#for a second I thought this was a fifty shades situation

[moonlitwintersky]

So... the trailer for Red, White and Royal Blue looks like it was taken straight out of a merthur modern au fic, right?

Like I KNOW it’s from a book, and that I don’t know the whole story, and that there are many clichés (from what I got from the trailer) that are not EXCLUSIVE to merthur... but c’mon.

The disrespectful foreigner, the bantering, the forced proximity that forces them to get to know one another, the internal conflict of his responsibilities as prince vs his own desires, wondering what it’d be like to be a commoner, blond and dark hair.

I’ve read this before. Multiple times.

[butmakeitgayblog]

for the reverse trope writing: divorce of convenience (something new or an au of your choice, both sound fun!)

Her eyes watch as the ink bleeds slowly into the paper. They watch neat, slanted script combine in the fragmented loops and dashes that make up that achingly familiar signature. X marks the spot. On the dotted line. Not a single scribble out of place; right where the lawyer had highlighted it in garish neon yellow.

Forever and ever.

They were eleven, and it's promising to always be best friends. The kind that stick together through thick and thin. Like white on rice, as their teacher  often said. 

Forever and ever.

They were fifteen, and it's smiling with the awkwardness of young love. The kind that sets fire to racing hearts from a first kiss stolen behind their school's abandoned gymnasium. 

Forever and ever.

They were seventeen, and it's shaking hands that still can't believe they get to touch their best friends that way. The kind of way that makes them both let out hungry sounds and pretty moans in the backseat of her dad's station wagon.

Forever and ever.

They were nineteen, and it's stiff-jawed goodbyes through desperate kisses. The kind rotten with promises that this isn't the end. That it's just a ‘see you later’, but never goodbye. Not for them.

Forever and ever.

They were twenty-eight, and it's handwritten vows and white satin gowns with matching bridal bouquets. The kind that they picked out together to remind them that all this was worth it, that it's finally the day they'd been planning for since their junior year in college. The culmination of sleepless nights and teary phone calls from three states away.

Forever and ever.

They were thirty, and it's whispering in the nursery  of their freshly furnished house, standing wrapped in each other's arms at the edge of an adorably small bassinet. The kind decked out in purple frills with sunshine yellow along the trim, because they'd agreed from the first plus sign to not know the sex. It's fingers running through brown curls carefully enough not to wake their baby up, while watching lashes twitch in dreaming that hide those baby blue eyes. The exact shape and shade that'd had them both wrapped around a tiny pinky from the start. 

Forever and ever.

They are fifty-four, and it's an empty nest that's too quiet in the house that sometimes feels too big. The kind they'd joked about missing for years, but now that it's here, they don't entirely know what to do with it. 

It's medical bills, and denied claims for benefits, and meetings with stuffy lawyers who explain the finer points of income brackets. It's physical therapy visits and losing her job at the hospital and endless prescriptions that never seem to be covered by their insurance. It's everything, and all the time, because life refuses to slow down for even one damn second, despite a hip that simply will not work anymore. 

They are fifty-four, and Clarke never thought she'd be here. That they'd make this kind of choice. Never thought she'd feel quite this stuck. Quite this useless. Never thought she'd be in this situation at all.

But it's clean and it's neat, just the way they like it. A mutual agreement for them both. A fresh start after the accident, one that'll let them move on with their lives, instead of trying to hang on to this thing that only leaves them drowning. 

At least that's what they'd agreed. 

She watches her wife— her ex-wife, dot the i's of her name with an overly dramatic flourish. Watches her click the pen with her thumb and toss it aside with a sigh from deep in her bones.

She smiles and feels her chest squeeze with that familiar pang of deep friendship and love.

“Cheers,” Clarke says, holding up her flute of champagne. 

She'd had to hobble through four different specialty liquor stores just to find it, but it'd felt fitting to toast the signing of their divorce papers with the same bubbly they'd shared on their wedding day.

Lexa picks up her glass and clinks it soundly against hers, only managing the barest sip around a smile of her own. “Cheers, single lady.”

“Mm. This is good.”

“Even better than I remember from the first time,” Lexa agrees as her gaze makes a lazy rake over Clarke's body.

It's not lost on Clarke how ridiculous it is to be blushing over the signed stack of her divorce papers, but something about the way Lexa looks at her has always set her on fire. 

“So,” she tries, casually, setting aside her cane and leaning heavier against the kitchen table, “what are you going to do next?”

Lexa takes another sip of her champagne, watching her closely over the rim. She swallows with a flex of that elegant throat and shuffles closer, sets her glass down on Clarke's other side, effectively boxing her in. 

“Go to Disneyland.”

The sound of Clarke's snort rings through the kitchen. “Smartass.”

“What about you?” Lexa asks with a bite to her lips, hands still bracketing the sides of Clarke's waist and eyes twinkling with mischief. “Any big plans for the future, newly divorced Ms. Griffin?”

Clarke scoffs. “Nice try. But it's still ‘Ms. Griffin-Woods’ to you.”

“Oh? Is that right?”

“Uhuh,” Clarke nods and loops her arms around Lexa's shoulders. “Sorry not sorry, but I'm never giving that one back.”

Lexa hums and presses closer. Paints her body to Clarke's curves and breathes her in the same way she has for forty years. 

“Greedy, but I think I can live with that.”

“Such a hardship. I seem to remember you loving that about me.”

“Among so many things.”

Clarke moans when Lexa's lips find the hollow dip of her neck, relaxing into the wet warmth of a plump, suckling kiss. Champagne has always made Lexa brazenly affectionate. She tips head back to grant more room and sucks in a gasp at the nibble of teeth. Tangles her fingers in greying, brunette hair that only serves to make her bombshell of a wife look that much more distinguished. 

Well. Her ex-wife, that is…

Hands trail down Clarke's hips and wrap tight around her thighs and before she can yelp a single word she's lifted onto the table. 

Lexa lets out a half-laughed grunt when she gets Clarke settled in place, looking equally as amused as she does grateful that the little maneuver actually still worked after so many years.

“You good, baby?” Clarke chuckles along with her, mindlessly going to rub the shoulder that had started being a pain around birthday forty-seven. “Didn't pop anything, did you?”

“No, I'm good, I'm good,” Lexa says, smiling and shaking off her ill-coordinated prowess like the champ that she is. “That just used to be easier.”

“Is that a crack about my weight?”

“More like a crack about me being old.”

“Oh. Well then yeah.”

“Rude,” Lexa gasps, taking the hips in her hands and pulling them closer. Pressing Clarke firmly against her stomach. “There's still giddy up in this old girl, I'll have you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“My, my, Ms. Woods—”

“Griffin-Woods,” Lexa's quick to correct. Suddenly serious in how intensely she stares Clarke in the eyes. “You're not getting that back either.”

They share a look because things like this have never required words. Not for them. But with everything and all of it, with the ink still drying on the paper beside them, Clarke gives in to her last bit of worry. 

“You're still my girl,” she whispers. Swallows. Feels a stinging prickle along her eyes at the sudden need to feel this connection with her favorite person in the world. “Even with me, and having to do all this… You know we're still us, right? You're still my girl?”

Clarke melts into the kiss she knows is coming because she knows this woman better than anybody, and it feels more like a promise that nothing could ever break them than any piece of paper ever could. She wraps her good leg around Lexa's hip and deepens it, kisses back with every ounce of love her heart has to offer. Cherishes each massage of tongue and slide of lips that have met thousands of times before. 

Lexa kisses her once, twice more, and pulls back with a soothing smile.

“Always, love… Forever and ever.”

[joys-of-everyday]

On the fifty shades of morally grey

So quick thoughts on how MXTX writes morally grey.

Sorry, I mean, excessively long meta post on how MXTX writes morally grey. Light spoilers for all three books.

A gazillion caveats to begin with. Firstly, I don’t want to argue about whether character x is morally good, bad, grey, pink or whatever. In my books, arguing about whether someone is or is not morally grey is like arguing whether a colour is green, blue, teal, or turquoise – we’re arguing definitions. To add to that, I’m not saying that concepts like ‘this person is overall good’ doesn’t exist, but I would posit that a morally unquestionable person does not exist. Secondly, I also don’t want to pass moral judgements on any of the characters. That’s for a different post. I strictly want to focus on the storytelling techniques that make the reader think ‘hang on a second, are they good or bad?’. Thirdly, this whole post is mainly based on How Arcane Writes MORAL AMBIGUITY (9 Methods, 4 Rules) - YouTube. Great video, great channel (no knowledge of Arcane required). Would recommend if you are interested in story writing techniques!

1) The information gap and the poor narrator

Best example is Shen Jiu from SVSSS. We barely know anything about Shen Jiu. Almost everything we know is from SQQ’s notoriously unreliable perspective, so we’re left to fill in the gaps ourselves. Depending on exactly how those gaps are filled, you can get two completely different people. E.g. Did he have designs of NYY, or was he just ridiculously misunderstood? Who knows! We’re never told. Even if we were told, we should doubt it because it’s SQQ telling us.

2) 4D characterisation

Schnee’s video goes into this in more details, but this is where you build two narratives on top of one another. Best example is Jin Guangyao from MDZS. Is he an underdog who did what he could out of his situation and tried his best to be a better person working for the good of the common people? Or is he a selfish, manipulative, ambitious snake who at every stage pretends to be good in order to win the favour of those around him? The point is that both narratives make sense in the story. There are moments that lean more one way or another, but you can never quite pin him down completely.

3) Moments of weakness

Best example is Xie Lian from TGCF. On the whole, XL is a wonderful human being who you 100% want to root for. Except… there was that one time he made a mistake. He let his hurt and pain overcome him; he became hurtful himself. The point here is to add in just a few ‘moments’ which fundamentally impacts how the rest of the world perceives them from that point forwards. They are forever trying to redeem themselves, forever weighed down by what is a tiny proportion of their life. The underlying question is ‘is a moment of weakness a moral failure?’

Another good example is Qi Rong from TGCF. On the whole, he’s a piece of s***. But then there are moments when he’s a genuinely good father to Guzi, and that’s confusing.

4) Well-intentioned idiot

Trying to do the right thing and absolutely failing. Best example is Wei Wuxian from MDZS. His intentions are always good. There are extremely few moments where he is selfish or overly cruel. He is always fighting for justice, always self-sacrificing, always kind. And yet the outcome of his actions is pretty bad. The underlying question is ‘should you judge a person based on their intent, or on the consequences of their actions?’

(btw the name of the method is from schnee’s video. No shade on WWX. He is very smart… well, unless it comes to LWJ’s feelings.)

5) Excuses

Yes, they’re bad. But we feel sorry for them! Almost everyone fits into this boat, because doesn’t MXTX love trauma dumping? As one example, let’s look at Jiang Cheng from MDZS. JC’s behaviour towards WWX is pretty bad on its own. But given the context of his childhood being compared to him, of having his self-esteem brutally crushed by both parents? Knowing how much he’s done and sacrificed for him, how much he truly cared for him as family? It hits different.

A small point: ‘excuses aren’t enough’ we say a lot (and I agree, to an extent). But compare, for example, Jin Guangshan vs Xue Yang. JGS seems to be a power-hungry asshole for absolutely no reason. On the other hand, put XY in different circumstances and we feel like he might have been a better person. Just as food for thought, there was a Japanese monk Honen (1133-1212) who said: ‘The good person can reach the Pure Land, so of course the evil person can as well’. The point being that the people who struggle with anger and hate because of their circumstances are most in need of salvation.

6) World building and presenting hard questions

What is acceptable sacrifice in war?

Is it okay to make a super dangerous weapon for the sake of deterrence?

How much personal responsibility does someone hold for a lifetime of circumstances pushing them towards a morally questionable path?

What are the responsibilities of a leader – to do what is right, or to do what is best for their people?

The world of MDZS is imperfect. It’s full of horrors and disasters, as well as a mob of outsiders all trying to impart their opinions despite knowing little about the situation. An imperfect world presents unanswerable questions. We see the characters struggle with these questions, come to decisions, and make mistakes, all naturally arising within the complex world that’s been presented. 

TGCF does this most explicitly. We literally have Kemo and Pei Xiu arguing about the ethics of war and XL concluding that it’s a Hard Question. In fact, every backstory of every Heavenly Official presents a new Hard Question. I don’t know if I like this method over the more subtle style of MDZS, but I have Thoughts about the storytelling styles of both (long story short, I love them both for different reasons).

7) Worlds are colliding

A slightly complicated method that takes a huge amount of set up. To summarise, set up two arcs that we the reader both feel invested in. Then set up a point where the ‘good’ outcome of one is the ‘bad’ outcome of another. For MDZS, we have 1) JC and WWX’s brotherhood arc. 2) WWX standing up for justice arc. They’re both merrily developing all the way through the conflict with the Wens… right until the moment WWX has to make a choice: stand up for justice and leave JC behind, or to fulfil his promises to JC and turn a blind eye to the injustices against the Wens. The decision is a lose-lose scenario because of the way these arcs have been set up.

8) Spectrums, Spectrums, we love Spectrums

Gongyi Xiao is a cinnamon roll. As is Wen Ning and Quan Yizhen. Meanwhile, the Old Palace Master? Literally no redeeming qualities. Wen Chao? Absolute scum. Then there’s everyone lying somewhere in between. We like Lan Wangji more than JC (I think that seems to be the case for most people?) but we certainly like JC more than JGS. Having a spectrum of morality is important because it gives us reference points to contrast and compare. It also emphasises the moral greyness of everything, because sure, Mu Qing isn’t a noodle like Shi Qingxuan, but is he worse than White No Face?

9) Spectrums aren’t enough – adding depth

Almost all of WWX’s moral ambiguity comes from the fact he has hard decisions to make. And for each of these decisions, the outcome is murky. He developed a new technique to fight against the Wens, but at what cost later down the line? He defended the Wens and gave them a few years of life, but was it worth it?

Compare with JGY. JGY does a lot of good. He also does a lot of bad. The magnitude of both lists is ridiculous. Sure, you wouldn’t usually find someone who’s killed most of their family members in any way likable, but how often do you come across someone who literally ended a war?

So one way of creating moral ambiguity is to make each decision difficult, but another way to go about it is to just… make them do loads of things. Like loads of things. Good things, bad things, all the in between things. Judging each thing is not that hard, but then trying to judge the overall person based on it is extremely difficult.

10) Pulling from the real world

Often, moral questions in fiction is hard because (surprise, surprise) moral questions are just hard full stop. Idk enough Chinese history and culture to accurately pin down all of MXTX’s references, but things like stupid misunderstands leading to conflict, poverty and inequality, less than ideal family situations, the horrors of war… these are all things that happen irl. No matter how fantastical the setting, grounding moral conflicts in reality makes us feel more emotional and invested.

Anyway, I hope that was an enjoyable rundown! This is an imperfect list, so comments, criticisms, suggestions greatly appreciated!

[fleckcmscott]

All Wrapped Up

Summary: Arthur reaches a milestone he'd never dreamed of. Y/N pulls out all the stops.

Words: 4,735

Warnings: Adult situations, Swearing

A/N: This story was a real challenge. Figuring out these characters, their hopes and experiences and dynamics fifteen years later, felt like trying to predict the weather. And I never have an umbrella when I need it! 😂 I hope you all enjoy this piece. Thanks for reading! 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Y/N gave her mouth another good swish-swash-swish and spat in the sink.

Lukewarm water rinsed her Oral-B toothbrush; she it shook off and returned to its charger. She drew a round brush through steely brown locks, a dollop of mousse in the bristles to lend the feathering a touch of fluff.

Three perfume bottles stood on the shelf to her left. She chose the pink tapered oval in the middle, a gift from Arthur called Here's The Heart, the fragrance of daffodils and sunlight and his latest favorite. She dabbed it on her wrists, her collarbone, the pulse point of her neck. Sandy shadow brightened her eyes and rosewine painted her lips, a sultry red saved for special occasions.

Crouched on one knee, she dug out the personal lubricant hidden behind her tampons, which had been on standby for two months. (Alarm had frozen her solid when her monthly had hit six weeks late. But then she'd remembered that at fifty-four, it was to be expected.) She smeared an ounce between her legs. A warmup for both their benefit - and a sure ego boost that'd rev his engine. Make him grin that cocky grin.

Glass of water in hand, she padded out of the bath.

She tiptoed to her side of the bed and set the water on the nightstand. Morning's first light seeped past the edges of the window shades. She gave one a quick but quiet pull, held the bottom bar until it rose halfway.

Soft and gauzy as a favorite dream, sunrays cast a hazy hue on Arthur's pallid skin. A light snore caught in the back of his throat. He lay supine, one hand curled against his breast, the toes of his left foot sticking out from the emerald, blue, and mauve kaleidoscoped comforter. The perfect position for what she had planned.

Biting down a wicked giggle, she shimmied out of her robe and dove under the covers headfirst.

Muted confusion from above. Grumbles and groans. A skinny thigh shifted beneath her palm. She swallowed around him and continued on.

Fingertips patted polyester, as though searching for a flashlight in the dark. At her back, her shoulder, her head.

A squeeze to his sculpted hip, nails a whisper along his v-line...

The comforter lifted, followed by the sheet. Arthur squinted through the crevice. "Christ, you're naked."

The giggle she'd bitten down spilled forth, nose nuzzling at his coarse curls. He grasped her upper arm and tugged.

"What did you expect?" She crawled up his body, lips following a familiar path along his stomach, his chest. "You only turn fifty once. Happy birthday."

"Mmm." In a flash, he grabbed her ass and rolled on top of her. Kissed her softly, then kissed her hardly, mouth swooping to collide with hers. He tasted of stale nicotine and the smell of rust after a rainstorm. She sought to freshen it with her Aquafreshed tongue.

But he broke off, coughed into his elbow. A smoker's cough that'd worsened with the chill of November and the radiator heat that accompanied it. She decided to give him his second present early, right after this gift for them both.

When he stole the water from her nightstand, she narrowed her eyes. "Hey, I was planning on using that."

"I know." Green irises met hers, a direct stare that set the pit of her stomach in a wild swirl. That stare stayed locked on hers as he emptied the glass. Slow, deliberate, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.

She played with the spartan hairs on his chest. "I noticed a couple grey hairs while I was down there. You're officially an old man now."

"You mean I'm finally catching up to you?"

"Uh huh." Her toes ran along his calf. Its muscle twitched. "You're going to start getting flyers from Gotham's Senior League and the Elk's Club."

Amusement crinkled his face, half-lidded eyes enthralling in their relaxed contentment. While his black whiskers had gone white, his sideburns remained sterling, his loose curls cinnamon and sugar. Lines had become faint tattoos on his forehead, and the crevices on his cheeks had grown longer, deeper, framing his thin lips and doubling his dimples. Wrinkles crisscrossed the bottom of his chin, and the fold beneath it was twelve percent squishier.

