#so i taught myself the accent to feel like i had more of a connection. a sense of belonging y'know' like. man. what

[vulpinesaint]

so glad to see my little geralt of rivia post getting notes. i am the world's most average witcher lore understander (two seasons of the netflix show and three of the books and a bunch of time spent gleaning real lore from what people use in fanfiction) but i Do consider myself more correct than most people when it comes to understanding geralt of rivia. this is because i want to put him in a centrifuge and spin him around and my judgement is therefore unclouded by things like liking him as a character

[chadillacboseman]

Regrets

Summary: This was never supposed to happen. Simon did everything in his power to keep you safe. He failed. Reader is gender neutral!

Warnings: Torture, bodily injury.

A/N: Holy shit I actually wrote something for Ghost. I don't particularly care for him myself, but I know others do. So, have a little treat I guess.

--

A fist connects with your cheek, and you feel a hot, coppery taste spring into your mouth. Again, your vision swims, hazy, on the brink of unconsciousness.

Oh, how you wish it would take you. How you wish you could slip into sweet nothingness and let the pain subside for a moment.

Instead, fingers thread into your hair and yank, hard, lifting your face to the gaze of your assailant. The man has dark eyes, narrowed over a black balaclava. He barely speaks your language, and you don't speak his at all.

He's been at this for what feels like hours- but maybe it's only been minutes.

Simon always taught you to never count the time.

"I can do this all day," the man spits the words at you, dripping with vitriol and a thick accent you still can't place.

You don't have what he wants. Truthfully.

Simon never told you anything that could put you at risk. He kept you at arm's length, like a collectible on some high up, dust-covered shelf.

"I don't. Know. Anything," you hiss. Blood patters from your lips as you speak, falling in thick rivulets onto your t-shirt.

Another blow.

This time, it sends the chair you're tied to toppling to the floor. With your arms subdued, you can't break the fall; instead, your face connects with the cold pavement with a sickening whack.

The darkness tries so hard to claim you.

The soldier's boot connects with your ribs and you're torn from the brink of it, wheezing as you feel at least one of your ribs give way with a dull crack that reverberates through your body.

A hand tangles in your hair once more and you're hauled upright, too broken and exhausted to even cry out at the pain.

Another man in a balaclava approaches your interrogator and places a hand on his shoulder. Words are exchanged that you don't understand.

The two of them depart together, leaving you alone in the room. Perhaps they had decided that you were no good to them dead.

You wonder what Simon is doing.

Is he panicking? Is he as calm and collected as always?

Has he decided that this is just an acceptable loss- something that comes with the territory?

You let your head loll back, ignoring the way the pain throbs to life in your temples at the motion. A single, dangling bulb above you burns into your eyes until you see sparks in your vision and have to close them.

You're no soldier. You're not built for this. That you've survived this long surprises even you. But you're at your limit now, and you know it.

You know that Simon is going to blame himself. This might be enough to push him over the edge.

You wish you could tell him you forgive him. That you knew the risks when you chose him, and you would never go back and change it.

The door on the opposite side of the room creaks open and the two men return, this time with a metal cart on wheels.

Your heart takes residence in your throat as you glimpse the blowtorch that rests atop it.

"You know what this is?" Your interrogator holds up a small container, but you can't read the label in the dim light, "White phosphorus."

The glint in his eye tells you that this is bad.

He opens the container and collects what looks like a white paste onto his gloved finger. As he moves toward you, you instinctively recoil, trying desperately to get away, your bindings still holding form.

The interrogator drags a line of the substance down your forearm, about 6 inches in length. It gives off a pungent odor that makes your eyes water as the man gestures for the blowtorch.

The white hot flame ignites and you struggle at your bindings once more, jerking violently in the chair as it moves closer to your arm.

The flame connects with the paste and in an instant it ignites, sizzling to life like a firework.

The pain is almost instant.

It's like nothing you've ever felt before - it makes you shriek until your throat is raw. It feels as if every nerve in your arm is being rended to pieces by a heated claw.

Nausea sets in alongside the pain, threatening to make you relive your breakfast. The two battle until finally pain emerges triumphant and your vision goes black.

--

Simon's boot connects with the door, sending it flying inward as the flimsy frame shatters with the force of his kick.

Soap, Gaz, and Price filter in alongside him, making quick work of the two men in the room.

"Fuck!" Simon's eyes fall on you, slumped in the chair, a tendril of acrid smoke still curling into the air from your arm.

"Go, we'll clear the rest!" Price gestures to you as the three of them make their way out the door.

Your name barely escapes Simon's lips, falling dead in the quiet room. You don't move.

There's so much blood.

He repeats your name again, louder this time as he crosses the room to you. He kneels beside you, feeling the tightness of panic growing in his chest when you don't respond.

Shakily, he feels for a pulse on your wrist. Feels a wave of relief wash over him when he detects it, thready and weak, but there.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs as his knife makes quick work of the bindings. His words feel like a bandaid placed on a gunshot wound.

How could you ever forgive him for this?

"Simon?" You croak his name out through blood covered lips and he jerks his head up, eyes wild as they find yours.

Seeing your face makes another pang of guilt rip through him- dried blood is caked to your skin and hair, and deep purple bruises have made you almost unrecognizable.

The pain in your arm nearly makes you black out again, but you don't. Holding onto the thread of consciousness to make sure that this is real.

Simon scoops you into his arms gently, but you still whimper in pain as your broken body is lifted from the chair.

He presses his masked forehead to yours, taking a moment to inhale shakily, "This never should have fuckin' happened, I-"

He's interrupted by the arrival of Price, who shuffles over to examine you.

"Shit. It's bad, Simon-"

"I know."

Price brings his radio receiver to his mouth and calls for Nik as you once again flit on the verge of unconsciousness, Simon's masked face swimming in and out of focus.

It takes you once more.

--

The darkness is ever-present, pressing on you like a weighted blanket. Through it, you can hear an incessant beeping, and the muffled sounds of voice you don't recognize.

Your whole body feels heavy, and yet you seem to be floating.

You try so hard to wake up, to open your eyes, to move your hands- anything.

Then a voice you recognize pierces through the darkness- a thick Scottish accent floating somewhere around you.

"Go home, LT. You look like hell," Soap sounds like he's speaking from the end of a tunnel.

"No," Simon's deep voice is closer, less distorted

"They'll call you if there's a change. You sittin' here for days on end won't make a difference."

"Fuck off."

A sigh of exasperation and then footsteps fade into the blackness.

There's a long silence, punctuated by that fucking beeping. You feel a new weight, a hand on yours, rough and calloused, offering a gentle squeeze.

"I don't know if you can hear me," Simon's voice is still close, not quite clear, but there. Reassuring in its familiarity, "I need you to wake up. Please."

You try so hard for him. You really do.

You try to squeeze his fingers, focusing all of your effort into the muscles in your hands.

It doesn't work.

The darkness is too strong, too pressing. The effort you expend trying just drags you back down as if into a deep, black ocean.

Even the beeping fades away.

There's no sense of time wherever you are. Has it been hours? Days?

Weeks?

Simon's voice comes and goes, as does his grip on your hand. Sometimes, other voices come, too.

Gaz. Price. A sweet woman who changes the bandages on your arm and asks Simon if he needs anything.

He always says no.

As time wears on, Simon talks more- he tells you what's happening back home, and lists the people who have asked about you. He describes the flowers that adorn your hospital room, coming from as far as Las Almas with love from Rudy and Alejandro.

He tells you about the guilt he feels for not coming sooner. For letting this happen at all. Promises turn into begging, pleading for you to wake up.

He tells you he cleaned the house to prepare for when you come home. The thought of that makes you feel warm, almost seems to push the darkness away for a moment.

Your hand twitches in his.

"Did you just-" Simon searches your face, looking for a sign that you're awake. He hadn't imagined it, had he?

"Can you hear me?" He is squeezing your hand now, his other hand on your face, "C'mon, do that again. I know you can. I know you're in there."

You want to tell him how hard you're trying.

God, are you trying.

"I felt movement, Johnny," Simon's hand never leaves yours, but his voice moves away from you.

"LT...you need to get some sleep. In your own bed," Soap sounds worried, "It's been a week."

Ah. There it is.

Simon doesn't answer him, and eventually you hear footsteps fade away. The beeping remains.

You're determined now. It takes what feels like hours, concentrating, focusing- willing your body to just fucking cooperate.

Come on. Wake up. WAKE UP!

Your eyes flutter open and you're met with a dimly-lit room. Machines to one side of you flicker and beep. Your vision is still blurry, your eyes no doubt weak from their extended vacation.

It's still hard to move- your muscles seem to have forgotten how to cooperate. You manage to glance to your left to find Simon slumped over in a chair, snoring softly, his face half covered by a black surgical mask.

"Simon?" Your voice sounds so foreign to your own ears.

He jerks awake and his eyes first look to the door, then to you.

For a moment, he doesn't move. Scared that this might be a dream. A rug pull brought on by his exhausted subconscious.

When he's sure you won't disappear when he blinks, he grabs your hand, one of the few familiar feelings you recognize.

Words don't come to either of you, but he rests his forehead against yours and just breathes.

"How long have you been here?" You manage to ask; your mouth struggles with the words, but he still understands them.

"Never left."

[intheholler]

If I don’t have very much of an accent at all (sometimes the R’s come out but that’s really it), but was raised in the Piedmont SC area and live in SE TN (have for 7 years now with plenty more to go) and feel connected to Appalachia, do I count? I’ve always felt a kinship and was taught to respect the mountains as I hiked through them with my dad time and again as a kid; I just don’t want to disrespect anyone or anywhere yanno?

as always, i want to first say that no one gets to define who you are but you, and especially not me. but i know how important it can feel to have validation regarding your identity, because it is important to me too.

So!! with that said: if your extended time spent living in appalachia has connected you to it and she is in your bones, you are appalachian in my opinion. simple as.

i have a good transplant friend who came down from connecticut to go to WCU, and he just melted right into the culture like he'd been here all his life. most reverent and respectful-of-appalachia motherfucker i ever met. he's a big ol river rat, contributes to the community, is a steward of the land. he loves her to death and after he graduated, he never left. he didn't come here til his late teens and yet he's as appalachian as anything to me.

i say this to contrast your concerns about living in the piedmont, comparatively right next door, as someone who spent middle/late childhood in piedmont SC myself (hello old neighbor). ive mentioned before that the dialect, culture and food there felt practically identical to the point that my young mind didn't even really realize we had moved away because it cooked and ate exactly the same.

beyond that, it's worth reminding you that not every southerner or appalachian has the accent. a lot of us get rid of it or mask it well so we can avoid the prejudice it inspires. the accent doesn't make the person <3

please try not to hold yourself up against a rigid checklist of traits or let the opinions of anyone else sway you, because ur gonna drive urself up the wall trying to check them all off.

i do not believe in gatekeeping these hills like a lot of us do. unless your only experience here is a quick road trip through it or like an overnight stay in asheville, unless you're one of the fucks that come here to stay only to gentrify it and hollow us out--if you have real, lived experience here in the appalachian way of life, im not gonna tell anyone they aren't a part of it.

you are what you know yourself to be <3 and in this case it certainly looks appalachian to me

[unbecomingmrsbell]

when you say nothing at all

There is an older Allison Kraus song with the famous lyrics “When You Say Nothing At All.” Her lyrics conjured all the sweet-nothings of a healthy romance.

I remember him strumming his guitar and singing this song. I believed every lyric. My little 20 year old self believing I had found “the one.” His southern accent held onto each word and it just made my heart swoon. A man with an accent and a guitar singing a love song to “little ol’ me” — gosh — insert blushing cheeks and a giggle-grin.

I can watch these memories play out in my mind as though I am director — no, probably more like a member of the production team. I can envision the first time he took me to his house on “seminary row” as they called it. He got his guitar out and for whatever the reason sitting on the couch didn’t seem right. So he was sitting up on the couch and I sat with my legs curled under me - more than likely wearing that pristine white pencil skirt and white pumps. My long hair pulled away from my face but worn long. He rarely made eye contact, but just played through all the songs he knew — as I clapped and verbally gushed all over the situation.

Looking back — funny because it is the first lyric of his favorite song to sing — Garth Brooks “The Dance” - there is so much irony, foreshadowing, building up of the revelation of who he is in the lyrics of his most played songs.

The connection I built to him was real. It was a true life getting swept off my feet moment. The day I met him during “Meet and Greet” time at church I called my mom that evening and told her I met the man I was going to marry.

I want to pause here. Baby Kristen was soul searching at this point. I moved across the country for a boy. I moved to KC for him. He proposed - no ring - and I accepted. He told me he loved me. But that tumultuous relationship spiraled shortly after I moved to KC on my 19th birthday. We were on-again-off-again-hot-then-cold dysfunctional. The emotional abuse in that relationship was obvious to everyone around me except for me. I was broken down so low that at one point I ended up in a psychiatric ward on suicide watch. I was a bright-eyed, hopeful young woman who didn’t want to be alive anymore. Life was not worth living. Low is too high of a word to describe the quicksand I found myself in.

Cue this past fall. I started the school year with the worst anxiety I have felt in years. I thought it was starting up school again — there was a shooting at a school I taught at a few years ago and I just assumed the anxiety was heightened because of that. But as the events of the fall proceeded, and as I poured myself back into the couch of a therapist / and as I began to open up about the torments of my newfound, but old, familiar “friend” Suicidal Ideation - I realized that despite being 19 years older - my mental state was exactly where it was when I was 19 years old.

I have had years of him saying nothing at all. Roommates. Co-parents. No emotional connection. No smiles. No hugs. No good mornings. No how was your day. No acknowledgement of me as a person.

Grown-Up Kristen is learning the patterns. She is seeing the lies, the facades, the truth. She may not always feel safe to use her voice, and she may not use it appropriately (seriously, Kristen, yelling at your boss with flailing arms and stomping your foot…grow up, hon), but she is wielding it in new ways. Baby Kristen didn’t know what Grown-Up Kristen does.

I love so many things about Baby Kristen — she really is the epitome of innocently naive. She had so much hope. Grown-Up Kristen does now, too.

[dearthinkingoutloud]

 Elizabeth Miki Brina, how could you.

Speak Okinawa (Ch. 4-5)

How could you...

How could you have me crying real tears within the first two chapters I read of your book?

Our professor, the lovely Dr. Morrison, assigned the class to read a segment of her colleague's, Elizabeth Miki Brina, book called Speak Okinawa and dude... I was floored. I was so floored by the first read in fact that I already considered buying the book for myself having only read two chapters. Speak Okinawa is a memoir outlining the author's journey of understanding herself and her parents of which her father is a white American war veteran and her mother is a Okinawan "war bride" (as Google states...). Her memoir discusses in depth the multifaceted experience of being mixed race as well as having an immigrant parent and a white American parent.

We started our segment of the book at chapter 4 "Erizabesu", and already I was immediately in love with Brina's brutally honest yet lyrical writing style. In this chapter, the first story she tells is her mother picking her up from preschool. This may seem like a generic story to tell, but if you read it from the book, she describes it such deliberate detail that places you right in her 4-year old shoes. In doing so, it makes you feel the feelings that she felt in that moment. Her mother, having newly cut hair, arrives at the preschool to retrieve Elizabeth, however due to this new change, she disapproves of her mother's new hair. Brina says that they are taught from a young age that "sameness is desired", and so from then on, she wanted her mother to portray the, "White, English-Speaking, Correctly-Pronouncing, American." As a child, Brina mocks her mother's accent/pronunciation of her American name, Elizabeth, which becomes the title of the chapter "Erizabesu".

Due to her mom's struggle to assimilate into the white-American society that her father wants so badly, Brina grows increasingly resentful of her and idolizes her father growing up. In chapter 5, she details how her parents each try to show parts of their culture individually instead of both together. In fact, her mom tries to show her parts of Okinawan and other Asian cultures by bring her to her job at a Chinese restaurant where she spends time sitting around listening to them speak languages she doesn't understand. To contrast this, her father brings to classic American restaurants such as Boston Market and Burger King and makes her read and watch American media like Nick at night and Bewitched. She is also set up on playdates with other Asian kids who does not connect with and she details her mindset at the time which unfortunately had a lot of internalized racism.

