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takuyakistall · 3 years

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threads that connect us

At first, you had no idea what everyone around you kept on saying. The threads that connect everybody together, it took your breath away the first time you saw it. A beautiful sight that reminded you that no one is truly alone on this earth. What’s a better way to enjoy it than letting someone you love witness it with you?

The ability to be able to see the things no normal people would normally see wasn’t an ability you possessed from birth. Your family came from a long line of magicians blessed with the Tailor’s Eye. Despite what that name implies, the only tailor from your family lineage stretched back to a few hundred years ago who was said to be the very reason why they had the special sight in their possession. It was said that she used to sew until her fingers bled. A certain customer that came across her was so taken by the clothes she made, touched by her dedication and skill. So he blessed her with the ability to see things the naked human eye cannot.

Ever since then, the ability was passed down from generation to generation to the firstborn of every family. It was not something they possessed from birth, it was something they get after reaching a certain age. Those who got hold of it had said the pain that came with it was excruciating as it felt as if their eyes were being burned until it turned into a different colour. You were no exception. And as the name implies, it was only one eye that shall turn into a different colour��people often thought your family just had very strong genes with the way every firstborn had heterochromia.

After you had reached a certain age, your vision suddenly became blurry and you already collapsed from the pain as you put a hand over your eyes, hoping to soothe the pain that came with the so-called blessing. The moment you opened your eyes, a whole new world was before you—everything you had known about the Tailor’s Eye up to this point was quickly washed away after experiencing it yourself. When your mother said it would reveal things you normally wouldn’t see, you thought it had something to do with the supernatural.

Much to your surprise, it had nothing to do with ghosts or anything of the sort. What you saw was far different from the things you imagined. Threads—fitting for a child of a family with a history of becoming great tailors. Never in your wildest dreams have you thought that you would see threads. Threads that connect people, whether it be the red thread that told you who was fated together or the nearly invisible thread that told you about friends who have yet to meet.

It was overwhelming at first, the sight of so many threads at once nearly made you lose your head as you figured out which was which. So many threads tangled together it was nearly impossible for you to tell which was which, was this really a blessing?

Though with time, you have learned to appreciate it as you were going to have to live with it now. Seeing thousands of those strings connecting people together was something you’ve come to love with your heart, a beautiful sight that constantly reminded you that no one was truly alone on this earth no matter what you think. There was not a single person that did not have a thread attached to them, loneliness is never eternal.

Your job, as someone who possesses this power, is to make sure that both ends of the thread on the brink of snapping meet in the end. In this world, there are countless threads that are about to snap as well. Whether it be because of fate or interference from an outsider not meant to get involved, though not always, there are special cases wherein you have to step in to ensure the fate of certain people don’t get into an intangible mess.

Upon entering NRC, the first thing you did was explore where the threads lead you. It was rare, but there are times where those who possess this special sight can see their own strings. A nearly invisible thread that made your heart race, a friend you haven't met yet. To say you were excited was an understatement, that string led to none other than a first year.

“What’s your name?” You asked, curiosity sparkling in your eyes as you saw the countless threads attached to him. No red in sight, you began to grow more interested. His skin looked like fine porcelain, his eyes shined brightly like sapphires and his hair of the colour lavender—he looked like a doll made by the finest dollmaker.

“Epel Felmier, yours?” His round and inquiring eyes made you smile wider, his voice was as beautiful as you thought it would be. You stretched your hand towards him and shot him a grin with the intent to make a good impression, you were fated to be connected to each other after all. You told him your name and shortly after, he took your hand in his and shook it. It was the start of your story with him.

With time, you came to know the multiple sides to him. You came to love him for the way he is with your heart, though there was something that scared you from the bottom of your heart. Epel had no red thread attached to him whatsoever, it was as if the world was telling you that he was not your fated to be. You understood the words of your elders when they said that those eyes could easily become a curse under certain circumstances; falling in love was one of them.

If the one you fell in love with had a red string attached to someone else who wasn’t you, wouldn’t that become unbearable? Epel had none, that could only mean one thing to you. He wasn’t going to fall for anyone. Not for you, not for anyone, fate had decided to let him be that way. You thought it was impossible and yet, he was living proof of otherwise. It was futile to try and deny it.

As time passed by, you came to hate seeing such threads in your field of vision. You cursed it, it was no blessing to you as it burdened you with the weight of knowing Epel will never be truly yours. A cruel fate that you wished would change… But your feelings for the boy remained unchanging. The last bit of irrationality you held told you that it wouldn’t be bad to remain friends with him when it tore your heart to bits during your every waking moment.

It wasn’t so bad, it wasn’t so bad, right? Convincing yourself that was a difficult task.

“Do you know how to sew?” You asked him, holding up a thread and needle.

“A little bit, my grandmother taught me the basics at least.” You handed him the thread and needle, and without another word, he grabbed a white piece of fabric and started sewing to show you his basic skill set.

“My family is famous for being skilled craftsmen. My grandfather used to tell me that life is like a finished piece of embroidery, one stitch at a time taken patiently and the pattern will come out right,” you trailed off. “But I never really liked sewing, you know?”

Maybe it was because Epel was too focused on his current task but his only reply was an offhand comment asking you why. You decided to change the subject after a quick look at him, you felt your heart beat faster.

“Hey, do you wanna see the threads that connect everyone together? You know, the thing they tell children in legends.” You heard him let out a scoff, he thought you were being ridiculous. You pouted, “What’s with that reaction, I’m serious!”

“As if we can see it. We might have magic but that sort of thing is impossible to see—does it even exist in the first place?”

“It’s just a matter of whether or not you want to see it.” With your magic pen in hand, you utter out a spell and before Epel could fully comprehend what was happening around him, a burst of colours invaded his vision without any prior warning as countless threads suddenly appeared out of nowhere in front of him.

No words left his lips as he felt as if his breath was being taken away by the overwhelming sight. He frantically looked towards your direction and for a split second, he swore he saw a glint of red light coming from one of the many threads attached to you—the thread that was also attached to him. Not long after a few seconds, the vision suddenly disappeared and everything was back to normal.

Epel stood up and approached you, urgency present in everything he does. “What the hell was that!?”

“Haha! It looks like I startled you,” you laughed.

“Damn right I was!”

“Don’t worry, I just exchanged our vision for a few seconds so you could experience the world through my eyes. I must say, having a normal sight like yours felt very foreign to me now that my ‘normal’ is different.”

“You live like this?” He was beyond baffled, “you should’ve given me a warning beforehand.”

You took a step closer to him, tilting your head slightly. Epel’s cheeks flushed slightly.

“I thought my previous question was sufficient. But enough of that! How was it?”

“I… have a lot of questions, of course. But, for now, does the red string of fate exist in your world too?”

“Yup! Why do you ask?” The romantic legend about the red string of fate, those at the opposite ends are supposed to be soulmates. “I didn’t know you were into romantic stuff like that, Epel.”

“It’s nothing much…” He covered his mouth with his hand, the realization suddenly dawning on him. That sight he saw earlier… wasn’t just his eyes playing tricks on him, right?

#twisted wonderland epel #epel felmier #twst epel #epel felmier x reader #epel x reader #this was supposed to be longer but i got lazy HJASHHAS #twst writing #my writing #twst x reader #unedited too (skull emoji) have my raw rot

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gingermintpepper · 3 years

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Gloxinia and Meliodas' First Meeting.

Time Period: Sometime during the Holy War

»»————-　♔　————-««

He remembers the Lord of the Faefolk.

Elizabeth lays limp in his arms.

The world explodes around him, typhoon’s cacophonous touch laying waste to the landscape but he does not feel the slice of the wind. Raindrops pierce through the clouds, bullets of water that seem to attack the thin veil of his cloak but he cares not for them. All he knows is the gellid flesh pressed against his chest, the drooping wings whose feathers seem to swell with water, bright white eyelashes slack from exhaustion, delicate eyebrows devoid of that determined furrow.

He’s running out of options, had gravely miscalculated during his battle with Calmadios and now was left without a place to return to, without a roof with which to weather this storm under. He had no place where Elizabeth could rest and recuperate from her wounds.

Even amongst the wanton destruction Meliodas had wrought in his time in the physical realm, the memory stands stark in the backdrop of his mind. A routine perimeter sweep after they had managed to gain new territory from beating back the Goddess Clan in the south. The normal agenda after such events - visiting the human nests, establishing the new order, weeding out dissenters and surviving pests, setting up scouts; it was all necessary yet monotonous activity so no one particularly fancied running such errands. It was only because Meliodas had drawn the short lot that he had to do the grunt work himself.

He hadn’t expected to find Fairies in the human nest, small creatures with their delicate wings healing humans and helping repair their odd little hutches. He’d not so much as heard about encounters with Fairies since coming into the realm - only knew of the whispers of the so-called Fairy King’s Forest and the great magic that was contained within. Meliodas thought it all nothing more than the mangled stories of drunk demons. He hadn’t felt any significant magic in the physical realm besides the heavy cloud that was the bestial Giant Clan and so he had dismissed even the notion of Fairies as such.

Yet there they were, smaller than even him in their diminutive stature, little faces scrunched in joy and determination even as the nest around them was razed and half ablaze.

And so Meliodas thought, ‘If the Fae are real, then surely their King is no illusion either.’

Zeldris must have heard by now he thinks. Would know that he made good on his word to abandon their people for the sake of Elizabeth and, ultimately, for ending this useless conflict.

Was he laughing at him? Was he gleefully watching his heinous older brother suffer for choosing a lover over the future of their clan only to immediately lose her to his pride? Meliodas alone had made the decision to defect while surrounded by his troops and three Commandments. His confidence in his strength had cost him dearly, but with Elizabeth at his back, he had felt invincible.

The rain continues to pour around them, but Meliodas cannot feel its freezing touch. Elizabeth’s warm blood is beginning to seep through her clothes. He doesn’t want to hold her tighter, fears that squeezing her will only make her bleed out faster. What good is his strength if he cannot help those most important to him in their times of need?

Lightning tears the sky asunder, thunder racing so close to its heel that the world around him seems to quake. He’ll have to land - he can’t risk attracting the bolts with Elizabeth in his grip. He is a demon but he can’t help but pray.

Prays that the chill descending on Elizabeth’s skin is only the rain. Prays that Zeldris finds some way to end the conflict too. Prays that he hasn’t ruined the only thing that could save Elizabeth’s life.

It surprises him even now. The ease with which the Fairies revealed the location of their home to him. Meliodas was quite aware that they knew him to be a demon. Even without knowledge of the rank or class that he occupied, his magic alone was nothing but purest, deepest black - yet, even as they trembled with their breaths caught in their throats and their little fingers halted in their actions, they dutifully told him what it was he wanted to know.

He remembers thinking then that the Fairies were a weak bunch - that they were a naive people who surely teetered on the brink of extinction for the easily exploitable trust they so readily gave.

Then came the fog.

He’s not surprised that even during this tempest, the fog is thick.

The last time he entered, the mist showed him illusions that confounded him for hours. The road disappeared beneath him, he’d ended up on a mountain and then at a lake and throughout it all quiet laughter echoed in his ear, disorienting him. Angering him.

Today there is only the quiet of deep, deep fog and the dampened splashing of rain as it struggles to cut through haze.

Meliodas lands on the muddy ground and takes off sprinting. He slips in an errant puddle, the ground slick and treacherous but even then he does not let go of Elizabeth. The air’s knocked from his lungs as he lands on his back. His shoulder burns but he cannot heal himself. He does not know what effect his miasma would have on Elizabeth in this weakened state. He does not want to find out. With trembling fingers, he adjusts her, frowns as the muscles beneath her fair skin refuse to twitch even when he lets his touch linger on the plush flesh of her lips, her cheek, the puncture in her stomach which gushes, gushes, and was he always able to glimpse the pink of her stomach? Was it wrong that he found that healthy colour as beautiful as the rest of her? But her skin is cold, cold too cold and her blood runs hot and Meliodas curses even the rains, roars his frustration so the lord of the lands knows that he is in no mood for games.

“Gloxinia!”

A part of him wondered if the Fairies had conned him; if they had only pretended to be shy things and had taken the opportunity to lead him to his death instead of guiding him to the Forest like they claimed they would. He’d think much higher of them if that was the case.

As it stands, Meliodas only wishes to tear the heads from their breakable bodies for the tasteless jest. Already, he’d found himself at the bottom of a lake, in which swimming in any direction only dragged him further down, a mountain trail which had led to him being apparently attacked by some manner of beast and a desert which stretched for so many hours that Meliodas had begun to sweat through the leathers of his gear. Terrible caterwauling the likes he had only heard in the deepest annals of the Underworld dogged his steps, and when the screeching stopped, the laughing began.

In each direction he was met with nothing but a wall of fog so thick that he could not even see the colour of his shoes and with each step without a discernible goal in sight, his resentment only grew.

And then, oddly, he caught the strong smell of flowers.

An unmistakable flash of red like spider lilies blooms in the corner of his periphery.

The tumultuous rain quiets to a mere whisper and the fog dissipates leaving only a dew laden field of bright, bright flowers.

The Fairy King is no less spectacular the second time around, celestial wings aglow with multicoloured magic which seems to glitter even in the midst of this gloomy, terrible squall. He stands with his hands at his side, thin lips pressed into a fine line. He is unarmed, alone. Unimpressed.

“You have returned,” he says dully and Meliodas does not have time to be offended at the lack of respect.

He tightens his grip on Elizabeth’s thigh, does his best to keep from snarling. “Heal her!”

A perfect eyebrow threatens to scrape scarlet hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

Meliodas growls, refuses to rest Elizabeth against the forest floor yet cannot risk jostling her for the sake of emphasis, “She hurt herself protecting me. I want you to heal her.”

Gloxinia’s neutral expression becomes a faintly bemused smile. “Is that a request or a threat, Demon Lord?”

Meliodas glares (and Elizabeth is growing cold in his grip, cold, cold, he is running out of time-) “Both, Fairy.”

The fog begins to creep in not unlike storm clouds on the placid horizon. The sound of thunder begins to descend upon them, red and purple flower buds disappearing beneath the cloak of the Fairy King’s enchanted mist. The fae smiles and it is a cold, cruel thing which sits comfortably on cherubic features, “Then I bid you farewell.”

Meliodas feels the wrath overflow, feels it in the way his vision goes black at the edges, in the way he can hear Elizabeth’s failing heartbeat. Anger at Gloxinia for refusing him, for dooming Elizabeth to death. Anger at himself for being unable to protect her, for failing her, “I will raze this forest to the ground, Gloxinia! Help her or I will slaughter every one of your kind!”

And that despicable Fairy only looks down at him, golden eyes more damning than any bolt of heavenly lightning, “It matters not, Demon Lord, she will already be dead.”

Then he is alone.

Elizabeth’s heartbeat grows so frail that Meliodas cannot hear it over the rain that has rushed in. Fog blinds his eyes, anger stifles his mind and the breaks and creaks in his bones finally overwhelm him. He crumples, mud splattering all over Elizabeth’s once white battle silks. She will die. She will die and it will have been his fault. Is this how Zeldris felt he wonders? This despair - this deep, gaping emptiness as the warmth of his lover cools to ice beneath his numb fingers.

Meliodas has never cried. It is a foreign concept to one as high born as he but his heart sinks to his stomach and threatens to slip free from his chest altogether. He bends his head, furrows his brows, squeezes Elizabeth’s flesh as he listens to her slowing heart.

‘Please,’ he wants to whisper. ‘Please, please have mercy on a sinner. Just this once.’

A pungent scent like foreign herbs fills his nose -

“[Droplet of Life]”

There is a glow, some bright unfathomable light and Meliodas sits up like he’s been burnt. Elizabeth’s heart suddenly beats in her chest, loud and melodic and it is the sweetest sound Meliodas has heard in years. He looks up to find cold eyes looking down on him, the Fairy King’s red hair spilling over his shoulders like reeds against some sheer cliffside.

He frowns, squints at Meliodas then appraises Elizabeth. Without so much as another word, he straightens himself and makes a gesture with two of his fingers. The fog lifts entirely, revealing a twisted up pathway between massive, primordial boughs. Flowers of every specie litter the ground preceding the entryway and Gloxinia turns his back on them. “Spend the night here,” he says and though Meliodas twitches at the unmistakable authority in that light voice, his gratitude and surprise renders him mute. “This storm will rage for four days and five nights. Regain your strength then leave.”

And then he disappears into the forest, leaving Meliodas and Elizabeth in the stillness of his eden.

#This has so much headcanon in it it's not even funny #But it's also completely up for debate how Glox Meli Eli and Drole met soooo #Yeah I'm exploiting that #gloxinia #gloxinia of repose #gloxinia nnt #meliodas #elizabeth liones #melizabeth #nnt #seven deadly sins #nanatsu no taizai #ginger writes #long post #Meliodas was a complete tool as a Commandment and you can take that hc from my cold dead hands #zeldris #he's mentioned too so that's fun #I love writing for the holy war y'all it's not funny

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oyavaski · 3 years

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🎀Oyavaski's BakuDeku Fic Masterlist🎀

Under the cut are some of my all time favorite BakuDeku fics I've ever come across on A03. They range in ratings from Teen to Mature to Explicit. The majority will be Explicit because I prefer more adult themes over toothrotting fluff (mostly for the miscommunication and drama that spurs from intimate romances lol) So be sure to pay attention to ratings before considering clicking the links 😏👌

Not Rated:

Burn, Pine, Perish by Kindaopps

"Three things dawned on Izuku, as he stared at the slick flower petals scattered over the black words of his book: he has fallen in love with his husband, his husband did not love him back, and he is going to die." <- Izuku is a fae cursed from birth, never to fall in love lest his love go unrequited. Hanahaki Disease trope done very well.

Teen Rating:

Solar by Kindaopps

"Here he is, a God, wanting a mortal." <- Sun God Katsuki falls madly in love with a human man named Izuku Midoriya. One of my newest favorites

I Still Do by RaeRyn

"He's losing him to pieces, but Izuku still tries to make them count. In which a battle leaves Katsuki with Amnesia, and Izuku finds himself picking up the pieces." <- perfect summary description. Heart breaking dialogue exchanges and concept. One of my treasured fics.

Many Sunflowers Later by Jeka

"Scholar Midoriya Izuku comes back to the person he left behind after his journey through the kingdom, the mighty dragon clan leader Bakugou Katsuki." <- A super precious and unique take on the Fantasy AU. It's a short one, but I guarantee it'll warm your soul like homemade stew on a frigid winter morning.

The Way You Used To Do by Edema_Ruh

"During a battle, Midoriya gets hit by a villain whose quirk detaches his soul from his body. Stuck in a ghost-like state, the boy enters a race against time in order to save himself from permanently dying. Much to his luck - or lack of it -, the only person who can see and talk to him in this state is no one other than Kacchan. Alternatively: Deku and Kacchan are Soul Bound." <- quite possibly the most popular and well written/nearly perfect canon characterization BakuDeku fic currently out there. Very worth the read, and enough insanely detailed chapters to keep you reading for a week or more lol.

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Mature Rating:

The Night We Met by Majjale

" "You a poet?" "Only for you." Two sincere wishes and the ramifications of them."<- part one of the Dead Poets series. A simple summary for a Deeply Painful fic that will Hurt You until it doesn't. I've reread this, and it's epilogue fic, over a dozen times now. It's seriously so beautifully written.

Take Me Back by Majjale

"A soft epilogue." <- epilogue to The Night We Met, and part two of Dead Poets. A fitting end for our heros after the events in the first part of Dead Poets. Made me cry like a babybackbitch.

