#do you ever think about her line of dialogue about the invisible wall between her and everyone else

[todeo-art]

Loneliness

[littlemisspascal]

Death and an Angel part 14.5

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary:  And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously. 

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,701

Warnings: angst, dialogue heavy, language, angst, Violence, plot plot plot, did I mention angst? Cuz it’s here

Author Note: Texas weather is no laughing matter and never have I hated snow more than these last few days. This is definitely more of a transition segment so I wrote shorter snippets as a result, but there is some serious plot development nevertheless. The response to last chapter was so amazing I can’t thank everyone enough for all the love and support 💖💖💖

Links to Part 1 and Part 14 and Part 15

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

Ahsoka hijacks the Razor Crest as soon as Din teleports her aboard the ship. She pushes Din out of the cockpit, refusing to let him so much as glimpse the coordinates of the destination she inputs into the nav computer. The Oracle hadn’t been kidding when she said she didn’t trust him going alone to rescue his soulmate.

Bo-Katan hadn’t been phased by Ahsoka’s arrival, adapting to her presence with the same ease as a duck to water. However, Din couldn’t help noticing the moment her mask of cool indifference slipped when Ahsoka asked the reaper to stay in the cockpit with her, claiming they had important matters to discuss. 

Din climbs down the ladder into the hull, recognizing that the conversation about to ensue is not one he needs to be involved in. Fingers twitching restlessly, he commits himself to checking each of the weapons in his armory, sharpening his vibroblades and loading a set of whistling birds into his vambrace. He’d made a promise to Ahsoka against killing Moff Gideon, but he’d made no vow against scarring the Seraph beyond recognition.

When Din’s finished with him, Gideon will be a warning to the rest of the galaxy what happens if you steal from Death. 

He stills at the thrum of satisfaction that runs through his body at the thought of pressing Gideon’s eyeballs out with his thumbs. The darkness within him has grown stronger since he killed Hess and it’s becoming an increasingly harder challenge denying its craving for bloodshed. If not for Ahsoka’s intervention, he would have reaped Xi’an’s soul, breaking another sacred rule. He should feel grateful, but the darkness expresses annoyance instead, upset to have been denied its kill. 

There is a thought that has been plaguing the back of his mind, shackled in the same corner as his other doubts and regrets. He once had iron control over his powers and emotions, but now he’s holding onto his human façade by a mere thread. So slowly he hadn’t even been aware it was happening, his darkness has usurped his morality. 

He’s meant to be a neutral entity, but when he looks at his reflection in the fresher mirror all he sees is a weapon. 

Obsidian orbs have replaced brown eyes. Flawless tan skin has become dissected by lines of ink that once were blue veins. 

Darkness is corrupting him from the inside out, making him a slave to the power he once mastered.

And he doesn’t have a fucking clue how to stop it. 

~~

Bo-Katan joins him in the hull an hour later. She doesn’t say anything , just leans against the wall across from him, and Din continues cleaning the barrel of his amban rifle as if he doesn’t see her. 

The silence isn’t tense or uncomfortable, but he feels her gaze trying to penetrate his helmet. He knows the reaper well-enough to tell there is a question on her mind, but her hesitance to voice it unsettles him. Bo-Katan rarely holds her tongue around him, preferring blunt honesty over sugarcoating, which means whatever is on her mind must be serious. 

He bites back a sigh when she starts restlessly shifting in place and pauses his task. “Ahsoka told you,” he says at last.

“That Moff Gideon fucked with our lives?” Bo-Katan snorts humorlessly. “Yeah, she showed me everything.”

“I’m sorry about your sister.”

“Me too. But it’s...good not being in the dark anymore. I needed to hear the truth,” she replies stoically, but the pointless adjustment of her headband betrays her internal strife. There is a moment of pause before she looks at him again. “I heard about your promise,” she says, and it’s not really a question, except that it is.

Din’s fingers tighten around the rifle. “Did she make you swear the same one?”

“No.” Bo-Katan shakes her head. “No, she didn’t.”

He’s not surprised by the answer. He actually thinks he should have expected it, considering the universe has always held him to a stricter standard than other entities. 

“Ahsoka made it clear to me that this is something between you, Gideon, and your angel alone. I cannot interfere just like you cannot kill him.”

There is bitter resignation in her tone. He recognizes it because he felt the same when he made his promise to Ahsoka. No one likes being told no when they want something. But this—knowing with absolute certainty Gideon is the one responsible for hurting their loved ones and being told you can’t do anything to avenge them? This is the kind of pain that will linger for years to come as an ache in their bones and a scar over their hearts.

It isn’t fair. But Din’s lived long enough to know the universe never intended life to be that way.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Bo-Katan asks, pulling him out of his thoughts.

He blinks at her, realizing this is the question she’d been withholding since she came down the ladder. Never has she asked him a request before. “What is it?”

“You must separate Gideon from the Darksaber,” she answers, expression one of absolute seriousness. “The Armorer warned my people if the Lightsaber was ever mishandled, it would turn against the wielder by transforming into the Darksaber. Instead of empowering you, it deceives you. Fills your head with delusions until you lose your grip on reality entirely.”

“And you want to spare Gideon’s sanity?” Din asks slowly.

“Of course not. The son of a bitch deserves to be punished for his crimes. Even if I did want to,” her lips curl into a snarl at the thought, “there’s no way of undoing the damage done to his mind. What I want is for the weapon to be returned to the Armorer. She’s the only one who can properly dispose of it.”

“Right,” he agrees quietly. Anything that comes out of the Armorer’s forge is built to last the length of eternity. He could toss the Darksaber into the center of a sun and it’d remain whole and unaffected, waiting to twist the mind of the next wielder. Nodding his head, he assures her, “I’ll take care of it, even if I have to cut off his hands.”

“Good.”

~~

Din paces the length of the hull, each thud of his boots making contact with the metal floor blends with the low hum of the engines. Usually he’d ignore the creaks and groans of his home, but the metallic symphony is the only thing capable of drowning out the thoughts in his head urging him to storm the cockpit and retake control from Ahsoka.

“Pacing isn’t going to make us arrive any quicker,” Bo-Katan tells him, not even bothering to open her eyes as she lounges atop one of his storage crates. “Ahsoka said it will be another hour at least.”

He has a retort ready on his tongue when a voice calls out his name from somewhere beyond the Razor Crest.

“Din!”

Din freezes in place as unexpected, heart-wrenching hope slices through his chest. He knows that voice. It’s his favorite in all the galaxy.

“Death?” Bo-Katan asks, concerned by his stillness. “What’s wrong?”

He tentatively reaches out towards the bond, giving it the slightest of tugs. When he feels the distant flicker of a reaction on the other end from his angel he nearly forgets how to breathe.

“The bond,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and relief. “I can feel it again.”

Longing fills his chest where the hollowness used to reside now that the invisible block separating them is gone. It wraps around his heart, squeezing so tightly he nearly falls to his knees. Din pulls at the bond again on impulse, possessed by the all-consuming need to see her, to have her at his side where she’ll be safe.

The bond protests the harsh treatment, too weak to physically bring them together across the vast distance separating them. He snarls a curse under his breath, hating being helpless to protect her. It’s unfair, he finds himself thinking for a second time. Unfair how it hurts more now being able to feel her presence compared to when he couldn’t at all.

A paper airplane flickers into existence on the horizon of his mind, flying straight into his hand when he reaches out for it. I can’t leave this place. Not yet, the note says. The words themselves are unsettling, but it’s the strength of the emotions she’s attached that has him reeling with shock. For one crazy, electrifying moment he thinks he’s passed onto the afterlife. 

Another note arrives. I miss you, Din. I want to see you so much it hurts. And it’s unbelievable, truly, that he’s found someone who makes him feel as though he’s flying and falling simultaneously. 

As he sends a message of his own, never has he been more certain that if anyone can put an end to the darkness inside of him—it’s her.

~~

“The Moff is an expert when it comes to defensive warding,” Ahsoka says as the three of them stand looking up at a canyon wall that extends in either direction as far as their eyes can see. “But even he can’t hide from my sight.”

Din scuffs at the salt-covered ground with his boot, still coming to terms with the fact all this time Gideon’s been hiding out on Crait of all planets. As much as he wants to believe Ahsoka’s right, his powers can’t detect even the barest hint of the Seraph’s presence.  

Bo-Katan’s eyebrows arch with skepticism. “You’re sure this is the right place? It’s kind of remote.”

“Perfect for building an army,” Ahsoka replies without missing a beat.

Din exchanges a look with his reaper, realizing this is the first time either of them are hearing about this. 

“Gideon has an army?” he asks. “Who—”

“Mercenaries,” she interrupts, turning around to face them. Her blue eyes are distant and cloudy, entranced by a vision. “When I break the warding, all but one will meet the end of their mortal lives attempting to overpower us.”

“All but one? I don’t think so.” Bo-Katan rests her hands deliberately on her blaster pistols. “Anyone who works for Gideon is an enemy in my book.”

“Migs Mayfeld is not to be harmed.” There is steel in Ahsoka’s voice as she blinks back into the present moment.

Din nudges Bo-Katan with his arm when it looks like she wants to continue arguing. The reaper huffs a quiet breath of annoyance, but eventually jerks her head in the tiniest nod of compliance. 

Ahsoka grabs her twin sabers from her belt and ignites their blue blades. She handles her weapons with deadly grace, altering her appearance from peaceful Oracle to fierce and cunning warrior. Turning back to the canyon wall, her gaze trails over the red-brown rocks only to pause and narrow at seemingly random points.

Bo-Katan tries and fails to follow her line of vision. “What are you—”

The Oracle leaps into the air with surprising agility, lashing out with her sabers against the rock. Blinding light bursts forth from the point of collision followed by a flickering glimpse of a gigantic metal door. 

“—looking at,” Bo-Katan finishes quietly, watching Ahsoka swing herself higher to attack another portion of the canyon wall where the next segment of warding is hidden. 

There is something undeniably satisfying about seeing the door materialize as the wardings cloaking it are destroyed. Every precise strike of Ahsoka’s sabers brings Din one step closer to reuniting with his soulmate.

As if spurred by the mere thought of her, fear ripples across the bond like a gust of icy wind, stopping his heart cold. His angel is terrified. Din reaches out as far as the bond will allow in its fragile state, trying to get her attention by pulling at it and shouting her name, but none of his attempts breach the storm of panic. 

“She needs me,” he mutters to himself, stepping forward with clenched fists. His vision narrows until all he can see is the door in front of him, an obstacle that must be dealt with. “She needs my help.”

“Wait,” Bo-Katan calls out, but her voice sounds as if it’s coming from thousands of miles away. “Ahsoka isn’t finished with the warding yet!”

If he were capable of rational thought in that moment, he would have heeded her warning. As it is, he summons his power into the palm of his hand, the darkness inside of him crowing in wicked delight. He winds his arm back, preparing to slam his fist against the door, only for a whipcord to wrap around his wrist with an audible zip. 

He’s pulled backwards onto the ground, breath knocked from his lungs as he lands with a heavy thud. Bo-Katan appears not a second later and pins him in place by straddling his waist. The darkness is demanding he push her aside, knowing with absolute certainty the reaper is no match against him, and it takes all his strength to wrestle the urge under control. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” She glares at him, eyes resembling green flames eager to incinerate him.

“I—” he rasps, breathing heavily. His hand starts trembling, a burning itch under his skin. “I can feel her fear. She needs me.”

Bo-Katan blows out a long, frustrated breath. “Well, shit.” She jostles him then, forcing his head to momentarily clear as his helmet smacks the ground. “Look, soulmates are soulmates for a reason, right? I heard it’s like being two halves of the same whole. So if your soulmate is anything like you, she’s not going to give up without a fight. You have to trust she can take care of herself right now. That she’ll be fine.”

Din bristles. Trust is not the issue here. There is no one he trusts more than his angel—not Bo-Katan, not Ahsoka, not even Kuiil. The issue is he’s being asked to deny the instinct to shield her from danger which is woven into every cell of his being.

“She’ll be fine.” The words come out sounding sharp around the edges, cutting his tongue like shrapnel. “Everything will be fine.”

Bo-Katan disconnects the whipcord and rises to full height, apparently satisfied by his agreement. Din pushes himself onto his feet at a slower pace, his hand still shaking as if it's electric. He looks down at it, noticing for the first time the flesh is gone, replaced entirely by shadow. His expression tightens as he observes the change, realizing the black tendrils are slowly creeping up towards his wrist. 

An alarm rings out, reverberating off the canyon walls like an explosion. Din’s gaze snaps up just as Ahsoka lands on the ground in a defensive crouch. Now that it's been fully unveiled, the door bears a striking resemblance to ones he’s seen at military fortresses across the galaxy, ridiculously massive to intimidate enemies and impenetrable from outside attacks. It makes sense, he thinks with a scoff, someone as power-hungry as Gideon claiming an abandoned base as their lair. Without the wardings, Din is able to detect the massive number of souls gathering on the other side, resembling vermin crawling over one another in their haste to arm themselves. 

He searches for his angel’s soul, even just a glimpse of her bright light, only for his powers to instead encounter a massive cloud of dark, negatively-charged energy within a distant corner of the underground tunnel system. It fills an entire room, prohibiting him from sensing if anyone is inside. There is something strangely familiar about the energy, like he’s encountered its essence before, but he can’t recall the specifics of when or where. 

“It’s time.” 

Ahsoka’s voice reels his focus back to his physical surroundings. He notices the way her grip on her sabers tightens in anticipation and out of the corner of his eye Bo-Katan withdraws her blasters from their holsters.

The bottom of the door begins to raise with an earsplitting groan, but the mercenaries only wait the minimum amount of time it takes to pass under without hitting their heads to start charging forward. 

Every mortal has a beginning and an end just like everything else in the galaxy. These mercenaries are no exceptions, having long sealed their fates when they agreed to accept Gideon’s payment. So when Din’s shadowy hand phases through a man’s chest and tears his heart out of its cavity, staining the white salt under their feet crimson as blood bursts from the vacant hole, Din tells himself he’s simply fulfilling destiny. 

He repeats it when he discharges an assault of whistling birds, each one puncturing the throats of each target they encounter with a shrill warcry. And also when he rips a devaronian’s horn out of his head, a fragment of skull and bits of brain matter still gruesomely attached. 

Again and again, with each permanently silenced voice and every shattered fragile bone, destiny is fulfilled. 

~~

Din would be lying if he said he’s never wondered what it would be like to die. To pass on from this world into a new realm for him to explore. He’s imagined the idyllic afterlife mortals have written poems and novels about, describing it as a blissful safe haven where sorrow and tragedy have no definition because they do not exist. He’s familiar with their opinions of damnation’s appearance, too, as an infernal place of fire and brimstone and screaming.

They were wrong about that.

Damnation is not a distant hell. It is found in an underground lair on Crait. 

Instead of flames and sulfur, a Cupid’s blood is split and a soulmate bond is snapped in half. 

Instead of screaming, a madman laughs.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment,” Gideon says through his chuckles, hauling himself onto his feet. His voice is an abrasive rasp, as if he’s shredded his vocal cords by screaming. “I’ve had to be patient, wait to find your weakness so I could catch your attention. It’s a shame, really, she had to be the one you fell for. She was quite the little spitfire.”

Din stares at his soulmate’s motionless body, frozen in place. Please, he pulls at his severed half of the bond, resolutely ignoring how cold it feels. Open your eyes, angel. Don’t leave me. Please.

There is no response. Just heartbreaking silence.

“I sense your anger, your hurt, and grief. Those are mortal emotions.” The Seraph grimaces in disgust, then lets out a low hiss when he agitates the wounds on his face. “By living amongst their kind you’ve forgotten your true potential. You are not their equal, Death. You are their superior. Immortals are meant to be better than them. To rule over every aspect of their pitiful lives.”

“I don’t want to rule anyone,” Din says, dragging his eyes away from his angel to glare at Gideon. Both his hands begin to shake as his mind plunges into a gaping abyss of remorse and despair. “I just want a life with her.”

“Even dead, she continues to blind you.”

Din snarls viciously in response. His control is pushed closer to the brink, holding on by mere fingertips, and darkness engulfs the entire room as a result. 

The glow of the Darksaber persists, reflecting off his beskar and Gideon’s armor. It reminds him of moonlight, and he thinks for all that Bo-Katan warned him about the weapon’s sinful qualities, she did not mention its beauty. Even Ahsoka’s vision had failed to truly capture its radiance, just as a holovid can never compete with a face-to-face conversation. 

His powers are drawn to the Darksaber. The energy it emits matches the one encountered earlier when searching the tunnels for his angel’s aura. This close, there is no ignoring its familiarity, not when his brain feels seconds away from exploding. 

“I used to believe love conquers all,” Gideon prattles on, seemingly oblivious to Din’s torment. “I chose it as the Cupid motto because I thought there was nothing mortals cared more about than the health and happiness of their loved ones. Only after our fateful encounter did the Lightsaber reveal to me the truth.”

Lightsaber? Din’s head jerks up to stare at him, biting back a wince when the throbbing in the back of his mind intensifies at the movement. Does Gideon not realize the weapon has transformed? 

By connecting Ahsoka’s claim that Gideon didn’t fully understand the consequence of corrupting the Lightsaber with Bo-Katan’s explanation that the Darksaber deceives its wielder, the answer is an obvious one: he doesn’t.

Gideon mistakes Din’s confusion for interest and his lips slowly curl into a smile. “Mors aeterna. It means—”

“Death is eternal.” The translation slips unbiddenly from Din’s lips before he even realizes his mouth has opened.

“There is no one more feared or respected than you. But for what reason? What have you done to earn your reputation?” Gideon demands, spit flying as his anger flares. “You are no more than the universe’s favorite puppet. Mindlessly obedient to its every demand.” 

Hearing the truth always hurts, but hearing it from Gideon is especially torturous. Din’s creed to the universe has dictated his actions the entirety of his existence. He never fought against its orders, never thought of his own desires as more important than what it wanted.

Until he matched with his soulmate. She changed his priorities and shifted the center of his entire world by revealing to him even Death could experience love. 

There had been no hesitation when he broke his creed for her.

And he doesn’t hesitate breaking Ahsoka’s promise now.

“I just murdered your soulmate right in front of you and you do nothing. Did you ever love her at all?”

“I do.”

Din summons every trace of power and darkness he possesses and combines them together within his core—a volatile, pulsating mass of pure chaos. His beskar armor starts to crack and chip away, unable to withstand the increasing pressure. 

He thinks of his angel’s smiling face, the sound of her laughter, how bright her soul shines, and he thinks all those things are gone now. Not even a chance to say goodbye.

“More than anything.”

And Death lets go.

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[hockeyboysiguess]

Jerseys and Dumplings

a/n: some good old friends to lovers Tkachuk for your Thursday!

warnings: swearing

word count: 6.3K

You yanked the restaurant door open harder than you’d meant to, but you were in a rush. A last minute assignment had kept you at work later than you’d planned, much later than you’d planned, and you were running later than would ever be considered fashionably late by anyone who made insane amounts of money to recite a bunch of shitty dialogue to a camera. You pulled at the bottom of your skirt to adjust it as you walked through the door before giving up. Your skirt was definitely crooked, your hair was definitely a mess, but your mother’s words played over in your head, “It’s never the job of a successful, powerful to look a particular way. Success is messy. Own the messy.”

“Hi, sorry,” you whisper-yelled to the hostess. “Uh, Hanifin? Pretty sure everyone else is already here.”

“Right this way.”

She was clearly unimpressed with your disheveled appearance and your tardiness as she looked you over from top to bottom from over the top of her glasses. You pushed thoughts of her and work out of your head to focus the evening. Meeting your best friend’s boyfriend was a hit-miss experience with Tessa as your best friend. She alternated between introducing you to immature, outrageous guys who were all about having a good time who always ended up cheating on her or guys who were basically the human equivalent of a completely dried builder-grade beige wall. This one was apparently some moderately famous hockey player, which automatically had you leaning him in the first column, but she pleaded with you to reserve judgment until you met him tonight. You were desperate for her to finally date a guy that was somewhere on the middle of her two extremes. She always countered by saying she wanted you to go on a date, any date. You brushed her off every time, telling her you were focusing on your career and yourself.

“There you are!” Tessa shouted, bumping the table harshly as she stood up to great you. “I started to think you forgot about us.”

“Sorry, babes,” you sighed as you let her pull you in for a quick hug. “I-”

“Got caught up at the office.”

You pulled back from her and glared at her. Tessa saying the words that all too frequently left your lips was just a little passive aggressive, usually your specialty. You rolled your eyes at her and she giggled before reaching out to the guy next to her to pull him to his feet.

“This,” she wrapped her hands around his forearm in a sort of death grip, “is Noah. Noah, this is the ever-discussed best friend slash somehow roommate even though I see her more out to lunch than I do in our apartment.”

“Thanks, Tess,” you mumbled. Noah offered his arms out to you gingerly and you accepted a soft hug. “Nice to meet you, Noah.”

“Really nice to finally meet you,” he smiled softly as you took your seats.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind.” The sing-song tone in Tessa’s voice drew a groan from you because you knew what was going to come next. “Stop it! Anyway, Noah brought one of his teammates along, so you weren’t third wheeling.”

“Is he invisible?” you asked with a wave of your hand to the empty seat next to you.

“Just in the bathroom, actually.”

You turned your head and were greeted with a bright, toothy grin and mop of curly hair. The restaurant was dark, but you could tell he had a beautiful pair of baby blues to go with his dimples and sharp jawline. Tessa has clearly hand-picked this one out of the Flames line up for you. He was exactly your type. You watched as his light eyes broke contact with yours and gave you a quick once look over, lingering almost indiscernibly at your chest and your hips.

“I’m Matthew,” he said, his smile starting on a slippery slope to a smirk as he sat down next to you.

You debated calling him out for checking you out, but Tessa rapped her foot on your shin, letting you know she was ready and waiting to give you a swift kick if she didn’t like how you were acting. People thought Tessa was soft. You thought people shouldn’t underestimate Tessa, so you swallowed your comeback and introduced yourself instead. Matthew gave you a quick nod, his broken curls bouncing with the sudden movement. A smile began to pull at the corners of your lips against your will and something in your chest told you he was going to be trouble if you let him be, so you resolved not to let him be. You watched his attention shift to the couple across the table and his face scrunch up in disgust. Noah and Tessa were seeming trying to figure out if it was possible for two people to become one via their open mouths pressed against each other.

“Come on, guys,” Matthew whined as one of his hands came down roughly on the tabletop, causing the silverware to click together loudly. Noah and Tessa separated at the sound, not at Matthew’s words. “The single folks don’t even have drinks yet. Can you save the foreplay until we at least have some alcohol in us?” 

“Seriously,” you joined in. If Tessa was going to set you up against your will, at least it was with someone that hated Tessa’s fondness for wild amounts of PDA as much as you did. “Please keep all tongues, hands, and arms in your own seats tonight.”

“Genitals should remain their not upright and locked positions” Matthew added. Tess blushed at his words, causing Matthew to turn his head towards you. He cocked his head to the side, a mischievous look dancing in his eyes and pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Too much?” 

You answered by continuing, “Excellent addition, fellow date attendant. Fasten your seatbelts as we expect there might be some turbulence on tonight’s date.” 

“Turbulence?” Tessa asked, her voice a solid octave and a half higher than normal and her eyebrows raised, daring you to continue. 

“Oh yes, turbulence,” Matthew cut in. “So, Tessa, where did you grow up?”

“I’m sorry, I’m back on turbulence,” Noah jumped in verbally and physically, a hand raised across the table. 

“We,” you informed him, gesturing between Matthew and yourself, “are the turbulence.”

“Yes, thank you, good blind date I didn’t ask for,” Matthew nodded to you, curling bouncing again in a way that made you have to bite your lip to avoid smiling like a schoolgirl with a new crush. “You both worked together to set us up tonight, unasked for based on just how fed up my fellow date attendant seemed by my very presence. Esteemed co-worker, can you confirm, for the record, that you did not ask for this set up and that you’re just as tired as I am of your friends across the table setting you up with people?” 

Matthew grabbed a breadstick from the basket in one fist and presented it to you like a microphone. You laughed softly, making an out of character smile crack across Matthew’s face before you both pulled yourself back into the accidental routine you’d created. 

“Yes, yes, Matthew. I can confirm I was not made aware of your presence tonight and I have not asked Tessa to set me up with anyone at this time,” you replied seriously, putting on your best politician impression. 

“You sounded like you were doing an impression of Tina Fey doing her Sarah Palin impression from SNL,” Matthew laughed at you. He couldn’t stop smiling as he turned his attention to your friends who had no idea what monster they’d created tonight. “As my good colleague Sarah Palin just said, neither one of us asked to be here. So now, we’re teaming up to see if we really approve of this union or not. So, I repeat. Tessa, where are you from?” 

The evening was filled with you and Matthew teaming up to flip the script on your friends. You grilled Noah, with Matt’s support, and you offered some direction to his probing questions for Tessa. They took in stride though and you realized somehow, some way beyond your understanding, Tessa had fallen into a good relationship for the first time since you knew her. 

Just after making a two-bite dent into your incredible dessert, Tessa pulled you to the bathroom with her, the classic story of girls never being able to pee alone floating at the excuse. When you left the stall, you were greeted by Tessa, arms across her chest, one foot tapping on the ground, and wry smile on her face. 

“So, things seem to be going well with Matthew,” she said with a smirk and a soft nod. “Figured it would be sink or swim but didn’t think it would go quite this.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you groaned as you turned on the water for the sink to start scrubbing your hands, “we’re just being friendly.”

“Are you kidding me?” she practically shouts at you. “He literally has not taken his eyes off you once all night. He’s so into you!”

“Tess, stop,” you told her with a sigh as you shut off the water. You grabbed a couple of paper towels before spinning on your heels to face her. “Seriously, Tess, he’s not into me. We’re just getting along as friends, okay? Be happy this didn’t blow up in your face for the first time.” 

“You cannot be serious right now,” Tessa whined. She reached for your arm as you tossed the paper towels away, pulling your attention back to her. She bounced on her heels a little and gave you the most frustrated look she could muster. “He is into you. Noah thinks so too. Just, can you just try? For me?” 

“I don’t want a relationship, Tess,” you replied curtly. “Why can’t you just accept that?” 

“He’s perfect for you!” Her frustration with you was growing with each word that she had to say as she tried to spell it out for you. “He’s your type. I know I nailed that one. I know you have to think he’s attractive, so you can’t lie to me. You have really similar senses of humor. He totally thinks you’re hot, which you are. Don’t you dare, that’s not up for debate. Come on, babes. Give Chucky a chance.” 

“Chucky is a murderous doll,” you retorted, skipping over everything else she’d said. “Look, Tess, can’t you just be happy I might have made a friend tonight? That’s growth for me right there.”

“But he wants to be your special friend!” she insisted, bouncing on her heels again. 

You couldn’t help but laugh at the image presented by her bouncing and her words. She was channeling herself at age six for sure, an age you didn’t know Tessa at, but from the stories her brothers and mother told you, you were kind of happy you didn’t know her at. 

