#woman with complicated sticky political things going on voice:

[fluentisonus]

wait actually just remembered this painting (catullus reading his poems in lesbia's house by lawrence alma tadema). it could work

[geordiewrites]

Exile | George Weasley

Summary: Y/N catches sight of her ex-boyfriend, George Weasley, at his older brother’s wedding after exactly one year apart. Based on Exile by Taylor Swift and Bon Iver :).

A/N: This isn’t directly linked to the song, but its certainly inspired by it as it’s about two ex-lovers seeing each other again at Bill and Fleur’s wedding and how they feel when they see each other again and shit like that. It’s very angsty, since I’m unable to write anything else hehe, and I do enjoy a good angsty story! Hope you all had a great Hanukah and Christmas, or any other events you celebrate too in December and fading into the new year. Also my requests are now open, go wild xox.

Warnings: angst and a hell of a lot of it, swearing, drinking. Let me know if I’ve missed any!

-

Y/N’s hands gripped a pristine glass of mulberry red wine so hard it seemed as though it would smash. Her Y/H/C shone in the dim candlelight of the marquee she was awkwardly standing in the corner of, fervently wishing she had politely declined the invitation to Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour’s wedding that she had received a few months prior. It seemed like a good idea at the time, just to be in the same room as all the people she had let down twelve months before and simply survive the palpable tension. But now she was there, Y/N couldn’t think of anything worse.

She could see where George was, dancing with some blonde girl from Hogwarts that Y/N didn’t care enough to remember the name of. Just seeing his arm slung lazily around the girl’s waist was enough to make sticky bile rise up in her throat.

Exactly one year had passed since Y/N had abruptly ended her whirlwind engagement with George Weasley, the younger brother of Bill, who’s wedding it was. Granted the ceremony was beautiful, with a huge marquee tent in a meadow of autumn flowers on a poignant, warm afternoon, but Y/N couldn’t feel anything but uncomfortable and out of place around her ex-boyfriend’s dotting family. It had been a messy breakup, with Y/N running away to France in fear of the brewing war and leaving George behind with it.

She had lived in Paris for eleven months, stewing over the pain of losing George by her own sword. But she couldn’t go back. Being both muggleborn and associated with a pureblood, even if he was a Weasley, was dangerous to say the least. So many years were spent with Y/N constantly getting put down for her purity, even in the supposed sanctuary of Hogwarts. She had never said anything to George. He wouldn’t have understood anyway. And so, she agreed to marry him. Agreed to wear the diamond ring he could barely afford, and agreed to a life she didn’t want. One she had never wanted.

It didn’t occur to her that she was too scared to go through with it until her clandestine bag was packed for France, and the words ‘I can’t marry you’ tumbled from her lips.

Draining the rest of the dark wine until her glass was completely empty as a distraction, Y/N barely noticed a tall, redheaded man move to stand next to her with a crooked smile close to George’s own.

“So, how have you been?” The man said, making Y/N snap to attention in surprise before having to force herself not to smile. She wanted to, but Fred Weasley wasn’t somebody she entirely expected to try and talk to her after what went down between herself and his twin brother.

“Fine, you?” Y/N replied hotly after a moment of hesitation, pouring another large glass of wine. Her voice was clipped as if she didn’t want to be talking to him, and her eyes were careful not to meet his.

“Better than ever. It’s nice to see you, Y/N.” Fred mused with a brutal honesty that made her want to spit out her drink. “Truly, I’ve missed you.”

“Not usually something a guy says to his twin brother’s ex.” Y/N chuckled in return. “Especially me, for that matter. Out of curiosity, did he ever tell you what actually happened?” She continued worriedly. Breaking up with George was the hardest thing she had ever done, the hardest thing she would ever have to do, and it was the messiest, most gut-wrenching breakup either of them would face. The details of it... she just dually hoped Fred didn’t know them. Really she hoped nobody but herself and George did.

“Of course he did.” Fred said, but he’s lying. Y/N knows he’s lying from the way he scratched his nose: it’s his tell, but she goes along with it anyway.

“Oh really?”

“Obviously, why wouldn’t he?”

“Well...” Y/N trailed off, making Fred both curious and suspicious.

“Alright I lied. He hasn’t said a word, just told us you two split up and the engagement was off. What didn’t he tell me about, Y/N?”

-

“Why are you doing this? We’ve set a date, Y/N, October fifteenth next year. Please, just don’t leave me.” George begged, years streaming down his face as his hands clutched Y/N’s shoulders, as if he was desperately clinging to something that was already gone. “We can work through this, we can.”

Shaking off his hands, Y/N moved away from him with a deep cold spreading through her icy veins. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to marry you, I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“What are you saying?” George asked simply. It was almost rhetorical in the complicated tangle of feelings that Y/N couldn’t decipher herself could never be expressed in speech.

“I’m saying I’m leaving. Leaving you, leaving this goddamn country where people want to fucking kill me for something I can’t control.” Y/N cried, but there are no tears from her. Her eyes are dry, as is her throat and her skin feels parched, drained of all moisture and blood and richness. “I’m going to France.”

“France? Y/N, just calm down. You can’t go to France.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I love you. And you can’t leave me, Y/N, please.” George continued, not meaning to be possessive but it just came out that way. Y/N used to like it, but now it just feels like a gilded cage. Have the marriage but don’t be free. Have the husband but don’t be safe. Have the life while others are slaughtered, and you might be next. She was done with it all.

“Funnily enough that isn’t your decision. I’m going to France, I’m going away from this war, from Dumbledore and the Order constantly expecting me to just be okay with everything, when I’m not.” Y/N ranted, waiting a few seconds to see if he would continue. When he didn’t, she carried on yelling, wanting him to know why she was leaving for good. “I’m not okay that they want me to just fight aimlessly all the goddamn time. I’m not okay that you think I’m some goddess when I’m so fucking terrified. I’m not okay that nobody sees that people are about to die, and I’m the most likely out of all of us to do exactly that-“

“Don’t say that. We will get through this war.” George replied, but Y/N was already at the door with her suitcase handle clutched in her colourless hand.

“No, we won’t. I’m sorry, but I’m so done. I can’t take it and I’m leaving-“

“You’re running away.” George said in a tone that made Y/N clutch at the roots of her hair.

“Of course I am. Don’t be pathetic, George, of course I’m running away from my inevitable death.”

“You won’t-“

“No, I won’t. I’m not going to die aged 20 because I’m not going to let them have the opportunity.” There was a beat before Y/N finally spoke the last words George would hear from her for the next year. “Goodbye George, all the best.”

All the best, George thought bitterly as she slammed the door, ready to rush to the airport. All the fucking best.

-

Fred watched as Y/N flinched, her shoulders tensing for a brief second before she airily smiled, an action even he could see was very clearly forced. Noticing she wasn’t going to answer his question, Fred asked yet another. “Where have you been for the last twelve months?”

“Paris.” Y/N chuckled darkly, feeling her heart clench as George kissed the blonde woman on the forehead. Her soft smile faded and an involuntarily frown settled on her delicate features. “In France.”

“I know where bloody Paris is, just wasn’t expecting that. Why Paris exactly?” Fred pressed, and Y/N had consumed just the perfect amount of mulled wine to be in the talkative, tipsy stage of inebriated. Perhaps getting piss drunk hadn’t been the best plan.

“There’s not a war in Paris.” She answered honestly, feeling the urge to laugh as Fred’s face flickered between shock and disappointment, almost identically to how George’s had one year previous.

“You ran away.”

“Yep.” She said, idly popping the ‘p’ and smudging her crimson lipstick slightly.

“But you’re back.”

“Also yes. I decided not to be a coward for any longer.” Y/N giggled tipsily, placing a chaste hand on his arm to steady herself, but to the untrained eye it appeared she was flirting with him. While Fred knew this wasn’t the case, another ginger across the room didn’t know as such, and felt a pang of all too familiar pain as his eyes landed on his ex-fiancé. “Alright Freddie, I feel a bit hot. I’m just gonna head outside for a minute or two.”

Fred barely had time to nod before Y/N swanned out of the room, her deep red dress clinging to her sensuous curves as she walked. She certainly stood out against a crowd of bland, Weasley-like fabrics from their family, and combined with her Y/H/C, Y/N was very easy to spot in the wedding. George watched as she left the tent to go stand just outside the entrance, strands of her hair fluttering around sharp cheekbones just visible past the marquee. With a quick apology to his blonde girlfriend, George rushed out after her.

Seeing Y/N again after exactly one year was similar to getting hit by a bus. It was exhilarating and melancholy and a whole other myriad of emotions that George was too mentally immature to comprehend. He didn’t even realise he was standing outside, just beside her before he was there. She looked almost exactly the same, except for the smudged red berry lipstick across her cheek. Y/N noticed he was there and stared adamantly at the ground, not knowing exactly why he was there or what he wanted.

“You’re here.” George said, his tone making it a statement far more than a question. Y/N nodded silently, not finding the courage to look at him for fear she would just spontaneously start sobbing. She hadn’t during their breakup, or even after during the mourning period, but right now she felt tears threatening to spill. “Why are you here exactly?”

“It’s a wedding.” She said, again more of a menial, random statement than an answer to his question.

“Yes, I realised that.” George snapped irritably. “The shop is doing brilliantly considering everything going on. And I have a girlfriend. She’s called Angelina, a Quidditch player-“

Unable to take it anymore, an elastic string pulled taunt in Y/N’s heart tore clean in two. “Why the fuck are you telling me this?”

“Wanted you to know.” George said after a significant beat.

“To hurt me.” Y/N muttered venomously, her eyes squeezing shut for a brief second. “Well congrats.”

“Didn’t know you had enough feelings to be hurt.” George cruelly replied. He knew it was beyond harsh, that it was pathetic considering how long it had been, but seeing Y/N looking quite to radiant had brought up a number of old feelings from their breakup right back.

“You know I came here to try and be in the room with these people again. You, your family. Turns out, I can’t.” Y/N said, tears beginning to fall from her eyes, lips tightened into a thin line. “It’s impossible to be near you.”

“It’s good to see you.” George mumbled, so quietly she wasn’t even sure that he had said it out loud. “I mean it.”

“That’s a change of tone.” She laughed, and even that simple sound was enough to make George smile, however much he wanted to be mad at her. “I thought you would hate me.”

“I do.” He smirked, making her laugh again in a way only he could. In a way both of them had dearly missed. “I really do, but I also missed you. Missed your laugh, your smile, your stupid shoes. I never understood why you needed more than one pair of shoes.”

“For the sake of fashion.” She said.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” He whispered, a saccharine mist clouding his hazel eyes as she brought herself to look at him for the first time, and not at the floor. He was older, not in looks but there was a tinge more wisdom held in solemn eyes. Even though he was smiling, he just looked sad. “You’re still beautiful to me. Even though I hate you.”

“I hate you too.” Y/N said, but her tone is soft and almost loving in it’s insinuation. Her heart swelled as she realised he had called her beautiful. “But you can’t call me beautiful when you have a gorgeous girlfriend waiting for you inside.”

“I do, and she’s wonderful.” George said. But there it was again, that sadness that only Y/N could possibly ever notice. Even then, nobody knew him as well as she did. Not even his new girlfriend. “But she’s not you.”

“Nobody ever will be.” Y/N laughed arrogantly, but it was utterly truthful at the same time. Nobody would ever be who Y/N was to George during their relationship, but even she wasn’t that person anymore. She was still Y/N, but a different version. The one he had fallen in love with was gone, and in her place was Angelina.

“Why’d you leave Paris?” George asked.

“I didn’t want to be scared anymore.”

“You were always braver than you gave yourself credit for, Y/N.” George complimented, making her face flush with a rosy glow. Her eyes were hazy with alcohol and a want for something she had forfeited so stupidly. Her lips were in a slight pout, and she gave him a look he had only seen a few rare times before. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I want you to kiss me. Will you? For old times sake?” Y/N asked, her face just a few brave centimetres from his. George wouldn’t have to do much to close the gap between them, and the urge to feel her lips against his for a final time was too overwhelming, like chugging red wine. Forbidden, something he wasn’t supposed to ever do but it was so duplicitously tempting and devilishly irresistible.

George was kissing her before he knew what was happening, adrenaline coursing through his veins. A warmth spread throughout Y/N’s entire body, fuelled by passion and sadness. His hands found her waist, sending involuntary tingles up her spine and back down again to her coccyx, the fabric of her dress riding up slightly so when he moved her hand lower, it just grazed her thigh. The kiss was treacherous, but as addictive as any drug that George had ever heard of. He couldn’t imagine anything both worse and better.

But it wasn’t a kiss of cheating in intention or action really, it was a kiss of goodbye. A kiss of hello to an old soulmate as he departed their chapter in his life, and finally let go of Y/N. A kiss of want and of love eventually disappearing forever. A kiss of teenage infatuation, of snogging in abandoned classrooms and first times in the Room Of Requirement, young and in love. A kiss of unspoken words and emotions, of ‘I want you but I hate you’ and ‘I love you but I left you’. A kiss of finally portraying unspeakable emotions that neither could understand. Perhaps they never would.

When their lips parted, George walked off without speaking. He just quickly made sure her lipstick wasn’t anywhere on his skin and walked seamlessly back into the party, sweeping Angelina off her feet as he once did with Y/N. As he now finally didn’t wish he was doing with Y/N. That chapter was closed, that storybook finally completely written and the ink had run dry. Angelina was who he wanted now, who he had now and who he loved now.

Y/N was a memory of George’s first love, while George was the memory of the biggest mistake Y/N would ever make. He was a reminder of who she lost, but also of who she could find again with someone else. Someone she was ready to marry, and ready to get through the war with. She hadn’t found them yet, but someday she would. She was sure of it.

At least for now, George wasn’t a part of her thoughts. He wasn’t a part of her dreamless sleeps or of her worst nightmares. He simply existed, and that was the best she could’ve asked for by even attending the wedding in the first place. George was a part of her life that was over now.

And Y/N was so ready for the next chapter, however messy and painful it could be. She was finally ready.

[akvtsuki-ari]

Semantics

Warnings: dom!spencer, sub!reader, choking, throatfucking, dirty talk, fucking through clothes, humiliation/degradation

Length: 5.4k

Authors Note: idk how to explain the plot of this fic all that well but i hope yall like this! by the way, the two positions Spencer puts you in is the prison guard position and the pole positon, in that order i spent some time on it and i hope yall like it lmfaosjdkh

Plot Summary: You and Spencer could date other people but you both knew that it wouldn’t matter in the end. 

There are few things to consider as a universal truth but some things just are. An example of that is here ;the only difference between fucking and making love were semantics. Most things in life are - semantics being the study of meaning in linguistics . As far as our universe knows, sex is an act born only out of necessity and frustration. The need to have sex to make life or the need to have sex because your body was responding to its urges and desires, aka frustration

Maybe in a lot of ways, your need to frustrate Spencer was innate to your humanity. An urge that speaks from generations past. It’s hard to say for sure why it’s happened but you both know how - it’s what has both of you in the place you are now.

Several months ago you and Spencer started hooking up. Casual sex and late night conversation at best, before life picked up any remaining free time and the both of you returned to back to reality. It was a stress reliever, a good time with no strings attached and no stakes involved. You wanted it that way and so did he - but shit always changes. Even when things aren’t supposed to be so complicated they are - because it’s almost inevitable that someone is going to catch feelings. Someone is going to feel something out for the other person or hell - someone else and things are just bound to get sticky and tangled. That’s the nature of casual endeavors - they’re designed to be ephemeral so when the date passes it all becomes complicated. Scintilla, a spark that passes through cold air and then disappears. That’s what hook-ups are intended for but you and Spencer just never figured out how to follow the rules. Neither of you were good at that.

It’s unclear who broke them first - whether your feelings of jealousy were the catalyst for what becomes of both of you. Was it Spencer for indulging her? Was it Spencer’s fault for whispering sweet nothings in her neck when he knew when you were watching? Or was it yours for retaliating? Too stubborn in your own regard to let him win. Spencer wasn’t really one for mind games of this kind but he couldn’t control himself it seemed like. It’s hard to say who started it - two parties indulging in lust-driven pettiness.

Her name started with an S, but you always managed to forget it. She was pretty, eyes low and so interested in Spencer. Her hands would wrap around his shoulders, resting her head on them when he was looking away. She’d drape herself over him at any chance and Spencer would whisper sweet-nothings to her. Laugh with her and look to you, eyes not full of challenge but faux neutrality. Spencer’s neck would always crane to look at her with surprise but you knew better.

It bothered you for a while, but who were you to be caught in a love triangle? He’s the one who had to live with it, after all - every time he was in-between your legs, he’d know she was never you. Still - you weren’t one to give up so quickly and Spencer was waiting on it. Check in 3 moves, your turn.

Imitation is the biggest form of flattery so when you walked into the function with a man on your hip - he wasn’t surprised. He watched the man who followed you in, the way his eyes were all over you. The way you sat on his lap, giving him all your time and attention - stroking his ego just because. You’d giggle at the shared promises, the feeling of his hands on your back. He was gentlemanly with you, carefully paying attention to you and no one else. He was handsome enough to get approached but he’d show disinterest before returning to you. He was moth to flame, but who was surprised? A woman as beautiful as you could do less to achieve that and you just happened to be so much more.

Every work function of any scale, your plus ones would follow you in as you and Spencer would speak to each-other in careful language. It was subtlety that was key because the two of you were the only people who knew that this was happening. It was behind the scenes a love story born of shadows, if you could call it that at all.

Penelope’s Christmas party was the beginning of the end, really.

“How’s Tyler?,” Spencer’s voice is minimal. You were impressed that he managed a name. He looks at you as you pour a glass of wine and you look back, flashing him a smile.

”He’s good. In the other room talking to Rossi and Tara about cars, I think,” you explain softly, wistfully. Spencer looks at the way you talk about him and a part of him seethes. Always does.

“How’s Sarah?,” you ask warmly. You bite your tongue as you talk but it’s killing you. He looks at you, brows quirked smiling back.

“She’s good. Her and Penelope are talking about cats,” Spencer laughs warmly. You hate the way he sounds about it. You want nothing more than to argue with him.

Speak of the devil, you figure. Sarah walks towards Spencer, immediately wrapping herself around Spencer’s side. She whispers something in Spencer’s ear and he smiles, whispering something back before looking to you, eyes full of challenge. You don’t say anything, smiling back at him before you sit up on the kitchen counter. Spencer watches as your skirt hiked up - the garter around your thigh making him... distracted. You just look at him for a second, looking into his expression before getting irritated.

Tyler walks in soon after and you give him a small smile. Sarah is quick to say hello to him and he returns it with ease. He’s polite, always is.

“You ready to go Y/N,” He asks kindly. You give him a grin, wrapping arms around his neck and drawing him in, burying your face in his neck before nodding. He laughs for a second and looks at you as you lift yourself up.

“Weirdo,” he jokes. You scrunch your expression up at him before looking at Spencer. His jaw is tight - you win.

“We’re gonna hit the hay, y’all, I’ll see you tomorrow though,” you say back. Spencer just nods, awarding you a tight lipped smile.

“See you,” his voice is a distant sound as you walk with Tyler.

_____

But, hook-ups were ephemeral, predestined to be anything but long-lasting and in order for things not to get sticky it was only a week after that you and Tyler broke things off. Tyler was too kind for you to let things get too messy. So you didn’t, and for you that was the end of road. Spencer was well... Spencer, still.

The game was still on, but you had no moves for now. You figured for now you just go and have fun, see what happened.

That would work better than you wanted. The next function was Tara’s birthday. She was disappointed that you and Tyler had ended things but was happy to hear you two were friends. You wish you could explain everything else to her but you figure that it’s obsolete.

Spencer was there with Sarah, eyeing you as the both of them sat in the corner. He watched you carefully, not frustrated just... interested.

He catches the way you look to the people around you - listening intently. Your eyes would flash with challenge while you and Luke played drinking games, truth or dare. He watched the way you talked to Luke, confident and excited. He watched the way you danced and ignored him, and it was getting to him more than he wanted to admit.

There was something in the universe that said this was it. He wasn’t sure what it was, or how to explain it. He knew the moment Sarah said she needed to go home, the moment he walks into the kitchen and sees you swaying to music while you poured yourself a drink. The way you talked to him - mostly sober but tipsy enough to just speak candidly. Spencer was in for it, that much was so goddamn obvious now.

“Where’s Sarah?,” your voice is curious.

“Went home, she has a long day tomorrow. For work,” he clarified. You hum in response.

“That sucks, you must be bored,” you say honestly. Spencer shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says back. You look at him curiously, eyes reading his expression that seems so far out.

“She’s sweet,” you say earnestly. You stand next to him, sipping your drink as you stare out. Spencer looks over at you and nods.

“You’d know something about that,” his voice is low. You’re a little startled, but you just pick yourself up to walk out of the kitchen.

“Too soon,”

——

Soon the picture was bound to fall together. Sarah and Spencer ended things - on good terms but it didn’t matter. It was just you and Spencer again, stagnant in an impossible place with impossible ends. Months of jealousy and mind games, combined with stubbornness wasn’t going to end in a way that was pretty but maybe that’s what you wanted. Maybe that’s what needed to happen.

Spencer broke first. Months of frustration would do that to a man who fucked you like you were the only woman on earth. It was just a text message, it should’ve been just a text message anyways but how could it be? No such thing as simplicity in this universe the two of you shared, one of jealous reminders and sly comments. All that subtext meant that the build up was that much more impactful.

Spencer: How long has it been?

You: Long enough.

You: Checkmate.

Spencer: Good game, Y/N.

It probably wouldn’t make a lick of sense to anyone else but you and Spencer just knew. You knew what it was - an invitation to come over like you’d done so many times before. It was a recognition that the game was over and it was up to you to reap the benefits of your long-term, maddening and frustrating endeavors.

——-

The drive to Spencer’s house was taking more time than it normally did. You knocked at his door and when you opened it, there Spencer was. He was pretty.

“Come in,” Spencer’s voice was low. The whole environment was thick with an immediate feeling of lust - derived of painfully long and drawn out arguing. It was foreplay in its own right, you suppose.

It was instantaneous. Like the second the door shut behind you, Spencer backed you into a wall - shedding your coat while his hands found themselves underneath your blouse. He hikes your leg up to his side as he looks at you, down into your eyes as his lips and breath ghost over yours. Your breathing is so fast you’re afraid you might pass out. You can’t help yourself whimper. Spencer voice borders visceral.

“You’re gonna drive me fucking insane,” Spencer comments. You hold your eye contact.

“I always was,” you challenge Spencer still. You were determined to piss him off as much as humanly possible because you needed him to own you.

Spencer can’t hold out for another second as his lips press against yours. Open mouthed kisses that are carried over and drawn out, as Spencer’s hands grip your thighs - pushing his hips to yours. He’s so eager to touch you - fuck you over and over again until you’re too tired to speak. Spencer was ready to do things to you that he’d never let himself do before. When his teeth tug at you bottom lip, tongue let reckless along your lips as he kisses you deeper - you know he’s been thinking of you. He’s indulging his own selfish desires by kissing you this way and he knows it. You kiss him back with just as much frustration and anger.

It needs to be everything. It needs to fulfill your needs and desires that have been growing for the last few months and you’ll fuck him till sunrise, sit on his face and disrespect him till he gets it. That he’s yours just as much as your his.

You and Spencer kiss like there’s no oxygen left, but you pull back from Spencer to breathe. Your chest rising and falling as Spencer looks at you - really looks at you. His eyes are full of fire.

“Don’t you wanna talk, Spencer?,” your voice is biting. Spencer rolls his eyes.

“You start,” Spencer comments, picking you up as he buries his face in your neck. You smile for a second as he carries you to his bedroom.

“Was she good?,” it’s your first question of the night, Spencer shrugs as he lays you down. His fingers work to unbutton your blouse, eyes glued to your chest. Lace, it was new but not new enough to be for him. A purposeful move on your part as Spencer’s fingers work their way around your back, unclasping it and letting it fall from your frame. You lift your hands up as Spencer slides it off of you - eyes drinking in the sight of you. He hasn’t seen you on display like this and fuck did he miss it. He doesn’t know where to start so he starts at your neck. Kisses being pressed onto your jaw, you relish the way Spencer’s hands find you. They find themselves at your hips, encouraging them to wrap around his waist which you do without question.

Spencer’s lips are soft, his teeth scrape along patches of skin as you crane your neck up so he can get more room. He draws your skin between his lips, sucking softly before kissing the marks, admiring the broken capillaries underneath your skin for a few seconds before continuing. You almost wanna laugh at how much he adores them and they way they decorate your neck.

“She was good,” Spencer replies to you between actions. You’re a little distracted but you had so much you wanted to know still.

“Better than me?,” your voice is bitter. Spencer laughs, pressing his dick against you, before speaking.

“What if she was?,” Spencer replies back.

“Answer the question,” you demand. Spencer looks up at you as your expression shifts into one much more displaced.

He decided to be honest with you.

“Not better than you,” Spencer responds softly, mouth travel down to your chest. His mouth finds your nipples, his tongue flicking against t back and forth. The wet trail it leaves behind a cold sensation that made you a little dizzy to how easy they came to attention. Spencer’s fingers touch them carefully, brushing against them with rhythm. You moan, shivering at them.

You felt good - but you could feel something missing in the endeavor. Spencer was holding back and you could feel it, slowly reverting back to his old ways by keeping you out of his thoughts and you weren’t going to let that happen again.

“Spencer,” you warn. Spencer’s eyes are glassy, but you sit up to look at Spencer. He sits back on his knees and looks at you as you fix yourself up.

“Don’t do this shit,” you explain carefully. Spencer rubs his face with his hands, not saying anything.

You look at him, your chest bubbling with anger and borderline resentment as he stared at you. His expression is unreadable, as his eyes gaze to your body then flick back up to you.

“For fucksake, Spencer - I’m not doing this. Gimme my shit so I can leave,” you say beyond annoyed. This was one of the problems - that Spencer didn’t have the backbone to just be real with you. Not about how he felt, not about how you made him feel. He always counted on you to force the upper hand but not this time. Semantics required that both of you participate accurately to how you feel and it was always your job. When Spencer sees you move, he holds you back and looks into you. His eyes are dark.

“You’re so fucking aggravating, you know that,” Spencer leans into your neck, his hands on your back as you go to move away from him.

“Clearly not,” you complain. Spencer’s hands come around your neck, both of the around your throat as he forces you to look up at him.

“Color?,”

“Green,”

“You wanna know I’m holding back, Y/N,” he says into your ear. You’re too stubborn to choke out a yes.

“Because you’re such a fucking brat and you haven’t earned it,” He speaks into your ears. You can feel his hands grip tightly around the column of your throat.

“Everytime you open your mouth you manage to piss me off. You think it’s cute to be like that, don’t you? ,” His hands release from your neck as you look at him with suprise, trying to hold back your delight. He unzips his pants and pull his cock out.

”Get on your knees,”

“I don’t want to,” you lied between your teeth. You wanted to suck the soul out of Spencer’s body but you needed him to keep this up.

His hands grip your hair and pull tightly. A gasp escapes your mouth as your eyes flutter up to look at him.

“Funny, I don’t remember asking,” Spencer laughs sarcastically, he leans into your ear “Get on your fucking knees,”

You stand up stubbornly and do as your told, keeping your mouth shut as you watch Spencer stand up over you. He’s intimidating like this, his dick clear over your face. He’s huge, which is good and bad.

“Open,” Spencer asks. Your instinct is to open your mouth and stick your tongue out like Spencer had instructed you to do so many times before but you don’t. You look at him dumbly, watch as he hands cup your jaw, tilting your head to look at him.

“It’s only been a few months and you’ve forgotten where you belong so quickly,” Spencer hums. His hands rests on the side of your face as he looks down at you.

“Tyler wasn’t putting you in your place like you deserve to be, no wonder you’ve acted out so much,” he comments, annoyance clear in his voice.

His thumb presses against your lips, forcing your mouth open. You’re quick to oblige after that, your tongue stuck out as you await Spencer.

“Good girl,” The praise is music to your fucking ears. You knew he didn’t want to say, but he meant it and that’s what mattered. You rub your thighs together, as Spencer hits the tip of his cock against tor tongue.

“Before, I would’ve never done this, but you’ve just somehow managed to upset me so much that the prospect of you interrupting my thoughts is so annoying that I just have to make sure I shut you up,” Spencer explains lengthily.

Spencer eases his way to the back of your throat, his hand on the back of your head as he feels his dick hit the back of your throat. Spencer’s bigger than you remember him being, and the idea that he was going to fuck your throat made you sore, voice already disappearing. You just look up at him, through long lashes and Spencer groans.

“Touch yourself and I won’t fuck you for months,” Spencer warns. You damn yourself for wanting to obey him and doing as he says.

Spencer’s hips pullback before he snaps them back to the back of your throat. You choke on and Spencer relishes in the noise. Tears forming at the corners of your eyes as you managed to look up at him. Mascara runs under your eyes as Spencer falls into rhythm, filling your throat with his length at a constant speed. The sounds of you gagging around it filled the room as Spencer’s voice fell to your ears, spit spilling from the corners of your lips. You move your hands to wipe it away and Spencer’s stops you.

“Leave it, you’re prettier like that,”

Jesus Christ.

“You always manage to make me so angry, and I’m honestly kinda impressed by it,” Spencer says softly, groans mixed with his commentary. You hum for him to continue and the sensation makes his leg twitch.

“You’re just so fucking stubborn. If you would’ve told me you were so jealous, I would’ve ended things immediately,” he admits to you.

“Then Tyler came around and I lost my patience,” he explains, fingers brushing your hair out of your face.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re mine,” Spencer repeats. You feel your heart melt.

“Seeing you with Tyler was lesson enough, so I’m gonna fuck you until every memory you had with him is shit compared to how I fuck you,”

“Every mark on your body, my dick down your throat - stretching you out when I fuck you. I should’ve know this was what you wanted really,” Spencer quips. You groan around him - absolutely turned on by his possession.

“You’re a slut for me, and me only, right love?,” Spencer asks you, pulling his dick out from the brutal session as you look to him with a bordering disgusting amount of adoration.

“Yes, sir,” your voice is hoarse as you look up at him. His eyes look at you with so much love as he smiles down at you.

“You’re so good for me,” Spencer says softly. He kisses you softly and slow and you could cry from how pliabld you felt.

“Sir, I love you,” your voice was fucked beyond belief. Spencer’s heart melts at the combination of title and sub space. He kisses you softly, petting your hair and wiping your chin of spit.

“I love you too, princess,” He says, making sure that you two talk about it later. “You still want it rough, sweetheart?,” he asks checking up on you. You appreciate the sentiment but you shake your head with vigor.

“If you don’t fuck me like a total brat I’m going to be unbelievably upset,” you say, the sad thought sobering you up immediately. He laughs aloud, kissing you again.

“Okay, what’s your safeword?,” Spencer asks.

“Gren for go, yellow for slow down, red for stop,” you repeat obediently. Spencer smiles.

“Get on the bed for me,” Spencer says softly. You oblige fast, holding your legs in the air as Spencer kneels between your legs. Your legs wrap around his shoulders pulling him closer and he chuckles.

Spencer’s rock hard, thinking about the outfit you chose for him. White cotton panties that left a mess all over your thighs and clit. The stain between your legs makes it hard for Spencer to slow down.

Spencer places a kiss on your clit, swollen and untouched, your cry immediately in his ear, your hands gripping his hair as he places kisses all over your clothed pussy, your skirt pushed over your stomach. His fingers hook into your underwear, sliding them down, and letting you maneuver your legs to slide them off. You go to take the skirt off but Spencer stops you.

“Leave it,” He breathes out. You nod, biting your lip as you feels Spencer lips work around your clit. He doesn’t make you wait long, and you’re not sure whether or not you should be grateful or scared for whats to come. 

Spencers mouth is terribly skillfully, his tongue licking a long swipe - collecting arrousal in his mouth before spitting it back onto your clit. You were a goner before this but watching Spencer do something so filthy really pushed you to the edge. You grinded against his mouth but he pushes your hips down. He uses his fingers to spread you, eyeing how wet you are before closing his eyes - tongue placing long flat swipes along it. Your clit pulsates as he buries his face between your legs - tongue placing minmal pressure it as his head bob up and down. Spencer was so good at giving head it was kind of annoying. He’d draw you close to the edge a few times like that, watching as your legs shake before he slows down again -mpaying attention to your thighs and waist everytime he watched you come down from your high. 

“Spencer, please let me cum - please,” 

“Please what?,”

“Please sir,” your voice escapes you as you hear Spencer chuckles looking at you pathetically. He shakes his head. 

“Brats don’t get to cum so soon, you wanna cum - you have to earn it remember?,” Spencer reminds. You whine at the reminder, immediately protesting. 

“I did earn it, I did,” your argument is meaningless but you wanted to cum - needed to cum and if he doesn’t give it to you soon you were going to cry. 

“Aw, is that so? You behaving while I facefucked you means you earned an orgasm huh? That’s news to me, love,” Spencer says sarcastically. You aren’t sure how you could be more turned on but here you were. Spencer could be so biting when he wanted to be and it drove you up the wall. 

“God,” you were infuriatingly turned on. Spencer strips of his shirt and pants, leaving the both of you in similar positions. You lay in wait for further instructions, but catch Spencer admiring you for a second. You hide your face in your hand and Spencer refrains from saying anything. He wants to tell you you’re so cute and that he loves you but he’s still supposed to be being mean to you - so his hands are tied. 

“Stand up,” Spencer instructs. You oblige, stretching a bit as you do. Spencer comes behind you, pressing his dick against your backside as his voice is drawn next to your ear. 

“You wanna cum don’t you?,” Spencer asks. You nod, chewing the inside of your lip. 

“But, I already told you you have to earn didn’t I?,” Spencer repeats, you nod again. 

“Use your words,” Spencer orders. Your voice croaks out. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then bend over with your hands behind your back and take it for me, will you?,”  Spencer instructs. You do as your told, bending down, placing your hands behind your back. You feel Spencer's hands grip around your wrist - holding you up as he lines himself up at your entrance. It’s a slow, aching burn. Your more wet than you can really fathom being, but Spencer manages to make you feel tight. Every inch of him slowly gnawing you from the inside but it feels so good. It aches so good - you don’t recall the last time you felt this fucking full. Spencer was sunken into you so deeply, it felt like he belonged there. Like every claim about your body is his when he fucks you wasn’t just showy shit-talk but facts, plain and simple. You didn’t really know it could feel that good to get fucked before this and it could’ve been anything that made it so maddening. 

Spencer's hips pound you out. You can’t feel everytime he speeds up, slows down, moves up or draws the gesture out. Your body aches, but the position is so goddamn perfect - hitting your g spot, pressing up against it so forcefully - you feel your legs threaten to give out everytime he hits it. It’s fucking ridiculous - fucking ridiculous how good fucking one person could be but Spencer proved himself every damn time. 

“Wanna fuck you on the bed, love,” Spencer leans down to whisper. You let Spencer rebalance you as you stand up, and Spencer pulls out. You whimper, missing the feeling of him in you, but you soon feel Spencer's arms around you. 

“You’re too pretty to make such filthy noises, my love,” Spencer whispers “But that’s what sluts do, don’t they? Be pretty and filthy all at once,” 

You’re really incoherent. You want to say something that makes sense, argue back and fight with him but your desire to cum so hard you black out is much stronger than any urge you may have had to fight. You don’t know how to do anything but whine, so high-pitched and needy you feel like your voice could crack and disappear. Spencer just laughs. 

He lays down, and awaits you. You managed to get on the bed, facing away from Spencer as you throw your legs on either side of him. He bends his knee, as you turn to straddle his thigh - pressed against your clit. He clenches the muscle and you feel your legs shake. 

“Sir, please tell me I’ve earned it,” are the first words that leave your lips as you begin griding against Spencers thighs, riding his dick to the point your thighs felt like they’d give out at any second. Spencer groans at the feeling of you convulsing, so close to the edge. Spencer just nods. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, of course you can cum for me,” Spencer says lovingly, voice missing any trace of disrespectful strict dom Spencer. Replaced with adoring Spencer in an instant. 

“Fuck, fuck - Spencer, thank you. Oh my god, thank you,” you hold onto Spencer's legs as your orgasm breaks the tension rope that was holding it back. You’re unknotted, the feeling of pleasure clawing at all the aches that appeared all over your body, your skin burning. Your stomach was full of butterflies, all releasing at the same time as your entire body convulsed around Spencer. It was earth-shattering - your body struggling to keep up as you cum the hardest you have in months. It was so fucking good, the type of orgasm that keeps you awake for days at a time.

You breathe out, steady yourself as you slide off of Spencer and get on all fours infront of him. You take his dick into your mouth, sucking on the tip before taking all of it in your mouth. Spencer groans aloud as he finished into your throat, and you swallow without hesitation. Spencer looks at you so adoringly right after, as you crawl onto his chest and lay on him. He wraps his arms around you and smiles at you so brightly, it could blind you. 

“You did so good for me, I’m so proud of you,” Spencer praises. You blush hiding in his chest, looking at him with disgraceful amounts of affection. 

“You ready for aftercare?,”

You nod lazily, before Spencer sits up and whisks you away to the shower. 

___

You knew that you were in love with Spencer a while ago - but until now you hadn’t realize just how much you missed him. His fingers were massaging shampoo into your hair, the shower lightly pouring on the both of you as you made idle and loving conversation. There was a suprising about of things to catch up on. Spencer kissed your shoulders as he continued on. 

“I liked Sarah, you know,” you say softly. Spencer is confused by your sudden statement. 

“I really did - but at the time I just figured we were just having sex so it made me jealous when I saw you with her. I didn’t know how to tell you so I just let it be but it was killing me,” you confess honestly, wiping your nose as you sniffled. Spencer wrapped his arms around your back and kissed your neck - softly pressing kisses to all the bruises from the moments before. You leaned into him and sighed and he held you for a long while. 

“We were never anything more than casual,” Spencer assures you.  You nod, turning around to face him. Your arms envelope Spencer, holding him close to you with your face carefully in the crook of his neck. 

“I know, but still, sex is just sex and the rest is semantics isn’t it,” 

“Well, yeah. It means something to me when I do this to you. You’re my world, so it means I love you. Maybe it looks the same but it feels so different, it feels right when it’s you,” Spencer says sadly. You look up at him tear eyed and he smiles at you. 

“I love you, Spencer,” you say softly. He hugs you and makes you feel so safe. Even after all the words and glances and difficulties Spencer shows you in bed - he gives you twice that in love without question. He makes you feel whole, even when he was the one who unraveled you. He adores you, so clearly and you adore him too. 

___ 

taglist: @cynbx​ @zephyr-studiesjp​ @skrrrrrrrrrrt​ @reid-187​ @louistwinslover​ @nomajdetective​

[physical-manifestation-of-spite]

The Picture Pinned on the Wall - Mp100 Fanfiction

Also read on Ao3

Beware the read-more. It’s long.

“It started with a picture, and then it got worse from there.

Reigen wasn’t supposed to get so attached.”

Reigen meets the boy when he’s ten years old, and he’s pretty sure he feels nothing. Actually, the first feeling associated towards this kid is hostility, as this juvenile swaggers to his door and bemoans the destruction of his own powers. The prank is not elaborate, nor funny, but it wastes Reigen’s time, which is always the goal for these kids. He almost slams the door in the kid’s face — he never thought of himself as  good  with children, having neither the patience nor tolerance for these sorts of stunts — but then the child continues. His eyes are wide and bloodshot and full of terror, and it makes Reigen pause. Kids aren’t normally such good actors. The boy holds a white knuckled-grip on the straps of his backpack, his small body swallowed up by the expanse of the doorframe, and it takes another minute for Reigen to decide that he’s not lying. Then, there’s this twist in his gut that he knows won’t go away until he hears this bowl-haired kid out. He bites at the flesh inside his cheek and invites the boy inside. 

It wasn’t supposed to go further than a cup of tea and a bid farewell. The kid shares his troubles with such vivid imagination that leaves Reigen impressed. A child conjuring the idea of spirits gnawing at the safety barriers in a neighbor’s home, with the boy able to exorcise all of them with a wave of his hand and, in a horrifying realization, harm the neighbors as well — perhaps there’s some psychological trauma Reigen has no business handling. But when Reigen presses for clues, the boy speaks of his parents fondly, without a hint of distress, and his life seems otherwise normal. It’s not much to go off on, but then Reigen remembers that this kid isn’t his problem, and he’s taking up time that could otherwise be used to be speaking with clients, so he chews on a quick speech to help soothe the child’s nerves enough to send him home, a reformed man. 

“Be a good person.” That was fine enough. He couldn’t go wrong with that. Nothing to twist the child’s worldview into some killer. Whatever his complex — and confidence for this child to kill another human being was something new — if he was taught that his powers were not inherently evil, but rather a tool for him to use, then he would be alright. Especially after he broke out of his fantasy. 

And then the child  stares  at him. It unnerves him, the open expression of awe on the child’s face, like a flower turning towards the sun. He looks as though Reigen’s led him to fresh waters and he’s been dying in the desert, and Reigen takes to flexing his fingers on his tea mug. The child asks if he can come again. This, Reigen did not sign up for. He runs his fingers around the back of his neck, concocting some excuse that the kid couldn’t possibly take as an insult. Then, Reigen burns his tongue on his tea.

The cup falls out of his hand. His stomach shoots up to his throat as he grabs vainly at the cup, but it’s already begun its descent towards the kid. He shouts for the kid to get out of the way, and then the cup, the bubbles of tea — they’re all floating. They bob in the air like they’re suspended in water, five feet over the ground, and Reigen’s mind goes completely, white-hot blank as the tea politely bubbles back into the cup and drops neatly into the kid’s outstretched hand. Reigen stares.

And stares. 

He asks when the kid is available each week to meet.

—

Shigeo Kageyama is his name. Reigen calls him Mob. The boy is simple. It’s evident in his appearance; bowl cut hair that hides the top of his eyes, unexpressive in regards to anything, and he always wears his grade school uniform. Mob fits, and the boy doesn’t seem to mind the nickname. 

