#and then ‘ i’ve seen you climb a crane at night ‘ is referring to the way he loves the 4077th and consistently sticks his neck out for them

[hawkeyeslaughter]

blacked out and when i came to and there were tears on my face and this was on my screen

i’m SORRY if you’ve sent me a request they’re either in progress or on my to do list i’m just insanely unwell over them <3

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

semicolon, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: He knew you. You knew him. Or rather, you both had an idea of the other, only to find that perhaps you connected on a much more carnal, animalistic level. It only took a hotel bar, New Year’s Eve, and the words, “Nice tattoo.”

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; alludes to attempted suicide; intense smut (fem reader, BDSM themes, semi-public exposure, restraints, nipple play, tit slapping, m-receiving oral, pussy spanking, doggy); non-idol!AU; rich heir, dom!Yoongi x tattooed, sub!reader; shifts back and forth between Yoongi’s POV and your POV

–

He was sure it was you.

You had tattoos now. A geometric lotus in your right inner forearm and a filled-in circle with a four-sided starburst around it on your inner left forearm. He observed you turning your head and there was a semicolon tattoo under your left ear. You moved your hair to cover it and nursed your rum and coke, alone. The tight black dress you were wearing was sinful at best. Closer to positively illegal with the way it clung to your breasts and squeezed them together. No one was approaching your table in this hotel bar. It was impossible to approach you when you looked that good.

You tapped at your phone, frowning.

He picked up his glass of whiskey and glided to you.  

“Nice tattoo.”

You froze. Your eyes followed his finger, to your left forearm.

“It’s the symbol of the Sith Order,” you replied coolly.

“Star Wars?”

You lifted your head, raising an eyebrow. Beautiful makeup. Smokey eyes, red lips, your beauty marks visible. You hadn’t hidden them with foundation. He appreciated that.

“Yes.”

He set his glass on your table and slid into a chair. “Aren’t the Sith evil?”

You didn’t respond to that. Merely smiled at him, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Do I know you?” you asked, tapping your nails on your glass. Matte black. Interesting.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure. You had attended to the same university. He could guess why you had the semicolon tattoo, because he had been in the hallway, witnessing the event when the ambulance took you to the hospital. He had been sleeping with a girl on your dorm floor.

Admittedly, not one of his proudest moments.

He cocked his chin to your right forearm. “And the lotus tattoo?”

You shrugged. “Just a recommendation from my tattoo artist.”

He took a slow, even sip of his whiskey. “Any more?”

You rested your chin on your fingers, placing your elbow on the table.

“You’d have to take me home to find out.”

Somehow, he did not think you were referring to your under-ear tattoo. He raised an eyebrow. “A woman like you, unclaimed? I can’t imagine why.”

You chuckled, lowering your hand to sip your rum and coke. “Perhaps it’s just personal preference.” You frowned, wincing, as if you remembered something unpleasant. “And perhaps it’s society who doesn’t like women who have their tattoos exposed.”

He thought about his fair skin. The many times he had thought about getting inked, but chickening out because he couldn’t think of committing to one specific image or words for that long. Perhaps he was fickle in that sense.

“Min Yoongi.”

He didn’t extend his hand, just stated his name. You paused, holding your glass over your cleavage, blocking it from his view. A moment of silence, a beat passing between your eyes. And then you gave him your name. Yes, it was you. The name had seen in the school newspaper the next day. The name that left the school, disappearing after the incident. He often wondered if you were okay. You seemed okay, looking at him with discerning eyes.

“You are the son of the owner of this hotel.”

Yoongi paused. He placed his glass on the table.

“Something like that.”

You raised a brow and placed your drink on your table. Expression pensive for a moment before you spoke again, tone light and playful.

“Well, perhaps you’ll be interested to know I just had a very unsatisfying one-night stand on the fifteenth floor, so I’ve come to drink the memory away.”

His lips curled into an entertained smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You sighed and licked your teeth sharply. “On New Year’s Eve, too, no less.” You tapped your cheek with your index finger. “I suppose that means this year is off to a bad start.”

He looked at his Rolex watch. And then at you and your cleavage, breasts violently pushed together by your tight black dress. His eyes flickered back to yours. You were watching him carefully, aware of his traveling gaze. He smirked.

“There’s still time to remedy that.”

-

There was something about those eyes that haunted you.

You weren’t sure why, because you were quite sure you had never meant this man before. But maybe in a haze, in a dream? You tilted your head. Black hair, half-pushed back to reveal his forehead, dark eyes, pale skin. The kind of handsome that reminded you of midnights and moonlight, with a raspy voice to match. Expensive black suit with ironed lapels, black silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, patterned with the logo of a high-end fashion designer. Crisp white dress shirt, with a platinum tie clip on his slim black tie. 

Well-dressed. Sophisticated. Dangerous.

You did not know Min Yoongi, but it felt like you knew him.

The entire time he was talking, you were watching his movements. For some reason, the heir to this hotel chain was speaking to you. You weren’t that special. That’s how you wanted it. The more anonymous you were, the less people questioned your actions. There’s no way Min Yoongi would know you. And why wasn’t he in the hotel club instead of this quieter, more low-profile hotel bar? Most people wanted to party on New Year’s Eve. The hotel was hosting a huge one at the moment.

You?

You just wanted a good fuck, honestly.

So when he offered, it surprised you. A lot of people would tell you that it was dangerous to have sex with a stranger. A rich man, no less.

But you were also the one with the Sith Order symbol tattooed to your arm.

Your lips curved to match his smirk.

“You got a room?”

He licked his lips.

“They’re all my rooms.”

-

It started the instant the two of you stepped into the elevator. Your long black fur coat was around your arms, shoulders exposed. No purse, because you had sewed pockets into the coat for your belongings. Less to lose this way. Yoongi had taken you to the back of the hotel, through dark hallways and shadows.

“Service elevator. Less people.”

You cocked your head as he pressed the up button, speaking again.

“Less paparazzi.”

You shrugged. “Someone has probably already caught you and posted it on Twitter.”

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. You stepped inside and he shoved you into the wall, pressing his expensive suit into your body as the doors slid closed. Eyes on yours, hot breath in your face.

“No cameras,” he growled softly.

The numbers were climbing up, up. 

Your tongue slid out as you tilted your head. You pressed it against his lower lip. His eyes were so dark they looked black in this lighting. So close to him that you were breathing in his exhale mixed with his pine-scented cologne.

“What are you waiting for?” you whispered. “Give me a taste of your power.”

Should you have provoked Min Yoongi? Maybe not, because his kiss sucked your breath away, his large hands coming up and holding you in place as he teased your lips, nipping at the thin skin, making you gasp into his mouth. He had you pressed into the metal wall of the elevator, one of his legs slipping between yours, thigh pressed into the hem of your short dress. Lips to lips, working you, teasing you with his tongue, not giving it to you.

He backed up a little, breathing down on you and your panting mouth.

“You bought this dress for someone else to take off, hm?” he purred, lips dark pink from kissing you.

“I brought it for the sole purpose of being taken off.” Your chest was heaving, ribcage constricted by the boning of your dress. “It’s not attached to a particular person.”

His hands slid down your head, trailing on your bare shoulders. Sliding into the fur, staring at your face the entire time. Drumming against the slinky fabric of your tight dress as if you were the grand piano and he was the pianist.

“It could be.”

Yoongi tilted his head, lips brushing against yours.

“It could be for me.”

One by one, his fingertips hooked under the hem of your dress, nails pressed against your bare thighs. His hands were cold, sending tingling shivers all over your nerves. Eyes half-lidded, smokey orbs locked with yours. Your lips curved into a succubus’s smile.

“It’s yours now.”

He chuckled, yanking the hem up and over your ass. Chilled air rushed to your naked thighs, your black lace, French-cut panties out in the open. He looked down at your quivering legs and then his eyes immediately fixated onto it. Another tattoo. You watched as Yoongi took it in, able to see it because the boldly printed script was on the space were your right leg and crotch connected, that dip of flesh right above your pussy. His eyes flickered back to you.

He raised his eyebrows.

“’Good luck’, huh?”

You grinned.

“Good luck.”

The elevator dinged.

A housekeeping worker with their cart craned above the supplies to look at you two and then immediately looked away, closing their eyes. Unmoving like a statue. Didn’t try to roll the cart into the elevator, didn’t say anything. They knew exactly who Yoongi was and it seemed like they knew exactly why you were there.

“Come.”

He didn’t take your hand. He simply removed his heat from you and glided through the doors like an elegant ghost. You followed, heels clicking on the floor before touching the carpet. Like your dress, your slim heels were the slightest bit uncomfortable. It kept you at attention and highly aware of your surroundings, even though you had a few drinks.

Your eyes traveled over the lavish wallpaper, the plush red carpet. Over-the-top intricate and extravagant that bordered on gaudy. This was the top floor. The penthouse. You didn’t have to go far. The entire wing was the room.

You wondered why he took you here just for a simple fuck.

Yoongi unlocked the door.

-

“There’s only one stipulation.”

“Tell me.”

You held up the condoms from your pocket.

Yoongi smiled.

-

He was going to tie you up.

You watched as he pressed a button and the metal bar descended from the ceiling, complete with leather straps. You raised your eyebrows. Yoongi watched your expression carefully. The bedroom was dark, only lit by moody red LED lights from behind the bed and low sconces. The color reflected off his pale skin, casting half of his face in shadow.

The button had been behind a locked panel. He was probably the sole owner of that key.

“You are welcome to leave at any time.”

He said the words without emotion. You removed your fur coat, placing it on the oversized black velvet armchair. Everything in the room was in various shades of black and navy, in plush fabrics or luxurious leather.

“You spend a lot on your hobbies,” you commented.

Yoongi smirked.

“Sex is a performance.”

Your eyes connected. He removed his blazer. Like all of his movements, it was a swift and practiced manner, with two fingers hooked around the collar as he walked towards you. He tossed it on top of your coat. Now Yoongi was right next to you, your black dress still bunched around your waist. He did not have a particularly oppressive presence, but it was more like the company of the ocean. Expansive with unreachable depth, strikingly beautiful, and would have absolutely no qualms in drowning you.

Yoongi made sure your eyes were on him.

His long fingers deftly removed his cufflinks, sliding them into his pants pocket before slowly rolling up his sleeves. He was wearing multiple silver bracelets on each wrist, no rings. He folded the crisp white fabric up to his elbows, revealing his lean forearms. He had nice hands. Pampered ones.

“Scared?” he asked casually.

You reached up to the hook-and-eyes at the front of your dress. His eyes followed your movement. One. Two. Your words complimenting the removal of each one. Your breasts slowly relaxed from their prison, held in place by your free hand holding the top of your dress so you could travel downwards.

“Fear is natural,” you whispered quietly. “It is merely a tool in the realm of the strong.”

Yoongi’s lips curved into a slow smile. “Do you intend to speak like that the entire time?”

You chuckled as the last one was undone. “No. I’m only informing you I’m a bit of a masochist.”

And then you released your hand holding up the dress, causing it to unfurl and slide down, stopping at your hips and flaring out like a flower.

-

Yoongi wondered if you did this all the time.

He wondered if this was a product of your life experiences or your instinctual nature. He watched as you slid the dress down your thighs, letting it fall to the floor. You stepped out of it, only in your heels and panties. His teeth sunk into his lower lip.

Yoongi had taken a lot of people to this room. All strangers. Never one he knew from the past, no matter how insignificant. That made you the exception, even if you didn’t remember. His memory was still so vivid to this day.

He let his eyes roam over your body. As he predicted, you had great tits. The dress accentuated them after all. There was another tattoo. Script on the left side of your ribcage. You noticed him looking and turned slightly so he could read it. He had to think. It was in English, like your crotch tattoo, although that one was easier to translate.

“’The world is quiet here’?” he echoed.

the world was written so it was only visible from the front, is visible from the side, and quiet here visible from the back. Printed a typewriter’s font, no punctuation, the placement deliberate and thought-out.

You smiled. “Book quote.”

Yoongi liked it when you smiled. He reminded him of his own, a little hesitant but self-aware of your own quiet confidence. He lifted his hand and placed it behind your head, guiding you to him.

“You are very interesting,” he murmured into your mouth before he kissed you again. Tasting like rum and coke mixed with oceanic blackberry. He had smelled that scent before, although not on skin. He recalled the counter of cologne, the glass bottles with the unisex design. High-end.

On your skin, it smelled like sex itself.

He slid his tongue in between your soft lips, running it over your teeth. Drinking in your gasps, taking it all. He liked it when you breathed into his mouth too. You let it out like smoke, drifting into him. Your hands came up to hold onto his upper arms, steadying yourself. He liked the feeling of your hands as well, the way each finger curled around to grip him tightly. His thrust his tongue in and out, slowly, each moan chaining to the last. His hands in your hair, tangling it up, making a mess.

Yoongi opened his eyes just a crack. They landed on the tattoo in your left forearm, the filled-in circle with the four-sided starburst.

What had made you get a symbol like that tattooed to you?

He pulled you along, still kissing you, towards the metal bar. Turned you around, kissing down your jaw to the back of your neck. His hands slid down your hair, tracing your spine. Fuck. Such a beautiful back, with a lovely curve, so perfect to bend over. He dug his nails into it and you whined under him.

Yoongi didn’t bother asking you if you wanted it. You had a mouth; you could use it.

And you were grinding your ass into his crotch so, clearly, he didn’t have to ask.

He folded your arms behind you, forearm above forearm, tying you to the metal bar with the leather straps. One on each of your wrists, one tucked in the inside your elbows, binding them to each other and then all to the metal. He did not want to cover your tattoos but he had to. The position had you bent over, ass sticking out, tits hanging down, back slightly arched.

“Do I need to secure your waist or can you hold it?”

You turned your head back and raised an eyebrow. The curve of your profile, so perfect against the red light.

“What you need to do is fuck me already.”

He grinned.

-

Yoongi pulled up a chair and sat down right in the front of you.

You gave him a slightly annoyed expression. He smirked at you, placing his fingers on your chin, lifting it slightly.

“I thought you wanted a satisfying fuck?” he drawled.

“And yet nothing is happening.”

“Foreplay is just as important as pounding your pussy.”

You suddenly felt his other hand ghost under your nipple, palm barely grazing it. You tried to drop your body into it but were stopped by your restraints. Yoongi cocked an eyebrow amusedly. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“What are you waiting for?”

His thumb slid up your chin. He pressed it into your lips, forcing it open, rubbing your tongue with the pad of his finger. You made a disgruntled noise, saliva collecting where he touched you. You tried to close your lips but he held your jaw down, grip strong and immovable. Spit was trickling down your chin, covering his fingers and dripping onto the floor.

“Waiting for you to give in to me,” Yoongi murmured huskily.

Your heartrate accelerated disconcertingly in your chest. His dark eyes on yours, consuming you, keeping you in this slightly uncomfortable position. And you wanted it. You could feel it, the heat inside you, stroked from embers to full-blown fire, because somehow Min Yoongi could see right through you and knew you wanted what he was composing.

This midnight was his.

He seemed to know that you came to this conclusion. Maybe your pupils were dilated. Maybe it was your shallowed breathing. Maybe it was your trembling body, shaking at his touch. He removed his wet finger and slid it down your collarbones, smearing your own spit on you, before cupping your breast, squeezing it. You sucked in a breath, moaning his name softly as his other hand matched the first, kneading your breasts, rubbing your nipples with his palms.

“Y-Yoongi…”

You gasped as you felt his wrists slide up and the chains of his bracelets scrape your sensitive nipples, blooming pinpricks of pain over your chest. His palms came back, soothing you, his dark eyes intensely focused on your face, not looking away. His fingers pressed into your skin and he closed them in on your nipples, pinching them hard enough so that you could feel it, but not so hard that it was unbearable. He held you there like that. Seconds ticked past. Long, grueling seconds that felt like hours.

Yoongi was very calm about it as you slowly unraveled in his hands.

You body began to move involuntarily, raising your chest so his fingers pulled on your nipples a little. He still did not move his hands. You couldn’t go far with the metal bar digging into your back. He watched you try different things to get more stimulation, fingers motionless. If you moved too much, you were afraid he was going to let go and not give you more. You craved more. Needed it.

“Yoongi, please… Harder…”

His dark eyes were hypnotizing you.

The position of his fingers changed. He clamped your nipples between the joints of his index and middle fingers. You yelped, back banging against the metal. He pressed his thumbs against the hardened nubs, rubbing them harshly. Expression unchanging, forever on you.

“I thought you wanted it harder.”

His voice was deep, calm, with a hint of raspy delight. The sensation was a stark contrast to what he was doing before, shooting sparks of pleasure through your body. You shuddered, bucking into it, knees collapsing a bit as he stimulated your nipples.

“Hold.”

A single command and your knees locked to obey, entire body shaking. Yoongi pulled your nipples towards him, pushing your breasts together as he did so. Your back had to curve abruptly against the cold metal bar at his action. He lowered his head, trailing kisses along your collarbone. You whined, his touch hard and lips soft, eyelids fluttering as your nipples slipped out from his fingers. His large hands quickly twisted to cup your tits, keeping them up and pushed together as he kissed down the curve, nipping sharply at your skin. Leaving small red marks all over, sucking at some points to bruise you.

He didn’t need to speak. His lips told you everything, travelling all over your breasts hungrily, your swollen and abused nipples waiting, patterning your skin before his tongue snaked out.

“F-fuck, Yoongi…”

The pink tip pressed against the inflamed nub, pushing it around delicately. Strands of black hair framed his sculpted brows and those dark eyes were on you again. He closed his lips around it. Your eyelids slid closed, feeling the softness of his mouth and his tongue swiping all over, swift circles.

Then he sucked, hard.

Your eyes flew open, jutting your chest into his face. Yoongi chuckled in his throat and continued to suck, pulsating around your nipple, scraping his teeth against it. One of his hands came up and matched the rhythm of his mouth, tweaking and assaulting your other nipple forcefully. Your core throbbed with need, soaking your panties so much that they stuck to your folds. The scent of your arousal was getting stronger and stronger, a heavy sweetness.

He released your nipples abruptly and you gasped, feeling him lick a fat stripe possessively over your tits. Saliva dripping down, coating them all over. He removed his hand. You panted, trying to catch your breath.

“What’s my name?” he whispered quietly.

You lifted your trembling head, hair covering half your face. Your knees felt like jelly.

“Y-Yoongi.”

He slapped your tits.

You yelped, his open palm creating hot friction on your abused nipples. It wasn’t a hard hit, but an expansive one that covered a lot of surface area. It was obvious he knew what he was doing. Pain trickled throughout your body, pussy throbbing with need.

“Again.”

“Yoongi.”

He slapped you again, from the other side. You shuddered, sucking in your stomach at the sudden pain that seemed to swallow you up, but somehow it didn’t really hurt, instantly morphing into tinges of arousal. It was probably the way he was looking at you. His appearance was bored, but his eyes were trained onto your body, ink-black pupils shimmering with power in his dark brown irises.  

“Again.”

Your eyes dropped down. He spread his legs. It was like he knew what you wanted. His erection strained against his tailored black slacks. It was impossible to hide with how closely fitted they were to his body. Your eyes went back up to his face. His expression was still unbothered.

“Yoongi,” you breathed, the clearest you’ve sounded yet.

Smack! You whined at the force, back against the cold metal. Smack! A half-moan, a half-sob as you felt his bracelets scrape against your skin. Smack! Your breasts banged together, softness against stinging softness, and it just felt so good as the pain crawled through your nervous system, devastating you. Your head was arched back, staring at the ceiling, mouth open and panting.

Yoongi reached up and pushed your head back down. He used his other hand to trace your lips, smeared with lipstick and saliva.

“I’m going to fuck this hole now.”

There was a short silence. He was waiting for you to say no.

You didn’t say anything.

Yoongi stood up and unbuttoned his pants right in front of your face. Your eyes followed his fingers as he unzipped them. The flaps opened and his cock fought against the smooth fabric of his boxer briefs, swelling as it was released from the confines of his pants. He pressed it into your nose and you inhaled his scent, oppressive and erotic, making you moan hotly against it.

You wanted it in you so bad that your juices were leaking down your thighs.

You felt his palm caress your head, smoothing your hair. He rocked his hips into your face, humping your open mouth. You pressed your tongue against his clothed cock, whimpering at how close it was and yet so far. His words drifted down to you in a low growl, teasing and domineering.

“Good luck.”

He removed his hardness from your face. Your eyes flickered up to him, a smirk on your lips. Yoongi matched your devious expression, pushing down his underwear. His cock sprung up into your vision, overtaking it. Oh, fuck. The head already dark red, leaking pre-cum. Veins standing out along the length, waiting to be stroked by your tongue. It was the hottest image you had ever seen, Yoongi’s smug face above you, his stiff cock so close to your lips that you could feel the heat. And fuck, he smelled so good, as if his pine cologne, his skin, and his arousal made an unholy pheromone combination that made you open your mouth, exhaling hotly over the glistening head.

Yoongi shoved it into your lips with one swift stroke.

You reeled, expanding your throat as he buried himself into it, sucking in a tight breath. It was a skillful, deliberate movement, one that didn’t jar your gag reflex immediately. You had plenty of practice from former encounters to not gag at first instinct, but Yoongi also seemed practiced, as if he had shoved his dick down many throats before.

His large hand fitted around the back of your head. Not moving.

His taste overwhelmed your mouth. Your tongue slid around expertly, running down the length, moaning around him. His eyes were closed but you could see his pink lips curve upward. You closed your own eyes, squeezing him in your throat as your tongue rubbed along the veins, pressing him into the roof of your mouth.

“You do not disappoint,” Yoongi sighed in satisfaction.

He pulled out a little and your tongue instantly went to the head, licking slow circles all over, teasing the opening with your tongue, spreading it out before sliding under to stimulate the thin skin between the head and length. Yoongi moaned above you, your name finally falling from his lips. You did not realize it would have such an effect on you until he said it. It made your thighs clench and pussy throb, agonizingly forced to wait until he was done with your mouth.

He began to thrust into your face, slow but forceful, tipping your head back a little so the head stroked against the roof of your mouth before hitting the back of your throat. You took it, helpless, bent over, knees aching as he fucked your mouth, almost lazily. His hand had a firm grip on your head, pushing himself in over and over.

“Keep it tight for me,” he murmured. “You’re doing so good.”

You closed your lips around him, meeting the base of his cock, your cries muffled and vibrating along his hard length, adding stimulation. You looked up, seeing his tensed jaw, pleasure painting his features, eyes closed. Yoongi wasn’t trying to get off fast; he was trying to build it to a crescendo, and your mouth was his tool to do it. In, out, in, out, each time a little rougher, a little more force. Rubbing your throat raw, jaw aching, but you were so focused on the soft pants coming from his lips that you didn’t notice.

“Your mouth is so perfect,” Yoongi gritted out, rocking his hips a little faster. “So soft and tight.”

His eyes opened halfway and he noticed you staring at him as he fucked your mouth. He inhaled sharply at the sight.

“So fucking sexy,” he mumbled. “You want to swallow me?”

You hummed needily in response, gazing imploringly at him. He smirked.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He rolled his hips, faster, harder. You noticed the muscles in his neck tense, his hand gripping you tighter as he chased his release, fingers digging into your scalp, his cock trembling in your wetness as you sucked your cheeks in. Yoongi clenched his jaw, eyes closing again. His hips smacked into your face repeatedly, your name a low hiss as he thrust particularly roughly into your throat, the head being choked by your wet vise.

“Fuck...”

Sudden, jerking strings of cum shot down your throat, painting it white, pumping straight into your mouth. You swallowed hard, barely able to take a breath before his cock violently shuddered, filling you up with more of his salty, thick taste. He held your head as you gulped around him, groaning as he felt your throat close in on the sensitive head continually.

“That’s it…”

His fingers curled into your hair, lifting it away from your neck and collecting it behind you so he could look down at you drinking his orgasm.

“What a pretty picture and all for me.”

-

His eyes honed in on the semicolon tattoo under your left ear.

It flexed and moved as you swallowed, flickering in and out of vision as the small dangling black gems on your ear hid it. His eyes slid back to your fucked-out face, struggling for breath but being denied by his hold on you.

You might have a personal preference when it came to being single, but Yoongi was a rapacious man, and he wanted to own your mouth. He doubted he could buy it with money, but perhaps he could make you addicted to him. He pulled out of your lips and you whined deliciously.

Inwardly, he grinned like a devil.

Yoongi leaned down and lifted your head, kissing your swollen lips. You kissed him back, starved and hungry for his softness, his gentle touches that were matched by his roughness. Did you always look this good? He wanted you beside him so he could study you, so he could push you to your knees whenever he wanted, so you could resist him and so he could teach you a lesson.

But you deserved the fuck you had asked for. He could smell how turned on you were and he had promised after all. His tongue slid into your mouth and he tasted himself, a familiar taste that somehow tasted better when it was mixed with your saliva.

Yoongi did not think he was going to invite any more strangers into this room after this.

He broke the kiss. Your eyes on him, burning him to the core. He removed his shoes and socks, standing up. Stepped out of his pants, still wearing his shirt and tie. He kept them on as a sign of his power over you. You looked so perfectly submissive, just like this. He had to move out of your line of vision.

There was no way you knew what he was thinking, but he still didn’t trust himself. He did not want to get carried away. He had a job to do.

And that was to fuck you.

He moved around to your quivering legs, seeing your soaked panties. Not commenting, but his cock twitched seeing it, knowing it was him that made you this way. His fingers closed in on the top of them, yanking up. You jerked you head back, moaning hotly at the action. The black lace dug into your skin, seeping into your slick folds. He kept his voice measured despite his desperate need to shove himself into you right now.

“Count to four.”

He dug your panties into you as he spoke and made you whine as he pulled from side to side. The delicate fabric was ripping a little.

“One.”

He spanked your pussy with his large palm. The sound was loud and wet, traveling throughout the entire wing, along with your scream of pleasure. Yoongi was getting hard already listening to you. Even in the low light, he could tell your pussy lips were becoming puffy, reddening. His hand was smeared with your juices and he resisted the urge to lick it.

“Keep going,” he nudged gently.

He heard you panting. “Two.”

Smack! The sound, the sound, it turned him on so much as the lustful moan was torn out of you, your raw throat turning it almost feral. He twisted your panties in your slit, watching the fabric tear slowly against your inflamed skin, drinking in your squeals and whines as he tortured you.

“T-three.”

Slap! His fingers were coated in slickness, watching the wetness splatter between your legs as he hit you. Your ass was backing up into your panties, trying to get more, stopped by the metal bar. If you wanted him to stop, you wouldn’t have uttered the final number, gasping it out hurriedly.

“Four.”

Smack! Yoongi slapped the hardest yet and your knees buckled, almost sobbing. He shoved your kneecaps with his, locking them back in place. Your legs were shuddering hard, barely holding up, but your mouth was telling him a different story, choked gasps of pleasure.

“Fuck, Yoongi, yes…”

He pulled your panties down. They were practically ruined by his grip. That was too bad; they were quite beautiful. He intended on buying you new ones. Perhaps he could come with you to select them.

He paused for a moment to grab a condom, holding it in his hand before returning to you.

“Yoongi, p-please fuck me…”

You craned your head to look at him, the perfect profile. He raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck me with your pretty cock, p-please…”

He stared down at your gorgeous back, the peeks of your tattoos in his restraints, your ass stuck up in the air, pussy lips swollen and leaking from his spanking. He couldn’t see it right now, but he knew the ‘GOOD LUCK’ tattoo was there, right next to your pussy. Yoongi wondered who the artist was.

Perhaps they had been lucky like him.

He felt a surge of annoyance.

Yoongi stepped up to your ass, lifting his cock and pressing the length against your wetness. You started, almost moving away.

“It’s not in you.” He kept his voice even. “You will know if it was in you.”