This portion especially led me to tears. It brought me back to my own childhood and the racism I used to internalize. She calls herself racist names so casually and doesn't yet understand the damage that her classmates' racist comments and actions toward her will have on her self-esteem and self-image. She legitimizes this racism by saying, "I have no reason to complain... I am not feared or hated or oppressed." My heart immediately sank. Elizabeth Miki Brina described her negative self-image and want to be accepted in a such a raw and relatable technique. Through her detailed anecdotes, she places us as the readers precisely in her head and makes those of us who have experience similar things feel both uncomfortable and understood in a beautiful way. While I am not proud of how I used to talk about myself and my features (as I am certain she is not), her stories give me more room to forgive myself and understand why I felt the way I did.

and...

I ordered the book immediately after. so...

How could you, Elizabeth Miki Birna...

How could you.

♡ dearthinkingoutloud

[wwekayfabequeen]

Distraction – Finn Balor (Smut)

Disclaimer: I write all my stories in a kayfabe fashion where the superstars are true to their TV personalities unless requested otherwise.

Warnings: Possessiveness, jealousy, alcohol consumption, oral sex, rough sex, no condom.

Word Count: 2100+

Author Note: I had a wild dream about a jealous!Finn Balor and wrote this from the inspiration. Similar themes to the OneShot I wrote about Finn called Only Mine. Just way more smut... Only proofread this one once and I'm lazy... So, yeah... Enjoy!

---

Finn had just made his big come back after recovering from an injury. We had been together for almost a year and a half, though 10 months of that was spent long distance. He was healing and I was still on the road. It was tough but we had made it work. While he was away I had become close friends with Jaxson Ryker. I had grown up as a military brat and his past in the Marines had caused us to connect.

With Finn’s return something felt tense between us. He had felt like he had missed too much with being gone. His first match at Summer Slam was for the United States title against Seamus. He had been worried about ring-rust, but I tried my best to assure him that he had nothing to worry about.

“Hey, remember back at Royal Rumble?” Jaxson said to me as we waited outside the gorilla for Finn to come out from the locker room.

“What part?” I asked rolling my eyes.

“You know,” he said, a smug look painted on his face.

“Oh, you mean when you got tossed like a ragdoll out of the ring?” I replied with a hand on my hip, teasing.

Jaxson let out a scoff, “brat…”

I let out a laugh and pushed him playfully, “you asked.”

Jaxson cleared his throat and nodded his head to point my attention behind me. Finn was walking up towards us. His expression ice cold.

I spun around and walked up to meet him, admiring his physique in his ring gear. A smirk graced my lips as I leaned up to whisper in his ear, “you sure can still make a girl weak in the knees.”

His stare never left Jaxson as he smirked himself and pulled me close, placing a hand on the back of my neck and pulling me into a deep kiss. He bit my lip causing me to gasp. My heart skipped a beat before he let me go. His music hit and it was time for him to make his entrance to the ring.

“You’ve got this baby,” I whispered, breathlessly. I put a hand on my cheek in an effort to hide my blushing.

“Good luck, man,” Jaxson said, giving Finn a nod.

“I don’t need luck,” Finn scoffed coldly before walking out.

“Sorry,” I said to Jaxson. I looked out at Finn, walking down the ramp. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him…”

“I do.” Jaxson crossed his arms.

***

Finn had lost the match. After he walked back through the gorilla, defeated, he didn’t say a word to me. He didn’t even look at me. He went back to the locker room silently, despite my attempt to encourage him. I had a tag match with Carmella coming up so I couldn’t wait for him to come out. I thought I’d see him waiting for me on the gorilla afterwards, but he was nowhere to be found. Instead, I caught up with Jaxson who told me he saw Finn slip out the back.  

Jaxson offered to give me a ride back to the hotel since Finn had left without me. We didn’t talk much on the way as I was lost in thought. Once back at the hotel, I paused before walking inside. I let out a sigh and hung my head.

“Hey,” Jaxson said, putting an arm around my shoulders, ushering me in. “Don’t worry about him, it’s always tough coming back from a long break and losing right out of the gate. He’ll come around.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I just hate seeing him upset like that.”

When we walked in, the first thing I saw was Finn. He was sitting at the corner booth of the hotel bar, staring at the entrance. His arms were spread out each direction across the top of the vinyl backing, a whiskey on the rocks in his right hand. Jaxson immediately took his arm off of my shoulders. We both knew exactly what was running through Finn’s head.

Without breaking his glare on Jaxson, he took a sip of his whiskey. He looked as though he was ready to start a fight. Quickly, Jaxson said good night and retreated. I slowly walked over to Finn. I knew I had no reason to feel guilty, Jaxson was like a big brother to me, but still the pit in my stomach grew as I approached Finn.

“You did great tonight,” I said, sliding into the booth on his left side. I slipped in close to him so that his arm was above me on the back of the booth. I rested my head on his shoulder as I curled up to him. “I missed you when you left…”

He said nothing, instead he washed down the rest of his drink before slamming the glass onto the table. I flinched lightly. I had never seen him like this, and as intimidating as it was, it was equally arousing.

“Were ye even watchin’ my match or were ye too distracted by yer new boyfriend?” His accent rolling off his tongue. He raised his hand with two fingers up to beckon the waitress to bring two more whiskeys.

I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. Before I could say anything, the waitress arrived with the two drinks, ignoring me altogether.

“Anything else, sweetheart?” She asked Finn, clearing exposing her cleavage to him as she grabbed the empty glass.

“Nah,” he said, waving her away. She let out a pout as she turned and walked away. He pushed one of the glasses to me before taking the other in his hand again. “Drink,” he ordered me.

I did as he said. Now, he slid his arm down from the back of the booth so that it was now resting across my shoulder.

“It seems,” he started, taking another sip of whiskey, “while I’ve been out, ye forgot who ye belong ta’.” The possessiveness in his voice was more intoxicating than the whiskey.

“I’ve only ever been yours,” I whispered as I nuzzled into his neck, still holding the glass in my hand. “Jaxson is just a friend…”

He tensed at the sound of his name. Sipping his drink. His grip on my shoulders tightened.

“C’mon baby,” I whispered. “You know he can’t compare to you.”

He let out a small growl, immediately I knew I had chosen my words poorly. In his jealousy the term compare seemed to insinuate something had happened. He took another swig of his drink. The heat of his frustration radiated off of him.

“Ye better finish that, darlin’” he said, coldly. He tossed some cash on the table for the drinks and finished his glass in one swift sip.

I did as he said, throwing my head back and taking in the reset of the drink. With a wince, I put the glass down. As soon as I did, he was pulling me out of the booth. His grip on my hand was bone crushing.

“Baby, wait a sec,” I pleaded as he dragged me towards the elevator.

“Don’t ye try sweet talkin’ me now,” he said. Once in the elevator he pinned me to the wall, staring down into my eyes. He leaned in close, his breath hot on my neck. “Ye need to be taught a lesson.”

I shivered, unable to speak. When the elevator door opened, Finn grabbed me and slung me over his shoulder. I squeaked in surprise.

“Finn!” I squirmed. He said nothing and continued walking down the hall until we were at my room. Taking my key out of my shorts pocket, he opened the door.

“His room is next t’ yers, yeah?” Finn asked, throwing me onto the bed.

“What?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbows. “Yeah… Why?”

In an instant Finn took off his shirt and was crawling on top of me. “Because I want him t’ hear ye when yer screaming my name.”

His lips crashed down onto mine as he grinded his hips into mine. His cock was rock hard, which caused me to moan loudly.

“That’s m’girl,” he growled into the kiss. His hands slipped down towards my shorts, tugging them down. He broke the kiss to pull them down and undo his jeans and take them off. I took this time to slide my tank top off. Quickly, he grabbed my wrists with one hand and pinned them above my head. Using his other hand, he fingered his way around my panties. “Wet already, darlin’?”

I moaned as he slid two fingers into me roughly. He thrusted them a couple times before pulling them out and licking them clean.

“Please,” I begged, still pinned. “I need you.”

“Tell me that yer mine,” he ordered through gritted teeth. His grip on my hands tightened. With the other hand, he kept my panties to one side of my pussy. Then with a hard, swift, thrust, his cock entered me fully.

“I’m yours,” I gasped in pleasure. He grinned, thrusting hard in and out of me. His free hand playing with my clit as he thrusted. I moaned uncontrollably. The sound of the headboard bouncing off the wall echoed in the room.

“Say m’name,” he ordered.

“Finn,” I whimpered, beginning to feel the orgasm start.

“Louder,” his pace quickened as his fingers found my sweet spot. “I want him t’hear ye.”

“FINN!” I screamed out with a moan as I began to shake, reaching my climax. “Holy fuck, Finn!”

“That’s right, darlin’…” He moaned now at the sensation of my walls tightening around him. He pulled out, gently stroking himself as to slow himself down. “I’m not done with ye yet.”

He released my wrists and crawled down to kneel at the edge of the bed. Grabbing me by the legs, he pulled me to the edge of the bed and spread my legs. He slid my panties off and stared up towards me. Looking down at him, still throbbing from the aftershocks of the orgasm, I saw him give me a wink. His mouth met my pussy and I felt his tongue begin to slide against me. My hips bucked at the sensation as I moaned loudly. Whimpering his name, I felt a second orgasm begin to hit. As soon as I came close, he pulled away for a moment and smirk at me. He knew he was torturing me and he loved it.

“Is there anythin’ ye want ta tell me, darlin?” He said seductively. “About how he compares….”

“There’s nothing to compare,” I said, biting my lip. A devilish grin came over his lips as he stood up, straddling my legs against his shoulders.

“That’s right,” he groaned, thrusting hard into me again, wiping my cum from his beard ashe did.

We both moaned loudly as he steadied his thrusts into me. The sound of the headboard against the wall resumed. My pussy began to throb as I reached another orgasm. Finn bit his lip, closing his eyes, as he leaned his head back.

“Fuck, darlin,” he groaned. I cried out as I hit my second full climax, my hips jolting. He moaned loudly, gritting his teeth. He swiftly pulled his cock out of me and stroked it a couple times before ejaculating onto my stomach.

My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. After a moment of regaining himself, Finn leaned over me. Leaning down to kiss me gently this time, a hint of whiskey still on his breath.

“Ye know, I love ye,” He whispered, breaking away to look me in the eyes. His gaze finally soft like the man I really knew.

“ I love you too, Finn,” I said with a smile.

He grabbed his discarded shirt and cleaned his cum off of me before crawling onto the bed and pulling me up next to him. “Now, ye better not forget who ye belong to.”

I rolled my eyes and laid my head on his chest. “I’ve only ever been yours, Balor.”

“YA HEAR THAT, RYKER?” Finn shouted suddenly, as he reached up a hand to slap the wall behind the bed. “SHE’S MINE.”

His voice softened, that same devilish grin on his face. “There, now yer boyfriend knows it too.”

“That was a little unnecessary,” I said with a scoff.

He shrugged.

“You’re lucky you’re so damn sexy when you’re jealous,” I teased, running a finger across his abs.

“Ye don’t need me to teach ye another lesson, do ye?” Finn teased back, shifting to lean over me again. He leaned in close, kissing my neck.

“Mmm,” I moaned, “well, you were gone for so long…”

His kisses turned into nibbles before he found a soft spot near my collar bone. He bit down harder this time, causing me to gasp in a mixture of pain and pleasure as he broke the skin.

“Finn,” I groaned. Suddenly he shifted straddle me, with one hand grasping the headboard he used the other to trace the love-bite with his fingers.

“See,” he said. “Yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” I agreed, looking into his eyes.

With a smirk, he leaned down, kissing me again, gently but with passion. He broke away for a moment to whisper in my ear, “this time, let me show ye how much ye mean t’me...” 

[beewolfwrites]

An Iron Box - Perfect Portrait

On the off-chance anyone’s still reading this series, I hope you enjoy this update. 

It may be shorter, but it’s a scene between Chishiya and MC/Reader that was in my mind but I never put it into the original fic :) 

You can also find it here on AO3.

If you haven’t read the original, you can find it either pinned to my Tumblr or on AO3 here. 

Thanks so much for reading. It means the world <3

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

People were so predictable. Even in a world where you can’t trust anyone, they still look for someone to connect with.

It seemed that saving (name) from that awkward situation at the bar did the trick, as afterwards, she clung to Kuina’s side – and by extension, my own. However, there was a slyness in her eyes whenever she looked at me. A calculating curiosity that revealed her distrust for me.

And yet, it didn’t keep her from seeking me out.  

One morning, several days later, I headed downstairs earlier than usual, hoping to enjoy the rare quiet as I ate breakfast.

While the bread from supermarkets was inedible, flour and yeast were perfectly intact, and with the Beach’s over-abundance of electricity, making bread was a favourite pastime for the former-chefs and bakers living here. And so, grabbing two slices of toast from the kitchen, I took a seat at a table in the far corner of what would have been the hotel’s restaurant.

Soon enough, people would filter down from their rooms and the usual circus would begin. But for now, it was silent. Peaceful. I lifted a piece of toast.

‘一緒に朝ご飯食をべないか.’ Do you want to eat breakfast together?

Typical.

I put the toast down. ‘You’re leaving too big a gap between words. It sounds unnatural.’

Something brushed against my hood as she hovered behind my chair. ‘Teach me to sound natural then.’

‘No.’

‘どうして.’ How come?

Perhaps she would leave soon. If I waited until she disappeared, I might actually be able to enjoy my breakfast in peace.

It’ll be cold by then.

Weighing up the options, I gave in and took a bite of my toast. ‘Because you’ll only learn by speaking it more,’ I said, swallowing. ‘And also because I don’t want to. You should practise on Kuina instead.’

She circled around the table, holding a small bowl of dried fruit in one hand. There was a screech as she pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. I turned away, looking out of the window instead, but in the corner of my eye I could see her watching me, fingers playing with the bowl of fruit. She was still wearing my hoodie.

‘Kuina doesn’t speak English as well as you do.’ She huffed. ‘And if I make a mistake, she doesn’t tell me what’s wrong. I think it’s a Japanese thing. Everyone here is so polite, and nobody wants to correct you if you have bad grammar.’ She paused. ‘But you will.’

So I’m rude enough to correct her, hm?

She wasn’t wrong. But this still wasn’t enough of a reason to make me want to waste my time teaching her a language that she would pick up eventually.

‘You do have terrible grammar,’ I said. ‘You sound like a textbook.’

When she shifted her chair closer, I instinctively leaned away. ‘I know. I probably have a foreigner’s accent too. But I need you to tell me how I can get better.’

She did have an accent, strong yet not unpleasant. And surprisingly, I didn’t mind it. I knew I had an accent whenever I spoke English, but it was only normal. As for not sounding like a cardboard character in a language textbook? Well... she was clever enough to figure it out by herself.

Picking up my second piece of toast, I began to take a bite when a set of fingers wrapped around my forearm.  

And there it was again.

That warmth

It was just like in the pharmacy when her knee had touched mine. That same warmth seeped into my skin, humming under the surface. A shiver ran through my body, and I yanked my wrist away, severing all contact.

For the first time this morning, I looked at her fully, seeing the briefest flicker of astonishment in her expression before it relaxed into idle curiosity. If she was surprised by my reaction, she didn’t comment on it.

Instead, she shifted in her seat, chewing uncomfortably on her dried fruit. ‘By the way, you never told me how you learned English? Did you study abroad?’

The question took me back a few years, to those nights spent in my bedroom as a child, pouring over language textbooks. The one-sided conversations with myself, the books I had spent hours picking apart and translating until the early hours of the morning.  

‘I was bored as a child, so I taught myself a language.’

Her eyes widened. ‘When you say you were a child...’

‘I was seven when I started learning.’

I was seven when I gave the housekeeper some of my pocket money and asked her to buy me an English language dictionary. And even when she asked my father if it was alright, he didn’t once turn to look.

(Name) shook her head in disbelief, and muttered under her breath, ‘that’s insane.’

By now, we were no longer alone. People were filtering in regularly, filling the tables as they chatted with friends about their recent games. I put my headphones in, hoping that she would take a hint and find someone else to have breakfast with. Only, she remained seated, munching on a dried apricot.

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but if a seven-year-old can do better than you, maybe I made a mistake in bringing you here.’

