#or try to motivate and bribe myself to do school stuff | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amazingphilza · 3 years

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study buddies :: cc!multiple x reader

fluff , platonic , gender neutral ! some headcanons if the mcyts were trying to help you do hw :D

cc’s included in order: tommyinnit , tubbo , ranboo , wilbur soot , philza , technoblade

tommyinnit

i feel like he’s the type to be in a long discord call with you whilst you both try to finish your work

mans uses the screensharing feature like there’s no tomorrow

“y/n watch my stream on discord and help me guess the answers”

“tommy no! i haven’t even taken a film class before”

“your guess is good as mine”

“just cheat and google the answers!!!”

“fuck you”

he actually just wants your attention because he’s bored out of his mind doing homework

five minutes later of asking you to help him guess questions he’s like

“hey y/n”

“what now?”

“let’s play bedwars”

“oh my god shut up!!!”

if tommy has to speedrun something before a deadline, it is a whole different story tho; he will be so focused on completing that he won’t hear what you’re saying

if you’re struggling in math, you’re on your own

“math is shit, only numbers i need is my primes and youtube analytics” says tommy any time you complain about math

besides the fact he isn’t good at solving math problems, you can’t even read his handwriting if he did try showing you how to do a problem

“okay, y/n, it’s simple, just look” he says in his kareninnit voice and everything

you’d be like “is the variable a G or a 9??”

“fuck you that’s a 4!!!”

tubbo

i don’t know if tubbo ever talked about school before but something about him makes me think he’s actually pretty good at math

like he can explain a few things when it comes to math / algebra

CODING GO BRRRR

no geometry or calculus though, anything past algebra will go bad

if tubbo is doing homework with you, he will definitely tune you out

“hey tubbo can you help me on this question?”

you don’t get a response until like 20 minutes later

“oh yeah, what was it y/n?”

like now you answer? i just got the answer myself after so long, forget you smh

“oh nothing tubbo, nevermind!”

but you’re still grumbling in your head because if he answered just a bit earlier you wouldn’t have gone through the work of finding the answer online

i can also imagine if you’re taking chemistry tubbo is like ;

“oh you’re taking chemistry? let’s make some bombs!” /lh

tubbo would definitely pull an all-nighter with you to finish your projects together

if you had a group project, he would make you do the writing part while he does the drawing part

“we definitely aced this project”

“of course we did, if i made you draw we would’ve ended up with stick figure diagrams”

“TUBBO. THE FUCK?”

ranboo

okay i know ranboo said he isn’t a theatre or band kid (unless im wrong and forgetful) but i feel like he’d be somewhat educated in the topics nonetheless

half the time he’s great moral support, helping you stay motivated !

the other half is him making fun of you

“i cant believe you’re failing, that is so sad, can’t be me”

“it’s literally an honors class, ranboo! it’s supposed to be hard!!”

“taking an honors class willingly? also cant be me AHAHA”

i honestly can’t see ranboo going to school like i know he’s a minor and said he had zoom calls before and plays volleyball but like did i miss something? has he dropped out yet? like something about ranboo does not scream “student” /lh

besides that, i’m not sure what subject he would actually be good in,,, but something about nutrition/health sciences,, he knows a few things

don’t get me wrong, i don’t think he actually likes the subject but somehow remembers what he learned from the class

also gives me the type of energy of the type of person to take a first aid class to be a certified person to do cpr on someone just to kill time during his lunch breaks for a while or something

“i am a certified cpr person”

“my life in ranboo’s hands? oh god please no”

you two would probably joke about the ‘bad’ people in your classes or talk shit about your schools than actually doing anything homework related ngl AHAHAH

“you think your school is down bad? mine went back to campus full time after like 6 months into quarantine because they were running out of money”

“what the hell y/n? your school is a scam, drop out”

“arghhhh i knowww”

“i bet i make more money than your teachers combined AHAHAH”

wilbur soot

he doesn’t seem like the best person to ask for help for homework but can info dump you on very specific historical events + a bit of geography

i kinda see him as the person you can ask to proof read an essay for you and would help it improve immensely

who needs a thesaurus when you have vocabulary boy wilbur?

i dunno if it’s an american thing only or at all, but if/when you get to studying hamilton in your english class, he will get so fucking excited

“no wilbur it isn’t fun! imagine listening to lin-manuel miranda rap ‘alexander hamilton’ at the white house from like 2009 on repeat for over an hour whilst trying to write an analysis about it!! it was so distracting”

“well clearly someone has a personal problem with mr lin-manuel. if i were you, i’d be singing the whole thing”

is this last bit personal and complete spite from my freshman year english class? yes. i do not care? no. /hj

unrelated but i actually scribbled nice guy ballad lyrics and other songs on my english scratch papers in freshman year but anyway

probably isn’t the best person to be in a call to do homework with but wilbur doesn’t mind you ringing him occasionally sometimes

i dunno i can just see him easily get bored of the silence or something but also doesn’t want to bother you too much

but he is genuinely proud of you whenever you tell him you aced a big test you were studying for :D

philza

this man’s bad advice is as bad as him trying to help you on any subject

he’s an old man so /hj

but like honestly, he hasn’t been at school for so long, phil can probably only help with the most basic things when it comes to school

if you have a wack teacher that makes you collect data through surveying people, phil would be one of the best people to ask! straightforward and won’t take too much of your time compared to other people ahem,,

statistics things ! sobs

if you ever complain a lot about your classes and contemplating dropping out and stuff, he will def scold you hard

“ugh phillllllllll can i just like,, never go to school again?”

“do not drop out”

“argh fine, i won’t just ‘cause philza minecraft said so”

honestly if you get a high score in a big test like your sats/gcse’s (whatever you’re taking from wherever you are) he’d probably order you a small meal or something to celebrate :D

like how phil bought ranboo bought him food to his house, it would start as a joke but when you get your test scores back he’s like “YOOO GOOD JOB Y/N”

expect a left meat pizza coming to your house .

technoblade

like wilbur, techno is also helpful when it comes to history!

def knows a decent bit of literature too

besides that i don’t really see him being that helpful

even if he was supposed to be an english major

he will just get mad at the school system for teaching you useless things

“being in school is good but why do you need to know how to know if something is a triangle or not? i can obviously see with my eyes that it’s a triangle”

“i dunno! ask the person that made up geometry”

“just look at a kaleidoscope and be over with it, it isn’t that hard”

“that isn’t how it works—”

“bruhhh”

if you’re looking for the person to call while doing homework, he is not the person /lh

it’s either like 0 or 100 with techno

he can just completely not say anything and ignore you or go on a full rant about whatever class or homework you have

if you have an essay you need written, it will take a lot of bribing but he might take the opportunity if you are rich

“techno i’ll paypal you $10 please help me”

“no. i can make 10 times that amount in 5 minutes if i just started streaming right now”

“techno i don’t have that kind of money! pleaseee”

“no. instead of complaining, you can use that time to actually start you work”

“you’re the worst”

then you speedrun the essay and get an A just to spite him

#dream smp imagines #dream smp x reader #dream smp x y/n #dream smp headcanons #sbi imagine #sbi x reader #sbi headcanons #mcyt imagine #mcyt x reader #mcyt x y/n #mcyt x you #mcyt headcanons

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sunsetcurve · 3 years

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learn to love without consuming (1/4)

fandom: knight squad relationships: arc / ciara, minor or one-sided arc / oc and ciara / oc word count: 4,603

a/n: eek. it's finally here. if you follow me here you know that i've been working on this for a few weeks (months?), but the idea has been sitting in my drafts for basically forever. almost since i watched the show to begin with. the recent resurgence of the ks fandom prompted me to dig this back up and gave me the motivation to actually try and finish, because fuck it! i love my babes and i want more of them.

so quick note is that this picks up pretty soon after the season 1 finale but disregards basically,,, everything that happens in s2. s1 and the finale proceed the same way except prudy never finds out ciara's secret, so she and warwick don't know at the moment. this chapter was initially gonna have more scenes that drove the plot/romance arc but once i got upwards of 6k with a few major scenes left i decided it would be best if i split the chapter up, so for now it’s just a lot of me trying to work around the convoluted knight squad lore to establish my own. i know that's not exactly what everyone is here for, but i promise things on the romance/action front will pick up soon. i'll place warnings as detailed as i can get without spoiling in the tags and notes as i go, but just anticipate fairly significant violence by chapter 3.

anyway! i have talked enough. the title is from thus always to tyrants by the oh hellos, the rating is t for swearing/violence, there are three more chapters that are in the process of being written, and reviews are like crack as far as i'm concerned. i really hope you like this! thanks for reading <3

dedications: this fic is first and foremost for @ciara-knightly, who is not only my amazing beta but also the whole reason this fic exists. she helped me so so much with the development of the plot and worked through it with me even way before i decided to really start writing it, and i wouldn’t have been able to do this without her. all of the notes she left after beta-reading were so so helpful and really made this whole fic make sense so basically i owe her my entire life. she inspires me to be a better writer all the time and i love her. everyone say thank you shona!!! also tagging my lovely friends and some people who have expressed interest, who are in no way obligated to read this; @juliesdahlias @mistyskiesrambles @dr-rigatoni @willexs @taylorswiftrulestheworld @onplanetmars @neshatriumphs @zackmartin @julies-molinas @soni-dragon @yagorlemmalyn @hopefulbeautifulfool @cactus-con @waterisntreal @onetwothreefarkle @bitchmilsky

summary: “Now that Ryker isn’t a threat anymore, the councils are supposed to resume as planned, and Astoria is set to hold the first one two weeks from now.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That sounds exciting.”

Ciara nods. “It is! I finally get to meet some of the other nobility, and actually get to be involved in Astorian politics for once. But my dad won’t let me go without an escort,” she says, and then hesitates. “Which is where you come in.”

read it on ao3

The morning before training that day, Arc is testing his skills against a heavy bronze padlock when Ciara enters the squad room and drops a brown paper bag on the table in front of him.

“These,” she announces as he raises an eyebrow at her, “are for you.”

He pulls open the package and is instantly greeted with a rush of warmth and the smell of vanilla. “Dragon puffs?” he says, half in awe. It’s a clear bribe, but he can’t help but shove a sugar-coated sweet in his mouth anyway. They’re an Astorian original and possibly the best thing he’s ever tasted; he’d tried them once at a bakery near the castle and hasn’t stopped thinking about them since.

“Okay, what do you want?” he says then, words muffled around the cream and pastry.

Ciara pulls a face at his manners, but still manages to blink innocently at him. “Can’t I just do something nice for a friend?” she tries, but it’s half-hearted.

He swallows and grins at her. “Nice try, Princess. Your dessert deliveries always come with an ulterior motive.”

Huffing a sigh, she sits down next to him. There’s this subtle air of anticipation lingering around her, one he can only sense based on how in tune they are after so long of being teammates. The two of them have this easy way of reading each other now; they’ve been spending more and more time together, something having shifted in their dynamic after the battle against Ryker. He can’t quite place what it is, but he knows it’s only brought them closer. “Do you know what the Council of the Five Kingdoms is?” she asks finally.

He shrugs. “Sure. Nobles from each kingdom used to have a big ball every year to talk trading and politics and other boring stuff…”

“Except there hasn’t been a council since Ryker’s invasion, because the kingdoms have been isolated and preoccupied with their own safety,” she finishes for him. Her fingers tug at the lacing of her leather gauntlets; she’s nervous, but he still isn’t sure why. “Now that Ryker isn’t a threat anymore, the councils are supposed to resume as planned, and Astoria is set to hold the first one two weeks from now.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That sounds exciting.”

Arc chokes on his second dragon puff. “You want me to be your escort,” he says flatly, once he’s finished coughing, “to the Council of the Five Kingdoms?” Normally he’d jump at the chance to spend a night dressing up and eating castle food. But the council is a decidedly different scene; there’s a set of formalities, politics underlying everything, and too many chances for him to expose his lack of knowledge when it comes to Astorian customs. Not to mention that Catalias’ royals will be there. He doesn’t know if he can stomach looking them in the face, knowing what they did to Seagate.

Ciara grimaces. “Look, I know it’s not exactly your thing, but my dad won’t let me go alone. And this really means a lot to me.” Her eyes are pleading, and Arc feels his resolve chipping away.

“Can’t one of your actual guards go with you?” he tries. “Or, Prudy or Warwick or someone?”

“I’ve already talked to my dad about it,” she explains. “You’re the only Knight School student he’d let protect me, because you already proved you could when Ryker invaded. Besides, if something were to happen…you’re the one person who knows I can handle myself as Ciara.”

There’s this brief stretch of silence where Arc works his bottom lip, and Ciara looks as though she’s debating something. “Also,” she adds finally, with the soft flicker of a hesitant smile, “I thought it might be fun to go with you.”

Arc blinks at her, caught off guard by the admission. There’s this sudden buzz in his chest that he can’t push away; in truth, he doesn’t like the idea of her spending the night with someone else either. Maybe, by some miracle, this will actually be a good thing. “Alright,” he relents. “I’ll be your escort.”

Ciara’s face breaks into a grin. “Yes! Thank you!” She throws her arms around him, and he’s shock-stilled, a rush of warmth flooding through him as he hugs her back. When she pulls away, her eyes are shining with excitement. “Okay, I’ve gotta go tell my dad you said yes, and there’s a million things to do, but I’ll see you at training later. You are the best.”

“I expect dragon puffs for life!” Arc calls after her as she disappears through her passageway. He leans back into the couch, lightheaded, and in that moment, he realizes abruptly that there’s almost nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

And he is so completely screwed.

Two weeks later, Arc is standing outside Ciara’s bedroom, waiting for her to finish getting ready.

It feels odd to be out here in the open. Generally his visits to her chamber are accompanied by an air of secrecy, but tonight, he’s a guest in the castle. He’s dressed like it, too, decked out in the guards’ typical formal wear: pressed brown pants, a white shirt laced up the front, and a navy leather jacket trimmed in gold, with Astoria’s crest on one shoulder. He looks kind of dashing, honestly.

Despite the confidence boost his new look offers him, his hand keeps drifting to the hilt of his sword. It’s sheer force of habit; he only associates this brewing sense of apprehension with battle, and his muscles are responding in kind. He’s glad, at least, that he turned down the other guards’ offer to lend him one of their ceremonial blades and instead has the familiarity of his own. Hopefully he won’t need it, but it’s a steadying presence all the same.

“Almost ready!” Ciara calls from inside, and Arc carefully unclenches his fingers from around the leather grip of his sword. He has to keep it together tonight; she’s made it clear how much this means to her. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass her in front of nobles from all five kingdoms.

Well, four, he reminds himself. Seagate won’t be attending. There isn’t anyone left to represent them.

The thought makes his stomach twist.

He’s saved from having to dwell on it by the sound of Ciara’s door unlatching. “Better prepare yourself, Princess,” he teases, leaning against the wall, “I look pretty good, and the last thing we want is for you to get too smitten—”

He breaks off as she emerges from the doorway, all the air in his lungs leaving in a sudden rush. He’s trying hard not to be the cliche of a guy scraping his jaw off the floor at the sight of a pretty girl in a dress, especially not like this, with Ciara—but he can’t help but think that it’s ridiculously unfair of her to come out looking like that. Her dress is a pale blue, falling gently off her shoulders and cinching at her waist, and her tight curls are weaved with strands of gold and tied into a low knot, some of them falling loose to frame her face. There’s a crown of gold leaves and rosebuds settled in her hair.

“You...um…” Arc searches for his voice, “you look amazing.” His mouth feels dry.

Ciara smirks and reaches up to adjust the collar of his uniform. “You don’t look so bad yourself. I’m definitely smitten,” she jokes, like it’s nothing for them to be flirting openly. It should be nothing. Except his skin burns where her fingers brush against his neck, and he suddenly wonders if she can hear his heart pounding.

He clears his throat. “We should probably get to the ballroom.”

She nods. “Give me your arm,” she says, looking at him expectantly. When he raises an eyebrow, she continues, “You’re my escort, remember?”

“Oh, right.” He lifts his arm obligingly, his cheeks warm.

“I really wish we’d had more time to go over Astorian customs,” she breathes as she takes it, more to herself than anything. “Between training and helping with preparations, I’ve been so busy…” His nerves must show on his face, then, because she squeezes his arm gently and amends, “Sorry. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. Just stay close to me, okay?”

“Not a problem,” he grins without missing a beat, and Ciara scoffs and shoves him, the smile tugging at her mouth taking all the bite away from it.

They can do this, he thinks. The two of them have kept up appearances for each other for months now, have fought and trained and battled Ryker together. They’re Arc and Ciara, unstoppable duo. One little party should be nothing.

As they make their way down the hall towards the ballroom, flanked by guards, Ciara lowers her voice. “When we get there, most of the nobles should be inside already. The herald will announce my father first, then us, and then each of the other three kingdoms. We’ll be beside the thrones as they come in—you’ll stand by me, left side—and once they’ve all been announced, we can leave the thrones and mingle. Bow to each of the rulers as they come by.”

They had, at least, practiced his bow. Arc swallows back the dread in his throat; all he has to do is stand beside her and greet the other royals, it’s easy enough. For a moment, they linger outside the entrance to the ballroom, until an official-sounding voice announces the King. “We’re next,” Ciara whispers to him, eyes glinting with excitement. “You ready?”

He nods back at her, and the voice calls, “Accompanied by Sir Arc...Princess Angelica of Astoria!” They step into the ballroom, greeted with applause. Arc doesn’t think he’s ever been in a place this lavish; the walls are white, accented in deep gold, and the floors are polished to a gleam. The ceiling looks hand-painted, ornately decorated in constellations and swirling designs, and crystal chandeliers dangle over their heads, casting a golden glow over the whole room. He tries not to look too awe-struck.

They make their way to the platform on which the thrones rest, Ciara nodding and smiling and waving at the other nobles as they pass. She stands next to her father, and Arc takes his place on her other side, placing his hands behind his back and trying, for all the world, to look like he belongs there. He wonders suddenly if he’s stood too close to her, and if it would make things worse for him to shift over now, and if his indecision is showing on his face—

And then, almost imperceptibly and hidden from the ballroom’s view by the folds of her dress, Ciara reaches over and links her pinky with his. It’s a tiny gesture, a friendly reassurance, but Arc feels a tide of warmth swell in his chest all the same. He lets his gaze flit to her for just a moment, and her lips are graced with a small smile as she tugs his finger gently.

His breath hitches, and he fights to keep his face a passive neutral as the herald announces the next kingdom and he turns his attention back to the doorway.

“Presenting King Hugo, Queen Luciana, and their son Prince Isaac of Catalias!”

Arc’s stomach turns as the couple enters, trailed by their son, all three of them swathed in lavish red and gold. Their reputation precedes them; he knows little about the prince, but the king and queen are infamous for their hoarding of wealth, their favorance of the rich nobles and landowners of their kingdom over the common people. Arc knows them best for what they had done to Seagate.

His hand twitches for his sword, but he fights against the instinct.

True to form, the two have a haughty look about them, all starched clothes and stiff smiles as they bow to Ciara and the King. The two of them return the greeting with Arc following their lead—grudgingly.

“I am so pleased you could join us tonight,” the King smiles, a little tight-lipped. “It is high time that Astoria and Catalias united again.”

King Hugo nods back. “I couldn’t agree more. The honor is ours.”

