#this train of thought has been spurred on by me making an active effort in the last days to talk to more men as if that ever helped me

[shingogf]

i truly do feel that no one will ever know the real me

[piteouspeculiarity]

Defining Home: Extended Author's Note

Warning: This might contain spoilers for the series

(For clarity, when I say 'Tommy' etc in this post, I'm talking about the characters from my fics, not the content creators themselves.)

So it's done, huh? This note will include the sappy shit, the fun facts, then some of the more serious stuff, because I just didn't want to add an essay to the end of that chapter.

First of all, thank you all for the support along the way. Defining Home is easily my most popular series of fics I’ve ever written and I’ve been writing fanfic for years now. The comments and the kudos and the bookmarks were so very validating when I was new to the fandom, and still are. Hell, people have gifted me fics and written related fics to Defining Home, which blows my tiny mind. I haven’t gotten the chance to read a lot of them yet (procrastination I know thy name), but when I do, I’ll be leaving my best comments in thanks <3

I'll be honest, when I posted the first chapter of Enough, I never expected it to turn into what it did.

That first chapter was written in my phone notes at 3am, hours before an exam. I hadn't interacted with the fandom at all at that point, didn't even have a Tumblr for it, but boy oh boy did I get a warm welcome.

The point is, that first chapter was a very spur in the moment thing, mainly consisting of one scene I couldn't get out of my head (Tommy on a train to Wilbur's). I've gotten a few people telling me since then that they wished that they could write as well as I can, which is a huge compliment, but every person can write a fic like Enough. There are things that we all struggle with when it comes to writing: dialogue, prose, starting scenes - I have my own things I struggle with, things you might have noticed, things you might have not. You don't have to be a perfect writer to tell a story, especially in fandoms, where betas are easy to come across.

Write your story, even if its just for yourself. Posting that chapter gave me the chance to make new friends and I'll never stop being grateful for that.

One of those friends is Kat, who I've mentioned a couple times in the author's notes, but who honestly, I owe a lot to. Kat has encouraged me and been one of the main motivators to write this fic when I felt like it would never be finished, or that I'd never live up to other people's expectations. Sometimes, that meant motivating in some weird ass ways, but hey, it worked.

People who know me in discord servers might know that I'm a simp for Kat and it's damn true. Kat, I love you, you've improved my life more than you know in the last couple months and you deserve so, so much happiness.

In fear of love reciprocation from Kat, we'll move swiftly on to the more fun side of things.

Anyone feel like fun facts? You might already know some of these because I tend to overshare in author's notes, but I'm pretty sure some of them are new to all of you.

Barney the dog? Named after my own late labrador, who I love very much and loved to jump in lakes and need rescuing, time and time again.

I had no plans in moving Tommy in with Techno, hell, I had no plans in Techno moving to England at all. It was as much of a surprise to me as it was to everyone else when he told Tommy the news, but I latched onto the idea and ran with it. I think it worked out okay, in the end.

Techno has a draw in his bedroom full of parenting books, most of which were stolen from Phil.

After Tommy asked for help about what to do with Dream, Wilbur sent Dream a dm telling him he better not fuck anything up and if he did, Wilbur would not hesitate to humiliate him in front of millions of people. It was unnecessary, of course, but Dream was definitely a bit more cautious about what he said when he listened to Tommy’s explanation.

Some of my favourite things about writing Defining Home:

The Tesco v Asda discourse. Look, some of you just need to accept that Asda is the superior shop and get off your Tesco stanning bullshit. /j

The offers I would get for new chapters, some honourable mentions being newborns, siblings, diamonds and kidneys.

Now, I know that as much as I tried to, I won't have managed to include everything that everyone wanted from Defining Home, whether that's certain confrontations or scenes, I am sorry if I haven't included.

I don't imagine myself writing any more in the series, not because I think there isn't more I could write about, but because as a whole it feels complete to me, and any added oneshots I write would disturb that.

Right now Defining Home feels well rounded in a way that I'm proud of. The minute I realised that Enough was going to turn into a series I planned out how I wanted it to work. Maybe its just the maths part of my brain, but I like how there's three fics, with three chapters in each and how Tommy heals as you progress throughout the series.

My aim for the series was for the tone to get lighter as you went through, because yes, things kept happening (confrontation with dad, beach incident etc) but the point was that Tommy dealt with those things in different ways that he would have earlier on in the series. I have lots of thoughts and lots of emotions about how he felt safe enough with his family to experience nightmares and such. I made an effort in The Truth Behind Family to include more fluff, especially in the last two chapters, because I think it’s important to show that yeah, his parents’ abuse effected him, but it didn’t dictate how he lived his life. 

Like yes, I could write about their first Christmas together, for example, and add it onto the series, but I don’t think that I’d be able to do the rest of the series justice in that. Defining Home is largely about what the title implies, Tommy discovering what words like ‘home’ and ‘family’ mean beyond what he’s been told he’s stuck with and I believe that by the end of the series, he’s been successful in that. 

I'm so proud of the characters I wrote, Tommy in particular, for how far they've come in Defining Home, but I think that in a way, it’s time for me to let them go.

That’s not to say I’m done with writing for sbi! Hell no! 

I have a couple long fics in the works and a one shot I’m working on. The main fic I’m excited to focus on now Defining Home is finished is heavy heart, heavy head, heavy hero which, to put it simply, is an sbi royalty au, where unfortunate circumstances mean Tommy is forced to become King. It’s going to be a little more plot focused than Defining Home was and I am so very pumped to give it my full attention instead of leaving that lonely one chapter on AO3 like I have been doing.

I was 🤏close to making a Discord server, but ultimately decided I’m much more suited to causing chaos on other people’s servers than running my own. I think at this point the karma would be too great to even consider making my own server, so if you’d like to talk to me on Discord, keep an eye for me on other people’s servers - I mainly lurk, but I’m pretty active on one or two :D

On a more serious note, Defining Home deals with some heavy topics and I’ve had comments tell me that they relate to Tommy’s situation and wish that they had their own found family to run to. 

This Tumblr post has a list of phone numbers and places you can contact if you need help or want someone to talk to. Saying that, I recognise that a list as long as that can be daunting, so feel free to shoot me a message and I can either help you find the right one for you, or keep you company for a bit if you need it. 

Not all of us are lucky enough to have our own found family, but that doesn’t mean that you won’t forever, or that you’re alone. My dms and ask box are always open if you want someone to talk to.

Keep yourselves safe <3

- Lee 

[sxfik]

darling, you're the one i want

chapter one | two | three ....

read on ao3 • main masterlist • law school masterlist

summary: Kang Sol A was never known for her luck, but she suspected it to be more like a curse when after almost 5 years, she bumps into her rival and the bane of her existence: Attorney Han Joon Hwi. What's worse? She has to work with him and she's sure that she'll either kill him or kiss him before this is all over

After Kang Sol B was freed from the clutched of her mother, her new found freedom spurred her into a night in bed with the mysterious Ji Ho. Yet, when he walks into her office the next day, she is faced with the realization that she is now working with the same man she slept with. What's worse? He's insufferable and she just might have to kiss him to shut him up.

a/n: hello hello! it's been almost a month since i've written a fic and probably even more time since i've truly been active on here. this fic is a product of me, @akinosakiya, @am-bi-vert and @thenerdywriter creating 20 different threads on twitter about an idea (which eventually got turned into a whole group chat just for hc and fic ideas). truly this fic is dedicated to all of them, the hanguk law school gc on tumblr and twitter. this fic is multi-chapter and written from 6 povs (basically it will be pretty long). as always, enjoy!

KANG SOL A was not known for her luck. Maybe it was a curse, or maybe just her destiny to be unlucky in life. She was irrevocably late this morning, despite setting 6 alarms and taking extra care the night before to ensure everything was in order before she left. But of course, in classic Sol A fashion, she was late despite every effort.

She was greeted with the shining sun and chirping birds as she speed walked towards her office building, her hair slightly disheveled in the breeze. Her hand clutched her briefcase as she speed walked towards the office, her lanyard swaying as she moved with purpose.

It had been almost 2 years since she started working for Kang's Toy Co. and 3 years since she graduated from Hanguk Law school. Life had been a rollercoaster since then, an endless ride of ups and downs as she tried to stabilize herself into her new life. She had clawed her way up from the struggle of her 1L year, getting to be an expert on late nights and sleep deprivation. Nonetheless, she graduated with an offer set up at Attorney Park's office which kickstarted her career and her life.

She'd be lying if she said everything was smooth from then on; it was quite the opposite. Just like she predicted, she had to take clients that she disliked and didn't trust, but when you were trying to make rent and put food on the table, it didn't matter. Luckily, she never had to compromise her beliefs too much during those years, and she was able to build her reputation as a trustable and hardworking lawyer in the community.

Soon enough, she was taking on higher profile clients, and gifted with the ability of being picky about who she defended. All of a sudden she was going to events and mingling with the upper class of Seoul. What was a poor girl, raised by a single mother, doing in such a ornate hall, sipping champagne that was worth more than anything she'd ever owned. Yet, those very same events led her to her name twin, Kang Sol B.

Kang Sol B, clean cut and straightforward, was one of her closest friends and CEO of the company she worked for. They met by chance at an event, after a particularly successful case, and somehow, the two women who were so unlike each other, hit it off. They ran into each other by chance again and they met for drinks. Sol B's level-headed, confident attitude balanced her energetic, eager mind. Not to mention, she fit right in with Ye-Seul and her dynamic, the three being thick as thieves. Soon enough, Sol was offered a job at her company as a corporate lawyer and she jumped on the chance at working with her. The rest was, as they say, history.

Shaking off her thoughts, her legs propelled her forward, her vision almost hazy and her mind clouded with the need to rush, rush, rush. The morning was particularly busy, with so many employees rushing into work and walking in their own world. Still, today was especially important as the company is announcing a joint enterprise between two of the biggest toy companies in Seoul. She picked up her pace, nearing the entrance, when, in her frenzy, she crashed into the oncoming figure.

"I'm so—"

"Sorry!"

Her head shot up, her eyes widening at the familiar voice. And there he stood, in all his glory, Han Joon Hwi: Second Round Judicial Exam Passer, and the bane of her existence.

She had the unfortunate luck of meeting Joon Hwi during their 1L, during a particularly intense class where she was grilled to death by her professor. The actual ordeal was a haze, all she could remember was her throat tightening and instant panic flooding her mind and body. Joon hwi, thinking himself some kind of knight-in-shining armor, swooped in to save her, answering in her stead.

And then, he decided to rival her during one of their constitutional code classes, arguing in favor of a law that was, in her mind, despicable. "You have to look at it in perspective," he coolly replied to her smoldering anger when she questioned him on how he could support such a thing. It was set in stone, then, that Kang Sol A did not like Han Joon Hwi.

From the moment they met, it was like he was specifically designed to drive her crazy. The way he smirked, the way his whip smart comebacks would leave her stumped, the way his arms filled out that stupid white shirt, the way he'd look at her like he could see right through her. Just about everything about him made her want to scream.

Dislike was an understatement when it came to Joon Hwi. It was more like a never ending annoyance, his presence and every move frustrating her, making her lungs tight and her heart race with exasperation and irritation.

She was nicknamed Lady Justice, after a particular comment from Joon Hwi himself. If it was to shame her, it clearly didn't work as it only fueled her headstrong attitude. In fact, it spurred her into more arguments with the illustrious Joon Hwi, the temperature constantly rising as they would circle each other and argue until their lungs burned and they were breathing heavy. The whole school would gather to see them spar, the tension so thick that they wouldn't notice the crowd they would draw as soon as the two would even look at each other.

He was the genius of her school, that much she couldn't deny. Still, the what he said about her in their final year...

His hand gripped her wrist, startling her out of her thoughts in an attempt to support her, and his warm touch seared into her cold skin as he pulled her up slightly. Joon Hwi blinked back at her, his face shocked before settling into a familiar smirk that drove her up the wall.

"Long time no see, huh, Lady Justice?" his eyebrow quirked up slightly as he took her in, and the scowl settled into her face. Like this day could have gotten any worse, it was just her luck to meet him.

"Not quite long enough, Attorney Han," she quipped back, snapping her arm away from his grip. She blew out a soft breath, in an attempt to get her bangs out of her eyes to face him properly. He continued to look down at her, his eyes never leaving her face as he chuckled in response.

He didn't look any different than he did 3 years ago, except that his shoulders had grown broader, his chest a little firmer. He wore a black coat, and underneath, his signature black suit that he had worn during his internships during school. His hair was styled differently, now styled up rather than down in bangs that used to give him an innocent look back in their law school years. It suited him.

"So, you work for Kang now?" he asked her, rushing forward to catch up with her fast pace. Her hand gripped tighter on her bag as she picked up her pace, trying her best to not let his sudden presence taint her morning.

"No, I'm definitely just walking towards the building with the large sign that says KANG TOY CO. for absolutely no reason," she replied, her voice laced with impatience.

"You haven't changed one bit, Kang Sol," he laughed, tilting his head forward, blinking and looking at her as if he knew something she didn't.

She paused in her tracks, looking up to the man who scrambled to turn to face her. "Why are you here, Joon Hwi?" she asked him, suspicious of his sudden presence.

He raised an eyebrow in response, and she could feel the irritation build in her chest as she looked up at him, impossibly confused. They stayed in place, their feet glued to the pavement and she forgot all about her earlier mission to get to her office asap. His face hadn't changed too much from their school days, his expression overflowing with mirth and mischief. But his face did hold a tiredness that wasn't seen before, as if the time has taken a toll on him. What happened to you, Han Joon Hwi, for your face to hold exhaustion that was never seen before?

"You'll find out," he replied curtly, before spinning back and walking towards the building. Her office building. She rushed forward now, trying to catch up with him as she looked up curiously, but he avoided her looks as they walked into the office.

They marched on in, flashing her badge at the entrance of the office, and Joon hwi, somehow, managed to follow. Did he start working here and never let her know? Does he even work as a lawyer? How could she not know? She let out a deep breath, trying to calm her racing mind as she walked into the elevator, and he marched in right by her side.

People filed in one after the other into the elevator, everyone in their morning rush to get to their cubicles and start their days. The elevators was filled to the brim, yet Kang Sol was still aware of Joon Hwi's presence, almost like her mind was blaring an alarm that He wasn't supposed to be here.

She momentarily shut her brain off, a task that she trained herself on after her struggles in her 1L, choosing to focus on the people milling around the elevator. Her eyes would flit through every person, and then the ceiling, and most importantly, she refused to let her mind stray to Han Joon Hwi, despite the curiosity eating her from the inside out.

The elevator was next to empty when she reached her floor, and she picked up her pace as she marched out of the elevator before he could. Sol kept her gaze trained ahead, but her body was feeling for the presence of someone else marching behind her.

Somehow, he managed to get ahead, probably with those stupidly long legs of his. His hand jutted out to open the door to the meeting room, and he paused, turning slightly towards her.

"Ladies first," he said, his expression almost neutral. If it wasn't for the slight crinkle near his eyes as he smiled, she would have taken the gesture as genuine and not intended to mock her. The gesture morphed from chivalry to a taunt that he knew something she didn't.

"Thank you, Attorney Han," she shot him a tight smile, before marching her way towards her teammates.

Ye-seul, her best friend and fellow lawyer, caught Sol's gaze and patted to the seat next to her and finally, Sol sank down into her chair, letting out a final sigh of relief.

"You're only a couple minutes late, the director isn't here yet," she said, taking a sip from her hot coffee. Ye-seul narrowed her eyes at her, and then looked up at Joon Hwi, before looking back down at her.

"Oh thank god," Sol, opened up her briefcase, getting out one of her legal pads and a pen incase she needed to take notes, as she expertly avoided her best friend's questioning gaze. The silence between them stretched, as Sol tapped her pen against the paper impatiently and Ye-seul let her gaze bore into her.

"Why was Han Joon–"

"Good morning," the baritone voice of Director Yang boomed across the meeting room, his voice loud despite the lack of a microphone. "Let's go through this meeting smoothly, as it is a very important day for both Kang Toy Co and Seo Media. Today, we have gathered to announce a collaboration for a toy line between both companies."

Applause filled the room as the director paused, looking at each team assembled in the room. Oh. So that's why Han Joon Hwi is here.

"As such, we will be needing our talented lawyer teams from both companies to help draw the legal terms and details between the two companies, as well as negotiate the terms for the toy line itself. This is an exciting time for both companies and we hope that this partnership is fruitful for both parties. Now, I will be announcing the teams and their assignments for this coming quarter and in preparation for the toy line itself," he paused, flipping through the notes he held at the center of the room.

"I'm proud to announce that Attorney Kang Sol and Team One from Kang Toys will be working with Attorney Han Joon Hwi and Team One from Seo Media." Sol's eyes shot up to Joon hwi, both their eyes wide with surprise. "Your teams will be heading the terms of the collaboration as well as working closely with both CEOs for any legal issues that come up," Director Yang nodded to both parties, before continuing down his list.

Her eyes were still on his, her mouth close to gaping open before she quickly shut it and avoided his gaze. Out of all the people, it had to be her that was paired up with him.

Kang Sol A had bad luck, indeed, but she was starting to think it was more like a curse instead.

[lala-ladybug]

Healing Hands: Chapter 8

You brush your teeth. now BOOM orange juice. That’s life.

Jasonette Sword Art Online AU

Read here on AO3

Chapter 8: Adrien Elizabeth Agreste, we do not have "plenty of time"

Tag list: @iloontjeboontje​ First | Previous | Next

Marinette was tired. Sure, she didn’t have to be class president, worry about akumas, or study for the baccalauréat, but she was more tired than she’d ever been in Paris. She’d been running herself ragged with training day after day for weeks, waking up earlier and going to bed later than everyone else.

Even her Order was starting to worry about her.

“Hey Mari, let’s go shopping! I’ve heard there’s a really posh fabric district on level 8.” Chloe wheedled as Kagami poured them both a cup of morning tea. The blonde had a sharp look in her eye that meant it was more serious than just a shopping trip, but Marinette wouldn’t budge.

“Sorry Chlo, I want to level-grind so I can prep for tomorrow,” Marinette shrugged and grimaced at her friend. She hadn’t picked up a needle in months, chances were slim to none that she’d start now. And tomorrow was too important to skip training.

Adrien came in from the garden and traded glances with Chloe. He sat down next to Marinette and said softly, “You really don’t have to overwork yourself this much, you know.” He gestured to the four of them and Luka, who sat plucking at his lute. “We’re all here right alongside you, and we always will be.”

Marinette forced a smile. “I know,” she replied. And she did, really. But it was still so hard to let herself relax, even for a moment. She felt more burdened here than as Ladybug. At least back home all they had to do was wait for the next akuma attack. In here, every second not actively spent fighting in the dungeons or leveling up was another second lost in the real world. Another life lost, too.

The newspaper had daily progress updates and blurbs about quests, but every month it also put out a death toll. There were so many names. A good month only had a few dozen. Marinette always read them all, whispered their names to herself as a reminder to keep fighting.

“I should be heading out,” she gulped down her tea and rose from the table. Ignoring the worried faces of her friends, she packed a bag and shouldered a full quiver of arrows. She waved without turning to look behind her and left through the door to the stables.

The roan stallion, playfully named “Rouge” by Nino, had taken a liking to her, so that was the one she saddled up and mounted. They rode into town, where Marinette touched the teleportation obelisk and directed their destination to the thirteenth floor.

She shielded her eyes against the bright sun. The heat rolled off the clay buildings in shimmering waves, carrying with it the scent of spices from a nearby market. In the distance, she could see rolling hills of sand stretching on for miles. This floor was the highest that was open, but the dungeon wasn’t scheduled to be beaten until the next day.

Despite their best efforts to defeat each level by themselves, the Order quickly found that other guilds fought right alongside them. They were much more competent than the Parisians had given them credit for, for various reasons. The game cultivated a cutthroat culture where limited resources served as selfish motivations for players to do as they pleased. Some groups wanted to help, just like them. Others wouldn’t think twice about abandoning allies to save their own skins. Above all, no one wanted to be left behind, not after the fiasco of the first level. And of course, everyone wanted to go home.

When she wasn’t talking strategy with the other guilds, Marinette trained hard to increase her level. She was nearly at level 20, and wanted to be at her absolute best for the dungeon battle. She’d read in the paper that morning that there were scorpion monsters lurking out beyond the limits of the villages. They would be perfect practice.

She spurred Rouge onward down the stone road that wound through the dunes. They’d barely made it out of sight of the village before, sure enough, waist-high black scorpions started tailing them. Rouge tossed his head as he trotted along, sensing something was amiss.

Marinette nudged him into a gallop, which he gladly obliged to get as far away from the threat as possible. But a glance over her shoulder revealed that the monsters were doggedly following. Their pace sped up enough that she could hear the clacking from their many legs scraping over the stones of the road.

Twisting in the saddle, Marinette fired at their pursuers. Her archery skills were her favorite thing to practice. The ranged attacks and versatility were similar to her yo-yo, and moving targets only made it that much more of a challenge.

Her arrows hit their marks, and she didn’t have to turn her head to see the congratulatory loot windows popping up in front of her to confirm it.

More scorpions approached from the sides, which made it even easier to pick them off. Rouge seemed to be enjoying the exercise, never flagging as they bolted across the level. Fending off enemies left and right, dodging fast-paced obstacles, feeling the wind rushing in her hair....

It was the closest she had come to feeling like Ladybug since the game began.

She fell into a rhythm that allowed her mind to wander to Tikki. How was she holding up? Had she found another holder? She would probably need one.... The Order hadn’t talked about it, but they all knew that Hawkmoth likely wasn’t taking it easy on a city devastated by so many deaths and disappearances.

Marinette frowned and swallowed against the lump in her throat. All of the Miraculous holders were here and there was no one left to distribute new ones. She felt so stupidly careless to have left Paris completely undefended.

The next arrow that found its mark sank deeply enough to reward her with a level-up.

Eventually, they reached another village. They stopped for water and some lunch, then kept going onward. By the time the sun was setting, Marinette had reached level 20 and was well on her way to achieving level 21. She felt more ready now, the physical activity having calmed her nerves somewhat.

She and Rouge teleported back to the house just in time for Alix, Kim, and Max to serve dinner. Marinette raised a questioning eyebrow at Luka. She could’ve sworn they’d taken their turn to cook dinner just a few nights ago. Her friend just sighed and mouthed, “Lila.”

Ah, of course.

Lila did deign to come downstairs, allegedly from the girls’ bedroom where she had to take a nap because her vertigo was acting up. Which it only did when there was something she didn’t want to do.

Marinette was the first to serve herself. She piled some of the food from the kitchen onto her plate and took a seat next to Alya. Her best friend was chatting with Adrien and Max about the game plan for the boss fight tomorrow. Listening in to get the context for the conversation, Marinette took a bite of the potatoes.

It was bland.

Terribly, awfully bland.

She hid her face as politely as she could, then stood to retrieve spices from the cupboards in the kitchen. She applied them liberally to her own plate and then to the rest of the serving platters before anyone else could try them.

