#scraping it from what journal entries?

[prismaticsaltedink]

-thinks about all the Undertale Gaster fans who are fans of a character who was CUT FROM THE GAME-

i love people with favorite characters who barely have any content. i hope you feast well on your three comically tiny bread crumbs tonight

[burner141]

One of my FAV tropes is cbf!Johnny but I also like it when reader just does not gaf abt Johnny so lemme combine the two

Ok so cbf!Johnny who you played with as a youth, along with the other neighborhood kids. He was a mischievous little rascal, and you two were probably closer to each other than the others in the group. He'd play minor pranks, scrape his knees on pavement, and get into fights with some older kids from time to time. Yeah, he was rough around the edges, but at the end of the day, he was your sweet Johnny. Johnny who picked wildflowers for you and treated it like a promise ring for when you two would inevitably get married. His words.

However, kids grow up. He decided to go to the military, and while you cared for him greatly, you kind of forgot about him after his grand sendoff. Sure, the first few weeks were hard. No more goofy grinning Johnny looking in at you from your window. First, he climbed trees, then he climbed through your window. Now he was probably climbing ropes in a boot camp or something. Call it object permanence or whatever, but once six months passed, then a year, so did the ache you felt when you remembered he was away.

You went on with life, and so did Johnny. Except Johnny was having a vastly different experience. Every day, he woke up and thought of you. Every night, he dreamt of coming back to you, to a field of wildflowers and the smell of his mother's cooking. At some point, he started writing down the good memories he had with you in a notebook. And then the letters...

Oh, the letters. He wrote and wrote, boundless words scribbled on crumbled paper. But he never sent them. How could he? In a way, they were his darkest secrets. Personal journal entries of every missed moment with you. He could have kissed you when he dropped you off after the school dance. He could have told you that your eyes shined whenever you talked about your interests. He could have confessed to you when you said you had a mild crush on that boy in your class.

He could have.

Once the regret subsided, Johnny began to feel a secondary emotion rise up. Determination. Maybe it was the training hardening him up and enboldening his spirit, or maybe it was the thought that you'd be taken from him in his time away. Whatever it was, his writing shifted. He started to write what he would do to you. Midnight confessions to you and himself that turned blue ink black. He would return home to you. He would put a ring around your finger. He would taste the sweetness between your legs.

He would.

So when he comes home after years of hardship and experiences that could break a man, all he has on his mind is you. You're what kept him alive. Your very existence breathed life into him, even when he thought his time was up.

Unfortunately, you'd moved on. What was once a close comrade became a blurry face in your mind. It's not like you kept up with him and sent letters back and forth (maybe it's better that way). Your relationship was estranged, and when he came in to hug (suffocate) you, you were holding your breath and waiting until it was over. His mother invited you over for dinner, going on about how close you two were. You were about to decline, feeling out of place, but Johnny had responded joyously, like there wasn't a better idea in the world. Huh, maybe everybody had an exaggerated idea of what your relationship was.

Johnny's now huge arm wrapped around your shoulder as he sat next to you. He should have been paying attention to his mother's lovely conversation, but it felt like his eyes were burning holes into you. Talk about awkward. I mean, the guy had been away for years, and now you were expected to just chat him up like you were 8-years-old again?

After a mentally straining dinner, when his mom was cleaning up in the kitchen and your parents were keeping her company, Johnny redirected you to the living room to watch a movie.

"Gotta catch up on what I've been missing out." He said as he led you to the couch you had jumped on as a kid. His eyes lingered on you a bit too long, but maybe he was just getting used to civilian life. Didn't know the correct social cues and whatnot. Don't worry. He'd learn to seem normal very quickly. Can't have you getting scared and running off.

As the movie progressed, you noticed Johnny's legs spreading out more, making you and the couch feel miniscule. His thigh touched yours, and so did his arm, and with how close he kept inching, his breath was about to touch you. Too much. He was just too much.

You told him you had some things to do at home and ran off. He watched you go from the doorway, not bothering to chase after you, no matter how much he wanted to. And he wanted to. It was unfortunate. The red string that connected you two had thinned out.

Good thing Johnny learned how to tie knots in the military. And trust, he's ready to tie the knot.

[kitkat13001]

⋆˚꩜🏕️｡. 6 ➢ THE INCONVENIENCING

𖤐 𐦍 ☾𖤓 a mha x reader gravity falls au ! -> ft.izuku midoriya, ochako uraraka, shoto todoroki, and denki kaminari ᨒ ོ ☼ prev ➢ m. list ➢ next ➢ 06 - something strange afoot !

🗓️ ✎ᝰ .ᐟ 📼⋆.˚

it’s daylight by the time you trudge back to the mystery shack, covered in scrapes and bruises and various junk food wrappers and crumbs. 

izuku goes straight upstairs but you stop in the living room where hizashi and aizawa are staring at you, speechless with shock. 

“what the hell happened to you?” aizawa finally asks, dumbfounded. 

“got a little possessed, fought some ghosts, typical friday night stuff,” you reply, picking chip crumbs out of your hair. “uncle ‘zashi, you grew up here right? have you ever seen a ghost?”

hizashi stares at you for another long while before he bursts out laughing (so loud it almost hurts your ears). 

“man, you sure are living it up out here, huh! well, much as i’m glad you’re having fun, try not to get too trashed, ‘kay? i need you and midoriya to hang up some signs for me later.” he gives your hair a good-natured ruffle before disappearing into the kitchen. 

you watch, confused, before turning to aizawa. “uncle sho, have you ever seen a ghost?”

he’s sporting his usual unimpressed expression, though his frown deepens just a little more with your question. “i don’t believe in ghosts.”

“uncle sho, i fought a ghost tonight. they’re real, trust me.”

he heaves a sigh, shaking his head and leading you into the gift shop. he takes a book off the shelf and tosses it to you. the cover reads mysterious legends of the pacific northwest. 

“it’s made-up, kid. this entire town is filled with a bunch of ‘paranormal’ activities, all part of the tourist circuit. none of it’s actually real.”

“but i saw—” your protests are cut off when aizawa heaves another sigh, pinching his eyes shut like he’s warding off a headache. 

“you’re probably just sleep-deprived, kid. believe me, as someone who’s pulled one too many all-nighters and seen some weird things — a shower and a nap will do you wonders, okay?”

you frown after him as he walks off (presumably to find hizashi). you wait a minute, stewing in your indignation before you finally give up and go upstairs. as cynical as your uncle is, he’s probably right about the shower and nap part, if nothing else. 

𒈔 ִ ࣪𓂀 𖤐 — journal entry 06:

the world will never know how you, todoroki, and denki defeated the ghosts.

there was a reason smile dip was discontinued, as you all found out after getting violently sick after eating it

todoroki told you after the fact that according to the journal, ghosts are ranked in categories 1 through 10. you were all horrified to find out that these particular ghosts were only a 6 on that scale

you were surprised (and kind of hurt) at how quick hizashi blew you off. you figured someone as skeptical as aizawa wouldn’t have believed you, but you know hizashi had a huge occult phase in college. you figured he might be able to help, but it doesn’t seem like he has any interest

you assure yourself it’s just because he’s always busy (the man runs an entire business and a radio station, so you guess you can cut him some slack…)

🪬🗝️ — from the author: 😛

© kitkat13001 ➢ do not copy, translate, repost etc

taglist: @ceecilya @n3r0-5352 @taxavoider @bloomness @deadhands69 @saucejar @hydeonysus @bloodb3nders @fellowchickennugget @keeeenbeeaan @boreaswrites @bangersplusmash @crushmeeren @agirlenchanted @biodegradablevagina @xoyuji @zukiiiiiiiii @teeesthings @tv-gh0st @reality1escaping @candiiee @bitchyfestivalbouquet @majoryeager104 @tokeposts @inumkii @th34rs0n1st @mikumikumikuuuu @soursxpling @lipstainedgemini @rickydickydoodahgrimes73 @luvvytee (please ask/comment to be added)

[jeszrosse]

Ashen Roots ❦| (Hanahaki disease) Chapter Three: The Quiet That Follows Frost

.

.

John “Soap” MacTavish x Reader

---

Braeriach Hall — Early Winter 1883

The first snow had only just begun to fall.

It arrived not with drama, but with a hush—as if the sky had run out of words. The hills wore a thin veil of white, dusting the hedges and roofs in silence. You had noticed it at breakfast, gathering in the corners of the windows. The frost had crept in overnight, threading itself through the windowpanes like veins. But today was the first time the flakes truly fell.

John’s footsteps had become familiar now. Not loud—never that—but measured. You heard them in the corridor outside the infirmary each morning, pausing briefly like he forgot something. Then again at supper, when he sat at the end of the long dining table with that same quiet grimness, eyes down, food barely touched.

He didn’t speak unless prompted. And when he did, it was clipped, Scottish, and sanded down with fatigue. But you noticed the way he softened slightly when he passed the window that overlooked the back gardens, the way his shoulder brushed the sill like it meant something.

You found him there one morning, leaning on the frost-glass frame, hands tucked into his pockets, brow furrowed.

“I thought you’d still be asleep,” you said gently.

“Couldn’t.” His eyes didn’t leave the horizon. “Not with the way the wind’s been crying.”

You stepped closer. He didn’t move.

“What are you looking for out there?”

He exhaled slowly, and the sound clouded the glass.

“Not sure,” he murmured. “But I keep hoping I’ll find it.”

There were days when you tended the graves behind the Hall, your brother’s among them. You brushed snow from the headstone, fingers numb. John passed once and paused. Said nothing, but crouched nearby and began clearing another grave’s edge, knuckles red with cold. You didn’t ask him to. He didn’t ask why you sat there so long.

Later, in the hallway, he offered something gruff and short:

“If you ever want help clearing them… I don’t mind.”

You nodded once. “Thank you.”

Neither of you mentioned it again.

The chapel had long since caved in on one side, ivy crawling through the broken stained glass and a draft howling through the rafters. You passed it often on your walks. Once, you found John inside.

He was fixing a beam.

Or trying to. The hammer was old and the nail bent sideways, but he was frowning with such fierce concentration you didn’t interrupt him.

“Reckon it’ll collapse by spring,” he muttered when he noticed you behind him.

“You believe in salvaging things?” you asked.

“Only the ones that want savin’.”

He glanced at you after he said it. Just for a moment.

Then he coughed—soft and sudden, like a breath gone wrong. He waved it off. “Dust.”

But you looked anyway. No blood. No petals. Just a man tired in his bones.

At meals, he sat closer now. Not beside you, but nearer. Enough that you could hear the scrape of his fork, the way he muttered to himself sometimes in Gaelic when the firewood refused to catch in the hearth.

You lent him your lighter once.

He didn’t return it for a week.

“I forgot I had it,” he said, placing it back in your hand. His fingers brushed yours. Cold.

“Or you didn’t want to give it back,” you offered.

He didn’t answer. But something flickered behind his eyes. A different kind of silence.

You started keeping a journal again. Most pages were about Elias. Some were about the Hall. A few—more than you expected—were about John.

"I found him in the garden again, staring at nothing, like the earth might answer back."

"He fixed the chapel window today. Said nothing. But I think it meant something to him."

"He’s been coughing. Not much. But it’s always at night."

And beneath those entries, some days—when the weather held you too still—you found yourself drifting back to moments with Elias:

A game of tag through the apple grove near your childhood home. Elias had always cheated. Climbing trees was his preferred tactic, and you always swore you’d never forgive him for it.

“You’re not a squirrel,” you had shouted up.

“And you’re too slow,” he’d laughed down.

A torn page from your diary you once found burned at the edges. When confronted, he claimed it was a security measure: “You write too many secrets for your own good.”

The time he stole your locket and replaced the photo inside with a charcoal sketch of a frog.

“You said you liked amphibians,” he grinned.

He had been your constant, irritating shadow. And your best friend.

But then there were the quiet moments. When your parents fought behind closed doors and you’d crawl into Elias’s room just to sit on the floor and breathe near someone who didn’t ask questions.

He never told you to leave. He just handed you one of his blankets, feet propped up on the desk, pretending to read something important.

“I’ll kill anyone who hurts you,” he said once. Out of nowhere. Calm, like he meant it.

You’d scoffed. “You’re five-foot-eight.”

“I’ll use a chair,” he’d muttered.

That was Elias.

Brave, stupid, loyal to the bone.

And now he was just a name on a stone behind the Hall. Just a memory pressed between the pages of your journal.

You didn’t write the worst parts. Like how you still expected him to walk through the door and tell you this was all a joke. That the war hadn’t taken him. That he’d just gotten lost on his way home.

---

One evening, you passed by the drawing room and saw John seated near the fireplace, an old rifle laid across his lap. The violet-sky dusk caught the hollow of his cheek, the curve of his brow. There was something delicate in that moment, but not fragile, like a man who had finally stopped bracing for war, even if just for a minute.

“Can’t sleep again?” you asked softly from the doorway.

He looked over his shoulder. “You write late.”

“So do you pace.”

He grunted, something almost like amusement. “You always this nosy?”

“Only with the difficult ones.”

He didn’t smile. Not right away. But his hand stilled on the cloth he was using to polish the stock, and after a pause, one corner of his mouth curved—just slightly. As if the idea of being called difficult amused him more than he was willing to admit. It wasn’t a full smile. Not the kind that showed teeth or lit up a room. But it was something.

The first flicker of warmth after a long, hard winter.

He smiled. For the first time in a long time and it looked like it surprised even him. Like his face had nearly forgotten how. The fire caught the edge of it, painting his expression in gold, and for a heartbeat, the war was far behind him.

“Must be why you keep hangin’ around,” he muttered, voice low, almost fond.

And then came the cough. Again. Quiet. Dry. But enough to draw your attention.

“You alright?”

He nodded quickly. “Old wound. Desert dust gets in your lungs and never quite leaves.”

You said nothing. But you thought of Elias. Of the violets.

He coughed again. And this time, you looked at his sleeve.

Still nothing. Just dust.

Outside, the snow kept falling. The Hall creaked. Shadows moved in long shapes along the halls.

