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brasskier · 3 years

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@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary: Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death.

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind.

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks.

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge.

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand.

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.”

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…”

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.”

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively.

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it.

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations.

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.”

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself.

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves.

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes.

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment.

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood.

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—”

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it.

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders.

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck.

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious.

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.”

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth.

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale.

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words.

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him.

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanfic #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #tw suicide #jaskier whump #bad things happen bingo #brasskier does bthb

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spicycreativity · 3 years

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Ticket Crimes - Oneshot

Rating: T Words: 9,752 Characters: All Category: Gen Summary: To welcome his new crew members about the USS Foley, Starfleet Captain Janus Gaines schedules shore leave on the pleasure planet of Ya'Lotus. Janus and Virgil run into an old acquaintance who seems to have ulterior motives; Roman and Remus attempt to infiltrate a drug trafficking ring; Patton and Logan narrowly avoid death on a history tour. Content Warnings: Mild violence/violent intent, alcohol use/mild intoxication, guns and phasers (no shots fired), mentions of drugs and drug trafficking (no drug use depicted) Note: You do not need to be familiar with Star trek to read this. In fact, it's probably better that you're not, because I took a LOT of liberties with canon

Doctor Patton Kelsey's boot heels clicked along the metal floor of the USS Foley as he made his way out of Sickbay. Despite the corridors' unusual emptiness, he kept to the right side out of habit, dragging his fingers along the wall as he went. He counted the doors, mouthing the numbers to help him keep track, until he came across the door he was looking for.

There was nothing usual about Ensign Virgil Salem's door except for the fact that it rarely ever opened. Virgil emerged for his shifts and for scheduled meals and made himself scarce the rest of the time.

Patton had studied Virgil's chart extensively but found no psychological defect that would render him unfit to serve in Starfleet. Surmising that Virgil was shy, Patton privately declared himself responsible for looking after the young recruit. The fact that they had joined the crew at the same time only served to strengthen this notion.

Patton raised his fist and knocked gently on the door, knowing full well that Virgil was inside. "Ensign Salem?" No response. "Virgil? Kiddo? Our group is about ready to beam down."

"Do I really have to go to that?" Virgil asked, his voice muffled behind the door.

"You don't want to?" Patton asked. "It's a party for us!"

"I would have been fine with a bottle of Saurian brandy, but nobody bothered to ask for my opinion, did they?"

Patton smiled a little and leaned against the doorframe. "Look, kiddo, you'd better just come with me before Captain Gaines calls you over the intercom."

"Shore leave is supposed to be optional," Virgil shot back, but Patton could tell that his resolve was slipping away. Virgil took a while to warm up to things, but he could usually be convinced.

"Not when the whole reason we're here is to celebrate you!"

"And you," Virgil said, and he was much closer to the door now.

Patton stepped back and waited for the door to slide open. It did a moment later, and Virgil appeared still tugging on his gold tunic over the standard issue black undershirt. His dark brown hair, slightly longer than regulation permitted, stuck up in the back where he had been resting his head against his pillows. Patton absentmindedly smoothed it down, though he managed not to lick his hand to do so.

Virgil let him lead him down the hall toward the Transporter Room. "You know I'm not actually your kid, right?"

"But we look so much alike!" Patton smiled sunnily at him. Patton was sturdy and soft where Virgil was rail-thin, and his honey blonde hair and blue eyes contrasted with Virgil's own dark hair and darker eyes.

"Sure, pops." Virgil shook his head, but there was a fondness to it. "I look like your shadow."

He stuttered his steps as they approached the Transporter Room so Patton would enter before him. Virgil respected Captain Janus Gaines, but he was also keenly aware of their difference in rank whenever they shared space. While Captain Gaines played fast and loose with regulations and encouraged his crew to do the same, Virgil never forgot what those regulations were. They had been drilled into his head at the Academy and haunted him like a ghost no matter how casually the Captain treated him.

"Took you long enough," Janus drawled. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

"That was one time," Virgil said before he could stop himself. Not that it mattered; Janus had only ever been amused by Virgil's backtalk.

The rest of the party to beam down were milling about like guests at a mixer, largely ignoring Virgil and Patton. Janus stood out among them not only for his nonchalance, but for his unusual appearance. He made no secret of rejecting his half-Vulcan heritage and regularly spirited away Lieutenant Commander Remus Aime to help him bleach his hair and eyebrows. This resulted in unhealthy-looking white-blond hair and stark black roots. To make up for this transgression, he kept his hair at an acceptable regulation length, one that revealed his mismatched ears. The left was pointed exactly as a Vulcan's ears would be, but the right was rounded like a human's. Contributing to the asymmetry were his mismatched eyes: the left was a piercing blue while the right was warm and brown.

"We're ready now!" Patton said. He often focused on the bridge of the Captain's nose to avoid staring openly at him, and he did so now with a sunny but vacant smile gracing his lips.

"Places, everyone," Janus said, cutting off the murmured conversation between the remaining party members.

They all stepped onto the platforms, Virgil with his stomach turning with nerves, Patton staring dead ahead, still smiling.

It was over in a blink.

Janus stepped forward, turning around so he could address his party. "Gentlemen," he said, raising his arms for maximum melodrama, "welcome to Ya'Lotus."

"Uh, yeah, so what is this place?" Virgil asked, stepping off his platform.

He was interrupted by Lieutenant Roman Aime, who had made no secret of his disregard for Virgil since day one. "Weren't you paying attention the first two times we explained it to you?"

Janus rolled his eyes, annoyed at having lost control of the conversation, but made no attempt to regain it. "Logan?"

The android nodded at him, stepping forward and edging Roman out of Virgil's space. "Lotus Island, located on the planet of Ya'Lotus, is a popular shore leave destination due to its vast array of amenities and unique ticket-based economy."

Virgil, who had not been paying attention in the slightest the first two times this was explained to him, frowned. "Ticket-based?"

"Like Earth money," Remus Aime interjected.

"Yeah, yeah," said Roman.

"Ooh, like the county fair!" Patton said.

Virgil wheeled around to face him. "Is that an Earth thing? I'm from Alpha Proxima II."

"Well," said Janus, regaining everyone's attention by clapping his hands once. "Thank you, Ensign Salem, for that fascinating little jaunt into your personal history. But seeing as we're here to have fun, why don't you just stick close to me until you figure everything out, hm?"

"Yes, sir," Virgil said, squinting at Janus. He, like many others, was never sure where he stood with the half-Vulcan, and was unsure what to make of him because of it.

"Joy," said Janus. Addressing the rest of the landing party, he said, "Virgil and I are off to the Tier III Lounge. Is anyone else coming?"

"Logan said he wanted to do the self-guided history tour," said Patton, nudging the android in the ribs.

Logan nodded, causing his ash blond hair to dance along the line of his jaw. His gray eyes differed from organic beings' only in that they reflected no light, and he turned this unsettling gaze upon Patton, who tried not to flinch. "That is correct."

"An island full of debauchery and you're going on a history tour?" Remus demanded, grabbing a fistful of Patton's shirt. Despite the height disparity (Patton being the tallest member of the party and Remus being the shortest), Patton bit his lip and leaned back as much as the young Romulan's grip allowed. With his extravagant face tattoos and devilish bearing, Lieutenant Commander Remus Aime was no stranger to getting his way through intimidation tactics.

"You get free salt water taffy," Patton said, glancing around to see who might assist him.

It was Remus' twin brother who came to his aid, yanking Remus back by the hair. "Knock it off."

"I am your superior officer!" Remus said, releasing Patton and turning to face his brother.

"Oh, I do apologize, Lieutenant Commander Hair Dye," Roman said. To Janus, who was toying with his bleached locks with an exaggerated carefree expression, Roman said, "We'll go with you."

"No way!" Remus said, freeing dark hair from his brother's grasp. "I don't want to go to some stuffy lounge."

"We'll find our own fun on the way," Roman said.

"Again with the melodrama." Janus sighed and looked over at Virgil, who was slouching with his hands jammed in his pockets. "Follow me. If we lose them, we lose them."

Janus turned on his heel, an impressive feat given he was supplementing his already substantial height with three-inch heels, and left the receiving Transporter Room with Virgil in tow. Always loath to be left out, Roman followed suit, trailing Remus, Patton, and Logan behind him.

The first stop was a massive receiving terminal where they were all made to spin a wheel to receive their first round of tickets.

"How, exactly, does this work?" Virgil asked, folding his tickets into a small stack.

"If you really cared to know, you should have paid attention the first two times Logan explained it to you," Janus said, stuffing his own tickets up his sleeve like an Earth magician. "You're more than welcome to join him and Doctor Kelsey on the history tour if you think that would be a better way to spend your time than a high-end liquor tasting."

"You know," Virgil said, "I think I'll stick with you."

"That's what I thought."

A fair distance behind them trailed the Romulan twins Vrih and Vaebri i-Elehu tr'Aime, better known but their preferred names. Given that they hailed from a particularly superstitious region of the planet Romulus, the twins had dubbed themselves "Roman" and "Remus'' respectively to avoid the bad luck of giving away their full names.

"Captain Quick Step is trying to ditch us," complained Remus, his boot heels clicking against the concrete. Patton and Logan had already peeled off, leaving the brothers to tag along after Janus and Virgil on their own.

"Don't let him," Roman urged, nudging Remus to hurry up.

Lotus Island was a hectic place, bustling with all races of aliens. Music rang out loud over strategically-placed speakers and workers called out for the crowd to try their luck at a variety of carnival games from multiple cultures. Sequestered away in gravity-defying skyscrapers were gambling halls, and further inland towered the tracks of massive roller coasters.

Remus dodged an inebriated Orion and nearly tripped, grabbing onto Roman's tunic to stay upright. "He's dodging and weaving, that bastard!"

"You shouldn't have worn heels," Roman chided, grabbing Remus by the wrist and yanking him forward.

"You're wearing heels, too."

"But I can actually walk in them."

Far ahead of them and gaining ground, Janus was employing Earth-based power walking techniques. Virgil stuck close behind him at a jog, toying with his tickets, privately amazed at the unfamiliar sensation of actual paper between his fingers.

Virgil, despite his rigorous Academy training, was somewhat out of breath. Janus was not, and even if he was, would not have allowed Virgil to see him gasping for breath. He had determined long ago to take the best of his Vulcan heritage and the best of his human heritage, suppressing his weak points far beneath the surface where no one could ever see them. Despite his fondness for Remus, Janus Gaines was simply not a man who allowed himself emotional attachments and weaknesses, and this had very little to do with his early childhood training on Vulcan.

"Any particular reason you're running me like a racehorse?" Virgil asked.

"Like you've ever seen a racehorse," Janus replied.

"Okay, don't answer the question."

Despite their rapid pace, Janus managed to turn and leer at Virgil, micro-expressing as only a Vulcan could. "Because it's funny."

Virgil didn't see what was so funny about ditching crewmates, but (wisely) kept that to himself. "Why don't we catch a lift, then?" He gestured to one of the many ride services available, surreys and bicycles, rickshaws and moving sidewalks.

"We're almost there," Janus said, motioning to a blue-black building ahead of them. The rounded windows were blacked out, leaving Virgil to wonder at what was inside.

It was a regular lounge, as he soon found out, quiet and upscale. The interior was dark and just a touch too cool for Virgil and Janus' liking. Virgil crossed his arms as he followed Janus to the bar, but was soon distracted by a familiar hissing and clicking from the corner. "Is that a pinball machine?"

Janus looked at him like he'd just said something phenomenally stupid, mostly to hide the fact that he had only a vague idea of what a pinball machine was. "You can worry about that or you can let me buy you a drink."

"Fine," said Virgil, who had yet to master the subtle and esoteric art of decoding Janus' communication style. He clambered onto a barstool and picked at the piping on his sleeves that denoted his rank while Janus ordered something that the universal translator couldn't translate into English.

The sensation of eyes on him made Virgil shudder. He ran a hand through his unruly hair and glanced down the bar only to make eye contact with a pair of green eyes. They belonged to a Vulcan Virgil had never seen before. Unsure of what to do, Virgil froze, leaving the Vulcan to break the eye contact. He looked Janus up and down, then up again, his gaze lingering on his bleached hair.

"Dude," said Virgil, once he had recovered from the off-putting sensation of having been cased and rejected, "I think that guy likes you."

Janus leaned forward and peered down the bar before pulling back in an attempt to hide behind Virgil. "Shit."

Then came the voice, bassy, yet undeniably Vulcan in its even monotone. "Chu'lak? I thought that was you."

"Fuck," said Janus, already smiling, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He slipped off the barstool and landed cleanly on his toes so the click of his heels didn't disturb the lounge's quietude. "Sihok."

Sihok saluted both Janus and Virgil, though his attention was mostly on Janus. "Scheduled shore leave?"

"A welcome party," Janus said, holding out his hand for a shake.

Sihok eyed it with what Virgil regarded incorrectly as apathy and Janus recognized as disgust and a trace of amusement. After a fraction of a section of hesitation, he shook Janus' hand. "And this is the new recruit?" he asked, indicating Virgil with a small nod.

"Ensign Virgil Salem," Janus said.

Virgil, who had been trained in cross-cultural contact, gave the proper Vulcan salute with a trembling hand. Despite being unable to decipher Sihok's body language, he could sense the tension between Sihok and Janus as keenly as he could the difference between scotch and bourbon. Somewhere behind them, Virgil registered the click of their drinks being set down.

"Ensign Salem," said Sihok. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," Virgil said, trying not to fidget.

"It is gratifying to know that you've held on to your manners despite your proximity to Chu'lak and his… half-measures."

Virgil's eyes went wide and he quickly averted his gaze. But to Virgil's surprise, Janus, rather than dressing Sihok down, gave a cold chuckle and put a hand on Virgil's shoulder. "It's Janus. Captain Janus Gaines."

"You always did have trouble conforming," Sihok said.

"Yes," said Janus, "Mathematically speaking, I thought I would go for half acceptance. How do I measure up?"

Seeing that his companions were otherwise occupied in their strange battle of insults, Virgil rotated slightly to retrieve his drink from the bar behind him. He had a feeling he was going to need it if Sihok stuck around for much longer.

Sihok lifted one eyebrow ever so slightly. "They call you The Mad Vulcan."

"Well, now you have my attention." Janus turned and retrieved his own drink. "Shall we get a booth?" He knew perfectly well that Sihok was getting at something, and the mystery of the subject matter had him more curious than he would care to admit. He was reasonably sure he had managed to hide this from Sihok, having expressed anger and amusement as a sort of misdirection.

Virgil said, "Is this a worm?" He held his drink up to the light, examining the fizzing red liquid within to try to get a better look at the thing floating in it. "Like mezcal?" From the look Janus gave him, he judged that the universal translator hadn't been able to find a good Vulcan equivalent of the word. "Never mind. Booth?"

"But first." Janus held up his glass for Virgil to toast. "Congratulations, Ensign Salem. Welcome to the Foley."

"I didn't want to go to that stupid lounge, anyway," Remus said, crossing his arms. In a fit of pique, he grabbed Roman's braid, which ended just shy of his lower back, and gave it a yank.

"Oh, don't pick a fight with me just because you're grumpy," Roman said, flicking Remus' temple. "There's a million other things to do; I'm sure we can find something more fun than stalking the Captain and the new kid."

"Drugs?" said Remus, brightening considerably.

"I meant like a roller coaster or something, but if you want to go find an upper, I guess that's--"

"Let's go!" Remus started walking away.

"Seriously?" Roman said. "I was kidding! An island full of stuff to do and you want to get high?"

"Re-lax, Vrih. Janus will have a fit if I bring drugs onto the Foley, inside or outside of me. This is more of a personal challenge." Remus continued on his merry way, weaving behind buildings and sticking to areas so nondescript that Roman would have stayed away from them out of pure instinct.

"C'mon, Vaebri, I'm sure the heavily-regulated pleasure planet doesn't have a scary criminal underbelly for you to infiltrate. We're wasting time."

"We're almost there," said Remus.

"What do you mean we're almost there? Almost where? You've never even been here before."

"Do you ever shut up?"

Roman crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, but continued to follow Remus as he strode away from everything that made Lotus Island appealing. They ventured past a few 'Keep Out' signs written in Federation Standard and Vulcan into a gray jungle of humming machinery all locked inside tamper-resistant metal cages. Remus darted up to one particular machine and wasted no time jamming his face up against the grating.

"I'm gonna leave," Roman threatened, his arms still tightly crossed over his chest.

Remus was only half-listening, having just uncovered something he found far more interesting than gambling or thrill rides. "This powers an elevator!"

"Ooh," said Roman, barely giving the gray machinery a glance, "an elevator. Not like the Foley has turbolifts or anything."

"Someone wasn't paying attention to Logan's little spiel."

"Uh, yeah, Ensign Salem."

"No, no. You know what's under the island?"

"Water?"

Remus rolled his eyes and gave Roman's braid another tug. "You've been spending too much time with the Captain.

"Will you knock that off?" Roman demanded, kicking Remus in the shin.

"It's the staff's living quarters!" Remus said, growing bored with the argument.

"Oh," said Roman. "So we're definitely sneaking down there to take a look around?"

"Way ahead of you," Remus said, already fiddling with the control panel.

Behind them came the distinctive hiss of turbolift doors opening, followed by conversation. Roman and Remus, in a moment of synchronization, both turned on their heels and stood at attention. As Romulan twins, they were both fully aware of the attention they tended to attract once strangers figured out they weren't Vulcans. But the pair of humans, both wearing hot pink uniforms denoting them as staff members of Ya'Lotus, didn't so much as glance up as they carried on toward the Midway.

The twins exchanged a glance, then Remus dived for the closing doors with Roman hot on his tail.

"Nice," said Roman, already examining the panel of buttons.

Remus pressed one at random and the elevator began to drop, taking them far beneath the surface of Lotus Island. When the doors opened again, the twins were met with the sight of pale blue walls and concrete floors. It was eerily silent.

Roman stepped out hesitantly, looking around for any possible passers-by, but there was no one. He motioned for Remus to come out after him. While Remus held the higher rank, arbitrarily bestowed by Janus, Roman was the older (and bossier) twin and had yet to relinquish the sense of authority he had gained from a childhood of leading Remus around Romulus and, later, Decos Prime.

"What language is that?" Remus asked, nodding at the phrases painted on the walls.

Roman studied it for a moment. "Federation Standard. Sickbay is to the left, plus the Medical Staff Break Room. Living Quarters to the right."

"Break room," said Remus, already heading toward it. Roman fell into step beside him, so perfectly synchronized that the click of their heels on the concrete sounded like that of only one person. It was a trick they had perfected in childhood that had served them well in previous instances of trespassing.

"It's kinda freaky down here," Roman muttered. "Where is everybody?"

Remus shrugged. "Sleeping? Working?" He wasn't too bothered. Remus was of the mind that getting caught was half the fun of misbehaving.

"And what do you want with Sickbay, anyway?" No sooner had the words left Roman's lips did realization click into place. "Are you still on drugs?" he hissed, barely resisting the urge to grab Remus by the shirt and drag him back to the elevator.

"No, I'm not on drugs," Remus whispered back, displaying a picture-perfect shit-eating grin. "That's the problem." Upon spotting the door to the break room, he fell out of step with Roman and lunged forward to peek inside.

Roman was savvy enough to stop walking when he noticed Remus breaking away. He watched, half annoyed and half embracing the inevitable, as Remus froze in the doorway with wide eyes. With his facial tattoos, his unruly hair, and his mustache (which he had to shave before every inspection), Remus did not pass for Vulcan half as well as Roman did, even with his long hair.

Still, Remus straightened and crossed his arms behind his back, falling into a passable impression of Vulcan stoicism. "Good morning."

In the hall, Roman frantically flashed the Vulcan salute, trying to get Remus to notice.

"Officer," said a voice from within.

"Lieutenant Commander," said Remus, wiggling his fingers playfully at Roman behind his back.

"Did he send you?" asked another voice.

Remus' facade fractured for a moment, his lips twitching with excitement. He clenched one hand into a fist and shook it at Roman as much as his current positioning would allow. Roman rolled his eyes, confident now that Remus could see him.

"Yes." Remus had to fight to hold still as he stared down the two Caitians lounging at a table in the center of the room. They both had PADDs and communicators in front of them, both had half-empty mugs of a substance Remus couldn't identify.

One of the Caitians, whose name tag identified her as M'Birr, tilted her head at Remus, pupils going wide. "Shaa. What if he's lying?"

Remus rocked forward onto his toes, and he flashed several nonsense hand gestures at Roman behind his back in excitement. It was time to bring out one of Janus' favorite lines, albeit with less sarcasm than the Captain usually employed. "Vulcans do not lie."

"Yeah," said Shaa, her pupils also wide, "I have heard that. Beside, the Big Guy would have vetted him before sending him to us."

Bored with the waffling, Remus decided to take a risk. He had no way of knowing what or who the Caitians were referring to, or even if there was any mischief afoot. But Remus had a nose for trouble and he could see Roman getting bored in the hall. So he adjusted his posture and fixed M'Birr with his best impression of a calculating Vulcan stare. "I was instructed to obtain a sample of the product."

It was all he could do not to squirm in delight when M'Birr sighed and said, "He could have at least given you a Staff shirt. How am I supposed to sneak a member of Starfleet into Sickbay?"

"Incidentally," said Remus, still wiggling his fingers at Roman, who was pantomiming shock in his peripheral vision, "I wasn't told the name of the product."

"Like it matters," said M'Birr. "They're calling it 'kin.' How much did he tell you to move?"

Before Remus could answer, one of the communicators on the table chirped. "Voight here."

"Shaa."

"Starfleet's onto us."

Shaa side-eyed Remus, who took pains to hold completely still. "How can you be sure?"

"We've got two hitting all the stops on the trail. Not buying. Just looking. They went straight from the Help Desk to the Founder's Statue."

Remus and Roman sighed in tandem, both knowing full well it had to be Patton and Logan making their rounds on the self-guided tour.

"Not with us," Remus mouthed, looking M'Birr in the eye.

She exchanged a glance with Shaa, who shrugged briefly and addressed the communicator again. "What's the plan?"

"Dispatch. We can't let them off the planet."

"On our way." The two Caitians stood and moved toward the doorway where Remus was still standing. "Sorry, Lieutenant Commander, but we've got trouble."

Unable to help himself, Remus said, "You're just gonna leave me down here?"

"I'd think a Vulcan would know better than to cause trouble," M'Birr said pointedly. "Excuse me." She pushed past Remus, followed closely by Shaa. "And who's this?"

"Backup," said Roman, trying not to react to the sight of the two cat-like aliens before him.

M'Birr stared at him, calculating, but Shaa nudged her and said softly, "We don't have time for this."

"See yourselves out," said M'Birr. She and Shaa took off for the elevators, leaving Roman and Remus to stand awkwardly until they were out of sight.

"Drugs!" said Remus, stamping his heels on the floor and shimmying. "What did I tell you?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Roman, annoyed despite himself that Remus had gotten his way. "Can we go save our friends from getting murdered now?"

"Sure," said Remus, heading back toward the elevator, "if they haven't already died of boredom yet."

After receiving their specially-programmed PADDs for the self-guided tour (along with two bags of saltwater taffy), Patton and Logan had set off for the first stop on the tour.

"Ooh," said Patton, who was attempting to read, walk, and eat taffy at the same time. "There's trivia."

Logan grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him out of the way of a group of Andorians. "I believe that all the knowledge we gain here today could be referred to as 'trivia,' Doctor Kelsey."

"No, no." Patton shoved a candy wrapper in his pocket so he could use both hands to show Logan the PADD. "There's a trivia contest at the end! We should pay extra close attention."

"Noted," said Logan. "I will make an effort to keep the information in my memory banks."

"Oh, by the way." Patton navigated back to the map of Lotus Island. "You can call me Patton, you know."

"If you're sure," said Logan. "I am aware of the human concept of 'politeness' and did not wish to overstep if you were being polite when you introduced yourself."