Maybe it’s dangerous, Reigen giving him a nickname. He shouldn’t get attached. But on the other hand, the boy  needs to feel attached to Reigen, otherwise this won’t work and he won’t visit clients with him. But it isn’t hard, with Mob returning to Reigen’s office each day, staring expectantly at the self-proclaimed psychic as though he’s going to perform a miracle. Reigen obliges when he can, and the boy is quite easy to trick. With a wag of his finger and a few choice words, he enrages the spirits before looking expectantly to Mob to “clean them up” for him. After their screams dissipate into a puff of smoke, he concocts a speech about self-restraint, and they leave, Mob satisfied with his brilliant master, and Reigen is satisfied with a thicker wallet. They return to the office and share the news with the client, an elderly woman whose judgment relies more on superstition than wisdom. She is his favorite kind. She signs the necessary paperwork, which Reigen slides neatly into a pile and wishes her well. Before the woman goes, she glances briefly at Mob, who is seated at a makeshift desk Reigen had clawed out of his closet to create, made out of two stacks of cardboard and a long wooden slab that’s covered by a tablecloth. Reigen doesn’t even remember where he got a tablecloth. 

Her smile is fond. “Does your son come here often after school?” 

Reigen chokes, which is unfortunate because he wasn’t even eating anything. Reigen disguises it as a cough and pounds a fist into his chest. Mob looks at him in alarm. Reigen is waving his hand in the air to belay any concern.

“No,” he chokes again, and there’s a disgusting amount of phlegm in his throat. “No, he’s not my son. He’s more of a, uh…” He almost says “employee.” He’s definitely not. 

Realization dawns on the woman’s face. “Ah, he’s your apprentice. Excuse me for assuming. He’s just so young.” 

Reigen is about to wave off her apology, but he notes the change of tone at the last sentence, and he closes his mouth. The woman is staring at him intently.

“Is he compensated well?”

Maybe her judgment is not so slanted toward superstition after all. Reigen likes her a lot less. 

“He’s compensated just fine.” His tone is not necessarily snappish, but there’s a warning hidden there, at the back of his throat. The woman smiles, but it’s all thin lips and tight cheeks. 

“That’s always good. A boy should learn early how to make a living for his family.”

Reigen matches her tight smile. “He’s a hard worker. He’ll be ahead of his peers in no time.”

“I’m sure he already is.” The woman shoulders her purse, smooths her blouse, and pats the base of her curls. She turns and winks at Mob. 

“Perhaps I’ll see you boys in the future.”

“Oh,” says Mob, who enlaces his fingers together nervously. “I hope not. That means you’ll have more spirits. That’s... bad.” 

The woman’s smile doesn’t waver, but it softens under Mob’s genuine concern. “Yes,” she says, “that’s bad.” She steers her gaze back to Reigen. “But who knows? After all, 98% reduction rate… well, it’s not 100%.”

Reigen bites his tongue. His smile is plastered on his face. “Well,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “you know who to call if it ever comes to that. Have a good day, ma’am.”

Her smile is more of a sneer, but she bows to them both and ushers herself out the door. The moment it closes, Mob looks to Reigen.

“What does ‘compensated’ mean?”

Reigen really doesn’t like that woman.

———

Weeks later, they arrive back at the office late. It’s nearly dark. Reigen had hoped to get back to the office earlier and close up in time to catch dinner before rush hour, but his call volume has gone up. Word was getting out that self-proclaimed psychic Reigen Arataka could exorcise spirits  legitimately. It’s certainly not a back-to-back call operation, but it is more than he has ever gotten in the past. He has calls to return.

The office is stale and hot when Reigen swings open the door; he had shut off the air conditioner before they had left. It leaves the place feeling sticky, but Reigen merely adjusts his tie and flicks the lights on. The office is bathed in a tired yellow glow.

Mob ambles to his cardboard-wood desk and pulls his backpack from under it. The balanced cardboard sways precariously. “Shishou,” Mob begins, and it makes Reigen’s hand still over his laptop. Mob started calling him that the day after their client thumbed Kageyama as his apprentice. Sure, Reigen considered the term loosely the day Mob left his office for the first time with the assurance that he would be under Reigen’s tutelage, but the use of “shishou” left Reigen’s head spinning. It meant he couldn’t get out of this easily, if he ever wanted to. Pursue his next career goal of becoming a private investigator, for example. That was stuffed further in the wastebin the more Mob used that word. 

Reigen still isn’t willing to throw the wastebin out just yet, though. He blinks and forces himself to take the name in stride. He begins typing idly against the keys of his laptop.

“Hm?”

“Um,” Mob says, playing with the zipper of his backpack. “Um, I’m going home now.”

“Hm.”

“Um,” he says again. The kid is clearly waiting for Reigen to acknowledge him further, so Reigen peels his eyes away from his laptop screen to stare at Mob. 

“Right. Get home safe.”

It isn’t really his responsibility to walk the kid home anyway. If Shigeo’s parents are letting their ten-year-old son walk to and from school, with pockets of no communication between then and now, Reigen isn’t going to butt in. In a way, Reigen is grateful that Mob has such laid-back parents. The wary, clingy types always complicated things.

Mob nods. Reigen waits expectantly for a moment longer, eyebrows raised as the sun dips faster below the cityscape and his laptop begins to cast a blue hue over his face. Mob flushes the more he’s under Reigen’s steady gaze, and finally he stares back at his zippers, nodding again. 

“Okay. See you tomorrow, Shishou.”

Reigen starts typing at his keys again, but the black text keeps fizzing in and out of his vision as he listens to the rattle of Mob’s zippers as he slips into his backpack straps, the loose pencils in his bag rattling their muffled tune. Reigen is gnawing at the inside of his cheek, a pitted twist forming at the base of his gut, and it grows with each clack of Mob’s shoes against the hardwood flooring. He sighs just before the office door squeals open.

“Oi. Mob.”

Mob turns, his hands still wrapped around the handle of the door. Reigen is getting up from his desk. He fishes out his wallet and begins to count. The twist in his gut loosens a little bit. 

“Here,” Reigen says, holding a fist towards Mob. He waits for the boy to open his palm, and then he lets the coins fall with a faint metal ring, into the center of his palm. 

Mob stares at the coins. “What’s this?”

“That’s compensation.” 

Mob counts. “This is three hundred yen.”

Reigen raises an eyebrow. He almost takes it back. “And you’re ten years old.”

Mob counts the coins again. He rolls them around in his palm, then pinches each one between his fingers, staring at their thickness. “It’s three hundred yen,” Mob remarks again, but it’s not accusatory. He stares at the coins in wide-eyed wonder, as if he’s never seen three hundred yen in his life. 

Reigen is starting to feel uncomfortable. He clears his throat. “ Well  , as I said, you’re being compensated for working under me as my apprentice. Normally, I don’t fork out this sort of money, since you’re my  apprentice, not my employee, but—” Reigen waves his hand upward, gesturing vaguely above him, as if the situation that he threw himself in with this kid is somehow resting in the middle space above him, watching with impish glee, “—I ought to compensate you for your, ah, training during my job.”

Mob looks at him, enraptured. His fingers close around the coins, and they don’t make a sound when Mob bows. 

“Thank you, Master Reigen.” Reigen can only see the top of the boy’s head as he bows.

Reigen’s palm feels sticky when he rests it against his neck. He really needs to turn on the air conditioning. “Right. See you tomorrow.”

When Mob straightens, he’s smiling. It’s faint, and it could be a trick of the light, the way that the shadows curve over the boy’s face. Reigen doesn’t have time to check, because the boy twists the handle of the door and leaves Spirits and Such Consultation office without another sound.  

The conman stares at the empty space, palm still pressed against the back of his neck. The air conditioner is ghostly quiet, dead against the window. When he removes his hand, it takes a moment to unstick from his skin. He sits there, the glow of his laptop beginning to dull his senses.

He’s just covering his ass. He gave him a threadbare amount — pocket change — to keep the elderly clients’ mouths shut. Hell, he doesn’t even have to  pay the kid. He’s ten years old. They signed no documents. He’s doing Mob a favor, letting him come with him to his jobs. Now he’s paying Mob a modest wage that no other ten-year-old is making. Reigen’s neck is starting to feel moist. 

He doesn’t turn on his air conditioning that night. 

—

He’s trying not to care. But it’s hard — it’s so damn hard — when Mob looks at him with such open and baring trust, as though he’s placed his heart in Reigen’s hands and knows that he’ll squeeze it to keep it beating. He does it every day, nestling his backpack between the two cardboard stands of his makeshift desk, and watches Reigen with rapt attention, analyzing every move he makes.

“How do you do it, Shishou?” 

Reigen glances up from his desk, seconds after he had bit into his burger, the paper crinkling noisily in his hand. “Do what?” he says eloquently around his wad of burger.

“How do you keep it inside instead of it going out?”

Reigen’s mouth feels like paste, and he swallows the burger with difficulty. He stares at the corner of his office, searching for something to say. (A small voice tells him that he’s way over his head — another argues that he’s just a kid, really; how bad can it be?) The bun of the burger had formed a thin layer of mush behind his teeth, and he buys time by cleaning it out with his tongue. 

“Well,” Reigen says, and clears his throat when his voice cracks at the end syllable. “I’m doing it just like you are now. I stay calm. Remember the knife.” He forms his hand into a fist, wiggling around an invisible knife. “I’m in control. So are you. It’s not something to fear.” He offers a small smile. “I learn to trust myself, Mob. In time, you will, too.”

And there it is again, that look of raw hope. Reigen doesn’t have the heart to discourage it, so he smiles wider, encouragingly, before retreating to his laptop, burger forgotten beside him. 

An hour later, with no show of new clients, he tells Mob to go home. But even after the door closes, Reigen can’t escape that wide-eyed stare, that desperate gaze, where the ten-year-old boy places his trust in a stranger, fastening a rope between them both and never letting go.

That old pit is forming again at the base of his gut. He disregards it at hunger, and he eats the rest of his burger.

———

It’s been three months since that day they met at the consultation office. Roughly. Reigen hasn’t kept count, with the volume of clients growing and his schedule growing in tandem each week. He’s noticed that the seasons have changed, though, because Reigen doesn’t have to turn his air conditioner on nearly as often, and that cuts back on costs, which Reigen  always remembers. Mob comes in later in the afternoon, bundled in a scarf but otherwise as plain as the day Reigen met him. He says hello. Reigen replies with a wave of his hand, preoccupied with the emails left in his inbox. Regardless of the internet traffic, he’s made no new clients today, and he’s sporting a migraine. He barely notices Mob staring at him expectantly at his desk. 

“Nothing today, Mob,” Reigen grunts. “Feel free to… do your homework or something. Or leave.”  Without pay , Reigen adds. This migraine is making him particularly moody. 

Minutes pass, he thinks, as Reigen is staring blearily at his computer screen, an ache settling at the back of his eyes, scrolling up and down his read and replied files. He might have spaced out, or completely forgotten where he was, because he jumps slightly at the sound of paper sliding across his desk. He looks past his computer screen to see Mob’s eyes peek over the desk, through his mop of black hair, as a tiny hand pushes a sheet filled with scribbles toward him. Reigen picks it up and squints at it.

It’s a drawing. There’s lots of swirls — greens and blues and pinks — and shapes and a form that, after a bit of deliberation, looks like a man in a black-grey shirt with a thin wispy line of pink on his chest, with bright orange hair that’s fringed at every turn and a crooked smile in thick black crayon. Reigen looks to Mob for answers.

Mob looks embarrassed. “For you. We drew it in class.”  

And then there’s a light above his head. It’s an old, dusty light stolen from a hardware store, but it flickers to life over his head as Reigen stares at the page. The squiggly man is him, smiling in front of a crooked building with too many windows but with the sign — his sign — drawn squarely at the center of the building:  Spirts n Such Consoltashun. 

Something gets warm in his chest — something that replaces the black stewing pit — that makes him stare at the page for a moment longer. The warmth is not explosive — just a little ember, sitting at the center of his ribcage — but it’s enough for Reigen to know.

His do-not-care policy is quickly coming to an end.

--

He thanks Mob, of course, and tells him it looks great, even though, objectively, it doesn’t. Most ten-year-olds grow to draw more recognizable images, so if there was an art contest, Mob would most definitively be in last place. But he keeps it. He doesn’t know why, but when Mob leaves, Reigen searches for an empty manilla folder, digging through old cardboard boxes packed in the massage room, discarding less important paperwork — taxes, mostly — to find a somewhat fresh folder. Shaking off layers of dust from himself and his papers, he presses the drawing gently into the folder, repositioning the edges so it fits perfectly inside. It’s bright and colorful and so unlike the papers he’s read for years on end.

He stares at it for a long time.

—

It is not a one-time occurrence.

It happens infrequently, but Reigen knows when he’s about to get them. Mob walks into the office in a rush, both too slow and fast at the same time, shoulders hunched but eyes wide and clear, nibbling the bottom of his lip with nervous energy. He slips his backpack down, almost toppling his desk over, and then he opens it, the sound of paper crinkling as Mob ruins his homework but oh-so-carefully withdraws a new piece of art, this time with different colors, this time with different scenery. But the characters are always the same — him and Mob, sometimes lounging in the office, sometimes exorcising a spirit in a warehouse (he shouldn’t be concerned, but he hopes Mob’s teachers don’t talk amongst themselves about Mob’s new master and his continued encouragement of these macabre fantasies of spirits and demons). 

Each day Reigen thanks him for them and places them in his manilla folder, each pressed carefully over the other. He’s not sure what to do with them, so he keeps them there where they can’t be damaged by stray crumbs or toppled coffee. They stay in a cabinet next to his desk when they’re not lying on display on his desk, nestled between his lease paperwork and old client contacts. Sometimes, Reigen forgets about them completely.

Until, of course, the next drawing comes.

——

It’s sometime in winter when Reigen finally invites Mob to get ramen after work for the first time ever. It’s cold and dark and, even though there is no forecast for snow, the air smells just like the beginning of snowfall in Seasoning City, where the acrid smoke of the city clears into this sort of musky, oak-like smell. Reigen is tired and hungry and, when he looks at the clock on his phone, deliberates how exhausting it would be for him to stick a cup of noodles in the microwave and let it bake until his eyes start watering. He sighs and stares up at the night sky.

“Let’s get ramen.” 

Mob makes a noise beside him, something like cough or sneeze, and his eyebrows stretch skyward underneath his hair. “Really?” he asks. His tone reminds him of the first time Reigen gave him his pay. Reigen bites the inside of his cheek and finds it difficult to stare at Mob for longer than a second. 

“Yeah. I don’t want to cook anything in this weather. S’gonna be a long night, so might as well take a break while I can. Come on.”

He leads the kid to a ramen stall, where they greet the cook and settle in their seats. He orders for them both, with a decidedly smaller bowl for Mob. Mob continues thanking Reigen even when he tells him to stop, and by the fourth time, Reigen is getting annoyed.

“Oi, don’t expect me to make a habit of this. This is a one-time thing.  And this is coming out of your salary.”

Mob sobers after this and eats his ramen silently, but he still radiates this warmth that stays in Reigen’s chest for a long while, so faint and threadbare that he doesn’t even notice it until he opens the door to his apartment and is greeted by grey walls and papers strewn haphazardly over his couches, his year-old lights flickering their last sputters of light, and he realizes how good he felt in that ramen store, and how tired he feels in here.

Getting ramen does not stay a one-time thing.

——

It’s an off-day again. Reigen tells Mob to go home and then closes his office early, tucking old files below his armpit to take home with him. The weather is dark and gloomy that afternoon, which always raises people’s superstitions, which always lead to more clients, but apparently everyone is of clear mind today and hasn’t felt the need to call any psychics. Reigen can weather out the lax in calls, but he may be turning off his water for a while.

When he walks into his apartment, he scrubs the crust out of his eyes with the back of his palm, leaving his vision spotty, and he bumps into his kitchen counter. He stumbles and the files spill out from under his arm like a waterfall, and Reigen’s sigh echoes against the white tile. He bends down to pick up an unusually colorful paper.

He blinks. It’s a kid’s drawing, full of scribbles and squares, with a familiar man with orange hair and a pink tie grinning at him in thick black crayon. He looks to the rest of the spilled paperwork and sees those same familiar swirls of color. He must have accidentally added the manilla folder with his bills. 

He gently extracts each one from the ground, regards his kitchen counter with a frown, and scrubs a corner of it clean to rest the papers on. His bills he’s less gentle with, crinkling in his grip, and these he throws onto his couch to pool over after his shower. 

He doesn’t come up with his idea until after he’s out of the shower, towel over his shoulders, scrubbing at his still-wet hair and a toothbrush dangling in his mouth, and he walks back to the kitchen to stare at the blank surface of his refrigerator. The grey and orange and green is still bright at the corner of his eye. He huffs a breath of air out of his nose, a sort of “huh” noise that’s gargled by toothpaste, and realizes that he probably could have thought of this long ago. 

He tosses his towel to the side and starts rummaging through his kitchen drawers in search of magnets. 

The other papers lying on the couch are long forgotten.

--

“Shishou?”

Mob’s hand is still on the door handle when he stops in his tracks and stares at his master, who looks a little strange. He’s balancing at the top of his rolling chair, legs shakingly supporting the older man’s weight, as he’s pulling things from the wall and letting them fall onto the ground below. His suit jacket is discarded on his desk, and his tie is thrown over his shoulder. He looks especially sweaty up there. He also looks like he’s going to fall. 

Reigen glances over his shoulder, and the chair wobbles below him. “Oh! Mob. Good.” Reigen’s voice is strained, like he’s out of breath, and the mere act of swiveling his head around is using up too much energy. There are beads of sweat on his face. He motions Mob inside with a jerk of his head. “Help me out over here. Grab those posters on the floor and put them in the trash. Then grab my chair for me so I can get down.” 

Mob obediently enters, setting his backpack down next to his new desk — wooden and portable, something Reigen had bought at an online auction for less than a thousand yen, and so much better than the amalgamation of cardboard and wood and scratchy tablecloth — and goes to pick up the scraps of paper lying on the floor. They all look like posters of a younger Reigen, with his smile of too-many-teeth and flashy colors behind him. One looks out of place, of a man with black hair and a vacant gaze, with a name starting with “Mo” behind him. That one is torn. 

“Shishou, don’t you need these--?”

“Bah.” Reigen waves a hand. The chair gets even shakier. “Outdated. Don’t need them. Now hurry up, Mob. I’m gonna fall.” 

Mob rushes to throw the posters in the waste bin, which is too small and the paper scraps pool out around it. Then he rushes over to Reigen, who is huffing and puffing as though he ran several kilos, even though all he did was stand on a chair. Mob holds it steady as Reigen slowly crawls down. He radiates sweat, and when he tries to wipe his face, more sweat from his hand replaces it. 

“Good job,” Reigen pants. Mob stares at the torn posters.

“Why didn’t you just use your powers to take them down, Shishou?”

Reigen coughs and then barks out a laugh. “Oh, Mob,” he tuts. “There’s no need to use my powers for such trivial things. I can’t be reliant solely on the one thing I’m good at. Sometimes it’s good to be dependent on your own physical strength. Plus,” he coughs, “I just took down a major spirit this morning. I have to, ah, save up my remaining energy for later.”

Mob stares at his wise master and nods sagely. “Okay.” They both elect to stare at the wall which, in this case, is still not empty. “What’s that?” 

An empty cork board sits on the wall before them. It must have held the rest of Reigen’s old posters and advertisements, and now it’s completely bare. It makes the room feel a lot bigger. 

Reigen clasps a sweaty hand on Mob’s shoulder. “A client-satisfaction board, my apprentice. Here, we’ll fill it with photos taken with clients after our jobs. It gives future clients a piece of mind. A bit of security, knowing we do our job well.”

“Oh,” says Mob. He looks to his shoes and thinks. “But we don’t have any client-satisfaction pictures.”

“Not yet, Mob.” Reigen rummages under his jacket, which still lies on the desk, and pulls out what even Mob can recognize as a cheap plastic camera. “But we soon will. Here.” He spins the camera around to point at them and leans over to Mob, who stares unblinkingly at the camera lens. The device clicks, and Reigen spins it around to see the finished picture. All they see is a brown blur. 

“Ah,” Reigen grunts. “One more time.” They take another photo. They spin it around. This time, Mob can see both him and Reigen staring at the camera, Reigen with his hair stuck to his forehead and grin crooked, and Mob in midway blink. 

“Perfect,” Reigen says. He sets the camera down. “And one more thing.” 

He produces a folder from under his desk. It’s plain and tan and it looks like all the rest in Reigen’s office, but when he opens it, Mob can see some familiar scribbles. He cranes his head over the desk to see what Reigen’s doing with them, as the man pulls one, two, three from the pile and then rummages in a small box of thumbtacks. Reigen crosses the office and sticks the drawings crookedly on the corkboard, in a pattern that suggests he expects to put more photos around them, with wide space between each. They gleam in the afternoon sun, his drawings from school, that feature him and Reigen eating burgers in the office and exorcising spirits in the park. 

“There,” Reigen says, arms folded over his chest, satisfied. He glances over to Mob. “Look good?” 

The sun strikes the pictures just right, forcing Mob to squint at them as they make the office feel brighter. The little esper looks to his master, then to the corkboard, then to the folder that sits silently at the desk. After a long moment (and Reigen is starting to sweat again), he nods. He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling.

“Yeah,” Mob says, soft and quiet in the tiny Spirits and Such Consultation Office. “Looks good.”

--

In Reigen’s apartment, there are still papers strewn across the couch,  the walls are grey, and the air is stale and smells like old ramen. There are dirty dishes in the sink and the counter could use a good wipe, and Reigen forgot to turn off the air conditioner when he left for work. 

And in the kitchen, hanging on the refrigerator by half-faded blue and pink magnets, rustling in the still-running air conditioner, are five of Mob’s drawings, shining proudly in the dying sunlight.

[peaches-of-1]

Peachtober | Day 24: Forever

University Student / Vampire!Reader x Teacher / Priest!Namjoon

Warnings: Blaphemy kink, sex in a classroom, sex in a church, questioning faith, biting, blood play, Vampirism, angst, smut, multiple partners, voyerism, no condom (all gifts are better wrapped), male masturbation, stepping on genitalia, wet dreams, death mention (let me know if I should add others)

Citrus Scale: Buddha’s Hand

When one's will is stripped away, oftentimes the outcome will be rebellion. A direct or passive fight against their oppressor(s) in one way or another in order to regain their sense of freedom. In this specific case, it was the denial of a dream college to follow their parent's ideal of being a servant of their Lord that one was not exactly loyal to. More like questioning instead of lack of belief. However complicated one's relationship with His Holiness may have been, the rebellion of not being able to go to the school of their choice led to late parties with non stop drinking and laughter that sometimes turned into tears. Such parties and celebrations of indulgence were against the rules, of course.

As it was a Friday, one snuck out of a white marble dormitory in clothing fit for Mary Magdalene as it was skimpy and sheer and perfectly fit for a party bound Harlot. All of this under a casual black coat due to recent rain and to get under the radar of any of the nuns and priests who asked where a young being was going so late. If spoken response was needed, the reply would be something forgotten in the library or a quick prayer session in the on campus cathedral which was always open for troubled minds.

Yet the escape went smoothly. Coats were taken at the door and libations were spread all around in joyous celebration of the weekend. A sense of concern had washed over the shy companion one had decided to come out with.

“More for me then.” was the intoxicated response as another red solo cup of mystery spirits was downed.

As the night went on, the shy one wandered off, no longer in the mood for loud music and drunken partiers bumping into them. Out onto the back porch where something rather large hid behind a tree.

“Hello?” they called out into the night. “It's ok. I won't hurt you. I just needed some fresh air. Inside just smells like vape juice.”

A hand touched the side of the bannister and felt something wet and sticky. In the amber lighting, it was a reddish color.

“Are you bleeding?”

No response and so the compassionate stranger approached too happy to have a quiet place and someone to talk to. Their scream at the realization that what they had stumbled upon was not human and it was not their blood that came from its body was not heard over the loud pop music inside.

Although the original partier as well as the whole campus was being told to stay in dorms and on campus even more than normal, they were not told the reason why. But they knew. One had seen the corpse of their quiet and reserved friend in the back yard when the bathroom was full and they needed to piss and ran back inside to call for help. Police were called soon after. People gave their condolences not just for their lost friend and fellow student, but more for the punishment those in attendance would be receiving.

That punishment being cleaning the cafeteria at the end of the day for the rest of the year. As this was the first day of doing so in this righteous university based on religion, morale was low. Several students were dressed in the school uniform of navy plaid bottoms, white socks, black shoes (with black laces), a button up dress shirt with a collar, and a navy blue Thom Browne blazer which had been approved through one of the CEO’s children going to the school but hating the previous uniforms. They all moaned and groaned at the prospect of actually having to work for forgiveness.

“You should have thought about that before you snuck out to a dangerous party.” Father Namjoon said. “You will stay here until the place is spotless. I will be back within an hour to check on you. I have confessions from the Faithful to listen to.”

And so the young man who was constantly praised for this love of his God and the passion of his sermons went to the booth and waited to listen in on the sins and guilt the Lord's followers had been holding in. Most were the usual things, they had lied or said something wrong. They lusted over the unattainable or felt as though they weren't faithful enough. Some just had burdens too heavy to deal with alone and so Namjoon would pray with them.

That is until the unmistakable sound of Y/N's voice came in and shook the young man's own piety. She had teased him ever since she arrived only a few months ago, but he never gave into her antics. However, they still stayed in his mind so much that he prayed for her. Because of silence on that front, he knew she was just a person in his path to test his faith. Namjoon would never admit that she was doing a rather splendid job at doing so.

“Sorry, Daddy, I've been a bad girl.” Her saccharine voice said.

“Now you know that is not how we do this, Y/N.” Father Namjoon replied.

She giggled, “Yet I know you are listening to me more closely than anyone who has ever said such things properly, aren't you, Father Joonie?”

Every word that came from her mouth taunted the young man and pulled at the Father's heart and other parts inside of him. He stammered out that he needed to get back to his other duties and this needed to be quick.

“I do have a real concern.” The young lady spoke with an irresistible pout in her voice. “It would be irresponsible for you to ignore it, Father~”

“Speak your heart's worry to me, my Child.” Namjoon sighed.

The woman spoke of wanting to claim not only the heart, but also the mind, body, and soul of a man. She claimed to have done this before but not in a very long time and it had never been so difficult for her to approach him in a one on one situation.

“It is not within the right of man to claim another as his property.” Father Namjoon replied with such conviction it surprised him and the woman on the other side of the wooden partition, his body turned to face her.

His hand set on the space in the partition and her hand set on top of it.

Y/N smiled, “What if I am not a man? Nor am I human.”

Brown eyes met ones as bright as rubies. In the darkness of the confessional, the coloring was clear as day. Namjoon felt his hand move but was not sure if he wanted to stop it until his own flesh touched the soft fabric covering her own skin... which body part was this? A quick squeeze and he jerked back his hand. It had been her breast he had grabbed and so he bolted from the booth due to the shock of the action. He felt the need to hide away from everything she was. God knew he had not meant to touch her body like that. It was what she had wanted but the feeling wasn't mutual. Namjoon had taken to a tree in the middle of the courtyard to catch his breath.

“Good afternoon, Father Namjoon. Are you alright?” Father Yoongi asked.

His long time friend and Namjoon's adopted sister who had followed his God given plan into becoming a nun. Both were dressed in their own black and white robes with looks of concern upon their faces for the man they cared so much about. He gave the two a smile and laughed.

“I... I am fine. I simply got frightened by a bee that got too close for comfort.” He would ask the Lord's forgiveness later for lying to his dear friends.

His sister laughed, “They must have mistaken your aura for a physical flower.”

Yoongi chuckled and then asked, “Would you like to join us in getting some craft supplies from in town? We could always use an extra pair of hands.”

“Perhaps another time, Father Yoongi. I have been given the duty to watch over those who attended that party, their punishment that is.” He pushed his hair back. “I was just on my way to check in on their progress.”

“Best of luck to you, dear brother.” Said the little sister.