Imperial Retrograde by Mynameis152

"Raised on a continent at the brink of war, Katsuki and Izuku's sides were chosen the day they were born. But now, as Katsuki's birth right is stripped of him and handed to a foreign prisoner, as Izuku's stolen from his home in the dead of night to fight for an enemy nation because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, the two are forced to find common ground with each other, and end a war heading towards total annihilation."<- A wonderful Fantasy AU fic set in a universe/kingdom where harboring a dragon is punishable by death. And our poor Izuku just so happened to accidentally hatch a dragon he didn't intend to find!

I Feel You by Soulstring

" "I don't always take questionable substances from strangers but when I do I end up getting a second hand boner from my childhood friend's feelings" - Midoriya Izuku, most likely."<- Izuku meets a girl with an empathy quirk that manifests in the form of a goo that she bottles and offers it to him as a gift for rescuing her from a kidnapper. Izuku becomes addicted to the goo because of the intense feelings it gives him, and Katsuki has a few issues with that.

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Explicit Rating:

On The Run by Justaperson1718

"(Based in an AU where All Might loses to All For One) Follow Izuku and Katsuki as they fight together for their very survival and mature through their experiences with each other, on the run together from the League of Villains with no one to depend on but each other. The two will have to work out their differences if they want to continue to live and escape the villains."<- summary explains it pretty well. Haven't read this in quite a while so I don't have much to elaborate on.

Fire In The Mountains/Fire In The Blood by EllaBesmirched(El_Bell)

" “I’ll do it.”

Enji finally turned around and fixed Shouto with an expression so scathing, Shouto had to fight to keep his chin raised. “You’ll marry the Barbarian King.”

Shouto blinked. “Yes.” " <- A polycule masterpiece. I've reread this series no-less than 12 times by now. Incredibly detailed, insanely well written and fleshed out characters. Polygamous relationships and multiple pairings throughout. Main pairs are TodoBaku/TodoBakuDeku/BakuDenkiMinaKiriTodoDeku. It's honestly fantastic, I highly recommend it.

Kacchan by KyuukaKoinu

"Sometimes it’s about winning an argument. Other times it’s about acknowledging your feelings. And in rare cases, it’s about trying to make sense about your ex-childhood friend making out with you in your mother’s kitchen when he swears that he hates your guts. But most of the time, it’s about growing up and understanding what makes the difference between a boy and a man. Both Katsuki and Izuku are finding this out, and they are figuring it out in the hardest way."<- OK so, I can totally look past the almost word-for-word plagiarism of the summary for Boys by CaseyV (the greatest SoRiku fanfic ever fucking made, thank you) because this story was really fucking good. And the character development and progression throughout the plot is fluid and doesn't feel forced at any point. Katsuki coming to accept his sexuality and love for Izuku, Izuku being bullied by his peers for his obvious affection for Footballplayer!Katsuki, and all the drama that lies throughout between two boys learning to accept their feelings and an older man Izuku seeks comfort in from his issues with Katsuki.

Vicious by feelslikefire

"Midoriya and Bakugou wind up in the very last position either of them thought they'd be in: Hero Partners. It's not fun, but they learn to cope. Their first big assignment together takes them undercover to infiltrate a cult, but the situation turns out far more sinister than they first thought. (Or: Midoriya and Bakugou pretend to be Fake Married, join a cult, start having sex, and learn not to suck as partners, not necessarily in that order.)"<- where do I even BEGIN??? This fic has. It. All. Fake marriages, Fake relationships, an insane scary ass cult, hardcore bondage sex, friends with benefits, an insanely well thought out plot that will keep you hooked. Seriously worth the read. I've reread it multiple times and I'll probably reread it again soon once my glasses are repaired lol.

Play The Field by Lalazee

"Baseball and feelings, feelings and baseball. Turns out, Bakugou and Deku are both good and bad at the same things. They try to work on it"<- in which Izuku and Katsuki were aiming to go pro in Baseball, until Izuku's good arm is mangled in a serious accident that creates a crevasse between himself and his relationship with Katsuki. Been a while since I've read this one, but anything by Lalazee is worth the read!!

Blood Moon by Lalazee

"The Thank-Fuck-We-Aren’t-Dead Sex had started then, and had never really stopped. Then came the feelings and the fights. The ego, the pride, the jealousy. And then there was Us (The one-shot smut fic that turned into an entire world for you.)"<- the very first BakuDeku fic I ever read, and an AMAZING way to start. The horny dial is sex to MAXIMUM. (OK so I made an error here, but I think "horny dial is SEX to MAXIMUM is better kept than fixed so fuck it LOOOL)

So there we have it!!! I spent a good hour or so jotting all this down. So I hope ya'll see a few you haven't read yet and give them a shot!

Please like/reblog if you find anything you end up liking so others can take a look themselves 🥰

#bakudeku #fic reccomendations #fic rec #my hero academia #fanfiction #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki #izuku midoriya #ao3 #archive of our own #editing days after the fact because i realized i misspelled epilogue like 3 times because my phone is telling me its wrong when its not? lol

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nyctolovian · 3 years

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Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Mikotoba Yuujin/Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes, Mikotoba Yuujin & Sherlock Holmes | Herlock Sholmes, why isn't there a platonic tag for them.... Additional Tags: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Canon, Regret, Guilt, Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Y'know, just dudes accidentally being dads.

Yuujin apparently didn't have to worry about knocking the door at 1am because he didn’t even have to wait for more than 2 seconds before the door swung open to an already chattering man. Sholmes had a frown on his face as he talked animatedly, "... checked with me! It is incredibly late. There had better be a proper reason why you would require me to open the door for you at this time. What would you do had I been asleep? You most definitely have your key with you so I don't see why you couldn't just…" He trailed off as his eyes travelled downwards to the bundle in Yuujin's arms.

A small pudgy hand stuck out from the folds of the towels. Sholmes' gaze travelled quickly from Yuujin's arms, to his face, to the large medical bag on the floor and to his hands before sighing. "Hm… I see." Wasting no time at all, he stepped aside for the exhausted Japanese man and closed the door without a single fuss.

Yuujin supposed that was the good thing about Sholmes, you didn't need to explain too much to him. And Yuujin couldn't be more grateful for this trait of his tonight; he was in no mood for explaining anything.

Cradling the infant, he sat down on his bed, which creaked under his weight. The baby made a noise as she gazed up at him with wide eyes. For a second, the blue in her eyes shifted to a familiar brown he hadn’t seen in ages, and Yuujin felt a pang in his chest. He tore his eyes away from the child and said, "I- Well, I believe it's, um, her meal time. Herlock, could you make something for her?"

Sholmes followed Yuujin's gaze to the large bag he came in with. "Where did you get it from?"

"The… The mother had it prepared at her home. And I simply… took it."

Sholmes froze mid-bend to look at Yuujin quizzically. "But that would mean…" He caught himself and shook his head.

Yuujin didn't know what conclusion Sholmes had drawn from that but knowing him, it was probably scarily close to the truth.

“It pains me to admit, my friend,” Sholmes said, holding up the bottle and the bag of baby food, “but it seems even my brilliance may have its limits when it comes to the art of making infant food without instruction.”

“Ah,” Yuujin said as he gently placed the child on the bed. “Right. Of course.” After making sure she was nicely settled, he got up with a sigh. God, how much of an old man he was behaving right now, especially when there was an eighteen-year-old around him daily as a direct comparison. He gestured for Sholmes to join him as he prepared the food, describing the process as they went along.

As he shook the bottle, Sholmes asked, “You are teaching me all this because you intend to leave her in my care, don’t you?”

Yuujin flinched. “I… Well…”

To be asked so directly… but that always was the way with Sholmes, was it not?

After taking in a deep breath, Yuujin admitted, “Truthfully, yes. I presume that Jigoku and I might be deported soon and I can’t take this child with me… I am supposed to only care for her temporarily but…” Yuujin had no idea what Genshin had meant. What on earth did he mean when he said, ‘if something should happen to me’? None of it made sense… God, his head hurt.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to focus. “Hopefully, it will not come to it but I have to prepare for the worst. I can’t put this child’s future on vague hopes.”

Sholmes looked back at the infant lying on the mattress and Yuujin recognised the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. His heart squeezed with guilt.

“I’m sorry. This is a lot to ask of you. You’re the first person I thought of but I know I… I am being incredibly selfish." He shook his head. "Please do forget it, Sholmes. I shall look for alternatives. You needn't worry yourself with this."

Before Yuujin could say another word, however, the child on the bed began to wail. He snapped into action, rushing to the child. Gently, he cradled her again and rocked her. “Are you hungry? Don’t worry. We have food,” he cooed. He gestured for the bottle and Sholmes handed it to him.

Carefully, he cocked the bottle to the infant and pressed the nipple to her lips. The crying slowed quickly and the child began to suck at the nipple. She was suckling with such ferocity that Yuujin couldn’t help but laugh at the adorable little face she was making. This baby girl was going to grow up strong, he could already tell.

He thought of the baby—ah, no… she must be 6 years old by now; no longer the baby he had left in Japan… Thinking about it made him so very tired and guilty. That made it a total of two children.

Two children whose mothers he could only watch lose their lives to childbirth, unable to do anything as he cried for hours after. Two children who would grow up without fathers because one was killed by the Professor, and the other spent every day on the brink of complete and utter resignation before he was whisked away to a foreign land. Two children he was leaving in the care of others again, because he was incapable. Two children who were supposed to be his responsibility, placed under his care, yet he had abandoned—was going to abandon—them.

What a useless man he was. He failed at being a caretaker of these children. He was meant to be a father but now it felt like a title he didn't deserve—

“Can I try?” Sholmes broke Yuujin's train of thought, voice quieter than usual.

“Ah, of course.” Yuujin shuffled closer to Sholmes, who took the bottle. The infant’s eyes widened and her lips trembled as the nipple slipped out of her mouth for a second. But Sholmes returned the bottle to the infant, who resumed her suckling with what seemed almost like increased fervour.

“Do not worry,” Sholmes said. “I’m not taking it away from you. You need not react with such sadness and worry!”

“She’s just an infant,” Yuujin chided lightly. “She wouldn’t know otherwise.”

“That's right…” Sholmes said. “Your experience of the world is not even 24 hours! There is very much for you to learn, isn't there?”

Yuujin nodded, but his chest was welling up with worry. Not even 24 hours in the world and, already, her life was looking so… bleak. What on earth was Genshin even going to do?

No, Yuujin would wait. Genshin looked like he had a plan. Surely, he was needlessly worrying.

But the next day, Yuujin heard nothing about Genshin other than the news that he had been executed. So he waited for whatever arrangements Genshin might have gotten to pull through. But days stretched to weeks before, as Yuujin had predicted, the exchange was called off officially and all Japanese students were to be deported. And Yuujin was certain that there was no more hope left.

"It's a bit sad that you still haven't got a name, isn't it?" Sholmes said, lifting the baby up. "After all this while."

The baby let out a joyful noise.

"Actually… I've been calling her little Iris for a while. I-In my head," Yuujin admitted. It hadn't felt right for the baby to be completely nameless. But it hadn't felt right to actually name her either.

"Little Iris?"

"Yes, Iris. Um… named after my… wife, Ayame. But in English," Yuujin said sheepishly. It felt silly now, but two weeks ago, as he held the child and whispered to her gently, he wondered if giving the baby the name of his dead wife might mean she'd be watching over her too. Perhaps she'd protect the child from any more tragedy and harm. Like some sort of protection charm.

Yuujin hoped it wasn’t too selfish, asking his wife to watch over two children like this.

"Iris…" Sholmes repeated. He turned to the child with a smile. "Your Papa has given you a good name, hasn't he?"

Yuujin felt his ears grow hot.

"I'm not her Papa, Sholmes," Yuujin said in a mix of exasperation and fondness, shaking his head. "I thought that much was obvious."

“You worry so much over her, you’re practically her Papa. Don’t pretend like you don’t peer into her cot almost every hour just to smile at her,” Sholmes said.

Yuujin sputtered in mortification, but he had no leg to stand on in this argument.

"Besides, as far as I'm concerned, we're Iris' fathers now," he said. "I'll be taking care of her from now on after all."

Jaw dropping, Yuujin stuttered, "You'll be… what? No, there's no need to do that. I'll search for someone else before I leave. You don't need to do this."

"It's quite alright, my friend!" Sholmes said. "I, the great detective, am clearly a natural at many things including taking care of infants. You can leave Iris in my very attentive and gentle care!"

"But that is simply too much to ask of you.” Yuujin’s heart felt heavy, dripping with guilt and distress. “I’ll try—"

"Nonsense!" Sholmes huffed. "Nothing is too much to ask of me. While I was frankly quite worried at first, time has proven that I have quite a knack for taking care of children. It will be fine."

"No, it's not right to burden you with this. I shall look for alternatives—"

"Surely, you won't be so cruel as to separate us!" Sholmes interrupted. "We get on so well after all. Like a house on fire, wouldn't you agree?" He lifted Iris to eye-level, and she gurgled excitedly.

Yuujin pursed his lips. He sure hoped this was just one of those strange English turn of phrases, rather than something literal. He had been the unfortunate witness to how "on fire" Sholmes could turn a house before.

Noticing the worry still etched upon Yuujin's face, Sholmes said in a more sombre tone, "Truthfully, that night, I was honoured to be the first person you've consulted about this. It spoke volumes of the faith you have in me. And now, I truly do wish to care for Iris… A part of me also thinks that it would be rather nice if… when you come back, you could come home to me and Iris both. And I know how much you’d worry about her back in Japan." He smiled softly at Yuujin. "What do you say, my dear partner?"

“I…” Yuujin gazed at Iris, his eyes burning with the threat of tears again. “Thank you so much, Sholmes."

#dai gyatuken saiban #dgs #the great ace attorney #tgaa #ace attorney #homumiko #angst #hurt/comfort #sorta #fanfic #herlock sholmes #sherlock holmes #yujin mikotoba #mikotoba yuujin #my writing

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newstfionline · 3 years

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Thursday, February 4, 2021

Pressure builds on schools to reopen during pandemic (AP) Pressure is building on school systems around the U.S. to reopen classrooms to students who have been learning online for nearly a year, pitting politicians against teachers who have yet to be vaccinated against COVID-19. In Chicago, the rancor is so great that teachers are on the brink of striking. In California, a frustrated Gov. Gavin Newsom implored schools to find a way to reopen. In Cincinnati, some students returned to classrooms Tuesday after a judge threw out a teachers union lawsuit over safety concerns. While some communities maintain that online classes remain the safest option for everyone, some parents, with backing from politicians and administrators, have complained that their children’s education is suffering from sitting at home in front of their computers and that the isolation is damaging them emotionally. The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention said in a recent study that there is little evidence of the virus spreading at schools when precautions are taken, such as masks, distancing and proper ventilation. But many teachers have balked at returning without getting vaccinated first.

House Dems make case for conviction; Trump denies charges (AP) Donald Trump endangered the lives of all members of Congress when he aimed a mob of supporters “like a loaded cannon” at the U.S. Capitol, House Democrats said Tuesday in making their most detailed case yet for why the former president should be convicted and permanently barred from office. Trump denied the allegations through his lawyers and called the trial unconstitutional. The dueling filings offer the first public glimpse of the arguments that will be presented to the Senate beginning next week. The impeachment trial represents a remarkable reckoning with the violence in the Capitol last month, which the senators witnessed firsthand, and with Trump’s presidency overall. Held in the very chamber where the insurrectionists stood on Jan. 6, it will pit Democratic demands for a final measure of accountability against the desire of many Republicans to turn the page and move on. The impeachment trial, Trump’s second, begins in earnest on Feb. 9.

Activists wary of broader law enforcement after Capitol riot (AP) As federal officials grapple with how to confront the national security threat from domestic extremists after the deadly siege of the U.S. Capitol, civil rights groups and communities of color are watching warily for any moves to expand law enforcement power or authority. They say their communities have felt the brunt of security scrutiny over the last two decades and fear new tools meant to target right-wing extremism or white nationalists risk harming Muslims, Black Americans and other groups, even if unintentionally. “The answer ought to be to sort of pause. Because the instinct to do something is something I’m really quite afraid of,” said Maya Berry, executive director of the Arab American Institute, one of more than 130 civil and human rights organizations that say the FBI already has the tools it needs. “There’s an entire federal code in place that allows you to successfully go after this violence before you need to sort of say, ‘Oh, wait, you know, there’s this existing gap and we need more power,’” she added.

Jeff Bezos steps down (CJR) Jeff Bezos said yesterday that he will soon step down as CEO of Amazon. Andy Jassy, who runs the company’s cloud computing division, will replace him; Bezos will become executive chair, a role he says will give him more time to focus on outside commitments, including his ownership of the Washington Post. (As CNN’s Brian Fung noted, not many people can say “I’m quitting to spend more time with my newspaper and space rockets.”)

Dozen state police charged in the massacre of 19 in Mexico (AP) A dozen state police officers have been arrested for allegedly killing 19 people, including Guatemalan migrants, whose bodies were found shot and burned near the U.S. border late in January, Mexican authorities announced Tuesday. Tamaulipas state Attorney General Irving Barrios Mojica said all 12 officers were in custody and face charges of homicide, abuse of authority and making false statements. The killings revived memories of the gruesome 2010 massacre of 72 migrants near the town of San Fernando in the same gang-ridden state. But those killings were done by a drug cartel, while it is likely many people will find it more shocking that the Jan. 22 slayings allegedly were carried out by law enforcement. The attorney general did not say what motive the officers might have had, though corrupt local and state police in Mexico are often in the pay of drug cartels. Cartels in Mexico often charge migrant smugglers for crossing their territory, and kidnap or kill migrants whose smugglers have not paid or paid a rival gang.

Common pots prepared by neighbors feeding thousands in Peru (AP) At dawn, Genoveva Satalaya and her neighbors walk through Lima’s food markets hoping to find a kind merchant who will donate food to help fill the “common pot” that is feeding their neighborhood. The survival strategy that first appeared in Peru’s capital during the country’s civil conflict four decades ago has been vital since the coronavirus pandemic arrived in this South American nation. With the country again under a lockdown, Satalaya’s pot is feeding 120 people, including seniors, children and pregnant women. Satalaya and her neighbors prepare lunch Monday through Friday. There’s not enough food for weekday breakfasts or dinners or weekend meals. The common pots, also seen in other Latin American countries, have emerged as a symbol of the struggles of the region. Thousands of them are in use throughout Peru at levels not seen since the 1980s and 1990s during the armed conflict between the state and the Shining Path terrorist group. There are almost a thousand common pots in Lima that are recognized by officials in the municipality, but many, including the one run by Satalaya, are not registered and do not receive any kind of help. The government announced last week that it would send aid to many common pots, but since there are so many, the help may not reach every neighborhood.

Tycoon Ordered to Demolish His $70M Home (The Daily Beast) A French property tycoon has been ordered to tear down his $70m faux-Italianate palazzo in the hills of Provence after losing a 15-year legal battle over the 32,000 square foot structure, which was built without planning permission. Patrick Diter has been given 18 months to scrub every last trace of “Chateau Diter,” including its 18 bedrooms, two helipads, swimming pool, bell tower, Roman colonnade and orangery, from the landscape above Monaco. Subscription newsletter AirMail reports that France’s highest judicial court upheld a previous ruling in the appellate courts that the illegal château near the Provençal village of Grasse must be removed and the countryside restored to its original state. If the court orders are not complied with by June 2022, Diter will pay a fine of $600 per day. The court also slapped Diter with fines totaling $550,000.