She pulled a face and boldly took one of my headphones out. ‘Maybe you should convince Hatter to let me leave.’

I glanced down at my earbud twirled between her fingers, before meeting that wide-eyed stare. ‘Maybe I don’t want to.’

Maybe you’re too valuable to let go.

There was a moment of quiet where neither of us looked away. She was close enough that I could see the variation of colours in her eyes, and the slight hint of pink washing over her cheeks. So that’s what she was thinking of. How very amusing.

If she had feelings for me, it would certainly be easier to convince her to go into the royal suite. But then again, she would cling to me in that annoying way.

And I don’t have the patience for that.

Breaking eye contact, I retrieved my headphone from her fingers. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. You’re useful to have here at the Beach. It would be a shame to let you go.’

‘I’d be more useful if you helped me learn Japanese.’

‘No.’

At this, she turned away. For a long moment, neither of us spoke and I was just starting to enjoy the silence when she mumbled, ‘has it occurred to you that you’re the only one I can actually talk to?’

Ch... that’s a lie.

She had Kuina. The two of them got along rather nicely, and (name) was still blissfully unaware that none of it was real.  

Ignoring her comment, I left to take my plate back to the kitchen, but when I re-entered the restaurant area, I noticed that every table was full. That was, except ours. Elbow on the tablecloth, (name’s) hand rested over her mouth, the smallest hint of a frown tugging at the corners. She was staring vacantly at the tiny bowl of half-eaten dried fruit.

‘Has it occurred to you that you’re the only one I can actually talk to?’

Understanding dawned on me. She stuck out like a sore thumb, alone on a table for four.

The other Beach members were avoiding her, probably because they knew only high school English and assumed she wouldn’t be able to speak Japanese. Even when talking to Kuina, I had seen her mixing up the two languages, sometimes struggling to understand small miscommunications.

Her expression reminded me of the Mona Lisa, those trips to the Louvre where I was made to tag along on my parents’ business trips, only to be left in the hands of his uninterested assistant. (Name) wasn’t smiling, but there was something hiding beneath the slight pull of her lips that echoed DaVinci’s painting. It was something uniquely human that I couldn’t seem to read.

It was enigmatic.

But it was also a perfect portrait of isolation. Everyone wants someone to understand them, to be seen for who they really are. And she was no exception.

The thought pulled at me, persistent, but I pushed it well away. If she was isolated, it would come in handy later on. So long as Kuina and I were the only people she could comfortably talk to, she would be more easily swayed into relying on us.

And when I do send her into the Royal Suite, she’ll have no reason not to trust me.

With that thought, I left her there alone in the hotel restaurant.

Later that night, it wasn’t until the clock ticked into the early hours of the morning that the hotel finally fell into a slumber. And it was then that I slipped out into the empty hallways.

The meeting room was lit only by the faint yellow glow of the patio’s outdoor lights. It wasn’t much against the darkness of an empty Tokyo, but it was enough to illuminate the pinboard propped up against the far wall. Names and numbers had been tacked on, all split into groups of four or five in preparation for tomorrow’s games.

My eyes scanned over the board, narrowing down on the one name that stood out in katakana, Niragi’s kanji right beside it.

But it was only when I switched Niragi’s name with my own, that her enigmatic frown appeared behind my eyes once more. That same portrait of isolation that haunted the back of my mind.  

[masterthespianduchovny]

Early on, Severus learned that life wasn’t fair.

He knew that he either had to accept it or drown in things he couldn’t control. Life was hard and unforgiving, but he was a stubborn kid. He refused to accept his circumstances at home and refused to back down at Hogwarts.

Nothing was handed to him in life. Severus had to work for everything, which was fine by him. No one could ever say he wasn’t deserving of anything he earned.

He arrived in Norway with not enough money for food and board. Slept under a bridge until he got his first paycheck, and then rented the poorest, dingiest accommodations he could find with his first paycheck.

He grew up in poverty. What he lived in now was better than where he came from.

But it wasn’t easy.

Living on the streets and looking for a job.

Without an address, many didn’t want to employ him. However, he was determined. He didn’t leave his home and Hogwarts behind to die on the streets in a foreign land.

Severus applied for every apprentice position he could find. Every single one turned him down. Refusing for that to dissuade him working, he offered to do maintenance work. Clean the shop, put away items, and whatever miscellaneous work needed to be done.

He was hired on the spot.

Admittedly, Severus was severely underpaid, but it didn’t deter him. This was only temporary. He’d find something better.

Within a few months, something better found him.

He’d heard a group students arguing about the ingredients of a potions brew. One of the students lack confidence in their answer and the other had 100% belief that they were right. The group went with the confident person, which infuriated Severus.

“Idiots,” he spat. “If you’re the best Durmstrang has to offer, no wonder many parents are sending their kids to Hogwarts. Don’t worry about failing potions, you’ll be dead before the professor can even assess it. He may be a spineless fool,” Severus nodded to the kid who initially disagreed with the overly confident teen. “But at least his brew won’t kill the lot of you...unfortunately.”

Storming out of the deli, Snape prepared for a duel as he discreetly got his wind. Sourly, he chastised himself. This was the first day in weeks he treated himself out to eat because he had to penny-pinch to make ends meet. If the original brew wouldn’t have resulted in death, he would’ve kept his mouth closed. Now he had to fight a group of boys, which gave him a flashback of his time at Hogwarts.

As predicted, the boys attempted to attack him. As Severus prepared to defend himself, someone intervened.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” The man looked at the six of them.

“Nothing,” the man repeated. “Well, the six of you will be doing nothing or SOMETHING in detention with me for the next month.”

Severus pocketed his wand. “I don’t go to Durmstrang,” he said. “I won’t be doing shit with you.”

Assessing him, the man raised an eyebrow, and then glanced at the guy he’d been walking with. “You’re not a student and you’re not a local, there’s no accent. What are you doing here?”

Inwardly, Severus sighed.

When the school term started, he realized he was in the vicinity of where durmstrang was located. Although he didn’t know where the school was nor did he attempt to look, it was quite obvious. The shops that primarily existed for students, the crowding every weekend, the adults who appeared to be monitoring kids.

Naturally, since no one knew where Durmstrang was if they weren’t a student, teacher, or anyone directly affiliated with the school, those who were were suspicious.

“Looking for an apprentice position. I didn’t finish my seventh year, so no Master was interested in taking me on,” he groused.

“Ha,” one boy exclaimed. “You couldn’t even pass your seventh year and you’re calling us idiots?”

Fuming, Severus said, “I did not fail my seventh year, I left. Besides, there was nothing left to teach me that I hadn’t already taught myself. Your potion brew solution is pathetic and if you want to die as a result of incompetence, perhaps they’ll include you in lesson books as to what not to do.”

The other man spoke, “How was their brew pathetic?”

Severus noted the time. “Ask them yourself, they’d love to dazzle you with their stupidity.”

The man scoffed. “Just like I suspected. A bloke full of himself who has nothing to show for it. No wonder none of the masters wanted you as their apprentice.”

Scathingly, Severus explained how and why the potion brew was incompetence at its finest. That him brewing with dirty utensils would be a safer option than whatever this group of boys could do in perfect conditions. Severus cited his Hogwarts issued potions book, which he pointed out was outdated, and said that he’d trusted that over what he heard the boys discuss (and he’d stopped using the books as a source to brew from after his fourth year).

Smiling, the man said, “My name is Rodolphous Sweeney. I own the potions shop two blocks over. I’d like to talk to you more about your potions knowledge.”

“I need to get back to work.” Severus began to walk off.

“How about this?” The man spoke loudly. “If you come back to the shop with me and make three potions without any assistance or mistakes, you can be my apprentice. If you’re successful, you can start today.”

Severus stopped. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re right,” he said. “Their potions brew was pathetic. And a wizard that can thoroughly discuss the finer points of potion making based off of a passing discussion is someone I want as an apprentice.”

Severus followed him to the shop.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Severus Snape.”

Without breaking a sweat, Severus completed each potion with time to spare. In amazement, Rodolphous assessed each potion.

“They’re...perfect,” he complimented. “You’ve completed these in less time than any published books states.”

“I told you, the books are outdated,” Snape said.

“Or they haven’t been updated because there wasn’t anyone brilliant enough to modify any of these instructions to merit an update.”

Blankly, Severus stared at him. “It was obvious.”

“No. It wasn’t.” Rodolphous put the potion down. “What’s obvious to you isn’t apparent to most. You have a brilliant mind, Severus. With that being said, you do have a lot to learn. School only sets the foundation of what it takes to fine tune our knowledge and skill.”

Severus’ black eyes followed Rodolphous as he walked.

“We can learn from each other,” he continued.

As promised, Severus was immediately hired. Rodolphous explained the ins and outs of his business and what he expected from him. It all sounded reasonable to Severus as he shook hands with the potions Master.

In no time, he was Rodolphous’ top apprentice. Frequently collaborating on projects with him and trying experiments.

Severus lived in his dingy quarters for a year until moving into a modest apartment. Bought actual food, still cheap, books, and saved the rest. Unlike with his former employer, he was being underpaid. His time and skill was valued as he learned more about potions and how other disciples connected to it.

He felt like he belonged...somewhat.

When his mother became sick, Rodolphous gave him time to tend to her and promised he’d have a job to come back to when he took care of his personal business.

As he took care of his mother, his father was died. Tobias Snape was violently mugged and choked on his own vomit in an alleyway. His mother died little under three months later.

Complicated feelings swirled within Snape. His tormentor was finally dead. Although his father never put his hands on him, Severus still carried emotional scars. The baggage that continued to weigh him down even though his father was dead.

A weight was not lifted. He didn’t feel better or free.

He just was.

His mother was different and more complicated. He loved and resented her in equal measures. She could’ve left. Why didn’t she leave?

Why didn’t she get them out of there?

He held her hand as she laid dying in her bed. He hurt and wanted to forgive her. His anger pent up ready to boil over.

His heart breaking as her heart failed her.

What was the use in being angry?

At her at least?

Instead, they reminisced over the few happy memories they had. Severus got read his mother books and watched her favorite shows with her.

She died before the episode was over.

Another funeral in less than three months.

Severus was emotionally exhausted in a way he couldn’t deal with. In a way he didn’t want to deal with.

As he did years before, severus kept very little personal items. He sold what he could and threw away the rest. With the money he made from his sells, Severus fixed up the house and contacted a realtor about selling.

Keeping this house meant holding on to memories. Unpleasant memories.

Months later, he came back to Spinner’s end to finalize the deal.

He ran into Lily Evans—Lily Potter.

“Hi, excuse me,” she said.

For a moment, Severus was taken aback. Still beautiful. She always had kind eyes.

Ever since he left hogwarts, whenever he was at Spinner’s end, he used poly juice potion of Rodolphous. He didn’t want to risk anyone (Lily, really) recognizing him.

“Yes,” Severus said.

“Are you the new homeowner?” Severus looked at the sold sticker slapped on the for sale sign.

“No. Afraid not,” Severus said, carefully.

“Do you know what happened to the Snape family,” Lily asked. “I haven’t been around these last few years. I went away and...” she shook her head. “So, I haven’t been up on what’s been happening.”

Severus saw the wedding band on her hand. She couldn’t have married Potter, could she? And so soon?

“Unfortunately,” Severus began. “Tobias and Eileen Snape have passed away.”

Lily clutched her chest. “Oh my God, really?” Severus nodded. “Poor Severus. How is their son holding up?”

“No one has heard from him,” he said. “Apparently he disappeared a few years ago. Without a living family member to claim the house and no one paying the mortgage, the bank seized and sold the house.”

“That’s horrible,” she murmured to herself, tears welling in her ears. Lily wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “Their son and I used to be friends. We ended on a bad note before he disappeared out seventh year. I sometimes wonder where he is. If he’s safe. If he has anyone.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to wonder after him,” Severus said.

Lily furrowed her brows. “Everyone wants someone to wonder after them. Everyone. I knew Severus was having a hard time at school, but —“

“Lily, my dear, we have to go,” James said as he walked up to them with a baby boy in his arms. “You said it’ll only take a moment.”

Lily wiped her eyes. “Severus’ parents are dead and no one still has heard anything from him.”

Shocked, James looked at lily. “Snape’s a smart guy, he probably—“

“I have to go,” Severus said, walking away before they could speak.

When he returned back to Norway, Severus was quite and kept to himself when work was over. Seeing lily again was a surprise, but he still was grappling with the death of his parents. Why didn’t he feel any different? Well, better? His violent father was dead. Instead, he felt worse and aimless.

As Severus inhaled his cigarette, his co-apprentice Chorus joined him in the alley. Stealing the cigarette from his mouth, she inhaled.

“I was smoking that,” he grumbled.

“I know,” she said. Once again, she puffed, and then handed him the cigarette. “We’re having drinks tonight, join us.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“I wasn’t asking.” A smile played on her lips. Chorus looked at Severus sympathetically. “I know you’re having a tough time. I get it.” Chorus was very open about the unexpected and tragic loss of her parents. “But you won’t feel better isolating yourself from everyone. Have one drink. If you aren’t having fun by the time you finish it, you can go home. My orders.”

If Severus could smile, he would.

Three beers in, he managed to laugh. Privately, each apprentice spoke to him and expressed remorse for his loss. They appeared to be genuine and offered to help if he needed anything.

Throughout his entire ordeal, they consistently reached out to him while he took care of his mother. Looked in on his apartment. Didn’t touch his station.

Didn’t laugh at him.

Calling it at night, Severus said, “I’m heading out.”

“Can you walk me home?” Chorus walked beside him.

“Uh...sure.”

They chatted on their way to his apartment. Chorus wasn’t just easy to talk to, she had an interesting mind.

“For a world filled with possibilities, wizarding society has such a limited viewpoint,” she said. “Dark magic. It’s a fascinating field of study, but people think that just because you find it appealing it means you’re evil. Or the bullshit categorization what is it isn’t evil.”

Severus arched an brow. “Such as?”

“I understand that there’s levels to this shit,” she began. “However, shouldn’t there be more strict guidelines other than ‘you have to mean it?’ That’s a pretty low bar. Why can’t there be ‘grey magic?’ On a purely academic level, dark magic is interesting as hell. It’s a rich subject because of how intense, unpredictable, and powerful dark magic can be. Who wouldn’t want to study that?”

They moved on to lighter topics.

When they arrived to the front of Chorus’ apartment building, she said, “You should come up.”

Baffled, Severus said, “why?”

Laughing out loud, chorus covered her mouth. “I told them you were bad at this.”

Humiliated, Severus began to walk away when chorus grab his jacket and brought her mouth to his.

She waggled her eyebrows. “You should come up,” she repeated.

“I, um—I,” he stammered.

Chorus kissed his again. “It’s okay,” she promised. “Just follow my lead.”

Slowly, she led Severus upstairs and into her bedroom.

Chorus took her time and was patient with Severus to which he was appreciative of.

[moth-and-raven]

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Julian manages to stand up on his third try, though he still leans heavily against the bloodied stone wall. I wrap his arm around my shoulders myself when he makes to step away from it. He smiles weakly to feel me tucked into his side, but most of his concentration is focused on staying upright; he turned white as a sheet as soon as he got his footing. I remember what Mazelinka said, about him passing out after using his healing mark. I’ll just have to make sure he’s in bed by the time his strength gives out.

I hear voices filtering down from the barracks when we reach the foot of the stairs, but there are far fewer than before, and they sound familiar. Portia laughs, though there’s still a catch in her throat, and Balam’s fast-flowing speech wraps around the murmur of the others like eddies in a river. Julian and I take the stairs slowly, one at a time, until we emerge in the now-empty room.

“Oh, Ilya!” Portia sees us first and scrambles to her feet to rush to his side, dropping Balam’s hand. She swallows hard seeing the blood soaked into his clothes but gives him a gentle hug anyway. “I’m gonna tear them apart,” she hisses as she pulls back. “Piece by fucking piece.”

Skylar moves to Julian’s other side and takes some of his weight. “With any luck, Salsa will have already found them and gotten a good head start on that. She’s a great tracker when she wants to be.”

“Tracker?” I ask. “What happened?”

Portia growls. “They up and vanished. All of them. The whole court.”

