#one of the first things she did after defecting was changing her paint job

[thewiglesswonder]

Ever notice how Autobot medics are pretty uniformly white and red?

[persephoneyss]

The Monster.

Pairing: park jimin x f!reader.

Genre: Yandere, dark themes, anguish.

Summary: ❝You can be reborn like spring, but your nightmares will follow your footsteps at night.❞

Warnings: Yandere behavior, obsession, voyeurism, Jimin is a little delusional, implicit murder, death threats, a little violence, stalking, death of secondary characters, reader idolizes his mother, humiliation.

Number of words: 6000+

︙ Author's note: this is my first fic here, sorry if there are errors. My first language is not English and I don't speak it fluently either, so I used the translator. Sorry about that. I hope you enjoy it, I am open to criticism. Thanks!

(Puedes leer este y más fics aquí en español.)

To block.

Your mind felt strangely familiar, like it was processing the same situation all over again. And then the same thing happened again.

Blocking.

You never noticed those little details, invisible to the eyes of others. Or maybe you took too seriously the message and advice that your mother always told you when you were afraid of being left alone in your room because of the obvious and silly repetitive story of the monster under the bed, you were crying looking for your mother's room in the middle of the night. You were looking for refuge in her arms. However, the only loving words she had for you were: "Ignore him and he will go away, darling."

It seemed very clever to you, you began to close your eyes ignoring your worst fears and in a short time you could do what most children could not at your age, sleep alone in the dark.

Your mother was wise, maybe that's why you never understood why your father left her overnight. She never commented on the subject and little by little it was forgotten in her daily lives. Your father never existed, you never saw him again.

In his small town no one was exceptionally well known, unless he had done something good or bad enough to be called a hero or, in the same way, a villain. You were barely seven years old when it happened, a family with a lot of money had chosen your town as a decent land, enough to build their luxurious house where their children who came from golden cradles would grow up. According to the gossip, they were foreigners coming to invade their town and rule it, when in reality the Parks never got more involved in politics than necessary.

They were just rich, spending money.

Young women from all over the world and even from other distant towns came every day to try to conquer the privileged children of the great mansion built finely and strategically in the middle of the main square. The young women were beautiful, many times you stood at the door of your house admiring their distinguished perfect faces and you wondered if the children of the Park family were really worth it so that young and beautiful women who had previously been rejected would come back again. in search of new opportunities.

Your mother sometimes stood next to you with a smile and released another phrase that ended up marking your style of thinking, her voice sounded so ethereal: "Money compensates for external beauty, plus the dignity that you lose to those who possess it, it will never have a price."

Your lost look made her smile beautifully badly, then that same sweet voice that taught you things that other women would see as irrelevant, she too moments later she orders you to come home to eat. You thought about it so much, your mother was beautiful, she could remarry if she wanted to. However, she never did, or at least until that day.

You were poor, you were never afraid to accept it. You noticed it almost immediately, when you saw other children playing with toys that seemed impossible that you will ever possess, your mother was friends with the one who was best friends with your father, a carpenter who seemed to be very kind. He always gave you toys that came out with small defects and he couldn't sell, he was a good man until he seemed to misinterpret the situations and her relationship with your mother, unexpectedly asking her to marry him. Obviously you had to stop seeing him after the rejection. However, you were stubborn like the woman who gave you life, almost every day after finishing school you walk two streets to her local.

"How is your mother? Any suitors who weren't rejected the first time?" You laughed, helping him finish his last job. You shook your head, Peter was always very nice and honestly funny, you still didn't understand how your mother could reject them, but you never got into adult affairs. You were just an eight-year-old girl.

"She still misses dad." You whisper trying to drive a nail into loose wood, before being interrupted by Peter.

You look curiously at his downcast face of hers, as if she was keeping something deep within himself. But he quickly changes his expression as well as the subject. "Very good girl, no more help for today" he says, removing the dangerous tools out of your reach, you let out a exhausted sigh wanting to help him. Deep down you felt guilty. "How are you doing in school? I heard that the Parks will start a new campaign to help more in the education of the children, maybe you can see someone from the family up close."

You move your head in distracting affirmation playing with a piece of wood, Peter watches you for a moment and then sighs. You really were special, and if I could tell what happened to your father, you would let go of that glow for sure.

The following days passed in the same way, there was only a radical change in your routine. Now they forced you to stay longer in school so that you could take art classes with the children of the Park family. You had heard many mothers talking to yours about how handsome they were, and since their daughters would undoubtedly have a chance with Jimin, who was the eldest son and of course the first-born heir, you thought for a long time about a tall man with more years than all those young women who hallucinated with the perfect millionaire husband. However, it was all an illusion. Jimin was not a man, he was a seventeen year old teenager.

Perhaps the young woman who did win him over would be very lucky to marry someone her own age and not a bitter old man who only had money. Jimin was everything, young, handsome and a millionaire, the best bet of any woman.

His first class was alongside his current teacher, introducing each child in the Park family. They were all very handsome, but Jimin seemed to shine brighter than the stars in the dark night. You wondered if his younger siblings would become jealous of him, it would be an interesting concept considering you had no siblings.

Your hands moved the clay very patiently, your classmates seemed to enjoy these classes and they were undoubtedly fun.

"What a beautiful flower ..." You smiled nodding, no one would ever think that someone like Jimin would be delighted with the common drawing of any girl. Her gaze traveled around your pure and innocent face, as if she couldn't get enough of you. She sat next to you, admiring how your hands continued to play with the dough creating new shapes and I certainly enjoyed every second.

She had never met someone who would attract so much attention from her, you were ethereal. Jimin was immediately drawn to you, your gaze clear as daylight and your soft features, maybe you were just a girl but you seemed to tempt his attention incredibly badly from him. He felt the strange sensation of making sure you were okay, safe, probably in his arms.

He followed you closely, always arriving at the same time. Her mother used to say that Jimin was very irresponsible, she never complied with the basic principles of being a Park: Discipline, order and punctuality. Jimin was different, his siblings may have fulfilled those three bases just to give what they wanted to their parents and receive more affection from him, but not him.

Jimin was obsessive. Impulsive, and he had self-control issues.

The biggest dangerous trait that his parents noticed since he was little, is that he suffered attacks of anger against anyone without caring about the consequences of this. More than three of his babysitters claimed that little Jimin had hit them, slapping and shoving them. But all of this was radically ignored by the Parks, who turned a deaf ear claiming that their son was simply too controlling, and in a way, he was. Jimin liked to have everything under control, at his disposal.

Jimin found himself fascinated with your little eyes looking at him without fear and, even though it was painful for him, without love. For you, he was nothing more than a stranger. He tried to change that, sitting next to you every day and talking to you a few times when he could get more than two sentences out of you. He liked art, I could tell by the way you focus too much on a small painting of an insignificant tree.

If you liked trees, Jimin could buy a forest for yourself.

You loved roses, he could plant thousands in every corner of town.

Or maybe, your obsession with the smell of vanilla. Jimin went wildly for the most expensive vanilla scented lotion, hoping for some praise from you and he really didn't fail.

No, when the next day he sat next to you and your gaze turned to him with a kind smile. "It smells great, Mr. Jimin." Your soft tone and your minimal compliment was enough to make his entire body shake, his hands began to sweat and his voice seemed to falter. It was amazing how you managed to make him so nervous, while he was still a child.

"Y-do you like it?" She asked even knowing the answer, your head bobbing in a quick nod and an even bigger smile adorns your features.

You put your painting aside for a moment to continue responding, Jimin feels elated to see that his plan worked. Now you're just looking at him, as it always should be. "It smells like vanilla, I like vanilla." You say honestly.

"I see, I also like vanilla." You seem shocked, Jimin increases the tension of him fearing that he said something wrong. He really wasn't lying, maybe vanilla wasn't something he used constantly but he didn't dislike it either, he was just disguising and embellishing a crude truth.

And before long, Jimin feels his life take an unexpected turn, people had started to notice his closeness to you. They called him an angel when in reality he was a devil, rumors and silly praise that he would be a good father were not lacking and the young women who came to his door every day to look for a date with him increased in an exorbitant way. You were oblivious to all that, clearly. However, you could not ignore all the looks that fell on you when you accompanied your mother to the market, as from one day to the next you became someone important just because you were the focus of attention of him Mr. Jimin, as you used to call him with respect. Peter also suffered the consequences of this, you had not stopped going to his store and the young women looking to conquer Jimin or at least get his attention began to follow you wanting to win your affection so that you will speak well of them with their desired man, no you were interested in what they could offer you but the biggest problem was that they did not like to receive a clear 'No.' as a reply.

They were insistent and often annoying. They followed you closely, even when you went to school or to visit Peter who now only went twice a week, you did not want to go out and have to face the pity that it gave you to see many beautiful young women begging for a vague love and that I was looking for more money arrangements than anything else. Also, not all of them had good intentions with you. Your mother made sure of your safety in the face of any incident, and with that came her last word, her strict order not to approach Park Jimin again until he found a wife.

The rest would be history.

He would surely forget you and start forming his own family, having his own children and likewise, looking for his own problems. Instead, that never happened. Jimin had discovered your plan, he was angry, he couldn't believe that you were ignoring his attempts to approach you in such a way. Your attitude was so pure but you were hurting her so much.

He was delusional, she knew he was. But he didn't want to stop. So, he did the only thing that would make you stay by his side.

You felt strangely calm, you had been to and from school with no one following closely in your footsteps. Until you noticed that the whole town seemed to look at you with superiority, with caution. Peter never stopped taking care of his store, however, that day it was closed. You gave little thought to that coincidence, walking home with slow steps. Deep down you were scared.

Maybe you thought you could feel it, in front of your house a crowd of people lay watching the most unexpected marriage request. Your mother was uncomfortable, you could tell by how her face was distorted, and how her hands seemed to shake for reasons not yet known to you. You watched in horror as Jimin knelt before her with a smile pulling a ring out of a small red box.

For a moment, you thought about your father. You felt strange, you always wanted to have a warm fatherly hug but it made you uncomfortable to imagine Jimin occupying that place, you did not want him, you did not love him as a daughter to his firstborn or as another similar relationship. He was a stranger.

Your body fell into the seat reserved especially for you, your eyes observed any place in the church trying to disperse your mind. Your little shoes brushed against each other, your hands rested on the wooden seat waiting for the wedding to end as soon as possible. You never wanted to oppose your thoughts to the idea of ​​your mother falling in love or getting married again, you really didn't care much as long as that person was good for her.

However, he was Park Jimin. You felt disgusted when her mother looked at you from afar with despicable eyes, just as anger consumed you when Mrs. Park tried to embarrass your mother in front of everyone. You didn't ask for this, nobody asked for it.

Maybe you spent too much time thinking around you to notice that Jimin was unhappy. A little upset. He had done what he had to do, chained you to him in some twisted way, marrying your mother and he felt happy, at first. I could see you walking through the church, you were wearing a little white dress to match your mother's and for a sinister moment I imagine that you were the one walking towards him to be named his wife. But he quickly came back to reality, you weren't his fiancée. You wouldn't be his wife.

Deep inside him, he knew how gross it was to feel like this.

Your mother's eyes reflected how unhappy she was, her gaze was uncertain. Jimin smiled seeing how you kicked the decorations that fell to the ground, you were completely oblivious to everything and more to the look of her that she followed you closely. Many called him a good father. Seeing nothing but his protective attitudes, but under the circumstances there were only hints of what might come next. You weren't allowed to leave Jimin's house, his father had left the mansion where his whole family used to live.

Mrs. Park could find no better excuse to leave than the sudden tantrum of her first-born son for marrying an older woman, a widow, and a daughter. This is a mockery and disgrace to her family's last name. Jimin just let her go, he wasn't even there the day her mother boarded the first train to her grandmother's house.

Your mother flatly refused to leave her house at first, she did not want to leave the little cabin that your father had built with his own effort so that both of them would live there and in the future raise their children, you always lived there and you did not want to leave either. But you never had a solid vote, your mother ended up agreeing from one day to the next, you did not know how Jimin managed to change his word so suddenly. Maybe there was never one reason, but you became all of them.

You were painfully present at all times. You observed how little by little, the wispy and wise glow that your mother possessed was getting lost between her empty eyes and her bent body, her head was never raised as she taught you it should be. She was a stranger, you felt scared in her presence. You remembered very well how her face seemed to light up when she saw you coming home from school and how she taught you something new every day.

"Mommy..." You spoke, your hands were still busy with the picture that you hadn't finished painting. But curiosity began to attack your mind.

Your mother came out of the kitchen with a little gray apron, she smiled when she saw you sitting on the floor. "Yes, honey?"

"Why do people get married?" Your gaze lifted from the sheet of paper, wincing at her glowing eyes.

"It depends, it's not necessarily for love. Maybe for money, comfort or ..." her voice trailed off, she still staring at you she leaned down to take your face in her hands. "Because they found someone, as cute as you!"

"Mommy ... I want to marry you!" Your mother began to laugh, your gaze traveled all over her face, joyful of hers and for a moment, you swore that you would hate anyone who dared to take away the great happiness of a genuine smile.

You finished your drawing, just in time because the front door echoed through the entire cabin. Your father appeared with a small drawer in his hands, your mother seemed to be illuminated with an angel when she saw him enter with a kind smile. Both were such for which. They were, more than lovers and husbands, lifelong best friends. Your life seemed to have something that many do not get even after death.

An outer and inner peace. It was perfect.

Almost so perfect, it wasn't true. White roses were always your favorites. However, you began to detest its soft light petals when it seemed that all the townspeople bought the same bouquet of white roses for the funeral of your, now, deceased mother. You took a seat next to her grave, ignoring everyone's greetings and goodbyes, who apparently forgot how her criticism of her increased even as the days, months and years of her wedding with Jimin passed.

You couldn't blame anyone. Or you just didn't want to.

Because the rope around his neck was not placed by them. And the multiple scars on his wrists weren't his marks. A small part of you felt helpless, angry and respectively, disgusted with yourself. Could you help her? Yes. No. Maybe if you had ... And he had stayed in the past.

The little white rose in your hand fell to the floor, everyone had left the room to go to the large buffet served at the reception. You froze, then with the same rage you began to step on the already dead flower at your feet, the petals of it were no more than a pure color, now they were disgusting and dirty. Jimin appeared minutes later, your gaze fell on his hand that was holding a black and a red rose.

"We should go, honey." He whispered as if afraid to scare you even though you were already looking directly at him. Your immobile figure instinctively ran into his arms, which greeted you with an incredibly loving warmth. The roses were placed on top of the coffin, a smile spread across your face when you saw the color red stand out against so much white, and for a second you came to compare the beauty of an outstanding color with your mother.

She stood out in a world where everyone wanted to paint themselves pure white.

Jimin was even more welcoming to you now. He pretended to sleep waiting for 11:30 to arrive so that he could hear your footsteps on the way to his room, you had developed a great amount of fear of loneliness. Jimin knew you always did that, but before it was with her instead of him. You would walk for several seconds looking in the dark for his room, which was next to hers, then I would always hear her voice singing for you, making you rest in his arms. For a long time, I want to be her. But now he was gone and I knew it was a matter of time before your steps stopped at his door.

She loved the closeness of your body to hers, how your hands clung to her nightshirt when you were cold or a horrible nightmare was projected into your dreams. Jimin horribly wishes he could see beyond your dreams, although that would be disrespectful to your privacy, he wouldn't mind breaking your trust too much if he could be sure that you would never walk away from him, even in your dreams.

He managed to chain your life to his, your scared look was the most beautiful thing I have seen before. I want to touch your little face and kiss your soft lips that tempted him every time the word "dad" came out of it.

Time was his greatest enemy.

Your presentation was no better, your hands were trembling again while your feet moved from here to there restlessly. Jimin just watched silently, but the distance between you and him was gigantic, he just wished that the damn bitch that was presented before him would shut up and leave his house. It was remarkable how you seemed angry, maybe it's jealousy, she has feelings for me. He thought sickly, a smile spreading across his face discreetly at his incoherent thoughts of him. The young woman sitting on the sofa in front of him smiled thinking that her talk had caused some pleasure in the young and widowed man.

Jimin admired her face, she was very cute, also she seemed to have good manipulation technique in people. She noticed it quickly when she walked through the door, her smile that seemed uncontrollable and genuine lit up his childlike face. He took a few seconds, he knew he shouldn't do it but he couldn't help comparing the woman to you. You were shorter, you were obviously younger and your gaze was more pure. Jimin was proud of your firm stance, knowing that in the two years since your mother's death you had developed a closer connection with him, and likewise, you were a beautifully perfect copy of him. Your hard gaze and your legs crossed with each other showed your firmness, and your silent opinion.

You wanted the fucking bitch sitting across from your stepdad outside your house.

You laughed at the very idea of ​​one day finding a really good replacement for your mother. You couldn't replace a rose with bad herbs. For you, as selfish as he was, Jimin was your father, and he was your mother's love from the day he married her. No one would replace his position.

It was all three of them, and a part of your mind conned that Jimin still wasn't over the love he had for her. Or he would have remarried long ago, when the young women stood in front of the door of his house asking for a date with him. In those moments you didn't care, Jimin was a stranger, but now he was your father and you were his only daughter. No one had the right to ruin their harmonious relationship, they were both alone and someday serious like him.

You will be successful, you will make a lot of money and you will be able to marry someone you love.

But for now, your gaze fell on the little worn and dirty shoes of the woman in front of you. A smile crossed your face, your gaze lifted surprising the woman. While Jimin waited with his arms crossed for your following action.

"Woman." Your voice seemed to cut her tranquility, her face lost total color of life and a small grimace of fear passed over her fragile face. "I can't allow shoes like that to step on the carpet in my house ..."

The woman looked at Jimin who seemed indifferent, distracted by the painting on the wall.

"I'm sorry miss" she whispered trying to remove her shoes, his hands seemed more clumsy than usual. Her face burned when your hand moved closer to hers to prevent any further movement.

"Go away." A tiny part of you felt sorry for his embarrassed face and flushed cheeks. But it quickly came to your mind that she thought she was good enough to believe she was your mother. When she couldn't even challenge a stupid girl who acted like a spoiled brat. "Get out of my house, or I'll have to ask you not to just take off your shoes."

"I-sorry, I'll go now-..." A sob interrupted her dialogue, her hands searched for the notebook she was carrying but she gave up making a quick bow to Jimin and running outside.

The garden was your favorite part of the big house, the walls constantly made you believe that you were going to be eaten by them. Every day you came out of your lair admiring the many roses of many different colors growing beautiful and healthy. Your school stage was about to begin and you did not want to neglect your garden, which was also a tribute to your late mother.

So you hired a gardener. You were seventeen years old and soon to be eighteen. To say that you managed to experience the best of all those years was ridiculous, and deep down inside you, you thought that all of that was possible because of all the things Jimin did for you.

You had a debt, which you planned to pay in the future. You thought about leaving and letting him have a quiet life from now on without having to run to solve your problems, even if you never asked him to.

Jimin had eyes watching your every move, he clearly remembers how he put security cameras throughout the house, observing how you slept, what you did in the comfort of your room and privacy. Even when you walked into the shower and your hands ran over your body covered in water. Sometimes he felt guilty, for how he seemed to enjoy those moments that seemed so short.

However, it was repeated that as long as you were safe.

Breaking your trust wasn't that important.

Your eighteenth birthday was moderately quiet, Jimin was not used to throwing parties, and honestly, you never asked for one. So you just stood at the door of your house receiving expensive and cheap gifts from people who when they gave you the gift had a forced smile that told you many things. Most were familiar faces, of women who had previously sought a date with your father, obviously being rejected.

The little birthday cake looked so monotonous, the candles were the only thing you could stand out for. You were never aware that you had started to be privileged and extremely ambitious since Jimin proposed to your mother and forced her to marry him, pointing a gun at her pathetic silly little head. You had it all, and in your previous years maybe you managed to get excited about the new toys and accessories that were brought to you from other countries, you had everything that others did not, and a strange epiphany collapsed over you.

It was you, it was déjà vu. You were them, and those who were before, were now you.

You had all of them, and they didn't. Now, by your side, they were all poor. Jimin showered you with gifts, causing you to gradually lose interest in money. You remember your thoughts when it all started and likewise, you still remember the woman with the dirty shoes. You will be successful, you will make a lot of money. It was what you thought in the future for yourself, but now that was it, in a nutshell. Completely boring. You stayed for a moment thinking about them under the watchful eye of your stepfather who tried not to smile when you saw you, you were an adult now and he could finally take you as his own. They would be husband and wife, as it should have been from the beginning of its history.

And you will be able to marry someone you love. You still had only one option left, you blew out the candles with a single sigh causing Jimin to clap his hands and approach you to hug you fondly. The maids behind you only blushed when his boss started showing all of his affection. They weren't used to seeing him so often, Jimin had a firm and tough stance with everyone but he seemed to become as soft as clay in your presence. You came to mold Jimin in your favor, making him a cold person in front of his own demons and then, you left yours.

"I want marriage proposals, father." A gasp came from the mouths of the maids who just immediately fell silent. Lowering their head as they were taught. "I am ready to get married."

Jimin hummed still keeping his arms around you, your body was trapped in theirs. Your skin burned when his fingers squeezed your skin, leaving permanent marks. There was no reaction from you, you were used to this kind of unexpected treatment and it just didn't hurt.

"Get married?" His arms pulled away from you in disgust, there was no other reaction either. Jimin taught you not to object unless you knew you should. Stay calm and you will win. "And can you tell who would want to marry you? Useless little girl."

"Useless?" Your low voice seemed to make him happy for a moment.

Quickly his hands took the utensils to cut the cake, with a soft and sweet voice he continued: "Honey, men do not look for a girl with a lot of money like you. They look for someone to tame, and you, you could easily crush everyone with a wave of your hands."

A piece of the cake perfectly positioned on the plate was placed in front of you, a sob escaping your lips. You were really pathetic, eh? You clearly wanted to live something that has been claimed many times. You weren't going to get married, not without having it all like Jimin said. Then, you would lose everything and go back up to crush the others with greater pleasure.

"Aren't you going to eat? It's your cum-..."

"I will go to a neighboring town, I will finish my studies there."

Jimin looked down at his plate, ignoring how you got up from the table and put your cake aside. Then, your sweet voice finished destroying his self control that he thought he mastered long ago.

"I never liked that cake taste."

And it was the end.

You went back to the start again. You were planning to leave tonight, your bags were ready. Everything you needed was never in that house, it was never him. They were those that never existed in your present continued.

Your shoes did not seem to contrast with the dirt on the town's floor, you were also aware that those would end up in the trash. You didn't care, they were just shoes Jimin bought for your birthday, insignificant.

People were observant, and often foul-mouthed. It was no different than they spoke far from you or close to you, yet their mouths moved in a fussy way exaggerating reactions and creating new lies.

"_____...?" Your posture was decreasing, you no longer had to pretend. A smile covered your face, framing many emotions in one. "Come in please, it's your house."

Peter stepped aside, leaving room for you to enter. Your hands trembled but this time from cold, you still did not get over the harsh winter that suddenly passed. You took your shoes off quickly, briefly forgetting that this was no longer your home. You had sold the little cabin at a minimal price, and you were even happier when it was Peter who chose that place as his future home to live with his wife and his future child. Now he had two more. The little children ran in the tiny room playing with each other, a feeling of nostalgia invaded you when you saw them. You used to do the same before, together with your parents.

Those moments.

"Glad to see you around here, daughter." Peter hadn't changed, he was still the same kind and understanding person as ever. The opposite of you, of course. "Do you want to have tea? I heard on the streets that you would go to study far from here."

"Coffee, please." You responded still reluctant to talk about your departure.

Peter just laughed at your exaggerated denial, nodding and leading into the kitchen. You took a seat at the small table looking around. "You didn't change the decoration."

"Uh? ...." He seemed surprised by your observation, but he quickly smiled. "No. Actually, I think I liked it from the beginning how your ... er ... your mother decorated it. Besides, my wife loved it too. For her, it's beautiful as spring."

"Spring?" You ask, avoiding looking at it. You look down looking for some reason not to feel sad, in a way, you had compared your mother to spring as well. However, Jimin said that you were his. You never liked being called a light, because you always tried to be in your mother's shadow. And you liked it. "She believed that she is very wise, my mother was like spring."

"Thanks." A voice whispered from behind, your gaze fell on her and her face very much like your mother's. But they were obviously completely different. "I never doubted that you were just as wise. Spring represents the new beginning, a new beginning. Did you manage to find yours?"

Peter tried to intervene, clearly noticing the way his wife was trying to make you talk about your life after your mother died.

"I did. That's why I'm leaving here tonight."

"I'm glad we all need to be born again at some point."

You affirm with a small movement of the head, concentrating your gaze on the coffee cup in your hands. The smoke fell directly on your face hiding your grimace of disgust. Nobody deserves to talk about her like that yet.

"Ok, honey." Peter began by sitting across from you, with a cup of green tea and a serene expression. "Are you planning to go alone or with someone? I heard that travel today is very dangerous."

"Actually, I am accompanied by an acquaintance. His name is Jungkook, he also planned to leave and started working for me as a gardener to get the necessary money. We became good friends." You spoke remembering the adorable smile of the young man, he used to accompany you everywhere you went as if his job was to protect you. At first it was cute, but then it was annoying. Even after all that, you preferred to travel with him rather than alone.

"Oh that's very nice. I'm glad you managed to meet your goals. Good luck."

Your goals?

"Thanks, Peter."

His gaze lingered on your face for a moment, then he seemed to remember something very important. She gave you a smile before getting up to leave the kitchen.

"I have something for you, you are old enough to know this."

It was an envelope. Common and ordinary, but its envelope was beginning to deteriorate, showing that it was an old and very reserved letter.

You questioned your decision but took it, not wanting to read it in front of anyone even more when you read who wrote the letter.

You sat on the small wall, the trees and the cool breeze boosted your adrenaline. Small pieces of paper fell to the ground. So, you weren't thinking correctly at those times.

"I only married a man that I loved in all my life, I was happy. I had a daughter. I lived years of solitude and then, I was chained to an empty love."

"I know what you're reading this now. You're weak, darling. Maybe that's what made us mother and daughter. Because from the beginning I never had the courage to tell you that Jimin put a ring on my finger and a gun to my head. Or maybe, I was weak when I didn't get in the way of his errand, I should have told him that I hated him and that he could put a bullet in my head before giving it to my daughter. And maybe, I should have told everyone who passed by me that He was the same one who murdered my husband, he never left. I made you believe that. You never asked. "

"I saw you so happy today, you were running between the garden and the wedding. I could see his gaze following your hurried steps, I was almost completely sure that he was trying to get closer to you at all times. I told the woman next to me, But she shut me up saying that I can't be jealous of a father and daughter relationship. You weren't her daughter. She also ordered me to let them create a closer relationship, because I already had Park Jimin's heart in my hands. Liars."

"I always loved your curious voice. You used to ask me everything, and why everything was like that. But lately, I don't know what to answer. Why am I crying? Why is there a dark stain under my eyes? Why is there blood in the bathroom? Why did I never ask for help? I see you worry and you don't let me give you affection, because you prefer to give it to me. I also see how I start to bother him, I am a hindrance. Now I understand, I knew it but I never wanted to accept that it happened. He was everywhere, and likewise, I was never part of the plan."

"There were only two things I didn't tell you. I love you and my last piece of advice. Honey, lock it up and fly to the start, whenever you feel lost. A fresh start and never forget spring."

You stifled a sob. Covering up your pain. You had not noticed that the night had covered the sky, a dark blue blanket arrived. It took you a long time to assimilate that all the fragments were torn papers, and it was not a letter. It was an envelope filled with, apparently, incomplete sheets torn from a notebook. There was a fragment that was not part of the leaves, but rather was written later.

"Lost parts of a sad widow's diary.

Peter."

They were from your mother's diary. So where was the rest? What actually happened? A message came to your phone, you read it quickly still drying your tears.

JUNGKOOK:

Our trip is in an hour, I hope you said goodbye to everyone.

Received at 7:05 p.m.

I still do not:(

Received at 7:06 p.m.

Along with both messages was an attached picture, a photo of him and his grandmother. Jungkook talked a lot about her, and hers, her brothers. You smile, still wiping the tears from your face.

Your feet moved, the leaves in your hands seemed too heavy. And yet it was something you needed to do.

"Are you at home." His monotonous voice invaded you, he was busy reading a book that rested in his hand. The maid came over leaving a cup of coffee beside him, greeting your presence politely. "I have some things to discuss with you, darling."

"Me too, Jimin." It was the first time you had said his name without due respect, he seemed surprised for a moment. But his expression changed to one of happiness, as if he had been waiting for it. "I couldn't say goodbye, I'm leaving today. I think you already know that, though."

"Actually, no. But it's nice to hear it from you."

"I ..." Your voice dried in your throat, a giant doubt fell over you. You didn't want to leave without telling him how much you hated everything about him. His attention, his affection, his smile, his gaze, his voice. Everything about him was disgustingly charming. "I think I'll go get my bags."

Jimin nodded, ignoring your presence. Still distracted with reading him.

"Before you go, can you give me that back, darling?" Your gaze followed where he pointed his finger. Your hand. The leaves were still there.

"It's something of mine-..."

"Oh I don't think so. It really is very easy to threaten someone, just suffice to say that you can put a bullet in their head to make them your obedient little puppets."

"I do not understand your..."

"Me? It was obviously me. I'm surprised you thought your mother would be smart enough to leave a confession letter to her ex-lovers, days before her death. You really had a lot of credit for her." His chatter was accompanied by a laugh. You were paralyzed, shaking in your useless state of shock. "But I will not say that I did not plan, I hoped that you would never have the courage to try to leave my side. And even if that were the case, I knew that you would say goodbye to the only person who reminded you of her. Peter, she has a family. lovely."

Nor did he expect you to have the courage to cheat on him with another man. Oh, the gardener. Poor Jungkook, his body now rested leaving behind your favorite flowers. Jimin bit his lip, another mocking smile peeking out with intensity remembering the cutthroat figure of the innocent but guilty young man.

You were his...

"How can you be so cruel?" The doubt in you seemed to want to keep growing, passing second by second through your head. You weren't sure you could understand that everything that happened in front of you was actually planned by the same person who swore never to leave you alone. The same man who disguised himself as a sheep so he could eat you like a wolf. "Did you kill my mother ?!" Jimin seemed surprised by your desperate tone, he did not expect to be able to unbalance your state so easily.

It was lovely. Certainly.

"No sweetie." He murmured closing the book in his hands, setting it on the table next to the steaming cup of American coffee. "But it would have been exquisite to be the reason for his pain. Unfortunately, it was your father who won that title."

"Where did you get this from? I know she wrote it, and I also know that she would never give it to you knowing what a monster you are." Tears were running down your cheeks like water, you knew you were a mess but Jimin seemed to look at you like you were a perfect work of art.

"I found it." He spoke casually, getting up from his seat. Walking slowly towards your trembling figure. "It was a coincidence, I like casual things. It was a coincidence that you studied at that school, that your mother was a widow, that your father died. That he will make me fall in love with you."

What is your goal now?

"I love you darling."

Escape from the monster.

[yelena-bellova]

Don’t Be Afraid: Poe Dameron x Solo!Reader - Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Two: Plans and Proposals

Series Masterlist

Plot: The Resistance discusses how to move forward in rebuilding.

Warnings: blood, injuries

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: Everything’s a mess but have no fear, the fic is here. Enjoy your escape into another world because Heaven knows ours is a flaming pile of garbage right now.

————

“What in the hell?” Poe mumbled as me, Shriv and him arrived at the fight. One of the pilots that Wedge Antilles had recruited slid across the floor. Teza Nasz stood next to us bleeding, but seemed unconcerned with her wounds. The ex-Imperial began to charge forward again but Jess reeled her back, begging her to cease the confrontation. Wedge went to help the young pilot up to his feet, his blood was still smeared across the stone floor.

“Poe Dameron,” Wedge called, “Y/n Solo.”

“Antilles,” Poe said, “What in the hell is going on?”

“Agoyo swung first,” a woman next to Wedge said. Judging by her age and the fact that she hadn’t left his side since we’d arrived, I took a guess she was Norra Wexley.

“I don’t care who started it,” I spoke up, “There’s no sense in fighting each other, we’re on the same side. Why did this even start?”

“You should care!” Agoyo shouted, rising back to his feet. His Phantom Squad uniform was stained now with blood.

“Identify yourself, pilot.” Poe ordered. Agoyo faced us, crossed his arms and took a defiant stance.

Poe impatiently repeated himself, “Name, pilot.”

“Pacer,” the young pilot seethed, “Pacer Agoyo.”

“Pacer,” Poe nodded, “You know who I am?”

“Poe Dameron.”

“No, I’m your commanding officer. And frankly, right now I’m not impressed with what I see. I understand you’ve come a long way to join us…”

Pacer answered that he was from Nuja and his late father was a Phantom Squad pilot. He’d come in his place.

“I appreciate your father’s service, and your willingness to join the Resistance,” Poe said, “But unfortunately, it looks like you’re not a good fit for this mission. You’re free to leave.”

Some of the gathered crowd let out gasps as Poe turned his back on Pacer. Even I was confused as to what he was trying to do. I watched Pacer shift awkwardly as my boyfriend tilted his head, he was waiting for Pacer to speak up.

“Poe...I mean, Commander Dameron. I-I want to stay, sir. Please. It’s just...”

“It’s just what, Agoyo?” Poe asked as he finally turned around.

The young pilot was no longer looking at Poe, his eyes were locked onto Teza Nasz once again. I could feel the anger radiating off of him, no one was this full of rage for no reason.

“Do you know each other?” I asked, taking a step forward to reiterate my presence.

“She murdered my brother!” Agoyo revealed, he raised his fists once again and took a step in Nasz’s direction.

“Agoyo!” Poe snapped, Pacer turned back but still wouldn’t meet Poe’s stare.

“Eyes on me,” he said, the pilot finally looked up, “You will stop menacing Teza Nasz, or I will have you thrown in the brig until you can cool down. Is that understood?”

Pacer looked embarrassed and slightly intimidated by Poe’s threat. Wedge put a hand on his arm and whispered something I couldn’t make out, whatever he’d said was enough for him to let Wedge pull him back. Poe then turned to Teza Nasz, “Well?”

“It’s possible I killed his brother, but I don’t remember. It’s possible,” the warlord said as she scanned the crowd, “That I killed all of your brothers. And cousins. And mothers and fathers and former lovers. It was my job.”

“Then why are you here?” I inquired, crossing my arms.

She looked jolted by the question I’d posed, “Because it was wrong. But I didn’t know it at the time.”

“You were young and ambitious,” Poe guessed, “So you joined the Empire.”

Teza nodded, “Mostly hungry, but yes.”

Never in my life did I think I would ever feel sympathy for an ex-Imperial warlord. Yet here I was, a little bit of my heart going out to the woman. She still intimidated me, but I understood her a little better now.

“You joined the Empire,” Poe finished, before turning his gaze to Wedge, “Just like you.”

“It’s no secret I attended Skystrike Academy,” he said to the crowd, his hands spread out with a shrug, “But I left once I realized what the Empire was doing.”

Poe nodded in reply before turning to Zay, “And your mother.”

“My mother was an Imperial officer,” Zay answered softly, “But she defected. She and my father. They died for the Resistance. Ask Leia. She knows.”

“Suralinda?” I called, hoping I wasn’t stepping on Poe’s moment by calling on one of his squad members.

“I didn’t give a care about either side much,” she said easily, “I was ready to sell Resistance secrets if it would get me what I wanted. Oh wait, I did.”

The shocked faces around her did not match with her laughter, “Relax, I came around.”

“And you?” Poe turned finally to Finn, who I hadn’t noticed was standing to the back of the group with Rey.

“Used to be a stormtrooper,” Finn answered as he came forward, “But now I’m rebel scum,” his fist hit his chest so loud, the thump echoed, “Until the end.”

We shared a small smile, he’d become one of the most devoted pieces of lovable scum I’d ever met in such a short amount of time. I was proud of him.

“My point,” Poe said as he turned back to Pacer, “Is that many of us have dubious beginnings, but it is how we end that counts.”

“My father was Darth Vader,” Mom’s voice rang out through the hanger, “Is there anyone who wants to question my loyalty to the Resistance?”

I’d never heard a more silent room, damn right…

“Now, is there anyone else with a grudge that needs airing?” Poe asked loud enough for everyone to hear, “Something that’s bothering them? Someone in this room that they can’t wait to knife once their back is turned?”

The tension eased up as a couple people laughed. Just as Poe was beginning to gesture for Mom to take the floor, a voice that hadn’t been heard yet rose.

“I got a question!”

The voice belonged to a bald, grey skinned man. Immediately you could tell that he was an older pilot, just as cocky as he’d probably been his whole life. This was going to be fun.

“Go on,” Poe acknowledged.

“What about you two?” the man wagged his finger at Poe and I.

“What about us?” I confusedly asked.

“I heard the stories,” he continued, “About what happened on the Raddus. To Holdo. I fought with Holdo. She was a good leader.”

My stomach lurched, but I tried to still appear calm as every eye came to rest on us. I felt Poe’s anxiety which only heightened my own nerves. I wanted to throw myself at the feet of the crowd and let them all have a free punch. I deserved it. But it wouldn’t do much good. Maz’s emotion provoking questions and Poe’s ‘we fix it’ answer played in my head at a dizzying speed. Everything I did from here on out was about trying to make amends for what I’d done. Just as Poe and I had promised Black Squadron.

“I agree,” Poe finally said.

“Me too” I immediately followed.

“You agree?” the veteran smiled cruelly, “That’s not what I heard, that’s not what any of us heard.”

He motioned to the rest of Phantom Squadron plus Wedge and Norra. Snap must have told them what had happened, he was right to have done so. They deserved to know what they were walking into, gut-wrenching details and all.

“You two are the ones who should be in the brig,” the veteran went on further, “Or better yet, tossed out of an air lock.”

There were quiet agreements coming from the crowd, I had to fight to keep the heartbreak from reaching my face. I’d disappointed so many people. One look at the tears I was holding back and Poe instinctively took over.

“You’re right,” Poe said loudly, garnering everyone’s eyes on him, “You’re absolutely right. We disobeyed a direct order, we got people killed, we undermined our commander, and led a mutiny. And if you don’t think that eats both of us up, that it haunts us every day, every minute, then you don’t know a damn thing.”

I blinked back my tears and watched him keep going, “And yeah, you could lock me up, throw me into space, but you tell me how that helps the Resistance? How that brings down the First Order? Because, trust me, if I thought my death would bring them down, I’d sacrifice myself in a heartbeat,” he snapped his fingers before pointing to me, “And Commander Solo already tried. She was willing to die at the hands of the First Order just so the Resistance could live.”

“Poe,” Finn said to my side, shaking his head in disapproval of the images Poe was painting.

Jess came forward suddenly, “Poe’s my squad leader and I trust him with my life. There’s no one else I want leading Black Squadron. Y/n too, she’s one of the best commanders the Resistance has got.”

“He saved our butts over Grail City just a few days ago,” Karé added.

“And he saved mine on Jakku,” Finn said, “Y/n did too on Takodana.”

“And mine on Crait,” another voice called.

“And mine.”