Hundreds Arrested as Navalny Sentenced (Foreign Policy) A Moscow court handed Russian dissident Alexei Navalny a prison sentence of two years and eight months on Tuesday, as authorities hope to put an end to a saga that has seen thousands of Russians take to the streets in protest over the last two weeks. The court found that Navalny had broken the terms of his probation for a previous conviction for stealing $500,000 from two companies. Navalny denies the charges, and the European Court of Human Rights at the time called the case “arbitrary and manifestly unreasonable.” The reasoning behind his probation breach is murky, as Russian President Vladimir Putin claimed to have approved Navalny’s transfer to a German hospital for treatment after he was poisoned in August. Navalny’s relatively short prison term could soon be extended, as investigators prepare a fraud case that could carry another ten-year sentence. But Tuesday’s sentence may be just enough if it means Navalny will not be a threat in September’s parliamentary elections. The Kremlin has dismissed international condemnation of the verdict. “You should not interfere in the internal affairs of a sovereign state. And we recommend that everyone deal with their own problems,” Russian Foreign Ministry spokesperson Maria Zakharova said.

India farming protests resonate with US agriculture (AP) Images of thousands of farmers streaming into India’s capital on tractors and carrying banners to decry potentially devastating changes in agricultural policy can seem a world away, but the protests in New Delhi raise issues that resonate in the United States. Indian farmers have left their homes to march through New Delhi in a desperate effort to force the repeal of laws they believe would end guaranteed pricing and force them to sell to powerful corporations rather than government-run markets. Despite decades of economic growth, up to half of India’s population relies on growing crops on small parcels of land, typically less than 3 acres, and farmers worry that without guaranteed prices they will be forced to sell their land and lose their livelihoods. The images of farmers marching through New Delhi recall similar scenes in Washington, D.C., during the farming crisis of the late 1970s and early 1980s, when hundreds of trucks and tractors flooded the National Mall. Thousands of farmers lost their land, in part because of government policies that caused soaring interest rates as demand for their products plunged, leading to falling land values. In Iowa—one of the hardest hit states—there were about 500 farm auctions a month in 1983 when families had no choice but to sell. Decades later, those memories remain fresh for Rick Juchems, whose parents had to sell their 640-acre farm in Iowa. Just as feared by those protesting in India, the American farmers lost their livelihoods and sense of identity. “We were just trying to stay alive,” said Juchems, who later was able to continue farming thanks to his in-laws. “That’s what you work all your life for and then it’s gone.”

Myanmar’s Army Is Back in Charge. It Never Truly Left. (NYT) The men in army green never truly retreated. As Myanmar presented a facade of democracy to the world, the generals who had ruled the country for nearly half a century still dominated the economy and the halls of power. They even got away with what international prosecutors say was genocide in their murderous offensives against Rohingya Muslims. With its pre-dawn coup on Monday—unseating an elected government and putting its leader, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, back under house arrest—the military, led by Senior Gen. Min Aung Hlaing, was once again flaunting its ultimate authority. Yet in the process of reasserting their command, the generals have ripped apart a prized project: a carefully constructed political system decades in the making that allowed them to camouflage their fists behind a veneer of democracy. Though they allowed elections, army officers also reserved a quarter of the Parliament’s seats and crucial cabinet positions for themselves. The public, which felt like it could express its political aspirations by delivering landslide victories to Ms. Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy, is furious. And the international community, which chose to focus more on the civilian part of the country’s civilian-military system, is now aware that one side of the scale clearly outweighs the other.

Iran reaches agreement with South Korea (Foreign Policy) Iran has agreed to release the crew of a South Korean oil tanker in what its foreign ministry called a “humanitarian” move after the vessel was impounded in early January. The vessel’s seizure was believed to be a bargaining chip to convince South Korea to free up $7 billion in Iranian funds currently frozen in South Korean banks as a result of U.S. sanctions. South Korea’s foreign ministry welcomed Iran’s decision to release the sailors, saying it was a necessary next step to “restore trust” before resolving the issue of the frozen funds. Regarding the funds, the ministry stated it “will do what it can in a speedy manner while discussing consultations with the United States on the issue.”

Tigray crisis: Ethiopia region at risk of huge ‘humanitarian disaster’ (BBC) Opposition parties in Ethiopia’s Tigray region have warned of a huge “humanitarian disaster” if aid is not delivered urgently. The parties said people were already dying from hunger and urged the international community to intervene. Ethiopia’s government says aid is being delivered and nearly 1.5 million people have been reached. The parties also said 52,000 people had been killed since the conflict started in November. They did not explain how they arrived at the estimate but said it included women, children and religious leaders. About two million people have been internally displaced in the conflict in Tigray. The government has heavily restricted access to the region for the media and aid agencies. On Monday, the head of the Norwegian Refugee Council, Jan Egeland, said he had “rarely seen an aid response so impeded” in the 40 years he had worked in the humanitarian field. In a joint statement, three opposition parties—the Tigray Independence Party (TIP), Salsay Weyane Tigray, and National Congress of Great Tigray—said if food and medicine did not arrive quickly the “looming humanitarian disaster of biblical proportion” would become a “gruesome reality in Tigray”.

#headlines #news

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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 12: The Painting

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The Awakening Ball is in full swing and the party mood is infectious. But Nadya's natural curiosity isn't always a good thing.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Luckily the orchestra waits to start playing dancing music until she’s two glasses of champagne in and suitably bubbly enough to join.

Adrian offers his hand and promises not to resent her for her two left feet. It’s pretty much the same sweeping classical waltz in every period drama ever but when she starts to lose what little grace she has Adrian picks up the slack — literally. He picks her up off her feet and carries the weight of them both. Lucky for Nadya the skirts on her dress make it impossible for anyone to notice.

Not like anyone would notice her hovering off the floor, anyway. Not when her pining eyes catch sight of Kamilah dancing with a Duchess of some sort in the middle of the crowd.

“I’m sorry.” Adrian whispers in her ear. It only helps because he means it. Because he squeezes her waist a little tighter and does a flashy thing that raises her up in the air with a whoop of joy.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she’s not lying to Adrian but rather to herself and he knows it, “I’m used to the whole ‘one-sided affection’ thing.”

They part with a bow and curtsy, have to weave together with held hands as guests switch partners and move into a new beat and tempo.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“All part of the finite package.” Because yes, being surrounded by vampires both new and old (and the humans too, but she doesn’t know many of them now does she?) has her thinking about things like that. Who wouldn’t?

Before he can counter with his usual Adrian-brand of optimism Nadya catches sight of familiar faces by a fountain of red wine — or she hopes it’s red wine. God she hopes it’s red wine. She waves eagerly and drags Adrian over to socialize.

Brandon chokes on his sip as he takes in her dress. “Well well! Look what the cat dragged in — and this time sans yoga pants. Bless, I’m so proud.”

In the middle of shaking Greer’s hand Adrian falters. Frowns slightly and already has his arm up to push Nadya back. Like there’s nothing more threatening around them than a gay man with an opinion. “I — what are you implying?”

“Relax Adrian. He’s making a joke about last night.”

“Down, boy-o,” Greer joins in on the teasing, “not that the guard dog routine isn’t mad sexy. We’re just glad to see our girl made it to the actual event.”

Nadya huffs. “I wasn’t that drunk.” The couple exchange an eye roll and even she has a hard time resisting the sass of their combined stare. “Okay, okay! So I was… kinda hammered.”

“Well I’ll give them that one. You originally passed out in Kamilah’s bed.”

It’s something everyone but Nadya seems to find extremely funny. Namely because she doesn’t remember that but she can still hear the voice she’d hallucinated clear as day. It makes her hesitate and think twice about taking a glassful of the fountain’s spoils.

At least her friends are getting along. At least she has friends.

Not long after Brandon waves over a younger woman and introduces her as his twin sister and their vampire connection, Megan. Age difference aside Nadya can definitely see the resemblance but can’t help herself when she feels a little sorry for Brandon’s fate. For the faded freckles on his cheeks and the lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Megan and Adrian trade comments on vampire life over the last two decades — he offers her and Brandon and Greer a place to stay in New York should they ever need it. There’s a strangely somber air in how the trio thanks him — like a sigh of relief connects them all body and mind.

Greer manages to coax one more drink into her the same way he coaxes her out onto the dance floor. Everything shines with flickering candlelight and the collected jewels and precious metals from all of human history. It’s wonderful, it’s beautiful, it’s magical.

And everyone — every single person — is filled with the same kind of joy and carefree abandon. For a little bit there’s no Feral outbreak in the heart of the city, there’s no fearing for her life or missing her old apartment and missing best friend.

There’s nothing else in the entire world but this Ball, the people attending it, and the memories made.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this!” Nadya announces; uses the spins she’s getting in the head to carry her momentum away from Greer to where Megan is ready to trade partners as well. The music has taken a turn for the boisterous — some Celtic ballad accompanied by an impromptu song from a group of rugged-dressed Highlander attendees.

She reaches out — her fingertips brush the other vampire’s — then the dizziness overtakes her and Nadya feels like she’s hurtling through the sky in freefall.

Comes back to herself to find the decor that was on the other side of the room now much closer. And Kamilah’s hands hold her against the rushing wave in her head.

She wants to laugh — wants to share in the joy of the moment with the one person she wants to make smile more than anything else in the world — but like always Kamilah just leaves her breathless, gasping as they move through the weaving dancers effortlessly.

“Perhaps you’ve had a tad too much wine.” Kamilah admonishes without heat behind her words.

“I’m perfectly sobe — ack!” The word morphs into a desperate cry as Kamilah’s grip slackens. Feigns like she’s going to let Nadya go when she definitely doesn’t have the ability to stand on her own two feet right now. She clings on so hard she can feel every woven fiber of her red dress.

“You were saying?”

“Humans get dizzy, Kamilah. It’s a real thing.”

“Ah, yes. How forgetful of me.”

If you ruin this moment I’ll never forgive you, Nadya thinks to herself — actually takes her own advice for once and just loses all thought and worry in the way Kamilah sweeps her along the floor to the beat. Where their skirts clash like fire and ice but never so much that she can’t feel the solid presence of the woman holding her steady.

When the dance ends a gathering in the middle of the floor all comes together to take hands. Kamilah pulls them away; out into the conversational talkers and wallflowers. It’s eerie how the vampire simply watches Nadya catch her breath — a beauty she’s still foreign to.

“Drink.”

Nadya looks up to see Kamilah holding a glass out to her. She can feel the coolness of the water sliding down her throat, serving as a reminder of just how flustered she actually is.

She remembers at the last second to not wipe her mouth with the back of her arm. Manages a fluttering smile. “T-Thanks.”

Electricity zips through her body then — Kamilah’s touch lifting her chin towards the crystal chandeliers overhead. It reminds her of only a few hours ago in a way her body never got to recover from. A thousand candles lit in her belly all at the same time. Luckily she has the dance to mask her reaction.

All just so the woman can wipe a stray drop of water from the corner of her mouth.

Conversation, girl, come on! She could ask Kamilah any number of things. Familiar faces, balls gone by, even the last time she danced to something so jovial. But there’s a big stone wall between her thoughts and her mouth and it makes Nadya’s heart sink.

“I…”

It takes her a moment to realize — when she no longer feels Kamilah’s touch — that she was the one who pulled away.

“Yes, Nadya? Something to say?”

Shallow, almost panicked breaths… all it would take is a simple step forward…

“I need some air.”

With her skirts gathered in both hands Nadya turns and practically runs in the other direction.

Distantly the clock strikes midnight.

The Ball had opened up to the rest of the castle and surrounding grounds sometime in the middle of her dancing. It was like there was nowhere she could be alone — no place she could feel safe. Surrounded by strangers and knowing that there were enemies among them paired with the churning emotions that couldn’t make sense of her body has Nadya on the brink of breaking down.

The night air does more than beckon her forward. It screams at her, demands she find peace out there where it could be most dangerous. It’s not rational but still she follows — away from the crowds and their pleasant evenings in directions only her feet can understand.

When she comes to it’s in a haze of muddled thoughts in a varietal English she can’t quite catch. Finds her hands grasping onto the metal rungs of a bridge overlooking a dim pond. Through the barest moonlight hiding behind clouds overhead she can see koi flit this way and that; too deep down to stir the surface where fallen flower petals hang abandoned.

A hand rubs soft circles along her exposed back — voice crooning in her ear deep and dark like a cello.

“There there… are you coming back now?”

Nadya snaps back to herself all at once, feels her heart lurch in her chest. The voice chuckles and the hand pulls back.

“Indeed you are. This is where you are told to breathe, yes? In through the mouth, out through the nose… no, that isn’t right.”

Isseya leans back against the same railing; the trails of her dress trying desperately to catch on the faint night breeze.

Or — maybe it isn’t Isseya. Not with the strange kindness in her eyes and the way her lips hold no withheld scorn. It’s definitely like she’s looking at a twin — or a mirror image reflected back in every way. Definitely not the viper from the ballroom… right?

The vampire taps her olive nose; reminds Nadya to breathe in so deep it burns and only when she feels like her lungs are going to burst through her corset does she let it all out.

“Very good,” praises her companion.

She expects Isseya to try and begin a conversation, but instead the woman just… watches her breathe. She seems almost fixated, fascinated by it. Eyes raking down to see her compressed midriff rise and fall. She mimics Nadya twice before seemingly becoming bored with the act. Watches passively instead with an unblinking stillness.

When she has to take in less and less to ground herself is when Isseya speaks again.

“May I ask what that was?”

“What —” Nadya takes in one last gulp of air, “— what was what?”

She’s not trying to deny it; not like it’s the first time she’s ever had a panic attack so strong she blacked out a bit. But the look on Isseya’s face surprises her.

“You’re… I mean — you’re immortal and you’ve never had a panic attack?”

The vampire gives a “ha” of surprise.

“From what would I panic?”

“Uh… stakes, garlic, the sun?”

“No.”

Nothing like staring eternal life in the face and feeling immensely inadequate. But the woman contradicts even her thoughts — still looking at her with what almost feels like awe.

“Such violent reactions to fear I’m not unaccustomed to. But you caused your own fear, did you not? Beautiful…”

Only Nadya doesn’t find it very beautiful at all. When Isseya reaches out as if to touch her again she steps back — manages to keep her footing despite the curve of the bridge. She doesn’t even want to think about the holy hellfire that would rain down on her for ruining a Lacroix dress with pond water.

“Please don’t touch me.”

“Forgive me, mortal child.”

“Nadya,” she corrects, “my name is Nadya.”

“Nadya, then. A beautiful name for a beautiful creature. I told Valdas, you know, that you must be a sign sent for us.”

She says it so calmly. Maybe it’s meant to be that way — meant to entice her to know more. It works.

“I don’t understand.”

Hands braced on the railing and face turned away; Nadya doesn’t have to see her to hear the way her voice wavers.

“‘Nadya’ is a name which means hope. Something which my partner and I have lost more and more of with each passing year. You expect the continual passing of years when you Turn, you know. You accept the hunger. Say farewell to the warmth of a sunrise. I even reconciled the knowledge that everyone I would ever know would rot in the ground beneath my feet. But… no one tells you the little things you lose along the way.”

It’s more emotion than she’s ever seen from a vampire — a thought she’s almost angry at herself for having if it didn’t feel so true. Every word Isseya says is heavy with time. They weigh her down and down, deeper and deeper until she wonders how she’s not looking down at the woman from the center of the planet.

She doesn’t know what to say — there’s nothing to say. She’s mortal—finite, dreadfully finite—and doesn’t even have the ability to comprehend what Isseya must be feeling.

And as an extremely empathetic person that’s not something she’s used to. It makes her fumble half-words; noises that definitely aren’t language.

Yet when she finally isn’t burning with shame enough to look at Isseya again she finds the vampire offering her a smile. A weary, dreary thing… but sometimes the thought behind a gesture is more important than the gesture itself.

“Take your time.”

So she does. Actually thinks about what she wants to say before she says it. Makes her wonder briefly what life would be like if she did that more often.

Finally, “Whatever you lost doesn’t sound little at all.”

“No, I suppose he wasn’t.” replies Isseya; makes Nadya go flush with surprise.

“Can I ask who…?”

“His name was Cynbel.”

“Oh. And he was…?”

“My lover, but that is not unlike saying the night sky is only what we see with our eyes.”

Nadya isn’t there to judge anyone. Still, she’s surprised. Hadn’t the other man — Valdas, that was his name — called her his ‘Priestess?’

“Did you, uhm,” she bites her lip, “I mean did you meet Valdas pretty soon after losing him?”

Not a second passes; Nadya almost misses Isseya’s expression change — darken, deepen.

“I forget not everyone is aware of our story, sometimes. Most hear us, our title — Trinity — and simply know. There was a time the word was banned in polite conversation lest it bring down the mood of a party or cause wistful waifs to wilt.

“I’ve forgotten now who coined the name. Cynbel might know… he was quite proud of it. He always cared about titles, you see. Not that it wasn’t apt. The three of us were always together; see one and the other two were not far behind. You know the saying ‘bad things come in threes?’ Probably derived from us.”

That’s when Nadya catches on, gives an “ooooh” of understanding.

“You, Valdas, and Cynbel. You were —”

“We three have a love that may very well burn longer than the stars above us. He used to say that. Loved us hard enough to make us believe it. When he passed it truly felt like the heavens would crumble down without all three of us to hold them up.”

She doesn’t ask what happened though the question burns through her against the cold night air. Maybe it’s something Kamilah can answer — she seems to know them enough. Though that reminds Nadya of their meeting and Adrian — and whatever happened last night.

“I’m sorry for your loss. For both of your losses.”

“Keep your grief. It’s all hollow in the end. We will always be in mourning; every second of every night we must live without him. Because indeed; we must live even if he is no longer with us.

That is the blood oath to which my god and I are bound.”

And doesn’t that make things take a turn for the weird. Makes Nadya have to school herself carefully even if Isseya can hear the change in her heartbeat. Who wouldn’t hear something like that and find it ominous, though? Like a seer’s omen.

Before she can make up some kind sympathy to offer Isseya reaches out — strokes the tip of her nail along the curve of Nadya’s jawline. Yes, it’s totally the night and my bare shoulders making me shiver, she tells herself, totally not whatever weird, semi-erotica is going on here…

“Apologize.”

Nadya blinks out of her stupor. “What?”

“Apologize, I said,” there’s a brief sting, she hardly even notices, but when Isseya pulls back her hand there’s a bead of blood on her fingertip, “for failing to placate me with your undesired grief.”

That’s more than enough. Only when she tries to move away there’s a hand wrapped around her throat that squeezes; takes the words right out of her mouth quite literally.

She didn’t even see the vampiress move. Not a blur or a flash of fang. She simply wasn’t and then she was. And everything in her eyes says Nadya is right to be terrified.

“Go on,” squeezing harder, bringing them so close she can smell Isseya’s honeysuckle breath, “apologize.”

Nadya fumbles around the words; moves her mouth with increasing frantic desperation when no sound, no air, not even a fleck of spittle wants to come out. I’m sorry — I’m sorry!

A tear rolls down her cheek, tickles the edge of her chin and makes her keen in a whimper as Isseya leans forward and flicks the tip of her tongue to catch it. When she pulls back that familiar red stare lurks in the woman’s eyes.

She lets go. Nadya fumbles, falls hard on her backside on the bridge with both hands around her neck like she’s trying to make sure all her skin is still there. She watches up in horror as Isseya licks her lips in satisfaction.

“Your apology is accepted… even if it was pitiful. I expect better from you next time.”

Next time isn’t so much spoken as felt like a breeze; the vampire gone between rapid and pounding beats of her heart. With all her dress it takes Nadya several attempts to collect herself, to scramble up and wipe away her tears and dash in a mad rush towards the castle.

Adrian, she needs to find Adrian.

Marcel’s a generous host — happy not only to help her find Adrian but to escort her around the castle himself. He’s a sweet boy, really, even if he’s old enough to be her great-great-great-many-greats grandfather. Somehow he’s managed to keep his childish sensibilities about him all these centuries.

