#I sure beat some personal record making this drawing as fast as possible so as not to miss the date ewe' AIOJHUGVYCAH

[talleslittlelion]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOBBU!!

It's time for a little celebration for two, after the party at Spirits and Such ✨️

[cherrywoes]

dark sun. (ryoumen sukuna x fem!reader x oc)

xiv. boketto.

— the act of gazing vacantly into the distance without thinking.

You came back into your body with a quiet crackling of the air around you. You could feel the way you acclimated back to your own body, having been pulled from it without Shion to occupy it while you were gone. You were stationary, your fingers still gently pressed to Yuuji’s forehead, and it took you a few moments of blurry vision and confused thoughts for you to realize the boy was very much awake and staring at you with a wide, surprised gaze. You lowered your hand from his face cautiously, wary of earning some sort of lash back for invading his mind, but all he did was look at you with slow, even blinks to convey his mental game of confusion.

“Um… What’s going on here?” He questioned, eyes flicking from you to Gojo and back again, as if his teacher had an answer for what you had just done. He watched you reach up and gently touch the baby at your chest, frowning for a moment. “Shiraishi-s...san?”

“I apologize for invading your mind without permission.” You smiled and bowed your head, trying to resist the way Shion was attempting to work your connection back. It seemed he was struggling more than usual and it was causing your chest to twist and ache unpleasantly; likely a result of his leftover anger. He was still likely angry, you knew, but he couldn’t resist staying away from you for too long. At least an hour was his record, at least, you believed it was an hour—you couldn’t be sure when domains worked differently in terms of time. It was probably longer, you supposed, but you couldn’t stand around and wait to see how long it would take him to establish that connection. “And I also apologize for… hurting you, before. You must know I didn’t mean it, Itadori-san.”

He looked more befuddled than before, eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise. You wondered if Sukuna was talking to him somehow, telling him to befriend you—or something along those lines. “Oh, uh… Yeah. The god in your body did it, right? Not you? So, consider it water under the bridge, I guess.”

You couldn’t blame him for his hesitance. He was, after all, a vessel, the same as you, and he knew as well as you did that sometimes the actions of vessel and curse aligned at times. You weren’t sure about Sukuna in Yuuji’s case, but Shion’s actions aligned with your beliefs and wants perfectly. He didn’t doubt you for a second, and nor did you him—except for recently, perhaps.

The tampering with your connection was growing too irritating for you to bear and you could feel bile cresting in your throat. It wasn’t much, but you were going to purge you stomach’s meagre contents, and soon, so you fixed Gojo with a grateful smile; one that was laced with warning for him not to stop you.

“I’m afraid I have to go now,” you said, bowing low to Yuuji and Gojo separately. It was only the polite thing to do, and well, it didn’t help settle your nerves in the least. Shion twisted at the connection again and your smile became a little more pained, a little more tenuous. “I apologize for the intrusion, Satoru-san. Thank you for bringing me here.”

With little else to spur you on than the pinpricks of pain crawling up your belly and chest, you breezed past Gojo and up the stairs, slamming the door when the wind vacated the space behind you. The basement was silent for a few moments, maybe more, with Yuuji and Gojo staring up the staircase where you had vanished, as if you had never been there to begin with.

“What was that all about?” Yuuji asked, reaching for a half drank can of soda. He grimaced at the flat taste and the sickly sweet artificial aftertaste that came after, putting it down on the table with an audible clink. “Oh, gross.”

Gojo hummed and declined to answer, pulling another move from the generous pile he had donated to the cause, and cracked open the case. He spun the disc around the holder a few times, thoughts whirling as he considered your words from before, about the higher ups. The distaste in your tone as you spoke. He didn’t think you would have been one to be loyal to the higher ups in the first place, of course, seeing as you had been hidden from the world for almost your entire life—it wasn’t such an issue to assume that you were, in fact, harboring the same ideals he was: get rid of the higher ups. Your views, however, might be inherently more selfish; you had no care for any of the other sorcerers, not even for the woman who had been at your side since you became a vessel. You seemed entirely focused on escaping the confinement, the pressing holds, of the old crones that made up the circle of higher ups; at least, that was what he was able to read from you. Without that god hovering over you like a ghost, you were surprisingly human, and vulnerable—not that he had expected anything less. Yuuji was much the same in that regard. However, while parallel in origin, you and Yuuji were not the same, not really; your curse would protect you until the day you died, that much was obvious. Sukuna was much more malicious in intention, without a doubt.

“Gojo-sensei,” Yuuji whined, drawing his attention back to his student. He huffed and slumped over on the sofa, almost knocking over a stray can. “Are you even listening?”

“Of course,” he laughed, inserting the CD into the disc drive. It was a low budget horror film, he recognized, but he didn’t watch it personally. He had scooped up the cheapest selections he could find, with some more widely known titles like Lord of the Rings, but Yuuji didn’t seem to mind them as much as he thought. “I was just thinking about our new ally.”

“Ally?” the pink haired male gawked. “Who?”

Gojo tipped his head to the side, a large grin on his face. “You just met her.”

While Gojo shoved his student back to the test, you were worse off—perhaps even more so—your eyes darting across buildings and streetlights to gauge your location. Your stomach rumbled unpleasantly and you almost swore Shion was doing it to you on purpose, but you could feel his anger preventing him from unraveling the block completely; or he was conflicted, and was going back and forth on his decisions. It was wreaking havoc on your body, that was for certain, and you almost wanted to reach into his domain and pull him out yourself. If that was possible, you didn’t know, but for now, you could be content with a toilet.

You had to sprint to make it to your building before your stomach betrayed you. You had sense enough to lean over in a group of shrubs and hide your evidence, heaving your stomach’s contents onto the grass, and when you opened your eyes, spent, tears glazing your eyes, you noticed that it was entirely black; as black as ink, as black as the night sky in full midnight. You didn’t think you had eaten anything that color and when you rolled your tongue in your mouth, you tasted something sickly sweet and with the tang of iron.

Blood.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve, feeling it smear across your cheek. You couldn’t be bothered with it now; you had to get back into your room and make sure Shion was none the wiser to what you had been up to. Your stomach cramped painfully and you barely made it up the tree and across the roof, biting the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from groaning at the pain. You wern’t certain if it was Shion or the blood you had vomited up that made you feel so awful, but you could attribute it to both if you wanted, and you did. You slipped through the window once more and locked it behind you, snatching up a book and cradling Ayako to your chest despite wanting nothing touching you at the moment.

Cold sweat dripped down the back of your neck and you were certain it had nothing to do with Shion now. You felt… ill. Sick. Diseased. Your heart was beating a little too fast; your pulse pounded in your ears; you felt anxious, panicky; you half wondered if you were having a panic attack, but pushed it aside when the connection finally unraveled like the petals of a lotus—slowly, and then all at once.

“Shion,” you croaked, breathy and light. You sensed his alarm at the growing pain in your body and a flush of energy breezed through you, dulling the pain bit not completely suffocating it. “Thanks.”

What happened? He materialized almost instantly afterwards. His hair was haphazardly put into a knot at the back of his head and stuck up in a million different places, as if he’d spent hours running his hands through it before tying it back up and leaving it as was. His horns even protruded from his skull, longer than you recalled them being, and he had dark circles under his eyes, deep and ominous against the pallor of his skin. He looked almost as sickly as you did, if not worse. Your gut told you that something more was going on here, something deeper. “[Name]?”

His vocalization of your name ripped you out of your thoughts and you looked up at him, sweat beading your brow. “I… I don’t know. I threw up, and then my stomach started—then the sweating…”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, gathering you into his arms. Your book flopped to the floor, uncared for, even as the page fluttered open to the ‘A’ section, the name ‘Ayako’ highlighted by a streak of moonlight. “If I had known my anger would make you so ill, I would have never cut off our connection. I could have stopped this.”

Your own guilt overpowered his. You patted his arm, just above the crook of his elbow, and grimaced at the way your skin stuck to his with the cooling sweat. “It’s alright, Shion. It isn’t your fault—your emotions, while new, aren’t something to be brushed aside. You can’t just ignore them for me. You have to overcome them. I think not sharing them is… making it worse every time.” You silently omitted the fact that his failed attempts at unraveling the connection had started it in the first place. You deserved this pain for betraying him. You deserved everything he gave you, even if it was unintentional. It was the only way you would succeed. “... Help me up?”

When you were safely tucked away in your bed, your clothes changed into something more cooler to deal with the sweat, you allowed Shion to sequester Ayako away in a pillow barricade and steal her side for himself, likely having learned it from passively observing you. He was careful not to jostle you too much, highly aware of the way your stomach was still churning, and rested his ear against your heart, tapping his fingers to the rhythm on your hip. You didn’t fight him off, no matter how uncomfortable you might have been, and played idly with his hair, pulling it from the knot and twisting it around his horns. Other than your breathing and Ayako’s quiet sounds of grunting and squeaking, the room was quiet. You could feel him gearing up to speak in the way his jaw was working.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you reassured him, throat flexing over the gag reflex you were trying to repress. A moment later it was gone, magically repressed—but you could still feel it resisting his power, strangely. “I don’t expect you to explain everything to—”

“But I want to,” Shion interrupted you. He never looked up at you, but continued to tap to your heartbeat still, even noting the slight stutter when your thoughts came to a screeching halt. “That was a… sensitive time in my existence. I admit that. But… I don’t believe I’m ready to speak of it just yet. When I’m ready, I’ll let you know.”

You waited for a moment to see if he would say anything more, to even hint that he was as angry as he was before, but all you felt from him was guilt, guilt, and more guilt, which made no sense; you were the only one who had to feel guilty about anything. His secrets didn’t have the ability to break hearts and fragile trust, after all.

“Alright,” you said, once it was clear he had nothing else to say. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Shion.”

“And if one day, I want to?”

You frowned slightly at his change in tone. Something was different. Something had… shifted. You couldn’t put your finger on it and shifted uncomfortably, reaching up to thumb the prongs of his horns thoughtfully. “Then that’s your decision, not mine.”

A pause. Then,”I see.”

“Are you alright?” You asked, finally, when waiting became too much. He looked up at you then, green and gold eyes flashing in the moonlight, and though his gaze was gentle, every instinct in you warned you to flee. But like a lamb to a lion, you were doomed to a careful existence with him. “You look, well, awful. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sick before.”

He frowned, almost similarly to how you did, and his eyebrows drew down. “I’m not sure.”

“I’m sure it'll be fine then.” You yawned, pressing your fist against your mouth to smother it. You snuggled into your pillow and shifted Shion to be a little more comfy, eyes flicking to Ayako, who was as placid as ever. Shion turned his head again and pressed his ear to your heart once more, obscuring your view of Ayako completely. You were blissfully unaware at the way his eyes narrowed at the child when you slipped into a deep sleep, mumbling,”Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Shion whispered. “[Name].”

Ayako froze underneath his stare, dark eyes wide, and remained that way until the god finally vanished upon the first rays of the sun.

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[andreafmn]

Running In Circles - Chapter 4

Word Count: 3,783

Characters: Female Reader Rossi Character, Aaron Hotchner, David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid, Jennifer “JJ”Jareau, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia

Story Description: (Y/N) Rossi is following in her father’s footsteps by joining the BAU team as a profiler. The girl genius knew almost everything but she could have never predicted falling for Aaron Hotchner, her boss and her father’s friend. in their world mutual feelings are not enough to push them together. Will all the adversities and obstacles they face pull them together or push them apart forever?

*DISCLAIMER* I do not own in any way Criminal Minds, all credits of the pre-established characters, script, and storyline belong to Jeff Davis and CBS Network. The only thing I own is Arden Rossi, any upcoming characters, and her storyline, as well as her effects in the others’ story line.

Chapter: 4/?

A/N: These next chapters are really just gonna be the necessary episode that contributes to the character's storyline. I'll try my best to compress them into fewer chapters but some I do need for my storyline. If you enjoy my writing I’ll also be posting them in AO3 and Wattpad along with other stories (I also hope to start taking requests if ya’ll want) Hope you enjoy and all constructive criticism is encouraged.

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Chapter 4

It’s funny how life moves so quickly, but agonizingly slow at the same time.

We had been on the hunt for the prince of darkness after he resurfaced 26 years after what we thought was his last crime in California. He had been across the 48 continuous states, leaving his mark of crimes all over the map. Initially, we were confused as to why he would reappear in Los Angeles if he never hit the same city twice until we noticed a pattern. Billy Flynn was recreating his original murders to taunt Matt Spicer, a survivor, and tell him he’d be going after Spicer’s family because he wanted recognition for the murder that had made Spicer a “city hero”, he wanted to be part of the story. They were horrible and vile crimes one after the other and we were working nonstop to catch him. The case took a turn when we found out he was going after Ellie and Kristin Spicer, Matt’s daughter, and sister, respectively.

The case took a turn when we sent Spicer and Morgan to retrieve the family thinking Flynn was going to take them from Matt’s house. But it was too late, he had gotten there before them. The duo decided to go to Kristin’s house believing he needed privacy to conduct whatever he was planning. Hotch, Prentiss, and I were in a car as we got intel from Morgan, waiting on the address of the sister’s house. But it didn’t make sense, that wasn’t personal enough for him. It didn’t tie into the story. Being stuck in traffic was exasperating, and it only got worse once we lost cell reception in the middle of a call.

Against my better judgment, we headed to Kristin’s apartment where we found out she had been gone for hours and Morgan had never arrived.

“Something must have changed,” Emily expressed.

“The cells are down,” Kurzbard chimed. “Now how the hell do you find them?”

“What would cause Morgan to change his like that when he knows he can’t tell us?” My father spoke up, worry evident in his eyes.

“The unsub had Spicer’s sister and daughter; Morgan knew he didn’t have a lot of time.” Hotch analyzed.

“So, his first guess had to be right.”

“The unsub attacked Spicer specifically through his family,” Emily commented.

“How long has Spicer’s sister lived here?”

“6-7 months.”

“Well, that’s why they didn’t come here.”

“If the unsub wants to hurt Spicer, hell do it someplace that means something to him. Morgan must have realized the same thing.” I thought. “The unsub and Spicer do share one place in common.”

“Santa Monica.”

“Where he killed his parents,” I finished.

“Let’s go.” Hotch started the quick walk to the cars to speed off to Spicer’s childhood home, where we hoped to find Morgan and the Spicers.

Once we arrived the front yard was covered with emergency vehicles, my mind spiraling to the worse possible scenario. We were already one man down; Flynn had gotten to Spicer. Kristin was in rough shape and Flynn had taken Ellie. Morgan had a pretty nasty head wound, but being the strong-headed man he was he just wanted to get back to work.

“Guys, I’m not going to any hospital until we find that little girl.” He directed himself to the EMT. “Now, please just put a bandage on it.”

“Morgan, what’s the notebook?” I motioned to the small book in front of him.

“I asked the sister to tell me everything she could remember about the unsub.”

“And what’s her condition?”

“It’s bad.”

“I’ll go check on her,” Emily offered. She left with the ambulance and hopefully we could get more information out of her.

Everyone knew Morgan wasn’t in perfect condition to continue working, but we also knew he wouldn’t allow us to make him rest. JJ and Reid arrived at the scene with satellite phones to allow communication to continue while the phone towers were down.

“Any word on Ellie?” JJ asked, clearly worried about the innocent little girl that had been brought into this tragedy. Morgan glared at her with such an intensity we all got uncomfortable. “I was just…”

“It’s not you,” I comforted, going out to follow Morgan, Hotch trailing behind.

Outside he called Garcia, asking for her to run the plates on the RV, treating her coldly. I knew he was desperate, but Penelope was worried, as were the rest of us. Something much worse could’ve happened to him; he could have ended up like Spicer.

“You know, she really needs to be more professional sometimes.” Derek turned.

“She gets the job done every time,” Hotch defended.

“I told him, Hotch.” His voice cracked. “I told him that we should wait for backup but he wouldn’t listen to me. We split up and he headed around back before I could stop him.”

“Morgan, sometimes when it comes to family common sense and procedure go out the window.”

“You do the best you can,” I comforted, laying a hand on his shoulders to let him know he wasn’t alone.

“This unsub raped the aunt and then beat her for no reason. She didn’t resist, guys. And he still pistol-whipped her until her ribs were crushed. He killed Spicer while he was on his knees. He was unarmed. This guy’s a pure psychopath. I want this guy.”

“And we’ll get him.”

“Well, we better do it fast. Taking Ellie was like a game to him. The sick bastard thought it was funny. He’s gonna get pissed off at her, she’s nothing but a little girl. She’s gonna show him fear, and when she does… he’s gonna kill her.”

“Then, what are we doing standing around? Let’s go,” I tried my best to encourage.

We all quickly headed back to the precinct, needing to calculate what his net moves would be. He changed his methods suddenly; all patterns were out the window. Flynn wasn’t devolving he was becoming more calculate, we had to find the ends to his means. And Derek’s attitude wasn’t helping to ease the tension we were all feeling. Thankfully, Emily entered at the right moment. We couldn’t run the plates, possibly Kristin had gotten them wrong, but she remembered something crucial. The radio. Flynn listened to the radio following the sound of his name in the mouths of newscasters, and although this could help us, the LAPD had released everything we knew about the RV, about Ellie, and about him.

“That might force him to dump the RV,” my dad said.

“Or kill…” Spencer started but quickly stopped knowing this wouldn’t help appease the strained situation.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“He could’ve killed you and the sister, but he didn’t. He kept you alive, he can’t be surprised that we know what he’s driving and that he has a hostage,” I explained, my father nodding his head in agreement.

We knew he listened to the radio but not which station, but an idea surfaced in JJ. We could try to work with the Emergency Alert System. Quickly, she got to work to be able to get out a message that we were sure would reach Flynn. On one side of the room, Emily and Morgan were talking about Kristin and what she had made him promise her. The safekeeping of Ellie. Kristin said it wasn’t fair of her to ask that, but Morgan wouldn’t break that promise.

As JJ worked the bureaucratic sinkhole that was the EAS, we got word that Flynn was currently in another house with Ellie. When we arrived at the scene, he was gone, but not for the lack of trying to from the neighbors. They had tried to stop him, but he had already taken that family’s car and was able to speed off. We needed to work even quicker than before, he was getting desperate.

Inside the RV he discarded, Ellie’s hair was found on the floor. Derek got enraged, but Spencer reassured him: “Why would you disguise someone you were going to kill?”

Looking for clues inside, Derek found a pipe and I found a newspaper. As they fixated on more clues from the underlined words on it: “bright, happy child,” Spencer pointed out, Derek thought back on what Flynn had said back at the Spicer house. Flynn was after Ellie all along.

One thing we were wrong on the profile, he was stuck in the delusion of believing he was some sort of grandparent to Ellie; she wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t let Matt survive. In a matter of seconds, the gears in the case started shifting at full speed. Once JJ got through to the Madame Secretary, Hotch assigned her to hostage negotiation through the system, trying to find a way to draw him out. On the other hand, Reid and I were looking over some newspapers that were stored in the RV, the murders we might have thought were his first might not have been. As soon as the lights came back on and the cell towers were up we were contacting Garcia to check the records on a murder investigation from 1968.

Garcia has always worked fast and well, this time it was no different.

“So, Nora Flynn was a prostitute and a drug addict living in a desert community just outside of Los Angeles. It appears bikers were her stock in trade, rough bikers. And one fateful day she and a client were murdered by her 13-year-old son Billy. Shot to death. The costumer, ironically named John, was able to tell the police before he died that Billy made him beg for his life and then shot him anyway.”

“That’s him,” Morgan commented.

“And he was convicted, but...”

“He’s a juvenile,” I said.

“Right. So at 18, he was released in 1973, never heard from again,” Penelope continued.

“Oh, he was heard from,” Emily spoke up.

“And he never released a statement as to why he killed them, although it does appear his childhood was horrific. I’m sending you a picture of him on the day he was released to your PDAs.”

“make sure you send the files to JJ,” Hotch instructed.

“Of course, my liege. Garcia bids you ad…”

She was cut off by Morgan, hopefully, so he could apologize for being so cold. “Garcia, wait a minute.”

He took the phone and left to a more private corner to talk to our tech genius. Also, Hotch had gone outside to help JJ with the tough job she had to do; I did not want to be in her shoes right now. We were all standing around in a circle listening to JJ, we could tell she was nervous and picking her words carefully. At first, it was a little rough, but as soon as she tapped into her motherly instincts it was going way smoother. Hopefully, it hit the nail on the head.

Then we received some unfortunate news, Kristin had passed away. The look of defeat on Derek’s face was painful, Ellie was alone now. But there was some hope – Flynn had let Ellie go. JJ had succeeded. We sped off to the house where Billy Flynn was hiding. Upon arrival we were met with the LAPD, they had a direct line to Flynn sent in and were waiting for contact. It rang as soon as we got there, he was watching us.

“He wants to talk to you,” Kurzbard extended the phone towards Derek.

“What?” His tone was pointed, laced with anger and desperation. “He wants me to come in.”

Morgan started walking towards the house after exchanging some words with Hotch. My heart was beating a million miles an hour and I held onto Emily to stabilize myself. We had no eyes or ears on the inside of the house, and anything could happen whilst we were outside and Derek inside.

A couple of minutes went by until ten shots rang through the house. My heart dropped and tears spilled from my eyes unconsciously. I was expecting for the worse as my hands flew to my gun, ready to enter the house, but Emily held me back as Derek calmly walked out of the house. Emily and Spencer accompanied officers to survey the scene and I stayed behind with my father and Hotch to make sure Derek was okay. My father hugged my shoulders as we watched the reunion between Ellie and Morgan, who thankfully came out of the house unscathed.

On the flight home, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears as the adrenaline from the case was wearing down. Next to me, Derek noticed my mood shift and sat closer to me.

“What’s up, baby girl? What’s got you like this?”

“I don’t know, it’s just back at the house we didn’t know anything and all we hard were the shots; I just thought the worst had happened. I’m just being dumb,” I chuckled, trying to downplay how I was feeling. He was the one who went through the traumatic experience, not me.

“Oh come on, you know it would take more than a couple of knocks and a crazy unsub to take me down. You’re gonna have to put up with me for a long time. All of us,” he motioned to the rest of the team. The ones who were still awake nodded and smiled.

But the team would suffer a huge loss before we knew it. This morning JJ, Strauss, and Hotch had been in Hotch’s office right before we were meant to be on the plane to Atlantic Beach. No one knew what they were meeting about, but it had to be serious.

We all left to the case with the underlying question of what the meeting was about. On the plane we stared at JJ until she confessed about the meeting; the Pentagon had offered her a job twice and Strauss wanted her to take it. As much as we wanted to pick her brain about it, there wasn’t too much news. She had a job offer she didn’t want and our boss wanted her to take it. We needed to focus on the case.

At the moment there were two men in custody, 20-year-old Sid and Jimmy. They were claiming they both had consensual sex with our 19-year-old victim Kate after she left a bar with them. Highly doubtful. The need to break them down psychologically became apparent when there were no plot holes found in their stories by the police. We had no body, two suspects, and a limited amount of time.

As soon as we landed, the team got busy with their assignments. JJ was to stay with the parents, Emily and Morgan were in interrogations, dad and Reid to the bar, and Hotch and I to review the interview videos to find any nonverbal clues to disrupt their story. As quickly as we could work so did Garcia. In minutes she gave us a big background into the kids, criminal troublemakers since their preteens.

We watched intently both interviews, Syd’s directly and Jimmy through recording. Syd was prepotent and standoffish since Derek walked in, not much perturbed him, Jimmy on the other hand had a tell.