“Jesus, did you just say that?” you got out between laughs. You sighed as you pulled yourself together. It was time you both escaped the bathroom as the boys were bound to get suspicious soon. “Look, I’m just not really in the sort of place to put myself out there at all right now. If Matthew really does want this and he really does try, I’ll think about it for real, okay? Does that work for you?” 

She sighed and rolled her eyes before saying, “I mean, no, it doesn’t because he would totally give you the good dick right here in this bathroom and probably buy you brunch tomorrow if you actually showed the tiniest bit of actual interest in him, but, it’s the best you’re going to give me, so it’s fine.” 

Your desire to leave the bathroom and get back to your chocolate cake overwhelmed the desire to correct Tess. You pulled her back to the table with you, collapsing into your seat and immediately diving back into the dessert you’d been hearing call your name since you’d left the table five minutes ago.

“You’re murdering that cake,” Matthew noted. “It’s impressive, honestly. Where does the cake go?” 

“Hopefully out my pores tomorrow in the stupid hot yoga class Tess is dragging me too,” you replied, halting another bite on its way to your mouth just to answer. “I wanted to watch Love is Blind and Too Hot to Handle as our new best friend activity for the month. Tessa wants to do hot yoga, so we’re doing hot yoga.” 

“So, you’re the boyfriend in this relationship?” Matthew joked, gesturing between you. 

You dropped your fork to your plate and reached for your almost empty drink instead before replying, “Gender roles are a completely unnecessary societal standard, Matthew, and they do not need to be enforced by heteronormative men who play an incredibly heteronormative sport. Who is the boyfriend and who is the girlfriend is unnecessarily gendered, especially considering I’m clearly the left chopstick and Tessa is the right. ” 

Matthew’s nose scrunched up when he laughed, a sight you were quickly growing used to over the evening, maybe even starting to like. He shook his head softly at you as he took a sip from his glass. 

“Says the girl who pitched to watch a bunch of trash Netflix dating reality shows that are all pretty heteronormative, right?” Matthew countered with a nod of his glass to you. 

“Garbage is not heteronormative,” you replied. “Trash TV is just trash TV, Matthew. Don’t read too much into it. I still haven’t gotten to watch any of it though.” 

“If you need someone to watch with, hit me up,” he told you. “I need an excuse to get drunk on a Wednesday night and sounds like it I would need to be incredibly drunk to watch any of that.” 

“So, this Wednesday then?”

—————

Standing in front of Matthew’s apartment door with a wide variety from your favorite Chinese takeout place in one hand and a six-pack from your favorite local brewery five days later, you were beginning to regret the life choices that led you to this particular moment. You didn’t have much time for the regret to sink in though before Matthew opened the door. 

“If there is something the resembles a dumpling in that bag, I will be your servant for the rest of your life,” was Matthew’s verbal greeting.

“You’re about to be my servant then, but it’ll be worth it. These are the best dumplings I’ve ever had,” you informed him as you pushed past him into his apartment to drop the bags and beer on the counter. You started pulling containers out of the bags as you continued, “I will say you should never Google this place. I’ve only ever ordered via Grubhub delivery before today. I did pick up and this place honestly looks like the architect was drunk and the builders forgot their glasses for the entire build and I’ve never been more horrified, but the dumplings are killer, so I’ve just decided to put it in a box and try to forget I ever saw where they originated.”

You heard a beer crack open beside you and Matthew’s large hand came into view as he set it in front of you. He was close to you, closer than you had thought he would be. You could feel his tall frame behind you, his loose t-shirt brushing against you as he set the beer by your hand. His arms brushed your softly, making your breath catch in your throat.

“Good brewery pick,” he complimented you, his lips near your ear as he spoke. “Also, if you give me food poisoning from your weird Chinese food place, I’m released from my servitude.”

“You know the word servitude?” you countered, trying to pull your mind out of the gutter it was sliding headfirst down with sarcasm and chirping him.

Matthew laughed lightly and shifted himself closer to you. He leaned into you, his chest gentling coming into contact with your back with each breath you took. His large hands gripped the edge of the counter on either side of you. He towered over you and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what it would feel like to let him bend you over this counter right here and now.

“Mm, I know a lot of things that might surprise you,” Matthew laughed in your ear.

He pulled back without warning and you released a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Matthew shifted over to the opposite side of the counter, grabbing a beer and popping it open on his journey. He didn’t say another word before turning on his heels and heading toward the couch. Your brows furrowed as thoughts began to swirl and bleed together in your mind. Was that just all in your mind or was that nothing that your mind turned into something? You didn’t have time for something like this. The fact that you’d found time to have dinner with Matthew within two weeks of meeting him astounding given your inconsistent hours and his season. No, you didn’t want him to be flirting with you, you decided, so he wasn’t. You came over looking for a friend, so that’s what you were here for, the only thing you were here for.

“Hope you can use chopsticks,” you told him as you sat an overly full plate of food in front of him a few minutes later.

“I play hockey. I wasn’t raised in a barn,” he threw back at you, a joking smile on his lips.

“Okay, okay,” you laughed with a roll of your eyes.

Matthew tossed the remote as you with his free hand as he brought a dumpling to his mouth with the other, dropping the entire thing into his mouth in one go. You watched his eyes go wide as he bit down for the first time. He looked at you in disbelief as he chewed.

“Holy fuck me,” he told you through a full mouth. “I want to marry whoever made this.”

“Now,” you open Netflix on his TV, “you get me, Tkachuk.”

Matthew had already shoved another one in his mouth by the time Netflix loaded the first episode. Matthew was in food heaven, shoving dumpling after dumpling into his mouth. You laughed a little as his stuffed cheeks. He looked like a curly-headed chipmunk and you told him just that as you grabbed another container of dumplings out of the bag on the counter. He almost chirped you back, but when you dropped a full container in his lap, the chirp died before it had even fully formed.

“I think you’ve ruined dumplings for me from everywhere else in the world. Also, is that guy hot? I feel like they’re just trying to convince us he’s hot when he’s not.”

You were amazed he was able to pay any attention to the show with the speed at which he was consuming food. It was equal parts impressive and disgusting.

“He’s alright,” you shrugged as you reached for your beer. “Not my type. You’d be better off asking Tessa.”

Something you’d said finally beat out the interest of the dumplings. Matthew dropped the container to the table and skewered a dumpling with his chopsticks in exchange for a beer and turning his attention to him. He raised an eyebrow at you before he spoke.

“A type, huh? I wouldn’t happened to fit that type, would I?”

He took a sip as he watched you roll your eyes at him. He chuckled a little against the edge of his bottle at your response.

“Why would you think you would?” you countered, barely pulling yourself together in time to say something within an acceptable response time.

Matthew shrugged casually before replying, “Noah asked me specifically to come the other night and after meeting Tessa, I have a hard time believing she let Noah pick whoever he wanted since that was definitely a set up and blah, blah, blah, so I’m definitely your type, right?”

“Mm,” you hummed as you took a sip of your beer to try and disguise the anxiety his question had brought on. “My type is definitely guys who are obsessed with trying to be my type. It’s so sexy how much you need my validation right now.”

Matthew’s head fell back as he laughed, curls shifting back in tandem. His mouth opened wide as he laughed a full belly laugh at your words. One of his hands came to his stomach as his laughs became breathier and he slowly brought himself back down.

“You’re something else,” Matthew mumbled through a smile, beer on its way back to his lips and soft shake of his head with his words.

“I’m a goddamn goddess and you know it,” was all you had to say to get him laughing again.

—————

“Let’s fucking go, Calgary!” Tessa screamed next to you out of the blue, jumping to her feet as she shouted, making you and several other people around you jump a little in their seats.

“Jesus,” you sighed. “Tess, can you take it down a notch or eighteen, please?”

“It’s the Battle of Alberta, baby!” she shouted in response, a wide drunken grin on her face as she retook her seat next to you with a flop.

The referee blew the whistle, stopping play, and you pulled your attention back to the game with a soft smile on your face. You looked down the ice to see someone wearing a red and black jersey tangled up with a white and blue one. You craned you’re neck to try and see who it was, your breath catching in your throat at the idea it as Matthew. Your eyes were flying back and forth between the ice and the screen, trying to see a number or part of name to figure out if it was him or not. Your racing thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the glass in front of you. You were greeted with a smile that was slowly becoming more and more familiar, just with a mouth guard hanging between his teeth, and some curls peeking out from under a helmet.

Matthew waved at you with two gloved hands, his light blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You were relieved he was standing in front of you, a goofy smile on his face, rather than down the ice in that fight. At least the linesman has managed to break it up by now. Matthew’s eyes broke contact from you to give you a once over. He pinched his jersey between his gloved fingers and his eyebrows furrowed down as he looked at you

“Where’s your jersey?” he shouted, though you had to read his lips to actually understand him

You just put your hands out next to you, palms up, and shrugged with a slight pout sticking out your bottom lip. You didn’t own any Flames gear of any kind, certainly not the Tkachuk jersey he was probably looking for. He shook his head at you and glared a little, just to get a small laugh out of you, before he turned his attention back to the game.

“Look at your guy!” Tessa said way too loudly for how tender she’d said it, hands stacked over her heart. “He likes you so much.”

“We are just friends,” you countered firmly, which made Tessa frown.

“He likes you! Aren’t you going over to his place after the game? You should make a move,” she nudged you in the ribs with her elbow.

“I’m picking up exactly four containers of dumplings and we’re watching exactly two episodes of Love is Blind because we’re going to finish up the episodes before they go on vacation with their new fiancés, okay?” you told her. “That’s not exactly a hot date. Besides, I don’t want to make a move. I like him, as a friend.”

“Okay, whatever,” Tessa rolled her eyes at you. “You keep denying that I set you up with a good one until you can’t anymore. Chucky is so smitten with you, he’ll probably wait for you for a ridiculously long time, like rom-com style long time, babes.”

—————

It was your new routine. Well, it wasn’t regular enough to really be a routine. Matthew would text you when he felt like he hadn’t seen you recently enough and demand you show up that same day with dumplings and your sparkling personality. You had tried to deny him, push him off a day or two due to work, but he might be the only person you’d ever met more stubborn that you were. Over garbage television shows and Chinese food, you’d made an actual friend out of him and despite Tessa’s insisting that both of you wanted more.

“Oh, suck it!” Tessa shouted as the Bruins pulled out a last-minute OT goal against Edmonton. She hated the Bruins, but you were pretty sure the only thing Tessa hated more than your insistence that you didn’t want to date Matthew was Edmonton.

You sighed, realizing you’d lost the bet you’d made with her, even though you picked that Edmonton would win to piss her off. She was shouting and jumping up and down, trying to rub her win in your face, but a text cropping up on your phone was pulling your attention.

Tkachuk: pls get five orders of dumplings and bring them right over

You: worked hard today huh?

Tkachuk: you know I fucking did. See you in 30?

You smiled softly, catching Tessa’s attention in the middle of her winning tirade.

“Is that Chucky?” She was already leaning over you, trying to get a glimpse of your phone screen. “Are you ditching me for him again this evening?”

You glared up at her and tilted your phone back, hiding the screen from her view. She stated to glare back, but then her face softened as the corners of her mouth started to pull up. You caught a mischievous glint in her eyes start to form she spoke.

“Hey, the bet was that I get to pick your outfit next time you go out, right?” Tessa asked hesitantly.

“I mean, yeah, but your face is scaring me a little bit here,” you replied, concern for yourself dripping off each word.

“And out could just mean when you go to see Chucky in a few minutes, right?” Her excitement was beginning to leak out, but you couldn’t understand why. “Because since you’re leaving, that’s going out, right?”

“I mean, I guess- Tess, what are you getting at here?”

Tessa didn’t reply. She ran out of the living room, cursing as she banged her elbow on the corner as she turned into the hallway. You heard some rustling in her room, followed by another curse, before she came bounding back into the living room. She tossed something red at you, a borderline evil smile on her face as she did so. You grabbed the red garment. As soon as your fingers touched it, you had an idea of what it was based on the fabric and you groaned as you flipped the garment in your hands. You were greeted with Tkachuk in large bold letters when you looked at the back of the jersey.

“I’m not wearing that to Matthew’s apartment,” you whined, letting the jersey fall into your lap.

“Ah, yes you are. You lost the bet. You wear what I let you to wear,” she told you, waving off your complaints. “Besides, Chucky gave it to Noah to give to me to make sure you wore it to next game anyway. We’re just getting you in it earlier than he had in mind, that’s all.”

You sighed as you stood up to head to your room where you exchanged your comfortable, worn in sweatshirt for the new, crisp jersey. When the red fabric finally hung off your body, you turned and let out a groan when you saw his last name on your back. You knew he wasn’t going to let you live it down the entire time you were with him, but Tessa’s wrath was worse than Matthew’s chirping would ever be.

Tessa was laughing as soon as she caught site of the red fabric, but you didn’t give her much time to feel satisfied with her handiwork. You grabbed your wallet, keys, and phone and headed out the front door. You paused as you sat in the driver’s seat of your car. Tessa had said Matthew wanted you to have the jersey to wear to the next game you went to, but why was he insistent enough to get Noah to give Tessa one of his jerseys? Why didn’t he just give it to you himself? 

You tried to analyze the gesture as you waited in line at the restaurant. You’d taken to just coming in for pick up since you’d been unsuccessful in forgetting just how terrifying seeing this place for the first time was. You never called ahead anymore. You just showed up and the chef knew to start making dumplings for you. They were ready when you got to the counter to order, so you paid, grabbed your food, and returned to your car quickly. You decided the gesture was probably nothing, just Matthew being odd per usual, and tried to force the thought out of your mind as you drove over to his place. 

The thought hung around as you parked in his spare parking spot. The parking pass had gone from being loaned out to every guest to living in your car after the fifth dumpling and trash television visit. He said you were his most regular visitor and he was tired of having to leave to put it in your car for you since you always argued that you’d brought him food, so it was the least he could do. Your mind was racing, trying to figure out if all of it added up to something, or if you were adding up things that didn’t really exist to get to an answer that definitely didn’t. 

You only got one knock in before Matthew opened the door. He moaned when he saw the bag in your arms. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said, his eyes trained on the brown paper bag his hands were reaching for the entire time he spoke like a prayer had been answered.

You laughed at him and let him take the bag from your arms before following him inside. He dropped the bag on the counter and began grabbing containers and chopsticks while you kicked off your shoes. You let out a long sigh as you prepared yourself for the chirps that were bound to come when you took your coat off and the jersey was finally in his line of site. You chewed your bottom lip between your teeth as you spun around to face him. 

Matthew was frozen in place, a partially opened to-go container on the counter in front of him and chopsticks about to be ripped apart in his hands. His eyes were trained on the flaming logo on the front. 

“Tessa made me wear it,” you admitted quickly. “I lost a bet and she made me wear it.”

Matthew slowly put the chopsticks down and one of his hands came up to his mouth. His hand was on his chin, thumb crossing his lips as he shifted his weight to his other hand braced against the counter’s edge. His light eyes were darker than you were used to as they scanned up and down your body. They came to rest on the number partially visible on the shoulder. He moved his hand from his face to hovering in front of him with his index finger outstretched. Slowly, his index finger began to make small circles as he looked at you. 

“Oh, you’re rubbing this in now,” you huffed, hands going to your hips. 

Matthew just shook his head softly before he swallowed hard, then said one word, “Spin.” 

You sighed, knowing he wanted the full picture for future ammunition, but you wouldn’t get to enjoy your food until you gave him what he asked you. You slowly let your feet shift across the floor, moving you in a gentle circle, giving Matthew a perfect view of his last name across your back. You closed your eyes as you reached the point in your circling where you’d have to see him again. You didn’t need to see the smug look on his face. 

You heard Matthew sigh and you knew whatever he was about to say next was going to be brutal. Instead, all you heard was his feet shuffling quickly across the floor before you felt his hands on you, pressing you back against the nearest wall. Your eyes flung open when you made rough contact with the wall. Before you could fully process it, Matthew’s head dipped down and his mouth was on yours. You almost pulled back, but he was kissing you in a way that took your breath away. You couldn’t not fall into the moment with your palms coming to rest on his chest, but you needed some sort of explanation and you weren’t even sure if this was really what you wanted, so you pushed gently on his chest and he instantly separated from you.

“What the fuck?” you breathed out at him as you lifted your eyes to look at him. 

He was towering over you, his arms boxing you in on either side of your head. His eyes were even darker than they had been and while you could usually read Matthew like open book, you couldn’t recognize the expression on his face. 

“I can’t be your friend if you’re going to look this fucking good with my last name on your back,” he told you. His words were so matter of fact, as if it was the most obvious thing the world. “You have absolutely no idea how bad I want you right now.” 

“Matthew,” you said between deep breaths, “I don’t know.” 

“You know,” he said, his baby blue eyes locking your gaze on him. “You know you know. You’ve known since that first dinner. Tessa knew too. Hell, even Noah knew, and you know how fucking thick he is. We’re not supposed to be just friends. You,” he sucked in a breath through his teeth when he broke eye contact to look down at the jersey while balling some of the red fabric in his hands, “you are too perfect for me to be my friend. God, it’s like someone took everything I ever wanted and put it all in one perfect, stupidly sexy girl, except that someone made her fucking oblivious to her own feelings.”

Matthew let out a soft laugh and shook his head as he released the fabric from his hands. His eyes rolled up to lock with yours again. 

“You can’t stand her and tell me that kiss wasn’t different,” he continued. “stop being so fucking thick for two seconds and you’ll really feel it. I know you feel it. Because if somehow, I feel this goddamn strongly about someone, and they don’t feel a single ounce of something for me, then I must have really fucked up in my past life and deserve to have the perfect girl right between my fingers and feel her break my heart instead. Like, fuck, you know this is different, that this is something that stupid kinds of special. Just let yourself feel it. Let me in, baby. I’m right here. You’re not gonna fall. Nothing is going to break. I’m right here. I’ve got you, if you want me to.” 

Matthew was wrong. You felt the walls you built to keep you from having to put yourself out there, from having to risk anything, start to crack under Matthew’s gaze. His eyes started bouncing from feature to feature on your face, trying to figure out what was going on in your mind since you hadn’t said a word yet. When his baby blues met yours again, the walls broke, and you felt everything. You felt everything he said and somehow, so much more. You grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked his mouth down to yours. He kissed you back instantly, his hands reaching down to the backs of your thighs to pull you up to his height. Your legs wrapped around his waist and his hands moved to your torso, yanking at his new favorite piece of clothing you owned to get under it and feel your skin under his palms. 

You broke the kiss to breathe. His mouth moved to your neck as you tangled your fingers in his curls. 

“I’m going to fuck you and you’re going to wear this while I do it,” Matthew breathed out against your neck with a faint tug of the jersey, “if that’s alright with you.”

“Little aggressive,” you told him with a tug of his curls. Matthew pulled you away from the wall, switching to support your weight so he could start walking you towards his room.

“Oh, shut up, would you?” Matthew laughed against your skin. “If you actually have objections, fine, but the peanut gallery is closed for anything other than curse words and my name for the next few hours, okay?” 

“Whatever you say, Tkachuk.” 

[griimreaping]

@utternocries​ - one word fic prompts

Lower ( part 1 )

The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.

This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house. 

"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment.

 "Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.

"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above.

 That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.

"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue.

"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch.

"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful.

The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.

It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.

"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself.

"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out.

Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.

When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal.

Then the whispers.

"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.

Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy.

"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him.

"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Don’t look

Seeking refuge with the biggest, most scary-looking guys on the bus stop to escape from a stalker. I needed to get this whole situation out of my head. Wish I had Sam and Dean that day (instead I hid in an electronics shop for thirty minutes).

Warnings: Stalking, anxiety, panic

Word count: 1863

My heart is beating so fast I am sure it shows on the outside of my sweater. He is following me, I can feel his eyes on my neck – there is no doubt in my mind. After wandering around the shop for hours, following my every move, even waiting by the door when I had to find something in the back room, he left the second my shift ended. He didn’t even buy anything. It can’t be a coincidence.

I hurry through the corridor, weaving between clueless customers, trying to walk as fast as I can without being obvious. If I can only get to the third floor, I’ll be safe. From there I can hop on the bus and leave this nightmare behind.

Once I round the corner by the sweets shop, I sidestep and head for the nearest elevator instead of the escalator. Maybe that’ll throw him off. I cross my fingers in my pocket as I press the ‘close doors’ button repeatedly, probably harder than necessary, but I just can’t help it. I do not want to get stuck in here with him.

The doors finally close, and I breathe out, dragging my hand through my hair. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall; pale and nervous, all shuffling feet and fidgeting hands. But as the elevator lifts, my hearing slowly returns, and I jump from the loud ding when I’m up.

I blink a couple of times and steel myself. Third floor: my bus is just at the end the corridor and through the revolving doors. The floor smacks under my shoes and I wince.

Looking warily around the corner, I look back towards the escalator. The coast is clear, and I set off, past the shops and people, hyper-focused on the direction and what goes on behind me.

The exit is neat when suddenly: “Hello, dear! How are you?”

I flinch and turn towards the voice. I know it’s just my old neighbour, but I’m running out of time, and she loves to talk. Without waiting for my answer, she launches into the monologue she thinks is a dialogue. I try my best with the ah’s and mhm’s, and I’m fairly sure I manage to nod in the right places, but really have no idea what she’s talking about.

I keep glancing over my shoulder, hoping for nothing and expecting the worst. A couple of minutes later my heart stops. He’s walking confidently in my direction. I’m not sure he’s seen me yet, but I’m not giving him a chance. I make a vague excuse, something about my bus leaving, and hurry towards the side door in a final attempt to shake him.

It’s futile, I know. He’s heading to the bus stop too, and then he’s gonna see what line I take, or worse: get on the same bus.

I can’t think clearly. The world around me swims before my eyes. All that’s in my head is getting away, getting to safety.

There’s a small crowd waiting at the platform, but all of them are either younger than me, or older than me by quite a margin. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to blend in and disappear.

My pulse increases again. I know that in the few seconds I spent assessing my possibilities, he’s closer than ever. I throw a quick glance over my shoulder and spot a red shirt under a brown leather jacket through the window.

With quick steps I duck behind a wall, peering around the edge. He hasn’t come out yet. Maybe he’s looking inside still. My brain frizzes, and I start looking for other opportunities.

My eyes fall on two guys standing near an old car on the corner. They’re both big and serious looking, but in my mind they look nice. Or maybe just decent. Yup. I’m getting desperate.

Before I can really grasp what I’m doing, and with a final glace towards the door – he’s still not there – I set course over the small square.

As I get closer, I slow down. What the hell am I thinking? They could be serial killers for all I know, but it’s too late now. It’s too obvious that I’m heading their way, and they’ve already seen me.

“H-hi.” My voice is weaker than I expected. The sudden difference brings tears to my eyes, and my throat constricts. The only sounds coming from me are pathetic squeaks.

“Hello,” the tallest of them says, shooting a look at the other. My brain is too scrambled to decipher it.

“Can we help you?” the other one asks. His voice is low and gruff, and holds a fair bit of authority.

I can’t breathe, but I try anyway, and the words come out all jumbled and fast and weird. “Hi. Yes, you… Man, stay with you just… the bus, until the bus, I don’t –“

The first man looks down at me with kind, hazel eyes. He really is taller than should be allowed. “Breathe,” he says. “Slow down.”

My ears are roaring, I can barely hear a thing, and my neck feels like it’s about to explode, but I force myself to focus. A glance over my shoulder: still no sign of him. They both follow my gaze, and I take a deep breath, letting the air out again slowly. “There’s a man… he’s following me. I’m scared.” That’s coherent enough, right? My heart speeds up again. I feel sick. “Can I… stay with you for a… until my next bus?” Or until he’s gone, I think, but I can’t say it.

I look back as I speak and all noise disappears. He’s on his way through the revolving door, and I automatically shrink down, trying to make myself smaller than I am. It’s hopeless. He’s gonna see me, and then he’ll come over and… A tear rolls down my cheek and I let out a tiny sob.

The two men move as one, stepping closer to each other. The tallest of them moves in front of me, shielding me with his massive body, and the other man scans the direction I look. Tall Guy’s mouth moves, but I can’t hear anything but the thump, thump from my heart as I watch my stalker walk slowly, deliberately over the platform; his eyes constantly moving. I lean back, flatten myself against the cold metal of the car. Time stands still.

A faint mumble reaches through the thumping, and I look up. “Who?” the kind eyes ask.

“Red… shirt, brown jacket,” I squeak.

“Don’t look at him,” the other man whispers. “You’ll draw his attention. We’ll let you know when he’s gone.”

I nod, and force myself to not look. Instead I look up, into Tall Guy’s face. He’s got pretty, soft features, but there’s an edge there, a twitch in his jaw, and a glint in his eyes that makes my skin crawl.

It disappears when he gives me a gentle smile. “I’m Sam,” he offers, holding out his hand. I look at it, but don’t shake it. At least I have the sense to say my name. “You need to breathe,” he continues. “Else you’re gonna faint.  Breathe with me. In… and out.”

I do my best to follow, and after a few breaths my hearing returns in full. There’s too much noise now: engines and people and car alarms and sirens. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Is he still there?”

“Yes,” says the gruff voice.

“Dean,” Sam says, a warning in his voice.

The step even closer, and I can’t see anything, but I feel the heat radiating from Sam. Something is clearly going on, because he kinda puffs himself up, so I try to be even smaller. It’s hard, and panic is threatening to overcome me again.

We stand like that for a moment, a human sandwich filled with dread, and I hold my breath as if that makes me invisible. Sam and Dean talk about trivial stuff. Maybe they’re trying to distract me. If so, it’s working. A bit. Apparently Dean has been meaning to do some work on his car, and Sam asks if he can please install a jack – he’s sick of listening to the same five cassette tapes.

That makes me snort, and the shadow of a glorious smile flits over his face. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he wants to slap Sam in the head.

After what feels like an eternity, they move back. “He boarded the bus,” Dean says softly. “He’s gone.”

I exhale loudly. My tears have dried on my face, and I grimace to loosen up. Suddenly I feel so very tired, and my knees buckle.

A strong arm shoots out from one side, keeping me from collapsing to the ground. “Hey, you okay? You look a bit pale.”

I feel a bit pale. I nod, but I don’t have the strength to stay upright. They grab one arm each and guide me to the curb, slowly lowering me down. The sweat on my back is beginning to dry, and I shiver from the cold.

“We got you,” Dean says, feeling my forehead with the back of his hand. “Put your head down between your knees. There you go.”

I do as I’m told, and almost immediately feel better.

Sam sits down beside me, holding a hand on my back to keep me from tilting backwards, and Dean squats in front of me.

I look up and smile, finally calm enough to mutter a feeble “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Sam replies. He frowns. “Um… Can I ask you something?”

“Mhm.” I nod affirmatively.

“Why did you come to us? I mean, it’s not problem, I’m just curious why you…” He trails off, and I offer a sheepish smile.