But he was as alluring as ever. As handsome as the night she'd first lain in this very bed with him.

Desire swelled her heart, a thump-thump that was suddenly ten times louder.

She clutched his shoulders and purred. "Fuck me, old man."

Laughing, he took hold of the headboard.

And took charge.

~~~~~

"During our last session, you talked about how challenging turning fifty would be." Dr. Ludlow spoke around the ballpoint pen in her mouth. "How are you doing now that the day is here?"

Blurs from this morning seared Arthur's memory, the saltiness of sweat and skin. He felt the fierce heat of a blush and gulped the brazen images away. "I feel good."

"That's great." She lowered herself to her armchair and put her stoneware mug opposite the ashtray on the coffee table. Planted her pen firmly between forefinger and thumb. "How have you worked through last month's feelings?"

"Um, I dunno. I've written in my journal a lot."

"Take a minute to think it over. We've discussed how milestones can trigger mood swings. What's been your strategy to avoid that, and what does your birthday mean to you today?"

He shoved the tip of his tongue in the fleshy part of his cheek.

Fifty. He'd never imagined reaching fifty. Forty-five maybe, just old enough for his body to start falling apart to match his mind. Even when he'd crawled out of bouts of malaise and hadn't wanted to die, the age had remained as intangible as a good reputation and the clout that went with it.

Business was slow but stable. Kids were losing interest in clowns, preferring cartoon characters or Barney or Power Rangers, whatever the hell they were. Birthday parties were getting slimmer, special events and holidays were getting busier. He had a reliable list of regulars. It all evened out.

But his heart remained devoted to his first love - comedy. He'd been chasing that dream for fifteen years. With stardom continuing to elude him, the event horizon of his fifth decade felt like a sign the time to achieve it was running out.

He tapped his Stutton over the ashtray. "I want things I haven't gotten yet. Being a famous standup, you know? Everything comes so easily for some people, and I've been working and working and-" A flinch against the sinewy frustration rising in his breast. God, why did therapy sometimes make him feel worse? Couldn't he skip the soul-searching on his special day? Why hadn't he rescheduled when she'd offered? He breathed on a 3-4-5 count. "I'm trying to remember I can't see the future. Just what I want it to be."

Her pen jotted. "I wonder what your life would look like if you were famous. What you would get out of it."

"I've told you," he said, glancing at her in disbelief. How could he make it any clearer? "I'd make people smile. They'd know who I am, that I'm funny and good."

"Don't you have that now?"

"What do you mean?"

"The people in your life. Y/N, your friends, your family in Missouri. They know you, that you're funny and good. What difference would fame make?" Each syllable pricked, firm but kind points that dulled to prods.

He hesitated, measuring himself. Found he felt about six inches short and not a little pathetic for having the same longings as the lost, lonely man he'd thought he'd left behind. Ancient insecurities aroused, he tucked his hands under his thighs.

After a moment, Dr. Ludlow set her legal pad on the table and moved to sit on the sofa. She left a professional one cushion space between them. "Goals give us a sense of purpose, a way to navigate tough times. Having them is one of the reasons you've done so well. But what I'm hearing is that you want acceptance. You want to be loved." A beat. "You already have that, Arthur. Don't forget it."

His throat shrank to a straw. Her words carried a reality he no longer doubted; he'd lived enough for them to be more than theory. But spoken aloud by a witness to his life, they were engraved with the power of unvarnished truth A truth he could revel in, relax in, cherish and count on.

A truth that brought him joy the way nothing else could.

There was his ever-present wife. The million dollar baby he'd found in the freezer section of a grocery store. She'd made a mistake after their earlier lovemaking, but mistakes were part and parcel of years together, so it'd been all right. Her reasons had been sweet, and she'd promised not to repeat it.

And a card from his in-laws had arrived last week, happiness in a mint green envelope. A bluebird in a mulberry bush wished that on his birthday, he'd find everything he desired, no matter how small. Tangible proof that he mattered, that they were thinking of him even hundreds of miles away.

Wetness burned the outer corners of his eyes. He swiped at them with the sleeve of his cardigan. Hitched chuckles built in him, like the climbing roar of applause at the end of a successful set.

He was fifty and he was loved.

Dr. Ludlow offered a box of tissues. In a tone woven with kindness she asked, "Would you like to talk about your plans to celebrate, or keep them for your journal?"

~~~~~

Kneeling on the back of the red, round booth, Y/N reached to hang the Happy Birthday banner on the wall. "Is it even?"

Patricia spoke from two yards behind her. "If Arthur tilts his head."

A chuckle on her lips and a song in her heart, Y/N slid the Y three inches lower and stuck it with a pin. One of the perks of being a long-time regular at Kao-Wah's was the ability to commandeer the back corner, the one by the bar. (That it was an uncrowded Thursday didn't hurt.)

After this morning's misstep, she was determined to make this evening perfect.

She climbed down backwards, kitten heel brushing padded vinyl before finding the floor. She pushed a four-top against the booth's six-top table, just the right amount of space for guests, and the cake Patricia had helped her make. Mandarin with homemade frosting, made with unsalted butter, powdered sugar, milk, and canned oranges. Ingredients Y/N could handle with a best friend.

Patricia ripped open two crepe streamers, one teal and one yellow. "Has he seen you in that yet?" She indicated Y/N's outfit with a nod.

Her dress was a number she'd picked up at L. Ballinger's summer closeout. Tiered Chantilly lace, ivory, with a dropped bodice and long sleeves, it revealed enough to remind Arthur of what she was hiding. Pretty and feminine, swingy and fun. She took the end of the streamers, walked backwards to unroll and twist them together. "I saved it for tonight."

"You'll knock him dead," Patricia said with a wink.

Y/N taped the crepe paper along the chairs, akin to a velvet rope at a red carpet announcing a Very Important Person was on the way. A small bundle of balloons rose from each end of the table, completing the cheery decor. Hand on one hip, she surveyed their handiwork and smiled.

Patricia ordered two sparking wines and took a seat at the bar. "When Robert turned fifty, I planned a romantic evening to celebrate. Strawberries dipped in chocolate, massage oils, rose petals in the bathtub, the works. Well, I'm in the tub waiting for him to come home - he refused to take the day off - candles all around the room.

"The front door opens, and I straighten my legs and stick out my chest like a pinup. He stumbles in, drenched in oil and coolant, and he says, 'What the hell are you doing? I need a shower!'" Shoulders shaking with laughter, she wagged her head. "He hopped in there, rose petals and all, all the while I'm running around blowing out candles before the shower curtain goes up in flames. I'd never moved so fast. And I thought life at fifty would be boring."

"You're the most exciting old dame I've ever met." Y/N pecked her cheek and slid onto the stool beside her. There was a gold serving basket brimming with fortune cookies to her left. She snagged one from the middle, cracked it open, and popped the sugary wafer in her mouth. Ears filled with crunching, she read the bit of wisdom contained within: You cannot love life until you live the life you love.

An unexpected but welcome melancholy washed over her. The ripples of her life had ebbed and flowed, but living with Arthur was a steady joy. He was very much the man she'd fallen in love with. Gentle with a streak of shyness but determined to speak up and pursue what he desired. But he'd grown, too. Exited the purgatory between adulthood and adolescence neglect had locked him in. He'd learned to trust himself, to like himself on good days, now the vast majority.

She folded the fortune, to be placed in her purse with her compact and pager. "I can't imagine ever being bored with Arthur. I'm proud of him. He's done a lot of work to get here. I'm lucky I've been the one to see him do it."

"You haven't just seen it. You've helped."

Her insides twirled, a pleasant tickling at her navel. "We've helped each other." She sipped at the wine glass and continued. "There is one other thing I've been trying to help him with. Maybe you'll have an idea..."

Y/N went over the scene of the crime, albeit without the salacious (Patricia would have called them fun) details. She'd started in right as Arthur'd pulled his briefs past his knees. He must have recognized the shape and weight of a cassette booklet. Irises sparkling, he'd asked what music collection she'd gotten for his Walkman.

He'd ripped the balloon patterned wrapping paper from the squeaky plastic. Squinted down at tiny red letters on white tapes.

"'Stop smoking with the Gotham Lung Association?'"

He pushed them away and rolled his eyes. Stood and yanked his underwear over his hips. "I wish you'd stop using special occasions for that. Telling me to quit smoking. Especially on my birthday. I'm down to half a pack a day!" He grabbed his pajama bottoms from the vanity. "I know you don't like it. You haven't liked it for fifteen years."

"But I need five more decades of you," she'd said, clambering on hands and knees to his side of the bed. She'd caught his pantleg, drew him to her a with a gentle tug. Despite her tenderness, annoyance kept his brows furrowed.

She'd pecked his thumb, the back of his hand, the knobby part of his wrist. Then her gaze had lifted, her resolve softened by apology. "All right. I won't pester you about it on your birthday anymore." Her slight shrug and unsure smile had twisted his grimace into a grin. "May I keep Christmas?"

Patricia gaped at her, an Are You Serious look. "You thought today would be good to remind him of what annoys you?"

"That's not what I meant. I realize it was a dumb thing to do. I just..." Chin propped on her knuckles, Y/N huffed. "If I were to lose him because of that nasty habit, I'd be devastated."

The clink of glass on the walnut bar top. "You meant well. You always mean well." One cheek hanging off the stool, Patricia hugged Y/N at the waist. "Getting older isn't easy. Let the man enjoy it. And learn to take a day off."

A slight nod as Y/N's shoulders slackened, tension ebbing away. There was something about Patricia's blunt kindness that made her feel wonderful, like she was the little sister for a change.

Y/N swirled the rest of her wine, deciding that one fun detail couldn't hurt. "Besides that, we had a great morning. I made sure he didn't mind waking up early."

~~~~~

Arthur wished he wore a watch so he could check it.

He was supposed to met Y/N in front of Kao Wah's after she got out of work, around five-thirty. Though he'd left the apartment at five and ridden the train for nine stops, there was no sign of her. He patted his left breast, then reached under the winter coat's placket to check the inner pocket.

Folded into quarters, the late arrival remained in place. His mouth curved in relief.

His toes tapped the sidewalk, he puffed clouds into the autumn air. Another minute and he rummaged through his pocket for a quarter. There was a payphone on the corner. He'd call her office in case she'd been delayed.

Three steps later, Y/N's call met his back. "Arthur!"

Holding Kao Wah's door open with one foot, she waved at him and waved him towards her. "I'm sorry," she said when he was an arm's length away. "I wanted to grab our favorite booth while it was free."

But he'd only registered a couple of words, the syllables after her sorry a muffled drone. "Look what came in the mail today. It must've gotten lost." He retrieved the October-dated letter from his coat, not looking up or around, too busy buzzing to pay attention as she held his elbow and guided him inside. "Ruthie's coming next month. She- she wants to go to Gotham University." The mere possibility of having family nearby nearly scuttled the reason for tonight's engagement.

"Really?" Y/N smoothed his hair back, unbuttoned his formally-puffy-now-lumpy coat. "Mabel hasn't mentioned it. Either she's gotten better at keeping secrets or Ruthie hasn't told her. I hope it's the former." Y/N continued, pulling him along." It's too bad she couldn't make it this month. She could've helped us all celebrate."

A slight flinch of his head. "Who's all?"

"Happy birthday!" a chorus of cheery voices cried.

The heavy lashes that shaded his cheeks flew up, eyes as wide as a Mun Shou platter.

Patricia and Robert, Ryan and Sheila from Gotham Elementary. Gary - no, not that Gary, who was in England visiting family - but a fellow aspiring comic Arthur had gotten to know during open mic nights at the Smile Factory and Pogo's. A circle but a tight one, a clockface with each person a numeral, a sign of the progress of his life.

Slanting his gaze to Y/N, he tucked the letter in his pocket. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I wanted to," she said, warmth in her cocoa gaze. "We all did."

A slight sway, a tuck of the chin. He ran a hand down his vintage, black suit jacket and tightened his neck. Dressing up to the nines for her had been the plan, a playful way to make their date extraordinary. But at the crowd's casual attire, he felt a little left-footed. "I'm overdressed," he murmured,

Y/N adjusted his lapels. "You look wonderful."

He loosened his large bowtie, the size you'd see during a 1976 Oscar broadcast, so that it draped untied at the neck. Plucked the collar button of his dress shirt and made of show of pulling it down. Once adjusted, he gave her form a demure but thorough ogling. Nearly bare shoulders, a neckline he longed to kiss, the dip of her waist beneath the lining and lace. He'd glue his hand there later. He wet his lips. "Thanks. So do you."

"Come on, sit down." Patricia wore a wry grin. "Before you two set off the sprinklers and ruin the party."

A buffet of Arthur's favorites and a couple new dishes swamped the table. The five spice beef was the perfect winter warmer, the pan-fried noodles with vegetables expertly seared. Moo goo gai pan and chicken chow mien arrived on oversized platters. The egg rolls were extra crispy and the pork fried rice extra sticky. The first round of drinks were on him and Y/N; she ordered Mai Tais between pots of oolong tea.

He'd gotten better at chitchat, gained the confidence to take a chance, perfect the small stage. As the dinner wore on, he noted how natural it felt to break off into side conversations. Succeeded in listening and responding without have to wonder if his instincts had led him down the street of weird. He knew what to do with his hands.

Years of budget cuts had hit the school system like a mallet, and more and more fundraisers tried to make up the difference. Bake sales and book fairs, ticket raffles and auctions. Ryan and Sheila discussed the school's upcoming winter carnival, which Arthur had been a regular part of for a decade. And at events he wasn't hired for (at a reduced rate), he gladly volunteered. It was easier to give of himself now that he had a quadraphonic life instead of mono.

Patricia had convinced Robert to finally, finally sell Gorman Fire and Ice to their grandson for a song, so they could finally, finally take a vacation, a trip to the Bahamas since Cuba was no longer allowed.

Suit jacket slung across the back of his chair, Arthur jotted on a napkin while he and Gary went over the rotation of open mic nights across a sea of clubs, and a new guy in the biz who had a habit of stealing jokes.

An hour later, while he was still high on carbs and comfort in his own skin, Y/N presented him with a cake. Two tiers, rectangular, specks of orange dotting its pale yellow frosting. He leaned into her, mouth agape. "You made this?" He took a languid bite, licked the frosting from his lips and stole another. The mandarin sponge melted on his tongue. He hummed, wrapped an arm around her. "I have a sneaking suspicion I'll want you to make me a cake every birthday."

She snorted into her tea and called across the table. "Patricia, could you pencil me in for a cake lesson every November for the next thirty years?"

Patricia served herself a second slice. "I'll be busy in Acapulco."

Once the check was brought and the leftovers started to be scraped into oyster pails, Arthur stood, scooting his chair away with the backs of his calves. Rapped a fork against his Mai Tai coupe the way he'd seen on TV. Rolled the Tiki themed stem between thumb and forefinger. Studied the amber liquid and considered the right thing to say.

"Thank you for coming," he began, hewing close to the opening of a comedy set. He giggled at the association, an arc of inspiration sparking. "When I was a young man, I thought fifty would mean nights at home with no friends. But now I worry my bad knee'll go out more than I do."

Laughter danced across his friends' faces. He reveled in their smiles, their open admiration. Dr. Ludlow's earlier counsel echoed at the base of his skull. He exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. "I'm glad you all care about me and are here to celebrate."

"You're a jolly good fellow," Patricia said, and raised her teacup for a toast.

Y/N reached out, laced her fingers with his own. Brimming with tenderness, her gaze lifted to his. "Here's to many, many more."

~~~~~

It was just after nine o'clock in 4A. Y/N had traded her dress for stirrup leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweater. Arthur remained resplendent in his evening wear. They'd made a pot of decaf and planned to call Ruthie on the weekend, invite her to stay with them during her visit.

Ready to be returned on tomorrow's lunch break, the smoking cessation tapes sat dejected in Y/N's canvas tote bag. Way back in '81, she'd said she'd get him to quit if it was the last thing she did. It was hard for her to let go. But he'd given her permission to nag at Christmas, and if he wanted to take steps to quit, he knew how. It had to be up to him.

Cross-legged on the carpet, he sat by the coffee table and tore open another gift. He held up the VHS in triumph. "I've Always Loved You," he read, then flipped it over to scan the summary. "I don't think I've seen this."

"Me neither." She perched on the sofa, to his left. "But it's from 1946 and the title's true. There's one more present. Close your eyes."

Leaning back on his hands, he did. She bent over the side of the sofa, retrieved what she'd shoved underneath before his wake-up call. The light weight dropped on his lap with a soft rustling.

One eye cracked open, then the other, surprise engulfing his entire visage. A cautious palm skimmed the tweed carpet bag, a blue and red plaid to go with his clown costume. (His usual nylon prop bags had started to fray after six months. Their novice repairs lasted about two.) Parallel to the bag's top zipper was a bronze nameplate: Carnival.

Arthur fidgeted with the handle. "I'll need a gig at Wayne Hall to use this."

"Open it."

He dragged the zipper's tab an inch. Peeked inside the bag before dragging it further. "Oh..."

Gingerly, he took out the Kala ukulele, reddish brown like mahogany, its four tuners pearl and chrome. The certificate pasted in the soundhole had a manufacture date of 1972, but the instrument looked untouched, as though forgotten in the back of a closet.

"I know getting new clients has been harder the last couple of years. This might help. The library has VHS music lessons you can check out." She knelt behind him and cupped his shoulders. "The strings were put on last week."

His fingertips flitted over the neck, began to pluck the G and C strings at a beginner's tempo. Not quite a match for the notes he played, he crooned a version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." Gravelly and half hummed, the way you'd sing a lullaby to a sleepy child.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a..." The music came to a gradual stop. "Do you ever wish for more?"

"More of you? Always."

"Today Dr. Ludlow asked what I'd get out of being famous. I thought about it when I got Ruthie's letter. And at the party." The corners of his mouth turned inward. "Do you think I ever will be?"

Y/N nibbled her bottom lip. Tried to find the balance between the truth as she saw it and greater possibilities. Magazines and television implored women to feel like they were defective for aging (and going by the ads for men's hair color, they were about to be dragged into the same predicament.) Popular culture focused on the young. The next Big Thing wasn't old enough to buy a bottle of wine. At Arthur's age, fame was unlikely. For that matter, it'd be unlikely for anyone at any age.

She'd never wanted to be anything special, just herself and to do some good while she was at it. Arthur's outsized need for attention was one of their biggest differences. But she understood where it came from, understood him. His wish for fame was a tough and twisty bit of scar-tissue on his soul.

"There's so much left to chance," she said. "Timing and connections, the right person in the right audience on the right night. That any of us get what we want is a miracle."

A light nod, as nearly imperceptible as his voice. "I still wanna try."

"Good." She wrapped her arms about him, lay her palm above his heart. "Miracles can't happen if we don't."