It dissolves her fear a little. Makes it easier for Nadya to brush off his concern when he points out she keeps rubbing her neck. “I think I made a few mosquitoes pretty happy,” she jokes and all is well again.

He’s not upstairs in the apartment — “He mentioned he lost his key, I think?” — and they might be getting a little off-track when Marcel stops them in the conservatory to show her his collection of night-blooming flowers among what appears to be a cigar-and-whiskey party.

Then he snaps and there’s an invisible lightbulb over his head. Marcel grabs Nadya’s hand and takes off at full youthful speed down a staircase.

“Where are we going?!”

“I know where he is!”

Adrian’s favorite room in the castle is, apparently, the library. Only Marcel doesn’t give Nadya a chance to process her fear of the place before dragging her along inside.

The doors are open, velvet rope cast aside, and they aren’t the only ones milling about. It’s not just a library but an entire museum inside; she barely has time to glance at various glass cases and pedestals while Marcel’s hunt comes to a close.

She doesn’t mean to upset them both in the way she hurtles herself at Adrian, knocking him off balance for a brief moment before his arms come around her. Nadya’s grown used to not caring about the lack of body heat — the solid presence of Adrian is enough to calm her racing heart.

Marcel, however, notices.

“Mademoiselle Nadya… comment ça va?”

Even as her lingering fear subsides the look Nadya flashes up to Adrian tells him all he needs to know.

“I think she just got overwhelmed,” he tells Marcel, whose distress grows. He grabs Nadya’s hand in both of his and kisses her knuckles.

“I hate to know someone was unhappy at one of my parties…” He laments. It’s enough for the part of her so used to pleasing others to force on a smile and extricate herself from her friend to offer the little lord a tight hug.

“I’m having a wonderful time,” she says truthfully, “but Adrian’s right. Not knowing anyone just sort of got to me.”

“How can I ever make it up to you?”

“There’s nothing to make up!”

She holds him at arms’ length and together they smile. Like a miracle she watches his cheeriness return.

“Promettez-vous?”

Hopefully she’s understanding him from context. “I promise.”

She hates lying, even if it was necessary. When Marcel scampers off at the voice of someone he recognizes her smile falls away. Turns to Adrian with tears welling up in her eyes again.

He reaches and pulls Nadya into a tight hug. Kisses the top of her head and rubs his solid hands over her shivering shoulders. “What happened?”

The cliffnotes version makes her sound a little batty. When she struggles to continue, shuffling from foot to foot, Adrian silently coaxes them to continue his stroll through the library’s many objects on display. He’s gotten to know her habits really well, hasn’t he.

“So one minute she’s comforting me — and I guess vice versa — and then the next…” Nadya finishes by showing him the soft bruises on her neck; each in the perfect indent of Isseya’s fingertips. She’s just lucky the other woman hadn’t drawn blood, maybe.

Adrian’s scowl slackens; he pulls them into an alcove away from the immediate sight of others. Before Nadya can even ask what he’s doing Adrian’s fangs flash through his teeth and he pricks the pad of his right thumb.

“Who—wha—oi!” His arm around her keeps Nadya from moving away; he reaches out and smears the welling droplets of blood on her neck like that’s just something that totally happens every day for them. “Gross. Adrian — this is definitely not in my contract.”

Yes it makes him grin, and when he lets her go Nadya catches her reflection in a nearby silver shield. The dark smear of blood remains but the purpling bruises fade right before her eyes. “Oh.”

“Not only is it the least I can offer,” and the handkerchief he offers from his tailcoat breast pocket isn’t something she turns down, “but if Kamilah were to see that —”

She should have expected this. “Better to keep the peace.”

Adrian doesn’t say yes or no to it, but essentially — yes.

“I just don’t get why she changed so suddenly.” She also doesn’t get why Adrian apparently slept with her and Valdas, but that part she leaves out.

They resume walking together while Adrian thinks of a suitable answer.

“She told you about the Trinity, right?”

“That there’s supposed to be three but now it’s just her and the other guy?”

“Well, yes — that. But also why they are named — why they’re important enough to have a title like that.”

Together they leave the library stacks behind and venture through a smaller door into what appears to be a portrait hall. None of the paintings contain solo figures — but they all contain the same sort of classical beauty one would expect to find in world-renowned museums. She tries to place some of the faces — either to the guests she’s seen or what she remembers from her History gen-ed — but doesn’t linger on it.

“The Trinity are an incredibly old trio of vampires. Some would say the oldest around… but that’s not entirely the case.” Nadya wants to ask why he felt the need to play his own Devil’s advocate; instead chooses to let him continue as her eyes sweep over every frozen expression staring down at them.

“No one really knows when they were Turned. Kamilah told me once that they had centuries under their belts while she was still mortal.”

“Scary old vampires, got it. What’s the point?”

“Their age is the point, Nadya. Age is extremely important in what little universal culture we all share. It’s something deeper than just giving your elders respect. It proves an incredible strength, knowledge, in some cases a vast accumulation of wealth… and the cunning to have survived this long without getting killed. And trust me — there were plenty of chances for that to happen.

“The Trinity have always been. Like… how humans look at the pyramids or the Colosseum. And sure they’ve been under the radar for a while but even I remember a time when the very mention of them as a unit meant there was something awful coming on the horizon.”

Nadya stops them in front of a portrait of three. These faces she recognizes — two of them, anyway. The clothing is stiff; the subjects stiffer.

Isseya’s hair is longer but the way tendrils of black hang in her face makes Nadya remember the events of the garden with a shiver. She sits with grace, one hand resting on the lap of her ivory dress and the other lazily reaching upwards to clasp that of Valdas’ where he stands behind her. What the toga was hiding the pressed Victorian suit he’s immortalized in reveals. Somehow the artist managed to capture the almost predatory potential of power hidden in his cut figure.

The face she doesn’t know has taken a knee on the opposite side of Isseya’s chair. His fingers rest over hers just barely entwined. His face is young, strong. Blond hair pulled back in a tie that hangs over his shoulder is an almost feminine way.

Underneath the polished golden frame sits a plaque: ‘The Montes Estate,’ it reads, and below it the date 1876.

“Valdas, Isseya, and…”

“Cynbel.” Nadya finishes for him; draws a look of surprise from Adrian.

“Is that his name? I never knew.”

“Isseya told me. She really misses him.” Even if she’s missing a few screws.

“They both do. And I guess I get it. To be with the same person — the same people — for thousands of years. Only to lose one…”

As his voice trails off Nadya looks up. He, too, looks like the painting in his own way. He’ll look like this forever. Hopefully not as sad; not as weighed down by the way he tries to carry the world on his shoulders… but the same Adrian that stands at her side will probably stand over her grave.

Yikes. Morbid, much?

“I’m sorry.” He takes her hand and squeezes. “Because there’s nothing I can do.”

Nadya’s heart sinks. “About how she attacked me, you mean.”

“Yes. The Ball is a time of peace and, generally, everyone upholds to the rules. Except —”

“The rules don’t apply to the Trinity.” She guesses, but doesn’t get a gold star for being right. She’s not mad at him — not even disappointed. To be honest she hadn’t needed him to do something about it so much as just… be there.

And that is something Nadya knows he will always do. He’ll always be there.

They continue down the line of paintings. Nadya helps Adrian keep his mind off of what he considers his failure by asking him about the people, places, the moment in time that helps bring life to the canvas.

“Marcel’s in this one!” She gestures to one behind them where Marcel — younger of course but he doesn’t look it — in decorative and splendid golden armor. “He didn’t actually go to battle, right?”

“No, it was made for the portrait.” There’s a distant, misty look in Adrian’s eyes as he fixates on the taller figure behind their friend.

Nadya peers to read the plaque. “‘Monsieur Marcellus Claude Philippe Lafayette’ — what a mouthful — ‘and General Banner Westbrook VI.’ Banner… I’ve heard that name before.”

“The library was named in his honor. Marcel took his death hard. They… never really saw eye-to-eye, but it’s that same concept of spending lifetimes with the same person.”

But when she looks up to comfort him Nadya’s surprised to find him staring at the end of the room; at something mounted on the wall but hidden by shadow.

Adrian’s hand closes tighter on hers — takes Nadya a moment to realize he might not be aware of it. Tighter, tighter, until it’s pretty much impossible for her not to wince.

“Adrian. A—Adrian, you’re hurting me. Hey!”

A snap in his face pulls him out of whatever memory he’s trapped in. Makes him pliant as she pulls their hands apart. The redness fades quickly but there’s a lingering ache in her wrist that Nadya rubs slowly.

“I — I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. What about you?”

Before he can say anything Nadya steps around; makes her way to the last frame with her skirts in her hands. “Nadya — wait —” Adrian calls behind her. It doesn’t make her stop.

Only one painting hangs on the back wall. It’s also the only piece with one subject.

The man stands in grace, one foot forward; everything about his stance exuding not only confidence but command. Dark brown hair falls over his face and shoulders in perfect waves — the kind that would take hours to get these days. The artist captured details Nadya didn’t even consider possible; hairs at the crown of his forehead and pores in his perfect skin. Each individual chain link upon his conqueror’s armor.

She’s beholden with wonderment at the beauty of the man until the background comes to her attention. Feels her stomach churn when she sees the full moon behind his head actually appearing to pour moonlight down the canvas. Finds her trembling fingers covering a strangled sound she doesn’t immediately recognize as hers at the sight of faceless, naked corpses in a pile beneath the dais he prostrates upon.

Adrian’s hands come to weigh on her shoulders solemnly. Nadya tries to make the image go away; closes her eyes but it’s burned into the back of her eyelids like a brand. She wants to tear it to pieces, wants to shred the fibers strand by strand…

But somehow she just knows that even if the entire castle went up in flames this painting would remain untouched. Perfectly sanguine until the end of time.

“You know what’s really stupid?” asks Nadya wetly; takes Adrian’s handkerchief to dab at the tears at the corners of her eyes.

The painting’s presence draws Adrian to a whisper. “What’s that?”

She turns and tucks the cloth back into Adrian’s breast pocket. Brushes her hair out of her eyes with a sigh.

“I spent so much time on this stupid makeup and I keep crying.”

Adrian’s first reaction is poising himself to strike; ready to do what he can to make her feel better. It’s so wonderful and the image behind her is so awful that Nadya’s clashing emotions manage the only thing that makes sense: laughter.

Adrian first witnesses her, confused, before he offers his own little chuckle. It’s hollow and forced; when he thinks she isn’t looking she sees his gaze flicker to the monstrosity behind her and grow cold.

Wordlessly they leave the portrait room, then the library. Adrian offers a few polite waves to people unknown to Nadya; mentions something about getting back to the ballroom in enough time to see some performance.

She’s not really paying attention — no matter how hard she tries his words just grow fuzzy like television static. But that’s preferable to the voices echoing between her ears she tries desperately to pretend don’t exist.

“Rise, my Beloved Soldier. Rise and know your King has witnessed your loyalty to Him.”

“Thank you, my King. I am humbled.”

“My Beloved Soldier… my Beloved Adrian.”

Nadya’s at least mostly-percent sure that Kamilah has better things to think about than her tiny mortal self. Tells herself that when they find her back in the ballroom and Kamilah seems to be actively choosing to look everywhere but at her.

Until she notices the smallest smudge in Nadya’s makeup. Then Kamilah is on her, chilly hands cupping her cheeks and turning her head this way and that to examine her state.

“What. happened.” It takes Nadya a second to realize the growl is directed not at her but at Adrian. He silently shakes his head and offers a gentle touch to pry his companion off of her.

Still Kamilah persists; locks her eyes onto Nadya’s and when she speaks it’s soft yet somehow powerful enough to chase the unwanted voices from her mind.

“Are you unharmed?”

Nadya gives a shuddering exhale and nods. “Yeah, Kamilah. I’m fine. I — listen, about earlier —”

“Later.” Kamilah cuts her off curtly. Like she’s been replaced by a doppelgänger. It leaves Nadya feeling like an accessory as the vampires turn to confide in one another.

“Where have you been? You were the one who arranged this during the Ball — you couldn’t even bother to show up on time?”

Before Adrian can defend himself a figure starts towards them from the middle of a crowd. He may be dressed like every picture Nadya’s ever seen of Henry VIII but there’s no mistaking that greasy grin.

Lester claps a hand on Adrian’s shoulder. Squeezes until his knuckles are white and Nadya flinches out of sympathy.

“There you are, Raines my boy,” he practically sneers, “and here we were worried you had better things to do.”

Kamilah says nothing. Adrian pries Lester’s hand from his person.

“I was occupied elsewhere.”

None of them miss how Lester’s eyes travel to Nadya; look her up and down and linger on her chest. She’s starting to consider that his typical form of greeting.

The other vampire snorts. “I bet you were. But you were the one who wanted to ruin a good party with Council business, so let’s get it over with shall we?”

Lester waves two fingers — draws their attention to the others approaching.

Vega’s black suit and red tie somehow don’t do anything for his charming smile but it’s the sight of the Baron’s curled upper lip that sends a whip of panic through Nadya. Make her take a step closer to Kamilah out of some subconscious need to hide behind her dress.

Beside them strides sex on legs; thick waves of hair cascading down her shoulders and the sheer material of her dress catching the lights just enough to see the lingerie beneath.

If anyone’s wing-tip eyeliner could actually stab a man it would be hers: Priya Lacroix.

“I had to turn down a Bulge Magazine sandwich for this shit,” the designer snaps, “so let’s get it the fuck over with before I lose my appetite.”

The Baron fixates on Nadya with a growl.

“Funny. You look just like a cunt I locked up.”

She is so over crying tonight.

“Yeah, well, go screw yourself.”

“Me~ow!” Priya pushes the Baron aside carelessly, ignores the glare he shoots her way, and pulls Nadya out from behind Kamilah to appraise her properly.

“I know I complained about having to make you something at the last minute Adrian… but I take it back. She looks positively yummy.”

Before Priya can even show her fangs she’s moved aside. Kamilah takes the initiative this time to protect Nadya on her own. If she plans on arguing the thought is dashed the moment Priya looks into the older vampire’s eyes. Doesn’t stop her from giving a petulant huff.

“Whatever…”

Vega, however, ignores Nadya’s presence entirely.

“The point stands. We ought to take advantage of this opportunity to discuss certain Council matters.”

“Must it be now?” Adrian asks tersely. The look on Vega’s face says it all. “Fine. But not here.”

Vega agrees. “I’ve already cleared out a parlor for us. Come along.”

Just as Adrian shakes off his fellow Council member’s grasp there’s a scream somewhere at the far end of the ballroom. Loud enough to cause a distraction and awful enough that the Council gathered actually looks towards the commotion.

The orchestra stops mid-chord as a chorus of cries and noises of distress begin to sound. The dance floor empties in the blink of an eye as the dancing vampires rush away from something.

“Stay here.” Kamilah hisses. She and Adrian push the others aside in an attempt to help. Against her wishes Nadya slips out of the uncomfortable presence of the other vampires and around the crowd to edge closer.

A young woman lies, collapsed and prone, in the middle of the floor. She’s seizing; convulses on her stomach. The foul smell of rot fills the fragrant air.

Then the face twitches around and Nadya recognizes her in horror.

“Megan!”

At the same time that Nadya pushes her way forward two familiar faces break away from the crowd opposite. Brandon fumbles and skids on his knees to his twin’s side while Greer kneels behind him, mortified.

Nadya’s skirts billow around her as she ignores Adrian’s distant cry of “Nadya, no!” and brushes Megan’s hair away from her clammy features.

Her skin is greying; veins growing black under Brandon’s touch.

“Meg—Meggie what’s wrong? What’s happening?” He hauls his sister’s head into his lap. That’s when Nadya catches sight of a violent bite mark on her shoulder. It oozes puss and black ichor. Megan tries and fails to respond when she starts foaming at the mouth.

Greer looks around with wild eyes.

“Help! Is someone gonna fuckin’ help her?! What the fuck!”

Nadya fumbles in a panic. Doesn’t know what to do, ends up looking to where Adrian and Kamilah are keeping a very purposeful distance.

“Help her!” She surprises herself by screaming. Adrian moves to step forward but Kamilah jerks him back almost violently.

“Don’t you dare.” The woman seethes — and Nadya grows feverish with panic when she watches Kamilah look upon Megan and Brandon with an expression foreign to her face.

“Kamilah —”

“Adrian Raines, I forbid it.”

“What?!” Brandon tries to hold Megan’s head still, tries to hold her jaw open as her fangs grow and warp before his eyes, “Why won’t you help?!”

Adrian stays put but reaches out; beckons Nadya away.

“Nadya, please. Please get over here.”

“No! Not until you help her!” I can’t believe I’m seeing this.

“She’s beyond help now!” shouts Kamilah. She draws the attention of the entire Ball — takes a deep breath and steels herself to push down an emotion Nadya didn’t think she was capable of.

Fear.

“Nadya — for Christ’s sakes.” He grabs her in a blur and Nadya finds herself wrapped in his arms.

All around vampires and mortals stand and resign themselves to witness as Megan’s seizures increase. As her skin grows dark and chalky and Greer yanks back Brandon when he fails to hold her down.

“What’s happening?” Nadya gasps. Adrian clutches her tighter and his words flood ice through her veins.

“She’s Turning Feral.”

#choices fanfiction #bloodbound #kamilah sayeed #adrian raines #kamilah x mc #bloodbound mc #mc: nadya al jamil #oc: isseya

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infiniteshawn · 5 years

Text

No Place I’d Rather Be

a/n: 5.3k oneshot. here’s the deal

i was approached a couple of months ago to write a fic for someone’s birthday, as a gift. as a result, this piece is very specific to that person. i changed the names and moved it into second person, but it’s not what i typically post--i’m just posting it because i’m sure you guys would like to read it anyway. it’s not very detailed because as it was written for a real person, i didn’t want to invade their head like that. the smut is very glossed-over. but i put a lot of time into this, so here’s something super random!! enjoy!!

“Nervous?”

Shawn looked up from his own hands, fiddling with the feather-shaped ring adorning his middle finger. He took a deep breath.

“Nerves mean you care,” he answered with his classic line and a tight-lipped grin, nodding as he spoke. Cez huffed at him, wondering how on earth someone could maintain such composure at all times. Especially in the middle of headlining a sold-out world tour.

Shawn’s gaze travelled out the window of the Uber, absorbing everything he could about the city he was in. That’s the thing about touring, he thought to himself. While you see the world, you really don’t.

He was sure San Diego was beautiful, but it was hard to get a good look at the buildings because the sidewalks were completely lined with people. Fans of his, in particular. A mass amount of bodies crowded the entrance to Pechanga Arena, waiting patiently for the doors to open.

Shawn’s chocolate eyes scanned the herd of people as the car rolled along, clearly not fast enough for Cez’s liking.

Something caught his eye. He wasn’t sure if it was her long black hair or pearly white smile, but Shawn craned his neck quickly enough to give himself whiplash.

“Wait, ca-,” he paused as his right hand tapped at the window frantically, “Can we turn around?”

“Shawn, we’re already late,” Cez pressed, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion at Shawn’s sudden outburst.

“No, bu-“

“Shawn,” he spoke sternly. There was no getting out of this.

“Alright,” Shawn breathed, sinking back into his seat. Whoever she was, she was fucking gorgeous. And she was there to see him. He could only hope to find her inside.

And hope he did. Shawn carried on with the rushed soundcheck followed by his Q&A session, analyzing the face of every fan looking back at him in a meek attempt to see her again. His heart raced and his features perked up as every dark-haired girl walked in for her meet and greet, only to once again be discouraged when he felt absolutely nothing.

