#told her after the retake (which I was terrified for and was having a bad health time) that I really did study and care about this class

[mythicalcoolkid]

Overheard my one prof talking to a group of students about having CFS/ME, stayed late to talk to her about The Chronically Ill Experience^TM, and cannot emphasize enough how incredibly healing it is to unexpectedly have a long conversion with someone who genuinely gets it

[seijorhi]

Reminiscent

i’m (semi) back, y’all, and i come bearing a fic!! fhdjhfjdk it’s for oikawa i won’t apologise

Oikawa Tooru x female reader

TW non-con, drunk/drugged reader, forced infidelity, emotional manipulation, angst, past trauma, coercion, mild(ish?) smut, nsfw

“F-fuck, cutie! Just like – hah– just like that!”

You weren’t the clubbing type.

Not usually, at least – but exams were over and one of your friends was fresh off a bad breakup, one night letting loose wouldn’t hurt.

Walking is… difficult, your steps are sloppy – there’s an arm wrapped around your waist, your own slung over a stranger’s shoulders. Why are you outside? Where are your friends – they… they promised they wouldn’t leave you. 

“She good, dude?”

A soft, pretty laugh rumbles at your side, “Yeah, she’s gonna be just fine.”

And you remember the bar, the overpriced cocktails and the saccharine sweetness of strawberry liquor on your tongue. The dizzying lights and the bass that thumped so loudly you felt it reverberate in your chest. You knew the rules; they’d been drilled into you since you were sixteen years old.

Stick together, don’t accept drinks from strangers, and watch the one in your hand like a hawk - it doesn’t leave your sight.

A tongue between the valley of your breasts, long fingers curling up inside of you. 

“You like that, huh pretty girl? You gonna cum for me?”

They wouldn’t have just abandoned you, right? Maybe you told them to go. Maybe they thought you wanted it; to go home with the handsome stranger.

You never had the guts to ask them, never spoke about that night again. Not to anyone.

Pain. Something thrusting inside of you, splitting you open while he moans and pants atop you. It hurts so much and you want it to stop. 

Please stop. Please. Please. Please.

You’re begging, at least you think you are, but the words come out jumbled and wrong, and he just laughs, hiking up your thigh so he can fuck you deeper.

Why won’t he stop?

When you wake up, bruised and sore and all alone in your bed, it feels like a bad dream. You know it’s not – not with cum still seeping from between your thighs, the scent of the stranger’s cologne clinging to your sheets.

And you scrub your skin raw in the shower, but it isn’t enough to rid you of his touch.

—

It’s nothing like what they show on tv.

There’s no sympathetic detective to pat you on your shoulder while you break down, swearing that they’ll find the man who did this and you’ll get your justice.

You don’t go to the cops because you’ll know what they’ll say. You were drunk, drugged, and even if you could remember what he looked like (his eyes were brown, you think, and there’s a flash of a smirk in your head but the moment you try to focus on it it slips away like smoke) any evidence of rape washed down the drain the moment you stepped into the steaming shower.

At least… that’s what you tell yourself. It’s easier than admitting you’re terrified of judgemental eyes. 

Or worse; pitying ones.

So you pretend that nothing happened. You show up to your classes and throw yourself into studying, make the time to get coffee with your friends, you even pick up a part time job – it’s good to keep busy. 

The nightmares are just that; nightmares.

And things are fine, until they’re not.

—

“Baby, you’re here!!”

There’s barely time to drop your bags before she’s pulling you into a warm hug. “Hi mom,” you reply, squeezing her back.

When she draws back to take you in, one hand cupping your cheek, she frowns, “You look tired sweetheart. Have you been sleeping enough?”

“Yeah, just tired from exams and stuff.”

She looks unconvinced, but mercifully doesn’t push the issue. Of course, you don’t tell her that you missed your last two exams because you’d walked past some guy wearing that same cologne and just choked – that instead of finishing off your semester strong, you’d spent the day alternating between throwing up and crying in bed.

She doesn’t need to know that, because of that, you’ll probably fail both classes and have to retake them again next semester on top of an already full course load. It’s fine; you’ll figure it out.

For now, you work on matching her enthusiasm at having you home, grabbing your bags to bring them inside and into your old room.

“Oh, wait–”

Abruptly, you pause, gazing in confusion from the doorway of your bedroom. There’s a duffle bag lying open and empty atop your bed, a tangled jump rope, some weights, an empty bottle, a sweat towel – even what looks like a spare workout tee scattered haphazardly across the sheets.

“… I didn’t take you for a gym junkie, mom.”

She stops behind you, sighing. “It’s not mine it’s– Tooru said he was going to tidy it up, sorry sweetheart.” She sweeps past you to start tidying it up, but not before you catch sight of her wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.

And you can’t help the lone eyebrow that rises, falling back against the doorframe, arms folding across your chest. “Tooru, huh?” you grin, “And who might Tooru be?”

The flustered, almost guilty look she sends you makes you want to laugh – this is easy, comfortable, this you can do – but you restrain yourself. Just. “Tooru is… he’s– well, he’s the man I’m… seeing.”

She admits it like she’s confessing to a crime, eyes all wide and nervous; anticipating your reaction. And you suppose it’s not unwarranted. As far as you’re aware, she’s been alone ever since the day your dad walked out on you both – raising you was always the priority, or maybe the excuse. But you’re not fourteen anymore, you don’t need another father figure or every spare bit of her time and attention, and she doesn’t need your approval for this.

So you smile at her, “Is he nice?”

She lights up, her features – almost a mirror image of your own – softening as she beams, “He’s amazing, honey. I honestly don’t know how this whole thing really happened, or why he’s even interested in someone like me but… I lucked out with him.”

And so it goes, you prying little bits of information about the mysterious Tooru as the afternoon passes.

She tells you that they met a few months back, at the bakery she likes in town – and how she kept running into him; at the grocery store, and then at the park, and then on her way back from yoga that one night.

She tells you that he’s a terrible flirt, all smooth and charming with warm, pretty brown eyes, but he’s a good man beneath it all and she’s never met anyone like him. 

It strikes you, as you watch your mom animatedly talk about him, that you’ve never seen her look like this before. 

Happy. 

She can’t stop smiling, and when you look at her, really look, she’s almost a different person – younger somehow, a bit more care-free. It suits her, and you wonder with a slight pang in your heart how you never noticed how lonely she was before.

And she’s adamant that they’re taking things slowly, that he still has an apartment of his own in town – which to be honest, you really aren’t gonna judge her on either way – but it is kind of funny simply because whether your mom realises it or not, it’s clearly a lie.

The subtle reclaiming of your bedroom aside, there’s traces of Tooru scattered all around the house; the extra toothbrush and aftershave you’d spotted in the bathroom, the men’s  shoes and the jacket by the door, red wine in the cupboard when your mom’s only ever indulged in white.

You haven’t been into her bedroom, but at this point you’d hazard a guess that there’s at least one drawer full of Tooru’s clothes, probably half her closet cleared out for him as well.

“He’s coming for dinner, but I just wanted today to be just us,” she says, reaching across the couch to squeeze your hand. And you’re grateful for it, because you’re happy for her – you are – but you’re not so sure how you would’ve handled meeting the stranger holding your mother’s heart first thing. At least, not after the last few days.

Not when you still feel all… brittle. 

—

Tooru arrives a little after seven, and to say that he’s not entirely what you were expecting is kind of an understatement. 

She’d gushed about how tall and handsome he is – though personally, you think pretty’s the more accurate word, what with his soft, delicate features, perfect cupid’s bow lips and all. What she’d neglected to tell you was that the man in question, stepping through the front door with a faint smile on his face, has to be at least ten years younger than her, mid-thirties at most.

Suddenly, your mom’s initial reluctance to bring him up starts to make sense.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he murmurs, stopping by your mom to drop a fleeting kiss to her cheek before warm brown eyes turn to you. 

Your heart stutters.

“Sweetheart,” your mom begins, slipping an arm around his waist and relaxing into his side, “this is Tooru– Oikawa,” she corrects herself.

He smiles at you, friendly and charming, “It’s great to finally meet you, your mom’s told me so much – all good things, of course!”

You force yourself to smile in return, “Yeah, you too.” 

There’s nothing overtly wrong with Oikawa, age difference aside – your mom’s clearly head over heels in love with the guy and on a surface level he seems nice enough, but you find yourself glad for the fact that he doesn’t make a move to step closer, try to shake your hand or god forbid hug you or something like that.

He’s nothing but a gentleman as your mom steps back into the kitchen to finish off dinner, setting the table without being prompted, pouring a glass of wine for your mom and one for himself before he offers a glass to you. 

“Oh, no I’m alright, thanks.”

You don’t drink so much anymore. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal but your mom pouts at you from the kitchen. “C’mon, sweetie. We’re celebrating tonight! One drink won’t hurt.”

“We’re celebrating?” you ask.

She throws you a wink, gaze softening as she turns to glance at Oikawa, already diligently pouring you a glass, “Of course we are. It’s not every day my girl comes home, and it’s nice having you both here with me.”

Oikawa’s fingers brush against yours for a fleeting second as he passes you the glass, and you have to fight to keep yourself from ripping your hand away. It’s nothing, you just– you’re not good with strangers touching you, and as nice as he is and as much as your mom might be infatuated with him, he is still a stranger.

“Absolutely,” he agrees, a playful twinkle in his eye as he clinks his wine glass against yours. “So you’re at uni, right? What are you studying?”

Uni’s the last thing you want to be thinking about right now, but whether or not Oikawa genuinely cares, he’s obviously trying to make an effort to get to know you. For your mother’s sake, grinning innocuously in the kitchen as she adds the last little touches to dinner, you suck it up, plaster a smile across your face and ignore the twinge of discomfort in your gut.

You can handle one night of small talk.

—

You wake the following morning to the sound of voices carrying down the hall.  

Not your mother’s – both are too deep, and your mom left a few hours ago for work. Figuring that one of them at least is likely Oikawa, you pull on a thin, satin robe over your pajamas, tying the sash in a loose knot before you slip from the room.

Those suspicions are proven correct; you round the corner to find Oikawa sitting up at the kitchen counter, a warm cup of coffee in his hand. There’s another man, a touch shorter, but imposing with dark, spiky hair and olive green eyes standing on the other side, hands braced on the marble top, glaring at Oikawa.

They both look up at the sound of your hesitant approach, the stranger abruptly straightening up, while Oikawa merely grins.

“Ah, you’re up,” he observes cheerfully, taking a sip of his coffee.

Your eyes flicker between him and the stranger – clearly comfortable enough in your home and with Oikawa, despite the faint, lingering irritation still visible on his face – and as your cheeks warm, you find yourself wishing you’d put actual clothes on before coming out to investigate.

“I- I heard voices…” you trail off, awkwardly folding your arms over your chest. “Is mom–”

“At work,” he supplies. “Do you want some breakfast? Coffee, maybe?”

You risk another glance at the other man, watching you now with an unreadable expression, dark eyebrows furrowed. You swallow uncomfortably, shifting slightly as you shake your head. “No, I-I’m okay.”

And in an instant, a flash, something like recognition passes through those olive eyes. 

 Oikawa chuckles smoothly, finally tearing his eyes away from you to address his friend, “Iwa, stop being so rude. You’re scaring the poor thing.”

The stranger, Iwa, just scoffs. “You’re a real piece of shit, y’know?”

If he’s bothered by the scathing insult, Oikawa doesn’t show it, merely shrugging before turning his attention back to you with a smirk. “Ignore him, he’s just pissy this morning.”

You’d have to be a complete idiot not to sense the uncomfortable tension between the two of them – and now you. This is your home, but it feels like you’re intruding, like you’ve stumbled into a conversation you have no business hearing, but even if you wanted to leave your feet are rooted to the ground. 

“Besides,” Oikawa continues, “he was just leaving anyway, weren’t you, Iwa?” It’s almost a purr, the way he speaks, but even the silken words can’t entirely mask the razor sharpness that lies beneath. 

Goosebumps prickle along your arms.

Staring at you, Iwa opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but seemingly thinks better of it, snapping it shut with an audible click. He huffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

He spares you another glance on his way out, standing frozen by the hall. For a split second he slows, his scowl softening just a fraction–

“Iwa.”

It sounds like a warning, but he only rolls his eyes and huffs again. You think he’s going to walk out without another word to either of you, but he pauses once more, lingering by the entryway.

“You look a lot like your mother, anyone ever tell you that?”

He’s out the door before you can even think to reply, letting it slam shut in his wake. And you flinch at the harsh sound, something uneasy settling into the pit of your stomach–

“Hey,” Oikawa’s there by your side, his fingers entwining with yours. You hadn’t even heard him move. “Come sit, don’t worry about Iwa. He’ll get over it.”

His voice is soothing, you don’t pay attention to the words themselves, the implications there. You forget for a moment that you’re still in your pj’s, that you really don’t know him that well either, and mindlessly follow when he leads you to the couch and sits you down, taking the seat next to you.

And while your head’s still spinning, an uncomfortable feeling gnawing in the pit of your gut, Oikawa seems entirely unbothered by the turn of events, sighing contentedly as he stretches his long legs out, one arm sliding along the back of the couch behind you.

“Do your… friends usually just drop by like that?”

You don’t know where the words come from, or why that’s the first question on your mind, but when you glance over at him, Oikawa’s just watching you, an odd little half smirk playing on his lips. “Sometimes.”

His answer does little to soothe your unease. It’s really not a big deal, you know it’s not. Officially or not, this is his home too – you’re the one out of place. And if he wants to have people over when your mom’s not around, that’s fine, he can do whatever the hell he wants, but… 

You came home for peace. To hide away for a few days and pretend that everything’s just fine and you’re not one breakdown away from shattering entirely. You wanted your mom and the comfort of your old bedroom and safety and it’s fine – great, even – that she’s found somebody who makes her happy, but this– him and the weirdness with his friend and everything is just too much, and–

You don’t realise that your leg’s bouncing until Oikawa’s hand comes to rest on your bare thigh. It’s enough to make your stomach flip, an icy chill trickling down your spine as his thumb slowly strokes across the soft, plush skin. “Relax, cutie,” he coos, chuckling softly when you visibly flinch and squeeze your eyes shut.

“P-please don’t call me that,” you choke out, fighting against the wave of nausea rising up your throat. And it’s just like last time, his cologne, notes of vanilla and cedar and spice, swirling thick and heady around you. That phantom touch, the warmth of hands gripping too tight, unwanted kisses hot and eager against your skin. 

“No?” he asks, cruel amusement dripping from his tone. “Why not? I think it suits you, cutie.”

You want him to stop, to push him away, slap him – do anything really, but you’re frozen in place, shaking as the memories you’ve fought so hard to shove down come bubbling back to the surface. You can’t think straight, not with his hand sliding between your thighs, the warmth of his body pressing too closely against yours.

“Iwa was right, you know,” Oikawa murmurs, smoldering brown eyes drinking you in as you childishly shake your head, willing him away. His other hand catches your cheek, drawing your face back to him as tears well in your eyes, stubbornly clinging to your lashes. “She does look so much like you, the same eyes even.” 

He whispers it like a secret, nuzzling his nose against yours like a lover would as he sighs sweetly, “It’s the only reason I could stand it.”

And then he’s kissing you, the tenderness of his lips belied by iron fingers digging into your jaw when you whimper and try to wrench yourself free. 

It’s not like the nightmares that startle you awake in the middle of the night, gasping for air; hazy, broken recollections that fade the moment you try to reach for them. No, every touch, every moment of his assault passes in stark clarity.

The feel of Oikawa’s mouth as it trails greedily down your neck, his hand sliding under the cotton of your sleep shorts, even his pleased little hum when he realises you’re not wearing panties. “Such a good girl for me. Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

This time there’s no drugs in your system keeping you pliant and helpless, but that doesn’t make a difference. Not when his words echo in your head, playing again and again until every awful, sickening piece falls into place.

Long, nimble fingers stroke at your folds, and you can’t help the shivery gasp that leaves you when the tip of his middle finger sweeps over your clit. 

“Please– please don’t do this,” you sniffle.

Oikawa presses another fleeting kiss to your shoulder, “Shh, none of that. Let me help you, baby.”

“N-no, I don’t, I don’t– Stop!”

Knocking away the hands that try to push him back, he hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides them down your legs, your pitifully weak struggles only making things easier for him. It’s only when Oikawa reaches for his own zipper that panic truly strikes home.

You can’t just lie here and let this happen again. You won’t.

And like a switch flipped, you start to trash like a wild thing beneath him, the scream you’ve kept buried inside of you for months ripping itself free from your throat–

Only for the fingers that had been toying with your pussy to be shoved down your throat, cutting you off with a choked gurgle. As you gag, fruitlessly try to tug yourself free, Oikawa leans in nice and close – except this time there’s no gentleness to his expression, nothing but viciousness as he grins and bares his teeth. 

“You wanna yell, pretty girl? Want the neighbours to come running, let them see me fuck you?” He grinds his hips against you, his breath shivery as he pants at the friction of his half hard cock against your side. Nausea twists at your gut, acrid and bitter – you want to be sick, to cry and beg with him to stop but with his fingers still stuffed in your mouth, his thumb digging into the soft underside of your jaw all you can manage is an unintelligible whine. He hums, kissing away the single hot tear that spills down your cheek, “You think if you cry loudly enough, mommy’ll come home and save you?”

And it’s like time stands still as he laughs, cruel eyes glinting when he presses down on your tongue, warm saliva pooling around his digits. “Such a little whore, trying to seduce her poor, innocent boyfriend the very moment her back’s turned. Tell me, cutie,” he coos, “who do you think she’d believe?”

Your breath hitches, another sob catching in your throat – even if you wanted to answer, you can’t and he knows it. “She’s in love with me, you know. It’s almost a little pathetic how easy it was to manipulate her into bed – so lonely… desperate for love, for somebody – anybody – to pay attention to her, take care of her,” he sneers, distaste curling at his lips. “Wouldn’t it just break her fragile little heart to know she’s fallen for the man who raped her baby girl?”

Another garbled cry slips past his fingers and you can only watch in frozen horror as his other hand drifts back to his zipper. “You want to protect her, don’t you?”

His grip relents just enough for you to jerk a shaky nod.

“Pretty girl, so good for me.” Another kiss pressed to your cheek as the quiet hiss of his zipper fills the air around you. “It’ll be our little secret, hmm? She doesn’t need to know just yet, let her be happy a little while longer…”

Sliding down his briefs just far enough for his cock to spring free, he strokes it for a moment with slow, leisurely movements, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he watches your eyes widen. 

And when he pulls you forward, guides your mouth towards it, pre-cum beading at the tip, withdrawing his fingers so you can quickly gasp for air, you just… let him.

The fight’s gone, as quickly as it had come. 

You let his fingers curl through your hair, use it as an anchor when your lips part to force his cock between them. And he moans, low and shivery as your tongue slides along the underside of his shaft and you try not to gag around the sudden intrusion. 

You think that there’s no room left inside of you for shame, but as his other hand creeps back between your legs, teasing at your cunt, you burn with it, clinging to the pyre of your own humiliation and disgust.

And still, you kneel on the couch, letting him fuck your mouth, letting those long, pretty fingers curl up inside of you – moaning around his cock when they stroke that perfect little spot.

“I wanted to – shit – take this slow,” he tells you as his hips jerk upwards, shuddering in breathless delight when his cock hits the back of your throat and it convulses around him. “I wanted to make you want me.”

Wet, messy, gags sound with every unwitting thrust – you’ve no choice but to swallow him down, let him fuck your throat like you’re nothing more than a toy for his pleasure. There’s saliva coating your chin, dripping down the length of his dick, pooling around his balls. You can barely breathe, a task made even harder when Oikawa decides to add his thumb into the mix, teasing your clit while he fucks you apart on his fingers.

It feels so fucking good, and you’ve never hated yourself more.

Your throat burns, hot tears stinging in the corners of your eyes, and yet he’s intent on driving you to the brink of your sanity with every calculated flick of his wrist. Something tightens in your belly, a spring coiled too tight, ready to snap, and you can’t help it when your hips chase his fingers, the needy, shameful little whimpers that leave your lips (still wrapped around his thick, twitching cock) as you search for the pleasure to temper the discomfort.

“You don’t have a clue what you do to me, do you? I could barely sleep last night–” 

You choke back a moan, your pussy clenching around his digits, sucking them deeper as white spots pepper your vision and you shudder out a moan.

“So pretty when you cum for me,” he pants, but you don’t care – can’t, not when you’re riding his fingers, tongue lolling out as he gives you a moment’s reprieve to bask in the rippling afterglow of your orgasm before everything comes crashing back down around you. 

Oikawa lets you fall back against the cushions, breathless, trembling and dazed. You’re not stupid enough to believe that’s the end of it, not when his cock’s still hard, throbbing against his toned stomach when he gives it a slow, cursory pump.

“Lie back, cutie,” he whispers, keeping his eyes fixed on you as he pushes himself up off the couch to shed the rest of his clothes.

And as you shuffle obediently downwards, heart hammering in your chest, you find you can’t tear your eyes away from him either.

Tall and handsome, she’d said, but the words truly don’t do him justice. A body corded with lean, powerful muscle, golden, sun-kissed skin, a light smattering of dark hair trailing from his navel down past the well defined V of his hips… 

“See something you like?” he teases, smirking when you squeak and childishly jerk your face away, cheeks burning. “It’s okay to look, you know. I don’t mind the attention.”

It feels too soft, too intimate for what this is. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He’s not supposed to be attractive, or to make you enjoy your own assault, and you– you’re supposed to fight it, fight him instead of just lying there and taking it… 

But when he climbs back onto the couch, easing your still trembling thighs apart to settle himself between them, his touch is nothing short of reverent, dark eyes wide and adoring as you squirm uneasily beneath him. 

With one hand braced on the cushion beside you, his cock resting just above your aching sex, he leans forward, easing your top up past your tits. “Perfect,” he murmurs.

And it’s enough to make a fresh bout of humiliated tears spring to your eyes. Your hands curl into useless fists at your side as he settles back onto his knees and takes his cock in hand, hissing in pleasure when he glides the flushed, leaking head along your slick folds.

“Fuck, cutie. I don’t think I’m gonna last,” he laughs, biting down on his bottom lip as he watches hot, fat tears slip down your cheeks. With an agonisingly slow pace, Oikawa lines himself up with your cunt and presses in – even with how wet you are, one orgasm already wrung from you, the stretch burns and you can’t stop the choked gasp that leaves you.

His eyes flutter shut, head thrown back back as inch by inch his cock sinks into your pussy until finally he bottoms out with a satisfied groan. “Perfect for me, so fucking good,” he pants, and you barely have time to drag in a breath before his hips are drawing back, another desperate, strangled mewl escaping you.

Bruising fingers dig into your waist, Oikawa cursing as your plush little cunt flutters maddeningly around him– before he eagerly slams his cock forward, stuffing you full once more.

And as you sob and whimper between every wet, obscene squelch of his dick fucking into your soaked pussy, that all too familiar, shameful heat begins to pool in your core.

“Gonna cum for me again, cutie?”

[chisinpink]

The Only One: A Mastermind!Nagito AU Story - PROLOGUE

Hello lovelies, I’ve posted a *lot* about my Mastermind!Nagito AU on tiktok (I’m @chisben there as well if you wanna check it out), and I rly wanna share it here so here’s the prologue! Special thanks to @servanthaji for helping out with the planning of this whole story in general!