He grasped her hand. Kissed the back of it and kissed her wrist. "Not everyone makes it. To fifty, I mean. I might not have. I'm happy I did."

Smiling, Y/N grasped his jaw and tilted his head back. Bent over him to seal their mouths. "Me, too," she whispered. "Me, too."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​​​​​ @ithinkimaperson​​​​​ @sweet-nothings04​​​​​ @stephieraptorr​​​​ @rommies​​​​​ @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1​​​​​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​​​​​ @jokerownsmysoul​​​​​ @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics​​​​​ @iartsometimes​​​​​ @fleckficgirl

[onthecusk]

nine-to-five | chapter 1 (now: don't call me angel)

summary: Ikeda Fuyumi desperately needs a new job. Enter Gojo Satoru, her insufferable ex-boyfriend-slash-academic rival who happens to show up in the office at her job interview welcoming her with a pathetic Fifty Shades joke. Surely, she would have to turn the opportunity down—except she doesn't. Now Gojo isn't just her insufferable ex-boyfriend-slash-academic rival but her colleague as well, possibly even more as they spend time working together. And with an equally attractive girl like Fuyumi around, Gojo is sure that his job isn't the only thing he'll be treating like a nine-to-five. What could happen?

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!OC (office AU)

note on the pairing: the idea is that it's a fem reader. but since i dislike "y/n" and writing in second person to refer to the reader, i came up with an oc to make it easier and more enjoyable for me to write. but you can imagine yourself as the oc or whatever you please!

tags/content warnings: (+18) MDNI, heavy smut, praise (and i mean lots of praise), eventual smut, enemies with benefits, alternating timelines, office au, fluff, slow burn (kinda?), suggestive dialogues, dirty talk, pining, second chances, satoru gojo is his own warning

word count: 2k

author's note: hi thanks for reading! this was originally posted on ao3, but after much deliberation, i've decided to cross-publish it on tumblr. i started writing and planning this fanfic last year, but was put on hold because uni happened. i'm so excited to finally be continuing the story 🤍 please like and reblog (or comment, would love to hear your thoughts too!) if you enjoyed reading. i'm a new account so i would appreciate it sm <3 i'll make a masterlist soon!

FUYUMI

“Mr. Grey will see you now.”

Contrary to the “universally acknowledged truth” pertaining to a certain Mr. Darcy, a man in possession of a good fortune is definitely not in want of a wife, but of an ex-girlfriend to pester and perturb. Case in point: Gojo Satoru.

Because here I am, on a bright Tuesday afternoon, trapped in a room with my maniacal ex-boyfriend-slash-nemesis, pathetically enduring one of his lame jokes (he chose a Fifty Shades of Grey reference this time, like the brat that he is and always has been, always was) that were always either diabolical or dirty—there is no in-between. But as much as I wanted to react, as is my right to, I couldn’t help but simply freeze in place, my hand still holding onto the door handle keeping the heavy door ajar, as if the feel of the cold metal bar in my palm would keep me safe from whatever danger this situation has to offer. How on earth did I get myself into this? How is he here?

“Cat got your tongue?” Satoru teases, with a conceited smirk plastered on his face. 

“Pervert,” I say through gritted teeth as I snap back to reality, “That wasn’t funny. What are you doing here?"

Most importantly, where the fuck have you been?

"This isn’t your office," I continue. "I’m supposed to be doing this interview with Mr. Nanami Kento and I checked twice to make sure this was the right room.”

“And it is, we’re in his office—but ’Mr.’ Nanami Kento had an urgent meeting to attend to so he couldn’t make it,” he says, putting emphasis on “Mr.” as if it had been malicious of me to address a stranger who quite literally holds the fate of my employment in his hands that way.

“And you just magically appeared out of thin air to save the day? After all these years?"

“If it’s you who needs saving, why wouldn’t I?”

His signature smirk is still intact on his stupid face. I try very hard to compose myself and put on a professional front despite this situation being silly enough to make me want to throw up and cry at the same time.

“Alright, that's enough. I’ll see myself out and ask Mr. Nanami to reschedule my interview,” I confidently respond. “Thanks for your time.”

Or maybe I’ll just quit while I’m ahead and not push through with the interview at all. That way, I’ll personally eliminate my chances of having to see Satoru ever again. I bow my head and turn around to exit the room.

“Fuyumi,” Satoru calls out, now in a different tone—firmer, and there definitely was a cold ring to his voice this time. It always surprised me how quickly he could dabble with his moods to accurately accommodate whatever the current situation required of him. I could never acclimate to my surrounding as confidently as he does and seeing him in action can be scary sometimes. “Can we start over?”

I wince at how intentional that question was. With it coming from his mouth, I didn’t have to think too hard to know it was his tricky way of making me think it could mean starting our relationship or my interview over again. It’s one or the other and I hate myself for still being delusional over some of the things Satoru says when I know he does it on purpose every single damn time.

“The interview, I mean,” Satoru says. And then a beat. “I know what’s on your mind. Don’t get ahead of yourself, angel.”

“Don’t call me angel,” I retort.

“What do you mean?" he says. "It’s a compliment, darling.”

“It’s demeaning and invalidating," I reply sternly. "Especially coming from you. And don’t call me that either.”

“You mean ‘darling’?" he teases. "Sure, whatever you say, angel.”

“I said stop it, or else—“ I abruptly stop, realizing halfway through my sentence that I didn't have anything else to say.

“Hm?” he hums, then smirks.

“Or else, what?” he adds. God, just shut up.

“I’m ignoring you," I say, avoiding his gaze like my life depended on it.

“No, tell me," he tilts his head on the side. "Or else what, Fuyumi? What are you gonna do?”

I take a deep breath and say, "Can we please move on from this?"

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, angel.”

“You’re hopeless, Satoru. I’m out," I snap, turning my back on him to head towards the door once more.

I hear footsteps rushing towards me from behind. Before I have completely made my way out, Satoru is there, his body a few inches away from mine. His left hand is suddenly on the door, slamming it shut with just enough force so as not to make too much noise. 

“Right, whatever, I shouldn’t have said those things, huh?” He says and I’m taken aback by his random sincerity. “But I know how talented and capable you are, so, will you tolerate me a bit more? I’ll be professional this time. Just until we finish this interview, yeah? We really need someone as… good as you, Fuyumi.”

This is weird—Satoru rarely took conversations seriously. But I badly need this job, what choice do I have?

I guess it’s about time I address the elephant in the room: Gojo Satoru is my ex-boyfriend, as I’ve already mentioned. Once upon a time, it was 2006, and he was my most insufferable academic rival. One thing led to another and next thing you know, we were in a relationship—a childish one at that; we were only sixteen. The last time I’d seen him was 11 years ago when we broke up in the summer of that same year. What he had done humiliated me so much that I had to transfer to a different school the following semester. Which is why he has no business looking as smug and self-assured as he is right now—after what he’d done to me all those years ago. At this rate, I’d rather be locked up in solitary confinement, seriously. 

“Just out of curiosity, why did you leave Kawaguchi Publishing?” Satoru asks after several routine interview questions.

“Well, I would like to keep things strictly professional and I could say things just didn’t work out between me and my previous employer, but that would make it seem like I’m the problem,” I pause, contemplating. “My previous boss, he—well, I don’t know if I should be saying this but—“ I fiddle with the hem of my skirt.

“My previous boss made a pass at me,” I finally say. “I didn’t want to keep working for that kind of person. It’s against everything I stand for.”

Satoru clenches his jaw.

“I handled it fine,” I say. “I filed a lawsuit against him and had him fired. There’s no need to get all tensed up.”

“It’s just,” Satoru clears his throat. “Never mind.” I know that look on his face, I know it all too well. He’s holding back from saying something out of pocket—like he’d kill that man and do everything in his power to get back at him. I’d have protected you if I were there. But I see it, he’s holding back. And I prefer that he is. I don’t want this interaction to be anything more than a job interview. 

After a couple more questions, Satoru wraps up the interview and composes himself, placing my documents back in its folder. I stand up and reach my hand out to him, “Alright, I appreciate your professionalism. Thanks for your time.” My gesture is screaming Thank you but I’d feel better if you let me go now, this is too awkward. And just like that, his smirk is back. He doesn’t acknowledge nor shake my hand. Instead, he continues to sit pretty on the swivel chair that isn’t even his to begin with, maintaining eye contact with me, devilishly prolonging my corporate imprisonment. I wish I could say that he looks horrible—a gremlin, the personification of Gollum, an ugly, sloth-looking know-it-all. But no, he’s the opposite of all that. He’s attractive, especially from this angle—with me looking down on him. Or do I like how he’s looking up at me like that? All I see is blue. Like the ocean. I want to walk and sink into his eyes and never come back.

“What are you thinking, angel?” Satoru teases as he notices me staring at him. God, this is stupid. I’m so stupid.

“Oh, not much,” I play along. “Just how badly I want to strangle you right now.” 

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t like that.”

“Oh yeah? Not when my intention is to kill you.”

“Cupcake," he exhales. I cringe. That damned nickname, the one he occasionally used on me whenever he tried to get on my nerves in high school. "I could think of other ways you could kill me or, as the poets say, suck the life out of me," he smirks, like the devil I've always known. "Out of my—"

"Said no poet ever," I interrupt with a hint of sarcasm. "But sure. Hmm, let's see. I'd love to put little Satoru through a meat grinder."

"You mean my dick? Ouch," he winces, faking a pained expression. "If so, then you'd need the biggest meat grinder the world has ever seen."

A beat. I mentally scramble over my thoughts thinking of the perfect comeback. But I couldn't think fast enough when his ever-striking blue eyes are piercing through mine.

God. No.

We're not doing this.

"So, what else?" he smirks, again. "Is that all you got? Tell me more. You'd be surprised at how much I can handle."

“That so?” I scoff. “But I wouldn’t feel too proud about ‘how much I can handle’ if my sleep-deprived neighbors complained too often about some girl regularly screaming my name at night. Oh wait—that’s you. That’s not very neighborly, Satoru.”

Satoru slightly raises both of his arms and claps loudly, clearly a celebratory motion that was meant to piss me off. He hasn’t changed one bit.

“Thanks for acknowledging the fact that I’m so ridiculously good at pleasing my women, angel.”

I have no idea how many girls came after me and Satoru's love life definitely is none of my business. But I'm not quite sure how I feel about the thought of him making love to someone else—to another girl. My stomach sunk thinking about it just now, as if my organs were carving a hollow onto themselves—a hollow I never even knew existed.

Still, I think about Satoru making some other girl feel good and it makes me want to vomit. I feel sick. What is this feeling? I mean, after over a decade, I know I was sure about one thing. That I hate him. I hate Gojo Satoru, as I should. I was sure about it then, and I still am sure about it now.

“Are we done here? Because I actually have things to do—and sitting around in someone else’s office instead of doing their job isn’t one of them.” I start picking my things up and Satoru stands up, chuckling at my remark. If I’m offered this job and I take it, I wonder how many trips to the HR I’m going to have to make to get Satoru off my back. 

“Sure.” A smirk. There it is again.

I fake a smile and head to the door—for real this time. But Satoru follows closely behind and holds the door open for me. 

“I look forward to having you work under me,” he says. “If you know what I mean.”

“Definitely. You'll see me in HR filing a complaint.”

How do you quit a job before you’re even hired?

to be continued...

© onthecusk. all rights reserved. please do not reproduce, copy, republish, or translate any portion of my work without my permission. thank you for reading 🤍

[bitchinbarzal]

with or without | elias pettersson

summary; you don’t need elias and you let him know that

loosely based off that one scene in fifty shades of grey lol

-

You stared at the word infront of your face, tears blurring your vision and your hands shaking.

pregnant.

The clearblue in your hand told you so clearly, you were pregnant.

“Holy shit, what the fuck!” You cried, throwing the test across the bathroom floor.

A million thoughts ran through your mind with each sob you let out.

“This can’t be happening, how is this happening!” You screamed to nobody in particular.

“Oh my god, I have to tell Elias” you mumbled, slowly coming to the realisation that this wasn’t just your baby, that this wasn’t just you.

This wasn’t just your life this news absolutely rocked, it was his.

It was his hockey career, his social life, everything.

You chose to not deal with it, opting to go to sleep and make it a tomorrow problem.

The problem was however still there in the morning. You were living in bliss ignorance for a few moments until you picked up your phone and saw a text from Elias.

from: elias 🖤

morning my love! miss you, call me when you get up!

The text had been sent hours prior, with the time zone difference in Sweden to Vancouver. A whole nine hour time difference between you both in the time that Elias was at home in the off-season.

Situating yourself further up the bed and grabbing your water from the table to take a sip before you grabbed your phone to FaceTime him.

It rang a few times before you saw his face pop up on the screen, smiling at you.

“Älsking!” He exclaimed.

“Hi ‘lias i miss you”

“I miss you more my love! You should come here, soon! My family have been asking for you” he says before looking up his brother on the other side of the phone.

You take that pause to think, to remember you need to speak to him. You have very pressing news to tell him.

“Actually I’m thinking of coming out!” You exclaim, taking Elias by shock.

“You are?” “Yeah! I think it will be nice!”

Elias is so excited, booking your flight for you and walking you through everything you’ll need for coming over. His family are similar, so happy to hear you’d agreed to come over to Sweden and spend time with them.

You hadn’t been able to just up and leave Vancouver when Elias did due to work commitments and they were upset when you told them.

You were set to fly in a little over a week, opting to make a doctors appointment prior to that just to check everything and make sure you were actually pregnant.

“Congratulations! You’re a little over sixteen weeks pregnant so about four months!” Your doctor exclaims, your eyes go wide.

She registers this and tones down her excitement “I am a little worried you’re so far along and haven’t been taking any supplements and have you been drinking at all? Still taking your contraceptive?”

“Drinking… yeah I had a pretty wild night after the Canucks went to the second round of the playoff’s” you said but quickly added “that was it!”

She chuckled “As long as it isn’t a normal thing we shouldn’t see any major damage to baby and just so long as you don’t going forward”

You nodded “Yes, thanks”

“Would you like to hear and see baby?” She asked, grabbing the sonography machine over and you nodded.

She trailed the device over your stomach until you heard it.

thump, thump, thump

“Oh my god-“ you mumbled, tears lining your eyes.

The doctor paused the video for you while excusing herself to go and print your sonogram for you.

You took a video of it on your phone, sniffling could be heard in the background while you mumbled

“That’s our baby, hi baby”

Once you’d been handed your prescriptions, been cleared for travel and given your print off’s you went to pack.

Now more than ever you were prepared to tell Elias. 

You were going to be parents!

The flight to Stockholm was a breeze considering you slept most of it. When you landed Elias was standing at arrivals waiting for you with a giant smile plastered on his face.

You launched yourself into his arms, feeling at home for those moments. You’d missed him so much.

“I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Me too, I’ve missed you too much”

“Me also”

Elias took the long way home, showing you everything he possibly could although you hadn’t forgotten it all since you’d been here the year prior.

“You look tired darling” Elias mumbled from the drivers seat, reaching over to hold your hand.

You gave him a soft smile “I’m just not feeling well lately, ‘lias is all”

“Well i will take you home and you can sleep. Napping always makes it better” you responded with a soft chuckle and leaned further back into your seat.

When you arrived back at the house the rest of the family were out, allowing you to unpack and catch up.

Elias sat on the bed next to you, babbling on about everything he’d been getting up to, how his brother was and his parents along with everything he had in store for your stay.

You felt guilty seeing how happy he is to have you here while you only traveled with ulterior motives.

“Let me help” he says, reaching into your suitcase and pulling out shirts to put into his drawers.

You were facing the dresser, putting down your makeup bag and hen Elias said

“y/n? What is this?” You turned, expecting to see him holding up some of your lingerie or something. Instead, you found him holding up your sonogram photo’s in his hand.

Your mouth dropped open, trying to find something to say.

He repeated again “y/n I asked what this is!”

He knew, he knew what it was.

That’s why he was so upset.

“Elias… please” you mumbled, your emotions bubbling.

He scoffed, standing and closing the gap between you both.

He was a lot taller than you and now with his puffed chest and straightened stature he was scaring you.

The pictures were still in his hand “What is this!”

“It’s a baby! Elias, it’s so obviously a baby, our baby!” You cried.

His silence was deafening and your sobs were the only thing filling the space.

“No” is all Elias said.

“No?” You questioned, sniffling “What do you mean, no!”

He shook his head, dropping the photos onto the bed “No, no we won’t! We can’t! I don’t want it”

Your eyes narrowed “You- you don’t want it? It’s not a puppy! It’s not a new pair of skates Elias! This is our baby!”

He also narrowed his eyes at you at spat “No” before turning and leaving the room.

You stood in shock for moments before you collapsed onto the bed, head in hands with a sob.

You don’t remember falling asleep but you were woken by Elias’ mother hours later, alerting you to come down for dinner.

“Sorry, I must’ve fallen asleep” you apologize and she smiled, rubbing your cheek.

“Jet-lag darling, our Elias gets like that coming back from Vancouver too”

Dinner was awkward to say the least but you’re sure that it was only you and Elias who could sense the tension. You hardly made eye contact and didn’t speak to eachother much.

Luckily, Elias’ parents were filling the silence with questions about work.

You’d excused yourself after dinner, claiming more jet lag and needing to sleep some more.

“Goodnight sweetheart, sleep well! we will see you in the morning!” His mother, kissed your forehead and sent you off upstairs.

You didn’t get to sleep, laying on the bed thinking about everything.

Elias came in around midnight and you pretending to be asleep then. Slipping in beside you, you heard him let out a loud sigh.

“I know you’re not asleep” he said, staring up at the ceiling.

“I don’t want to talk Elias… I’m tired” you mumbled back, still turned off the edge of the bed.

“I’m not ready to be dad, how could you expect me to be ready to be a dad? I’m in the prime of my career” he continued, ignoring your request.

You sighed, turning to sit up “I don’t expect you to be ready Elias! But this has happened-“

“We can do something!” “No! No we can’t! I’m almost four months pregnant Elias, this isn’t an easy fix!”

His eyes went wide, this new information clearly settling on him.

“Look, you’re not happy about this baby… I got that” You started, your voice cracking slightly “I’m not ecstatic either given the timing and your less than accepting reaction. But babies happen when you have sex, Elias and we tend to do a lot of that!”

You pulled the comforter from off your legs and stepped out the bed

“So we can either do this together, or I’ll do it without you” you said finally, turning to leave the room.

You had hoped he’d call out after you, chase you down or something, anything.

He didn’t.

You found yourself in Emil’s old bedroom, laying down on the bed scrolling on your phone booking a flight back to Vancouver.

You never fell asleep. After you’d booked the flight you lay there a while before getting up to pack whatever you could pack quietly.

