," Jason said dismissively, though Dick sensed a slight self-consciousness in his tone. "Talked to him, dragged him to my apartment after he passed out. And when he woke up, we marathoned Sherlock for the rest of the day. He seemed happy enough when he left."

If he was happy then, what changed? Dick thought.

At the silence from the other end of the line, Dick realized he may have accidentally said that bit aloud.

"Maybe his feelings never actually changed," Jason offered, almost a question. "He just pretended they did until it became too much. Fake it till you make it kind of thing.”

"Maybe," Dick allowed. "But there has to be a starting point to all this. I don’t know, some sort of buildup. Tim's the most logical person I know. He wouldn't just throw himself into something like...like that."

"Hey, even the best of us get down and overly emotional sometimes," Jason said. "As both you and I should know, Goldie."

Dick managed a weak chuckle. “Yeah, I suppose.” Didn’t bother admitting: “Can’t say I haven’t considered jumping from a high place a couple times. Nothing new, ‘cept, y’know, I hadn’t exactly been planning on catching myself,” because that kind of feeling went without saying in this line of work. But he’d never attempted to follow through.

And that’s where the problem was, wasn’t it? Tim had.

“Bruce didn’t know what to do either,” Dick sighed.

Jason scoffed, disbelieving. “You told Bruce? The guy with so much emotional constipation it’s a miracle the Manor’s toilets are still intact?”

“Okay, first of all, ew. And second, I didn’t know what else to do,” Dick protested. “Besides, Bruce has a right to know if…”

The slightest hitch of a breath echoed from the hallway outside the ajar den door.

"One sec, Jaybird," Dick muttered. Then, louder, “Heigh ho, the hall!“

A shadow flickered in the doorway as its owner twitched.

Too short for Bruce. Too tall for Damian.

Dick’s heart stuttered, dread pooling in his stomach. Forcing levity (denying the obvious), he called: “Tim? That you?”

Jason cursed in his ear. Dick ignored him.

A moment passed.

The shadow shifted, a single wide—vulnerable—blue eye becoming visible in the crack. And then it was gone, replaced by near-silent footsteps echoing rapidly down the hall.

Dick’s turn to swear. “Jay, I’ll call you back.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, ending the call and tossing the phone back onto the plush armchair as he shot toward the door.

Dick's heart pounded wildly in his chest as he bolted up the Manor steps, chasing the fleeting shadow of a certain Tim Drake as the teen slipped down the hall out of sight.

How long had he been there? How much did he hear?

Stupid. Stupid, talking about something so sensitive in the Manor when he knew the subject of the conversation was in the house.

Whatever happened next was entirely on him.

Panicked, he crested the top of the stairs, slowing to a halt. The bedroom hallway was deathly quiet, and ominously empty. Dick's gaze landed on the third door on the right—Tim's room. No light flickered from the crack to reveal if the room's occupant was currently within.

The air seemed to hang still and heavy around him, as if holding its breath. Ha, air holding its breath...

Focus, Dick.

Slowly, he tiptoed to stand before the thick slab of mahogany, hand hovering over the brass doorknob. Bracing himself, he grasped the knob and turned.

The door wasn't locked. Dick didn't know whether that was a good sign, or a bad one. Carefully, he pushed it open, stepping through the opening and leaving it slightly ajar behind him. (The last thing he wanted was for his little brother to feel more trapped than he probably already did.)

He wasn't quite sure what he expected to see on the other side. Well, he had a couple of ideas of what he didn't want to see there. But the scene that greeted him could only be described as...neutral.

Tim stood before his desk, hands splayed on the polished surface and head bowed so his face was hidden by a curtain of black hair. Other than the tense, sharp slant to his shoulders, he seemed calm, his tone unreadable when he spoke: “Did Damian tell you?”

Dick hesitated. "Yes. But only because I forced him to," he added hastily as Tim's back stiffened, fingers twitching against the desktop. "I was worried about you, and after I saw...I saw the gun in the corner..."

"You saw it?!"

"I asked Damian to check up on you, and when he didn't show up for a few hours, I wanted to make sure everything was okay," Dick explained. "So...yeah."

Tim took a shaky breath. "And you felt it necessary to get Bruce involved?"

"I didn't know what else to do," Dick admitted. “He’s your father, Tim. I thought that if he knew, we could come up with something, figure out a way to help..."

He stopped short as he realized Tim had begun mumbling under his breath, "No no no no no no," steadily gaining volume until he was shouting. "No no! This is all wrong!" Tim's hands tangled in his too long hair, yanking, revealing wide, frantic blue eyes. "You weren't supposed to find out. This wasn't supposed to happen. Everyone was just supposed to...to forget and get on with their lives!"

"Forget what, Tim?" Dick asked softly, heart sinking in his chest.

Tim didn't respond.

"Come on, Timmy," Dick pleaded. "Talk to me."

"Oh my gosh, Dick, I'm fine, just please, go away—"

"No," Dick said firmly, ignoring the way Tim’s fingers curled against the hardwood. “We’re Robins. More importantly, we’re family, even if we don’t always act like it. And family always watches out for one another.”

Tim snorted. Disbelieving.

“That wasn’t a joke.”

“I know,” Tim stressed, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re right. Family’s always there.” Then, so quiet Dick had to strain to hear, Tim murmured, “Not like I ever really had one.”

Before Dick could form some semblance of a response, Tim turned, smiling tightly. “Honestly, Dick, you don’t have to do this. It’s fine. I’m over it. You can leave. Now.” Pointed. Calm.

“I’m not doing this because I have to,” Dick protested, fighting against the walls he could see just slamming down around his brother. “Tim, I’m—we’re worried about you. We just want to make sure you’re okay. We want to help.”

“And I’m telling you, your help is not wanted,” Tim reiterated coolly, spreading his arms. “I have no intention of trying anything anytime soon. I can still work. Still patrol. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Dick stared. Shocked and slightly horrified. “What can I do to convince you that I'm not doing this under any obligation?" he demanded, exasperated (scared). "I love you, Tim. We all do. And what you're doing to yourself is breaking our hearts because you're part of our family and we want to help you. But we can't do that if you don't trust us."

Tim barked a laugh. "Trust you? Of course I trust you. It's me I'm worried about." His eyes widened, whole body stiffening as if he hadn't meant to let that last bit slip out.

There was a moment of silence, so thick Dick felt like he was suffocating.

“Tim,” he tried, quiet. “What do you mean by that?”

Adam’s apple bobbing once, Tim suddenly couldn’t seem to meet Dick’s gaze.

“Tim. Please. I want to understand.” (Something he could no longer seem to do easily with Tim anymore, which pained Dick more than he cared to think about.)

A long moment passed.

Just when Dick was about to give up on an answer, Tim sighed: “I was fooling myself to think I could ever be Robin. No one wanted me; never really met the standard.” He laughed, short and bitter. “If anything, it's my judgement that's compromised. I should've just cut my losses when you both said I couldn’t do it and gone back home.” Almost an afterthought, “Would've kept my dad alive that way.”

“Tim,” Dick breathed, “I’ve done the guilt thing. Your dad’s death was not in any way your fault.”“But if I’d never tried to be Robin he never would have died, Dick!” Tim snarled. “That’s what I get for nosing around in someone else’s business. No one ever accepts me, and someone else always gets hurt. Always.”

Wiry hands twisting in too-long black hair, Tim cast a desperate (trapped) glance around the room. “I was never truly Robin in the first place. It never should’ve happened if I wasn’t even Robin… It doesn’t make any sense.”

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest. “What do you mean? Of course you were Robin, Tim. Why would you think otherwise?”

The teen’s eyes squeezed shut. “You and Bruce said ‘no.’ You know what's best. You're always right."

"Unless we're not," Dick interjected. "You remember when Bruce was stuck in the time stream, but everyone believed he was dead? Everyone, Tim. Except you. Who was in the wrong in that instance?"

"Every ounce of logic and evidence said he was dead," Tim snapped dismissively. "I was being irrational from grief, and it just so happened to work out in the end. That hardly counts."

"But it does, Tim," Dick insisted. "You were the only one to truly believe in Bruce, to risk everything to bring him back. That kind of loyalty only comes from faith. Two-sided faith." Dick approached slowly, placing a hand on the sharp angle of Tim's shoulder. "Would Bruce have left clues if he thought no one would be looking for him?"

Tim hesitated a moment. Gave a small shake of his head.

"He knew you would come for him, Tim," Dick continued quietly. "Because he trusts you. What would have happened if you had stopped believing? Bruce would have been forever lost in the timeline. But because you, Tim, you had faith that Bruce was alive, he came back. You brought him back.

"That's why Bruce trusted—trusts you, Tim. Trusted you to be Robin, and still trusts you as Red Robin. Because he knows he can always count on you to be there when he needs you. Oh, I know he doesn't show it," he added at Tim's incredulous glance. "Bruce is funny like that. You know that. But why would he leave you with his cases—with his company—if he truly didn't believe you were capable of doing it right?”

Tim remained silent, eyes fixed on the ground.

Realization dawned. “Trust itself…isn’t what’s bugging you, is it.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. Swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “No.”

Dick remained silent; because contrary to popular belief, he was actually capable of keeping his mouth shut when it counted, thank you very much.

Finally, Tim spoke: “It’s…it’s more the stuff leading up to it.” He ducked his head against his chest, clarifying before Dick could summon the strength to ask: “I just…I find it difficult to…think that anyone can…can trust…love me when…when…” He swallowed again. Clearly struggling. “When whenever I think, ‘I’ve done it. I’m finally getting something right; I’ve figured it out, I know what I’m doing,’ it all gets yanked out from under my feet…because I’m not good enough. I’m not worthy enough, can’t be trusted to get the job done according to what’s expected.

“And then I’m alone again…trying to…to figure out…where I went wrong, and…how to fix it, and sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe under the pressure of having to learn a whole new set of rules and parameters, a whole new personality, and…I can’t anymore, Dick. I want to be useful, and I just…can’t. I’m not…no matter what I do it’s never good enough. What’s the point in trying anymore?”

Tim sniffled, the sound thick with unshed tears. “My parents. Bruce.” A swallow. “You. Just shoes that I never seem to be able to fill, no matter how hard I try. It’s impossible. Just when I think I finally fit, I’m…I’m just booted out before I even have a chance to truly settle in. I’m…I’m so tired of it, Dick. Of…of not belonging anywhere because after so long I’m just n-not enough anymore.”

Tears welled in the teen’s eyes, escaping down his cheeks as his eyes squeezed shut, expression twisting into something pained. “I’m there…to be whatever’s needed at the time: An heir, a partner, a harebrained quest taker. And…when I’ve served my purpose…that’s it. I’m done. There’s…no point, I…I…” His shoulders shook in a barely concealed sob.

And Dick couldn’t hold back anymore. He crossed the remaining distance between them in one stride, wrapping his shaking little brother in a hug, pressing Tim’s face into his shoulder, and burying his own chin in soft, raven hair.

“I know it may be hard to believe,” Dick whispered finally, squeezing his eyes shut against the tell-tale pressure, “especially since our little clan is awful fond of the ‘goes without saying’ habit, but… You’re part of the family, Timmy. You always have been. It has nothing to do with what what you bring to the table, or your partner status. And it kills me that you think otherwise. And the worst thing is, I know I’m to blame.”