He exhaled quietly as he rubbed his length and his balls against your wet slit, keeping the head away from you. You were warm, soft, and so, so slick. He was semi-hard, but he could feel himself getting harder as he pressed your ass around his cock, fucking the crevice between your cheeks. He knew it would be better inside you, but for some reason he needed to punish you a little. Needed to let you know that he was irate that there were others before him, that somehow fate cheated him by not having your paths cross sooner.

There was nothing you could do about that, but Yoongi didn’t care.

You were moaning under him, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, your pussy smacking his balls, coating them with your lubrication. He closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy it. Fuck, you had a nice ass, malleable and lush in his hands. He wanted to own this ass too. You mouth, your tits, your ass.

He knew he would want your pussy too once he was in it.

“Yoongi, please…”

He pressed his fingers into your skin, sliding them inward. Held his cock carefully so it wouldn’t leak on you as he retreated.

“Ah, you’re right,” he purred. “You’ve earned it.”

He opened the condom, sliding it on. His cock jerked in his hands, already desperate for what was to come. He was the kind of man who lived under so much discipline that he knew nothing else. Although life could not be controlled, he could control himself and his emotions.

Yoongi pressed the head against your entrance. Sucked in a breath.

Sank in slowly.

Oh.

God.

Yoongi was not religious, but he swore he saw glimpses of heaven the second his cock was fully enveloped by your pussy. It was tight, it was soft, and each ridge clenched around him, roughly stimulating the head after he had mildly edged himself with your ass moments earlier. You pulsed around him, constricting him inside you as the base of his crotch touched your abused pussy lips.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He needed to own this pussy.

Yoongi pulled back and shoved himself back in, gasping at the tightness. It was not because you weren’t turned on. It was because you were clenching around him, pressing your walls inward to choke his cock and, if possible, his cock became harder knowing this, harder as he heard you cry out in satisfaction.

“Yes, Yoongi, yes…”

He began to fuck you, rolling his hips into yours, trying to keep it slow and steady to drive you crazy, but to be honest, he was done for, because Yoongi had never experienced such power, never had a body fuck him back with such force, never heard such delicious, desperate mewls of need as he thrusted into you, slamming your hips together with loud squelches. It was probably a lot, his cock hitting you deep and your pussy already sensitive from his spanking, and yet you told him to hold you tighter, fuck you harder.

“Use me, Yoongi,” you gasped. “You feel so good, fuck, Yoongi, your cock is so fucking good…”

How did you know all the words that made him weak? How did you know exactly how to sound to make him want you more? And you took it all despite your shivering legs, despite your tits violently bouncing with every thrust, despite him pressing down on your lower back to hit you deeper. He watched you throw your head back, a long sinful wail slipping from your lips, hair flaring out like fire and you came all over his cock, pussy spasming and clenching around him.

Yoongi’s eyes widened, hips ramming into you. The head smacked against your tightest spot and he saw stars, the pleasure hitting its peak and plummeting into him, taking his breath away. He shot aggressively into the condom, pumped out by your pussy clamping down around his length, sucking it all out. His eyes rolled back into his head with how good it felt. This had never happened to him before. The moans of his name rang in his ears, encompassing him as his cock twitched inside you, the perfect combination of sound and sensation.

If Yoongi ever heard your voice again, it would be synesthetic experience for him, because he would remember this sound and this feeling for the rest of his life.

Outside, the clock stuck midnight, and fireworks overtook the sky in thundering booms.

-

“Was that a satisfying fuck?”

“Very.”

Yoongi reached over and tucked a spare strand of hair behind your left ear. You sat in his lap, in the armchair with the windows wide open, revealing a perfect view of all the fireworks overtaking the moonlight. It was a bit wasteful for your taste. Not that good for the environment. Yoongi informed you that he would look into more sustainable alternatives.

He pressed his lips into your neck.

“The next time you want to stay at one of my hotels, I will make myself available.”

You chuckled. “Can you afford a pause in your schedule?”

You could feel him sucking a red mark into your skin.

“What else can I do when a member of the Sith Order visits?”

You laughed and he smirked against your newly-made hickey.

-

same au as exclamation mark !

punctuation au dom!myg and jjk | period . | comma , | question mark ? | apostrophe ‘

--

masterpost

[well-its-not-human-anymore]

Hi Hi!!!! So I've been following your account for a little while now and I love every single comedy bomb you drop on what you write so I was wondering....

How would the boys react to their S/O who is usually reserved when at the lair, doing a full 180 when at April's? Like they could be April's roommate or something?....

Like crackhead energy, dishing out memes and vines and literally having a duel with Casey about leftovers in the fridge?... Yeah I know it's very specific 💀

I don't know.....the idea just popped into my head but I lack the creativity and comedy skills for that...so I was wondering if you could do something with this?.....

It's totally fine, if not 😁😁

This is... 100% me. I love this and I'm gonna pour my soul into it. Also I have started mentally referring to these as comedy bombs and I refuse to stop.

Also, I hope you don't mind that I wrote these in oneshot form instead of bullet points. It just made more sense for my brain.

TMNT Oneshots

The boys with a partner whose reserved at the lair but an absolute crack gremlin at home 🤣

Donatello

Donnie may have been a man of science, all logic and facts and numbers and things. But he absolutely believed that everyone had three separate faces, you were direct proof of that theory. While the purple terrapin had known you for nearly a year you’d only started dating a month ago and it shocked him that he was still uncovering new things about you. He loved it, sure, but it had a tendency to give him figurative whiplash.

He’d always known you to be calm and collected, maybe even a bit shy. He swore you’d explode if more than one person tried to talk to you at the same time. So it wasn’t an over exaggeration for him to say that your behavior at home nearly made him break his neck.

He was only there to help April fix a bug in her laptop and to confirm your next date, he was excited to see you since you’d had no contact in person for a week because of your schedules. Just lots of phone calls and exchanged text messages. You both missed each other like crazy and your roommate had neglected to inform you that your boyfriend was coming over.

Hers was already there and he was driving you up the wall, you’d never actually thought about committing a murder but Casey was pushing you very close to the edge of snapping. And he might as well have crane-kicked you off your cliff of patience and into the rushing river of “you little fucking shit I’m gonna piss on your grave” below. You hadn’t even heard Donnie come in through the window much less his conversation with April over her computer.

All you knew was that Casey had come parading into your room like a tyrant eating the leftovers in the fridge that you had specifically put your name on. That did it. Your eyes had skimmed over the top of your textbook to meet the asshole in front of you.

“Casey?”

He couldn’t speak through the mouthful he was trying to chew and grunted in pathetic response.

“Is that my cheeseburger?”

You’d never seen a living person imitate a pug’s facial structure so well, the man’s eyes bugged out of his head and he tossed the takeout box on your desk before turning and bolting out of your room. You followed about two steps behind with a bottle of shampoo in your hand. No, you weren’t entirely sure where you’d grabbed it from, all you knew was that it was your weapon. And it quickly became a very messy problem when it missed your target (Casey’s head) and slammed into the wall, exploding on impact.

You didn’t think you’d thrown it that hard.

“April April help help help helpppppppppppppp-'' The two on the couch had looked up during the chase throughout the apartment, Donnie was mostly curious at what Casey was screaming about. Not a lot usually made the guy make that noise. He was then distracted by April grabbing the laptop and passing it to him, she then clambered over his legs to sit behind him.

“YOU UGLY ASS CROISSANT! FUCKING PANINI HEAD- IT HAD MY NAME ON IT YOU DAFT AVACADO!”

Your boyfriend almost went vertical upon watching you tackle Casey to the floor and knee him in the groin. You shook the terrified man under you and slammed him a little harder into the rug.

“Touch my shit again and I’m gonna make the beaches of Normandy look like a goddamn family vacation.”

Then you climbed off of him and stood, brushing your disheveled t-shirt off with a huff. Donnie caught your attention and you raised your head to grin excitedly at him.

“Hi Dove! April didn’t tell me you were coming over,” you practically skipped over to the couch to peck him on the cheek, “I missed ya, are we still on for Saturday?”

He nodded in complete shock, his gaze flitting from you to Casey, who was still wheezing on the floor and clutching his dick.

“Uhhh yeah! Yeah, yep, Still good for Saturday. Uhm, completely unrelated question, where the hell did you learn to grapple like that?”

You shrugged absentmindedly, already walking to the hall closet to grab cleaning supplies for the puddle of shampoo in the walkway.

“Just kinda picked it up I guess? I’ve watched you guys train enough.”

Leonardo

See, Leo had always known that you were hiding something from him. Be it your true personality or some deep dark secret. He wasn’t really in a rush to find out, you’d tell him when you were ready. The leader enjoyed your quiet disposition anyways, you gave good advice and liked to meditate with him, what more could he ask for? What more could he want?

Well, maybe if you got along better with his family, although he supposed that wasn’t your fault, you always had been a bit shy. Even six months into your relationship with him, Leo only hoped that you’d warm up to his brothers eventually. You seemed to do alright with Splinter, that was a plus for the situation. It wasn’t that you were mean or impolite to the others, you were just… avoidant. Distant, quiet, whatever word you wanted to use. You just didn’t seem comfortable at the lair.

He was excited that April had asked to host a game night though, maybe you’d come out of your shell (haha, see what I did there?) and socialize, even for a little bit. They’d all shown up a few minutes early to make sure April didn’t need help with anything, she’d assured them that everything was handled and made sure to inform Leo that you would be back shortly with Casey from your snack run. Mikey had joked that you’d ditched the get together to avoid them but they all knew it ran the possibility of not being a joke.

You unlocked the door and held it open so Casey could get inside without tripping himself before entering yourself and kicking your shoes off. Leo looked up to meet your eyes and you sent him a wild grin, your entire face lit up with amusement.

“Hi babes! Are you ready to get your ass kicked at Monopoly?”

All the poor turtle could do was nod.

“Good. I did grab drinks by the way, April there should be a mixer in the cooler bag, Donnie there’s some of that lemon lime stuff that you said you wanted to try, Mikey, orange crush as usual, Raph I tried to go for Dr. Pepper but they were out so I figured that root beer was a safe second. And Leo they had a new boba flavor that you haven’t had yet so I grabbed one. If you don’t like it then you can have mine, I just have the peach royal.”

Beverages were tossed and they were lucky that their surprise didn’t throw off their catching skills. You and April shared a quick word in the kitchen as you took your coat off and ran a hand through your hair.

After some arguments team captains were decided and Donnie nearly had a heart attack when you picked him instead of Leo or either of your friends. He even went so far as to point at himself to make sure you weren’t joking. You declared that while you loved your boyfriend his morals were too strong to be competitive, Donnie’s were not, he said so himself.

They were all surprised that you’d remembered that conversation.

It wasn’t until halfway through the game that things started getting heated, you and Mikey were nearly jumping across the table at each other. And it visibly took all of your strength to not burst out laughing when he started yelling.

"YOU KNOW WHAT? THIS IS CHEATING! YOU'RE CHEATING! GET ON TOP OF THE FRIDGE!"

April and Casey were snorting into their arms as you got to your feet and walked towards the kitchen, making a poor attempt at climbing the appliance.

"THIS HOUSE IS A FUCKING NIGHTMARE!"

Raphael

Raph had always been under the impression that you were never really 100% yourself around him, he knew for a fact that you weren’t when you stayed over. He’d never seen someone so aggressively avoid someone, except himself of course. You were his partner of almost a year and it seemed like you were never going to let your true self shine. However you did seem to lighten up when you were alone with him, he supposed that was normal, but you may as well have been a pair of old earbuds that only work when you held them a certain way at the lair.

He honestly hadn’t expected that to change tonight, not given the text that Casey had sent him informing him of April’s recent breakup with whatever guy she’d been dating. So when he climbed in through the window and saw both you and Casey sitting on the floor in front of the bathroom he really didn’t think that the words out of your mouth would be-

“April you’ve got another twenty minutes of this then I’m ripping the door off the hinges!”

Casey shot you a look and you shrugged nonchalantly before getting to your feet and walking over to your confused boyfriend.

“Hey, sorry about this. Casey only texted you as a last resort if he needed someone to stop me from tearing the door off.”

Raph found that peculiar, “Uh, couldn’t he do it himself?”

The man in question looked up from his spot on the floor.

“Nah dude, they’re crazy. Last time I tried stopping them from doing something they nearly knocked my damn tooth out while screaming, and I quote, “If you put your hands on me I’m gonna fucking rip your face off” and quite frankly I don’t have the balls to test that.”

“No no dude, that’s valid. I wouldn’t either. Babe, why are you so-”

You raised an eyebrow at him over a glass of water, “Violent? I’m not Raph. These two just have little bitch feelings.”

He found it hard not to laugh at that and fifteen minutes later when you left his side to approach the door again it sent him reeling.

“This shit’s temporary April. You’ve got nice teeth and a fat ass, stuff your feelings down!”

Michelangelo

There would never be a time where Mikey wasn’t a prankster with you, it was just simply non-negotiable. You were cool with that and he was aware, he was also aware that no pranks were to be pulled at the lair. So he’d reign it in while you visited, just for a short while. But you’d never said anything about the apartment and Mikey was a creature of opportunity.

Unfortunately Leo talked him out of it and forced him not to pull anything while they visited. The leader was already on edge so when he walked in with the others following closely behind you were the first person to see him. Your eyes caught Mikey’s instantly and you might as well have been telepathic at that moment. But you took one look at Leo’s solid, angry face and seized your moment.

They weren’t at all ready for the scream.

“GET YOUR FUCKIN’ DOG BITCH!”

And they also weren’t ready for Mikey’s response of, “It don’t bite.”

And Leo was not ready for the pillow that got whipped at his face at incredibly high speed.

“YES IT DO-”

So when Leo finally realized that they were yelling at him his mood did not improve at all and in fact declined sharply into a pit of “oh fuck”. And that was how you ended up on Mikey’s shoulder getting dragged away from any sort of repercussion for your actions.

These got a little short near the end but I hope you like 'em and I hope I was able to capture what you had in mind! 😁

-Mars 🌠

[btsqualityy]

Assuage: Chapter 16

Yoongi x Reader

Genre: ABO (Alpha/Beta/Omega) dynamics, angst, fluff, smut, enemies to lovers

Warnings: Brief mentions of war and of loved ones passing away.

Waking up the morning after your heat ended was like a breath of fresh air. You weren’t sweaty anymore, the previous cramping that had made itself at home in your abdomen over the last three days was now non-existent and best of all, getting a knot was the furthest thing from your mind. 

When you opened your eyes, it just so happened to be at the exact same time that Yoongi was walking back into his bedroom. You smiled sleepily as you watched him move over to the dresser to rummage through it, no shirt covering his firm chest and jogging pants slung low enough on his hips that you could see the band of his boxers as well.

Ok, so maybe a knot wasn’t the furthest thing from your mind after all. 

“Hey, good morning,” Yoongi smiled once he had turned around and saw you looking at him. He then walked over to the bed, taking a set on the edge closest to you. 

“Good morning,” you replied, moaning softly when he bent down and gave you a gentle kiss. 

“How are you feeling?” He wondered and you paused in order to take quick stock of your body.

“Ok,” you began slowly. “The cramps are gone but my head hurts a little and I’m pretty sure that I’m super sore.”

“I can get you something for the headache and for the soreness, do you want to take a bath?” He offered. 

“Oh, that sounds amazing,” you sighed dreamily.

“Good thing that I already filled the bathtub then, huh?” he smirked.

“How’d you know?”

“Baby, I knotted you at least 11 or 12 times over the last three days,” he told you. “I know you’re Prime and everything but I’d be a little concerned if you weren’t sore.”

“Shut up and carry me to the bathroom already,” you demanded, making Yoongi chuckle.

“Yes ma’am,” he smiled. After picking you from the bed and carrying you bridal style into the en suite, Yoongi set you down on the ground so that you could work on taking your clothes off while he checked the temperature of the water.

“You hungry?” He asked as he turned to look at you over your shoulder, his breath hitching in his throat a little when he saw that you were already naked. 

“Starving,” you nodded, grabbing onto his outstretched hand and gripping onto it as you stepped into the tub. The hot water enveloped you as you sat down and you instantly sighed in relief. 

“Feels good?” He wondered and you immediately nodded.

“Amazing. Get in with me?” You asked.

“Sure,” he nodded, quickly taking off his own jogging pants and boxers before climbing into the tub as well, settling down behind you and allowing you to scoot back so that your back was pressed up against his chest. 

“Mm, thank you,” you said as you sunk down further into the water.

“It’s no problem baby, you don’t have to thank me,” he replied. “I wanted to do it.”

“I know but still,” you huffed. “I didn’t say or do anything weird during my heat, did I?”

“Your memory still hazy?”

“A little,” you admitted.

“Well, you didn’t really do anything out of the ordinary,” he began. “Lots of begging, lots of you demanding that I knot you right then and there. I think you even cried once.”

“Ok, that’s all normal,” you shrugged.

“You also, uh,” he started, not knowing if he should really bring it up or not because he was sure that you didn’t remember and he didn’t want to embarrass you.

“I what?” You questioned as you looked at him over your shoulder.

“You asked me to bite you,” he revealed and even though he couldn’t see you, your eyes widened. 

“I didn’t,” you groaned loudly.

“You did,” Yoongi confirmed. “I knew that it was just the heat talking though, so I told you no.”

“Thanks for not actually doing it,” you muttered softly. 

“Hey, I’d never forcefully bite you or anyone else for that matter without express consent,” he assured you. “I know what mating means to you and I’d never take that away.”

“I know,” you sighed. “Kind of speaking of that, I have a question.”

“What?”

“Did you mean what you said last night?” You asked. 

“If you’re referring to when you told me that you loved me and I replied that I loved you too, then yes,” he nodded. “I meant what I said. Did you?”

“I did,” you responded as you carefully turned over, so that your chest was pressed against his. “I know that we’ve only officially been dating for like a month and didn’t really like each other at first, but I do. Love you, I mean. I just don’t want you to think that it was the heat talking, like with the whole bite thing.”

“You were pretty lucid last night so I figured that you were being honest,” he chuckled. “And the length of time doesn’t matter to me. All I know is that you make me feel a way that no one else ever has.”

“Ditto,” you giggled happily, pressing your hand against his chest in order to crane your neck up and kiss him firmly. His hands automatically came down and gripped your hips, pulling you closer to him so that you were able to feel his semi-hard cock against your lower stomach.

“Say it again,” Yoongi grumbled against your lips and you pulled away in order to look into his eyes.

“I love you,” you told him seriously. 

“I love you too,” he smiled and as he kissed you again, you couldn’t help to to think that you wouldn’t mind waking up to that smile everyday.

.......................................

After spending some extra time in the tub together, you both finally got out, got dressed in more leisure clothes and moved into the kitchen where the two of you worked on making breakfast together. 

Just as the two of you moved to sit down at the small table once breakfast was finished, there was a loud knock on Yoongi’s door. 

“Who the hell is that?” He mumbled, not really liking the prospect of anyone else coming around you with their scent so soon after your heat was over.

“It’s Tae,” you announced and Yoongi looked at you in surprise. “He’s my brother, I could recognize his scent anywhere.”

“Even through the door?” He wondered with a chuckle as he walked over to the door. 

“I’m Prime asshole,” you reminded him and he just shook his head as he pulled the door open.

“Hi hyung,” Taehyung greeted him, his nose promptly scrunching up afterwards when the scents from inside of the house floated out. “What the fuck? Did you drown my sister in cum hyung, or what?”

“You’re disgusting,” you spat as you came to stand next to Yoongi. 

“I definitely did not miss your bravado,” Yoongi huffed.

“Oh please, I’m your best friend hyung,” Taehyung smiled brightly. “You know you love me.”

“Tae, why are you here?” You wondered.

“Oh! Joon hyung called a meeting about the rising tensions between packs,” he said.

“Pack wide?” You asked.

“Elders and high status only,” he told you, which made you eyes widen because that meant that it was serious. “So him, me, you, Hobi hyung, Jungkookie, a few others and some of the elders.”

“No Hyo?”

“Since she’s literally due any day now, Joon hyung doesn’t want to worry her,” Taehyung explained. 

“And just what reaction does he think she’s going to have when she finds out that he called a meeting with only the elders and high status members of the pack?” You demanded to know, only receiving a shrug from Taehyung. 

“Look, if you want to curse him out about that later, that’s between you two,” Taehyung said. “I just came to see if you’d be able to even come to the meeting.”

“My heat only ended just last night,” you revealed. “If I walked into the Head Hall right now, I’d probably send every unmated Alpha into an early rut.”

“I know,” Taehyung sighed before looking over at Yoongi. “Maybe hyung can go for you?”

“Oh, would you?” You asked Yoongi as you turned to look at him as well. 

“Should I?” Yoongi questioned. “If it’s only between trusted members of the pack, then I don’t know if I’d be welcomed. Plus, I’m not even high status within the pack, at least I don’t think.”

“You’re dating Y/N-ah now, your status has definitely risen,” Taehyung smiled.

“Everyone knows that we’re together and besides, you’re just going in my place since I can’t so it should be fine,” you told him. 

“I don’t know,” Yoongi sighed.

“Please baby?” You whispered as you moved closer to him, wrapping your arm around his. “I would really appreciate it and I’ll make it worth your while tonight.”

“Fine,” he relented, smiling in spite of himself when you leaned over and kissed his cheek. “When’s the meeting?”

“In about an hour,” Taehyung replied.

“Well, I’ll have to eat and get dressed in actual clothes so why don’t you join us for breakfast?” Yoongi offered, making Taehyung grin. 

“Thanks hyung,” he said excitedly. You turned around to walk back into the kitchen while Yoongi stepped aside and allowed Taehyung to walk in as well, shutting the door behind him.

“Oh and by the way, you’re so whipped for my sister hyung,” Taehyung smirked.

“Shut up,” Yoongi grumbled, stalking away from him and into the kitchen. 

.......................................

Once they finished breakfast, Yoongi followed Taehyung to the Head Hall, where they were quickly intercepted by Jungkook. 

“Hey,” Jungkook greeted them, giving Taehyung a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to look at Yoongi. “What are you doing here hyung?” 

“I’m here in Y/N-ah’s place,” he explained.

“Uh, I don’t know if Namjoon hyung is gonna let that slide,” Jungkook grimaced.

“Why not?” Taehyung wondered.

“He’s frazzled Tae,” Jungkook said. “And it’s freaking me out because as long as Namjoon hyung has been Pack Alpha, I’ve never seen him being anything but cool, calm, and collected.”

“Oh shit,” Taehyung sighed. “Has Hobi hyung said anything?”

“Namjoon hyung put him under a gag order so he couldn’t,” Jungkook replied. “This might be some serious shit.”

“Well, maybe we should actually go in there and find out instead of working ourselves up out here,�� Yoongi interjected. “And I don’t mind leaving if Namjoon wants me to.”

“Hyung’s right,” Taehyung nodded, reaching out and wrapping his arm around Jungkook’s. “Let’s go.” Yoongi followed behind them as they all stepped into the large assembly room, which was almost shaped like a small amphitheater with a stage that was shaped like a half crescent in the front and rows of chairs surrounding the outside.

Taehyung led them down one of the aisles towards the front, sitting down in the very first row and pulling Jungkook down to sit next to him. Yoongi sat on the other side of Taehyung, waiting patiently as other members of the pack began to file inside as well. 

After about 5 minutes, Namjoon finally walked into the room with Hobi following close behind. 

“Hyung!” Taehyung called out, waving his arm and Namjoon walked down to the front where the three of them were sitting. 

“Hey Tae, Kook-ah,” Namjoon nodded at them before turning to look at Yoongi. “What are you doing here Yoongi?”

“Y/N couldn’t make it because her heat just ended last night so she asked me to come in her place,” Yoongi explained. 

“Did she?” Namjoon sighed heavily.

“I can always leave,” Yoongi offered. “From what Taehyung said, this seems to be very serious and I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, least of all you.”

“No, you’re fine,” Namjoon assured him. “Your status has changed anyways with you dating my sister so that's not an issue. It’s just...other than you reporting back to Y/N-ah, I trust that you know that anything that’s said in this room stays in this room until I say otherwise?”

“Of course,” Yoongi nodded. 

“Alright,” Namjoon said before turning and walking away, climbing the steps to the small stage. He waited until Hobi was standing next to him and until the room had quieted down before he began to speak.

“I’m sorry to pull you all out of your warm houses for this meeting, and with such short notice at that,” Namjoon began. “But we have an issue that has been brewing for some time and I feel that now is the appropriate time for me to let you all know.”

“It’s about the tensions between packs, right?” An elder woman, Boa, spoke up and Namjoon sighed before nodding.

“That’s just the thing, actually,” he said. “Those tensions that everyone knows about are escalating, and escalating quick.”

“Escalating in what way?” An elder man named Jinki wondered, and Namjoon turned to look at Hobi.

“Hobi,” he whispered, motioning for him to step forward and Hobi did so before speaking up. 

“I’ve caught four lurkers on the edge of the pack’s territory over the last three days,” Hobi revealed and there was the immediate buzz of chatter that filled the room. Namjoon then held his hand up, which caused the chatter to die back down. 

“How do you know that that has anything to do with the tensions between the packs?” Jiyoon, another elder woman questioned.

“That’s the thing, we weren’t sure at first,” Hobi started. “These lurkers had no type of pack marker, no similar pack scent, and they all swore that they didn’t know each other.”

“But to be on the safe side, I decided to do some digging and contact our brother packs, the Im pack and Choi pack, in Busan and Daegu,” Namjoon added. “Turns out, they both have had a suspicious increase of lurkers on their properties as well.”

“Well, who do you think it is?” Jungkook wondered. 

“I think it’s the work of Seo-hyun,” Namjoon confessed and the gasp that radiated through the room at that name was loud enough to send shivers down Yoongi’s spine.

“Fuck,” Taehyung whispered.

“That piece of shit is still causing trouble!” Yoongi heard a familiar voice shout and when he turned to his right, he saw Kibum standing up out of his chair. 

“Let me finish,” Namjoon called out and the room settled back down. “Now, we have no official confirmation yet but between the lurkers on our properties as well as the properties of our allies and the fact that Seo-hyun’s pack has been the main pack resisting any and all attempts of easing tensions, I’d be highly surprised if this wasn’t all his doing.”

“Why don’t we try sending some representatives over to Seo-hyun’s territory to try and make peace ourselves then?” A younger Alpha named Baekhyun suggested.

“You guys know his history,” Namjoon stated firmly. “Whoever I’d send, he’d smell their pack scent and kill them right then and there just to spite me and I won’t gamble with anyone’s life other than my own.”

“So where do we go from here then?” Boa demanded to know.

“The best thing we can do for right now is to be on guard,” Namjoon said. “It is very possible that he’ll try to come in and stage a coup so we need to be ready just in case. Also, if any of you see this man,” he paused to hold up a photo that Hobi handed him, and Yoongi felt all of the blood drain from his face. “Then you come get me, Hobi, or even Jungkook immediately. Do not engage, because this man will not hesitate to kill you.”

“There will also be an increased amount of people doing patrol duty so if you do it, please see me after this meeting for the new schedule,” Hobi added. 

“And remember, this stays in this room until I can gather more concrete information,” Namjoon reminded everyone. “Alright, meeting adjourned.”

The chatter immediately started up again and Yoongi, Taehyung, and Jungkook stood up when Namjoon and Hobi stepped down off of the stage to walk over to them.

“You couldn’t have given me a trigger warning before showing that picture hyung?” Taehyung mumbled and it wasn’t until then that Yoongi noticed how pale Taehyung’s face had become. 

“I’m sorry Tae-ah, but I had to do it,” Namjoon apologized.

“Want me to take you home?” Jungkook asked Taehyung as he wrapped his arm around him and Taehyung nodded numbly before allowing Jungkook to lead him out of the room. Once they were out of ear shot, Yoongi turned to look at Namjoon and Hobi again. 

“Why’d he react like that?” Yoongi wondered.

“Seo-hyun is the man that killed our parents,” Namjoon revealed. 