Upon rejoining her friends at the table, she heard Adrien and Kagami once again shut down Alya’s pleading to join them in the fight. Of their guild of classmates and friends, the Order comprised the only members they’d allowed to fight in the dungeons. Marinette knew her civilian friends were more than capable, hell she’d trusted many of them with a Miraculous at some point or another, but the chance of them getting hurt and dying in the game was too great to take risks.

“What if we just stayed with the support teams? I don’t want to get in anyone’s way, but if there’s something I can do to help I want to do it!” Alya protested.

Kagami shook her head sharply. “Absolutely not. Even the support teams have sustained damage in prior fights. You should leave it to us.”

Lila sat down smoothly on Alya’s other side. “What makes you five so much more competent? Everyone knows how clumsy Marinette is.” She waved a casual hand.

“Well, Kagami and I fence together, and....” Adrien started explaining but trailed off.

“Chloe has been bringing me and Luka to her self-defense classes back home,” Marinette blurted out. She internally cringed at the questioning looks Chloe and Luka gave her. “There’s so many akumas near us at home, we thought it might be a good idea.”

Oh Kwami, she hated lying to her friends. But she couldn’t put them in the line of fire. If something happened to one of them, she’d never be able to forgive herself.

Luckily, it seemed like they’d bought her half-truth.

“Really?” Lila raised her eyebrows.

Well, most of them had.

“I hope that’s really the reason and it’s not just because you guys are hoarding all the loot you get from beating the dungeons,” she sniffed, leaning forward slightly to look directly at Marinette.

Marinette’s stomach dropped. To even think that they could be so greedy and manipulative....

“Oh come on, there’s no way our friends would ever do something like that.” Alya gently put her arm around Marinette. “My bestie is our Everyday Ladybug, and I’m sure she’s going to do her best to help get us out of here.”

Nino and the others spoke up about their support for Marinette and her Order, but she tuned them out. As grateful as she was for her friend’s support, Marinette couldn’t help but feel even more overwhelmed. Being called their “Everyday Ladybug” only served as a reminder of how much they all depended on her.

She finished her meal and quietly thanked Alix and Max (Kim was busy arm-wrestling Adrien). While washing her dishes, she felt herself nodding off. Rouge still needed to be brushed after their long ride, so she shook herself awake and trudged to the stables to do that.

Luka and Chloe were waiting there for her, to her surprise. Luka was already working to brush Rouge’s coat, and Chloe wordlessly took Marinette by the shoulders and firmly guided her upstairs to their room.

“Hey, wh--” Marinette tried to ask before Chloe shooed her up to their loft beds.

Chloe followed her up and said, “You need to rest,” then began tucking her friend in.

Marinette made an effort to protest, but the quilted covers invited her to give in to her heavy eyelids. So she let her friend fuss over the sheets and straighten the duvet.

She hardly remembered whispering her thanks before falling asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Marinette woke from a dreamless sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long, or so well. She yawned and stretched with a groan, blinking blearily at the large circular window in front of her.

The window spanned nearly the height of the two stories in the girls’ room. It cast shafts of swirling dust, gilded in the morning sun, across the beds on the floor below. She and Chloe had thought at first that they’d drawn the short end of the stick when Lila had insisted they be the ones to take the loft (the extra climbing would be awful on her knees, you know how it is), but in her grogginess Marinette took a moment to appreciate it.

From her vantage point, she could see clearly out into the front of their yard. The hills of their spread-out neighborhood sloped downward to reveal the mountains in the distance beyond the limits of the main town.

As she watched, small songbirds flitted between the apple trees lining the path. She could hear their soft chirping in the distance, as well at the hum of the beehive that had been growing in their eaves.

Today was an important day, she knew that much, but why...?

Oh no.

A glance at the clock embedded in her player menu revealed that she’d overslept. She was late.

She threw the blankets off and quickly dressed, hopping in place to tug on her boots. She slid down the ladder and rounded the corner of the landing on the stairs, terrified she’d missed her team leaving to fight the boss.

Adrien’s bubbling laughter followed by Luka’s soft chuckle told her otherwise. She breathed a sigh of relief and slowed her pace down the rest of the stairs. Thank Kwami.

In the kitchen, Adrien was holding a yellow hairbrush high above Chloe’s reach while she pouted and jumped to try to grab it. Kagami shook her head while Luka snuck up behind them and plucked the brush out of Adrien’s hand.

Chloe huffed at Adrien when Luka handed it back to her. She began brushing out her already-perfect hair, chastising him. “You know this is my travel brush. I’ll need it for after the boss fight! Kwami knows how utterly ridiculous it will look after that.”

Kagami noticed Marinette's arrival and sidled up to her, hands clasped behind her back. “Can’t imagine why she was ever Queen Bee,” she said drily. Marinette put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Kagami’s practical sense of humor had only grown the longer her friends had “corrupted” her, as Adrien liked to claim.

“Melody!” Luka smiled warmly, greeting her with a wave. Adrien and Chloe stopped their play fighting to look at her. They crossed the room in an instant, Adrien’s hands placed lightly on her shoulders and Chloe grasping her hands. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Better than I have in a while, thank you Chlo,” Marinette smiled at her friends.

Adrien glanced over her head to check the clock in the kitchen. “We still have plenty of time, why don’t you have some breakfast.”

“Adrien Elizabeth Agreste, we do not have ‘plenty of time,’” Marinette retorted. “I’ll take some food to go.”

Lila, sitting with Alya on the couches nearby, gave them a questioning glance. Alya quickly explained, “His middle name obviously isn’t actually Elizabeth, but it’s way funnier to pretend that it is,” before hopping up to give Marinette a quick hug.

“Be safe,” she whispered into her hair, holding her tightly for a few seconds. Marinette gave her a tight-lipped smile as they parted, then caught the apple that Kagami tossed her.

They opted to leave the horses, in case some other players tried to steal them while they were busy with the boss fight. The five friends walked to the teleport kiosk in town.

Marinette felt tense and nervous, but couldn’t help relaxing in the presence of her carefree friends. They all joked and made horrible puns (thank you Adrien) the whole way to the thirteenth floor.

Surprisingly, they didn’t run into any other guilds along the winding, cobbled roads of the thirteenth floor. They must have already been gathered at the dungeon since they were approaching the designated meeting time. Marinette hoped they would wait.

The entrance was an ornately carved archway framing a spiral staircase. The steps led into the depths below the shifting dunes. There were lit sconces every so often, affixed to cavities in the curved walls. The steps were made of glass, but the overlapping flights of stairs didn’t clue them in to how deep the passage went.

A hot draft blew up and scattered the sand at their feet. With a glance to her team, Marinette led the way down.

Their boots had little grip on the glass steps, and they had to grip both walls to try to avoid falling. Adrien cracked one too many jokes about it being a “slippery situation” and earned himself a hearty slap on the back that sent him reaching the next landing a little sooner than he would’ve hoped.

Marinette only paid half-attention to their antics, devoting most of her brain power to going over the plan. Pamphlets in NPC shops said that this boss had ranged area attacks, which wouldn’t mean much until they saw what exactly it could do. She hoped that the extra upgrades she’d given to their armor would protect them from whatever projectiles that could possibly entail.

While her small squad would lead the assault, archers would back them up and hopefully be able to counteract the boss’s ranged attacks. Healers were on deck, of course, and there were plenty of defensive lines with shielding capabilities.

More and more guilds were joining the front lines as the people started to band together. Meetings were no longer the exclusive events they once were, and the plans of when and where to attack were placed in the paper. That meant they’d have some wild cards. Marinette frowned as she considered where they would fit in.

She sighed. Again, they probably wouldn’t know until they were in the thick of the fighting. A glance upward revealed that they could no longer see the daylight warping through the glass steps above them. It couldn’t be that much farther, though it was odd that the air around them was getting hotter, not colder, the farther they went.

Adrien cocked his head and he gestured for the others to quiet down. The five of them had retained some of the attributes lent to them by years of consistent miraculous use, and his hearing was better than most of theirs. They proceeded carefully.

Marinette began to hear it too, a low murmur that sounded like....

Players, dozens of them, were waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

They were scattered about the long, tall antechamber with golden walls that glimmered in the soft torchlight. Arches, like the one at the entrance far up above, supported the ceiling. Three-meter tall pillars displayed vases and other beautiful decor. There was an open doorway at the opposite end of the room, but they couldn’t see anything beyond it but darkness.

The gentle pressure of a hand at her back told her Adrien was standing by her side. She made eye contact with one of the other familiar guild leaders and made her way over to him and his team.

“Hey Danny, are we the last to arrive?” She greeted her American friend. He ran a hand through his cropped dark hair and his icy blue eyes met hers. “Hey Mari. Nah, we’re still waiting on Crimson Dragon.”

His raven-haired friend Sam shook her head. “They’re always late,” she muttered.

Next to her, their other friend (Tucker, if she recalled correctly) shrugged. “But you gotta admit, they always deliver!”

Marinette had to agree with him there. Thanks to the programming in the system, everyone in the game spoke and understood the same language. That meant that the Miracle Workers had wound up working with both Ghostbusters, Danny’s guild, and Crimson Dragon on several occasions even though they both spoke English as their native tongue. She had to admit she was impressed with how well they did. Unorthodox as they were....

“‘Sup party animals!?” A loud voice echoed down the stairwell. The whole room of players turned to look at the small figure sliding to a halt, boots squeaking against the floor. He tossed the hood of a bright red cloak back and threw up finger guns. “Miss me?”

Next to Marinette, Chloe scoffed in a way that said she most definitely did not. Jake was... quite the eccentric character. The rest of his guild, two very embarrassed-looking girls and a tall boy, descended the stairs as well to join their leader.

“About damn time!” Someone spoke up from the back. Jake’s head whipped around and his eyes flashed. Beside her, Danny winced at his hotheadedness. Before anything worse could happen, Marinette gave Luka a meaningful look.

He gave a sharp, loud whistle that drew everyone’s attention to them.

“Listen up people! We all know the plan. Is everyone ready?” Marinette raised her voice to reach the whole chamber. The atmosphere shifted to a laser focus, and she saw grim nods as people drew their weapons and potions.

A glance to Adrien confirmed that it was time. “Let’s go.”

She and her Order led everyone through the great doorway, and into the unknown.

The boss’s room was an enormous, golden circle lined with torches that flickered to life as soon as she stepped onto the glass floor. She could barely see the far wall of the round chamber. Levels of glass flooring circled up to the dome high above their heads, carved into the walls. A few alcoves dotted the walls, but other than that there was hardly any cover to be found, which was concerning.

A whispering noise thrummed through the chamber, made louder by the acoustics of the massive room. Marinette held up a hand to halt the movement of everyone behind her. She listened intently for the sound to happen again.

It didn’t take long, and it was getting louder now. She jerked her head to Adrien and Kagami, who started silently directing groups to assume their stations. While they moved, Marinette cast her eyes around the chamber. Where was the boss?

A loud hissing sound seemed to come from the floor, and then--

Shattered glass erupted from the floor at the center of the chamber. A colossal golden snake with red eyes reared up and bared its fangs at them. This had to be it. Marinette yelled, “Scatter!” and they all ran for it.

It struck right where she had been standing only moments before. Her boots slipped on the glass as she scrambled to gain purchase and hoist herself up onto the nearest alcove. She managed to do it just in time, the boss snapping at her heels.

She raised her shield and distantly heard Kagami shout for the archers to take aim and fire. A volley of arrows fell on the great beast, and Marinette twisted sideways and crouched to take cover under her shield. Loud hissing meant at least some of them had found their target, and to their credit only a few missed and bounced off of her shield.

“Hey, you big ugly worm! I bet you’re all hot air with nothing to show, huh?” Adrien was bravely doing what he did best. Distracting the villain so that Marinette could come up with a plan. She risked a peek from over her shield to watch the snake whip around to face Adrien, who stood a few levels up on the opposite side of the chamber.

It leaned backwards only to shoot forward a few feet, opening its mouth wide. Screams echoed from the people it faced. Oh Kwami, what was that?

Marinette bolted to her feet and raced up the sloping pathway, trying to get a better angle. She stopped and her eyes widened once she could finally see what was happening.

A cone of air coming from the maw of that thing shimmered with heat. She looked in horror to see that Adrien was shielding himself and the civilians around him as best he could, but those he couldn’t reach shouted in pain as their armor began to melt off. The glass around them started to sag and they screamed louder as the floor bent beneath them.

A blur of motion jumped onto the head of the snake from high above. That was Chloe’s signature move, and sure enough it was her. She landed hard enough to knock the boss’s head down to the ground, its body collapsing probably from sheer surprise.

Or maybe it needed a cooldown time? Shit, this wasn’t good. They knew nothing. They were underprepared and overwhelmed.

Mariniette coughed as sand fell from the faraway ceiling at the impact the beast had made when it fell. Below her, Chloe was hacking away at the monster’s face with her flail. It gave no warning before snatching its head back to knock her off her feet and coiling its tail around her. Marinette cried out wordlessly as her friend was trapped in a matter of moments.

She was still squirming when the monster bared its fangs and let loose another breath of boiling air directly onto her.

Marinette could only watch as Chloe's golden armor heated to a bright red and began to melt, her friend still squirming to get out. A desperate cry fell from the blonde’s lips as the hot metal touched her skin, and still the snake kept going.

She flashed a look to their party’s health bars and saw Chloe’s dropping fast. Too fast. Marinette grabbed a specialized arrow and drew back her bow. When she let it loose, the arrow exploded into goopy foam. She’d aimed perfectly, and the snake’s closed mouth was soon covered in the quickly hardening substance.

She pushed off from the wall and jumped. There was a moment when she was suspended in the air where time seemed to slow down. She saw the snake loosen its hold on Chloe and writhe in confusion. She heard the deafening cries from the wounded, and her name on Adrien’s lips. From the corner of her eye, a glint of metal flashed and she felt a split-second of coldness.

Then the moment was over, and she was tumbling onto the snake’s sinewy form and hoisting Chloe up. She half-carried her as she bounded away from the monster. She could see it shaking its head in her peripheral vision. But that wasn’t important right now.

Luka was waiting for her in the antechamber, out of the boss’s reach. He and several other healers already had potions at the ready. Marinette didn’t wait to see how many it would take to save her friend. She ignored Luka’s shouts and ran back into the monster’s room.

* * *

Well, Jason had finally convinced his stupid brothers to fight on the front lines. But the fact that they expected him to fight with them? Laughable.

When they made it to the dungeon, he had left them in the dust, or sand as it were. He was scouting up onto the higher levels of the paths that led up to the top of the dome when it happened.

Some girl was caught in the hold of the boss, a snake with apparently really fucking bad breath. He tensed as it blew a torrent of hot air right on her, but before anyone could move an arrow flew out and hit the beast smack in the mouth, releasing some foaming substance as it did.

Movement on his level caught his eye a few feet away. Jason stilled and observed as best he could without moving.

Some creep was wielding a metallic blowgun, aiming it dead ahead at the--

No, not at the boss. At the person who’d just fired the arrow, the person who had just jumped into the air and left themselves wide open.

He didn’t even think, he just tackled the sneaky bastard. In the commotion, they dropped the dart they’d been about to fire and it sank into their own leg.

As Jason watched, it didn’t take long for green tendrils to start appearing under the person’s skin. They clawed at their leg, but the movements grew weaker by the second.

And then they stilled.

Jason’s eyes widened as he watched them dissolve into pixels. As he watched his own name in the upper corner of his vision turn orange, indicating a player-kill.

Well shit. Dick was going to be pissed.

* * *

Marinette felt calm. Her hands had been shaking when she’d handed Chloe off to Luka, but now she felt nothing but a cool, calculating rage. As she stalked back into the chamber, she saw the boss struggling under another wave of arrows fired from all around the chamber.

A glance upward and a once-over of the pathways spiraling up the walls of the chamber confirmed all she needed to formulate a plan.

Marinette drew her knives and flicked her wrists. This monster was going to regret that. She broke into a sprint and slashed around the body of the snake. It was fast for its size, and it tried to keep up. But she was faster.

Arrows rained down around them, sticking out of chinks in the beast’s scales like some twisted sea urchin. The boss worked furiously to try to unstick its jaw, but as cracks appeared in the substance holding its mouth closed Marinette distracted it with a particularly deep slash.

It wasn’t ready, not yet.

“Get back to the antechamber!” She yelled to the other players. Most of them ran, but some-- Danny, Jake, her Order-- hesitated.

“Go!” She egged on the monster to move towards her, away from the door, giving everyone a chance to escape. “I have a plan.”

They reluctantly followed the others as they left her alone in the dungeon. Adrien paused, asking her, “My lady, I help with--”

“Go.” She growled, glaring at him as best she could while battling the serpent. He gritted his teeth and retreated with the others, but stayed within view of the battle.

Good. Now she could put her plan into action.

Marinette sheathed her knives and pulled out her bow, then dashed to the sloping walkway. The snake pursued, seemingly going after an easy target running scared.

When she’d nearly reached the carved alcove, she fired an arrow with a cord attached to it. The cord was a special elastic design that could retract but couldn’t be pulled to be any longer. It landed high above her and anchored itself into the wall with a distant click. Then came the tricky part.

Marinette turned toward the giant snake and ran at it. Its red eyes burned with rage and the cracks deepened in the hardened foam still leashing its mouth. Still holding onto the other end of that cord, she gave it a sharp tug that sent her flying through the air, far above where the monster had expected her to be.

The leap carried her to the opposite side of the circular walls. She neatly landed on the walkway about two stories up from the ground. The snake gave a muffled hiss of fury and set out on the bottommost level, steadily approaching her as it wound around the cavern.

Marinette let the cord go and started running.

She kept an eye on the monster, firing a regular arrow at it every now and then to keep it angry. That didn’t seem to be a problem. What would be a problem is if she timed everything wrong, or if the snake caught up to her, or if the ceiling wouldn’t--

No. There wasn’t time for doubt. She had faith in herself, and she could almost hear Tikki’s little voice cheering her on. She thought of Chloe and pressed on even harder.

The beast got close enough that she could smell the reek of it before she fired another corded arrow and launched herself across the chamber again. She gained even more height, and continued the climb to the top.

This only made the boss angrier, but she could tell that it sensed victory. There was nowhere left to go once she reached the top. Nowhere but down, that is.

A third corded arrow brought her to the uppermost levels, and then it was only a short run before she reached the edge of the dome. She was panting for breath and her legs were aching with the effort of so much running, but she wasn’t done yet.

One steadying breath in. Two.

The serpent had nearly reached her. Marinette could see it rounding the final curve that would bring it to her level. She drew her bow back and aimed it at its mouth, counting it out in her head.

She held until the beast was nearly upon her, then fired. The arrow was tipped in lead, and easily broke through the already-breaking foam. Immediately after, she fired an arrow directly above her. It hit the apex of the structure holding back all the sand above them.

The beast looked up at the mass of sand falling on it and opened its mouth to fire a hot stream of air.

Marinette didn’t stick around to see how it would play out. She fired one final corded arrow to the side where she could see an alcove in the wall. And there she stayed, facing the wall and shielding her face from the sand pouring into the chamber behind her.

Finally, the avalanche slowed and then stopped. Only then did she risk stepping away from the wall and peering down to see if her plan had worked.

The snake was laying on the floor of the chamber below her. Its form was contorted and broken, speared by great spikes of glass that it had created itself. As she watched, it faded into glowing dust, and a screen popped up in front of her displaying her cut of the loot.

She sighed with relief. Then raced back down as fast as she dared on the dusty glass, anxiety twisting in her gut. She had to see if Chloe was okay.

If something happened to her....

Her thoughts turned to the worst as she neared the bottom of the chamber, no matter how she tried to stay positive. Her hands were shaking when she finally made it to the glass floor and, carefully avoiding the glass spikes, picked her way over to the arch leading into the antechamber.

Adrien was waiting there for her. He embraced her and said, “Don’t scare me like that again,” then let her go to see Chloe.

Tears were brimming in her eyes as she saw her friend, still lying prone on the floor with her head on Luka’s lap. She looked up when Marinette came into her view and sat up with a wince.

“Well,” she said. “I made it.”

Marinette burst into sobs at that and collapsed by her friend’s side, hugging her tightly. She heard Luka softly telling her that Chloe had been at 1 HP, but all the healers put everything they could into bringing her health back up.

It only made her cry harder.

And as she held her friend close, she thought to herself how she would do anything to keep this from happening again. How she couldn’t stand to see her friends get hurt anymore. How she had handled the boss on her own.

There was no Maman and Papa, no Tikki, no Order that could help her. She was alone in this fight, and that was how it had to be.

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[creative-frequency]

Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Reader: Free Time

Word count: 1564 Pairing: Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Reader Notes: I had a mighty need for inquisitor Cal, asked what kind of scenarios would you guys like to read and here we go.

My Writing Masterlist

He is always training.

Alone.

You don’t know much about this new Inquisitor who some call unofficially the Eleventh Brother. There would be plenty enough numbers available among the first ten. Some even whisper that he is the next Grand Inquisitor. He doesn’t look that special to you, but you don’t want to go close enough to get a better look.

With the way he handles the red lightsaber, it’s clear that he is no stranger to the weapon. After a few sparring matches, the Purge Troopers quickly learned to avoid him in training spaces. Everyone gives him a wide berth.

Former Jedi Cal Kestis is always training because when he isn’t, he can hear his own thoughts, screaming inside his head. There is no one to talk to, no one to drown the thoughts with. The other Inquisitors barely treat him as equal, most often settling for avoidance. The feeling is mutual.

Cal feels the yearning for companionship, but there is none he can trust now. None who would comfort or encourage him. Getting physically exhausted and falling into dreamless sleep makes his new life somewhat more bearable. There is no light in his existence now. Just aimless darkness where he wanders, trying to hold his head above the surface. He is just surviving.

Attending to your duties at the Fortress Inquisitorius, you have no time to stare at the new Inquisitor, as handsome as he may be. He is swinging the double-bladed lightsaber in a speed that makes you dizzy. You don’t like the way the Second Sister looks at him, like a trophy from a hunt. It makes you feel sick but there is nothing you can do, especially show your disgust.

Nur wouldn’t have been your first choice, but one can’t exactly say no to a direct order. So you just focus on the job and hope that a new order will come soon.

It’s been two years.

Working in maintenance isn’t the most exciting career under the rule of the Galactic Empire. At least you don’t have to torture or murder anyone, only look the other way when someone else does. Things like that tend to numb people. You’re not proud of it. You’re just surviving.

Most of your coworkers are droids. Sometimes you hear people joking that you’re leading an army of your own. You tend to avoid the Troopers and especially the Inquisitors. Keeping a low profile is not just the best tactic to stay alive on the planet, it’s a necessity.

With a job that mainly requires only hands, you have too much time to think and wait for the comlink to spark into life.

“Requiring maintenance on residential level. Over.”

An everyday occurrence. You sigh. “What seems to be the problem? Over.”

“Another blasted lock. Apartment 2-5-7-K. Over.”

Gripping the comlink, you bite your lip. Shit. Anything over 250 means it’s an Inquisitor’s door. You’d best hurry.

“I’m on my way. Over.”

A blasted lock. You wonder what the reason is this time. What Trooper was stupid enough to draw a weapon in the hallways? They probably paid for the insolence with their life. Maybe there was a skirmish with one of the prisoners or someone tried to escape. Wouldn’t be the first time. You try to think of something else.