Tim sucked in a breath, maybe to contradict him, but Dick was not about to let this boy shift the blame off of Dick yet again.

“I broke your trust when you were at your most vulnerable. When you were grieving. We all were. But in my desperation to pick up all of the slack Bruce left behind when he disappeared, I acted more like him than I ever thought I would: I put the mission before the members. And that’s never been how Nightwing operates.”

Shifting, Dick leaned back, gently guiding Tim’s head up so red-rimmed, watery (shattered) blue eyes met his.

“I trust you, Tim,” Dick insisted, soft. “I do. But when it mattered most, I didn't. I let you down. And not a day goes by where I don't hate myself for that. I don’t ever want to fail you in that way again, Timmy. I know that I’m not perfect. I know that no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to keep every promise, no matter how much I want to. There’s only one who will never ever break your trust, and I’m certainly not Him.

“But I love you, Timmy. Nothing will change that. And though they may not be great at showing it, the others do, too. Bruce. Jason. Even Damian. We…we all love you, little brother.”

Dick rubbed his thumb against the curve of Tim’s bony shoulder, swallowing past the rapidly growing lump in his throat. “You’re not replaceable. Never have been. Never will be.” Dick pressed a kiss against the teen’s forehead. “This family only has one Tim Drake. And we don’t want to lose him, ‘kay?”

Tim’s eyes were angled toward Dick’s chest. A fresh stream of moisture curled over damp lashes and down his cheeks. He nodded, almost imperceptible.

“Hey,” Dick said, soft. “Look at me?”

After a moment, Tim glanced up. Eyes wide, wet, and so openly anguished Dick’s heart broke.

"Please, little brother. From now on, you have to promise me: Don't shut us out. We're family. I know we don’t always act like it, and we could all learn a little in the emotional department. But please. Next time you feel this way, or next time we’ve screwed up…talk to us? We can’t help if we don’t know what’s wrong.”

For a long moment, Tim said nothing. His tongue darted out to lick the corner of his chapped lips. Finally, quiet, husky from tears: “I’ll…I’ll try.”

Dick crushed him back to his chest, burying his face in his little brother’s hair. “And that’s all I can ask for.” Pressing another kiss to his (precious) brother’s forehead, Dick whispered: “We’ll get through this. We’re a family, little bro. And family means no one gets left behind. Or forgotten.”

There was a long stretch of silence, during which Dick clutched the third Robin tightly; unwilling to release him just yet as the teen’s trembling slowly ceased, body slumping farther into Dick’s embrace so Dick almost thought Tim had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, the teen murmured: “Lilo and Stitch? Knew…you were starting to sound a bit too much…like a Disney movie."

Dick blinked, thrown for a moment by his brother’s unexpected statement. Unexpected humor. Then, realizing what he was referring to, grinned. “Exactly,” Dick agreed. “This family really should take some pointers from Old Walt. Learn a thing or two about how families are supposed to act.”

A shaky snort. “You do realize…nearly 100 percent of Disney parents are dead as a plot point...right?”

“Then we should be peachy,” Dick said brightly.

The resulting (watery) huff of laughter sent Dick’s heart fluttering with excitement and relief. Maybe his little brother wasn’t too far gone. Maybe they could save him after all.

Because that was what this family was all about, right? Saving people.

It was about time they turned those efforts inwards.

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trevinoharrington56-blog · 6 years

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foxofthedesert · 6 years

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OGA: Ch2

Chapter 1 – Flames on the Horizon

From her seat at the head of a massive oaken table, Queen Regina smolders with tentatively restrained fury. She sweeps her eyes over the room, taking in a dozen familiar faces, all pinched with discomfort.

In a futile attempt to calm herself, she breathes slowly through her nostrils then averts her gaze to the banner draped across the far wall bearing her family crest. Once it was the black and silver of her father's house, a rearing stallion bearing a sword wielding cavalier. Five years ago she abandoned that link to a lineage she has as little use for as her fellow members do for her. Xavier's spawn hold her father in contempt to this day for allowing Cora's poison to spread unchecked through the kingdom, having banished him after his conniving wife took her schemes too far. Regina, naturally, was caught in the crossfire. She has not been welcome in her paternal ancestral lands since she was seven winters of age. The estrangement did not prevent her from shamelessly using her father's coat of arms as an additional means to solidify her hold on power after Leopold was treated to his just desserts. When marrying Red presented her an opportunity to finally erase the bitterness of being disowned by her royal grandfather and many uncles by founding a kindred all her own, she leapt at it. Together, she and Red designed a new coat of arms – upon a pitch sable background, a crimson crescent moon hung over a sprawling apple tree. A most fitting emblem for their new house, she thinks.

The walls of the council room, a sprawling stone-constructed space large enough to host a party of forty with ease, is decorated by twelve such crested banners. Each represents one of the houses belonging to the Council of Nobles, one of few carryover cabinets Regina did not disband upon assuming power. The council has diligently and wisely advised the monarchs of Misthaven for more than five hundred years, and she had seen no reason to hastily eliminate a body comprised of highly influential individuals that would only help her maintain control of her realm so long as she exerted the right amount of leverage over them. Since attaining and retained leverage is one of her specialties, they have been kept in check and thus served her well over the years. Mostly. And when they have failed in that, such as today, she does not hesitate to remind them of their place.

Other than the banners, the chamber boasts a row of thin rectangular windows set into shallow alcoves against the outer wall. All six are taller than they are broad with matching panes divided by exquisitely engraved brass. Pure, unfiltered light streams in through the clear glass, the crimson and black curtains tied off by thick golden cords. Were it night, the numerous gold-plated sconces containing fat beeswax candles would provide illumination along with the polished brass candelabras tucked into each corner of the room which feature inverted conical cups whose tops are fashioned in the shape of a many-bladed diadem.

The grand table at the center of the space, also rectangular in shape, is so thick and dense that it could likely survive a ceiling collapse. Spanning three quarters of the chamber, it dominates the area and provides ample room for councilors to spread out notation parchments along with various reports, ledgers, and reference tomes. Regina commissioned it a year after taking the throne, having disliked the old table, a perfect square that projected an equality between the nobility and the Crown she was unwilling to abide as her doddering former husband had. So enormous and heavy was the magnificent piece of furniture that it had to be brought in unassembled then painstakingly reconstructed and reinforced on site, which rendered the chambers unusable for a week. Encompassing the whole width and length of the midsection is the centerpiece, a master artwork fashioned by the most skilled jeweler in Misthaven. Formerly it was a giant onyx carving detailed with silver displaying the stallion and cavalier capped with transparent crystal. It was installed to provide a gleaming focal point punctuating the realm's extravagant wealth and did that job admirably for many years, stunning a plethora of dignitaries and royals from abroad. Having it replaced by another onyx carving with ruby representations of the new family coat of arms and similarly sealed with crystal cost a pretty penny. But the cost was worth it if only for Red's reaction upon getting her first glimpse of the finished product.

If only the memory of that moment was enough to curtail the steep spiral of frustration Regina is currently descending.

The dozen men and women assembled around the gargantuan table are currently holding her hostage, further fraying an already anorexic tether with each passing second. Their scheduled business was supposed to have concluded with the unanimous passage of security measures to bolster defenses near the border with Drakkenhall, where they are by far the weakest. Misthaven has a longstanding affiliation with that nation that she renewed upon usurping the throne, so there has been no need to reinforce the region until recently. Alarming rumblings have surfaced that a number of villages in Stefan's realm located close to Misthaven have been attacked by some unknown assailant. Excessive caution being far preferable to unanticipated disaster, she thought it wise to cover her bases in arranging reinforcements in the region. The council readily agreed.

To that end, she assured them that she would dispatch General Mulan to inspect the relevant outposts and would bestow upon the General whatever latitude, including the redistribution of troops from elsewhere, was necessary to shore them up. There is no one she trusts more to perform this task. That the council shares that opinion shows how adept Mulan is at her job. Since she was promoted to Chief Military Commander, she has greatly streamlined the deployment capacity of the realm's forces and has by all accounts doubled their combat effectiveness. The army has never been in as good a shape as it currently is. There is little doubt in her mind that under Mulan's capable leadership, the southern corps – previously left largely ignored at Regina's insistence, a potentially catastrophic mistake in hindsight – will be operating at peak efficiency in no time.

The reason for her poor mood has nothing to do with the potentially dangerous state of the southern region and everything to do with having looked forward to retiring early for once. With Red having decided to delay until tomorrow her plans to visit Waldeck, the densely populated town located around the base of the mountain the Dark Palace was built upon, they were supposed to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening together. This past month has been busy for both by any standard of comparison, leaving them with little in the way of interaction outside of an unsatisfying few minutes before retiring to catch up on a shared lack of sleep. With that being the case, she is of a mind they are both long due a recreational allowance to spend as a couple.

Sadly, it isn't to be. As if sensing her anticipation at the many pleasurable activities she could potentially indulge in with her wife late this afternoon and evening, the Council decided to it was an appropriate moment to test her faltering patience. Her mood sours even further as the spokesperson chosen to broach whatever topic they felt could not wait until next week stands and haughtily clears her throat.

"My Queen, please forgive my boldness, but there is one last matter we must discuss before convening," Lady Tremaine says, tone conveying as much criticism as possible without subverting the respect her sovereign is due.

Regina has long fostered a hearty disdain for Tremaine, and being chosen as the mouthpiece for what is bound to be bad news is doing the shrewish woman no favors. Nonetheless, Regina waves her permission to continue, which Tremaine immediately seizes upon.

"I mean no disrespect in informing you that the Council is in agreement on the longstanding concern of the kingdom lacking a legitimate heir. We must insist that you provide one with all due haste. Too long now we have mediated on your behalf with our fellow Lords and Ladies without providing them the assurances they require to continue their longstanding, incredibly generous support for the Crown. Two days ago via official written form, they unanimously demanded results from us on this issue. As sympathetic to your unique situation as are all within these chambers, we can no longer stem the tide of unease. If something is not done promptly, those with the means and influence to do so will surely intervene and seek their own solution."

With each condescending phrase, Regina feels her blood pressure elevate. "What you mean to say," she sneers, "is that the brazen demand is meant for me alone and that if I don't cow to them, they will commit treason and go behind my back to procure an heir favorable to them. Only they lacked the spine to face me directly." Rising, she leans over the table imperiously, hands splayed out over the finely polished surface of a furniture piece that weighs as much as a small horse. "Well, you can tell those yellow-bellied, blue-blooded bastards I won't stand for it. If they really feel so strongly, perhaps they should level those threats in person tomorrow morning. Rest assured, I will answer them with extreme relish!"

Though she has not spoken to the Council so harshly in many months, she is impressed by her ability to contain a seething rage that threatens her carefully constructed self-control. She had wanted to do so much more than verbally rail against them, even though this situation is not wholly their fault. They are merely the messengers of a faction of powerful nobles who simply refuse to let this exhausted topic die. Honestly, she should have slaughtered them all for their insolence years ago.

The last time she was confronted about her lack of a viable heir, she and Red had been together for barely more than a year. Although her life was sweeter than it had ever been, she began growing ever more irritated about the increasingly conspicuous looks of disapproval from the Council. As the body of representatives that maintained equilibrium between the Crown and the nobility that underpinned her political authority, it was imperative she at least lend a perfunctory ear service to their concerns. As much power as she wielded, they served a purpose she couldn't afford to overtly undermine.