The team knew something was up, failing to mention it in fear of Shawn being on the brink of a nervous episode. In reality, the reason he wasn’t all there was due to his desperate search to find her.

_______________________

Shawn bounced on his toes, shaking out his arms as Eddie played the opening notes of Lost In Japan. The stage was dark as Shawn crept out, making the most of the twenty-one seconds he had to scan the crowd, praying to his lucky stars that his eyes might fall on her. His heart sank as he knew it was time to focus, to play the damn show because that was why people were there and that was why he was there. That was why she was there.

With a deep breath and a toothy grin, Shawn straightened out his shoulders and took the mic into his hand.

“San Diego how you feelin’?” escaped his lips as his hopes were crushed, accepting his fate. Sixteen-thousand pairs of eyes stared back at him, and he wondered which one of them belonged to her.

_______________________

“Fucking finally!” you exclaimed, finally ejecting yourself from the confines of Pearson International. Your best friend, Alex, trailed after you, wheeling her suitcase in the direction of the arrivals pickup.

Navigating airports wasn’t always easy. Especially in foreign cities under a time-crunch and being completely engulfed by the looming excitement of Shawn’s upcoming stadium show, which happened to be the next day.

The air was warmer than you’d expected and your surroundings were greyer than anyone would have liked to admit, but somehow, some way, Toronto was still beautiful. Except the airport wasn’t even in Toronto. They could see it, way off in the distance, but Brampton, Ontario, definitely was not Toronto.

You were pulled from her thoughts when a black Chevrolet Equinox pulled over in front of you, popping the hatch for your luggage.

“Your chariot awaits,” Alex giggled, nudging you in the side as she loaded your suitcases into the spacious trunk.

The Uber merged onto the 427 and made its way southward, barreling toward the city faster than your fragile heart could handle. The Toronto skyline was glowing at the sun set, the glint of the CN Tower proving hard to look at as the city you so badly longed to be in grew more and more in your reach.

A blaring car horn startled you, causing you to snap your head around at the source. The Uber was merging again, onto another highway, and had unfortunately just cut someone off.

You craned your neck in search of a sign, spotting “Gardiner Expressway” in gigantic letters attached to a light post. The crashing waves of Lake Ontario were to your right as the Uber took the exit reading “Lake Shore,” you and Alex exchanging a look of pure joy.

Holy shit, these buildings are huge, you thought to yourself as the Uber rolled slowly through the thick traffic of the downtown core. The Rogers Centre was a massive white dome from another plane of existence, and stationed just behind it was the CN Tower, standing taller than either of you had ever envisioned.

Then the Uber took an aggressive left on Spadina and all the buildings looked the same and within minutes the vehicle was pulling over, announcing that you’d arrived.

“Alright,” you giggled, wheeling your luggage into the lobby of the apartment complex. It seemed modern and posh, and thankfully, right in the middle of everything. Alex retrieved the key from the front desk and you tapped your toes anxiously against the floor, watching the little screen as the elevator climbed all the way to the fifteenth level.

The apartment was nice. Faced the east, providing a great view of the near skyline, and the bedroom was on the north wall. You looked out the window with fascination, watching as a green GO train chugged along on the tracks below.

“Hungry?” Alex called, pulling you from your thoughts. “Sorry, but all I can think about right now is food.”

______________________

Night came and went, leaving you giddy with excitement, staring at your own reflection, satisfied with what you saw. The show was in a few hours and it would be your second time seeing Shawn on this tour, and you couldn’t have been more ecstatic.

The Rogers Centre. The special guests. The extended show. The massive crowd. You knew it was going to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and it was all happening to you right here, right now.

You wondered what Shawn was doing, what he was thinking about. If he was nervous—hell, how nervous he was.

_______________________

Shawn’s drive to the Rogers Centre was a quick one. That’s new, he thought to himself. His phone had been blowing up all morning, text messages from distant friends and family rolling in like clockwork. It was a big fucking deal.

Shawn was busy thinking about her. Playing a show for 55,000 people had Shawn all in his head—what didn’t?—and he found tranquility in thoughts of what could have been. He wondered if he should tweet something. Or relocate to San Diego for a while and maybe hang out at a Walmart. She was bound to pass by at some point.

But no. It had been two months—two whole months—since he’d seen her. He didn’t know why he as so drawn to her, so captivated by her. But he felt something that day. There was no doubt about it. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try and find her.

Today wasn’t the day, though. He was about to play the biggest show of his career, and if he was being honest with himself, he was freaking the fuck out. He breathed in. Her. He breathed out. Her. He was calm.

“Gates six or ten,” Alex read off the e-ticket, causing you to whip your head around in search of some sort of fucking sign. For such a big building, one would think it would be at least labeled.

The CN Tower quite literally towered over you as the two of you followed a mob of people to the doors, holding hands in fear of losing each other in the crowd. You thought back to lining up outside of the arena in San Diego and laughed to yourself. This was nothing like that.

“Six it is,” you spoke, nodding to the circular sign above the doors everyone was crowding around. The group was buzzing with murmurs of where everyone was sitting, many “you’re lucky”’s exchanged whenever someone revealed that they were in an “A” section. Alex shot you a tight-lipped grin, both of you thinking the same thing: we’re in A4.

The sun was low and 7:30 was quickly approaching, the anticipation building as everyone prepared for the doors to open.

“These seats are incredible,” you thought aloud, settling next to the aisle with your vodka cran.

“Yeah, you’ll finally be able to see the sweat dripping down his neck,” Alex quipped, earning a nudge in the ribs from you.

Shawn, on the other hand, was not so easygoing.

He was freaking the fuck out.

Backstage was chaos, everyone trying to get sorted at the last-minute. All the people Shawn loved were under the same roof, but still, he wasn’t at peace. He considered he’d probably retreat to his ancient calming tactics, focusing on one audience member and freaking them out with a lot of eye contact. It worked every time.

Your stomach twirled as you got to your feet. The lights were low, the bass was rumbling, and something was about to happen. You felt as if you might burst.

Shawn’s stomach twirled as he stood at the side of the stage. The lights were low, the bass was rumbling, and he was about to step out there. He was ready to burst.

And just like that, he kicked off the biggest show of his career. Lost In Japan went harder than ever and he was over the moon, singing to and with fifty five thousand people who loved him endlessly.

______________________

He took a deep breath. It was mid-show, he hadn’t introduced the special guests, and he jumped down from the stage and held his arms out to touch people’s hands as security escorted him to the b-stage, where a grand piano waited patiently.

“Holy shit, he’s right there!” Alex screamed in your ear, her senses overwhelmed by her emotions. Shawn spoke a few words that you didn’t quite catch as he sat down on the bench, the chords to Life of the Party causing the crowd to erupt. You were positive that you weren’t alone in trying not to cry.

A few songs later and he was wrapping up the segment, performing an elongated version of a fan favourite: Ruin. The band was on the main stage and Shawn stood alone, absolutely nailing the guitar solo. Accomplished, he looked up from his guitar, bidding sweat away from his eyes. He blinked. And then he blinked again. No fucking way.

He missed his cue and messed up the song a bit, but he wasn’t too worried. Squinting into the audience as the spotlight illuminated the sections surrounding him, he was sure of it. It was her.

“Is he okay?” Alex wondered out loud, her voice insignificant in your ear. You weren’t listening.

He was looking at you. You turned your head around, wondering what the big deal was, to find thousands of people, too, looking at you.

Shawn knew this couldn’t last long. He was being obvious.

He wrapped up the song, hardly peeling his eyes from you because how could he? Like, seriously. What were the fucking odds?

Shawn ran back to the main stage and just like that, he was gone. You checked your phone. 9:30. There was no way it was over.

Shawn dove off the stage, frantically searching for Andrew.

“The hell was that?” Andrew asked sternly, finally locating Shawn.

“Listen, that girl? Not the middle section, two over to my right? Dark hair, on the aisle,” Shawn panted, everyone around him staring at him in confusion. “Look.”

Shawn pulled Andrew to the edge of the stage where he couldn’t be seen very well, pointing directly at her spot.

“The girl from the San Diego show, she’s here.”

“That’s her?” Andrew questioned, “how the fuck did you see her?”

“Lucky? I don’t know,” Shawn spoke quickly, “but I need someone to go get her. I need to talk to her.”

“Shawn we can’t jus-“

“See you after!” he called with a grin, stepping back onto the stage to introduce the one and only Taylor Swift.

You were baffled. Wondering if you’d done something wrong, confused as to why the Shawn Mendes was looking at you as if you had two heads.

There wasn’t much you could do. Yes, Shawn kept looking. Staring, really. But you had no choice but to smile back and enjoy the show, oddly confident and confused and insecure all at once.

Taylor left and Ed came out, the crowd absolutely losing their minds. Shawn was at his peak happiness, a little anxious about what would happen later but very, very in the zone.

You were having the time of your life, too. You could sense the show coming to an end as he played the opening notes of In My Blood, giving it his absolute all for every single person who made it to the concert.

Shawn thanked the crowd endlessly. He waved goodbye. The lights came on and everyone started filing out, but you were intercepted.

A massive man in a black hoodie stopped you in your tracks, and you soon recognized him to be Jake, Shawn’s security guard. You took a deep breath.

“I’m with Shawn,” he spoke, flashing you a backstage pass, “would you mind coming with me for a few minutes? Your friend is welcome to join.”

You turned to look at Alex, who was already raising a brow. If you hadn’t recognized Jake you’d be suspicious, but this seemed legitimate.

“Y-yeah,” you nodded, agreeing to follow Jake to the side of the stage and eventually around the back, down a long hallway, and to the dressing rooms.

“He’s just winding down for a minute with his team,” Jake spoke, opening the door to a furnished dressing room. “Are you okay to wait in here for a bit?”

You looked over at Alex, who gave you an understanding nod. Of course you were okay to wait a bit.

Jake left quietly and you were too jittery to sit on the plush sofa. Alex, on the other hand, plunked down like a sack of potatoes.

“How are you calm right now?” you asked frantically, chewing your nail.

“Nothing bad’s gonna happen,” she chuckled, “clearly Shawn’s got something to say to you.”

That did not help. Your hands were shaking and you were pacing, soon locating a mirror and making sure you looked okay. Of course this was when the door burst open.

You turned toward the sudden commotion, face-to-face with a very sweaty, very flushed Shawn Mendes.

Silence.

You bit your lip. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

Shawn was the first to speak.

“Hi,” he said quietly, trying his best to suppress a bashful grin.

“Um, hello,” you giggled, holding out your right hand and introducing yourself.

“I’m, uh, I’m Shawn,” he laughed, a chuckle escaping Alex’s lips a few feet away.

“That’s my friend Alex,” you nodded, crossing your arms over your chest.

Shawn shot her a nod, more concerned with you. Why was she here? How did she get here? Where did she come from?

“Oh,” Shawn raised his eyebrows, “you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here.”

You laughed, and he swore his heart skipped a beat. He could listen to that forever.

“This is going to sound really weird, but please, bear with me,” he grinned, taking a step closer. “I recognized you from the San Diego show.”

Your eyebrows lunged into your hairline.

“You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious,” he nodded.

“How’d you see me there?” you asked, unsure of if you should laugh or be worried, “I wasn’t even on the floor.”

“I looked for you,” he twirled his ring around his finger, probably nervous, “I saw you lining up outside, actually. When I was on my way to the venue.”

“Right,” you said quietly, still baffled by all of this.

“I just, I felt like I needed to talk to you?” he explained, his tone uneasy, “There’s something about you, I can’t quite put my finger on it. You’re um, you’re gorgeous.”

Your cheeks burned crimson as your spoke a soft “thank you,” desperately waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t know where I’m really going with this,” he paused, bringing a large hand up to run through his dark curls. “I have to go to this afterparty thing for a little bit, but maybe do you want to meet with me later? We could grab a drink or, or something?”

Was this fucking real? you thought to yourself. Of course. Fuck. Speak. Speak!

“Yeah, I do. That would be really nice,” you played it cool, finally really looking into his eyes. They were beautiful.

“Great. Uh, can I maybe get your number?”

_______________________

Back at the apartment, you were having a royal meltdown.

“I didn’t pack for this!” you called from the bedroom, pulling various pieces of clothing from your luggage to figure out what on earth to wear.

“He remembered you from a different fucking country,” Alex quipped from the doorway, watching as you scrubbed the makeup from your face to reapply it. “I don’t think he’d care if you showed up in a paper bag.”

“Not gonna happen,” you responded, having given up on the attire situation for the time being.

A few blocks over, Shawn was celebrating with his loved ones, over the fucking moon because thanks to some twist of fate, he’d finally found you. The party was set to end soon and you’d be meeting him at a quaint little dive bar just down the street from his house, and the seconds couldn’t have ticked by faster.

“My Uber’s almost here,” you snapped, your long-sleeve shirt halfway over your head. “How do I look?”

“You look gorgeous,” Alex spoke from the couch, giving you a one-over as you put your high-heeled boots on.

“Thank you,” you breathed, slinging your purse over one shoulder. “Alright. I’m off.”

And with that, you were gone. Practically shaking the entire car ride to the address Shawn had texted you, wondering if he was feeling the same.

Shawn stood on the sidewalk beneath the lights strung all over the front patio, his eyes fixed on every car that slowed down in front of him. His nerves were getting the best of him, but he had no choice. This was it. He’d been thinking about you for so long, wondering everything there was to know about you. Holy shit, there she is.

You climbed out of the back seat, thanking the driver and shutting the door behind you. You looked up, your gaze met by that of a tall, handsome, curly-haired young man. His smile reached his eyes.

“Hey!” he grinned, holding out his arm for you to grab. You needed steadying.

“Hi,” you smiled, her heart jumping a bit as he pulled you in for an unexpected hug.

“Shall we go in?”

__________________________

He told you everything. When he saw you, where he saw you, how he felt when he saw you. Everything. And you were absolutely fucked for him.

“That’s insane,” you nodded, sipping your second cocktail. “Like, what are the odds?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” he laughed, finishing off his IPA. “I don’t know. I just, I think you’re gorgeous. And I want to know more about you in the least creepy way possible.”

“I’m not creeped out,” you blushed, your hand finding his thigh in the dim light of the bar. He twitched a bit. You pulled away, embarrassed by your actions, eyeing him apologetically.

“No, no, that’s fine!” Shawn reassured, reaching for your fingers and placing them back on his knee. “I just wasn’t sure you were all that into me, I guess. Now I realize that’s kind of stupid.”

“I mean, I did travel to a whole other country just to see you perform, so,” you chuckled, wiggling your fingers against the denim of his black jeans.

He nodded, flushed. They were acting like teenagers. You eyed his lips. He put his hand on yours and leaned in, brushing your nose with his own. All they could breathe was each other.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, his soft lips turning up at the corners.

“It’s very okay,” you nodded with a smile, closing the space between you to press your mouth against his.

He tasted like mint and honey, warm and cool and sweet all at once. You were itching for more, desperate to have his hands on you when he pulled away, smiling like a goof.

“Um,” he started, giving your hand a squeeze, “do you, maybe, want to get out of here?”

_______________________

“Condo looks nice,” you muttered against his lips, your body pinned against the back of his front door. His lips were everywhere at once, trailing from your lips to your jaw to her neck, begging for mutual attention.

“Thanks,” he muttered with a giggle, carefully holding your face in his hands like you might break. He was afraid he would.

“Wow,” you broke from his lips, craning your neck down the hall. His view of the city was gorgeous and his living room was so cozy, you had to take a minute. “This is really nice. Thank you, for uh, for bringing me here.”

Shawn cleared his throat, joining you in his living room. The wonder in her eyes was electric as you gazed out the window. He was in awe.

“Listen,” he spoke softly, reaching for your hand so you would turn to him, “I didn’t just bring you here to, uh, you know,” he took a deep breath, “I actually like you. A lot. We can do whatever you want, I’d still be over the fucking moon.”

You were the hungry one now. If you weren’t already destroyed by the thought of him, his words had you hooked. Shawn kissed you back, allowing your lips to swallow his gentle mewls as he walked you to his bedroom, trying his best not to fall over.

You didn’t even have time to take in your surroundings, the brute force of Shawn’s body on top of yours as you collapsed on his king-sized bed, knocking the wind out of you. You both broke into a small giggling fit, easing the nerves that seemed to be eating at his stomach from the inside out.

“You’re sure this is okay?” he whispered, fingertips grazing the skin under your shirt.

“More than okay,” you smiled, assisting him in slipping the fabric over her head.

He was blushing more than ever, giddy and elated that this was real life and really happening in real time. Someone controlling the universe and all mystery greater than life itself had his back. He made a note to say thank-you later.

Before his thoughts strayed too far from the woman beneath him, you were kissing his neck, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, reminding him of what really mattered.

Holy fuck, you thought to yourself. You knew he was ripped—had inspected every inch of his body through the screen of your phone. But you didn’t know he looked like this. You swallowed your filthy thoughts with a gulp, your gaze raking over the dips and hills of his muscular torso, wondering what on earth was beneath his jeans.

As if he’d read your mind, he was messing with his belt, finally unclasping it and moving on to the button of his pants.

Your heart was racing.

His heart was racing.

It was happening quickly, but it made sense. You both wanted—needed—this, and it seemed fitting.

You wiggled out of the tight confinement of your jeans, matching his minimal attire of mere undergarments. His flush reached his chest, which was littered in tiny brown hairs, topped off with a dangling silver pendant.

This is real. This is Shawn Mendes. You took a deep breath.

His warm hands were on you, exploring the expanse of your ribs as he kissed you with all he had, teeth and tongue included. He needed you badly, and he wasn’t afraid to show it.

You let out a squeal as he began nipping at your jaw, reminding you of how real this was. Your hands were exploring the divots of his stomach, feeling the softness and warmth of his skin against yours. He felt amazing.

He inhaled sharply, collapsing against you when your fingertips slipped into the waistband of his black boxers. Your hands were where he needed you most, feeling and rubbing and massaging everything he had to offer. He was ecstatic.

“Fuck,” he muttered as you spread the bead of precum he’d released around the head of his cock, prompting him to buck his hips into your hand with great desperation. Shawn wasn’t a selfish man, but he had a hard time focusing on putting his hands in your panties when you were touching him like this. “Wait a sec,” he interrupted, shame washing over your face instantly. You were afraid you’d gone too far.

“I’m never gonna last past your hand,” he breathed, his chocolate eyes pleading with yours as you retracted her fingers from his underwear. “Please, please let me focus on you.”

No protest there. Your panties were off and he was between your thighs before either of you could take a breath, and holy fuck, he knew what he was doing.

His tongue was hot against your core, kissing and licking and lapping at the soft skin like it was his final meal. You squirmed beneath his gigantic arms, pinned to his bed and thankful because there was nowhere in the world you’d rather have been.

“Shawn,” spilled from your lips, a mantra you’d practiced over and over in the comfort of your own bedroom, completely mind-boggled that you were using it for real now. “Fuck,” you reiterated, gasping as he added a finger into the mix, working you to the edge faster than you’d ever experienced.

He was humming against you. Sucking on your clit like a fucking popsicle, grinding his hips into the mattress in preparation to give you all of him. He’d never felt so fucking alive.

Another finger slipped into your heat, Shawn coming up for air to plant some kisses on your inner thighs.

“Gonna come for me?” he groaned against your skin, fucking you roughly with his fingers as you struggled to formulate a sentence. “Need you to fucking come for me.”

His mouth was back on you, exploring you thoroughly and sloppily, leaving you a shaking, shivering, writhing mess. He sucked, you shouted, and you were coming on his hands, clenching around his fingers like if you didn’t, he might not have been real.