The hallway is fortunately empty so you speed walk to the right door. 257K. After a short inspection it seems that the lock is not actually broken, the door just needs some basic maintenance. The room hasn’t been in use for a long time but apparently someone has moved in recently. You make a mental note to bump it higher up on the priority list and to make sure a droid is taking care of it.

“It just needs adjustment, right?”

A scream almost flees you and you drop the servodriver.

The red-head Inquisitor stands next to you, slightly crouched to see better what you’re doing. You didn’t hear anyone approaching.

“Would’ve fixed it myself if I had the tools,” he continues, ignoring your almost heart attack.

“I’m sorry! This’ll be ready in a minute,” you say hastily and try not to look at the freckles on his face.

The Inquisitor’s brows crease closer together when you don’t look him in the eye.

“Okay,” he simply replies and leans against the wall, arms folding on his chest and looking like he isn’t going anywhere soon. If anything, he seems to enjoy watching you panic. A light smirk on his face and all.

You feel the eyes on your back as you work as fast as you can, checking and testing the connectors. Some of them need to be changed soon and that requires another order of spare parts. You just love paperwork and spending the Empire’s credits.

“Can you take a look at the AC inside? It’s been acting up.”

The servodriver almost falls from your grip again. You turn around to bow your head to the Inquisitor. Your eyes are obstinately drawn to the lightsaber resting against his thigh. “Of course, sir.”

The constant feeling of “I hope he doesn’t kill me” in your gut makes your hands shake but somehow you manage to make sure the lock works again. The Inquisitor still leans on the wall, looking like he has all the time in the world to just hang out. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him outside the dojo.

“There. Is it okay if I go in to check the AC now?” You don’t want to look him in the eye and with your every cell hope that he will leave now and let you work in peace.

Not a chance.

He shows you inside and stays hovering nearby as you try to calm yourself enough to work. He can’t seem to take his eyes off you. Something about you, watching you is… itching him.

“The thermostat seems to be broken, sir.” You dare a peek at the Inquisitor. He doesn’t seem as intimidating as the others and is actually younger than you initially thought. “I’ll need to go fetch some parts but I’ll set a static room temperature for now.”

“Okay.” He runs his hand through his ginger hair and sighs. “Can’t you just make a droid bring the parts?”

You blanch. “Uh, yes. Of course, I just thought it’d be faster if… I go… myself…” Your voice trails off under the cryptically meaningful look in his eyes.

Cal examines you, circling around in a slow, lazy arc. He has noticed you before even though you actively make every effort to not stand out. He felt something spark inside him in the hallway and he needs a moment to realize it’s curiosity that brings life to his dull existence. The feeling has some exhilarating new shades and he wonders is it because you look like a cornered animal, shaking in fear.

It excites him.

“Sir?” you squeak and can’t form the follow up question because Cal takes a step towards you.

“Who are you?” he asks slowly, gaze trained onto your face, eyes boring holes into your mind. His pulse is quickened like in the thick of a combat and he cannot understand why.

“Um, I’m not sure I– I’m just a technician. I’ve got clearance, y-you see… I can show you my ID…” you stutter and fumble a hand into your chest pocket to fish out the ID card. “See?”

Cal doesn’t even spare a glance at it.

“Yeah. I’m not interested in that,” he says coolly. He stands close enough to either strangle or hug you – though you know he wouldn’t need to get close and personal to kill you. You’re starting to panic.

“Sorry…” you peep, “Can I…”

Go?

You can’t finish the sentence because the Inquisitor leans forward and plants a gloved hand against the wall over your shoulder – a predator enjoying one last sniff of his prey before the killing blow.

All of your jittering ends and you completely freeze. The whimper that escapes your lips doesn’t sound like you at all. He has so many freckles and the feeling they enact in you acts as the perfect opposite to what their owner is doing. As good-looking as he may be, getting within a kissing distance to the Inquisitor wasn’t on your bucket list.

However, while you’re waiting perfectly still – in spite of your racing heart – for his next move, Cal hesitates. The excitement that spurred him into taking the initiative is gaining an altogether different tone. He is suddenly nervous and has to ball his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking.

You stare at each other, mere inches away and lightly gasp for breaths. The menacing Inquisitor aura is gone and you curse him for toying with you like that since there’s no way you can forget this ever happened. For a fleeting moment, you think should you just kiss him and be done with it – and gamble your life on his goodwill.

Cal finally loses his nerve and leaves without so much as a word or a glance at your direction.

You wait for a few stunned breaths to hear if he is coming back after the fateful sizzle of the door. Your head is positively spinning by the time you make it out alive from the quarters of Inquisitor Cal Kestis.

You hope nothing breaks in his room again.

//

Part 2

[vikingpoteto]

we don’t have to dance (to the beat of their songs)

Chapter 3 on AO3 ______________________

Relationships:  (Gen) Tim Drake & Jason Todd

Tags: Battle for the Cowl, Alternate Canon, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Neglect, Domestic Fluff, Canon is not valid I am, and I want them to be friends goddamnit

Summary: In the middle of their battle, Jason asks Tim to leave the nest and be his Robin. Tim decides it's not a bad idea, after all. ________________________

When the cast comes off his leg, Jason sighs in relief. Casts are a bitch and he can’t believe he survived four weeks walking around like a zombie.

And, well, he technically is a zombie, but still.

The nurse barely has time to set aside the now useless pieces of cast before Jason eagerly stretches his arm. He tries not to take offense in the patronizing smile the man gives him. Jason supposes he isn’t the person acting like having their arm in a cast is hell  — because it is — but he can go without the little smirk, thank you very much. He would’ve removed the damn thing on his own, except it’s his dominant arm stuck in the cursed thing and he didn’t want to risk any new injuries. It’s the first time in over a month that he has no major wounds. And that’s considering that the pit gave him a faster healing rate than your average Joe.

“There’s a crack here,” the nurse comments.

“Hm. I had to fight a criminal. They were annoying, so I hit them with my cast,” Jason says.

The nurse gives him a forced chuckle as though he thinks Jason is joking. Or, well, that Todd Peters is joking. He doesn’t need to know Jason’s real name or that he’s completely serious. He must be new. They’re not in Gotham, but they’re close enough that having to beat a random crook with a cast shouldn’t be that outlandish.

The annoying noise of the saw fills the room again and Jason does his best to stay put. While telling Dick to fuck off after their fight had been satisfying  — a silver lining after having his ass handed back to him, if you must  — letting himself fall to what could’ve been his second death wasn’t Jason’s smartest move. And definitely not worth having to drag his own broken ass home, ruin his wounded body even more as he struggled to change into civies. Never mind having to face the humiliation of seeking a public hospital and pretending he had somehow walked away from getting hit by a bus. That had been fun, but he would not recommend it.

“There you go,” the nurse says. “You’re free as a bird, Mr. Peters.”

Jason flexes his fingers in relief. As a bird. What a joke.

When he walks out of the hospital with a medical bill that will most certainly never get paid  — although it’s tempting to send it to Wayne Enterprises just to let them know Jason is alive and now ready to kick their asses again  — he remembers the second time someone told him he could be Robin.

It had been Tim.

He hadn’t thought about that night in quite a while, mostly because he couldn’t believe it really happened. It was before they freaking sent him to Arkham, but after Jason got rid of (most of) the green mist in his mind that had him foaming at the mouth with unchecked anger. Robin swooped in right in the middle of one of Jason’s busts and somehow managed to knock out as many criminals as he protected from lethal shots. After they were done, he had approached Jason and deadass asked him if he would consider being Robin again.

Just like that. Jason thought he was joking.

Then Tim Drake, in all his 14 year-old glory, his voice still cracking a bit, deadpanned: “I only took over because someone had to. But now that you’re back, it only makes sense that you go back to your family.”

Jason was so stunned he doesn’t remember what he said next. Probably something about shooting the kid if he caught him in his territory again. He’s pretty sure the little shit rolled his eyes at him before jumping off the roof. Jason had the distinct feeling that Bruce never heard about that small mishap.

For quite a while, Jason tried his hardest not to think about what he left in Gotham. It was hard when he was too injured to move, but books helped him through it, as always. Now, however, he was free as a robin and he has a decision to make: what is he going to do next?

The trip to the shitty motel he’s staying at takes no time at all, his feet getting him there while his mind was elsewhere. He’s thinking so hard of Gotham that at first he thinks he’s losing his marbles when he sees a familiar face. Jason freezes on his tracks.

Tim Drake is casually leaning against Jason’s door. He tilts his head to the side and cocks an eyebrow in challenge, as though letting him know that he is very much real and not an hallucination.

“How the fuck —” Jason starts. Then he decides against it. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Forget you found me.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I happen to have a really good memory, though.”

“It sure doesn’t look like it, considering it seems you forgot I tried to kill you last time we saw each other.”

“You mean when you could’ve killed me, but you didn’t?”

It takes all of Jason’s flimsy self-control not to punch him. Tim stands there, his arms still crossed, his eyebrows vanishing under his too-long bangs, and it’s almost as if he’s daring Jason to hit him, to lose his cool. Doing so would be letting him win and Jason isn’t about to do that.

He has half a mind to appreciate the fact that Tim had been waiting for him in the hallway, though. Even Dick hadn’t been that considerate in the past, always favoring the good old breaking into people’s homes like Bats taught them. It annoys him to no end that the kid somehow always knows what little things will mulify Jason.

“I just wanna talk,” Tim says.

“I haven’t been active lately”

Tim doesn’t even flinch. “That’s a lie.”

“How did Dick find me?” Jason groans.

“He didn’t. I did,” still in that annoying flat voice.

“And you want me to believe he didn’t follow you?”

“I don’t think so, since I haven’t seen him in a month.”

That catches Jason’s attention. He considers the boy in front of him. Rumor has it that Tim Drake manages to be even more elusive than the rest of them, and Jason believes that.  He believes that a child that stalked Batman and Robin for so long is nothing short of impressive. He heard Tim was the only person able to lie to Batman.

Something makes him think Tim isn’t lying now.

With a sigh, he fishes the keys from his pocket and opens the door. Pretends not to see the kid’s annoyingly cocky smile.

Jason doesn’t know much about Tim other than his M.O. as Robin and parts of how he joined the Bat cult. He knows he was already a rich kid before becoming Robin, but if the kid has any reaction to Jason’s crappy hotel room, he doesn’t show.

Jason drops on the couch with a groan. Tim stands around with a blank expression and, if Jason didn’t know any better, he’d think the kid is nervous. He gestures at the empty mismatched armchair by his side, and only then does the kid take a seat. Silence stretches.

“So? You said you wanted to talk. Talk.”

It’s almost impossible to notice, but Tim takes a slow breath before starting: “When we fought… you asked me to be your Robin,” he says. “Did you mean it?”

Jason quirks an eyebrow up. “What kind of question is that?”

“Did you seriously consider taking me as a sidekick?” Tim insists. “It’s a yes or no question.”

Jason sits back and crosses his arms, keeping his expression schooled into something neutral. He hadn’t thought about that night  — at least not on purpose  — since then. However, in the fleeting moments his mind forced him to relive it, he couldn’t help but think about his spur of the moment offer. Because that’s what it had been. An impulsive thought.

However…

“I meant it,” he says, his voice neutral. “In our field, it’s a pain to work alone. I know you have skills, so having you work for me would’ve been useful.”

And that’s the truth, or at least most of it. Tim presses his lips into a tight line and nods slowly, as though he’s readying himself for something.

“And you still think that?”

“What kind of game are you playing, Replacement?” Jason snaps.

“I’m not playing anything. I’m here to offer you my services, sort of.” Tim gives him a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can go over my resume, if you want.”

Jason’s chin drops. He can’t help it. His stunned silence lasts long enough that Tim’s fake smirk slips from his face and, despite his best efforts to keep the cool facade, Jason can see he’s distraught somehow.

“You said that that would mean working for a psychopathic killer,” Jason reminds him.

“I remember distinctly saying sure, why not? to your offer, too. Also you called me worse things, you don’t get to be sensitive about name calling now.”

“Why?” Jason presses.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Tim deflects.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second.”

Jason sighs. “You suck at job interviews.”

“To be fair, I’m a trust fund baby. I’m not supposed to go through job interviews.”

Jason sighs. He doesn’t know what to think. On one hand, he is a detective. He was trained to recognize lying, to know when he’s being played with. On another, the boy in front of him isn’t your everyday crime alley crook, but an equal. Maybe superior, in some circumstances. He could have a plan inside a plan to completely fuck Jason over  — and he kind of should, considering Jason almost killed him a couple of times… and Damian… and Dick.

“What does Bat 2.0 think of you switching career paths?”

“Again, I haven’t seen him in a month.”

“Yeah, I’m not buying that. I haven’t kept close tabs on what’s happening in Gotham, but I know Batman and Robin are still active.”

Tim hesitates. Jason waits patiently. Finally, a little annoyance in his voice betraying his frustration, the younger boy admits:

“Dick fired me. There’s a new Robin.”

Jason snorts. “You’re fucking with me.”

Tim looks down, saying nothing.

Jason starts laughing out loud. “Oh my God, you’re shitting me right? So the Replacement has been replaced! And you decided to come to me of all people for a new job? You want us to be Evil Batman and Evil Robin to good ol’ Bitchard?”

It’s funny, if you think about it. The Robin that got killed and the Robin that got dumped, joining forces to represent failure as the holier than thou golden boy becomes the epitome of heroism. He can’t stop laughing.

Jason expects Tim to get angry. He expects Tim to lash out and tell him to fuck off, say that he knew coming here was a waste of time and storm off. The longer Jason’s mockery goes, however, the quieter the boy gets. His expression is carefully empty, although there is an unnameable storm behind his gaze. Sometimes, Tim is so similar to Bruce  — stoic, a mind like a maze, a smug little shit - Jason forgets about all the ways in which he’s Bruce’s complete opposite. Tim doesn’t do lashing out. Not usually, at least.

When Jason’s hollow laughter dies, the kid is sitting there as though nothing phases him. Not because he is a big bad bat with no emotions, but because he knows better than to show them.

The older boy breathes out slowly. “Alright, I’ll bite it. What exactly are you thinking, Pretender? Be brief and straight, I don’t have all day.”

There’s a beat. The kid is clearly trying to organize his ideas. That’s a first. Little Timmy usually has a plan from the get go.

“I want to be useful,” he says. And that’s the truest thing Tim said all day. There is something raw in his voice that grabs Jason’s attention. Something that Tim hides before Jason can name it. “You said it yourself. We can do better if we work  together. Not as Batman and Robin, of course not. Just as ourselves.”

Jason crosses his arms and starts tapping a finger to his arm. “I don’t believe you’re planning on killing anyone.”

“Good, because I’m not going to.”

“Then? You’re gonna watch while I do the dirty job? Or you think you can stop me?”

There’s a subtle quirk of Tim’s lips. Jason curses inwardly knowing the little satisfied smirk is there because Jason is negotiating. As though he already accepted this insane proposition.

“I don’t think I can stop you every time,” Tim concedes. “We can make a deal, though. With me by your side, you won’t have to resort to murder that often. You promise me you’ll only kill if there’s no other way and, in exchange, I promise you I’ll make sure your cases will be solved a lot faster.”

“You’re awfully confident for someone that just got fired,” Jason deadpans.

“I got fired a month ago.”

“You’re awfully confident for someone that’s been sitting on their ass for a month.”

“I was actually working with the League of Assassins.”

That gives Jason a pause. “I’m sorry, you were what ?”

“There was a case I couldn’t solve on my own. Dick wouldn’t help. Ra’s did.”

“And, what, after working with Ra’s freaking Al Ghul you just decided it was time for a change of scenery?”

“I mean, for starters I like you a lot more than Ra’s. Second, Ra’s kinda fired me too.”

“Again, you’re really bad at this job interview thing.”

Tim smirks. “To be fair, I took everything I needed then ruined a lot of League business before bailing on him, so…”

And then there is that. Jason can count on one hand the things he knows about Tim Drake. One, he found out the identities of Batman, Nightwing and Robin II at age nine. Two, he was a rich kid and neighbor to the Waynes and now he has no family left, just like Jason. Three, he is annoyingly perfect and it makes Jason feel like shit. Four, he is the most unpredictable little shit to ever exist.

And last but not least, he trusts Jason. Jason doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know if that makes him stupid or a genius in a way mere mortals can’t comprehend. Nonetheless, he has this unshakeable faith in Jason like no one had before. Not even Dick, who was supposed to be his brother. Jason doesn’t know what to make of it.

“So Ra’s is after your stupid ass and you want me to be your bodyguard?”

“When Ra’s comes for me, I’ll have a plan to deal with him. Whether you’re a part of it or not, that’s up to you. Don’t worry about it for now.”

He sounds like he has everything under control. Jason knows how to sound like that, too. All of the batlings do. Their entire lives they’re just playing it cool, looking dark, brooding and mysterious while inside they have no idea what’s going on nor how they’ll survive.

“Come on,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “You worked with back up and you worked alone. You know which one is better.”

“I’m a literal crime lord,” Jason reminds him.

“That’s not the same. Having someone that knows who you are behind the mask makes all the difference in the world.”

Neither of them are addressing the elephant in the room, though. The biggest question looming over them. That’s also a bat thing. Both are aware, none speaks of it, and a taste of something unsolved is making their mouths bitter. The worst part is that they know the answer, even if it’s left unsaid, but do they really? Are they really arrogant to assume they know each other enough, that they’re smart enough to be aware of the truth?

Why did you offer to take me in?

Why do you want to join me now?

Two questions. One answer.  

“I’ll think about it,” Jason says.

Tim’s smile is blinding. He knows a backhanded yes when he hears one. “I’m looking forward to hearing from you, Hood.”

“Piss off before I shoot you.”

Tim snickers and stands to leave. Jason keeps listening after the door closes, after the footsteps vanish down the hallway. He can still hear the sounds of traffic down the street, maybe the indistinct chatter from the neighbors. It still feels too quiet and the egg sized apartment could as well be as big as a manor after Tim leaves.

The answer to both questions is I don’t want to be alone anymore .

[razorblade180]

More Breakthrough

Months ago I was asked a question about if I ever thought about an original story; which I answered. Check it out right here!

In that I post I only talked about the lore and world building of that story. Plenty of you seemed interested and I’ve had this on my brain a lot recently so I thought I’d talk about it some more.

Modern Day creation

Centuries have past since the tale of the eight warriors who saved the world was immortalized into history. Today As humanity grew developed it’s knowledge, the story sounded more and more like a legend; one that sprouted a religion that branched out. The main group celebrates all the crystals and keeps the story alive and well while the smaller groups devote themselves to a single crystal and live near them like the old days. It was this shared celebration that spurred on the idea of traveling. New groups of people met, ideas were shared, ideas became reality. Cities, transportation, machinery; nothing was impossible. The threats of elementals became easier to handle. People lived longer, which meant more people made settlements. And for insurance, a special school was built for those willing to continue learning about the power of potential in order to keep the world safe. Much like the churches, that school spawned smaller schools across countries for more to learn and focus on particular techniques of one’s choosing. All the ideas and development created the world as they now it. A place where finding modern day art is a common as locating nomadic group that stick to surviving of the vast lands the world has always offered.

Synopsis

Christian, a six teen year old ice user, takes the test to get into Breakthrough: the school for aspiring hunters. What started off as a joke attempt just to test his abilities suddenly becomes serious when he gets accepted in along with his older sister, Amber. Now he goes from a boy from a small town, to being the youngest student in over a decade going to the most intimidating school in the world where every day is one chaotic step closer to his dream to be like the ice warrior of legend.

Additional lore

It has been recorded over the years that there are people who don’t stay on the normal track when it comes to unlocking limitations to access greater potential. Stories of people encountering or hearing an unknown voice whenever they were in a time of great need circumvent the world. All stories differ from each person, but the endings are all the same. breakthroughs that should’ve taken considerable amount of training, effort, and self discovery were already unlocked; making those people prime candidates to fight elementals or contribute to the common man actively. If they so choose that is. The phenomenon while incredible, isn’t something people fear or particularly seek. At the end of the day, that gap in power can still be closed by the regular means. Such is the beauty of potential. Many jobs have incorporated a special group in their line of work for people with advanced skill sets. Not only does it make business better, but it doesn’t lock trap talented people into only being a hunter or a soldier in order to use their power to the fullest. (I might’ve said that before but I can’t remember.)

Threats

Elementals are still a big problem; constantly causing natural disasters, attacking people, stunting progress. The only changes itself are humans willing to commit crimes and do things for personal gain. Naturally leading to wars, hate, and unnecessary loss of life. The two threats mix in mingle in mysterious ways that can be rather unpredictable and create situations beyond control....

Other stuff

Overall I think there’s 49 characters with significant and interesting things people would latch on to and 29/30-ish of them could be considered a main character, or at the very least, Grade A supporting character; that’s including villains in that list and third party individuals. They are all introduced over time, have backstory, and you bet your bottom dollar that not everyone makes it to the end of the story. There’s also a bunch of other characters that pop in and out.

The more I look at those characters and the. Look at some of my RWBY Au concepts I realize my brain was set on doing certain things, but knew I wouldn’t know how to if I started from scratch. I literally groaned out loud because I realized certain things I put in Twin Snowflakes is essentially a baby version of how key things happen in Breakthrough. It honestly tempts me in the worst way possible to just write it; that’s dangerous. This world is so dense and vast because I wrote it like a JRPG. I could easily see this being over a hundred chapters unless I made it multiple stories that weaved together one massive arc. Yet here I am, refusing to spoil everything about my original story I’ve thought about for what has be six years now? Maybe one day in a far off future when I know how to adult 💀 [Or I finish my rwbaby stuff.]

[indiavolowetrust]

THE LOCKED-ROOM MURDER OF MR. DIAVOLO: Choose Your Own Adventure

Guidelines

The story will be updated in approx 1000 word segments on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with two to three choices at the bottom in [this format.]

Depending on the feedback – comments, DMs, reblogs, etc. – I will write the next portion of the story based on the choice. You will have until 6 p.m. Central Daylight Time of the following days to make your choice: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

Available here on AO3.

If the MC dies, the player (you) will be allowed to rewind back to the previous choice. Perhaps there are even secret choices.

Previous part here.

Portrait of a Young Man: Part Two

[Read the letter.]

Despite the blood that has long turned into ice in your veins, your heart hammering in your chest, you decide to skim the letter. It is more of a brief note than anything -- a calling card, you would say -- but it contains more than enough to convey its message.

My dearest Georgine, it reads. You have hereby been invited to an extensive holiday at the private residence of the Diavolo family to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the most wondrous soul trade. As one of our longtime associates, it is with the utmost generosity and good will that we extend to you this invitation. All housing fees and meals shall be provided. Activities include --

“Is something wrong, Georgine?” asks Bette. You regard her over the letter to see a rather concerned expression on her face, her hand paused over a sudsy dish. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

You shake your head. “No, no, it’s not that,” you reassure her. “This letter -- it must have been sent to me by mistake.”

“Is that so? Mrs. Adams seemed insistent on --”

You stand rather abruptly, tucking the letter away into a breast pocket. Bette gives you a curious look, arching a brow, but perhaps it is your expression that prevents her from speaking further on the matter. Despite your efforts, you cannot mask the haste with which you stack your dishes and present them to Bette. With your weight resting on your cane, the door opens with some difficulty -- and then it is only moments before you disappear down the hallway.