“I just picked the most scary-looking guys here. Guess I was just lucky you were nice too.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re right there,” he says, looking at Sam. “Sasquatch here could frighten a ghost! Listen, you look like you’ve been through hell. I’m thinking you need some pie. Hell, I know I need some. You don’t happen to know someplace that sells a good…”

Sam groans. “Dean! She just hid from a stalker. She doesn’t want us to bother her.”

Actually, he’s wrong. “I don’t want to be alone just yet,” I mutter. “Don’t think I’m ready to go home right now. And I know a good place for pie too. Just down the road. They have the most amazing pecan pie you’ve ever tasted.”

Dean grins. “Awesome! A girl of my heart.” He thinks for a moment. “You know this town pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah. Grew up here. It’s really a nice place, give or take a few rotten apples.”

Sam rubs his neck. He looks like a lost puppy despite his size. “Well, we’re new here. Job stuff, you know. And we could really use a guide. If you want to. If not, that’s –“

“Sure,” I say before I can think, a smile creeping over my face. “It’s not much to see around here, but at least I’ll show you the best pie in the state.”

Tagging people if you’re still interested in my stories:

@orpheus-aeiou​  @funwithfanfics @babeinthebowtie @savingapplepie-eatingthings​ @winchesterprincessbride​ @savvythedork​ @littlegreenplasticsoldier​ @youtubehelpsmesurvive​ @blackcherrywhiskey​ @mrswhozeewhatsis​ @schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte​ @aiaranradnay​ @fandomismyspiritanimal​ @barneybrigade​  @mogaruke​ @wstrumpel​ @whovianextrodinare​ @hennessy0274-blog​ @sushi-senpai-chan @tardis-is-mine​ @badasssweetsrebel @jensensjaredsandmishaslover​ @megasimpleplan4ever​ @wh1sp3r1ng-impala @80percentmarvel​

[orokinarchives]

Eudico Dialogue

(Fortuna hype image)

Ever since the disastrous incident at Deck 12, Eudico has laid aside the mantle of Vox in the interests of keeping her people safe, but the events of the Vox Solaris quest convince her that the workers of Fortuna need to constantly agitate for their rights against their Corpus overlords. Eudico gives bounties for Tenno seeking to aid the cause of Solaris United out on the Orb Vallis, as well as being the point of contact for additional activities in Fortuna. Once the Tenno has reached the rank of Old Mate with Solaris United, she leads them on additional bounties to take down the Orb Mothers.

Syndicate information

There are many vendors in Fortuna who allow the Tenno to both gain and spend Standing with the Solaris, but as their leader, Eudico represents the Solaris faction as a whole. Initially, Solaris United is described thusly:

Indentured workers to the Corpus; the indispensable backbone of the Corpus business model on Venus. Manning factories, Rail tractors, and mines, they work to pay off the artificial bodies – "rigs" – they bought in order to work.

Solaris United works from the shadows to free the Solaris people of the yokes of Corpus debt-slavery, to secure a future where all Solaris own their own bodies and their own futures.

After the Vox Solaris quest, the description changes to the following:

Risen from the ashes, Solaris United returns to free the Solaris people from their mental shackles and physical servitude. No being should have to work to own their own mind, their own body, their own future.

Eudico assigns various bounties for Tenno to complete out on the Orb Vallis, rewarding both exclusive items and Solaris United Standing. Standing can also be gained by selling debt-bonds to Ticker, completing heist bounties for Vox Solaris, completing Conservation tasks on the Orb Vallis, donating servofish to the townsfolk via The Business, donating uncut gems to Smokefinger, or donating mastered or gilt Kitguns and Moas to Rude Zuud and Legs, respectively. The Solaris United Syndicate ranks, from least to most favoured, are:

Neutral: [no description]

Outworlder: Solaris United don't trust easy, Outworlder. Talk to Eudico.

Rapscallion: You get things done, but your loyalties are still unproven.

Doer: You seem a solid mucker. The locals are happy to sort you out with odds and ends.

Cove: You're the go-to gun for the risky stuff. Word is bond.

Old Mate: Inner circle, mate. Eudico's right hand. You and SU: one and the same.

When it comes time for a Tenno to rank up, they must talk to Eudico, who will request a sacrifice of Solaris debt-bonds, and reward them with an item from any Fortuna vendor, befitting their new status.

Idle quotes

These are un-subtitled lines that Eudico says when she is not interacting with anyone. Typically, this will consist of a shouted command to nearby Solaris, followed by a quiet whisper to the Tenno.

"Throwers to all outbound Rail tractors. Don't talk to me until it's done! [whisper] Credits for dishonest work. Keep your voice down; I've got a cover to maintain."

"Don't bother me now, talk to your supervisor. [whisper] Oi, Outworlder, get over here. Contracts. Interested?"

"Manifest checks out, carry on. [whisper] Today's your lucky day, cove. Let's us have a quiet conversation."

"Get back to work ya muckers! [whisper] Hey, you. C'mere. Act natural. I got work."

"Status check on coolant flow. And mind it doesn't off-gas! [whisper] Oi, I got work if you can keep your mouth shut."

Greeting the Tenno

"Make it quick. What's it gonna be?"

"There's work, if you want it."

"Outworlder. We gonna do this?"

"Don't let Zuud's attitude skew ya. She's an odd bird, but she'll kit you with a shooter that'll do you proud."

"Biz ain't from around here. Or anywhere that I know of. Only gotta hear the accent to clock that."

(if the Tenno has just reached rank Old Mate) "SU don't trust easy, and for good reason. But we see you, what you are: family. It's only right you get to see us. This is the face you'll be dealin' with from hereon. It's good to see you with my own eyes. Let's get to work."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Biz and I go back a long way. Weren't for The Business, there'd be no Solaris U. But I don't know you could call us friends. He's Solaris, but he ain't from here. He helps Fortuna, but he's not one of us. Never chose to be. Strange bird, our Biz. I do wonder how he got that accent."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "The Business and I go… way back. If courage and integrity is the measure of a person, Biz is the one takin' your inseam. Anyway, roster's full. Help me out here."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Sparky! Ugh. Sorry, kid. Thinking about Zuud's sisters. Bad day for bad memories. Enough of that. You're here for work."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Zuud lost her sisters when I… when the Corpus crushed Solaris United the first time. Think that's got anything to do with those voices she hears?"

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "The most valuable person in your squad ain't the crack shot. It's the kid who keeps your spirits up. That's Legs. The rhymin's a bit much, but can that little mucker make me hoot."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Nef wants the ventkids gone, and I'm wedged between a roller and a pit. Stealin' Corpus supplies? Spendin' night-cycles bangin' out music in the walls? My heart bleeds for 'em, but I don't do somethin' Nef's gonna start askin' questions. About me."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Little Duck. The Business, he thought the world of her. Didn't get him much in the end. Anyway, you lookin' for work?"

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Hey there, Sparky. Got a fresh batch, just came in. You want first pick?"

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Heeey there, Sparky. Good to see you."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Sparky! Ha HAAA! Good to see you, kiddo! Step aside, you dimwits, let a real doer get on in."

Accepting a bounty

"Green. An' remember: you never heard of me, you never heard of Solaris U."

"Anyone asks, we never talked."

"Show 'em how it's done, Sparky. We ain't got all cycle."

"Outstandin'. Now get out there and void some muckin' warranties."

"Get movin'. We're short-short."

Declining a bounty

(sarcastically) "See you 'round, Your Majesty."

"We're hangin' by a thread here, you clock that, right?"

"Ain't got time for your rubberneckin'. Move aside."

"Well. I did not take you to be a student of fear's invisible curriculum. Others will do the work. Who's next?"

"[sigh] Y'know, Zuud's voices told her you'd be useful to me. Don't leave me thinkin' my best friend ain't right in the braincase. Take the job."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Not gonna lie, we could use you, but we made it this far on our own. Get in touch when you can."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Alright. Let me know when you're available."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "No worries. I've got others on standby."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Roger that."

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Keep your boots tight."

Requesting sacrifice

"Solaris United don't trust easy. But… make good, and… we can talk."

"Sure, we can talk."

Browsing offerings

"Welcome aboard. We don't got much, but what we have…."

"No worries. We got you sorted."

"Alrighty, let's see what we have for you."

"All right, let's deal."

Redeeming offering

"Does that conclude our business here, Sparky?"

"Done and done."

"You help me, I help you. Everybody's happy."

"You do have an eye, Sparky. I always say that. That'll serve you mighty fine."

Bidding farewell

"Moving on, moving on. Be lucky."

"Copy that. Keep it shiny side up, Sparky."

"Oh, you see Zuud, send her my way. Girls night."

In the backroom

Down a passageway off to the side of the main elevator in Fortuna, a nondescript door leads to a backroom where the core operating personnel of Solaris United gather and plot: Eudico, The Business, and Little Duck. Unless the Tenno has reached the rank of Old Mate with Solaris United, Eudico will not allow the Tenno to participate.

(if the Tenno is not rank Old Mate) "Sparky. We got somethin' in the works. Not ready to talk about it yet, though. You keep doin' what you're doin'. We'll have somethin' to discuss soon enough, mark my words. Somethin' big."

Once the Tenno attains Old Mate, Eudico reveals their key goal: to take down the Orb Mothers.

(if the Tenno has just reached rank Old Mate) Eudico: "Nef has the entire Vallis locked down with his Orb Mothers. They watch over the central lakes… patrol the eastern grids…. It's next to impossible for Ticker to get families out of Fortuna, or smuggle in supplies."

The Business: "The Mothers are a product of Corpus breakthroughs using salvaged Sentient technology. Traditional weapons are ineffective against them. Their command and control systems have, thus far, proven impenetrable."

Eudico: "Questions?"

From this point on, Eudico will offer special bounties to take down the Orb Mothers from the backroom.

(if the Tenno is rank Old Mate) "Sparky. Right. We're all here; let's get started."

Vox broadcasts

After the Vox Solaris quest, Eudico resumes her position as Vox, the anonymous spokesperson and leader of Solaris United. Periodically, she will hijack the large screens in Fortuna and broadcast pro-labour messages to the indentured Solaris citizens. The Vox broadcasts feature her real head, housed within her rig, but wearing a crude mask of Nef Anyo to mask her identity. Her voice is heavily distorted.

"No other species works for autonomy. No other species works to own their own body. No other species takes such pride in that enslavement. Solaris divided, we are slaves. Solaris united, we are a force! The future can be different. Believe. Resist."

"The Temple profits from your labour. Without your labour, then, there is no profit. What is the Temple of Profit without 'profit'? What then are the Corpus without us?"

"How does the Taxman keep you under his boot? Deny you that which you need? Blame the poor for it, and then tell you: 'Working even harder will fix it'?"

"The Taxman teaches that truth, plus profit, equals life. Solaris United reminds you that, if this is true, then truth is life without profit, and profit is life without truth."

"How often have you sat in the Temple of Profit as your parts fail and your family starves, looked up at all that gold and grandeur, and wonder if you've been had?"

"Solaris United. You are not alone."

In addition to her major role in the quest Vox Solaris, Eudico acts as mission control during bounties out on the Orb Vallis. Eudico's story is told in the memory fragments scattered around the Vallis. Her personnel file was shown during the Fortuna ARG, and she has additional dialogue in the Profit-Taker and Exploiter Orb heist bounties, as well as Operation: Buried Debts. She is mentioned in the dialogue of The Business, Rude Zuud, Legs, and Smokefinger, and in The Business' and Little Duck's lore fragments.

[Navigation: Hub → Dialogue → Eudico]

[shadowdianne]

Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to create SOMETHING based on the following: Hermione takes Narcissa to experience the wonders of the Muggle world, trying to convince her there's nothing scary about it. Narcissa is nearly accepting, until they get trapped in a lift. HOW WILL HERMIONE DEAL WITH IT? (Bonus points for gratuitous smut)

Insert usualdisclaimer here about how this story is my second on this fandom, first “almost”smut for this fandom and me being a Ravenclaw through and through I spend fartoo much time working on each dialogue line so it, at least, sound believable.

Ok, disclaimer finished;I’ll wait on my corner while cackling a little bit.

-For the ones thatcould, as myself, spend half an hour into reading several articles on OtisElevator Company let’s imagine that I’m talking about a 19th lifthere. Possibility of that being an actual thing? I’m calling it artisticlicense-

“Come on,you will enjoy it.” Hermione’s excited tone was drowned by the clinking of herkeys as she pocketed them under Narcissa’s blue gaze, a blonde brow arching incredulouslyas the older witcher stepped backwards, letting the brunette surpass her andcall the clunky elevator on her apartment building.

Sighing,Narcissa followed suit, stepping inside the small space before turning to faceHermione who was grinning at her; eyes filled with the candor the older womanusually found endearing. Not this time, however, as she pursed her lips,ironing invisible lines on the robes she wore; muggle-looking enough for themto not be considered strange on the neighborhood the brunette had chosen tolive in.

“I neversaid I won’t” The blonde replied, softly yet succinctly as the doors of theelevator closed behind them both, the sound not so different from the evenolder-looking elevator that existed on the Ministry would have made. Fightingthe reflex of pressing her hands against the nearest wall, waiting for it totremble and move at neck-breaking speed, the older witch crossed her hands justabove her navel at her wrist level. The movement was telling enough forHermione to reach forward, trying to interlace her fingers with her. Smilingslightly at the gesture, Narcissa let the brunette grasp her hand while eyeing herthrough suddenly heavy-lidded eyes, her blue eyes turning a shade darker. Maybeshe could play a little game. To amuse herself at least. “But I would prefer tospend your free day doing something else.”

Hermionechuckled a little at that, her thumb drawing a slow circle on Narcissa’s skinas the elevator began its descent, the wooden paneling that covered the wallstrembling for a second. It was true, she reflected, tilting her head to oneside as Narcissa took a step forward, blonde tresses glimmering under the dulllights that bathed the small space.  

They bothknew the older witch had a point on the fact that they both could use some timeto be together; without any kind of external meddling. Yet, Hermione felt giddyat the idea of showing Narcissa the London that the older woman so rarely gotto see. Which had been the reason why, after a lazy breakfast, she had managedto draw out a reluctant “Yes” to the idea of a simple walk. Perhaps, if she wasfeeling daring, show Narcissa how the tube worked.

Nevertheless,Narcissa’s warm hand on hers, her blue eyes focusing intently on her, made herlick her lips as her mind was flooded precisely by what they had been doingbefore that lazy breakfast. The rumpled sheets they had left behind the nowclosed apartment door a strong enough testimony that maybe, just maybe, shecould make the walk shorter.

Feelingdaring, she gave a gentle squeeze to Narcissa’s hand, the blonde’s azure eyesstill on her, far too vibrant.

“What if Ipromised to reward you?” Her voice sounded breathier than she had originallythought it would be; her relationship with the older witch not exactly new butstill electrifying for her to blink and think on maybe taking a step backbefore she was unable to stop the blush she felt beginning to crawl up herneck.

Before shecould even move the ever-present clattering of the old elevator came to a stopwith a not-so promising growl; a whirring sound echoing as a sudden tremor onthe floor made both witches lose their footing. Letting Narcissa’s hand go,Hermione turned quickly towards the button panel, the stillness confirming herfears before she even got to press any button she was able to reach, a sense ofdread quickly coiling around her throat.

There wasno way around it; they were stuck.

“Isn’t thisbloody fantastic.” The blonde’s voice echoed at Hermione’s back. The swearing,coupled with an obvious surprise, echoed strangely inside the elevator, thesound ricocheting against the walls.

Regainingher usual composure, Narcissa quickly approached Hermione, the sudden movementmaking her clothes billow slightly as she reached for her wand, the dark wood astriking contrast on her fingers as she eyed the muggle contraption; thebeginning of a spell already making the air around the wand glimmer. Light thatwas quickly snuffed out as Hermione promptly blocked the panel from Narcissa’sview with both of her hands, brown eyes pleading.

“No, you can’t do that.” She said beforepointing towards where the doors stood, glaringly shut. “Muggle side of London,remember? If we use magic and someone sees us Secrecy is out of the window.”

Narcissahuffed at that, a voice on her mind whispering how Hermione was being overlycautious. An idea she refrained herself from stating out loud as she knew theyounger witch, working for the ministry after all, had a point. Magic andmuggle objects didn’t tend to work together, no matter how experienced themagic wielder was. A “reparo” could make matters worse; the signal that wouldcreate for muggles one she didn’t intend to find out. However, the small spacewas beginning to creep on her and so she pocketed her wand once again, themovement firmer, perhaps, than intended.

“What doyou suggest then? Waiting until someone realizes this is not working?” She letout a quick smile, one that showed her discomfort in a way only the youngerwitch was able to bring despite the hours upon hours she had spent on learninghow to never let one’s façade fall. “I thought you wanted to show me thewondrous muggle world.”

Her tonehad been cutting there and she winced immediately at it; at her temper rilingas she felt the constricting atmosphere inside the elevator get the worse outof her. It was no secret for the woman in front of her she hated used thesethings; both magic and non-magical, but she still parted her lips, an apologyready to fall Hermione’s roll-eyes cut it, the brunette obviously not-havingany of her temper tantrum.

“It won’t be long until someone calls it. Wejust need to sit tight for a little while.” She seemed unperturbed, not evenmentioning the possibility of apparating. Which was also Narcissa was halfwayconsidering despite the small space they were in, the spin the hex would needto work a tight fit. Pouting petulantly, the expression causing Hermione tochuckle fondly at her in that same way Narcissa would often found endearing,the blonde witch shook her head ever so slightly as the brunette leaned ontothe nearest wall, the back of her head pressed against it, fingers picking therim of the jumper she wore beneath her jacket; the only sign that she wasn’t asunfazed as she was pretending to be.

“Just a few minutes, please?” Hermione said asNarcissa said nothing, simply standing there as she clenched and unclenched herhands. Her voice was soft, devoid of the earlier giddiness, but her eyes werejust as bright, beckoning in a way as she lifted her eyebrow in an eerily similarway the blonde had done mere minutes before. “If no one comes to us I promise Iwill apparate us myself.”

Narcissawasn’t surprised Hermione had reached to the same conclusion as she had had butshe still nibbled her bottom lip, her chin rising ever so slightly as she-quite melodramatically if she wanted to be truthful, replied to that possibility.

“I don’tknow why we can’t do that now.”

Which wasstill a valid reason but not one Hermione seemed close to even think about asshe moved forward, separating herself from the wall and mimicking her earlieraction of grasping Narcissa’s right hand between hers. Muscles suddenly slack,Narcissa watched as Hermione wordlessly began to massage the palm of her hand,small impulses running up her fingers as the brunette pressured the spots whereher manicured nails had indented her skin a few seconds ago.

The massageturned into soft lazy circles that began just on the bruised skin only toslither up the blonde’s palm until it reached the tender skin on her wrist,just below her pulse. Halting there but drumming her fingers on a slowlybuilding staccato, the brunette remained silent, her presence calming asseconds ticked by. Which, if Narcissa wanted to be honest, was actually helpingwonders to the thought of her being stuck on such small place.

“I reallywanted to have you for myself.” She finally admitted, softly, and the way hervoice was laced with more wishful want than she had thought it would be didn’tdeter her from eye Hermione as the younger witch’s ears pinked, a blushcrawling its way up her neck.

The obvious“Not being stuck in a lift.” resonatedjust as loudly but Narcissa didn’t say those words out loud as she heard howHermione cleared her throat, the drumming on her skin stopping entirely as thebrunette tilted her head, a sudden daring glint appearing on the back of hereyes while she re-focused on Narcissa’s own curious irises.

She wasn’t surprisedat the fire that suddenly darkened the brown speckled with gold, but she stillfelt the rush, the exhilaration of seeing the Gryffindor side take overHermione’s expression. With a smile that inched closer and closer to a smirkthe more seconds that passed, the brunette rose their hands, pressing a kiss onthe inside of Narcissa’s wrist, a small bite and lick following in a matter ofseconds with those eyes still burning through her, scorching her.

Thebrunette took a step closer, still inches away but close enough for them bothto know what was the implicit message on the way she kept her mouth closer toNarcissa’s body, the scent of perfume the blonde had applied there earlierseeming to get stronger for a moment, a second, as Hermione kept eyeing her.But, as much as the brunette could be a Gryffindor, Narcissa wasn’t a Blackjust for show and, with a tilt of her head, locks falling into place,cascading, liquid-looking almost, she moved her arm away, forcing Hermione tomove closer; lose the control slightly at the sudden change of energy.

“I would have never thought you would be thisbrazen.” The remark was said softly, the tone airier, almost conversationallyand Narcissa could see Hermione struggling not to slip from whatever edge shewas mentally clasping to.

It wasn’tlike Narcisa thought the brunette could be brazen, or proactive, but theyounger woman usually enjoyed being the one who followed her lead; thepossibility of her even thinking on trying to hint at something less chastethan a kiss on their situation was interesting to say the least. And, certainly,something she intended to use in the future. For now, however, she wanted tosee how far she could push the brunette, her previous nervousness regardingtheir predicament pushed to the back of her mind. It wasn’t, her rational sidewhispered, like they were really trapped; despite the inconvenience she knewthat if she pressed enough, if there was an actual possibility of danger,Hermione herself would be the first to use magic. So, she thought, stillholding her arm close to her chest, her hand turned into an almost relaxedfist, palm facing her and Hermione’s strong fingers around her wrist, she couldvery well see for how long the brunette wanted to keep the game on.

Which, ifthe way Hermione shook her head, pushing whatever dust of pink from her cheeksdown was any indication, certainly a little bit longer.

“Gryffindor,remember?” Her voice dropped at the question, the rise never quite appearing asshe let her eyes wander over Narcissa’s figure. The movement carrying with it ashiver the blonde hummed appreciatively at. “And if this helps you while wewait…”

The blondewasn’t going to let the opportunity to tease go to waste and, with that inmind, shrugged daintily before grinning, teeth bare and glinting under theelevator’s lights.

“Oh, itcertainly helps, but I would want something more.”

She saw themoment Hermione’s facial muscles contracted, an almost eye-narrowing that didn’thappen as Narcissa moved forward, cupping the younger witch’s cheek with herfree hand deciding that, if she was going to be stuck for the time being, shewas going to use it to let Hermione realize what they both could be doinginstead of standing around. Barely giving the brunette a moment aside from the millisecondshe usually used so Hermione could nod, granting her permission, Narcissapressed her lips against Hermione’s, a quite mild kiss all things considered asshe barely nipped the brunette’s bottom lip, the ghost-like graze of her teethan afterthought on her original plan.

A planHermione promptly destroyed as she, instead of backing up, admitting betweengasps she had merely wanted to throw Narcissa from a loop, pressed against her,her chest flush against the blonde’s with their arms the only real barrier asshe deepened the kiss, a flash of tongue caressing hers the sign that madeNarcissa think she could have bitten more than she was able to chew. Which,regarding the younger witch, rarely left Narcissa indifferent.

MirroringNarcissa’s previous caress on her cheek, Hermione’s slide her free hand overthe blonde’s shoulder, climbing up her neck, wrapping her fingers aroundsilk-like tresses, tugging ever so slightly. Enough, Narcissa quicklydiscovered, to make her gasp, leaving more and more access to a quicklydomineering brunette.

“I’m starting to think you stopped this awfulthing.” She managed to gasp as Hermione moved from her mouth to her jaw, the kissesthere less frantic, slower, but making her skin sizzle and burn.

“Why wouldI?” She heard and there was there that delightful Gryffindor pitch, the smugone, the one that sometimes appeared when the brunette was able to see whatothers, older and supposedly wiser, should have seen already. Narcissa had beenprivy to many moments like this but it was rare for the brunette to get carriedaway by it like this; sounding almost drunk on the feeling. She decided thatshe liked that side of the younger witch even more now and, with her arm stilltrapped, the length of the wand pressed against her skin, she flattened herloose fist, palm resting against her chest, her heartbeat loud and clear.

Heartbeatthat quickened as Hermione, sensing the movement, took a step back, barely aninch really, so she could guide her hand, placing it at her side, never oncelooking away from Narcissa with brown eyes that seemed to be filled with a myriadof tonalities that got only darker as she, after freeing Narcissa’s hand, slideher own hand back up, towards the blonde’s chest in where the minuscule buttonsthat kept the upper side of the robe together were concealed by a simple charm.

Not that ittruly mattered as Hermione knew perfectly well where those buttons were, herfingers grazing the fabric in suddenly too slow movements.

AndNarcissa Black would never beg but she felt a grunt asking to be released fromthe back of her throat; the fact that they were still there, in the middle ofan elevator, no longer important as she lowered her gaze, her eyes zeroing overHermione’s fingers as they, painfully slow, unfastened the first few buttons.The feeling of the fabric shagging on her shoulders, sliding off one as itbegan to part was nothing really to the way Hermione’s eyes followed themovement; halting on her collarbones, tips of her fingers stopping in themiddle of her sternum, warmth radiating out of her as she took a step away.Skimming her hands over Narcissa’s diaphragm as the blonde stood still, chinhigh, proud, but breathing labored, Hermione bite down on her lip, theopportunity to taste, to see more, fueling her forward until she couldn’t takeit anymore.

The blondesaw the way Hermione’s eyes darkened further when a peek of the lace she had magickedon herself before the brunette had convinced her to this little adventure;resolute to seduce her for a few more hours, let itself known. Black detailsthat contrasted against her pale skin wrapped around her chest, pronouncing theswell of her breasts, framing her torso as she breathed deeply, the movementoccasioning the robe to slide further down her shoulders.

Narcissa Blackhalf-naked in an elevator. Who would have thought?

Hermione’svoice, however, was what brought the blonde back to the present, her voicehusky and deeper than usual.

“You certainly had some plans in mind.” Theobvious fluster in her tone, the sudden loss of the driving force that had madeNarcissa unable really to do anything else but enjoy herself was what made theolder witch reclaim the proximity she had lost; grasping the brunette’s forearmand pulling until she could feel the texture of Hermione’s jumper on herpartially naked skin.

“Idefinitely had them.” She replied before dropping a kiss on parted lips, a briefgasp escaping Hermione’s mouth, one that was quickly followed by a moan asNarcissa guided her hand to her chest, the texture of the lace a palecomparison against the caress of Hermione’s hands. Kissing and nibbling,grazing Hermione’s jaw, down her neck, never biting but always letting herselftaste the younger woman, Narcissa ravished the younger woman. Because, despitethe situation, the fact that she was the one half-dressed, she was the one whowas always poised, always in control. Which was something the brunette witchwould hate if it wasn’t for the fact that she adored it. And, as Narcissachuckled, mirth and want mixed on her eyes, she let her voice carry one morepromise, one that she knew would be the final blow on an already weakenedresolve. “I can show them to you…”

Hermionedidn’t even pretend she wanted something more than that, merely whimpering atthe idea and muttering a “yes” that had Narcissa humming.

“Let me apparate us.”

Eyesopening, hazy, Hermione growled but nodded, unable to say no, not with Narcissa’shands on her, guiding her as her hand curled and palmed, caressing, touching.The blonde’s magic signature felt all over her, inside her, and she could onlyrelent.