“He never mentions her by name,” I said as we watched the interview Emily was carrying out with Jimmy.

“Why not?” Detective Mathias asked.

“He’s distancing himself,” Hotch added. “Depersonalizing the victim.”

“Look at the way he shifts his weight and cracks his neck. His behavior was consistent until Kate was mentioned,” I noted and Hotch nodded. Mathias seemed very interested in the way we analyzed every single movement.

Then, both asked for a polygraph test. As we waited to hear from the polygraph results we got to work on theories.

“So, what if they didn’t do it then we’re back to nothing?” Mathias doubted.

“One of them knows where Kate is,” I said nonchalantly.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because an innocent person doesn’t sit quietly for three days. They get angry and defensive.”

“These guys are going out of their way to appear calm and in control,” Derek added. “They’ve got something to hide.”

We knew they were stalling with the polygraphs, all we had to do is figure out what they knew about Kate’s whereabouts. Hotch then sent JJ back to dig into the parents a little, why would have Kate gone with these two boys if everyone else says she wouldn’t have? JJ adamantly turned and headed to the Pearson couple.

“Hotch, we can’t lose her,” I whispered.

“Strauss thinks we’re all replaceable. I went over her head to try to explain that we’re not.”

It wasn’t the answer we wanted, but it’s the one that we got. At the end of the day, we could be short a team member. And worse, our family would be separated.

But we had to continue working, they had passed the tests. We needed to continue the interviews. Something they were counting on. Dad went in to talk to Syd and Reid talked to Jimmy, the latter having a bit of a short fuse. We were going to continue on and on until they broke.

We had less than three hours until they were released. We needed everything we could get. As Derek pushed Syd, and Emily left Jimmy, Hotch got a call. I quickly picked at his cell and the screen read Strauss. So, I excused myself and left Emily to analyze the pictures that were on Syd’s phone of that night.

“She’s leaving, isn’t she?” I asked, reading Hotch’s defeated posture. He nodded. “There’s nothing you can do?”

“They’re not asking. It’s a direct order,” he rubbed his temples.

“So, she’s going to DC?” He nodded once more. I knew it was hard on him the most. He was the person we all looked onto to keep us united, but this really was out of his hands.

“I really wish there was more I could do,” he sighed. We shared a quick hug in the empty hallway, a way of reassuring him that he didn’t have to carry this news by himself. As we detached, he shared a small smile of relief, a small weight lifting off his shoulders.

“Well, come on. There’s no good in dwelling on it right now. Let’s catch these scumbags and bring back Kate.”

The interviews carried on. We couldn’t be distracted by the sad news. We were picking apart every breath, every movement, every word. Then, as she perused the pictures, JJ noticed in a Kate-less one her phone was present. But, Kate’s phone was in possession of her mother since it was recovered from Kate’s hotel room. The girl had made it back to the hotel.

We started forming our hypothesis. Most of the story they believed to be true because it actually was, they did take her back to the hotel, and they did leave. But Jimmy had felt rejected by Kate since she didn’t pay him much attention, and he had the perfect excuse to come back. So, when he left Syd back home, he went back with Kate’s phone. He lured her outside, possibly drugged her, and took her to his boat. Spencer pointed out that Jimmy was obsessed with the details of the port and Mathias added that at that time of night the blood from the catch would attract hundreds of sharks.

“We asked him if he killed her,” I sighed. “He didn’t. Asked where her body is.”

“He doesn’t know,” Emily added, following my train of thought.

“Technically those aren’t lies,” Spencer stated.

“How can you prove this?”

“We’ll get them to admit it,” Hotch answered Mathias.

Back into the interview room we were. We had our bait, and we were gonna reel in the answers.

After we pushed and got no concrete answers, we knew we had to search the ocean. I left with JJ ad Hotch to the port in hopes that she would be found. The Coast guard was 70 miles out and there was no sign of the young girl. We were getting worried.

“Kate’s an amazing swimmer. If he didn’t kill her when she hit the water, there’s still a chance,” JJ hoped.

“JJ, that’s three days in the ocean,” Hotch stated.

“I know,” she said in a defeated tone.

“This might be a long shot, but she would have been thrown near a dangerous area, which would mean there would be buoy markers. It could be possible that, if she was still alive when she hit the water, she swam all the way to a buoy, and since it’s been three days and hopefully, she has no major wounds, there’s a high probability she could’ve survived.” JJ looked up at me and gave me a small smile.

“Nice catch, (Y/N).” Hotch quickly punched in the number for the helicopter and told them to look closely at any buoys they saw around the area.

“I have a feeling about this one, JJ.” She hugged my shoulders. “We’re gonna find her.”

It wasn’t long until we got the news. Mathias came back to tell us they had found her hugging a buoy, alive. The three of us let out a breath of relief, and the unit chief and I stayed back as JJ went to tell the parents the good news. Although no words were exchanged, when we both looked at each other we knew this victorious feeling would be a short-lived one for the team.

Now that it was over JJ would be gone. When we got back, everyone else knew. JJ came out of the briefing room with a defeated look in her eyes, after a mad Hotch had stormed into his office. It didn’t take long for these brilliant minds to figure out the exchange.

“It’s done,” she sighed.

“It can’t be that simple,” Morgan protested.

“It is,” I said.

“You knew?”

“Figured it out back at the precinct,” I answered JJ. “Hotch got the call while Derek was interviewing Syd. It wasn’t too hard to map out.”

“This job is hard enough. What’re they trying to do, bury us?”

“She’s too good,” Emily said.

“She’s on everybody’s wish list,” dad added. “Our loss is somebody else’s gain.”

“They can’t just take you away,” Spencer said sadly. But they could, and they did.

It was a hard goodbye. She wasn’t truly gone but she wouldn’t be with us anymore. There wouldn’t be a need for a true grieving period, but the JJ-shaped hole that would fall upon the BAU team would be impossible to fill. Our family would not be fully complete until hopefully one day she came back.

<-Previous | Next ->

Tag List: @wanniiieeee @obsssedwithjustaboutanything @ssamorganhotchner

[honeypirate]

Congrats on the milestone! You deserve it!! For the 420 event, could I request a Viktor Licht x gn! reader drabble?

Indica/Sativa: 8; sharing favorite music

Joints: 10; friends (coworkers) to lovers

Pack the Bowl: 11; the moment they realize they love you

Thank you!! Have a rad day 🤙

I hope you like it! Thanks for requesting!

Viktor licht x gn! Reader

I tried to keep it sans the pronouns please let me know if I messed up and I will edit it asap.

Favorite music + friends to lovers + the moment they realize they love you

Event Masterlist

“Hey” you say as you poke your head into his room, knocking the door frame lightly

He looks up from his desk, paperwork everywhere, and gives you his signature lopsided grin “oh hey y/n! What’s up?” He says as he scribbled something on the page

“Since everyone else is busy and gone I was wondering if you wanted to hang out” you say with a smile as you lean against the entryway

“Yeah!” He says a little too excitedly as he stands quickly and knocks over his chair “woah there” you say with a chuckle and he laughs, his cheeks dusted a little pink as he picks up his chair.

“I have to finish one thing first though” he says and you nod “can I help?”

He takes you to his lab and explains what he’s trying to test and how the math works. You follow maybe half of it before you get lost and confused but you still listen and pay attention, hanging on his every word. You were truly fascinated with his brain and how he thinks and does things, you loved listening to him talk even if you didn’t understand.

You chuckle softly and place your hand on his bicep “I’m gonna be honest Viktor,” his brain goes fuzzy for a second, his heart racing from your warm hand against his arm and the way you say his name has his stomach filling with butterflies.

“I only understood the first half of what you said. Once you got to the scientific procedure and the mathematics of how it’s going to work, I was a little lost.” You drop your hand and he tries so hard not to frown

“But I love listening to you talk and explain things. You are truly fascinating to me. I could listen you talk for hours even though you’re levels more intelligent than I will ever be” you chuckle and he can’t help but laugh with you.

Your eyes sparkled as you looked up at him and he truly believed you found him fascinating. He never thought anyone would ever say that to him. He’s been called weird, creepy, annoying, too much. But never fascinating.

His heart beats seemingly out of control as he looks down at you in the fluorescent lab lights that you somehow still look amazing under. The only person in the world who still looks good in fluorescent.

He busies himself finishing his work as you look through different papers. When he looks back at you he smiles, you’re biting your bottom lip as you organize stacks of papers and folders and he gasps just too soft for you to hear. A shocked inhale of breath from a realizing that hits him like a slap across the face.

He watched as you moved around his papers and he realized that he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if you touch his things. He doesn’t care if you mess it up. You’re the only one that it doesn’t bother him with. His brain flies through the deductions and connects all the dots until he’s drawing on his imaginary chalkboard in his head the word love and then circling it three times.

He loves you.

He loves you!

He LOVES You!!

His laughter catches your attention and you look back and meet his eye “are you done?” You ask and he nods with a grin, taking the few steps to be by your side “what have you done here?” He asks with a lilt in his voice and you drop your hands, your cheeks warming

“Oh I just. I saw how they were almost organized in this pattern that doesn’t really make sense but I figured it out” he looks through the stacks and realizes you actually made it better?? It’s so much easier in this pattern of pages as his eyes scan the order you out them in it clicks, his problem he was having with this particular research and you solved it by just rearranging his mess.

“You’re a genius!” He exclaims and hugs you tight to his chest

“Oh!” You say and laugh as you melt into him, hugging him back.

After the hug that lasted just a little too long to be considered just a friend slash coworker, he reluctantly let you go. “Wanna go to that place you like and get some food? I’ve been really craving their buns” you ask, scratching the back of your neck trying not to look as flustered as you feel.

“That’s an amazing idea” he says and nods, his hair bouncing with his energy.

“Let’s go then! I’m starving!”

After you guys have lunch you walk through the town, window shopping and talking. You spot a vinyl record store and grab his hand excitedly “let’s go check that out!” You keep your hand in his as you pull him with you across the street and into the store.

“What kind of music do you like?” He asks and you smile with a shrug “I like a little bit of everything, right now I’m listening to a lot of (y/f/m)” he hums softly “I’ve never listened to that before”

You look around the store until your eyes find what they’re looking for. Still holding his hand, you guide him with you down a few rows before you find your favorite record and then bring him over to the corner where there was a record player with headphones.

“I don’t have this one but I’ve wanted to buy it for a while” you say as you unwrap the packing knowing you’re just gonna buy it when you’re done. You place the record into the machine and hand him the headphones that were connected before you press play.

His eyes widen when the music starts and a smile slowly spreads on his lips. “I really like this!” He says a little too loud and you laugh, letting go of his hand and raising yours, placing your fingertips gently against his lips as you move one of the sides off his ear “I’m glad you like it” you say with a chuckle “did I say that really loud?” He asks and you nod “but it’s okay. I’m glad you like something I like” your cheeks warm and you smile shyly up at him. The song ends and he hands you the headphones “wait here” he says excitedly and then quickly makes his way through the aisles.

“Listen to this” he says as he changes out the record, putting yours back in its case before taking the headphones from your hand and gently placing them over your ears for you

Your heart skips as he pushes your hair back and you know your cheeks are as hot as sun.

He keeps eye contact as he presses play and the music that hits your ears is soft and comforting, it gives you goosebumps to hear the passion in the singer's voice. “This is amazing Viktor” you say softly, knowing how easy it would be to be too loud.

He doesn’t know why, but knowing you like something he loves, makes him feel all warm and tingly. He guesses it’s because he loves you but he’s not familiar with it all too well so it’s mostly just his own theories.

He grabs the other set of headphones and puts them over his ears so you can both listen together and then his hand instinctually reaches for yours.

Your heart skips when his fingers gently run across the back of your hand but when you look up into his eyes, you’re breathless as the adoration you see in them. You lace your fingers with his and smile shyly up at him as the artist sings into your ears, the music you can feel in your soul.

You pay for your records and leave the shop hand in hand. You’re not sure just what’s going on but you like it too much to say something and possibly ruin it.

“Y/n! Viktor!” Iris’s voice shouts from behind you and you turn around to see her and Shinra coming back from cleansing the weapons. You expected him to let go your hand but your butterflies dance when he just gives your hand a squeeze.

“Hey guys!” you say, your cheeks warm from being caught holding hands. You feel a little like you’re a teenager again as they stop in front of you

“Are you guys on a date or something?” Shinra asks and raises his eyebrows

“Uhh.. I” he starts before meeting your eye as you look up to him, he smiles softly and your heart races. you squeeze his hand and then turn back to Shinra “yeah. Kinda” you admit and you feel the excitement poor from Viktors body as you say that. You are on a date with him!! What?!!! How did he get so lucky?! That must mean you like him back! Right?! He goes through the deductions in his head, rapidly working through the day up until now and connecting the signs. You do,He realizes, You like him back.

“So we really should be going!” He says with a chuckle “since this date isn't over yet, we will see you back at the base!” He says and then drags you in a different direction, excitement fueling his actions.

“Where are we going?” You ask as you follow him, walking fast to keep up with his long legs.

“We‘re here!” He says and you round the corner to see the gardens that were by a church downtown.

“Ooooh it’s beautiful” you say, your eyes widening as you walk through the rows of flowers.

The sunset was warming your face, there were butterflies on various flowers and the trees around the edge looked like they were a fruit tree of some kind. He leads you to the bench in the middle with more trees behind it that makes it seem like it’s a world if it’s own.

“This is so beautiful Viktor” you say as you look around. He is sitting beside you, your hand in both of his as he looks down at you. “I know” he says softly and as you meet his eye he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing across your soft skin.

“Is this really a date?” He asks with an anxious chuckle and you gasp softly, your cheeks warming as you smile softly “would you like it to be?” You ask and cover his hand with your own.

He lets out a breathy chuckle and says “yes. I would”

You place your hand on his chest and lean in closer “I would like it too” you admit and watch as his cheeks flush as he leans down and then stops, looking up and searching your eyes “can I kiss you?” He asks and you chuckle with a nod, dropping his hand and reaching up to cup his cheeks as he closes the distance and presses his lips yours.

It was slow and soft, your lips moving together as you hum against his lips, matching smiles as his hands cup your cheeks.

“I love you” he says and peppers kisses against your lips slowly “I love you” he whispers between every other kiss.

“You do?” You ask, your heart beating wildly and your skin tingling

“Yes yes I do” he says and presses his forehead to yours as you catch your breath, his arm moving around your shoulders.

“I love you too, Viktor” you say with a shocked laugh, your heart practically bubbling over with happiness then you press your lips to his again, the sweet scent of the flowers surrounding like his arms.

[toosicktoocare]

ayy for the bingo prompts!! Possibly O5 for Jon? :)

Of course! 

O5: Trapped in a small space with a fever

Am I going with a trapped in the elevator route? Why yes. Yes, I am. 

When the old elevator jerks and rattles to a creaking stop, with the small, dim light flickering overhead, Jon stares, for an extended moment, at the doors as if willing them to tremble and slide open under a narrow, albeit tired, gaze. 

Unsurprising, the power of his sharp look does nothing for dated machinery, and he only drags his gaze away when a voice crackles from the small speaker underneath the floor buttons. 

“Hello. The elevator is stuck.” 

“So it seems,” Jon draws out slowly, annoyingly jabbing at his own call button. He wants to tack on more- that he’ll be late for work, that he’s incredibly busy, and, though he’s not quite desperate to mention, that he’s working around a splitting headache that spreads fire across his face. 

“We’re notifying maintenance, but I’m afraid it may be a while.”

Of course, Jon thinks, shoulders sagging. Easy would be the doors sliding open in just minutes, but he can’t recall a single moment in his life that was easy. His being is surrounded with difficulties of varying sizes, and this is yet another to pen into the books. 

“Anything we can do for you in the meantime, sir?” 

Jon slips his phone from his pocket, once again unsurprised to see a small, red X covering his signal bar. “Phone my work,” he starts, voice cracking slightly, throat stinging more than the night before. “The Magnus Institute. Let them know of my... situation.” 

He tunes out the quick chatter that follows, instead sinking to the ground and drawing his knees up to his chest. The elevator’s small, its size fitting for the older apartment building. It’s already too warm, if the heat rolling from his face is any indication. His skin’s practically prickling across the ecompassing heat, and he fumbles out of his cardigan until he’s left tugging on his shirt collar and wondering how to tell when he’s fully suffocating under the pressing heat. 

***

“Martin.”

Martin jumps, a small squeak clawing up his throat. He whips around mid-conversation with Tim to see Elias slowly dissecting him through gaze alone. 

“Y-yes, sir?” He stutters, swallowing thickly around the lump forming in his throat. His eyes find the floor, a nervous habit, an inability to hold eye contact when backed into a situation such as this. 

“It would appear our archivist is... trapped in an elevator in his apartment building. I need you to go and encourage the maintenance crew to work significantly faster as there’s much work to be done.” 

Tim chokes back a laugh, masking his amusement through a few fake coughs into his fist. He peers around Martin, arching a single brow. 

“Mind if I join him, boss? Do a whole good cop, bad cop routine?” 

A flicker of annoyance tugs at Elias’s lips, threatening to give way to a tight frown, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Just make it quick, and do not come back here without my archivist.” 

***

Jon can’t recall when he started shivering, when the heat heightened and gathered across his face, leaving the rest of his body uncomfortably chilly, but he can’t seem to stop. He wrestles with his cardigan, pulling it back on through jerky movements, and he tugs it tightly around himself, making himself impossibly small and tight in an already small and tight space. 

His awareness is fading in and out. He know he hasn’t been in the elevator long. He also knows that he doesn’t feel well at all. His jaw hurts from the persistent chatter of his teeth, and his bones ache in a way that vastly differs from too many hours hunched over at his desk. He doesn’t trust his voice as it feels raw in a way that’s unlike the sensation of speaking into a tape recorder for hours. 

Where his awareness lacks is why. Sure he’s familiar with running himself ragged, as Tim and Sasha point out to him far too often, but this feels different. Yet, he can’t concentrate as to why it’s different because his head is a jackhammer that won’t ease. 

He drops his forehead atop his bent knees, hissing around the aggravating chill that won’t let up, and he drifts. 

***

“Want to bet on how many of these poor blokes he’s yelled at so far?” Tim smiles easily, eyeing the various maintenance crew members who are all working quietly and quickly at the elevator. 

“No, Tim, I don’t want to bet on something like that,” Martin groans, frowning, a look that’s plastered itself to his lips and hasn’t let up since leaving the Institute. “Let’s just... let’s ask someone what’s going on.” 

When Tim doesn’t reply, Martin turns, brows furrowed, to see that Tim’s wandered off to chat with a woman barking orders right in front of the elevator doors. Shaking his head with a low huff, he quickly walks over to them, catching the two mid-conversation.

“-about an hour now, I suppose. He’s been awfully quiet.” 

“Quiet,” Tim spits out, brows raising. “You mean he hasn’t been raising hell this entire time?” 

“No,” the woman’s tone drifts as she brings her gaze down to the iPad in her hands. She taps a few buttons until a grainy camera feed fills the screen, showing Jon curled up in a corner. 

“Yikes,” Tim mutters under his breath, motioning for Martin to take a look. “He looks rough.” 

“He’s been sleeping on and off. He appears quite uncomfortable, though given the circumstance...” 

“Can we speak to him?” Martin interrupts, and Tim pulls a sharp gaze to the unfamiliar color coating Martin’s tone, a dark, serious color he’s not used to hearing. 

“Martin?” 

“Something seems wrong,” Martin elborates. His gut’s twisted with a new presence of anxiety that he couldn’t ignore even if he willingly tried. Jon should be raising hell, a passive, dangerously softspoken hell, and yet... he’s morphed himself into a tight, seemingly unresponsive ball, and that, to Martin, is just all levels of wrong. 

“Sure,” the woman motions to the small, worn speaker under the floor buttons on the wall. “Go ahead and take the camera. He’s only been responding to us via shaking or nodding his head as of thirty minutes ago.” 

Martin shuffles to the speaker, thumb ghosting over the call button. He spares a glance over his shoulder, meeting Tim’s eyes, sharing a silent, brief conversation, and then he presses the button. 

***

“Jon?”

Jon’s dreaming, he decides, the familair voice a distant echo that’s just too far. 

“Jon? Can you hear me?”

Frowning, Jon rolls his head toward the voice. It sounds closer yet oddly unattainable. 

"Wake up, Jon.”

It’s the last thing Jon wants to do by any means, yet he cracks his eyes open into small slits, opening them wider when he hears a sigh followed by a different voice breathing out a “thank god” from the speaker. 

“Jon, it’s Martin and Tim. We’re just outside. How are you doing?”

Jon considers that he should move to press the button next to the speaker so he can tell Martin that he feels dreadful, but his body feels like lead, and he’s sure his legs won’t be able to support him if he tries. He opts, instead, to shake his head with a wince, and he coughs weakly, frowning at the new development. 

“Jon, what’s wrong? Can you stand?” 

There’s panic in Martin’s voice, his tone far too quick and a tad usteady. Jon shakes his head again and crosses his arms, fingers digging bruises into his skin. 

“Are you hurt?”

Martin’s shouting now, alarmed, and Jon winces at the loud crackle that mixes in with his voice. He shakes his head again and points to his forehead, hoping the unspecific gestures will speak what he physically cannot. 

“What- Tim, what’re you doing?” 

“Boss, does your head hurt?” 

Sighing deeply, Jon nods. 

“How about the rest of you? Feeling too hot and too cold?”

Frowning, Jon drags a slow gaze around the elevator until he spots the small camera in the corner. He stares at it, brows furrowed, and he nods slowly, noting the sharp hiss and muffled arguing from the speaker. 

“Tim, what? How do you-”

“He’s most likely got the flu. It’s been going around the office. I had it a few weeks ago myself, and it’s miserable. I doubt he’s slept properly last night, and who knows when’s the last time he’s had a sip of water. I’m going to move this along.”

Jon’s stomach twists uncomfortably at Tim’s words. He wants to argue; he wants to assure the two that he’s not been stricken with something as mundane as the flu and that he’s perfectly fit to go to work as soon as someone gets him out of this damn box. Yet, he can’t find an ounce of physical energy to feed his wants. He can only curl further into himself, dropping his head back atop his knees, and he’s already drifting once more. 

“Just hang on, Jon. We’ll get you out.” 

***

It’s another two hours before the elevator rumbles back to life. Jon’s asleep when it happens, but he wakes to two sets of hands hovering over him, crowding him, feeling his forehead, mouths moving far too fast yet too slow to beat around the ringing in his ears. 

“-burning up.”

“Yeah, he’s completely out of it. Boss? Jon, you with us?”

Something cold is suddenly being pressed to Jon’s lips, and he welcomes it, his throat bobbing against the cold water. He reaches up to wrap shaking, greedy fingers around the bottle. He takes in big swallows until his lungs quake with a need to cough, and then he sputters around some water and coughs harshly into his fist.

“-shouldn’t go to work like this. I’ll call Elias.”

“Okay, I’m going to take him back up to his flat. Get a read on the fever.” 

“Sure. I’ll meet you up there.” 

Jon’s suddenly being pulled to his feet, and he moves with the steady grip on his arm. His legs immediately begin to cramp and tremble, and he sways, eyes glassy, unfocused, but then someone’s wrapping an even steadier arm around his waist, and the person is grounded, warm. Jon drops his head to the crook of the person’s neck, shivering, exhausted. 

“It’s alright, Jon. We’re here.” 