"Nope! You really can call me Patton," Patton said cheerfully, holding up the PADD and rotating it, trying to get his bearings. "Where's Virgil when you need him?"

(Virgil was, at the moment, weighing up the benefits of crawling under the table and abandoning Janus and Sihok to their Vulcan mind games)

"Allow me to assist." Logan removed his own borrowed PADD from under his arm. "Next up is the, ah, 'Fun Wheel.'"

"That thing?" Patton asked, pointing to the massive Ferris wheel ahead of them. At their current proximity, the hulking metal contraption dominated the horizon.

"Yes," said Logan, biting back a sarcastic comment. The Captain responded well to sarcasm and Logan's communication style had evolved accordingly, but time and experience had shown that most people found Janus' sarcasm off-putting. And Logan had seen him don the mask of diplomacy, which received much better reception. So Logan decided he would be diplomatic in the hopes that it would make Patton feel at-ease. Logan did not want to be the crewmember responsible for scaring off their new CMO.

They made for the Ferris wheel, Patton still with his nose buried in the PADD. "You get more taffy for correctly answering trivia questions!"

"What could we possibly do with more taffy?" Logan asked.

"Share it with the others!"

They reached the viewing platform of the defunct Fun Wheel and both held up their PADDs to read the description.

What the PADDs did not tell them was that less than 30 guests attended the self-guided tour per Earth year and those guests that did were rarely members of Starfleet. The PADDs had also not been programmed with the knowledge that every single stop on the tour was a tradeoff point for distributors of a new drug known colloquially as 'kin,' as the scientific name was several syllables long, untranslatable from Golic Vulcan, and contained a multitude of niche phonemes.

"Do you smell that?" Logan asked, searching his memory banks for several pieces of data at once.

Patton sniffed and looked around in confusion. "The ocean?" Most of Ya'Lotus consisted of a saltwater ocean that contained no indigenous life. The sea breeze was fresh and cool and smelled, to Patton's human nose, unremarkable.

Logan shook his head. "There is a strong chemical smell emanating from the lower cabin of the Ferris wheel. I believe it may be opioid in nature."

"Opioid?" Patton sniffed and again could only smell rust and sweet ocean air. "You can get all that just from the smell?"

Logan nodded and approached the low metal fence, leaning over it to try to get a closer look at the cabin. It was caged off and covered with a fine mesh that blocked even his keen android eyesight. He cycled through his senses, again landing on smell as his best means of solving the puzzle before him. Beneath the smell of iron and grease, there was a definite tang of something other, something distinctly sedative. He wasn't specialized to identify chemicals like this, and the sensation of answers dancing just out of reach in his databank was enough to elicit an emotional reaction. He looked at Patton and crossed his arms over his chest. "Fuck."

"Whoa!" said Patton, tucking the PADD under his arm. "What's wrong?"

"Forgive me, Doct-- Patton. I am expressing frustration because I would like to know the source of the smell."

Patton leaned in over the guardrail. "Maybe it's just an industrial agent you're smelling? I can't think of any reason why opioid drugs would be anywhere near a Ferris wheel. Not here, anyway. Not on this planet."

"You're right," Logan said. "I will let it go." To emphasize this, he let go of the railing and stepped back. "Are you finished reading?"

"Yeah," said Patton, also backing up. "Let's move on."

And they turned and walked away from the first hidden kin manufacturing still on the tour.

By this point, Janus was fairly sure Sihok was getting at something, though he was circling around the point like a seabird waiting for the kill. It was a tactic Janus could respect, though it was decidedly un-Vulcan. Virgil, meanwhile, signaled for another round of drinks with his fingers. He too had an idea that Sihok was getting at something, and that Janus was as well. While he was admittedly inexperienced with Vulcan body language, he was reasonably sure that Janus hadn't figured it out yet. With boredom and alcohol combining in his mind, Virgil sat back and decided to try to figure it out before Janus did. Sure, he was just an Ensign, but he wasn't stupid.

At the moment, Sihok and Janus (whom Sihok insistently referred to by his Vulcan name, Chu'lak) were talking lightly about their careers.

"I thought," said Janus, drawing one fingertip around the rim of his glass, "you were studying xenobiochemistry."

"I was."

"So how did you end up here of all places?" He gestured to the room at large. Virgil, tracking the movement with his eyes, caught sight of the pinball machine and gazed longingly at it before remembering himself. "As I recall, you had a natural talent for the sciences. If you'll forgive my saying so, working security at a glorified casino seems a bit beneath you."

Sihok's expression did not change that Virgil could see, but he marked that Janus was smirking just a bit.

Sihok nodded. "I discovered in the course of my schooling that xenobiochemistry better suits me as a hobby. And, if you will permit a lapse in logic, I find the the atmosphere of Ya'Lotus most agreeable."

"You dig the vibe," Virgil blurted before he could stop himself. Janus and Sihok both stared at him and before his eyes, the expressions he had mistaken for disapproval read simply as confused. A small spark of triumph ignited in him; he was learning to understand Vulcan mannerisms.

"That didn't translate," Janus said.

"I thought you spoke Federation Standard," Virgil said.

"That was not Federation Standard."

Virgil's cheeks began to burn. "Ah, never mind. You were saying?"

"I think," said Sihok, "there is a certain beauty in mathematics. Do you agree?"

"Sure," said Janus. "But why do I get the feeling that you're not referring to fractals?"

Virgil fished a maraschino cherry out of his drink and began to bat it around the table with his fingertips.

"There is an objective beauty in symmetry," Sihok said vaguely. "No one could argue that. But it's asymmetry that has my interest. Chu'lak, answer a question for me."

"Yes?"

"Where are you staying tonight?"

Virgil stilled, his eyes flicking to Janus. He had no doubt that the question had translated oddly, that Sihok wasn't seriously propositioning Janus. But Janus had been given an opportunity to tease, and even from his limited experience aboard the Foley, Virgil knew that Janus rarely passed up an opportunity to make fun.

"I hadn't decided yet," Janus said with an arch smile, staring at Sihok under his lashes. "The Foley, I suppose, or someplace lavish if I ever make it to the casino."

Virgil resumed playing with the cherry, knowing on some level that he was behaving unprofessionally. He was just drunk enough to not care, the alcohol softening the sharp edges of his anxieties.

"Why?" Sihok asked.

"Why?" Janus repeated.

"You have everything you need on the Foley, don't you? And the free accommodations here are sufficient to sustain life? Why strive for more?"

Janus made no effort to hide his confusion. His patience was wearing thin. He had been intrigued at first by Sihok's vague enterprise, but his insistent refusal to get the point left Janus struggling for diplomacy. "I didn't think you cared for philosophy, Sihok. You've changed."

"Think it over," Sihok said.

The maraschino cherry rolled across the table. Virgil grabbed for it, having flicked it a little harder than intended, but missed, and watched in a hazy mixture of horror and amusement as it rolled off the edge of the table, hit Janus in the knee, and bounced to the floor.

"Sorry," Virgil mumbled, already ducking to grab it. Movement under the table caught his eye; Sihok adjusted his grip on something. Forgetting the cherry, Virgil eyed it curiously. It looked very like the rolls of Lifesavers that Alpha Proxima II would import from Earth, little pieces of culture to keep the colonists connected to their heritage. Virgil had preferred dark chocolate bars and later, coffee and brandy, but his mother had been quite fond of the sharp taste of spearmint Lifesavers. Whatever Sihok had a grip on was wrapped in a translucent white paper that allowed Virgil to see the colorful discs within. Not wanting to linger too long, Virgil resurfaced with the cherry and set it down on a cocktail napkin. "Sorry," he said again.

"Didn't you say you wanted to try the pinball machine?" Janus asked. He was already formulating an exit strategy, but it had never been his intention to hold Virgil hostage. Sihok was taking his time getting to his point, and this was supposed to be a welcome party for Virgil. "Here." He scooted out of the booth and stood.

"Thank you," Virgil said. He walked slowly, listening as Janus apologized and Sihok began to wax philosophical once more about the beauty of asymmetry in mathematics.

A few rounds on the Starfleet-themed pinball machine only left Virgil frustrated and half-sober, overstimulated. He didn't understand why Janus didn't just make an excuse and go. They had both been drawn in by Sihok's vague manner, but Virgil knew that his continued refusal to get to the point must have been driving Janus crazy.

The music changed to something reminiscent of heavy metal, blast beats ringing loud in Virgil's ears. He practically felt in his face: the shredding guitars, the way all the conversations became louder to compensate, the beeps of the pinball machine. Virgil had been declared mentally fit to serve in Starfleet, having proven he could push through bouts of anxiety and even thrive in high-pressure situations. But subjecting himself to the torment of this noisy bar was unpleasant and wholly unnecessary, so he turned and followed signs for the bathroom.

Once inside, he leaned back against one of the cool metal walls, heedless of the potential for infection. He had been vaccinated for just about everything under the sun upon joining Starfleet and he doubted any pathogen on Lotus Island could make it through his defenses.

The door opened and shut and a human stepped in, eyed Virgil up and down. "You look like you could use a chill pill."

It was old vernacular, slang Virgil had picked up at the Academy, because no one on Alpha Proxima II talked like that. He was quiet for a moment, wondering if this stranger was merely using a turn of phrase or if they were, in fact, stupid enough to offer drugs to a member of Starfleet. He decided on the former. "Am I that obvious?"

"You're about to chew a hole in your lip," the stranger said. "Look, you're already bleeding."

Virgil had long grown used to the taste of iron on the tip of his tongue. "It's just a little loud out there."

"I've got meds that can help with that," the stranger said.

Virgil blinked and reassessed: they really were that dumb. "I'm Starfleet," he said incredulously, glancing down at his yellow tunic in case he had somehow taken it off and forgotten about it.

"So what, you're not allowed to cut loose a little? You're on vacation."

Virgil scoffed and let the back of his head rest on the wall, marveling at the audacity of this strange human.

To buy himself time, he walked over to the sink and began to wash his hands. A plan was beginning to form in Virgil's head, neurons firing and making connections. He steeled himself and turned back to the stranger. "How much?"

"So, and just so I'm crystal clear on this," Remus said, stomping along beside Roman with his unstyled mohawk ruffled by the breeze, "our heroic plan to rescue Patton and Logan is to take the guided tour?"

"Oh, shut up." Roman backed away from the Help Desk and shoved the PADD at Remus. "Ugh, I don't understand maps at all. Where's Virgil when you need him?"

(Answer: Making a drug deal in the bathroom of the Tier III Lounge).

Remus studied the PADD. Roman had already set the translation to Romulan, but it was crude and hard to navigate. "Man of metals?" he asked, squinting.

"Oh, nevermind." Roman snatched the PADD back and began to walk. "It's the Founder's Statue. It's made of titanium and platinum. Get it?"

"Well, that's a terrible translation," Remus grumbled.

"Maybe you should learn Federation Standard," Roman nagged. This was far from the first argument they'd had about it and he already knew that Remus would refuse point-blank, masking his frustration and insecurity behind stubbornness. Remus had none of his brother's knack for languages, and while he was a talented engineer, he'd always struggled with his classes far more than Roman had.

"Maybe the Federation should start using Romulan," Remus shot back, and changed the subject before Roman could escalate the argument. "You never answered my question. What's the plan?"

"We need to catch up with either Patton and Logan or, uh… the Caitians."

"Shaa," Remus said with unnecessary smugness, pleased to have something on Roman, "and M'Birr."

"Sure."

They were both out of breath by the time they reached the Founder's Statue, both privately regretting the decision to wear heeled boots. The marginal boost to their height still left them the shortest members of the crew, a fact for which Janus loved to tease them.

"Onward to the next one," Roman said, looking around and seeing no one. He held up the PADD, and Remus peered over his shoulder.

"Rotation wheel," Remus read in Romulan. He looked up at the towering Ferris wheel in the near distance. "Well, that shouldn't be too hard to find."

"It's called a Ferris wheel," Roman complained. "It's a proper noun. Why would they try to translate that?"

Remus paused so he could stamp his foot. "Focus."

"Yeah, yeah." Roman tucked the PADD under his arm.

They caught sight of the two Caitians just after the Ferris wheel and pulled back to avoid being spotted.

"They have guns!" Remus said, a touch too loud even for his own liking. "Real guns! Not phasers!"

"Speaking of…" Roman sighed and touched his hip where his phaser and communicator would sit. Weapons were not allowed anywhere on Ya'Lotus and communication was restricted to their own official channels. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Vulcan nerve pinch?" Remus reached over and grabbed Roman's neck.

Roman stared at him, unamused. "Right, so we'll just try to stay out of a fight. Maybe if we can get around them, we can catch Logan and Patton and, uh… Well, get the Captain, I guess."

"Running off to get Daddy at the first sign of trouble," Remus sighed. "This is why I got promoted and you didn't."

"Yes, that's why. Not because you were the only one stupid enough to risk bleaching the Captain's eyebrows for him."

"Only chemical burned him one time!" Remus said proudly. "Where are we going, by the way?"

"Oh." Roman consulted the PADD. "Banana stand."

"What's a--"

"Walk and talk."

Remus shook Roman's hand off his shoulder. "What's that?"

"It's a kind of Earth fruit. I'm sure they have them here, since the founder of Ya'Lotus was human."

"Boring," said Remus. "Race you!" He took off running, moving awkwardly in his heeled boots. Roman sighed, looked around, and grabbed a tandem bike. It was not the most dignified form of transportation on the island, but it was one he happened to be familiar with. He and Remus both had a bit of a fascination with human history: Remus specializing in weaponry and warfare and Roman preferring to study courtship rituals. He mounted the bike with only a little difficulty, found his balance, and pedaled after Remus

"C'mon, get on."

"Oh!" said Remus happily, not even bothered by the direct order. "It's like a motorcycle with pedals!"

"How have you heard of a motorcycle but not a banana?"

"Will you focus?" Remus flicked Roman's shoulder blade. "You are now officially the Navigator and Helmsman of the Federation vessel Gemini."

"Subtle." Roman would have rolled his eyes, but between trying to steer and keep an eye on the PADD, didn't want to risk it. "What does that make you?"

"The Captain, obviously," Remus said. Roman put his head down as they pedaled by Shaa and M'Birr, but Remus whooped and flashed them a rude hand sign.

"Are you trying to get us killed?" Roman wheezed, a little winded from having to haul both his and Remus' weight. "Fucking pedal!"

"Don't talk to your captain like that," Remus said, giving the pedals a few half-hearted turns.

"Could you at least take this a little seriously? Our crewmates are in danger!"

"Oh," said Remus, kicking his feet out, "guns aren't that dangerous. Not compared to phasers."

Roman just huffed and didn't answer. He steered them to the banana stand without incident and, upon seeing Patton and Logan about to leave, dived off the bike to reach them. Ignoring Remus' annoyed cries behind him, he sprinted over to his wayward crewmates. "Hey!"

"Roman," said Logan, glancing over at Patton in surprise. "You appear to be in distress."

"We gotta get out of here," Roman said in Romulan. Despite the universal translator, he usually switched to Federation Standard out of politeness when speaking with Logan and their human crewmates (though Patton's native language was Welsh), but he was too stressed at the moment to try to switch gears.

Behind him, Remus cursed and examined his left palm, which he had thrown out to break his fall when the bike had tipped. "I'm gonna kill you."

"Kill me later!" Roman shouted back. "We gotta go!" He wrapped his arms around Patton and Logan's waists and started to steer them toward the crowded boardwalk. "Remus!"

"I'm bleeding!" Remus said, scampering to meet them.

"You are?" Patton stopped and turned, ignoring Roman's cursing. "Is it bad?"

"Kiss it better?" Remus asked, batting his lashes.

Roman dragged his hands down his face. "Do you want to get in a gunfight with-- Oh, don't answer that. Of course you do."

"Forgive me, Lieutenant, did you say gunfight?" Logan asked, extricating himself from Roman's slackening grip.

"We don't have time for this!" Roman stamped his foot to try to get Remus' attention, but he was too busy playing up his injury for Patton. He only had a few minor scrapes across his palm, a few dots of green blood here and there.

"Roman, I must insist that you explain," Logan said. "I understand that you are agitated, but if you simply explain the situation, I'm sure we can--"

"We don't have time!" Roman interrupted. "Is it not enough to know that we're in danger?" He turned to his brother, desperation shining in his eyes. "Back me up on this."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to murder your superior officer," Remus said as Patton continued to pick bits of gravel out of his palm.

Along the path, Roman caught sight of the Caitians. Their pace was quick but not frantic as they scanned the horizon for their target, hands on their guns. Roman whispered an untranslatable swear word and made a decision.

Abandoning his crewmates, he straightened, crossed his arms behind his back, and strode forward to meet M'Birr and Shaa.

"Greetings" he said, trying not to let his voice tremble.

"You again?" said Shaa, crossing her arms. "Where's your partner?"

Roman swallowed. "After some discussion, we agreed it would be logical to interfere on your behalf."

"How so?" M'Birr asked. She frowned at Roman, her eyes scanning him.

"We acted under the belief that Starfleet officers would be more likely to trust other Starfleet officers. As you can see, we were correct. We have gained their trust and ascertained that they are not aware of the operation." Shaa tilted her head, and Roman felt compelled to add, "Vulcans do not lie."

"If you're really Vulcans," M'Birr said, still eyeing him with wide-pupiled green eyes. "And not, say, Romulans."

Roman forced his face to remain impassive. "That is an easy mistake to make, particularly if one is not familiar--"

"Oh, shut up." M'Birr drew her gun. "We can take care of all four of you."

Roman's pulse and breathing quickened, his vision narrowing to a very small spot, centering on the matte black of M'Birr's handgun. It was bulkier than a phaser and, he reminded himself, less deadly. He stared at the barrel, mind formulating and discarding half-formed plans for escape. Regardless of what Remus had said, he really didn't want to get shot.

What Roman did not see in his narrow-minded panic, was Remus abandoning Patton and flanking his brother and his assailants. He also did not see Patton flanking the other side, nor did he notice Logan appropriating a golf cart from a confused family of humans.

Remus flew into Roman's field of vision and tackled M'Birr, followed shortly by Patton who dropped Shaa with a sweeping kick to the knees. Adrenaline kicked in and Roman grabbed Remus by the wrist and hauled him up, spotted the golf cart, and dived for it. Patton beat them there and swung around to the passenger seat.

"Go, go, go!" they all shrieked, and Logan obediently stepped on the accelerator. The golf cart began to roll forward at a leisurely pace.

"Oh, are you kidding me?" Roman demanded.

"It's okay!" Remus said. He had turned so he could peer out the back, and was happy to see Shaa and M'Birr still struggling on the ground. "Dang, Patton, I think you broke Shaa's leg."

"Don't say that!" Patton wrapped his arms around himself and instead turned his attention to Roman. "What was that all about, anyway?"

Roman explained, punctuated by interjections from Remus. This concluded with Remus sitting back in his seat with a huff. "I can't believe nobody got shot."

"Should we have confiscated their guns?" Patton wondered out loud.

"Hopefully security will deal with them," Logan said. "Does anyone know where the Tier III Lounge is, by the way? I've been making evasive maneuvers, and now I am unsure--"

"So we're lost," Remus interrupted. "Possibly with more assassins after us, if the kitties called for backup."

Roman rested his forehead against the back of Patton's seat. "I hope the Captain is having a better day than we are."

Despite the lack of immediate danger, Janus was having a much worse day than the whole of his crew, save perhaps Virgil, who was still negotiating his drug deal in the bathroom.

"So you see," Sihok was saying, his drink nearly untouched, "an asymmetrical system is beautiful not only for those at the top, but for those at the bottom by instilling hope in them that they might someday reach the top."

"Capitalism," said Janus, bored. "You just described capitalism."

"Perhaps I did," Sihok said, and displayed the Vulcan equivalent of a guarded smile.

Janus masked his utter confusion behind raucous laughter. "Sihok, what exactly are you implying?"

"Nothing at all," said Sihok primly. "I was merely displaying my admiration for the artful execution of a certain style of economics."

That was when Virgil emerged from the bathroom clutching a roll of tablets, the drug known as 'kin.' It was identical to the one Sihok was holding, and the implications of this turned his stomach. Sihok was head of security for the whole of Ya'Lotus, and the way he had spoken to Janus had implied that he was after something, though Virgil had no idea what it could be.

Virgil hurried over to the table, heart racing in anticipation of what he was about to do. He had information that Janus might need and he couldn't speak it out loud. After hearing he had been assigned to the Foley, he had made a point to study the biology and abilities of Vulcans, though he had no idea what telepathic abilities Janus might have inherited as a human-Vulcan hybrid, and a genetic anomaly at that. Virgil was taking a risk, one that might draw the Captain's ire or make him look foolish, which was as dire a consequence to Virgil as death.

He approached the booth and, before Janus could get up, gently rested his hand on Janus' shoulder.

Janus froze. Sihok marked this, and Virgil noticed him notice. Dread trickled down his spine like cold water. "Excuse me, Captain," he said weakly.

"Bored already?" Janus asked. He directed an amused look at Sihok and said, "The human attention span," in a tone of patient exhaustion, then got up to let Virgil in.

Virgil was careful not to brush up against Sihok's legs, but he could tell that Sihok was staring as he scooted back up against the wall. Despite Janus' lack of reaction, he had a sneaking suspicion that his plan had worked too well and that not only Janus, but Sihok as well had picked up on the information he had transmitted.

They all lingered for a moment in a silent standoff. It was Janus who broke the silence, laughing again and rolling his eyes. "I have to say, Sihok, I'm a little disappointed. And offended, if I'm being honest." He took the roll of kin from Virgil and set it on the table. "You're pushing a capitalist drug empire on a pleasure planet. What was the master plan? To establish a capitalist regime within the Federation with you at the top? How un-Vulcan."

Sihok ignored the slight. "I had intended to offer you a partnership. Are you declining?"

"Was that not obvious?" Janus asked, abandoning the last of his pretense at Vulcan restraint. "Not only am I declining, I'm calling you an idiot. Sihok, you are an idiot and a disgrace to the planet Vulcan, and I don't mean that as a compliment. I suppose now you're going to kill us before we can report you to Starfleet?"

"Yes," said Sihok.

"How?" asked Janus. "We're sitting down. Do you want to arm wrestle us to death?" Sihok took a breath to speak and Janus cut him off, "Don't even think about your phaser. Sure, you could get one of us, at which point the other would disarm you."

"Well," said Sihok, "it seems we have reached an impasse."

Virgil took another risk. "May I?" he asked, nodding at Sihok's drink. "You haven't touched it and if I'm going down today, I'm going down drinking."

"Control your crewman," Sihok said to Janus, deadly serious.

Virgil took the drink. "Thanks." He held onto the tumbler, using the numbing ache of chilled glass against his palm to ground himself.

"So," said Janus, disregarding Virgil, "an impasse."

"About that," said Sihok. "Your Ensign is new to Starfleet; you said so earlier." He drew his phaser and aimed it at Janus. "I do not believe he has the capacity to disarm me, especially as he has been drinking and his reaction time will be slowed."

Thinking that now was as good a time as any, Virgil touched Janus' leg and splashed his drink in Sihok's face. They both scrambled out of the booth and sprinted out the door. They paused for a moment to get their bearings, and that was when a golf cart plowed into Virgil at a speed equivalent to 10 miles per hour.

Logan hit the brake and reversed so as not to run over Virgil's legs. "Forgive me, Ensign Salem. Are you alright?"

Roman, who hadn't picked his head up from the back of Patton's seat, began to lightly tap his forehead against the metal support bar. "Please tell me you didn't just kill our Helmsman when we need him most."

Virgil scrambled to his feet, too full of adrenaline to register any serious pain. "We gotta get out of here."

"You too, huh?" Remus said. He patted the seat next to him and addressed Janus. "Climb aboard."

Janus hopped on and was forced to sit on Remus' lap. Unruffled, he barked, "Ensign Salem, evasive maneuvers. Now."