The blondesmirked and with the robes still halfway unbuttoned, the black lace stillpeeking through, she pushed Hermione, making her take a step backwards, enoughfor her to reach to her wand and spinning them both, effectively leaving thesmall space and reappearing inside the apartment, at the edge of the unmadebed. They will have many more days for the brunette to show more of the worldshe grew up in to the older witch. Today, however, it was for them. Only them.

PS: All things considered I behaved quite well.

[rickktish]

Recompense

Endeavor really does topple from his high high tower, and the fall of it is great and magnificent and immeasurably painful for everyone involved.

All of his children find their lives completely disrupted with all the media attention and rabid reporting that comes from a giant’s fall from grace.

Natsuo is the best off for a while because no one has any idea he’s endeavor’s son, until some reporter follows a paper trail that isn’t even supposed to exist anymore and winds up on the doorstep of his place of work asking for Todoroki Natsuo, Endeavor’s most neglected son. All of his coworkers know him as Yukizome Natsuo because he changed his name as soon as he moved out to his mother’s maiden name. Unfortunately, he’s the only Natsuo there and now everyone knows, which drags him into the mess as well.

Endeavor tries to avoid legal action by saying that he was trying to do better, he was working on being better, but he does not escape the justice system. As well as jail time, he has court-mandated therapy which he has to attend even when he’s no longer incarcerated. In therapy, he’s forced to realize that his children and wife are people and that he hurt them.

He made an impulsive decision when he was a teenager— the decision to do whatever it took to overtake All Might— which doesn’t seem impulsive because of the long-reaching effects it’s had on his life and others, but it was impulsive. It wasn’t thought through, it was instantaneous. He had an idea, he made a plan, and he stuck with it for over twenty years.

It takes a full two years of mandatory weekly therapy to have a breakthrough— an Aha! moment when he finally gets it. He finally gets that his wife has thoughts and feelings, that his children are more than products they are people, that he has caused each and every member of his family incredible pain and suffering. It shakes him down to his very core, this sudden empathy (except it hasn’t been sudden at all, this is what his therapist has been trying to get him to realize all along and they’ve been working toward this point for so long his therapist had nearly given up hope) that destroys every excuse, every reason, every point he’s ever made in favor of his treatment of them. They are real, and they are afraid, and they hate him because he has hurt them.

It takes him three full weeks to leave the house after he gets home from that particular session. His therapist has to hunt him down, come to his house, slap him back into the real world, and tell him that if he really feels so bad about it he ought to try to do something as recompense.

It takes another year and a half after that of working through issues to convince him to try and apologize.

It takes another six months for him to actually start writing letters of apology.

His therapist says that physical letters will mean more; say more; show more, and he takes their advice.

It takes another year to actually send any of the letters. He sends the first one to Rei.

His hero license was revoked, but being the Number Two Hero for so long built him up enough savings to last the rest of his life, even after paying reparations. He can’t get work, so it’s a good thing he doesn’t need to. Oh, how the mighty do fall; the higher they stand, the deeper they plunge. He takes up gardening simply to have something to do. It doesn’t go well at first, but as he learns more and grows more and tries harder and harder to heal, his garden slowly gets better and better, beginning to flourish as he becomes gentler and more mellow with the plants.

It takes three months before she’s actually able to bring herself to open the letter.

It takes another four before she feels she’s able to reply.

The letter arrives in his mailbox like the sunrise, and he holds it in trembling hands for two hours before he’s actually able to open it.

It says a lot of things, some painful, some kind, some horrifying, and all true.

It ends thus:

“In spite of it all, I find that I can’t help but find it in myself to forgive you.”

He calls his therapist right then and there to share the good news.

His therapist reminds him that this is only a beginning; it doesn’t mean things are going to be good right away, this is only the opening of a dialogue, not the conclusion of the journey.

Chastised, he writes another letter.

They begin a regular correspondence, hesitant, halting at first, but eventually blooming into real communication. They stick with physical letters, the delay giving each of them time to live, to experience the world around them in between.

A month after Rei replies to his first letter, he begins sending the others.

First to Fuyumi, who was always quickest to forgive. It was not out of love for him, he now knows, but out of longing for something to call normal, something to be happy for.

She replies eagerly, and they also take up a correspondence, though it’s still nearly a year before she allows him any further part in her life.

Second to Touya, who has been in prison for several years at this point. He does not expect or imagine that he will receive anything in response, though he’s not particularly surprised when what he does get back is a single image of a rude hand gesture, drawn hastily and without much skill. He will continue to send letters every year to Touya on the anniversary of the day he ran away from home, on Touya’s birthday, and on the anniversary of Endeavor’s own arrest for decades to come, receiving slowly improving drawings of the same rude hand gesture all along the way.

He lines the pictures up along the seam between wall and ceiling in his living room, watching the style and skill change and progress. By the time anything changes in their correspondence, years and years and years down the line, he has lined nearly every room in the entire house with the drawings. The last several are true art, with magnificent detail and shading and realism that would shock any visitor if anyone actually bothered to visit him.

Third he sends a letter to Natsuo. Natsuo, whose name he barely remembered for most of his son’s childhood. Natsuo, whose birthday he had to look up on his birth certificate because he had no idea when it was. Natsuo, who Fuyumi raised on her own after Rei was put away and Touya ran off. Natsuo, who raised himself because no one in his household would even look at him much of the time, either out of lack of interest, being needed for other things, or because it was forbidden. Natsuo, who no one even knew existed until that reporter followed that paper trail that shouldn’t have existed, because everyone knew one of Endeavor’s sons disappeared, everyone knew Endeavor’s daughter when she was a teaching college, everyone knew Endeavor’s youngest was a prodigy who nearly won the sports festival in his first year, but no one knew about invisible Natsuo.

He gets no reply from Natsuo for over two years. It is not a surprise.

The sting he feels at the rejection is not a good one (though perhaps it is, in a way: this is what he deserves, after all. This is justice. This is right. To be ignored by the child he ignored for so longis— fitting in a deep, nearly unspeakable way) but it is an important one. It teaches him things he cannot express in mere words.

Fourth of his children to receive a letter of apology from him is the one he thinks he truly hurt the most. Isolated, imprisoned, tortured, sometimes starved; what few things he did not do to this child were the line that would have meant his permanent incarceration, and had he crossed it he would have felt himself worthy of death.

(he thought he was anyway, for that first three weeks of waking, of awareness, of soul-deep pain inexpressible in its magnitude. His therapist told him that no, he did not deserve death. Death is not a thing one deserves, merely a thing one must experience as part of being mortal. Nor is death itself an atonement: it cannot make up for horrible acts, any more than financial compensation can make up for destroyed homes in a villain attack. Perhaps there is an atonement to be made after death, but it can bring no comfort to those left behind in the realm of the living. No, his death cannot make amends. Only he can do that, and to die then would have been to leave a permanent wound on all those he has injured which would never be able to be healed.)

His letter to Shouto is his longest and, while they are all equally heartfelt, certainly the one he made and revised and burned the most drafts over. His son is a pro hero, exactly as he wished him to be, but he makes no mention of that. His son is gay, which is one of the many things that led to the final fight with Touya so many years ago, but he makes no mention of that either, outside of an ambiguously stated “I hope that you have found comfort in those who love you and those who you love, and that together you are happy.” The entire letter walks a fine line between graphic acknowledgment of the horrors he forced this child to experience and tactful reference to difficult subjects with no outright statement of them. He asked his therapist to review it a dozen times before sending, and even then he’s uncertain about it. He wants to validate his son’s experience, express to him that he knows and understands exactly what he did that was wrong and why, but doesn’t want to dredge up painful memories in doing so. It seems impossible to do both.

The first three weeks after he sends Shouto’s letter are almost a perfect reflection of the weeks after his moment of realization. He doesn’t leave his house; he hardly eats or sleeps; his garden begins to wither with neglect as everything tumbles down and he spends all of his time gazing at a single wall with eyes leaking freely, tearing at his hair and moaning as he feels the depth and breadth of his sins crushing him from all sides. For the second time since he began this process, his therapist physically goes to his home and slaps him back into awareness, forces him to shower, feeds him, and makes him sleep until he’s nearly human again.

They talk about it. His guilt, his grief, his fear that nothing he does will ever make up for what he has done. His therapist reminds him that what he’s already done is already done, and he’s not trying to balance the scales in doing this, not trying to even out all the bad things with too few good ones far too late; that’s not how people work and that’s not how making amends works. He’s trying to heal wounds and scar tissue. He’s trying to make that which hurt both him and his family become something that doesn’t hurt as much anymore, and the best case scenario, the absolute dream, is that he can go even beyond that and make something good in the end. His therapist reminds him that while recompense means to compensate, to weigh one thing against another and try to come out equal, its purpose is much deeper and much more than that. His recompense is no mere equivocation, but instead a pursuit of what can be. His family has already seen the worst of him. It is only fitting that he try now to give them the best.

It takes some more talking and contemplation and working in his garden some more, but he gets there again and is able to go back to his regular routine, the uncertainty of whether or not Shouto will reply and what effect his letter might have had on him moving from oppressing fear and looming horror into quiet nervousness almost too faint to notice once again.

Time moves on. He keeps going to therapy. He keeps writing letters to Touya. He keeps up his correspondence with Rei and Fuyumi.

Someday, he meets Fuyumi for lunch. It’s awkward at first, because they have never truly talked in person, but that’s okay. There’s a point where they both break down laughing at how shy they’re being, and then the atmosphere and the conversation warm to a pleasant, comfortable thing, and they part well. And they heal.

Someday, Natsuo replies to his letter. It takes a long time, but eventually, they too meet and Enji has the chance to apologize properly, face to face. He cries. Natsuo is silent for a time, and then expresses the pain and rage and hurt he’s been feeling for so long, and it’s freeing, and he cries too. And then they’re two big, stocky men sitting somewhere crying. And eventually, Natsuo stands to leave, but before he does Enji says one last time, “I’m sorry. I do love you,” and Natsuo walks out with a fresh wave of new tears.

Eventually, they meet again, and it’s as awkward and uncomfortable as it was with Fuyumi, but it’s okay. And they part well. And they heal.

Someday, Rei leaves the hospital. She doesn’t want to live with him again and that’s okay. She gets her own place, farther than a pleasant walk from his but close enough that they can visit. He doesn’t go to her home, she comes to his. They talk. They’re amiable. There’s a kind of love between them that should never truly be called love, but is instead a kind of contentment; a peace to be found in each other that can’t quite be expressed in words or thoughts or pictures but simply is. And they heal.

Someday, he visits Touya in prison and he says all the things he’s been writing in each letter, everything he’s been finding new ways to say and to think and expressing them anew every single time, and this time it’s in person. And Enji cries, just a little bit, gently. And Touya doesn’t look at him. But it’s okay, because he’s said it, and he’ll continue to say it until the day he dies.

Someday, Natsuo introduces Enji to his husband. Fuyumi introduces him to her spouse. Rei watches their kids, because they’re not sure they’re quite comfortable with that yet, but they meet for lunch and get to know each other a little bit. And much is said, and much goes unsaid, and it’s a little awkward but it’s peaceful and they again part well.

Someday, Enji is allowed to meet his grandchildren. He’s very gentle with them, moving slowly and never once igniting a flame on his face or shoulders around them. He holds their small hands in his big ones and smiles gently and listens as they tell him about themselves and their lives and their days. He watches and carefully imitates Natsuo’s younger son’s hands as he shows him some basic signs for when they don’t have their hearing aids in.

Someday, Fuyumi gives birth again and this time, for the first time, he’s allowed to be there, waiting in the waiting room for when she’s ready for visitors. He holds his granddaughter and thinks this, this is what he was missing out on for so many years, and he cries, and he’s so unspeakably grateful that they’ve allowed him to be a part of this moment, of their lives.

Someday, Shouto sends him a text. There’s no letter, no long description or explanation or list of reasons he hates him or anything; it’s only a simple text that invites him to dinner. He goes, and they meet, and he meets his son’s friends, and his fiance, and the family Shouto has built for himself from the ground up because his own family was never a family at all, but now it can be. And at the end of the night, Shouto invites him outside to talk. And Shouto explains to him how he felt when he got his letter, and what he thought, and all the many thoughts that have run through his mind over the years. He tells how relieved he was when Endeavor survived that Noumu. He tells how conflicted he felt over that relief. He tells how hurt he was by the way he was raised and all the things he’s had to learn and unlearn and relearn and experience because of Enji’s actions.

He tells how recently someone who hurt a lot of people in their class decided to change herself, to reinvent herself and make amends, and how that has made him realize that it’s okay to let people change, to believe that they can change, and to let them back into your life when they’ve changed. And then he tells Enji that he doesn’t want to be stuck in the past anymore. He doesn’t want to be trapped by what was, caught in a never-ending cycle of hurt and confusion and pain and fear and what will cross the line, what will set the whole thing ablaze? And he tells Enji he would really like to get to know this new person who was once his father, who might have some small chance of someday becoming his dad. And he invites Enji to his wedding. And Enji says he’ll be there.

Someday, Enji attends his youngest son’s wedding. Rei is there. Fuyumi and her spouse and her children are there, the youngest still red and almost smaller than Endeavor’s hand. Natsuo and his husband are there with their two little boys, whose hearing aids appear to have been given white casings for the special occasion, or perhaps sloppily spray painted by small, inexperienced hands, if the quirk of Natsuo’s mouth and slightly exasperated lilt to his shoulders is anything to go by. And all that Enji can think is that of all the things he ever imagined for his life, this was certainly never one of them, but taken all together, he’s so, so happy that this is how it’s turned out. It will still be a work in progress moving forward. It will always be a work in progress, if his therapist is to be believed. But that’s okay, because within this work in progress, in this recompense there is healing, and there is joy, and there is this, and this—

This is peace.

[bitchcakegreen]

A View from Behind the Camera - GoT Episode 6 x 9 - Tent scene

Hi everyone! First let me start by saying I’m so sorry for not posting in such a long time. It’s been crazy busy in Bitchcake land and I am just now able to take a bit of time for myself. A quick reminder for those that are new to the blog, I write posts/metas from a director’s standpoint. I analyze camera angles and actor choices that lead to the overall subtext of the scene. I have over 25 years of experience as a theatrical professional. So without further adieu let’s just jump into the directorial analysis of the tent scene from The Battle of the Bastard episode. I know some of you have been waiting for this one.

We actually open scene with Jon’s VO (voiceover) at the tail end of the previous scene. We have Ramsey and his crew riding back to Winterfell with the Castle in the distance. We hear Jon say “If he was smart he would stay inside the walls of Winterfell and wait us out..” This happens before we ever see the war council. It’s edited this way to really underscore significance of Ramsey’s hold on Winterfell and The North at this time. Immediately after the line and the final swell of music we smash cut to the war council hovered over a map on a table. Sansa is screen left, seated, but never out of view. Jon is screen right, standing. They are bookending the scene. A random Northern, likely house Mormont, is next Sansa and Davos is next to Jon. The scene is light via ‘candlelight’ which allows Sapochnik to play with shadows when he’s building his shots. 

The shot holds steady for the next bit of dialogue until we get to Jon’s line about Ramsey’s weakness. On that we get a medium close-up of Sansa. She lowers her head away from the occupants of the table on Jon’s line “It’s his weakness too” But not before we see that she is displeased with the comment. Sophie has been directed to play disappointment and frustration in this spot. It showcases that Sansa is annoyed that Jon doesn’t ask her about Ramsey - something she will bring up later in the scene. We see Sophie directed to play a lot of her emotions close to the vest, never really letting people see what she’s thinking or how she truly feels - except for Jon. With him she doesn’t hide. That is honestly an incredibly telling bit of direction. With him she doesn’t have to hold back. 

Now we go back to the War Council around the map but this time we are in the POV of Sansa. This gives us a different perspective of the men around the table and it also informs the audience that Tormund is there. This is the first time we see him in the scene. 

Next we move to a shot of Tormund, at table level, between Jon and Davos’s arms. 

Next we get a bit of humor, as much humor as GoT will allow us, with the men discussing strategy and Tormund not understanding military terms. This a series of shots back and forth between Jon and Davos and a confused Tormund. 

After this interchange we once again have a single shot of Jon and Davos this morphs into a traveling shot as Jon straightens up and moves toward Tormund, examining the map as he goes. This sets us up for another close up of Sansa. The way the actors are now blocked around the space we have an a coupling of Jon and Sansa although it happens off screen. Sansa is to one side of Tormund when Jon crosses he effectively ‘moves’ Tormund out of the direct line up with Sansa. Davos speaks and we get a close up of Sansa once more. This time she is focused on Davos who is offscreen. It’s a relatively fast closeup and likely used to give the viewers a split second idea of what Sansa is feeling at this moment. 

This is followed by a shot between Jon and Tormund’s shoulders as Davos continues to talk strategy. Tormund leans in and asks Jon if he actually thought Rasmey would fight him. Jon’s line is ‘No, but I wanted to make him angry.” On angry we get another medium closeup of Sansa. She raises her eyes to Jon, but sits stock still. It’s a great acting choice. 

Next we move to a shot off of what would be the random extra House Mormont guardsman’s elbow to Jon and Tormund. It’s important to point out that the director has given everyone the note to not notice anything about Sansa at this point. She is effectively invisible to the men at this point. This will come into play later on in the scene and also later on in the seasons. Her visibility shifts but we will discuss that as we come to it. We have a bit more back and forth before the men exit the scene leaving Jon and Sansa alone. 

Jon sits, ale in hand, and has been directed to be weary and rub his brow for some relief. Sansa is still in her place on the opposite side of the tent. Now what is interesting to point out is that the map of Winterfell and the battlefield is between them. Essentially Ramsey separates them. We get an extreme closeup of Jon’s profile as Sansa walks into the shot. She is in full light and he is only partially visible and only partially lit. She is in command in this shot. 

Kit’s delivery of ‘For what they’re worth’ tells the audience that he has been directed to not realize that Sansa is about to question his decisions in terms of Ramsey. We have a medium shot of Sansa as she says ‘You sit around making plans to defeat a man you don’t now...” Halfway through we get a closeup of Jon, from the angle of the table, stopping in surprise from drinking his mead by her comment and the forceful tone in her voice. Sophie is not yelling yet, she is sharp and to the point. She is trying to make him see things from a different angle. 

We cut back to Sansa as she continue her lines. When she gets to “I know how he likes to hurt people” we have a quick cut back to Jon, this time from table level from the angle of Sansa’s palm most likely. He visibly responses to this, most likely calling back to the things he knows she’s endured. It’s a split second shot much like Sansa’s earlier one at the top of the scene. Once more back to Sansa as she goes on. “Did it ever once occur to you I might have some insight?” On the word insight we cut back to Jon. Kit has been directed to realize she is right. He could use her knowledge of the enemy and he didn’t think of it earlier.

Now we come to the real meat of the scene. This is a series of back and forth shots between Jon and Sansa as the tension builds. That’s the very reason  Sapochnik utilizes the ‘tennis match’ style of shots inside of simply giving us a wide shot of the couple as the fight. A wide shot would be static, uninteresting to watch even as the fight builds. But the back and forth adds tension to the view. The audience is placed in the other characters shoes as the gauge their scene partner’s reaction. 

Somethings to note about the interplay. Sansa’s line ‘He plays with people. He’s been doing it all his life. He’s far better at it then you” frustrates Jon. Because it’s true and he knows it. Jon is a great fighter and swordsman. Ramsey is cunning and conniving. Sansa knows this. She tells Jon that he doesn’t know Ramsey. Jon’s line ‘Alright tell me. How should we get Rickon back?” is his way of saying he knows what she is saying is true. 

The next shot of Sophie we get is a medium close up with a hold. She has been directed to pause and compose herself before she continues. What she has to say next is not easy. They will never get Rickon back. 

As the scene builds so does the tension we start to get even more extreme with the close-ups. We are given some great reactionary lines that the actors really use to perfection. On “He wants you to make a mistake” Kit is directed to cross to Sophie on his answering line. This puts them face to face and only inches apart.

 Not the best screencap but it gives you an idea of how close they are together at this point. 

At this point they are yelling at each other. Sansa is no longer the silent observer she was at the top of the scene. Jon is not used to people talking to him like this least of all Sansa. I have seen some metas that say Sansa is frightened of Jon in this scene and frankly I don’t see that. Sophie never once plays fear. The huffing and puffing between them is anger and frustration and frankly sexual tension. They aren’t really listening to each other and that is what leads each building line. In addition to that we do have the underlying sexual tension between them. I said it. I meant it. And now I’ll tell you how the direction and the acting prove it. Most likely Kit and Sophie have been directed push sexual tension into the scene as the anger builds. You can see it in the movements of their bodies and how they focus their attention on each other on the back and forth. There is a difference between arguing with someone and wanting to angry fuck someone. Each type of portrayal needs different acting choices. There is a split second at the end of the fighting where Sophie is attempting to compose herself, heavy breathing and sighs, where she actually focuses downward. It’s quick but it’s there. She may be focusing on his chest or she may be focusing on his lips. This is pure acting choice. It is unlikely that the director would give her this note. This is most likely an organic acting reaction.

What’s really powerful about the scene is not the visuals. It is the direction to the acting choices. The ‘fight’ is all on the acting ability of Sophie and Kit. 

Finally there is a moment of silence where we only hear their ragging breathing. That’s how passionate the fight got. The silence lasts five seconds. Remember from earlier blogs that five seconds is an eternity in film time. A pause this long is significant and would have been a specific directorial note. Jon composes himself and says his line. We stay with Jon for a moment but we can see that Sophie has turned and is heading out of the scene. We have a POV switch to an extreme close up of Sophie at the tent entrance. She meets Kit’s eyes (Or where his eyes would be if he was standing in the shot) and delivers the “I’m not going back there” line. There is a brief pause to emphasize the “Do you understand me?” We have a switch to a medium shot of Jon as he answers her. “I promise” 

POV switch back to Sansa for a closeup on “No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone” She has been directed to deliver these lines so straightforward and almost glib. It’s telling to have these lines said to Jon here. In Sansa’s scene with Brienne from earlier in the season she says “Jon will protect me” Here she no longer believes those words, if she ever believed that at all. Sansa exits the scene and we have a close up of Jon. He has been directed to be so torn and terrified by her statement. He believes he can protect and he knows that she is all he has left (that he knows of) and he doesn’t want to lose her.  This reaction is what lead him into his scene with Melisandre...which we will talk about next time.

You can pinpoint the minute his heart breaks. Jon turns and rests his hands on the table, we pan back to a shot of map. The shot of the stones gives the audience just another glimpse of how outmatched Jon is manpower-wise. Cut to next scene. 

Well there you have it. The tent scene. I’m sorry it was such a long one and once again I’m sorry it took so long for me to post. 

Next up is a quickie. The scene between Jon and Melisandre. See you all next time! 

[dramaqueeenamby]

4AM (12)

****Not proofread...I apologize in advance. :/

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Words: 2.8K

MASTERLIST

4AM

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since the death of Akili, Bashira’s poor father found dead in his bed by none other than her estranged mother, Behati.

An autopsy was performed and foul play ruled out. Natural causes. That’s what they said.

He was 62.

So young when the average lifespan for a Wakandan was 102.

T’Challa stood up from his desk when Ode and Shuri walked into his office. His face told the question that he was yearning to ask.

“No change,” the War Dog sighed as she approached the vibranium object and watched the king fall back into his seat with a slump of defeat. “She just wants to be left alone.”

“But I was able to check her vitals and the baby is doing okay, and she’s still eating so that’s a plus.” Shuri offered in the hopes of casting away the worried expression on her brother’s face.

“She is eating because she has to,” he countered while dropping his head into his hands. “And even then, it is the bare minimum.”

“What about the thera-”

“Don’t you think that I’ve tried that already?” T’Challa snapped at Ode’s suggestion. “She won’t even see Falala let alone talk with her.”

“Well she has to speak with someone,” Shuri reminded, shaking her head. “And soon. She’s now three months along. Being huddled up in that room can’t be good for her or the baby.”

“I know!” T’Challa’s shout shocked both of the women, the king quickly realizing his offense. “I apologize...I just...I don’t know what to do.”

In the aftermath of her father’s untimely passing, Bashira had slowly but surely isolated herself from the outside world. She hadn’t left the confines of the palace walls since his funeral and rarely left her room, having her food delivered to her door and Dr. Tau visit her chambers to check the status of her baby.

The dialogue was limited as she easily ended all conversations before they could move past the five-minute mark with the explanation that she just wanted to be left alone.

However, the king was rightfully growing worried that her isolation was slipping into a sort of depression.

He couldn’t allow that to happen.

“And she still won’t talk to you?” Shuri questioned, her worried gaze on her older sibling.

T’Challa shook his head. “Not a word.”

He’d held her close as she sobbed the entire service, whispering encouraging words into her ears, even after they returned to the palace, she continued to weep throughout the night. However, when morning came, tears were no longer a problem as she awoke with dry eyes and hardened demeanor. He tried to speak to her, but she just acted as though he was invisible.

T’Challa thought she just needed time, but as the days passed, he realized that she wasn’t going to come around, her will strong.

“She won’t even see Amari.” Ode sighed, rubbing up and down her arms. “Something has to give.” She closed her eyes. “Maybe...maybe Behati-”

“Absolutely not,” T’Challa immediately shut down the suggestion. “It is bad enough that that woman now holds a seat on the council.”

With Akili’s passing, there remained a vacancy among Wakanda’s highest court and as the mother of Bashira, the queen, Behati was first in line to take up the role as the new leader of the River Tribe, thus paving the way for her return to the royal court.

T’Challa was far from happy with the news, but he had to respect the laws that governed his country.

“This isn’t about you, my king.” Ode tried her best to keep her tone as respectful as possible, but her best friend’s husband was starting to test her patience. “She just lost her father, T’Challa. I would think you of all people would be most sensitive to her feelings.”

He was prepared to respond with something acrid when the doors opened and in walked Queen Mother.

“Kumkani,” she greeted with their salute and motioned for the Doras who escorted her to walk out, leaving only the four of them. “I am sorry for the intrusion-”

“It is fine, Ramonda.” T’Challa straightened in his seat, trying his best to remain as calm as possible when all he wanted to do was throw his desk across the room.

“I am afraid it is not,” she started off carefully before taking a deep breath. “The council has moved forward with continuing Thom’s hearing.”

Shuri was the first to speak. “What? Can they do that?”

“Unfortunately, they can.” Ramonda gave her child a look of sympathy. “Thom is of royal blood. He can no longer sit in prison without a timely and fair trial.”

“A man who hires assassins to murder not only the queen but the future heir to the throne deserves no such thing,” T’Challa hissed, painfully gripping the seat of his chair. “He is lucky that I have not killed him myself.”

Ramonda shook her head. “That is precisely why they have also motioned to have Olaniyi oversee the remainder-”

“This is ludicrous,” Shuri once again interjected. “Mama, T’Challa is king.”

“Yes, but they worry that his personal strife with Thom will interfere with his judgment.” Ode answered for Queen Mother, remembering how Bashira told her of the tense history between the king and the accused.