Martin. Jon hums lowly, pressing himself impossibly close to Martin, leeching Martin’s warmth. He can feel the elevator moving around them just as much as he can feel the worried side gaze on him. “I don’t feel well,” he admits, half-faded. 

“I know, but we’re going to take care of you.” 

Martin’s voice, like his arm, is steady, even, and Jon nods against Martin’s neck. For once, he allows himself to abandon control and place his trust into someone else’s hands, clutching onto the knowledge that Martin and Tim are here and that Martin and Tim will help him.

[staticscreenwriting]

Skin deep - Chapter One || B.H.

Synopsis: Billy survived the battle of Starcourt but is left with a body full of scars. Scars that remind him of the pain he had to go trough and the horrible person he has become. In order to forget about all of that and move on, he wants to get them covered up. Good thing Hawkins has a brand new Tattoo studio and the girl who works there might just be the help Billy has been looking for.

A/N: I needed a TattooArtist!Reader x Billy story so I wrote one and you know me, I can’t keep it short and simple. There will be several parts to this. Don’t ask me about an updating schedule because I don’t have one. I try my best to be consistent but I make no promises. Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated. 

[additional note: I am German. Sometimes I get the tense wrong or make mistakes. I am useless when it comes to punctuation. Go easy on me, please.]

Billy’s palms are clammy as he steps out of his car. His eyes wander towards the sign hanging above the door, welcoming him to “Little Bear Tattoos” as an American traditional bear face grins back at him.

This isn’t his first time getting a tattoo, by all means, he shouldn’t be as nervous as he is. But things are different now. Everything is different. Things change after you almost die because you sacrificed yourself to an otherworldly creature to save a little girl.

He had just turned 18 when he got that stupid little skull inked onto his arm. That’s now just a little over a year ago but it seems like a lifetime has passed since then. Sometimes, Billy thinks, sometimes It feels like that was another person altogether. That dumb little boy who thought he knew shit. The one that paraded his tattoo around like a complete and utter douchebag. He thought it made him look rough and cool and dangerous.

In retrospect, it just made it more obvious that he didn’t know shit about anything. Not life. Not death. And most definitely not about what it means to look rough and cool and dangerous. Sometimes he wishes he could go back to that moment and just relish in ignorant bliss. Most of the time he tries not to think of the past though because thinking of the past means thinking of all the things lost that night in July. Most of all himself.

Back then, getting a tattoo was easy. Now, it feels like the entire world is resting on his shoulders. It feels like he can barely keep it all from crashing down on him. 

The bell above the door chimes as he steps inside the tattoo parlor. It’s a relatively small shop but it looks clean and the walls are covered in framed drawings of very intricate designs. If those have been drawn by this place’s artist, he’s in good hands.

A fluffy little brown dog is lazily resting on a pillow by the shop window and only raises his head as the sound of footsteps approaching fills the room.

“ Hi, welcome to little bear. “ a cheery voice calls out to him as a girl steps out from behind a curtain leading to some backroom. She has a big radiant smile on her face though it exudes a certain warmth that only genuine smiles do. 

“ Hi uh — I was wondering if you have a free spot. “ 

“ Hmm… that depends. What are you wanting to get? “ 

To be quite honest, he hadn’t really thought much about it. All he wanted was something to cover up the ugly scars still streaking most of his body. When before, he felt a certain kind of pride whenever he passed a mirror, now it sends a sharp pain straight to his heart. Everything about him, from the perpetually tired look in his eyes to the scars, it’s al a reminder of the bad things he’s done. And the worst part is that he can never talk to anyone about it. Ever. No one will understand but the people who’ve been there, and though he and Max are getting along much better now, he still doesn’t fancy having long profound conversations with her about his demons.

“ I uh — I’m not sure but it needs to cover something.” 

“ Old tattoo? “ 

Billy swallows audibly “scars.” 

He’s not sure what reaction he’s expected from her but a casual “Okay, we can figure something out. “ is not it. Though he avoids wearing short sleeves these days, whenever someone manages to catch a glimpse of his damaged skin he got 1 of two reactions. Either people started regarding him with pity or disgust and he honestly wasn’t sure which was worse. At least those disgusted by him left him well enough alone and didn’t hold a million questions they expected him to answer in great detail.

“ Let’s sit down and we can talk about some things you like and see how we can incorporate those into a tattoo. Also, I would have to take a look at the area you want me to tattoo and see how bad the scarring is just so I can take that into consideration when designing the piece. Scar tissue is harder to tattoo but don’t worry, I promise I can do it. “

“ You’re gonna be tattooing me? “

It seems like a dumb question but honestly, Billy hasn’t met or seen that many female tattoo artists in his life and this girl seems to be about his age. That’s not something you see every day.

“ Yup. I’m (Y/N), this is my shop. Now, do you want something to drink while we discuss the piece? I got all kinds of sodas, I got water and I got non-alcoholic beer. 

“ Dr. Pepper? “ 

“ Good choice. Coming right up. “ 

She walks behind the counter with the cash register and reaches into a small fridge taking out two cans of Dr. Pepper before leading him towards a little seating area by the window. 

The fluffy little dog lifts his head once again regarding the two of them with only mild interest before plopping back down. 

“ Oh, you okay with dogs? I can take him to another room if you’re uncomfortable. “

Billy shakes his head. Nah, he loves dogs. Always wanted one but Neil, being the miserable bastard he is, never allowed the kids to have any pets. Too much work, too much responsibility. What an asshole. 

Though Billy is never going to admit it, the bedside drawer, that was once filled with issues of Penthouse magazine, now holds a bunch of self-help books and magazines dealing with topics of PTSD and trauma. A lot of them mention getting a support animal whether that be a specially trained dog or just a hamster to keep you company. It makes sense, it gives you someone who listens to you vent about all your problems and insecurities. If only his dad cared enough about his mental state to reconsider his stance on pets. Then again, when has Neil ever cared about him?

“Nah, it’s fine don’t worry. He’s cute.”

“Thanks. His name is Bear and he’s kind of the mascot of this store.”

There’s a twinkle of pride in her eyes while she talks about the shop and her dog. Something Billy is infinitely envious of. Everything he’s ever felt any hint of pride in is gone. His car. His looks. All of it.

“Okay so tell me a little about yourself. Is there anything you can think of that you’d like to get inked? Any interests, hobbies? Maybe you wanna tell me a little about yourself.”

Back before, when things were different, Billy would’ve packed as much ego enlarging words and compliments into it as possible. Would’ve mentioned his car and his most satisfactory performance skills in the bedroom. But now, he hardly knows who he is these days. 

“ Um … my name is Billy. I’m 19, I’m from California. ‘Bout two years ago my dad packed us all up and had us move out here to the end of the world. Then … things happened.”

“You miss California?”

“Every day. The thought of going back one day is the only thing that keeps me fucking going. I miss the ocean. I miss surfing. I miss home. I miss all of it.”

She looks at him intensely for a moment, sizing him up, contemplating her next words. He can almost see the creative gears running in her head. 

“Alright. I might have an idea. I’d have to see the area first though.”

He expects pity in her voice though there is none. Her words are comforting and warm and calm. Billy wonders how often she has to deal with clients like him. Those who come to her with painful and ugly reminders of their past.

His hands are shaking as he pulls off his denim jacket and reveals his left arm to her. The skin is streaked with scars. They’re the same paths that used to wind up and down his arm in inky black hues like poisonous vines. Now they’re a faded pink but that doesn’t mean he hates them any less.

Billy can feel his heart beating in a fast rhythm as anxiety floods his system. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe -

“Okay how big would you want to go,” (Y/N) asks, her voice gentle and soothing and her eyes switching from his arm to his eyes. She doesn’t ask him what happened and that’s a relief.

“As big as you can. I know you can’t make it disappear but I’d like as much of it covered as possible.”

“ I won’t be able to do an entire sleeve today but if that’s something you want we can start with a bigger piece on your upper arm today and then work our way to a full sleeve in the future?”

“Sounds good. I just want the scars gone. I need them covered.”

“Well my guy, you’ve come to the right place. It’s my specialty. You’re in luck too, I’m free all day so depending on your pain tolerance and the trauma of your skin, we might even be able to finish the first piece today.”

Pain tolerance, he wants to scoff at that. What he’s been through, the pain and the anguish and the emotional trauma, nothing will ever compare to that. Not even close. He’d get a 100 tattoos all at once and it still wouldn’t measure up.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

“Cool awesome! Imma go over to the drawing board and you can feel free to keep yourself entertained in the meantime. We have an arcade machine in the back. There’s records in the corner if you want to listen to some music. I’ll even let you choose.”

“Is that an honor?” Billy asks, a small smirk on his face. Every once in awhile a flicker of the person he used to be shines through. But then it’s gone and he’s left as this shadow of his former self.

“Oh you have no idea.”

As (Y/N) settles behind a big wooden table and starts scribbling away, Billy wanders over towards the corner of the studio. A bright red record player is resting on a sideboard surrounded by several boxes filled with vinyl records. They’re sorted by band name then chronologically. There’s all kinds of genres too. AC/DC and Judas Priest but also Stuff like The Mamas and the Papas and the Monkees.

“Anything, in particular, you wanna listen to? Kinda hard to make out your taste with this selection. There’s … everything.” Billy calls out to her, leaving through the records.

“What can I say? I like a bit of everything. Don’t like to limit myself.”

Old Billy would’ve raised his eyebrow and asked her if that extends to her love life as well. But old Billy is gone and so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I know it seems like just your kinda music, but maybe stay away from the hard rock. Maybe something a bit more mellow.”

He hasn’t really listened to a lot of music since … well since everything. He mostly sleeps or reads and sometimes when it’s a good day he even attempts to do a bit of writing. It’s nothing spectacular but it’s - something. An outlet really. The stories vary from an autobiographical retelling of the incident to silly tales of young boys going on space adventures. It's a way to get lost in the save parts of his mind. The ones that can create make-believe worlds and happy thoughts. Not the ones tainted with gruesome images of the past.

The opening notes the Monday Morning by Fleetwood Mac fill the air and Billy doesn’t miss the smile tugging on the corner of (Y/N)’s lips. 

“Nice. Didn’t really think you were a Fleetwood Mac fan.”

Billy shrugs his shoulders casually “they’re a classic.”

He sits back down in the seat by the window, watches as the clouds pass the sky and the people go about their day. That’s until a furry little ball of fluff settles down in his lap and demands to be cuddled.

“Oh hey, you.”

“Sorry about that. Bear does not understand the concept of personal boundaries. He thinks everyone is only here to pet him. If he bothers you just set him down.”

But he doesn’t mind one bit. In fact, combing his fingers through the curly brown fur fills Billy with a sense of calm and it grounds him a little. He really needs to adopt a dog for himself. 

“It’s fine. No bother.”

Time passes with Billy cuddling the dog and ever so often glancing over at (Y/N) while she’s working on the sketch. She’s drawing then erasing then redrawing. Copying then throwing it away then doing it all again. All the while she’s dancing along to the music. There’s a lightness about her that Billy wishes he could possess. Even before the Stacourt situation, he never had this unbothered lightness about him. That’s just not the person you turn into when you grow up in a house with Neil Hargrove.

A light drizzle falls outside and Stevie Nicks sings along to it and life feels … almost peaceful right then. Billy lives for these small moments of normality. These glimmers of what life used to be. 

“Okay, I’m ready. Wanna have a look?” 

There’s a bright smile on her face as she looks at him and waves the sketch around. “I think I nailed this one. I hope you’ll like it.“

Billy can see that she actually means it. It's not just a silly phrase she’s tagged onto her sentence. She’s genuinely nervous for him to see it.

Bear follows Billy as he walks toward the counter, a smiley (Y/N) watching their every move. There’s something about how passionate she is about her work that makes Billy both happy and sad. There used to be things in life that he was passionate about. His car. His clothes. The music he loved. Now it’s all dull and trivial and he’s lost. So damn lost.

His eyes wander towards the sheet of paper. Delicate black lines run across the page, swirling and arching and creating a beautiful composition. It’s a lighthouse. A tall and sturdy one. It shines it’s light out into the distance to guide the ships safely around the sharp edges of the cliffs. It’s a beacon of safety and hope surrounded by the rough sea and crashing waves.

“I thought it was a nice symbol, you know. Light in the dark. Guiding ships to safety.” (Y/N) explains. She’s biting her lip nervously and Billy thinks it’s insanely adorable. This piece is perfect, to think she’s uncertain and nervous about his reaction …

“I tried to incorporate the ocean and the crashing waves. You know, as a reminder of your life in California.”

Billy is speechless for a moment. Everything he wanted. All the ideas swirling around in his head. She put it down on paper, made them visible. And he didn’t even have to voice them. They were all just mushy gray clouds in his head, non forming a coherent picture. Just a feeling. A feeling of peace and belonging. Of being strong when everything around you tries to push you down to your knees.

“Do you like it? I can change it if you —“ 

“I love it!”

Her mood immediately changes after hearing those words. As if a switch is suddenly flipped and sunshine floods her face. Her eyes light up and her smile widens.

“Okay perfect! Wanna get started?” 

“Sure, let’s do it!”

The black leather chair is soft underneath him as (Y/N) puts the stencil onto his skin. She has a soft gentle touch which only matches the tone of her voice. Very calming. A complete opposite to the rest of Billy’s life.

“Okay, so it’s not gonna be pleasant since I have to tattoo over scar tissue. If you wanna tap out or take a break just let me know.”

He’s fairly sure that whatever pain he’ll have to endure, it will be nothing compared to what he’s already been through. Pain has a completely different meaning to him now. 

“I’ll be fine.”

And he means it. Not just about the tattoo, about everything. It feels like this is the first step into a new life. One that won’t be determined by his past mistakes. By the trauma.

The buzzing sound of the tattoo gun fills the air and (Y/N) starts pulling the first few lines. Short strokes. As if to test his pain tolerance. Her eyes wander up to meet his, a silent question shining through them.

He grants her a nod. One of pure determination. One that says, without question: “I’ll be fine!”

For a while, they sit in comfortable silence. There’s just the humming of the machine and the raspy voice of Stevie Nicks to lull them into a soft tranquility. 

“ I’m not gonna ask about the scars but can I ask about the skull on the other arm?”

Billy lets out a mix between a laugh and a scoff. “Sins of my youth really.”

“ Oh geez, that makes you sound so old. You’re what, 19?”

“ Almost 20.”

“ See. You’re still in the prime of your youth!”

Billy shrugs his shoulder as she dips the tattoo gun back into the ink. Truthfully, it doesn’t feel like he’s in the middle of his youth. He feels so damn tired. He never got to be a kid. Never got to be a teen. Always wandering in between it all, lost and disillusioned with no one there to guide or help him.

“ How old are you?”

“ Just turned 20 a few days ago.”

“And you already have your own shop. That’s impressive.”

“Yeah well, it’s all I ever wanted to be. Worked my ass off. Spent all my free time at my cousin's tattoo studio up in Carmel. He taught me everything I know. Worked after school and on the weekends and then when I graduated my cousin gave me a little loan and I had enough to open the shop. He believed in me when no one else did and it means everything to me. Hope I make him proud. I just always felt like this is what I'm meant to be. An artist. And this way my art gets immortalized on people’s skin and in some cases it can help them overcome difficult times in their lives. I hope I can make even the smallest change in people’s lives. “

It doesn’t get lost on him, that she doesn’t mention her parents. Something must be up there but it sure as hell isn’t his place to ask about it. Families, he knows quite well, can be a touchy subject.

“Well, you’re definitely making a change in mine.”

“Yeah?”

She looks almost bashful as the question tumble from her lips.

“Yup. I … I need to make those scars disappear. They — they remind me of the worst time in my life and of a version of myself I never want to be again. Having you cover them for me with this art piece that’s so fucking cool, it means everything.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“You should be proud of yourself.”

There’s a connection there, one he can neither grasp nor explain. It’s like she understands parts of him he doesn’t even put on display. And it’s both scary and exciting. And maybe, he understands parts of her she’s not aware she’s putting on display either.

“Okay. I’m done!”

There’s an infinite sense of pride exuding from her words. Billy wishes there was something in his life that he was good at. Something to let him be proud of himself.

“Wanna take a look?” (Y/N) asks with the most radiant smile playing on her face.

“Absolutely!”

His legs are stiff from sitting in the chair for so long but he can’t wait to see the finished piece. Slowly he walks towards the full-length mirror, (Y/N) hot on his heels.

His eyes fall onto the artwork now permanently inked into his skin. There are vibrant shades of blue and dark black lines. The sea is alive, it’s unforgiving and rough. But there’s the light from the lighthouse, the hope, the safety. It’s all there’s and it’s beautiful. Where there used to be ugly pink scars thick and burning, there’s now a beautiful painting. The scars are gone. The pain is gone. All that’s left is beauty and hope.

He doesn’t realize that tears are running down his cheek until she hands him a tissue. His first reaction is to wipe them away and pretend they weren’t there in the first place. A Hargrove man isn’t allowed to cry. Not in front of people anyway. Especially not in front of women. Hargrove men are bitter and numb. They’re stoic. Silent. Angry. Above all they’re sad.

But isn’t that the person he wants to leave behind?

So he lets himself feel it. Lets the tears fall as if it were nothing. 

Maybe this can be the next step into becoming the person he wishes so desperately he can be.

“I take it you like it?”

“I love it.”

And he hugs her. Pulls her close and tight as if he’s known her forever. She reciprocates the hug in no time. Softly oats him on the shoulder.

She smells like flowery perfume and clean cotton. Soft. Sweet. Intoxicating

“I can not thank you enough.”

“Billy, trust me this means as much to me as it does to you.”

He doesn’t disagree with her but he’s sure that’s not true. It means everything to him.

They talk for a little longer then he pays her, way too little if you ask him. She deserves way more and he suspects that some kind of personal sympathy plays into the price. But he’s not one to argue. Not when he’s sure he’ll come back. There are more scars. More pain. He’s not fixed but he’s at least a work in progress now.

She takes a few Polaroids of his tattoo, to put on her wall. To show people she can cover scars. Can help them. Help fix them. Make them feel less broken. 

“They’re burn scars.”

Billy finds himself sharing a piece of his story. One he’s kept so close to him, sometimes he almost wondered if it was true. But it is. And there are more reminders all over his body. It feels right to share it though. She helped him cover part of it, without judging. Without questions. She deserves to know.

“Huh?”

“My scars. They are burn scars.  Not — not from the outside but from the inside. Like fire going through my veins. I uh don’t know how to explain but that’s what they are. You can tell that to your clients. That you covered burn scars. That you’re that talented. “

For a moment she just stares at him, a deep sense of affection shining from her eyes. It’s comforting and nerve-wracking all at once. But he lets himself feel it. He promises himself to let himself feel the good things even if they seem scary.

“That’s … hey, would you like to grab some dinner with me? I could really go for a burger at the diner round here. It’s real good. “

And with the way she smiles, how the hell is he supposed to say no to that.

“Sounds good to me. Lead the way!”

The sun hangs low above the horizon almost dips behind the line to vanish and make room for the moon but not quite yet. They step out into the dawn, Bear pattering alongside them his leash grabbed tightly in (Y/N) hand. 

As hues of red and pink and orange surround them and dip the world into a golden haze, Billy feels like maybe this is the way. Maybe this is his path leading into a new future. With less pain. Fewer scars. More color and more smiles.

And maybe a beautiful and talented girl and a little dog by his side.

[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

Soulmate Shenanigans

So, lucky me, I found this list of prompts!

Unlucky me, it was for a September event. Surprise, surprise, this is not September

That isn’t going to stop me from doing this, though!

So, without further ado, prompt number one!

Your Soulmate’s name is written on your wrist or palm

Warnings for death mentions galore and drowning, as well as something that isn’t drug use, but if drug use is a triggering topic for you I wouldn’t recommend you read

Not as angsty as these warnings would suggest, but there is still Angst

I don’t know how it got angsty I just work here

World building

The first recorded instance of a palm mark was when Lady Natalia of Venice nearly drowned in a canal

She’d been on her way home from a party alongside her fiance when she “tripped” (the word “tripped” here means “Was pushed by her fiance for financial reasons”) into the river. Her husband-to-be quickly exited the scene, leaving her to be weighed down by her skirts and die.

Angela (forger of swords and mixer of poisons, just happened to be in the neighborhood when she heard a scream and a splash) had other plans. She dove into the water, saving Natalia and cutting her hand in the process.

The two women spent a good deal of time together after that, the scientific Natalia claiming that she only wanted to know why her name was on Angela’s hand.

Some historians claim that the two were platonic soulmates. While this is possible, and platonic soulmates have a long and wonderful history, no one with common sense believes this to be the case

They exchanged love letters that were quite clear that the attraction was a romantic one.

Some historians also claim that there isn’t enough evidence to suggest that they killed the fiance.

Those historians are wrong.

Anyway, in modern days 97% of the population has a palm mark with the name of their soulmate

The tattoo industry has never had so many illegal opportunities

When your soulmate dies, the name doesn’t scar. It doesn’t blister, burn, or black out. All that happens is a thin, impersonal line crossing their name out. Some people don’t notice who they lost for days.

There’s a process to remove palm marks. However, it’s illegal and possibly fatal for the soulmate being removed.

Our Characters

Roman: Roman was confused by the name of his soulmate.

Who names their kid “Janus”?

Am I soulmates with a roman deity? The heck?? SO MANY QUESTIONS AND SO LITTLE ANSWERS

Roman was so excited to have a soulmate. He kept entire journals filled with things he wanted to tell Janus, part diary, part scrapbook, and part love letter. He would doodle hearts around his palm mark.

One night, in April, Roman went to sleep. In the morning, there was a line across his palm.

His soulmate had died, and he hadn’t even seen the line drawn. He broke a little.

Enough said.

Roman took the passion that he’d had for his Janus and channeled it into his acting. If he couldn’t get love, he’d get a fucking Tony Award.

Remus: Remus had been annoyed by his brother’s complaining.

“Oh, boo-hoo, my soulmate has a rare name. That means that as soon as I meet him, I’ll know exactly who he is! Roman, DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE NAMED LOGAN”

Remus was annoyed that his soulmate had the audacity to have a common name. In theory, he could date all of the 18,000 Logans in the country, but does he really have the time?

He and his brother bicker about this for a solid seven years, until the argument abruptly ends. Ever since then, he’s been on his brother’s side in everything he can.

Logan: It made total sense for Logan to not have a soulmate.

His soulmate would have been unlucky, being stuck with a know-it-all like him, at least according to most of the people he knew.

This was a simple solution to the puzzle.

It wasn’t helpful to waste time wishing for a different one.

Janus: Janus had a whole plan for when he met his soulmate.

He wrote it down in 10th grade

Step 1: Wear gloves

Step 2: Find Roman

Step 3: Say something witty

Step 4: Remove gloves, revealing palm

Step 5: This little mystery is over and done with, and hopefully my soulmate isn’t boring

This was how a lot of Janus’s plans would work. Solid ideas, but missing bits and important pieces. This includes his heist plan he scribbled out on a napkin on an April day.

Step 1: Find local con-artists

Step 2: Pretend to be a person with money (which I obviously do not have)

Step 3: Scam them

Step 4: Don’t get murdered on the way out

Step 5: Profit

He pulled off steps 1-3 with ease, but step 4 proved to be a sticking point.

As he escaped via the river, with money in his hands and a “so long, suckers!” on his lips for drama, he thought nothing could go wrong

Fun fact: It’s rather common for con artists to fatally give away their positions by yelling “so long, suckers!”. Just ask Odysseus as he sailed away from the Cyclops.