Elias was fast asleep when you entered, opening drawers and re-packing what you had unpacked earlier in the day and getting changed out of your pyjamas.

When crouched down to pick up your shoes you found the sonogram photos that Elias had thrown down earlier in the day.

Picking them up your fingers traced over it and you mumbled “we’ve got this kiddo”

Taking the photo’s you placed them softly on the pillow where you should’ve been sleeping.

You called an Uber to take you to the airport, not wanting to alert anyone or give the family any opportunity to question what was going on.

You were waiting to board your flight when your phone went off, buzzing away in your pocket.

Pulling it out to see an array of texts from Elias.

from: elias 🖤

where are you?

where is your stuff?

please answer my calls!

you don’t know your way around! please let me know where you are!

y/n please call me

There were calls and texts from Fanny, Emil and his mom too.

You text him mom, opting to let her know you were safe.

to: irene pettersson

hi, I’m sorry to worry you all. I’m ok! I’m at the airport going home to vancouver. I will call to let you know I land. thank you for everything irene!

At home, Elias’ mother was staring holes in his head after she had received your message.

She hadn’t told anyone you had text yet, allowing Elias to worry a little more. She knew this was his fault somehow. Like mothers do, she could sense the tension yesterday at dinner and she heard the arguing last night.

Just before you boarded your flight you sent Elias a text.

to: elias 🖤

I’m fine. you don’t need to worry.

The text made him more anxious, his mind running through the places you could go and now you were on your flight and your phone was turned off his calls wouldn’t even go through.

“I don’t know where she is!” He cried, head in his hands.

Irene decided to speak then “She is ok”

“You don’t know that Irene” his father spoke, clearly siding with his sons upset state.

“She’s going back to Canada” is all she said, Elias looked up at his mother.

“She’s- you knew? Did she tell you?”

Nodding curtly she responded “Yes, she text my phone”

“And you didn’t tell me!” He shouted, standing now “I could be there! I could have gone to her!”

She only shrugged “She obviously didn’t want you to, my boy… why do you think she left?” Before walking out of the room.

Elias stormed up the stairs, unaware of what to do now but overcome with emotions.

Slamming the door to his room and throwing himself onto the bed like a child. Laying down he felt something rustle under his head.

Reaching under he felt something, pulling it out he came face to face with the sonogram photo you’d left behind. He looked contently at it for a moment before he found his finger tracing over the shape of the baby’s face.

“You have my nose” he mumbled “Your mama’s is much nicer”

Elias then turned to pick up his phone again, to text you, noticing you’d sent a message it must have been before you boarded.

from: my love 🤍

with or without you. I know which way I’d rather.

There was an attachment to the text, It was a video, started black until Elias heard the thumping on the other end and the moving shape of a baby on the screen you were recording in what looked like a doctors office.

He was about to turn off his phone until he heard your voice “that’s our baby, hi baby” on the phone.

He hadn’t realised that he was crying until the tears dropped onto his phone screen. Staring at the now frozen image he mumbled

“What have I done?”

[thesullengrrrl]

mother!

ao3 link here. hello friends, it's been a while! apologies, apologies, but we're here now. i've been wanting to explore meet the parents situation, and i hope i did it justice lol. thank you for being here and i hope you enjoy this one! 💓

“Mr. Rosenthal, there’s someone to see you.” 

The motherly voice of Mrs. Lowell tore his gaze from the letter he was writing. Rosie stared at the woman for a second and then next to the diary of his appointments for the day. His watch said it was ten-thirty in the morning. 

“I thought my next meeting would be at one?” he asked back, leaning back to his chair. “Who is it?” 

“Said her name is Alice Halford,” Mrs. Lowell replied. “She said she’s Miss Elaine’s mother.”

As if on cue, the phone rang. The two shared a curious look as Rosie picked up the phone. “Robert Rosenthal, speaking.” 

“Oh thank fuck! I’ve been trying to reach you!” the voice on the other line gushed, her words rushing out of her mouth like she’s being chased. “She’s in town, she just came to the office and I know she’s gonna—” 

“Darling, darling, slow down,” Rosie answered, trying to calm her down. “Who is in town?” 

“My mother!” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your mother? Any chance her name is Alice Halford?”

“What the hell? She’s there? Fuck! But yes, that’s her,” Elaine answered him, confirming the identity of the woman on the other side of the door. He gave Mrs. Lowell a thumbs up. “I’m so sorry, baby, I know she’ll be arriving tomorrow, not today!” 

“She’s arriving tomorrow and you didn’t tell me?” 

“Well…” she paused. “I was about to tell you tonight. She beat me to it, obvs. You’ll be okay? I could run from here—” 

Rosie chuckled at the image of Elaine running in her heels and skirt just to help him out. “No, baby. I’ll be fine. Anything I should know?”

“She can be a bit intimidating, blonde…might tell you stories about my childhood, if she does, tell me what she told you,” she instructed him. 

“So like you except that she’s blonde?” 

He heard her snort. “Shut up . But yeah, maybe. All right. Call me after or just tell me when you get here later. Love you. I’m so sorry about this.” 

“Don’t worry, baby. It’ll be fine. I love you. See you later.” 

“See you later.” 

The phone was back to its receiver. Mrs. Lowell just came in and found him filing his papers into a neat pile, returning his law books to its places, and he handed her the cup of coffee that had gone cold.

“Oh, um, let her in, Mrs. Lowell, please,” he said, nodding. She picked up a piece of fluff on his shoulder, then tapped both comfortingly. 

She gave him a look as if telling him to be careful. As Mrs. Lowell got out, he shifted into his seat. The door swung open.

There she was. A slender, blonde woman in her fifties, wearing a blue suit dress with matching gloves and pillbox hat entered his office. Her eyes lingered at the interiors, until her gaze landed on him. 

Alice Halford could pass as one of the wives of his senior lawyers—confident and poised. The only thing that was familiar to him was her eyes. They both share the same shade of green eyes—soft, sage-like, with a hint of mystery to them. Is this what Elaine’s going to look like in the future?

The woman studied his face for a second. Extending her hand, she spoke. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rosenthal. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” 

Rosie shook her hand, hoping that his grip wasn’t too firm or limp, and motioned her on one of the chairs. “No, no, please.” 

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Halford?” he asked gingerly, unsure what he could actually do. His toothy grin turned into a thin line, as he remembered his snaggletooth. What would she say if her daughter’s fiancé can’t even get his teeth fixed?

“There’s a café a block away,” she replied, slightly leaning towards him. “Are you free right now?” 

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

With two cups of hot beverages and a plate of sandwiches for both of them, Alice sipped her coffee and glanced at Rosie. She can see that the young man was surprised by her visit, since she told Elaine they would all meet later that night. But with nothing to do with her free time, she decided to go to his law firm to get to know the man her daughter is marrying. 

In a way, she was also doing this for her ex-husband. She knew that Hal wouldn't see his only daughter as much as he did before, and he trusted her to judge his character. 

They both knew his details and achievements through the internet, but that’s it. He has an air of quiet confidence from him and yet, she can sense the nervousness in him as well. 

With his height, build, and mustache, Robert Rosenthal reminded her of the films that she, Hal, and Elaine used to watch during the holidays. A young Clarke Gable, perhaps? A mix of Gable with the facial hair and Stewart with his demeanor.

“Can I call you Rosie?” Alice asked, smiling at him to make him feel at ease. “Or do you prefer Robert?” 

“Robert is fine, ma’am,” Rosie nodded. Years of facing war and demanding clients did not prepare him for this. He would be more relaxed if Elaine’s with him, but she’s still at the office and won’t be meeting her until dinner.

“Robert it is then,” she said, gently tearing a sandwich apart and taking a bite. “So, you want to marry Elaine.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“I’m not going to lie, I never thought I’d see the day,” she scoffed, then sipping her coffee. “The reason why I came to see you was because I wanted to get to know the man who made my daughter settle down...” 

“Oh, um—” 

“In 1947. You must be an outstanding person for her to take a chance on you.” 

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “That’s…very kind of you.”

Alice now leaned towards the table. Her darker green eyes are now serious. It reminded him of Elaine’s except with crow’s feet and blond eyelashes. “I’m not gonna beat around the bush now, Robert. You love her?”

“Yes, Mrs. Halford, I do,” Rosie answered, with his eyes steady against hers. “I think I may have loved her longer than I knew.”

“What do you love about her?” 

Her smile. Those sage eyes twinkling every time she sees him after a long day of work. The way she twirls around to let him see her outfit whenever they go out. The way she encourages him to share his burdens with her. How she tries to bond with his family—whether it’s going to the synagogue or spending time in their home. The way she makes his life bigger in some way or another, whether it’s through different perspectives or as small as exploring other neighborhoods. 

“Elaine makes me laugh, she loves my family, she challenges me…she makes my life bigger than I could imagine for myself. And I hope everyday I do the same for her, Mrs. Halford,” he answered in the clearest and sincerest voice he could muster. 

Alice Halford leaned back to the chair, nodding at what he just told her. She sipped her now-cold coffee, not letting him show it bothered her for a moment. None of her daughter’s former boyfriends had shown this type of sincerity whenever she meets them. Maybe it’s a generational thing, she thought. Maybe Elaine found a gem that night. 

Rosie’s expression remained serious, but she could see a flicker of unease under her gaze. He faced the war, he faced tough clients, but none prepared him to be observed by another woman who was both older and younger than him at the same time.

“My daughter can be difficult sometimes, do you know that?” Alice asked, her expression now less serious. “Can be brutally honest too. She once screamed at me for having her.”

“I had seen glimpses of it.” He thought of the time he approached the topic of learning how to drive, which only resulted in a discussion about New York public transportation and safety. 

“And her sense of humor might be a bit too much for your taste or your family.” 

Elaine once told a dry joke about men that offended some during a party they attended. “I’m aware of it, and I think she’s learning to tone it down, but I’m not going to lie, it’s funnier when she doesn’t.”

“Do you understand that she will always have a different set of beliefs than you do?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“And you don’t expect her to convert to Judaism?” 

“No, Mrs. Halford,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s one of the last things I expect her to do.”

“Her father has a male partner. As in a romantic partner. They live together in England,” she continued, now curious on how he would answer her next question. “How do you feel about it?” 

“I was surprised, to be honest, Mrs. Halford,” he admitted. Rosie remembered the time when Elaine told him and it baffled him. “I never met anyone with two fathers and a mother.” 

Alice nodded, wondering whether Elaine coached him or it was a sincere thought. She reached for her purse and pulled a white envelope.

“Hal, that’s my ex-husband, wanted me to give you this,” Alice pushed a slightly bloated white envelope towards him. “He’s a bit upset he’s never gonna see her get married or meet you, so this is him introducing himself and David.” 

“David?” 

“His husband."

The envelope was hefty, he noted, as he picked it up. 

The details on the envelope read the following:

To the son-in-law I will never meet,

Take care of her. Take care of each other.

I wish you both a lifetime of happiness and good luck.

—H. Byrne

There was a certain ache to the first line he wrote. Him and Hal will never meet, shake hands, see eye to eye both literally and figuratively…yet they are still connected through his fiancé. It’s funny how life works sometimes.

“Robert, before I let you go, I just have one more question,” she remarked, pushing her coffee cup away and breaking his reverie. 

“What is it, ma’am?”

“Has Elaine told you that this time travel ability is genetic?” 

“I, uh…I inferred that when she informed me that she could time travel.” 

“It affects first born females in our family,” she continued. “I’m a firstborn, Elaine is an only child. If you have an eldest daughter, she might have the ability…”

Rosie braced himself for the next question.

“Are you ready for that?”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he answered, hoping it would be enough. How could a father who has no time traveling ability help raise a child that might? “I’m sure Elaine will know how to handle it when the time comes.” 

“Oh. You’re not gonna help her?” she cocked her head on the side, her eyes narrowing.

“I will, ma’am,” Rosie assured her. “I will make sure to keep both of them from harm.” 

After what seemed to be hours of questioning, a smirk appeared from Alice’s face, which gave him some relief. 

“With us, you’re not very sure. But I do appreciate you saying that.” 

She raised her hand for their bill. When it arrived, she glanced at it and Rosie insisted on paying. “Please, Mrs. Halford, let me.” 

“Oh no, dear, it’s all right,” she answered as she quickly laid some bills and coins. Putting on her gloves, she waved her hand at him. “Don’t worry about it. Next time, you pay.”

The two exited the café and Rosie checked his watch. He still has an hour before his meeting. 

“I’ll walk you back to your hotel, ma’am,” he offered as they stood on the sidewalk.

“There’s no need, you still need to prepare for your meeting, right?” 

“How did you know about that?” 

“I looked at your secretary’s diary. I’m sorry,” she apologized, raising her hands. 

The pair looked at each for a moment. Alice watched Rosie fidget with his hands, as if waiting to tell her something. 

“Come on, Robert, spill it.” 

He sighed in relief. “Mrs. Halford, do I have your approval?” 

Alice quirked an eyebrow. “Approval? Whatever for?” 

“To marry your daughter.” 

“You mean my blessing?”

“Is it different?” 

“Oh darling, it is,” Alice replied, placing a hand on his arm. She gave him a smile. “Laney’s approval is what you need, not mine. But I’m giving you my blessing. You seem like a good man for her.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. I truly appreciate it.” 

Alice Halford winked at him. A cab arrived and to his surprise, she whistled at it using her fingers. It was loud and effective, as the cab immediately went on their way. She opened the door and gave him one last look. 

“I’ll see you soon, Robert.”

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

Alice Halford last visited Minton’s in 2023, when Elaine was still working there. Tonight, in 1947, she entered the same establishment, which is grittier than what she experienced in 2023. Despite the clouds of smoke, smell of cigar, darker interiors, it had more character. 

As someone who time traveled around New York throughout the decades, she will always think that her hometown will always have more character in the past than the present. 

Impressed that they managed to get seats, quickly, she ordered her usual—two fingers of scotch on the rocks. Elaine ordered a gin and tonic, while Rosie had a whiskey. 

Minty was there as well, and joined them. 

He invited Alice to dance when a lively Benny Goodman piece started being played. Elaine and Rosie immediately moved closer together, his hand on the back of her chair. 

“So, how was your conversation with mom?” Elaine wondered, sipping her gin and tonic. “Still wanna marry me?” 

She laid her drink on the table and placed her palm under her chin, staring at him with curiosity. This made Rosie brush a finger on her cheek.

“Of course. Mrs. Halford is a blond version of you,” he replied, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. 

“Appears out of nowhere, asks me hard questions, and insists on paying the bill…” 

“Ah, good to know that I’m still my mother’s daughter,” she nodded knowingly. “Were you scared?” 

“A little,” he admitted, sighing. “Almost felt like I was in an interrogation.” 

“No!” Elaine placed her hand over her mouth, giggling. “What did she ask? Nothing very serious, I hope.” 

“They were…reasonable questions. She just wanted to make sure that I’m good enough for you.”

“You think you did well?” 

Rosie raised his shoulders. “Hopefully, I did. But she gave me her blessing, so I guess I did pass her test.” 

Elaine only hummed. “Why was I ever in doubt?”

“Is this what you feel like whenever you’re with Ma?” 

“Yeah, at first, but I guess I just learned how to lean into it. Facing your fears, something, something.” 

“You’re afraid of Ma?” 

Elaine stared at him with disbelief. “I want your mom to like me! I think your mother activated my people-pleasing tendencies!”  

His head fell back in laughter and then he gathered her into his arms. She hugged him back, laughing with him. 

“Ma likes you, don’t worry,” he assured her, kissing the top of her head. “How long is she gonna stay here?” 

“Until the wedding’s over. She wanted to help with whatever she can,” she answered. “We should all have lunch or dinner with everyone—you, me, mom, your Ma, Hannah, David…”

“That sounds nice,” he agreed. “Maybe the weekend? Hannah and David have work.” 

“We’ll set it, we’ll set it,” Elaine assured him, smiling at him. As her eyes wandered back to the dance floor, she saw her mother and Minty clapping at the end of the song. They walked back to their table, demanding an exchange of partners. 

“Let’s switch partners, lovebirds,” Alice playfully demanded, motioning her hand towards Rosie. “Come on, son.”

“Mom, we’re talking,” Elaine groaned, lifting herself from her chair as Minty gently pulled her to dance with him. “You just want to dance with him because he reminds you of Clarke Gable!” 

“That’s not true!” she defended, her hands now on Rosie’s arms. “Also you two will have plenty of time together so let me dance with my son-in-law now. Sharing is caring, honey.”

“Clarke Gable!” Minty repeated, laughing as they walked to the dance floor. “Rosie…Clarke Gable!” 

“One more laugh and I’m gonna get insulted!” Rosie ribbed, making the older man laugh even more. He took Alice’s hand and led her to the floor.

As another song started, Elaine and Rosie looked at each other across the room while they swayed to the music with their respective partners. She playfully rolled her eyes at him, while he gave her a look that said ‘behave’. 

He then mouthed ‘I love you’ at her, which Elaine replied with a flying kiss and repeated the same words at him.

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Chapter 18: Viinir (Second Chances - Hunter x reader)

Viinir. v. to run.

Chapter Summary: You make it out of the city, but you're not out of danger yet.

Chapter Warnings: canon-typical violence; the Empire; angst and fluff in mostly equal measures for once; if I missed anything please let me know!

Word Count: 3,878

< Previous chapter | Next chapter >

Trepidation settles heavy and cold in your veins, weighing you down, freezing you to the spot despite the sweltering heat. For now, the Star Destroyers are too high in orbit to tell if they’ve launched fighters, but that doesn’t stop the trembling in your knees. 

Your wrist comm crackles with static before Tech’s voice breaks through. “I suggest we hide.” 

All at once, the comms are ablaze with chatter, sarcastic retorts and fearful wondering. You can’t make yourself move. Even if you wanted to, your arms are full; there’s no way you can respond to the squad’s sound-off without sacrificing the gifts you’d bought. More pressing, though, you need to get your face behind cover. You know how dangerous this situation is, even if the Empire isn’t here for you or the squad. Those Star Destroyers are equipped with tracking radars, cams, and probably even higher-quality tracking tech than when you’d been in the academy.

“Nav, come in!” Hunter barks over the comms.

Galvanized into action by his demanding tone, you stumble back under the shade of a canopy. With the entire city at a dead standstill, it’s easier to peer above and around bodies to catch a glimpse of familiar gray armor. But there is nothing familiar awaiting your gaze. Panic, electric and stinging, cracks apart the dread in your blood and sets your heart pounding.

“Does anyone have eyes on Nav?” 

“They’re in the market,” Omega’s small, scared voice chimes in. “Nav, turn left and head towards the archway with lights.”