In your notes that night, you wrote:

“Something’s changing. Not in him. In the air around him. Like the house knows he’s not just another soldier.”

“He’s growing warmer. I feel like I know him more.”

But that night, long after the fire died, you passed by the drawing room again—just once—and saw him staring at the violet stems on the mantelpiece. Still. Eyes unreadable. As though something inside him had begun to remember what it meant to ache.

And you didn’t dare ask why.

[221beeeeeee]

An excerpt from a John Watson fic …..I’m writing about the aftermath of the fall and John working in a ER to cope.

-A journal entry from around 3-4 months after the fall. He describes his nightmare.

-Warning, cpr, blood and other stuffs and queer John angst. And im a baby author.

October 20th, 2012

3:47 AM

I can't sleep. In the on-call room….Again. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. On that street. Watching him fall.

The dream starts the same way it always does. I'm standing on the pavement, phone pressed to my ear. Sherlock's on the rooftop, his coat billowing in the wind. His voice cracks as he says goodbye. I'm screaming at him to stop, but my words are carried away by the wind.

Then he falls. It's not like in the movies. There's no slow motion, no dramatic music. Just the sickening whoosh of air, and then... impact. The sound of bone meeting concrete echoes in my skull, drowning out the world around me.

I run. My legs feel like a lead, and each step is an eternity. A cyclist clips me, sending me sprawling onto the pavement. The world spins, my vision blurring as I struggle to my feet. I can taste blood in my mouth, my mouth pooling with copper from biting something, my ears ringing, and feel the sting of scraped palms, but none of it matters. I have to get to him.

The crowd parts as I stumble forward, drawn inexorably to the crumpled form on the ground. There's so much blood. It spreads in a dark halo around Sherlock's head, matting those familiar curls. His eyes are open, staring blankly at the sky.

My fingers fumble at his neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Nothing. No, no, no. This can't be happening. I lean in close, straining to hear even the faintest breath. Silence.

I press my fingers harder against his neck, willing a pulse to appear beneath my touch. Nothing. Just cold, unyielding skin. Blood seeps from beneath his head, a crimson river staining the pavement. I dare not look behind those damp curls, afraid of what I might find. Instead, my hands move gently, almost reverently, across his forehead, brushing those familiar dark locks.

His face is a nightmare canvas of blood and trauma. One cheekbone is grotesquely misshapen, the skin mottled with bruising that's already blooming purple and black. His nose is crushed, nostrils flared and filled with congealing blood. Those piercing eyes, once so full of life and intellect, now stare vacantly at the sky above.

I can't accept it. I won't.

My training kicks in, pushing through the haze of denial. I begin compressions, my hands interlocking over Sherlock's sternum. One, two, three, four... The rhythm is automatic, ingrained through countless emergencies. But this isn't just another patient. This is Sherlock.

There's a sickening crunch beneath my palms as I press down. Ribs gave way, splintering under the force. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to not feel or hear the horrific actions of CPR. Just keep going. One, two, three, four…

I tilt his head back, pinch his nose, and breathe into his mouth. His chest rises and falls. Again. Rise, fall. Back to compressions. One, two, three, four…

As I lean in for another breath, time seems to slow.

My lips meet Sherlock's, still retaining a hint of warmth despite his fading complexion. For a fleeting moment, I'm struck by how soft they are, how perfectly they fit against mine.

But after the third round, I could feel his warmth fading. His lips grew colder against mine with each desperate rescue breath. The coppery taste of blood lingered on my lips, a stark reminder of the brutality of his fall.

One, two, three, four... The rhythm of compressions became a mantra, each press sending a shockwave of pain through my own body. My arms burned with exertion, shoulders screaming in protest, but I couldn't stop. I wouldn't stop.

I leaned in for another breath, my cheek brushing against his. The familiar scent of his skin, a mix of expensive cologne and chemicals from his latest experiment was already fading, replaced by the metallic tang of blood.

I'm vaguely aware of voices around me. Sirens in the distance. The murmur of the crowd.

Someone's shouting, but the words are muffled, distant. All I can focus on is the rhythm. One, two, three, four... Breathe. One, two, three, four... Breathe.

"You need to stop!" Shouted someone unimportant behind me.

Hands grasp at my shoulders, trying to pull me away. I shrug them off violently, my elbows flying back to connect with something solid. A grunt of pain. I don't care. I can't stop. Barts doesn’t have an emergency room. If I stop, it means…

"For God's sake, someone help me with him!" , and the world blurs into a chaotic haze as I'm dragged away from Sherlock's lifeless form. I'm dimly aware of shouting, my own voice raw and hoarse as I plead with them to help him. And then I wake up in a panic and I'm up for my next shift.

[sassypeacock0501]

Codex Entry: Thrill of the Chase

A torn out page from a journal, tucked away behind a nug carving on the top shelf of a sturdy cabinet.

Took Rook out for a trip to Arlathan. Happened to run through a nice looking spot while battling it out with some forest guardians. Nasty scrape. Had to book it, but I made a mental note. The place seemed like it could be peaceful on a nicer day.

Rook was surprisingly receptive when I asked. Seemed like he perked right up. Glad to know. It’d be nice to have the company next time I take Assan out.

I’ve seen his eyes wander whenever we’re traveling through the forest. He seems to really like the trees. Snagged a bit of a fallen branch while he wasn’t looking. Might try and whittle him a little something. Keepsake or something like that. (Note in margins: Should try and figure out what Rook likes. Some kinda small critter maybe? A rook for Rook? Too on the nose?)

We packed rucksacks with some light provisions. Didn’t want to waste anything. Wasn’t planning on spending too long out there, but we ended up gone for the better part of the afternoon.

Though it was nice to get a bit of a breather. An actual break for once. Got to kick back and let the hours roll by. And was nice to see Rook let down his guard for a moment. Could see the tension in his shoulders. (Note in margins: Sneak a quick meeting with Lace. Might know some remedies. Ease joints. Scents to relax with? Balms or ointments?)

Offered to help with a couple stretches. Had the time to kill.

Was pretty obvious that he doesn’t give his body the chance to unwind often. Not doing him any favors, especially with how much he relies on his bow.

Focused on his shoulders, arms, and back. (Note in margins: Recommend some stretches for his lower body.)

Got a good view of some of his tattoos. Plenty of Warden iconography. And he’s got the scars to match. Hair’s cut nice and neat too. Brown, with a soft curl below the nape of his neck. And that loose braid on the side that bounces a little when he laughs.

Gonna have to keep this one to myself, but he’s got a nice smile. I’m hoping I’ll get to see it some more. Those creases near his nose and at the corners of his lips. And eyes like amber.

I’ve hunted a lot of quarries before. Thinking I might’ve met my match.

[charsimsalot]

CONTENT ADVISORY: This entry of Read the Ancient Archives expands on issues and themes that have come up before, but in heavier, more immediate and more detailed ways. Take care.

READ THE ANCIENT ARCHIVES: ENTRY 27

I finally phoned Elle. We had a disagreement. She told me to go and write it all down in my journal so that I can hold it against her later. I will write it all down in my journal because I write everything down in my journal. I wish I had done so before I was turned because I feel like I can never know for sure the whole of what we are disagreeing about.

It all started when �� well, it started over a century ago, I suppose, but my phone call with Elle today specifically was prompted by my visit to the crypt in Mourningvale. I had not been before. I made several mistakes which I can learn from and do better next time I visit.

Learning opportunity number one happened shortly after I found what looked to be some sort of musical puzzle. There was a dusty old piano in the room — how it got down there I do not know — and it seems to me that what I likely need to do to solve the puzzle is play the notes on the sheet music I found upon it. I regretted not ever taking Elle up on her offers of music lessons. I remember thinking how disgusted Elle and Lilith might have been to see the piano keys so thickly coated in dust. The wooden cover part had not even been pulled down to protect them. Well, I took a picture of the sheet music so that I might have another look later. Maybe Elle could help. It would give us something easy talk about, I thought. She likes talking about music. However, I decided I might as well as give it an attempt, while I was there. It would still be something to talk to Elle about. Maybe I would get lucky! I could tell her how well I had managed and maybe she would be impressed.

But I did not get lucky. I improvised and sounded much less practised than she. I only just yanked my fingers back before the piano cover snapped down as if by magic and a trap door opened beneath me. At least I only fell a short distance. I scraped the heels of my hands, and it is a little sore to sit but I will heal quickly! I always do, and the dirt will come out of my dungarees in the wash.

I was quick to get back on my feet and encounter my second learning opportunity. This I do feel much more foolish about. After exploring some more, the tunnels getting colder and colder, I came upon a creature with two yellow, glowing eyes, and bony hands. Or paws? Talons?  I do not remember anything else about its appearance. It was very dark, and everything happened very quickly. It hissed lowly, and my potential new friend seemed to be moving around lowly too, as though perhaps on all fours. Then two… hands? I do not remember. They reached towards me, and I thought that maybe if I petted it, it would calm. It did not. The hissing definitely sounded angry then. It got ever so much louder and all I could think to do was to point behind it to distract it and run away — which worked! But I could have handled our meeting better. I will ask around about this creature and see if any of my Ravenwood acquaintances know anything about it.

If only that were the worst of my day, but like I said, I called Elle when I got home, and oh, I have thought so many times since I came to Ravenwood that I really ought to call her, and quite likely I should have called her sooner. As it transpires, I have been keeping myself in the dark about what is really happening in Forgotten Hollow in my absence by avoiding contact with her. And I hurt her feelings. And I am hurt too.

When I called, Elle was quick to tell me that she had just returned from a splendid night on the town with Lilith, and that the night was not over yet. They had gone to Midnight Hollow together for a trip to the theatre, then to Precarious Pub. Then, there was a bang loud enough for me to hear through the phone — I suppose this is when Lilith realised it was I on the other end of the call. She hissed for Elle to hang up. I asked what had happened. Elle said it was just that Lilith had been holding the head of a human they had hypnotised back with them and was so “understandably” surprised that Elle had received a call from me that she had accidentally dropped her head quite hard onto the table where she was lying. Lilith said it was less that she was surprised — though I had “really picked my moment” — and more that she did not want me finding out what she was doing, and then Caleb finding out what she was doing, “thank you very much.”

Elle asked me why I had finally called. I said something about how I had been very busy getting set up in Ravenwood but really wanted to hear what she had been doing. Elle said I had clearly not been too busy to talk to Caleb or Lilith or “the leader of those upstart threats to the beauty of property both public and private that call themselves the Wildfangs” who had been “making a nuisance of herself in Moonlight Falls” last Elle heard. Lilith gave some response to this which I did not catch because my thoughts froze up at having been caught out myself. I ended up telling Elle about the music puzzle. We did not end up discussing any solution.

It has been a long time since Elle has fed from a human while in the same room as me. This was not in the same room as me either, but I was partially there. My voice was there, and Elle and Lilith’s voice were here, and the human’s groan was here too. I was involved. I know this is something she does — drinking from humans without their consent — but it is rather easy for me to be somewhere else when she does it. It is easiest.

She knows that I think she should not do it. It is not something we talk about often. At least she does not keep humans long-term as thralls anymore. She tried, briefly, after Dillin bet their shared ownership of me to Bloodvein and lost, but she found she could not truly replace me, and after I was turned, she was even less inclined to keep a long-term thrall. She hypnotises humans temporarily, usually for a single day’s housework or a single meal, and she lets them go again with those hours missing from their memories. She could be a lot worse. She has been worse. But she could be a lot better.

Lilith was being better, but here she was doing this to a human again. Elle knows that I think one should not do this to humans, but she does not think it herself. Lilith knows she should not do this, at least I thought she did, though her argument tonight was that she had not done anything that bad. She told me she saw no point in stopping tonight what they had already begun, when the human was already here, already hypnotised, already a little drunk from. She told me no-one was supposed to know, except Elle, and Elle would act like it had never happened. The human would forget that it had happened. It would be, Lilith tried to tell me, like it had never happened. It is not that bad.

I am surprised at myself for what I said next. I hardly believe it said it. If I do not write it down now, I might think back on what has transpired just now and doubt that I did. I said that is that bad. Part of me would like to unsay and unwrite it. I said that it would matter even though she would forget and that the forgetting mattered. Elle said she was not going to let her keep her memories. Elle said I did not really want her to. And Elle is right. I do not want the human to remember because I do not want harm to come to Elle and Lilith. Not that I really think much could. She is only human, whoever she is, and they are very skilled vampires.

So yes, Elle said that I did not really want her to leave this human her memories, and I admitted that she was correct. But Lilith had still said that it was not that bad. I said the human might wonder about the marks they were leaving. I said she might worry about what might have happened during the hours she had lost. I said she might remember just a little.

Elle has said before that I should consider thinking myself lucky that I do not remember being human. She has said this before. There was a time when I agreed with her. We thought I was all the better without bad memories, though she meant this very differently to me. She said that I could start almost as though I had been born a vampire, without carrying around memories of my own weakness or (like some people, she said with subtle nod in Caleb’s direction) any overidentification with lesser creatures. The word “almost” does a lot of work in that reasoning. I do not know who has done what to me. I do not remember, but others do, and that is really quite far from Elle’s own experiences as a vampire.

My point being, I was fully prepared for her to make the same arguments that I have written about her making many times before, and that I have made too. What she said instead was that I was surely not too injured if I was well enough that I could found my Occult Historical Society with Morgyn and Wolfgang and conduct a research trip in Ravenwood. I am well enough. I say all the time that I am well enough. She was agreeing with me. Maybe it is not that bad.

“This is what I do all the time, Inna,” Elle said, meaning the drinking from humans in this way. “You know it is.”

She said I simply looked the other way because I think what she does is wrong and seeing it makes me feel guilty. She said she supposed it was even easier for me to feel good about myself now that I have run off to Ravenwood. And… maybe?

Then she said, “You certainly haven’t minded forgetting about me.”

It felt so bad, and in every way that a person can feel bad. I felt sorry and guilty because I should have called her and upset and alone because I so do not like to have Elle so at odds with me and upset and angry because I am inclined to think that even under the circumstances that was a rather cruel thing to say to me.