“And that tried to kill my mother,” Hobi added angrily and Yoongi knew that in that moment, he probably looked as pale as Taehyung had before Jungkook led him away. 

.......................................

After staying behind to talk with Namjoon and Hobi for a while longer and receiving the new schedule for patrol duty, Yoongi made his way back to his cabin alone. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, it was dead silent and Yoongi almost thought you had left until he saw your jacket and shoes still in their places by the front door. 

Once he pulled off his own jacket and shoes, he walked down the hallway to his bedroom, pushing open the door and glancing inside. You were laid out in the bed, tangled up in the blankets that Yoongi had bought for you as you slept soundly. Smiling to himself, Yoongi stepped inside and paced over to the bed, sitting down on the edge next to you.

“Y/N-ah?” He whispered, reaching out and setting his hand on your lower back. “Baby?”

“Yoongi?” You murmured sleepily as you opened your eyes, yawning loudly afterwards.

“Hey,” he replied. “Sleep good?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I washed your bedding and the blankets and I just couldn’t resist them when they were so warm straight out of the dryer.”

“I get it,” he chuckled. 

“Get in with me?” You requested and Yoongi nodded, waiting for you to scoot over before he laid himself down, laughing when you immediately snuggled into his side and wrapped your arms around him. 

“You still feeling alright?” Yoongi checked. “Not too sore?”

“No, the bath earlier helped a lot,” you told him. “Tell me what happened at the meeting.”

“Oh, well Namjoon was telling us that Hobi caught multiple lurkers on the pack’s territory while you were going through your heat,” he started.  

“Seriously?” You gasped. “Do they know who they are?”

“They aren’t sure but Namjoon did some digging and he said that he thinks it’s Seo-hyun,” he said and he didn’t miss the way that your breath hitched when you heard that name. “Namjoon told me who he is and I’m sorry Y/N-ah.”

“No, no, it’s ok,” you sighed. “I just didn’t expect that. So what did Namjoon say that he plans on doing?”

“He’s increasing the amount of people on patrol duty at any time and basically just told us to be looking out just in case,” he finished. 

“God, I really hope that it doesn’t escalate into another war,” you groaned. “I don’t know if I’d be able to go through that again.”

“Well if it comes to that, I’ll fight for you,” Yoongi told you and you just looked up at him, smiling softly. 

“Aren’t I lucky?” You giggled as you pushed yourself up a little, giving him a gentle kiss. When you pulled away and snuggled into him again, pressing your nose to his scent gland, Yoongi couldn’t help but to try and figure out how in the hell he was going to tell you the truth. 

.......................................

Tag List: @jikook-enthusiasts @veryuniquenamegoeshere @seolarsyj @littlrmills14-blog @preciouschimine @kt-rny @copenhagenspirit

[halfway-happyyy]

oh my GOD i cannot stop thinking about going out for the night to hang out w friends and getting so drunk that when alex comes to pick u up u forget he’s ur boyfriend 🥺 and when he reminds you you’re like “!!!!!!! me !!!!! how did i get so lucky !!!!!!!!!” n ur looking at him like he hung the moon and he falls in love with you all over again bye this image lives in my head rent free i swear

what a soft, lovely thought!!!

*

As all messy night-outs usually begin, she had gone into it with the intention of keeping every single one of her wits about her. She had actually heeded her boyfriend’s advice for once- “one glass of water per each alcoholic beverage”, she had viewed his full figure leant against the threshold of their front door before she left, large hands placed in the pockets of his denim jeans. His worn t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and she was glad that tonight- unlike most nights, she would have him to sidle into bed next to when the evening ended.

“Come here kid,” He murmured. “Let me kiss you once more before you go, hm?” Her lips turned up into a wide smile as she closed the distance between them wordlessly. He had an innate way of holding her like she was the most precious thing in the entire universe. Like if he let her go, she might shatter into a million little magnificent pieces. He held her face in his impossibly warm hands as he kissed her like it was the last time he would ever do it again. When he pulled away from her, he was out of breath and he gestured to her purse on the glass coffee table in the front entrance, “Can’t forget that.”

She reached for it, slung it across her body, and smiled at him. “What would I do without you?”

A car horn blared in the distance and Alexander shrugged his shoulders, a smirk tugged at the edges of his lips. “Let’s hope we never have to find out, hm? Your chariot awaits, kid.” His blue eyes sparkled merrily in the low light of the glowing hallway lamp, and the delicate creases next to them spoke volumes of the happiness that he exuded on a near-constant basis.

She swallowed hard; her hand poised on the doorknob. “I love you, Alex- just in case that big old sky ever falls on our heads.”

“I love you too, kid. Please be safe. Call me when you’re ready to come home.”

*

“One more babe! It’s my birthday!” Her best friend tried on her best Vana White impersonation and waved her hand tantalizingly down a row of pink coloured shots.

She eyed them suspiciously; her world had started to spin on its axis a few moments ago, and she swallowed hard. “I’m feeling a little ill.”

Her friend giggled and picked up a shot, waving it beneath her nose. She watched the liquid slosh out over the sides, and land on her friend’s white dress, causing her to erupt in a fit of giggles. Her friend shook her head, oblivious to the stain blooming steadily in the gauzy material and hiccupped. “Nonsense. One of these and you’ll be back to tip-top shape.”

“You spilled broken down golfcart on your dress.” She hiccupped and pointed to the stain.

“You’re not getting out of this.”

She took a deep breath and accepted the shot from the birthday girl, tilting her head back and pouring the liquid down her throat. She shook her head and winced as the alcohol singed the lining of it like smoke. “Alright. That was the last one. I’m calling Alex now.”

Her friend’s pout turned into a devilish grin, and she shrugged nonchalantly. “Let’s see how many we can get in you before he gets here…”

In hindsight she could not definitively say why she had agreed to play that game but come morning she would regret it. She was seated at the bar with some of her other girlfriends when he arrived, and even though her ringer was on and loud, she had missed the three previous phone calls announcing his arrival. She was clutching a glass of water in her hand when she spotted him, and her mouth went dry. She leaned over to her friend, a bold move considering she nearly fell off the wooden stool. “Don’t look now,” She whispered a little too loudly. “But that may be the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Her friend’s eyes widened in excitement and she craned around to see who she was referring to. When she caught site of Alexander, her face dropped, and she let out a loud giggle. “Girl, that’s your man.”

She watched him approach them in horror. “My man?”

Her friend stared at her in astonishment. “Did your drink get spiked?” She leaned back and tapped the girl next to her on the shoulder. “Were you watching her drink?”

“My man?” She repeated in unconcealed awe.

Her friend gaped at her. “Yes! You guys live in a beautiful home together!”

Her eyes narrowed as she mulled this over. “Do we have dogs?”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “Yes, two horribly cute ones.”

“Good evening, ladies.” Alexander appeared behind them; his opposing figure cast a long shadow over the bar as he bent down to press a kiss to the apple of her cheek. “Hi, kid. Is there a reason you did not answer any of the phone calls I sent you?”

Her friend cleared her throat. “She’s uh… she’s in rough shape.”

Alexander nodded slowly. “Alright, let’s get you home, hm?” He helped her up from her chair and held on to her hand as she bid goodbye to the rest of her friends. “It’s a bit cool out tonight so I brought you a sweater,” He murmured and draped it around her shoulders as they took their leave from the bar. “We’re parked right outside, my love.” He held onto her elbow as they stepped out into the October evening, and opened her side of the door for her to get in. Once safely buckled up, he made his way around to his side of the car and climbed in. She still found it a little hard to believe that this specimen of a man was really her person. That somehow, possibly by the grace of god, she had managed to reel this one in. Stopped at a red light, he turned to her and frowned. “You alright, kid? You’ve barely said a word…”

She opened her mouth to say something, and instead of any actual words, she hiccupped loudly. “I had a lot to drink tonight.”

Alexander closed his eyes and dropped his head to laugh quietly. “Yep. I know.”

She hiccupped again. “We’re together?” She had meant it to come out as more of a statement than a question, and Alexander blanched.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She swallowed hard and squinted her eyes. “How on earth are you this attractive? Like are you even real? This could be one of those dreams…”

Alexander’s blue eyes widened, and he let out a breathless chuckle. “Let me stop you there, kid- you and I are together. We have been for over three years now. We have gone home to Sweden multiple times- my family adores you. We have a home, and in that home, we have tons of artwork and we make meals together, and we have Max and Sitka- and they are the best dogs in the entire world.”

She nodded her head slowly. “Okay then answer me this, you giant Nordic Adonis. How on earth did I get so lucky?”

Alexander was quiet as he pulled into the driveway in front of their home. “I ask myself that question constantly.”

He helped her from the passenger seat, and up the cobblestone pathway to their front door. Upon entry, the dogs in which he had just told her about wagged their tails happily at the return of their beloved owners. “Hi puppies.” She murmured breathlessly.

“They’re happy to have you home, kid.” Alexander whispered. “And I am too.” He helped her up the stairs to their bedroom and got her changed into her favourite pair of pajamas. He left her momentarily for the washroom and when he returned, he was laden with a glass of water and two Tylenols. “Open up,” He murmured, and she did as he was told. They fell into bed together, and she cuddled up immediately on his chest, her head tucked safely under his chin. Alexander hummed quietly to himself and kissed the top of her head gently. “I love you kid- just in case that big old sky ever falls on our heads.”

[andromedia5]

For the writing prompts, could you do BatCat for 13?

She came and went. That was her whole thing, that was the basis for everything. That was just how she was, just how they were. It was just Selina being Selina.

He couldn’t fucking stand it. And yet he understood it. He knew her, knew why she needed to feel like she could always leave. It was so he couldn’t leave her. Which broke his heart into about a million pieces.

Bruce tugged at the eyes of his cowl. He was going to have to ask Alfred about putting some padding or something to stop it from digging into his brow. His old one hadn't done this. Just because Lucius didn’t think the previous model was perfect didn’t mean it hadn't worked. Well, kind of worked. It’s not like a small concussion was that big a deal, he was only twenty one.

He didn’t have much to do tonight. Crime had gone down slightly in the last few weeks and he suspected that the general opinion of Gotham’s underworld was that if they waited him out, The Batman would go away. They had held off on anything major, leaving him with just a few low level thugs. All low level except her.

As much as he probably shouldn’t, Bruce admired Selina. Much of the initial awe at someone his age who could and did do things for themselves has worn off years ago but now as Batman. . .

He had gone halfway around the world, getting training from Cain, discipline from centuries old tests of indurence, and a God knows how many dollar suit, designed by one of the most brilliant men he knew. And Selina, true to form had side stepped the work, ignored or stole the resources she’d need and ended up being better then he was anyway. She was really good at this. Selina, or Catwoman had gone for simplicity and style over anything else. She wasn’t going out looking for a fight like he was. Her goal was to be in and out before she ever had to bare her claws. That didn’t mean she backed away from a fight when he showed up.

Bruce had tried reasoning with her at first. Tried to talk her out of this.

‘Just give me the necklace, Cat. You can walk, I won’t try to stop you,’

She hadn’t even answered, he just heard the crack of her whip and felt it wrap around his ankle. That had been when she pulled. Hard.

His head had smacked against the floor (hence the concussion from his first mask) and his vision separated before the two Selina’s morphed back into one and he jumped to his feet. She was laughing, and flipping backwards into slow backbends, dodging the lasers as they moved.

Cat got up gracefully at the entrance to the museums gem display, standing under the skylight she had cut a hole in, her dark tan skin glowing in the moonlight.

‘Shit’

“Let me help you Selina,” he had called out, feeling awkward and second guessing the cape. Was the batsuit, or whatever they were calling it too much? It felt like too much. Especially when she looked like that.

“Bat,” she called out, climbing up to the ceiling, “I appreciate the offer,” from where he was standing it looked like she was smiling. Why was she smiling, this was a robbery? This was a robbery, why wasn’t he stopping her?

“But I don’t need your help,”

That was the last time he had let her go (and he had let her go, no matter what Alfred had said as he held the ice pack to his head). It’s not like he was going to hurt her for real. Fighting with her didn’t bring the same frustrations of feeling more like a kid playing dress up then a white knight or whatever he was supposed to be. Fighting with Selina was . . . a game, kind of, he wasn’t sure exactly. It was confusing, she was confusing and he felt sixteen again every time, because she was infuriating.

And he loved every second of it.

Which is why he noticed when it had been weeks since he had seen her. On a rooftop, at a gala, in a bank, a jewelry store. He didn’t give a damn where, but if he went one more night without her trying to steal something-

That sounded bad. Bruce didn’t want her to break the law. But he wanted her to sneak into the manor late at night, wanted her to perch on the arm of his chair and ask about any scratches like they hadn’t come from her. He could act the part of the playboy but it was still Selina he wanted there in the morning.

Bruce sighed and checked the time. It was almost four am. She wasn’t going to show up. He should probably loose the cape.

It was too early when Alfred woke him up, afternoon sunlight pouring through the the windows as the drapes were pulled back by his very clearly sadistic butler who turned on the shower, told him to stop sulking and go shave, turned an abrupt 180 and left the room muttering something about teenagers. Bruce would have shouted back a reminder that he was an adult but the fact that he currently had burrowed into his covers to avoid the daylight seemed to hurt his point.

The rest of the day was filled with Alfred trying to fit all the calories he missed by sleeping through breakfast into one meal (he could live with protein powder but it didn’t belong in orange juice) and being quizzed on board members and their wives. Because on top of everything a bunch of people he didn’t care about were coming to his house.

If Carter Hearst didn’t stop talking about his newest secretary like she was a piece of meat he was going to stab a steak knife into his own thigh. Or the shriveled old man making his way through a bottle and a half of scotch. Both would work. Bruce was trying to silently communicate to Lucius a message to save who ever this woman was and have her work for literally anyone else, when he saw her.

Barely a second and it was only a glimpse of the side of her face before she disappeared back into the crowd but everything in him knew it was Selina. He didn’t even realize he was craning his neck till Lucius’s foot connected with his ankle disapprovingly. Right, yeah, people.

“You’ll all have to excuse me,” he said, grinning broadly trying to really turn on the charm, do anything to get him out of the table. She was not slipping through his fingers like this, not when he hadn’t seen her for months.

“I see an executive I really do have to talk to. You all know how it is, I’m sure.”

“Which executive?” Lucius asked, feigning interest as the old man tried to keep the laughter off his face. Bruce glared and desperately tried to think of a name off the Wayne Enterprises directory.

“David Clemonte,”

Lucius took a sip of his drink and rubbed his beard thoughtfully “I could’ve sworn I remember Daniel telling me he wouldn’t be able to attend tonight,”

Was there a way of him faking a medical emergency that would require him to get to Selina? No, right?

“Ahh no, he was referring to the benefit in July. My mistake,”

Bruce was able to manage a forced chuckle before he all but sprinted away. She was out one one of the balconies that opened from the ballroom. He ran a hand through his hair and walked out to join her.

“Cat,”

Selina turned and everything in his stomach tightened. She had her hair pulled up to one side with a clip and earrings made of tiny gold strands brushed her shoulders. Her dress was black with straps crossing back and forth over her back and two slits in the skirt up her thighs.

“Hi,” she said in a way that made it very clear he had been caught staring. “Nice party, don’t really know anyone but I guess that’s what happens when you gatecrash,”

“I don’t either, not really,” he pointed out, taking a sip of her champagne, which if he was being honest, he preferred a thousand times over to the dark amber whiskey he had drank with the board. “These things are boring when you’re gone,”

Selina looked uncomfortable but laughed it off, and it sounded fake and hollow “Yeah well, I am kind of your only friend,”

“That’s not why I missed you,”

She turned away from him, staring out at the garden “I’m sorry,”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he didn’t know why she was. It’s not like they were . . . she didn’t owe him anything.

They were silent for a moment before she turned to him, took her glass out of his hand and tipped her head back, finishing it off with so little class it made him smile.

“Do you ever feel a kind of deja vu? Ever since,” Selina’s eyes flicked upwards to the roof and she smirked, “you know. Like we’re starting again but we both know we’ve done this before,”

“Groundhog’s Day,”

Her brow furrowed “I’ve never seen that movie,”

Bruce rolled his eyes “Okay, this and Star Wars, really?”

“Why would I watch boring movies? I’m pretty.” she teased and everything seemed to fall back into place. “Besides not all of us grew up with movie theaters in our house.”

“I know that,” he said sheepishly.

Selina snorted, that weird little snicker she did every time she had him beat, but she was smiling.

“What do you know?”

“I missed you,”

[bramadian0336]

Black Honey- Chapter 1

A Kylo Ren/OC fanfiction

Jeyna is a scholar whose obsessed with the legend of Revan, a famous Jedi and Sith from millennia ago. She has found the first of many star maps, clues to something Revan left hidden, but her studies catch the First Order's attention. Captured and interrogated, she is expecting to be killed once she has no more information to give. Instead, she finds herself working for Kylo Ren.

Warnings: Eventual Smut/Explicit Sexual Content, Language, Mild Violence

Chapter 1

The little girl knew better than to be in this room. For the entirety of her brief life so far, she had been forbidden from entering it. Her mother had sternly enforced the rule, not even permitting her to peek beyond the doorway.

But her mother wasn’t home, having left in a hurry but promising to come back as soon as she could. The little girl had tried to behave, to play and to avoid that room that called to her. But inevitably she had been drawn to the door, her hand extending to the knob. Like magic, it turned and creaked open a few inches before she could even lay a finger on it.

And now here she stood, in the small room that was barely more than a closet. It was almost disappointing, if not for the strange object she found her gaze settling upon. It was taller than her, exotic looking.

She crept closer before giving a childish, worried glance behind her. She would be in so much trouble if her mother caught her. She should leave the room and go back to playing, she decided. Despite this thought, however, her feet stayed firmly planted. Her ears pricked as she realized she heard a light humming. Eyes widening, she instinctively knew it was coming from the object. It was shaped like a square pyramid, dark, reflective. She stretched her hand out, suddenly wanting to feel it. Would it be hot, or cold to the touch?

The instant the skin of her fingertips connected with the side, it split open, the sides folding down. She jerked backwards, dropping her hand as guilt spread through her. Now her mother would know what she had done.

Before she could process the utter terror her immature mind associated with disappointing her mother, an image was projected above the base of the object.

It was a holorecording of a man. He had dark, thick hair and intense eyes. A thin scar ran from his left eye down to his mouth, but somehow it didn’t mar his handsome face.

He looked too tired, but began speaking. The little girl listened in awe, wondering how a recorded image of a man could seem to look right at her.

“Revan. Day 134. Still nothing to show for my search,” he begins, sounding dejected.

“I’ve had nothing to do out here but contemplate my life’s decisions. Far away from the hyperspace routes, from even the most remote outer rim planet…I sometimes question how anything can exist. I fear the silent dark of the unknown regions might very well drive me insane…” The man shakes his head, his eyes stormy. The little girl wants to look away but finds she can’t tear her gaze from his. Something about him is compelling, something in her knows this is important. “Everything I have done, I’ve done to protect our civilization. The threat I have seen from outside is greater than any war we have ever faced amongst ourselves.”

The little girl hears the door to her home, and she knows her mother is back. But she doesn’t know how to stop the recording. She doesn’t want it to stop. What is the man talking about?

“Jeyna! JEYNA!?” Her mother’s panicked voice is screaming suddenly throughout the home. The girl startles and turns, confused. It is then she hears the noise, one that she cannot yet place. One day the sound of it will haunt her nightmares, almost every night.

The sound of the first bomb falling on her small village.

18 Years Later

The little girl grew into a young woman, and that young woman threw herself into her studies. Research, archives, archaeological expeditions…it allowed Jeyna to fixate on something purposeful, something that she found fascinating. It should be little surprise that her chosen area of research was Revan. The prodigal Jedi Knight, and Dark Lord of the Sith, from thousands of years before her time.

She still remembers the man’s face, the somber timbre of his voice, as if she had seen the recording just yesterday. She remembers his vague reference to a search, to some threat from outside the known galaxy. It’s a mystery she’s been working on, sponsored by various universities, for most of her adolescent and adult life. And now it has brought her here.

Dantooine - Now

Jeyna races through the cave system, stumbling on chunks of rock and narrowly avoiding hitting her head as she has to run hunched over to fit through the passage. She’s unfamiliar with her path, as it’s not the same way she had entered the ancient vault. However, it's now her only way out.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps as she forces herself to go as fast as she can through the dark maze, hoping it's leading her to light and freedom. Behind her the stormtroopers’ shouts are echoing, reverberating off the rocks and surging towards her. Her heart hammers in her chest as her mind struggles to catch up with the current situation.

The First Order is here, on the peaceful farming planet. And they’re coming after her.

Jeyna pushes herself faster when she realizes she sees daylight, the path becoming uphill quickly. The muscles of her legs burn as she climbs, eventually having to use her hands to grab at the jagged rock. It scrapes and cuts into the flesh of her palms as she scrambles upwards, the light growing stronger. She can see beams of light now ahead, coming around a corner. She’s nearly out of the cave when the stormtroopers erupt into the space behind her.

“FREEZE! STOP WHERE YOU ARE!”

The shouts of the many identical uniforms blur together, and Jeyna ignores them not out of defiance but terror. As she reaches the top of the incline, a blaster shot rips through the air and impacts a large boulder near her shoulder, showering her with fragments of stone.

She staggers, almost falling in surprise, before righting herself and lurching forward. Around the corner, and she can see it. The mouth of the cave system, dead ahead. Jeyna pushes her sore muscles to move as she sprints forward, only to falter.

The sunlight dims as stormtroopers step in front of the opening, blocking any hope of escape.

One Week Later

Are you working for the Resistance?…What does the Resistance want with the Holocron?...How did you get the Holocron to open?...What does the map lead to?... Where are the other pieces of the map?... What do you know of the Ritual of Nathema?... Who is your contact with the Resistance?...What are you trying to find?

The questions they’ve bombarded her with for days blur together in Jeyna’s mind, as sleep deprived and stressed as it is. She’s answered their questions, time and time again. She hasn’t bothered to hide anything. She isn’t a Resistance operative, after all, she’s merely a scholar. Their war doesn’t concern her.

It doesn’t matter. Still, they hurt her. They wake her from her sleep, strap her onto the cold metal board. They ask her the same questions, over and over again, as if her answers could suddenly change. They don’t bring her food, and her stomach is past grumbling. It feels hollow, burning, pained. They don’t bring water, either, allowing a med droid to supply her with IV fluids to rehydrate her. It keeps her alive but leaves her mouth and throat parched and painful from her screams.

Jeyna twitches her limbs, restricted by the cold metal cuffs. This is the worst part of it. At least when they are done with her for a few hours, she can lay on the floor and curl into herself. But here, strapped to the board, even her head restricted into place, she can’t block out her situation or escape from the terror and pain.

The door slides open, and she is expecting more of the same men to appear. What she isn’t expecting is Kylo Ren, second in command behind only the Supreme Leader of the First Order.

A wave of relief crashes through her at his recognizable mask and dark robes.

Jeyna knows the rumors about Kylo Ren. That he is violent and ruthless, prone to literally slicing through his enemies on the battlefield and even those that anger him within the order. She doesn’t care about those rumors, though. The ones Jeyna cares about are regarding his abilities with the force.

Supposedly, he can enter someone’s mind and see everything they are trying to hold back. He can read memories and secrets like a book.

And so she doesn’t tremble in fear at his approach, but rather she feels the sweet relief that perhaps her nightmare is almost over. Of course, the logical part of her brain that is still hanging on knows that once he sees she has nothing more to offer in her mind, she will likely be killed. But at least, Jeyna reasons, this marathon of sleep deprivation, starvation, and torture can be over.

His approach, which had started with a purposeful stride, hesitates for a moment. That strange mask he wears tilts to the side, as he contemplates her. She wonders what he is thinking, if he is curious about something, as the door behind him slides shut again and he seems to just be staring at her from behind the metal.

Jeyna draws in a painful breath, waiting. He is huge, she realizes, tall and broad. There is an energy around him that even she can pick up on, heavy and thrumming. Finally, he moves again, coming to a stop in front of her. He is too tall, she attempts to crane her neck to look up at the mask. The back of her skull presses into the hard table, aching. She sees his hand twitch, and suddenly the metal holding her to the interrogation device releases. Her legs barely catch her, almost giving way when she lands on them. She has to grab on to the sides of the table behind her to steady herself on weak, strained muscles.

He turns and strides across the room, to where the metal table and chairs sit. She hasn’t even approached it during her confinement. All of her time has been spent trapped on the interrogation device or on the floor, exhausted and wishing for sleep.

To her surprise, Kylo Ren sits in one of the chairs. His mask fixes onto her face again, and he gestures slowly at the table.

“Sit,” he commands. The mask strips his voice of humanity, of emotion, making it mechanical and unkind.

She stumbles forward obediently, pulling out the chair and practically falling into it.

“I find myself interested in your studies, scholar,” he says idly, as if making pleasant conversation. “I’m going to look inside your mind to check the veracity of your prior statements.”

Jeyna nods slightly, having expected this. The feeling of relief returns, accompanied by sadness. He’ll see she’s told everything she can, and he’ll have the stormtroopers come for her. Will they give her a blaster shot to the head? Or just shove her out of an airlock?

Ren reaches forward a hand, low, hovering above the table. The palm of his black glove is up, as if waiting. “Try to not resist me. It will hurt less,” his mechanical voice says quietly.

Her eyes widen slightly in surprise at his advice, before the pressure starts in her skull. It’s like the atmosphere is suddenly too heavy, pressing down on her head from all sides. And then she feels it, she feels him. It’s as if something is inside her brain, crawling around, sliding through her thoughts.

Jeyna instantly resists on instinct, willing away the intrusion. She is met with blinding pain, throbbing and shooting and making her eyes see nothing but static.

“Don’t resist,” he orders, but she can barely hear him. She tries to obey, to give in. She accepts the pressure, the uncomfortable sense of wrongness that his presence in her mind causes. She feels tears leak out of her eyes at the sensations, but the pain dulls gradually.

When her vision comes back to her, it is swimming. The room is rotating nonsensically, and she grips the edges of the table and fights waves of nausea. Her fingers hurt from the pressure she applied trying to dig them into the metal, and she consciously releases her grip. Slowly, her vision stops spinning and she can focus her eyes again.

Kylo Ren sits across from her, silent. Waiting. She raises her eyes to his mask, and bizarrely wishes she could see his face. Even if it was hideous, even if he was twisted by the dark side like the rumors said… Jeyna would like to see one last face before her death, instead of masks.

He cocks his head slightly to the side again. “You do not work for the resistance,” he states finally.

“No. Like I told them, I don’t work for anyone,” she says, her voice coming out hoarse and frustrated.

“You are wrong,” Ren says, suddenly standing. “You work for me now.”

Jeyna is left staring after his imposing form as he strides to the door. It slides open for him to exit, and she is left alone to process what he has said.

Next chapter: https://bramadian0336.tumblr.com/post/646500010079485952/black-honey-chapter-2

Chapter Index:

https://bramadian0336.tumblr.com/post/646403464799404032/black-honey

[alcego-writes]

Indigo is for harmony - day six of @violetvineyardnetwork‘s 2020 Pride Event!

June finds Winnie during the climactic sequence of The Road That Follows and goes to great lengths to pull her out of her trance-like state, even as the world crumbles around them.

Length: ~1,500 words

Warnings: Body horror, violence, blood, and references to cosmic horror.

Tag List: @maxgraybooks @howdy-writes @ladywithalamp @violetcancerian @daltoneering (Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

           They stand beneath a bruised blue sky, in the eye of the hurricane, and June is trying to breathe against the wind. She's lucky to be as she is, to be neutral, to carry the quiet with her. She's lucky.

           She is.

           Static curls around June's skin, sparks off of her clothes, and she's sure that she should be burning—that she should feel something other than that cold pit of despair in the depths of her gut. But she's empty of anything else because she's looking at Winnie, and Winnie's looking at her, and the woman she loves is not there.