(Content warning for mentions of bombs and bombings, swearing and crying.)

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JUNKO: Yep, that’s the day that it happened. The day everything started getting… pretty scary, if you ask me! I’m just glad you were outta town for that, and baby was home sick. That’s, like, the only reason she’s here today, too!

HAJIME: Wait, wait, slow down! What are you even talking about…?

JUNKO: Uhh, I’m getting to that? Besides, don’t you know that guy too? Nagito Komaeda?

HAJIME: Not really… I mean, I knew of him, but I was in the reserve course. I didn’t really talk to him or anything until I went to school that Monday, and… there was nobody there except him.

JUNKO: Oh, yea? Did he tell you anything?

HAJIME: Not really. After I got shot at and ran in the school, I asked him what the hell was going on, but it was like I wasn’t there either. He just changed the subject to hope over and over again, like I asked a totally different question, and eventually I just walked away. I still don’t know what he was doing there.

JUNKO: Then maybe he doesn’t want you to know, y’know? You’re so lucky you have me, then~!

(She smirks playfully. Hajime stares at her blankly and her face drops. She stares at a map with a pen in hand.)

JUNKO: Come ooon, I’m coping! This is pretty stressful for everyone, y’know, I use humor to forget about all this stupid shit.

HAJIME: Whatever… just… tell me what’s going on.

JUNKO: Well, what happened that day… that was the start of The Biggest, Most Awful, Most Tragic Event in Human History… in my opinion. And that’s saying a lot, because this world is filled with despair! And, like, his whole class helped him do what he did to the country! No idea why that is, but we can all fill you in on the rest, I guess. Preeeety sure we were all there in some way, ‘cept my baby.

(She gestures to the entirety of Class 78 of Hopes Peak Academy, standing and sitting in the basement of the school, as well as Mikan Tsumiki, who has a timid smile on her face as Junko looks back at her. Hajimes face drops.) 

HAJIME: Wh… what?? That can’t be it, that can’t be what happened…! The whole class?? The whole country?!

JUNKO: Eeeyup! They evacuated the school by putting a bomb under their teachers desk, and apparently all around the school, and I have NO idea how that lady didn’t croak! Anyways, everyone had to leave, and… that’s basically all I know. They just repeated that ooover and ooover on the news, it made me sick!!

(She threw her pen at a tiny radio propped up on a few cardboard boxes.)

HAJIME: Wh… this doesn’t… but… but, I...

(Kyoko steps forward and faces Hajime.)

KYOKO: I have some more information on what happened that day. After we were trapped here in the basement, all we had was the radio to inform us of the true nature of what happened. This is what I wrote down from those broadcasts.

(She hands Hajime a folder that contains three sheets of paper, all three of them hand-written notes. He begins reading.)

KYOKO: The class of 77-B was, most likely, all apparently under some sort of drug-induced psychosis. Most witnesses reported that they were acting strangely or out of character before they planted the bombs, and their eyes were hazy and… 

HAJIME: ”swirled”, “mixed”, “terrifying”, “comforting”, “light and dark” ...none of these make any sense.

KYOKO: My thoughts exactly. This entire event is bizarre and without any logical reasoning behind it… if you’d only heard about it on the news. But I think Makoto and I know more than any news outlets.

HAJIME: How?

(She looks over her shoulder to Makoto, signaling him to stand up.)

MAKOTO: Well, about a month ago me and Kyoko were going to one of the computer rooms to print something, but it was kind of out of the way, so we didn’t expect him to be there. N-Nagito, I mean. We saw him talking to Chihiro, and, uhm… I didn’t hear that part.

(He looks up to Chihiro. They stand meekly and fold their arms.)

CHIHIRO: H-he had been asking me to collaborate with him on a personal project, but… I didn’t have any spare time, and I didn’t even know him that well! So I finally just told him no, and he left me alone for a day or two… but t-then…

(Tears form at the corners of their eyes.)

CHIHIRO: H-he told me that… he was gonna… destroy the sc-sc-school if I didn’t-!

(They cover their face, and Makoto reaches out to rub their shoulder.)

MAKOTO: It’s not your fault, Chihiro. It’s nobody's fault but his. B-but anyway, after we heard about that, we decided that we had to keep an eye on him, but… basically the next day is when the bombs went off.

HAJIME: Why didn’t you just… tell a teacher what he told Chihiro?

MAKOTO: In hindsight… yeah, that would’ve been the safest thing we could’ve done. But Kyoko thought that we couldn’t keep an eye on him if he was expelled for that, a-and he could have been doing anything at home, so we fo-

KYOKO: Makoto, please, don’t. I was a coward, and I didn’t trust anybody else to investigate the matter. This whole situation could have been de-escalated dramatically if I had told school faculty.

(Kiyotaka stands from his spot next to Mondo.)

TAKA: You DIDN’T inform a teacher, or the Headmaster?! Miss Kirigiri, the school faculty always knows what is best for us!!

MONDO: Yeaaaah, is that why they all jumped ship and fucked off to who-knows-where so we could fight like dogs in the basement?

AOI: Hey, they did what they could, okay?? They had to protect themselves like everyone else! We’re not any better by hiding in the basement.

MONDO: Where the fuck ELSE were we supposed to go?? Candy land?!

YASUHIRO: Hey hey hey, Chihiro was right to lead us here the day the bombs went off! But I hear ya, maybe we coulda moved out of Japan together or somethin’ instead of hiding in Japan!

TOKO: I-I see why you’ve had to retake this year as m-much as you did now, you dumbass! He could b-be expanding anywhere now!!

BYAKUYA: As much as I hate to agree with her, I do. Nowhere is truly safe, and for all we may know, we’re being actively searched for. It’s only a matter of time before we have to relocate.

SAYAKA: I-I can’t stay here another second!! 

CELESTIA: Oh, so do you two suggest that we run out into the streets and expose ourselves to the predators? Play Nagitos game of cat and mouse?

LEON: Hell NO, I’m not playing that freaks game! But if he’s got his little possie out there looking every which way for us, then we gotta at least try and delay it!

SAKURA: On the other hand, we don’t know what they might want from us, if anything, or how bad the situation has escalated since we decided to hide.

HIFUMI: We don’t even KNOW what’s out there w-waiting for us anymore?! There could be giant mutant spiders wanting to turn us into baby food by now! I’m staying right HERE.

YASUHIRO: ...okay, I’m officially lost. Are we moving or staying?

SAYAKA: Moving!!

BYAKUYA: If you all intend on surviving, then you’ll all relocate. If you intend on being brutally murdered, then by all means, feel free to stay for a bit longer.

LEON: What in the actual fuck is wrong with you?? 

MAKOTO: H-hey, everybody calm down!!

SAKURA: We cannot make a decision until we know more about the outside world. AOI: But isn’t it because of what we don’t know that we have to go out there by now?

SAYAKA: Maybe some of us could go and some of us could stay?

TOKO: W-what if that reveals the hiding spot f-f-for everybody else??

MIKAN: (wiping away tears and hiccupping) N-nooo!!

YASUHIRO: Then we all have to come to the same decision, then.

CELESTIA: Yes, good luck reaching a peaceful consensus during the middle of an apocalypse!

BYAKUYA: I never said that it had to be a peaceful decision. If needed, you will all follow me kicking and screaming so I don’t perish thanks to your idiocy.

MONDO: I’ll knock some idiocy into ya if you keep runnin’ your mouth like that!

TAKA: Remember to take deep stomach breaths, bro! I think we can all solve this by utilizing a popular vote!

HIFUMI: But wouldn’t whoever’s the most popular win anyway??

HAJIME: SHUT UP!!! EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP!!!

(Everyone stops talking and stares at Hajime, who’s trembling and has his face in his hands.)

JUNKO: Daaaaaaamn, rookie’s kinda bold to be screaming at us like that, huh?

MAKOTO: Junko… you’re not helping. He’s obviously overwhelmed and you’re just teasing him.

JUNKO: C’mon, I’m nowhere near him! Hahah!

(Makoto sighs, sitting down next to Hajime on the floor. The rest of the students talk amongst themselves.)

MAKOTO: ...I’m sorry. I know you didn’t ask to be here, but… for what it’s worth, I’m glad that you’re still alive somehow.

HAJIME: … 

MAKOTO: You know… when Mukuro found you unconscious in that class, we all thought you were one of Nagitos’ friends. You seemed too peaceful in your sleep to have been running from anybody, or hiding from anything.

HAJIME: ...then why did you help me?

KYOKO: We thought we could get some information about the outside world. But apparently, you're just as lost as the rest of us.

MAKOTO: A-and because we didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Even if you were one of his people, we didn’t want you to just be out there. I’m glad that you weren’t, though… it feels nice to meet someone new again.

(Hajime lifts his face from his hands, palms and face covered in tears. He looks at Makoto with a faint smile.)

HAJIME: Yeah… feels nice.

☘️ TO BE CONTINUED☘️

[just-the-daydreamer]

Too much

By @just-the-daydreamer for @ferretshark 

@friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker

Characters: Peter Paker, Tony Stark, Ned Leeds, FRIDAY (Marvel), May Parker (mentioned)

Summary: 

“I-I think it’s a sensory overload. I don’t know what caused it. Everything is just, too much!” Peter managed to grit out, hands still locked in place over his ears. They weren’t really helping him filter out the sound, but it gave him something to focus on.

OR

Peter wakes up with a sensory overload and Tony is there to help him out.

Ao3 link (Doesn’t work yet)

Taglist:

@paradoxicalblueberry @keep-a-bucket-full-of-stars @aatticsaltt @marvel-us-world @tony-wheres-my-supersuit @sketchydragonscales @baloobird @a-l-ias @spideynamu @troubledpixel @irondad-is-cannon-bitch

Hi! I really hope you enjoy this!! I tried to keep the whump to a minimum and tried my best at Protective Tony! I hope you like it!

Peter’s head was pounding. He’d only woken up a few minutes ago but he was sure that it was not going to be a Good Day. The fabric of his shirt was rubbing against him in a way that seemed to burn and the blanket felt even worse. The only reason Peter even kept the blanket was to hide himself from the light. It was burning his retinas. 

His alarm clock suddenly went off and the shrill ringing was even more painful than the light. His hand shot out from under the blanket and switched it off before yanking his arm back underneath. He groaned quietly after remembering that he had a math test and he couldn’t skip school, even though his body was begging him to. 

Dragging his body out of bed was one of the most difficult experiences he had ever dealt with as Peter Parker. Usually, the painful stuff was left for Spiderman to deal with. Somehow, Peter managed to get ready for school, wearing the comfiest clothes he owned. 

Forcing his legs to move, Peter made his way to the kitchen to grab the lunch he had prepared yesterday evening. He snagged a few nutrition bars to eat along the way. They would, hopefully, keep his energy up until lunch. 

The commute to school was awful, being in a compact area pressed up against countless other people was nauseating. Peter stumbled out of the carriage and made his way to the gates, head still spinning from the journey. He staggered into his homeroom seat and as soon as his bag was off, he rested his head against the cool table for some relief. 

“Peter? Are you okay?” Ned leaned across his table to whisper his question in Peter’s ear. 

“I’m fine. Just a headache.” He replied, stringing the least amount of words together to suffice Ned’s worrying. 

“It doesn’t look like ‘just a headache’ to me. Should you even be at school?” Ned continued to press the issue, unaware of how Peter truly felt. 

Peter turned his head to whisper, eyes still closed, “I’m fine, Ned.” Before continuing to rest his head against the table. 

Ned backed off after that. It was a small mercy which Peter was grateful for. He just hoped that everyone else would leave him alone. 

-

The misshapen, paper ball hit its target once again. The target being the back of Peter’s head. It was really irritating him and he was already in a bad mood. It seemed his senses had become even more sensitive and now he couldn’t block out anything. The longer the day went, the worse he felt. It was a mistake coming into school but any more missed days and Peter would’ve faced disciplinary action. 

His original plan was just to keep his head down, hood up and try to focus on blocking everything out but that plan was soon scrapped after getting told to take his hood off. His new plan was to tough it out until after the maths test and go home, saying he was sick. Less than an hour in and Peter was just about ready to leap out of the window and go home anyway. 

Flash had been getting extremely on his nerves today and Peter didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. He was really regretting not sleeping in now. 

As the lesson continued to drag on, Peter’s head began to hurt even more. The fluorescent lights were piercing his eyes, even when he had them closed. The thumping sound of his classmates’ heartbeats surrounded him and their droning chatter was vibrating in his ears. He could smell the wood shavings from someone’s pencil and the food in people’s bags, all mixing together to form a repulsive odour that only he could smell. His clothes brushed against his skin and its touch was the worst sensation he could have felt. He couldn’t imagine how much worse it might have been if he hadn’t chosen comfy clothes that morning but he didn’t really want to think about it. 

The bell rang and the sound of thousands of feet shuffling and stomping against the ground was all that Peter could hear. The ringing was still echoing through his eardrums and the noise of the people’s conversations and their shoes squeaking on the floor was too much. 

He wanted to tear his ears off, the world was so loud. His hands instinctively moved towards his ears, trying to block out as much noise as he could but the vibrations still made their way to his overwhelmed eardrums. It was so loud it felt like his brain was rattling in his skull. 

His fingers were still clamped over his ears when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. Judging from their grip, Peter assumed it was Ned. Peter opened his eyes, not even realising that he had closed them at any point, to find an empty and blindingly bright room and Ned behind him. 

“Okay, what’s going on, Peter? Don’t lie to me and tell me you’re fine.” Ned said with a firm tone. He removed his hand from Peter’s shoulder and crossed his arms, looking (rightfully) displeased. 

“I-I think it’s a sensory overload. I don’t know what caused it. Everything is just, too much!” Peter managed to grit out, hands still locked in place over his ears. They weren’t really helping him filter out the sound, but it gave him something to focus on. 

“Look, I think you should go see the nurse. Maybe she’ll let you go home or she might be nice and let you sleep it off. Either way, I really think that you shouldn’t be in school today.” Ned’s voice was softer this time, lower in volume. It wasn’t much but it gave him the slightest amount of relief. 

“Can’t go home. Got a maths test. May’s at work, too." 

"Oh my gosh, Peter! You can’t seriously believe that you’ll be able to take a maths test when you can’t even stand up right now and get a good score! You can retake the test another day - Mrs. Davis loves you anyway so just take the day off.” The teen softly exclaimed, astonished at the stupidity of his best friend. 

“I don’t wanna make a scene, Ned." 

"I think you already made a scene when the bell rang and you were still sitting here with your hands over your head. Plus, I’m already late to my next lesson so I might as well have a proper excuse.” And with that, Ned hauled Peter out of his seat, careful not to irritate him too much. He grabbed his friend’s bag and threw it over his shoulder before hovering around Peter in case his knees buckled. 

-

A painful couple of minutes later, the duo arrived outside the nurses office. Ned was already 10 minutes late so he just stayed with Peter and explained the situation to the nurse. He was already late, why not help his friend out while he’s there? 

Peter’s details were taken and May was called but the nurse was obviously disappointed that she didn’t pick up.

Even though they’d already said she was at work.

So, Peter’s second emergency contact was called and it went about as well as Ned would’ve imagined. 

“Hello? My name is Susan Lee and I’m calling on behalf of Peter Parker. Is this Mr. Stark?" 

"This is him, yes. Is Peter okay-" 

"He’s feeling a bit ill. He has a headache and he says he feels sick. His aunt didn’t pick up the phone so we had to call you. Is it alright for you to pick him up?" 

"I’ll be there soon, thanks for calling me.” The phone cut off with a beep and Miss Lee set the phone down softly on the desk. 

The nurse whirled around towards Ned and raised a shaky finger at his face. With wide eyes she questioned, “There is no way that was Tony Stark! How does” - she pointed her finger towards a pale and unresponsive Peter instead - “ that boy know Tony Stark?!”

Honestly, Ned was slightly impressed at how calm she had been while talking to a literal celebrity. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t unnerved by her accusing finger. He backed away from her slightly, shifting his gaze between her concentrated gaze and Peter, who was collapsed against a table by his chair. 

“He interns for Stark Industries! I think he’s Mr. Stark’s personal intern!" 

"There is no way Stark Industries hires high school interns!” She pressed, hand slowly sinking into her lap. 

“Don’t shoot the messenger! If you don’t believe me, why don’t you just wait and see? Mr. Stark said he’s coming to pick Peter up anyway so you’ll see him then!” Ned tried to placate her but he wasn’t sure if she would listen or not. It was quite intimidating to be honest, Miss Lee was always a nice nurse so this side of her was kind of terrifying.

Ned checked on Peter, saying his 'get wells’ and goodbyes one more time before turning to leave. He was late enough, and he didn’t need to be there for Mr. Stark’s arrival. 

-

Tony burst into the school with an air of calm disguising his worry. Peter was never one to just get a headache and go home, so either he was hiding an injury or something worse had happened. 

When he opened the door, the first thing he could see was a head of curly brown hair slumped against a small table adjacent to a row of chairs. His thinly veiled calmness almost shattered there and then but he managed to hold it together to turn to the nurse and sign some papers, muttering something about taking Peter home. 

Tony truly had no idea what he had said, he felt like he was in a haze, but whatever it was, it seemed to work and he gathered Peter’s things before turning to said teen. 

He crouched down in front of him and ran a calloused hand through the boy’s sweaty hair. 

Tapping the side of his face he whispered to the teenager. “Hey, Pete. A little birdie told me you weren’t feeling too hot today. You wanna get outta here?" 

A small nod was given in response and that was all that Tony needed to help Peter up and walk them out the school gates. 

-

The drive back was… painful to say the least. Tony tried to drive as fast as he could back to the Tower but Peter was in pain the entire time. It killed him to see the kid in so much pain but there was nothing he could do at that point. He’d already given Peter his sunglasses which seemed to help a little and the kid had already grabbed some soundproof headphones from his bag, but even then he could still hear sounds. 

The kid had also explained briefly that he was having a sensory overload, which was something that Tony could deal with. At the Tower.

On the road, however? Not so much. 

When they finally reached the elevator, FRIDAY took them straight up to Tony’s personal floor. 

As soon as the doors opened, Tony whispered, "Protocol Bedtime.” Immediately the lights went off and Tony guided a much more relaxed Peter towards his room, through muscle memory alone. 

He had Peter change out of his clothes and put on something softer to wear to sleep. He wasn’t really sure what to do to help Peter, but some rest seemed like a good idea. Hopefully, he’d be able to sneak away and build something to block out input. 

Forcing Peter to lie down, Tony closed the curtains in his room and sat down on the mattress next to where the young adolescent laid. 

“You feeling better, kiddo?” Tony whispered at what he hoped was a suitable volume. 

“Um, yeah. Yeah everything’s great.” Peter fidgeted under the covers. 

“You sure? Because if there’s anything I can do just say the word, it’ll be done.”

“Erm, yeah, there’s-there’s this one thing. It’s really embarrassing though and- actually it’s fine don’t worry about it.” Peter decided, pulling the covers over himself and looking away from Tony’s gaze. 

“Come on, kiddo. Spit it out. I want to help you. I bet it’s not even that embarrassing. What is it? You need the toilet but I tucked you in too well?” Tony replied with a small smile, hoping he could get Peter to talk. 

“Wi-will you stay?” Peter asked, tentatively, glancing back at Tony. 

The billionaire’s eyes softened as he glanced at the kid- his kid. He would do anything for this kid and his heart was bursting with so much love for him. He wouldn’t admit it though. He had a reputation to keep. 

“Of course I’ll stay. Scoot over would you?” Tony slipped his shoes off and sat under the covers with Peter who’d moved away from the centre of the mattress. 

Peter immediately moved closer to his mentor, until his head was against his hip. Peter rolled on his side to face Tony and he closed his eyes, taking relief in his father figure’s presence. Tony didn’t say anything, just placed his hands in Peter’s curls and began untangling the knots that had formed. He didn’t know if it would help Peter, but his blissful expression said everything. Tony stayed with him, carding his fingers through Peter’s soft hair, until he was sure that the teen had fallen asleep. Trying to be as silent as possible, Tony extracted himself from the bed and slipped his shoes on before exiting the room. 

He headed down to the lab and told FRIDAY to notify him when Peter woke up. He left a message for May, explaining what had happened and that Peter was okay. Then he got to work. 

-

“Boss, Peter has woken up.” FRIDAY helpfully informed him a few hours later.

“Thanks, FRI. I’ll be up there soon." 

Tony made his way up to his floor, some sleek earphones in hand. Opening the door softly, he poked his head through the door and looked to see a half asleep Peter sitting up, his hair wild and sticking out. A soft chuckle was heard from Tony as he opened the door completely and walked inside, heading towards the confused hero. 

"What’s happening?” Peter’s voice was scratchy and raw. 

“You had a sensory overload. You hungry?” Tony replied, setting the earphones down on Peter’s lap. 

“What’re these?” Peter asked, turning them over in his hands. 

“Earphones. Hopefully, they’ll block out the worst of the sounds when you’re in public. I made them small so you can wear them in class and still hear what’s going on without being overwhelmed.” Tony replied with a shrug. 

Suddenly, he had an armful of Peter who was holding on tightly to the billionaire. Tony smiled and after a few moments he returned the hug, gripping the kid just as tight. 

When they finally separated, Tony started to tame the boy’s hair, smoothing it down. “I asked you a question earlier. You hungry?” Tony said, his lips quirking up into a smile. 

“Starving. I was gonna go home at lunch after I had my math test but…” he trailed off, looking bashfully at his father figure. 

All Tony could do was laugh at his stupidity. His kid had no common sense. “What am I going to do with you, kiddo?" 

"Make me a grilled cheese sandwich?” Peter replied, voice hopeful. 

“Sure. Let’s go.” Tony snorted, pulling Peter up and leading him into the kitchen. The billionaire pulled him into a one-armed hug while they made their way into the kitchen. 

He couldn’t hide his grin when Peter leaned closer.

[probably-writing-x]

Life with you.

Miguel Bernardeau x Reader

Request by @anasantijacobs : hi love!!!! I have started to read your works and they are amazing!!! If you aren’t busy, could you do a story where Miguel and the reader are both in Elite or actors and how their life is like in Spain?? gracias!!!!

Gif is not my own

Requests are open 🤍

“Miguel!” You laugh, hitting him with the pillow once again as you try to wake him up, “We’re seriously going to be late if you wait any longer!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” He groans, reaching out with grabbing hands to pull you towards him, “But I promise I’ll let them blame me if we’re late. So...”

With that, he pulls you down to his chest and wraps your arms around you tightly.

“Miguel!” You exclaim, soon relaxing against his touch, “I already got ready and now you’re messing me up.”

“It’s only table read, and you’ll look good either way,” He kisses your forehead, “What are your thoughts? Who do you think kills Polo?”

“We won’t find out if you don’t get your ass out of bed!” You point out, “Come on handsome.”

“Don’t try to sweet talk me into getting up,” He jokes, releasing his arms from around you.

You get up and readjust your clothes to make sure they weren’t too creased or messy. You’d opted for a simple pair of slim leg cuffed joggers with a cropped top and the sneakers that Miguel had bought you for your birthday. Your hair was up in a bun and you hadn’t bothered with makeup for the day. Once he’s rolled out of bed, he stands up behind you at the mirror and wraps his arms around you, chin perched on your shoulder.

“You look really hot,” He smirks, kissing your collarbone.