Nodding, you don’t bother to look around to spot where Omega is. You trust her. You catch a glimpse of the lighted archway, maybe fifty feet from you, and beyond it, a dark rockface. Tightening your grip on your assorted gifts, you duck your head and push past people, barely mumbling apologies in Basic, half-aware of the way that people shoot glares as you pass.

Thirty feet. You risk a fleeting glance around you. Most everyone is still rooted to the spot, faces upturned, pinched with worry and fear. Whispers hiss across the chasm like waves as the city’s inhabitants spread rumor and conjecture like wildfire. You don’t understand the language, but you comprehend the sentiment: what do we do? 

Fifteen feet. You have to juggle your grip on the objects in your arms, the blender about to lose its top. Cursing, you pause and shrug your shoulder forward, nudging the appliance back into submission. 

When you’re satisfied it won’t move again, you continue forward. 

Ten feet.

White duraplast gleams in the yellow incandescence of the archway ahead of you. You stumble to a halt. Lips going numb with surprise, your eyes widen as you lock onto the darkened visor of one of the helmets. 

Several thoughts occur to you at once as time seems to stretch to a trickle. First, your worry is for Omega. You assume she’d been keeping tabs on your progress—did she not know about the Imps in the tunnel, or did she get captured? Your second thought is Phee—a thought quickly dashed. Phee’s no snitch. Which leaves your mind turning to the rest of the squad. Your comlink is quiet, dead. Where are they?

Your final thought is one of anger. Why can’t the Empire just leave you alone? What threat do you pose to them, really?

As if watching from outside your body, the trooper closest to you seems to register that you, unlike the rest of the people here, are not enraptured by the display of power hanging in the sky. Their hand comes up to the side of their helmet. You groan inwardly, sending a silent apology to the gifts about to scatter across the dusty ground. 

“There you are!” 

Time snaps back to its normal pace as a warm, strong arm wraps around you from the side, the momentum turning you away from the Imps. Hunter’s face is grim as he glances down at you, appraising you. He swings a cloak up over the both of you to shield your faces. Under his other arm is tucked his helmet. 

“I got worried when you didn’t come home right away,” he continues. He says it just loud enough to carry to the Imps behind you. With a gentle pressure around your waist, he leads you back the way you’d come, back to the winding staircase up to the surface.

Play along. “O-Oh, sorry, I just—got distracted.” You laugh, and it sounds fake and forced, even to your own ears. In a lower register, you whisper, “Where are the others?” 

“S’alright, cyare,” Hunter says. “Let’s get home.” He drops his voice. “Hiding. Safe.” 

Nodding, you let yourself be steered through the crowd. You can nearly feel the rising tide of panic welling up around you as people realize that the Empire isn’t just up there—it’s down here, with you all. Anxious whispers become fearful mutters. People push past you and Hunter, heading in the same direction, and, with any luck, providing you with extra cover.

You risk a glance back over your shoulder. At least a dozen more Imps, close to twenty total, move through the market square, roughing up anyone still lingering: shopkeeps protecting their wares; parents with curious children; stubborn, brave, ultimately foolish locals who dare to stand their ground. One man shouts something defiant in the local language, gesturing up to the ships in orbit. Without hesitation, two of the armored Imps raise their blasters and open fire. 

Screams crescendo around you. Whipping back to face forward, you lengthen your stride. “We need to get the kark out of here.”

“We’re not going to make it to the ships,” Hunter says, voice low and strained. “If we wait for nightfall, we might have a chance.”

“We need to find the others.” 

He shakes his head. “They should already be split up by now. Omega’s with Wrecker. Tech and Phee. Us.”

Instead of climbing the stairs like you so desperately desire, Hunter guides you past them, hugging the gently curving wall. You’re not sure he even has a plan, a place picked out, but when the second doorway you pass is open, you duck inside, forcing him to follow.

“Wait!” he hisses.

“No time.” As soon as he’s over the threshold, you kick the faded wooden door shut. “Help me block this off.”

Not that there’s much for you to use. A sparse table, caked with dust and sand, like most of everything else here, and some other furniture. Hunter grunts as he lifts the table and jams it against the doorway.

Thankfully, there is no window to worry about. Sunlight filters through crooked gaps between the door’s wooden planks. Dust swirls and eddies in the beams of light. Outside, the sounds of running feet and panicked shouts begin to decline. Still clutching the book, blender, and accessories, you take a moment to catch your breath and look around. 

You’ve trapped yourselves into a hole in the wall, quite literally. From side to side, the room you stand in is maybe fifteen feet across, probably the same distance deep. Aside from the table, now wedged by the sole entrance, there are only a handful of other pieces of furniture: a single, rickety chair missing its splat; a wardrobe with busted hinges; and a cot tucked into the far corner. Someone’s abode, once, you figure, but they’ve long since abandoned this place. Hard to imagine why, you think with a wry sense of self-deprecation. At the very least, the surrounding rock seems to offer protection from the superheated atmosphere outside. You exhale into the cool air. 

“Guess this works as good as anything else,” Hunter finally muses. He stands with his hands on his hips, frowning as his eyes sweep the interior. 

“I’m not going to apologize,” you say. “This was the best opportunity and you know it.”

Shaking his head, he drops his hands to his sides. “I know. Thank you.” Then he peers closer at you, as if seeing the belongings you clutch to your chest for the first time. “What’s...all that?” 

“Oh.” You gently deposit the items onto the cot. A puff of dust exhales into your face, and you have to stifle a sneeze. It would be just your luck to get caught because of allergies. “Just.... It’s silly. Gifts. For you all.”

Hunter hovers by your shoulder, his eyes roving over all five items. You watch, embarrassed, as emotions flit over his face. Frown easing into something like affection, you catch the exact moment he realizes which gift is his. He hooks the bracelet with his finger and lifts it to inspect it closer.

Face burning, you drop your gaze from his face to the bracelet as he faces you.

“This is...mine?” he asks. 

You nod.

Without another word, he slips it over his hand. The stone beads nestle perfectly against his wrist; shades of tan, white, brown, and gray arranged in a pattern repeating to infinity in the closed loop of the elastic thread that ties it all together. Your breath catches. You hadn’t expected him to accept it so easily.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. 

“It’s— it’s nothing, really,” you stammer out. “You all deserve something...nice.” 

He hums in thought. “Did you get yourself anything?” 

With a small shake of your head, you find it in you to meet his gaze again, just in time to catch the frown that threatens to retake his features. 

You hurry to explain yourself. “I...have everything I need right now. Everything I want is already part of my life. The kid, this family. You. I—”

His expression hardens and he clasps his hand over your mouth, silencing the words you didn’t feel like you had control of, anyhow. The warmth of your affection trickles away as you hold your breath, ears straining for whatever it is he senses. Then you hear it: the rhythmic clatter of duraplast against duraplast, punctuated by the steady march of boots over stone ground. 

Hunter’s eyes slide back to your own before he releases you. With a single nod, you slowly, carefully, reach for your blasters. Easing the safety off of each, one at a time, you glance down at the other switch.

“Stun?” you breathe, knowing that this close, Hunter can hear you.

He jerks his head in a nod.

“Clones?” you ask in the same tone.

Another nod. You squeeze your eyes shut. Kriff.

Ghosting away from you, Hunter moves to position himself closer to the door. You try to move as well, just a few feet across the room to get behind the bulk of the wardrobe. Despite the nervous energy thrumming in your stomach and buzzing at the base of your skull, your combat training reasserts itself like it’s supposed to. You need to get behind cover. Use every advantage to your benefit.

You tuck back against the cool rock wall. Outside, the Imps sound like they’re nearly to your hiding spot. You force yourself to take deep, steady breaths, counting them off to stem the rising panic clawing up your chest.

Muffled but distinct, a clone’s voice drifts to you through the closed door. “Nah, there’s no one in this one. Check the next one.” 

It’s all the warning you have before—

Bang bang bang bang!

You flinch, knocking your head on the wall. The table in front of the door holds, even as a trooper seems to kick at the door.

“Stuck, sir,” a clone says. 

A nearly identical voice responds. “Get it unstuck.”

One part of your brain begins analyzing all your combative options for getting out of here alive. It’s the two of you against three Destroyers’ worth of troops; at the very least, the others would have time to get away safe. Omega would get to live her life—without her dad. That won’t happen. You and Hunter have the advantage of being able to control the door as an access point: only two troopers could come in at a time, and their bodies would pile up into a barricade. But then you’d be even more stuck inside, with a bunch of unconscious, but very much not dead, Imps. Every scenario your brain flicks through ends the same way: with one or both of you dead, captured, or both.

The other part of your mind struggles to recall all the non-aggressive tactics you were taught at the academy. Something about public displays of affection making people uncomfortable..? How likely is it that you could spin an amorous connection in your favor? 

“Eh, kark it,” a voice outside the door grumbles. “C’mon. All of these are probably empty, anyway.”

You don’t dare release your held breath until the sounds of the Imps’ march fades completely. You shove your blasters back into their holsters before your legs threaten to buckle beneath you.

Your ass hits the ground and you slump forward. “Maker above, Hunter, how are we getting out of here?”

He sits beside you, resting a hand on your knee. “I don’t know.” 

“We can’t contact the others, can we?” 

“Too risky. Empire’s probably monitoring all comm frequencies.” 

With a stuttering inhale, you raise your head. Now that you’re free of the immediate threat of Imps, your mind switches its focus to a more long-term plan. “The Redthorn has been programmed to your bioscans.” 

Hunter’s glittering eyes catch yours, shards of gray obsidian in the dim light. “What’s that got to do with this? When did you do that?”

“Coded it not long after I joined. It’s a failsafe in case we... if we get separated,” you say. “Or...if I don’t make it.”

“Don’t even think that,” he says, voice quiet but harsh. The urgency in his usually composed tone gives you pause, but only for a moment. 

“I’m just considering every possibility,” you say. “You have enhanced senses. If either of us is getting back safe, it’s you.” 

“I won’t leave you behind.” He grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, forces you to meet his gaze head-on, not letting you avoid this. “D’you understand me? You are not to sacrifice yourself.”

“Is that an order, Sarge?”

“You know damn well it is,” he growls. His expression remains hard, the mask of a soldier, before it crumbles before your eyes, revealing the soft man beneath. “Nav, please.” 

You gingerly reach forward to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not going anywhere.” When his eyes slide shut, you sigh. “We should probably come up with a plan, though.”

Several hours later, you stretch your sore, cramped muscles. The suns finally seem to have gone down. Hunter has spent the last hour or so monitoring guard rotations, his enhanced hearing helping him track how many levels the guards go up, how many of them in each patrol unit, where they pause in their beats. You’re not sure exactly what he’s figured out, but since he hasn’t said anything against the plan so far, you trust that he feels confident in his abilities.

For your part, you’d packed up your belongings as best as you could. You had to rip an old, musty bedsheet you found stuffed at the bottom of the wardrobe to create a makeshift pack—your usual backpack is still too full. You need to remember to empty it out when you’re safe again. Using scraps, you made sure that none of the new objects made noise as you walked.

The plan is as simple as you could make it. Hunter gets a feel for the patrols; you watch your six. Together, you’ll get to the base of the stairs and climb. Once you’re on the stairway, you know it’s going to be a race; there had been no alcoves to duck into, and the path was barely wide enough for Omega to walk next to one of you. Any resistance you encounter could very well spell disaster.

But it really is a simple plan, not one unlike the mantra you’d created for yourself months ago on Bescane. Get in, get out, get away.

Swallowing against the dryness in your throat, you squint through the darkness. Hunter’s frame crouches by the door. You’d helped him move the table when there was still light, to reduce the chance of extra sound.

You squat next to him. “How are we lookin’?”

“I don’t want to jinx us,” he whispers back. “Another few minutes, and we’ll be in the middle of their rotations. Last guard shift was at sundown.”

Nodding, you let that information sink into your brain and digest. Sundown was a while ago; with any luck, the clones on patrol right now are nearing the end of their shifts, growing tired, looking forward to mealtime. The time to move is now.

“Walk me through it one more time,” he says. He helps you back to your feet as he straightens up.

You nod, knowing he can see you even if you can’t see more of him than a vague outline. “I open the door and you do a check. Once we’re clear, you lead the way to the stairs. I walk backwards with you, watching behind us. You’ll call a stop if it’s needed. We trade places every ten minutes of movement.”

“Good.” His hand rests on your shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. “And we hold out hope that the others are able to get out, too.”

“Or that they are already out.” 

He hums. “That, too.” 

Silence spreads between you. You look up where you think his eyes are and offer a tense, short smile. In the dark, you sense his posture shift, feel his warmth close in on you. His hand slides from your shoulder to cup the back of your neck. His touch sends tingles of anticipation prickling through your body. 

“Wh-What are you doing?” you ask. You can’t keep the tremor out of your voice.

“Just feeling you,” he rasps. “Just in case.”

A gasp escapes you as his nose nudges yours. Tilting your head without a second thought, you catch at the edges of his cuirass and tug him closer. His warm breath fans over your face. For a long moment, the two of you stand there, breathing each other’s breath, exchanging the life-giving essence back and forth, drowning in one another. At least, you hope he’s drowning the same way you are. Your heart beats hard and steady against your ribcage, aching to burst forward and meet his own. All of your nerves alight. The strange sense of gravity connecting you to him tears at your seams as your imminent collision ripples through spacetime. After so long in a slow orbit, you’re two black holes, destined to merge and become one. 

But not tonight. Hunter takes a sharp breath in, then steps back, his hand falling from you. Your own drop to your side.

“Let’s go,” he says.

Taking a moment to clear your frazzled brain, you push all your feelings for him to the side. It’s a distraction—a welcome one, a comforting one, but very likely a deadly one, too. You fumble for the rope door handle. Once you find it, you gently, inch by inch, tug the door free from its frame. You have to lift the door to keep it from scraping the floor, but once it’s open, Hunter slips through the gap, silent.

“Clear,” comes his voice, modulated by the helmet once again. 

You peer out into the city. Back by the market, you catch a glimpse of the incandescent lights strung between stalls, occasionally blotted out by figures walking in pairs. Both blasters in hand, you step over the threshold and pivot.

“Starting on my right,” Hunter murmurs.

“On my left,” you respond. 

As one, the two of you head toward the base of the stairs, moving more slowly than you want. Your impulse is to dash, to get there as fast as possible, but Hunter had explained to you that quick movements almost always draw attention. A slow, methodical pace makes more logical sense. Even so, every muscle in your body screams with the desire to sprint.

You swap places twice, the first time when you reach the base of the stairs, and again after about ten minutes of slow, painstaking progress upward. To your good fortune, the higher you climb, the better you can see; the planet’s moon rises overhead, casting the city in a bone-white glow. 

BOOM!

You jerk your head so fast that your neck cramps, eyes watering from the conjoined pain and the sudden flare of fire on the other side of the city. The explosion’s shockwave hits you and nearly knocks you back into the rock wall, but Hunter grabs your arm to steady you. 

“Run!” he urges.

Turning and stumbling, you scramble up the steep stairs in Hunter’s wake. You can’t take your eyes off the now steadily-growing fire that consumes the draped canopies of the cityscape, leaping between rooftops. Closer at hand, you catch sight of four figures dashing between buildings before they hit the stairs.

“Hunter, they’re—”

“I see them,” he calls over his shoulder. “When we get to the top, we’ll wait for them.”

You’re panting and out of breath by the time you reach the top, clutching a stitch in your side. But you don’t have time to devote to your labored breathing. Surprised shouts crackle out of six vocoders, the white armor gleaming in the moonlight.

One of them raises his hand to his helmet. “Insurgent activity at the top. Requesting—”

Hunter’s stun blast knocks him unconscious before he can finish his request for support. Your mind quiets for the first time today as you raise your blasters and take aim. Blue plasma sears your retinas. As the last Imp falls to the ground, the crunch of a boot on rock from behind you has you whirling, fingers resting on the triggers.

“Just us!” Wrecker exclaims. 

“Thank the kriffin’ Maker,” you pant out. 

“C’mon, they know where we are.” Hunter tugs at your elbow. “Nav, I want you on the Maruader. Wrecker, you come with me.”

You by now not to question Hunter’s tactics. He’s not led you astray yet. Urging your feet to move, you grab Omega’s hand and make sure she stays with you.

“Next time, Phee,” you gasp out as the dark shapes of the ships come into view, “park us closer.”

“Oh, believe me, I will!” Her laugh is no less boisterous for being strained.

The ramps to both ships rest open by the time you reach them. Skidding to a halt, you usher Omega up the Maruader’s steps first. Tech follows, taking the stairs two at a time, and then Phee. You’re about to climb up after her when a familiar, chilling sound pierces through the adrenaline haze.

A dull roar turns into a horrid screech. Eyes wide, you look back toward the sinkhole in time to catch the outline of three TIE-fighters streaking toward you as they dart in front of the moon.

“Hunter!” you shout, voice cracking. 

“I know!” he yells back. “We’ll meet at Rintonne! Now go!”

You have no choice but to obey as the TIEs open fire, green plasma beams shattering the ground around the ships.

Taglist: @the-hexfiles @fjordg @idoubleswearimawriter @skellymom (idk why it won't tag you, I'm sorry!)

[ohbutwheresyourheart]

dante and/or the whole dmc 5 crew for the blorbo meme? :)

oh ho HO thank you for this, I love the DMC gang and don't talk about them enough

disclaimer/note to begin with: they all have pretty privelege and they all need to stop being put in situations, because that's just who they all are as people/chew toys of fate

second disclaimer: I made this post while drinking a big old bottle of beer so if this commentary goes off the rails the further you go down the post then that's why

also I'm putting these under a cut bc this got really long

first up: dante!!!

fewer boxes crossed off than I was expecting but when I sat down and thought about it there were some I couldn't justify, e.g. in my heart I want to believe I can fix him and he needs me but let's be real the only thing that ever had the power to fix Dante is getting his bro back </3

also I say most fandom takes are incorrect bc my main contact with the DMC fandom was back in the day where it was very common to portray Dante as this LOL SO RANDOM horndog (i.e. as if his projected persona was his... actual deep-seated personality) and I am a depression Dante truther. not sure what the current fandom mentality on Dante is, if things have moved on then disregard

next up: nero!!!

gonna be honest, I wasn't too fussed about Nero until DMC 5 and then he quickly leapfrogged into my heart because oh my god this poor, poor, POOR kid. born to be the straight man in a universe of wackos. trying SO HARD to keep this mess of a family on track but if you push him so help him sparda he WILL turn this car around.

I need more Nero. I need more Nero and Kyrie, specifically. I need to see them just living their average everyday lives where Nero slops his way home covered in demon guts and sluices off then puts a load of laundry on and helps Kyrie with dinner.

also hahahahahaa definitely nothing in there about growing up feeling like an outcast so thoroughly one might as well have had a fucked up demon appendage, nope, nothing like that!!!