After polite bows and words of farewell, Namjoon finished the evening quite quickly after the cafeteria was cleaned and decided to work on his sermon for the week.

~~~~

There had not been another incident for a few days. Nothing as big, that is. Instead it was Namjoon's own mind that he was fighting against for the past evenings. He knew she would be back today after the sermon. The man with hair like honey was sure of it, like a well kept promise. He'd keep himself under control and not get caught up in her teasing, he would do his best not to take her bait. Wanting to claim a man for herself. All of him.

He almost wanted her to come back so he could learn more.

And so she did. Within the grated separation, crimson eyes glowed. She smiled, her giggle sounding more like a threat than actual joy.

“So, Father. It seems you have been expecting me.” Y/N announced as the door creaked shut and she sat on the aged red cushion where thousands of students and guests had sat before for years on end.

“Of course,” the blonde man swallowed deeply and ignored the cotton on his tongue in order to speak correctly. “You are a student at this university and so--”

A cute laugh that sounded like the sweetest doom poured from her lips, “Don't play dumb with me, Joonie~ I see how you force yourself not to look at me in class. Why don't you?”

Namjoon replied honestly--as he always did, “You don't wear your uniform properly. It's immodest.”

“But I keep that part unbuttoned just for you. No one else, I swear.” Y/N spoke what appeared upon first listen to be candied false promises.

He scoffed quietly, “Forgive me for not believing that coming from someone like you.”

She pouted, “You should. I don't want anyone else but you, and I intend to make you mine sooner than later.”

“You should repent your lustful and commandeering ways and try to walk in the Lord's light. It is not too late for someone so young like you.” Candid were the words which came from the man who promised himself to the Most High

“But you have the choice to be in MY light, Father. Make the right one before it is no longer a choice you can make.” Her tone alone put the sin in sincere.

“What are you?” Namjoon asked quietly, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Y/N made a sighing hum, “Me and my kind have been called many things and depicted millions of times in your media in half as many years. However, I think the common term is Vampire.”

Namjoon gasped and his blood went cold as he knew this was the only truth. That it would explain her eyes and her enchanting ways. Why the men of the school followed her and adored her in the most carnal of ways and fooled themselves thinking it was pure intentions they had with her. Wasn’t that how they were? He saw it in their eyes. Yoongi would sometimes smack them in the back of their heads when he read the thoughts that dripped from their hungering eyes such as the drool from their gaping mouths.

“V-V-Vam-Vam-” The priest stuttered out. The word gripped him like an iron maiden.

Her teeth glinted in the little bit of amber that snuck through the cracks of the ancient confessional, “Yes. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned for nearly a thousand years. Lately I’ve been biting into some of the more beautiful of the young men that come here and women too. Even those who would rather not subscribe to gender no matter how much it is forced upon them. I am not picky. Blood is blood though it does taste better when I see those beautiful faces become twisted in horror and their eyes roll back when I finally sink my teeth into their alluring necks and wrists. The school uniforms to very well at hiding the scars until they heal.”

Y/N’s voice was tinted with true revelry in those moments that must have been the terrors for others. She had in fact created a harem of students to do her bidding in the sunlight where she could not go, right?

“The sunlight,” Namjoon asked. “How do you?”

“Do you really think vampires can live for millenia and not find some way to thrive even in sunlight?” She laughed. “We have many scientists in our ranks who have created ways of surviving in the sun. That along with natural evolution.”

A knock. Time’s up. Apologies exchanged after hushed guarantees to visit later. Y/N had promised to claim him. He could either submit to her by choice or by force. Was there not some way to defeat her?

Namjoon tried his best to continue to perform his daily duties as a priest, as one of the most looked up to men in this lifestyle. Vampires were demons! He could not let himself succumb to her and her unbuttoned top and her plump thighs in her too short skirt. It had been required for girls to wear shorts underneath, but she never did. Instead she bent over and displayed herself for anyone with the pleasure to pass by.

A pleasure? No. It was wrong. Sinful. Gaudy. Women needed to respect themselves and hide their precious bits for someone special. Their husband. Though Namjoon believed women were allowed to do what they wanted with their own bodies, there was a time and a place for everything. The school hallways during the changing of classes were not appropriate options for either. No one else had ever called her out on it, so neither did he.

There had been a few like that. Skipped through classes with no regards for the rules and omitted their pants, but that was the cause of money. The wealthy child of a wealthy benefactor. A single feigned outcry of unfair treatment could cause for their abundant donations towards the school to be pulled. So many sinners in a house of God, but Namjoon knew that was the way it was supposed to be. He knew they wouldn’t be like this forever. They’d see the light of his Lord and see the fault in their ways. Some had in the few months he had been there.

They had become good little cherry blossoms. Had decided to become part of the flock of sheep that took God’s Word to heart. Some mere liars. Goats hiding their horns. However Y/N had been the lion among the lambs, making peace and friends and yet simply bringing them elsewhere to be devoured. All of this occurring away from the eyes of the herders. Right behind them, but they refused to turn and look because they were blinded or simply ignorant by choice.

Had this been her first slip up? Eating the young woman from the party? The DNA found on the body had belonged to a woman thought to be dead for over a hundred years. In the short week after the celebration gone wrong, the case had been thrown out due to evidence tampering. However, it all made sense with one of the few truthful confessions the taunting young woman ever told. The DNA found did in fact belong to a being over the age of 100. It belonged to Y/N, not as if anyone would believe the man no matter how faithful and honest he was.

With heavy feat and a foggy head, Father Namjoon began to disrobe and pray before troubled slumber claimed his night. All he could dream about was Y/N. Belonging to her and giving into desires he had cast aside in the name of following the Lord. Tasting her sweet nectar below, making her hips roll in an attempt for him to go in deeper to her sweet and tangy tasting core. Eyes opened in fright but the second attempt at a G rated dream was even more pornographic. She was feeding on him and he shuddered in joy.

Her eyes like two glowing cherries.

Would a vampire’s bite be so calming? So intoxicating? With Y/N, it could be. He knew that for sure as if the words were spoken to him in a prayer of promise. From his own heart. Yet being fed from above was not enough for her. She also wanted her sacred garden to be plowed and seeded by him.

“Begone, Daemon!” The tall man said into the empty and simplistic room.

His own. Not the den where she had...that he had dreamt. The black iron framing of the bed contrasting the white quilt placed upon it for the colder nights and the equally white walls. Light seeped through the thin linen curtains and showed the specs of dirt dancing in the morning rays of pure and comforting light. Namjoon quickly went to his knees and prayed for the fear to go away. To purify and forgive him for his impure thoughts of a student he was supposed to help guide.

“Heavenly Father, please forgive me. I do not know what has gotten into me, but I promise I will not stray from your path, Dear Lord. You are my light. You are my Savior. I refuse to let the lustful thoughts of that young woman lead me astray. I ask for your guidance now more than ever, God. Oh, God.” He wept. “Please help me.”

When one sacrifices himself for his Lord, when one gives himself to his faith completely, it tends to twist their outlook. It gives someone confidence they did not have before because they feel they have backup. That they are not alone. That is what Namjoon felt as he walked into the class to teach his class for the day. He had truly believed in this morning’s “Amen.”

As a man trained in philosophy until it left him with more questions than answers, he brought that into teaching his class of young adults about God’s word. His promises. He taught about His protection today. With renewed strength, he slammed his ruler on a giggling girl’s desk and asked her to read her texts allowed. Nothing but lustful tones filled the abbreviated letters and messages to someone in a different class.

Y/N spoke up, “As if you are one to judge, Father Joonie. I would not doubt if you had dreams of exploring a woman’s ‘Garden of Eden’ from time to time. Tasting the honey that drips from her at the mere sight of your own sun kissed face.”

A ball of guilt and craving entered the man’s stomach and he hesitated to look at the young woman he now knew was a vampirinc daemon. He feared all weaknesses would be clear in front of her. But he had his Lord and Jesus Christ and even the Holy Spirit on his side. Standing up straight, the young Father smoothed his black robes and met her eyes now their imitation of human coloring instead of the demonic garnet shade he was familiar with.

“I am not one to judge on anything. That is a job reserved only for our Lord Jesus Christ. I simply am stating that her mind should be on the lesson and not matters of the flesh.” Namjoon spoke with a straight spine. “As for your guess as to what I do in my own privacy, in my own head, that is not for you to know.”

“Then I am right.” She said with a knowing attitude and a sharp glare.

Brown eyes defied his inner doubt and said, “You have every right to think so and you also have every right to button up your blouse.”

A false pout sat upon her plump lips, “Even Jesus hung out with harlots.” and folded her arms which made her chest seem even more voluptuous than before, creating stronger cleavage to be seen through her opened dress shirt and blazer.

“I am not Jesus, but I am in charge here. So please conduct yourself properly.” Namjoon said.

“Feeling brave today, aren’t we, Father Joonie?” Y/N said before deciding to follow the rules. . . in her own way. “Taehyung-ssi~, will you button up my shirt for me? I’ve hurt my thumb this morning.”

The beautiful young man with skin like caramel stammered and eventually nodded and blushed as he ghosted his hands above her chest, having to look directly at it to do what he was commanded to do. He even bit his lip. As the moment stretched out, she smiled and looked at his face. His heartbeat had to have been loud. Namjoon’s heart was beating louder and was biting his lip even harder. Why? He should’ve said something when she made the request in the first place.

Instead jealousy made the strong jaw tense as both hands gripped firmly on the podium in front of him.

“That’s--” Father Namjoon began, starting to get fed up with how long this was taking.

“Done. Is that fine, Y/N?” The younger man asked, forcing himself to look into her eyes and his cheeks became scarlet.

She gave a smile, “Yes. Thank you, Taehyung-ssi.”

Both students sat in their seat and the lesson continued as the sun was high in the sky, beating down on all of the rich campus. The sun that gave all of the world life and light began to sink soon after the final lesson and Namjoon decided to finish grading the last test at home. As he passed by what was supposed to be an empty hallway since it was nearing dusk, he instead heard labored breathing and primal grunts alonged with muffled moans.

“Be quiet, or someone is going to hear you.”

Was someone in trouble? Had someone given into their lustful urges and gone after an innocent student?

The sunkissed man with a heart of gold and duty towards bettering humanity sped towards the source of the sound. Moans and grunts got louder as the concerned teacher traveled empty halls to find who would be visiting the Headmaster and getting extra sessions in the confessional.

It was not any sound of pain, but pure erotic rapture taking place on the sturdy tables attatched to the floor. Pure whites and blues being tarnished by the sweat and friction it takes for at least two bodies to engage in intercourse. The bodies belonging to those who engaged in what turned out to be subtle foreplay of buttoning a simple blouse in front of a class of 13 other students and a fuming teacher. Who else better to approach the scene of discarded navy blue blazers now?

“Oh, I do love your blood the most, Taehyung-ssi. I would take more, but I wouldn’t want your cock to suffer any loss since I find that just as delicious if not more.” purred a familiar voice. “Yes! Oh yes! You are such a good pet, TaeTae.”

Deep growls responded, “Take as much as you want, Mistress. I’ll produce more blood. Ah! Ah, I want to serve you, Mistress.”

She moaned at his repeated penetrations, “You serve me so well, my pet. I assure you. Mmmm, right there. The most--oh--sought after boy on this incredibly dull campus approaching me my first day here, mmmpph and not backing down even after you found out what I was.”

“I just wanted to be yours, Mistress. I didn’t care how. Feed on me more, my beloved Mistress. Please.” Taehyung’s labored voice begged.

“You’re close, aren’t you, my pet?”

A desperate voice answered, “Mmmm, gya. Yes, Mistress.”

Y/N’s unforgettable laugh, “Ok, one more bite.”

Namjoon watched through the cracked doorway, unable to tear himself from the sounds of such passionate and primal coitus in an empty classroom. He remembered the time in high school when his heart led him to do the same with his crush, but it became the reason why he was sent here in the first place. It had been seen as too dirty and sinful when the love they had was as pure as freshly fallen snow.

Now, to see the one he said would claim him instead claim another, it...it hurt. It clouded his once confident mind with doubt and complex feelings. Had she lied to him? Was he really something so special when she had claim to half if not all of the student body at this point? Did such a pain that shot through his chest even deserve the name of heartache?

The sight of her removing the white dress shirt from Taehyung’s shoulder and sinking her glistening fangs into the area made something shift inside Father Namjoon. A brief wish to be in the young man’s position instead of standing stunned in fading sunlight flitted through his mind as he stared, mouth agape and stomach being filled with the most sensual of sins in the highest concentration. Such an act was being performed right in front of his snout which rested a pair of glasses.

As if fate wanted to make sure he saw every moment, every thrust, every bead of sweat as clear as possible.

Eyes like Hellfire looked directly at the frightened but enticed priest, assuring him that she had known he was there the entire time. The smile telling him not to look away even as the black framed lenses landed on the floor.

“Mistress! I feel so dizzy~” Taehyung whined. “Can I--?”

“Go ahead, pet.” She responded.

With blue plaid bunched around ankles, the student thrusted deeply into his Mistress with a broken moan. He begged for Y/N’s kisses and she gave them to him for being so good for her. As the affectionate action was done, a troubled pious man ran away. Out of sight, out of mind, right? That was his goal.

“Mistress, who was that?” the pet asked, breathing heavy and mind full of fog in part due to blood loss.

Y/N caressed his head and felt his creamy offering inside of her, “No one, my dear. Rest now. I’ll get you a nice comfy place to rest. Don’t you worry.”

With the door shut firmly behind himself, the call of concerned friends asked the reason for his quick pace and strained face. He assured them that it had just been a long day and he had just been in need of rest and it would be best if he were left alone for the time being.

“I just need to pray.” the young man with hair like a sandy beach promised himself.

But there was something that needed to be dealt with before he uttered a word up to the Heavens to hear. The growing problem in his pants making them even tighter, now pressing up against the zipper. It...it had to be handled now. This was the first time Namjoon had been on his knees not to pray, but to instead relieve the lust that created a fire in his groin. A fire as bright as Y/N’s ruby eyes. Unbuttoning pants and moving down black fabric and white underwear to free his thick and throbbing phallus. More upstanding than he was perceived by everyone on the other side of the door.

He just had to make it quick, and so the horny representative of the Heavenly Father began the task of sliding his hand back and forth along already moisturized skin. Friction was decreased due to his own precum leaking onto the rest of his cock. Biting the hem of his robes to keep quiet and keeping it out of the way, the man imagined himself in the place of his student, serving his Mistress in the most carnal of ways. He thought of her flame filled eyes looking at nothing but him.

Mistress. Mistress. Please don’t let anyone else serve you but me, Mistress. I’ll do anything. Please! He tried to stay true to the live script but instead let his own desires come forth. You were right. I do think that way. I haven’t thought about any of this stuff in a long time, not until you revealed what you were. Please!

He imagined Y/N’s hands scraping down the front of his chest and landing on his aching cock which she soon took over and began stroking with fervor. She teased him for being so desperate and laughed at him for making things so hard on himself when he could have just given in. Namjoon could just deliver himself unto his urges and into her and then maybe he’d be rewarded with actually getting to cum inside of her. Father Namjoon just wanted to let his snake explore her bush for the rest of his Earthly years..

The constricting heat of it. Her voice calling him precious names and soon enough his own voice was begging just like Taehyung’s had been. The small bit of sense left in the priest’s mind caused him to bite on his own arm as his white seed fell onto the barren land of a carpet a few shades darker due to it being traveled by many feet, making his sin even brighter and apparent.

Guilt soon constricted his heart and hot tears of regret burned and flowed down his cheeks. This was no way to live! He could not serve two Masters! He had to choose and Namjoon was sure his body had already decided against all reason, all logic, all sincerity to his life and love of serving his Savior God.

The next day in class, it was difficult to look at the one he had imagined pumping his cock for less than 24 hours ago on his bedroom floor. She noticed very early on in the teachings and had been torturing him thought the entire lesson, spreading her legs too wide while in her seat and even while in groups, she made sure her back was towards Father Namjoon and bent over the desk to reveal the scandalously thin and lacy thong she had decided to wear.

Blood rushed to all extremities of the teacher with a war inside of him. Which to follow, his Master or a new one that would rather be called Mistress? One was certainly real in a physical plane as well as mental. He no longer hesitated to believe in her power, though his troubled thoughts were stilled by a hand tapping his arm.

Father Namjoon jumped out of his skin, making the others laugh for a moment.

He then turned to the face of a young woman known as Lisa, “Father Namjoon, the timer? It’s been going on for a while.”

The beeping of his phone was silenced and then he had the groups go through and speak about the Biblical topic they had chosen. Research had been done as a group, but only two would present to class until the bell rang. Once the charming ring of wind chimes sounded, the students were released to their next class. The honey haired priest then cleaned up the room before his next class came for his teachings.

There was a folded note with his name on it in the seat in which Y/N every day as things were organized by surname. Namjoon’s heart jumped in excitement and anxiety at what the letter contained. It was a time and a place. A smile broke out on the teacher’s face so bright and broad that he had to cover it with his hand.

Next class came in. The same lesson was taught. The sun went down slower than usual.

Soyeon raised her hand, “Father Namjoon, why do you keep looking at the time? Are you looking forward to something?”

“Nothing in particular. I just hear that it will be a full moon tonight, so I am excited to see it once it’s up.” The man gave a polite smile as the timer went off.

Once the silver moon was high in the star speckled sky, Namjoon travelled to the location which was written on Y/N’s note. It was the old church that had been abandoned years ago after a great fire years before Namjoon ever showed up to this university. With only memory and a flashlight to guide him, the priest was clad only in a pair of black jeans with a white button up shirt tucked into them. The sleeves were rolled up to right below the elbow since he no longer felt wholly right in wearing his robes.

He opened the charred wooden doors with a groaning creek. Invisible small animals ran among scattered leaves.

“Hello, Y/N?” Namjoon called out. “A-are you--Are you here?” His voice reverberated upon the walls of the dilapidated cathedral.

No reply. He was stupid, and for what? Where had all of his rational thinking gone? The priest should have stayed with his God and his books. This may have been the day he died. It was just his imagination, all of this. The 100 year old DNA was just evidence that had been tampered with. She wasn’t a vampire. They didn’t even exist!

“Now now, don’t say that.” Y/N’s voice echoed. “I was just putting on the final touches, Father Joonie~”

Namjoon’s gaze fell upon the beautiful woman’s form, the vampire who had awoken years of suppressed lust inside of him. The one he wanted to serve more than almost anything.

Her shape was covered in a tight rose colored dress which left little to the imagination as it had no sleeves and only straps to hold up a beautiful bosom that glittered in the moonlight due to the chains that dangled from a black lace choker with a ruby as red as her eyes in the middle. Her fingers were adorned with black rings and she was holding red wine in a crystal glass. Her red and gold studded heels clacked on the aged dark wooden floor. As she tucked her hair behind her ear, the earrings she always wore winked in the moonlight along with a rosy bracelet.

“How do I look?” She asked, spreading her arms revealing lace underneath her breasts allowing her skin to peak through.

The man choked on his own words and was unable to reply. She had really arrived at the meeting spot for him. Of course, she was the one who set this all up in order for her to claim the man.

She smirked, the tip of blade like fangs flashed, “Thank you. I must say that you look quite delicious as well. I do quite despise those robes for doing such a good job at hiding such delectable and supple shapes like yours.”

“Y/N,” The man spoke softly. “I have come to give you my answer.”

“Is it the right one?” The woman stood in front of him and batted her eyes.

Namjoon nodded and could not meet her cherries, “For me, yes. I cannot be yours as much as it pains me. My heart and soul belong to my God.”

She frowned and the glass shattered in her hand as wind picked up, there was a crack in her usually calm and cocky exterior, “It’s a shame that I have to do this by force, Joonie. I had really hoped you made the correct decision.”

Hands were put up defensively, such is the way one should hold themselves in an attempt for self preservation.

“Please, hear...hear me out. I want. I want you. I want to be yours, Y/N. There are feelings that I have never felt before, and I doubt they’ll just go away.” His voice was soft as the sky and had a rasp which matched the crinkling leaves. “But I cannot serve two Masters--”

“What if I told you that you can keep your priesthood and still belong to me?” Y/N said.

Was such a thing possible? “. . .I’d take that option in a heartbeat.”

Her smile returned and the wind died down, “Alright, then. Your heart, body, and half of your mind will belong to me, but He gets to keep your soul and the other half of your mind.”

Namjoon gave an eager nod, “Yes. Yes, please! What do I have to do?”

In an instant, Y/N ripped off the startled man’s shirt Sharp talon like fingers dragged up the abdomen which flexed underneath her touch. A firm hand then gripped his chin and forced them to look at her. Shaded eyes looked up with a devilish grin with showed the entirety of fangs sharper than any needle the desperate man had ever seen. He let himself get lost in her red beryl eyes and felt himself losing all of his will as two lovely canines sunk into his neck. A bit of warm wetness trickled from the wounds, dying his shirt a romantic crimson. Tears of pure bliss dropped from his eyes. It was painless as he felt himself relax under her ministrations, his legs starting to give out.

Father Namjoon soon found himself kneeling in front of her red dress as she licked her scarlet stained lips. Her heel cover shoe then stepped on the oh so attentive cock hidden beneath thin trousers. The man hissed in a breath and felt as though he could orgasm then and there.

“Hmp, I finally have you, don’t I?”

She then began walking away from him and floated up the stairs and sat herself on top of the pulpit and spread her legs. Unlike earlier where there was a piece of black lace separating YN’s already deflowered garden from the harshness of man, there was nothing except flowing river of her honey. The half turned priest licked his lips.

“Equivalent exchange, my dear. I take some of your lifeblood and you take your fill of my body. Anything you desire no matter how sinful it is, I will happily fulfill. Now devour my nectar.”

“Yes, Mistress~” Namjoon said without missing a beat and then walked towards her dripping pussy, taking a deep inhale. “Oh, God. It smells delicious.” He hovered his nose right above her heat and breathed in again, his torso pressed against the pulpit’s wooden cross and adding much needed pressure to his sheathed length.

Y/N shoved his head forward, “No more talking! Become mine already!” obvious impatience after months of hard work was expected and rewarded.

Everything Namjoon had ever imagined over the past 6 years of learning and eventually becoming a teacher at the school came forth. All thoughts that had been shoved to the deepest parts of his mind were given new life as he took his fill of her body. His pants were now discarded somewhere off to the side as he became hungrier and more unhinged.

He wanted to be hers and he wanted his God. With this oath, he was promised both. Jesus died for man’s sins. It would be a waste if he died for nothing, right? Every thrust inside the vampire he adored was like a prayer and her moans a matching hymnal loud enough for Him and all of His angels to hear.

“Mistress. Oh, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you, Mistress Y/N.” Father Joonie panted out as he rutted with no sense of fatigue. “I don’t know why I tried to fight it. I can really have it all with you.”

She giggled and moaned out his name, “Oh yes, Father Joonie, yes you can.”

“Don’t be with anyone else. Please. Keep your eyes on me. At least when we’re together. Don’t play around with Taehyung or anyone else.” He sounded so pitiful, begging a student that he taught not to play with his heart.

“If I ever play with anyone else, you will be there to make--oh goodness--to make sure they’re doing it right. You’re my number 1, Joonie. I wanted you and so I’m going to have you ask much as I can.” She was a moaning mess under him as they screwed, using the pews as support to blow out a Vampire’s back.

The fiercely tender words went right to the priest’s cock, “I’m gonna. Mistress Y/N, I’m going to cum! Let me seed your garden, please!”

His fluttered as she once again sank her teeth into him and sucked.

“Fuck! Yes! Oh God, yes!” The priest orgasmed deep inside his vampire student.

Father Namjoon no longer cared about him being her professor or that she was a vampire. All he could think about was how most of him belonged to her now. He slid out of her and got onto his knees to lay his head in her lap once she sat up. She caught her breath and started to smooth his head. Maybe she had pushed him too far for their first feeding.

Her own clothing had never been removed completely, only pushed out of the way to free her bosoms and create better access to her now filled and dripping pussy. She did not attempt to correct any of this as she adored the exposed feeling of it all.

Then her most prized possession in several centuries said to her in his dazed state, “I want to be yours for the rest of my life, Y/N.”

“And you will be.” She promised.

[whatevenismyaestheticidk]

Things I’ve heard high schoolers say pt 2

Person 1: But air doesn’t splash Person 2: How do we know that, Im splashing the air right now.

Person: Prove me wrong. Prove fish can’t see air.

Person: I think you underestimate just how poor I am.

Person: I just invented a new thing. No Romo. Like no homo but with romance cause I’m lonely. Get it?

Person: So yah I burned my hair cooking ramen.

Person: Well I figured he wasn’t an adopted iguana.

Person: Say it. You know god is watching.

Person 1 upon heading the news of George Bush’s death: Wait he’s still alive? Person 2: No he’s dead that’s the point.

Person: I got it. *five second pause* no I don’t got it.

Person 1: My name is (name), but you can call me yours. Person 2: Okay nice to meet you yours.

Person: Don’t drink it all fool.

Person: Bruh you could literally turn in a gay fanfic and he’d give it an A.

Person: Bruh, what is this triangular accusation?

Person 1:It’s call physics. Person 2: Yah but I don’t take Physics hence they should not apply to me.

Person 1: Discreet. Person 2: No discr-yeet *dabs*

Person 1: Be impressed with my ability to bull shit. Person 2: I mean, it’s gotten you this far.

Person: Why do I feel like finals are lowkey Russian roulette? Like okay I made it through most of them but I still have a few pulls of the trigger to go and one of them might get me.

Person 1: Murder. Just do it. Person 2: I didn’t know that nike was sponsoring murder.

Person: How do mermaids reproduce if they’re just like conjoined legs?

Person 1: Frozen Yogurt Person 2: Fro yo Person 1: Frozen YOgUrt Person 2: Fro Yo Person 1: FROZEN YOGURT

Person: All I have to do to commit suicide is jump from my parents expectations to my grades.

Person 1: I mean yah I cheated on that test. Person 2: Man your love life it DOOMED!

Person: I was seeing if I was tripophobic by repeatedly stabbing my finger with my pen.

Person: You do know that crickets exist during the day right?

Person 1: Hey (person 2), we’re friends right? Person 2: ….. What do you want. Person 1: You know, that sandwich looks real good. *person 2 hand them the sandwich* OMIGOD THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE YOU!

Person: Omigod (person’s name) is going through puberty!

Person: If you pulled my ear I would have ripped out your nostril.”

Person 1: She’s attacking me! Person 2: No, he’s beating a woman, that’s not polite.

Person 1: I know many things! Person 2: like what? Person 1: ..... Person 2: my point.

Person: My shoes will be sparkly red stilettos. Fight me Dorothy.

Person: umm hello Christmas miracle even though I’m not Christian. Come at me 15 years from now!

Person 1: you’d make a really good baldie Person 2: yah you have a really rest head shape

Person: you know teletubbies? Yah that but compressed.

Person 1: I mean how will you become American? Person 2: paint me white, I’ll get a passport.

Person 1: I’m so funny. Person 3: it’s hard not to be when your life is a joke.

Person 1: So I’ve decided that my new career choice is to make school specific memes Person 2: That's Plan A? Yeash... at least Plan B lands you some cash

Person: I’m so small and bitter I’m like a human expresso

Person: You know what I’d name a baby kangaroo if I had one? David Jowie.

Person: I’m just saying that the orange red glitter crayon is you.

Person: I feel like a 1940’s schoolgirl who goes to an all girl finishing school where embroidery is a required class.

Person: I started high school with straight A’s, now I’m not even straight.

Person: Yeah, I’d swear by comic sans.

Person: (Persons name)stop being depressy and you’ll be more sucessy

Person: You can totally be insecure and self absorbed at the same time.

Person 1: Are you kids okay? Person 2: Besides crippling depression yeah.

Person: I don’t know it’s just giving me pig vibes.

Person: What drugs where the animators for “Pink Elephants on Parade” on?

Person: long story short I make like a semi hot guy.

Person: If I where pregnant id just be like 'you put this thing inside of me, you're helping me until it's out.'

Person: These girls asked me what type of  guys I like and being the simple gay I am, I completely blanked

Person 1: why do you read on your phone if you get carsick at 20 minutes? Person 2:Because it works for the first 19 minutes.

Person: Three Indians, a Thai, a Colombian, and an American walk into a bar. Just kidding they aren't old enough to drink. Three Indians, a Thai, a Colombian, and an American walk into a school cafeteria...

Person: I can't do alcohol cause I'm not of age but I can do drugs because they're illegal for everyone.

Person 1: you can't have a breakdown, it's the third day of school. Person 2:... so?

*Group of kids singing Bohemian Rhapsody in twelve different keys* Person: For gods sake choose a key!

Person: For gods sake that was complicated. You didn't need to send out a survey to see which episode of which season of which show to watch.

Person: Honestly I'd chose stab over dab any day.

Person 1: She said she'd throw me out of the window. Person 2: She never did. Person 1: She never did.

Person: What language is this? *pause* Oh wait it's English.

Person 1: I mean it's pretty hit or miss. Person 2 from across the courtyard: I guess they never miss, huh?

Person: Chu-chu bitch. I’m a train.

Person after loosing game of kahoots: I’m going to ka-shoot myself.

Person: So basically I need to learn Hungarian for a song.

Person: No one screams their sneeze, its not human

Person: If I where a mosquito I would bite you and you’d get malaria and die.

Person: That tide pod aesthetic.

Person: No I loved Barney, Barney was my bo.

Person: If I where my own boyfriend I’d dump me.

Person: It's already a really good song but then it's dubstep so it's extra good.

Person: No one is EVER to old for coolmathgames.com

Person 1: Why are you using a poon? Person 2:….. Person 1: WHY ARE YOU USING A POON?!

Person 1: I’ve been blonde for 16 years. Person 2: So what? I’ve been brown for 16 years and you don’t see me coloring myself white!

Person: Yes. Scrape the sweat off my hand.

Person: No one cares about a square cube of water.

Person: We’re melanin intoxicated.

Person: Well my life may be a mess, but at least I’m not doing drugs. Yet.

Person: Negative 13 out of 10, do not recommend.

Person: Yah that’s gunna have to be a no from me.

Person: Fool me once......fool me twice.......fool me as many times as you want, my first name is dumbass.

Person 1: Ya know, I think the Americans have the order of dates right JUST BECAUSE you can do 4/20/2019. Person 2: Okay but they’re still wrong though.

Person with AirPods: And where are YOUR AirPods? Thats what I thought you broke bitches.

Person: Salem witch trials bitches.

Person: La Croix, the AirPods of the soda world.

Person: Who needs a thermometer when you have… your hands!?

Person 1: It’s time to bring back SEXY MASQUERADE BALLS Person 2: It really is. I need an excuse to wear an incredibly uncomfortable dress that's so big I can't even walk through doorways. Person 1: And to wear a swan inspired mask that doesn’t cover enough of my face to deem myself totally anonymous enough to be half as bold and daring as i plan on acting that night but everyone else is on board we’ll all just forget about it the next day. Person 2: That's to specific for you to have made up on the spot, you've thought about this.

Person: It was lady Macbeth that drugged and made the guards drunk, without her Macbeth would just be like “I guess I’ll stab him???” Person: It’s like playing where’s Waldo but the page is India and I’m Waldo.3Person: Why are there so many frowny faces everywhere?

Person: This group chat is weird. It's either homework, deep philosophical conversations, or memes, there's no in between.

Person 1: Honestly, where DID it come from Person 2: The endless abyss that is the internet.

Person: Are you really blaming our generational depression on Jake Paul?

Person 1:  Oh. My. God. Guys. Keep your carbon dioxide away from my computer. Person 2: But sharing is caring. Person 1: But my computer doesn’t need this kinda of negativity in its life right now.

Person: Sweetie, if you think I’m going to stop wearing my favorite dress just because you kissed me in it, you are dead wrong.

Person with a metal straw: I don't drink broke.

Person: My whole life has become that sock on the floor. It's just there. When did life screw us over and then just ex? I’m just gonna write a book, and the last sentence will be life screwed them over and then exed. A story of the main character who gets screwed over, so I can get that 'it be like that sometimes' reaction.

Person in group chat: Positivity- I will make you feel better about being an idiot. Self Doubt- I will highlight all of your mistakes and set low standards for you so you'll never be disappointed. Me to Self Doubt- I'm listening...

Person 1: Sadly the disappointment never goes away... Person 2: Man we're a sad lot this time of year.

Person 1:It’s almost my favorite time of the year Person 2:Ahh yes. Singles awareness day, also known as chocolate sales at Walgreens eve, also known as... Valentine's Day. Person 1:... Oh... I meant rainy season.

Person: Being antivax is like swimming in shark infested waters because you're afraid the bridge could break lmao.

Person: I learned how eat a kumquat this weekend.

Person: It’s so sticky. It’s like clear cheese.

Person: Hamburger helper? More like hamburger help me pass this class.

Person 1: So I slipped on a grape… Person 2: You got K.O.’ed by a grape (person’s name), how does it feel.

Person 1: Look at me, I’m fine. Person 2: Well how many drugs did you take. Person 1: Several.

Person 1: Did you just say it’s ALMOST FEBRUARY? Person 2: Yes, it’s January 72nd.

Person: I knew your comedic standards where low, but poop jokes? Really?

Person: What? So are you insinuating the fact that reliablest isn't a word?

Person 1: [bitter old man voice] back in my day, tik tok was a kesha song. Person 2: Back in my day we had wires attached to our AirPods.

Person: There's a reason rainbows aren't straight. Just saying.

Person reading sheet music and seeing mf crescendo: I forgot that mezzo forte was a thing for a second so I thought it said mother fucker as a crescendo but mood

Person: He looks like a fine piece of toasted white bread.

Person: If life hasn't given me a fist bump by now, why should I give life one?

Person: we all died in 2012 this is hell.

Person 1: Who wants a pamphlet on condoms? Person 2: Why do you have this? Do you collect them? Person 1: Yah it’s my hobby. I have this one, one on HIV and one on teenage pregnancy.

Person: We live a society where reading about assassins and gory details is a hobby.

Person: Stop breathing so loudly on my thumb!

Person 1: I’m the comic relief. Person 2: For what? Person 1: Myself.

Person1: Who’s your valentine this year? Person 2: Me, myself and I. Person 1: Wow three valentines, you really can’t keep them away can you?

Person: Why do women gotta get their period, why not men. I wish I was born a seahorse.

Person 1: No we can’t all fit, her car is smol. Like you. Person 2:  Says you miss 5 foot nothing lmao. Person 1: Hey we’re the same hight so says you miss 5 foot nothing.

Person: No, that’s cheating no emotionally disabling people.

Person 1: Why is it that we’re talking about someone burning eggs on two different group chats. Person 2: Hey I didn’t burn them. Person 3: Cause why not?

Person 1:  That’s not how an Australian accent works. Person 2: This is why I’m not Australian, I don’t have the koala-fications.

Person 1: I’m Indian, numbers run through my blood. Person 2: That’s like saying I’m going to marry my cousin just because I’m white.

Person: So I ate veggies and hummus for lunch but then I counterbalanced it by eating a spoon full of straight Nutella.

Person: Seagulls, California Pigeons, what’s the difference?

Person 1: I humbly apologize and request your forgiveness. Person 2:  I humbly decline your request for forgiveness.

Person: I think I’m permanently stuck somewhere between “If you mess with me I’ll fight” and “If you mess with me I’ll cry.”

Person 1: It was implied! Person 2: What’s implied is your inability to accept that fact that I’m right!

Person 1: I got lazy because I was eating Pringles. Person 2: She values Pringles more than me.

Person: Yo, you be the crazy ex girls they be talking about in memes.

Person: I swear (persons name) if I hooked up with squidward in your dream your subconscious and I need to have a little talk.

Person: You get to die, and you get to die! Everybody gets to die!

Person: How do you just add a child?

Person 1: Look at this ink based pencil. Person 2: A pen?
 Person 1: This egg is all broken. Person 2: It’s like you then, you both broke under the pressure.

Lakshmi: Don’t force your opinion, voice it.

Person 1: If I where a fruit, which one would I be? Person 2: Sushi. Person 1:… Sushi isn’t a fruit.

Person: I mean it’s not straight up “Yo come here I’m gunna kill you.”

Person: Bye gays, bye (other girls name).

Person 1: No (person B) stop. Just shut up. You’re making me loose brain cells. Person 2: But… Person 1: No. Just no.

Person: Stop. That is non-consensual pizza eating.

Person 1: Cheese is not a vegetable! Person 2: Well it’s not a meat either! Person 3: Guys… It’s dairy.

Person: Idiots have priority over just regular dumb people

Person: God melted the polar ice caps just to make it rain for Noah then refroze them. I don’t know (kids name) I’m not god!

Person: You and I will go out, and leave them to their raw fish rolled in sea salad.

Person: Does anyone else get really energized when they change their room? Just me? Okay.

Person: I hope you know I will diss you guys to the end of the earth.

Person: Bruh talk to (person’s name) I don’t know sh… *notices teacher looking at her*…niahhh.

Person 1: The thing is, I don’t want to be 80 that’s rough. Person 2: Then just die at 50.

Person: You’d be scrambled eggs with hair.

Person: Seeing you two fighting, it’s like seeing a piece of light fighting a black hole.

Teacher: What can you tell me about probability? Student 1: I hate it. Student 2: Dont you mean you? Student 1: Yes both.

Person: My brain has the dumb I’m sorry

Person 1: If my first word was no, I’m assuming that’s foreshadowing for them my family disowns me after I renounce religion and systemic abuse. Person 2: Or…. You just need to make sure your last word is yes. Person 1: Yes to what though? Person 2: ‘Are you dying?’ Yes.’ Pessimism, just your style. Person 1: That’s true.

Person: My parents don’t message me, they’re the type of people who CALL. Where did I get my social anxiety from??

Person: Well guys it's been great knowing you I’m just going to drown now.

Person: I figured out a new diet regime, it’s called sleeping until noon and just not eating breakfast.

Person: The f on my birth certificate was the doctor paying their respects.

Person: Chocolates with raspberry filling are the sole reason I’m still alive.

Person 1: Isn’t Latin a dead language? Person 2: You’re a dead language!

Person: Hydrate before you diedrate.

Person 1: you have a son named Spider-Man? Person 2:  what noooo! Person 3: well don’t expose her!

Person: That awkward moment when you just really don’t care about people.

Person 1: (Person 2) and I will be over here with my virgin margarita and her water. Person 2: Hey! I want apple juice! Person 3: Why are you not drinking (Person 1)? Person 2: Because she’s to single, and also she’d strip. Person 1: Woahh! How dare you assume that I’m not drinking because I’m to single?

Person 1: Ya know, I think I’m going to have to jazz hands my way through hell. Person 2: All of us will.

Person: Brown town children, y’all find someone in India?

Person 1: Wow you have the best backup singers. Person 2: I only hire the best, at least 5 stars in yelp. Person 1: Well good because that’s  the sound they’re making.

Person: The cold kills everything, it’s like my heart.

Person 1: Remember the rolls I brought to school last year that I used to give you? The ones with paneer and the really good spices? Person 2: Yah? Person 1: This is not at all the same thing.

Person 1: What’s stevia? Person 2: It’s like sugar but no.

Person 1: Yeetus Skelettus. Person 2: Fetus Deletes? Honey, that’s called abortion.

Person: Anything for you. That’s what you said. Anything for you. But when I ask for just one bite of your pasta? No!

Person 1: I've written 1,300 words and don’t have a thesis statement or topic question Person 2: Yeah, you need to figure that out.

Person 1: you know I had a dream that you where in a romantic relationship with a toaster. Person 2:  wasn’t that your relationship with (ex’s name)? Person 1: you’d have more chemistry with a toaster.

Person: Can people read colors? Cause I am ooo.

Person: It’s like hands but medusa

Person: You look like a cardboard jellyfish that’s brown

Person 1: Two of us like boys. Person 2: We all like boys. Person 1: Two of us like ONLY boys.

Person: you’re like a reverse plant. You convert oxygen into carbon dioxide.

Person: Shhhhh. I’m not in physics, let me be dumb in peace.

Person: Why are you laying down like some greek god, get up you brown child.

Person 1: Do all of you just think you’re going to be single? Person 2: I already am why not keep the streak going to get a high score?

Person: and now cracks of light are coming out from around the sides like some sort of computer Jesus!

People 1 and 2: Rock Paper Scissors Person 3: shoot me please.

Person 1: not since 9/11 you can’t. Person 2: dang. You just tossed your whole country just to prove a point. I’ve never been so proud.

Person 1: what is an angle of depression? Person 2: it’s my life. Person 1: no it’s you because it’s not straight.

Person: Boom. Lesbians.

Person 1: Well what if two rocks just washed up at the same time and humans. Person 2: Evolution.

Person: Watermelon isn’t good anymore, I swear its just water with food coloring.

Person: You being dumb makes me want to correct you, sos too being dumb cause I’m on vocal rest.

Person: well (persons name) who have you a mouth?

Person: Teachers that grade late work deserve all the love and cookies and cake in the world.

Person 1: honestly I just want to die right now. Person 2: same. Literally same.

Person: I just feel like a single molecule lost in space.

Person: who’s gunna stop me? God? Damn him to hell.

Person: the line is not actually straight it’s like (students name)

Person 1: It’s your favorite sleep deprived gay. Person 2: But I’m my favorite sleep deprived gay. Self love. Person 1: We Stan.

Person 1: Why do you have a tool? Person 2: Because my hair is moist.

Person: eating lead was an otherworldly experience

Person 1: I have everything stolen from me 2: at least you have the tiniest bit of dignity left 3: what dignity? 1: exactly

Person 1:( holding up katsup) does this go on salad?

Person:I’m turning red! Me! A brown girl!

Person: I’m not trying argue that we should date, I’m just saying.

Person 1: what’s your biggest turn on? Person2 : a light switch Person 2: or then leaving.

Person 1: what is the most attractive retire on someone Person 2: my own face

Person: you’d be that one bar do white chocolate that just sits in the feidge because no one wants it

Person: that’s like saying I’d rather see your shirt than your face.

Person: why would I shut up when I can shut (kids name) down

Person: Subtle. Gay. Vibes. I’m telling you.

Person: just watch me write my ee on all the reasons why nick caraway is gay. Just watch me.

Person: Why are you stereotyping. What if the body doesn’t want trucks, what if he wants to be a fairy.

Person: being ace is basically just eww no but like forever.

Person: Stop trying to science your way out of being wrong.

Person: even if you did ask me out I’d still say no so then you’d even be rejected by a trash can

Person 1: you can’t read cheese color. Person 2: yellow?

Person 1: Think about  it like you’re brown Person 2: She is brown Person 1: Then act like it

Person: You’re not an ugly frog, you’re a beautiful human being. Person: I am. Very very dumb. And also. Bisexual.

Person: I was thinking of something smart but then I forgot what it was.

Person: I want to skip the crush phase and just make out with someone.

Person 1: The only way to get into the Holland family is to marry in through Paddy. Person 2: (Person 1’s name) this isn’t the royal family.

Person: Omigod you looked like the human version of squid ward.

Person: I want to be smart. Where can I learn smart stuff?

Person: But plant the seed and smoke the weed and chop the cane.

Peeeson 1: that is the definition of meter? Person 2: about 3 feet. Person 1: okay thanks America

Person 1: who’s Tom Holland? Person 2: Spider-Man you uncultured swine!!

Person: I am not a children

Person: Ohh dang yeah forgot chickens existed for a while

Person: Hey! Don’t narrate my water!

Person: I don’t read water.

Person: Think of it as a relationship. If you and your ex break up they are salty but you profit because you wanted to end it but if you end it weak, then y’all will argue back and forth and get nowhere with ending it while still exchanging insults.

Person: You know those really sexual mattress adverts?

Person: Oh please, you have the sexual appeal of an easy bake oven.

Person 1: weed is a gate way drug Person 2: YOURE A GATEWAY DRUG!

Person: (first, middle, last name), I love you to the end of the earth. But you are a daft child.

Person 1: She’s like that type of girl. She’s the long paragraph white girl. Person 2: Well that’s a niche if I’ve even seen one.

Person 1: swing you two fight is like watching two ants fight. Person 2: you friking piece of bacteria!

Person: I’m just an intellectual.

Person: I will murder your face off.

Person: that’s like a kilometer tall.

Person: It’s weird when I pet you horizontally.

Person: to be honest I thought those were rocks in a jar for the longest time. Turns out they weren’t.

Person: does she have a brother or gay tendencies

Person: I’m going to slap your hand like it’s a fricking spider.

Person: I like your face better blurry.

Person: every night at about midnight someone starts googling astrology

Person: I will kick you. I will murder your soul.

Person 1: I’m just going to marry a millionaire. Person 2: Where are you gunna finds a millionaire in this economy?

Person: Welcome to my tea party, there isn’t any tea to drink, but we have a lot of it to spill.

Person: Yah, it was something about sex or something.

Person: You’re all uncultured swines.

Person: I’m about as straight as a sine curve.

Person 1: They’re not Oreo’s you dumb head Person 2: I know that dumber head. Person 3 :Shut up dumbest heads

Person: As an ex foetus i can say with authority that if my mother had aborted me i wouldn't have known nor would i have given a fuck

Person: I’ve just accepted I’m going to fail this test. I’ve gone through the 5 stages of grief already.

Person: Yes I’m blind that’s why I need glasses fool.

Person: what the fork do you want you little son of a biscuit.

Person: Anyway now I’m taking Tylenol PM and I’m going to actually sleep tonight that’ll be fun.

Person: I need all the hoodies. ALL OF THEM.

[wwwafflewrites]

The Not-So-French Mistake

Chapter 3: Fallen Ashes to Angels

In the cool shelter of the house, Castiel guarded Sydney as covertly as possible. The Winchesters and Bobby were present, but he felt it necessary he patrol the girl he had first gathered. His posture was ramrod straight and his shoulders were square to his spine; although, his muscles eventually tired from his stationary position. Humanity, he reasoned, cannot simply sit and be content. Their muscles exhaust too rapidly. This was where their impatience originated from, he supposed.

After an hour of waking only to supervise, he had noticed an aching emptiness centered within the pit of his stomach. Startled by the unpleasant experience, he had casually hunched into the couch as his stomach begged and craved food. He had, of course, once experienced this foreign desire when they had encountered Famine, but he had never become accustomed to such.

No one among him had seemed to satisfy their own hunger, so he assumed that it was a typical pain at this early hour. However, he found that throughout the day nobody mentioned any food of sorts, and the dull grumble of hunger grew into a slow starvation. He was inclined to slouch further into the couch cushions but decided against it. With a cautious eye pinned to the girl browsing their library, he entered the kitchen with an intent to raid the fridge.