“Miguel Bernardeau, behave yourself!” You exclaim, “I’m going to grab us something for breakfast, youve got twenty minutes until you need to be ready.”

“Okay, got it,” He smiles, turning you round and pecking your nose softly, “Love you.”

“Love you too,” You can’t help but want to wrap yourself with him when he makes such soft gestures like that.

But you had a table read to be at and you’d already be the last there at this point.

- - - - - -

Eventually, the two of you are ready and you’re walking down the street - only being a short walk from your AirBnB to the set. You and Miguel had always stayed together when you were filming but had only started dating after the first season had ended. Ever since then, you’d realised more and more that you’d found the one.

“It’s such beautiful weather today,” He mumbles, hand interlacing with yours as you walk down the street you’d passed down numerous times before.

This was the street you’d walked when you first kissed him, and when he first told you he loved you. It had been after you’d had the most emotionally draining day of filming, after filming some of your most difficult scenes for Élite. He’d told you how proud he was and, in a moment started with him saying a simple ‘fuck’, he’d confessed those three words.

“Here, lets go the long way,” You comment, gesturing down the back alley that you took on days where you’d wanted to spend a little more time in the sun.

“What happened to worrying about us being late?” He laughs, moving your locked hands around so that he’d have one arm wrapped around your shoulders.

“Come on, we’re always late!” You roll your eyes, kissing his knuckles where your hands joined.

He turns and presses a kiss to your hair and the two of you walk a little slower than you should do for trying to reach a deadline. But it doesn’t matter. The crew had become used to you never being there when you should do anymore. It had always been tradition. Even from the first day of filming, before you and Miguel were even together. He’d set his alarm for the wrong time and you both turned up to set last. He’d been the only one to calm you down when you were terrified of the bad impression you might make as a consequence. He’d been the only one capable of calming your fear ever since then.

- - - - - -

“Hello!” Miguel grins as the two of you walk through the door into the table read room.

As expected, everyone is already sat in their respective seats.

“Hello, hello, hello,” Miguel laughs as he goes around to everybody and greets them individually.

“Hello honey!” Lu stands up to give you a hug, “You look gorgeous.”

You roll your eyes at her, “Are you kidding?”

You go on to greet Ester, Arón, Omar etc etc until you’ve said your hellos to everybody. You give Mina a hug and watch as Miguel takes his respective seat beside her. He turns and stops to give you one last kiss before you go off to your own seat.

“Fuck! You two are impossible!” Álvaro exclaims, laughing at the pair of you.

You roll your eyes and take your seat beside him, since he played your brother in the show, “Shut up and find out who kills you!”

Everyone laughs as he slings an arm around you and ruffles your hair.

And the long awaited table read begins.

- - - - - -

Whenever you spoke in a scene, you felt Miguel’s eyes on you intently listening to every word - you knew he did it because you did the same to him whenever he spoke.

“Scene opens with (Y/c/n) and Polo. They are at school in the empty corridor, graduation day is here,” One of the writers reads the non-verbal part of the script as everyone looks up to listen to the long awaited final scene between you and your sibling before his death.

“Congratulations Polo,” You begin, “At least one of us managed to graduate.”

“Come on, you know you’ll be fine. You’ve been through a lot this year, things will be different when you retake,” Álvaro says from beside you, “I’m sorry for what I’ve caused (Y/c/n).”

“No, don’t start with that Polo,” You continue, feeling some level of adrenaline build with each word, “I’ve heard it a thousand times from you. You’ll always be sorry for what you did, she was my best friend. And you’ll always regret what happened.”

“Fuck,” Álvaro mutters under his breath, out of script but instead voicing the words that everyone was thinking.

“I’ve heard it from everyone. Because I was the girl caught in the crossfire of your messed up actions,” You say, gripping onto Álvaro beside you as you can feel yourself becoming more immersed in the scene like it was your own life, “I was the one who lost Marina, and the one who’s brother fucking killed her.”

Álvaro wraps an arm around you as he starts to hear your voice shake against the words.

“But no matter what happens, I know deep down that I can’t possibly hate you. Every part of me tells me I should do, but there’s one part of me that will always be part of you. I’ve grown up since the day we were born with you by my side. And I know, that Polo that I used to dance in the lounge with, he was never ever capable of hurting somebody on purpose,” You speak, silently cheering for your characters confession, “I won’t ever forget what’s happened, but it would be impossible to not forgive you for something that you never intended to happen. So, fuck, Polo, I forgive you. You’ll never be the boy you were two years ago and I won’t be the girl I was, but I can’t go another day where I feel like I don’t have a brother anymore. So, I forgive you, okay?”

“That’s my girl!” Miguel cheers involuntarily, clapping with sheer pride at how you’d just acted that entire monologue.

Álvaro turns and wraps you in an embrace from beside you and you both sigh in relief at the end you’d both hoped for from your characters.

“Shit,” You mutter, wiping a few tears from your eyes, “Fuck, I’m so proud of her.”

Álvaro laughs and turns to continue with his lines for the rest of the scene. You glance up to find Miguel’s eyes which are completely focused on you. He winks at you and lets a grin spread onto his features and completely light up his face.

Your heart was practically racing from the scene that had just unfolded and you were pleased to have a few moments to recover as the next scene continued.

- - - - - -

“I forgive you, I forgive you!” Miguel exclaims the words written on the page, “I forgive you.”

Your heart clenches with every piece of you focused on his character would react to Polos death. You knew it meant a lot to him for them to have a good ending and it was clear that they were getting one here. Álvaro applauds him from the other side of the room and you do the same, all more than excited to see how the scene would play out when you actually filmed it.

And damn, now was your chance to be proud of him.

You continue through the scenes, though the producers don’t go any further than the end of the scene outside of the club - not wanting to spoil the final ends for each of your characters and where they’d end up after summer was over.

“Alright guys, lets call it there,” The exec says, “Good job everybody!”

You all clap and cheer for each other and Álvaro turns to hug you once again. Part of the show wouldn’t be the same now you wouldn’t have your on screen brother with you, the two of you had become like siblings off screen too.

Everyone starts to get up from their seats and begins to disperse amongst the room as they talk through their own characters endings for the season.

“Honey, I cant wait to see that scene!” Ester beams when she sees you, “It’s going to be incredible!”

You give her a tight hug, “I’m just glad they got the ending they needed.”

She goes over to chat to Danna as you make your way over to eventually find Miguel. He’s hugging Mina as you walk over, both of them over the moon with how things ended after the club with Nadia and Guzmán. He’d been rooting for the two of them since day one.

When he sees Mina looking over his shoulder, he turns to see you stood there.

“Baby, that was incredible!” He grins, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you up to spin you around, “You’re going to do it so well!”

“Thank you,” You smile into him, “Same for you, that scene with Polo floored me.”

“Fuck, I cant wait to start filming that now,” He laughs, setting you back down onto the ground, “And neither of us end up graduating.”

“Looks like that place can’t get rid of us,” You joke as he leans down and kisses your nose gently.

“Fancy going to get some lunch?” He suggests, hand locking with yours.

“Yeah sure,” You nod, turning to where Omar, Arón and Mina stood behind you, “We’ll see you in a bit.”

“Bye guys,” Miguel smiles as he wraps an arm around your shoulder as he had done before, your interlocked hands connecting just over your heart.

Everyone in the cast knew the two of you were still practically head over heels for each other. They’d become so used to seeing you together everywhere, always sharing a passing comment here or a little hint at your adoration for each other. They’d see the little hidden moments you’d have where he’d kiss you after a scene, or the times when they’d see you both cuddled up asleep in your trailer. You’d become the couple of the cast and they knew it was going to last well after the show did. Nothing about it was superficial. They’d truly watched two people fall into each other’s lives by fate and simply remain there ever since - never finding any valid reason why they weren’t more than capable of going the long run with this relationship.

You were part of each other. And in late arrivals, falling asleep at sunrise, proud celebrations and adoring comments - you’d found someone who would always be a part of your success.

[theangriestpea]

Road Bumps | Sweet Pea

Summary: After finding out that his girlfriend is pregnant, Sweet Pea decides to take her away from the dangers of Riverdale for a little while. Missing scene to where Sweet Pea was during the end of season 3 and beginning of season 4 <ao3> 

Pairing: Sweet Pea x Reader 

Rating: Teen+

Word Count: 2.7k+

Warnings: Teen pregnancy 

A/N: This was requested by the amazing @sweetsfuckingpea​! I hope you enjoy it, mom! When trying to think of motivation for Sweet Pea to leave Riverdale, pregnancy was the only thing I could come up with??? Probably because I currently have baby fever. x.x And I mean....who wouldn’t want babies that looked like Jordan Connor? 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” You asked for the millionth time as you sat across from Sweet Pea at a small dinner in a rural part of Pennsylvania. “With all that’s going on in Riverdale-”

“That’s exactly why we needed to leave.” He said seriously. “There’s too much drama there right now. We need to get away for awhile. Especially with the condition you’re in. I’m not risking your lives by staying in a town infested with mysterious seizures and drugged up rival gangsters.”

You let out a sigh, picking at your basket of fries. You hadn’t had much appetite the past couple of weeks. “My condition is exactly why we shouldn’t be travelling the countryside right now. We should be saving money! I told you I could have just taken out a loan and gotten it taken care of…”

Sweet Pea reached out, putting a steady hand on top of your shaking one. “Y/N, I know this is hard but we agreed not to do that. If you’ve changed your mind then I’ll support you, but I don’t want you to do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”

You withdrew your hand from his and hid it on your lap. “I don’t know what I want. It all just happened so fast. I haven’t had time to process anything.”

He sighed, wishing you would stop pulling away from him constantly. He went back to eating his food slowly. “Coming out here will give you time to think about it. Plus you told me countless times how you always wanted to road trip coast to coast. This might be your last chance for a while.”

A small smile formed on your lips, “you’re right, thank you, babe.” You leaned in for a quick kiss before going back to eating.

A week prior Sweet Pea had insisted that the two of you go on a road trip. Even though it was towards the end of Junior year, he said it wouldn’t matter since most of the time neither of you went to school anyway. You could always retake it the following year which didn’t seem so bad right now.

After many nights of not-so-careful screwing, you had wound up pregnant with only one possibility for the father. Sweet Pea was taking it amazingly well. You had expected him to punch a wall or make you leave or demand you get an abortion, but he did none of those things. Instead he sat in stunned silence for what felt like hours.

Eventually, when he did speak, he asked what you wanted to do. You didn’t know as you were still wrapping your head around the whole thing. You had suffered from a bad seizure months before and there was still no real explanation as to what caused it. Plus with increasing tensions mounting between the serpents and the gargoyles, Sweet Pea felt that Riverdale was no longer a safe place for you. Either of you. He wanted nothing more to protect you until you came to a decision.

You kept in contact with your friends back home as little as possible. It was too soon to tell them what was going on. Rumors flew by so quickly in the small town that you didn’t want to be known as the highschooler that got knocked up by a serpent. There were worse things to be said about you, sure, but it was still a sensitive subject. You weren’t even showing yet but who knew how long that would last.

“How does this spot look, princess?” Sweet Pea asked as he walked around a clearing in the small wooded area you had parked near. You had been camping out most nights, enjoying the sounds of nature with nothing to keep you warm but your boyfriend and your shared sleeping bag. It was nice, peaceful, and much less stressful than home.

You looked around, “are you sure there’s no bears around here? You know Archie got attacked by one once. He almost died.”

Sweet Pea rolled his eyes, “I’ve got my 12 gauge if there is one, come on, is this the place for tonight or what?”

Your eyes met his and you smiled lightly, “Sure. The ground is even at least and there’s that stream nearby.”

He came up to you and pulled you into a tight embrace, his head resting on top of yours. “Ready to get started or do you need to rest?”

You pushed him away gently, rolling your eyes. “I’m pregnant, Sweets, not disabled. Let’s go ahead and get started.”

That night, after everything was set, Sweet Pea had scoped out a local bar to go to. Naturally  he had his leather serpent jacket on while you went with something a bit more classic. Skinny jeans and a low cut t-shirt. Nothing too risque as you didn’t pack anything too revealing to wear. It’s not like you had planned on going bar hopping any time soon since you couldn’t drink.

But currently you were in a food desert and really the only place to grab a bite was the bar about twenty minutes away from your campsite. It was remote enough that neither of you thought anyone would mess with your tent, deciding to keep a majority of your possessions locked in the saddle bags of his motorcycle.

You arrived at the bar, noticing the plethora of bikes parked out front. Naturally your anxiety started to rise. If they saw Sweet Pea as some kind of rival then things could get ugly. “Maybe you should take your jacket off.” You murmured to him, already seeing a few passing by bikers give him a tentative look over.

“A serpent never sheds his skin.” Sweet Pea said faithfully, “It’ll be fine, baby girl. No one is going to mess with us.” He got off of his bike and put an arm around you, leading you inside the small bar. “Just worry about whether or not the food here is any good.” He joked.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him while you walked. He led you to a back corner and placed you at a booth there. “Stay here, I’m going to get some menus, okay? Stop looking at me like that, nothing is going to happen.” He said, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze in an attempt to reassure you before he left to go to the bar.

He disappeared behind a sea of bodies, while the bar wasn’t super crowded, the dim lighting made it hard to see far away. You huffed and pulled out your phone, trying to quell your anxiety by mindlessly scrolling through social media. He had wanted to hustle some pool as well to get you both some extra cash.

Someone sat down next to you, “Back already?” You asked, eyes not looking up from the screen.

“No, sweet thing, I’m just arriving.” A voice said smoothly. Your head shot up to see a somewhat thin biker sitting next to you. You immediately moved as far away from his as possible, which wasn’t much in the small booth.

“My boyfriend is coming back, you should leave.” You said, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“That kid wearing the snake? No, you look like you could use a real man.” He said, breath reeking of cheap beer and tooth decay. It nearly made you gag.

“I’m seventeen.” You replied, hoping the fact that you were underage would get him to go away. Unfortunately it only seemed to make him more interested.

He smirked, “Good, I like ‘em young.”

A scared look crossed your face, your heart sinking deep down into your chest until you saw a hand with a tattooed thumb grab the intruder by the shoulder. “I don’t believe the teenager is interested in your pathetic ass.” Sweet Pea seethed, ripping the man out from behind the table. He stumbled forward, catching himself before straightening up.

“Southside Serpent, huh? More like Southside Street Rat.” The man said, looking up at Sweet Pea. His inhibition from the alcohol made the much taller boy’s large frame unfrightening.

Sweet Pea quickly grabbed the man by the collar of his old t-shirt, yanking him up onto his toes. “Want to say that again?” He asked, voice low and even but nevertheless filled the rage. “Or do you want to hit on my girl some more?”

“Fuck off man, this is my territory. Not yours.” He said, eyeing the guys around him.

Sweet Pea looked at the men coming towards him, “You guys really want to defend a pedophile? Be my guest, I’ll take you all on.”

“Sweet Pea…” You mumbled, trying to get him to calm down and not make the situation worse. Especially since he was alone in a sea of bikers.

He glanced at you and you could tell he couldn’t really see you through his anger. When he saw red it was literally all he saw.

“Put him down, kid.” A much older, bearded man said as he parted the crowd. The man looked down at you, “was he bothering you, miss?”

“Y-yes.” You stammered, terrified of what may happen. Your hand instinctively went to your stomach and it did not go unnoticed by the newcomer.

“And you’re a minor?” He probed and you could only nod your head in response, your voice no longer worker. The man turned to Sweet Pea, “then I’ll deal with him. We don’t take kindly to our guys trying to mess around with teenagers.”

Sweet Pea stared at the old biker, contemplating whether or not he should comply. He let out a large breath out of his nose as he set the offender down. Multiple guys grabbed him before he could make a break for it. They pulled him away and back through a back door.

“Sorry about him, son. I have suspected his...tendencies for a while now but had no proof. Sit down, you and your bird’s food is on the house.” He patted Sweet Pea’s shoulder before signalling for the crowd to disperse.

You felt like you were going to faint as Sweet Pea sat down next to you. “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” You croaked to him as you tried to regulate your breathing.

Sweet Pea was still very much upset, now unable to take his feelings out on anyone. “You okay?” He said, his voice not matching the words. They sounded much too rough.

You put a gentle hand on his bicep, trailing it downward in an attempt to soothe him. “I’m fine, you got here right in time. My hero.” The last part was a joke in an attempt to make him smile. It didn’t work until you gave him a light peck on the cheek. “I’ll have to make it up to you tonight.” You whispered into his ear, knowing the thought of a reward later would make him cool down.

His cracked smile grew and he put an arm around your shoulders. “Oh yeah? You owe me big time.” He teased, hand dipping down to brush against your side. “I got us free food.”

“Pretty sure, I got us free food. But okay, you win.” You said with a light giggle, kissing him once more.

“I love you.” He said, seeming out of nowhere. You looked up to see his eyes burning with emotion that you didn’t quite recognize. “I never loved anyone the way I love you.”

A blush spread hot across your face. “Not even Josie?” The question came out in a mumble. You had always been a bit insecure when it came to his feelings for her. After all, he was still getting over her when you two decided to start hooking up. It had been difficult at first because he was obviously still in pain over the rejection, but eventually he moved on when you showed him that you were more than happy to be his full-time girl.

Sweet Pea pressed a light kiss to your forehead, “not even Josie.” He added softly, knowing how much of a sore spot it was for you. “That was just a dumb crush. You’re...different. You always have been but I just ignored it, not thinking you felt that way.”

You buried your head into his shoulder, clearly embarrassed. “You’re an idiot. I’ve loved you since Freshman year.”

“What? Really?” He asked, clearly surprised as he tried to pull you away from him but you had latched onto him much too tightly. He wanted nothing more than to look into your eyes and see that what you were saying was the truth.

“Oh yeah, I fell pretty hard after you beat up the Ghoulies that were trying to jump me.” You said softly into his jacket, enjoy the smell of him and the leather mixing.

Sweet Pea couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. There was no way you could have taken on all five Ghoulies that had cornered you but you looked like you were bound to try with a heavy textbook in your hand as a makeshift weapon. “You were so cute. Looking like a bunny trying to fight off some strung out wolves.”

“Idiot.” Was all you could say, trying to mask how mortified you felt knowing that you didn’t look intimating in the slightest. “You came in swinging like a giraffe out of hell. Ready to kick ass and take names for seconds.”

He rested his head on top of yours, his grip on you tightening as his body trembled with silent laughter. “Yeah, had to defend that cute little bun. She was way too innocent to let her get devoured by some mangy mutts.”

“So you wanted to devour me instead?” You asked jokingly and he only laughed more.

“You got me.” He murmured softly into your hair and you swear you had never felt more at peace in your entire life then you did in that very moment.

Over the course of the next few months, Sweet Pea took you all the way to the west coast. You stopped at kitschy little tourist traps and adorable mom and pop places. He hustled pool, darts, really any bar game he was good at just to get you some spending money. Eventually you started to forget about Riverdale entirely. In fact, it had been weeks since the town even crossed your mind.

Until you got a phone call from Toni. You had just arrived in the outskirts of western Indiana when you decided to answer. It was the fifth time she had called you that day, and you knew that it had to have been important. Sweet Pea’s phone was turned off for this very reason, he didn’t want anyone bothering him.

What she had to say left you feeling cold. Jughead Jones was dead and they could just make it to his funeral if they started driving tonight. Sweet Pea said nothing. He was eerily quiet as he packed up everything and hopped back onto his bike with you behind him. And he drove, only stopping when he absolutely needed to sleep. Distantly you wondered what everyone would say about your protruding stomach. You were only a month shy of being full term. That was why you both had started heading back. And now everyone would know and there would be no escape. Not again. You weren’t ready but you had to be. There was no other option.

After a rough night in a motel, Sweet Pea finally noticed your distress. His mind had been preoccupied on the serpents for obvious reasons. “Hey, Y/N, come here.” He whispered and you moved closer to him. He enveloped you in his arms and breathed you in, almost as if it would be the last time you’d get to be alone together. “Everything is going to be alright. We’ll get through his just like we’ve gotten through everything else that has been thrown at us. Remember when we thought there was a bear and it was really just a stray cat going through our garbage? This is just like that. It’s just a cat. Not a terrifying bear, okay?”

You let out a low sight, “yeah...okay.”

“Do you trust me?” He asked, his voice so serious that it worried you.

“Of course.” You muttered back, not understanding what he was getting at.

He smiled softly, “Then trust me to get us through this.” He kissed you once more before finally getting up to get ready for the last leg of the drive. You’d be in Riverdale by late afternoon and your road trip would unfortunately be over.

Enjoy my work? Like, Reblog, Follow, or Leave a Tip!

[mikaa-mina]

At Garden’s Edge- Ch3 Dead Plants and Memes

Beta read by Tarek_giverofcookies

At Garden’s Edge

Chapter 3- Dead Plants and Memes

“You know,” Crowley drawled with his chin in his hand, elbow braced on the register counter as they both stared down at the 5th dead plant Aziraphale had brought back to the shop, “I’d probably give you a discount for bringing the pots back if I didn’t know it was because you kept murdering my plants.”

“My plants, you mean,” Aziraphale corrected, trying to distract them both from the fact that this was the fifth, the fifth!, plant he’d killed.

Crowley tipped his head to the side, a sly tilt to his grin as he looked straight at Aziraphale from behind those dark glasses. “Do I?” he challenged, a hint of a purr to his voice that sent a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine and gave him a feeling that he was perhaps missing something.

“Well, of course,” he insisted, “I did buy it after all.”

He peered at Crowley trying to figure out that feeling and a hint of awareness of... of something but before he could figure it out Crowley’s grin tripped into an amused smile and he shoved himself to standing, palms flat on the counter.

“Right. Victim #6.”

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale’s mouth turned down, offended as much as he was embarrassed but before he could continue on Crowley snorted, gave a dismissive wave and claimed, “teasing, teasing,” and sauntered out from behind the counter to prowl the isles of his shop.

“Well, still!” Aziraphale insisted, trailing after the ginger and worrying the ring around his pinky finger, back and forth, back and forth, “that was terribly-”

“-Rude?” Crowley supplied with a glance back at him over his shoulder, grin terribly bright.

Aziraphale huffed. “-Inconsiderate. Honestly. It’s not as if I mean to kill them Crowley,” he rushed on when Crowley turned around, mouth open to say something, “or feel good about killing them!”

Crowley shut his mouth, twisting it back and forth as if he was literally chewing over his words as he watched Aziraphale in that particular way that made him think he was seeing far more than just Aziraphale’s physical form.

Crowley finally settled on a soft “I know” before abruptly turning on his heel to march towards a purple leafed plant and carrying on in a much lighter tone, “Alright! What about a gorgeous Elephant Ear?”

Aziraphale just watched him for a moment, feeling something else in his chest and a slow wonderment over how very many sides Crowley seemed to have and just how well hidden they all were but the one he chose to front.

Perhaps that quiet admission would have meant nothing or not all that much to someone else, but Aziraphale was used to a lot of his own particulars being brushed aside and yet Crowley hadn’t. The man had been honestly teasing most likely but when it hit a nerve he had paused, looked, addressed it, then moved on to keep from making Aziraphale more uncomfortable. So it hadn’t looked like much, a brush off, a stumble in conversation perhaps, if not for that soft tone of voice. The careful eye contact. The pause.

