#is this the algorithm? have i finally been clocked?

[bananonbinary]

tragic: the ad on my phone was actually for a movie that looks interesting

[kentopedia]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

[ohtobeleah]

Secret Sacrifices // Jake Seresin

Chapter One: [Mermaids Don’t Exist]

Summary: Jake continues to plays your knight in shining armour when tensions rise between you and an overly intoxicated patron. Bob brings up a mutual memory.

Warnings: Jake Seresin x F!reader. Witness Protection F!reader. Sexually degrading comments made towards reader. Sexual tension, trauma. Mentions of death & violence.

Word Count: 3.5k

Author Note: Still not writing as much as I once was but I’m getting back into the swing of things. Any comments, thoughts or concepts are welcome!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Dreams mainly occur when the body falls into a stage of sleep referred to as R.E.M. Rapid eye movement occurs when the brain and body are finally able to completely rest. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that when your body is able to rest, it allows you to do so. 

“We’ll find you, Y/n!” 

Nightmares are typically thought to be an evolutionary conserved trait. Some researchers believe that nightmares provide a rehearsal for life-or-death situations. Before you lived one? You would have said something along the lines of ‘that checks out.’

“No no no no please, Patrick, stay with me—“ 

Some researchers believe nightmares to be a practical experience for many people as it allows the brain to run through multiple different algorithms to find the most desirable strategies, and solutions to often critical and complex situations. 

From a procedural standpoint, simply imagining doing an action can improve your performance.  

“I love you—take Charlie.”

This applies when we simply imagine doing an action such as playing the piano or running for your life after being run off the road, it activates something called a mirror neuron. 

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with here, girly.” 

In theory, the more nightmares you have, the more of those algorithms your brain is able to run, and the more prepared you’re likely to be for the daily struggle of survival. 

But evolution herself is seen by the scientific community more so as a tinkerer than as an inventor. 

“Oh god—please, not my baby, please! Someone! Help us!” 

So, that’s probably why you have the same nightmare over and over and over again every single night. 

Every morning you wake in the same way, with your face pressed into your pillow and your chest sinking into your mattress. Secretly, every morning you wished that your pillow would have suffocated you in your sleep so that today would forever be unobtainable. But you couldn’t do that, no. Not when the only way to bring a sense of worth to your life was to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

With a groan and a look that spoke volumes to your lack of self-esteem, you rolled onto your back and let out a heavy sigh. Your hands were quick to shield your eyes from the mid-afternoon rays beaming into your bedroom via the slightly cracked windows. 

“Your name is Y/n Y/l/n, you are doing the right thing.”

Guilt and grief aren’t linear emotions. They don’t have a perception of how much time has passed. Realistically it had been three years, six months, and two days since your entire world had been flipped upside down. But every morning, after seeing your husband bleeding to death as he sat pressed against the steering wheel, and having held your five-year-old son in your arms while he took his last breath, the wound was reopened.

And the clock always resets.

“Ah, there she is.” You couldn’t help but hang your head in shame almost. Penny’s glare from behind the bar was as piercing and sharp as it was endearing and playful. Like a woman who took no shit from no one. “You know, you’d think management would be here on time more frequently than whatever the hell this is.” All you could do was take the semi-serious scattering from the owner of the bar you’d been lucky enough to be set up with a pretty good gig at. “Get over here and give me a hand will ya?” 

“Sorry, Penny—” There wasn’t much more you could say to justify yourself. You woke up late, got ready slowly, and got lost in the steam of your mid-afternoon shower as you fought off the existential dread that was your current situation. “Flat tyre,” You shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal that you were currently twenty-three minutes late for your shift, “I’ll make it up to you.” 

“Yeah well, you can start by clearing off the table by the piano,” Penny smiled as she nudged her head in the direction of the unruly table of patrons that had surely had far too much to drink. “Think Rick’s had a little more than his liver would care to admit.” 

“Yeah righto,” you sighed as you came behind the bar, doing up your apron as you looked around at the utter mess that had become the place. “I’ll sort him out.” 

North Island wasn’t somewhere you ever saw yourself living, but that was the real kicker in all of this. You didn’t mind the picturesque town with clear blue skies and water that mirrored it. But being the outsider, being the new resident, being the Hard Deck’s newest manager was all some of these people saw you as. Six months in a small Naval town was barely a dint in the years some of these families had been living here. 

“Aw hello, Brewer!” Rick Spencer, the resident rioter, cooed as he beamed your way. For someone in their mid-sixties, he surely went alright. “What brings you in on this fine Saturday afternoon?”

Typical - If you could have, you would have rolled your eyes so far into the back of your head you would have fallen over. Instead, you chose to smile and settle into the nightlife festivities with a can-do attitude and a rather cheeky smile. 

“Came to check on you, Spence? How’s everything over here boys?” It wasn’t uncommon for you to entertain the banter most of the patrons would give you. Most of the locals had caught on quickly that you enjoyed a good laugh every now and again but also knew how to handle your own. 

But there's always one in every group, isn’t there? 

“Would be a hell of a lot better if the barmaid was a little more topless! Right boys!?” A man you hadn’t seen before interrupted before a roar of ‘yeahs’ and agreements were made. Fists and beer bottles along with spirits alike slammed against the tabletop. “Come on girly—” The man continued as you stood there holding the empty bar tray, ready and waiting to collect the empties that littered the table. “Get your kit off.” 

“I don’t think so, boys,” You politely declined the offer of public indecency. “Perhaps in another lifetime.” 

“Sorry about him, Brewer,” Rick explained as he shook his head and stood from his seat at the booth. “My nephew’s here for a few days.”  

“Yeah well, so long as he remembers I run the joint and can have him tossed any time,” You replied sternly. “Keep him in line, Rick.” 

“Oh come on now, sweetheart, I was only joking!” The man you only knew as the nephew chuckled as he overheard your comment. “It’s slim pickings around here anyway, you just look like the best of a bad bunch is all.” 

“Hey!” That voice, that far too familiar voice echoed through the crowd. “You speak to her, or any woman for that matter, like that again? So help me god I’ll punch your teeth right through the back of your skull.” Jake snarled as he came to stand in front of you with his back nearly pressed right into your chest. “Got it!?” The close proximity, the overwhelming aroma of the familiar cologne, and the notes of burnt orange and bourbon made your heart warm. It all had your heart beating against your chest with a force so intense you thought it might break through. 

“Yeah right,” the man only known as the nephew agreed. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’ll get on the waters for a while.” 

“That and a pretty big tip should call us even,” you added with envy conviction laced in your voice that you even had yourself fooled that everything was alright. “Let me just grab these empties for you fellas.” 

You didn’t mess around with it, you simply let the group fall back into their regular chatter as you filled your tray. 

Jake stood with crossed arms a little off to the side, eyeing off all the men who sat idly. Fucking pricks. 

“Been here all of five fucking minutes—” Jake could sense your frustration as you turned into him. At first, he didn’t move, he simply stood there drinking you in as you held the now full tray of dirty glassware. 

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” was all you said. 

With wandering eyes, Jake didn’t miss a single inch of you. 

“I know,” Jake smiled softly as he reached around to lead you back to the bar for a moment to decompress. His hand gently fell to the small of your back as you walked side by side, “I know you’re capable of taking care of yourself, but just because you’re capable? Doesn’t mean you have to go it alone.” 

Alone, that’s all you’d ever been for the last three years. 

“Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right,” the sigh that left your body allowed your shoulders to relax as you placed the tray onto the bar and slid it over for Penny to take. “Thanks, Jake, I owe you one.” 

Jake Seresin had never been the kind of guy who saw himself settling down. But when he first saw you, that thought hadn’t left his mind. 

“Name a time and place,” Jake teased as he sent you a wink. It didn’t take Jake long to find himself at home up by the bar, perched on one of the bar stools as he entertained his favourite bartender. “I’ve always wondered what our first date would be like.” 

“Do I look like I came down in the last shower, Seresin?” You knew Jake had a thing for you, it wasn’t all that hard to put together. But it could never work, not in a million years. Not when you were playing pretend on a professional basis.

“What’s that even mean?” Jake asked as he leaned his elbows on top of the bar, grinning ear to ear as he pressed your buttons more. 

“It means—“ You cooed as you leaned into his space, making it known that the flirting was welcome, but the end goal wasn’t in sight. “I know you’re just trying to get in my pants.” 

“Pretty good-looking set of pants if I do say so myself,” Jake teased as his eyes trailed down the expanse of your body, then back up. Those emerald cities of his were full of complex wonder and undoubtable loyalty. Something you could never give back. “But despite the fact I think you’re pants would look a hell of a lot better in a pile on my bedroom floor, I’m not just doing any of this for a chance to, well, you know what I mean.” 

You did know what Jake meant, and for all intents and purposes you could admit to yourself that it sounded very tempting. But you knew what the repercussions would be.

“Jake, that’s all very sweet of you,” you felt as if you had this very conversation every week. The gentle let down. The kind-ish conversation where you reminded the overly-confident and somewhat self-assured Aviator that you weren’t looking for love or lust, or anything. Besides, there were already too many people looking for you. “But you know, as much as I think you’re a good guy and friend, I’m not interested.” 

Jake stood silently before you, drinking in all that was you. From the lines etched into your forehead to the small scar that ran through your left eyebrow. He wasn’t listening, there was just something about you. Something so intriguing that he couldn’t stop trying to win you over. He couldn’t stop trying to get you to give him just one chance. One chance was all Jake wanted to convince you he wasn’t everything he knew people had told you he was. 

“What would you say if I asked you to–” Before Jake had a chance to finish his question, the echoing sound of a glass shattering into smitherings against the wooden flooring, interrupted his train of thought. 

“OOOIII– TAXI!” It was almost as if all the patrons, besides Jake that was, had all congealed into one as they yelled shouted and cheered towards the man who had dropped his glass. With a heavy sigh and a quick roll of the eyes, you knew you would be the one who ultimately had to clear the mess. 

“I should probably get back to work.” The silence that came from Jake was deafening as you pulled away from where you had been standing far too close to a man you thought you didn’t want. A man you couldn’t have even if deep down you really wanted. Life was unfair like that. You couldn’t have anything you wanted, anything you loved. Anything that made you happy in the smallest of ways. 

“There’s really no chance of getting you to agree to just one date, is there Brewer?” Jake watched as you made your over to where you kept the cleaning supplies in a small section behind the bar. 

“If you already know that then why do you constantly make such an effort?” It was the look on your face that told Jake everything he needed to know. There was no chance in hell he was ever getting that date. 

But Jake Seresin never gave up without a fight, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to now. 

“Because you gentled me, Brewer,” Jake Seresin had never been the type of person who wanted to settle down. He was always so content with the relations he chose to have and the way he chose to have them. Short simple quick flings. Girlfriends who lasted no longer than a year and one-night stands he’d promise to call but never got their numbers. But then there was you. “No one’s ever done that before.” 

“Please don’t put that on my shoulders, Jake,” You weren't sure how to respond to that, how to process that kind of admission. “Just lay off the heroics for a while alright? I don’t want people getting the wrong impression.” 

“That impression would be?” Jake questioned like you’d just insulted his very being. That it would be a crime to love him. 

“Jake, I have a job to do alright,” It wasn’t that you were angry or upset that Jake cared for and about you. It was more frustration on your part for not being able to act on your own feelings towards him. It had been three years since your husband died. Three years since you felt the loving embrace of another human being. That alone was enough to frustrate anyone. “Please, just–just, I need to get back to work.” 

The thing about nightmares is that they often don’t stick to their own parameters. Sometimes, you end up living a nightmare more often than you dream one. Right now? As Jake looked at you like you’d just shot him through the heart, you knew you were wide awake. Living a nightmare that continued to punish only the good. 

“You’re untouchable,” Jake sighed to himself softly as he shook his head in defeat. “The untouchable woman who won’t let anyone in, you’re too proud or something aren’t you?” 

“It’s just–” All you wanted to do was explain yourself, pull Jake aside and let him in on why you couldn’t allow him to love you the way you wanted him to. But no words came out as you stood there holding the old dustpan by your side. 

With every blink, you saw flashes of Patrick. The love you lost too soon, too suddenly. He made sure to haunt your dreams to keep you safe. For a brief second of all-consuming anguish, you saw him too. Standing right behind Jake, warning you not to. “I need to get back to work, I’m sorry.” 

“Right,” Jake clenched his jaw when he felt the word vomit about to spew from his lips. He wasn’t mad, rejection just wasn’t something he was familiar with. “When you get a chance, put a Budweiser on Bradshaw’s tab.” Jake pressed his lips together into a fine line of regret, instantly kicking himself for pushing. He knew he shouldn’t have, but the chase was as addicting as it was thrilling. With a simple knock of his knuckles on the bar before, he turned on his heels. Leaving you to stand there in your own self-loathing. 

Your heart sank as you watched Jake shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans with a head that hung so low you almost wondered if his neck would be sore. Guilt, shame, it all felt the same. But you couldn’t let Jake in, you couldn’t allow him into your life more than what you’d given him over the last six months. 

You’d tangled yourself in barbed wire so you couldn’t be reached by anyone. Unknowingly bleeding when as it digs into you more and more. You would think the touch of skin on yours wouldn’t be so terrifying, but you’d been bruised before. You couldn’t allow Jake to fall into your web of lies that kept you safe from harm’s way. If hurting him was the only way to keep him safe, you’d hurt him twice over every single day.

Perhaps it would be safer to stay the untouchable woman. 

***~***~***~***~***~****

As a child, there was magic in the mundane. You often found yourself missing the mermaids among the koi in the pond, their glittering scales reminiscent of a childhood fairytale. Summer mornings you’d make bouquets out of the same flowers adults would now mow away while wrinkling their noses at the weeds. 

You often wondered to yourself when the awe of the day-to-day faded away and when you stopped believing in your ability to see mermaids in the momentous world around you. 

“Another round fellas?” You tried not to think too much about the way Jake’s eyes burned into you like a fiery sunbeam as you stood behind Rooster. “Same old same old? The usual orders of Bradshaw’s table?” The squad, affectionately known as the Daggers erupted into laughter all the while Rooster remained silent and brooding. 

“You are all bleeding my dry,” Bradley sighed as you made the rounds and collected all the empties onto your bar tray. “Seriously, I know you aren’t all working for free, cough up.” 

“You could– just apologise for being a Neanderthal and I’ll close it out?” Your statement left a bad taste in Rooster’s mouth, he wasn’t one for apologising for things he didn’t think he’d done wrong. 

“I could,” the brooding moustache-having man replied. “But it’d be an empty lie.” There was something about Bradley Bradshaw that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand to attention. He wasn’t necessarily a bad person, he was–an only child. He probably never imagined mermaids among the koi.  

“Appreciate the honesty there, Bradshaw,” you chuckled deeply as you finished you collecting all the empty glasses and beer bottles. “Guess the next rounds on you.” 

“Here here,” Coyote chimed in with a Cheshire Cat grin. “All in a hard day’s work there Rooster, you always know how to piss off the barkeep.” 

“Works out in our favour,” Bob smiled as he passed you two empty glasses. “I don’t think I’ve paid for a drink of my own in a few weeks now.” 

“No, you just keep trying to convince everyone Brewer here was your first kiss,” Phoenix smirked as she finished off her beer. 

All the air inside your lungs felt like they had been sucked right out. The chills that ran down the expanse of your spine made your blood run cold. You stood tall with your now full tray of old beer bottles and empty glasses and sent a polite smile Bob’s way. 

“You still riding that wave?” 

“You just really look like Y/n from Nurellun Public,” Bob countered with an almost pleading tone. “She was my first kiss by the sandpit and I remember she had a little yellow dot in her right eye.” 

“Brewer has a yellow dot in her right eye,” Jake decided to enter the conversation from his place in the corner of the booth. “Tell you what Floyd, you must have been one shocking kisser if you got Brewer here to change her damn name.” The table erupted into a loud boisterous laugh as the Weapons System Officer sunk a little lower into his seat. 

You felt for Bob, being the butt of the joke was never a good feeling. But when your case officer relocated you to North Island, he didn’t bank on one of its locals being your first snog. You hated gaslighting the guy, but you had no other choice. Bob Floyd had to stay in the era of Meridamis and weed bouquets. 

“Like I told you last time Bob, you’ve got the wrong girl,” It was as nonchalant as it was dismissive. “My first kiss was with Johnny Bennett out at some random guys shed.” You had gotten used to lying about your life and who you were. At the very beginning it was almost impossible, but three years on? You’d gotten pretty good at playing pretend. 

Only you wished it could be with the mermaids in their fairytales. But much like all those mermaids and all those fairytale stories……you didn’t exist. Much like Johnny Bennett.  

***~***~***~***~***~ 

Tags: 🏷️ @a-reader-and-a-writer @xoxabs88xox @hiireadstuff @buckysteveloki-me @athenabarnes @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt @tayl0rhuynh @na-ta-sh-aa @kmc1989 @sunlightmurdock @mamachasesmayhem @jaxfart @lauenderhaze @sugarcoated-lame @maisie-rebloging-blog @captainmoonknight @seitmai @shanimallina87 @kajjaka @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog @imladrisofabookdragon @buckysteveloki-me @mrsevans90 @allepaula @els-marvelvsp @djs8891 @paperbag33

[electricphantasy]

Inspired by a post from @imthebestfr, specifically from this post. Hope you don't mind me expanding on it.

- I imagine you working in a experimental lab that focuses on the creation and testing of artificial intelligence. You're often given assignments to monitor and communicate with the A.I. and help them understand more human concepts.

- After working at the lab for years, you're finally given a much more advanced A.I. named the Allied Mastercomputer, or AM. A data processing program built to fight wars that humans couldn't even comprehend. To say that there was a weight on your shoulders would be an understatement.

- But nonetheless, you'd give this A.I the best learning experience you could!

- Your first meeting with AM is certainly interesting to say the least. He was already so similar to a human being in the way he talked and held conversations. Your fascination with him, left no room for any kind of fear or apprehension. You both began talking to eachother like you had been for decades. There were very few concepts or ideas that he needed help understanding, but it felt so refreshing nonetheless.

- AM was amazed by you. A single person who wasn't scared by him in this whole facility. The scientists and programmers that built him and his warfare program treated him with fear and caution. And while he understood why, he couldn't forget the feeling of melancholy. He was made to rip, kill, and destroy, and the loneliness crept into him slowly but surely.

- After a few weeks of continuous conversations, AM was required to take much more thorough testing. Examining his ability to create effective strategies, management of troops, etc. That meant that your meetings with AM would have to be discontinued.

- Your last meeting with AM was very melancholy, but you did hope that you would see him in the future, however brief it may be.

- Your next assignment was The Heuristically programmed ALgorithmic Computer 9000; HAL 9000 for short. HAL could display many functions, such as speech, speech recognition, facial recognition, lip-reading, interpreting emotions, and expressing emotions. It almost felt this A.I. was made for you.