Lilith objected to Elle’s words with a sharp admonishment of “Elle!” and I thought yes, okay, it is not just me. Elle’s comment struck Lilith as too far too. I said to Elle that she had not called me either and that from the beginning she had not been supportive of my research trip, nor had she called to ask how I was, and that she could not think I cared any less about her than she about me. She said that of course she cared about me, but that surely I saw how insulting it was that I had been in contact with everyone else in our circle but her? I said quietly that I had not been in contact with Bloodvein either. She said she is a much better friend to me than Bloodvein, which I could not say anything to.

This is when Elle told me that if I thought her so wrong, I should go and write all this down in my journal so that I can hold it again her later. I have referred to previous journal entries in arguments with Elle before. I don’t do it often. She doesn’t like it. She liked even less what she read in my journals.

Future Inna, she read my journals. She went into my chambers at some point since I left for Ravenwood and read my journals. I don’t know which ones. I am only this second realising that I do not even know how she left them. What if she took one from my chambers and it has gotten lost somewhere? What if she spilled something on one of them and now the words have run and cannot be read anymore? Even if they are in just the same condition as I left them, she read them. I should have locked my door. She should not have had the chance to get to them, but I did not think this was something she would do. I should not have left them so out in the open as this. If ever you are in my position again, do better than I have, please. Shall we call this learning opportunity number three?

Maybe tomorrow I will be able to call it that more steadily. I hope so. Elle said she had of course known that I wrote about her because I have referenced events in my journals in arguments, but that she had not known how much I wrote and in how much detail, about her or about anything else. I did not think that I had written about Elle harshly at all, though she felt that I had and maybe I have written something and forgotten that I did. Did she not see that I had written about the early mornings we have stayed up making each other laugh, about how my heart has been lifted by the songs she has written for me, about the special birthday dinners she and Caleb put together for me, about how I have been glad I can offer some comfort to her especially since her separation from Dillin? Not that I have been any comfort to her since I moved.

But oh, she said my journals were so detailed as to be obsessive. She said it was hardly living to spend so long — “how long does this take you, Inna?” — writing down every little thing she does and every little thing she does wrong. She told me I that I write like I do not really trust her. She told me that it was ill mannered to write what I had, because didn’t I think about what might happen if someone else were to read them? But they are not for anyone else to read! They are for me! I have known that one day someone else might. I know that my journals are a valuable historical record with wider implications than my own experiences, and that if I die in such a way that I can no longer be their keeper I would not like to deny this historical record to anyone and have discussed this with Caleb, Wolfgang and Morgyn. But Elle should not have come into my room and read them! I would not accept it if any of my new friends here in Ravenwood had done the same thing.

My voice shook when I found my words again. I told her that she had no right to read my journals. I told her that she no right to even touch them because they belong to me and not her. I told her to stay out of my chambers.

Then a crash came from somewhere in the room, one of the dining chairs tipping over, I think. Elle and Lilith had gotten distracted from keeping watch on the human. She had woken up from hypnosis and come to.

“Who are you people?” she demanded unsteadily. “Where am I?”

Elle rushed to comfort her. She dropped her phone to the table, and I listened, feeling small, as her words slid smoothly, and the screaming stopped, and she told the human that she was among good friends and perfectly safe and having a wonderful time, and that she was going to lie back down now.

And that’s when I ended the call. I ended the call, and I walked around my new house. I walked through all the rooms. I opened the fridge and closed it again. I don’t feel thirsty, but it has been a while since I fed so I will have to soon. I came here to my desk and wrote everything down like Elle told me to even though it’s the opposite of what she wants.

I think Elle’s words to the human made me remember something. I feel that Elle has said those words to me before. That makes sense. Why would she use different words now when she already knows these ones work? It is not a helpful memory. I knew she must have said things that were at least similar to this in the long time I was her thrall. Despite this, it is not even a memory that I can trust. It makes enough sense that I could think it real. It feels bright and real but how could I know?

Well! Lilith just called. It is fortunate, I suppose, that she was occupied just long enough for me to finish writing all that I did. She brought glad tidings and less than glad. She must have been outside — on her way back to Wolfsbane Manor I assume — for I could hear the wind through the speaker, and boots on hard ground.

Lilith told me Elle had already drunk all she wanted before I called and had no objections to Lilith leaving, soon after I ended the call, to bring the human back to Midnight Hollow. Lilith said she herself had only drunk a little and that she had not wanted to heighten risk of scarring or of worse scaring, before muttering, “for all the good that will do.” She apologised for having said what she said to me about memory loss. She said she had called to check that I was alright, after what she had said, and after everything else. I said I was fine.

The humans do not usually wake up like that. This one only got so scared because Lilith and Elle had been paying attention to me instead of to her. Lilith said she should have paid attention to make sure she was staying under. Then she swore and said she shouldn’t have done any of it. I asked her why she did.

No matter how “made with love” it all was, Lilith was sick of slaking her thirst on Caleb’s plasma fruit juices and plasma fruit soups and everything else he made for her that her withered stomach could still handle. It takes so much to feel sated and there is only so much variety even a very skilled cook like her brother can bring to various liquids consisting of mostly the same ingredients. However, it turns out there is much more to it than that. Lilith wanted a break. She wanted a break from being stressed and a break from feeling so worn. She wanted a break from worrying about Caleb and a break from doing things I would do.

“I thought to myself, maybe I deserved one,” Lilith said. “I’m sick of this. Someone needs to be completely honest with you, Inna. Despite what Caleb says, it might even be the right thing to do.”

I had imagined Forgotten Hollow carrying on in my absence mostly as it had in my presence, when I had imagined it at all. I would be missed a great deal by some, less by others. Caleb would cry over my absence initially and then we would both get used to talking nearly as often but no longer in the same room. Elle would… well, she would not like that I had not called, and I had been proven correct. However, on our calls Caleb had told me everyone was fine. He had not mentioned Elle or Bloodvein or Vlad unless I asked after them, but when I did, he said there was nothing for me to worry about. He said Elle and Lilith had been writing piano and violin duets and training together. He said he had been gardening and experimenting in the kitchen and keeping busy and that of course he missed me, but how could he be too sad when he knew I was doing such good, and doing myself such good?

He said, over and over again, “But more importantly, how are you?”

I had not even thought that it was worth writing down. There was nothing to report. Except, there was. Caleb and Lilith just did not report it to me because he convinced her not to, because he said that I was getting out of the shadow of Forgotten Hollow and that they should not cast it back upon me. He said he did not want me to worry or be distracted from doing what I wanted to do by his own problems or by Elle’s.

“He probably wouldn’t have wanted me to call you up and talk to you about my problems, if he knew I was having them,” Lilith said. “But I can’t say. He doesn’t know about them. I haven’t told him.”

Caleb lied to me. Caleb! He did it to keep me in the light not in the dark, he did it wanting what he thought was best for me, but he still did it. He was there when Lilith learned to play war songs from the Century Conflict to spark my memories even though we all knew those memories could very likely be unpleasant. He knows how I feel about the worst of my memories because I have told him every time my opinion on how I glad I am to have them has changed. He knows that I am very often glad to know the truth even when it is less than pleasant because it is very often useful. How could he not know that I want to know the truth about how Forgotten Hollow is? About how he is?

One of my earliest memories is of Caleb telling me the full circumstances of my turning, even though it painted him in such a bad light. It seems he will tell a truth that he thinks will hurt him and help me but not the other way around. But I am hurt either way!

Although this is, of course, not the first time Caleb has hidden the extent of his feelings from me, nor the first time he has tried to. It started when we started. When I was newly turned, I accepted his apology, and him saying that he would do whatever he could to make it up to me. I said that I wanted to make the best of my new situation and enjoy being able to finally live and told him not to mope on the topic of me. He said he would keep his moping behind closed doors, nice and proper. I know he tried. I know that like I asked, what I saw was not the whole of it. I know he did not like to put me in the position of comforting him for turning me or for other things that were his own fault. I know he still tries very hard to keep me happy, and that sometimes this means he is reluctant to place the whole of his struggles before me even though things are so different now and we have been friends, dear friends, for fifty years. I did not think he would tell me there was nothing to worry about in Forgotten Hollow. I did not think he would tell me, fifty years on, when there was worry about him to be had and help I could give, not to worry about him at all.

There was a time when he knew better than me about so much because I knew so little about anything in my new life, nor about what my old one had been. He has protected me for as long as I can remember but he cannot protect me from the truth. I don’t want him to try. He helps me when he tells me what really happened. I thought I could trust him at least to do it. He is my very dear friend. He loves me. I thought, unlike Elle, he understood me too. I think he understands me better than anyone.

Lilith had a lot to fill me in on now. She told me that Forgotten Hollow was a lot worse without me here. She said there had been days when Caleb stayed in bed far longer than usual, and even more days when he has worked himself harder than usual, and that he’s been arguing with Elle and Bloodvein more than usual too. She said that now that I am in Ravenwood, Elle has been coming to her more than anyone else to talk about Dillin and the divorce and anything else she wants to get off her chest. She said that what Elle is most fixated on right now is that Dillin was her close companion for a really, really, really long time before he ran off to follow dreams that she does not want to be included in in Del Sol Valley.

“Sound familiar, Inna?”

Elle thinks I forgot about her. I didn’t forget about Elle. More memories or half-memories of her from when I was thralled come back than about anyone else, brought back by playing tunes on piano or violin that I heard her play when I was a thrall, brought back by her scent when she leans in close enough, brought back by her voice sometimes, like just now, when she smoothed it slow and shiny.

Lilith said I left a big hole when I moved to Ravenwood and that she is so not the right person to fill it and that everyone keeps pushing each other in or falling into it or falling not into it but sort of tripping and landing to the side of it. She asked when I was coming back. I said I didn’t know.

I asked if it was my fault Lilith had done what she had to that human that night, because I had left a hole. Lilith said, of course not, it was her own fault, don’t be stupid.

The tread of Lilith’s boots went silent. She asked me please not to tell Caleb what she had been doing with Elle. I told her I did not think he would be angry at her, or at least not very much, and she said no, but he’d be wretchedly disappointed. He might even blame himself and beat himself up over it, and she did not want to deal with that on top of everything else. There would be no point in telling him, Lilith said. She promised, not for the first time, that she wouldn’t do it again. I have broken the same promise. I have had Caleb to help me when I’ve broken it, while Lilith intends to go without. Even so, quite likely I will not tell Caleb. I do not feel like telling Caleb anything right now.

That isn’t true. I want to talk to Caleb so badly. He is the person I talk to. I am not going to talk to him tonight.

On the bright side, now I know that Caleb would hide the truth from me about something like this and that Elle would read my journals. If only I knew what to do with that information.

start ❘ prev ❘ next

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Thank you to both @freezerbnuuy and @dead-lights for talking to me at length about Inna and Elle's relationship and about this conversation specifically. @dead-lights, you thoughts on Inna and Lilith too over the many months have really inspired me. You're both such creative people and you help me get such a clearer idea on the direction I want to take things. I also couldn't possible overstate how much it means to me that you encourage my writing, and I draw on your encouragement especially when writing difficult chapters like this. If either of you ever end up in a crypt needing to play sheet music on a dusty old piano, give me a call and I'll provide moral support and if needed, actual music advice.

Edit: I meant to say that Dillin betting away ownership of Inna was @dead-lights idea specifically. Sorry for forgetting to say so at the initial time I posted this!

[artemis-73]

Suptober Day 11: Myth

Dean's always hated hospitals. The smell, the sterile walls, the somber atmosphere, the twisting, scraping dread in his gut. But more than hospitals, he hates the pediatrics wing. He hates the tableaus painted in the hallways. He hates the cartoons playing on the TV. He hates the tiny beds and the blankets with stars and moons on them.

He's standing at the window, staring out at the parking garage when the the doctor comes in. Sam and Jess greet him quietly, but Dean can't bring himself to look. He can tell by the warble in Sam's voice that it's not going to be good news. He can imagine the doctor's face set grimly with a sympathetic twist.

There's a murmured explanation that Dean doesn't try to parse, but he gets snippets. Things like "experimental treatments" and "numbers are still low."

Dean remembers his dad, stark raving mad after their mom died, becoming obsessed with a magical way to fix it. The fix changed day-to-day, depending on how much he'd been drinking. Some days, he was looking for a way to bring her back to life. Others, he wanted revenge on any one of the laundry list of people he blamed for her death: the firefighters, the paramedics, the man who installed their smoke detectors, the electrician who wired the house years before they bought it.

When he turns around and sees little Mary curled up in a mountain of blankets, sounds asleep with dark circles like bruises under her eyes, and half a dozen machines hooked up to her, he understands his old man better than he ever did when he was alive. He'd tear the whole world apart for his niece.

Sam and Jess are looking over the information packets the doctor left, talking about their options and what they could even begin to afford, what their insurance will bother covering.

"I'm gonna go for a drive," he says to the room.

They barely look up when he leaves.

It's late enough in the day that the parking garage is only about half full. The Impala sits alone in one of the corners. In the trunk, there's a box of their dad's things. Stuff Dean can't bear to throw out but doesn't want in his own house, worthless knick knacks and sentimental shit, but most importantly: a journal.

It's the ramblings of a paranoid, possibly schizophrenic man. Dean tried reading it once, right after John died, hoping for some closure. All he found was that his father was sicker than they ever dreamed. He'd imagined a world of demons and monsters to cope with the death of his wife. He'd abandoned his kids over and over again to chase something that would make a deal with him: his life for his wife's.

Dean flips to the last entry. It's from the day John died. It's a rambling whiskey-riddled mess that amounts to blubbering apologies about how he should've been a better father. When Dean first read it, he'd barely skimmed it. Now, he trudges through the lines of slanting writing, looking for any clue.

On the third page, he finds it: a passing mention of a deal he made a two years before. Dean flips back through the pages, skipping over the years until he finds the entry:

It worked. The black eyed bastard couldn't bring her back. He said she was in heaven. I only got two years out of the deal, but he agreed to clean up whoever was responsible.