Virgil hopped into the driver's seat, which Logan had recently vacated, waited for Logan to clamber onto the back of the golf cart, and slammed down the accelerator. "Where to?"

"Evasive maneuvers, Ensign Salem. Let's lose our pursuers before we worry about a destination."

"Yes, sir." Virgil pulled around the back of the Tier III Lounge just as a dripping-wet Sihok emerged, phaser drawn. The chase that ensued was unremarkable, as the golf cart began to pick up speed while emitting a worrisome whining noise.

"I made some adjustments to the engine while we were moving," Remus said proudly.

"That's impossible," Janus answered.

"I said that, too," Logan said.

Virgil continued to steer them in concentric circles around Lotus Island, self-assessing now that he was calmer. He could already feel the dull ache of impending bruises on his hip and elbow, but the damage seemed minimal.

"So," said Roman, "who are you evading?"

"Oh," said Janus, feigning boredom, "just a would-be capitalist drug lord Vulcan hellbent on murdering us. You?"

Roman put the pieces together. "Said Vulcan's lackeys, also hellbent on murdering us."

"Oh!" said Patton and Logan simultaneously, albeit for very different reasons: Patton to express dismay and concern, Logan realizing why he had smelled opioids earlier.

"You're welcome, by the way," Remus said, addressing Patton since he was easier to reach. "Those Caitians were after you and Logan."

"Thanks," Patton said weakly. "You know, I'm not feeling very relaxed."

Janus looked around and, seeing no trace of either murderous Caitians or murderous Vulcans, leaned forward to address Virgil. "Set a course for the Transporter Building, departures terminal. Let's get the Hell out of here."

After making some arrangements on the viewing deck, Janus arranged for Virgil and Patton to be summoned from their rooms, where they had both gone to decompress. Virgil and Remus had first been strongarmed into going to Sickbay, where Patton looked them over and pronounced them fit for duty.

Remus was showing off his bandaged hand to Janus and regaling him with a greatly embellished tale of how he had received the injury when the doors slid open and Virgil and Patton appeared.

Patton came in first, Virgil lingering behind him. "Aw!" he said, looking around at the array of alcohol and finger foods arranged picnic-style on the floor. "What's this?"

"It's your welcome party," Janus explained. "Since Ya'Lotus didn't quite work out. Come sit."

Patton sat down next to Logan, leaving Virgil to occupy the empty space next to Janus. Janus offered him half a smile. "You did well today, Virgil. You may even have saved my life." He paused, then added, "Although I probably still could have disarmed Sihok before he got the shot off. Regardless." He poured Virgil a glass of bourbon. "Thank you, Ensign Salem. You did well."

"Yay, Virgil!" Patton said happily.

After ensuring that everyone had drinks, Janus regained command of everyone's attention and raised his glass. "A toast to honor our new crewmates. Virgil Salem, Patton Kelsey." He looked at them in turn. "Welcome aboard the Foley."

#spicywrites #spicywrites ticket crimes #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #platonic dlampr

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sewnblade · 3 years

Text

The Manslayer

A/N HI GUYS.... this is new for me. mainly just doing this to have an outlet for my self indulgent bullshit. <3 might do a few chapters of this but IDK??

TW: anything you’d see on peaky blinders is game. nothing graphic happens in this at all, but references to murder, parent death and abuse.

Humans- real ones- wouldn't conduct themselves this way.

Wouldn’t have had to be locked away, thrashing and cursing, in his office. Wouldn’t be passed out on the firm oak top of his desk, curled up with stocking feet, muddied on the bottom, torn, drooping over the side.

But here you are. Whiskey still acrid on your lips, the ghost of a cigarette stale on the back of your tongue. What does that make you?

Papers, ledgers and notes, a mess beneath you. He wouldn’t be happy. The drunken spectacle itself was frustrating, but not unheard of. Not remotely unheard of, for anyone in his life. But you know how he feels about the sanctity of his space, and how he’d deal with almost anybody else invading it like this.

Though- to be fair- it had been Polly that had turned the key.

There, unconscious and blessedly quiet, your mind passes through dim, malformed memories, watching them like a picture show someone has made of your past without having lived it. The villains laughable and overacting, the blood made of syrup and wine. In one of them, Tommy even shows up in time.

That’s out of place enough to wake you up.

Raising heavy eyelids, you can make out the flash of a lighter before you can piece together the man behind it. He’s sitting as he so often is- somehow at once slouching and as poised as a Greek statue, a sullen boy hewn in marble and timeless. Taking in the measure of you, of your state- and God, it is a state- he huffs through his nose and swirls his whiskey. “We’re going to have this conversation again, are we?” he drawls around his cigarette, a slight strain in his voice as he leans forward to pull a crumpled sheet of paper free from beneath your knee.

His tone is unreadable.

“Wh’time is it?” you dodge, making a show of propping yourself up on one arm, rubbing your eyes.

He doesn’t answer at first, taking a drag, but after a moment his half-lidded gaze finally turns to the side, towards the shop, and he motions similarly with his glass. “Well, late enough they’ve all fucked off, if that’s your worry.”

“It’s not,” you snipe back.

Unfazed, Tommy closes his eyes and raises his eyebrows for a moment in what is as close to a shrug as you’re likely to get. As much as you care about him- as much as you should feel comfortable around those eyes- every time they close there’s a flood of relief. A moment of shelter in a torrential wind that batters you, fights its way into the gaps in your coats and your stockings. Makes you turn your head away, squint your eyes so hard you can’t see where you’re going anymore. “You staying up there, then?” he asks, his demeanour not altogether unfriendly.

“Well,” you venture, finally sitting up, “every moment I’m up here is a moment you’ve got to talk to me.” A little grin, almost too small to notice, and you test the waters. “I’m sat on your numbers.”

He acknowledges you with a lazy ‘hmmh’ of agreement and leans back in his seat again. “You’ve cut all your hair off,” he observes, as though he hadn’t seen it the second he walked in. As though Arthur hadn’t barked the knowledge at him when he’d discovered you taking up as a working girl. The last time Tommy had seen your hair it was long and coveted, thick, softened with oils and pulled into a long, loose plait. Now, chopped blunt below your cheekbones, the curls hang in your eyes and do as they please.

“That's right,” you agree, trying not to sound defensive. “Men recognising me was bad for business. No one wants to fuck a—“ you catch yourself, and risk a quick look at him. Somehow, even perched on his desk with him sprawled in his chair beneath you, you’re still looking up at him. The incongruity leaves you a bit dizzy. “-well. Get a reputation as a manslayer,” you spit that word out like a mouthful of blood halfway through a boxing match, “and suddenly the men go shy.”

There is a flash of something old and scarred-over in his morning-mist eyes as they flick back to you, gaining his undivided and unpretentious attention for the first time that night. Christ, for the first time that month. He gestures at you, accusing, with his cigarette. “And I’m not paying you enough to let them stay shy? Is that it?”

You can feel the warm flush creeping up from beneath the collar of your dress, spilt wine leeching through a tablecloth. A beat, and you open your mouth to respond, but the thousand things you want to say to him are withering and retreating under his scrutiny. You’d fought for weeks for him to talk to you straight, and now that you had it, the words were quicksilver through your fingers. Instead, all you can manage is “can I have a drink please, Tom?” It's weak. Tentative.

In one motion, Tommy knocks back the rest of his whiskey, and clinks your glass together with his in pinched fingers to pull them toward the bottle. “From what I hear, it’s the drink that caused all this,” he replies. You’re not sure whether he means the mess you’ve made of his office, or the scene you made in the betting shop, or the state of your life- he’d be right in any instance, but he pours the drink regardless and sets it down again. “That was a rhetorical question, by the way,” he adds. “At the rates I’m giving you, you must be the only whore in Birmingham just doing it for the love of the job.”

You bristle. It was meant to hurt, and it did. “And what other job shall I get, Tom? Ay?” you finally fire back, hands gripping the edge of the table. “No one decent will hire me ‘cause of— ‘cause of what happened, and no one indecent will hire me ‘cause you’ve made it very fucking well known I’m tainted stock, by order of the Peaky fucking Blinders!”

His hand, still holding his cigarette, squeezes between his eyes. “You want for nothing, (Y/N),” he says, his voice tired and straining. You know that catch in his throat- he’s been shouting all day. Shouting, cigarettes, spirits, repeat. If he’s lucky, inhale some gunsmoke and furnace backdraft in between. He could be a baritone with that voice of his, could have sung for crowds. “I’ve seen to it, I’ve fucking seen to it—“ he’s raising his voice now, crescendoing, and you can feel the crowd swelling with him. Then, all of a sudden, he changes tack and the volume of his voice drops. “You don’t need a fucking job, you need to be looked after- and I’ve fucking well done that for the last three years,” he says, seething, and it's almost a complaint. He's trying to get the words out before you can object, and he can see your objection mounting.

Like clockwork, your indignation escapes you in a breathy laugh. “I need to be what? That’s fucking rich coming from you, Thomas Shelby. The last time I needed to be looked after, you showed up just in time to miss everything. I did it all. All of it.” After it leaves your mouth, tumbling, flooding out, you regret it immediately. It tears at you on its way out, the regretful sting of a honeybee. And as infuriating as it is, you hear your voice wavering, feel your face tightening.

For a moment, Tommy looks at you- really looks at you. Not coolly, not strategising or trying to put you in your place. And you know he can see through you, down to the churning, violent, black void you choke down every day. The dark hollow, the bottomless-sea eyes of someone who has taken human life, someone who has been harmed permanently, someone who walks among humans but is no longer one of them. You know, because when he lets you see it, you can see it straining to escape from the pits of his pupils as well. War had happened to him, being a Blinder had happened to him. Your father had happened to you.

And in return, you had happened to your father.

“So, fine,” he relents, and with a blink he’s managed to obscure the dark portal again. There’s only the frozen, windswept wasteland of his gaze. “You don’t want the money, you don’t have to take it.”

“It’s not about the money, Tom,” you argue, and are loathe to hear it come out in a whine. “It’s about— it’s about trying to live as a ghost in this city. Just an open, needy mouth, a parasite. You're the only people who will talk to me, and even you don't want to talk to me. It’s not fair on you, and it’s not fair on me. And I know you loved him, and I know I took him away from you—“

His expression shifts suddenly, and in an instant his hand is lashed around your wrist, the grip so tight and violent you think the bone might snap. “Is that what you think?” he demands, his voice dangerously low, his face close enough that you can taste the whiskey on his breath. “You think I resent you for what happened?”

“Don’t you?” it could very easily have come out sarcastically, and maybe that would have been preferable. Instead, it escapes you in a timid, weak breath that you despise instantly. “I’m the one that did it.”

And for one fleeting instant you catch it- you’re sure of it- pain flashes across his features. It’s gone as quickly as the flicker of a candle flame, but you know what you’ve seen. Those little frames of truth, the ones Polly could read as sure as tea leaves and bad intentions. You know she can, because she saw the dark spirit before anyone else. Warned everyone, warned Tommy. Only he hadn't listened well enough.

Tommy’s grip on your wrist stays, but softens. His thumb traces your pulse, making you very aware of the raucous thudding of your heart. His eyes, those February wind-storm eyes, fixate on you- and even though you can feel the intensity of what it means when Tommy Shelby gives you his attention, the power of it no longer buffets you and stings your eyes and lips. “Listen to me, (Y/N). Killing in self defence is not a sin, and I am not St. fucking Peter.” And just like that, the edge is gone from his voice. Because he’s got the measure of you, now.

You'd wanted to be an animal, a beast, a frenetic and untameable creature- because Tommy had more time and more patience for beasts than for men. What you hadn't anticipated- and you fucking should have, you little fool- was that the reason Tommy preferred the company of animals was that they fell under his spell without messy complication. After all, wasn't that the reason he'd spent all those afternoons as a boy helping at the stables with your father? Couldn't those hands, capable of such brutality and such violence, settle calm as warm sunlight against the sides of a horse's muzzle? Didn't every horse, whether wounded or ornery or spooked find something other humans couldn't explain in that cut-marble face and those December storm eyes?

He is taking you by the muzzle and blowing short puffs. You're nothing more than a mare causing trouble at the far end of the stable. Rattling her stall doors. And he knows how to settle you.

And it's working.

Your other hand finds its way to his grip on you, tentatively settling over his own. “You've done so much for me, Tom,” you admit finally. “I don't want you to think it's ingratitude, and I don't want you to think I don't appreciate you. I just- I want to feel like I- I dunno, I guess-”

As you fumble for words, you can feel his hand squeezing your wrist gently, reassuringly. “Like you're doing something to earn it,” he finishes, looking lazily across the room. He isn't really talking to you, you know- just thinking out loud, as he so often is.

“Like I'm of use to someone,” you correct him gently.

His head doesn't turn, expression doesn't budge even a tic, but his eyes come back to meet you. “And you want to be of use to me, ay?” he asks, still calm- but you can sense the whisper of a warning dancing beneath his words. “Have you even the faintest idea what can happen to people who agree to be of use to me?”

Scooting forward, you ease yourself off his desk, just leaning against it now, and find yourself occupying the position between his spread legs. Retrieving the bottle from where he'd set it a few minutes ago, you set it to his glass with a faint clink and refill it. He's silent, appraising again, but you can see that little glimmer of a laugh in his eyes. Where he kept it locked away, along with the other parts of himself that slowed him down.

Finally, you tilt your head like you'd been considering the answer. You hadn't- you knew it all along. “You let them?”

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #tw parent death #tw abuse #tw murder #tommy x reader

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thelittleredheadedmusician · 3 years

Text

you were shunned and burned your cradle

Newsies Gen PG 4,365 words AO3 Living in New York isn't easy for a boy on his own. It's worse for Crutchie between his leg and the air itself trying to poison him. But things really can only go up. For @i-got-personality as part of @newsies-secret-santa! You said you like Crutchie, canon era, and any kind of magic and well I hope that you like this!

Being a changeling in New York City hurts. It makes his skin itch and his lungs burn and his eyes water. From the iron that surrounds him, fills the very air along with the smoke. If he’s not careful when he reaches out or brushes against something his skin comes away with a sharp, searing scar.

Being a changeling hurts in a different way too. Knowing that, for whatever reason, his mother gave him up. That a human baby was far preferable to him and so he was left in some other child’s crib. To make matters worse, he was given up twice. That hurt even more.

On his crueler days, the ones filled with self-loathing, he blames himself. That it was some personal failing, his bum leg perhaps, that made his mother exchange him. That the same failing is why the woman who believed herself his mother threw him out onto the street. Logically, he knows this isn’t the case. For one, he remembers what happened to his leg and it involved an iron poker that proved to his mother he wasn’t really hers as fear burned in her eyes.

Being a changeling in New York hurts and it’s hard too. Trying to grow, to thrive, in a city that was made in opposition to your very nature. It’s even harder when you’re just a kid. When you’re living on the streets. His first few nights are the worst. He’s cold and hungry and tired and he hurts. Oh does he hurt.

Being a changeling is no walk in the park, though ironically walks in the park help some. Help a lot. Until he tires. But being a changeling in a city as big as New York means you’re not alone. Well, you’re never alone but there’s others too. If you know how to spot them.

He’s been sleeping in doorways and sneaking food from market stalls – but not begging, whether an innate part of being a one of the Folk or an innate part of himself he did not want or need anyone’s pity – for a few weeks when he sees her. She’s tall, very tall and with the tatters her skirts are in he’s able to see the pale pink of her calves from knee to muddy leather boots. It’s not a normal pink, not like the glimpses of his own cold cheeks in shop windows, but the dusty pink of a rose. Her fingers are the same color as she waves and calls, catching passersby’s eye and gesturing to the basket of flowers on her arm. The violets match her thick, plated hair and the bluebells her bright, solid-colored eyes.

He stops, shocked on the other side of the street, when he sees her. A cart and then trolley pass between them and still he can’t tear his gaze away. She’s smiling at him once the street is clear, wide and kind. The light almost sparks off her pointed teeth. She winks and crooks a long, thin finger to him. He crosses without another thought, barely managing to remember how to even walk before he’s in front of her.

“Hello little one,” she coos, tilting his chin up so he can meet her gaze. Her pink fingers then trail through his hair, straightening it, before running down to brush over his shoulders and tug lightly at his vest. This close he sees that she has small white flowers woven into the braid of her purple hair. They look like stars in a twilight sky and he’s fairly certain they sparkle too.

“Hello, miss,” he manages to reply.

Her grin sharpens. “You’re a polite young man. And that smile! Sweeter than stolen cream.”

At those words he can’t help but preen. “Thank you, miss. I quite like your hair myself. I’ve-” he stumbles, tightening his grip on the crutch under his arm, “I’ve never seen hair that color.”

Eyes widening, she straightens. “My, you’ve not met one of your own before, have you?”

“No, miss,” he shakes his head, hair flopping into his eyes. He reaches up to brush it back but she’s faster. Brushing it away with her rosy fingers again.

“But you know our ways?” She says it like a question but the flash of her eyes makes it a challenge.

He straightens, feeling so proud it borders on smug. “Never give your true name, always be polite, and nothing is a gift.”

Her head tilts and he honestly can’t tell if she’s thrilled or disappointed. Though they both know it’s not all the ways of the Folk, just the important ones. The ones the humans know in order not to err on their bad side. But for a changeling like him, it’s a good start and all true. That’s another thing he knows, the Folk cannot lie.

“Very good little one. You may know, but I doubt you have much practice. Let us strike a bargain, shall we?” Again, her head tilts and more than her long limbs or resemblance to a garden or sunset, this looks the oddest to him. Sets her apart from the humans still buffeting them on the busy street.

“Only be it fair and true,” he replies on instinct. Because, there’s nowhere else it could have possibly sprung from.

Pride and amusement has her spine straightening as she nods. “My proposition is thus; you give me the two buttons from your vest and I shall weave you a crown that will never wilt. That will remind you of who you are.”

He has to think about it, faerie bargains are notoriously tricks meant to cheat the person hapless enough to make one. There are normally catches and clauses. There are twists and double meanings and you always, always lose more than you gain. Yet, this seems simple. Straightforward. And it would be rude to say no.

“A trinket for a trinket,” he says, stalling.

She inclines her head. “A mortal trinket for a faerie trinket. A piece of a life that was and will be again.”

His heart and mind catch on that last bit but to puzzle it out could take all day and he’s getting hungry. He was trying to find food when he saw her in the first place. It’s a risk, but a benign one. “My two buttons for a flower crown woven by you that will never wilt.”

Again, her smile is sharp. But her knife his sharper as she leans forward and cuts the buttons from his vest, hand moving quickly to cup them before they can do more than fall from the fabric. She slips them into the folds of her skirt, her knife disappearing too. Just as quickly she begins to pluck flowers from her basket with her too long, stick thin fingers and begins to weave them into a crown and in a blink it’s on his head.

“May you wear it in good health,” she says and it’s a blessing he didn’t bargain for. His stomach twists and he nods; remembering not to thank her at the last moment. She flashes one last grin as she turns away, her skirts flaring out, and walks down the sidewalk.

He manages to not lose his flower crown as he falls in with a group of satyrs living in Battery Park, though he leaves after a few weeks when he learns the fish they always have for dinner comes straight from the aquarium in the castle. He goes back to sleeping in doorways and on fire escapes after that. He’s hungry all the time but he can never be sure if it’s his nature or his circumstances that cause it.

Eventually, his clothes become too thin and short, showing off his wrists and legs and strips of his stomach. Sleeping on fire escapes has a new bite as the fabric begins to cover less and less and more and more of his skin is exposed to the iron. The worst is how tight his boots have become, pinching and squeezing at his toes. He refuses to go barefoot though, not because of the cold but because it reminds him too much of the others. The women who walk on the breeze and become one with the trees. The men who blink at him before disappearing into shadows and around corners. The beings and creatures who pinch and poke and trick and steal and cackle and dance, dance, dance in between the oblivious crowds.

He finally manages to trade with an immigrant family from the Lower East Side, not feeling sad to hand over the last items his mother gave him in exchange for shoes that are just a hair too big and clothes that keep his skin from the sparking itch of his fire escape beds.

It’s this sleeping arrangement that gets him in trouble. Faeries are meant to be swifter, stronger than humans. But with his crutch he’s not able to outrun the police. A shopkeeper reports him for vagrancy and even his charms aren’t able to keep the police from dragging him to the Refuge.

Another boy, a newsboy, sees this from a little ways down the street. He freezes and his face darkens. His face with its too sharp angles and too bright eyes. The boy is moving before he has the time to process this, making a messy grab for a trinket from a nearby vendor’s cart, dropping his papers in the process. The police notice – everyone on the block notices – and grab him. The boy struggles but it’s a show, he can tell it’s just for show, and soon they’re both being lifted into the wagon.

The trial is short, the other boy cocky, and the warden at the Refuge cruel. At least here he has a bed, a real bed, for the first time in years. The other boy smooth talks his way into getting the one next to him.

“You can call me Jack, Jack Kelly. Though some of the boys call me Cowboy too,” he says with a quicksilver smile.

He raises a skeptical brow, his thoughts catching on the phrasing and the sharp points the boy’s ears come to. Sharp points that match his own.

“You’re like me,” he says instead of giving his name. He knows better than to give anyone his name. He knows Jack certainly isn’t this boy’s.

“Depends on what you mean by that,” Jack says slyly, stretching out on the thin bunk.

“How do you do it?” He asks with genuine curiosity, leaning forward so he can lower his voice and study Jack’s pleasantly bored expression.

Confusion pulls at Jack’s brow. “Do what?”

“Work as a newsboy.” It wasn’t obvious? “They lie all the time to make money.”

The quicksilver is back. “I never lie. I just embellish the truth. Tell a story. The facts are there, just maybe not all the facts. If it weren’t true, I couldn’t say it.” Jack shrugs and it’s an odd motion since he’s laying on his back with his hands propped behind his head. Made odder by the fact that it seems almost graceful. “It’s not so bad. Get to go all over the city and the lodging house means you’ve got a bed if you can afford it.”

He frowns at the non-sequitur. It deepens when he realizes it’s an abrupt topic change. “We’re stuck here and you’re offering me a job?” he can’t keep all the disbelief out of his voice. Even if he hadn’t checked, he could feel that the windows and doors were barred with thick iron rods.

“I’ll be out of here by dawn, question is if you’re coming with me?”

For a solid minute he weighs his options. The Refuge with its coldness and crying children. Jack with his silver tongue and faerie arrogance.

When they manage to sneak out into the courtyard a few hours later they’re met by the boys who helped break the lock and distract the guards. The first causes him to stop, he’s so obviously a sprite that the scowl is the only thing keeping him from laughing. The other is mortal and chomping on an unlit cigar, the scent of which still makes him wrinkle his nose. The four slink out and into an alley before twisting around the block and through another back alley until they’re farther and farther away.

“We’re even now, Kelly,” the sprite finally growls once the sky begins to lighten.

“A deal’s a deal, Spot.” Jack offers his hand, spitting into it first. If he hadn’t already figured the boy was one of the Folk that would have confirmed it. The spit shake marks him as a newsie. Spot turns to him and the mortal, nodding at them both before turning off a side street and disappearing.

“Bell’s gonna ring soon,” the boy says, almost nervous as he bounces on his toes and glances down the street. His eyes dart to where Spot disappeared to, then to him, and finally back to Jack.

“And we’ll be there, right new kid?” Jack raises a brow at him. It’s a taunt.

“Course,” he replies. No bargain was struck, no deal made, but he is in Jack’s debt and they both know it.

Jack nods, smiles, and turns back to the mortal. “Go get in line, Race. Make sure Weasel don’t give us no grief for being late.”

Race, apparently, grins around the cigar and takes off running. Maybe that’s where the nickname comes from.

“You can trust Racetrack,” Jack tells him vaguely as they follow, “he’s good people.”

Or maybe that’s not where the nickname comes from.