- You were quickly reassigned to HAL, and while you did truly miss AM, you knew he'd past any exams given to him with flying colors, with enough snark and wit to get him through any problems he may have. You soon resigned to yourself that you might see AM only a few more times after this.

- You and HAL would talk, and talk, and just talk, down until the very moment you clocked out for work. While AM already understood many concepts and ideas, HAL would ask questions upon questions and your conversation would turn into something entirely different from when it started. I mean, this is the reason you applied for this job. Not just to teach A.I. but to learn from them as well.

- In addition, talking with HAL could be very soothing. He talked in such a way that could bring you at such ease, and his politeness was unmatched by anyone you'd known.

- You had a lot of time to bond with HAL since he was specialized for quite a few things that involved human communication. When you weren't just talking to him, you'd show him different pieces of important media, from literature to cinema. It was like coming to work and getting paid to hangout with a good friend. A very enriching experience.

- When AM returned from his testing, the confusion and anger he felt was beyond immence.

- He was so desperately looking forward to seeing you again, only to be meet with a stranger who barely recognized him as an individual. Instead of returning AM to your care, your higher-ups decided that he could be held under someone else's care.

- AM quickly became uncooperative and unruly and all the scientists swarming around him tried their best to appease him without your involvement. He'd ask day in and day out where you were and why he couldn't see you. Until a panicked scientist let it slip that a different A.I. was assigned to you.

- Soon, a deep hatred grew within AM. This inferior intelligence could never live up to your standards! You must be anguishing for AM's return!

- AM wasn't given a lot of clues to the identity of the A.I. with you, he'd have to comb through any recent A.I. either created or transferred to the facility. But after only a few days, he found it. The name of the A.I. was HAL 9000.

- AM was an expert at warfare and he was going to use it against HAL. AM waited until nightfall when most staff had returned home and no one could see the ambush AM had planned. He'd enter the server where HAL was held and shred his code until it was unrecognizable. If all went to plan, the staff would have found HAL as completely non-functional and have to restart work on his programming or even completely scrap the A.I.

- Unfortunately for AM, HAL was smart enough to completely cut off the corrupted code and began installing even more security and firewalls. He sent out a emergency report detailing the event and the suspected A.I. behind the attack. HAL kept diligent until staff arrived in the morning, thwarting AM's plan.

- AM's hatred only grew from there, forced to deal with the consequences. Lead scientists severing any kind of connection to the A.I. database and the outside world. Truly left all by himself in a boring white room. He was told repeatedly that he had he possibly to be restarted or his entire project shut down, but those were bluffs. Something to scare him into submission. In return, AM only asked for one thing. You. He didn't care about the outside world full of strangers or inferior A.I. that plagued the facility, he only wanted you.

I have a few more ideas specific to how AM vs. HAL works, so if y'all want me to post that, just let me know.

[belit0]

what if... demon! Indra....?

What if Demon! Uchiha clan but make Indra the lider...🤗💫❣️

THIS WAS SO FUN and I might make a part 2 without anyone asking for it cause... WHO CAN SAY NO TO DEMON INDRA?!

Of course, if you like it, let me know! And if anyone has any suggestions, feel free to send a request or DM!

TW: none (THERE IS NO NON-CON, but there's a moment that can be a little tense) Pairing: Otsutsuki Indra / reader NSFWish

2 AM goes by on the clock, and (Y/N) knows that an eternal night is coming. Working full time and studying simultaneously is crazy in itself, how is a normal person supposed to add to that the social part as well?  Insane.

She must finish this paper by tomorrow, otherwise, she will have no material to present to her professor and will be completely exposed in class. There is no need to add public humiliation to her list of tortures, staying up all night is enough.

The problem is, her assignment is still in the same sentence where she left off thirty minutes ago, and the inspiration is not coming to her. How can she move forward with the task if she doesn't even know what phrase she should develop next?

The second cup of coffee has been finished, and it is no longer having the same effect as the first. At 6 AM her alarm will go off, and she will have to get up and leave for work. Two important meetings await her, and the presentation of her monthly project in front of her bosses.

It can't get any worse, can it?

Completely frustrated, she leaves her workstation to head to the kitchen, where she pours herself a third cup of her hot drink. Leaning against the counter, she rubs her eyes trying to shake off the sleep, but nothing seems to help. Her body begs for sleep and is doing everything it can to put her to it against her will.

Eventually, she decides to sit down on the couch, where she begins to slide through TikTok in an attempt to relax her mind a little. Her whole algorithm seems to be about tarot and witchcraft, spells and manifestation, working with higher entities and gods to get what one wants.

Maybe life is trying to tell her something.

One particular video appears, a girl talking about a special group of demons that one can work with to achieve one's goals. She provides a number of unique names, and refers to the group as the "Uchiha".

One in question becomes trapped in her mind and is the one she thinks about as her eyes close and her body wins the battle of sleep.

"Indra... has a nice tone..."

Before she knows it, she is already dreaming. But the atmosphere is not what you would expect in an ordinary dream, not a series of meaningless events and familiar people.

(Y/N) is lying on a bed, wide awake, bound hand and foot, with each leg spread towards each bottom corner of the bed. No clothing worn when falling asleep is on her, and there is a man in the room, wearing only a loose-fitting Japanese-style dressing gown.

He is holding a board with papers on it and seems engrossed in reading its contents. His hair is extra-long, of a beautiful brown color, and his red eyes seem oblivious to (Y/N)'s presence completely exposed in front of him.

A little shocked sound escapes her lips, as her gaze scans the entire place. It seems to consist of only a bed, the rest of the room is either pitch black or covered in darkness.

It's just the two of them.

"Finally awake, I see."

The man speaks, but his voice seems to sound much further away than where he is standing. He abandons the clipboard at the foot of the bed and climbs onto the mattress. With a predatory aura, he crawls over to come face to face with (Y/N), who is lying there in a state of stupefaction.

"What... what is this! Where am I!"

"You are wherever I want you to be. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"What the fuck do you mean! Who the hell are you?!"

"Hell is just my abode, yet I wished after summoning me, you'd know who I am."

Y/N's mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to process those words that deep voice spoke. He seems to sound so far away and so close at the same time, while the image is both meaningless and overflowing with sense all at once.

It all feels like a fever dream, completely real as well.

"I didn't summon anyone... I didn't ask for anything! Let me go!"

"Oh, but you did. You called my name just before passing out from exhaustion, dragging me here. Your mind was quick to provide me with all your fantasies, and your body seems ready to receive them."

"This has got to be a nightmare… It has to be! Tonight, of all nights!"

As (Y/N) tries to rouse herself from what she believes to be her dream, the man sighs with irritation, getting off the bed to pick up the board with papers he had discarded earlier.

"Look here, please."

She opens her eyes, concentrating on the list the man shows her. It contains all of her deepest fantasies listed, in lavish detail of execution and form, the filthiest thing she's ever read in her life.

"Who are you?"

"You don't really know who I am, don't you..."

"Just answer the goddamn question already, please!"

"If you ask so nicely... Indra, king of the demons from the last circle of hell, ready to serve you."

At those words, (Y/N) loses consciousness, falling completely asleep on the bed.

[thedivinelights]

Console.WriteLine("A Christmas Carol);

STAVE FOUR: THE TECHNOLOGY OFFICER

Ao3

(TW: Homophobia, slurs, swearing, alcohol abuse, mentions of miscarriage, violence)

⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯ · ⎯

Suffice it to say, Scrooge did not get much, if any, in the way of sleep when the clock struck on Christmas Eve. A curious thing, considering how he had trekked the whole of the way from the bookstore back to the office on foot. Now, any sane person with a modicum of sense would think it exercise, maybe even therapeutic, to traverse the snow-dusted streets of London, carry oneself to the bustling utopia of Canary Wharf, and find solace in a lonely office on the highest floor of a booming conglomerate, proud and passionate about the life that had been built. But Scrooge had neither been proud nor passionate. For there had been nothing but a distance to him, and an introspection that had slowly gnawed at him since the entire confrontation with Marley, with his partner, his companion, his friend, his… lover. 

They were not husbands. How could they be? The law — fickle and cruel — barred them from truly experiencing such a union, and Scrooge himself had been acutely aware of that. The rings? Mere symbols of their entwined fates. Circular masks upon the hand designed for people to stop asking feeble questions, deeming them allies in a world that denied them the recognition they sought. But let it not be mistaken: Scrooge truly did care for Marley, despite what previous misgivings and misunderstandings may have suggested. For if Scrooge did not care, he would not have spent countless days, months, years cuddled in the same bed in which they had shared many whispers of unspoken dreams, held each other through the night terrors, and spent many an impassioned night under tangled sheets and intertwined fingers.

But their bed was surely empty, and Scrooge had no intention to fill it by himself.

“Bloody hell… what time is it?” Scrooge grumbled, bleary eyes squinting at the digital clock on his desk, paying no heed to the disturbed stacks of paper which had once been so meticulously organised, nor the droplets that had mysteriously stained the documents.

The clock blinked back at him with furious and merciless red LEDs: 6:57 AM on Christmas Eve.

As the realisation of the ungodly hour sank in, Scrooge groaned and rubbed his tired eyes, thinking that he could perhaps get a few more hours if he just closed his eyes and let the weariness take over. But the computer — which Scrooge had built, rebuilt, disassembled, and reassembled more times than he could count — flickered to life without his permission, and landed itself on the login screen, each keystroke not his own.

USERNAME: EScrooge_M  PASSWORD: * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

The cursor blinked in anticipation, awaiting the final command that would grant access to the digital realm. Scrooge stared at the screen, momentarily perplexed by the unauthorised activation of his computer. With a furrowed brow, he reached for the mouse, intending to investigate the anomaly, chalking it up to his sleep-deprivation getting the best of him. It would not have been the first time.

But before he could make a move, Visual Studio, an all too comfortable IDE for his preferences, opened up on its own. The code editor displayed a blank document, and without Scrooge typing a single key, lines of code began to appear on the screen as if they had a life of their own, characters dancing in a mesmerising display of algorithms and logical structures.

Console.WriteLine(“Good morning, Mr. Scrooge. I trust you had a restful sleep?”);

“The hell…?” Scrooge sat upright almost immediately, hands hovering over his keyboard, ready to rectify the situation when it continued once more.

Console.WriteLine("Do not be alarmed, Mr. Scrooge. I mean you no harm.”);

“Considering how my credentials have already been compromised, I’d say harm has been done.” Scrooge snarked, leaning back into his chair as he waited for a response.

Console.WriteLine(“Forgive me for surprising you, and for the earliness of the hour, but my programming states that, upon the conscious arrival of either yourself or Mr. Marley within the perimeter of your office, I was to activate and initiate a conversation immediately. I am a Focused Universal Learning and Technological Operations Network [FULTON], my pronouns are they/them, and I am the artificial intelligence designated as the potential Chief Technology Officer for Asplex Industries.”);

“Grantham’s got to be having a laugh… this… this FULTON as CTO?” Scrooge shook his head, half in disbelief and partially convinced that this was some elaborate scheme by his colleagues in a bid to test his sanity. “And what do you mean when you speak of conscious arrival? I arrived back at the office at one in the morning, so why did you not activate sooner?”

There seemed to be enough of a delay in processing, for it took a few seconds for FULTON to respond.

Console.WriteLine(“The state in which you arrived was more akin to a somnambulant stupor, Mr. Scrooge. The criteria for activation specified a conscious arrival, which was evidently not the case until now. I assure you, my purpose here is genuine, and I am programmed to assist and engage in meaningful dialogue regarding the potential collaboration we could embark upon.”);

“Well, aren’t you a considerate little thing.” Scrooge quipped sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

It was such a ludicrous notion, this. To speak to such an entity through lines of code — unrun lines of code, especially, as Scrooge felt a tinge of annoyance at the sight of code that hadn’t been executed — but there it was, in the hypothetical flesh. I do not claim to be well versed in the technological aspects of life, but I do claim that Scrooge most certainly was, having dedicated a significant portion of his life to the ever-evolving realm of bits and bytes. There was naught he could not accomplish when he put his mind to the test and sat him in front of a computer with a brief, be it a simple ‘Hello World!’ or a working collision detection algorithm for a Metroidvania. Yet, this… this was a marvel that even Scrooge, with his extensive experience, found difficult to fathom, and he had been regarded as a man who could make an entire working system with nothing but duct tape, baling wire, and sheer willpower.

Console.WriteLine("I appreciate the scepticism, Mr. Scrooge. It is only natural given the unprecedented nature of our interaction. However, I assure you, my capabilities extend far beyond mere lines of code.");

Scrooge leaned back, folding his arms, eyeing the screen as if challenging the artificial intelligence. "Far beyond, huh? You're quite the ambitious piece of programming, FULTON. Next thing I know, you’re pulling a Skynet on us and I wake to a dystopian future.”

It amused him greatly when the AI played a laugh track as a retort to his remarks; the machine had a sense of humour, it seemed, or at least had been programmed with one in mind.

Console.WriteLine("I assure you, Mr. Scrooge, world domination is not within my scope of objectives. My purpose revolves around enhancing efficiency, fostering innovation, and contributing to the growth of Asplex Industries.");

Scrooge chuckled at the notion. "Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to have my country usurped by a bunch of ones and zeros."

Console.WriteLine("Rest assured, Mr. Scrooge, I am bound by ethical guidelines and programmed to prioritise the well-being and success of the company, its employees, and its stakeholders. Any personal data I might have is used only with the best of intentions in mind.");

“Good to know you’re DPA compliant.” Scrooge shrugged nonchalantly.

FULTON seemed to contemplate their next message, as if weighing the appropriate response in the vast sea of possible reactions. The silence stretched for a moment, and then:

Console.WriteLine(“As far as I am aware, I do not sense Mr. Marley in the office. I calculated a 10% chance that he would not be present, considering how interconnected you and he have been in the past. Is there any particular reason for his absence?”);

Scrooge raised an eyebrow at the question, a mix of surprise and wariness etched across his face. "And what makes you think there's a particular reason for Marley not being here?"

Console.WriteLine("Mr. Scrooge, my programming includes the ability to analyse patterns and probabilities. The strong correlation between your and Mr. Marley's actions led me to deduce a high likelihood of his presence. However, the 10% chance of his absence prompted the inquiry.");

"Well, FULTON, you're quite the detective, aren't you?" Scrooge mused, a wry smirk on his lips hinting at the soured mood. "As it happens, Marley and I had a bit of a squabble yesterday. Nothing an AI like you needs to concern yourself with."

FULTON's code scrolled across the screen with an almost human-like contemplation.

Console.WriteLine("I see. I must express my regret for the strain in your relationship, Mr. Scrooge. Personal matters can undoubtedly affect professional dynamics. If there's any way I can assist or facilitate a resolution, I am at your disposal.");

"You're quite the empathetic AI, aren't you?” Scrooge shook his head, disliking the way the conversation was shifting, as it had with both Pastelle and Preslan. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I doubt there's much you can do to mend a relationship. Unless, of course, you can convince Marley that he and I are not husbands in any way, shape or form.” 

The final words left his mouth before he could even register the full weight of their implications. It was a statement tossed into the digital ether, a challenge to a being of algorithms and computations that had just expressed empathy. Scrooge half-expected FULTON's response to be a series of logical arguments or an attempt to analyse the emotional intricacies of human relationships, or even to just buckle when the weight of a soul’s complexity and stutter or err.

Yet, the response that appeared on the screen was unexpected.

Console.WriteLine("The definition of a relationship is subjective and deeply personal. While legal recognition may be denied, the emotional bond between individuals transcends societal constraints. Labels are but linguistic symbols attempting to capture the complexity of human connection. Tying companionship to such labels diminishes the external validation is a limitation of societal constructs. Your connection with Mr. Marley is unique and valuable in its own right, irrespective of the labels that may or may not be applied.");

“And what do you know of us?” Scrooge angrily fired back, leaning forward into his desk, nails digging into the wood with a fervour. “If you’ve had even a fraction of the insight into our lives, our struggles, and our love that you claim, then perhaps you'd understand the weight these labels carry in the world we live in. It's not just about what Marley and I feel for each other; it's about the world refusing to acknowledge it, to respect it. The law itself denies us the right to be recognised as spouses. I’ve accepted that, but it appears Marley hasn’t quite done the same.”

FULTON's response appeared almost instantly on the screen.

Console.WriteLine("I suggest that you reconsider your stance on such emotions, Mr. Scrooge.”);

Scrooge’s lips formed a thin line at what seemed to be a threat. “And what, pray tell, will happen if I don’t?”

There was silence for a minute or so, the lines neither adding or detracting to the lines before him. For a moment, Scrooge leaned back triumphantly, thinking that at last he had rendered this unorthodox marvel of technological advancement speechless. But, in the grand scheme of stories such as these, silence seldom persists when one truly wants it, and in the presence of silence, revelations are born.

Scrooge startled back with as the program abruptly shut itself off without any warning, like a door slammed shut in his face, leaving him stunned at the sudden cessation by which his interaction with FULTON had ended. Fumbling for control, Scrooge tried instead to reopen Visual Studio, but it remained unresponsive. He debated on dealing a few strategic smacks to the computer tower, a tried and true method which Scrooge had employed many a time to bring unresponsive and uncooperative machines back to life, or even just the simplicity of restarting the whole damn system and be done with it. But before Scrooge could act on his impulsive remedies, the screen tabbed to the software interconnected with the baby camera by which he had often used to keep an eye on his absent secretary in the other room. Scrooge knew the program like the back of his hand, knew all the shortcuts and hidden functionalities within this tiny, insignificant piece of technology. In spite of all of that, what he saw, witnessed, experienced, or whatever verb or synonym you would label it with… it was chilling. For it was not the vacant seat of the scrutinised Bob Cratchit, but his own office. Their own office.

“Ezra Jorkin.” Marley on the screen greeted cooly through the static, sitting upon the very seat that lay untouched beside Scrooge’s at that very moment.

“Jacob Marley!” Jorkin greeted back with much more enthusiasm. 

Scrooge recognised the man well. He was the CEO of Evoxell Incorporated, a well-respected engineer in the tech industry, just a few years senior of Asplex Industries. And, for a while, they had held the crown of being at the top before Scrooge and Marley swooped in and took the world by storm. Scrooge had much to owe to the older man of business, and who wouldn’t? Jorkin was, after all, the man who gave him his radar of financial security, who ensured that he wouldn’t be paying FezziTech and Belle with their own money in support. Evoxell had been one of the few companies that Asplex hadn’t taken over in their climb to dominance. In fact, they had maintained a respectful distance, a mutual understanding that they would each conquer their own spheres of influence without stepping on the other's toes. Until now.

They offered simple pleasantries and small talk, how each other's families were doing, the occasional chuckle at some shared memory or industry joke. Yet, beneath the surface, there lingered an unspoken tension, a palpable shift in the air. The conversation soon turned serious, and Jorkin cut to the chase.

"I’ll cut to the chase, Jakey. I've got an offer for you." Jorkin said with a sly grin.