Dean questioned his purpose, as always. “What's got you in such a hurry?”

Upon opening the fridge to find it bare, Castiel was experiencing a taste of humanity's impatience, and his clipped voice represented this. “Dean, there is a deep greed I have felt for several hours now. I have a great desire to ingest food, and I must eat or I will further suffer hunger.” Was this himself speaking? He hadn't meant his words to be bitter.

Dean’s lips curled upward in entertainment. “You know, you could say you're hungry like a normal person, Cas.” He sighed, “Yeah, we can eat. Hey, Sam; how about we go to the local diner for lunch? Cas here is getting hangry.”

“Hangry?” Castiel baffled in his own irritable way. “I believe it's pronounced―”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sam interrupted.

Castiel quieted when nobody acknowledged his question. He was only curious as to why Dean deliberately stressed the word hangry when he had said hungry only seconds before. Had he done so purposely? The English language was rather complex, he decided. Humans love to complicate their languages. Enochian was much more straightforward.

They looked expectantly to Sydney, who was uncertain. “I... I might stay back and research.” She extended the book she was skimming in an attempt to strengthen her plea.

Dean vetoed that. “No, no, sweetcheeks. We aren't losing you from our sight. Loco angels, remember?”

Castiel sent a sad, apologetic smile to Sydney from behind Dean's shoulder; it was his species, after all.

Bobby nodded to her. “Go on. Nothing here except the phones. We’ll dig into it further once you've had something to eat. I'll stay behind in case somebody calls.”

She squinted, yielding to the hunters’ hidden demand. While their politeness covered it neatly, it all broke down to the fact that she had to accompany them. She set her jaw and nodded grudgingly. Four against one was no fair argument.

She and Castiel trailed behind the Winchesters, the angel clarifying that she was under his surveillance. “Hangry?" he whispered to himself, wondering.

Sydney chuckled at the angel's innocence. If she wasn't currently a prisoner, she’d have found him to be good company. “Dean combined the words hungry and angry.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, though not really seeing.

●●●

The immediate rise of the temperature outside was alarming. Heat surged down fervidly onto the group. They were practically baking in their jackets... and a specific trench coat.

“Dog days this late, hm?” Dean was skeptical. “Well, take off your jackets or you will fry in the car. The air conditioning takes a few minutes to kick in.” He shrugged off his dad's old jacket, taking care to form it into a neat fold. His shirt hugged his form, showing his toned physique and aged scars.

Dean grasped the handle of the car door and hissed in pain when it seared with heat. The sun radiated off the car's reflection. “Jesus!” He exclaimed, inspecting his palm, which was thankfully free of burns. “That is hot.”

“We know you love your car, Dean.” Castiel chortled courteously, expecting his friend to have been joking. It was usual Dean-personality.

“No, that thing is hotter than the pits of hell. And I've been there.” Dean was sincere. His hand was now a light, sore pink, but thankfully the skin was intact. He cradled it momentarily. Using his shirt as a barrier for his hand, he wrenched the door open awkwardly. Hot air blasted out like a dragon breathing fire. “Well, get in.”

After several minutes of uncomfortable fidgeting in the oven-like seats and complaining over the fiery seatbelts, they took off with the windows cranked at their full capacity. With the constant whoosh of humid air rushing through the windows, so the car was merely warm. A rattle of Legos in the vent synched with rhythm of Sydney's heartbeat.

“So... Sydney. To hit two birds with one stone, we're going to the town we found you in. We’ve heard evidence of murder, and they haven't found the bodies,” Sam informed her delicately.

Dean turned down the radio a notch so he could speak and be heard over the windows and blasting rock music. “Y-ep. The creepy part? There, reportedly, had been a huge community bonfire exactly the night after they went missing. I'm going on a hunch here, but I'll take it the fire smelled like burning flesh and nonconsensual sacrifices.” Dean informed, glancing in his rearview mirror. “Hey, Cas, could you stick with her for the day? Sam and I just have this one case to look into.” Dean wrung his sweaty palms on his steering wheel and muttered, “Or maybe two if this sun thing doesn't chill out.”

Castiel nodded. He had been doing so since she had arrived, anyway. “I planned on it,” he replied happily.

Dean made a turn on the road and fidgeted miserably when the sun's light hit his lap, pooling heat onto his legs. “Okay,” he said finally, speaking over the open windows as he drove, “what is it with the supersun? It's almost fall. I feel like one of the ants we held magnifying glasses over when we were kids. This thing is microwaving us.” He briefly wondered if he could bake a pie in this weather. It surely would pay off for all their previous efforts among any work they accomplished.

Castiel considered the possibility. “You may be correct. Something could be magnifying the sun to create havoc.”

Dean’s eyes were fixated on the road, but he couldn't help glancing back in tired disbelief. Man, their lives just got weirder and weirder. “So what could we be looking at? Witches? Satanic worshipers? Demons? Monsters? A summoning? What do we got?”

Castiel brooded. “It takes a great amount of effort to reign the Sun, Dean. I'm not sure.” He shuffled, shirt clammy with sweat. “They would need to be incredibly powerful.”

“Right.”

Oddly enough, as they entered the town, traffic had not seemed to accumulate. The roads were barren of any vehicles, and as they approached the town, they promptly discovered why.

Pedestrians riddled the sidewalks under the grilling sun, their faces flushed and dehydrated. There were at several people arguably ill to heat stroke.

Dean parked the car abruptly, eyes widening at the disorder of people. He turned to his friends: "Scratch everything I said. Some of these folks need to get to the hospital. Now. The murders can wait before more deaths occur because of our overly sociable sun.” Not a dot of leniency stood in his tone, expecting their immediate service to secure the town, which was reasonable.

Sam looked ready to protest, but Dean shut him right up. “Sam,” he spoke dangerously, “something screwy is going on with that sun, and if we don't act now, there won’t be a town to save! Cas, Sam, Pug-face, I need you to gather some townspeople, and watch her, Cas. I have to park this baby in the shade before we haul these strangers to the nearest hospital.”

There was no time to dwell, so with Sydney's shrunken, annoyed pip of, “Pug-face?”, everyone was scrambling out of the car. Cas and Sydney headed to the left while Sam sprinted right. They didn't bother checking for traffic; the asphalt had been deserted once people realized they could griddle an omelet on its surface.

The town was in a fragile state. The sky had become stale, altering from a beryl blue to an ashen grey as the sun cloaked the atmosphere with a withering glare. Ruddy, rich soil had crisped into a cinder-like dust. The budding, lush greens of trees had faded to a tarnished, mossy hue. As the heat elevated, the saturation crumbled.

Sam found his shoes sticky with softened bitumen from the road. He dashed toward a feverous woman, a victim to the cruel weather. She swayed, rocking on their heels in misery. With a parched, dry mouth, she begged, “Water. Please―”

Sam promised almost pitifully, “We'll get you water. We’ll get you water, okay? They'll have water at the hospital. I swear.” He prayed that to be true and that the curse had only struck upon this town. If the entire globe was suffering against a Hulked-out, mammoth sun, an immense epidemic would occur, and it would become outside of the Winchester's hands to solve it.

Sam supported the woman as she staggered clumsily. Her sweat dripped and sizzled on the concrete, and her brow was furrowed into a distressing, hazy determination as she struggled to remain conscious.

Across the street, Cas and Sydney had their hands full. Cas was carrying a frail child in his arms, her face flushed and scarlet. Sydney provided assistance to a young man; his steps wavered, so overtaken by blistering temperatures it ached to focus upon the mere idea of walking.

Dean had fortunately parked in some nearby shade, and the chattering of the engine echoed like an impish cat. The heat couldn’t have been good for Dean's beloved car, but he had set aside materialistic issues and had dug into the true stakes at hand: the lives of innocent civilians and children.

Now with the heat-stricken people stuffed inside the Impala, Dean took charge. He spoke through the window, voice sharp and commanding, “You guys help the rest of the people get shelter and water, and help yourselves too. I mean it―I don't want to come back and drag you all to the hospital as well, you understand?”

His friends nodded in unison, and Dean then mirrored the action. “Okay. I should be back soon. Don't do anything stupid!” He aimed a finger pointedly at Sydney. “Especially you, Sparky.” With that, he revved the engine, and then drove off.

They got straight to business, heading toward the groups of people who had scarcely kept from stewing in the daylight.

However, as Sydney drew nearer to her assignment, she slowed as the sun flushed heat against her sweaty back. The people about her were in such grave conditions, but she couldn't find it in herself to care much at the moment. “I'm going to go…” she pointed lazily, “uh… get water...” she let them know sluggishly, endeavoring to sound as casual as allowed at that moment.

Castiel looked sternly to her, seeing past her weak facade. “Dean does not want us doing something regrettable. Especially you. I believe going on your own counts as such.”

Hearing Dean's snarky words through the angel's mouth was comedic. The comment became totally unlike Dean: uncertain and... unusually gentle.

Sydney almost chuckled, but she was too exhausted, hot, and dehydrated to manage it. God, I feel sick, she thought miserably as her stomach twisted and clenched in nausea, not realizing her apparent prayer. “Cas. I really―”

Then, he was in the way, blocking her path stubbornly. She feebly pushed but found him encouraging her to rest on the sidewalk amongst the townsfolk and lean against a shaded, brick wall.

A habit of saying or thinking his Father's name in vain usually lead to accidental prayers. “Sam will do so. You are growing ill.”

She searched for her voice, and once she’d found it, she weakly argued, croaking, “But I want to help―”.

“I have been assigned to serve amongst the ill, and now you are included amongst them, so I shall tend to you.” He asserted faithfully, concern clouding his features. “I wish I could heal you.” 

He found his predicament highly counterproductive. If only he could have utilized his wasted grace upon the suffering people in this town. If only he had clutched further onto it before it snuck past his impatient fingers. The circumstance made him resentful and upset, realizing he could have accomplished something just yesterday.

A time as simply distant as 24 hours ago, yet he could do nothing now.

[robin-bring-the-snow]

sibyl

Chapter 2: Truth

Autor’s Introduction - Chapter 1

A/N: Spoiler! If you haven’t seen yet season 3, don’t read this chapter or this ff.

(Warning: my English)

“What’s wrong dad? Are you not happy to see me?” Noreen smiled while her father walked back to let her walk in, he wasn’t prepared to see her especially he didn’t want to see her and want her out of his house, but he didn’t want to make a row in front of Max and Susan.

“It’s beautiful, Dad.” Noreen affirmed looking around her, she came in the kitchen where Susan was finishing to eat and Max was washing her plate, Neil was angry for Noreen surprise because he thought to make the things clear last time, he didn’t want to see her and contact with them, she is dead for him.

“Susan this is Noreen, my daughter” Neil introduced the guest to Susan, Max was a surprised but didn’t’ tell anything, Susan watched Noreen with a confused gaze, because Neil told nothing about her, and he didn’t aspect that after these years Noreen could want to see him. However, Noreen didn’t want to see her father, she came only to look for his brother.

“Max, right? - Noreen said while she sat in Billy’s spot. - I met your friends, they gave me the sign and they told me to remind you that you will meet them at the Arcade.”

“Neil dear, why you didn’t tell anything about her?” Susan demanded to look to Neil and waiting for an answer that wasn’t slow to arrive.

“Suan I...” 

“Because dear Susan, he didn’t like me, then he abandoned me.” Noreen interrupted looking with an angry gaze him. Max continued to look the guest with a serious gaze even if deeply she was curious about Noreen.

“You know that it wasn’t true, your mother. Your mother abandoned you.” He threw out, Noreen looked him with a surprised gaze because she knew that it was a lie.

“Oh, it’s right sir. However, who did she suggest it? Or better who did her force to do it?”Noreen screamed at him.

“Don’t fucking start your whining and tell me what you want” Neil said that he lost his patience and sent away Noreen, she smiled looking his father lost the temper and after she put her bag on the seat on her left, she opened her mouth: ”I need to see Billy, I haven't seen him for a while. Tell me where it is and I'm leaving.”

“He is death.” Max replayed looking down, Noreen asked her politely to repeat what she said, and Max took a deep breath to avoid crying.

“She died last year...I’m so sorry” she apologized without looking in Noreen's eyes, she didn’t see Neil made Noreen leave the house, she didn’t see Neil threaten her never to return. She simply ran into her room and listened to her mother to negotiate with Neil to let her have a female figure in her life. Neil could tell no to his wife, even if he has disagreed with her, he would let Max see her stepsister.

 Meanwhile Noreen was in the car trying to metabolize the news, she couldn’t believe that after this time she didn’t know about his brother, no dream, no premonition, nothing. She didn’t fight back her father because she was too devastated and in pain to do, she remained in the front of the house and lighted a cigarette and started to smoke in her car with the windows opened. After she had cried for at least two hours, she noticed a redhead ran from behind the house. She recognized Max, so she flashed to the girl caught her attention, but Max completely ignored her and took out her bicycle.

“Max, where do you think you're going?” Noreen asked after she quickly got out her auto, she threw her finished cigarette and cleaned her tears.

“I’m going to the Arcade; you remember me that.” Max answered to the woman turning to look at her. Noreen thought that Neil would take her to the Arcade, but maybe he didn’t want Max to go there.

“I give you a ride with my car.” Noreen told before walked to her auto and removing the box and the bag from the passenger seat. Max approached slowly and doubtfully, Noreen noticed it and smilingly held the door open.

“You should go home and slept on it or do whatever you want, tomorrow it will go where you come.” Max said, Noreen, didn’t respond because she was completely focused on the street and plus, she needed to see him, one last time or know-how he died.

“You should go back to California and…”

“And what? Tell my aunt and uncle that their nephew is death.” Noreen shouted she scared Max who hoped that they would arrive soon at the Arcade. Noreen understood what she has done and cursed herself for being so emotional and irrational like her father.

“I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t want to scream at you. I hope you would…”

“Don’t worry, he used to scream at me.” she affirmed once arrived, she got out the car and leaned on the small door.

“Hawkins cemetery, 10 am don’t be late. - Max made to her an appointment before came inside the Arcade - Don’t worry for the ride to home, I slept to Lucas.”

Later Noreen had brought Max to the Arcade, she drove to her new home and she loaded out the boxes and put in the living room. The house was one floor and not too large, it had its own furniture and wasn’t like Californian house, but it was comfortable; it was the house of her uncle, so she didn’t buy anything, because he didn’t sell it, hoped that someday he and his wife would move in, in contrast, he decided to give Noreen because of aunt Victoria wouldn’t leave California and her friends. She brought from California only her important stuff: vinyl, jewels, books, clothes, tapes, and some photos. After she put the books and vinyl in the library, and her jewels in the jewel box she laid on the bed without worried about the dust, she appointed on her head that she would clean the next morning, and she closed her eyes.

“I…am…alive.” 

Noreen heard a voice, immediately she opened her eyes, but she wasn’t in her bedroom even in her house. She was in a dark place, stood up from the ground and walked straight because around her there were only trees and forest, she kept going until she saw the shopping mall. When she reached the doors, she noticed that they were cover by something, it was like black branches, but they were sticky and soggy. Noreen felt scared and confused cause by the storm, there were red lightings and black clouds with strong wind. She removed those things blocked the handles of the door to go inside of the building and protected. She entered the building, which it was clearly abandoned it could see it from the broken shops’ windows and from the consummate writings, and she saw three silhouettes of people and then she woke up.

After turning over in bed, she read the time: it was nine o'clock and she had not yet dressed. She quickly got up and ran into the living room, she opened the boxes of clothes and took a pair of jeans and a grey blouse. She adjusted her blond hair and wore sunglass to cover her blue eyes from the sun of that morning and after touched the pendant she wore; she went outside to go to the appointment.

 “Bil…Noreen, you are late” Max pointed looking the woman got out, it was the first time that she called someone Billy instead of his or her name, maybe it’s happened with Noreen for her hair, which was very similar to those of her brother, or because she wore the same sunglass that Billy was used to wore. On the other hand, Noreen noticed the mistake but didn’t say anything, because she probably heard wrong.

“Sorry I know but I slept too much” Noreen justified walking close the girl, Max removed the sunglass from Noreen’s face, she looked carefully without letting it go.

Max carried Noreen into the cemetery, speaking to her about the weather; she noticed that it was too sunny for being middle of September because it used to grey and cloudy the weather. She spoke about the guys that Noreen had met yesterday, she introduced them: Lucas, Dustin, and Mike. She spoke about them: Lucas felt admiration from the first day they met and now they were together, Dustin was the nerdiest person that she ever met and Mike, she didn’t like Mike from the first day and the feeling was the same, Noreen smiled while she was hearing the girl. She told that they were an important piece to move on the grief.

“He didn’t like Lucas.” Max suddenly said and stopped.

“It wasn’t his fault; our father doesn’t like the different ones.” Noreen apologized him, despite he didn’t need to have apologized because he wasn’t his fault.

“However, I wasn’t the only girl because there was also Eleven.” Max tried to change the argument.

“Eleven?” Noreen asked confused at the same time curios for the name.

“Yes, she’s Mike’s girlfriend. She moved away after the police officer died.” She explained watching her feet instead to watch Noreen, who looked ahead of herself. However, she didn’t speak until a question came into her mind.

“Why is the city empty?” Noreen asked looking Max who hoped with all of her heart that she didn’t ask that. She didn’t want to tell the truth because it would be dangerous and complicated, so she decided to tell her a white lie.

“He’s there. - Max said stopped two graves before and pointed to the white grave where Billy was bury. –   I waited for you here.” She concluded looking away from the direction that she pointed.

Noreen thanked her and crouched in front of the grave, she noticed two fresh white roses, she thought that probably Max put them here yesterday. Suddenly Noreen started to laugh, but it wasn’t a happy laugh, it was a desperate almost crazy, she cried while she was doing that. She felt more devastated than yesterday because now she was in front of his grave and felt guilty because her gif didn’t predict this, she started to feel unpowered because she could avoid his death, but she couldn’t predict it, and this was worse. Has power and didn’t save her relatives.

Max walked to her, she felt her pain and it reminded how she was one year ago, also she understood how difficult would be gone in another state, left everybody for what? To discover that your brother has died.

“I can understand your pain.”

“No, Max. You couldn’t, you could never understand. I’m alone in this world, my all family is death.” Noreen cried and smiled at the same time looking at Max, who ignored it because for these years she was blamed by Billy, for their departure from California and had the strength to ignore it. She hugged Noreen without asking, Noreen didn’t the object didn’t regret what she had said because Max could never have been her sister, even if the feeling wasn’t mutual and she could see it. Then Max left her alone with the grave, she went to find a bench where she would sit, Noreen, sit on the lawn and looked at the photo of Billy.

 “You are an asshole, you know right? I missed you. I wanted to meet you, I drove for one day and some fucking hours, that only God helped me, to find out that you are dead and now? I felt so alone. I will miss you now that I know it.” Noreen told to him, hoped that somewhere he heard her. Why he didn’t reach her? Why he didn’t escape to her? - she thought cleaning her tears came down in her cheeks. She looked his grave for some minutes in silent, which became two hours, she thought about him and why she didn’t know before about his death, and especially how he died, without stopped to touch the pendant to feel him next to her; he gave it for her 15th birthday and she never removed it. She smiled one last time to his brother, and she went away greeting. She found Max some graves away were sitting in a branch, who waited impatiently her return, at that moment Noreen felt a shiver along her spine, she immediately turned back but didn’t see anybody, Max looked her a little confused by the motion but she avoided asking her if she was okay.

“Finally, you came over. I will leave you here if you don’t come back. I can't wait for all day I have other things to do.” Max scolded her as she stood up from the bench, Noreen threw out a pack of cigarettes and a metal lighter, she started the first cigarette of the day ignoring the telling-off.

“Where do you have to go?” Noreen asked looking the girl, who didn’t respond and walked to the cemetery exit, Noreen followed her without made another question.

“I can give you ride.” She proposed politely when they were out of the cemetery.

“No thanks, I go alone.” Max quickly dismissed and rode her bicycle, Noreen didn’t stop her, she just looked her went away. Noreen didn’t force her to ride wherever she has to go, because she wasn’t her responsibility.

After Noreen came back to her house in the Elm road, she started to clean her bedroom and reorganized the wardrobe, she tried to distract herself doing housework even if she was still shaken, frightened and felt alone, for the first time she didn’t aspect, it wasn’t like her mother that one day she felt sick and after two painful months for Noreen and her aunt, she died.

“I’m lost. What should I do?” Noreen asked her laid down in the bed. Someone should hear her because the telephone started to ring, and she ran to the kitchen to answer before it stopped to ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Nora, I’m John.” Her uncle answered from the other hand of the telephone, Noreen put a hand on her face because she reminded that she had to call them once she arrived. 

“Hello uncle, sorry for I didn’t call you. I had done something” she apologized bit her lower lips, she wouldn’t tell immediately about her discovery, so she tried to change the argument before he could ask.

After they talked for several minutes the fateful question came because John was not stupid and knew his niece too well, he knew when something was wrong but still decided to wait.

“How is Billy?”

“Uncle…well…he isn’t well…” Noreen started to cry, she couldn’t speak again because the pain and the grief were fresh.

“Noreen, I’m so sorry, but we couldn’t prevent it…I have to pass your aunt, she could explain better.” Noreen confused by the words of her uncle because she didn’t understand what they couldn’t prevent.

“Noreen, before you hang out, I want to say that I couldn’t prevent you to go to Hawkins.” Her aunt introduced, Noreen became serious and raised her brow in confusion, but she wanted explanations, so she said nothing.

“One year ago, I started to feel bad the last week of June like something suck my energy. In the night, I heard a girl's voice scream Billy’s name. I woke up scared and couldn’t sleep for all night. For two weeks I dreamed that girl's voice, but I couldn’t understand if it happened or it will happen. After these two weeks, I dreamed you say to us that you will go to Hawkins to find your brother. I never imagine that the day after I would read his name among the announcements of people who died in the Starcount Mall disaster.” She explained, Noreen her guiltless for what she said but she didn’t feel sorry for her and she was angry, to keep her in the darkest. 

“I have one question: why?” Noreen demanded calmly without lost her temper.

“Sweety…”

“Why!!!” she yelled at the phone, she felt a stupid, an idiot and ridiculous, it was absurd because her aunt knew all this time the fate of Billy and she didn’t tell her, Noreen felt betrayed because she trusted her aunt the only figure that considered as a friend.

“Because you will do it in any case, fuck Noreen, you didn’t want to discover what it happened to your brother and how is he died? You will move to Hawkins anyway because you are curious, you do not stop at the first explanation and also with your gift you are...you are unstoppable. How could I have convinced you? No one would have succeeded.” She responded to her answer and Noreen deeply knew it was true; she would discover what kill to her brother and no matter what it cost she would find out.

“Mum? Did she know about this?” Noreen asked quite like a whisper. She heard a sigh and after some minutes her aunt confirmed and added: “What do you think killed her?”

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Homeward Bound: Chapter 13

Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader, Billy Hargrove x Henderson!Reader

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 |

Chapter Summary: a rush of fate brings two souls together...

Word Count: 6,946

Warnings: swearing, cheating, generally angst and fluff

Author’s Note: please send all complaints to @moonstruckhargrove-she wanted an update and I got you girl

Permanent Tag: @hotstuffhargrove @denimjacketkisses @hargrovesgoldilocks @hipsmcgee @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @casaharrington @thechickvic

Series Tag: @baebee35 @moonstruckhargrove @kurt-nightcrawler @thoughstofaredhead @fear-the-reaper115 @estheflowergirl @alex--awesome--22 @onemorekissisallittakes

“Jesus you need to stop doing that!” you cried, smacking Steve in the chest roughly, earning a hearty laugh and a warm smile that stirred something in your chest and made it hard to keep a smile off your face.

“Why would I? It’s fun!” he chuckled in response, turning to look at you fully, his eyes widening as he looked you over, making you both shy and hopeful. “Your hair!” he breathed.

“Yeah, I cut it all off.” You replied, running your fingers through it. “Is it bad?”

“No! It’s cool!” he cried, ruffling it like an older brother, making your heart drop in your chest for reasons you couldn’t exactly explain. All you knew is that that little gesture made you feel incredibly small and childish. You wished your hair was long and sleek again.

“Whatever…” you muttered, trying to hide the bitterness in your voice “Shouldn’t you be at work or something? It’s like the middle of the afternoon.”

“How much crime do you really think is in Hawkins now?” he mused with a smirk “Besides, I wanted to pop by here before I go to see Joyce and the kids.” He turned his attention to Jonathan, offering him a ‘hey man’ and a stiff hug. The two were never exactly close and while time healed the wounds shared between him and Nancy, Jonathan held grudges. Specifically, he held grudges over mistakes atoned for in junior year; Nancy ‘the slut’ Wheeler still rang loud and clear in his head at even the thought of Steve Harrington.

“I’d wait, not a great time, ‘specially for a guy in full uniform.” Jonathan said, earning a tight nod from Steve, who turned back to the crowd awkwardly. All of the mothers in the room were watching him like wolves, their teeth practically glistening behind their painted smiles. Karen looked absolutely murderous in her jealousy; now seeing the inherent value of marrying her daughter into a rich family with a successful son now that her daughter was married to a less than successful son of an only recently successful family. Likewise, your mother saw the value in Steve and was watching you two with proverbial hearts in her eyes, a dreamy expression on her face.

“So…where are you two going tonight then?” your mother asked giddily, practically smirking at you and Steve.

“What is she talking about?” Steve whispered to you, maintaining a polite smile towards the moms.

You shook your head, shrugging softly as you turned to your mother “We’re not going anywhere. I meeting Jenny Stein for dinner tonight.” You said, watching Steve’s face drop as the words left your lips.

“Didn’t you already see her this trip?” you mother sighed bitterly as Karen did her damndest to hold back a snicker, obviously excited about your seeming rejection of him.

“Yeah, but I’m meeting with her, Marvin Rubio, and a few other people. The leftovers, you know?” you replied vaguely, waving your hand through the list.

“Well, I’m that will be very nice, Y/N, are you leaving on Sunday or Monday?” your mother asked testily.

“Currently my flight is booked for Monday; I can change it to Sunday if that’s a problem, though.”

“Hmm…well I would love to have to till Tuesday, but I’ll settle for Monday.”

“Well…I don’t know if I’ll go that far, I do have to go home eventually. I have to go back to work.”

“It’s alright darling.”

You could feel Steve’s eyes burning into the back of your head and you couldn’t help but glance back at him. His expression was one of hurt and burning anger; he looked as though you’d committed a giant sin against him. Maybe that would’ve been his expression if you’d cheated on him rather than the other way around. You sent him a small smile, knowing that he knew that you were lying to your mother. It made your heart ache, because you knew you had hurt him. And that thought made you feel angry; because Steve never felt that pain. When you caught him and Elaine-god you hated her name-he might’ve felt bad for a minute, at least he pretended to, and then he and Elaine became an item and you were left on the side, unofficially broken up and even more broken than you were before. When he brought her home for Christmas, the last year you ever came home for the holiday, you’d just made up your mind to drop out of college and watching them flirt and flail about, you made up your mind about Steve: he was not a good man, like everyone thought he was, he was a heartless beast inside the body of a good guy.

You glanced superficially at the clock, not really checking the time but showing the group that you were checking the time “I should get going, I have to call my boss and clear up a few things before he gets in too deep with the new pile.” You announced, picking up your purse off the couch and ruffling Holly’s hair, who’d zoned out long ago.

“Are you sure? We’ve hardly even seen you!” Karen complained “I wanna hear about your new book your mother’s been talking about, apparently it’s expected to be a hit.”

You rolled your eyes “I haven’t written anything under my own name yet Karen, although my writing is making waves. Georgia Kane’s latest trash bestseller, Not so Miss. America, was a great success on my part. Did you read it? It’s your genre. Anyway, writing that got me a raise.” You replied, watching both your mother and Karen falter, each embarrassed for different reasons. “But other than that I’m not working with much buzz.”

When neither woman responded, you pulled your bag onto your shoulder and gave Nancy and Jonathan’s shoulders tight squeezes. “Alright, I’m gonna head out. I’ll leave the car with you, ma. See you all tomorrow!” you said, waving politely to the crowd and heading quickly out the door.

The sun had hit its peak in the sky, trying in vain to beat down the cool breeze gently rustling the leaves, weather that didn’t exactly match the season, but was a welcome change to the hot, sticky weather you’d endured during your stay. You were more than happy to walk in this weather, glad to take in the sunlight and cool breeze for awhile.

Unfortunately, Steve had followed you out.

“Lemme give you a lift, Henderson.” He called from the porch and you resisted the urge to turn around to respond to him. He hadn’t called you by your last name the whole trip. This was not a good sign.

“That’s alright, Harrington, I’d like to walk.” You replied, following suit and continuing down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. That should’ve been the end, but like a happy go-lucky golden retriever, he followed behind you, nipping at your heels.

“Then lemme walk you, I wanna talk.”

“Your car’s here.” You stopped dead in your tracks, finally turning to look at him and take in his concerned expression. “It would be a waste to walk all the way back to my place and then come here again. You wanted to visit with them, so stay. I can call you later at the station.”

“No you won’t,” he replied, shutting you up instantly “So I’m gonna walk with you for awhile.” You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat and continuing, much slower, down the path.

“What’s up?” you asked shyly, keeping your eyes on your shoes rather than him.

“Why are you going out with Hargrove tonight?” he asked shortly, crossing his arms over his chest, watching you carefully.

“What makes you think I am?”

“Come off it, Henderson, if you’re gonna reuse a lie, don’t do it in front of the person who made it up.” You sighed, nodding softly; he got you there.

You looked up, meeting his eye for the first time as you turned off the Wheeler’s street “I’m seeing him because…he asked? And I wanted to. And that’s that.” You said.

“That’s not much of a reason.”

You huffed “Do you have deep reasons when you go out with a girl beyond wanting to?” Steve didn’t reply, only sighing softly, shaking his head, angering you further.

“No, you don’t. Cause most of the time, you don’t need a deep reason to go out with someone. So don’t hold me to higher standard than everyone else. I’m no better.”

“It’s selfish.” Steve told you harshly, causing you to stop dead in your tracks.

“What?” you fumed, voice no higher than a whisper.

“He’s in love with you, you said it yourself. And you don’t love him. You’re getting his hopes up.” Steve replied quickly; aggressively, angrily.

“And you haven’t done anything selfish in your life.” You bit out callously

Steve narrowed his eyes, almost sneering at you “What are you implying?”

“Did you ever love Elaine?” you snapped, silencing him immediately simply with your steely gaze. “Did you ever love me?” you pressed wishing your voice didn’t crack and your throat didn’t close.

“Y/N…” he replied and in an instant broke your heart with the heavy sigh he breathed out instead “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head, holding your lips firm to keep the lower one from wobbling pathetically. “Yeah no that’s not an answer. And you never have an answer. So don’t ask me for one now.”    

You ran off before Steve could give you a response, before he could even try. You were home and inside before you ever realized you’d ran, your heart pounding in your heaving chest as you brushed your hair away from your eyes as you tried to calm yourself and keep the tears from flowing in rivers down your cheeks.

This was the proof you need. Billy was the right choice. Steve was so desperately wrong it was insane, you couldn’t believe you thought that…no, no you never thought that. If you’d thought that, then you liked him. And you didn’t like him. Ever. Billy was a better choice-sure he was both too much and not enough emotionally, but that can be trained out. Just because he didn’t speak your love language doesn’t mean he couldn’t learn. And this date would prove it.

You found yourself growing more and confident in the idea as you went through your day. You called your agent, something you didn’t think you could do and told him the honest truth-that you couldn’t take the novel to publish if you didn’t have the blessing of the people who inspired it, and he told you the honest truth that if you didn’t give it a definitive ending, no one would buy it. That was, surprisingly, an okay thing to hear and you accepted the information easily.

Of course, ending the novel seemed impossible. Because the story itself didn’t have an ending, not really. Sure, the trial ended the labs and sent people to jail, but the scars remain. And you couldn’t pretend that they didn’t have an effect on your life now. You weren’t ashamed to admit that the main character was based on yourself and your own life in Hawkins. You couldn’t write the story from anyone else’s point of few, it wouldn’t feel whole. But that gave you a problem because your story didn’t have an ending. You were a broken person, you didn’t sugar coat that, you weren’t the same girl you were even five years ago. But that wasn’t an ending, that was just a place to stop. And you didn’t want to build one whole cloth. You didn’t know how to even justify that to yourself, but you had to and so you would.

You just wouldn’t do it now.

Instead, you decided to look as effortlessly pretty as you could. You didn’t have much makeup on you; you hadn’t planned to be seen so often, so you trekked out to the nearest drugstore and found a tiny packet of eye shadow that complimented your eyes and, out of some old instinct of preteen-hood, a pearly pink nail polish. You spent the rest of the day trying to find the beauty your mother swore was there under the sneer and sarcasm of your teen years. By the end of your hard work, you’d found an older looking girl with clear eyes lined and painted in soft shadows and framed by enhanced eyebrows and a soft smile brightened with a rosy blush and glossy lips.

You felt, for the first time in the whole trip, intentionally pretty.

Beauty was something, you felt, was not something that was felt consistently. You found yourself trying harder and harder to focus on other things-your mind, your actions, your work, your loves-rather than your looks. You’d spent so long during your teen years worrying and thinking about your looks and beauty and now, as you’d aged and grown up, it felt sillier and sillier, a coping mechanism of youth you didn’t need to use anymore. But the feeling, as we all seemed to cause it, of ugliness swept you up sometimes. Some days, you woke up bright eyed and, objectively, pretty, but other days that creeping feeling of self-loathing that could only be attributed to the reflection in the mirror. You hadn’t put any effort into your appearance during the trip thus far, save for brushing your hair and putting on the barest amount of makeup possible, and only because your mother was insistent on it. You didn’t feel the need until now.

Now, you felt as though you had someone to impress, to put in the same level of work that you were certain Billy was putting in himself. It was a mutual, shared primping process done before any date. You knew the process well, the process seemingly become more and more important as you entered your twenties. You couldn’t really compare this to anyone else-you didn’t have many friends in San Diego and the closest female friend you had was your neighbour Stella, who despite not being in a relationship, hadn’t been on a date in three years, not since her son’s father ran off when she announced the pregnancy. You didn’t know if the process was a product of aging or just something expected of you as you aged; but you did note that every girl your age was trying to top every other girl around you. Maybe that was just California.

Still, when seven o’clock rolled around, you found yourself watched the front lawn with baited breath from the bathroom window, looking for signs of the tow truck or, hopefully, the Camaro since you missed it so much. You were excited, which was odd since you kind of hated him after the whole ‘I love you’ thing, and the feeling buzzed in your veins and coloured your cheeks.

But the feeling began to die as seven turned to seven fifteen and then to seven thirty. Finally, you just decided to march yourself downstairs and out the front door. You knew where he lived and if he was pulling some payback sort of shit, you could easily find him and cut off his dick. He’d deserve it too.

“I thought you were meeting for seven?” your mother called as you headed for the front door.

You stifled a sigh “We pushed the time back to eight for Marvin, he’s working late at the restaurant.” You lied, tossing your purse over your shoulder and slipping on your shoes.

“It’s so nice that Marvin still works for the family business, especially after his selfish siblings ran off to do other things.” You mother mused aloud and you turned back to look at her, noting the flour in her hair and the large mixing bowl and wooden spoon in front of her, a model image of fifties wifehood minus the poodle skirt and beehive hairdo.

“I guess it’s nice that his siblings have a backup plan though…in case everything goes to shit for them, you know?” you replied with a shrug.

“That’s exactly my point! The Rubio’s are excellent planners! I wish I had a business to pass down to you if this whole writing thing doesn’t pan out.” Your mother sighed and you stifled an eye roll, not wanting to offend her.

“Eh, I can always marry rich.” You said, earning a snicker from your mother. You decided not to look into that response and head out, scanning the street from your porch before jumping down the steps and heading down to the end of your street with arms crossed over your chest and teeth clenched in a hardened scowl. You couldn’t stand anyone else being late, despite yourself preferring to be a little late to everything, a hypocritical stance you held onto with pride. You, with great annoyance, began the slow trek up to the only place you thought he could be hiding.

“Hey baby, where’d you think you’re going?” you heard someone holler and you turned to look out towards the road, eyes catching the rusted brown truck that had tried to pass you in the opposite direction, and Billy Hargrove leaning out the passenger side window, tongue waggling out of his mouth and eyes leering. His hair was slicked with sweat, grease swiped on his forehead and was most likely coating his hands, and while you couldn’t deny that he was certainly attractive, the gap between your levels of effort was a canyon rather than a simple pothole.  It was a significant let down, yo0u felt as though your efforts had gone to waste. Still, you put on a smirk and turned, hands planting themselves on your hips jutted to one side.

“You’re late.” You mused, watching him with a twinkle in your eye and a bemused expression.

You were always a fairly good actor.

“You gonna hold it against me?” Billy countered smoothly, watching for a change in your eyes.

Although with Billy as your audience, it wasn’t hard.

“Maybe…” you giggled, sashaying over to the car and pulling the handle and nearly knocking him out of the car to your feet. He pulled himself in, sliding across the bench and back into the technical driver’s seat, patting the seat next to him for you to take. You tried to ignore the sheer amount of garbage piled up at your feet as you smiled at him. He revved the weak engine, speeding off as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast, and you giggled the same way you did when you were a teenager, grabbing onto the handgrip to keep you steady despite your lack of seatbelt, giving Billy an unneeded ego boost.

You didn’t know where you were going, but that was par for the course with Billy; he did things on the fly and that meant flying by the seat of your pants and not questioning too much. You used to not mind, but now it planted a worried seed in your stomach. You liked to be in control, to be in charge of your own location and destination. And while you were in charge of where you were, you weren’t in charge of where you were headed and that worried you to no end.

But you didn’t bother asking. You’d only get vague nothing answers and that would only upset you more. And besides, you knew Hawkins well enough to escape any situation he could drag you into, and you knew the highways well enough to get back into town if you had to jump out of the moving car. God, Hawkins brought out the survivalist in you.

You were pleasantly surprised when he pulled up to Benny’s, as you still insisted on calling it, although you weren’t impressed by his parking job, taking over almost three parking spots with his truck, claiming that it was a necessity to keep the thing safe as it wasn’t fully his, which you thought was all bullshit. You bite your tongue, however, choosing to not get into it and letting him wrap an arm snugly around your waist, pulling you closer than necessary.

As he entered the diner, his whole demeanour changed. He stood impossible straighter, taller and took up even more room. You found yourself being held tighter and closer to his side, making it hard to walk and led you to be mostly pulled around by him. He chose a booth on the far side of the diner, despite the other side being less busy. You didn’t understand why until you saw the waitress.

She had to be a year or two younger than you and looked like a small town Brooke Shields, right up to the big, wide eyed innocent hazel eyes. She was tall and thin and her hair was bigger than her head. You wondered how she’d ended up working in a diner instead of being the next big star, and then you remembered that this was Hawkins and nobody ever seemed to make it big. When she saw the pair of you, her smile turned weary and she spent just a second too long with the table next to yours and made a beeline to the kitchen instead of coming to you next, promising vaguely to be right with you. Not that Billy seemed to mind, he was watching her dreamily.

You should’ve been annoyed, hell maybe a part of you was, but mostly you were incredibly curious. There was a story there, you could tell. And you planned to figure out what it was.

Billy didn’t turn to look at you until you cleared your throat loudly and when he did, he looked completely annoyed to be doing so. “Are you alright?” you asked softly, leaning on your elbows to look at him with a sympathetic expression you pulled out of your ass “You seem distracted…”

“I’m fine. Just wondering where our waitress went.” He replied glumly, disappointment obvious in his voice.

“She looks like Brooke Shields doesn’t she?” you watched as his expression changed, looking at you curiously, his eyebrow rising significantly as if to tell you to go on. You didn’t however, instead waiting patiently for a response.

“Who?”

“You ever see the movie Blue Lagoon?” Billy shook his head. “How about Pretty Baby?” you tried. His whole expression perked up again, not in knowing but in excited memory.

“Yeah! I remember sneaking in to see that movie in theatres. It was like a crazy sex movie or something; everyone was talking about it for awhile.” Billy announced like a giddy child in the know.

“I guess? I think that was more for Blue Lagoon, that movie just got banned in a bunch of places. Anyway, the main girl in that movie-that’s Brooke Shields. She’s also in Endless Love.” You replied with frown, already noticing how he wasn’t paying attention to you anymore. Your waitress had returned with menus in hand and Billy was watching her closely with a smirk, not so much a forced one either like he did when he was trying to establish him dominance, but a real one that seem to be pulled from deep attraction. And the girl was blushing under his gaze, squirming like a beetle flipped on its back.

“Hi, I’m Rosemary, I’ll be your waitress for tonight, get I get you guys some drinks or do you need a second to look it over?” she addressed her initial opener only to you, smiling warmly down at you, clearly glad to not have to only address the man undressing her with his eyes.

“Um…I’ll have…” you mumbled, going over the menu briefly, double checking to ensure your usual order was still on the menu. “I’ll have a chocolate shake and a cheese burger, side fries.” You said simply, smiling up at her and handing back the menu.

“You know what I like, Rosie.” Billy said, handing back his. Their hands touched briefly and his thumb caressed her fingers gently, softening her expression and darkening her blush just for a second. It was as though you’d stepped into a bad teen movie; you were the forgotten friend watching on as the love interests fell in love right before your eyes.

“Alright, I’ll be back in a second with your drinks.” She said, clearing her throat and skittering off, busying herself behind the counter and sliding the slip into the wheel of orders above the pickup window, ringing the bell. Billy watched her closely and, after he waited the right amount of time you assumed, he stood from his side of the bench and announced that he was headed to the bathroom, leaving you alone at the booth.

You’d pieced together that they were, at one point, in a relationship, but something had gotten in the way. And by the way little Rosemary was looking at him, it had been a painful end. The whole thing was playing out like Austen novel, it was all very Persuasion-love lost lovers, separated by circumstance and still lusting desperately for one another. You would pity them, if only it didn’t seem like it was one sided. Billy was watching her like she was a piece of meat and not a person, a grave difference in reaction to one another.

You didn’t know where he’d wandered off to, nor did you care. This night was not going to end where you thought it would and that thought made you just a little sad.

“I’m sorry, are you Y/N Henderson?” you heard a voice behind you ask. You turned around, meeting the wide, brown eyes of Carol Danforth, who was peering at you as though you were a figment of her imagination.

You smiled back, waving politely “Hi Carol, it’s nice to see you again.” You said softly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Oh my god it is you! Hi! How are you, what’re you doing back?” she grinned, giggling and calculating.

“I’m back for my younger brother’s graduation, I’ve been in for a week and a half.” You replied, catching the eye of the nervous girl across from Carol. You turned fully, pulling your knees up on the bench and reaching your hand over to greet her “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

“Wendy…” she muttered, eyes watery, not bothering to shake your hand.

“Don’t mind her; she’s just upset over your date.” Carol said softly, hand cupped over her mouth.

“Billy break your heart?” you asked, ignoring Carol pleading looks to stop talking.

She hummed, swallowing hard “He said he…loved me…” she said shakily.

You nodded “He told me the same thing when I ran into him. I think he’s forgotten the definition of the word.”

“No, he’s just in love with someone else and won’t admit it yet.” Carol said, making you turn to look at her and following her gaze to the scene unfolding before your eyes. Billy had returned from the bathroom, or maybe he’d never gone in the first place, either way he was leaning over the counter and making eyes at her and making her laugh. They looked good together, something that made your heart feel so much lighter. He didn’t love you, he never did. He loved this little thing with a sexy pout and wide, innocent eyes. And that was more than okay with you.

“What’s the story there?” you asked, watching them spellbound.

“From what I’ve heard, he met her here when he was working construction after high school and they fell for each other. They were together for a year and then he cheated on her with Wendy over here. She dumped him, and he’s been chasing her down ever since.” Carol explained.

You furrowed your brow “But wait…I thought he was living in California until a couple years ago.”

Wendy and Carol looked at each other curiously before looking back to you. “He never left town.” Carol said.

“Yeah, he’s been here since graduation. Never left.” Wendy added awkwardly, before asking “What did he tell you he was doing here?”

“He said he was living here because his father died and he was handling his affairs. That he used to live in San Diego…” you said softly, almost embarrassed by the deceit.

“His father did die, but Billy didn’t handle anything with it. He told me he was disinherited. His step-mom handled it, he didn’t even go to the funeral.” Wendy explained to you. Suddenly, the whole situation became a lot clearer. And the image forming wasn’t one you liked.