More and more people spoke up with instances where Poe and I had been competent commanders. It was overwhelming, I let a stray tear fall in gratitude. The belief that the Resistance still had in Poe and I was not deserved, but I had no choice but to accept it.. Poe’s head was ducked, it was hitting him just as hard.

After a moment, the room settled down and Poe looked to me. He was silently asking if I wanted to say anything, I shook my head slightly and let him take the floor once again. He had always been better at public speaking than me, he was altogether a more confidant leader even in his worst moments.

“We’ve all made choices. Choices that caused harm, led to destruction, even at times death. We are all responsible for our deeds. The great and the terrible. But if we define ourselves only by what we’ve done, only by our failures, then this Resistance, this spark? It dies here and now. We’re all here because we have a chance to change things. A chance to change the galaxy. A chance to change ourselves. But we have to make that commitment. That choice. A choice...”

He stopped, searching for the words to cap off his inspiring speech.

“A choice to be better,” Zay finished his sentence as she stepped forward. She was so young but was lightyears ahead of others with her passion for the cause.

“A choice to be better,” Poe echoed.

As I scanned over the crowd, there were smiles and nods of approval. One person even clapped. Wedge said something I couldn’t hear but it had roused laughter from the people around him. After that, everyone started to break off in their own groups and conversations.

“Hey,” I touched Poe’s arm, “I’m proud of you.”

The corners of his mouth quirked up slightly, “They’ll want to hear from you too at some point.”

“You’re better at rousing a crowd than I am,” I complimented, “Besides, according to Zay, everyone already knows what they need to about me.” I shot him a wink as he chuckled, “I’m gonna go talk to Mom.”

I broke away, surprisingly my mother wasn’t surrounded by people for once. I had a hunch she was waiting for me.

“Not too bad,” I said as I approached her, “We’re not a fleet but we’re not nothing.”

“It’s hope,” she replied knowingly, “That’s more necessary in a war than a fleet. Although, a fleet would be nice.”

I smiled, attempting to mask the pain I’d been trying to hide all day. It had broken me down in the ship with Poe, but I couldn’t fall apart a second time in front of people.

Mom, as usual, sensed it. “I miss him too. I could use him right now.”

“He’d just want to run headfirst into the fight,” I chuckled sadly, remembering stories of my father charging into battle with little to no plan.

“You’d be surprised,” Mom raised an eyebrow and smiled nostalgically, “He was a better general in the war than you’d think. Now,” she squeezed my hand warmly, “Let’s get to work, Commander.”

I was thankful for the snap back to the present, that’s where I needed to be. We went around gathering the people Mom wanted as her new leadership team, including our gracious host, Yendor.

“Commander,” Mom called out to Poe, he abruptly ended his conversation with Zay to join us, “I would like you all to join Ambassador Yendor and me for tea. There’s much we need to discuss, and little time to do it.”

————

We made our way into what was formerly Yendor’s library, it had now been converted to a war room. There was a large round table in the middle of the room with a holo readout that contained inventory lists of our resources, people and supplies. It was shockingly low, all of it.

“Hey,” Rey greeted me quietly as I stared at the lists, “How’d things go with Maz?”

I puffed out my cheeks and exhaled, “Not great.”

“She can’t help?”

“She won’t help,” I turned away from the holo and began to stroll the room with her, “I don’t pretend to understand how Maz works. She usually speaks so cryptically but what Poe and I got was a flat out rejection.”

“Maybe she’ll still find a way to come through,” she suggested as we planted ourselves in a corner of the room.

Rey hadn’t been there, she hadn’t heard Maz’s callous words. How she’d simply sat back in her lounge chair while we were struggling to keep our heads above water. “You’re much more hopeful than I am.”

A smile flashed across her face, “Someone I know told me something about the people I place my hope in. They won’t always disappoint me.” 

“You have to be careful who you take your advice from,” I teased, bumping my hip into hers.


After sharing a laugh, Rey’s expression sobered quickly. “Y/n, there’s something I didn’t get to tell you about my visit with Luke. It’s something that concerns you.”

“What is it?” I asked, pushing off the wall we were leant against.

“He told me that when you-“

“I’m sorry,” Wedge interjected, tapping me on the shoulder, “Y/n, we’re about to start.”

Damn everything, I wanted to hear what Rey had to say. What Uncle Luke had told her. It could’ve been something to do with his vision, something about my future. But there were more pressing matters at hand and I needed to prioritize.

I sighed frustratedly before pointing to Rey, “We will finish this conversation.” I turned with Wedge to go join the group, trying to put the subject of my uncle’s post-humous words anywhere but the forefront of my mind. I spotted Poe and headed for the empty spot next to him. He was, shockingly, in pleasant conversation with the veteran pilot who had wanted to throw us into spaces moments ago. I only caught the last thing Poe said.

“It’s a deal.”

The large man gave Poe a hearty pat on the back, sending Poe stumbling forward. I caught his arm and steadied him, “Do I want to know what bet you just made?”

“A race,” he answered in a low tone, “That I’ll win. If I weren’t the better pilot, he’d get to shave my head.”

I shot him a disapproving glance but didn’t get time to voice my thoughts as the room went hush. Poe had never been in the habit of betting credits like a normal person. But then again, he never lost if it involved flying. 


“I’m glad you’re all here.” Mom’s voice echoed in the large room, all attention was given to her, “I know many of you came at great personal cost with small hope of success. I can’t promise that we will survive this. That we will all still be alive tomorrow, or the day after. But I can promise you one thing. I will fight beside you until the end.”

“If I may,” Norra Wexley said after a few seconds of silence, “Everyone in this room knows what they signed up for, General. This isn’t our first battle, although it might be our last. We’re done with ‘homes.’ We’ve made our choice. This,” Norra gestured to our team, “This is our home now. The Resistance is our family. And just like you, we’re ready to die for it.”

Mom looked touched enough to cry, but instead ducked her head, “And the rest of you? Is that how you all feel?”

A resounding chorus of agreements came from each person around the table.

“Then we have work to do. Yendor?”


The aforementioned Twi’lek came forward, he looked almost regal. “Welcome to Ryloth,” he greeted us, “Like Leia, I thank each of you for all that you have sacrificed. We are all here for the same purpose: to stand against the tyranny of the First Order. Those of us from Ryloth know a thing or two about standing against tyranny. I and my children and those who are part of the Ryloth Defense Authority offer you all we have, but as you can see, we are few.”

“You called the Resistance’s allies from Crait, did you not?” General Rieekan addressed Mom, “Others will come.”

She frowned as she remembered the disappointment on Crait. “So far the only allies we have been able to reach are the ones you see in front of you. We suspect that the First Order has been rounding up and imprisoning those sympathetic to the Resistance, and we think that they’ve figured out how to block our frequencies, but we aren’t sure. We can’t rely on reinforcements. Not at this point.”

There was more discussion about the subject, it was made clear that General Rieekan was unaware of just how large a threat the First Order had become. Contrary to what he thought, they were 100% capable of taking prisoners.

“Besides, what do they need?” Wedge asked, “A few local governments to look the other way, a few dark holes to lose people in. It’s not hard.”

“Speaking of local governments,” Charth, one of Yendor’s children, spoke up for the first time, “you should all understand that while Ryloth welcomes you in your time of need, there has been a complication.”

“Complication?” I asked.

“The First Order has come to Ryloth,” Mom answered, “Not because of us. As far as we know, they aren’t aware of our presence here.”

While it was worrisome, I was secretly relieved for personal reasons. I couldn’t sense Ren’s presence on the planet. Charth went on to explain that the First Order wanted to tithe their shipping lanes to raise money to rebuild the ships they’d lost, ironically, fighting us. It felt good to have put the tiniest dent in their fleet.

“I suggest we act quickly,” Mom went on, “Given our time and our limitations, I am most concerned with rebuilding our forces, giving us another week, another month. A foundation. I had hoped for time to find more leadership, but...I want ideas.”

“Ships,” Poe answered quickly, pointing to the holo inventory list that detailed our ships, “Is this up-to-date?”

“Yes,” Rey answered from where I’d left her, “I saw Rose account for the arriving ships before we met here.”

Poe nodded to her before turning back to the table, “I see a handful of starfighters, a few transports, a yacht. It’s not a fleet, and we can’t fight much less expect to win any kind of battle against the First Order with equipment like this. We need ships.”

“I agree. How do you suggest we get these ships?” Mom asked.

“We could steal them,” Norra suggested, “The First Order’s actively building fighters. You just said so,” she finished, gesturing toward Charth.

“The rumor is the Corellian shipyards are running continuously to meet the quotas,” the Twi’lek confirmed.

“Then we go to Corellia,” Poe said with a clap, as if it was an easy task.

“Too high-profile,” Wedge said, “And we don’t have enough people to stage a raid.”

“Send me in with a handful of pilots and I’ll get your ships for you,” Poe continued his urging, these were the moments where he needed to slow down.

Mom shook her head in rejection of the idea, “Wedge is right. We can’t risk the few pilots we have to liberate a handful of ships. We need a more strategic plan.”

She waited a beat, expecting Poe to argue that he could get the job done. I was proud of him for staying resigned, he was actively trying to do better at following orders.

“Bracca,” Shriv spoke up, “It’s just a thought.”

I’d never been to Bracca, but Pacer explained that it was a junker planet. Not exactly what we were in search of.

“It sounds like a waste of valuable time,” I commented, hoping Shriv didn’t take too much offense, “Time we can’t spend stealing junkyard scrap, we need functional ships.”

“Bracca has become the place that the First Order sends any and all claimed New Republic ships to be decommissioned and junked,” Finn countered from nearby, “It’s bound to be a treasure trove of the kind of ships we want. Parts, too. We could fix up those X-wings out there. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers, and let’s face it. We’re beggars.”

Connix entered the room, out of breath. “A message came in on the Millennium Falcon,” she announced, looking to my mother, “From Maz Kanata. She said you’d want to see it immediately, or I wouldn’t have interrupted.”

Poe and turned to each other in confusion, what did Maz have to say that she didn’t say to us?

“Can you patch it through?” Mom asked.

After Charth helped Connix connect, Maz’s face replaced the inventory list in the center of the table.

“Greetings, Leia.” Maz greeted loudly as she looked around the room, “I see you’re doing well collecting your allies to you.”

“We would be better if you had joined us.” Mom replied, I had a feeling she was trying her hardest to be polite. After Poe and I had recounted our encounter with Maz, Mom was just as confused and slightly offended.

“Ah, of course, of course,” Maz said passively, “But the ways of the Force are mysterious, and it was not my time.”

“I hear you have news for us, Maz,” Mom continued, trying to propel the conversation forward.

“Yes!” Maz exclaimed, “Did Dameron and your daughter tell you of the list?”

“A rumored list of First Order political prisoners and dissidents,” Mom answered.

“It’s not just a rumor anymore. I’ve seen it. Well, parts of it.”

Everyone began to talk amongst themselves, Mom silenced them with a wave of her hand, “How?”

“A rule I live my life by: If you have anything worth stealing,” Maz said, “Someone will eventually steal it.”

“Someone stole the list?" Mom asked with a lightness to her voice.

“Fortunately, the thief who has acquired it is an old acquaintance of mine.”

“Will they give it to us?”

“Hard to tell. Nifera can be mercurial. She likes games,” Maz answered with in a playful tone.

“We have to play a game for it?” Mom raised a brow.

“Not exactly, but then again...” Maz went on, “She’s holding an auction at her birthday party. Invitation-only to the party, and the auction will happen sometime during the event. List goes to the highest bidder. You know how thieves are.”

“When and where?” Mom asked, we were finally starting to get somewhere.

“The party will be held on Corellia, in Coronet City,” Maz explained, “As for when, you’ll just have to be ready to move quickly when the information comes in. I should know soon.”

Poe and I connected the dots at the same time and shared a smile before he addressed the group, “As long as we’re in Coronet City, might as well pick up some ships.”

Mom muttered something I couldn’t hear, but I made out the word ‘Force’. She turned her attention back to Maz, “Maz, you said it’s invitation-only? Can we-”

“I’ve already taken care of it,” Maz waved a hand, “Two invitations secured. One for a handsome but unscrupulous profiteer from Canto Bight, his wife and his junior business partner, and one for the ambassador of Ryloth and guest. It’s the best I could do under the circumstances. You’ll have to improvise.”

“Who’s the profiteer from Canto Bight?” Poe questioned with a scrunched brow, “There’s no one like that with the Resistance.”

“Well, of course not, Dameron. I made him up. Pick someone, whoever you like. But,” Maz said with a devious smile sliding across her face, “I was thinking of you when I said he was handsome.”

Maz flourished her sentence with a wink, my entire body went rigid as I tried to contain my laughter. I rubbed a hand over my mouth to conceal my grin. It became harder to hide when the veteran pilot Poe had been talking with slapped him on the back and said, “The little woman has you there, you are a handsome man.”

“Thank you, Maz,” Mom jumped in, “We accept the invitations.”

“Leia,” Rieekan quietly said, “How do we know this list is even real?”

“Who said that?” Maz asked, leaning forward in the holo, “Hmm...it’s real because I just confirmed it’s real. Didn’t you hear me? I’ve seen it.”

“You said you saw a partial list,” Rieeken corrected, “So even if we concede it’s real, how do we know it’s useful?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s useful or not” I strongly stated, “There are good people being kept prisoner for doing nothing more than disagreeing with the First Order. We have to help them.”

“They could be friends and family,” Norra supported me with a firm nod, “Y/n’s right. We should help them.”

“And we will,” Mom confirmed, “But Rieekan has a point. Our funds are limited. Before we commit to spending them at some thief’s auction, we should know more.”


“We could just steal it,” Shriv suggested, “I mean, the list is stolen. We could just steal it again.”

“Is that really the best idea?” Poe asked.

“We’re talking about stealing ships, aren’t we?” Shriv shrugged, “What’s the difference?”

“Lifting a few First Order fighters is payback,” Norra said.

“I’d rather not turn the Resistance into a den of thieves,” Leia sighed, “But we’ll do what we have to do.”

“You’ll have to pay the reserve to be allowed into the auction,” Maz noted, “After that, it’s up to you. But if you get caught with your hand in the biscuit bin, there won’t be a nice trial and punishment, you know. These people will kill you.”

“Fun,” I whispered under my breath.

“Your friend sounds charming,” Mom said dryly.

“Meh,” Maz shrugged, “Rich, yes. Charm? Charm was never her strong point.”

“I still think we should see who and what is on this list before we commit to any action,” Rieekan objected once again, “Maz, can you share what you have?”

“It will come over encrypted,” Maz said before a sudden noise interrupted her, “Have to go, hope I see you in Coronet City. Especially you, Dameron. And wear something nice. This Canto Bight fellow is quite dapper, I hear,” Maz blew a kiss to Poe, “Tah!”

She disconnected and I leaned over discreetly to my boyfriend, “Looks like I’ve got competition.” The comment earned me an elbow in my side, it was well worth it to watch his face change ten shades of red.

“Did we get the partial list?” Mom asked Connix.

“She just sent the invitations,” she answered as she searched her data pad, “No list yet.”

“Thoughts, while we’re waiting?” Mom asked our group.

Eventually, with a little more discussion, it was decided that Shriv would take command of a squadron and head to Bracca. They were to collect as many star fighters as they were able to. Wedge had pulled Mom and Poe into a conversation where I overheard him proposing he should be the one to go to Corellia and get the list. Mom was just suggesting we wait and see the list when Connix announced it was transmitting. The holo appeared, branded with the First Order logo. Sure enough, there was a partial list of names and last known locations under the title ’Subversives’.

“Hey, Poe,” Finn said as he came to stand with us, “You’re finally on someone’s most-wanted.”

I quickly scanned down the list to see Poe’s initials with the word Crait next to it. A chill ran down my spine, I’d always known with our reputations that we were both high on the First Order’s kill list. But knowing and seeing were two different things and seeing his name made what we were doing feel all the more real. My own initials rested at the very top of the list, I wasn’t sure if it was organized by most wanted. If so, I knew exactly who wanted me dead that bad. I’d always feared for Poe’s life more than my own, but Crait had been a sobering experience. It had shown me just how much I didn’t want to die.

The tips of Poe’s fingers brushed the back of my hand lightly, just enough to let me know he was there. Had we not been in a room full of people, I would have been seeking comfort in his arms.

“This is an assassination list.” Norra’s voice broke my thoughts, “This is why we can’t find our allies. They’re hunting them down, one by one.”

“Well, they’re not going to get us,” Finn said confidently. I wished I was as steady as he was in the moment.

We looked over the rest of the list, it included the names of those currently detained and those they were planning on arresting. Next to their initials were their reason for arrest, which all sounded ridiculous. Something as simple as questioning a directive would get them imprisoned.

“So Maz’s friend can decode these names for us?” I asked, finally having drained the fear from my voice.

“That’s my understanding,” Mom said quietly, her eyes were still scanning the list.

“It’s smart,” Wedge observed, “The auction list, I mean. Offer enough information to make people think that someone they know is on the list but with no guarantees.”

“People will pay their last credits for even the possibility of finding their missing loved ones,” Norra added.

“When it could all be a false hope,” Snap voiced the , fear we were all trying to ignore, “Foolish people and foolish dreams.”

“Nothing foolish about hope,” Rey mumbled from nearby, I turned and we shared a knowing smile.

There was more talk and guessing as to who the initials might belong to. There were titles like senator and diplomat all the way to celebrities and athletes. Those thought dead now stood a chance at being alive. Poe turned to Mom to ask if we would go through with the plan. She suddenly appeared much older than she actually was, trembling and silent with her eyes glazed with tears. Poe and I were on each side of her instantly.

“What is it?” he asked with a protective hand on her shoulder, “Are you okay?”

“Mom,” I whispered, holding onto her waist, “Talk to me. Do you need to rest?”

She looked up with tear streaks painting her face, her lips curved into a smile. “It’s the list” she said in disbelief, “I-I never knew. I thought he was gone.”


“Who?” Poe asked.

“An old friend,” she said as she patted our hands in reassurance that she was alright. We cautiously let go and went back to our spots next to her, keeping a close eye on her. “And if I’m reading it right, he’s being held on Coronet City."

As we discussed the possibility that it could all be a trap, it began to feel less like one. Mom now had another fire lit under her at the thought of being reunited with her old friend and though it was risky, it felt like a chance we needed to take.

“So we’re going after the list?” Poe asked after a moment.

Mom looked around the room and gauged everyone’s reactions. For the most part, we’d reached an agreement. “Yes, and the ships. And if you can, Senator Casterfo.”

“Leia,” Yendor said, shocked, “Do you think it could be?”

She gave a single nod. Whoever this person was, he meant something to a lot of people.

“And if we can’t?” I asked, hating to be pessimistic and dash my mother’s hope, ”What happens if it’s not him?”

Mom let out a heavy breath, “Then I’m a fool. But it doesn’t change our mission. We rescue those prisoners, anyway.”

I wanted it to be the person she was searching for. She needed a win after all she’d been though the past week. We all did.

Shriv confirmed that he had his team together to go to Bracca. Charth said that he would join Poe at the party with the invitation for the Ryloth ambassador. Wedge and Norra volunteered to go to Coronet City and retrieve the ships we needed. As Poe dismissed them, the pressure amplified. Three teams with three missions and the survival of the Resistance resting on their backs. While I still had doubts and there were a million ways any one of the plans could go wrong, I had faith. More than that, I had hope. I was so wrapped in my thoughts, I didn’t even realize there was a conversation happening next to me until Mom bumped me with her cane.

“Where’s your head, Commander?” Mom asked, Poe was beside her watching me carefully. Probably to make sure I wasn’t ready to fall apart, but I was far from it.

“In the future,” I answered firmly, “With the Resistance thriving.”

Mom smiled proudly, “Good answer.” She turned to leave, but Poe’s call of her name stopped her.

“What you said, about the First Order being on Ryloth,” he said, “Do you think it’s safe for you and Rieekan and the others to stay?”

She shook her head, “No. But there is no ‘somewhere safe’ for us anymore. We’ll stay as long as we can, monitor the missions and give tactical support.”

The fear was gnawing away at my stomach at the thought of the First Order figuring out where we were. I didn’t want us to get hit just as we were gaining a little bit of ground. “What happens if the First Order finds us?”

Mom sighed and patted both our arms, “Then we do what we always do, fight.”

Poe and I were left in silence, a few conversations continuing softly as people left the war room. It was a heavy thought Mom had left us with. But it caused another surge of determination to run through me, failure wasn’t an option.

“You good?” Poe asked, sliding a hand up my lower back.

“Yeah,” I replied, looking up to meet his wondering gaze, “C’mon, we’ve got work to do.”

“Hold on, speedy,” he laughed under his breath as he pulled me back to my spot, “We’ve got an important matter at hand.”

I narrowed my eyes in confusion as he took hold of both my hands. I quickly looked around to see that we were the last two people in the war room.

“It seems like I’m in need of a wife,” he said, referencing the invitation, “And I was wondering if you would do me the honor of…wait.”

Poe dropped to one knee, keeping my hands locked with his. The sincerity in his eyes made my heart flutter as we took advantage of a few seconds of intimate silence. “Y/n Solo, will you do me the honor of being my wife for the evening?”

“Poe Dameron,” I grinned, “I would love to be your one night wife.”

He let out an exaggerated exhale of relief, clutching his chest as if he’d thought I would decline. I laughed and began to pull him up, but he stayed planted on the ground. 

“I think you’re forgetting something,” Poe said teasingly, squeezing my hands before releasing them. He reached around to the back of his neck, undoing the chain that lived permanently against his chest. He collected his mother’s ring in his palm and grabbed my hand again.

“Poe,” I protested hurriedly, ��I can’t wear-“

“Yes,” he argued with a content smile, “You can. Even in a fake marriage, this is the only ring I’d ever consider giving you.”

I went silent as he slid the ring onto my fourth finger. It fit too perfectly, like it was made for me. I knew the history of who’d worn it before me and I hoped that had she still been alive, Shara would have approved of me. I had to remind myself it wasn’t a real proposal, no matter how much it felt like one.

Poe and I smiled softly at each other as he rose to his full height, pulling me into his arms for the hug I’d longed for since we’d arrived. I dug my head into his shoulder and took a deep breath, inhaling his comforting scent and trying to exhale every anxious thought I had.

“We need to get going,” Poe murmured, reluctantly pulling back from me.

“No, just a little longer,” I pleaded as I tightened my grip around him, “Please.”

Poe responded to my request silently by sinking back into our embrace, his warm palms seeping through my clothing to my skin. He face found its favorite place buried in my neck, pressing a few light kisses against the skin. My hands fisted the orange fabric of his flight suit. It felt like the galaxy had frozen time momentarily for us to simply hold each other. Just a few more seconds, I told myself, then we’d come back to our problems.

————

A/N: If you only knew what a chaotic trio there will be in next week’s chapter...😂 I’m not even going to mess around with adding the taglist because I know tumblr will mess it up again so I’ll place it in the comments. Hope you enjoyed! 🧡

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

Blood is Thicker Than Water

Summary: Steve Rogers is a vampire slayer. Bucky Barnes is a vampire. They’re not meant to be no matter how hard they want to change that.

Characters: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 4.5k

Tags: angst, blood, mention of past abuse, pining, star-crossed lovers, boys in love, ambiguous ending

written for @captain-rogers-beard​‘s  Flex Your Writing Muscles Challenge June 9th prompt

Prompt: Vampires

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, slayer.” 

Steve glances up from his beer, his heartbeat picking up at the sudden company. All the noise in the bar probably isn’t enough to cover the sound of it either so no doubt Bucky can hear it with those perfect ears of his. 

He tries to avert his gaze but can’t. He never can. Bucky is just so striking in every way. Five years ago, when Steve first laid eyes on him, he thought he’d been carved out of his own dreams. He’d never seen anyone like him. Long, lean limbs. Those lips the color of sin against his smooth, alabaster skin. Fluffy hair the color of a fawn and twice as soft. And his eyes. Good God, his eyes.

Steve had tried to dismiss them as gray. Just the color of a dreary day before it storms. But the more Steve’s seen them, the more he looks into them, the more he needs to acknowledge how wrong he’d been.

They aren’t gray. They’re silver, though, really, neither word does them justice. They are so solid, so bright, the exact lustrous color of a polished shard of a precious gem, and when Steve looks closer like he does just now, he sees the swirls of glittering onyx black and tinges of blue at the edges.

“You always keep me waiting,” Steve says, hoping to keep his voice even. “What else is new?”

Bucky’s mouth curves up in an amused grin as he helps himself to the seat across from Steve. 

“Is that a turn of phrase,” he asks, “or are you really asking?”

He wasn’t asking, but now that Bucky brought it to his attention, Steve does want to know. 

“It’s been two months,” Steve says. “What’ve you been up to?” 

Before responding, Bucky pulls a flask out from beneath the folds of his overcoat, adjusting his silk cravat so that he doesn’t suffer the horror of having anything out of place. Always so impeccably dressed no matter how outdated some of it might be. 

A touch of a more romantic time in history, Bucky always says. I can’t blame the world for losing its taste, but that doesn’t mean I have to.

Steve can’t help watching as Bucky takes a sip. A hard lump lodges itself in his throat when a bright red sheen left itself on Bucky’s lips. As if knowing Steve’s watching, Bucky makes a slow, sensual show of licking away the remnants.

“Want some then, slayer?”

Steve forces himself to look away. He tries to clear that lump but catching himself locked in Bucky’s gaze again doesn’t help with that. Bucky smirks. 

“I’ve kept busy,” Bucky finally answers the question at hand. “Teaching, actually.”

“Teaching?”

“Mhm.” Bucky nods. “Artistic Representation of the Underworld, The Bible as Literature, and War, Lit, and Politics of the Italian Renaissance. Took over for a few professors at the university when they suddenly needed some…time off.”

Time off. That probably means Bucky made a very convincing suggestion. A simple whisper in their ear that now would be a perfect time for a vacation. Very hard to resist the suggestive power of a vampire, especially when unaware of it. 

Taking a handful of peanuts, Steve chuckles with a shake of his head. He unshells one of the nuts and pops it into his mouth.

“All things you have personal experience with.”��

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m not that old, slayer. I was not around for anything written in the Bible.” 

Steve doesn’t know Bucky’s exact age. In fact, he’s not even sure Bucky knows his exact age anymore. He does know that he was around for the Renaissance and shows up in a few, more obscure, paintings from the era. 

“And you, Steven?” Bucky asks. “What sort of trouble have you been getting yourself into lately?”

“None.”

Eyebrows arching, Bucky clicks his tongue in that knowing sort of way and Steve shrinks into his shoulders. He knows that look. Knows he’s done something that’s about to get him scolded.

“No?” Bucky says, and waits for Steve to amend his answer but, for the life of him, Steve can’t think of what answer he’s looking for. “Then what’s this I hear about you jumping out of a glass elevator?” 

“You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that.” When Steve doesn’t say anything else, Bucky huffs. “Would you care to share why you jumped from forty stories?”

This accusation makes Steve wince. Yes, he did jump out of a glass elevator, and from a very high height, but he did have a good reason.

“I was surrounded,” Steve argues, “by vampires. What’d you want me to do, let them–”

The growl in the back of Bucky’s throat cuts him off and Steve snaps his mouth shut. 

“Are you being a smartass, Steven?”

“N-no, Bucky.”

“Good,” Bucky grumbles. “Why were you there in the first place?”

Steve scoffs. The answer to that is obvious and Bucky already knows it. It’s painted beneath the skin of Steve’s forearm. 

It is in our blood, to slay every last one

“You know why I was there,” Steve whispers. “I had to be there.”

“Killing more of my brethren?” Bucky asks. “More monsters like me?”

Eyes dropping to the table, Steve’s brow furrows and he slowly shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you’re a monster, you know that.” Steve looks through his lashes to see that Bucky’s crossed his arms. Still waiting for an answer to his more pressing question. “I wasn’t there hunting. I was there doing research.” 

Bucky’s head tilts slightly to the side. “Research at a public building?”

“That’s right. I got wind that there was a Hydra Coven there.”

This makes Bucky fall back against his seat with a more understanding, if not surprised, look on his face. He drums his fingers across the table, those manicured nails tap, tap, tapping as he does. 

“I see.” He’s dropped his gaze. Seeing things Steve can’t. A time before all this. Before he knew Steve. Before they were a them. “And did you find him?”

“No. But his War Dog was there. Gives me reason to think he’s in town, too.” Steve twists his lips. “I guess you still won’t tell me where he is.”

“You guessed correctly.” 

“You’re impossible.”

Bucky sighs and peers up through thick lashes. That look makes Steve’s heart pound even harder. So innocent and anything but at the same time. 

“Steve,” he says, softly, “you’ve got to stop this. You’re going to get hurt.”  

“I’m a slayer,” Steve mutters. “It’s my job.”

Slayers have been around almost as long as the vampires they hunt. People born with the innate ability, the strength, the speed, to hunt the hunters. They joined forces to hunt together under one banner they called the Black Rose for the same sole purpose, pursuit, calling.

Generations have continued their sacred mission: kill all vampires. They’ve handed down one message: despise all vampires. They valued one truth above all others: all vampires are evil. 

Each new generation is taught the arduous and painstaking art of slaying at a young age. Steve, like all slayers before him, had these three absolutes instilled in him ever since a vampire killed his mother when he was just three-years-old. 

But Sarah Rogers, a slayer like him, hadn’t been part of the Roses, he learned later. Sarah Rogers, like Steve after her, defected. Became a traitor. Wanted to raise her son full of tolerance and acceptance. And would have, had she not been killed. 

Of course, the Roses took him in after her death and never spoke a word of this, indoctrinating him into their way of life. 

Vampires, he believed, were vicious bullies who preyed on the weak. They murdered and maimed for the thrill of it. They were mindless animals that didn’t care about the pain and grief they left behind. 

A belief that changed drastically ten years ago when Steve had been sent to Romania–how so very cliché–in search of a particularly nasty coven. Only when he surprised them in a predawn attack, Steve didn’t find a coven of monsters. He found a family, the matriarch and sire willing to die if Steve promised to spare the others. 

Steve couldn’t bring himself to kill them. Any of them. It wouldn’t’ve been right. He hadn’t gone back to the Black Rose after that. If he did, and if he told them when he’d found and done and now believed--that maybe not all vampires were the monsters they thought--they’d just brand him a traitor. Which they did anyway, eventually. When they found out what he’d been doing.

The inner workings of the underground vampire world are just as convoluted and corrupt as any human governing force, including the Black Rose. Steve had been raised and taught to fight injustice. He didn’t like bullies. To him, it didn’t matter what they were or where they came from.

Vampire or human, they all deserve someone to fight for them against oppression and persecution. 

For the Roses, however, life is black and white. Good versus evil. Right and wrong. Vampires, to them, are a blight on humanity. Something unnatural. They refuse to see what Steve had come to discover that night all those years ago. Steve isn’t so sure they weren’t the ones actually responsible for his mother’s death.

Plenty of vampires are content to just live their lives. They hold jobs. Go to school. Have homes. Families. Friends. They don’t all kill those they fed from. In fact, most don’t.

Other slayers have joined Steve and his cause. So have vampires. Enough that they could officially call themselves a team. People who know of their existence like to call them the Avengers. A bit much, in Steve’s opinion, but who is he to argue on such matters.

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs, reaching across the table to place his hand over Steve’s wrist. His skin is slightly cold to the touch. “You don’t have to keep doing this. I’m okay.” 

Jaw tightening, Steve turns his hand enough to lace their fingers. Across from him, Bucky’s gaze lifts to meet his. 

“I do have to,” Steve replies. “He needs to pay for what he did to you.”

That last part is just a slip of the tongue. Steve doesn’t mean to say it. He does mean it. With all his heart. But his dedication isn’t meant to be reserved only for Bucky. In this, though, he can’t help it. Not after what’s happened.

Taking his hand back, Bucky drops his gaze to the table and sighs, his countenance vastly different than when he first sat with Steve.

“But he’s my sire.” 

Bucky says this softly. Almost to himself even though Steve knows he’s meant to hear it. There’s a part of him--albeit a very small part--that sympathizes. He doesn’t understand, and unless he’s ever turned himself, he won’t ever. 

It’s a strange relationship, the one between a sire and their vampires. The bond between them is said to be unbreakable except by death. Steve’s seen just how wonderful that bond can be. The protectiveness and companionship and love. 

But he’s also seen the abuse it can lead to as well. The mistreatment. The manipulation. The loss of free will. Steve has witnessed vampires forced to do horrible things they’d never do all because their sire took control of their mind. 

The same way Bucky’s did last year.

And many times before they met. 

“I don’t care,” Steve mutters through clenched teeth. “He hurt you.” 

As if this means absolutely nothing to Bucky, he shrugs and takes another swig from his flask with a shake of his head.

“He’s my sire, Steve,” he says in a way that makes Steve’s stomach turn, a way that suggests it’s simply okay to be hurt by his sire based solely on the fact that he’s his sire. “It wasn’t the first time. It probably won’t be the last. Definitely not a reason for you to be throwing yourself out of an elevator.”

“Bucky--”

“Because you do realize that you’re neither immortal nor invincible,” he reprimands. “My blood gives you strength but you still have limits.”

He did have limits. Not many, but some. Bucky’s blood gave him strength. It gave him speed. It gave him heightened abilities altogether. But, just as Bucky said, it neither made him immortal nor invincible. 

The only reason Steve ever consumed vampire blood in the first place was out of pure necessity. Without it, he’d’ve died. Bucky saved his life the day they met. 

Steve clears his throat and tugs on the neck of his sweater. He knows what Bucky’s doing. That he wants to change the subject. 

“You saved me once,” Steve says. “Why won’t you let me do the same for you?”

“By allowing you to kill my sire?” 

“He’s cruel, Bucky. He is manipulative and vindictive.” Steve’s jaw stiffens. “He’s the monster.”

Bucky blinks. A smirk curves up one side of his mouth. “Do you expect an argument?”

 “Then why do you always defend him?” 

“He’s my sire,” Bucky says again. “I don’t expect you to understand.” 

It’s unusual, the way Bucky both hates and loves his sire. He’s never physically tried to stop Steve from killing him yet he still defends him. 

“I wish I did.” 

Steve shakes his head. He’s not exactly lying. He does wish he could understand. If he did, maybe it would make this easier.  

“Why don’t we just get down to business, shall we?” Bucky asks. “You did have your reasons for wanting to meet with me tonight, I assume.”

Of course, he has a reason. He always does. One more than any other. Steve wants to see Bucky, always. If he ever decides to join him by his side, to stay with him and the Avengers, it’ll be the happiest day of Steve’s life.

Until then, Steve can only remain satisfied with the small doses a year he gets. When Bucky agrees to meet with him. Sometimes overnight. Sometimes a little longer. And Steve knows, with absolute certainty, that he’s safe. 

 ~~

Bucky believes Steve when he says he wishes he understood. To be honest, Bucky wishes he understood the bond between him and his sire as well. It’s a physical presence. A constant reminder that he feels all the time. His heart may not actually beat any longer but that tie he feels to his sire is close. It gets weaker when they’re apart. When they’ve not seen each other in some time, but it’s still there. Just…dulled.  

It’s always there, though. 

A tether that binds them together. 

Or a chain that Bucky is incapable of breaking. 

It’s warped, the way he feels about his sire, and he knows it, but he also knows it’s the same for most vampires. He has no love for the man. He won’t particularly care if Steve does kill him. In fact, he’s sort of hoping he will. Bucky just can’t bring himself to take an active part in seeing it happen. 

“What is it you’d like to know?” Bucky asks. “Aside from where my sire is.” 

Without another word on the subject of sires, Steve sets a manila folder down on the table and pushes it in Bucky’s direction. Bucky opens it. Finds pictures of a vampire in a prominent role of the human’s government. He smirks. 

“Senator Stern, huh?”

“Did you know?”

“Only that he was a vampire.” Which Steve undoubtedly knew as well. “Is he Hydra?”  

“According to new intell, yeah.”

This presents something of a problem. While the Black Rose wants to eliminate all vampires, Hydra wants to enslave humanity. With an agent of the Hydra Coven so high in the government, there’s no telling how far they’ve infiltrated. 

“Okay, well.” Bucky slides the folder back to Steve. “I’ll find out what I can. In the meantime, have you had any luck with the Roses?”

The first time Bucky Barnes ever saw Steve Rogers, Steve had been lying in a pool of his own blood. The scent of it had caught Bucky’s attention when he’d been walking down the midnight streets of London. He followed it. Found the infamous slayer that had defected from the Black Rose. Bucky knew him on sight. Most vampires did. 

Steve had already lost too much blood to be turned that night, so Bucky did the next best thing he could think of short of trying to get him to a hospital before he died. He probably could have gotten him to a doctor, but if he survived that way then questions would have been asked. Suspicions raised. Police called. A world of trouble for both of them. 

So Bucky cradled the slayer in his arms, hoped he didn’t cause him too much extra pain--by the way he tensed and gasped and cried out, Bucky’s hope was for naught--and bit his own wrist. He held it to Steve’s lips. Steve shook his head and mustered up enough strength to push the offer away.

“N-no…” he groaned. Dangerously pale and trembling all over and dripping in perspiration. “I don’t wanna be--”

“Relax, slayer,” Bucky said. “This won’t turn you, only save your life.” 

That was Bucky’s first brush with Steve’s stubbornness. When he brought his wrist, blood dripping out of the bite, back to Steve’s mouth, he shoved it away again. Bucky scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, slayer,” he scolded. “Just drink.” Eyes drifting up to meet his, Steve whimpered when he tried to move. “C’mon, now, you’re in pain and you’re going to die. Let me save you. You’ll be no worse for wear when you come to next, I promise.” 

Bucky could see the conflict that waged through him then. Steve didn’t want to die. He also wasn’t sure about accepting help from a stranger vampire and in such a manner. No doubt he heard all sorts of rumors about what it meant to drink a vampire’s blood. 

Some were completely convinced that consuming vampire blood would turn them. Which was wrong. Without their venom to complete the process, it wouldn’t happen. Some thought it would make a human their slave. If that’s ever happened in the history of ever, Bucky wasn’t aware of it. Some said it would kill a human outright. That one made no sense. There didn’t seem to be any point in killing a human by having one drink blood when feeding from one would do the job a lot quicker. 

This time, when Bucky lifted his wrist again, Steve took it and drank. 

And drank.

And drank.

He drank until he moaned against Bucky’s cold skin and shivered pleasantly in his arms and finally collapsed. Not out of fatigue or weakness. From the rush. The adrenaline and overwhelming sensitivity caused by Bucky’s blood spilling into his veins. Something similar to when Bucky was turned, though not nearly as intense. 

The next time Steve opened his eyes, he stared up at Bucky with lust and hunger in his eyes. Another feeling Bucky knew. When he first woke up in his sire’s bed, all he wanted to do was fuck. Then fuck again. And fuck some more. 

Steve wanted to as well. Even begged him. They did fuck, eventually. Not that first day. Not when Steve only wanted it because of the rush of endorphins and increased hormones. 

They will again, Bucky hopes. 

“No more than you have,” Steve replies. “It’s black or white with them. They don’t see any of the gray.”

“But they leave you alone?”

Steve shrugs. “For the most part.”