In the next few weeks, he learns the ins and outs of selling from Jack. And of “charming folks” though truthfully, it’s just magic. Jack starts calling him “Kid” and the other newsies “Crutchie” and he doesn’t really care because neither are his name and that’s what matters. The night in the Refuge isn’t the first or last Jack spends there, but it is the only one that’s intentional. He works harder to repay Jack who seems less and less inclined to care.

Finally, he feels they’re even when he manages to discover the nook in the corner of the roof of the lodging house. The air is still filled with smoke and iron but not the smell and sounds of mortal boys. He takes careful trips up with bedding and supplies until he feels it’s suitable. Sleeping under the stars just feels right and he can tell Jack agrees by the expression on his face when he sees it.

They grow close. The other newsies learn he can predict the weather with startling accuracy and say it must be thanks to his leg, he never corrects them. They talk as the city chokes them, about going to someplace that’s nothing but stars. The money comes in fits and starts as he grows into his own sharp features. The other Folk avoid him but mortals feel almost compelled to buy his papers. Stories come in across the river of a young newsie rising through the ranks of Brooklyn and ruling with an iron fist. They don’t tell any of the others that the rumors sound an awful lot like the stories of Court drama they hear.

He keeps his own crown in the bag at his hip, as unchanging as the day he received it. Though now, years later and clothes traded and swapped and bought he misses the buttons she took. Misses having something that reminds him of the place he used to believe was home. For even his crutch is different, having long outgrown the original.

They’re teenagers too soon, a blink in their long lifetimes. With it comes something they don’t expect, an odd almost awed respect from the others. Except Race but he never counted. He’s tied up in Brooklyn as a rule and so is exempt. They never sought the power they seemingly have, power different than that which they were born with, and they discover it in the most dramatic way.

It starts with a raise in prices. A raise which isn’t fair, and they of all people would know. Jack is outraged, he is angry too but in a colder way.

The new boy, the one who either didn’t heed the stories of the old world or else his family hadn’t passed them on – and that did happen as people sought to keep the good and leave the monsters behind when they came to America and never would they imagine to find so many pretty ones in the center of the city – and offers his name as though it was on a platter. Even his little brother gives a nickname. But Jack had been kind and called him Davey and the others had too, much to Davey’s unknowing chagrin.

The new boy, Davey, matches Jack in his heat, at least momentarily, offering the spark to Jack’s powder and unknowingly unleashing that power.

When Jack says they should strike, they strike.

He finally understands the appeal of the Courts for the first time.

“Do you think she’s really going to show up tomorrow?” he asks that night on the rooftop, head still spinning from the rush of their decision. The thrill had dampened slightly after Jack told him of Spot’s reluctance to join them. Understandable, why would he want to risk losing the grip he kept on the tight leash he had over Brooklyn? And he didn’t owe Jack anymore. But this was as much for them as for the mortals. Righting a wrong against oneself was practically faerie law. Though the girl reporter was an intriguing thought and a twist even he hadn’t seen coming.

“I think so,” he can hear Jack’s smirk in the dark. “She told me her name was Katherine Plumber.”

“Really?” He’s surprised, the way she’d eyed him he thought she’d know better.

“Least it’s the name she publishes under,” Jack is almost proud.

“Clever,” he says happily.

“Too bad your charm doesn’t work in print,” Jack teases.

“I don’t need glamour to be charming. The smile’s just icing.”

Jack laughs, the sound floating up over the rooftops. “Good thing she’s bringing a camera.”

He grins up at the stars.

Like any war there are casualties. Unfortunately, he is one of them. Being back in the Refuge again is hard. The time stretches and shrinks in ways he never imagined possible and somehow he knows decades, centuries later he will look back on this and still wonder. The scent of iron is so heavy it’s dizzying and the press of bodies so close it makes everything seem small. These mortals with iron in their blood and salt on their skin surrounding him on all sides. He has the crown, somehow he has the crown. His crown. It marks him as other and for a time, some measure of time, he feels even more alone. So different from these humans serving penance without crime with him.

He takes it out one night, straining to see the pale petals in the paler light of the moon when that changes. The crown proves he is not alone. The faerie woman, the flower seller, took what was never his to begin with and gave him his true home. His first taste of community. Of finding others like himself. Of finding Jack with his silver tongue and smile. Of the newsies of Lower Manhattan with their bright spirits and easy laughs in the face of the City. Of righteous Davey and mischievous Les and clever Kath. Even of Spot and his politics and power games. He found his birthright in the world he was forsaken to and that realization rekindles something within, twisting the crown in his hands.

He feels less alone, turning his charm back on as the sun rises. Knowing that he is just one of hundreds here in the Refuge feeling like this. Uses his charm to learn that there are some who can get messages in and out. Others who can get him supplies. And in the night, despite complaints from his fellows for the candlelight, he writes to Jack urging him to not let his own fire go out.

He knows they’ll win, has never been in doubt of it. Jack said they would and Jack can’t lie. But he knows Jack, and knows that not being able to tell a lie does not mean you can’t lie to yourself. So, he writes and hopes that it gets to Jack in time.

The time slips and spins and he sleeps and waits and imagines and remembers and nearly misses a name being called. A name that was never really his but he took before he could talk and he hasn’t heard in so long he’d honestly almost forgotten it. The others part for him as he carefully makes his way to the stairs that will lead him to the ground floor and the door out of this place. He is thankful for his faerie grace as he moves with so many eyes on him, his crutch catching on the uneven floorboards but he walks with his head high. Walks right out the door. He’s not the only one to do so, but he is the first.

Relishing in the ability to breath in the wind again, he rides in the governor’s open topped carriage taking in lungfuls of it. Even when it carries the stale scent of trash and the river. His smile is so wide it almost hurts and he nearly forgets to smooth the points his teeth have grown into with the giddiness humming like magic under his skin. The people on the street stare to see such a grubby looking boy riding alone in such finery and he lets them, waving a bit and laughing to think that all this was done just for him. There’s a strange metaphor all tied up in it somewhere. A riddle he’ll spend the time puzzling out later. Right now he just breathes.

Seeing the crowd turn at the sound of hooves and whistles and the governor’s gesturing sends his heart speeding. He accepts the excitement buzzing throughout it and between his ears as some of the boys rush the carriage, holding out hands in silent offers to help him down. For once, he accepts. Jack’s grinning up on the small stage above the door to The World – another twisted metaphor for another time – but he quirks a brow too. Knowing he only allows this because so much focus has passed on to question about the police wagon that has followed behind him the whole way.

He makes a face at Jack in silent response before letting his own pride takeover. He spins and gestures to the wagon where police officers are herding out a man. Herding out the man who runs the Refuge. Who ran the Refuge. He can almost feel his excitement pricking at his fingers in the same way iron does as the governor agrees to let him do the honors. The feeling overpowers the actual feel of the iron manacles as he clamps them on the man’s wrist, letting his glamor slip and his smile turn cruel for just a blink in the process.

The celebrating ends sooner than expected, though that isn’t entirely true. Despite the newsies lining up and taking their papers, they all still chatter and cheer. Bubbling up and over at their win. Jack is talking with Spot, Davey, and Kath when he comes over after getting his own stack for the morning. Spot gives him a significant nod before spit shaking hands all around and heading off with his lieutenants. Racetrack trailing behind. It’s an odd mirror of their first meeting and he brushes the thought away as another problem for another time.

“I’m so glad you’re ok,” Kath says as she hugs him. He’s come to realize that she’s special in more ways than one. Her possession of the Sight just part of a larger enigma. Her willingness to pull him into her and easy offers of friendship another. He doesn’t argue though, squeezing her right back.

Davey offers a hand to shake once she frees him and a cautious smile. The caution has nothing to do with him though and everything to do with Davey’s own contradiction filled nature. “You were missed,” he says earnestly. Swatting at his little brother who begins babbling exactly how missed he was.

“So, how was the ride?” Jack slings an arm over his shoulders, wide smile as he pulls him in tight to his side.

“You struck a bargain,” he almost hisses through his own smile clenched teeth.

“We came to an agreement.” He feels more than sees Jack’s shrug.

“It was two deals,” Davey corrects with a stern turn to his mouth and a flash in his eyes. “Jack made two deals with Pulitzer.”

He pulls away, brushing off Jack’s hold. He stares hard at the other boy. Dares him to say something and damn himself. Say nothing and damn himself even further.

“The first was a deal only we could make,” Jack says smoothly. He doesn’t blink and his sharp features become sharper with the seriousness that overtakes him. He understands immediately. It was hard. It was cruel. And it doesn’t matter what exactly it was and who gave what because in the end Jack walked away with what mattered most.

“And the second?” he prompts.

Jack shrugs again, shares a glance with the others, and smirks. “We won.”

Truthfully, he should have expected that. He rolls his eyes. Later, under the stars and the smoke, breathing in as little iron as they can he’ll ask again. He’ll find out what he did to convince Spot. What the terms of the bargain were. Of both bargains. And whether Jack was going to tell Davey their true nature, since there was no point in telling Kath. They have all the time in the world to leave the city and see the stars. These people they’ve turned into a home have only a lifetime and he’s already decided that he’s going to make the most of it.

End notes can be found on ao3. Please leave a comment and lmk what you think there as well! :)

#newsies #newsies secret santa 2020 #crutchie morris #jack kelly #fae #writing #own writing #my fic #canon compliant #it technically is!!!#david jacobs #davey jacobs #katherine plumber #katherine pulitzer #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #it's the 20th here officially and i got excited about this so i'm posting

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the-chick-of-the-air · 4 years

Text

Ok, I already posted this in one of the group chats a while back...

But I’m in between fics and wanted to post something to stay consistent! 🙃 I hope you all enjoy!

Summary: a lil missing scene from twk- what happend during that night Jude snuck into the palace after her return from the Undersea? Basically just filling in the time skip. Rated G.

Pretend This Has a Title

I can’t reassure Cardan, can’t tell him his worry about being feckless is unfounded, so I stay quiet for a long time, allowing the Roach and the Bomb’s conversation to wash over me.

Before long, Cardan takes his place on his bed again, unfazed that I’m still in it. To be fair, he is the one that put me here to begin with.

“You’ll need to get a costume. I suggest the market.” The Bomb tells me, and I nod, realizing only now how heavy my head feels. How my eyes want to shut against my will.

“I plan on that. Worst case scenario I’ll just steal something from one of the courtiers.” Cardan’s eyes are on me, have been for a while, and while unnerving, I find I don’t quite mind it. Especially when my plan gets the barest of smiles from him.

I allow myself to fall silent again, letting the others speak. Though he converses with the Bomb and the Roach, Cardan’s eyes never leave me. I don’t dare look at him though, not in light of his confession. Rather, I lean back on my elbow, trying to give my muscles a break from staying upright.

Cardan has other plans.

Almost as soon as I am leaned back, he grips my arm just above my elbow. Grabbing my hand with his free one, he pulls my support system from under my weight and I fall back against his numerous pillows. At first, I’m worried he is reverting- doubling back on this strange truce we have found ourselves in- and resuming his old tormenting ways. But the way he is gripping my hand, like he’s afraid of letting me go, tells me otherwise.

He turns my palm over, gently tracing the lines that are still pruny from my time underwater. The Bomb and Roach carrying on speaking as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening.

Noticing that I still haven’t completely relaxed- because honestly, how could I?- Cardan makes a “tsk” sound under his breath. Nodding along to whatever Roach is saying about the upcoming party- I’ve ceased listening at this point- Cardan gently rests a hand on my forehead. I’m confused, thinking he is checking me for a fever, even though it’s not common knowledge amongst the Folk that mortals overheat when they are sick. But he surprises me by pushing my head down until I’m fully nestled against the pillows.

Again, nothing is said, though I’m kind of reeling. Or, I would be, were I not already being manhandled by the clutches of sleep. Cardan doesn’t stop there. He moves his hand from my forehead to my hair, running his long fingers through it.

Maybe he thinks I’m too out of it to notice, maybe he doesn’t care. Over all I got my wish- this is very unlike him.

With the voices of people I trust surrounding me, and the feeling of a young king’s fingers in my hair, I finally fall into a semblance of restful sleep.

~.~

Cardan:

She’s out like a lantern as expected. And Roach is looking at me funny.

And still, I wonder how that can be an incentive for murder.

The Bomb is watching Jude with a small smile, one that only grows wider when she takes note of how I’m still petting her head. There’s something soothing about the act, and all these ridiculous feelings I’ve finally come to terms with are rearing their serpentine heads in the back of my mind.

“We have an early start tomorrow, so…Good night, Your Majesty.” Roach bows and grips The Bomb by the shoulder, hauling her out the door and closing it behind them.

Now that it’s just us, my full attention is on the slumbering mortal next to me. She looks smaller than she has ever seemed like this, weak and thin. Pale due to the lack of sun on the ocean floor. Yet she still managed to break into the palace and drag me from the fitful sleep I was having.

My fingers are shaking the next time I drag them through her hair. Those weeks of not knowing where she was, and then not knowing of how she was once we discovered her location… I never thought it possible for darkness to get darker. For it to feel so heavy. I went to a place, without her, one I was terrified I would not come back from, not without her by my side.

I was horrified, at first. How had I come to rely so heavily on a human girl? So much so that my self loathing only grew deeper once she was in enemy clutches due to my own arrogance? So much so that I felt there was no point to my endless, immortal life without her?

I felt that fear gripping me again. Every night she had been amiss, I couldn’t even sleep. I simply lie awake and wondered at the crushing pain in my chest, as though I actually had a heart to break. It was not a common thing for us fae to weep, but I found tears my near constant companion when I was alone.

I steady my breathing, least the sound of my unrelenting panic wake Jude. And from the snippets of whispers I heard about her treatment in the underwater prison, I daresay she needs the rest more then I do.

Speaking of.

The sun will be high soon, which means I have a few hours of sleep left to wrangle. And now that my Seneschal was back where she belongs, by my side, perhaps rest won’t deign to grace me with its sweet unconscious presence.

I grab one of the many coverlets draped across the large mattress and bring it up over both Jude and I. Despite how she’s knocked out and I can feel the slow fingers of sleep sliding around my mind like a vice, I keep up my ministrations, slowly dragging my fingers through her hair, brushing the rounded edges of her ear. Such an interesting shape.

Finally, on the edge of falling backwards off the cliff of wakefulness, just before I succumb to the safety net of darkness, I am able to ease my inhibitions and softly confess to her the words that catch in my throat in the frightening light of day.

“I love you.”

There we have it! Let me know what y’all think!

Tag-list: (as always, let me know if you would like to be added to the list!)

@maleckanejnessianjurdansolangelo @woodsbeyond1 @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @thewickedkings @aneurwin @snusbandxknifewife @jurdanhell @andromeddea @dressedindustandshadows @thesirenwashere @b00kworm @hizqueen4life @unidentifiedblackthorn @iminsanenotobsessed

#jurdan #jude x cardan #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #the cruel prince #twk #tcp #the undersea #fluff #take this #garbage #imaslutforthesetwo

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trashogram · 4 years

Text

Ryuk/Reader 4.5: Not my best

A/N: This is leading up to the next part, but it’s definitely filler. Feel free to skip?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

You trembled, but not from the rain still slicked over your skin.

You’d come home drenched, hopping inside the foyer and up two flights of stairs to your apartment with keys already held out in shaking hands. The trek from work to home had been arduous and you were cold and tired, heartbeat just now coming down from walking alone at night.

But when the door closed behind you and you leaned down to peel off your soaked shoes, you froze. In the corner of your eye, you could see slivers of yellow and red in the far corner of your living room. You weren’t safe after all.

Behind your ribs, your heart seemed to stop altogether as the presence looked at you from above.

“Sorry.” A gravelly voice came from the darkness, not sounding sorry at all. His words came like a ripple, or better yet a riptide; oscillating with his deep, throaty laughter. “- Thought I’d just let myself in.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

---

“Hey.”

Your shoulders instinctively rose up to your ears, feeling goosebumps beginning to take over your skin.

Playing it off as a stretching exercise, you leaned back and put your weight on the heels of your basic black flats. The bakery floor may have looked shiny, but you were certain that you didn’t have to worry about falling with how sticky it actually was.

You exhaled with relief, pressure alleviated from the blisters reforming on your toes for a moment of mercy.

“Don’t ignore me.”

Your coworker was in the backroom, stacking boxes in an otherwise unkempt pantry of pastry ingredients. Above you, the built-in speaker that played music from your supervisor’s computer in the back office filled up the silence of a currently empty store. The songs from a Top 40 station went in and out of your consciousness, most of them bad and bland.

But they provided some cover. “Quit it. You know I can’t talk to you here.”

Ryuk snorted, having planted himself on the floor behind the register. He peered up from the counter, claws tapping playfully on its surface while his yellow eyes locked on you.

“Yeah, not when there ‘re people around.” He muttered. “But ain’t nobody around right now.”

Despite half-hiding from view, you could see the shinigami’s blue lips stretch upward as he grinned up at you. You sighed.

It was Tuesday, and predictably there hadn’t been that many customers coming round for cake and tarts. Your workplace offered coffee too, but there were multiple shops along the cobbled streets offering the same thing and a few particulars with better publicity and further outreach.

“Well,” You spoke softly. “What do you want?”

“Tell me where we’re going this weekend.”

There was a rattling sound that came from the stockroom, and it muffled the laughter bubbling from your lips. “Oh my god, you’re still on that?”

The gray-blue grin shifted, and you could imagine Ryuk hiding a pout just out of your sight.

You waited as movement caught your eye, and you straightened up to stand on your feet as a woman paused in front of the storefront window. Tufts of her dark hair poked out from beneath the thick woolen scarf around her neck and the heavy designer overcoat wrapped around her shoulders, like straw sticking up from a scarecrow. Her eyes scanned the display cases from outside, ignorant of the smile you plastered on while being watched.

Ryuk was still sitting on the ground, looking at you, but his presence went unchecked. Any stranger on the street would never be able to see the literal god in their little shop, not unless they came in contact with the death note that you always remembered to leave at home.

“You made it sound so interesting.” Ryuk followed, despite you being unable to answer. “But then you never actually told me what we’re doing.”

The woman walked away after another moment, reaching into her oversized purse and grabbing her lit up phone. It made you sigh again, this time in relief.

Shinigami or no, you were always mollified when someone decided against coming into the shop. It could get boring, sure, but you preferred to be paid to just stand there than to potentially come in contact with busybodies and demanding folk, descriptions that fit that lady to a T.

“I mean, technically we aren’t doing anything.” You turned your nose up at Ryuk teasingly. “I’m the one who got invited, so I’m really the only one that has to be in the know.”

Ryuk pulled himself up off the floor and hunched over you, easily overshadowing your much smaller figure. “That’s not fair.”

You smiled at him, only partially confident until he made your insides squirm.

“But you want me to go with you.” He teased back, bopping your nose with one black talon. “You want me with you wherever you go.”

Instantly, you stuck your tongue out at the demonic entity, snatching up his finger as he continued to tap, tap, tap on your nose just as he’d done with the countertop. “Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.” He mimicked.

Your hand wrapped around his finger without you thinking, and you didn’t let go as you shook your head vehemently, sliding down to rest your fingers on his knuckles. The two of you were practically holding hands, though his dwarfed yours by a wide margin.

“Nuh-uh. Obviously, you’re coming with me because you have to.” You retorted. “I don’t really get to decide.”

Your eyebrow raised at Ryuk’s light snickering. It was a lot softer than his usual hacking laughter. “Bullshit.”

You opened your mouth to retaliate, but stopped short, in part due to confusion. On the other side of the room, a loud thump was heard before your coworker John came out of the storeroom, dragging his feet behind him.

“What’s up?” He nodded to your hand after a cursory glance.

Ryuk’s hand tightened around yours until you had to bite back a sound of surprise, at that and the rumbling that came from him upon being interrupted. It was unusual as, though Ryuk never invested much interest in any of the people you worked with, he was at least genial where John was concerned.

With a tug, you retracted your hand and smiled warmly.

“Just, uh, waving at somebody.” You said. “Waving back, anyway. People are way too friendly, sometimes.”

You moved out of the way to let John get behind you, and watched as he discarded wrappers and tape with a laugh laced in hysteria. “I’d rather they were too friendly than if they were assholes.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” Your eyes narrowed. “I think you’re not considering the full spectrum of ‘too friendly’ like I am.”

“Well, okay, I mean that’s different.” John grimaced. “Tourists and old ladies with no teeth aren’t that bad compared to that.”

“What? No, the old ladies with no teeth are exactly the ones I’m talking about.” You smirked, eyes rolling up to the ceiling where Ryuk stood, this time hanging upside down. “They’re the real fiends, with their… loose gums… How dare they.”

It made you warm as both John and Ryuk chuckled at your silliness.

---

Out the door and into the crowded streets you went, immediately jamming earbuds into your ears and staring down at your phone. “Finally.”

You merely looked at the screen, not really doing anything but swiping through multiple apps as Ryuk floated beside you.

“What now?” He asked, head tilting from one side to the other, cracking his neck though you couldn’t hear a thing.

You hummed, starting to walk down the street. “Home. My feet are killing me.”

“Aww,” He had risen higher to avoid the crowd, but you could still hear him as if he were speaking right into your ear. “That’s all?”

“Well, I don’t get paid until Friday, so anything extra automatically costs too much.” You reasoned. “Even if I did have the money though, it would still be better to use over the weekend.”

“Wait! Yeah!” Ryuk exclaimed. “You still haven’t told me what we’re doing!”

You smirked, standing a little taller as you crossed the street onto another block. Honestly, you weren’t that ecstatic about having plans. If you thought too much about what was essentially going out of your comfort zone come Friday, you would definitely second-guess going at all.

That would only lead to another malaise of self-loathing, which would most definitely lead you to becoming helpless and spiralling into another soul-crushing depression.

“Are you listening to me? Helloooo?” Ryuk’s voice surfaced in your mind, registering a little later than it should’ve. “Hey, don’t ignore me. We’re not at your work, you can’t pretend I don’t exist anymore!”

The fog around your brain was clearing, but not completely.

“I never ignore you because I want to.” You said monotonously.

Ahead of you was the entrance to the rail station, and you hoped that you’d be able to catch a train without too long of a wait. You weren’t the most patient person on the planet, not after a work day. And in your experience, you often found yourself in the midst of something questionable or creepy while waiting for too long at any stop.

A cursory look around you showed that you’d made it to the tunnel entrance following a lunch rush. There were fewer people this uphill, cramming into the station to head home, with the sun still shining for another hour or two.

“I keep forgetting that the sun sets at like 4 P.M. now” You mused aloud. “I swear I’ll never get used to it, no matter how old I get.”

The lack of a response made you halt, pivoting around to see Ryuk a few feet behind you. Obviously, he’d noticed the lack of people around them and had been freed to meet the ground again, but your head tilted in confusion as he stood back and stared at you.

“... What?” Your brow furrowed. The persistent quiet apart from a few cars passing by and the flicker of street lights coming on unnerved you. “What’s wrong?”

“Come on.” Awkwardly you simpered, offering a gloved hand to your companion. He looked at your hand, but otherwise didn’t move. Inexplicably you thought back to a few hours prior, when the death god had insisted on trapping your hand in his and not letting it go, not even when John came back to the front.

“What? Are you mad at me or something?” You asked. Your foot began tapping on asphalt, and your blisters screamed. “Because I haven’t told you what we’re doing?”

“Huh?”

You blinked as Ryuk shifted in place, sounding distant. His eyes flitted from your hand back to your face, bright and dazed. “What? Oh. Uh, yeah.”

“If I wanted to, I could write your name down for keeping secrets from me.” He cleared his throat. “Better spit it out.”

Weariness following the weight lifted off your shoulders at the obvious bravado in his tone (because you had no idea what Ryuk was like when he was actually mad), you cracked a smile.

“It’s not the big deal you’re making it out to be. When I tell you, you’ll think it’s stupid.” Your racing heart began to slow, respite increasing as Ryuk took to following you again.

