#chameleon charm cross over

[terrence-silver]

I want to know about terry trauma

Like we know about John kreese past and what he went through but no one talks about terry I just knows he probably has claustrophobia from a lot of tight space and probably just goes back into that boy in nam like you could see it on his face the shaking the putting himself in a corner but when he around people he hides it and acts confident

Also is it weird I feel like he is bipolar and I just know he probably overdosed when John left him in 85

The thing about Terry Silver's trauma?

He doesn't want people to know he has any.

When he's surrounded by a bunch of people who see, like in the case of his Season 5 showdown, he snaps and he snaps murderously. Thirty years earlier, Mr. Miyagi throws him into the dojo mirror and he snaps just as murderously. If he had a Katana on hand then, he would've swung it. He was seen for exactly who and what he is all while being bested and he snaps.

So, he makes up things. Hides it. Invents personalities. Lifestyles. Creates masks. Steals someone else's mannerisms and look and puts it over his own like a second skin that becomes his only skin. Fabricates interest in things he doesn't care about whatsoever to fly under the radar as mainly your ordinary run of the mill Billionaire. In one decade, he's the business tycoon sponsoring junior Karate championships so the kiddies can learn the same values of honesty, hard work and fair play he learned (cross his heart and hope to die) and in another decade, he's hosting tofu garden parties riddled with champagne liberals or bidding on bonsai trees for the sake of donating back to the community. Sure, the likes of Amanda Larusso might think him smarmy and slightly sleazy --- a bit too much, you know --- but at least she doesn't see the trauma. He's a walking, talking chameleon. What happened to him and all the ways he is irrevocably damaged being on full display is something he makes a contented effort to tuck away to the degree he'll become someone else, temporarily or permanently, only if it could mean he'll come off as unfettered, above it all, strong, invulnerable, infinitely sleek, charming, eccentric and in his words like he got over his issues and there's nothing wrong with him, all while everything being wrong with him, so it is pretty impossible for your average observer or even a licensed, skilled therapist to deduce or fix just what the heck is wrong with Terry Silver because it is just about not possible to ever fully know. He's like a smashed mirror. There's an infinite amount of pieces that shattered and an attempt to put that mirror back into the way it used to be is a lost cause. Nobody knows what its original shape was or what it used to look like. Possibly not even Terry himself. All that remains are the shards and the various ways he shapes and re-shapes them at will, depending of the circumstances or the environments and individuals he's dealing with. Whatever the case --- nobody will ever know he's weak and those who, or those he admits it to, will be swiftly dealt with.

[kaylinasher]

Chapter 1

“So I’m going to be a fashion accessory for your outfit, am I?”  Asher was leaned against the wall, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest.  The look on his face was none too pleased, something that his voice echoed as well.  “Do I get to be a bracelet or a necklace this time, Your Majesty.” Sarcasm dripped off of the last two words as thick as honey off the comb.

Kaylin blew out a breath between pursed red lips, making her cheeks puff out as she turned from the mirror to face him.  She hated fighting with him, HATED it, but she knew that was exactly what they were headed towards.  Her light brown hair was pulled back and up in an elaborate style, but a lock chose that moment to fall free across her forehead, requiring her to try and get it back in place as she walked over to him. “Ash, don’t be like that.  I need the Duke to think I’m vulnerable.  You going in your human form will hardly make me seem alone and possibly impressionable by his charms.” Her head tipped as she looked at him from across the room.  They had already discussed this before, many times, regarding previous meetings with other dignitaries from various realms.

“So you can make a deal? Or so you can seduce him?” There was a muscle in Asher’s jaw that wanted to tick so bad, and he was fighting clenching it.  Instead, he gave her a sarcastic grin that matched the spite that was starting to creep into his voice.  He hated being relegated to a fashion accessory or a trinket on a shelf during such meetings.