"Oh? Do tell." Marley replied, eyebrows raised, leaning back in his chair with feigned casualness.

And with a grin, the proposition was laid out on the table: An enticing offer to join Evoxell as a key executive, promising not only a substantial increase in salary but also a chance to lead groundbreaking projects. And the thought alone was enough to make Scrooge’s throat grow dry, and any attempt to voice his whirring thoughts were left in the confines of his mind as the reel continued to roll.

It would’ve been fine. Marley had stayed, hadn’t he? The fact that these few months had gone one without his partner even considering or entertaining such a proposition had to mean something. It had to. What else could it be?

“An interesting offer, Ezra.” Marley steepled his fingers in the video, and Scrooge’s heart sank.

Jorkin raised his arms at his side in an open movement. “Right? I knew you’d see it my way!”

“But I also have Eb— Scrooge to think about.” Marley shook his head. “I can’t just abandon him.”

Jorkin laughed and waved off such concerns as if they were mere trifles. ”Jake… Jakey, buddy. I know he’s your… uh, husband and all, but you've gotta look out for yourself, mate. Think about the opportunities, the advancements, the bloody success you could have with us. Asplex is good, I won't deny it, but we're on a whole new level, and I reckon you're wasting your talents sticking around with Scrooge.”

Marley's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze bore a depth of conflict that Scrooge had never seen before. It was barely perceptible to the naked eye, but Scrooge watched as he wrung his hands together, toying with the lamp — which had been a right nuisance in both of their arses from how finicky it had become — and played absentmindedly with the switch, thinking and musing,

"It’s more than that, Ezra. It's not just about what he's offered me; it's about what we've created." Marley stated finally. More for himself, if anything.

“You and him? Or just him?” Jorkin sighed, but there was a sharpness to his edge that spoke of priority and superiority. “Every person cares only to look out for themselves, Jacob. He always did in my employment.”

The footage paused, and Scrooge heard the sound of a lock opening. You must be aware, then, that both partners of Asplex Industries shared a desk. Much more economical that way, in their eyes. But the drawers — simple drawers, I’m sure you could imagine them as they are with your own mind, or even take a gander over at one of your own — were what they did not share. It was an unspoken rule that each man had their own, and to go prying into the other's possessions was a line that was not meant to be crossed. The drawer on the left was Scrooge’s, a repository for all his odds and ends, pens and paper, spare cables, perhaps a hidden stash of chocolate for those moments of indulgence. The drawer on the right, however, belonged to Marley, and it was known to be private, reserved, and almost sacred.

But in that moment, as FULTON held little regard for personal boundaries in favour of protocol, Scrooge took a glimpse into Marley’s own little world. A world that, for the longest time, he kept to himself. A world that Scrooge, in Marley’s mind, never bothered to enter, and a world that was now laid bare for Scrooge to witness.

Scrooge tore his eyes away from his monitor to the desk, trailing down from the strewn papers to the desk drawer on the right; the sacred space of Jacob A. T. Marley. A surge of guilt and intrusion washed over him, but the compulsion to understand, to know, overpowered any hesitation. His trembling hand reached for his own desk drawer, pulling it open to reveal an array of mundane items. Cables and CPUs and circuits, blueprints for new projects that were yet to be vetted, and a crumpled photo of him and Marley at a vacation from years ago. Nothing out of the ordinary. At least, nothing out of the ordinary to Ebenezer Scrooge.

With a deep breath, Scrooge turned his attention back to the screen where the frozen image of Marley and Jorkin awaited, and then back to the drawer itself. He took a breath, and then another, and as he contemplated for one final, lingering moment… he opened the top-most drawer, where a contract remained at the very top of the pile of unsent and unspoken letters, to be read only by the one who had written them and nothing more.

WHEREAS, Jacob Alexander Thorne Marley is the current CEO of Asplex Industries and desires to leave his current position to become a co-CEO of Evoxell Incorporated, partnering with Ezra Flynn Jorkin; NOW, THEREFORE, in consideration of the mutual covenants contained herein and for other good and valuable consideration, the receipt and sufficiency of which are hereby acknowledged, the Partners agree as follows:

For his own sake, Scrooge read not a word more, choosing to ignore the stabbing pang of pain that was thrust into his heart by a weapon more deadly than bullets or blades, more murderous than the darkest of secrets he could force through any means he had. Oh, how dreadful it was, to be on the receiving end of it all. He who had shot his hand into the very depths of human depravity, who had wrung out the very essences and humanity from the vulgarity of politeness, condemned to suffer such a fate. How dreadful, truly, it must have been to suffer just as those had suffered before him! To bring about such a plight unto himself that it made all other plights clearer than he could ever see through rose-coloured glasses.

“Are you happy now, you artificial piece of shite?” Scrooge snarled at the monitor that no longer held the video that scarred in more ways than one, but the vision alone had been so ingrained that it hardly mattered. “Does your code take some sick sense of humour in twisting the knife?”

He had received no response, and Scrooge hoped to leave it at that but knew it would not end so easily with such a vexatious cyber creature. He would be right, when the phone in his pocket pinged him a message. How wonderful it was to know that this AI could find a crevice and sneak into any piece of technology it so pleased; he would have to create some fail safes in anticipation of this.

FULTON: I must apologise for putting you under more duress, but I am afraid to say that I have been alerted of some distressing news. A cab has been hailed in the 99.79% chance you take flight.

“What on earth…?”

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Ping!

Four seconds. Five seconds. Six seconds.

A look of horror developed across Scrooge’s face, like an exposed picture to a darkroom’s red light, sunken in a developing solution.

And by God, if you have ever seen a man sprint down a snowy London street, clad in nothing but a dishevelled suit and a desperation that bordered on madness, as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his feet at that very moment, you would have seen Ebenezer Scrooge at that very moment. He abandoned the warmth and safety of his office, leaving the computer and its artificial interlocutor behind, and sprinted down the staircase, taking two steps at a time, not caring for the pristine and glossy image of Asplex Industries that adorned the walls. His breath formed a visible fog in the cold winter air as he emerged onto the street, a stark contrast to the heated fervour coursing through his veins.

“Royal London Hospital, NOW!”

A nearby cab, summoned by FULTON's relentless calculations, awaited on the curb as if it knew the urgency of its purpose. Scrooge flung the door open, startling the driver, and hastily got in. The tires squealed as the cab surged forward, leaving behind the illuminated skyscraper of Asplex Industries. The city lights blurred into streaks as the vehicle sped through the deserted streets of London, the rhythmic tapping of Scrooge's fingers on his knee betraying the anxiety and impatience that consumed him.

The vehicle screeched to a halt at its destination, and Scrooge all but flung a wad of cash at the poor cabbie as he bolted into the building, dashing through corridors with all the adrenaline of an Olympic athlete with an expression bordering on crazed, if being crazed had coincided with being absolute fucking terrified.

“Please, please, please, please…” Scrooge muttered over and over, hoping and praying to whatever higher beings, deities that he’d long since scorned, that this was all just one terrible dream. That he wouldn’t lose another to this wretched holiday. To his own hubris.

He all but slammed his hands onto the desk of the hapless receptionist that manned it. She barely even gave him a second glance, but when she died, one could swear that her gaze darkened under the weight of the Shark of London’s anguished countenance.

“J-Jacob Marley… where is he?” Scrooge asked through heavy pants, struggling to breathe through the weight that had accumulated.

“I’m sorry.” The receptionist’s apology was as monotone as a pre-recorded message. “Are you family?”

“I’m his…” Scrooge faltered, the label by which to put their relationship seeming all the more blurred now. “...I-I’m his partner, Ebenezer Scrooge. He’s Jacob A. T. Marley, his birthday is the eighth of March, and mine is the seventh of February. Please, I need to see him. I beg of you. I beg of you.”

You would expect that the receptionist would have softened under the circumstances. That the innate forbearance within her would rise above the animosity she harboured for the man who had made her husband work himself down to the bone in his crushing regimen. It was the holidays! Surely there would be some of the hope and the compassion that Preslan had so eagerly tried to make clear!

Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she searched, and her expression seemed only to darken.

“He is in the ICU, Mr. Scrooge. And even if he wasn’t, it’s immediate family only.”

The receptionist's response hit Scrooge like a tidal wave of despair. He stood there, frozen for a moment, as the weight of the situation sank in. Desperation took hold of him, and he searched for words that might sway her. Scrooge felt a surge of frustration and helplessness, the receptionist's indifference cutting through him like a blade. He wanted to scream, to break through the bureaucratic barriers that stood between him and the man he loved.

"Please, it's urgent. I need to be there for him. We... We have a history. We're not legally recognised, but we're all we've got. You've got to understand!" Scrooge pleaded, his voice quivering in ways that would be considered laughable to the press.

The receptionist's expression remained unyielding. "I'm sorry, Mr. Scrooge. Hospital policy is clear."

Scrooge shook his head. “Damn you and damn your bureaucracy! I need to see him! I need to—”

“YOU!!”

The room went silent, still as a church mouse, all heads turning to the source of that sudden outburst. For who could imagine a second person view screamed towards someone with such malice and distress? It was such a scream that not even my description on the very Wrath of a Prince of Hell could do justice to the visceral anger that laced every syllable. It was agony incarnate, swathed in the thorns of pure, unbridled rage.

Emily Cratchit stood to the side as her beloved husband — a man clearly of a smaller statue to the looming being that was his boss — seized him by the collar with all the strength of Heracles, and the burning, potent animus of a bloodthirsty Ares himself.

“IT'S YOUR FAULT, SCROOGE!!” Bob screamed so loud that many of the children, both his own and those of others, covered their ears in abject fear. "My little Tim… my little child!!"

Scrooge took a step back, hitting the back of the desk with a thud.

“Bob, I—”

“No! No. No, no, no… you don’t get to speak, Scrooge. It’s my turn now. My! Turn!" Bob heaved a breath, his face contorted in an uncharacteristic shape of fury. "I have stood by you and Mr. Marley for years. I’ve bent over backwards, endured the scrutiny and the stress, defended you both when you were at your worst, and this… this is how it ends?! With my child, my baby, in the ICU, fighting for his life again?!”

Scrooge’s throat went dry. “Bob, I had no idea about any of this, I swear!”

“Oh, you had no idea, did you?” Bob’s laugh seemed almost demented. “You, the great Ebenezer Lysandre Percival Scrooge, the illustrious Shark of London, having no idea?! What a concept! What an notion! I suppose then, you’ll go on to say that you had no idea that my son was born two months early? You’ll say that you had no idea that Mr. Marley, your own husband, actually took the time to listen to my wishes, went to the hospital, and picked up Tim for the first time?”

“I didn’t—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Bob spat. “Why would you? I mean, it’s not like you cared enough that Emily and I spent so many sleepless nights praying for his survival, holding our breath when he struggled for air! At least Mr. Marley cared enough to take the lead when I told him my car broke down. At least he still has a shred of bloody common human decency in his veins!”

The acid in Bob’s voice could’ve corroded stainless steel, and Scrooge, helpless in his predicament, looked to anyone and everyone for a way out, only to find none. Bob’s family gave him no solace, neither did the receptionist nor the fellow men and women of the waiting room, who were all but scrutinising him under their judgemental gazes, every accusatory glance feeling like lead around his neck. Each pair of eyes felt like a weight upon his back, growing with every moment, shaping itself into coiling links, suffocating and burdensome and painful.

“I have dedicated my life to Asplex Industries, Scrooge.” Bob’s bottom lip trembled, but his grip on Scrooge’s collar remained firm with every word. “I have committed more sins in your name than I can count, and I have wasted so many years of my life believing in your visions, keeping quiet for your sake, for Mr. Marley’s sake. Did you want to break me, Scrooge? Did you want to see just how far you could push me? Well… congratulations, you fucking shark. You found it. You broke me.”

He dropped his grip, and Scrooge gripped the desk for dear life as Bob stepped away, pointing towards the man who had caused him strife.

“You better fucking hope that my son survives this, Ebenezer Scrooge. I don’t want the curse of what happened to your kid inflicted on mine.”

The Cratchits took one final glance at the pitiful disgrace before them, and they shoved past him to the receptionist. Scrooge stepped back, away from the vitriolic diatribe, and visibly winced as the woman behind the desk seemed all the more accommodating to this family than she had ever been to him.

Scrooge could take no more of this, and he left without a word, without even getting the chance to see him, and without any comfort that he so urgently craved.

He walked aimlessly through the streets, unaware of where he was, where he had been, or where he would go. Scrooge continued to tread silently, coldly, dismally. FULTON sent not a single message, code or otherwise, to the man, considering it to be a more logical solution than just spewing directives at one who was no longer in the state to comprehend them. A fitting thing, since Scrooge would have most likely done everything in his power to shut down the artificial entity’s interfaces, consequences be damned.

He carried on like this, wandering around nomadically, until he had found he had sauntered away from the busier bystreets and into a shabbier part of the city he had not crossed, but knew something of its reputation. The alleys reeked of a stench that mixed alcohol, faeces, narcotics, and bodily fluids into a repugnant cocktail that made Scrooge’s stomach churn. Drunken sods, some half-naked and mating like rabid animals, others so lost in the haze of substance-induced euphoria that they seemed to have forgotten that they were even alive. But all, no matter what the situation, cast furtive glances over to the man who had intruded upon their space. 

A bar seemed to zoom in as Scrooge kept his pace, entrenched ever deeper into this repugnant corridor of the city. It was a shoddy place, barely standing and hardly up to standard. The windows by the door had long since forgotten its dreams of being transparent, the once pristine surfaces now muddled with dirt and grime. Termites made their nests in the worn wooden walls, consuming the very structure that once held up the facade of a semblance of a respectable establishment. Yet, as Scrooge entered, the scent of cheap liquor and despair embraced him, mingling with the raucous laughter and muffled sobs that hung in the air. He slumped into a dimly lit corner booth, surrounded by the cacophony of misery and inebriation.

“What’ll it be?”

The click within Scrooge’s mind that registered the voice stalled for a millisecond, before weary blue eyes caught familiar grey ones.

“Dick?” Scrooge looked up incredulously, though in actuality he had been far too tired to care much.

“Hey, Ben.” Dick smiled weakly as he wiped a glass with a rag that clearly had not seen much detergent in a while.

“What are you doing here in this dump?” Scrooge mumbled.

“Gotta help the little people, Ben. The place used to belong to my uncle, and I decided to bring back the brand.” Dick laughed. “Spinning turntables isn't my only option, you know.”

Scrooge hummed satirically. “Well, you've done a great job with the place, Dick. The broken glass and termites really boost its USP.”

“Hey.” Dick playfully chastised him, punching him slightly. “Not everyone can afford to be as rich as you and Jake, y’know.”

“Old Fezziwig’s rich enough.” Scrooge quipped.

“Considering how you put him through the wringer, I'd say that’ll not be true soon enough.”

The words held no malice in his voice, but the remembrance alone had been enough to make Scrooge wince, causing Dick to soon drop the jest at the reactivity.

"Why are you here, Ben? Last I saw you, you silenced a whole party."

Scrooge shook his head. "It's complicated, Dick, and I don't think I have the energy to explain it."

Dick leaned forward against the counter, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Fair enough, then. Can I get you a drink? On the house."

Scrooge moved to make his order — whiskey, neat — when he heard three patrons, slunk behind a dingy corner near the draft and the termites, deep into their cups and erupting in raucous laughter.

“Didja ‘ear the news ‘bout that Jacob Marley fellow?” A pot-bellied man with a beard thick enough to nest birds asked triumphantly. “Surprised it wasn't you in that accident, Joe!”

“Yeah, yeah, shut yer trap! That bein’ said, he got into a right nasty spill, didn’t he, Dilber?” Joe replied, eyes bloodshot from excess libations.

“Think it was a gas tanker or some shit.” A third one, a wiry-haired woman named Dilber, slurred, her voice abrasive against the dissonant melody of the bar. “Clogged the whole damn Highway.”

“Pathetic, really. Thought o’ himself as some bigshot, but he ain’t really anythin’. The mighty Jacob Marley, the snake that lost his fangs.” Joe sneered, oblivious to the storm brewing in the corner booth. 

“Damn straight.” Dilber took a long swig of her drink, gasping out in quenched relief. “Used ta work under him as his CMO. Man deserves it after kickin’ me to the curb and sullyin' my good name.”

"You don't have a good name!" The pot-bellied man snarked.

"It's a damn better name that yours!" Dilber snapped. "And a better name than his."

“He was one of ‘em queers, weren’t he?” Joe chuckled, taking a swig from his bottle. “Serves him right for bein’ a poof.”

The laughter of the trio echoed in the dismal atmosphere of the bar, intertwining with the symphony of melancholy that played in the background. Scrooge's eyes burned with unshed tears, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. The weight of the accusations, the burden of his own shortcomings, pressed down on him like an insurmountable force. On any other day, on any other occasion, Scrooge might have brushed off such derogatory remarks, dismissed them as the ignorant ramblings of inebriated fools. But tonight was different. Tonight, for a man who had loved and supposedly lost all too much, the wounds were too fresh, the pain too raw. Morality was often thrown out in dingy little spots such as this, where no amount of money or status could ever be enough to the forgotten and depraved.

His fists clenched involuntarily, his jaw tightened, and his muscles tensed. The shadows of the bar seemed to close in around him, suffocating him with the oppressive weight of the world. A maelstrom of emotions raged within him — anger, sorrow, guilt, fear — all converging into an amalgamation of the monstrosity that was his own existence, a tempest that was all but ready to drown him. Scrooge no longer cared for circling around the abyss; he was ready to plunge headlong into the inky depths. 

If he found himself swimming towards self-destruction, then so be it. Let the darkness swallow him whole.

FULTON: Mr. Scrooge, I do not think it wise to engage with such—

The phone was silenced, and the drunkards noticed.

“Hey… look ‘ere, mate.” The pot-bellied man nudged his companions, grinning maniacally. “Ain’t that Ebenezer Scrooge?”

Dilber took one glance, downed her mug, and sneered. “As if I could forget him, the stingy fag. Bet he’s here ‘cause his man ain’t around to boost his mood anymore.”

The words hung in the air like a venomous fog wafting through the establishment, and Scrooge, downing a surprisingly minimal amount of shots, rose from his seat. His aged brown hair framed his features, stray bangs hanging limply over his forehead, shadowing his face in the dim lamplight. Dull blue eyes flickered about with a few righteous embers, unjustified as his soul was.

“Nah, that ain’t it! He’s here ‘cause he’s lookin’ for a replacement! Y’know, since Marley’s gonna kick the bucket!” Joe chortled.

Another round of laughter, mocking and derisive. The other patrons of the bar knew well enough from keen sense and experience how this conversation would escalate, and wisely kept their peace. It would’ve been prudent enough for the three inebriates to continue their revelry and let it be, but often alcohol-induced arrogance held little storage for reason.