Aziraphale had nearly thirty years of reading every minutia people revealed in situations more perilous  than this one and even with leaving that life, the skill and passive use of it hadn’t faded. So he noticed it all. Noticed that the loud mouth Crowley, prone to bluster, cutting wit, and dramatics, had decided to stop and be understanding, soft even, for just a moment.

Crowley was still prattling on about the plant, seemingly a touch nervously now.

Ah. He hadn’t yet responded had he? How terribly rude to leave the dear hanging like that after such a kindness. A kindness he hadn’t had anything to gain by.

Perhaps he was still so used to the cruelty of the life he left behind and that was why that small kindness had surprised him and meant so much at the same time.

Crowley picked up the pot and turned to face Aziraphale finally, somewhat half hidden by the plant.

“So. What do y’think?”

Aziraphale smiled terribly fond and reached out to gently run his fingers across a leaf.

“It’s lovely.”

“Ngk.”

-

“You are ridiculous.”

Crowley scowled at the computer screen, knowing that even while being on the other side of the internet that Anathema would be able to tell. “Am not. Shuddup. Are you gonna help me or not?”

She cackled. “With this quest? Sure!” And as if to prove the point, she hexed the monster that had spawned behind them while they were talking and began attacking them.

Crowley groaned, “no you witch,” she laughed and he ignored it, “with the book.”

“For your problem customer? God you really are being ridiculous, just ask him out already.”

Crowley groaned in real life while simultaneously eliminating three more of the threats in their game AlwaysWinter. “Not everything is about that Anathema.”

He could hear her eye roll. “Whatever you say, you closeted romantic. This cave’s clear. Which way?”

“Left. The boss’s right and once we beat him we wont be able to come back.”

They continued for a while, just clearing the remaining monsters and looting the dungeon’s branches, chattering about the game or Anathema’s day. Then as they made their way back to the final cave with the boss and it’s goons, Anathema asked. “What is it about then?”

“What’s what about?”

“Oh don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

Crowley snorted.

“Crowley.”

He groaned. “Fine. Whatever.” He was silent for a moment, staring unseeing at the boss as they came to a stop just outside of the entrance of the cave. A few more steps and they’d trigger the boss battle and he wouldn’t have to talk.

She’d never let it go if he did that. She’d just hound him as soon as they were done. At least this way, he could just blurt something out and then start the boss battle after she got one line in and maybe the conversation would be dropped after that.

He sighed. “It’s just- he’s, ugh.. this is dumb- ridiculous.”

“Is not.”

“Of course you wouldn’t think it is. You just want blackmail material on me.”

She laughed. “As if I don’t have enough of that already. You’re stalling flower boy.”

He groaned. He didn’t like this. Or he did. It was hard to tell anymore. Was it freeing to be more honest, more vulnerable with someone you could trust? Or was it bloody terrifying?

“He’s ridiculous, fussy, funny, kind, and a bit of a bastard. I just- I’d- I fucking hate this. I just want to befriend him. Is that good enough for you?”

Maybe he was a bit more aggressive than warranted at the end there but Anathema didn’t say anything, just was quiet for a moment. Just as the anxiety was starting to itch beneath his skin at the thought of having pissed her off, she softly said “you really are sweet Anthony.”

“I am not! I shouldn’t have told you- I’m-”

“-yes yes, you’re scary and mean. What I mean is that’s really sweet. You should have more friends and I think it’s sweet that you want to befriend him.”

“Feel like a bloody high schooler saying it like that.” He complained, dragging his hands down his face  in exasperation, careful not to dislodge the headset he was wearing. Two months of sporadic meetings with the man and he still hadn’t figured out a way to befriend him or make it all sound normal in his head.

In a mocking ‘there, there’ kind of tone Anathema cheerfully added, “and you’re just as bad at it as one!”

“Are you ready to start the boss battle?” He asked a touch desperately, trying valiantly to move past all of this.

“Oh fine, you big ba- CROWLEY What the hell are you doing?!”

“I’m not doing anyt-” his indignant tone spluttered to a halt as he dragged his hands away from his face to look up at his screen just in time to see his character charging in through at least three groups of minions and heading straight towards the boss.

“Just because you want to run away from your feelings DOESN’T MEAN LITERALLY RUN STRAIGHT INTO THE BOSS BATTLE YOU-”

There’s a weightless moment where the blood in his veins freezes, his heart trips on the next beat, and his mind throws itself into a figure eight of panic trying to figure out who found him. And then Warlock’s symbol pops up on his screen, three sixes connected by the stems to make a looping circle figure, and then Warlock’s voice itself hacks into their voice chat yelling “LEEEEEEROY JENKINS!” and all of the breath Crowley was holding rushes out in choked off laugh.

“Who the-” Anathema starts but Crowley cuts her off because he can’t help the feeling of pride that just swelled, “my little hellion! You’re getting better- you didn’t even set off any of my firewalls this time.” Not a peep, and that wasn’t easy to do, Warlock really was getting better in leaps and bounds.

“Little hellion?” Anathema mutters lowly, thinking, as Crowley finds all of his control over the computer is stripped away. The mouse, the keyboard, everything but the voice chat left open for him to still communicate with them. He’s pulling out his laptop when she goes, “oh! So this is one of the kids!”

“Not a kid!” Warlock retorts, offended, and this is good, good, because he’s distracted allowing Crowley some more element of surprise.

“Oh? How old are you then?”

“Sixteen!”

“Sixteen? Who taught you Leeroy Jenkins?!”

“Nanny did!”

Bewildered, Anathema disbelievingly repeats, “Nanny?!”

He’s not going to try and retake control over his desktop computer, a hacking tug-o-war over it would be fun but--

“Oi! Do not kill my character Warlock!”

“Well hurry up and take back control of your computer! You’re getting slow in your old age, Nanny.”

“Slow?! Are you telling me you can’t keep a simple character-” now surrounded and being beat on by no less than twelve minions and a boss “-from dying for five minutes? Some gamer you claim to be.”

His character’s health is dropping dangerously low and it keeps getting stunned and really Crowley needs to look away and focus on getting past Warlock’s firewalls, which have gotten better, good boy, “and don’t think I didn’t notice you not helping Anathema!”

She laughs, “I’m just enjoying the show, Nanny.”

At the same time Warlock and Crowley both make noises of objection to that.

“-guh-wah-Anathema!”

“Hey!! Only I get to call Nanny that!”

“Okay, okay!” She backs off with a bemused laugh, “can’t say I expected that.”

“Full of surprises, me.” Crowley snarked back, half distracted by hacking into Warlock’s computer and yet unable resist sassing back.

“Why are you guys playing this lame game anyways?”  Warlock broke in impatiently, trying to hide the fact that no matter how fast he’s picking up the controls and powers, he might be too late to save Crowley’s character from an unfortunate death.

“Because he doesn’t have enough friends to play dnd with.”

“Excuse you! Where are all of your friends to play dnd with, witch girl?”

“Oh my godddd that’s even lamer!”

“Oh as if you didn’t pick the standard tiefling warlock the first time you played, little hellion.”

“Nanny!! How do you even know about that?!”

Anathema’s cackling in the background is the perfect soundtrack for this moment. He hits the last key and lets the grin take over his face as he seizes control of Warlock’s computer at home. “You had your first game online.”

“You spied on me?!”

“Nah. As soon as I figured it was dnd I buggered off, didn’t want interrupt your game with one of our wars.” Crowley paused, finally figuring out just what was in Warlock’s tone just then, “oh? Wait- did you do something embarrassing that I should find out about?”

“No!!”

That was a yes then. Oh what-

“God take back your character already Nanny!”

“Eh, I’ve got something better.”

“Wait- crap-”

“Language-”

“As if! Just- wait before you shut my computer down!”

“...alright. What?”

“My dad’s got this thing coming up and I may have left your business card with him.”

“May have?”

“Okay fine. I definitely left it. And probably forged a promotional email from you to him.”

“Warlock!”

“It’s fine! I swear it’s fine!”

As reassuring as that was, Crowley was still digging through the boy’s hard-drive looking for the evidence, “you don’t even have my business card.”

“Noooo,” he drew out, “but, uh, it wasn’t hard to recreate. Not sure if I got the right paper but dad doesn’t really notice that kind of thing anyways.” A muttered, barely heard, “he doesn’t notice anything really.”

Crowley found it finally and took a moment to sit and look at it. Surprisingly, it was done really well. It matched his business card and website and could, actually, look like a real email from his business. If he was the sort to keep up with emailing. Newsletters were a bit out dated for him and honestly, most emails like that tended to be entirely too annoying to read so he figured he wasn’t loosing out on too much business that way. Though it would ring as more legitimate for his business to have both to a rich snob like Warlock’s unfortunate father.

He’d been quiet too long evidently, because Warlock’s voice came through less confidently than usual as he asked, “was that not alright?”

He probably only meant well, and, well, it’s not like Crowley couldn’t use the business.

“Nah, it’s fine. You did a really good job on the email, almost looks like I could have sent it myself.”

He could practically hear both the relief and eyeroll over the headset from Warlock. “If you ever sent emails you mean.”

“Eh. Outdated. Anyways, when’s this event? Hold on- does this say- it says I’ll set up and arrange the flowers on site!”

“Uhhh… Yeah?”

Crowley groaned, “no no, I’ll figure it out. ‘s just a pain to do by myself.”

Anathema, sensing a weak point, jumped in, “maybe you should hire someone to help you out at the shop then.”

Crowley groaned, “not this again Ana...”

“Don’t call me Ana and yes this again. I don’t understand why you feel the need to work yourself to the bone in that place by yourself.”

“I’ll call you Ana all I want if you’re gonna keep beating this dead horse. I don’t trust anyone else with the plants! Some of them are delicate and I don’t need any clumsy fingered dolts bruising them or-”

“-or harming them or blah blah blah, just get someone to help you transport them then! Or just run the cash register and not touch the plants!”

Crowley groaned.

“Yeeeah, I’m gonna go now,” said Warlock, the son of two parents who didn’t really get along and often fought.

“Ah, shit, sorry Warlock. Not a real fight, just a...”

“disagreement,”

“Dissagreement. We’ve been through this debate a hundred times and Ana doesn’t know when to stop-”

“-Only because you don’t know when to give in!”

“Anyway! It’s after 11pm on a school night, shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Well you see-”

“Goodnight little hellion!”

“No- wait!”

A moment of silence and then Anathema asked, “did you just shut down his computer?”

Crowled hummed a deviant agreement before adding, “and all his lights and phone.”

She was quiet for a moment. “That really is evil.”

“Eh. The phone’ll reboot in an hour and he knows how to unlock his computer- hey- wait a minute! When did my character die?!”

He stared mournfully at his dead character, had a moment of silence for his lost exp, and tried not to feel more betrayal at Anathema’s character hiding in the entrance of the cave than the boss and its minions standing over his dead body.

Anathema laughed.

[sheliesshattered]

The Impossible Soldier

Clara/Twelve AU from the end of The Caretaker. 3900 words, angst with a happy ending. Available on AO3 under the same title and username.

--

It took more fast talking than Clara wanted to think about, but she managed to disentangle herself from Danny, making excuses about helping the Doctor dispose of the alien-robot-thing somewhere where it wouldn’t hurt anyone. The look Danny gave her was too knowing, too kind, she couldn’t stand to face him. She wondered, not at all idly, if she could extend this trip in the TARDIS, talk the Doctor into an adventure before taking her home. She didn’t wonder if she would be able to lie to Danny about it when she got back — she’d gotten far too good at lying to him already. One more little fib wouldn’t change the fabric of their relationship in the slightest.

Of course, first she would have to face the Doctor, who was all stony silences and glowering eyebrows, even after they’d sent the Skovox Blitzer drifting off into deep space. What Clara needed was a distraction before this all came plummeting down around her ears. Quickly she paged through her memory for the name of a place they had considered visiting but hadn’t yet seen, settling on the first one that came to her.

“Before you take me home, I was thinking we could squeeze in a visit to—”

The Doctor cut her off with a look and the words died on her tongue. He threw the lever to send them back into the Vortex, holding her gaze.

“I’m not taking you home,” he said, voice low and threatening. “Or anywhere else. You still haven’t explained him to me.”

“Who? Danny?” she said lightly, trying to shrug it off. She needed distraction, not the Doctor hyper-focused on the one topic she couldn’t have him thinking about too deeply.

His expression soured further. “Feigned stupidity is not a good look on you, Miss Oswald.”

Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s my boyfriend,” she said, letting her tone make it clear that she didn’t see any reason they should be discussing this in the first place. “He’s a maths teacher and he’s my boyfriend and he’s perfectly ordinary. I don’t know what you expect me to explain.”

“Why him?” the Doctor bit out.

“Why does anyone date anyone?” she shot back, her mind horrifically blank of any reasonable answer to his question. Why Danny? Because that was the road she was on, and she didn’t have the luxury of skipping off onto a new one, magic blue box or not.

“You’re not just dating him, Clara,” he said, sharp. “You said so yourself, he’s more than that. And I need to know why.”

“It’s just one of those ridiculous little human oddities,” she said, before something much worse could find its way into her voice. “We date, we fall in love, we get married and make babies. Surely you’ve spent enough time around us to understand at least the basic outline of that.”

“There are more than seven billion humans on Earth in your time period, Clara. Why that one?”

“We’re coworkers,” she said levelly. “Lots of relationships start at work.”

“And you work with lots of people,” he countered, not giving her an inch. “Why P.E. out of everyone you could have chosen? Explain him to me!”

She could feel her temper rising, and tried to keep it under control. “First of all, he’s a maths teacher, not P.E. — or you could use his name, which is Danny, which you very well know. And secondly, there’s nothing to explain! I didn’t sit down and write out a list of pros and cons, I just met someone at work and we hit it off. If it’s confusing to you that’s only because it’s the sort of trivial thing that you usually ignore or delete or catnap through, or whatever it is you do.”

He snorted humourlessly. “If I could delete this, believe me I would, but you’ve made that impossible.”

“Why do you care?” Clara snapped, her patience running thin. “When you thought I was dating Adrian you actually seemed happy about it! But when I tell you it’s not Adrian, it’s Danny, suddenly it’s the end of the world!”

“I care because you’re lying!” he barked, gaze flicking to hers.

“I am not lying!” she insisted. She was an excellent liar, even when lying about lying.

“Yes you are! Lying to me, lying to P.E., that’s bad enough. But you’re lying to yourself, which is even worse!”

“How?” she demanded. “How am I lying to myself?”

The Doctor gave her a look like she was being intentionally obtuse.

“How, Doctor?”

“You said you love him!” he finally replied, the words bursting from him.

“I know what I said!”

“You can’t love him, Clara! You can’t be in love with a soldier!”

The nerve of the man! “What the hell is wrong with me being in love with a soldier?”

“He represents everything we fight against, every time we go out those doors!” the Doctor said, anger making his gestures sharp and sweeping. “And you want to build a life with him? Either you’re lying or you’re not the person I thought you were, and I’m not sure which is worse.”

Clara took a step back, wounded. “How dare you?” she demanded, retaking the ground she had lost. “It’s not like you left me with any other choice!”

“Me?? How is this my fault?”

“You’re the one who told me you are not my boyfriend! That was your decision, not mine!”

“I’m not your boyfriend!” he retorted, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh yes, you’ve made that very clear,” she hissed. “But that hasn’t stopped you from interfering in my love life, has it? ‘Accidentally’ showing up minutes before I’m meant to leave on a date, dropping my own future into the middle of my first time out with Danny! I didn’t even get to decide if I actually like him, you took that choice away from me too!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Orson Pink! The time-traveller from the end of the universe, who you just had to go and rescue and then send to fetch me during my date! It’s a wonder you didn’t erase him from history with that little stunt.”

“Clara, honestly, I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“You found him by using the trace of me still in the telepathic circuits, yeah? Someone connected to my timeline, from years in my future, who bore a striking resemblance to Danny, shared family name and everything.”

“Nope, still not getting it.”

She growled in frustration. “He’s my grandson, Doctor! Mine and Danny’s. Or great-grandson, maybe — I didn’t think it would be safe to press him for too many family details. And you sent him to interrupt my first date with the man I apparently someday marry and have children with! You showed me my own future, it’s not like I could just choose to walk away from Danny after that.”

“That’s not your future, Clara. That’s not how time works!”

“Now who’s lying?” Clara scoffed at him. “I’ve travelled with you long enough to have picked up a few things, Doctor. I am not an idiot. This is exactly like Professor Palmer and Emma Grayling, down to the time-travelling descendent.”

The Doctor paused before replying, watching her expectantly, as though waiting for her to catch the flaw in her own logic. “And if you remember, I wasn’t able to return young Miss Tacorien to her own time!” he said finally. “Her disappearance was a fixed point, we couldn’t change that. But we were able to take Colonel Pink back to his time, and do you know why? Because in the end, he didn’t matter that much to the universe. He’s a potentiality, one possible future, that’s all!”

“But I’ve seen that future now! That must have made it some kind of fixed point.”

“You still get the choice, Clara, your life is still yours. And that still doesn’t explain why you’d chose to go out with a soldier in the first place!”

“Former soldier, and current maths teacher!”

“How ‘former’ can it be if he’s dressing up in uniform to teach all your impressionable pudding-brains how to be good little soldiers in their free time? Do you know, in some cultures, that’d be seen as downright ghastly, indoctrinating children that way.”

“You have no right to judge him like that!”

“Of course I have the right!” the Doctor thundered back. “I have the only right that matters! I fought in a bigger war than your Dan the Soldier Man will ever know! I have done worse things than he could ever imagine! And I have dedicated my life to ensuring that no one else ever has to live that way, no one else ever has to feel that pain! That is what we’re doing outside those doors!”

“You really can’t see it, can you?” Clara said. “How utterly hypocritical all of this is.”

“How can you travel with me and be in love with him? How can you be that hypocritical?”

“But me dating Adrian, that would have been fine? I could travel with you and go home to some floppy-haired, bowtie-wearing—”

“Adrian being your type makes sense! That I can believe! But when did soldiers become your thing?”

“When did soldiers become my thing?? When did I start believing in impossible heroes? Seriously? I’ll never understand how you can be a bloody intergalactic genius and still such an absolute idiot!” Clara seethed, storming towards the console with one destination in mind.

“What are you doing?” the Doctor demanded, rounding the console to keep her in sight.

“Ending this,” she bit back.

He moved to stop her, of course, but she’d already reached the control panel she needed. “Clara, whatever it is you’re planning to do—”

She slid her fingers into the telepathic circuit and closed her eyes, ignoring his threatening tone. “Show me the soldier I’m in love with,” she said to the TARDIS, voicing it out loud for the Doctor’s benefit.

“Don’t you dare!”

The console beeped, and Clara opened her eyes, meeting the Doctor’s ferocious, terrified glare. “Go on, Doctor,” she said coolly, nodding at the monitor, “see for yourself.”

“Lie to yourself all you want,” the Doctor spat back, eyes decidedly on her rather than the monitor. “The telepathic circuits can’t be so easily fooled.”

“Exactly. You know whatever’s on that screen is the truth. So go on, look.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then turned away and pulled the monitor to him with harsh movements. Clara watched the emotions track across his expressive face, anger replaced by confusion, then shock and disbelief. She didn’t need to be able to see the image on the screen to know who was staring back at him. There was only one face it could be. She’d tried to hide it from him for his own good, and clearly that had gotten them nothing but trouble.

She was done hiding. If the Doctor insisted on absolute honesty, he could live with the consequences.

“Him?” he demanded, looking over at her.

“You said it yourself, I can’t lie to the telepathic circuits.”

He turned back to the monitor, disbelief still etched deeply onto his face. “Really??”

“Former soldier, trying to do the right thing but carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and those big sad eyes? Yeah, you could say I have a type.”

The Doctor opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again, confounded. “But him? Grumpy granddad?”

She huffed a suppressed, annoyed laugh and extracted her hands from the telepathic circuit. “Technically he’s more than a thousand years younger than you.”

“In love? With him??” he demanded again. “You hardly knew him for a single day!”

Clara rolled her eyes, still too infuriated with him to find any of this endearing. “He is you, you idiot! But when you changed your face, you made it clear that you don’t think of me in that way, and that’s — that’s fine. I can respect that. But don’t you dare lecture me on falling in love with soldiers, don’t you dare. I never so much as gave one a passing glance before you.”

“I’m not a soldier, Clara,” he sighed, rubbing at his forehead.

“Neither is Danny! Not anymore.”

“And that’s why you love him,” the Doctor said, voice subdued.

She bit down on the tortured sob that tried to escape her chest and said as evenly as possible, “If I was in love with him, then his face would have come up on the monitor.” And if there had been a shadow of a doubt in her mind as to whose face the telepathic circuits would pull from her thoughts, she never would have risked it.

“But you said—”

“Danny is nice and normal and stable and everything I should want. And apparently there’s a future for us, a future that leads to Orson Pink. I just have to keep it together and not screw things up long enough for it to get here. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“To shut you up,” she told him honestly, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “I didn’t want you looking at it too closely. It was hard enough managing Danny’s reactions to the whole thing. I couldn’t have you blurting out the obvious truth in front of him, not if I want that future with him.”

“Obvious?” the Doctor scoffed.

“I thought it would be, to you. I’ve never been particularly good at hiding my feelings for you. Complete strangers pick up on it every other week, seems like.”

“And do you? Want that future with him?”

She looked up at him, held his gaze until she had to blink back tears. “Do I have any choice? Really? Now that I’ve met Orson Pink, now that I’ve seen that future — now that I’ve told you the truth and destroyed the comforting lie we’ve lived with for so long? You’ll leave, Doctor.”

“I won’t,” he interrupted her, but she took a deep breath and plowed ahead.

“You will. If not today, then someday, you’ll leave and you won’t come back. And I’ll have to make the best of it, move on with the rest of my life. So this is me,” she spread her arms wide, half a shrug, “making the best of it.”

She let her words settle into the silence around them, staring up at him so he could see the truth of it. There was really nothing else to say, and she didn’t know how to face his rejection yet again, so she turned towards the stairs. She could go hide away in her bedroom until the Doctor decided to take her home. If she was lucky, he would add this to the long list of moments they resolutely did not discuss, and they could go back to the precarious balance they’d lived with since he’d regenerated.

And if she was unlucky, well — she’d always known she would have to move on. She’d always known she would leave this with her heart broken. Part of her didn’t want to delay the inevitable any longer.

“He was in love with you too, you know,” the Doctor said, his low voice halting her in her tracks with her back to him.

“Who?” she asked, not turning around.

“That grumpy old soldier you met. You breezed in like a miracle on the worst day of his life, and stayed his hand from committing the most evil act imaginable. He was utterly besotted with you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and felt a tear track down her cheek. “But not anymore,” she murmured, and took another step towards the stairs.

“Clara,” the Doctor said. Quick footsteps closed the distance between them, and he caught her hand in his, spinning her to face him. His blue eyes were tortured, ancient and anguished. “He never stopped.”

Another tear slipped down her face but she forced a little smile. “A part of you will always love me for who I was to you on that day. I understand. But it’s not enough. That’s a past, not a future.”

He was still holding her hand, and dropped his gaze towards it. “Do you want that future with Danny?” he asked, voice gravelly. “That nice, normal, stable future? Is that what you want?”

Somehow it was easier to say when she didn’t have to look into the Doctor’s eyes. “I’m afraid if I admit even to myself that it isn’t what I want, Danny will know, and he’ll hate me for it,” she murmured.