Billy was returning to the table, as was Rosemary with a tray of drinking. And if destined in the stars, she tripped on the edge of the tile and you were coated in your own milkshake. And Rosemary screamed rather than you, hands rushing to cover her mouth.

“I am so sorry! Oh my goodness!” she screamed, grabbing napkins and rushing to help you wipe your face. You found yourself grinning, laughing even at what had just happened.

“It’s alright! No harm done, honestly.” You said, standing from your seat. Billy wasn’t even fazed by what had happened, he was so happy to be looking down Rosemary’s uniform as she wiped it up the mess she’d made on the floor.

Rosemary wasn’t paying much attention to him, she took your sticky arm and pulled you away from the bench “Here, I have a spare shirt in my locker, let’s try to get the stain out of your shirt.

“It’s okay, really, you don’t have to.” You tried with a smile. If you were reading this girl right, you were going to get exactly what you wanted from her.

“No, no let me help, I feel so bad!” she cried and you relented, letting her lead you into the bathroom before rushing off and instructing you to take off your blouse and soak it in the sink.

She returned quickly with a plain cotton tee shirt marked with the label of the diner printed on the front. She shrugged softly, handing it to you “Technically, you’re supposed to pay for these, but nobody does and I won’t tell if you won’t.” she said and you found yourself nodding as you pulled it on. It was a bit snug, but you much preferred it to the wet shirt you had on before.

“Thank you so much.” You grinned, tossing your shirt in the sink and turned on the faucet.

“Here, let me see if there’s a plastic bag or something in the back for you to throw that in. I wouldn’t want to keep you in here too long, can’t keep Billy waiting on you…” she said and you noted the sad turn in her voice. Now was as good of a time as any to ask.

You grabbed her wrist gently before she could completely turn away from you. “Can I ask you a somewhat personal question?” you asked, earning a bewildered and worried look from the taller girl.

“You can, but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer it.” she said and you liked her already.

“I noticed Billy…well, staring at you. Can I ask what the deal is there? Cause it’s a little weird if there isn’t a story.”

Rosemary sighed, her shoulders and head slumping down, her brown locks becoming a halo of curls around her head. “It’s not…it’s a long story. But it’s not weird, his staring I mean.”

“I don’t need the story, if you don’t want to tell it, but I can tell you that Billy doesn’t look at everyone like that.” Rosemary shook her head, disheartened by something in her head that you couldn’t see. “I’m serious! I use to date him and he never looked at me that way, and he used to say that he loved me.”

That might have not been the best thing to say, it seemed, as it triggered a slow, steady stream of tears down her cheeks. You quickly grabbed her hands, squeezing them tightly. “He doesn’t love me…” she whispered hoarsely, trying not to sob too loudly.

“What do you mean?” you replied, looking up at her sympathetically.

“He…he…” she took a gulping breath “We dated and it got serious and I told him that I loved him and he wouldn’t say it back. He couldn’t say it back. And we broke up but…I love him.”

You found yourself smiling; there was an easy answer to this problem. “Sweetheart,” you said, shaking your head solemnly “He loves you.”

“No, no he doesn’t he would’ve-”

“No, he wouldn’t. Billy has the emotional reverence of a clogged pipe. He can’t say it to you, because you’re the person he cares about, but he can say it to anyone else. And he has-he’s been saying to every other girl he can find because he’s scared to say it to you.”

“That makes no sense.” She pouted softly, pulling her hands away to cross them over her chest.

“You say that like Billy ever makes sense. He has a logic all his own. But if you can understand even a bit of it, then you know him. I know him well enough to know that he doesn’t love me, despite the fact that he told me that he did last week. And I want to help in whatever way I can, and if that means publicly embarrassing him to help you, then I will.”

She stood silent for a good few moments, mulling over everything you’d said. You watched as her face broke into a small smile, clearly not opposed to the idea. “Can you do that?” she asked softly.

“I can do whatever I want. Now, please go and find me that bag, I’ll take care of our dummy.” You replied with a smirk, looking yourself over in the mirror. This would take an easy skill. You left your shirt in the sink and marched out into the dining room, putting on your hardest expression.

“Hargrove.” You snapped, finding him paying the bill at the counter, two Styrofoam counters stacked up on top of each other and deeply disappointed scowl on his lips. He turned and, for a brief moment, looked at you as though it was his own mundane reflection looking back at him. He found the surprised expression he needed and then let it settle into one of pity.

“There you are! I handle this, come on let’s get you home.” He said, looking around the room as though the very sight of you was embarrassing him.

“Sit.” You snapped, pointing back to the booth and nodding over when he didn’t move immediately. He relented with a groan, sliding back in with great and obvious annoyance.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you asked, earning a bewildered look from the boy.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh don’t start with that, you know why I’m about to yell at you. What the fuck is your problem-you’re gallivanting around with every girl in sight and breaking poor Rosemary’s heart instead of just admitting that you love her.”

Billy sighed, lowering his head. When he looked up again, he didn’t look guilty-he looked tired. “I don’t…I don’t love her.”

“Well I know for a fucking fact you don’t love me like you said you did. And you sure as hell don’t love little Wendy back there, I bet you didn’t even remember her name till I said it.” you cried.

“How the hell would you know how I feel?”

“Because,” you countered, leaning in to truly hold his eye contact “I know you better than you realize. And I know you don’t say what you feel to the people that can help. You say it to anyone else.”

“So? That doesn’t mean that I love her.”

“Okay, riddle me this: why did you lie to me about living in San Diego?” you asked simply.

“Because I-” he started into another lie, but when he looked in your eyes, his dropped the sentence off, sighing softly “Because I didn’t want you to think I was a loser.”

“Okay,” you said, nodding softly “And why did you tell Wendy that you love her?”

Billy smirked “To get her in bed.” You heard the muffled gasp and moan of poor Wendy behind you, clearly falling back into tears. You didn’t look back.

“And why did you break up with Rosemary?” you asked, watching the smirk fall away and him shy away immediately.

“Don’t make me say it…” he muttered.

“No, say it cause I wanna know.” You snapped back, raising your brows.

“Because I was scared alright? God damn it Y/N, why are you interrogating me?” he cried, huffing and pouting like a child.

“Because I want an answer! Because poor Rosemary needs an answer, okay? Because you spent the whole night watching her with these big, stupid puppy dog eyes and it drove me nuts because you’re so obvious it’s not even funny!” you countered, matching both his volume and tone.

“You’re right, okay?” he relented softly “I do…you know…”

“I know you do.” You smiled, earning an annoyed scoff “Now go tell her that.” Billy stayed put, hands shaking just a tiny bit, his eyes shifted from her at the counter to you across from him. He looked so nervous, like a little boy about to admit to his first crush, and it made your heart melt just a little. You believed that he’d been in love before, but not at this level. Not in this fully adult way. You were proud of him, in that sense, for finally coming to terms with adulthood and the responsibilities you have to your partners, understanding that they becoming your family after awhile.

You took his hand gently, squeezing it softly “You deserve happiness, Bill, but you have to get it for yourself. It won’t always come to you on its own.” You murmured to him and, for once, he seemed to listen. He nodded, letting your hand go and getting up from his seat. You took the opportunity to grab your food from the pile and stand as well, finding the plastic bag with your wet blouse in it on the opposite end of the counter. You didn’t spare a glance to Carol and Wendy, although you could hear Carol’s grumbling as Wendy tried to muffle her sobs. In fact, you only turned once, when Rosemary cried out a watery ‘yes!’ from behind you. You turned just in time to see Billy pull off one of his tarnished silver rings and slip it onto her left hand. You shook your head, chuckling at the quite honestly adorable scene in front of you, watching Billy get the life squeeze out of him by his bride to be and hearing Wendy’s sobs get louder as Carol dragged her out of the booth and out the front door, flipping you off along the way. You guessed now you really weren’t invited to that wedding.

You slipped out the front door and into the cooler summer night, the sun waning in the sky as warm pinks and oranges overtook the blue and made a gorgeous cocktail of colours. A soft, warm breeze blew through the trees edging on the diner and the sound of cars driving down the interstate behind you filled the whole atmosphere with the ends of day trips with tired, sunburnt kids half asleep in the backs of cars as dad rock played softly through the speakers. It was the type of scene you knew so well from childhood.

Of course, you were in a whole different scene entirely.

You were alone in a parking lot, hair sticky and clumped with dried ice cream and whipped cream, your arms still sticky despite being wiped down and a prominent stain drying into your favourite skirt. You were alone and with no way of getting home. And there was no way in hell you’d get back in the car with Billy, not with his new fiancé, both of them itching to tear each other’s clothes off. You were going to half to walk it alone.

“Well that was a fucking waste of time…” you muttered, huffing out a sigh before trudging into the woods. You didn’t want to walk the highway in, just in case you were spotted or worse, hit. You go through the woods and hope that your anxiety didn’t get the best of you.

You spent your walk mostly running or jogging, trying to avoid roots and fallen logs. Your heart was racing and you had to avert your eyes to the now quarantined labs as you ran past, their fences still holding something inside too ominous to let free or tear down. You tried to think of positive, happy things. You would certainly get an invite to the new couples wedding, that would be lovely you hadn’t been to a wedding at all since Jonathan and Nancy’s rushed courthouse ceremony, and not a grand ceremony and reception since your mother and Richard. But thoughts of white dresses and tuxedos only distracted your mind for so long and eventually, after the sun finally set, you had to talk yourself out of the woods altogether, opting to hurry down Cherry Lane, four streets below yours.

You remembered that the Mayfield’s lived there, once even with their Hargrove counter parts, and you wondered to yourself if they still did. You got your answer almost immediately when you saw a flash of red hair hop out a window followed by two flashes of dark hair. You hadn’t noticed the bikes waiting for them below, but you recognized the faces when they appeared in the sunlight.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

[ladyrevanhalin]

ONLY LIGHT CAN CAST SHADOW: CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THE MERCY OF THE JEDI

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753210/chapters/38375939#workskin

For the first time since returning from Dxun, the woman stood before the Jedi Council. Once she had come here as Halin Chan, the promising Jedi Knight who wished to serve the Republic. Once she had come here as the Revanchist, who sought to turn the Council’s heads and make them realize their hypocrisy. But now, she was coming here for the first time as Revan. What Revan wanted… what Revan wanted was more than Halin or the Revanchist even realized was at stake.

The red and silver of the mask the woman wore contrasted sharply with the deep sapphire color of her robes, with both colors standing boldly against the black of her cloak. She appeared as some sort of a strange Jedi-Mandalorian hybrid there in the center of the Council Chamber. It was clear that some of the Council Members were intimidated by the fact that they could not see her face beneath the mask she wore. She would have been lying to herself if she denied the pleasure she felt at knowing that her presence there intimidated them. A certain degree of fear bred respect—a respect that the Council was used to being on the receiving end of, but not necessarily the opposite. It felt nice to have a shift in the tides for once.

However, Revan did notice a shift in some of the seats on the Council. Replacing Master Dorjander Kace on the Council was Lucian Draay, one of the Masters who had formerly been in charge of the Jedi Tower on Taris. She wondered as to what could be the reasoning for such a change, particularly at this time. Master Dorjander Kace had been one of the last left to have fought in the Great Sith War, and had been captured by the Mandalorians for a period of time. Dared she hope it was possible he resigned his position after voicing support for the Revanchists’ cause?

While the possibility did give her hope, it was irrelevant at the moment. In light of the shared vision on Cathar, which all of the Council had seen with their own eyes, Revan had come before them, once again, to ask for the Council’s support in the decision regarding Jedi aid for the Republic against the Mandalorians.

“I believe all of you already understand why I am here yet again,” Revan said as she addressed them. “You have all now witnessed with your own eyes the truth that I and that the Revanchists have known now for some time. You have all now witnessed the mass-genocide of an entire race from their home planet. You have all witnessed the atrocities of which the Mandalorians are capable of. With these things in mind, I ask you, once again, for the support of the Jedi Order to the Republic during this war.”

There was an uneasy silence in the room. Revan stood tall and with as much confidence as she was capable of displaying. If this had not changed their mind on the matter, then she did not know what would. Either way, she would not allow them to stop her. She would fight on her own if she had to. But if she could convince them finally to sanction the movement, then any Jedi would be free to join the Revanchists—free to fight for the protection of the Republic!

“We do share your concerns,” one Council members finally said, “However, things are a bit more complicated than us simply giving permission for you and your followers to run off into battle…”

“There are… political reasons. The reputation of the Jedi Order is also at stake here. We are not warriors, or soldiers. The Jedi are scholars, healers, teachers…”

“Many rash decisions can be made amidst the desperation caused by war. If such a decision were to be made by a Jedi, and it held negative repercussions, it is the Jedi Order as a whole that would be held responsible.”

“So what all of you are saying,” Revan put rather bluntly, “is that the possibility of negative repercussions on the reputation of the Order outweighs the countless lives that would be saved. Is that the excuse that you are making?”

“We’ve said no such thing!” Master Lemar stated in protest.

“That’s exactly what you’ve said though! You’re still not willing to let the Jedi aid, and yet you know how many people suffer as a result!” The woman was having none of their petty excuses. It needed to be now or never. If they waited too long, there would be no chance of helping.

“We didn’t say that we did not want to help them…”

“You want to, and yet you continue to make excuses not to.”

“We cannot sanction a military unit…”

Revan thought. Surely there must be some way around the stupid politics which surrounded the whole situation. The Council admitted now that they wanted to help… The only issue was getting them to overlook propriety and niceties long enough to take action and give their word.

“Surely there have been Jedi to help in past wars, even on a smaller scale, outside of the Great Sith Wars…?”

“Well,” one said, scratching his chin, “Occasionally they’ve joined one of the volunteer mercy corps as healers, but outside of that…. No, no, I can’t think of any specific cases…”

Revan’s heart leapt in her breast. A Jedi Mercy Corps… Maybe there was a chance after all…

“Has the Jedi Council ever denied a Jedi’s request to join such a mercy corps?” Revan asked the Council. The Council was somewhat confused by her question, but they did choose to humor her with an answer:

“A request to join the mercy corps has never been denied, no. During times of great destruction, there is always need for healers to take away the pain. It would be immoral for us to deny such a request…”

“Then I ask the Council for permission for the Revanchists to join the Republic Mercy Corps.”

The Masters glanced among the order. ‘Halin’ had never been much of a talent for healing. Her marks in the area were acceptable, but nothing beyond the basics. And while there were several talented healers among them, such as Opela and Fiolli, and even Ferroh to a lesser degree… the majority of the Revanchists were not primarily healers. No, no, they suspected that there must have been some sort of an ulterior motive behind Revan’s request.

They hesitated to respond. She had put them into a position of great conflict. While they strongly suspected that the nature of the Mercy Corps missions were not her primary intention… to deny the quest would go directly against their own morals. Halin had always been a clever girl, but Revan’s psychoanalysis of the situation was beginning to border on manipulation. Either they denied her request and proved to the onlooking galaxy Revan’s views of their hypocrisy… or they granted it at the risk of her overstepping those boundaries…

Master Vrook Lamar regarded the woman who called herself Revan with an expression of concern combined with admiration on his face. He’d always been warry of her rebellious nature when she was training at the Academy on Dantooine, but these current issues… they were different than the ones he’d faced with her then. He knew that there was no alternative to granting her request. As they told her, a Jedi had never been denied the ability to serve on the Mercy Corps. However, he remained wary. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t change her mind about the Mandalorians. ‘Justice’ was the word she had used on Cathar upon taking up the mask which she wore now. However, Master Vrook understood from observing Jedi during the Great Sith War that all too often ‘Justice’ was confused with ‘Revenge.’

“The Jedi Council grants your request, Revan, to join the Republic Mercy Corps.”

Much to the woman’s surprise, it was Master Vrook Lamar who finally dared to speak up on the Council’s behalf. She could tell from his expression that he did not trust her, but respected him for realizing that he knew he could not deny her. However, he continued.

“We do, however, have conditions to granting you this permission.”

She knew it. She knew that there had to be some sort of catch to this.

“And pray tell what those conditions might be, Master Lemar?”

“You are to accept no more Padawans into the Revanchists. Any Padawans who have already joined you are to return to their Masters at once. You are also required to be under the command of a Republic officer during any and all missions under the banner of the Mercy Corps. And our final condition is that any major decisions involving Jedi activity in the Republic war effort, even under the banner of the Mercy Corps, must be brought before the Council first for approval.”

Revan thought about this proposal. It would mean that Nisotsa would be unable to return to them, and that Fiolli would have to leave. It would be a shame about Fiolli, since she was the best healer and pilot among them. But if they had a Republic escort now, there would be no necessity for pilots. These were losses she could manage. In regard to the second issue, it would be a matter of ensuring that the Republic officer in charge was sympathetic to their case, which was nothing beyond a bit of persuasion…. But the last clause… the last one was what made things tricky. The last one risked the effort being dragged to a stalemate due to the sticky backward nature of Jedi politics.

“May I ask what it is I’ve done to breed such distrust among you?” Revan asked the Council. “I have killed no one during this war, and neither have any of the others.” That is, as far as she was aware. True, Hazar had died because of her naïveté, and she’s nearly killed Demagol while trying to resist the Sith holocron when it was onboard…. But her hands remained clean of blood thus far. Though she’d never gotten all of the details from Malak about what happened aboard the Arkanian Legacy… She was still sour about the situation leading up to it, and so she tried to avoid bringing it up. Though perhaps… “And you cannot think that we would choose to deal in potentially system-devastating weapons. That’s simply ridiculous.”

“That’s not what the report from Admiral Karath states,” one Council member stated.

Ah, that’s right…. Malak did mention that he was there…

“And what did the reports say? I was not there. I wouldn’t know.”

“You weren’t there?”

“No. I was….” She searched her mind for the correct words to phrase what had happened. “Incapacitated,” was what she came up with. “Malak went in my stead.”

“We should have expected such,” Master Atris nearly hissed. “Sending your comrades in your place when the situation turns dangerous!”

Revan could feel her temples boiling beneath her mask. Her core felt unusually hot and seemingly burning from within. Her hands trembled. She couldn’t place what it was that she felt in that moment. It was so intense she had to mentally brace herself.

There is no emotion… There is no emotion…

But she could only brace herself against so much. “I never sent Malak on such an errand,” she said through her teeth. “In fact, I specifically ordered him not to go. He left for Lord Adasca’s flagship without my knowledge or permission.”

She leered at Master Atris from beneath her mask. The visibility from the visor was surprisingly good, considering the fact that no one could see in from the outside. She should have suspected so much though. After all, Mandalorians were warriors, and good visibility was a necessity when in the heat of combat, particularly for those unattuned to the Force.

The air was stiff, yet full of electricity, as if a great storm were brewing. Everyone present knew it. Everyone present felt it. The tension was high. Revan continued.

“I’ve done everything within my power to keep every member of this company safe, and while I deeply regret that there are those I have failed at protecting, to even suggest that I would do such a thing is simply beyond despicable! I care very deeply for Malak; I will not hide this. I would never knowingly place him in danger. I sent him to Suurja with the expectation that fighting had ceased and there was no military presence left from either side. And after the nameless tortures which he endured as a result, I have regretted it ever since. I tended to his wounds myself. His pain was my pain, and I felt dead knowing that I could have prevented it all…”

Her voice had become progressively choked with tears. Her words were genuine. Even the Council could not deny that. No one knew the words to respond to this. Even the Jedi were not so void of emotion that they could not understand remorse and pity.

Revan swallowed. She was becoming distracted. She could not risk this. She needed to focus on the goal at hand. “I accept the Council’s conditions,” she managed with what strength left to her voice that she could muster. “I do not know what you have heard of the Battle at Omonoth, or of the Arkanian Legacy, and perhaps you know more of what happened there than I know myself… and while I do not agree with Malak in his decision to undermine me and go on his own, I do trust him. I trust that he would not have done anything to mar the name of the Jedi. You trust him too—that much I can sense from all of you. What I don’t comprehend is why you distrust me.”

><><><><><

           Malak approached Revan as she exited the Council Chamber. He tried to catch her eye as she moved, but her hood was up and her mask downcast, as if deliberately trying to avoid eye contact with the world. The mask was like a shield. It did not let others in, and it did not let her expressions out.

He had been listening behind the door the entire time. He’d heard her conversation about the Mercy Corps… and about him. There was so much he needed to ask her about…

“Revan?” he said, calling to her softly. He humored her with the new name she had chosen. He had to admit that he did prefer it to the Revanchist. It seemed more like a name than a title, a bit more humanizing in that sense. It was also much easier to say. While he hated to admit it, a part of him never wanted to call her the Revanchist because it made him feel stupid trying to pronounce it correctly as he struggled to imitate her inflections in the Deralian tongue. But the main reason why he preferred Revan was in the context of her choice. The Revanchist was bred from the death of innocence—the death of Halin. Revan was bred from the determination of justice.

Justice….

That was the word she had used before, in her attempt to explain to him what it meant to be Revanchist…. Yet it seemed to bear more poignancy as Revan. If a Revanchist was, as she had told him before, one who serves justice to the innocent, then Revan must have been justice itself.

The woman stopped, exhaling a sigh as she did so. Somehow her victory in obtaining the support of the Council didn’t feel like a victory at all.

“We did it,” she said, not turning to him. “The Revanchists are now officially serving as a ‘Jedi Mercy Corps.’ We are to meet with the Republic at the Embassy at planetary noon tomorrow.”

“Why do I sense that you are unhappy?” The question was more of a formality. He’d heard most of the conversation from outside.

“They’ve imposed conditions on our involvement even within the Mercy Corps,” Revan stated, resuming her previous pace. Malak followed at her side. “I don’t understand why it is that they still do not trust me…”

“They feel threatened by you, Rev,” he said, tasting the feeling of it in his mouth. It wasn’t entirely bad. There was a certain mellifluous feeling as it danced on his tongue, the fricative leaving a lingering vibration on his lips. His abbreviation of the name caused her to stop again in confusion. Malak had not been anticipating this, and found he had to turn back around to face her after having stepped too far ahead. Unsure if he had offended her, he quickly continued speaking, as if in an attempt to retract the thing. “They’re not used to having someone counteract their logic or point out their flaws. They are threatened by you because you think for yourself…”

The woman sighed. Malak half expected her to correct him of her newly chosen name, but she did no such thing. She was silent again. Malak wondered what his friend and Master was thinking. She had always been quite careful about her own mental blocks and was elusive to those who tried to read her. The mask only deepened the elusion, for her face was now unreadable as well…

Finally, he dared to ask her the question that was really on his mind after what he had heard: “I’m… dear to you?”

The mask looked up at him, and he wondered what expression shone in the blue-grey eyes which lie underneath. He reached out slowly, as if to lift the mask and meet her eyes beneath, but she raised a hand and turned her face away.

“I’ve said too much already… We should find the others. They should know about the shift in operations. Xaset Terep will be free to rejoin us also, should he choose. I’ll break the bad news to Fiolli personally. She has served with honor as a Revanchist…”

Revan continued walking.

‘She’s avoiding my question,’ Malak thought. It seemed to have struck a nerve with her, like whatever it was that she was refraining from telling him was something that she had yet to even fully admit to herself…

Maybe it was for the better though. There is no emotion, there is peace… It would only serve as a distraction from their mission. He decided to drop it for the moment. It would be best for everyone if they focused on the goal at hand.

><><><><><

Revan regarded the strange-looking man who had been there to meet them at the Republic embassy. Captain Telettoh had goldish-pinkish hair similar in color to the juice of cloudberries from Bakura, which he kept clipped very short in a typical military fashion. His nose and mouth were rather wide-set for a human male, and his eyes were difficult to distinguish beneath the sheen of his glasses. It made the woman wonder if he could even see at all, given their nearly opaque appearance. A blind military officer would have been laughable… except for the fact that he was in charge of the Mercy Corps. There was no combat he would need to see.

Revan sat alone with the Captain and with Malak in the Embassy. The other Revanchists were enjoying the moment of respite before the movement returned to the Outer Rim. Revan couldn’t say that she blamed them for wanting to do such. After all, there wasn’t much to see in the Rim right now other than war-torn worlds and destruction… She had tried to convince Malak to do the same, but he refused to leave her, insisting that this was an important moment for their movement, and that he wanted to be a part of the conversation.

Despite his odd appearance, Revan found Captain Telettoh to be rather agreeable. She had learned from their conversation that there were, in fact, many military leaders among the Republic who had wanted involvement of the Jedi sooner.

Revan’s gaze was intense beneath her mask as she subtly probed the Captain’s mind while he was explaining the history of the Mercy Corps and their mission. She was trying to determine how receptive he would be to a change in tactics. While she was happy to finally be working in cooperation with the Republic directly, she needed to be certain that it wouldn’t cause additional political hoops she would be forced to jump through in order to make any sort of actual progress.

Her mind gently brushed against his, waiting to see if there would be any sort of a reaction. The Captain paused mid-sentence, scratching his head a moment as if he had lost his train of thought before he continued on. A small smile appeared on the masked woman’s lips. The man’s mind seemed susceptible enough. It was possible that this whole crazy plan might just work… Proceeding with caution, she went in further, slipping past his mind’s barriers.

There’s no reason for the Republic to limit the Jedi’s aid to them.

“There’s no reason for the Republic to limit the Jedi’s aid to them,” Captain Telettoh continued.

It would be a waste of available resources to use them only as healers

“It would be a waste of available resources to use them only as healers.”

Malak subtly glanced over at his companion with suspicion. He knew Jedi mind tricks when he saw them. He didn’t understand why she would even think of risking a thing like this now though. They’d only just gotten approval from the Council, and already she was risking them getting shut down by doing such a thing. He personally thought the act to be quite irresponsible, but he dared not speak up now, lest he risk her tactics being caught.

Revan continued.

There’s no need for you to tell the Jedi Council or the Republic media about our actions. All will remain in complete confidence.

“There’s no need for me to tell the Jedi Council or the Republic media about the Revanchists’ actions. All will remain in complete confidence, I assure you both.”

“Well then, Captain,” she said aloud, “I thank you for your trust in the matter. You have been most agreeable. We shall do our best not to disappoint the Republic.”

She stood, bowing politely in a gesture to take leave. “It has been a pleasure, Captain Telettoh.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Jedi Revan and Jedi Malak. I look forward to working alongside the Revanchists when our task force leaves Coruscant.”

The two groups parted ways. It was only after they had left the embassy that Malak dared to address Revan about what had happened in their meeting.

“What were you thinking!? What if something had gone wrong—”

“His mind was weak, susceptible,” Revan replied plainly. “It was not an uncalculated risk, I assure you. I had been testing the malleability of his consciousness ever since our arrival…”

“But why? Our meeting at all was already a step forward.”

“One step forward isn’t progression if it’s followed by two steps backward. We’ve been at this far too long already with nearly nothing to show for result. I will not have our next eight months be just as unproductive as the first… It’s better this way. If the Captain will not report our actions, then we are free to move as necessary in order to end this war.”

><><><><><

It was one of the first truly successful battles of the war for the side of the Republic. The Mandalorians had been slowly shifting their route on conquest and turning inward toward the Core Worlds of the Republic. The Mandalorian forces had attempted a sort of pincer movement by capturing Ithor and Iridonia, however, in a second battle at Iridonia, the Republic had managed to liberate the Iridonian system from Mandalorian control.

The Republic needed this victory. Their war efforts thus far had been met with little to no success, and the Mandalorian front was gradually closing inward on Republic space over the past year of fighting since the Republic had first entered the war. With all of their resources and trained soldiers, the thing that the Republic was lacking was the Mandalorians’ almost fanatical views of honor in battle. Every action was for the glory of battle, for the thrill of meeting an opponent and facing them to the death.

It was largely these views that made the Mandalorians so ruthless in their conquests. Try as they may, the Republics tactics could not seem to effectively counter the warrior race. At Iridonia, the Republic had been lucky enough to have the aid of the Zabraks in repelling them.

But Iridonia and Ithor were Mid-Rim systems. That the Mandalorian front had managed to progress this far at all was a startling realization in and of itself. When the Mandalorians had begun attacking unaligned planets in the Outer-Rim thirteen years prior, the Republic had not expected them to be a threat other than perhaps the occasional supply raid. However, what had resulted now because of their ignorance toward the situation had become potentially fatal to the very existence of the Republic.

><><><><><

Jedi Master Arren Kae entered the Chamber of the Jedi High Council on Coruscant. Her nearly white blonde hair hung gently over her shoulders like a crest of gold-rimmed clouds atop the olive and chestnut forest of her robes. Her dark blue eyes seemed as deep as the sea. She was an attractive woman to be sure, but an even more deadly warrior should she choose.

The woman had spent much time among the Echani people, a race of near-humans originally from Eshan who were widely regarded for their swordsmanship and mastery of unarmed combat. For the Echani, the only way to truly know a person was through combat. To them, communication best came through the exchange of motion in their ancient martial arts customs.

During her time among the Echani, Master Kae had learned much in the terms of their battle techniques. It was an ancient tradition, to know another through sparring—No weapons, no armor, no tools… only two bodies and two souls, their every motion speaking beyond the capability of words.

The woman stepped to the center of the Council Chamber and bowed in respect to the other Masters present who formed the Jedi Council. “The Council has requested my presence?” The woman asked them. She’d heard much recently regarding trouble with one of her former apprentices. She assumed that the reasoning for her summons had to do with this—that they would ask her to speak to the apprentice—but she knew that they were wasting their time if this was their purpose. While the Jedi Knight Halin Chan had always treated Kae with respect while under her tutelage, she had also always been quite independent. Miss Chan was a good-natured pupil though, and Master Kae was confident that her intentions matched this nature.

The Mandalorians and the Echani were very much alike in some ways, yet very different in others. Both were warrior races, feared by those who opposed them. But Mandalorians only sought conquest and the glory of battle. The Echani sought understanding through combat. As her former teacher, Master Arren Kae was confident that her former apprentice was closer to an Echani than to a Mandalorian.

But these things were not why the Council had requested her audience.

“The Council has been informed of some rather… disturbing news recently, and we wished to address you in person about the situation before coming to any of our own conclusions,” one of the Council members stated.

Master Kae furrowed her brow. The statement had been a confusing one to her. “What news is it that the Council has heard?” she dared to ask.

“A source, who has asked us to remain anonymous, has come to us recently with some rumors regarding your time spent on Eshan approximately eleven years ago,” they continued. “It is these rumors which we wish to discuss with you.”

“As you are well aware,” spoke another, “much has changed in our time as a result of the Great Sith War… Changes among the practices of the Jedi Order have been put into place for the purpose of avoiding the temptations which lead so many to yield to their passions and fall to the dark side during those difficult times.”

“Yes, I understand this,” Master Kae said to them. “Such changes were put into place with the best intentions for the future of the Jedi Order in mind. However, I must admit that I’m unsure what this has to do with my time on Eshan. As you know, I was stationed there to aid in diplomatic proceedings between the Echani and the Jedi Council. There were many young Echani who were sensitive to the Force that you wished to have sent to be trained and potentially join the rank of Padawan.”

“Yes, and we had you test a great deal of Echani children for Force-Sensitivity… Including the daughters of one of their generals… a General Yusanis, if I recall correctly?”

A flicker of emotions briefly rippled over Master Arren Kae’s naturally calm demeanor, but she regained her composer so very quickly that the only way one could have noticed would have been if they had been looking for such a thing in advance.

“Yes,” Master Kae replied. “He had five daughters, though I did not sense that any of them had any talent in the ways of the Force…”

“His sixth daughter wouldn’t have been born at that point, I suppose… Like but unalike to her sisters, the child bears the face of her mother… Your face, Master Kae. Do you deny this?”

Master Kae’s eyes were as deep as the sea, lost in reflection of the past. She remembered General Yusanis fondly. He was an expert in combat, and the two of them had sparred often while she was on Eshan. He was one of the finest dualists among the Echani, and his children were among those that the Jedi Council hoped to have tested for the potential of becoming Jedi.

While all five had failed the tests that Master Kae had given to them, her interactions with the General had continued through the entirety of the duration of her stay on Eshan. He was fierce and masterful in the way he moved in combat. She had learnt much of the Echani and their traditions from him. Their martial arts, their traditions of honor… he had even shared with her some Echani poetry, though it caused her to understand why they preferred poetry in motion to the use of words.

To the Echani, words were clumsy things. The only true expression of a person could be achieved through the own dance of their body in hand to hand combat. It was a communication so pure to them that they felt it could be used to truly understand another’s soul. It was through combat that she had come to know the soul of the Echani General… and through combat that he had come to learn hers. Such had been the case on the occasion in which the two had consummated what they had come to understand as love.

It had been after a particularly intense sparring session. As tradition mandated, there were to be no weapons, no shields, no armor… only warrior against warrior, flesh against flesh… The two were an equal match, the intensity of their attacks showing the respect they held for one another. There was no restraint, no hesitation, only pure, unadulterated motion. Poetry in motion. A dance in the duel. A duet spun of martial art. The intensity climaxed until there was nothing left but the two of them. Warrior and Warrior. Man and Woman…

“Master Kae?”

The Council Chamber had grown silent waiting for her response. Master Arren Kae swallowed, bringing her thoughts back to the present.

“I do not deny this… The child bears my face because I am the child’s mother.”

“You understand that such things have been forbidden among the Jedi Order, Master Kae?”

“I do,” she said simply. While she had hoped otherwise, she’d always known that it would be impossible for her to hide the situation forever. She had not personally seen the child since soon after it was born. Yusanis had begged her to leave the child to him on Eshan in order to avoid the punishment of the Jedi Council and a scandal among the Echani political scene.

“Then you understand that we are left with no choice,” the Council continued. “Arren Kae, the Jedi Council finds you guilty of knowingly yielding to your own passions and defying the Council’s mandates proceeding the Great Sith War. It is with deep regret that we are forced to expel you from the Order and must ask that you relinquish your lightsaber.”

Silently, Arren Kae closed her eyes and bowed respectfully in acceptance of the Jedi Council’s decree. She removed the hilt of her saber from her belt, her hand lingering there for a moment, as if to reflect upon the way that it felt so that she might clearly remember it later, and laid it in the center of the chamber before turning and exiting in silence. For the Echani, there was more spoken in movement than in words. And for Arren Kae, there was more spoken in silence. Motion, simple and pure, filled a void of connotation which words could not.

><><><><><

In every war, there were tragedies on both sides. However, there were times when true tragedies came to a side from within themselves. Much was at unrest within the Jedi Order on Coruscant. While the dispute with the Revanchists movement had been largely settled, problems which had lurked in the shadows for some time now were finally beginning to come to light.

The truth had finally come out as to what had happened during the Padawan Massacre on Taris near the start of Republic entry into the war. As it turned out, the Masters in charge of the Jedi Spire there had a collective vision that they believed to be a sign one of their Padawans would turn to the Dark Side and become a Sith Lord that would destroy them all… and so they had chosen to kill the Padawans in an attempt to prevent that from happening.

What they hadn’t anticipated was that one of the Padawans, Master Lucian Draay’s, would survive the massacre, and so the poor thing ended up as the scapegoat, having the whole blame of the situation put on him. Consequentially, the Padawan, Zayne Carrick, had been on the run ever since, trying to clear his name. The situation had brought him to Coruscant.

One thing led to another and the situation culminated with a servant of the Draay estate overriding the weapons systems to a Republic command ship in orbit and firing on the planet below. As it turned out, it was the servant, a failed Padawan, who had been corrupted by the dark side and had begun amassing his own following of Dark Jedi who had been loyal to the Draay Family Estate. When the weapons had been fired on the planet, the Council and several of the Masters and Knights at the Temple had immediately swarmed the scene of the Draay Estate in order to put down the Dark Side uprising.

Needless to say, Master Lucian Draay was expunged from the Council and from the Jedi Order. The wanted charges for the Padawan Zayne Carrick had been dropped and the involvement of the Draay family had been covered in order to keep the reputation of Krynda Draay, who had been one of the greatest Seers and teacher of Seers within the Order, and who had died after being removed from the stasis tank in which the rogue servant had placed her. The official account released to the press was that Mandalorians had hacked the fleet’s weapon systems and launched an attack on the estate, hoping to blind the Jedi and the Republic. The Jedi Order was very thorough about coving up any potential scandals.

><><><><><

When Revan had heard the news of the expulsion of her former Master, Arren Kae, from the Jedi Order, she had determined that she needed to find the woman before the Revanchists were to leave again for the War. The recent events at the Draay Estate there on Coruscant had caused chaos and disruption among the Jedi there, and the Order and the Republic alike were scrambling for a coverup of the incident, blaming much of the damage on ‘Mandalorian hackers.’ Personally, Revan thought that the notion was ridiculous, and didn’t see how anyone would buy it. After all, the method would have been very un-Mandalorian, but the general population did not know anything of the Mandalorians’ views of honor in battle.

The first place that Revan had thought to seek her former teacher was a public garden that the Master had been quite fond of on the Coruscant skywalk. She had personally preferred it to the Meditation Gardens at the Jedi Temple. While the meditation gardens were peaceful, the skywalk garden provided a view that was unparalleled. It sat atop one of the tallest spires in the planet-wide city and allowed visitors to see for miles in every direction on a clear day, or to sit among the clouds themselves on one less so.

That particular day was moderately cloudy. The atmosphere was thinner here due to the altitude, and so it behooved one to remain calm and breathe deeply in order to avoid a lack of oxygen. Master Kae had brought her here many times to meditate, but also for teaching what Revan had learned of Echani dueling. Her reasoning was that, when the air was so much thinner, the body was forced to perform at maximum efficiency in order to not tire out too quickly. One must retain supreme focus and remain true to their body, as was the goal in the Echani martial arts—a pure expression of the body through movement.

She found Master Kae seated on the white stone pavement beneath a tree, deep in meditation, when she approached her.

“Master Kae? May I join you?” Revan asked her.

“You may join me, though I’ve no right to let you call me ‘Master,’” the woman said, her eyes still closed, though she recognized the voice and presence of her former student. “Call me Arren.”

“Arren then,” the younger woman said, sitting facing the former Jedi Master.

“I hear you’ve taken upon a new name yourself, my former apprentice… ‘Revan’ is what they call you now, is it not?”

Revan swallowed past a lump in her throat. She could not help but to feel guilty for Arren Kae’s current predicament.

“….Master Kae, I’m so sorry…”

“Arren,” she corrected. “And there’s no reason for you to apologize to me. I’d always known that there would be a time when this day would come. That I would not be able to hide Brianna forever…”

“But thirty years ago, you wouldn’t have needed to hide anything—and you shouldn’t now…”

“Much has changed since that time, Revan. The Council has done what they have in an attempt to prevent future generations from falling to the darkness the way that so many did then. Whether I agree with their methods or not is unimportant.”

“The timing and severity of all of this though… I cannot help but to think that their punishment was provoked by the emergence of the Revanchist movement… You were my teacher…”

“As were several of the Council Members themselves at one point or another. Master Tokare, Master Dorak, Master Lestin… You had many teachers, Revan. I was but one. You cannot blame yourself for my being outcast.”

A silence passed between the two, the faint hum of air speeders buzzing in the distance from the traffic lanes below. In retrospect, the garden was a rather strange place. It was like a little Eden hidden away from the glitz and the grit that formed Coruscant. Below them, crime lords and politicians alike were at work. People from hundreds of races moved about their daily lives. A crew worked to hastily repair the damages that, according to official media outlets, were caused by ‘Mandalorian hackers.’ And the Jedi went about in their Temple, teaching, meditating, debating politics… But here there was none of that. Here, there was only the sky, the two of them, and their own thoughts and reflections.

“You said her name was Brianna?”

“Yes,” Arren replied, opening her eyes finally. “My own mother’s name.”

“I must say… I don’t quite understand… The rules of attachments have been in place since before I was born… what does it… feel like?”

“To be a mother?... Or to fall in love?”

“Both, I suppose…”

Arren Kae smiled at her pupil’s question. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good example of a mother… I’ve not seen Brianna since she was only a few months old… But I know that she is safe. A mother can sense these things. Such is the bond with her child… She’s ten now. She’s on Eshan with her father and his family…”

Revan was beginning to realize how very little she actually knew of her former Master’s life. She had always been all-business as a pupil, not just while with Kae, but in general, seeking to gain as much knowledge and experience as she could possibly absorb. While she had been an apprentice to many, it would have been a stretch for her to claim that she was truly a friend of any of them.

“But surely the Jedi must have sensed something before,” Revan said, “when you were with child.” She’d not encountered many pregnant women before, but in those she had, it was possible to sense the new life growing within the Force. It would have been difficult for the Jedi not to sense sooner.

“I had help,” Arren said.

“From whom? From other Jedi?” Revan could see no other way that anyone could have helped with such a thing.

“From the Mak’Tor,” the former Master explained. Revan had heard of the Mak’Tor on Coruscant, but she didn’t know anything of them other than the name. Kae continued: “They are great healers, and while they are in the Jedi, they are not of the Jedi. I went to them during my pregnancy. They were willing to help me keep my secret… Brianna was born here, on Coruscant. I come to them hoping for help with my rather precarious situation.”

“And they were able to hide your pregnancy?”

“Yes… The healer I had approached—I’ll never forget her—took my case to someone the Mak’Tor referred to as a ‘Master Singer.’ They’re quite a curious group. Their views of the Force are different from what the Jedi are traditionally taught. I asked once to Ta’Lona’Mack (that was her name) to explain it to me…. She described the Force as a song…”

Revan could not help but to laugh at the notion. “I’m sorry… but a song?”

“Yes,” Kae said, quite seriously. “They listen for a song, a sort of undercurrent symphony to all the universe… Some of the Mak’Tor, such as the Master Singer I mentioned, are able to use this song, often for healing rituals…”

“And this healer… this ‘Master Singer’… did they… sing to you?” Revan had to admit, she was puzzled by the concept. It seemed a bit silly… but, then again, the Force manifested itself in many strange and logic-defying ways. Who was to say it was beyond possibility for these people to hear it as a song? The Miraluka could see. And though the concept was different from what she could understand, why should the Mak’Tor not hear?

“Not exactly,” Arren explained. “The Master Singer presented the healer with a crystal, which she gave to me and told me to keep with me at all times… I’m afraid that I don’t fully understand the finer mechanics of how the remedy worked, but the crystal dampened the appearance of my unborn child in the Force.”

And with these words, a smile crept its way to Arren Kae’s lips. She rested a hand on her abdomen, as if fondly remembering the time.

“I decided that the best way to keep the crystal with me would be to incorporate it into my lightsaber… which I did. So in a way, Brianna has always been with me through these ten years…” Her face fell. “Though the Council asked me to relinquish my lightsaber when they cast me from the Order. I’m afraid the crystal will remain lost to me now.”

Revan felt it was only now that she was beginning to learn anything of the person whom former Master Arren Kae was and had been. She wondered though about her former Master… She pitied the woman. Only thirty years prior, the ‘crimes’ for which she was being punished were not crimes at all. And how, she was deprived of the life she had known, of her home, and of the only remnant she carried of her own child.

“You know, Arren… if you need a place to stay, you’re more than welcome among the Revanchists… It cannot be easy for you to have lost so much so suddenly… Most of the others have chosen to stay at the Temple while we are on Coruscant, but I’ve been staying with the ship we’ve been using… It’s not much, but you’re welcome to call it ‘home’.”