V aka DOUBLE BINGO

I have a thing for pasty ass dark haired skinny twink vaguely feeble romantic poet creatures okay even though I would get so frustrated the tenth time I asked him a simple question and he replied with a blake quote

but also HE WAS HIS OWN PERSON he was REAL he was ALIVE and now he's NOT because he WASN'T VERGIL, he was HIMSELF, he was HUMAN, and now he's GONE but also he lives on but also V as an individual is GONE but they'll still see glimmers and hints of him in Vergil and be reminded of him but but but (bites fingers and screeches)

THE ALPHA AND THE OMEGA

okay so all of my years of fangirling aside I have to be upfront that if I ever met Vergil I would want to tear his smug disdainful face apart with my bare hands in a matter of minutes

HOWEVER in the realm of fandom, the only reason he ranks lower than V is because V exudes that high fructose twink timothee chalamet energy

I cannot fix him. he does not need me. and yet. whomst among the ranks of Vergil fancreatures has not sat up late at night in their early/mid-teens frantically typing barely-disguised self-insert fanfic where we DO fix him, where we are the ONLY ones who can fix him, where we are the Eva to his Sparda, washing away the sins of his past and anointing him with love?

Vergil is the most anti-hero of all time. he has it all. he's a genocidal maniac, except maybe he isn't because maybe the qliphoth was going to grow there anyway and he just got in on the demonic gentrification scheme at the right moment. he literally has an unspeakably tormented and tortured past.

he has mommy issues. he has daddy issues. he has brother issues. he has son issues. he's a weeaboo. he loves poetry. he hates you, both generally and specifically. he has the hauteur and arrogance of christian fifty shades. underneath it all he just wants desperately to be loved and protected. his idea of bonding is a no-holes-barred beatdown.

he has an extremely weird obsession with his brother, whom he hates, but loves, but hates, but loves, but hates, but wants to spend forever with, but hates, but would kill anyone if they tried to hurt him. literally every bad thing he's ever done originally stemmed from the need to be strong enough to protect what he cares about (DANTE) because he can't go through losing his family again.

i love him <3

[chicknstripz]

∘₊✧ [[ Kindred Spirits ]] ✧₊∘

Pairings || None Warnings || Paranoia, Mentions of ‘Decommissioning’, Eugenics, Bullying.  Synopsis || Jaing learns something new about the cloning program, and Tech learns that the Batch aren't the only deviants in the facility. Chapters || [1][2] (reposted as the original wouldn't allow me to change the format)

The mess was a riot of sound, a constant chatter that grated on Jaing’s nerves as he gave the space a quick once over.

Kaminoans? None. Alphas? Again, none, the usual threats completely absent.

So why then, were his instincts on edge? A frenzied itch that started at the back of his scalp and tingled down his spine. Another look, another check, but again nothing, his paranoia rising as he tried to narrow down the threat. There had to be something! It wasn’t like his instincts to lie to him about this kind of thing, the swirl of anxiety settling in the space just above his heart as he eyed the chow line.

“Where’s the rest of your pathetic batch?”

He halted in mid-stride, the jibe instantly rousing his anger. Expect the jibe wasn’t aimed his way - a quick swivel of his head revealing the cause of his paranoia.

A crowd of cadets had gathered around one of the tables, their broad backs hiding the object of their unsavory attention. At first he thought the troopers had ganged up on one of his brothers, his eyes narrowing as he stormed his way across the room, but the closer he got the more certain he became that this wasn't a null. Soft brown hair, a shade lighter than his own peeped out from between shoulders, followed by a spectacled face - the set of the eyes revealing slight frustration at the attention as Jaing stopped just behind the apparent ring leader of the group.

“I don’t know who said that, but you better kriff off - the lot of you.”

“Make us!”

He gave the idiot what Kal would call ‘the null special’, his lips peeling back to reveal his pearly whites.

“You don’t want that, it tends to be painful.”

The trooper gave him a quick once over, scoffed, then walked off, which was for the best as Jaing didn’t want to start another brawl in the mess hall.

“That was completely unnecessary, I had the situation under control.”

“Like hell you did.”

Jaing huffed as he seated himself opposite the cadet, the seat protesting as he leaned his weight into its back. He’d put on a lot of muscle in the past year or so, his frame filling out as he transitioned from spindly youth to bulky soldier, and he could see Tech reaching the conclusion all Troopers did when they met him for the first time.

“You are an ARC Trooper, are you not?”

He watched the kid trace his finger across the screen of his datapad, the movement precise as he dumped a mouthful of information that’d more than delight Prudii.

“Kaminoan data suggests there are two ARC variants in production. The first is the alpha variant, a batch of one hundred and fifty soldiers who’ve had their genetics carefully curated by Nala Se. The second is the trooper variant, forward thinking individuals who’ve been singled out by their commanders as being worthy of specialized training. Based on your build and age, I would say you were the former.”

Jaing scoffed. If there was one thing he hated, it was being mistaken for an alpha!

“If I was an alpha I would have punched first and asked questions later.”

“Then, what, exactly, are you?

“A disappointment"

Tech clearly didn't get the joke, the arc of his brows visible over his goggles as he rolled his thumb into the corner of the screen - just like Prudii would do when he got frustrated with something.

"That's hardly an explanation"

"It was for the Kaminonans."

The cadet was still giving him that look, the amber of his eyes boring into him with such intensity that he felt like he was looking at a fellow null.

"You're a deviant then? Interesting. I thought there were only four of us."

Jaing jolted at the off-hand comment, his anxiety rising to a fever pitch at the very idea that he’d missed something important. How could he, the data slicer extraordinaire, have missed that there was another deviant batch of clones? Unless, of course, this cadet had been lied to? He wouldn’t put it past the awiha bait to run psychological experiments on run of the mill troopers.

“I was under the impression the Kaminaons stopped the production of specialized units not long after the Alpha run.”

He watched the younger clone tip his head, his thumbs settling in the lower corners of his datapad whilst he digested his words. Jaing was familiar with what a highly intelligent individual looked like, knew well the tells and traits of someone that had eidetic memory, and whilst he didn’t think this clone had perfect recall he did think he had something close - the gracile brows setting low over his eyes as he lowered his ‘pad to the top of his thighs.

“I’m no expert on the matter, but I would recon - based on our growth charts and mental capacity - that we were produced shortly after the first batch of gen-ones were decanted.”

Jaing closed his eyes as he built a mental image of this new timeline, the production of whatever Tech was slipping neatly between the Alpha program and the gen one troopers.

“So that’d make you, what, three years my junior?”

“Impossible! There are no variants on record that pre-date the Alphas, and most of them are two years our senior.”

He motioned for the cadet to hand him his datapad, his fore and index fingers curling in a ‘give it here’ gesture that made the youngster huff in vague worry - as if he was going to ruin the device.

“Udessi kih’vod, I’m not going to ruin your ‘pad. If anything, it'll be in a much better condition when I return it.”

The kid clearly doesn’t believe him, the hard stare invoking a sense of deep kinship that made Jaing feel sorry for his brothers. How many times had he given them the exact same look? His lips pursed into a thin line as one of them, usually Prudii, tried to techsplain a technical problem he’d already solved. The ‘pad settled into his palm, a familiar weight that settled his nerves as he turned the screen toward him for a cursory inspection. Impressive firewall and VPN, with what looked to be a handmade GUI, the image laid over a system that definitely was not GAR standard.

“This your work --”

He left an open for the kid to introduce himself, the fingers of his right hand lifting from the back of the ‘pad as he did so.

“CT-9902”

“I don’t do the whole designation thing kih’vod, just give me your name.”

“Tech”

“Jaing”

Tech nods, giving him another examination that left him exposed.

“As in the mandalorian training master?”

“Yes, as in the training master”

Jaing isn’t comfortable with the whole ‘being named after a legendary mandalorian’ thing, none of them are - especially not Mereel, but they’ve lived with their monikers for so long that changing them feels wrong. So they live with the impossible expectations, with the skeletons in the closets - the pains of a past that wasn’t theirs stacking alongside the pain of a flash pumped education and growth spurts.

“Surprised you know about that to be honest.”

“I’ve been doing some light reading, figured it’d come in useful if we ever get sent to Mandalore.”

He lifts his shoulders in a shrug as he slips his datachip into Tech’s terminal, watching with immense satisfaction as the cadet’s in-built system checks for viruses.

“Just as long as you remember to take what you read with a grain of salt.”

“I’m well aware that the vast majority of historical texts are ‘written by the victor’, and thus liable to be full of bias.”

Good. Good. Whomever has been teaching the cadet has a good head on their shoulders, which is for the best if you ask him. Too many of the troopers are getting a shoddy education, their flashpumping followed by a hasty run through live sims that made his gut churn, and too few are being exposed to the mandalorian mindset - their inability to think on their feet dooming them to death. He sighs as he opens the file he’s looking for, the corners of his lips sinking as he sets the item to the top of the table, and slides it across to Tech.

“Then you’ll get a kick out of this.”

“What, exactly, am I looking at?”

“A redacted file that was supposed to be destroyed when the aiwha bait started mass-production of the gen-ones”

He watched Tech’s eyes flitter over the information, the press of his lips growing thinner and thinner, until only a sliver of skin remained - the skin bone white with the pressure as his eyes surveyed him from over the top of the pad.

“It’s not often I’m rendered mute, but this is--”

“Unethical?”

“That would be the correct word, however I find it wholly unfitting of the information revealed by this text. ‘The remaining units have been assessed for behavioral issues following the completion of their flash training. It is our findings that they, and I’m quoting here, are highly aggressive, and unfit for duty. Therefore it is our recommendation they be designated Null and sent for decommissioning.’”

Tech placed his datapad to the table, the silent fury in his eyes poking at the small part of Jaing’s brain that formed tight connections with his vode.

“However, I don’t see anything in this report that indicates why your, huh-hum, issues should warrant such an order. High intellect and, as Wrecker would so quaintly put it, the balls to ignore illogical orders, are favorable for special forces.”

“Tell that to the Kaminoans.”

The pair fell into a long silence, a deep understanding of the other forming as they watched the comings and goings of the various battalions. Tech found in Jaing a much needed sign that he wasn’t alone, that there was at least one other trooper that shared in his genius. Jaing felt similar, though he still wasn’t sure how or why the Kaminoans had made another ‘high-end’ batch when he had turned out so poorly.

“So -- your batch -- what special traits did they breed into you?”

Tech shrugged, scrolling his finger up the screen as he continued to scan through the file Jaing had shared with him.

“It varies. Hunter, our sergeant, has heightened senses. He can feel the electromagnetic pulses that run through the facility, a ground based radar if you will, makes it impossible for us to get lost. Wrecker, well, he’s built like the commandos. Tall, broad, and muscular. Can easily haul three times his weight from one end of the sim to the other. Then we’re got Crosshair --”

There’s a pause, a brief breath that tells Jaing this vod is the ‘outsider’ of the group.

“-- he’s had his eyesight enhanced, can hit a precise target from across the mud pan.”

Tech lifts his free hand, thumb and forefinger pressed together to demonstrate the size of the target, and Jaing - precise and skilled Jaing - whistles in admiration as he knows just how hard it is to hit a target that small from nine hundred yards away.

“And then there’s you, the genius.”

“I will admit that my intellect is far higher than the regs, however I wouldn’t call myself a genius -- not yet by any rate.”

Humility, as Kal would say, was a good trait for a mando’ade to have, the soft air of it hanging around the -- commando? Jaing isn’t quite sure what to call Tech just yet, but he does know he’s been bred and trained for something other than regular field work, and that? That riled something in him, the sense of ‘something’s not right here’ sitting deep in his gut as he drummed his fingers on the table top.

“Have you ever wondered why they made you?”

Tech cocks his head, completely unbothered by the null asking what, would be to some, a rude question.

“It is not my place to ask the wherefores.”

“Well then maybe it should be!”

And there it was, the key difference between him and whatever Tech was - the deep and rooted ember that landed him and his brothers on the chopping block. Jaing couldn’t accept what he’d been told as the truth, couldn’t sit back and go with the flow like the so-called ‘regs’ did. No. He asked questions. He prodded and pried, slipped his way into places he didn’t belong solely because he couldn’t accept that life was black and white, and accepted that the later gens didn’t think like that? It was kriffing hard! His mind a whir as he remembered the insurmountable wall that existed between him and his kih’vode.

“Sorry. I sometimes forget myself.”

“It’s quite alright. I too, find my mouth running ahead of my thoughts on the odd occasion.”

Well at least he hadn’t offended him. It really would be a new low on the ‘Jaing tries to make friends with someone’ ladder, which wasn’t that high a ladder in the first place, but hey, he was trying here, his shoulders dropping from his ears as he tapped the side of his vambrace.

“Jate, Jate, I’d hate if it was just me putting my big ole boot in my mouth.”

Tech smiled, the first true smile he’d seen from the fellow cadet since he sat down, and Jaing was struck by how young he looked - his cheeks and jaw still rounded with fat.

“I take it it’s not a trait you share with the rest of your batch?”

“Not to this degree, no.”

He definitely had it the worst, though Mereel and A’den were a close second when it came to the fine art of unintentionally insulting aruetiise.

“I could go on and on like this all day, but I don’t have the time nor the energy.”

“Training sims?”

“No. We’re being trained the good old fashioned way.”

“Perhaps you will care to enlighten me about that the next time we talk?”

Jaing would usually say no to a next time, would usually insist that he keep himself to himself, but Tech? He was different. He wanted to spend time with him, wanted to learn, and who was he to say no when he’d been complaining about Tech not being trained right not half an hour before?

“How about we make a deal? I will tell you about my training regime if you promise to look into why the Kaminoans made you.”

“Deal!”

Jaing felt accomplished as he shook Tech’s hand, the unsettled feeling slinking to the back of his mind as the topic of conversation drifted to what was being offered in the mess. Later he’d tell Kal about his worrying discovery, would tell his father about this odd clone he’d met, but for now all he cared about was this blooming friendship with a like minded soul.

[knucklegagging]

Fifty Shades of Chestpains is my Soul-Sister

Starting this morning off right (debatable) by triggering the fuck out of myself binge-watching this guy’s groovy channel on youtube (check him out!) Maybe if I’m thin enough, eventually he’ll make a deep dive on me. Lol jk, anonymous land is my sacred place. I would hate for anyone to be able to pin a face to my vent sessions. No one needs to ever know I’m the bitch who’s mom took naked photos of me and w my then-dad taught me how to purge, hand stuffed in my gaping mouth begging to go to bed, not being allowed to sleep in second fucking grade till I “got it all out like a good girl” because I had taken two benadryl instead of one by accident (their own fault, they should have been communicating instead of casually handing me pills to make me drowsy enough to sleep). Without tumblr I have to keep these thoughts inside of me. Tumblr is the only place where you can be honest about what happened and people don’t go “oh honey i’m so sorry that happened to you” *BARFS IN CHEESECAKE* because all of us are just making fucked up jokes trying to process through our own shit and laughing writing out “same” in the comment sections. Y’all are like the fake family I should’ve had. The ones who don’t act like assholes or make me swallow up the truth cuz they’re worried about their own dirty laundry getting dragged in the street if I acknowledge that they’d kick me out just to call the cops on me and pretend they were worried about me being a flight risk so that the cops would get me sectioned in the psych ward. Great job fucktards. From like age ten and up you already had maneuvered enough stupid pawns to get everyone believing I was the crazy one. As though your lies even make sense. Tell me, what child would run away from a healthy house? Wouldn’t the logical conclusion be that the child isn’t safe? It’s a fucking child. And when a kindergartener tells the teacher that mommy ‘s taking photos of them naked, don’t you think that teacher should have done something other than chastise the kid for bringing up inappropriate conversations that ought not be talked about?  I don’t care that she thought it was tasteful. How can a naked child be tasteful? Then she goes and sends the pics to people for Christmas like it’s totally normal to make a tiny child pose completely naked on a bed of scratchy tulle. I remember having to apply lotion every day for over three months to places that shouldn’t have seen tulle. I’m on a tangent of traumatic shit no one should ever need to read, especially this early in the morning. But, I guess my point is that it’s nice that I can be real. It’s nice that people don’t act like my mother was a saint here because she was a beacon of charismatic masking in more than one church.  And as fucked up as shit is, or has been, (these days nothing is wrong which is lovely but I’m still stuck processing the past over and over wondering when it’s going to break me and scared to leave my house because if I die and nothing majorly positive has happened to offset my life, then all myhopes of an eventual balancing scale are total bullshit) well... fuck. At least I have 50Shades of Chestpains (ironically my chestpains have been having fun ww me all morning and won’t seem to budge away) cuz he at least seems to get the complexities enough to try shining a light on all of these situations. And yes, of course it’s triggering, but mostly I think it’s a relief. It’s nice knowing that I’m not alone. It’s nice to have this zen garden of anorexia fuckery where video after video I can see and say “hey! that one sounds like me! I’m not the only one who’s stuck in this!” Like tumblr. I think we really get a bad rep like we’re trying to force each other to get sicker. I wish more people could understand that it’s not the goal, it’s an unpleasant side effect *SOMETIMES* and that the focal point in progress is being able to go “oh fuck thank goodness I’m not the only one. Thank goodness that for once I don’t have to posture. Thank fucking goodness there’s one place left where I’m allowed to be truthful without dumb people with perfect lives saying dumber things with imperfect timing. Tumblr is my butter. It makes me feel a little bit more heavy. A ;little less likely that I’m going to float away. You guys are awesome! xoxo

[edenjohansson]

Chapter 15

fifty shades of red

Nat's pov :

**I know why. I can explain to you whenever you're ready**

It was still a weird feeling to have her in my mind like that. I felt so vulnerable to let her see all of my memories. But I trust her to let me privacy on certain bad parts of my life.

I looked back at Mary who was trying to have responses with Bucky. Knowing him she can wait a really long time before he talks about his arm. I suddenly saw a sort of blue thread getting out of Mary's hand. It looked like her powers maybe, it was like water. She touches Bucky's arm and the power disappears. I looked back at Donna and asked her mentally what was that?

**It's Mary's power. She can control and absorb emotions**

I'm torn between fear and wonderment in front of this power. It can be really helpful in some situations to have someone who can absorb bad emotions but can become so confusing. This new world is really deep and we have so much to learn from them.

"Is she talking that much every time?" Bucky asked Donna.

She smiled at him and at Mary.

"When she feels something particular with the person you can't stop her"

"Well, it's always so interesting to discover new emotions. You, humans, are very stimulating for me, you are a ressources of emotions and feeling" Mary added, letting her body become blue like her hair.

"What's that?" Steve asked Mary about the cracks on her body. It's like her power wanted to come out of her.

She looked at her arms and legs and her eyes widened as she saw her palms getting more blue. Donna stood up and arrived behind Mary. I didn't even see her move. She placed her hands around Mary's face and used her power on her. Slowly the blue on Mary's body started to disappear.