Had the servant been anyone but Bette, you’re sure that wind of your strange reaction would have reached your mother almost immediately. Given that that is not the case, thankfully, you will have at least a few hours to decide exactly what you will do about the letter. And then you will have to decide exactly what you will do regarding the contents of the letter, as clearly there had been some expectation of a response.

But surely that cannot be right, you think to yourself. Those horrible words -- your old friend, Mr. Diavolo -- had been scrawled neatly at the bottom, despite the letter having obviously been written by a servant. It was the sight of that that had spurred a mixture of grief and rage to well within you, and then it was the underlying fear from that night that had crashed like a train into your body, forcing it into a state of panic. Surely this is some mistake. Or perhaps he is mocking me, after all these years.

The door to your bedroom stands in front of you within a matter of minutes. You wrench it open, nearly releasing your cane in the process, and thrust yourself inside. It is just in time: you can hear the front door opening somewhere downstairs, as your mother has just returned from her weekly visit from the doctor. It would do her no good to see you like this. Her own grief and trauma has not been good to her either, over the years. Despite her being only forty-two years of age, her hair has already begun to gray at her temples from the stress. Lines of worry have made themselves known on her forehead. Despite your efforts to make her happy -- your decision to work under Mrs. Adams, your father’s former associate, and the giving up of your dreams in university to pay for her to go to the doctor -- you have found that she has done little in turn. Or perhaps it is that she has found no capacity to return the favor.

It has been ten years since your father’s death. Ten years since you were considered a prodigy and allowed to enter university at the almost impossibly young age of fourteen, your determination shining even greater than your brilliance. And so it has been ten years that your mother has slowly withered away, becoming a mere husk of her former self.

Then again, there is little room for judgment here. You are not as you once were, either.

You throw your cane beside your bed and throw yourself onto the sheets. Before you can stop yourself -- no, that is a lie -- you procure the letter from your pocket, reading its contents again. And again. And again. You repeat the process until your eyes strain, your fingers trembling from holding the paper at such an awkward angle, but at the very least you have no more doubts regarding the letter. It is a letter addressed to you and only you.

And despite what it proposes, which could very well be a trap or mockery of your own circumstances, you cannot help but feel tempted to follow what the letter directs. It reminds you of your former life, almost. Or it could, if you went. If you went, you could escape the struggling routine that has become your new life. If you attended this holiday, you could escape your depressing, blank-eyed mother for even just a few days, and you would not feel the presence of her permanent grief. If you left for the Diavolo estate, you would not be obliged to sit at a desk and work for the good-meaning but shrill Mrs. Adams, who forever compares you to your father, and you would not see the disappointment in your mother’s face that makes itself known whenever she speaks with you.

It is an insidious thought, of course. A horrible one that suggests you abandon your mother and your duties for your own pleasure. But you cannot help but be drawn to it.

And so you decide.

The holiday is only two days away. If you truly wish to take Mr. Diavolo up on his invitation, it is best that you begin to prepare now. How will you go about it?

[I will pack my things and leave when night falls. Mother already has a delicate constitution as it is, and so I will not worry her further.]

[I will declare to my mother that my father’s old associate has invited me to a holiday at his private estate. Whether she likes it or not, I will be leaving to attend it.]

[I will lie to my mother that some business has called me out of town. An old associate requires my help.]

Next part here.

[sherryaptx4869]

Second Base

Summary: How will Shouto help Momo with her problem? How will the class react to this?

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

Getting out of bed that Monday morning was tough even for Momo who is a diligent student leader. She let her alarm snooze for 10 more minutes before finally climbing out of bed. As she walked in the bathroom, she let out a deep sigh as she remembered Aizawa-sensei giving them a heads up last week that he has amped their training program a notch higher. The familiar ache in her abdomen begged her to spend the day curled up in bed but she knew villains would never wait for her to feel okay before striking. Service above self. That thought spurred her to start her day and she started preparing for school.

After their intensive sparring session with tough robots, Momo is somehow relieved that the next period will be for academics. Finally, some much needed breather. She is exhausted from the training, and getting her monthly period at this time of the month is definitely not helping. Her menstrual cramps can sometimes get out of hand. She lost her concentration easily. She wasn’t able to move as agile as she wanted to during the training. It was frustrating because she could not move the way she wanted to. Too much and sudden movements radiate pain from her center to every nerve ending in her body. She sometimes was distracted by the pain which slowed her reaction time that the robot nearly hit her had she not perform an awkward dodge. That could’ve caused her minus points from Aizawa-sense’s class. She is also worried that her performance will take a negative toll on her grades, which in turn will make a dip in her overall class ranking. This might affect the Hero Agency that will take her in when she starts a career internship. Okay, so her train of thought has now taken a dark turn. She stopped herself from overthinking things.

She wiggled out of her hero costume, which felt like second skin and changed into her school uniform. The pain is quickly becoming unbearable. ‘Hang in there Momo. This is the last period and then we can get the much needed rest’, she encouraged herself. She is grateful for the warmth the uniform afforded her. Really, all she wanted to do right now is sleep. When she got back into to the classroom most of her classmates are already there chatting with each other while waiting for the next subject teacher.

She settled into her seat but the cramping in her lower abdomen won’t go away. If anything, the pain intensified from the strenuous activity earlier. She wished she knew how to create pain relievers which would really be handy on the spot when the time comes she becomes a pro-hero especially in rescue efforts. For now, she’s good at creating impromptu weapons used for fighting off villains. She made a mental note to study the structures of pain reliever medicines, hot pack and ice bags later plus the legalities of producing analgesic drugs. Besides, her quirk is restricted only to creating things that are not the elemental water, fire, air and earth. She could create hose to transport water, lighters to make fire, fan to generate wind but not the basic elements. If only she can create hot water bag and ask Todoroki to heat water with his quirk, that would be great. Just imagining the heat soothing and untying the knots in her abdomen made Momo crave for something to at least alleviate her lady woes.

She sighed. Then a voice from her right said “Are you alright? You look pale.” She looked up and saw Todoroki studying her intently. ‘His multi-colored eyes seem to search inside me.’

“My stomach hurt a bit from the intensive training earlier. Thanks for asking.” She replied. She kept on rubbing her lower tummy to relieve some pain. ‘I can never get really used to those eyes. They transport me to exciting places just staring at those mesmerizing eyes.’

Iida being the responsible class representative announced that their teacher for the next subject would be late for a little bit because of an emergency meeting of teachers. He added that they had better make use of the time wisely by studying on their own until sensei gets back from the meeting.

She barely heard what Iida said. After all, the blue in Todoroki’s eyes gave her a glimpse of the ocean where the sound of waves gently lapping at the shore and the sound of seabirds gently flying by made her really want to close her eyes and sleep. She really wished she could curl down on her own bed and rest.

She did not realize she is openly gawking at his face until Todoroki cleared his throat. “I’ll come a little closer and if you allow me, I’ll gently warm up my hand to at least relieve some of your pain.”

That snapped her out of her reverie. She looked at him puzzled.

Todoroki brought his hands to his neck. “I saw your fight today and you didn’t seem to be in the best shape fighting off those robots. I mean you still did well but I think that’s not your usual style,” said Todoroki. “Besides, Fuyumi has the same condition as you do once in a while.” Todoroki replied while rubbing his neck. “She sometimes uses hot compress to relieve the pain. Unfortunately we don’t have that right now so if you don’t mind, I can use my quirk to warm up my hand and help you ease off the discomfort.”

Todoroki is a friend and she trusts him. He gave her encouragement when she needed it. Now, he observed her fight and noted her physical discomfort. ‘Wait, was he looking at me when I’m not looking? No, he probably just randomly saw how I screwed up today. Oh Kami-sama, why did it have to be today?’ She mentally face-palmed.

After pondering a teeny, tiny bit of a minute, she nodded. Better this than passing out. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt Todoroki’s large, warm hand rest and place a bit of pressure on her tummy. The warmth shoot out electrifying effects on her body, are those butterflies now on her stomach? Her cramps gently unknotted and she felt the pain subside significantly. For a good 10 minutes, she just sat there with both of her eyes closed. She is savouring the comfort of the warmth Todoroki’s hand gave her stomach. Why is her head not falling off from her position? She opened an eye and saw Todoroki reading a book with his other hand while his other hand is gently pressing on her tummy. What’s more embarrassing is that she had the audacity to even place her head on his shoulders. Here he was being a Good Samaritan and she was taking full advantage of his kindness. She felt her entire face burn with embarrassment.

She also noticed that after Iida said the announcement that All Might will be running late, she still could hear a buzz of background noise. After several minutes, the noise died down, not even the sound of pages turning or a chair scraping the floor can be heard. The silence that enveloped the room seemed unnatural, unless All Might is already there. However, she did not hear him make his presence known. What could be the reason why her classmates are as still as a stone? Curiosity got the better of her, she gingerly lifted her head, which was conveniently resting on Todoroki’s shoulder and saw that many heads were turned 180 degrees from the front of the room towards the back of the class where they were seated. All eyes were trained on her and Todoroki. Several pair of eyes locked on their somehow intimate position. Especially their seats have gotten so close. Plus Todoroki’s hand is on her body. ‘So that’s why the class was quiet. They must be jumping to weird conclusions’, she thought

Uraraka’s eyes turned as big as saucers. Hagakure had been taking their pictures. Mina is having a field day. Jirou gave out a knowing smirk. Kirishima wore a goofy smile while Kaminari had his mouth shaped like the letter O.

Momo inwardly groaned, how could she possibly explain that Todoroki is only helping her out?

Todoroki was completely oblivious of the commotion (or the lack thereof) the whole time. He noticed the absence of the pressure and warmth on his shoulder, he laid down the book he was reading and finally looked at what’s happening around him.

Sero was the first to break the silence, “Way to go man!” sending a salute in Todoroki’s direction.

Mineta’s nose is bleeding yet he still managed to croak out, “Todoroki, how could you do that in class? Give me some tips will you?” In response, Mezou smacked him in the head for such an offhanded comment.

Kaminari even said, “Wow, Todoroki you’ve gone second base!” It’s Jirou’s turn to smack Denki.

Aoyama with his dazzling countenance smugly told Tsu, “I told you they had something going on between them”.

And dear Mina who was having a field day casually announced, “It’s official, presenting our power couple Todoroki and Yaomomo.” And she proceeded to demand pay ups from the Baku Squad, apparently winning her bet that Momo and Shouto are a couple.

Uraraka added, “As expected of the recommended students!”

Midoriya began mumbling about the future of the future offspring of Creati and Shouto what with the combined powerful quirks of their parents, which could potentially land them the title of Number One Pro-Hero. This earned him a glare and glower from Bakugo.

‘Just what happened!? And what was the class even thinking!’ Deep inside, Momo is panicking. ‘What will Todoroki think of this? Of me? Aaahhh’ Everyone started speaking all at once. Some of their classmates are clapping and throwing them makeshift confetti from torn review papers.

Feeling awkward, Momo gently pried Todoroki’s hands off her abdomen. “I feel a lot better, thank you for your help. This is enough, let’s not give them something more to think about.” She hoped he did not notice the blush slowly spreading on her cheeks. She noticed how warm Todoroki’s hands were, and she wished it had not ended too soon. Nevertheless, her classmates are now spreading the news like wildfire so she at least has to minimize their false assumptions about her and Todoroki. ‘He might not like it at all.’

At this, Todoroki surprised her. “I’m not really bothered by what they think. If it’s you I’m helping, I don’t mind doing it again. I’m really impressed by how you handled your fight earlier when you were in such pain.”

Now her cheeks are definitely on fire. It really helps to sit down when Todoroki dishes out unexpected surprises like this especially behind that stony façade. That way she wouldn’t be overwhelmed with mixed feelings. It also helps when the crashing sense of realization sinks in, that after her heart did somersaults and backflips when it settled on her rib cage, her usual heartbeat of lub, dub, lub, dub was now replaced with Sho, To, Sho, To.

Thankfully, All Might entered the room and ordered everyone to pay attention to his lecture. This is going to be a long day. Momo knew that once at the dorm, she is going to have to do a lot of explaining to the girls and setting matters straight before they spiral out of control. She knows it’s going to be tough when she herself had just come into terms with her feelings for Todoroki.

‘But I wonder what did Kaminari mean earlier when he said Todoroki is at second base?’

[madamslayyy]

Prisoner of Love (Erik “N’Jadaka” Killmonger x Black! Reader)

Pairing: Erik Killmonger x Black! Reader

A/N: IM 👏🏾 HORRIBLE 👏🏾WITH 👏🏾DEADLINES 👏🏾BUT 👏🏾I 👏🏾MADE 👏🏾IT 👏🏾✊🏿‼️ So this is my submission for @hoopshoney and @purple-apricots Valentines Day Fic Fest, With Love, From Wakanda . This is actually shorter than I intended but I ran out of time so one day a part two might pop up (but it won’t be anytime soon, I’m so sorry y’all). Anyways this is it, I didn’t know who to tag so I just tagged random ppl I thought might be interested.

Warning: Kidnapping??? Imprisonment. Loss of Will. Nothing triggering honestly but conceptually I could see this being a problem.

Prompt: 27. “Nothing was planned but it certainly worked out for me.”

~*~

“You could smile, y’know. I walked all the way down here to see your pretty ass and this the reception I get?” His dimples flaired more than usual when he was angry. And he was always angry.

He’d gotten into a sort of routine. He’d come see you every three days and if you behaved he’d give you a present. You never behaved the way he wanted, never disrespectful/ disruptive but not the lovestruck admirer he craved either. You might not have much entertainment in this glass cage he’d condemned you to but you had come to find a smidgen of pleasure in watching him burn the trinkets in front of you after he didn’t get what he wanted. There was something about seeing his effort go to waste that made you feel victorious, even if only for a millisecond.

“Some way to treat ya king. Gonna make sure we break you-out of that real soon.” He sank into the throne like chair he’d had installed in the room (on the other side of the glass) and so began the ritual. He’d sit in the other side of the glass for hours, telling you about his day, his Kingly duties, how he was going to ‘fix’ Wakanda and then the world. He would talk to you about any and everything and of course you’d sit there and listen silently, like a good prisoner does.

On days when he’d run out of things to say, he’d simply gaze at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. You hated every second of it.

The first day you’d been in-prisoned by N’Jadaka was the second day he’d been King. You worked for the crown as a bookkeeper, a boring paperwork filled job swarming with numbers, algorithms, expenses, and budgets. The newly instated King has stormed the Wakandan Department of Finance to let everyone know they were fired and could go home, he wasn’t about to let anyone ‘budget’ his revolution.

You’d been on your way out he door when he violently grabbed your arm, nearly breaking it. You turned your big doe-like eyes to him, fear instantly taking residence within you. It was public knowledge that this man had savagely murdered the former King T’Challa and Spiritual Leader Zuri in cold blood. If he could put an end to them so frivolously, then it would be nothing for him to kill a nobody such as yourself.

“What’s your name,” He asked in a voice barely above a whisper. Your face must have gave way to your confusion because his grip on your arm loosened, but only marginally.

“Your name, ma. I won’t ask again,” he commanded. Even with you blood running cold in your veins, you could recognize he was easily the most handsome man you’d ever come encounter with.

“Y-Y/N.... your highness,” you squeaked. You felt like you were about to pass out.

“The voice matches the face... and the body.” he murmured to himself. He continued staring at you for what felt like an eternity before he finally nodded to his second-in-comamnd. You knew immediately who he was. W’Kabi, leader of the border tribe, traitor to Wakanda and the crown.

“Take her into custody,” he barked and immediately you found yourself being dragged away by two of W’Kabi’s men. That was the last day of your freedom.

“Look at me y/n,” he said in a stern voice, breaking you from your train of thought.

“I am,” you said softly. Even if your mind was a million miles away, you always kept your eyes on him. It would take less than a second for him to press the button on his Kimoyo beads to make the glass between the two of you vanish. Though you were already completely at his mercy, it often felt as if the glass barrier that kept you locked in your cell was the only form of protection you had from him.

“No you’re not. Your eyes are on me but you’re not seeing me.” You knew he couldn’t bare when all of your attention wasn’t completely focused on him. In the abundance of free time being King N’Jadaka’s prisoner had granted you, you’d often taken to psychoanalyzing your captor. You wondered if he often felt as if no one saw him, perhaps he was often ignored in childhood, spurring such an insecurity in his later life.

The silence between you two lingered on, him gazing at you as if he were studying you. You were the same each and every day but he always watched you as if he were discovering something new.

Finally he stood from his chair, approaching the glass. He took off one of his kimoyo beads and entered it in the key pad to your right. The glass between you two vanished and your body instantly went rigid. He handed you a small box which you accepted with shaking fingers. He backed out of the cell before reigniting the glass.

“Open it,” he urged, his eyes more intense than ever. You opened the small velvet box to reveal a ring made of pure gold with a diamond bigger than any rock you’d ever seen nestled in the middle.

“Do you know what tomorrow is?” He asked softly, arms folded across his enormous chest.

“February 14th,” in the months since you’d been his prisoner, you actively kept up with the date. It helped keep you sane.

“Little something called Valentines Day where I’m from. A celebration of love,” you’d never heard of such a holiday so you remained silent.

“It only seemed fitting on such a day that I make you my wife.” Your eyes suddenly flew open in shock causing the King to grin wickedly.

“N-no. Your highness please I d-“

“Take a long look around Y/N. Tonight is your last night in this cell.” His voice boomed as he began to walk away.

“Was this all apart of your plan? Take over Wakanda, kidnap and marry the first girl you see?” You asked quietly. You almost thought he hadn’t heard you when he paused.

“None of this was planned but it certainly worked out for me.” And with that, he was gone.

You looked down at the ring. It was gorgeous. But you knew what it really stood for. It was more or less shackles that would bind you to him for all of eternity. You had to bring yourself to question was this a fate worst than death?

~*~

The next morning came and you were greeted by two Dora Milaje who came to retrieve you from your cell.

It felt like only hours since the king had left you with the velvet box in your hand. Maybe it had only been hours, there was no telling how long N’Jadaka was with you yesterday. The cell he kept you in was deep underground with no windows or clocks for you to tell time. Your eating schedule where a designated maid brought you breakfast, lunch, and dinner was your only way of keeping track of the days.

“It’s time,” one said in an unbelievably deep voice. She was beautiful of course but so were most of the Milaje.

You put up no fuss, allowing them to escort you out, the same way you allowed them to scrub your hair and skin until your brown skin glowed a slight red tinge, the same way you allowed them to dressed you in the most extravagant white American styled wedding dress you’d ever seen. One last look in the mirror before the wedding was supposed to begin and you hardly recognized yourself. The hair, the makeup, the jewelry; you looked beautiful but it wasn’t you. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was who you were about to become. After all, you were about to be a Queen.

The ceremony was surprisingly short, shorter than normal Wakandan royal weddings, thanks to N’Jadaka of course.

Except for the first day he’d seen you when he’d grabbed your arm, you hadn’t touched N’Jadaka since. So when he held your freshly manicured hands in his own enormous ones, you felt the heat rise in your cheeks. He held them gently, rubbing small circles in the back of your hand with his thumb.

“Through the power of Bast, I declare you bonded for life, King and Queen of Wakanda.” The new Spiritual Leader, Ghube, rang out. N’Jadaka allowed a small smile to grace his lips before he captured your lips in his own. They were softer than you expected, the hairs of his beard tickling your face. He grabbed you by the waist, deepening the kiss. The witnesses cheered loudly and you felt your cheeks heat up even more.

“I’ve been waiting for this for so long,” he said breathily as he pressed his forehead against your own. He was so close to you. And so large. His body easily engulfed your own and you were suddenly filled with a feeling of dread. With his new role as your husband, he would expect you to perform certain wifely duties. Duties you weren’t sure you could handle. Your experience was limited to say the least and you’d never been with anyone who could hold a candle to the King’s flame. His incredible beauty aside, he was confident, strong, psychotic, always got what he wanted apparently and didn’t take no for an answer. How on earth did they expect you to bed a man like that? Or worst, give him an heir.

You were stoic the remainder of the ceremony, the impeding dread of your wedding night consuming you.

“Aye, you good?” N’Jadaka asked quietly in your ear. It was nothing for him to lean over because you two had been impossibly close since the moment the two of you were wed. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you, only further perpetuating your unease.

“I’m not feeling well. It’s just a lot going on, I’m a little dizzy,” you said, trying to excuse your behavior.

“Aight,” N’Jadaka squeezed the side of your thigh his hand had previously been resting on as a form of comfort you supposed before standing up.

“Alright, weddings over! If you not staff or cleanup crew, get ya asses out!” N’Jadaka yelled abruptly, causing the room to still. Nobody seemed to really know what to do so they all stared at him awkwardly.

“Did I fucking stutter?!” That kicked them into high gear and everyone made a quick B-line for the door.

“C’mon, lets get you to the royal doctors,” N’Jadaka said going to help you up.

“No, really I’m fine. That won’t be necessa- AH” he picked you up bridal style as if you weighed nothing. You clung to his neck for dear life. Nobody had ever picked you up before and here he’d done it with such ease.

“I’m gonna have them take a look just in case.”

“I’m serious, my king. I’m fine, I just need to rest.” You said and he tensed.

“What did you just call me?” His eyes looked almost feral and you thought he might throw you down to the ground on purpose.

“M-my King? I’m sorry I di-” You squeaked when he cut you off by crashing your lips to his. He moaned into the kiss, a deep guttural sound that made your heart flutter for a moment. To think he’d get so worked up over someone like you?

“I could get used to that,” he chuckled, breaking the kiss. You bit your already slightly sore lips, N’Jadaka’s affections leaving them swollen. You couldn’t believe he was that enamored with the title, as if everyone didn’t call him that. As if you hadn’t called T’Challa that a hundred times during his short reign.

As he carried you off to what would be your shared bedroom, you couldn’t help thinking how peculiar this man was. You’d watched him through the glass of your cell for months as he’d come and pour himself out to you and yet you’d never seen this side of him until today. He was an enigma, for sure.

He opened the door and carried you inside what easily had to be the most extravagant room you’d ever seen in your life. Dripping with gold and vibranium, this single room was bigger than any place you’d ever lived in your entire life. The bed was unnecessarily huge with feather pillows larger than your whole body and sheets made of pure silk. Had this been where he slept every night? It seemed like an awfully big bed to sleep in alone. If he was alone, that is. No wonder he was in such a hurry to find a wife.

“Home sweet home,” he said, laying you down on the bed. He took your shoes off one by one and began to massage your delicate feet in his large hands. If a year ago, someone had told you you’d be here in the most beautiful room you’d ever seen, on the softest bed you’d ever felt, receiving a foot massage from the most gorgeous man you’d ever laid eyes of, all while wearing the title of Queen, well you’d have thought it was a delusional dream come true. And yet here you were.

“I know what you think about me... what they say...” N’Jadaka said bleakly, “but I’m letting you know now, that shit doesn’t matter. I’m gonna be a good husband to you. If you let me.”

Was he serious? He wanted to be a good husband? When he’d locked you in a glass cage like some doll for months?