           Winnie's eyes are bright, the whole of them colored and unnatural, glowing a blue that's nearly white, so unlike the deep brown that June has lost so many hours in. The cosmos burns within her, an ever-shifting haze of color sparkling beneath her dark skin.

           She's been consumed, and June breaks at the sight of her—of her Winnie moving like a puppet on broken strings. June backs away, boots digging their teeth into the soft clay beneath her, pulling on her, making her feel as if she's sinking into the earth with every step.

           A piece of debris whips through the wind—that unnatural, violent wind—but June doesn't notice. Doesn't feel it graze her face, hardly even notices the blood on her face as it spills down her neck and onto her sweater. The sweater that Winnie bought for her.

           "Winnie," June says, but it comes out as a sob. "Winnie, look at me."

           Winnie—or what's left of her, anyway—does nothing of the sort. Those eyes haven't seen anything but the mind-bending ways of the universe in days, weeks, maybe longer. June doesn't know when it started, when her vision left. She hates herself, then, for not noticing it sooner. For not realizing that Winnie's migraines were nothing of the sort.

           "Come on, Win." June takes another step back, feels her foot slip even as the clay gives out beneath her. She tumbles backward, catches her fall with her elbow. Her eyes water with the sting of it, her head knocks on the ground beneath her, and her mouth fills with the taste of salt and iron—with the acrid taste of blood.

           She needs to get up. There's no time to indulge herself in pain, to do anything that isn't stopping the thing that's pressing into the fold of their universe, wreaking havoc on their world.

           She needs to get up, but she's not fast enough.

           Winnie enters the ditch in the withering, bone-churning way of the power within her—and June can't keep doing this. Can't think of Winnie like this, won't survive the night if she has to grapple with the thought of Winnie like this. It's Winnie's puppet, she thinks, because thinking of this aimless thing before her as Winnie is too much, far too much to handle.

           She doesn't handle it fast enough, though, because Winnie is already upon her.

           June cries out as Winnie's puppet touches her skin, sends electricity up her spine. Back contorting, spasming, tearing, June gasps, coughs like she's forgotten how to breathe.

           She crawls on the ground, pathetic and powerless. She's pulling herself through the mud and clay with her elbows, her only thought to writhe away from the puppet. Her lungs feel empty, like they'll never be full again.

           "Winnie," she gasps. "Please, this isn't you."

           Hesitation. It's brief, but June feels the puppet's pause just as clearly as she feels the muscles in her back ripping themselves to shreds.

           "Winnie," June says again, fear shaking her voice. But it's a stubborn sort of fear, the sort that turns her bones to steel, that quiets the voice of reason in the back of her head that's screaming for her to get away as fast as she can. "It's me—it's June."

           She flinches as Winnie reaches for her again, loses her balance and falls to her back with a crunch, finds herself staring at the shifting, impossibly bruised sky above. Realizes that Winnie missed, and cranes her aching neck to see, to hope—

           —and Winnie is bracing herself on her hands and knees, the light beneath her skin churning like a storm, and it's enough.

           "I know you, Winnie," June says, rolling onto her belly, pulling herself toward Winnie. "This isn't you—it's got hold of you. It's in you, Win."

           Winnie turns to the sound of her voice, and June swears the glow of her impossibly blue eyes flickers with recognition.

           "Don't you see?" She chokes on a clump of spit—or maybe it's blood, bile—coughs it out. Her head feels full, dizzy. "You're hypnotized."

           Her arms shake as she pulls herself forward, the unmistakable grit of clay catching beneath her nails and in the cracks of her hands. She's so close, less than an arm's length away...

           Winnie looks at her, watches, mouth parted slightly as she pants.

           June grimaces against the pain lodged beneath her ribs, against the tightness of her chest, and closes the distance. The static buzzes against her skin, raises the hair on her arms, her neck, her back, her head. She holds out a trembling, dirtied hand, and the static swells, swirls away from Winnie's skin.

           Sucks some of the cosmos out of her.

           Winnie gasps. The swirling mass beneath her skin changes hue, turns to red, to blue, to the white of a wick of flame. The acrid smell of burning hair fills June's nose as the hair on Winnie's arms spark a frightening blue, as Winnie's hands flex like a child grasping for the mother, as she looks at June with those unearthly eyes.

           June grits her teeth, forces her fingers to Winnie's wrist. Contact hits her like a punch to the gut, as if she's touched a telephone wire instead of a person, rattles her teeth and makes her bones brittle.

           June holds on.

           Because she can see Winnie.

           Not the puppet, but the woman within. She's still there, her presence muted, her soul damp and hidden from sight. June would know her anywhere, in the touch of her lips, the sound of her breath, the turn to her eyes.

           And she sees Winnie now, in the way her eyes pull tight as a tear—an opalescent, beautiful, glistening tear—streaks down her cheek and onto the sodden earth beneath them.

           "I'm here," June whispers. "I'm here, Win, I've got you."

           It takes a herculean effort to pull Winnie's body to hers, to wrap her arms around Winnie, to hold Winnie's head to her chest, but June does it. Even as her eyes burn with the energy dripping from Winnie's skin and crackling against June's, the energy turning to static when it touches June's skin.

           Even when June thinks she'll die before Winnie is safe, she holds on.

           She holds on until Winnie's tears soak her skin, until her pants turn to sobs, until her hands are grasping at June's shirt, her nails digging into June's back as if Winnie fears June will fall apart if she doesn't hold on tight enough.

           And June thinks that she might, in that moment. Her need to be the strong one is fractured as her lungs burn beneath the weight of her breath.

           She buries her face in Winnie's hair, and she's not sure if she's holding Winnie or if Winnie is holding her. In this moment, she doesn't think she cares.

           "Winnie?"

           A rough sniffle. Then: "June. I didn't mean- I didn't want to..." Winnie trails off, holds June tighter as she tries to find the words for this. Settles for, "I don't know what happened."

           "It's okay," June says.

           Winnie whimpers as she takes in the depth of the destruction, as she takes note of the hurricane raging around them. Fear shivers through her like power, drawn into June by means neither of them understand, and June closes her eyes.

           "I'm here now," she murmurs. Those three words come together to mean you're safe and don't go and I missed you.

           Winnie's shoulders shake as a sob tears through her. "I'm so sorry."

           "Don't be."

           "If it weren't for me—"

           "I'd have been dead before we even had a chance," June says, summoning just enough strength to sit up and look Winnie in the eye. "I wouldn't be here without you."

           "But," Winnie stares at the storm wall, "this is my fault."

           "No."

           "It is—"

           "You weren't you, Winnie. Everything that it made you do, none of it's your fault."

           "If I'd just snapped out of it sooner..."

           June turns Winnie's chin so that they're eye to eye. "You can't change it now," she says, hoping she sounds confident instead of tired. "It's done. It happened."

           "Yeah," Winnie says, tearing her eyes away from June and climbing to her feet. "You're right."

           June kneels there like man before his god, watches as Winnie walks to the storm wall and gingerly touches it with her fingers. Watches the wall respond to her touch, wrap itself around her arm like armor. Winnie glances back at June, and her eyes are glowing again.

           "But I can fix it."

           Then she steps into the storm, and she's gone.

[r3inventedd]

Scarlet (A Billy Hargrove Story)

Chapter 1

He had never been a big fan of red heads, especially since the shithead monkey came along, but he thought that color was hers and hers alone. It drove him crazy.

A huge thanks to @stevesscoops and @pedropoop for editing and offering some awesome advice!!!!! This is the first time I’ve posted anything I’ve written in years so please let me know what you think! More to come soon...

Man. It really pissed him off. Like it really pissed him off.

It was just so fucking annoying. How could she sit there like that for hours? Sit there and read in that dumb shithole that no one ever went into.

Better yet, how did she get paid to sit there for hours on end, barely moving other than to turn her page and take a sip out of the same mug she used every day? What a fucking loser, Billy thought to himself as he took a drag of his cigarette. It infuriated him, the way she sat there staring at books and listening to music through her Walkman. It’s probably that classical shit the nerds listen to, he mused with an acid laugh. It’s goddamn pathetic.

Billy’s pink lips pursed around a cigarette as he took a long drag. A look of complete distaste etched onto his slightly tanned face as he watched the oblivious girl from his bright blue Camaro. It had become an almost masochistic ritual for him as he sat, parked outside the town arcade waiting for the pet monkey he never wanted.

Max, the aforementioned monkey, had practically become obsessed with the arcade since moving to the shithole town of Hawkins, Indiana. So, every day after they were done with their respective school days, Billy was stuck taking her to and from the cesspool of middle school nerds. And since Max always found a way to be late, Billy had to wait in his Camaro with nothing better to do than watch the inhabitants of Hawkins.

The first few days consisted of him flicking his Zippo lighter open and closed as he openly ogled what the women of the town had to offer. With his curly blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, and a bad attitude, the women of the town happily let him look at whatever he wanted. Most guys would have gotten told off for such behavior, but Billy knew from the moment he laid eyes on Buttfuck, Indiana he would have it wrapped around his finger.

Eventually though, he grew tired of the “scenery” Hawkins had to offer. His cerulean blue eyes darted between the few other stores that lined the street until they settled on a girl with red hair, so dark it almost seemed purple.

She was sitting behind a counter on a stool that was clearly not made for comfort. One arm was supporting the weight of her head on the counter, while her other hand rested of the page of whatever book she was reading, poised to turn to the next. Billy couldn’t see what the book was, but he could tell by the thickness it had to be an exceptionally long book.

Licking his lips, his blue eyes combed over all that he could see. Her deep red hair was tossed to the side of her body that was resting on the counter, so he could see her face. It wasn’t anything particularly special, Billy decided. She was pretty pale, but so was everyone in November in the Midwest.

He could not make out much else since he was across the street and then some.

Billy strained his eyes that were covered by a pair of dark sunglasses so that he could see more details. He could tell that she was pretty small in height. The way the oversized turquoise sweater she wore engulfed her body proved that.

He craned his neck to make out some of her lower body but when he couldn’t, a sharp pang of annoyance shot through him. He pushed his sunglasses down his nose slightly to see if it would help his view. It didn’t.

Just as he was about to get out of his car to get a closer look, the passenger door of his prized Camaro opened and shut quickly, making him jump and his sunglasses fall into his lap.

“Fucking shit, Max!” He barked out with a sharp glare in her direction.

She muttered a low apology, gripping her skateboard tightly. “Lost track of time. I won’t do it again.”

Billy looked over at her the redhead in his passenger seat, taking a better look at her than he probably ever had. He never realized how different red hair could be, comparing his fake sister to the girl across the street.

Max looked at Billy’s contemplative face. It was a face she had never seen him make and that left her extremely unsettled. “I know you said 5 o-clock sharp, but I couldn’t see the clock,” coming up with any excuse to try to avoid whatever punishment she assumed he was planning.

Billy’s eyes shot to the clock on his dashboard that clearly read 5:50pm. Had he really been staring at that girl in the store for that long? He chanced another glance in her direction to find that she was still in the same position she had been in when he first noticed her.

She must have been completely focused on the book she was reading, completely unaware of the world around her. Billy immediately felt jealousy bubble up inside him towards her for being able to escape reality. Even her ability to sit still for that long of a time made him practically itch for another cigarette.

His hands were constantly on the go. If they weren’t holding a cigarette, they were playing with his lighter, combing through his hair, or tapping to the rhythm of a song, or finding their way onto the curvier parts of a woman’s body.

With a cough to clear his throat, he pushed down any feelings of envy and turned the key in the ignition.

Billy concluded that the girl in the storefront must have been a pretty big fucking loser to like books so much as he drove past the almost empty store.

But there he sat, months later, staring at the book worm with an oddly strong amount of contempt even for Billy. It had never taken much to get him to dislike a person, but this girl had never even looked his way. He had gotten closer over the past months, parking further and further away from the arcade and closer to the store.

He could now see that she had freckles dusted across her nose and on the top of her cheeks, a few others dusted over her forehead and chin.

Her eyebrows were a dark brown, making it clear that her purple, red hair was not natural. Green eyes contrasted brightly with her pale skin and artificially colored hair. Billy couldn’t decide how he felt about that. He tried to imagine the girl with a hair color other than that particular shade, but he couldn’t. He had never been a big fan of red heads, especially since the shithead monkey came along, but he thought that color was hers and hers alone. It drove him crazy.

For months he watched this girl read book after book in a store that he still did not know the function of. The name Whitman’s written above the glass windows gave away no hints either.

Billy still didn’t know her name either. At first, he just referred to her in his head as ‘the girl.’ Then ‘the loser.’ Then ‘the book loser.’ Finally, while he was watching hair shine in the strip of sunlight that penetrated the glass that shielded her from himself and the rest of the world, he decided that her name had to be Scarlet. Just like one of the characters in the X-Men comics he used to obsess over as a kid. A fact he would vehemently deny. Only geeky little shits like his stepsister’s new friends read comic books, and he certainly was not one of those. But Scarlet had to be, so the name stuck.

Billy knew that she had to be a complete social outcast. He never saw her outside of the small shop once. Something he found nearly impossible to be true in such a small town. Not to mention she did not look old enough to be out of high school, but he had never seen her in Hawkins High with the rest of the miserable teenagers in the town.

For a short time, he honestly thought Scarlet was a figment of his imagination. However, the theory was disproved when Max’s curiosity got the better of her and asked her stepbrother why he was always staring at the girl in the store. Naturally, Billy responded by shouting something along the lines of, “Stay out of my fucking business” and vague threat of what could happen if she didn’t.

That was the only time Scarlet had even been mentioned outside of his thoughts, but it was enough to assure him he wasn’tschizophrenic.

Billy thought about asking Tommy or Carol about her, but every time he thought about, something stopped him. He didn’t want anyone to think he noticed chicks like her. It really wasn’t his fault for noticing her anyways. With her hair like that, he told himself, she had to be looking for attention.

Though, it seemed that she never got it.

The familiar sound of Max climbing into the passenger seat signaled it was time to go. Without even acknowledging the young girl, he shifted the Camaro harshly into drive and sped towards his father’s house. Thoughts of Scarlet were discarded until the next day.

As Billy Idol blared from his speakers and the engine purred, he thought about what he would wear on his date that night with Michelle B… or was it Michelle R? Either way did not really matter to Billy. As long as he was satisfied by the end of the night and away from his father, he did not give a shit what the girl’s name was.

Unfortunately for him, later on that night Michelle A-Z gave quite a big shit when he moaned the wrong name.

They had been in the back seat of his car, parked on the edge of a field outside of town. She eagerly hopped onto his lap, doing her best to show him that she was better than every other girl in Hawkins. As she ground her hips against his, he moaned in pleasure, only thinking of putting his dick in something wet.

The next thing he knew, he was driving Michelle A-Z home as she went back and forth from screaming and crying about how her name was Michelle….. shit he still couldn’t remember. All he recollected was her saying through sobs that her name was definitely, unmistakably, irrefutably not Scarlet.

[imnotcameraready]

Caesura (chivalry au)

A/N: you know how people in chivalry keep referring to a public demonstration of sorts? well. :) 

this has been sitting half-finished in my files for a while now, and i figured i should finish it. i was just kinda in the mood to kick roman’s ass so i finished it up!

WARNINGS: oh god. Remus Mention, Torture, Public Humiliation, Whipping/Caning, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, self-torture, drug mention, Blood, a lot of blood, Chunks of Flesh, self-deprecation, Graphic Depictions of Wounds, Insults, Delirium, Disassociation, Verbal Abuse, Self-Hatred, Temporary/Pain-induced Memory Loss, Hair Pulling, Choking, heat - Freeform, Burns, Burning, Sun Burns in particular, Passing Out, Swearing/Cursing — golly, that’s a lot! let me know if i’ve forgotten anything!!

Words: 4404

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST <-- I HEAVILY RECOMMEND READING THE REST OF CHIVALRY IS DEAD BEFORE THIS! 

enjoy!!! <3 <3 <3 <3 

no roman line break because if i look my son in the face as i post this i might cry

The Thief hopped onto the roof, then bent down as he slid down slow against the tiling. He stopped himself at the edge, resting a hand against the building’s spire. He was standing atop the church, the one in the town’s square. Four blocks away from the castle in the innermost walls. This was the closest he’d gotten to the castle so far; until now, he’d been opting to just hide in the tree until this whole tournament of champions passed. But the invitation to witness….

It couldn’t be real. 

There was already a gathering in the square. He didn’t know where the Dragon planned to come from, where they had that other Roman — the Damsel, the Damsel in Distress? He couldn’t remember a Damsel but it wasn’t like he’d stayed to hear all their names — nor what the Dragon had in store. It was a vague invitation and he didn’t plan on staying long. 

The crowd didn’t have defined faces. Some were very recognizable, though. The Thief could pick Sleep out in the crowd, near the back and leant against a wall, Starbucks in his hand. He’d probably report back to the other Shorts characters. They’d all developed a coallesed group over the years and while they weren’t always friendly to one another, they all understood that they had equal importance in the Imagination. Sleep was the most neutral of them, with a fan following that ensured he’d never die. 

The Thief winced. He hoped that Prince Dude was doing alright, hopefully hidden somewhere in the town. He used to flit around the castle, no actual power but a charisma over the unnamed townspeople that ensured he was respected like royalty. It would be a little weird if he ran into Prince Dude out here during this, but like with most things, the Thief would probably just fade back into the shadows and go home. Considering the little time he spent outside either the castle or the tree, it was improbable that he’d ever run into him.

On another rooftop, lower and closer to the town hall, atop the library actually, was the Bard. The Thief had seen him a few times over the past two days, so much so that he might consider him a friend. Gosh, it’d already been two days? He wondered briefly how long it’d been in the real world. Would any of the other Sides notice?

Had it been long enough? Would they ever notice?

Wasn’t like they regarded Roman as more than a pawn for their own gains, despite how Roman loved them. The Thief wouldn’t fault them for that, though. And he’d never told. 

He longed for any of them to just….touch him. Not even in any sexual way. He’d been having dreams of how Virgil would lean his head against his shoulder during movie nights, how soft Patton’s hands were when he ran them through Roman’s hair. Even Logan’s firm grip on his wrist as he led him around the Mind Palace, to the library, then to Logan’s room, then to the kitchen, bathroom for first aid, Roman’s room, anywhere. 

Now, don’t be getting tender. This was a piss poor time for those idyllic dreams. 

The Bard was sitting cross legged on the roof (he wouldn’t be able to escape as fast) and was holding a ukulele in his lap (could it serve as a weapon?) while his mouth was open. He must have been singing a song. There was a blanket or something in his lap, an amorphous black blob. How long did he think they’d be out here for?

Of all the counterparts, the Thief found the Bard most agreeable. His non-hostile characterization made it easier for him to hold conversation, because he didn’t ask too many questions and wouldn’t murder him. Or maybe it was less that he was quiet and more that the Bard just didn’t shut up about himself.

He chuckled. 

The black lump moved in the Bard’s lap, and the Thief frowned. 

Oh, no, no fucking way. He did not. 

The Thief squinted across the square, then clicked his tongue. 

Oh, god damn it, he did. The Child was sitting in the Bard’s lap, plucking at random ukulele strings. 

He’d brought the Child? They didn’t know what the Dragon was going to do, but it didn’t seem like something that the Child should witness. 

Though, the Thief thought while bobbing his head, it was probably safer to keep the Child at his side instead of leaving him at home. Who knows if the guards would break in. He wouldn’t it past the Dragon to send that kind of strike while at an event like this. He wasn’t sure if the Dragon was thoughtful enough to consider that sort of tactic, but, well….

“WHO WANTS TO GET THIS PARTY STARTED!” a shout from below. 

The doors to the town hall opened with a bang, and the Bard immediately clamped his hands over the Child’s ears. The Thief rolled his eyes, figuring he’d have to talk about how to be an actually good parent, maybe he could get Dad Guy’s help in that, wait, wasn’t his whole character about how he was kinda an irresponsible parent? Maybe Teacher Dude?

Something was being rolled out of the town hall. A platform, with a peg in the middle and raised on some wheels, was being rolled out. 

A stage. This bastard wanted a stage. The Thief hissed, running his hands through his hair and shoving them harshly into a crossed motion on his chest. Hold it together. You had to watch. Bear witness or something like that. 

The guards pushing the stage stationed it out in the middle of the crowd, locking its wheels with blocks and surrounding it themselves. Did they think any of them would try and save the poor sap? The Thief knew he wasn’t, and he had a suspicion no one else would, either. 

The town hall’s doors opened again, and the Thief craned to see. 

Out walked who the Thief can only assume is the Dragon. He didn’t know what he expected, but whatever those expectations were are being vastly overlooked in lieu of the Dragon’s tackiness. I mean, really, a whole cape? It was floor length, billowing after him, and then there were actual literal horns coming from his head? Hang on, he just took a breath — it’s not cold enough for there to be condensation, was that smoke?

The Dragon was really taking this villainy thing to the next level. The Thief’s peasantry clothing beneath his cloak was at least white, if a little grey and dirtier than usual. The Dragon didn’t have a single spot of white on him. 

Beside him, being pulled along on chains around his neck and wrists, was the Damsel in Distress. An apt shortening would probably be the Damsel, since the Thief would be damned before he spoke more than two syllables to identify a Side. 

A pair of guards followed them out, making that six guards in total around the podium. As they approached, the Dragon shoved the Damsel’s head down and handed his chains off to one of the guards. He motioned toward the post, giving quiet instructions, while the Damsel starred numbly at the crowd. 

Maybe he hadn’t known what would be happening. That’s what it seemed like. 

The Dragon climbed onto the stage first, then the guards led the Damsel up, tugging him along like a dog on a leash. 

“AS SOME OF YOU KNOW!” the Dragon stepped in a circle, around the stage’s perimeter. “THE PRINCE IS DEAD!”

As he spoke, the Damsel stood on the platform, swaying slightly. The Thief watched him, curious of his movements. He was wearing white pants and a black tank top. No shoes, though they’d probably been removed for this performance. 

This was probably a performance. Nothing more. Roman wouldn’t intentionally do something this self-torturous, no part of him. The Thief squatted, then rested his head on his knuckle. He couldn’t place where he’d seen this Roman, the Damsel. He wasn’t paying attention during that initial meeting, none of them really were, what with them getting into arguments and threatening to kill each other and what have you. And if the Prince was really….dead. Then it stood to reason that the Dragon would continue killing them off. One by one. 

Of course, this was a threat. Who else would be on the Dragon’s hit list?

Instinctively, the Thief’s eyes floated to the Bard and the Child. 

Pacifists, he was sure. One was ten years old, and the other, well….

The Child tried to lean out of the Bard’s lap, neck craning to see what was below, and the Bard pulled him closer to his chest. Blocking his view, just as the guards kicked in the Damsel’s knees and grabbed his chains. They threw them around a peg in the post, and the Damsel was knelt on the ground, chest facing outward with his arms just barely held above his head. He didn’t make any move against the bindings, too.

“You shouldn’t have brought him,” the Thief mumbled to himself, unable to stop the judgement from flowing out. Really, though. A whole ass child. 

He wasn’t sure what kept the Bard there, either; he knew him to be more of a lover than any sort of fighter, much to the Thief’s chagrin.

On top of that, he wasn’t sure where the other two were. Perhaps the Playwright was watching from a distance. He’d insinuated that he could do that. Where the Artist was, though, he didn’t know. There was no way he wasn’t present, though. How could any of them have turned this opportunity down.

“AND WITH THE PRINCE DEAD,” the Dragon was walking in circles now, slow with his cape trailing after, as though circling his prey, “WE NEED TO THIN OUT THE CROWD. DECIDE WHICH VERSION OF ROMAN IS WORTH KEEPING.”

Murmuring in the crowd. The Thief even saw Sleep shift upright, looking intrigued. They’d all known that the split happened, everyone knew about the two Creativities, but none of them had been around for it. Or, well, none of the ones who were there at the time remembered it. Everyone had undergone changes through creative development, so much so that their memories beyond backstories and plot-relevancy were muddled.

No one knew how Creativity settled unto the Prince and the Duke. The Thief guessed they were about to find out. 

The Dragon must have seen everyone’s focus turned to him, because he grinned even wider, barring sharp fangs at the world. His eyes gazed across the crowd in reverence. A real drama queen.

Meanwhile, with one hand, he grabbed the Damsel’s arm and spun him around. He gave a shout, but spun nonetheless, hugging the post. He seemed disoriented, to the Thief. Had he been drugged beforehand?

Had he fought back? 

The Thief slid down the building more more, resting his feet against the chimney as he watched. He wasn’t sure what kind of public humiliation the Dragon was going for, but having invited all of the others, he knew it wouldn’t be good. What did ‘Worth Keeping’ mean?

“HOW DOES ONE DECIDE?” the Dragon raised his hand. 

There was a black whip glittering in his hand. 

The Thief saw the Bard cover the Child’s eyes with one hand, and his mouth with the other. Even the Thief’s mouth hung open slightly. 

What he was insinuating was torture.

No part of Roman was that cruel, right?

“YOU KILL IT!” 

The Damsel lurched when the whip cracked against his back, but made no sound himself. The whip made a snaping sound, loud like the thunder of last night’s storm. 

The Thief didn’t know what the Bard did after that. He assumed they’d stayed, because he assumed that the Bard had just as much morbid curiosity as he did. His eyes were glued to the scene but he didn’t process a single strike after the first. It all merged together into lines of blood, drops of red flicking off of the glittering whip. 

The Dragon was laughing. 

He heard that. He heard the laughter. 

None of the other characters moved, either. Everyone stood, or looked away. 

After the first few strikes, the Thief shook his head, trying to physically clear it, and averted his gaze to the crowd. Sleep had disappeared. Some of the less processed characters were still watching, but everyone who had ever interacted with Roman at all seemed to be averting their eyelines. 

No one wanted to watch. This was gruesome. 

A loud scream rang out, and the Thief’s attention snapped back. The Damsel finally gave in, screaming, crying out in pain as — it wasn’t a whip any longer. No, it was an obsidian cane, glittering and black but sharp as a knife. Had it changed into a cane? When? Could the Dragon do that?

The Dragon paused, stepping forward and yanking the Damsel upright by the hair. Even from this distance, he could see the Damsel trembling like a leaf. Blood was oozing from his back, coating his legs, even his face had spots of it. 

He looked like he was saying something. Perhaps the Thief should get closer. If there were words being exchanged, sentiments and the like being discussed, he would want to hear. It might help him get the edge on whatever quagmire the Dragon would create after this….what would he call it? A demonstration of power, maybe? Of prowess? Of Roman’s weakness, most likely. 

Jesus, this was already so tiring. The Thief couldn’t wait to go home, back to the tree. Brew some hot chocolate, curl up in his bedroom, amidst all his blankets and pillows and the soft matress. Watch the sun set. 

Another shout drew the Thief’s attention once more. The Dragon had the Damsel pressed to the post, holding him up by the neck while his back bled out against the wooden pole. More words were exchanged, and the Thief looked around the rooftops. He could try and sneak into the crowd, but he looked way too identifiably Roman. 

Speaking of. He looked up at the other rooftop. 

Oh, dear. The Bard was crying. He seemed to have a firm grip on the Child’s head, was pressing him against his own chest in an effort to make sure the Child didn’t look. And it wasn’t like the Child was trying to look, either, as he curled into the Bard’s chest.

The Thief grunted, squatting down. He wanted to get closer. He tied his waistbelt around his cloak, so it wouldn’t flap as much, and shimmied on his feet further out one of the stone gutters. The Dragon was still looking down at the Damsel, talking about something or another. 

He didn’t look up or indicate that he saw the Thief hop between one gutter to the next. The Thief grasped onto the roof, sliding himself down by holding onto the metal window bars of the building he was on and landing, as soft as he could, on the balcony below. He climbed off of the confined area and walked out closer to the edge. Then, he broke into a run. 