Shawn was smiling against your skin, proud of himself and proud to be between your thighs. You were panting, rapidly trying to regenerate because you wanted nothing more than to take all of him as soon as possible—to give him what he needed.

“Shawn, that was amazing,” you muttered with a grin, pulling his face up to meet yours and tasting yourself on his glorious tongue, “Need you.”

He separated himself from your lips, nudging your nose with his own and resting his forehead against yours.

“You’re positive? This is okay?”

“Yes,” you giggled, rolling your hips against his, “please, Shawn. Need you to fucking give it to me.”

He was off you in milliseconds, rummaging in his bedside table for a condom and wiggling out of his boxer-briefs like they were burning his skin. You pushed up on your elbows, watching with a lazy smile as he fumbled with the latex, not-very-gracefully rolling it down his thick shaft and once again turning to face you.

Sculpted by the gods, he stood at the edge of the bed, throbbing cock in his hand. You reached around and unclasped your bra, Shawn unable to peel his eyes from your exposed chest as he crawled up your frame, kissing his way over your torso and up your neck, eventually finding your lips in the dim light of his bedroom.

He breathed in.

“You ready?”

You nodded.

He breathed out. This was it.

“Shit, baby,” he muttered, running his reddish tip along your folds, “you’re soaked.”

“Obviously,” you giggled, recounting the events of only a few minutes prior.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” he whispered, planting a soft kiss on your lips as he slipped inside of you, groaning at the feeling of your soft walls hugging him so tightly.

The burn was quick, soon subsiding to pleasure as he bottomed out, beginning to carefully move in and out of your core. He was the perfect size—not too big, not too thick, but definitely not small. His shallow thrusts turned into deep rows, pounding into your heat as he lost himself in the pleasure your body provided.

He was moaning into the crook of your neck, sweat pooling in his hairline as he gave you all of him, focusing completely on grazing your walls as deeply as he could.

“Shawn,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders to pull him impossibly closer, “touch me.”

His fingers found your clit and he sped up, reducing you to a mumbling string of profanities, feeling nothing but ecstasy as he was inside of you, working wonders with his cock and his fingers.

“M’not gonna last much longer,” he warned, trying to slow down in a poor attempt to keep himself from barreling over the edge.

“Harder,” you encouraged, closing your eyes and tugging his curls, lost in the feeling of the drag of his cock as his fingers danced over your sensitivity, bringing on your orgasm more intensely than you knew possible.

“Shit,” he grunted, moaning with you as you clenched around him, your back arching against his mattress as you came together, seeing nothing but stars.

__________________

“Please stay,” he spoke into your hair, hugging you tightly beneath his heavy duvet.

“I can’t, Shawn,” you nuzzled into his chest, “Alex is waiting for me.”

He hummed in protest, groaning as you slipped out from under the covers and began relocating your clothes.

“It’s too cold for you to leave.”

“Shawn, it’s September,” you giggled, tugging your lacy underwear up your thighs. He watched.

“At least let my pay for your Uber.”

“That I can do,” you grinned, slipping your shirt over your head as he unlocked his iPhone and ordered a ride. “Walk me out?”

He got dressed (half, really), and walked you to the elevator, holding your hand so tightly it was almost painful. Neither of you knew why this felt so hard.

“It’s two minutes away,” he whispered, pulling you against his dense frame for a long hug, topping it off with a soft kiss to your swollen lips. “You have my number.”

You nodded, stepping into the elevator, his hand still in yours as long as the doors remained open.

“Catch you next time you’re passing through San Diego, I guess?”

He grinned bashfully, a flush creeping down his neck as the metal doors began to shut.

“I think you’ll be seeing me a lot sooner than that, sweetheart.”

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maggotmouth · 4 years

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hello, i’m nora ( she / her, 24, gmt ) and i almost exclusively join dark academia rps. please find below everything i have thus far on otto ballantyne, a theatre and classics student who was arranged to be married to one of the students who disappeared. i’ve honestly been itching to write otto again for months, so thanks to this lil group for giving me the opportunity. can’t wait to get my teeth stuck into him again. please bombard me with discord messages for plots. here is his pinterest.

act one: application.

THOMAS DOHERTY , CIS-MALE , HE/HIM → according to the school records , OTTO HORATIO BALLANTYNE has been attending sacred heart for the past four years . i last saw them hanging around the cliffs ; i think they were reciting shakespearean soliloquies to the wind and a weathered old skull. at twenty - three years old , otto has been studying theatre & classics and get this , i heard that he was arranged to be married to alice rosseau before her untimely disappearance , and was desperate to call off the affair — figure it’s true ? everyone around here always associates them with an aged bottle of malbec glugged carelessly at the after - show , the kind of confidence that only a private education gives , white lines of powder snorted off a marble sink with lovers you’ll later deny . in the time since these strange happenings , they have have not encountered any unexplained occurrences . ( written by nora , 24 , she/her , gmt )

act two: the muse !

ok so lemme start off by saying otto is heavily inspired by if we were villains by m l rio and the secret history by donna tartt. very serious actor. into the classical plays, but would definitely fit in a production of posh by laura wade. originally i wrote him for a murder mystery dark academia group but when the group ended i missed him so much i decided to bring him here.

born in south london, but raised in cheltenham. went to eton or harrow or one of those posh english boarding schools for boys. we love the homoeroticism of learning latin with your homies and chanting sonnets in caves by candlelight.

youngest son in his family. was fiercely competitive with his brother nathaniel growing up. having an older brother who was incredibly intelligent and successful made otto learn to treat his life like it was a fight. constantly trying to be better and ‘prove himself’.

otto’s a brat. filthy rich public school boy vibes, very riot club. champagne all over the ceiling and driving well over the limit. custom-made cuff links he loses in taverns when he rolls up his sleeves to lean on the bar. needing to know so much about a character you’re playing that it consumes you ; you can no longer tell which parts of you are otto and which parts are macbeth.

characters who have inspired him: alistair ryle in the riot club, francis abernathy in the secret history, anthony marston in and then there were none, oliver marks in if we were villains, achilles in the song of achilles, dorian gray in tpodg.

a fun fact is he is a natural blonde and spent most of his childhood that way but he now dyes it dark because he thinks that’ll give him more versatility in terms of the roles he can play. blonde ppl are usually cast as only the lover or the innocent n he wants to play villains and heroes and leading men as well.

very gay, n that’s pretty much a known thing by everyone but his family?? his family have arranged to have him married to women twice n both times its not worked out. the first time he basically drove her away with his reckless hedonism and alcoholism, and the second arranged marriage was to alice, one of the four students who went missing

archetypes: the figurehead. the challenger. the magician. the knight. the underdog.

ENTP-T / the debater personality.

theatre arts major, minoring in classics.

trigger warning for internalised homophobia / familial prejudice.

act three: the biography !

heavy is the head that wears the crown, though yours is the size of a tennis ball when you are born three weeks premature, barely formed enough to open your eyes. for those first few weeks all your parents knew were fear and love — fear that you would leave them, love that you had made it through so much, hooked up to wires like a fish in a cryogenic tank. to them your heart that learned one day to beat of its own accord was a miracle. perhaps that’s why you became their golden boy.

being born as a boy on the brink of death makes you invulnerable. you were achilles and the world couldn’t touch you for you were shielded from harm by a mother’s protective spell. should nathaniel lay so much as a finger on your skin, a voice would raise like the sound of a god from the veranda where she sat sipping her wine, play nice, boys! the sound of it thick with merlot. in every fight they took your side ; angel-headed creatures never lied. you soon learned that adults would believe anything if they liked you, that flattery will get you anywhere and to the well-trained mind, conversation was little more than a parlour game.

you harboured your mother’s beauty, the softness of her voice, the firmness of her skin and light in the corners of her smile. of your father, they’d say you inherited his wit, though that was your own — as was the golden hair that tousled your head, taken not from ambrose ballantyne but rather the bout of his three-week business trip to germany when your mother had bedded the gardener. if he knew, he never mentioned it. to believe such a fate would imply that he was not enough for her. though you noticed one day when you were nearing five and the sun was ripe on your freckle-flecked skin that the gardener had stopped coming at all. the grass, once shaven to its scalp, now grew to your knees.

at school, you learned with porridge still clinging to your mouth that the way to win over your teachers was through your smile. yours was the kind of school where the christmas play was not the nativity but rather the story of the gods, and stardom came to you in the role of apollo, sun shining from your beaming face, a bright halo of hair around your head. this was the first time you noticed a coldness in nathaniel’s eyes as your father threw you over his shoulder and your mother drenched you in praise. a bout of food-poisoning on your brother’s part rendered the italian restaurant, visited in your honour, abandoned. you never did find out if he was faking.

the room to his door remained shut after that and you learned to wile away your hours in the company of nannies and children from neighbouring castles, played at knights and rescued princesses from nearby dungeons, a tin-foil crown lopsided on your head. you learned to seek influence in the faces of those around you, how their eyes would widen as they hung like stalactites to your words. storyteller. prophet. riddler. prince. you cut your tongue into a well-kept sword and sparred with it thrice a day.

by nine you had read all of dickens novels. by eleven, all of shakespeare’s comedies — though you understood them as much as a cricket knows the meaning of the cosmos. still, it sounded rich and impressive when asked by aunties at dinner parties, what are you reading in school, otto? he finds the curriculum tiring, your mother would say, stroking a hand through your thick head of hair. otto’s just finished the merchant of venice. soon you grew to ignore your brother’s glowers at your back. your mother’s was the only smile you needed.

in cap and blazer your mother would drop you off at school, gated and turreted, the kind that was the envy of poorer neighborhood wives. when you were young, you were sure the gifts that came your way were yours alone, though as you grew older, you learned to expect them in the same way the school expected cheques from your parents. they named them benefactors, you noticed one day, on the wooden plaques fixed to the common room walls. the same plaques you would one day notice their names engraved upon in the arching hallways of sacred heart. acclaim was bought, not earned, and your success was littered with blood money.

what’s a king without a kingdom? your father surely wanted you to inherit his, though it was not in law and corporal finance that you found yourself a castle, but rather upon the stage. when red curtains split, you found you could become anything with the power of your will — boy, man, lion, snake, each of them wrung out by wordsmiths dead in their graves, a certain romance in the dusky smell of stage lights. when every eye in the room was focused on you — that was when you felt most powerful. like a piece of art, you were something to be looked at and admired — and perhaps in the absence of self-earned merit your vanity blossomed, for even if the trophies that lined your cabinets and the a-grades in columns on a sheet came from heavy pockets, your parents could never buy the sound of applause.

actors are by nature volatile. though your facade was swifter than an arrow, backstage they would call you tempestuous, bigoted, vain. still, it never left the wings of the theatre. there was a kind of reverence surrounding you that words could not taper, godliness following you from school to college, a peer admired in the practice rooms of sacred heart where you poured over chekhov and ibsen but yearned to read sophocles and euripides.

you learned to pride yourself on your looks — a sharpened jawline and a sharper tongue — and found that people would do almost anything for a beautiful face. in the beginning, alice was one so much. first colleagues, then friends, then a frequenter to the table in your family’s house. with arrogance carried in the curve of your brow, you only ever saw her as an accessory. that changed when you met her brother, let yourself stumble, brogues in a size that differed from your own kicked beneath your bed, a shirt with a larger neck size, pulled sheets, the smell of a foreign cologne.

talk travelled. it wouldn’t do to have word of your deviance spread further than the ballantyne house. while your parents would claim they were forward-thinking, more lenient than their parents had been, there was a conservative priggishness to the way they’d brush such matters under the rug, your father scarcely able to meet your eye over the dinner table. soon after, the arrangement was set with you all but exalted from the plans until alice had been informed. too late to back out, neither of you all that eager to be wed, though your families would coo when you fixed your hair or she, in keeping with the role, adjusted your tie. at first it amused you to play house with one such as alice, but soon you grew listless. like a caged beast you felt suffocated by the falseness of it all. you’d leave the dinners held by your joint households and return bedraggled, smelling of whiskey and sex. you’re not sure alice ever knew the reason why you couldn’t love her, though perhaps she suspected. at night, the names that would fall from your lips would never be hers. oliver. daniel. mason. rupert. charles.

act four: character investigation !

otto’s an extremely materialistic character who obtains pleasure through the things you can buy in life rather than that which comes to you by way of humble experience. he likes rolex watches, armani suits, louis vuitton travel bags, silk scarves imported from india. he likes to drink wine from decades gone by, where he can almost taste the funk of a victorian farmer hand pressing the grapes into a pulp, or to read a manuscript from the special collections section of the library that he knows has passed through hands which have gone on to achieve greatness. to otto, alice was always an extension of this hedonistic, pleasure-seeking attitude — she was something to be paraded like the equestrian trophies on his bookshelf, or his name on the honour roll. it’s not that he didn’t see her as a person — he’s hardly a chauvinist, although it could easily be inferred from the disdain with which he talks to some women — but rather that he saw her as someone ethereal and admirable and of high social standing who would elevate his social standing, by extension, were he to spend time with her. (this was such a convoluted sentence omg sorry)

the engagement was not his choice. even the idea of it had never crossed his mind. he had never thought to marry – marriage to otto was a tool used for financial gain — and being already wealthy, he was content to live out his days as a bachelor. he would take lovers, of course, but it would be on his own terms without the involvement of the law. alice was chosen as a match for otto because she was from a wealthy, well-liked family and the two had been friends since childhood. it seemed to their parents inevitable that they would marry, and so all that was left was the agreed arrangement between the families and the exchanging of rings. strictly speaking, if the marriage between otto and alice had gone ahead, then alice would have been nothing more than a trophy wife to otto. it would have been a miserable marriage for her, and he would have grown to resent her for it — not resent her for the fact that he could never truly be free to love someone he wanted (for he still would) but resent her, and by extension his family, for taking the option to do that openly and publicly away from him. she would always be seen as the beard, the scorned lover, the cuckold, and it would dampen any future relationships he held with the stain of that upset.

act five: wanted plots !

people who he was friends with as a child (either in london or cheltenham if anyone in this group has a muse from there) but grew apart from when he was sent to private school / they view him as entitled now and the two no longer have much in common

someone who auditioned for the same role as him, but otto got it, and they’ve resented him for it ever since ! want this bad. or put your thang down flip it and reverse it: someone who got the role otto wanted and he loathes them for it.

hasn’t really dated anyone? at college, he tends to hook up with people in a vapid sort of way? so he wouldn’t rEALly have past relationships with boys unless it was….. incredibly quiet and on the DL, literally meeting up in the woods after school to read plato and play with each others hair. suddenly realised i want this. someone give me someone he reads plato in the woods with and kisses up against tree bark because even though everyone basically KnOWS otto isn’t out n probably never will be :/

alternatively someone who he had a vapid, senseless hook up with and grew attached to :/ rude. in this house we lov angst

i guess some friends he actually likes would be cool. maybe someone who he has a hold over, because he’s quite an engaging character with good leadership qualities, like at parties he’ll be the one telling the story and gesticulating wildly and everyone’s watching him or looking to him for where they’ll go next / how the night will pan out. if he has a hold over someone maybe he has some sort of leverage whereby they’ll complete his work for him if he’s out getting drunk which he usually is. if tht sounds like ur character is naive n could be coerced, hit me up

people he knows on a very superficial and base level in the fact that their only interactions together involve doing coke off someone’s sink and stumbling home in the dark. otto’s a massive hedonist. if he were a greek god, he’d be a mix between dionysus and apollo, but he has achilles’ vanity.

#heretics:intro #heretics:ooc #throws my boy out into the wind x #hope u lov him as much as i do #sorry i will mostly be using medium gifs in his threads cos his icon resources are sparse x

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bungostraydoggos · 5 years

Note

Dazai, atsushi and akutagawa reacting to their s/o getting fatly injured and is at the brink of death while trying to protect them? (Sorry i'm a hoe for angst lol)

~Light descriptive gore disclaimer~

——————————————————————

Dazai Osamu

「人間失格...」 No longer human... Ah yes, that’s right--- as those three words spilt from his shivering lips, those were certainly the epitome of the state he was in. To see Dazai’s beloved slashed in front of him was harsh. He never knew the feeling of hopelessness was real until the tragic moment dawned onto him. Despite his superb keenness and special repellent ability, the fact that he wasn’t able to protect them in the end remained. The reality to see their eyes gradually fading into blank emptiness as their dark blood spurt like a fountain left Dazai utterly speechless. His worn-out bandages reaches out to them in a slow motion, trying to grasp at least any part of them that was left intact. The enemy was too quick and too strong for Dazai alone to handle, and it was nearly impossible to face him since he had no combative strength nor powers. However, he really believed his intellect and quick wit could evade the enemy, but it only lasted a couple of minutes and at the end, it was all in vain when he witnessed his partner taking the blow from the enemy’s attack--- all in order to protect him. Why would you protect me? I should’ve been the one protecting you yet you---! There was no use in reflecting over spilt milk. Dazai’s eyes widened at every second they saw their body falling. It’s strange. It’s not fair, and it just can’t be. Even though Dazai was already beginning to crumble at the sight of his significant other injured, there was something else that made him swell with even more pain inside. At death’s door, they smiled at Dazai as if reassuring him that they’ll be okay. In all honesty, it felt like some sort of a joke. They can’t be alright in that tattered condition. They can’t be okay. No words could describe how Dazai was feeling. In his moments of reaching out to them, within seconds after the unfortunate event that just transpired, Atsushi finally arrived at the scene to help. Dazai scoops their fainted body and gently puts them in Atsushi’s care. The tiger boy tried to talk to Dazai about the enemy but it was no use. His dark eyes were darker than any darkness. One could say Dazai has returned to his old mafia self but truthfully, his current anger was far more dangerous and deadly than anything. It was as if he was truly no longer human. The ex-mafia returns to the battlefield before saying his final words to Atsushi. “Whatever happens, take care of them.” Dazai’s possessed state of rage was suddenly soothed when he heard a familiar voice. “Don’t... die... please...” Their voice trailed off into his ears, reminding him to make sure he comes back alive because even though with severe injuries, they’ll try to stay alive too. Dazai softly smiled that looked all too painful. “No promises but... I’ll be back.” With that, Dazai left to defeat the enemy with everything he had. The only one who witnessed the whole murder-like scene was Atsushi and in his words, it was the most frightening moment he has ever experienced in his life.

Nakajima Atsushi

One of the things Atsushi has gotten used to hearing was the sound of his leg teared apart by an enemy, but not the sound of his significant other’s leg being teared apart. It was awful. The enemy took their gutty muscles and ripped it apart like it was some pillow. The ripping sounds was like the sound of breaking wood. Repeated, it was awful. This rush of anger felt like a rush of steroids pumping through his veins. Atsushi didn’t waste a second and his tiger-speed immediately retrieved his injured partner away from the enemy. His speed was so fast there were no blood trails of his companion until he set them aside in a safer spot where they won’t get hurt. The enemy laughs at Atsushi’s emotional state while mocking him and provoking him with meaningless threats and blackmails. The were-tiger wasn’t listening. The rush of blood was too strong and while it was pumping throughout his body and sharp ears, he didn’t hear a word his enemy spouted. He didn’t hear anything except the thumping sound of his heart beating and accelerating into a ferocious rage in which no one could hear except him. Atsushi turns around with an intense glare. His tiger-eyes were piercing through his enemy’s soul, and his black claws baring out intimidating the enemy’s spirit. This kind of feeling was almost a first for Atsushi. He couldn’t really tell what to make of this overwhelming state of emotion. Is it because his lover got hurt during his fight? Probably, but even so, the fact that they shouldn’t have gotten hurt remains the same and for Atsushi, he was so angry at his incapability of protecting them properly and unharmed. He was so angry. So angry at himself yet he knew his priority was to destroy his enemy as payback in what they did to his significant other. In a flash, Atsushi began countless attacks against the enemy and within minutes, they were defeated and splatted like flies. It wasn’t until Dr. Yosano yelled at the tiger that helped him realize he was getting out of control. “They’re okay now! I got them healed and their leg back together. It’s okay now, Atsushi...” Dr. Yosano’s words were like sweet honey to Atsushi. When he turned around to see his beloved laying beside the doctor, his eyes became watery and his trembling legs tried its best coming over to their side. He looks at them carefully and sees that their healthy color is slowly returning. Atsushi holds their hands into his like a prayer. “Thank god... I’m so glad...” With that, the case incident with the monster enemy was closed and soon after, Atsushi and his companion returned to the ADA to fully recover.