“The deal, Ash.” Kaylin’s lips pursed as she blew a breath out hard through her nose.  “You know better than to think I want anything else with him.  He’s older than my father.” Kaylin’s eyes rolled skyward and she blew out another breath..  No matter how young the Duke looked, there was something about him that Kaylin found off putting and had her senses on edge.  She used his age as an excuse because she really had nothing else other than her gut feeling, but her gut feelings were rarely wrong.  “You’ll be right there around my neck, getting an eagle eye view of everything.  It’s not like I’m wanting anything more than to set up an alliance and I need you there for security and in case there is anything I miss.”

“Then the flirting last time was all an act?”  He knew he was being irrationally jealous and pissy, but he didn’t care.  His hazel eyes stayed riveted on her as she crossed the room.  Not one motion she made escaped his astute perusal.

“Jealous?” She asked a bit smugly as she finally reached him and looked up into those eyes that could rarely lie to her.  Her blue ones searched his as they slowly changed from a taupey sage to a truer green, but he wasn’t revealing much today other than a color change.  Her eyes narrowed slightly and her tone took on a teasing lilt that she knew would get under his skin a little, “You know who will come home wrapped around my neck and laying on my chest, so why should you be?  Even if I do flirt with him?”  She caught the tick in his jaw, and it almost made her smirk.  She liked getting under his skin when he was tying to keep his mouth shut.  It normally resulted in the truth. 

His response was a growl, and a cock of his head to the side. “I’m not jewelry and I’m not a pet, Kaylin.” He leaned down closer to her face and watched as her light brown hair changed to be almost as dark as his.  She was a chameleon when she wanted to be, a way in which they were alike.  Another way was that they were stubborn and he was not happy with the current situation with the Duke of Arcanda. “I don’t appreciate being thought of as either of them.  I don’t need reminded of my station.”  Normally he kept his tone softer with her, but at the moment he wasn’t in a mood to play nice and his expression and tone were one that would normally have guards in the castle backing up.  He had little patience for button pushing that night. 

“I know, Ash,” she was done poking him, he was touchier about this situation than she’d anticipated.  They’d known each other long enough for her to know that she’d reached a point where things were about to go bad and quickly.   “You’re my best friend and my protector.  I need you there.  I just need to make this deal, so father will stop thinking I need to marry some royalty from another realm to make alliances.”  Her eyes pleaded with him to understand as she moved forward a half step and laid her hand on his cheek.  “Don’t make me go to him alone, please, Ash.” 

For a minute, his teeth ground and he had to bite back what words he wanted to spit out because he knew he didn’t mean them.  There were things he couldn’t and wouldn’t say, but that didn’t mean they weren’t going through his head..  Go and watch her flirt and charm a Duke that she couldn’t stand, there wasn’t much he could think of that he would rather do less than that.  Having her go alone was out of the question though.  Kaylin was gorgeous and more than once he had been forced to intervene when a paramour had gotten over amorous.  “FINE.” Asher finally ground out, his eyes shifting even more green as he stared hard at her.  He was not liking a single, solitary part of this and he wanted that clear. “But if you end up in his bed…” his word was cut off by her thumb on his lips, her hand having slid off of his cheek and more onto his jaw.

“I won’t.” Kaylin assured him.  She didn’t really know if he was jealous or if he had more of just an overprotective nature to him.  There were days she thought one way, then days she felt the other.  The older she had grown, the less she looked at him as just a friend, but she wouldn’t…no couldn’t…admit that.  Not when she wasn’t sure. She had found his egg when she was only six and they had spent their entire youth together.  Recently though, things had changed between them, or maybe she just wanted it to have.  “You are the only male who has ever, or will ever, share a bed with me, Asher.” Even if it was in the most platonic of ways with him curled up as a small dragon on her other pillow, at the moment.

So much said in one statement.  Asher had long ago figured out that Kaylin would one day marry royalty so any interest or attraction he had towards her was futile.  It did not stop his heart from yearning that she would return his affections, and there were times he could swear that he saw similar emotions swirling within her blue pools, but he was not foolish enough to act upon that.  If he was wrong, it would ruin their friendship and he would lose what he did have with her.  He would not risk that for anything.