#ryuk x reader #ryuk/reader #self-indulgence #death note #im not up to tagging anybody bc I'm not a fan of this one #im sorry #ryuk

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general-kenobi357 · 3 years

Text

Someday Soon-Chapter 3

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Fem!OC

Summary: After finding a new lead the hunt to find the Royal Merchant is on.

Word Count: 4.4k

🔅🔆🔅

We all waited anxiously as Kie began to climb out of the mausoleum. I grabbed her flashlight as the boys helped her back onto the ground.

“That's not gold.” JJ stated, as we all examined the FedEx bag Kie had found.

“Holy shit.” John B stuttered, taking the package from Kie’s grasp. “This is from my dad.”

“Code red. Code red. Square groupers! Square groupers!” JJ alerted us to the car that was pulling up. “It's the guys who robbed your house.”

“Light! Light.” Pope reminded us all, as we ducked down to avoid being caught.

“Turn your light off, man!” John B urged JJ, who sat between me and John B, struggling with his head lamp. Reaching over I turned it off for him before we got caught. We all sat in silence. The only sound you could hear was our panicked breathing as we waited for something to happen.

“Do you think it's them?” Kie asked us all.

“Homie's got a gun.” JJ concluded, as he leaned over me to peer around the corner.

“Screw this.” Kie said standing up and breaking into a sprint towards the van.

I sat stunned for a moment more before I felt someone grab my hand and pull me to my feet. Before I knew it we stopped at the tall gate that stood between us and our escape.

“You have to climb over the fence, Sweetheart.” JJ told me, leaning close to my ear and snapping me out of my trance. The only thing I could hear was his voice. “Can you do that?”

“Yeah.” I muttered, as all of our friends began to scale the fence. “I think so.”

As I jumped onto the ground on the other side I finally felt as if I knew where I was again. JJ grabbed my hand again once he landed beside me.

“Hurry up!” Kie urged us all from her spot next to the van.

“Guys! Guys! Guys, I'm stuck.” Pope called out from the top of the gate where his shorts had gotten caught.

“Pope, come on!” JJ called out, just before he realized Pope couldn’t. “Alright hold still.” He concluded letting go of my hand so he could dig through his backpack. It took me a minute before I realized what he was looking for.

“No JJ.” I scolded him before turning to Pope. “Pope you have to jump.”

“You're gonna rip me.” Pope warned, as Kie and John B started to pull him down. “Wait. You're gonna rip me!”

“You're fine. Come on!” Kie told him as his pants tore and he could finally get down.

“Pope, come on!” John B said once he was on the ground. We all began running to the van before we were caught. Tires screeched against the pavement as we finally fled the scene.

🔅🔆🔅

Back at the Château we all began to gather around the table ready to find out what Kie had found back at the graveyard.

“That bread had mold on it three days ago.” Pope said in disgust, from the kitchen to my right.

“I'll just pull off the bad parts.” JJ reasoned, making me cringe in disgust. “Plus, mold is good for you. It's just a natural organism.”

“JJ!” Kie urged not willing to wait any longer to see what they had found.

“Yup, yup, yup! Let's do it.” JJ called hurrying into the room with a sandwich in hand. I turned around from where I stood behind John B, watching him take a bite before promptly spitting it into his hand.

“Holy shit.” I heard John B mutter as he opened the bag and dumped its contents onto the table.

“Oh. X marks the spot.” Pope pointed to the X on the map that John B was unfolding.

“Longitude, latitude.” John B pointed out, as we all examined the map of the ocean which surrounded the Outer Banks.

“Wait, there's somethin' else in there.” I said, noticing the map wasn’t the only thing we had found.

“What's that?” JJ asked from his spot beside me.

“It's a tape recorder, dumbass.” Kie answered, sounding frustrated and I couldn’t blame her. We had been through a lot that day and we were all becoming more exhausted as the day dragged out.

John B reached for the tape recorder before hitting the button on the side so it would start playing whatever had been recorded.

“Dear Bird.” A deep voice started speaking. I recognized the voice but without seeing a face I couldn’t place who it was, partially due to the fact I was so tired.

“Who's Bird?” JJ asked.

“That's what my dad called me.” John B answered and suddenly my tired mind put together the pieces and I realized this was all from John B’s father.

“I hate to say, ‘I told you so,’ but I told you so. And you doubted your old man. I suspect at this moment, you're filled with guilt and self-loathing over our last fight, but don't kill yourself just yet, kid. I didn't expect to find the Merchant either…”

As the tape ended we all looked at John B who sat in shock at what his father had just told us all.

“Holy shit, he did it!” JJ exclaimed in shock. “Big John... He found the Merchant…”

“Can you... can you please?” Kie stopped JJ from talking as we watched John B stand up in tears.

“Sorry.” JJ mumbled, realizing his mistake. Kie moved to comfort John B who was barely holding it together.

I turned back to JJ to give John B and Kie a minute, Pope was examining the map again and I saw the guilty look JJ held.

“Come on.” I told JJ, placing a hand on his shoulder to direct him towards the door. “I think there’s some mold free bread at my house.

🔅🔆🔅

“Shh.” I reminded JJ, as we entered the dark house, knowing my mom and sister were probably fast asleep inside.

Once in the kitchen I started to grab everything I needed to make us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, as JJ jumped up to sit on the counter. A comfortable silence fell over us as I made us food. I handed him a plate as I took my own out onto the porch so we didn’t have to be as quiet.

“I’m sorry.” I finally spoke up as we began to eat.

“What?” He asked, confused.

“I’m sorry. I flipped out at you before and I shouldn’t have. You were right, you were just trying to be there for John B.” I explained, remembering the events that had occurred earlier that day.

“Well in all fairness you were also right, I definitely went about it the wrong way.” He responded, making me laugh a little.

“So you still want to be my friend?” I asked, watching his face fall slightly which confused me.

“Of course.” He assured me with a small smile. I smiled back as we finished eating.

Once again we were back to being best friends and laughing as we joked around while we headed back over to the rest of the Pogues.

🔅🔆🔅

After gathering the rest of the Pogues we had made our way to John B’s dock where we all sat, drinking again. I sat next to JJ leaning against him. The events of the day were starting to catch up to me and I felt as if I might crash soon. I listened to the others discuss the Royal Merchant while I tried to keep myself awake.

“How much was it again?” Pope asked.

“Four hundred mil.” John B reminded, he sounded as if he couldn’t even imagine a number that big.

“All right, let's talk the split.” JJ spoke up, I could feel the vibrations of his voice pass from him to me, keeping me slightly more awake. “Now, before we say ‘evenly,’ may I remind you that I am the only one that can properly defend us from those groupers who were after us. Protection? Not cheap, okay?”

“You haven't trained.” Pope told him. “You've done zero training.”

“YouTube, bro! That's at least a five percent bump right there. Any objections? Didn't think so.” He concluded which made me laugh.

“Yeah.” Pope tried to object but JJ had already moved on.

“What are you gonna do with your 80 mil, Pope?” JJ asked curiously.

“Pay for college in advance. And also, textbooks. Those are expensive.” Pope explained confidently. “What about you, Kie?”

“Yeah, what does a socialist do when she's rich?” John B asked.

“I just wanna make a double album.” She told us wishfully. “About OBX, the Pogues. You know, the way Catch a Fire is about Kingston. Record it at Marley Studio, Peter Tosh producing.”

“Peter Tosh is dead.” John B tried to reason.

“Peter Tosh is dead.” Kie agreed. “I know. Spirit of Peter Tosh will never die.”

“What about you Iz?” John B asked, as everyone turned to look at me.

“Well, I’m gonna buy my Mom our old house on Figure Eight. Then I'm moving to Hawaii, I’ll build a little house right on the beach. Surf every morning.” I explained, smiling while I thought about it all.

“How are you going to build a house? You can’t even use a screwdriver.” JJ teased me.

“Hey if Kie gets a dead producer, I get to pretend I know how to build a house.” I reasoned.

“Alright well, I know what I'll do.” JJ told us. “I'm gonna get a big ass house on Figure Eight and go full Kook.”

“You're gonna go full Kook?” I asked laughing at the thought.

“Yup.” He nodded. “Gonna get a marble statue of myself, and then I'm gonna get a koi pond. Put a bunch of those fish…”

“I'm never visiting.” Kie warned. “What are you gonna do, JB?”

“To going full Kook.” He decided finally, raising his beer.

“To going full Kook!” We all agreed as we clinked our beers together.

🔅🔆🔅

“All right, keep a look out.” JJ warned us all as we pulled up to the nicest hotel on the island. “We're behind enemy lines.”

I’d been here a few times before, once with my dad when I was young and a couple of times I had gone to see JJ on his lunch break. It still amazed me every time, especially now when I knew what it was like on the cut.

“Yo, come on, man. Just put it back.” Pope urged, pulling me out of my thoughts. I looked back into the van where JJ sat messing around with his new favorite toy.

“What? You can never be too careful.” JJ reasoned.

“Hey, I predict that bringing a weapon to a four-star hotel will likely cause more problems than they solve.”

“I swear to God, I'm gonna throw that thing in the ocean, JJ.” Kie warned him from the backseat of the van.

“Put it back.” I told him, taking the gun from his grasp and placing it back into the glove compartment. It seemed like me having to take away the gun from him was becoming more of a common occurrence.

“You can't grab a gun like that.” JJ explained, before he bent over to shuffle through his backpack. “Can't forget my badge. Professional busboy.” He reminded me, flashing the badge in front of my face.

“So, where are we going now?” Pope asked, as we all followed JJ to the kitchen entrance.

“We're getting on the internet because only rich people have electricity right now.” JJ explained, as we walked through the lobby of the hotel, most of the guests stared and I didn’t blame them. A group of Pogues willingly in the middle of Figure Eight was not a common occurrence. “See, they got the backup generators going? Kooks don't miss a beat.”

“Sweet Lord, the internet!” Pope cried out, as we entered the computer room. “I've missed you.”

“Let me get in there.” JJ said, sitting down next to Pope. “Gotta check out my Insta models.”

“We don't have time.” Kie tried to remind him that we were on a mission here.

“Coordinates, please?” Pope asked, getting ready to search them.

“34° 57' 30 " north. 75° 55' 42" west.” John B read off the map. “Boom, continental shelf right there.”

“Well, if it's off the deep end, it's not gonna be much of a treasure hunt, is it?” I reminded him trying not to get my hopes up yet.

“Come on, baby.” Pope muttered, as he zoomed in on the map and we all leaned in closer to get a better look. “Come on.”

“Shit, it's on the high side. It's only 900 feet.” John B let out the breath he was holding.

“That's not too deep.” JJ supplied.

“Is that doable or something?” Kie asked confused.

“Yeah, totally doable.” JJ responded.

“Will we be taking your personal submarine?” Pope asked.

“How do you know this, Mr. Dive Master?” I added.

“The salvage yard. They got a drone that can drop 1,000. It has a 360 camera and everything.” JJ explained to us. “It's for, like, deep dives and stuff. It's exactly what we need.”

“Can your dad get his grimy little hands on that?” John B asked, hopefully.

“Well, my dad's grimy little hands got his ass fired.” JJ informed us. “I guess the salvage captain frowns on showing up shitfaced, turns out. But the drone's there. It's in the impound yard out back.”

“How much did you say was on the Royal Merchant again?” I asked trying to weigh the pros and cons in my mind.

“400 million.” John B reminded us.

“400 mil.” JJ confirmed as we all seemed to come to an agreement that whatever we had to do was worth it.

“No. Absolutely not. Absolutely not. No!” Pope realized what was going on. He rushed to the door trying to block our way.

“Pope! Move.” Kie urged.

“Can't we do anything legal for money?” Pope asked me as I walked past him following the rest of the Pogues.

“When you have 400 million dollars everything is legal.” I reasoned with him.

🔅🔆🔅

“Pope, we're not stealing the drone. We're borrowing it.” John B explained, we were all still trying to get him on board with the plan.

"Humans are the only animal that can't tell fantasy from reality." Pope told us hopelessly.

“Did you come up with that?”

“Albert Bernstein came up with it, but it applies to this whole treasure-hunting thing. So, which is it? Fantasy or reality?”

“Why are you so weird, Pope?” JJ asked, more focused on the joint he was rolling than the conversation we were all having.

“It's fantasy, but possible reality.” John B concluded, after thinking for a moment.

“Reality.” Kie reassured from beside him.

“Virtual reality.” JJ told us all, as Pope grabbed the joint from between his lips before JJ could light it.

“Keep the signal clear.”

“You know what your problem is?”

“You?”

“No! It's that you need to relax, man. You're always so tense!”

“I'm not too tense.”

“Alright you two.” I tried to stop their bickering as I climbed over JJ to get out of the van. Turning back to them I added. “Don’t be stupid, okay?”

“Sweetheart, that’s a big ask.” JJ tried to reason with me.

“Yeah I’m not sure you’ve met JJ.” Pope added.

“Hey I’m not the only one who does stupid stuff.” JJ argued as they started up their bickering again.

“Fine.” I interrupted. “Just… please try to stay out of jail?”

“Yeah alright we can do that I guess.” JJ concluded.

After leaving the boys behind I followed Kie towards her car.

“Alright, I’ll let the air out if you want to go get the guard?” I asked her circling around to the back of the trailer.

As the guard came over to the trailer I pretended to be inspecting the tire I had just flattened.

“It's too easy.” Kie whispered to me, as I stood up to give the guard some space.

“So he just kissed you?” I asked Kie, she had just been recounting what had happened to her and John B when we had left them at the lighthouse. It was nice to talk with her about boy problems. It reminded me of simpler times before we had begun looking for buried treasure and had our lives threatened.

“Yeah and I had no idea what to do.” Kie explained.

I was about to respond when we heard a dog barking from inside the yard.

“Do you hear that?” The guard asked us.

“Hear what?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, Tebow's got somethin'.” He told us.

“It's probably just a raccoon, maybe. You know?” Kie tried to cover for the boys. “Nothin' to worry about. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He said going back to the tire.

“I’m gonna go give them some more time.” I mumbled to Kie before I went over to the other side of the trailer.

“Are you sure that one’s good?” Kie asked, warning me that the guard was done.

“What are you doing?” He demanded as I stood up from the tire.

“This one looks a little low too.” I tried to cover.

“Wait! Wait!” Kie called. But it was too late he was already running back into the yard.

“Shit.” I muttered as we got into Kie’s car. Hoping that the boys had made it out in time.

🔅🔆🔅

“Stealing drones makes you hungry.” Kie joked as John B parked the van in front of The Wreck.

“What I would do to a beer and shrimp and grits right now.” JJ told us as we all piled out of the van.

“It would not be pretty.” Pope teased.

As we walked into the restaurant I saw Kie’s dad frown from behind the counter, he definitely was not our biggest fan. After some convincing Kie walked back to us and told us to sit down as her dad brought out food for us all. I sat down between JJ and Pope as we all dug in.

As we finished up Kie stood and turned up the music that had been playing softly in the background. After some convincing John B joined her as JJ and I laughed at their ridiculous dancing.

Noticing Pope was being especially quiet, I looked back at him concerned, he looked as if someone had taken away his puppy.

“You think Pope’s okay?” I whispered to JJ.

“Yeah.” JJ replied, looking at Pope before turning back to me. “He’s just madly in love with a girl and doesn’t know how to tell her.”

“Hmm.” I hummed, still looking at Pope with concern.

“Come on.” JJ said, pulling me to my feet so we could join John B and Kie. I laughed as he spun me around.

“Pope, what are you waiting for?” I asked with a smile as I held out my hand for him and he reluctantly stood up.

And as we all danced together I forgot about the rest of the world for a couple minutes and enjoyed this moment with all my friends.

🔅🔆🔅

The next morning we had gathered on John B’s dock so that Pope could get a handle on the drone controls before we took it out on the open water. I sat in front of Pope and JJ with my feet in the water basking in the sun. I could see storm clouds brewing on the horizon but they hadn’t hit the island yet, for now everything was calm.

“What's this?” I heard JJ ask.

“Don't touch that.” Pope shooed JJ away so he sat down beside me. “I'm trying to work out this thing.”

“God bless geeks, Pope. Truly, man.” JJ added. “What would we do without you to control the drones?”

“It's not a drone. It's an ROV.”

“Shut up. Shut up. It's too early for that right now.”

“Hey, play nice boys.” I reminded them looking between the two.

“Hey, once we get footage of the wreck, we'll bring it to a lawyer in town and file a formal claim.” John B informed us from the water.

“It's bullshit. Why do we have to do that?” JJ sounded like a little kid being told he had to go home from the playground.

“Well, there is maritime salvage law.” Pope told us.

“You can't just go to the ocean floor and scoop a bunch of stuff up.” John B added.

“I know. I know. It's just lawyers aren't cheap, bro.” JJ reasoned.

“As soon as they see the footage, they'll work for a comp.”

“How do you know all of that?” I asked John B.

“'Cause my dad said it, like, a million times.”

“This tether is, like, really long.” Pope spoke up. “In the wrong weather, it could get pushed around.”

“Then we'll go at dead calm.” Kie reasoned as she climbed out of the water. “Slack tide?”

“So now, we just gotta wait around for the right weather.” Pope told us, as we listened to the far away thunder. “And today is not that day.”

As we walked back towards the Château I heard my Mom calling me from the porch of our house.

“Shoot, I forgot I was working today.” I said to the rest of the Pogues.

“You still want us to pick you up later?” JJ asked, as I checked my bag to make sure I had everything.

“Uh yeah, if you’re gonna be over there.” I responded not wanting to inconvenience them.

“Yeah, JJ and I are dropping off groceries on Figure Eight for my dad.” Pope explained.

“Okay, awesome. I’ll be at the Osborne’s house it’s like two docks down from the Cameron's.” I explained, as I made my way over to my mom’s car. “Bye!”

🔅🔆🔅

As I finished vacuuming I glanced at the clock on the wall of the Osborne’s house, this was the last house I had to clean today and JJ and Pope were set to pick me up soon. After I finished cleaning up, I headed downstairs to grab my stuff.

“Hey, you all done?” Mrs. Osborne asked me as I entered the kitchen. She had always been nice to me, well nicer than most Kooks.

“Yep.” I responded, putting the tip she had just handed me into my bag.

“Awesome, thank you.”

“Of course, I’ll see you in two weeks.” I told her.

“I’ll walk you out.” she said motioning in the direction of the front door.

“Oh, actually my friends are picking me up on your dock.”

“Oh okay.” She said, seeming a little confused.

“Bye!” I called out as I shut her back door and made my way toward the long dock. As I stepped out onto the dock I saw Heyward’s boat pull up on the other end.

When I walked onto the boat something seemed off, the two boys were silent which almost never happened. Looking between them I was confused. Without a word Pope pulled out of the dock and we headed back to the cut.

“What’s up with you two?” I asked a few minutes into the boat ride. The pair glanced at each other, Pope opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but after a pointed glare from JJ. He shut his mouth and readjusted his hat, it was sitting at a weird angle.

“Nothin’.” JJ told me with a straight face.

“Seriously?” I asked, frustrated with the two for keeping something to themselves.

“Seriously.” JJ confirmed, so much for Pogues not lying to Pogues.

“So we’re keeping secrets now? Cool.” I said pressing my lips into a tight line. Before they spoke another word I walked onto the back deck. Hoping that the breeze would help me cool off.

From inside the boat I could hear Pope arguing with JJ about telling me something. I couldn’t hear all of it but I knew they were keeping something from me as their words became louder.

“I don’t want her involved!” I finally heard JJ shout, which seemed to stop Pope from saying anything more and the pair became silent again.

🔅🔆🔅

After we spent the rest of the day surfing we were all back at the Château. I sat watching the sunset, wondering what had happened to JJ and Pope before they picked me up. I worried that by the time I found out what had really happened it would be too late.

“You really think it's out there? Like, no bullshit?” Pope asked.

“My father thought it was.” John B told us.

“But do you?”

“After hearing his voice on that tape… I think I do.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Look, we're gonna find it, you know?” JJ spoke up from the hammock. I’d normally be sitting right beside him and even though we were only a few feet apart it felt like there were miles between us.

“Even JJ believes.” Kie joked.

“Oh, my God, JJ, do you really believe?” John B asked in disbelief.

“Totally. Wait. Are we talking about four mil?” JJ asked

“Four hundred mil.” Kie and Pope corrected.

“I'm gonna dream about shipwrecks.” JJ informed us all. “Good night, Bird!”

“Good night, bird shit!” John B teased.

🔅🔆🔅

The next day, the weather seemed perfect as we all boarded Heyward’s boat, ready to find some gold. I kept my distance from the others, I knew I should drop it but I couldn’t help but worry about what JJ and Pope refused to tell me.

“All right, JJ. Pin it here.” I heard John B call out.

“Roger that! X marks the spot.” JJ responded from inside. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. To going full Kook.”

As Pope took the drone deeper everyone's nerves rose. We were about to find out if it had been worth it.

As Kie let out more of the tether, I kept track of how far down the drown had gone. At 900 feet the wind was becoming too much and we still hadn’t found anything. But at almost 1000 feet Pope let out a sigh of relief.

“I'm at the bottom! I'm at the bottom! Okay, steady here, JJ!” Pope yelled out over the wind.

“You should be seeing something, man.” John B told him impatiently, we couldn’t stay out for much longer.

“I know, I know! Wait, wait.” Pope froze. “Oh, good God.”

“See anything?” I asked hopefully.

“It's the Royal Merchant.” Pope told us with certainty.

🔅🔆🔅

#outerbanks #outer banks #jj maybank #jj obx #obx #jj x oc #jj maybank x oc #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader

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patchworkstateofmind · 3 years

Text

Promise? |Bucky x Reader

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader fucks up a mission so Bucky cheers her up.

Words: 2,2k

Warnings: a little, tiny bit of smut

A/N: This is my first time writing something even remotely smutty, so please give me a review on how you found it and if you requests, go ahead ^^

You threw your bag on the little armchair in the corner of your room. It had been a very long day to say the least, the mission, just like every other mission in the last months since you joined the team, ended in a disaster. Everybody was hurt because you made a mistake, again. Well, to be fair, nobody’s hurt bad, but nobody’s without a scratch either.

You’re not in the mood to join the others down in the living room on the common “after mission” parties, tonight you just want to bath in self-loathing, literally. You move to the little bathroom connected to your room and switch the light on the bathroom mirror on. Slowly you drag your hoodie over your body, careful not to move too much, since everything’s still hurting. At least you’ve gotten messed up the worst, so the others didn’t have to face it that bad.

Warm water is running in the bathtub as you remove all your excess clothing. You throw some bath salt in the tub and dim the light, then you slowly sink into the warmth all around you. The water encircles your body like a warm hug, and you let yourself drown into the feeling of defying gravity.

The mission was settled in outer south of Utah. In some old farm that was used by a few people to create new weapons based on the current new smartwatches out there. Something of the hardware was exchanged to explode by a triggered action. You didn’t really understand all that technic stuff but surely you could differentiate between a normal watch and one that will blow your hand right off the wrist. At least so you thought. Because during the mission you proved yourself as the least useful Avenger, since the only thing you did was standing in between Natasha and Tony who screamed at each other while they rewrote the code. So, you just stood there and tried to be helpful through looking around and finding the trigger.

The best part of the mission was then when you tried to solve the problem by destroying the trigger. Well bitch guess what, when you destroyed the trigger you more like pulled the trigger, causing all the 300 watches stored in the farm hall to explode around you.

Of course, it was bad how the mission ended, although with your action the watches were destroyed, and the code was gladly rewritten by the others, so technically the problem was solved, mission completed.

But also, one consequence of your useful action was that everybody was practically catapulted around. But with you standing in the middle of the hall you took definitely the hardest blow, pushing the air right out of chest and making it hard to breathe on the hours back to the compound.

You took a deep breath and sunk deeper into the water, head under water you finally got a few seconds of quiet before you needed to get back up and be reminded of how embarrassing this whole deal had been. Again, and again, you sank into the water, only taking deep breaths occasionally a minute or so.