“What?!”

“Valdemar, Vlastomil, and Vulgora, anyway,” Balam says. She’s sitting on Yazakh’s lap in the corner with her arms around them. She sighs and leans her cheek against theirs; they don’t react, focused on a spot on the opposite wall. “We don’t know about Valerius or Volta yet, officially, but it seems only likely that all of them disappeared at once. Yaz just got the report a few minutes ago, that all of their estates and suites are empty.”

No wonder Yazakh isn’t responding. Just glancing at them, I can see the calculation in their amber eyes, putting together what they know about the courtiers. They’ve been Nadia’s bodyguard, and head of palace security, for a long time; I think they worked for Lucio before that, too, in his mercenary company, so they know what they’re doing.

I’m a little surprised I don’t see anger in their face, though. If Valdemar, or Vulgora, or whichever other V-name, had a contingent of guards at their beck and call, that would mean that some of their staff went rogue. Maybe it just isn’t in their nature to get outwardly upset; I get the sense that they’ve been through some shit. In any case, being around Lucio for as long as they were could turn anyone off of huge displays of emotion, I think.

“Is Nadia still here?” I shift closer to Julian. “We really need to talk to her.”

Balam nods, looking at Yazakh as if for permission to continue. Whatever she sees must grant it. “She’s been briefed on what happened and wants to see you both right away.”

That’s convenient. At least we’re all on the same page. “Where is she?”

Abruptly, Yazakh stands, shifting Balam into their arms like she weighs no more than a doll and setting her back down on the bench they left. “I will escort you,” they say, their voice betraying nothing. “It may no longer be safe to walk the halls of the palace alone.”

Their words linger in the still air. Portia and Balam glance at each other as Yazakh strides to the door. Skylar hesitates before urging Julian to take another step, and I follow.

“I’m right as rain, truly,” Julian complains, trying feebly to duck away from our support. “This is nothing. Actually, it’s strangely similar to—”

“If you’re about to tell the pregnant war elephant story again, I will hit you,” Skylar says bluntly.

“Or the pirates who taught you how to fence,” adds Portia.

“Or the leech farmers.”

“Or the—”

“Alright, alright!” Julian sighs dramatically. “Tough crowd.”

Skylar laughs, then pats him on the shoulder. “If you really think you’re fine, I’ll let Reyja deal with you. She seems to know how to handle you already.”  

“Oh, does she ever.” Julian lolls his head onto mine and places a sloppy kiss on my forehead.

“Same horny bastard as always, aren’t you?” Skylar says fondly.

Before Julian can respond, Portia takes Skylar’s hand. “If you’re not gonna go with them, come with us. We have something… interesting to show you.”

Skylar cocks his head, intrigued. I assume, by the looks on their faces, that Portia has filled Balam in on what we learned from Lucio, and now she’s only too eager to see their touching reunion. If Balam is a magician too, the three of them should have no trouble connecting to him. Part of me is certainly curious, especially because Skylar doesn’t seem to have known that the Count was lusting after him the whole time, but I have bigger problems to deal with first.

One of which, pressingly, is that Nadia’s bodyguard has now been told, nearly directly, that Julian and I are romantically involved. If they hadn’t figured it out earlier, now it’s clear. 

I don’t want to leave him to walk on his own, but he shrugs my touch away and heaves a steadying breath, following it with the best smile he can muster in an attempt to reassure me. For a moment, I’m frozen, stuck between declaring my affection openly to Nadia by staying at his side and at least pretending I haven’t been lying to her all along. Julian senses my hesitation and reaches for my hand, dropping a kiss to my knuckles. I suppose he’s right: we couldn’t hide this even if we wanted to, not in person. 

So be it.

Portia and Balam file into the hall behind us, arms linked, with Skylar bringing up the rear. We linger; it feels like everyone has something to say, like this is some sort of turning point. Nothing will be as it was once we part. Even Yazakh rests their hand on Balam’s shoulder before stepping aside. 

Skylar breaks the tension first: “Well, we’ll see you later, then. At dinner, maybe?”

“Oh, yeah! That’s what we can do afterwards!” Portia beams. “We’ll get something nice from the Masquerade practice food. I’m sure the cooks are going crazy right now.”

“I saw surmai when I went past the kitchens this morning,” Balam says. “And cardamom mishti.”

“Yum! Yep, that’s what we’ll do. Um…” Portia trails off, then drops Balam’s arm to surge forward and give Julian another quick hug. “Stay safe, Ilya,” she murmurs into his chest. “Please.”

He responds in Neviv, and she laughs. But it isn’t enough to staunch a fresh burst of tears.

“I’ll see you soon, Pasha,” he says, ruffling her hair as they part.

“Last time you said that, you disappeared for ten years.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You fucking better.”

------

Portia, Skylar, and Balam take the southern branch of the hall. Yazakh waits until they’ve turned the corner at the far end before catching us in their calm golden gaze and starting in the opposite direction. Julian and I follow, fingers linked, nerves growing with every step we take closer to Nadia.

By the time we reach the door of her salon, my heartbeat is lodged firmly in my throat. Yazakh glances at us and I feel the command to stay put as surely as if they had said it aloud. They aren’t even gone long enough for Julian and I to speak to each other; he squeezes my hand, once, a silent reminder that we’re in this together, then lets go. I’ve just drawn a breath when Yazakh returns and beckons us inside, shutting the door behind us.

The room is a picture of elegance with its cream-colored upholstery and dark wood, gold-accented lamps and drawer pulls, purple-and-red gauzy drapery framing the evening through a wide window on the opposite wall. And in the middle of it, in a large suede armchair, sits the Countess herself, sipping jasmine tea. She sets the cup aside — carefully aligning it on its ceramic coaster — and rises to greet us.

“Reyja. Doctor Devorak.”

Julian shifts. “Countess Satrinava,” he says hesitantly. 

“There is no need to stand on ceremony, Doctor. Please, call me Nadia.”

“May I insist, then, Nadia, that you call me Julian?”

“Very well. Do come in.” She indicates the sofa across from her chair. “Would you care for some tea?”

I don’t like this. She’s being too nice. If she’s going to condemn him, I wish she would just do it so this tension has somewhere to go.

“Ahm…” Julian stops himself from looking at me, but not before his hand twitches towards mine. “I must say, dear Nadia, that this isn’t the welcome I was expecting.”

She levels her dark gaze at him, smiling faintly. “I believe my courtiers saw to your welcome already, did they not?”

“Ah, right.”

“And rest assured, they will be soundly, fully, and completely punished for such a foul act of cruelty.”

What? What? Julian seems as baffled as I am. In her eyes, he’s still a criminal… isn’t he? 

Nadia gestures to the sofa again. Both of us sink onto it. This… this isn’t going according to plan at all.

“I sincerely apologize for their horrific treatment of you, Doctor—” She catches herself. “Julian. Anything at all you need to assist in your recovery, do not hesitate to ask. I will see to it that you leave here as spritely as you arrived.”

“L-leave?” Julian asks weakly. “Erm, forgive me, but aren’t you—? Weren’t you, erm, searching for me?”

“I was. I employed a skilled magician to follow your trail, and here you are.”

I open my mouth, but I’m not sure why. My tongue is too dry to speak.

“Indeed, skilled magician—” Nadia turns to me. I swear she winks. “Would you kindly regale me once more with the evidence you have gathered?”

“Um,” I say eloquently. “Um, s-sure.” 

I pause for a moment in a futile attempt to gather my poise. It isn’t until Julian’s fingertips brush mine, in a move he attempts to disguise as repositioning himself on the sofa, that I find my voice.

“So. Three years ago, this man, Julian Devorak, came to work here at the palace. Vesuvia was in the midst of the Red Plague, a horrible disease known for killing thousands. He was searching for a cure, like many others, and worked in a large group of medical providers to learn as much as he could while also caring for the sick. He took copious notes and sought out the opinions of colleagues and friends in other areas of expertise. By the end of the Plague, he was one of, if not the only, doctor still working.”

Nadia is listening raptly. I take a breath and continue.

“He looked after Lucio himself, noting his condition and complaints. Even though multiple sources indicate that he himself had suffered some sort of loss prior to coming here, he worked very hard to keep Lucio comfortable. All the way to that final Masquerade, he pushed himself to do more.”

I hope Julian’s listening too.

“He worked under Quaestor Valdemar, employed by the palace then in the same capacity they are now. They were getting close to a cure, though their methods were…” I trail off, thinking fast. The swelling around Julian’s plagued eye has lessened enough for him to open it now, though he’s been keeping it closed out of habit. I turn to him and brush his bangs back; he catches on and blinks, showing Nadia the vibrant scarlet sclera. “... less than ideal.”

“You were infected?” she asks, surprised.

“I was,” he answers. “At the end, they, erm… Of course I don’t want to speak ill of any of your esteemed court, but—”

I interrupt bluntly. “They held him down and infected him on purpose.”

Nadia’s eyes widen. “How horrible,” she says, almost to herself. 

“Yes, erm, it certainly wasn’t—”

I cut him off again. As much as I love hearing him talk, now isn’t really the time to be mincing words. “It nearly killed him. And from what I’ve found out, several things happened around the same time right after that: Valdemar left when they saw evidence that the Plague had taken root, possibly to visit Lucio’s chambers themself. Julian followed, though by then he was hallucinating vividly and, by his own admission, can’t remember what he did or found. But based on what remains of Lucio’s suite, a huge explosion took place, burning everything inside, including Lucio, to ashes. The only power I know of that can affect such a large area without leveling the entire building is magic. Even then, most magicians couldn’t handle something like that alone.”

Nadia nods. “And after that explosion?”

“I think it’s safe to say that that’s what killed Lucio,” I offer. “And I also think it’s safe to say that Julian is not a magician. I spoke to many people, including other magicians, who’ve known him for a long time, and none of them said anything about it.”

“I see.”

I swallow hard. It might hurt my presentation to admit this, but it also feels too obvious to leave out. “So I don’t know who it was. Yet. But I can almost guarantee it wasn’t him.”

Nadia leans back in her armchair and stares at us. As my conclusion fades away, it takes more effort than I expected to stop myself from leaning into Julian’s arms. I’m very tired; from the heaviness of the shadows under his eyes, and the pallor of his skin, I can tell that the reserves of strength he’s been drawing upon since I brought him out of the dungeons are almost depleted too. He needs to rest. We both do. But our next move is out of our hands now.

After what feels like an infinite moment, Nadia sits up again and takes a sip of her tea. “You have certainly been busy, Reyja,” she says. I wonder if I’m imagining the hint of laughter in her voice. “And, indeed, your work has paid off. I see no evidence of a crime in your actions, Julian, nor do I see motive or intent. I no longer believe you killed my ex-husband. Therefore, I have no need or inclination to prosecute you further.”

In the beat of silence that follows her words, my heart surges. 

“B-but—” Julian stutters.

“I understand this may come as a shock. While I cannot truly atone for the mistaken accusations leveled at you three years ago, I fully intend on providing restitution in the form of lost wages and the reinstatement of your South End clinic, should you wish to resume seeing patients. The records of the building’s purchase remain, though you may have some cobwebs to clear out.”

“But I—”

“Shall I word it plainly? Very well: Doctor Julian Devorak, I, Countess Nadia Satrinava, hereby award you an official pardon, clearing you of any culpability in the murder of Count Lucio of Vesuvia.”

I could cry. I might still cry. I barely dared to hope we would come out this cleanly. Yes, we still have a mystery to solve: the Hanged Man’s involvement, Lucio’s actual murderer, and now where the courtiers ran off to. But this is a victory. Once again, I have to hold myself back from sagging against him.

Julian, apparently, has no such qualms, and turns to me with joy in his mismatched eyes, barely hesitating before he cups the back of my head and kisses me soundly.

When we part, Nadia is grinning like a cat. “Do you need a moment?” she asks, laughter spilling out from behind her mask of courtesy.

I smile sheepishly as Julian clears his throat. “Did you know all along?”

“I guessed. You were hardly subtle, Reyja, though I expect you were trying to be. Yazakh confirmed my suspicions when they announced your arrival, as, clearly, have you.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

She holds up her hand to stop me. “You need not explain the twists of fate,” she says. “I understand all too well.”

“I’m, um… thank you.”

“You are quite welcome. And, truly, if you wish to retire, please do so. I will have Portia bring dinner to your room, unless you would prefer to be alone.”

“No, that’s fine.”

“And you do not mind being waited upon by your sister, Doctor?”

Oh. She really does know everything, doesn’t she? 

Julian blanches. “I swear to you, Countess, on my parents’ graves, Pasha had nothing to do with—”

“Portia is my trusted handmaiden and confidante, and will remain so. Her relation to you is irrelevant in that regard. And, indeed, you have no more reason to worry: you are a free man.”

I think it might take him a little while, and some sleep, and a solid meal, to realize that. 

Nadia sees us to the door. Julian’s leaning heavily on me again, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Nevertheless, he smiles broadly at the Countess as he shakes her hand, dropping a grateful kiss to her knuckles and bowing as low as he can manage. “Thank you, Nadia. More than I can ever articulate, thank you.”

She smiles back before turning to me. “I had hoped yours would prove an unbiased perspective, Reyja,” she laughs. “More fool me for thinking so. It would seem there are few in this city unaffected by the Plague even now, though in the most remarkable of ways. I could not have predicted this.”

“Me neither,” I say. 

“Indeed! Sleep well, both of you. We shall speak more in the morning. I’m afraid this is merely the end of a chapter, not the whole story.”

I nod. But I’ll sleep well tonight, regardless.

------

Portia brings us the food she promised alone, skillfully balancing a tray laden with heaped plates in one hand as she closes the door of my room. She sets it down on the desk and throws herself into Julian’s arms, near tears with happiness at the good news. He hugs her tightly in return.

When she pulls back, she’s grinning through her sniffles. “Well, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

We settle down to the sumptuous meal. Luckily for me, it’s not fish, but thick coconut curry sauce slathered over chicken on beds of sticky rice, with sweet samosas and yogurt and a handful of crispy chickpeas each. I’ve never had such delicious food before; if this is a preview of the Masquerade, I’m in for a treat.

It’s gone quickly, though, with how hungry we are, and Portia soon stands to go.

“I guess I’ll leave you two alone for the night,” she says.

“Okay,” I tell her, eyeing Julian appraisingly. I think he ate as much as he could, but he’s flagging fast, sprawled in the evening-colored armchair on the other side of the room. “Go be with Balam. You two are cute together.”

She giggles. “Thanks. I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Please do. Anything happen with Skylar and Lucio?”

“Ooh, don’t make me rush that story. I’ll tell you later.”

Julian snorts. “Runs in the family, you know,” he slurs, near-drunk from exhaustion. “We’re story-tellers. Always have been.”

“Shh, Ilya,” Portia says softly. “You’ve been through the wringer today.”

“I’m fi—”

“I swear to god, if you try to tell us you’re fine, I’ll kick you.”

“Couldn’t reach anything… critical…” he mumbles.

Portia rolls her eyes. “Bet I could. But I won’t. Not tonight, anyway. You’re sure you don’t need anything else, Reyja?”

I pause to think for a moment. “If you could, or if you know someone who could, maybe I should try to send a message to Asra? I don’t even know if he’s back in town yet, but he’s next on the list to talk to.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll ask Yaz, or maybe Balam and I will just go on a little forest adventure looking for him ourselves.”

“Thanks, Portia.”

“Don’t mention it!” She gives me a quick hug too. “Sleep well, okay? And I know I don’t have to say it, but take care of my brother for me. I kinda like him.”

I smile. “I kinda like him, too.”

Portia sticks her tongue out as she leaves, making sure the door shuts behind her. I wait for her footsteps to fade down the hall, then cross to Julian’s side, sinking to my knees beside his chair. 

“Hey,” I murmur, sweeping his sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

With effort, he opens his eyes. But the smile that breaks across his face like dawn when he sees me is effortless. “My darling, my Reyja,” he says. “You did it.”

“What did I do?” 

“Oh, without you… never would’ve gotten here. Saved me.”

My heart flips over. “You saved you, Julian. It was all there just waiting for someone to see it.”

He shakes his head slowly. “You,” he repeats. “You did the work.”

I don’t want to argue with him. Especially not now. “If you say so.”