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke

It was so quiet. The atmosphere and aura around Akutagawa was suffocatingly quiet. Even though Akutagawa already holds a dark and gloomy image, right now, he felt even more darker and overwhelmingly terrifying. His eyes looked as if it gouging out with pure rage. The warm feeling of blood staining his body spread like wildfire. He carried them in his arms after the enemy hit a huge attack against his significant other causing them to lose complete consciousness. It was an awful attack but what was more awful was Akutagawa’s deadly reaction of seeing his beloved partner knocked out and severely injured. He honestly had doubts that they might survive but he couldn’t help but to hope for at least anything. All sense of logic disappeared from Akutagawa at this point. All that was left in his mind right now was to kill the enemy no matter what. He needed to obliterate them because that way, his companion will survive. That’s how it works, right? To Akutagawa, common sense was a foreign thing now and he transitioned into a state of a murderer ready to avenge his almost fallen partner. The blood staining his clothes were getting warmer and thicker. It felt like Akutagawa’s companion was spilling their blood for him, lending him their strength to defeat this damned enemy. Akutagawa activates his ultimate combination attack. His black cloak enveloped his slim body along with his partner. Together, Akutagawa looked like a black demon carrying his bride to the path of victory and vengeance. The black cloak boosted his powers while his partner’s spilt blood was like an impenetrable coated armor. Within milliseconds, Akutagawa slit the head of the enemy after blowing relentless Rashoumon attacks. The bloody scene around Akutagawa was like a day painted in red. The smell of iron was pungent and when Higuchi arrived at the scene, all of her admiration to her superior quickly turned into that of fear. What the hell happened? Well, who knew love could turn a man into an even more treacherous mafia. Akutagawa remained silent from the beginning almost as if he was mourning. He silently deactivates his Rashoumon cloak and stands still under the grey clouds. Higuchi comes closer after collecting her wits and sees her superior’s severely injured lover in his arms. She tries to touch her, but Akutagawa glared at his subordinate while yelling “don’t touch!”. Higuchi flinched but if anything, she got angry. Even though she had her own feelings for him, deep down she knew that this injured person in this man’s arms was precious to Akutagawa more than anyone and anything in this world and because of that, Higuchi needed to save Akutagwa’s significant other or else Akutagwa’s sorrow could never disappear— it’s all in order to save them. “You want to save them, don’t you?! Then you have to at least trust me to take care of them! We could save them if we get to the hospital right now so stop sulking!” This was the first time Higuchi shouted to Akutagawa. Maybe because of that, Akutgawa was slightly taken aback. He falls silent before defeatedly handing over his lover to Higuchi. Of course, all in the hopes to save them. “Sorry... I’m counting on you.” With that, Higuchi gathers her wits again and takes Akutagawa’s significant other to the hospital while the Black Lizard team cleans up the mess. Akutagawa stands silently without moving an inch from where he stood before. His hands grasping the red tainted black coat. He takes a moment to himself where the lingering warmth lasted and after a few minutes, he leaves the messy scene to return back to his lover’s side.

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gracewithducks · 4 years

Text

Wonder (Luke 2:1-7) - Sunday School Stories #13, preached 12/1/2019

Almost a year ago, one of my husband’s friends told Mike about the great deals his family had found at Niagara Falls in Canada over American Thanksgiving. Because it’s out of tourist season, and because Canadian children and workers don’t get a break for an American holiday, the prices and the crowds are both pretty low. Mike said, “Why don’t we go to Niagara Falls for Thanksgiving next year?”

I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes. I may have laughed in his face. Because Niagara Falls – in November – with children… all I could imagine were all the ways things could go wrong. It could be frigidly cold. It could rain the whole trip. We could get snowed in and not be able to go at all. Our kids might look at the waterfalls, shrug their shoulders, and say, “Meh. What else you got?” - - and we might not have a good answer.

But Mike was persistent. Our girls were, at that moment, fascinated with waterfalls; they’re growing quickly, to the point where we no longer have to travel with strollers or plan around naptimes. We looked at prices. We discovered all kinds of indoor back-up options. And we booked a hotel we would never, ever, ever have been able to justify splurging on without the off-season deals – a hotel overlooking the Falls. We made a countdown calendar, and our kids have been crossing off the days until our trip ever since before Labor Day.

Finally, finally, it was time to go. Our girls were nervous about crossing over into another country, only to find that Ontario, Canada looks an awful lot like Michigan. We drove past farms and forests, and lots of wind turbines, and strange foreign restaurants and shops with names like “Home Depot” and “McDonalds.” Our ten-year-old was pretty excited when we saw our first sign for Shoppers, the store mentioned in the musical Come From Away, and our five-year-old was excited with every Canadian flag we saw.

And finally we started seeing signs for Niagara Falls. We could see the towers of hotels rising on the skyline. We could see the mist rising from the Falls, and the girls rolled down their windows to see if they could hear the water’s roar. We checked into our hotel, rode the elevator to the tenth floor, walked into our room, and the girls immediately ran to the window.

Their jaws dropped. There really is no way to prepare yourself for the Falls: they are just so big; there is so much water, rushing, pouring, constantly, unendingly, more and more and more. And the mist gives a sense of magic and wonder to it all.

Our oldest looked. And looked. And looked. She excitedly pointed out to her sister the Horseshoe Falls, and the American Falls, and the little Bridal Veil Falls in between; she pointed to the Rainbow Bridge, and the wrecked ship which has hovered above the falls for over a century. And she said, with a contented sigh, “I don’t think I could ever get tired of that view.”

And then she said, “Can I watch something on the iPad?”

And we all started laughing. It became a joke this week; every time we returned to our room, one of us would look out the window, and say, “I’ll never get tired of that view… I wonder what’s on TV?”

There we were, on the brink of one of the wonders of the world – there we were, with all the people we loved most in the world – there we were, in a place people travelled from the world over to see – in a place where explorers would fall down and pray in terror – in a place where kings and queens have walked, where daredevils dreamed the impossible – there we were, and it was amazing… but it was also amazing how quickly we just got used to that beautiful site.

“I don’t think I could ever tired of that view… I wonder what’s on TV?”

How quickly we lose our sense of awe; how quickly we take even the most incredible wonders for granted. I remember the first time I ever heard of electronic mail; I was amazed by the idea that I could send a message to someone and they could see it immediately. But now many of us use email daily without a second thought. I remember when our family got our first remote control for the television, and I was intimidated by the idea that you could change the channel without even standing up. And I remember our first VCR, the novelty of being able to record a program and watch it later. These days, my husband can set the football game to record on our DVR from his touchscreen pocket telephone; we don’t have to be in the house or even in the country at the time. And speaking of phones, when I was a kid, video phones were science fiction right out of the Jetsons or Star Trek – and now it stuns me to realize that my children will never remember a world where video phone calls weren’t a thing.

And we just take it all for granted. We don’t think twice about the once unimaginable wonders around us. Machines that wash our dishes and dry our clothes. Groceries delivered right to your door. Flying machines and even a car that could travel hundreds of miles in a day were once inconceivable.

I don’t think I could ever get used to those wonders, we say… and then we turn around and ask, what’s next?

And nowhere do we see it more than every year at Christmastime. And I’m not even talking about the kids who count down the days until Christmas morning only to be bored with their new toys after five minutes and forget them entirely after five days… no, I’m not just talking about stuff. I’m talking about the story of Christmas itself.

We hear the story every year; we know it so well that we take it for granted:

In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken… and everyone went to their own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David… He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn child, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

We know the story: a Caesar, and a census; a little town, a man, a woman, and a baby in a manger. We wait for weeks every year to hear the story again; to sing the carols, to light the candles, to bask in the glow – and then we walk away, asking, “What’s next?”

We know the story; we know it so well, maybe too well – so much so that we can shrug our shoulders, and say, “I’ve been there, and seen that; I wonder what’s on TV?”

We can become numb to even the most amazing wonders – and this story is one. This is no ordinary story. This is the story of God entering into the world. This is the story of a God who so loved the world that God just could not stay away. This is the story of God entering into the world – not with fireworks and fanfare, but so quietly that, if you blink, you might miss it. This is the story of a God who surprises us, the story of a God who shows up in the lives of people who are being buffeted and shaped by kingdoms and powers out of their control.

While everyone is looking at Caesar, God is looking to the ordinary people. While everyone is bustling to arrive first, God is looking towards the latecomers, the ones who show up when there seems to be no more room.

There is a lot on our to-do lists for the month to come: shopping, wrapping, decorating, baking, travelling, taking pictures, sending cards, making calls… But my hope and my prayer is that we will take some time to enjoy the view, to remember what it is that brought us here in the first place. The story of Christmas isn’t about the presents or the decorations: it’s about a God who surprises us, who shows up in the times and the places we least expect it. Where is it, that God would surprise us today? Where are the mangers, where children have no bed? Who are our neighbors, whose lives are thrown into disarray by governments and laws beyond their control? Who are the strangers, looking for shelter, looking for a friendly face? Who are the people outside, longing for a place to belong?

Do we see them? Do we look? And do we believe that Christ is still being born, that God is still showing up, in humble and surprising ways today? We tend to associate this story with Christmas Eve candlelight services, but the story of Christmas is about as far away from stained glass and organ music and new clothes by candlelight as you can get. The story of Christmas is about a God who shows up in real life, in the messy and difficult stuff of our every day.

I want to encourage us to make a different kind of to-do list this year. And put on your list things like: smile at your cashier; over-tip your server on purpose, even if they’re having a bad day; donate to the giving tree; give non-traditional presents;

volunteer in the community; bake a pie for your neighbor; buy coffee for the person behind you in line; make it a point to compliment someone every day; donate pet food or old towels or blankets to the animal shelter; offer to babysit for some exhausted parents; visit a nursing home; donate new socks and underwear to those in need; volunteer to serve meals to those who are hungry; bring new coloring books and crayons to the children’s hospital; shovel your neighbor’s walk, or if you hire somebody to plow you out, ask them to do the rest of the street while they’re there; write another letter or make another call telling our leaders to stop separating families and get kids out of detention camps this Christmas; ask a family with a loved one in the service how you can help make their season brighter; pay for someone else’s groceries; invite your neighbor to share a meal with you – do whatever you can each day to find a way to show God’s love and bring hope into the world.

The good news is, just like the waterfalls which never stop, which keep flowing and flowing, noticed or unnoticed, appreciated or not, night and day, season after season, year after year – God’s love keeps flowing and flowing, and God keeps showing up; hope keeps being born into the world. The good news of Christmas isn’t just about a story that happened long ago; it’s the good news that God is still being born into the world in unexpected and surprising ways.

My hope and my prayer is that we won’t grow numb, that we won’t grow weary, that we won’t look away. May we have eyes to see Christ in the world this holiday season, and may we have hearts that never tire of seeking God’s presence and sharing God’s love.

O God, let your love roll over us like thundering waters; let your justice pour out around us, and your grace flow through us. Teach our hearts to be still this holiday season, to bask in your presence, to gaze on your grace. And help us to remember that being present is so much more important than buying presents;

help us to follow your lead, and to show up in the most humble and unexpected places. May we show your love to struggling families, to immigrants and refugees, to neighbors and strangers, to the hungry and the homeless – to all those looking for a place to find rest. In your peace, by your peace, for your peace we pray; amen.

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years-later-au · 7 years

Text

Purpose

Welp, here we go. First of all, I owe a great thanks to Neon for her beautiful art and vivid imagination. This AU has made me write something, first time in four years, and that means a lot to me. So, if I may, I offer this little thing. I can’t bring myself to write anything long and deep yet, so it’s just some Croix’s reflections on her past and present, scattered and incomplete. Half the time I tried to make it look like ponderings of a troubled mind, the other half it just had its own way. I need to apologize in advance, since English is not my mother tongue, so there’s probably lots of mistakes. And yeah, so many “yet"s and “though"s.

This text won’t be appearing in any other places, it’s just here, for your consideration. Maybe it will prove good enough. Maybe you’ll just be disgusted.

Anyways, hope you’ll like it. From Russia with love, your silent fan w/o any social media links, Haymaker.

OH MY GOODNESS! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL FANFICTION! You did SUCH a wonderful job on this, you got a lot of the events down to a point, and it brings joy to my little heart. You did a wonderful job! Thank you so so so much! And you did a wonderful job with your grammar!! Kudos to you!

And you even cameo’d Aquila in this :’)

I put this under a read more if that’s ok!

“Now you will not interfere. Now Claiomh Solais will not be yours for the taking ever again.”

And she could not care less about it.

Croix doesn’t care about the Rod, about power, about anything, really. Whatever happens to her would be not enough for what she has done. She betrayed everyone she cared about, and not once. Losing limbs, organs, even life itself would not be enough of a punishment. She even welcomes the suffering, but there’s sudden movement behind the bloody mist that clouds her vision: a small figure of a woman with bright red hair. The woman she let down, the woman who saved her when she did not deserve to be saved. Chariot. She rushes to the collapsed witch, spellblade blazing in her hands, and the dragon lunges at her, claws outstretched, ready to extinguish the red flame of hope.

“Chariot, save yourself! You have done enough!”

“I’ll never abandon you!”

Croix wakes up in cold sweat. There is no pain, thankfully, although she’d prefer if there was at least some. Almost every night it’s the same: in her nightmares she squirms in agony, clutching her left hand to her chest as it’s maimed and scorched, yet in the waking world there’s nothing, and it’s even worse. Fear paralyzes her, fear of being crippled forever, of being a burden. “He has won. Now I won’t be able to protect anyone.” It takes a while for reality to settle in. The purple-haired witch looks at her left arm, tries to lift it up and wave it around a bit. It’s still there, although her nerves insist on the opposite. She clenches her fist, then relaxes again and touches her face. The touch is present, her hand is there. He hasn’t won.

Croix knows that she won’t fall asleep now. She looks back at the redhead, who is peacefully sleeping beside her, and the sight alone fills Meridies’s heart with blissful ease. The witch suppresses the urge to kiss her lover, she doesn’t want to wake her just yet. Quietly Croix sneaks out of bed, stretches her back and stays still for a few seconds, just to feel alive. It is so strange.

Memories assault her mind. Memories of betrayal, of blood on her hands. Diana’s blood, bright red, gushing out of her wound. Her own blood, thick, slimy, dark. And his blood, black as tar, hot, scorching. He made sure his enemies don’t last: even his blood is deadly for those who spill it. Croix was lucky, too lucky, perhaps: the dragon’s blood maimed only her left arm, and Chariot was there to save her. Damn this suicidal girl. She is always too good to be alive, too pure, too selfless. Suddenly Croix feels the urge to cry. She doesn’t deserve this. For all she knows, she must have been dead. So many times she must have died. Her own malfunctioning devices, the Sorcerer’s jaws, his poisonous blood, the court. Croix had always danced on the edge of a guillotine. And it was always Chariot who covered her with her own body.

"Why are you always there for me?” – she wonders. – “What in the name of all things sacred have I done to deserve you?”

She remembers it all too clearly. The sleepless nights by the drawing board, the blueprints, the harsh lights and the voices of her teammates, swearing in their mother tongue. She didn’t speak German then, she still doesn’t now, but the tone alone made it clear: they were less than happy with her pulling one all-nighter after another. Well, it was time to move out.

“Hey, what are you doing here past the curfew?”

“Working.”

“But you will be punished if…” “Nah, I won’t. Professor Woodward has my back. Anyway, who are you to care? And what exactly are YOU doing in the halls past the curfew?”

“Me? I was just sneaking out to the kitchen to get some more food. I always get kinda hungry at night. I’m Chariot, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Croix.”

It was twenty years ago. They arranged a little hideout together, where they could be alone. It was a small house on a tree, tiny enough not to be seen, yet Croix asked her mentor to cover it with a spell for them. Woodward did not mind: she knew that the young prodigy needed to work somewhere. Although she didn’t know what kind of work this was.

“Aw, this astronomy stuff makes my head spin! They can’t possibly expect me to remember all these stars!”

“It’s not that hard. Look. Those five bright stars are the Southern Cross.”

“Heh. You really do know almost everything! That’s cool.”

"Well, this stuff is essential. Besides, it’s the same as my name – easy to remember.”

“To think of it, “Cross” and “Croix” really sound kinda similar.”

“You’re not using my name as a means to remember…”

“I am.”

These memories bring tears to Croix’s eyes and a smile on her face. School years were the best of her life: times full of lighthearted joy and blissful obliviousness. Days were filled with beloved work, and nights – shared with beloved girl. It was perfect, until everything went crumbling down: her dreams, her love, her reputation.

Then there was hatred. She hated Chariot for stealing her dream, Woodward for stealing her hope, the world for rejecting her. She only had her work, and she perfected the prototypes she designed in school. Croix developed SSS in hopes of restoring magic without the Grand Triskelion, but her efforts were in vain.

Hatred slowly gave way to self-pitying and disgust. And rum. Lots of it. Rum wasn’t just a drink, it was her only friend, the thing, that healed her ailments, though only temporarily. She was often drunk as a boiled owl, crying herself to sleep in her apartment. She should have died then, yet she did not. She was still too stubborn.

And that stubbornness carried her through. Along with Chariot’s hands, of course. Chariot was always there when she needed her the most. She was there for her when Croix was alone, she was there to save her when she was on the brink of death… again and again stars led Chariot to Croix, and the latter did not know why. Perhaps she was simply destined for this?

For a moment, the purple-haired witch closes her eyes. Almost every morning she goes through this. Agonizing pain, then fear, then numbness and regret. A couple of months before there was also self-loathing. Croix even considered killing herself, but disregarded the idea because of the same sense of guilt that had borne it: her life was not hers to end, as it was not hers to save. Chariot had saved her so many times now that the purple-haired witch felt eternally indebted to her. And that brought strange tranquility to her life, helped her through the anguish of waking up each day.

Croix takes a few light steps towards the room Aquila sleeps in. This is, perhaps, the strangest thing in her life now: the fact that Croix Meridies had become a mother. She never thought about it, and now here she was, before the small mahogany cradle in which the perfect child was sleeping. Or was it?

Aquila feels her mother’s gaze, wakes up and starts crying quietly. It always amazed Croix: she thought all children to be noisy and unbearable, but her daughter is just so quiet. The witch leans in just a little and smiles to reassure her child.

– Hush now, lil’ sunshine, – she whispers. – We don’t want to wake mom up, do we?

With that, Croix tries to lift the girl in her arms. It feels a bit awkward, and the witch is slightly uncomfortable: she doesn’t want to hurt or drop Aquila, yet she always thinks she’s about to do so. Sometimes she can’t control the amount of force in her injured hand, so there’s always fear of overcommitment. Though for now everything seems to be just right. Croix holds her daughter and gently kisses her forehead, then starts humming a melody from years long past. A melody that Chariot used to sing in their tree house when Croix had trouble falling asleep.

– I’m always breathless to see

Growing so slowly to greet me,

Where I end and where she begins?