The con artists shot wildly at his boat, blowing it to pieces. As he went down with the ship, he barely had enough time to think this can’t be happening, and fuck this and I’m going to die at the same age as Philip fucking Hamilton and I really don’t want to go to hell before his lungs filled with water and his heart stopped.

And Janus died.

For a solid two minutes.

Technically, death is when your heart ceases to beat. Even though people have been revived after their hearts have stopped, it is death, and enough to draw a line across a sleeping Roman’s hand.

Janus, however, was saved by an old man, who dragged him out of the river and forced the water out of his lungs. The old man took one look at the teenager and decided that he needed better role models, which is how Patton took Janus under his wing and saved his life in more ways than one.

The Actual Plot

Roman is in a city production of Hamlet. His brother is in the audience, his friend is fixing the lighting, and he’s ready to go.

It’s a pretty good performance, by all accounts, but especially according to Janus.

He’d already been watching the main actor intently, smiling from the mezzanine, but he was even more intrigued when he read the playbill and realized his name was Roman. He could barely pay attention to act five as he planned out the lies he’d tell to get backstage.

Somehow, he didn’t get caught sneaking around, and managed to catch a glimpse of Roman’s hand in a mirror. Janus. He really is his soulmate!

Janus walks over to Roman, says something that isn’t as witty as he would have liked (but not as bad as it could have been), and removes his glove.

Now, he expected his soulmate could have a variety of reactions. He didn’t expect Roman to yell “Not today, ghost!”, throw a prop skull at him, and sprint out of the theater. Janus caught a glimpse of the line through his name.

He was reasonably sure that he wasn’t dead? He could see his reflection in mirrors, he could consume salt, people tended to notice his existence!

Jan didn’t have much time to mull over this, as he was about to be forcibly removed from the greenroom. Logan just wanted to fix the lighting and live his life, but when strangers break into the backstage and upset Roman...

Jan skedaddles as Logan chases him out of the building. The nerd has almost caught the intruder when he runs directly into a man in a green jacket holding a coffee cup full of ketchup

Why did he have a coffee cup full of ketchup?

Remus and Logan bicker as Janus escapes. When Remus realizes Logan’s name, he asks a few questions, but Logan quickly shows his two blank palms, and the matter is settled.

Everything seems over and done with.

Meanwhile, Roman is freaking out. His mind is essentially in a loop of The fuck? The fuck? The actual fuck? He’s completely unsure of what to do. Is he seeing ghosts? Does he only believe he’s seeing ghosts? Is he sane or not?

Remus checks up on his brother at around 3 am, only to find him, exhausted, and writing in his old soulmate journal. Roman tries to explain what just happened, but the narrative told isn’t exactly coherent. All Remus can gather is that

1. His brother thinks that his dead soulmate is alive

2. This is because some guy snuck backstage and told him that he was the dead soulmate in question

3. This was probably the guy Logan was chasing

Remus convinced Roman to go to sleep, and walked out of the apartment with blood on his mind. He was sure that his brother was being manipulated.

This guy might not be dead now, but he would be soon.

Meanwhile, Janus proves that he can, in fact, cross a salt circle, so he must be alive! Right?? He also can’t get a certain actor out of his head, and wonders what his next move should be.

Remus recruits Logan to help him do some investigation in case Shady Liar Dude shows up. They go on several stakeouts together, in equally improbable locations. Maybe the two of them got too far into the secret agent aesthetic. Logan had always wanted to be a detective as a kid.

They fall for each other, and fast

Roman is spiraling, and a chat with Remus has him convinced that he was wrong, and Janus really is dead. He curses himself for believing in the pretty fairy-tale. Yes, because love wins in the end and they all live happily ever after. He has a performance tomorrow.

And it’s really time he got rid of the old scar.

You don’t hang around Remus without knowing where the black market locations are. It’s relatively easy to find the cure for palm marks.

He paces around backstage, holding a journal in one hand and a small bottle in the other. The warning that destroying the palm mark destroys the soulmate causes terror to rise in his throat, even though he knows that Janus is dead and can never read his love letters no matter how many stars he wishes on.

He finally makes his choice when Remus and Logan visit him before the performance. They give him looks of pity. He doesn’t want to be pitied.

According to the label, effects should take place over the next several hours. So, he waits for Janus’s name to disappear from his hand.

Janus managed to hustle someone with orchestra seats for their tickets. Despite not getting off on the right foot with his soulmate, he isn’t going to let him go that easily. And Roman’s brilliant performance that night just reinforces that. If he was good weeks ago, he was a star now. Janus was transfixed.

When the curtain call came, Janus was the first on his feet for a standing ovation. Remus and Logan noticed him, and pushed their way through the applauding audience. Both of them almost hoped that he’d get away again so they could continue spending time together.

Roman notices him. They lock eyes. Janus waves as though to say Hi, I’m here, apologies for the awkwardness of our meet-cute, but coffee? Roman gives him a look of disdain, as if to say I can’t believe I thought you were my soulmate, you con artist. He intends to look away and bask in the applause, but before he can do that, Janus collapeses.

Roman is confused at first, and then it clicks. That’s his soulmate. That’s his Janus.

And he killed him.

Pandemonium breaks out. Roman leaps off the stage, Remus freezes in panicked comprehension, the crowd scatters, and several people try to reach the dying man.

Logan gets there first. His mind scans memories of hours spent in libraries, researching everything there is to know about palm marks. Why didn’t some people have them? How did you lose them? How could you get them back?

He instructs Remus and Roman to help carry Janus to the greenroom.

They race him there, everyone in a state of panic (including Logan, but more importantly he has a job to do). Logan tells Remus to run and get a few basic ingredients, and they wait. Time moves much too fast and much too slow, until he comes back.

Logan works chemical wonders, piecing together Roman’s hand until everything is stabilized.

A vicious scar, the type you’d except if your soulmate was really gone, forms on Roman’s palm, and it will stay there for the rest of his days.

Janus comes back from death’s door for the second time.

After The Drama

Logan and Remus eventually move past the “but I don’t have a soulmate” “and yet I still am in love with you” dithering and go on a date that isn’t for the purpose of stalking a supposed stalker.

They go to the aquarium.

Meanwhile, there’s a lot to work out between Roman and Janus. From “wow, you’re not dead” to “wow, I nearly murdered you”, we don’t have time to unpack all that.

But they do get coffee. And they talk.

Soulmate stuff! I really like soulmate aus, despite not liking to write straight up romance

It’s weird

Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

[iron--spider]

you’re as good as it gets

“Whoever would have thought Peter would replace me?” Tony asks, peering over at Pepper as they set the table. “I guess I should have. I guess I should have seen it coming. I’m not as cool as I once was.”

 “I am going to record you,” Pepper says, glancing up as she sets the silverware down. “And then I am going to send the videos to Peter, whenever you do this.”

 “Good,” Tony says. “Then maybe he’ll see how much he’s hurting his old man—” Pepper starts coming at him with the dish towel, and Tony laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Sort of.”

 “This is what you wanted him to do, right?” she asks, bracing her hand on the chair and looking at him. “This Octavius guy, doing this with him gets Peter college credit?”

 “The class does,” Tony says, chewing on a toothpick. “The working with him thing is a whole different...thing.”

 “He’s just living his life,” Pepper says, and she’s looking at him sadly now, like she might get it. “Getting better after everything he’s gone through. You know he’s not actually replacing you, he’s just—”

 “No, I know,” Tony says, laughing a little bit. “I know. I’m just being dramatic. To irritate you.”

 “Mhm. Easily done.”

 Tony doesn’t know much about Otto Octavius. Well, he knows everything he learned after he heavily, heavily researched him when Peter started working with him in his lab on the weekends. But, he doesn’t know Octavius as a person, and he doesn’t hardly trust anybody with Peter, even people he trusts. Logically, this is a good thing. Peter’s preparing for college. He’s getting back into the groove of things after...all the bullshit. He was having a hard time with it, for a while. Being gone for five years. His life upended. Tony nearly dying in front of him and losing an arm as a result of the near death. So Tony knows this is good. The kid’s moving on.

 He’s moving on?

He’s moving...on. 

 Tony’s had a lot of people move on from him. He expects it. He expects every day for Pepper to up and leave, for Morgan to pack up her little pink Hello Kitty suitcase and disappear in the wind. Rhodey never picking up his calls again. Happy slamming the door in his face. All of them would probably beat the shit out of him if they knew he still thought that way, but it’s so ingrained in him that it’s hard to push it back.

 He knows it would piss Peter off too. So Tony never says anything to him about his own dumb shit or his worries or his occasional loneliness, despite his firecracker of a daughter who’s been dressing up in Spider-Man costumes lately. But Tony misses Peter. And feels a dumb tinge of jealousy knowing he’s learning and growing with some other asshole scientist mentor guy. Tony is supposed to be the only asshole scientist mentor guy in his life.

 His phone buzzes in his pocket.

 “Speak of the devil,” Tony says, opening up Peter’s message. 

 “See, there you go,” Pepper says, laying out napkins. “He wouldn’t be messaging you if he’d replaced you. He’s too polite for that.”

 The message is a photo—a billboard of Tony himself, the kind of shit that started cropping up everywhere after everyone found out what he did. Suited up, sans helmet, staring upwards with a look of determination and grit on his face, like some kind of stained glass church art. Peter is in the foreground, both eyebrows raised, and it’s captioned “TONY ARE YOU STALKING ME?”

 “What a nerd,” Tony says, full of fondness. 

 “Make sure he knows he’s coming for movie night tomorrow or Morgan will never forgive him,” Pepper says. 

 “Noted,” Tony says, crafting a reply.

 ~

 A couple days later Tony is falling asleep sitting up in the workshop, still analyzing the layout for the new bot he’s creating to accompany DUM-E and U. He’s seen Peter a couple times in the past week, but the kid looks more worn out than normal with every new day that passes. Tony had texted a bit with May, trying not to worry, but that’s practically his every day state of mind, especially when it comes to his kids. 

 His kids. Plural. Two. How long has he been thinking about Peter like that? One of his own. Since before the end of the world? During, while he was gone, when there were things Tony couldn’t change, when the world was so heavy that he had to remove himself from it? When his failure loomed in front of him like a crumbling shadow, the darkness drawing all the light away from him?

 Was it then? Or was it when he saw the kid on their newfound battlefield, like a memory of a lifetime past, an impossible miracle? Talking and talking and talking like he used to?

 Tony leans forward and braces his elbows on the table, digging his thumbs into his eyes, nearly poking his own fucking eye out with his new titanium alloy thumb. It’s been a while and he’s still not used to the new arm. How it looks, how it feels, what other people think. An eternal reminder, just like the arc reactor was. Once again, he’s marked.

 He’s about to call it a night when his phone starts ringing.

 Peter.

 It’s after midnight, and yeah, he’s gotten calls from Peter at all hours of the night, but usually, it’s when he’s in trouble. 

 Tony answers fast. “Hey buddy,” he says. “You okay?”

 Peter’s breath is coming fast, and he doesn’t say anything for a moment. 

 Tony sits up straighter, eyes intent. “Peter, what’s going on?” he asks. “Talk to me.”

 “I—I, I—I made a bad decision. I didn’t know. I didn’t—I didn’t know. Help me.”

 Tony nearly leaps to his feet. Help me. Not I need help. Just help me. “Where are you?” he asks. “What happened? Who did this, what’s going on?”

 “I’m in—I’m in the suit,” Peter says, and Tony doesn’t know if he’s ever heard him sound like this. Only in the moment he knew he was dying. Or when he thought Tony was.

 “I’ll track you, are you safe?” Tony asks, getting up and sweeping towards the exit, a tension headache spreading across his forehead. “Can you stay where you are?”

 “I’ll—I’ll stay close to where I am, it should be—should be okay, but I don’t know, I don’t know.” His voice breaks and he sucks in a few gasping breaths. “I can’t think. I can’t—help me, please, I messed up, I don’t know what to do.”

 “I’m coming, I’m on my way,” Tony says, trembling now, himself, trying to summon the kind of strength that whatever this is needs. “Stay on the line with me, Pete. I’ve got you, just stay there.” He grabs his earpiece on the way out, activating it.

 “Friday, track Peter and give me the fastest possible routes to get to him,” Tony says, starting up the stairs. 

 He hasn’t had a suit on in almost a year. He hasn’t felt strong enough, safe enough, and the others have been covering it. It, the royal It, everything that needed to be done. Tony did what he could and it wound up well, and after that, nobody’s needed Iron Man. 

 But Peter needs him now.

 ~

 Tony can barely get him to talk while he’s on his way over, and that terrifies Tony even more—just short, clipped answers, wavering breathing, and it sounds like a panic attack. But Peter doesn’t seem to hear him, when Tony tries to talk him through it. He’s faraway in his head, too. 

 Tony finally finds him in an unused tunnel in Harlem, and getting over there without drawing a crowd is more difficult than Tony would have liked. But Friday finds him the way in that Peter must have found, and it’s like dropping directly into a horror movie. Quiet, echoes, dripping. 

 Peter crying.

 He’s sitting there, against the wall, his mask balled up beside him. This place is dirty and abandoned, and he looks too bright and vibrant to be here. Even in the state he’s in.

 Tony lets the nanos crawl back into the housing unit and he rushes over to him, kneeling by his side. He glances up, briefly, to make sure no one is keeping him here, that this isn’t a trap, but he doesn’t see anything anywhere. He hopes Friday would alert him to anything like that.

 “Hey, hey, okay,” Tony says, one hand on Peter’s shoulder, the other tipping his chin up. “Here I am, okay? What happened? What’d you do? I’m sure whatever it is, not your fault, we can fix it. We can fix it, together, no problem, kid. You know how much shit I’ve messed up and thought was beyond repair? Plenty. I always fix it, and we’re gonna fix this too.”

 Peter’s eyes finally focus on him, red-rimmed, and he shakes his head. He shudders to his feet, bracing his hand on the wall behind him, and he nearly falls before Tony grabs him and steadies him.

 “Otto,” Peter says, sniffling. “Doctor Octavius. He, he, he—he’s a bad guy, Tony, he’s—I’ve been helping him invent things and working on his specs and I’ve been helping him with all this stuff for months and months and he’s using it to hurt people, to commit crimes. He’s got—an entire team of guys, and I didn’t even mean to find them but I found them, tonight, they’re all these costumed villains, they were—they were working with the Rhino, that big guy I put away last month—”

 “Yeah, I remember,” Tony says, still holding onto him.

 “The police thought he had people behind him, more—more powerful people, but tonight I went after these guys that had robbed a bank on 4th street and I webbed up one of them but the other got away and I followed him—but I realized he was leading me somewhere bigger, and there were—Tony, he was there, Otto, he was in charge—he’s using these—these arms, they look like octopus arms, and I, I—I’m the one that helped—I helped him, I helped him with those—with those specs—”

 He covers his mouth, shaking his head, and before Tony can think about hugging him he steps forward and buries his face in Tony’s shoulder. 

 Peter keeps talking, muffled. “He’s responsible—his group, these people, they’re responsible for so, so much—shit—countless robberies, kidnappings, that—that explosion, at that office building, that happened—that happened in July, that was them, Tony, and people died, and I—and I’ve been—working with him since June—”

 “Stop, stop, stop,” Tony whispers, holding onto him.

 Peter gasps, sounds like he’s gonna start choking, and he claws at Tony’s shoulders. “I should have—realized, I should have known, some—somehow, figured it out, realized, but he—he acted so, so normal, with me, and I thought he was—I thought he was doing something—good, but he’s—he’s not—”

 “And you’re sure—”

 “I’m sure,” Peter whispers, wounded. “Positive. And I—they were picking up and moving their—base and I was—freaking out too much to even—follow—keep track—”

 “Shh, relax,” Tony whispers, ruffling Peter’s hair. “Relax, breathe.”

 Peter stops talking, but his breathing is labored, and he’s holding on tight.

 “The guy that got away, that led you to all this, did he know you were following him? Did he know what you saw?”

 “Don’t think so,” Peter says. He shakes his head. “I should never have—even taken that course, with Otto, let alone started—working with him. I made a bad decision, a—a stupid decision. May is gonna be so disappointed in me. And I know...I know you don’t like him.”

 Tony scoffs, still rocking them back and forth, gently. “I didn’t not—listen, one, May can never be disappointed in you. Please. And me, I’m just—I’m just jealous. I wanna work with you, I wanna hoard you, and that’s selfish of me, whatever. That’s all. But fuck that guy, now I have a reason to hate him. We’re gonna take him down, yeah?” He pulls back, holding Peter by the shoulders. “Yeah?”

 Peter looks positively fucking miserable, but thankfully, uninjured. “I’ve been helping him, Tony,” he says, dejected. “With...God knows what. The arms, they’re—they were supposed to be for limb replacement, but he’s altered them, and they’re—they look dangerous. He was in charge, he was—with all these criminals, some I’ve seen before, some that have gotten away from me and he was—he was in charge.”

 “Listen,” Tony says, stepping a little closer. “I’ve been betrayed before. More than one time. Used for what I know, what I can do. That’s what happened here. Nothing else. You have not and will not ever hurt anybody or anything. You’re a fucking angel, kid, and this does not change that. We’re gonna take care of this. You could do it without me, because you can do anything, but I’m gonna help you every step of the way.”

 Peter heaves a sigh, the kind of motion that shows he’s still horrified and put-upon by all this, but relieved that he’s not handling it alone. Tony knows how that is. It’s always easier to have backup, especially when things are personal. They both take things to heart.

 Peter moves in and hugs him again. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

 “Nope,” Tony says, automatically, hugging him back. “No reason to be sorry. My least favorite phrase from you.”

 “I’m just sorry for everything,” Peter says, voice breaking again. There’s a lot more behind that one, and Tony sighs, rubbing his back.

 “Don’t be,” he says. “You’re doing everything right. The world just sucks and good people get taken advantage of. And you’re as good as it gets.”

 “But we’re gonna fix it,” Peter says, tentatively, like he’s hoping to believe it.

 “Yes,” Tony says, firmly. “We’re gonna fix it.”

[creative-frequency]

Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Reader: Overtime

Word count: 2917 Pairing: Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Reader Notes: Looks like this is turning into a series and I’m okay with that.

Previous Part

My Writing Masterlist

“There is a package for you.”

The post droid offers the small box forward and your brows scrunch together in thought. “What package?”

“Spare parts designated as ‘2-5-7-K’.”

That kriffing–

It’s the new AC control panel and the connectors that needed changing because the old ones were so worn that the door could break any moment. Your face flushes hot just thinking back to the last time you were near that door. Inquisitor Cal hasn’t been bothering you since – not while awake at least. It’s amazing how gentle scenarios your mind can dream up about someone who freaks you out.

Because you’re a coward, you send a droid to find the Inquisitor and ask him when would be alright to invade his privacy in order to fix the door and the air conditioning. From the bottom of your trembling heart you wish he will be off-planet on a mission during the repairs.

The droid comes back with a breathlessly recorded message. It probably found the Inquisitor in his usual prancing grounds at the dojo.

“Tomorrow morning [sounds of a lightsaber hitting something metallic] should be okay.”

You don’t know if it’s good or extremely bad that you won’t have more time to mentally prepare yourself to enter his quarters. And he didn’t say anything about his own whereabouts, so you’ll just need to assume the worst. Great.

Cal is surprised to hear from you even if it isn’t directly but through a droid. It messes up his rhythm and he breaks the training droid in an attempt at doing two different things at the same time.

Even if you haven’t seen him in the past few days, he has been watching you. It’s painfully evident that you’re not the most aware of your surroundings when working. The uneasy feeling that sometimes overcomes you in the middle of doing something utterly trivial, it’s all his influence: The intense stare tingling in the back of your neck. The sudden cool air current, almost like a breath on your cheek. All of it originates from how his pulse quickens when he sees you.

Cal cannot explain it but it’s not all bothersome. It’s intriguing. He feels something completely new as his eyes trace the shape of your face, the edges of your body under the uniform and the movements of your fingers and steps. You always seem to mind your own business but still are well-respected and over encumbered with work around the Fortress.

His mind tangles from thinking about how to start a conversation. He doesn’t have a reason; he just wants to try to have some kind of social contact with you. He has felt the need for companionship, just someone to talk to, ever since he was appointed an Inquisitor and it became obvious that his brothers and sisters would have nothing to say to him – a former Jedi, the rising star of the Rebellion. The past means nothing to him anymore but some people don’t let go so easily.

Cal doubles his training efforts to have the next day arrive faster.

For you, the morning arrives too soon.

You can barely sleep a wink. The dark liquid in your morning cup drains right into your soul, but the substitute for natural caffeine works like a faulty speeder engine. The jumpstart energy spike never comes and looks like it’s one of those days when you’re going to need to push the proverbial speeder.

Dragging your legs while a happily beeping droid carries the tools and spare parts beside you, you make your way towards the infamous 257K. Each step brings you closer to doom and demise.

Swallowing helps nothing as your heart beats in your throat and your whole body trembles. You hit your knuckles sharply against the metal door, silently praying to every pagan deity you can think of. Seconds feel like hours as you wait for a reply or the door to open, but nothing happens.

You knock again, possibly a bit more lightly, unable to believe your insane luck.

“Looks like no one’s home,” you say to the droid. Stupid relief spreads all the way to the tip of your toes. While humming to yourself, you use the maintenance key card to open the door to the residential quarters.

The rooms the Inquisitors and the Fortress key personnel get are so much larger and fancier than yours. While you have only one room plus bathroom, this one has at least three different rooms, fully furnished and including all sorts of appliances. But then again, you should consider yourself lucky to have your own room instead of sharing quarters like most of the maintenance level staff.

Looking around with interest and criticizing the familiar Imperial-style decorations in your mind, you fail to realize that you’re, in fact, not alone in the room.

The droid next to you beeps. The shape of a ginger bed hair waddles into your field of view – shirtless and yawning.

You’ve never been more certain about a moment becoming your last of existence.

“Relax. You don’t need to be afraid of me,” the Inquisitor says with mirth in his tone and his eyes skim your immobilized frame up and down. His voice his still hoarse from sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, sir,” you peep in a tiny voice, barely forcing any sound outside your throat. There is absolutely no place on the man you can let your gaze befall, not the eyes, not the chest, definitely not on the lower body, so you scour the walls.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Cal assures. He feels something immensely satisfying at looking at you quiver in a mix of fear and respect, but it irks him when you refuse to meet his gaze.

You don’t believe any of his words but can’t help relaxing your shoulders.

“Thanks… I guess.”

Cal grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and settles to stare at you while emptying the drink. Seeing him shirtless doesn’t help to erase the filthy dreams from your memory. In truth, you’re genuinely sure they’ll start having some interesting plot twists from now on.

“So… I’ll switch the AC panel now,” you say aloud, pretending that the room is empty.

“Knock yourself out.”

You turn to eyeball the Inquisitor in bewilderment because of his choice of words.

“That’s what they say, right? It’s a figure of speech.” He sounds uncertain, but you nod slowly.

“Right, sir,” you say and decide to focus back on the job. The sooner it’s done, the sooner you’ll get out of this flytrap.

“You can drop the ‘sir’,” the Inquisitor says and hesitates for a bit. “It sounds weird.”

You try to wrestle your curiosity down but lose the battle. The Inquisitor earns your full attention with arms folded over your chest. Though his bare pecs instantly draw some of it, as well as the thin line of hair leading down into what you assume to be government-issued Inquisitorial pajama pants. They’re Imperial black and not at all complementing to his form. You bite your lip and feel the heat rise up your neck. So much for not staring.