The best seat in the house was, in fact, the town hall. The Thief jumped across the gap between the two buildings, rolling upon landing as—

“I WILL LIGHT YOU ON FIRE, YOU KNIGHT IN FOOLS’ GOLD ARMOR,” the Thief sank into a criss-cross at the roof’s edge as the Dragon shouted threats again at the trembling Damsel.

He didn’t scream when the cane whipped against his back, squelching much more than it snapped. His back was gridded with lines, unidentifiable now because of, you know, the copious amounts of blood that he imagined he was covered in. Was there even a layer of skin to be shearing?

He deserved this. Yes, he did. He was a horrible purveyor of dreams, defender of hopes. Hopes? When was the last time he’d felt those? Was it a year ago? Two? 

He couldn’t remember. 

His body arched without his command, away from the clip of the cane, but Roman could barely feel it anymore.

He couldn’t feel anything anymore, not really. Not the tips of his fingers, barely the whip against his back. Soon, hopefully soon, he wouldn’t even feel the cold grip of life. 

Someone’s hand brushed through his hair, the tips of their fingers grazing incredibly soft against his scalp, and he whined. Please? Please, his body leaned into the touch, tugging at whatever was holding him by the wrist, by the neck, please, he wanted this so badly, he wanted to be held, he WANTED!

“You’re pathetic,” his own voice spat back at him, and a swift kick landed in his stomach. 

Roman coughed, or cried out, but whatever sound was there died in his mouth. He curled around the leg, body tugging lamely against the chains. Why was he doing this?

A better question, whispered into his mind, was why hadn’t he done this before? Why was he parading around like he was some king, deserving of praise and reward? 

He didn’t deserve it. 

“So gullible, so weak,” he was yanked up again by the hair, tugging at his scalp in a semi-comforting way.

He could feel slips of his skin tugging off. They must be curling, like pencil shavings or a banana’s peel, curling down and springing back with every time his adversary pulled him upright. 

“I hope you’ll die soon,” he clicked his tongue, disgusted by the sight that Roman had become, “You’re getting blood all over my suit.”

Roman laughed, coughing up blood. It trickled down the side of his mouth, down his jaw. He’d screamed that hard, huh? 

The arrogance that he used to be filled with was coating the back of his mind, and he knew he had to snark, return the banter. Was it even banter? It had to be. 

His voice was nothing but air, and it hurt. It stung so much to speak. 

“It’s a red suit.”

He drew in a breath and whined, closing his eye. It hurt. 

He didn’t want it to hurt anymore. 

Roman had wanted this earlier, before he knew what it’d feel like, how warm a day it would be. The sun boilt down on him, sizzling his blood into permanent stains across his body, more permanent than anything Imagined should be. But he didn’t want to boil, and he didn’t want it to hurt anymore. 

It hurt.

Someone would come. Someone would save him, yes. 

But did he deserve that? No, god, no, of course not.

“But it’s not blood red. You’re discoloring it,” the person dropped him again, tossing his head aside and letting it snap against the metal leash, “You’re so stupid. Useless. You can’t even die in a good way.”

Roman didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want to die. 

He wanted to die, he did, but he didn’t want to hurt.

“V’h,” he choked on his own saliva and tears, whimpering again and hiding his face into the crook of his elbow. 

Who would save him?

“No, no,” the person grabbed his neck, lifting him up against the pole and it stung. 

His back lurched, twitching violently as the pole itself rubbed against his muscles, exposed from the lack of skin and fat covering them. Roman felt the twitching in his shoulders and hip, a pained wail turning to only a hoarse yell as his vocal chords gave out once more. 

“You were saying something,” the person’s breath was hot, too hot, like the sun, scorching him, “Finish your sentences, your Majesty, its rude to not.”

No. No, no, it was foolish of him. 

“You want Virgil, don’t you?” 

Roman shook his head, hair thick with sweat as it bounced back and forth with him. The display certainly wasn’t convincing, though, even he knew that. He wanted to be comforted. Virgil was always there….always there to protect him, and the others. Of course he wouldn’t be here now. It was foolish to want him.

It was foolish to wish for love from any of them, at any point in time. Love. What a delusory dream.

The person laughed, and slammed his neck against the pole again. It pressed so far, grazing one of his vertebrae.

His voice was echoing around Roman, a chamber of mock pity. 

It hurt, but the lashings themselves didn’t hurt. Roman’s entire spine tingled once the pole touched it. This far down, his insides weren’t supposed to see the light of day. 

He could barely imagine what it would really feel like, for a person, not just an imagined feeling for an imagined being. He wasn’t real. 

The reveal of his entrails was, as everything his useless mind could conjure, dramatic as all get out. 

“Do you want Virgil to see this? Imagine what he’d say.”

He’d be so angry. 

He wasn’t real. He wasn’t Roman. 

“And what about Patton? Can you imagine how much he’d cry.”

The person dropped Roman again, then kicked him in the back.

It burned. Roman felt like he would have a foot-shaped brand, the person’s boot slammed against his back, between his spine and his shoulder blade. It slipped up in the bloody mush of his back like one would slip on mud, difficult to walk in terrain immediately after a downpour of cataclysmic condensation. 

His boot was so, so firm against Roman’s back. The heel dug into his flesh very briefly, but it felt as though it would drill a hole through his person. Through his very being. 

“Logan wouldn’t care, would he? Would Deceit?” the boot left his back. 

Before Roman could recollect himself, though, the cane struck the back of his neck. It didn’t hurt, once again, he barely felt it. 

He wasn’t Roman. His mind was murky in the thick blood, boiling.

He could only feel the sun’s heat. He should have designed the Imagination without a sun. Who needed it, anyway? What was it good for? 

“Pathetic,” the shadow whispered, then shouted again, “PATHETIC!”

Perhaps it wasn’t the sun. His head was warm, hair warm, ears tingling and burning and so so warm. His back was warm, too, for a similar reason. 

Roman didn’t have his eye opened, but he knew he was on fire when he felt it. He trembled, arms jerking to instinctively slap the flames off of his person, but he couldn’t move very far beyond the chains. 

Laughing. 

Roman deserved this. 

“Burn at your pyre, your Majesty,” he spat the words. “That’s all you have left,” the Dragon laughed, a hearty chuckle, and then struck Roman once more. 

Then once more.

Then once again. 

And again, and again, and again, and Roman could only feel the dripping of his own blood down his back. It pooled around his knees, a thick pool that was going to dye his tanned skin with red spots. Like a strawberry nevus.

Someone told him that name once, it was a type of birthmark. He couldn’t remember who. He could barely remember anything. 

Roman was lost in the pain so much as one could be lost in bliss. His body stopped responding to the lashings, no longer curving inward. He wasn’t moving. It was all moving around him.

In fact, it actually was moving. It felt as though the platform were spinning. Up was down, and down was up again, and up down down up and into the darkness. Who knew death would be so welcoming. Like a cloud. Like a soft, comforting….

Roman’s eye rolled back, and he slumped against the bindings, unable to collapse onto the ground. The chains held his defeated body up for the world to see.

The Dragon stood up straighter, then scooted forward. Had he….?

He lifted the Damsel’s face with the cane and examined his expression, so soft and placid in comparison to the drywall paint peeling that his back and arms appeared like. 

“Is….WHAT?!” The Dragon roared. How dare he. How DARE he pass out, the pathetic whelp! He had the nerve! 

The Dragon wanted to keep going! He was just getting warmed up! This was so much fun, so alluring! He’d never known blood splatters could be so beautiful. 

Though, this was their cue to be done. Hopefully the Damsel wouldn’t wake up again, if his theory had been correct. The Dragon looked out at the crowd, curling up the whip in his hand and fastening it to the latch on his belt. 

Most of the crowd — the ones with less of a conscious, the ones who were simply faces who’d been committed to memory, hadn’t been given stories yet but nonetheless existed — were still watching. He did love an audience.

Some of the true characters had stayed, but hadn’t fully watched. He could see someone in the back, turned away in a black cloak. 

No patches. Not one of them. Though they’d stayed and had the gall to be disguised. 

The Dragon didn’t CARE about any of the others, though. He grunted, smoke escaping from his lips as he motioned for the guards stationed around the platform to grab the Damsel. “Our pathetic excuse for a Creativity seems to have drawn his last breath,” he coo’ed, just loud enough for the sound to echo across the Imagination, “I guess this concludes today’s presentation!”

Two of them climbed onto the platform, unhooking the Damsel from the post and throwing him over their shoulder. Chunks of his flesh, or thick globs of blood (really, they were indistinguishable) fell off as he was moved. 

Revolting. Hopefully he was dead, so the Dragon could just throw his body into the lake and be done with it. He’d have to have Remus check for a pulse, though. Lord knew Dragon didn’t know how to do that sorta shit. 

He scanned the crowd once more. No sign of any other Roman figment. No murmur, even. Everyone just watched in horrified silence. 

No matter. The Dragon knew the others had come, they’d seen. That was all that needed to be done. This was just a message, nothing more. 

The Damsel was his little test run, his beautifully caged canary, on death row. And hopefully he’d died. 

Even unconscious, his lip twitched, into the barest of smiles. 

Yes, hopefully he’d died. 

[joeybelle]

Starlight - Chapter 24

Relationship: Cassian Andor / Original Female Character

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Strong language, Heavy drinking, Mentions of torture and death, Mention of animal death

Size: 8000 words

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Cassian had a day off. Well, most of a day off.

He’d come back to base late at night and was debriefed right away, as was routine. He managed to get into bed before sunrise though, and to fall asleep pretty quickly, so he woke up well rested a few hours later. He didn’t usually sleep much. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept the whole night without being sedated. Even when he was by Cora’s side and he managed to relax, he would still only sleep a few hours at a time. This was just one of the downsides of living as a soldier.

On paper, he had the day off. But he still had so many things to do, and he couldn’t waste a whole day doing nothing anyway. So he got dressed in his usual attire and headed to the hangar to do some much needed repairs to his ship.

He always looked through the med bay glass doors whenever he passed it, hoping to catch a passing glimpse of Cora’s silhouette. At this hour, she’d usually be looking out the window with a cup of hot caf in her hands, if there was no emergency. This time, he didn’t see her. The med bay was quiet, with no one but a med droid in sight.

He considered going in. He didn’t have a reason to, but he could always find an excuse and Cora would be thrilled to be able to scan him and lecture him about his health. The thought made him smile. Or he could actually be honest for once and tell her he just dropped by to say ‘hi’. Because he’d missed her. Of course, it could very well be Doctor Crane’s shift, but he’d just ask for some bacta patches and chat until she would come in for her shift.

Yes, that’s what he would do, he thought to himself as he took a few determined steps towards the glass doors, only to see Doctor Aidan Veltz coming out of one of the consultations rooms. This wasn’t something he’d anticipated. Cassian did a 180 hoping that the doctor hadn’t noticed him, almost crashing into Doctor Crane.

“Good morning, Cassian,” the doctor said, grabbing his elbow so he couldn’t flee. “Are you alright? Were you coming to see me?”

“No, no. I’m alright,” he said, smiling under the doctor’s inquiring gaze. “Honestly,” he felt like he had to add, as if that ever proved anyone’s innocence. “I was just…” His voice trailed at the end, and he seemed a little embarrassed. After all, how could he tell Doctor Crane that he was only there hoping to talk to Cora before he went about his day?

“Ah, so you were only paying us a visit, I see,” he said, and Cassian just shrugged. “Well, she’s taken a couple of days off. You won’t find her in the infirmary today.”

Cassian could feel his ears starting to burn but nodded in acknowledgement. The doctor had always been able to read him like an open book, so there was no point denying anything. He only wondered how long he’d known about it.

But he was also a little surprised. As far as he knew Cora had never taken a day off of her own accord, and even when she was forced to take one she would still find ways to come back to work. So this was a little bit odd. But it was too early to get worried.

“Is she alright?” he asked the doctor anyway. He had no idea what might have happened while he was away.

“As far as I know.” Doctor Crane didn’t seem worried, so that was a good sign. “She said she needed a couple of days off for personal reasons and I was happy to let her take a break. She works too much. Just like you,” he said, pointing a finger at Cassian.

“I have a day off too,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“And what do you plan to do with it?”

“Work on my ship.”

“See, that’s what I’m saying.” Doctor Crane shook his head before heading for the med bay. “It’s okay to take a break from time to time, Cassian. Learn to unwind.”

“I will,” Cassian assured him. “But I’ve got some things to sort out first.” He said goodbye and walked to the elevators.

So Cora wasn’t working that day. That wasn’t such a bad thing. For once they had a day off at the same time. He considered taking the elevator down to pay her a visit. She would probably still be asleep, but he had the access code to her quarters, especially for situations like this.

She’d given it to him so he’d be able to let himself in whenever he wanted, when she might be asleep or in the shower or just wouldn’t hear him knock. At first, he was reluctant to just barge in like that, but then he figured that if she trusted him with it, she must really want him there. So he would gently knock on her door and if she wouldn’t reply he’d just let himself in, discard his clothes on the floor and silently crawl in bed next to her, making as little noise as possible. She’d always grumble in the morning that he should have woken her up, but he loved the look on her face when she opened her eyes and realized he was besides her.

But in the end he changed his mind and headed for the hangar. He wanted her to rest properly, and he still had some things that he really needed to do that morning. He knew that if he went by her side right now, it would be twice as hard to leave and do his job, so he decided he’d just hurry and finish everything and drop by later. Maybe he’d do something nice for her. He could cook and they could go out somewhere to eat, away from the constant buzz of the base. Yeah, they could do that.

Cassian was whistling quietly when he climbed into his ship. K2 followed him with a curious gaze. “I see you’re in a good mood today,” K said, taking out a toolkit.

“Maybe I am,” Cassian said, plopping down in the pilot seat.

“We still have to repair the shields,” the droid let him know, going into the back of the ship. He didn’t seem to share his good mood.

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Unfortunately, fixing the ship took way longer than he expected, even with the help from a couple of mechanics. Cassian’s good mood had officially vanished before noon along with the prospects of spending the whole day with Cora on a nice picnic. He kept stealing glances towards the ER hoping that she would show up at some point. He’d hammered his own hand in a moment of carelessness, so he wouldn’t mind if she’d take care of it.

No matter how much he looked he wouldn’t see her. Lewella and the others had come out to eat lunch in front of the ER, but she didn’t show up even then. This was out of the ordinary, since Cassian knew she would never skip the opportunity to spend some time with Lew, since they had so little time to spend together anyway. Unless she was sick or something had happened. He started to worry.

But no matter how concerned he was and how much he wanted to just drop everything and run to find her, he couldn’t leave until the job was done. He got mad and cursed and hit the ship with his boot, but he was stuck there until they managed to fix it.

When he finally bolted out of the hangar, sweaty and smeared in engine oil, it was already late afternoon. He glanced through the ER doors: everyone was working, but there was no sign of Cora, so he headed to her quarters. He punched in the code without bothering to knock beforehand, pushed by the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

The door opened to reveal an empty room. He turned on the lights and looked around: the bed was made, the room was clean, there was no sign of anything being wrong, except that Cora wasn’t there. He stood in the middle of the room, trying to pull himself together.

Of course she wouldn’t be there, he thought, laughing at himself, it was late afternoon on her day off, there was no way she’d spend it all sleeping in her room, waiting for him. She wouldn’t even know he was back on base. Yeah, of course. Especially since she wasn’t ill or anything. He’d just have to find her.

He left the underground and went straight for the ER. If anyone would know where to find Cora it was Lew. Not that he wouldn’t be able to track her on his own, but he was tired and cranky and he wasn’t afraid to ask a friend for help. Even one that would smile cheekily and look at him all knowingly from the crate she was currently perched upon.

“You should be the one to know,” she said over her sandwich. “You’re the one who’s dating her.”

Cassian frowned when he heard the word dating. It sounded so mundane it almost frightened him. He never used it in his head when he referred to Cora and himself, but now that he thought about it, there was no word he used to refer to their relationship. He was the sort of man that didn’t like to use big words especially when he felt like there was no need to use any words at all.

“I’ve been away for days in case you haven't noticed,” he said, a little more snappy than he intended.

“Oh, so that’s why my complexion cleared, I stopped getting headaches, I had an appetite once again…”

“Lew…”

“I’m joking, you grump,” she huffed. “I don’t know, I haven’t seen her today. She’s probably working,” she said, thinking hard and counting something on her fingers. “I think she’s working today. Have you checked the med bay upstairs?”

“No, not yet,” Cassian lied. If Cora had taken a day off and hadn't told Lew she must have had her reasons and he wasn’t going to rat her out. But that only made him more worried. Cora was usually pretty predictable, but now it seemed like she might have something to hide. Or, of course, it was possible that he was overthinking it.

“Check there. I’m pretty sure it’s her shift today. And bring her some food if you go up, she might have forgotten to eat, as always,” she said, munching on her sandwich.

“Yeah, I will.” Too bad his plans to actually cook something nice for her had been spoiled. But he could always fix her a sandwich. He was sure she’d be excited for that too.

“What kind of boyfriend are you if you don’t even know her shifts?” Lew mumbled, biting into her sandwich.

His heart skipped a beat. “I’m not her boyfriend,” Cassian scoffed. The word sounded weird rolling off his tongue.

“What are you then?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets and fidgeting around nervously. It wasn’t a topic he was comfortable talking about. “We are what we are.”

“Poetic. Have you talked to her about it?”

“No? What is there to talk about?”

“There comes a time in any relationship when you have to start talking to each other.”

“We are talking.” Cassian sounded exasperated. He didn’t like where this was going. Not only was Lewella looking at him like he was an idiot, he also felt like one.

“But you’re both avoiding the important things. Like talking about your relationship and where you want it to go.” There was a harshness to her words that he hadn’t heard in a long time, so he let out a shaky breath and leaned on the crate next to her.

“I have no idea where it’s going,” he said, shrugging. “We’re going with the flow for now.”

“Does she have any say in that?” Cassian frowned, looking at her like she’d just thrown cold water in his face. “Have you thought that maybe she’s not content with just ‘going with the flow’.”

Cassian didn’t know what to say. No, he’d never thought about that. He always considered that if there was something she didn’t like she’d let him know. She always voiced her dissatisfaction. “She didn’t say anything like that.”

“I think you’d be the one to know that people don’t always talk about their feelings openly. I mean, look at you…”

“Did she say anything to you?” Now he was really worried. It was something he didn’t even consider, or rather knew he had to do, but delayed it indefinitely, because they both seemed content with how things were going. “Did you talk about this?”

“A little,” Lewella admitted, and Cassian’s stomach constricted painfully. “She is just as scared as you are. And confused. And very reluctant to put a label to your relationship, and to be honest I think that stems from a fear that you might react to that the exact way you’re reacting now…”

“How am I reacting?” Cassian asked, confused and a little defensive, crossing his arms.

“You’ve prickled like a cactus,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning upwards, but not in a smile. “And that frown is threatening to split your face in two.” Cassian passed his fingers over his forehead in an attempt to smooth the skin. “Don’t bother,” she snorted. “Anyway, it’s just speculation on my part. I might be reading too much into this, but it won’t do no harm opening your mouth and talking about it. It will clear up a lot of confusion and you will see that it will help in the long run.”

“What’s the point in putting a label on a relationship anyway?” He was getting restless. He didn’t like this conversation one bit.

“It’s not about a label here, Cassian, it’s about clearing the confusion. It’s about stating your intentions and making sure you’re on the same page. Listen,” she continued, when Cassian opened his mouth to say something, “no one says that you have to start calling her ‘future wife’— although considering how much time you’ve been spending in her bed I think it’s safe to say that you’ve moved from casual fucking to something a lot more committed.”

He laughed nervously, trying to hide his embarrassment. “How could you possibly know?”

“I have direct view to the elevators,” she said, pointing in their direction. “And eyes to see. You’ve been sleeping in her bed more than you’ve been sleeping in your own bed. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, but you’ve got to accept that it’s gone past a casual fuck with no strings attached.”

Cassian was getting more tense. Up until then, Lew had teased him about his relationship with Cora, but always avoided getting into the heavy stuff and he was really thankful for that, because he wanted to avoid talking about feelings for as long as possible. But it seemed that his free pass had ended, because Lewella was in full blown lecture mode.

“I know you’re scared of commitment, I understand, trust me,” she continued, her voice softening considerably, “but you’ve got to do this. For her sake, if you don’t care about yourself because you’re a ‘manly man who don’t do feelings’.”

“I’m not scared of commitment,” he said, kicking a small rock with his boot and watching it roll on the stone floor. “It’s just that…” His voice was weak, mirroring the uncertainty in his soul. “I might not be here tomorrow. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep, I don’t wanna give anyone false hope.” His voice trailed off at the end.

“Then don’t make any promises,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “None of us know what will happen tomorrow, hell, most of us won’t make it. But we still have today. And there’s no reason to suffer today for what might happen in the future.”

Cassian still looked down, drawing on the floor with the tip of his boot. “I guess you’re right,” he said, but even that sounded unsure. “It’s just all so complicated.”

“Hey! I know talking about feelings is a scary thing, but nothing worth fighting for comes easy,” she said, folding the now empty sandwich wrapper and throwing it in the trash.

“What did you say?” He has the feeling he’d heard this before, but it was a vague memory.

“Nothing worth fighting for comes easy,” she repeated, a little more pronounced this time. “And we’re allowed to hope, remember that. Otherwise why the fuck would we even be here? Hope is all we’ve got. Hope is what all this shit is built upon,” she said lifting her hands to point around her.

Cassian glanced at her as she jumped off the crate. She had a sad smile on her face as she looked in the distance. He’d rarely seen her like that, usually the first one to break into laughter or turn to banter, now she looked really serious and maybe a bit melancholic.

“Don’t think too much, Cassian, I feel you overthinking already,” she said, crossing her arms. “You don’t have to put any labels on anything, you just need to be honest and you know, open up a little and let her know how much you care. That’s not gonna ruin your image, trust me. Maybe a little, but I promise to not tell anyone, scout’s honor,” she said, placing a hand on her chest and Cassian couldn’t help but chuckle. “Now stop sitting around and go find your girlfriend before the poor girl starves to death. Tell her I said ‘hi’.”

“Yeah, I will.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and straightened his back.

They spent a couple more minutes chatting in front of the med bay before Lew had to go back to work. They didn’t talk as often as they used to anymore and he missed her sometimes. Although he wasn’t the most sociable person ever, he still loved his friends. The same war that brought them together was also keeping them apart.

When he took off to find Cora he was a lot less enthusiastic than before. He knew deep down that he’d one day have to talk to her about their relationship, but he didn’t think it would happen so soon. Sometimes—rarely—he daydreamed of a future where he wouldn’t be alone but he’d always imagined something like that happening at a point in his life when he had some sort of stability. He never thought he’d meet someone in the middle of the war and get so attached that he’d actually consider allowing himself to hope of a future spent with them. No, he was too careful to let that happen. Too closed off, too guarded. And yet…

Lewella had been right: he had to talk to her. While he was used to living in uncertainty, he knew not everyone was. He needed to let her know how much he cared because he knew he wasn’t the most open person in the world, and she deserved honesty. Now that Lew forced him to think about it, he really didn’t want to risk leaving things unsaid, just in case he’d never come back. But at the same time, he didn’t want to get her hopes up, for the same reason.

He looked for her in the mess hall first. It was busy, but not incredibly so. He couldn’t spot her anywhere, so he went up to the infirmary. He looked around for her as discreetly as he could and when he once again convinced himself she wasn’t there, went back to check her quarters.

There was no note anywhere, no indication where she might have gone. He knew, he checked twice. Her casual clothes were missing, but nothing else as far as he could tell. He sat on her bed, trying to figure out what to do next. He could always contact her on her comm. Cassian hated using it, and he never used it for private matters, especially with Cora since he knew full well that every call would be recorded, filed, listened to and interpreted. And she seemed to distrust it just as much as he did, so they never contacted each other by comm. But he knew that all medical personnel were required to always have their comlinks on hand, in case there was any kind emergency.

He decided to contact her. It would be the fastest way to find her and he knew how to make the call sound innocent so no one listening in would suspect there was something going on between them. He wondered what would happen if they did. He’d get yelled at by Draven, but that was nothing new, and in the end there wouldn’t be any punishment for it. They weren’t doing anything wrong.

He fished out his comlink and contacted her. He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the comm beeping from inside the closet. He found it in the pocket of her medical uniform. That was unusual. He knew she carried it around even when she wasn’t working, as was protocol. Why did she decide to leave it in her room this time?

Leaving her quarters, he had more questions than answers. Until then he hadn't really thought she might be missing, now he knew there was a high chance it might actually be so. She still had the tracker bracelet, hopefully, but he didn’t want to have to bring this to the attention of his superiors, unless there was no other choice. He was willing to bet she wouldn’t just get up and leave one day without a word. Without telling him. Or at least he hoped with all his heart. But what if something had happened? Something he hadn’t been able to forsee.

He was trying hard to focus, but was still pretty disoriented when he reached his floor. He needed to calm down, move fast and think. He cursed himself for being this incompetent, but he could feel panic slowly rising from the depths of his own being. He had to think of all the possible places where she could be. Cargo, she could have gone searching for something down there. He could check the logs, but she might have been let in unofficially, so there would be no record. Training grounds—maybe she was trying to train on her own, she’d been doing that since the assessment, but he would have seen her pass his ship. She would have known he was back, and didn’t think she wouldn’t drop by to say hello. He hoped. Maybe she just left for a stroll in the forest, although she was afraid of it. Either way, he was willing to search every square foot of the base and jungle to find her.

A knock on the med bay glass wall made him snap out of his thoughts and look. Doctor Crane was pointing a finger towards the door that lead to the platform outside. Of course! He almost slapped himself for his stupidity. That was the one place that was really easy to check and he’d just forgotten about it. As if both of them hadn’t used it so many times before to clear their heads of simply to get some air. He thanked the doctor with a nod and headed towards the door.

It was a windy day, but it was pretty sunny. Well, the clouds would occasionally break and let the sun through, but that was more sun that usual. At least it was a pleasant change from the constant, nagging rain.

Cora was sitting on the stone platform, leaning on the wall, her back turned to the door. She was looking in the distance and didn't seem to notice him joining her, right until he sat down next to her. She seemed startled by his presence for a short moment, but then her face broke into a smile when she recognized him.

“Well hello there, Captain,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Come here often?” She was swaying a little as she rested her open palms on his chest. She was drunk.

“Often enough,” he said, placing an arm protectively around her shoulders. Her eyes were glassy and red, like she’d been crying. A shiver ran down his spine, trying to figure out what might have driven her to this. “What are you doing here?”

“Hiding,” she said, dropping her hands in her lap and looking at them. There was a half full bottle of Corellian brandy within reach that seemed to have been keeping her company for a while.

“Hiding from what?” He didn’t want to say ‘from whom’ in case the answer would be him.

“Everyone? Myself?” She sniffled and rested her head on his shoulder. “Today’s a bad day.”

Cassian kissed the top of her head, pulling her closer. He had found her, but instead of feeling relieved, he was even more worried. “What happened?” he asked against her hair. There was a faint smell of disinfectant still embedded in her skin.

“My mom died,” she replied after a few moments of silence. “Well, not today today, but today. Years ago. You know.” Her voice was hoarse like she’d spent the last few hours crying and Cassian blamed himself for not finding her sooner. For assuming everything was okay.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hanging his head in shame.

“It’s ok. I don’t think about her often. I try not to think about my childhood in general, but the past week’s been bad. The nightmares are back,” her voice trailed off at the end and she took another swig of brandy. “Been self medicating for years,” she continued, “but I forced myself to stop when I moved here. I don’t like them on the long run anyway, they make me drowsy. I was ok for a while, but now I don’t know, everything’s just come flooding back.”

“When did this start?” he asked, even more worried.

“Last week, I don’t know. I’ve always had nightmares, it’s just that they’ve been more frequent this past week. Such a shit week.”