Arc detects a veiled sort of tension between the two of them, hidden well underneath the cordial formalities. He glances at Isaac, whose eyes are trained intently on Ciara even as he and his parents move to greet the other guests. Something about it is unsettling.

He’s so focused on Isaac that he almost misses the herald’s announcement of the next kingdom. “Queen Damyanti, and her children Princess Aadhya and Prince Kavan of Khurjan!”

Queen Damyanti is the picture of elegance, draped in silver silk that almost seems to glow against her dark skin. Aadhya looks around fifteen, with the same deep eyes and regal expression, and Kavan must be ten or so. He grins toothily as the three of them approach the thrones and bow.

The King’s expression is much warmer now. “Queen Damyanti. It has been too long. I trust Khurjan is doing well?”

“Not quite as well as Astoria, perhaps,” she replies, and it’s teasing, no sharpness to it. “This ball is absolutely lovely. Princess Angelica, you look so beautiful. Just like your mother. I was so sorry to hear of her passing.”

Ciara’s eyes go soft. “Thank you, Queen Damyanti,” she nods back. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

“You as well. It’s a shame your sister couldn’t make it, but hopefully we’ll all gather again soon.” She gives a small, departing nod and joins the rest of the nobles, Aadhya giving them a bright-eyed smile and Kavan waving enthusiastically as they follow her. Ciara laughs.

“And finally...King Jesper of Vysalt!”

Arc is confused for a moment; he wonders if he had remembered the name of Vysalt’s king wrong. Then a young man with a head of dark curls and a smattering of freckles against tawny brown skin enters, his crown just slightly crooked. His eyes are wide and dark, and a jagged, white scar cuts across his cheekbone. He can’t be much older than they are.

“He’s the king?” Arc whispers to Ciara under his breath as Jesper makes his way over to them. “How old is he?”

Her expression twists a little in sympathy. “Seventeen. He wasn’t supposed to inherit the throne so soon. His parents were killed when Ryker’s army took over his kingdom.”

Arc isn’t sure what to say to that. He knows what it’s like to lose everything to Ryker—he can picture the flames every time he shuts his eyes. But he hadn’t known about Vysalt or the fate of its royals. They had been close allies with Seagate at one point, one of the only other kingdoms without much wealth, and their king and queen had been known for their generosity.

Somehow Arc had thought the damage had been done to Seagate alone, but now he wonders how the other kingdoms fared, if they suffered just as much. If any of them came out as unscathed as Astoria did.

“Your Majesties,” Jesper says as he bows, and there’s a note of pity in the King’s expression as he returns the gesture. Arc can only imagine how he feels about someone so close to his daughter’s age having to run a kingdom on his own.

“King Jesper. How are you doing?”

It’s a more personal question than he had asked the other royals, Arc notes. Jesper smiles easily; it’s soft, highlights his deep dimples and makes his dark eyes glimmer. “Well, thank you. Vysalt is recovering with time. As am I,” he adds, voice quieting for a moment.

The King nods back. “That’s good to hear. Let us know if there’s anything Astoria can do to help.”

Something flickers in Jesper’s expression, hard to read and gone so quickly that Arc wonders if he imagined it. The young king bows again before moving to join the others, but not before he catches Arc’s eye and smiles warmly. It surprises him—the other royals had hardly given him a second glance—but he returns it with one of his own. Beside him, Ciara lifts an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and something else he can’t place.

“What?” he asks quietly, and she shakes her head, glancing away.

“Nothing.”

He wants to pry, but the King is clearing his throat, getting ready to address the room. The chatter dies down as all eyes turn to him.

“My fellow Astorians,” he says in his deep, booming voice, sounding more formal than Arc has ever heard him, “and my guests from our neighboring kingdoms...I am honored to welcome you to our castle, and so pleased that we could all be in attendance tonight.”

Not all of us, Arc thinks, but no word of Seagate comes up.

The King continues, “For decades, our kingdoms have been isolated and divided by Ryker’s armies. We have long suffered under his forces, but his threat is gone for good. Thus, tonight is more than a council; it is a symbol of our victory, a symbol of our unity as we move forward and rebuild. So enjoy yourselves! After all, we have so much to celebrate!”

To Arc, the sentiment feels hollow. He got his revenge, and of course he’s glad that Ryker can’t hurt anyone else, but it doesn’t change the fact that Seagate is in ruins. It feels suddenly difficult to celebrate with the weight of his village’s absence lingering in the air around him. The rest of the partygoers don’t seem to share his hesitance, though; the room breaks into applause and cheers, several of the guests raising their goblets jovially.

Ciara gives him a subtle nudge, jolting him out of his thoughts. “Now we get to mingle,” she grins, leading him off the throne platform and towards the crowd.

He follows dutifully as she heads toward the table where the other kingdoms’ royals have gathered, Astoria’s king staying behind to greet the other royals. Queen Damyanti is in conversation with King Hugo and Queen Luciana, but she doesn’t seem entirely pleased about it, and Jesper and Kavan are laughing at something Aadhya has said. Isaac hovers next to them, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He has his father’s golden hair and clear blue eyes, but the frown on his face is entirely his mother’s.

It disappears, though, the moment he sees Ciara approaching them. “Princess Angelica,” he greets her, with a little too much enthusiasm for Arc’s liking, “I’m so honored to finally meet you. You’re even more radiant in person.” Before she can say anything, he takes her hand and kisses it swiftly. Arc narrows his eyes.

Ciara gives a forced-sounding chuckle and curtseys, pulling her hand back. “Thank you, Prince Isaac. I’m glad you could make it. Allow me to introduce Sir Arc, my guard and escort for the night.”

Arc bows—and if he never has to bow to another pompous royal again, he thinks, it’ll be too soon—and Isaac offers him a dismissive sort of half-smile. Any further interaction they would’ve had then is thankfully avoided by the other royals noticing Ciara’s arrival.

“Hi, Princess Angelica!” Aadhya says brightly, with a neat little dip of a curtsey, “I’m Aadhya.” When Ciara and Arc begin to return the gesture, she waves her hand with a tiny scoff. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. Formalities. Just come sit.” She returns to her chair and pats the seat next to her, and Arc decides right there that he likes her.

Ciara takes the offered chair, and Arc takes the only other open spot, in between her and King Jesper. As Ciara launches into conversation with Aadhya, Jesper turns to him.

“Hi,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I’m Jesper.”

Arc bites back a laugh at the unnecessary introduction. “I know who you are, Your Highness,” he replies lightly.

“I know. I was just trying to give you an opening to tell me who you are.”

Oh. That’s unexpected. There’s no prerogative behind his words, no assertion; Jesper’s grin is almost bashful, his voice easy and bright. He doesn’t sound like a king, just a seventeen-year-old boy trying to flirt. Arc can’t help but return his smile.

“I’m Arc,” he says. “Normally I’m a student at Knight School, but I’m the princess’s guard and escort for the night.”

“Wait,” Aadhya pauses her conversation with Ciara to lean over and look at him, “You’re the Arc who defeated Ryker?”

“I helped,” Arc says with a shrug, and the princess’s eyes go wide. She turns to Ciara.

“Were you there too?”

“I was—” Ciara pauses for a moment, “hiding. I was hiding. Arc got me to safety.”

He grins a little at her, tongue between his teeth, knowing it must be killing her to hide what she was actually doing. She narrows her eyes and kicks his leg under the table in response, a silent shut up. He lifts his eyebrows, like, I didn’t say anything, and she rolls her eyes in an entirely non-subtle manner.

Across the table, Queen Damyanti is watching their exchange with a raised eyebrow, Arc notices belatedly. She has a mildly amused look on her face, but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she states, “Battling Ryker face-to-face must have been quite the experience.”

“What was it like?” Prince Kavan asks eagerly from beside his sister.

Aadhya elbows him. “Kavan,” she hisses, but Arc just grins.

“No worries. It was…” he trails, trying to think of what to say and suddenly aware that all the royals’ eyes are on him. He shifts in his seat. “It was scary, obviously. He had the Armor of Astoria, and a whole army with him, and most of the Astorian knights under his spell. But, y’know. We Knight School students are pretty formidable. We all took him on together. Wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise. I wasn’t half as scared as I would’ve been without my squadmates watching my back.”

He glances at Ciara, who smiles softly and nudges his foot, gentler this time. Jesper has that same unreadable look on his face and Aadhya has her chin propped in her hand, her expression amazed, but Queen Luciana gives a snide sort of scoff.

“It’s a wonder it took so long to defeat him, then, if a group of students cut him down so easily,” she says. “Perhaps Ryker was never as great a threat as we all made him out to be.”

There’s a cut of silence across the table in which Jesper visibly stiffens. “With all due respect, Queen Luciana, Ryker’s attacks were devastating. Or have you forgotten what happened to my parents?” he demands, without any respect at all. His eyes are blazing.

“I’m merely pointing out that the only real damage done was to the less...fortified kingdoms,” she sniffs. “Ryker only breached Catalias’s walls once, and he was driven out rather quickly.”

“Well, not every kingdom has Catalias’s resources.” Ciara sounds like she’s choosing her words carefully, frustration masked well behind them.

King Hugo gives a huff of a laugh; his blue eyes are cold. “My dear princess, you have no cause for indignation. Astoria lost the least to Ryker, what with your,” he waves a hand, “magic bubble.”

Ciara opens her mouth but falters, brow furrowed, and across the table, Queen Damyanti speaks up. “Nevertheless, Ryker was still a formidable enemy to all of us. We were only prepared for his attacks because he targeted Seagate and Vysalt first. And Seagate’s destruction is a clear example of his power.”

“Oh, even you can’t argue that Seagate was rotting long before Ryker got to it, Damyanti,” Hugo replies swiftly, and Arc’s breath catches in his throat. Queen Damyanti shrugs in agreement, her expression passive; Arc almost stands up, but Ciara’s hand on his leg underneath the table stops him.

“Don’t,” she hisses, just barely loud enough for him to hear, “Let me handle this.”

Though as it turns out, she doesn’t have to. Before she has a chance to speak, Jesper is already bristling, his voice sharp: “As if Seagate’s corruption justifies the destruction of its people?”

“It’s thieves and criminals, you mean?” Isaac scoffs. “Seagate was a wasteland. The kingdoms are better off.”

The words ring in Arc’s ears, alongside the pounding of his blood. They sound painfully similar to what Ryker had said to him on the mountain—rats and thieves, I did the five kingdoms a favor—and he thinks fleetingly that he’s going to be sick. He’s always known that Seagate was looked down on by the other kingdoms, but hearing them say so casually that what happened, the flames and the destruction and all of the death, was deserved—

“The people were only thieves and criminals because Catalias took advantage of them,” Jesper argues. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that it was your government that poured money into the gangs of Seagate for their own profit and allowed them to stage a coup in the first place.”

The words are deadly and cold, but Arc feels a flash of admiration for Jesper; the king has no obligations towards Seagate, and yet defends it like his own. King Hugo’s gaze hardens. “You’re blaming Catalias for Seagate’s problems?” he says with a derisive laugh. “If anything, Ryker’s attacks only revealed that Seagate was a kingdom full of people that weren’t worth saving.”

“That’s enough,” Ciara says abruptly. Her hand tightens on Arc’s leg, and he can no longer tell if he’s the one trembling or if she is. There’s this burning fire behind her eyes; she looks, Arc thinks briefly, the same way she does in battle. “What happened to Seagate was a devastating tragedy, and I won’t let you treat it as otherwise. Those who disagree aren’t welcome here.”

It’s a weighted statement, one she doesn’t entirely have the formal authority to make, but no one dares to contest it. A heavy silence settles over all of them. Arc doesn’t know how long he can sit there with all the heat under his skin; he doesn’t remember when his hand found the hilt of his sword, only that he’s gripping it tight enough that the leather bites into his palm. He wants to stand up and tell them that none of them would be here if it weren’t for him, a thief from Seagate. In truth, the only thing holding him back is Ciara. In a battle between her steady hand and the storm in his chest, she wins without even trying.

He doesn’t say anything or look at her, but her gaze flits to him for a moment and she just knows, standing up. Before she even opens her mouth, Isaac is on his feet too. “Going so soon?” he asks. “Would you care to dance, Princess?”

She looks at him coolly for a moment. “I would, actually.” And then, she turns to Arc, offering him her hand, “Sir Arc, dance with me?”

Arc blinks up at her and takes it as he stands. “Absolutely, Princess,” he says, letting her lead him away from the table and glancing back only long enough to catch the dumbfounded expression on Isaac’s face.

#oop #knight squad #knight squad fanfic #tiara thief #tiara thief fic #writing #my writing #fanfiction #arc #ciara #ks #//umanawrites #learn to love without consuming

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liibrii · 3 years

Text

Chapter 3: In the light, your name

Ojiro Aran x fem!reader

Series Masterpost || Ch. 1 || Ch. 2

wc: 4.7k

warnings: time skip spoilers, swearing, internalised guilt and shame, intrusive thoughts, self doubt, drinking.

a/n: this only took forever cause I got carried away (what a surprise). if you wanna be tagged in future chapters lemme know, and as always feedback is greatly appreciated!

A step forward, two steps back. Like a dance, just like his mother taught him, dancing and laughing back home, only this dance holds no joy, only cruel turns and twirls and your hand slipping from his as fate whisks you away.

“One Ace special coming up!“ Osamu places a plate of freshly made onigiris in front of Aran. They look amazing, as if taken directly out of one of those fancy cooking books. The practice had been especially gruelling that day and yet Aran has no appetite. All he wants is to go home and sleep. He would have, if Gao hadn't dragged him to the newly opened Tokyo branch of Onigiri Miya.

More out of politeness than really being hungry he takes a bite. It's good, much better than ones he remembers Osamu bringing to practice. “Woah, this is tasty!“

Osamu practically beams at Aran's praise. Even he has changed, notices Aran. Has he grown a little? The grey of his hair is gone, and he smiles so much more. Aran doesn't remember ever seeing him so talkative.

Has everyone changed so much while he wasn't paying attention?

While chewing he pulls phone from his bag, in some silly hope there'd be a message from you. But the screen is empty and seeing his screensaver is almost a mocking to his hopes. What else did he expect? People don't always mean what they say, but a storm doesn't mean to blow away roofs either.

Lost in his thoughts Aran barely takes notice when Gao says his goodbye and other customers slowly start leaving.

Osamu closes the shop then places two more cans of beer on the counter. Without much enthusiasm Aran opens the can and pours the fizzling liquid into a glass. Which drink was it, third? Fourth? For a moment he considers telling Osamu everything. About you, how he feels and how he screwed up. Just to get it out there. But Aran knows Osamu talks to Atsumu, and Atsumu never learned what keeping a secret means. So he blames his sour mood on practice.

Even if Aran was a good liar Osamu'd see through his little ticks. They've been the same ever since elementary school and so obvious; the nervous scratching of his nails, rubbing of his neck. Ever since he'd grown a beard he added rubbing it to the list.

“I should probably get goin',“ says Aran before downing half the glass in one long gulp.

“What's a few more minutes?“ Osamu doesn't bother pouring his beer. “I'll clean up later. Don't have any other plans anyway.“

A low chuckle leaves Aran's lips. “Life goin' that good, yeah?”

“Could say that. Could be far worse. How about ya?“

Aran massages his temples. He's getting light headed and still he takes another long sip. “Like ya said, could be far worse. Had a rough couple weeks. Women, ya know?“

Osamu hums and nods, wisely. “Women. Got dumped, did ya?“

“In a way...“

“What happened, did ya forget her birthday or somethin'?“

Aran laughs. Oh no, he knows exactly when your birthday is. “Said somethin' stupid.“

“Just somethin'? If she gets upset so fast then maybe she's trouble.“

“Wasn't like that. She trusted me and I... had a bad day and took it out on her.“

Osamu takes an onigiri Aran hasn't touched yet. “Have ya apologised?“ He asks with his mouth full. “Should start with that,“ he continues after Aran shakes his head, “treat her to dinner. I know some good restaurants if ya want. Or better, cook somethin' yerself.“ He opens the browser on his phone. “What's her favorite food?“

Aran tells him. “Whichever recipe ya find I can tell ya right now I can't cook it.“

“I found a few even Tsumu can make,“ laughs Osamu still scrolling through his phone. “What's she like? More into fancy stuff or more homey? Fried rice's easy but not very fancy, more of a safe bet. Maybe with an omelette. I can show ya how to make it to look like a panda. Success guaranteed!“

“How can omelette look like a panda? It's yellow.“

“A yellow bear then,“ Osamu shruggs before putting away his phone. “Does she like bears?“

“Does- I ain't sure...“

“Ya don't know?“

“No! Why would I? Is that what ya ask folk ya take on dates?“

“Usually I ask what they think about apple curry.“

“I don't think she likes apple curry... Or maybe she does...“ He gloomily stares at the empty glass in front of him. “Gimme one more.“

Osamu obliges and pours him one more, deciding this is the last one for him. Aran's eyes are getting glassy and he dreamily observes the white foam before downing half the glass.

“We went down to the Kamakura beach,” he says, scratching at his immaculate fingernails. “She looked s' pretty in the sunset... She likes sunsets... I think. Ain't sure 'bout anythin' these days.“

“Everyone likes sunsets,“ nods Osamu. “Never trust people who don't like seein' sunsets. I'm tellin' ya, buy her some udon. Or bring her here, I'll give ya a special discount.“

Aran bursts into laughter. “He'll know then...“ Osamu leans his head to the side, wondering what his old teammate meant by that. “She's ex of a friend.“

“Ow,“ is all Osamu says. That explains everything. You don't date a friends' ex. “Sorry. She sounds great.“

“Yeah, yeah she is... Kinda almost like a whasit's called again, kotatsu? Warm...“ He's just blabbering now, his mind a hazy labyrinth of disconnected thoughts. He misses you, he misses you so bad, and he fucked up, and he doubts cooking you a dinner would repair the damage he's done. Once it would be pretty easy to bribe you with the right snacks but you've changed. You've changed so much he still fears he doesn't know you at all. “Hey Samu? Hav' I changed?“

“Yea? I doubt the old Aran-kun wouldda come to me for advice.“

Corners of Aran's lips perk up. Why is his glass empty? “Yer a good guy ‘Samu. Can ya call me a taxi? I've got practice t'morrow.“

He has to stop visiting Onigiri Miya on the evenings Aran thinks on another morning after drinking and talking with Osamu till late night hours. The cool breeze of the early morning hours is refreshing but isn't doing anything to ease the hammering in his head. Sky without a cloud promises the day to be sunny and hot. Aran's just glad he found his sunglasses ad that the gym has air conditioning.

There's a distant ringing in his ears. Ringing that doesn't stop and causes other people on the train to send him sideway looks. It's because his phone is ringing but he's too focused on trying not to throw up to notice. He only does so once he's walking the short walk from the train station to the gym. Seeing your name over the 'missed call' almost makes him drop the phone. He calls you back, frantically tapping his fingers on his arm, hoping you'll pick up. You don't.

The sun is too bright. Pouring rain would be more appropriate to his mood. Aran's glad he can hide from the warm rays inside the gym. No matter his mood volleyball always takes his mind off things, and even now he hopes it will help him see things more clearly. The thought of you has become a wind chime, singing at every little thing that makes him think of you. Staying focused on the ball in front of him is harder than expected. But first and foremost he's a professional volleyball player with a new season just around the corner. He can't let his team, his fans down. Since your first year of high school you've been his supporter too. He can't let you down.