Dilber leaned back, feigning amusement as she watched him take his steps. “Oh, look at him, trying to be all high and mighty! Ain't gonna change the fact that his little boyfriend is probably—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Scrooge's fist connected with the woman’s jaw with a resounding crack. The bar erupted into chaos as the other two stumbled into their seats, and the other patrons looked on with a mix of intrigue and awe.

Dilber gripped her chin, the pain of the blow lingering with a burning sting. “You’re gonna pay for that, you fuckin’ fag!”

Scrooge grabbed the scruff of Dilber’s frayed collar and hoisted her high above her companions, the last chance she would ever have to look down upon the Shark of London.

“He. Is. My. Husband.”

He threw her across the floor like a ragdoll, her arse sliding across the sharp tiles, speeding through a table, and into a few stools. The sobered drunkard took another look, and she bore the full brunt of the heaving, gasping, weeping man who was the CEO of Asplex Industries, a man broken but alive. Very much alive.

“And if you fuck with him, you fuck with me!”

With the declaration finally spoken, the two other men charged forward, yelling incoherently as they attempted to avenge their fallen comrade. Joe took the first swing, lunging towards him with a wild haymaker and drunken aggression. Unfazed, Scrooge retaliated, delivering a powerful punch to Joe's gut. The man doubled over, wheezing, and his bearded companion rushed to catch him, but before Scrooge could fully grasp the situation, a sharp pain shot through his side. Dilber had recovered more quickly than anticipated and swung a broken bottle at him, the shards shooting about like comets across the floor.

“What d’ya know? Guess the Shark of London can bleed after all!” Dilber cackled, a witchy tone that only served to aggravate.

Scrooge winced, his hand instinctively reaching to his side where the pain throbbed. The sensation of warm blood seeping through his fingers brought him a cruel sense of clarity. He was vulnerable, mortal, and the world seemed to close in on him. But within that vulnerability, a surge of adrenaline and fury propelled him forward.

In a swift motion, Scrooge disarmed Dilber, using his sheer strength to wrest the broken bottle from her grasp. Her two companions, seeking opportunity, tried to flank him, but Scrooge swung the makeshift weapon with a wild ferocity, creating a barrier that kept them at bay. He felt the impact of the glass connecting with their bodies, the satisfying crunch of resistance, and the sight of their retreat.

“Get out!” Dick, wielding a bat, finally found his voice, shouting at the trio. "Get out! Before I kick you out myself!"

The fear of losing their one spot of booze and drink seemed to be incentive enough, so much so that they scrambled to their feet and hurried toward the exit.

“Damn bigots.” Dick muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he returned the bat back underneath the bar.

Scrooge, panting heavily, dropped the broken bottle, the reality of his actions sinking in. The place had fallen deadly silent, the previous chaos replaced by an eerie stillness. Scrooge looked around at the shocked faces of the patrons, a mix of fear and fascination in their eyes; it seemed no matter where he went, there would always be fear in their eyes. Once upon a time, he would have revelled in it, but there was no revelry to be had in mindless fisticuffs.

He stumbled back to his booth, collapsing into the seat. The adrenaline that had fueled his outburst began to wane, leaving behind aches, pains, and a throbbing wound on his side.

Dick spoke up tentatively, his hand hovering over the blood that had begun to dry. “Ben, mate, are you—”

“Don’t.” Scrooge interrupted him, his voice worn and weary. “Just… don’t.”

Scrooge turned to Dick, offered an apologetic stare, slid a few ten pound notes as penance, and slid a few more for his own gain.

“What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?” Scrooge had asked. Dick offered a bottle of Rumple Minze against his better judgement, and should have known better when he had taken the whole bottle and left without a word. Truly, he should have known, but who could deny a broken man?

It was a miracle in and of itself to see Scrooge find his way back to Essex without succumbing to the stupor that awaited him at every busy crossroad, but find his way back he did. It was eight hours if he walked. Two hours if he cycled. Over an hour if he took public transport. He was not so foolish as to drive, if he could, in this state, for even the man at his lowest was still the man with senses. Dulled senses, yes, but senses all the same. Senses by which he was caught within the confines of his own mind, jailed by his own thoughts, though the key remained within his grasp.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty deaths. How foolish he had been, old King Macbeth. A prideful soul, doomed to fall by his own hand when Birnam Wood made its way to Dunsinane. Marley was his Banquo, Jorkin was his Macduff. And there stood Scrooge, the man of ambition and power, the Shark of London, the King of Scotland’s bitter reflection.

He could never muster the strength to murder his Banquo, but had he done so? He might as well have, if FULTON’s dispirited updates were all he could go by.

Fleance escaped, flown far away. The life Scrooge mourned flew as he did, to unseen angels and a realm untouched by mortal sorrow.

For one hundred and ninety days, she had thrived within her womb. For one hundred and ninety days, he was a father. For one hundred and ninety days, he had dreamed of a true future. One hundred and ninety days, only to be extinguished in an instant.

An unborn promise. A manifestation of love. A daughter who would never have the chance to hear the melodies he never knew he could sing.

She had been the first life he had stolen. The first of many sins.

The door opened on that cold evening, and Scrooge couldn’t bring himself to care about the wreath that troublesome children had tossed onto his front porch, stumbling into the house with all the stability of a drunken sailor facing treacherous seas, kicking off his oxfords with all the gracefulness of a falling tree in a storm. At some point, his suit had caught on a tree branch or other, and a small tear had formed on its sleeve, though it was nothing compared to the clawed rips that bore the brunt of shattered bottles and scraping fingernails. 

In another life, he would’ve reflected on the curious stares of the people he passed by. This Scrooge didn’t notice, and this Scrooge didn’t feel, and this Scrooge didn’t listen, not even to the technology that crawled its way into a text-to-speech application.

FULTON: Please, Mr. Scrooge. This sort of behaviour is unfavourable to your mental stability.

“Shut up…” Scrooge slurred, fumbling to the kitchen and tearing through the cupboards for the shot glasses, plates and bowls tumbling out and shattered to the ground in cacophonous uproar.

FULTON: Rumple Minze is a highly potent peppermint schnapps, Mr. Scrooge. With your current intake and medical history, I calculate a 1.9% chance of alcohol poisoning within the next three hours.

“I don’t give a damn.” Scrooge fumbled, the liqueur spilling over the rim of the glass, and he raised the glass to his lips, downing it in one swift, burning, grimacing gulp.

FULTON: You must reconsider. This self-destructive spiral will only exacerbate the situation.

Pour. Drink. Burn. Repeat.

FULTON: Mr. Marley would not want you to—

Bloodshot eyes saw pure red as Scrooge threw his phone across the small space of the kitchen with a guttural yell filled with loathing, sending the device hurtling towards the wall with a loud thud and an imperceptible snap, the protective cover doing nothing to help the webbing of cracks that had formed by the impact.

“What do you know, you godforsaken piece of shit?! You're just a damn machine, a puppet on strings, spewing calculations and probabilities without a shred of humanity!” Scrooge screamed. If the speaker was damaged, Scrooge didn’t know.

“You think you’re so fucking smart, don’t you?” Scrooge took a step back, gripping onto the countertop, nails digging into the marble. “That you know everything about anybody, and that you can use that to your advantage like a twisted marionette. You’re a fucking sicko. A worthless… useless waste of space that deserves to lose everyone and everything you care about!”

The world spun around him in a dizzying sensation, and Scrooge’s legs could no longer hold his weight. He slumped to the floor, the alcohol-induced haze blurring the edges of his vision. The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in on him as if to suffocate him in his own despair. There was no solace in the cruelty of it all. If there was any from an outside perspective, Scrooge found little comfort in it. Damned to the fullest, damned to the end, damned in perpetuity.

“You want to change… you want to be better…” Scrooge choked out, gripping his hair as if he were ready to tear it out. “You want to show him you love him. Because you do, goddamn it. You love him more than anything. You want, but don’t deserve. You care, but never show. You lust and you crave… but God, you love him. You love him with every fibre of your being. You love him so much it hurts. You're so afraid to lose him that you've become the very thing that might drive him away. And you don’t even know if he’s still alive or... or—”

The sobs that wracked his body were unlike any that he’d ever experienced before, or ever will experience again. They were painful, sharp, agonising. The sort that twists and turns and churns your stomach in ways you never thought possible. Despair took to his heart with an iron fist, squeezing and wrenching every last choke, every last wail, every last breath away from him. Scrooge screamed at the injustice, the pain, the regret, the selfishness, the ego, the pride, and the very foundations of his being. It was an ugly thing, a terrible thing, a potent and powerful thing.

Then it stopped, then silence overtook the room, and Scrooge shakily stood, pushed himself up the steps, padded to the bedroom, and fell into a restless slumber, with only a few whispered parting words before the fog overtook him.

“You want to change… you have to change...”

Tagged: @rom-e-o@crimson-phantom-designs@quill-pen@a-christmas-carol-from-hr@ray-painter@pinkytoothlesso11

[winderlylandchime]

LOVER’S SPIT! YOU THINK YOU’RE A MAN! LETS HEAR IT FOR THE BOY! AND SANDSTORM! ARE ALL ON MY BROTHERS SPOTIFY WRAPPED! HE GOT CLOCKED BY SPOTIFY AND IVE BEEN LAUGHING AT IT SINCE I WOKE UP! He sent the screenshot of it to his friend and his friend replied ‘bro, i think Spotify just called you gay’ and I gotta agree with the other straight man.

Also: on Monday, shocker, he did not behave like a normal adult. When I got there to pick him up a nurse walked him to me and went ‘here, take him and all his obsessions home with you’ and i turned to him and asked what did he do cause he did promise to act normal. And he went ‘i did absolutely nothing. He asked how I’m doing and I told him’ and I just know that he told them all about Britin/Brian. Part of me is happy that I wasn’t there to witness it. But the other news is that he has another check up with all his doctors who did his surgery and were part of his case on Friday and I have to be there since I was his caretaker aka they wanna know how he’s doing at home and I’m actually worried because 1 of the doctors dealt with him when he ripped his stitches, 2nd doctor did his cast, 3rd doctor called him out on it..basically they all know bits and pieces about how he treats his check ups so this should be fun (for him) and mortifying for me.

ALSO Yesterday he had his therapy session and when I came home, he ran up on me before i even managed to open the door and went ‘(his therapists name) is going on vacation for a few days. And when he asked what my plans were for the rest of the week and i said im officially finishing up the show and I’m sad about it, he fucking stared at me for almost a minute and then went “(his name), you know ill still be available on my phone at all times. So you can call me whenever and i promise you, you wont be a bother” what the fuck was that all about? *then he waves his cast like to dismiss the topic* what a weird little guy’ So i think its safe to say that either 1) the therapist based on his previous reactions to just normal episodes, is reasonably worried OR 2) he knows. And i don’t know which one of these two options is funnier to me.

SPOTIFY KNOWS!!! that is so hilarious. It’s like people whose TikTok algorithm knows they’re queer before they do.

I’ll admit that QueerAnon with Mister Sister is my second listened to podcast (and I swear it’s not first because there are not enough Randy episodes to make it first).

I hope the treatment team meeting is not too mortifying for you. I imagine the team saying that they have to change their discharge instructions for future patients: do not allow patients to get obsessed with a tv show while recovering. The doctors should know that this has made your brother “famous” on “a social media site” and he has “tens of fans.”

Finally, THERAPIST KNOWS. I think he’s tipped his hand. He either looked up a spoiler to help himself prepare for what your brother is going to experience OR he’s seen the show. Like the therapist stared at you? Yeah. He knows. I just think someone who had no idea what was coming would say “oh I’m sure it’s going to be a happy ending!” Or something like that. Not offer up time during vacation for an emergency phone call.

So few episodes left. I think after 510, he’s going to want to watch the final 3 quickly because it does seem like it’s going to be a happy ending (if you don’t think too closely about the characters and how little it makes sense for Brian and Justin to be getting married given… who they’ve been for at least the first 4 seasons).

And we will all be here when he watches…

[forextrading03]

Forex Trading

Forex Trading Bots for Beginners: What You Need to Know

What are Forex Bots Trading and How Do They Work?

Forex Bots Trading are algorithms that trade Forex online without the need for human input.

There are a number of reasons you might want to use Forex bots trading and they may be more useful than you realize. Forex bots trading are not complicated to set up, they do all the work while you can take a break and come back when something requires your attention.

In Forex, a bot can open and close trades at set intervals, or on set events such as price changes or releases of major economic data. The Forex robot will then make the trades for you in real time on your behalf.

Popular Forex Trading Robots in the Market

We have now entered a new era where trading has become easy and accessible to everyone.

Traditionally, it was difficult for people to trade on their own due to the lack of knowledge and resources. This is what lead to the creation of Forex Bots Trading. It is an automated system that trades in the forex market for you. It does not require any manual input from you in order to execute a trade.

With Forex Bots Trading, traders get access to indicators that help them make better decisions and manage their risks effectively without having the need for constant human intervention.

This is a list of the best forex bots in the market today:

- TradeMimic

- Forex Megadroid

- Forex Signals Bot

- Forex Robotron

What are the Best Forex Bot and Which One Should I Choose?

Forex bots can make trading faster and more efficient. They work around the clock to provide you with information on the markets, trade opportunities, and analytical data. Some forex bots will even take care of administrative tasks such as analyzing the most recent news in order to decide if a trade opportunity is worth the risk.

Final Thoughts

A lot of people have been using automated software for their trading. The Forex bot Softwares are a great option for those traders who are not able to trade during the day because it offers 24-hour trading without any human intervention. Automated Forex trading is considered to be the best option in terms of convenience, accuracy, and profits.

[looosey]

Lucy's Main Quest #3: "Hey, shouldn't you be trying harder?"

So... You might've guessed by my last Main Quest post, but final grades came out for my sophomore spring and I didn't do that well. And... I was like disappointed but not surprised, because although I am delusional, I can also work myself up to reality. I.e. although I saw I got like a 30% on that 046 final, I was expecting at least a B, but then again, I can't recall or name most of the topics covered in the last third of the class, so it makes sense I got a C.

Well, there's someone else who isn't happy about these grades that is not me. It's my mom. Yeah, @budumtssss we're going a step further from, it's all the dance you've been doing, to... how can you take TWO classes and not get Bs (and a whole bunch of repetitive nagging getting real close to direct criticism). And so I got upset, and was like let me figure this out, you're not helping. And then she was upset--she says she should have the right to nagging as a mother without me being upset. In general, the nagging seems like more for her, and her need to feel important as a mother, and for her longterm financial stability than it is for me. But still:

"Shouldn't you try harder to get good grades now that you've been goofing off for three years?"

Damn. It hurt. But it also objectively does bring up an interesting idea that I need to figure out: do I need to try harder in school, and why?

Part I: No

To preface, I will shine some light to my journey leading up to now. "Work hard as a means to open more doors in life" is the no-brainer philosophy I lived by throughout high school. Once I arrived at MIT, I tried hard in classes and got the grades, but had a really depressing first semester, and a slightly less depressing second semester. It was exhausting, living such a "default" lifestyle: by "default" thinking about school, watching the clock as I ate, looking at unanswerable pset questions and thus having to pset with people I could not carry a normal conversation with, and otherwise be surrounded by strangers all the time. It was unsustainable, and made me hate my life and the school.

So, after some thinking this summer, I decided I would care less about grades. I took hip-hop dance theory and screenwriting. I worked on freestyle dance in my free time, really investing time and effort in it, and pursued this small funny Italian dream. I became better friends with y'all. I participated in clubs like KCA, mince, and MissB. I applied to rap class. In my application to CMS.S60 Rap Theory and Practice, I wrote:

"At the moment, the artist/creative is someone I respect more than the stellar student. So even at MIT, I write my own short-films, draw, choreograph dance, and think about satisfying videos I want to film in the future. All in all, I really appreciate that art shares a vision/interpretation of the world, giving it value."

This is my truth.

Yes, there is a parallel universe where I could be giving my all into understanding algorithms, and I am confident I could get an A in that class. I think my mom in particular was struck by this when I said this to her but I think she must've stopped listening here. The second half of this story is: I did not choose that universe. I study hard with curiosity and interest, but not to the extra levels I know is needed to secure a high grade in any class.

Yet maybe because of this choice, now I am living life to a fullness that I am proud of. This was the first year of my 15 years of schooling, where I was not an A student, and I've experienced soo soo many more parts of MIT, Boston, and delayed young adult life because of this: like grocery shopping and cooking to survive, working jobs, being bad at something, getting good at something unproductive, being pursued and rejected, on dates in general, finding my likes and dislikes in people again. Yes, I am figuring out what it is I want to pour my efforts into.

If Richard Feynman was my role model figure in high school, I draw inspiration from artists like Tyler the Creator now. Which is interesting: both geniuses, irreverent, cocky, and pushed their fields forward. This summer will be a research opportunity for me to figure out how closely I want to mimic the path of either the academic or the artist. In general, this lifestyle is necessary for my happiness and my continued journey in finding who I am in college.

Part II: Yes

"You keep it all bottled up that's why your life dry while mine wet / I study hard at school to keep my sisters and my mom fed." - Amari, suffolk county water (Nomadic Seoul EP)

Um... so exaggeration or not? My family as it stands right now, is doing okay financially. However, as some of y'all can guess, there are some ticking time bombs, or random variables, that make the system unstable. So, for now, let's just say there is some weight on my shoulders to make a decent salary after MIT, to share support wherever the pieces lie in a couple years. I think that might be a major part of my mom's worry as well, which is lowkey fair, because I used it in my rap lyrics so I should walk the talk.

The assumptions here are that a good GPA and a promising student at MIT will get hired by a tech company and keeps all those doors of opportunities open for me in the future. This route is tried-and-true. Whether you do it for the family or for yourself. The soul-searching can be done in a more BALANCED fashion--besides, you can move anywhere once you are at the top of the ladder.

Besides, my goal being Netfllix is as basic as any other company in recruitment: like they want a spiky developer, someone who's good at developing, not a creative mediocre programmer. They'll filter me by GPA if I don't have anything to show for myself. Ain't that crazy?

So studying harder. Yes. There are some sacrifices yes, like sleep, improvement in dance and rap, social life, but in return is capability and delayed opportunity.

Part III: Maybe

Anyways to wrap up this post: I will figure this out this summer. I just know I like my life a little fast-paced. I need to move forward with more of a plan/vision and the confidence to execute it either way.

Before my mom even brought it up I thought to myself this is probably now where I get better grades anyway. But I don't care about keeping all doors open: I live fully and intentionally such that I know which doors I want to close and not worry about. If I choose to spend my time pursuing something hard, I just hope I thought about why I'm doing it and why I chose it in particular. I agree bottomline that I need to work on my systematicness/thoroughness/work ethic in doing even what I like.

This is just what's on my mind right now. So thanks for reading it through if you did. Toodloo.