From there, he reads backwards carefully, looking for what exactly John did. Only a couple pages further, he finds honest-to-god instructions, including an ingredient list, to summon a fucking demon at a crossroads. It says he'll get ten years to live in exchange for whatever he wants. He stands in the parking garage for a long time, looking down at John's clear, blocky writing.

There's a little tin jar that used to sit in John's kitchen. Dean thinks he remembers it even further back, in the kitchen of their family home. It was one of the few things John had salvaged after the fire. When he'd cleared out John's apartment, Dean hadn't even looked in it before throwing it in the box. Now, he pops it open and stares at what's inside: a layer of dirt, a tiny bone, and a singed photo of John.

He feels insane for even considering it. John was sick. Whatever delusion he lived through can't possibly help Dean or Mary.

But if it's not real, then it can't hurt either.

It takes longer than he expected to find a dirt crossroads. He's in the middle of nowhere, and the sun has completely set. It'd be creepy on a good day. Knowing he's trying to summon a demon, though? He's downright spooked.

He replaces John's photo with his driver's license--he doesn't have the patience to go home for a different picture--and digs in the packed dirt with his bare hands. It cakes deep under his fingernails and turns his hands dark. Once he's patted it smooth again, he stands back and waits.

For thirty seconds then a minute then two minutes.

The disappointment is a sucker punch. "So stupid," he mutters to himself.

"Dean Winchester," a gravelly voice says from behind him.

He spins around, heart hammering, to find a man lounging on the hood of the Impala. He's in a suit that doesn't seem to fit quite right, and his tie's crooked and flipped the wrong way. His eyes are piercingly pale. Dean can't tell the color in the moonlight, but he'd guess they're blue, not at all what he expected from a "black-eyed bastard."

But most importantly: he's sprawled on the hood of the Impala.

"Dude, not on my car," he whines.

The man--demon?--laughs. Honest to god, throws his head back and laughs up at the sky. Obligingly, he slides off the car and onto his own two feet. "My apologies."

"Wait," Dean says, finally catching up to what the guy had actually said, "how do you know my name?"

"Your father was quite a character." There's a bite to his words that raises Dean's hackles. "Very demanding, very ungrateful."

"Yeah, well, from where I'm standing, it looks like you shorted him eight years."

"He asked for too much."

"And you were more than happy to deliver."

Any trace of amusement is gone from the demon. He cocks his head and grinds his jaw, and Dean wonders if crossroad demons can kill the people who summon them to make deals.

Finally, the demon asks, "Is this some kind of belated revenge mission? I thought you'd be thanking me, frankly."

"Thanking you for killing my dad?" Dean huffs. Something about the guy presses all his buttons.

"I didn't kill anyone-- Well, that's not true. I didn't kill him. Besides, he wasn't exactly father of the year, now was he?"

Dean doesn't have a response to that, and it's clear the demon knows he's won this round. He smiles faintly then holds out a hand. "I'm Castiel."

Dean's not sure on the protocol with crossroads deals. He doesn't want to accidentally make a deal before he gets to the main event.

Castiel rolls his eyes. "It's just a handshake. Then we can start talking about why you actually summoned me."

Against his better judgement, Dean shakes his hand. It feels like a normal, human hand, which might actually be weirder. He yanks his hand away.

"My niece is sick. Leukemia. And she's getting sicker. Last round of treatments didn't do shit, and I--" He shies away from Castiel's intense, unwavering gaze. "Fix her. That's all I want."

Castiel clicks his tongue. "Simple enough. Ten years for your niece's clean bill of health." He almost sounds disappointed. "Did John mention how we seal deals?"

Dean hesitates, racking his brain. "Uh, no?"

Castiel's eyes flash black, which should knock Dean on his ass. Instead, weirdly, he thinks the look suits him.

"A kiss."

Now that almost lays him out. "Like on the mouth?"

Castiel's eyes flash back to their pale, human version, and he laughs again, this time a low chuckle, like he's hearing an old, familiar joke. "Yes, on the mouth."

"Couldn't just be a handshake," Dean grumbles, but he steps closer anyway. He's had his fair share of awkward, passionless kisses, and none of those ended with Mary getting to have a normal childhood.

Castiel wraps a hand around the nape of Dean's neck and holds him in place. Even though the touch is light, power radiates from it. With barely a thought, Castiel could snap his neck. Hell, he could probably do it without even touching him. (Demon's have psychic powers, right?)

Oh. His eyes are blue. The thought has barely come to him before those eyes flash black again, and he's being kissed. He expected a perfunctory peck. Instead, fire licks against his lips, flares across his skin. His fingers are in Castiel's hair, and his back's pressed against the Impala, and he's not sure when either of those things happened.

Castiel is a firm, hot pressure searing against his front, and Dean wants to pull him even closer. He wants to wrap himself in his warmth and never come back out.

Castiel is the one to pull away first. His hand holds Dean's jaw in place so that he can't chase after him. Dean gets the feeling that it's not the first time Castiel has tried to pull away to speak. His eyes are still black, and Dean's close enough to see himself in the reflection.

"Interesting," Castiel practically pants. He steps back and smooths his suit like it wasn't already a rumpled mess. "I'll be seeing you, Dean."

Between one blink and the next, he's gone. Dean sags against the Impala. I'll be seeing you, Dean. It didn't sound like he meant he'd see him in a decade when he came to collect on his debt. No, Dean had a feeling he'd be visited by Castiel much, much sooner.

"I'm fucked."

[okkotsuus]

# ROSE ANGEL: an overview 🪽

features: michael kaiser x grace (selfship)

contents: relationship overview, dynamics, etc.

notes: requested by my lovely alice, i'm still sorry for that yukki angst so this is my apology, also this is way longer than i intended it to be sorry i like to yap about my blorbos.

HOW THEY MET

as i have stated before, my blue lock persona is a team manager who is trained in sports medicine (this is because i want to be a doctor irl and will pursue that in college after i graduate high school).

so, naturally, michael and i met through bastard munchen.

at first, i actually hated him because of when he first joined and ended up sending damn near half the team into my clinic when they tried to eat with him. unfortunately, he is a bastard who grows on you like a weed.

when he first started trying to use is psychological tactics (as he did with ness) on me, i called him out on how obvious his manipulation was. as a nerd who very proudly got a 5 on her AP psych exam: he should have known better than thank that bullshit would work on me.

that interaction is really what got me interested in him, like the blip that put him on my radar.

obviously i knew he existed before that, but i didn't really gaf until then. it's what really got me paying attention to him, what made me actually see him.

from then on, i began to see the little things about him: the way he eats every part of his meal (even the things that others normally pick over). the way that he never picks up anything other than wine, how he avoids the drunks when walking through the streets. the way that he subconsciously shields himself from the world, like it would hurt him if ever given the chance.

it wasn't necessarily the healthiest thing, but my interest in him started purely out of curiosity: the desire to break him open just to see what lied beneath his walls. it was an innate need to see what he was hiding.

that all led to a tense relationship between us for a long while. i would push, he would push back. it was a game of tug, to see who would break first. and it ended up being me.

michael had come into the infirmary for a band-aid, just to get ness to stop flipping his shit about the small cut on his shin from another player's cleats accidentally scraping his porcelain skin. he finds me hunched over my desk, files scattered over the mahogany as i scribble down various words. so intensely focused that i do not even perceive his entry nor his advance. in a small journal, he sees me writing a list of what appears to be attributes, before his cerulean gaze slides to the top of the page. 'michael observation logs'. a chuckle slips past his lips, almost incredulous. that sound is what shakes me from my trance as i jolt and whip my head around to stare at him in something akin to how a child looks when they've been caught doing something they shouldn't have been. "you've got that one wrong, it wasn't the old man that left, it was ma."

after that night, something just... changed between us. like a wall was let down.

kaiser clearly didn't trust me as far as he could throw me (which is probably farther than i'd like to admit), but when i pushed, he didn't snap back, there was more of a silent boundary than the loud one that was before.

he took more, like if i were to insult his hair: he'd just hum and quietly run his fingers through the tousled strands to tame it. before, he'd scoff and rush to find something meaner to berate me for.

it was like he had started to care.

HOW THEY LOVE

the time between the softening of kaiser's walls and our relationship was longer than one would think it is. it took a year of that weird dynamic before anything even remotely romantic had happened.

it started with little things: a single blue rose being anonymously delivered to the club house for me every week. wordlessly, kaiser memorized my orders for just about any setting the team went to together and he'd just occasionally show up with food or coffee and leave it on my desk.

i really began to notice it when he'd play. because for the briefest, most imperceptible moment after scoring a goal: his eyes would find mine. as if making sure i was watching.

he doesn't make a real move for a long while, simply because he doesn't think he has to: there was no risk for him. there was no rival lion in his pride.

it wasn't until one day, after a tough game against a rival team that ended up with bastard munchen facing a draw, that something actually pushed him to act.

michael was angry, understandably so. their defensive line had shut down ness in the last fifteen minutes of the game: effectively shutting down the gateway for him to score. in that time, their forward had managed to score a point to tie the game. and after all that, when he looks over as the whistle blows: he's forced to see the opposing team's coach chatting with me like it was nothing. it was his final straw. he ignores ness' words as his lips curl back into a snarl, shoulders squaring as he debates it in his head. but his body moves before his mind finishes. in seconds, his palm is splayed over the small of my back: looming over me from behind with a tight-lipped smile. "our manager is needed by our team, speak to our coach if you have something to say, ja?"

ngl i was giggling and kicking my feet while writing that <3

but it was after that michael actually realized there were other people in the world with eyes. eyes that could be looking at me when he wasn't around. and he knew he had to do something about it.

he doesn't actually ask me out, which kind of pissed me off: but then i realized he probably didn't know how these things go (given his past...)

it was short, an address scribbled in his horrendous penmanship shoved into my hand with just "be ready at seven, dress nice."

how he knew where my apartment was, to this day i still do not know. probably had ness stalk me for him or something... that freak.

after that, we were locked in.

he doesn't truly open up to me for a long time, likely many months later.

it's sudden, all of it comes out in one go, like he was a dam that just finally cracked. he tells me about everything: his father's abuse, his mother's absence, his imprisonment; all without shedding a single tear.

lowkey while he was talking, internally i was that 'i'm cooked' dog meme because lord this man has so much baggage i cannot possible fix all of this.

and that's just it: i cannot fix him, so i will not try to.

for a while, that's enough.

we tiptoe around the big problems in our relationship and indulge in what is good. michael simply does not want to open the pandora's box that is his past to anyone else: which takes therapy out of the equation.

it's good and it's simple for the time i am allowed to have him. he doesn't know how to love or how to be loved, but he does it like breathing.

because when michael kaiser cares about someone, he does it with every fibre of his broken being.

but caring wasn't enough, because any love he has is fated to inevitably end.

HOW THEY END

woohoo big shocker, we do eventually break up. this is written in mainly because i want to see how he plays out in the nel to see how and if we are brought back together.

it all happens in one big blowout fight, where i finally see what his father's anger looks like. he doesn't put his hands on me: i don't believe kaiser is capable of doing what was done to him to someone he truly loves.

but his mouth is venomous, he picks at insecurities i had confided in him so foolishly, some that i didn't even know i had.

it's screaming and things we regret saying on both sides.

and it all ends with me slamming the door of his penthouse with a promise that he will never see me again.

he doesn't take me seriously, he thinks i'll crawl back and beg for his forgivness. he thinks he'll walk into practice and i'll be there waiting with his favorite water bottle.

but it doesn't happen. my office is empty and my name plaque no longer exists on the desk: nor do any of the various trinkets that used to litter the space.

it was like i was never there.

and it sends a panic through him, because this is the second time in his life a woman has up and left him; but, this time, it was actually his fault.

AESTHETICS/VISUALS

jd x veronica from heathers lowkey feels like our trope... guys we were doomed from the start let's be honest.

kaiser and i's relationship is late nights, long drives, and silent care.

if we had a song it would be: matilda (harry styles)

⚜️ ㅤ okkotsuus ㅤ 25

[stargazer-sims]

Journal Entry #9 (part two)

previous // next // story index

__________

Yuri

I felt better after my conversation with Dr. Nelson, but not enough to be totally at ease. Despite her admonition not to worry, I still did. It was practically impossible not to.

I tossed and turned in bed all of Thursday night, and when I woke up on Friday morning I was feeling utterly drained in both body and mind. Pain and tiredness notwithstanding, I managed to get through all my work tasks and I even scraped together enough willpower to bake Victor’s favourite cake once I was finished working in the afternoon.

Baking a cake requires breaking eggs. If I haven’t mentioned it already, I dislike touching food, and my absolute least favourite thing to touch is raw egg, Just the thought of slimy egg white on my fingers makes me nauseous, which is why I generally avoid cracking them myself, but for Victor I’ll brave almost anything, even the dreaded eggs. I put on sterile medical gloves and a mask and I cracked three of them for his cake.

It turned out well. Since I don’t know how to make frosting from scratch, I frosted it with store-bought maple cream that we had left over in the fridge from Victor’s last batch of cupcakes. We both enjoy maple-flavoured sweets, and we always look forward to care packages from his Grandpa Michael who often sends us maple candy or bottles of maple syrup rolled in half a dozen layers of bubble wrap. I think the maple cream frosting was in a care package from Grandpa Michael too, because the label on the container was in English and what I presume was French, and it had a brand logo I didn’t recognize.

After I was finished with the cake, I took a nap. I wanted to be alert and somewhat refreshed when Victor arrived home.

Victor’s flight was supposed to get in at six o'clock, and I’d intended to meet him at the airport myself, but halfway through the day I knew I wouldn’t have the stamina or the mental focus to drive there. I had to ask Kimiko, one of our friends from next door, if she’d pick him up instead. Luckily, she agreed to go.

Around half-past six, I started to get impatient even though I realized Victor wouldn’t possibly be home that soon. Assuming his flight landed exactly on time, I’d probably be waiting until at least seven o’clock. Victor would need time to collect his luggage, and since his passport is issued by another country, he’d also need to pass by our border agents at the airport to have his immigration status checked. Then it would take about twenty minutes for him and Kimiko to make their way back from the airport after that.