“What should I call you then?” A bold question perhaps, but with each passing moment you feel less like he is going to run you through with a lightsaber.

He chuckles. “I’m Cal.”

You tap the name plate on your chest. “Well, this is me. I guess you would’ve already known that if you’d been interested in my ID last time.”

The mood in the room freezes. Cal looks at you with shock that quickly turns into a hint of a smirk. You wonder how fast he will catch you if you try to run. Learning to keep your big mouth shut in the presence of an Inquisitor would be a beneficial skill. It’s a wonder your career in the Empire is as long as it is.

You suck in a breath and stutter: “I-I didn’t mean–”

“You’re right.” He sits down on a stool by the kitchen nook’s counter and carefully places the almost empty water bottle on the surface.

“I’ll just start working now,” you say quietly and huff out the air in your lungs. Another dodged blaster bolt.

You try not to sneak glances at Cal while you work and he is hovering around in the kitchen and apparently making some breakfast for himself. The smell of real coffee soon fills the room and it’s so delicious that it almost brings tears to your eyes. It must be some really high quality stuff.

Cal miraculously lets you work in peace and the only sounds in the room are your short commands at the maintenance droid. You’re itching to turn and look at what the Inquisitor is doing, but resist the urge. Switching a thermostat unit and a control panel is not really a difficult or time-consuming task and you’re done in record time, eager to get out.

“Done already?” Cal asks as soon as you screw in the last piece.

“Yeah. I’ll take a look at the door next.” You wipe your brow even though the room is cool because of the broken AC. The unit starts immediately blowing warm air.

“Come here first. There’s enough for you too.” Cal taps the stool next to him and you feel the bottom of your stomach drop. You miss the slight shaking of his hand against the dark leather.

“Uh. I, um, can’t. I’m working. Sorry,” you mumble half of the words but the Inquisitor still stares at you with a persistent smile, looking almost like a normal person – a shirtless, strikingly attractive person with the ability to kill you with just his willpower.

He taps the stool again. “C’mon, I know you think it smells delicious. No one needs to know you’re taking an extra break. I’ve got your back, I swear.”

For some wicked, self-destructive reason, you find yourself trusting his words. Or possibly it’s the amazing scent of coffee that lures you slowly to plant your butt on the stool way too close to the half-naked Inquisitor and you don’t know what in the absurd situation makes you the most nervous.

“How do you know that? That I thought it smelled delicious?” you ask quietly as Cal reaches out to grab a cup, fills it and places it in front of you. The coffee is of the perfect mellow dark brown color and just inhaling the scent makes you quiver. “Thanks…”

Cal smiles as you dare a glance at him. “I just felt it.”

He really wants to add the loud flustered feeling you emitted the moment you realized he was in the room, but decides against it. Teasing you too much would be just cruel.

“I see,” you mumble.

“Try it.” Cal nods towards the cup.

You do as he orders and feel the flush of prickling warmth spread from your tongue to every inch of your body.

“It’s amazing.” You gawk at the cup. You’ve never tasted anything so good. The caffeine substitutes can’t even project a light to the real thing. You quite certainly would kill to be able to drink it every day.

“They call you the head of the droid army, right?” Cal asks casually just to make conversation.

You jolt at the comment. In any other situation it would’ve made you laugh.

He continues: “How long’ve you been here to earn a nickname like that?”

You take another sip of the coffee. Delicious. “A bit over two years. I was working on a Star Destroyer before but got transferred here.”

Cal hums in approval. “A promotion, then?”

“Yeah.” Working in a base is likely safer than being on a ship, so in that sense Cal is right. At the time it just didn’t feel like an upgrade to be dragged to a backwater planet like Nur.

You drink the coffee in an uncanny silence for a while and notice that Cal is doing nothing but leaning his elbows against the counter and looking at you. It’s disturbing and makes your already precocious pulse grow even faster. His cup is already empty.

“I’ve seen you train. It’s very impressive,” you say, unsure whether it’s an okay topic.

“Impressive, huh? Nice to know you think that way about me,” Cal teases and gets you flustered, again.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” you reply dejected. Your heart is running a mile a minute and he probably notices it with his stupid senses.

Cal leans towards you with an intense look in his eyes. You lean as far back as you dare without falling off the stool. Your eyes are torn between his freckles, lips and pecs. It’s all making you giddy and nervous.

“W-what?” you manage to splutter out.

“You’re just so… I…” He can’t finish the sentence. Why is he so fixated on you? It makes no sense but he lacks the motive to fight it. Cal’s gaze falls from your eyes to your lips and you’ve seen that look before.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” you ask rather wryly, hoping the tone will mask your inner turmoil.

“Do you want me to?” Cal looks at you intently, hiding his astonishment.

You feel his shallow breaths on your skin as he gets closer and chills run up your spine. The whirlpool of emotions spins faster, making you feel dizzy and surreal. You’re scared and intrigued by the fiery look in his eyes.

“…If you want to.”

This is not actually happening.

“Yes or no?”

Cal takes your chin and you suck in a short breath.

“I’ve got somewhere to be soon, so you need to hurry up.” The words come out sassier than intended and you relish at seeing the smile that spreads to Cal’s face. His eyes flit downwards to your lips and he stops himself from hesitating any longer.

You let out the most obscene sound when his mouth pushes against your slightly open lips and you know it’s bad but you just don’t care. His fingers move up your jaw and touching your hair makes another wave of shivers course through you. You take his free hand and press it onto your waist, which leads to him pulling you up and the stool falls behind you. You hum at feeling the heat of his exposed skin against yours. The kiss deepens and your tongue peeks into his mouth. Cal pushes you against the counter and you’re finally trapped in his clutches.

You’re making out with the one of the most dangerous things in the Fortress, possibly in the whole Empire, and for some reason it’s the best thing that has happened to you on Nur.

“Why mmh–” you try to start when Cal breaks the kiss to draw in a heavy breath, but he doesn’t allow you to finish another word. His cheeks are equally flushed as yours, heart beating loudly in his ears but you both ignore the signs of nervousness and let the craving for being touched overflow.

Cal’s hands wander further down and cup your ass, pulling your hips flush to his. Even if the Imperial pajama pants don’t give much of a show, they certainly allow you to feel it. The want and flustering unease makes your cheeks burn. Cal realizes you can feel his arousal and your pace breaks when he shifts awkwardly.

You pull away from each other, panting and eyes wide. Cal wipes his mouth to the back of his hand and you’ve never seen anyone look so hot.

For a fleeting moment, the fiery, challenging look in his eyes persists and you’re burning to respond to it. Few short breaths dissipate the heavy mood enough to restore some sense into you.

“Wow, I–, that was… um,” your mouth opens and closes, some resemblance of words coming out in jarring patches.

Cal is definitely as equally flustered. The maintenance droid, whose existence you both had already happily forgotten, beeps to signal that it’s almost time for your next task. You’ll be late of schedule because of this.

“Uhh, I should… go.” You motion towards the general direction of the door but can’t take your eyes off the man before you. The man, who you just kissed. Who you don’t know at all. Who is an Imperial Inquisitor.

“Ah kriff, I forgot I’ve got somewhere to be too,” Cal huffs, glances at the chronometer on the wall and runs a hand through his hair. His chest heaves with each breath, trying to pace its rhythm.

You don’t know what to say. Just like that, Cal disappears into the other room and you stand baffled next to counter. Maybe trysts like this aren’t such a big deal to him. There is still some coffee in your cup and it would be a shame to waste it, so you down the liquid in hasty sips.

Before you’re done piling your things onto the droid, Cal emerges from what you assume to be his bedroom in full Inquisitor garb and the sight makes you feel a tingle that’s not altogether shaped by fear anymore.

“I hope you can fix the door before I get back.”

He winks.

The sound of his lightsaber blade erupting straight into the door control panel elicits a short scream out of you.

Before you can recover from the shock and start screaming at Cal, he is already gone with a grin and you’re facing some serious overtime at work.

//

Part 3

[averykedavra]

Valley of the Dolls 3/10

The wonderful idea of apathy!Roman goes to @caffeinated-cryptid, an amazing artist and all-around great person. Check out their @ts-unsolved au, it owns my heart! This is mostly in line with their ideas, but I took it in a slightly different direction. These chapters are getting steadily longer and I’m sorry. You can find this fic on Ao3 here.

(Title is from Valley of the Dolls by MARINA. Chapter is based around The Record Player Song by Daisy the Great)

Pairings: platonic DLAMPR

Warnings: gun mention, blood mention, eating and food, slight NSFW jokes, depression and depressive symptoms, very minor body horror, self-deprecation, suicidal ideation, sympathetic Remus, sympathetic Janus, a ton of angst (but I’ve got a happy ending planned). Set immediately after Putting Others First.

Summary: After the disastrous video and a week of spiraling, Roman becomes a Dark Side, Apathy. At first, Remus is thrilled, dragging his brother into all sorts of trouble. But Roman’s no fun anymore, the other Sides are paying a visit downstairs, and it’s becoming clear that Thomas can’t survive without Creativity by his side.

Chapter 3: Change of Pace

First. Previous. Next. Masterlist.

Wipe my eyes and cut me off I'm just crying for attention I wish I'd been a teenage rebel Never even got detention I don't really love you I just said that for a change of pace I'm sorry, sometimes I don't recognize my face ...Sometimes I think all I'm ever doing is Trying to convince myself I'm alive.

“So.”

Jan didn’t respond. He was still staring at the door.

“So,” Remus said again, hoping something would happen this time.

“One minute, Remus.”

Remus tapped his feet together and waited. Ten seconds in, he got bored. “So?”

Jan pinched the bridge of his nose. “One. Minute. Remus.”

“It’s been like five minutes already!” Remus complained. “Are you having a mental breakdown?” Remus poked Jan’s cheek. “You seem the type to have a mental breakdown.”

Jan swatted Remus’ hand away. “I am not having a breakdown. I am considering my options.”

“Really?” Remus asked. “What are the options?”

“Forcibly dump Roman back with the ‘Light Sides’, groom him in the ways of evil and selfishness, let him waste away on his own, or burn the entire Mindscape to the ground so I don’t have to deal with this insanity.”

Remus nodded thoughtfully. “I like the last one.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

“But I think you’re forgetting the most entertaining option.” Remus spread his hands. “How about—”

Jan glared at him. “Do not say murder.”

“Ah...” Remus shifted. “Theft! Of his life and internal organs!”

Jan gritted his teeth. “Of course you want to murder Roman.”

“I don’t want to,” Remus protested. “It would just be the most entertaining. He’s more fun when he’s alive! I can stab him and cut his fingers into itty bitty pieces and—”

A vein throbbed in Jan’s forehead. “Remus, be quiet for a second.”

Remus obediently waited a second. “—but I bet we could strangle him without too much trouble, unless you want to be really kinky and get some knives involved—”

“Remus.”

“—I dunno if you’re into that sort of thing...hey, we’ve never found out if you’re poisonous to eat! This could be our chance to—"

“Remus!” Jan snapped. “This has been a very long day. Thomas is sick as a dog from the reconstruction of his entire Mindscape, I had to comfort a sobbing Patton and a panicking Virgil despite not being an empathetic or comforting person, and now I find out that Creativity has been dumped on my doorstep like an unwanted magical orphan. Please, if you have any mercy, let me think.”

Remus looked Jan over. “So...you’re having a breakdown now, right?”

“Why haven’t I killed you yet?”

“Beats me!”

Jan leaned forward and slammed his forehead into Roman’s door.

“JanJan?” Remus tapped his shoulder. “Whatcha doing?”

“Praying for spontaneous human combustion.” Jan squeezed his eyes shut. “Give it a second.”

“C’mon.” Remus lowered his volume and tried his best to sound not entirely maniacal. “Let’s say hi to Roman already! Maybe he’s slept off his weird funk. Or maybe this was all thanks to sleep deprivation or a calcium deficiency and he’ll be back to normal in no time!”

“Should we be so lucky.” Jan slowly raised his head. “I suppose I should greet him, despite him definitely not wishing to see me.”

“He doesn’t want to see anyone,” Remus confessed. “It says so on the door.”

Jan nodded and knocked twice. “Roman? Can we come in?”

There was no reply.

“Let me in,” Jan ordered. “I am not having a repeat of the past nine days, Roman. I need to speak with you.”

Remus looked at the still-locked door. “Um, JanJan? Try not to sound like you’re going to yell at him for stealing your old record player or disown him for stripping. Just a thought.”

Jan sighed. “Fine. Roman, please. I don’t want this to be the case, but...you’re here now, and I want to help. Preferably to get you out of here as fast as possible. Whatever the case, I—I look after everyone down here. That’s my job. I suppose you’re technically part of that now. So...could you let me in?”

There was a long pause. Remus shuffled from foot to foot, ignoring the itch in his hands and feet. Jan glanced at him and tossed him a fidget cube, the one with the buttons. Remus grinned and began to fiddle with it immediately.

Finally there was a soft click and the door swung open.

Jan breathed a sigh of...relief? Who knew with JanJan. He stepped inside and Remus followed, still enjoying the satisfying click of the buttons.

Nothing in Roman’s room had changed. Roman still lay curled on the bed, staring at the wall.

“Hello,” Jan said delicately, fidgeting with his gloves. Remus chewed on his lip and wondered if Jan needed the fidget cube more than him. “Uh, Roman?”

“He’s listening,” Remus explained. “Just doesn’t bother talking back.”

“Okay. Alright.” Jan tried for a smile. “So! You’re Downstairs now? A ‘Dark Side’, to use your terminology? Do you know why that happened?”

Remus chucked the fidget cube at Roman’s back, but even the small thump didn’t make Roman respond.

“Right, I suppose you couldn’t answer any of my questions if you’re currently mute.” Janus flexed his fingers. “Look. Can I be honest with you?”

That got a small derisive huff from Roman. Remus grinned.

“Yes, haha, I’m Deceit, very funny, let’s continue.” Jan tented his fingers. “You’re upsetting the delicate equilibrium I’ve scrounged from what I was given in this miserable dump, and your presence has implications I’d rather not think about. So I would, if you’d be so kind to let me, like to return you Upstairs and have our darling friends the ‘Light Sides’ figure out how to fix this. Do you understand?”

Roman stared at the wall.

“This is very disconcerting,” Jan muttered. “Roman, please move. Or speak. Or convey to me your sentience.”

“Look, he’s not gonna.” Remus shrugged. “Just roll with it and drag him anywhere he needs to go. He’s, like, really depressed.”

Jan’s eyebrows pinched together. “Depressed?”

“Yeah, he’s blue da ba dee da ba die.” Remus waved a hand. “It’s obvious.”

Jan gave Roman a piercing look. “If that’s the case, maybe we should summon that strange therapist with the pink shirt?”

“Roman’s side of the Imagination,” Remus said. “Dunno what it’ll look like right now. I guess we’ll have to explore...other avenues.”

“I don’t know whether you’re implying sex or torture, but no.”

“Hey, they don’t have to be mutually exclusive, if you—"

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Jan clenched his fist. “Why did I take that oath to never silence you guys?”

“Oh yeah!” Remus turned to Roman. “One of the perks of being down here—JanJan doesn’t shut you up! I mean, I guess he never did anyway ‘cause he says you’re easy to manipulate, but—” Janus coughed loudly. “Anyway! It’s actually pretty cool down here, Ro-Bro! We’ve got a couch and everything!”

Jan’s face worked. Remus didn’t know if he was about to smile or frown. “Yes, because Upstairs, they sit on a giant dinosaur plush to watch TV.”

“That sounds really cool though!” Remus exclaimed. “Remind me to make that later. Then we’ll have a couch and a dinosaur plushie and this handsome face and Jan’s cooking and a ton of other cool stuff!”

“Thank you,” Jan said, “for helping me list more reasons that support my claim: Roman should leave now.”

“I’m just trying to make him feel welcome!” Remus crossed his arms twice over so they slipped in and out of each other like slimy spaghetti noodles. “Look, either we stick him back with the Light Sides who are kind of the reason he’s like this, or let him hang out. Or murder him.”

“No murder.” Jan held out a finger. “I draw the line there. The others would be furious and I’m this close to infiltrating them and gaining their trust.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re calling it?” Remus grinned, darting out of reach. “What about that time you almost cried last week ‘cause PatPat gave you a hug—”

Jan hissed. “Be quiet!”

“What? Can’t handle the truth, Deceit?” Remus glanced at Roman. “Anyway, I really don’t think he’ll be telling anyone.”

Jan was silent. Remus took that as a cue to check Roman over and make sure he hadn’t died while they were talking. Out of the dimly lit hallway, he could see the gauntness of Roman’s face and the paleness of his skin. He had a small cape, and the edges were tucked around him in a makeshift blanket nest. His hair was greasy and unwashed, the dark section stiff like someone had rubbed turds into it.

“I could kill him,” Remus said conversationally. He knew he was repeating himself, he knew Jan didn’t want him to keep bringing it up, but the silence was awful and ill-fitting like an itchy Christmas sweater. “I could just knock him in the skull, he wouldn’t feel a thing!”

Jan opened his mouth, probably to tell Remus he was being annoying—yeah, like Remus didn’t already know, like that wasn’t the whole point of his existence—

“Sounds nice,” Roman mumbled, curling tighter into his blankets.

Remus’ train of thought derailed, smashed through the station, and caused the deaths of hundreds of innocent people.

Jan stared at Roman, eyes wide.

“Okayyy,” Remus said slowly. “Um—”

“No!” Jan threw up his hands and stalked towards the door. “No! Absolutely not! I am not equipped for this! We are taking him Upstairs immediately, Remus, and if you get in my way because you want another guinea pig, so help me I will lock you in your room!”

Remus glanced at Roman on the bed. His brother, usually so grand and loud and bold and annoying, looked very small.

“Jan,” Remus called. “Wait.”

Jan paused in the doorway, not turning around. “This had better be good.”

“I—” Remus searched for words. He wasn’t really good at stringing sentences together like Jan, because his thoughts didn’t really come in sentences. They were just bursts of feeling and vivid images.

“Can he stay the night?” Remus sucked in air through his teeth. “I know you hate him, but...maybe a few days?”

“He’s not welcome here,” Jan fired back. “He’s not safe here. You know this.”

“And he’s safe with them?” Remus laughed. “They’re the ones who made this happen in the first place!”

Jan turned around, frowning. “Remus, that’s not what—”

“Please.”

“What?”

“Please,” Remus repeated. “I bet you really want to help but you’re just being slippery about it. Please.”

“Of course I want to help!” Jan snapped. “I protect the ego—helping Roman is, quite literally, in my job description. But I don’t believe letting him wallow in sadness in this hovel hotel will do him any good!”

“So you’re saying you couldn’t do a good job?” Remus laughed. “Hey, I turned out fine! And Virgil’s alright except for the neuroses and panic attacks, but who’s perfect?”

Jan stared at him. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

“You know I don’t understand sarcasm!” Remus clasped his hands. “Pretty please, JanJan? Pretty please with mucus and intestine on top?”

A muscle jumped in Jan’s jaw.

“Fine,” he ground out. “He stays. For now. Only because I am not in the mood to go upstairs and deal with that mess again.”

Remus beamed, running up to Jan and spinning him around. “You’re the bestest, Double Dee!”

“Don’t call me that,” Jan muttered, extricating himself. “Let’s go, it’s time for dinner.”

“Goodie!” Remus clapped his hands. “Can Roman come too?”

Jan gave Remus a weary look. “...I suppose we couldn’t let him starve.”

“Yes!” Remus pumped his fist. “You won’t regret this, I swear!”

“I’m sure I won’t,” Jan agreed, watching Remus with a vaguely amused expression. “Spaghetti and meatballs tonight. Get Roman down the hall without maiming him, if possible.”

“Will do!”

Jan nodded and swept out the door, leaving Remus alone with his conked-out brother.

“So, Ro-Bro.” Remus stuck out his tongue and licked his eyelids. “You ready to get carried again?”

To his surprise, Roman sighed softly and rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a loud thud.

Remus winced. “Um...good job! You planning to roll to the kitchen?” Roman made a weak gesture.

“You want me to roll you.”

Roman shook his head.

“You—”

Roman slowly, painfully slowly, started to sit up. “Oh!” Remus said, grabbing his hand and helping him to his feet.

Roman slouched, Remus noticed as he finally stood all the way up. His chin was dropped and he didn’t make eye contact. His cape curled around him, a safety blanket. Roman yawned and stumbled.

“Hey, no!” Remus yelled, clapping loudly. “It’s not sleepytime anymore! It’s dinnertime! Do you want to starve to death? Actually don’t answer that, I’m already worried enough about your mental state.”

Roman obligingly didn’t answer. He just sunk out. Remus idly wondered if Roman could rise up anymore or if he’d just appear like the rest of them. Then he thought to wonder where Roman was going.

There was a scream and a crash, and Jan yelled “Please do appear behind me!”

Remus snickered. Question answered.

He sauntered down the hall, pausing to work on a mural he’d been making on the living room wall. It depicted what Remus thought the inside of a stomach would look like. He added a few globs of red on one end before licking the paint off the brush and tossing the brush to the floor.

Jan was boiling water in the kitchen, his extra arms pouring drinks and setting the table. Roman was slumped in one chair, chin in his hand, picking idly at his napkin. Remus swung into the chair opposite him with a large smile and a squelching noise. He tossed a dead duck onto Jan’s chair. Without even looking, Jan grabbed the duck and tossed it in the trash. Boo.

“Here.” Jan ladeled the spaghetti into four bowls. One, he covered with saran wrap and left on the counter. The other three he tossed on the table. Wiping his six hands on the dish towel, Jan finally turned around. Remus saw him flinch slightly when he saw Roman sitting at the table.

Made sense. That used to be Virgil’s spot.

Jan quickly shook off the surprise and sat down, his arms disappearing into his sides. Remus frowned. He liked JanJan’s extra arms. They were all wiggly and opened up all sorts of neat possibilities. He still hadn’t found out if they regenerated after getting cut off. Like a starfish! Or a worm! Or an immortal fire golem! Maybe the hand grew a mind of its own and would scuttle around like one of Virgil’s spiders. It would be fun to have a pet hand. All of Roman’s pets ended up dying gruesomely, and almost five times it wasn’t his fault.

“Eat,” Jan said gently, winding spaghetti around his fork. He’d given Remus a fork, probably out of some delusional optimism that Remus would actually use it. Remus stabbed the fork into his shoulder for safekeeping and shoved a handful of spaghetti into his mouth. Then he popped in two meatballs, squirted sauce directly into his mouth, and swallowed.

Jan pointedly stared at his plate.

Roman wasn’t eating at all. He poked idly at the spaghetti, elbow on the table.

“Cheese?” Jan offered, pushing a bowl of grated cheese toward him.

Roman stared at it thoughtfully. His arm whipped out and he grabbed a handful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth.

“You know,” Remus said, grinning, “I’m starting to like you.”

“There’s two of you.” Jan watched Roman swallow with disgust. “There’s two of you.”

“This is all I’ve ever wanted.” Remus wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Someone who truly understands me.”

Jan snorted. Roman didn’t. He let the remaining pieces of cheese fall from his hand and resumed staring at his spaghetti.

“It’s not poisoned,” Remus assured him. “Jan wouldn’t do that again. And anyway, I’d have been poisoned by now. Unless it’s one of the poisons I’ve built up a resistance to. Then you might be screwed.”

Roman set his fork down and pushed the plate away.

“Roman,” Jan said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not poisoned.”

Roman pushed the plate a little further away.

“Cheese isn’t a meal.” Jan pushed the plate back. “You need to eat.”