Also, she knew without needing a formal declaration the reason for their intermittent censures. She wasn't getting any younger, and without an heir the future stability of the kingdom was in increasingly serious jeopardy. Added to that, she had taken a woman as her partner. With natural procreation eliminated as an option, her advisers began to murmur in discontent at what must have seemed to them a potentially dismal future. That disquiet was a symptom of an underlying illness among the entire upper class, noble and gentry alike, which left untreated would eventually fester into borderline rebellion. Which is precisely what is happening right now because she was, at the time, unwilling to confront it with her typical finality.

One day during an otherwise routine meeting, the Council confronted her directly. To the last member, they insisted she should take a husband to sire an heir – they hadn't known at the time that she was barren, not that it would have mattered as insistent as they were. It was for the good of the kingdom, they argued, with Snow in permanent exile and Regina otherwise childless. They even had the gall to suggest that she could keep Red as a lover on the side if she so wished after the farce of a wedding. Just so long as she put the welfare of the realm above her own personal desires, they didn't care what 'seedy activities' occurred behind closed doors. Enraged past the point of logical response, she disbanded the Council for an entire month on the spot and then issued an insistence of her own that if anyone dared to denigrate her relationship with Red in such a way ever again, they would be roasted on a spit in the square as an example. She had wanted to do so much more but held back out of respect for Red's more sensitive scruples.

The threat worked insofar as it put an end to the open sedition, though Regina knew it would not stop the nobles' discontent. However irate she was at them for daring to pose such a disgusting solution to the glaring problem of her lack of a suitable heir, their worries were legitimate if viewed from an objective lens. The power of the nobility depends upon the favor of the monarchy, a monarchy whose succession was by no means secure. So long as she remains childless, their futures are uncertain. Uncertainty breeds anxiety. Anxiety produces paranoia. Paranoia begets recklessness, which if left unchecked usually erupts into violence. It is a vicious progression the kingdom cannot afford to reach its natural conclusion. Thus the nobles' implied threat. Regicide is not off the table for those whose vested interest lies in the continued stability of the realm. It has happened before, many times. History books are littered with examples of kings and queens whose refusal to play the game pushed the nobility to the limit and then paid the ultimate price for their obstinance.

The problem was not that she was, or is to date, wholly indifferent to their restlessness so much as she felt such conviction about the subject that she could honestly say she prefers death to the alternative. However desperate the kingdom is for an heir, she will be no one's broodmare. That she is incapable of becoming pregnant and that there are possible fixes for her self-inflicted infertility is beside the point. She will never, ever betray Red and had assumed that sentiment was reciprocated.

To her immense shock, upon being informed of the council's suggestion later that night, Red actually agreed with them. To a degree, anyway.

"The kingdom does need an heir," Red said sorrowfully, plucking absently at her skirts as they sat at the emptied dinner table. Regina had waited to broach the subject until they had eaten, believing the ensuing discussion would likely ruin both of their appetites. Sadly, as usual she was correct. Her stomach curled into a knot at Red's next statements. "They're not wrong about that. The nobles need to know their future isn't insecure and so does everyone else. For that reason alone, their point isn't unreasonable. Before you go telling them a second time where they can shove their suggestion, you should give it some serious thought. And besides, you not having an heir negatively impacts the entire kingdom. I'm not worth sacrificing the welfare of so many innocent people over."

"You are sure as hell are to me," Regina insisted, perturbed that Red was defending the absurdity in the first place. She didn't care a lick that the kingdom would undoubtedly be plunged into chaos should something happen to her before she could somehow produce an heir. "Don't you realize by now that nothing else is more important to me than you? The crown, the sniveling nobles incessantly pandering for my favor, the unwashed masses I've no practical use for...they are meaningless in comparison."

"That's not true," Red passionately countered. "You care, you just won't – or can't – admit it. How many times have I seen you intervene on behalf of the helpless? When there is a famine and people are starving in some remote corner of the realm, you send grain and corn from the castle's surplus reserves. You have lightened the tax load on the common folk, transferring much to those who can more ably bear it. Real justice is being dealt now. Corruption is being weeded out everywhere. The people's voices are being heard again. You are becoming a champion of the disenfranchised, and it pains me that you can't see how far you've come. Your people are learning to love you, and I know you love them, too. You can deny that until you're blue in the face and I won't stop believing it."

Regina had sighed and stood to briefly turn away from her wife's insistent gaze. "Even if that were accurate, and I'm not saying that it is, to keep the throne and concede to these absurd demands would mean losing you." When Red began to protest, Regina hushed her with a raised finger. "I know you think you could bear sharing me, but I assure you sooner or later the strain would break you just as surely as it would break me. I would just as soon relinquish the throne and keep you than the opposite. My feud with Snow is no longer my primary reason for living, so I've no need anymore of the power and reach the crown affords me. You make me happy, which is all I've ever really wanted. I won't give that up just to appease a flock of gluttonous, honking geese who've been fed too much for too long by my apparently excessive generosity."

"I'm glad I make you so happy," Red said. Rising herself, she sidled up behind Regina and slid her arms around her waist. She then pulled Regina back flush with her body so that she could rest her chin on her shoulder. "I'm also glad you've stopped hunting Snow. And while I agree the council needs to be put in their place on some issues, I think you're wrong about not needing the throne. You do, just not for yourself. The people need you."

When Regina scoffed and tried to extricate herself, Red pulled her back and fixed her with a stern gaze over her shoulder. "You don't believe me, huh? Well answer me this: who would replace you should you abdicate? What would happen to the kingdom under the care of someone bound to be made of lesser stuff than you? In my unsolicited opinion, things would go back to the way they were where the poor had no voice and no power and were used and abused on a daily basis by nobles and rich merchants who only care about furthering their own agendas. You're changing things here, slowly but surely making them better so that this kingdom exists not just to serve the wealthy but all of its citizens. So as much as I hate to agree with the council on this, they are right that you have to do something. This is my home and these are my people, too, and I love them. I want what's best for them, and that is you being their Queen. For that reason alone, you should listen to what they are trying to tell you."

Shaking her head in the negative, Regina swiveled in Red's arms and grasped her lover's face between gentle yet unyielding hands. Her face stern, she said, "Absolutely not. I will not allow anyone in my bed except you. Should the need for an heir prove urgent, we can discuss other means such as adopting, but I won't entertain any further debate on the matter of me marrying anyone else. You are mine and I am yours. End of discussion."

The definitive nature of her assertion concluded the argument for the time being. Red enjoys many liberties with her no one else did, but she also knows when it is unwise to press her luck. That was one such occasion. Two weeks after, Regina proposed marriage to seal the deal, forever ending any further schemes of the nobility to import a pliable husband of station for their unwed Queen.

That decision garnered a fair share of opposition, even from her most trusted advisers, who could see only the negative ramifications of a triply taboo union. Not only was their Queen slumming so low as to crown a peasant, but she was doing so strictly for love and that with a member of her own sex. The outrage lasted well beyond the wedding, which took place less than a year later. Some of it has yet to die down to this day.

For the most part the nobles came around, if not due to Regina's sincere threats than to how competent a co-ruler Red proved herself to be. All the same, the rumblings over the lack of a suitable heir are beginning to grow audible again, which indicate she is facing a potential crisis lest she address the unrest with all due haste. The nobles have shown remarkable restraint in failing to confront her head on, but they won't wait forever for her to solve the problem at her leisure. There is simply too much power and wealth riding on its successful resolution. If she continues to drag her feet, they will more than likely attempt to resolve it for her, resulting in a lot of unnecessary drama. Perhaps they may even foster a spark of rebellion she cannot afford to quash with a heavy hand as she would have in the past. The Dark Days, which has become the preferred appellative for her reign of terror as the Evil Queen, of her ruling primarily through fear and violence are over. She's shown everyone her soft underbelly, now she's reaping the bitter harvest.

That said, as Red pointed out so many years ago, the expectation for her to provide an heir is not unreasonable. However annoying and unfair, it is her duty as sovereign not only to secure the kingdom's present prosperity but to do so without sacrificing its future. As much as she'd like to maintain the current situation indefinitely, doing so is no longer feasible.

Deny it as she might, she is not getting any younger, nor is Red, though no one can tell Red has aged a day in the seven years they've been together. Regina is not so lucky as to escaped the ravages of time. The subtle hint of crow's feet around her eyes and the plodding escalation of fragility in her joints offers irrefutable evidence that she is a woman frightfully close to cresting over to the wrong side of the hill. The time for raising a family is about to pass her by and everyone – especially the nobles – is painfully aware of that undeniable fact.

On a positive note, now that she and Red have settled nicely into their marriage, the concept of adoption no longer seems all that impractical. Their little family is rock solid. The trust they have built day-by-day is only surpassed by the soaring heights of their mutual devotion. No one knows her like Red does and Red can say the same. Their relationship has usurped the maniacal drive for vengeance as the foundation of her very being. It is unshakable and strong and able to weather just about any storm life can throw at it. Adding to it a feeble, needy, greedy human being who doesn't understand the concept of privacy or quiet will not break them. Will a baby hamper them in other areas? Undoubtedly, but she is confident they can handle any hurdles that come along with becoming parents.

The only barrier remaining is Regina herself. Unfortunately, that is a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. There are less minutes in a day than reasons she is not fit to be a mother. Not that the Council should be made privy to those well founded insecurities.

"There is no need for such dramatic measures to be taken," Tremaine says, ignorant of Regina's internal dilemma. "I am positive granting a few minor favors, perhaps extra tax allowances for the year or budgetary increases to relevant districts, along with a simple declaration of your intent to expeditiously resolve the crisis will suffice to allay their fears."

Regina's eyes narrow dangerously. Is the woman seriously trying to blackmail me? In the middle of a Council session? Has she lost her mind? Perhaps, she muses to answer her own rhetorical, little Drizella is leeching more than just milk from her mother's breast as she feeds. The thought of Tremaine losing invaluable brain cells with every wanton suckle of her infant daughter is so amusing she almost cracks a smile. Almost.

"Have you, like your dissident fellows, forgotten who wears the crown, Tremaine?" she asks aloud voice as sharp as her glare as she leans intimidatingly in Tremaine's direction. Tremaine visibly pales. Good, Regina thinks, that conniving hussy needs to be reminded of her place. "Do not presume you have the subtlety or the intelligence to manipulate me. Like me, you won your title with what lies beneath your skirts as much as with a willingness to bloody your own hands. But that is as far as our similarities go. Trifle with me at your own peril. I've outmaneuvered far more brilliant minds than yours. I should also remind you of the warning I issued the last time this subject was referred to me. My opinion on the matter remains unchanged, as do my promises to punish those disrespectful enough to suggest I peddle my wife's dignity for the sake of insuring their purses stay as fat as their bellies."

That was essentially what they were attempting to strong arm her into doing, and though they will never openly admit to it, their aim is the same at present. In royal circles, anything short of natural reproduction is regarded as a last ditch emergency resort to securing the viability of the next generation. As the council has, since the first confrontation concerning this subject, been made aware that she cannot conceive, their focus has shifted. Now they have their sights set on Red, who is in the flower of her youth and whose reproductive anatomy is fully functional. None of the craven members present today possess the spine to state their wishes directly, but it is an unspoken certitude that they would much prefer for her to pick a suitable nobleman that would pass muster and then allow him to impregnate Red. Seeing as Red is a werewolf, she is nearly guaranteed to be of robust fertility and even more so during Wolf's Time. Thus in all likelihood it would only take one encounter to bear fruit.