“It’s still your life, Clara. You still get the choice,” he said again, so much gentler than before. He let her hand go, just as gently. “Seeing one potential future doesn’t rob you of that choice. If you choose Danny, I won’t— I won’t jeopardise it, I won’t stand in the way or question your choice. But...”

They hesitated in the buzzing silence of the console room, and Clara couldn’t help but feel that the TARDIS was holding her breath, too.

“But?” she prompted when the Doctor didn’t continue, too afraid to hope.

“You could make the other choice,” he said, finally looking up at her from underneath his brows. “It’s not just a part of me, Clara. It’s all of me, from the first moment you tumbled into my life. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs, but she had to know for certain, she had to hear it. “If you mean it, then say it,” she replied, voice cracking, knowing her control freak tendencies were bleeding through but unable to stop herself.

He huffed a soft laugh, as though thinking the exact same thing. “I love you, Clara Oswald,” he said, holding her gaze. “And I can’t stand the idea of you wasting your life on anything less than exactly what you want.”

Clara drew a shaky breath, feeling poised on the edge of a precipice. She wanted to cross the short distance between them, throw her arms around his neck and snog him breathless. She wanted to repeat the words back to him, she wanted to say them to him every day until the day she died. She wanted it to be true, for this really to be happening, but something held her back.

“What happened to ‘not your boyfriend’?” she asked instead, everything else she wanted to say crowding on her tongue.

The Doctor shook his head, looking away again. “I was trying to save you,” he said. “Trenzalore changed me. Not just my face, but all those centuries there without you. Watching the people of Christmas die around me, the years slipping through my fingers. You should want nice and normal and stable, everything I’m not. But I’m done making that decision for you.”

“I’ll die on you, too, you know,” she said, the words tumbling out of her, the stark truth of their inevitable tragedy as painful as the idea of walking away from him now. He winced and turned his face further from her, but she reached up and laid her palm on his cheekbone. “No, listen to me. If we choose this future, if we’re really going to do this,” her voice broke and she swallowed past it, willing herself to be brave, “then we’re doing it with our eyes wide open. No more lies, no more hiding. We can have this, we can take this time and make it ours, but it won’t mean anything if we aren’t honest with each other. You will outlive me.”

He finally turned his gaze back to hers, eyes bright blue through gathering tears. “Clara,” he said, the plea clear in his voice.

She blinked back tears of her own, trying to hold to her bravery. “I know what you’re like when you’ve lost someone, I remember your other faces well enough to know that. And I am exactly selfish enough to want to sign you up for that pain again, a decade or five down the road. But if you don’t want it, if you don’t think you could...”

He took her hand from his face and kissed her knuckles. “It’s too late, anyway. First face this face saw. It’ll hurt no matter what we do.”

Clara hesitated, gathering her courage, and whispered, “Then maybe we ought to let ourselves be truly happy, in the time we do have.”

“The Doctor will outlive you,” he said, dropping her gaze again but holding tightly to her hand. “But this face might not. I wore the last face for almost a thousand years, but the one before that — less than a decade, and he made an awful fuss about going. I don’t want to put you through that again, but in the end I won’t have any say in the matter.”

“But you’ll still be you,” she said, trying not to think about how much pain that would cause both of them. “Those other faces of yours I met, the old solider and the one in the pinstripe suit, they were you, too. And all the others in my echo memories, they’re all you.”

He shook his head. “You knew all that the day I regenerated, and it still hurt you. I don’t want to put you through that again.”

He was giving her an out, she realised, a way to accept his confession but still go back to Danny. You still get the choice. And this was it, then, the moment of truth. What was it that she really, truly wanted? A safe, stable life on Earth, children and grandchildren someday? Or roaming the universe with the man she loved?

Like it had ever really been a question.

“We’ll both just have to be careful, then,” she whispered, gazing up at him. “No dying for either of us.”

The Doctor raised his eyes to hers, questioning. “Clara...”

“Is this what you want?” she asked him before he could retreat behind excuses. “To build a life with me? Just you and me, for however long we get?”

When he spoke next it was barely a breath, but it hit Clara with the force of a supernova, her universe collapsing and reforming itself around one word:

“Yes.”

She smiled up at him tremulously, though she could feel tears gathering in her eyes again. “Then I’ve made my choice.”

“You’re certain?” he pressed.

“Always have been. I just didn’t realise it was a choice I could make.”

“And Danny?”

Clara took a deep breath and blinked back her tears. “I think at some level, he already knows. Knows how I feel about you. He doesn’t like being lied to, and said he doesn’t do weird. He’ll understand, might even be relieved.”

Guilt flashed across the Doctor’s face. “I didn’t mean to make you choose between us.”

“You didn’t make me choose, Doctor,” she said, smiling at him and reaching up to touch his cheek again. “You gave me back the choice. It’s not a decision I’ll regret.”

He searched her face for a long moment, his expression as open and unguarded as a raw nerve, his love for her plain to see. “Just you and me, for however long we get?” he said, repeating her words back to her.

“For as long as we get,” she said, then pushed up on her toes and kissed him.

[salmonthestoryteller]

Unclean

I wrote this for Michael Guerin Week - Pre-canon and/or “the lost decade”

I went with Pre-canon, so I could explore Michael’s childhood - with an emphasis on what he went through with the group he stayed with on his return to Roswell.

Trigger Warning for Child Abuse, and please take that very seriously.

This is very much Hurt with No Comfort, so please be aware of that as well.

Unclean A Roswell New Mexico Fanfic

Michael is eleven when he returns to Roswell.  He’s learned a lot of things in the years since he emerged from the pod.  He’s learned how to speak.  Which is good, because not speaking had drawn attention he didn’t like.  Pitying looks, and whispers behind palms that said something wasn’t quite right with him. He’s also learned that knowing how to talk and being listened to are two different things.  He’s learned to read and write, though he rarely has the chance to do so outside of school.  Books are kindling, not something to be enjoyed, as far as the meth-heads are concerned.  He’s learned not to bring his schoolbooks home, but keep them in his locker or hidden somewhere else.

He’s learned how to count, and measure.  He’s learned how much pennies and quarters scrounged from couch cushions and the bottom of the washing machine can buy.  He’s learned how to steal food when he can’t find enough.  He’s learned that as long as he spends the coins he finds, his caretakers never miss them.  But if the drunk who he’s stuck with for two years finds him hoarding them - that won’t go unpunished.

He learns loneliness.  He learns pain.  He learns fear.

He’s not particularly scared on his treks to Foster Ranch.  If anything, the starry night sky and stretches of highway and desert seem safer than any place he has ever lived on Earth.  Sometimes there’s a feeling, like a fleeting memory, that invades his dreams when he sleeps under the stars.  A feeling of belonging.  Of safety.

In his waking hours, he never feels either.

He figures the religious freaks who run the group home can’t be worse than what he’s known. Outwardly, he’s right.  There are no drugs or alcohol to be found, and the housing is spotless.  There is a bed, a blanket, and a desk for every child to do their homework on.  He’s never stayed someplace so clean.  After finding Max and Isobel again, he almost feels like things might be looking up.

He’s wrong.  He learns about duplicity.  About prejudice.  About hatred.  He abandons the notion that any humans are good.

It starts out simple enough.  With chores, and a schedule, and church every Sunday.  He’s not used to a schedule, though.  He’s not used to being expected to do things, because what he’s always been expected to do is stay out of the way.  Apparently not understanding what they want from him isn’t an acceptable excuse.

“If anyone sins and does what is forbidden in any of the Lord’s commands, even though they do not know it, they are guilty and will be held responsible.”  One of the adults quotes, as if it makes any sense.

They have a punishment, and a quote, for everything, he learns.  Forgetting chores means being made to do things like clean the bathroom floor with a toothbrush. Taking food between scheduled meals and snacks means not only being denied the next meal, but being made to stand and watch as everyone else eats.

When he’s caught looking for loose change, he’s accused of stealing, because any loose change found is to go in a donation jar.  That’s what leads to his first beating at the home.  He’s made to get down the switch from the wall, and all the other children are rounded up to watch him be punished.  Humiliation is new - he’s pretty sure he prefers being invisible.

“No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.”  He’s told after.

He watches one of the workers wash another boy’s mouth out with soap after he is caught swearing.

“But shun profane and vain babblings: for they will increase unto more ungodliness.”

A girl’s hair is chopped off after she is caught decorating it with ribbons and barrettes she secretly bought.

“In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.”

They are gathered up to watch another boy be beaten with the switch for being caught with a Playboy magazine.

“Flee the evil desires of youth and pursue righteousness, faith, love and peace, along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart.”

Two of the girls are caught sleeping in the same bed, and even though he knows the one suffers nightmares - everyone knows - it doesn’t stop the wrath of the adults.  They’re gathered to watch, and the girls are given twice as many switches as any other punishment he’s witnessed yet.

“To kill wrong desires, which lead to wrong actions, you need to control your thinking. If you regularly fill your mind with wholesome thoughts, you can more readily dismiss wrong desires.”  

He runs away to Foster Ranch that night, spends it under the stars.  Wishes for a world he can’t remember.  No dreams of safety and belonging come.  He wonders if he’d only ever imagined the feelings.

They lock him in the basement when he returns, where he spends hours alone in the dark.

“Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest and repent.”

He’s tired of their quotes, and their punishments.  The next time they’re gathered to watch a beating a picture falls from the wall.  The next time he’s made to miss a meal, a dining room chair scrapes across the floor.  It’s not until he’s made to clean the hallway with a toothbrush, and every picture in it crashes to the ground, that he realizes it might be his doing.

“You cannot drink the cup of the Lord and the cup of demons too; you cannot have a part in both the Lord’s table and the table of demons.”  The adults warn them at dinner that night.

He’s pretty sure he would know if he somehow called on the powers of darkness.  After a few tests with Isobel and Max, he discovers he can make it happen on purpose.  He can make things move.  It’s the best thing that’s happened since finding Max and Isobel again, and he begins to play with his ability more and more when he’s alone.

The good news is the practice lets him lift heavier items without getting tired.  Lets him hold them up longer.

The bad news is this means the same when his powers explode outward without meaning to.  More and more, the workers at the group home start eyeing him when things happen.  When chairs slam into the walls, and tables get knocked over because he’s angry, always angry.  He hates how they excuse their cruelty as being for the good of the children in their care.  He hates their rules and their schedules and their quotes.

He hates that sometimes the quotes sneak into his mind and make him wonder if he’s wrong in some way.

One of the women from the group home catches him practicing. She opens the door while he's levitating a pencil, and even though he drops it right away, she crosses herself and backs out of his room.  He hopes that will be the end of it, but it isn’t.

If it had been any other time during the year he’d have been in school, but it’s summer and it isn’t as if he’s ever needed to retake a course.  He sees her speaking to the priest on Sunday.  She makes him go into the basement Monday morning.

At first, he thinks it’s a regular punishment.  When she comes back, though, the priest is with her.  At first, it seems simple enough.  They pray and toss holy water on him.  But as the hours go on and he tries to get up, he’s forced back into the chair.  Eventually, they tie him to it.

He’s hungry, and tired, and has to use the bathroom, but they don’t care.  The first time he loses control of his bladder, his cheeks burning with humiliation, the priest throws more holy water on him- claiming that him “defiling” himself was proof of his possession.  As night sets in, he begins to shiver from the cold.  Once again, the priest claims it’s proof that he’s possessed - that the demon inside of him is causing his body to shake.

If they would just leave him alone, he could use his powers to escape, but they don’t.  They take shifts, praying constantly and ignoring anything he says.  He begs them to let him go, but the priest keeps saying he isn’t fooled by the demon’s trickery.

Michael isn’t even sure how he loses control of his bladder a second time when he hasn't had anything to drink, but the acrid smell makes him throw up.  He hasn’t had any food since Sunday dinner, and it’s early Wednesday.  The priest only says again that it’s the demon’s doing - proof that he's being controlled by something evil.

They finally give him water, but no food.  He tries to use his powers to scare them.  To move and break things in the cellar.  He only needs a moment alone to get out and away.  Instead, the priest heats his metal cross over a candle and presses it into his skin. His forearm is first - the metal sizzles where it touches him - the pain is the worst he’s known and Michael can’t hold back his screams.  The smell of his own flesh burning hits him next, making him gag as the priest repeats the process on his upper arm.

“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil."

How ironic is it that their angel has his name, yet he’s being accused of being a demon?

"May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into hell all the evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls.”

He loses control of his powers, the force of it exploding outward all around him - rattling everything in the basement.  Afterwards, he passes out.

When he wakes up, he’s laid out on the floor with the woman and the priest leaning over him, asking if he’s alright.  Does he remember anything from his possession?

Terrified they might start the exorcism again, he insists he can’t remember any of the last week.  The woman sobs, thanking God and the priest for saving his soul.

The priest eyes him suspiciously and warns them it might not be over.  “Demons may be exorcised, or driven out, from a possessed person,” he cautions.“However, this may be dangerous if not followed by stringent cleaning and discipleship. Without proper spiritual care, the person might then be open for a seven-fold infestation.”

Michael barely suppresses a shudder when the woman instantly says they’ll do it again if they have to.  Only then is he allowed to go upstairs and clean himself up.  The clothing is a lost cause.  He wads it up and stuffs it into the bathroom trash.  The smell from them is so strong it starts to fill the small space, and he ends up tying up the bag to throw away when he’s finished cleaning himself.  There’s a medkit in the bathroom with burn cream in it, and he applies it to the marks he can reach.  He pulls on a hoodie afterward - tugging the sleeves down to hide the marks even though he knows you aren’t supposed to cover burns.  He can’t look at them; doesn’t want anyone else to see them.  He follows every fucked up rule without hesitation for the next week.

He’d planned to sneak out the night of his birthday, but fear of another exorcism makes him ask permission to go camping instead, stressing it’s with Max and not mentioning Isobel at all.  The head of the group home agrees, though the woman who did the exorcism watches him warily.  She approaches him before he leaves to give him a rosary.  He takes it so he can escape out the door before things escalate.

If, on the way back to the group home after burying a body in the middle of the desert, he finds himself fingering the rosary, it’s only because his hands are still shaking from shock.

“And nothing unclean, and no one who practices abomination and lying, shall ever come into it, but only those whose names are written in the Lamb's book of life.” He finds himself quoting, and hates himself for it.

He’s felt like the group home has been trying to convince him that he’s wrong and unclean since he’d first arrived.  Now, after using his powers to bury a body, he isn’t sure he’ll ever feel clean again.

End

SuburbanSun beta-ed the absolute mess this fic was when I begged for help with it.  Thank-you! Thank-you!  I probably should have begged for more help after I finished fixing it up, so any remaining errors are definitely all on me.

Long Mostly Unnecessary Author Notes:

I’ve wanted to write a fic focusing on the exorcism since episode 01x06 aired, and episode 01x10 only made me want to write it more.

I have a life long fascination with all things supernatural, so I’ve actually read and watched a lot of things about exorcisms - both about what is supposed to be done if going through official channels (which actually involves a ton of medical and psychological testing and can take years to be approved), and what happens when some zealot decides they can just take things into their own hands. (Which in some cases I’ve read about led to the death of those involved.)

That being said, and I’ve admitted this as a writer in previous fandoms while attempting to write about religious characters, I am agnostic. So any and all religious references have truly only been moderately researched.  I apologize if that has led me to making any blazing errors.

Michael mentions in 1x10 that the group involved were “Fundamentalist Religious Freaks.” Fundamentalist, according to the dictionary, is a person who believes in the strict, literal interpretation of scripture in a religion. Which to me says that they’re the types who follow the letter and not the meaning of what they preach.

Even though both young Michael to Max, and older Michael to Alex, basically shrug off this group as being crazy, we know he was in their care for a minimum of three years (11-14).  He may have been in their care up to 16 or 17 since he makes no more mention of another group home or foster parent and we don’t know when exactly he started living homeless.  So that makes it 3-6 years he stayed with them.  That’s a lot of years, and I feel like on some level, especially coming to them at 11, it would have affected his thoughts about right and wrong and himself,  whether he admitted it or not, so I wanted to hint at that as well.

[daresplaining]

oh my god check out the ew article

    Yes! There’s a lot of really interesting (though slightly spoilery) material in there. Let’s take a look…

“‘When he wakes up in Daredevil season 3, his heightened senses are failing, Elektra’s gone, and he’s presumed dead. ‘Matt starts the season broken physically, broken emotionally, and broken spiritually,’ new showrunner Erik Oleson says. […] Despite being barely alive, Matt quickly ventures back into the streets — not to look for justice, but for an exit entirely. ‘Matt goes to pretty much the darkest place you can,’ Oleson says. ‘When he realizes that he’s incapable of being Daredevil, he would rather just end it than go forward in his life without abilities.’”

    That’s… intense. A while ago I wrote a post covering the topic of suicide in the comics (not a prominent theme, but something that has come up once or twice), and this seems to imply that next season will be venturing into that territory. That is really dark, even for Matt (again, it doesn’t come up that much in the comics) and kind of horrifying from a character standpoint. What adds fuel to this is the suggestion that he is losing his hypersenses, which is also very scary and something we’re really eager to see. He will be starting the season with literally nothing, and seeing him cope with that kind of a situation can be really, really powerful when handled well. The fact that the thought of a life without his hypersenses terrifies him is in-character (and is also discussed in that post, actually), but Matt is such a resilient, stubborn person that I’m eager (but also kind of scared) to see how this implied suicidal urge develops, and how he frees himself from it. 

“That also means isolating his inner circle. Neither best friend Foggy Nelson nor ex Karen Page know Matt’s alive, and when Matt finally reaches out to the former, Foggy doesn’t exactly welcome him back with open arms — even if they’re reuniting over drinks. ‘Foggy has been trying to move on from Matt’s memory, or at least move on with his life,” Oleson says. “If you thought one of your close friends was dead and he decided not to tell you he survived, you would probably have some issues with that.’”

    I’d assumed (knowing Matt) that it would take him a while to tell his loved ones that he was still alive. But since that plot point is being revealed here already, it might happen sooner than anticipated. This type of reunion is about as emotionally charged as you can get, and I can’t freaking wait to see how that plays out. I have to say that since Matt and Foggy have spent so much time in this show fighting, I really hope this is used as an opportunity for them to finally make some kind of peace. 

“As if those weren’t enough problems for a defeated blind vigilante to deal with, several new characters will enter Matt’s orbit soon, Oleson says. Sister Maggie joins as ‘a tough, Hell’s Kitchen-born-and-bred nun,’ FBI Agent Ray ‘carries the heart of the season,’ and ‘a psychologically tortured FBI sharpshooter’ played by Wilson Bethel ‘could teeter towards good or towards evil, depending on who is manipulating or inspiring him.’”

    Heck yeah! Maggie had better be hardcore beyond belief. I’m hoping they use the Waid version of her origin, and am both excited and nervous to see what they do with her. I’m a little picky about Maggie, because I love her so much. Agent Ray seems to be a new character, so that’s intriguing. And Bethel’s character is 99.9% probably Bullseye, who can be really cool when handled well, so my fingers are crossed! The concept of his morality being heavily influenced by those around him is a really intriguing approach, so I’m hopeful! It suggests that they might go with an extremely loose translation of the arc in Nocenti’s run where Matt and Bullseye switch costumes, which is a great story and a compelling way of digging into their relationship.  

“Most worrying of all, season 1 big bad Wilson Fisk (Vincent D’Onofrio, back after a brief appearance in season 2) has begun carrying out a new master plan to retake his throne. ‘Fisk has gotten smarter, more calculated, and more manipulative,’ says Oleson, adding that Fisk is the perfect villain for the drama to feel timelier than ever. ‘I very much wanted to tell a story that’s relevant to the world around us. I looked at the show as a way to examine how tyrants manipulate in order to push their own agenda and cause fear and distrust.’”

    This is all expected, but still very exciting, as we will finally get to see Fisk make his dramatic exit from prison after spending all this time setting the stage. Vanessa will also be back, which is possibly even more exciting, since we have no idea what she has been up to. All told, there’s a lot to look forward to here! 

[digigal-transbian]

Better to?

Is it better to be alive and constantly miserable? Or dead and know peace?

If I fail a class this semester, there is an extremely high likelihood that i will be pulled out of college for financial reasons. If that happens I've been told I will have no choices, my life will be ultimately destroyed. The only job I'd be able to get is a minimum wage, soul crushing mindless existence. I'd never be able to afford a second chance at college. I'd never be able to survive on minimum wage, I'd have to get two jobs and even then I'd barely make ends meet.

And that's if I was able to get a second job. I'd never know love because I'd be too busy trying just to survive and after that too tired to function. 2 full time jobs is not exactly free to have feelings like love. And with who I am, finding someone would be a damn miracle and god has already proven he shall have no mercy on me.

And the gods know I'd never have a lucky break with writing or art, if I even had the time or energy to put into either of them.

Every check just going to not being dead for another week, stuck in a job or if I'm lucky, 2, that I hate, barely making ends meet, all because when I was 19 I got cocky and ended up failing Precal or was forgetful and failed English because if it.

To be able to say, "I was young, dumb, sure of myself, and because of it I've amounted to nothing, never known love, was never able to have a family, and lived a fate comparable to hell on earth."

I've been religiously told this for the last 6 months by my parents. And 6 months is lowballing it.

My biggest fear is dying alone. My second biggest fear to be forgotten. If I fail both are going to happen. I'm going to die alone in a house that is barely holding together without a soul to remember me.

I'll be forgotten within a week of my death, if not, a month at most. Nothing I've ever done will have mattered, ultimately I was just a waste of the universes time, even if I did make a couple peoples days just a little bit brighter.

Is it better to live and be miserable with no hope, or to die and be done with it?

At this point it's basically pass or die. A 70 on my math final to pass and have to retake because of how it is with my major, an 85 on it to never take that class again, and with English I've done what I can and at this point all I can do is hope.

And don't any of you dare call me selfish for this. To call suicidal people selfish is selfish itself. You're only concerned about the impact that persons death would have on you or their family, worry about the person who wants to kill themselves because they are in pain or see no other option.

And never call me selfish. I've made every choice for somebody else. Choice in college was because if years of "if you go to clemson you'll make your grandfather proud." And he's the actual kindest person I've ever met of course I dont want to let him down, I couldn't get there on my highschool GPA or ACTs so I found some backass method to get there. CSU has an applied math program that does 4 years there, 2 years at Clemson and you get two degrees for the 6 year period.

My father was all for that for the reason of being able to rub it in my aunts and uncles faces.

This is the same man that punched a brick wall hard enough to let out a blood curdling scream, make the house shake from the punch, and instill the fear of death in a child because a 12 year old didnt do his English homework. Why that 12 year old didnt do their homework? Just didnt want to, so over time did less and less of it.

Which is a legitimately normal thing by the way, 6th graders dont always want to do their homework and of course they are going to lie about it, dont act like his responce was in any way justifiable.

The man to this day still threatens to pin me to a wall and beat the shit out of me if I lie to him again, which wouldnt be as much of an issue if he didn't terrify me to the point of never telling him anything ever again out of fear for my life.

My choice of major was because of him. I wanted to be a doctor for a while but then my mom spent a collective 5 years dying in the hospital, so that dream died. No fault to her she couldn't control it. I then wanted to be a psychiatrist, therapist, that deal. Made the mistake of mentioning it around dad and got told promptly "it's not a real job." 10 year old me gave up on that real quick.