“Thank you,” the elder woman said softly. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I wouldn’t want to be a burden to your cause.”

“You wouldn’t be a burden. You could join us… Help us to stop the Mandalorians and to save the Republic… I don’t know what your thoughts are on the matter… But I know that you would be an incredible asset and a wise guide to our group. The Revanchists…. Well… We are young. We lack your experience…. You have every right to refuse my offer, but… we need your help, Arren Kae…. I need your help.”

Revan had realized since their movement began that there were difficulties in leadership beyond coordination and protection. She needed a mentor. She needed someone to teach her to assume the role herself.

“Your offer is quite tempting,” Arren Kae admitted. “but you don’t need my help.”

The younger woman looked at the other hopefully, but the expression was hidden beneath the cold and unwavering metal of the mask. “Please. It would bring me much ease to have you there for guidance….”

And while her expressions were not visible, Kae smiled at Revan, understanding the hopefulness in her words and in her aura. “I will consider then,” she stated. “After all, I still owe you an explanation to your second question… though I sense now is not the appropriate time. I wish to meditate a bit longer. I will meet you on this ship later on.”

“Thank you, Master Kae,” Revan said.

“Arren,” she corrected with a smile. “You should rest too. There will be a long journey ahead once the Revanchists leave Coruscant. Perhaps on the way, I can tell you more of Yusanis… that was his name.”

Revan nodded silently and stood. “Docking platform 32, the Stalwart Nightingale… Thank you, Arren. I look forward to hearing your explanation.” And with this, Revan left her former Master in the skywalk garden, the gentle moisture of the clouds dampening her robes and bathing them both in a soft mist as they parted ways.

><><><><><

           Malak had a different aura to him the next time that Revan saw him on Coruscant. Demagol had finally woken from his coma and was being put on trial. Given Malak’s experiences with the scientist on Flashpoint, the court had asked him to testify as to what had happened. The Force seemed to burn around him in a way that Revan had never seen before. Beyond the difference in the force, he was physically different too. Blue tattoos lined the entirety of his scalp. She’d remembered him mentioning the thought of getting them to cover the scars he had as a result of Demagol’s procedures, however, she’d assumed it had been a joke when he had said it.

           The sudden changes disturbed Revan in a way that she had not anticipated. What remained of Alex had been burned away. What was left in its place was only Malak. It was strange, really, that it disturbed her so, given the changes which had occurred in herself since the time of the Revanchists. But Malak… Somehow he had always managed to keep an air to him that had reminded her of their time at the Academy on Dantooine. He’d always been the optimist of the two and a sort of positivity radiated through him even when situations seemed at their worst. She supposed that this was why she was generally happier when he was around.

           She debated whether to approach him about the situation directly or let him come out with it on his own. She didn’t have to wait long though. Malak slammed a fist on the hull of the Stalwart Nightingale. Rage. This was the emotion, the aura, that seemed to burn around him. It terrified Revan. She’d seen nothing approaching it from him before. He had always been better at controlling his emotions than she was. For him to be like this… Something must have happened at the trial…

           “Escaped!” he shouted. “I don’t know how it happened, but that monster escaped!”

           “Escaped?” Revan repeated quizzically. How could Demagol have escaped from Republic custody during the trial?

           “The court entered recess and when the recess adjourned he was gone! It looked as if someone had switched places with the guards.”

           Malak slammed a fist against the hull again, and Revan could not help but to flinch. It was so very unlike him. “Malak calm down…”

           “I should have let you kill him rather than us taking him back to Coruscant! I should never have stopped you!”

           “Alex…” she said, hoping to try a different approach to the situation.

           Malak laughed ironically. “Alex is dead, Revanchist! Surely you knew that already. Just like Halin is. Dead and gone!”

           The term sounded so vulgar when he had said it, as if he had called her by some obscene profanity. It would seem as if trying to appeal to him as Halin wouldn’t work this time…

           “You’re not thinking rationally,” she insisted. “You need to calm down.”

           “You of all people are telling me to calm down!?”

           “Yes! Yes, I am! Malak, stop it! This isn’t like you! The Republic authorities must already have people hunting him back down. Demagol is a war criminal and they will not allow him to just be taken like that!”

           “I’ll hunt him down myself!”

           “We don’t have time for this. The Revanchists have more important matters to be attending to in this war…”

           “He slaughtered a Padawan, Revan, and tortured and mutilated me! You should have killed him!”

           “But I didn’t. You stopped me. You saved me from my anger and confusion then. It’s my job now to do the same for you.” She came behind him, resting a hand on his back. At first he tensed, but then slowly softened into her touch. “I promise everything will turn out right in the end. The authorities will find him and Demagol will be brought to justice…”

           He didn’t answer her, but at least he seemed much calmer now. She stood there, her hand resting on his back for some time before she continued. “I see you finally got those tattoos you were talking about,” she commented, hoping to lighten the situation. “I didn’t think that you were serious about it…. It suits you.”

           Malak gave a single laugh. “You think so?”

           “Yes, it brings out your eyes.”

           “Now I know that you’re lying to me….”

           “No, I mean it. You look nice… I think it’s good for you… Good for you to help you to move on… to ignore the scars of the past… and I don’t just mean the physical ones.”

           He turned to look at her, hoping to meet her eyes, but found the red and silver gleam of a Mandalorian mask instead. He had forgotten for a moment, and his heart fell. He’d hoped for a reaction from her. He honestly had… He remembered the way she lit up with laughter when he had half-jokingly mentioned the idea to begin with. He’d had it done before the trial had started, and had hoped, as she’d deciphered, that it would help him to move on from the events of Flashpoint Station… But with the order of events since they’d arrived on Coruscant, his emotions had been a twisted web of confusion, and he no longer knew how to feel about Flashpoint, about Demagol, or about his closest friend.

“Thanks,” he said flatly. “I’m glad you approve…”

><><><><><

Master Dorjander Kace was a former member of the High Council of the Jedi Order and one of the last surviving members to have actively fought in the Great Sith War. He was in a unique position among the Jedi in his personal experience with the Mandalorians. After all, he was captured by them early on during the war and held prisoner for most of the time. It was during the period of his capture and confinement that his perspective on the Mandalorians began to shift.

He hadn’t taken the Revanchist movement seriously until very recently. After all, they were just a bunch of children, really. Children with a vision of what they perceived as heroism. They were nothing he considered concerning himself over until recently. Recently, after a confrontation by several Jedi Masters in which all present had witnessed a great massacre on the planet Cathar, there was a little weight gained to their movement.

It was after this vision that the Council had begun to cooperate with them… And it was after this vision that Dorjander Kace had left the Jedi High Council. He stood now with three former Padawans of his, now knights: a Faleen Female named Jaska, a Cathar Female named Veskasa, and a Chagrian Female named Sabawyn.

Master Dorjander Kace had decided that it was time. It was time for him to make his own point known in this war. It was time for him to stop watching and to use what he knew in order to bring about true justice. And under the circumstances, he knew his only hope would be to join the Revanchists.

“We’re ready, Master Kace,” Jaska said. “We all share you’re your vision, your ideal… We all know what must be done. We are ready to serve.”

“Excellent,” he said. “These Revanchists as they call themselves may be our only hope in the matter. Remember your training. They mustn’t suspect our true motives for joining. Par tor!”

“Par tor!” all three repeated. And four coppery-orange blades ignited, all joining one another.

“Our time,” Master Kace said, “is now!”

><><><><><

While Revan had expected there to be new recruits after the Council had sanctioned their request to join the Republic Mercy Corps, she had not expected there to be so many wishing to join the Revanchists. It was a bit overwhelming, really. Even excluding Arren, there were ten new recruits in total—more than enough to make up for their lost numbers after Fiolli and Nisotsa were forced to leave. Xaset had also chosen to rejoin them.

The new recruits were quite a varied bunch. There were a couple of Zabraks who had decided to join after the Mandalorians had attacked the Iridonia system—Acaadi, and Duqua Dar, both Guardian Knights. There were humans, too—two males by the name of Cale Berkona, and Voren Renstaal, and a female by the name of Cariaga Sin. There was even an Ithorian among them by the name of Thuggjomlern Din! What was possibly the most surprising of all, however, was the presence of Jedi Master Dorjander Kace and three of his former Padawans who had all become Knights—a Faleen Female, a Cathar Female, and a Chagrian Female.

The whole thing made Revan’s heart flutter with excitement that so many had been inspired to take up the cause. With numbers and with the support of the Republic, they would finally be able to start making an impact in the war effort, even if it was under the banner of the Mercy Corps.

There were sixteen of them now in total, all gathered around to discuss further course of action. “I’ve spoken with Captain Telettoh, our liaison with the Republic while members of the Jedi Mercy Corps,” Revan told them all. We are to set out in one week’s time. The Republic is providing transport aboard several of their hammerhead class cruisers. We are likely to be divided and sent to different areas of troops depending on where Jedi support is needed. If that is the case, you will be serving under whatever Republic officer is in charge of the company you are supporting. Even so, you are to report progress back to me on a regular basis. I’ll need to submit a report to Council of our actions on a regular basis.”

The last part was half true. The Council did want to keep tabs on them, but if Revan were to report the information herself rather than have it channel through Republic feeds, she would better be able to control what information they received. After all, they couldn’t risk any provocation of the Council to try to shut them down again. They had to keep this as clean as possible, particularly until they were able to gain momentum, if they were to survive as a unit.

“In one week,” she continued, “We are to meet with Captain Telettoh at the Embassy to head out. Are there any questions?”

“I have one.”

It was Malak who had spoken. Curious, Revan turned to him. “Yes, Malak?”

She really did think that the tattoos really were becoming on him, even if he had insisted it was only a lie to try to cheer him up at the time. While the change had startled her after the trial, he had started becoming surer of himself. He was more opinionated since they had first formed the Revanchists. She assumed that it had developed out of necessity, when he had been on charge on Flashpoint, and when he had been forced to step into command temporarily after the destruction of Serrocco had left her incapacitated.

“There are so many new faces among us… how can we be certain they will truly be loyal to our cause?”

There was a glint in his eyes which told her everything. He was referring to the understanding the new recruits were likely to have of the situation of being labeled as ‘Mercy Corps.’ The question was whether they were there as Revanchists, or as Mercy Corps. It was a fair concern, and it wasn’t exactly something that could be just blurted out… Not yet, at least.

“I don’t know that they will be,” Revan stated simply. “However, I’m willing to give each of them the benefit of the doubt … for the time being, at least. I tell all of you now, just as I have told the first Revanchists before, our mission will not be an easy one, and it is possible that none of us will return from it. If there is any doubt in your mind about being here, then you should leave now, while you still have the chance. I give you the week to reflect upon whether this is what is truly within your hearts. If there is any doubt by the time it comes to leave, then I request that you remain on Coruscant, understanding that this is not the path for you. I have no further statements for you. Revanchists, I shall see you in one week’s time. May the Force be with you.”

><><><><><

                       All was black. All was still. There was nothing. There was no light. There was no sound. There was no smell. There was only the darkness. It was so very dark. Revan could feel her heart racing, her breath rising and falling heavily. There was something else there with her.

           Betrayal…

           She frantically looked around, but there was still nothing but blackness. Her senses failed her, but a presence remained in the Force. Something else was there. Something so powerful that it could have swallowed her whole.

           She thought she felt a breath, cold and stale, close to her ear and quickly spun around to meet it but found nothing. She swallowed hard, her eyes frantically darting across the dark void, but to no avail.

           “A traitor…”

           The voice!

           She swiftly drew her lightsaber, its deep purple hue illuminating her own face, for her mask was not here… but the darkness remained simply darkness. She could see nothing else but her blade and herself.

           “Who is there?” She managed. “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

           She could feel herself shivering. She felt unusually cold. A sense of dread began to fill her. At first, there was no reply.

           “Answer me!” she demanded, more forcefully this time. “What are you doing in my head? You’re not welcome here. Get out—now!”

           This time, the deep laughter came from before and Revan’s shivering had turned to trembling.

           “So many traitors among you,” the voice said. “I truly wonder… are there any you can actually call your friend?”

           Revan shifted her form from Shii-Cho to a Makashi, her eyes still darting frantically about the surrounding blackness. “I’m warning you,” she said. “Leave now!”

           “Or what? Dear child, I thought you enjoyed games…”

           Before Revan knew what was happening, she was falling through the blackness and landed squarely on a hard marble surface. She could make out some figures now. The floor was large ebony and ivory checkers and she was surrounded by strange-looking statues in the same colors and material. She quickly got back up and resumed her form, but noticed that, strangely, her cloak and her robes had turned to white, and she wore pieces from the Deralian armor which Talon had gifted to her.

           She looked around for the source of the voice but could find nothing. No one…. Upon closer observation of her surroundings, she found that she was in the middle of what appeared to be a very large game board resembling those that would be used for Chess, or for Shah-Tezh.

           ‘What sort of strange place is this?...’ She wondered.

           “Your mind!”

           The voice came loud and clear from directly behind her, so suddenly and with such force that she could not help but to give a startled cry. It was answering the question which she’d been certain she’d not voiced aloud. Swiftly, she spun around in time to see one of the statues moving rapidly toward her. Without time to move out of the way, she swung, slicing cleanly across the center. Oddly, the statue shattered and then vanished into a puff of smoke, as if it had never been there to begin with.

           “A Queen,” the voice continued. “Most fitting… I should have suspected so much.”

           “Whoever you are, I’ve had enough of your mind games!”

           “But I’m only getting started, Revan. Why won’t you play a few rounds with me?”

           Another piece came, this time from her left. With more time to react, she leapt out of its way and attacked from behind, this time at a one o’clock angle. Again, the statue vanished. A cold sweat began to form on her temples. She maintained her form, standing ready to attack again.

           “I said enough!”

           “I’m afraid that choice isn’t yours to make, child…”

           “I’m not a child! I am a Jedi Knight, and I will bring peace to the Republic!”

           The voice laughed maniacally, and Revan turned frantically, still searching for its source.

           “Silly girl, not a Knight, but a Queen… And one who should be prudent, lest the true Knight betray her to be used as a sacrificial piece….”

           Suddenly it hit her. The game that they were playing… If she could win the game, then perhaps she could free herself of the voice. She sprinted across the board, but it seemed oddly larger than it should have been, as if there were no end on any side of it.

           “…for in the end,” the voice continued, “even if the Queen is the most powerful, all pieces exist only to defend the King…”

           Revan stopped short, something was approaching her from the darkness, cloaked in black and red with a hood covering its head. Whatever it was, this thing was not a statue as the other pieces had been. She held her blade ready to strike on the offensive.

           The full cloaked figure came into view now, the amethyst light from her saber reflecting back on her from the glinting metal of its armor. Slowly, the figure lifted its hood, and when it did, Revan went pale.

           She was not sure what she had expected to see when the figure revealed itself, but what it was she could not have prepared herself for. For there, staring back at her, was her own face! The eyes of the reflection gleamed a yellowed amber, and the lips were drawn in a blood-red smirk. Revan staggered backward a few steps, her breathing becoming increasingly labored.

           The reflection drew its own saber, the gleaming red piercing through the darkness. In the background, the hollow laughter of the voice loomed around them. Revan could feel it pounding within her skull. She wanted desperately for it to stop. The sound was maddening. She tried to close her senses to it, but it didn’t pay at the time to block any alertness. For the moment she did, the reflection advanced with alarming speed.

           Revan didn’t have time enough to react and parry or block the attack. She felt a piercing burn in her abdomen as the reflection lunged forward with a stab, those glinting yellow eyes staring into her own, and she cried out in pain. She felt dizzy, the world around her becoming a haze, the smell of burnt flesh hanging strong and present in the air…

><><><><><

“Revan!”

Arren Kae was holding her former pupil in her arms and attempting desperately to shake her awake. She had been thrashing about in her sleep and had suddenly screamed, as if in intense pain. The sudden sound had woken both Arren and Malak, who were the only others aboard the Stalwart Nightingale at the time and they had both rushed to see what had happened. When they found her, Revan was pale as death, the mask laying on the ground beside her bunk. She was convulsing and that was when Kae had restrained her in order to prevent her from injuring herself.

“Revan, wake up,” the former Jedi Master repeated, this time holding a hand over the younger woman’s face and applying pressure to the temples and mid-brow.

Revan’s eyes fluttered open and she immediately began sobbing in pain. It had all felt so real! So agonizingly real…

“Shhh…” Arren said. “It was only a nightmare…”

“No,” Malak said. “No, I’ve seen her like this before. She’s been having these strange visions. She doesn’t know how to control them… I keep telling her she needs to get help, but she refuses to listen to me!”

Kae shook her head and placed a hand on either of Revan’s cheeks, brushing them gently with her cheeks. “Calm down now… Tell us what happened. Tell us what you saw…”

“The voice…” It was all that she could manage to say before the pain overwhelmed her again and she cried out, clutching the place where the reflection’s blade had pierced her.

Arren frowned. “Are you injured? Show me…” she pried Revan’s hands from the spot in order to check for any sort of a wound. While there did not appear to be any physical damage, the place was unusually hot—burning even. She didn’t know what to make of it. “I don’t see any external injuries, but perhaps there’s something internal… here.”

Arren Kae closed her eyes, concentrating deeply until a blue-green glow began to emit from her hands. She passed them over the place that Revan had previously been clutching at. Whatever it was that the younger woman had seen in her vision appeared to have been attempting to manifest itself to the outside.

Arren turned to Malak, hoping for more explanation. It was quite clear that her former apprentice would not be capable of answering much of anything for a bit of time still… “What is this voice?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Malak admitted. “She says it speaks to her during the visions… that sometimes it says terrible things she dares not to repeat… You don’t think that whatever it is might be causing all of this, do you?”

“It’s hard to say… I would need more information… You said that there have been other occurrences?”

“Yes, some more intense than others… I remember during our first visit to Cathar the timing of the vision coincided so closely to the destruction of Serrocco that the disturbance left her struggling for basic motor functions for over a week after… Other times she would mix up the visions with reality. She attacked the Scientist Demagol when he was aboard and unconscious as our prisoner while we transported him to Coruscant to go into Republic custody.” Malak reflected bitterly at the thought. He still hadn’t forgiven himself for stopping her. “I saw the situation from the security web and was able to intervene before she ended up killing him… I’ve never seen her in physical pain though. Out of breath or a bit nauseous, yes… but never like this.”

Revan’s breathing was finally beginning to slow to a more normal rate. Both Malak and Kae let out an audible sigh of relief. Revan groaned and attempted to sit up.

“Careful,” Kae said, assisting her in sitting. “You’re still quite weak. You seemed to be burning up from the inside….”

“It felt like I’d been impaled…”

“Impaled?” Malak repeated, rather confused. “What exactly happened?”

“It’s… difficult to describe… It was far more abstract than any of the visions I’ve told you of previously. I… I was a part of some sort of a game… A game of chess, it seemed. The voice was my opponent… But nothing that it said seemed to make any sense… I realized that the only way to get out would be to win the game… except I was a piece also… just a piece in some sort of a larger game…”

“A pawn?”

“No…. no, not exactly…”

“Then a Knight?”

“That’s what I had thought initially, but the voice claimed I was the Queen and that the true Knight would betray me as a sacrificial piece to protect the King… None of what it was saying made sense…”

“Did you ever find the King?”

“No… No, I found my opponent’s Queen…” Her eyes grew distant remembering the dark reflection of herself which she had witnessed within the vision. “It was the Queen who attacked me… who tried to kill me…” to protect the King!

“Did you see who the Queen was?” It was Kae who asked this time. She had a bad feeling about this. She had heard of experiences of Jedi being faced with similar instances during extreme cases of the Trial of the Spirit that was administered during the tests for a Padawan to gain the rank of Knight, or for a Knight to gain the rank of Master. It was sometimes referred to as ‘Facing the Mirror.’ She feared that this might have been what Revan was experiencing in a far more intense form than it had manifested itself during her trials… “Revan, please tell me…. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on…”

Revan did not reply, unwilling to admit what she had seen. Unwilling to admit the dark version of herself with which she had been faced…

“I told you to get help,” Malak said. “There’s still time before we leave Coruscant…”

“From whom?” Revan said defensively. “I did consider it… seeking out the school of the seers here on Coruscant… But Krynda Draay is dead now, Malak. And without her, seers are few and far between…”

“I’m not a seer,” Kae said, standing and leaving Revan to sit on her own now, “but I do think that can help you… This voice… Is it in all of your visions?”

“Yes…”

“And how would you describe the voice? How does it sound?”

Revan considered it, shuttering at the memory. “It often seems as though it’s coming from inside my head itself… like I can’t shut it out… but often it creeps in, as if it has been there the entire time… I can never seem to locate exactly where it is coming from because it feels like it’s coming from everywhere at once…”

“And would you say it is the visions, or the voice that disturbs you?”

Revan thought about it. While many of the visions had been disturbing on her own, it was the voice which had filled her with more dread than the visions themselves. In fact, at times it seemed as though the voice were somehow controlling what would manifest itself within the vision…

“It’s the voice,” she said in reply.

“I see… well, the good news is that, if you’re willing, I think there’s a way that I can help you… at least to manage what is going on. I’m no seer, so I can’t help you to control the visions themselves… but I may be able to help you to block the sound of the voice…”

“I’m willing to try just about anything if it means that I can get the damned thing out of my head…”

“Do you recall what I told you of the Mak’Tor?”

“Of their song?” Revan almost scoffed.

“Don’t laugh, child. I’m too young to be your mother. Don’t force me to have to treat you like I am.”

“Sorry… Yes, I remember.”

“The healer I told you of… Ta’Lona’Mack’… When she told me of the explanation of the Song, and what it was to her people, I asked her if she could help me to try to hear… Guide me as she tried, I only ever heard a faint whiff of it…”

“I don’t see where you’re going with this…”

“I think that it could help you, Revan… If you can learn to hear the song as she described… then perhaps the sound of it would be enough to drown out the voice… or at least to distract from it. It seems from your description that it is the sound which bothers you so… If that’s the case, then perhaps your senses will be more receptive than my own to the Song… I’ve decided I’m coming with you and with the Revanchists. You will need guidance if you are to learn how to manage these visions… I can relay to you what I know and remember of Ta’Lona’Mack’s words. I sometimes use what little I can hear for meditative purposes… If you are willing to allow your old master to teach you once more.”

While Revan still wasn’t fully convinced of the idea, it was the only plausible help she’d found or been offered, and she knew that if the visions continued to progress like this, things would only get worse…

Revan beat a fist to her chest, bowing respectfully to Arren Kae. “I would be honored if you were to accept me as your apprentice once more.”  

[izanyas]

In Normalcy’s Good Name

Happy birthday dearest @fozzie​ <3<3<3

Rating: M Words: 15,000 Warnings: misogyny, implied domestic abuse, some uh... organ stealing.

In Normalcy's Good Name

It's rarely earlier than four when Ratchet's night shift ends. In summer those hours mean that the sky glows pale and blue over the desert, feverish with the coming of dawn, by the time he makes it out of the hospital. He feels that light in his chest and forehead as his steps drag against the pavement. The nearest open diner is a garish place with mediocre food and worse coffee, but it beats going home on an empty stomach. If he attempts it, he knows he'll wake up shaking with hunger.

He won't touch the coffee anyway. He's twenty years past that kind of caffeine tolerance.

The bright yellow lights inside the diner hurt his eyes and make his headache flare fiercely. He feels sticky all over, with sweat and other, more unmentionable things, hands dry from too many washings and clothes soaked in antiseptic. He wants a shower like he has never wanted anything—considers for a moment making use of the place's bathroom to clean up—but he sits down at the farthest and darkest corner, pain beating at his temples and eyelids burning from the light, and he knows he won't get up again.

The girl who approaches his table a minute later wears an orange apron. There are food stains over it, ketchup and coffee yellowing at her hip. She looks as tired as he feels even as she greets him in a strident voice and lifts a notepad to take his order.

Her voice is almost disagreeable enough to make him snap at her. "Scrambled eggs," he manages, not quite adding please at the end for a semblance of politeness. "Some water as well."

She doesn't seem bothered. His jaw clenches at the sight of her chewing gum lazily. Considering the sort of company she must get at this hour of night, he figures an overworked pediatrician with not enough energy for small talk is a blessing. "Comin' up," she replies as nasally as before.

The place is almost deserted. Ratchet massages his temples fruitlessly, thinking of Optimus's wide hands and how much better they are at easing his aches away. He'll be sleeping when Ratchet gets home, or if he's lucky, perhaps at the edge of waking up. Sometimes they can sneak in a few minutes of affection this way. Sometimes Ratchet comes home and Optimus shifts in bed when the mattress dips under his added weight, and one of his arms tugs Ratchet close until he is caught between hard shoulder and soft flesh; sometimes Optimus kisses his forehead and his lips, and sometimes Ratchet opens his mouths and welcomes his husband's morning breath as he would freshwater. This the most they can manage when their working hours are so misaligned.

The waitress brings him a plate and a glass some few minutes later. There are fingertip smudges on the latter, and the former bears an unappetizing mush of eggs he thinks he could manage better with his eyes closed, but he thanks her anyway. He refuses the coffee pot she lifts in his direction, and she shrugs, saying, "All right."

He pours generous amounts of salt and pepper over the dish before even attempting a bite.

This isn't the first time he comes here, so there is nothing to ease his boredom as he eats. The plastic tables and chairs look the same as in every other crappy diner he's been to, and the jukebox in the corner is thankfully silent, as none of the clients seem to care for music. There are a couple burly men in one corner hunched over their third cup of coffee. At the counter, a boy of student age pours over homework, looking distressed. No doubt a late essay to finish before classes start at the neighboring college where Optimus works. The last customer is an elderly woman reading yesterday's newspaper, gold rings glinting around her thick fingers.

Then the door opens with a chime.

The woman who comes in looks almost as garish as the décor. She stumbles her way to the counter in a yellow ensemble of shorts and a cropped tank top, the material of which shines under the light like lacquered wood. The groan she lets out when she trips over her own high-heeled boots echoes painfully in Ratchet's ears; he almost wishes, viciously, that she hadn't caught herself on the counter and managed to stay upright.

"Hey," she says once she catches her breath. The lone waitress of the establishment must have gone back to the kitchen—the woman bangs her fist on the counter, dislodging one of the student boy's papers, and shouts: "Hey! Customer here!"

The waitress comes back into the room lazily. Ratchet is treated to the pitiful sight of the new customer's attempts to sit on one of the bar stools—she slips once, twice, before managing it, and in that time Ratchet notices with a flush that her shorts' hem has risen far over her backside and looks away.

He's not the only one to have noticed. The two men in the corner are ogling her, their low-voiced conversation long forgotten.

"What'll it be?" the waitress asks, frowning.

"Whiskey," the woman answers.

The waitress frowns, nose twitching. "I think coffee," she replies, turning around to grab the pot.

"Fine. Fine, all right, coffee."

She is thankless when she grabs the cup handed to her. She doesn't touch the sugar and cream on the counter, simply sips with a grimace, saying, "This is disgusting."

"You're free to go," the waitress sneers.

The woman mutters something under her breath that sounds not at all pleasant. She dismounts the stool with at least some elegance, but her gait wavers as she grabs the cup and heads toward a table. On the way she must notice the looks she is given, for she stops in her tracks—coffee spills over the fingers she holds the cup with—and snaps at the two burly men, "You want my picture, perhaps?"

Neither of them answers. Ratchet supposes that her attitude makes her lose some of her appeal, though he would prefer to think that her obvious drunkenness be enough of a deterrent. Anyway they both turn back to each other and murmur again, and the woman turns around and continues her search for a seat.

Very unfortunately, she seems to think Ratchet's corner is where she ought to go.

He looks back to his almost-empty plate as she approaches, resisting the urge to stare when he hears her stumble. She sits at the table next to his with another loud groan. Immediately, his nose fills with the sick-sweet smell of alcohol, and his headache worsens. He can't resist the urge to throw her a dark look.

She catches it. "What?" she spits at him.

Ratchet looks away and grunts, "Nothing."

She puts her feet over the chair facing her. Fishnet stockings run up her legs and reappear on her stomach, catching against the jewelry that hangs from her bellybutton. It is almost swallowed by the folds of her skin in this position, but even so, Ratchet can count the ribs on her.

This is a world he knows nothing of, he thinks idly, finishing his water. She must be coming from the club he sees on his way to and from the hospital; he can't imagine that she dresses this way for everyday business, or at least, he hopes she doesn't. The perspective is tinted with disapproval.

The woman shakes her complicated hairstyle over a shoulder as she drinks, and Ratchet sees that her hair is sticky in places, too. His nose twitches faintly.

"Been looking enough, old man?" she asks suddenly.

Ratchet's face burns.

"I wasn't—" he tries, but can't finish.

The woman laughs. It is a cruel and joyless sort of laughter, one obviously meant for mocking. "Getting your hopes up?" she says, finally looking at him. Her brown eyes look almost black under the harsh lighting. "I've been felt up enough tonight, so I'll have to decline."

"I was not getting my hopes up," Ratchet replies curtly, hoping to pour enough disgust in his voice for his message to come across.

The thought alone would be outrageous even if his preferences leaned that way.

He knows he should leave it at that, but he adds: "I was simply thinking that you should learn some manners."

Ratchet has always been a spiteful person. Twenty years of Optimus's kindness were not enough to fully wash this out of him.

The woman's smirk wanes. "Oh, yeah?" she replies. Her feet leave the chair she has put them on so she can face him fully.

Her eyes are bloodshot. He wonders distantly if alcohol is all that he should blame it for, if perhaps she has more substances in her system wreaking havoc on her judgment. The yellow light of the diner turns her brown skin almost pallid; it is difficult to try and see if anything in her complexion is amiss because of it. Her hands, at least, do not shake.

"Is that what you are?" she asks lowly. "A teacher? You wanna teach me manners, huh?"

Ratchet realizes what situation he is in with the strength of a door slamming in one's face.

What is he doing? He's just come out of work. He is exhausted, bone-weary, almost unable to stand. He doesn't want to be having spats at five in the morning with drunken women young enough to be his daughters.

What he wants is to go home and lie in bed next to his husband. What he wants is Optimus's arm around his ever-softening middle as he slowly, finally, falls asleep.

"Never mind," he says roughly.

The woman blinks in surprise, but he is already standing up and turning away from her. He drops money on the table, heedless of just how much he actually needs to pay and tip and hoping it is enough. If not, he'll come back tomorrow and apologize, he thinks. When the angry woman next to him is not glaring at him hatefully.

It is this hour before dawn when summer heat finally lets up; when coolness spreads over the desert and turns living into an easier task. Ratchet walks quickly to his apartment building, leaving the darker part of town where the hospital stands and heading between lower houses with gardens. He hears the sound of running water near one of the only houses whose neat lawn hasn't burned. Now he knows how grass has stayed so miraculously green on that side of the road.

Optimus is asleep when he comes home. Ratchet showers quickly, keeping the water cool, sweet-scented shampoo making him sneeze once or twice. He brushes his teeth and lathers cream over his hands to fight off the dryness caused by too many gloves and too much scrubbing.

When he finally slips into bed, he has all but forgotten the rude woman in her skimpy yellow outfit. Optimus hums when Ratchet kisses his cheek, rolling over to his side so he can press them close together and murmur, "Good morning."

"Good morning," Ratchet replies. "You can still sleep a little."

Optimus shakes his head. It drags over the pillow so he can be close enough to push their lips together. It is awkward and infinitely chaste, the furnace of Optimus's body under the sheets rendering any thought of actual desire null, but it is enough. Ratchet chuckles low in his throat as he pulls away. He rubs a hand over Optimus's shoulder, content to feel skin with his palm and nothing more.

It is enough. This is enough.

He's found his happiness long ago.

Ratchet goes two weeks without seeing the woman again. She isn't on his thoughts at all; he meets his fair share of odd strangers every day he works in the ER, and he's long learned to let live and let go.

There is a new patient in his ward, a little girl with awful asthma called Jacqueline. "Jack," she says every time a breathless fit strikes her and he has to run to the small room she shares with Rafael. "My name's Jack."

"Jack," Ratchet agrees, because he knows how children work and he knows, feels, that this is important to her. "Now, Jack, please take your pills."

The boyish little girl beams at him through her sweat-drenched, red face, and obeys.

Jack is a problem child in all the ways except those parents would recognize. She isn't boisterous or loud or rude in anyway; in fact she is one of the sweeter patients he has, hardly ever in need of authority from the nurses and other staff. Compared with Miko, whose room is next to hers, she is a harbinger of peace. But Jack has the kind of asthma that common medicine cannot fix. Several interviews with the girl's mother inform Ratchet that she has already been tested on for new and more powerful drugs. Some worked, others did not. It is up to him to figure out how to help this time.

Jack is the last person Ratchet sees before leaving that night. Sometimes she doesn't wake up through her attacks at all, and it is the case that time. Bee comes running for Ratchet at almost half past three, guiding him to the girl's room, where in her sleep she suffocates.

It is never easy to see children in pain. It doesn't become habit no matter how many years Ratchet works himself to the bone. Jack is not one of those he will see leave for the morgue downstairs, but watching her struggle to breathe because of heat and pollution and other such factors he cannot in any way control makes his heart heavy. Ratchet is still thinking of her when he leaves an hour later, walking through the chill of early morning and watching the sky turn grey. He enters the diner without a word. He asks for toast and marmalade despite his own doctor's advice against eating sweet things—tonight, today, he needs it.

The person behind the counter is a boy this time, younger and more polite than the girl he saw there last. He smiles and talks with a chirp, putting his best effort toward pleasing Ratchet and earning himself a tip. Ratchet wants to tell him that there is no need, that he should keep his energy for more difficult clients; he always tips.

He only sees her when he is halfway to his usual corner.

Her outfit this time is a tad less exuberant than the last. There is no crisscrossing fishnet over her legs and middle, only bare skin and denim shorts and a wide-open pink shirt. She's knotted it over her midriff to show the jewelry there, and Ratchet sees despite himself how low the open collar dips before it meets black cloth. A tank top, perhaps, or simply underwear.

She's seen him too. He can feel recognition in her squinting glare, and he considers turning on his heels and heading for a different table at the other side of the diner, but that would be akin to admitting defeat. That would be like painting himself as one of those people to whom youth is cause for fear.

Ratchet is fifty-two years old. He's not scared of a woman who looks thirty at most and must weigh less than half what he does.

So he sits at his usual table—right next to hers—and starts spreading jam over his burned toast. It doesn't quite erase the bitter taste of blackened bread when he bites into it, but at least there is sweetness. He eats deliberately slowly, washing down the bitterness with mouthfuls of orange juice, feeling all the while that he is being stared at.

He's almost done with his plate when she speaks. "Back again," she throws his way. Her voice this time is almost kinder.

Ratchet looks at her. There is an untouched glass full of amber liquid in front of her, the ice in it almost completed melted. It has separated into tiny slices over the surface of the drink, floating idly round each other.

"I made an impression, didn't I?" she asks when he gives no sign of answering. "Am I tormenting your dreams, old man?"

"I'm married," Ratchet replies dryly.

The woman laughs. Her shoulders widen with the movement; she throws her head back, loud and mocking as he will never be used to, pink cloth shaking over her heaving chest. "Like that means anything these days," she says at last, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes in one theatrical motion.

Ratchet clenches his teeth reflexively.

As it turns out, she iscin a talkative mood. Though the width and hazardousness of her movements tell him that she has already drunk enough, she seems more clear-headed this time. Her tongue is less sharp with her insults. "I hate that stupid club," she says to him, pushing her glass around with one bright-red nail. "Can't go take a piss without some sweaty guy trying to grope me."

He has no idea what to say to that. He takes another sip of the juice, noticing that the glass is almost empty now. The boy at the counter is eyeing him with an enthusiasm that borders on despair.

"I know what you're thinking—you're thinking, oh, she dresses like a slut, she just loves to complain." Ratchet's glass hits painfully against his teeth in surprise—the woman doesn't wait for him to retort either in assent or denial, she simply goes on, "Well, I'm supposed to dress like this, you know? That's just what you do in sorry places like that. You think I like caking myself with makeup that no one's going to notice anyway since it's so goddamn dark?" She marks a pause. "Scratch that, I love makeup. I could still do without the groping."

"I'm," Ratchet attempts. He clears his throat. "Well, of course. I… don't think anyone would enjoy it."

She stares at him oddly. She must have as little idea what he means as he does himself. "Yes," she says anyway. "No one does. But my boyfriend goes there for business, and since I work with him, I have to go too."

Ratchet hums and hopes it is enough of an answer.

"I work so much," she moans. She pushes her glass away on the table and lies her head over its surface. Ratchet is half-tempted to tell her about how unhygienic that is, but she seems so happy smudging her cheek against the cold plastic that the will leaves him at once. "Lord, I work so much. Never get a moment's rest. Who does he think is keeping this whole business afloat, huh? It's certainly not him. Hey," she calls suddenly, startling him. "What kind of job do you have? Why're you always out so late?"

"I'm a pediatric surgeon," he replies before he can think better of it.

She stares at him with wide eyes. With her face crushed sideways over the table, it gives her a strange, owlish look. "I wasn't expecting that," she says. "I was thinking maybe a pimp, but for those really high-end escorts, you know. You're sort of posh."

"Excuse me?" Ratchet splutters.

"But you're actually a doctor," she continues, unhindered. "Pediatric… that means kids, doesn't it. You take care of kids?"

He's still in the middle of coughing out the spit he swallowed the wrong way. He looks down at himself in something of a panic—he's wearing brown slacks and a white shirt, nothing unusual at all, nothing he thinks would pin him as involved in anything so… so tasteless.

"Right," he answers at last, his voice shaky. "I, yes, I take care of children. At the hospital."

"Night shift?" At his nod, she adds, "That's tough. At least kids sleep at that time—must be quiet."

"Sometimes," he says wearily.

She gives him a curious look, but he doesn't elaborate.

"Well, my job's nothing as glamorous, but it pays well," she declares. "Didn't need to bury myself in student debt to get it either. I'm good at what I do," she adds angrily.

Ratchet has a feeling that she's not addressing him anymore. "I'm sure," he mutters.

"I'm the one who has to find those contractors and make sure we don't go bankrupt and stand there and look pretty while they drool over my ass," she says. "What does he do? What does he even do? He'd be nothing without me. He can—"

She stops herself before finishing that sentence. With one hand she pushes herself off the surface of the table, her cheek parting with the plastic stickily, and then she grabs her glass and downs half of it in one go. Ratchet watches with something like apprehension as she turns toward him again. There's a red circle on her face where it was stuck to the table.

"I'm not useless and I'm not a stupid little bitch," she tells him, looking furious.

"Er," Ratchet replies. "I suppose not."

"When I leave his sorry ass, he'll be begging for me to come back."

"I'm sure."

"Good," the woman says. She takes another sip of her drink, slams the glass over the table loudly, and repeats: "Good."

Then she turns sideways on her chair until she is fully facing him, legs and all, and she says: "Let's fuck."

Ratchet's mind goes entirely blank.

"I—I'm sorry?" he lets out what feels like an eternity later.

The woman rolls her eyes at him, he thinks. She's rising from her chair and approaching his with swaying steps. "You and me," he hears distantly. "I know he's cheating on me anyway, I might as well do the same."

Her hand rests on his shoulder, nails like claws digging into the cotton of his shirt until he can feel them on his skin; she bends down over him with a smile, her pupils blown wide open, the corner of her eyes smudged with golden eyeliner. The line of her top dips lower over the swell of her fabricated breasts.

Ratchet pushes her away a little too roughly. She stumbles back over to her table, her hip hitting the corner of it and making her grunt with pain.

"Oh, shit, I'm," he says in a panic. "I'm sorry—didn't mean to—I'm married. Married!"

"And I'm taken, whatever!" she replies, looking more offended than ever before. "What the hell is wrong with you? Fine, let's not fuck then." She sits down again with her back turned to him this time. "It's not like I wanted to get freaky with some old man anyway," she adds, but he can see that her ears have turned crimson.

He's still a little winded himself. In his hurry to get away from her he has almost slipped out of his chair, and it is with a burning face that he rights his position and grabs his glass. There's nothing left in it, but it gives him something to do. A quick glance around the room tells him that they are the only customers, that the waiter from before is nowhere to be seen.

He takes a shaky breath. His heart beats too quickly in his chest. Once he is sure that his voice will be even, he says, "I apologize. I didn't mean to hurt you."

The woman waves a hand without looking at him. "Whatever."

"I'm married," he repeats. After a brief second of hesitation, he adds: "And I love my husband very much."

This gets a reaction out of her at least. She looks slowly over her shoulder until their eyes meet again, and hers have a shine of understanding in them that makes her look older and younger at once. "Husband?" she asks.

Ratchet nods tensely. His thumb rub slickly over the rim of his empty glass. "Married for five years, but we've been together for almost twenty," he replies. "But I have to say, even if—well. You're much too young, I would never—you shouldn't be… propositioning—"

She starts laughing again as he struggles for the kinder way of telling her not to have sex with random men twice her age. It is a different kind of laughter than the one she used before: softer and deeper-voiced, something almost private, he feels, as he sees her whole face flush. Though the angry lights above still wash her skin out of color, this way at least she looks healthy.

The waiter comes out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee in hand. His eyes shine as he sees them talking, and he walks their way with a spring in his steps, cheerfully asking if they'd like to order something else.

"Get me a cup of that," the woman says, gesturing to the pot he holds.

The boy nods eagerly. "Sir?" he asks, turning toward Ratchet.

Ratchet opens his mouth to decline, but a look in the woman's direction quiets him.

Her stare is void of the mocking and disdain it held before. He can see that her lips are sealed tight—he can sense that she would not say anything if he chose to pay and leave now without another word for her, but there is something else as well.

Something small. Familiar. Something he finds in Jack's eyes when the girl tries to smile through her fits so that her mother won't worry; something in the ever-empty chair by Rafael's bedside that makes the boy look at him in painful yearning, that made him accidentally call him dad more than once.

Loneliness, he thinks. A disease he cannot fix by himself, though he tries.

Oh, how he tries.

"I'll have some coffee as well," Ratchet says.

The woman's mouth relaxes. She doesn't smile at him, she doesn't thank him, she says nothing at all. But Ratchet knows the many ways that a person can say thank you, and he sees one in the loose hold she has around her burning cup.

Optimus is awake when he comes home.

Warmth already seems to make the temperature inside difficult to bear. The sun is up in the sky and burning bright over the city. Ratchet makes to turn on the ceiling fan in their bedroom when he sees Optimus's open eyes—it is an old and loud thing that neither of them can sleep well with—but Optimus says, "No, leave it."

"It's too hot," Ratchet complains, approaching the bed.

He's still fully-dressed and probably smells of alcohol wipes and bad coffee. Optimus pulls him close with a deep chuckle; his hands are very warm on Ratchet's bare forearms. "Good morning," he says after a while of simply holding him. "You're late today."

"Something came up," Ratchet replies sleepily.

As crushing as summer heat is in this part of the country, as hot as Optimus's body always runs, he will never not find comfort in their proximity. Already his armpits dampen and the folds of his knees become slick, but Ratchet doesn't pull away. The circle of Optimus's arms shrouds him in warmth and drags all the sleeplessness out of him. He is left a limp shell of a man, barely hanging on to consciousness.

"Sleep well," he hears Optimus murmur—feels him press full lips to his forehead and stroke strands of grey hair away. "I'll see you for lunch."

"Mmh."

It must be recompense, Ratchet thinks, for a past life spent in asceticism. He is not the kind to believe in karma, but one would be hard-pressed not to picture a higher power of sorts in the face of such happiness. Every day he falls asleep in the arms of the man he loves. Every day he gets to see Optimus smile and to feel his arms around him.