Logically, it makes a certain perverse sort of sense to permit this travesty, but that does not mean it is ever going to happen. Whether or not Red would be willing to make such a repugnant sacrifice is irrelevant when Regina is not. No, if she is to assure the future of her line, it will be adoption or nothing at all.

Upon registering the Queen's threat, Tremaine returns to her seat without another word as if afraid her legs can no longer hold her up. Regina's victorious grin tragically does not last more than a few seconds.

"With respect, Majesty, Lady Tremaine's suggestion is not wholly without merit," Lord Villeneuve-Beaumont pipes up. A man of some heft, he was an incredibly wealthy merchant who purchased his Lordship by defeating the Ogres during the most recent in an age old series of wars. That he gave up his only child to the Dark One in the process only made the deed all the more impressive, or reprehensible depending on one's point of view. Regina is ambivalent toward him personally, though she has always respected his opinion. Their interests often align, particularly since Red befriended his gobliniphilic daughter. "You know if I agree with the good Lady, it is only out of extreme necessity." This is true. Lord Maurice dislikes Lady Tremaine almost as much as she does, which is why she does not immediately eviscerate him for coming to Tremaine's defense. "The nobility is concerned, deeply so, and I fear if the line of succession is not guaranteed soon, they will have cause to escalate their dissatisfaction. Your Majesty has many enemies of the surrounding kingdoms. They will not have any trouble finding allies with which to conspire."

Regina fixes him with an ugly sneer that does not perturb him a bit. "Let them commit treason if they dare. I'll crush them like the pathetic ants they are!"

"I have no doubt Your Majesty could do precisely that. But what would be left when an accounting is made after that reckoning?" Maurice counters calmly. "We here count ourselves fortunate to be in your good graces, but that attitude does not extend to the majority of our fellows outside this council. As Your Majesty well knows, the nobility is, in general, populated by snakes in the grass. They may betray you with a bite as soon as leave you be, but they do serve a purpose in keeping the vermin at bay."

Aside from his disgust for the common folk being unbecoming a man whose status proximity was much closer to them, he has a point. The nobility plays a critical role in maintaining the stability of the realm's social order. Without them, law and order would break down. Taxes would quickly dry up. Soldiers would soon go unpaid. Factions would soon form and divisiveness exponentially increase. What then? Civil war, that's what. The opinion of the ordinary citizen where the Crown is concerned may have improved dramatically these past seven years, but even their vastly superior numbers could not protect Regina from a violent uprising of the upper classes. Make no mistake, she would send multitudes to the grave before they subdued her, but her magic and skill with the blade are not without limitations. She would be either dead or exiled before any organized resistance could form that might save her.

Worse yet, in the least acceptable scenario involving her assassination Red would likely be captured and kept alive to be sold as chattel for whatever brute the nobles import to sit upon the throne. Regina being betrayed to her death is one thing. Red being condemned to a fate she knows firsthand to be worse than death is another altogether. If she were still unattached, she would have already dealt with this head on, and viciously, but she is not and thus cannot. There is someone she loves more than herself now. Red's safety and happiness is preeminent over her own, which means she is going to have to make concessions, and that galls her to the ragged edges of nausea.

"You're right," she says with a forlorn sigh, collapsing into her chair. "I...I am aware something must be done. I know it seems otherwise, but I am not insensitive to the concerns of the nobility. I have put this off too long and have only myself to blame for being cornered. I should not have put my discomfort over the good of the kingdom. That said, I require more time to come up with a solution that works for both me and my wife. They have waited this long; they can wait another year. I would appreciate if you would confer my decision to them, Lord Maurice, along with this message: my concession is not without conditions. If I so much as suspect they are plotting behind my back again or if I hear a solitary whisper regarding their unspoken but evident desire to turn my wife into a broodmare, I will descend upon them with a wrath that Zeus himself cannot equal."

"I make no promises, but I'll see what I can do," Lord Maurice says, actually showing the sympathy Tremaine had claimed the other members of the council felt for her dilemma. Unlike the rest of the lot, he understands what it's like to actually be in love with a spouse. As a merchant, he was afforded the luxury of marrying for love instead of having settled for a politically beneficial arrangement as virtually all the other nobles did. It's a pity his wife passed away before his ascension. From her infrequent encounters with Belle and the glorified maid's scant descriptions, Regina thinks she would have liked the lovely Lady Colette a great deal. "Perhaps," Maurice adds delicately, "I could make more headway if I had a solemn oath that you will make a decision within that time frame."

Regina nods, all of her energy having drained out of her. It was not easy to admit her responsibility in this boondoggle. "You have it. In front of these witnesses, I swear by the power vested in me by my crown. Calm the waters for me and within a year's time I will produce a viable heir."

At her declaration, the entire council breathes a sigh of relief. Lord Maurice, having taken charge, gives her an encouraging smile. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I will relay the news promptly and inform you as to the response."

She gestures aimlessly at the councilors downwind from her. She is fed up with their presence and wants to be left alone. "Very well. If there is nothing else, you are all dismissed until next week."

Lord Maurice gestures to the rest of the council, who stand and then bow in unison with him before filtering out of the chambers. Once she the last member exits and closes the door behind them, Regina stuffs a fist into her mouth and screams with all of her might. Can't they just let me be happy? Will my efforts never be good enough?

It's just like when she was a child. Everything she did her mother criticized. She clamps her eyes shut against the haughty derision from years gone by ringing in her head.

"Stop slouching, child. You weren't raised to behave like an ogre!" is followed by, "That's the wrong fork for an entrée, young lady. Leave the table at once and go to your room. You can do without dinner tonight." Next she hears, "Are you trying to set a record for most mispronunciations in a minute? This tome is of basic difficulty! I simply don't understand where I went wrong with you. Perhaps we should restart your education at the alphabet." And finally, "Must I tell you a thousand times? You always lower your head and then slightly bend it forward before dipping into a curtsy. Honestly, how am I to ever present you in court? You're an embarrassment to me, your father, and the rest of our house!"

Like with her mother, she's grown tired of having more and more and more demanded of her by people who should frankly be groveling at her feet for the privilege of drawing another breath. Were they unaware that she could snuff them all out in their sleep with a snap of her fingers? Have they so soon forgotten who she used to be? Sometimes she thinks they have, and that makes her want to break out her old wardrobe to go along with a convenient reappearance of her malevolent streak. If she's being honest, the chances of that happening have increased exponentially over the last ten minutes. If the nobles possess any sense of self-preservation, they will accept the peace offering from Lord Maurice and be grateful she has agreed to put up with their nonsense another year rather than deal with them as the Evil Queen would have.

Now, if only she can figure out why she has lost her edge in the first place. Regina heaves out a forlorn, weary sigh. Her mother was right. Love has made her weak. Presently, however, she has no time for self-recrimination. There are urgent matters she must attend to.

#ouat fanfiction #red queen #regina x ruby #it's not always good to the be the queen...

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writesandramblings · 6 years

Text

The Captain’s Secret - p.97

“Facing the Music”

A/N: This takes place during episode 14, "The War Without, the War Within."

If you’re wondering why this and the previous chapter are coming to tumblr late, it’s the abusive trolls on this site. Honestly, that person was so ridiculous and mean-spirited, I was sorely tempted to post this and the previous chapter without any readmore cuts at all just to spite them. Since I didn’t want to do that to my actual followers, I waited until the urge had passed.

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 96 - Nowhere and Everywhere 98 - A Fate Worse Than Death >>

They were home, but they had not arrived as intended.

Nine months. That was how far they had missed their mark. They had been thrown nine months forward in time and the war they left was not the war they returned to. As the strategic display automatically updated itself with the latest battle and territory information from Federation communication relays, Saru and the bridge crew watched the map turn from blue to red and faced the grim reality of their new circumstance.

They had been gone nine months and the Klingons had won. The Federation lay almost wholly under Klingon control.

Their first order of business was to try and contact whatever remained of Starfleet, but there was no response.

The second was to assess the state of the ship. Riding the mycelial shockwave had left Discovery heavily damaged and on auxiliary power. Saru ordered all available personnel to repair assignments. Under the circumstances, they could not expect any help to come.

That left the matter of unwanted passengers. Lorca was not in sickbay as Saru, Burnham, and Georgiou expected. They found an entirely different set of patients laid out under the bright, silvery-white lights, and one very agitated, hovering lawyer who, when questioned as to the whereabouts of their former captain, said with a shrug:

"Dead."

Georgiou smirked with a mixture of satisfaction and curiosity. "Is he, now."

"Yeah, that's what happens when you're stabbed through the chest," Groves spat. The words verged on comical, but the tone was angry and bitter.

As the medical staff treated Georgiou behind the vague safety of an isolation forcefield, Saru attempted to ascertain what had happened to O'Malley and Mischkelovitz. This time Groves' explanation was less clear.

"I don’t know. He—Lorca was dying and Lalana said goodbye and Mac had—was injured, and Melly tried... something, I don't know what, and..."

When it came to lies, Groves really put all of them to shame. He had learned at a very young age how to appear convincingly flummoxed. He was the perfect combination of confusion and nerves, frustration and upset. He sounded completely unrehearsed and in the middle of processing the situation. Burnham and Saru judged him to be a complete wreck. But then, from where they were standing, he was a civilian who never should have been on the ship in the first place. They hardly expected grace under pressure from someone who lacked the experience and training to be on a mission in deep space or a ship in the midst of war. When Groves asked to leave, claiming he could no longer bear being in the room, Saru granted the request.

Neither of them realized exactly how right Lalana was about the similarities between Groves and Lorca. Like Lorca and Lalana, Groves knew the kernel of a good lie was a central truth and when he spoke the words in the moment, he truly did not know what had happened to Mischkelovitz, which made it the perfect excuse to go and find out from someone who did.

Dr. Pollard offered her medical assessment of the patients. "The colonel has lost a significant amount of blood, but he'll make a full recovery. Dr. Mischkelovitz..." Pollard took a breath. The exact nature of the issue was confusing. "It appears her implants overloaded, terminating her neural activity."

"Alert me to any changes," instructed Saru. Pollard returned to her patients. Saru addressed Burnham again. "I must inform you as to a change in our status. As of our last jump..."

Most anyone else on the ship would have been elated to learn that Discovery had returned to its home universe, but Burnham, with her Vulcan upbringing, received the information calmly and coolly, glancing at Georgiou as she processed the ramifications.

"Which makes this a very sensitive situation," Saru concluded. "I must ask, what were you thinking?"

Burnham shook her head sadly. "The truth is that I just couldn't watch her die again, Saru. I wanted to offer her more. I am sorry."

"Saving Georgiou may indeed prove to be a grave error in judgment, but, no one else could have done what you did aboard that Terran flagship. You are alive, and we are home."

The medical technician assessing Georgiou completed his examination and the forcefield lowered. "I told you I did not require assistance," was Georgiou's seething indictment as security personnel moved to surround her. She sneered at the display of supposed strength. She could have taken all four of the officers with ease, but not the many dozens that would have followed on a ship that she did not control.

"It is protocol," Saru informed her.