“Okay,” you said, not really sure what response he was looking for. Apparently that did it for him because his hands started trailing up you leg under dress, stopping at your thigh.

“You’re still afraid of me,” he sighed, removing his hand.

“I-I um..”

“I can hear your heart palpitating, and you’re trembling Y/N.” He interjected. “I took the heart shaped herb, I’m the new Black Panther remember.” Shit, how could you have forgotten something as important as that.

“It’s... it’s not you I’m afraid of.... I’m just not any... good at that,” N’Jadaka nodded, licking his lips.

“I can help with that,” he cooed, unbuttoning his shirt.

Taglist: @queennanayaa @chaneajoyyy @erikkillmongerstan @macfizzle @chasingsunlight @softnani @thehomierobbstark @supersizemeplz @wakandas-vibranium @wawakanda-btch @loosewindmill @muse-of-mbaku @chefjessypooh @iamrheaspeaks @theunsweetenedtruth @cancerianprincess @laketaj24 @sugardaddytonystark @itsmarshalltime98 @blackpanthersmut @blackgirloneshots @lavitabella87 @wakanda-inspired @blackpinup22 @ayellepea

[thanidiel]

Dominion

Sometimes, the soldier could force fondness to the ways of which Autumnvale has attempted to adapt to her world.

The pheasant, however, is braised.

The texture too soft and tender; less meat and more sodden. Neither is much appreciation to be had for the tang of white wine in its juices; a waste of drink, if she were to be asked. With every bite of fare, the grains of mustard within sauce had burst against her teeth; annoying, distracting.

Underneath, the cook, Dawnspire native, had attempted to appeal to her tastes. With her knife lifting up the side of the poultry, she discovers a bed of wilted and blanched dark-greens intermixed with a ‘rustic’ chopping of mushrooms - foraged from the woods along the mountainside, she thinks she heard some sod say.

It is, unabashedly, a homage to the woman’s tastes and the culture of cuisine in the colder regions of Quel’Thalas. Unfortunately, it is equally clear that the elves who fed the mouths of soldiers and officials to pass through this feast hall, had never seen such fare in their lives.

If such a combination of foods were to be prepared proper, the bird would have come charred and speckled with the mustard, crushed. On the side, perhaps, the vegetable and fungi would come raw or in a cloudy soup. And the wine would be in goblet than simmered down in a pot.

There is something to be said about effort, such as Thanidiel has preached when it was in turn to say something gracious, or morale-raising. And food, is food, after all.

She isn’t sure how much she appreciates the way this meal parallels with times of old, still.

Another portion to be slid off the curve of her knife and popped into her mouth - just for the etiquette of it - and the plate is pushed off towards the table’s center. A slow shifting of her digits like the movement of a piano’s hammers, and the blade rotates to a rest along the inside of her palm.

The handle is levered forward.

“Elinden, how many?”

Her gaze raises from underbrow to regard the man addressed. He looks tired. She can see it in the weight pressed upon his eyelids, even with the hacked red mussing around his head.

Good, he should be.

“Sixteen from the Thirteenth Regiment. Seven from the Southeast, Hallowleaf, they said.”

“Leaders ‘mongst them?”

“A former Knight-Master, Kielen Duskshield. From your people, they answered to a Ciril Farlong.”

“Aye. Stabled? Watered? Fed?”

“All being attended to, Captain. As of now, they sit cross-legged on the grasses outside of the Village, taking fill of the bread given.”

“Send them here; they will make their introductions to me before given right to make camp. In the meantime, the eastern-side should be cleared for their presence.”

“The whole of them as usual, Captain?”

“Aye. Be…” the Duskward draws off, the trenched gap between her brows closing into a knit. By now, the knife has been lowered the table. Still, her hand spreads over the blade.

“How many are we at now, Elinden? Last month was three-and-half-hundred ‘tween us and them.”

“With these additions, we number at four-hundred-and-six.”

“Growing a bit big for our britches, aye?”

“And the ovens.. and the grasslands, Captain.”

Thanidiel bows her head towards the mopheaded man standing at the table’s end, needing nothing more to convey the militant courtesy extended to the Lieutenant Brightvale. Again, the knife wheels in her grip; to be slid into breast from overhead with her comrade’s swinging hook of ankle around a stool leg.

“We’ll need to let the word spread. Another few dozens - less than a month’s time - and that is how many more I am willing to allow camp along the Village.”

“Twisting a cap on the jar?”

“Mm. I’m interested in maintaining an army, not a Great Herd.”

“S’that not an army?”

“Not my style, not my speed. Allow the Archon and his to lead thousands to battle. We’ll keep ourselves swift and effective for all of those death-defying stunts, aye?”

“You mean you will, Than– Captain. You do all of that, and it’s up to me and Harthen to calm the men behind us and assure them that we are, in fact, going to survive.”

“Give yourself some credit. It took the whole active company to fell the Reaver. If you’re willing to spread the rumour that I picked up and swung about chains the length of a warship twice-over, you are free to that ass-kissing, Elinden.”

“And Tyr’s Hand?”

“Your’s and the boy’s screaming spurred me on like dueling drums. Couldn’t have done it without you two.”

“One breath, you’re telling us both to shut our fucking mouths and keep quiet. Next breath, you’re saying our yapping inspires you. Which is it, Captain?”

“Whatever conveniences me to say at the time. For now? Shut it, duck your head, eat the vile they’ve been trying to feed me, and let’s both get back to proper work - Aye?”

“I can only shovel so much of it in my mouth at one time.”

“I’ve walked in on you placing at least three time’s the amount of breast on that plate, right in your mouth. Lying bitch.”

“Oi, watch yourself, Captain. Talk a lot of shit about who’s warming my bed; I’ve seen you want to shake your comrades bloody for even thinking about your’s.”

“The difference is that I have a woman and you have romps. Bring someone home to me and we’ll try some reverence.”

“Someone good for me?”

“Academy Diploma. Steady career. What else do those fucks at the top look for?”

“A certain paleness to the skin? A maximum of an inch of fat behind the arm?”

“Mm, toss all of that, then. Rubbish.”

The knife scrapes.

“–Eh?”

“Your attention span…” is drawn off. “Come on, get out. Bring them their first orders.”

“And the vile?”

“Give it to the hound on your way out.”

Thanidiel does not keep her eyes on Elinden with his exit from her hall. Her attention draws towards the knife. Coated in fat and spice, and pointed towards her own person. Out of place/misaligned. She grips unto its handle, and, carefully, wipes one of its two surfaces against the cloth placed to the right of her. Then, it flips as the action is repeated in another stroke. Idly, the thought passes on how the motions resemble Goose’s Formation.

In the midst of noise bubbling around her – Elinden’s stool scraping across rock and earth and weed; his footsteps aloud through even the soft dirt as it compresses under his boot; the voices of men and women filtering from the outside; the constant rumble of horse hooves vibrating underneath her feet – another thought materialises.

The Phoenix Guard wonders who, or what, would be caught between its wings.

Awaiting her answer, the tool is returned to the wood’s surface once more. There, it points outward in solemn welcome of every boot that begins to filter into the space before her.

She notes how they mimick army with the loosely packed southern volunteers at its fore, and the Knights at its back in rows. The number looks suffocated, sandwiched by the layout of the feast hall where its tables format in a folding flank. She can see how they shuffle uncomfortably as they are forced to settle over stone, coal, and ash, from the morning fire since-dead.

The audio of their march dies down to the shiftings of their clothing and roll of debris from underneath soles, then ebbs further into stagnant quiet.

And so it stays. For the Duskward does not immediately boom her greetings nor call forth the tradition of introductions to be made to her by each new head. Instead, she studies.

She studies the wear of their shoes, and how much the leather sags down their feet.

She studies how segments of plate strapped over chainmail, felt, and cotton, fit upon each new soldier’s person.

She studies the length of hair flying over their brows, speckling their cheeks and catching through beaming light.

She studies the roundness of them - the fat that builds upon their arms and bellies. Some look well-fed. Most, she can see how, already, the dwindling trade of Quel’Thalas has drained their bowls.

In particular, the soldier studies its leaders.

Such a thing has yet to be announced - nothing has been announced at all. But it is something Thanidiel finds easily determined.

The mountainpeople have not been trained in formal stiffness. They stood outside of the dutiful (painful, at times) parade rest the Knights beside them had adopted. Instead, those of her birth settle with a way known to her as vigourful, and to others, as defiant: a laxness to their shoulders, an uneven settle of the feet. ‘Round the one she has identified as Ciril, those close have all drawn back their adjacent legs. Protective, and hesitant to remove floor.

Kielen’s presence is louder than that. His garb is something bold and distinctive from ‘mongst the more uniform Knights. While his comrades were content with a single swordbreaker, or leather spaulder, strapped against their persons, she notes how plate layers along the length of his upper arms in broad, encompassing, pauldrons. Instead of a practical barbute hanging from underarm or belt like many others, an arrogant faceguard settles over his coif.

Loud.

Even idle, he is fucking loud.

She can sense the pacing of his breath from here; how it desynchronises from the calm of all those around him until the brute moves forward, like that would smear away the scrutinous glint underneath her brows.

“Former Knight-Master–”

“You are dismissed.”

“...Ma’am?”

“You may present yourself to Fury Company in a week’s time.”

The rest does not need to be given to the air between them. Again, the blade is in her hand, and, again, it is offered forth to the man opposite of her. Confidence removed, the Blood Knight reaches forward. It is an action hesitant and disbelieving as the bare iron is slid, and held, against rivets.

“Consider that your ticket.”

“The… men, ma’am?”

“Everyone here will be evaluated for entry. Grain, work, shelter, to be provided immediately thereof. Dismissed.”

The flicker of relief that goes through the harshness of his face is like a light through forest canopy. It is something redeeming to the butchery of his first presentation. Graceful, now, his surrender goes swiftly.

“Blood and Thunder, Kin’taris.”

“Sun at your back.”

With the turn of his body away from her, the Captain crooks her fingers towards the crowd.

“At random. I don’t care about any exploits or titles before you’ve stepped into this tent so I hope you’ve left it all in the field. Names first, then me and your two Lieutenants, Elinden Brightvale and Harthen Sunbright, will determine your skillsets, units, superiors, and standing orders.”

The small thing with as hastily shorn hair as Elinden, at the very back of Kielen’s former company.

“Yenette Sunshield.”

The giant with thick and loose coils, closest to Ciril.

“Byrran Morningheart.”

The man with copper red skin at the very center of the Knights.

“Oridren Bloodmist.”

The half-elf with an axe-bite on her jaw falling out of the southern pack’s formation.

“Shenuile Darro…”

[calacuspr]

What do Calacus and Harry Kane have in common?

Calacus was established to support sports organisations and individuals who want to make a positive difference in the world.

As Nelson Mandela said at the inaugural Laureus World Sports Awards: “Sport has the power to change the world”.

While sport can excite and inspire, clubs, sponsors and athletes are increasingly using their platforms for the benefit of others.

That can come in many forms, from helping those who are disadvantaged to highlighting societal issues.

We have seen some incredible sporting initiatives over the course of the year – with Manchester United striker Marcus Rashford standing out in the UK for his initiatives addressing child hunger.

But 2020 has also seen the emergence of the Black Lives Matter movement and sports stars echoing the actions of former NFL star Colin Kaepernick by taking the knee to highlight police brutality, inequality and prejudice.

There is a train of thought that sport should stick to sport and leave other issues to politicians and charities.

England men’s football captain Harry Kane, one of the most famous sports people in Britain, recently explained why he thinks it is important to take a stand.

“I don’t like it when people say we should just play football and stick to kicking a ball. We are a huge platform to share our voices across the world,” he said.

“I hear people talking about taking the knee and whether we should still be doing it and for me I think we should. Our voices should be heard and all we want to do is help and make the world a better place.

“When you look around the world, there may be kids watching the game for the first time, seeing us take the knee and asking their parents or the adults in their life why are we taking the knee.

“Education is the biggest thing we can do to teach generations what it means to be together and help each other no matter what your race.

“The more education younger generations get, hopefully as time goes by, racism will be a thing of the past and that has got to be the aim.”

Calacus works with a range of organisations that use sport as a tool to provide education, inspiration and opportunity, particularly to young people.

Sport has an unusual ability to break down barriers and provide cut-through and we also work with organisations who use their platforms to support disadvantaged groups and individuals and seek to make a positive change.

Kane believes that his England team-mates, Rashford and Raheem Sterling, should be applauded for their efforts to help communities and fight racism.

Kane added: “When you are in football you see a lot of the work that footballers do for communities and charities.

“I know first-hand that players are doing an awful lot and what Marcus and Raheem have done is incredible.

“As England captain and a leader playing for Spurs and living in such as diverse country, I have to be that support and that voice, and I am here for that.

“We want to help and make a change and the only way to do that is to stick together and use our voice to try and help make that change.”

While Kane has at times been accused of not having the personality of some of football’s more charismatic stars, it’s a mark of the man that he rarely makes headlines for the wrong reasons.

Earlier this year, he joined forces with former club Leyton Orient by sponsoring their shirts and donating the advertising space to the NHS, mental health charity Mind, and Haven House Children's Hospice.

At Calacus, we help our clients to make meaningful contributions when engaging with corporate social responsibility activities, rather than just token gestures.

Kane does not have a vast number of personal sponsors, instead focusing on a few partners that mean something to him.

Last year, he sat down with a sports psychiatrist to discuss mental health as part of a collaboration with shaving brand Harry’s.

Like Rashford and Sterling, Kane continues to be a great role model for youngsters across the UK and deserves all of the plaudits coming his way.

[izanyas]

Build Upon The Ruins (9 - End)

Last chapter of the Pacific Rim Soukoku fic. Thank you Laidon for the beta.

Rating: M + Explicit version  Words: 11,500 No warnings.

[Read from Chapter 1]

Build Upon The Ruins Chapter 9

Kunikida regained consciousness with a start, with the sound of the pod's upper corner jumping open and out. He let himself be rocked gently by the sea as he lay, sweat-drenched and dizzy, gulping in the fresh air. He didn't search for the reason he was here at all; the feeling of cold ionized wind crawling into the space of his helmet was too wonderful, that of his lungs expanding to the fullest after slow suffocation too riveting.

"Kunikida?" said a familiar voice.

His memories jolted back into place.

His first movement was slow and clumsy, the weight of his own body tremendous as he pushed himself into a sitting position. The pod acted as a safeboat of sorts, the inflated containers surrounding it having dragged him up from the bottom of the sea and now stabilizing him above the water. Kunikida struggled to push the helmet off his head entirely. Air felt even more heavenly in direct contact with his face.

"I'm here," he rasped.

I'm here, he thought at the same time. Chest bloated with disbelief. I'm alive.

"We didn't expect you to be back topside so soon," the voice continued, strangely subdued. It might just be the distance between Kunikida's ears and the receivers in his collar, now that sound didn't carry into the helmet anymore.

"Why?"

The voice came again, hesitant. "Nothing. Choppers will be there to collect you soon, just sit tight."

Kunikida looked around himself, blinking through the sun's glare that the waves reflected. The Pacific spread around him from all sides, blue and cold and utterly unreadable.

It's just falling, Dazai's voice rang through his mind. Anyone call fall.

"Did we make it?" he asked, heart stuttering for the barest second. "Is the breach—"

"The breach has been destroyed," the voice responded. "All the kaiju are dead. Tiger Claw and Heartblade's pilots are being retrieved right now, they're all fine."

For a second Kunikida felt nothing but bone-breaking relief, so powerful it rushed all the blood in his body to his head. He had to breathe slowly and carefully to chase the blurriness of his eyesight.

When he was able to think again, he asked, "What about Dazai?"

Dazai had been nothing but quietly content as the drift had dissolved. Full of certainty. The strength of his confidence, the sudden and dizzying lack of fear and tension he had felt, had been the only reason Kunikida let himself be evacuated first. It had been impossible to imagine anything but their victory as he fell unconscious.

The voice did not reply.

"Hello?"

"Sorry." Kunikida's mind was clearer with every second that went by; it was easy as anything now for him to pick up on the tight sorrow that whoever he was speaking to exuded. "We're not—we're not sure Dazai made it."

"What do you mean," Kunikida said numbly.

He was looking around again, for any trace of the twin pod that Dazai must have taken to escape after activating the core—

"We lost sign of his vitals a while ago. The system was faulty, he had to override it manually." The person's voice wavered. "He escaped, but he probably didn't have time to avoid the explosion."

"That's impossible," Kunikida heard himself reply.

"I'm sorry."

"No. No, you don't understand, it's—"

Dazai had been so sure. So absolutely certain. Mind free of anguish and regret both, easily basking in the relief of having won. His thoughts had been set on reassuring Kunikida and they had been set, always, on Chuuya, without the painful longing that accompanied them before. He couldn't have felt like this if he were about to die.

Could he?

"Where's Chuuya?" Kunikida breathed out.

There was a weak inhale, a miserable, small intake of air. "He's… he's here, but…" Some sound, like a chair moving, like background voices. "He hasn't moved since communication with Dazai went out."

Kunikida sat in the boat, swaying with the breeze and the waves, alone on the ocean. Mind all empty and strength all gone.

"You're his friend," he said eventually. The man's voice fitted back into the memories he had seen in the drift. "The one he calls Odasaku."

"Yeah. I'm Oda."

It wasn't hard to imagine what sort of communication had happened after Kunikida was gone. Not with how Dazai's soul had shone, seemingly free of everything that had held him back for years. Not with how much he had craved the future Kunikida had offered him—one where he was truthful, regardless of the risk, regardless of the fear.

Kunikida had never wanted these words to be Dazai's last.

He clenched his teeth. "Can he hear me?" he asked.

"Hang on." Oda's quiet voice disappeared for a second, replaced by louder sounds of feet shifting on the floor and quiet whispers. "He can now," he said, less clear against the noise of the comm room.

"Chuuya," Kunikida called immediately, "Dazai wouldn't die now."

There was no answer.

"I escaped too fast—there wasn't any gravity or resistance in the breach, not like water, the pod shot up quickly enough. I must've been out of the danger zone in seconds."

"It's true," Oda sait quietly. "We thought you wouldn't be here until another few minutes at least."

It was enough to spur Kunikida on. "Dazai said it himself," he continued, eyes roaming over the gleaming sea, "you both said it—he's a miracle worker. He's beaten impossible odds countless times."

"Shut up."

It was barely a voice at all, too wrecked by grief, and Kunikida felt it ache in his own throat, as if he had been the one sobbing until a moment ago. But it was Chuuya.

His grip tightened on the collar of the suit. "He walked twenty kilometers alone in a jaeger to save you," he growled. "No one's ever been able to do that. No one else could. He fought seven kaiju in a day, he's the one who came up with a way to destroy the breach at all—he accepted to pilot again just because you asked him to, even though it was the only thing he never wanted to do again."

"I said shut up—"

"No!" Kunikida shouted. "He found a way to control the drift just so I wouldn't see your memories—do you really think he would die now, after winning? Just from something like a late escape?"

"Enough," Chuuya rasped. "Please."

Such a simple word. So heavy with heartbreak that Kunikida could've lifted it with his hands.

"He loves you too much," he said, heart hurried and desperate. "After everything—he can't. He can't. He's incapable of dying on you like this."

Chuuya was too far away from the mic for it to pick up more than his voice, but Kunikida didn't need to hear him to picture the way he would've folded on himself, physically fighting the hope Kunikida was trying to instill in him. The knowledge of it was bright in his mind through Dazai's own life. Chuuya wouldn't want hope now, would not believe anything that didn't come directly out of Dazai's mouth.

In the distance, Double Black's second emergency pod emerged from the water.

"I see him," Kunikida gasped. "Fifty meters east—the pod looks fine, just a little burned, he's right there."

Oda breathed in harshly. Kunikida sat back down onto the boat to tug off the suit's heavy boots.

"I'm swimming to him," he said once his feet were free of the boots' weight.

"If you get water into the suit we won't be able to communicate anymore—"

"You have our coordinates, right?" Kunikida cut Oda off.

A second. "Yes."

"Then I'm going there."

He didn't wait for a reply. He jumped headfirst into the icy ocean, shouting when the cold made contact with his face and hands and feet. It was effort like he had never known to kick his legs into the water and push forth in the direction of Dazai's pod; the waves were taller now that he had to cross through them, trying to lure him sideways, to deviate his route. Kunikida struggled with every spark of energy left in him, muscles burning and chest weak from breathing too hard. It was the longest distance he had ever traveled.

His arm knocked into the side of the pod weakly. For a moment he could do nothing more than hang onto one of the inflated balloons keeping it afloat, gulping in breath after breath, his sides burning with pain. He was shaking when he hoisted himself up and crawled atop the coffin-like box that held Dazai in.

The upper side of it hadn't opened like his did. It looked damaged by the fire, melted and brown in spaces. Kunikida pushed his numb fingers onto it, looking for the handle that training had taught him was reachable from the outside. When it didn't move against his palm, he elbowed it up.

The lid flew away.

Dazai lay inside it. Close-eyed, relaxed, vulnerable like he had been only hours ago as Kunikida pulled him out of his slumber. There was no condensation gathering inside his helmet, no mist against the yellow glass. His chest was still.

What if the pod's air supplies had been compromised by the explosion? What if—

Kunikida breathed through his nose as he tugged the helmet off of Dazai's head; in the setting sun his hair was a rich brown, strewn with red and gold. His skin pale and lifeless against the black of the suit.

"Come on," Kunikida muttered, pushing his fingers against Dazai's lips, against his neck.

His skin was too numb to feel either pulse or breath.

"Dazai, come on—"

He repeated it through mouth and mind alike as he pulled Dazai upright to reach the spine of the suit. He was almost too weak to tear it off, too weak to unclasp the upper hooks of it from where they would be pinched into the back plates and squeezed against his skin. When he finally tugged it away, he ripped the upper half of the suit off entirely.

He pushed Dazai back onto the floor of the boat, linking his hands above his chest. Being elevated and facing him reduced his strength further, but he didn't have a choice; Kunikida counted each press in his head and ignored the searing pain in his shoulders and back, the shivers shaking him because of the water chilling his body.

"Come on," he spat.

It was impossible even with the urgency not to think of Aya. Impossible for his mind not to draw comparison between the stillness of Dazai's body and that of Aya, who had been too long gone by the time he had reached a hospital, the both of them full of life one moment and rid of it the next. Fate's whims victorious once again.

"Just one more," he panted, pushing down again and again onto Dazai's chest with the weight of his back rather than the strength of his arms. "Just one more miracle."

He almost thought he was imagining it when Dazai started gasping. Only habit prevented him from stopping the compressions, eyes flying up to Dazai's open mouth and ears tuning out the wind and waves around them until he did it again.

It took such a long time. Such a long, long time. The wet, deathly gargle escaping Dazai's throat sounded too faint for hope, even as it became more regular, even as Kunikida stopped to check his pulse for what felt like the hundredth time. His now-warm fingers found it, faint but there, in the side of his neck.

The gasps made way to slow, shallow breaths. Dazai's chest moved on its own under his open palms.

Kunikida's eyes were burning as he pulled back his hands to push Dazai to his side in the pod. It took some effort to place his hips right through the opening, not least because Kunikida could not keep the exhaustion at bay anymore. He sat atop the pod, all of his body sore and unmoving, fingers still touching Dazai's throat.