“I do. Can’t thank you enough. But I want to try.”

I run my nails over his scalp. “What do you mean?”

He lets his head loll, still smiling. “Probably shouldn’t talk about it now. But in the morning, when I, erm… after I get some sleep. I might not be at my best at the moment.”

A shiver of excitement rolls down my back. I shouldn’t speculate, but… “Okay. What do you want to do right now, then?”

He blinks at me. “Kiss you.”

I can’t complain about that. I stretch up to meet his lips, cool and soft against mine. He falls back after a moment, exhausted again, but reaches for my hand instead. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that feeling, skin on skin, his long, slender fingers meshed with my thick ones. It’s his branded hand, too. I trace its heavy lines with the fingertips of my other hand, stopping when he sighs.

“You alright?” I ask quietly.

“That mark defined me for so long,” he says, staring at it. “Strange that it no longer has to.”

“Good, though?”

“Fantastic, darling. Utterly fantastic.”

I kiss him again. It’s just as strange, and just as fantastic, for me to know I can keep doing that. In public now, even, any time we want.

There’s still some blood and dirt smeared across his skin. Water magic has never been my forte, but I call a trickle to fill my cupped hand and gently wipe it away. I wish I had a dish to use instead, but everything in here is dirty already. For tonight, though, this will do. I just want him to be comfortable.

When I’m done, I let my hands wander down his neck, over his broad shoulders, along his arms, pausing at the hardest knots and working at them with my thumbs. He sighs again, softer and sweeter, as some of his tension dissipates. I’m entranced by the constellations of freckles and faded acne scars on his back, tracing patterns between them until he hums his contentment. I’ve never gotten to touch someone like this before, so tenderly.

So lovingly.

“Hey, Julian?” My voice is barely above a whisper. I don’t think I can say what I want to say any louder. Not yet, anyway. “I… I, um—”

But he’s already asleep, slumped in the armchair, a beatific smile still curving his lips from the comfort of my touch.

—————

Skylar belongs to @ollifree​.

Balam belongs to @atypicalacademic​.

prev || next

[zwiezraczek]

Hellooo, can I ask you something with Four/Billy from 6 underground where the reader (she/her) after the Hong Kong mission starts to be more affectionate in every situation, like hugging him from behind or touching his hands during the meetings and also when they're alone she wants to cuddle as much as they can because she is scared of losing him. Thanksss

Never Let You Go [Request]

Note: Said I’d be back today (even if it’s like almost midnight and probably midnight when I’ll publish it) so here I am! ~ I don’t know if y/n and Billy are truly a thing, or if they like just don’t put label on the relationship the have but I think I kind of wanted it to be a bit vague, so I hope you like it nonnie and than you for your request! 💕

:~~~~

You vividly remembered the very moment when you saw Billy on this safety net, with a man trying to push him down. Your heart raced like crazy, and your mind went insane as you yelled his name, the name you were the only one to know. One didn't even pick up on that detail as you all were looking at him, trying to not die. You begged One a countless number of times to save him, because he was one of us, you begged and cried – and even your so-called “hostage” seemed to want to comfort you – but nothing did the trick, until Seven pulled out a gun on Three's head asking him to stop the car, and Three stopped, you stepped out the car and started watching.

Flames in your eyes, fire in your heart your eyes were glistening in the dark night of Hong Kong as all of your teammates were watching the same scene. You bit your lower lip, anxious, feeling some blood on your tongue as you couldn't tell if he was about to make it or not. You wished with your whole heart that he would. You begged inside your head for him to survive.

And he did survive. But you thought you wouldn't.

He had warned you a countless number of times, he was a rolling stone, rolling and rolling, and told you to stay as far from him as possible, because if both of you let yourself go into this relationship, both of you would lose their souls. But you never listened, but you should have. It was too late, you got to close to him, and there was no turning back. And when you came back from this mission, waiting for the next move you probably had spent even more time with him than you did before. At least, you tried while you were moving from one location to another, together through different countries while having the good Alimov on your side – as a hostage, more or less. You became clingy, maybe a little bit too much for him to not notice it. Well, One had noticed so you thought that Billy did too. One day, he told you to stop being his mother, because you kept asking him if he had eaten enough and drank enough to not collapse on the ground. You took his hand whenever you had the chance to, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand, lovingly. And because you knew he could disappear, you didn't want to let him go, never.

At night, while you slept in these cheap hotels, you would hug him from behind, your face against his back, as he would bring your hands closer to his chest. You could hear him breathe, a breathing you wanted to hear forever, no matter at what cost. You promised yourself that no matter what, you would come back for him, even if One would kill you right after, you had to try to save Billy. The connection you made with him was bigger than any connection you previously had with anyone, and you cherished this holly link with your whole heart.

“Y/n, are you sure you're alright,” he asked with his sleepy voice. You probably had woken him up, hence the slightly raspy voice.

“Hmm, why I wouldn't be,” you replied with your chin on his shoulder.

“Since Hong Kong,” he started and your grip tightened a bit, “okay, I got it now. I'm not leaving, not now, okay?”

“But I almost... Lost you,” you whispered, on the verge of tears. “I... One didn't want to and...”

“But I'm here, y/n,” he said and turned around to face you, his green-pearly eyes were looking at you in the dark, you could feel them on your face, and his forehead against yours. “I know that I told you that I'm... Okay, I'm not trustworthy with all this shit, I don't know where and when to stop during a mission and I was always taught that the mission goes first but...I was scared that I would never see you again.”

“You were?”

“Yeah, absolutely. I know I was the one telling you all this bullshit about not getting close, but I guess I was talking for myself more than for you because... Damn, I just wanted to see you, alive and well even if it meant dying.”

“But you just said,” you interrupted him and he chuckled.

“It's late, sorry my brain doesn't want to cooperate with my mouth apparently. I don't want to lose you, I don't want to never be able to see you, I just want you to be happy, especially if this happiness involves me,” he said and you felt a soft kiss on your lips before he pulled his lips away.

“Promise me you won't do stupid things as you did in Hong Kong.”

“You know that in this team nobody can promise anything to anyone, Seven promised that he wouldn't eat the last donut and this bastard ate it,” he complained and you began to softly laugh. “But I promise I'll try my best to keep you happy.”

You smiled as your foreheads were still touching, but before you could answer anything you felt a pillow arriving on your face and groaned loudly.

“Listen, you lovebirds, I didn't chose to sleep on this couch to hear your stories,” Two complained with her thick French accent. She was there because Three wouldn't let her sleep, he was snoring, and their room was the closest to hers so she went in. But they woke her up.

“Sorry,” you whispered with a laughing tone.

Billy kissed your cheek, and you could almost feel him smile when he pulled you closer to his chest so you could fall asleep. And you did.

[imagining-supernatural]

The Backstory

Part 15 of Seventy Percent

Series Summary: When you left on your trip to Vegas, you’d planned on letting loose for one last weekend before heading back to reality and getting your affairs in order so your best friend wouldn’t be left cleaning up your mess when your cancer finally ended your life. What you hadn’t counted on was waking up married to a celebrity who has a knight-in-shining-armor complex, connections with an oncologist, and amazing insurance…

Chapter Summary: You and Sebastian sit down and you finally tell him about your past

Word Count: 1,757

HGTV was playing in the background, but neither you nor Seb were paying attention. You were curled together in the recliner with a heavy blanket over your legs. He still had a few hours before he had to head out to his interview with Jimmy Fallon, so this was the best time to tell him about your past. Enough time that he could process everything and not be too burdened during his interview, but not enough time that the two of you would drag out every damn detail. There were parts that you wouldn’t tell him, but most of it, you wanted him to know.

You just had to figure out how to start.

“You grew up in Wyoming, right?” He prompted, as if sensing that you were stuck before you had even begun.

“Yeah.” You sighed heavily, shoring up your courage. “It was just me, my sister, and my parents. If I have any cousins or aunts, I don’t know about them. My, uh, my dad was… you know what? I’m just gonna say everything really quick to get it all out there. I think that’ll be easier.”

He nodded, rubbing his hand along your spine. You tucked your head into his neck, hoping that the lack of eye contact would make it even easier.

“Alright. Ever since I can remember, my dad has been an alcoholic. Abusive too, but I didn’t realize until later. He took out most of it on my mom and sister, since she was older. But then, uh, my sister, Eliza, moved out when she turned sixteen and it was just me and my mom.”

“How old were you?” he asked in a pained whisper.

“Eight. She’s eight years older than me. He died when our house caught fire when I was sixteen. Cigarette left burning. His fault.” Your voice broke on the last two words, but you powered through. “Luckily mom was in lockup for the night for drunk and disorderly or something and I was staying with Jaz. That was… it’s fucked up to say, but that was the best day of my life.”

His hand moved up your back and settled on the back of your head, holding you closer. That simple action drew a wave of tears to your eyes that had you blinking quickly, trying to hold them back. God, you didn’t deserve him.

Remembering the truth of that day… you really didn’t deserve him.

“Um, so that left me and my mom. She… She was an alcoholic too, but more of a neglectful alcoholic. Thank god for Jasmin and her family. I don’t know what I would have done without them. They kept me alive and sane until I was old enough to get a job and basically support myself a few months after my dad died. I thought it was over, then. Up until then, my family was just that trash family that other people in town gossiped about to feel better about themselves. I got some pitying looks, and that was it.

“Then my sister went and got arrested. Everyone expected me to take in her two sons when she was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.”

“What did she do?”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat. “Fucking murdered her boyfriend. Abused her kids. Assaulted a police officer. She… she didn’t have a friend like Jaz. Or a support system like Jaz’s family. But that’s still no excuse. None at all. They’re her kids. She knew what it was like to grow up being a punching bag. She…” In an effort to control your budding anger, you took a deep breath and turned your face into Seb’s neck for a second, letting his familiar scent calm you.

“So when she was sentenced to twenty-five to life, the entire town assumed I would adopt the kids. I mean, they were my nephews and all, but everyone was acting like it was my responsibility to raise them. But… But I was barely eighteen. I couldn’t even take care of myself and I didn’t want to put them in a position where I—where I might snap like she did. It wasn’t fair to them. And they were young enough that they were adopted fairly quickly and now they’re with some family down in Georgia growing up with cute little Southern accents. Their parents send me letters sometimes. Pictures too. The boys are happy. And I know I made the right decision, but if you listen to what everyone else said, then you’d start thinking I was a selfish bitch who didn’t respect family values as if they’d all forgotten the kind of values my family taught me. I-I-I know I made the right choice. They’re happy. So fuck what everyone else thought.”

“People make far too many judgments based on far too few facts,” Sebastian whispered against your hair.

“And far too many assumptions,” you mumbled.

He held you in silence for a few minutes, just stroking your hair.

“You know what the worst thing someone said to me was?” You asked a bit later, after your heartbeat had calmed down from its angry beating. “When word got out that I had cancer, someone from my hometown told me that God gave me cancer as punishment for not adopting my nephews. For thinking someone else could raise them better than their own blood. Years later and they still couldn’t let it go.”

Not that they were entirely wrong. Your cancer might have been punishment from God, but not because you didn’t adopt your nephews. There were far worse things you’d done.

“That’s—” He couldn’t even find a word to describe how that made him felt. And you completely understood.

“Rude? Horribly offensive? Fucking ignorant? Welcome to small town Wyoming where the bible rules and if you say you’ve never shot a gun you’ll be shunned until you do.”

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetie, that’s… God that’s horrible.”

“People suck,” you said simply. “I just… I wanted you to know. You know, in case this shit hits the news or whatever. And also… Also, I just wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you. Regardless.”

He slid his hand to your chin and tilted your head up until you were falling into his blue eyes. “Thank you, Y/N. Thank for telling me; trusting me.”

“Thank you for being someone who doesn’t suck,” you responded in a weak effort to lighten the mood.

You only had a second to register his soft smile before he leaned forward and brushed his lips against your cheek. “I always knew you were strong. I mean, to go through cancer treatment like this… but now?” His thumb rubbed against your cheek, nearly touching your lips. Your eyes closed at his touch, face leaning into his palm. “Sweetheart, I think you’re the strongest person I think I’ve ever met.”

Just as you were about to argue his statement, he leaned forward again. This time his lips brushed just at the corner of your mouth and lingered, wiping away every single word you’d ever known. He finally pulled away a hairsbreadth and the air between you two was super-charged. All it would take was a tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him properly.

But you couldn’t do it. You just couldn’t.

After a moment more, he drew back, pausing only to press his lips to your forehead briefly. “So, your sister and mom are still alive?”

“No.” Your voice was surprisingly strong. Barely wavering. “My sister’s still in prison, but my mom died a few months after I turned sixteen. Another reason the town seems to hate me. They think if I’d stuck around more, she wouldn’t have killed herself but that wasn’t my job. I was a kid. It wasn’t my job to keep my parent alive.”

“Killed herself?”

“Drunk herself to death, I guess.” It was an explanation you’d said many times before. One that wasn’t entirely accurate, but the closest to the truth you could get. “Suicide wasn’t the official cause of death, but I knew. She drunk too much. I think she was shooting up with something, too. They called it an accidental overdose. Said if I’d been there, I might have been able to call 911 and save her. But they didn’t know us. They didn’t know what happened in that house. I… I don’t blame her. She didn’t want to be saved. She let him break her. My sister became him.”

“And you? What do you think you did?”

“I think… I think… I don’t know. I made a lot of bad decisions in college, but that’s just college. I think I would have turned out differently if I hadn’t spent so much time with Jaz’s family. But even then… I don’t know, Seb. I just know that I never wanted to make anyone feel like I did. It took me my entire college career with campus therapists to work through shit. And there’s some things I haven’t told anyone. And I’m going to be working through everything for the rest of my life. I know that. I think I just became more aware. Aware what kind of affect my words might have on someone else. I’m cautious about everything. Maybe that’s why I went into data security. I didn’t have anyone, really, to protect me.” By this point you’d practically forgotten you weren’t alone. You were just musing aloud. Putting together parts of your therapy sessions with your own emotions.

It was something you’d never done.

Even in therapy, you hadn’t opened up all the way.

But here? With someone you’d met a month ago?

Here, you felt safe. Loved, even.

“What about Jasmin?”

“She tried. But her family was amazing. She just couldn’t understand my family. She was always sympathetic, but never really knew how to help. And, honestly, I wouldn’t ever want her to know how to help. I never want her to be in the position to understand.”

“I guess I get that.”

“’Sides, this way I had her to pull me out. She pushed me to move on. Helped me figure out how to… not become them.”

Silence, once again, fell. Even telling the barest bones of your past had exhausted you and you couldn’t move from Seb’s lap even if you wanted to.

It was nearly a half hour later when he spoke in a soft voice, his words drawing a soft laugh from you. “At least I don’t have to go through the meet the parents shtick.”

Think that’s all of it? The worst of it? 

CHAPTER 16: THE FIRST PAPARAZZI AMBUSH

[socialjusticeartshare]

How Our Stories Won’t Save Us: Teaching Valeria Luiselli’s “Lost Children Archive”

The scene haunts me because I am an immigrant, because I can’t imagine what being deported feels like or what it could mean to a child. I was six and my brother four when we arrived in this country. I still remember that day.

THERE IS A SCENE in Valeria Luiselli’s Lost Children Archive that makes me reckon with the limits of my sympathy in the age of child detention centers. The main characters, Ma, Pa, Girl, and Boy, arrive at an airport. Ma is a sound archivist. She’s there to document the sounds of migrant children just moments before they board a plane to be deported. Peering at the tarmac, Ma narrates:

I slowly walk my eyes on […] the line of small figures now stepping out of the hangar and onto the runway. They are all children. Girls, boys: one behind another, no backpacks, nothing. They march in single file, looking like they’ve surrendered, silent prisoners of some war they didn’t even get to fight. […] If they hadn’t gotten caught, they probably would have gone to live with family, gone to school, playgrounds, parks. But instead, they’ll be removed, relocated, erased, because there’s no place for them in this vast empty country.