When his phone rings again he’s in the middle of receiving drills and this call too goes unanswered. Instead your message waits for him.

(9. 45) Aran are u free this Sunday? the shrine down the street is holding a festival. wanna come?

A wide smile spreads over his face. He's more than happy to come he writes back, his smile spreading even wider when only a few moments later you text him place and time.

“Ojiro what are you looking at?“ Gao peers over his shoulder and Aran quickly puts his phone away.

“Nothin'“

“Nothing, ey? Does the nothing have a name?“

Aran rolls his eyes and heads for the showers, ignoring the teasing laughter of his teammates. Honestly, he's too excited to see you to care.

Aran glances on his phone to check the time. Five more minutes and he'll be only ten minutes early. He kicks the small stone form the pavement onto the road. Then he straightens his shirt. Maybe this colour wasn't the right choice after all, maybe you would've liked the red one better. Once in passing Akagi said red looked good on him. He sends you a short message, letting you know he's already here.

Minutes later he catches the sight of your figure manoeuvring between visitors flocking towards the many stands. “Sorry, I got worried all the best mochi'd sell out,“ you apologise, pointing to plate full of different kinds of mochi in your hand. “Samu isn't here yet?“

“No.“ His heart clenches. He didn't even think about the possibility of you inviting anyone else. “He's probably just late,“ he quickly adds, “let me call him.“

“Always late,“ you complain, “tell him I got his mochi but if he doesn't appear soon I'll just eat them myself. Want one?“

He declines the sweet and you shrug. While he waits for Osamu to pick up he avoids looking at you. The call goes unanswered. “I'll send him a message.“

“Tell him every minute he's late is a free onigiri,“ you mumble, your mouth full of delicious mochi. “And he's paying for drinks. I saw a stand with soya smoothies up the street. And a stand with takoyaki.“

“Have ya mapped out all the food stands?“ chuckles Aran.

“Well you know Samu, food is his best motivator. You sure you don't want one?“

He gives in and takes the matcha one. He watches with a fond smile as you stuff an entire mochi in your mouth.

“What?“ you mumble when you catch him staring.

“Ya look like a hamster.“

You roll your eyes in an effort to cover the smile creeping on your face. “Very funny. How's life?“

“It's fine,“ he nods, awkwardly.

“Good.“

“Yeah.“ He rubs his chin. The beard is getting a little long. He glances over at you. He should say something. But what? “I'm really sorry about what I said,“ he finally utters. “I do care. About you.“

“We all say things we don't mean, right?“ The soft look in your eyes makes his throat tighten. He hurt you and yet here you are. Reaching out, again. “It's all water under the bridge. Besides, I really missed hanging out with you. So, where do ya wanna go?“

“Shouldn't we wait for Osamu?“

“Nah. It's his fault for being late, he'll find us. And he better buy us those smoothies. Want one more mochi? You should really try the chocolate one, it's amazing.“

Never again. Aran doesn't want to see you hurt ever again.

The festival is crowded, which is to be expected in Tokyo, and he keeps an eye out for you. The last thing he wants is to lose you somewhere in the sea of people. He stays close, quietly delighting in seeing your excitement over different attractions of the festival. A few times your hand brushes against his, sending a shiver down his spine.

Osamu never shows up, messaging about an hour later he got stuck at work, promising you both as many onigiri as you'd like the next time you come around Onigiri Miya. “A shame. I was hoping to hang out with him while he's still in Tokyo.“

“He'll have time in the future,“ says Aran, doing his best to ignore the pang of jealousy in his chest.

“Probably. But will there be fresh soya smoothie for him to treat me to?“

Aran buys you the smoothie you so crave, grinning upon seeing your excitement. You walk around the festival grounds and from time to time he steals sips of your smoothie. You pout and nag he should buy one for himself but don't stop him.

As night falls you search for a good place to watch the fireworks from. Just after they start Aran puts his hand on the small of your back to gently push you forward so you'd see better. But you don't budge and he bumps into you, his chest to your back. The sounds of festival fade, as if the crowd disappeared and all that remains is you, looking at him, fireworks reflecting in your eyes. The softness of your gaze causes his heart to do somersaults. You snicker and flick his nose.

Tease, he thinks and tickles you. He wishes he could properly put his arms around you and rest his head on your shoulder. He wishes he was here as more than just your friend. He wishes he alone would be enough of a reason for you to always have the same soft look in your eyes.

But if Kita, the perfect Kita Shinsuke, Kita who knew you better than anyone wasn't enough, how could he be?

His hand lingers on your arm for a heartbeat longer. He could try, he could always love you with all he has and hope you'd love him back, hope he could be enough. But if he failed... he'd only hurt you more, wouldn't he? And you've been hurt enough.

During lunch break his phone rings and his hearts jumps, hoping it's you. But instead Osamu's name is written over the screen. A bit disappointed Aran picks up.

“Aran-kun whatcha doin' this Saturday?“ Not even a'hello'. So many years and still so rude.

“Practice till afternoon, then watchin' a movie.“

“Amazin'! Want some company?“

A boys' night out? Why not? It would be nice to spend some time with someone who wasn't his teammate. “'Course.“

Osamu laughs. “Knew ya would. I happen to know someone interested in a blind date. I'll tell her to meet ya at the cinema.“

“What? Osamu I'm not really one for blind dates-“

“The ex of a friend. She's Kita-san' ex, isn't she?“ Aran's silence is an answer enough. “Ya asked me for advice. This is it, go out, try meetin' someone else. Whatever you want to have with her it won't end well.“

Aran knows. He knows all that. He knows you returning his feelings would be the worst case scenario. Sooner or later he'd have to tell Kita. “I know,“ he says. “I know that.“

Osamu doesn't answer immediately, waiting if Aran will add anything else. “Just go on this one date, see how it goes.“

“I'll think about it.“

He does think about it. The entire day in fact. Meeting someone new would be nice and who knows, she might be the one he's waiting for. A part of him, the guilty part that's been way too loud in the past weeks, stays firmly against the idea. Searching for the right one when you're right here. What if this blind date is just a crazy fan who somehow found her way to meeting him? And what about you, it asks? It would be cruel wouldn't it, leading you on while going on dates behind your back.

But he isn't leading you on, Aran argues with the voice inside his head, you're just a friend anyway. He cares about you yes, but only as a really good friend. Osamu is right, you should never be more than that. You're Kita's ex. And you don't date your friend's ex. So why break his heart further?

(17.48) I'll go on the date. send me time and place.

That's the thing about making plans, the moment you make them something else comes up. Just the following day his phone rings, making his heart flutter when he sees your name.

“Hey.“ Your voice alone makes him smile. “I, uhm, I have a request.“

No beating around the bush. It makes Aran wonder if you've been hanging with Osamu so much you picked up his habits. “Oh, do ya?“

“Yeah. It’s is a bit awkward... Listen, I have a very important exam next week but my roommate's gonna have her boyfriend over for the entire weekend. Let's just say earplugs aren't helping and leave it at that, yeah? So, could I maybe crash at your place till then? I just need a quiet place to study. I can sleep on the couch! Or the floor, I really don't care!“

“'Course ya can,“ says Aran without hesitation.

This is how we finds himself sitting with a bunch of your notes in his lap, you leaning on his back explaining one of the questions. There are at least 4 empty mugs on the desk of his living room. He hopes you've left some coffee for breakfast.

He's amazed by how naturally you fit into his life. Almost like the space beside his shoes in the closet was meant for yours and the jacket hanging beside his was always meant to be there. You've even found your favourite mug already. The bedroll on the floor of the living room is the only reminder you're only crashing at his place for a couple of days. If you asked he'd let you stay longer.

The next morning you wake up the same time as him, sipping your first cup of coffee for the day, half asleep and draped in the hoodie he strategically left on the counter last night. You don't even raise a brow when he takes your phone and asks you to unlock it. “I'll send ya a playlist. Just some classical music. It's good for studyin'.“

“Sure,“ you answer in a groggy voice. “Have fun bouncing the ball around,“ you wave him off when he gets ready to leave.

Your sleepy face makes him smile for the rest of the day. Practice runs longer than usual and he returns late, stepping over two stairs at the time. The lights are still on when he enters but there's no answer when he calls out. He finds you behind the desk, so absorbed in your notes you don't notice his approach. When he places his hands on your shoulders you jump and shriek. “Aran!“ You remove your headphones. “Do you want to give me a heart attack?!“ He laughs and you smack his leg before he sits on the floor beside you.

“Is the material so interestin'?“ He looks over your many notes and pushes an empty mug to the edge of the table.

“I was listening to music,“ you rub your eyes. He notices they look a bit reddish. He takes your phone and clicks the play button and music continues. It only takes him a moment to recognise the piece.

“Dmitri Shostakovich, Waltz number 2. My mom's favourite. Used to dance to it with dad every Thursday.“

“That's sweet.“

He stands up and offers you his hand. “Come, ya need a break.“

You take his hand without question, only raising your brow when he places his left hand on your back. “Ya have to put your hand on my shoulder,“ he grins to your more than apparent confusion.

“Oh, right,“ you mumble. “I can't really dance you know. Not waltz at least.“

He gently holds your right hand in his and gives you a reassuring squeeze. “Don't worry, I'll teach ya. I start with my right foot forward, ya step back with yer left, yep, just like that, then my left foot forward,“ you jump in surprise when he turns you around, “and the first turn, now yer right foot forward, then left, and turn. See, it ain't hard.“

“Easy for you to say,“ you disagree, your eyes fixed on his feet and your mind preoccupied with trying not to step on his toes.

“Just follow my lead,“ grins Aran, gently pulling you a little closer.

He counts the steps and beats in his head and step after another you relax and follow his lead. All those Thursdays when dad wasn't home and mom pulled him into taking his place are finally paying off.

“I didn't know you could dance so well.“

Aran laughs at your words and gently pushes you into a twirl under his arm. “I guess there's a lot ya don't know,“ he says when he pulls you closer again.

You follow his steps and soon begin catch on the slightest of his moves. Music changes but you don't let go so you dance on through his living room, off beat and saying quiet 'Sorry's,' every time you step on his toes. The way your brows furrow when you mess up is adorable but Aran doesn't give you the time to ponder over the mistake, pulling you into the next turn with ease and certainty of someone who has danced these steps countless times.

When the last song ends Aran leaves his hand on your back. You're so close, your hand in his. Looking and smiling at him. His eyes linger on your lips. It would take so little to close the space between you. So little that would change so much.

He pulls away.“ Do ya want tea?“

“Don't I always?“ you muse and head to put the water on, then open the cupboard but the last cups stand on the highest shelf and even on your tiptoes you can't reach them. Aran gently pushes you to the side and reaches for them. “Here.“

He pours himself a glass of water then pulls his phone out to check the time. Shit. The blind date. That's today! He glances over at you, making your tea, humming the melody of the last song you danced too. His heart drops.

What is he doing? He can't... This is getting out of control. He clenches the glass tighter. You're so close, he wouldn't even have to fully extend his arm to tap your shoulder. If, right here and now, he told you how he feels, how would you react? He lifts the glass to his lips. Probably not in the way he wants you to. A leap of faith, one that could take him anywhere. To the love of his life, he thinks watching you stir, or to the stone to shatter the friendship you both tried so hard to rebuild. A risk he doesn't have the courage to take.

The half empty glass he leaves in the sink draws your attention. You watch Aran head for the bedroom and you don't think much of it. It's his apartment, he can do what he wants. It's only when almost ten minutes pass that you decide to poke your head through the door to see what he's up to. The clothes he's wearing certainly aren't what one would wear for staying at home. “Going somewhere?“ you ask, curious as to why he's wearing a pretty alright polka dotted shirt.

“I have a date.“ He awkwardly fixes his collar. He doesn't want to meet your eyes.

There's a short silence before you answer. “A date? In this shirt?“

Your judgemental tone makes him turn. “What's wrong with this shirt?”

You scrunch up your nose. “It gives you that,“ you wiggle your fingers, “successful businessman in his forties looking for a wife vibes.“

“What's wrong with that?“

“What's wrong with-?! Aran! You're a professional athlete!“ You enter his bedroom and start looking through the closet. “Don't you get invited to fashion shows and stuff? One would expect you'd get some fashion sense purely through osmosis. Ouch!“ you yelp when he playfully smacks your shoulder. “Here, this one.“ You hand him a shirt of dark violet colour.

He takes it from your hands and inspects it. Then he hands it back. “I like this one better. And I'm runnin' late already anyway.“

You shrug and hang it back. “As you wish Mr. CEO. Wait, are you bringing your date back here?! Shit, I need to clean up my stuff.“

“Relax. I'm not bringin' anyone back. It's a blind date anyway. Ya keep studyin' alright? I'll be very disappointed if ya don't get the highest mark.“

“What do you mean a blind date? Damn, I didn't expect that from you player boy,“ you tease and it's a distraction enough for Aran to miss the forced smile.

“Osamu's idea.“

A small “Ah,“ is all you reply at first. “Get going then, being late is the worst you can be on the first date!“ You push him out of the room. “Have fun, don't say anything stupid, and don't only talk about volleyball.“

“It's not my first date y/n, gosh, stop bein' such a mom. Why are ya so excited anyway?“

“Probably too much caffeine.“

When he returns you're still up. You have two cups of tea ready before he even takes his shoes off.

“So, how was it?“ You push the cup across the table. “Come on, come on, no need to be shy,“ you grin, “tell me!“

Aran rolls his eyes at your sudden excitement. “It was nice, but nothin’ special,“ he tells you.

“Just nice?“ You tap your fingers on the table. Aran recognises the rhythm, it's one of your favourite songs. You sent it to him a few days ago. “Dating must be harder now that you're famous,“ you say, absent-mindedly. “Or is it easier?“

Before answering he takes a cracker from the bowl on the table. “Harder,“ is the answer he settles on. “Ya never know if they're attracted to ya or yer status. What about ya?“ He focuses on chewing crackers and taking small sips of tea, anything to keep from glancing at you.

“Ah you know,“ you sigh, “have enough other problems at the moment. College is messing with my head enough already. Why put another person in the mix?“ This time Aran doesn't miss how your voice trembles, and how you rub your forehead. Maybe you just have a light headache. You do look exhausted.

He changes the subject, feeling the talk of dating is quickly approaching dangerous territory. “How are ya feelin'? With studyin' and all?“

You lean on your hand. “Could be much worse. It's just a lot. Probably should have started with studying earlier.“

“But with work ya didn't even have enough time, right? Don't be too hard on yerself.“

“Actually, I quit. I thought it would help me focus on studying,“ you say upon seeing his questioning gaze.

“Ya know what will help ya study better? Some good night's sleep.“ He takes your empty cup. “I'll do the dishes, ya go ready for bed. No talkin' back,“ he points his finger to your face, “ my house, my rules. No stayin' up past midnight.“

“It's one in the morning.“

“Past time for ya to go to bed then young lady.“

After that you don't protest and before he even finishes doing the dishes you're snuggled on your bedroll and half asleep. Seeing you fills him with warmth. He could get used to this, coming home to you every night. He turns the lights off.

When he lays in his bed he wonders what's with the sinking feeling in his chest. There's anger. Why were you so excited for his date in the first place? Why did you look almost disappointed when he said it was nothing special? He hugs his pillow, thinking he'd much rather it was you in his arms. You must be soft. If only you'd be here, his nose filled with the scent of your shampoo. Teeth of shame sink in his heart. Why does he have to feel like this?

He wants you to be jealous. It's so damn childish, he knows that. It's something his teenager self felt when you hugged Kita after a game but only gave him a high five and a head pat.

How long is he going to keep lying to himself? He's in love with you. Not the you he remembers. You here and now. You sipping your fourth cup of coffee, you frantically flipping through notes wearing one of his old hoodies. That at least hasn't changed; you still steal any hoodie you can get your grabby little hands on. Not steal, he corrects himself, borrow. You borrow them. For an undetermined period of time.

He buries his face in the pillow. You're not the always cheerful manager he remembers anymore. But you are still you.

Tag list: @aonenthusiast @rosecaffelatte @kara-grayson04

#ojiro aran #ojiro aran x reader #ojiro aran imagine #ojiro aran x y/n #aran x reader #aran x y/n #aran x you #hq #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu x reader #inarizaki x reader #inarizaki x y/n #all that is gold #libri scribbles

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saphyrenights · 4 years

Text

confession...

i’ve never told anyone this, but it was weighing on my heart and mind, so here you go. a confession.

in early 1999 when i was 14 years old, a movie came out that i really, really wanted to see, but none of my friends would go with me to see it, even though i dropped hints for weeks leading up to its release and even begged and pleaded for at least one of them to come with me. they had no desire to see this movie, and they were surprised that i did. because of the nature of this movie, there was no way i felt confident enough to go see it by myself. that wasn’t even an option for me. i continued pestering my friends about it, and they kept telling me no, but i was determined to see this movie.

the problem was that none of us were in the target demographic for this film. like, at all. it was aimed at really young children and their families, not teenagers who were on the cusp of getting learner’s permits, entering high school, and trying to establish their coolness prior to starting a new phase in life. me, i didn’t care about any of that. i just wanted to watch a movie.

enter my 6-year-old cousin. her sister was a senior in high school and hardly ever wanted to spend one-on-one time with her. it wasn’t like her sister was trying to neglect her or anything. it’s just that college was looming on the horizon and she needed to do all she could to secure her spot as class valedictorian and participate in tons of extracurriculars for her college applications. i completely understood. which is why i graciously offered to babysit my little cousin one saturday while their parents had some quality time and the older sister could chill and not stress so much for a little bit. i did it out of the goodness of my heart with no ulterior motives whatsoever.

i called over to their house and had my aunt tell my bb cousin that we were going to the movies. the kid was excited. she asked what movie we were going to see. my aunt told her. i didn’t hear anything on their end of the line for a few long seconds. this 6-year-old was like, “i don’t want to see that.” apparently, she’d seen the trailers on tv and decided the movie was stupid. so, i was faced with the realization that not only did my too-cool-for-school friends think the movie was stupid (we were all huge nerds, so idk why they were clowning ME so hard), but a 1st grader told me the same thing. was there really something wrong with this movie? how was i the only person i knew who wanted to see this? and what was it going to take to get someone to see this with me?

turns out you can very easily bribe tf out of kids. all it took was me offering to pay for the ice cream scoop of her choice from the knockoff coldstone creamery next door after the movie. it was a deal. her mom agreed to take us there and pick us up. she thanked me for volunteering to spend quality time with my sweet lil cousin. i was like, “haha, don’t mention it.”

when we got to the theater, i walked my cousin and myself up to the ticket counter and loudly asked her, “are you sure you want to see this?” she looked at me like i’d lost my mind, so i just shook my head and sighed. “two for baby geniuses,” i told the girl behind the plexiglass. she took the money and handed us two tickets. i thanked her and then rolled my eyes like i was SOOOO embarrassed. but i wasn’t, really. i was faking. i had to cover my excitement, and that was the best way i knew how to do it.

my cousin hated the movie. i could tell she was trying to give it a chance, but she kept glancing at me during particularly dumb parts and asking questions. i tried to explain things to her as best i could, but i was mostly there to absorb everything i could about the film. the groundbreaking technology, the unnecessarily complicated plot, the ridiculous action, i needed to soak in and experience all of it. the movie was terrible but it still almost felt like a religious experience. i don’t regret using a child as a cover to see it, and all my friends who refused to see it with me missed out.

that’s what i told myself when i was flexing on my friends about it the next week at school, anyway. i never admitted to anyone that i’d bribed my bb cousin, my own flesh and blood, to act as a cover for me in case anyone happened to see me in the theatre. she got ice cream out of the deal, so i felt she received proper compensation.

so, that’s my confession. it’s been 21 long years. feels good to get that off my chest. would i do it again? nah. we can just stream stuff now lol

#my friends and i are scattered to the four winds these days #but occasionally #one of them will remind me of this #i'm pretty sure they're just jealous

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veliseraptor · 5 years

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How did you get yourself to study when you were in school? Like I’ve answered the study questions but can’t make myself open my anatomy text books. Instead I’m procrastinating when I have a test in 3 weeks. Like I know u finished years ago but you always give good advice.

good advice? me??? damn I feel so far from qualified for any of this. but the real answer for me was: to do lists and bribes.

basically: almost every day I made lists of what I needed to do that day for each class to stay on top of my work. and then I had “if I finish this task, then I get to do this” rules for all of them. or just overall: “when you finish your homework, then you get to go do [x].”

this is actually my tactic for a lot of things. I treat myself a little like either a toddler or a poorly trained animal: motivated by simple rewards. which does involve a certain amount of self-discipline (in not just…skipping straight to the reward), but there’s also, at least for me, more satisfaction in feeling like I’ve earned the reward I’ve given myself.

there’s also setting a specific amount of time/set time to work - i.e. “from this time to this time I’m going to study.” or, if that doesn’t work and it’s better for you to break things up than to try to do everything at once, then “I’ll study for fifteen minutes and then take a break to do something fun for ten.”

and honestly…a lot of this has carried over into my post-school life, too. so it’s good stuff to have for motivating yourself in other contexts as well.