Then it went lawyer for a while because I figured a good paying job will be acceptable, hes always on about money anyways. After months upon like a year or something of "oh it's a lot of school and it's really hard and are you sure about it?" That dream too, was killed.

So the next thing I said was computers. Nothing more, nothing less, and it was finally acceptable. It was the most predicatable answer out of me and the first one to really be approved of. So for years i was content not having my dreams put down, then came college and I put my dreams down for computer engineering, on the track to clemson.

I then changed my major to computer science and over time put some thought into my actual interests.

Astronomy, the language of the stars. Physics, the language of the universe. Linguistics, the study of language. Writing, where you can be a god of your own little world. Geology, because rocks are just cool yo. Intetior Design, every time dad drags me to work with him I sit around and mentally start designing each room. And at the bottom of the list, Computer Science.

And the final mistake made in this whole college thing, I applied to only 1 college and to 0 scholarships. The scholarships I got are state ones, and I was told to keep a 3.0 GPA, which if you've ever seen one of my report cards you know how bad of an idea relying on that is. You have to have no idea what any of my report cards have ever looked like to think for a minute that trusting I will keep a B average for 6 years with no problems at all is even slightly a good idea.

So when my grades came in first semester, the night of December 13 I was legitimately shaking in fear for my life. December 23 when my parents found my grades out they gave me a 2~3 hour scream and then since then all my tech, aside from my phone and laptop, has been sitting in a tote box in my closet.

April they see my grades again and since then I havent been allowed to even have my door closed, and was strongly told that if I'm caught reading anything that isnt for school they'd burn it.

I could have probably avoided half of this if I was just a little more selfish, but I made every choice for someone else. If I was just a little more selfish I would be in a college half the price of CSU in a major that wouldnt be my last choice. Were I just a little more self centered, I wouldn't fear my father killing me over my grades.

Maybe I'm so destructively selfless because every moment that was supposed to have been about me quickly became about someone else. High school graduation after the fact during the pictures I got pushed to the side so my cousins could have a picture of just them, when there literally were three other walls and outside that they could have done that. Have you ever taken a picture outside at night? It's got a beautiful magic about it, and the lights were on dont even try to say "oh it's too dark", also cameras tend to have a flash so that's no excuse to push ME out of the way on MY graduation day. Kinda a big deal to me because when you look at my extended family I am among the few that have graduated high school, like half of them haven't even done that.

My graduation party the next day, I was given my gifts and then ignored most of the rest of the time. I was there for about 6~7 hours, and relevant for about 15 minutes. My college acceptance letter was opened and read by my parents before I even woke up. In fact, they woke me up by yelling at me from the kitchen to get in there. I walk in there, they're at the table smiling like idiots that just won the Nobel prize, and they hand me an open letter and tell me to read.

And my birthdays result in me being relevant for ten minutes of the hour at the pizza hut, and most of that is being asked about school and grades. The rest of the time is my parents and grandparents bitching about my drug addict unfit parent cousins. Like, my birthday is supposed to be about me, not them. And I am more than just school and grades, you would not believe how long it took me to realize that.

I have one bit of advice for anyone that might need it. Live your life for yourself for your reasons and never let somebody else live through you.

[loganscanons]

The Final Straw

The story of what leads to Rhyder getting kicked out/running away.

Warning(s): verbal abuse, physical abuse, homophobic slurs

In hindsight, they should’ve gone to Rhyder’s room, where they’d at least be forewarned of anyone coming into the house. If Rhyder had been more careful that day, not so reckless, would he still be at home? No. Something would’ve run him out eventually. There would’ve been a crescendo, the culmination of all the animosity between him and his parents. Still, he often wished something else had been the final straw, something that wouldn’t have fucked him up for years to come.

Joey was a friend from school, one of those kids that adults pegged as an underachiever after taking one look. Shaggy, shoulder-length, black hair that he tried to cut himself and then never got fixed up, leaving it uneven and messy. Clothes that were always a couple sizes too big, so he was always hiking up his pants, despite the belt that cinched the fabric. Always in snapbacks or beanies, no matter how many times the teachers told him, No hats in school. A friendly, genuine boy, who liked skateboarding more than school. A boy who somehow managed to stay positive and avoid becoming jaded, even though he was the third oldest of nine kids living in two trailers in a trailer park.

In other words, he was the perfect friend for Rhyder, who stopped believing he had any hope in school when he had to retake first grade. Rhyder, whose clothes never fit either because his mom bought them from Goodwill and never asked for his size. Who always wore hats too and didn’t get along with most kids because they asked too many questions.

Joey and Rhyder were on the couch in the tv room, which merged into the kitchen. The kitchen had a door to the tiny mudroom with the washer and dryer. The mudroom that led to the garage. The garage that they wouldn’t hear open because they were playing rock music over Rhyder’s crappy little speaker.

“Look at this one,” Joey laughed, pointing at a photo in a magazine. A dirty magazine, one of the magazines that Joey had won from his older brother in a bet.

Rhyder tilted his head as he leaned close to get a better view of the picture, eyes widening slightly.

“It would be better if the pictures moved,” Rhyder said.

“Like in Harry Potter,” Joey said. “Damn, I bet they have dirty magazines with moving pictures.”

“What?” Rhyder asked.

“Come on, man,” he said. “Read the books. Or at least watch the movies.”

Rhyder shrugged and Joey turned the page, revealing a photo of two women kissing. A low whistle from Joey as Rhyder wrinkled his nose, trying to decide if he liked it or not. Was that feeling disgust or desire? He wasn’t sure.

“Isn’t that…wrong?” Rhyder asked, glancing at Joey.

Rhyder considered Joey to be much wiser than he was. With two older brothers, who’d given him tastes of beer and pot, Joey had much more experience. He kissed older girls at parties and according to some rumors, kissed boys too. Rhyder never asked him about the boys.

Joey looked at him with a curious expression and then asked, “Why would it be wrong?”

Shrugging, Rhyder said, “I don’t know. My parents say it’s a sin.”

“Your parents are pieces of shit,” Joey said and glanced back at the magazine.

There had been a few times in the past where Paul, Rhyder’s not-father, reprimanded Rhyder for being too affectionate with Joey. They shouldn’t sit so close to each other on the couch. They were too old to have their arms around each other when they walked. If he caught Rhyder behaving that way one more time, Rhyder better watch himself.

“Is a guy kissing a guy wrong?” Rhyder asked.

“No,” Joey said with a laugh. “It’s fun.”

Rhyder smiled but he felt his cheeks grow warm. The idea alone made Rhyder want to squirm. Joey always seemed to know best, so maybe he was right, maybe it really wasn’t wrong. But, why did Rhyder feel so terrible thinking about kissing a boy. What was the feeling that stirred in him when he imagined holding a guy, being held by a guy? Disgust or desire?

“Which do you like better?” Rhyder blurted impulsively. “Kissing boys or girls?”

“Do I have to like one better?” Joey asked.

“I…I don’t know,” Rhyder said. “Do you really like both? Like, actually?”

These were questions Rhyder wanted to ask for ages. Ever since he’d heard the first rumor that Joey kissed boys. And apparently once gave a guy a blowjob at a party. Joey knew everything; he always did.

“Yeah.”

“But, how?” Rhyder asked. “Can you like both? Or are you gay? No offense.”

“Why would it be offensive?” Joey laughed. “I don’t know, man, I don’t think I’m gay. I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I’m probably bisexual.”

“Bisexual? Isn’t that made up?”

“No, dude, not at all,” Joey said. He paused and then asked, “Didn’t you say you met gay people at your summer camp?”

“Yeah, but, I don’t talk to them,” Rhyder said. “Not because they’re gay, I just don’t really hang out with many people.”

“Maybe you should talk to them, dude,” he said. “Bein’ gay is way more normal then you think.”

“But, how do you know?”

Joey shrugged, “Just do. And, Kenny’s friend, you know, the tall, skinny one, he’s gay. He’s told me stuff.” Kenny was one of Joey’s older brothers.

“How do you know if you’re gay? Or bi-bisexual?” Rhyder asked.

“I don’t know,” Joey said. “I think you just do. Or you can, like, experiment, I guess.”

Rhyder sat back on the couch, chewing on his lower lip. If he was honest with himself, he thought about guys as much as he thought about girls, maybe even more than he thought about girls. Did that make him gay? Or was he bisexual? Or maybe he was just confused and didn’t like boys at all.

“Why?” Joey asked, leaning toward Rhyder. “You think maybe you like boys?”

Rhyder almost denied it, almost got defensive and angry. He would’ve, if he was talking to anyone else. The suggestion would have infuriated him. But, this was Joey. Joey knew more about him than anyone else.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Joey grinned and said, “Maybe I could help you find out.” He paused and then said, “But only if you want.”

He closed the magazine and tossed it aside, turning his body to face Rhyder. One leg hung off the edge of the couch, the other was folded in front of him. Heat flooded Rhyder’s cheeks and his first instinct was to pull back. Joey was relaxed, shoulders sloped forward, hands in his lap. A chill smile.

“You can’t tell anyone, Jo,” Rhyder said.

“Nah, man, of course not. That would be fucked up,” Joey said. “Besides, it’s not gay if we say, ‘no homo.’”

Rhyder laughed and lightly punched Joey’s shoulder. He may be clueless about all this, but he knew enough to know that was a joke.

“Okay,” Rhyder said. “No homo.”

“Yeah, no homo,” Joey laughed.

Then, he leaned forward and kissed Rhyder, one hand reaching to cup behind Rhyder’s head. The other on his neck. Rhyder was unsure of what to do with his hands, just as unsure as he’d been the first time he’d kissed a girl. He rested them lightly on Joey’s hips.

The kiss didn’t end quickly like Rhyder had expected. Joey seemed in no hurry to stop, so Rhyder decided he wasn’t either. He shifted closer to Joey and with a surge of confidence, slid his hand under Joey’s oversized t-shirt. No bra, no breasts, but Rhyder enjoyed this just as much. Maybe more.

They didn’t hear the garage door go up. The speaker sat on the coffee table, playing rock music that was just loud enough to obscure Joey’s hearing. Rhyder couldn’t easily differentiate between that many sounds when he tried, and he definitely wasn’t trying right now. The garage door went up. Car doors slammed. The mudroom door swung open. The mudroom door that had a clear line of sight to the end of the couch in the tv room, where two boys were kissing. Two boys that didn’t know they’d been caught.

“What the fuck is going on here!?” a voice roared. Rhyder’s blood turned cold and a sickness surged through him. He looked at Joey with wide eyes, who returned the look with just as much fear.

“Leave,” Rhyder whispered.

“But-” Joey started.

“Please, Joey,” Rhyder begged.

They pulled their bodies away from each other and Joey shoved the magazines into his backpack. He barely had the straps on his shoulders when Paul grabbed the front of his shirt.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?” Paul bellowed. “I always knew you were a bad influence! Now you’re turning my son into a fag? Get out! Get OUT! Get the fuck out of my house and don’t you ever fucking come back!”

Joey gave Rhyder a terrified glance and Rhyder gave him a short, reassuring nod. His friend tore from the house, racing to the front entry way. The front door slammed shut and Paul turned on Rhyder.

Paul was a large, round man, and when he got angry or drunk – usually it was both at once – he looked remarkably like a tomato. Round and red, with a tuft of brown hair on his balding head. Now that Joey was gone, Rhyder’s fear subsided. This was just another day. This would be over soon.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Rhyder?” Paul asked, giving Rhyder a shove. Rhyder moved with the shove, taking a step back and retaining his balance.

“What’s going on?” Rhyder’s mother, Kiara sighed. She tossed a pair of keys on the kitchen counter.

Kiara was pretty once. A tall, small-framed woman with silky, black hair and tanned skin. Bright brown eyes full of life, lined by thick lashes, paired with a radiant smile. In college, she’d fallen in with what her parents called the “wrong crowd.” Failed her classes, took to partying and smoking. Stopped carrying about her health. The warmth of her skin grew sickly, her silky hair damaged and straw-like. Dark circles lived permanently under her eyes and she’d long forgotten what a genuine smile was. She gave way to the compulsions she’d been fighting her entire life. The compulsions to steal, fill her purse with things she didn’t want or need, but that she had to have.

Kiara’s parents disowned her. She married Paul six months later, four months after she’d met him. They both had affairs. They both denied it. Kiara got pregnant and Paul never knew the baby wasn’t his. He didn’t suspect because he’d thought Kiara had stopped sleeping with anyone else months ago.

“Your disgusting son is acting like a faggot,” Paul hissed, grabbing Rhyder’s upper arm to drag him into the kitchen.

“What do you mean, dear?” Kiara asked. Her tone was disinterested and tired.

“I came inside and found him,” he spat, jerking his head toward Rhyder, “and that kid, Joey, kissing.”

Kiara straightened her posture, suddenly interested. With raised eyebrows, she asked, “Is this true?”

“So fucking what if it is?” Rhyder grumbled.

“Don’t you swear at your mother,” Paul yelled, hitting the back of Rhyder’s head.

Rhyder jerked away and said, “Don’t hit me.”

“It’s my right to hit you if you’re being insolent,” Paul hissed.

Rhyder said nothing. There was no fear in him. There wasn’t anything. He was empty, hollowed out, ready to take the blows and the yelling. Just another day, just another day.

“Really, Rhyder,” Kiara said. “Are you trying to make us angry? I swear, you can’t go five minutes without being bad.”

Again, he said nothing.

“You’ll never talk to that Joey again,” Paul said. “Do you understand me? Answer me, boy!”

He grabbed Rhyder’s arm again and shook him. Rhyder wretched himself away, taking a step to the left to create some distance between them. Paul crossed his arms, but his grip was still on Rhyder’s arm, the ghost of his fingers marking the skin. Rhyder didn’t feel it. He’d ignore the bruises tomorrow.

“This is really too far,” Kiara said. “This is too damn much, Rhyder. I really can’t believe this. You’re not gay and you never will be. Could you imagine what people would say if it got out that you,” she made a noise of disgust, “kissed a boy? Unbelievable, Rhyder. I swear, you’re trying to sabotage this family.”

The aggressive shouts from Paul continued, Kiara’s quiet and condescending reprimands continued. Background noise. Buzzing like radio static. Each grip and hit were a light touch, brushing against Rhyder’s skin. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t see anything. Just buzzing. Buzzing, buzzing. Fuzzy vision. Buzzing.

Paul grabbed Rhyder’s throat and the buzzing stopped. The assault shocked him, and instincts kicked in. He pulled back his leg and kicked Paul, hard, right above the knee. The round, tomato man swore and let go of Rhyder’s neck. Rhyder wasn’t controlling his body. His body was controlling him. Protecting him.

“Don’t touch me,” Rhyder said, voice steady and calm.

“I will not have my son being a fag!” Paul yelled. His arm pulled back, hand curled into a fist.

Rhyder wasn’t himself. He didn’t say the words, but they came from his lips. The dirty secret that he’d held beneath his tongue for years. With his conscious mind out of commission, the secret escaped, danced off his tongue, fell heavy in the air.

“Good thing I’m not your son,” Rhyder said.

Paul hesitated, arm dropping slightly. Kiara sucked in a sharp breath. Then, Paul recovered, and he said, “You won’t be if you keep this up.”

“Mom never told you,” Rhyder said. It wasn’t him saying it. The words were just coming from his lips. “I’m not yours. Thank fucking gods. I’d rather drink bleach than be related to you.”

The tomato man was turning purple, huffing and puffing, looking between the teenager and his wife. It didn’t matter than he’d been sleeping with other women for years. He’d never had a child with any of them. That didn’t matter either. His wife should remain faithful, regardless of what he did.

“What is he talking about?” Paul huffed.

“Nothing, dear,” Kiara said. She was pale, hugging herself. “He’s just trying to upset you by saying nonsense.”

“You could do a paternity test,” Rhyder suggested. They weren’t his words. Just his voice. “Then, you’d know for sure; I’m not your son. Never have been.”

“Rhyder, stop it,” Kiara snapped. “You don’t know what the hell you’re saying. Look at him, Paul. He’s just trying to piss us off.”

But the seed was planted. Paul was doing math, – which took a very long time in that tomato brain of his – trying to figure out when Rhyder was conceived. The seed was planted, and it couldn’t be removed. Like a weed, it spread, took over his mind. No amount of convincing from Kiara could remove that pesky seed.

Chaos erupted in the kitchen. Yelling, arguing, Paul grabbing Kiara hard enough to leave bruises, Kiara clawing at Paul’s face. Rhyder slipped out quietly, grabbing his backpack from the front entryway and disappearing into the twilight.

Rhyder wasn’t sure how long he walked. He wasn’t sure what time he’d left. He walked to the trailer park, walked to tell Joey he was okay. Joey saw the glaze over Rhyder’s eyes and knew he wasn’t okay. And he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Joey joined him on his walk, spoke to him. None of the words registered with Rhyder but they were comforting because they were human. The voice of someone who really cared about him. They walked until Joey regretfully told Rhyder he need to get home. They walked back to the trailer park. And then Rhyder roamed.

It was close to ten o’clock when Rhyder came back home. He slipped in through his bedroom window, long practiced in the art of sneaking in and out. Kicking off his shoes, Rhyder crawled into bed with his clothes on and fell asleep.

When Rhyder woke up and shuffled into the kitchen, Paul was sitting at the table, typing on his laptop while he sipped at a coffee mug. Based on the flush in his cheeks and his watery eyes, the mug didn’t have coffee in it. Rhyder didn’t acknowledge Paul’s presence, but Paul acknowledged him.

“Boy!” he snapped.

Rhyder popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. Paul cleared his throat. Rhyder grabbed a glass from the cupboard.

“Boy,” Paul said again.

There was no more milk in the fridge, so Rhyder grabbed the carton of orange juice and shook it.

“Rhyder!” Paul bellowed.

Rhyder looked at him with a blank expression. “Yes?” he said.

“Come here,” Paul commanded. “And sit.”

“No, thank you,” Rhyder said. He poured orange juice into his glass and put the carton back into the fridge.

Paul huffed like a discontented horse.

“Listen to me, boy,” Paul said. “You will not tell anyone about the conversation last night, do you understand me?”

“Conversation?” Rhyder repeated. “Oh, you mean the yelling match?” He was pushing his luck. He didn’t care.

The legs of the kitchen chair scraped against the linoleum floor as Paul shot up. The chair clattered as it fell. With heavy steps, Paul brought himself up next to Rhyder and gripped his shoulder. Rhyder tensed.

“I will not take this disrespect from you,” Paul said in a low voice. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re my child or not. You will respect me, and you will drop this attitude. I’m sick of it. Don’t think you have a home here just because you’re Kiara’s son. She’d be happy to kick you out.”

“Wow, Paul,” Rhyder said. He rarely used the word ‘Dad’ with Paul, because it was an easy way to push his buttons. Now, there was no reason to ever call him ‘Dad.’ The secret was out. “I didn’t know you could say so many words in a row.”

Paul shoved Rhyder back with enough force to make Rhyder stumble, even though he’d been ready for it. He grabbed Rhyder’s shoulder again and struck him with an uppercut to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

“You. Will. Stop. This. Disrespect,” Paul said, emphasizing each word.

The realization struck Rhyder that nothing was ever going to be the same. Paul had no blood relation to Rhyder anymore. He knew now that Rhyder wasn’t his flesh and blood. Any love he once had was out of duty to his kin. But, now he knew Rhyder wasn’t his kin. Not in any way that mattered to him. And that meant he would never hold back. Rhyder would become his punching bag.

Taking in a deep breath, Rhyder stopped clutching his stomach and stood up straight. The rational part of his brain told him to stop, told him he was going to make things worse. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. The angry part of his brain, the part that he’d held back for years and years, was taking control, egging him on. Fuck up that son of a bitch.

Demigod training in the hot summer sun had its downsides, but it also came with many perks. One of the perks was Rhyder knew how to think fast and act efficiently in a fight. Before Paul had a chance to react, Rhyder hit the side of his face with a powerful palm strike, knocking the tomato man off balance. When his hand struck, there was a crack, the breaking of Paul’s nose. Rhyder shoved Paul’s shoulders, bringing him down to knee him hard in the stomach. He wanted to do more. He wanted to leave Paul with as many bruises as Paul had given him throughout his lifetime. He wanted to see him suffer.

Paul had dropped to his knees, gasping in pathetic breaths. Blood streamed from his nose, soaking his too-tight button-down shirt. Rhyder forced himself to uncurl his fists, to turn, to walk away. Beating him up will make me as bad as he is, Rhyder repeated to himself. It did nothing to make him feel better. He didn’t feel like he was a good person because he’d turned his back. No, he was missing his opportunity for revenge.

The thought of jailtime kept Rhyder from turning around. There was a good chance Paul would call the cops. With Paul’s current state and previous arrest for aggravated assault, Rhyder could claim self-defense. If he beat Paul to a bloody pulp, it might be tougher to get off clean.

Rhyder shut his bedroom door and turned the lock. Tilting his wooden desk chair at an angle, he shoved it under the door handle, barricading himself in. Though he wasn’t a tidy person naturally, Rhyder kept his bedroom as neat as possible. If everything was always in the same place, he could tell when his mother had been rummaging through his things. With a surprisingly clear mind, Rhyder started to arrange clothes and toiletries on his bed, debating what he did and didn’t mind leaving behind.

It wasn’t set in stone that Rhyder was going to be kicked out, but he thought there was good chance of it. He wanted to have everything together before the news was delivered. Paul and his mother wouldn’t catch him off guard and he’d never have to come back for anything.

The packing took too little time. Rhyder didn’t own much, so it was easy to narrow down what he wanted to bring and what could be given up. Everything fit into his backpack and a duffle bag, including his favorite pillow. With nothing left to do, Rhyder sat on his bed and waited for his mom to get home.

Kiara shrieked when she got home from her nail appointment. From the safety of his bedroom, Rhyder assumed she must’ve found a bloody Paul and a bloody kitchen. It was unlikely Paul cleaned the blood off the tile, because he wasn’t a man who cleaned, and the blood would make his story more dramatic.

To Rhyder’s surprise, his mom didn’t come storming to his room. No shout or banging knock came. There were noises from the kitchen, but even when he turned up his hearing aids, Rhyder couldn’t make them out.

Four hours passed before his existence was acknowledged. Passing the time was boring and tense, as he prepared himself for whatever onslaught was coming. The longer it took, the more anxious Rhyder got. Around the two-hour mark, Rhyder dared to creep into the hallway. And then to the tv room. There was no one in the kitchen. The blood was cleaned up and his mom’s car keys and purse weren’t anywhere to be seen. After contemplating, Rhyder figured they must have gone to Urgent Care. Rhyder returned to his bedroom and put the chair back under the door knob.

After four hours, a bulky fist rapped on Rhyder’s door. Sighing, he pulled the chair away and stood, prepared to face the tomato man.

Paul’s nose was bandaged, and his eyes were bruised purple and red. The permanent angry scowl he wore looked angrier than ever with the bruises and bandages. He wore a clean shirt, an old cotton t-shirt.

“Your mother and I want to talk to you,” Paul said gruffly.

No yelling, no grabbing. Maybe Paul was afraid Rhyder would hit him again. It was a rational fear. Rhyder would. Because there was no antagonizing, Rhyder obediently and quietly followed Paul to the tv room. Last night’s bruises were sore, and he was sure to earn some more in a short time. He would fight back.

“Sit,” Paul commanded, pointing to the arm chair.

Rhyder flopped into the chair and gazed at Paul blankly.