Cassian felt flooded by guilt. He hadn’t known what she was going thought, and felt terrible for doing nothing. He knew he couldn’t have stayed back to care for her even if he knew about it, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t wish he could have helped her somehow. “Did they get more frequent after your last mission?”

In a second her whole demeanor changed, leaning away from him, her body becoming rigid in his hands. “Are you trying to assess my mental health, Captain?” she asked in and icy tone that was only amplified by her drunkness.

“No,” he replied, not letting her escape his embrace. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all. Have you talked to anyone about this?”

“No?” she scoffed, like this was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “I don’t want that shit in my file, not with Draven rubbing one off whenever it gets updated. No, thank you.”

Cassian couldn’t help but smile at the obscene gesture she was doing with her hand, but the worry still didn’t disappear. “I’m sure you can talk to Doctor Crane about it and he wouldn’t tell. I’ve never seen him answer to anybody.”

“Yeah, I just don’t wanna unload all this crap on him. He has his own problems.”

“He’s a doctor, it’s his job to make sure everyone’s alright.”

“So am I,” she said, turning her head slightly to throw him a sideways glance. “And I know how to medicate psychosis.”

Cassian shook his head. “It’s not just about medicating, maybe you should just talk. You know, to unload some of that. Want to tell me about it?” he whispered, softly kissing her temple. She slowly melted into his embrace once again, the moment of tension forgotten.

She was silent for a while, playing with the label on the bottle. “Do you really wanna hear about this? It’s a shitty story.”

“Yeah, I want to hear it.”

“Will it go into my file?” she asked, turning around to look at him with tears welling in her eyes.

Cassian’s stomach contracted painfully at the realization that even after all this time he hadn't been relieved of his duty as inquisitor. He’d forgotten for a moment, but she hadn’t. They both knew that everything he heard he had to report sooner or later. Like so many times before he felt his job weighing heavily on his shoulders, and he wished he could be someone else. Anyone else.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. He wanted to help her so badly, but he felt like his hands were tied. No matter what he did, he’d end up hurting someone. “Eventually I will have to,” he said, letting out a ragged breath. “But only if we really need it.” It was a sort of compromise. He wasn’t allowed to do that—withhold information—and he knew he’d be reprimanded when it would eventually come to light, but he could only hope they would never need it. Somehow he knew he’d regret it either way.

He looked away but her hand on his cheek made him look back at her. “You’re a good man, Cassian,” she said. Her words were a little slurred, but her smile was brilliant. He loved the way she looked at him like he was the most important thing in the world. It made him feel wanted. “I’ve missed you,” she said, leaning on the wall behind her. “I always miss you when you’re gone.”

“I miss you too,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. Her lips tasted like Corellian brandy and the saltiness of dried tears. She was holding onto his jacket like she was afraid he’d go away if she let go, clinging onto his frame with a neediness that she rarely showed.

Eventually they settled into an embrace, in silence, huddled close to each other. Maybe she’d decided not to tell him after all and maybe it was better this way. It still killed him inside that she had to go through this inner turmoil all by herself and he really wished she would have someone to listen. Lew would listen without being forced to report. Same with Doctor Crane. But he couldn't blame her for not wanting to open up. Hell, he didn’t open up to anyone.

Cora took another swig of alcohol before passing the bottle to Cassian. He took it and drank, enjoying the familiar sting of alcohol down his throat. It was a really good brandy, and Cassian wondered where she got it from.

He considered offering to move both of them inside. His room was right around the corner, and it was definitely more comfortable than the stone floor. The weather was still nice, but who knew for how long. The wind had picked up and the clouds were getting darker.

“My mother died when I was seven...ish,” she said, and Cassian instinctively brought the bottle to his lips a second time, taking a big gulp. This was a story that needed the type of crutch only alcohol could offer. “I loved my mom,” she continued, her lip quivering a little, “and I know she loved me, but she wasn’t really the greatest mom. She was much too obsessed with her job, and the Empire and everything, she didn’t have much time for me. But she loved me.”

Cassian didn’t say anything, only pulled her closer to his chest. He didn’t remember his own mother, but he knew the pain of losing a parent and and spending your childhood feeling neglected.

“Most of the time they’d leave me alone for days, so it was nothing new. But one day neither of them came back.” She took a shaky breath, her eyes dropping to her hands. “Instead there was a squad of stormtroopers that took me away.” Her voice was low, and Cassian could sense her fear. “I knew one of the officers, he was… he was an older officer, he was strict, but gentle. He’d scold me from time to time, but he’d always be... Anyway.” She sniffled and took the bottle from Cassian’s hand. He considered holding onto it—she’d already had enough to drink—but she managed to snatch it before he reacted. “They came for me one day. He told me that they’d have to move me to another place for a while, and that I’d have to wait there. They didn't tell me shit. They just dropped me to a boarding school and left.”

She still wasn’t looking at him, and Cassian couldn’t find anything reassuring to say. He was trained to comfort people, he’d done it so many times before, but anything he wanted to say sounded fake in his own mind, so he kept his mouth shut and leaned his forehead on her temple. She didn’t turn around, but passed a hand over his cheek, in a gentle, loving gesture.

“I… It was shit. I kicked and I screamed and I fought everyone and I hated the way the planet felt and the air was smelly and I was constantly sick and crying and so afraid.” She took another sip of alcohol. “I found out my mother had died when I pissed off one of the tutors and she just flat out told me no one was coming to get me because my mother was dead and no one cared about me. I threw a fit. I don’t remember much from that day, just the satisfied grin on her face when she finally shut me up.” There were already tears streaming down her cheeks, and Cassian felt helpless. “But in the end she was right, no one cared about me.”

She snuggled closer to Cassian and he kissed the top of her head. She was so small once again, reminding him of the time she’d spent in jail, slowly losing her mind. That was his fault. This was his fault too.

“Eventually I got used to my life at the boarding school. I had no choice. It was terrible, but what else could I have done? I’d made peace with my parents being dead, with me being all alone. Until my father came to visit me about two years after they dropped me there.” She straightened her back and turned around to look at him. “He was a ghost, Cassian. I didn’t realize back then what that meant, but he was the shell of the man I’d once known. Not only did he look so much older, he was so cold, so oddly detached from everything, I was sure he wasn’t even alive.”

She looked in the distance, lost in thought. Cassian studied her features, the involuntary ridge that formed between her eyebrows whenever she seemed to remember something particularly unpleasant, the way her lips pressed together then parted for a few seconds like she was about to say something, then closing once again. The pallor of her skin and the redness of her eyes. The streaks of dried tears on her face.

“But you know, he was still my father,” she eventually said, snapping out of her trance. “Or that’s what I tried to convince myself. He told me to be a good kid and be brave because he’d one day come to pick me up take me out of there.” She seemed to get lost in thought once again, but then pulled herself together. “He never mentioned mom. I know he adored her, I mean he didn’t really care about me but he worshiped the ground she walked on. I don’t think he ever wanted kids…The next time I saw him I was eleven.”

Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. She grabbed the bottle and brought it to her lips again, but Cassian didn’t let her drink too much before snatching it from her hands. She turned around to look at him with a comical frown on her face, so he took a sip. One larger than intended, but it was his day off after all, so no harm done. The story he was listening to needed a little alcohol to go down.

She was smiling when he put down the bottle, a little further away, making sure it was out of her reach. “What?” he asked, feeling the temperature rising rapidly and asking himself if it was because of the alcohol or the way she was looking at him.

“You’re really handsome.”

Cassian laughed. “You think so?”

“Mhm.” She leaned into his chest, closing the gap between them and clumsily pressing her lips onto his. Cassian kissed back, slow and heavy, like he wanted to draw all the sadness out of her, filter it through his own being and make it disappear.

She looked like someone who’d been through a lot. Cassian had always known this, he could see it in her eyes, in the way she reacted, in the way she slept. But he never tried to imagine what she’d actually been through, and he hadn’t thought he’d ever find out. He was surrounded by people who were just as closed off as he was, never talking about feelings, or trauma, or what kept them up at night. They just swept everything under the rug and patted each other on the back when they felt like they needed reassurance.

But she had opened up to him, letting him see her vulnerable and scared and sharing her most intimate memories, even while knowing that he may be forced one day to report on them. Or maybe it was just the alcohol that got her talking and it wasn’t a conscious decision on her part. Kriff, how he hated himself.

He wondered if she’ll do the same in the morning, when she’ll realize that she spilled everything in front of him. Maybe she was drunk enough that he could pretend it never happened. But that would be too cruel of him. He couldn’t lie to her. They needed to talk, and Cassian hated talking.

A faint drizzle had started but they were too distracted to notice. Only when Cora passed a hand through his hair and it came back wet, she looked up and frowned.

“Fuck sake!” she cursed loudly. “We should move to another planet, I hate this weather.”

“We should go inside,” Cassian offered, deciding it was time for them to leave.

“We could go to Scarif,” she said, seeming lost in thought once again. “Have you ever been to Scarif, Captain? It has such amazing beaches. Have I ever told you that I worked on Scarif for a while? Yeah, I worked there for a while after I finished school,” she said without waiting for an answer. “It was nice, the beaches were awesome, but we didn’t really have that much time off. I’d like to go there on vacation one day. Would you come with me?” she asked with a smile.

“Uhhh... yeah,” he answered, scratching his head. “Don’t you wanna head inside first?”

“We’d both get shot, but maybe we could dip our feet in the ocean first.” Cassian was taken aback by the morbidity of that thought, but didn’t say anything. “That’s where I found out the truth about how my mom died,” she said out of the blue. “You know they have that big tower where they keep the archives and whatnot.” Cassian nodded. “It’s very well guarded, but I did someone a service and they let me in, pulled out the files I wanted to look at… Turns out my mother died while testing new spacecraft for the Empire.”

Cassian had a lot of questions, and hated himself for every one of them. This wasn’t an interrogation, he wasn’t supposed to find out everything she knew, but his brain had gone into gear automatically. He forced himself to shut up and listen.

“There was this engineer… Galen Erso. He was the head of something something, I don’t remember.” Her forehead creased, like the memories weren’t coming back that easily. “I know he had a daughter a little younger than myself and they lived with us on ISD Corinthia for a while, right before my mother...” She cleared her throat and Cassian could see fresh tears welling in her eyes. “He was the one that engineered the ships my mother and her colleagues died in,” she said turning around to look at Cassian. “You know, he clearly stated in the report that they weren’t ready to be tested in battle. He opposed the test multiple times, but that bitch Orson Krennic didn't want to listen. He just sent them out there without telling them anything, without even telling them this was more than just a test run. They died!” she almost yelled, the anger palpable in her voice. “They all died! He scraped the whole program after this, deemed the ships too unstable and swept everything under the rug.”

His heart was breaking for her. But at the same time he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that his was valuable information. Even if she’d only known them when she was a small kid, she might still remember details that could help the Rebellion. This wasn’t the time to enquire, though, but made a mental note to talk to her once she’s be sober. Maybe she’d agree to tell him what she knew.

“Can you imagine he even had the audacity to come to my sixteenth birthday and tell me how much I looked like my mother,” she spat, looking like mentioning Krennic’s name had opened up old wounds. “If I knew back then what I know now, I would have ripped out his windpipe before he finished that sentence.”

There were tears in her eyes, angry tears, streaming down her cheeks, her hands balled into fists. She was shaking. Cassian had never seen her this angry before, it didn’t even compare to the time he imprisoned her and she tried to claw his eyes out. No, this went a lot deeper.

But the anger quickly melted away, like a match that had burned out. She was left looking drained and sad. “My father socked him in the face when he came to express his condolences,” she continued, laughing bitterly. “He hit him, and hit him until the guards grabbed him. They sent him to a reconditioning facility. Came out of there barely human eighteen months later.”

Cassian caught another fleeting glimpse of fear in her eyes as she looked in the distance. She used her sleeve to wipe the tears running down her face, but Cassian removed her hand before she rubbed herself raw and dried the rest with a tissue. It was the least he could do for her.

“I mean he wasn’t a great father before, but he was even less after that. He was…” She looked for the bottle, but Cassian shifted a bit to hide it from her sight. She huffed, frustrated, but gave up after a few moments. “He’s still my father,” she said, leaning back into Cassian’s chest. “No matter how much I told myself that I hate him… can’t get myself to hate him enough to kill him.”

She buried her face in his uniform, sobbing quietly. Cassian placed an arm protectively around her shoulders and hugged her tight, kissing her forehead and whispering encouraging words in her ear, although he was pretty sure she wasn’t listening. He hoped that he would be able to keep it together. He didn’t know what to do. All his training seemed to have flown out the window and he was more unprepared than ever. The woman he loved was having a mental breakdown and the only thing he could do was hold her while she cried in his shirt.

After a few minutes she seemed to start dozing off, her eyes closing involuntarily. Cassian considered letting her fall asleep completely before carrying her inside, but she rain had picked up. He tried to lift her up as gently as possible as not to wake her, but her eyes flew open when he tried to move. He cursed under his breath.

“Ah! There you were!” she exclaimed, the power nap in his arms seeming to have tapped into an unknown reserve of energy. Cassian turned to look at what he was talking to, right in time to see the alcohol bottle in her hand.

“How did you reach that? Give it back.”

“No!” she giggled, getting up and trying to bring it to her mouth, but instead spilling some brandy on her shirt. “Agh fuck this.”

“Come on, you’ve had enough,” Cassian said, following her.

“No!” she protested. “You’re not my real dad!”

“What?”

Cora laughed and kept the bottle away from his reach, making him dance around her trying to get it. He was perfectly capable of tackling her, he told himself as he was getting increasingly irritated, he’d just decided not to hurt her in any way. There was no way a drunk Cora would be able to escape him for long, especially when she seemed a little uncertain on her feet.

“Come drink with me, Captain.” She hid the bottle behind her back and pecked Cassian on the lips as he was trying to get it from her as gently as possible. “Drink with me. Please?”

There were still fresh tears on her face, mixed with the droplets of rain, but she was smiling, still holding onto the bottle he was trying to take away from her. “How can I drink if you don’t give me the bottle?” he asked, trying to be the intelligent, sly captain everyone thought him to be. Truth be told, he was feeling the effect of the alcohol already.

“Okay,” she said, but still didn’t let go of the bottle. “But I have to see you drink. No, you can’t touch it.” She brought the bottle to his lips, almost splitting his lip and spilling a considerable amount of alcohol on this uniform.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled and opened his mouth before she managed to fill his lungs with brandy. She was generous with the drink, to say the least. Cassian had to make a tremendous effort not to choke on the burning liquor, before he succeeded to take it from her hands, not before spilling more liquor on both of them. “Happy now?” he said, with a stupid smile on his face. Oh, the brandy was going to his head fast.

“Yeah,” she giggled.

“Where did you get it from, anyway?” he asked, looking at the bottle, while Cora attached herself to his arm.

“Melshi.”

“I should have figured…”

“He’s a good friend,” she mumbled, shoving her nose in his shoulder. “You’re a good friend. Thank you.”

“For?”

“For listening,” she said, her voice weak and her eyes sad once again. “And staying here with me and making me feel better… and for everything, really.” She snuggled closer to him, closing her eyes. “I always feel better when you’re here.”

“Anytime,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head. He hadn’t done anything besides listening, and that was much too close to ‘doing nothing’ for Cassian’s peace of mind. He was a man of action, and he felt helpless. He turned around to tell her that he was sorry and that he wished he could to more for her, but her eyes were closed and she seemed to already be dozing off. He smiled, and guided her towards the door.

“Where are we going?” she asked stopping dead in her tracks, frowning at the door.

“Inside? It’s raining,” he said, looking at her in disbelief.

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“There are people inside, I’d rather stay here,” she said, taking a few steps back.

“Cora…” Cassian whispered, exasperated, before taking a few steps towards her, lifting her up and flinging her over his shoulder. Cora yelped and started hitting his back with her fists, but was giggling like a schoolgirl when he opened the door and stepped inside the base.

[Masterlist in Bio]

[imjustthemechanic]

Natalie Jones and the Golden Ship

Part 1/? - A Meeting at the Palace Part 2/? - Curry Talk Part 3/? - Princess Sitamun Part 4/? - Not At Rest Part 5/? - Dead Men Tell no Tales Part 6/? - Sitamun Rises Again Part 7/? - The Curse of Madame Desrosiers Part 8/? - Sabotage at Guedelon

The group track down the elusive Madame Desrosiers.  She is not cooperative.

Guedelon Castle was just a few minutes outside Triegny – they pulled up into an entirely modern car park, separated from the building site by a row of trees.  A path led around to the other side of those, and there, very intentionally like something out of another time was the castle itself.  Construction had been going on for some fifteen years now and was expected to take ten more, with all the work being done in the same way as it would have been in the thirteenth century – right down to the workers dressing in period-appropriate clothing.  The only concession to modernity was the hard hats and steel-toed boots required by the safety laws, and a couple of cars and trailers that must have belonged to employees, parked a short distance away.

Natasha had been looking forward to seeing how Sir Stephen would react to the place, and how close he thought it was to the fantasy middle ages he came from. It was, however, Clint whose eyes lit up eagerly as they approached the building site.

“I… I remember seeing repairs being made to the castle in Nottingham!” he said, referring to his other life as Robin Hood.  “It was just like this, with the treadwheel crane and the mason’s lodge… I recognize all of this!”  He laughed. “It’s weird how this stuff pops up so strongly when something reminds me.  Like a childhood memory I’ve almost forgotten, and then it comes back!”

His delight was infectious – Natasha smiled back at him.  “Are you still working on your book?” she asked.

“Uh… not really.  Not since I got back,” Clint admitted.  “It would feel like cheating now, like the whole story is already written for me.”

“You’re still the one who came up with it,” Nat told him.

Sir Stephen looked up at the crane, powered by two men in what looked like a giant wooden hamster wheel, hauling blocks of sandstone up to the top of one of the towers.  He nodded, as if he approved, then lowered his eyes to look at the woman who was coming up to greet them.  She was small and plump, dressed in a shapeless forest-green dress and a wimple.

“Can I help you?” she asked in French, a little sharply.  “We’re closed to visitors!”

It was almost six-thirty – they would probably be stopping work for the night soon.  Nat wondered if she and the others should have waited for tomorrow, but Sir Stephen bowed to the woman as if she were a great lady, and then took out his CAAP badge. “I am Sir Stephen of Rogsey,” he replied, in perfect French, “of the Committee for the Appraisal of Archaeological Peril in London.  My colleagues and I are looking for Madame Helene Desrosiers.”

“Oh,” said the woman, a bit startled by his behaviour.  “I’m Sylvia Lefevre, the site director. What do you want with Madame Desrosiers?”

“We have some questions for her about the stolen Egyptian mummy.  We understand she had a family interest in it,” Sir Stephen explained.

Lefevre looked worried now.  “Madame Desrosiers said she would be leaving tonight. You might still catch her at her trailer.”

They looked towards the small cluster of employees’ vehicles – and at that moment, they heard an engine start.  At the end of the row was a particularly large and expensive-looking RV, which was now humming as it prepared to drive away.

Nat grabbed Sir Stephen’s hand.  “Quick!” she said.

They ran back to the car park, where they were in time to see a woman lugging what must have been a very heavy suitcase up the steps to the RV door with her teeth gritted.  To Nat’s surprise, she was not European but East Asian, with fair skin and shiny black hair in a neat bun at the back of her head.  She remembered Wainfleet mentioning that she’d taken over the attempt to reclaim the mummy from her mother-in-law, and wondered what Monsieur Desrosiers thought about the whole thing… or indeed, whether his opinion mattered.

“Madame Desrosiers!” Natasha called out.

The woman looked up.  “I am in a hurry!” she said.  Her accent was French, meaning she’d probably grown up in the country – most likely in Paris or its suburbs.  “I cannot talk!”

“Going to visit your Mummy?” asked Sam.

Helene Desrosiers paused a moment, as if what he’d said had surprised her, but then she shook her head.  “I am going to see Monsieur Wainfleet in England!” she snarled.  “To give him a piece of my mind about his little stunt!  That sarcophagus belongs to me!”

Nat came closer.  “So nobody’s told you they found it?” she asked.

That made Desrosiers stop cold.  She searched Nat’s face for a moment, looking perhaps for a sign that she was lying.  “Where?” she demanded.

“At the side of the road, smashed,” said Nat.  She hadn’t had time to look at a newspaper that day, but was guessing the Gendarmerie hadn’t told the press.  Possibly because they hoped to keep the information private in order to test any tips or confessions they received, but just as likely because they wanted to avoid embarrassment.

Desrosiers stared a moment longer, then hissed something through her teeth. Nat couldn’t quite make out what she’d said, but it sounded like German.

“What did you say?” asked Nat.

“I know who did it,” Desrosiers declared, “and I will deal with him.  You foreigners,” she added, “your job was to protect the sarcophagus and you have clearly failed at that, so you are no longer needed.”  She hauled her suitcase up the last step.  “Laurent!” she called to somebody else.  “Allons-y!”

“Oui, Madame!” came a reply from up front.

Desrosiers was about to shut the door, but Sir Stephen put his hand in it to stop her.  “Wait!” he said.  “Who are the men who look like Buckeye?”

“The men who… who?” she asked, blinking at him in confusion.

“The identical men!” Sir Stephen insisted.  “There were two of them in the party that robbed the train, and they turned to ash when their faces were shown!”

Nat saw recognition flit across Desrosiers’ face, settling a moment later into annoyance. “Of course there were!” the woman snarled.  “That is not your business, either.”  She slammed the door on Sir Stephen’s fingers, forcing him to yank his hand back. It would take a lot more than that to stop him, though – still shaking his fingers to get rid of the sting, he ran to stand in front of the vehicle as it passed along the dirt track between the mason’s lodge and the castle moat.  The driver, a man in his early twenties with the sides of his head shaved, looked nervous for a moment but then revved up the engine, and Sir Stephen was forced to hurry aside.

“She knows!” Sir Stephen said, pointing a furious finger at the RV.  “She knows and she will not tell!”

“She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to,” Natasha pointed out.  “We don’t actually have any authority in France.”

“We cannot go home without answers!” Sir Stephen declared.  “I will not allow it!”

The rest of the group had caught up with him now, and were gathering around to try to calm him down – but then Clint’s eyes suddenly went wide.  “Hey!” he shouted, taking off to chase the RV.  “Wait!  Stop!”

Whatever he’d seen, he was too late to stop it.  There was a crack from high up on top of the half-finished tower, and the immense wooden crane broke.  Its arm swung down to fall into the moat, which fortunately was only a ditch, not yet filled with water, and the load of stones it had been lifting came crashing down on the front of Desrosiers’ RV.

There was no hesitation on the part of any CAAP member – they rushed forward. Sir Stephen ripped the RV door off its hinges to get at the crushed driver’s seat.  The young man named Laurent was lying there, covered in glass from the shattered windshield and with his legs trapped under the collapsed dashboard.  Sharon shot the lock off the passenger door and she and Natasha climbed in.  Madame Desrosiers was sitting on the floor just inside the doorway between the cab and the living space, clutching some crumpled paper to her chest and staring in horror at what was in front of her.  Had she been a foot further forward, she would have been killed.

“Come with us,” said Sharon.  She and Natasha took Desrosiers’ arms and escorted her out of the vehicle.

Outside, people were gathering from all over the castle grounds to see what had happened.  Allen was comforting Madame Lefevre with one arm around her shoulder, while she buried her face in this stranger’s shirt so she wouldn’t have to look at the accident. With his other hand he was trying to dial his phone.

“Nine-nine-nine doesn’t work!” he told Natasha.

“It’s one-one-two on the continent,” she said.

Sam had pushed Sir Stephen out of the way to get a look at Laurent. Natasha caught his eye, and saw him shake his head.

“This one’s dead,” Sam said.  “How’s Madame Desrosiers?”

“I’m perfectly all right,” Desrosiers replied stiffly, though she was trembling.  “I have to leave.  I’m going to miss my flight.”

“We’ll get you out,” Sam promised.  “Sir Steve?”  This got no response, and Sam looked around.  “Sir Steve?” he repeated.”

“He went with Clint,” said Allen, briefly waving his phone in the direction of the castle before putting it to his ear.  “Hello?” he asked whoever had answered.  “Hi, do you speak English?”

Nat turned towards the stone walls.  Clint was halfway up the scaffolding, with his bow and arrows on his back, but had paused to look down.  Sir Stephen was at first nowhere to be seen, but a moment later there was a fuss halfway along the outer wall.  A man jumped down to land in a heap and roll down into the moat, with Sir Stephen right behind him.

The first man started to get up, but Clint clung to the scaffold with his legs while he fired an arrow, and hit the man in the back of the shoulder.  This was not a sharp arrow, though, but one of the taser ones the young scientists at Shrivenham had made – the victim went stiff, and then fell to the ground all over again.  Clint began climbing back down.

Sir Stephen had landed on his feet a couple of metres away.  He slid down the side of the moat to grab the fallen man by the shoulders and drag him to his feet.  It turned out, however, that the man either recovered quickly or had only been faking being stunned – he rolled over, kicked Sir Stephen in the face, and got up to confront Clint, who was now coming at him from the other side.  Clint pulled out a second stun arrow and made to jab at him with it physically, perhaps with the idea that he hadn’t hit the right spot the first time.  The man responded by parrying the arrow with one arm, while the other pulled a hunting knife out of his belt and stabbed Clint in the side with it.

“Shit!” Nat exclaimed.  She left Madame Desrosiers in Sharon’s care, and dashed towards the fight.

“Shit!” Sam agreed, and went with her.

Clint had collapsed, clutching his wound.  The man who’d jumped from the wall was dressed, like the other workers, in a medieval tunic, hose, and hood, with a leather vest that had perhaps blocked the shock from the stun arrow.  A yellow hard hat and a pair of safety goggles made it difficult to see his face.  While Sam and Nat were still on their way, Sir Stephen managed to knock the knife out of the man’s hand and then ripped the hat and goggles off in him in a single motion.

[tobimikesan]

A Rather Tumultuous Imperial Palace Run - Haikyuu!! Light Novel Vol. 9: Spring High Inside Story

This is hilarious, so I figured I’d better write a summary of it. Well, that was the plan, but towards the end I got carried away and ends up writing a translation rather than summary.

The story is about Tsukishima accompanying the oddball duo out for a run the night before Spring High. Well I said accompanying, but it’s more like Ennoshita make him babysit them. As expected of the next captain.

Daichi have entrusted Ennoshita to make sure nothing bad happens while he’s on a meeting with the coach, when Ennoshita notices Kageyama is on the entrance of their inn tying his shoelaces about to go on a run. Soon Hinata comes too and says he wants to go as well. Ennoshita’s mind goes into chaos. No way these two gonna run on Tokyo wilderness, they have zero knowledge of the area. No way. But if they couldn’t sleep later because they haven’t moved enough, it will also be troublesome. If only there’s someone with common sense that could accompany them...

Just Tsukishima’s luck then. He only wants to get his drink from the vending machine on the first floor and go back to their room unnoticed, but his opponent is  Ennoshita who could rein in the wild 2nd years.

“Tsukishima”

“No way.”

“But I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re going to tell me to go with them, right?”

Tsukki makes a feeble attempt saying he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the oddball duo. But Ennoshita outwit him.

And that’s how Tsukishima ends up with the old bike of the granny who owns the inn. He makes no effort to hide his thoughts, ‘Why me...’

“As soon as I tell you to go back, we go back. If you don’t listen to me I won’t hesitate to leave you in the most inconvenient place I could find. I’m well aware that you don’t know the location of this inn.”

And there they go. Not long after, Tsukishima notices that the bike makes some weird noises. Just as the crossing light turns green, he realizes the pedals seem a bit heavy. He feels uneasy. And then...

The oddball duo just run past him. What’s wrong with those two? Why are they so carefree, running on streets they don’t even know? Have their brains not evolved yet to the point of knowing fear and worry? Are they reptiles?