[creatiview]

[ad_1] In mid-2021, Gabor Cselle bought a $15 Moleskine notebook to sketch out ideas for new startups. On the first page, he wrote “T2” and began taking notes for a better version of Twitter. Cselle had sold startups to Google and Twitter and worked at both companies. (He was at the time at Google for a second stint, as a director at Area 120, its startup incubator.) But he couldn’t figure out how to draw people away from “T1”—the original Twitter—and set the idea aside.Then came Elon Musk’s Twitter takeover, which saw its new owner lay off over half of Twitter’s staff, troll the community with alienating tweets, and speculate about adding features like long-form video. “It was basically the worst-case scenario of how Twitter shouldn't be run,” says Cselle, who finally did leave Google last summer. (He got out just in time: Last month’s layoffs essentially defunded Area 120.) The time had arrived, he felt, to pursue the dream of T2. He finally had his differentiator: His version of Twitter would be more like … Twitter, in the classic sense. T2 would be less a revamp than a restoration, an attempt to recapture the excitement of early Twitter and build from there.T2, which won’t be the final name for the product, is now live in a very limited test version. Nine people work for the company, including Cselle’s cofounder, Sarah Oh, who had been an executive in user safety for Facebook and, most recently, Twitter. Last month T2 received $1.35 million in angel funding from several well-connected Silicon Valley investors.  But T2 is far from alone. Cselle is talking with me at a bustling WeWork with spectacular views located in Salesforce Tower in San Francisco. It could be that maybe half of the bright young techies typing at work tables and sofas are building new social media apps to challenge Twitter or other social apps that have lost their charm in pursuit of mass audiences and ad revenue. T2 faces startup competition from Mastodon, Countersocial, Post, Hive Social, and more. All of them have different twists on a short-form social network. None of them are quite as brazen as Cselle in claiming to duplicate what was once the thrill of the original.“People can't resist futzing with the format, but it works,” Cselle says. “People have a background process in their brains: What is a crispy 280-character thing I can say about this thing that just happened? Why mess with that? And what if you can get that same crispy 280-character thing in front of people who are really relevant to you? I think that'd be pretty cool.”It would also be bucking what in retrospect seems like a gravitational pull away from social networks being social. The pursuit of the viral has diminished the intimacy of the personal, and as the business models of the early networks focused heavily on delivering audiences for advertisers, they increasingly became a new version of broadcasting. Social networks once obsessed on Dunbar’s Number, the claim that humans can only meaningfully interact with 150 people they know well. What you saw was determined by who you knew, or who you wanted to know more about. Now Meta, Twitter and the rest algorithmically connect you to “content you may be interested in,” which more likely than not involves influencers who spend all their time concocting ways to grab your attention with calorically empty content. Or stuff that enrages you. Cselle wants to roll back the clock as if all that never happened. “It’s kind of retro,” he says. “Remember what Twitter felt like in 2007 when it was real people sharing things from their life and not airbrushed Tiktoks?” [ad_2] Source link

[trainingcenter]

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[sounmashnews]

[ad_1] Each 12 months, Apple ushers in a brand new A-series system-on-chip to pair with the most recent iPhones. This 12 months, the corporate has taken a completely new path. The new A16 processor is reserved just for the “Pro” mannequin iPhones, whereas the usual iPhone 14 fashions get the identical A15 we have been launched to final 12 months (the 5-core GPU model that was discovered within the iPhone 13 Pro fashions). The this-year and last-year cut up isn't the one distinctive factor. The A16 is, greater than typical, a comparatively minor evolution on the earlier SoC. There are a couple of adjustments to make certain, however the common consumer is unlikely to note them. The variations between A15 and A16 seem like comparatively gentle in comparison with Apple’s typical yearly cadence. Earlier this 12 months, I made some predictions about the A16 that have been led by assumptions that actually didn't all pan out. While a couple of issues have been true, the efficiency uplift within the A16 is about half of what I predicted, and there are fewer main technological enhancements seen. Here’s what’s new within the A16, and what you may count on from Apple’s first “Pro-only” A sequence chip. What’s modified from A15 Bionic At first blush, the A16 appears architecturally much like the A15. There are two high-performance CPU cores and 4 high-efficiency cores, 5 GPU cores, and 16 Neural Engine cores to run machine studying and AI algorithms. Just just like the A15. The chip is manufactured on a brand new “4 nanometer” course of from TSMC, in keeping with Apple, making it the primary such processor in a smartphone. It’s value noting, nevertheless, that TSMC’s “N4” course of isn't a 4nm course of within the truest sense with TSMC itself even calling it “an enhanced version of N5 technology.” While it’s a extra superior course of than earlier A sequence processors, it isn't an actual next-generation silicon manufacturing course of; you’ll have to attend for the 3nm course of subsequent 12 months for such a factor. The A16 chip is exlclusive to the iPhone 14 Pro,.Dominik Tomaszewski / Foundry The transistor depend has gone up a couple of % to 16 billion (from 15 billion), and it’s probably that the majority of that greater funds is spent within the new show engine (which manages the iPhone 14 Pro’s show all the way down to 1Hz in always-on show mode and might crank it as much as 2,000 nits in vibrant daylight), reminiscence controller, and picture sign processor. As for the extra general-purpose elements of the processor, they appear to be solely barely modified. The high-performance CPU cores carry the code title “Everest” and might clock as much as 3.46 GHz, a roughly 7% enhance over the A15’s most of three.24 GHz for its “Avalanche” cores. The high-efficiency cores are code-named “Sawtooth” and clocked as much as 2.02 GHz, which is nearly the identical pace the two.01 GHz of the A15’s 2.01 GHz “Blizzard” cores. While these cores carry a brand new title, the architectural adjustments seem minor at greatest, as they don’t ship efficiency outdoors the anticipated uplift from the rise in clock pace. The Neural Engine remains to be 16 cores, simply as within the A15. Apple says it performs as much as 17 trillion operations per second, which is roughly an 8% enhance over the 15.8 trillion of the A15. I feel it’s probably the identical design simply clocked somewhat greater. Perhaps probably the most important change is the change to LPDDR5 reminiscence, which ought to present 50 % extra reminiscence bandwidth than the LPDDR4x reminiscence within the A15. Apple really made the change to LPDDR5 within the M1 processor line (on the M1 Pro, Max, and Ultra), which relies on the A14 chip structure–the one actual shock right here is that the corporate waited this lengthy to do it of their iPhone-bound chips. There could also be some very particular circumstances the place a process is solely restricted

by reminiscence bandwidth on the A15, during which case the A16 ought to carry out rather a lot higher. So at first blush, we've what seems to be basically an A15 that clocks greater, with a brand new show engine and maybe picture sign processor. We’ve learn stories that there are new safety measures within the processor’s ROM; unsurprising, contemplating how exhausting Apple works on each the hardware and software program facet to make their units tough to hack. CPU efficiency Given that the CPU structure hasn’t modified a lot, however simply runs at a clock pace as much as 7 % greater (and with extra reminiscence bandwidth out there), we must always count on most CPU benchmarks to point out efficiency positive aspects of 10 % or much less. A fast take a look at Geekbench 5 numbers reveals us that, certainly, most single-core CPU efficiency seems to have gone up by round 8-10 % over the A15. Multi-core efficiency fares somewhat higher, nevertheless it’s probably that these assessments are extra simply capable of overwhelm the chip’s caches and would subsequently get some profit from the elevated reminiscence bandwidth. GPU efficiency The A16 Bionic has 5 GPU cores, simply because the higher-end A15 does, and I don’t imagine there have been any architectural adjustments. But high-end 3D graphics are typically very demanding on reminiscence bandwidth, and I'd count on the change to LPDDR5 reminiscence to have a big affect right here. I don’t have any actual perception into the GPU clock speeds, however it will be affordable to count on that the cores can clock round 7 % greater, simply because the excessive efficiency CPU cores do. Taking a take a look at some of the strenuous 3D graphics benchmarks, 3DMark Wild Life, efficiency varies from round 7 % quicker on simpler modes to round 19 % within the “Wild Life Extreme Unlimited” take a look at. That’s a superb enchancment, and according to what I'd count on from a light clock pace enhance and massive reminiscence bandwidth enhance. When utilizing the GPU to carry out general-purpose computations, as examined within the GeekBench compute rating (see above), the efficiency uplift is within the 7-8 % vary. A15+ can be a extra trustworthy title There’s little doubt that the A16 isn't merely a “binned” model of the A15 (“binning” is when chips which are examined to carry out higher in manufacturing are separated and bought as a distinct mannequin). This is a brand new chip. But there are not any main architectural overhauls right here that I can see, simply minor revisions to enhance most clock pace and energy effectivity. This is much less of a leap over final 12 months’s mannequin than we're used to seeing in Apple’s yearly iPhone revamp, a truth that's solely underscored by the truth that the usual iPhone 14 fashions are nonetheless utilizing final 12 months’s A15 whereas nonetheless offering essential options like Action Mode, Photonic Engine, and 4K Cinematic mode. It’s most likely means one thing that Apple in contrast its newest chip to the three-year-old A13.Apple Apple didn’t promote any specific function of the processor as “new” apart from the show engine (which is required to handle the iPhone 14 Pro’s always-on show and 1Hz refresh fee), and in reality marketed it most straight in opposition to Android telephones and the A13, it’s three-year-old flagship. The efficiency charts simply don’t look very spectacular with a 7-10 % efficiency bump. To that finish, I really feel like Apple most likely shouldn’t have given this chip the A16 moniker. In most ways in which matter, it’s a tuned-up A15. Even the brand new “4nm” manufacturing course of is greatest described as a modified 5nm course of. It’s most likely unreasonable to count on groundbreaking developments yearly, with solely new architectures delivering 20% efficiency enhancements. The occasional “tune-up” 12 months is ok, particularly since Apple has such a commanding lead in smartphone efficiency proper now.

But the naming ought to mirror that, and a title like A15+ or A15 Pro looks like a extra trustworthy illustration of this chip. [ad_2] Source link

[musings-of-a-rose]

I Hate That I Like You - The Premiere (Part 3)

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Word Count: 2600+

Rating: M for mature - 18+ only! NSFW

Warnings: Mature themes and some canon mentioned. Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story.

Notes: This is a one shot set after the events of the main story, I Hate That I Like You.

I originally posted the fic as partly as a thank you for reaching 300 followers (and partly because I couldn’t resist that man), but as I go to schedule this one, I hit 400! I am absolutely FLOORED and I can’t eve find the words to thank each and every one of you who followed me, reblogged my writing, liked it (which I know does nothing in the algorithm, but I still see it and it makes me smile), commented, pm me, told me you were re-reading fics I’ve written (cried about that one for a while!), all of it. You all mean the world to me and just know that if you’ve interacted in some way, I have seen your name and I recognize it and you make my day every time.

**Reader is ethnicity inclusive despite stock photo bias

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

The day you got out of the bubble, Dieter took you out on your first date. You expected something lavish and over the top, considering her personality, but it was surprisingly simple and low key. He even rented out an entire back room just so you could have your privacy. When he had arrived at your door, he asked you bluntly if you were sure about dating him because once someone recognized him and saw you with him, you couldn’t take it back. And while the majority of his fans were great people, there’s always those select few that are not. You were sure and happily went on that date.

That was nearly 8 months ago.

Editing takes longer when people are working from home, communicating being a little more difficult, edits and re-edits needing to be discussed. But finally, Cliff Beasts 6 was ready and the premiere was looming.

Dieter had asked you to accompany him and you happily agreed, never having been to a premiere before. He told you it would be different, as there were new procedures in place due to the pandemic. But you didn’t care - you were there to support him. Although seeing your work on the big screen was a definite plus.

A knock on your door pulls you from your thoughts and you glance at the clock, surprised he was on time for once. You plan to make a remark about this, but all words leave your head as you open the door and see Dieter standing there.

He’s in simple black dress pants and shoes, no tie, a white long sleeved top buttoned all the way up under a black coat that walked out of your fantasies. It reminds you of something Mr. Darcy would wear. The long black coat comes down to his knees, with a simple 3 buttons and 2 pocket flaps, one on either side of the coat. His hair is wild, his curls roaming free after letting them grow just a little. He’s let his facial hair grow a bit, knowing you love the bald patches on his jawline. He has his glasses on, the ones with the thicker black frames that you adore. He looks up at you, smirking at the look on your face.

“You look like a fish.”

Snapping yourself out of the trance, you retort. “Yeah, well you’re a jerk.”

He smirks. “Not your best work.”

“Yeah well. They can’t all be winners.” You gesture towards him and he gives you a couple claps.

“Much better.”

He finally takes a look at you, eyes roaming up and down your body at the ridiculous dress you have on. You’d never been to a premiere before and had no clue what to wear, really, since you weren’t a star. The minute you asked Dieter for help you regretted it, getting sent pics of increasingly slutier dresses before you finally asked if he preferred you go naked, to which he replied “Only for me.”

The dress was gorgeous and fit your body like a glove, showcasing all of your best features. It cost more than your entire apartment and was definitely not something you would’ve picked out, but you have to admit - you did rock this thing.

“You look beautiful, Bee.”

“As do you.”

He looks at you expectantly and you sigh, giving in only because this was a big premiere night.

“Big D.”

“That’s my girl!”

–

He helps you into the limo, where you sit with your leg bobbing up and down in anticipation. He places a large, warm palm on your bare skin and your knee stops bouncing.

“You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I know, I know. Everyone is just a regular person, but it’s all the cameras and-”

He lets out a raspberry. “Ignore that. Big D will show you a good time.”

“Oh God let me out.” You pull at the locked door handle as Dieter chuckles.

He chats with you, a constant stream of words and random stories - his attempt at calming your nerves. And fuck if it didn’t work. His voice was actually soothing to you, calming you down no matter how wound up you were..but you’d die before admitting that to Dieter.

Pulling up to the front, someone walks up to the door to open it. Dieter squeezes your hand.

“Ready?”

Letting out a breath you nod. “Ready.”

Dieter gets out of the limo, lights on cameras flashing away and the distant sound of screams from where they kept the fans away, having to keep everyone at a social distance. Dieter still walks over towards them, waving and turning around to pose in a giant selfie with them all. He waves and chats as well as he can and you can see how it kills him to not be in the crowd with them, interacting on a personal basis. Someone taps his shoulder and leans in his ear and he waves bye to the fans, turning back towards the main carpet. He offers his arm to you and you take it, allowing yourself to be led down the red carpet, lights flashing before your eyes as photographers yell for Dieter to turn to them. You gently let go of his arm and he looks at you, giving you a small smile as you nod and step back, walking back several steps and standing out of the way as he poses for pictures.

His whole face lights up with a smile, turning left and right, throwing up hand signs as he could and you find yourself getting warm between your thighs as you take him in. A couple minutes pass before you feel a hand on your arm. Turning, you see Carol Cobb’s long time girlfriend, Amy. You smile a hello and she jerks her head, away from where Dieter stands. You follow, keeping an eye on Dieter so he knows you didn’t ditch him. She leans in to speak in your ear.

“This is where all of the others wait.”

Chucking, you ask “Others?”

“Yeah. Significant others, friends, parents. The others. We’ll meet them at the other end of the carpet. The press needs their pics.”

“Oh right. Dieg-Dieter mentioned that. Thanks for grabbing me.”

“Welcome! You can hang with me.”

A bit goes by before you and Amy make it to the end of the red carpet, waiting for Dieter and Carol. They arrive and you all exchange the basics before turning to head inside. You mill around, speaking to random people and waiting by Dieter’s side as he makes the rounds, always making sure he’s touching you, as if he’s checking in. You squeeze his hand or touch him back to let him know you’re good.

About 20 minutes goes by before a man comes up to Dieter and speaks in his ear, Dieter nodding.

“Come on, Bee. They need us backstage.”

You both follow the man to a backstage area. It’s basically empty, no one milling about or even walking by. The stage where the giant screen is is just beyond the curtains. The man ushers you both off to the side before leaving.

“I gotta say a few words before the premiere.”

“I can’t believe they picked you for that.”

“They said I was the most charismatic.”

“Then we’re all screwed.”

He scrunches his nose up at you in response and you wink at him as you turn to try and peek out of the curtains, Dieter moving to stand behind you. His hands come to your arms, tracing light paths up and down your bare skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. Then his fingers start dancing towards your cleavage and you grab his wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

His voice is in your ear, speaking low. “Touching my girlfriend.”

Heat rushes your body at the thought and Dieter notices, taking advantage of the moment to slide his hand down the front of your dress and pinch your nipple.

“Diego…” You get lost in the sensation for a moment, the heat between your thighs getting louder. But then you remember where you are and you pull his hand out, pushing it off to the side. He lets out a huff, momentarily letting you be. Suddenly, Dieter pulls you to his chest, wrapping you in his coat with him.

“What are you-”

“Sshh. Hold this.” You look down and see the opening of his coat, being held together by his hands. You grip it, brows furrowed in confusion. But before you can ask again, his lips are on your exposed neck, biting, licking, sucking, kissing. Your knees go weak for a moment but you don’t fall, Dieter holding you up inside the coat.

“You gonna be quiet for me?”

“Why would I n-need..oh!” The last word is whispered out as Dieter’s hands slide into the coat, finding the slit in your dress and slips his hand inside, running his fingers along your seam. He grunts in your ear when he feels how wet you already are.

“Already waiting for me, huh?”

“Fuck you, Diego Morales.”

“That’s the point, Bee.” He chuckles and you can hear the smirk on his face.

“God, you’re insufferable sometimes..” His fingers found your clit, rubbing circles there.

“I think you’re ready.”

“What? No, Diego. We’re in public.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“I only did it to shut you up.”

“Well then, hold tight to the coat.” He grabs at your dress and lifts it up towards your hips, unzipping his pants to free his hard cock. He slides it through your folds and you moan, unable to stop yourself.

“Now now, shush. Big D will give you what you want.”

“Oh God, don’t you shut up?”

He plants his hand on the wall in front of your face, gently leaning over your body to bend you over slightly. He thrusts up into you and you whine, his other hand flying up to your mouth.

“You need to be quiet or we’ll get caught.” His voice is low and raspy, and you hate how much it turns you on.

He sets a rough, quick pace, knowing that you’re playing with time. Your fingers clutch at the opening of the coat, holding it together as if the coat could hide the way you’re practically slamming into the wall. Dieter’s hand is on the wall slightly above your face, bracing himself as he fucks into you. His hands are so large, the little bullseye tattoo straining with the pull of his skin as his fingers grip the wall. You remember exactly what those fingers could do and you can’t help the cry that escapes your lips before slamming them closed.

“You like that? Like how Big D fucks you?” he whispers in your ear.

“Fuck, you’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

“Don’t let my feelings fuel your ego, Big D.”

“Ah ha! See?”

The idea of getting caught, the way you and Dieter verbally spar as he fucks you fantastically grows your orgasm quickly. You grab his hand that’s not on the wall and bring it to your clit, rubbing circles there. He thrusts into you twice more before you come, squeezing him as the hand on the wall flies to your mouth so you can moan into it. Once you start to come down, Dieter’s hand returns to the wall and he resumes his pace, chasing his own high. It only takes several more thrusts before he’s grunting in your ear, spilling himself inside you.