It’s not quite a lullaby, more of a romance about a girl who fell in love with the moon. Yet Aquila is pleased with her mother’s voice and quickly falls asleep again. Croix continues, softly rocking the girl in her arms.

– When she shines for me at night

And her skies show green and white,

She will keep us in her sight;

We all lie beneath her light…

She sits herself down in an enormous armchair that stands by their bed. It is big enough to be called a sofa, and soft enough to drown in it. Smiling blissfully, Croix looks at her daughter, then – at her sleeping wife. Perhaps this is her true purpose. To be not a prodigy, not a hero, not even the greatest witch, but herself and herself only: Croix du Nord, a loving wife, a caring mother, a somewhat competent teacher. She’s had enough of troubles and misadventures. And the memories that have assaulted her for so long are now as numb and foreign as her left arm. They almost disappear, scratching at the back of her mind, too far to be taken notice of. All that matters are her wife and child. She will be there for them. Always. Like Chariot was always there for her.

Chariot opens her eyes and blinks in confusion. Her wife looks at her with such affection that she almost melts on the spot.

– Good morning, chérie, – Croix whispers. There is no more uncertainty in her voice. Their life has just begun this morning.

#[fanfiction]#[OTP; i'll wait for you]#[aquila]#[//there's some dark themes in here be warned!]#[//I'm loving this so much though thank you!]#submission

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false-majesty · 7 years

Text

So I’ve seen this one certain meme floating around on my dash, and I thought I might respond to it in one big post and tag all the people who reblogged it (and a few who didn’t).

And so, without further adieu, here’s Aku’s reactions to the deaths of a few people he knows...

Cut for length, graphic violence, and disturbing content. I listened to x x and x while writing this. ;)

Ashi | @tigersteeth

He’d think he could have been there sooner and how he could have protected her; about how he knew Ashi hated him at the start but then eventually came to love him back. And most of all he would think about how she had been right to be wary of him; first he had bitten her, and then he had let her get killed.

And of course, with these thoughts he’d soon be filled with cold fury and determination to set things right. And naturally, with his logic, what else should that entail but a killing spree.

He’d kill the murderer’s loved ones methodically and slowly, and perhaps might even go so far as to present little ‘keepsakes’ of the loved ones—a body part or piece of jewelry, perhaps—for each one that he killed; pushing the murderer ever closer to the brink of insanity just to show them how it felt to lose someone important in their life. And depending on how successful he is at getting them to lose their mind, he might or might not kill them last, making sure they get to see the look in his eyes when he does it...

But when things have finally been paid for in blood, Aku would likely be very cold and professional for a while afterward--years even.

He would be more foul tempered, impatient, callous, and withdrawn; deliberately not letting anyone see how his daughter’s death has affected him. He’d pour his anger into conquering planets and broadening his empire, crushing innocents beneath his heel and curbing revolutions before they even have a chance to start.

To outsiders, this would appear to be something of a reawakening—like watching a dormant monster rise from its own ashes or perhaps a very long slumber only to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting world that had grown fat and sloven with peace.

But when he’s alone, when the nights are cold and long, Aku would probably catch himself thinking about her more often than he’d care to admit.

There would be a statue in her likeness erected alongside his own in the gardens of his citadel and in a few of his major cities.

Rick | @therealricksanchezpleasestandup

If Rick were to die at this particular moment in their canon relationship, when he and Aku are only just now starting to get close to one another:

He would be numb for all of a few seconds as he knelt beside the body and tried to grasp at the fact that Rick was really dead. He’d probably nudge him, trying to make him get up, would check all his vitals, and would yell at him. Anything to get him to wake up.

But when all that fails, he would stand slowly, agonizingly, and turn to face the murderer—madness and revenge burning hot and unmistakable in his eyes as he rounded upon them and would then utterly obliterate them in a tornado of fury—painting their gore on the walls, on the ceiling, and on himself, yet not stopping even when they were obviously dead.

After the fact, he would make suitable arrangements for Rick’s funeral in Aku’s dimension or would probably find some way to contact C-137 Earth to tell his family the news that Rick was dead. Might even be so considerate as to ask about Rick’s friends and deliver the news to them if he could.

But after that, Aku would likely back out of the proceedings; choosing instead to isolate himself—either in his quarters or some other scenic location where he might be able to think—so he could come to better terms with what had happened.

He would alternate between bouts of anger and grief in equal intensity for some time afterward; just thinking about how he not-so-secretly liked him—(could probably have come to love him, if they had been given more time together)—and how Rick was just starting to show signs that he was equally interested. Would probably think about their history as friends (and how Rick was the only real friend he’d probably ever had in his life) and all the time they had spent with one another...

...Would think about saving Rick from himself that one night he had found him on the brink of alcohol poisoning. Would think about sitting beside Rick on the couch watching tv and laughing. Would think about their first adventure when he had saved Rick from the falling rubble of a foreign empire they had worked to destroy...

And at that point he’d likely start to blame himself for Rick’s death and would start to think that his (Aku’s) being hated by the universe had somehow doomed his best friend to a premature death because of mere association. He’d reflect on the fact that bad things always seem to befall those who would get close to him. Especially those that he cares about.

Probably thinks to himself that he might have loved him after all.

He’d be numb and professional for a few years afterward. Not letting himself talk to anyone outside of a professional setting and definitely not letting himself EVER become fond of anyone else the way he had with Rick. He would probably even push away his own daughter for the most part, as he wouldn’t want her to see him so weak and he definitely doesn’t want her to befall the same fate as Rick. Hell, he might even push away Morty and Beth and Summer too if they should try and speak to him about all that happened.

After he’s had some time to come to terms with his grief, he’s probably only a shell of his former self. All kindness and light that knowing Rick had nurtured in him would be dulled so much it’s pretty much nonexistent. At which point he would resume his role as a tyrannical overlord with renewed fervor—conquering planets that had previously given him a hard time simply out of sheer blind frustration.

And why not? He has no other purpose. Nothing else to distract him from the cold reality of what happened.

Visitors to his citadel would ask around about the statue of the scientist erected in the courtyard alongside Aku’s own, and legends would begin to circulate that long ago the tyrant had once felt kindness and love for another...

If Rick were to die during our Fourth Wall Verse (a skype exclusive event, in which Rick and Aku react to the events of canon and love on each other behind the scenes—or are married already):

( We’ve already talked about what would happen, but I’ll pretty much recap a modified version of our conversation since the others don’t know. )

He would go on a blitzkrieg of worlds in his grief, probably annihilating over half of his quadrant before the other gods finally got tired of his senseless violence and would lock him away in the Godly equivalent of a padded room.

After a while of suffering with his memories of Rick, Aku would probably try to beg death from the other gods if only so he could see Rick again and tell him he loved him at least one last time. But the other gods would likely see a better punishment in keeping him alive, to let him think about what he’s done and to let him experience loss like the people who had lost their loved ones through Aku’s actions. However, this plan would backfire because Aku would probably sleep himself into oblivion rather than stay awake and deal with the presence and torment of the other Gods-- as he sees no other reason to be awake, yet alone alive.

At which point he’d have vivid nightmares of Rick’s death and how he hadn’t been there in time to save him; he would dream of Ashi and how she would die a mortal’s death without Aku there to augment her lifespan using his magic; and finally, he might even dream of the sword coming back from wherever it had been hidden and finishing its purpose killing him off.

But instead of shying away from this last dream, he would welcome it; because death would be preferable to living without Rick.

Other than that, he’d probably sleep himself until the end of time.

And why not? He doesn’t have a reason to be awake anymore.

Azura | @curioosity

At the news of her death he’d probably get really quiet, and would ask anyone in the room to leave. At which point he would take out that puppet that Azura gave him and he’d stare at it long and hard, trying to figure out what this strange feeling is that’s trying to creep into his mood (hint, it’s sadness) but he’d probably furrow his brow and incinerate the puppet then and there so he wouldn’t think about her anymore as he recognized the feeling as being something mortal and therefore malignant to his very nature.

He would then dismiss her and her memory from his mind—lest he should become fond of her in her absence--and life would continue as usual as if nothing had changed.

And for Aku? It’s true. Nothing changed at all.

Ryou | @sonxflight

He knows he should be relieved when he finally hears word of his prince’s death, for this not only explains the piercing pain he felt shooting through his chest out of the blue some hours ago-- Ryou’s presence and blood magic leaving him-- but this also means that he can safely go about destroying worlds and empires as he had been meaning to for centuries.

But instead all he feels is numb. He finds himself thinking that he misses him despite their many differences, and that Ryou was his only friend. The only one who understood what it was like to live for so long and watch the world turn around you while you remained unaffected.

Thus, long after the funeral is over and everyone else has moved on, the demon would find himself kneeling at the gravesite just staring at his beloved’s tombstone. Probably lays a hand on it and finally his restraint just snaps and he bows his head and weeps because yes he did love him in life, that although Ryou may have held him to mortal limitations by summoning him out of the darkness the way he had, but he was still his husband-- had still shown him love and compassion when no one else would...

And although he can safely allow Ryou’s empire to spiral into ruin, he keeps it safe anyway. In loving memory of his husband.

Jack | @alwaysfindaway

Before they come to have feelings for one another (ie. their relationship in canon):

Aku would make an example out of the samurai’s death. Posting video and picture evidence of it across all his social media regardless of what women or children might see it as he plastered graphic images of it on billboards and advertisements worldwide; leaving no doubt that this world is once more doomed to the jaws of the beast.

He’d be filled with a curious sense of peace, knowing he doesn’t have anything to worry about anymore as he (undoubtedly) would have hid the sword away in the core of some planet (or sun) whose location was known only to him.

Slowly, rebellion leaders would be picked off and assassinated without the samurai there to defend them, and uprisings would gradually trickle to a standstill while the demon’s scourge slowly siezed the cosmos in terror.

Every year on the anniversary of the samurai’s death--a national holiday--the world grieves for their fallen hero less and less as the years go by, until eventually his memory is regarded akin to a fairy tale.

And still the demon lives on, growing lazy and arrogant and careless as the world withers beneath his claws...

After they come to have feelings for one another:

For a while all he feels in confusion.

On the one hand, he knows he should be happy the samurai is dead, for this had been his goal for so long that to feel otherwise is simply alien. But on the other, he had come to have some marginal fondness for him while they had traveled together. Indeed, he had found his company pleasant and had found his presence soothing-- towards the later half of their time together, anyway.

He’d find himself recalling the nights they had slept beneath the stars, when Jack had not yet known his identity, and how it had felt to hold him as he had never held anyone before or would ever after...

But he’d push these thoughts aside and force himself through the motions of being cruel and victorious in the light of his death, and few would be the wiser for his somehow strained behavior.

After enough time passes, he would slowly come to push his memory aside-- in the hopes that he never fondly recalls the samurai again...

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antibodykrp-blog · 7 years

Photo

— your name was more powerful than any empire, but it could not stop your fall.

war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about thirty-two year old lee jinho, better known as the north side's family head.

canon: the father part of: the golden Triangle and lotus Anma

freeform: There exists a timeless debate between the environmental and biological impact on the human psyche.

Experiences string together action and reaction, personal ideologies, and familiar values accepted or rejected by its society. Relationships between people surrounding a child grossly impact the shape of their young mind as they age. Biologically, there are predetermining conditions; restless habits, personality traits, inherited disease, intelligence, natural skill. What becomes of those factors, which are cultivated, and which are left idle– it entirely depends on the individual.

“INTELLIGENT BUT ARROGANT…”

A television buzzes in the background and a chess board sits between two children. The carpet under his bare knees scratches against his skin and the AC hums on its highest setting to combat one of south korea’s hottest summers to date. Subtitles slide across the bottom of the screen, and Jinho is distracted by the appearance of his father’s name.

[President criticized for allowing foreign occupation by the Chinese…]

[Rise in crime rate across all provinces…]

[Public disapproval directed at military and police…]

He stops listening after the announcement of a celebrity’s birthday and stares down at his opponent’s move. The other is smiling, grin full of teeth and eyes shining. It’s one of the rare times Jinho had been allowed to bring home a classmate. But the sight of his cornered king piece leaves him unsettled.

“I won.”

Jinho continues staring at the board.

A clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks– then small hands are flipping the chessboard over and unraveling the peace. Ceramic knights and pawns scatter cross hardwood floors and his hand is in their hair, tearing, pulling, shoving their face against the floor.

“You cheated. I wasn’t watching you.”

Jinho lets go immediately, perfectly calm, composed.

Then blinks, finally notices the blood on their neck from his nails. Blinks again as they are carted away by someone from security. There are dry tear streaks down their face. Hesitant fingers play with a chess piece and a small white pawn sits curled in his fist.

“Did you lose?.”

His sister had arrived home. She’s wearing her hair up, and leans against the entryway to the library. Jinho stares back at her hard gaze.

“Why don’t you go apologize to your friend?”

He says nothing and looks away first.

“UNNECESSARILY PARANOID…”

“What do you remember?”

There’s a needle being taken out of his arm. It’s connected to a IV drip hanging beside his bed. He grits his teeth but maintains an unreadable expression in front of his father. Eyes are still spider-webbed with red and purple veins. His lips are chapped, and he wets them. The nurse at his side offers him water, but his father hands him the glass first. It’s sweating and cold against his skin.

If he stares at own room walls long enough, he remembers the rooms his captors shoved him into for over two weeks. The air had always been hazy, light through the window behind him exposing clouds of dust floating around his head. Most of the time they had kept his vision blacked out. He memorized the time it took to drive from place to place blindfolded, the way pebbles cracked underneath his shoes as opposed to flat concrete. Sometimes, the soft touch of grass as they let him piss with a gun to his head.

The routine was always the identical, day after day, hour by hour, second by second. Blindfold, dirty rag in his mouth tasting like metal shoved between teeth, forced inside a van, taken to a new building and tied up inside a foreign room by the end of twenty four hours. It was fairly simple to plan an escape with a methodical mind. He is not stupid and he was trained.

But details of the kidnapping is not what his father wants to know. His father wants to know what he might have revealed about their family.

“Nothing.”

Jinho stares at the ground. His father stands up, and the chair creaks. It’s the only sound aside from the television turning on. Minsik flips through channels, one hand tucked inside their pants pocket and the other on a remote control.

“I think you do remember.”

The grainy image of Jinho on the ground in a warehouse sits broadcasted on the screen. His hands are free from bonds in the image, face bloodied but body alert and prepared. He clutches something in his fist that cannot be singled out by the camera image.

Minsik motions to the object.

“A knife.” Jinho focuses, silent and motionless as his father plays the recorded video tape. They both watch as Jinho holds his own against the first assailant, dressed in black and face blurred out. Jinho has the blade against the soft flesh of a jugular, prepared to cut. His father’s gaze is hard, and they pause the image again. “Here.” He turns back towards his son, bedridden from dehydration and a healing stab wound. “You hesitated to take control of the situation and spared his life.”

Jinho stares blankly ahead. His lips close and open noiselessly.

“You staged my kidnapping.”

The recording continues without his father’s response. Jinho shuts his eyes at the sound of his own scream when the knife is turned on him. A gunshot follows, and the tape ends with his retrieval by The Outfit’s own members.

“I had concerns about your ability,” Minsik explains, but not with the intention to assure his son. “I also instructed them not to harm you in a lethal manner. We reacted accordingly.”

Jinho focuses on the crumpled form of the hired abductor. He thinks the man is lucky, and can only wonder what his father subjected the other to. His hands tighten into fists until nails cut into skin when Minsik’s attentions falls upon him.

“You had every chance to save yourself, and you did nothing.”

“BUT APT AT COMMUNICATION…”

He has no real reason to attend school. The Outfit survives on the legs built by his father and his father before him. Money is never a concern, but the desire for an education and a broader worldview rather than one controlled by a censored media is what Jinho seeks.

The relationship between his political science T.A. and him is simple. Neither of them expect more than what it becomes. A comfortable, easy relationship between two people that have always been defined by labels. She is expected to marry after college to pass along her family’s fortune and help run the country with her fiance-to-be (right-wing policies backed by criminally funded lobbyists). He understands that world. Criticizing her for flirting with him while taken is not an option he considers. It would turn her own accusations on himself.

This works because they use each other.

He is young, impressionable, and carrying an even richer family name with him. She humors his brief, unexplained interest in traditional art, photography, literature, and music. They talk, and pretend. Flipping from one pass time to the next, never settling. Everything is temporary. That’s what she likes, because he is not a permanent man.

They both know what they are meant to do.

“You don’t want to be an artist.”

“No.”

There’s a knowing smile on his face as he draws a smooth half-circle to create her shoulder. She’s in his bed, clothes discarded. He has not laid a finger on her.

“You don’t want to be a businessman.”

His charcoal breaks in half, black dust smearing when he turns the page. He adjusts his glasses and looks at her.

“You don’t want to be a politician’s wife.”

She watches him, chin propped up on her knee and dark hair spilling out across sheets. Her smile is tight-lipped.

“What do you want, Jinho?”

His sketchbook is always full of half-done ideas and poorly conceived thoughts.

She leaves him because he never really touches her the way she wants him to. He allows it because she says the relationship feels more like having a brother, and a friendship built beneficial ties between their families already. She was using him the same way he used her as a facade for what people expect him to be. There’s a part of him that’s relieved she left, but now he is without someone to hide the fact he’s never slept with a woman.

His father is too concerned with politics and shift in business ties when he graduates, Jinho on the brink of inheriting The Outfit and its enemies. His early twenties take place during a period when war is talked about instead of parodied in art and television. People are afraid, and people are quiet until a new presidential candidate echoes their own thoughts.

His sister has never waited for him to lose interest in being a leader. She will always be ready for a title he never deserved, and a title she will never receive.

He wonders when she will finally take it.

“IT DOES NOT MATTER THAT HE IS NOT GREAT…”

They tell you to pull out fingernails and teeth for disloyalty, but they do not tell you what it sounds like. Actions have far worse repercussions in this world, and for every consequence, he pries a fingernail away from flesh until he tastes blood in his mouth from cutting into his own cheek with teeth.

“How old are you?”

Bloodshot eyes stare up at Jinho. His security is with him, and almost stuff a rag back in the ex-con’s mouth after speaking directly to The Outfit’s new leader. Jinho stops them with a sharp glance.

He’s wearing gloves over perfectly clean hands. It feels almost like a sloppy caricature of a gruesome situation. The former Outfit member must be able to sense he does not quite fit the role of an interrogator. The way they look at him with fearless eyes and crushed fingers– it’s not the way a man should look at another man holding the threat of death overhead.

“A kid,” they rasp, struggling to speak. Their voice is hoarse when they focus on Jinho carefully as he’s fitting pliers underneath a dirty thumb nail. “I remember when you were five years old. Your father let me meet you on your birthday. We were close then… friends. Our wives would talk to each other like young girls do.” Jinho hesitates, just for a moment. They breathe through their nose and spit. “You’re still a fucking kid– you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Bloody pliers clatter away to a dark corner. Their scream barely drowns out pitched laughter that follows him like a mocking shadow when he fights the urge to vomit from the sound of tearing skin. Hands are pressed over his mouth, trembling fingers, legs barely kept upright and standing. He leans against a wall for support and retches dry air until acid from his stomach burns his throat.

“You can’t even kill for your family, or yourself. What exactly is yours?”

They laugh, and laugh, choking when fabric wrapped around their bruised throat steals the ability to breathe. Dirty spit runs out of the side of their mouth, gaping holes in gums bloodied and torn. They chuckle at Jinho on the ground, now leader of The Outfit, no longer afraid of dying. He stares at the floor until the only sound is the deafening echo of a gunshot that settles inside his ears and never leaves.

A dead man he had no hand in killing is not how it starts.

A dead man he did not kill is how it begins.

#ab: accepted #canon #the outfit

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