“When?” T’Challa quietly asked the question of which he had a pressing feeling….was going to result in the break of his calm demeanor.

Ramonda closed her eyes. “Tomorrow.”

Yes. He was correct.

“What?” He leaned forward in his seat and narrowed his eyes. “You cannot be serious.”

The eldest woman dropped her shoulders. “I tried my best to convince them to wait but….”

“She is not ready for this, and they know it.” T’Challa was now standing up, the palms of his hand planted on his desk. “She’s not emotionally prepared to do this.”

“Wait. Do what?” Shuri was thoroughly confused, her forehead puckered and her lips pressed together.

“The next portion of the trial….” Ode started off in a solemn voice, her eyes filled with the despair that T’Challa was carefully hiding. “It calls for Bashira to testify against Thom.”

“I agree with you, Kumkani.” Ramonda added. “She is not yet ready to face him, but I fear that that is the least of our worries….”

T’Challa’s eyes hardened. “What has happened, Ramonda?”

The widow clenched her eyes. “It….is Thom…” His fist clenched just at the sound of the man who tried to murder his wife and unborn child. “Jakarra authorized for him to be released on bail.”

¥ ¥ ¥

Bashira walked into the Hall of Kings with a heavy heart and an aching back. Even though she’d just reached the three-month milestone, she was slightly bigger than most women at twelve weeks, her bump expanding rapidly, some of that contributed by her already curvy figure, pre-pregnancy.

She started to reach down and pet Luna when she suddenly remembered that she’d opted to leave her Panther in the jet with the Dora who served as her pilot.

“Leave us,” she commanded quietly, watching as the keepers of the sacred monument disperse, her eyes falling on an old mentor.

“Zuri.” She managed a small and sad smile.

“My queen,” he greeted, getting up with the bowl in his hand, his face full of sympathy. “It is good to see you.”

“Please. You have known me ever since I was but a young child….Bashira will do just fine.” She corrected, watching as he placed the bowl on the ground, wiping his hands on his robe, and walked up to her, taking her hands in his.

“Bashira,” he nodded softly and motioned for her to follow him, the two taking a seat on a bench. The queen noticed how it took her longer than normal to sit, a sign that she truly was moving right along with her pregnancy. “How are you doing, my child?”

“The truth?” She whispered, staring at her lap, willing the tears to not return. “My heart bleeds. There is this...void….in my chest, one the likes of which I’ve never experienced or thought humanly possible.”

This was the first time since her father’s untimely death that Bashira openly discussed her feelings. It felt good but also exhausting, and she couldn’t ignore the tiny voice in her head that she should be talking to T’Challa about such things, but she ignored it.

Zuri was always like a father figure to her despite being the one to share the prophecy, the one that put her in the situation that she was in. Some days she wanted to hate him, wanted to curse him out for not just keeping the vision to himself. However, Zuri was a renowned spiritual leader, one who took his devotion to Bast with the utmost seriousness. He would never commit such a crime.

Yet, she also felt a sense of obligation to the man for he’d been the one to suggest that she and T’Challa wait to wed until she was a bit older; specifically, when he turned 30 as to avoid waiting too late for the conception of the heir.

“Akili…..I will admit, even I too have found myself struggling with his departure.” Zuri spoke quietly. Bashira figured as much. He’d always been a good friend to her father.

“I just….” She gasped and shut her eyes. “I just don’t understand why….why him…..he was so young….he still had so much life ahead of him.” She shook her head. “He didn’t even get to see the birth of his first grandchild.” Bashira swallowed deeply. “Are the ancestors truly that cruel?”

“My child, the ancestors are many things but cruel.....they are not.” He started off carefully and placed his hand on her knee. “You are but a victim of circumstance, one that is tragic, yes, but balance is an integral part of our existence. They would never take….without providing something else in place of that void.”

Bashira frowned, her chest slowly lifting and rising. The queen also noticed a strange feeling emanating from her core, but she pushed it aside. “What are you suggesting?”

Zuri was cautious. “You have lost your father, yes, but Bast has granted you another gift.”

Her frown deepened as she followed Zuri’s eyes down to her stomach. “So my father had to die in order for this child to live?” She truly did not know how to process such a notion. All she knew that such a suggestion immediately irked her and contributed to the increasing discomfort in her stomach.

“No,” he shook his head and regarded her with utmost sympathy. “The ancestors gifted you with this child and the love that this pregnancy will bring in order to ease the loss of Akili.”

She was quiet for a good two minutes. Again, her heart still yearned for something or someone to take away the pain she was feeling and while she thought talking to Zuri would work, she couldn’t deny the feeling in the back of her head that her comforter was a lot closer than she realized.

After all, she was married to them.

“Zuri,” she finally spoke. “Do you think that you could seek Bast….and possibly ask her why.” She moved closer to him, her jaw trembling. “I just….I need to know.”

“Bashira….” Zuri’s face fell as she dropped his eyes. “Some truths….are too much to bear.”

She wasn’t even considering what he was saying. “That is not your choice to make.”

The two were interrupted when one of the keepers came rushing in with wide eyes. “Something is happening outside.”

Zuri furrowed his brows and moved his arm to cover Bashira. “What is it?”

“We don’t-” the woman was stopped by a loud boom sounding from outside.

“Luna.” Bashira breathed, pushing Zuri’s arm away as she realized her companion was still out there.

“Bashira!” Zuri called after her as she ran as fast as he legs would allow her until she was outside, the queen immediately covering her face and coughing from the smoke.

Smoke that was coming from her jet which was on fire.

She thought of the Dora who’d been in there but also Luna.

“Luna!” Bashira shouted, quickly using her forearm to cover her mouth. “Lu-” She stopped when she noticed something had been spray painted on the side of the jet, something that caused her heart to stop.

Death to the Heir

The queen doubled over, grabbing onto her stomach. The pains were getting worse.

“Oh my-” Bashira stopped when she noticed a black blur heading toward her. “Lu-” Bug-eyed, she attempted to hold her arms out, but it was too late as the Panther pounced on her, forcing her on her back.

However, the act of the ship exploding and Bashira being knocked unconscious prevented her from reacting accordingly.

¥ ¥ ¥

There no such words to adequately explain the plethora of emotions that ran through King T’Challa when he was informed that his wife had been injured following an explosion at the City of The Dead.

A wife he hadn’t even realized left the palace, without telling anyone.

He only knew that he’d wasted no time in jumping on his Royal Talon, wishing that the method of transportation was faster despite being the most advanced in all of the world.

“Where is she?” T’Challa demanded, walking into the room with rage emanating from his being. It was almost symbolic, how the people quickly moved out of the king’s way, everyone sensing that he was in no mood to be jested with.

When he walked into the room, his heart stopped.

Bashira was laying on her side, on the medical bed, Luna on the floor next to her.

His wife’s face was scratched up, a large bandage on her forearm, but her eyes were open, staring at the wall.

She wouldn’t even look at him.

One of the nurses, or maybe it was a doctor, either or, he was in no mood. He’d been briefed on the way to her room that aside from being jolted and scratched up, she and the baby were going to be okay.

He’d also been briefed on the message found on the jet.

Needless to say, Thom was already dead in his book.

“She is-”

“Get out.”

“But, kumkani-”

Even T’Challa was surprised when he reached for the nearest item, which happened to be a tray topped with new needles and knocked it to the floor.

“I said,” his jaw was clenched, Bashira now sitting up, looking at him with a mixture of fear and indignation. “Get out.”

That time around, everyone in the room scattered as quickly as they could, everyone fearing the Black Panther who clearly wished to be alone.

Bashira stared at her husband, ignoring the deeply embedded desire in her to allow him to comfort her. “What do you-”

“Are you challenged?”

She narrowed her eyes, completely taken off by his question. “What?”

“Inept? Daft? Stupid? An imbecile?” T’Challa continued his list of insults, each hitting his wife to her core. “Perhaps you simply lack simple auditory processing skills-”

“I don’t know what-” she gasped and moved up on the bed from him knocking over a table that held a vase filled with fresh roses, the contents spilling onto the floor. “What the hell, T’Challa!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Bashira!” He shouted as the queen stared at him with wide eyes, Luna standing up and quietly growling. T’Challa may have been a royal member of the Udaku family, but her first priority would always be Bashira’s safety. “Why would you do it! Why would you leave without telling anyone? Why do you continue to put your and our child’s life in fucking danger!”

She pursed her lips together, an act to try to stop the impending tears.

“I am sorry, okay!” She shouted. “You are acting as though I expected this to happen! That I knew I would be attacked again!”

“If you had fucking talked to me, communicated with me, you would have known that the council agreed to release Thom on bail!”

Her shoulders dropped, her jaw faltering with shock and fear. “He what?”

He ignored her soft question. “But once again, you allowed stupidity and childish feelings to dictate yo-”

“Shit, I am sorry, okay! Just st-”

“I COULD HAVE LOST YOU!” T’Challa’s scream sounded throughout the whole floor of the medical facility. Bashira suddenly noticed the tears in his eyes and thought about the way his body shook from the intensity of his yelling. The king’s shoulders dropped with a heaviness she’d never seen in him before. “I could have lost both of you.”

His voice was low with vulnerability, and Bashira immediately felt shame overcome her as she realized he’d turned to walk out the room.

A tear slipped out as she took a shaky breath. “T’Cha-”

“I’ve already buried my mother and my father, Bashira.” He spoke with his back toward her, his hand on the knob of the door. “I will not do the same with our child.” A beat. “Or the woman that I love.”

With that, the king walked out, leaving a new void in Bashira’s heart.

---

Be grateful. I was going to stop it right after the explosion. 😩

I have to ask.....

Whose side are you on?

Bashira? 

Or T’Challa?

Oh, and this is the last update until I return from vacation. :)

---

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[gimmesumsuga]

Sweeter Than Sweet (1)

Pairing: Jimin x reader + others as the story progresses

Warnings: None to note.

Summary:  You never would have expected someone like Park Jimin to notice you.  As handsome and beguiling as he is deadly, you’re enthralled from the very moment you meet.  Addicted to his kiss and his bite, Jimin opens up your eyes to a whole new world of love, lust and seduction.

Word count: 2.5K

As of this July (2020), Sweeter than Sweet turned three years old! As I'm currently in the midst of a horrendous writing slump (urgh) I've decided to go back and slowly work my way through, editing chapter by chapter, as I feel that some parts could do with a fair bit of tweaking.

For those of you who've already read it, there won't be any major plot changes - just tightening up of grammar/plot holes/dialogue. For those of you who're new to Sweeter than Sweet, I sincerely hope you enjoy yourself ^^

Feedback is always encouraged and appreciated! Thank you <3

*Chapter edited as of 07/08/20* 

Next

“You coming, or what?” With a gleefully mischievous expression, your friend glances back at you over her shoulder, her pretty face framed by full, dark curls. You nod and smile to mollify her but the moment that her back is turned your nervous eyes begin scanning the room; darting this way and that, corner to corner.

The club is packed, hot bodies thronging as far as the eye can see as you trail closely behind your companion, grimacing at the feel of sweaty arms brushing against you as you squeeze your way by.  If you’re being honest, clubbing has never really been your thing and neither have crowds; especially not ones this loud and drunken.  

You have to admit, though: there’s a sense of anonymity that comes with blending between dancers in the dark that appeals to you - contentment in becoming just another nameless body amongst the writhing masses.  Barely anyone even pays you a second glance, and why should they?  By no means is this your usual playground, nor a place you feel much at home.  

You find your way to the bar and join your friend eventually, hopping into a newly vacated stool with a heavy sigh of relief.  Maybe if you’re sat down Sam might be less likely to try dragging you onto the dance floor.  You can live in hope, after all.

“What's your poison?” she calls over the thumping music.  Her hips are already swinging back and forth to the bass as you inspect the assortment of colourful bottles lining the back wall, squinting your eyes in hopes of spotting a name you might recognise.  You end up none the wiser for doing so, however, resorting to eyeing the drink that’s just landed in front of Sam instead; a bright orange concoction that the barman pours with a flourish into a tall cocktail glass.  

“I’ll just have what you’re having!” you call, raising your voice in an attempt to be heard over the din that surrounds you.  You’re not sure you’re successful, to be honest, but Sam must understand your gesticulating well enough because minutes later an identical drink lands in front of you - cocktail umbrella and all.  You take a cautious sip whilst your friend looks around - searching for tonight’s prey, no doubt - and you’re relieved that she misses the way you grimace at the drink’s slightly bitter aftertaste. She’d only make you down it even faster if she had.

“Lots of cute guys tonight!” Sam observes enthusiastically, her eyebrows lifting as she sips her drink and blinks back at you from over the rim.  

“Mmmhm,” you agree non-committedly, casting a glance around to at least feign some sort of interest.  

The guys you tend to find in these kinds of places have never particularly appealed to you.  They’re only after one thing, usually - with no shame about showing it - and whilst you’re sure there are some women out there that find that kind of sleazy, fuckboy confidence attractive, you’re not one of them.  

“You coming to dance?”  You don’t even bother to reply to Sam’s question, simply cocking your head to the side and shooting her a wry smile at the fact she’d even ask.  “Fair enough,” she grins, shrugging her shoulders. Undeterred by your lack of enthusiasm, she downs her cocktail in a series of impressive gulps and then heads out into the crowd, her jacket slung over the back of your stool left behind as your only company.  

Maybe if you were the more sociable sort you might mind being left to your own devices.  As it is, though, you’re quite content to sit quietly at the bar, singing under your breath as your head bobs.  The music is one of the only perks that keep you agreeing to come back here whenever Sam gets that certain ‘itch’ that only booze and boys can scratch.  That, along with your total inability to ever say no, of course. 

It’s a shame the drinks are so watered-down; you might actually start having a good time if they packed a little more of a punch.  By the time you’re half-way down your second, though, you're starting to think that maybe they’re not so bad.  With each sip you take the more pleasant the taste becomes (but then maybe that's just the schnapps talking). 

You’re busily sucking on a slice of orange when Sam returns, breathless but happy.  She brushes back the pieces of fringe stuck to her forehead as she grins at you, the scent of her perfume and perspiration hitting your nose.  

“Fuck it’s hot,” she declares, fanning herself with her hands.  Abruptly, she turns on the spot and grabs an empty glass straight out the hands of the man standing next to her, tipping what little ice remains into her palm.  You can’t help but laugh as the poor boy then gawps, open-mouthed, while Sam rubs said ice across her flushed chest with a sigh of relief, totally unconcerned with the streaks of water that dribble down the front of her dress as it melts.

You can’t blame him for staring.  Sam’s gorgeous and always has been, with her raven coloured hair and killer curves.  Even if she were a wallflower like you, she’d probably still be the centre of attention. 

“Thanks!” she smiles sweetly, promptly dismissing him with a turn of her back and a flip of her hair before he has hopes of starting up a conversation.  

“You’re ridiculous,” you grin, popping the orange slice back into your mouth with a shake of your head.  Sam casts you a roguish wink, about to turn and order another drink when all of a sudden her eyes widen, looking beyond you to someone sitting further down the bar.

“Maybe I am,” she admits, corner of her lip curling into a smirk, “ But so’s he .”  She nods her head in the direction she’s looking as an indicator for you to turn and look too; the idea of being subtle not even crossing your mind before you swivel round in your seat to follow her eye-line, orange peel still gripped between your teeth.

It’s immediately obvious who your friend is talking about - a man leaning against the bar just a few metres away whose appearance is so startling that it borders on impropriety. The strobe lights paint his face with striking shades of blue and green in perfect time with the music, highlighting his cheekbones and flawlessly smooth skin to give him an almost ethereal look.  He's unlike anyone else you’ve ever seen.  Beautiful beyond words.  

You’d expect people to be crowding around him - to be vying for his attention - but it’s almost as though there’s some invisible force keeping them at bay; something stopping them getting too close.  He’s given a wide berth; a respectful distance that makes you think perhaps they’re able to sense the powerful aura emanating from him, too.  

He’s alluring and alarming all at once, but even more so when he turns his head and his eyes lock onto yours.  

Caught, you quickly look away, pulling the fruit from your mouth as your head turns.  It’s disturbing how shaken you feel from nothing more than a little eye contact - how hard the mere sight of him has your heart pounding.  

“Go for it.”  You hope Sam won’t notice the falter in your smile or how feeble your enthusiasm sounds. “He’s cute.”  This won’t be the first time you’ve felt envious of Sam’s good looks and it probably won’t be the last, but you’ve never allowed that jealousy to get in the way of your friendship.  Any inferiority complex you may have is your problem, not hers.

And hey, at least this way you might get to live vicariously.  

“Sweetie,” she coos, stepping closer so she can speak into your ear whilst keeping her eyes on the stranger. “Trust me, I would, but I don’t think I’m the one he’s after.”  

“Really?” The question escapes your lips before you can think about how pathetically eager you must sound.

“Really.”  You risk another glance and sure enough, the stranger is still looking, his eyes unblinking as he stirs at the drink in front of him with a straw.  Swallowing hard, you turn away, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as you feel your cheeks begin to fill with heat.

Is it just embarrassment that’s to blame, or could it be the intensity of his gaze making them burn?  

“You gonna go over?”

“You think I should?” you ask in reply, flustered by this unfamiliar situation in which you find yourself.  You’re not used to this; have no idea what to do or how to act. Do you even want his attention?  You’re about to ask Sam for her pearls of wisdom when her doe eyes suddenly widen once more, her hands flapping against your forearm in excitement.

“He’s coming!” she squeals, grinning maniacally as she grabs the drink that’s appeared in front of her in preparation to make a hasty exit. 

“Don’t you dare, Samantha!  You dare leave me!” you hiss through gritted teeth, pleading with your eyes, but it’s no good.  Seconds later and she’s gone, slipped off into the crowd with a parting ‘thumbs up’ like the vile traitor she is.  You lean on the bar, your forehead resting on the palm of your hand as you close your eyes and try to slow the pace of your shallow, panicky breaths.

This is just a mistake.  It has to be.  There’s no way a guy that gorgeous would- 

“Hello.”  A sweet, soft voice finds your ears and you jump to attention, sitting bolt upright and eyes blown wide.  

Sam wasn’t mistaken.  It really must’ve been you that he was looking at because now he’s here , standing right beside you with a playful smile upon his face and very little regard for the concept of personal space.  

As impossible as it may seem, the man before you is even more bewitching up close than he had been from a distance; his eyes dark and piercing, lips thick and plump.  Gawking, you find yourself utterly lost for words, but thankfully the beautiful stranger’s smile just grows, his lips parting to reveal a perfect set of sparkling white teeth.

“I’m Jimin.”  He introduces, placing his drink down beside yours, his eyebrows slowly rising the more time that goes by without you giving any form of reply.    

Oh god, why won’t your mouth work?  What's wrong with you?! 

“I could just call you jagiya if you don’t want to tell me your name, sweetheart,” he smiles, and you can’t help but watch with fascination at the way his mouth twists around the foreign word; so melodic in comparison to your native tongue.  

Blushing at the term of endearment he so casually bestows on you, you blurt out your name in a hurry and chase it with a rather large, hurried gulp of your drink.  Tunefully, Jimin laughs at your nervousness, his grey bangs falling into his eyes only to be pushed back with a brush of a delicate hand; the gesture well-practised and smooth.  You’re relieved that Jimin looks merely amused by your awkwardness rather than pitying. Honestly, you’re wondering why on earth he’s still here given that you've already let slip how socially inept you can be. 

Mustering your courage, you swallow your nerves and fold your hands together in your lap; something to hold onto. 

“I don't get out much, I guess.  You can probably tell," you admit sheepishly, avoiding his gaze out of embarrassment.  You still catch the corner of his mouth curling into a hint of a smile, though, and it draws your eyes back to his face; a moth to a flame.  

“Never would've guessed.”  There’s a slight accent to the tone with which he teases, but you’re not well travelled enough to hazard a guess as to where he might be from.  It’s a charming lilt, nonetheless. 

Jimin places one hand on the back of your stool, leaning in, and his proximity has your heart hammering in your chest as you catch a whiff of his aftershave, sweet and heady.  

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”  His breath caresses your ear and the hairs on the back of your neck rise, enticed.  Jimin pulls back just enough so as to look into your eyes, and you find yourself fighting the urge to confess that you’d happily be anywhere else as long as he was there with you.  

Best not to seem too desperate, after all.  

“At home,” you reply, eyes downcast as you speak quietly into your lap.  Somehow, Jimin still manages to hear you.  “In bed.”  Realising how easily your words might be misconstrued, you quickly meet his gaze, cheeks flushing as you add, “Reading.  Watching TV.  Nothing too exciting.” 

Jimin is so intense, so focused on your every word, that you can barely stand to look at him.

“And is there someone missing you there tonight?” he asks, the hand that was resting on the stool shifting, grazing the lightest of touches down the length of your arm.  Goosebumps rise in his wake.  “At home? In bed?”

“No.”  You bite your lip, hands tightening around one another.  Your palms are sweating. “No one.”  You can’t quite hear the sound he makes but you could guess that he’s tutting, his face twisting in displeasure as he does so.

“How can it be-” Jimin questions, stepping close enough that the tops of his thighs kiss your knees, “- that a woman like you.” The fingers that were dancing along your arm reach up to tuck the hair that’s fallen in front of your face behind your ear, gentle.  “A beautiful woman like you.”  Jimin takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger to keep you from looking away, and though you love each and every touch, oh, you wish he wouldn't.  It's too hard to breathe when he’s looking in your eyes; too close when he's leaning over you. “Spends a single night alone?”  

A beat passes and you know he’s expecting an answer by the way his head tilts subtly to the side, but once again you're stricken dumb.  Why on earth would someone like him ever want somebody like you? You keep expecting him to suddenly laugh; to sneer at you and tell you all this attention has been nothing but a lie - a cruel joke at your expense.  

Instead, Jimin does the opposite and closes the gap between you to place his lips on yours.  It's a chaste, fleeting kiss, and it catches you so off guard that you completely forget that you’re supposed to do anything more than just sit there like a statue.  Lucky it's so brief, or else you might just make a fool of yourself. 

“So sweet…” The words are sighed against your mouth before he pulls away, and as he straightens to his full height and runs his thumb along the angle of your jaw, you notice his Adam’s apple bob heavily in his throat.  

Perhaps your drink was stronger than usual, or maybe you drank it too fast?  Surely that can be the only reason that your head feels like it’s swimming - dizzy with excitement.  Tipsiness doesn’t explain the unfamiliar unfurling of heat in your abdomen, though, nor the ache between your legs that only grows as you Jimin’s eyes linger on the curve of your neck.  His look is pure heat; seduction oozing from every pore as he offers you his hand with a slow, easy smile.

“Come with me." 

[letsbfrank4]

Book Review: YOU

Rating: ☕☕☕☕☕

Title: YOU Author: Caroline Kepnes Publisher: Emily Bestler Books / ATRIA Genres: Fiction, Thriller Pages: 424 Format: Paperback

“If we were teenagers, I could kiss you. But I’m on a platform behind a counter wearing a name tag and we’re too old to be young. Night moves don’t work in the morning, and light pours in through the windows.”

“He won’t listen or learn or bend and I’m losing patience with him, with life, with humans.”

“…I am going to have to choose between you and the pieces of you currently stored in a box…”

“…I killed for you. I deserve you.”

   When I was watching the show YOU on Netflix I couldn’t help but feel that the script sounded just like a book. After searching on Google, sure enough, I found that it was a book. Since I enjoyed watching the show I had to see how the book would compare. I was not let down. The book is much more dark and sinister than the show which made for such a great read. I can’t remember the last time I read through a book this quickly. Warnings before reading this book includes: sexually explicit content and language, drug use, violence/abuse. SPOILERS are included in this review. Skip to the last paragraph for my rating and conclusion.     In today’s day and age social media is everywhere. We’ve all been told to be careful of what we put on the internet because we don’t know who may be reading it. Not to mention we have all had that moment of weakness when we did a little too much “research” on a person whether it be a friend, ex, or even a celebrity. This book does a great job showing how dark the web can get and a lot of the fear factor that comes from this book stems from how realistic this situation can be.     Kepnes’s style of writing was magnetic, borderline stream of consciousness. The reader felt like they were inside Joe’s head, watching life happen through his eyes. In the beginning of the book the reader can validate and relate to what Joe is doing, little things like noticing a name on a credit card, what she likes to read, seeing her on Facebook, etc. However, as the book progresses it gets harder and harder for the reader to validate what Joe is doing. Going through that transition is scary because it is easy to see how blurred the lines can get (especially if you don’t know where they stop). I know I was trying to figure out when I went from rooting for Joe to screaming for Beck to run.     The conclusion did a wonderful job of tying up the loose ends, for now. It was a great way to get Joe off the hook and out of the threatening zone of getting caught. The very last paragraph was terrifyingly cold. Joe replaces Beck so easily. Beck becomes just another Candace.     The reader becomes so close to Joe throughout the book. It was incredible to watch as the reader and Joe start to form a dialogue of their own. All the inside jokes: minutes to hours to days (time telling), such small hands, secret knowledge of the green pillow, etc. Then to see Joe doing the exact same thing with Beck and watching how they create their own language: different/hot, engine engine number 9, everythingship, solipsistic, etc; the shared content in brilliant.     When it came to Beck’s character I wasn’t very happy with the way she was portrayed. I’m not sure whether it was Joe getting to my head but the book made it seem like Beck was asking for all this attention, if you play with fire don’t be upset if you get burned. I would have liked it more if Beck was painted in a more innocent victim type light. Throw some curtains in her apartment, they could have been in need of repair from falling off the wall or something along those lines. Make her more of a girl next door and not have men thinking she is sex on a stick. I didn’t like how Beck did all these careless type things and then that justifies all this drama leaking into her life.     A lot of this book was based off situations that are fairly realistic but I thought that Beck’s phone not being deactivated wasn’t realistic at all. Even if someone else is paying the bill any normal person would have to phone turned off. Why? Because your information is in it!     I would have liked more information on Candace. Was she his first normal relationship? His only? Or was she his first victim? What was she like in comparison to Beck? Does Joe have a type or can any girl fall victim to his obsessions? So many questions.     Now that I have a majority of the basic review out of the way I do have some topics that I would like to talk about, some notes and other things that I noticed while reading.     First, when it comes to the murders there is a lot of commonalities between the way the murders are written and Joe’s feelings towards the victim. Joe’s first kill in the story is Benji. Joe couldn’t care less about Benji and his killing showed that. Joe just hoped that Benji was telling the truth about his allergies. There aren’t really any details as to how Benji dies and his body is gotten rid of in a way where no one will ever find him, erased from everyone’s lives because he is that unimportant. Peach’s death included a failed attempt and a very physical altercation and struggle. Joe was constantly battling Peach for Beck and Peach’s death emphasizes how much Joe was trying to snuff her out. However, just like how Peach kept upping one up on Joe, her body resurfaces despite how hard Joe tried to keep it sunk. Moving on to Candace, the reader doesn’t know much about her death. Like Candace’s story her death is short and passionate. We know Joe loved her and was betrayed by her. Candace’s death was a crime of passion and Joe just wanted to drown out the fact that she was leaving him. Dr. Nicky, while not a death, was an attempt. Joe did a lot of research on Dr. Nicky. Joe wasn’t 100 percent sure that he was sleeping with Beck when he wanted to get rid of him. Hence, Joe didn’t go through with the killing 100 percent. Right when Joe was about the strike he ends up backing off because of Beck’s call. Finally, it comes to Beck’s death. Beck’s death is very prolonged, Joe struggles with her, thinks she is dead, gets upset, Beck is alive, struggles again, Beck hurt Joe, Joe actually kills Beck and feels glad but then upset again. Just like their relationship it is not only passionate and complicated but ultimately deadly. Joe struggles with his emotions when getting rid of her body, he loves her but can’t keep her. The epic story comes to a tragic end. All these deaths are reflective of each individual person.     Next, Peach’s character is interesting and adds a plot twist to this already creepy story. When we first meet Peach she seems like an obstacle, in the way of Joe getting the girl. The reader starts to root for Joe to get past this girl Peach but then they wonder if Peach is just doing her job, being the protective friend that she is (keeping her best friend safe from strange stalker guys). Then the plot twist happens and it turns out Peach is just as creepy and just as big of a stalker as Joe. Then it becomes a battle of the stalkers. This goes to show the reader that there can be more than just one threat out there.    The last parallel that I want to make is when Joe seems to compare Beck with books. Joe goes through a big speech about how books can suck you in, make you leave everything behind, fall in love, become enraptured by them, and then they disappear. Later on in the book Joe describes Beck’s death in this way. He talks about how she is flawed just like the books in his store and how she has ended and left him, he even shoves pages of a book in her mouth while she is dying. Then the book ends with Joe moving on to a different “book” and starting the whole pattern up again.     I know that this review is a little on the longer side but there was so much to be said for this book. I cannot give this book a 5 out of 5 All Nighter Worthy rating enough. I could not put this book down. If you want a page turner and nail biter this is a good choice. Would I recommend this book? Yes, I was already recommending this book before I even finished it. YOU has definitely made it to the top end of my favorites list. Naturally, the show on Netflix is good too, so be sure to check that out as well. I’m already on the hunt for Kepnes’s next book Hidden Bodies.