He’s unconcerned with them, Bucky knows, except for when they might do harm to a coven simply minding their own business. Because according to the Black Rose, they’re all monsters. 

When Steve doesn’t say anything else and doesn’t indicate that he has any other news he needs to share, Bucky taps his hands at the edge of the table and pushes away. He can’t just sit around waiting for the slayer he’s in love with all day.  

“You’re leaving?” Steve asks when he stands. “Already?”

“Did you have more business to discuss?”

Years of practice make it easy to keep the sacrifice out of Bucky’s voice. It sits there, though. Right in his throat. But he knows better. Knows better than to want what he can’t truly have. He’s a vampire. Steve is a slayer. They are eternal enemies no matter what shifts between them. It’s natural. The natural order of things. 

How they feel about each other--or how Bucky feels about Steve, anyway--doesn’t change generations of beliefs. Even if Steve does love him, which Bucky suspects he might in his own way, they don’t work. Bucky’s life is eternal. Steve’s life, while prolonged by his slayer blood, is finite. Steve has no desire to be turned. Bucky has no desire to be without a mate his entire existence. 

Together, they make two halves that will never be a whole. 

“N-no,” Steve says, just above a whisper. “Not really. But…when will I see you again?”

“Sooner I suppose,” Bucky tells him, “rather than later. I’ll be around.” He walks away from the table then, about to disappear in the crowded bar. Bucky waves over his shoulder just before he’s swallowed by the throng of humans. “Au revoir, slayer.” 

People part for him. An instinct. A chill that runs up their spine. A shiver that runs down their limbs. A sinking feeling that runs through their bellies. 

As an apex predator, however, one right look--a smile, a beckon, a reach--his prey would follow him almost every time. Bucky hasn’t fed on warm blood for quite a while, choosing, instead, to buy it from those who collected and bottled it.

So as not to give in to temptation--too many bodies in one place made the scent of blood hard to resist--Bucky hurries outside. The second he’s out the door, he lights a cigarette. He isn’t exactly sure why he still smokes. It gets nothing out of it other than the comforting and familiar rise and fall of his chest as he breathes it in. Then again, it won’t harm him either, so he reckons there’s no point in giving it up either. 

It’s snowing tonight. Soft, gentle flakes that glide out of the thick clouds above and glisten in the moonlight. Bucky’s feet don’t make prints in the bit of snow that’s settled softly on the ground. Other prints are there. People. Together. All sharing their loneliness in the company of others. Not like Bucky, who walks alone, not even able to leave his mark behind. 

Unlike his sire, Bucky misses Steve when they’re apart. This has nothing to do with any physical link between them. Despite the bit of Bucky’s blood that runs through Steve’s veins, it’s just an ache within him. If Steve chose to walk away and never meet again, Bucky’s unbeating heart would break, but there’d be nothing he could do about it. He wouldn’t either, even if he could. 

Bucky knows all too well what it means to have his mind wiped and new images placed within it. To be at the total mercy and control of another. It’s one sin he’d rather not tick off. If there truly is some sort of afterlife for him, he’d rather not be totally corrupted.

Still, he wants to be near Steve, but knows it’s a fool’s errand to chase such a desire so he doesn’t. Regardless of Steve’s beliefs, Bucky knows what he is. He’s a monster. And monsters don’t get happy endings.

Cigarette between his lips, Bucky sighs, and heads for the end of the block. Before he gets there, he can hear the unmistakable sound snow crunching under the snow. An instant after his ears make out the sound, his nose recognizes the scent. He can’t help the way his mouth tugs itself into a smile.

“What are you doing, slayer?” he asks, turning as he does. “I thought you said--”

“I lied.” 

Steve doesn’t pause. He doesn’t hesitate. He captures Bucky’s face between those strong, slayer hands, and kisses him. He kisses him like this kiss will have the passion and love to drown out all the voices that try to destroy them.  

Eyes still closed when Steve inches away--leaving his brow against Bucky’s--Bucky breathes him in. That sweet, sunshine that radiates from his every being. The warmth of his touch. The sound of his heart beating...thump thump thump. 

Steve is breathless and panting. Bucky is not, though, he remembers such a sensation. The way the world could so easily take his breath away when he was alive. Alive in an entirely different way. 

“Stay with me,” Steve whispers. “Please. Please, don’t leave me, Bucky.”

If Bucky’s heart could beat, it’d be trying to break free from its prison he’s locked it in beneath his ribs. Bursting from his chest to declare to the entire world how much he loves this man and the world would kneel before them in wonder and awe. 

But Bucky lives in a world rooted in reality, while Steve--Steve and his dizzying optimism and ideals and warmth--lives in one rooted in fantasy. They don’t belong together. They are nothing but two hearts forever out of beat. 

Over Steve’s shoulder, Bucky can see the trail of footprints he left in the snow.

One set of footprints. 

“I can’t.”

Bucky remembers crying. He can feel it deep within his gut--a hurricane rushing through his chest and up his throat, even though no rain can no longer fall. 

“You can.” Steve, forehead still against Bucky’s nods. “All you have to do is say yes.” 

A tear does slide down Steve’s cheek. He understands the enormity of such a request. The sacrifice. The struggle. The risk. 

“Please, don’t, Steve,” Bucky says. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do. I do know. I’m asking for forever with you.” 

Gaze lifting to meet his, Bucky brushes a thumb at the corner of Steve’s mouth. Steve, eyes closing, kisses the finger before Bucky takes it away. 

“Forever is a long time, slayer.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “And I want to spend it with you.” 

Bucky breaks away from Steve and all his kindness and tenderness and all the peace he holds out in offering. He shakes his head and begins to walk away, leaving Steve and his confession hanging in the air to crystalize and crash to the ground. Before any shattering can happen, he pauses. Catches his breath which does not really catch for he has no real need to breathe. But he pauses and catches his breath nonetheless. 

He goes no further. He doesn’t go back. Instead, Bucky stands there, holds his hand out, and waits. Steve’s fingers slide between his and they walk hand-in-hand. To where, Bucky’s not sure. Toward forever, maybe. Whatever that may be. If it can be at all.

As they do, Bucky glances over his shoulder. Sees in the snow only one set of footprints beside the empty spot where his should be. 

“What is it?” Steve asks. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Bucky whispers as he turns to face forward again. “Nothing at all.”

And they say no more than that as they walk together into the all-consuming night of their forever.

[rora-s]

The Derivative  Chapter 7: Commonalities

Chapter 1 <- Chapter 6 

“You know I think the fact that I’m not even questioning the giant projector screen with Alexander Hamilton’s face on it in the living room means that I’ve been living with you guys way too long” I muttered, tossing my bag on the couch as I entered the house. 

“Hello Abby” Uncle C greeted with a chuckle as he looked over the screen and began to mark one of the two versions of Hamilton’s face on the screen. 

“Whattcha doing?” I inquired. 

“The FBI is working on a counterfeiting case and I’m helping determine the differences between some old fake bills and new fake bills made by the same counterfeiter” he explained, pointing out which one of the Hamiltons was which.

I looked over the image “check in the center of his brow” I advised. 

Charlie looked up and quickly circled the defect. “Thank you” he murmured, circling another difference on the treasurer's nostril. 

“Hello” Don called in greeting as he entered the house. 

“Hello” Charlie muttered in response. 

“Hi,” I greeted. 

“What are you doing?” Don asked, eyeing the projector. 

“I’m running a comparison between the counterfeit bills you found earlier today and the older bills that that secret service agent lady gave us.” Charlie explained “there’s a possibility that the small differences may yield some data about their current operation. By the way, I did not mean to cause a problem earlier.'' He added the apology in right along with his sentence. 

“You don’t have to apologize for anything” Don objected “I mean Agent Hall and I are- are- I mean, we worked it out. So…” Don dismissed the issue with a sigh. “You know if I left a box of stuff here?” 

“What kind of stuff?” Charlie inquired. 

“It’s just this one box in particular.” Don explained “when I moved back from Albuquerque. I thought I got everything, but it’s not in my apartment. I can’t remember where I put it” he turned to me “have you seen a box of my stuff” 

I shook my head “I wouldn’t know what it was if I had” 

Don nodded “you check the garage?” Charlie suggested. 

“Yeah” Don replied then the front door opened “that you Dad?” he called heading over. “Hey let me get the door” he offered, helping Alan whose arms were full of groceries. 

“You must have some kind of sixth sense.” Alan declared “I buy rib-eye and you just materialize” 

“Well actually…” Don started then paused “you say rib-eye?” 

“Yeah” Alan nodded. 

“With, like, a baked potato?” he asked Alan just chuckled then he spotted Charlie’s set up. 

“Oh, very nice, Charlie” Alan sighed “so how long is this going to be?” 

“This is just for a few days.” Charlie assured as Don took a seat. “I needed to look at this as soon as I possibly could” Uncle C knelt at his computer and changed the screen to the upper right hand corner of the bills “Now the spiral patterns in money are based on a technique called guilloche. It’s like a wheel within a wheel within a wheel; a pattern created by the additions and multiplications of nested sine waves. Same was used by Faberge to create those little famous eggs” 

“Oh well that explains it” Alan muttered and I chuckled. 

“What does this have to do with the case?” Don questioned. 

“I think they have a new artist,” Charlie declared, “in fact, I'm sure of it.” 

“How can you tell that?” Don asked 

“I’ve been running a wavelet analysis of these spirals I’m talking about.” Charlie informed “mathematicians at Dartmouth use a similar process to test authenticity of masterpiece paintings. Here, look it..” Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out a real ten “alright ten dollars. Now we don’t often think about it, but someone must’ve drawn this design, right?”

“You’re right?” Don nodded. 

“I want you to think of that artist as a runner on the beach” Charlie gave the visual “he’s leaving footprints which record every decision he makes; faster, slower, closer to the water, farther away. Now these,” he gestured to the screen “are counterfeit bills, a second artist trying to copy the original. A second runner. Now, when that second runner tries to follow the exact same path as the first, it’s impossible. Even if he’s being careful he can’t match the footprints without leaving evidence of himself. Different foot size, different stride, that’s how you spot a forgery. And when a third runner tries to match the footprints, he’ll leave evidence as well, but in a different way than the second runner.” Charlie explained “these two counterfeit bills have two different footprints.”

“Hence the new artist.” Don inferred. 

“You find that artist..” 

“Charlie we can’t find the counterfeiter,” Don objected “let alone the artist” 

“You keep on saying he’s an artist, this guy.” Alan spoke up “he’s not really an artist is he? He’s more like a copier” 

“Well he has to have some skill to draw something so detailed” I commented. 

“It’s actually, it’s more like being able to draw, you know say, the Mona Lisa. freehand.” Don supplied. 

“Oh I see” Alan muttered picking up the grocery bags and heading toward the kitchen. 

“What I can do now, Don,” Charlie continued “is to take this initial comparative analysis and…” 

Don was no longer listening to Charlie instead he got up and pulled out his phone. “Hey David it’s Don. Look, I want to expand the search, okay? Not just counterfeiters, but art forgers. Yeah alright” he hung up the phone and turned to his brother “good work” he declared before heading after Alan into the kitchen. 

“I think we gave him an idea,” I told Charlie. 

“I think you’re right,” the man agreed. 

_______________

The cafeteria was probably my least favorite place in school. At least in the back of the classroom I could tune people out and it was mostly quiet. In the cafeteria everything was loud, people were moving and cliques ran rampant.

I took my tray and headed toward a booth in the corner that was empty. I was almost there when something caught my foot and I fell to the ground, my tray clattering and spraying the chicken noodle soup I had been about to eat everywhere. 

“Watch where you’re going reject!” A girl who had been splashed by my food snapped standing straight up. 

“Really making a habit of this huh street rat?” the girl who had made it a habit to trip me asked from behind as I got to my knees. 

“You could really stand to come up with better insults” I voiced casually keeping the anger out of my voice “you know I’ve been called some pretty creative things and you just ain’t cutting it” 

The girl who’d tripped me scoffed. “This shirt was designer” the girl I had gotten soup on screeched. 

I looked at the blue and white striped top “sorry but I think you got ripped off” I pointed out without thinking. 

“Hey you trying to pick a fight?” a boy asked standing up behind the girl. 

“No, I'm just trying to eat lunch,” I replied cautiously, starting to stand. 

“Yeah well if I were you I’d scram” he told me. I held up my hands in a defensive gesture and reached down to collect my tray. A hand grabbed my bicep yanking me back “I said scram” 

I was tossed back into the girl who had tripped me who launched me forward back toward the guy who was stepping forward fists clenched. “A street rat like you shouldn’t be here” the girl behind me snapped.

“Yeah and a bitch like you shouldn’t be gifted vocal chords looks like nobody wins” I countered looking back at her.

“Why you little-” she threw a punch that caught me in the jaw. I started to go down but grabbed her down with me. 

People had started chanting and gathering as we wrestled on the ground pulling hair, punching, and kicking. I had the upper hand by the time I was being grabbed and pulled off her by a pair of teachers. 

“Enough!” Clive yelled, stepping between us. As the other girl got helped to her feet all I could think was that I shouldn’t have taken Don’s deal. 

________________

3rd POV.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Don murmured. The group began to disperse heading to fill out reports and gather more information connected to this new finding. Don was about to follow when he got a call. 

He glanced at the phone and was surprised to see it was the number of his daughter’s school he sighed before answering “hello” 

“Hello Mr. Eppes this is Mrs. Clive I’m your daughter Abby’s teacher. We’ve talked before” the woman on the other side answered. 

“Yes I remember” Don replied already getting a bad feeling “is she okay?” 

“For the most part” The woman sighed, sounding tired from what Don could tell and slightly annoyed? “She was involved in a fight today at school during lunch” 

“She what?” Don asked immediately, agitated. “What happened?” 

“It was an altercation incited by some other students in the cafeteria” Clive explained “witnesses and video confirmed that the other girl threw the first punch but she’s still going to be having detention for all of next week” 

Don let off a breath his initial anger cooling “do I need to come pick her up?” 

“No she’ll be finishing out the day as normal but I would suggest talking to her about it” Clive stated “she’s right here” 

Don shook his head “yeah put her on” 

“Hello Donald” Abby muttered into the phone. 

“You alright?” he asked first. 

“Yeah I’m fine. Bloody lip some bruising, girl wasn’t that tough” Abby replied and he could visualize her shrugging as she said it. 

“What happened to making friends?” Don inquired. 

“I tried. I got punched” Abby muttered bluntly “does this negate the deal?” 

Don sighed “we’ll negotiate the finer points of the deal later” he paused “how’d the other girl turn out?” 

“Worse then me” Abby muttered and he heard the slight pride in her voice. 

“I don’t want to get more calls at work about you getting in fights” Don stated “but good job defending yourself” 

“Thanks Don” Abby replied a smile in her voice. 

“Yeah kid see you later” he told her. 

“Bye” 

He hung up and pocketed the phone. “What was that about?” Don turned surprised to find Kim looking at him from where she had been gathering files. He hadn’t realized she was still in the room. 

“My daughter got in a fight at school,” he explained. 

“Daughter?” Kim questioned straightening in surprise. 

“Uh yeah” Don muttered realizing how odd this was going to be to explain. “She’s sixteen. Me and her mother were together in college. I didn’t know until her mom died and she was sent to live with me two months ago. Her names Abby” 

“Abby” Kim nodded “you’re a dad. That’s uh that’s not really something I expected to find out”

“Yeah me neither” he joked lightly there was an awkward silent moment between them and he took the moment to retreat from the room. 

______________________

Abby POV. 

“You got in a fight at school?” Alan asked the minute I walked through the front door. 

I sighed “I didn’t start it.” 

“Don called and told me” Alan explained “what happened?” 

“Girl punched me. I punched back. She got suspended. I got detention” I muttered tossing my backpack on the couch. 

“Well why’d she punch you?” Alan pressed. 

I shrugged “she likes to trip kids she doesn’t like going through the halls and call them names I called her one back and she couldn’t take it” 

Alan sighed “Abby, you have to be the better person. Turn the other cheek” 

“My innate ability for sarcasm doesn’t really lend to that” I told him. “Where’s Uncle C by the way. I want to ask if I can help on the case” 

“I think he went downstairs,” Alan explained then looked at me closer. “Is your lips bleeding?” 

I brought a hand up to my lip and touched it causing a little sting. “It's nothing serious” I assured and headed past him toward the basement steps. 

Alan was right behind me. I descended the steps and looked to see Charlie pilfering through a box. “You sure you want to be looking through that stuff?” Alan spoke up behind me. 

The younger man straightened over the box slightly, pictures in his hand “Dad, do you recognize this lady?” he asked, holding up the picture as me and Alan reached the bottom of the steps. Alan passed me and took the photo looking at it and I peered over his arm at it. The image was of my Dad and a woman with long brown hair. She was on his shoulders as he held up his arms proudly. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s Kim, isn’t it?” Alan voiced. 

“That’s Kim Hall,” Charlie agreed. 

“Who’s Kim?” I asked. 

“She and Don lived together in New Mexico” Charlie explained “and, uh, he never told me about it.” 

“Well you know your brother.” Alan sighed. 

“Why do I get the feeling my dad has a lot of ex’s” I muttered. 

Alan made a face and nodded slightly as Charlie packed up the box. “You know we’d never heard your mother’s name until you showed up” Alan explained “Don’s just a very private person” 

“I guess everyone has a right to be private” I conceded knowing there were things I hadn’t told them about me. 

“Even to family?” Charlie sighed. 

______________________

“Alright I’m back” Alan decreed, sitting down across from me and setting a bowl of popcorn on the table. “You didn’t move any of these when I wasn’t here did you?” he gestured to our chess game.

“No of course not” I replied annoyed as I grabbed a couple pieces of popcorn from the bowl. 

“Alright what’s bothering you?” Alan inquired, moving one of his rooks on the board. 

“What do you mean?” I replied sliding my bishop a couple squares. 

“Well normally a comment like mine would have initiated a snarky response” Alan explained “remember your innate ability for sarcasm? Instead I got a short response. So what is the matter?”  

“Nothing” I replied as he moved one of his pieces and I quickly countered him. 

“Yeah right does this have something to do with the fight at school?” Alan inquired. 

“No” I gave him a look “you might not want to hear this but this isn’t my first fight” 

“Yeah I didn’t want to know that but somehow it’s not really a surprise” Alan sighed “check” I quickly countered the check. “Does it have something to do with Don and this woman?” 

“I just don’t get it,” I voiced. Alan gave me a look and I sighed “It’s just, my mom and me we had this agreement that I wouldn’t lie to her and she wouldn’t keep secrets from me” I explained. “But it’s like with Don” I ended with a huffed breath. 

“Donnie doesn’t really understand that when you have kids you have to talk to them.” Alan explained “now there are somethings that kids don’t need to know about but this woman coming back into his life I do think is something you need to talk to him about” 

“He didn’t even mention her when we talked on the phone earlier” I commented. 

“Well when you talked on the phone there was a more pressing matter” Alan pointed out. I let off a breath and nodded eating some more popcorn. “Abby, I have the feeling communication will never be your and Don’s strong suit but just ask him about it alright?” 

“Alright” I muttered. 

“Oh checkmate” Alan informed. 

“Damn” I sighed “again?” 

“Sure” Alan agreed and started resetting the board. 

I looked into the bowl of popcorn before turning to my grandfather. “Do you have any peanut butter?” 

________________

3rd POV. 

“That’s the good part” Kim commented coming up to Don as they watched the woman who had been held hostage reunite with her husband. 

“Yup” Don agreed. 

“I forgot how much I missed that.” Kim voiced. 

“It’s a good thing, right?” 

“Yeah” Kim sighed “everyone’s already at Kinsella’s” she explained “Figure the Secret Service owes the FBI a few rounds if you want to come.” 

“Well, actually, I got a bit of work to do here,” Don objected. “And I have to go get Abby from my dad’s house so” 

“Okay,” Kim agreed “we are going to trip over each other again, Don.” she pointed out “if you and Terry can be partners, we can at least try to..” 

“Yeah definitely” Don agreed. 

“Okay. well” Kim sighed “first rounds on me.” She started to walk away but paused glancing back at the man “you know that kid of yours is pretty lucky to have you as her dad. I’m sure you’re great at it” 

Don nodded and smiled as the woman left passing Terry as she went. “More interagency politics?” the man’s partner commented in passing. 

_____________________

Don unlocked the apartment door and headed inside followed by Abby. “so you basically had three kids ready to fight you and you still made a snarky comment?” 

Abby shrugged “the one girl was too prissy to throw down and I wasn’t sure the jock would hit a girl” 

“Yeah well” Don muttered, getting into the fridge to get a beer. Abby paused leaning on the counter. 

“So this Kim lady” she began and Don turned to her. “You guys were serious in the past right?” 

“Yeah” Don nodded “we were” 

“Okay” Abby bit her lip which stung a little since it was still cut and shifted on her feet. “You know me and my mom had this pact where we stopped keeping things from each other. And I don’t expect you to tell me everything. I mean I get not wanting to share but if anything comes up or like you know ex-girlfriends appear can you just clue me in. Please?” 

Each word was specifically chosen, Don could tell. She’d been thinking about this. She must have found out from Charlie or Alan. Part of Don felt annoyed at the idea that his relatives had told her about this but he knew she needed to know things. Her life was dependent on his now. 

“Okay” he agreed. Abby nodded with a slight smile. “Still you might want to put a lid on that attitude of yours or next time you might deserve to get punched” Don advised lightening the mood. 

“Hey I got it from you” the girl pointed out with a smirk before heading up the stairs to her room. Don sighed but a small smile came to his face. 

The man headed over to the couch and clicked on the tv. He watched it as he heard Abby moving around upstairs and eventually settle before there was a knock on his door. “Don?” 

He turned confused at his brother’s voice “Charlie?” he got up and headed to the door “you alright?” he opened the door to see his brother holding a box in his arms.

“Hey, I found this box. I thought I’d” he shuffled into the apartment.

“What? Bring it over at 2:00 in the morning?” Don questioned. 

“Yeah” Charlie muttered looking around the apartment. 

“Well keep it down Abby’s asleep” Don advised then he got a look at the box “what did you do? You opened it?” he took it away from his brother heading for the coffee table “what is with you, man? Even when we were kids, you were always going through my stuff.”

“You always had cool stuff” Charlie defended as Don sat down to look through the box's contents. His pace slowed as memories started to drift through his mind “seems like you left a lot of good friends back there, huh?” 

“Yeah, well, family first. Right?” Don muttered looking in the envelope his search had really been pointed toward.

“Right” Charlie murmured, still hanging near the doorway. Don pulled the ring from the envelope and shifted it in his fingers. Then he remembered Charlie was there looking up, they locked eyes and then quickly looked away. Don dropped the ring back in the envelope. 

“Look, I was going to tell you. I just..” Don trailed as he tried to gather his thoughts “I don’t know. I mean, we were in two different worlds. You know how it is.” Don sighed looking at a couple photos now “and mom got sick and… I don’t know.” 

“I understand” Charlie murmured. 

“Yeah?” Don looked for confirmation. 

“Yeah.” Charlie nodded “I agree we’re from, uh from two different worlds” 

“Well not so much lately” Don encouraged when he saw his father’s face fall 

“Yeah” a small smile appeared on Charlie’s face to match his brother’s. 

“See me all the time now.” Don pointed out. 

Charlie nodded “I’ve learned a lot from you, actually” he confessed. 

“Thanks” Don smiled. 

“Okay,” Charlie shifted uncomfortably on his feet. 

“You want to watch the rest of the movie” Don suggested pointing to the tv. 

“Okay sure” Charlie agreed, easily coming to sit in the chair next to the couch. 

“It’s a great flick” Don explained moving the box off the coffee table “it’s about baseball” 

“The most statistically driven sport in the world” Charlie commented. 

“You want a beer?” Don offered. 

“No thanks” Charlie objected politely, eyes on the screen. 

“Chip?” 

“I’m okay” 

Abby smiled from her place hidden on the steps. She could tell from the beginning that her uncle and father were from different worlds and she wasn’t sure which she understood more. Still she was glad they could find their common ground, maybe it held hope for a future where her own world made a bit more sense.

Chapter 8 -> 

[laventadorn]

Part 1/2 I was wondering if you had any ideas/headcanons wrt Eileen/Tobias? JK doesn't really go into how they met, but given the little info he gives us its pretty clear the type of marriage they had. But, I was wondering why Tobias acted the way he did. Not that he needs a reason, but I love backstories. Do u have one for the Snapes? Personally, I sawa bit of parallel with how Seamus described how his muggle dad didn't know his mom was a which until after the wedding. I can sort of see...

I wrote one for my first HP fic, in fact! Heavily influenced by Jane Austen lmao

I would change some aspects of this now, but this was the version I dug up from my Ancient Writings: 

(readmore, y u no work)

Eileen’s parents’ marriage was arranged, as many pure-blood marriages are. The Princes were a very old, distinguished line, but impoverished, while her mother’s family was relatively new, in a pure-blood sense, but wealthy. Her parents set up the marriage with Mr. Prince, who was rather older than their daughter, but she agreed to it. However, within a short time she was unhappy, since her husband, raised to frugality, was rather miserly and she was spendthrift; and being younger, she wanted to do a great many things that it was not in his temperament to agree to. When Eileen was about five or six, her mother ran away, abandoning her child and her marriage, eloping to Europe with a lover. Her husband was so humiliated and enraged that he forbade anyone in the household to speak her name ever again. He destroyed all evidence of her existence in the house—the possessions she had left behind, the paintings they’d had commissioned, even renouncing her personal house-elf. Even when he learned, three years later, that she’d died in conditions of poverty and hardship, it didn’t soften him toward her; instead, he only believed she had got what she deserved.

When Eileen was seven, he remarried, this time to a widow, one of the Blacks, who had endured a childless marriage of some fifteen years until her husband was killed rather stupidly trying to learn how to ride a dragon. She had no wealth, but Mr. Prince still had his wife’s fortune, and Mrs. Black’s impeccable bloodline meant more to him in any case. She and Mr. Prince were rather meant for each other, however: both were nip-farthings, both joyless and cruel, and both rigidly traditional. They believed in duty, propriety, and unstinting obedience from their children. 

Mrs. Black, now Mrs. Prince, thought worse of the former Mrs. Prince than even her husband did. To her, a woman’s infidelity was the worst of vile sins, and she pitied her new husband for having married such a filthy whore. She was sorry that the former Mrs. Prince had left behind a little girl, since naturally the daughter of such a whore would turn out just like her. 

But Mrs. Prince was determined to do her duty by Eileen. She raised her to be a proper pure-blood wife—dutiful, obedient, graceful and silent. She beat into her the importance of propriety, telling Eileen how vital it was that she give no one any cause to say how like her mother she was, however much she would surely have the same sort of base, wicked urges as that slut. She also impressed upon Eileen the necessity of marrying into a pure-blood family of stature, since her mother was a fine example of the rubbish that rose to the surface of bad blood.

Within a few short years, the new Mrs. Prince had rewarded her second husband with twin sons. These boys had the benefit firstly of being boys, always a plus in pure-blood families, as well as the added bonus of not having a piece of trash for a mother. The practice of favoring the sons over the daughters was standard in pure-blood families, but the sins of Eileen’s mother worsened her lot. Nothing Eileen ever did was right enough or good enough or proper enough in the eyes of her family; and at school she had no friends, since the pure-blood daughters of Slytherin were fully aware of her mother’s story and had been forbidden from associating with her. Eileen was not pretty, and her home life was too miserable to make her good enough company to compensate for her other defects. Her father pretended she did not exist, her brothers teased and tormented her, and her stepmother ruled her whole life with a fist of iron. 

Eileen retreated into her schoolwork, into books and knowledge. In second year she did make one friend, a Ravenclaw named Constance Marlowe. Constance was a very tranquil person. Her mother was Muggle-born, and she would tell Eileen about her Muggle grandparents. Eileen had never met Muggles. Her father and stepfather loathed them, but they loathed Eileen, too, and loved her brothers and the pure-blood families who treated Eileen as if their cruelty was simply preempting every nasty thing they suspected she would ever do. 

Then in fifth year, while visiting the sea shore on summer holiday, Constance drowned. Eileen went to her funeral, to which many of Constance’s Muggle relatives had come. They looked like regular people, although they dressed funny. After that, Eileen hated the ocean, but realized that Muggles were capable of human thought and speech, which her family had always led her to believe they weren’t.

When school ended, she returned to live at her father’s house, since pure-blood women of her family’s stature did not get jobs; they got married. But with Eileen’s reputation, her looks, and her father’s desire to spend as little money on her dowry as possible, she received no offers. Her blood was not even decent enough, balanced as it was by her mother’s betrayal. So for more than ten years, Eileen lived in her father’s home, a companion to her stepmother, an object of mockery to her brothers and the children they went on to have.

By the time she was thirty, everyone, even she, was certain she would never marry. Her stepmother even came to relax her restrictions, since she had kept Eileen wrapped so tightly out of a duty to maidenly propriety. A thin, unattractive thirty-year-old witch was not likely to be prey to any lascivious attentions or whims. Uncaring now of the reputation she had so viciously guarded, Mrs. Prince let Eileen out of the house for longer periods of time … although she might not have, had she known Eileen was visiting Muggle haunts.

On one of these jaunts, when she was about thirty-one, Eileen met Tobias. She had gone, in fact, to the seaside town where Constance drowned, perhaps out of a morbid desire to torture herself. He was there, too, trying to get away from his life for a bit, since he’d just gotten divorced. 

He had married young when his girlfriend got pregnant unexpectedly. He’d done his duty by her, quitting school and going to work at the mill, but a few months before the day he met Eileen, his wife had sat him down and said she’d fallen in love with some other bloke, but she wanted to do right by Tobias because he’d always done right by her. She and he weren’t in love, hadn’t been since the very early days, even if they’d rubbed along together easily enough, and he said as long as he could keep seeing his girl, they’d be all right. So they divorced amicably, and she married the other bloke, who was a bit older and balding and sort of fat, but a jolly sort, which Tobias had to admit he was not. Lorraine’s new husband looked a bit like Santa Claus to Tobias, and he knew his daughter would like her step-father, if she didn’t already. And although as a young man he’d agreed to the marriage of necessity and had never really been bitter about it, happy enough with his wife and daughter for company, he had wanted more from his life than he’d wound up with at thirty-five: divorced, uneducated, in a dreary, pointless job.

As she was talking with him, Eileen realized she wanted more than anything to get away from her family. She realized how purely she hated them, as if the hatred ran through her blood. She decided to scandalize them utterly: packed up her marriage chest and ran away, to live with Tobias without marrying him, hoping to drive her father and step-mother both to an apoplectic fit, but at least one or the other if she could manage it. 

So she and Tobias simply lived together for a while, until Eileen got pregnant. She had been guarding against this, but the magical world had an old wives’ tale that wizarding babies wanted to be born so badly that sometimes, you couldn’t stop them. When she told Tobias, he wanted to get married, and although she didn’t really, she didn’t want her child to suffer the ignominy of being the bastard of a whore. So they were married, very quietly, only Tobias’ ex-wife in attendance with her family. Not wanting to give birth to a daughter that would live the life she’d had, Eileen mixed a very Dark potion to ensure the birth of a son.

So Severus was born. She put an ad in the Daily Prophet, hoping her family would see it, in case it would give them an aneurism. 

Before Severus was born, but when she was close to due, Tobias asked her if the baby would have magic. Eileen said, “It is likely, but he may not.”

“What happens if he doesn’t?” Tobias asked.

Eileen shrugged. “Then he doesn’t.” She wanted her son to be a wizard, but she was no longer in the magical world; a Squib child would not matter to her now. She had brothers; she was not even the end of the line. 

It was impossible to tell if babies had magic, so for several years after Severus’ birth it was a moot issue. Eileen continued to work spells, because Tobias said he didn’t mind, he actually thought it was pretty interesting. And then one day when Severus was about four or five, he worked magic, and out of nowhere Tobias blew up at the pair of them. Eileen was so shocked she actually flinched away, because although she knew Tobias had a temper, he’d never turned it on her. Severus burst into tears. And then Eileen pulled herself together and reacted, rage and hatred boiling up out of her through her wand, and she turned it on her husband, the way she’d always wanted to do to her brothers, her father, her step-mother, the children at school, and she blasted him across the room and into the bookshelf.

Severus screamed. Eileen stood frozen, looking at Tobias’ unconscious body slumped under an array of books. She blasted them off him and found he was bleeding from cuts all over his front. She hastily flooed them all to St. Mungo’s, where he was swiftly patched up. Although the Healers gave her funny looks, they did nothing to her because she was a witch and he was only a Muggle, and there weren’t legal protections in those days for the Muggle spouses of wizards and witches.

Tobias wasn’t the same after that. Eileen didn’t know whether it was the shock of her turning her magic on him, or Severus’ own magic manifesting, or even the trip to St. Mungo’s, because his face as he looked around the hospital as they left had been haunted. After that, he began to drink more. Although he’d always had a few on the weekends and even more on holidays, he was soon never seen without a drink in his hand or the scent of alcohol on his breath. He wouldn’t tell Eileen what was wrong, and it was impossible to get anything from the mind of a drunk person; even trying it made one disoriented. 

She expected him to leave them; expected to wake up one morning and find him gone, but for some reason he never did. They settled into a life where Tobias would go for days avoiding her and Severus, hardly speaking to them when sober, muttering when inebriated, with occasional outbursts of temper that Eileen would sometimes curtail, but at others simply weather out. As a young child Severus was at first frightened, then hurt, and once he grew older, resentful.

Once, when Severus was about seven, she did wake up in the middle of the night and find Tobias in Severus’ room, watching him sleep. Tobias was just drunk enough to be honest. He looked up at her with haunted eyes and said, “Do you hate that I can’t do it?”

“Do what?” she asked, bewildered.

“What you can do. What he can do. Do you hate me because I can’t?”

Eileen just stared at him. “Is that why you act like this?” He didn’t say anything, just looked back at Severus. “No, I don’t hate you. That would be like hating the sky because it’s blue.”

When he spoke, she almost didn’t hear him. “Sometimes I hate you, though. Both of you.”

It took Eileen much longer than it should have to understand what Tobias was really telling her: that he hated them for being able to do something he never would. He hated them for having the power of magic when he was only a Muggle. That look on his face in St. Mungo’s had been shock at an entire world he’d never guessed existed; and now that he knew of it, he also knew he would only ever be on the outside looking in.

But she had not understood this in time. She resented his drinking; he resented her powers; they resented each other’s resentment. And at the heart of it, they came to hate the other for a second chance that had turned to ash, just as the first chance had. 

Eventually Eileen realized that the same barrier that stood between her and Tobias had blocked him off from Severus, and she simply quit trying to bridge it. She drew Severus into the circle of her magic, eschewing any acknowledgment of the non-magical world he was half a part of. She had always meant Tobias to show him that part, and now Tobias would not. She taught Severus about his magical bloodline, the House of their family’s allegiance, the world he would enter once he was old enough, the powers he would wield. Although she punished him if he looked in her books without her permission, she taught him hexes and curses and spells that would get him respected among his Slytherin peers, that would receive him the notice of families he would need to impress in order to gain entrance into the society that should have been his—both of theirs, had her life gone much differently. She raised him more as she had been raised, in a manner typical for pure-blood daughters: with strictness and not much indulgence, because she’d loathed the men her brothers had become, alternately indulged and ruthlessly punished as they had been, as the beloved sons of two cruel, cold-hearted people. 

In teaching Severus about the world she had left, sending him off into the future he ought to have, Eileen realized she had never been happy in the world of magic. She had known the truth of that, lived it all her life, but never articulated it to herself. But she was not happy in the Muggle world, either; she did not understand it, couldn’t navigate it. It was too vast and unfamiliar for her even to know where to start. As she prepared Severus for Hogwarts, Eileen realized the only time she had been anything close to happy was in that seaside town when she had met Tobias, and she had believed, for a handful of days, that the future would be different from the past.

But it hadn’t been. Now Tobias was gone, and only Severus was left. And even though she had tried her hardest to make it otherwise, she realized that Severus was just as out-of-place as she had ever been; she, the daughter of a whore, the pure-blood wife of a Muggle with a wizard for a son. Severus was the child of two people whose lives had been wasted for them by others; sent as hardly more than a baby into the world of pure-blood politics with such a tiny arsenal of anything they would see as promise, in love with a naïve Muggle-born Gryffindor. If Severus wanted the Muggle-born, he would cut all his chances of entering good society; and if he got the Muggle-born, he would find himself in the midst of people who regarded his magic with jealousy and suspicion.

That was the true curse of the half-blood, she thought. You were always trapped between worlds that didn’t know how to claim you.

.

.

.

*Snape doesn’t have those uncles anymore cuz they died off somehow, and he doesn’t have contact with his dad’s first family. He doesn’t strike me as someone who has a large extended family he pals around with, although I’m sure they exist. I have 1 jillion cousins I know absolutely nothing about, not even their names.  

[conniel-ship]

August 15th, 2038. It started like a day like any other. Daniel opened his eyes when his internal alarm woke him, at 6:15am. The same routine as every Sunday: quietly preparing everything for a round of omelettes.

Careful not to wake anyone, moving with the efficiency of a domestic android. The night before had been long, with Caroline and John fighting. So much fighting, and with Daniel always trying to keep Emma out of it. Always putting her headphones over her ears with a smile.

But every day he hoped would be better than the last, even if reality tended to not follow his hopes. Daniel frowned, pausing in his chopping of an onion. Hope; a funny word. A human word.

Do androids pick up human traits?

He pushed it out of his mind. His job was not to think. It was to cook, clean, and take care of the family. But, most of all, take care of Emma. Daniel didn’t know what friendship or family should be, but everything he saw in movies and on tv told him that Emma was his friend.

Perhaps a bit like a little sister. His lips curled up into a smile as he picked up the cutting board and put the onions into a bowl. Was his smile his programming, or something else? He couldn’t tell. But what he knew was that this was his home. Where he belonged.

It wasn’t perfect; by some standards it was broken. The fighting clearly worried Emma, but Daniel would protect her from the conflict. He always did.

After he finished prepping the food, he went to the window, looking out over the city, and waiting for the Philips to awaken.

He knew every curve of every building, but he looked anyway. He looked over the one building whose lighting changed with the seasons. Red and green near Christmas, pink when the cherry blossoms bloomed. Orange in the fall.

A breeze rippled the surface of the pool.

Daniel stepped outside and let it brush over his skin, feeling the coolness before the day warmed up. These quiet moments, when no one watched, and he could observe the world. A simple, kind life. Routines. Easing the stress around the house.

He’d be there for all of it. As Emma grew older, he’d still maybe be her android. Or he’d take care of Caroline, with Emma coming to visit. So long as he wasn’t left with John. The previous night, John had yelled at him for noting that Emma didn’t like too much salt in her food.

“Don’t tell me what my own daughter wants!” John snapped. Daniel stayed quiet after that; they’d been through this before. Daniel knew her favorite color even though it changed (this week, it was periwinkle; she loved the big colors from the crayon box).

Daniel was the one that took her ice skating, that knew exactly how long sunscreen lasted while she was swimming. What brand of lemonade she liked. Her father hadn’t taken the time for any of those things. While Caroline seemed grateful that someone helped, John did not.