“Well,” Paul said to Kiara, prompting her to speak.

She sighed and straightened herself on the couch. “I don’t need to tell you how badly you fucked up this time, Rhyder,” she said. “You already know. I don’t know why you can’t just be a well-behaved child. Lord knows I didn’t ask for this.” She glanced and her newly painted nails and continued, “We can’t put up with this, Rhyder. We won’t.”

“Okay,” Rhyder said.

Paul grumbled something and shifted his weight.

“We had some time to talk while we were waiting at Urgent Care,” Kiara said. “Because, if you didn’t realize, you broke your father’s nose and left him bleeding in the kitchen.”

“He’s not my father,” Rhyder said.

The interjection turned Paul’s face beet red, but before he could burst and yell, Kiara said, “Don’t interrupt, dear. I can’t have a criminal living under my roof. It’s just too dangerous and, well, too stressful.”

“Paul is a criminal,” Rhyder pointed out. “He has an arrest record.”

“I said don’t interrupt,” Kiara snapped.

The calm façade faded, and her posture grew agitated. Eyebrows twitching into a frown, lips squeezed like she’d sucked on a lemon, shoulders pulled up. Her right foot, crossed over her left leg, began to shake. She gripped her hands together over her right knee. The tone of her voice was grating and sharp.

“As I said, we’re not tolerating your bullshit anymore,” she hissed. “It’s gone on for too fucking long. I always knew you’d turn out like this. You were a pain in the ass since you were born. Well, I’m not dealing with it anymore. We don’t have to house you and we won’t.”

Rhyder started to get up and in a shrill, frantic voice, she asked, “Where do you think you’re going?” The shrillness made it difficult for his hearing aids to pick up her words, but he caught enough of them to guess what she asked.

“I’m leaving,” Rhyder said. “You’re kicking me out.”

“Ohhh, no,” Kiara laughed bitterly. “No, no. Could you imagine what people would say if they thought we kicked you out? No. I won’t have everyone thinking I’m a bad mother.”

“You are a bad mother,” Rhyder said.

“Shut your mouth,” Paul said.

“No, I’m not kicking you onto the streets,” Kiara said. “And you should be fucking thankful. Anyone else in this situation would’ve kicked you months ago. Lord knows you’ve done enough to deserve it. Just remember that. You’re getting better treatment than you deserve.”

Rhyder seethed, sinking into the chair. Maybe he wasn’t the greatest of kids, but he was pretty sure he didn’t behave badly enough to warrant the punishments he received.

“If I could, I would kick you out now,” Kiara said. “I never asked to have a son. And if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have asked for you.”

Her words were a heavy blow. Rhyder tried to resist the weight, tell himself that his mother was just insane, that her feelings toward him didn’t matter. But, no kid wanted to be told they weren’t wanted, that they’d never been wanted. The words got through his armor and ate at his heart.

“If you’re not kicking me out, what are you doing?” Rhyder asked, fighting hard to keep his voice steady, to keep his eyes from watering.

“Sending you to military school,” Kiara said. “To people who might be able to turn you into something decent.”

“Seems like a lost cause,” Paul grunted.

A chill ran through Rhyder, filling his veins and his muscles, making his head ache and his mouth dry. Military school? That was worse than being kicked out. He opened his mouth to argue, to fight back, to yell. Then he stopped. There was no use. They wouldn’t change their minds and yelling would make things worse.

Rhyder didn’t hear much of the remaining conversation. The buzz returned. Radio static. His mind emptied, and his thoughts fell apart mid-sentence. Broken thoughts floated through the static, unable to string together coherent sentences. At some point, he was dismissed, and his feet carried him to his bedroom. Military school.

Though time stopped existing in the buzz, time still passed in the real world. When Rhyder pulled himself from his haze, it was a quarter after eleven at night. The dull static was replaced by a rush of thoughts, planning, plans to run away, to escape, to save himself. He could live with Joey. No, he couldn’t. Joey’s family didn’t have room and Rhyder’s parents would find him there. Camp, he could go to camp. How would he get to camp? New York was a long way from North Carolina. Walk? No. Buses? Maybe. Maybe if he could find some money. He would figure something out.

With his bags already packed, all Rhyder needed to do was get money. Tip-toeing through the hallway, Rhyder looked and listened for signs of life. Like they were most Saturday nights, Kiara and Paul were on the couch in the tv room. Most lamps were off and the tv was the only source of light, flickering in the darkness, leaving odd shadows on Kiara and Paul’s faces.

Leaving all lights off, Rhyder moved silently down the hallway to the master bedroom. The room was a mess, Paul’s clothes everywhere, every flat surface packed with Kiara’s make-up and products. They each had places where they hid money from each other, neither trusting the other. Unless Rhyder was under attack of yelling and beatings, he was ignored, which worked to his advantage. He’d found all of his parents hiding spots for everything years ago (there were some things he wished he hadn’t found).

Standing on tip-toe, Rhyder pulled down a tin box from the top shelf of the master bedroom closet. Careful to keep it steady so nothing rattled, Rhyder pulled the box down to his chest. He pried open the lid and grabbed the wad of cash among notes and old jewelry. He hesitated, unsure of whether he was okay stealing all his mother’s stowed away money. After placing the box gently on the floor, Rhyder counted the bills. 1,082 dollars. Rhyder left behind 302 dollars. Quietly replaced the lid. Returned the box to the shelf.

Paul’s money was hidden in his nightstand drawer in an envelope taped to the top of the drawer. Rhyder slowly pulled the tape off the cheap wood. Again, he counted the money. 437 dollars. He took all of it and taped the enveloped back into place.

The hallway was still empty. With the money in his pocket, Rhyder silently returned to his bedroom. He divided the money into separate portions, sticking the portions into different pockets in his bags.

With his backpack on his back and his duffel bag on his shoulder, Rhyder looked around his room for the last time. He turned off the light, crawled out the first story window, and walked away from the house without looking back.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Inktober Day 18 - Bottle

Summary: Acting is hard enough, especially when there’s fight scenes involved. Briala was ready for that punch to the gut, but not for what came after. Events from the night before bring on a whole new headache. Man, this is why she hates method actors.

---

There was nothing like band practice after filming to remind you just how fucking exhausted you were. Everything hurt, and that was putting it mildly. Even the parts she didn't have hurt. How the hell did she get a phantom ache in a limb she never had?

“You ok over there, Bri?”

Briala turned, muscles twinging. The bassist from her band, a short dwarven woman, had left just as she did. She managed a smile, but even that hurt.

“Just... worn out. We're doing a lot of action shit on set lately.”

Why did Avery Hawke have to be so goddamn active anyway? Briala spent half her time in costume climbing onto her costar like she was some kin of shoulder gremlin. When she wasn't doing that, she was running around in prop armor that probably weighed as much as the real shit, going through telegraphed fights and getting her ass kicked. To say she was tired... tired wasn't even the right word for it. She was fucking wiped.

“Don't break your vocal chords, we need you ready for Sunday.” The dwarf patted her on the back. “Get some rest. You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks!” Briala stuck out her tongue as her band mate disappeared into the night. “Asshole.”

Sighing, she kept walking. It was a short distance to where she lived, and it wasn't like people knew her on sight yet anyway. There were plenty of elves with brown hair and blue eyes anyway – maybe they didn't have as much metal in their face as she did, but it took the heat off. It wasn't like she was a certain seven foot tall Antivan who couldn't avoid people if his life depended on it. For that, she was glad to be short; it was probably the only time in her life she was.

She was also thirsty. Practice had taken it out of her. However, much to Briala's displeasure when she made a grab for her water bottle, the condensation caused it to slip out of her hands. She swore as it smacked hard into her foot and rolled away.

“Oh come on, do I seriously gotta run some more?”

Groaning, the elf broke out into a slow jog to catch her water bottle as it rolled away thanks to the slight hill she had been standing on. At one point, it rolled out of her sight. However, the great thing about being elven  was being able to see in the dark. There it was, half hidden by a trash can it had bumped up against.

Sighing in relief, she reached down to grab it. “Now I'm even thirstier.”

Off went the lid, and into her mouth it went. However as  the first mouthful went down, Briala's eyes widened and she spat it out onto the ground. Rust and salt filled her mouth and made her want to throw up. But she didn't. She swallowed, and man did her stomach not like that. At least once it tried to get it up, but she kept it down.

Spitters were quitters.

“Gross... those fuckers must've messed with my bottle when I was in the bathroom.” Scowling, she unscrewed the lid and dumped it into the nearby sewer. “I'm gonna get them for sure the next time I see them. Now I've got this damn taste in my mouth and I'm still thirsty.”

Pouting a little, Briala returned to her path of heading for home where there would be plenty of not fucked with water for her to drink. After that, it would be another night of sleeping like she was dead, then filming in the morning. Lather, rinse, repeat.

---

B: Yo, whoever fucked with my bottle last night is a real asshole.

Nobody had answered her text in the group chat before Briala had to put away her phone. Into the hidden pocket of her prop armor it went. Hopefully when she got her ass beat, it wouldn't get knocked around. She really didn't want to have to redo this scene because modern technology reared its ugly head on the streets of Kirkwall during a street brawl.

“Don't kick me in the kidney this time, ok?” Malcolm was also in armor and waiting for her to climb on up. Briala didn't quite have Avery's legendary technique worked out, but she did well enough. Up she went, and soon she was sitting on her costar's shoulders. In a few seconds, she would be launching straight into the fake fight and then it would be go time.

“Don't have your kidney where my foot is.” Briala grimaced as she held her stomach as a passing pain made her wonder if her appendix was about to go nuclear. It left her soon enough, but she made a note to check it out later. “Anyway, get ready. It's almost go time.”

It was a long way to the ground from Malcolm's massive shoulders. Add in the fact she'd be jumping off... and well it wasn't as if she was afraid of heights, but damn if Avery Hawke hadn't been an extra little bitch. They had told her when she signed on it be pretty active, but this was just ridiculous. Plus, what with her stomach and all, she could already feel the urge to throw up returning. Hopefully it wouldn't be on her costar – he wouldn't like that. Plus, retake and all that.

As she said – really wanted to do this in one shot. There was only so many times she could launch herself off a full grown man in one day.

The director called action from off set, and then there they were in the middle of Kirkwall's Lowtown, circa 9:31 Dragon. Just as it was written on the script, the gang advanced. Behind them was a tied up elf – Hawke's cousin. From where Briala was sitting, they looked quite realistic. Then again, from where she was sitting she could also see where the Velcro was.

It was a toss up sometimes.

“Didn't think you two would actually show up.” Head bozo, actually a pretty chill guy, pointed his finger at them. “Alright, now drop the 20 sovereigns and back away. Nobody has to get hurt today.”

Up on Malcolm's shoulders, Briala smirked and leaned hard on her Ferelden roots. “Oh, I think you gave up that option when you tied Eth up. Now, if anyone doesn't want to go see the healer, I'd advise you to leave now.”

They didn't, of course. Instead, one of them took a choreographed step forward. Then came the sword, fake, swinging straight at Malcolm's midsection. He blocked with his staff, and that was her cue. In the blink of an eye, Briala stood, made a grab for her prop sword, and in one jump launched off her costar's shoulders just as he pulled his staff back.

The prop swords met – sound effects would be added later – and the grunt she had been tasked to land on fell back as promised. He cushioned her fall, but there was still a mild ache in her ankles. Still, off she went, shield now on her arm and ready to go.

“Have it your way then!”

The fight was now on – team Hawke vs team assholes. Every time Briala's sword was hit, she felt the vibrations all the way through the arm she had. Instead of wearing her out like it normally did, she felt even more ready to go. She leaned into the weird adrenaline rush – might as well. The next part hurt. It was written on script she got punched in the gut by an opportunistic gang member. No cushioning made it much better.

The dull thump to her gut dropped her to her knee. She wasn't seeing stars, though. Something was bubbling up in her stomach like she was about to throw up. It wasn't vomit, though – her entire body felt hot, almost as if it was boiling in her prop armor. The overhead lights weren't doing this as she managed to rocket up, both feeling and not feeling the sensation of pain at the same time.

Kick that guy's ass.

That was what her instincts said – choreography evaporated from her mind. Instead she just launched forward with more speed that she had ever felt in her life. Her prop sword might have been fake, but it still probably hurt when she smacked down with all her weight.

“Cut!”

Briala didn't stop, not until Malcolm grabbed her moments later. The guy on the floor had a bloody nose, a black eye, and looked absolutely terrified. He wasn't the only one – she was struggling hard, instinct screaming kick that guy's ass.

It wasn't until she saw her own reflection in Malcolm's fake armor that she realized something was wrong. Her pupils were dilated and a red tinge had taken over her eyes. When had her incisors been that sharp either?

Her costar carried her off stage past stunned crew and cast. He eventually plopped her down far away from the fight, keeping close should she try to bolt for it. Briala just sunk down against the wall, energy spent. Whatever had gone on was over now. The pain was back too.

“Oww...”

Malcolm shook his head as he sat down so they could have an actual eye to eye conversation. Otherwise, she would have been looking at his belly button. He gave her the once over, lingering on her face. His eyebrows knit together, but he said nothing.

Briala rubbed her sore gut to lessen the pain. “He got me good.”

“You got him better. He's lucky you didn't break something.” Malcolm was still looking at her. “Did you drink anything weird?”

Huh.

The smaller actor's mind felt like soup right then. Higher reason was kind of out of the picture. However, she heard the words 'drink' and 'weird' which were enough. The image of the night before struck her almost as hard as the fist.

The bottle.

Working out words was a little easier with time. “My water bottle tasted weird last night after it got away from me. I had to dump it out before I went home.”

“What did it taste like?”

The answer came not from words but a dull realization. Sometime during the fight, Briala's teeth had bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. It wasn't a bad bite, but it was hurt enough to bleed. It was that same salty, rust-tinged flavor she had experienced the night before, and it was enough to make her head snap up.

Red eyes, sharp teeth... shit.

“Shit. I think someone gave me blood.”

Malcolm nodded, no doubt coming to the same realization. “Dragon blood, to be exact. Didn't think you could still get that today, but your little power play out there says otherwise.”

Briala's stomach rolled, and it wasn't from the punch. She wasn't a mage like Malcolm, but she knew enough about her character's life to put the pieces together. Part of why she had to be such a crazy asshole in a fight was that Avery Hawke was a reaver. While she didn't understand how it worked, something about drinking dragon's blood and being in pain triggered the rush of strength and adrenaline that made the champion's fights so dramatic.

Now she understood those passage in Avery's diary about the sudden surge that had pushed her forward in her most deadly fights. If she was right... she swallowed past the lump in her throat at the thought. Well, it wasn't good.

“Guess I'm gonna need a trip to the healer after this, huh?”

Yeah, for a blood test. Hopefully in the Digital Age they had somehow figured out a test for reaver that didn't involve an orderly being punched. Still, Briala couldn't worry about that now. There was an asshole out there with dragon's blood who apparently had a hard on for giving it to people. Was she the only one? Or was there more out there?

Man, she really didn't need to think about this now. Her head hurt enough without being victim zero of a reaver creation spree. Talk about taking method acting a step too far. Her only hope was that the effects were temporary. After all, she had only had a little bit... something like a permanent boost should take more.

At least... she hoped so. That was how it worked, right?

[veryangryhedgehog]

“Cindy Miller’s Daemons, A monologue”, an Ede Valley story by Hedgehog

Cindy: You know how in kindergarten, how there’s free time and you’re playing with the cardboard blocks or whatever, and you can play with whoever you want because everyone’s friends? But then, by the start of first grade, everyone already has their groups? They’re not called “the preps”, or “the dorks”, or “the jocks” just yet, but they will be. And it’s really not fair to make someone so young choose who their going to be at such a young age. And they are choosing, because odds are, that you will be a part of that group until the end of high school. Probably longer. Because these people will change you. No, you will change yourself to please these people. Humans hate change, humans hate being alone. I didn’t want to be alone.

If the me from kindergarten met the me from fifth grade, or middle school, or high school, I don’t think she would recognize herself. In fifth grade, she begged her mom to buy her a training bra, even though she clearly didn’t need it, just because her friends were. In middle school, she laughed at other girls to make herself feel better about the fact that she no longer knew she was. In high school, she pushed herself past her limit with AP classes and track and student council and friends and parties and boys, because that’s what all of her friends were doing. She didn’t realize that she was killing herself. I didn’t realize that I was killing myself.

It all ended with chemistry. Doesn’t everything? Hopes, dreams, the essential composition of your very being. (laughs) I had insisted on taking it a year early because, say it with me now, all of the friends were. My councilor strongly advised against it, math and science had never been my forte, but did I listen? Of course not. Did I ask for help when I struggled? Of course not. Why would I? To ask for help would be to admit my own weakness.

So when the end of second semester drew near, I began panicking. A B-. I had a B-. I had never had a B- before ever. I was about to bid farewell to my 4.0. The only thing I could think of to do was suck it up and grovel to the teacher. And I did. I went back to his class after school had finished for the day and begged.

“You took this class too early,” he said. “You didn’t ask for help,” he said. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

I tried everything. Asked to retake quizzes, do extra credit. I’m ashamed to say that I even offered something that no one of my age should have. But there was simply nothing to be done.

And in that moment, I saw my future flash before my eyes. Goodbye 4.0, goodbye Harvard, goodbye Brown. In twenty years I’d be three-hundred pounds, married to a washed-up loser with five kids, and working at a gas station. But worst of all, I kept seeing the gloating faces of my friends at the inevitable class reunions, watching them with their handsome husbands, stylish clothes, and beautiful lives, and me, standing there wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten that B- in chemistry. To most people it might not seem like a big deal, and looking back on it now, it really wasn’t. But to sixteen-year-old Cynthia Miller? To her, that grade was the world.

I don’t remember much about my father, my mother finally got away from him when I was five, but from what I do know, he was... a rather violent person. I sometimes wonder how much of that I inherited, because the first thing I thought of to do was to grab the bottle of miscellaneous chemicals just sitting on a vacant lab table and smash it over his head.

The bottle, apparently, contained a unique set of substances that shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near a high school classroom. How they got there, I’ll probably never know. But in that moment I wasn’t even thinking about anything like that. All I could do was stare, frozen, as my chemistry teacher’s face melted.

Soon, he was nothing more than a heap of blood and tissue lying on the floor. Later, I’d have nightmares about that, and I’d feel so much guilt and grief that I’d just want to die. But right then I was in shock, I guess, and panicking. The only thing I could think was that someone was going to realize that I was the last person who’d seen him alive and figure out what I’d done. Forget the gas station, I’d be in jail for the rest of my natural life. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where to go, and I couldn’t look away. That was when I met the daemon.

“(Whistle) That’s quite a mess you’ve made there, young lady.” He was standing in the doorway, dressed like a janitor, though I had never seen him before in my life. I almost ran, but then he explained that he was apparently a daemon named Cowell, and that he wanted to make a deal with me. “I can give you the power to make this all go away, to give you that perfect life you’ve been dreaming of, but... I need something in exchange.”

“Like what? I’ll give you anything.”

“Hmm... I want... your subjectivity.”

“My what?”

“Your point of view. The rose-tinted glasses through which you view the world.”

“Fine. Sure, whatever. Just please help me.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and at the time I didn’t care. I was a fucking idiot. I’ve utterly certain about that, because now I can’t see it any other way.

We sealed the deal, and he handed me a book. “Liberis Decipis,” the cover read. “Book of the Deceived.” I think he thought it was ironic. He told me that he would come to collect his end of the bargain when I used the book, and with that, he was just gone without a word.

I ran out the door, away from school, and somehow made it home, the book tucked under my arm. I locked myself in my room, and began to read. It was very old, very large, and written by at least a dozen different hands, some in Latin, some in English, and some in a language that I didn’t even recognize. I also quickly discovered that it was a grimoire... full of spells. And not the kind of stuff you see in Harry Potter where you wave a wand and cool CGI effects happen. That’s all bullshit. Magic is not flashy, and it’s certainly not easy. No, this was the old kind of magic where you have to do a certain thing at a certain time of month when the planets are in the exact right alignment and you have to gather a bunch of insane ingredients and stick ‘em in a pot while chanting “Hail Satan.” Okay, maybe not that last part, but you get the idea.

I stayed up all night, desperately trying to find something that could help me, and eventually, I did. And best of all, I could do it in a few hours. But it was... very costly. It’s not that easy to make the whole world forget that a person ever existed. So, what have we learned today? That you can make a deal with a daemon and erasing your victim from existence with your newfound unholy powers? But it’s not that simple, is it?

As I walked to school the next day, I was terrified that the spell hadn’t worked, or that seeing the lump that had once been my chemistry teacher had driven me temporarily insane and I’d made the whole thing up. But I had nothing to worry about. There were no rumors, no police cars, even the door to his room had become a solid brick wall.

I spent most of the first half of the day in a daze, wondering if it had all been just a bad dream. Until lunch, that is. I had just sat down at my very full table, surrounded by friends, when I happened to look over to see a sickening familiar janitor waving and smirking over at me. I had completely forgotten about my end of the bargain. My subjectivity, he said he wanted. I barely knew the meaning of the word. Taking stock, I didn’t feel any different. I shook myself, turned back to my friends, and tried to forget about it.

Someone was talking about the new pair of shoes she had just bought, and everyone was gushing over them, but I had to struggle to pay attention. It was strange, I usually loved talking about clothes, and yet at that moment, it suddenly felt so inane and insignificant. Why did the shoes mean so much? She was just going to buy another pair in three weeks and forget all about them. And why did she need so many shoes in the first place? Three-quarters of them never got worn and most of the others hurt like hell to walk in.

And then, I looked around at the other girls, all my “friends”, and I wondered why we cared so much about what we looked like. What we thought of each other. And I realized that it didn’t even matter at all, because we were all so concerned with how we looked that we weren’t even paying attention to anyone else. So why did it matter?

All around me, I saw the exact same thing. No matter who they were, what group they belonged to, they were all so concerned about what others thought about them, that no one was really thinking about anyone else at all. They were all so petty, so... shallow. It was like I had spent my whole life with a mask over my faces—or a pair of rose-tinted glasses—and it had suddenly been lifted. My mouth dropped open as I understood what Cowell had taken from me. I could see the world as it truly was, and I couldn’t turn it off.

Distantly, someone was asking if I was feeling alright. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”

“No, I’m—”

“She can’t do that, you idiot. If she went home then she’d have to miss track.”

“I... what? No, tha-that’s not important.”

“You must really not be feeling okay. State’s in like, a week, you know?”

I couldn’t believe it. All of the sudden I couldn’t understand why I had thought that track was so important. What had I even liked about it in the first place?

“Hey,” I asked. “Why do we do track again?”

The girls blinked at me. “What do you mean ‘why’? Uh, because it’s fun.”

“But what’s so fun about it? Cuz it sure as hell ain’t the running. Can you honestly tell me that you like being sore all the time?”

“Not really. But all of our friends do it.”

“Friends? I... I don’t even like any of you.” It was another realization, but to me it was clear as day. Just a fact. None of these girls and I really had anything in common. Some part of me had always found them petty and annoying, so why had I put up with them?

The table gasped, but I kept going. “So, what is it then? Why track? If it’s not the running, is it the winning then? But that’s just a plaque with your name on it that no one gives a shit about. Is it the personal accomplishment? Maybe for some people, but all we do is complain about it. So what is it then?”

“It looks good on a college application.”