They keep running at a high pace while Tsukishima tries to avoid pedestrians around him. They turn at an intersection where there were no more lights from nearby shops. He calls out to them saying he needs to check the way first, but they just keep running. Tsukishima can’t help but wonder whether they couldn’t hear him or they just don’t understand the meaning of “wait up”.

That’s when he suddenly hears their voices ahead. And apparently they somehow have reached Tokyo Dome. Cue Hinata getting excited.

“I told you to wait, right?” As Tsukishima said that, the two of them just looks back with a puppy like face without any hint of nervousness.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“No?”

Tsukishima is just so done at this point but he can’t just go back now. What would he say to Ennoshita?

“Next time you don’t listen to me, I’ll immediately go back.”

That tone combined with the warning he gave them before they left make them shrug.

“Ah, yes, sorry.”

“'Kay.”

So troublesome. If only there’s a place where those two could just run around in one place like a hamster on its wheel...

Oh, that’s it! He takes out his phone, and not long after he grins and tells those two to follow him.

About 10 minutes later, Tsukishima stops and looks at the map on his phone. "You can run around as much as you like here.”

“Eh? A moat?”

It’s not that Hinata doesn’t know what a moat is. There’s Date Masamune Castle Site too in Miyagi which children usually visit on excursions. But still he asks, “So where is this place?”

“Could it be that you don’t know about the Imperial Palace?”

“Eh, this is the Imperial Palace? So it’s Imperial Palace run?” Hinata’s eyes lit up.

Imperial Palace run, it refers to the running course around the outer circumference of the palace. It’s a famous running course with beautiful trees lining the course and no traffic light. Many salarymen go there for a run after work, before out drinking at Ginza.

“It’s the thing I saw on TV!”

Compared to the excited Hinata, Kageyama face says as long as he can run it doesn’t matter.

“There are other runners here as well, so you two won’t get lost, right?”

Despite the pointed look from Tsukishima, Hinata just looks around excitedly. “I’m getting excited! Let’s go, Imperial Palace run!”

As the two are about to run, Tsukishima calls out from behind, “Oh, one more thing.”

“What?”

“If you go off the course or go on your own, I’m going to leave you and go back.”

“Ye, yes.”

“’Kay.”

The three of them start at Takebashi at the north northeast point of the course. As they go, Tsukishima starts to absentmindedly think about the course and the buildings around it, and feels a bit relieved that those oddball duo won’t get lost here as long as they stay on the course. There are other runners here as well, so they should be fine. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he leaves those two to survive on instinct in this heart of Japan.

“Tsukishima did you say something just now?” Hinata suddenly turns.

“Nothing. Come on, keep going!” This wild child’s instinct is scary.

They keep going until they get to the Sakuradamon gate where Hinata gets excited again. After they pass the gate, Hinata notices something afar and exclaims, “Could that be the Skytree?”

“The red thing over there is just a crane.”

“Not that, the one at the gap between the buildings!”

There’s no way Skytree is over there, but Tsukishima seems compelled to turn around and look, and there he sees not Skytree, but Tokyo Tower.

“Oh, so It’s Tokyo Tower? I’ve finally seen Tokyo Tower, amazing!”

Tsukishima can’t help but wonder why Hinata gets so excited over these huge things. Is it because he himself is small? Or is it because he’s just stupid and has basic desire to climb up those high structures?

As he thinks about that, Hinata calls out to Kageyama who continues running ahead. Hinata starts catching up to Kageyama as his black jersey looks smaller and smaller to Tsukishima.

“Wai...”

At that moment, he hears another weird noise from the chain. Instead of the wheels turning, the chain makes a weird noise and he senses he’s about to fall. He stumbles into a rather big stone and loses his balance. He manages to land his feet and save himself from falling, but he still has an uneasy feeling...

And apparently the oddball duo have left him. He tried calling out to them but they just keep running until he can’t see them anymore. They’ve gotten into competition mode.

He gets off the bike and realizes that the chain has come off the gear. Standing alone in front of Sakuradamon gate, he can’t help but thinks, “It’s the worst.”

The oddball duo have come back to their starting point at Takebashi and starts to argue about who wins, when they realize Tsukishima is not there.

“Wait, where’s Tsukishima?”

“He’ll get here soon, he’s on a bike.”

“You’re right.”

They wait for awhile but Tsukishima still hasn’t come. So Hinata says, “Hey Kageyama, let’s look for Tsukishima!”

“Why?”

Kageyama doesn’t mean anything bad by this. He just thinks that Tsukishima won’t get lost and he can go back to the inn by himself, so there’s no need for them to look for him.

“Why? If he’s not around we can’t go back, right?”

“!!”

And so the emergency strategy meeting begins.

“So this is a match of who gets to find him first. I’m going round this way, and you go that way.”

“Huh? Which is way is that way?”

“Okay, start!”

“Wait, this idiot!”

So the strategy is.....?

And so the three of them are scattered lost in the heart of Tokyo.

Tsukishima’s hands are black from fixing back the chain. As he gets to their starting point, the oddball duo are nowhere to be seen. He traces back to Sakuradamon where his bike broke down, but he still couldn’t find them.

So he texts the two of them, “Where are you now?”

And he gets their replies immediately.

From Hinata, “At the cool building.”

And Kageyama, “In front of  the cool building.”

“Where...” Tsukishima tries to suppress the urge to abandon everything and goes back to the inn. He also tries to suppress the urge to say ‘I’ve told you not to run off on your own’, and so he told them to send a picture of their location. He needs to be calm now. And so he gets a text back from Hinata with him posing in front of Tokyo Station.

Tokyo Station. Of course it’s nowhere on the Imperial Palace running course. How Hinata could get there is beyond him. And not long after, he gets a text from Kageyama too.

“I don’t need a picture of Kageyama too...”

But the moment he sees the picture he’s glad he does. The picture attached is not of Tokyo Station. “Huh?”

In the blurry, slanted, badly taken picture is the Parliament Building he saw earlier during their run.

“HUH?!”

The runners passing by turn to look at him but he can’t be bothered. Hinata and Kageyama are at different place? Why? Why can’t they just run around in one place? Why are the two of them, despite not knowing the area, go on their separate way? He doesn’t get it. It would be great if he could just embed a tracker on them. And by the way who’s taking the picture for Hinata? A stranger? How could he strike such a ridiculous pose after asking help from a stranger? What nerve he has.

The crease on his forehead gets deeper and deeper. There’s no way he picks them up one by one. Not because he’s tired, but he just doesn’t want to. No way. He can’t babysit them anymore, it’s impossible. Should he just go back on his own...

“No, wait.”

His clouded face starts to brighten up and he turns back and look at the night view of the office district. He then deletes the blurry image of the Parliament Building and opens the map app on his phone. He swipes, scrolls, looks into something on his phone and finally he raises his head. “It’s possible.”

And so he sends his third texts to them. This time instead of sending the same text, he sends a different message to each of them.

“This time it’s my win, okay.”

“You just happened to be closer!”

“A win is a win.”

“Dammit!”

Kageyama and Hinata are bickering again, when Tsukishima interjects, “Shut up. I just want to go back.”

“Whaat, it’s all because you suddenly disappear.”

“It’s not my fault the bike broke down.”

The three has finally gathered again in front of a large structure which impact surpasses even Tokyo Dome from earlier.

“But anyway, it really is huge!”

As Hinata says that, Kageyama and Tsukishima turn their head up almost ninety degree to look. The three of them are standing at the foot of the lit up Tokyo Tower. It looks like merely a red steel tower from afar, but closer they’re finally able to grasp how big it is. Hinata tries to get a picture of it using his phone, but it’s so huge that he couldn’t get it in the frame.

“Oh, if you lie down it’s easy to see! I could take a picture of it! The whole thing!” Hinata says as he sprawls out on the asphalt.

Tsukishima looks down at him and says, “So you managed to get here on your own, huh. I thought it would be impossible.”

“Eh?” Hinata stands up. “What will you do if I couldn’t?”

Tsukishima gives a thin smile and answers, “I can’t help but leave you then.”

“Ruthless!”

The texts Tsukishima sent them are as follow:

“Go to the 35th floor of the building in front of Tokyo Station. From the window you can see Tokyo Tower. Run while aiming for it. Do your best so that you don’t lose to Kageyama.”

“Turn around at the back of the Parliament Building. Facing the direction of the buildings, you should be able to see Tokyo Tower at the right side. Run while aiming for it. If you don’t want to lose to Hinata, shouldn’t you hurry up?”

It’s a remote operation.

If the goal is Tokyo Tower, it should be visible from various places. And everyone would know about it too. And his judgment was correct. Hinata and Kageyama manage to safely get there.

“But there was a point where I couldn’t see it, even though it’s this big...”

“So what did you do, then?

“‘Whaaa, what to do? I can’t see it! I’m lost!’ As soon as I think about it I hurried and talked to a group of old men. ‘I want to go to Tokyo Tower’, and they said they’re heading there too, so we ran here together.”

“What are those people, so weird.”

“Uhm...” Hinata tries to recall, “For Tokyo Marathon? They train by running from Skytree to Tokyo Tower.”

“But where are they now?”

“We where together until the foot of the hill, but they were tired and decided to take a break, so they told me to go on ahead. It’s only a bit more, so I can get here by myself. Oh, I get some sweets from them, you want?”

“... No thanks.” That’s the communication monster for you. Anyway, if a normal person is following Hinata’s pace, they would certainly be exhausted. Hinata himself on the other hand doesn’t look that tired.

“But it really is huge. When I was running I kept thinking, ‘Am I almost there?’, but apparently not. I got closer and closer but it seems like I just never got there. It’s so huge that you can see it from far away.”

Hearing that, Kageyama who’s sitting on the ground nods in agreement.

Tsukishima who comes on a bike understand that feeling as well. He could see it already so it might be close by, but unexpectedly it’s still quite far. It’s not that it’s visible because it’s close, but rather because it’s big. It might also be because it’s on a hill. The last slope was really tough.

By the way Tokyo Tower is 2.7 km away from Sakuradamon, 2.4 km from Parliament Building, and 3.5 km away from Tokyo Station.

“Next time I’m gonna go to the top of it!”

“Do as you like”, Tsukishima replies coldly. If it’s Hinata, he might even be able to scale its steel frame.

“Whaaat, don’t you want to go up there as well, Tsukishima?”

“Unlike you, I don’t like high places.”

“Eh! Tsukishima kun, are you afraid of heights!?”

“... I didn’t say I’m afraid. Come now, you’ve run this much, it should be enough, right?” Tsukishima says as he kicks the bike stand. He sits on the saddle and starts paddling.

Hinata looks back at the entirety of the 333 m and turns ahead.

“See you next time!”

Tomorrow is the first day of Spring High. Would they still be at Tokyo tomorrow night...

The brightness of the city are concealing the stars. In exchange of that the gleaming night view becomes the backdrop as the three of them run back.

PS. Thanks for reading! This is my first time doing a summary/translation, so if you notice any errors please let me know!

PPS. This is just a fan translation, so if you can please support the official release. I know the light novel is not officially translated yet, but maybe you can try bugging your local publisher for it, lol. Or get the Japanese version, the artworks are great!

PPPS. If you want to know more about the course, you can google image 皇居ラン

[siiinfilled]

@dcvilishh​ [ x ]:

A bemused expression swept across his features when glancing back at her with narrowed eyes filled with curiosity and seriousness due to the nature of her questioning and the strange peculiar display of her mannerisms and behaviour .” There is no one else aside from those that I’ve been with intimately before I summoned you. I’ve never known deity’s to be jealous of mortals and their sexual activities.” Unable to help but make a dry joke in the form of his second sentence yet ht was attempting to lighten the mood and simmer down any form of tension he couldn’t help but feel as he was aware of her true power which he had no intention of upsetting Death. Remaining devoted to her as he felt that he himself was incredibly lucky to have her by his side and that she seemed rather attracted to him strongly.  Hazel eyes briefly diverted down to the fullness of her breasts while he felt her warm lips applying soothing kisses to his cheek in a clumsy manner yet he didn’t mind. Quietly he would draw in his breath as he knew she was someone who had helped regained his kingdom  and had persuaded the people to respect him. Leaning back in his throne when he observed and watched her straddling onto his lap. Bucking his jolting hips in reaction to his thick hard erection lightly tracing over the wet smooth grooves of her slippery warm folds. Biting down on the corner of his bottom lip.” Many have but none of them compare to you, my love. I am sure I could last an entire night with you as I have never had the determination nor drive to do so with anyone else except you now.”  Being so bold and confident to refer to Death as his love. Yet he was being honest and spilling forth the truth. 

Spreading his legs apart while adrenaline coursed through his veins as his body would thrum when he felt her breasts pressed against his bare chest as his shirt was opened. Drifting his eyelids shut as his breath hitched when experiencing her hand stroking his hard cock as it grew firm and thick. “ I would…” Words trailed off. A grunt emitted as his pace of breath became much more intense.” I can not give what has already been given since you’ve owned me the first time I summoned you. You will always have me.” Strong hands would settle on the sides of her thighs and trailed all the way up and around for his tense sprawled out fingers to clutch squeeze and grab her round plump ass cheeks. Slowly however he applied pressure to push her down onto his cock which penetrated and stretched her warm folds around his massive girth. Craning his head back as he stifled in his groans.

Deities could be seen as superior beings, but Death believed that they could also be humans with immortality and higher purposes. So, emotions such as jealousy and love were easily felt by them if they wished to acknowledge their existence. “I cannot speak for the rest but yes, I have. Only when it comes to you, my young king.” Her fingers clamped over his jaw to tilt his head up, allowing her to kiss him as she sank down onto his cock. It was big enough for her flaps to stretch over it, and she continued straddling his lap while she shrugged off her robe and leaving her body bare to his gaze. His whispered promise was enough for now; only time would really tell if he meant it or not. Humans tended to break their promises, no matter who these were made to. She wasn’t completely blinded by her affection for him to think he was an exception. Death put more weight on action than on words, after all. Being considered a human’s ‘love’ did make her laugh softly; she didn’t mind the term, and who else could be bold enough to love Death than a warrior king?

“Prove it,” she whispered once she had pulled away from the passionate kiss. She ran her tongue along her lower lip to swipe up the remaining taste of him and began to move, her hips rolling slowly over his lap. Her nipples occasionally brushed over his chest, and Death drew Eredin’s head over her breasts while she arched her back, her hips continuing their slow, sensual movements. Gradually, she picked up her pace, and she gripped the armrests of his throne to keep herself from falling backwards while she fucked him, her groin slapping against his the faster she moved. The remaining fabric that had clung to her form had finally slipped free from the thin golden pins, so a pale gray pool of fabric was bunched up around her waist. With a sharp tug, this was pulled free and tossed to the ground. His potential inexperience didn’t matter to her; there was still time for him to learn. While there was a particular carnal sin who could have taught him everything she knew and more, the thought of introducing him to Lust made her growl and cling onto him tighter, possessively. Instead, she climbed off of his lap with great effort and lay on the plush carpet that ran from the foot of his throne to the main doors of the hall, her legs spread and her arm stretched out towards him, and she beckoned him to take her right there on the floor.

[youholditalltogether]

On attachment

Excerpt from Chapter 18 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

Several of Casey’s friends had formed a bluegrass band called the Itchy Mountain Men. They developed quite a following, landing gigs, performing on the radio, and even cutting a CD. Casey considered herself a groupie.

They had a gig at Old St. Hilary’s Church in Tiburon. Built in 1888, a good century before that finger of land became populated with multimillion-dollar homes, it was a simple Carpenter Gothic-style chapel that seated about a hundred people.

They were to play on Saturday, and Casey spent most of the afternoon obsessing over how best to doll herself up for a special night out. Her floor was littered with outfits. She summoned Erika - who was suffering from a virus - for help, only to banish her moments later when she couldn’t magically make Casey look “gorgeous enough.” Casey called off the entire evening, dissolving into tears in her room, and then pulled herself back together.

The show started at 9:00 and it was 8:15. She was supposed to be picked up by her girlfriends at 8:30. The last fifteen minutes were a frantic rush to finish up hair, makeup, and the third outfit, which was also the first outfit - the usual tomato-colored quilted hoodie, skinny jeans, suede boots, and a touch of Eau de Perfume.

At 8:25, Casey’s tears were gone, and she was happy, ready, and waiting by the front door for her ride. Then she blurted out, “You guys should come!”

We were taken aback. For so long Casey had fought to distance herself from us. Erika was too sick to leave the house. I was thrilled to be invited, but what was the protocol? Should I pretend not to know her?

“Dad, you’ll have to take a separate car.”

I was still happy to accept her invitation. “Of course, honey.”

Old St. Hilary’s was full to capacity by the time I arrived. Body heat generated more than sufficient warmth on that cold January night. The air in the chapel was thick and noisy with anticipation as I made my way from the front door to the end of the pews where I hoped to find a seat. I saw familiar faces in the crowd from church or school, all the way back to Casey’s kindergarten class.

I took a seat where I could see the stage and peer over the people in front of me to look for Casey. I caught her at the foot of the stage with her girlfriends, chatting contentedly, falling into them and laughing. It was heartening to see her so genuinely happy. But I was afraid she’d see me, so I ducked down. I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends.

Hidden by the people in front of me, I watched as she broke off her conversation, turned around, and craned her neck in my direction. She spotted me in the crowd, lit up, and didn’t hide her face. Instead she waved excitedly in my direction.

I must have been starved for her affection like a lovesick boy, because all I could think about was that she’d acknowledged me. I contemplated for a moment the years of fighting, the ugliness, the crying, the worrying, and the hurtful words. But all she had to do was acknowledge my existence as her dad in a crowd and I’d forget everything.

She’d be fine.

I felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

Chapter 19 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

In the days following the horrific morning in January 2009 - just weeks after the concert at Old St. Hilary’s - I’d become obsessed with a single question:

Why?

I drifted through each day and went to bed each night thinking about her, torturing myself with guilt, drowning in soul-crushing grief. Sometimes, as if a protective mechanism in my brain had kicked in, I imagined that this was all a dream. I’d wake up to find her asleep in her room. Then I’d suffer a jolt to the chest.

The Coast Guard called off the search for her body after just two days; something about the currents being too strong - the ocean would be Casey’s grave.

I felt a reflexive gag as I wrote her obituary.

I endlessly relived and dissected the events of the weekend before her death. Erika and I both had been fighting with Casey, starting with something seemingly trivial - a rude remark or refusal to clean up after herself; I hardly even remember. Things spun out of control. As tension mounted between us, Casey had spat out, “Asshole! Motherfucker!” She threatened to run away and live on the streets.

And my response? I got in her face and yelled at her like a drill sergeant, “Good! Go ahead!” I slammed her door, leaving her alone in her room, sobbing convulsively.

Later that night, I passed through the living room on my way to bed. She sat curled up on the sofa, staring hard at the TV, her eyes red and swollen from crying. We exchanged frosty glances.

And that was the last time I saw her.

~

That last ugly exchange screamed through my head. If I hadn’t yelled at her, she might not have been so upset. If I hadn’t ignored her on my way to bed, I might have thought twice, taken back my harsh words, and told her I didn’t mean those nasty things. If I hadn’t slept that extra half hour the next morning, I might have gotten to her room sooner, seen the note, and alerted the police in time.

But I did none of those things.

We’d had knock-down, drag-out fights since Casey was in grade school and they never ended in a catastrophe like this. She’d usually stomp off to her room. There were no clues that weekend that could have shed light on how she’d shifted so suddenly from “infuriated at Dad” to suicidal.

~

Some people suspected that drugs had played a role in Casey’s suicide, but Erika and I had our doubts. Despite our numerous busts, we’d never seen her out-of-control stoned or drunk, and she’d never been to rehab. She wasn’t on any prescription medication at the time and wasn’t out partying Monday night. Early Tuesday morning, she managed to drive the Saab to the bridge. The last video images captured her smoking a cigarette and jogging out onto the pedestrian walkway - not exactly the kind of behavior I’d associate with someone high on drugs. She easily climbed over that four-foot railing and, according to the police report, stood for ten to fifteen seconds before stepping off to her death. What could have gone through her mind in those crucial seconds before she made that fatal choice?

~

Casey’s friends were as shell-shocked as we were. After her memorial service at St. Stephen’s Church in Belvedere, an event that drew an overflow crowd, there was a reception in the parish hall. It was an awkward affair, with other parents struggling for words. It seemed we’d become separated by a glass wall. Was it pity, empathy, judgment, or terror that was in their faces? We couldn't tell. Perhaps the suicide of a child was just too toxic for people to handle. It raised the horrifying specter of contagion.

As the adults drifted away, Casey’s friends circled around us. The collateral damage from her death was etched into their faces. They seemed to be looking for something from us. Perhaps they wanted to talk.

“Do you guys know anything about why she did it?” I asked.

They shook their heads and mumbled a collective “No.”

Why would she have kept her close friends in the dark? “I don’t get it. She was so close to freedom. I thought that’s what she wanted.”

Everyone stared at the floor until her friend Julian spoke. “I don't think that Casey had any intention of going to Bennington.”

Erika and I exchanged startled glances. “What makes you say that” I asked.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I think she just wanted to prove to herself and everyone else that she could get in.”

Julian made an interesting point. But why would someone get what they wanted and then throw it all away?

...

I’d always thought that if someone was bent on taking his or her life, nothing would stop them. But I’ve since learned that suicide is often impulsive - a transient urge. Once the impulse passed and the victim had an opportunity to reconsider, the chances were good that he or she wouldn’t try again.

But Casey did try again. Less than thirty-six hours after she’d sent that text she went back. Her jump - her despair - had not been impulsive. There was something deeper.

...

Chapter 21 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

A man receives only what he is ready to receive, whether physically or intellectually or morally, as animals conceive at certain seasons their kind only. We hear and apprehend only what we already half know . . . Every man thus tracks himself through life, in all his hearing and reading and observation and travelling. His observations make a chain. The phenomenon or fact that cannot in any wise be linked with the rest of what he has observed, he does not observe. By and by we may be ready to receive what we cannot now.

- Henry David Thoreau

I had the first draft of Casey's story finished by the time I'd met with Dr. Palmer and Dianne. Other than recounting Erika's and my journey to Poland, there were only glancing references to and speculation about the effects on Casey's behavior of her abandonment and adoption. They were never pursued or treated seriously, even after Dianne had raised the issue in passing. It just seemed inconceivable to me that Casey's infancy had anything to do with her later life and death. After all, I reasoned that I had no memory of my own life before the age of seven other than from photographs and home movies. How could she?

...

It wasn't until our coach critiqued my draft that she found the story I had completely missed. It was that glancing reference Dianne made in our last meeting after Casey had quit therapy four years earlier, in the spring of 2007.

Attachment disorder.

...

I sat in my home office in front of my computer and Googled attachment disorder. The first hit brought me to Wikipedia:

Attachment disorder is a disorder of mood, behavior, and social relationships arising from a failure to form normal attachments to primary caregivers in early childhood. Such a failure would result from unusual early experiences of neglect, abuse, or abrupt separation from caregivers in the first three years of life.

Then I searched a related term, reactive attachment disorder, or RAD:

Children with RAD are presumed to have grossly disturbed internal working models of relationships, which may lead to interpersonal and behavioral difficulties in later life. There are few studies of long-term effects, but the opening of orphanages in Eastern Europe in the early 1990s provided opportunities for research on infants and toddlers brought up in very deprived conditions.

...

I searched and sifted through mounds of data and studies from sources ranging from attachment experts and clinicians to blog posts by adoptive parents. A behavioral profile of the adopted child began to emerge.

Emotional Regulation: Because of the absence of the modulating influence of a dedicated caregiver in infancy, the adopted child frequently has a low tolerance for frustration, ineffective coping skills and impulse control, and trouble self-soothing. She can be clingy, hyperreactive, quick to anger or bursting into tears over what others might consider insignificant or nonexistent slightls. It can be difficult to calm her with logic or discipline. She may have out-of-control, prolonged tantrums long past toddlerhood that are disproportionate to circumstances, giving the appearance of emotional immaturity.

Control: Abandoned in infancy, the adopted child has learned early not to trust. Controlling her environment and distancing others around her - especially caregivers - become paramount as a way to protect herself from further abandonment. This can affect her social realm, where she must navigate relationships and read social cues. She may feel threatened by others, have trouble tolerating relationships or participating in competitive games other than on her own terms. She can be a sore loser when things don't go her way. She may have trouble sharing toys, food, or friends, long past what is age-appropriate. She may lack cause-and-effect thinking and blame others for her mistakes. Convinced perhaps that caregivers are unavailable and untrustworthy, she might avoid asking for help. She might be seen as bossy, but not to everyone. She can be manipulative - extremely charming, in fact, even indiscriminately affectionate, toward strangers - but cool and remote at home.

Transitions: Because of her need for control, the adopted child can have difficulties with transitions, especially when they come unexpectedly. She can't easily "go with the flow." Rather, she does best in environments of structure, predictability, and regularity. Changes in routine - such as transitions from the school year to summer, vacations, and holidays - are times of great stress and acting out.

Discipline: Trust, control, and discipline go hand in hand for the adopted child. She may display a pattern of disobedient, defiant, and hostile behavior toward authority figures that goes beyond the norm, giving the appearance of being unduly stubborn and strong-willed. Epic battles can erupt over the most trivial things.

Self-Image: The adopted child whose needs are not met in infancy builds up a pessimistic and hopeless view of herself, her family, and society. She may be uncomfortable with physical closeness or intimacy. She can hear compliments from parents yet feel no association. She's not worthy of love or respect, and may have enclosed her heart in a vault and fought to deny access to anyone who truly loves her. "I love you" can strike terror in her heart. She can't feel love, believe that it hurts, and wants nothing of it. She may manifest destructive behaviors such as self-mutilation, eating disorders, and suicidal tendencies.

A simple Google search explained everything about casey. The uncontrollable tantrums and crying jags. Her lack of patience, whether waiting an extra minute in her high chair for some ice cream or, years later, learning to skate or snowboard. Her tendency to be thin-skinned at home with no tolerance for the most benign joke or jab aimed at her . And my reaction to this? Out of sheer frustration, I told her to stop crying and grow up, and act her age.

Great job, Dad.

She didn't handle threesomes well and would stomp home in tears from a friend's house feeling left out or slighted, losing it when something didn't go her way . . . Power struggles erupted over the most ridiculous things - Casey, please put your dirty dish in the sink; Casey, please don't leave your wet towel on the bathroom floor; Casey, please take Igor for a walk. We were stuck in a never-ending cycle of time-outs, withheld privileges, abandoned reward programs, groundings, and empty threats to spend her college fund on a year in purgatory. We resorted to spanking her, even threatening to hit her, violating every tenet of good parenting and giving her more reason to despise us.

And transitions? Maybe Bennington was the last straw. I thought about Julian's theory at the memorial that Casey had no intention of going; she just wanted to prove a point. For all her bluster about Bennington, I could see how she could have been terrified. She was a creature of habit, had never been away by herself (except for the Alaska trip), never shared a bedroom or bathroom. At home, she had some measure of safety and privacy where she could unleash her rages and tantrums without fear of repercussions. At school, there would be no place to hide and unload in private. She'd be vulnerable, exposed.

Her issues with self-image went far beyond teenage angst. She seemed to loathe herself. But in retrospect, it was almost impossible to distinguish among the typical insecurities of a teenager, attachment issues from infancy, and dangerous suicidal tendencies when the symptoms looked so much alike. It would be impossible to treat every single raging, sullen teen moping around the house as a potential suicide risk (indeed, but the risk is nonetheless present!).

I had stumbled upon something big almost by accident, something that had been staring us in the face for years, and everyone had been blind to it. Casey was alone, in pain and unable to trust, and we couldn't see it. In her fragile state, there wasn't enough to live for, not enough for her to stay in the game, to see through the rough patches. Her perception of the future was bleak, hopeless.

. . .