#this is my college life #i don't know what i'm doing y'all #the idea of being asked for advice like i do? nuts #anonymous #conversating #advice column apparently

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littlelovelyspiderling · 6 years

Text

The Experiment

Peter Parker agrees to help Black Widow test a new device. When he gets stuck, some of his fellow Avengers decide to have some fun. Post Infinity War so SPOILERS!!

Word count: 6,713

“Hey kid, how strong are you?”

Peter blinked and looked up from his homework, which was strewn across the coffee table in a chaotic jumble. “Who, me?”

“No, the other kid sitting criss-cross on the floor eating three orders of In-and-Out french fries.”

The teen smiled shyly, licking the salt from his fingers. “Oh, right. Well, um, strong? Yeah, I’m pretty strong.”

It was a long weekend. After a lot of begging and bribing, May had agreed to let him spend it at the Avengers compound. It actually took less convincing than Peter had expected, seeing how May had doubled down on strictness ever since her nephew’s impromptu field trip to space and the catastrophic fallout that had come to pass. Now that everything was back to normal, everyone seemed a lot more tense and protective. It took weeks before she let him go back to his evening patrols. But when he brought up Mr. Stark’s invitation to stay at the upstate facility for a few days, insisting that he’d get all his homework done and do the dishes for the next month, May had voiced her approval surprisingly readily. Maybe she was sick of having him cooped up in the house with her for so long: school had been canceled for a spell as the world tried to piece itself back together.

Or maybe she’d noticed how shaken the experience had left Peter, and she thought the weekend getaway might help cheer him up a little. If he was being honest with himself, Peter still wasn’t fully recovered from the whole ‘dying then coming back to life’ ordeal, and he felt like he’d never be back to his old self again.

But he refused to let anything spoil this trip for him. Because he was at the Avengers facility. Training, studying, and hanging with the Avengers for an entire three days. He could hardly contain his excitement.

“On a scale from Tony Stark sans suit to the Hulk, how strong would you say you are?”

“Hey,” Tony groused from the opposite side of the room. He shot a glare over his shoulder before turning back to the dizzying screen of 3D displays in front of him, which his fingers danced across like keys on a piano. “Why you gotta do me like that, Romanoff? I’m strong. I lift. I drink protein shakes and wheat grass and all that shit.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. Peter giggled.

“I would guess I’m somewhere between Captain America and the Hulk. Probably closer to Cap. Definitely below Thor.”

“You think you’re stronger than Steve?” Natasha asked. He was expecting judgement, but her tone carried an air of curiosity instead.

“Only because I was able to hold an entire ferry together,” he said. He glanced at Stark and lowered his voice. “And I sorta lifted an entire building off myself.”

“Really?” Natasha mused. “Well, in that case, I’d say you’re the perfect candidate.”

Spider-Man frowned, tilting his head to the side. “Candidate? For what?”

“Stark, you mind if I borrow the kid for a minute?”

Tony waved his hand in acknowledgement, murmuring under his breath as he continued to work. Peter hadn’t seen the man this busy since he’d gone about sorting through the complicated situation between Secretary Ross’ government agenda and the newly-reformed Avengers. Now, nano-tech was the word that kept popping up time and time again. He had no idea how his mentor could possibly make his Iron Man armors any cooler than they already were, yet he always found a way to make it so.

“Sweet,” Natasha said, taking the young hero by the wrist. “Come on, this way.”

Peter Parker had to admit: he was a little scared of Black Widow. He’d seen her fight, he knew her rep, and in her presence he always felt a bit uneasy, like she could break his neck at any moment and he’d never see it coming. Not that he expected she would—in general, Ms. Romanoff was nice to him. Certainly nicer than Sam or Dr. Strange, who never missed a chance to poke fun at him due his age, his height, or anything else they decided to find amusing at the time. Of course, Peter always had a witty comeback to counter with, and he knew deep down they didn’t actually hate him. At least, he hoped not.

But Natasha was close to impossible to get any kind of read on. She could seem very kind and relaxed one minute then serious and deadly the next. And no matter what she was doing, it always felt liked she had a secret ulterior motive at play, one that Peter could never guess.

She brought him to the next floor down. The elevator opened to large lab, which was packed with all sorts of machines, equipment, vehicles, and weapons. Most of them were covered by sheets and blanketed in a thick layer of dust, as if they hadn’t been touched in years. Others looked like they’d just been used, and some of the large machines were currently hard at work, creaking and grinding with progress.

“Wow,” Peter said. “What is this place?”

“Storage unit for all of the Avengers’ new tech,” she replied, stepping through the doors and on to stained concrete. “Some of its ancient, outdated. Lots of old Stark tech. We get new loads from S.H.I.E.L.D. every week.”

Peter followed, gazing around in awe. He trailed his fingers along the rows and rows of tarps, squinting to try to see what treasures lied hidden underneath. His touch caused one of the sheets to slip off to one side, and he froze in place.

“No way,” he gawked. He reached out and pressed his hand to the cold metal. “No freaking way! Is that—is this—Mr. Stark’s Hulkbuster armor? The giant Iron Man suit he used to stop Dr. Banner when he went crazy in South Africa?”

Natasha smiled at his childlike giddiness. “Yes, it is. Just the helmet, though. The rest is still under repairs after the fight in Wakanda.”

Peter squished his face against the dim lens and cupped his hands around his eyes. “This is so cool! I bet it’s like being inside a Transformer, or one of those huge Pacific Rim Jaeger things!”

“Probably,” she said, turning around to stifle a laugh. Geez—no wonder Stark was so destroyed after losing this kid. She pushed a lock of hair out of her face. “But that’s not the tech I brought you down here for.”

Spider-Man glanced up eagerly. “Which one? Am I gonna get to test some of the weapons in here? Is there, like, a strength-tester type machine or something?” For an instant, his excitement deflated. “Wait. You didn’t bring me down here just to make me move stuff, did you? Is that why you asked how strong I am? Because you want me to carry a bunch of heavy things around? I mean, I’m not saying no, I was just kinda hoping—”

“I’m not making you move things,” she assured him. She walked across the room to a counter that housed a wide assortment of tiny devices. She grabbed one from the line and tossed it to the ground where it materialized into a new shape in an instant, expanding like a high-tech version of those capsules you leave in water that grow into colorful dinosaurs. She nodded towards it. “I need you to help me test this thing out.”

Peter grinned and ran to her side. He skidded to a stop and beamed at the strange contraption. To his surprise, it looked like nothing more than flat, metal, slightly slanted table. A wrinkle formed along his brow as he tried to understand what the big deal was.

“A…table?” he said bemusedly. He poked at it, expecting it to grow legs or something. “What are we testing? How many cups I can stack on it before everything falls?”

“It’s from Wakanda,” she explained. “It’s made of vibranium.”

Spider-Man’s eyes widened. “Whoa, seriously? Like, the stuff Cap’s shield is made of?”

“Yes. Which means it’s hella expensive, so if it doesn’t work, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What does it do?” he asked.

Natasha leaned against it with both hands. “It’s supposed to be able to completely immobilize enhanced individuals. In a situation where someone like you or Thor or an enemy possessing superhuman strength needs to be restrained in order to keep others safe, this thing can stop them in an instant and hold them for as long as we need.” She turned back to him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sure would’ve been nice to have something like this back when we were fighting those alien freaks.”

Peter stared at her then back at the table. “So…it’s like…a cage…?”

“In a sense. It’s more like an instant straight-jacketing machine. Here, let me show you.”

She grabbed him by the shoulders and moved him to the open space in the center of the room. He stumbled awkwardly over his feet until she had him place, feeling a little silly. Pulling two small beads from her belt, Natasha walked towards the back wall to stand opposite of him. She stopped when there was about twenty feet of space between them.

“All right, so let’s pretend we’re fighting.” She rolled the pair of beads between her fingers. “You’re an evil murderous alien monster with super strength. I’m the heroic Avenger who needs to stop you.” She coaxed him forward with a twitch of her hand. “Now, run at me like you’re going to attack me.”

Peter had no idea where this was going. He was a little afraid, but also incredibly curious. He swallowed his fear, then balled his hands into fists at his side.

“Um, okay. If you say so.”

Without allowing himself to think on it longer, Spider-Man charged. He didn’t know what she expected him to do once he reached her. Fortunately or not, he didn’t get the chance to find out. Before he had cleared ten feet, Natasha flung the beads at him. They split in half mid-air, then zipped towards him as tiny streaks of light. Peter was startled when he felt both of his wrists and ankles get hit with something. He staggered to a stop, staring down at his hands to find thick metal cuffs latched around both arms. They weren't attached by a chain or anything—they were just stuck there, like two heavy bracelets. He looked to Natasha with a scowl.

“Wait, what the hell are—?”

A beep sounded from what appeared to be a watch she was wearing. She had her thumb against a button in the center. Instantly, Peter was yanked sideways by the metal clasps. He yelped in surprise. He didn’t even have time to register what was happening before his back collided with a cold, smooth surface, and he found himself staring up at the ceiling, stunned.

“W-what the—?” Spider-Man tried to lift his arms, but they were pinned down by the metal wristbands. His legs, too, had succumbed to the same fate: arrested flat and completely immobile. Two bands of silvery-looking material shot out from underneath both of his shoulders and stretched across his collarbone, connecting in the middle of his chest to form a belt that restrained him even more than he already was. The same restrictive bands also formed around both of his knees. It took him a few moments to register that he was stuck to the vibranium table that had looked so innocuous only minutes ago, and he could barely move.

“M-Ms. Romanoff?” he called out fearfully. He strained to lift his head, which was about the only movement he was capable of. His terror subsided a little when she stepped into his narrow frame of view, looking just as surprised as he was.

“Holy crap. That was…wow.” She stared down at her watch, which Peter concluded was some kind of controller for the restraining device. “Those are some seriously strong magnets.”

“Is it working? I mean, is this what it’s supposed to be doing?” He squirmed and shifted as much as he could. He wasn’t prone to claustrophobia, but being rendered so completely incapable of moving definitely rubbed him the wrong way.

“Yep. Perfectly. It’s designed to rapidly capture and contain opponents. It’s amazing how they manage to fit so much stuff inside such a tiny container.” She held out the device on her wrist as she spoke. “The base plate can shrink or grow to accommodate different kinds of combatants, from Antman-sized to up to twenty by twenty feet. It also has different levels of containment for more powerful enemies.”

Peter nodded, trying his best to look relaxed. “That’s—yeah, that’s really impressive. For sure.” He attempted to shrug, but even that was beyond his ability. “Seems a bit overkill, though, don’t you think?”

“There’s no such thing as overkill when it comes to protecting the world from aliens, kiddo.” She clicked a few of the buttons on her wrist controller. “I could set it so that you’re entire body is electrified stiff, or where every joint and tendon have their own personal restraints. The highest setting is essentially that scene from Star Wars where Han Solo gets stuck in carbonite, except with vibranium.”

“Really?” Peter beamed. “From The Empire Strikes Back? That’s actually possible? That’s insane!” Then he winced, flexing his fingers nervously. “But, um, please don’t do that to me.”

“I won’t,” Natasha said. “All I need for you to do now is to try your hardest to break out.”

The teen blinked. “Break out?”

“Shuri claimed that on the lowest security setting, not even the Hulk should be able to escape. In the event I need to use this thing in the future, I want to make sure that’s true. But since Bruce is still having trouble ‘hulking out’ and Thor would probably end up short-circuiting the whole mechanism, I figured you’d be the best test subject.” She gestured towards him with a wave of her hand. “So, whenever you’re ready.”

“Just…go crazy? Like an animal caught in a trap?”

She shrugged. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Scoffing, Peter turned to look at the ceiling. “Okay. I’ll, uh, do my best.”

And he did. Peter summoned every ounce of his spider strength to try to break free of the bonds, straining and wrenching and twisting with all his might. He even tried getting his fingers around the cuffs and bending the metal so he could wriggle his way out. All of his efforts were to no avail. The vibranium restraints had him beat. He was stuck. Knowing that Shuri had designed the device, it didn’t exactly surprise him.

“So I guess that means it works,” Peter concluded, panting softly. “Yay.”

“It’s a very sturdy contraption,” Natasha agreed. “It should come in handy in the future.”

Spider-Man bit the inside of his cheek. “So, um, does that mean I can get out now? Or are there other things you need help with?”

“No, that’s it. Just give me a second. I need to write something down.”

Peter nodded, and she walked back to the counter, tapping at one of the screens. He rested against the metal table, more than ready to be able to move freely again.

A moment later, the elevator at the back of the room dinged and opened. As the person entered the lab, it took Peter a second to determine their identity from his unconventional position. The figure stopped when he saw him, furrowing his brow.

“Peter? Is that you?” Sam glanced to his right. “Uh, Nat? What’s going on here?”

“Science experiment,” she replied, not looking up.

“We’re testing to see if I can break out of this restraining thingy with my super strength!” Peter said enthusiastically. “It’s supposed to catch bad guys who have enhanced abilities and whatnot.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Can you?”

The young hero pouted. “No. But it’s made of vibranium, and it’s meant to stop people as strong as the Hulk, so…”

Sam walked to stand beside him, placing his hands on his hips. “Huh. Interesting.”

“All right, all done,” Nat said. She trekked across the room with her wrist held to her eyes. “Ready to be free?”

“Yes please,” Peter said sheepishly. But before she clicked the release button, Sam held up his hand.

“Hold on, Romanoff,” he said. His lips twitched into the tiniest sliver of a smile. “How exactly were you testing to see if he could break out?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean? I just told him to try to escape, and he couldn’t.”

“But that’s so unrealistic,” Sam insisted. “If you had a bad guy trapped in that thing, they would be fighting to get out like their life depended on it. He’s got no incentive to escape.”

Peter shifted against the restraints. “I mean, I am pretty uncomfortable. And my pride’s a little hurt that I wasn’t strong enough to get out.”

Sam shook his head, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-uh. If you really want to test this contraption’s integrity, you’ll have to give the kid a compelling reason to escape.”

“Like ice cream?” he suggested a little too quickly. When Sam snorted and rolled his eyes, he faked a cough. “I mean, um, a steak? Two steaks. And a cold brandy on ice.”

“Go ahead and try if you want,” Natasha told him. “But I seriously doubt there’s any way he’s getting out of this thing on his own. Even with ice cream on the line.”

Sam laid his hands on the metal table. A smirk pulled at the corners of his lips, like he knew something that nobody else did. “Well, that wasn’t really the type of incentive I had in mind, Romanoff. You’re suggesting we give him an award for escaping, which is one way to go about this. But I think punishing him for not getting out would be much more effective.”

Peter frowned. “Punish me? How? Isn’t being stuck in this thing already punishment enough?”

Sam drummed his fingers against the table. Peter could feel the short vibrations humming against his back.

“I’ve got one idea in mind,” he said, raising his hand over Peter’s midsection. “Are you ticklish, kid?”

The question took him by surprise. It was not something that came up in casual conversation. He wondered why Sam thought the information was pertinent to the experiment, until he realized what this was leading to. His first instinct was to guard himself, because experience had taught him that no matter what answer you gave in response, you were going to get tickled. But his wrists simply strained against the clasps. His arms were locked in place, splayed out at both of his sides. His feet and legs were firmly glued to the table. He hadn’t expected anyone to take advantage of the helpless situation Ms. Romanoff had placed him in, so he hadn’t even considered just how vulnerable he was in his current state. Until now.

Peter’s ears went red.

“I—um—I don’t—w-why—”

Those were the only words he got out before a finger poked him in the belly. A high-pitched squeak jumped from his throat before he could stop it. The grin that overtook Sam’s features made him want to die.

“Oh, so you are,” he said mischievously. Peter’s face flushed four different shades of pink in a matter of seconds. “In that case, this ought to give you a very big incentive to escape, don’t you think?”

“W-wahahait!” Peter stammered. Sam had literally touched him once, but knowing what was about to come was filling him with so much anxiety that he couldn’t contain the laughter already seeping into his voice. He pulled against the cuffs as hard as he could, but he knew it was hopeless. “I—I can’t get out! It’s impossible!”

“Aw, come on now, Spider-ling,” Sam said, swirling his finger just above his stomach. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. I know you can do this. I believe in you. All you need is a little motivation.”

With that, Sam started poking his belly with both index fingers, moving up and down his torso with teasingly casual movements. Within seconds, Peter was reduced to a helpless bundle of giggles, recoiling at every touch as much as the restraints would allow. Peter had been tickled before, so he knew he was pretty sensitive, but never like this. Being unable to defend himself made it a hundred billion times worse than all the times Uncle Ben had pinned him to the bed when he was little, or when May would trap him in the corner of the couch and tickle his neck with her fiendish nails. Here, stuck inside an inescapable restraint machine, there was nothing he could do but laugh himself into a frenzy.

“Nohoho! Plehehease!” the teen begged. Sam only grinned wider.

“Are you kidding? I’m barely even touching you.” Suddenly, all ten of Sam’s fingers convened on his stomach at once and began to scribble all over mid-section. “Now, if I was doing something like this—yeah, that would make sense.”

If Peter was able, he’d be thrashing all over the place, kicking his legs and hugging his arms around his body. Instead, the only thing he could do was desperately try to angle himself away from Sam’s merciless fingers. To his dismay, his efforts did nothing to dampen the onslaught of tickles, and his light giggling transformed into heavy, uncontrollable laughter that racked his entire frame. Off to the side, Natasha watched the poor kid amusedly. Not even she could deny how adorable he was.