"Where I come from, protocol demands that I eat you," said Georgiou.

Burnham moved between Georgiou and Saru defensively. "This Kelpien is my captain."

"You let livestock command your ships? Yesterday we dined on the entrails of his brethren."

Saru's mouth tightened. Burnham, as always, was treating Saru as if he was incapable of fighting his own battles, and then there was the clear implication that Burnham had eaten at least one member of his species during her time with the Terrans. His voice was firm as he ordered, "Transport our visitor to guest quarters on deck three and confine her there now."

"Is that what I am? Your guest?"

"For now," said Saru as the white light of the transport enveloped the former emperor. He turned to Burnham.

"I'm sorry. I hoped to spare you the pain," Burnham offered.

Saru grimaced. Perhaps she had, but it still hurt to know that out of everyone Saru had ever met, the person who respected him the least was the one he had known the longest. He pushed the matter aside for the moment and addressed the room. "The presence of a Terran defector on this ship is to be regarded as classified. Its utterance will carry a penalty of treason. Is that understood?"

The chorus of ayes in the room reflected the truth. Burnham might not have moved past her perceptions of Saru from their history together, but everyone else had.

Saru returned to the bridge just as scanners picked up an approaching vessel with a Federation signature. "Hail them at once," said Saru, taking over the captain's chair from Airiam.

The hail was not returned. "Captain," said Owosekun, "its shields are up. I-it's phasers are charged and targeting."

"Shields up!" said Saru, but it was too late.

"I'm picking up incoming transporter signatures," said Rhys. "We're being boarded."

Armed figures appeared in cascades of light around the bridge. Saru's command was simultaneous to the eruption of chaos and confusion as the intruders took up positions targeting each station and hapless crewmembers withdrew their hands from their controls. "Identify yourselves!"

The boarding party was being led by a familiar face, Captain Sherak. "Hands where we can see them!" he ordered.

"I demand an explanation for this intrusion," said Saru.

"We ask the questions," Sherak warned. "Clear for transport."

Two final figures appeared on the bridge. Ambassador Sarek and Admiral Cornwell.

"Where's Captain Lorca?" Cornwell demanded. When the answer did not come quickly enough, she followed with, "Computer, initiate command level override. Authorization, Admiral Katrina Cornwell, Pi-Beta-6. Start with him."

Sarek strode towards Saru. "Ambassador, what are you doing!"

"What the times require," said Sarek, pressing his hands to Saru's face. "My mind to your mind. My thoughts to your thoughts."

Saru's jaw clicked in distress as Sarek overrode his psyche, peeling away the layers like petals on a flower and digging deep into the events of the past few days because for Discovery, that was all it had been.

"Mr. Saru is who he appears to be," Sarek concluded, but the calm Vulcan exterior broke a moment. "The Discovery has been through an inconceivable ordeal."

"Then where the hell is her commanding officer?"

Sarek turned back to Cornwell, emotionless façade restored. "Captain Lorca is dead."

Cornwell convened a meeting in the conference room with Saru, Sarek, Burnham, and Stamets. Hearing the full details of Lorca's subterfuge, Cornwell could scarcely contain her shock and anger. To think the man she had been championing, consoling, and had slept with all those months ago had been an impostor the whole time. She took her phaser, adjusted it to full, and fired on a bowl of fortune cookies sitting on the table. Her outburst concluded, they proceeded with other subjects.

The situation was as bad as it seemed. There was one spark of hope in all the calamity: Discovery had not returned from the other universe empty-handed, it had brought with it the cloak-breaking algorithm. Cornwell had immediately disseminated the algorithm to Starfleet's remaining ships, but as she explained the tactical situation to Saru, Burnham, and Stamets, she expressed the very real possibility that the cloaking algorithm had arrived far too late to make a difference.

As she listed out atrocities committed by the Klingons during their advance, the situation began to seem worse and worse. One-third of the fleet had been eradicated. Outposts, starbases, and whole colonies had been wiped from the map. Kol's death had fractured the Klingon leadership and now all twenty-four houses were acting as independent marauders, greedily engulfing Federation territory as they competed for renown and glory, making impossible any negotiation.

Cornwell's directive was clear. "Discovery will jump to Starbase 1 immediately. All evidence of your recent journey will be classified and destroyed. We cannot risk the knowledge of this alternate universe leaving the confines of Discovery."

Stamets shook his head. "We used up the last of our supply of spores to get us home and I can't jump without them."

They would have to make the journey at warp, across sectors full of Klingons.

"We will also have to dispose of Lorca's remains," said Saru.

A ripple of shock passed across Cornwell's face. "He's... he's here on Discovery?"

"His body was recovered," confirmed Saru.

"I would like to see it for myself," announced Burnham. It seemed an odd request, but Georgiou had put a kernel of doubt in the back of Burnham's mind back in sickbay. Such doubts were not easily shaken.

"Admiral?"

"Make sure it's incinerated," was all Cornwell said. Perhaps the better thing would have been to see the body herself, obtain some closure, but it felt like the only closure she needed was knowing every last trace of that impostor was gone from their universe.

When Burnham and Saru stepped into the turbolift, Stamets stepped in with them. "Deck nine," said Saru, and Stamets did not call out otherwise. It turned out they were all headed for the same destination.

"You have some business in Lab 26, lieutenant?" asked Saru.

"Just a quick word with Lalana," said Stamets.

"Who is Lalana?"

Saru and Stamets realized Burnham had never encountered the lului. "That's..." Stamets was unsure how to answer the question. A friend of Lorca's? A secret crewmember? A hitchhiker?

"She is a member of a classified research team," said Saru. "She was... acquainted with the captain."

"Are you familiar with 'Lorca's alien?'" offered Stamets, because that was what Lorca had called her when they first met and he had forgotten the actual species name. The designation did not ring any bells for Burnham.

"She is a lului," clarified Saru.

"Ah," said Burnham, "the technophobic species discovered in 2247 and designated as a Federation protectorate." She knew several other facts from the anthropological report but kept them to herself.

The Lab 26 doors did not answer to Saru's command. They had to wait for Groves to let them in, which took so long that two security personnel arrived with a gurney to move the body while they waited and Saru began to feel agitated, sensing something was up.

When the doors finally opened, Groves mumbled a vague apology about the delay, citing "O'Malley's security procedures."

The lab felt empty without Mischkelovitz. Evidence of her was everywhere—in the piles of abandoned junk and half-finished engineering projects scattered throughout the room—but there was an unsettling quietude to the place.

"He's in there," Groves told them when asked, waving his hand in the direction of Lalana's door. "But I wouldn't go in if I were you."

"We have seen dead bodies before, specialist," Saru said reassuringly. Groves only shrugged, thinking that it was their funeral.

They had seen dead bodies, but they were unprepared for what awaited them. The body lay on a couch soaked through by an enormous black stain of dried blood extending all the way to the carpet. Burnham, Saru, and Stamets recognized the dark uniform and silver-black armor worn by Lorca aboard the Charon and the familiar crop of short, brown-black hair on his head, but little else. There was a void of raw flesh and exposed bone where his face should have been. Lalana was crouched on the back of the couch above him, her tail draped down across his collar.

If they had looked closely enough, they would have noticed a distinctive, lacelike pattern of brown across the body's hands and the fact the hands were too big for the man they thought they were looking at, but no one wanted to look that closely.

"What did you do?" asked Burnham, the only one with enough presence of mind to ask the question.

"His face was my most favorite part of him, so I made it a part of me," said Lalana.

Stamets covered his mouth, feeling bile rise in the back of his throat. Beside him, Saru straightened, shocked by the idea of it. He had seen images of his own kind flayed for food, so the sight of this mutilated corpse was not wholly unfamiliar, but it felt too close to that not-so-distant reality.

Lalana could see their revulsion and confusion. She happily explained, "I know cannibalism is not favored among your species, but it is among mine. The original Captain Lorca's body was incinerated, so there was nothing for me to eat. I am very glad to have gotten the chance to amend that."

"I warned you," Groves called out from the main lab area. There was a reason he had chosen not to reenter the room.

The security officers went to work, sealing the body in a bag and lifting it onto the gurney to move to the corridor outside where it could be beamed away. Burnham left with them, having confirmed what she came for, but Saru remained in the main lab to order Groves to disable the lab's independent security protocols. Groves uncharacteristically mumbled an explanation about having coopted O'Malley's security protocols in the event of an incursion while they were under Terran threat and being unable to reset them.

The whole time, Stamets stood there wondering if he had made a mistake, but he was there because he wanted to say something important, difficult as it was after what he had just witnessed. It felt important because he was not sure anyone would say it to Lalana and in the wake of his own loss, someone ought to. "I'm sorry. I know he meant something to you."

"Thank you, Paul. You meant something to him, too. You were... he... he very much enjoyed..."

Something happened in Lalana's eyes. Her pupils quivered, dilating and constricting, as if rapidly shifting focus. She seemed to wobble on her perch. Then she pitched forward on the couch, half-rolling, half-bouncing off the cushions and slamming against the edge of the coffee table as she landed between the table and couch. Mischkelovitz's leftover tools clattered loudly against the glass surface of the table.

Stamets rushed forward, yelling for Saru, but stopped short of actually touching Lalana. Black ichor bubbled up from various spots along her body. Her tongue shifted, barely managing to produce syllables, but the translator eked out, "Too much... poison..."

Saru attempted to contact sickbay. "Unable to comply," intoned the computer.

"Probably something she ate," Groves quipped. "Don't worry, I know what to do. I'll take care of it."

"She has been poisoned," said Saru. "We must begin biological containment procedures until we have identified the contaminant. Contact the medical bay immediately, Specialist Groves."

"I'll take her there myself! Here, just let me—" Stamets blocked Groves. The black ichor, for all they knew, was toxic to the touch.

"Specialist! That was an order," Saru said in a tone that invited no further objections.

Groves stood there, staring blankly at Saru and failing to comply. The minute someone walked in with a medical tricorder, the jig was going to be up. Any scan of the room would make obvious the subterfuge. "Trust me, you don't want me to do that. Everything in existence is at stake—"

"You will comply immediately or—"

There was a bang from the wall to the left of the couch. A muffled voice came from within. "Give it up, Groves! Let me out!"

Even muffled it was clear who the voice belonged to. That voice had been barking orders at them all for months now. Stamets noticed a panel fastening tool incongruously sitting on the floor at the base of the wall and grabbed it, prying open the panel. Lorca pushed from the inside and the panel went careening away to the side, falling flat against the ground and reverberating like a gong.

"What is going on here!" exclaimed Saru.

"What the hell does it look like, Saru," said Lorca acidly as he stepped down from the alcove in the wall, rubbing his shoulder at the lingering ache of being shoved into an access space not designed for a human.

"I do not think you want me to answer that," Saru replied sharply, "as it appears we have yet again fallen prey to another of your manipulations."

"You think I did this?" asked Lorca with exaggerated incredulity. "I'm the victim here!"

"If anyone's the victim, it's your little alien friend!" exclaimed Stamets.

"She'll be fine," Lorca replied. "Poison's out. She just needs to rest."

Groves was genuinely panicked. "Everyone, stop! Shut up and listen to me!"