Chapter 22 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

I scoured Marin County and the Internet for every book and article I could find on attachment. I contacted experts on adoption and attachment issues. Several of them agreed to talk to me about the disorder and what was being done to help the children and their parents. Nearly all of the experts were either adoptive parents who struck out on their own as I did, or were adoptees trying to understand themselves.

I learned that attachment begins with the trusting bond formed between a child and mother or other primary caregiver during infancy. This bond becomes a blueprint for all future relationships. The British psychiatrist John Bowlby, widely considered to be the founding father of attachment theory, says that at birth a baby cannot automatically self-regulate. Her emotional state is as simple as stressed or not stressed. When she is stressed - from hunger, a wet diaper, insufficient sleep, or fear - she cries. She is brought back into balance when the caregiver responds with soothing sounds, gentle touch, and loving looks.

Nancy Newton Verrier, an adoption specialist in Lafayette, California, provided me with her own analogy of mother-child separation. "It's very unnatural to separate babies and mothers," she said. "You can't adopt a kitten or puppy for about either weeks, in order to give the babies time to wean off their mothers, but we give away human babies time to wean off their mothers, but we give away human babies to strangers as early as birth." I never thought of it that way, and yet it seemed so obvious. Why would we treat animals with more deference than humans?

An infant left alone, with no instinctive soothing mechanism, lives in a state of prolonged fear and hyperarousal. Unable to summon help or physically escape, the infant's only protection from this unendurable state is to emotionally withdraw.

Amy Klatzkin is a marriage and family therapist intern I met with at the Child Trauma Research Centre at UCSF/San Francisco General Hospital. She is also an adoptive mother.

"There's only one thing worse than an abusive relationship, even if it's harmful," she said. "And that's no relationship at all, just nothingness."

I saw Casey alone in her crib in the orphanage as Amy continued. "Casey was probably getting sustenance but no connection, not even a tiny attachment. People come and go, and you never know if they'll be back. They're all equally distant and interchangeable to her."

She went on to talk about another kind of separation - the moment the child left the orphanage system with her adoptive parents. There was an element of predictability left behind - familiar sensations, sounds, and smells - for something unknown with two complete strangers. To ease that separation, Ms. Klatzkin offered a good piece of advice: leave the child in her clothes from the orphanage, even if they're dirty or smelly. "Let them have some continuity," she said. "It's our instinct to cling."

In High Risk: Children Without a Conscience, the clinical psychologists Ken Majid and Carole McKelvey wrote: "If a child does not form a loving bond with the mother, she does not develop an attachment to the rest of mankind, and literally does not have a stake in humanity. Incomprehensible pain is forever locked in her soul because of the abandonment she suffered as an infant."

Incomprehensible pain. My daughter. The awful wailing behind her door.

So profound is the effect of institutionalization that Dr. Jerri Ann Jenista, pediatrician and writer in the field of adoption medical health, suggests that all institutionalized orphans be considered at risk for attachment issues.

The longer they stay in the institution, the greater the damage. "We now know that if the child is adopted within the first year, the adverse effects of institutionalization are not too difficult to treat," explained Dr. Robert Marvin, the director of the Mary D. Ainsworth Child-Parent Attachment Clinic at the University of Virginia Medical Center. "But for a child like Casey, adopted at fourteen months, there's already been a fair amount of psychological and brain developmental damage that leads to very unusual behavior." In fact, studies have shown that institutionalized children have measurably different brain structures from those raised in a family. Researchers have found striking abnormalities in tissues that transmit electrical messages across the brain, perhaps explaining some of the dysfunctions seen in neglected and orphaned children.

The effects of institutionalization rarely go away. Parents of these kids find that depression, moodiness, self-mutilation, screaming fits, defiance, and academic struggles can be "normal" parts of life. Some children leave home and break contact with their adoptive families. Job instability, unplanned pregnancies, suicide attempts, and stints in disciplinary, rehab, and psychiatric programs are not uncommon.

Patricia, the adoptive mother of a boy from southern Poland, wrote to me that her son - then an eight-year-old - was at the emotional level of a fiver-year-old. Though he had recovered from early developmental delays, he was still prone to meltdowns, anxiety attacks, and struggles with self-esteem.

An adoptive mother of a girl from northwestern Russia wrote that her daughter was born to alcoholic parents and was unschooled and neglected until she was placed for adoption at age seven. Her adoptive mother received her at age eleven with a range of challenges, from growth deficiencies to language delays and learning disabilities. At the age of eighteen, she had the emotional maturity of a nine-year-old. The slightest provocation could send her into a rage or sobbing fits. Her parents feared that she couldn't be trusted on her own.

Of course, this is, for many parents, only part of the story. As one mother wrote about her troubled daughter from Russia, "She has brought more love into my life than I ever thought possible."  

My reaction to these difficult stories was envy. Their children were still alive. My daughter was dead. I had failed in my first duty as a father, to keep her safe. The information I needed to keep her alive was out there, but it was just beyond my reach. It was in the library and on the Internet.

I had never thought to look.

Chapter 23 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks

If we could turn back the clock, there is so much that we would have done differently. Casey's life didn't have to end so abruptly and tragically.

I now see a very different person on the other side of that battered bedroom door. Not an angry, misbehaving teenager bent on tormenting her parents, but a child suffering unfathomable pain for whom comfort was out of reach.

She tried to speak to us but couldn't get through. We couldn't hear her, couldn't understand her, or tuned her out as the decibels rose. Likewise, we tried to speak to her, but our words neve reached her. Erika and I were desperate to love her but she had trouble letting us in. We reacted to our communication void with frustration, shutting each other out. That was a fatal mistake whose consequences we couldn't possibly know. We had no idea how far out on a ledge Casey was.

On the surface, everything appeared normal; in fact, better than normal. She'd gotten into her dream school, yet that wasn't enough to dent the iceberg of agony that sat below the surface, that she kept hidden from everyone. Only occasionally did she give a hint of her true feelings. Her cries for help were too faint for people to hear, so she weighed the options - live in pain or choose death.

Erika and I were blind from the outset. I thought about the morning we picked Casey up from the orphanage. We were so intent on changing her into some nice, clean girlie clothes that it never dawned on us to ask if she had something she clutched in her crib - a pillow, a stuffed animal, a blanket? For all I know now, we'd left something behind that was indispensable to her, further compounding the distress. To ease the shock of this transition, we should have asked for an article of clothing, a plaything, something she might have snuggled with to keep her company and have something familiar to hold on to, but we didn't.

In their two books, Adopting the Hurt Child and Parenting the Hurt Child, Dr, Gregory Keck and Regina Kupecky note that adoptive parents want to believe that a sound attachment had formed with former caregivers, in a sort of turnkey process that was readily transferable to them. The adoption becomes a cure-all for the child's difficulties.

So it was for us, we thought. Overjoyed at her astonishing progress in our first few days together, camped out in a cramped hotel room in Warsaw, Erika and I became convinced that Casey wasn't a special needs child at all. She had just been understimulated in the orphanage; nothing that two loving parents couldn't fix. We were part of a fairy tale - two able-bodied Americans rescuing a Polish orphan from her caring but impoverished birth mother, who wanted a better life for her daughter.

We treated Casey as if she were our new pet. She was in good American hands. Just feed her, burp her, change her diaper, bounce her around, and park her in front of the TV when Mom and Dad need a rest. Then there were the outbursts.

I know now that adoptive parents who view their children's disruptive behavior as just normal growing pains are ignoring a time bomb. They need to distinguish between the physical and emotional age of their child and adapt their parenting expectations to the child's emotional age, that emotional immaturity I'd read about and, of course, had seen in Casey.

We should have had her assessed. Ray Kinney, a director and staff psychologist at Cornerstone Counseling Services in Wisconsin, spoke to me about the importance of assessment for children who have lived in orphanages. Having seen hundreds of deprived children over thirty-five years of clinical practice, he said that this was a crucial prerequisite to determining an appropriate intervention strategy.

That first night in the hotel room in Warsaw, when she was inconsolable, rocking herself to sleep, we just wanted her to quiet down so that we could get some rest. Instead of parking her in her stroller in front of a blaring TV - something she'd probably never seen before - we should have taken her into bed with us, held her and soothed her. If it were possible, we should have held her for our whole first month together without putting her down. Maybe we would have had a different result. What she needed then was lots of human touch.

From the moment we brought Casey into our home, it seemed as though we did everything wrong. We assumed that the past would fade into oblivion; nurture would prevail over nature. We took our parenting cues from the pop culture experts.

As a toddler, we tried to teach Casey manners, patience, and independence. When she acted out inappropriately and threw temper tantrums, we scolded and punished her. But we failed to see what was at the root of her outbursts, and our reactions only made matters worse. Rather than sending her off by herself, we should have stayed with her, helped her calm down and self-soothe. She needed to know that Mom and Dad would always be there for her unconditionally.

When Casey entered school, we were mystified by what appeared to be a split personality - a perfect angel at school and a defiant, immature brat at home. We consulted family, friends, teachers, and guidance counselors, and were told that Casey was strong-willed and a bit high-strung; she'd grow out of it.

Erika and I felt that we were the problem. We spoiled her. We were inconsistent. We needed to be tougher with her. So we read books such as Raising Your Spirited Child, tried reward systems and used TV, the computer, the playdaytes as leverage for good behavior. We blamed each other for our lousy parenting skills and our inability to get our daughter to mind her parents like everyone else's kids did. We didn't realize that the provocation and aggression we saw in her may have been caused by her anxiety about further rejection, something she may not have understood herself.

Nancy Verrier told me that the adopted child can push for rejection even though that's the opposite of what she wants. She constantly tests her parents to see if they'll reject her, just to get the inevitable over with. As she tests her parents' commitment, often playing into their own insecurities about being good enough, the parents become defensive and retaliatory instead of understanding and steadfast. Their reactions can provoke the very outcome she feared in the first place - being sent to a residential treatment center or boarding school, or being kicked out onto the street.

~

A 2008 white paper, "Therapeutic Parenting," prepared by the Association for the Treatment and Training in the Attachment of Children (ATTACh), begins with the following message: . . . Parenting a child who has a disorder of attachment is the hardest job you will ever have. . . . It requires you to give and give, without receiving much in return. . . . It requires rethinking your parenting instincts. . . . It means making conscious, therapeutic parenting decisions . . . [and having a] constant focus on the deeper meaning of your child's behavior, so that you respond to the causes, needs, and motivations of your child. It is exhausting. It is isolating, as family and friends tend to keep their distance, uncomfortable with the drama that surrounds these children.

Heather Forbes is an internationally published author and consultant, adoptive mother, and cofounder of the Beyond Consequences Institute in Boulder, Colorado. She said that her work is geared toward healing the parent-child relationship, with emphasis on the parents, because she believes that the child's healing process must come from them rather than the therapist. "Parents who are strong in who they are, even if the child is rejecting or defiant, don't have to take things personally and love unconditionally."

Like the other experts I talked to, she urged parents to focus on the child's perspective rather than their own. What is driving my child's behavior? Why is she stressed out and acting this way? No matter how unpleasant the message, parents should give the child free rein to vent, because it's important for her to be heard. Good manners and appropriate language can be worked on later.

"All these kids feel like Casey," she told me. "Hopelessly flawed. They can't be fixed. These feelings never go away. It wasn't that you didn't love Casey; she just didn't get it the right way." In the early 2000s, Dr. Marvin, along with several colleagues from the Marycliff Institute in Spokane, Washington, developed the "Circle of Security," a protocol to diagnose attachment disorder and design individualized intervention programs aimed at attachment-caregiving relationships for both toddlers and preschool children. The process, which takes place over twenty weekly group sessions, is designed to help parents gain a deeper understanding of their children and themselves, and to become more accurate and empathic in reading their children's complex and subtle cues - anger at a parent when the truth could be entirely different, or defiance masking an ability to adapt to a new routine. With a better understanding of their children's behavior, parents are shown how to apply more "user-friendly" attachment techniques.

"Our coaching helps parents shift their focus from stopping undesirable behavior to moving in to calm the child when she's out of control and can't self-soothe." Dr. Marvin explained. For example, instead of isolating the child as punishment for misbehavior, stay with her, acknowledge the upset, let her be herself. Sometimes, on some subconscious level, this behavior may be a reaction to her early abandonment. Adoptive parents need to understand and acknowledge that first loss.

"When parents follow that approach they start to see these behaviors decrease very quickly." He insisted that children, when distressed, respond much better to parents when they take charge and soothe rather than discipline, as one would a baby - the baby that child used to be and, in a way, still is.

Jane Brown is an adoption therapist in Ontario, Canada, who encourages adoptees to explore through playful group activities what it means to be adopted, how to build a self-concept as an adoptee, and how to be in the world. In a safe group, the children are more willing to take risks and model for one another, sometimes participating simply by listening and watching. She gives the youngsters exercises to encourage them to explore their beliefs about what happened to them, how they felt about their birth parents, why they'd adopted a baby, all in an attempt to lower their defenses and get their story out.

~

We'd spun tales about Casey's adoption from the very beginning. When she showed no curiosity about her past or birth family, we took her at her word. It never occurred to us that Casey's rages might've been rooted in suppressed feelings about her early abandonment. We tried to protect her from the pain of knowing about her stillborn twin, but maybe deep down she knew.

We looked at her birthdays through our eyes, not hers. They might have been yet another reminder of loss, not celebration. That would have explained her tendency to sabotage the entire occasion. It was probably Casey's instinct to run from strong emotions, but what she really needed was help from an understanding professional to piece together the narrative of her past and a healthier sense of herself as a whole person.

Ray Kinney claimed that, all too often, parents sugarcoat the adoption story to avoid inflicting more pain on their child. He takes a different approach - helping the child reconstruct her adoption story. She needs to know that her experience was real, and her constant and conflicting feelings about it are appropriate and legitimate. By getting the story out honestly - even if it isn't pretty - the child has a more complete sense of herself.

"They want the whole story, and when they hear it, maybe they can understand what it was like to be in their mother's shoes," he said. "When we let the child understand the trauma she's had. what happened to her as a baby, and how that's played out for her entire life, she can start to gain control over her emotions."

The onset of adolescence, middle school, and high school adds another layer of intensity into the mix. When Casey's tantrums became profanity-laced rages punctuated with I hate you, we tried to control her with endless groundings and withheld privileges until we admitted defeat. The fact that she seemed impervious to discipline we took as a personal failure. But her rages may have had little to do with us. Her inner existence was a toxic stew of fear, stress, loneliness, and self-hatred that she hinted at only on LiveJournal and the message board.

~

Dr. David Brodzinsky, a professor emeritus at Rutgers University, founding director of the Donaldson Adoption Institute, and a coauthor of the 1992 book Being Adopted: The Lifelong Search for Self, wrote about the effects of long-term institutionalization.

For children placed early, the sense of loss emerges gradually as the child's cognitive understanding of adoption begins to unfold. For children adopted later, feelings of loss can be more traumatic and overt, particularly by middle school when the youngster begins to reflect on what it means to be adopted, perhaps associating it with feeling odd, different.

At the extreme, resentment and rage against the adoptive parents may erupt from feelings of shame and guilt about who she is - unlovable - to which she may respond with destructive outbursts. As one adoptee said: "Being chosen by your adoptive parents means nothing compared to being un-chosen by your birth mother."

Dr. Brodzinsky cautions that there is a wide range in the expression of adoption-related grief, from only a slight recognition of pain to something more frequent and intense. Often the sense of loss can be masked by intense anger, denial, emotional distance, and exterior bravado. But beneath that tough suit of armor lies a child who has been deeply hurt by life. She is the most vulnerable and difficult to reach.

Chapter 24 - The Girl Behind The Door by John Brooks 

I began to understand what it might have felt like to be Casey - the baby screaming her outrage from her crib at being left behind, thrust into the arms of two strangers from a foreign country who couldn't comfort her no matter how well-intentioned they were.

She despised them for their lack of understanding, and for being so foolish as to love someone like her. So she put on a show of bravado, suited up her armor, and pretended that she needed no one, especially them. But at the same time, she might have looked at her behavior - something she just hinted at with Dr. Palmer - and asked herself, "What the hell is wrong with me?"

She hid behind that suit of armor, lashing out at the only two people who were safe - her adoptive parents. I'd come to learn that parenting a child who had suffered so much trauma in infancy was completely counterintuitive. The time-tested methods of raising and disciplining a securely attached child that we'd learned from Dr. Spock, T. Berry Brazelton, and Dr. Phil were woefully inadequate for a child like Casey. "Sometimes you have to parent in a way that's good for your child even if it doesn't feel good to you," Ray Kinney said.

Dr. Keck recommended that infants shouldn't be left alone to "cry it out." As I'd heard from others, the parent should stay with her if she was screaming, crying, and inconsolable.

There was that disastrous trip to the Yerba Buena skating rink when Casey was eight. We left her alone in her room to cry it out because that's what she said she wanted. If we'd known better, we would have overridden her.

Erika could have rubbed her back and massaged her feet, cooing in a soft voice the way she did when Casey was younger, chanting a Polish verse that Casey loved as an infant. It was about a little spider sneaking up on her, crawling up her tummy. Erika learned it from her mother, and my mother had a similar verse, but instead of a spider it was a creeping mouse. I imagined Casey's face lighting up in anticipation of what was to come when Erika's fingers would pounce on her neck with the dreaded spider tickle, eliciting her delicious laugh: Ha ha ha!

Dr. Keck wrote that the child should be fed on demand to establish a pattern that her needs will be met and help her develop a sense of trust that relief is there when she's distressed. Day care was to be avoided, if possible, as it could reinforce the pattern of abandonment by the primary caregiver.

Thank God, we got one thing right.

We continued to send Casey to therapists who treated her as they did other patients, repeatedly focusing on corrective behavior rather than getting to the core - until Casey had had enough.

Now I don't blame her. She was right. Their kind of therapy was a waste of time.

Unfortunately, in our blindness, Erika and I were enraged. We saw this as just one more of her infuriating acts of defiance and our failure to control her. We didn't realize that she might have just given up on herself.

Children like Casey have to be treated differently - different therapies, different parenting - if they are to survive and thrive. The professionals to whom we'd dragged her over the years were not equipped to understand, deal with, or even recognize her unique life experience. They resorted to the only treatments they'd been taught. After all, they'd worked for their other young patients. Why not Casey?

A blog post titled "When Therapists Don't Get It," on a Bay Area adoption website, recounted the frustration of an adoptive mother seeking help for her son through traditional therapy channels. She reported that even therapists skilled at working with troubled children couldn't help and may have made matters worse. As I'd heard before, they focused on her son's undesirable behavior, as if correcting the symptoms would cure the disease.

She wrote: "Parents seek out experts because they want to help their child to be happy and emotionally healthy. To constantly go to therapists and be told that what is 'wrong' with their child is the parents' fault is infuriating. FInding a therapist who gets it is the key to helping everyone in the family."

I talked with Heather Forbes about our disappointments with therapists.

"Unfortunately, I hear stories like this all the time," she assured me. "If you don't get to that emotional place - the depth of the heart and soul where she felt rejected - you'll probably never have success."

There are thousands of public and private adoption agencies and attorneys available to prospective parents in the United States, but post-adoption resources are sorely lacking. In the San Francisco Bay Area, the fifth-largest metropolitan area in the United States, with more than eight million people and a large international adoption community, there are only a handful of specialized adoption therapists. I'd learned from my own quest that finding them is a challenge.

If only I could have found someone who truly understood Casey and connected with her in a way none of our therapists had, maybe she would have developed some trust and opened up. If Casey had been willing to participate in group therapy with other adopted teens, maybe she wouldn't have felt so alone, even if she did nothing more than listen. The few clues we found after her death suggested that she had searched for a community of similarly troubled teenagers. She wanted to connect with others. I talked at length with Jane Brown about her adopted daughter from China. When she was nine years old, her psychiatrist put her on a mood stabilizer to manage her violent mood swings. Within a week, the medication took the edge off her rages and her tantrums subsided. Once she was calm, the psychiatrist was able to work on her psychological and behavioral issues.

I'd looked at medication for Casey as a last resort, frightened of the potential side effects. Would things have turned out differently if we had introduced medication to her much earlier than seventeen?

"These kids are forever more vulnerable and reactive to stress, but they can learn to deal with it. Medication can help." Brown said. "Attachment can be a piece of the puzzle, but it may not be the whole puzzle."

There was another thing we did right - the cardinal rule. I learned from Nancy Verrier - never threaten abandonment

.

Not that we didn't think about sending Casey off to rehab or reform school, as other parents had. But my consideration at the time was more practical than altruistic; reform schools are every bit as expensive as elite private colleges.

Perhaps if we had masted just one of the parenting techniques I'd learned about, or used every opportunity to remind her how much she mattered, or responded to I'll kill myself if. . . not with silence, but with an impassioned accounting of an empty world without her, we could have kept Casey alive.

This didn't have to happen.

Ray Kinney told me that the effects of institutionalization never completely disappear. "These kids can learn to not let those wounds control their lives."

Ultimately, Casey might have left home with better coping skills, a healthier self-image, and the confidence that she had two parents whom she could trust to be there whenever she needed them.

[sealpointselkie]

Big Ben

A big thank you to @vex-bittys who wrote a very sweet adoption scenario for my lovely full-size King (UF!Papyrus) Skele-Lamia. I hope you enjoy reading this!

(Please forgive the editing at this point. This is the first time I’m posting a story on to Tumblr and I’ve just realized I have NO idea how formatting works here. This is a copy-paste from an email. -_-;; I’ll do better on the next one.)

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I fill out the paperwork that Vex provides for me, pleased with how my kittens have reacted to the big King Lamia. I felt confident that Vex picked out the perfect match for my family! I paused when I came to the “Lamia’s Name” portion of the form – I wanted to ask his opinion before giving him a name but I also didn’t want to interrupt the sweet scene of him snuggling my fur kids.

I cleared my throat quietly to get Vex’s attention: “Could I give him a name for now and then let you know if he doesn’t like it and we need to change it?”

Vex nodded encouragingly, “Yes, of course! That’s no problem. Here’s my card and the shop’s address is on your copy of the adoption papers in case you have any questions or concerns!”

I thanked her quickly filling in the name: Big Ben. I then double checked that all the paperwork was filled out properly and was in order.

After a few more formalities I escorted Vex to the door an thanked her for her thoughtfulness. A home delivery was something I hadn’t even considered! I promised to visit the shop soon, just to see all the Lamias in one place and to let Ben visit any friends he left behind. I waved as Vex left and only closed the door softly once she was  out of view.

I returned to the living room to the room filled with pleasant rumbling purrs. The Lamia’s purrs were an octave lower than the cats, it was almost more felt than heard, his eye sockets were closed and he wrapped his coils loosely around himself an the two felines. Beacon was happily purring along with his constant mid-frequency vibrations - kneading happily on his brother’s back. Bumble Bee was the quietest of the three with his short breathy purrs; his eyes like slits in a doze, enjoying his “massage”. I smiled and snapped a quick picture with my phone, quickly making it my new background screen. They looked so comfortable that I figured I could show my new friend around later so I made myself comfortable on the couch, pulling out a book to read.

After a couple of hours the sun had started to go down and I checked the time on my phone to confirm that it was the kitties’ dinner time. They were all still snoozing in a loose ball in the middle of the living room so I figured I’d get their food ready and they could eat when they woke up. I went to the kitchen and got a fresh bowl grabbing a tin of their food and opening with a satisfying shlick sound. I felt a bump at the back of my legs as Beacon took his usual seat between my feet. They could really move when they wanted to! I reached down and scratched his ears looking over my shoulder seeing Bumble Bee pass by doing his usual slow, cowboy strut down the hall to where I keep their dry food and water. About 30 seconds later the Lamia poked his head around the corner and I felt butterflies in my stomach. Since I met him he was trying to keep himself small so not intimidate the kittens; I hadn’t realized how TALL he was when he sat up on his coils! He had to be at least half a foot taller than me… Which was probably average for King standards, but it would take getting used to! I wave at him shyly then turn around to finish food preparations. While I was happy that the King liked my kittens, the two of us hadn’t interacted much. My darkness told me that he liked the cats more than me and that I was just an afterthought. I tried my best to bury that feeling - we barely just met, there’s still time.

When I finish I slowly make my way to the hall; Beacon wobbling between my legs, nearly tripping me at least twice on the short walk through the kitchen to the hall. I sigh in frustration, this was our usual song and dance, especially if I was holding something hot and likely to spill. Poor kitten likes to use the inside of my shins to help him keep his balance which, of course, throws off mine! The Lamia slowly worked Beacon from between my legs and helps him balance using his hands and forearms as the catling slowly follows me (and his food). I place the food down in its usual position and the kittens are immediately on it, lapping enthusiastically. I give them each a couple of strokes but they were to engrossed in eating I didn’t get any response. I turned to the King, who was still “standing” a respectful distance away from me – as if he wasn’t sure if he’d disturb us. I sympathized; I think he’s as nervous about me as I am about him. Probably worse for him, he was in MY home. Usually I’d go to the  shop for an adoption and we’d be able to meet on more neutral terms before deciding a home-visit or adoption was in order.

I smile at him and extend my hand, inviting him closer: “Would you like to see your room now?”

“My room?” he rumbled, coming forward to take my outstretched hand gently.

“Yes! I want you to have a space of your own where you can get away from me and the cats! My space is my bedroom, so please ask permission before entering and I’ll do the same for your loft. Oh, there isn’t a door but there’s a staircase. Please always make sure that you close the pet gate behind you: stairs are really dangerous for the kitties since they could tumble down the steps and hurt themselves. Okay?”

The Lamia nodded solemnly.

“Perfect!,” I beamed; pulling gently at his hand I invited him to follow me up the steps. He closed the pet gate behind us as we mounted the steps to the loft.

I let go of his hand when we made it to the loft: “Here we are! Please feel free to rearrange the furniture to your liking and let me know if you need anything! I’ve got you a bed, a heat lamp and a chest for storage…”

I glanced at the huge Lamia, he seemed to be taking the space in – but it was hard to get a read on his expression. My darkness started whispering again as I watched him observe the space. What if he doesn’t like it? Did I forget something important? Is he disappointed in me? He eventually slithered over to a low bookcase I had set up for him about three-quarters full of different books. He ran his hand over the top of the case, eye-lights flickering over the titles.

“I heard Kings like to read..,” I interrupted shyly as his eyes met mine again. “I’ve read most of those already, but I’m the kind of person who likes to read books multiple times. So I thought… If you want of course! That you could choose one and we could read a couple of chapters a night? We could do it in the living room and give Beacon and Bumble Bee an excuse to climb all over us…”

The King slithered back to me quickly eye-lights like bright stars in his sockets: “Yes, please! I’d like that very much!”

His tail was wiggling in excitement and his hood positively quivered, this was the first time I really felt like he was smiling at me and I couldn’t help but grin back at him.

“Oh… By the way. Vex’s paperwork asked me to name you…” the Lamia retreated slightly, so I wasn’t craning my neck to look at him. “Now… You don’t have to keep this name but.. I was wondering if you’d like to be called Ben. Big Ben.”

His eyes narrowed, I think he got the reference, and then he slowly wound around me in a snake hug.

“I like Ben. I am big.,” he said, proudly.

“You are.,” I agreed immediately. “Just to warn you - I like to give nicknames.”

Ben began to rumble with purrs, “Like what?”

“Benny Hill, because when you lie on the floor you look like a hill.” I said, patting the thickest part of his tail.

Ben scoffed good naturedly.

“Udon…,” I continued, relentlessly.

“Why Udon?”

“Because you are the thickest noodle I’ve ever seen!”

Ben spat in outrage, flaring his hood. My stomach dropped, I felt paralyzed. I thought I had gone too far when the rumbling of his purrs got louder, passing through my body and tickling me pleasantly. I giggled from the feeling and leaned into his hug, going almost limp in relief.

Vex was right, he was the perfect match for me and my family!