I tried to think of ways to distract myself, but I couldn’t focus on anything for more than a few minutes. Every time I heard a car drive slowly down our street, I hurried to the window to check. After about the seventh or eighth time, I was rewarded at last by the sight of Kimiko’s little blue car pulling up to the curb in front of our house.

The second I saw Victor climb out of the passenger’s seat of Kimiko’s car, I wanted to rush outside, but I exercised some self-control. I watched as he pulled his stuff out of the back seat, gave Kimiko a wave goodbye and then trotted up to the house. My restraint lasted about as long as it took for him to reach the front door.

In that instant, I don’t know who was more desperate to see and touch who. The moment Victor came in, he dropped his bags and ran to me even as I was crossing the room as fast as I could toward him. We practically fell into each other’s arms, and Victor held onto me so tightly that it was uncomfortable. I didn’t say anything about it and decided I could endure being squished for a minute. I was glad to have him back. To be in his arms, a slightly too-tight embrace was a small price to pay.

“I missed you!” was the first thing I said.

“I missed you too. Being away from you was so hard. Even harder than I thought it’d be.”

“For me too. I kept worrying you wouldn’t come back.”

“It was touch-and-go for a second, but there’s no way I would’ve let that happen,” he said. “I’ll always come back to you, no matter what.”

“I’d rather if we didn’t have to test that any more,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t ever leave me again, Victor Nelson.” My words came out in a kind of fierce whisper. “Do you hear me? You’re not allowed.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he slumped in my arms and pressed his face into my hair. I could tell straight away that he was crying. “I won’t. I promise, I won’t ever leave you again.”

“You’d better not,” I said, and immediately felt bad when he whimpered in response.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “If I knew how hard it’d be...”

“No, I’m sorry,” I told him. “I don’t want to tell you what to do. I just don’t like being apart from you.”

“From now on, we’ll go everywhere together,” he said. “I still want to see the world, but not without you. I know that for sure now.”

As terrifying as the idea of travelling internationally is to me, the thought of not being with Victor for even a short time is far worse. I reasoned that if I truly love him to the ends of the earth and back as I said, I could go that far with him. Then and there, I resolved that I would go anywhere as long as he stayed close to me.

“All right,” I said. “If you’re determined to see the world, I’ll see it with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I affirmed.

“Yuri!” He tightened his arms around me again, harder than he had the first time. “I really wanted to hear you say that, but I never thought… I mean, I know it’ll be scary for you, but I’ll be there to protect you, and—”

“Victor,” I said, as gently as I could. “You’re hurting me.”

“Oh! Sorry!” he exclaimed. He immediately relaxed. “I got excited.”

I smiled. “I know.”

“Where do you want to go first?” he asked.

“Honestly, for now I just want to stay right here and enjoy being with you. We’ll have time to plan our adventures together later. There are some important things we need to take care of here at home first.”

“You mean, important things like dinner?”

This time, I was the one who squeezed him. I was laughing and crying at the same time, so absolutely grateful and overwhelmed that I couldn’t even figure out how to express it.

“You’re impossible, and I love you so much,” was all I could think to say.

We stood together for a long time, appreciating the closeness and warmth of one another and not saying anything. Victor smelled like coconut. I breathed in the scent, comforted by its familiarity. Sunscreen. Of course he must’ve used lots of it on Kainani Island, but he uses it practically every day when he’s here as well. When he’s on the mountain he always puts sunscreen on his face, and I’ve noticed its coconut fragrance so often in the past year and a half that now I associate it with him.

After a while, Victor shifted in my arms. ‘Yuri?”

“Hmm…?”

“I really am hungry,” he said against my shoulder. “I don’t want to let you go, but…”

“It’s all right,” I said. I didn’t want to let go either, but I lowered my arms and took a step back. “You get something to eat, and I’ll sit with you. There are some things I need to tell you.”

“Did you remember to go grocery shopping?”

Belatedly, I realized that I hadn’t. Embarrassed, I said, “No, but there’s rice and soy cheese, and stuff for a salad. Also, I made a cake for you today.”

“Maple cream cake?”

“I know what you like.”

“Would it be bad if I like, didn’t cook anything and ate the entire cake instead?”

“If that’s what you want to do, I’m not about to stop you,” I said. “I only hope eating an entire cake doesn’t give you an upset stomach.”

Victor grinned. “You know me. I can eat anything. I could probably eat rocks and still be totally fine.”

Watching Victor eat makes me happy because it’s obvious how much he enjoys it. Just because I don’t like food, I’d never wish anyone else to like it less. I eat because I have to, but Victor eats for pleasure, and I could never resent him for indulging in that simple joy.

Victor didn’t eat the entire cake, although judging by how ravenous he seemed to be, I thought he was going to. I caught myself reminding him to chew his food like a civilized person, and he laughed and made an exaggerated show of chewing with his mouth open, just to vex me. He’s such a child sometimes, but it’s difficult for me to stay mad at him for any reason, even if he’s doing something annoying on purpose.

He ate about a quarter of the cake, and then finished my leftover bowl of vegetables and rice from the day before. Dessert, apparently, was half a litre of vanilla-flavoured soy milk and just a bit more cake because, “It tastes like Sunday morning.”

I knew exactly what he meant. I pictured us cuddling in bed on a Sunday, not quite awake, with cups of tea that had been made with good intentions cooling on the bedside table. I imagined Victor kissing the back of my shoulder just above my birthmark like he always does and calling it my beauty spot. We’d doze off for several minutes and maybe wake up again to the gentle cadence of rain on the roof.

Sunday mornings are comfortable and slow. They’re the essence of contentment. If Sunday morning could be distilled into a flavour, maybe it would be maple cream, soft and sweet and easy. It warmed me inside to think the cake I’d made for Victor evoked similar sentiments for him.

While Victor finished his very unorthodox meal, I filled him in on the events of the previous day. I was considerably calmer about it than I’d been the evening before, so I was able to get through the whole story without losing my concentration or tearing up. It was challenging to say out loud that we’d essentially been evicted from our home, and harder still to say that my parents couldn’t help. I left out what my father had said about him. Telling that part would’ve been hurtful and cruel, and I’d never knowingly do that to him.

“What about my mom?” Victor wanted to know. “I guess this means she’s not coming now, right?”

“No, she’s still coming,” I reassured him. “If anything, she’s more determined than ever to come here. She said she’s going to lend us a hand with packing and organizing everything, and she said she’ll do whatever she can to help.”

He looked relieved. “Good. It’ll all be okay if Mom’s here.”

“Maybe not all okay. I’m glad your mother’s coming and that she’s willing to help us with our move, but we still have to find a place to move to.”

He deflated slightly. “Yeah.”

“And you need to look for work.”

“I’ve actually been thinking about that,” he said. “Do you think I’d make a good snowboarding instructor?”

“According to your reference letter from your boss at your old job, she thought you were an excellent fitness instructor.”

“Yeah, but that was for swimming lessons and aerobic workouts and personal trainer type stuff. Snowboarding is technical.”

“You’re an expert,” I pointed out. “Anyway, what makes you think being a fitness instructor or a personal trainer aren’t technical jobs, too? You had to know a lot of things about health and wellness to help your clients when you worked at the fitness centre back home, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, and I’ve kept my skills up, practicing on you.” He gave me a mischievous look. “You’re my favourite health and wellness project, you know.”

“I know. Between your meal plans and your low-stress daily exercises, you’ve managed to help me not to be in bed for weeks at a time and to be on the mountain more during this past year than I’ve ever been able to in my life.”

“You being so sick that you were in bed for over a week when I first came here literally terrified me,” he said, “I never want to see that happen again, especially if there’s something I can do about it. Plus, anything that helps you get onto the mountain’s got to be good.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “As for your job options, there’s a health club in Kiyosaka. Maybe you could ask if they need someone with your qualifications. If the snowboarding instructor plan doesn’t work out, that is.”

“So, personal fitness coach for posh people from rich families?”

“You’re already doing that with me. You’d just have more clients, and you’d get paid.”

“You’re not all that posh for someone from a rich family,” Victor said.

“I don’t really do posh,” I said. “I couldn’t go to get drive-through takeaway in my pyjamas with you if I had to worry about being elegant and proper all the time.”

“I like you in your pyjamas. I’m glad you’re not posh,” he said. “But… me doing anything with those fancy people in Kiyosaka? They’d probably hate me just as much as your dad does.”

“They might surprise you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Victor said. “But, I’m going up the mountain tomorrow, to talk to the guys at the Recreation Association. I want to see if they’ve got anything first.”

“I’m glad you’ve got a plan.”

“I figured it’s about time I had one,” he said. “I obviously couldn’t live on my savings and my competition money forever, and travelling is expensive. Besides, your family’s never going to accept me if I don’t start showing a little initiative and doing something to prove I can provide for you.”

It’s going to take a lot more than Victor getting a job before my family accepts him, but I didn’t tell him that. “You don’t need to prove anything. You already provide for me in ways that have nothing to do with earning money, and I’m proud of you for being who you are. What my family thinks doesn’t matter.”

“It does if I’m the reason they don’t want to associate with you any more.”

“Victor—“ I began.

“Yeah. You’d probably rather not talk about that, I guess.” He turned away abruptly and started to leave the kitchen. “I’m going to my room for a few minutes. I want to call Mom.”

Victor was on the phone with his mother considerably more than a few minutes. When it seemed like he was going to be a while, I decided to get ready for bed. I wouldn’t actually go to my room because I wanted to wait for Victor, to see whose room we’d finally end up in for the night, but I’d be comfortable while I was waiting, in any case. Or as comfortable as I could be.

I laid down on the sofa, wondering how long it’d be before I’d lose the battle to stay awake. I yawned.

If you try not to close your eyes…

But of course the urge to close them was inexorable. I fell asleep, and I think I must’ve been the next thing to unconscious. When I awoke again, Victor was on the sofa with me and my head was resting in his lap, and I had absolutely no recollection of him moving me into that position.

He smiled at me when he noticed I was awake. “Hey, sleepy boy.”

“Hey,” I said. My limbs and eyelids felt heavy, and my voice sounded creaky. “Time is it?”

“No idea,” Victor said. He poked my chest teasingly. “You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

You do, and it’s cute.”

“Shut up,” I said, dragging out the last syllable in a soft whine. “You’re not allowed to tease me when I don’t feel well.”

“Want me to give you a belly rub?”

“No,” I said, but I actually kind of did want that.

“Know what I think?” he said. “I think it’s way past bedtime for you, Okamoto-san.”

“Yes. Please take me to bed.”

Victor laughed. “I’m not sure that came out the way you intended.”

I felt the heat of a blush under the skin of my forehead and cheeks, but it wasn’t the awkward sort of embarrassment that makes you wish you hadn’t opened your mouth to speak. It was the kind that just made me want to laugh at myself. “I’m so tired,” I said. “I can’t think straight any more. Obviously, you do need to help me into bed, because with my brain like this, I might get lost on the way there.”

“Oh no!” Victor put a hand to his chest in mock-horror. “What if you got so lost that you wandered into my room?”

That time, I did laugh. “All’s well that ends well?”

“I think you just like sleeping with me.”

“I don’t think that came out the way you intended.”

“Sharing my bed,” he corrected himself. “I think you like sharing my bed.”

“You’re right. I do.”

“Well, in that case, let’s go.”

He got up from his spot, and before I could protest, he gathered me in his arms and lifted me up off the sofa too. I gasped, a little from sudden dizziness and a little from surprise. “Victor!”

“Hey,” he said. He gazed into my face. “Are you all right? You’re not going to pass out, are you? Because you look like you’re going to.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “No. I’m good.”

“Good, because you scared me for a second there. I thought carrying you would be helpful, but maybe not?”

“No, it is,” I assured him. “I like it.”

“Okay, then. Off to bed.”

“Right.”

He carried me into his own bedroom, since he likely already knew I’d end up in his bed before the night was over anyway. Carefully, he put me down on top of the blankets. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m okay. Everything’s all right now that you’re here.” And at that moment, it truly felt like it was. All our problems were still there and I was still achy and fatigued, but I was comforted to know that I didn’t have to face any of it by myself. With Victor, I always feel protected and safe, even when our world is spinning completely out of control around us.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he said. “Then I’ll be back to snuggle with you, okay?”

I smiled up at him. “I’ll be waiting.”

He leaned over me and kissed my forehead. “I love you, Yuri. Always you. Only you.”

“To the ends of the earth and back.”

“To the ends of the earth and back,” he echoed. “I won’t be long. Think nice thoughts, and I’ll be with you again in no time.”

“Leave the bathroom door open so I can hear you?” I said.

I felt silly for wanting that much reassurance, but if Victor minded or thought it was weird, he showed no sign. “I can do that. Is there anything else you need?”

“Can you bring my hot water bottle, please?”

He chewed his lip and looked contrite. “I guess you really aren’t feeling good. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have teased you.”

“It’s fine. I really don’t mind, even if I sometimes say I do. Sometimes I complain about your teasing just to see your reaction.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Almost as unfair as teasing an ill man,” I said.

“Hey!”

“Go on. Take your shower.”

“Let me get your hot water bottle first.”

“No, have your shower first and get the hot water bottle when you’re done,” I said. “That way, when you come back, you won’t have to leave the room any more tonight.”

“You’ve got this all figured out,” he said.

“You always say I’m the organized one.”

“Because you are,” he replied. “I’m a walking disaster.”

“Maybe, but you’re my favourite, so I don’t mind.”

“Your favourite disaster.” He looked amused. “I like it. Give me fifteen minutes, and then you’ve got me for the rest of the night.”

I just hummed in satisfaction, anticipating him next to me.

When he came back from the shower, still smelling of sweet coconut, it was immediately evident that he’d gotten distracted in the ten or fifteen minutes since I’d last seen him. He’d completely forgotten about the hot water bottle. Rather than ask him again, I opted not to mention it.