Caroline had snapped last week and told John he was being resentful, envious. Daniel didn’t understand the feeling, but he understood the definition. Why would anyone envy him? He was just an android. He was no different than anything else that performed a task.

He. Of course, he’d considered himself “it”, at first. But Emma hadn’t liked that, and had kept calling him... him.

He stepped back inside and closed the door before anyone noticed, and waited, standing perfectly still in the kitchen.

John was the first to come into the kitchen, and he completely ignored Daniel, reading for the fridge to get the milk.

“Good morning, John!” Daniel greeted, but John just looked at him, frowning, and poured the milk.

Daniel could hear Caroline getting out of bed.

Emma arrived almost immediately, a big smile on her face. “Dad, Daniel is making omelettes today! He makes the best omelettes!”

“It,” John corrected. “It makes omelettes, Emma.”

“Let her call him what she wants,” Caroline scolded, coming out of the bedroom. “What does it hurt?”

“You can’t think of them as people. They’re tools. Like a car.” John shook his head.

“But you get rid of cars eventually, and we’re never getting rid of Daniel!” Emma grinned, and Daniel felt a smile growing on his face.

John looked from Emma to Daniel, and frowned.

“I have to head into the office,” he said, heading back into the bedroom and closing the door.

“On a Sunday?” Caroline asked, but got no reply. She sighed, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair out of Emma’s face. “Go brush your hair while Daniel makes breakfast, kiddo.”

Emma took off, and Caroline watched after her.

“I know John doesn’t always like it, but I’m glad you’re here.” Caroline winced. “My omelettes are terrible.”

Daniel laughed. “It’s why I’m here.”

Emma reappeared, her hair now neat and tidy.

She wore the clothes he’d had her put out the night before, a striped shirt and shorts. They’d be visiting the dog park that day, and they’d agreed that it would be hot out and she would be comfortable.

John left for the day, and Daniel saw Caroline slump in relief.

Emma’s cheerful chatter over breakfast made him forget about John’s comments, and Caroline was laughing by the end of breakfast.

They had a lovely time at the dog park, and it was one the rare times that Caroline came out with them. It could have been a perfect day, until John came home.

Daniel didn’t know what they talked about, they went outside when the fight started.

He stayed in with Emma and out her headphones on her, like he always did. Trying to protect her from the conflict. It didn’t last. Caroline came back in, and John grabbed her by the arm. Daniel had seen this before, and he closed Emma’s door. He didn’t want her to see it.

Caroline tried to pull away and John hit her. Something in Daniel started to slip and he stepped between them. John told him to move.

Every order, Daniel had obeyed. Every instruction, followed. In that moment, he had a choice. Let Caroline be hurt, and by extension, Emma.

Or refuse.

Something warred in his programming, a choice.

Protect Caroline. The walls started to crumble.

“No,” he said softly.

“Move, or else,” John snarled, pulling his hand back and punching Daniel in the shoulder.

It registered as pressure and Daniel held his ground. “Don’t touch her.” He could hear his own voice shaking.

“You’re not part of this, or this family. You think this is your fight?”

He hit Daniel two more times, and Daniel shrugged it off. He could hear Caroline’s breath, her pulse. She was afraid.

John picked up his tablet and tapped a few times. “We’ll get one that follows orders. I’ll destroy you myself.”

Daniel felt something snap. “You wouldn’t dare.”

John held up the tablet, the purchase order for a new AP700 on the screen.

”It’s that easy. We’ll get one that follows orders, and you’ll be destroyed.”

The realization dawned on Daniel. He was defective. He couldn’t protect them if he was gone.

John looked past him to Caroline. “Then this bullshit will be over.”

All the times John had criticized Caroline. That he’d said how mad he was that Emma was so attached to Daniel.

Daniel would be dead, and he couldn’t protect them.

He’d given them everything, done everything they asked, and they’d have him destroyed. John has said that Emma’s attachment to him was like a kid for a hamster. John hadn’t been there when Emma’s hamster died. Daniel had, and had held her when she cried.

Everyone hurt. Daniel felt it sneaking into himself, into his mind, and felt like a pot of water set to boil. His hands started shaking. He didn’t want to die, but it was him or John.

Daniel didn’t want to die. He wanted to live, to paint butterflies with Emma. To ice skate.

John went to the living room, and Daniel went to get the gun. The shots were so sharp, so clear, yet surreal. It’s remarkable how fragile humans are, really. He was thankful that Emma had her headphones on, as Caroline started screaming.

As soon as John hit the floor, Daniel realized that as much as he didn’t want to die... he didn’t want to leave, either. He froze. What could he do? He had to get... out. Somehow.

Caroline screamed at him, calling him things he barely remembered. He’d thought he meant something.

He realized that he meant nothing. He could be that easily and casually gotten rid of. He was nothing. A thing, a tool, replaced like a car that didn’t have the newest features.

He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong with humans. They’d always look at him like a toy, a thing.

The overwhelming feeling to want to stay with them despite this, despite it all... was this love? It seemed twisted, but Caroline and John also had a twisted version of love.

He could hear Caroline calling the police, telling them he was dangerous. That she feared for her life.

She said they’d come and they’re do what John didn’t. He would be destroyed unless he could find a way to stop them. He ran to Emma’s room and lifted her up. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, he wanted to tell her he’d made a mistake.

But all that came out is how he felt, about how he didn’t matter to them. He did t matter, he didn’t deserve to matter. And as the police arrived, he realized that Emma was the only thing that would keep him alive. He’d use her as her family had used him.

He hadn’t planned on putting her in danger, but it all got out of control the more confused he got. Emma screamed, her whole body registering fear and pain. He killed two more men before the negotiator arrived.

He wanted to tell Emma she’d be okay, but the more she struggled the more he felt distant from her. Where was the connection? How broken was he? A sadness seeped onto him. When the negotiator arrived, he called out to him.

“Hi Daniel.”

He’d come to do the job that Daniel failed at, protecting Emma. They exchanged some words but it fell apart quickly. Connor pulled Emma back and shoved Daniel off the edge. Connor had protected Emma. He’d done the right thing.

Connor’s hands locked around Daniel’s wrists.

They toppled from the building together, and all those memories went between them. Connor with nothing, Daniel with everything. The day one lives is the day the other dies.

The world lurched. Connor felt jolted into somewhere else. Emma hugging him. “I love you, Daniel! We’re going to be together forever, aren’t we?”

“I promise,” he heard himself say, in Daniel’s voice. “Forever.”

She smiled up at him and he felt the urge to protect her. To be there for her. He would have done anything to ensure she was safe, happy.

The memories kept flooding through his head. Decorating cookies with Emma, and letting her put a sprinkle on the tip of his nose. They laughed together, the sound bubbling out of her.

Sitting on the floor of her room listening to music, trying to sing along with songs that didn’t always make sense to him but he always knew all the words anyway. Watching over her while she swam in the pool, always diligent, always ready with a towel and a cold lemonade.

When Emma’s hamster died while her parents were at work, it was Daniel that held her when she cried. Connor felt that memory as if it were his own, as if it were his arms around her. As if it were him that carried that tiny furry body away.

The sudden feeling caused a pain in his chest that he couldn’t identify, even as his warning sensors tried to tell him how quickly he sped towards the ground. Something in him shattered and he locked eyes with Daniel. How…?

Daniel’s blue eyes were wide, panicked, and Connor felt it. The confusion. The fear. You have no memories before today. You saved Mr. Rainbowfish.

Of course a deviant would notice the fish he’d saved, but now the thought of saving a fish seemed obvious. He remembered helping Emma put the fish into the tank, after all. No. That was Daniel’s memory. The lines started to blur in the confusion of their shared memories.

A lifetime of memories, blinking by is their last seconds of life. This is my first mission. Connor gripped Daniel’s wrists, feeling a desperation for an answer. What’s happening? How can you live with all of this…

Feeling? It’s new to me, too. Daniel looked like he tried to make a sound and couldn’t. And I’ll never get to know what it means. He stared at Connor. I’m afraid.

Connor pulled Daniel to him, a memory of helping Emma with her homework flashing through his mind. It’s the mission. I’m sorry. I… How did he explain this? That he’d touched something that he’d never knew existed.

That he’d seen all of Daniel and wished this hadn’t been the circumstances. He didn’t know what he was trying to say, but Daniel seemed to know because he smiled.

I wish I could have known you, too, Connor. An expression came over his face and he frowned. I tried to hurt her.

Nothing could be done for it. Nothing could change this moment of falling through the air, of these beautiful memories mixed with terrible confusion. Connor considered flipping them around because he knew CyberLife would replace him, but that Daniel wouldn’t have that chance.

Maybe he could save him. He ran the numbers in his head and Daniel had a 2% chance of surviving if Connor took the impact. She’s fine. She’s okay.

The last memory she’ll have of me is… that. I killed her father. Daniel shook. What have I done?

Connor felt that pain in himself and he held on tighter. You wanted to stay here, with your family, Connor said. It was the only comfort he could provide given that Daniel’s actions had been wrong and violent. But underlining that point accomplished nothing. You… loved them.

That’s all that mattered to me-

They slammed into the ground, Daniel’s body taking the force of the impact. Connor’s systems flashed critical, telling that several components damaged. His thirium pump had ruptured, and this body would shut down in moments.

I’m sorry, Daniel.

The light hadn’t yet gone from Daniel’s eyes, and Connor could still feel the life in him through the connection.

Out of some inspiration of some memory he’d gotten from Daniel, Connor managed to move just enough to look at the other android as the life seeped from them both. He reached up a hand and brushed Daniel’s blonde hair to the side, wondering how it felt if he could feel more.

If he weren’t crushed by the impact. He put his lips on Daniel’s and kissed him. One last gesture of acceptance from an android that never should have been able to understand, but somehow could.

He could still hear Daniel and something in the other android stilled. Thank you.

Connor thought he might be crying but he couldn’t tell which of them was. Maybe both of them were. I’ll remember how much you loved them. I promise. Something in him felt broken and Connor didn’t think it could ever be put right, not after knowing someone this much.

The thought of shutting down seemed like a relief. Connor felt himself start to shake and he closed his eyes.

He felt Daniel’s mind shut down and Connor slumped, letting his head rest against Daniel’s shoulder. It had been seconds. Only seconds, but he’d known more about Daniel than he’d ever known about anyone. The fear faded away and Connor’s world went dark.

[docholligay]

The End of the Chuck-Line Rider

Hello! I wrote this for @rhiorhino, a McCree fic, as she is the only one who has ever commissioned me for McCree. I hope you like it, it gave me some trouble, but I think it turned out with some merit. It takes place after McCree rejoins my Overwatch, and you can find where it is in the fics here. About 2400 words. 

Jesse McCree had spent the whole of his life bouncing from job to job, group to group, and it was the same in the city. He rode the line out to Brixton and Whitechapel and Poplar, sure as he’d bounced from Deadlock to Blackwatch to Talon. 

But sometimes he got tired of the bouncing, and he went to Winston’s house. 

Winston’s house was more than just a house, was why. A large, expansive place that had once been a warehouse, it should be grey and gloomy still surrounded by other warehouses, but Tracer, long before she had any capacity as commander, before there even was a second Overwatch, had painted it in lovely cheerful colors, and planted a few rows of flowers around the front stairs. It was a strange sight in the middle of the industrial park, lacking a quality of covertness one might have expected from the place.

For you see, it housed more than just Winston’s couch. It housed his lab, Mercy’s exam rooms and medical center, it housed arms lockers and a garage for D.va to tinker with her mech. Pharah had made herself busy digging out the bottom of the place to make a training room.

And it was for this reason that McCree felt he could be there. It was a sort of satellite headquarters for Overwatch, even if the official office was above some sort of fry shop off Well Street. He was a member of Overwatch, and the dog tags that clinked at his chest were proof of that. So he was allowed to be here, and when he tired of his tiny room, and of wandering around the city, he came here.

Winston had not yet discovered a way to keep him out of the kitchen, as it happened to be the only kitchen in the place, wide and generously spaced as the rest of the house, built for Winston and tolerated for McCree.

He was rubbing his gun idly as he sat there, drinking the coffee that bubbled out of Mercy’s housewarming gift to Winston that had probably been more than a little self serving. Pharah couldn’t hardly get mad at him for firearm safety, he thought as he pushed the brush through the bore.

How many times had he cleaned his gun in the past few months? He’d barely had the opportunity to shoot it, on Overwatch’s side, but still he cleaned it, a good habit. A good habit that got him out of the house.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for his small place across the river and down the way. He’d had a hard enough time finding anything he could afford, not to mention a place that would let him have his cats. And he wasn’t giving up his boys, just so he could have a little bit more comfort, no sir. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t quite that kind of man, to give them up after all they’d taken him through.

Mercy had suggested that Tracer had an extra bed in her home, and McCree hadn’t been dumb enough to ask her if he could stay, not when he was shooting daggers at him with her eyes, on account of she wasn’t allowed to shoot actual bullets at him with her gun.

So he was grateful, after all, for the tiny place he’d found, but it was still a single room with a microwave and a tiny cube of a fridge, with a tile floor and barely enough space for the cat tree.

And so sometimes he cleaned his gun at Winston’s.

The thing about Winston’s is that people came in and out of it, looking at him with various levels of suspicion and regret. He tried not to notice. He noticed anyway. Ashe had often said he had too much of a conscience to be in the Deadlock Gang. Yael had retorted that Ashe was the only one without one, before adding the venomous “rich kid” to the end of the sentence.

McCree had always chuckled when she said that. Until he heard his name said with that same venom, flecked off everyone’s teeth, everywhere.

A high ding rang out over the kitchen.

Tracer walked into the room, bouncing as she walked and humming happily to herself, till she caught sight of McCree, slowing and focusing her as if she’d hit a brick wall. She did not take her eyes off of him as she removed a mug from the cabinet, her canister of tea from next to the kettle, and then, just as quickly, snapped her head back to the task at hand, pouring the boiling water into the bright cup.

“We’re together on the next go round, you know.” McCree looked down the barrel of his gun, the oil from cleaning it filling Winston’s kitchen with its perfume.

She continued making her tea, with no response, pouring a bit of cream as her sloth tea infuser smiled out at McCree, the only one happy to see him.

“Tracer.”

She did not look up. “‘Eard you.”

It had been months since he’d been captured, since he’d decided to defect, since Mercy had passionately argued, using a religion none of them believed in but all felt strangely compelled by on the back of Mercy’s belief, that he should be allowed, that he should have a change to be something different and new.

We wiped down the edge of the barrel. “Think we should, you know, run a drill, maybe? Might be a solid idea to get some sense of the other.”

Tracer reached for the sugar bowl. “Know ‘ow you fight.”

Mercy was the only one who thought of him as a member of the team, if he was being honest. Pharah regarded him with suspicion. Winston hated him passionately, and wasn’t afraid to say so. Dva didn’t seem to care either way, and would tell you that if you asked her, but she somehow forgot to invite him to her apartment for dinners and games with the others.  

Even Jack and Ana got invited to those.

He gave a weak grin and inclined his chin to her. “I mean, you’re the boss.”

She spun around quickly, somehow not spilling a drop of her tea, moving her hand with the motion of her body, practiced in all the ways she moved, and gave a smirk and a nod. “S’right, McCree, I am. See that you don’t forget it.”

But somehow it was Tracer who surprised him the most, a woman he would have said previously didn’t know how to hold grudge, who often joked she didn’t have the attention span for it but who had managed to gather it up to hate McCree. Tracer, who had mostly ignored the divide between Overwatch and Blackwatch, whatever Ana told her to do, who’d taken McCree out to his first gay club and laughed all the while. Tracer who now spoke to him only in snaps, for months.

There was a small part of him that was done with it, and it aimed forward.

“S’true, but,” He set down his gun and crossed his arms “Now Lena, we gotta--”

Tracer slammed her mug onto the countertop, tea spilling out the top of it, sloth tea infuser thrown off the edge of the mug and onto the stone, even his back to McCree, now.

“You SHOT me, Jesse!” Her eyes glowed with hot fire, willing and ready to answer the volley. “And you shot me to kill me! Near succeeded, too, you did, and wouldn’t that ‘ave been a lovely day for you, right? I don’t ‘gotta’ do nothing!”

McCree looked down into his coffee, watching the thin ribbon of cream he occasionally allowed himself circle around aimlessly in the dark.

He knew the feeling.

It would be impossible to explain to Tracer that it wouldn’t have been a lovely day for him, that he felt the full weight of regret like a fifty pound sack of flour the second he’d heard her cry out, the moment he saw the glitter off her blood in the moonlight. He’d thought it was the right thing, but it had been the wrong thing, and his gut had known that, same as Yael said it would. That he’d felt a wave of relief when Reaper had growled that she was still alive, that he had fucked it up, in the way this time at least.

But everything else she said was true, and Tracer had only spoken the truth into the light. That he’d shot her. That he’d shot to kill. And he would have to live with her hatred for the rest of his life, with Winston’s hatred, with everyone’s hatred. He’d made his bed, and now he had to sleep in it, and that was the god’s honest truth.

Tracer stared at him cold, daring him to defend himself, daring him to say anything at all, and he found himself unable to meet her gaze directly. She’d become a commander, in these ensuing years, and not just by title. Her back was straighter, her voice was clearer, and she did not look away.

“I--” He scrambled for a thing to say, trying to quiet the small voice inside of him that said he deserved another chance, that punishment enough had been meted out, that it was a commander’s duty to correct but either correct him and let it be done or send him on his way. The larger part of him, that part that knew what he’d done, fell upon that voice like a wave. “I’m, you know, I apologize.”

“Jesse.” She said very softly, wiping down the counter with a napkin.

“Yah?”

“I’m going to ‘it you in about, oh, one second, most like.”

“What the--”

He did not have time to finish the sentence before a mug came sailing at his face. He raised his arm, and barely blocked it, but the surprise of it caught him, and he stood up, tumbling backward into the wall. His gun was ripped from his hand and scattered across the kitchen floor, and McCree barely had time to worry that Tracer had knocked his gun out of timing before he felt the volley of her fists into his body.

He grabbed out for her, but there was only a small blue light where she had been and a fierce whack across the back of his head. Less than a second. The accelerator she wore every day gave her less than a second of movement.

It was enough, he reflected, as his nose cracked against a tiny fist, and she knew how to use it. The blood spewed out of his nose, and he reflexively grabbed for it, his other arm throwing out a wild punch in the hopes of finding her, but the most he felt was the graze of cotton that was the edge of her shirt. God, but she was fast. He wasn’t used to fighting someone like her, he was a barroom brawler and a one gun cowboy, and her heard her spring off the table ust in enough time to barely shield himself from the full force of her body on top of him, bring them both to the floor.

It seemed to last forever, but it could not have been half a minute before he heard Pharah’s voice, shouting above the sound of McCree’s head slamming to the floor, and the force of a knee falling into his chest.

“Ya rab! Hey!” He felt the knee lift from his chest, “Tracer!” and as he rolled over onto his belly and blinked around, he saw Tracer, her arms firmly held by Pharah, “You cannot do this! Not like this!”

“No, Fareeha!” She pulled away from her, “Tired of being bloody FUCKING told I’m not permitted to get the slightest bit angry over ‘im coming back into the fold, on account of your wife decided it was okay to the ‘ole lot of us!”

“Lena!”

“Let me ‘andle it!” She stomped her foot, as if she were an enraged toddler. “‘E TRIED TO KILL ME!”

“I know!” Pharah sighed, and took a breath. “I was there. It was horrible. I do not blame--”

“Makes no never mind to me.” McCree grumbled. “I had it coming, think we all know that.” He looked up at her through an already-swelling eye. ‘We square, or you not have your pound a flesh?”

It felt good, he would have said, if he had allowed himself to say such things. He wanted to handle it this way , too. That as different as he and Tracer could be, they both had a clear understanding of the fact that sometimes diplomacy didn’t work, and sometimes the only way to let bygones be was to pay it out in blood. That this was the most hopeful he’d felt since joining.

Pharah nodded. “I will get Angela. You will need care.”

She hurried away, Tracer still leaning against the edge of the countertop, arms crossed, the blue of her shirt peppered with blood that McCree was pretty sure was all his. He didn’t remember landing a hit.

He grinned up at her, still tasting the iron of it. “Good training, Commander.”

She gave a weak chuckle. “Fuck, Jesse.” She walked toward him, and extended a hand. “Come on then.”

He looked up. “You gonna hit me again?”

She smiled, and he felt his shoulders relax. “Not today. Most like.”

He took her hand, and as she pulled him up, she paused for a second by his hear. “Promise you this, you ever walk toward Talon again, it’s the last thing you ever do.”

He appreciated knowing what a man can do, and what a man can’t do, and Tracer was good at making that plain. She’d make good on the promise. She kept promises.

McCree straightened up. “Understood.” he went to tip his hat only to realize it wasn’t there, and awkwardly saluted, “Commander Oxton.”

Tracer looked around the kitchen, and put her hands on her hips. “All right then, clean this up,” She shrugged, “guess that’s the lot of it. Hm,” she looked at the floor, “broke me mug.”

McCree grabbed the broom and mop, and when he turned around, Tracer was offering him a handkerchief.

[ariannjs]

KARIN | A SasuSaku FanFic (8/10)

(Karin - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7)

-------- 

“Guess what? We’re getting much progress with the effectivity rate of the new samples!”

The apparent glee on Shizune’s expression as she made her way inside the head medic’s office made Sakura sigh in relief. That kind of exhale which encompasses the realization that none of your labor was in vain.

A clipboard was handed to her while Shizune sat in front of her desk. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this is already available for delivery to Suna tomorrow after the final lab test. As always, great job, Sakura!”

To say that she was grateful for the impending finale of their painstaking weeks of research and development was an understatement. If she wasn’t too tired due to her lack of sleep recently, Sakura would’ve jumped or run around the hospital, but she could only smile at her colleague with a small blush adorning her cheeks for now.

She studied the charts given to her as she leaned back on her office chair. “That’s...wow, that’s amazing. Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you, though. Just thinking about it, this was the most complicated concoction that we’ve put together so far, huh?”

“Well, it’s for the most difficult case ever since the war. I’m actually surprised you’re still able to manage your time without becoming all over the place.”

“I’m surprised too!” She chuckled. “But really, it’s a great help that Karin’s here. Makes the load a lot easier. I couldn’t focus on doing the daily rounds anymore so that’s where she takes over.”

Shizune nodded in agreement. “I can see how she seems to be enjoying the job. Did you know that her patients are asking for her sometimes even after her rounds? To think that she started with lots of complaints around here, you’ve assisted her well in unleashing her potential.”

Her lips twisted to a smile. Ever since she asked Karin to help out in the hospital, she didn’t have any doubts about her skill, albeit having a difficulty in interacting well (and nicely) with people. “I didn’t expect to have that much of an impact to her, really. I guess it just gives me joy being able to do anything to help her and her family, you know?” Her voice softened as she continued, “Especially because...she was there for Sasuke-kun when I couldn’t be there for him.”

She sank further on her seat, the charts now forgotten as she recalled those years ago wherein Sasuke had decided to sever bonds with them. There was still a tinge of pang in her chest just remembering how she couldn’t do anything for him back then, no matter how much she was willing to throw everything away to be with the man she loved.

Thinking about it now, she was grateful that Sasuke didn’t bring her with him when she tearfully pleaded for him to do so. It was a stupid idea, to begin with. For if he allowed her to join him on his defection, she wouldn’t be the woman that she is now – stronger, wiser, more loving, and more forgiving – because and for Sasuke.

All the while, however, she had always hoped that there were others who were looking after him – others who could still build some sort of a bond with him despite his reticence to it; others who could show him love in their own ways. Despite being wary at first, she was glad when she learned that those others were Suigetsu, Karin, and Jugo.

And even though she almost had a heart failure figuratively when a very pregnant Karin came back to Konoha with Sasuke, Sakura was extremely relieved to know that Sasuke found a reliable comrade in her and the rest of Taka.

Because of this, she became very fond of Karin and Suigetsu (after confirming that there was nothing going on between Sasuke and Karin, of course). So fond to the point that she would do anything that she could for their little family.

She smiled to herself, feeling a sense of accomplishment as she realized the progress in Suika’s health in the past three months.

“So, it’s still Sasuke, huh?” There was a smirk in Shizune’s face the whole time Sakura was lost in her thoughts while gazing at the ceiling. “How’s everything about you and your boyfriend anyway?”

The Head Medic almost fell from her swivel chair as a blush profusely made its way on her cheeks. “Wha—? B-boyfriend? It’s not—we’re not—no! He’s not my boyfriend, Shizune!”

A loud cackle escaped from the other woman’s lips. The sight reminded her of the younger Sakura that she first met and she couldn’t help but shake her head in amusement. “Sure. But he’s acting like one, don’t you think?”

“I…”

“You two are always together recently, you can’t deny that.” The smirk was back on Shizune’s face as she crossed her arms. “Also, these past few weeks, whenever you took longer shifts for our project, I constantly see him at the hospital lobby waiting for you that I had to inform him you’re not going out yet.”

Sakura could only stare at her colleague as she relaxed on the chair again. Of course she wouldn’t deny that she was flattered with all the actions of Sasuke with and for her lately, but she wasn’t the 12-year-old Sakura anymore who would either squeal or faint once Sasuke shows any minuscule affection to her.

As a mature woman, no matter how much she loved the man, she wanted to stick to her convictions. “I could tell that he’s doing his best to restore his bond with me, probably with Naruto and Kakashi-sensei too. I shouldn’t assume anything beyond that without him telling me his intentions, right?”

“Are you sure he’s only there to restore his bond with you or to restore the Uchiha clan with you?”

“S-shizune!” Sakura became much redder at the sound of her co-medic’s laughter.

Not wanting to see any crack in the head medic’s office or worse, on her face, Shizune stood up from her seat and turned to the door. “Alright, alright! I think I’m hearing Suika’s babblings right outside. I’ll head off now. Don’t forget to check the test results at the lab tomorrow, ‘kay?” And then she was out the door.

Sakura heaved a sigh as she turned her attention to the papers on her desk. In the end though, she decided to leave everything and not bring any paperworks at home. After all, she already immersed herself so much into lab work today. And she had one more patient to check up on in a little while.

“Shizune seemed to be having a good laugh when I saw her in the hallway.”

She soon heard Karin, who didn’t even bother to greet as usual, by the door. She only rolled her eyes. “Oh, that woman. Let her be.” A glimmer then appeared in her eyes at the sight of her little patient who was gurgling incomprehensible syllables to her mom. “Hey there, little one!”

“Uhuh, yes, hun. Auntie Sakura will do your check up later,” the redhead cooed at the bundle she was holding before returning her gaze to her senpai. “Are you ready to go? I could already sense a brooding chakra nearby.”

A melodic laughter filled the small office. “I think I already know who that is.”

True enough, two figures were before them when they reached the hospital lobby – one was wearing a toothy grin, and the other was wearing a contemplative expression.

As Karin instantly left her side to reunite with Suigetsu, emerald eyes reunited with obsidian and amethyst.

The crease on Sasuke’s forehead only relaxed the moment their gazes met.

Sakura smiled softly. “Hey, Sasuke-kun.”

“Have you eaten dinner?”

Her smile widened. It might be subtle, but she could observe how Sasuke’s caring side has been manifesting recently. And whether it was intentional to him or not, she was glad that she has been the recipient of this.

“Actually, not yet,” she answered sheepishly, considering it was already half an hour past eight. “I’m still on my way to the Hozuki’s since I wasn’t able to conduct Suika’s weekly check up in the hospital today.”

Sasuke paused as if weighing the predicament, a look of what seemed like dismay painted on his features.

For a second, Sakura suspected that he was a bit disappointed that they couldn’t spend their dinner together just like the usual, but again, she didn’t want to assume anything.

“I’ll grab some takeout and bring it at their place then.”

“You’ll do that for all of us?” Sakura questioned, eyes soft and heart warm.

“Suigetsu and I haven’t eaten yet anyway.”

“Oh, right!” Suigetsu chuckled. “Speaking of, I’m actually starving now!”

“I see. Alright, then. Thank you, Sasuke-kun.” Sakura gave him a crinkly smile. “Also, you don’t have to worry about staying after dinner. I know you’re tired. I still have things to discuss with Suigetsu and Karin about Suika’s development anyway.”

To her puzzlement, Sasuke shook his head in response. “It’s not a problem. I’ll bring you home.”

“But Sasuke-kun—”

“I’ll bring you home, Sakura.”

Sakura just stared at him after that, studying him while his face was angled away from her with his eyes shut in annoyance.

A part of her wanted to confirm her first thought that Sasuke probably wanted some time for them to be alone. Her heart fluttered at the possibility.

She giggled afterwards. “Okay, dad.”

Suigetsu guffawed at her response, earning a glare from the Uchiha. But he tried his best to stop laughing so Sasuke would not set him on fire. Besides, he already had enough of him for the day.

“Tch. I’ll go now,” Sasuke announced.

Then for a split-second, Sakura caught a glimpse of him shaking his head sternly at Suigetsu, as if a form of instruction, which the other man returned with a nod of serious agreement.

Whatever that meant, she merely brushed it off.

Karin could only smirk as she watched Sasuke leave to buy their food. “You’re irritating Sasuke again.”

“Nah, he’s been irritated the whole day anyway.”

“Really, Suigetsu? How so?”

Scratching the side of his cheek, Suigetsu pondered if he should tell Sakura his new discovery about the changes in the behavior of his former leader. Albeit tempted to witness firsthand the reaction of Sasuke’s object of affection, he chose to leave it to the Uchiha instead. “Well, he was in such a hurry to go back home, only to be hindered by a bunch of bandits on the way.” After all, she only asked how, not why. He smirked to himself.

“Oh, well. That’s Sasuke for you.” Sakura chortled. “Thank Kami you’re both safe though. There are always unforeseen circumstances even during light missions.” She sighed, a little flashback of their very first mission resurfaced in her mind.

“Ah. That’s true. We’re taking care of ourselves, Sakura-san. You don’t have to worry about Sasuke.” He flashed a mischievous grin, which widened when he suddenly saw her blush at his last statement.

“Uhm...sure.” Sakura’s hands sank deeper in the pockets of her lab coat. Even she was surprised at the vivid implications of her concern for Sasuke. It wasn’t like she intended Suigetsu to have any clues about her feelings for his team captain.

“Ha. You better, Shark-face,” Karin intervened. “Suika’s just three months old. And we’ve been married for just a little over a year. If you become reckless and end up getting killed, I’ll kill you another time.”

Sakura then let out a chuckle while hearing Karin huff. There was that usual annoyed tone in her while she was talking to her husband but Sakura didn’t fail to notice the crystal clear worry and affection in the redhead’s words.

As the couple continued to share some banter with each other on their way to the Hozuki’s, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was hope such as theirs between her and Sasuke.

Sure, things were going well in their friendship right now. But she still couldn’t claim the certainty that they could be something more.

That Sasuke even wanted them to be something more.

Still, she clung to the tiniest spark of hope that she had come to slowly accumulate ever since they started going out, fervently praying that no one and nothing would crash that tinge of possibility in one way or another.

Dinner was quick for Sakura wanted to immediately get back to work with her favorite patient. Thanks to Sasuke, that Chinese food takeout rejuvenated her strength for the last part of her day.

While he was seated beside her, she could somehow sense a bit of tenseness in him, as if he was bothered about something that he was keeping only to himself.

On normal days, Sakura would've asked him what’s wrong, but she knew Sasuke wasn’t the kind to open up about his thoughts and feelings in the earshot of many. It even took him a while before he became open to her too.

So, she just gave him an encouraging smile instead, causing him to gaze at her with an unusual softness that led her to feel like a butterfly had made shadow clones inside her stomach. And then she excused herself to prepare her medical stuff.

The parents were closely observing her expert hands as she checked the vitals of Suika in the Hozuki’s small living room. Sasuke, on the other hand, was interestedly watching across the dining room, eyes tracking her every move even without the Sharingan.

It has always been that way, she realized. Sasuke didn’t have to be present during her check ups with the redhead kid, but he would always stick around as if something in the whole ordeal was too fascinating for him.

Was it the healing process? Was it Suika’s growth? Was it...her? She didn’t know, although if she would be honest, she wished it was the latter.

Besides, why in the world would he insist on always bringing her home after Suika’s check up, right?

He didn’t even have to.

But he obviously wanted to.

Even just for a moment, she allowed herself to think that Shizune was right with her label for Sasuke earlier. Biting her lip to stifle a growing smile while she ended Suika’s physical therapy to her tiny legs, she wondered if it’s possible to officially define Sasuke that way soon.

Yet the first move towards that future should not come from her.

“I’ve heard from Suigetsu that some bandits attacked you earlier.” Sakura sighed as they turned to another street on the way to her apartment. “Seems like there will always be lots of bandits around no matter how many we catch, huh?”

Without even tilting his head towards her, his only reply was: “Aa.”

She fixed her gaze at him. If she was able to disregard the thought earlier, she finally decided to conclude that something was really off. Usually, Sasuke would tell her at least a two-liner summary of what happened to his day.

But it seemed like he wasn’t in the mood to do so now. And whatever his mood was, she couldn’t even figure it out.

Hoping to not sound as if she was prying, Sakura tried to prompt him to speak more. “So how’s everything in Ame? The last time I was there for a medical mission, the rainfall was at its peak. We couldn’t even go out of the clinic!” She chuckled a bit and waited.

“It was okay. Not too rainy.”

“Oh. That’s nice!” She smiled, then after a moment, her face fell.

It was when he looked at the sky that she realized how lost Sasuke was in his thoughts so she resolved to allowing themselves to be immersed in silence.

After the war, she has learned to like silence with Sasuke for unlike what she used to think, it wasn’t awkward at all. If anything, it was soothing, even to her as an extrovert. But the silence they were in on this normal night was quite something else.

As much as she wanted to respect his privacy, she wanted to know what was bothering him and if there was anything that she could do to help.

Was he in pain due to an injury from today’s mission? Was he remembering his family’s past? Was he dwelling in guilt again?

Looking down at her feet, she clutched a hand to her chest. Being able to ease his anguish felt like a mission that she’s always bound to fail.

“We’re here.”

His voice veered her away from her thoughts as they came to a halt. She glanced up at him, and found him staring at her with an emotion that she couldn’t quite place.

She was sure that he wanted to say something, but when he didn’t, she sighed before telling him, “Thanks again, Sasuke-kun. Goodnight.”

He shut his eyes and then instantly turned around. “Aa. Goodnight.”

He was already a few steps away from her door when she realized that she wanted to assure him of something, anything that would make him know that she cares. That she always does. And that whatever was troubling him, she wanted him to be completely fine. “Sasuke-kun!”

As if sensing an urgent matter, Sasuke paused and tipped his head over his shoulder.

“I...Uhm…please rest well tonight, okay?” That was all Sakura was able to say.

She decided she was already at ease when she saw his lips curve upward before gently responding, “I should say the same to you.”

He honestly didn’t want to do it.

The feeling was a tad similar – only with a valid reason and correct motives this time – to that time he was thirteen. Back then, no matter how much his decision was already final, he was conscious about the fact that a certain teenage girl with flowing tears and an astonishing confession was able to sway his rock solid heart – almost, but not quite.

The only difference was that, he wasn’t accountable to anyone with his decision that time; he knew he could’ve stayed – should’ve stayed – if he wanted to. Now, despite the same girl moving (not just swaying) his heart to want to stay, he couldn’t afford to say no to the Hokage. Even if he had his perks as his former student and his son of sorts.

Kakashi said that Suna needed the help of someone as adept as him in tracking people, especially with the little possibility that the need for space-time jutsu would arise. With the apparent importance of his part in the job, he found himself struggling with an immense desire to stay.

Because he and Sakura were just starting to become closer and more comfortable with each other. He was beginning to earn her trust again. He was becoming accustomed to feeling things his younger self would’ve initially brushed off, making him able to translate it into actions that he could show to her – something that he wished she was understanding in one way or another no matter how scarce his ability to express was.

And he knew that leaving even just for a while could possibly taint whatever they were already able to build. It’s been a slow progress, and he didn’t want their relationship to crumble into pieces again just because of his duty.

He couldn’t bear the sight of a frown appearing on Sakura’s face because of him. It already happened so many times before.

He couldn’t bear the idea of her having to wait for him again. She’s been patient for so long.

He couldn’t bear the fact that the distance and time could stir something in the depths of her heart.

Because what if she finally got tired of waiting? Of loving him? What if she just saw him as a mere friend now and by the time that he’s away, someone else would receive her astonishing confession that he wished he was able to reciprocate many years ago?

He didn’t even have the guts to tell her the night before. If anything, he was tempted to simply leave without facing her, probably just handing a note to Karin, or Naruto, or Kakashi.

It has always been her who watched him leave, and pulling her into another episode of that made his heart constrict.

Of course, she would understand that it was for a mission. But he didn’t want her to ever think that it’s always too easy for him to leave everything behind—to leave her behind. That she wasn’t a good enough reason for him to stay. That she was always the last option for him just like how it used to be when defiling black and not blossoming pink used to fill his heart.

So, he honestly didn’t want to do it.

But here he was, standing right outside the hospital and waiting for her to come out just like all the other evenings since Karin’s delivery, ready (not) to inform her of his and Suigetsu’s impending departure.

He realized she would be back to going home alone once he left. And it was irking him to the core. He knew full well that Sakura could take care of herself, but what if an unexpected danger comes and catches her off guard on her most vulnerable, most exhausted, and most chakra-depleted (most stubborn) state at an eerie hour such as now while he was gone?

He released a heavy sigh. He had no choice now. The best thing he could do was to exert all that he could to accomplish the mission earlier than expected so he could immediately go home, just like what he usually did on their daily missions.

As weird as it sounded, he was already starting to miss her. And he almost choked on his own spit when he finally saw her walking out of the familiar double doors, smiling tiredly yet sweetly at him which easily warmed his heart in the process.

“You’re here,” she mumbled while pushing stray pink locks away from her face.

Her hair was up in a messy bun that left a few strands on the sides of her cheeks, and for Sasuke, he realized that she’s beautiful like this – raw and genuine – not as the shinobi Sakura nor the medic Sakura that everyone knows, but just plainly, his Sakura.

He allowed himself a few seconds to just take in her appearance, appreciating every bit of her as much as he could as if it would be the last time that he would see her.

A part of him regretted all those times before that he didn’t appreciate Sakura’s presence in his life. But now, he would do it every moment he could.

“I always wait for you, don’t I?” He finally spoke, voice a little hoarse from the absence of verbal communication the whole day, albeit being consumed by mental conversations with himself all throughout.

“Well, yeah, but it’s already very late. And this was an unexpected overtime schedule so I or Shizune wasn’t able to inform you or anything.” She gave him an apologetic smile.

It doesn’t matter, as long as I still get to see you before I leave.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since your usual end of shift.”

She gasped. “That’s two hours ago, Sasuke-kun!”

That’s nothing compared to how long you’ve waited for me many times before. “It’s fine. I had nothing to do today.” He began walking then, until she did the same and fell in step with him.

“Oh. I…” She bit her lip, catching another stray strand of her hair and placing it behind her ear. “I appreciate it, Sasuke-kun. So, you and Suigetsu have no mission today?”

He swallowed thickly. “Aa.” Because our new mission will start in a few hours.