The one thing Groves' explanation made clear was that he believed the idea of a manifest paradox with such fervency he was willing to do almost anything to make sure no one knew Lorca was alive. Saru and Stamets listened carefully and concluded that, as uncertain as this was, there was a nonzero chance Groves was right. There was no telling what would happen if some action taken in the future destabilized the probability of an event in the past. So far, they would seem to have disrupted nothing, and the safest course of action was to make sure this remained true.

The only person who seemed not to believe Groves was Lorca. He still found the paradox theory more frustrating than believable and its only virtue from his perspective was that it provided an incentive to give him what he wanted. "Look, you're back on your feet," he said to Stamets casually, "just jump me home. No one will ever know I was alive if I'm not here. And I'll shut down the reactor on the Charon, I promise. There's no Stamets over there to turn it back on, so reality'll be safe."

It sounded like Lorca was spinning a fairytale and clearly he was missing some key facts, but Stamets' first instinct was to clear up the last part of Lorca's statement. "What happened to the other me? Did—did you kill him?" (He knew, from his dreamlike encounter with the other Stamets in the mycelial network during his period of unconsciousness, that his counterpart had no love for Lorca.)

"You wouldn't have liked him, anyway," shrugged Lorca.

"I met him. I didn't like him. The point still stands!"

"It does not matter," said Saru, "as we have no spores left and the reactor has already been destroyed."

"I couldn't jump you anywhere even if I wanted to," said Stamets curtly, making it very clear he had zero intention of doing any more jumps for Lorca.

Shocked, Lorca sat down on the couch, dried blood crunching beneath him. The bulk of his most loyal supporters and his most powerful asset had just been stripped away. His position was untenable.

A fury rose in Lorca so black it could have collapsed the room into a hole. He slammed both his fists down so hard on the coffee table everything on its surface bounced several inches into the air and objects went flying off onto the floor like engineering confetti, but the synthetic glass was too strong to break under the impact and the force traveled back up his arms. He grabbed his chest in pain. A gasp escaped, soundless but for the croak of air in his throat, and he doubled over. A moment later, he upended the table with a kick that sent it tumbling halfway to the door. Then he sat in quiet agony with his head by his knees, air hissing through his teeth.

"Where is the recording from the alternate future?" asked Saru. His ganglia itched along the back of his skull.

They searched the room, a task made harder by the scattered mess Lorca had created. The holodisc was missing. Suspicion immediately fell on Lorca, but when he turned out his pockets in furious annoyance, the only thing he had on him was Allan's tooth. (Saru wondered why Lorca had a human tooth in his pocket but decided it was better not to ask.)

"It's possible," said Groves, "that the disc vanished because we're experiencing temporal instability."

"More likely it rolled off into a corner when you threw it," Lorca sniped at Groves. He nudged Lalana's shoulder with his foot, reaching a hand down towards her.

"I wouldn't do that, she's covered in poison," Stamets advised.

Lorca's shirt was in a sorry state after everything he had been through, slashed and cut and soaked through with dried blood. "I would." He pulled it off and wrapped Lalana in it, grimacing and grunting as he lifted her up and carried her to the back wall. His chest screamed at him. It was a welcome sensation, a physical pain to match the acute disappointment he was feeling.

On a hunch, Lorca went for the biggest storage compartment and was rewarded by the sight of a sealed vat of biomimetic gel sliding out. He carefully lowered Lalana inside and stood there, frowning and shirtless, leaning with his hands on the edge of the drawer. Lalana's eyes stared blankly up at him, the pupils fully constricted.

"This is completely unacceptable," Saru admonished Groves. "We must inform the admiral. Release the control override on the lab."

"You're gonna sell me out to that Vulcan taskmaster?" asked Lorca, wiping the gel from his forearms. "After everything I've done for you?"

"I do not know where Admiral Terral is. Admiral Cornwell is aboard Discovery."

Lorca shook his head and sneered with disdain. Unbelievable. He described Cornwell in a set of entirely unflattering and unrepeatable terms, adding, "I spent two days in Klingon prison and she thinks I should be stripped of command? They've had her for weeks! The gall of it."

"It has been nine months since Admiral Cornwell was captured," corrected Saru.

Groves saw an opportunity to hit Lorca in the side of the head with a proverbial curveball and jumped on it gleefully. "Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. We're nine months in the future from when we left. We didn't just slip through two universes, we basically slipped on a banana peel through time."

Something happened none of them had ever seen before.

Lorca's face went blank.

Cornwell's arrival provided Petrellovitz a unique opportunity and created a pressing need for her to execute her plan swiftly lest the assembled pieces become scattered.

"I'll bring you out soon," were the last words she said to L'Rell as she tucked a pile of blankets into her bunk and beamed out of the brig while the guard was distracted by a strange whistling sound coming from behind a wall panel. A minor tweak to the pressure of a plasma conduit. Discovery's crew was largely young and inexperienced and easy to trick. After a few minutes of frustration, the guard called for a repair tech to come address the issue and resumed his watch of the brig cells, confident he was looking at one sleeping human and one scarily alert Klingon, none the wiser as to the deception.

Next came the call: the Klingon prisoner was being transported to the USS Khorana. Brig to brig transport, nothing to be concerned about. The guard accepted the command completely, accompanied as it was by the proper security codes authorizing the transfer.

L'Rell found herself in a cargo bay surrounded by crates of supplies. Petrellovitz was putting on a set of fabricated surgical clothing, momentarily naked and entirely concerned about it. "If you're thinking about overpowering me, know that the computer will automatically alert them to your presence if I don't supply it with the correct codeword every ten minutes. You might get to the shuttlebay, but I wouldn't count on getting much farther." She finished off her look with a surgical mask and a short blonde wig. Then she briefly conversed with the medical bay, alerting them that a specialist was coming over from the Khorana to take a look at Mischkelovitz, and beamed away.

L'Rell stood in the cargo bay and waited. Two minutes later, the light of the transporter enveloped her again.

This time, she materialized in one of the private offices off the main area of the medical bay. The lights were low, the window was set to opaque for privacy, and it was presently configured as a surgical suite.

The woman on the slab was identical to Petrellovitz in almost every regard except one. Where Petrellovitz was marked by countless scars on her face and body, the woman on the slab was entirely unblemished. Other than that, they could have been the same person, so close was the resemblance. L'Rell gazed in amazement. Now she understood Petrellovitz's previous questions. "This is... How?"

"We're clones," said Petrellovitz flatly. "I hope this is everything you need."

A wide array of surgical tools lay at L'Rell's disposal. "Yes, this will do. Computer, lights to full." Petrellovitz winced at the change.

"What is wrong with you?" asked L'Rell, noticing the reaction to the lights. She had seen that reaction before with Lorca when she was torturing him.

"Minor radiation incident," muttered Petrellovitz. "Give me her eyes if you can."

"Could you not simply fix your scars?"

The difference in quantum signatures between the two universes was not limited to inanimate objects. In time, Petrellovitz's own skin would be replaced by skin that matched this universe as her cells were naturally replaced by new ones created after ingesting this universe's food and drink, but until then, she was taking no chances. "I prefer this. It's symbolic."

L'Rell began. Every ten minutes, as promised, the computer prompted Petrellovitz for a word. "Fox" was the first one. The implants on either side of the skull provided some trouble—they seemed to be integrated into the surrounding tissue to an alarming extent—but L'Rell managed to cut around them and excised the face into a fleshy sleeve ready for transplant. The next step was to remove Petrellovitz's skin.

"Albatross," said Petrellovitz.

"Give me the words in case you lose consciousness," said L'Rell.

"I won't," promised Petrellovitz. "Do your worst."

L'Rell removed Petrellovitz's skin in record time. There was no need to do a clean job; the skin was not going to be retained. Remarkably, Petrellovitz stayed awake as L'Rell worked from back to front, administering her own local anesthetic. The sounds she occasionally made did not seem to be of pain. "Most humans would not be able to take this," noted L'Rell, reminded again of Lorca.

"There's no one else like me." It seemed an odd statement from an admitted clone. Petrellovitz stopped L'Rell only when the Klingon was about to remove the first eye. "I'm trusting you."

"And I am trusting you," replied L'Rell.

"The next word is zebra, followed by turtle and canary."

"Zebra, turtle, canary," repeated L'Rell, and repeated the words again when the computer prompted. Petrellovitz did not completely lose consciousness, but she did begin to drift in and out.

L'Rell finished the first eye. "Marvelous," said Petrellovitz, testing the function. It was a little blurry, but the bright lights in the room were no longer an issue. L'Rell moved on to the next and marveled at how easy this was when the source and target were so similar. There weren't even any tissue compatibility issues to worry about; Petrellovitz's biology accepted the transplanted material as if it were her own native biology.

Horse and rattlesnake came and went. L'Rell finished the skull work and began on the first hand, emboldened by their quick progress to take almost the whole forearm up to the elbow. She was sliding it into place when the alarm sounded.

"Forget the left hand," said Petrellovitz, keying commands into the terminal beside her. "Close up. I can buy us a few minutes."

Petrellovitz dispensed something in a hypospray. L'Rell asked what it was. "Vetroxican. Should knock me out for an hour or two. Take her." Petrellovitz shoved her double's body off the slab into L'Rell's waiting arms and took Mischkelovitz's place. "Stick to the story. We sink or swim on how well you play this."

Cornwell ordered every record of Discovery's jaunt into the mirror universe destroyed. The risk of proof escaping the ship and disrupting everything in their universe was too great.

To her surprise, someone had beaten her to the punch. All the security footage was already gone.

"That's convenient," said Cornwell darkly.

"I'm sorry, admiral," said Rhys, roughly the third time in as many minutes he had spoken those words. He was updating her as to the situation in the captain's ready room. Cornwell had set the lights higher so the room felt less like Lorca. "The system registered a power overload when we jumped. It wiped everything, main and backups."

Cornwell chewed her lip. "You're telling me this was an accidental power overload? That only wiped your security footage?"

Rhys visibly paled. "I'm sorry, admiral. That's what it looks like."

That made no sense. It reeked of sabotage. But who would want the footage wiped? And why? "What about the prisoners in the brig?" Georgiou was not the only refugee that would need to be dealt with, though she was the one less inclined to try and take over the ship.

"We just have the one, ah, Emellia Petrellovitz—"

"Hang on. What about L'Rell?"

"The Klingon? She was transferred to the Khorana."

"On whose authority!"

Somehow Rhys got paler. The authorization codes were right there on the padd in his hand. "Yours?"

"Give me that," said Cornwell, snatching the padd and glancing down at it. There it was, plain as day. The same authorization codes she had used to take command of Discovery were staring her in the face. "I didn't order that. Contact the Khorana." This took some doing—Sherak was running his ship as stealthily as possible—but they eventually made contact and Cornwell took the reply hail from the captain's chair on the bridge.

The Khorana did not have the Klingon. "There are no records of any transport," said Sherak. "We have no prisoners in our brig and all life signs are accounted for. I will check again if you require, admiral." If Sherak sounded curt, it was largely because all tempers were frayed at this point, Cornwell's included. No one in Starfleet much cared for niceties these days.

"No, Cornwell out. Lieutenant, scan and account for all life signs on this ship."

Owosekun hastened to comply and immediately identified the problem. "Admiral, the internal scanners have been compromised."

"What?"

"Attempting to bypass." The full technical explanation was too much to relay to Cornwell in the moment, but Owosekun could clearly see someone had told the computer to pull its internal scanner data not from the scanners themselves but from a set of dummy data. "It's the Mudd protocols. After Mudd took over the ship, we developed a backdoor in the event someone boarded."