On the plus side, I ended up receiving the belly rub I’d said I didn’t want. It wasn’t as effective as heat and compression would have been, but I wasn’t about to refuse being tended by someone who just wanted to help me feel better. He moved his hand in slow, rhythmic circles, his palm warm against my skin, and the psychological benefit was worth the shortfall of physical benefit.

Eventually, Victor’s hand stopped moving. He slid his arm around my middle and let it go limp, and I noticed he was breathing evenly.

I stroked his forearm, and he stirred a little and made a sound like “Mmph.”

“Victor? Are you still awake?”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured. “Sleepy, though. What is it? You still in pain?”

“A little,” I said. “But, I’m just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?” he mumbled.

“Are we going to be okay?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “S’all good. We got us. More d’we need?”

What more do we need?

A lot more than just each other, I thought, but then I realized what he meant. It was exactly what I’d been saying to myself earlier. We may have material needs, and we may need solutions to our problems, but the thing we certainly dio not lack is the love and support and mutual strength to face whatever comes our way.

Victor was right. We’re together and we will be okay.

[mckiwi]

Strange Tales of Halloween

Hosted by A Strange Server. Each prompt will be treated as a daily journal entry written by Stephen Strange.

On AO3

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Prompt: Candles

Thursday, October 24th, 2024

I woke up, in bed this time thankfully, but my mood was immediately dampened when I found the Cloak had wax on themselves again. 

This time, however, I was smart and asked where the Cloak got the wax from. They led me over to one of the meditation areas. 

Someone left candles. Lit. 

Melted wax. 

EVERYWHERE. 

I didn’t have waxing the floors on my priority list, but I guess that’s what today’s plan is now. As I write this, we’re taking a break. I rounded together a few apprentices and we finished cleaning the meditation area fairly quickly, but then it looked stupid for one room to be waxed and not the others, so we did that as well. Now that we’ve started, might as well do the whole building, so we’ve made a day of it. The Cloak still has wax all over them. I’m not even going to bother scraping all that off until the entire building is done being waxed. 

Volviéndose loco,

-S

[sleephyuns]

A sharp scream awakes her, nearly sending her toppling off the couch. There’s echoing screams and metallic scrapes that follow, and while she fumbles for anything to hold her upright, two things happen:

First, her hand finally finds purchase on her desk. Second, she realizes the commotion was from the TV.

With a roll of her eyes, she grabs for the remote on the floor and clicks it off, ignoring the way her heart had practically rumbled out of her chest.

On again. Then off. On again. Then off. Just to make sure it won’t happen again.

It’s well after midnight, she also realizes, looking at her phone’s screen. She must’ve fallen asleep while journaling and… yes, her notebook’s currently supine on the floor.

She heaves herself off the couch to retrieve her empty wine glass, and thinks about how messy the rest of the end table is. She should probably clean it… but the thought of having to interact with mess makes her brain feel septic. At least for the moment.

She’ll do one thing, though, and it’s to carefully remove the half-written page of her notebook.

It’s one of her irrational thoughts, the need to start fresh and finish an entry in one go, lest something horrible happen to her come morning.

She’s been having a bit of a spike in thoughts like that lately, not that she lets them get the best of her. That’s mostly because she knows where they come from, the root cause of her stress. Of course it’s…

Jeongyeon.

Jeongyeon reminds her of Mina.

Quiet. Very to herself, even if she doesn’t mean to be.

Well, isn’t she kind of like Mina too? In a way. It’s part of why they hit it off so well in the first place. They both have a habit of observation. Though it’s a mystery whether Jeongyeon is the same.

It’s likely. Jeongyeon wasn’t sly in hiding her wandering eyes, her intensity. She just hadn’t realized someone else was watching her too. And maybe she never would.

Another blatancy about her: she was comically bad at acting with any sort of normalcy. With a plastered smile on her face, actions bordering on robotic. She must’ve thought everything was going fine. And well… she’d tried to make the woman feel like things were going fine, in response. So it’s not completely Jeongyeon’s fault.

But what she can do, is notice this line of behavior isn’t Jeongyeon’s usual.

Jihyo always spoke about Jeongyeon like she’d created the universe itself, told her about her days with the other woman as if they were some kind of great tale. And for the most part, they were. She loved to hear about what made her happy, what got on her nerves. Even-

—

“So, Jeongyeon has this idea that if you put a song on loop during sex, you can use it as an instant switch when you want to get in the mood.”

“…”

“You do psych work so… is it true , you think?”

—

So surely there’s more to Jeongyeon than just a few one worded answers.

One worded answers are the devil. Just the thought of them frustrates her to no end. If she makes tea, though, that’ll fix it. That way she can detox and destress as the inevitable happens.

Her inevitable thoughts about Mina.

She rises from the couch and takes her few steps towards the kitchen. It’s there she resumes her thoughts.

They’re amicable, the two of them, when the situation calls for it. Only two other people knew of their history, and there was no point in making a big fuss during group gatherings.

So they chose to let things be, not bothering to contact each other unless they absolutely needed to.

Of course, she has no real ill will towards Mina. Even at her most upset, she always wanted what was best for her. For the both of them.

Though that doesn’t make the memory torment her any less.

—

“I’m alone, waiting for just a text from you with the very little time I have off that we agreed to spend together and you’re either hanging out with your coworkers or begging to spend time with Momo. Where do I fit in?”

—

She laughs, thinking about the quiver in her voice. It might’ve been a little pathetic, in hindsight. Words said in a desperate need to get her point across.

But “you don’t get to do that analyzing stuff with me,” was what Mina had said. And she couldn’t help it-

—

“Well what else should I do when you won’t tell me what’s going on or how you feel? What am I left with if you don’t give me anything aside from ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’?”

“What is it you want Mina? Answer me honestly. And I promise I won’t get mad.”

—

Her voice had been soft, as she begged. Pleaded. Because maybe, just maybe, she’d hoped that Mina wouldn’t come to the obvious conclusion. The one that stared them both in the face. She hoped that maybe, for once, her perception wasn’t as spot on as it usually was.

But Mina gave her that look. That damned awful look that told her the next few words weren’t going to be ones she wanted to hear.

And that was that.

No she isn’t carrying a torch for Mina anymore, but the memory still stings, nags at her insides. She even considers journaling about it for a fifth time. But she won’t, not tonight. Instead, she clicks the burner of the stove on and off and on again. Four times until she’s satisfied.

But being around the stove like this… she feels the embarrassment of yesterday creep it’s way up her spine.

“Whyyy did I walk into the kitchen like that?,” she asks her reflection in the kettle.

One more click and it’s gone.

She knows she’s going to have to address this soon, if Jeongyeon won’t.

Their current situation isn’t working for anyone. For as much as Jeongyeon’s been walking on eggshells, she, herself, seems to be completely crushing them under her feet. Which, excuse her therapy brain, means it’s time for a new approach.

Because the thing is? Minatozaki Sana no longer gives up on a challenge. Even if she fumbles her way through it, she won’t give up on happiness so easily. There’s probably something to be said about that, but she resists the urge to analyze herself. It’s better not to make herself go mad.

Right now, she’ll take the kettle off the burner and pour herself a mug of hot tea.

The mug she chooses tonight is one of her recent favorites, simply because Jihyo had commented on how pretty it was when she was over days ago. It’s nice to have a reminder of her on nights where she thinks too deeply.

But it also reminds her of Jihyo’s story in response. How Jeongyeon had bought her a beautiful blue-glazed mug in Jeju, just so Jihyo could have one that better suited her grip.

So yes, Sana concludes, Jeongyeon must be the observant type. And thoughtful, at that. Her gaze is as intense as it is tender. She’d known that all along, really. But her brain, per usual, had to work through the evidence to find the answer.

Even when the evidence was presented to her from the start.

—

“Are you cold?”

“Hm?”

“Your legs are shaking. Here-”

“You can use my jacket if you want. I have a sweater on underneath, so it’s all good.”

—

She remembers the beginnings of protest bubbling up in her throat, when the jacket was draped on her, overcome with the need to convince the other woman things were fine. She didn’t need to sacrifice her own warmth in the chilly outdoor air.

She did so anyway.

An insignificant moment to Jeongyeon, perhaps, for several reasons.

Sana was still fairly new to everyone… except Mina and Momo (and Nayeon by proxy) really. And that particular event had gone beyond their usual group of friends, extending to a few people from campus, maybe some coworkers. Lastly? Sana was still in what she had aptly dubbed her “Mina mourning period.”

Sana had been an outwardly happy person for years, wearing her joyousness like a knight’s armor. It worked well to protect her. Harsh words, snide remarks, testy glares. All of it just bounced right off of her.

It still works well for her, as someone who wants people to adore her, to have people know her as one who was “always happy,” rather than one whose despondency made others uncomfortable.

It worked very well… until her heart was broken. When her armor had temporarily cracked.

She’d been on week 2 of stewing in her own misery. Nothing but nights of tears, scribbled journal entries and enough cups of tea to have her running to the bathroom every hour.

That night had been no different, in terms of Sana’s mood. She was quiet and reserved, nursing her second or third beer in her own little section of the circle. She’d forgone her usual flashy colors and habits in order to simply enjoy bask in the night and maybe feel like herself again.

That one simple gesture, that warmth from the fabric, was bright enough to combat the dull drab of everything else.

But then Jeongyeon left early, not even bothering to take the jacket from Sana.

“Fate’s funny that way,” she mumbles, watching the tea leaves dye her water dark. It really is funny. If Jeongyeon had never left her jacket, there would’ve been no need to approach her “best friend” later.

—

“That friend of yours… is she your roommate?”

“Roommate? You mean Jeongyeon?”

“Yes! I think so. She left this with me.”

“Uh, but also… is she seeing anyone?”

—

It’s a memory she thinks on quite fondly. Sana went in expecting the pretty woman with the sharp eyes to mend her broken heart for a just a while. Months later, she’s blessed with the love and affection of said woman’s girlfriend.

And only a fraction of a hair closer to the woman she’d been initially after.

Sana’s going to change that, though. It’s certain. She taps her tea strainer four times against the mug’s rim to insure it.

Of course she has doubts, because what would be worse: Forcing a relationship that leaves all three people broken, or leaving the remaining two behind to salvage the remains of what they have?

Neither is acceptable. So-

“I’ll just have to walk it back.”

She raises the mug to her lips, basking in its warmth while she ruminates on a potential plan.

Minutes later, when she finds herself properly settled for bed, she’s sure of what she’ll do. Now, she’s left to see how Jeongyeon responds.

[askbensolo]

Journal Entry #52: don’t fall in love with boys who write, ‘cause they edit and edit till the story’s just right

I turned and slammed my fist into the wall. And then I yelled as loud as I could, and did it again even harder. And if that sounds like something I had already learned not to do in front of her, well—let’s just say I’m a slow learner.

“Ben,” she murmured from her place on the white stone bench, fiddling quietly with her fingers in her lap.

I tried to catch my breath, then slumped my back hard against the stucco wall and started picking off the scraped skin from the side of my hand. It stung, but I kind of liked it—it’s hard to explain. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I just—I just wasn’t expecting to hear you to say that. Sorry.”

And what had she said, the reader may ask? Well—you might recall what she had said in that voice recording from earlier: that she wanted me, she needed me, she couldn’t live without me whether or not anyone else thought it was a good idea—all that stuff that made my ego go brrrrr—

Well, I come all the way to Ryloth and track her down, and she takes me into the depths of her father’s courtyard gardens where everything looks like a fairy tale, and tells me that: actually? She’s now considering a life of solitude, like the Jedi of old.

WHAT.

“I was in a really bad place when I sent you that message,” Fannie said quietly. “I…had just received some very difficult news, and I was feeling very alone, and I didn’t know why you weren’t talking to me…” She looked up at me, then, with the distrust of one scrutinizing a stranger. “To be honest, Ben, I don’t even know why you’re here right now.”

“Why else?” I asked, sinking down to the ground and matching the intensity of her gaze. “‘Cause I love you.”

It used to be difficult to say. But now, it was just like stating a fact. Water is blue. Space is black. Sand is coarse, rough and irritating. I love you.

But the words that had once made her light up and blush and giggle and look up at me with big sparkling eyes had no effect, this time, and her face, normally sweet and open, looked tired and closed-off. “Ben, you haven’t spoken to me for weeks. And it was certainly not for my lack of trying. But…it was actually rather helpful for me, because it gave me just what I needed in order to come to the conclusion that…that this probably isn’t right for us. Luke thought so, too. I went to visit him, a few weeks ago, and…”

“Yeah, I know you did,” I cut in quickly, to stop her from re-summarizing that whole saga all over again. “I was there. I overheard.”

She looked stunned. “You were—there?”

“Yeah, I was there,” I said, and it felt kind of good to say so, as if by doing so I was winning some kind of argument—I don’t know what, though. “I just so happened to be visiting the exact same weekend, and I was going over to his office to meet him, and then I overheard you talking to him, and I heard everything the two of you said. Or…most things. I heard what he said to you, anyway.”

Fannie frowned. “…So that’s why you weren’t talking to me,” she said stiffly, then cast her gaze down to her lap. “Well…I hadn’t decided yet, at that point. Not completely. I had decided mostly, but I still wanted to talk to you, first. That’s why I was asking you if we could talk—so that we could figure it out, together. But then, you kept on ignoring me, and left me to decide on my own—so, I was forced to come to my own decision, and perhaps it’s a good thing that I did, because—”

“Wait,” I interrupted, because I needed to know. “Did…did Luke tell you about what happened? Between me and him?”

Fannie looked at me and squinted, a little bit. “No. Why? Did something happen?”

Oh. So she didn’t know. A surprise, to be sure, but a welcome one.

Well, that was perfect, I thought to myself. Because—that meant she could hear it from me, instead of from Luke. It meant I could tell the story my way, and, maybe, make myself look a little less bad—

And then, I had a sudden thought:

Maybe it meant I didn’t need to tell the story at all.

Ooh.

Ooooooh.

Snoke? Snoke, was that you?

But, it wasn’t Snoke, and I knew it.

It was Ben. Pure, unadulterated Ben.

“Ben,” Fannie said, breaking through my thoughts, sounding sort of serious and sort of alarmed. “You’re…you’re frightening me. What happened between you and Luke?”