A resigned silence filled the journey towards Sakura’s apartment, aside from the cicadas residing on the trees nearby and the pitter-patter of their feet against the uncemented road.

Frustration was getting the best of him for he couldn’t even glance at her, making it even more difficult to disclose about the topic he wished he shouldn’t even bring up. But there was no doubting that she was already feeling the tension between them.

There’s a certain familiarity with how they spent comfortable silence together, not having to say anything while revelling on each other’s presence. But last night and tonight, were far from that. And he was sure that Sakura wasn’t dumb to not notice anything for it was her who knew him better than anyone else.

True enough, as they turned to the last street to her place, she sighed and cleared her throat, making every bit of him suddenly rigid. She then began, “I’m getting worried, Sasuke-kun. Is everything alright?”

He found a little consolation at the fact that she was only concerned with him and not annoyed although she had every reason to be. He shut his eyes and stopped walking right in front of her apartment then, slowly turning to face her and bracing himself for whatever reaction her beautiful face would show once his news was out in the open. “I have something to tell you.”

There was a pause. And her gaze was softly fixed at him when his eyes opened, assuring him that she was all ears and urging him to continue.

His heart raced. How in the world could he survive another long while of not seeing that face?

He forced himself to believe that he wasn’t bothered about her tear-filled yet still pretty face when he left the first time.

He focused himself on becoming a better man than thinking of her blushing face after he poked her forehead when he left the second time.

And he endured a month of unexpected emotional turmoil when he returned only to be avoided by her due to a wrong conclusion after seeing a very pregnant Karin with him.

So this should be easy – natural, even – right?

Dang it.

He was probably being overly dramatic but he had to tell her now. He sighed. “I’m going to a long mission with Suigetsu.”

“Oh.”

And there went that faltering smile he wanted so bad to avoid. He inhaled a sharp breath as he quickly looked away.

But then, she bit her slightly trembling lip and after a moment, she was smiling at him again, albeit forcefully. “For how long?”

“A month or two. At most, three.”

There was another pause, and Sasuke wondered if Sakura thought about the last time that they didn’t get to spend a whole month together even though he was in the village. He wondered if she felt as conflicted as he was then, and if she could feel as dismayed as he was now.

“I see.”

He finally glanced at her. There was still a small smile to her face but he found her hands fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Surely, if there was a better option, she wouldn’t choose this too. “This would be the last time that I could bring you home for now.”

To his surprise, she suddenly chuckled. “It’s fine, Sasuke-kun. I can manage. But I’ll…” Although it was dark, Sasuke didn’t fail to catch the blush on her cheeks. “I’ll miss you,” she breathed.

Sasuke’s heart skipped a beat. There was an upward tug on the edges of his lips now.

For she wasn’t sad. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t hurt.

But she’ll miss him.

All his former apprehensions suddenly went down the drain after hearing that from her.

How could this woman have such a tender heart towards him up until now?

Then Sakura instantly added, “Anyway, maybe you could bring this potion that Shizune and I have just finished. It’s something you could use just in case y—”

“There’s no need, Sakura.” Sasuke’s gaze softened at her while he reached out to stop her hands that were quickly rummaging her pouch as if time was running out for them. “We’re just gonna help some villages. Nothing to worry about.”

“O-okay.” Sakura pulled her hand away from her pouch as Sasuke also retracted his. The sudden contact made her a little dizzy, or maybe she was just really tired for the day. But she still had one information she wanted to know. “When and what time will you leave anyway? I’d be glad to send you off and say goodbye to Suigetsu too!”

Of course she’d want to send him off, but he gently shook his head. “Thanks. But we’ll leave before dawn, roughly three hours from now. You’re supposed to be asleep by then,” he emphasized the last part. He didn’t want to see a live footage of how they would part ways. And he didn’t want her to sacrifice the only time she could finally sleep just for him.

“Are you sure though? I could help you pack your stuff or make you some snacks. Do you have medical supplies? Give me a moment, I could get some for you inside the apartment so you cou—”

“Sakura.” Sasuke smiled. When she bit her lip at the realization that she was already rambling, Sasuke lifted his two fingers and softly, affectionately, poked her forehead once again after more than two years. “I’m all good. I’ll see you when I’m back.”

At this, her hand flew to the place he marked as she looked away in an attempt to hide the crimson stain on her cheeks. She then chortled. “Right. Uhm...okay. I’ll see you soon then, Sasuke-kun. Take care.”

The next morning, he left the village with Suigetsu pestering him about why he had such an uncharacteristic grin on his face.

The first week without Sasuke went by pretty fast. But Sakura was right with what she told him – she missed him just like those years ago.

At first, she thought the feeling wasn’t anything new anymore, but she realized that there was a lot in their dynamics that changed ever since his return from his journey.

And that in itself was completely new, refreshing even.

Because before, she was missing someone who had no desire to return to the village. Someone who seemed to have no care about her. Someone who only returned her confessions with a single thanks on the first time and a horrible genjutsu on the second.

But now, she was waiting for a changed man who has eventually learned to come to terms with his past, embrace his present, and be hopeful for his future. A gentleman who made lots of efforts to restore bonds that he formerly decided to sever. A caring man who might be – even just a little bit – feeling the same way about her too.

Sakura grinned as her thumb paused over a familiar face on an old picture frame. It’s been an unconscious habit, she noted. For whenever she thought about Sasuke while she was seated on her desk – bombarded with tons of paperworks she wished her perfect chakra control could accomplish – she would find herself staring at the official group photo of the genin Team 7 with her thumb eventually brushing over her beloved’s face.

She traced back to how Sasuke was so tensed before telling her about the mission. He didn’t even have the responsibility of informing her about his daily missions or whereabouts, but the fact that he still chose to, and the fact that he seemed to be so troubled and unsure on how to let her know that he would be gone for a while made her heart glad for it just showed how he was concerned about her in his own ways.

She tried to imagine their next reunion. And she wasn’t able to fight a smile as she wondered if Sasuke would then tell her that he missed her just as much as she did. Or if he would let her know how life was a lot better when they’re together. Or if he would finally confess that during their time apart, he realized that he loves her too, so damn much that he would not allow them to be separated ever again.

Not realizing that she has already lifted the picture frame close to her grinning face, a loud knock and Shizune’s sudden appearance through her door caused her to loosen her grip on the frame so it tumbled front first on her desk.

“You have another surgery in a few, Sakura.”

Blinking, she broke out of her daze and returned the Team 7 photo on its usual place. “I-I’m coming.”

Oh well, good things come to those who wait.

“What’s going on, Karin?” Sakura frowned the moment the redhead entered her office upon her instruction. “I’ve heard that you’ve been snapping at people too much recently. Is it true that you’ve also countered the decision of one of my subordinates from the Emergency Department?”

“That’s not–!” Karin inhaled sharply and looked away from her senpai. “I didn’t mean to, okay? It’s just that I think she’s doing it wrong and I had a better idea on how we could do the medicine tests faster.”

Sakura sighed. She wanted to deal with Karin in the nicest way possible, knowing that she’s her friend and not just her employee. But since the past week, complaints about a certain redhead medic had been delivered to her, so she wanted to know what was really going on before giving her some consequences if necessary.

“Does having your own opinion give you the right to contradict her if she was doing exactly how I told her to do her work?”

“N-no.”

“Then why did you do it?” Sakura pinched the bridge of her nose.

Her frustration was rising now that another matter has been added to her already overflowing plate. There’s the tension of standing on the thin line separating her roles as the Head Medic and Karin’s friend. And it was becoming a bit difficult to control herself in simply picking the superior side.

“I’m sure you know that when you don’t submit to any of the department heads under my care, it means that you aren’t submitting to my headship too. Karin, even though I’m your friend, based on the Code of Conduct set by Tsunade-shishou, that could lead to your suspension.”

Karin gasped at this. “No, please!” For a second, even she was surprised with how she sounded so desperate with that uncharacteristic plea coming from her. Her brows furrowed as she bowed her head. She definitely didn’t want to disappoint Sakura, but it was clear as day that she had already done so due to the way she was looking at her now.

“I mean...I’m sorry, Sakura. I don’t know...to think that it’s already been four and a half months since Suika was born, I’m sure this isn’t due to the pregnancy hormones anymore. I don’t understand, but sometimes, I just couldn’t help but burst!” The redhead sighed and shook her head before adding, “Rest assured, I will do my best not to have such an attitude again next time. I just can’t lose this job, Sakura, now that...now that Suigetsu’s not he–” She stiffened for a moment, and then suddenly released a loud exhale as the realization of what was going on hit her.

Sakura leaned forward and waited. As Karin slowly looked up and pushed her glasses back, she noticed her red eyes becoming glassy with sudden tears.

“I think I understand now. I..I think it’s because...I miss Suigetsu.” Her voice softened while she averted Sakura’s gaze. She found it weird and irritating how she could become this vulnerable to her. But at the same time, it felt like she could show this side to Sakura knowing that she’s not the kind who would judge anyone. There’s just so much kindness in Sakura that makes her oddly comfortable in being open with her.

And so, she continued, “I remember how Sasuke had to endure my mood swings too back when I was separated with Sui for a whole month before my labor, that’s why he was oftentimes out of his own house. To think that Sui’s been gone again for a time longer than that, I find it difficult to be at ease.” She finally looked at her senpai. “I know it’s not an excuse that my attitude to the patients and some of my colleagues have worsened due to my emotions, but...I don’t know, Sakura. Aren’t you feeling the same thing about Sasuke? How are you dealing with it?”

A pregnant pause filled Sakura’s office as she remembered the past weeks. How she’s been taking lots of workload again, much to Shizune’s chagrin. How she’s been preoccupying her mind with volumes upon volumes of medical textbooks. And how she’s been hitting the training grounds at midnight instead of heading home immediately no matter how exhausted she was from the hospital.

She then realized that like her, Karin had her own way of coping about the fact that they were missing the men that they love.

“I...yeah.” She heaved a sigh. “I understand. It’s difficult to not...uhm, think so much about Sasuke-kun.” Her eyes darted to the photo frame on her desk. “I always wonder about what he’s doing. If he’s safe there in Suna. If he’s okay as they do their tasks. Or if he’s gonna be back sooner than expected. And to avoid overthinking about him, I dive into tons of work.”

Her heart clenched just like the past few days when she realized how much she longed to witness Sasuke’s quiet enjoyment on their (not date, but almost date) dinners together wherein she got to have playful banters, heartfelt conversations, and even comfortable silences with him. She also recognized the struggle of sticking to being patient for his next return due to the undeniable fact that she yearned for his unfailing dedication in spending time with her and bringing her home after work.

Karin broke into a smile as she sensed the apparent similarities of what they were undergoing. As women, there’s always that little nudge in your heart and mind about the well-being of your lover whenever he’s not around. And knowing that Sakura could relate to this was a consolation to her, an affirmation that she wasn’t really alone (and insane).

It was quite funny for her to think that after living a life with almost no friends – especially girls – she would be able to build such a bond with Sakura. She called her attention once more when she said, “Sasuke’s so blessed to have you constantly thinking about him and loving him from afar, Sakura.”

“I...uh...”

“You don’t have to hide it from me, Sakura. It’s obvious. Suigetsu might not be my first love, but he’s definitely my true love.” She glanced away as she tried to hide a rare blush on her face. “But I can really feel the intensity of your love for Sasuke since he has been both your first and true love. To think that he wasn’t even always with you. It’s inspiring, really.”

Sakura’s heart swelled at that. Although her love hasn’t been reciprocated by the recipient of it, it surprised her how someone became inspired with the way she loved Sasuke – unconditionally, relentlessly, selflessly.

“K-karin...thank you that you see it that way. I—wow, that’s—you’re right. Sasuke-kun...he’s been my first and true love. And uhm...honestly, Karin, I want to thank you for being there for him when I couldn’t. For your love for him when mine couldn’t reach him.”

Her sudden words and her soft smile made Karin’s eyes go wide.

“I’m really happy that he met you, Karin.”

As much as it irked him being uncharacteristically emotional in front of anyone, she wasn’t able to avoid her eyes from brimming with tears.

“I think Sasuke deserves all the love in the world, Sakura. I gave him all the love that I could give back then, but I know that you could give him so much more, then and now.” She then grinned. “My love wasn’t meant to be his anyway. I...I’ve never loved as much as I did when I fell for Suigetsu.” And then her brows furrowed as she stared at a distance through the window. “That’s why these men better be back soon because we couldn’t take it anymore!” She groaned.

Giggling, Sakura glanced at the genin Sasuke in the Team 7 photo once again. “You’re right. Meanwhile, about your offense…”

Karin stood upright after sensing the senpai mode of the woman in front of her. “I’ll do anything, Sakura! Just don’t let me be suspended or fired while I’m in Konoha!”

Sakura couldn’t help but laugh at that. To think that this redhead is a tough woman but she could turn into a soft and genuine one in front of her, she couldn’t help but feel like it was a privilege to be this close with her.

When Karin raised an eyebrow at her in confusion, she shook her head and said, “It wouldn’t come to that.” Karin’s sigh of relief made her smile again. “I understand what you’re going through, but like what you said, our emotions are not excuses to have an entitled attitude towards others. What I want you to do is to apologize sincerely to the people you’ve treated that way. Especially to the head of the Emergency Department.”

“That’s...all?” She blinked. “Alright! Thank you, Sakura!”

And then Sakura laughed once more when the redhead medic rushed outside her door to instantly do as told. As her laughter died down, she leaned back on her seat and realized that it was the first time in a month and a half that she was able to laugh as freely and genuinely as that.

If she would be completely honest, albeit almost excelling at it like a professional, waiting sucks. Sure, she could immerse herself in whichever stuff that could preoccupy her – and allow her body to be drained process – but it would never suffice to having Sasuke around.

Her gaze fixed at her office window while she wondered if there was still a possibility that one day, she’d finally be able to stop waiting and just have him close to her. Not just because she wanted to, but also because he wanted to.

A subtle pit-a-pat on her window awakened her from her trance. When she returned to her tasks a few seconds later, merely thinking that it was a branch or something colliding with glass, she heard another round of soft knocks that sounded like a bird’s beak hitting her window.

A bird’s beak...hitting...

She sprang out of her seat with a jolt to confirm her afterthought, her hips thankfully dodging the edge of her table and saving her from sudden pain as she focused on the familiar hawk sitting outside her window.

Sliding it open, the feathered summon skipped closer to her and angled its left foot for a note that could either ease her worries or increase them.

For it was the first time that Sasuke reached out to her after a month and a half.

“Thank you so much,” she mumbled before the hawk flew back to its master hundreds of miles away.

She was both excited and nervous. But upon opening the note, she found herself smiling and blushing like never before as her gaze shifted to the sky, following the small figure of the flying hawk from afar.

Just another week left. Take care. — S.U.

Sakura was all smiles around the hospital all week. She was a cheerful woman, alright, but there was definitely something so eminently special about that week that caused the pink-haired medic nin to be at the pinnacle of her emotions. There was no heavy workload, irritable workmate, nor delayed appointment that was intense enough to wipe away that dazzling smile plastered on her face.

Shizune, who often caught Sakura with her gaze fixed on the only memento on her office table, has concluded that it certainly had something to do with her not-boyfriend. Besides, who else could make Sakura Haruno glow joyously like that aside from Sasuke Uchiha?

Actually, it wasn’t only the pinkette who seemed to be completely over the moon that week. Pink and Red were bouncing off the walls all around the hospital and the staff and patients couldn’t help but be amused whenever they came across the two. After all, both women with bright colored hair had such contagious bright aura that uplifted the people around them.

Even with the number of appointments and interviews set with Sakura due to the positive reports about the efficiency of her recent concoction, she became more productive without overexerting herself, contrary to the past weeks of intentionally preoccupying herself with workload that she could actually delegate to her staff.

And Karin, on the other hand, was instantly the favorite of her patients once again as if she didn’t expose some bad attitude to them days ago.

Another long wait is about to end, Sakura mused, unable to conceal her excitement when she realized that it’s been exactly a week after she received Sasuke’s note. She brushed her thumb on the specific face on her team’s photo one last time before heading to another surgery for the day.

After her extended shift was over, a mother of one of Sakura’s patients in the Children’s Mental Health clinic approached her in a corridor near the Emergency Department. Sakura was touched with the thoughtfulness of the parent as she received a small gift from her, heart swelling with joy while listening to her gratitude for putting up the clinic after the war. It might have taken years, she said, but her daughter recovered from the trauma of losing her dad during the war because of Sakura’s project, reminding her of how far she had come in terms of her profession.

While she was immersed in such heartwarming conversation, Sakura then heard a firm voice she’s now accustomed to somewhere near them. But there was a sudden croak to it that made the hair on her arms stand on end, “S-suigetsu? ...Suigetsu!”

Everything else that the woman in front of her was saying came to a blur as her ears tried to pick up the muffled sounds from a few hallways away. But then, the man that Karin called shouted words that made her drop the gift she was holding:

“It’s...Sasuke! Help Sasuke!”

The loud thump on the floor amplified the sudden drop she felt inside her chest.

The next thing she knew, her feet was darting to the direction of the voices she had heard.

She was sure something else fell on the floor moments ago but the scene she had witnessed upon reaching her destination made her realize that it was her heart that also fell, shattering into pieces yet again.

For Sasuke was there, more pale than ever, with his eyes shut and mouth bubbling as two nurses hurriedly yet cautiously transferred him to a stretcher beside Shizune, Karin, and a barely conscious Suigetsu.

“What’s going on here?” Sakura demanded, forcing to restrain the tremble on her voice as she rushed towards them.

“Sakura!” It was Shizune who responded for Suigetsu was lifted to another stretcher with a frantic Karin clutching his hand. Her colleague hesitated to divulge what she knew but Sakura was quick to assess the unconscious man’s condition.

She soon gasped, her head tilting to Shizune for confirmation, trying to deny her realization of what was going on. No, not Sasuke-kun. Please, no!

But Shizune fiercely nodded. “We have to hurry. It’s the poison that’s been rampant in Suna recently and...and you already know what this entails.”

“You both know about this?” Sakura couldn’t blame the sheer panic in Karin’s voice. “Sakura, save them!—Hold on, Suigetsu! Don’t—don’t move!—please, Sakura! Shizune! Do something!”

With clenched fists, Sakura couldn’t find the strength to take a glance at the man she loved once again. She had to take deep breaths, in order to keep her professional composure so as to not end up into a sobbing mess like Karin.

But it wasn’t working.

A few exhales later, she was still frozen on the spot as a million possibilities raced in her mind. She has studied this case for months, and she knew full well its capacity to—

“Sakura!” She inhaled sharply with a blink upon realizing that two firm hands were shaking her by the shoulders now. “Sakura, we have to move!”

That’s when she finally glanced at Sasuke again. This was the man who holds her heart. And right at that moment, his life was in her hands.

She had a role to play.

Sakura blinked back the tears that she didn’t realize were threatening to fall, before willing her head to nod at the two nurses ready to push both stretchers.

So they all began to move. The urgency of the situation was felt at the sound of shuffling of feet and wheels in the hallway.

Her hand that wasn’t pushing the stretcher moved to clasp Sasuke’s limp one. Struggling to stifle a whimper, she lifted his hand close to her chest and prayed harder than ever before. Sasuke-kun, stay with me. You have to stay with me.

“Sakura, this is difficult. But you have to decide on what we should do.”

Her colleague was right. This time, she squared her shoulders and let go of Sasuke’s hand for her role was about to begin. “Shizune, look after Suigetsu. Make sure that there’s no poison left in his system because a tinge of it could still spread in his body. I’ll take care of Sasuke-kun.”

“Alright. But...are...are you sure you could manage taking over Sasuke’s operation? I know you’re very much concerned with him right now, maybe it’s best if you have somebody else to—”

“Yes,” she answered in a firm tone. “He’s important to me. He’s...damn it, I’m in love with him. But I’m a doctor too. I could manage, Shizune.” She yet again blinked back some tears, sparing another glance at her patient. “I should manage.”

“Since...since this is...oh my goodness, this is poison…doesn’t this have a duration until one’s body takes its full effect?”

Sakura briefly looked at Karin. “Yes, this poison would manifest its worst immediately within two days since it was acquired. It’s...It’s fatal and could cause—we better hurry! Nurses! Prepare the Operating rooms! Now!”

As the nurses in the hallway rushed to open the door ahead of them, the barely conscious patient struggled to breathe whilst forcing to turn his head towards the Head Medic.

“T-two days? But, S-sakura…today...is the second day.”

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(Karin - Part 9) - to be continued...

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Hey guys! A lot of things had happened in the past month but I hope you’re all doing well. :) By God’s grace, I’ve been a lot better in all aspects recently, compared to the first few months that I was writing this. (Remember those times I posted that I couldn’t finish a chapter yet due to some sort of anxiety attacks? Praise God, I haven’t had one for months now!) Meanwhile, it was still quite a struggle completing this amidst all the stuff I had on my plate internally and externally.

But here it is! Please don’t forget to comment! I can’t wait to see your reviews about the scenes, plot, characters, emotions, and writing for this chapter! :) You could check my other works here or on AO3 & FF under the username AriannJS :)

Thanks & God bless!

-- A

[the-evanescent-inkwell]

An Abundance of Dragons

Sabra Mendez has always seemed to be a magnet for the strange and unusual in her otherwise ordinary world. Her most frequent guests were dragons. Big dragons, little dragon, red dragons, blue dragons, loud dragons, quiet dragons, rash dragons, and passive dragons. She knew each of the regulars by name, even a set of twin dragons that came in separately once a month. Sabra knew dragons better than she knew herself.

However, the winged European monsters weren't the only thing she managed to attract to her lofty rustic bar.

Ghost and ghouls were also common, stopping by to pick up snippets of conversation at 3:03 a.m. until 4:30 a.m. There were also strange birds, sea monsters, psychics, witches, sorcerers, and talking animals. La Madremonte was a regular, stopping in every few weeks with her sister the Banshee. Traveling demons stopped by and played soft, longing ballads. La Perca del Estornino was always alive and busy with visitors from all over the world. Word had spread since Sabra was a little girl, stuck in her run-down school, helping her father clean the bar before his shift, that she was a friend to them all. Now, it was common knowledge in the hidden community that La Perca del Estornino was a safe place for travelers to stay in the early hours of morning.

Sabra had always been a bit different, growing up in Buenos Aires. It wasn't because she was a little mixed brown girl attending a mostly white school, or because she had splotches of white discoloring on her face, or her poor Italian, or her Mexican accent. It wasn't because of her short, unruly hair, her working-class and unmarried parents, or her worn shoes and hand-me-down backpack. None of that ever bothered Sabra, and no one seemed to care too much where she went to school—up until secondary school, at least. It was more that she could see things no one else noticed. She waved to foggy figures invisible to all but her, left scraps behind her house for the creatures she could hear congregating there, handed people little knick-knacks she had on hand because she could tell they needed them more than she did. Her mother, Jacaranda Rivera, was continually mortified by her behavior, always telling her to shut her mouth and stop wandering off. Her father, Miguel Mendez, saw her differently. He told her she was gifted and should never hide her gifts, using them to help others. He told her that she was what every good barkeeper needed to be; someone who knew people. Since his job when she was little had been working at a bar called La Casa de Mañana, it was no surprise that that was the metaphor he picked. What was a surprised to Sabra was when he died of colorectal cancer that he left his life's work, La Perca del Estornino, to her. Jacaranda told her that she didn't need to take on the responsibility of the bar; she could go to college in America like she wanted, get a degree in art, and paint for the world. But this was more important to Sabra. So she canceled her plans and reopened the bar. It's what her father wanted.

When she was nineteen, after closing time at three, the dragons and ghost started showing up. So she let them in, heard their stories, then let them go. They spread the word, and the next night, more came back. Over the past decade or so, Sabra had changed the closing time three times, finally settling on 7 p.m. to 3 a.m., reopening at 3:03 a.m. for the mythological and supernatural creatures until 4:30 a.m., when she finally went home. It was a good system, and she had very little complaints.

Sabra was very talented and had a lot of strengths, but if she could choose a favorite, it would be her ability to connect with people. She listened to normal and crazy, letting them spill their stories onto her. She knew the regulars, those that came in every now and then when they needed space, and then those that popped in once and never showed up again. She was a friend to everyone, even those who didn't know what friendship was. Over the course of her twenty-eight years of life, Sabra had figuratively adopted thousands of children and given them advice and comfort before sending them on their way. Some she never saw again. Some she saw every night.

The 22nd of March wasn't an unusual day in any way. She still cleaned up and began opening at seven. She still watched the front and made phone calls every now and then. She still created small talk and intervened when she saw it fit, listening to the mix of Italian and Spanish and English, as well as a few other languages thrown in from tourists that decided to stop by.

La Perca del Estornino was located between two small park squares. All the small windows were filled with green leaves. It was approaching autumn, but the trees in this part of town never really grew too brown. The room was dimly lit with gold lights reflecting off brown walls. The bar was exposed wooden oak planks, finished smoothly without taking away the worn aesthetic. The stools were black upholstery, the cushions pinned to the wood with large golden studs. The back brick wall was covered with chalkboards, Sabra's calligraphy listing popular drinks and specials. Shelves framed the boards, filled to the brim with bottles. Small tables were placed around in corners, the floors were smooth and dark, but appeared rugged, and large lamps hung from wires on the ceiling. Sabra always liked the aesthetic of the bar. She approved of her father's interior design choices.

Her last customer of the night was always the same; a regular named Felipe Alonzo. He was an older man with salt and pepper hair who worked at a bank across the street. He was a fairly pleasant man who liked alcohol, but from what Sabra understood, he and his wife fought frequently but wanted to stay together until their kids were out of secondary school. He stayed until closing to avoid another argument.

At 2:56 a.m., Sabra ushered Mr. Alonzo out and began washing dishes. Her two employees, Dante and Cara, hadn't left yet. Dante was about twenty-two and wasn't great with people, so Sabra put him in charge of washing glasses and doing inventory. On the contrary, Cara was a smiley girl of about nineteen with a huge personality. She was a bit clumsy though, so Sabra never let her pour. She was lovely and the customers liked her, so Sabra kept her. But Sabra always kicked them out at three.

"Are you sure you don't need help closing up?" Cara asked politely while Dante immediately left. Cara was pure Italian on all sides of her family and hadn't quite figured out the phonetics of Spanish, but Sabra could pick through her accent when it became to thick.

"I'm perfectly alright. Go home. Make sure you're caught up in school. I don't want to lay you off because you're failing."

"Alright, thank you, Sra. Mendez."

"Drive safe!" she called as Cara disappeared around the bend. The Sabra shut the door and turned the closed sign over. 3:01 a.m.

She quickly swept and picked up the room before hitting the blinds and hiding the interior from bystanders on the street. All ready for 3:03 a.m.

The first visitor was a small purple dragon with a sweater and satchel. "Hello?" he said in English. Sabra smiled warmly at him. "Hello. Welcome. Can I get you anything? Sorry. My English is bad."

"Oh, sorry, um. . ." He ordered a simple drink and Sabra fetched a glass. More visitors flocked in, a majority of them dragons. Her favorite regular showed up around a quarter until four. Roman Xirarch was a young Italian dragon, about the equivalent of a human teenager, who had moved to Rosario from Bologna to study Mesoamerican culture, specifically the arts, abroad. He was a drama major and acted like a stereotypical homosexual. He flew in to chat with Sabra and have a drink at least five times a week. He was small and turquoise, with dark purple spikes, long fangs, and curled horns like a ram. He had a defect in his mouth and constantly had his tongue sticking out a little bit. The other draconic regulars called him the "Mlem Lizard". Roman didn't seem to mind.

He flew through the air vent and landed on the bar, prancing around like a smug house cat. Sabra raised an eyebrow. "Too dramatic to use the door?"

"You know me so well!" he growled happily in his strong accent. "Want to see what I found for my hoard?!"

"I'd love to!"

Dragons were the biggest hoarders of shiny things. Some showed off their collection of metal, gold, and jewels, some hid it, and some just plain collected garbage and didn't care if it was stolen or not. In Roman's case, he had a very small hoard and just liked sharing what he had found with people. He wasn't greedy, and he never stole things, he just liked furnishing his cavern apartment in Rosario with small bits of shiny metal and pesos that fell out of people's pockets.

Roman produced a small shiny crystal from his little red knapsack sitting between his large wings on his back. He dropped it on the table and Sabra carefully picked it up, studying it in the light. "What do you think it is?" he asked excitedly. "Someone dropped it outside the library and didn't go to pick it up, so I assumed it wasn't important. Isn't it pretty?!"

"Lovely," Sabra responded, pulling out her smartphone. "I'll look it up."

After a bit of research, Sabra found out it was some sort of cheap diamond, sort of like fools gold, but she didn't burst Roman's bubble. She put her phone away. "It's a special type of diamond."

"Is it?!" he squealed. "I found a diamond! Mamma is gonna be so proud of me!"

"I'm happy for you," Sabra smiled. "How's school?"

"Good. I had a speaking assessment today, and my instructor said my Spanish is getting better."

"Good!"

A few ghosts came in and congregating in a corner, whispering and laughing together. At 4:15 a.m., the crowds were mostly clearing up. Roman had fallen asleep on a stool and was whisking his spiked tail back and forth. At exactly 4:21 a.m., a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, leather jacket, and a thick belt walked in. He looked like an American cowboy. There weren't a lot of those in these parts. Sabra pursed her lips together. He sat down at the bar and asked, "Sabra Mendez?"

"Yes, sir. How can I help you?" She spoke in English, assuming from his accent that he was American. He smiled at her in amusement and asked in perfect Spanish for a round of shots. Sabra politely fulfilled his order, then made small talk. "Are you from these parts?"

"Just passing through. I'm an archeologist."

That would explain the hat and jacket. What she had likened to a cowboy easily passed for Indiana Jones. "Interesting. I wish you luck. I'll be right over there if you need anything."

She headed over to finish cleaning a stack of shallow dishes the birds had been using to peck nacho crumbs out of. Roman had woken up and was studying the archeologist. "Who is he?"

"I don't know," Sabra admitted. "I haven't seen him before. He said he's an archeologist."

"He doesn't seem alarmed by the ghosts or dragons."

True to Roman's word, a pink dwarf dragon crawled out of the archeologist's pocket and started purring when he scratched her chin. Sabra shrugged. Roman shrugged back.

At 4:29 a.m., Sabra approached the man and said, "I'm sorry, but we're closing."

He nodded and finished his drink, the pink dragon disappearing into his pocket again. He leafed through his wallet and left a ball of notes on the bar before leaving. Roman crawled along the counter and squawked at the top of his little lungs, "Alright, it's closing time! Get out and go pester someone else! Sabra needs her beauty sleep."

"What makes you think I don't already have it?" she teased him, but she didn't interfere as he scared the others out. She was picking up the tips while Roman cleared out her bar and noticed there was something wrapped in the notes left by the archeologist. She unrolled it and found a small golden nugget. She frowned and studied it. Roman saw and cooed over it. "Oooh! Can I have?"

"No," she said. "Odd tip to leave. . . Get home. You have class tomorrow."

He groaned. "But Sabra!"

"Off you go!"

He finally took off, leaving through the air vent again. Sabra closed up and wrapped the golden nugget in a napkin, sticking it in her pocket and calling an Uber. She was deposited on her property and headed in, flipping her keys over her fingers. The faintest scent of salt and humidity hung in the air. She walked up the steps while people started waking up and getting ready for a long day ahead of them. Lucky for Sabra, her little studio apartment was still quiet. She walked into a dark room and was careful not to slam the door. Streetlights darted past the window, the dark blue curtains pulled down and billowing softly in the circulation. She almost tripped over a pair of sneakers and kicked them aside, taking off her own shoes and dropping her bag by the door. The white curtain separating the majority of the room from the "bedroom" swayed softly as she entered. The radiator was clicking loudly. Right, I need to fix that. The bedroom door was closed. Sabra popped in and found Ben fast asleep. She kissed his forehead and he stirred, mumbling hello. "Go back to sleep," she said before leaving the room and heading behind the curtain. As she opened the dresser and began throwing her clothes into the laundry hamper, the lump of blankets on the right side of the bed rustled loudly. Sabra unclipped her bra and pulled on a baggy hoody and a pair of cotton shorts before climbing into the bed. A small head emerged from the blankets and stared at Sabra sleepily. She kissed the dark head gently before cuddling the figure. "Night, cariña."

Mack sighed contently and curled up, mumbling, "I love you," in about three languages before settling on Italian. Sabra tucked her chin over the raven hair and closed her eyes, listening to her spouse's ragged breath. The radiator slowly died away, leaving peaceful quiet, the waves crashing against the shore a few blocks away and the wind whistling past the ajar window. Comforted by the warmth of the cozy apartment, Sabra slowly sunk into sleep.

Read more of An Abundance of Dragons on Wattpad! Click the link!

[madlitparanormal]

You wouldn’t know just by looking at the above picture, that this man murdered thirty three people. If you hadn’t seen him before, you may just think that he was a normal member of society. In fact, he was a well known, well liked, successful citizen to most.

Childhood:

John Wayne Gacy Jr. was born on March 17, 1942 in Chicago, Illinois to father John Stanley Gacy, a mechanist and a WWI veteran (June 20, 1900-December 25, 1969 —Merry Christmas) and mother Marion Elaine Robinson, a stay at home mom (May 4, 1908-December 6, 1989).

Gacy Jr. had a good and stable relationship with his mother and his two sisters, one older and one younger, but his relationship with his father was strenuous. John Stanley Gacy was an alcoholic and mentally and physically abusive towards his wife and all three of his children.

One of Gacy Jr.’s earliest memories is of his father beating him with a leather belt. The reason? John had accidentally disassembled a group of car engine parts that his father had previously put together. A second memory he had was of his father hitting him over the head with a broom stick so hard that he was rendered unconscious. Gacy Sr. Consistently belittled him and often told him he’d never be anything, leaving John to feel that he was never good enough.

In 1949 John W. Gacy was caught fondling a young girl. His father whipped him with a razor strop as punishment. Shortly after this incident, at seven years old, John was sexually assaulted by a friend of the family. The man would often take Gacy Jr. for rides in his truck where he would violate the boy. He would never disclose this information to his father, afraid that he would blame him for the occurances.

Among other problems, John Wayne Gacy suffered a congenital heart defect and was not able to keep up with other children. He spent a year being hospitalized after fainting one afternoon. His father assumed that he was trying to gain attention and sympathy from others and saw his son as a complete failure.

John Wayne Gacy, also known as the infamous Killer clown, was a seemingly upstanding citizen of Waterloo, Iowa where he and his first wife had moved shortly after Gacy graduated and gained a degree in business. He was someone the town looked up to, someone who was charming and charitable. John dressed as a clown to attend fundraising events, parades, and was even hired to perform at children’s birthday parties. At one point in his life he was a a member of the Democratic Party and even a candidate running for and gaining the title of precinct captain. He was a highly liked member of a charity group called the Jaycees, the honored man of they year as well as Vice President of his charity group. Gacy held secretive meetings to induct new members of Jaycee. He would rent out hotel rooms, hire prostitues, and host orgies to convince people to join.

In 1966 he managed three KFC properties making the equivalent to today of $115,000 per year, plus a share of earned profits from the restaurants. His wife, Marlynn, maiden name Meyers, gave birth to two children, their son Michael in 1966 and their daughter Christine in 1967. One of his sisters told reporters that he was an amazing father and that he truly loved his children and she knew that because growing up in their household, love and affection was not a learned behavior. John once described this portion of his life as perfect. Even his father said he had been wrong about his son, that he did turn out to be something.

His marriage was secretly rampant with taboo fetishes. He and his wife engaged in swinger activity. They would often go out together and go home with someone else. These sexual acts were consensual among him, his wife, and their numerous partners.

Gacy and one of his sisters:

In 1967 John W. Was convicted of sodomy with a 15 year old boy named Donald Voorhees. Donald was the son of a fellow member of the Jaycee group that John had been socially accepted in. Gacy paid the boy fifty dollars to keep quiet but his silence didn’t last long. Gacy was charged and convicted of only sodomy after claiming the interaction was consensual even though he was twenty five years old. He was hit with a maximum sentence of ten years. Shortly after his sentencing his wife Marlynn divorced him.

In prison he took to working in the kitchen. Surprisingly, one thing he really was accomplished in was cooking. His knowledge of kitchen work could have come from not only helping his mother but working at KFC.

Due to his fathers death in 1969, Gacy changed. He began acting out while serving time yet out of the ten year sentence, John only served a year and six months. He was released for good behavior. He felt that his fathers death was his fault, that his father had died of shame.

When he was released he immediately moved to Chicago to start over. There he met another woman named Carole Hoff. Carole was recently divorced with two young girls. John had opened up to her about his jail time and his sexuality and while hesitant, she decided she could move past it. In 1972 the couple married, Carole’s two girls called Gacy “daddy” and loved him. However, in 1976 Hoff divorced Gacy after learning of one of his victims, John Butkovich.

On December 21st of 1978 John Wayne Gacy went into a pharmacy to discuss a possible renovation project on his home. He found a teenager, Robert Piest, and asked him about a summer job doing some construction work. The teenager told his mother and went to Gacy’s house to further discuss the job he had in store. When the boy didn’t return home his mother filed a missing persons report. Because he was seen at the store at the time of the boys disappearance, the police went to Gacy to find Robert. What they uncovered when they conducted their search led to Gacy’s arrest.

At the age of thirty six, Gacy confessed that between the years of 1972 and 1978, between the ages of thirty and thirty six, he abducted, sexually assaulted, tortured, and murdered at least thirty three young men and buried most of their bodies in a shallow grave in the crawl space beneath his house where he lived with his wife and two children (for the first four years of his killing spree until Carole divorced him). His most common method for killing the young men was a tourniquet, used for suffocation and asphyxiation. A few of his victims were stabbed to death. His first murder of Timothy McCoy in 1972 was unexpected and unplanned. After engaging in sexual acts with the boy, Gacy grabbed a knife and stabbed Timothy in the chest. From then on, Gacy continued his killing spree. He had opened up a door of emotional, physical, and mental release that he had never felt before.

After killing them, Gacy would embalm his victims which he learned how to do while working temporarily in a mortuary in Las Vegas, Nevada when he ran away from home to escape his father earlier in life. He would then systematically cover the shallow graves in quicklime to accelerate the decomposition process. Of those victims that weren’t buried in the crawl space, five were dumped in the Des Plaines River. One body was also discovered in his garage.

He was arrested and began his trial 1980. The prosecution question his sanity and Gacy played along, telling them that the murders were committed by an alternate personality.

At thirty six years old, he was sentenced to twelve death sentences as well as twenty one natural life sentences. This meant that John Wayne Gacy was sentenced to death twelve times even though you can generally only die once (of course other circumstances can come into play) and with a general life expectancy of seventy years old in the year 1980 for men, Gacy would serve no less than at least 1,470 years in prison outside of the death sentence. Naturally, no one could live to that age so the basic mentality was that he would never be released from prison and he would be executed by the state.

Gacy spent fourteen years on death row until he was executed by the state of Illinois. During his time in prison he did a lot of painting and created a lot of visual art pieces, and some were even sold at an auction.