As sleep takes his last thoughts away, he finds that they are all about the woman at the diner: her haughty words, the broken heels of her shoes, the smile she gave when Ratchet talked of Optimus that he doesn't think she meant to.

He wonders if she feels how he does about the man who shares her life.

He doesn't know how it becomes a habit, meeting her.

Ratchet is still on night shift most of the time. Jack's stay at the hospital is extended because testing takes time; most nights, she wakes once or twice in a fit of helpless gasping, and Bee or another of the nurses calls for Ratchet to come comfort her. He can see the toll that this is taking on the little girl. Her energy dwindles every day.

Ratchet runs from sick patient to sick patient for hours each day and night, trying his best to remember all their names and stories, to communicate with them in a way that shows he cares. Miko is a world of trouble, but she can be surprisingly quiet when he lets her sit in his office while he fills paperwork. Rafael waits eagerly each evening for Ratchet to pat his head and tell him he did well.

They are his in a way, these children, whether he wants them or not. They are his for the trust that their families put in him to cure all of their ills.

He arrives at the hospital as the sun sets and comes out before it is risen, and more often than not, his steps take him to the small diner with the bad food and coffee.

More often than not, she is here.

She isn't always wearing a flashy outfit, which makes him believe that she is actually going out of her way to see him. One day she shows up in bright-green heels and a dress so short it can hardly be called one; another she is nursing coffee in an expensive grey suit, sober as the dead and still as mean-tempered. Ratchet doesn't hesitate anymore to sit in his usual corner. She takes the table next to his and talks, or stays silent, or asks questions he tries not to answer too much. She never sits at his table.

As much as she speaks—as many grand declarations as she likes to make—she doesn't say much about herself. Ratchet glimpses true unhappiness under the harsh words she uses to describe her boyfriend. He feels that the insults she mockingly directs at herself are ones she has heard out of the man's mouth before, and he doesn't know whether what he feels about it is pity or something more.

She's lonely. He knew that the first time he outstayed himself in this place, so it is no surprise to witness it over and over again, but still Ratchet finds the knowledge difficult to swallow. She is young still despite the shadows that age her, no older than thirty, but she acts like someone younger. Her brashness and vitriol form a very poor defense, the fabric of which is holed, stitched up, holed again. In her colorful outfits and shiny jewelry, she looks like something fragile repeatedly slamming into walls. He wonder how many more hits she can take in one piece.

He learns that her boyfriend's name is Megatron by pure accident. She is drunker than usual that day, and already sunlight is pouring in through the windows of the room—it's late, very late, much later than Ratchet usually stays. But the woman is angry and almost black-out drunk and he doesn't feel good letting her leave on her own.

"I'll call you a taxi," he tells her when she tries to grab her purse and stand. Even this much effort makes her wobble in place; Ratchet catches her elbow before it hits painfully against the backrest of the chair. "Sit down."

"Don't order me around," she tries to bite back, but she is so mellowed that he can hardly fear her. "Stupid, fucking," she says, grabbing for her glass. She hasn't noticed that Ratchet hid it away minutes ago; she blinks at her empty hand sleepily and adds, "M'not here to be ordered around like, like trash."

He wonders what to say to that. He wonders if he should say anything.

"Never a goddamn thank you," she says. Her eyes are unfocused when they look at Ratchet. "'Thank you'," she parrots, "not so hard now, is it? Is it?"

"No, it's not," Ratchet replies placatingly.

She smiles. It is nothing kind at all. "You think I'm crazy," she tells him. "You all do."

"I don't think that at all."

"Hah! Liar. That's fine, though. At least I know you're not just waiting to jump me."

He can feel himself flush; she tends to bring the embarrassed teenager out of him, somehow. "Indeed," he agrees. "Here, drink some water." He puts his own half-empty glass on her table.

He places a quick call to a taxi company while she holds the glass, unhappy to hear that no one will be around for another half an hour. When he hangs up and looks at her again, he sees that she hasn't touched the water at all.

"You should drink," he says again.

She'll be in a world of pain if she doesn't. She must know it too, judging by the number of times he has seen her in a degree of inebriation, but all she does is stare emptily at the glass. "Will you tell me more about your husband?" she asks then.

Ratchet tenses.

It's not that he isn't used to such questions. The children at the hospital are curious about him too: they ask if he has children, if his wife is very beautiful. His more distant colleagues have assumptions of their own as well. He can get away with lying to them because age has made him resistant to guilt, but this woman already knows. He has already come out to her in a spur of embarrassed honesty.

Her eyes are bright under the haziness of drinking. She always seems younger when the subject arises, her words kept firmly away from scorn no matter how hurtful she can be. He can find nothing but curiosity out of her.

"If you drink," he says at last.

Her smile is absent. She drags the glass to her lips and sips, slow and deliberate, almost cat-like.

"Optimus and I met at a wedding," he starts.

She snorts loudly. "Romantic."

"Well, yes. It was, very." Ratchet has to take a moment to compose the rest of his words; those memories are old now—decades old—and he doesn't often revisit them. He has no need to hang on to past happiness when every day by Optimus's side feels like a first meeting. "He was the groom's best man," he says. "I remember the suit he wore—a very nice and elegant grey. He had a white flower in his breast pocket."

"This is boring," she sighs.

Ratchet smiles weakly and adds, "I remember because I spilled wine all over it."

He hears her breathe in, sees the corner of her lips shake almost into a smile.

"I was so very awkward. Back then… well, let us just say that I was better off hiding my preferences than disclaiming them. The bride was a distant cousin of mine—I didn't know her very well—but Optimus was going around talking to the guests, and eventually he came to talk to me. The party was beautiful, they had rented a whole wine cave for it and hired a decorated chef for the food. He came to talk to me—I was standing alone in a corner while everyone danced—and I became so flustered that I dropped my wine over his jacket."

She laughs her mocking, cruel laugh.

Ratchet can't quite stop himself from smiling either. It is surprisingly easy to narrate this to her, drunk though she is. Part of him hopes that she will not remember a word of it, but a bigger—better—part thinks, Even if she does, it's fine.

He tells her of Optimus's booming laughter when the wine spilled and Ratchet hurried to clean it with napkins. He remembers falling in love with that laughter and smile more than the rest of him at first; he recalls the warmth of his handshake, the sight of their hands linked together in the dark of the wide room as couples danced on the ground not very far away.

"I would love to meet you again," Optimus had said.

Ratchet had kissed him that same night on the side of the road, after most of the other guests had left. The sun was rising over the horizon, crisp and springly, paling the fields around to blue. He had stood on his tiptoes and put his lips to Optimus's.

"A first kiss on the first night," the woman says, toying with the empty water glass. Under her heavy sarcasm, Ratchet senses envy. "I would've thought you'd make him pine for months, you're so proper."

Ratchet blushes at her words. "Things were different back then," he replies.

"How lucky. What a boring, romantic story."

There is no sign yet of the taxi he called. The waitress at the counter—the same one as the day Ratchet and the woman met—is bobbing her head to the rhythm of a song, earbuds sticking out of her ears, her apron stained with coffee. They are alone in the diner. It feels like they're alone in the world.

The woman next to him says, "I wish I'd met Megatron like that."

It is an odd name, Ratchet thinks. "How did you meet him?" he asks carefully.

She snorts again. "How do you think? At a party. We had sex in some bedroom and he said he wanted to see me again." She pauses and adds, "I said yes."

He doesn't know if he hopes or dreads to hear regret in her voice. He doesn't know what it is he hears, instead.

"Forget I said that," she says then with a sort of calculated nonchalance.

"What?" he replies. "I didn't—"

But he meets her eyes and falls silent.

There are things she isn't telling him. A great many things, about herself, about her job—about the boyfriend she so loves to dislike. He sees a warning in her eyes that makes her look more sober than she truly is, and it is enough to stay his words.

He thinks about the name again in the days that follow. The woman doesn't show up for a few days, and Ratchet is alone when he eats his eggs and drinks his water and tips the waiters of the diner overly much. Megatron; an odd name, a name that makes him think of bulky handymen in action movies or smirking villains in leather armchairs.

He realizes that he has never asked for the woman's name.

He tells her so the next time he sees her. She looks at him in silence for what feels likes minutes before answering, "Starscream."

"What kind of name is that?" he scoffs.

He expects her to laugh, to snap at him. Instead she puts her chin into the palm of her hand, her long black hair falling over her shoulder, and replies, "It's a name, and I like it."

Her tone is absolute.

He doesn't understand what she means by it for a long time after that. Starscream continues to show up sporadically over the next few months; sometimes she arrives before him, sometimes she shows up as he is about to leave. Sometimes she is drunk in her sharp suits, sometimes she saunters in on needle-like heels and with all of her legs bare to the light, and she is stone-cold sober. He can't figure out what she wants from him, and at the same time, he can. He can't understand why she sometimes enters the room with an elegance to her that makes heads turn around, and why she sometimes stumbles in wearing torn tights and broken shoes, her hair matted with liquor.

The first time he sees a bruise on her, they have known each other for two months.

It is nothing serious, nothing requiring attention except maybe some over-the-counter salve. It could almost be innocuous. But Ratchet sits at his table with a plateful of beans and eggs and cannot stop looking at the dark spot over her wrist. He feels deeply unsettled, he realizes, and even more so when she greets him and he understands that she is drunk once more.

He sees no other signs of violence on her. He never has. No, all the violence is in her voice and attitude; it is in the words she uses about others and about herself, in the way she so clearly thinks to have reclaimed power over them, even as she keeps twisting the knife.

That night Ratchet asks her, "Why do you stay with him?"

He feels unbelievable foolish in the second that follows. This is perhaps the poorest, least thoughtful question he has ever asked someone—really, Why do you stay with him? Isn't he a doctor? Hasn't he seen enough of those women in emergency rooms, silent and skittery while a husband watches from the corner and Ratchet applies gauze, applies lotion, sutures wounds? Hasn't he seen those children before—does he ask them why they stay with their families?

Starscream was in the middle of yet another tirade about this man, this Megatron, whose name she has never pronounced again. She stops mid-word and looks at him, flushed with alcohol and irritation, brittle under the flickering light. Then the light shifts again and she is once more solid as a rock.

"Why not?" is her reply. She shrugs with one of her nasty smiles on. Ratchet eyes the bruise on her wrist, thinks that it must be almost invisible in regular daylight. Thinks that if not for the neons above turning her skin lighter, she could bear many more bruises of the kind with no one the wiser.

He doesn't realize how much he has come to care until that thought makes his hands shake.

"He is obviously unkind to you," he tries.

This is a lost fight, he knows; but he tries.

"Forgive me, but you don't look like you love him very much."

"It isn't about love," she sneers. She touches one long nail to the rim of her glass. Today, her pink polish is flaking. "Not anymore anyway. Plus, there's a lot of advantages to being with him—and he'd come running if I left, so why bother? It's not like it's always bad. He's done some good things."

Textbook answers. Predictable answers. Ratchet feels like he is reading out of one of the pamphlets on domestic abuse that his colleagues from the psych ward leave in their offices. It's five in the morning on a Saturday, and he wants nothing more than to order whiskey for himself.

"What good things?" he asks again.

Starscream marks a long pause before replying, "He paid for my surgeries."

The question is on the tip of Ratchet's tongue with simple strength of habit. He looks up from the bruise to observe her face and finds her looking deliberately away. He shuts his mouth. He thinks, pauses. Realizes. Blushes.

He forces out: "I see," in the most neutral tone he can manage.

He suddenly wants to hit himself for judging her on what he once noticed of her cosmetic surgeries.

Starscream snorts. "Oh, please," she tells him in obvious attempt to unburden the air. Her hand is not as assured as always when she waves off the silence; Ratchet hears the rings on her fingers clink loudly against glass when she grabs her drink again. "If you start making a big deal of this after telling me about your tragically boring homosexual love story, I'll really have to drink myself to death."

"We wouldn't want that," Ratchet says mutedly.

"No," she replies. "We would not."

He orders whiskey.

Optimus says nothing when he slides under the cover that morning. Summer is slowly abating, the crushing desert heat withering down into milder temperatures. They can sleep close together without Optimus kicking the sheet away for air. They don't need the loud ceiling fan anymore. Ratchet knows he smells like alcohol and smoke—Starscream walked out with him into the rising sun, a long Camel hanging from the corner of her mouth, freshly-reapplied lipstick leaving stains on the filter. Ratchet stayed long enough by her side before their paths diverged for the scent to cling to him. He knows what he smells like, he knows what this looks like, but Optimus embraces him and says nothing.

Ratchet murmurs, "I met someone."

"Mmh."

"I'm not having an affair."

Optimus chuckles. "You come home hours late and smelling like a woman," he says. Ratchet blushes into his shoulder and pinches the soft of Optimus's belly. "I know you're not having an affair, Ratchet," his husband says against his forehead. "I trust you."

"Good," Ratchet replies. "Good, because you're the only oaf in this world that I want."

Once, there had been doubt.

Optimus is a wise and kind man, the kindest Ratchet has ever met. He fell in love at the age of thirty-two watching this marvel of a man smile at him, and he has never fallen out since then. But one cannot control how someone else feels, and there was a time someone else came to feel for Ratchet in the same way Optimus does.

Wheeljack was young and handsome. Full of energy, determined to have his way. Ratchet could never have kept up with him even if he had wanted to. But it had been the first time anything threatened his relationship with Optimus so, and Optimus, like any other man, had felt jealousy. The experience at least had the benefit of washing away the very last of Ratchet's idolizing.

He rubs his forehead against Optimus's shoulder. Optimus's hand runs over his back once, twice, and again.

"Tell me about her," he says.

He is attentive as Ratchet speaks. He never interrupts him except to ask questions. He listens to Ratchet's frustrations and worries, shares the heavy weight on his heart about the bruise and the harsh words, about the drinking and smoking. He presses his thumb to Ratchet's shoulder when Ratchet berates himself for not noticing sooner and tells him for the thousandth time that he is not Atlas, and that the world is not to be born upon one's shoulders.

"You sound so old when you say that," Ratchet tells him.

"It makes my student lower their defenses," Optimus replies. "It's easier to surprise them that way."

They laugh into each other's face. They spend those languid morning hours in each other's embrace.

"You should invite her for dinner," Optimus declares as Ratchet is freshening up in the bathroom. His voice carries over the length of their apartment smoothly, deeply. "This Starscream."

"You must be joking, Optimus. She's nothing like any acquaintance of ours."

The thought is preposterous—Starscream, here? He tries for a moment to imagine her sitting at their table, in the middle of their antiquated furniture. Starscream looks at home in that garish diner and in her bright makeup and jewelry. Her too-sharp knees and elbows would shatter his plates and flower vases. Her too-sharp tongue would damage the peace he has built here painstakingly.

Optimus appears in the frame of the bathroom door. All those years he has managed to keep some of build he sported when they met, though his shirt falls open round his middle without revealing quite such a jutting hipbone. Still, he is beautiful. Ratchet fills his eyes with him as he brushes his teeth; he thinks of an hour ago, when his fingers were running over buzzed, frizzy hair, when his knuckles dug into soft skin and hard muscle.

"You like her," Optimus says.

Ratchet can lie, but not to him.

Starscream is more jittery than usual when he meets her a week later. She comes into the diner dressed in that same awful yellow outfit he first saw her wearing, looking sober but frayed at the edges, her makeup mostly gone. For the first time he notices the thin white scar that runs vertically right above her left eyebrow. It is usually masked by concealer.

She sits next to him in silence at first. This is not unusual—she is always the first to open their conversation, and it sometimes takes a while for her to do so. Ratchet eats his breakfast slowly, staring idly at the couple other customers in the room. One man has not stopped stealing glances at the girls sitting next to him, though his eyes deviate every now and then in Starscream's direction. The two girls he observes are deep into their own conversation, drinking coffee and laughing.

Finally, Starscream seems to relax. She sighs and says, "Sorry I haven't been around. Something came up at work."

Ratchet glances at her arms and legs quickly. He finds no sign of any other bruise. "That is fine," he replies. "It's not like we ever set a schedule."

It makes her laugh in a somewhat defeated way.

Talking is easier after that. Today's target for Starscream's vitriol is not Megatron but another man, whom Ratchet understands out of her disjointed complaining is a business opponent of sorts causing her some trouble. He nods when she looks like she is waiting for him to, shakes his head when her monologue turns ruder than he appreciates. She calls him an old prude and smiles.

"What's with you today?" she asks an hour later, when the pace of their conversation has turned slower. "You should've called me foolish at least twice by now."

The diner has emptied out. The man and the two girls are gone, replaced by some early risers with dark circles under their eyes, one of whom has a small service dog at his feet.

Ratchet clears his throat and says, "I'd like to invite you to dinner." Immediately he flusters and adds, "That is, Optimus and I would like to have you for dinner. If you would like."

Starscream falls very silent.

He is not discreet in staring at her, he knows. She must feel his uncertainty from a mile off, ruthless as she is, and it is a wonder that she does not immediately make use of it to torment him, to mock him for his attachment. But she is looking down at the cup in her hands unblinkingly, silently, her face paler than even the bad lighting warrants. She doesn't look happy.

"Starscream?" he asks softly.

It is the first time he calls her directly by name. She seems startled for a second before her smirk wipes it away. "Dinner," she says. "At your place?"

He nods. "Yes, whenever it suits you."

After another silence, she asks: "You told your husband about me?"

"I've been coming home late without explanation for months," he replies. "Of course I had to tell him about you eventually. I don't lie to him."

"That must be nice," she says. "Not lying."

He doesn't know what to say to that.

Quiet stretches between them. Ratchet has nothing left in his plate and two empty glasses in front of him. He fingers the outline of his phone inside his jacket. He never thinks of taking it out whenever he is with her, but this silence is heavy, uncomfortable. The need to distract himself from it beats like headache at his temples.

"You don't have to," he says at last, but she cuts in, "No."

"No, I'll come. It's fine. When?"

She still doesn't look happy. Ratchet makes plans with her for the following Wednesday evening, when he is not on shift and her own schedule matches—he gives her his address and his cellphone number—but she doesn't smile except to mock. She doesn't laugh except to deride. It is rare that he feels warmth from her, or any kind of true affection, but he expected it for this at least. Her loneliness has always been the most obvious of her plights.

"I should go," she says almost as soon as she has pocketed the paper on which he scribbled his information. He is tempted to ask if she would rather he send it to her via text—he is a doctor, and his handwriting suffers from it—but he has no time to. She stands from her seat, drops a couple bills over the table, and adds, "See you Wednesday."

Then she is gone almost as quickly as she came.

Optimus is curious when he tells him about it, but not worried. "She's a young woman," he says, sounding very wise. "Of course she is worried about spending dinner with two older men she doesn't know."

"She knows enough to know neither of us is interested in taking advantage of her," Ratchet replies dryly.

He's been talking and arguing and drinking with her for months. Always at the same crappy diner near the worst club in town, always in the middle of the night. Whatever her issue with the invitation is, Ratchet doubts it has to do with his and Optimus's gender, or with her going alone somewhere.

"I shall invite Arcee too," Optimus grunts, rolling to the other side of the bed so he can grab his phone. "Perhaps her presence will help Starscream feel more at ease. It has been a while since you two saw each other as well."

"I'm sure she misses me terribly."

"I have always said your sarcasm is one of your least attractive qualities."

Ratchet gives Optimus enough time to finish his text before pinning him to the bed.

For the following hour he thinks nothing of Starscream, of her cutting edges and bruised wrist, of her smile like a million needles. He kisses his husband as if he is still thirty, makes love to him in approximation of what their first night together was. Optimus's laughter and moans waft hotly over his face. Sweat slicks the sheets they are laid in as Ratchet moves over and in him, kissing everywhere he can reach, pressing his palms over black skin and twisting his fingers in black hair. He is almost fifty-three years old. He is almost fifty-three, but although his back aches with the exertion of lovemaking as it did not always, his heart burns out of the same flame.

He doesn't see Starscream at all until Wednesday. He half-expected her to abuse the trust he has put in her by giving him his number, but there is no sign of any unsolicited texts or calls. It makes him nervous for reasons he can't fathom. He finds himself thinking of her during his longer working nights, in-between Jack's coughing fits and Rafael's sleeplessness. He sits in his office filing paperwork and sees sharp smiles in the shadows.

He and Optimus cook together all of Wednesday afternoon. It is anything but quiet; they have put on music, turned on their TV. Their hips knock together when they work side by side. Ratchet forgoes his suit jackets in favor of a pale blue cardigan which he knows Starscream will make fun of and Optimus will say compliments his eyes.

Arcee arrives at six o'clock sharp. "Optimus," she says warmly the second she crosses the threshold, her thin arms embracing Optimus tightly. Then—"Ratchet. You look older."

"So do you," Ratchet grumbles.

She doesn't. Arcee is a knife of a woman, unbothered by her early-greying hair or the laugh lines around her face. She shows up now wearing the same kind of sharp suit she presents to her students and occasional lady loves, face bare of any makeup and hair cut overly short around her ears. She laughs at him good-naturedly and embraces him too; Ratchet puts up a front of hostility, but he knows she can feel him soften in her arms.

They talk easily, cheerfully, as they wait for Starscream to arrive. Arcee is curious about her of course. Optimus fills in the blanks that Ratchet is reluctant to—"They have an ongoing affair of having bad coffee together at five in the morning," he declares, and Arcee replies, "I'd be worried if I were you, Optimus. Ratchet's rarely met anyone he approves of."

Time passes. Six turns to six-thirty, then seven. Ratchet starts checking his phone for missed calls or texts a little too frequently. A fifteen past seven Optimus breaks the appetizers out, entertaining Arcee with mild conversation but shooting him worried glances.

"I guess she must have been held back," Ratchet says when the clock strikes eight. "Let's eat, you must be famished, Arcee."

The food is excellent. In all ways, this is a pleasant evening: Arcee and Optimus satisfy each other with stories of their students, none of whom overlap because physics and philosophy are too-far-removed majors—"A shame," Optimus says, "for they have much in common"—and Ratchet finds, occasionally, the mood to laugh.

His throat is tight by the time dessert comes. Optimus delays Arcee's departure in gentle and unobtrusive ways. If she notices, she makes no comment at all. Yes, in many ways, dinner is a lovely affair.

Starscream never shows up.

Miko shakes with energy for the whole duration of his next night at the hospital.

Three different times a nurse comes to fetch Ratchet from his office, frayed and worried because she is not in her room, or not in her bed, or nowhere at all. On the third offense he finds her playing with old dolls in the third floor waiting room; she cries, "Doctor Prime!" at the sight of him, her small fists waving the broken arm of a toy his way, her face somehow smudged with dirt.

He scolds her. He has to drag her back to her room in spite of the ruckus she makes that wakes many more patients. This is the oncology floor, he tries to explain to her, the men and women here need as much rest as they can, but she won't hear a word of it. She yells and twists her small hand in his grasp and tries to run back to the toys. Bee has to bring an armful of them to her room for her to finally calm down, and then again, she doesn't sleep. Ratchet knows that her medication is the cause for the surplus of energy. She is just a child, not even seven years old; she cannot understand the full scope of her own actions, or why they might be a bother to him or to others.

He apologizes to the people she has woken up in person. Some smile indulgently despite the stark weakness that chemo keeps them in and which necessitates as much recuperation as they can handle. Others lecture him, and Ratchet sees the circles under their eyes, the underskin ports at their clavicles or the scarves they wear to hide their shaven heads, and cannot find it in himself to indulge in frustration.

"This is hard for you," the hospital head tells him when four o'clock rolls around. She is the administrator on duty for the night, and she has come in half an hour ago to oversee the admittance of a crush injury patient requiring immediate surgery. Ratchet greeted her when he came out of Miko's room—she took him aside for a talk. "You've been on night shift for too long."

"It's nothing unexpected," he replies, trying to keep fatigue out of his voice. "If it weren't me it would be someone else."

She hums thoughtfully. "Someone expressed that they would not mind switching to night shift on this floor," she says. "How would you feel about working regular hours again?"

Ratchet thinks of waking with the sun, of preparing breakfast for Optimus and driving him to university. He thinks of lunch breaks taken together in Optimus's paper-strewn office, of reading by his side in bed until their eyes tire out.

"I'll think about it," he replies tightly.

"Please do. You can take a few days to give me your answer."

He isn't thinking of Starscream for perhaps the first time in days when he enters the diner, which is reason enough, he supposes, for her to be there and waiting.

He has no clue how to feel when he sees her hunched over his table in their usual corner. Not her table, but his. The plate he is holding is hot to the touch—just coming out of the washer—but he forgets the discomfort in favor of trying to experience anger, or disappointment, or worry.

"Starscream," he says coldly when he reaches her side.

She lifts her head at the sound of his voice. It only takes one look at her face for Ratchet to forget all about scolding her.

He drops his plate and glass on the table in a hurry, almost spilling his eggs all over it. "What happened?" he asks, extending a hand toward the ugly purple bruise on her cheekbone that she hasn't managed to conceal fully.

She slaps his hand away. "It's nothing," she replies. "So, how was work?"

He knows he is staring at her with his mouth open like a fool. She doesn't look back—she is too busy examining her own nails in boredom—but the effect is broken by the rest of her. Her outfit is as skimpy and colorful as ever, her hair styled into a complex bread over her nape, but her eyes are bloodshot. She smells of liquor. The side of her face is swollen.

"Did you go to the hospital?" he asks, sitting down in front of her.

She rolls her eyes. "It's just a bruise," she sneers. "Not the end of the world."

"It could be more than a bruise. You could have a fractured cheekbone—"

"Oh, shut up, will you? If I wanted to see a doctor I'd see one. I can speak, I can eat, it doesn't bother me."

There is true aggression in her words, not simply the fake kind she likes to harbor around him. Ratchet's lips thin in frustration.

"Did your boyfriend do that?" he asks lowly.

It is the first time he asks so directly.

He has known, he knew, that she was living dangerously. He has not forgotten the bruise around her wrist so worriedly shaped after a man's hand, or how carefully she avoids citing any names, any places of employment. He knows she has money. He knows she holds some sort of responsibility-heavy job. He knows that at least twice a week, she comes out of the shady club two streets over and does nothing but complain about it, which has led him to believe that she never goes there of her own free will.

None of it paints a picture he likes to consider in full. "Is it him?" he presses. "Megatron, was it?"

"I told you to forget that name," is her scathing reply. "God, you're so annoying."

"You need to get you face checked by someone. It's still swollen, how long ago—"

"Ratchet!" she snaps.

Some heads turn in their direction. The waitress behind the counter takes out one of her earbuds and looks at them sideways. Ratchet doesn't realize how tense he is until he is left alone in that silence, heart beating against his ribs and shoulders throbbing in a solid line of pain.

"I didn't come here to talk about this crap," Starscream says. "Shut up already."

Now, of all times, he experiences resentment.

"Is that why you didn't come to dinner?" he asks. Half of him is tempted to take her hand in his as he would one of his patients; but Starscream is not a patient and not a child. He finds he doesn't want her to think him patronizing. "Were you hurt?"

"Dinner," she says. "Right. I completely forgot about that."

It is worked and rehearsed, the way she picks at her nails and puts on disinterested airs. Ratchet wants to snap and call her out on her façade. He wants to shake her, to make her realize how absurd her stubbornness is.

But Starscream is not one of his patients. She is not a child. She is an adult in full capacity of deciding things for herself, and she has never shown any appreciation for him trying to butt in on her business.

Ratchet forces his tension to abate. He toys with his food, all of his appetite gone. "We could schedule another one, if you want," he says. "Optimus would really like to meet you."

"Thanks, but I'll pass," she replies.

She sounds so matter-of-fact about it.

For a long while neither of them speaks. Ratchet forces some breakfast past the tight knot of his throat, but even freshly-pressed juice tastes to him like nothing. Starscream takes out her phone, an expensive and sleek thing in pale gold, and taps on its screen with the tips of her long nails.

He gives up on eating before his plate is even half-empty. Starscream hasn't ordered anything, no coffee, no drinks.

"I'll be back on day shift soon," he tells her.

Her nail taps against plastic. "Oh?"

"Someone offered. I'd like to spend more time with my husband."

"Good for you," she replies spitefully.

"Starscream," Ratchet says.

She pushes her chair away from the table. Now everyone is looking at them, he feels, and the spell of that corner of existence with her seems to lift at last. He can see just how ugly her expression is under all the makeup and under the purple bruise; he can see just how disgusted she looks by him and everything around her.

"I was thinking it's time I stopped coming to that mediocre place anyway," she says, shoving her phone inside her purse. "See you around, old man."

"Starscream, please wait," Ratchet says, rising after her. "I never said I wanted to stop meeting you."

"Because you so want to be spending your time sitting around this place and waiting for me to show up, is that it?" she retorts.

Ratchet hesitates. Starscream's eyes narrow in cruel pleasure.

"It was a nice enough way to pass the time," she says, slow and deliberate. "But I've got better things to do than meet your husband and play nice. I'm never nice."

"I would know," he replies between his teeth.

She huffs and turns around again. Her heels clacking against the ground as she crosses the room are the loudest noise around; the chime rings for a long second when she pulls open the front door, and in a gust of cool wind, she is gone.

Ratchet makes no move to stop her.

The children are happy to see him during the day. They are surprised at first—so little is enough to perturb their habits—but they adapt quickly. Miko takes to leaving her classes and other activities every time she sees him roam a corridor so she can follow after him. Rafael likes the opportunity to talk to him instead of dozing on and off in his company. Jack's asthma becomes more manageable with the trials she is running, and soon enough her mother can take her home.

It's a somewhat tearful goodbye. Ratchet hadn't realized just how close those three have become in the ward, and the sight of Rafael and Miko sobbing on each other while Jack hides her face in her mother's jacket almost tugs a tear out of him.

Bee, of course, is openly crying. Ratchet finds him in the nurses' office with a half-empty roll of paper towels and says, "For God's sake, get a grip, Bee."

Bee nods and rushes to his work again. When the other's back is turned, Ratchet quickly wipes his eyes.

Living a diurnal rhythm is such a comforting thing. As expected, Ratchet wakes with Optimus every morning. He lunches and dines with him every day. The tired stolen minutes of affection between them bloom into endless hours of comfortable silence, the both of them reading or watching TV together or going out at night for movies and theater.

On the nights he is on duty and cannot escape driving to the hospital, Ratchet doesn't linger. He files paperwork at his desk and performs first diagnoses for some of the emergency patients. He goes out in the dark of night and walks past the diner on his way, and he doesn't look inside.

Three months pass like this.

He doesn't think about Starscream.

He has become so good at not thinking about her, truly. At first any woman of roughly the same appearance caught his eyes no matter what she wore or where he went; a flash of bright clothes on dark skin, long black hair, too-long nails painted fluorescent. Now Ratchet can go days without even thinking her name or looking for her face in the crowd.

Why should he find her by accident now, after all? The city isn't small. If their paths never crossed before that one night and if now she wishes to stay away, there is nothing he can do to stop her. He never thought to ask for her own number. He doesn't know where she lives or works, and he would be unwilling to step foot into the club she frequented even if she had not told him that she has no wish to return there.

So he doesn't think about her. He fills his mind with thoughts of the new patients in his ward, of Optimus's latest literary love, of what bracelet or watch to get him for their coming anniversary. Arcee unwittingly helps him by arranging for a surprise party of sorts—Ratchet snorts at the idea, telling her they are way past the age of surprise parties, at least until Arcee puts Bulkhead on the phone to shut him up.

"It'll be quiet," Bulkhead swears in a not-so-quiet voice. "Come on, Ratchet."

Ratchet has never truly been able to refuse them.

It does promise to be a rather tranquil thing. They rent the back room of a nice restaurant near the main avenue, somewhere draped in old-fashioned red and gold which Arcee cannot stop herself from commenting will 'look as lovingly ancient as you two'. Ratchet reminds her dryly that she is only seven years short of hitting her own half-century.

Family comes. Not from Ratchet's side—they have never quite forgiven his lack of interest in women—but from Optimus's. His mother cries on the phone with him, speaking of how happy her late husband would be, asking after Ratchet's health and eating habits. It is nothing he didn't expect from her, but Ratchet has long lost his own mother. Her concern means something to him that he cannot name.

Optimus must be suspecting something if only for Ratchet's insistence on spending their anniversary night at home, but he plays along. He is delighted when Ratchet tells him to wear something nice and drives him to the restaurant. His smiles are wide and warm when he greets Bulkhead and his mother, when he embraces Arcee.

They eat. They laugh. Optimus tells stories of how a few of his students learned mysteriously about the anniversary and prepared fake essays in his honor; he reads two of them with a seriousness that drives Bulkhead into spilling his first wine glass of the evening.

Ratchet smiles into his own drink. The night is the right side of cool when he steps outside for some fresh air, deep black and welcoming the way only late winter can be. His is pleasantly buzzed from wine and food and company. He pictures by his side the lit end of a long cigarette, held between two painted fingers.

His phone vibrates against his thigh. He takes it out with a fumble, almost dropping it to the wet ground before he manages to firmly catch it. The number on the screen is not one he recognizes, which drags a faint frown out of him. It is way too late for people to be trying to sell him things.

He picks up the call anyway. "Hello?" he greets, rubbing a hand over his hair.

Silence greets him.

No, no quite silence. There is the sound of static and some feeble, watery noise, like something moving in a sink or bathtub. He is about to end the call when something else reaches him—a deep, raspy breath, the kind he hears from patients coming in with chest injuries.

"Hello?" he repeats in a tenser voice. "Can you hear—"

"You're a doctor, right."

Ratchet's mind blanks out.

"Starscream?" he all but shouts into the receiver.

"You're too loud," she replies nonchalantly, as if this is just another night at the diner, as if she isn't calling him after months of silence and sounding like she is injured—"I need a doctor. I think."

"Where are you?" he asks. "I'll call an ambulance right away—"

"No ambulance," she cuts him off. "This isn't fucking worth it."

"Please tell me where you are," he begs.

His fingers hurt around the case of his phone. He has pushed his back off of the wall without realizing, and stands now as if ready to run whichever way she tells him to. Hearing her chuckle at him in her usual, cruel way does nothing to reassure him.

"I'm home," she says. "I think… God, this is going to sound stupid, but I think I've probably lost a kidney."

"A kidney," Ratchet repeats weakly.

"Yes. So, you might want to hurry up."

"Where are you?"

She is silent for a moment before answering, "Don't call an ambulance. Just come over."

He agrees because he feels that if he insists she will simply hang up. "Don't move anywhere," he tells her after feeling his phone buzz with her incoming text. "Don't move, please."

"Fine, but hurry," she breathes. "It's goddamn cold."

Ratchet stumbles in his hurry to reach his car and read the address she sent at once. It's not far, not far at all, somewhere he could run to in less than ten minutes and which will take him less than two by road. He calls for an ambulance right as he turns on the ignition, and then he drives with a ferocity he has never shown before.

Starscream lives at the top of a tall and sleek apartment building. The woman in the lobby watches him punch in the code with wide eyes, but Ratchet doesn't listen at all to the words she tries to shout at him—he eyes the opening doors of the elevator up front and pushes the people coming out of it from his way, pressing three times on the button to the highest floor as if it will make him rise faster.

He is all but ready to break his own shoulder forcing open her door, but there is no need. The handle moves under his shaking hand and opens easily.

"Starscream?" he calls as he steps into the dark living-room. His eyes pick up the glow of a lit flatscreen TV and shelves full of various books and trinkets; there are coats on the hanger behind the door, some of which he recognizes for having seen her wear them, but Starscream herself is nowhere in sight.

"In here," she calls.

Her voice comes from a hallway behind the white leather couch. Ratchet makes his way there running; an open door almost at the end of it lights the way, and he pushes it open with no warning.

She is sitting in the wide bathtub inside, her face entirely bloodless. For a terrifying second he thinks she will not move at all, but then her head turns around to face him, making her wet hair drag over her shoulder darkly. "Hello," she greets feebly. "Er, I'm naked, so—"

"Don't move," Ratchet orders again as he sees her try to shift in the water.

He crosses the distance between them in two steps. The water in the bath looks clean enough, only slightly pinked by her left side, where botched stitching closes a recent wound. It is cold when Ratchet touches it; there are still some ice cubes floating at the surface, which tells him that at least whoever did this had some idea of what they were up to.

"Can you at least grab me a towel or something?" she seethes, and he realizes then that she is, indeed, entirely naked.

He turns around without even the strength to blush. "Fine, but don't let it touch the wound," he replies.

He doesn't actually let her hold out her arm to take it—he places the towel over the tub for her privacy's sake and nothing else, not even allowing the fabric to wet itself with the water's surface. Who knows what sort of infection Starscream already risks.

"What happened?" he asks in a rough voice.

"That fucking bastard Silas happened," she spits out with as much viciousness as if she were not halfway into shock. "When I get my hands on him he'll learn what fear tastes like."

"Did they—"

"I just woke up like this," she cuts in. He can see already that she is working to avoid his questions, to avoiding giving too much away. "Didn't feel a thing. It hurts now, though."

"I bet," Ratchet replies weakly.

He starts hearing sirens in the distance a second or so later. Starscream's face goes hot with anger; Ratchet has to restrain her with both hands to prevent her from bolting out of the tub. "I told you not to call an ambulance!" she yells.

"What do you think this is?" he shouts back. "You think I can just show up and be ready to deal with someone missing a kidney? Who knows if that's even what they took, if they took anything? You need a fucking ambulance, you need a hospital and proper equipment," he roars, "and you're gonna sit here and accept it for once in your life."

Starscream stares at him with her mouth wide open.

He feels so tired all of a sudden. He collapses against the side of the tub, his forehead hitting cold porcelain and his breaths coming in short bursts out of his chest. There is an ache where his heart is beating off-tempo, something close to the feeling of breathlessness after running too quickly and for too long, though he hasn't even run that much. He almost jumps out of his skin when a wet hand touches his shoulder.

"Why're you dressed all nice?" Starscream mumbles from above him.

Ratchet's chuckle feels like a sob. "Today is Optimus and I's twentieth anniversary," he replies. "We were celebrating."

"Oh." She thinks for a second before adding, "Sorry about that," sounding not very sorry at all.

"I didn't even tell him I was leaving," Ratchet says.

He huffs and pushes himself away from the tub. Starscream meets his eyes for a bare second as he picks his phone up from his abandoned jacket—when did he take it off?—and sends a text to Optimus. Emergency, it simply reads.

A few seconds later a reply comes: Understood.

Footsteps echo through the empty apartment. Ratchet finds enough of a voice to call and guide the emergency team to the bathroom. He stands aside quietly as they pull Starscream out of the bath, covering her in something less hazardous than a regular towel to preserve her dignity and laying her onto a stretcher.

"Are you family?" a woman asks him in passing, and Ratchet answers, "I'm a friend."

It doesn't mean anything to her. It is simply a note at the end of a piece of paper, something to notify the police whenever they will get involved. Ratchet would like to think that this is all it means to him as well, but Starscream is watching him from the stretcher, shivering now that they are trying to keep her out of hypothermia.

It has never been just coffee, just luck. It was never another note at the end of his days, something to turn over and forget when fate shifted the pace of his living.

He thinks—he hopes—that she understands this as well.

Starscream's room is located two floors beneath the pediatric ward. It is oddly uneventful to go to work that Monday knowing he can see her whenever the fancy strikes him. He doesn't hesitate to, either; Starscream tries to keep him out with her words and attitude the first few times, only to abate with evident relief when she realizes that he is not about to give up.

"It was so pathetic of you to lie to me," she tells him, ignoring all but the lit screen of her phone as she types in quick strokes.

"You'd be dead if I hadn't," Ratchet replies, which always shuts her right up. "Be grateful you can even see me now."

As it turns out, she is indeed missing a kidney. It is not the first time Ratchet is exposed to the aftermath or organ trafficking, but it has never struck so close to home before. Starscream is an unusual victim as well—the opposite of dependent or in need of money, as well as a poor donor in light of her frequent alcohol intake. Ratchet has the satisfaction of witnessing her horrified expression when her doctor explains that she will never again be anything but sober. It's already a miracle that her remaining kidney seems to be functioning just fine.

Since Starscream's kidney is of very little value to whoever stole it, this must be an act of revenge. Ratchet doesn't forget the name she uttered in her shock, Silas, but he doesn't question her about it. He knows how fruitless that endeavor would be. In a way it is enough to see her spend so much time on her phone, working remotely, wearing the visage of a Hollywood villain.

He doesn't envy the person who is about to bear the brunt of her anger. Thankfully, he thinks with satisfaction, this isn't him.

Oh, she tries often enough. She drags animosity out of her lungs like air, insults and targets and spills acid at him. But Ratchet is becoming better at recognizing when her innate inconsideration is at play and when she is simply flustered. He makes an iron wall out of himself and waits her out.

Two days after Starscream is admitted into the hospital, Ratchet arrives to her room, only to find the door opening in his face. The man who emerges is of a height with Optimus; broad and thick and somber, dressed in a grey suit so rigid that not a crease can be seen on him. Ratchet lets him through without thinking, and the man only gives him a dismissive glance before going his way.

Inside, Starscream looks in a worse mood than usual. "Who made the mistake of smiling at you now?" he asks, throwing a pack of sugar-free gum at her. She's been requesting them, saying they help her with the nicotine cravings.

She remains oddly unresponsive. "Thanks," she says. "Now get out, I'm busy."

He looks at her for a long moment before leaving.

The man can't have made his way out of hospital grounds yet. Ratchet descends into the underground parking lot and finds him walking toward a car the same expensive color of his clothes, inside of which a young woman waits.

She looks very young. Perhaps no older than twenty, twenty-five.

"Excuse me," Ratchet calls.

The man turns around. Ratchet wasn't absolute before but he is sure, now, that he must be at least fifty. He is not at all what Ratchet imagined in the rare days he liked to try and put a face to the name—his thoughts had wandered to movie-like images of brutes with little mind and too much muscle, but although this man looks imposing enough, his eyes are sharp. In another life, perhaps Ratchet himself would have found him handsome.

"Are you Megatron?" he asks once they are face to face.

He can see from the corner of his eyes that the girl inside the car has stopped staring at her phone and is listening in on them. "Who asks?" Megatron replies with very familiar disdain. His voice is deep, elegant, poised.

Ratchet smiles thinly.

He punches him across the jaw.

Starscream can hardly stop laughing enough to breathe. She holds the side where her stitches are in one hand as she chokes on her own amusement, tears spilling out of her eyes and undoing the black eyeliner she put there. It runs into the creases at the corners of her eyes and makes her look half-mad.

She tries to calm down several times, but every look at Ratchet sends her into another fit.

"If you're quite done," he mutters some ten minutes in, wincing when his hand flexes by accident.

Bee's splinters are always good, but a sprain hurts no matter what, especially in fingers.

"This is the best day of my life," Starscream cries. "Oh, Lord, that hurts."

"Then stop laughing!"

At least, Ratchet thinks with some shame, Megatron was too stunned to do more than watch him wobble away, holding his own hand in pain. He didn't have time to rise to his feet and give chase, and Ratchet hopes—hopes—that no professional killers or other agents of chaos will be sent after him in retaliation.

"Don't worry," Starscream heaves after another highly pleased look at his face, "he won't do a thing. He'd rather die than admit some puny doctor landed one on him in front of arm candy."

"Aren't you worried about yourself?" Ratchet spits back.

It is perhaps a little harsher than the situation warrants, but his worry isn't unfounded.

Starscream's smile lengthens. "He can't do anything to me," she says. "I'm the rightful leader of this whole damn organization—any step the wrong way and I can, truly, get rid of him. Not like that," she adds, seeing the shocked face he pulls. "What do you think I am? Anyway, I'm done with him. He won't come talk to me unless it's business-related."

Ratchet bites the inside of his cheek before answering, "Good."

There is something almost gentle to the look she gives him then. It is immediately replaced with mockery, but Ratchet feels warmed all the same.

A knock comes at the door. They both turn their heads to look, and Ratchet is halfway out of the chair he occupies before the next second has passed, surprised to find his husband standing there with flowers in his hands.

"Optimus," he says. "I didn't know you were visiting."

"Student protests," Optimus replies. "My classes were canceled for the afternoon." He gives an inquisitive glance to Ratchet's bandaged hand, but doesn't ask.

Starscream has fallen oddly silent. Ratchet can't read any of what she feels at the sight of Optimus, but her hands have gone still over the covers of the bed.

"This is Starscream," he says to break the silence. "Starscream, my husband Optimus Prime."

"Good afternoon," Optimus greets in as deep a voice as he ever uses. He places the bouquet on Starscream's bedside table before holding his hand out to her. "Ratchet's told me so much about you, it's a pleasure."

"Pleasure's mine," she replies. Another long second later, she shakes Optimus's hand.