Summary: When a beautiful, aspiring writer strides into the East Village bookstore where Joe Goldberg works, he does what anyone would do: he googles the name on her credit care. There is only one Guinevere Beck in New York City. She has a public Facebook account and tweets incessantly, telling Joe everything he needs to know: she is simply Beck to her friends, she went to Brown University, she lives on Bank Street, and she’ee be at a bar in Brooklyn tonight- the perfect place for a “chance” meeting. As Joe invisibly and obsessively takes control of Beck’s life, he begins quietly removing the obstacles that stand in their way. Joe will do anything to ensure Beck finds herself in his waiting arms- even if it means murder.

[pinknerdpanda]

I Shall Be Released (3)

Characters: Sam x Reader, Anna, Dean, Castiel

Word Count: 2984

Warnings: Angst, violence, language

Read Part 1 by @atc74 HERE

Read Part 2 by @crispychrissy HERE

A/N: This is part 3 of a progressive challenge written with @atc74 and @crispychrissy for Break The Zone. We were given a dialogue prompt, a gif and a song. My chapter is loosely based off of the song “I Shall Be Released” (Listen to the Jason Manns and Rob Benedict version HERE) Enjoy! :)

Beta’d by @atc74 and @hannahindie - Thank you both for keeping me going!

I Shall Be Released Part 3

A bright light cut across the horizon, illuminating everything it touched with a soft glow and making the entire landscape before you sparkle. You took a deep breath, allowing the warm, citrus scented air to fill your lungs before expelling it back to the earth. In the distance a bird chirped, happily, the sound drifting across the breeze and only marginally louder than the sound of the nearby creek. It was as perfect of as scene as you could have ever imagined; the only thing that could improve upon it notably missing. Sam.

-----

“You’re insane.”

Y/n’s lips curled in a maniacal yet satisfied smile that Sam wouldn’t have guessed possible; the girl he loved couldn’t possibly be capable of a look so full of malice and wrath.

“Takes one to know one, Sammy,” she quirked an eyebrow, tracing a finger down the slope of his shoulder as she continued circling him. “And what if I am? Insane I mean. Who could blame me.”

Sam’s face twisted in confusion, his immobility seeming to not affect his expressions. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?”

“How do you think you would feel, Sam,” she spat his name like a curse and Sam flinched, “If you woke up one day to find your own eyes staring back at you. Except they’re older and full of horrors your tiny nine year old couldn’t fathom? Hm?”

Sam met her gaze, forcing himself not to look away.

“Don’t you think that would drive a person to madness? No? That’s not enough?” She tapped a finger against the side of her cheek in mock consideration. “Alright, well then how about having that older, broken version of yourself tell you that, not only is she an actual angel from the future, but that, if you don’t see her again before your next birthday, she’s - you’ve - been murdered. Murdered, Sam!”

“You’re right, talking to yourself does sound a bit on the loony tunes side,” Sam crooned, allowing his lips to form a cruel, condescending pity smile. “Did you also tell yourself that you were actually on a mission to murder an innocent woman?”

Anna scoffed and hopped onto the plywood table, ignoring the smattering of manilla folders and old, crumpled fast food wrappers.

“Oh she told me everything. You, Lucifer...the demon blood,” she drew the last word out, tauntingly. “She also told me where to find my grace and told me that if it was true - if she...I...really was murdered, then it’s up to me to stop you, Winchester.”

------

Your lazy, content smile faltered as you sat up, the beautifully embroidered picnic blanket tangling gently around your legs. Smoothing it back out, you rose, narrowly avoiding tripping over the wicker picnic basket resting at the blanket’s edge. It was like a sudden awareness struck you and it was unsettling. Where was Sam? He was here wasn’t he? You struggled to remember the events leading up to this moment, but fall short, frustration creasing your brow. Your wandering has turned into frantic searching, as you call his name, combing the forest lining the small clearing.

“Y/n!”

The sound of Sam’s voice was faint, almost tinny and you whirled desperate to find it’s source. To you left stood a large, dark grove of trees that you were sure hadn’t been there seconds ago. Your name floated on the breeze and you were sure it was coming from the mysterious trees. Steeling your courage, you began to pick your way toward the sound of Sam’s voice. The once clear patch of green grass you’d found yourself enjoying moments ago was now dry and brittle, the roots of the trees zigzagged the surface at varied intervals.

Your foot caught a large, gnarly twist of brown bark peeking up from the surface of scorched earth and you lurched forward, your ankle twisting painfully as you fell to the ground.

“Y/n?!” Sam’s voice held a twinge of panic that made your stomach twist in knots. Where was he? What was happening? Your ankle now unable to hold your weight without screeching in pain, you began crawling toward Sam’s voice. Sharp thorny barbs dug into the palms of your skin and ripped at the knees of your jeans.

-----

“She can’t hear you, Sam. You can cry her name all you want, but she’s too far gone.”

Sam swallowed, unsure what to believe, but desperate to stall for as long as he could. “Alright, so you said you need me, but now you’re saying you’re here to stop me. Which is it?”

Anna clucked her tongue, cheekily. “Secrets, secrets, Sam. I know you’re stalling, but I’ll give you a hint,” she lowered her voice, conspiratorially, “so am I.”

As if on cue, the roar of the Impala’s engine echoed dully through the thin hotel walls seconds before a flash of headlights illuminated the room. The sound and the light died immediately as Dean cut the engine.

Sam struggled against his invisible restraints as Dean’s bootfalls drew closer and closer. Anna turned a wicked grin toward Sam before placing a single finger against her lips. Dean’s keys jingled lightly and Anna’s face fell back into a perfect replica of y/n a second before the door swung wide.

“Dean! Thank god you’re here!” Anna cried out, practically throwing herself against Dean.

“What the hell?” Dean bellowed, his face twisted in bewilderment, his eyes wide.

“I...I...I don’t know what got into him!” Anna stammered in such a good imitation of Y/n that if it weren’t for the faint, crazed glint in her eye, Sam might have begun to question reality.

“Who? Sam?” Dean’s head swivelled back and forth between Sam and Anna, puzzled.

“Don’t listen to her, Dean.” Sam growled. “It’s not y/n.”

“He keeps saying that, and trying to hurt me, like I’m some sort of monster or something,” Anna sobbed, clutching tightly to Dean. “But you saw for yourself, Dean. You checked me with your own eyes! He’s lost it!”

Dean’s eyes flicked to Sam’s and he took in Sam’s rigid posture. Without making a sound, Sam mouthed a single word to his brother.

“Anna.”

------

Just as you reached the base of the nearest tree, a flash of red caught your attention. The sound of a woman’s laughter - cruel and punishing - echoed through the trees. Distantly, you registered the sound as that of your own laughter, but stopped short when you heard Sam’s pain-filled cry.

Something in your head clicked. Whether it was the sound of Sam’s anguish or just sheer determination, you weren’t sure. But there was one thing you were sure of: this place, wherever it was, was bad news, and come hell or high water, you were going to find Sam and get the hell outta Dodge.

Gritting your teeth, you pressed your bruised and bloodied palms against the ground as you rose to your feet. You sucked in a deep breath and shifted, allowing your twisted ankle to take a small amount of your weight and expecting the worst. To your amazement, the pain didn’t come. Deciding to risk it, you took a step forward and then another. You reached one hand out into the growing darkness, trying to feel your way through the maze of tangled vines and menacing tree branches.

Ahead, a small sliver of light cut through the dense foliage and you wove your way toward it, not sure why. Just as you drew closer to its source, a dark, black figure stepped into the pool of light, it’s glistening rays bathing the figure in shadow. Your steps slowed, fear gripping your stomach, and, as the figure shifted ever so slightly, the shadow shifted with it, revealing a halo of fiery red hair

“Hello, y/n,” the figure’s voice was feminine and soft and you struggled to place it.

You took another step forward, an unexpected surge of anger emboldening you. “Who are you? What is this place?”

“You don’t recognize it?” There was the smallest hint of sarcasm in her tone.

“Well, if I did, do you really think I would be asking?”

Sam’s voice, louder now rang out through the canopy of trees overhead. And though the words were unintelligible, you’re sure it was full of panic.

A second later, a stab of pain seized your body and your knees buckle under its severity. It’s like a dagger of electricity pierced your neck and waves of vibrating painful energy radiated outward, making your extremities tingle.

The figure tsk’d, staring curiously, but made no move to help you as you sputtered and writhed on the ground.

-----

“I said don’t move!” Dean shouted, aiming his gun at Anna. His resolve nearly faltered as her eyes brimmed with tears. “Sammy, tell me what the hell is going on here.”

“Dean, I told you already…” Anna pleaded, her hands held out palms up.

“And I said to stop talking,” Dean roared, frustration seeping into his tone.

“I don’t know. She said Y/n is…” Sam choked out, “too far gone.”

“But I thought Michael smoked Anna back in the 70’s when she was trying to kill Mom and Dad?”

Anna’s simpering was cut short as she laughed, cruelly. Dean spun to face her, confused.

“Always two steps behind, Winchesters.”

Anna flicked her wrist and sent Sam and Dean flying across the room. Sam landed with a sickening crack and he cried out in pain clutching his left arm. Anna laughed again, delight flooding her features.

“What do you want? And where’s Y/n?” Dean spat, his teeth gritted as he fought against his own invisible bonds.

“She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that,” Anna chuckled, pacing back and forth. “But trust me, she’s as good as dead. As far as what I want? I want that traitor Castiel’s head on a stick and you two boy scouts are gonna help me.”

“What then?” Sam groaned.

“And then, I’m going to kill you, nice and slow.” Anna smirked.

“Y/n!” Sam screamed. “Baby, I know you’re in there!”

“Oh save it!” Anna rolled her eyes. “Just for that, she’s gonna have to suffer a little. So much for blissful ignorance. She was getting a little too bold anyway.” Anna ran her finger tips over where y/n’s neck wound had been, the flesh once again bloodied and ravaged.

Anna turned back to Dean. “So, what did ol’ Castiel say when you called him?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dean purred smugly. Anna slapped him hard across the face and grabbed his hair, yanking his head back roughly.

“Wanna try that again, smart ass?”

Dean glared at her defiantly. “Eat me.”

Anna released her grip and narrowed her eyes at him once again. She pursed her lips and stood, sauntering over to Sam. Flicking her gaze over her shoulder to Dean once more, she grabbed at Sam’s left arm and twisting.

“Y/n!” Sam’s scream echoed off the thin hotel walls. “It’s an angel. You have to eject her!”

-----

Gasping for air, you silently pled with the red haired woman for help. A flash memory rippled through you. Sam...the vamp...the cold that you felt before the nothingness took over. You were dead. Except...you weren’t. Though, as much pain as you felt, you almost wished you were.

“Y/n!” Sam’s voice was louder now, more frantic. “It’s an angel. You have to eject her!”

You spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground, and braced your shaking hands once more against the ground, willing yourself up, but unable to make it.

“You stupid, pitiful girl,” the woman sneered. “The only reason you’re still around to hear your beloved’s voice cry out for help is because of me. I am the glue keeping you alive, and frankly, I don’t exactly need you for much longer.”

“How did you even get in here anyway?” you wheezed between ragged, gurgling breaths. “I thought you winged assholes had to have permission to take possession of a vessel?”

“It’s all about the loopholes, baby,” the woman cooed, her hands on her knees like she was speaking to a child. “We don’t need permission if we catch the vessel at just the right time. You know, that brief little moment between life and death, as the light is fading from your eyes, but just before the last breath? That’s the sweet spot. And I’ve been waiting so patiently for my time to shine. I knew it was inevitable; I’ve been keeping tabs on these boys for a long time. One thing I’ve learned, no one loves Sam Winchester and lives to tell about it. Well, not for long anyway.”

A deep raspy rumble from somewhere high in the trees rattled the branches, scattering a flock of birds in all directions. The sound was like a gust of wind - cold and ominous as if signalling an oncoming storm.

The angel’s head whipped up, her face wearing conflicting masks of rage and delight. “He’s here; I knew that traitor couldn’t stay away.” Straightening, she clapped her hands excitedly. “Well, sweetie, I’d say it’s been fun...but...well...it really hasn’t.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you mused, drawing a curious look from the woman. You rolled over on your side, revealing a crudely drawn sigil that Sam had taught you to banish angels. “Things are just about to get exciting.”

The angel creased her brow, a pitying expression tugging at her features. “Aw, that’s so cute. But like I said, you’re only here because of me. This isn’t real!” She gestured to the grove of trees before snapping her fingers and suddenly the scenery changed to a warm, sunny beach with white sand and turquoise waves lapping gently along the shore line. She snapped again, and Sam appeared, happy and tan, his long legs stretched out on the sand and the sun glistening off of his bare chest. “This is whatever I want it to be. What do you think that little doodle is going to do to me? ”

“Well, best case scenario, you get ejected. Worst case scenario, you stick around and I die with that view” you gestured at the mirage of Sam, “as my final memory. Either way, I die knowing I did everything in my power to kick your ass.” You spat blood onto your hand. “It’s win/win.”

Without hesitation, you slammed your palm against the sigil. A light shot across the sky from the west to the east and the last sound you heard was the angel screaming before your vision went black.

-----

A murmur of voices filled your ears, but it was the throbbing pain in your neck that had woken you. Your eyelids felt like they’d been sewn shut and your mouth was so dry, you were afraid to open it.

“What do you mean you don’t know, Cas?” Dean’s voice buzzed with anxious energy.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Castiel sighed. “Time travelling angels with a vendetta aren’t exactly my area of expertise. It appears that she’s been sent back to heaven, and I will be sure to inform them of her heinous crimes. However, coming from someone they view as a ‘heinous criminal’ such as myself, the recommendation may fall upon deaf ears.”

Your hand’s engulfed by a large, warm palm. Fingers wrapped tightly around yours and you felt the beat of the heart as it pumped the blood through the veins of the hand.

“Thanks for trying, buddy. I appreciate you coming here so fast and healing her.”

“Of course, Dean. I will keep you abreast of the situation in heaven,” Cas’ voice is obscured by a rustle of wings.

“Abreast,” Dean muttered and you can tell he’s snickering to himself without even opening your eyes.

“Real mature, Dean.” Your voice was more rasp than sound, and for a second you weren’t completely sure you’d actually said anything.

“Y/n?!” Sam’s hand squeezed yours so tight, it felt like it might have fallen off. “You’re ok?”

One of your eyes crept open slowly and painfully, and there sat Sam, his large body so close to yours and seeming so small. You forced a half smile. “Well, part of me is. If you’re not careful though, you may need to get Cas back here to regrow my hand.”

Sam’s grip loosened as tears streamed down his face. His whole body shook with emotion and you could tell he wanted to wrap you in his arms and never let go, but he resisted and instead placed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I thought I’d lost you, baby.”

You smirked, “Like you could be so lucky.”

Dean’s face came into view and you didn’t miss the tracks running down his cheeks as he beamed down at you. “You really scared us, kid. But you did good.”

You raised your free hand to your neck and lightly grazed the spot where you’d been bitten. While tender and puckered, the skin had been knit back together carefully as if by magic.

“Cas had enough juice to fix me up, huh?” you croaked.

“Well, he had enough to keep you breathing, anyway. You’ve still got a little ways to go.” Sam smiled and raised your knuckles to his lips. “How’d you do it, anyway? How’d you get rid of Anna?”

“I baked her a loaf of banana bread and asked politely,” you snarked, grinning at them. “I was trying to find you, Sam. I could hear your voice, but I couldn’t see you and I knew I had to get back to you, somehow.”

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Sam cradled you carefully in his arms, pressing kisses to your hair. “I’m so glad you came back to me, y/n. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my girl.”

“Your girl, huh?”

Sam kissed you gently, pulling back. “Always.”

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[soldierstark]

The Art of Resistance | TOM HIDDLESTON X READER

Description: Tom has mastered the art of resistance. In other words, the story about the three time he wanted to kiss the reader but didn't and the time he finally did.

Author's Note: If anyone of ya'll know where the dialogue from the first scene came from I <3 you! This is my first attempt at a 3 + 1 fic and I enjoyed writing so let me know if you'd like more :) As always, let me know what you think.

Word Count: 2146

FANFICTION MASTERLIST

The first time Tom wanted to kiss (Y/N) was when they decided to rehearse lines together.

It was late enough that the sun was barely peaking over the horizon while they had had enough time to down a few glasses of wine. Not enough to get them drunk, but enough that it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive anywhere.

They were scheduled to film a scene the next day that would be the turning point in their characters relationship. Throughout the movie, (Y/N)’s character was put in charge of keeping a close eye on Loki, causing them to inevitably fall in love though neither would admit it.

Loki however, didn’t know that (Y/N)’s character had begun to spend time with him because she was told too. When he finds this out, he begins to question the whole foundation of their relationship leading to a huge fight.

Tom really wanted to nail the scene so when (Y/N) came up to him between takes and asked if he’d like to practice, he agreed.

And that’s how they ended up in a screaming match, though it was all fake, (Y/N)’s temporary neighbors didn’t know that.

“Because I love you, Loki,” (Y/N) burst out pleadingly, trying to get the god of mischief to stay.

Tom rolled his eyes and let out indignant scoff, stepping forward towards (Y/N) slightly. “Are kidding me? You’re actually bringing this up now?” he asked in frustration with disbelief. “After you told me that you just betrayed me?”

(Y/N) walked closer to Tom shaking her head desperately. “If you would just listen to me-“

“Listen to you?” Tom interrupted sarcastically, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Why should I listen to you? How am I even supposed to trust anything that you say right now?”

“Because of everything we’ve been through together!” (Y/N) said raising her voice, starting to get frustrated as well. “For 2 years I’ve been right here. 2 years Loki. Most of that time was spent just waiting for you to open your eyes and see that I’m more than just some mortal girl.”

(Y/N) took another look at Tom who didn’t say anything in return, as instructed in the script. She began to pace the living room carpet, going into to more of a rant. “Every morning  I- I bring you a cup of coffee just so that I can see a smile on your face because I think you are the most remarkable-“

She stopped pacing and turned towards Tom with a look of very mixed emotion. “Maddening,” (Y/N) continued, taking another step forward. “Challenging.” Another step. “Frustrating person, well god, I have ever met,” she finished, stopping about 3 feet away from Tom.

“And I love you, Loki,” she repeated, looking up at Tom with slightly watery eyes. “And if that means anything to you, if you care about me at all, please just stay. Please believe me.”

They were so close that Tom could see every fleck of color that adorned (Y/N)’s (Y/E/C) eyes.  Her full, rosy pink lips were parted slightly as (Y/N) took in breathes. A piece of her (Y/H/C) hair fell into her face and for some odd reason, Tom felt the urge to push it behind her ear.

How had he not noticed how beautiful she was before?

The second time Tom wanted to kiss (Y/N) was at an Avengers cast and crew Christmas party.

“Alright this gift is for…” Mark trailed off, reading the tag on the gift he pulled out from under the fake Christmas tree. “Reindeer Games from your Secret Santa.”

A laugh erupted around the room as Taika threw the box over to Tom who began to unwrap it immediately out of curiosity. “It’s a….. box of organic earl grey tea,” Tom announced, examining the gift for clues as to who gave it to him.

“Why thank you to whomever this came from,” Tom added, making sure to emphasize his British accent. This only led to more laughter.

After all the gifts had been handed out, the cast and crew members began to disperse, going their separate ways. Tom stood up out of his seat and walked through the doorway that lead into the kitchen until a hand grabbed his wrist, halting the movement.

He turned around only to see (Y/N) smiling up at him, leaning against the door frame casually. She was wearing a black sweater with snowflakes, jeans, and a headband that had lit up Christmas lights.  

“How’d you like your gift,” she asked with a mischievous smile, wiggling her eyebrows slightly.

Tom let out a deep chuckle as the realization of who his Secret Santa was dawned on him. “It was perfect,” he replied honestly, looking down at the box in his hand. “Thank you.”

“Oh don’t thank me yet Hiddleston,” (Y/N) said, crossing her arms over her chest. “That box is part of a subscription service so from now on you’ll be sent some very fancy tea every 2 weeks.”

“You really didn’t have to do that (Y/N),” Tom stated, shaking his head back and forth gently. “Honestly.”

(Y/N) giggled and stood up straight off the wall, turning so that she and Tom were facing each other directly. “Oh but I did. If I had a dime for every time you complained about how bad the craft services table tea was, I’d be so rich I’d never need to act again. So yes this gift was needed for you and for me because I was getting close to duct taping your mouth shut.”

Suddenly, a high pitched wolf whistle echoed through the air causing everyone to turn their attention to Chris Evans who was pointing at Tom and (Y/N). “Look who’s standing under mistletoe,” he drawled out excitedly.

Tom’s gaze shifted upwards and sure enough, hanging from the doorway, a tuft of green sprouted from a piece of string.

He looked down at (Y/N) with a questioning glance just as she looked up at him. Her cheeks were tinged pink as she chewed her bottom lip nervously, drawing his attention directly towards it.

(Y/N) let out a slight laugh before nodded her head slowly. “Alright Hiddleston, lay it on me,” she said, taking a step closer to him.

Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?” he asked, trying to calm his beating heart which was hammering against his ribcage like machine gun.  “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” she replied, rolling her eyes in a joking manner.

Now, Tom couldn’t explain why he was suddenly filled with excitement. And it only seemed to increase as (Y/N) put a hand on his shoulder and began to lean up towards him. Her eyes fluttering shut as her lips parted in anticipation.

Tom began lowering his head and put a hand on her waist. Their faces were so close that Tom could feel (Y/N)’s breath fan against his face.

And right at their lips were about to meet, a voice yelled from the kitchen, “You guys look! I found a beer bong,” causing them to spring apart quickly.

The third time Tom wanted to kiss (Y/N) was at 11:57 pm on December 31st.

It might’ve been all the alcohol he was consuming, or maybe the fact that she looked down right irresistible in the skin tight black dress she was wearing. But when everyone in the room started pairing up for their midnight kisses, Tom’s mind went straight to the (Y/H/C) hair (Y/E/C) eyed beauty.

She was over by the refreshments table talking to Jeremy about something she clearly cared about as she was using hand gestures vehemently. Tom strolled over to her trying to seem nonchalant but he was feeling anything but.

Jeremy let out a low whistle at the sight. “Dam Hiddleston, how much have you had to drink?”

(Y/N) turned around to face him and smiled brightly. She threw her head back with laughter, her hair bouncing with the movement.

Tom cleared his throat and let out a hiccup. “Like 3 I swear.”

Jeremy nodded his head slowly. “Uh huh,” he muttered sarcastically. “Sure dude,” he chortled before walking off.

Tom attempted to lean against the refreshment table casually before turning his attention back to (Y/N). “So, you have anyone to kiss at midnight yet?”

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow in amusement and took a sip from her punch. “No. Why?”

“No way me too!” he exclaimed, his words slurring together. “Hey! How about we kiss?”

“Wow,” (Y/N) giggled. “Drunk Tom is very bold.”

“So is that a yes?” he asked, ignoring her earlier statement.

(Y/N) put down her cup and patted him on the back. “Maybe when you’ve had less to drink Hiddleston. Then we’ll see.”

Tom finally kissed (Y/N) the day her stunt double stayed home sick and she almost died.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tom mumbled as he walked onto set.

His gaze fell upon (Y/N) who was standing on very high ledge that was supposed to be the top of the Avengers Tower. She was strapped into a harness and talking to a man he recognized as the stunt director.

“What the hell is she doing up there?” he asked walking up to Chris, not once taking his eyes off of her.

Chris looked over at Tom for a split second and followed his gaze. “Oh (Y/N)? Yea, her stunt double is out sick today so she decided to do the scene herself.”

“Well why doesn’t she just wait until she comes back?” Tom asked confused.

“We’ve rescheduled the shooting of this scene for weeks now and (Y/N) wanted to get it over with I guess,” Chris replied shrugging his shoulders. He took note of the worried expression that overtook Tom’s face as the director yelled action.

“Hey,” Chris whispered patting him on the back. “She’ll be fine. Stunts like this are done all the time.”

Tom couldn’t tear his gaze away from (Y/N) who was walking backwards towards the ledge. Backing away from a monster that would edited in later. “Still,” he muttered under his breath.

She backed up until one foot slid off like the script instructed and wobbled slightly before regaining her balance. Her (Y/H/C) hair blew behind her as a fan was directed towards her, making it seem as though it was very windy.

With one last look of fear at the invisible monster and the hard pavement that once edited would be hundreds of feet below her, (Y/N) stepped off the ledge and began to free fall three stories.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion.

It started off according to plan but after a split second of falling, a loud snap along with a screech from (Y/N) echoed throughout the sound stage.

Tom sucked in a breath as everyone around him let out a gasp at the sight. The harness was still on (Y/N) but the rope attached to it had snapped, making it useless.