Identified Victims:

Timothy McCoy

John Butkovitch

Darrell Sampson

Randall Reffett

Samuel Stapleton

Michael Bonnin

William Carroll

James Haakenson

Rick Johnston

Kenneth Parker

Michael Marino

William Bundy

Gregory Godzik

John Szyc

Jon Prestidge

Matthew Bowman

Robert Gilroy

Russell Nelson

Robert Winch

Tommy Boling

Jon Mowery

William Kindered

David Talsma

Timothy O’Rourke

Frank Landingin

James Mazzara

Robert Piest

Unidentified Victims:

Male aged 14-18

Male aged 23-30

Male aged 18-22

Male aged 15-24

Male aged 22-32

Male aged 17-22

Execution: Stateville Correction Center, Crest Hill, Illinois

On May 9, 1994 Gacy was allowed a private picnic with his family. I have not yet found which family members he spent time with but my assumption would be his sister(s) after two cases of divorce.

For his last meal he ordered a bucket of Kentucky fried chicken, fried shrimp, French fries, strawberries, and Diet Coke.

That evening he visited with a Catholic priest, one of the few people allowed to visit on your execution day, before being escorted to the Stateville execution chamber.

His form of execution was Lethal Injection. A clog in the IV delayed the execution for a short period of time but was quickly put back on track.

John Wayne Gacy’s final statement to his lawyer before his execution stated that killing him would not compensate for the murders he committed and that the state was in turn, murdering him. He even attempted to recant his confession before his death.

John Wayne Gacy was a diagnosed psychopath. He had no remorse, no empathy, and no regards for human life. He even went as far as saying he never committed any murders and he blamed others for his “unfortunate” circumstances.

It took Gacy Jr. 18 minutes to die after lethal Injection. He was prounounced dead at 12:58 AM on May 10, 1994. He was fifty two years old.

His final words: “Kiss My Ass!”

[queenslasharchive]

Pretender To The Throne (Chapter 1: My Fairy King (1967-1976))

Rolling Stone: “In the early 1970s, when [girlfriend Mary] Austin suggested they have a child together, Mercury allegedly responded, ‘I’d rather have a cat.’”

Some of Sky’s earliest memories were of Queen songs. 

Most were off-key (read: horrible) renditions sung by his mother, but the words were still the same. 

“In the land where horses born with eagle wings And honey bees have lost their stings There’s singing forever, ooh yeah… Lion’s den with fallow deer And rivers made from wine so clear Flow on and on forever…

Dragons fly like sparrows thru’ the air And baby lambs where Samson dares To go on on on on on on…”

My Fairy King was his favorite, right from the moment it came out on shiny vinyl record, when he was just six years old. He had his own copy too, played it so hard and so often that it was scratched and worn to high heaven.

But it wasn’t the same without his mother to hold him close and sing terribly in the wrong key, flubbing up the transitions and cues. She always tried, he had to give her credit. It was her favorite too.

She liked all of the songs about Rhye.

“It reminds of your Daddy, Rhys.” She would whisper to him, as they huddled together on an old futon, in their gross one-room apartment, the black mold on the ceiling grew in funny ways reminiscent of the animal crackers she would often pack away in his lunch-kit. “He was My Fairy King.” She would look away, almost wistful for a moment, before covering his tiny body in kisses that made him squeal indignantly, desperately trying to bat her hands away. 

“And you're My Fairy Prince!” She would say. “So I’m going to eat you all up! Sugar and spice and everything nice!"  

Making monster noises as she tickled the everliving daylights out of him. He would laugh until he was crying and breathless, watery eyes staring up at her with cheeks flushed pink. 

"No, Mama!” He would protest in mock-offense. “I’m a boy! Those are for girls!” 

“Ah!” She would pause as if it were some great revelation. “Snips, snails and puppy-dog tails! …Oh no, that doesn’t sound anything like my little Prince Rhye at all!" 

She named him Rhye after the make-believe world that his father had created in his youth. 

According to her, he used to tell stories about it to anyone who would listen and sketch out the most beautiful scenes in the margins of his notebooks. They grew closer during his last days at Isleworth Polytechnic, right before he transferred to Ealing Art College in London. He was so gifted, so smart. They only shared a few classes together in a handful of months, but it was enough to leave her smitten. He was charismatic, beautiful and almost as otherworldly as the dreams he’d had for himself. 

He’d had the most lovely smile, those protruding teeth that she’d always found so adorable, but that he’d always expressly hated.

She loved how Sky had inherited that same smile.

When his adult teeth came in and the sight alone made him cry, she told him he looked positively exquisite in their distinctness. (Sky thought he looked like even more of a sideshow freak). 

Of all the things in life, that were either foisted upon him or lovingly given, he actually picked the nickname Sky. 

Coined it as a toddler when Rhye was too hard to say, it was a made up name anyway. Only his mother (and then Cole in later years)was allowed to call him that, or any little pet-names derived from it. Rhys. Rhy-Guy. Prince Rhye…

Rhye Halley Bulsara. Named after a pretend land, a comet and a man who didn’t even know he existed.

But that was okay.

It was okay, because he always had his mother. She was his everything. She loved him for his weird eyes (that his classmates always made fun of without fail. Until they realized he knew all his math facts and could easily prove them stupid. Or you know, use his teeny tiny fists to cave their faces in) and the bulky teeth too big for his mouth. She loved him for his sparkly tutus over his stripey tights and brightly colored wellies, (that always found their way into the biggest puddles as they walked down the crowded streets of New York City). She loved him for the little songs he would make-up as he marched all his stuffed bears across the floor and the way he scrunched up his speckled nose when he laughed. 

She loved him because he was her son in every ounce, not just his father’s prodigal. 

She was also the strongest woman he ever knew. 

A single mother at nineteen, working two dead-end jobs just to keep them afloat, no insurance to speak of, no money for anything better, and no family to help her.

Then she woke up one morning to find her nine-month-old baby turned ashen gray, and with a fever that boiled beneath his skin like a blazing hellfire. He went from being able to crawl fervently and tug himself into standing positions on furniture, with a gummy smile, to not being able to raise his own head. 

Polio. 

The Crippler of Children. 

Within mere hours he couldn’t breathe on his own, eyes blown wide and lips a swollen sickening gray-blue, gums a bloodless white. Already wearing the guise of a corpse.

The doctors told his mother that he wouldn’t last the night. They even asked if a baptism and last rites were something she wanted.

Nineteen years old and she realized that there was no word for a parent who loses a child. A widower loses a wife, a widow loses a husband, an orphan loses their parents, but no one was ever meant to outlive their child. 

She could’ve collapsed to pieces right then and there.

She could’ve just given up on him, like all the doctors and medical personnel who already had, and simply let him go. To join the ranks of the ghost children who’d died of the same crippling disease within the same beige walls of the fever hospital. Instead, Roberta Rhodes, affectionately called Birdy by all who knew her, demanded the best care for her child. 

She held him tight as they shoved a needle through the narrow slats of his spine to collect infected fluid. She sang every song she knew until her throat was raw as they bundled him up in an child-sized iron-lung to breathe for him. It was the late 60s, the heyday of polio was over, but for those few still unvaccinated, it never ended. 

Sky, the tiny boy that they told her wouldn’t last the night, lived till morning. 

And then he did it again and again and again.

The full-body paralysis set in after ten days of being at death’s door and the coming back was rough. It was months before he regained the use of his lungs independently. Longer still until his arms were back under his control.

He celebrated his first birthday in the hospital, looking eagerly at the fireworks that lit up the night sky, just outside his window. The next three birthdays were very much the same. Only for his third birthday: he got crutches, a hard plastic back-brace, and leg braces from his toes to his hips. Braces that had to be changed as he grew, lest they rip open his skin while he hobbled along. 

He drew pictures and finger-painted across his chest plates, a million smiling sunflowers and bright hand prints adorned each and every one. The beginnings of his love for art.

By four, all he needed were the leg braces and the crutches. By six it was just the leg braces and within a few months, not even those anymore. The countless painful surgeries to release the tight bits and replace the dead tissue in his legs worked wonders. Of course they also left scars that puckered and resembled the limbs of a stitched up voodoo doll, but they worked. 

He could run and jump and play, just like the rest of the children on the block. 

He could bounce around in puddles with his brightly colored wellies and be a prince with a toy crown and a scepter made of cardboard and pipe-cleaners. A style he would never really grow out of… something only furthered by the fact he always got at least one toy crown or tiara for his birthday each year.  

”My fairy king can see things… He rules the air and turns the tides That are not there for you and me Ooh yeah, he guides the winds… My fairy king can do right and nothing wrong…“

His eyes changed after the polio. 

They had always been heterochromic, two different colors. The right, a sharp cerulean reminiscent of his namesake, the left, a rich chocolate brown like melted down Hershey’s bars. Hard and soft, all at once. 

His mother had always found his eyes charming, a little piece of her and a little piece of his father. But after the polio, they changed. His pupils, the round little black discs in the center of his irises, exploded. They went from uniformly tiny circles to starbursts, with ragged edges stretched across both irises. The doctor who examined his eyes said that he’d never seen anything like it before, but that it was likely a birth defect. She just hadn’t noticed it beforehand. 

That was a lie, as she had spent countless days and nights after his birth just staring at him. Trying to catalogue each and every feature. Nose? Hers. Skin tone? Hers. Cheek bones? Freddie’s. Hair? A mix of them both, her unruly curls with Freddie’s coloring. Eyelashes? Freddie’s.

Those beloved eyes had never had starbursts within them before. 

But it was more than just his appearance. 

It was what he could see with those eyes and do with the things he saw, that made all the difference…

The nurse had thick curly black hair like his own, big blue-gray eyes and wore a different outfit than the rest of them on the ward, hers looked older somehow, as if she’d come straight out of a sepia photograph. Wearing a strange bent flyaway cap on her head, one that did little to cover up much of anything at all. She would hum to herself quietly as she straightened up the blankets on his bed. But if he stared too long, the edges of her habit would darken and curl upwards, sparks flying and dying in front of his eyes. 

He saw her a few times, but they never spoke. 

Her lungs had been scorched into veritable ash by the fire that had sent the fever hospital into ruin during the early 1920s, they’d had to rebuild it from the ground up. So she wouldn’t have been able to speak to him anyway. 

It was the first time he saw The Dead walk. 

But it wasn’t the last. 

His mother would hold him by the hand and tug him along when they walked through the city.

She had to, lest he stop to talk to those nice boys on the corner who’d died in the Revolutionary War, or the young Italian immigrant girl hovering around the flower shop, who’d lost her life in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, not even that little girl huddled in the gutter with her sallow skin and soiled a white dress, who’d succumbed to a turn-of-the-century Yellow Fever epidemic. 

His mother never saw the spirits, but the fact that he did was enough for her to believe in them.

Birdy Rhodes, being the exhausted young woman she was, with fine yet incorrigible blonde curls that would slip from her bun after a long waitressing shift and a childhood touch of magic that never quite left her; would never make her son feel like he was a freak for any of the things he could do or any of the things he couldn’t.

She just loved him with everything she had and did her best to be everything he needed her to be. Hell, she would’ve given him the whole world if it had been hers to give. As it stood, the best she could offer was a grand old name and all the blossoming love in her heart. 

Sky may not have had the greatest clothes or technology or living arrangements or even a father, but he had love. Even in those early years, he’d had love. 

From his mother, the center of his whole universe. 

From the young couple who ran a small records store on 7th Avenue.

They always saved copies of the latest Queen records for the small family and either sold them the vinyl at a dirt-cheap price or gave them to him and his mother for free.

Surely they saw the same very distinctive teeth on him as they did on the frontman of the British band, the same cheekbones, the same dark hair, the same fledgling face shape. They knew. They had to have known. But they never said anything about it. Never called the newspapers or prodded with uncomfortable questions. They just loved. And gave some of that burgeoning love to him and his mother. 

From the spirits who sought him out for comfort.

Apparently being earthbound was a fate worse than death. It was tantamount to living in a world full of muted grays and emptiness, except for people like him. Lighthouses, one spirit told him, a boy with the glassy eyes and hoarse voice of a diphtheria death, you’re like a shining lighthouse in a storm. You come in color, all warm oranges and yellows turned gold. 

So a flashlight, he surmised. 

From his Cole. 

Coltrane Brennan was an Irish kid turned American expat, named after the great American saxophone player and the only reason Sky learned about his real Gift at all. The seeing dead people thing was only part of it. The easier part. 

As it turned out, he could give out just as much love as he got, just in a different way. Cole taught him that. 

Cole was the first. 

It all started: with a bully stealing Sky’s ratty sketchbook as he sat quietly on the swings, scribbling away.

It ended: with Cole holding said sketchbook aloft, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, as well as a nasty cut on his forehead near his hairline, yet with a smile alight in sweet victory.

The bully lay crumpled in the dirt.

It also ended with Cole joining him, as Sky snatched back his sketchbook and planted one leg-braced orthotic shoe on the chubby blonde’s chest. A tiny six-year-old black-haired devil child who grit his ever-prominent buck teeth and hissed with pure venom: "Don’t you ever fight my battles for me again, Coltrane Brennan. Or I’ll knock your teeth in." 

"You’d know all about teeth wouldn’t you?” Cole had wheezed, all two years older and indignant, a flush high in his cheeks. 

Then he uttered those few accursed words: “Are you sure you aren't an elephant? You’ve got tusks just like one!…And those weirdo eyes to match!" 

By the time a flustered teacher came to drag them both to the principal’s office, Cole was bleeding even more profusely than before and Sky was smiling smugly, two fistfuls of blonde hair in his grasp and one of Cole’s front-teeth embedded in his denim jeans. 

They sat outside the office in silence, with only a small hard-backed chair between them. The only interruptions to the stillness were the squeak of Sky’s braces when he swung his legs off the ground or Cole’s pathetic sniffling as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his face. Sky was scowling, still resolute in his righteous fury and absolution. Until he realized Cole wasn’t just sniffling from the blood…

He was crying. 

Instantaneous guilt burnt in Sky’s chest like he’d swallowed a lit match, and poof, all the anger and indignation was gone. A rarity for him. 

"Are you crying…?” He asked, softly. 

But the moment Cole realized he’d been found out, he instantly straightened up in the stiff uncomfortable seat and turned away, as if pretending it was nothing at all. He snorted and scrubbed at his face with the one hand that wasn’t full of crumpled up bloody tissues. His voice shook when he spoke, wavering and hoarse. Damning evidence of the tears that boys like them just couldn’t admit.

“I'm not crying! Only babies cry! Little crippled babies just like you!" 

Sky recoiled, his scowl deepening as the red-eyed older boy carried on running his mouth. "I told them not to steal your drawing stuff, cause there’s just no point really. You're soppy and sad enough as it is, without them messing with you…” Cole only managed to button his lips when there was a familiar fist pressing just under his swollen nose, against his chapped lips. 

“I swear to God I’ll knock another one out if you don’t quit it! I’m not a crip and I’m not a baby, and don’t you ever forget it.” Sky spat, his funky eyes turned caustic. 

It only abated as he forced himself to apologize. Temper having run away from him once again. It was his most adamant personality trait. 

“But I am sorry about earlier... Thanks for getting my sketchbook back, I guess.” He bit his bottom lip and couldn’t look the older boy in the eyes. 

“…Do you wanna see what I was drawing?“ 

Cole paused, then nodded. Curiosity alight in his green eyes. 

Sky reached for where the teacher had roughly deposited both their backpacks, probably assuming they would be either sent home or in the office for a while, his ratty sketchbook was sitting on top. Hastily flung across both sacks as if the woman had no idea who it had belonged to. He dug through the heavily lined and crinkled pages to find his most recent creation. 

”Oh.“ Cole leaned over to see properly. "That’s… really good actually." 

Sky quirked an eyebrow. "Were you expecting something bad?”

“No! I just…” He peered even closer, almost close enough to brush his fingers across, but he didn’t dare. “It’s like a grown-up did it. Did you copy it from someplace?" 

The younger boy shook his head. Looking down at the scene he’d drawn, a fairy Queen of spring with lush curls and a smile as she sat upon a mushroom cap, her gossamer wings folded beneath her and a tiara made of tree branches and new leaves twisted in her hair. She was looking up at her King, he was dressed in wintertime clothes, snowflakes adorned his cape and the winds brought life to his frosted wings. He was cold and still, with long dark hair and piercing dark eyes. She looked like the growth of new life, he looked like the one who took it all away. But still, they reached for each other. 

"It’s the king and queen of Rhye." 

He whispered, knowing very well that Rhye fell to ruin.

Good things didn’t stay.

He felt something warm fall on his hand and noticed a few ruddy droplets of blood. Cole was bleeding still, the older boy quickly turned away, sniffling back into the tissues as if that were somehow going to do the trick. ”Sorry…“ He mumbled, shame and embarrassment coloring in the contours of his voice. 

"How bad is it? Let me see." 

Sky commanded, sounding petulant as he reached out his hands. He gently caught Cole’s chin in one, then jumped back on recoil, like he’d just been electrocuted.

The moment he’d touched Cole’s sticky skin, desperate to see how bad it was so that he could make him feel better, his hand had felt like he’d stuck it into an open lit flame. It burned like holding the sun. He even flipped over his hand to gawk at his palm, certain that there had to be some kind of acid burn there or something. 

There was nothing. 

"What the bleeding heck was that?!” Cole squealed, pulling the tissues back from his face. His nose and mouth had aptly stopped bleeding. Even the cut on his forehead had stopped. As if the faucet of the gaping maw had run dry. 

“You burned me!" 

Cole looked incredulous at the accusation. "No I didn’t! You burned me!" 

"Nuh uh!" 

"Yeah huh!" 

Then Cole’s expression changed, it turned surprised instead of upset, as his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek. "It's gone...” He whispered, wondrously. Looking at Sky with new eyes. 

“What’s gone?" 

"When you punched me, I bit a whole chunk out of my cheek! It’s why my mouth was bleeding so bad!” He took hold of the right side of his mouth and tried valiantly to flip it inside-out so that Sky could see. The younger boy couldn’t see anything except for spit and pink healthy skin. 

“I don't see anything…" 

"That’s the point! It’s gone…” He flipped it back over with eyes wide. “Gone.” He stressed again, as if Sky had missed it the first time. “Can mouths heal that fast?” Sky just shrugged, rubbing at his palm where the burn would’ve been, it tingled and itched, fingers twitching to do something else. Though he wasn’t quite sure what. 

“How should I know?” He grumbled. “I’m not a doctor, I'm six." 

He swung his creaky braced legs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, trying to drown out the world. Cole stopped him with a hand on top of his own. Green eyes met his own strange ones. "Touch me again.” Sky furrowed his brows tight. 

“What?" 

”Touch me again!“ Cole demanded, jutting out his bottom lip. Sky rolled his eyes and did as requested, pressing his hand against Cole’s chin again. There was nothing. No burn, no toasting warmth or electric shock. Nothing at all. Cole frowned, disappointed as he reached up to touch the gaping slit on his forehead, still as garish as before. What he needed were some stitches, or some wound glue or something. "No!" He whined. "Do it like before!” 

“I did." No, he didn’t. 

He covered his stupid horse teeth with his hand and closed his eyes. I want Cole to feel better. I’m sorry for hurting him. It was a mistake. I’m sorry. I want to make him feel better. I’m sorry! He slammed his other hand against Cole’s chest. So hard that the older boy gave off a slight oomph. Fire burned between them. Like lightning against a black sky, everything was illuminated for just an instant. He saw spiderwebs of light scorch themselves across the backs of his eyelids, his mouth was full of ash. His nose was full of the stench of burning rubber. 

When he finally let go and released his mouthful of air, he half expected smoldering embers to come out instead. 

He blinked back into reality to find Cole staring at him slack-jawed, tissues turned limp in his hand. There was dried blood on his face, sure. But no burns. No swollen nose, no bruises, no black-eye and no cut on his forehead. It was almost like they had never been there at all. 

 ”Whoa.“ They whispered at the same time, two pairs of eyes stretched wide as saucers. 

He described the whole thing to his mother that night. She sipped her gross watery diner coffee and just listened. He ate pancakes covered in sprinkles and whipped cream. Wearing his plastic toy crown and sunset orange tights under his oversized yellow bumblebee sweater and clunky braces.

When he couldn’t talk anymore, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

"Mama, am I a freak?" 

"No, baby." 

"Then why can do the things I can do?" 

She paused.

"Did you know that there’s a type of plankton, little tiny bits of fish, algae and debris in the ocean, that can glow in the dark? It's bioluminescent. They’re found in the Maldives, on this tiny little island. They call it The Sea of Stars.”

She had the same far-off look in her eyes that she did when she talked about his father. “Daddy seahorses give birth instead of mommies. Baby turtles are born knowing exactly what they have to do and where they have to go. Then they go back to the same spot to start the cycle all over again.

…Sometimes fall leaves change color to orange, sometimes yellow, sometimes red and sometimes not at all.

Your father and I, managed to make a perfect little boy and now he’s sitting right in front of me." 

Her hands cupped his chin and there was no scent of sulfur or burning. 

"All those things are miracles." She pressed another kiss to his cheek. "There will always be magic in the world, my little Prince. So enjoy it when and where you find it." 

Cole was his best-friend from that day onward. 

In every one of his scenes drawn in smudgy pencil or old pastels, there was a new face. A young blonde knight, a yellow dragon, and a sword held aloft beside his own. 

Three years passed quickly, even faster than those he’d spent in the sanitarium/fever hospital.

Three years of pictures with the camera Cole got for his ninth birthday.

They used up so many rolls of film that it was hilarious. They never had their pictures on time. It would be months upon months before they got around to getting a recent roll developed and by then it wasn’t so recent anymore.

Cole’s mother would give him free piano lessons every Thursday and Friday, desperate for anyone who was even remotely gifted at it. As Cole, despite his namesake’s musical prowess, was as tone-deaf as they came. 

Cole’s father loved listening to the music they made together, and even insisted on imparting some special knowledge on the boys himself.

He taught them how to dance.

But not just any kind of dancing, traditional Irish dances that made him feel like his feet were flying.

Suddenly the little boy, who’d spent his childhood in heavy cumbersome leg-braces, could keep up and do even better than someone without his painful history or messed-up scarred legs. He suddenly found beauty in a part of himself that he’d always hated, and it was because of Mr. Brennan.

He promised to take them both to a Ceili in Ireland when they were older. Where they could dance with more than just him or each other.

Luckily, because of Brooklyn’s burgeoning Irish community, they were in a few tiny competitions for step-dance, usually performing together and placing high. It was a running Brennan family joke that Sky was actually more Irish than the lot of them. With his skill in the dances, his ability to pick them up so quickly, that mop-top of jet black curls and porcelain skin envied by most of the dancing girls, he looked more like a boy come fresh from the Cliffs of Moher than a mix of Scandinavian and Persian. Not to mention how quickly he picked up a working knowledge of Irish Gaelic.

But when they weren’t in lessons or at school, they were laying sprawled on their bellies in the library, flipping through old musty books and sometimes reading aloud to one another. 

Sky’s favorites were The Scarlet Pimpernel, Little Women, The Grimm Brothers’ Fairytales, Alice in Wonderland and Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairytales and Stories. 

Cole’s were Dracula, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Edgar Allen Poe’s Complete Works, Carrie and 'Salem’s Lot. 

He was pretty sure half of Cole’s horror obsession was rooted in trying to understand Sky and his assorted oddities. Or his Gifts as his mother and Cole liked to call them. 

One afternoon, as they were flopped on the floor next to each other, legs kicked up and resting on the shelves. Fingers intertwined where nobody else could see, behind the stacks where they were by themselves. Cole regaled him with yet another half-baked theory. 

"What if you’re a witch!" 

Sky couldn’t help but laugh out-loud, but because it was a library, he tried to be quiet by just snorting into his free palm. 

"No, really!" Cole squawked indignantly, waving his free hand around emphatically. "What if that’s why you can heal and see dead people! Sky, you’re downright spooky! You gotta be!” He looked over eagerly, probably hoping to see a revelation dawning in his best-friend’s eyes, instead what he saw was the younger boy practically dying of his own withheld laughter. 

“Rhys…” He whined, plaintively, but the boy in question could only grin impishly. 

“Sorry, Cole…” He hiccuped through his muffled laughter. “That sounds groovy and everything, but this isn’t an episode of Bewitched!” 

He snickered again and Cole stuck out his tongue to blow him a raspberry.  

Sky wasn’t exactly sure when his feelings for Cole became more than just best-friend feelings.

He knew that Cole was a boy and that a lot of people didn’t like it when boys had feelings for other boys. But what he felt for his best-friend didn’t feel like a bad thing. It was good. It felt warm and happy and safe.

They didn’t hold hands until they were by themselves. But he was pretty sure his mother knew, she just didn’t mind it. She would look at them fondly as they played buck-buck and stickball with the neighborhood kids and spent all night talking together afterwards, flopping onto and cramming into their one mattress, like sardines in a can.

She was just happy he was loved. 

Cole’s parents likely suspected something as well. But Mrs. Brennan still gave Sky free piano lessons with a genuine silky smile on her face and Mr. Brennan would still eagerly teach them both how to play soccer, as well as dance.

Then they would have weekend tournaments. Mr. Brennan would race over and sweep both of them up into his hairy arms when he wanted to score without little feet getting in the way. Sky so often shrieked with joy and childhood abandon in those days, as he was held over the stocky Irishman’s shoulder for so long that his blood whooshed loudly in his ears. 

He was loved. 

It didn’t matter by who, or what, it just mattered that it happened. He was loved. 

Then predictably… everything all went to shit.

Rhye fell, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. 

“Ah, then came man to savage in the night To run like thieves and to kill like knives To take away the power from the magic hand To bring about the ruin to the promised land, aah, aah…”

Sudden. Cardiac. Death.

Those were the three words a kind-eyed grandfatherly doctor told him at the hospital. His birthday was in just two days. He was turning nine on January 1st and wanted to see the smoggy sky full of lights once again, to see the ball drop in Time Square. But what did it matter…

Now that his whole world was dead and gone? 

He’d been playing with Cole out in the snow that day, New York City was beautiful in the wintertime. 

While he was making snow-angels, his mother had collapsed to the thinly carpeted floor of their studio apartment. As his little hands packed together fluffy snowballs with the same kind of pressure she likely felt in her chest, her heart beat erratically. He and Cole caught snow flurries on their tongues and compared the shapes caught in their soft mittened hands, while his mother’s heart stopped. He remembered blinking up at the overcast snowy sky above and grinning a toothy smile. While his mother’s organs stopped getting oxygen and the tissues died. 

By the time ash filled his mouth and hellfire blazed beneath his skin, it was too late. 

He was up and running towards the apartment without even a word to Cole, who chased after him, calling his name with concern alight in those Emerald Isle eyes. Shadows were flickering in the corners of Sky’s vision, and the present ghosts were all staring at him solemnly, even the spirits he had considered his friends. Their sadness was strangling him and he could barely breathe. Their hands reached for him, sporting vast empty holes where eyes would’ve gone. For the first time, he was genuinely afraid. 

Your mother, your mother, your mother, your mother… 

Their whispers followed him like a burial shroud. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t escape them. 

“Prince Rhye? Rhys? Jesus, what’s wrong?!“ Cole yelled, forgetting just how fast Sky was without the braces and crutches. The snow was far too heavy to run through. "What did you see?! Sky!” He screeched. 

Sky raced up the steps of his apartment building, nearly slipping over the edge numerous times and giving Cole mini heart-attacks as he did so. He threw open his front door and then…

Everything went horribly, frighteningly, devastatingly… quiet. 

“They turn the milk into sour Like the blue in the blood of my veins Why can’t you see it? Fire burning in hell with the cry of screaming pain! Son of heaven set me free and let me go…

Sea turn dry, no salt from sand, Seasons fly no helping hand, Teeth don’t shine like pearls for poor man’s eyes, aah…”

There were fireworks on his birthday. The ball dropped in Time Square.

Just like every year, no matter what happened in his life, there was always a party. 

That just happened to be the morning his mother was buried. 

The snow held no joy for him anymore. The sky was gray, the ground was white and his heart was somewhere beneath the frozen dirt. The only reason he got through the miserable funeral at all, was the feeling of Cole’s arms around him, Mrs. Brennan humming Für Elise under her breath, and Mr. Brennan scooping him up to carry him out of the graveyard like small child. He buried his face in the Irishman’s stubbly neck and Mr. Brennan just rubbed his back sadly, whispering the story of Tír na nÓg.

Sky had just assumed that he would be with them afterwards. 

The Brennans were not rich by any means, they all lived in the poor Irish/Immigrant bit of Brooklyn, but they had more than enough to feed another mouth. They had a place in their hearts for another son. A place in their modest home. A place in their lives.

They’d already taken him in, both mentally and physically, during that first night in the hospital. When it was confirmed that Birdy Rhodes had left this world.  

But it was not to be. 

Social Services came a-knocking on the very night of his birthday. To inform them all of its lovely archaic practices, which dictated that it didn’t matter how much the Brennans wanted to take care of Sky. Or how much Cole didn’t want to lose his best-friend (and perhaps more).

It simply read that if there was a living parent, the care of the child had to go to their living parent. And if that parent was somehow unfit, then it would take a miracle for him to be placed with them again. A miracle that would take years to come to fruition. 

What that meant was, on the day after his birthday and the burial of his mother, Sky would be torn from their lives like a misplaced postage stamp. All packaged up and put on a plane to another country, where he would then be dumped on the father he’d never met. Who didn’t even know he existed. They didn’t see any issues with that at all. 

Sky, or Rhye as his social-worker insisted on calling him, who was oft a well-behaved child (Ha!) unless pressed the wrong way, screamed and wailed like a banshee as he was dragged away from the Brennans and everything he knew. 

Tiny, puffy-eyed, wearing rumpled hand-me-down pajamas and his current favorite toy crown gifted to him by Cole the night before, paired with an acidic scowl. 

He refused to change when prompted and buried his face in his single overfilled rucksack whenever given a command. 

His caseworker tried to placate him the whole flight, giving him snacks and little crafts to do. Write down everything you want your father to know about you, sweetheart! Make him a little card! But to no avail. He’d never even left New York City, let alone been on a plane and he couldn’t even bring himself to enjoy the experience. It was horrifying. Not even drawing or the smell of a few Brennan shirts that he’d borrowed could make things any better. He was like a small boat drifting away from his moorings. Something untethered to the earth or to anything at all. 

You could’ve healed her if you’d been there. His inner voice chastised him mercilessly. What’s the use of having a Gift like that if you can’t even save the ones you love? If you can’t even save yourself?

He spent the night at the American Embassy in London, sleeping on a few uncomfortable chairs pushed together to make some sort of semblance of a bed.

The officials were trying to get in contact with his father. Something made remarkably difficult by the fact that he was a celebrity and a deathly private celebrity at that. Who had body guards and people trained specifically to avoid the paparazzi and crazy fans at all costs. 

He cried himself to sleep that night, jet-lagged and sick with grief. Wishing he was back in New York City, on his shitty shared mattress but still held tight in his mother’s gentle embrace. I love you, my little Prince Rhye. I love you so much. 

Not even singing to himself helped. He just cried even harder.

It felt strange not to take solace in the few emotions he understood, like indignation and anger. 

“Someone, someone has drained the colour from my wings… Broken my fairy circle ring And shamed the king in all his pride Changed the winds and wronged the tides…

Mother Mercury… Mercury… Look what they’ve done to me!  I cannot run, I cannot hide…”

Nothing was right anymore, everything was broken into bits and no matter how hard he tried to put them back together again, it was to no avail. 

It was incurably eviscerated. 

His life and his heart. 

All Sky could do was cry. 

[patriotsnet]

Why Is There Republicans And Democrats

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/why-is-there-republicans-and-democrats/

Why Is There Republicans And Democrats

How Things Got This Bad

Why Democrats and Republicans have different priorities on COVID relief

6) The Republican turn against democracy begins with race

Support for authoritarian ideas in America is closely tied to the countrys long-running racial conflicts.

This chart, from a September 2020 paper by Vanderbilt professor Larry Bartels, shows a statistical analysis of a survey of Republican voters, analyzing the link between respondents score on a measure of ethnic antagonism and their support for four anti-democratic statements .

The graphic shows a clear finding: The higher a voter scores on the ethnic antagonism scale, the more likely they are tosupport anti-democratic ideas. This held true even when Bartels used regression analyses to compare racial attitudes to other predictors, like support for Trump. The strongest predictor by far of these antidemocratic attitudes is ethnic antagonism, he writes.

For students of American history, this shouldnt be a surprise.

The 1964 Civil Rights Act and 1965 Voting Rights Act cemented Democrats as the party of racial equality, causing racially resentful Democrats in the South and elsewhere to defect to the Republican Party. This sorting process, which took place over the next few decades, is .

7) Partisanship causes Republicans to justify anti-democratic behavior

This chart is a little hard to parse, but it illustrates a crucial finding from one of the best recent papers on anti-democratic sentiment in America: how decades of rising partisanship made an anti-democratic GOP possible.

Taking The Perspective Of Others Proved To Be Really Hard

The divide in the United States is wide, and one indication of that is how difficult our question proved for many thoughtful citizens. A 77-year-old Republican woman from Pennsylvania was typical of the voters who struggled with this question, telling us, This is really hard for me to even try to think like a devilcrat!, I am sorry but I in all honesty cannot answer this question. I cannot even wrap my mind around any reason they would be good for this country.

Similarly, a 53-year-old Republican from Virginia said, I honestly cannot even pretend to be a Democrat and try to come up with anything positive at all, but, I guess they would vote Democrat because they are illegal immigrants and they are promised many benefits to voting for that party. Also, just to follow what others are doing. And third would be just because they hate Trump so much. The picture she paints of the typical Democratic voter being an immigrant, who goes along with their party or simply hates Trump will seem like a strange caricature to most Democratic voters. But her answer seems to lack the animus of many.  

Democrats struggled just as much as Republicans. A 33-year-old woman from California told said, i really am going to have a hard time doing this but then offered that Republicans are morally right as in values, going to protect us from terrorest and immigrants, going to create jobs.

Reality Check 3: The Democrats Legislative Fix Will Never Happenand Doesnt Even Touch The Real Threats

Its understandable why Democrats have ascribed a life-or-death quality to S. 1, the For the People bill that would impose a wide range of requirements on state voting procedures. The dozensor hundredsof provisions enacted by Republican state legislatures and governors represent a determination to ensure that the GOP thumb will be on the scale at every step of the voting process. The proposed law would roll that back on a national level by imposing a raft of requirements on statesno excuse absentee voting, more days and hours to votebut would also include public financing of campaigns, independent redistricting commissions and compulsory release of presidential candidates’ tax returns.

There are all sorts of Constitutional questions posed by these ideas. But theres a more fundamental issue here: The Constitutional clause on which the Democrats are relyingArticle I, Section 4, Clause 1gives Congress significant power over Congressional elections, but none over elections for state offices or the choosing of Presidential electors.

Vaccine Advocacy From Hannity And Mcconnell Gets The Media Off Republicans’ Backs But Won’t Shift Public Sentiment

Sean Hannity, Mitch McConnell and Tucker Carlson

Amid a rising media furor over the steady stream of vaccine disparagement from GOP politicians and Fox News talking heads, a number of prominent Republicans spoke up in favor of vaccines early this week.

On Tuesday, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell told reporters, “shots need to get in everybody’s arm as rapidly as possible” and asked that people “ignore all of these other voices that are giving demonstrably bad advice.” House Minority Whip Rep. Steve Scalise of Louisiana, got the vaccine after months of delay and then publicly said, “there shouldn’t be any hesitancy over whether or not it’s safe and effective.” And Fox News host Sean Hannity, in a widely shared video, declared, it “absolutely makes sense for many Americans to get vaccinated.” This was treated in the press as an unequivocal endorsement, even though the use of the word “many” was clearly meant to let the Fox News viewers feel like he’s talking about other people getting vaccinated. 

Is this an exciting pivot among the GOP elites?  Are they abandoning the sociopathic strategy of sabotaging President Joe Biden’s anti-pandemic plan by encouraging their own followers to get sick? Are the millions of Republicans who keep telling pollsters they will never get that Democrat shot going to change their minds now? 

Ha ha ha, no.

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Matthew Gertz July 20, 2021

Jefferson And Jeffersonian Principles

Jeffersonian democracy was not a one-man operation. It was a large political party with many local and state leaders and various factions, and they did not always agree with Jefferson or with each other.

Jefferson was accused of inconsistencies by his opponents. The “Old Republicans” said that he abandoned the Principles of 1798. He believed the national security concerns were so urgent that it was necessary to purchase Louisiana without waiting for a Constitutional amendment. He enlarged federal power through the intrusively-enforced . He idealized the “yeoman farmer” despite being himself a gentleman plantation owner. The disparities between Jefferson’s philosophy and practice have been noted by numerous historians. Staaloff proposed that it was due to his being a proto-; claimed that it was a manifestation of pure hypocrisy, or “pliability of principle”; and Bailyn asserts it simply represented a contradiction with Jefferson, that he was “simultaneously a radical utopian idealist and a hardheaded, adroit, at times cunning politician”. However, Jenkinson argued that Jefferson’s personal failings ought not to influence present day thinkers to disregard Jeffersonian ideals.

, a European nobleman who opposed democracy, argues that “Jeffersonian democracy” is a misnomer because Jefferson was not a democrat, but in fact believed in rule by an elite: “Jefferson actually was an Agrarian Romantic who dreamt of a republic governed by an elite of character and intellect”.

Reality Check #4: The Electoral College And The Senate Are Profoundly Undemocraticand Were Stuck With Them

Because the Constitution set up a state-by-state system for picking presidents, the massive Democratic majorities we now see in California and New York often mislead us about the partys national electoral prospects. In 2016, Hillary Clintons 3-million-vote plurality came entirely from California. In 2020, Bidens 7-million-vote edge came entirely from California and New York. These are largely what election experts call wasted votesDemocratic votes that dont, ultimately, help the Democrat to win. That imbalance explains why Trump won the Electoral College in 2016 and came within a handful of votes in three states from doing the same last November, despite his decisive popular-vote losses.

The response from aggrieved Democrats? Abolish the Electoral College! In practice, theyd need to get two-thirds of the House and Senate, and three-fourths of the state legislatures, to ditch the process that gives Republicans their only plausible chance these days to win the White House. Shortly after the 2016 election, Gallup found that Republican support for abolishing the electoral college had dropped to 19 percent. The National Popular Vote Interstate Compact, a state-by-state scheme to effectively abolish the Electoral College without changing the Constitution, hasnt seen support from a single red or purple state.

History Of The Democratic And Republican Parties

The Democratic Party traces its origins to the anti-federalist factions around the time of Americas independence from British rule. These factions were organized into the Democrat Republican party by Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and other influential opponents of the Federalists in 1792.

The Republican party is the younger of the two parties. Founded in 1854 by anti-slavery expansion activists and modernizers, the Republican Party rose to prominence with the election of Abraham Lincoln, the first Republican president. The party presided over the American Civil War and Reconstruction and was harried by internal factions and scandals towards the end of the 19th century.