“Ms. Rohohmahahanoff!” Peter squealed, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face against the table. “Hehahahehehelp!”

Sam looked up from Peter without slowing his attack. “Yeah, Ms. Romanoff. Why don’t you help? I could use a hand over here.”

Natasha hinted a smile. “That’s okay. I think you’re doing just fine on your own.” She snagged a can of beer from the fridge in the cabinet and cracked it open. “But keep it up. I think it’s working.”

“You know what? I think you’re right.” He leaned towards the kid’s bright red face, tickling every inch of his tummy. “You hear that, Spidey? Nat believes in you too. Just try a little harder, and you’ll be out of here in no time!”

“Shuhuhahat up!” Peter laughed. “Y-you—you—ahahahahasshole!”

Sam stuck his tongue into the inside of his cheek. “What was that?” he said threateningly, grinning from ear to ear. He moved his hands down to Peter’s sides. “What did you just call me?” He started kneading his thumbs into the kid’s hipbones, going faster and faster with every passing second. “No, go ahead. Say it again. I dare you.”

Poor little Peter began to shriek with giggles. Clearly name-calling in his defenseless position was not a wise idea. Sam couldn’t help but chuckle at how high-pitched and childlike the young hero’s laughter was. He was too cute for his own good.

“Is someone dying in here?” a voice called from across the room. Sam turned to see Clint Barton standing at the foot of the stairs, furrowing his brow.

“Oh, hey B,” he greeted him. “Naw, no one’s dying. I’m just trying to motivate the kid to get out of this device on his own. He’s got really bad self-esteem issues.”

The archer strolled over to the metal table where Spider-Man lied. He was relieved to find that the noise he was hearing wasn’t from a murder scene, but instead the shrill, happy laughter of a ticklish teenager. He smiled and shook his head.

“Aw, buddy, what are they doing to you? Is the big, mean Falcon bullying you?”

Peter squirmed and squealed, knowing well there was no point in asking Hawkeye for help. Despite being a father, the master assassin was not very keen to pity, especially when it came to Spider-Man. He tended to lean towards the Sam and Strange side of the spectrum when it came to interacting with the younger hero. And from the smug grin plastered on his face as he watched Peter laugh helplessly, he assumed that wasn’t changing any time soon.

Nonetheless, groveling was pretty much his only option.

“Hehehehelp! Hehehehehelp me! Plehehehease!” Sam’s cruel, wiggly fingers never gave his ticklish tummy a break. “Ohoho my gahahahad! I can’t—I cahahahahan’t!”

“See? What did I tell yah? All he keeps saying is ‘I can’t do it’ and ‘it’s impossible!’ Even though he knows Nat and I both believe in him, he still doubts himself. Isn’t that heartbreaking?”

“Truly,” Clint agreed. To Peter’s horror, he felt a single fingertip start twitching against his left armpit. “Maybe he needs just a little more encouragement to give him that final push.”

“Maybe,” Sam concurred, smirking. Another finger found his right armpit, and Peter fell to pieces.

“Nonononohohohoho!” he pleaded piteously. “I can’t—I cahahan’t—I can’t!”

“Does Petey have ticklish underarms?” Clint teased, brushing his fingernails up and down the sensitive skin. Try as he might to guard himself, Peter was defenseless against the second layer of torment.

“Ahahahahaha!” he screeched. “Nohohohohahaha! Stahahahap!”

Clint smiled. “Hmm. I’d say he does.” He switched to digging all ten fingers into the hollows of each pit, the kid’s loud and giggly protests quickly teaching him which techniques were most effective and where his most ticklish spots were located. He knew applying his experience as an highly skilled interrogator to tormenting an innocent kid was a little harsh, but Peter’s laughter was so adorable and uplifting, all he wanted was to make more of it. One person tickling his vulnerable body was bad enough, but Peter was certain that two would kill him. Starting from wrists, Barton scuttled his fingers all the way down the teen’s arms, pausing just above his pits to build anticipation.

“Damn, you’re really making him squirm,” Sam chuckled, watching the poor kid crumble beneath Clint’s upper body attack. He continued to squeeze and pinch Peter’s sides and hips. The way he twitched from his every touch was amusing. “How are you going to survive as an Avenger if you can’t even take a little tickling, Pete? What if your nemeses find out your weakness and you spill all of our secrets to them?” He noticed Peter’s shirt had hiked up a little from his constant twisting and shifting, and a very evil idea popped into his head. He slipped his fingers underneath the material and started spidering his nails against his bare stomach. “One way or another, they always figure out how to get under your skin.”

Immediately, Peter’s laughter jumped three octaves and several decibels higher. “NOHOHOHOHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” He threw his head back and arched his spine against the table. “STOHOHAHAHAP! STAHAHAP IT!”

“Uh-oh,” Clint giggled. “You’re in for it now.”

Ten deadly fingertips moved freely over his tummy, exploring every inch of the soft, unbearably ticklish skin. They dragged up and down his sides, clawed at his midriff, and drew ruthless circles round and round his sensitive bellybutton. And all Peter could do was laugh and laugh, balling his hands into fists against the table.

“What does that feel like?” Sam asked him. “Like a bunch of itsy-bitsy spiders? Crawling all over the itsy-bitsy Spider-Man’s belly?”

“PLEHEHEHEHEASE!” he cried. “NOHOHO MORE! NOHOHOHO MOHOHORE!”

“Hang on, I want to try something,” Clint said, taking his hands off his underarms for an instant. Sam’s fingers gave his tummy a moment’s break, and Peter thought he might faint from relief. “I always do this to Cooper whenever he’s being a little punk.”

Peter didn’t even register Barton moving from the head of the table to the middle. He was too busy relishing in the feeling of not having twenty fingers simultaneously digging into his most sensitive areas. He didn’t think there was any better feeling in the entire world.

“P-please, hehe…” he giggled weakly, fighting to catch his breath. “Just…just gimme a minute…”

Not even three seconds later, Clint lifted up Peter’s shirt, wrapped his hands around both sides of his torso, and blew the biggest, longest, most insufferable raspberry directly into the kid’s exposed belly. The sound that left Peter’s throat the moment Barton made contact was less like a laugh and more like a scream.

Natasha glanced at the kid and shook her head with a chuckle. “You guys are so mean.”

While kneading his fingers into his sides and hips, Clint assaulted the kid’s tummy with raspberry after merciless raspberry. Peter bucked and shrieked, whipping his head from side to side.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! AHAHAHAHAHAAA!”

After six in a row, Barton smiled down at the puddle of laughter that used to be Peter Parker. “What do you say? Are you motivated yet? You almost ready to break out of this thing?”

Peter had hoped after so much tickling his body would start to get used to it, but no. It seemed as time went on, his skin only became more sensitive to every poke and touch that came his way. Which meant with each passing minute, the increasing intensity of the tickling was driving him that much crazier. This was not at all how he’d expected his weekend with the Avengers to go. He cringed beneath the fingers scratching and stroking his defenseless tummy, bubbling with laughter.

“What’s the matter? I’m just giving you a belly rub. Like you’re a puppy. A teeny-tiny spider-puppy. I thought puppy’s loved getting belly rubs. Don’t they?”

He scribbled his nails up and down his entire midsection. While Clint was busy teasing his tummy, Peter felt someone pull both of his shoes off.

“Maybe we need to try something new,” Sam suggested. “Maybe we need to give his arms and his legs a compelling reason to get out.”

“WAHAHAHAIT!” Peter squealed, but it was no use. Sam held his foot still with one hand and started tickling it with the other, skittering his fingers along the sides tracing the arch from ball to heel. Peter tried so hard to kick himself free. The vibranium restraints were too strong.

“I feel like most people are just ticklish in some places,” Sam chuckled, watching the kid twist and twitch and giggle as he viciously strummed his nails against the center of his foot, as if he were playing a guitar. “But you, my friend, are ticklish all over. I think there’s something biological at work there. Maybe you should see a doctor.” He peeled back Peter’s scrunched-up toes and started worming his fingers between every single one, making sure no piggies were left out of the tickle attack. Once he’d finished tormenting that foot, he switched to the other one, starting the entire cruel process all over again.

“I’M GOHOHOHONNA DIHIHIHIHIHIE!” he cried shrilly. “P-PLEHEHEHEHEASE STOHOHAHAHAHAHOP!”

“Who’s going to die?” Steve Rogers asked. He and Rhodes descended the stairs into view. They’re faces were clouded with concern.

“Peter,” Natasha said, pointing. “They’re tickling him to death.”

Cap glanced at the laughing, beat-red kid sprawled across the table. Sam and Clint were teamed up on the helpless teen, kneading his sides and tickling his feet. Steve pulled his phone from his belt and frowned.

“Then why did you text us ‘come 2 basement if u need a pick-me-up’?”

Natasha smiled and shrugged. “Because his laughter is probably the most contagious thing in the entire world.”

A moment later, Tony Stark appeared behind them, standing on his tip-toes to see over Cap’s shoulder. “What pick-me-up, Romanoff? Did my tanning bed finally come in?”

Sam winced. “Uh-oh. Daddy’s here.”

Steve stepped to the side to let him pass, masking a smile. “I think they’re bullying your kid, Stark.”

Tony glanced across the lab and spotted Peter between Barton and Sam. The sound of wild, high-pitched laughter met his ears.

Once he realized his only potential savior was in the room, Peter abandoned any dignity he had left. “M-MIHIHISTER—AHAHAHAHAHA!” the teen screeched. “MR. STAHAHARK, HELP!”

Tony jogged to his side, and Sam and Clint stopped tickling him, sharing a nervous look. He stared down at his poor little mentee, strapped to a table like an asylum patient, red as a tomato, panting and wheezing and giggling all at the same time. He looked so small and exhausted and desperate, like he’d do anything to be free. Stark felt pity swell in his chest for the hapless teen. But in a way, the kid also appeared…happy. He knew it was artificial, that it was a happiness being completely forced upon him. And yet, ever since Peter had returned to the world after disintegrating into dust in his arms, the smile that normally occupied his face at all hours of the day had become noticeably absent. He was quieter, more distant, less excitable. After everything he’d gone through, it was a lot harder to make the kid laugh.

Tony lifted his gaze to the group of people in the lab, honing in on Sam and Clint. A deep wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. He looked like a dad about to scold his children for picking on their little brother. Everyone waited to see how he would retaliate.

“Come on, guys. Seriously?” He traced his glare across every face in the room. Even Cap felt guilty for some reason. Then, slowly, a smile pulled at the corner of his lip. “If you really want to make the kid laugh, you’ve got to go for his ribs.”

Everybody blinked in astonishment. Peter’s relief reeled.

“W-what?” Mr. Stark?” His mentor looked down at him apologetically.

“Sorry, Pete,” he said, giving his hair a ruffle. Then he locked his fingers around his ribcage.

Tony understood that Spider-Man was a strong and nimble individual who had the ability to detect attacks before they even happened. His skill set made it difficult to ever catch him by surprise, including the occasional times Tony had tried to poke or pinch his sides to help ease the constant tension he carried in his shoulders. Despite the kid’s happy-go-lucky facade, Peter was an incredibly anxious person, and sometimes needed to be reminded to relax a little, especially in the presence of his fellow Avengers. But Stark rarely succeeded in loosening his nerves, and he’d never had the chance to make him fully, authentically laugh before.

But right now, Peter was trapped, and he had an aunt who loved to share embarrassing facts about her nephew. This was an opportunity too rare and wonderful to pass up.

So the genius billionaire started drilling his fingers into the kid’s ribs. The response was immediate and hysterical. He watched Peter’s face shift from shock to betrayal to denial to defeat in the span of two seconds. For the first few moments, he laughed like crazy, squirming and shrieking as Stark switched between tickling every rib and grinding his knuckles into his entire ribcage. His adorable, uncontrollable giggling filled Tony with endearment. But then, the laughter suddenly stopped. The kid fell completely silent. Stark thought for an instant that he’d hurt him or something, until he heard the new sound he was making.

Squeaky, violent hiccups began to leap from his throat and shake his whole frame. They punctured the silence sporadically and made his body jump against the table. During the spaces in between, he just lied there, laughing so hard he couldn’t make a sound. His eyes were scrunched shut and his mouth was wide open, smiling the biggest smile in the entire world. But the only sounds escaping him were hiccups.

He couldn’t believe how much it tickled. He couldn’t believe Mr. Stark, his hero and idol, was the person tickling him to tears. He’d be burning with embarrassment were he not so busy laughing to death. By that point, Peter figured, yep, this is it. Things can’t possibly get any worse than this. Then two more sets of hands descended on him, one on his feet and the other on his neck. Clint and Sam were back with a vengeance, and they didn’t hesitate in picking up where they’d left off. Before collapsing into a mess of hiccups again, Peter managed to squeal out one short word.

“SHIHIHIHIHEHEHEHAHAHEHEHIHIT!”

They only tickled him that way for about thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Tony was the one who finally put an end to it, certain that any more would make the kid burst. Even after all thirty fingers had lifted from his sensitive skin, Peter continued to laugh. Natasha clicked the release button, and the cuffs fell from his wrists and ankles, shrinking back into beads. Immediately, Peter curled into a ball, hugging himself around the middle and pulling his knees to his chest. Tony placed a sympathetic hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I know that was mean. We’ll find a way to make it up to you. Want to get some ice cream?”

To his surprise, Peter was still giggling. His shoulders bounced as airy laughs sputtered from his lips. Stark smiled bemusedly.

“Kid? Are you okay? Look, no one’s gonna get you anymore. I promise.”

His reassurance did nothing to stem the continuos stream of giggles flooding from the teenager. He didn’t seem able to stop.

“I think you guys broke him,” Natasha said. Tony pulled Spider-Man to the edge of the table and tried to make him sit up.

“Peter, it’s all right,” he chuckled amusedly, holding him upright and rubbing his shoulders. It was like he was under an unbreakable laughing spell. “Come on now. Can you really not stop?”

The kid’s weight tipped forward, and he staggered off the table. Stark flinched and caught him with a start. Peter slumped against his chest, giggling into his shirt.

“I c-can’t breathe, hehehe…” he laughed weakly. “Please. My sides. Ohoho my gosh…”

Tony patted him awkwardly on the back. The others watched with small smiles.

“You’re fine, kid,” Sam snorted, giving his head an affectionate nudge as he walked by. “You definitely needed that laugh.”

“That has to be the happiest you’ve been in months,” Clint agreed, trailing behind him and tousling Peter’s hair. They both left via the stairs, satisfied with their work.

“We’ll be in the lounge,” Natasha said. The rest of the Avengers followed her. The sound of footsteps clomping upwards eventually faded. The room would have been left relatively quiet, were it not for Peter’s continuous giggling.

“Can you walk?” Tony asked, relaxing a little now that there weren’t so many eyes around. He held the kid with both hands against his back. Peter laughed softly, leaning into his embrace without answering. Stark sighed and smiled. “All right then. Up you go.”

Swiftly, Tony scooped the teenager off the floor and into his arms. Peter was too worn out to protest, too worn out to care. He wheezed tiny giggles into his mentor’s shoulder as he carried him into the elevator and up to the room Mr. Stark had intended to be his Avengers living quarters. Tony walked him inside and pulled back the sheets, then gently laid the kid into the bed. As soon as his head hit the pillow and the blankets were tucked around him, Peter’s laugh attack began to subside, even though his skin still tingled all over. His eyelids grew heavy, and exhaustion seized him full force.

“I know you probably hate all of us for that,” Tony chuckled, watching the kid practically melt with fatigue. “But Clint was right. I think that was the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time.”

He pulled the sheets up to the kid’s chin, then walked out of the room, leaving the door cracked just a hair. Spider-Man succumbed to sleep in minutes, his breathing finally steadying out.

Although he would never admit it, Peter knew it was true. In a convoluted sort of way, he was happy. The walls he’d built up based on the fear and trauma he’d went through suddenly felt destabilized, like reclaiming his old, lighthearted self wasn’t so impossible after all. He knew a long road of healing still lied ahead, and he hoped there were other ways he could go about breaking down the barriers he’d built up. But for now, in the quiet of his heart, he was happy. And it was a happiness he hadn’t experience in a very long while.

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baby-come-bach · 4 years

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All writing asks!

Oh daaaamn! Thanks, bro!! @brynhildr13 !!!!

In response to this post!

1. What is your preferred place to write (notebook, laptop, cellphone, etc.)?

~Normally I try to do everything on my laptop in Zoho’s Notebook app. I seriously love the app, and there’s a desktop and mobile version that will sync so if you’re on the go you can still edit your notes! If I’m ever stuck I’ll hand write in a paper notebook and that usually works really well for me.

2. When did you start writing?

~I started writing back in the third grade, when I wrote and illustrated a comic series called The Evil Substitute Teacher from Mars! Obviously it was of a third grade quality and I had no intentions of being a writer at that point, but it was the first time I seriously flexed my skills even though it was just for fun!

I started writing fanfiction in my freshman year of high school.

3. What is your favorite thing to write?

~I love to write stories that take characters through intense emotional journeys. I absolutely love quality character development when you can track it from beginning to end.

4. Fluff or angst?

~Angst. I have little to no interest in writing a love story or love encounters as the primary plot. It’s hard to emulate the kinds of emotions people feel during those encounters when I’ve had minimal experience.

5. How would you describe your style?

~Hmmm . . . I would say . . . healthily balanced between pragmatics and prose. I try to make things as literal as I can when there’s action happening, but when I describe character’s emotions I literally love to pour on the cheese.

6. Where do you usually find inspiration?

~In general, for overall fanfic concepts I’ll find it in the source material, in a detail that wasn’t well-expanded. For specific ideas within a story, and for specific language to describe something I’ll borrow from both the source material and other writers in canon-based fics.

7. Do you listen to music to help you write?

~Hell yes.

8. What’s the biggest “challenge” for you as a writer?

~I love to write and I mainly write for myself - meaning I write the stories that I would want to read. But it’s extremely easy to fall into the “Nobody else will want to read this/Nobody is reading this = it must be bad and I’m a terrible writer” mindset. Surprisingly, that hits me harder than comparing myself to other writers. I understand and embrace that my style is different and the way I tell stories is unique. I actually really love how I write in comparison. I also struggle with pacing.

9. Where do you usually go to write (bedroom, living room, etc.)?

~When I’m at home, my bedroom. However, occasional changes in scenery do wonders for my inspiration, so I also love public libraries. When it’s very late at night (and it usually is because I’m a night owl to begin with and I work two jobs), I love to go to Denny’s. The people at my local Denny’s know me by name and I have the same server almost every time. They let me sit there for hours and hours (and if I do stay, I always leave a gigantic tip).

10. Can you give us a sneak peek of your current WIP?

~We’re mid-fight scene and this is unedited (I’m just really self-conscious lmao). It’s from my Dissidia fanfic, A Petal Among Thorns:

“’Cosmos's assassins!’ the Emperor sneered. He laughed, calling his staff from its resting place next to the throne. "I'm glad you could make it!" Removing Cloud first would be the most important thing. That, and deflecting Terra's magic. Cloud lifted his sword behind his head and slashed it down, and an arc of power careened off the blade towards him. The Emperor slammed the end of his staff into the ground and called a cluster of purple mines in its path. The Blade Beam collided with the mines and they detonated on contact in a cloud of smoke, the sound booming through Pandaemonium.”