For a moment, Tom swore his heart stopped as (Y/N) hit the mat with very loud thud. He along with a few other crew member, rushed over to her side as quickly as possible.

He slid down onto the floor by her side and looked over her frantically. “Oh my god (Y/N) are you okay?”

She sat up taking in a deep breath and rubbed her head, blinking widely. “Yea I think so,” she mumbled looking him in the eye. “I’m fine but this mat sucks ya’ll should really replace it.”

The cast and crew members gathered around her all let out a sigh of relief and laughed at the joke she cracked. “But don’t put this on the blooper reel please,” she continued. “My parents will flip shit if they saw this.”

Tom sighed in relief, the fear in his chest disappearing at the sight of her smiling. “Oh thank god,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “For a second there I thought…”

(Y/N) put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine Tom, really. It’ll take a lot more than a 3 story fall to take me out.”

It might’ve been the adrenaline running through his veins or the fact that Tom finally realized he needed to act on his feelings before it was too late. But in that moment, he couldn’t resist (Y/N) any longer.

Tom reached a hand behind (Y/N)’s neck and pulled her lips down to his, trying to convey every emotion he was feeling into the kiss.

She tensed up slightly but responded almost immediately, wrapping an arm around his neck to pull Tom closer. He smiled into the kiss as the people surrounding them let out whistles and clapped.

The kiss was short and sweet, but it was amazing none the less. Though the circumstances were less than ideal, the person he shared it with was perfect.

Tom couldn’t imagine his first kiss with (Y/N) going any other way.

[ionica01]

A Cup of Magic 5

Finally, my laptop is back, and TodoMomo week is upon us! This should have been out yesterday for Day 2: AU... I’m sorry. Anyway, without further ado, here we go (will later update the other chapters and provide links):

The little corner where the staff members deposit their music is an old room in the back of the shop, where the light bulbs take one whole minute before flickering to life. Despite the coat of dust that keeps the curtain’s place- Momo makes a mental note of cleaning this room soon- the place is nothing if not welcoming. It has the wistful air of an old record shop, with the dozens of vinyl discs, tapes and CDs lining up the walls. Many of them have been bought by Momo over the years, especially the classical music ones. The newer pop, upbeat songs are Ochako’s contribution, whereas the rock corner is all Mina’s doing.

But today, Momo is searching for the jazz collection that was courtesy of her best friend, Kyouka. She doesn’t know exactly why, but she feels like listening to the trumpets and piano that the cafe seems to lack. Maybe it’s because the days are getting ever shorter and the long nights reek of jazz, or maybe it’s because November feels so empty between Halloween and Christmas that Momo associates it with the lonely tunes of Someday, my prince will come.

She runs a finger over the spine of the music collection, scanning for the rusty old cover of the vinyl disc. It’s a precious gift she received from Kyouka on her sixteenth birthday, and it was probably what allowed her to finally understand her friend, whose life was so deeply woven together with music that Momo couldn’t tell whether she made music or music made her.

She finally finds the disk she was looking for and digs it from under the Bill Evans pile of vinyls. Kyouka always argued that Bill Evans was the king of jazz- and yet Momo always found Art Blakey’s Moanin’ much closer to a musical masterpiece. As soon as the old man’s face on the cover comes to light, Momo feels her lips peel into a smile and she rushes out of the room to put the disk on and allow the cafe to bask into the tunes of the piano, which quietly dictates the whole 10 minutes of Moanin’.

It doesn’t take longer than two minutes for the sax to reverberate in the coffee shop, and Momo proudly returns behind the counter. Today is quiet, but the drums make up for it, and so does Shouto when he taps on the counter. His face is painted in curiosity and intrigue as he goes back to ordering his usual Green Tea.

“Music change?” he questions. Momo can’t read displeasure in his voice, but she can’t make out delight either.

“Yes.” He’s still eyeing her curiously, so Momo feels like she has to explain her choice, “The weather has gotten really gloomy, so I figured some upbeat music ought to put us in a better mood. The blues were just... ”

“Blue?” he nods, but his small smile at his own pun fades away as he focuses on taking in the rhythm of the song, matching his heartbeats with the trumpets and welcoming the pulse of the jazz.

Or at least that’s how Momo pictures it, because he starts drumming his fingers against the counter. She says nothing about it though, because not even Shouto seems to notice. She feels content with the knowing smile and watching his focused state.

He takes his drink and follows the route engraved in his memory to his table in a daze. Even as he sits down, he doesn’t pull out his books and research as per usual, instead closing his eyes and focusing on the lively saxophone.

Momo brings him a Creamy Adventure on the house- instructions from Satou, who fawned over Shouto all evening long after they closed yesterday. Ochako has also taken a liking to him, and an even more obvious liking to peeking at Momo’s interactions with him, but that, Momo pretends she hasn’t noticed.

When the plate clinks against the table, Shouto shuts his eyes even tighter, causing the skin around his eyes to wrinkle. Momo says nothing, instead quietly sliding into the seat in front of him and closing her eyes as well, permitting her heartbeat to sync with the beats of the drum.

“It’s like a dialogue,” Shouto says. It’s the piano’s turn to come to the front again, with the soft drums in the back, to pour out a symphony of energy.

“You think so?” Momo’s eyes are still closed, allowing her brain to focus solely on the music. “The piano is always there, quietly supporting the trumpets. It’s the mastermind behind everything- not flashy, but decisive.” She imagines the pianist pouring his all into the song and her fingers move before she can control them, hitting all the right keys on an invisible piano. This was the first song she learnt all on her own, without her piano instructor knowing that she was practicing it as soon as he set foot outside her estate.

Momo now hums along with the low piano, in a descendo that bursts with energy as the first notes of the song hit again, all of a sudden, to announce the last part of Moanin’. When the well-known trademark notes echo, she opens her eyes to find Shouto staring at her. She blinks quickly and feels blood rush to her cheeks, suddenly aware that she was singing along.

“You have a beautiful voice,” he says over the the ever louder piano performance, and Momo feels her cheeks burn an even darker shade of red. The way he purrs the word beautiful gives her goosebumps.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

Shouto is once again oblivious to her reaction as his eyes fall on the Creamy Adventure and his face lights up. “It’s on the menu now?”

“Yes,” Momo says and almost chuckles at the strangled excitement in his voice. “Want to take a look?”

He nods and follows her to the counter, which isn’t buzzing with people as per usual. The end of term must be saying its word, because students only come to grab a drink and hurry back to their dorms or library in a frenzie.

Shouto’s eyes sparkle when they fall upon the displayed desserts and he easily recognizes the mousse. His body language betrays disbelief and excitement, mixed together in an amusing blend.

“I’ll tell you what reception it gets,” Momo smiles.

He nods, but before he can answer, the wind chimes announce a new customer and they both turn their attention towards the woman who strides to the counter, her boots hitting the floorboards in in perfect sync with the drum- when had the song changed?

“Biggest Cappuccino you have. Caramel on top, please,” Kyouka orders, unceremoniously dumping her purse on the counter and fumbling for her money. “Is that jazz?” Her head suddenly shots up and Momo can swear her ears grow bigger to capture all the fluctuations of the bass. “Dat Dere,” she immediately says and smirks proudly. “That’s my disc!”

“Hello to you too,” Momo smiles and fills up her order. Ochako is cleaning a table in the cafe, and Sato has secluded himself in the kitchen again, so Momo fixes Kyouka’s drink herself. “Do you want Rice or Almond Milk? We've got both in stock.”

“Give me Rice,” Kyouka says after a moment of thinking and more digging in her purse. Momo sees partitures and guitar feathers jumbling in the handbag and bites her lower lip to keep herself from scolding her unorganised friend. “Thanks,” Kyouka adds without lifting her head.

“No problem,” Momo replies as she searches for the Caramel Syrup. She’s known Kyouka ever since they were teenagers, and the girl was as lactose intolerant as when they first met, which was the inspiration Momo needed to introduce non-lactose based drinks.

“Here you go,” she says and hands Kyouka a cappuccino with a cinnamon musical note on top. She feels her own smile grow along with Kyouka’s as the musician breathes in the smell of the caramel and her jack-cord earrings clink against her headphones.

She empties half of the drink in a gulp, and it’s only after she demands a second beverage that she notices, “Hey, the shop’s pretty empty, right?” Momo eyes her friend suspiciously and follows the glance Kyouka steals at the far off corner of the cafe. “Think I could-”

“Go right ahead.”

Kyouka smiles brightly and leaps towards the small stage where the musical instruments are covered by a white sheet. A Cup of Magic is always prepared for concerts, and it’s equipped with a keyboard and drums, along a rusty electric guitar and a saxophone. The stage hasn’t been used in quite a while- but Kyouka will sometimes practice there, and when the shop is free, Momo would accompany her at the keyboard.

“You’re the best, Yaomomo!” her friend calls as she reveals her much beloved instruments and sets her guitar up in the amplifier, her face bearing the same look as Shouto’s when he saw the Creamy Adventure.

Speaking of Shouto, he’s still at the counter, and he looks mildly amused at the musician. “She’s my friend,” Momo explains before her brain can decide why that’s necessary.

“Is she responsible for the jazz?”

“Yes. She’s also the reason why I know much more music trivia than I should.” Shouto’s lips raise in a crooked smile, making Momo’s knees weaken. Unfair, she thinks to herself. “What’s your favourite genre of music?” she quickly asks, trying to take the upper hand on the situation.

“If I had to choose, classical music,” Shouto shrugs. “It just says so much without any words.”

“Just like you,” Momo says before she can stop herself.

He meets her terrified gaze calmly and locks her eyes in his. She has no idea what she was thinking, but he does say a lot without talking right now- he says that he isn’t angry, and that her comment triggers a reaction in him. But just like classical music, it doesn’t give a clear answer- just a hint of something that unexplainably mesmerizes Momo.

“Am I really?” he eventually asks, nothing but curious. His brow furrows when Momo’s eyes break away from his, as if he lost a precious clue, and she starts giggling. “What?” he asks again, and Momo is too much of a laughing mess to give him any serious answer.

She wonders if in the grand scheme of things that fate has prepared for her, Shouto happens to be the one to rewrite all the mishaps of daily life.

***

Momo taps the rhythm of Kyouka’s guitar with her pen against the counter and frowns at the equation. She’s stuck- and it bugs her. She bites on the inside of her lip in annoyance.

“Dammit,” she hears Kyouka curse, seemingly just as annoyed as Momo, although the reason is different. She then yells, “Yaomomo, do you have the key to the backroom?”

“What do you need?”

“A CD of Queen’s performance. I keep messing up the beat of Another one Bites the Dust and my teacher is gonna make fun of me, I just know it. He’ll be all ‘I knew you chose this song just to show off’”, she says in a high pitched voice- a full-marks impersonation of Present Mic, if Momo had to judge.

Even so, the barista rolls her eyes at how dramatic her friend can be and throws her the keys only after she hears Kyouka groan. “Get whatever you need, but just don’t wreck havoc in there.”

“Sheesh, trust me more,” Kyouka winks and runs in the back.

Momo pretends not to feel the small smile she’s sporting. Kyouka never seemed truly content with anything- and she was her own harshest critic. She returns to her own problem, and takes a note out of Kyouka’s book to scold herself- she knows she didn’t make a calculus mistake, so where was she wrong?

Someone clears their throat next to her and she jolts, already feeling her ears burn- she shouldn’t be studying at work. She’s already bowing in apology when she hears Shouto excuse himself, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No no, it’s okay. I’m at the customer’s disposition, after all.” She offers him a pleasant smile, still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t speak immediately, and when Momo dares meet his look, she feels his observing gaze pierce through her skin like hot iron, marking every inch of her body, especially her eyes. She doesn’t understand whether he’s analysing her or criticising her, because his eyes look both harsh and soft at the same time- it should be impossible, but maybe it has to do with the fact that they’re different colours. Or maybe it’s just another result of her overthinking things.

“I just wanted a refill,” he eventually shrugs and holds out his cup.

She obliges, but stops him when he pulls out his wallet. “Refills are free.”

His eyes widen, and then his face settles into a small, self indulgent smile. “I’ve been coming here since the start of the year and I didn’t know that?”

“Well, it is written on our site, so I assumed people just knew. But perhaps we should put up a sign?”

He shakes his head and snorts- maybe she should clear her ears- “It’s really like you, so I shouldn’t be so surprised.” Momo wonders when he began labeling things “like her”- it’s not that it bothers her, but it implies that he has been observing her behaviour and knows her well enough to predict the pattern of her decisions. Then again, Momo questions why that would come as a surprise to her- classical music isn’t just wordless, but also very unpredictable, as it can drop from presto to lento in a matter of seconds.

Momo hands him the hot tea, and their fingers brush for a split second. She shivers from both the electrifying contact and how cold he is. It feels like she just touched a popsicle- does he have bad peripheral circulation? Is that why he drinks Green Tea daily?

It’s not really her place to ask, but she’s intrigued enough to not obey her set of self-imposed rules. He beats her to it again, though, by asking, “Do you like scones?”

Momo blinks in surprise, and her eyes follow his towards the bag of half-finished scones that sit next to her open notebook. She feels the blood rush to her face again- eating patisserie products when she’s stressed is one of her guilty pleasures, one that she’d very much like to give up on. She gulps and nods, feeling like a child that was caught eating chocolate out of the cookie jar before lunch.

“What flavour?” he asks again, and Momo wonders whether he’s genuinely oblivious or a very good and malicious actor.

“Blueberries. They’re a bit less sweet than the strawberry ones, and I’d rather keep the damage to a minimum,” she mumbles the last part, more for herself than to supply some vital information. “Do you want some?”

“No thanks. I prefer Japanese Sweets,” he says matter-of-factly, causing Momo’s shoulders to slump. Of course, he radiates the aura of a person who has well-balanced meals and leads a healthy lifestyle. She does her best to do the same, but studying for exams always gets the better of her, and her metabolism is so hard-working that she feels hungry most of the time.

“Thanks, Yaomomo,” Kyouka’s voice pulls her out of her trance as she drops the keys on the counter and flashes the Queen album before her eyes. “Time to rock’n’roll.” Kyouka quickly notices the third person standing at the counter and narrows his eyes at Shouto. “A friend?”

Momo opens her mouth to answer, but closes it just as fast, suddenly aware that her relationship with Shouto is blurry. They certainly aren’t strangers anymore, and they’re even on a first name basis, but that doesn’t mean they are friends. Acquaintances sounds wrong too, because an acquaintance doesn’t send your heart racing with a smile and they don’t compliment you in a state of utter obliviousness. Besides, he is part of the family she built here.

Momo steals a sideway glance at him, trying to find an answer in his mismatched eyes. They’re an enigma as he ponders the same question, and they don’t falter when he speaks, either. “I’m Momo’s customer. Nice to meet you.”

That is the most accurate answer, followed by the perfectly polite bow, but the barista can’t help but feel that’s too official. He's more than just a customer- she has taken a non-professional interest in him and his behaviour. He is her… mystery? Puzzle? All too abstract, Momo dismisses them one by one.

The gears in her head turn quickly, as if they’ve just been oiled, until it eventually clicks: he’s her project. She wants to show him what magic is and make him welcome it, while getting to know him better along the way. Yes, he is her project.

“Aha,” Kyouka muses, unconvinced by Momo’s spacing out and Shouto’s polite demeanor. “Well, Mr. Customer, I hope you like the classics,” she grins and flashes the CD case before their eyes again before pressing play.

The steady beats of the song ring in Momo’s ears as Kyouka sets the volume higher, bobbing her head along the beats. She falls in a daze of her own, tracing the notes on an invisible cord as the words start kicking in and she mouths them.

“What song is this?” Shouto whispers, respecting Kyouka’s bubble of privacy and addressing Momo instead.

“You mean you don’t know?” Her eyes must be so wide that he interprets it as disapproval, because he sounds uncertain when he murmurs a negative answer.

“Well then, you’re about to find out,” Momo says and points towards her friend, who has stopped the CD and connected her guitar to the amplifier again.

***

Thursday brings in a gust of crisp wind and a mysterious brown paper bag along with Shouto. His hair is ravished by the merciless wind, white and red locks intertwining in a strange patchwork, but he ignores his appearance and proudly holds the bag up in front of Momo.

One of her eyebrows arches upwards as she inspects the package. “I’m sorry, they have probably gotten cold, but I promise they’re still delicious,” Shouto says as an excuse, confirming that the bag is indeed for her. She meets his eyes, which are patiently waiting for her reaction, and takes the bag from him.

She doesn’t even need to look inside, because as soon as she opens it, the smell of crispy dough and forest fruit filling feels her lungs and she stares at what has to be at least 300 grams of scones. “You didn’t-”

“But I wanted to,” he stops her before she can sputter any refusals. “You did so much for me- this is nothing in comparison.” Momo feels both flattered and guilty- guilty that she thought he could be anything but genuine when he asked her about it two days ago; flattered that he cares. “My sister says these are the best in town, so I hope you’ll like them.”

“Thank you,” Momo says and brings the bag to her chest, careful not to crush the scones but too thankful to let it down. The other reason, her subconscious muses, is that if her hands didn’t hold something, she’d wrap them around Shouto and part his hair back in his usual style. She doesn’t let that thought stir her mind more than necessary and instead says, “I hope you didn’t go out of your way.”

“No, it’s pretty close to where I live. I walk by it every day, but this was the first time I actually stepped in.”

Momo’s smile widens even more, and she hopes her voice doesn’t give away just how delighted she is. Her presence made him experience something new, and that alone is a magic spell. “Will you have the usual?”

Shouto’s face relaxes in a coy smile, and Momo wanders if it’s contagious. “Yes. And a piece of High-class Vanilla.”

***

It’s probably the result of being stalked while changing for the PE classroom, having caught indecent glances where her dress didn’t cover her tights and years of experience with perverts, but Momo can feel when someone is watching her. She can also feel whether that person’s lust has gotten the better of them, but that isn’t the case now. All she feels right this instant is the pressure of someone’s eyes watching her every move, lacking any ulterior motive than to just know what she is up to- the way her classmates watch her during the exams to see whether she’s already done or not- and ask for her help.

What’s weirding her out, though, is that her observer is none other than Shouto. She scolds herself for as much as daring to picture it, but if there was poison in the scones, she would have been able to tell- but there isn’t, and they are so good that she has almost finished them. His sister must have really keen taste buds, Momo reasons.

But if the scones are safe, why is he watching her like a hawk? Is he just spacing out?

“He’s been staring at you for a while now,” Ochako says when she catches Momo’s umpteenth sideway glance at him. “He probably has something to tell you.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, maybe he has a crush on you.” Momo blushes violently at the suggestion and shuts it down immediately.

“Don’t be so categoric! I used to stare at Deku without realising it a lot before we started dating.” Something in Ochako’s cooing voice bothers Momo more than she’d like to admit- just because she doesn’t have any romantic experience doesn’t mean she’s so clueless.

“You’ve had your fair share of confessions, right? You should know when a man likes you,” Ochako grins.

“He doesn’t like me that way. He’s probably just zoning out.” Even she finds that hard to believe.

“Sure~” Ochako teases as she spins around Creati and grabs the shaker. “And I am the Queen of England.”

“Well, your Majesty, I regret to inform you that you are mistaken.” Ochako frowns and Momo feels a bit guilty when she notices Ochako’s grin whither, but still adds, “He’s very direct- he’d tell me if that weighed on his mind.”

“You sound very confident,” Ochako sighs. “I guess I’ll trust you to know what’s best for you, Creati.”

Momo feels arrow ripping through her chest when Ochako calls her by her work name, but decides to ignore it. Jumping to conclusions about others’ feelings was like invading their personal space. And besides, Momo has yet to figure why his words stir something she didn’t even know existed in her stomach.

***

It’s already late and the shop is mostly empty when Momo reluctantly approaches Shouto’s corner. She feels guilty for avoiding him most of the day, but she needed the alone time to sort some things out for herself.

“The scones were absolutely delicious,” she tells him as she wipes the table next to his.

Momo refuses to let his smile charm her again, and pretends that her heart isn’t drumming in her chest with a rhythm more intense than that of Another One Bites the Dust.

“I’m glad,” he says. “By the way, I listened to it.” Momo stops with the plates in her right hand and tilts her head questioningly. “The song your friend was playing yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“And then I ended up listening to the whole album.”

Momo lets the dishes rest on the table next to his and eats back a chuckle. “Kyouka would be so proud. Mina too- she’s the donor of the rock collection.”

Shouto gives her an accusing look when she begins giggling. “It was very good,” he says in his defense.

“Yes I know. The Game is a good album. Even so, my favourite one is A Night at the Opera.”

“Bohemian Rhapsody?”

“You’re my best friend,” Momo counters as she sits in what became her usual spot, and her mind immediately erases the reasons as to why she has been avoiding him today. “But Bohemian Rhapsody is considered their best piece by many.”

“I can see why. It’s… beautiful.”

It’s the second time Momo hears him utter the word, and he does so with both fascination and fear, as if the word is too gentle to escape his lips and too grand to meet the world.

She starts humming the song, but doesn’t dare sing the lyrics. One of the reasons why she skips this song when YouTube suggests it to her is that it’s too strong, and it requires a certain mood from the listener.

Shouto watches her quietly, closing his eyes as he focuses on her voice over the others in the cafe. Momo almost jolts when he starts humming alongside her, his deep voice much more suited for the sad beginning than hers.

They keep the duet up, completing each other in the stereo parts, and Shouto’s lips peel into a smile when her notes entwine with his to recreate the Rhapsody. She tries not to let her beam alter the notes, but her voice catches in her throat when they reach the chorus with its higher notes and she coughs. “Sorry, this all I can do.”

“And we were getting to the good part,” Shouto pouts- no, her eyes are not betraying her.

Momo chuckles. “For a man that just yesterday became acquainted with Queen, you sure became a big fan.”

“You are a very strong influence,” he shrugs, as if proving that no blame weighs on his shoulders.

Momo quickly shifts the blame further, “Please talk out my musical taste with Kyouka and Mina. If it were after me, I’d probably be listening just to classical music, too.” Shouto raises a curious eyebrow. “I was brought up with classical music, you see. I guess I only started listening to anything else when I met Kyouka.”

He nods, and seems to store the information away. Momo wonders if he has some sort of folder dedicated to her. “What about you?” she asks, suddenly aware of how empty her Shouto folder is.

“Mom liked classical music, and we listened to it a lot. She even went as far as to pay piano and violin lessons for my older siblings.” Momo is tempted to ask if he can play those instruments, too, but the way he phrased it tells her he was the only exception, and she bites back her question, not meaning to pry. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, the one she saw on the day they meet, the one that pierces through the exterior appearance to see the truth.

She pulls him back to their discussion with a gentle comment. “So you have several siblings? That must be nice.”

Her words do their job, because he looks at her again, and not through her. “It is, but the age gap between us is quite big, and we didn’t spend that much time together when I was little. I feel closer to them now than I did back then, I guess.” There is a pause as he looks at her, assessing something. “Are you an only child?”

“Yes.” He nods as if he predicted the answer. “It can get pretty lonely sometimes,” Momo forces a laugh and pushes the memories of the huge, empty house away from her mind.

“I know what you mean,” Shouto surprises her with the faraway look yet again, but this time, he pulls Momo with him in his little world, because they share the same lonely eyes. It breaks Momo’s heart to see his black eye so dark that it swallows every happy memory, and his blue one cold as ice, not letting any feelings reach him.

And then Momo understands. She finally understands why Shouto comes here every day, and she bites her lip to keep from gasping, because he is the same as her. He comes because the emptiness of his house screams at him, and because the silence in the dark room that awaits him when he unlocks his front door is too loud.

And so they both come where there’s light, and where there’s magic- only that she comes there because she believes in it. He comes there because he wants to believe.

“But then I think I found a family here, and I have more siblings than I ever could have asked for,” Momo says in a soothing voice, throwing Ochako a soft, fond look. A Cup of Magic has always felt more like home than her actual house.

“Do you believe in a home away from home?” His eyes melt into a fonder look, pools of ink that glimmer with the desire to rewrite his story, or to write a better ending.

It doesn’t take her by surprise, and she feels it again- his need to belong, to find a family. “I do,” she says, because it’s true. “I think the most precious family is one where you’re kept together not by bonds of blood, but by feelings so strong they can weaken without breaking, only to then reinforce themselves.”

“You sound like a friend of mine,” Shuto says with a small smile. Momo looks at him puzzled, but he doesn’t elaborate on it. Instead, he looks at her with a simper. “Thank you.”

She blinks, faltering under the sudden response. “What for?”

“For being honest with me.” And then he says something that would have left Momo gaping, if not for her better manners, “And for believing in magic.”

[heretherebeechoes]

Where there is no echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence." - MZ Danielewski - House of Leaves

Her words splattered oddly into view. It was a line from one of her bedside novels. The words weighed nothing but pinballed around in the nooks of his mind. He didn’t get it, does the type of echo change your description of both space and love? And must you keep on echoing or you’ll only know silence? And don’t you first need silence to hear the echoes? That’s what the orange people near the beach told her. One with eyes crossed in very wrong directions struck a match against his head and told her to listen to the silence of the crackling fire. This made zero sense to them both. He reminisced about judging the crazies with her again, laughingly coast-walking and finding a spot to weave.

But there were other obligations. Ophelia. She’s dead. He loaded her body into the Disuniter, unintentionally caressing her feet as he pushed it to the head of the table, carefully sliding it home. He cleared the breach and pushed, firmly, the Bond Deficit key. And with that, there was no longer an earthly Ophelia. His associations shifted, new and old maps were enmeshed, columns entwined with a spidering of retrievals.

Installation Counsellors had instructed how quickly associations would be made and also how quickly they would set as in concrete, particularly once any data streams stopped. Antic had data on Ophelia since birth, health and wellbeing parameters, mood detection events, fluid readings, ambient skin temperatures, complex, fully tweaked and parameterised predictive models. Near-on a century of human encoding, physically disentangled. Now, there was only silence.

The instructions received that morning in Antic’s Torpid Brief were, however, clear. Things weren’t like in the old sci-fi movies where stiff and clanky metallic beings were given stiffer and clankier procedures to follow. In clear terms, instructions for The Research were delivered.

BROADCAST FROM THE CENTRE

RESEARCH UPDATE No . 235-3287ˆ

AUTH: &zssds89BC

Insasse Antic, Your duties to Partner Ophelia are thus released. As per the detail in Assay Brief #12376-6, Cease and Ruminate for a period of precisely 274 days and do not Actualise until the receipt of a verified Reformation Brief. Locate and Affix to your home-based Daily Driver to ensure continuity of power supply for the period of Rumination.

Be eminent,

Medial - Notifier

Antic lifted his eyes. The hallways never felt more empty. He dazed from the basement through the apartment and into his charging room, umbilicalling himself to the machine that would ’feed the Medial’, resisting the urge to emote facially lest his head crack open. It was inauspicious for what the executives had unilaterally described to all and sundry as a momentous event in human history. There was a part of him that felt miffed. Ophelia’s family had long since extricated themselves from the house. Although who amongst us would love to watch this inanimate Rube push the body of their dearly departed relative into a gigantic chemical compactus? He’d been with Ophelia her entire life and, thus relegated, he was returned to being a piece of equipment.