He couldn't have said whether a minute or an hour passed before Dazai's eyes opened.

Dazai took longer than he had to come to his senses. For a long while he blinked at the inside of the pod with unfocused eyes, the air still coming weak and loud to his lungs. Then he looked sideways without moving his head, as if now noticing the fingers on his neck.

"Kunikida," he whispered. Face slack with exhaustion.

"Yeah," Kunikida replied, more sob than breath. "Take it easy."

He didn't, of course. Dazai pressed trembling fingers onto the floor to try and push himself upright immediately, and Kunikida was too full of relief, too light-headed with wonder to think of scolding him for it. He wrapped an arm around Dazai's chest, grabbing him at the armpit to help him into a sitting position.

"What happ—" Dazai started.

His voice died when Kunikida pulled him forward against his chest, his other arm lifting up to circle his shoulders.

Dazai would've stilled and tensed if he had the strength for it. Kunikida knew it, as deeply as he knew himself. He would've allowed it for no more than a second before pulling away, distant and uncomfortable. As he was he simply hung in Kunikida's embrace, face awkwardly stuck into Kunikida's shoulder. His hair smelled of nothing but sea and sweat against Kunikida's nose.

"I never want to pilot with you again," Kunikida said, voice shaking.

Dazai chuckled weakly. "Sentiment shared," he replied.

His arms came up to hug Kunikida back, though. Slow and tentative.

They separated when the sound of Oda's promised rescue team reached them. The helicopter hovered over them for a while, stabilizing so someone could come down to them. Kunikida never looked away from Dazai's face in that minute of time, never strayed from the sunset's shine on him and the wonder of his continued living.

Dazai smiled at him when he caught him at it.

Aya's memory flew off of him like a fallen leaf in the wind, golden and fragile, almost dust already. Her death faded into the shadows to make way for her smile and liveliness, for her antics that Kunikida had forgotten and which the drift had brought back as it did everything else. He saw her in the brown of Dazai's eyes; he heard her in the wisp of his tired voice.

"Thank you," Dazai said.

The guilt lifted at last.

-- 

Chuuya didn't move at all from his spot under the desk when the news reached them. Oda collapsed into the chair with his head in his hands, relieved tears dripping from his face, and Chuuya could only listen numbly as Yosano conducted her usual questioning through her own mic, enquiring after Kunikida and Dazai's physical condition now that both had been retrieved.

"Chuuya."

He didn't raise his head at the sound of Kouyou's voice. Her knees bent and touched the floor so she could crawl into the space under the table, avoiding his right leg which Oda had put on a cushion a few minutes ago.

Oda had been the one to find him earlier. He had been the one to force him out of his position and gently push him to his side, and Chuuya had barely experienced the pain of it at all, had barely even noticed that he had been in agony until then. Now the physical ache was so far away as to be unfelt.

Kouyou sighed once she was sitting next to him in the relative darkness. From this close he could smell the faint scent of tea that had followed behind her for as long as he had known her. Even when she had been killing people for a living, she had smelled like home. Wilted flowers and fall evenings under the poignant stench of blood.

"He's fine," she told him. "They're on their way here now."

He knew that. It didn't stop him from feeling hollow.

They sat here under the desk as people roamed through the room, like children playing hide and seek. No one stopped to talk to them. Cheers had rung through every hall of the dock when the war clock had been stopped, but now that the tears and shouts had stopped, there was still work to be done. Jaegers and corpses to be fished out of the sea.

There wouldn't have been a corpse to fish out if Dazai had died. He would have vanished in the collapsing breach like a forgotten dream, never to be seen again. An empty tomb in his name would have been raised somewhere in Yokohama, one Chuuya would never have visited.

"You know," Kouyou murmured, "you did this a lot when we first met."

It took a long time for him to find the air to reply at all. "Did what?"

"This." She rested a hand on his thigh. He eyed it unseeingly. "When you were hurt or scared, you holed up somewhere and waited everything out. Like you were afraid of making a move either way, even if it meant feeling better, just in case you'd end up feeling worse or looking weak."

He could remember it now, vaguely. Hiding injuries and hoping they would fix themselves with time. Kouyou would always find out and always scold him for it, even as he was too afraid to step forward or back on his aching feet.

"I'm not twelve anymore," he replied.

"No, you're not," she smiled. "But you're still hiding in a corner and waiting for things to stop hurting."

There wasn't enough time in the world, through all of History, to wait this pain out. He didn't know how to tell her that.

"Chuuya," Kouyou murmured. Her hand lifted from his thigh to snake around the small of his back instead. He was pulled against her side. "It will stop hurting."

His throat tightened helplessly.

"It might take months, or years. You'll have to go through a lot to be able to trust yourself and trust him, to stop waking up at night thinking you've lost him. But it will stop hurting."

"What if it doesn't," he couldn't help but say. It was a child's plea, raw and feeble. "What if I do wake up one day and he's—"

He couldn't finish. His eyes burned, tear ducts too dry to make him start crying again, but his chest hitched and heated all the same.

"I can't do this," he continued, every breath shaking itself out of him. "I can't lose him again."

"So you'll deny yourself the right to have him at all?"

He couldn't reply.

He really was still the twelve-year-old boy she had befriended and taken under her wing.

"You love him," she said gently, the side of her head coming to rest against his, some of her hair tickling his forehead lightly. "And he loves you. You both came so close to losing each other, and I don't think you realize how heartbreaking it was to have to watch you retreat into yourselves out of fear like you did. I wish I'd stepped in sooner and, I don't know." She chuckled. "Tied you to a chair together and forced you to talk about it."

"I would've escaped," he replied without heat.

"I'm sure of it. He would have, too." Kouyou's hand squeezed his shoulder. "My point is that you two have let too much time go by already. You've been living in fear for years, even though everyone could see how much you wanted to be with each other. Do you really want to keep going like this?"

There was only one answer to that. Only one name he could possibly give to the way his heart recoiled.

"Dazai is alive," Kouyou repeated, and this time Chuuya did stutter out something like a moan, something like a heartbeat.

His back hunched as he choked, dry-tongued and dry-eyed and heaving regardless. Kouyou's hand roamed over his shoulders and breathed warmth back into his dead body.

"What now," he sobbed out. "What do I do? Ane-san, how do I—"

"Now you live," Kouyou said, kissing the top of his hair. "And that starts with coming up to the roof with me so we can welcome them home."

She pulled away from him. For a second Chuuya entertained the wild and childlike urge of fisting his hands into her clothes and refusing to let her go, of keeping her by his side as if she could still protect him from everything and everyone. He was too old for it, though. The thought went away without being acted upon.

Kouyou crawled out from under the desk and extended a hand toward him, crouching in the open, her suit grey with dust from the floor.

"Come on," she said. "Let me help you up."

He grabbed her hand.

Kouyou had little trouble pulling him to his feet. She had always been deceptively strong under her clothes, body lean and hard from years of physical labor. Even now, years after losing her jaeger and copilot, she lifted him as though he weighed nothing at all. Chuuya's head swam, eyesight blurring into black for a few seconds as his body adjusted to being vertical once more. He felt Kouyou guide his hand to the pommel of his cane; his fingers wrapped around it thoughtlessly, and it was like finding part of himself again. His back straightened. His legs strengthened.

He took the first step on his own, in a fashion similar to being able to walk again three years prior. Legs and heart shaking. Even the physical pain was the same, with the way he had fallen earlier.

They made their way together to the elevator that would lead them to the roof. People stepped aside to make room for them, three people coming out of the elevator entirely so they could fit inside with the next batch of bright-eyed workers—everyone was rushing to the roof, even those who had already welcomed back Heartblade and Tiger Claw's pilots. All posts were abandoned for now.

The pilots hadn't come down at all; Chuuya found all four of them by the heliport, each looking more anxious than the other. They still wore their suits. Akutagawa Gin had crusted blood over her mouth, her right arm in a sling. Next to her stood her brother, holding her hand, petting his cat's head with more reverence than necessary. He must have not expected to be able to do it again.

When the helicopter appeared in the horizon, red sun shining over it, Chuuya started tasting air again.

It landed to the excited murmurs and laughs and shouts of the present company. Yosano was the first to step in, with a glare that said to all who would follow that she wouldn't hesitate to kill, no matter that she herself looked bloody and exhausted. Chuuya was too far away to hear anything even if the blades of the machine weren't still in the process of stopping; he wasn't, however, too far away to see as its passengers climbed out.

Kunikida helped Dazai down the ladder, looking more disheveled than Chuuya had ever seen him. The tie holding his hair together must have broken or fallen off, because it splayed over his shoulders, bright over the black of his suit. He didn't let go of Dazai's middle until they were both standing firmly on the roof; even then, he kept Dazai's arm over his own shoulders.

They were safe. Home. No longer held in destiny's fickle grasp. Dazai was here, alive, within talking and touching distance if only Chuuya so chose.

The step Chuuya took then was the easiest of his life.

Dazai raised his head almost instantly, eyes meeting Chuuya's as if he couldn't even think of looking elsewhere. Chuuya couldn't either. He parted the crowd as quickly as he could and didn't look away or breathe, not for an inch of the distance between them. He ditched the cane within two meters because it wasn't quick enough, and the sound it made as it fell onto the ground was drowned by his own beating heart.

Dazai swayed forward immediately, slipping out of the support Kunikida offered, saying, "You'll hurt yourself—"

Chuuya fell into him heart-first, chest colliding with his, and not even the thick of the blanket that had been dropped over Dazai stopped him from shaking. He gasped into the bare skin of Dazai's neck like a man saved from drowning, his arms wrapped around Dazai's nape to keep himself from falling, and it didn't matter at all that Dazai was bruised all over—one of his arms hooked around Chuuya's back, the other gathered against his spine.

With the tips of his trembling fingers, he touched Chuuya's nape. He slid them across skin and hair until the full of his palm rested on it. Then he breathed again, chest swelling against Chuuya's and heart beating where Chuuya could feel it against his mouth.

"I'm sorry," he said into Chuuya's hair, the warmth of his words almost scorching against the winter wind, "Chuuya, I'm so sorry—"

"Don't," Chuuya cut in.

Dazai's fingers tightened on him, at his waist and at his nape. His breathing slowed its pace to match Chuuya's.

Chuuya drank in every second of it. The shape of him against Chuuya's front; the smell of him, sea and sweat and metal; Dazai's hold around him and Dazai's skin on his lips and Dazai's words in his ear.

He had come so close to never hearing his voice again.

"I don't want you to apologize," he said, weakly, into Dazai's neck. "I'm done feeling sorry."

Honesty thrummed warm through him, shaking him where love didn't. He was only standing now because Dazai held him. If Dazai stepped away, he would fall. He would break apart and be carried by the wind, spread over the sea like ashes, diluted into water until nothing of him remained.

Dazai bent down to press his own face into Chuuya's neck, crushing wet tears between his mouth and Chuuya's skin. His shoulders were shuddering. "I love you," he gasped, hand sliding opposite to where he spoke; thumb resting on the hollow of Chuuya's throat.

"I know," Chuuya replied.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Dazai repeated it with every breath he took, as if to imprint the knowledge of it directly into Chuuya's skin, until Chuuya's chest was full to bursting with it—until the repetition shattered the last of the barriers between them. Cloth and flesh and bone gone so that they stood heart to heart.

It was the most natural thing in the world for Chuuya to shift his hold. His arm folded around Dazai's shoulders to support his weight on him, his other hand slipping downward to touch Dazai's neck and push his head up. Dazai's cheek brushed against his for the bare second it took to slide their lips together.

Dazai's were wet with his tears, cracked from dehydration and the harsh stroke of the sea, but they were warm; they moved with every shuddering breath he let out on Chuuya's face, softer than anything Chuuya had touched before. Chuuya's fingers moved to grab Dazai's hair and press him closer still, until Dazai's nose dug under his cheekbone and his eyelashes tickled his skin, and Dazai held him so tightly that his wounds flared with pain, and Chuuya forgot about it all.

He forgot about the crowd of onlookers. He forgot the cold, biting air. He forgot the years of telling himself he couldn't have the one thing he wanted, the ever-present ache of his and Dazai's broken drift. Dazai pressed love onto his mouth, and the open, yearning gap in his soul finally stopped hurting.

Chuuya never wanted to let go again.

And the good thing, he thought, as Dazai drew back to look at him, was that he didn't have to.

"Now," Dazai said against his lips. His smile matched the shape of Chuuya's, and never had anyone radiated so under the setting sun. "This is a sight for sore eyes."

--

The world stopped ending on a winter morning.

It stopped ending under the rain and snow, in the skin-warm hallways of Yokohama's jaeger dock. The ones lucky enough to have been freed of their obligations woke up to it sometime around noon; the ones who had to keep working until late into the night still slumbered or celebrated. Alcohol was found in old boxes and cupboards and drunk sometimes to oblivion. Cigarettes were shared. Laughter was heard, and sobs, and sometimes a mix of both. It didn't matter that everyone still glanced mechanically at the war clock as they limped by—the clock stayed silent.

Yosano's world stopped ending when she entered hers and Kouyou's shared quarters at three in the morning, aching through her whole body. It stopped ending after Kouyou was done dragging her into the bath and washing the grime off of her, after she was done getting her wounds re-dressed and could finally fall into their bed.

Two days' worth of exhaustion crashed onto her at once.

It was Kouyou who held her as she sobbed from it. Yosano cried out the fear and pain and grief, mind swimming with the horrors she had seen in the drift and out of it—the corpses of the pilots who had died and now rested in her care, the kaiju's poisoned world, the hour during which they had all thought Dazai was dead and Nakahara had sat on the floor of the comm room looking like his very soul was gone.

She thought of the superficial wounds that the surviving pilots had brought back and cried. She thought of Kajii's memories and cried. She thought of Dazai and Nakahara's embrace on the roof of the hangar and cried. There was no distinguishing good or bad anymore; she wept, wholly, for hours on end, with no reason or goal. Kouyou cried with her, at one point. She held her in her arms under the safety of the blanket and soothed her with meaningless words until she fell asleep.

Yosano woke up well into the following afternoon. It was to the sound of rain beating at their window harshly, to the howling wind outside which she could hear even through the thick of the walls.

She found Kouyou sitting next to her. Hair down and dressed in a nightgown and sweater, holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a picture in the other.

"Hello," she said, once she noticed Yosano looking.

Yosano blinked at her wordlessly.

"Naomi-chan says your patients are doing well. She released all of them a couple hours ago." Kouyou's mouth twitched. "Apparently there was an intruder in Dazai's bed when she arrived this morning."

This tore a huff out of Yosano, at least. "If they had sex in there I'm making them handwash the sheets," she grunted.

"Chuuya wouldn't have sex in public," Kouyou replied dismissively. "Also, never make me think of Chuuya having sex again."

"He's twenty-six."

"He's still my brother."

Kouyou's hand fell back onto the sheets. She let the picture slip from between her fingers so she could drag them through Yosano's hair instead, and Yosano's scalp rippled with pleasant shivers. She had to struggle to keep her eyes open through the warmth and comfort of Kouyou touching her; the sounds of the storm outside only made it easier to doze.

"I should get to work," Kouyou murmured eventually.

The mug clicked against the wood of her bedside table as she set it down. Yosano rubbed her good hand over her face to get rid of the crust of sleep and pushed herself upright.

"You don't have to," she replied, leaning against her side.

"I do. We have four pilots to bury and two jaegers to disassemble. Not to mention every government in the world to get in touch with."

Yosano picked up the picture from atop the blanket. It was one she knew well, the same one that had sat on Kouyou's desk for six years now. Golden Man and Double Black's pilots standing side by side and smiling.

"I'm lucky there was a body to bury for him," Kouyou said, looking at the photograph. Fukuzawa looked back, his face frozen into contentment in spite of the shadows under his eyes. "I think Edogawa would hate me more if I hadn't brought it back."

"He doesn't hate you," Yosano mumbled.

"He does. It's okay, I've made my peace with it."

"Kouyou," she said, sliding her hand between Kouyou's back and the wall. "You killed the kaiju that murdered Fukuzawa while drifting on your own. Edogawa misses him, but he doesn't hate you. Not anymore. He just doesn't know how else to act now that he's made his peace with it."

"Did he tell you that?" Kouyou asked, surprisingly subdued.

Yosano nodded, remembering this conversation acutely. "He'll come around," she said. "He won't say no if you ask him to stay in touch once this is all over."

Kouyou folded the picture and put it beside her mug on the table. "I'd like that," she admitted.

She didn't move away, despite her words. She let Yosano wrap herself around her without a word of protest or a touch of resistance, only huffing in amusement when she felt her kiss into her neck and start tugging up the skirt of the nightgown.

"I guess I have time for this much," she mused.

"Thank fucking God," Yosano muttered in answer.

She dragged Kouyou back under the sheets.

After, once they lay naked and damp in the slick warmth, the taste of Kouyou still tart on Yosano's tongue, she crawled up above her body and held herself one handed, and she said, "Once everything's done—once the work is over—will you—"

Her words halted in the face of what she wanted to ask. It was a child's dream, one she had not thought possible at all as she grew up, regardless of what she had fearlessly promised herself the day before.

Kouyou's breathing had not yet quieted. She grabbed the back of Yosano's head to pull her down into a kiss, one in which she exhaled the last of her post-orgasmic languor.

"Yes," she replied.

--

February blurred every day it went through. The shortest month of the year had felt endless, from the moment Kunikida was flown from San Francisco's base to Yokohama's after his training, to the day he decided to leave. It felt inconceivable that his days as a pilot had actually only been one day, if one dismissed the test drift. He was still unfamiliar with parts of the dock when March rolled around.

Which wasn't to say that he hadn't been busy. Ceremonies had been thrown in to officially thank him and the remaining pilots; they had stood under rain and sun and snow to receive medal after medal, honor after honor, until he didn't think one country in the world had a reward he did not know of or possess. He didn't care much about it. Money and fame were never at the front of his mind.

He had liked the funerals more. Even with the inevitable presence of officials who had done absolutely nothing but who still spoke of the deceased like lost family, it felt good to stand by Dazai and the other pilots in mourning. However little he knew the four fighters they had lost. It felt right.

In-between the flights that took him over the world—though thankfully Ozaki fought her way into making most award ceremonies happen in Yokohama itself—there was work to be done.

He volunteered to help take Heartblade and Tiger Claw apart so that its pieces could be stored indefinitely. He volunteered in the hospital wing. He volunteered in the kitchen, he volunteered for cleaning up and emptying the dock, he volunteered for as many things as he could think of. People started looking at him with familiarity instead of awe when he walked around the corridors. They started talking to him, not with endless gratitude, but with comfortable chatter. Just for the pleasure of his company.

It was the reason he ended up taking so many strolls with Izumi Kyouka as the weeks dragged by. She had never talked to him much while they trained, always withdrawn and silent, even with the other trainees her age. Now she talked, however little. She told him about her family. He told her about his students.

Aside from deciding what he would do with his money and his honors once there was nothing to be worked on in the dock, the biggest thing on his mind was Dazai.

He was on the minds and tongues of many, actually. Gossip ran strong through the ranks of the dock's workers; many of them had been here to see him and Chuuya hold each other on the day the fight had ended.

"I can't believe it took them so long," a woman told him one day, as they folded and put away the sheets of the infirmary.

Her name was Sasaki. She was one of those who had retired after Double Black was put out of commission four years ago, and she had come back after the breach fell to help around the place. She had told him, in easy, quiet words, that she had originally trained to be a pilot alongside Dazai and Chuuya. They had never found a match for her to drift with.

"Even before they were pilots, there was this…" She gestured vaguely, an amused smile at her lips. "This chemistry, I guess you could say, between them? Always arguing, always starting fights with each other. Dazai couldn't stop poking at Nakahara until Nakahara exploded. Then he'd get to watch smugly as Nakahara walked away to go punch his frustration out on some innocent fool."

These were memories that Kunikida had barely seen. Everything pertaining to Chuuya in Dazai's mind had come after their first drift. After they had both realized that they were always meant to be each other's world.

"I'm glad," Sasaki murmured. The curve of her smile turned gentler. "Dazai was so devastated when Nakahara got hurt. Seeing them after that, all awkward with each other, especially with Nakahara in so much pain… We all realized that they weren't actually with each other before. Not outside of the drift."

"He thought he'd never need anything else," Kunikida replied.

It made her laugh briefly. "Genius IQ and still an idiot. You need more than a direct connection to someone's head to build a relationship." Her gaze softened. "Well, they were young—they still are. They'll figure it out."

He felt strangely devoid of shame or embarrassment, talking about it with her. He had been too deeply linked with Dazai and Chuuya's memories to think of them as something less than humbling. They were his memories too, in a way.

Dazai himself had been more or less forcefully volunteered by Ozaki to be the public face of the remaining pilots. He was the oldest of them with Kunikida, and he had more experience than all of them combined. Most of his days seemed to be spent holed in Ozaki's office and acting as a buffer for the world leaders' demands; he nodded, and smiled, and used his sharp mind to sway the conversation where Ozaki wanted it to go. Chuuya had laughed at him for complaining about it a few days after it started, right in the middle of the mess hall. It had been such an honest, simple laugh, so different from the gruff version that Kunikida had been subjected to when he called him by his first name accidentally, that almost all heads around them had turned to stare at him.

Chuuya himself supervised the moving around of jaeger tech. After Dazai and Ozaki were done convincing president after king after minister not to requisition them to potentially be used against one another—now that immediate threat to humanity itself was dealt with—Chuuya had been put in charge of guarding the locations of all parts and data.

When Dazai and Chuuya weren't working, they were together.

They walked in each other's shadow, moving in tandem without the need for word. They vanished for small fractions of the days. Dazai caught Chuuya when he wavered; Chuuya answered his unspoken remarks out loud. All in all, it wasn't so different from before, except for the fact that they looked more peaceful than pained.

What happened in those stolen hours where neither of them could be found was no one's business but theirs. No matter what gossip craved. Kunikida wouldn't find the truth in the drift, and he doubted Dazai would tell him.

Kunikida left the dock on the third day of March.

It wasn't until he was packing the night before, sorting through the assortment of clothes and notebooks strew over his room, that he realized he hadn't indulged most of his compulsions in weeks.

For several minutes the thought had him shell-shocked. He stood frozen, surrounded by his half-full luggage. The furious need to unpack it all and start over gripped him by the neck and made his hands temble, made him feel once more slimy, as if soaked with blood. He sat on the edge of his bed and let the shivers wreck him without moving. Anxiety swelled in the cage of his ribs until he was nauseous with it, but he didn't move. He breathed slowly and deeply, keeping his hands apart from each other rather than let them tear through skin, until finally his heartbeat slowed and the sweat at his back started cooling.

He pushed himself to his feet. Picked up where he left off. The nausea withdrew and didn't come back, defeated for the rest of the night.

He was accompanied out of the base by Dazai and Chuuya and, more surprisingly, Oda and Sakaguchi. He took his time to carry his things out, refusing the help Oda offered, taking in the sight of the hangar. It looked very different now than the first time he had crossed it. The tall alcoves where the jaeger had stood were empty; the boxes and vehicles that had carried equipment from end to end were gone; so few people remained that he could count them on both hands.