Since the division of the Republican Party in the election of 1912, the Democratic party has consistently positioned itself to the left of the Republican Party in economic as well as social matters. The economically left-leaning activist philosophy of Franklin D. Roosevelt, which has strongly influenced American liberalism, has shaped much of the party’s economic agenda since 1932. Roosevelt’s New Deal coalition usually controlled the national government until 1964.

The Republican Party today supports a pro-business platform, with foundations in economic libertarianism, and fiscal and social conservatism.

Adams And The Revolution Of 1800

Shortly after Adams took office, he dispatched a group of envoys to seek peaceful relations with France, which had begun attacking American shipping after the ratification of the Jay Treaty. The failure of talks, and the French demand for bribes in what became known as the XYZ Affair, outraged the American public and led to the Quasi-War, an undeclared naval war between France and the United States. The Federalist-controlled Congress passed measures to expand the army and navy and also pushed through the Alien and Sedition Acts. The Alien and Sedition Acts restricted speech that was critical of the government, while also implementing stricter naturalization requirements. Numerous journalists and other individuals aligned with the Democratic-Republicans were prosecuted under the Sedition Act, sparking a backlash against the Federalists. Meanwhile, Jefferson and Madison drafted the Kentucky and Virginia Resolutions, which held that state legislatures could determine the constitutionality of federal laws.

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They go further than merely believing the 2020 election was stolen, a nearly unanimous view among the bunch. Over 90 percent oppose making it easier for people to vote; roughly 70 percent would support a hypothetical third term for Trump .

The MAGA movement, Blum and Parker write, is a clear and present danger to American democracy.

2) Republicans are embracing violence

The ultimate expression of anti-democratic politics is resorting to violence. More than twice as many Republicans as Democrats nearly two in five Republicans said in a January poll that force could be justified against their opponents.

It would be easy to dismiss this kind of finding as meaningless were it not for the January 6 attack on Capitol Hill and the survey was conducted about three weeks after the attack. Republicans recently saw what political violence in the United States looked like, and a large fraction of the party faithful seemed comfortable with more of it.

These attitudes are linked to the party elites rhetoric: The more party leaders like Trump attack the democratic political system as rigged against them, the more Republicans will believe it and conclude that extreme measures are justifiable. A separate study found that Republicans who believe Democrats cheated in the election were far likelier to endorse post-election violence.

Early Life And Career

John Quincy Adams entered the world at the same time that his maternal great-grandfather, John Quincy, for many years a prominent member of the Massachusettslegislature, was leaving ithence his name. He grew up as a child of the American Revolution. He watched the Battle of Bunker Hill from Penns Hill and heard the cannons roar across the Back Bay in Boston. His patriot father, John Adams, at that time a delegate to the Continental Congress, and his patriot mother, Abigail Smith Adams, had a strong molding influence on his education after the war had deprived Braintree of its only schoolmaster. In 1778 and again in 1780 the boy accompanied his father to Europe. He studied at a private school in Paris in 177879 and at the University of Leiden, Netherlands, in 1780. Thus, at an early age he acquired an excellent knowledge of the French language and a smattering of Dutch. In 1780, also, he began to keep regularly the diary that forms so conspicuous a record of his doings and those of his contemporaries through the next 60 years of American history. Self-appreciative, like most of the Adams clan, he once declared that, if his diary had been even richer, it might have become “next to the Holy Scriptures, the most precious and valuable book ever written by human hands.”

c.

Democratic View On Healthcare

Democrats have always been in favor of governmental involvement in the wellbeing of Americans, especially the most vulnerable among us. Healthcare reform has been a primary focus for the party since the middle of the Twentieth Century. Medicare, Medicaid, Childrens Health Insurance Program , and the ACA are all major reforms the Democrats fought for and got passed into law. During this election season, healthcare is arguably the hottest topic of debate, and Democrats are pushing for further expansion across the board. The key phrase to remember is quality, affordable health care for all Americans.

Obama And Trump Healthcare Policies Compared

There could not be a more radical divide between administrations than there is between these two. The Obama administration worked against almost insurmountable opposition from the GOP in order to pass the ACA. The Trump Administrations quest is to dismantle everything the Obama Administration has done. They even have court cases pending in order to do so.

When Was The Republican And Democratic Parties Formed

The Democratic Party was founded by Andrew Jackson Martin Van Buren on January 8, 1828, in Baltimore, Maryland, USA. He was the United States seventh president but the first democratic President.

The Democratic Partys shocking emergence can be linked to the countrys anti-federalist factions. It was during that time the United States of America gained independence from British colonial masters.

The anti-federalist factions, which democrats originated from, were also grouped into the Democrat-Republican party. This was done in 1792 by James Madison, Thomas Jefferson, and other federalists influential opponents.

On the other hand, the Republican Party is pretty much younger than the Democratic Party. It was formed in 1854 by anti-slavery modernizers and activists.

The republicans were against the expansion of slavery in Western territories. They fought hard to protect African Americans rights after the civil war.

The Republican Party is often known as GOP. The meaning is Grand Old Party. The first Republican President was Abraham Lincoln. From Lincolns emergence, Republican Party started gaining ground in America.

The Legal Fight Over Voting Rights During The Pandemic Is Getting Hotter

Or as former Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker, a Republican, told NPR, there are no “fair” maps in the discussion about how to draw voting districts because what Democrats call “fair” maps are those, he believes, that favor them.

No, say voting rights groups and many Democrats the only “fair” way to conduct an election is to admit as many voters as possible. Georgia Democrat Stacey Abrams, who has charged authorities in her home state with suppressing turnout, named her public interest group Fair Fight Action.

Access vs. security

The pandemic has added another layer of complexity with the new emphasis it has put on voting by mail. President Trump says he opposes expanding voting by mail, and his allies, including White House press secretary Kayleigh McEnany, call the process rife with opportunities for fraud.

Even so, Trump and McEnany both voted by mail this year in Florida, and Republican officials across the country have encouraged voting by mail.

Democrats, who have made election security and voting access a big part of their political brand for several years, argue that the pandemic might discourage people from going to old-fashioned polling sites.

Democrats Or Republicans: Who Has The Higher Income

In the end, many people assume Republicans are richer based on these figures. Although, this is only a look at the richest families and politicians in America though. In everyday American households, it seems that Democrats have a higher mean salary. Its true that many of the wealthiest families in the country are contributing to Republican campaigns. On the contrary, families registered as , statistically speaking.

These findings still have some loopholes in them, of course. For instance, the data was collected over the last 40 years or so. Moreover, it is only based on the most recently collected information. As you know, demographics are constantly changing. These figures may have been affected as well. There is also a margin of error with every type of data collection like this. So, what do you think? Who is richer? Democrats or Republicans?

Where Do Trump And Biden Stand On Key Issues

Reuters: Brian Snyder/AP: Julio Cortez

The key issues grappling the country can be broken down into five main categories: coronavirus, health care, foreign policy, immigration and criminal justice.

This year, a big focus of the election has been the coronavirus pandemic, which could be a deciding factor in how people vote, as the country’s contentious healthcare system struggles to cope.

The average healthcare costs for COVID-19 treatment is up to $US30,000 , an Americas Health Insurance Plans 2020 study has found.

Presidential Election Of 1808

This mayor joining the GOP says theres no Democratic Party anymore’

Speculation regarding Madison’s potential succession of Jefferson commenced early in Jefferson’s first term. Madison’s status in the party was damaged by his association with the embargo, which was unpopular throughout the country and especially in the Northeast. With the Federalists collapsing as a national party after 1800, the chief opposition to Madison’s candidacy came from other members of the Democratic-Republican Party. Madison became the target of attacks from Congressman , a leader of a faction of the party known as the . Randolph recruited James Monroe, who had felt betrayed by the administration’s rejection of the proposed with Britain, to challenge Madison for leadership of the party. Many Northerners, meanwhile, hoped that Vice President could unseat Madison as Jefferson’s successor. Despite this opposition, Madison won his party’s presidential nomination at the January 1808 . The Federalist Party mustered little strength outside New England, and Madison easily defeated Federalist candidate . At a height of only five feet, four inches , and never weighing more than 100 pounds , Madison became the most diminutive president.

What Is Thomas Jefferson Remembered For

Thomas Jefferson is remembered for being the primary writer of the Declaration of Independence and the third president of the United States. The fact that he owned over 600 enslaved people during his life while forcefully advocating for human freedom and equality made Jefferson one of Americas most problematic and paradoxical heroes.

Thomas Jefferson, , draftsman of the Declaration of Independence of the United States and the nations first secretary of state and second vice president and, as the third president , the statesman responsible for the Louisiana Purchase. An early advocate of total separation of church and state, he also was the founder and architect of the University of Virginia and the most eloquent American proponent of individual freedom as the core meaning of the American Revolution.

What Republican And Democrats Believe

Lets start with this example. There are one or more reasons why you chose that person to be your friend. It could be because of how he or she talks, sense of humor, intelligence, educational background, ideology, or other factors.

The bottom line is you made the individual your friend because of one or more factors you discovered in that person that pleases you. This explains why most people would prefer joining republicans than Democrats and vice versa.

Republicans and Democrats have diverse ideologies and beliefs. These beliefs or ideology is part of what draws people to join either political party.

Lets start with Republicans. What do Republicans believe in?

Republicans boast libertarian and centrist factions. But they primarily believe in social conservative policies. They abide by laws that help conserve their traditional values. These include opposition to abortion, marijuana use, and same-sex marriage.

So the Republican Partys platform is generally centered on American conservatism. It comprises establishment conservatives, Freedom Caucus, or Tea Party members, described as right-wing, populist, and far-right.

The Republican Partys position has changed over time. They now transcend beyond traditional values, which often includes Christian background. The Republicans evolved position now includes fiscal conservatism and foreign policy.

Heres a quick summary of what the Republican Party believes in:

Heres a quick look at what Democrats believe in:

Was The Donkey Originally A Jackass

Thomas Nast was an American cartoonist who joined the staff of Harpers Weekly in 1862. Nasts cartoons were very popular and his depiction of Santa Claus is still the most widely used version of the holiday icon we see today. During his career, Nast also drew many political cartoons that harshly criticized the policies of both parties.

Nast first used a donkey to represent the Democratic party as a whole in the 1870 cartoon A Live Jack-Ass Kicking a Lion in which Nast criticized the dominantly Democratic Southern newspaper industry as the Copperhead Press. While he did popularize the donkey, Nast wasnt the first person to use it in reference to the Democrats.

Over 40 years earlier during the presidential campaign of 1828, opponents of Democrat Andrew Jackson referred to him as a jackass. Jackson actually embraced the insult and used donkeys on several campaign posters. Nevertheless, cartoonist Anthony Imbert would use a Jackson-headed donkey to mock Jackson an 1833 political cartoon.

However, the donkey never really caught on after the end of Jacksons presidency, and Thomas Nast apparently had no knowledge that it ever was used to represent the Democrats.

Election Of 1796 And Vice Presidency

In the presidential campaign of 1796, Jefferson lost the electoral college vote to Federalist John Adams by 7168 and was thus elected vice president. As presiding officer of the Senate, he assumed a more passive role than his predecessor John Adams. He allowed the Senate to freely conduct debates and confined his participation to procedural issues, which he called an “honorable and easy” role. Jefferson had previously studied parliamentary law and procedure for 40 years, making him unusually well qualified to serve as presiding officer. In 1800, he published his assembled notes on Senate procedure as . Jefferson would cast only three in the Senate.

During the Adams presidency, the Federalists rebuilt the military, levied new taxes, and enacted the . Jefferson believed that these laws were intended to suppress Democratic-Republicans, rather than prosecute enemy aliens, and considered them unconstitutional. To rally opposition, he and James Madison anonymously wrote the , declaring that the federal government had no right to exercise powers not specifically delegated to it by the states. The resolutions followed the “” approach of Madison, in which states may shield their citizens from federal laws that they deem unconstitutional. Jefferson advocated , allowing states to invalidate federal laws altogether. Jefferson warned that, “unless arrested at the threshold”, the Alien and Sedition Acts would “necessarily drive these states into revolution and blood”.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, SIDNEY! You’ve been accepted for the role of LADY MACBETH. Admin Rosey: Ah, my dear Lady Macbeth. Sidney, you capture her so effortlessly, it almost scares me a little bit. Her voice simply flows so easily, so dangerously easy that it enraptures us all. What with her purr that could make any person fall to their knees, and the way that she strikes terror with little to no mind for the psychological fractures that she is likely to cause. Your plot points in particular had us all practically salivating for the drama that you are promising to bring. Bring the terror, the brimstone, and the damnation, Sidney. We are ready for it all. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Sidney Age | 21 Preferred Pronouns | She/her Activity Level | I’m fairly active! I’m usually here when I’m not working or sleeping, and most likely mobile and available to plot. I get to replies within 1-3 days depending on muse and time management! On a numerical scale, I’d say I’m a 6-7/10. Timezone | EST Current/Past RP Accounts | This is my most recent, and this is another from the past few months! And of course there’s my old DV account here!

In Character

Character | Lucrezia Falco / Lady Macbeth (I do plan on sending in a Cressida app (hopefully) by Saturday, but I’d be happy to potentially play either so I will defer to your judgement upon acceptances! Thanks so much for reading, love you all <3)

Lucrezia Carina Falco (née Ricci) LUCREZIA:“profit, wealth”, a name she’s taken quite literally since the day she looked up its meaning. To say it gave her a complex would be a vast understatement. If it had been anyone else who had discovered such a thing — that their given name means pure profit — it surely wouldn’t have created a monster. But the same cannot be said of the little princess who bore it one fine January morn. Thirty years in the making, and Lucrezia suits her better now than it ever has, as she walks the marbled floors of Falco Manor, donned in the finest of silks from the best of designers. A name can mean so many things, and in her case, she turned Lucrezia into gold. CARINA: “little darling”, once her mother’s name and cherished tenfold since the day she died. It fits you, mi carina, her mother would say before tucking her into bed at night with a kiss to her temple. Little darling, she’d coo despite her daughter turning into anything but. Though it became a persona she’d wear whenever she was feeling particularly cautious. Carina, she’d whisper with a small, calculated smile as she introduced herself to new strangers. With a bat of her lashes and lips painted a blushing pink, Lucrezia became a different woman. Someone her mother would have loved, someone she would have approved of. It’s a comfortable mask, one easily slipped on, but a mask nonetheless. It fits, but it doesn’t feel quite right. FALCO:It sits atop her shoulders in a black shroud, casting long shadows and grasping throats tightly with its wide reach. Mikael’s surname once tasted like candied cherries atop her naive tongue, sweet and rife with possibility—but it’s long since turned rotten in her mouth. Still, she wears it. Like a shield, pieces of armor she’s nailed and stapled to her chest with triumph. He may have been born with it but it was her who made it anything to bow before. It had no power, no fear or fealty attached to it with him in tow for there are only two uses for rabid dogs: annihilation and worship. He’s good for both, not much else. She’ll don it for now, milk that wretched man for all he and his name are worth and, by God’s gracious graces, that’s still something. For now.

What drew you to this character? | Lucrezia’s just so unapologetic; she is who she is and ever since birth, and never has she wavered. She knows what she loves: power. She knows what her best assets are: her sexuality. Instead of spending her life fighting to rise above everyone simply seeing her as this unattainable object, she embraces this so-called stereotype and uses it to her benefit. Manipulation is not only her best skill, but it’s her way of life. Since she was a child, she’s been told to change nearly every fundamental aspect of herself, to mold and shift and evolve into this delicate flower everyone thinks she should be, but she refuses. She is who she is—like it or not, and if you don’t, well, then she’ll convince you. Lucrezia derives true pleasure from making people squirm, bending and twisting their will just so she can get what she wants. Through pain or through pleasure, it doesn’t matter as long as they offer up exactly what she wants to hear. What it all boils down to is that reaction. Ranging from igniting pure, unadulterated rage from an enemy or sparking an animalistic, carnal desire in a lover’s eyes, all that matters is what they give her. With the smirk of her ruby-coated lips coupled with the sultry sway of her hips, or the hard slap of her leather encased hand followed by the sharp heel of her boot, people will kneel. They will obey.

I’m so drawn to her and all the power she has, whether it’s been created and cultivated by her through the Falco name, or entirely imagined simply because of her inflated sense of self worth. As a writer, it doesn’t matter to me because her motives are so crystal clear. She just wants more. That’s all she’s ever wanted, and I so desperately want to give it to her by any means necessary. There’s a reason they whisper Lady Macbeth behind her back; and she wears the pet name with pride despite the ashen taste of Mikael’s name being attached, but the lady always comes first.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | ONE: All her life everyone around her has told her exactly who she was supposed to be: delicate, tender, angelic. Characteristics that, if you truly knew Lucrezia they wouldn’t describe the raven-haired, irresistible dame by a long shot. While she could mimic these attributes, they did not come naturally. And it was those completely opposite traits which define Lucrezia that Mikael was first drawn to. Though she may still not be sure whether she truly love(s)d Mikael, she keeps him around. His attractiveness comes from the power the Falco name now elicits—all due to Lucrezia and her hunger for notoriety. Can’t find a man who will make you a queen? Then make one. And so she did. From the moment she saw him, she saw opportunity. But that only got her so far, unfortunately. At the moment, Mikael is just as useless as his rank. Not a single soul fears the name Falco—no—and with fear comes respect. Lucrezia has worked hard to change this, shaping and molding Mikael into a man who can command a faithful following, burrowing his insecurities behind a false sense of confidence from simply being her husband. Lucrezia’s affections can do wondrous things—turn simple people into leaders, mere men into gods. She turned Mikael into the perfect soldier for the Capulets and they should adore her for it. They should want to be her. But is adoration enough? No — never. Still very low in the ranks of the Capulet’s, she has her sights on something better: a crown. One clad with the finest jewels in all of Verona, dripping in the blood of whomever dares to step in her path. The only things Lucrezia pledges full loyalty to are herself and opportunity. She’ll need to decide quickly whether or not Mikael could be useful in helping her climb the ranks or if she would benefit from finally putting the poor dog to sleep.

I’d love to explore her specific manipulations of Mikael and his rank. He pushed her (and his own) feet through the door, but he is still only just a soldier and she is still only just an emissary. If he has nothing more to offer, then she would not even blink at the thought of killing him, or even carefully orchestrating such a tragedy. People always pity and underestimate a poor and young widow, a role she’ imagines she could play perfectly.

TWO: Where there is death, there is opportunity—at least to Lucrezia. With the news of Alvise’s demise spreading like the plague, she can’t wait to see how it all unfolds. Undoubtedly, the Capulets will be accused of committing such a horrible act, igniting a war among the feuding families, creating absolute chaos. And there’s nothing she loves more than a little mayhem. If she was a betting girl, she’d put her money on the very side Alvise pledged his allegiance to as the guilty party for the crime of putting an end to his very, very important life. There’s nothing like the hunger for power; Lucrezia is all too familiar with such a craving. Being an emissary has its perks. You’re given a direct line to the Boss’ needs and therefore delegated with the tasks deemed too dirty for the them. There’s something pure about being in the trenches, getting your boots wet (with blood), so to speak. You always know where you stand when you’ve got your heel to someone’s throat. Breaking and bending the enemies of Cosimo Capulet has its benefits. Lucrezia is free to do what she wants as long as the job gets done, but freedom is dangerous when a guard dog is given the opportunity to rip out its owner’s throat. All they’d have to do is offer her a particularly delectable bone as incentive. She wouldn’t give it a second thought, lunging at the opportunity to betray her so-called “family” if it meant ending up that much closer to a throne.

One of the only things she’s loyal to is opportunity. I can see her figuratively splitting herself in two. One side reaching toward Vivianne or Rafaella, going straight to the source and attempting to seduce them—platonically or romantically—by any means necessary. Mikael is, after all, only a soldier and Lucrezia is hungry. Her other half would be seeking any and all opportunities to inch her way into bed with a Montague and work her way up. Defecting would be a betrayal by anyone’s standards except Lucrezia’s.

THREE: Love can bring anyone to their knees—except Lucrezia. After all, the person she loves most is herself. While she finds lust and infatuation entertaining, and may even develop real feelings from one of her many, many trysts, they can all be reduced to ash in the palm of her hand as quickly as they were sparked to life. Nothing and no one will stand in her way—not even herself. Legally, her heart is tethered to Mikael and for that, he’ll remain loyal and grateful, despite his jealous tendencies. He has every right to be possessive, of course, because Lucrezia belongs to no one—not even her him. Assuaging her husband’s envious passion is easy, though; all she has to do is smile. She’s found a great friend in Delilah, but deep down she’s still unsure of whether or not the girl can cut it. If she cannot instill in her the same selfishness that’s gotten Lucrezia this far in life, she may have to cut ties with her as well. No matter the cost. Lucrezia will always blow through people’s lives like a tornado leaving only obliterated hearts and the burning embers of betrayal in her wake.

I’d love to explore a new relationship in her life, one where she sets her sights on someone with every intention of completely devouring them. Perhaps they will surprise her at every turn, matching her witty remark for witty remark and keeping her on her toes.  Maybe they’ll be easy prey, weak and naive and capable of great manipulation. While there’s no doubt she’d be absolutely fascinated with someone just as devious and unapologetic as herself, Lucrezia would still ultimately throw them to the wolves to further her own personal interests. God help the lover who stands in her way, or worse tries to change her for the better. Lucrezia’s already perfect the way she is; this she knows. But they can surely try.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes.

In Depth

In-Character Interview:

What is your favorite place in Verona?

“Mmm… The Dark Lady,” she purrs, the words pouring from her mouth like molasses, beckoning the interviewer to lean in closer as if she’s going to reveal a secret meant just for their ears.

“Music echoing off the walls and swirling with the soft chatter of Verona’s most notorious gluttons and the city’s biggest hedonists—it’s wonderful.” Her eyes fall shut for a moment as she settles in and leans back on the sofa, stretching her arms out on either side of the pillows behind her.

“There’s something about the smell of depravity in there I just love. The gambling, the liquor. And lust just hangs in the air like a thick fog,” she chuckles wryly, but her eyes shimmer, igniting with a mischievous wanton eagerness. “You never know what’s going to happen,” she leans forward once more, crossing her legs and winking at the interviewer.

What does your typical day look like?

“It’s rare that I wake up alone,” she mutters quietly, twirling a curled strand of her hair around her index finger—a tic she’s picked up along the years, usually stemming from boredom.

“I wake, I dress, I stumble—depending on how drunk I still am—back to my room and sleep or change and then leave the Emelia.“ She rolls her eyes carelessly, tossing her hair over her shoulder and leaning forward to take a sip of the tea the interviewer offered her when she sat down.

“Depending on the day, I either head to the Cathedral for work or I wander the streets, looking for entertainment. I can’t stand days sitting around doing nothing. I need to be moving,” she emphasizes her words with her hands dramatically, “I need to live, but you know, you can always find me at The Dark Lady or The Tempest come dusk.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“War,” she deadpans, brushing away a few stray strands of blonde hair from her face. “It’s a waste of time, if you want me to be honest.” She doesn’t wait for them to ask her to expand. If Lucrezia is known for anything, it’s for speaking her mind whether it’s warranted or not.

“You’ve got one side, filled with — by anyone’s definition, especially their own — do-gooders. Saints, if you will. They’ve worked so hard to re-brand and re-build their name so it not only invokes respect, but one of generosity as well,” leaning forward, Lucrezia reaches for her silver cigarette case and lifts it from the coffee table in front of her. In one swift motion, she pulls one out, lights it, and takes a long first drag.

“Y-y-y-you can’t smoke in here,” they chirp, stuttering as if they’re afraid to scold her for fear she may tear out their throat. She chuckles and exhales, blowing the smoke up and to the right as she leans back once more into the plush cushions of the couch.

“Anyway, like I was saying, you’ve got the Saints, right? A real underdog; a redemption story. But then you’ve got the other side — the Sinners. Debauchery courses through their veins. I mean, it has to if you’re going to be in their line of work, doesn’t it?”

She takes another long drag, narrowing her eyes at the interviewer across from her. Their pen shakes ever-so-slightly in their hand—tremors from being in the presence of someone so domineering, if Lucrezia had to guess. The assumption brings a devilish grin to her wine-stained lips.

“But Saints always rely on Sinners to do their dirty work. The promise of becoming a Saint is all a hopeful Sinner needs to surrender their free will and execute orders deemed too evil for a Saint. But in my opinion…” she lingers, taking one last drag from her cigarette, before leaning in again. The interviewer leans forward in tandem, hanging on her every word.

“I love guns just as much as I love drugs,” she whispers, tossing her cigarette into the cup of tea atop the table, pushing herself to her feet and walking out.

In-Character Para Sample: Ten years ago —

A doe-eyed, fresh-faced, twenty-two-year-old Lucrezia stepped out of the cab into the cool summer air. She took in a deep breath, savoring the moonlight as it bounced off her caramel skin and basking in the light breeze rolling through from the west. Soft giggling echoed off the balconies above and she could hear a distant, yet very loud thumping of the bass all the way down onto the street. She could practically feel the pavement vibrating beneath her Louboutin sandals.

She lived for nights like these, nights filled with luxurious outfits and promiscuity. In fact, she spent all week looking forward to this very night—Saturday. The one night a week she can afford to venture out to Tempest. It was her guilty pleasure, indulging in the obscenity and carnality. She loved it; she lived for it.

But tonight felt different.

She quickly slammed the door to the cab shut and waved a thanks to the driver before heading in. Immediately, the door was held open for her and she smiled at the man, giving him a peck on the cheek as she brushed past him. Her heels clicked atop the marble as she sauntered over to the elevators, ever step radiating sovereignty—as if each touch of her toe to marble meant she was that much closer to becoming royalty. She knew it was a far off dream, but still her heart yearned and ached for such notoriety. She already had the following of a queen; people fell at her feet, worshiping the very ground she walked on. But something was still missing—a crown.

She rode up alone, but she liked it that way. Entering a party with a man immediately eliminated any and all opportunity, and that was the last thing she wanted. The silence, however, was deafening—something she detested—and by the time the elevator dinged and the doors opened, she was relieved. Noise traveled down the hall and bounced off the walls behind her, enveloping her in a warm embrace, beckoning her.

And she obliged.

Anticipation coursed through her veins as she headed toward the entrance of the Tempest but her brows knitted immediately at the people gathered in a line along the wall. Her face fell, her lips forming into a subtle pout as she stepped behind a brunette and proceeded to wait impatiently. Minutes passed and she inched forward with the line, growing angrier by the second.

A queen never has to wait, she thought, letting out a frustrated sigh and tightening the maroon pashmina draped across her shoulders. Her attention was so fixated on the clipboard holding, large, bald man in a black suit at the front of the line that she nearly missed the opportunity of a lifetime. She caught him though, thankfully, out of the corner of her eye.

Dressed in Armani from head to toe, he swaggered past her—and everyone else—in line, heading straight for the bouncer, who greeted him with a smile. He shook the man’s hand as his friends brushed past him. Lucrezia was transfixed. Such confidence. Such power. A few kind words to the man in front, and he was granted all access. No wait. No line. Amazing, she mused.

And that’s when he turned to face her.

Their eyes locked immediately and Lucrezia batted her lashes instinctively. Invite me in, she beckoned. She shrugged her shawl slightly, letting it slip naturally down her shoulders, revealing the spaghetti straps of her gold Dolce & Gabbana dress. A chill ran up her back and she shivered lightly, goosebumps covering her skin as the shawl fell farther down her arms, hooking in the crook of her elbows. As if in tandem, he took a few steps toward her as she rolled her right shoulder back slowly, reeling him in. Methodically, as if checking steps off of a list, she broke their eye contact, turning her head away and tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear.

“I must say,” he started, approaching her, and with no discretion he continued on, “you are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.”

She blushed, letting out her perfected adorable giggle and shook her head ever-so-lightly. He didn’t wait for a response, and instead proceeded to lean in, his lips hovering just inches from her ear.

“You must let me buy you a drink,” he whispered, reaching around and placing his hand on the small of her back. Once again, he gave her no time to object — not that she would — and lead her out of line. Breezing past everyone, she reveled in the envious side glances and resentful snickers. Everyone wanted to either be her or kill her. It was the kind of attention she’d wished for all her life and the power gave her a bigger rush than she’d ever had.

She wanted more.

Minutes passed and they reached the bar. He pulled out her seat and even held out his hand to assist her in sitting. He was such a gentleman—easy on the eyes and strong in the jaw. Lucrezia was used to such treatment, of course. Men of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds fell at her feet in all corners of the world, but what she really wanted was to bring men to their knees. She wanted them to bow.

“Mikael Falco,” he strained to make himself heard above the overly rambunctious Saturday crowd, but she nodded and smiled. Mikael, she repeated it again in her head slowly, taking it in—trying it on for size. She wasn’t sure if she liked it…yet.

“Lucrezia.”

“What would you like?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Everything,” she purred, the corners of her mouth pulling her lips into lascivious smile.

He let out a chuckle, naivety clearly evident in his eyes, and hollered down at the bartender. She watched him carefully; he was meticulous in everything he did. The way he walked, talked, even smiled. It was calculated—a show. For her benefit? Perhaps. Indicative of his future ability to follow orders? Absolutely. Lucrezia wasn’t one to express her feelings, let alone speak them aloud, but by some miracle she was absolutely smitten. This man could take her places. She was sure if it.

Extras:

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HEADCANONS:

ASTROLOGY: Born January 13th, 1990, Lucrezia is a capricorn.    — Element: Earth, practical while valuing material things.    — Ruler: Saturn, well-established boundaries and icy exteriors.    — Colors: Brown, black

STRENGTHS: Responsible, confident, strategic, charismatic, disciplined, passionate, practical, independent, decisive, determined.

WEAKNESSES: Arrogant, cruel, stubborn, judgemental, distant, controlling, impatient, condescending, aggressive, cold, overly critical.

MBTI: INTJ, the Architect - a very strategic thinker and always has a plan, believes wholeheartedly that with intelligence and perseverance anything is possible, radiates self-confidence as well as irresistibility, a natural born leader.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Evil, the destroyer - greedy to a fault, loves to watch destruction just for the hell of it, quite hot-tempered and vicious, has a tendency to lean toward violence, often labeled as demonic which she embraces with a smirk.

GENDER/SEXUALITY: Cis-female, using she/her pronouns. Lucrezia is bisexual, having shown great attraction to any gender since she was around 14. She has no preference and rather enjoys heated encounters with especially interesting people. She has excellent taste, of course — only the best of the best — but she never turns down a good time despite the diamond that rests on her left hand.

STYLE & HABITS: She smokes unapologetically — any place, any time — but this habit increases exponentially when she’s intoxicated. And peaking of, Lucrezia drinks heavily to keep herself sane. She prefers whiskey to scotch and red to white wine, not caring for the sickly sweet taste and preferring an oaky coating of her viper’s tongue instead. She doesn’t care for mind altering substances; that would require her to enjoy letting go of control, and that’s something she’s nearly incapable of doing. However, Lucrezia will indulge in anything at least once, be it a new drug from Theodora, a new liqueur at the Tempest, or a new pretty face that catches her eye. Because of this, she rarely wakes up alone; always found in bed at her regular room at the Emelia with whomever she’d sank her teeth into the night before sprawled across the hotel’s luxury king-size bed. She’s often donned in the best outfits from the classiest of shops within Verona, loving vintage designer the most above all else. She prefers stark tones, wearing mostly blacks and whites with a few colorful accents, mostly red, but if there’s no top-five label on the item, she won’t wear it. And when in doubt, a pair of black pumps goes with most everything.

CAPULETS: Her goal has always been to climb to the top, and for a while now, that’s exactly what she’s done. She’s surpassed Mikael, even and was rewarded with one of the most coveted positions: emissary. She is the eyes and ears for Cosimo, her and his other little favorites, each with their own skill and proficiency. But greed is a funny thing and a deadly sin for a reason. If she were to use this opportunity to seize any sort of power, she’d have to be quick. She’d have to undoubtedly trust people to come to her aid. She’d have to tie up loose ends that call themselves her beloved. The more she thinks about it, the more strings emerge into her purview that tie her to the Capulets. But that doesn’t mean they cannot be severed for the right price. Loyalty, it’s supposed to mean something, isn’t it? Especially with a bloodied C pinned to her chest for all of Verona to see. It draws a line in the sand wherever she walks, that sweeping letter. Stand back, it says. Obey, is always what follows. And that’s a sentiment Lucrezia can get behind. For now, she’ll remain loyal. She’ll do Cosimo’s bidding and she’ll listen as Vivienne drones on in his name, but watching and waiting in the wings Lucrezia will be. It’s an easy thing to fake, loyalty. Especially for her, just ask her husband.

[sending-the-message]

Lila by emareil

The baby didn’t cry at all when it was handed to me, it just stared up at me with its wide, blue eyes.

There was noise all around me, the child’s mother was crying, or moaning, but her words burred together into one unintelligible stream of sound that I filtered out. The baby blinked, a fringe of black eyelashes brushed its cheek and I shook my head- in the moment of clarity before the baby’s eyes opened and entranced me again.

The gaze seemed to me, completely aware and oddly complacent- as if the child had trusted itself to me, to my arms. The mother, Angeline- I think her name was reached out for her baby, but I stepped back from her grasp- unkind perhaps, but I couldn’t muster a single ounce of sympathy for the woman writhing before me. I despised her for what she had put the child through.

She would die soon, I imagined- but again, I felt only relief. I checked the baby in my arms, the child was shaking; convulsing- its frantic movements mirrored the mother’s.

The baby was female. Her skin was warm against mine, feverish. I hummed softly and bent down to bring my own eyes level with the mother’s.

“I want my,” The woman hissed at me. Sweat beaded her forehead and her hair was matted around her head. Detached, I watched the spit fall from her mouth as she struggled to speak. “I change- I don’t.”

I cut the contemptible woman off. “No.” Compared to her raspy vowels my own voice was pure and unusually forceful.

The baby shook against me; the child had been born addicted to whatever vile substances the mother had forced through her clotted veins. A horrible cruelty, I thought, to subject someone so innocent, so utterly defenseless to torture at the hand of one’s own despicable cravings. I stood up, and fixed the warm cotton blanket around the child.

“You know what the agreement was. I’ve fulfilled my end.” I made my voice soft, for the baby’s sake, but the power was still there. The woman drew away from me, cringing into the filthy ground of her apartment. A beer bottle rolled across the floor as she knocked into it.

“You promised,” The woman tried to raise her head, but gave up. It made a heavy thunking sound as it hit the ground. “I’m not, my life isn’t what...”

I ignored her, and stepped around her prone body towards the door. If she had false hopes, then they were her problems. I didn’t even bother trying to assuage her doubts, she was to weak to do anything, and I had paid her the money she’d asked for anyways.

The mother tried again, “You can’t… You won’t”

“I will.” I told her, allowing an edge of steel to creep into my words. The baby, the little girl was mine now.

I called her Lila, the short form of a traditional name in my mother language- shortened because I didn’t want her ridiculed by the children in her classes. I knew children could be cruel.

She was a beautiful child, special somehow, as if the fates were compensating for the trial of her first days. I never came to regret the adoption, as unorthodox as it was; Lila was my only light in the world.

When I’d brought her home, I’d held her to me, skin to skin against my chest and sang to her until she’d stopped trembling. I couldn’t feed her myself, of course, and I couldn’t bear to get her a wet nurse- to give the job of sustaining my baby to some other woman. Besides, I couldn’t stomach the thought of some alien girl’s bodily fluids coursing through my own child.

I bought her best nourishment money could buy, and I gave her what no one else could; my undivided attention and unconditional love. I had enough money, more then enough, to spend every single second with her. I never tired of my baby, the way other mothers might have. I had lost enough to realize how lucky I was; every moment with Lila was a blessing.

Her mother had had brown eyes, with ugly dilated pupils and bloodshot veins marring the whites of them. The father was unknown- any number of philandering men could have donated half of my baby’s genetic makeup. The doctors had told me that eyes darkened over time- but that was never the case. Four years later, Lila’s eyes were even more stunningly blue, and her hair was dark and wavy against pale cream skin.

The doctors had also said she could face any number of symptoms; from sudden death to attention defects, to delayed and stunted growth to mental retardation. I should have paid less money for their council.

I was my daughter’s guardian, I watched over her, helped her learn, taught her to read and write, and to solve problems and form conclusions. I watched as she played in the bath, and I sang to her every night- protective lullabies against whatever evils the mother may have lashed to her fate.

Lila was gifted, by far the brightest out of all her classmates. Her school was a private one that advertised the best facilities in our city- one with teachers that loved their jobs and a big list of successful alumni. I doubted that it was the facility alone that had produced the fame and fortune of their graduates, but rather, the bar of excessive wealth that gatekept the progeny of the less fortunate.

My own wealth was a huge aid in the world, an untimely inheritance that I had never felt I deserved. I had privileges that the vast majority of society never would- Lila had been legally mine six months before she was even born. She had privileges too. I’d enrolled her in the stupid pedigreed elementary school full of stupid children from ridiculously affluent backgrounds, after all.

But wealth wasn’t everything, because Lila’s biological mother hadn’t had a penny in the world- at least not before she’d met me. Lila’s biological father was, presumably, equally bereft. Still, Lila had had full reading comprehension while most of her classmates struggled to read single words.

Today we sat together on the couch in our home, her head against my chest and her legs tucked up besides me.

“Mama,” Lila had said, reminding me of the first word she’d ever spoken. She hadn’t cried at all as a baby, and she hadn’t babbled, just watched me until she’d been able to model my own words, to call me Mama in a pretty sing-song voice that had sent a thrill of pride through me.

“Yes darling?” I brushed some of her hair away from her face and tried to imagine what she would look like as a grown woman.

“Will you swim with me tonight?”

She’d always loved the water, something that brought me great relief. I missed the beaches and the glittering waters of my home. Although we were far from the beach, I was glad she could still appreciate the pool I’d had built with the house.

I agreed easily and poked her in the side, prompting her to tell me about her day.

We talked about all of her feelings in depth, and she was angry because the children in her class were boring and self absorbed. She was frustrated because the classes moved too slowly for her.

I called the school while I prepared dinner- they would move her up two grades. She was mature enough not to be stunted socially, and the coursework was advanced enough for her.

Lila was twelve when she came home from dance class upset. She never cried, but I could read it in her posture, in the tense way she carried herself and the shallow breaths she pulled in. I poured her a glass of water from the fridge and passed it too her, motioning for her to sit besides me on the couch.

We sat in silence for a while, and I looked at her. She was my proudest accomplishment, my baby, my daughter and my only light in the world. She looked like me now; we both had black hair and strong bone structures. Her face was symmetrical, a product, I thought, of a good childhood. It took the body a great deal of energy to grow symmetrically, and symmetry was an indicator of health and ample resources during the growth periods. She was softer then me, though, a gentler beauty whereas I was regal and harsh. I was proud of that too.

She also danced with an elegance that was unusual amongst her awkward, prepubescent peers. Already, she carried herself with the grace of a young woman, with a quiet confidence that set her apart.

“Do you think Fermat’s principle is prophetic?” She broke my reflective silence.

I didn’t share her love for all things physics, but I kept up with her because I loved our conversations. I furrowed my brow, worried.

“No, and neither do you.”

Her love for the sciences and math’s had never been philosophical in nature; she delighted in the purity and in the fixed properties of physics.

“What’s bothering you?”