[nicos-oc-hell]

(Warning; past child abuse skip over the history section)

IDENTITY

Full name: Ayas Perphyra

Nicknames: Titan, elf boy

Date of birth: July 4, 1876 (four years older than mc)

Gender: Cis-male

Sexuality: Bisexual

Blood status: half-blood (wizard father)

Ethnicity/Race: Half Elven and half orc

Nationality: Nytranthyrian

MAGIC & HOGWARTS

House: Ravenclaw

Wand: Sycamore wood, unicorn corn and 10 ¾ inches

Animagus: bloodhound nicknamed sniffer

Patronus: bear

Owl electives:

Care of Magical Creatures

Arthimancy

Ancient Runes

Newt Classes:

Ancient Runes

Herbology

Defense Against the Dark Arts

Charms

Care of Magical Creatures

Arithimancy

Quidditch: Keeper

Prefect: 4-7

Clubs: Herbology club

APPEARANCE AND VOICE

Faceclaim: kid (before puberty), Jacob Tremblay and teen-adulthood is Hugh Jackman

Height: 6’4

Weight: 195 lbs

Hair color: White

Hair style: Slicked back most of the time and the rare times when he doesn’t do his hair, it's a mop on top of his head

Eye color: Light green

Skin tone: Beige

Scars: a few scars on his legs and arms, most of the scars being on his chest

Modifications: he has a tattoo of crossed swords on his back and a chameleon tattoo wrapping around his right arm

Distinguishing marks: The chameleon tattoo because he wears mostly exclusive short sleeved shirts so it’s pretty noticeable

Clothing style:

Accessories:

What’s in their pockets?

Bracelets

Money

Wand

What’s in their school bag?

Snacks

Books

Voice claim: Hugh Jackman

Languages understood: Elvish, Dragon, Orc and English

Languages spoken: Elvish, Dragon, Orc and English

Speech and/or language disorder: none

RELATIONSHIP

S/O: Cassandra Salas

Children:

Jason Perphyra

Friends:

Haldir Eliphyra

Elyon Vamaer

Elisen Chaeyra

Logan Rosseto

Johnny Tazar

(feel free to fit me up if you want your ocs to be friends with him)

Doormates: TBD

HISTORY

When Ayas was a few months old, he was abandoned at the Knight Corps headquarters and grew up there for all of his life. The head captain in Nytranthyr, Captain Sparrow, did some basic run of the mill dna tests so he could see if Ayas had any birth defects. Sparrow found out that Ayas is half orc, as someone who doesn’t particularly like orcs Sparrow decided he would make Ayas his lab rat. When he was 5, that's when he was first used as a training dummy for some new recruits for the knight corps. When he was 6, that’s when Sparrow first started using him as a lab rat for his experimental potions and spells, most of which hospitalized him and left him immobile for a few weeks. His orc genes can only do so much to help the healing process.

FACTS

He is the mom friend of a bunch of severely undertrained creatures

Accelerated healing

Starts spending his holidays in the human realm or with Johnny in Grimehaven after his third year at Hogwarts

Stayed in the human realm after he finished hogwarts

Gives nicknames off of what happens the first time he meets someone (ex; Haldir’s nickname is sticky fingers because he likes to take stuff)

Knows the in and outs of the Knight Corps

Always has snacks on him

Prefers spicy food over salty food

Extrovert

Optimist

Overachiever

Made it his personal mission to see to the end of the Knight Corps until he just permanently left Eseria

[arc-en-disco]

👻 🎃 trick or treat! 💀 🕷️

OMG thank you :D

Well... since you passed my door... and my jack o lanterns tonight... I will post a snippet from my yet unfinished James Wan / Patrick Wilson silliness!

Here's a scene: Patrick, invited over, has stumbled upon James's stack of script ideas, notes, and - GASP - letters to his leading man he has collected over the years. James walks in the room with some tea. Patrick, intrigued by the few lines he has read, slips a few pages in his pocket. Later, James is frantically checking the stack of paper. He senses some of it is missing. Is it, really? And which parts? Hopefully not the worst parts?