Awkwardness fades as Optimus lingers, as it is wont to do. Starscream never quite becomes the loosened version of herself she is around Ratchet alone, but she comes close enough with Optimus's conversation. Optimus himself never comments upon her wounds or anything so untoward; he delights her instead with stories of his students or of Ratchet himself, who huffs in indignation but allows it.

He leaves only when visiting hours come to a close. Ratchet cannot linger for the whole afternoon—he has work to do, patients to see to and surgery to prepare for the coming days—but he passes by often enough to see Optimus and Starscream deep in conversation. He comes back as the sun sets outside, walking inside as Optimus finishes, "… hope to see you again soon."

"You too," Starscream replies with what almost sounds like sincerity.

Optimus squeezes Ratchet's hand on his way out. "See you tonight," he murmurs.

The hospital has gone quiet. Many of the families around are leaving too, some with bright faces, some wearing heavy frowns. This is daily habit to Ratchet, not something he attaches too much attention to, but Starscream looks for a long time. She stares at the wives and husbands, the children, the friends. She stays silent until night crawls over the city and forces Ratchet to reach for the nearest lamp's switch.

She blinks at the sudden light. "Well, what do you know," she says. "Your husband's hot."

"Yes," Ratchet replies with pride.

"I was picturing some little old man with no hair."

He blushes, knowing she is once again referencing his own receding hairline. "Glad I could prove you wrong," he retorts frostily.

She chuckles.

Taking her hand in his feels so very easy. She doesn't even twitch when she feels his blunt fingers around her own, when he closes them and strokes over her bloodless knuckles. It is as though Ratchet hasn't thought of doing this so many times before, only to hold himself back.

Her grip is very tight.

"If I invite you to have dinner again," he says softly. "Will you come this time?"

She doesn't reply. She is looking through the window and at the dark city, the light of which shines on her skin. She has put gold glitter at the highest of her cheekbones today; when she moves her head this way and that, her face glows like metal.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asks.

He doesn't have to think before replying, "Yes. Of course."

It doesn't matter if she means all the times he was rude to her, all the times he was uncouth and grumpy, or all the others. The dry comments over bad coffee. The cold smiles driven out by cold laughter. Looking at her wounded body laid on a medical stretcher and calling himself her friend.

He has never been anything but honest with her.

Starscream takes her hand away from his, patting it twice in condescension.

"Then ask me again."

[weareimprobable]

Almeida Young Critics review The Paper Man

We had the distinct pleasure of welcoming the Almeida Young Critics to The Paper Man at Soho Theatre a couple weeks ago. The Almeida Young Critics are a group of 10 young people aged 15–25 who work with the Almeida over a year to produce responses to theatre across London.You can read more about the group here.

Here are a few of their responses to the show 👇

Minna Jeffery:

Sometimes touching, sometimes joyful, sometimes uncomfortable, and always complicated, I’m finding The Paper Man a tricky show to review. In some ways that implies that I found it a tricky show to watch, but I didn’t really, mostly. I found it funny and engaging and o p e n.

So what is The Paper Man about? It’s sort of about football. Originally, it was supposed to be about the eponymous ‘paper man’, Matthias Sindelar, once the world’s best footballer, who lead the Austrian team to victory against the Nazi orders. An apt story of resistance in a time of escalating far-right violence. The idea to make a show about Sindelar came from Lee Simpson, Improbable’s co-artistic director. Simpson cast four women to help him make and perform the show (Vera Chok, Jess Mabel Jones, Keziah Joseph, and Adrienne Quartly), and quickly found that they were resisting the direction he wanted for the show, uninterested in making ‘yet another show about a dead white man’.

I would say there are broadly three things going on in The Paper Man:

1. The telling of the story of Matthias Sindelar, complete with evocative shadow puppetry (Jess Mabel Jones) and mournful cello playing (Adrienne Quartly). 2. The telling of the performers’ own relationships with football, from Lee Simpson’s self-confessed addiction, to Jess Mabel Jones’ tale of pulling boys from the sidelines of school games. 3. The telling and showing of the making of the show.

The Paper Man shows its workings, laying out pieces of the puzzle one after another, saying ‘see, this is how we got to where we are now, and where we are now is how we got here’. I tend to feel some resistance towards work that places a lot of its emphasis on ‘process’. It can feel a bit unready, a bit like you’re seeing the bits you shouldn’t be seeing, stuff that’s unfinished. Or it can also feel like ‘oh wow what a beautiful, transformational, formative experience these guys have had in making this, which I didn’t get to be a part of, and what I’m seeing is that being condensed into 90 minutes and it feels slightly unsatisfying’. I think it’s really hard to pull off process heavy shows, that put the rehearsal and making on stage, but The Paper Man does it. It does it by making that its subject. Ultimately, for me, it’s a show about telling and making, about how we tell stories and make theatre now in 2019.

I read that The Paper Man was devised through using Open Space Technology, which is a system through which the work/agendas are shaped by the people involved – diminishing hierarchy and inviting fluidity and openness, a process called ‘self-organising’. No wonder then that it ended up like this, with lots of different things going on, different threads, and everyone seemingly talking about what they want to talk about. That really excites me as a working practice, but also slightly scares me as an audience member.

Unsurprisingly, given its genesis, it’s quite episodic. I’m not always sure of what each episode is doing, but I enjoy each one in some way. And even that thought I just had there is written in to the show. There’s a bit where the show’s sound designer Adrienne Quartly comes on stage to a song (I think it was Pet Shop Boys’ It’s A Sin) and holds up placards telling the story of how formative this song was for her as a teenager. At the end of that bit Lee Simpson comes on and says something along the lines of ‘ok well I’m not really sure why that bit’s relevant to the show…’. I mean, same, but I don’t mind that it was there because I really enjoyed it and found it touching and relatable (particularly as a queer woman I guess?). The point is, they know exactly what they’re doing. The show is constantly self-aware.

There’s clear affection between Lee Simpson and the other performers, and at the beginning and end of the show they really seem like a cohesive ensemble. But a lot of the time they do also seem like an entity separate from him. The Sindelar bits, largely led by Simpson, are the most traditionally ‘theatre-y’ bits. These sections are often very beautiful, but they do feel remote from the cast members’ own stories, which feel much more immediate and ‘real’ (whatever that means). It’s weird watching that dynamic between the two forms played out on stage, and I’m not entirely sure what the end result is and what I think about this opposition.  

Looking back at the notes I took whilst watching I can see that I’ve scrawled ‘openness’ and ‘vulnerability’ several times. The heavy use of improvisation and the performers’ own biographies both feel open and vulnerable, and openness and vulnerability can really feel like endearing qualities in a performance. And The Paper Man and all its performers were, indeed, very endearing. That might sound a bit patronising, but I don’t mean it to be at all. There’s a real feeling of generosity.

It’s great to see a diverse group of women performers given prominence on stage, taking control of the narrative and being themselves unapologetically. But I do think that the show necessarily puts a lot on the women involved, asks them to share a lot of themselves. The pro of this is that it’s them taking up space and making their voices and narratives heard, but is that at the expense of giving part of themselves away? There’s a bit where the four women get audience members to pick personal questions out of a bowl for each performer to answer. Lee chooses not to take part in this exercise. The idea of these questions is that they make the participants vulnerable, which then creates a closeness between everyone involved. We, the audience, are involved insofar as we pick the questions, but we’re not giving anything of ourselves away. It’s a weird power dynamic, and this section, for all its generosity and openness and charm, does feel uncomfortable.

I really liked this show. It’s a living, breathing piece of work, a little bit different every night, always moving and changing. I’m a theatre-maker and, specifically, a dramaturg. I’m constantly examining my own and others’ working practices, so that inevitably made this an exciting show for me. It’s about what stories we choose to tell and how we tell them and what we as artists want to participate in and the work we want to make and how we value it. Listen, this review was squeezed out of a document containing over two thousand words of notes. There are bits in there like ‘the set is germane, playful yet somehow also ominous’, which I’m just not going to address now because this particular review doesn’t feel like the place for that sort of thing. Suffice to say that it’s a sticky, fun, complicated, show that does something very exciting in addressing how we make work in this current political and artistic moment. Just go and see The Paper Man so we can talk about it, yeah?

Bellaray Bertrand-Webb:

What can I say about the Paper Man? It wasn’t a traditional play but rather a real show. The performers play with the audience and with what is real and not. There was so much meat on the bone it is hard to shred down. Essentially, Paper Man is about 3 women reaffirming their identities. They do this by reclaiming a space traditionally dominated by white men, the stage. The arc of the story is that the Improbable co-Artistic Director Lee Simpson, has brought them together to tell the story of  Matthias Sindelar captain of the Austrian football team in the 1920s and 30s. To the dismay of Lee, the 3 women attempt to reconstruct the story, to take control and reuse Sindelars story for their own purpose. They will not just tell another white man’s story; instead they will rebel.

One of the ways they deconstruct Sindelar’s story, is by giving each character the spot light to relay a football memory. Not shying away from the stereotype that women don’t like football. Keziah told her story whilst playing football with Lee the only white male in the show, who ironically cut the story short by walking away. Vera Chok’s narrative was through a silent dance, the music trapped in her headphones, made it strangely moving to watch her jump from one side of the stage to the other, with just her breath as music. They were experimenting with how you tell a story, the power of the narrator and the different forms one uses for articulate truth. 

For me, what made this creatively disjointed performance click, was in one of the many moments the actors broke the forth wall. In this specific scene, they turned to the audience and asked them to take a question out of a hat to then ask it to one of the actors. So, Keziah cheekily ran up the stairs to her mum who was sitting in the back, having the best time, and asked her to choose a question, which she then asked Jess: Do you think humour can easily cross the line to be offensive? Jess responded quickly with a no, and then said it depends who is saying the joke and then retracted the latter and stuck with the original no. For me, this specific question and this specific answer summarised the play. This question serendipitously responded to an earlier scene, whereby, Jess, Keziah and Vera, dressed in their black and white football gear, wearing Hitler’s moustache, dancing to heavy grime music and on occasion incorporating the Nazi salute with the Eminem rap battle arm bounce, while the sound technician, Adrienne Quartly, held up a sign saying Feminazi. 

Writing it down plainly it does seem like a cause of concern, and probably makes you think- that is the definition of humour becoming offensive. But to be in the room and to have the previous scenes amounting to this moment, it made it almost revolutionary rather than baselessly offensive. For me, they were reclaiming an insult thrown left, right and centre by misogynists around the country. To me, it was a big ‘fuck you’ to the suppressors, oppressors, fascists and so was an empowering act to witness. 3 women from African, Chinese and British decent were having so much fun by using dancing to dominate the stage and show that they are proud of their feminism, owning the insult and in doing so ridiculing it. It made me question, what is offensive? What is humour? What is a revolutionary act? Obviously, this could have gone unbelievably badly and most of the time, it is the oppressors who feel comfortable enough to make offensive hollow jokes. But when executed well, it is liberating. 

Similarly, Sindelar, protested on the football stage. Sindelar was told to loose or draw to the Nazis but refused and consequently won against the Germans. Sindelar then walked to the Nazi delegation and danced a solo, silent, Viennese Waltz. For me both acts of protest were extremely powerful, they didn’t chain themselves to objects, shout, resort to violence, or remain subdued but rather, they translated their frustration and presented their identities through something joyful, un-seemingly political and in a way silent. For Sindelar, some believe this led to his assassination of Carbon- monoxide poisoning a few months later. Witnessing the Feminazi dance in this context I was reminded of the freedom we have on stage and in this country, our lives aren’t on the line, but we still have causes to fight for and to play with. We can have the last laugh.  

A Paper Man is clearly a feminist piece but also has the bravery to critise itself. They recognise the issues with white feminism, with a moving and deliberately awkward scene where Keziah tells Jess and Vera that the first woman football player was in fact a black woman called, Emma Clarke in 1800s as opposed to the famous white female football player Lily Parr in the 1920s, who was their poster girl for feminism and football throughout the show. Jess and Vera respond to Keziah’s sheepish reveal by saying, ‘we can’t tell everyone’s story’. Mic drop. Advocacy has its limits and that boundary is race. The scene ends with the 3 seemingly politically conscious women, shying away from the issue of white feminism and institutional racism, they have a cautious disagreement and each abort the stage. This conflict further highlights how complicated all the issues the play addresses are. There are fine lines between feminist fractions, between experiences, between doing something right and doing something wrong, between comedy and offense. Having fun and rebelling. We are all on the brink of paper thin boundaries.

Pamela Vera:

My thoughts of the Paper Man…..on paper.

Improbable co-Artistic Director Lee Simpson, a former-football-addict wanted to retell Austrian footballer Matthias Sindelar stand against fascism in 1939 Nazi Germany, ‘Nazi and football’ was the premise, however, the thanks to his diverse and outspoken four-female co-stars, it was reduced into a small sub-plot. . Keziah, Jess, Vera and Adrienne richly layered the narrative with intimate discussions and debates, about race, stereotypes, and of course gender. Creating a half-acting, half-Q & A, participatory political production with backstage segments that ultimately felt like a conversational social commentary.

As the cast reviews their own progress in between scenes, Vera, dressed in black sportswear asks ‘If we need another show about a dead white man?’ whilst casually stretching. In the era of #MeToo, gender pay gap scandals, Irish Abortion Referendum, the answer points to no. An answer that the show illustrates with fun quirky flare, whereby several narratives are told in conjunction with Sindelar’s rise and rebellion. This features monologues of football memories, a sort of backstage expose in which the cast eats, changes and discuss the show and its topics; culminating into a commentary on racial and gender inequalities, with the treatment of football greats Emily Clarke and Lily Parr symbolising the difference of ‘girly goals’ and ‘boys goals’. I’m aware of the oxymoron, illustrating how history glorified dead white men, to contrasts how other greats are discarded due to their race and gender; as to just producing a show that focuses on those unrecognised heroes and heroines in their own accord. However, the irony is so creatively executed, that it powerfully exemplifies the injustices, helping to make the Paperman one of the most idiosyncratic shows that I have seen.

The exposed set of a white framed pillar, with wooden stools scattered across the stage also instrumental to the play’s authenticity. Much like the narrative, a layering process ensued; the cast overtly constructed the set in front of the audience, during scenes. They added white curtains, tinsel, created paper projections of the dancers to the soothing violins and the visuals of fluorescent lighting, creating a lively disco atmosphere. Even the sound designer is on stage throughout the play, dressed understatedly, like the rest of the female cast who  were in either jeans, sportswear and plain tops. The DIY feel to the set design mirrored the show’s experimental essence, producing an immersive environment. As an audience, you were no longer just watching a social commentary, but also a participant. This added a lively unpredictability to the show, making the skilled actors think and react quickly, with impressive comical timing.

The show’s endearingly immature tones were cleverly offset with transitions in composition that forebode upcoming segments of thought-provoking conversations about racial and gender inequalities. The simplicity of Lee, a middle aged man, in jeans and a shirt, just standing to narrate the details of the Nazi’s systematic killing of Jewish people was an unsettling reminder of the two sides of humanity.

The show’s premise of ‘Nazis and football’ is not something I would’ve relied on for laughs,  but laugh I did, along with everyone else. There were a few times however, where boundaries were crossed. Imagine, one minute you are swaying in a fun sing-along, then next minute there is an unnecessarily overly sexualised dance of three 20-something females dressed as referees, with Hitler mustaches, finishing off with a Nazi-salute.

So word of warning, the Paper Man might not be everyone’s taste. For some, it could be a crude kerfuffle, for others bold and brilliant. For me, it was the latter; complex topics told with an authentic accessibility.

[bluefurcape]

Sakura and Kakashi - Part 1

For the KS Month 2018 prompt, “Locked In.” Posting a few days early because it’s getting obscenely long... Part 2 here!

  @thekakasakusquad​ @itslulu42​

It had been one year and forty days since the last time Sakura had spoken to Kakashi. But she wasn’t counting. The long silence was not surprising, since ‘Dead Last,’Sasuke’s affectionate(?) nickname for Naruto, was an apt descriptor for the esteem Sakura held in Kakashi’s eyes; something that had been a bit of an unacknowledged truth since their trainee days. She was a grown woman now, self-actualized enough to know that her worth didn’t come from the approval of others. Still, a thin shard of hurt pierced her every time he brushed passed her in the halls of the hospital without so much as a friendly, “Yo,” as he failed to meet her gaze, his nose buried in a worn orange volume in a blatant show of not to noticing her. The first time may have been an honest error. The second time too. But now (after the seven hundred and fourth time, she wasn’t counting), it was all too clear that the snub was deliberate. He had cut her from his life and she didn’t know what she had done wrong.

“Forehead, as irritating as you are, you’re a perfectly fine friend. The problem lies with the old man, not you,” Ino had said early on when Sakura began to notice the distinct lack of Kakashi interactions in her life. Ino’s blunt observation steeled her. She tried her best, as she always did, to be the person that people could rely on and trust. When she made mistakes, she apologized and made it right. She was imperfect, but she didn’t deserve the cruel cold shoulder without any explanation. If she had done something wrong, then Kakashi should have come to her; the fact that he hadn’t only drove home that even after all of this time, even after facing the end of the world together, he wouldn’t do her that small courtesy when she would have torn apart the moon if he ever came to ask her for help (and presumably asked her to tear apart the moon).

She was done. Done with his bullshit and his aloof, brooding manner. He didn’t care about her and it was time to come to terms with it, painful as that would be to admit. Since she was a young girl, she had tried so hard to meet his expectations, exceed them even, because his expectations had not been high when it came to her. Why did she try so hard? That was a question that would require a hard look at herself that she didn’t want to do. She disliked the hunger, the need to be liked, that made her feel small and petty. She didn’t need him. She had other people who cared about her enough to treat her like a human being. Her job was not to try and fix him or bend over backwards for a golden star that would never come. How much of herself had she poured in the effort to gain Kakashi’s approval? Too much. She needed to move on.

She sighed, leaning back in her creaking chair. The thick medical texts on her shelves were grouped by body part, starting with the head downward, though she thought it might have been better if it had been by illnesses and conditions; these were then further alphabetized by title within their grouping. Her framed certificates had been leveled on their respective places on the wall. The little juniper bonsai growing in its blue ceramic pot had been trimmed and re-wired. If she were to open her drawers, all of her supplies would be in perfect order, her paper clips in stacked rows from end to end, her sticky notes arranged by color. Her office was normally neat, but today, it was on a different level of organization. She was beginning to eye the various pens in the cup sitting before her and considering whether to arrange them by color or nib thickness. As of late, this was the routine that she’d settled on, lingering after work without much reason. Too drained from a full day to treat another patient, but still feeling an itch, a need to be doing something instead of sitting at home.

The surface of her desk gleamed in the late summer sunset that streamed through her office windows, the small nicks and stains from coffee mugs highlighted. From where she sat, she could see many of the hospital staff leaving the building, their shifts over, heading to dinner with their loved ones. The streets of Konoha outside of the courtyard began to fill with slow foot traffic, shopkeepers waving to customers, eateries opening their doors to welcome the evening rush. She watched them aimlessly, feeling as if the world was moving forward and she had stopped.

A familiar shock of silver hair surfaced through the many heads in the crowd. The corners of Sakura’s lips twitched down as she spotted Kakashi walking leisurely against the flow of traffic, headed toward the administrative building that was just a short jaunt from the hospital. Jerk, she thought.

A sparrow fluttered onto the ledge outside of her window, interrupting her idle people watching, and politely hopped further in. Sakura held out her hand, letting the bird bounce into her palm and disappear in a puff of smoke. It left behind a small rolled up scroll tied with a piece of twine. When she opened the message and read its contents, her brows knitted together at the summons to see the Hokage, stamped in the corner with a seal to notate the high level of urgency.

She thought of Kakashi walking to the administrative building. A sinking feeling weighed down on her that he had received a similar message and that their paths would be crossing that day.

#

The administrative building was eerily empty when Sakura arrived. When she walked through the front doors, a lone aide greeted her and led her to one of the lower levels underground, where the offices and meeting chambers were more secure, built for conferences among the political elite of Konoha. The hairs on the back of Sakura’s neck stood as she anticipated being briefed on a mission. Once they reached their destination, the aide unlocked a heavily fortified door, making a few quick hand seals, and gestured for her to enter. Sakura glanced around uneasily, prone to suspicion especially when the situation did not seem quite right. She peered inside and saw that Kakashi was already there, slouching in a chair while he read, the lines of his body language completely relaxed. While she was still apprehensive of his company, she was somewhat reassured that he was present and seemingly blase about the whole thing.

The room decor was like many of the other office spaces in the building, spare, but functional. A rectangular table dominated the center, meant to seat many people at once, though there was only one occupant now. The blank walls were painted an unassuming light beige, with the barest decoration, a set of old fashioned festival masks carved from wood to represent a fox demon, a shrine maiden, and tengu. Not a window in sight. On a side cabinet, Naruto had provided a samovar of coffee and a little bar of sugar, cream, and stirrers, possibly anticipating a long night. Upon entering, the door shut with a thud behind Sakura, making her jump. Many clicks followed as the mechanisms within turned back into place. A complicated seal of characters snaked out from the center of the stone, coiling in a perfect circle as its edges expanded. When it reached its end, the characters glowed red briefly before fading back to black.

Sakura turned away from the door to her only companion in the enclosed space, awkwardly standing there as he ignored her presence. He didn’t even spare her a glance as she sat down at the table, a few chairs of respectable space between them. The moment her butt hit the seat a panel in the table parted. She leapt back to her feet, while Kakashi remained thoroughly unimpressed. A speaker rose up, whining to life.

“Test, test,” Naruto’s voice came through.

Sakura slammed her hands on the table, forming delicate cracks on its surface. “What the hell is going on?”

“Good evening, friends. So, there’s something that I’ve noticed in the past…month or so that things have become awkward, to put it lightly,” Naruto said. Not that she explicitly talked to him about her troubles with Kakashi, but Sakura still rolled her eyes at the fact that Naruto was always the last one to notice that something was amiss. There were a few snickers in the background, indicating that a few others had the same thought as Sakura. Wait, others?

"You're such a dope, Naruto," Ino's voice crackled over the speaker.

"Hey, if I'm such a dope, then how did I come up with this super brilliant plan? Now, Sakura. Kakashi. You're probably wondering what is going on."

"You noticed that things were weird between Kakashi and me and decided to lock us in a room until we talked," Sakura responded flatly.

Silence followed.

"Err." A slight rustle as he shifted uncomfortably. "Yea." A healthy chorus of mocking laughter ensued. Sakura could almost see him standing there dejectedly as he was sympathetically, if not condescendingly, patted on the back. An 'A' for effort at least.

"Who else is there?" she asked suspiciously.

"Not that many of us." His voice went an octave higher as he lied. She scowled. She could clearly hear Hinata softly giggling and Tsunade's cackle was too distinct for her not to recognize, especially after she'd heard it live on many occasions when a bottle of forbidden (by Shizune) sake was involved. Kiba loudly whispered that he predicted that this would end in sex. Her cheeks flushed. Naruto cleared his throat and continued, his tone very much like the one that he used for wayward Academy students that had been brought to him for a good scaring. "This is for your own good! You're both acting like children and honestly, it's high time to grow the fuck up. We'll check in on you in the morning, but you're in a reinforced room made of stone that naturally dampens chakra. There are snacks and drinks in the cabinet." He was gloating. He was definitely gloating for all those times that she'd used the same tone of voice on him when he and Sasuke got into one of their ridiculous spats.

"Let us out, you psychos!" She grabbed hold of the speaker, rattling it. In that moment of desperation of not wanting to be trapped in the same room as the man that she'd been avoiding for months, she forgot her own strength even without any enhancements from her chakra, ripping the electronic device from the open panel. The ends of the raw wires sputtered with sparks as she stared at the now quiet box. She let out a squeak of dismay as she stared at the broken speaker. Shit. She dropped the speaker on the table, changing tactics, turning to the door that she had come from just a few minutes ago. The imposing seal bore down on her as she called upon the familiar pathways of energy that ran through her body that would grant her the ability to bust through the wall like the human wrecking ball that the legends and myths surrounding her claimed she was. Briefly, she felt a surge of strength, but like a candle being doused, it guttered and she instinctively knew that punching through now would only result in a broken hand. Being in tremendous pain would not change the fact that she was stuck in a room all night with Hatake Kakashi, masked man of infinite scorn, the silver haired asshole of silence....judgy judgeroo. Grabbing a chair, she threw it with all her might at the door, shattering it into splinters. Not a scratch. She cried out in frustration until her throat felt raw. By the time she quieted, her face was heated and she was breathing hard.

“Oh boy,” Kakashi muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” she snapped.

“Nothing.”

She glared at him as he continued to read. When the force of the resentment from her eyes failed to kill him on the spot, she returned her attention to the seal, taking in its construction and trying to find a weak point in it.

“The Fourth invented that thing on the door, you know,” Kakashi said, referring to the past leader who was most famous for successfully sealing a demonic creature of ancient malevolence into his infant son. She felt a brief surge of empathy for the nine tailed fox.

So she did the only thing that she could do given the situation and sat down on the floor, her face in her hands, resigning herself to the fact that she was in for a long night. Compared to other, high risk missions where she had fought off enemies determined to tear her limbs from their sockets, this was infinitely worse. It wasn’t that she didn’t want this awkwardness with Kakashi to end, but it was getting to the principle of it all. He needed to learn that he couldn’t treat her like this anymore. More than anything, she needed to know that she wouldn’t let him treat her like this.

No words passed between them. A clock did not grace any of the walls, nothing to tick away the seconds and marking the drag of time. She paced. She lied down on the ground. She stood on a chair and checked one of the air vents, only to find it too small to even fit her head, a precaution likely to prevent covert activities while important political discussions were being had. The silent was beginning to feel like a cloud of noxious perfume, tolerable when there was enough distance between them, but concentrated and choking in an enclosed space.

“I think it’s been more than three hours,” she claimed aloud, just to break the monotony.

Kakashi glanced at his watch (when had he started wearing watches?), and responded, “It’s been forty two minutes.”

Loud swearing followed.

[ld61061]

Baby, It's Rapey in Here

If you don't know, in the days of Christ, Pharisees were the people telling everybody what they should do and not do. And they did it with the arrogance of a straight white 25 year old Mormon who just named his planet.

Now, by "Jesus", I mean a whacky Jewish street-magician and sometime Rabbi named Y'shua who, between alcoholic benders with his bro's, wowed crowds with crazy Eastern slight-of-hand and who later got turned into a Disney Prince/Ken doll named Jesus.

Y'shua is credited with saying a lot of cool stuff that was pretty generic Jewish wisdom, but we don't like attributing cool wisdom to Jews, because Jews shouldn't have nice things if you love Disney Jesus, which we do.

As for Pharisees, they were big fish in the little pond where Y'shua lived. Outside of Palestine, nobody gave a shit what a Pharisee was, but in the political life of that small little country, Pharisees were the Tea Party. Or, if you'd like to keep it Biblical, you can think of them as Darth Vader if Darth couldn't leave town. They were powerful af in town and nothing 2 steps outside, get it?

Anyway, Y'shua loved to turn the Pharisees' sensibilities on them. When it was possible to take their logic and shove it up their asses, he was right there with the shoving, preferably in public. Peter, later to become the epitome of Popiness, held the lube. Pharisees were the villians of a lot of Jebus's stories, expressly because they favored their own fucked-up ideas about God over and above oogie stuff like human love... have you ever noticed how sticky humans are?

Y'shua liked to say that the most serious stuff in a Pharisee's world, like not eating shrimp, not touching your girl's hand when she's on her period and not wearing cotton/poly blends has fuck-all to do with God's love, and he knew he was right because God is his Daddy. Yes, in that sense, too.

As long as we're on the subject of shrimp, it is a little-known fact that Y'shua wanted to serve everybody Shrimp Cocktail at the Sermon on the Mount, but had to settle for loaves and fishes when the caterer didn't come through. Also, no cocktail sauce in 1st Century Palestine -- no one had thought to combine ketchup, Worcestershire sauce and horseradish into that delectable condiment we now know as cocktail sauce. I made that up, but now you can make your own cocktail sauce

All of this fun drove the Pharisees into a murderous rage because obviously, God doesn't get woodies unless he's ordering genocide, which he did do, kind of more often than is generally considered polite. In a Pharisee's world, if God said murder me some babies and old people, that was absolutely a-okay as long as you weren't doing it in a 50/50 cotton/poly tee. And yes, I'm overstating -- this is satire, dear.

Now along the way to being asphyxiated in a state-sponsored execution, Jebus said that Our Daddy who Art in Heaven doesn't want us mistreating each other. Unless it's consensual and there's a safe word. Take all the laws and genocides that have been attributed to Daddy, all the murdering and raping and just... don't. Instead, just be nice. To everybody. And have a glass of wine, for fuck's sake.

Y'shua loved him some hookers, almost as much as he hated Pharisees, did I mention that? Well, he liked to talk about hookers, and not like The Donald does, but respectfully, knowing that his audience would have found pros to be the absolute worst sort of human. In order to show just how deeply Daddy means, "Don't hurt each other," Y'shua would tell stories about not hurting even a hooker, not when she's on duty and not when she's off. This idea is now referred to as the Gospel: don't slap hookers and sure as hell don't kill them. Even if you're in a 100% wool blazer.

Unfortunately for the future of humanity, Y'shua was more street magician and poet than he was lawyer. He wasn't too specific and he never said boo about stuff we wish he had, like what it really means to Be Nice or when life begins or wtf is up with stuffed-crust pizza, but let's cut him some slack -- he never flushed a toilet or wiped his ass, he probably never saw a white person, never looked in a mirror or brushed his teeth and if he'd ever heard of a candle, he'd have been willing to stand in line overnight to get one. We can only expect so much.

But even Y'shua -- a dirty, primitive half-crazy hooker-loving street-magician wino -- even he could see thay loving God either means caring for each other, respecting even the least of us, or it doesn't mean anything.

Getting back to the pissed-off Pharisees, they got the Roman governor to look the other way and -- long story short -- killed Y'shua. Or maybe not, that part's a little up in the air. At any rate, the bad guys won, clearing the way for an asshole named Saul to pick the legend of Y'shua out of the gutter, polish it up, set it to music and viola! Jesus! Later, other guys loped off our hero's talliwhacker, stuffed his ass shut and completed the transformation of Y'shua to DisneyPrince KenDoll Jesus. But that's another story.

The reason I'm telling this story, of Pharisees and Y'shua, is that irony I wanted to share way back at the beginning, and now you're ready! Go, you!

We live in a time when growed-ass Christians have become... wait for it... Pharisees. They based a religion on a guy and then gradually became the bad guys in their hero's story! Ta-Da! Irony!

Pharisees hate people, always have and always will -- too sticky. But they sure know what change is, and fighting change is a lot more important than being nice. These are people whose daily lives are filled with Miracles beyond even Disney Jesus' imagining: And lo, the wall of the home didst produce hot flowing water. The small box sang with the voice of an Angel, and the crowd didst mutter, "skip".

So phone apps and plumbing is all in a day's work but the concept of Be Nice is too complicated? Would explain why this whole Constitutional Republic thing is losing traction.

Lately the Pharisees can't see, for the life of them, what is wrong with a song about getting a woman liquored up and getting her to stay over. It's all in good fun, right?

Honestly, this song and it's fate is nothing. But respecting one another and being nice instead of hurting each other? It's still a good idea, and much, much simpler than the Pharisees can abide or understand.

[ussjellyfish]

experiencing limitations | teen | Star Trek

for @tiny-tiger-lily​ in round 22 of @trek-rarepair-swap​. (down to the wire...apologies, I had a weird not-creative steak I had to work through).

Lwaxana Troi/Lady Q, adventures in imperfection

After the third hour of being watched, Lwaxana knew. That sort of pretension wasn't found in lesser beings. To be capable of that kind of smugness, that sort of pulsing, pervasive sense of being better than everything around you, you had to be part of the First through Third houses of Betazed (everyone knew they were stuck up). Or maybe a particularly stuck up Vulcan.

Or Q.

She'd heard about Q from Deanna, mostly polite letters that started out ranting and calmed (Deanna had always been so careful to calm herself, even as a child). She was too uptight, really, it was why she was so involved in her work when she was surrounded by so many wonderful people she could be enjoying...

Shutting her eyes, Lwaxana quieted her thoughts, stilling them so she could listen to that knot of being that was so convinced she couldn't hear them. Reaching deep within herself, she centered her abilities, then said the only thing she could, really.

I do know you're there.

Silence held her, both within and without. The wind whispered through the leaves, tickling the hair on the back of her neck. Her wig itched a little, and the silk of her gown slid over her wrist when she reached for her tea. Physical sensations, unimportant, focus on her mind.

The presence had jumped. Whatever they were, they were so intent on being still (regaining that smugness) that they overreacted.

Which meant they'd heard her.

I still know you're there, she sent. Picking up her tea, she opened her eyes. Pretension cracked like dried mud when one found the right place to hit it.

"That's a crude image."

The voice taunted her ears, playful, amused, but still--

"Your disdain only makes it more appropriate." She refused to look for the voice, if they were ready to be seen, they would be. Until they were, the ewuxi flowers were quite beautiful, blue in the center, heavy on their vines.

"Even your thoughts are trying to annoy me," the voice coalesced into a white flash of light, then a woman, seemingly human (only to the eyes). Her thick red hair, darker than Beverly's, fell over her shoulders in waves, and she wore a simple maroon robe embroidered with silver. That style would have been in fashion hundreds of years ago.

"Which is when I last visited your charming, humid, little planet." She waved her hand and after more white light, her dress resembled Lwaxana's own, but somehow more ostentatious, brighter--

Lwaxana tilted her head and smirked. "To what do we owe the honor?"

"Betazed has accomplished nothing of note recently, at least, not to me. No, I'm afraid this visit is solely for you." She crossed to the table beside Lwaxana on the terrace, taking a seat as she made her own drink appear. "Don't you love hearing me admit that?"

Yes.

I thought you might. The being- Q- her thoughts insisted was her name, smiled. Her lips were a deeper red than the blood of winter roses. Impossibly so.

How fascinating.

I really am. Q insisted, lifting her tea. "You're really going to like me."

"What makes you so sure?" If this Q wanted to play, Lwaxana was more than happy to dance.

Q reached for her hand, taking it from her cup, she studied Lwaxana's skin, then lifted it to her mouth. She kissed the back of Lwaxana's hand and power crackled through her.

"Tease."

"Which is what you enjoy."

"Well, yes."

"And you just say that." Q released her hand and sat back, shaking her head. "Why do humans not behave that way?"

"Honesty is too difficult for them sometimes, they hide too much."

Q licked her lips, leaning close across the table. "I was hiding."

"I still heard you."

"And that-" Q paused, beaming, "-that is what makes you so very fascinating. You shouldn't have been able to hear me."

"And I did."

"That smugness is nearly as much as mine."

Now Lwaxana laughed. "Don't I deserve it? I felt a Q, you're a being of incredible power-"

"The most in the universe."

"And I, a lowly bipedal species, felt your presence."

"You did." Q traced her finger along Lwaxana's hand, then the inside of her wrist. "What would you like to do about that?"

This time the flash of light was purely in Q's head. Some kind of memory? A thought?

No.

That was sex. Lwacana was going to have the headache to end all headaches tomorrow, but today, she was suddenly, intimately aware that the being of unlimted power across from her thought of sex as a flash of light.

Beautiful, fulfilling, passionate.

And horribly dull.

Q clucked her tongue. "Well, don't think that all at once."

"No wonder you're here." Lwaxana tossed her tea to the ewuxi vines. "We'll need something stronger."

"I don't drink."

"You're a Q." Lwaxana stood up, resting her hands on the table in front of them so that she could lean close to Q's not-really-present ear.  "You can do anything you want."

Q followed her into the house, right into the kitchen while Lwaxana chose a bottle of wine. She'd been saving the one Jean-Luc had so thoughtfully sent after he'd avoided her advances yet again. Pouring two glasses, she set it down and handed Q the wine. "I imagine, as a being without limits, that the only thing you can do to feel the thrill of being out of control, would be to limit yourself."

"It's really not as fun as it sounds." Q took the wine. "I could make this poison, or lava. I could make it the blood of a star, and it would be delicious. More delicious than you could possibly imagine."

"But you'd know what it was going to taste like."

"I can make it taste like anything I want."

"But you'll never be surprised." Lwaxana sniffed the wine, then toyed with the rim, running her fingers along it while she thought of sex. Not a flash of a perfect orgasm, but messy, sticky, imperfect sex, full of surprises. She dragged up the memories of some of her best lovers, and some of her worst, even the mediocre ones.

"He did that?" Q nearly dropped her wine. "Really?"

"Making love is complicated."

"And painful, unpleasant--" Q shuddered. "I don't know why you'd do it."

"The same reason you drink wine." Lwaxana took a sip, letting it rush warm over her tongue, peppery and rich. She shut her eyes, thinking of kissing, warm and sweet, clumsy, hungry, desperate--

"This could have been terrible." Q took a sip, and grinned. "It could be vinegar."

"It wasn't."

"And a kiss is the same."

Laughing, she finished her glass and poured herself some more. "A kiss is far better than wine."

"Is it?"

"It can be."

Q set down her wine and advanced, pressing their bodies together, running her fingers over Lwaxana's chin. Her eyes remained locked on her lips. "I haven't said this in eons, but, dear Lwaxana of the Fifth House of Betazed, show me."

[this-sapphic-paradise]

When Push Comes to Shove (Alex & Sam)

I’m ignoring canon like I’ve never done before. This will be very slow-burn y’all, and I’ll post all chapters on AO3 as well. 

I hope you enjoy this setup chapter ^^

"Hey, mom," Ruby says, holding her mother's arm to get her attention. "Isn't that the lady we met on the pier? The one you made me apologize to?"

Sam stops walking when Ruby tugs at her arm, and she looks into the café she's pointing to. "Oh, yeah." she smiles. "That's Alex, Kara's sister."

"Ah…" Ruby nods, thinking for a second. "So is she your friend now too?"

Sam snorts out a laugh, "I mean…kinda? I'm friends with Lena, Lena is friends with Kara, and that's her sister. We're not exactly bffs."

Ruby rolls her eyes at her mother. "You're always telling me I need to make more friends, that it's going to make the move to National City feel easier… That's true for you too, you know?"

Sam can't help the warm smile that appears on her lips; her daughter is growing up more and more each day, and sometimes it just takes her by surprise. Booping Ruby's nose -- making her scrunch it and try to swat her mother's hand away -- Sam says, "You're right. Should we go in so I can say hi to her?"

Ruby shrugs, but she's smiling. She likes this lady, she gets a pretty badass vibe from her. "Sure… I mean, why not?"

"Okay. Let's do it, then." Sam chuckles, pulling the door to the café open and letting Ruby walk in in front of her.

"Alex, sorry to interrupt you--" Sam says politely when they reach Alex's table. "Someone wanted to say hello."

Alex is surprised, but the sight of Ruby immediately makes her smile -- not that if Sam were alone she wouldn't be welcome, mind you, but Alex has really taking a liking to the teenager.

"Sam, Ruby, hi!" Alex smiles, and stands up to give each of them a hug. "You guys aren't interrupting anything, please--" she says motioning to the empty chairs at her table.

"Just so we're clear, by 'someone', my mom means herself." Ruby says, making a funny face at her mom before sitting next to Alex.

Chuckling, Sam shakes her head, and takes a seat as well. "I wasn't the only one, though. I think you have a fan, Alex."

"Mom!!!" Ruby whines, covering her face to hide her blushing.

The whole situation is highly amusing to Alex, and she tries to make the teenager feel better, "Well, I'm your fan too, Ruby. We're cool." she says, winking at Ruby when the girl chances a look at her.

Sam watches the interaction with nothing but appreciation in her eyes; it's hard to find nice people she would consider being friends with, and it's even harder to find nice people who are good with kids, but Alex seems to be both.

Once her mind returns to the present, Sam asks, "Are we keeping you? We don't want to be any trouble."

"Oh, pfft." Alex waves dismissively. "It's my day off, so it's no trouble at all, I promise."

"Okay, good." Sam smiles brightly.

"Mom told me you have a girlfriend, is she an FBI agent like you?" Ruby asks curiously.

"Um, no--" Sam watches as Alex's gaze falls, and she fidgets awkwardly in her chair. "But she is a detective, though." Alex tries to smile, but Sam notices it doesn't look genuine. "Um, she and I… W-We're not dating anymore."

"Oh…" Ruby is the one who feels awkward now, and she looks at her mom for help.

"I'm sorry, Alex." Sam says reaching across the table to gently squeeze Alex’s arm.

“It’s okay.” Alex blushes slightly, looking down at where Sam’s hand is. “We had different visions for our future; mine involved having kids, hers didn’t.” She shrugs a little, trying to pretend the breakup doesn’t still hurt.

“Hey,” Sam says softly, squeezing Alex’s arm once more. “You two were very mature and level-headed to do what you did. Most people I know would just insist on a future they knew couldn’t happen. But you knew that a difference that big would get in the way of you being happy. You did the right thing."

"I know…" Alex sighs, giving Sam a small smile. "Thank you."

"Maybe now you could date my mom." Ruby says as if she's stating a simple fact, and with the naiveté only kids have.

"Ruby!" Sam groans lowly, pulling her hand away from Alex; but she isn't mad, just amused at her daughter's line of thought.

"What?" The kid asks, shrugging at her mother. "You're single, she's single. You're awesome, she's awesome…"

Alex is blushing and wide-eyed. She was not expecting to hear that.

"And that's all that matters, right?" Sam chuckles. "Here," she grabs a twenty-dollar bill from her wallet and hands it to Ruby. "Get me a sticky bun and a cappuccino, please. You can treat yourself, get anything you want."

Ruby knows her mom just wants her out of there for a bit to talk to Alex in private, but she's happy she gets to buy whatever she wants, so she complies without putting up a fight.

Once Ruby gets in line to order, Sam laughs and shakes her head. "I swear to god, sometimes I think she doesn't have a filter between her brain and her mouth, but she means well…she just wants me to be happy."

"Well… she's right." Alex starts, only to realize how her words might be interpreted so she hurries to explain, "I-I mean…not-not that we should date, we barely know each other and I just got out of a very serious relationship, b-but…um…" Alex facepalms and shakes her head, laughing at herself. "W-What I mean is, she's right in wanting to see you happy."

Sam wouldn't admit it to anyone just yet, but she found Alex's stumbling to find the right words very endearing. She's used to people having silver tongues, talking so smoothly you're inclined to believe everything they say only for half of it to be lies; Alex is different, she seems to be confident about a lot of things, but when it comes to her feelings, she seems to have a bit of a hard time, and to Sam that suggests that Alex is trying her best to be truthful.

"I know." Sam grins. "She's a great kid… Sometimes…sometimes it's hard to believe that she came from me, you know?" Alex's heart skips a beat, and her stomach flutters at the way Sam talks about her daughter; that's exactly the way she wants to feel, she wants to feel that unconditional love for her child too. "She's growing up so fast… she's her own person now, and god, it's terrifying." Sam chuckles.

"I think you're doing a great job." Alex says with a smile. "And I know it mustn't be easy with the job you have."

"It isn't." Sam sighs. "I wish I had more time to spend with her… or that I had someone I trust to help me out, but--" Sam looks at Alex and chuckles, "I can't even remember when was the last time I dated."

"Three years ago." Ruby says, walking back to the table with their order. "I remember, because Paul was supposed to go to my first piano recital and he didn't show up. And then you broke up with him."

Sam shares a look with Alex; a look that says everything they couldn't voice at that moment, because Sam didn't want to make Ruby feel bad. But Alex understands that dating someone when you have a kid is much more complicated, so she smiles reassuringly at Sam, and gives her a little nod.

"But hey, I do remember how much break-ups suck." Sam chuckles, and Alex laughs with her. "You suddenly find yourself alone, and when you want to do something, your partner in crime is not there to have fun with you, so--" Sam smirks slightly at Alex, "Having a friend in times like this could be really useful; how about you come have dinner with us tomorrow?"

"Yes!! Can you come??" Ruby asks excitedly, making her mom chuckle.

"No pressure, Alex. If you're busy, or not feeling up for it, it's okay." Sam reassures her.

Alex looks from Sam to Ruby, and she can't help but melt at the way the girl seems so excited to have her over; and hey, having Sam as a friend might be good since she seems like a very cool, intelligent woman. "I'll be there." Alex says, smiling at both of them.

Ruby grins happily -- something that doesn't go unnoticed by her mother -- and Sam says, "How about you come over around seven, and we can chat while I cook?"

"Sounds like a plan." Alex grins.

They continue chatting and eating their food until Sam and Ruby have to go, leaving Alex smiling to herself as she looks at the piece of paper with Sam's phone number and address, and she thinks that this might the beginning of a good friendship.