I should have shut up then, should have laughed it all off like it was a big joke, but I couldn’t. My mouth kept moving, and I was powerless to stop it. “Oh, of course, college. That’s what I’m killing myself for, isn’t it? That’s why I’m taking three AP classes, heading student council, and running track, all so that I look good on paper, like I’ve had a “well-rounded” education, so that I can get into the best college, so that I can get a boring job that I don’t like, and have some kids with a man I’ve simply “settled for” because being alone is hard, and then die in eighty years.”

I stood up from the table. I felt sick. “What’s the point? What’s the fucking point? Can anyone tell me? Or are you all just too busy staring at the next carrot dangling in front of your noses to notice? The next step to fucking death! We’re all just bits of meat and bones that think for a little while and then die. Ashes in the fucking breeze. That’s all there is, isn’t there? There’s no point to any of this! There’s no... why are you all staring at me?”

Do I really think all of those things? I did at the time. I saw things as they really were in that cafeteria and assumed that the rest of the world was just the same. But after the police liaison dragged me away and pretty much forcibly locked me up in a psych ward for two months, I had a lot of time to think. And I saw a lot of things there. By the time I had gotten good enough at lying, at appearing normal, for them to let me out, I didn’t believe that everything was meaningless anymore.

See, it’s not that life is meaningless, it’s that most people settle for a life that doesn’t make them happy, not truly happy, just enough, and that makes it meaningless. Look at me talking. I know I’m a hypocrite. I haven’t done much of anything in the past year. But I think that, for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to become happy. I’m starting to find the me from kindergarten that I lost so many years ago, the person that I really am. And now that I’ve been at the lowest of the low, things can only get better from here, right?

[man-i-dont-know]

BNHA Chapter 162 and 163: Thoughts and Spoilers

I am two weeks late, sorry, I’ve been busy. Well I am gonna jump right into it and I will try to keep it short since this is two chapters. I say that every week but trust me this time.

So they found Kurogiri and he was looking for the freaking mountain of a man, named “Giganto-machia” (possibly Gigantomachia, one word who knows). Giant is genuinely terrifying, not to mention that he is a “faithful servant” of All for One, which, tied with religious zeal that was revealed in that one flashback with Ashido, is an unusual combination. I don’t know, to me the religious types are fascinating to me, whether they are zealots or simple believers, the absolute faith is typically tied to something that grounds them, and with a person like Giant, I suppose a faith is the only thing that he could latch onto. Side note: is he naked? I would really like to know if it a Thor Ragnarok situation where the Hulk’s junk is just kinda out there, or if he has a loin cloth. Was Gran Torino fighting a naked mammoth?

Then there are more hospital scenes, Deku still is forbidden from seeing Eri, and he ends up visiting Mirio. The following scene is what cemented my absolute adoration for Mirio as a hero (though arguably that happened when he kept fighting after getting hit with the bullet). Mirio immediately took Sir’s words to heart, he was the one comforting Deku, he was the one who kept smiling despite being the one who lost everything. Deku shows more immaturity with offering Mirio One for All, even if Mirio does not fully understand the offer, he promptly rejects. The rejection was so fast and so sure that I was amazed, it was a seemingly hypothetical offer that Mirio did not even mull over. When a question is posed as hypothetical the typical response would be to think about it, but Mirio is set in his morals that he did not even think of the “what if”.

All Might also over hears this conversation, but from what I’ve seen, in this chapter and the next, he does not scold Deku for sharing this information, which is interesting. That could be because All Might is coming to terms that Deku’s quirk is now his own, and this thought could be driven by loss. He sees it within Deku, something which he once had but now he is without and is painfully helpless. It could because of this that All Might has resigned to himself to letting Deku share the specifics with whoever, though that is a terrible idea. Or it could be a show of trust, either way, Deku needs to learn to shut up.

The next chapter starts off with a heartwarming scene. All the class 1-A kids rushes the four involved with the raid and are immediately comforting them. Iida was also being super kind by not rushing them even though he really wanted to (then the “well then” reaction thing happened and I genuinely hope that it becomes a meme). Ashido goes out of her way to show specific concern for Kirishima and Kirishima thinks he has a long way to go, even though he is already an A+ hero. Uraraka has a flashback with a super supportive Aizawa, and she wants to save people. While I did not think much of that as it happened, thinking about it now, this is amazing development. She starts off wanting to make money for her family, but after this arc, what she wants now is to save people. Originally, she did not fit Stain’s “ideal hero,” but she certainly does now.

Ya boi Bakugou is chilling on the couch. Even though he does not say anything, this is the most compassionate thing he has done in a while. When Deku rushed into the slime monster to save him, Bakugou became angry. When Bakugou was successfully saved from the League of Villains, before the fall of All Might, he was not saying any thank yous. The closest thing to compassion he has achieved was when he told Deku not to follow him through Kurogiri’s gate. In this scene, he was in the room, just to see them, he didn’t say anything probably for a couple reasons. He probably didn’t trust himself to say anything comforting, and he probably knows that if he did comfort someone that more attention would be drawn to himself than what the situation called for. He is capable of comforting people, but he has only ever comforted Kirishima while we was with the Bakusquad, so something like that would be hard for him.

Also Kaminari is straight up fearless when talking with Bakugou, even calling him Kacchan. This in particular gets me, because never once has he ever told anyone to stop calling him that nickname, and now we see someone other than Deku saying it, and since Bakugou doesn’t react at all, can we assume that this isn’t the first time? Did Bakugou give him explicit permission? Did Kaminari say it once, Bakugou just stop in his track for a while and stared at him before silently carrying on? I’ve noticed that Horikoshi like to develop characters off screen without Deku being a part of it (which is great, it shows that Deku doesn’t know everything and that the characters are not dependent on Deku for development).

Bakugou and Todoroki head to bed early and Todoroki seems disturbed with something on his phone, but they have make ups coming up and I want to see how they have grown since then.

Present Mic greets Todoroki and Bakugou by screaming that they are “bad boys.” All Might’s attitude surprised me at first, it being so somber and all, but with Sir’s death in mind, it makes sense. The fact that All Might got information about Giant could also cause this. Gran Torino was forced to retreat from a monster that was reworking the topography of a mountain, that is nothing to sneeze at, even when All Might was at his peak, that is excessive firepower that no individual should have. Good news is that Kurogiri has been captured, and without a team mom I feel like the League is gonna have a harder time mobilizing, unless Giant becomes the team mom... scary...

Todoroki seems discontent that All Might is there, but we see immediately that this is because Endeavor is at the exam sight. Endeavor demands a quick chat with All Might, and Present Mic bails, not that I blame him.

We see Todoroki’s side and I have never seen so much emotion is a fairly straight face before. The text he was upset about was straight up his dad saying that he will be watching the exam. After thinking to himself that it would be better if no one bumps into him, Todoroki bumps into that super loud kid (forgetting his name sorry, the wind dude that is fiery of spirit). Then there is that girl that was being impersonated by Toga showed up, and honestly, I am terrified. Deku needs to out her as soon as possible since he figured out that she was there during the raid. I hope, no I am begging that she is not Toga. I love Toga’s character, but she is just too good.

Then the last couple panels of wanting to “dial it up a couple notches,” really gets me. It gets me because it is Bakugou that is saying this, he is the one focusing people up and is somewhat encouraging. He has always been able to get people to focus (besides Todoroki during the tournament) but it has never been this neutral or this positive before. I am sensing that the supplementary lessons he has been receiving really honed his hero personality skills. I would love to see someone acting as a victim and Bakugou stumble on them and gives them a super forced grin that would be the embodiment of the “your smile is $3″ meme.

Well that is it, but I have two theories that I’d like to share. So what if, and bear with me here, this secondary exam is to weed out a traitor? What if the schools know that they have a student that is a double agent? Think about it, U.A. knows they have a traitor somewhere, why would U.A. be the only one? So if multiple schools are having the same issue, something like this would be great to root out some individuals. Villains disguised as students would not necessarily desire a license because that would remove them from the school that they are trying to get info from. Plus there are a couple other things. If a villain were to try to pass a hero test, they’d fail naturally right? So individuals that have to retake the test are your best villain candidates. There is also the fact that Endeavor is there, and while it seems to be just to check in on Todoroki, I feel like the #1 hero would be busy, plus this is a high priority thing, to root out traitors. Even if the girl Toga was impersonating was returned (which is becoming less likely), her quirk would be different and that would give the schools some place to start. 

And my second theory is a lot more straight forward and almost seems obvious. I think Giant might have a couple quirks in him. He worked for All for One so it is possible, and it would account for his overwhelming strength. But what about the whole “become unresponsive” thing? Well, Gran Torino said that he had a single minded determination, and coupled with the fact that he could very well be a zealot would mean that this mind would be like a steel trap. His incredible concentration and determination could be what has kept him sane, and it could also be due to this that he has become All for One’s greatest modification, greater than the Nomus and anything else he may have created.

Now I am really done, and I failed on keeping it short again. Oh well, I needed it out of my system. Thank you all for taking your time to read this, and I hope you all have great days.

[garecc]

The Hidden Oracle+1

Chapter 6

Goodbye Jackson House / High speed car and monster chase / Maybe we'll survive

The Jacksons did not have any spare bows and quivers to lend us. Percy said he sucked at archery, unsurprising for a son of the sea god… If he were a talented archer it would probably dredge up some painful memories best left unsaid. Apollo said something about planning for his needs, I didn't really pay attention. Sally had lent us some proper coats, Apollo’s was blue and mine was a dark red. Apollo randomly asked me if Blofis was some sort of word to ward off evil spirits, where would he have even gotten that idea from?

When we got to the Prius, Meg called shotgun. Apollo sulked for a bit after that. I guess he was used to the front, he drove the Sun “Chariot” after all. (Ha! More like Sun Sports Car) He appeared to be carsick after not even 5 minutes. Even I can last longer than that.

Percy wasn't the smoothest driver, or maybe he was. I can't say I have much experience with New York driving. The car lurched and breaked, New York Traffic was a mystery to me.

“Doesn’t your Prius have flamethrowers?” Apollo demanded. “Lasers? At least some Hephaestian bumper blades? What sort of cheap economy vehicle is this?”

I nearly laughed. “Apollo… This is a mortal vehicle.. They have laws about destroying cars-”

Percy glanced in the rearview mirror. “You have rides like that on Mount Olympus?” “We don’t have traffic jams, that, I can assure you,” Apollo complained

Meg fidgeted with her crescent rings, why did she have them? The moon was my symbol. She wasn't one of my hunters. I couldn't think of a good reason for why she would have them.

Meg was gazing out of the rear windshield, I assumed she was checking if any of the shiny blobs were pursuing us. “At least we’re not being-”

“Don’t say it,” Percy warned.

Meg looked annoyed. “You don’t know what I was going to-”

“You were going to say, ‘At least we’re not being followed,’” Percy said. “That’ll jinx us. Immediately we’ll notice that we are being followed. Then we’ll end up in a big battle that totals my family car and probably destroys the whole freeway. Then we’ll have to run all the way to camp.”

I mean, that seemed like a stretch but Percy had been on six quests. He must have learned that somewhere along the line.

Meg’s eyes widened. “You can tell the future?”

“Don’t need to.” Percy changed lanes. This lane was going ever so slightly faster. “I’ve just done this a lot. Besides” he shot Apollo an accusing look “nobody can tell the future anymore. The Oracle isn’t working.”

“What Oracle?” Meg asked.

Neither me Apollo or Percy answered. For a moment I swear all color left Apollo’s face. “It.. it still isn’t working?” He said in a small voice.

He didn't know?

“You didn’t know?” Did Percy read my mind? Only a few immortals can do that, and Poseidon isn't one of them. “I mean, sure, you’ve been out of it for six months, but this happened on your watch.”

“I just… I assumed…. I hoped this would have been taken care of by now-”

“You mean by demigods,” Percy said, “going on a big quest to reclaim the Oracle of Delphi?” I didn't miss the bitterness in his voice. I couldn't standhim making the crude assumption it was Apollo’s fault Delphi was taken because it ISN'T.

“It is NOT my brother's fault that Delphi was taken.” I snapped, glaring at the back of Percy’s head angrily. Apollo looked at me curiously. “Zeus was angry, like really, really angry. Like sear every last molecule in your body angry.” Apollo visibly cringed at that sentence, looking down. I wanted to hug him, reassure him, tell him that everything was going to be alright. But I knew better, I knew these trials would be anything but easy, and I wasn't done speaking, not yet at least. “We didn't know that Gaea would resurrect that vile serpent ! It wasn't like he could go fight that damned creature with the constant risk of lightning bolts flying down from the heavens. Bolts sent by our own father.” Apollo looked taken aback by my harsh words. The truth hurts sometimes.  “And, by any minuscule chance are you aware, that if we took even a single step off our island, we would be incapacitated by pain? Neither me nor my brother could shoot our bows to kill that idiot legacy Octavian . The arrows turned to smoke at 200 feet! We were stuck there, on our island. Leaving was futile and pointless.”

“Artemis-” Apollo tried to interrupt.

“I'm not finished brother.” The anger disappeared from my voice as I addressed him. “Our minds were split in half Perseus . It is not my brother's fault Delphi was taken. Do not make that mistake.” I seethed.

Apollo stared at me for a moment, before exhaling slowly.

“Artemis…” Apollo said slowly. “Did you…” He took a moment to compose himself. “Did you really need to include-”

“The part about Father searing every molecule in your body?”

He nodded once, glancing away. Those memories were painful, years and years ago when we were young gods still learning the way of Olympus.. Zeus used to.. Punish him with the bolts. I can still see his terrified expression the first time Zeus got mad. I can hear his scream as he was shocked. I clenched my fist. I have always hated seeing my brother hurt. I remember him once telling me that it was easier to hate the lightning bolts than hating our father. When he killed the Cyclopes that made the bolts he told me it wasn't just for revenge for his son, he partially did it because he hated the lightning bolts. I took a deep breath. “If.. If I was to get my point across about how serious Zeus’s anger was, yes. Yes, I did.”

Percy didn't comment for a moment, he seemed to be thinking of something, although I couldn't imagine what.  After what seemed like ages he spoke. “Oh.”

Apollo took a long shaky breath, putting his head in his hands. I put a hand on his shoulder, he didn't pull away. I really shouldn't have said that.

“Sorry..” He nodded weakly, I retracted my hand and tried to ignore the pit of guilt in my stomach. Some memories shouldn't be stirred.

There was a long silence before anyone spoke again.

“I.. Chiron must have just forgot.” Apollo murmured quietly. “When we get to camp I will see about Chiron dispatching a quest”

Percy sighed. “You see, so here's the thing. To go on a quest, we need a prophecy, right? Those are the rules. If there's no Oracle's, there are no prophecies. So where stuck in a-”

“A Catch-88” Apollo said quietly, glancing at me.

I snorted. That was a joke I had made years ago.

Meg threw something at Apollo. Lint? Fabric? I didn't see. “It's a Catch-22 dummy”

“No, It's a Catch-88. Which is four times as bad.” Me and Apollo said in perfect sync. He smiled weakly, I laughed to myself.

Meg stared at us. “So you can do the twin talking in sync thing! That's so cool!”

“No Meg,” I said, still laughing. “It's an inside joke from ages ago… How many years now? 62? Something like that”

Apollo nodded. He seemed to be thinking about something, I realized he looked pale. I debated slinging an arm over his shoulder but decided against it.

I thought about the Oracle dilemma. Python lay curled in Delphi as we speak, growing stronger every day. We are weak mortals bound to an untrained demigod. There was a slim chance to retake Delphi in this state.

But someone had known where we would land. Someone had sent those thugs to mug us in that accursed alley. I scowled. They were going to die. Whoever sent them is going to pay . Whoever hurt my brother like that is going to be destroyed. No one, and I mean no one messes with my little brother and gets away with it.

Nobody can tell the future anymore, Percy had said.

But that wasn’t quite true.

“Hey guys,” She threw lint at us. So that's what she threw at Apollo. Where was she getting this lint?

I realized I’d been ignoring her.

“Oh, sorry, Meg,” Apollo said with forced cheerfulness. “You see, the Oracle of Delphi is an ancient-”

“I don’t care about that,” she said. “There are three shiny blobs now.”

“What?” Percy asked.

She pointed behind us. “Look.”

I turned around like a bullet, looking for the blobs. Sadly, she was right. The blobs passed through the traffic easily and were closing in on us rapidly. There were three glittery, vaguely humanoid blobs. I noticed Apollo was looking just as concerned, but there was a slight grimace of pain on his face. “sit down,” I commanded. “You’ll hurt yourself, you may have slept a few hours but you're still hurt.” Now that I mentioned it, my ribs were throbbing, turning around hadn't been the best idea. I turned around, holding in a wince. Of course, Apollo had to notice, I saw the worry flash in his eyes as he turned forward.

“Your hurt.” He deadpanned, looking at me.

“Apollo. I broke a few ribs when I fell, its nothing.”

“Just.. you didn't tell me. Why?”

“It didn't seem important..”

“Tell me next time okay?” He sounded truly hurt.

“I will.” He glanced at me, then sighed.

“You’d better.”

“Just once I’d like an easy commute,” Percy grumbled. “Everybody, hold on. We’re going cross-country.”

Percy’s definition of cross-country was very different from ours.

I knew there was no true countryside near here, so I assumed we would be taking side streets or something. Instead, Percy steered us down the nearest exit ramp, sped across the parking lot of a shopping mall, then flew through the drive-through of a Mexican restaurant. We turned into a more industrial area full of warehouses. The blobs were still closing in behind us at an alarming rate.

Apollo’s knuckles turned white on my seat belt shoulder strap, his eyes wide. He had always hated high-speed chases. “Is your plan to avoid a fight by dying in a traffic accident?” He demanded.

“Outrun and outlast,” I said. “I'm assuming You has a plan of that sort?”

We sped north, the warehouses abruptly gave way to a mix of apartments and old abandoned shops.

“I’m getting us to the beach. I fight better near water.”

“Because Poseidon?” Meg asked.

“Yep,” Percy agreed. “That pretty much describes my entire life: Because Poseidon.”

Meg was bouncing with excitement. It seemed pointless, as the car was already bouncing a lot.

“You’re gonna be like Aquaman?” she asked. “Get the fish to fight for you?”

“Thanks,” Percy said. “I haven’t heard enough Aquaman jokes for one lifetime.”

“I wasn’t joking!” Meg protested.

Apollo glanced out the rear window, then winced. Either from pain or the fact that the three spirits were still gaining on us. If it was from pain Apollo, I told you so.

One of them passed through a middle-aged man crossing the street. The mortal instantly collapsed.

“Ah, I know these spirits!” Apollo practically screamed. “They are…um… they are...”

His mouth was half open and he looked like he forgot what he was going to say. Great job brother.

“What?” Percy demanded. “They are what?”

“I’ve forgotten! I hate being mortal! Four thousand years of knowledge, the secrets of the universe-”

“He forgot. Spend time trying to remember not being dramatic.”

“Hold on!” Percy flew through a railroad crossing and the Prius went airborne. Meg yelped as her head hit the ceiling. Then she began giggling uncontrollably. Why? Why was she giggling?

This is not funny!

The landscape opened into actual countryside, fields, vineyards, and orchards of bare fruit trees.

“Just another mile or so to the beach,” Percy said. “Plus we’re almost to the western edge of camp. We can do it. We can do it.” He sounded desperate.

So as it turns out, we couldn’t. One of the shiny smoke clouds pulled a dirty trick, appearing from the pavement directly in front of us.

Instinctively, Percy swerved.

The Prius went off the road, straight through a barbed wire fence and into an orchard. Wonderful work Perseus. He managed to avoid hitting any of the trees, (I would have hit all the trees) but sadly the car skidded in the icy mud and wedged itself between two trunks. For some reason, the airbags did not deploy. Thank the gods.

Percy popped his seat belt. “You guys okay?”

Apollo looked pale but nodded. “We’re fine.” The tremor in his voice said otherwise.

Meg shoved against her passenger-side door. “Won’t open. Get me out of here!”

Percy tried his own door. It was firmly jammed against the side of a peach tree.

My door wouldn't open either, for a panicked second I thought we were trapped, but Apollo managed to kick his door open. “Back here,” He said. “Climb over!”

He staggered out nearly tripping over his own feet, I followed him.  Apollo stumbled over to me, a look of mild panic on his face. I steadied him by wrapping an arm around his unsteady shoulders. He was leaning on me now, he looked like he was trying to hide it, but he could hardly stay on his feet.

“..Thanks...” He murmured quietly, so only I would hear. He really wasn't fit to be doing this. I imagined that he was bruised badly from the thugs, and the car crash couldn't have helped. His face was skewed up in pain.  

“Do you want me to carry you? Your swaying..” I asked uncertainly, I knew I could carry him from earlier, and he looked like he was going to fall over.

“‘M fine..” He managed, but it was obvious he wasn't .

The three glittering smokey figures had stopped at the edge of the orchard. Instead of there speedy advance, they crept forward slowly, taking on clear shapes. They had arms and legs, their gaping mouths too wide and too big.

Apollo froze, his eyes widening. “I know these.. I know these… I know these.” I could practically hear Apollo thinking, his teeth started chattering, and his grip on my shoulder tightened. His face was so pale he looked like he might faint. Then his hands started shaking, and I knew he was starting to panic.

I could feel my own heart rate pick up as they stumbled forward, my palms started sweating. What do we do? Oh gods there getting closer oh no no no I glanced helplessly to the Prius, Meg and Percy hadn't made it out yet, and they needed time. Apollo pulled away from me, nearly falling as he did so. Did he remember?

“STOP” Great. He’s bullshitting his way to success. This won’t work. This won't ever work. I won't let them hurt him. I won't let them hurt him.

“Apollo-”

“I am the god Apollo!” I was preparing to drag him away.

To our surprise, the three spirits stopped. They hovered in place about forty feet away.

The Tartarus? Okay. Maybe this will work. Maybe we’ll be fine. Maybe he won't get hurt. Maybe we’ll be okay. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He Will Be Fine.

Meg grunted as she tumbled out of the backseat. Percy hurried after her.

Apollo advanced toward the spirits, frozen mud crunching under his shoes. He raised my hand in an ancient three-fingered gesture for warding off evil. This might just work yet. I did the same gesture.

“Leave us or be destroyed!” He told the spirits. “BLOFIS!”

Idiot. I TOLD you that wasn't a word of magic

The smoky shapes trembled. Maybe he had dispatched them? I dared to hope. Maybe we wouldn't need to fight. Maybe it was okay. I half-heartedly waited for them to dissipate or flee in terror.

Sadly, they solidified into gruesome corpses with sunken yellow eyes. Their clothes were in rags, their limbs covered with bloody wounds and disgusting sores.

“Oh, dear.” Apollo whimpered, stumbling back and nearly tripping over a hole in the ground, he somehow looked paler.  “I remember now.”

He stumbled over to me, his eyes wide. He looked terrified. I slung an arm over his shoulders, trying to steady him. He made a sound between a sob and a whimper. I could feel him trembling.

Percy and Meg stepped to either side of us, Apollo’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the walking corpses. With a metallic shink, Percy’s pen grew into a Celestial bronze sword.

“Remember what?” he asked. “How to kill these things?”

“No,” He murmured quietly, his voice trembling. “I remember what they are: nosoi, plague spirits. Also…” He took a shaky breath “Also they can’t be killed.”

Nosoi. We’re dead.

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