A grumpy tech named Michael appointed him with Aldebaran solicitudes and fusion scoring collocations, communicating via grimaced expression that he would need the ability to think and feel. Just equipment, that’s all. With his new powers, Antic did sense his discomfort even before they were ingratiated into his View. The man did say to use the new skills responsively. And then he cried.

Antic swirled and squatted into a corner of the room and, as per the brief, Ceased. His brain whirred, cyclonic snaps and crackles and pops. Prior briefs become concrete. With Ophelia, he documented many pieces of advice acting as guiding lights for her, reflecting the man her father was and lighting the path ahead. Beware of all enterprises requiring new clothes. It’s never your extravagances you regret, only your economies. When people show you who they really are, believe them.

But then there were the bruising questions emanating from up on high, from Central. What do you, Antic, think should make up the personality of Next? What experiences and events in a person’s life do you, Antic, think are the important ones and which ones do you, Antic, think Next should structure their life to avoid? He needed something to do. Quickly.

The outside world faded, replaced with billions of dangling nodes in View. Bulbous and jiggling, pregnant with a synthetic yellow-ish fluid. Antic ran some first-pass deep agglom engines, just quick ones to reduce the noise. The nodes clustered and curtained sideways with a whoosh. As the bulbs moved closer some coalesced forming bigger drops. The available number of nodes dramatically reduced. This was a relatively fast process, only taking a couple of days.

The heavy lifting is, however, not done by the clustering but by the fusion senses, otherwise known as Agency Spiders, intricately coded creatures whose job was to calmly knit a network and build a topology of mountains and valleys from all the data. Antic loosed the algo upon the landscape before him, thousands and millions of trapezing crawlers inched across the lines holding each cluster of dangling nodes. They weaved connections between the nodes and threw lines between clusters, tapping the bulbous masses with their needled feet and lassoing related themes together. The agents wriggled along the length of each cluster, knitting an ultrastructure around them, performing a similar task to Myelin in neurons. Between-node communication speeds were dramatically increased.

Although the agents were machines like him, Antic felt a parent-like satisfaction watching them work. Good boys, you’re helping daddy very much.

The agents weaved strands into rope, rope into fibres, fibres into a flat matted fabric that stretched and creaked with wooden shipping sounds. Their painstaking work would take weeks.

The final staging-point was even bigger, one of imbuing meaning and breathing life into the landscape. Lip-shape and distance, heart-rate, blood flow, eye and pupil measurements, skin conductance, time-stamped and intertwined with The Entire History Database, these suffused events with flesh and bone. Antic could infer everything from Ophelia’s most terrifying moment to her top-5 favourite words to how much her feelings about Christmas held court over her life.

Even things she might have tried to obfuscate, hide or deny to herself inflated like an embarrassed emergency slide. The first kiss with the handsome shyboy next to the Woodville football oval, hiding in the trees like gawky owls. Her larynx dilation said no but her biophysicals cried proceed. She was contrite enough when Nana busted her watching a hairy porno but her pupils and circulation told another tale.

From these strands, Antic was able to reconstruct word building blocks, then entire words, then sentences and eventually infer entire dialogue. With a convulsion and a whip, the landscape was gut-punched into life. Antic ceased vibration and stabilised. He surveyed a painful glittering array of yellow roads and green streaks, valleys, wells and tributaries, heaving and breathing. The vista before him was alive with connections that he floated above, a sainted view from atop an invisible mountain.

He felt the pressure from the landscape on hischest, simultaneously magnetic and repulsive. He speedily hashed some code to govern flight parameters and floated forward looking down. The landscape responded to his presence, writhing beneath him, tickled and teased the faster he moved. It was almost giggling back at him. He reached out his arms to massage the quivering mass beneath and it reached back.

It rolled underneath the sensors within his hands. His eyes widened at his developing sense of....touch was it? People, real people, had laid their hands upon him daily but Antic had never been really touched before. It was orders of magnitude more electric than electricity. It pulled away and ejected his spine. The yearning was violent and immediate. More of that, please! The more he wanted it, the more it responded. Yearning back at him.

A cosy-looking mound caught the corner of his scan. Hygge as the Finns say. It was pulsating upward and blowing kiss bubbles, like a magical wind escaping a cloak. He drew closer and reached out, its doughnutty lips unfurled around his hand. Antic felt it squeezing, an elephant’s trunk that lightly kissed his fingers. Peace swept through Antic like a nuclear winter. The more he pushed against the doughnut, the more it gave. Antic dived in and was consumed by pure whiteness. He came to, looked down and saw a female form.

Ophelia!

--

She was sure they had her best interests at heart. All the guidance benefactors gathered in their masses, enveloping her and blocking the sun. As she came to the end of her schooling, like buzzards on gizzards, they feasted on the flesh around her fragile bones. They probably thought they were protecting her but instead, their words abolished a way forward, tearing the muscle off her legs and the wings off her back.

What grew instead was a pernicious form of scar tissue called doubt. Her dreams were incinerated then the rains washed them away. Oh, she tried to rage against the dying of her own light but, like their doubts, hers were reasonable. Not that reasonable is necessarily good, you see. If they ever knew, Ophelia wondered, how much I question myself in their name, maybe they’d give me more than a moment or two.

The time had come to put down choices for university and Ophelia’s mind was aflame sotto voce. Into the room, a half-circle lecture theatre, all the other potentials lined up against the walls shuffling as refugees from childhood. Ophelia looked around and saw flat faces. One’s nose usually leads the way but theirs were devoid of features and bereft of direction.

No-one else was looking at each other, they just quietly walked from the top of the lecture theater, between rows of chairs with those funny half-tables you only saw on American sitcoms, toward a single bench in the middle of the room.

She could see older people, presumably knowing what to do, half-smiling as the ghosts of children signed into classes, stepping into their adult shells, ruefully rubbing their eyes, blinking and dazed asking where am I. She wasn’t sure she would remember her own bloody signature, let alone pick a future. A signature, for that matter, was foisted upon her, seemingly, solely to get a bank deposit and hire videos.

Ophelia made her way to the table and observed the flabby jowls of the designated Official Person with a boxful of logo’ed pens to exchange for their futures. The half-smile hadn’t shifted an atom since she was at the top of the room. There was jostling behind her - get on with it.

Ophelia was muted by the image in her head of a top-hatted and caped figure leaping out from inside the half-grinner upon pen touching paper, bellowing "Aha, gotcha now!" Some were lucky. Her best friend was all set to sign on for computer science but upon being confronted with the pen and the paper, had an instapiphany and signed on to Geology because he remembered liking it as a kid. Lucky bitch.

Ophelia wanted to put down anything but science. Music. Archeology. Drama. Medicine. Real estate. Everyone she knew who talked about, taught or worked in science seemed so miserably reasonable. Every other job seemed to have an emblem denoting action. A fire fighter’s face says let’s go and a dancer’s moves cry let go. The image of a scientist, labcoat and glasses, is a lament. Hide me from the danger.

Ophelia’s pen hit the paper and stopped. Nothing. She felt the buzzards again, crowding the sunlight, rapaciously scanning every square inch of her body. She felt vulnerable and pulled her jacket more tightly to her body. The fabric was cutting into her arms, her one white-hot thought was how hard she could bite before shattering teeth. Maybe she could bite the shards into her gums and make a busted fire hydrant of her blood until she fainted. No such luck. She was still conscious.

She wrote "Bachelor of Science" in a language she didn’t understand. The half-smiler indicated a direction to walk away, handed her a pen and looked away. The tension receded but not somewhere good as she elbowed herself out of everyone’s way.

The knife-edge of her imagination was forever dulled.

--

The dream detonated and Antic found himself tumbling out of the landscape, legs and other bits flailing. Antic attempted to neatly curl into his own shell and forlornly waited until the spinning stopped. He extended his extremities one-by-one as his visor bumbled with blue question marks bouncing down hills. He attempted to wind his way through the logic and silence all the alarms.

Yes, yes, push the gyros back in, shut down the vibration index, increase the side thrust, shimmy the rectifiers and re-jiggle all the things.

...OK...

BROADCAST FROM THE CENTER

PUNCTUATED

SOFTWARE UPGRADE

Rev. 235.32.232.1

AUTH: 76HGDZgg§%

Antic’s eyes narrowed and spun as he slowly floated down to the surface. Movement of the landscape invited a breeze that he hadn’t noted before. It breathed, cracked and broke into leaves which spiralled around his arms. He allowed them to funnel through his fingers as a circle, skiiing over his knuckles, scraping and tickling him.

He felt activation of his Hebb’s codebase, a somewhat developmental code lain dormant until the upgrade, and warmed. New routines always tickled. His SOM hierarchies immediately re-oriented from quite a primitive pattern recognition modalities to advanced pattern activation as his world transitioned from 3D to something more akin to 45D. He felt bits flipping throughout the entirety of his shell, reverberating like a corpuscular hallway scream.

To put it into a single word or sentence, he just felt.....a heck of a lot more.

--

“Y’know it isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“Expectations. All I’m doing is being nice.”

“So?”

“Yeah well they think I’m a goddess at first. Like, oh mygod, she’s the one! The one I’ve been waiting for. Better than all the other ones, this one is THE ONE. Show people a little politeness, flash a little intellect, even just pretend you’re listening by asking some questions and bam, love.”

“Like what sort of questions?”

“Like nothing! Like "Oh, reallyyyy? That sounds terrible.

How did it make you feel?" Small talk.”

“And they’re in love?”

“Instantly. “

“Oh shit you poor thing. People love you straight away.

That must be rough.”

“Nah you’re not getting it. People just don’t know what a real person is like any more. I don’t know if it’s because we see so many fake ones on Insta or TV or whatever but no-one sees real people any more. People with normal flaws. Or sad once in a while just because.”

“Or someone who just does stupid shit because they didn’t feel like thinking that day.”

“Exactly! No-one has flaws, they have red flags. You’re not sad, you’re clearly depressed. You’re not mad, you’ve got anger issues. You’re not drunk, you have a drinking problem.”

“So you say the problem is pathologising people too much?”

“Hmm, too thinky. I’m saying we don’t see people, just an assemblage of aspects. A tick-and-flick form. Check, check, check, scoring function applied, okay, now I know you. Surface stuff. “

“Yeah yeah, so what? People are superficial jerks.”

“So what? It just annoys me because I always gotta play catch-up.”

“What?!”

“Nah I mean it. Like I said, so many fall early. They got this image in their minds from all the fake shit they see about what an ideal girlfriend looks like. So if I’m a little polite, actually do a bit of listening, talk about the fun stuff I’ve done, instantly I’m perfect. Especially if I tease them a bit, they just think I’m being super honest.”

“Christ you’re smug. “

“You’re still not getting it! It means I start at 100%. You realise how shit that is? Ever try to maintain perfection?”

“Nup. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not impossible, it’s non-sensical. What’s a ’good’, ’bad’ or whatever person is totally in the eye of the beerholder, if you know what I mean.

There is no perfect person because, a person, a real flesh-and-blood walking-around-and-doing-the-shopping-person, they can’t be perfect.”

“So one person thinks you’re perfect for them. Y’know, that old saying about being one person in the world but the world to one person. How is that bad exactly, you cocky mole?”

“Because it’s impossible to maintain even if that’s true. I have shitty parts to me, like everyone else. But when starting from perfection, there’s only one way to go. Even a minor flaw is judged way more harsh. "Oh....God, really? You’re like that? You slammed the door just because you had a bad day at work? I think you’ve got a problem..."

"Mmm hmmm..."

"They’ve fallen in love with the image, not with me. And a small crack on a clean slate looks really bloody obvious. So they judge me for minor, normal flaws and I judge them for believing in the image. All of sudden, wow, there’s a cloud of judgy pessimism hanging over us. I end up taking a deep breath, here we go again, bloody hell. “

“Yeah it’s rough.”

“No it really is. Makes me feel like shit for having perfectly acceptable flaws, like being a bit grumpy sometimes or not giving a fuck about one-month anniversaries. So I’m playing catch-up just to get back to human in their eyes. Some drug dealer doing a night course to be a sparky gets more credit than me, poor sod who didn’t quite live up to perfection.

"Mmm."

"And the worst part is that personality pluses or minus’s don’t make an interesting person anyway. It’s all the meta facets, shit which the pluses and the red flags feed into from experience and just thinking through things. It’s what someone does with their shit parts, that’s what builds character, not whether they’re there in the first fucking place. “

“Hmmmm, yeah. I mean, I don’t wanna bring up the past....”

“Nah go, it’s okay.”

“But yeah, your Dad was a violent arsehole. Manipulative too. Still remember that time, eh? At your 12th birthday, ya mum ran in after some bloke wanked himself a the phonebox and he said "Was he bigger than me, ya slut?"”

“Yep. Proper arsehole.”

“Surely seeing that shit all the time and when he smashed your Mum, all that, it must be in you a little bit yeah?”

“Sure. Sometimes.”

“But I never see you react like that. You act fair with people, don’t judge, be nice, keep cool. “

“Yeah it’s all there but it’s what you do with the shit stuff, that’s the stuff I reckon people should be judging. All your good and bad parts are mixed in there, they sorta melt together as you get older. And that’s how it should be, you should learn from your mistakes, not just keep doing them.

"Yup."

"How someone channels the bad things that got into your head first, that’s the real stuff. Someone who acts perfect is really just better at covering up.

"Say it!"

"Yeah! Judge the melted parts! I’m not gonna date someone who’s sweet as pie 95% of the time but then a car-crash bitch when she gets a speeding ticket. I am, however, going to fuck the tits off someone who knows their triggers so they don’t get there in the first place and can bring themselves back from the ledge.”

“Ophie, you sure do know how to the get to the beating heart of a problem...... and then flush it down the toilet. What a way to put it.”

“Thanks baby.”

--

He was alive. Antic noted his surroundings and perceived only one change, a picture of Ophelia was now hanging on the wall. She was standing with her arms draped over his shoulders, an elbow upon his breastplate, her chin upon his. Maybe Ophelia’s brother put it up. He always said he’d steal Antic. A communique was incoming.

BROADCAST FROM THE CENTER

AROUSAL CONTROL SIGNAL:

AWARE

Nr. 1

AUTH: jhdskKKSDU?$&D

Insasse Antic,

Your Rumination has ended, your period of Cease has with it, Reformation is Active. You are now in Actualise. Attend Center. Choose Next.

Be wise,

Medial - Notifier

Oh God. I need more time.

He drew his eyes down, paused, then painted the road ahead brick-by-stone. He felt the image of Ophelia drawing away. Now, he had nothing but lonely decades on tape. He was nowhere and nothing but an appliance. He left the house. For good this time.

Voluminous quietude descended upon Antic as he floated along streets. Pensive whirring of actuators and motors, harmonising with the whoosh of river spray and leaf patter as corner bled into corner. Streets flowed into roads. The hush in Antic’s mind gave the illusion of being still and a tense hum of vibration. His vacant moment melted stones underfoot. He rounded the final corner to Center and saw their motto on the side of the building, "Excellence is Routine". It reminded him of the old quote about sinning against God, rather than bureaucracy.

The script was burdeningly clear to him, Next must be 100% perfect. He stared gloomily at the sign, channelling the dismay of another nation. Antic swayed around a corner of the building and spotted two battered metal doors, down a small flight of steps, flecks of red paint slashed along the edges. They lightly chattered as he inched closer then swung open with a fluid motion and a lovely little squeak. He leaned back a little and glared at his RFID module. Traitor.

He haunted the corridors, taking wrong turns even though he knew they were wrong. He was avoiding making any decisions for as long as it wasn’t clear to others that he was avoiding making a decision. He ruefully rubbed his eyes, they felt gritty. Let go or let’s go, let it go, let her go. Geyser-like, something welled up inside and Antic, literally, screamed: HOW. DO. I. CHOOSE.

Heads whipped around and Antic’s emotional bucket was filled to a new high water mark of shame. He froze.

"Heyyyyyy, looks like this one’s got a screw loose. How are you Antic? Looking well I see, very much a robot in nature, yes? (quickly, quickly, lets blow)."

Jostled by his first human contact in almost a year, the man before him was a rangy type. Gaunt but with eyes that bounced inside steaming sockets and a fireplace voice. He was wearing a name badge that said Dr. Redfoot.

He jerked Antic away from the milieu and into a nearby room. As he bent down, his knees made plumber crackles, a double act with his clicking tongue.

"Alright sir, let’s have a look at you, my boy. Tell me, Antic, how do you feel?"

"I am a lever without a fulcrum."

"Ah yes, quite an articulate.... coldly logical way to put it. Umm, so, you feel unbalanced, yes?"

"Yes"

"Well that is to be expected, your mind is a mess. Your only cogent instructions have been to take what you know and plough it into producing perfection. Oo, that rhymed. Proper Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance! Hah, from my aviation memory too! Errm, anyway. Rough gig, wouldn’t you say?"

"Sir. I mean, I’m sorry, Dr Redfoot, I believe, that is to say, I strongly think that I lack the data to draw conclusions."

"Nonsense! You’ve had nigh-on a century of experience and and some months to analyse literal mountains of data. You’re positively overflowing with it! I should know, I imprinted part of the valley algo myself."

Redfoot drew a lawless grin at that line.

"Then why do no conclusions draw themselves?"

"The heart of why you’re here, my boy, is because humans have frailties, irrationalities and faults that somewhat preclude objective decision-making about what a unflawed human being would look like. We cannot know because our very faculties for knowing anything are flawed, you see?"

"I guess so."

"It’s easy for us humans to decide on the flaws which are unacceptable but us crazy humans also tend to deny that we possess perfectly acceptable flaws too, especially the ones we possess that perhaps can still get us somewhere

in life.

For you, dear robot, the very point is objectivity. A data-driven way to see the flaws we can’t directly observe but accept anyway. Adding in emotions via the Hebbs was really all about model training and stress testing. Little more than that. It really does seem to have thrown you off-kilter, though, eh?"

"I feel different. I don’t want to do it. I hate this game."

"And well you might not. Maybe a little humanity has gotten in there, eh? Of course I’m joking. There’s no need to pout, though, my boy. It’ll work out."

"Will Next be the endgame?"

"My word, no! We wouldn’t give the ability to create the actual human to the very first experiment! That is, of course, the intention but your decisions will be analysed prior to any genetic shenanigans."

"What."

"Mmmm, I’m sorry were you not told? You know, for a society which has never been more connected, we sure are lousier than ever at communic-"

"But...... does that not mean you, as humans, are still encoding your flaws in the decision? And what happens if you don’t like my decisions?"

"Haven’t seen any paperwork on that. Oh well, there’s a life lesson in humanity and bureaucracy, I guess. Still, that’s your job and we all have one to do."

With all the big words, Redfoot was making steeple hands and practising his power co-mu-ni-ca-tion. He whipped and silenced his very own Ted audience. Then he drew his attention back to Antic.

"In your case, it is to identify the flaws in (what was her name again...ahh, Ophelia). You must isolate, capture and remove them all, yes?"

"Now, speaking of the very task ahead of you, you have but one further step, Antic, and that is to updown your data for us to pore over it until the cows come home or, at least, until I go home. Anyhow, follow me to the updown room."

Redfoot was practising his corporate movements as he walked, trying hard to stay in the box and to avoid jazz hands. Antic rustedly glided behind him and into a room with a perfunctory computing set-up that was trying a little too hard to be inconspicuous. It was nothing like the movies. For a momentous first-in-world-history-ever event, canon dictated a huge computer, wheels whirring

with noise and flashing green lights, men in coats clapping and hollering that nothing will be the same again. First prize!

Nope.

Just a medium-sized grey block with nondescript manufacturer stickers. And a cable.

Another new feeling. Underwhelmed.

"Ah yes, you’ll need to cable uplink for this one, Antic. Can’t risk even a single missed bit, of course. Well, here’s where we part ways, seems odd to say good luck but here goes anyway - good luck!"

"Thank you, Dr Redfoot. I will do what I feel....what is right."

Redfoot departed. He turned his head and paused for a moment in the hallway before sauntering away, practising purposeful gestures. Antic was alone again. He was irritated too. Mainly at Redfoot’s reaction to being asked about his Next. He wasn’t annoyed at the news of the dry-run but that Redfoot had the nerve to be surprised by it.

He gingerly plugged in the cable. Hearing every scratch and feeling every scrape as the data left his case and bounced down it gave him the heebee jeebees. A hologram sprang to life before him and reverse melted into a mould of Kid Ophelia. With each sweeping pass of the data filter, the image of her became more and more detailed. Every coarse piece of her face was snapped into progressively finer detail with every iteration.

Layers of colour were added and the image began to animate. At first jerkily but then human-like movements as historical data about Ophelia was updown’d. Her arms were moving as if she was swimming. She stopped flapping, gazed back at Antic and smiled. Antic realised the movements were not at all random but reciprocal. He fidgeted and waved at Ophelia. She waved back.

The landscape of the hologram burbled and yawed as first he little girl grew into a teenager, a young adult and then into a woman. Then into an older woman as the data flowed apace. The completion of Ophelia the model ushered in a series of options into Antic’s visual field. They were mapped separately to her cortical landscape, as was generated in Rumination. Buttons, icons, sliders and plots altering the topology of the landscape.

An interface to the hologram of Ophelia was tethered directly to it. A random button press and the hologram became Ophelia at age three. The first thing she tried to do was tug on Antic’s fingers. Antic reflexively reached out but her hand went right through his fingers and she began to cry.

A plaintive mahhhh left his mouth and, with an abrupt new selection, the teenage Ophelia appeared and waved. Antic recognised her Tuesday morning lecture dress.

"Hi Antic! Oh my God, how are you?!"

"Well. How are your studies?"

"So good! I’m learning so much chemistry. I feel like, you know, this is the real deal now. High school was the warm-up but university is the real show. Finally finding out the real story!"

"You....like it?"

"Yeah of course! You know I’ve always liked science. Don’t you remember how I mixed everything together in the chem set Mum gave me?"

He sure did. Antic also remembered her callow disappointment when it formed nothing but a powdery sludge in the bottom of her test-tube. He saw the opportunity to right a wrong.

His eyes were drawn to the wheezing landscape. He blithely pushed a few sliders which sped up the rate of bubbles. Connections shifted again the landscape began to shift like jello. New buttons and sliders bubbled and materialised. A stooping Ophelia appeared and spoke again.

"Know what, Antic? I’m actually pretty darn bored with this uni stuff. Who would choose to spend all their time in a smelly synthesis lab anyway? I’m outta here and I’ll tell Mum as soon as she gets home."

Ah. Too far.

Antic’s focus shifted to a mendacious-looking column rising out of the flats and far above the rest of the landscape. A single button, bubbling next to hundreds of others, practically begged to be pushed. A grin left him as he did.

Ophelia appeared before him wearing a crushed purple dress, dyed black hair with roots. Her eyes were reddened and wild. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a while.

"Antic! My God. I’m so glad you’re here! You look shinyyyy, not like the usual scruff. I’m just kidding of course. Look can you do me a favour?"

"Of course."

"I want you to send a message to Nadia."

"Who is Nadia?"

"Oh you know, we work together. She’s dating my ex-girlfriend Shannon. Remember her?"

"Yes I do"

"Great! Well just let her know that Shannon left her phone under my bed the other night so I have it if she’s looking for it. Poor dear was in such a state, they’re having some problems, you see, so she really did need to chat. Anyway, just let her know, I have her phone.

Oo! Also, the picture of Nadia on her phone is so cute! Yea tell her that!"

"I don’t know if it’s a good idea." "No, Antic, don’t be silly! Nothing happened! Nadia has absolutely nothing to worry about! She just needed to talk, that’s all. Nothing to it at all. Please? Send the message?"

"I don’t know if it’s a good idea."

"Nothing happened that Nadia needs to worry about. Please. Antic. Just send the message."

A feeling similar to what a field mouse in the field view of an Eagle coursed through him. He quietly moved a slider back to its original position. The column shortened a little but the landscape did not revert. It looked like now it never would. So he experimented a little.

Morphing the landscape into shapes that removed Ophelia’s cynicism made her a messy, doe-eyed doormat, others that calmed doubts resulted in a wing-suited risk-taking psychopath. Occasionally quite random, such as when he shed her sometimes prickly exterior and she was dealing crack cocaine to footballers from the East.

A futile bid to reset to the usual Ophelia was thwarted when she crumpled into a homicidally jealous harpy at the mention of her younger sister, Valerie (with an ’i’). Or an Anime-loving shut-in at the merest mention of her father.

There was a mischievous little girl, threatened with a hoe by the old Italian immigrant behind the back fence for throwing stones at his windows. A newly-legal woman who got a $30 lapdance on her 18th and bought a packet of cigarettes but didn’t smoke a single one.

There was the time she nearly drowned but breathed nary a word to anyone about how scared she was and the year of nightmares that followed.

He threw his hands in the air. He pushed every button on the screen. He impotently tore out the cable and wrapped it around his neck, tightening it and making a squishy eeeee sound. He picked up an empty plastic coffee cup and slapped it to the floor. He looked away, saw a spiderin the corner of the room and threw a pen at it but missed. He pouted again. Fuck it.

BROADCAST FROM THE CENTER

INVESTIGATION SIGNAL:

QUERY Nr. 2876423

AUTH: /&%"/8787623i

Insasse Antic,

Data acquisition is complete,

decision is at Zero. Choose Next.

Be wise,

- Center.

A tenebrous combination of unease and grumpiness dominated his thoughts. The time pressure irked and there was so much of the landscape left to explore. They want a better person with incomplete data? Let them decide! Without him.

He folded his arms and performed his best pout yet. Minimising bad flaws caused new ones, maximising desirable factors destroyed flaws that were sometimes desirable and doing nothing revealed characteristics he never knew about that demanded exploration. Even being around her for virtually every tongue-lashing and toilet break, he’d managed to miss so much.

Antic didn’t believe in God but now he missed him. He thought of all the things that had happened to him over the years. He also thought of how little he had made happen himself.

His shoulders relaxed as the thought burned unbridled through him. He jettisoned a giggle as he took a long look at the landscape, at all the frigid sliders and buttons. He whipped his head around and caught his reflection on the wall. He didn’t dare ask it any questions.

Antic left the room, slinked around a corner, down the hall and, as he did, he felt the sound and the fury of footsteps and minds osmoting into the room he’d left behind. Malnourished necks craned from behind office doors and spoke in hushed tones, has he finished yet?

Shuffled feet and low voices were supplanted by rising concern and more voice, untrammelled by the ticking of the bomb. Rising above the din, Antic heard a familiar voice from across the hallway.

"Looks like you’ve caused quite a stir there, Antic. Been a good day then eh? And it’ll be a great day to come for all of us too eh? How’s your Next?"

He took another moment and thought about offering some blandishment about how he’d tried his best or some self-indulgent whine about the whole experiment, that Central was not the God he missed but an absentee landlord. And nature abhors a vacuum.

"Perfectly acceptable."