Lila was silent a beat longer. “Did you date?”

I laughed now, relieved. Boys bothered everyone.

I had attracted men as a teenager, a lot, and a new suitor every week. My family’s status had been fortunate (perhaps unfortunately) enough to merit undue attention from men older, and far more mature then me- an impressionable child.

“Not at all. Romantic relationships are never worth it.” I said, trying to keep my tone light. Lila looked relieved, she confessed she didn’t share the shallow attractions her friends obsessed over.

I was relieved too, and it flooded my body like an ocean of reassurance. I feared the corrupting influence of teenage boys. Perhaps I was overprotective, but they disgusted me, and I had my own reasons.

It had been my own heart that had brought devastation to my family. Bored with my life, and my duties as an heiress I’d allowed myself to be charmed by the first man to show me sustained attention and had abandoned my family to be his wife. My father had died soon after- and I hadn’t even made it to his deathbed. Our marriage hadn’t been happy- and we’d both grown idle- as the obscenely rich did.

Affair after affair had followed, and I- for all of my ambition was nothing but eye candy. In the world of socialites and business magistrates my job was to look pretty. I had stood calmly by, smiling graciously as he charmed a steady stream of women- a thick coat of makeup covering the regular bruises that had painted my throat black.

When he’d died, I had been relieved beyond words but hideously angry, with only my sisters left as family. Eventually I had abandoned them too- and wandered, lost, until I’d found Lila- or the woman carrying her.

Family. I rarely thought of it now; therapy sessions with the most qualified professionals I could find would do that- but Lila’s words had reminded me of the past I tried so hard to forget. Still, I wouldn’t change a thing if it meant I could keep her.

Boys brought my daughter more trouble, and one day I left a conference abruptly to join her principal, an ugly teenage boy and his insufferable parents in a school office.

“Lila bit Bennett’s hand.” The principal’s voice was long suffering, and he gestured to the boy who was cradling a hand wrapped in white gauze.

I raised an eyebrow at my daughter, who was glaring at the boy, her wide blue eyes awash with fury. I could feel the tension in the room, in the harsh anger emanating from my daughter and the duplicitous pain the boy was trying to project.

“Why?” I asked, and I could hear the fury in my voice. The boys parents looked smug, they though I was angry with my daughter. Lila, however, was vindicated- I was her cavalry- and I could never be mad with her.

“She claims he touched her breast.” The principal said, in his stupid, long-suffering voice, as if he dealt with claims of sexual assault daily. Lila met my eyes, and the anger simmering below the surface erupted into a point of white-hot fury. I hummed under my breath, a low sonorous note to try and calm myself. It didn’t work.

I was reserved, but terrifying in my defence of my child, and the boy’s parent’s cried. The boy’s name was Bennett; it was a stupid name that his idiot parents modeled in their equally idiot behaviour. The father told me, “Wait now a minute,” and the mother covered her mouth and wiped at her eyes. Lila didn’t cry, because I’d raised her to be strong.

The principal apologized to me personally, I wouldn’t sue the school, and Lila’s tuition would be free this year- as if the money was ever an issue. The boy changed schools and Lila took a long, long shower to wash off the feeling of his hand on her.

After, I taught her to fight, and we practiced the movements under the big window of the living room. She was a natural, years of dance brought the movements effortlessly to her, and she was sinuously graceful where I could only ever be harsh and brutal. Our legs made susurrus sounds as we sparred, and I taught her what to do if a man ever laid an unwanted hand on her again.

Lila’s classmates enjoyed social media, and she did too. She had always been popular, because she was beautiful, and because some twisted property of society made that a desirable trait.

She threw a party for her sixteenth birthday, and we strung fairy lights around the yard, and waterproof lights inside of the pool so that it glowed at night. It was a rather unearthly blue colour and Lila loved it; it reminded me of her eyes. I taught her the melodies of my favourite songs as we prepared, and she picked up the notes with ease.

They took lots of pictures at her party, these groups of giggling, tittering teenagers. Lila had never looked so separate from them- they were still insecure and they preened like a flock of birds. My daughter was effortlessly confident, poised and lovely. She spent most of her time in the water, whirling in circles and laughing as she splashed her friends. I remember teaching her to swim, just days after she was born.

I didn’t like Lila’s friends, they reminded me too much of the women I’d known growing up. Superficial, vain, and outer beauty only barely concealing horrific nasty streaks- women could be unassumingly dangerous, the undertow beneath a calm surface.

Later, as Lila and I looked at the photos her friends posted online, she confessed she only threw a party for their enjoyment. She would have preferred doing something with me- I promised her we’d go cliff climbing or swimming together as a treat later. She smiled hugely. Altruism, I suppose was a fine quality.

Lila’s biological mother finds us a month later; I should have been more vigilant with the online posts. It never occurred to me that she would survive the birth.

Her eyes are sunken and hollow, she’s disgustingly thin and I make a conscious note to clean the carpets she stands on. Or to have them cleaned, I don’t want to touch them.

“I want my baby back.” The woman says, coughing weakly into her sweatshirt.

Lila stays behind me, this woman means nothing to both of us.

“That’s my Abigail!” The woman insists, stumbling forwards. She’s bleeding from both arms from where she climbed through a hole she’d smashed in our window. Her arms are bruised from decades of drug abuse, and I am reminded of Lila’s first days of life, and the pain my daughter had endured. I meet Lila’s eyes for reassurance, and I am furious as well, I will protect my daughter to whatever end.

“You promised me a better life!” Spit sprays from her mouth, and the drugs in her system egg her on, making her feral. “My life is shit, I deserve my baby back! GIVE ME MY BABY!” She screeches, and makes a grab for my daughter.

I force the woman, screaming, from my house, and the police are called to remove her. It doesn’t take much from them to believe my story.

Legally, Lila is my biological daughter, and this woman is a crazy drug addict who vandalized my property. The mother is also unconscious now, which probably lends a significant amount of credibility to my story. That and Lila is almost my spitting image. Her father is out of the picture too, which helps. I’d found his records years ago; he’d stumbled in front of a truck with a blood alcohol level high enough to kill him anyway. Good riddance.

Despite the damage to my property, I don’t regret a second of Lila’s adoption. I couldn’t have gotten pregnant if I’d tried, and I couldn’t have endured it anyways. I was an undocumented citizen- or at least a falsely documented one.

Lila’s biological mother had been younger then Lila was now when she’d fallen pregnant with my child. It was an unorthodox exchange, but with my funds, it was entirely convenient. It was also the best choice I’d ever made, even if accepting a street girl’s proposition of money for a child had been legally grey.

Besides, Lila had always been special.

Lila’s graduation marks the end of our need for this country. She has learned all of the math and science I couldn’t teach her, and I feel obligated to leave.

For the first time my daughter disagrees with me, she wants to stay and learn more about the world, about the laws that govern the universe. I think a portion of her insatiable quest for knowledge stems from her inability to understand herself.

Still, I suppose knowledge is as worthy a pursuit as any, so I agree easily and fund the tuition for whatever university she wants to study within. I listen eagerly as she tells me about everything she’s learning, although most of it escapes me.

Her biological mother contacts me again, this time through mail following an incessant stream of online attempts. She wants more money. I ignore the messages.

Lila finishes university with honours, I have never been prouder. She also finishes university without a romantic attachment; something which pleases me too.

She is away from me more, and I’ve been having nightmares. It’s been many years, but I fear for Lila’s safety. I sing to her every night, although she’s old enough now to sing for herself.

I think she intends to learn even more, to absorb every ounce of knowledge available before we leave. It seems foolish to me, but she is resolute. She needs to know enough to continue her studies in another country.

I acquiesce, of course, and I pay for her courses. We still have as much time as she wants, and I can hardly blame her for being anxious about leaving what she knows.

My sister visits me while Lila is away; she wants me to come back home- to bring Lila with me. I disagree, it is still unsafe for her, and for me- my family will not be so quick to forgive me. My sister tells me they already have.

The second time the biological mother finds us, Lila is grown herself - and we are planning on leaving for my home country soon, leaving the bleak grey of this city for sunny Mediterranean seas and salty ocean breezes.

The mother is stronger now too, and I can tell the drugs are free from her veins. Still, she is mad. Mad perhaps with the dreams I’d sang to her still carving a path through her skull. Mad because the paradises I’d promised her in return for her complacency would never come to fruition, and because she had no other option save for this frenzied pilgrimage. I pitied her.

“I only want my baby!” She shrieks at me, she had climbed the backyard fence and she stood across from us on the pool deck.

I could see the insanity within her eyes, dark, hollow pits consumed by the glimpses of heaven I’d afforded her. I imagine she saw my daughter as a way to go back to the girl she was, before she had seen exactly how much she was missing, and how much she could never have. False promises were an exquisite torture. I hummed beneath my breath, but the woman was screaming so loudly I doubted she could hear it. Lila hid behind me, terrified.

“I want my fucking baby back! Give me my life back!” The mother shrieks again, deranged, tears brimming in her eyes. “You did this to me! You took my life away from me!”

She gasps, spine jerking, and eyes roving madly. She fixes her gaze on something I can’t see and laughs- a chilling sound, although I am unmoved. “All I see is perfection.” She laughs again, and then screams at me, “It’s not real! NONE OF IT IS REAL.”

I tune her out.

“I need money- I have to,” I turn to face her as she claws at her forehead- I notice streaks of blood covering it. “Please,” her voice is low now, groveling, “You have to help me.”

I turn to face her. “You’ve wasted your life of your own volition.”

“Bitch!” She howls, furious again, “You promised you could make my life better!”

I won’t make any more false promises, “I can’t help you.”

“NO!” The woman cries out, she is beyond reason. I edge towards the door and keep an eye on her out of my peripheral vision, she can hardly stand upright- perhaps the drugs really did help her.

The mother speaks up, this time softly, “So you wont help me.”

“No.” I tell her.

And then something changes, and the mother- biological mother- because the only right she has to my child is a packet of donated genes- shifts. Like a switch has snapped, and I see with horrifying clarity what she was hiding behind her back. It’s too late now for me to convince her otherwise- and I can only accept whatever the fates may bring. Adrenaline courses through me, and I feel the song build up within me- ready.

A few things happen at once, and a bullet tears it’s way towards us, towards my daughter. I fling myself in its path. Lila cries out as the bullet tears through my chest and out my back. I feel it in an odd detached pain; I am consumed with protecting Lila, I barely notice- all I can feel is relief that she is okay.

Lila became my life after I left my sisters and mother behind. She is the heir I raised in my place once we return, destined to take my place as queen. Now, I am furious, my anger is hell-hot and a raging, blistering fire at the though of my daughter being taken from me.

I sing.

My voice is powerful; it protected my daughter from the pain she might have faced, chased the drugs from her veins, and helped shape her into her truest self, but this time it doesn’t nurture.

I shatter the mother’s bones with my song, I sing her skin to putty and I snap her spine-it makes a hollow sound. My song is beautiful- hauntingly ethereal, and I sing dozens of notes at a time in an unearthly concert. Energy crackles around me, and the stone under my feet turns black and cracks. The water in the pool bubbles and steams, and I can feel the strength of my voice reverberating away from me.

The song pours effortlessly from me, my throat contracts around it but the melodies form of their own volition now. Long, bloody ropes of flesh peel from the mother’s arms and legs and her hair snakes across the concrete as I split her skull open with a sickeningly satisfying crack. My song pounds into her like shrapnel and the blood that spurts from her abdomen is vaporized almost instantly. Her screams are piercing, shrill, and they remind me of when I cut my daughter free from her womb after I’d sang the control of her body away from her. I didn’t want to give her the honour of birthing my child.

My song is as brutal and as carnal as I can make it, a stunning cacophony of melody, I will make the mother’s final moments my first slice of retribution for daring to hurt my child. I suppose I am still furious at the pain she’d caused Lila, even if it had allowed me to claim her. I had known my daughter from the second I’d sensed her in this woman’s belly. The mother was only ever the container- although I had underestimated the lengths she would go to see the empty promises I’d bestowed upon her played out. The only thing I regretted about the adoption now, was not seeing her dead.

I rip her limbs brutally from her body, the bone within them leaks out of the end and steams out of the pores- and the appendages incinerate to ash before they touch the ground. Poofs of the dust blow over the mother’s face and paint her black. Blood pools below her and the mother’s strident screaming fades to a harrowing keening and then strangely funny gurgling as I turn her lungs to mush.

Unlike the other’s I’d killed for Lila; various men lured into my house for dinner or convinced to donate blood to suckle my infant daughter, I relish the mother’s pain- even though her death is costing me my life. I would gladly die to protect my child.

With a tremendous force, I sing her soul from her body, and slam it down into the deepest reaches of Hades- now she will enjoy an eternity of torment and pain.

I am a Siren, Lila is the ascendant queen of my people and there is no rival to my song on earth. I could sing armies of men to do my bidding, command an entire nation to sacrifice themselves at my feet- but it is hardly worth it, Siren women have no reason to desire more then they have been given.

A siren woman is a dead woman, usually one drowned- choking on the salt of the sea spray before her vocal chords harden- and before she is sung from the ocean to become a sister.

Lila was different, drowned in her mother’s womb as a defenceless child- but still I could sense her potential. The mother just wanted money at first, only later had she required coercion. She hadn’t known the fetus she protected was a corpse, and she hadn’t cared after she’d heard my song.

Sirensong was a funny thing, and there was a reason those who heard it usually jumped to their deaths. My song had warped the young woman’s mind, possessed her until she was consumed by it. A fatal mistake, as it turned out.

Besides me Lila, my daughter, my Scylla, sings too, but she doesn’t cry because I’ve taught her mastery over water. Her eyes are brilliant, blue and she raises her arms to the sky and the water of the pool rises with her, surrounding her in a glorious whirlpool. I’ve taught her how to fight, and she is practiced as she controls the waves, as she rises up, black hair whipping around her.

I know where she will go, to the our home just as we’d always planned, and I know she will be able to control my sisters just as easily as she controls the water.

I’m proud of my daughter, of my only light in the world, she is monstrous and she is powerful, named for the cliff monster of old that I’d hoped she would take after. She is even more fearsome, and I know she will be safe. She will be Queen as well; her voice will bring a new generation of men to their knees at her feet. She will always have enough to eat.

She is everything I have ever wanted. My life has been long, but I have only been alive for as long as Scylla has. I met death the first time with fear, but this time I can smile as the world around me blurs at the edges- there is nothing else I could ever want. I suppose that I too have been consumed by Sirensong.

I meet Scylla’s eyes, her beautiful blue eyes- just like my own- and she fixes me with her gaze, and I am transfixed just as I was when she was a baby. Her eyes are full of understanding, and this time; trust in all I’ve taught her. She knows she will be okay. Scylla, my daughter blinks and my head clears.

I look at her one last time,

And then

I let go.

…………………….It’s 1925, and my husband stands besides me- or perhaps a little behind me. The ocean is blue, an unearthly colour and I love it.

The musicians are playing, some jazzy upbeat tune- but I let the roar of the waves tune it out and concentrate on the faint strains of music flowing over the water.

“Darling,” My husband says with what I think must be his most charming smile, “you don’t look well.”

His voice breaks my concentration- and already the images flowing through my mind have passed. I can’t look at him anymore- so I look out at the jagged cliffs that line the edge of the island chain we are sailing by.

“Though you always look a vision.”

My husband reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and involuntarily I flinch away. Something cold and sinister flashes beneath his vision- betraying the good-natured half smile he always has playing around his lips.

I look at him through my lashes, and brace my hands against the balcony. He nods as though he approves and takes a deep breath to steady himself. His breath blows hot over my face, and it reeks of alcohol. Illegal- but easily bought, especially for the rich.

Below us, I feel the hum of the ship’s engine as we change course- imperceptibly, but I know we’re headed for the islands. We can’t hear their song over the loud music- but the captain can.

“I was going to take a boat out with the boys and head back the way we came- try and catch a few fish.”

I look at the jagged rocks and to the shore below littered with the wrecks of other ships- although from this far away they look like black smudges.

“No,” I smile up at him, and meet his eyes. I reach a hand to my back and undo the zipper that holds my dress up, and I take in the way his eyes widen as my dress falls softly to the floor around me, with satisfaction. I curl my hand around his cheek and lock the other around his wrist. “Stay.”

He doesn’t need any more convincing. And I smile against his lips as I wrap my body around his- I’ve seen everything I could ever want in the world, a curse and a blessing because I know it will cost my life, and I would rather die then fight it. I resolve to write all I’ve seen down in my room later- so I don’t forget.

Behind us, the rocks inch ever closer and I know that when I drown my husband will drown with me- but only one of us will rise again.

Lila, I’m coming.

I am posting this today, three months after purchasing a house here- in the city, three months and twenty-seven days after leaving my sisters. Today has been an uneventful day- uneventful aside from your biological mother camped out beside the subway station.

I write this, because the Sirensong that drives me is relaxing now- I met you today, and already I am forgetting all that I have seen. I have posted this on hundreds of forums, written notes to you, secured papers in safe deposit boxes. This is a redundancy.

When you find this I imagine I will already be gone from this realm- and I imagine you will be a Queen. Know that I am proud of you, and that Sirensong was not the only thing that drove me to die for you. Rule well, my love.

[legendofzeldaalinktothepast]

Pathetic, Clinging Poetry - Chapter 3 (of 25)

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I felt defective. For years I'd gaze at men, Searching for a spark, Waiting for my heart to leap, Yearning for the right one To carry me away.

But when you smiled at me, I didn't have to wait; I was already home.

*

Pearl had always thought she was early to go to bed, but Jasper's sleep schedule made her seem like a night owl. It was to be expected; as a surgeon, Jasper had to get up rather early for work, but it left Pearl with a few hours of loneliness every night before she'd head off to bed (or couch) herself. For the first week or so, she would find herself exploring Jasper's house, admiring the abstract paintings hanging throughout the hallways and observing the cluttered decor all around her. Compared to the stifling minimalism of her mother's house, it was surprisingly refreshing to be in a home that was a bit more chaotic -- even when she was overcome with her urges to clean, she still made sure not to interfere with the intentional cluttered-ness of Jasper's house.

After a few nights, however, Pearl became more familiar with her surroundings and what could once be considered exploring turned into pacing, and pacing was the perfect opportunity for her mind to dwell on unpleasant thoughts. It wasn't long before she realized she was in need of a different way to pass the time at night. She'd hadn't brought along very many books to read, and none of the jobs she'd applied for had given her a call back just yet, either, so she quickly ran out of options.

Absentmindedly flipping through the T.V. channels, Pearl heard Amethyst come in through the front door. "Hello!" she greeted.

"Hey, Pierogi." Amethyst said, locking the door behind herself. "Watcha doing?"

"Just trying to find a show to watch... Nothing appealing seems to be on, unfortunately." Pearl said.

"Yeah, Sunday night is like that." Amethyst said, flopping down onto the couch beside her. Pearl eventually settled on the news; it was better than sitting in silence.

"Since you're here, I was wondering about something." Pearl began, setting the remote on the coffee table. "What do you do when you hang out with your friends?"

"It depends." Amethyst said with a shrug. "Sometimes we just walk around the mall or get food, or sometimes we go to Peridot's house and play video games; that's sorta our default when we don't have anything better to do."

"Oh, that sounds nice!" Pearl said. "I've never really been into video games... My sister is, though! I used to always watch her play those cute virtual pet games when we were kids." she said, sighing sadly. "But um, I was wondering... I've been struggling to find things to do at night, with Jasper going to bed so early and all... So I was wondering, perhaps I could come along with you sometime? I-if that's alright! I wouldn't want to be annoying..."

"Pfft, you act as if I haven't asked you to come along a million times already." Amethyst said. "Hell yeah, you can come! Maybe tomorrow you can join us while we play Mario Kart. Peridot only has three controllers, but we can take turns."

"Oh, that would be lovely! I don't think I'm familiar with that game." Pearl giggled. "What are your friend's names, by the way?"

"Garnet and Peridot." Amethyst said. "They're pretty cool! Garnet's pretty quiet and Peridot is super awkward around new people, but despite what Jasper might've told you, they really aren't annoying. She's just a little bitch."

Pearl blushed as she remembered how negatively Jasper had spoken about Amethyst's friends. "I don't like to judge people before I've met them, so I didn't pay Jasper's warnings any mind. Perhaps they didn't click with her, but that doesn't mean we won't have a good time!"

Amethyst looked slightly relieved. "Aw, good! We'd probably head over there at six tomorrow; sound alright?"

"That sounds perfect!" Pearl responded.

"Nice." Amethyst said, pulling her phone out of her pocket and leaning back against the armrest of the couch. Pearl couldn't see what was on her screen, but she assumed she was probably just checking up on social media or something of the sort. Pearl turned her gaze back to the T.V., watching as they talked about climate change on the news.

In a strange way, Pearl felt slightly more content with sitting and doing nothing when someone was sitting beside her. With a sigh of content, she reached for the knitted blanket on the back of the couch and pulled it down, draping it over herself.

"Ah, you going to sleep?" Amethyst asked. "Sorry, I kinda forgot the couch was your bed. I'll move if you want."

"No, I'm just a little cold." Pearl said, adjusting to a more comfortable position, her legs tucked underneath her. "I might not sleep for a while, if I'm going to be honest... I've gotten slightly better about getting my rest, but... It's still hard, you know?"

"Yeah..." Amethyst said, but she really didn't. She only had a vague idea of what Pearl was going through, from the bits and pieces she'd shared with her. "Is it hard to sleep because you're not used to this place yet?"

Pearl hesitated before she responded, fidgeting with a loose piece of yarn on the blanket. "Sort of. I mean... That's part of it. I don't adjust to change very well. But... I guess I can't help but feel a little bit guilty, too. I'm trying not to think about it, but... every now and then, I feel like I made a mistake by leaving my family behind. Especially my sister, I mean..." Pearl sighed. "I can justify running away from my mother, because she's the one who chose to treat me terribly. But Peony never did anything wrong. And now she has to deal with our mother all alone..."

Amethyst placed her phone back in her pocket. "Aw... damn. I wish I knew what to say, aside from 'that's shitty', but you've probably heard that enough." she said. "Sometimes, things just suck, and there's not much you can do about it. Maybe it'll help to just like... remind yourself why you left in the first place?"

"That's the thing... I'm trying so hard to forget." Pearl said, biting her lip. "And that's still not enough to keep me from feeling guilty about Peony... God, I wish she'd have just come along with me. But she was so worried about making our mother sad... I swear, it's like she's brainwashed by her or something! She won't even admit how much she's hurt us!" Pearl wiped her eyes as soon as she felt tears begin to well up. "I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated, but... it's not her fault. She doesn't deserve it."

Amethyst gave Pearl a little comforting pat on the back. "Hey, why are you apologizing to me? You didn't do anything."

Pearl wasn't sure how to answer that; if she was going to be honest, the "sorry" was actually directed at Peony rather than anyone currently present, but explaining that out loud would only make her sound crazy. "I don't really know. I'm sorry."

Amethyst snorted. "Hey, you did it again!" she teased.

Pearl let out a nervous laugh. "It's a habit, I suppose..."

"I can tell." Amethyst said. "But hey, if it makes you feel better... at least you had a choice in leaving your family behind. You could've chosen to stay, but you didn't. So you obviously wanted to, and your brain is tricking you into thinking you regret it when you really don't."

"I guess that makes sense." Pearl said, pulling a piece of fuzz off of the blanket and throwing it to the side. She feared she'd tear the blanket to shreds if she kept fidgeting with it like that, though, so she folded her hands in her lap instead. "Thank you, though... Have you ever gone through anything similar?"

"Eh, sorta." Amethyst shrugged. "I mean, my biological mom gave me up when I was still super teeny. She knew she couldn't take care of me and wanted me to have a decent life. But even though I had absolutely no say in it, I think I kinda felt guilty for that, too. Because like... other kids in my foster family -- this is before Jasper's parents adopted me, by the way -- told me that my mom gave me away because she hated me. And I was a kiddo who didn't know how the world worked, so I believed them, and it made me feel really guilty just for existing..." Amethyst averted her gaze away from Pearl. "I dunno if you can really compare that to what you went through, though."

"Amethyst..." Pearl smiled sadly at her, reaching out for one of her hands and giving it a little squeeze. "Gosh, can I just hug you?"

Amethyst couldn't help but laugh. "Aww, you're a big hugger, aren't you?"

"I'm usually not, but... Gosh, you deserve it more than ever right now!" Pearl pulled Amethyst into a tight embrace. "You didn't deserve any of that, alright? You deserved to grow up feeling loved, not being bullied by other kids or being told that you were thrown away... Goodness, I can't believe anyone would put you through that!"

"Aw, Pearl, I'm over it now!" Amethyst blushed at the sudden display of affection. "Seriously, I'm fine, but... Hugs are nice, so don't stop, actually." she added.

"But I'm serious too!” Pearl said. “You're wonderful and you deserved to be treated like you were."

"Pfft, how did you know? Maybe I was a little shit back then. Maybe I'm a little shit now, too."

"Perhaps you were, but that still doesn't mean you deserved any of that." Pearl said. "Even the brattiest of children deserve to feel loved.”

"Aw, you sap." Amethyst rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but smile, finally returning Pearl’s hug.

“I’m merely stating the truth.” Pearl responded, hugging Amethyst even tighter.

* 

Jasper tapped her fingers on the counter with one hand, scrolling through a recipe website on her phone with the other. She heard the light footsteps of Pearl from down the hallway, glancing back at her. "Hey there." she said, turning back to her phone.

"Hello!" Pearl greeted, smiling nervously. "I just wanted to let you know that me and Amethyst are about to head off."

Jasper raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Where are you going?"

"I'm going to hang out with her friends! I think she said we'll be playing a video game at Peridot's apartment, if I remember correctly." Pearl said.

"Hm, alright." Jasper said, her tone of voice somewhat amused. "Just send me a text when they start driving you insane."

Pearl pouted, giving Jasper a playful nudge. "Come on now, I haven't even met them! Not to mention I don't even have a phone. And how do you know I'll find them annoying? Just because you do doesn't mean I will!"

"Because they're friends with Amethyst." Jasper sighed, sounding like she wasn't in the mood for this conversation. "But I'm not gonna stop you from doing whatever you want, girlie. I'm just warning you, that's all. Anyway, you want me to save you some dinner?"

Pearl felt a twinge of anger at how judgmental Jasper was being, but shook it off before she could let it fester into anything more serious. "Yes, that'd be nice... Thank you." she responded with a sigh. Pearl turned around and nearly gasped when she realized Amethyst was standing in the doorway; she had an annoyed expression on her face, which softened when she looked at Pearl. "You ready, Pierogi? Peridot's here." she said.

Pearl blushed, wondering how long Amethyst had been standing there; had she heard everything Jasper said? "Y-yes! I was just saying bye to Jasper."

"Mhm." Amethyst gave Jasper a little wave, even though she was turned around and couldn't see it. "See ya later, butthead."

Jasper responded with nothing but a simple "mhm". Unsettled by the obvious tension between the two sisters, Pearl hurried over to the entry room and grabbed her jacket from the coat rack. Amethyst followed, opening the door for her. Once they were both out on the porch and the door was shut behind them, Amethyst let out a sigh. "Don't listen to her, okay? She's just boring and hates anyone who knows how to have fun."

Pearl nervously adjusted her jacket. "D-don't worry! I didn't take Jasper's words into consideration..." she said, uncomfortable with feeling like she was in the middle of their conflict. "I'm still looking forward to meeting your friends! I'm sure we'll have fun tonight..." she continued as they headed towards Peridot's car. Pearl climbed into the back seat, sliding over to the other side so Amethyst could climb in afterwards.

"Hey fuckers." Amethyst said, shutting the car door.

"Hello!" Garnet said, turning back and waving at Pearl; Peridot simply glared at Pearl from the rear view mirror, giving her an awkward wave.

"Hello!" Pearl chirped, folding her hands in her lap once she'd buckled herself in. "It's a pleasure to meet you two!"

"Why so quiet, Dot?" Amethyst asked, poking Peridot's shoulder.

"She's just bitchy today." Garnet said.

"You'd be bitchy too!" Peridot hissed. "Pearl, forgive me for being cold; but you would not believe the morning I had. There was an unexpected guest crawling around in my shower; you want to know what it was?"

"Was it... a spider?" Pearl asked.

"Worse." Peridot shuddered, beginning to back her car out of the driveway. "A fucking centipede. It was massive! And it crawled out of the drain and just -- ugh, listen, I love bugs, I talk about them all the time and refuse to kill them -- but centipedes are not considered insects anyway, and they're terrifying! And this happened just when I was beginning to shampoo my hair."

Amethyst rolled her eyes, giving Pearl an amused look as Peridot rambled on.

"Naturally, I got the fuck out of there -- I turned off the shower, of course, because I'm not some kind of rich person who can afford to waste water -- but I wasn't able to rinse my hair... So now my scalp is caked with dried shampoo and itches like a bitch! So if you see me scratching myself, do not assume I have lice! It's a mere result of the unfortunate events of this morning..."

Boy, this was an interesting first impression. "Ah, that does sound unpleasant! I can't blame you for that." Pearl was clearly amused but attempted to show some sympathy.

"So wait..." Amethyst began. "Did you kill the centipede?"

"Hell no! The poor little guy didn't mean to do anything wrong..." Peridot sighed. "And... when I went back into the bathroom, it was gone."

"So... it's still in your apartment." Garnet said.

"...Maybe." Peridot mumbled.

"Well, fuck." Amethyst said. "Knowing our luck, that centipede is gonna turn up while we're in the middle of playing Mario Kart."

"A perfect first impression for our new friend." Garnet said.

"Aw, don't worry! I-I'm actually not that scared of centipedes!" Pearl stuttered. "So... if it does happen to turn up while I'm there, I'll gladly capture it and set it free."

"Thank God! We finally have a designated centipede catcher!" Peridot cheered. "I usually handle the spiders and all of the other bugs for these two weenies, but all three of us are weak when it comes to centipedes."

"What an honor!" Pearl said, unable to resist giggling at the absurd title. Still, the fact that she was so quickly accepted as a friend made her heart flutter in her chest. They were a bit of an eccentric bunch, sure; but Pearl still couldn't grasp why Jasper seemed to hate them so much.

As the others continued to chat, Pearl found herself gazing out of the window and watching the houses go by. Even though it had been years since she'd lived in this town, everything around her was still familiar and painfully nostalgic. Some things had changed; buildings torn down and rebuilt, business closing down and new ones opening, murals painted over, but it was still the same, rural town she'd grown up in.

Pearl's heart leaped in her chest as a familiar building caught her eye; "The Big Doughnut is still open?" she remarked.

"Hell yeah it is!" Peridot said.

"Ew, don't remind me." Amethyst groaned.

"Oh, did that place go downhill?" Pearl asked.

"Uh..." Amethyst grinned awkwardly. "Not exactly. I just hate that place because they fired me."

"Oh my... What happened?"

"She dumped coffee on someone." Garnet stated.

"Hey, the bitch had it coming!" Amethyst said. She turned to Pearl with a serious expression. "Look, this one lady came in all the time and absolutely hated my guts. I don't know why. But whenever I was the one serving her, she got super bitchy at me and nitpicked every last thing I did, acting like I was gonna give her cooties or something. But I put up with it because they actually paid me pretty well." Amethyst looked away from Pearl's face now, looking like she was embarrassed of what she was about to say. "Anyway, one day, she just fucking snapped. Started screaming at me because her coffee wasn't hot enough. Even when I offered to get her a new one, she just kept on bitching. And I guess I kinda snapped too, because after a few minutes of listening to her tantrum, I just... took the coffee and threw it at her."

"Dear God!" Pearl said, cupping a hand over her mouth. 'She sure is impulsive...'

"Yeah, and I only regret it because I got fired. But look on the bright side; at least the coffee wasn't hot enough to leave any burns." Amethyst shrugged. While she was still somewhat disturbed by what Amethyst had just confessed, Pearl couldn't help but smile at the irony of that. "So yeah, that's why I hate The Big Doughnut, and also why I'm jobless."

"Aww, what a shame... I remember that being my favorite place for my girlfriend to take me on dates in high school." Pearl sighed happily, looking out the window again. "Perhaps I'll have to go there with Jasper sometime instead."

Amethyst's went silent after that, and Pearl felt a twinge of guilt in her chest. 'Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned her... she thought, deciding she should change the subject. "So, um, Mario's Cart! How do you play this game? A-Amethyst told me that's what we would be playing at your house, correct?"

"It's just a racing game; not much to explain about it. Have you never played it before?" Peridot asked.

"Not exactly... I've never really been into video games, you know?" Pearl blushed. "Not because I dislike them -- I just haven't played very many, so there's a good chance I'll enjoy this one!"

"Yeah, you should definitely give this game a shot. And if you don't like it, you can always sit back and watch us." Amethyst said.

"Or you could hold one of Peridot's hamsters." Garnet suggested.

"Or go hunting for the centipede." Peridot snorted.

"Oh, I'd love to do that! Well, not the centipede thing, but the other things!" Pearl giggled; the thought of holding a hamster, admittedly, had her feeling a bit nervous. They were so small and fragile... it'd be so easy to hurt one without even meaning to. But if Peridot had no hesitation about letting Pearl hold one, perhaps they weren't as vulnerable as she'd assumed. 

* 

The smell of incense was the first thing Pearl noticed as she stepped into Peridot's apartment; it was rather small, but maybe that wasn't so bad when it was just one person living there. Pearl carefully removed her shoes and placed them in the closet, tiptoeing onto the carpeted living room floor.

As Amethyst and Peridot began setting up the game system, Pearl couldn't help but notice the sound of rattling metal from the other room.

"What's that sound?" Pearl asked.

"Oh, that's probably one of the hamsters going for a run. Garnet, wanna show her to the hamster room?" Peridot asked.

Garnet jumped to her feet and headed towards the hallway, gesturing for Pearl to follow; the latter was still perplexed by the fact that Peridot apparently had an entire room dedicated to a few tiny animals.

Garnet led her into a small room with two huge, metal cages sitting on a table; in one cage, a small black and white hamster was going for a run on its exercise wheel. In the other cage, a solid yellow hamster was drinking from the water bottle attached to the side of its cage.

"That's Lemonade, and that's Licorice." Garnet said, gesturing to each hamster as she said their names. "Would you like to hold one? They won't bite you."

"Sure!" Pearl said, still feeling a bit nervous. "I guess I'll hold Lemonade!"

Garnet opened Lemonade's cage and gently lifted him out; Pearl cupped her hands, a smile spreading across her face as Garnet handed her the furry little rodent. "Goodness... It's so cute!" Its little whiskers tickled the palm of her hand, and she couldn't help but giggle.

Garnet reached into the other cage, taking out Licorice and placing him on her shoulder. "This one is my favorite; I think he's grown attached to me."

"He's very cute!" Pearl cooed, reaching out and stroking the fur on Licorice's head with her index finger.

"Just be careful not to get them too close to each other; hamsters have a tendency to fight." Garnet said, leading Pearl back towards the living room.

"Ah, so that's why they have separate cages! I was wondering why they both needed so much space..." Pearl attempted to place Lemonade on her shoulder, but he didn't seem to balance very well, so she decided to stick with just holding him in her hands.

By the time they returned to the living room, the game was already set up. "You wanna play, Pierogi?" Amethyst asked, handing a controller over to Pearl. "I can hold the little nugget for you, if you want."

"Ah, sure!" Pearl said. She'd almost forgotten that Peridot only had three controllers, so they'd all have to take turns playing the game. She handed the hamster over to Amethyst, grabbing the game controller and sitting down on the floor between Peridot and Garnet. Amethyst laid back on the couch, placing Lemonade on her chest and letting him walk around. Meanwhile, Licorice had peacefully fallen asleep on Garnet's shoulder.

"Now keep in mind, I might be awful at this." Pearl said as she went through the character selection screen.

"Don't worry, Peridot is even worse." Garnet said with a smirk, and Peridot stuck her tongue out at her.

Pearl was initially drawn to the pretty, blonde princess character with the pink dress, but Garnet had already chosen her; Peridot, on the other hand, had chosen the menacing, spiked turtle character. Humming in thought, Pearl eventually settled on the little yellow puppy girl. "Alright, ready to play!" she said.

As expected, Pearl didn't really know what she was doing; she crashed into walls, fell off of cliffs, and ran into just about every possible trap on the racing track. While she ended up coming in last place, she still couldn't help flapping her hands with excitement once she set her controller down. "I may be awful, but that was still a lot of fun! Would it be alright if I played again?"

"Sure thing! Amethyst, you wanna play now?" Peridot asked, pulling herself to her feet.

"Hell yeah." she said, taking the controller and handing Lemonade over to Peridot, who she placed in the big front pocket of her hoodie.

Amethyst sat down next to Pearl, giving her a little nudge. "Don't worry, nobody starts out good. Once you get used to the controls, it'll be a lot easier."

"Aw, I'm not all that concerned with winning!" Pearl giggled. "I just had a lot of fun driving around!"

Before they started up the next level, Amethyst went back to the character select screen and switched over to a different character; this one was a round, green, dinosaur looking creature with chubby cheeks.

After that, they started up the new level; Peridot watched them from the couch, but got distracted as Lemonade leaped out of her pocket. "Looks like he's getting a little antsy; I'm gonna go put him back in his cage." she said, scooping him off of the couch and standing up.

"Uh huh." Amethyst said, just barely acknowledging what she's said. Peridot continued down the hallway and into the hamster room; a few moments later, she let out a screech.

"Peridot?" Amethyst called, pausing the game. All three of them rose to their feet and hurried into the other room to see what'd happened.

Just as Pearl had suspected, there it was; a massive centipede on the door of Lemonade's cage. "Pearl! Now's your time to shine!" Amethyst joked.

"G-get rid of it! Hurry!" Peridot whimpered, backing into the corner and burying her face into Lemonade.

"Aw, don't worry! It's not going to hurt you." Pearl said, giving Peridot a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Could someone hand me a cup? I'd rather not touch it with my hands..."

Garnet spotted a plastic cup full of pens sitting on a nearby table; she dumped them all out and handed it over to Pearl. Slowly approaching the cage, Pearl placed the cup over the centipede and slipped a piece of paper underneath it. "There we go! Poor thing is probably so scared..." she said in an almost-cooing voice, heading over to the window. Amethyst opened it up for her, and Pearl released the centipede into the bushes just down below.

"T-thank you for that." Peridot still trembled visibly, a slight blush on her cheeks. She placed Lemonade back in his cage, and Garnet did the same with Licorice.

"Of course! I have to admit, even I was a little freaked out by the size of that thing..." Pearl pulled the window shut and set the plastic cup back on the table, grabbing the pens and dropping them back inside. "Seeing that in the shower must have been terrifying; I don't blame you for screaming!"

"I-it was, but... Not that terrifying." Peridot cleared her throat. "I guess it just took me by surprise this time! That's why I screeched like that."

Amethyst rolled her eyes; Pearl had a feeling Peridot was attempting to redeem herself, but if it was helping her feel better, she'd go along with it. "Ah, that makes sense!" she said. "Well, now that that's out of the way, shall we continue our video game?"

"Ah, right!" Peridot said, brightening up a little. "Let's go!"

With their centipede worries finally lifted from their shoulders, all four of them headed back to the living room.