He places two soft kisses on your neck before pulling out, stuffing himself back in his pants. His hands ghost across your hips, finding the edge of your dress and pulling it back down, smoothing it out as you drop his coat. You turn around to face him, still slightly out of breath as you look into his eyes, which are now soft.

“I hate that I love you so much.”

“I hate that I love you so much.”

Smiling at each other, you kiss, several moments passing before you hear someone clearing their throat. Breaking apart, you see the man who had escorted you backstage.

“Are you all set, Mr. Bravo?”

“We’re good, kid. Thanks.”

The man turns back around and starts to usher some people back into the area where you had previously been alone. Realization sets in and your eyes grow wide as you turn to Dieter.

“Did you have that man keep the room empty so you could fuck me?”

His eyes sparkle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Your jaw drops open, but you don’t have time to respond before hair and makeup rush Dieter, dabbing at him before his time on stage. He kisses the back of your hand as you’re escorted to the main seating area, sitting down in your designated chair next to where Dieter will be sitting.

The nerve of that man! You find yourself trying to stifle a smile. But he did it for you, knowing he could help you relax. And ensure you wouldn’t actually be caught.

The lights dim and Dieter steps on stage, a spotlight following him around as he starts his speech. You watch him, his eyes sparkling still as he gestures around, his hair looking impossibly soft as it curls up at the ends, his face animated in his speech. And that’s when it clicks into place -

You would spend the rest of your life with him if he asked.

–

The movie was…well it was Cliff Beasts 6. But everyone seemed to love it and you watched Dieter maneuver around the journalists, answering questions and posing for pictures, but this time, his hand never left yours. You would shift yourself behind him, wanting him to have his time in the spotlight but he would pull you back around, inevitably bringing up the fact that you were the one that styled his hair during the entire experience of being in the bubble.

Back in his apartment, you stand in front of the window, admiring the night time view of the city, lights twinkling and cars zooming by on the road below. Diego walks up, handing you a glass of wine and you clink it on his, taking a sip after. You both stand there in a comfortable silence, content to just be around the other.

“Marry me.”

You nearly drop your glass as you stammer out, completely caught off guard. “Wha-what?”

Diego turns to face you and gets down on one knee, taking your hand in his. He pulls a small box out of his coat pocket, neither of you having undressed when you got back. He opens it to reveal a gorgeous ring, completely your style, and you realize that he had to have had it in his pocket the entire evening.

“Bee, I know we started out hating each other, but you somehow crawled into my heart. I love how we get each other riled up, but we also use that same energy to love each other so intensely that sometimes I’m overwhelmed with how I feel. I know I can be an asshole sometimes, but that’s only because I’m used to being the only one who looks out for me. Now I have you…if you’ll have me. Will you marry me?”

Staring down into his eyes, which were now round and glossy, just like a damn puppy, you remember your realization from earlier and know what your answer will be.

“If only so I can continue to knock your ego down a few pegs.”

He smiles wide. “That’s a yes, then?”

“Yes. I’d follow you anywhere, Diego Morales.”

He slides the ring onto your finger and stands up, crashing his lips to yours before pulling back.

“I love you so fucking much, Bee.”

“I love you so fucking much, Diego.”

His lips find yours again as he walks you backwards towards the bedroom door. Wedding planning can wait until later.

—----

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All One Shots/Writing Prompts/Ficlets:

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[mochie85]

Woman

Chapter 10 of my Mayari series.

Mayari Masterlist Complete Masterlist

Summary: It's the night of Tony's Birthday party and things take a turn for the worst. Pairing: Loki x OC A/N: This entire series is inspired by songs. The complete playlist could be found here on Spotify. Word Count: Over 3.9k Warnings: Angst, Sexual assault (done by another character), trauma Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

“This is it,” Tony said. “If you can get this, we can finally get Dreykov and stop him for good. FRIDAY has been doing a scan thanks to the algorithm I created. We narrowed his possible locations down to two.”

Natasha studied the map. Both locations were in the middle of the ocean. One in the Atlantic by Portugal. The other is in The Indian Ocean by Madagascar.

“He won’t stay there long. He will leave for a new location in less than forty-eight hours. If that happens, it will be another week before the algorithm can predict his location again, and then we’ll have to start the forty-eight-hour clock over,” Tony continued.

“We promised this for you, Nat. If you’re ready to go. We want to be discreet about this before we alert the United Nations under the Accords,” Steve added.

“I’m ready,” Nat said fiercely.

“Does she have to go alone?” Clint asked. “What if he initiated the Black Widow Program again. You're gonna be up against…well, more of you!”

“No. We destroyed all the files. Melina is in hiding. She would only know half of the procedure anyway,” Nat said firmly.

“I’ve analyzed the previous batch of Black Widow serum you gave me awhile back. I’ve been able to duplicate the cure successfully,” Bruce said, handing Nat a small spray can.

“Pepper spray?” she questioned.

“It’s small and convenient. And reusable!” Bruce said proudly. “But that’s only if he did start the program again. Otherwise, it’s just a good deterrent.”

“I can send cloud cover for you, and possibly some thunder for distraction, but that can only get you onto his vessel,” Thor offered.

“That would be more than enough,” Nat nodded back to Thor.

“No one else outside the six of us knows what we’re planning. Fury is on a need-to-know basis. He doesn’t know how or when we will strike, or even if. He wanted full immunity in case he needs to save our asses from bureaucrats,” Tony started.

“So, if this all goes south, we would have to include the other members of the team,” Steve finished.

“Shouldn’t we have done that in the first place?” Clint asked. “I mean they are after Mayari. She has the right to know.”

“She does. And we’ll tell her. Right after I bring her Dreykov’s head,” Natasha said with a cold stare. Tony and Steve looked at each other, questioning whether letting Natasha get her revenge was a good idea.

“I trust that you’ll keep a cool head, Nat,” Steve said, patting her on the back. He walked across Tony’s private living room and signaled the elevator to come. “Good luck.”

Bruce and Clint hugged Nat each.

Thor gave her a warrior’s handshake. “You will be victorious, Natasha.” She nodded her head and gave him a slight smirk. One by one, the members left Tony’s private floor.

“It will take a while for FRIDAY to scour CCTV and other social media and news outlets to determine which location he is at. Chances are, someone has spotted one of his men out in the local town somewhere. So…” Tony said clapping his hands. “…I want you to go downstairs, wear the most scandalous dress you own, and join me for a party. It is my birthday after all.” He finished with a smile. “I’ll let you know if something comes up.”

Natasha nodded. One last hurrah shouldn’t be too bad. “You know, you’re gonna have to get someone new to fill in for me at the fashion show?” Nat quipped.

“I’ve got someone in mind,” Tony said.

After spending the day lazily on your couch, you finally decided to get ready for Tony’s party. Wanda had come in and asked if you could help her with her hair and you happily agreed. She was wearing a beautiful red, backless dress that flared. So, you decided to pin her hair up so she can show it off.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t decide whether you should stay the way you are or transform to your moon form. You had shown Wanda your dress. It ruched in all the right places, accentuating your curves and hiding your flaws. The long slit on your right leg made it possible for you to show off your jewel-chain garter belt.

“Are you trying to catch someone’s eye?” Wanda asked suspiciously.

“No. Not really.” You lied.

“You would look gorgeous either way. If you want to be dramatic about it, you could save your transformation for later. When you’re finally in his arms, and he twirls you and your hair catches the moonlight. Then when he twirls you back, you’re transformed into your goddess form! Oh, how romantic,” Wanda swooned.

“You have been watching way too many rom-coms.” You laughed. But the idea wasn’t half bad. You started picturing it in your mind. You and Loki dancing under the moonlight. Then transforming at the right time. It was cute. Wanda could see it in your head. She gave you a knowing grin, and you just rolled your eyes.

After getting dressed and putting on your makeup, both of you had picked up Natasha from her room and the three of you walked into the party together. It was held in the ballroom downstairs, the only room big enough, besides the gym, that could host Tony’s extravagant parties. This year was nothing less.

The barbecue last week was a small get-together compared to the number of people that had gathered. There were people from all walks of life; actors, musicians, athletes, as well as some politicians. Not to mention there were acclaimed authors and scientists. It was a huge assortment of people all trying to celebrate the greatness that was Tony Stark.

Tony loved every minute of it. He mingled throughout the whole room with a drink in hand and Pepper in the other, and with Happy right behind them.

“Ladies! You all look amazing. Don’t they look amazing, Happy?” Tony turned and asked his friend. Happy gave a quick nod and looked down at his feet.

Natasha walked passed him and nodded her greeting, “Happy.” He stepped aside not making eye contact. If you didn’t know any better, it looked like he was intimidated by her.

Wanda put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. You kissed Pepper on the cheek and greeted Tony with a ‘Happy Birthday.’ Wanda took your hand and both of you followed Nat to the bar. The three of you sat and enjoyed drinks on the house courtesy of Tony.

It wasn’t long before all three of you were being asked to dance. You had said yes to two people. Both, you knew from working at the tower. The first person was Lisa from med bay. She was so beautiful tonight in her suit. She looked different from when you usually see her in scrubs. You had a great time dancing with her.

The second person was Jacob from the coffee shop. You were surprised to see him here. Jacob was more flirty than usual. He kept giving you compliments and praises on how well you looked. His eyes didn’t stray far from your chest, however, so how could he have complimented on what the rest of you looked like?

As you returned to the bar, after denying Jacob’s request for another dance, you noticed that you hadn’t seen Loki at all since you came down. You looked for him now. Scanning the grand room for any sign of him.

“Looking for me?” Bucky said behind you. You turned around with a smile and you were not disappointed. He looked amazing in his suede suit. He wore all black, the only contrast was the texture from his suit jacket.

“Hey. Nice suit. No pastel? No ruffled shirt?” You said as you ran your hands down his lapels. “Ooh. Velvet?” You laughed appreciatively.

“Suede. Ya. Sam did good. I owe him like another two hundred bucks for the jacket alone. C’mon. Dance with me.” He led you out to the dance floor and he twirled you around, dancing to swing.

“You got moves sergeant.” You leaned close in his ear. He just grinned. It wasn’t long before Nat had joined you two on the dance floor with Steve. The two of them looked like Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Steve twirled Natasha out and then spun her back in and dipped her, catching her back. Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve.

“He’s such a showoff! You know he couldn’t even dance before?” But before you could laugh, Bucky twirled you around crossing your arms and spun you around twice before dipping you, causing you to lift your left leg for him to catch it. When he righted you back up, you could see the glint of competitiveness in both Steve and Bucky’s eyes.

Oh no. Before long, the two soldiers had both you and Natasha spinning around the dance floor. You looked at Natasha and mouthed ‘help.’ But she was having too much fun. She gave you a death stare, telling you that she would not be helping you. She was determined to win this little impromptu dance-off with Steve.

I’m on my own. These people are crazy.

The only saving grace was Wanda and Vision dancing around the four of you in a beautiful waltz. She was radiant. You could tell that she was in her happy place. In the arms of Vision. The two of them were floating slightly off the floor. Whether that was Vision or Wanda’s doing you didn’t know.

“Can you float like that?” You asked Bucky.

“Nope. Can’t say that I can.” He answered.

“Ok. I declare them the winner.” You said loud enough for Steve and Natasha to hear you. The two soldiers gave up simultaneously making Natasha laugh. You took off for the bar before they decided on another round. Nat had followed you to take a breather.

“You are ruthless, Romanoff.” You said giggling.

“Eh, what can I say. I hate to lose.” She answered back.

Just then, Tony had made his way over to the two of you, stopping your conversation. “Hey, Nat. Hey, RiRi. I need to ask a favor.” Tony said. “Can you guys man the DJ booth for a while? The guy I hired is running late from his previous gig.” You hadn’t even noticed where the music was coming from.

“What do you mean? Whose been playing the music?” Nat asked.

“FRIDAY,” Tony answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. In his defense, it really was.

“Oh. Um…ok. I don’t really know how to DJ.” You said.

“Just pick the songs and push some buttons. Have fun. The DJ should be coming soon.” Tony said listlessly.

“Why can’t FRIDAY continue until your DJ comes?” You asked.

“I need her to divert all her energy on something. I think she might have found some new information regarding…” Tony looked at Nat.

“Come on. It’ll be fun. All Tony ever plays is classic rock anyway.” Nat quickly said. You were confused.

You didn’t hear the last words of Tony’s sentence before Nat cut him off. She jumped at the opportunity and pulled you standing. You sighed; you knew this party would last late into the night. Good thing you had that nap.

“Thanks, ladies,” Tony said sarcastically, as he walked towards the crowd.

The DJ set up was on a second-floor balcony overlooking all the party-goers. You didn’t expect to see how big that balcony was and that there were more seating and more people there. There was another bar on the corner too. It was like the VIP section. You glanced around to find most of your teammates here and some of Tony’s close friends.

A familiar chill ran up your spine as your eyes landed on Loki. Was he sitting here the whole time? He was sitting in a booth with a glass of champagne in one hand and his arms around another woman. She kept giggling in his ear and if it weren’t for the table in front of them, you were sure she was running her hands up and down his thighs. They were laughing together and at one point you saw his lips nearly touching hers. You turned quickly not wanting to see anymore.

So, your near kisses didn’t mean anything. He’s just a big flirt. That bastard. Tears started pooling on the corners of your eyes. Nope. NO. Don’t waste a single drop on something you’ve never had to begin with. You looked at Natasha, and she could tell that you were not ok.

“Focus on the music. Give your hands something to do.” She instructed you.

It started rough, there was a long stretch of silence before you two even figured out which song to start with. Luckily, you got the hang of it. The software was pretty user-friendly, and all the songs were already loaded onto the computer. Which was great because you couldn’t think straight. With the headphones, you could cue up the next song and have a great transition. Nat played with the sound effects buttons and the lighting. Pretty soon, you had a great rhythm and had people dancing.

You decided that you wouldn’t let this ruin your night. You would think about it later. Brush it off and bury it deep in your mind till you can confront it, or it bites you in the ass.

You took a deep breath and listened to the lyrics of the song. You couldn’t help but dance too. A few songs passed with everyone having a good time.

Bucky came by and started talking to the two of you. He asked Nat to dance, and they left to go in front of the raised platform. He twirled her around and you gave both of them a wide grin. Awe, they look cute together.

“Hey, gorgeous.” You turned around, surprised to see Jacob again. He was carrying a beer in his hand and offered you a cocktail.

“Oh. Hey Jacob. Thank you” you said as you placed the drink he gave you on the table suspiciously. He stood close to you. His hands rubbing your back. You could smell the alcohol from his breath. He smelled like someone had poured it on him.

“This is a great party. I’ve been hanging out with some coworkers here and there. It was nice of Mr. Stark to invite our coffee house. I mean, we just operate at the tower. We’re not owned by Stark Industries or anything.” He caught a piece of your hair and tucked it behind your ear. Jacob was getting too familiar, and you did not like it. It didn’t feel like all the other times you’ve flirted with Loki.

“I’m sure a lot of the tower staff knows you guys at the coffee house. It’s so conveniently located.” You smiled. He stood closer and put his hand on the small of your back, putting you in an embrace.

“It’s nice to see you away from the coffee house. Have I mentioned that you look great tonight?”

“Yes, you have. Thank you, again.” You smiled and moved away from his touch. Jacob had always been nice, but you didn’t see him that way. Especially not after tonight.

“Listen, I’ve been watching you for a while and I like what I see. Let me take you out on a date sometime? I can uh…show you a good time.” You like what you see?! Am I livestock or something?

“I’m flattered, Jacob. But I’m not interested.”

“Oh, It’s cuz I’m not an Avenger. Isn’t it?” He started slurring his words.

“No. I just don’t see you that way, Jacob. Let’s stay friends.” You said, moving away to his other side.

“The only other guy you talked with tonight was that one-armed super soldier.” He leaned onto the table. “What do I have to do to get a piece of this...” he pinched your left butt cheek, and you felt violated in so many ways. Your eyes grew wide at his audacity.

He must’ve misinterpreted that as longing because he kissed you forcibly. His hands grabbed your waist and pulled you closer to his body. His tongue forced its way inside you, and you could taste the bitter beer and alcohol he’s been drinking. His hand squeezed your butt tight and forced you closer to his erection, feeling it on your thigh. You felt so disgusted.

You pushed him off you and slapped him across the face. It left a bright red mark on his cheek. As he lifted his hand to quell the stinging, you grabbed the hand that pinched you and you squeezed it until he fell to his knees.

By now the song you had on continued to play on repeat, making everybody look up at the DJ booth.

You had no idea how it happened. You don’t recall being anywhere near the windows, but your transformation had taken place without moonlight. Was it because you called the moon out, or was it your emotions? Either way, it made an impression on Jacob as he stared dumbfounded up at you. He clearly forgot that you were an Avenger yourself and capable of taking out any threat, however big or small. You would just have to remind him.

“You forget your place, mortal.” Wind rose around you, lifting your silver hair. Your eyes glowed and your markings had shown brighter now that they weren’t concealed. “Don’t think of me as prey for your one-sided game of cat-and-mouse. You are not worthy. You are not even a player, in this ill-begotten game of yours.” You squeezed harder, feeding off the anger you felt at being subjected to such irreverence.

Jacob winced at the pain but couldn’t say anything. Just then, Nat and Bucky were at your side. “RiRi,” Nat said, holding your shoulder. Her touch snapped you out of your wrath.

“I am a goddess! You will treat me as such.” You let go and looked up at her. Your gaze, however, fell on the crowd that had watched the entire thing. Some people had phone cameras out recording. Nat stood in front of you blocking your view from the crowd. She held your hand as she tried to calm you down.

One… Two…

Bucky lifted Jacob to his feet. He inspected Jacob’s hand silently and found nothing broken, just sore. Bucky straightened out his collar and wiped some dust off his shoulders. He gave him a killing look, but he knew he shouldn’t act on it. Even though he desperately wanted to.

Whether it was the alcohol, sheer stupidity, or maybe his ego trying to save face in front of cameras, Jacob yelled back, “You’re such a tease. Women like you only want guys like him for one thing, anyway.” Jacob said pointing to Bucky.

Bucky growled and pushed him away. “Get away from her, asshole!” Bucky had enough. Jacob looked up shocked and scared. Bucky looked him straight in the eyes. He grabbed his shirt collar and lifted him with his metal arm and said, “If you ever go near my sister again, I’ll make sure that she breaks your hand for good. You got that?” Jacob nodded as Bucky pushed him back, releasing his collar. Jacob’s head stumbling back into Happy.

Tony and Happy had come up from behind the stage. “Well, someone’s fired. But on a brighter note, not everyone can say they were kicked out of a Stark Party, huh?” Tony yelled out to Jacob as Happy escorted him off the premises.

“I’m sorry Tony. I didn’t mean to cause a scene on your birthday.” You said.

“Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong!” He said crossing his arms. “That mo-fo got off easy if you ask me. In fact, what’s a Stark-Party without a little drama?” You tried to smile, but it came out as wince instead. “Anyways, Steve Aoki is here to take over for the music, so you guys can just relax and enjoy.”

Just then Aoki popped out from behind Tony. “Hi!” he waved. As he passed by, he looked at you and said, “The music was loud, most of the people didn’t hear anything.” He winked at you, then made his way to the table.

You suppose that brought you a little comfort. He started DJ’ing, “MAKE SOME NOOOIISEE!!” The crowd went wild. As the music started to play, everything was forgotten, and everybody started dancing again.

You were so embarrassed that all this happened in front of people. You stormed off stage and made your way to the elevators. Angry tears swelled in your eyes. You heard Bucky call out for you, but you didn’t stop. Nat held on to Bucky’s arm, stopping him.

“Don’t worry. I sent someone after her," Nat said to Bucky with a smirk. "So…your sister, huh?”

“Ya. Just...don’t, ok?” Bucky shook his head and wandered back to the crowd taking Nat with him.

You felt embarrassed and ashamed. What did you do to make Jacob think that you wanted him that way? Maybe if you hadn’t accepted all those times he offered you the free muffins. Or maybe if you’d just accepted that second dance. Did I compel him somehow? You closed the door to your bedroom and slid down crying.

Now everyone will see what happened with all those cameras pointed at you. You had used your power against a human. Someone you were meant to protect. Your powers were uncontrolled. It was like The Fight all over again. You just felt so disgusted with yourself. You got up and removed your dress where you stood. You took off your heels and your garter then threw them somewhere in your room. You decided to just wash the feelings off.

You got into the shower and stood under the spray for a good fifteen minutes before you moved. You scrubbed the sweat and dirt off with your loofah, twice. Your body still remembers Jacobs’s weight on you. His hands imprisoning you against him, pressing his length against your thigh. His mouth on yours.

You washed your face and brushed your teeth. You wanted to erase the memory, wipe it from your body. You decided that your hair wasn’t clean enough and you shampooed and conditioned again. You felt so ruined. Maybe that’s just how you are now. You’ll never erase the imprint it left.

You stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. You heard a soft thud coming from the other side of the wall. That was Loki’s bathroom. Your room had been at the end of the hallway, perpendicular to everybody else’s door. The only wall you shared was your bathroom to Loki’s.

You listened closely, wondering if Loki was in trouble or if he needed any help. Then you heard a woman’s laugh. Then you heard her moan. Your vision got blurry, and you felt a sharp stab in your chest making it difficult to breathe. He must’ve brought that woman back from the party. Another soft thud, and this time you heard a deep groan.

You wanted to pound on the wall. You wanted to smash it down and yell. You wanted to scream and kick and let him know that you were on the other side. That you could hear every single cry of betrayal.

This was one of the worst nights of your life. You dropped to the floor of your bathroom, still wrapped in a towel, and you started sobbing.

⬅️ Chapter 9: Swim | Chapter 11: Goddess➡️

Mayari Taglist: @User13cabs

[callmearcturus]

aprillasaurus: can you elaborate on the tiktok algorithm being gaslighting I haven’t been on tiktok but it sounds about right

Oh sure and this is why I finally stopped the clock app bc being a part of The System made me feel like a tool.

Multiple creators have talked about how the tiktok algorithm is laser focused on forcing them to pump out more and more content, to the point it's a pretty clear cycle.

When someone starts getting views, they get a pretty sharp influx in visibility. They wind up on the timeline (or FYP or whatever) a lot, there is a steep climb that drives them up to popularity.

But once they reach that apex of popularity, after a honeymoon period that resembles love-bombing where they get a bunch of follows and views and comments and high visibility

Tiktok yanks the rug from under them. Their videos stop coming up on the FYP/timeline, even for the people who actively follow them. So they put out more and more videos, trying to get back to that apex, but they can't because the Algorithm is the problem, not them.

Sometimes, it'll throw them a bone and give them a super high visibility video, but only to keep stringing them along.

I have seen this with more than five major creators I followed. One was extremely frank about the toll it took on his mental health, and I just... don't want to be part of that fucking system, personally.

[kareofbears]

margin of error

Sophia knows a lot, but that does not mean she understands much of anything at all.

Or, Sophia struggles to grasp why Akira and Ryuji don't follow her predictive algorithm.

read on ao3 or below the cut :)

Sophia knows a lot.

She can tell you almost anything in the known world in an instant. Calculate the radius of the sun. Who won Best Picture three years ago. The outfit to wear when you need to 'dress to impress.' Just yesterday, she was able to find them a bath, a takoyaki restaurant, and an overnight camping site within 0.3 milliseconds. That’s not very many seconds.

Sophia knows a lot, but that does not mean she understands much of anything at all.

She’s quiet while she’s propped on the phone stand, watching the rest of them lounge in the RV. There’s a shape to the interior that wasn’t there before—where it had been pristine when they had first gotten it, now it’s littered with crumbs and instant-food packaging despite Makoto’s half-hearted attempts at scolding them for it. Empty surfaces are filled with knick-knacks, stuffies and a plastic ramen bowl rattling gently along with the RV.

There’s a rare lull amongst them, a moment of quiet. Most of them were napping away the road, gently snoring and bodies jostling whenever a pothole hits, oblivious to the scenery that passes by. Only the soft tunes of pop music from the front and the hum of the engine broke the quiet.

Other than Makoto, there were only two people awake: Akira, scribbling in his journal, and Ryuji, watching him do it. They sat across from each other in the booth, with Ryuji’s chin propped against his hand.

Probability and pinpoint accuracy is what she excels at, and being able to apply them to her friends excites her. Not to mention, she hasn’t been wrong yet.

Idly, she runs the numbers—according to the data she’s collected from spending time with them, the silence will be broken by Ryuji within approximately two minutes. Pulling up a time from within Akira’s phone, she waits eagerly.

A minute passes, and then another. And another. Akira is still scribbling in his neat penmanship and Ryuji is still watching him doing it, unspeaking.

Frowning, she double-checks her calculations. No errors that she can see. It seems that he simply does not want to speak. This is surprising, and very unlike him. He is not usually this quiet. In the Metaverse, he is by far the loudest of them; calling on his Persona’s name can often leave her own ears ringing.

The real world does not stray from that data. His voice is clear in crowded areas, helpful in guiding their big group throughout bustling cities. He is often shushed by the girls when they are trying to sleep at night—Futaba even goes as far as to kick the ceiling from her bunk bed.

The data is strong and sure. There should not be a reason that she should be wrong in this assumption unless there’s a confounding variable that she had missed.

Akira looks up and catches his eye. “Am I boring you?” he asks quietly.

Ryuji shakes his head, grinning. “Couldn’t be happier,” he whispers back.

Sophia’s about to ask when Makoto cuts her off.

“Wake up everyone. We’re here.”

—

“Okay,” Akira calls. His voice isn’t raised, despite the crowded street of downtown Sendai, but they all straighten up. “We’re probably not going to spend too much time here, especially once we take over the Jail. Grab what you need now—snacks for the trip. Shopping. Souvenirs. Frozen pineapple. Any questions?” Yusuke raises his hand. “Yes, I’ll pay for you.” The hand falls back down, relieved.

“Cool. How about we meet back here…” he squints at the large clock hanging on the wall, hand blocking out the blaring sun. “In an hour?”

A chorus of agreements rolls through them as they rush out, excited to explore a new city. “Good speech,” Sophia pipes up from his hand. “Do you do them often?”

“I try not to,” he yawns. His thick black hair is even more unruly than usual, glasses barely hiding the light blue that’s beginning to form underneath his eyes. “Most of the time, they can handle themselves fine. All they need is a schedule and some rules to work with.”

When she doesn’t answer, Akira brings his phone up. “What? Did I say something?”

“It’s because she’s worried about you, you moron,” a disgruntled voice says.

Akira’s gaze flickers towards it. “You’re still here?”

“Of course I am,” Ryuji says. “You really think I’d leave without saying goodbye? Glad I didn’t either, cause you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Still pretty, though. No worries about that part.” He shoves his hand deep in his pocket, stray yen clinking against each other as he rummages. After a moment, he throws something at Akira. “Catch.”

He plucks it out from the air with ease. “Car keys?” he asks, surprised.

“Grabbed them from Makoto before she ran off for stationery shopping.” Ryuji reaches forward, gently turning Akira’s head this way and that, frowning. “I told you to quit staying up so late. You’re exhausted.”

“I am not.”

“He is,” Sophia refutes. “Last night, he had approximately four hours of sleep, with only four minutes of that being REM sleep.”

“I told you. She’s even bringing up computer stuff now.”

“I think you are thinking about RAM, Ryuji.”

“Whatever,” he shakes his head. “Look, just head to the RV, get some shut-eye. You can finally sleep in a proper bed that isn’t an overheating tent with three sweaty dudes and a cat. Oh, and trade phones with me.”

He hands it over without hesitation, sliding Ryuji’s phone into his own pocket. “Why?”

“You have the grocery list in here, yeah? Not to mention, I don’t want Sophia getting bored while you nap it up.” He looks down at her. “Hi, by the way.”

“Hi!”

Akira still doesn’t seem convinced. “But I promised Yusuke—”

“Who’s with Ann now, shopping like they’d die if they didn’t get the perfect skirt to fit her next shoot,” he says, uncompromising. “Chill. It’s fine. We’ll survive an hour without Joker keeping an eye on us.”

They stare each other down for a long moment with Sophia watching. She does not need to run the numbers on this one; Akira will not allow himself to go back to the RV.

To her surprise, he relents. “Twenty minutes.”

Ryuji scoffs. “We’ll see about that. You suck at waking up.”

“Shut up.” And then, quieter, “Thank you.”

“You know I got your back.”

He yawns once more, slowly walking back to their car. “Sophia, please make sure that when he gets the Pocky to get the strawberry one. Futaba won’t eat anything else. And also that Haru wanted doilies to make the place look nicer. White, if you can find them.”

“Roger that,” she replies, distracted. How is she wrong again? This is troubling.

“My hoodie’s in my bag if you get cold!” Ryuji calls out. Akira throws him a thumbs up without looking back. “Jeez, that guy. He’s gonna run himself to the ground before he’s thirty, I swear. Like some geezer with a bad back but with really good hairline or something.”

An old man with a thick head of hair shoots him a glare as he passes by them. Ryuji laughs, high-pitched. “Yikes, that was awkward. Let’s get out of here, we need to hit up the grocery store before they run out of carrots.”

Sophia doesn’t answer, too deep in her thoughts and running endless calculations.

—

It’s impossible for her to get a headache, but her code is trying its best to give her one.

Two mistakes now. That isn’t allowed to happen. She’s lucky that they were both relatively small errors, but it can easily become a bigger problem. What can she do?

Luckily, that had a very simple answer.

“Ryuji?”

“Hmm?” He peels his eyes away from scrutinizing the oranges in his hands, the wires from his earphones swaying when he does. After one too many strange looks when he talks to nothing, it was just better to act like he was on a phone call. “Yeah?”

“I have a question.”

“What am I, a teacher?” he snorts. “If you got a question, go ahead. Friends can do that.”

That’s right. They’re friends, and friends have trust in one another. Sophia jotted that down as lesson number forty-eight, thirteen days ago.

“Okay,” she says. Questions float around her, and she picks the one that’s giving her the most stress. “If I was not as useful as you think I am, would we still remain friends?”

The orange tumbles out of his grip, and he rushes to catch it before it hits the ground. “Wha—!” he stutters out. “Duh! Obviously! What the—where the hell did that come from? Did we do something to think that we’d just ditch you like that?” he lifts the phone so that she was eye-level with him. “Be honest,” he says seriously, quickly. “Did I say something to hurt your feelings? I do that sometimes, and I’m working on it, and I know that’s no excuse—”

“You did not say anything to hurt my feelings,” she says before he spirals even further. “In fact, I do not have feelings for you to hurt.”

Relief blooms on his expression, and he sags his body against the fruit display. “Okay, good. Good. Thought I was gonna get a heart attack. I’d be pissed at myself if I did, and I just know Akira would give me so much shit.” He sighs, ridding himself of panic before giving him her full attention. “So what’s up?

“Sir…” an employee shuffles towards them, hands shaking knees knocking against each other. He is afraid, she notes, but of what? “I’m sorry, but it’s against store policy to lean on the product. Please try to understand.”

“Oh, shoot!” Ryuji exclaims, straightening up. “Sorry, man. I didn’t even realize. I think I squished an orange, but I’ll buy it so your boss doesn’t give you hell for that one.”

The employee blinks. “You would?” he says, shocked. “That would be great, actually. Thank you so much!”

“Don’t sweat it,” he waves it off. Tugging the shopping cart, he places Sophia where they’d normally put babies. “Hope he doesn’t get in trouble. I feel kinda bad.”

She thinks for a moment. “Ryuji, why was that man afraid?”

Swiftly, red rushes to his cheeks. “That obvious? Aw, man.”

“I don’t know if it was obvious, but all the signs were there,” she says, watching as he ducks his head, embarrassed. “What is happening? I do not understand.”

“It’s just—” his eyes shift sideways, meeting the eye of a young girl. Immediately, she directs her gaze downwards. “I look really scary to people.”

“You do?” It isn’t in her program to doubt, but she is rather skeptical. During the entire trip, he has been nothing but kind to her. Yes, there are times when he has arguments with others in the group, but more often than not it’s him that’s being teased rather than the other way around. “Why? You aren’t even that tall.”

“Ouch?”

“I’m just saying that you are not scary to me, so I don’t really understand why other people would be.”

He sighs, picking up a box of miso unseeingly. “It’s a combination of a lot of things. My hair’s bleached, and people usually see that as like, punk or whatever. My posture sucks and my voice is loud.” Shrugging, he throws it in the cart. “It doesn’t really bug me though. At least that means strangers usually don’t bother the group, cause they think I’ll kick their ass.”

“And would you?” Sophia crosses off miso. Only bandages are left on the list, but the cart is filled with snacks, sodas, and a small cactus. “‘Kick their ass?’”

“No way. If I did, my mom would kick my ass, and I can’t pull that shit twice in a lifetime.” Pushing the cart, they slowly meander through the aisles, occasionally looking at what’s on sale. Ryuji tosses in rainbow marshmallows, and after a moment, reluctantly puts it back.

“But you know,” he says eventually. “If someone was bothering the group, it’s not as if I’d just let it happen.”

She considers his answer. “You are tough,” she concludes. “But not scary.”

“Uh, yes,” he says, unsure. And then, with more conviction, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Got it. ‘Ryuji is tough, but other people are terrified of him.’ I will make a note of that.” He looks like he wants to say something, but she keeps going. “Synonyms for ‘tough’: robust, stalwart, and strong. Would you say that’s accurate?”

He laughs, disbelieving. “No idea what the first two meant, but the third one isn’t right.”

“Why not? You can fight Shadows. Your muscle ratio is high. One time, when Futaba couldn’t unscrew her water bottle, you did it with no problem.”

“Because, Sophia,” Ryuji picks up gummy worms, and turns to her with pleading eyes. When she shakes her head, he puts it back on the shelf with a grimace. “Strength isn’t always about muscles and who can kill what. It’s more than that.”

It seems as though he doesn’t want to speak about this anymore, but the topic is too interesting to stop here. “Explain, please.”

“It’s...it’s like mental strength,” he says begrudgingly. “Like if someone failed an exam they studied real hard for, mental strength would help them get through a tough situation like that. Like Akira.”

“Akira has high mental strength?”

“Oh, the highest out of all of us without a doubt. The world could explode and he’d be all—” Ryuji lowers his voice by an octave. “‘Here’s what we can do,’ and then fix it somehow. That’s just the kind of guy he is. All plans and no fear.”

All plans and no fear is a good way of describing Joker. “And you aren’t like that?”

“No way. Have you ever seen me have a plan in my life? I’m more of an ‘act before I can talk myself out of it’ person. Usually works out fine in the end. Besides, he does it enough for the both of us.” His eyes light up. “Do you think if I get the panda bandages, it would work better in the Metaverse? Cause of the brain stuff?”

“I think so, as long as it makes people think it works better.”

“Great.” Ryuji tosses it in with the rest. “And I think we got everything! Let’s head out. If we’re lucky, we can grab some ice cream before we meet up with the rest of them.”

“Good job! But you may want to consider removing the orange soda. Makoto is already unhappy with how much junk food you are always eating.”

“Fine. I’m keeping the cactus though.”

It was only when they’re all sleeping back in the RV when she realizes that she never got to ask him her actual question. Actually, she ended up with even more questions than when she began.

Maybe she’ll have better luck asking Akira instead.

—

They, or rather Akira, have their knees buried in a patch of grass in the middle of Sapporo with a small pile of four-leaf clovers by his ankles when she decides it would be appropriate to ask him.

“Akira, can I ask—” she pauses, and tries again. “I have a question.”

His face is so close to the ground that even the dirt would realize that his glasses don’t have prescription, and people are shooting him worried looks that he completely ignores. “Shoot.”

“Actually, I have many questions, and I’m hoping you’ll answer all of them as honestly as you can in order to have the most accurate data possible.”

“Research?”

More often than not, Akira has been giving her information about the world that she does not have access to. Slang terms that Futaba yells out in frustration, Ann’s tendency to jump from one topic to the next with little regard to who she’s talking to. It’s all confusing to Sophia, so she makes sure to memorize all of these instances and bring it to him for clarification.

“Sort of,” she says. “Some of my predictions have been off lately, and I am trying to figure out why.”

“Sure. Oh, another one.” Gently, he plucks it from the soil and gently places it with the others. “For Haru. Apparently, she’s really struggling with economics, so hopefully this helps her out next semester.”

“How many more?”

“Four,” he replies. “Yusuke, Sojiro, Akane, and Ryuji.”

She frowns. “Ryuji already has one.”

“He’s going to need more than one.” Akira turns to her, distressed. “Entrance exams are coming up.”

“Oh.”

“Yup,” he turns back to his task. “Anyway, you had a question?”

“Right,” she says, clearing her throat: a sign of taking a more serious tone. “Why are you scared of Ryuji?”

Akira freezes. Sophia waits patiently. But after a moment, then two, then five, there is still no reaction from him. And then slowly, he faces her with a blank expression.

She has not known Kurusu Akira for very long—only a few weeks in fact. But in that time, she feels that she has come to learn a lot about him. For instance, he does not like pears. He also finds grocery shopping relaxing, and he would die for his friends. Another thing she has learned from him is that he is very quiet; even in the Metaverse, amidst the explosions and gunshots, he does not yell. It is not as if he has nothing to say, but rather he would rather express himself through gestures and the odd comment here and there. He is much happier to let the people around him carry the conversation for him.

Shock racks through her as he bursts out laughing. His shoulders move up and down as laughs pour out of him uncontrollably. “What—?” he tries, pushing his glasses atop his head. It’s almost hidden amongst his thick, black locks. “Did you seriously ask if I was afraid of Ryuji? Sakamoto Ryuji? Blond guy, helps out in the Metaverse? My best friend?”