His second concept was an action movie, plain and simple. He hadn’t had the time to work out the golden excuse that would seamlessly combine tight spandex suits + Patrick and the script hardly had a fleshed out story. There were a couple of keywords: trained spy, chameleon personality, high-level sabotage, phoenix-like revival after getting seriously hurt – and that was all. He had finished only a few of the scenes that would eventually be in the movie. In one of them, Patrick wooed a group of powerful corporate executives just by being his charming self. James had left a small uncredited part for himself as a desperate director looking for the executives’ millions to fund a movie. In another scene, Patrick stood naked in front of a mirror as to make the audience familiar with his scars and the extent of his injuries. Writing it had been a battle between James’s knowledge that scenes like this were cheap and his ravenous wish of shooting it one day.

He fervently went over the pages. His action script appeared to end at scene 8. There was almost nothing there. It said: rooftop escape / water element.

I could make it classy, he had written on the next page. But he had crossed that out and changed it to I could get away with it.

Bloody hell. This meant that the infamous nude scene- that was supposed to be in between these two pages- was missing. Feeling his mood sink like water down a drain he tried to recollect what he had seen Patrick do. He had perhaps taken a few pages. Where could he have hid them? The most logical spot was his pockets but James had not seen him put them there. Let alone which pages they were.

He checked again, flicking through the pages of his third concept; the romantic comedy. The mere thought of this project materializing one day gave him the chills. Chills of insecurity, of leaving his comfort zone further behind than ever- mixed with a vague confidence. He knew he could do it. Knowing that he could somehow made it worse; it wasn’t just a fancy and that meant that not only could he do it, he probably would.

It was a dumb story. He had tried to make it smarter than romantic comedies usually were and it was still dumb. A naïve teacher makes a house visit for a creepy child in his class whose grades have been dropping lately (not to mention her intensely scary behavior towards other pupils and her commentary about dead tissue and blood during biology class) only to meet the love of his life: the child’s single mother, who might be a witch, might have murdered the dad, and might be the kindest woman in the world. He wanted to go absolutely bonkers with the house. Think carnivorous plants, antique standing clocks ringing off key, dolls on the barbecue, dolls in the oven, dolls on the cutting board. It should never become clear if the ladies were actual witches, could actually use real magic. With every line he wrote down he thought: I have to make this more goth. At the same time he didn’t want to rip anything off. It shouldn’t be a Little shop of horrors remake, or a new version of The Addams Family. He wanted it to be small, intimate; just the family and the teacher, perhaps with a sub plot involving the suspect neighbors and the classmates. In the end, the teacher should join forces with the witch family he has grown to become so fond of, and take part in a spell to get rid of the dad, who returns in a plot twist. Did he mention that it was dumb?

He was forced to give up. He had checked everything, even ‘SATANIC CURSES SHORTLIST’, 'MORE CREEPY DOLLS PART 3' and 'MISSION: BATMAN' and they weren't anywhere. This could only mean one thing.

He needed to stop dragging them along. They were baggage and they were a risk and they were blackmail waiting to happen. He had money, he could afford a guarded safe, or an underground bunker storage somewhere. When I get back home, he told himself, silently rocking back and forth, sitting on the floor. The first thing I'm gonna do after I get back home is find a safe place for these.

Not yet willing to accept that one thing, James went over the scripts and concepts again. Not once, but twice. Wait. His fingertips touched a well-known stack of paper, tied together with a string, and he sighed the deepest sigh.

Okay, okay, a few pages of his older scripts were probably missing, but the letters- including the worst of them- were still present. From newest to oldest, the piece of string around it tied into a little ribbon, because he was a goddamn romantic and he couldn't help himself. He held them to his chest, realising in how big of a mess he could have been right now. Thank God. Thank God.

So why don't you get rid of them?