A car waited for him in the crisp morning wind. It was almost black enough not to shine in the sunlight. The man driving it introduced himself as Melville and nothing else before taking Kunikida's luggage from his hands.

Kunikida turned to face the others again.

"It's so cold," Dazai moaned with hunched shoulders, fingers dug deep into the pockets of his tan coat.

"I told you you should've worn a fucking scarf," Chuuya replied, hitting him lightly in the legs with his cane.

"Lend me your scarf, Odasaku."

"No," Oda said flatly. "You should've listened to Chuuya from the start."

He and Chuuya exchanged an understanding nod.

"What are you going to do?" Sakaguchi asked Kunikida. He was drowned in a coat about twice as thick as he was. "Retire?"

"No," Kunikida replied.

He had thought about it for a long time. He didn't feel that he deserved to spend the rest of his life doing nothing, no matter how much of his gut-wrenching guilt had alleviated after saving Dazai. With the time he spent helping around the base came the realization that he couldn't stand to sit listless.

There were still things he could do. Things outside of throwing his life on the line.

"I'm going to teach again," he said. "I'll go back to my hometown for a while, visit my mother's grave. Then I'm going to move to Tokyo and look for a job in a school there."

"It's a good plan," Oda commented. "And no one's going to refuse you a teaching position." He took a cigarette out of the pocket of his coat and lit it with clumsy, gloved fingers. His first drag of smoke was exhaled thoughtfully. "One of my kids lives in Tokyo," he added. "Wants to be a teacher too."

"Sakura, right?"

The look Oda gave him was one of deep appreciation, of heartfelt pride. "Yeah," he said simply. "She's a good girl."

Her memory was faded in Kunikida's mind, but he could still recall a shriek of loud laughter, a fierce surge of protectiveness, even drowned as it had been under Dazai's deadly violence. Oda Sakura would get to live in a free world too.

He turned his head to look at Dazai and found him looking back.

"Well," Dazai said evenly. "It's been a shorter time than I expected, but I have to admit it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"You mean aside from the part where you played around and almost made me attack everyone here?" Kunikida replied. "Or the one where I had to resuscitate you?"

"And he jokes. I knew you had it in you, Kunikida-kun."

Dazai's tone was playful. His smile sincere.

"It wasn't as awful as I thought it'd be either," Kunikida admitted. "You make a terrible first impression."

"I get that a lot," Dazai agreed, glancing at Chuuya by his side.

Chuuya seemed to stand better now than he did weeks ago. The winter light was kind on him as well—shining off his hair and bringing color to his face. He was still handsome, still looking taller than he was. His grip on the cane was lax and easy. Kunikida couldn't help the warmth in his cheeks when their eyes met; some part of him was still surprised by the lack of awful longing he felt at the very sight of him. It always would be.

"Kunikida," Chuuya said lowly. "Thank you."

He looked at Kunikida with endless gratitude too, but not for saving the world.

"Stay in touch," Dazai said a minute later, as Kunikida crawled inside the car. He was resting his elbow on the open door, his other hand in his pocket. Chuuya, Sakaguchi, and Oda were walking back toward the dock already. "I'll still be around here for a while, so just call me if you forgot anything."

"Do you really want me to stay in touch?" Kunikida asked, surprised.

"I do," he said. "I'm not someone who makes friends easily, but it feels wrong to just say goodbye forever to someone who's been in my head. And you're a good man."

Kunikida tensed. The obvious protest burned at his lips.

Dazai's smile turned softer at the sight of it. "Work on this," he continued. "This self-hatred of yours… it has no reason to exist. Get some professional help if you can."

Kunikida felt himself nod helplessly. His face colored, the blush instantaneous, and Dazai laughed at him for it for the better part of a minute. Loud and easy in the morning quiet. Melville was silent at the front of the car, no doubt waiting for Kunikida to close the door so they could be on their way.

Kunikida grabbed the handle of the door and growled, "Go back to the love of your damn life."

"Happily," Dazai replied, mirth still clinging to his lips. He stepped back. "Have a safe trip, partner."

He waved at them as the engines started. The last Kunikida saw of him was his silhouette against the bright sun, hair swept by the wind, face open with affection. He followed the outline of it until it vanished behind ruins.

-- 

Dazai walked Chuuya to his room after seeing Kunikida away.

Nowadays the dock was more deserted than not. Work had piled down over the weeks, and more strikingly so in the last few days. The last two jaegers had been taken apart and their pieces sealed away weeks ago. Cleaning the hangar of the last of its equipment had taken more time. Every day that went by saw more people leaving, going away home with every available boat, train, or plane. Whether they had a home to return to at all was up to them.

He stepped in silence alongside the soft sounds of Chuuya's feet on the barren floors, the louder tapping of his cane. Chuuya didn't protest it. They had been doing this more and more—spending more time in each other's rooms than apart, lying down together at night without quite daring to touch except for stolen kisses and brushes of hands.

On the day they had won, Chuuya had sneaked into the hospital wing in the dead of the night. He had fitted himself into the tiny bed at Dazai's back and held him in silence, his injured leg thrown over Dazai's, his breath into his nape.

Only then had Dazai stopped feeling the ache of his absence and relaxed enough to sleep. He was about sure that it was the same reason Chuuya had come at all.

Dazai opened the door to Chuuya's room for him and let him in first.

"You were surprisingly decent about this," Chuuya said as soon as it clicked shut behind them. He let his cane rest against the frame of it to tug off his gloves and shrug out of his coat and scarf, laying them atop the chair of his desk.

Dazai hummed evenly. "I like him."

It made Chuuya pause for a second and look at him with raised eyebrows.

"I'm not lying," he insisted. "And not just because he saved my life. I do think we could be friends, one day."

"Well," Chuuya replied, oddly flat. "This is unexpected."

"Turns out even you can't predict everything about me."

Chuuya's hand shook, and he clenched it into a fist. Dazai's humor vanished.

"Chuuya?" he asked.

Chuuya didn't reply. He made his way toward his fridge in silence, bending over to open it and take water out of it. Dazai watched him drink it without moving from his spot by the door, mind running in circles to understand what had just happened. It clicked when Chuuya threw the fridge's door shut with more strength than strictly necessary.

"Are you jealous?" he asked, bewildered.

"I'm not," Chuuya lied.

"Why on Earth would you be—"

He paused to shake himself out of his surprise. Walking the distance between them was easy, so much easier now than it had been for so long. Dazai crossed the length of the room in a few steps and came to a stop behind Chuuya's turned back.

"It's because of the drift," he said.

Chuuya turned to look at him. "Of course it's because of the drift," he let out. "Did you really think I wouldn't—"

He clenched his jaw and stopped talking before he could finish.

Dazai had wondered at that. Weeks ago, when Chuuya had told him to find someone to pilot with. He had wanted to ask if Chuuya didn't mind, had refused to ask, because not knowing felt safer than risking being told, I don't.

"He's not going to drift with me anymore," he said softly. "No one is."

"I know," Chuuya replied. "I just…" He frowned. "It messes with your head. The drift. With the way ours went the first time I thought maybe—"

"I am utterly disinterested in Kunikida that way," Dazai cut in.

Chuuya's face turned beet red.

At least this was familiar. Dazai felt his shoulders drop. He raised a hand and placed it at Chuuya's nape after a brief hesitation, and Chuuya's skin ran with goosebumps at the contact, as it did every time. Dazai wanted to keep the feeling of it cradled into his palm for as long as he lived.

"Were you worried I'd develop a crush?" he couldn't help but ask, struggling not to smile.

"Shut up," Chuuya groaned, but he didn't pull away. "It's not just that. I just." He looked away, cheeks still flushed. "I didn't have to think about the fact that someone else would get to see you like that until it was happening. I didn't expect you to like him. I thought you'd hate each other."

Chuuya couldn't have thought that Dazai would feel the way he did for him about anyone else. Not with the absolute, perfect certainty they had both felt at the time. He couldn't have thought Dazai would find the same thing in someone else, no matter how compatible.

He just hadn't wanted anyone to see what he couldn't anymore.

"Dazai," Chuuya said, looking at him.

Dazai's hand pressed further into the back of his head to pull him forward.

The feeling of Chuuya's lips against his was a breathless one every time, no matter how often they kissed. Dazai's eyelids closed to focus on the warmth of it through touch alone, all of his body heating for a simple press as it would for much more; he moaned from deep in his chest when Chuuya opened his mouth for more and his hand came up to grab Dazai's raised wrist.

He fell further into it after that. Turning to face Dazai fully, leaning up into his body. Dazai put his other hand atop the one Chuuya kept on his cane and forgot himself to the wet softness of Chuuya's mouth. Tasting coffee on his tongue and salt on his lips.

He was breathing harshly when he pulled away. It only took a glance between them before Chuuya pulled him down once more, open-mouthed and messy in a way they hadn't let themselves be yet, and Dazai's chest burned with it, his belly gathering heat by the second.

His heart skipped a beat when Chuuya's thigh brushed against the front of his slacks.

"Eager," he said, his lips a smile against Dazai's.

"Can't help it," Dazai replied lowly. His eyes opened, following the blurry shape of Chuuya's face to give him back his stare. "Your foreplay tends to drag on for literal years."

Chuuya snorted, pulling away. "I certainly hope your foreplay's a bit better than that."

"No idea. I haven't actually had sex in—" he had to stop to count. "Well, eight years. I thought I was pretty good at it as a teenager, but I was a teenager."

"God," Chuuya laughed, pressing his lips against Dazai's shoulder. "We really are stupid."

Dazai put his chin on top of Chuuya's head without daring to reply.

This would be the time to apologize again. He would, if not for Chuuya's firm refusal to linger. He could almost taste the words on his lips, wet as they were still from Chuuya's own, feel the acute need to seek Chuuya's pardon even knowing that he had it.

It would take a long time for him to feel like he really had it. A long time to stop waking up in the middle of the night to Chuuya's fingers at his wrist or neck, checking for his pulse, and not want to fall to his knees and ask for forgiveness once more.

He bent his head down to press his mouth to Chuuya's hair, eyes closed. "Do you want that with me?" he asked. "Sex?"

"Yeah," Chuuya replied into his neck. He pushed against Dazai's chest with his hand, and his smile when their eyes met was wry and gentle at once. "Maybe not now, though," he added.

"Your resilience is commendable," Dazai said, the corners of his mouth fluttering. "You'd have made a good priest."

"I was single, not chaste." Chuuya rolled his eyes. "I'm perfectly capable of rubbing one out by myself, bastard, and I know you know it."

He did know it. These memories of the drift were well-loved and visited, no matter that Dazai had thought nothing would come out of them. Touching himself to the thought of Chuuya felt too natural and good not to indulge in the privacy of his own room.

Chuuya brushed their lips together again. "Get your mind out of the gutter," he said as he pulled back. "I'm taking a nap."

Dazai followed Chuuya to his bed anyway. Some of his own clothes sat atop a chair in the corner, the result of many overnight stays spent breathing in the warmth of Chuuya's skin. When Chuuya made to drop his cane against it and start undressing, he put a hand at his back and said, "Let me."

Chuuya looked at him for a second, faintly surprised, still flushed from kissing. He nodded curtly. His eyes were dark with heat.

Dazai helped him hop toward the bed with his arm and sat him down at the edge of it. It was easy enough to work open the buttons of Chuuya's shirt, one after the other. Chuuya said nothing at all at the way his fingers avoided touching skin to simply pull on cloth.

Dazai couldn't help but pause at the sight of his tattoos. They were as eye-catching, as stark now as they had been when Chuuya was younger and parading them around.

"See something you like?" Chuuya said lightly.

"Yeah," Dazai replied. His palm brushed against Chuuya's right shoulder, where a surgery scar cut right through the ink. "I always do."

Chuuya's body was not as toned now as it had been four years ago. He trained what he could, but what he could was not much; and the exercises he was allowed to partake in were not up to par with the brutal regimen he had followed as a criminal and a pilot. He would always be on the lithe, compact side, but where his skin had once stretched taught over muscle and bone, it fell more softly now. Giving and warm under Dazai's fingers.

He was the most beautiful person Dazai had ever seen.

He thought of it as he kneeled to untie Chuuya's shoelaces, to pull his shoes off gently. He took care with his right leg, holding it up by the calf with the open spread of his palm. His socks went out just as kindly. He thought of Chuuya's resilience to physical pain in the months that had followed his injuries; he thought of the hours spent watching him bend and push and move a leg that brought him nothing but agony, trying to build up to putting weight on it until he passed out from the pain. Dazai had helped nurses and doctors drag him back into bed so many times.

Chuuya sucked in a breath when Dazai's hands left his ankles to touch the buckle of his belt. He undid it with deft fingers and didn't bother with tugging it out of the loops. He gave Chuuya a questioning look, one that Chuuya answered by lowering his back to the mattress and pushing his hips off of it with his left foot. Dazai dragged his pants down under his thighs quickly so he could rest again. It was quick business after that to get rid of the pants entirely, though Dazai took more care with the right leg than the left.

Then there was only Chuuya. Laid out onto the bed in his underwear, barefoot and bare-handed, hair splayed around his head like a halo. Looking at Dazai with the same smile that had made him realize, once, that nothing in the world was worth wanting more.

Dazai followed when Chuuya dragged himself backward onto the mattress to lie in full. He straddled him without daring to let his weight on him and lowered his elbows on either side of his head, and he fell down to meet his mouth again. The bright ache in his heart only softened when breathing in Chuuya's own air and moving with his open lips. He hummed at the first glide of his tongue, warm all through his skin, a flush current not unlike that of his blood. Pulsing in his chest with every slow second.

"Dazai," Chuuya breathed when he pulled away.

"Can I—"

"Yes. Yes."

Dazai went back to the edge of the bed, stopping only once to kiss Chuuya's sternum. His left hand was shaking when it took hold of Chuuya's right leg.

It was thinner than the rest of him. Pale and ridged with scars, almost completely hairless from all the patches of regrown and sutured skin. The bones and tissues in it were so very fragile, so tender to the touch. Dazai kissed the protruding bone of Chuuya's ankle before trailing his lips up the length of it, stopping at every trace of the injury and following surgeries. Breathing against sensitive skin until Chuuya's own air came out fast and shallow.

He kept it in his hold once he reached his knee. Chuuya's other leg had opened to make room for him between them; Dazai kissed inside his thigh, and there was no mistaking the shattered, breathy moan Chuuya let out at that for anything but want.

"Maybe not sex now," Dazai said, smiling into his skin. "But if you feel like using my hand instead of yours, I do know how to jerk off—"

"Just fucking get here already," Chuuya snapped, grabbing him by the hair.

--

"I really am taking a nap after this," Chuuya mumbled.

Dazai smiled into his skin. "Did I overexert you?"

He got a kick in the leg for his trouble. "Hardly. I just haven't slept all night with that shit Kouyou keeps putting on my plate."

They fell silent, absorbed into their own thoughts, Dazai's fingers brushing idly over Chuuya's ribs.

He could have fallen asleep like this if not for the wonder still gathered in him. If he hadn't had the memory of Chuuya's face tensing through orgasm, red with a blush that crawled all the way down his neck. His hand slid up to touch him there. Fingers light against the hollow of his throat.

"Dazai," Chuuya murmured.

"Mmh."

"What are you going to do?"

Dazai didn't answer.

"Everyone's leaving," Chuuya continued softly. "Even Kouyou. You and I aren't—we aren't like Kunikida. We don't have anything legit to go back to."

"Everything is legit for us now," Dazai said. "In every country in the world."

"Maybe for you. I wasn't awarded like you guys."

Dazai pushed himself up to look at him. "You should have been," he replied. "You deserve it more than I do."

Chuuya met his eyes in silence.

The sun was higher now than an hour ago. Its light poured through the window in shades of white and gold, catching at the lock of the biggest drawer in Chuuya's desk. Dazai knew what was kept hidden in it, knew and understood more than anyone else would.

"Odasaku said he wanted to reopen his orphanage," Dazai said eventually.

Chuuya's arm slid between his neck and the mattress. It folded around him, hand coming back to touch his hair. "Yeah?"

"I thought…" He paused. "I'd like to work there. At least for a while, until I find something else. Or not."

"You do that. I'll take over Yokohama's inexistent underworld in your absence."

Dazai chuckled. "You could just work there with me," he offered. "Odasaku doesn't trust people easily around kids, he'd be glad to work with someone he knows."

"Dazai, I haven't seen a child since I was a child," Chuuya drawled. "What makes you think I should be allowed anywhere near one now?"

It wasn't a question of criminal pasts or lack of education, Dazai thought, still hazy with Chuuya's heat. He himself had been fine alongside the much younger kids Oda sheltered. He had been considered a brother figure of sorts, some cool not-quite-adult whose attention was to be fought over. Chuuya wouldn't have any trouble fitting in. He was always better with people than Dazai was.

"Whatever you do," he said lowly, "I'm coming with you."

Chuuya's fingers tightened in his hair.

"I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you get tired of me."

"I couldn't get tired of you," Chuuya replied. "I couldn't—I can't do that again. Pretending I don't want you."

Pretending I don't need you.

"I guess I'll come," he went on quietly. "Wait for when someone is sent after my ass for the jaeger tech location and play around with kids in the meantime."

"We could build an army of children to protect you."

"Idiot."

Dazai let himself be pulled into the space of Chuuya's body, lips to lips, gentle and unhurried. It wasn't more than a press, nothing more than shared air; but it thrummed inside him like the grip of the drift, hooked into belly and heart and head, and in the midst of it Chuuya's mind felt within touching distance. Brushing against his more quietly, more wonderfully than it had the first time. Expanding through his own chest without need for fight at all.

Hello, Chuuya thought at him. Tentative as a first kiss.

Dazai's answer traveled to him without breaking the silence.

[PREVIOUS]

[funkymbtifiction]

Subspecie: Radu Vladislas [INFP]

UNOFFICIAL TYPING by henrikas-ravings

Introverted Feeling (Fi): Radu is, despite outward appearances, an emotionally sensitive and easily hurt soul, desperate for affection or positive affirmation of any kind. He possesses little in the way of social skills and does not know how to approach or interact with people, especially women. When faced with rejection or resistance, Radu tends to emotionally regress even more and throw childish temper tantrums, often resulting in thoughtless, spur-of-the-moment cruelty. Radu's intense longing of "true love" represents a focused effort to do everything in his power to achieve romantic fulfillment, except, of course,  improving himself. Though his feelings are uncultivated, raw, and simple, as well as mostly negative and focused solely on his own wants, Radu has shown himself capable of occasional empathy, such as letting Michelle out of the castle to have one final talk with her sister, and giving a homeless man money for a new coat. Radu's lack of meaningful experiences has rendered him incapable of reflecting over his situation, which, more often than not, results in an attitude of narcissistic entitlement. "I will make you love me!"

Extroverted Intuition (Ne): Radu is a dreamer, prone to seeing things in an idealized rather than realistic state; for example, his obsession with Michelle along with the naïve belief that he can turn her into the perfect mate and make her love him, despite abundant evidence of the contrary, suggests a mind whose grasp on reality is tenuous at best. Radu refuses to acknowledge the actual state of things and adjust his approach or his behavior accordingly, suggesting that he is mentally a child who, despite being centuries old, has not learned a single life lesson.

Introverted Sensing (Si): Radu has demonstrated time and time again that he is pretty much incapable of learning from experience. He sees what he wants to see, rather than what is there. Born a halfbreed, ugly, unwanted and unloved by either of his parents, it is hardly surprising that Radu's basic ontological outlook is pessimistic and fraught with distress.  Due to his lack of proper socialization, he does not know how to read people or attribute intent,  which makes him gullible and easily fooled. Nonetheless, Radu seeks to surround himself with that which is familiar, shown especially in his tendency to return to his abusive mother's side and allow her continued mistreatment of him. Radu appears to care little for aesthetics, proven by his apparent disregard for his own appearance, but he does recognize beauty in others and is even shown to be appreciative of it. Radu frequently shows great reluctance toward stepping out of his comfort zone and views himself as a passive spectator rather than an active agent of his own destiny.  He is trained in various forms of magic, suggesting that he has some ability to learn and amass theoretical information.

Extroverted Thinking (Te): Radu does not use this function much, except on rare occasions when he wants something badly enough to fight for it. Radu rarely thinks more than a couple of steps ahead, making him easy for the protagonist(s) to outwit and defeat, and for other antagonists to exploit. Timid by nature, he frequently decides to forgo confrontation in favor of fleeing, as is shown many times in Subspecies I and II. Radu is, perhaps due to his poor grasp of the English language or too much time spent in solitude, not very verbally fluent, and much prefers to demonstrate his loyalty or affection through gifts instead of words. Radu has, on several occasions, been shown to later regret his impulsive violent actions, such as the killing of his younger brother, Stefan. Due to his poor and haphazard strategic ability, coupled with his lack of rational thought, which largely prevent him from independent agency, Radu acts mainly as a hand servant/minion of his manipulative sorceress mother.

Note: Radu is a deeply damaged and unhealthy INFP who is mostly looping through his introverted functions. He uses very little Ne, except to identify something he wants to possess.

[nightblink]

Blink Reads Oathbringer - Chapters 69-74

In which Evi Kholin still deserves better but at least Dailnar’s a smidge more worthy than last time, I delight in how close Kaladin and Adolin have become, and Shallan and her mental state deteriorate further and worry me even more.

Also, Azure.

Chapter Sixty-Nine – Free Meal, No Strings

Considering what we’re getting from the Elsecaller here, apparently Urithiru has the ability to affect not only the general climate either in or around the tower proper, but also the “pressure” which I assume means air pressure, since we know that that’s what’s manipulated by adhesion. Which. Interesting. If the tower really is located up at an altitude where breathing would become difficult, I can definitely see why they’d need that ability there, especially when Oathgating directly from sea-level Thaylen City up to Urithiru or vice versa. (what is acclimation, much?)

Ooo, so the Voidspren can sense Surges then, and not just fabrial use? It’s just that Shallan’s Illumination Surge is somehow sneakier than – at the very least – Gravitation. And they’re definitely drawn to the Surges and not the mere presence of stormlight (nobody could keep their spheres infused otherwise).

Gotta admit, while those flying-Fused clothes are hardly practical, they do have a fantastically dramatic style.

Kaladin is not happy over the lighteyes throwing their end-of-the-world parties while Rome Kholinar burns, understandably so. It’s dumb, but rich people.

“Please tell me that you didn’t bring us to live with your tailor because you wanted a new wardrobe.” Kaladin, even you have to admit that he likely looks stunning (and not just because it fits tightly through the chest). Powder blue over the dark bronze of his skin, gold embroidery accentuating the glint of his hair? Seriously. The man knows how to dress. Well. Kaladin might not admit that (to himself, aloud, at all, whatever) but these two have obviously settled into a comfortable level of teasing each other, and it’s fantastic. (Also, comfort on the level that Adolin is calling him Kal, and Kaladin hasn’t said or even had a thought of telling him not to. None of the bridgemen even do that, not after Moash left.)

So much physical contact from Adolin this chapter, dang. Ahhh, but he made friends with Skar and Drehy after the Battle of Narak! It does remind me of the time way back (I think in the first book?) when Dalinar was grumbling about(?)/noting him being companionable with the lower-ranking Kholin officers and rank-and-file soldiers. Those three at a tavern though, oh man, I may have to write fic about that.