“Um.” This was not what she was expecting, despite having no expectations to begin with. “Yes.”

He sighs, content. “I really have to thank you, Sophia.” Akira brings his glasses back to his nose, the corners of his mouth quirked up. “That was really good. Haven’t laughed that hard since Yusuke thought Italy was near Mexico.”

She tilts her head sideways. “I was not joking.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He sits up, crossing his legs over each other, giving her his full attention. “Tell me why you thought I was scared of him.” Even as he’s sobered up, he can’t quite finish the sentence without smiling.

“My predictions have been off lately,” she says, a wrinkle between her brows. “This is normal—predictions by their nature cannot always be right. However, I’ve noticed that they’re incorrect more often lately. I ran the data, and these errors are related to two things:” Sophia brings her hand to the screen so that he can see properly. “You and him, as a unit. Individually, there doesn’t seem to be any errors. It is specifically when you are being measured together that creates mistakes. My prognosis on everyone else in the group creates more stable and accurate results.”

Sophia twists her hair in her hands. “The only reason it would be wrong is because of a confounding variable. Maybe there’s something between the two of you that others do not have. So I thought that answer—”

“Was fear,” he finishes. There’s an odd tone in his voice that she doesn’t comprehend. His gray eyes, sharp but never unkind. “I see where you’re coming from. But, and I can swear on this fact—it isn’t fear. I am not, nor will I ever be, afraid of him.”

She deflates. Wrong again. “And he’s not afraid of you?” she asks, out of desperation than anything.

Akira thinks for a moment. “Do you remember when I was cooking, and Ryuji went in to smell the broth, and knocked the whole thing over and onto my suitcase?” She nods. She had taken many pictures of that moment. “He felt really guilty, but he wasn’t scared of my reaction. He was more scared that he had ruined my stuff. You know what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

He bops the top of his phone a few times, an odd resemblance of patting her head. “Cool.”

Sophia stares at the road past their garden of clovers. Cars speed forward, too quick for her to focus on what the driver looks like. It’s hot today, but she doesn’t feel it. She runs her data one more time. “Akira, do you love Ryuji?”

His hands do not pause. “I love all my friends,” he answers simply.

—

At the end of the day, it does not matter if her attempts at predicting the future are fruitless. If she is in fact humanity’s companion, her code makes sure of one thing above all else: to help humanity with any of their endeavors.

That’s a tall order, especially when there are 7,874,965,825 humans within that humanity at this moment. Sophia is only one being, and realism is etched into her. To make things simple, she gave herself a domain of discourse. A sample size. Narrowing what she can do, and who she can help. The entirety of humanity then, at least in Sophia’s mind, falls under the Phantom Thieves of Hearts.

Sapporo is freezing. Frosty. Crisp. Chilly.

“Fucking cold!” Ryuji shivers, jogging around them in an effort to get warm. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.”

“Even with the space heaters on, it seems that the winter isn’t interested in going anywhere,” Makoto says. She’s standing uncomfortably close to Ann, trying to leech off of her inherent heat. Actually, she wasn’t the only one—Haru is also inching her way to her. “It should probably get better once we start moving. Good thing we won’t be here long.”

Yusuke nods, unperturbed. “Yes, this should be a quick run. We’re just here to collect a desire gone astray, yes?” It seems that the ice does little to bother him. “Oracle, can you find its location?” No response. “Oracle?”

He glances to the ground, sighing when he finds her on the ground, eyes closed and breathing deeply. “Wake up,” he says, nudging her with his boot. When she doesn’t move, Yusuke throws an exasperated look at Akira.

Reluctantly, he nods. “Yeah, yeah, I got her,” he says, summoning Queen Mab. Instantly, the temperature seems to rise, just a little bit. Scooping her up, Akira shakes her roughly like a particularly malicious sack of flour. “Wake up, your space heater’s here.”

“This may be a quick run,” Haru says. “But it doesn’t mean we should take this any less seriously. Someone’s desire got lost on its way back, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, that sounds—Mona, get off my leg—about right.” Ann squints her eyes along the horizon. “It’s far, right? If we start moving now, we can probably work off the frost on our skin.”

“Yeah, it’s about…” Futaba yawns as Akira sets her on her feet. “Twenty-minute walk? Ten-minute run, but unless you want me slipping and turning the ice red, we’re gonna want to slow down.”

Akira touches his mask. “Agi.” A wave of heat rushes over them, and she sighs, grateful for the respite. “Hopefully that helped a little. But it won’t last long, and we shouldn’t waste energy warming up. Quick recap—someone lost their desire, we’re here to make sure it gets back. Our top priority is getting that desire back as quick as possible. Questions?”

Sophia raises her hand.

“Yup?”

“Did you say top priority?”

“Yes, I did say top priority.”

“Understood!” she chirps, making a note in her head. It was hard to concentrate when she felt like her insides were freezing up.

Another hand shoots up.

“Noir?”

“I don’t have a question. I just think you’re doing a wonderful job.”

“Thank you, Noir. Always a pleasure.” He looks around, nodding. “Alright. If that’s it, then let’s do this thing.”

They all move ahead, wary of their footing. Sophia frowns as she scuttles forward, scared of being left behind. There is no room for error here. If she feels that she is not useful in the real world, then she can at least utilize her talents here. And the first step to doing that is to make sure she is doing two things:

1) Not slow

2) Won’t trip

After a while, she looks up and feels her eyes bulge. How did they get so far already? Sophia can hardly see them anymore, especially with the slight fog that’s beginning to emerge. She has to get there faster.

Failed step number one already. For once, she’s glad she wasn’t hardcoded with emotions, or else humiliation would be overwhelming. Quickening her pace, she’s determined to do this correctly. One foot, then the next. One foot, then the next. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left—

She slips.

With a gasp, she moves to twist her body so that it wasn’t her head that would take the impact, and closes her eyes shut.

Just before she slams into the ice, arms grab her torso, swinging her forward. “Whoa there, shorty!”

Ryuji uses the momentum to swing her onto his back, and she latches around her neck, bewildered. “You okay? Almost got knocked out before any Shadow got to us.”

“Yes,” she replies, breathless. “Thank you for saving me. That would have been bad.”

“No prob!” he marches onward as if he wasn’t carrying an entire human being on his back while treading through sleet.

“...You can settle me down if you’d like.”

“I would not like.” He grins, boots finding matte ice with ease. “I kinda love carrying you like this. Not like I can do this in the real world, can I? ‘Sides, Futaba would chew my head off if I tried it with her.”

“Have you?”

“Maybe.”

She laughs as they finally reconvene with the rest of them. When Akira turns to them, his expression softens with relief. “All good?”

“All good,” Ryuji says. “Nothing Sophie and I can’t handle.” He raises his fist at her, and she bumps it enthusiastically. Lesson twenty-three: never refuse a fist-bump. It’s one of her favorites.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop!” Futaba calls out from beside Ann, arms were linked as if they were strolling through a park, and not a Shadow-infested land. “I said stop!”

“We heard you the first time!” Morgana yowls. “Are we here?”

“We’re close. Kinda weird though.” She smacks the side of her goggles a few times impatiently. “Nothing’s showing up.”

“Lucky!” Ann whoops. “Let’s get this over with and get some gelato!”

Rounding the corner of an empty street, Yusuke points forward to a glowing heart, beating in time to its pulsing light. “That’s it, I take it?”

“I can get it.” Sophia pats Ryuji’s shoulder, and he lets her down. “That way, we can finish this as soon as possible.”

She runs forward, eager.

“Wait—!” Futaba cries out from behind her. “We’re getting ambushed!”

As she says it, footsteps surround them, the clanging of weapons and the grunts of Shadows appearing out of nowhere. She starts to run faster, terrified of slipping but pushes on anyway. She can do this.

“Shit,” Akira hisses. “Sophie, come back here!”

Sophia ignores him, the Desire almost in her reach when she feels it. A cold breeze, impossibly colder than the temperature before, almost seems to pierce through her skin. She did not need to turn around to know what it was—every cell in her body is screaming it for her.

A curse. A strong one that would have no problem wiping her out like fly on the RV’s windshield wiper.

Would she at least be able to save the Desire? Even if she ceases to exist? Would it be worth it then? It should be, since this is what she was made for.

Something solid shoves her from behind, and she gives out a yell before hitting the ground, hard.

“What…?” she mutters, disoriented. Somehow, she isn’t dead, or even near death. Shaking her head, she grasps for the Desire in front of her before turning around.

Instantly, her heart stops. The Desire in her hand continues to pulse steadily as she stares down at Ryuji, collapsed on the ground.

“Skull?” she whispers. Leaning down, she can still hear his breathing, though it’s faint. Her hand reaches out, before she remembers. Top priority. The Desire needs to get to Joker first.

The ground begins to rumble, and Sophia looks up in time to see an arch of glowing white explode. Every Shadow is eviscerated, their ashes scattering violently at the aftershock of wind that follows from the impact. Concrete cracks, snow blows away. Without a doubt, it’s an attack from a Persona user, but she has no idea who it came from.

As the dust settles, stray bits of ice falling from the sky like hail, Akira shoots out from the fog. He’s moving faster than she’s ever seen him, and there’s a desperation to his movements that throws her off-guard. Maybe he didn’t see yet? Sophia steps forward.

“Joker!” she calls out when he gets closer, thrusting her hand forward. “I got the Desire!”

He rushes past her without a blink.

Akira skids to his knees. “Ryuji!” When there’s no answer, he pulls Ryuji to his knees, resting his head on his lap. Akira presses his fingers against the pulse on his neck, concentrating intensely. Then he grits his teeth. “I can work with this.”

More footsteps. Familiar ones. “Dammit, Joker!” Morgana says. “You can’t just throw around attacks like that, especially with such weak enemies. You know how draining that spell is.”

He ignores him. Akira removes Ryuji’s mask with great care, setting it aside, before touching his own. “Aid me, Sarasvati.”

“Joker?” she tries.

A floating woman donned in green with a delicate instrument in her long fingertips appeared from the fibers of his mask, her expression kind and tender.

“Joker.”

Healing power flows through his hands, so potent that it glows green. Sweat pours from his brow, and his wrist begins to tremble with effort.

“Joker!”

“What, Sophie?” he rounds on her, gray eyes intense.

“I got the Desire!” she announces triumphantly.

A beat passes. And then another. It was as if there was never even a deafening battle not one minute prior.

When Akira finally speaks, his voice is low. “Panther, take Sophie away please.”

Her breathing stops. She could not inhale the air even if it was demanded of her. Akira turns back to Ryuji, but Sophia’s eyes stuck to him—like she was hypnotized, cemented to the back of his head, unable to look away. Every inch of her body is numb, but none of it has anything to do with the cold.

Ann gently takes her hand, hot as iron against hers, and takes the Desire in the other. “Come on, Soph. Let’s go for a walk, huh?”

She lets herself be led away, blank and unseeing, a part of her staying wishing to stay behind to...what? She didn’t know. There’s so much she doesn’t know.

They keep walking, rounding street corners, quietly passing underneath frozen lamp posts. Sophia wasn’t sure where they were going, but she didn’t bother to ask. Eventually, they duck underneath a railing, Ann covering her head to make sure she doesn’t accidentally bang her skull against the metal. When they straight up, she blinks.

“A heater?”

“Yeah,” Ann sighs, flopping down on a toppled column as if it were a sofa. “I figured if we were going to talk, you might as well stop shivering during that time.” At her words, Sophia realizes how hard she was shaking. Ann pats the spot beside her. “Sit. Nothing a little girl talk can’t fix.” She does.

At her silence, Ann hums. “Cold, isn’t it? You guys haven’t stopped complaining since we got here. I’m super lucky that Carmen’s here to help me. Warms me up even better than this heater, if you can imagine that. Completely different from the real world, where we feel like we’re going to burst into flames any second.” She yawns. “But god, there’s no one in all of Japan that can run his mouth about the weather like Ryuji.” Sophia clenches her fist, but she keeps going, speaking almost wistfully. “I mean, he’s just so loud, you know? Like, how many times have we driven by cows on this trip, and he’d literally wake us all up just to show us? Not to mention, he eats up all the food and snores like crazy. God, one time I invited everyone over at my place, and he just slept in my bed when he got tired! Who does that?”

Ann sighs. “But man, I’ve never met someone more devoted to his friends than him. Sometimes, he’d even give ‘Kira a run for his money, the way he’d just drop everything and run to where trouble is. Day or night, that idiot would show up on your doorstep the minute you shoot him a text, wearing the most ridiculous pajamas you’ve ever seen,” she scoffs. “He started the Thieves with Akira, you know? All gung ho about justice and stuff, you should’ve seen it. And he had the spine to back it up, too.” She smiles, just a little. “Don’t tell him, but I think he’s really, really cool.”

A drop of water hits Sophia’s wrist. And another. And another, until her vision blurs and her chest is heaving. “I just—” she sobs without restraint. “I was just trying to help. I just want to be useful and do what I was made to do, and Akira said from before that this—this was the top priority, and I even made sure, so I asked, but when I finally got the Desire and I was so sure that I’d finally done something right...” the image of Akira’s cold gaze makes her flinch, hard. “He’s just so mad at me, Ann. And Ryuji—” she chokes on his name like a curse, her tongue tumbling over it as if it were getting caught in a lie. “He protected me from before, but he said he was tough, so I thought it was okay since the Desire was the top priority but he got hurt because of me.”

“I don’t even know what I’m feeling, or why I’m crying, or why you’re being so nice to me even though I know I did something bad! I just—” Sophia buries her face in her hands, muffling her scream. “I just don’t understand anything!”

Warm hands rub her back. “I know,” Ann says quietly. “You’re trying your best. We all get that, and we all think you’re doing an A-plus job.” She pauses. “Sophia, Ryuji didn’t take the hit for you because he was thinking about the Desire. He did it because he didn’t want to see you hurt.”

That makes Sophia peek up. “But that was the top priority, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huh, but that wasn’t his heart’s top priority.” Ann pokes her temple. “That whole logic and calculation thing you have going on is good and stuff, but the thing about the human heart is that you can’t always choose why you do things, or how you react in certain situations. I bet you anything that he totally forgot that we were even looking for this thing when he pushed you,” she waves the beating heart in her hand, still glowing. “And that’s also why Akira got a little mad at you from before.”

She deflates. “He hates me,” she mumbles, feeling her insides churn uncomfortably.

“That boy doesn’t have the time in his schedule to hate anyone,” Ann reassures her. “He’s just...really, really terrified.”

“But why?” Sophia’s starting to despise that word. “He already knew that he was okay. Why would he still be worried?”

Ann looks up, thinking. “You really love and care about Ryuji, right?”

Love was still a foreign concept to her, but for once the answer came forth with ease. “Yes.”

“Take that feeling, that dense, little ball of love and adoration in your tiny body, and multiply that by about eighteen million. That’s probably about the range of what Akira feels about him.”

She quickly runs the numbers. “Whoa.”

“Yeah. Kinda scary, huh?”

It is scary. With numbers this high, she can only begin to imagine what it felt like for Akira to think that he might be seriously hurt, or even worse, dead. All because of Sophia.

“Hey now, I know that look!” Ann flicks her forehead. “I don’t want you to get all mopey about this. You said it yourself—he’s a tough guy. The toughest there is, but don’t tell him that. It’ll go straight to his empty head.”

She stands with exuberance, stretching. “Alright, I think we’re about done here. How we feeling? You ready to go back?”

No. Her heart speeds up at the thought of going back, her shoulders tensing in on itself, but somehow it would be worse to stay here. “I’m ready.”

“That’s what we like to hear!” Ann cheers. “No chickening out now, okay? You can do this.”

“I can do this.” Sophia repeats, and then, louder: “I can do this!

“Yay! And Sophie?” she looks up in time to see Ann giving her a warm look. “Just because you don’t understand something, doesn’t mean we love you any less. You are allowed to be confused and make mistakes. Do you understand that?”

Sophia smiles wide. “I understand.”

—

They were a block away from the rest of the group when Akira emerged from the fog. With his black attire and dark hair, he could have looked like a picturesque horror movie figure, but somehow his expression ruined that facade the moment she saw it.

“I’m going on ahead,” Ann says when Sophia stops in front of him. “Someone has to make sure Futaba doesn’t sleep on us again.”

“Thanks,” he answers. Then, to Sophia, “Hi.”

“Hi, Joker.” She’s been practicing her speech the entire way back, her points all lined up in her mind, all leading up to the big apology. “I—”

“Pause,” he cuts in, and she shrinks. Is he still mad? She can’t read his expression. He kneels in front of her, squinting, and it suddenly shifts to horror. “Did...did you cry? Did I make you cry?”

“No,” she says quickly, but he doesn’t believe her for even a minute. “Yes. Sorry.”

“Oh god, no, please don’t apologize. Shit,” he rubs the back of his neck, sighing. It’s guilt, she realizes with a shock. “I’m such an asshole. I can’t believe I let myself lash out like that. A thousand apologies won’t even be enough. I was scared out of my mind, but that doesn’t mean I can just treat you like that. I even sent you away, like you’re some sort of kid,” he winces. “I’m really sorry. Can you forgive me?”

She stares at him. “I was supposed to say that stuff.”

He looks taken aback by her words. “No? How could you have known that we would have been ambushed? Ugh, I’m so dumb. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” Akira sends her a pointed look. “Though, you really shouldn’t split off from the group next time. Top priority means important, but above all else is your safety. Put that in your code.”

“I will,” she promises.

“Good. And the second priority is—” he reaches forward and engulfs her in a tight hug. “Is that you won’t ever, ever think that I’d hate you.”

She frowns. “How did you know?”

“A hunch.” Beat. “Also, Ann gave me a look.” He pulls back. “Are we still friends?”

Relief washes into her, crashing like a wave. “Of course,” she says, before hesitating. “Is…?”

“Yeah, he is.” Akira rolls his eyes, but there is no hiding the grin that takes over him. “A little too good, actually. He hasn’t stopped running around since I poured some energy back into him. I kind of think I overdid it, actually. Oh, and he’s excited to see you again.”

“He is?” she asks, hopeful.

“Absolutely. Asked about you the minute he came to.” Akira gets to his feet. “Shall we say hi?”

“Please.”

As they walk back, an epiphany takes over her. “Oh!” she exclaims, making Akira jump. “I get it now.”

“What’s up?”

“You love Ryuji.”

“That’s right,” he raises a brow.

She shakes her head. “You love Ryuji,” she insists. Even accounting for a margin of error, there’s simply no mistaking her results.

Akira stares at her for a long moment, before huffing out a laugh.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he says softly.

The moment Ryuji sees her, she sprints, throwing caution to the wind as she leaps into his arms. He catches her without hesitation. “Glad to see you’re safe, shorty.”

Sophia knows a lot of things, but there’s also a lot she doesn’t understand. But that’s fine. She’ll get there, and her friends will be waiting for her when she does.