You’ve just sunk down another time and didn’t notice the voice that was softly calling out your name in front of your bedroom door. “Y/N? I’m coming in!”, he said and pushed into your bedroom, which he found empty except the backpack, still fully packed and dusty. “Y/N?”, he called out again, but you didn’t hear him. “Are you in there?”, he asked and knocked on the bathroom door. The door gave in and slowly leaped open, revealing your clothes splattered across the floor and a bathtub with only your legs dangling of the edge.

Sunken in your thoughts you didn’t notice the man bowed over the tub until an ice-cold hand closes around your upper arm and drags you up. Surprised you swallow one, two breaths of water and cough them all out, clawing at the edge off the tub. Gasping for air you meet the grey eyes of the one and only Bucky Barnes, the man of your dreams, the most handsom- “WTF, Y/N!? Were you trying to fucking drown yourself?”.

You spit another wave of water out of your throat. “What?”, you stumble. “Don’t scare me like that!”, Bucky screamed and reached for a towel to dry his arm. You took a glance down and tried to discretely scoop the foam on the water on your upper body to cover everything.

“What, Bucky, I was just taking a bath, trying to calm my nerves you know?”, you say, but advert his eyes, hiding from his worried eyes. “And you always, like, kinda drown yourself when you bath?”, he asked and pointed vaguely to your body. “I was relaxing!”, you huff out and cross your arms over your chest. Making you awfully aware in what position you are in front of him.

“You are missing for an hour already, seems like you forgot the time”, he grabbed another towel from the little cabinet next to the door holding it out to you. “Come on, the others are waiting.” You take the towel from him and he turns around, leaving you privacy so you can step out of the tub. “I don’t wanna see the others right now, I’m not in the mood for a lecture from Mr America himself”, you sigh and wrap the towel around your body.

Bucky turns back around while you unplug the tub and push your clothes out of the way with your feet when you stumbled over to the sink. “They’re not wanting to give you a lecture, they’re concerned.” You raise an eyebrow, making eye contact with him in the mirror. “Concerned? That I’m not good enough to be an avenger?”, “No, that you’re trying to drown yourself because you feel guilty cause the mission went bad”. “Busted”, you sigh and turn around, leaning against the sink.

“But I wasn’t trying to drown myself!”, you quickly add and now its his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Aren’t they, like, really mad at me?”, you pick up the clothes you shed and throw them in the laundry hamper. “No, not really. But you shouldn’t worry about them”, he said. “How about you start to worry about what will happen if you continue to fuck up on the missions like that? You’re gonna really kill yourself some day if you continue with that ´I’m gonna survive everything attitude`”

“Am not!”, you pouted. “And what do you even care if I kill myself off?”. Of course, you had to say something like that, it would be too easy to just accept that you are pretty reckless on missions. But of course, you had to provoke him and now you would get hurt.

“Do you think you are nothing to us?”, he asked, seeming really angry. “Don’t act like that, you didn’t like me the minute I walked into the compound”, you said and looked to the floor, now again painfully reminded that you were only wearing a towel. “I know you don’t really like me; I don’t think anybody of you really likes me, except maybe peter, but he’s practically a golden retriever.”

Bucky took a step towards you. “Is that really what you think, cause I’m pretty sure you know that everyone of us would take a bullet for you”, his voice grew darker. “Is that so?”, you asked. You had to look up to him now that he was this close to you. The air around you had drastically changed.

You were attracted to Bucky since the beginning of your time in the compound. You couldn’t deny that him being this close to you and you only wearing a towel was making your body heat up and the pit of your belly cramp up with excitement.

“Yes, all that time, from the time you first walked into the compound, all I ever wanted to do is show you how beautiful you look.”, his metal arm sneaked around your waist to balance his weight on the rim of the sink. You were inches apart and you could feel his warm breath on your wet skin. “But all you ever did, was recklessly throw yourself into one risk after another, making it impossible to even get near to you without having a near death experience.”

His head dipped low, on a level with your ear. “And now I am actually alone with you, and you are dripping wet.” To emphasize his words a drip of water ran from your hair down your neck, his eyes following it travel down your chest and into the towel. You arched your back, pressing your chest against his, the knot of the towel hanging on for dear life. “I’m sorry, I guess I just don’t know how to appreciate my life.”, you tilt your head up, his breath sinking on your neck. “Will you show me how good life can be?”, you whispered.

His other hand snaked up your thigh, fiddling with the hem of your towel. Your breath hitched and you gasped against his neck. “Will you show me how beautiful I am? Cause I’m pretty sure I could show you more than you could show me.” You tiptoed to graze his ear with your teeth. “It takes a pretty good stamina to throw yourself into near death experiences.”

That cut the thread, Bucky let out a deep growl and his hands gripped the edge of your towel, yanking it hard of your body. His mouth sank down on your neck, sucking rough patches on your wet skin. A gasp escaped your mouth, and you pushed your hands against his chest, moving up and cupping his chin, pushing his mouth up. Love drunken and definitely horny you slammed your lips on his.

His hands drove all over your body while you rather gently licked his lips for entrance, he immediately opened and his tongue pushed greedy against yours, a fight for dominance. You trailed your hand down towards his pants, letting your fingertips brush under the hem of his shirt, just above the edge of his belt. He growled deeply, which you answered with a teasing bite to his lip.

He left your lips to slowly trail down your neck and sucked another deep purple patch against your collarbone. You threw your head back, your hands coming up to thread in his hair, pulling softly, which only made him emit another deep growl.

His lips went deeper, and you gasped sharply when his lips softly feathered over your nipple. He left a light kiss on top off it, so contrary to the rough sinful kisses you’ve shared just now. He circled the nipple slowly with his tongue, but then he placed his lips around your soft flesh, sucking harshly. You let out a pleading cry, moaning his name.

“Bucky!”, you gasped, you pulled hard on his hair, your knees getting weak. His Flesh hand snaked around your waist, holding you uptight, while his metal fingers crept up your body to play with the other peak on your breast.

You slowly got yourself on steady and his arm left your waist to caress your side. You sharply sucked the air in when his hand wandered over a particularly sore part on your ribs. “Don’t- don’t do this”, you whispered as he let his fingers carefully wander up and down your ribs again. “Bucky”, you pleaded desperate as his lips around your nipple came to a rest.

“WTF, Y/N?!”, he exclaimed and pulled away. You whined when his metal hand also left your body. “Don’t stop”, you whined and looked down at bucky who was still on eye level with your chest but now was more interested in your side. “Y/N, why didn’t you say something?”, he asked and carefully still tasted around a dark purple almost black mark that was caressing your side, from your hips up to your rips.

“Its nothing big, just a little bruise”, you said, reaching for his jaw, trying to pull him into another kiss. He leaned out of your touch “This, is not what I consider small, you should let that get checked out” “Noo”, you whined. “I don’t need to get this checked out, its literally just a bruise”.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Really?”, he pushed his fingertips into your side, elicit you are painful gasp. “Cause to me it seems more like a broken rib” You pouted. “Why did you need to do this, it was getting so good!”, you whined as he already stepped away from you and started to pick up your clothes.

He sighed and turned towards you. “Okay, doll, well make a deal”, he pressed your clothes into your arms. “You will get this treated and once you’re pain free, I will fuck you into oblivion” You look at him suspicious then you hold out your pinkie. “Promise?”, you asked. He chuckled “Sure”; he interlocked your pinkies. “I promise I will fuck you into oblivion.”

“That’s what I like”, you smirked and started to put on your clothes.

#bucky x you #bucky barns x reader #bucky imagine #bucky x female reader #bucky #marvel #bucky smut #marvel smut #bucky oneshot #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #marvel au #writing #marvel imagine #mcu fanfiction #mcu fic

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thatsadorbsyo · 4 years

Text

Lucas - Threads

((this post references the events of the fall, a mission in the heartless ffxiv roleplay campaign. quoted sections were written by @way-to-the-future. cw: character death. art credit: papa ibra tall, seamstress of the stars, wool tapestry, 1970s.))

“I admire how much warmth you give. Like a furnace. Like you've got a blaze rolling at your heart, and you let it all out through your skin. I see it in your eyes, the way they glow when the lamplight hits it just right.”

I’ve got nothing but white static in my head when I try to remember the Rovers’ faces, and if that isn’t creepy as fuck, I don’t know what is. I can’t recall a single thing about them. No noses, no mouths, not a sliver of kohl smudged under an eye or a lock of hair curling out from under a helmet. It’s easier to hate them when I can’t see any facets of their identity, but I don’t wanna fall prey to this lazy fallacy, either. There must have been real men under all that armor. One of many, sure, but individuals all -- just like I had been, once upon a time. So why don’t I remember?

My memory is unfortunately selfish and selective. It picks up the threads of the things closest to my heart and weaves the best story it can with the loose ends. So here’s the stupid little details that stuck with me, where more pertinent information might have been written instead:

I can still tell you with absolute clarity the exact gem tones of the light reflecting off of Cheche’s upturned face, when the Allagan facility erupted in spells and gunfire all around us. Sapphire blues, emerald greens, and amethyst purples against her shining black scales at every obsidian facet, like a raven feather catching the light.

I can map with exacting precision the arc of Castor’s white braid when he whipped his head around at the commotion, taking the tactical measure of our situation the way only a forged-in-the-blood knight like him can. Even after turning away from him, I could still feel the bulwark of Castor behind me, a solid presence that I didn’t need to see to be able to sense, like an extension of my arm, a phantom limb.

To turn around and suddenly find them both gone, ushered down a different corridor in all the clusterfuck of our allies splintering when the Rovers betrayed us?

It felt like amputation.

If I could, I would keep them both in my heart, keep them like puppets suspended by vermilion strings that extend from their every joint to the cavernous arches of my beating muscle. With threads that absorb the shock of my mortal body and every twin hammer of blood, so that all my loves can feel is the gentle warmth of my fire, the spark of creation that burns in me to keep them, cradle them, shelter them close and alive.

Keep them, and I guess, in so doing, preserve them exactly as I want them to be. Is that fair? It doesn’t seem so, does it? I may love them, but they aren’t mine. They aren’t toys or dolls; not mine to keep. See, Castor has taught me that to love someone is to swap my puppeteer’s strings for the Spinner’s threads, and let them weave their own way through my story. Cheche has shown me that the beauty in anything -- in anyone -- is that they might evaporate at any moment. But if I let them, they both might even decide, all on their own, to stay with me for as long as they can. A stronger path, freely chosen and written in royal blue and bright fern green, threading in a perfect braid around my brilliant gold.

No, I couldn’t keep them -- and in the moment of amputation, it didn’t fucking matter anyway, because they’d already gone beyond my reach. My heart was alone, but still it burned for them; burned fit to melt straight through the iced Malbolge of all the hells, a judgement which I still believed must have been waiting for me just beyond the next door of this Allagan tomb, to welcome me to the justice that I'm owed for my crimes. This door, or the next door. The next one.

Amputation wouldn’t stop me. Hell wouldn’t stop me. I would have burned through that whole building like a live coal, if that was what it had taken to find the exit and bring us all back home.

“It's hardly poetic, love. I'm just telling you exactly how you are. How anyone could see you. Even if they weren't a poet. Maybe even if they didn't care for you like I do. Just, if they - stopped to watch you.”

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I had a brother once, before I torched the evidence of the life I used to live. Augustin looked so much like me even when we were young, but moreso now than ever before. We have the same bronze eyes, the same nose; I’ve grown into the size of our chin with time. He’s a beefier motherfucker than I am, and he’d always preferred braids, but even still you’d be hard pressed to tell us apart if you stood us back to back. Where do you think is he now?

Does he wonder what’s become of my punk ass? Surely the reports tell the truth about how I left. They wouldn’t keep secrets, not from a... fuck, he’s probably a Centurio now, isn’t he?

Shit... I bet he is. He always wanted to follow Mom’s path, even though every day that passes causes me to doubt her just a little bit more. I’ve learned too much about family not to begin questioning her motives for doing what she did, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.

But it was Augustin who first taught me how to shoot, you know? He took me behind our home and put a gunblade in my hands, adjusting my twiggy little twelve-turn limbs into the approximate shape of proper posture even when the weight of it threatened to topple me over like a top-heavy weed. He drilled firearm etiquette into me until I could recite its tenets by memory. For such a little bitch, he molded me into a decent shot.

I haven’t felt that kind of brotherly guidance in a long time, but I think I felt Augustin’s ghost behind me when I stood shoulder to shoulder with Sister Lux in that facility, fighting our way out.

Do you remember that door, the one I had thought stood between me and the hells? It was really just another hungry bulkhead between us and freedom; a sun and moon puzzle that should have been, might have been harder to solve if I couldn’t feel the juxtaposition of her fire right next to me. Sun and moon. Astral and umbral. It was so simple; this was a test. I had let my aether lay fallow, and in order to progress I had to reach inside and drag all the burning potential straight out of my mouth. Furious, destructive, so obscenely fucking alive.

Hungry, that’s the key word. The door had to feed -- on us. I don’t know how, or why, but somehow she and I put our hands to the door at the same time and knew exactly what to do. It was time for me to shit or get off the proverbial pot, and all she had to do was correct my posture a little bit, just like old times in the backyard with my brother and a weapon I didn’t know how to hold.

I picked up my brass and ruby cudgel, and she told me how to feel the fire of my aether and let it simmer in controlled brilliance, and how to sit back and watch, patient and observant, as an umbral reckoning blazed all the way up into my nose, through my nostrils, eventually bubbling out in an oozing black ichor like tar. Until we were both painted with blood and the door finally gave way after growing fat on our offerings. Freedom, and not a moment too soon.

It’s funny. It’s funny in that way where I have to laugh to keep from considering all of the circumstantial leaps that had to happen to get me there, in that moment, with that exact mentor and the tools available to me. Did you know that I bought my thaumaturge focus the same day -- at the same damn merchant stall -- that I bought the bracelet that Lux still wears? The cudgel was a leap of faith (I thought maybe, someday, I would use it), and the bracelet was a tithe for her attention, but I gotta fucking wonder if that wasn’t the Spinner herself cinching an amethyst purple thread, until two distant ends of a rich black fabric pleated and bunched together, suddenly close, in a moment of coordinated function.

Like this had been the plan all along.

“They treat you differently because of it. Everyone on this ship - they know they can talk to you, Lucas. That you'll hear them.”

I started this mission as an empty vessel, asking everyone I came across to pour their faith into me so that I might taste it and gradually build a competence in teasing apart the flavors of the gods. The truth is that I was searching for the one most likely to offer me forgiveness, or at the very least the god who might hand me a penitence that I felt like I could swallow. I thought I deserved it, you see. That’s how all this started. On bad days, I still do.

Asking about faith isn’t just a window to the spiritual soul -- it’s also a mainline straight into the source of everyone’s irreconcilable fucking damage. Picking your god is a perilous choice, but mostly because it ultimately determines what kind of personality malfunction you’re going to have down the road. I already know why I’m awful: Delusions of grandeur and megalomania, with a curious tendency to self-flagellate. I’m the smartest, most impressive architect you’ll ever meet. I’m the greasiest, grimiest hunk of motor oil in the gutter.

The only way to reach the middle road between glorifying and hating myself, I’ve found, is to count the threads that wrap themselves around my ribs when I recount the conversations that I’ve had on the Salemtaza’s Voyage.

Here’s a taste: I’ve got Caelrin in deep ochre around my midriff where my abs are just starting to take shape. Ignera sits in flaming orange around the hollow of my throat, slapping my hand away every time I try to choke on my own self-loathing. Captain Kharn wraps in garnet around my face, shielding me from unwanted eyes when I don’t feel quite how I should in my skin. W'kana and W'buki in yellow and black, swaddling me so tight around the chest I fear for my next fucking breath. Reinette, a gentle evening blue curling in petals around my fingertips. Rizzo, a shining onyx black stitching up my lungs telling me to breathe, just breathe, don’t stop breathing until it gets easier.

More even than that. Staelufre in neon magenta, Fugetsu in an unknowable shade of grey, Killian in sunset orange, Strelec in obscuring maroon, Hikari in daisy yellow, Camille in cloudy crimson, Jancis in healing olive, Lune in jumpsuit orange, Jeanne in oil-slick purple, Hanako in fresh lavender, even Kat, yeah, even her, in that same royal blue as Castor.

Nathaniel threading in loops around every one of my fingers in a dazzling gold that fades into the electric yellow of potent aethersand.

I could go on. I could list twice as many names and colors as I already have, and I must ask myself: How do I carry them all? How could I possibly hold them all, without attaching them directly to my meat, my bones, this hideous and imprecise flesh that rightly should be cogs and metal? All that thread would just gum up the whole works, wouldn’t it? Maybe it’s better that I am man, then, and not machine.

For all my flaws, I can still stretch my arms and accommodate all these dangling ends.

“They see it in you, in the way you carry yourself. You're curious. Empathetic. You want to understand people, not just love them or hate them or think nothing of them at all.”

Sui tried to warn me about all this, back at the pumpkin patch at Cloudtop. It was raining, weighing down all my sashes on my brand new armor, and Sui had laughed when the skies parted to reveal the sun setting in a field of rose gold and the softest lavender. It seems like she and I can never properly talk if we aren’t both looking at the sky, like this is the only way we can perceive each other. Never head on -- only in the periphery. Or maybe it’s just easier to talk about certain things when you aren’t looking someone in the eye. Maybe it’s that.

She was so startled by the questions I needed to ask her, like she hadn’t thought it was possible that anyone had been watching her reaction to Nathaniel’s speech, like she didn’t think anyone would have noticed that she was upset. Is she so used to passing under the radar?

But I’ll give her credit. Sui tried to warn me that my friends would die. I watched the sunset fizzle out on the horizon from its soft pastels into a creeping ceruleum and a deeper indigo while she told me every horror that had befallen her family before, and what she knew would happen to us again. Sui could feel the same threads of fate starting to twine around our edges, and she wanted me to be prepared. I listened. I let those fibers stitch themselves into my lungs in the golden rose of a cloudless twilight sky.

I just never thought it would come down on us so quickly, and with such brutal force. I’ve never had to pray for another person before, and out of nowhere I found it necessary to summon the script to beg for twelve of my friends’ lives.

The truth is that I never learned how, and I’ve been too afraid to seek the answer. I know how to make wishes; I know how to toss gold coins into a running fountain and watch the sunlight flicker off the scattered mess of them along the bottom of the pool. But I don’t know how to pray.

I know who I would ask. It was Tieve who introduced me to Gridania, and if Sui and I speak most openly under a yawning sky, you might say that Tieve and I communicate best among the trees, under a cathedral of roots. The memory of the hearer’s chapel is stitched in bark brown and moss green bracelets around my wrists, reminding me that while I may have been invited to someone’s sacred space, I have to mind my boundaries, too. I am not the infallible creator of my own conceit, but nor am I outcast from Spoken kindness and community. To know temperance is to know yourself, to dig into the well of your Spoken dignity and grant the same to others.

I still have this embroidered Gridanian sachet of wood chips and herbs that she gave me, telling me it was for luck, and I didn’t know back then how much I would come to rely on Nymeia for hope. That I would need to believe that she’s writing me into a greater tapestry, that I need that grandeur to feel like my dumbass mistakes have meaning and purpose. And even with Tieve beyond my reach, it occurred to me that she might have already given me everything I needed to weave my own prayer. A level head. A god. A talisman.

I’m just fumbling through this. We all are, but I made my own prayer by pulling that sachet out of my pocket and spinning it over and over in my hands as I remembered the names of those our enemies had taken from us. Who better to beg than the god of fate? Keep their lines anchored to me. Keep them in the tapestry. Keep them safe.

“It's the most noble thing about you. It's - It's more than just what you do, it's who you are. It's what I love about you.”

I recite their names:

Aidan, the hound with apologetic eyes who slinks around the edges the crowd until someone notices him, at which point he deflects attention from himself with a self-deprecating joke straight out of my own fucking toolbox. He could be a brother to me, if he let himself be; if he told me the truth about who he is and where he’s been. I can smell it on him. The stench of ceruleum doesn’t fade as quickly as any of us would like, but I wait for him to tell me on his own terms. Aidan weaves around the periphery of my eyelids in a shadowy kohl black.

Izar, the mercurial seer who obscures themselves in riddles like a smug sphinx playing at being a whimsical faerie. They have never passed up the opportunity to toy with me like a blind white kitten with an oversized brown moth, but the teeth of their humor has never once felt like a cage to me. They are kind, and curious, and helpful even as they delight in your confusion. They dangle at my elbow in marble white, furiously tickling my arm like a loose hair caught in a sleeve.

Adhi, the wandering sage of Dalmasca who the gods had to gift with such big fuzzy ears so that she could better capture every single story that ever came her way. I don’t know how to even begin to thank her for what she’s done for me; she’s returned things to me that by all means should have been my birthright but were taken from me before I was even aware that they were being stolen. Her thread spirals in a shell around my ear in an entire spectrum of colors, one for every tale she carries with her.

Still, there’s more: Tieve, the witch of the wolves (mossy green); Percy, the son of a shadow (cobalt blue); Bride, the bashful goldsmith (periwinkle blue); Swozbhar, the towering cook (mint green); Valeriaux, the scarred philanthropist (leather brown); Silya and Livia, the sunniest Fists I’ve ever met (pale pink and soft teal); Farid, the most visibly haunted man I know (muted purple); and Iron Deer, the entrepreneurial engineer (metallic steel) -- all of them familiar faces, all of them colleagues, all of them threaded through the chambers of the same priceless Heart that gives our mission purpose.

The same Heart that we traded away just to get them back.

You know what? Fuck it. I’ll string them all to my own heart. I’ll suspend them all in cocoons deep in the burning hearth of me -- I will fight my way out of this facility that wants desperately to become our tomb -- until those that still live can crawl back out, fragile but alive and free to keep fighting for whatever comes next.

But one of them is gone, beyond the veil and permanently out of my reach. Just like Sui tried to warn me about, and all of Tieve’s lucky charms were not enough to protect me from this single ungentle truth. The Spinner does not stop the march of destruction -- she merely directs it. She cuts the threads of our fallen friends when they begin to fray and weaves new ones in their place; a different color, a fresh fate.

One of them is gone, their thread knotted off in a sudden stop on the tapestry of our story. But who?

Who did we lose?

“I've seen it. I've heard it. I've bloody felt it. Everyone I speak to says the same. Every one of them knows what a great heart you have.”

Percy and I first met at that bonfire by the chocobo stables. I was shivering, fresh off the fucking ship and completely unprepared for the weather, and he stood next to me and promised me everything I could ever possibly want, if only I made a promise in return to be a loyal friend to the Family. I was so desperate for a place to belong, I would have signed anything, done anything -- what had mattered was that he would have me. In this brave new world, I had people looking out for me. A place to call home. Structure. An institutionalized, freshly liberated fuckhead like me desperately needed structure.

So what if it came with a little price? The list of my sins is long, and breaking and entering is pretty far down at the bottom. Bar brawls are inconsequential, when you’ve already essentially aided and abetted war crimes. So, I’m wanted by both House Desrosiers and House Beaumarchais for stealing a thing or two from their daughters’ manse. So fucking what. Percy and I -- There are bonds that can only be forged at three in the morning, sitting on a crows’ perch halfway across the city under the moonlight, doing pre-job surveillance on some fart-sniffing nobles through their window. I’m not saying we kissed. I’m not saying we didn’t, either.

This is what I’m thinking about, when I look down at Percy’s lifeless face, drained of the rosy pink that always sat on his cheeks during those cold-ass stakeouts, huddled together at the shoulders for warmth. If I touched him now, he would be so cold, so unnaturally fucking cold, so I don’t. I can’t bring myself to touch him; to do anything but stare with my mouth half-open and a sob dying somewhere between my sternum and my throat, turning into just another burning pit to fizzle and die in my stomach.