Roman looked away. “Not hungry.”

Jan gave Remus a loaded expression. Remus didn’t like that. The only things he liked loaded were guns and bank accounts.

But Jan took another bite of spaghetti and his expression smoothed over. “It was a huge scene Upstairs.”

“Really?” Remus leaned forward. “I want the juicy details!”

“Well, they’re all extremely distraught about the loss of their prince.” Jan’s eyes flickered over to Roman. “Virgil had a panic attack, I believe. Logan was furious, I couldn’t tell who at. Thomas immediately collapsed with a fever, and Patton wouldn’t stop sobbing into my shoulder.” Jan brushed at the offending shoulder. “It might have been amusing under different circumstances, but this time it was just sad.”

“Damn.” Remus tore a meatball in half and stuck the halves on his middle fingers. “Wish I could have seen that.”

“They probably won’t fully recover for days.” Jan glanced at Roman again. “That entire debacle in Roman’s room shook Virgil and Thomas up. I have no idea what actually happened, but from what I heard, it sounds nightmarish.”

Roman curled into himself, grasping at one side of his cape. “Sorry,” he whispered into his spaghetti.

“No, I—” Jan stammered. “R-right. Well, doubtless as soon as they recover, your friends will be marching down here and getting you back. Virgil especially would hate to leave you in such company. They won’t trust me to take care of you, that’s for certain. Perhaps they’ll mount some sort of rescue mission.” Jan smirked. “That would certainly be entertaining. If they call upon me to play the villain, I will gladly oblige.”

“Liar,” Roman muttered. “What?”

Roman’s mouth closed. Jan stared at him. So did Remus.

“O-of course I’m a liar,” Jan said. “My name is Deceit.”

Wait—which was the lie? That Jan would want to play villain? That the Sides didn’t trust Jan? That the Sides would come for Roman at all?

Remus funneled spaghetti into his mouth. Thinking sucked. That’s why he left the smarty-pants stuff to Jan.

Jan, who was now stabbing at his spaghetti viciously. Roman’s eyes closed and he seemed to fall asleep in the table. Remus grabbed his bowl and placed it on his head, letting the remaining tendrils of spaghetti crawl down his forehead.

Jan slammed his fork on the table. “Did I do this?”

Remus scrunched up his face in confusion. “Do what? A murder? A butthole?”

“This.” Jan gestured violently at Roman. “Is this my—I mean, am I going to be held accountable for this?”

“Why do you care?” Remus asked.

“I’d rather not be burned at the stake for corrupting the good prince Creativity.” Jan bit into every word. “So? Roman? Is this my fault?”

Roman didn’t open his eyes. Remus was sure he hadn’t heard the question until Roman said,

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Jan hissed. “That is not an answer!”

Roman shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Jan opened his mouth and shut it again.

“If you’re not gonna eat your food,” Remus said to Roman, “can I—”

“I’ll save it as leftovers,” Jan interrupted, taking Roman’s plate and sliding it into the fridge. “Remus, touch it and your life is forfeit.”

Remus pouted. “Roman wouldn’t mind, right, Roman?” Roman snored softly, head on the table.

“Is he asleep?” Jan asked.

“I guess?” Remus shrugged. “Must have been tired.”

“Hmph.” Jan placed the dirty dishes in the sink. “There goes my plan to force him into doing dishes. If he’s loitering around for the night, he may as well make himself useful.”

Remus looked at Roman, who was drooling on the table. “Yeah, I wouldn’t count on it.” Janus sighed loudly, casting his eyes up to the ceiling.

“But I can do the dishes!” Remus offered, jumping up and wiggling his fingers. “I’ll just need some hot wax, molten lava, and—”

“Never mind.”

“It’ll take like three seconds! Literally!”

“Never mind, Remus.”

“Fine, whatever.” Remus kicked his chair. “You’re full of don’ts today. What can I do?”

Jan’s face pinched. “I suppose you can accompany me this evening.”

“Yay!” Remus hugged Jan quickly. “What are we doing?”

“I was thinking Aladdin. A classic tale of lying and deceiving one’s way to the top.”

“Alright!” Remus grinned. “I like the genie.”

“You would.” Jan glanced at Roman. “Maybe a Disney movie would—get him moving.”

“I don’t think he’d get moving if there was nuclear fallout, but worth a shot.” Remus slid into the living room. “Let’s go!”

“You get it ready,” Jan said. “I have to...” He picked up the fourth plate of spaghetti.

“Right.” Remus really, really didn’t want to be alone with his brother. It would be silent and deadly. “I’ll come with!”

Jan, to his credit, didn’t look immediately disgusted. “Remus, I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I’m coming!” Remus winked and congratulated himself for his innuendo. Then again, everything was innuendo if you said it right. “You said we’d get to hang out! So I’m sticking to you like a barnacle on the bum!”

“Sh*t,” Jan said, not looking that disappointed.

“Do you have some?” Remus asked, dancing over to the hallway. “That’d make things interesting! Come on, JanJan, let’s not keep him waiting!”

Jan pushed past Remus and strode down the hall. Remus followed, reciting every sex position he knew. It was victory every time Jan winced or said “Really, Remus?” Heck, it was a victory every time Jan looked in his direction. Momentary distraction was the peak of Remus’ social skills and all he could ever hope to achieve.

They passed Remus’ room—Remus made sure to make the door roar loudly and enjoyed Jan’s little jump—and came to the handle-less door. Jan carefully unlocked the flap and slid the spaghetti inside. As soon as it fell in, he slammed the flap shut and locked it again.

“Why do you do that?” Remus asked, summoning a bone and chewing on it.

“You know how dangerous he is.” Jan stood up and wiped off his gloves.

“No, I mean, why feed him? It’d be safer if you...let him be, right?”

Jan gave Remus a piercing look. “He’s a part of Thomas too, whether we like it or not. I’m self- preservation. I can’t just let him starve.” Jan marched back down the hallway. “Aladdin, was it?”

“Huh.” Remus tossed the bone at a wall and it cracked in two. “So how’s Roman different?”

Jan froze. “I...Because Roman has somewhere else to go. Aladdin, right? Let’s go, Remus.”

Remus spared a glance at the unmarked door and followed.

Aladdin was alright. Remus made a little ding sound every time Aladdin was shown shirtless. Janus hummed along to all the songs, though he bared his teeth when Remus pointed it out. Roman woke up briefly about halfway through, having been transplanted to a pile of cushions on the couch. Remus wondered if he would sing along. Instead he just hummed to himself and closed his eyes. For a second he nodded along to the music—no, no he was just nodding off, and okay he was asleep again.

When Aladdin ended, Remus put on The Shining. Janus took that as a cue to leave.

“Put Roman to bed,” Janus reminded him. “Well...he’s already asleep, but don’t let him stay on the couch all night.”

“He seems pretty chill,” Remus said, watching Roman’s bangs ruffle with each snore.

“Then do whatever you want.” Janus yawned. “This has been a thoroughly delightful day and I hate to end it, but my brain may explode if I have to continue thinking. Don’t burn anything down.”

“No promises!” Remus said. “Night, JanJan!”

“Sweet dreams, Remus.”

Yeah. Right.

Jan disappeared down the hallway, leaving Remus alone. It was the boring part of The Shining, so he fast-forwarded to the weird part. Roman didn’t wake up even when the screams started. Still, it was kind of nice to have company. Usually Remus spent his nights alone, bingeing horror flicks until his eyeballs were red. He didn’t really get tired, so it didn’t matter, and he did some of his best work at night.

It definitely wasn’t because of the nightmares.

Remus caught himself mid-thought. Lying would just alert JanJan. And it wasn’t Jan’s business. Yeah, maybe Remus missed Jan’s lullabies and being able to actually act on that promise that ‘My door is always open, Remus.’ Maybe it would be nice if he didn’t have grisly dreams of his friends dying every night. But Jan was busy these days. And Remus was Intrusive Thoughts. This was part of the deal. Remus was all the nasty stuff siphoned off of Roman to keep it away from Thomas. It was his job. And Remus loved his job! Just...not the side effects.

Remus turned up the volume until his eardrums rattled and he couldn’t hear himself think. Roman muttered something and turned over.

It was loud. Really loud. Remus barely noticed when someone appeared in the doorway.

He did notice when the TV turned off.

“Hey!” Remus whirled. “Jan, what gives—”

It wasn’t Jan.

“Sorry,” Patton said, “but I’d like to talk to you.”

“Um.” Remus debated hollering for backup. “This isn’t the best time.”

“I know.” Patton stepped forward, wringing his hands. “Please? Just a minute?”

Remus shrugged, catapulted himself over the back of the couch, and bowed. “What can I help you with? You finally decided to murder that really annoying barista?”

“What? No!” Patton frowned. “Remus, murder is wrong!”

“Yeah, yeah, if you’re boring.” Remus waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, what’s the scoop? Haven’t got all night.”

“Right.” Patton nodded. “Um, have you seen Roman?”

Remus choked on air. “Say what now?”

“Roman,” Patton repeated. “Look, stuff—um, kind of got out of control today, so I was wondering—”

“Of course he’s here!” Remus laughed. “He’s a Dark Side now, PatPat! He’s asleep on the couch right now!”

There was a loud thump behind him.

“He’s asleep on the floor!” Remus winced. “Give me a sec?”

Patton nodded. Remus vaulted back over the couch and grabbed Roman’s sleeping form. “C’mon, bro, that cannot be comfortable. I’m putting up with the couch thing ‘cause I’m lazy and like the company, but you’ll put a real crick in your neck down there. Come on, up you get. There we go.” He shoved Roman into the pillows, made sure he was secure, and popped back over the couch. “You were saying?”

Patton’s eyes were wide. “He’s...he’s a Dark Side?”

“Oh, don’t act so pleased about it!” Remus folded his arms. “Thought you were trying to be nicer to us.”

“I am, I just—” Patton glanced at Roman, who was snoring on the couch. “I’m worried about him.”

“’Course you are! Join the club!” Remus grinned. “But he’s alright for now. We’ve got things under control!”

Patton didn’t look convinced. “Can you let me talk to him?” “He’s asleep.”

“When he wakes up?”

“He’ll probably fall right back asleep.”

“Well.” Patton nodded. “I’d like to talk to him at some point. Bring him Upstairs when you can.”

“Sure,” Remus said, gritting his teeth. “Upstairs. Soon.”

“Thanks,” Patton said, looking relieved. Remus noticed the skin around his eyes was red. “Um, tell Janus hi? And tell Roman...tell him I love him, alright?”

“Tell him yourself some other time.”

“I-I did.” Patton bit his lip. “He didn’t believe me.”

“Oh.” Remus clicked his tongue. “Gotcha. I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks,” Patton said again. “That means a lot.”

“Cool,” Remus said. “Are we...done here? ‘Cause I’ve got, like, things to do—”

“Right! Sorry!” Patton laughed. “I’ll get out of your hair!”

“Have fun,” Remus said, strolling to the couch. “Stay alive, don’t turn into a frog with abs again ‘cause that was weird even by my standards, and watch your step ‘cause your left foot is in a puddle of blood.”

Patton squeaked and stumbled backwards. Remus laughed as he tried frantically to wipe off his shoes. Finally he just removed the shoe altogether, pinching it between two fingers and looking at it warily.

“Bye!” Remus said, hopping on top of the couch and waving.

“Bye!” Patton called back. “Oh, and Remus?”

Remus twisted his neck around like an owl. “Yeah?”

Patton didn’t even flinch. “I’m glad Roman has you. Good luck, kiddo.”

“Oh.” Remus tried not to cry. “Uh. Cool. Yeah.”

Patton gave him another smile and walked back down the hall.

Remus sank weakly into the couch, staring at the blank TV. His stomach was doing weird things. It was all bubbly and fizzy and light like he’d swallowed a sparkler. He hated it.

So he turned the TV back on. Roman slept through the night, Remus didn’t sleep at all, and despite all the blood and guts he filled his head with it, he couldn’t avoid the memory of Patton’s soft smile.

Next. Masterlist.

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[thegreatpapersandwich]

Happy Holidays!!!

Salutations @remaining-head-spirits, I am happy to inform you that I am your Secret Santa for the @secretsantafrans @venelona event!!! The drawing will be included in a separate post, but for now, I wish to give you a little something Underfell-themed, and I really hope you like it!! (o゜▽゜)o☆

Autumn had always been Frisk’s favorite season: the copious, crisp orange and crimson leaves carpeting the ground in a golden-vermilion glow, all the soft and fluffy sweaters and socks, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla intoxicating passers-by to coffee shops and restaurants, the soft, brisk breeze of the encroaching winter...

Unfortunately, she was on a high-risk mission, and would not have time to bask in the season’s bestowal.

Especially given the fact she was embarking on this mission with Sans... The one monster that no matter how hard she tried to be kind, was absolutely and completely...

Intolerable. 

Approximately three years back, the monsters had surfaced, and Frisk, despite having saved them, had politely declined to be the Ambassador. The monsters all had rough edges, due to having lived in such a harsh environment for who-knows-how-long, and the only way Frisk had survived was through pure Determination and an open heart. Sadly, she never really got the chance to truly get to know them, despite having tried countless times, but the silver-lining was that each of them had, for a split moment, shown their true colors, and it was those moments that had given her a glimpse into who they truly were. 

Frisk had taken it upon herself to spend time and, should they accept her, dig a little deeper into the monsters she had met in hopes of calling them “friends” some day. That was until she tried to achieve such a feat with Sans. Papyrus, his brother, had been a tough nut to crack, but eventually, through the power of Italian cuisine and patience, they had bonded quite nicely, even so far as to Papyrus reaching out to her for cooking sessions and friendly chatter.

Alphys and Undyne had been quite the hard case for Frisk, given the tumultuous start of their first meeting. But again, just like with the others, Frisk not only proved herself through combat, but through her headstrong personality to give them all a chance, they deserve it, she had thought.

But Sans?

Every time Frisk so much as showed a smidgen of kindness, Sans would make sure to transform it into anger, and boy did it work. In spite of it all, she refused to give up, and time and time again, was met with animosity from this angry and self-deprecating skeleton. So much so, that Frisk truly began to question if anything would ever change for him? The others were beginning to adjust quite nicely to life in the surface, and even though he didn’t really show it much, Sans was still on edge, his guard never dropping, and his walls as high as they had been in the Underground, possibly even more so now given how humans were stronger and a threat to their existence. It was a shaky truce, but a truce nonetheless, and Frisk was only a bit relieved. Certainly not satisfied, not until monsters could be truly at peace.

Frisk high-risk mission arose when Lady Toriel had inexplicably gone missing, and Asgore had gone berserk, immediately blaming humans and threatining to declare war once again. Of course, Frisk had intervened and decided to not only be the voice of reason, but volunteered to find her and prove that humans, with all their flaws, were still worth something.

 Frisk didn’t notice then, but Sans had been staring intently at the little fiery human that was now desperately trying to prevent a war between the races, and the way her expression was pleading, but not begging, anguished, but not pitiful, Determined, but not pushy. He had always assumed she was honey-potting them, or simply marinating them before she stabbed them in the back and fed them to the wolves, yet there she had stood, fists balled-up and head held high, standing face-to-face with their king, insisting on going out to find Toriel. Sans knew humans had to have been behind all this, but stayed quiet. He felt as if a lighting bolt struck his spine when the king actually conceded and not only was willing to fund her little mission, but encouraged a monster to accompany her.

This was going to be... Interesting...

Now they walked quietly down the leaf-encrusted streets, asking for any information on Toriel they could gather, and retraced her steps before she had gone missing. There was a little flower shop near her home, where Frisk decided to do some snooping. Sans stood at the entrance, eyeing the place warily, so he decided, then and there, to conduct a little experiment,

“hey doll, I think you’d better come see this, it certainly arose some questions,” he chuckled.

Frisk rolled her eyes, fighting down a laugh with all her might, “What did you find, Sans?”

Despite him having used the evidence as a test for her reaction to his puns, there really was a clue to Toriel’s disappearance.

And it was macabre, to say the least...

“A piece of her dress... with some fur still on it. A hefty chunk at that...” Frisk could feel her eyes sting, and her stomach churn. What if she had been taken for ransom? What if someone had kidnapped the once-queen to incite more hatred between the species? And... what if she was already...

“FRISK!” Sans shouted.

She whipped her head to look at him, and just as Sans was about to call her out for spacing out, the way she was clutching at the little piece of torn cloth, her expression...

“ya spaced out fer a bit, y’need to keep it together doll, we should ask the shopkeeper some questions,” Sans mumbled, making his way to the man behind the counter.

Frisk’s eyes went wide with disbelief: had he just shown... restraint?

With no luck and empty stomachs, they headed to a little mom and pop sandwich shop a few streets down, despite much protest from Sans,

“why can’t we just hit up a fast food joint? it’d be quicker and taste better too!” he had pressed.

So much for the restraint, huh? Frisk thought tiredly, “Supporting local businesses is important, and either way it’s a lot closer to our next stop than the next burger place, but you’re more than welcome to go. I’m gonna use all the daylight to my advantage.”

Sans gave a curt and dry laugh, “y’know what? i will head over that way, see ya when i see ya.” He took the quickest shortcut she had ever seen him pull, leaving her alone and frustrated.

Frisk could guess why he was so distrustful, but she was doing everything she possibly could to prove she wasn’t a bad person, but then again, the hardest nuts to crack sometimes yielded the best flavors. Maybe.

A few hours rolled by with Frisk checking stores, hotel rooms and their records, undetected, and parks. Her only lead was the cloth from her dress and a hotel record of her having stayed there less than a day, where, upon further questioning, the receptionist had seen her with someone else, and they were apparently in a rush to someplace downtown, but didn’t catch the name or location of their destination.

So there she sat, cloth in hand, eyes welling up with cold, bitter tears that felt thick and left salt-saturated streaks along her face. Her sobs were quiet, but they rocked her body into painful little shudders. Frisk had finally achieved significant progress with Toriel, even so far as to talking about her deceased children over a cup of tea and shedding a tear or two during their conversation. Toriel had been carrying such an agonizing and heavy burden for so long, no wonder she had lost her mind, or nearly had since she seemed to have recovered well-enough to adjust. Deep down, however, Frisk knew that the grief of a parent was powerful and would never truly dissipate, that was why she was completely heart-wrenched at the thought that she was put through even more pain, and possibly suffered before-

“i don’t think yer gonna find Toriel by sitting on a bench and crying yer ass off...” Sans mused.

Great, this was just what she needed: an angry, emotionally-constipated, selfish, crude, ill-mannered skeleton to come and-

He sat next to her, and gave her something in a wrapper.

“What’s this...?” Frisk took it and turned it over in her hands.

“i didn’t mean t’spy on ya, but i take it yer not dealing with this any better than us, so just take that and let’s find a place t’crash,” Sans mumbled.

Confused, but intrigued, Frisk removed the wrapping and found a little deck of cards still neatly tucked in their little box. It had a note on it:

“Stop yer whinin’ and take yer mind off’a things. after all, you were just dealt a bad hand.”

Frisk looked up and smiled at him, “Thank you Sans, this means a lot-”

“yeah, yeah, c’mon, i scouted out a few hotels and there should be one a few blocks away, let’s get goin’” Sans practically bolted from the bench, 

Frisk looked back down at the cards and felt her smile soften, “I knew he was a good guy...”

Sans had arrived at the hotel before Frisk, but when she walked in, Sans was irate and making threats at the lady behind the counter,

“I RESERVED THAT ROOM AND YOU JUST GAVE IT AWAY TO A BUNCH OF ASSHOLES AND THEIR SNOT-NOSED BRATS!!?? I SWEAR I’LL FUCKING DRAG THEM OUTTA THERE AND BEAT-”

“SANS! I’m so sorry ma’am! What seems to be the issue?” Frisk shoved Sans away from the counter,

“Y-yes, well, a-a family came in with nowhere else to stay, so the room this... individual had taken was the last large room we had...” the lady’s voice trembled slightly.

“Oh... So there are no more rooms then...” Frisk slumped.

“No ma’am, we actually do have one room left, but...” the lady looked at Sans.

“But... what?” Frisk pressed, arcing a brow.

Sans growled, “there’s only one bed.” 

[emergingsentiments]

Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha: Episodes 3 & 4 (Repost)

If the premiere episodes of Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha dealt with the definition of home, then episodes 3 & 4 were a careful exploration of the past and how it mingles with the present.

Hyejin is settling well in Gongjin, with plenty of help from Dusik, of course, and the companionship of the ever effervescent Miseon. While business at the dental clinic is picking up, Hyejin remains tethered to her life in Seoul. She is, after all, only in Gongjin temporarily, right? Her ways are still that of her big city life. Orders from across the world arrive in her provincial home. As expected, Dusik is tasked to deliver all the packages to Hyejin’s home. Who else will be the delivery man?

Behind closed doors, however, our dentist tries out every imaginable outfit for a colleague’s wedding back in the capital. It’s a short montage that tells us that, for all her assertiveness in the clinic, Hyejin is still insecure. Like Gongjin, the dentist’s community in Seoul is small. Everyone seems to know everyone. With word of her opening shop in a fishing village, she has to frantically posture as successful and content like her urban counterparts. Thus the indecisiveness over her clothes—and even over herself.

Her quick trip to the city isn’t smooth-sailing, though. Ever a step ahead of everyone, Dusik decides to hitch a ride with Hyejin, bringing with him the three halmeonis. Offered with no way out, Hyejin reluctantly agrees. As expected, the journey to Seoul is far from uneventful, with the elderly ladies offering every bit of comic nuisance to Hyjein who is struggling with her patience, while Dusik offers little more than a request for her to be more understanding.

The unlikely troop makes it to the capital just in time, however, and our good dentist arrives at the wedding after dropping everyone off. At the reception, the psychological warfare among the female dentists is palpable, each maneuvering the conversation as they see fit. Confronted with questions about her choice to open a clinic in Gongjin, Hyejin keenly pushes the narrative of the business potential of the rural areas.

After the reception, she stumbles upon Dusik — but wouldn’t be caught dead being seen with him, and so rushes to get away from the crowds. Unbeknownst to her, the eyes of the city have snapped a photo just as the pair make their way back to Gongjin.

If the trip to Seoul was full of hysteria and uncontrollable tempers and bladders, the return to the fishing town was marked by awkward silences and what seems to be the growing fascination of Hyejin over Dusik. Who wouldn’t be curious, anyway? Mr. Hong appears everywhere. He’s always at the right time and place, even if it’s not the right time and place for Hyejin. Who is this virtuoso with his brazen confidence sleeping in her car? What are the stories hidden lurking underneath his methodical ways?

Back at Gongjin, Hyejin is the talk of the town in Seoul. Not for her so-called success in the province but instead for having been seen with Dusik. Are Mr. Hong and Hyejin a couple? They weren’t fast enough to hide after all. Hyejin’s immediate response is to squelch the rumors. But when the chit-chat from her colleagues turns to her favor, she changes her tone to boost her stock.

It’s this type of back and forth in Hyejin’s persona that makes her stand out as a lead female character. She’s not perfect. But she isn’t flawed either. She is, instead, human. As a woman, she can also afford to be contrary. We see her genuine desire to help her patients. She minces no words about what needs to be done. But she also has her affectations, a defect seemingly rooted in the early death of her mother. Like the veneers she puts on her patients, she also uses plenty of covers to improve her appearance. And it's this contradictoriness that often clashes with the more obstinate Dusik, too.