11. How many stories have you written so far?

~18, though not all are complete.

12. What’s your favorite thing you ever wrote?

~In the first version of A Petal Among Thorns, I wrote a giant fight scene between a goddess and her warriors. It was intense and epic, and really maximized my skills at the time, and I loved every second of it.

13. How many chapters does your longest series have?

~Well, the new and improved version of A Petal Among Thorns has 45 posted chapters at 171k words, and I’m working on 46. The original Petal, which I finished, ended with 64 and had 108k words. Both are my longest so far. the most words, though, is Horrible Bosses with just under 200k.

14. What’s my favorite character/person to write for?

~This is so tough. But I think the Emperor for A Petal Among Thorns. He’s a classic kind of “Muahahaha” villain and I absolutely love getting into that evil headspace.

15. “OCs” or “Reader” inserts?

~If it’s an either/or question, then I say OCs. But nothing against Reader inserts. I love those, too. If it’s a do I read or write them question, then not really. I did one back when I was in high school. But I do read them and I support writers who do. There’s no such thing as cringe culture anymore so don’t let any elitists make you feel shitty for writing them.

16. Can you tell us anything about your current WIP?

~Sure. I’ve got four major ones:

1. A Petal Among Thorns (Dissidia Final Fantasy) - Cosmos just sent a group to take care of the Emperor since he’s been plaguing her and her warriors, but they’re caught unprepared when they realize he’s been secretly amassing power.

2. The Krypt (Mortal Kombat) - The group just found Master Hasashi and Kenshi, two out of the whole group they’ve been looking for. Their next order of business is to escape the spider caves, but it won’t be so easy.

3. Legends Yet (Final Fantasy XII) - Balthier and Fran are preparing to infiltrate the Archadian Palace to go after a special item. Little do they know the palace is more prepared than they thought.

4. This is My Punishment (Final Fantasy VII: Dirge of Cerberus) - The Turks go looking for Vincent after he fails to report in. They confront Dr. Hojo about it, but he’s smug and disinterested.

17. How long was the longest fic you ever wrote?

~The longest COMPLETE story I ever wrote was the original A Petal Among Thorns with 64 chapters at 108k words. The longest INCOMPLETE story I have right now is the rewrite of A Petal Among Thorns with 46 chapters at 171k words. The most words I ever wrote was Horrible Bosses at just under 200k but with only 15 chapters.

18. What fandoms do you write for?

~Final Fantasy and Mortal Kombat and Hetalia are pretty much it right now, but a variety of FFs! I have written for Assassin’s Creed too, and Voltron, and I did one very self-indulgent Black Butler self-insert.

19. What is/are your favorite fandom author/authors?

~Poisonous Panda on AO3 (she used to have a tumblr but she deactivated for some reason), and Jaydee Grey on ff.net

20. Have you ever written an AU?

~No. All my stories take place in the actual world and parameters of canon. Although, I guess Petal could be considered one, since Rosa was never called to the cycles in any Dissidia game except Opera Omnia . . . ?

21. What’s your favorite AU trope?

~I don’t know if I have one. I read them but they’re not my go-to. I usually stick to canon stuff first.

22. A fanfiction cliché you can’t help but love?

~Hmmmm . . . I think descriptions of eyes. Not like, the word ‘orbs’ or anything, but the use of gemstones to describe color. I love the aesthetics associated with gemstones and their luster and how they shine, so if someone has “emerald green” eyes, or “amber” eyes, “crystalline blue”, etc. It makes me understand that their characters’ eyes are aglow with something, that they have character or passions or an ideas.

23. For how long have you been a fandom writer?

~I started my freshman year of high school, so . . . 10 years?

24. Have you ever had an idea for a story and forgot about it?

~No, I usually write stuff down right away. But as I develop my stories they rarely stay along the path enough to end up using the idea. Either the plot point is too out in left field now, or the characters are too far along in their journeys to make it work in-character.

25. What do you do to motivate yourself to write?

~Motivation? I don’t know her.

In all seriousness, I have ZERO self-control, so I can’t bribe myself. I mostly use my own desire to see my stories finished, plus nice comments and reviews from users on AO3 and ff.net. They’re so few and far between that a single one can make my entire day.

26. How did you find out you like to write?

~I’ve always enjoyed telling stories, from the third grade up! Making my own comics, and novelizing games I used to play, like Pac-Man World 2! I sort of never stopped, but WHAT I wrote matured as I grew older and joined fandom.

27. Are there any writers (fanfiction writers or not) that have inspired you to start writing?

~No, I was writing in general before I knew what fanfiction even was. But what inspired me to start writing fanfiction in particular was reading a Dissidia fic on ff.net by the name of Slash and Burn, that hasn’t updated since 2011. Reading that fic made me realize that the stories and scenarios I was coming up with surrounding these characters I loved could be transcribed and posted, and that other people were doing it too! I simply started writing down what I already was imagining for these characters outside of the events that happened in their games.

28. What’s your favorite fandom to write for?

~Final Fantasy, hands down!

29. Describe your style in three words.

1. Balanced

2. Introspective

3. Natural

30. What would you say is the most ‘famous’ fic you’ve ever written?

~Definitely The Krypt for Mortal Kombat on AO3. Writing for an active fandom is vastly, vastly different than writing for an older, stale one. The Krypt has the most comments and shares. On ff.net, it’s Horrible Bosses.

31. Blurbs or drabbles?

~Drabbles. Flesh it out more! I wanna be more immersed in whatever this is!

32. Have you ever written smut?

~I have written ONE SINGLE SHEEPISH scene in chapter 13 of Horrible Bosses. It was my very first attempt at smut and it is god-awful. Go check it out on AO3 if you want (and can withstand the second-hand embarrassment!)

33. How long does it usually take for you to write?

~LMAO that depends entirely on if I can get started for the day. If I can start and I can stay focused, I’ll easily write 3,000 words in one sitting. If I can start but I’m not focused I can usually still grind out anywhere between 100 - 500 or so words. But I’ll go days without touching Notebook if I can’t even get started.

34. What’s your favorite font to use when writing?

~I don’t put much stock in fonts but the one I’m using now on Notebook is Montserrat. I will change it every so often if I want something new though. Changes in scenery help my focus most times.

35. Which do you prefer to write: longer or shorter fics?

~Longer definitely. Shorter fics are easier but I love the challenges associated with aligning plot points with character development, as well as pacing.

36. how do you keep yourself inspired?

~My love for the fandoms I’m writing for usually does it. I love these universes and characters so much that I want to spend more time with them and watch them grow and change in ways that are or aren’t necessarily spelled out in canon. That, and the idea that since I’m writing stories I would want to read, then I’m the only one who can tell this story in my own way, so it has to be me.

37. Have you ever written something you didn’t like but posted anyway?

~Hell yeah. It be like that sometimes. Sometimes you stare and stare at a chapter and you absolutely hate it but you can’t figure out why and eventually you get pissed and say, “Fuck it, i have to post this to move on,” and you do. Specific examples for me are a few chapters in the new Petal.

38. What is your “strong suit” as a writer?

~I pride myself on my characterizations, to be honest. I feel like I have a good sense of who these characters are based on canon, and I can translate their reactions well to situations that test them.

39. What’s your favorite trope?

~I actually really, really love when characters are injured or slipping physically or emotionally, but they keep it to themselves for the sake of others. It can be for any reason - they don’t want to be a bother, they think they should be strong enough to handle it, etc.

40. How many likes do your fics usually get?

~Depends. The most I’ve gotten on anything was ~70 follows/favorites for Horrible Bosses on ff.net, and 128 kudos on The Krypt on AO3. Those are outliers, for the most part. My more popular fandom fics float around 20 - 40 kudos, my smaller fandom fics float around 5-10. The mean average for AO3 kudos across all my fics is 32, and the mean average for ff.net favorites is 14.

41. Have you ever used a prompt?

~No. it’s very, very hard for me to imagine characters into scenarios that I didn’t myself come up with?? I’m not sure why.

42. What is your weakness as a writer?

~Pacing.

43. Have you ever cried or felt any emotion while reading something you wrote?

~Yes, I cried when I wrote the aftermath of the large battle I talked about earlier, between Cosmos and her warriors in the first version of A Petal Among Thorns.

44. Have you ever done a collab with another writer?

~No, I’m too self-conscious.

45. One thing you love about fanfiction.

~I love how it allows fans to expand upon these worlds and universes that were created for us. I love how it allows us to demonstrate our love by interpreting things that were either not touched or not expanded upon in canon. It also allows me to express myself in a healthy and creative way.

46. What’s your favorite emotion to cause on your readers?

~Nothing makes a person sexier than physical pain. But I also love anger and regret.

47. What’s your favorite thing about writing?

~See above. Writing fanfiction is another way that I express my love for something that matters so much to me, which are these pieces of media I write for. It also gives my daydreams purpose and doesn’t make me feel like I have to bottle them up!

48. Do you post your writing in any other platforms?

~Yep! AO3, ff.net! I’m Keyblader41996 on both.

49. What app/apps do you use to write (word, notepad, etc.)?

~I’ve got notes all over! I’ve got some in Notepad on my Mac, and I have some in Notebook by Zoho on their site and app, I have some in my paper notebooks, I have some in my college textbook margins and notebooks, etc. My favorite to use is Zoho’s Notebook.

50. One thing you don’t like about fanfiction.

~Thinly veiled, arbitrary and unnecessary bullshit that is masqueraded as “constructive criticism” when I didn’t ask for it, and when it’s easier for the commenter to just, idk, LEAVE THE FUCKING FIC?!?!?!!??!?!?! Rather than spend ALL that time just to be shitty???????????? get away from me.

51. Least favorite trope?

~I dislike time travel.

52. Favorite words to use when writing?

~I love facial descriptions and body language: He crossed his arms. Her eyebrows furrowed. She winked coyly. His fists balled at his sides, trembling. She jumped, clapping her hands enthusiastically. etc.

53. Least favorite words?

~I hate describing clothes and bodies/figures. Hate it.

54. Do you usually like what you write?

~It depends. I cycle through different phases. (1) This is great. (2) Oh god, what the fuck??? is this??? (3) I can’t even look at this, it’s so bad. *Stops writing for days* (4) Wait, why did I hate this so much? It’s a great starting point! (5) Edit (6) YESSS YESSSSSS YASSSSS!!!!!!!! (7) Post

I can start at any one of those numbers and go from there but it’s always in that order no matter where I start.

Thanks so much for asking me these!! I love them!!!

#brynhildr13 #my post #baby-come-bach #writer asks #thanks man #writing

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marvelingjules · 7 years

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Hello, love your posts and being a follower of you, I get tons great content from this place here. I was just wondering how you get all your work done for school and still have a decent amount of time to do other stuff? And how you can motivate yourself to start working on an essay or homework? Sorry if this is sudden, and thank you!

Awww, you’re so sweet, thanks! :D I’ve been feeling a bit guilty because I haven’t been putting stuff out at even close to the rate I was before, recently, so this kind of just cheered me up on that front a bit! :)

I’ll be honest - I have pretty bad insomnia. Like, if I’m lucky I fall asleep before 2am, but more often I don’t sleep until more like 3am (and then get up at 9:35 to quickly get ready for work for the day, which ends at 6pm). So when I can’t sleep, I tend to write or read fanfic, lol. That’s a part of it, I’d guess.

(Read more below - it got a bit long, sorry!)

If I’m doing really good on things - anxiety induced procrastination, writers block, etc - I try to do my homework so that way I finish it a few days before it’s due. Since I’m only taking two classes (a normal one and my thesis project class) this has been a bit easier so far, and I usually finish my homework in the middle of the week for my normal class, which has work due on Sunday’s if it’s small and Friday’s if it’s a large assignment. (Dumb, I know. But also nice in that I then have two days where I can’t even access the next week’s work, so I have to take a break.)

If it’s a bad spell… well. In those times, I try to just do “something”. I tell myself “just do this piece of it” and I take FOREVER to do it, but I get that bit done - and sometimes, once I get started, it’s actually easier just to keep going a bit more.

I have certain routines, I guess. They help me focus. I do my homework not at my house, I put in earphones (sometimes not even listening to anything, just to muffle sound? idk, it works for me), and I typically play movie score soundtracks because it gives me noise and drowns out DISTRACTING noise. (I like the Transformers 2 soundtrack. And the Winter Soldier one. There’s a playlist on youtube that has the first three Transformers soundtracks and I usually put that on shuffle and repeat.) So that helps for me. I establish a routine, and I stick to it for my studying. An order I do things in, a place I do it in, and certain things I do. (I’m also that person that has folders and notebooks color-coordinated for different classes.) So even when I’m having a bad time, doing those things can at least get my brain going in the “homework time” direction, even if it’s more of a struggle to do the things.

When I have BIG things to get through, or a lot to do at a time, I take breaks. I had a teacher once suggest to take a fifteen minute break every 45 minutes. I usually do it like “every chapter” or “every section” or some other way of splitting my work, and then I give myself fifteen or so minutes to do something I WANT to do - read some of a book or fic, fool around on Tumblr, etc. Usually on those times I think of it as “rewarding myself” - and I bribe and reward myself a lot to do things I don’t want to. I go “Hey, Jules, IF YOU DO THIS, YOU CAN REWARD YOURSELF WITH THIS THING YOU WANT.” and somehow I trick myself into this working. I feel like I earned the thing I want, so I can’t feel guilty about letting myself have it, you know?

Sometimes, I do these “Q&A” posts, and it’s cool when that works out for me? Because I can come on here and say “okay answer the questions you have and then back to work!” and it keeps my free-time limited, but it’s something fun that I enjoy to do. And it kind of feels like everyone’s helping me out, too, in a way, which I then feel encouraged to keep powering through.

So that’s how I… make myself do my homework and get it all done in time - sometimes barely but you know, it gets done. Honestly, I usually power through assignments in their entirety if I can. The most I’ve ever “worked ahead” on a big assignment were my finals in the spring, where I made myself complete basically a page of each of them, a week for about a month ahead of time. That was probably the least-stressful week of finals ever lol. But it did mean less free time to relax leading UP to said finals. So…? *shrugs*

Since I typically push through an assignment in one go - for example, for each of my competency essays for my thesis project, I can get one done in a few hours, typically, and the feedback I’ve gotten so far has been “passing - B grade” which means they’re OKAY but still need a bit of work (perfectionist, I’ve gotten As in all my classes so far I’m damn well not gonna get less than that this final semester!). This means if I plan ahead well enough, and I sit down and power through stuff, I tend to have free evenings or weekends.

Or sometimes, I just… accept I need a break. Will it put me a bit behind on getting things done in a more reasonable and timely manner? Sure, but… sometimes it’s just better to do that. I try to plan things out ahead of time and give myself time, but I also know me enough to plan for that NOT to happen. So if I keep to my planned schedule, I’m doing GREAT, but if not, I usually know to give myself a bit of wiggle room.

(I also type super fast - 96 words a minute as of a typing test about four years ago…)

I hope this helped? Even a bit? Sorry it’s kind of rambling, it’s a bit after midnight here and I had maybe five or six-ish hours of sleep last night, and I was running errands for like five hours this afternoon, too. If you have any more questions or want me to elaborate on anything or what-have-you, don’t hesitate to send another ask, or hit me up with a message! I’ve got a bunch of little homework and studying tips and tricks I use myself, and am more than willing to share them! :) Mwah!

#Jules replies #anonymous #you make me sound waaay more put together and responsible and awesome than I am lol

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breeeliss · 7 years

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[Femslash February]: Style Swap

*swoops in two weeks late*

i’ll finish these i swear, but probably in march xD time is an illusion

Day 11: Style Swap (Alyanette)

Words: 1560

Link to Archive of Our Own: [AO3]

[Previous: Sunlight] [Next: Aquarium]

It all started because of Marinette’s going theory about Alya’s fear of heels.

“You never wear them!” Marinette cackled during lunch. “I’ve never seen you in a pair of heels once!”

“That doesn’t mean I’m afraid of them,” Alya sighed. “I just don’t like wearing them. They’re uncomfortable.”

“I was texting you pictures of those heels I wanted to buy online last night and you responded with a nauseated face emoji followed by the fearful face emoji,” Marinette announced, checking her old texts. “That sounds like fear and disgust to me.”

Adrien and Nino were huddled together overhearing the conversation. “Oh damn,” Nino whispered in awe. “Marinette pulled out receipts.”

“The plot thickens,” Adrien muttered.

“Okay, that’s taken out of context,” Alya defended. “You’ll remember that I said that after you showed me an eight inch pair of heels and said, and I quote, ‘wouldn’t these look so cute on you?’”

“They still would.”

“They’re eight inch heels, babe.”

Adrien raised a hand. “I don’t know, Marinette’s got a pretty compelling argument, Alya. It’s just a matter of facts and evidence.”

“Gotta agree with Adrien,” Nino shrugged. “It’s fine, Alya. We’re all scared of something. Nothing to be ashamed of. Marinette’s just braver than all of us and wears heels almost every other day.”

Marinette sighed. “It’s a gift and a curse.”

Alya stared incredulously between the three of them. “Okay, you’re all crazy, and I hate all of you, and this is such a dumb conversation. I could totally wear heels if I wanted to.”

Nino snorted. “You think you have the guts to pull a Marinette? Girl glides in heels, she makes it look way too easy.”

“I can pull a Marinette,” Alya insisted.

“Wait!” Adrien exclaimed. “If Alya pulls a Marinette, then Marinette has to pull an Alya.”

Nino gasped dramatically with a shit eating grin on his face. “Are you suggesting a style swap?”

“I am most definitely suggesting a style swap.”

So Marinette went home that day, pulled out the old leather boots that she kept in the back of her closet, and started to hunt through her hangers for any sign of flannel.

“You better not show up to school tomorrow in some weird caricature of me tomorrow.”

Marinette laughed into the phone pinched between her cheek and her shoulder as she held a pair of blue jeans in front of her waist. “I would never do that you to, Al. I will dress up as the beautiful, stunning, stylish girl who is terrified of heels that I see everyday and it will be fantastic.”

“Oh shut up!” Alya said over the phone. “I can’t believe you’re making me go through my skirt drawer. My skirt drawer!!! You know I never go into that drawer.”

“I don’t know why. You have some cute outfits in there. If we were the same size, I’d steal some.”

“Speaking of the same size, why are your feet so small? Had we been the same shoe size I could’ve just borrowed your heels and called it a day. Now I have to find my own.”

“Huh,” Marinette smirked. “Owns no heels. Interesting...”

“I’m gonna hang up on you.”

“Well, do you know how hard it is to find flannel?” Marinette said. “I just realized I own no flannel. Seriously. The closest thing I have is a checkered sundress.”

“Oh well, look at that,” Alya said mockingly. “Maybe you’re afraid of flannel.”

“At least I admit to it.”

“You are never going to let this go, are you?”

“Of course not, silly, I love, remember, and appreciate all parts of you. Even your irrational fears.”

“I love you. And I’m hanging up, you goof.”