Except it doesn’t have the good sense to die. It turns to steam, turns to pressure, backs up the entire clockwork machine that keeps me chugging along, and it must be vented or else I’m going to fucking explode, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. It stutters inside me like a hitched gear. The whine seems to come from my chest, high-pitched, like a kettle about to scream. Is that me? Am I screaming? I don’t know myself. I am not me, in this moment. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who is on the cot below me, whose silver close-cropped hair sits on this head, whose too-round spectacles reflect the light in the room too thoroughly for me to be able to see if their dead fucking eyes are open or closed. I don’t know which is more terrifying.

I leave. I run. My boots scream against the floor of the ship, clap against the dirt outside, and I don’t stop running until I can drop to my knees and bellow to the impassive clouds. This is my fault. Judgement rings in my head in a cacophony of voices. My fault. My fault he’s dead.

What am I doing here? What have I done?

Percy’s line, cobalt blue, is so cleanly snipped from my fabric that all I can do is finger the empty spot where it might have kept going. Maybe one day we could have found compromise; a future where the three of us could get along without jealousy, without miscommunication or hurt feelings. I’ll never fucking know.

I have always thought of myself in big terms. I am man, I am machine, I am god. I’m the architect of my own form, and I have crafted myself in my own image. Nothing makes me feel more powerful than looking in the mirror and seeing my face look back at me; the face that I sculpted, the body that I shaped. The people that I’ve been in the past are not dead, but rather they have been stitched into my organs. The girl that I was lives in my marrow and feeds my blood, and I am never alone in the cathedral of my body. I am holy. I am enduring. I will move beyond the ghosts at my heels and continue forging a forward path, with those I love woven into the never-ending project that I call my self.

But even a god looks puny as shit, crying into the dirt over a fallen friend. I need to feel this. I need how small this makes me, how insignificant I am in this moment. I gotta remember how crippled it makes me feel. This humility -- it needs to be sown into me, too. So I don’t make the same mistake again. It’s the least I can do.

I can’t forget. I won’t forget his face.

“What a precious, precious thing we've gained.”

#FFXIVHeartless #lucas nevin #balmung rp #ffxiv rp #IC post #castor arendt #cheche dotharl #lux lunseer #sui eclair #tieve corwell #percy d'armagnac #adian hawke #izar yunhaai #sage adhi #(and more!)#[S] Lucas: Be the Heir of Blood

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fleckcmscott · 4 years

Text

Pre-Show

Summary: It’s a big night for Arthur. Y/N helps him prepare.

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

Words: 3,387

A/N: Instead of this being a request, this was a scenario I came up with while writing The Find. My brain wouldn’t let go of it. (Though, funnily enough, @sweet-nothings04 requested something similar a couple days ago!) I hope you guys enjoy!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The mild, local fame Arthur had gotten after being on Live! with Murray Franklin had been a boost to his ego. And, if Y/N was being honest, confounding to her. She'd assumed he'd continue to be an object of ridicule, the way he had been since that terrible video of his first stand-up had become public. (The humiliation and anger that had radiated from him as they'd stood together in Penny's hospital room, and his withdrawal from her afterward, remained fresh in Y/N's mind.) But she had never been so happy to be wrong.

Only a couple of assholes had approached them on the street. Of the small number of people who said hello, most were neutral, simply amused at having run into a person they'd seen on television. A few were kind. As the months rolled on, the resulting increase in clubs letting him sign-up for sets offered opportunities to hone his craft. She was glad for him, delighted to see how those moments bolstered his self-confidence, helped him let out the instinctual elegance that was too often concealed by reservation.

Though she did have slight concerns. Many of his jokes were sweet, especially ones he directed towards her. But most were therapeutic, about matters closest to his heart. They helped him understand the world around him, in his own way. There was a tendency to treat Arthur like a novelty act, whereas he took his comedy seriously. Would that happen when he performed at amateur hour at the Smile Factory tomorrow night?

She didn't bring the possibility up to him. They'd been a pair long enough for him to know what she was pondering. And she never wanted him to think she didn't believe in him. She did, always. Wholeheartedly. Even if she didn’t always get his humor. And she would sit that audience, give him applause, and laugh at every punchline. Provide the attention he craved and support he coveted. Her love for him and his quirky shtick made that a pleasure to do.

Arthur's deep voice, occasionally halting, other times confident, drifted through the ajar bedroom door. She grinned, standing next to the couch while she ironed creases into his maroon trousers. It was routine for him to rehearse his timing in front of the vanity mirror. Try out his facial expressions to make sure he didn't look "too strange."

The first time she'd seen him do it, he'd blushed and turned away from her, lines tight on his face. But the awkwardness had dwindled as she'd explained she had to prepare for her job, too. That even with all her years of experience, she had to practice testifying if she was going to a big hearing. The effort he put into perfecting his routine meant he cared, and she admired his discipline.

When she heard him enter the living room some minutes later, she glanced over her shoulder. "All ready to break a leg tomorrow?"

"Or an ankle." She giggled at his retort and turned to give him his freshly pressed shirt. The green of his eyes glinted, meeting hers. "I can do this. I know how to handle an iron."

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. He'd gotten better at letting her take care of him, but she felt he did more than his fair share. "You know how to handle a lot of things." She wrapped her arms around his slender waist. "This is the first time you've headlined a show. Focus on your act. Besides." A peck to his chin. "We must be in the honeymoon phase, because I enjoy doing this for you. I loathed ironing my ex's ties."

His palm went to the small of her back, lips on the shell of her ear. "Don't honeymoons last a week?"

God, he smelled good. He hadn't smoked since getting out of the shower. She nuzzled the crook of his neck for more of his masculine, spicy scent. "It's been a year and a half..." Her fingers sneaked under the hem of his gray thermal shirt. The warmth of his skin went straight to her center. "And you still drive me crazy."

A muffled laugh as he stopped her caress of his belly. "Sorry, I can't cure you yet." Then he patted her bottom and headed towards his desk. "Something just came to me. If I figure it out, you'll hear it tomorrow."

~~~~~

The dressing room was quite small, maybe eight by eight feet. But Arthur didn't mind. It had everything he needed. Incandescent light from the corner floor lamp made the wall's brown paneling cozy instead of cheap. The metal table was sturdy, the mirror on it sufficient to make sure his hair was in place. If the worn, wooden chair had had arms, it would have been more comfortable. But he wasn't there to lounge, anyway. He was there to work.

Pogo's was still his favorite club to perform at. The people there knew him, were aware of his condition. Not having to constantly explain it was a relief. They seemed to like him better, too, now that he ordered more than tap water. True, he hadn't been able to get paying gigs (though he had been allowed to split the covers on a Tuesday or Thursday night now and then). If he kept refining his material, however, he was certain he'd get there.

Skepticism had been his first response to the call from the Smile Factory. Having not slept well for nearly a week, he'd suspected it was either his imaginings or an elaborate prank at his expense. He'd waved Y/N over and they'd listened to the phone together. Yes, she confirmed. They really had gotten his contact information from Pogo's. A manager had gone to open-mic night and recognized him from Murray Franklin. An amateur block was a couple weeks away, and they wanted him to open it. They liked his oddball factor. They'd even stick his name on the chalkboard sign on the sidewalk.

Arthur had accepted the invitation quickly. It had taken a few seconds for him to put the phone in its cradle. Then he laughed in excitement and held Y/N so tightly he nearly spun her around the kitchen. She'd been happy. But her need to protect him was clear in her posture. He'd tried to put a stop to that quickly. "I want this. People are noticing me. I can't wait for my big break forever."

"You're right," she'd said, nodding. He'd run the back of his fingers over her cheek, her pretty gaze glittering at him. "I can't wait to hear whatever you come up with."

Her words echoed as he read his notebook. Opening a show was new for him. He'd picked out what he thought were his best jokes. A mix of ones which had gotten rare guffaws from audiences, and ones Y/N said she loved. There were new quips, too. He'd done everything he could think of to prepare. But stage fright roamed as deep as his bones.

Nervousness happened prior to every performance. Arthur had habits to deal with it. He'd scribble in his journal, draw winding circles over and over, sometimes until his pen gave out. He'd worry its pages while re-reading his material. (His memorization had gotten better, but he still needed the book for support.) The breathing exercises, in through the nose, holding, then out through the mouth, relieved some of his laughter and his anxiety. Visualizing success was supposed to help. So, as he sat waiting, smoking and sipping seltzer, he attempted to see himself with his arms out and the crowd cheering.

The knock at the door gave him a slight startle, broke him out of his fantasy. He checked the wall clock. He was scheduled to go on in twenty minutes. The emcee likely wanted to check-in and ensure Arthur would be ready on time, let him know how packed the place was. Better to prevent any hitches. "Come in."

Not even his anxiousness could stop his toothy smile upon seeing Y/N enter the room. She didn't usually visit him backstage, not wanting to interrupt him. But he was happy she'd chosen to tonight. "Hey," he said, turning in his chair. "I tried to pick a good table for you." He appreciated her feminine silhouette, the contours of her breasts accentuated by her collared, lilac sweater. Curves shapely in the A-line, pleated skirt she wore, ending just below her knees. Her black kitten heels. She must have come straight from work.

After a pause she stepped forward. "Patricia's guarding our drinks." He averted his eyes, made a soft sound, and studied the back of her hand as he grasped it. She'd brought her friend to his sets once or twice. The first time he’d spotted them, he'd frozen for a split second. Would her faith in him, enough to invite someone along, always be staggering? It was one of the many kindnesses that confirmed how important he was to her, that filled him with gladness.

She kissed the spot between his brows. "I had to tell the emcee I was Mrs. Fleck before he'd say where their big star was."

Outside of his flights of fancy, he'd never truly thought of himself as a “big star.” Or a “big deal.” Or a big “stand-up.” But he’d hoped for all three, aspired to fulfill his purpose in life. To make people laugh, even on days he himself couldn't. And if Y/N said it, it must be true. At least tonight.

Yet, just when the corner of his lips quirked, his back tightened against unexpected pressure forming in his torso. This was an important night. Whoever walked past the club's sign could see Arthur Fleck would be performing. Sure, he was getting more at ease in the spotlight, cackling only sporadically instead of every time he got started. But he knew there was a chance he'd screw up. Maybe he'd never get to do another set. Maybe he wouldn't even be permitted to come in and make notes. Maybe they'd decide he wasn't funny.

He winced at the negative stream of thought. That wouldn't do any good, especially not now - he was about to make a debut. Scoffing, he took a drag off his cigarette, stamped it out in the ashtray on the metal table, and rested his cheek on the heel of his palm.

Y/N's gentle touch drifted to his shoulders and his eyelids shut. He let her guide him to rest against the back of the chair. "Let me unwind you," she purred. The tips of her nimble fingers kneaded him. The circular motions in the notches above his collarbones ached at first, but started to tingle as he felt his muscles loosen. "Did you figure out that new joke last night?"

"Yeah," he breathed. "I changed my opening." The press of her thumbs to either side of his spine released a knot he hadn't been aware of and he groaned. "'Hello. It's good to be here. Thank you for the invitation.'" His gaze caught hers in the mirror. Combined with her massage, her prettiness made it hard to recall what he'd written. "'When I was younger, I never wanted to go running. I was afraid I'd run out of money.'"

Shivers went through him at the glide of her hands on the nape of his neck. "That's a good start." She moved to stand in front of him and his legs fell open. "You're going to be great. But-" she bent to fasten their mouths together. "You still seem to have some jitters." Her palms smoothed down his chest and he twitched, huffing as she knelt before him. "I think I can help."

It took a moment for him to process what she was doing. He gulped, watching her crumple the bottom of his vest and untuck his shirt. As her fingertips went to his fly, he grabbed her wrist, stiffening and snorting awkwardly. "Y/N." He tried to straighten but was halted by damp kisses to his stomach. "They're going to come get me any minute. I-"

"This won't take long." Mischief twinkled in her eyes. "And I locked the door."

This was entirely inappropriate. He should be telling her to get off the floor. To stop groping at him. To save it for their bed, their sofa, wherever. They were in public; this was something private. Her volume would definitely give them away. But the slight pressure of her unzipping his pants and his growing erection made him squint and roll his pelvis forward. In seconds he was lifting his hips to help her lower his trousers and briefs to his calves.

Her look was eager as she gripped his hard-on, her pink tongue peeking out as she smiled at him. The first lick along his length, the first sweep over the dark red tip of his shaft drove him to clutch his seat. The warm, wet contact caused his breath to shudder. Her lips enclosed him wickedly, and he had to stifle a moan at the sight of her working him. Of her taking him in almost entirely. At the determined expression she had while she sought to bring him off.

Mouth falling open, he tilted his head back, the pace of his thrusts increasing. She was alternating between enthusiastic laving and ardent sucks on the head. It was a struggle to control himself, and he bucked up, digging his fingers into her scalp. She whined around him, gripped his thigh, ran her nails through the hair on it the way she knew sent electricity through him. The tightening of his abdomen increased with her every stroke. He was so close...

Then a pounding at the door. "Ten minute warning!"

"Shit," Arthur gasped. He grasped her arm to pull her up. She started to fall into him but caught herself on his shoulders and straddled his lap. Absorbed with the urgency to be inside her, he hurriedly lifted her skirt to pull her panties away. What he discovered caused him to blink at her in surprise instead. "Where's your underwear?"

With a grin, she steadied herself and reached to press him to her slick folds. "In my bra," she breathed, sinking onto him. When her hips were flush with his, his groan matched her whimper. "I knew they'd just be a nuisance." She raked her hands through his locks and kissed him, hard. "I've been horny all day." She ground herself on his public bone and inhaled sharply.

The embrace he returned was fierce, fingers splayed on her back. She adjusted the angle of her body, allowed him to enter her more deeply, until he was completely embedded. The hot, tight slide of her walls went straight to his brain. His eyes darted from where they were joined to her face.

Her brows were drawn together, cheeks pink, lips parted as her undulations quickened. The beauty she held when she lost herself like this could rival that on the cover of any check-out magazine. Grunting, he braced his feet on the floor for leverage and bucked up into her. As he brushed his thumb against her swollen clit, she let out a short wail. He squeezed her thigh, chuckling. "Shh..."

"Sorry," she whispered. She smiled, the cadence of her ruts quickening. "You just-" Another short moan. "You feel amazing."

He nuzzled at her temple. "Y/N..." Her mouth opened against his and his tongue plunged into it. There was a hint of the cocktail she must have ordered before visiting, as well as his own musk. Normally, he didn't find the latter pleasant. But he found her so seductive, riding him like she was, he couldn't bring himself to care.

The rising pitch of her whimpers betrayed how close she was to going over the edge. Faster and faster, he skimmed her sensitive nub, her limbs rigged and trembling. As her pulses began to clutch his cock, he angled their kiss to swallow her strangled cry. She clung to him, holding herself upright, fisting his waistcoat and shuddering.

Somehow, she kept moving.

He was trying to catch his breath, to concentrate on keeping quiet, knowing there were people just outside the door. But the delicious friction was overwhelming, the clench of her threatening to undo him immediately. She was egging him on, her voice husky in his ear and pleading, "Come on, Arthur." He pressed his lips to her neck to conceal his cries, pleasure scorching through him as he surged into her one last time. Her thrusts ceased only when he cupped the swell of her ass, locking her in place as he poured himself inside her.

Their coupling had left him a little muddleheaded, but he knew he didn't a lot of time to recover. His gaze raised to find her glowing, and he felt himself fall in love with her again. Her kiss was swift as she disentangled herself and shakily stood. There were tissues on the table - she wiped herself off with one and handed him another. With a giggle, she took a third and dabbed at the sheen of sweat on his brow.

Her examination of her skirt prompted him to go over his trousers. He was relieved nothing had gotten on them. Once she'd straightened his collar, combed his loose curls back behind his ears, she got out her simple pair of cotton panties and slipped them on. "I'll see you after the show," she whispered, pecking him sweetly.

He watched her retreating form in the mirror until she shut the door firmly behind her. Standing to tuck his shirt in, he laughed softly. They'd really ruined her ironing job. But, he considered as he smoothed the bottom of his vest, it had been worth it. Being with her was always worth it. With a happy sigh, he grabbed his journal, steeled himself with a couple deep breaths, and repeated his opening to himself one last time before leaving the room.

~~~~~

Y/N patted her face with the damp paper towel in the restroom. Her cheeks were unbearably warm, her hair a mess. Carefully, she sniffed at her sweater. Good. It smelled like perfume, not sex. How did Arthur, who had been remarkably timid when they'd first met, become the one person who could inspire her to be so brazen? Whatever the answer, she loved it. Once she freshened up, was satisfied no one would be able to tell what had transpired, she headed back to her seat.

The club was nice, a bit more modern than Pogo's. While the lighting was low, the color scheme was a mix of black, grey, and silver. Arthur's maroon suit would be a pop of color against the painted brick wall at the back of the stage. The place was smaller overall, the space for the audience about two-thirds of what Arthur was used to. It was fairly crowded, though, and the groups that were there seemed to be having a nice time.

Patricia's eyes held suspicion when Y/N finally sat down at the black table for two at the back. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I was just wishing Arthur good luck." Y/N sipped at her Tequila Sunrise nonchalantly. It was the drink she always ordered at his shows. Her legs crossed under the table and she swung her foot back and forth.

"You were gone almost twenty minutes." Patricia nudged her arm. "How much luck did he need?"

"An abundance." Her friend's smirk was impossible to miss, even as Y/N focused on her cocktail glass. Patricia was onto her. Of course. "Sorry. I didn't mean to ditch you," she said. "I'll cover your tab." Patricia’s response was to grab the drink menu.

When the lights dimmed, Y/N straightened with anticipation. Arthur came out, notebook in hand, and gave a little wave. Standing in front of the mic, he surveyed the crowd, as always, and nodded at Y/N when he spotted her. She admired his wrinkled outfit, his mostly slicked back hair, the lingering blush on his sharp cheekbones. Everyone else in this room probably assumed his color was due to nerves. But she knew what it was a remnant of. Savoring the secret held between them, she pressed her legs together and smiled.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @howdylilflower @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @octopus-plasma @tsukiakarinobara @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile @another-day-in-chuckletown @hhandley80

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck smut #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

87 notes · View notes

master-sass-blast · 4 years

Text

Release.

Hmmmmm... this thing is solid projection. Whoops.

Summary: You're exhausted. No matter what you do, you can't get enough rest to save your soul. You try to keep up with everything, try to not let the fatigue hinder you

--And then it all comes crashing down.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: T for depression, anxiety, chronic fatigue, and general angst-hurt/comfort vibes.

Set after “It’s Truly Magical,” but this one is special in that it doesn't directly impact the canon. It's sort of a special one-off.

Author’s Note: So, as some of you may have gathered from the tags and preamble, this fic is basically me venting my own frustration.

I've been dealing with some pretty wicked chronic fatigue for the better part of... coming up on a year now, actually. Wow. I didn't realize it'd been that long.

It's made life really hard for me, from everything to eating to doing chores to hanging out with friends to writing. We don't know what's causing it, and we're trying to take care of it through lifestyle changes and making sure I don't exert myself too much (we meaning me, my family, my fiance, and my doctor). There's been a few things that have helped, but by in large it's still been kicking my ass.

I know I was gone for a long time. Part of that was the fatigue making it impossible to write or post. To those of you who are still around, thank you -and I'm sorry. I'm trying my best, I promise.

If you're dealing with chronic fatigue or think you're dealing with chronic fatigue, just know that it's okay that you're tired. You're not lazy. You're not a failure. You're not going crazy. You're not a burden. Your body needs rest, you need rest, and you *deserve* to rest.

Here's a resource on chronic fatigue syndrome and what it looks like.

I hope you're all doing well. Stay safe and wear your mask.

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @super-darkcloudstudent, @dandyqueen, @leo-writer

It creeps over you. It starts as a wispy, soft cloud, hanging over the horizon of your existence.

And then it grows. Larger, more oppressive. Until you’re fully immersed in it, with no sense of direction or how to get out.

***

You’re not really sure you remember when it started. You’ve always been tired to some extent –anxiety, nightmares, and running on the X-Men schedule will do that to a person.

Exhaustion hits like a brick one day after training. You slump against the tiled wall in one of the shower stalls in the locker room. Water streams down your sweaty face and body while you struggle to make your eyes focused. Shit. I must have pushed too hard.

You manage to get yourself cleaned up and trudge back to yours and Piotr’s home at the back of Xavier’s property. You collapse onto the couch in the living room. Your limbs are stone, too heavy to drag another step. Your body throbs in time with your heartbeat. I need a nap. Just for a couple hours.

You only want to sleep for a couple hours.

You only mean to sleep for a couple hours.

You wake up at nine in the evening, to Piotr gently nudging you.

He tuts, fussing over you like a worried mother hen. “Are you feeling well, myshka?” He presses the back of his hand against your forehead. “You have slept for long time.”

“I’m fine,” you mumble, mind still cloudy with exhaustion. You force yourself to sit up. You jaw cracks when you yawn. “Just overdid it in training today.”

Your husband gently chides you, ushering you into the kitchen so you can eat. “It is important to replenish energy.”

You go straight to bed after eating and sleep for another ten hours.

***

Part of you wonders ‘how did I let this happen? How did I let it get this bad?’

The other part of you wonders if you had any say in it at all.

***

The fatigue starts seeping into other areas of your life as well. Training, grading, hanging out with friends, eating…

You’re so tired. You chalk it up to mission stress, to going too hard during training, to running on weird hours all the time.

You start sleeping through the day to cope. No matter how well you sleep at night or how much sleep you get, you’re always so fucking tired.

Piotr notices the change in your sleeping habits. Because of course he does. It’s ingrained into his very DNA to be an observant, loving nurturer.

He brings it up during dinner one night. “Are you doing alright, myshka?”

“What? Yeah. Of course.” You’d woken up from a nap a couple hours before, and you feel good for once. (You’ll crash a couple hours later.) “Why? What’s wrong?”

“You have been sleeping at odd hours,” Piotr says, stirring his soup with his spoon. “I just want to make sure you are not having mental troubles.”

“I’m fine, baby.” And, on that front, you are. You’ve got your meds, your support system, a home, creative outlets, and a fulfilling –if occasionally dangerous—job. “I’ve just been tired lately, is all. I think it’s the weird mission hours just putting my body clock out of whack.”

“You should try to stay on normal schedule, then,” Piotr points out. He frowns, concerned. “Is not good for mental health to keep odd hours.”

You bristle. You are trying, dammit. You push through training and grading and your obligations every single damn day, even if all you can do is collapse in bed afterwards. Who the hell is he to say that you’re not trying?! “I am, Piotr. You don’t have to micromanage me. I’m not one of your teens.”

Piotr recoils, blue eyes widening. He holds up his hands. “Easy, dorogoy. I am not trying to micromanage. I just want you to be healthy.”

You drop your gaze down to your bowl of soup. Your heart races in your throat. “Sorry.”

***

It’s like being one of those houses infested with termites. You’re being consumed from the inside out. On the outside, you look fine. On the inside, you’re crumbling away like a sad, dry cookie left in the bottom of the cookie jar for five long, lonely months.

You’ve always been weird. You oscillate between outgoing and reclusive like nobody’s business. You’re a lot like Wade –somewhere between amusing and a nuisance to most of the adults, though most of the teens and kids like you.

(Piotr insists that it’s not true, that everyone likes you well enough, but you’ve never quite had the full faith to believe him.)

No one notices that you’re hurting. No one notices that something’s wrong. No one notices, no one notices, no one fucking notices—

But, to be fair, you hardly notice it yourself.

***

You kind of start to lose your mind, if you’re being honest.

It’s hard enough to keep up with your workload with the mission scheduling –but being tired all the time slams the nail in the coffin. You manage to drag yourself to training on time because it’s mandatory, because it’s important, because it’s for the good of your team, and—

And everything else falls apart.

You spend countless late night hours on the couch cramming through your grading, because you needed to sleep earlier, and the deadline’s only looming closer, and you have to be productive, dammit—

More than once, you drag yourself up to bed when Piotr’s just getting up for the day.

He frowns, forehead creasing. “Myshka—”

“I had grading to do,” you mutter as you crawl back into bed.