“Well…I talked to him,” I said slowly. “After you left. I didn’t want to freak you out, so I waited for you to leave, and then…then I went, and I talked to Luke.”

I stopped there, trying to figure out what to say next.

“…Yes?” Fannie urged, her eyes boring through me. “And then what happened?”

Well, I didn’t have any time to think. I decided to just roll with whatever started coming out of my mouth first.

“…And then I said, ‘Uncle Luke, I heard what you said to Fannie, and it kinda hurts my feelings, but it totally makes sense, and I really, really respect you for looking out for her.’” I pressed my lips together and looked at her to see how she’d react.

Oh, man. That was such a hot steaming load, even I couldn’t buy it.

Fannie blinked a couple of times, processing this information. (Disinformation?)

“…Okay,” she said slowly. “…And then?”

She…she bought it??

Well, I was really in it now. I couldn’t go back. I could only keep going forward.

“And then,” I went on, floundering for my next words, “he…he told me not to talk to you anymore, and—well—see—that’s why I haven’t been texting you all this time.”

Oh! Okay. Okay. So…not only are we not telling her the story…we are actually telling her a completely new one that we just made up right now. Okay. Okay! Cool cool cool.

“Luke…told you…not to talk to me?” Fannie echoed, looking sort of shocked. “That…doesn’t sound like something he’d do at all.”

Yeah, and there’s actually a really great explanation for that, I thought to myself dryly.

But, I just shrugged. “Yeah, well—he told me he thought you were too attached to me. That you’d be too tempted to start things up with me again. It didn’t really seem right to me, either, but—hey, he’s the Jedi Master, isn’t he? I just…figured he knew best.”

Fannie didn’t say anything back. But, I had her rapt attention, and her big brown eyes looked very big, and very sad.

“It was…really hard not to talk to you,” I continued, looking at her sincerely. (Except, not actually, because that would have required me to, you know, not be lying.) “I really wanted to talk to you. I missed you. A lot. I saw your voice message come in, but I didn’t open it. And then I couldn’t take it anymore, and I finally did open it—like, today, actually—and I heard how awful you sounded, and I couldn’t take it, and I had to come see you.”

You know what’s funny? It didn’t feel like lying. The more drawn-out this whole thing became, the more I actually started to…believe my own version of events. I mean…well…yeah! A lot of the emotions behind it were real, anyway—I really did feel like Luke had wronged us by meddling in our relationship and I really did miss her and I really was glad to see her right now. I sure liked this version of events better than the real version. So…why shouldn’t this version be the real one, instead? And by just…feeding it to her, I could make it true.

For the first time in a long time, I began to feel like everything between me and Fannie was gonna be…okay.

Huh. Who knew? The power to alter reality wasn’t exclusive to an occult Dathomirian magic, or hidden in some secret Sith holocron. No—the power to alter reality lived in my very tongue. And I sealed my new reality into existence with one final little lie:

“Ben…sorry, forgive me, but…are you…are you telling the truth right now?”

I paused, and licked my lips, and said the magic word.

“Yes.”

I could almost imagine a deep, resonant chime, like a deafening gong, rumbling out of my false confession and rippling out and forever altering the entire fabric of the universe and making it all, suddenly, true—

Except, no. It wasn’t that easy. I would have to keep chasing after and mending the tears myself, to keep the fabric of my new little universe from falling apart.

Fannie shook her head like she had a headache. “I…I should talk to Luke.”

“No,” I told her quickly, ready with my needle and thread. “I—well—I don’t want him to know I talked to you. I promised him I wouldn’t. I don’t want him to find out.”

Miraculously, she nodded. But, not as one who was fully awake—she nodded as if she were in a dreamlike trance. I don’t think I was really all that convincing. I think she was just too overwhelmed to really think critically.

That, and I had probably built up enough trust with her by now that she didn’t think I’d just lie to her face.

“This…yes, this changes a lot,” she said, knitting an imaginary scarf with her fingers. “I…Ben, I’m sorry. I misjudged you. I thought—well, I assumed—you’ve had trouble replying to my messages before, so I jumped to conclusions, and—no, I’m sorry. Why would Luke—? I still don’t understand, but—no, this—this changes a lot of things.”

I stood up. Slowly.

And approached her.

And sat down next to her on the bench.

And held my hand out toward hers.

And looked her in the big brown eyes.

She looked at me, and hesitated, then placed her hand in mine.

W-o-w. It had been weeks since we’d last talked. But since we’d been on different worlds since the start of September, we hadn’t touched in months (well, two of ‘em, I guess—but two still counts). Touching her was like touching a live wire. I started—well…feeling things. Things I’d never felt my whole life up until sometime this summer. My heart started pounding—but this was the good kind of heart rate increase.

I think she started feeling things, too.

We looked at each other.

I put my free hand under her chin, and tilted her face up a little, and didn’t look away from her eyes, and brought my face reeeal close to hers till we were breathing each other’s breath, and nuzzled her cheek with my nose, and pressed my lips to her jawline, and drew back and looked her in the eyes again. Just to see what would happen.

Well…we started swappin’ cooties, that’s what happened. And I’m not in the business of writing that kind of stuff, so I’ll just tell you we kept all our clothes on and we still didn’t kiss on the mouth exactly and we never hit any bases but just messed around on the infield like five feet out from the batter’s box and you’ve probably seen worse on middle school campuses anyway—but I’m still skipping ahead regardless.

“No, wait, stop,” she mumbled, muffled by my hair. This was about twenty minutes later. (Maybe? It’s always so hard to tell.) “I—I don’t want to be doing this. I just told you that I don’t want to be with anyone—that I want to dedicate myself to the Force—at least for now.”

I got up off of her and knelt down in the grass and grinned and wiped off my mouth on my sleeve, because I was all slobbery (see, I told ya—I don’t write romance flimsibacks). “With all due respect, Fan? You’re not cut out for celibacy.”

She glared at me as she wiped my spit off her cheek. “I really think that’s my call to make, not yours.”

“Hey, I’m just repeating what you said, sister.”

“What did I say? And when?”

“That whole time I was kissin’ up your neck just now. You were going ‘I’m not cut out for celibacy I’m not cut out for celibacy’ under your breath. I could hear you.” I laughed at her, and she flushed.

“I…I didn’t know you could hear.”

“Well—your mouth was right next to my ear, sweetheart, of course I could hear!”

“Oh.”

I laughed again and kissed her on the cheek. She giggled, embarrassed, and let me do it.

Things almost felt like they used to.

But…they weren’t. Not yet, anyway.

“…No. No.” She detangled herself from me and sat up against the wall and buried her face in her hands. “I…can’t let myself change my mind, just because you’re here. Even if it wasn’t your fault that you weren’t talking to me. No—I made up my mind. I can’t be in a relationship right now. Not with everything going on with Pennie—I’m too vulnerable to unhealthy attachments.”

“Wait—what’s going on with Pennie?” I asked, shuffling over on my knees and sitting next to her. “Besides what you told me last spring?”

When she had told me last spring about her youngest sister’s…relationship with their father, it had taken a long time for her to spit it out, and she had done so amidst heavy sobs. This time, it came out as easily as a breath, and her eyes were dry and hollow.

“Well, Ben: Pentarra has offered to make my sister one of his wives.”

I stared. He had already made her one of his dancers. But…one of his wives?

Ew.

“But…she’s his daughter.”

Fannie nodded.

“That’s…disgusting.”

She nodded again, and nearly smiled—the kind of smile one smiles when life has become so cruel as to be almost humorous. And for a second, I felt horrible that I was—maybe—I don’t know—taking advantage of her current vulnerable state to try to get her to stay with me and be mine—

But then, I reframed it in my head, and felt…not so bad. I wasn’t taking advantage of anything. She needed me—now more than ever. She’d said so herself, in that voice recording. She’d been in a rough place when she recorded it, sure—but, isn’t that when people are at their most honest?

“I am the only one in my family who has been willing to say out loud that this is wrong,” Fannie went on. “Not everyone approves, necessarily—but no one else will speak out against it. My sister hates me, because she feels I don’t think I can make her own decisions. She sees this as her wedding. Everyone is preparing for it as if it were a wedding. Well, it’s no wedding to me—it is merely a perverse charade, and I will not—cannot—honor their false union. I have felt very alone, and I know that right now I am very susceptible to developing an unhealthy attachment—so, I’m sorry, Ben, even if we did share the same beliefs about the Force…now’s just not a good time for me.”

“What is an unhealthy attachment, anyway?” I asked, then.

“An attachment that would cause me to place my trust and hope in it, rather than in the Force,” Fannie explained, almost mechanically. “And I cannot afford distraction at such a crucial time in my life.”

I looked her in the eyes. “But…at such a crucial time in your life, you’d still be alone,” I told her.

She looked out into the distance. “The Force is all I need, Ben. I must remind myself of that.”

“No,” I argued, and reached over and turned her face to look at me. “No. I may not believe all your beliefs, Fan—not with the same level of conviction that you do, anyway—but I do know your beliefs and I know what the Jedi teach. I’ve heard you say so yourself: the Force isn’t a person. It’s an impersonal energy. You could be as close to the Force as Master Yoda himself, and you’d still be all alone, and have no one. The Force doesn’t love you. The Force doesn’t know you. The Force doesn’t give a crap about you—it can’t. When you’re staring at the ceiling and crying your eyes dry in the middle of the night till your ribcage aches and your fingers go numb, the Force will not feel a damn—darn—thing for you. It’s a power you can draw from, a source of supernatural energy, whatever—but at the end of the day? It doesn’t freaking care. Because it can’t. It’s just a thing. Midichlorians, or whatever the frick. You’re gonna place your trust and hope in that? You’d still be alone. All alone.”

She looked like she was about to say something—to pose an argument, or something—but she stopped short. Her eyes widened in a swell of panicked horror and filled with tears, and her hands started to tremble. Her breathing became kind of short and ragged. I could feel her heart opening up and splitting like a huge, raw wound.

Ooh. I’d gotten her good.

And so what if it came at the expense of shaking the very foundations of her most deeply-held religious beliefs? If something couldn’t hold up to a good shaking, was it even worth believing in?

I saw doubt in her eyes. Tasted it in the air all around her. Wondered what Uncle Luke would think of that.

Maybe Luke had been right about me, after all: Ben Solo, corrupter of Jedi.

…Or maybe of just one Jedi in particular.

I reached out, and held both her hands tight in mine to still her trembling. Pulled her a little closer to me.

“Fannie. I’m a person,” I told her slowly, stamping out each word in durasteel. “I know you, and I love you. I could be with you, in all of this. I want to be there for you, and with you.” I laid a gentle kiss on top of her tear-stained cheek. “The Force is great and all, and if you wanna build your life around it, cool—but it’s not a person, it’s a thing. You need a someone, Fannie, not a something. So, all I’m saying is…” I kissed her other cheek, and then her nose. “Let me be your someone. Please.”

She whimpered. I felt it again—the splintering of her heart.

“I…I want to say yes, Ben, I just…don’t know…”

“Fan. Please. I’m not saying this for me. I’m saying this for you.” (This was something I said because it sounded good, not because it was actually true.)

But she shook her head and blinked out some more tears, and I spent several more minutes persuading and a few more minutes cajoling and I even threw in a little begging for fun—still, I couldn’t get her to say yes, and my patience, which you will be surprised to learn I’ve never had in high reserves anyway, began to wear thin.

“Well…think about it,” I said finally, maybe a little rougher than I meant to, turning out from her again and sitting back against the wall. “And—think about it quickly, if you can. I need to get back to Naboo tonight. Tomorrow morning, latest. I just spent the weekend on Kashyyyk with Amalia—”

“You were with Amalia all weekend?” Fannie interrupted suddenly, like she was waking up, her eyes wide. Her lower lip sucked in a little bit.

I blinked at her, trying to figure out what was going on (I’m a little slow like that sometimes), and I was about to go “oh, chill out, it wasn’t anything weird, we just went as friends”—

But…then it occurred to me. That…keeping my mouth shut? Kind of maybe swayed things in my favor.

So…I shrugged a little, kept my cards to myself, and looked at her to see what she’d do.

“…Are you…interested in dating people now?” Fannie asked finally. She bit her lip. “Because, you said before that you weren’t…that you weren’t interested in dating. Just interested in me.”

Oh, so now she was paying attention!

She was right. I had said that. After I’d decided to fall in love with her (because that’s how it had happened for me; I didn’t just fall in love, I had to decide to do it), part of me wondered if it would change how I saw other girls. But, it didn’t. I looked around me and nothing magical had happened and whenever I looked at women I still just saw people. And whenever I looked at Amalia, I almost saw a dude (except in certain select low-light conditions, apparently).

But Fannie didn’t need to know that.

“Weeell…” I said slowly, as if I were thinking through it, when in reality it was already thought out. “Being with you kinda made me realize…that it’s actually sort of nice to have someone around.” Which was true. “And, that I maybe would like to have a partner after all.” Which was true. “And…I don’t know. Amalia and I do get along pretty well.” Which was true.

I looked at her, and shrugged, and checked my metaphorical hand under the metaphorical table, and watched for her next move.

And, oh, wait—there was an ace in here! I whipped that out and laid it down.

“But…if I was gonna be with anyone…I’d really like it to be you…Fa’nakhra,” I whispered, stroking the back of my index finger against her cheek. And I totally butchered her name, I’m sure, but—you know? It’s the thought that counts.

And with all my cards out now, I ended my turn, and waited to see what she’d do.

Well…she folded, that’s what she did. My bluff worked, and the ace clinched it. She folded, and she folded in half, and she laid down in my lap and clasped her arms around my waist and cried and said she didn’t want to be alone—she wanted to be my girlfriend. My girlfriend! So I could finally stop with the whole “girlfriend-not-really-my-girlfriend” thing and just call her my girlfriend now. And yeah, it kinda sucks that she had to come to that decision after the really manipulate-y “what if I dated someone who wasn’t you?” instead of the slightly-less-manipulate-y “let me be your person,” but—hey—I got what I wanted, and that was the important thing to me.