Mr. Hong, after all, usually gets his way. He’s also single-minded about how he runs his business. He’ll help you, go out of his way, and offer his time, effort, and support. But he carries out his duties with honesty, pragmatism, and fairness. There is no need for pretensions here. He settles accounts with little fanfare or desire to simply draw attention to himself. Be yourself and you should get along well with Dusik. Do your job and you shouldn’t get on his bad side.

Like Hyejin in the first episode, however, we can’t help but ask what is the deal with Dusik? For someone so omnipresent, he is also so elusive. The show offers plenty of clues about his intriguing past. Seonhohappy made a comprehensive thread about what we know of Mr. Hong so far. While many of these theories can be true, why a renaissance man should be in a fishing village carrying out odd jobs remains a mystery. No single motivation has yet to emerge.

What’s clear is that Dusik is always attentive to the needs of Gongjin’s people. When Cheon-jae was hoarse and couldn’t entertain the business owners at the cafe, Mr. Hong was quick to pick up the guitar and sing. Upon learning about the mystery trail of trash in a part of town, he joins forces with Hwa-Jung to persuade — or threaten— the city hall in installing a camera. When he fishes out Hyejin’s missing shoe from the sea, he takes pains to make sure he returns it in good condition. In a wonderful display of community, Gongjin’s people also rally together to put a sexual predator in prison — but at the center of the town’s heroic efforts is Mr. Hong once again.

Dusik is superman. But what is his kryptonite? So far, I see two. Gam-Ri is one. A stalwart presence of the town, the elderly woman has been the guiding presence of Dusik since his grandfather died. She is a strong and at times stubborn lady but very sensible, too. Her wisdom allows her to see past the defenses of people. Because Dusik owes her a debt of gratitude, he makes a great effort to ensure she’s safe, happy, and healthy. Sometimes, his kindness to her is to a fault.

The other is Hyejin — for reasons that are obvious.

This woman from Seoul is different. We’ve already seen how Dusik bends over backward to help out Hyejin. But when he pushes her to treat Gam-Ri’s teeth with little regard for ethics, Hyejin stands her ground. It’s not just for matters of principle, however. Hyejin — the woman — has largely been shaped by grief and her losses inform her creeds. We find out later on that she does care for Gam-Ri and convinces her to get the treatment — something Dusik, who is emotionally attached to Gam-Ri, is unable to do. Hyejin is a tough nut to crack, one who will not change her ways overnight, and that is part of her appeal to Dusik.

Homcha’s second pair of episodes wrap up in the best way possible. Indebted to saving her and Miseon from a pervert, Hyejin leaves a gift on the doorsteps of Dusik’s home. Unable to let go of her treasured wine, however, she ends up having dinner with Mr. Hong — might as well enjoy the gift, too, right?

Inside, Hyejin carefully examines the charming quaintness of Dusik’s home, surprised by the decor and adornments that reveal a man more cultivated than she had anticipated. Books, cameras, vinyl records — this isn’t some freelancer trying to make ends meet. If anything, Dusik’s home adds a layer of mystery to his character, and Hyejin is clearly fascinated by him. For Mr. Hong, it’s probably one of the few occasions someone breathing has entered his home. As he shared before, he doesn’t take anything alive — but here is Hyejin, heart beating, inside his most personal space.

At dinner, she insists on being sophisticated, acting out her role as a wine connoisseur only to fail out of nervousness. Dusik doesn’t mind. He lets her play the role. Soaked in the warm glaze of incandescent lights, they pry each other's lives, every sip of wine loosening thoughts and unzipping their lips. Shin Min Ah is at her best here as Hyejin, embodying a tipsy woman with naturalness and detail. She is nervy, and lightheaded, feigning confidence she can hold her liquor — and her secrets — only to reveal her vulnerabilities. Kim Seon Ho’s Dusik, on the other hand, is gracious and watchful, with a steely gaze that pierces through Hyejin’s defenses. He looks at Hyejin as if he’s studying her, exploring the contours of her personality, but careful not to let his eyes disclose whatever secrets he hides himself.

And yet they seem more alike than they could admit, with pasts that still loom over their heads, emerging only with the powers of wine. In the end, Hyejin and Dusik are inebriated, alcohol running through their veins, cleansing wounds as any antiseptic does, lowering defenses, unguarding hearts, breathing hot, and falling. Cool hands clasping a feverish face, body betraying mind.

Drunk in the past. Drunk in attraction. Perhaps drunk in love?

[gildedmuse]

How about a Nico Robin x Photographer! Reader where the two of them are searching Poneglyphs and the reader has a camera that he will use to take pictures of the Poneglyphs and mostly Nico Robin

Fair Warning: I've never done a x Reader fix before. I don't know if second person is something I do well. We're about to find out together.

Documents For The Future

"And do you notice how the writing wraps around? Usually, the four sides will carry the same message, as if the creators wished to ensure the entirety of the message remained readae even if the monument itself were damaged in several places. In the few cases where the symbols do not repeat, each of the four faces has it's own message, but here you can see-"

"Actually, I can't." The second the words leave your mouth you feel guilty. In the past four days since the Strawhats landed on your island you have gotten to know a good deal about the crew, so much so you sometimes forget that they are relative strangers - pirates who appeared from nowhere and would surely sail off again soon enough never to return to this little corner of the grand line. And yet, maybe due to all you went through together, or perhaps simply because the crew is so.... Enthused and unrestrained, it feels as though they are old friends. You know their habits, their likes and dislikes, what they sound like when they're arguing and how they sound when they are actually, truly incensed. They are a very outgoing, ridiculous group of characters and you are deeply thankful for each one of them, eccentricities and all. And your grateful to get this chance to know them, though honestly with as wild as they could be it seems it would be more difficult NOT to know them so well.

All except for Nico Robin, who for the most part has seemed more than content to stand off to the side; watching her crewmates antics with a warm smile, offering a small word of advice or an observation, occasionally interjecting to suggest the most morbid of all possible sceneries in such a way that you can't tell if she's teasing or worryingly grim. Just now, examining the Marked Stone (Poneglyph she had called it) is easily the most you have heard her say over the last four days combined. And then you had to go say something stupid and cut her off.

Luckily you have your camera to stare down at, readjusting the lens and fiddling with the knobs. Anything so you can berate yourself with a little more privacy, as you can feel the woman's kind eyes right on you.

"Right, of course," Nico Robin answers in a way you can tell that she is wearing that smile of hers. It is also so unlike the rest of her crew, all of whom have effusive, bright smiles (even, it turns out, the swordsman though it took until enough sake had been poured in his cup at the town festival in their honor for you to catch sight of it). They are as open as their hearts and spirits, utterly unrestrained and boldly on display.

And you respect and admire that about the pirates, you truly do.

Robin's smile is different, though you can tell theirs just as much joy in it as there is the animated, elated smile of their captain. Perhaps her joy is not as flashy, not so wild or unrestrained as that of her crew mates, but it looks honest. And you like to think you have a good eye for such things.

There is plenty of sincere happiness in Robin's soft, gentle smiles, but there's a lot of years of pain there, too. Maybe it's the artist in you, but such a paradox is alluring. You want to be able to capture it and study all it's secrets.

Which you can't do if you insist on staring down at your camera like a fool. So you cautiously, shyly some might say, glance up.

Nico Robin is still standing where you'd last seen her, hand resting against the Marked - the Poneglyph as though she could feel a heart beat in the old piece of rock. Sure enough, she is wearing that smile, smiling for you. "How silly of me. It must be very difficult to take your pictures with me standing here."

"What?" Too loud, too loud! You have never been that good at talking to people, but you at least have the basics down. Or you thought you did. "No, no it's not! Haha well I mean sure but, err, no you can stay it's fine if you want to I mean -" God, how in the last five minutes have you forgotten how language worked? You stop yourself from going on, drawing in a deep, calming breath. It doesn't actually calm you down, but at least you feel ready to try stringing words together again. This time, hopefully, in a way that makes sense. "I just mean, I don't really get what you mean. I can't actually read any of it, you know. As far as everyone here knew, they weren't words at all. So..."

You give the woman a helpless shrug and hope she'll just giggle away your poor explanation. Instead, Nico Robin studies you, not with as much fondness as she does the Poneglyph. Apparently you are more.difficult to understand than an ancient, unreadable rock.

It's not exactly a confidence boost.

"I suppose that's true." She looks back to the Poneglyph, hand running along the lines of some of the markings. You wonder if that particular one says something special, or if they are all special to her regardless of what they say. "I apologize. Sometimes I get carried away-"

"I think it's beautiful!" God, could you let this poor woman finish one thought without awkwardly interrupting to yell in her face? What is wrong with you? This time when she turns back, staring at you in mild surprise (And mild interest which makes it a little better... And a little worse) "I mean... I know I don't understand any of it, but I think... I think it's beautiful, how passionate you are about it all. It may not be as obvious as Fraanky with inventions or Zoro with swords or Nami with money or Luffy with.... Well, with just about everything I guess," you trail off a bit, but in your momentary distraction from the point, you went the smallest of giggles. It's a soft sound, the perfect match for her smile, and it makes you refocus, finding enough strength to power through with your thoughts. "But you have a real, sincere passion that shines through, and even if I don't get it, I think... I think anytime someone can find something they feel that way about, it's a beautiful thing."

You close your mouth, feeling awkward and embarrassed and knowing you sounded like an utter idiot. Anytime someone can find something they feel that way about? Urg, who says such nonsense? And why would you say it now of all possible times in your life?

"I agree." Your neck nearly snaps you stare back at Nico Robin so fast. She is, thankfully, not watching you, but has her eyes back on the stone wall in front of her. She's smiling too, but it's such a private thing you almost feel bad for having looked in the first place, and at the same time it's so hard to take your eyes away. "That is what I love about sailing with Luffy. He could have gone out and found the strongest or the best, men who would have done anything he asked or anything at all if paid enough gold. But he instead he looked for those of us who had little but our passions, our dreams. It is what draws him finds and us to him."

You swallow hard, unsure where to look or what to do. You are sure this moment is meant for Robin herself and your not sure why she's sharing it with you or how to tell her you're grateful that she would.

Luckily, it is Robin who breaks the silence, perhaps to spare you both from more of your inability to speak. "Thank you again, for your time, Recorder-san. It would be very difficult for me to transcribe all this before we leave. Your photographs are sure to be a great assistance."

"I told you you didn't have to call me that," you mutter, buy can't keep from smiling even as you correct her. When you had told the Strawhats you thought of it as your job to keep a record of what was happening on the island, you didn't think it would stick in the way it has. "Besides, it's the least I could do after you - after what all of you did for us... Anyway, we should probably get started, before the light gets too low."

Robin nods, looking back to the Poneglyph before turning to you. "Should I stand back so not to be in your way?"

"No, no, you're just fine!" You might answer a bit too quickly, but the truth is you'd feel like a jerk, making Nico Robin - one if the heroes who saved your family, friends, the entirety of this island - stand back when she obviously wanted to be close, to see and touch the history that is apparently inscribed into the stone's face. "I'll just shot around you. It won't be a problem."

*

It had been a problem.

*

The Strawhats had decided to leave in two days, which gave you more than ample time to probably develope the photographs you'd taken from your trip down to the Marked Stone with Nico Robin. Still, you decide to work on them the next morning, just in case they might still be helpful to her while she's here.

That's when you realize your mistake.

But! It's okay! No need to panic! Which you do do for a couple of hours, sure, but then you realize there is an easy solution.

You grab your camera and run out the door, hardly pausing to give a hurried hello to the always friendly Chopper and Usopp as you dash out of town and all the way to the other side of the island.

The next morning, there's a knock on your door just as you've finished slipping the last of the photographs into an envelope. You start towards the door before pausing and taking another one of those non calling breaths. It's more a delay tactic than anything else. St the very least you have a few seconds to go over what you're going to say in hopes of looking s little less like a fool.

"Oh, Nico Robin, I was just coming to find you," you lie, opening the door with the biggest smile you can manage. A smile that says don't worry I've definitely slept plenty in the last day. "You're here for your photographs, right? Of course! Let me just... I know I out them right here." Literally a second ago, right before you answered the door.

If your acting skills are less than impressive, Robin doesn't comment. She gives you her sweet, soft smile and thanks you sincerely. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble," she says, holding the package to her chest. You keep trying not to stare at them.

"No, of course not. No trouble at all. I certainly hope their helpful! Well, umm... Good luck... At sea? Yes, and tell everyone else goodbye for me!"

You didn't mean to exactly slam the door, but given that you have a physical barrier that can get you out if this conversation, it seems like the best move. For everyone involved.

The second it's shut you very nearly collapse against it, sighing. In relief. In disappointment. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, your not even sure exactly what it is your feeling by this point just -

"Ouch." Well, you felt that. The knock at the door right where your head had been laying. It's not the kindest thing to do to someone nursing a headache.

Without even thinking you yank open the door, ready to return to the daily village business already.

So it takes a moment to process Nico Robin still standing there, still smiling. "Umm..."

"Forgive me, Recorder-san," Robin says, sounding just as kind and casual as could be. But you're still caught off guard, unsure why she's still there at all, and the way she says it all as.of it's so normal isn't helping you process. "I was just curious if I could see the originals?"

"Th-the originals?"

She nods, unaffected by your sudden wide eyes look of shock. "The ones from the other day. These are beautifully shot, I have to say, and I do believe I will find them to be quite helpful in my work. I was just hoping I could see the ones we took together."

"Oh." You suddenly feel your cheeks warming up. You look towards your backdoor and mentally calculate if you'd have time to run from a woman who can grow multiple limbs where ever she wants. You realize you really don't want to even if you did stand a chance.

So with a sigh you open the door wider, waving her in. Robin steps inside and you can see her eyes taking in your entire home. Not judging, not critical just.... Recording it. Documentation. You understand the impulse well.

"They umm..." Walking to your desk, you take out a second envelope. You stare at it for a moment, wondering why you even kept them. Why hadn't you thrown them away once you'd gone and retaken the new ones? "They didn't turn out very well you see..."

You hand them over with a wince, even as Robin takes them with a polite care. As she opens the package you find yourself caught trying to look anywhere but her, finding that you can't help but glance up now and again for the inevitable reaction.

She must think you're an idiot. She must think you're a joke. She must think you're a creepy ass stalker.

She must think your a stupid kid, that swhat she must think.

"I didn't realize," Robin says after she looks through the photographs, examining each one in turn. It's a process that seems to you to take forever, dreading every additional second of her eyes scanning over the prints. "That I made such a fascinating model."

You close your eyes and wonder if their is some sort of god of photography and of so, would he kindly kill you know?

You open your mouth to offer an explanation, any sort of excuse, maybe just a bold face lie of you could actually think of one. But before you can start babbling, you feel a small, warm hand on your shoulder.

You open your eyes to see Robin giving you not just her usual soft smile, but one that is honestly the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. She passes the envelope back to you, where you quickly end up hugging it to your own chest, though it's a little last to protect the secret.

"You're very talented," Robin says, and all you can do is nod your head in recognition of the compliment. Your heart is pounding up into your throat making speaking something of a challenge. "I think it's a beautiful thing," Robin goes on, smiling at you gently, kindly, openly. "When someone is so passionate about something, don't you?"

Before you can get yourself to answer, Robin leans forwards to place a gentle kiss on your cheek.

By the time she pulls back you are already beat red and weak kneed and smiling in a way that might possibly rival Luffy's.

"Thank you again, Recorder-san, for the pictures. All of them. It's important that we have these documents for the future, even just our own." And with that Nico Robin is gone from your home, probably not soon to be gone from the island all together. And what are the chances pirates like those will ever come to this corner of the grand line ever again.

You look down at the package still clenched in your fingers and smile. Maybe you won't throw them away after all. It's not as if they were mistakes. If anything, they're a record of a beautiful person doing what they loved, and how could that be a mistake?

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Black Lives Matter, @nigeltde-fic donated $25, and requested Sam & Dean & amnesia. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

The gorgon hits Dean in the head and Sam panics because he always panics, when Dean’s bleeding and not responding, but that’s not the worst part. Dean’s bleeding and he won’t wake up, and Sam drives as fast as he can possibly drive--faster--and Sam carries him from the car to the bed and he still won’t wake up, and that’s not the worst part. Sam touches his face and the panic’s become this solid untouchable thing that fuzzes everything else in the world out to weird impossible static, and Dean flinches under his touch and seizes and he’s still bleeding because it’s a head wound, and head wounds bleed like a bitch but Sam remembers Dean telling him when he was fourteen and trying not to cry it’s not that bad, Sammy, it always looks worse than it is, it’s just blood, it’s okay--only it is bad, and it’s worse than it looks. Michael drains out of Dean’s body with the blood like a cracked bottle of whiskey spilling all over the floor, and Michael takes Rowena, and Michael kills all the refugees who were Sam’s responsibility, and Jack then kills Michael--kills Michael, the monster haunting Dean’s eyes and Sam’s dreams gone in a flash--but that’s something Sam can’t look at, right now--because Dean sits up in the infirmary, shocked and blinking and scared, and he says to Sam, “Sam?” but he looks around too and says, “What is this place?” and he says, “Sam? Sam, what happened? Where are we?” and Sam closes his eyes and thinks, no. No.

It’s a week, of taking care of the bodies. Trying to contact any friends they had, who might’ve known them from that other world, who might want to come and stand witness to their burning. Dean helps, because he has two hands and no matter what it seems that an essential part of him wants to be useful, but he doesn’t feel it. Not really. Sam chops wood and sets Dean to building, and Dean does, and sneaks uncertain looks at the strangers who sit miserable in their home, stands just behind Sam’s shoulder during the funerals, says constantly: who are they? what happened? Sam? Sam?

Sam doesn’t know what happened. Cas has examined Dean (Jack wanted to but they didn’t let him, uncertain of his raw golden-grace power), and Sam’s been as gentle as he can with his questions, and they called back Rowena, even, from her terrified flight, and none of them have an answer. Dean knows Sam, and nothing else. Not Castiel, not the bunker, not hunting. Not their mother, and Mary’s mouth trembled as she smiled at Dean, told him that it was okay, that she was sure he’d remember one day. She left again, that night, and Dean sat in Sam’s room and said, “Why can’t I remember,” with his head in his hands, and Sam didn’t have an answer to that, either.

The funerals over and Sam can’t seem to ditch the smell of ash. Burning flesh. Like pork, singed on a barbecue, and it makes him nauseous in the middle of the night, makes him stand over his sink with his gut heaving but he doesn’t puke. He breathes, eyes closed, mouth filling up with spit, and walks the empty corridors of the bunker alone. Mom’s gone and Cas is making himself scarce, looking for some kind of solution, and Jack’s odd and quiet in his room, and the scorch-marks on the concrete floors have long been cleaned up, and Dean--

Dean remembers him. Dean watches him, his eyes pinned to Sam the second they’re in the same room. Dean has his own bed but he doesn’t like it, finds it strange. Too warm, too soft. “Sammy,” Dean says, miserable when Sam leaves him there, but Sam can’t take advantage and he doesn’t know what to do, with this brother who knows him and nothing else.

It wasn’t like this, before. The knowing drained out of Dean slow, little trickles. Words, processes. Forgetting a lamp, surprised by a cartoon. Forgetting his animosities and his histories and his training until he was just--blank. Sweet. Brutal, because he was forgetting himself and Sam at the same time, and even if Sam managed to save himself at the last second with Dean knowing what brother meant--what it meant to them both--it was torture to see it slip away, piece by piece.

It’s gone entirely, now. Sam sits with Dean in the library and puts the tape recorder on, takes notes. “What do you remember?” he asks, putting his miseries aside, and Dean says, “You,” sad, like that’s all that counts. Sam closes his eyes and Dean’s hand closes around his wrist, holding on. His hand is just as calloused as it always was even without the memory that proves the callouses were earned.

“Tell me anyway,” Sam says, trying to smile, and Dean licks his lips, seems like he’s really trying to think.

“We’re from--Kansas,” he says, uncertain, and Sam nods, encouraging. “We--we grew up together.”

“Yeah, we did,” Sam says. He lets Dean keep his wrist. The touch of his skin is--the same. Somehow feels the same. “You remember where?”

Flicker of worry, across Dean’s face. “There was a car,” he says, uncertain still even though Sam brought him to the Impala on the second day when he realized what was happening, and Sam folds over the table, wants to cry.

“Sammy,” Dean says, tender, and touches his hair. He cards through it soft, his hands gentle and knowing, and Sam shudders. He misses his brother so badly he could just crumple into the floor. Could sell his soul. Could just die, miserable here, and hope that when--if--he got to heaven, his real brother would be there, waiting, would say to him crap, dude, took you long enough, and Sam could grab him in tight and hold him and it would mean everything it was supposed to mean, when Dean’s nose brushed his neck, when his hand cupped the back of Dean’s skull.

“I remember you,” Dean says, and Sam pushes away--dinner to take care of, and watching Dean eat and barely picking at his own meal, and the bunker empty, empty, empty. Everything Sam had worked for disappeared, and his one stalwart, his one anchor--

Midnight and his door shoves open, startles him where he’s laying on his back, staring up into nothing. Dean, backlit--but the light white, not red--and Sam reins in his gasp and sits up and says, “What’s the matter?” and Dean comes in and goes to his knees in front of Sam’s feet and says, “Sammy, I remember you.”

He’s staring up, earnest. His eyes clear, green as green even in the dark in here, his focus entirely and utterly on Sam. “I know you do,” Sam says, sore, but Dean grips his arms, shakes his head.

“You don’t,” he says, urgent as a little kid, and it twists in Sam’s belly, makes him look away, but Dean holds him tighter, doesn’t let him get away--says--

“You were so smart, and you were so fuckin’ stubborn--my little brother but I wasn’t in charge of dick, because you’d just get your way no matter what, even if it came a way I didn’t expect it. You and me didn’t get along all the time but we had some stuff--movies we watched, and music we both listened to--and you can’t sing for shit but when you’re drunk you give it a try, and you sound awful but it just makes me happy every time I think about it because it’s when you were happy and I know that’s about the best thing that can happen to me. When you’re happy. I know I--fuck up a lot, and I say crap I shouldn’t say, and I don’t know what it’s about but I remember the times you started to look--shit, like you do now, and it feels like crap but I don’t know how to make it right. Sammy, I don’t know how to make it right.”

Sam feels like crying. Dean’s hand grips his shoulder, touches his chest. “Sam, I remember you,” he says, thick and true, and Sam reaches out and gets a hand on the back of his skull, his fingers sinking into the thick soft buzz-short hair, the warmth that feels right even if nothing else does. “Sam.”

“What else do you remember?” Sam says, aching, and Dean says, “I remember when you came back, but I don’t know from where, and it was like--it was like the friggin’ continents were all upside down and then got turned right side up, and you were pissed as hell at me and I figured probably I deserved it but I didn’t care, it didn’t matter because Sam was here, and I know--Sam, I know I’m not right, I know things might be bad, and I’m gonna try to get right because I know I’m supposed to be your partner or whatever, but I--man, I’m going nuts, because I’m here, and you’re not.”

His hand hurts, gripping so hard on Sam’s shoulder. Sam breathes. “I’m here, Dean,” he says, and Dean says, touching his jaw, sad and clear, “You’re not, you’re not,” and he leans up and kisses Sam then, soft and on-target in the near-dark. His mouth, and his smell--Sam cups him closer, grips his t-shirt and hauls him up, closer, his body warm and familiar and right up against Sam’s, his hands rough and firm, his breathing the thing Sam wants to sync his body to, every morning. Dean kisses him short and quick and soft, pulls back and breathes and does it again, and again, and then shoves at Sam’s shoulders and makes him fall back to the bed and then crawls up, covers Sam’s body, cups Sam’s face in his hands, kisses him melting and sure and with his lip catching chapped against Sam’s lip, and Sam holds him so tight he’s sure it hurts and then pushes him back, a handful of inches to breathe, to think.