The scene haunts me because I am an immigrant, because I can’t imagine what being deported feels like or what it could mean to a child. I was six and my brother four when we arrived in this country. I still remember that day. It was December. And I felt the warm safety of arriving with my parents. I saw snow for the first time, and all I could think about was that snow was just frío frío (shaved ice). We were finally a family, here, “ready to build a better life,” like my father always said. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if my brother and I had arrived unaccompanied in a place that didn’t want us. Yet this is the reality for thousands of migrant children at the US-Mexico border. Many are younger than my brother and I were when we arrived.

Lost Children Archive is an evocative novel about displacement, migration, family, and the cartography of parenthood in the age of US Immigration and Customs Enforcement detention facilities. Published in February 2019, the novel interlocks parental angst with contemporaneous news about the migrant crisis at the US Southern border, histories of Apachería, and stories of lost children. So much of this book is about dreams of futures put off and put out, worlds that were prayed for but that will never come to fruition for migrant children.

Ma’s words raise the question: What does it mean for a child to surrender? And what can we do about it?

When a novel makes me question the limits of my sympathy, I must read it twice: one time for the story and the other to figure out how the author did it. As much as Lost Children Archive is about the child migrant crisis at the US-Mexico border, it is also about how we write, teach, and engage issues that we have not personally experienced. This is where I sit. I am a teacher, a scholar, and a creative. I am an immigrant with papers who writes about migrants without papers. I teach books about their experiences and lives. I often ask myself what gives me the right to tell and teach their stories, to translate experiences, emotions, and lessons that to me are like distant relatives.

What is a book about migrant children if not a book that teaches us to convert sympathy to action, into doing something — anything? In other words, how do we motivate our reading of such texts beyond aesthetic analysis and reasoning?

In the spring of 2021, I taught a course on migrant literatures. It was my first time teaching a class on migrants. My students and I read Joy Harjo’s An American Sunrise, Karla Cornejo Villavicencio’s The Undocumented Americans, and Luiselli’s Lost Children Archive to debate and develop questions and arguments about (im)migration, the border, citizenship, colonization, and language.

The week we read Lost Children Archive, an unprecedented number of unaccompanied children arrived at the US-Mexico border. We read the novel alongside reports about their arrival and the living conditions in Border Patrol facilities. Like the characters in the novel, who collect histories, sounds, materials, and photographs, my class and I archived reports and images of the unfolding crisis.

On April 1, the United States Border Patrol released footage of two Ecuadorian girls, three and five years old, being hoisted and dropped over a 14-foot border wall by coyotes near Santa Teresa, New Mexico. The girls were slow to get up from the desert floor as the camera moved toward the smugglers running away and out of the frame. The two girls were taken to a nearby hospital for evaluation. They will join a caravan of lost children at various points of the US-Mexico border, awaiting a fate as obscure as the desert floors. They wait to become refugees — waiting, as Ma tells her own children, “for an indefinite time before actually, fully having arrived.”

More than 3,200 migrant children have been detained at a South Texas Border Patrol facility. They are in a “large tent complex designed to detain unaccompanied minors and families with children for short periods of time.” Customs and Border Protection (CBP) requires that minors must be transferred to shelters operated by the Department of Health and Human Services within 72 hours of custody. But no one will move these children because shelters are unavailable. CBP lacks resources, space, and even food. Afraid and alone, without their parents, many children go hungry. In interviews, minors say they’ve only showered once in seven days. A pair of boys say that “conditions were so overcrowded that they had to take turns sleeping on the floor.” The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recommended “enhanced” mitigation measures requiring migrant children two years and older to wear masks 24/7 while at the same time allowing shelters to return to maximum capacity. No one seems to think about why these children came here: what cruelty, war, poverty, pain were they escaping?

Luiselli’s narrator contemplates this exact question:

No one thinks of the children arriving here now as refugees of a hemispheric war that extends, at least, from these very mountains, down across the country into the southern US and northern Mexico deserts, sweeping across the Mexican sierras, forests, and southern rain forests into Guatemala, into El Salvador, and all the way to the Celaque Mountains in Honduras. No one thinks of those children as consequences of a historical war that goes back decades. Everyone keeps asking: Which war, where? Why are they here? Why did they come to the United States? What will we do with them? No one is asking: Why did they flee their homes?

Luiselli tells us that these are our children, this is our crisis to deal with, and this is real. The child refugee crisis isn’t an intertext, a metaphorical archive, or a literary device that we can track on the page. This is the lived reality of thousands of migrants today as I type these words. Luiselli tells us that these children “wait for their dignity to be restored.” As an educator and immigrant, the least I can do through my teaching is to try to restore some of their dignity.

In our class discussions, we move away from metaphors to think about the border as a physical and conceptual place. We turn to the theoretical architect Gloria E. Anzaldúa, who famously illustrated la frontera (the border) as “una herida abierta [an open wound] where the Third World grates against the first and bleeds. And before a scab forms it hemorrhages again, the lifeblood of two worlds merging to form a third country — a border culture.” This is where migrant children are held — a place of alterity, of inbetweenness, neither here nor there, a state-sanctioned purgatory between fleeing and arriving. It is a liminal space of transformation, which Anzaldúa argues is,

set up to define the places that are safe and unsafe, to distinguish us from them. A border is a dividing line, a narrow strip along a steep edge. A borderland is a vague and undetermined place created by the emotional residue of an unnatural boundary. It is in a constant state of transition.

Over the course of the semester, the border as a physical and conceptual structure becomes central to our engagement with migration. We discuss the US-Mexico border but also other, less tangible types of borders. We turn to the borders of language and how they shape the way we see ourselves. I tell my students that language can be a barrier for many migrants. I tell them that when I first arrived in the United States I did not speak English, that from the first to the seventh grade I was in bilingual classes. I did not understand the crossing guard’s commands to go and stop nor my gym teacher’s instructions to run, climb, and jump. I was bullied before I knew the word for it. I grew silent over the years and taught myself to hide my English, my accent, my legal status, and anything else that marked me as an outsider. I did this not for acceptance, which I thought unattainable, but for safety and peace.

I don’t know if my stories are relatable or if they work pedagogically. I draw from my personal experiences in an attempt to build a bridge between me and the migrant children. I don’t know if this bridge will support a path toward sympathy or action in my classroom or elsewhere. But I do know that there’s something powerful in witnessing my students engage with the child migrant crisis, question the ethics of detention facilities, and connect their own youths to the ones of migrant children.

We read reports and watch news segments about the migrant children at the border. We consume what others document about them. And in doing so, we see these children from the perspective of an immigration system designed to dehumanize the migrant. Without action, their stories become clichés. We must move beyond the negating rhetoric of undocumented, non-status, without papers, and begin to actually see these children as children in need of our protection and aid.

Children, Ma tells us, “force parents to go out looking for a specific pulse, a gaze, a rhythm, the right way of telling the story, knowing that stories don’t fix anything or save anyone but maybe make the world both more complex and more tolerable.” What are we learning from the stories we tell, from the ones we teach, from the real lives of migrant children at the US-Mexico border? What do these stories say about us, the things we value, the things we tolerate? In one form or another, we are answering these questions right now.

[awkwardbsd]

Hii I love your blog and i love bungou stray dogs Would you recommend a couple of animes

OH BOI! I’VE WANTED AN ASK LIKE THIS FOR A WHILE!

While I recommend some more than others, I enjoyed all of these anime. I mostly copied and pasted another list that I made, but there we go! Have fun!

Feel Good Stuff – Some stuff that leaves you feeling good about stuff. Whether the majority of the series or film is lighthearted or it’s just laidback, both will be included here.

Tokyo Godfathers: one of my favourite anime movies and far more light-hearted than Koe no Katachi (warning though for slurs used in this movie towards transwomen – she’s still the best character in the movie and the movie makes a point to let her know that she’s the best human on this very planet because Hana is a treasure)

Gin no Saji: If you’ve watched Fullmetal Alchemist, it has the same creator except it’s slice-of-life on a farm. I found it to be touching because it squares in on student experiences and connections. Also has sage advice.

Barakamon: Has children actually voiced by children. I watched it during a really important period of time for me. It centres and hits points that a lot of artists have.

Kimi to Boku: I can’t remember why I enjoyed this anime. I just know that I did for some reason. It was really simple.

The Boy and the Beast: I have mixed thoughts about this movie, but at the end of the day, I really enjoyed it.

Zombieland Saga: I just find it nice to find an idol anime that doesn’t focus on the whole “the girls all have to be cute”. One is a biker chick, one is indicated to be a former prostitute, one is a verified transgirl.

Those Movies That Have to be Mentioned – I’m legally obligated to mention these.

Anthem of the Heart: sounds like a crack premise (“girl gets cursed by an egg to never speak again after seeing her dad cheat with another woman in a love hotel like a castle”) but ends up being really good.

Your Name: practically everyone has watched that.

Koe no Katachi: A lot of people have watched this already. I always recommend it, but it’s very emotionally heavy and deals with suicide, bullying, and disability. It’s ending can make you cry from happiness though.

Wolf Children: Well, only if you’re okay with crying (at least on the inside)

Hotarubi no Mori e: It’s only 40 minutes. Probably won’t make people cry, but yeah, I can’t say that much.

Shounen – crack open one of these, and the boys and girls are sure to come

Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood: I’m legally obligated to mention this. it was one of my first anime (after Magi) and it was amazing.

My Hero Academia: Yeah... I had to mention this too.

Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic: It was my first anime. It has a lot of shonen crap, but it’s also dialogue-heavy.

Seishun Buta Yarou: Drew in fanbois for the “plot” (bunny girl - what else can I say) and made people stay for the actual plot. It ended up being really quirky and funny. It was like the Monogatari series (which I tried and didn’t like) but better and more “legal”

Yakusoku no Neverland: If you’ve watched Chicken Run, imagine that with people. It’s a farm that farms children so they try to run.

Kimetsu no Yaiba: Shonen Jump doesn’t have that many misses.

Noragami: The gags resonated with 14-year-old me

Assassination Classroom: Underdeveloped cast? Yeah, but it was still a really good Shonen Jump adaptation. 

Comedy – The stuff that’s not quite conventionally “shounen or shoujo” but still tries to make you laugh, no matter how hard they try or how hit-and-miss they are

Mob Psycho 100: The second season is amazing. I found it to be a really good solid show.

Hinamatsuri: If you like Mob Psycho or if you just like the idea of an adult adopting a kid and teaching them stuff along with the kid teaching them, this is the one for you. I was laughing and crying (from tears of laughter) at this.

Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun: I can’t label this a romance because the romance doesn’t go anywhere. We start at square one and we finish at square one, but the stuff that happens in the meantime makes it all worth it.

Danshi Koukousei no Nichijou / Nichijou: Hit-and-miss, but there are a lot of iconic moments here.

Hataraku Saibou: I think this fits the best here. It’s just a good solid anime about cells in your body.

Shoujo/Romance – In case you need some fluff to fill the dark times; cheese levels vary.

Fruits Basket: Shoujo at its best.

Kono Oto Tomare: I don’t know how this got produced by Shonen Jump SQ because it’s like a cliche shoujo that would make even shoujo manga readers throw up flowers

Toradora: It’s a hit-and-miss for people just because the main character is a tsundere (played by the queen of tsundere herself)

Ookami-san to Shichinin no Nakama-tachi: this ended up being a guilty pleasure for me – not quite a direct romance but direct enough

Haikara-san go Tooru: Technically a movie and only has the first part, but the manga is from mid-70s is a shining example of the feminist boom in Japan after WWII

Gamers!: This was best explained by a comment I read somewhere going “I love this anime, but it makes me want to bang my head on a wall repeatedly”. Misunderstandings: The Anime. Everyone has a hard time.

Kaguya-sama: It was a huge hit in the 2019 Winter season of anime and for good reason. It’s getting a new season coming up too.

Wotakoi: Two adults falling in love. It’s funny and a little bit niche and directed towards otaku.

Yamada-kun to 7-nin no Majo: Technically a shounen, it was a harem anime that ended up being pretty good? I was so side-tracked by the idea of that, especially since I found the premise mildly interesting. The manga gets extra points for being really cute with that last chapter. I mean, it has boobs, ass, and a lot of kissing, but the female mangaka was taught by the creator of Fairy Tail so it’s really runs in their roots.

Shigatsu no Kimi no Uso: Ultimately included this one in romance, but many would say this belongs in the next category.

Akagami no Shirayuki-hime: This is so heavy on cheese that I had to pause at times and go “what am I doing? Is this how I die? How will my family react to me watching this?” (the last question is one I ask of myself often)

Jibaku Shounen Hanako-kun: A lot of people who’ve watched BSD like this anime. Tumblr loves this anime. 

The Horror! The Horror! Some Dark Stuff That Belongs in a Cauldron, and those onion-cutting ninjas. – Honestly, it’s not my favourite genre, but some of these ended up being among my favourite anime?

Death Parade: It wasn’t in the genre I usually watch (no comedy at all), yet I was moved every time? That last figure skating scene was *Canadian-French Accent* C’est Magnifique.

Shinsekai Yori: I watched this anime feeling SOOOOO UNEASY. Nothing was even happening that was “scary”. It was just the mere ideas behind it as the eerie world-building led me to go “WAHHHHH” over my computer. It’s one of the best anime I’ve watched, but I can’t recommend it to everyone.

Mousou Dairinin: It’s Satoshi Kon but sane. You actually get a conclusive ending. It has a surprisingly current message behind it though. It’s like Satoshi Kon continues to influence.

Perfect Blue: Now to the less sane Satoshi Kon work that confused me. Western movies literally copied one of the scenes from this movie.

No. 6: I can’t list this anywhere else, but it was the first anime to depict a really, really, really sweet gay relationship. Even though it was a complete fail adaptation-wise, it also gave Hosoya (voice actor) inspiration to keep going. It’s a gift.

Anohana: *ahem* I was recommended the anime by someone I’m no longer close with, but the memories that I had watching this and the message was probably the closest an anime has brought me to actually crying in a non-depressive fashion.

Gakkougurashi: Cute girls doing cute things with zombies that are about to eat them and destroy them all.

Erased: Okay, compared to other great series that I’ve yet to watch (Steins;Gate and Monster), it’s probably trash, but I remember really enjoying it when I first watched it.

[sunfloweradoring]

the one with the terrible first date

Hi! So if you were wondering I was thinking of structuring the page like the stories with ‘the one with...’ being in chronological order. Obviously it’s totally fine to dip in & out whenever & to whichever story but I’ll refer back to events or things that happened in previous pieces. However, if you guys had specific requests whether they’re about one of the ‘the one with...’ stories or just in general I was thinking of doing some blurbs or mini one shots potentially connected to one of the stories if you just dropped me a message of what you were thinking. I hope this makes sense!

Anyway, enjoy this disastrous first date :) xx

masterlist

word count: 2.8k

Ever since the party 10 days ago Harry and I had been in contact almost nonstop. We’d only spent a matter of hours chatting that night, but I felt like I’d managed to gain some sort of understanding of him as a person in that time; whilst I was kind of right about that, in the days we’d been texting and sharing the occasional phone call, I was starting to realise what a genuinely kind-hearted guy he really was.

Each call or initiating message from him always started asking about me: how I was, how my day had been, what I was going to be doing the next day. Somehow he also managed to shift the focus off himself to me, making me feel like not only did he really care about the answers to these queries, but that I was the centre of his attention.

Therefore, when one Tuesday evening (after a particularly boring day trawling through a couple of scripts sent to me by my agent) Harry asked if I wanted to ‘go out sometime over the weekend’ I felt an eruption of butterflies in my tummy and a stupidly big grin take over my features.

‘yeah, that’d be cool :)’ I replied, trying to vastly underplay the amount of ‘cool’ it would be.

‘great :D’ He responded, ‘what are you doing saturday night? would you maybe wanna come round mine?’

‘that sounds like fun, do you want me to bring anything? we could have a movie night or something’ I texted back, already starting to feel slightly overcome with excitement as my hands felt a little sweaty as they tightly grasped my phone.

‘you let me worry about everything! send me your address and i’ll pick you up at 6:30, just bring yourself and your beautiful face ;)’

                                                          --------

“What are you gonna wear, then?” Saoirse questioned, leaning back against my headboard with her legs crossed out in front of her. I stood with my hands clamped to my hips, nearly half my wardrobe strewn out across the floor as I’d panicked earlier to find something to wear Saturday.