OOP, AND JUST AS I BRING THAT UP-

Oh, Kaladin. Depression fucking sucks, and while I'm so glad you've been having a lot of good days, stormlight can't wipe that away like it can with scars.

Adolin notices! And drops back to check on you! Ahhhh, honestly, with how you two are getting to know each other well, I feel like you'd start picking up on each others' tells often and come to help in what ways you can, and I'm so glad to actually see that happening.

PUNCHY GUYS, I'M  DY I N G

“talk like a girl” is definitely a compliment when it's sort of the default cultural assumption that women are more intelligent (and I'd bet good money that Adolin's been the butt of wordplay jokes enough when they knew he needed a moment to Logic It Out in his head, but in this instance Kaladin gives him that moment, and doesn't scoff or demean. You two have come so far.)

Please become sparring buddies, I beg you Sanderson. Kaladin's got powers but Adolin's better with technical skill; it would be a great matchup for them to improve.

Kaladin: [just goes out for a moment to patrol around the block] [immediately gets stopped by a squad from the Wall Guard] ….you have some strange brand of luck, Kal. At least it still counts as getting information on the Wall Guard like your part of this mission tonight is?

Storms, but that shash brand is persistent.

Chapter Seventy – Highmarshal Azure

AIGHT WE MIGHT FINALLY FIND OUT WHO THIS AZURE PERSON IS AND WHETHER THEY'RE A NALTHIAN

“the Sibling” again. What on Roshar is that referring to? And the state of the Radiants can affect whatever-it-is somehow, or at least is perceived to maybe have an effect?

At long last, Kaladin finds somewhere in this eerily-shadowed city that he can relax. Alas, it doesn't have the true comfort that is Rock's cooking.

These soldiers seem like they're probably a ragtag bunch of misfits as well, anyone who had decent training cobbled together to help man the walls when the Fused and Parshmen started attacking, adding people to their ranks as refugees trailed in. Beggars can't be choosers, and Kholinar is besieged. Still, their comportment does speak well of Azure.

….[squints] Either the Guard has a way in and out of the city that you're not telling anyone, or you have some way of creating food (that you're also not telling). I'm not getting a strong vibe as to which it may be.

All of them are lighteyed? Is it the entire Wall Guard or just these two platoons? That's… well, where's all the darkeyed soldiers?

Kaladin is definitely suspecting Azure to be a Radiant, and that's sounding more and more like a possibility, but that name still niggles at the back of my mind; I'm keeping my money on Azure being a Nalthian, even despite the Shardblade. A foreigner, who just happened along by and showed enough military ability and savvy to organize the soldiers and hold the gates? That's fishy.

AND AZURE'S A LADY. EXCELLENT.

Average to just-under-average height for an Alethi woman. That's still hella tall for just about anyone else. Orange eyes though? That's odd – we've seen shades of yellow all over, but orange… I don't think so. And a basket-hilted sword of all things – screw whether it's the Shardblade or not, is it a saber, a rapier?

Her soldiers still love her, no matter how much of Vorin society would be outright scandalized (and probably up in arms) over a woman being highmarshal.

If Azure is a worldhopper, she's been here long enough to get a handle on not only Vorin curses, but the political and military situation of the past few years – enough to ping damn close to Kaladin's actual backstory, which he now realizes was an active effort on Sadeas and Amaram's part (nothing personal, and there are bound to be many more who were affected in much the same way he was in those border skirmishes). That leans the possibility a little more towards native-Rosharan, but still doesn't discount other possibilities.

Azure makes a hell of a plea to one's honor and common sensibility.

Oh Kaladin. They have; the Parshmen that you so hoped would survive have been pulled into what you never wanted for them.

Chapter Seventy-One – A Sign of Humanity

ANOTHER FLASHBACK ANOTHER FLASHB-

And it's set very, very soon after the last flashback chapter we got – not immediately as the timeline goes, but probably only a few weeks, maybe even as much as a month.

Evi is crying and once again I feel the great need to punch Dalinar. YOU SHOULD BE FEELING CRUSHED, YOU COMPLETE ASS. Look at what your argument did! Look at how heartbroken and withdrawn she's become, trying even harder yet even more painfully than before!

Dalinar is so detached that he can hardly believe that their argument 'bodes ill for their relationship', he can't even tell how bad it's already become when his wife breaks down in front of him! When he doesn't even go to see his own son, much less care about him! Ugh.

At least he's going to talk to her, and is cognizant enough to do it in what is essentially what little territory she has in all this army. Not quite a supplicant, but as close as he can get (and without that attitude, of course).

“I like it when you fight.” [winces] Dalinar, Dalinar that is the absolute wrong thing to say. She doesn't want to fight, it hurts her to fight, and you can't see it! Like she said last time, the Alethi take everything as a competition, but you have to remember that she's not, and she doesn't want this. At all.

The way that she describes the times when 'nothingness' flares in his eyes is oddly specific, and that can't be a coincidence. Branderson has something going on here, more than just Dalinar's own self, more than just the Thrill and his addiction to it.

His hand against her safehand. That should be a sign of utmost trust, and yet…

Are… are you actually going to try talking them down first, rather than attacking without giving them a chance to surrender? Also, this is the first time you've noted it, but even you feel like the 'hunger' of the Thrill is something external (but it still feels like it's different for you, more focused than it is for others)

You can't blame the Rifters for not trusting him. His reputation alone would merit such, not even counting what he did to them personally. But, Dalinar is trying to negotiate. Amazing.

Ooof. Tanalan really didn't understand what the rebellion could mean for his people and city.

A duel. This, despite the indifference/contempt he holds for dueling. But the Thrill – or whatever it is (something definitely focused on him specifically) does not want that to happen. ….this does not bode well.

Despite how good Tanalan's plan sounds, there is definitely something wrong here, some underlying current that says 'I have a bad feeling about this…' even beyond the fact that we already know that something terrible happened at the Rift.

I'm not sure Sadeas is the 'traitor' like they say. Despite the fact that he was a conniving, slimy Pus of Man that got an all-too-justified death, he was dedicated to the power of Alethkar. Whether at this point he believed that rested with Gavilar or with Tanalan's Rebellion, I'm actually putting my spheres on him being on Gavilar's side. Perhaps he's spurring this on, but Gavilar does want an example made, and it could very well further some secret plans of his that we don't know about.

This whole thing reeks of about to go to absolute shit

Chapter Seventy-Two – Rockfall

Another Stoneward recording, and an explanation for why none of the Edgedancers have recorded any of these gemstones (they're out actually Getting Shit Done). And apparently Urithiru once had a dedicated population of non-Radiants – servants and farmers and the like – which again makes sense since the tower needed to be self-sufficient.

A Shallan-Veil chapter this time, and they're on a mission. To an elaborate mansion, apparently – one that's still occupied. You have to admit, those former-waterfalls do sound like amazing sights, no matter how frivolous (and expensive) they were to create.

“Veil took a deep breath, then let Shallan bleed back into existence.” I don't like the wording of that. I really don't like the wording of that. Veil 'let'? 'Bleed back into existence?' Both the tone of authority in the first and the visceral nature of the second – as well as the implication that Shallan didn't exist while the Veil-personality is in control – are worrying.

In relation to the above: “...she was an inferior version, obviously. Just deal with her, take her place. It would feel right, wouldn't it?” D u d e. I'm not sure if some outside force is affecting Shallan (very possibly the Unmade in the palace), but that is beyond anything she's felt or thought before, and it's disturbing, especially if she unconsciously has Veil (and to a lesser degree, Radiant) start applying it to herself. It's good that she felt how wrong it was immediately and cut it off at the start.

Huh. Pulled into crisis here, she reverts to her true, core self.

DUDE. WHAT- WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE EVERSTORMING FUCK

SHALLAN

SHALLAN

...are. are you oka- that's not okay. That. That is not okay in any way shape or form you still have the bolt sticking out of your h e a d

(also, she deliberately shifted back to Veil just then, but absently noted that Veil was also an illusion)

So. Uh. How… how unkillable are Radiants with a decent supply of Stormlight, exactly? And what on Roshar is going to necessitate Plate on top of healing like that?

“You worry me sometimes.” Vathah, you don't even know the half of it.

Wit, please

Well, that's one way of making a scene, as well as not-so-subtly letting the Cult know that you have food, real food.

[sighs in frustration and continued worry about Shallan's separation of self. yet again.]

Chapter Seventy-Three – Telling Which Stories

A Lightweaver asking a serious question at the start of this chapter, which of course lead to more questions – first among them being: what protections did the tower have, and can they be reactivated?

YESGOOD ANOTHER KALADIN CHAPTER

I really love Beard and his obviously-fake stories. “You did not meet the Blackthorn.” Kaladin, standing right next to this guy: [somehow manages to keep a completely straight face]

Oh, and now you have to stab my heart again by mentioning Sah and the group of Parshmen you wanted to help save. Thanks bunches, Brandosando.

ADOLIN THE 'ROOSTING CHICKEN' I'M WH E E Z I N G

Shallan even made his and Drehy's illusions opposite heights or something like that this time omg (unless Drehy's taller now because Adolin's lounging but I like to think the former, because even the though of it is hilarious) Or does he mean that Drehy's several inches taller than he normally is. Either way-

Beard going on about 'the time he met the Blackthorn' when Adolin Kholin is right there and he's shit-talking his coat this is ama z i n g

Kaladin learning about the interactions of the low-ranked lighteyes though – I feel like just a few more steps, and he'll adopt these too. Knowing how they act and how they feel about the higher ranks, he can use that when he eventually gets to Social Revolution once Odium's dealt with, right?

This whole “fellow lighteyes” routine is hilarious and terribly embarrassing at the same time

Kaladin wanting to stand up for Adolin, be still my heart

Ahhh, so it's the Wall Guard that's supplying (all?) the food to the city with whatever their mysterious ways of obtaining it are that don't use Soulcasters?

Oh, great, at least some of the Cult practice self-flagellation in order to draw the altered painspren. Well that's lovely.

'Rock would have laughed [the beard] to shame and euthanized it with a razor and some soap.' HAH, now there's an image! Rock taking one look and carting off this airsick dolt for a trim and a lecture on proper Beard Maintenance.

!!! Now there's an interesting idea – I thought all the Honorblades save Jezrien's were in the keeping of the Shin, but maybe not…? Still, I thought the hilts of the honorblades were all way more elaborate than that, and no basket-hilts.

Kaladin always worries too much, it's who he is. That tidbit about the 'whispering voices' doesn't sound good, though; could be the Unmade, could be something to do with the Fused and Voidspren outside.

Bless Sanderson again, this time for continuing to write a good, believable agnostic in Kaladin

WHOOP, ACCIDENTALLY TAKING COMMAND. And by serious force of will managing not no keep it or shout out orders again.

“Keep your head, and I suspect you'll end up as a squadleader before long.” Help me I'm d y i ng

Chapter Seventy-Four – Swiftspren

Shallan is really cultivating her 'disturbance' as a Robin Hood-like figure to the point where they've given her a name, even a bit of a legend! It's a good one to have, in all, even when not considering that she needs it to get into the Cult. And since the Cult revere spren, being called as such gives them even more reason to notice her.

Ooof, correcting even Pattern when he doesn't refer to her as Veil when she has the illusion and personality up? That's… Shallan, dear, that's not a good sign. Listen to your spren, your soulbonded partner – remember the Truth of yourself.

Okay, that Swiftspren costume sounds really cool.

Ooooo, shit, those whispers are actually whispers, inaudible. The Unmade? Or even the echoes of Odium? Either way, it's not nothing, and certainly not benevolent.

“Was her mind so quickly corrupted?” ...an interesting question. On one side, the multiple personalities seem to make it easier to slide from one mask to another, even if there's 'only' the three, disregarding temporary ones. On the other, you use the word 'corruption' here, and I'm led to think of the 'corrupted spren', and of the people at the palace, so it could also likely be an effect of the Unmade that spreads its miasma over the city.

Ohhhh, and she's been Shallan ever since the voice whispered to her.

I wonder if that feeling of '[feigning] humanity' is how she feels about her branching personalities – if they feel like imitiations, or skin-puppets of what she wants to be, as opposed to distinct forces of their own in her head. (I don't know; I'm no therapist- This, Shallan, is obviously why Sanderson needed to consult heavily with specialists while he was writing, because this is… ooof. Shallan, I worry so much for you.)

'And Shallan… what did Shallan want again? Did it matter? Why bother worrying about her' SHALLAN, I AM WORRIED. VERY, VERY WORRIED.

And then we get this distinction of Veil '[layering] an illusion of Shallan and her havah over top of her trousers and shirt'. Not letting go of the illusion, but layering. Fuuuuuuuck….. Again, I'm sounding like a broken record but Shallan. Dear. This is not healthy.

And here's another one I worry over. Elhokar, it's… as much progress as you're making, this whole 'sitting alone drinking in the dark' doesn't bode well for you either.

Cultural Note: “[W]ishing and expecting is of the Passions. A heresy. A good Vorin worries about transforming themselves.”

...it's been a while since you drew someone Transformatively. And Elhokar… he needed this.

(he saw Cryptics in the mirror and lurking in shadows back on the Shattered Plains. maybe, with a little bit of help, he'll start shining garnet too…?)

[pi-noir]

Once Upon A Stakeout, a true & personal account

As a private investigator, you always need to be on your toes; always be prepared for anything. I'm an army veteran, so the cry "Stay alert, stay alive!" rings just as loudly now as it did then. On occasion, I whisper a mental thank you for the training.

I done a lot of reading and studying before I made the leap into private investigation. Mounds of books and study material would lay around my home as I was reading up and de-romanticizing the career path that I was going to walk down. I recall reading a passage in one of the study guides about how a California PI had been licensed for 20 years and hadn’t ever felt like his life was in danger and so had never carried a firearm. I don’t suppose all private investigators carry, but after this case I decided that I would never be without one.

Hollywood has romanticized most professions, but none no more than private investigation. From Philip Marlowe and Mike Hammer to Dick Tracy and even Ace Ventura, we all have preconceived notions as to what the job is all about, but we’re wrong. In a nutshell, private investigation is unglamorous and largely boring the majority of the time, and this case started off to be no different than the dozens of other surveillance cases I had worked in the first several months of my career. Being a dick in Appalachia is a bit more difficult than in a rural setting; subjects often live out in the middle of nowhere and getting close enough to get video or photographs without being seen in your inconspicuous vehicle is, well, very conspicuous at best and downright suspicious under the worst of conditions. Luckily, ‘round these parts, a Jeep is a pretty inconspicuous vehicle on back roads as well as in town

The subject’s employer had to place him on medical leave yet again and suspected that he was trying to get disability, an Appalachian pastime and career goal, so they wanted him investigated for worker’s compensation fraud. I had done tons of them, but in all prior cases I was provided with an address. This schmuck’s address took me to an open field in the middle of no man’s land. The nearest house was two ridges over and they hadn’t ever heard of the guy. All of the company’s mail had been sent to a P.O. Box in a town so small that if you blinked while driving through you’d miss it, but we’ll call it Sagebrush, because the names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.

The Sagebrush Post Office was a one-woman, half service joint where the walls were lined with PO boxes and handmade signs looking for lost dogs, cats, and kids’ belongings. Some were printed with the frayed strips at the bottom so folks could pull off a phone number. Seemed like one babysitter was a lot more popular than the others, but she couldn’t have had anything on the dish that stood on the other side of the window. She was a short dame with meth mouth, and open sores on her arms, from what I could hear her telling another lady was caused by her eczema. From the looks of it, the only medication she was taking for it was rat poisoning. I stood by and waited for the lady to leave before approaching the window and making a noob mistake – I asked about the address for the subject….in a small town where everyone knows one another. I used the pretext that I was with the company and needed to get him some papers to sign. She was nice enough to refuse to provide that kind of information but told me that someone at the grocery store might be able to help me. I walked next door to a small mini-mart sized store and asked the clerk about where I could find who I will refer to as Ronald Langley. The guy was very helpful and though he didn’t know the address he was able to tell me how to get to the house.

The subject came an went multiple times in his blue pickup truck and was kind enough to toot his horn at me each time he passed by. Langley had an informant; either the post office meth-head or the minimart clerk, or both, but either way, he knew where I was at and what vehicle I was in because the locations I parked at changed from day to day, but were all entrances to the road to his home, and he seemed to always know where to find me, blowing that horn and waving each time he passed.  I decided one morning to change vehicles and to park some distance away from one of the two intersections that he used but that didn’t work either, so it was time for drastic measures, and again, pulling from my highly motivated military training, I decided I was just going to make it happen regardless of what was required. So, I headed home early that day and began to prepare for the next day i was to go out.

I held off for a few days so that Langley’s suspicions would die down a bit. I pulled up my GIS software and mapped out his area. I knew of every entrance and egress from his property, every hill, every draw, every spur, and every watershed that surrounded him. I knew that I was going to have to treat this case as an op and so I put forth that much effort to get myself ready. I loaded my Jeep the following morning and said a small prayer that the day was met with success and then I headed out for the town of Sagebrush.

At the top of the hill, before descending down into the hollow and coming within view of the subject’s house, sat a little church and a cemetery. Parking in the vacant church lot would still bring unwanted attention since chances were the guy I was after likely attended services there. I arrived just before dawn and the church’s service lights were illumination enough for me to see without my headlights, at least until I got up behind the cemetery. And that’s when the op began. Jeeps are pretty good at making their own roads and I’m not the kind of guy who can sit in a vehicle for hours and/or days on end, so after parking a good distance in the woods I hopped out and while grabbing my gear, I decided as an afterthought to leave Betsy, my 1911, in the vehicle. I may had been what I was now considering enemy territory, but I still felt safe enough considering all I was doing was my job. Remember, the ‘ol California PI says he hadn’t carried one time in his 20-year career, so I would surely be safe in this nice community of country folk. I turned on my night vision and began what would take an hour trek to make my way to the location I had picked without being spotted. I sat down against a large tree, behind a thicket that provided ample blind but still gave a good view of the Langley home and his blue pickup truck. The hill below the thicket sloped down toward a small creek and to the road passing by the house. Just as the mountains began turning purple from the morning’s first light, I took my first video pan of the area as to document the date, time and location for the client and for any future court proceedings. I repeated this every hour as proof that I was still at the location. The first day that I was there produced a considerable amount of video that would show that Ronald Langley was actively doing work and manual labor that would far exceed the limitations that were stated in his injury report for his neck, back and shoulders. He had made multiple trips in and out of his property, loading and unloading building materials, large boxes, and tools. Langley climbed ladders, swung hammers, lifted an entire framed wall of an outbuilding that he was building. I would later learn that he built these outbuildings to sell as an income.

As the sun began to set I knew that I wouldn’t be getting any further video that night, but the day had so much successful footage that I didn’t want to leave. The state required three separate days of video evidence in order to charge anyone with worker’s compensation fraud and one day's worth is all that I had. I was going to need to stay for as long as I could hold out. I came dressed for a long stay, and although I was chilly I wasn’t freezing with the multiple layer upon layer that I was wearing; I decided to stay in place overnight and so I bedded down until morning when the rumble of his engine woke me up. The sun had already risen and shined brightly on the newly fallen snow that now blanketed everything. My view was somewhat obstructed through the thicket and my clothing was no longer providing any camouflaging for me to stay hidden if I were to knock off the snow from the brush to help me see. It was just past 8am when he came back out to his now heated truck and he drove away. Mrs. Langley walked over and stood on the inside of the sliding glass door wearing exactly what she would be wearing to bed for her husband. She was a tall, and well-groomed dame with long, well defined legs that went all the way up to heaven. Mrs. Langley was quite perky so the room must have been cold, but I didn’t mind at all, I was enjoying the view. I began wishing that I was that cup of coffee that she was putting those full lips on as she sipped and looked out at the snowscape that wasn’t half as beautiful as she was. I pulled the camera out to do a pan and thought I would catch her standing there – for posterity of course, but she began walking away. The video caught evidence that she does a lot of squats and could crack walnuts among others with her cheeks, but before I was able to get the full pan hubby came roaring back in. I had suddenly realized why he was trying to be home more often.

Ronald Langley was just as busy the second day as he was the first, completing one outbuilding and then beginning on the next and my lens caught it all. Toward the end of the day he had someone arrive and Langley helped him load the completed outbuilding onto a flatbed trailer before the guy handed him some cash, shook his hand and drove away. The screen on my camera flashed a warning that my second battery was nearly dead, and I loaded my last one in. As I had done a million times, I turned the camera back on, but this time it beeped, and across the pillow-soft cushion of the snow the sound echoed across the creek and road over to Langley. He paused and my heart stopped. He never moved a muscle for several seconds and I had to finally take a breath just as he turned and walked into the house. Perhaps he imagined it. Maybe it was inaudible, and he dismissed it. I hoped. I hoped. When he returned he returned quickly and lifted a bolt action rifle and aimed in my direction and pulled the trigger. As the barrel was brought to bear I remember realizing that I was dead, but the shot struck the tree that I had been sitting against and about six feet above my head. Bark rained down on me and around about in the snow as the blast from the rifle reverberated between the hills of the hollow. My heart gave a sigh realizing that he wasn’t trying to hit me, but I jumped up and threw my hands into the air.

He told me to get off his land, but according to tax map information, the land I was on belonged to the church. But I wasn’t going to argue and his aim might have been a bit more intentional the time that trigger was pulled, so I gathered my gear and began heading out with him still yelling until I was too far away to hear what he was saying. Langley wasn’t as mad at my presence as he was at the fact that I beat him and his little game he was playing – providing a fake address, having informants, and cheating tax payers out of money. The weeks ahead proved that there still wasn’t enough evidence on Langley. The company and state still needed one more day of footage in order to prosecute so I formed the long con.

During my study of the subject, Ronald Langley, I knew that he frequented a rental company over in the next, much larger town. I applied and was hired as a delivery driver and salesman at the store. He nor his wife had ever gotten a good look at my face so I stood a good chance of not being recognized when they came in to buy a new sectional. I requested to be the driver to take them their new furniture, especially when he said that he would help me get it into their house since we were down one person that day. I stopped by my vehicle and I grabbed my covert camera / ink pen before loading the sectional into the delivery truck. Just before arriving at Ronald Langley’s home I turned my camera on and then pulled up to the house. He was very helpful, offering to take the heavy end of both sections of the couches. Once we had gotten it into the house he tried to sell me an outbuilding and even bragged that he builds them himself. I drew him into more detail about how he went about building them and the time and strength it takes to do it all himself. Mrs. Langley, Becca as she asked me to call her, offered me a cup of coffee while Ronald stepped outside. I happily accepted. Becca was a bit of a tramp, making sexual innuendos toward me and hinting that she liked me, but after I had more than enough evidence to satisfy the state, and not wanting to push my luck, I left. After returning home that night I processed the footage from my ink pen and sent it to the client, 7 months after I began the case.

About two months later I read where Langley had been arrested on multiple counts and would be away from home for a while. Unable to pay for the sectional, the rental company picked up their new furniture; I stuck around a bit to see if she needed a man to help out with anything. Turns out she did.