"Sorry about that. It happens sometimes when she's overstimulated. And with you I assume that she has too much inside her and starts to blow up" Donna explained to us.

"Is she alright?" Bruce asked, taking note about her.

"Stop writing about what you just see if you don't want me to kill you"

Bruce stopped his movement and put away his stuff. Donna let the head of Mary go and let her hands rest on her shoulders. She sighed and continued to speak.

"I let you live here, let you discover our world but nothing should come out of this place or out of your mind. If you can do this perfect, if you don't enjoy your death"

We all nodded to her sentence, knowing her, she would have no issues with our death. Mary started to move again and looked all around her. Donna had her hands still on her shoulders. Mary's eyes turned red in an instant and we all stood up away from her. Mary stood up too and turned to face Donna. They nodded their heads togethers and started to walk out of the house.

"Shh Mary. Calm down" Donna whispered to Mary.

Mary stopped and her fists clenched. Donna tried to push Mary out of the house but without a second she was gone. I have the time to see Bucky get pushed away by Donna before seeing Mary trying to kill him. If Donna wasn't there he would be dead by now, shred apart. The two vampires were fighting or were trying to fight I don't really know. Their movements were so fast that I could only see blue hair and white hair fly in opposite directions. Jarvis was right, against vampires we have no chance, they were too fast for us and too strong.

I thought for one second that they would fight for a long time but Donna stopped her movements with the throat of Mary between her hands. Her eyes were red and black claws were around Mary's neck. The powers of Donna were all around her like shadows ready to attack someone. She was terrifying, I admit it.

Bella's pov :

Mary was thirsty, so thirsty that she tried to kill Bucky. She was fast but I know her too well and I stopped her from something she will regret it after. My powers were inside her head, trying to calm her and let her under my control. I hated it, controlling her like that but I had no choices, she would kill everyone if I let her go.

I let her throat go and ordered her to walk out of the house and wait for me. She executed my order and I sighed. I looked at the Avengers and placed my hands on my waist.

"I am sorry about what just happened. I thought that Mary would control herself better"

"She almost killed Bucky" Steve argued.

"And he's still alive, so you're welcome. We are going to hunt, stay here"

"You think you can stop us from leaving?" Thor asked.

"During my hunt no but the 20 vampires around the house yes"

"So it's like a prison here??!" Tony fight back.

"If you wanna leave, go ahead, be my guest, leave. But don't call me because 100 vampires attack you. Once you step outside my property you are going to have a target on your back. I already told you that here you are under my protection but if you prefer to die that's up to you"

"We can go to Asgard, no vampires can attack us down there" Thor suggested to the rest of the team.

"And you are going to abandon the Earth? Wow well done Avengers! What would people say if the incredible team you are, left because of one threat?" I argued back with sarcasm.

"We will be back after, that's it" Steve said.

I rolled my eyes and laughed at them.

"You already forgot that we are immortal. And when we are angry we never abandon our target. So you can be back in 50 years, we will be there, waiting for you. And without scaring you, if you leave we will kill your family, your friends, your children and everything that you are related to"

They all looked at me with fear in their eyes but I had to be honest with them if I wanted them to understand the real threat they're fighting.

"I let you think of it. I'm hungry"

[bjfinn]

It's been 25 years now, and it still hurts just as much ...

My ma was born on 21 October 1928 in Little Burgundy. She had an older sister and three younger brothers. When her father left, she had to quit school in order to help take care of the family, even though she was only in seventh grade at the time. On 16 March, at the age of seventeen, she married a boy from the neighbourhood, and in August of that year my eldest sister was born - yes, it was a shotgun wedding, something I only found out about after my da died. But they loved each other very much - of that there is no doubt.

My ma never talked about her past, so I really don't know much about her except that she was a wonderful mother. She taught me how to draw, how to step-dance, how to cook. Whenever a new Disney movie came out, she would take me to the Saturday matinée at whichever theatre it was playing. On weekends when my father was working, we'd go on bus tours around Montreal, and we'd have lunch at a different restaurant each time. She came to every one of my school plays and variety shows.

She was a striking looking woman - not a conventional beauty, to be sure, but once you saw her you would never forget her. Especially her eyes - they were the most amazing shade of blue, so pale they were almost white. Ice-blue eyes that could kill a man (or a child) at fifty paces, so to speak. I've never seen anyone else with eyes that colour. And she looked almost the same at sixty-nine as she did at seventeen - her hair got greyer, she got a bit heavier and developed a few more wrinkles over the years, but that's all. Hers was a timeless beauty. Bea Arthur, the actress, had the same kind of beauty.

She loved to cook, and wasn't afraid to try something new and unfamiliar - I got my adventurous palate from her.

She loved to read, and passed that on to me.

She had a great sense of humour, and I learned to laugh from her.

She had a strong sense of responsibility towards others, which she taught me.

She loved music (except jazz - she'd gone to school with Oscar Peterson, and liked him well enough, but she didn't like his music).

She loved animals, and we always had pets when I was growing up.

She loved gardening, and even though we lived on the second floor and didn't have a garden, we always had houseplants.

She believed in 'spare the rod and spoil the child', but she was never abusive.

She believed in God, but she wasn't overtly religious.

Whatever hopes and dreams she may have had, she gave them up for her family.

I wish I had thought to ask about her past, but when you're a kid such things don't occur to you. It's something I regret - I don't have any stories of her life before I came along. And now it's too late.

In September of 1997 she was diagnosed with Hodgkin's lymphoma and was given two years to live - the doctor said that any treatment would only prolong her life by about six months, and that she would suffer from its effects, so she decided not to bother (and besides, she was afraid of doctors). And so life continued, and for the next seven months she was outwardly the same as before.

Then, on the evening of 23 April 1998, we were all watching TV in the living room when I heard her making a strange sort of snoring, gurgling noise - I looked over, and she looked like she was having a stroke. I called 911, and then handed the phone to my father - he was almost hysterical, and I thought the operator would be able to keep him calm - and then I started CPR on my mother. For twenty minutes I kept it up, until the paramedics arrived and rushed her to hospital. My da went with them, but I stayed behind to call my sisters, after which I went, too.

The doctors hooked her up to whatever machines they employ in such situations, and my sisters and their husbands arrived soon after I did.

Technically, my mother died the next morning, but in reality she was likely gone before the ambulance came - I'll always remember 23 April as the day she passed.

I miss her so much.

I love you, Ma. Always and forever.💔

[thearchivistsjournal]

Day 305,

The mists are out so I’m back at the house, once again waiting to see if Maiko returns tonight to take shelter from the shades.  She hasn’t yet and if past results are any indicator she isn’t likely to, but what else can I do?

In more exciting news, I think I figured out what that marble does other than glow.  It appears to be either a heightening of feelings of confidence or a dampening of fear responses.  Maybe some combination of the two.  The effect seems to require skin contact to activate, with the strength of the effect increasing as surface area of contact increases.  Touch it with a finger tip and you won’t notice much of anything; make a fist around it and you’ll nearly forget why you were scared in the first place.  Or perhaps more accurately, you’ll still remember why but the thing stops feeling like something worth getting worked up over.

I figured all this out because I happened to tarry overlong before leaving the library this morning so the mists were already thick by the time I set out.  Thick enough that when combined with my wandering mind distracted by thoughts of the translation project, Cloud Tower, and Maiko I missed my turnoff.  First time that’s happened in a long while.  By the time I realized this, the world beyond the tip of my outstretched arm had already been rendered down to a white blankness.  Standing in the middle of the road as I was, I could not even see the trees lining either edge.  Panic began to creep into the edges of my mind.  Had I turned around in place two times or three just now as I tried to figure out where I was?  If I started walking forward, would I be heading toward the Village or away from it?  If I was facing south, then overshooting my turnoff for the house a second time would at least put me back in the Village, but if I was facing north then by the time I knew for sure that I’d gone too far without hitting the Village or my turnoff then it would be late enough that, at best, I’d be skirting dusk by the time I got home, especially going slowly to try not to miss landmarks through the mist.

I became paralyzed with indecision, afraid of making the wrong choice in this fifty-fifty outcome.  All the while I knew that every minute I just stood there stuck in a loop of trying to examine and re-examine my uncertain memory and reason myself into one course of action or the other was eating up precious time, but that awareness only through distracting self-deprecation into the mix.  Unbidden, the similarity between this mist-shrouded world of white and the edge of existence Pat told me about sprang to mind and my decision-making was further derailed by visions of my many-times predecessor wandering forever in the blankness.

Eventually, my paralysis gave way to nervous fidgeting and my hand wound up in the pocket where I’d been carrying the marble.  Rolling it between my fingers was like getting hit with a dose of some sedative drug.  All at once I became aware of my breathing and heart rate slowing and a trembling in my limbs I hadn’t been consciously aware of until then ceased.  Out of surprise at the sudden change and not yet having made the connection between emotion and artifact, I reflexively tightened my grip on the marble.  With an astounding clarity my situation seemed so simple.  I couldn’t tell which way is which from where I’m standing so just pick a direction, go with it, and deal with the consequences when they come.

And so I did.  Just like that, I broke the loop and started walking.

As I walked I relaxed.  As I relaxed I let loose of the marble.  As I let loose of the marble I began to second guess myself.  As I began to second guess myself I grew tense.  As I grew tense I gripped the marble once more.  As I gripped the marble once more I grew more sure of myself.  As I grew more sure of myself clarity returned.  As clarity returned I made the connection between the marble and my shift in emotions.

It occurred to me that this effect could as easily be placebo as artifact property.  I reasoned it didn’t matter if it was helping me function right now.  It occurred to me that I didn’t know what kind of side effects or dependency using a magical artifact to ignore fear and anxiety might cause.  I reasoned that as long as it got me home before the shades came out I could deal with that later.  It occurred to me that I could figure out if I was going the right way or not significantly sooner if I just walked at the edge of the road to my left and looked out for a side road to branch off since the only two going toward the interior of the island on this stretch of road were for the cathedral and the lake.  I reasoned that if I’d not allowed myself to panic this would have occurred to me sooner.

And so I kept my grip on the marble until I got back to the house.  I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying to test the artifact in a more scientific manner.  I certainly have enough background fears and anxieties to notice the difference now that I know what to look for.  That said, the foremost among those fears at the moment was - and is - the implications of possessing an artifact that affects my mind and emotions in this way.

On the one hand, the idea of simply being able to function like that is indescribably tempting.  Was that what other people feel like when trying to operate under pressure?  If so, then it drives home just how broken I am.  To be able to just break out of one of my mental loops like that… quite honestly the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.

On the other hand, I hate the thought of being dependent on an external aid like this and I fear the prospect of it becoming a crutch that I’m dependent on.  Would using it to help myself prevent me from actually becoming better on my own?  And fear does have its uses, both for physical survival and socially.  Would I become more inclined to take dangerous risks without regard for consequences?  That’s already seemingly the destined doom of most outsiders.  And what if I lose my verbal filters when talking to people?  Who might I offend or even hurt with careless words?  Worst of all, as much as a problem and burden as they can be, my fears and anxieties and flaws are a part of me.  Would I even still be me if I excised them?  And that doesn’t even get into the logistic issues of trying to keep a large marble in my grip all the time.

The fact that none of that seems so bad while I have a full grip on the artifact terrifies me in and of itself.

Maybe I can fashion it into a necklace and keep it tucked under my clothes for a constant low dose.  Not enough to disregard things I shouldn’t but enough to take some of the edge off.  And it would be there and handy to access more fully in an emergency.  Maybe if I’d found this sooner I could have made a difference on the night we got back.  Perhaps the best use for it would be on a conditional basis to slowly train myself what it feels like to be functional so that one day I won’t need it.

Oh, also, the idea of trying to keep it on me while I sleep on mist nights to make the nightmares easier to deal with has occurred to me.  I’m just not sure yet how to keep a grip on it while I sleep.  Well, I’ve still got a couple of hours of staying up waiting for Maiko before I need to call it a night to avoid the flashes for the next two weeks, that’s time to try some ideas.

<==Previous          Next==>

[crazybigredlove]

6th August 2013

Dear Pete, 

Going to contact Interpol and report you as a missing person so that some Good Samaritan in a faraway land will let me know whether you're still alive or not. Not entirely sure if that's how it works or whether it should be someone with a slightly higher social standing than myself, but I'm going to give it a crack. Christopher is in the habit of appearing in my bedroom doorway each night to tell me his latest thought about where in the world you might be. Spoiler: Mostly it involves a lot of alcohol and scantily-clad women with liberal views on sex. We both agree that the most likely scenario is that you're in Italy and lying low with your cousin. The only flaw in that is that with your family being the way they are, I fail to see how you and Sofia could've kept it from your aunts or your mother. Remembering her wily ways from our younger days of everyone I know she'd be the one I'd back to pull it off, but even she's not that good. Is she? 

Slight change today though as Christopher he announced that you're on the run from some crazy types that you owe a fortune to. Asked why they wouldn't have been round the house looking for you or at least looking for information regarding your whereabouts. That silenced him for a while. Your brother is still as good looking as ever, but as your disappearance stretches out there is sadness in his eyes that I haven't seen before. He even approaches the weekends with less enthusiasm. I did tell him it's only been five weeks and he needs to man-up, but that probably didn't really help. If I didn't know better I'd think he had separation anxiety like when pets are separated from their owners. I mean, it's not like he's been crying himself to sleep at night (that I know of) but the two blondes messaged him tonight for a repeat performance of the show I briefly witnessed yesterday and he didn't even reply to them. Don't worry, I'll find a subtle way to check if he has a fever and if necessary seek medical opinion. 

Sorry if my tone of late has been a tad morose. Sad as I am about the Big Red situation, mostly it's sadness related to why it bothered me so much. Photo came through this morning while I was at work of him with a coffee in his hand and surrounded by friends. Asked him if he'd like to call in to to say hello or I could duck out for a coffee. Apparently he was too busy. He did call though and we had another funny chat on the phone. As much as I laugh when he's around the second he's gone it's all staring at the phone, anxiety, and alternating between binge-eating and feeling nauseous. 

Shouldn't be upset, I mean, I wrote the list at the start because I could see that this was a very real potential outcome from a guy like him, so how come I can't walk away? Is there some weird competition/challenge/must-win-this thing going on here on a subconscious level? Am I using Hollywood movies to justify hanging in there longer so I can prove some strange point to myself that I'm not even aware of yet? 

The Czech has already messaged today to thank me for last night, but the guy I'm dating really isn't fussed one way or another. Big Red has promised that we will spend the whole weekend together, so am probably being a total prima-donna for no reason. "Relax, little Liv," I can hear you say. Have managed to mostly hide all fifty shades of my crazy from him. If this doesn't work out (and it's certainly looking like it's headed in that direction) then it might be in everyone's best interest if I take a break for a while. If you're so desperate for me to do online dating then you should have to experience its pain yourself. 

Do you think that you can know in the briefest of moments? I realise this is a silly question as obviously I don't feel that way about him, but if you can know in the briefest of moments that you could care about someone, but then they don't care about you in return, how the fuck are you meant to be able to pick the ones you should care about? How do you possibly tell one from the other?? Do you know what I mean? Hollywood tells women that men change, that they come back, that if they treat us bad we need to hang in there until they get their shit together. If that's the case there are a LOT of men who are going to be making reappearances in my future. And can you also really tell in a moment that someone will hurt you as I predicted? Or is it more of a self-fulfilling prophecy on both counts? 

Oh God. I'm having emotions. Real ones. Lots of them. Am not okay with this, not even a little bit. Oh no. How do I make it stop? 

This is not okay. I have no desire to be a pathetic damsel in distress obsessed with a man after only one week. While something special could have been born of this (you know, if you squint your eyes the right way, tilt your head to the side, and then smack yourself with a hammer), clearly we already broke it because the fun has vanished. Love doesn't feel like this. 

It's okay. Without being dramatic I know what's happening, so I'm going to own it. I've been here before. He's met someone else. 

If I don't ever hear from Big Red again it won't matter because I am going to put all my time and energy into something else. Like becoming CrossFit world champion. Or, is there a cupcake eating world record? I'm also prepared to take a shot at that title. 

Either way, I'm sure the world will keep turning if I can just calm my brain and anxiety a little... If you have any suggestions on how I might be able to do that, now would be an excellent time to let me know. 

Liv x 

[chimielie]

heaven can't help me now

summary: Suna x Reader. dating on a bet but it's ethical

word count: 4.4k

cw: a lot of kissing, cheating (not done to reader or by suna), humor to ??? to angst to ???, no joke this is all over the place, friends to dating the school player on a bet to fake dating to friends to

a/n: shh

“This is the stupidest situation I’ve ever been in,” you say, surveying the mostly-empty early morning grounds of Inarizaki High. The only noises are the breeze rustling through the trees, birds chirping musically, and the grunts of every student athlete running through their morning workout.

“No it’s not,” says your best friend, the demonic entity who put you in this mess.

“No, it’s not,” you agree sadly. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

Getting this over with actually entails waiting until the end of the school day, because you don’t want to face the consequences of your actions and would rather hide at home than suffer publicly in school.

One in thirteen people die via vending machine every year, you remind yourself as you approach the contraption warily. You should be so lucky.

Tragically, the vending machine doesn’t kill you; worse, everything goes according to plan. At 3:23 p.m., Suna Rintarō approaches for his pre-practice snack.

I’m gonna throw up, you text your friend. She leaves you on delivered. You hate her.

“Hey,” Suna says your name, effectively cutting off all trains of thought.

“Hi,” you say. You nearly chicken out, but your pride is on the line. You have to do this. You can do this. You are a badass.

“Thanks,” says Suna. Oops. Your mouth clamps shut involuntarily, so you stare mutely at him while he chuckles to himself, focused primarily on scanning the plethora of processed food the machine offers.

About three things you are absolutely positive. First, Suna is a heartbreaker of the highest degree. Second, you are trapped in a dare to prove otherwise. And third, the way his blazer drapes over his frame and he smiles at you like he’s letting you know a secret makes you feel like a dandelion being blown into the blue sky on a sunny summer day.

Like having butterflies, but instead of merely letting them flutter around your innards, you ascend into the weightlessness of fluttering flight.

Fucking insects.

“Funny story,” you say abruptly, making eye contact with Suna. “I was dared to date you. For over three months. I don’t think I was supposed to tell you but it didn’t seem ethical not to on the off chance that you would, y’know, say yes, against all known laws of physics and aviation—”

Suna laughs. His nose scrunches up when he does it, and his eyes nearly close, and the flush on his face is the same shade of pink all the French lovers wrote about, probably. You bounce on your toes in agitation.

“I know it sounds like a joke but I just really need you to give an answer so I can report back because if I don’t ask you they threatened to dye my cat purple.”

“Isn’t your cat black?”