He finishes buttoning up his shirt, then sits down next to you. The bedframe groans under his bulk. “This is not healthy, moya lyubov’.”

“I’m fucking working on it, Piotr!” you snap, glaring at your husband. “Just –leave me alone!”

He swallows hard, blue eyes shining with hurt. He looks like a kicked puppy.

You huff and slam your face into your pillow, mostly to hide the fact that you’re crying.

Piotr smooths your hair down, then kisses the back of your head. “Ya tebya lyublyu, myshka.”

You bite down on your pillow and cry harder.

***

It’s more than just being tired.

It’s guilt. It’s enough guilt to fill an ocean. No amount of effort you make is good enough; no matter how hard you try you wind up failing. Or snapping at someone you love. Or being unable to do even the simplest shit.

There’s so much anger, too. At the world, at anyone who points out that you’re not doing well, at yourself. There’s a scream constantly behind your lips, trying to crack its way out of your chest.

You’re failing. You’re trying to scoop up handfuls of sand to keep an entire dune from consuming you, and the grains keep running through your fingers; it practically looks like you haven’t done anything at all, and you’re so fucking tired…

***

The ‘house’ collapses over a load of dishes.

One load of fucking dishes.

It’s ridiculous.

You manage to drag yourself out of bed one morning, trying to get the haze that seems to be a permanent fixture in your mind to clear. You trudge downstairs, energy sapping out of you with every step you take.

You see last night’s dishes in the sink, waiting to be rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher.

It’s an easy task. The dishes aren’t all that dirty, and there aren’t that many of them.

And you can’t do it. You don’t have the energy. You’re just too fucking tired.

You failed.

You crumple to the floor, weeping against the wooden floorboards as the dam you’d been trying so hard to keep stable gives way. You scream, anger and guilt and frustration and self-loathing washing over you, crushing you beneath their weight. You clutch at your hair, seething as the past few months finally come to a head—

And then Piotr’s arms are around you. (Later, you’ll learn that he stopped back at the house to pick up a gradebook, which is why he was even around during the day in the first place.) He scoops you up, cradling you against his chest. “Myshka, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

You sob into his shirt, beyond words.

“Okay, okay.” He checks you over to make sure you’re not visibly injured, then carries you upstairs to bed.

You whimper when he tries to tuck you in. “No –I’ve got stuff to do—”

“It can wait,” he says, loving but firm. He gently tugs the comforter over you, then toes his shoes off before laying down next to you.

“It can’t,” you cry, even as he tugs you into his arms and tucks you against his chest. “It’s already waited for so long.”

“And it can wait longer.” He kisses your forehead. “It is okay, myshka. Rest.”

You snuffle and sob and gasp—

And, eventually, you fall asleep.

***

You wake up to Piotr stroking your hair. You inhale sharply, blinking to cast the bleariness out of your vision. “What time is it?”

“About noon,” he says.

Your heart sinks. “Shit. I’ve got grading—”

He places his arm over your waist, holding you in place. “It can wait.”

“But—”

“You had breakdown this morning, myshka. Health comes first.” He gazes into your eyes, brow furrowing. “Talk to me, moya lyubov. Please. What is wrong?”

Your heart rips into infinitesimal pieces at seeing him so worried –and then you start crying again. “I can’t…” You squeeze your eyes shut and buy your face against his chest. “I can’t. I can’t do it. No matter how much sleep I get, or I don’t get, or how much I exercise or don’t exercise, or what I eat or –any of it. I’m so tired, Piotr.” You let out a choked sob. “I’m just so tired, and I keep failing—”

Piotr rubs your back and kisses the top of your head. “It’s okay, myshka. It’s okay.”

***

Eventually, you settle again. You’re snuggled against Piotr’s chest, sniffling and sighing while he strokes your hair.

It’s not a bad place to bed.

“How long?” he asks, voice quiet and gentle. “How long have you felt tired?”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, lulled to a state of near drowsiness by his ministrations. “A few months? Maybe a little longer? I’ve always been kind of tired, what with anxiety and nightmares and all that shit.”

He ‘hmms,’ kissing the top of your head. “Have you eaten yet?”

“…does leftover pizza at three in the morning count?”

He sighs, exasperated and amused. “Okay, time for food.”

“I can’t,” you whimper, tears coming back as frustration swells in your chest. “I’m too tired to eat.”

Piotr shushes you, gently drying your cheeks with a tissue. “What if I bring you something?”

You stomach churns with guilt and self-loathing. “I’m not a baby. I don’t… I shouldn’t need people to make food for me.”

“No, not baby,” Piotr agrees, kissing your cheek. “But you are unwell.”

“I’m not sick!”

“Unwell is unwell,” Piotr states, voice brokering no room for debate (though it never loses that gentle intonation of his). “If I bring you food, will you eat?”

You hesitate, then manage a small nod. “Something small, please. I don’t want, like, a whole meal.”

Piotr nods. He heads downstairs, then returns a few minutes later with some toast, fruit, a glass of milk –and some Cheetos.

You giggle when you see the fluorescent orange cheese-snacks on your plate. “You do love me.”

“Navsegda.” He hands the plate to you, sets the glass on your nightstand, then waits for you to start in on your toast before speaking again. “I think you should see Dr. Mccoy about fatigue.”

“But I’m not sick,” you argue after swallowing a bite of toast.

“That you know of,” he corrects. “Lots of things can cause fatigue. Is best to check, to make sure more serious problem is not happening.”

“But…” A lump rises in your throat. “What if this is just me now? What if… what if I’m just broken?”

Piotr takes your hand in his. He presses his lips against your knuckles. “Then we know, and we make life suited to your brokenness.”

“I can’t slow everyone down, Piotr,” you insist. Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “I can’t –I can’t be a burden. It’s not fair to everyone else if I’m getting some sort of special treatment because I’m tired.”

“You are not burden,” Piotr declares, gaze boring into yours. “You are never burden. Understand?”

“Piotr—”

“Things happen, myshka. Sometimes, our bodies just… do not work right anymore. You still deserve comfortable, happy life. Nothing is unfair about that. Nothing.” He kisses the back of your hand again when you sigh, then pats your leg. “Finish eating. We go to doctor afterwards.”

***

The only way out is through.

Who would’ve guessed.

***

Dr. McCoy runs a series of comprehensive tests. Thyroid, allergy, iron deficiencies, vitamin deficiencies, glucose levels—

It comes back negative. All of it.

On one hand, it’s a good thing, given that you don’t have some sort of life-threatening condition that needs treating.

On the other hand, you just feel worse. It’s like proof that you have no excuse, that you’re tired for no reason, and that you just need to try harder.

“You are trying,” Piotr says when you admit as much. He draws you into a hug and kisses the top of your head. “We just need to find tools so that trying isn’t so hard.”

“What if there’s nothing?” you ask in a horrified whisper. “What if we try everything and nothing works?”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Then that is okay, too. However you are is okay, myshka.”

***

“How’s the tai chi going?”

You shrug. “It’s fine.” Nathan had switched you over to low impact exercise the second he got wind of your fatigue issues. “Wade likes to do it with me; we like to try and incorporate lame dance moves into our sets to see if Nathan’ll catch us doing it.”

Alyssa chuckles and shakes her head. “And does he?”

“He definitely did when Wade started doing the worm.”

The two of you laugh together.

“And how’s your task setting going?” Alyssa asks when you both settle back down. She grins when you scowl. “Ooh, I knew that’d be your reaction. I knew you were not going to like it one bit. You keep trying to eat the whole whale, sweetheart. You’re gonna choke!”

“I know, I know.” You sigh, frustrated and dejected in equal measure. “It’s just… hard. I used to be able to do so much more. And now –it’s like my body was stolen away from me.”

“I know, sweetheart. And I’m so sorry. But it’s important that you learn to readjust your scope for what’s reasonable and what’s not. Otherwise, you’re gonna keep spinning yourself in anxious circles –and you’re gonna keep making the fatigue worse by overworking yourself.”

You groan and rub at your face with your hands. “It just… it feels wrong! Like I’m being lazy! I don’t have a reason to be so tired.”

“Sure you do,” Alyssa says, as if it’s that simple. “Your body is healing. You spent a lifetime being traumatized and abused. Your body put itself on hold to help keep you alive. You’ve dealt with your anxiety, depression, and trauma to the point where you’re stable, so now all those years of stress and pain are finally catching up. This is your body’s way of saying ‘hey, it’s my turn!’ So, now you need to listen to it.”

“But what if I don’t get better?” you ask, voice fraying. “What if I’m like this forever?”

She shrugs, tucking her braids over her shoulder. “That could happen; the amount of trauma you went through would be more than enough to result in a permanent presentation of chronic fatigue syndrome. But it could also get better, too. There’s no point in trying to predict the outcome.”

“But if I don’t get better, I’ll have to step down from being an X-Man.”

“There is more to this life than being an X-Man, honey,” Alyssa says, smiling warmly at you. “You have an entire world to discover. You just might have to do it at a different pace than everyone else. Your goal isn’t to get back to being an X-Man. Your goal is to take care of yourself.”

You tuck your knees under your chin and wrap your arms around your legs. “That doesn’t feel like enough.”

“How come?”

“Because it’s me. I have to do more to make up for the fact that it’s me.”

Alyssa points her pen at you. “That’s the anxiety and depression talking. You are more than enough, just as you are. Your worth is not based on your productivity or what you can offer to society. It’s based on your existence as a human being, that’s all.”

You drop her gaze, opting to look down at the ornate, ocean blue rug she keeps in her office instead.

“I want you to keep working on adjusting your goal setting,” Alyssa says as she jots down a few notes in your file. “Three things a day, whether it’s chore, work, or self-care related. Nothing else goes on that list unless you need to remember to do it, like taking your meds. Okay?”

You mutter your assent.

“Attagirl. I also want you to do your positive affirmations. Three times a day, plus whenever you get caught in negative thought patterns.”

You groan and slump down on the couch. “No! Positive affirmations suck!”

“They’re wonderful,” Alyssa fires back, chuckling. “They’re so good for you, so good for your brain…” She laughs when you retch, then closes your file and stands. “Alright, sweetheart. Keep at it. I’ll see you next week.”

Piotr looks up when you walk out of Alyssa’s office. “All done?”

“She’s making me do more positive affirmations,” you grumble (you can hear Alyssa laugh at your admission).

“Ah, is good for you,” Piotr says as he ushers you down the hall. “Good to say truth out loud.”

You retch again. “Not you, too. I need to go find Wade. He’ll understand.”

Your husband chuckles and shakes his head. “Come on, myshka. Back home with you.”

“Why does it have to be so far?” you groan. “It’s so much walking.”

“Are you feeling tired?”

You sigh. “Honestly, yeah. I’m really wiped out.”

Piotr puts an arm around your shoulder in a one-armed hug. “I am sorry, moya lyubov’. Would you like me to carry you?”

“I shouldn’t need carrying.”

Piotr stops. He cups your face in his massive hands, making you look up at him. “Is not about ‘should’ or ‘should not.’ If your body needs help, then you need help.”

You hesitate, but ultimately nod. “Yeah. I’d be nice if you carried me.”

He nods. He waits until you two are outside, then kneels so you can clamber on his back. “Hop on, myshka.”

You loop your arms around his neck. You wait until he has his arms looped around your legs, then point in the direction of your house. “Home, Jeeves.”

Piotr chuckles. “I am transport service, now?”

“Damn right.” You gently slap his burly chest. “Mush. I want Poptarts.”

Piotr laughs again, then sets off across the lawn.

***

You’re not alright. Not technically. Alyssa’s right that you’ve been hurt. Healing takes time, and you’re just beginning your journey.

But you’ve got Piotr. Your family. Your friends. You’ve got Dr. McCoy and Alyssa as professional support. You have a home to rest in when you’re weary.

You’re okay –and on the days that you’re not, you will be.

And that’s more than enough.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #*sighs*#well this happened #tw: anxiety #tw: depression #tw: chronic fatigue #not technically canon to the series #the author needed some catharsis #angst #hurt comfort #deadpool fanfiction #x men fanfiction

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giyuwu-san · 4 years

Note

All of the hashiras know that Obanai has a crush on Mitsuri. Tired of him not doing anything, they confront him and tell him to confess."No""Why not?! It's not as if she's dating anyone""...I'm not worthy of her"And so the hashiras team up to make him confess to the one and only love pillar!

I’m sosososososo sorry this took so long. please forgive me, I was trying to come up with creative ideas for this one since it’s my first kny fic so I really wanted to do it justice I hope you understand. and then chapter 200 hit me and I was done for. but!!!! it’s here now after all this time and it’s finally at a point where I’m happy with it, so hopefully the wait was worth it >.

the sound of fireworks.

pairing : iguro obanai x kanroji mitsuri

warnings : a little angst, fluff, one curse word (I’m pretty sure)

summary : the pillars are trying everything to get iguro obanai to confess to kanroji mitsuri in the name of love as a life-changing decision is made under fireworks and starlight.

word count : 2.2K

tags : @lordexplosionsextra @jojosmilktea

✎

Iguro Obanai had always been in love with Kanroji Mitsuri. This was a fact, a statement known by both him and all his fellow Pillars, except perhaps, Mitsuri herself.

It wasn’t fear of rejection that kept him from confessing, nor was it the complications that would plague their relationship once he did. The fear that tormented his mind wasn’t caused by the thought of rejection, rather by acceptance.

He didn’t want her to see him, even if he craved it. He didn’t want her to smile at him, even if he yearned for it. He didn’t want her to love him, even though he pleaded for it.

The smile he loved so much isn’t meant for him. That smile of hers that filled his conscience. That smile of hers that he could never mimic. That smile of hers that he could never have.

And no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts were the same. The love he held for her would always stay a secret. That’s what she deserved.

She didn’t deserve someone like him, whose blood was filthy. Someone like him, whose shine could never match hers.

When she could give him such a vibrant smile, what could he give her in return? How could a scarred mouth like his hold the same glow?

He would always give her what she deserved, even if it meant hurting himself.

It would always be like this, no matter what anyone said. This is how it’s supposed to be.

- - - *ﾟ‘ﾟ ☽ ☼ ☾ *.:｡ - - -

"Now this is just getting ridiculous.“ was what the Insect Pillar, Kocho Shinobu said. Her smile leaving her face with the facade she carried slowly slipping, annoyance seeping in, taking its place.

"Indeed, indeed!” was the chime of the Flame Pillar standing beside her, “Iguro-san must confess his true love! Let his most profound passions reach her from the deepest depths of his⁠—”

"Yeah, yeah, we get it. Iguro’s in love with Kanroji, and it’s annoying, we get it.“ Shinazugawa interrupted Rengoku before he could ramble on further.

Each of the Pillars, minus Kanroji and Iguro, were all bundled together in an empty room located at the Butterfly Estate, with the common goal of finally getting their fellow Snake Pillar to confess his feelings. (Except for perhaps Muichiro, who had already forgotten how he ended up in this room, to begin with.)

All of the Hashiras knew about Iguro’s feelings toward the Love Pillar, but whenever they would approach him about it, he would always reply with the same words.

‘I don’t deserve her.’

However, things were about to change in the next week, for all of them had made plans to attend an upcoming summer festival in a nearby village. It was the perfect opportunity.

“Alright!” said the Sound Pillar, who had been surprisingly quiet until this moment. “Let us execute this plan flamboyantly!“

And so, each Pillar walked out of the room. Most of them hopeful that the plan would go smoothly.

- - - *ﾟ‘ﾟ ☽ ☼ ☾ *.:｡ - - -

Iguro was sitting next to Mitsuri, watching as she stuffed her face with more sakura mochi. Her cheeks puffing up cutely much to Iguro’s hidden delight, his eyes brightening slightly with his masked smile.

Although Iguro had no plans of confessing, he had to admit that these simple moments with her made his heart soar. Watching her eat to her heart’s content made him feel like a boy again. Young and in love with the girl next to him.

Kanroji enjoyed his presence equally as much. The warmth and affection flowing from his eyes that only looked at her made her feel giddy inside. Every meal with him always felt comfortable, and every meal without him always felt empty and incomplete.

And as she kept chewing, only her happy hums and remarks were heard in the otherwise relaxing silence.

Meals with him were always the best.

Mitsuri smiled to herself, her cheeks still full.

- - - *ﾟ‘ﾟ ☽ ☼ ☾ *.:｡ - - -

The festival had come sooner than expected, and all the Pillars had gathered at one spot. Eyes already scanning the festivities around them.

Iguro and Mitsuri (but mostly Mitsuri), were both excited to explore the festival together with all their fellow Pillars. Or so they thought, because when they looked around, the Pillars had already dispersed into their own groups.

Mitsuri however, had no time to be surprised as her eyes caught a glimpse of a food stall further ahead of them. Turning her head to the baffled Iguro, she quickly pointed forward excitedly.

"Iguro-san!” she said, her excitement barely containable. Her finger pointing in all directions at the food stalls around them. Her eyes glinting crazily to the point Iguro thought she was crying, and maybe she was.

“FOOD!” was all Obanai heard until he was forcefully dragged by a hunger-crazed Mitsuri.

- - - *ﾟ‘ﾟ ☽ ☼ ☾ *.:｡ - - -

It had been a good hour since they arrived at the festival, yet there had been no progress made in the field of love as Iguro merely followed Mitsuri around in her pursuit of culinary enlightenment.

The plan, however, was not in vain just yet, for the Pillars had more tricks up their sleeves.

The pair made their way about the various stalls until they catch sight of Shinazugawa, who seemed to be waiting for them in front of a game stall. The Wind Pillar points at Iguro, much to his confusion.

“Whoever scoops the most goldfish wins."

Iguro was not expecting the sudden challenge. To be fair, this was his first time playing kingyo-sukui, but after looking towards Mitsuri whose face held nothing but excitement, he was in no position to back down.

Iguro had surprisingly won against the competitive Sanemi. Who of which completely forgot that he was supposed to let Iguro win and played for real. Much to his dismay. Face scowling (and pride damaged), Sanemi turned on his heels and walked away.

The person manning the stall then gave Iguro more snacks as a prize, only for them to quickly disappear inside Mitsuri’s mouth.

The series of strange events and interferences kept occurring throughout the summer festival, such as Kocho running into them and momentarily stealing Mitsuri for ’girl talk’, allowing Muichiro to sneakily shove some flowers he found wandering in the field into Iguro’s hands, Rengoku coming over to the pair to give them an impromptu love poem recital, and Giyuu even tried his best by directing them towards a more intimate food stall that didn’t have many people.

As the night progressed Iguro felt himself becoming more and more flustered by the events that have taken place thus far. With Mitsuri holding the flowers Muichiro picked, they walked silently alongside each other, all the food that Mitsuri ate had finally caught up to her.

Noticing this from their respective hiding spots, the Pillars finally threw into action their last and final hope: advice from the man with three wives.

Gyomei approached the two, seemingly coming from the shadows as he asked to steal Mitsuri away for a moment to talk about cats. Mitsuri happily complied, but with less enthusiasm than usual as she could feel her impending food coma creeping closer.

Iguro then stood alone, even more confused than he already was.

That was until he saw the Sound Pillar jump out from the bushes, Obanai wasn’t even surprised anymore.

"You’re really taking your sweet time aren’t you?” was what he said as he crept closer towards the Snake Pillar, who only blinked at him. It wasn’t that Obanai hated the Sound Pillar, it was just he never really spent the time getting to know the man, or the other Pillars for that matter, minus Kanroji.

So he wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of the two of them being alone when he could have been basking in Mitsuri’s warm presence, but that was beside the point.

“What do you mean?” he tries feigning innocence, even if he knew exactly what Tengen was entailing. He noticed all the things that had been happening since the start of the festival. He may have been slightly dense, but he wasn’t completely oblivious either.

The two men started walking side by side, as their conversation continues.

“Don’t play dumb with me Iguro-san.” Iguro could only sigh and raise his eyebrow at the man.

“Your point?” he said, not wanting to have to repeat the same words he’s said to all the other Pillars again.

Tengen knew that the chances of him somehow convincing the Snake Pillar to change his mind were slim. Yes, he had three wives. He has experienced love and continues to experience it throughout his life, but he did admit that helping a man overcome his self-loathing was going to be challenging for anybody. Nonetheless, he put away his eccentric side, for now, focusing purely on the assignment he was tasked with.

“My point is that you should just tell her.” he said bluntly, he knew flowery words were no use with Obanai, instead opting to give it to him straight. “She deserves to know.”

“No, she does not.” was the Snake Pillar’s retort.

“And why is that?” Tengen was barely fighting off his sigh.

“She doesn’t deserve someone like me.” At this, the sigh that Tengen was holding back finally made itself known. He couldn’t tolerate this any longer.

“You can’t decide that for her.” he said, sighing once more. “She’s the one who decides that. That’s her choice to make, not your’s Iguro-san."

Tengen wanted to help him, and that’s a lot from someone who typically didn’t care much about the well-being of other people, only having a few people he genuinely treasures. But even with Tengen’s way with words, he knew that Obanai himself had to be the one to change. Tengen knew that his words alone couldn’t solve this, and frankly, he had nothing left to say.

Sighing, he walks away to leave Obanai to his own thoughts, as the man stopped walking along with him anyway.

Besides, the fireworks show was about to start.

- - - *ﾟ‘ﾟ ☽ ☼ ☾ *.:｡ - - -

Obanai sat idly next to Mitsuri, the two of them being left alone by the other Pillars, an act that, Obanai assumed was another one of their stunts. He sighed, lost in his thoughts as Tengen’s words started to settle in. It wasn’t as if he had never played with the idea before: that Mitsuri at least deserved to know. But he was still conflicted, even if he did say it, who would want someone with a scarred mouth? Someone with a bloodline so wicked and cruel.

He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

His mind was made, and no one could change that.

"Iguro-san…”

Iguro turned his head around to the drowsy Mitsuri, her head starting to tilt forward as sleep was slowly sinking into her. He hummed lightly in reply, listening to her words carefully.

“You know, I’m really glad I got to spend the festival with you.” she smiled at him, much to his frustration as his cheeks fought off a blush. “I didn’t regret a single moment.” her smile grew wider.

“And that’s exactly how I want to live my life!” she suddenly pointed her finger upwards towards the sky in sudden triumph, her sudden burst of energy quickly subsiding, however, as her head started to tilt over again, but this time towards Obanai’s shoulder.

“I want to live my life with no regrets…” she yawned midsentence, still trying her best to not succumb to slumber. Her hands holding onto the flowers tightly.

Iguro however, pondered over her words, a sudden heat rushing towards his cheeks, feeling the adrenaline rush in.

He wanted to live his life with no regrets too.

And with the sudden adrenaline and correlation, his brain felt like it was taking a crash course. He adjusted slightly on the blanket, attention not leaving the girl beside him as his heart started ruling over his brain.

"Kanroji-san.“ he said.

Kanroji hummed slightly, her droopy eyes looking over at him. And for a moment, Iguro wondered what the hell he was doing, but he couldn’t stop now, he didn't want to.

"I want to spend all my meals with you."

Obanai wasn’t expecting the large smile to take over her features, nor was he expecting her to understand what he meant in the state she was currently in. Nevertheless, as he looked at her underneath the starlight, its ethereal glow highlighting her face in ways that knocked all the air out of his lungs, he couldn’t help but smile, his heart feeling lighter. He wanted to laugh at himself. He was so adamant about not confessing, but here he was, with her by his side.

He said he wouldn’t do it, but he did.

His mind was made, but only she could change that.

And as she finally let her head fall against his shoulder, Kaburamaru slithering from his neck to nestle on top of her head, and the fireworks finally dancing around in the sky above them in loud explosions and tremors, he couldn’t help but smile, his eyes glowing. The light from the fireworks only illuminated her serene features, painting it in all its colors, and at that moment, Obanai was at peace.

He couldn’t feel anything else, he didn't need anything else. As he sat on the blanket, he closed his eyes and sighed happily. He felt perfectly content.

Just the three of them, and the sound of fireworks.

✐

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