“Well, that’s the million pound question, isn’t it?” I huffed, pushing my hair out of my face as I inspected the various items of clothing cluttering up my bedroom carpet. “I don’t actually know what we’re doing so how am I supposed to know what to wear!”

Saoirse let out a little laugh as she swung her legs off the bed, pushing herself away from the mattress to stand beside me. “Okay, no need to get stressy. We’ve got the rest of the evening and all of tomorrow if we need it so just calm down.” She soothed, gently placing her hands on my arms as she guided me to take a seat on the bed. “What about this?” She questioned, leaning down and retrieving an emerald green knitted jumper from the pile and holding it up to her chest. “You could wear it with a skirt, or some trousers, jeans maybe. It would look really cute. Brings out your eyes.” Her words seemed to flow like a stream of conscious, her mind running away with her as she chucked it onto the bed beside me. I gathered it, holding it on my lap. It was my favourite jumper, but did it really shout first date?

“Those jeans are nice.” I spoke, leaning over the little rail at the end of my bed and pointing down to a blue pair of jeans. Saoirse glanced up at me, her eyebrows pulled together. “Um, no.” Was all she responded with.

                                                         --------

“Right, so you’re both going to the cinema and then having some food?” My aunt, Rose, confirmed, hands submerged in the sink as she washed up the dishes. I nodded tentatively. I’d lived with her long enough for her to see straight through me and now exactly when I was lying; thus I hoped if I kept my speech to a bare minimum I may be able to get away with it. “Alright, well I hope you and Saoirse have a nice time, say hello to her for me.” Rose smiled, glancing at me before returning to her task. I released a silent breath before leaving the kitchen, going to the front door.

At 6:28 I wanted to be at the front of the drive to avoid anyone from the house seeing Harry picking me up. As far as they knew, Saoirse and I were having a friend date and that’s all they needed to know. 

“Bye!” I shouted behind me as I pulled the door closed, zipped up my blue puffer jacket and ran down the two porch steps and stood at the end of the drive. With my hands stuffed in my pockets to protect me from the late winter chill, I tried to shield my face as best I could in the top of my jacket. 

I’d barely been standing there five minutes before a car slowed in front of me, the passenger window lowering and a head popping out over the passenger seat. I bent my knees a little to allow me to see inside the car.

“Hiya! Sorry I’m a little late. I think it’s the universe’s law that if you’re going somewhere for a certain time, every single red light has to hit you first.” Harry chuckled, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the handle of the driver’s door.

“It’s fine! Don’t worry.” I giggled, reaching for the handle of the passenger door. “Only like two-”

“Wait!” Harry squawked, shooting out of the car at the speed of light and running round in time to gently bat my hand away from the handle. “That’s my job.” He grinned, pulling open the door and gesturing with his hand for me to get in. I blushed a deep crimson. Fingers crossed he couldn’t see as I nipped into the car.

“Thank you.” I spoke shyly as he himself got back into the driver’s seat. He shot me a smirk as he started the car again.

“What kinda gentleman would I be if I let m’lady open a door for herself?” Harry joked, adopting a both accent as he drove away from the front of my house. The butterflies that had been dancing away inside my tummy since Tuesday suddenly became a frenzied explosion at his words; how on earth was I supposed to come with him saying things like this the rest of the night?

                                                         --------

Harry’s little apartment was warm an cozy - a needed escape from the frosty outside. It was small and quaint, but what more could you expect of a 17 year old, really? 

“Welcome to my humble abode.” Harry spoke, flicking on the light to illuminate a modestly decorated studio flat. He closed the door, removing his coat as he gestured to take mine too.

“Thank you.” I repeated in the same tone as before, shimmying out of my jacket. 

“So I made us dinner, and we can watch something afterwards if you still wanted to. But let me just put the food back in the oven to warm it up, yeah?” He smiled, his hand ghosting over the the bottom of my back as a way to guide me through the flat.

“It already smells really nice in here.” I complimented, breathing in the aromas of the food he’d obviously prepared earlier. 

“Ye haven’t tried it yet.” Harry jested with a little laugh. “But thanks, it’s one of my mum’s recipes I think. She told me it would be a good thing to make for a first date.” He explained, placing two covered dishes into the oven and turning it on. 

“Can I ask what it is, or is it a surprise?” I questioned, attempting to glance under the foil before the oven was promptly closed.

“Oi, no it’s a surprise!” He interjected, quickly moving his body in front of the oven. There was only a matter of inches between our faces, causing (for the second but most certainly not the last time) a blush to sweep my cheeks. “Right let’s see what film we can start while we wait for that to heat up.” His voice was far softer than usual, his eyes momentarily darting between mine and my lips. 

                                                        --------

I sat on his little sofa, flicking through the little booklet of DVDs he had stored. 

“When In Rome?” I questioned with a little laugh. “What’s a guy like you doing with a film like that?” I teased, looking up at him as he stood in front of the telly, hands holding the remote. 

“Heyyy,” Harry laughed, voice a little whiney. “I can be in touch with my feminine side, you know. I actually quite enjoy the odd RomCom.” He said, taking a seat next to me, his knee grazing the side of my jean covered leg.

“Sorry.” I giggled, continuing to flick through the pages. “Just never put you down for someone like that.” I shrugged.

“Oh? Then what kinda person did you put me down for then?” He smirked, leaning back into the sofa, his head propped in his hand as he elbow rested on the back of the cushion. 

“I don’t really know, maybe like every other teenage boy: too cool for this, and too busy with girls for that.” My words were intended as a joke, but there was a little part of me that perhaps thought there was some truth in it.

“No, no, no, definitely not.” Harry shook his head and sending his curls in every which direction, sitting up straighter. “My mother taught me to respect women, taught me to be kind to others and that you’re never too good for anything.” He said. A smile formed on my lips. He really was a true gentleman, wasn’t he?

                                                       --------

“And then it just kinda went from there.” Harry summarised, sipping from the glass bottle of coke. “Just went on there as myself but I think it’s pretty cool I’ve come out in a band. Who knows, could be the next Beatles.” He laughed. “Nah, we may get somewhere but nothing like them. They’re legends.” 

Before I could reply, my nose scrunched in displeasure at the new waft of smells assaulting my nostrils. “What’s tha-” The shrill beeping noise of the fire alarm cut me off.

“Shit!” Harry shouted, leaping up from the sofa and dashing towards the oven. As he wrenched open the oven door, a pillow of smoke tumbled out, causing him to cover his mouth and nose with his elbow as he attempted to turn off any heat source making the situation worse. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” He chanted to himself, grabbing the oven gloves and pulling the two dishes out of the oven, placing them on the side and pulling of the foil covering. “Well that looks delicious.” He sarcastically observed, standing to the side as I walked up next to him. The food was entirely black, charred beyond belief. 

“Oh my god, Harry.” I pursed my lips together to prevent the laugh that was attempting to escape. “I’m sorry. I thought it was gonna be really nice.” I cleared my throat, wafting the air around with my hand. 

“You can laugh.” Harry spoke with a grin, bumping his hip into mine playfully. This seemed to unleash the giggles that had been hiding in my throat. “I just wanted to impress you.” He quietly whined. I slowly calmed down, holding out my arms in a offered hug. He pushed the oven gloves off his hands, walking towards me and wrapping his arms around my wait as mine encircled the back of his neck.

“You don’t need to try and impress me, Harry.” I spoke quietly, my lips near his ear. “I wanted to come on this date because I like you, not because I think you’re the next Jamie Oliver.” 

“Well I clearly showed that’s not in the near future, didn’t I!” He chuckled, his chest rumbling a little against mine.

“Let’s just order a pizza or something, yeah?” I offered, pulling away enough to see his face before he eagerly nodded. 

“You go sit down, I’ll get you another coke and I’ll order the pizza.” He smiled, quickly stealing a kiss from my cheek before he released me. “Anything in particular you want?” 

“Honestly anything, just not mushrooms.” I replied, turning around and taking my place on the sofa once more.

“No mushrooms? Are you like 5?” He joked, shooting me a wink as he picked up the phone to order the replacement food. I just giggled, shaking my head at him. 

He quickly ordered the pizza, going to the fridge and retrieving another bottle of coke. “Here ye go. Thanks for not freaking out about the food.” He smiled, getting a bottle opener to remove the top before walking in the direction of the sofa. What he hadn’t foreseen was that, in his panic to get to the oven only moments before, he’d managed to move the edge of the carpet into a folded position.

“Har-” I began but before anything else could leave my lips his sock covered toes connected with the dislodged carpet. His eyes widened in shock as he tripped forward towards the sofa, his hands going out to protect his fall, the bottle of coke flying forwards and spilling all over me. I shot up from the sofa, gasping at the sudden event.

“Oh my god! Oh my- Fuck, Y/N I’m so so so so sorry!” He panicked, jumping to his feet and approaching me with his hands held out to do something, yet he didn’t know what to do. 

“Um... it’s okay... uh do you have a towel or something before it goes everywhere?” I asked, looking down at my soaking jeans and the darkened material of the bottom half of my green jumper. 

“Uh, of course, yeah, let me just grab one.” Harry quickly ran off into the bathroom, coming back a second later with a towel. “I’m really sorry, Y/N. God this is terrible.” He muttered the second part of his sentence, handing me the towel as he stared at me. I wrapped it around myself, trying to soak up any of the liquid it could. “Here, let me get you something to change into. Can’t be sat there in those now.”

“Harry, it’s fine, honest-”

“No! I’ve been a twat, one sec.” Again he dashed off, coming back a moment later with a hoodie and a pair of joggers.

“Thanks, Harry.” I gave me a reassuring smile as I took the clothes and went to the bathroom to change. As I closed the door I could see him sat on the dry part of the sofa, head in hands. Poor boy. I looked at myself in the mirror, silently laughing to myself. This was certainly not how I was expecting tonight to go!

                                                      --------

“God I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” Harry spoke, both our bellies now full with pizza as he walked with me to the door, grabbing both our jackets. I giggled at him as I put my jacket back on.

“Seriously, Harry, don’t worry about it. I’m literally the clumsiest person ever. It could have happened to anyone.” I replied.

“Really, the clumsiest?” 

“Okay,” I laughed. “The second clumsiest.” I jested, gently poking him with my elbow. “But you could do something to make it up.” I shyly added, avoiding eye contact. I could see his head snap in my direction.

“Anything! Yes, what is it?” He asked, stepping a little closer, but still remaining respectful with at least a few feet between us.

“You could give me a goodnight kiss.” I looked at his face, watching as his features seemed to light up.

“You still want to kiss me after I burned the food and tried to drown you in coke?” He asked, tone somewhat hopeful as he closed a little more of the space between us. I simply nodded my head, a little smile curving my lips. 

Harry’s grin remained prominent, his hands gentle as that came onto my waist, removing all the distance that was left between us. The intensity of his stare I had felt at the party was back, but I didn’t really have time to process it before we were both slowly leaning in to one another. 

His lips slowly pressed against my lips. The warmth of his skin against mine and the way neither of our mouths were entirely closed due to the fact we couldn’t stop grinning sent shivers shooting across my skin. His right hand left my waist, moving to cup my left cheek. My arms went around his middle, a sigh of pleasure leaving my lips as he pulled away, just enough to put a small amount of space between us so he could look me in the eye.

I think I could get used to that. 

[missroserose]

Soft Asks: 1 & 6 & 8 & 12 (I'm greedy for softness today.)

  YES PLEASE BE GREEDY.  I wasn’t kidding, this is a rough week all around, so let’s get soft. <3

1.) what song makes you feel better?

Honestly, it depends.  For instance, when I’m feeling bad in the sense that I’m facing down a huge and intimidating task, I usually go for something upbeat and major key—like Walk the Moon’s Shut Up and Dance, or Janelle Monae’s The Way You Make Me Feel, or Amtrac’s Never Lost.  If I’m having one of those days where I have things to do but it’s feeling like I’m having to push through syrup to get anywhere, I tend toward something similarly driving but more minor/suspended chords—Meg Myers’ cover of Running Up That Hill has been on my playlist a lot lately, as has In This Moment’s Roots and K. Flay’s Blood In The Cut.  And if I’m just in that place where everything is A Lot and there’s not much I can do about it, I’ll usually go for slower synth-y stuff—Björk’s Possibly Maybe is a perennial favorite, though I’ve lately been listening to Slowdive’s Sugar for the Pill and The Stone Roses’ I Wanna Be Adored.  And, of course, just about anything by Cigarettes After Sex.

(I, uh, hope you know me well enough by now to know that if you ask me to name a song you’re going to get at least nine options, with links XD)

6.) say three nice things about yourself (three physical and three non-physical).

Ooo!  I think self-appreciation is highly underrated so I’m glad to get this question.  Let’s see...Physical:

1.)  I love the various customizations I’ve made to my body—short colorful hair, large arty tattoos, multiple piercings.  Almost all of them have made me feel more me in a way that’s evanescent but insistent.

2.)  I’m not gonna beat around the bush—I freaking love my arms.  Ever since I started lifting a couple of years ago I’ve been completely surprised (and pleased!) at how much I’ve enjoyed watching my biceps slowly grow.  Being able to hoist heavy things is awesome too, but...I admit it, I totally flex in the mirror sometimes.  (I’ve caught myself doing it on Zoom calls too, haha.)  I have a rose tattoo on one arm and I adore how it accents the shape of the muscles.

3.)  I like my general body shape.  Large hip structure runs in my family (my mother calls them the Rose hips), and while that means I would likely never have made it as a ballerina or gymnast past puberty, I’m not at all sad I ended up with an hourglass shape.  (Though it does make finding jeans that fit in both the hips and waist a bit of a trick...I’ve had good experiences with Fran Denim, which definitely was not inspired at all by their marketing prominently featuring generously proportioned women with tattoos riding motorcycles...ahem.)

As for the non-physical...

1.) I feel like I have a pretty good left-brain/right-brain balance (though, point of note, the popular conception of “left brain = logic and right brain = creativity” is actually pretty bullshit).  I love that I can think creatively and also analytically—there are times when both are needed.  I think it’s part of why I’ve made such a good massage therapist—I enjoy the squishier social-interaction heal-the-world side of the business, but I’m also good at the hard-nosed business and boundary-setting and hustling-for-clients part that a lot of people in the industry have trouble with.

2.)  I really love my writing.  I’m not trying to brag, just...you know those memes about “I am looking for very specific fic content, and if I cannot find it, I will create it?”  Yeah, that’s me.  I don’t often read back over my stories but when I do (even when it’s something I’m not proud of and I expect to cringe) I often end up surprised at how much I enjoy it.

3.)  I love my ability to perform.  I was talking with @harringroveheart about how I read some of my smut aloud (by request, with warnings) at a salon last night, and they were all “are you genetically incapable of being embarrassed??” and I had to think back to all the times that I read aloud to my mother who’d correct my pronunciation on every third word, or sang karaoke at a bar only to be met with complete indifference, or taught yoga to three people who refused to make eye contact and immediately bounced the moment class was over...so no, I’m very capable of being embarrassed, and in fact it’s been a struggle to get to where I am now.  But man, learning to give fewer fucks has been incredibly freeing—and when you keep trying, every once in a while you hit that home run of a performance that connects with the entire audience and stays with you long after the embarrassing memories fade.

8.) tag someone (or multiple people) who make you feel good.

So many someones!  @blahblahblahcollapse is a great beta reader and writing cheerleader.  @introvertia often surprises me with her insight and delights me with her kindness.  @trashcangimmick is the kind of chill and comforting dude everyone should have in their lives, and often gives excellent writing advice to boot (even when he’s laughing at my perfectionism).  @skybound2 gives great music recommendations and nerds out with me over immortal relationships.  @twobrokenwyngs listens patiently when I need to vent, and patiently listens to my advice when she needs to vent.  @neonelectriclady sends me pictures of delicious-looking bread and awesome Star Trek memes and talks to me about cloud butts.  @thisisnotmolchanka is the best metamour, creative and clever and ambitious and genuinely kind in a way you rarely see all together at once in one person.  There are tons more I could name, but this post is already getting long...

12.) how are you?

I think I’m just gonna link xkcd for this one.