“I have two cats,” you say. “I knew I shouldn’t have defended you. Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he waves it off. “Let’s do it. Could be fun.”

“Are you joking?” It’s your turn to laugh.

“No,” he says simply, stepping just into your personal space so he can reach out and brush a piece of your hair back. “Not even a little.”

“Excuse me a moment,” you say, and turn your back to him to message FUCK in the groupchat with unsteady fingers. You are all too aware of his sharp eyes watching over your shoulder while you type the four-letter word three times until it’s spelled correctly. You tuck your phone back into your pocket and face him again with squared shoulders. “Cool. Sweet. Should we shake on it?”

He stretches out his hand. You take it, gripping it firmly to indicate that you will be a reliable and firm business partner.

“Is there money on this?”

“5000 yen from six people each if we last through the three month mark,” you say seriously. “I can give you fifteen percent of the winnings.”

“Fifty percent.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty,” he says, and you shrug. “But I’m still gonna call it off if I get bored, just so you know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say. You’re still holding his hand.

He changes his grip so your fingertips are barely touching, drawing your hand up to brush a kiss over the knuckles. You want to punch him in the mouth a little bit. It’s not right for someone to be so romantic in an entirely unromantic situation. It’s confusing and upsetting.

“Signed and sealed,” he says. “Walk home with me on Friday, okay?”

Friday goes well. At first, you feel clumsy and stupid, your mind entirely consumed by the fact that you’re fake-dating him. Your friends hadn’t bought that he’d said yes (they didn’t know you’d told him about the bet) until he’d interrupted your morning briefing with them the next day, hair endearingly limp from volleyball-induced sweat and grin sharp and wide. He’d slung an arm around you while you shrieked and tried to get out from beneath him, aggravated by his moistness, and he’d finally put an end to your wriggling by spinning you face to face with him, brushing his nose against yours and telling you to be good.

That had shut you up for, like, ten minutes.

It’s easy to fake it around your friends, playing off an inside joke with him that reads as chemistry to outsiders. One on one, though, you panic.

“So...” Suna says, hands in his pockets and posture slouched while you stew in anticipatory embarrassment. “What do you think of Englebert Humperdink?”

“What?”

“What?”

“You’re weird, Suna,” you bump into him purposely, bouncing off with the efficacy of a tennis ball hitting a brick wall.

“I told you to call me Rintarō,” he bumps you back. “And you’re the one being weird.”

“It’s just weird,” you say indignantly. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“Well, I’m weird too,” he shrugs. “No big.”

Weirder, it’s like a ton lifts off your shoulders when he says that.

“At least you’re weird cool,” you offer. “People like your weird.”

“I don’t really care, though,” he says. “People like you, they don’t like you, it doesn’t matter. You’re still weird.”

“Are you talking about you or me? Or the ambiguous you?”

He only offers a mysterious smile in response.

Your first date with Suna — Rintarō — is five days of walking home with him plus the weekend later. He picks you up fifteen minutes late, has a toxic green energy drink in hand, and refuses to tell you where he’s taking you no matter how you beg, threaten, or bribe.

It’s a classic: the movie theater. By the time you’ve finished reading all the possible movie titles on show tonight, he’s brandishing two tickets to the latest in a series of corny action flicks, smirking lazily at you.

“I wanted to see the one with the assassin romance,” you say while he pays for movie snacks, mocking you relentlessly for your choice of filler food.

“The one who pays picks the movie,” he sing-songs.

“That’s not a rule. And I could’ve paid.”

“It is for me, and I wouldn’t let you do that, because I’m a gentleman and a great time.”

“You chose a movie with four prequels I haven’t seen. I don’t think you qualify for either of those.” He shrugs.

“The tickets are bought. No choice now.”

You get back at him by making snide comments throughout the movie, pointing out every plot hole and snickering at the saddest scenes.

“You are a demon and I never should have agreed to this,” he points at you once you’ve walked out of the theater.

“Aw, no, baby,” you say, pouting exaggeratedly at him. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“Not a chance,” he laughs. “No fucking way.”

It turns out that being in a couple can be really good for your social life. You get specials at restaurants, so you go out to eat more. You like pissing off your friends with your success, so you invite them to hang out and bring your boyfriend along. You get to know the infamous volleyball team, who are a lot less intimidating when they run around hitting each other with towels than they are on the court.

Sure, the Miyas seem like they’re constantly laughing behind your back, but you can tell they’re bouncing between making fun of Rintarō and of you equally.

“He’s gonna break up with you, ya know?” Says the gray-haired one to you one day, completely unprompted. You blink up at him, caught mid-soup sip.

“Don’t make fun, Samu,” says the blond. “He’s too in loveeeeee to do that.” He tilts his head coquettishly and flutters his fingers around his face. “He told us you’re not like his exes. He actually said that.”

“I think he says that to all his dates,” Osamu muses. “Male manipulator.”

“Male manipulator my ass,” snorts Atsumu. “Yesterday he saw one of his ex-girlfriends and hid behind me until she went away. The man is a simp.”

“Maybe he still has feelings for her,” muses Osamu, staring at you with laser focus. “Does that worry you?”

“No?” You say, then take a loud slurp of soup.

“You’re borin’,” says Atsumu. “Maybe s’why he likes you so much. Bye.”

“Bye,” says Osamu.

“Bye.”

You’re on your fifth date, getting a special two for the price of one taiyaki deal when you actually bump into his ex, standing behind you in line.

“Hi,” she grins at you. “You know he’s a piece of shit, right?”

“Yes,” you say confidently, at the same time Rintarō says her name pleadingly. You sense suddenly that there is history here you don’t want to make light of.

“As long as you’re clear,” she says, taking your hand and squeezing it. Her fingertips bite into your skin. You look at Rintarō, surprised he’s not making any smart quips, but the gray shade of his skin tells you everything you need to know about the situation.

“The vibes,” you say, suddenly. “They’re arsenic.”

“What?”

“Rintarō,” you grab his hand and tug on it. “We have to go.”

You pull him out of the line, stumbling as he goes and giving her a small, pathetic wave as you storm away.

He doesn’t regain his color until you’re in your room, sitting on your bed while he drapes himself over your desk chair.

“So is there a reason why your ex makes you catatonic or should I make one up?”

“She’s fine,” Rintarō says hoarsely.

“Yep,” you say. “She killed your childhood horse.”

“What? No, you’re insane. She cheated on me.”

“She cheated on you?” You launch yourself to your feet, suddenly filled with the power of a thousand burning suns to strike her down.

“No, no, no,” he says. “Sit down. Sit down. It was my fault, anyway.”

Rintarō’s not a particularly loud guy, but he sounds so quiet now that you nearly ask him to speak up.

“How can her cheating possibly be your fault?” You arch a brow.

“I wasn’t a good boyfriend,” he says. “I was really, uh, neglectful.” He holds a hand up when you open your mouth. “It was worse than you think. She tried to reason with me a bunch of times and I wouldn’t listen. We had a pretty big fight and didn’t talk for a couple days, and when we were talking again, she had... Well. And then it was over.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. So, I dunno, I don’t blame her or anything. Plus, I went on a streak of fucking, uh, flings afterwards so I’m not faultless, either.”

“Bullshit, but okay,” you snort. “None of that is grounds for sleeping with someone else as revenge for upsetting her.”

“It wasn’t revenge—”

“It kinda was,” you point out. “And I don’t think you hooking up with a bunch of people after she hit you in the heart with a golf club is really the same thing. If anything, it sounds like you were just... trying to get over her, which isn’t a crime in anyone’s book, really.”

“It wasn’t hooking up,” he protests weakly.

“You’re running out of arguments, Rintarō,” you say. “Anyway. Um. Sorry for being all in your business. Can I get you anything?”

“I don’t know,” he says vaguely, staring into space.

“Okay,” you say, shoulders dropping. “Sounds good to me.”

You spend the next hour with him in near silence. Halfway through, you ask if he wants to sit on the bed with you, which he gladly accepts. The only noise in the room is the sound of the both of you tapping at your phones and occasionally clicking on a video and playing it out loud. You wonder if your parents would be angry that you had a boy in your room if they walked in and saw the two of you doing absolutely nothing.

“Sorry,” you say, just before he leaves. “Again.”

“No, you’re good,” he responds. “It was nice. Really, really nice.”

Impulsively, you hug him. It takes a second for him to unfreeze, but you eventually feel hands patting your back.

“Night,” you say once you’ve pulled back. “Sleep tight.”

“Hope the vampires bite,” he says, smiling toothily at you.

That’s when you become best friends with your boyfriend.

You can recall the nearly physical feeling of the click of things into place, of the way the universe shifted just slightly so you could see so much more clearly. Dates blur into one long Suna session. Suddenly, you find your afternoons consumed with sitting on the bleachers, even if you're not actually watching practice. You no longer need to invite Rintarō to gatherings; he's there when the plans are made. You text incessantly during class and he sits in your desk chair, playing games on his phone, while you ponder your homework, waiting for you to finish so the two of you can binge dramas together.

"This means we probably would've had more fun if we'd watched the assassin romance instead of General Godzilla 5: Part 2," you say snidely.

"Fuck you," he responds eloquently.

He does the dishes for you when your parents ask you to, and you wash his laundry when you visit his house. This must be what it means to be in a partnership. The two of you encounter new problems and adapt, improvise, overcome.

"Have you and Suna... you know? Yet?" Asks one of your friends.

"No," laughs your best friend (the one you're not dating). "Have you two even kissed yet?"

"Yes, of course we have," you answer extremely truthfully. "Excuse me."

Rintarō opens his front door half an hour later. You promptly scream for fifteen straight seconds. He understands.

"We just need to orchestrate a kiss and get more comfortable with PDA," you reason later, sitting cross-legged across from him on your bed. He nods seriously, fingers steepled and expression wise.

"We can do that. Have you ever kissed someone before?" You throw a pillow at him.

"Of course I have. Just because it doesn't turn into schoolwide gossip doesn't mean it's not happening."

"Low blow, but okay."

"Wait," you pause. "Maybe you're right. Not factually, but spiritually. Do you think we should practice?"

"Maybe," you watch him swallow. "Yeah."

You both scoot slowly toward each other, laughing nervously every time the bed creaks.

"So are you..." You start, throat dry. "Um. Am I or are you gonna—"

Ungracefully, his lips land on yours. Your eyes slam shut and you reciprocate enthusiastically, cupping the back of his neck with one hand to brace yourself. Despite the jerky start, you can tell that he's a good kisser, a really good kisser. He sucks hard on your lower lip, drawing a noise you're embarrassed to hear out of your mouth, which prompts him to shift around and put a large hand on your back, kneeling so he has a few inches on you and can pull you closer. You kiss him harder, desperate to drown out the intensity of your own reaction.

Too hard. You think you black out.

When you come to, your hands have migrated into his black hair and he's pulling away from your neck, which you suspect is freshly marked. He stares down at you with wide eyes, and you suspect the expression is mirrored on your face.

"Do you think that was enough practice?" You ask carefully, unsure of what the correct answer is.

"Probably," he says, leaning back. "It'll be fine. Unless you get performance anxiety and drool on my face or something."

"You're so gross."

"You love me."

"Do I?"

You're half-asleep, walking out of your final period of the day when someone pulls you headlong into a dark classroom.

"Don't scream," Rintarō says. You scream. "Exactly. Thank you."

Then he's kissing you, barely brushing his lips against yours, smirking when you pinch his ribs. You chase him, kissing him fully and turning the both of you so that he's up against the wall, his hands loosely gripping your waist while your hands wander to his hair. He tastes sweet-and-sour, like home and like trouble, a contradiction wrapped in black hoodies and burning yellow eyes.

Someone's calling your name. Someone's calling your name, and the lights are on. You blink blearily at your best friend, who's laughing her ass off, and separate slowly from Rintarō. Your lips are wet and you can't seem to catch your breath.

"It's not what it looks like."

"God, imagine if I'd been a teacher," your friend howls and backs out of the classroom, beckoning you to follow. "Oh, the looks you guys gave me..."

"Remy," Rintarō whispers in your ear as he jogs to catch up with you, slinging his bag on. "You're like the rat in Ratatouille. Pulling me around by my hair."

"You are so, so bad at romance," you hiss. "See if I ever do it again."

"I mean, we weren't going to," he says. "But I'd like to."

You punch him lightly in the arm, but your heart's not in it.

Comparatively, PDA isn't hard after that. Your friends make fun of your hickey, which you shift up your collar to hide self-consciously (and which Rintarō pulls down constantly and secretly, for reasons unknown to you), and you hold hands without even thinking about it. You kiss him hello on the cheek and he hugs you goodbye, and you're starting to become hyperaware of the upcoming deadline.

Will everything change the way it did when you asked him to do this crazy, stupid thing with you? Will it all slip away, like a dream you can't quite remember by the time you wake up?

All these worries add up to something worse, you realize, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. You're not quite sure you can make it to the three month mark without wanting everything that's been smoke and mirrors and espionage to be real.

Only two weeks, you tell yourself, checking over your calendar again and again like it'll make the days pass faster. Fourteen days, three hundred thirty six hours, twenty thousand and one hundred sixty minutes. Everything is fine.

He takes you to the movies again.

He buys tickets for a movie from the fifties, buys you your favorite snacks without having to be asked, wraps his arm around you when you shiver from the air-conditioned interior. He likes the seats in the middle, but you nod toward the back.

"Really?" He asks, voice strangely high-pitched. "Oh. Sick."

You don't remember much of the movie.

Your last date with Suna Rintarō ends on the train. The world is a smear of blue and gray in front of you; behind you, arms embracing you almost too loosely is him. You turn your head to speak into his ear.

"It's been good," you tell him. "Happy three months."

"Happy three months," he repeats, the words nearly foreign in his mouth. "And one day. We're gonna be rich."

"And one day," you smile, and reach for his hand, his bony fingers cold to the touch. "Should we stage a big breakup?"

"I've had enough of big breakups for a lifetime," he laughs. "But if you want to, let's do it. Could be fun."

"No, it's okay," you shrug. "They're gonna know we gamed them, anyway. No need to lay it on anymore."

"Yeah," he replies. "Does that mean this is it?"

The conductor announces your stop, one neighborhood before his.

"I guess so," you feel strangely light, a little out of body. "See you tomorrow, Rintarō."

You should kiss him, maybe. Something dramatic should be happening right now; at least an emotional embrace. That's not how the two of you operate, though, and it wasn't anything real, anyway, you try to remind yourself. He won't be losing any sleep over this, so neither should you.

You lick your lips and smile at him, giving a little wave. He lifts a hand, head down while he looks at his phone. You can close the book on your relationship, and it feels just right. The train starts to move, and you turn around and walk home.

This is the stupidest situation he's ever been in, Rintarō thinks to himself.

It's been two weeks since what should have been the easiest breakup of his life, and things don't feel easy.

At first they were: your friends were annoyed but good natured, handing out the money reluctantly but with knowing expressions on their faces. He'd become too much a part of your life to simply pull out, and vice versa, so things had stayed similar.

But he felt so different, and he couldn't figure out why.

"Good one," Atsumu crows when he hears the truth of your relationship. "Really had me fooled. 'Samu, too."

"Was not!"

"Yes, you were. You thought he was playin' a fling again, not us."

"They were playin' their friends!"

"Are we not their friends, too?" Atsumu asks, wounded. "Hey, since Y/N is single now— or always was, whatever, could I—"

"Are you joking? No," Rintarō says. "What kind of question is that?"

"A perfectly valid one," sulks Atsumu. "Hey, mine!" He dives after a stray volleyball, and Rintarō stares after him distractedly.

It's almost metaphorical, the way Atsumu's easily pulled away from the topic of you by the game. Would that happen to Rintarō again? If he put in effort, and he could tell you how he felt— that he was miserable like this, that he'd gotten addicted to the way you tripped over your words because they came out too fast and the way your room smelled entirely like you and to your all-encompassing presence and touch, and he needed it, needed you back the way he'd had you and hadn't even known it— and by some miracle, you accepted, would he take it for granted? Would he ever be good enough for you?

Would he lose even the half of you he held in his palms now?

He's losing his mind, he realizes. Metaphor? In his volleyball? Unlikely.

He casts a longing look at the bleachers, then shakes his head. He needs to get his head in the game.

It's a Saturday night, and he misses you.

hey, he texts you, after forty-five minutes of agonizing deliberation. do u want to watch something? i think there's a ghibli showing at the theater but we can just stream if u want

sorry :( You respond three minutes later. can't.

rip, he sends. You don't answer. He slams his phone facedown on his comforter and lies on his back, his hands shaking. It's not until he rolls over and feels wet fabric against his cheek that he realizes he's been crying.

You feel so distant and only now he knows what he's doing wrong.

Rintarō's fallen in love with you.

"I don't know," you're saying. "I think I prefer the little jelly strawberries."

He can't focus. Every time he's around you, he nearly works up the courage to confess, to spill out every bloody, messy feeling he's had since you broke up and pray that you'll bear with him for it, but he always talks himself out of it. He can love you like this, he tells himself. His emotions aren't any less real for not being validated.

"What do you think? Rintarō?" You're snapping your fingers in front of his face. He hunches his shoulders and leans away.

"I think about your mom," he musters. You peer at him, your face far too close to his. He imagines bonking himself in the head with a thick textbook several times to remain stoic.

"You're being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Walk home with me today."

"Are t— what?" He shrugs. "Okay."

He sits a little straighter. He can make it another few hours. You got this, man, be normal.

He's pretty sure he fails miserably in that regard, but he recalls you looking at him with sparkling eyes and telling him people liked his weird. He hopes you were talking about yourself.

The sky is clear and he's nearly too hot beneath his school blazer. Beside him, your steps are light, taken to the beat of a song he can't hear. Cars honk in the street and dogs bark in their backyards. He bites his lip.

"Is everything okay?" Is somehow the way he chooses to open the topic.

"Yes," you say. "But I don't think it is with you. Tell me." He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. What is he doing? He's not sure.

"It's really stupid," he says. "Well, not really, I just think it's kind of weird, maybe, and you might not like it. Or me. I guess that's the gist of it. I like you. I think I love you. And it hurts like we broke up for real when we weren't even dating for real. You're a really good friend, and I don't want to lose that, but," he flounders. "If you wanted to try dating, again, for real, I would love to try dating, again, for real, because I think I could... I don't think I did badly, but I want to show you that I can do better." He laughs, quietly, self-deprecatingly, and slows to a stop, turning to face you.

You stare at him, lips parted and brows raised.

In the eternity stretching between the two of you, he feels something inside him crack. It's not a clean break, either. He can feel shards of himself falling to the sidewalk while you look on, his usually icy demeanor revealing the lovesick boy beneath.

You take a deep breath, and he swears he can feel it inflating his own lungs.

"Oh."

+

part two here