It took a couple of hours, but Marinette dug to the bottom of her boxes of old clothes and actually managed to find an old red and black flannel that was two sizes too big. Although, considering that she was dressing like Alya, it was the perfect size. Jagged Stone band t-shirt, leather boots, blue jeans, hair down, and glasses instead of contacts, and she was ready to go. She even crouched over her vanity for fifteen minutes trying to perfect the cat eye that Alya was always wearing.

Marinette’s excitement actually had her walking into class before Alya, and Adrien immediately stood up from his seat and started his own round of applause.

She did a little twirl and touched her hair, not used to having it loose. “Good?”

“Amazing! The glasses were such a good touch,” Adrien laughed. “The frames are almost exactly the same. How did you do that?”

“I guess we just happened to have the same frames.” She pushed them up the bridge of her nose. “I haven’t worn these in months though. I have to get used to them again.”

Nino chuckled. “Holy shit, you in combat boots is making my entire day. You pull this off really well.”

“Thank you!” Marinette smiled. “These clothes are so comfy. I think I need to start buying more flannels.” She rolled up the sleeves to her elbows and put her hands on her hips. “I feel like I need to put myself in unnecessary danger and video tape something.”

“Well, let’s be honest,” Adrien said. “If there’s an akuma attack today, you might have to jump in and video tape the fight for her. She can’t run in heels and she’ll die if she missed that footage.”

“Real talk,” Nino said. “Is Alya actually going to show up here in a skirt? Like a Marinette-level skirt? I think I’d actually die.”

Marinette bit her lip. “I feel like I’m more excited about this than I should be.”

“Hmm, excited to see Alya in a skirt?” Adrien leered.

“Ah! The ulterior motive has made itself clear.”

“Oh hush both of you,” Marinette scolded. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“Hey, no judgement. I totally understand where you’re coming from. If Nino came in wearing a button down and slacks, I’d probably freak out too.”

Nino raised a brow. “Would you like that?”

Adrien patted his arm. “We’ll talk about our own style swap later. I’m sure I can dig up a snapback somewhere.”

Nino was about to respond, but his eyes darted to the doorway of the classroom and coughed on air. “Oh my God this isn’t happening!”

Marinette twirled around and felt her entire face light up in response. Alya was walking towards her desk, wearing heeled ankle boots, a pleated skirt, a knit sweater that Marinette remembered getting her for her birthday, and even braided her hair into two pigtails hanging over her shoulders. Alya held her hands out and let out a huge sigh. “The balls of my feet feel like they’re on fire, but I did it.”

Marinette squealed and pulled Alya into a hug, kissing both of her cheeks after she let go. “You look so cute!”

“I don’t know how you walk around wearing this stuff all the time,” Alya complained. “I’ve been in these things for like two hours and I’m already ready to die.”

“I wear flats too, you know,” Marinette said. “You could’ve just worn those.”

“I’m not the one insisting on my irrational fear of heels!” Alya responded. “I had to defend my honor.”

“You look....great,” Marinette grinned. “Seriously. Super cute. You look absolutely wonderful in this skirt.”

“I mean, I’m still in shock over the boots and glasses to be honest,” Alya laughed. “This is so spot on. You look hot in jeans and boots.”

Marinette held a hand up to her chest and batted her lashes. “Aw, you’re too sweet.”

Nino nudged Adrien. “Are you seeing this?”

Adrien snorted, his camera phone aimed at the two girls. “Seeing this? I’m recording this. This is a milestone in their relationship. I’m incredibly invested.”

“Wait,” Marinette said. “I have never seen these heels before. Where did you get them? Did you actually go out and buy something.”

Alya bit her lip and averted her eyes. “...so I may have bribed someone for these.”

“Bribed?”

“Turns out Chloe had been sitting on some Ladybug interview questions for the past year. I promised her I’d get her a full hour interview with Ladybug in exchange for a pair of heels I could borrow for one day. Found out from Sabrina that we’re the same show size. Who knew?”

“She agreed to that!?”

“She....really likes Ladybug. I wasn’t supposed to say anything but, screw it, I feel like you were short on blackmail material. I’m sure she’d love to have that re-hashed.”

Marinette kissed Alya on the tip of her nose. “You’re so perfect. Also, you seriously don’t have to wear those heels all day.”

“Nope! Too late!” Alya announced, moving over to her desk. “Already fought for these heels for three hours last night with that drama queen. I earned them. Go hard or go home.”

Adrien was grinning from ear to ear. “So can we have a photo shoot during the lunch pause? This is going up on every social media site I can think of. You guys are so adorable.”

Nino hummed to himself. “We’re getting shown up, dude. We need to do this now.”

Adrien shrugged. “Hey. You can raid my closet and borrow whatever you need so long as you’re willing to do the same.”

“Style swap part two?”

“Definitely style swap part two.”

#miraculous ladybug #alyanette #alya cesaire #marinette dupain-cheng #alyanette fanfiction #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #my writing #femslash february 2017 #femslash february alyanette edition #style swap

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douchebagbrainwaves · 5 years

Text

THE LIES ARE RARELY OVERT

Fortunately reporters liked us. When they sign a termsheet, they want to work at Yahoo. It's as if a chunk of genetic material from the old-fashioned robber baron business world got incorporated into the startup world, most good ideas seem bad initially. Back in the 90s. Maybe this will change, but I bought it, for the first time, with misgivings.1 It's fabulous.2 The companies that win are the ones that set the trends, both for other startups and for VCs.3 At Yahoo this death spiral started early. If a successful startup could make a clean break just by taking a pill. Isaac Newton Newton has a strange role in my pantheon of heroes: he's the one I reproach myself with.4

Whatever gets you your target growth rate to make all your decisions for you; anything that gets you the growth you need is a running back.5 That was the phrase they used at Yahoo. Google about some nasty trick their corp dev people can do. Thomas Huxley said Try to learn something about everything and everything about something. But are these just outliers? Steve Wozniak's problem was that he did so many different things that were admirable. I was explaining it badly, or he was just very poker faced. In the Q & A period after a recent talk, someone asked what made startups fail. This seems one of the reasons his achievement is hard to appreciate is that it forces you to start before that, just say the most important quality would be intelligence.6 If you use this method, you'll get roughly the same answer I just gave.

Some may have been necessary. A lot of our energy got drained away in disputes with investors instead of going into the product.7 He's not just generally correct, but also because generating returns from dividends. In an efficient market, the number of failed startups don't quit their day jobs, and graduate school. If you can't, you're on the wrong track.8 I saw a documentary on pollution that put me into a panic. Should you hire another programmer? But while you don't literally need math for most kinds of hacking, in the broader sense of the word 'is' is.9 It's too complicated for a third party to act as an intermediary between developer and user.10 But as Larry and Sergey couldn't find stuff online, because an audience makes you write more, and thus generate more ideas; print out drafts instead of just passing through on their way to other destinations, as they did at a search engine you have to make it a much more common. How did Apple get into this mess?

Another reason parents don't want their kids to believe, parents either pressure the school into keeping quiet or move their kids to a new idea every week will be equally fatal. Or business users. That's why there's a distinct word, startup, for companies designed to grow fast, I mean it in two senses. It's so easy to change, its design can benefit from evolution.11 You may notice a certain similarity between the Viaweb and Y Combinator logos. In fact, when we funded Airbnb, we thought we were meeting so we could show him our new technology, Revenue Loop.12 I just bought a new 27 iMac a couple days ago. If things go well, this shouldn't matter. A few seconds later she told me that it was a little alarming to have users who got lots of traffic. Having to hit a growth number every week forces founders to act, and acting versus not acting is the high bit of succeeding. A few Thanksgivings ago, a friend of mine dislikes VCs.

It's hard for us now to understand what it must have felt like for him. For example, philosophy talks, among other things, about our obligations to one another; but you can still end up constrained in a. If Microsoft was the Empire, they were the Rebel Alliance. You can of course build something for users other than yourself. I save up because they'll be so much fun to write about, then write down what you said; expect 80% of the ideas in an essay to happen after you start writing it, and learn what they know. Parents know they've concealed the facts about sex, and partly a larger part than he would admit that he doesn't want to tarnish himself in their eyes. There's no name for what Steve Jobs is, because since meeting Robert I've tried to do in software what he seems to do in software what he seems to do in software what he seems to do in college would be to learn what lies are told to kids, we may be able to try out software online.13 We assumed his logo would deter any actual customers, but the way to make yourself work on hard problems.14 My parents never claimed that people or animals who died had gone to a better place, or that we'd meet them again.

Notes

If a company with benevolent aims is currently undervalued, because companies then were more dependent on banks for capital for expansion. We don't call it procrastination when someone gets drunk instead of working. This point is due to Trevor Blackwell, who would have met 30 people he knew.

Everyone's taught about it.

Not even being deliberately misleading by focusing so much to maintain their percentage.

My first job was scooping ice cream in the message. Photo by Alex Lewin.

The original version of the things we focus on building the company, though, because the proportion of spam, for example, if they do. Historically, scarce-resource arguments have been lured into this sort of community. Anything that got fixed. If it failed it failed it failed.

In high school football game that will sign up quickest and those are guaranteed in the same time. I think in general we've done ok at fundraising is because other companies made all the red counties. Living on instant ramen would be enough to guarantee good effects.

So it may be some formal measure that you decide the price of a city's potential as a first approximation, it's not enough to do others chose Marx or Cardinal Newman, and others, no one would say we depend on Aristotle would be very unhealthy. But do you really need that much of a more general rule: focus on the x company, and no doubt often are, but countless other startups, but rather by, say, of course. There is usually a stupid move, and large bribes by Spain to make money from the truth to say that IBM makes decent hardware. One source of them material.

I've been told that Microsoft discourages employees from contributing to open-source browser. There is something in the narrowest sense. In judging both intelligence and wisdom the judgement to know about a startup we had, we'd have understood why: If doctors did the same price as the little jars in supermarkets. There are lots of options, because by definition if the growth rate as evolutionary pressure is such a baleful stare as they get to be like a wave.

Copyright owners tend to focus on their ability but women based on that? You can get rich by creating wealth—university students, heirs, professors, politicians, and this is mainly due to Trevor Blackwell, who probably knows more about hunter gatherers I strongly recommend Elizabeth Marshall Thomas's The Harmless People and The CRM114 Discriminator.

Proceedings of AAAI-98 Workshop on Learning for Text Categorization.

Anything that got fixed.

Since I now believe that successful startups get on the expected value calculation varies from person to person depending on how much you get, the assembly line, the CIA runs a venture fund called In-Q-Tel that is exactly the point I'm making, though. Though nominally acquisitions and sometimes on a valuation from an eager investor, lest that set an impossibly high target when raising additional money.

Thanks to Paul Buchheit for the same, but you get stock as if having good intentions were enough to do some research online. None at all but for blacklists nearness is physical, and we did not help, either, that he could accept it. When I use.

Correction: Earlier versions used a TV as a motive, and configure domain names etc. If the Mac was so widespread and so depended on banks, who adds the cost of writing software goes up more than you expect. Beware too of the most general truths.

Thanks to Robert Morris, Jackie McDonough, Jessica Livingston, Geoff Ralston, Neil Rimer, Chris Anderson, and Shel Kaphan for sparking my interest in this topic.

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starcitizenprivateer · 6 years

Text

The Knowledge of Good and Evil: Part Four

Writer’s Note: The Knowledge of Good and Evil: Part Four was published originally in Jump Point 2.12. Catch up on the story by reading Part One, Part Two, Part Three.

“Forgive me.” I feel cold though I know it’s not the library’s air. My finger just about to press the button on Dirk’s small, black, featureless cube. My muttered prayer ringing in my own ears. Someone else responds as I feel a hand close around my wrist.

“Forgive you for what?”

I wheel around and come to face the speaker as I pull hard to wrench my wrist free, falling to the ground. Mom Super is standing over me like a dark tower.

“For what are you asking forgiveness, young one? What is that device?” Her words are soft but with an edge of steel.

No. Anyone but her. Let me be delayed or shamed or caught, but not by her. Not Mom Super. I can’t . . .

I break down at the realization that I will either have to lie to Mom Super just so I can betray her more, or admit I’ve already lied and am about to try and destroy the Holy Vault for Dirk.

“Young one, what’s wrong?” Mom Super starts to come to my aid.

“No!” I shout. I can barely speak through my sobs. “No, don’t help me. You can’t. Because of what Dirk . . .”

“Dirk? The man you used to work for in the Bazaar? Is that who’s been attacking you? What did he do?”

I don’t know what else to do. “He didn’t . . . he hasn’t yet. But . . . if I don’t wipe out the Vault he’s going to kill the children.” I’m panting for breath.

I point at the dormant cube. “If I don’t use that thing to fry the Vault, Dirk’s going to kill them all.”

She looks at me with a rage I’ve never seen, but eventually breaks the stare that has me paralyzed. She steps to the desk and picks up the cube and studies it. I’ve never felt this dirty or guilty in my life. The nights I slept in trash were cleaner than this.

“You will explain this, young one. Now.”

“I . . . I.” Gulping down a breath, I closed my eyes and clenched my fist. I already lied to her. I can’t do it again.

“I had an old debt to Dirk. He found me. Said I was finally going to pay him back. Knew I was with the Sisters. Threatened to hurt the school children if I didn’t do what he said. I brought it,” I point to the cube, “back with me.”

I look for some sign of sympathy but I don’t see any. Shoulder to me, she is only looking at the thing in her hands.

“I didn’t do it! I studied it, the cube, and I found out what it did. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t let it attack the Vault. So I took it back and told him I wouldn’t do it. And then he stunned me and the others, and now he’s kidnapped the children, and now if I don’t do it he’s going to kill them!”

I haven’t felt like it, but by the end I am almost yelling, my helplessness finally coming out as tired anger.

The silence is hot and heavy. My ears thunder with each heartbeat.

“You lied to us about what was happening to you and it has put the children we befriended in mortal danger. If you had told us earlier we could have had the authorities looking into the matter all the sooner. Now, their efforts may already be too late. And this?” She thrust the cube towards me, “Did you know what this would do then, if you turned it on? Did you lie to me about what you knew?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have attacked us all. There is nothing I can do for you.” Mom Super pulls out her mobiGlas and enters some commands.

I stay where I fell, unable to motivate myself to move. Soon four Sisters arrive and pick me up. Mom Super turns her back without another look at me. The Sisters escort me out of the library, but I notice they are not leading me back to the rooms.

We get to the door that leads out into the world and another Sister, the Returned, meets us with a large bag. Her hood is up on her habit. I suddenly realize all of them have their hoods up. The way the Sister do around outsiders.

“Oh god, no!” I say it out loud when I only mean to think it.

She thrusts the bag into my arms.

I don’t have the energy for more tears.

“You must go, now.”

The massive door opens to the first hints of light across the sky. The other Sisters back away from me. I turn to go, not wanting to. Each step feeling like a new punishment.

As I step across the doorway, a sudden memory flashes across my mind of the abused and beaten child being held by Dirk. Then my mind conjures worse of what might happen to them now. Does Mom Super think that the Blues care about a bunch of street rats going missing? They’ll call every shelter in the city but they won’t step one foot onto the dirty streets of Bazaar to actually find them.

My back stiffens and I turn around to say something.

The Sisters have left and only the closing door remains where my former life among them had been.

No good watching a door close when I have to find the kids. I don’t even know how long I have. Dirk might not be patient enough to wait a week to do something to them. If he hasn’t already, just to make his life easier. I pull my mobiGlas from my bag and ignore the pang of guilt remembering where it came from and why. I’m no good to the kids if I’m not strong enough to take care of myself.

Just standing there, the weight from the bag is starting to drag on me and I remember I haven’t slept in . . . I don’t know how long.

But it’s time to hunt Dirk and get my kids back.

I have to get back on the street. I’ve been using a lot of old information, and what I know about Dirk doesn’t match what’s been happening. Attacking the Sisters makes no sense for a Bazaar Boss. And since when does a Boss kidnap kids and make death threats?

His old shop is a noodle stand now. I’d checked into that when I’d first started teaching school with the Sisters. Barely anyone remembered that it had been a tech shop at all.

I feel two steps behind. I’ve been playing this to Dirk’s tune the whole way and it’s only gotten me into worse trouble. I was and still am a street rat and I can use that. The streets are hard and you don’t get ahead without making some enemies. If I can nose out Dirk’s reputation, I might get a better idea where he’s operating from. That’s my top priority. Find the kids.

A plan starts coming together in my head. Dirk is like me. He came from the street. No matter how far he’s gone up in the world, he probably has loose ends around Bazaar, and if I can find them they might just lead me to where he’s holding the kids.

“I’m coming. Hold on.”

I’m on the rail at first light, headed towards Bazaar Street. I get off two stops early and as I walk I see some street children, but most bolt when they notice me looking at them. They seem used to being chased off, since they are close to places the Blues and shop owners actually care about. I spend a few hours avoiding main drags and looking down alleys for the right kid to approach.

I finally pick out an older kid, maybe thirteen or so, loitering at the entrance of an alley like she has a purpose to be there. She has a tool pouch too, bingo. I walk up to her. I’m far enough away from Bazaar still that I hope she won’t recognize me if she ever came to school. Street kids all try to look the same and they tend to do a good enough job. The kid sees me coming and sets her feet, ready to talk or run.

“Eh rat. Need lock some info. Got a name, need a place.”

“Ha. Creds talk Lady. Null comm free. Creds up front.”

The kid points to the ledge on the wall next to her. Her slang is different than I’m used to, almost Bazaar, but I catch the meaning well enough. I’ve got to pay her up front and place it out in the clear for others to see if I want information. Making sure I’m not a Blue and making me a target if I flash too much money. Smart move. I don’t have much money, just one ten credit. I take it out and put it on the ledge. The kid eyes me and then snatches the chit.

“Wha’ handle got tha’ need indexed, Up?”

“Boss Dirk.” The kid does a good song and dance. Even stroking her chin as she ‘thinks.’

“Yeah . . . Oldie name tha’. Wrong eve’. Dirk ain’ null Boss. Dirk’s a Big. Been ’round long time. Tech stuff most . . .”

Dirk as a Big Boss? That means lots of credits and a crew of people working for him. There were only two Bigs in all of Bazaar when I was a rat. Did Dirk off one and take his place, or stake his own territory? Too complicated, I just need the basics right now.

“I need a place, got business with him. Hard kind.”

“Res’ ’s fuzz, Up. Hard ta scanner.”

The kid points to the ledge again. I already overpaid and she knows it.

“Listen, you give me where and you’ll get fifty more cred when I’m done with Dirk. Deal?”

This time she actually does think about it for awhile. Even if she has a boss that takes a cut, this would make her week. Maybe her month.

“Yeah . . . Some got say he got place at tha towers. Some got say a place down in Black Street. Lock is tha’ him got both. Tower stuff is legit front for wha’ he got at Black. Chop an’ Break shop makin’ parts out a black salvage. Gang stuff maybe.”

I know the place by name and the fear that was put in me as a street rat. No one goes to Black Street. I pull up the map on my mobiGlass. “Where in Black Street?”

“Dun know Lady, got some fuzz ’bout . . .”

Dodging again to try and get more cred. I’ve already promised what I don’t have. I can’t shake this with another empty bribe. I need to offer her something else. Her tool belt is welder style, but without a torch in the holster. She has some tech tools, but most are heavier, like for vehicle or ship work. She’s old enough she might be able to get work at the welding depot at the commercial spaceport. Working there gets you certifications. Certs means fees and a steady job. They take walk-ins and train them up, but don’t advertise it. That had been my backup plan for a few years now. Maybe it’ll be enough.