In truth, I’m...more or less okay.  Being unemployed is turning out to be something of a mixed bag this week—like, on the one hand, I can sleep in until 10 and be a lump on the couch in my PJs all day, but on the other hand...I can sleep in until 10 and be a lump on the couch in my PJs all day.  Luckily I’m hosting writing group this afternoon, so that’ll be a good distraction, as well as at least requiring me to get dressed.  (Not that anyone would really bat an eye if I booted up Zoom and was still in my bathrobe, but, y’know.)

let’s get soft together!

[akaluan]

Erich/Kisuke/Alexis: Soulmate AU + Character in Peril Part 14

The men are in a better state than he expected, Erich finds as he leads Urahara and Alexis through the camp, checking in with NCOs as he goes. They are exhausted and tired and disillusioned but… they’re also smiling at him as he and Urahara and Alexis pass, hopeful-happy-kind, like the fact that he has his soulmates next to him is enough, is case for celebration and…

Maybe he even understands where they’re coming from.

(If his soulmates being around are enough to boost morale…)

(Well, there are many things he’ll tolerate to keep his men from turning traitor.)

(Keeping a Reaper at his side is dangerous, but Urahara is hardly the most objectionable person he’s had to keep close to hand.)

News travels fast through the camp, racing ahead of them and drawing the curious; it doesn’t take long for everyone to realize that Urahara can’t speak Imperial, and even less time for everyone to realize that he’s doing his best to learn as he goes. Soon, it’s not just Alexis teaching Urahara while Erich is busy, it’s everyone, though at least they have the sense to not speak over one another.

Still, it’s more attention than Urahara seems to have expected, and Erich can sense surprise-awkwardness-uncertainty creeping through their connection.

“I can tell them to leave,” Erich murmurs as he turns away from one of his very amused sergeants and to Urahara. “They’ll go if I say.”

Urahara laughs and rubs at the back of his head, smile shading towards embarrassment as he says, “No, no, it’s fine. It’s probably not the best way to learn, but… their enthusiasm is good to see.”

Erich arches an eyebrow but concedes the point; he doesn’t actually know how closely Urahara had observed them before, but this current diversion is probably doing more for morale than anything has for months. Still, Urahara isn’t a trained performer and this isn’t a show; he has no qualms about chasing his men back to their duties the second it becomes too much. “Let me know when you want a break.”

“I will,” Urahara promises with a nod, then darts a glance towards the waiting sergeant and asks, “How is it going?”

“Not too bad. We’ll manage,” Erich settles on after a moment’s thought. He doesn’t have the words to explain the mingled relief and despair at the knowledge that they aren’t going to stand and fight, that they have a place to retreat, a place to hide and heal and survive that no one expects them to have.

It hurts what little pride they have left, but it’s also a relief to know that there’s an end in sight, even if only for them.

(The war may stretch on, may demand more blood be spilled, but this…)

(This is his declaration of surrender.)

(It makes him — makes all of them — traitors to the Empire, but…)

(He suspects there won’t be an Empire for much longer.)

Urahara steps close enough that their shoulders brush, hand ghosting against Erich’s, and murmurs, “If it comes to it, I will make sure that you and your wife and as many of your men as possible survive.”

Erich hesitates, remembering the sight of Urahara ruthlessly cutting down an entire platoon, then slowly nods. “Only if necessary,” he answers, even as something settles hard-sharp-cold in his heart.

(He hopes it never comes to it, hopes he never has to rely on the graces of a Reaper to survive, but…)

(He no longer has the energy to protest.)

(He wants to live.)

A breath, another, and he gathers the edges of his composure once more, nudging Urahara back towards Alexis and the crowd of soldiers watching them. “Go on, I have work to do still.”

Urahara moves back, swaying as if shoved instead of nudged, and laughs bright-cheerful-playful at the look Erich gives him for his dramatics. “I’m going, I’m going. Just don’t laugh too hard at the mangled vocabulary I learn from this!”

Erich snorts. “You’ll figure it out,” he tells Urahara dryly, then pointedly turns back to his sergeant. “My apologies for the interruption. Where were we?”

The man smirks and adjusts his cap, using the gesture to shield a pointed eyebrow waggle from the rest of his men. “Oh, don’t worry about it, General. Always good to see the brass enjoying themselves.” Before Erich can do more than narrow his eyes, the man sobers and tips his chin towards the cheerful, engaged group of soldiers merrily teaching Urahara some barely appropriate words. “That young man’s the sort of distraction they need right now, right alongside us getting the hell out of this situation. You’ve handed us both in quick succession, sir. A few moments of interruption in the safety of camp is frankly worth it.”

Erich’s lips thin as he ruthlessly quashes the tangle of emotions that try to rise at the sergeant’s words; he already knows everything the man is saying, so why does hearing it feel… different?

(It must be his exhaustion amplifying things.)

(He doesn’t need reassurance from his subordinates!)

“Regardless, we both have other duties to attend to,” Erich says once he’s certain he has himself under control, then allows himself a brief smirk and an arched eyebrow as he continues, “And I wouldn’t want to, ah… limit my soulmate’s vocabulary, now would I?”

The sergeant barks a laugh. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that, sir. Here’s where we stand…”

***

The rest of the afternoon passes in a whirlwind of meetings and introductions that all go… fairly similarly. Erich checks in with his NCOs and makes sure everyone knows that Urahara is his, and the men get a chance to gawk at their General’s second soulmate.

(He just wishes there were a few less… admiring comments where he can hear.)

(He doesn’t need any help acknowledging that Urahara is easy on the eyes.)

The squads seem to have taken it upon themselves to see who can teach Urahara the most words, inappropriate or otherwise, and the man barely gets a moment to breathe as they move between platoons.

Still, he holds up well, playing along with the soldiers and clearly learning more from the interactions than just the haphazard collection of words he’s being taught. His accent is atrocious, but Erich can’t exactly throw stones either; so long as they can understand him, fluency can come later.

(It’s a scatter-shot education, but the best way to learn a language is to be surrounded by it.)

(This certainly counts as being surrounded by it.)

They retire to his tent as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, food in hand, and settle around his desk to eat. Silence descends, accented by the click of utensils on plates, and Erich… Erich doesn’t know how to break it.

He owes Urahara conversation, owes all of them a chance to get to know each other, but… exhaustion is dragging at his shoulders and he can barely force his food down even though his stomach doesn’t ache any longer.

He knows he has made the right decision, the only decision, but… it goes against all his training as an officer.

(He is committing treason.)

(He is committing treason and it’s the best option available to him.)

“You…” Urahara starts to say in Imperial, then fumbles for a moment, grimaces, and reverts to Akitsugo, “You’re worried. Is there anything I can help with?”

Erich gives up on finishing his food and sets it aside, ignoring the concerned looks his half eaten plate gains him from both Alexis and Urahara. He’ll eat something later. “‘You are worried’,” he says slowly, pointedly, trying to give Urahara the words the man is missing; emotions and actions were not things he heard his men teaching often throughout the day, so it makes sense that Urahara doesn’t have that many ways to speak sentences yet. From the way Urahara’s eyes light up and he mouths the sentence a few times, Erich figures the man understands what he’s doing. “I… am. This plan is…” he pauses, uncertain how to say ‘treason’ in Akitsugo, then sighs and settles on, “I could be killed for it.”

Urahara stills, concern-worry-determination rising through their bond. “I won’t let that happen.”

“I go against my country’s will,” Erich points out sharply, uncertain how to react to Urahara’s promise but absolutely certain that the small twist of relief is not how he should be reacting.

“I saw that map,” Urahara says as he nudges his own plate aside and leans forward over the desk. “Rerugen-san, the only other viable plan I could come up with is if I deal with all your enemies myself.”

“That won’t do any good!” Erich snaps, then sits back and turns his head away, pinching the bridge of his nose as he collects himself. Alexis leans into his side a bit, pressing comfort-trust-love down their bond, and it helps, it does, but not enough. “Sorry, love,” he murmurs once he’s certain he won’t snap at her. “We’re… discussing the implications of the plan to retreat, and he suggested allowing him to take out the platoons around us.”

Alexis hums and takes his free hand, lacing their fingers together. “The only thing that will do is breed more hatred,” she says softly, grimly, with all the confidence that came from learning the history of the Quincy. “And it won’t do anything for the other fronts. Or for the civilians who are starving.”

Urahara watches them with sharp eyes, and Erich is uncomfortably reminded that he doesn’t actually know how much of their words the man understands.

“The war is… larger than this small area,” Erich settles on, then tugs his hand free from Alexis grip and stands, absently gesturing for the other two to remain where they are as he moves to one of his packs and begins to dig. It doesn’t take long to pull out his map of the Empire, and Alexis swiftly clears their dishes away once she sees what he has in his hands.

“What’s this?” Urahara asks as he stands up to get a better look at the map that Erich unfolds across his desk. He scans the paper, understanding coming as he spots the small patch of border that their large planning map covered in more detail. “How much ground does this cover…?”

“My entire country plus a bit of nearby countries,” Erich explains, then reaches out and taps his fingers against the map in two spots. “Where we are now, and where we’ll be in about three days.” Seeing that Urahara understands, he sweeps his fingers down the Rhine front, then traces the other borders that have active combat happening on them. “The fighting is everywhere along these lines.”

Urahara stares at the map, eyes narrowed and lips thinning the more he grasps the situation they’re all part of them. Finally, he huffs and leans back, shaking his head and fidgeting with the hem of one sleeve as he says, “I had no idea… and everywhere is like this?”

Erich hesitates a moment and glances at Alexis, asking, “Have you heard anything from other fronts? Communication is neither reliable nor common these days.”

“Last I heard from… certain sources—” deserters, Erich is certain she means— “the northern front is in disarray, the eastern is practically dissolving, and we’ve lost almost all of our stormtroopers in the southern part of the Rhine Front.”

It’s… worse than he expected to hear, if he’s being honest; loss of life and being pushed back he can understand, but dissolving? Disarray? All of their assault units gone?

It’s unfathomable.

(A part of him isn’t surprised in the slightest.)

(Their strategy has begun to suffer more and more as the war goes on.)

“It is, then,” Urahara concludes before Erich can muster the energy to translate. He glances down at the map one last time, then slowly moves around the table to Erich’s free side. “We talk of other things,” he says, accent strong but understandable. “Better things?” he suggests with a tiny, tired grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Erich grimaces at the wisps of hopelessness-uselessness-resignation that he catches from Urahara before the man manages to shove those emotions back under trust-care-loyalty. “This isn’t your problem to solve,” Erich reminds Urahara pointedly, even as he folds away the map and sets it to the side. “This is larger than one man can fix. My country made the problem, you didn’t.”

“I want to help,” Urahara says almost plaintively, hand reaching out to brush his fingers against Erich’s wrist again.

Erich wavers, his inherent mistrust of Shinigami warring with his growing desire to trust Urahara, then sighs and catches Urahara’s fingers in a brief grasp. “Help us escape, then,” he murmurs as he turns away and catches Alexis’ gaze. “Can I…” he trails off and simply gestures towards her hair, hoping that she’ll catch on.

(It’s been years since he’s had a chance to simply relax and braid his wife’s hair.)

(He doesn’t even know how to ask anymore…)

“Of course you can,” Alexis says immediately, reaching up to tease free the end of her braid. “Standing or sitting?”

Erich glances around at his tent for a good place for them to work, then gives up and just nods towards his cot. “If you sit down on that I should be able to work easily enough.”

Urahara follows them the couple of steps to Erich’s bed, curiosity sketched across his face as he awkwardly settles on the far corner and watches how Alexis pulls off her boots and sits cross-legged atop the cot with her back to Erich. “This is called…?”

“Braids,” Erich says as he taps a finger against one of Alexis’ braids, then unravels a few inches of it and holds it up so Urahara can see the way he crosses the strands of hair back over each other. “Braiding,” he says, doing a few more loose passes to demonstrate.

Urahara laughs, soft-awkward-wistful, and flashes him another bright mask of a smile. “Thank you. Do you… should I…?”

“Stay,” Alexis tells Urahara before Erich can answer. “You’re our third. We should act like it.”

Urahara flounders at her words, and Erich quickly translates before the man can feel any more out of place. “You should stay. We need to get to know each other.”

“I… thought you didn’t want to…”

Erich carefully breathes out as he focuses on unraveling Alexis’ braid for a moment. “You… frighten me,” he settles on, internally wincing at the level of honesty he’s giving to a potential threat. But Alexis is right, they need to start acting like the man is their third if they want it to work out, which means they need to be honest. “You… you’re a threat to me and mine, but… you’re also my soulmate. I want to… I want to trust that you aren’t a threat but…”

“Part of you doesn’t believe it,” Urahara finishes for him. “I should probably lea—ah!” He starts back, hand darting up to catch the little ‘pebble’ of hardened spiritual power that Erich had flicked at his forehead. He stares at it in wonder, thumb tracing over the smooth surface, and when he glances up at Erich his eyes are wide with delighted questions. “I knew Quincy could manifest their weapons, but this is—”

“A child’s trick,” Erich tells the man dryly, amused by Urahara fascination with such a basic ability. “I’ve been doing it forever.” He shakes his head and focuses for a moment on running his fingers through Alexis’ hair, carefully untangling any knots he finds as he finger-combs it out. “Leaving will just… prolong our fear,” he admits after a moment. “I… we need to get to know you. We have barely three days before we have to defend you to our people. We… we can’t be afraid if we want this to go well.”

Urahara opens his mouth, emotions rippling back towards the same pervasive defeat as earlier and—

Erich flicks another ‘pebble’ at the man’s head without taking his hands from Alexis’ hair. “Stop that,” he orders with a scowl. “I told you our answer.”

Urahara ducks his head, mouth curling up in a tiny, pleased smile, even as he examines the second ‘pebble’ next to the first. “They… same?” he tries, then holds up the ‘pebbles’ between his fingers in demonstration.

“They always are the same,” Alexis answers with amusement. “Erich found a pebble that skips perfectly when he was little and memorized how to duplicate it.”

“Lexi!” Erich yelps in protest, tugging lightly at her hair as he feels his cheeks heat; said so plainly, his reasoning for the choice is ridiculously childish. At Urahara’s questioning look, Erich wrinkles his nose and pointedly stares at the back of Alexis’ head as he mutters, “When I was young, I learned one form, because that one skips well on water.”

His words startle a laugh from Urahara, and Erich relaxes a bit at the sense of happiness radiating off of the man.

(Well, maybe it’s not so bad to tell the man such ridiculous things if it can get honest amusement from him…)

(It’s still embarrassing though!)

“We share… stories?” Urahara asks hesitantly, looking between the two of them almost warily. “Better things than now.”

Erich hesitates as he smooths Alexis’ hair down and begins to split it into bundles, thinking over Urahara’s offer. “Simple braid for tonight and a crown braid in the morning, love?” he asks softly, getting back a gentle sensation of agreement-contentment-peace from her which is good enough for him. He gets to work on the simple braid, taking his time instead of speeding through it like he usually does; sharing stories is a good idea, but he’s going to have to be the translator and he doesn’t know how well he can translate between them.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Alexis offers, one hand reaching up to touch his elbow, making his soulmark tingle at the proximity. “We can take turns, it’ll be fun,” she says, then flashes a smile at Urahara that makes him duck his head and fiddle with the two ‘pebbles’ again.

“Fun for someone not me,” Erich mumbles, then huffs and tickles the back of Alexis’ neck with her hair when she laughs at him. “I don’t know how well I can translate,” he tells her, then glances at Urahara and repeats himself in Akitsugo.

“Maa, you’ll do fine,” Urahara says with a small smile. “We’ll both get some practice in!”

“I suppose we will,” Erich agrees as he uses a thin piece of cord to tie Alexis’ braid off and then reaches out to drag a chair closer. “Alright,” he says as he positions himself so he can easily look at both of his soulmates. “Who wants to start?”

Alexis turns around to sit facing both of them, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she says, “I think I will!”

Erich groans and presses a hand to his face, already suspecting what she’s going to say. “Please don’t make them all about me!”

“How about mostly?” she asks with fake innocence so strong that Urahara starts to snicker.

He sighs and waves her on, unable to resist a smile at her bright-cheerful-happy laughter.

(Maybe this won’t be so bad…)

(But he’s definitely not letting her off the hook.)

(Alexis isn’t the only one with embarrassing stories to tell, after all!)