There was more to the protocol than a simple command backdoor. It also let the intruder think they had control of the ship so that the officer who was actually in control could retake the ship at a moment's notice once the time was right, and allowed all authorized personnel to maintain covert communications access. All in all, Lorca had been very pleased with the idea, especially since at the time it had been keyed to revert all control to him should someone like Mudd or Cornwell come aboard.

In other words, the protocol contravened the very thing Cornwell's command codes were supposed to let her do: walk onto a starship and seize control from its captain.

"Who is in command of this ship!"

Owosekun traced the protocol. The answer to that question should have been Saru, but someone had coopted the protocol. "It's... the Brig Chess program! I'm locked out of it."

At her station, Airiam immediately launched into an investigation of her own. Owosekun was locked out, but Airiam had her personal alert node, provided to her by Groves. "I can access the program," she reported. "One moment." She sat at her engineering console, stiff and upright, appearing to do nothing. In her head, she was parsing the recent player access logs.

There was Groves, his last access right at the moment of their jump back home, but since then, he had been inactive and the only active player was... "Pet 'R,'" reported Airiam, turning to face the captain's chair. "The Terran, Petra."

"She's in the brig," Rhys said, bringing up the security feed to the main viewscreen, but immediately realized the error of his statement. From the camera angle offered by the security feed in the cell, it was clear they were looking at a pile of blankets. (There was only supposed to be a single blanket in the cell, but Petrellovitz had deemed it insufficient to craft her hoax and told the computer to provide her a couple extra.)

"Red alert," said Cornwell.

"Wait!" said Owosekun, but too late. Rhys had already triggered the alarm. For a moment, Owosekun wished Lorca were in command. Cornwell had just tipped Petrellovitz off and Lorca would have seen that from a mile away. Lorca always made it a point to mislead his enemies. His allies, too, when it came down to it. "She's in the system again."

The bridge crew sprang to life around Cornwell like a well-oiled machine. The admiral was entirely redundant in the face of their collective competency.

"Attempting to locate her access point," Owosekun declared.

"Revoking Brig Chess command access," said Airiam, mentally throwing a message to Groves as she did.

"Checking transporter logs," Bryce reported from his station.

"Dispatching security teams to shuttlebay and transporter rooms," said Rhys. "Turbolifts are locked." He reorganized the orders to have any available personnel at critical positions arm themselves in place.

"Find her!" demanded Cornwell. If anyone heard her desperate attempt at relevance, they made no sign of it.

Saru was already en route to the bridge when the red alert sounded. "Bridge," he said as he stepped into the turbolift. The doors closed and the turbolift began to move.

Then it stopped.

After spending the better part of an hour in a room whose security protocols had been coopted by a civilian and having reached a decision that same civilian did not agree with, Saru had a guess as to what was going on. "Saru to Groves! This is a red alert! Release the turbolift immediately!"

"It's not me!"

Saru could hear the panic in Groves' voice. "Saru to bridge! Status report."

Bryce was not panicked. "Sir, the Terran prisoner escaped the brig and took control of the Mudd protocols."

"Keep me updated," was Saru's order. He knew the two best people to handle that problem on the ship were Owosekun and Airiam, both of whom were currently on the bridge.

After a few minutes, Bryce reported the protocols were disabled and the turbolift resumed. Saru found the bridge fully engaged in the task at hand. He stepped into position at the science console.

"I've located them. They're in Cargo Bay 3," said Owosekun.

"Dispatching," confirmed Rhys, bringing up the security feeds. Most of the views were obstructed by rows of cargo crates stacked to the ceiling, but in one angle, L'Rell was visible pummeling a body clad in a brig-issue jumpsuit. Her fists had reduced the head to a pulp.

The security team beamed in at a safe distance from L'Rell, shouting and raising their weapons towards her. Saru watched the Klingon's shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths of exertion as she released the body and turned to face the officers, raising her hands in surrender.

"Take her to the brig," ordered Cornwell, rising from the captain's chair.

"Admiral, there is something I must speak to you about. In private," Saru said.

"I look forward to hearing it," said Cornwell joylessly. "Commander, with me."

In the turbolift, Cornwell requested Saru speak his mind.

"It is of a classified nature," said Saru. The turbolift was hardly a secure space to speak. The same went for the brig, where L'Rell offered an explanation as to what had happened.

"She took me," said L'Rell, "said she wanted to broadcast to my people and turn over Discovery. She did not understand that I left, or that there are many Klingon houses. She made me tell her about them. I did. Then you became aware of her. She was distracted dealing with your people. I stopped her."

A crucial detail Saru had missed during his turbolift confinement was that the Mudd protocols had been overridden not thanks to the combined skills of Owosekun, Airiam, and Groves, but because their opponent had suddenly stopped fighting.

"Brig Chess," said Cornwell when they were back in the hall.

"It was a program that was added during the null time incident when Mr. Groves was confined to the brig," said Saru. It seemed unwise to mention the program's enduring popularity in light of the problems it had caused.

"Who added it?"

"Dr. Mischkelovitz."

"I want to talk to her."

"Dr. Pollard does not think it likely she will recover from her neural injury."

Cornwell grimaced, pressing her thumb to her mouth in agitated thought. "I want a full review of that program."

"I recommend Commander Airiam lead the investigation. There is also the other issue I must speak with you about," Saru reminded her.

They headed back to the bridge, intending to use the ready room, but when Airiam was informed of her new task, she asked, "Should I ask Mr. Groves to assist?"

"Groves?" echoed Saru, feeling a gnawing alarm in his stomach.

"He wrote the program."

"You said it was Mischkelovitz," said Cornwell.

Saru assumed it was Mischkelovitz because Groves had been in the brig. Groves could not have...

But he had. The Lab 26 protocols, which he claimed were O'Malley's. Saru realized the reason his mind had jumped to Groves when the turbolift stopped working was that, subconsciously, he had already figured it out.

"Admiral, I did not think it possible, but I believe Mr. Groves programmed the game from the confines of the brig. I must speak with you immediately. It cannot wait any longer."

Groves let them into the lab because resistance would have been futile in the long run. "You have to keep this secret or the whole universe is gonna go poof," was his greeting to Cornwell.

"Be that as it may, Mr. Groves," said Saru, "it has come to our attention that you have compromised several of the ship's systems and I'm afraid I must take you into custody."

"Know a good lawyer?" said Groves, smiling with amusement at his own terrible joke.

Cornwell did not hang around to hear Groves plead his case with Saru. She was no longer interested in Groves or his chess program. She attempted to open the door to Lalana's room, the controls buzzing negatively in response, and Groves opened the door for her from across the room.

For a long moment after she entered and the door slid shut behind her, there were no words. Cornwell stared at Lorca, his bare chest displaying the confused mess of tissue left by Mischkelovitz, and he stared at her from his position on the couch, trying to find something in her face besides bitter anger. "Kat," he finally said.

"You," she seethed, "do not get to call me that. You do not get to speak. You... monster."

Lorca's face settled into a dry glower. Not everyone hated monsters as much as Cornwell apparently did. "Guess the cat's out of the bag." It was as much an admission that he was a monster as a clever little workaround to show that, even if he wasn't using her nickname, he could still use it. He could still play tricks on her and get the better of her.

Cornwell drew her phaser and pointed it at Lorca, exactly as she had done with the bowl of fortune cookies. Her finger hovered on the trigger.

"You gonna kill me?" he asked. "That's very Starfleet of you."

"You don't know anything about Starfleet," she said.

"Don't I? I know that you're the self-proclaimed good guys, protecting innocent aliens. Like I did at Pahvo. But you were still gonna take my ship away, weren't you?"

She could scarcely believe her ears. Her mouth fell open. The shock lasted only a moment. "This isn't your ship!" Her phaser pointed away from him, at least, because she was so angry she realized she was at risk of shooting him unintentionally.

"I built this ship!" Lorca shouted back. "I gave you the idea! Win the war with science and cookies, the 'Starfleet' way. You crewed me up with a bunch of damn cadets and I turned them into a fighting force capable of winning this war. All you had to do was let me keep Discovery! But you couldn't do that, could you? Because—"

"Because you aren't him! You lied to me!"

Lorca's face twisted into mocking indignation. "You think he never lied to you?"

Cornwell gasped involuntarily. They had that in common, the two of them. They were always playing with their cards against their chest, never sharing, misdirecting to get what they wanted, using her affection as a way to get what they wanted. They were both of them manipulative bastards and they always had been.

"Don't you dare," she said, wagging her finger, but she put her phaser back in its holster. "You don't know anything about my Gabriel."

The truth was Lorca knew more about her Lorca than she did not just because Lalana had told him the man's entire life story, but because he knew for a fact he thought like the other Lorca did. He had realized as much reading the other Lorca's logs. They were more alike than probably anyone wanted to admit. (Except Lalana, who was clinging to this fact like it was a tree in San Francisco.)

Lorca could have pressed the point with Cornwell, really beaten her up with it, but there seemed to be nothing more to gain from the venture. Instead, he said, "I know that he wouldn't be capable of winning this war, but I am."

There was a point in there. Perhaps a Terran could win this war, but Cornwell was dead-set on making sure it would not be Lorca. "You're too late. We've been overrun. The Klingons are everywhere."

This was Lorca's first update as to the tactical situation and it did not mesh with what he expected to hear. "How—I destroyed the Sarcophagus for you!"

"And now, instead of one enemy to negotiate with, we have twenty-four."

Lorca immediately realized that, while the destruction of the Sarcophagus should have given Starfleet the opportunity to retaliate in full force against a disorganized enemy, rather than go on the offensive, the Federation had probably turned the momentary strategic advantage into an attempt to negotiate. (They had. Any advantage Kol's death offered was lost when the Federation reached out, suggested this was an opportunity for peaceful resolution while the Klingons recovered from the loss of their leader, and twenty-four Klingon houses had laughed at the implication Kol's death meant anything to them and gone on to prove exactly how wrong the Federation was.)

"You—nimrods! You had everything you needed to win! I handed you victory on a platter!"

"You took our cloaking algorithm to another universe! Nine months!"

In nine months, they had not been able to craft another, not without the spore drive to gather all the data before the Klingons could disable any sensors planted on their ships. They had tried it and failed. Lorca's anger fell away, replaced by a very real regret. It was a look of regret she recognized from their ill-fated night together. "I didn't mean to," he said.

"That doesn't change the fact you did," she said, icily now that she realized this had not been his ultimate intention.

"I thought Discovery'd be gone a few weeks," he said. "Just long enough..." He looked away.

"Just long enough for us to think we needed you?" she asked. He swallowed and grimaced; that was a yes. "We did need you. As much as it pains me to admit it."

"I'm here now," he said.

Her head shook faintly. "I don't know you are. Who are you?" She had been asking that question ever since the moment she learned the truth.

"I'm Gabriel Lorca." And as if he needed to convince himself of it as much as her: "I'm still Gabriel Lorca."