Oh yeah and also getting to be there for her during this trying time—that was important to me, too, of course. Just for the record.

But…I felt like crap for lying to her about me and Luke. And, I felt like crap for kind of goading her into this position. And, I thought to myself, no—wait—if I let this go on, it’s just gonna keep getting worse and worse—I have to nip this in the bud now, or I’m gonna ruin both our lives—so…even though it hurt like hell, I gritted my teeth and pulled her up and looked her in the eyes and said, wait, no, Fan, wait…I’m sorry…this is all just a huge mess…I’ve really screwed things up…I haven’t been fair to you…and I came clean to her about everything—

Except…no, I didn’t, because that whole last paragraph was a giant freaking lie, and I just lied to you exactly like how I lied to her. What I really did was I held her in my arms and I grinned all sweet and I wiped off her tears as she was still crying and said, okay, Fan, it’s official then: you’re my girlfriend! And then I kissed her—not on the mouth, but close enough that the corners of our lips brushed, and guess what, your boi has a girlfriend now, officially.

But—didn’t you wish that it was true? Didn’t you feel happier when you thought it was? Didn’t you like me better two paragraphs ago? Don’t you hate me more now that I told you I lied? Wasn’t that a much more satisfying draft, and wasn’t I a much more likable character?

…Exactly.

See?

I should’ve just let you believe the lie.

[yourlastbraincell-kiwi]

Veiled Promises

A/N: Part three of the little story I’ve created. I tried to make it longer than the last couple and I think I got it down.

Enjoy!

—————

After Lady Jessica had left, I had a lot more to process than anything ever before.

I went straight to the library and looked for anything, anything that could tell me more about the Bene Gesserit.

Papers, books, journals, whatever.

I was desperate to find any bit of knowledge from these books.

After skimming and reading the books and journal entries, I hadn’t realized I was incredibly tired until it was too late. I had fallen asleep on the books, not long after.

“(Y/N)? (Y/N)? Oh, good havens.” I slowly lifted my head as Abigail helped me sit up straight. “What were you doing in here? Late night studying, I presume?” She smiled and was about to let out a hearty laugh, before noticing the books and papers, I had left scattered on the table.

“The Bene Gesserit…” She whispered.

“Do you know about them?”

“Me? Oh no dear, no more than what we already know.” She said scooping up the books and papers off the table, and pushed me towards the exit.

“Wait! What do you know about them, Abi?”

“Know about what?” My father asked as he stood in front of the both of us.

“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all, just taking (Y/N) back to her room is all.” He nods ands lets us go through.

“Make sure you’re dressed for breakfast, there’s something I wish to discuss with you.” I nod and hurried off to my room with Abi.

When we made it to my room Abi closed the door and set the stuff on my bedside table. “What on earth are doing reading up on this?”

“I wanted to learn more about them so I am. What’s so bad about them? Are they bad people? I asked and Abigail falls silent.

“Abigail please. Tell me something. anything.”

“I forbade you from researching on and about them. That’s all I will say to you about this matter.” Abigail makes sure to take the books with her on her way out, and I huff and sighed. I changed into some clothes and met my father for breakfast.

I nodded in the direction of my father as I sat across from him and slowly ate today’s breakfast.

“(Y/N) ? Is there something you wish to tell me?” I shake my head ‘no,’ “No, father.”

“Funny you say that, because Abigail told me somethings.” I sigh and look down at my plate.

“Do you wish to tell me before, I have to repeat what I was told?”

“I was up last night reading up on something.”

“What was it that you were reading about, (Y/N)?” He said, getting visibly angry with me.

“I was reading about the Bene Gesserit!”

“What on earth made you want to read about that?”

“What’s so bad about it? I don’t understand!”

“That’s just it! You’re not supposed to understand it!” He yelled standing up straight, pushing his chair back so hard it squeaked and probably left a scrape on the floor. “Go to your room.”

I furrow my brows, and stand up, “No.”

“(Y/N), go. I’m done with this conversation.” My father looked down at the table, his hands that lay on the table ready to claw their way through with the writhing anger, he had buried deep within.

“I’m not leaving!” I yelled.

“Go!” My father said but the voice much darker, and it felt like that voice. I felt my body being controlled yet again wanting to obey my father’s word, and it did.

I started to move away from the dining table and took a few steps, before realizing I wasn’t doing this on my own free will. I stopped moving my body then and there.

How..?

My dad wordlessly motioned for the guards to grab me by my arms and forcefully removed me from the room.

“Let me go!” I exclaimed, but no matter how hard I thrashed and kicked, they continued to listen to my father’s ridiculous command.

They set me in my room before closing the door and held it shut, seeing as it could only lock from the inside. I banged on the door with my balled up fists, and kicked it, hoping something would happen, but it never did.

I was trapped. And the person that trapped me, in my own room, happened to be my father.

It hurt.

—————

Over in Caladan, the Homeworld of House Atreides, they were getting ready for the Arrival of the Emperor’s Herald.

Paul had been having dreams the previous night, resulting in him being up and at the table earlier than he normally would.

And lucky for him his mother was especially observant that morning.

“You look tired? More dreams?” She asked, Paul had stayed quiet before deciding on not worrying her with any more dreams he’d been having.

He replied with a ‘no,’ and nothing more, continuing to eat his breakfast in silence.

Before Paul was to be in the front of the house to meet the Emperor he was studying more on the Fremen and the sand creatures that lived amongst them.

——

“Smile, Gurney.”

“I am smiling.” He replied, his face not at all contouring, only remaining stone faced as the Emperor arrived.

“How much will it cost them, traveling all this way for this formality?”

“Three Guild Navigators. A total of 1.46 million, 62 Solaris, round trip.”

“By the grace of Shaddam IV of House Corrino, ascendant to the Golden Lion Throne of Padishah Emperor of the Known Universe, I stand before you as Herald of the Change. We are witnessed by members of the Imperial Court, representatives of the Spacing Guild, and a sister of the Bene Gesserit.” The Herald announced and Jessica looked to have taken in a deep breath upon looking at the sister from the Bene Gesserit, practically going stone solid with how tense she had gotten.

“The Emperor has spoken.”

“House Atreides shall immediately take control of Arrakis and serve as its steward.”

“Do you accept?” The Herald asked waiting for confirmation, and Leto walked forward setting his ring in the melted wax to form a seal on the paper after giving a speech.

“So, it’s done?” He asked the Herald.

“It’s done.” And with that everyone left after the Herald and everyone on the spacecraft had left for home.

But one person had instead left had came and welcomed themself inside the House and stumbled upon, Lady Jessica.

———

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to come here, I needed to talk to you, to learn more.” Jessica shushed me and watched as one of the servant rounded the corner.

“No, you shouldn’t have come here. It was a mistake telling you anything about-”

“Who? My mother. Let’s be honest, I was going to learn about her sooner or later.” Jessica put a finger over her mouth silently telling me to be quiet.

“Lady Jessica? Lady Jessica?” A female servant called out to her, probably been informed of her presence by the other servant that Jessica saw.

“Stay right here.” She demanded of me, and I rolled my eyes as she walked away, to talk to the servant.

I turned around finding one of the doors open slightly ajar, I checked to see if Jessica was still talking and decided to step inside, it was their own training room.

“Seems liked déjà vu doesn’t it?”

I walked over to the tables in the room, and gently ran my fingers along the wooden tables. “(Y/N)?” I tensed up and turned around to meet Paul’s eye.

‘Déjà vu, is it. Isn’t it?’ I thought to myself.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had a question.” I stated bluntly, not wanting to get into the details.

“You came all the way down here, because of a question?” Paul asked, or snapped at me more so.

“You don’t get it, Paul. Okay?” I said, balling my fists up.

“What am I not get-?” I watched as someone walked into the room.

“Who is that?”

“No one. It’s okay, Gurney.” Paul said, trying to get Gurney to calm down, and diffuse the situation. “You let someone in without letting your father know?”

“Gurney, listen.” Paul pleaded, as he played his assortment of weapons on the table, taking one out, and stepped closer to me.

“I just need to talk to Lady Jessica.” I blurted out.

“You show up here unannounced, and demand to speak to her? That’s not going to happen.” He stepped closer till my back was flush up against the wall behind me, and his sword lay on my throat.

“Gurney!” Paul called as he stood right next to us, watching Gurney’s every move. “Don’t.” He listened and removed his sword from my throat, and I made a beeline for the exit.

A part of me longed for Paul to chase after me.. he didn’t.

Perhaps it was for the best.

————

I walked back to where I stood with Jessica and watched as she stalked over to me looking both furious and annoyed. “Where did you go? I told you to remain here!”

“Well, I’m here now, can we please go somewhere else?” Jessica would normally be a bit snappy, but she sensed something was wrong, so she softened up and took me to the libraries entrance.

“You know why you’re here, and you know what you want from me.” She stated looking me in the eyes. “If you truly want to uncover such things, then I will not stop you from walking into the library.”

I nod, and open the door and walk inside. “So, be it. You have made your choice.” She said, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Let this not be a waste of time.” She walked past me, and I felt a sense of uncertainty swell up in my chest.

Nevertheless, I have made my choice. And I will have to face it.

No matter the consequences.

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen

[skyheld]

from @aestuum // when they'd first seen ameridan's sketchbook, they'd felt a jolt of excitement, a thrum of connection. they'd run to grab their own from their quarters and giddily shown him their most recent work. plants and animals, mostly, but a few of the team. one of him, too.

a few days later, they'd joined him for a few hours' rest, bringing along their sketchbook and a few extra leaves of paper. shyly, they show him some of their oldest extant drawings. portraits of their father, mother, and sister.

"i drew these soon after they died." there's a slight hitch before the final word, a stumble of breath and lips. even ten years on it's difficult to say aloud. they push past it, though. "i always keep these first ones with me ... sometimes i try and sketch them doing other things with these as a reference, because it's hard to—to remember."

casadh chews on the inside of their lip for a moment, then takes breath and smiles, a distraction from the sheen in their eyes.

"i don't want to forget what they looked like."

unprompted | always accepting

If you know what to look for, the sketches in Ameridan's journal tell the story of the last few years as clearly as the text does. He had to buy a new one shortly after the defeat of Corypheus, and the first half contains a variety of subjects: people around him, plants and creatures seen on his travels, little details like a small Avvar wayshrine or a carving around a doorframe seen on the road. Dhavi figures often, as does Abelas—and then it is a lot of pages of mostly Abelas—later on, looking at the dates scrawled in margins when he remembers it, it becomes clear the journal has seen less and less use. Diary entries become short; little notes on which of clan Lavellan's children scraped their knee today. There are sketches of members of the clan, but the hand drawing them becomes shaky as times passes.

The last third of the book has filled up quickly. The wildlife of the north has captured his attention; new plants and creatures are drawn in detail, in between quick sketches of his new companions. When Casadh saw him draw the first time he was sketching Assan in the air above the Lighthouse, trying to capture his fluid movements.

Now he closes the journal around some written observations about the nearby ruins to look over at Casadh. He has drawn them, too, and it's with just that expression, that smile with sadness behind it, the dimples drawn with affectionate precision.

"They are beautiful, Casadh." And of course the skill with which they're drawn isn't as important as the intention; they're good sketches, but the beauty lies somewhere else "And they're... invaluable. I'm glad you have them." His throat tightens a little. He reaches out, puts a hand over theirs. "It is... hard to forget, I know. Though I do not think love fades even if faces do." He hopes not. Because no matter how intently he stares at Telana in the sketches, or Orinna or his own parents, he only remembers their voices in rare moments when we doesn't expect it. "Thank you for showing me."

[gorimbaudandgojohnnygo]

this story is about 2006, but it starts in 2005. see, in 2005, i tried to settle down. tried to stop my ramblin round. i decided that i should stop moving so often, that i shouldn’t travel as frequently as i had in the past. i got engaged. i even decided to be monogamous, though that ended after only a few months. i told myself i would be ok. i enrolled for classes at a different university (the fourth one i’ve gone to in the course of six years), and decided i was going to stick it out this time. i told myself i would be okay without ecstatic drunken nights, without views of the skylines of strange cities seen through my windshield, without violently dazzling love affairs. i was going to be responsible, save money, hang my wild years up. anytime i did something that i thought was irresponsible - and i did, for the heart has a way of forcing you to do what it wants, even while your brain tells you it’s a bad idea - like taking a ride on the carousel with a carnival magician one rumdrunk may night in southern pennsylvania, or picking up the queen of rifles in chicago and going on an impromptu roadtrip thru wisconsin and minnesota, to find werewolves and adventure, i told myself “this is it, this is my last gasp of living such a desultory life.” and i tried it. for three months, i did not travel, i saved money, i didn’t look for or accept any new lovers. and i was miserable. it felt like my life was over, like all the tales i would ever tell would be about things i did before i was 24. maybe it was good to have those quiet months. they gave me time to realize that there was nothing inherently wrong with the way i’d lived before, except for the times when i was destructive about it. i realized that it was not yet my time to settle down; that maybe it never would be. for someone like me, choosing to stay in one place, to be with only one person, to do the same thing day-in day-out and never seek adventure is simply not an option. it would be like choosing not to breathe, for all that i would wither and wilt to a dried out husk of myself. so, with the turning of the western calendar year, i said “fuck it,” and i went back to creating the kind of life i actually want to live. of course, that kind of life is not without its complications. like in any good story, there are trials and tribulations before the heroine reaches her reward. there are curses, there is blood; people (including me) get hurt. it is all a process, a constant journey. and i wouldn’t have it any other way.

it is now 2007, and i am looking back over the past year. all the photographs and journal entries, everything i jotted down or snapped pictures of; and everything else, that i have no concrete evidence of, only memories. 2006 was magic and mayhem, scrapes and mosquito bites, glamour and grime. it was great heartache and great joy, moons and porch-sitting and accordions and trains and diesel fumes. it was a circus, and a poem.

i’m addicted to bad ideas, & to all the beauty in this world.

(rose red the ghost heart girl. 1/6/07)

—intro from an unfinished issue of my zine, c. January 2007