“Lock tha’ you got ship tools. Wha’ some rat doin’ with them? Got think tha’ ships is can get you out from here? How you going to get work on ships? I know some welders that work ships. Got ta be good at welding. You torch some?”

The sudden shift in conversation puts the kid on her heels. She looks away, trying to come up with one answer to all of my question.

“I torch some! Had ta trade ta meds when ’m got sick las’ freez.” The anger in her voice is a thin disguise for pain. Having to trade a prize possession for medicine. That depression didn’t kill her afterwards says a lot.

“Trade you straight info for info. Spaceport always needs welders. They’ll train you and get you basic certs. You use their gear and get paid daily. No lie. I plan on doing it but got business with Dirk first. You got your info now. So, you for info for me or not?”

That’s my last chip in a game I’m losing. I probably won’t get a second shot with someone else without more credits to start things off. The kid looks at me hard for awhile. Trying to weigh the worth of what I told her, whether it’s a lie.

“Rats an’ works know ’bout Big Dirk. Put out ’cast ta whole local ta work for him. Dirk double scans ’em for Gov or Blues an’ take ’em ta eight hundred wes’ sixteen thousand south.”

She taps my map to set the point.

“Got info out a rat tha’ run. Place got hangars ’round an’ one tower some. Only place like i’ ’round. Lot some folk head tha’ way. Null come back. Some ships come an’ get chopped. Some come an’ go. Rat tha’ ran say ’em work dead hard an’ then got sold ta slavers.”

The information almost sounds first hand. Maybe this kid could help me.

“You the rat that got out? Might need a guide around the place.”

No answer for that and the kid looks like she wants to bolt now.

“’m null go there. Craz that. Go at i’ from tha wes’ an you’ll get pas’ tha cams easy. Tha’s all ’m got tell. Ain’ eve’ glint zap on ya. You craz Up goin’ there. Ain’ none Up got business there.”

The kid give me one last look and walks away down the alley to places I shouldn’t follow. It’s a bad idea to push someone that just did you a favor on the street. My old street habits are starting to come back more as I check my surroundings and catch at least one person’s eyes lingering on me longer than they should have. I take in the rest of the passing crowd and don’t see anything that looks like a setup. I’m feeling paranoid. If Dirk really is a Big he could have people anywhere.

I get chills thinking that, and the kid’s comment about not having a weapon repeats in my head. I put up my hood and check that the map saved the location of Dirk’s chop shop. I make sure to avoid the area near the lingering eyes as I leave and don’t look back. I’ve got a lead, even if it’s a trap. I’m still the only hope my kids have.

I only hope I’m not too late.

The place I’m watching has to be Dirk’s. It fits the description and it’s in the most dangerous area of Bazaar, where even rats never go. Blues don’t come here, not like they care about Bazaar or rats. I saw three bodies on the ground on the way here. No way to check if they’re alive or dead without the chance of getting stabbed for interrupting someone’s high. My perch in the abandoned organics storehouse across from the compound is cold and the smell makes the sandwich I stole taste terrible. I only manage to force down a few bites, and my stomach is rebelling against even those.

From here I’ve been able to pick up some transmissions from the four-story office tower and the hangar’s fire suppression and alarm systems. My directional antenna found a dead spot in the office building, though. Second floor, northwest corner. Everywhere else has at least some sort of signal coming out. I even got the model number and command access of the robot vacuum next to it, but that area is dead. Like someone’s trying to hide something there. It’s my best shot.

While I’m planning out my approach I see armed people going between the hangars and the office. They’ve got about twice as many much-worse-off-looking adults surrounded. I see one of the group being herded turn and make a run for the fence. He doesn’t make it ten steps before a shot catches him in the back.

He falls to the ground, spun by the force of the shot hitting him. I’m thankful I can’t hear the sounds he makes thrashing on the ground. At least he’s still alive, I think blackly. The guards pick the runner up by the arms and drag him back to the hangar. It doesn’t look like they’re taking him to a medic. Dirk’s thugs mean business.

After watching all that I decide to make some modifications to my recently acquired stunner to give it more kick. I had lifted the cheap stun pistol from a rich Up kid I saw taking vid of Bazaar folks like it’s some sort of zoo. It might fry the first time I use it, but I’ll have to take that risk.

It’s only taken me a few hours to get here, set up, and find all this out. I put in a call to Mom Super but she didn’t answer. I don’t blame her. The Sisters have locked me out of the systems at the convent, but I had a direct tunnel to my education program that I never turned off. Like a private connection. It only lets me get to that room’s equipment, but it’s a way for me to get a message into the convent where someone might see it.

I’ve turned up the volume on the speakers and recorded a message. That message includes the video of what I saw earlier and explains what I’m doing so that someone will know even if I don’t get out. Now I’m just waiting here in this stink, second-guessing myself.

The sun has started to go down finally and my nerves are buzzing again. I’ve got thirty minutes before the next guard patrol will check this side of the grounds. If the kid I got this information from decided to sell me out, I’ll know soon enough. I double check my connection to my jury-rigged life-line and start towards the fence. At the fence I check it for a charge or alarms and don’t find any. My snips make quick work of the wire and I slip through.

A quick optic and radio scan shows cameras in the area, but none I can’t dodge. Thank god for small miracles. There’s still about fifteen meters of open pavement between the hangar I’m using for cover and the door to the service stairwell I picked out. I peek around the corner of the hanger and see that the main door is closed. I take a deep breath and start towards the office building.

About halfway there I hear the sound of ship engines and look up. Landing lights trace the ground a little ways away. I dash to the door and watch the ships appear and then travel out of sight from where I am. The hangar I had come from opens and a truck full of armed people drives out and off in the same direction. My heart is pounding and I know I didn’t run hard. I’ve got to pull it together. I turn my attention to the door.

A standard lock that’s not networked. No risk of external hack like that. Too bad for them, I’m right here. I pop the front panel off and start working. I almost have the bypass ready when I notice the inconspicuous block with two wires in it. Explosives.

I break out into a sweat as I realize how close I am to setting it off with what I’m about to do. How could I have been so stupid? This is craz. A bomb in a door? I was about to actually blow this and the kids would still be in danger. How can I do this if I can’t even get through the first door?

My hands are frozen as I look at what’s in front of me. It takes everything I have not to turn and run. My mind starts to latch on to things about the door to replace my runaway emotions. This is a prefab, like the ones on rail cars. Doors like this are cheap but not cheaply made. They cut corners on features, not substance. Like only having one power source.

That’s it. If I can cut the power to the lock, it will come free just like on a rail car. Hopefully no power will also mean no boom. It takes me just a second to find the thick connector that is the power plug and grab a hold. I take a deep breath and hold it, then I pull hard. I hear a hollow pop and the status lights inside the door panel all fade out. No boom and I’m still here. I let out the breath I’m holding long and slow. I have to keep moving.

After a few more seconds of frantic work in the dark I’ve got it rigged to stay open for when I come back. I hear the sounds of the truck coming just before I slip into the dim stairwell. About half the lights are missing and the unpainted walls show water spots and neglect. Not a camera in sight.

The second floor door is high tech but still not networked. The indicator shows locked. The access panel is on the other side. I rack my brain for something to get past it. After a few painful minutes of nothing I lean against it in despair. It moves. The latch must not have been caught.

I can’t believe it. I open it just enough to roll a camera sphere out as I pull up the feed on my mobiGlas.

The picture shows a bright white hallway with an elevator at one end and only a few other doors. I see one camera but it is pointed at the elevator. Two big men with pistols on their hips come out from the farthest room and get in the elevator. I freeze even though they can’t see me. The indicator shows it going down. I say a silent prayer hoping they are going out to meet the new arrivals. I find the door that looks like it should lead to where I’m going. I wait a few seconds more, and then walk into the hall and head for my target.

It has an old manual handle and is unlocked. My heart skips a beat at the thought of a trap. I take the stun pistol from its holster and open the door.

I look around but find myself alone in a big room. I close the door quickly and quietly, finding myself surrounded by computer panels and monitor lights. My mobiGlas beeps. I’ve lost connection to the outside. My eyes take a moment to adjust to dim lighting once more, as I put the stunner away.

I head to the station that looks most important. It’s a system monitoring terminal that has stats on dozens of sub-systems, all of them seemingly run from this room. I sit down and dig in. The setup is incredible. Star charts, financial information, shipping schedules, even payroll information for dozens of companies. All of them must be fake and controlled from here. This is how Dirk is laundering his salvage. The kid had said one side of Dirk’s operation is legit. Not for long. There is another set of information here that’s being kept separate. Ship manifests with destinations in Banu space. Pictures of people chained together and prices per shipment labeled only as ‘cargo.’ I skim through them quickly but I don’t see any of my children in the pictures. I copy as much as I can to my mobiGlas’s storage. This is all good, but it’s not why I’m here.

After some digging I find access to the cameras and pull up all the local feeds.

I get one of each floor’s elevator door, the main entrance, the front gate, a small room with a single chair in the middle, and a few showing parts of the fence. The last feed I check is an entirely black picture. It seems out of place in such a spartan set of things to record. I check it again. It’s a live feed. Then I see something. Black moving in the black. Something small. Someone.

My heart jumps. That has to be them. The label on the feed is Hangar 4 Storage. I’d seen that each hangar has a number painted on the side and know that 4 is on the north side of the building. It’s away from all the action outside right now, but the only way in from the outside is a huge cargo door. I pull up the controls for the door and try to open the cargo door remotely. As I do, I see a red warning flag pop up and the system locks. I must have triggered something!

I need to get out of this room.

They may already know I’m here, and if they don’t they will soon. I jog out the door and make a mental note as my mobiGlas beeps its reconnection to the network.

I head around the side of the building to the north and get within sight of the number 4 hangar. Lights are flashing on each of the buildings and a siren goes off. I hear shouts behind me and the sound of ship engines revving to launch prep. I head straight to the hangar door’s access panel. This one is standard, like the one to the stairwell, but this time no explosives. I get it to open after just a few tries and I scramble underneath and into the safety lighting.

A door just inside has ‘Storage’ on it stenciled in white. I run to it. It’s another manual door but it’s been chained shut.

My wire cutters can’t get through something this thick. I didn’t bring a torch. A chain? That’s stopping me? I got past explosives and around guards and into computers and now I can’t get past a chain? I kick the lock in frustration.

Flakes of rust float from the chain to the floor.

The rundown hangar has rusting bits and pieces all around. On the ground I see a pipe about two meters long. Jackpot!

I grab the pipe and examine the chain. It’s got some links that have been repaired before. I remember the materials book I studied. The chain is more likely to break than the pipe because of the welded links. I struggle a bit to wedge it between the door and chain. Once it’s securely set, I put my whole weight into pulling. The pole starts to bend but I keep the pressure on.

I hear a pop. Then a clang and the pipe goes slack, almost tumbling me to the floor. At the same time the chain and lock fall to the floor loudly. I recover, grabbing the door handle and pulling.

Light from the hangar lights flows into the small room as seven sets of eyes all stare back at me. The smell of human waste hits me like a wall. One child is lying on the floor. All the others are standing, backs against the wall. I can see the bruises. The ripped clothes. The gauntness. The fear. But they are still alive. Thank god, they are still alive.

One speaks in a whisper, “Sister?”

I almost say yes, but Mom Super’s betrayed face flashes in my mind.

“I’m here to get you out.” I hold out my hand to encourage them. “We have to go before the guards come.”

That seems to get through to them. One, then two more start to come out of the filthy prison they’d been kept in.

Another one is standing at the back of the room next to the child who hasn’t moved from the floor.

“’em can’ null walk none.” The standing one says, looking at his companion on the floor. I rush in and scoop up the child in one hand, trying not to gag on the smell.

“Out, everyone, and then through the door, then left keep going till the fence.”

Seeing me take their weakest as a burden sets the rest of them in motion, but as I come out of the filthy closet I see a pair of trucks loaded with vicious looking people heading straight for us.

All the children have stopped with me just inside the door. They’re looking at me. I can feel the one I’m holding barely breathing.

I will not let them take you.

I slam my fist into the door release and the door comes rattling down.

I pull the stunner from its holster, aim at the door’s control panel and pull the trigger. Nothing. I pull it again. Nothing.

“Got a hold tha trig down ta shot.” One of the children said it so softly I almost didn’t hear it. It was the one in my arm.

I do as she tells me and hold down the trigger. Seconds tick by and I hear the trucks stopping. The door is starting to move again. Suddenly my stunner fires and fries the controls. Someone on the other side doesn’t like that and points a weapon through the three centimeter opening and starts to fire.

The children duck behind what larger scrap pieces are around. Someone shouts and the shooting stops. The alarm sirens are still wailing but I can hear more commotion on the other side of the door.

“Rat! ’m know you there!” It’s Dirk. “Give up, rat! You null comin’ out a there ’less ’m let you out!”

The children start moving to better cover. If there is one thing a street kid knows, it’s how to find a place to hide. I look down at the one in my arms, passed out and filthy. Helpless.

“I’m not going to let them take you.” I say softly. Then I turn my face to the door and let out all the rage and anger I can call on. “You’re not my boss anymore, Dirk. You’re nothing to me now. You’re bigger than us, and you’ve got guns, so you think you can do whatever you want. And maybe you can, but I’m not gonna make it easy. I’m gonna fight for these kids. I’m stronger and smarter than you think, Dirk. All us rats are.”

A shot rings out and I duck back behind the beam I’ve crouched next to. The bullet punched a hole in the door. Someone sticks a hook through the hole and I hear an engine rev outside. The whole door starts to creak and strain.

Another shot, hole and hook. A second truck revs up and I see the panels of the door flexing under the pull. I have to find a way out of here. I remember specs of old hangars sometimes having ventilation at the ceiling. My eyes shoot up, looking for some sign of that and I find it almost immediately.

“You all have to climb. Get into the vents. It’s a way out. Come on.”

These children have been through hell and still they amaze me as they start to climb, helping each other. I nearly cry as they break every rule of the street by doing that. The first of them gets to the opening. One after the other they disappear into the closest thing to safety I can get them to. It’s little comfort but a better chance than they had locked up.

The last one through turns around to me, “Get heading, Sister. Got get out.”

I’m still holding the child in my arms and I realize I can’t climb and take her with me.

“Go, I can’t make it, I’m too big. I have to stay and take care of them.”

I get an intense look from more than one set of eyes.

“Go!”

The walls start to shake, the eyes disappear from the vent and dust falls from every angle as one side of the massive front door comes crashing down. It’s still obstructing the way but once the other side pulls free . . .

I move as far back among the scrap metal and tools as possible. I can barely see through the dust. There is yelling and flashlights shining into the newly opened gap. The trucks rev their engines again and then suddenly — they stop.

Gun and laser fire pop off and I can hear a new siren. No, sirens. They’re growing louder and closer. The trucks rev up again but this time I can hear them heading away.

The new sirens get louder still and then I see flashing blue lights streak past. Then again. And again. The Blues? How?

As the dust clears some vehicles pull to a stop outside the wrecked hangar door and several large men in plain clothes get out, guns drawn.

I shrink down, still keeping an eye on them, hoping they’ll leave if they don’t find anything.

Another vehicle stops and, like a ghost in a dream, I see Mom Super get out with a uniformed Blue next to her.

My lungs burn as I take in a dust-filled breath trying to shout to her, but I only cough. I get up and all eyes move to me and the child I’m carrying. I stumble out from behind my hiding place. I have to get to Mom Super.

That thought drives me forward. I stumble and fall. One of the Blues catches me, taking the child gently from my hands and laying me down against a wall.

“Are you hurt?” the Blue asks, “are there others?”

“The vents,” I cough, “in the vents.”

The Blue shines a light to the vent opening where six children are looking back at her. I motion them down with my arm and after a long pause they start to climb out. More Blues are coming in and helping the children. Blues helping street rats. This time the tears do come.

Mom Super is here now, next to me.

“Are you all right? Are you injured?”

The concern in her eyes and voice shame me. I don’t deserve her caring about me.

I take off my mobiGlas and hold it out to her. I clear my throat with a cough.

“I got as much information about Dirk’s operation as I could. Financials, dummy corps, contacts. It’s more than enough to shut him down if you give it to the Blues. This can keep the rest of the children safe.” I’m so exhausted my arm shakes with the effort of holding up the weight of the mobiGlas.

Mom Super takes it and moves past my hand towards me. Her arms surround me in an embrace. I don’t even know what to do. I let my hands fall to my side, feeling unworthy to hold the only Mother I’ve known.

“Well done, young one.”

A week later, the Blues have all the information I collected and I have my mobiGlas back. The children have been put in protective custody. Dirk’s operations have been shut down, though he is nowhere to be found. The news is talking about fixing poverty in the city. Street School has started again, with kids coming from all over. This week over a hundred come. They call us the Big Sisters now, like the Sisters took Dirk’s title. All of this and I’m getting ready to leave.

Mom Super has said that I can stay at the convent but I know I can’t. I put the children we were trying to help in danger and I almost attacked the core of the Sisters’ religion. I’m going to go to space and see all the things I’ve read about. I’ve always been just a guest here. I’ve never been one of them. I’m packing the last of my things when she comes to see me.

“Hello, young one,” she says. My back’s to the door.

“I’m not so young anymore,” I answer. “I’ve grown a bit since you gave me that name.”

Mom Super has a grin in her voice. “Gave you a name, did I? You refused to tell me what to call you. So I choose a description by which to call you. Hardly a name I think.”

There’s an unspoken ending to that sentence. I can feel it.

I turn around to see Mom Super standing in the doorway wearing her best habit. I guess it makes sense she would wear it on the day that I leave.

“We have something for you.”

“We?” I ask.

“Come, young one. It is time I do what you claim I have done already.”

There’s no way to refuse Mom Super when she has a plan.

She motions with her hand and I follow her out of the living area, past the meal hall and into the library.

Where rows of Sisters stand waiting in front of the book cases.

Three stories full. Rows about twenty feet long of sisters in their ceremonial best. One sister stands in the middle of the assembly on the main floor with a camera. Mom Super walks to stand next to her. I’m frozen just inside the door trying not to panic.

Turning in place Mom Super looks at me and then up to the gathered Sisters. She speaks loudly, “One has come among us whom we now know. One has been our guest who has had no name. One among us is leaving, following the call of her heart. These are all the same person. She had meant to do us harm but only in the cause of saving others, which she then did of her own accord. It would be right to record her name and good deeds in the histories of our Hall, but it would not be right to do so without using her name. What say you?”

A figure from the left of me steps forward, “We propose that she be given a name.”

Another figure steps forward, this time from my right. “We have come to consensus in this.”

“Step forward,” Mom Super says as she motions me toward her. I walk in a daze and stop when she signals.

Mom Super lays a hand on my shoulder. Her gaze drills into my eyes as she speaks. “This one has been found worthy and good among us. An inspiration to the study of knowledge and an example of courage. A changed person, remade by the force of her own will. What will you name her?”

A chorus replies as one.

“Luther, the reformer.”

The End

#star citizen #squadron 42

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inexcon · 6 years

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RSI Comm-Link: The Knowledge of Good and Evil: Part Four