Part 98

#Star Trek Discovery #fanfic #fanfiction #Mirror Lorca #Mirror Georgiou #Michael Burnham #Katrina Cornwell #Admiral Cornwell #Gabriel Lorca #Saru #Commander Saru #Paul Stamets #Emperor Georgiou #Star Trek #Discovery #The War Without #The War Within #s01e14

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wallythayer · 6 years

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How to Reclaim Your Attention Span

Cal Newport, PhD, doesn’t have a Facebook or Twitter account. He gets news mostly from his local newspaper and National Public Radio. An accomplished academic and author, he provides no contact form on his website, purposefully making it difficult for people to reach him for interviews.

In the age of endless stimuli, Newport, an associate professor of computer science at Georgetown University, believes in cultivating an ethic of “deep work” — focusing on one cognitively demanding task at a time. While his personal commitment to depth poses challenges for journalists hoping to quote him in an article, it’s reaped professional rewards. In the decade since obtaining his BA, Newport has earned a PhD, published four books, written numerous peer-reviewed papers, and earned a tenure-track position at an elite university.

“The ability to stay steady on one target and ignore everything else operates in the brain’s prefrontal regions,” writes Daniel Goleman, PhD, in his best-selling book Focus: The Hidden Driver of Excellence. Specialized circuits in this area allow us to tune in to what’s important (the person we’re having a conversation with in a busy restaurant) and tune out what isn’t (the conversation at the next table).

While our attention is powerful, it’s also fragile. It “continually fights distractions, both inner and outer,” explains Goleman.

The way we use our attention also shapes and controls our reality. “If we don’t consciously choose where we want to direct our attention, there will always be something in our path to misdirect it,” writes former Microsoft and Apple executive Linda Stone, who coined the term “continuous partial attention” — the idea that we pay partial attention continuously out of a desire to not miss anything, always on the lookout for something more interesting than what’s before us.

While paying close attention can be challenging, there are actions we can take to strengthen this capacity and lay the groundwork for becoming more attentive.

Get Emotional Support

Focused attention is a component of cognitive ability, but it also involves our emotions.

“Emotional cues are not only ubiquitous in our lives and environment, they are also strong distractions, often interfering with our ability to both -accomplish tasks and maintain equanimity,” writes Richard Davidson, PhD, in his best-selling book, The Emotional Life of Your Brain.

The power of emotion to affect our ability to focus led the neuroscientist to include attention — along with resilience, outlook, social intuition, self-awareness, and sensitivity to context — as one dimension of what he calls the brain’s “emotional style.” Our emotional style dictates, with some consistency, how we respond to our experiences, and it is governed by specific, identifiable, measurable brain circuits.

Like all the factors comprising emotional style, attention lies on a spectrum, with narrow focus on one end and distraction on the other. If you tend to be hyperfocused, you might find yourself so involved in a project or one side of an argument that you miss the bigger picture. If you land on the unfocused end, you may find when you read the final words on a page that you’ve forgotten what was written at the top.

There is also more than one type of attention. Davidson describes selective attention as the capacity to focus on certain features of an environment and ignore others. It’s a key building block of self-awareness.

Another type — open, nonjudgmental awareness — involves the ability to recognize signals from the external environment, as well as any thoughts and feelings that pop up in our brains, without getting stuck on any one stimulus.

Fortunately, even if we tend toward hyperfocus or distraction, the brain’s plasticity allows us to adjust our style of paying attention.

For example, Davidson advises the überfocused to keep their office doors open, place photos of loved ones on their desks, and scatter books and magazines around as temptation to pick one up. Those who are more easily distracted can try keeping the office door closed and removing extraneous stimuli.

You might also try these attention-building practices:

• Daily mindfulness meditation, Davidson explains, can help improve concentration. “We have found that long-term meditation practitioners, when engaged in the simple practice of focusing on an object, show higher levels of activation in the prefrontal cortex and parietal cortex,” he says. This -“executive” part of the brain also governs self-awareness and decision-making.

• Body-scan exercises can improve self-awareness, he notes. Because your focus moves across your whole body, scanning trains your mind to move from detailed attention on one spot — such as your big toe — to wider awareness. This can be helpful to people who struggle with either distraction or hyperfocus.

“Investigating physical sensations is one of the best ways for us to learn to be present with whatever is happening in the moment and to recognize the difference between direct experience and the add-ons we bring to it,” says meditation instructor Sharon Salzberg, author of Real Happiness: The Power of Meditation.

• Breathing exercises are another good tool for boosting self-awareness and dealing with strong emotions. To help stressed-out kids stabilize their thinking, connect more deeply, and refocus, actress Goldie Hawn’s MindUP program integrates deep-breathing exercises in its pre-kindergarten-through-eighth-grade curriculum. The program shows teachers how to lead students through three-minute “brain breaks.” These breaks, taken three times a day, calm the brain’s amygdala, which plays a primary role in emotional response. This helps improve students’ capacity to focus and retain information.

• Monotasking allows for and strengthens focused engagement, Davidson explains. Continually switching between tasks, on the other hand, saps your attention. Doing one thing at a time enhances focus and boosts your short-term memory. Multitasking causes your body to release more stress hormones, such as cortisol and adrenaline, which can lead to health problems when chronically elevated. (For more on the impact of stress, see “Hormonal Harmony.”)

Go Deep

Cal Newport exemplifies the attention-strengthening benefits of monotasking. In addition to helping him make significant career advances quickly, his deep-work ethic has personal benefits, too.

“For the most part, I don’t touch a computer between the time I get home from work and the next morning when the new workday begins,” he writes in Deep Work: Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World.

“This ability to fully disconnect, as opposed to the more standard practice of sneaking in a few quick work email checks, or giving in to frequent surveys of social-media sites, allows me to be present with my wife and two sons in the evenings, and read a surprising number of books for a busy father of two.”

Studies have shown that reading books improves cognitive function, working memory, and the ability to detect and understand other people’s emotions. So by spending time reading, Newport is doing the kind of focused work that enhances his ability to pay attention. (If it feels like you don’t have time to read books, reconsider the time you spend on other activities. For example, Americans currently spend about four hours per day watching television.)

To strengthen your ability to focus, try to minimize “shallow work,” those activities we often perform while distracted that don’t demand deep thought — mindlessly scrolling through email or social-media feeds, for example. Like Newport, you might consider avoiding social media altogether or scheduling specific time periods when you use the internet instead of randomly checking it throughout the day.

In fact, Newport recommends scheduling every minute of your day. “We spend much of our day on autopilot — not giving much thought to what we’re doing with our time,” he writes. “It’s difficult to prevent the trivial from creeping into every corner of your schedule if you don’t face, without flinching, your current balance between deep and shallow work, and then adopt the habit of pausing before action and asking: What makes the most sense right now?”

And when it comes to email, Newport suggests sending and responding to only those messages that really matter.

Manoush Zomorodi, host of the technology-focused podcast Note to Self and author of Bored and Brilliant: How Spacing Out Can Unlock Your Most Productive and Creative Self, agrees. “People confuse productivity with responsiveness,” she says.

To help workplaces become more focused, Zomorodi suggests they purposefully and thoughtfully use collaborative platforms, such as Slack. “The idea is that you have channels where you can talk to your colleagues, so you aren’t on email as much,” she says. “But what happens is that we spend so much time updating that we don’t have the opportunity to do the harder thinking.”

Cutting down on needless communication reduces stress. Zomorodi notes that her readers and listeners are often seeking ways to handle workplace burnout, much of which relates to consistent demands on their attention. “The pinging and constant updating is driving people crazy, and making them feel like they don’t have time to do their actual work.” (For more insights from Zomorodi, see “Creative Inspiration: Manoush Zomorodi.”)

To ease employees’ work-related stress and improve focus and productivity, some companies, including Volkswagen and Deutsche Telekom, have attempted to change the “always-notifying” workplace culture by limiting after-hours and weekend email use. You can do this for yourself by removing the email app from your phone or turning your phone off on weekends and evenings, and by disabling notifications and alerts.

Take Breaks

A few years ago, while on a sabbatical from Silicon Valley’s daily distractions, futurist and researcher Alex Soojung-Kim Pang, PhD, decided to study the habits of Charles Darwin, Winston Churchill, Stephen King, and other productive people. Although these legendary creatives designed their lives around their work, they didn’t spend long days toiling away.

Instead, they organized their days to include intensive blocks of concentrated work — typically around four hours — followed by a period of intentional rest, and then another shorter bout of less-intense work.

“Deliberate rest and focus complement and reinforce each other,” says Pang, author of Rest: Why You Get More Done When You Work Less. “Not only does rest give you time to recharge the energy you spend at work, but improving your capacity to detach from work deepens your ability to concentrate and be present on the job.” (For more on this concept, see “Deliberate Rest.”)

Rest is an antidote to attention fatigue, a collection of cognitive symptoms that occur when the brain’s inhibitory system — which tunes out distractions — gets worn down from use. And resting doesn’t necessarily mean napping, although Churchill’s afternoon snooze was a nonnegotiable part of his daily routine.

Since concentration is demanding, active restorative breaks can also help your body refresh the oxygen and energy your brain needs. Pang cites a group of scientists who relax by rock climbing as an example of “deep play” — an activity that provides many of the same psychological rewards as work.

Scientific experimentation and rock climbing require the same kind of cognitive problem-solving, Pang explains. “They both involve seeing the big challenge and then breaking it down into little parts.”

The absorbing and challenging nature of deep play provides room for finding yourself in flow — the intense state of concentration that leaves you feeling energized and that benefits both your work and your well-being. (For more on the connection between flow states and happiness, see “Go With the Flow.”)

Smooth the Transitions

Increasing your ability to transition between tasks is another key to improving attention. Failure to disengage fully from one task before moving on to another can leave your mind spinning in loops of chronic anxiety. It can also impinge on your performance at work and in relationships.

In the late 1990s, while working as a consultant, Sophie Leroy, PhD, began seeing many employees struggle to pay attention during meetings. After conference calls, she noticed that distracted participants would often express a desire to have spent more time on a topic that had been discussed for several minutes.

In a 2009 paper, Leroy outlined the phenomenon of “attention residue” — remaining thoughts about one task that distract us from our present one.

Now an associate professor at the University of Washington Bothell’s School of Business, Leroy maintains that strong performance depends on an ability to successfully transition our attention. For example, when we glance at our phones, go to a meeting, and proceed directly to an important conversation with a significant other without taking a break, our brains never get a chance to process information, integrate ideas, or find temporary closure.

“It’s like windows staying open in our brains, and it makes it hard to focus on the intervening work,” Leroy says. “If I am still thinking about task A while trying to do task B, I don’t have the cognitive capacity to process those two tasks at the same time and do a perfect job on both tasks.”

To help manage shifts of attention, Leroy suggests making a “ready-to-resume” plan — a routine to close the task you’re stepping away from and free up your attention for a new activity. This is as simple as taking one minute to write a list of what still needs to be done to complete the unfinished task. When you close that list, you’re ready to move on to the next thing.

In Leroy’s studies, participants who switched tasks without a plan remained distracted and their performance was inhibited. By contrast, those who made a still-to-do list showed improved performance on the next task and less stress from attention residue.

Pausing between activities is a gentle way of bringing awareness into the present moment. It allows us to reflect on what we value and how we want to use our attention. We can mindlessly give it away or direct it toward something with intention. As Linda Stone notes, it’s a powerful choice we get to make, every moment of every day.

This originally appeared as “Play Close Attention” in the September 2018 print issue of Experience Life.

Get the full story at https://experiencelife.com/article/reclaim-your-attention-span/

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