Dean looks at him, brow furrowed, close. The light from the hall rims his ear in clear golden light. “The only thing that matters is you, Sammy,” he says, quiet.

Sam feels like his body’s collapsing, in some essential way. Infrastructure, demolished, a cold and dusty ruin left behind. He runs his finger along the back of Dean’s ear, traces the warmth down to the steady, certain beat of Dean’s heart. “Us,” Sam says--corrects--gives up, and Dean slides his hand into Sam’s hair, smiles, and it’s not right, and it’s not the same. Sam closes his eyes and draws Dean in anyway. He’s not here, but he can fake it, for the brother he’s lost--the bloody history that made him Sam’s--for the hope that maybe one day he’ll be here again, pained and grim and inextricable from the blood and meat that’s made up Sam’s life. Dean pulls back after a while, sweet and hopeful. Unfamiliar. Sam smiles at him, and kisses Dean dishonest.

[ask-de-writer]

KURIN’S FOLLY : World of Sea : Part 12 of 15

KURIN’S FOLLY

Part 12

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

23,699 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

writing begun  2006

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  Part 1 is here

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The apprentices sullenly brought tools up and stood while they were told off in pairs to assist the contestants.  The journeymen were watching angrily.  They kept heckling the contestants.  That only stopped when Yoram was caught surreptitiously taking a rocker knife that a contestant needed.  He was caught in the act by the Captain.

Removed to the after deck, the journeyman was given five lashes for attempted theft.  The other journeymen were required to watch. After that, they were a subdued lot.

The building of the boats took up the next several days.  Kurin left the supervision of the contest to the Craft Council to be sure that nobody could say that it was conducted unfairly.  She spent the days in her shop with her apprentices, printing envelopes and instruction leaflets.  Parts for toy kits and models were being produced by etching.

The sheets of glued parchment or thin Strong Skin were screen printed with the mess cleaner paste from the galley.  When they were dipped into the thinned activator in the vats, the combination ate through the material at the lines and freed the parts.  The finished parts were removed with tongs and rinsed to stop the action of the etch.

A sheet of thick Strong Skin, etched with words and drawings was being inked, wiped, covered by parchment and run through a pair of rollers to print instruction leaflets.  The same technique was being used to make the printed and illustrated envelopes that held the kits.

Lissa looked at the processes in something like awe.  She took Kurin aside and asked, “How many copies will that etched Strong Skin slab make before it wears out?”

Kurin shrugged and said, “I don’t know, maybe a few thousand.  I’ve been using the one I made for the simple dory instruction set since I was eight.  It’s still good.  Why?”

Lissa grimaced and replied, “The Scribe’s Guild would kill for that printing process.  The best one that they have now is a soft glue hectograph.  It is only good for about seventy five copies before a new master has to be made.

“I was a Scribe before I married your father.  The Longin didn’t need another Scribe. That’s why I fixed things.”

Just then there was a tapping at the door.  It was Juris.  He his shoulders sagged and his eyes were bagged from lack of sleep.  Contritely he asked, “Kurin, will you come out and talk with me?  I need to know how you are going to save me from this mess.  I know that I’ve gone too far.”

Lissa laid a hand firmly on Kurin’s shoulder and said, “You are harassing my daughter.  In the last week, I have learned all about this foolishness of yours.  I experienced some of it.  The short of it is simple.  Kurin wanted to save you.  In fact, Kurin did save you.  You rejected her help so thoroughly that now Kurin can’t save you again.  You have finished yourself.”  She looked down at Kurin fondly and gave her a small hug.

“The Dragons do know that she has tried every way that she knows.  Kurin’s already appealed to the Great Sea Dragons.  They won’t interfere.  You have successfully blocked her at every turn.

“I was there when she asked the whales if they would help you as they once helped Jenn the Whale’s Friend.  They replied that they don’t like you enough to do more than celebrate your life.  They have promised to do that.”

Juris looked at Lissa incredulously.  Drawing on his vast store of arrogance, he drew himself up and said, “You’re still mad.  Whales don’t talk.”

Smiling like someone who actually knows what she is saying, Lissa agreed, “Not in words, no.  You are correct.  The Orca’s vocal equipment can’t reproduce our vocal range.  When Kurin talks to them, they use their echolocation clicks to make something like drum talk.  They understand us just fine. Understanding them is the challenge.  They click about four or five time as swiftly as the fastest drum beats that we are used to.  The way that Kurin likes to put it is, you have to listen fast.”

About them, Kurin's other apprentices were sill busily preparing kits.  Luin was busy at a set of molds, pressing the parts for Kurin’s toy fish, birds and dolls out of specially prepared soft glue filled with fine strong Skin shavings and scraping dust.

Kurin leaned against her mother, absorbing the simple pleasure of contact while she thought.  Raising her eyes to meet Juris’ She said, “There is one last possibility. I can’t do it for you.  In fact, nobody else on this ship or the Grandalor can do it for you.  The first step you need to do in person.  At the next Combined Council meeting of this ship you must request a reconsideration of your sanity declaration.  You must have a finding of insanity.  

“Our Council’s finding will open the way for a plea of clemency before the Captain’s Council. You will also need to get a neutral advocate to present the case.”

Curious but still truculent, Juris demanded, “Why can’t you do it for me?  You represented Barad.”

Kurin shook herself a little and pulled free of Lissa’s gentle hold.  She sat at her design table and turned to face Juris before replying simply, “Barad was innocent.  Both others and he himself proved it to me. You did slander me, my ship, and my Master.  Besides reports, I have heard you do so with my own ears.  By that reckless talk, you have endangered this ship’s existence.  Because of those facts, none of us can legally represent you before the Captain’s Council.  All that we can do is be witnesses for you and state that we are willing to stand for your care until you are recovered.

“High Cloud will carry your request for representation and other information to whoever you wish.  That is the best that I can do.  I have to warn you, that it may not work.  It will all depend on the Captain’s Council.”

Brows furrowed right up onto his bald pate, Juris asked, “Why wouldn’t it work?”

Kurin leaned back in her work chair, and looked straight into his eyes as she replied, “Because you have already made a declaration of sanity.  We can accept your change of declaration but your first statement remains a matter of record.  If the Captain’s Council sees your change as a self serving attempt to avoid a just penalty under the law, they will still sentence you to death.”

Juris had actually listened to all of what he was told.  He stroked his jaw as he thought through what Kurin had told him.  He had to struggle a little with himself to say it but he did manage.  “Thank you, Kurin.  I really had no idea how bad the situation was.  I wish that I had listened earlier.”

Luin looked up from her molding task and said with a surprising degree of sympathy, “You won’t believe me but we wish that too.”

**************

Five new catamarans sat on the foredeck.  Kurin was examining them critically.  They all appeared to be at least acceptable.  Careful sighting of their lines showed minor differences and some trivial errors.  The boats with easily visible errors were eliminated immediately.  That left only two.

A large crowd had gathered to watch the judging.  The jealous journeymen were in the forefront making scathing remarks.  Kurin ignored them and crawled into the hulls, examining the interior seams and joints.  She even tried the bunks, checked the food and equipment lockers and examined all of the fittings.

Finally, Kurin chose the winner and stood on its deck to announce, “Conner, you are now in charge of the boat shop.  Congratulations!”  The journeymen were spectacularly silent.

To everyone’s surprise, Juris stepped forward and put out his hand.  As he shook Conner’s hand, he said, “You did a very credible job on this boat.  Guide my shop’s journeymen in their work and be guided by them in matters of craftsmanship.”  He glanced piercingly at the journeymen before adding, “That should allow the shop to serve as well as it can.  I wish you well.”

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS ~ NEXT==>

[jayjay547]

SHIELD's Best Podcast and Other Things Bucky Should Not Have Done: Chapter One

Summary: Bucky Barnes: natural poet, amateur author, and relationship expert. The last part was a heavy exaggeration, but he's fooled enough people into thinking so; after all, his advice was held to such high regard that he got a spot on one of New York City's most popular podcasts. He even liked to think he was revolutionary for helping break down the stereotype of relationship experts being perfect at handling relationships. If only someone had asked him for advice on how to deal with falling in love with two different people who were coincidentally in love with each other.

Not that it would have mattered, anyway. Bucky never followed his own advice.

Chapter Word Count: 3,309 words

Relationship: Sam Wilson/Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

AU: Modern/College

click here to read on ao3

click here for the masterlist 

Bucky didn't ask to be famous. 

Not that he was in the normal sense of the word. No one in New Jersey knew his name, much less anyone on the West Coast. Actually, most people in New York City probably didn't know who he was, but that was okay. He liked to think the people who mattered (meaning people within a half mile radius of him) knew who he was, at least a little bit. 

If one was to go up to a college student about to go into their first lecture of the day at New York University and asked them whether the name "Bucky Barnes," or "James Buchanan Barnes" if it was a day for formalities, rang a bell, the most obvious and common answer would be along the lines of "that writer boy." Not "that failed mechanical engineer," not "the one who can't do any type of science to save his life," and definitely not "the boy who cried in his car while eating ice cream after his ex-boyfriend dumped him." Especially not the last one, even if that particular low moment was just the beginning of his rise to fame. 

He also wasn't quite famous enough to get stopped while walking through hallways, unless it was by an older professor of his; even then, it was a reach. As he walked to his class, nobody really gave him a side glance. He liked to think that the people who did were somewhat appreciative of his looks, but that was wishful thinking, the thinking of someone who was still in the rebound period of getting over a relationship even though the break up was a year ago. 

When Bucky walked into his poetry concentration class, though, he knew more than a few people recognized him. There was only one picture of him that was published with his writing, a professional headshot and all, and while Bucky looked like a wreck most days in his life, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. 

He sat down on one of the benches, shuffling the papers he brought with him around, just to look like he was doing something. Not long after, there was a tap on his shoulder. Bucky braced himself for his first fan interaction of the day (and the month, but he wouldn't tell you that). 

Turning around, he was met by a face that was somewhat familiar to him, even if he couldn't place the name. Maybe she was a fellow writer, or something of that sort. Her blonde hair was tied up in a low ponytail, and the wrinkles near the bottom of her forehead suggested that she spent a hell of a lot of time frowning. "What's up?" Bucky asked, angling his body towards her as best as he could. 

"Are you James Barnes?" Her tone was blunt, the voice of a woman who did not mess around. If she wasn't in his class right now, Bucky would think that she was a Business major. There was always the possibility that she was a double major, but that was a bit excessive. 

"Yes," Bucky said, before quickly (and clumsily) adding, "But I go by Bucky." 

"Bucky," she parroted, as if the nickname was much too personal for her. Maybe it was. "That's from your middle name, right? Buchanan?" 

Up until now, Bucky hadn't had any stalker-type fans, and he was hoping that he would keep that record. Of course, his middle name was published with his work, but still, it was odd. "Yes ma’am,” he responded. 

The woman stuck out her hand, and Bucky shook it. She didn't seem fazed by his gloved hands, and he appreciated the lack of questioning around why he was even wearing gloves inside a warm classroom. “My name's Sharon,” she said. Her handshake was firm, practiced, and Bucky wondered again whether she was in Business. “You're the one who wrote the open letter, right? ‘What's Wrong With City Days?’”

She was much too put together to be a stalker, but who the hell actually knew the title of his first published piece? Bucky didn't even know some of the titles of his own works. “Uh,” he said intelligently, “Yeah. Yes, that's me.” 

Sharon put her hand on the desk in front of her, tapping at it for a second or two, drawing attention to her perfectly manicured nails. Bucky wished his nails looked that nice. “Well, I've read your work, Bucky,” she sighed out, as if it was a tragedy that had happened to her. “And I thought it was superb.”

Maybe she was a little too put together; Bucky wasn't sure he knew anyone who used the word “superb,” much less anyone who used it to describe his work. Stalker wasn't off the list yet. “I'm glad you think so,” he said slowly, before slapping himself mentally. He was being rude. “Sorry, I'm still not used to people reading my stuff. Specifically that piece.” Bucky winced, his mind going a hundred miles per hour. “Kinda wish people hadn't read that piece.” 

Sharon leaned forward, closer to Bucky. “Why not?” She asked gently, taking him by surprise. She looked sincere enough, and he wished he could tell her, but then the door opened. As the professor walked into the classroom, Sharon straightened up, sitting back into her seat, and Bucky took that as his cue to face forward. 

Why not? The question stewed in his head as the professor Mr. So-and-so, who Bucky had missed the name of, promising himself that he would just read the syllabus, started to drone on about basic topics. 

Why not? Maybe because it was around the time he found out that Brock Rumlow had been cheating on him throughout the entire duration of their relationship. Maybe because, right after that, he realized that he couldn't pass any of the classes meant for engineering. Maybe it was because he had then been notified that he had to go in for another round of surgeries on his arm. 

There were a lot of reasons why “What's Wrong With City Days?” hurt. But he had still published it, as a dramatic and overly emotional person does. Correction: Natasha had published it, but only after Bucky told her she could. 

He had written it in between the first and second operation on his arm. The hospital TV didn't play anything he was interested in watching, and staring downwards at his laptop while it played Netflix gave him a headache he couldn't bear to have. So he wrote. And he wrote. And then he napped, woke up, and wrote some more. He may have even written when he was high on anesthesia, which Clint told him didn't make much sense. 

Getting pieces of metal inserted into your arm was apparently the best motivator there was.

He stared ahead at the professor who continued to talk, the words passing through Bucky's head quicker than the man was saying them. It was only the first day of this class, and Bucky knew he would have catching up to do.

His phone screen turned on, placed next to his binder and all his messed up papers, a notification popping up. He swiped it. 

Spider Mom

Walk Lucky when you get back. Ty 

Bucky coughed quietly under his breath to disguise the laugh he felt bubbling up his throat at Natasha’s bluntness. He texted back a quick confirmation before clicking his phone off. Behind him, a pair of eyes bored into his back, so much so that Bucky swore he could feel it. When he turned back, Sharon didn't even disguise the fact that she was looking at him, smiling slightly at him when they made eye contact. As embarrassed as he was to admit it, he looked away first. 

The minutes ticked by as Bucky entered a staring contest with the right-facing wall. His phone lit up a few more times, but he didn't check it. The one portion of exposed brick was getting more and more interesting by the second; Bucky was convinced if he looked at it any longer, he would have enough ammunition to make another viral poem. 

And then suddenly, the lecture ended. Most likely, the end wasn't as sudden to others as it was to Bucky. 

While Bucky was scrambling together the papers that he had put on his desk for nothing, the quiet sound of footsteps coming up behind him alerted him that Sharon was still here, and still interested in talking. 

“Where do you go after class?” She asked briskly, and what was left of Bucky's “Stranger Danger” alarms went off in his head. Against his best interest, he answered her.

“I walk over to Martinelli's, the coffee shop. Do you know it?” He added as her lips tilted up into a half smile at the name. She nodded slightly.

“You could say that. Let me walk you over?” She asked kindly, but something told Bucky that it wasn't really a request. He could obviously say no, but something about her compelled him to accept.

“I could always use the company,” Bucky muttered back, stringing his bag over his right shoulder. Together, they walked out the classroom, and after a few more steps, they entered the outside world.

“So,” Sharon said immediately, as if the cold city air allowed her to talk freely. “I have some questions.” 

“Uh,” Bucky got out. He had only done one interview for his writing, and he had prepared so thoroughly for that one, only for half of his words to be taken out of context. “Go for it.” 

Something that Bucky realized very quickly was that Sharon walked very, very fast. He widened the length of his strides, huffing cold breaths of air as the woman started to speak, barely sounding out of breath. “Do you know what SHIELD's Best is?” 

Bucky's heart skipped a beat, and not because he was struggling to speed walk. SHIELD's Best: the most popular podcast in New York City, not just NYU. There was no real reason why it had the renown that it had; listening to it, though, was explanation enough. If the topic was relevant, it was covered. Bucky even swore multiple times to Clint and Natasha that the podcast covered things that weren't even out yet. They never lingered on the same topic twice, and there was something for everyone, it seemed. It was his source of news, and the source of news for most people in the city. The defining part of it had to be that the four speakers all had undeniable chemistry, not to mention that they also had very, very nice voices, especially the two men. 

“Wait,” Bucky said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Sharon slowed down with much more grace, turning to face Bucky in the middle of the slightly crowded sidewalk, a smile on her face as if she was already anticipating his question. “Are you Sharon Carter?”

She laughed, and Bucky felt a swell of pride for being correct, followed by a torrent of embarrassment for their entire conversation up until now. “I'll take that as a yes, then,” she murmured, and Bucky forced himself to move towards her as she started to walk again. Sharon Carter, one of the speakers on what was possibly one of the most influential podcasts, was walking with him to a coffee shop. 

The multiple shops passed by as they walked in silence for about a hundred feet, or something like that, which Bucky appreciated. It gave him time to collect his thoughts, and there was a lot to collect. After they passed a few more signs, though, Sharon decided that enough time was given. 

“So you're aware that we have guest speakers?” Sharon asked, and Bucky tripped. At least, he almost did, but he corrected himself right away. He couldn't wipe away the humiliated red that stained his cheeks, though. 

“Yes, I'm aware,” he said, stringing his words together as carefully as possible. He refused to mess up whatever was happening before it even happened. 

“Well, Bucky, we want you to guest speak about your writing,” Sharon said smoothly, as if it wasn't the biggest (positive) thing that had happened in Bucky's life. “I will say it was sheer luck that I have the same class as you this year, but don't think this is just a convenience grab. One of our speakers, Steve, really likes your work.” 

Bucky turned red again, which was not the best look for him, but at least he could blame it on the cold. Steve - amazing, supposedly kind-hearted Steve with a voice that Bucky would die for - liked his work?

It was only after they walked a few more steps that Bucky realized that Sharon was probably waiting for more than a lovesick look from his face. “Yeah, uh,” he got out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I'd love to. It'd be an honor,” he finally said, and Sharon smiled again. Maybe she could sense his sincerity, as wrapped up in his awkwardness as it was. 

“Sounds good, Bucky,” she murmured in reply, slowing down. In a daze, Bucky realized that they had reached their destination. Out of pure habit, he moved to open the door. It was only after Sharon thanked him and went into the shop that Bucky remembered that she had only said she would walk him there. Once again, anxiety threatened to overwhelm him, his brain piecing together every possible bad impression he had made on the woman. 

“Hey Sharon. Hey Bucky,” was what the two of them heard upon entering the shop. Sharon immediately waved to Bucky’s (kind of) employer.

"Hey Angie. I was just walking Bucky over here," she threw out casually, gesturing vaguely to Bucky, who was still trying to figure out why Sharon was familiar enough with Martinelli to call her "Angie." 

"Cool, cool. Didn't know you guys knew each other," she added, her eyes darting between the two of them. Bucky could have said the same thing back, but his mouth had a tendency to betray him, so he kept it shut. 

"Just met today. So, Bucky," she stated, all professional, "Let's exchange numbers and you can let me know when you get back home so we can discuss times when you're not busy."

Bucky took her phone hesitantly, starting to type in his number as he spoke. "Actually, I live above the shop." 

Sharon's eyebrows went up. "Really?" Bucky nodded as she continued, "I actually haven't met any of the others who live here." 

She had to stop confusing Bucky. His head couldn't take much more thinking. Why would it be a surprise that she hadn't met them? Sharon mistook his blank stare and silence as disdain, adding quickly, "I'm not planning on meeting anyone else today, so don't worry about introducing me." 

"Oh no, it's fine, I was just..." Bucky muttered, handing back her phone carefully. "Thinking. I was just thinking." In front of him, Sharon opened up her messages, clicking the new contact he had made for himself, sending a text. In his back pocket, he felt his phone buzz, but for her sake, Bucky made a show of taking his phone out and checking to see whether he had gotten a text. He had, and he quickly created her contact. 

“So,” Sharon started again, sliding her own phone back into her pocket, a movement that mirrored Bucky's. “We usually record on Saturdays. Does that work for you?”

Bucky nodded, wordlessly, which was an appropriate enough answer for Sharon. “Alright, good. I'll send you some stuff about it later. Basically, you're allowed to pick any piece of work that you would like to share, but let me know which one by tonight. I will then send you a rough outline of questions that will be asked, but try not to practice answers. It's more engaging if it doesn't sound like you're reading off a script.” 

As much as he tried, his mind was still struggling to wrap itself around the information that Sharon was calmly relaying, as if she had practiced it multiple times over, but just enough to still be natural. Her smooth way of speech had to be attributed to the fact that she was on a podcast; Bucky refused to believe that people were just born that charismatic. He nodded again, barely remembering to answer her. 

“Alright,” she said, checking her watch. “I have to go. I'll text you later. It was wonderful meeting you, Bucky.” Her voice was honest, sincere, as was the smile on her face. It was contagious, and he let a small smile slide onto his face as well. 

“It was nice meeting you too, Sharon,” he replied back, just as sincere, earning him a flash of teeth in Sharon's smile before she made her way towards the door, only stopping to give a quick goodbye to Angie. Even after the bell on the door stopped ringing and she was past the sight of the windows, Bucky kept standing there, frozen to the floor. 

“Hey man,” came Angie’s hesitant voice, and Bucky made a small sound of assent to declare that he had heard the woman. A few more seconds without a reply, and Bucky turned around slightly, just enough to see her in his peripheral vision. “Clint mentioned to me that he wanted you to take out Lucky?” 

Bucky groaned, but it was the reality check he needed, at least.

- - - - -

When he finally came home from the long walk, he entered through the back entrance of the shop. From personal experience, bringing the happiest, friendliest golden retriever in through the front of the shop would take from Bucky about an hour of his life. Bucky and Lucky (yes, they rhyme) clambered up the stairway to the small upstairs area with two doors across from each other. The door on the left was closed, signalling to him that Wanda and Pietro, the siblings that lived there, were not home; Wanda liked to leave the door open when she was, claiming it helped with “air circulation.” 

He opened the door to the right, simultaneously leaning down to start loosening the harness around Lucky. For his efforts, Bucky got a slobbery kiss on the cheek which he took in a stride. Closing the door behind him, he unleashed Lucky, who made a beeline for his water bowl. Bucky collapsed on the one tiny couch, leaning his head back on the top of the cushion so he could stare at the plain popcorn ceiling. 

Almost immediately, his phone buzzed. Letting out a long sigh, he fumbled for the phone he had thrown clumsily onto the couch, blinding swiping on the notification once he felt the phone in his hand. 

Sharon 

Saturday, 1:00 pm. Don't worry about eating lunch beforehand. 

Also, let me know what piece as soon as you can. 

He read the text again and again in his head. For the hundredth time, he clarified to himself that it was PM and not AM before making ten alarms for Saturday, starting at ten in the morning and ending at noon. Immediately after, he returned to regarding the messages again, only glancing away to make eye contact with Lucky, who had decided that the only rational thing to do after drinking water was drool on Bucky's leg. 

“Well bud,” he muttered, reaching out to scratch behind the dog's ears absentmindedly. “I'm really doing this, huh?” 

Lucky just stared at him, which was a good enough answer for Bucky to send a quick reply to Sharon, confirming his attendance and assuring that he would, in fact, pick a piece of his writing by tonight. 

“It's just a one time thing,” Bucky said to the rest of the room. “It's a breakthrough, but it's only a one time thing.” 

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