He had shaken his head when he saw the date on that letter. The thing was two years old. He shook his head at himself, at his silly way of dealing with things, his juvenile feelings. At the James of two years past and the James of that day. He hadn’t thrown the letters on his barbeque. It had felt like he was taking pity on his own folly, somehow.

"I know, I know," he muttered, putting the stack of letters back where they belonged, buried underneath his works-in-progress. Double-checking if it was really locked. It was true; the easiest and most permanent solution was to run his love letters through a shredder. He had been so close, once. Ready to shove the entire heap on the remains of a barbecue, one late summer night, after his friends had left. Drunk and tired, a familiar paranoia had overtaken him and he had gone inside to get his pathetic confessions. All fifty-six hand-written pages of them. Even this one? He had thought, his hand not quite willing to include the very first- and longest- of his letters. Yes, even that one, he encouraged himself. The job had to be done. It had to be done sooner rather than later- had to be done now in the exact same way it had to be done back then. The damage of his hesitation was still visible on some of the pages today. But standing in front of the fire, holding the fragile paper over the hissing coals he had read a few lines on the top page.

“You are an affliction. You make me want to pour fake blood all over you then wash it off-”

“I am the most privileged of all, because I get to stare at you, full-time, get paid for it, and people think nothing of it. The perfect disguise, better than a one-way mirror-”

“I had to write it down somewhere, because I can never tell you. You will never read this, either. It’s still a bit better than keeping it all inside. It felt like a growing disease gnawing its way out from the inside-”

It was stupid, he was aware that it was. He guessed he was simply too attached to his own words. Wasn’t that a pretty common disorder among authors? Pulp or not, you could call him an author, right? Whatever his diagnosis (terminal sentimentalism) he had held on to them. He’d take them out sometimes and give them another read. And throughout the years, the stack of letters had grown. He’d add to them every now and then. Particularly, when something had happened on set or after events that he needed to write down and relive. It had morphed into a very private kind of diary.

James put the last of his concepts on top of the others, carefully checking if it looked like any regular bunch of typed documents. The drawer passed the test, and he locked it.

[middleeastbrillmindz]

The Most Innovative Technologies Shaping the Future of Mobile App Development

Mobile app development is like fashion, ever-changing and full of surprises. If you're curious about the snazzy tech that's shaking up the mobile app development scene, I've got some intriguing developments to share.

5G Connectivity: Alright, folks, fasten your seatbelts because we're cruising into the future at warp speed with 5G. This technology is transforming mobile app development by providing lightning-fast internet connectivity. Imagine downloading an entire series in seconds, and you'll get the idea of the game-changing potential of 5G.

Augmented Reality (AR) and Virtual Reality (VR): AR and VR are like the cool shades in the tech world. These technologies are opening up new dimensions for mobile app developers. Think Pokemon GO – that's AR. Or pop on a VR headset for an immersive experience in a virtual world. App developers are diving headfirst into this captivating pool of possibilities.

Artificial Intelligence (AI) and Machine Learning (ML): AI and ML are the smart cookies that make mobile apps more intuitive and personalized. They can analyze your preferences, offer recommendations, and even chat with you like an old friend. Chatbots, anyone?

Blockchain Technology: Ever heard of cryptocurrencies like Bitcoin? Well, the blockchain tech behind it is making waves in mobile app development too. It's adding an extra layer of security and transparency to apps, especially in the finance and healthcare sectors.

Internet of Things (IoT): The IoT is the glue connecting your smart fridge, your wearable fitness tracker, and your mobile app. Developers are busy making apps that help you control your IoT devices with ease. Wanna switch off the lights from your phone? No problem!

Progressive Web Apps (PWAs): PWAs are the chameleons of mobile app development. They combine the best of both web and app worlds, offering a seamless and fast experience. They're like the Swiss Army knife of apps.

Cross-Platform Development Tools: Developers don't want to play favorites when it comes to mobile platforms. Tools like Flutter and React Native allow them to create apps that work like a charm on both Android and iOS.

Biometric Security: Goodbye, passwords! Biometric security features like fingerprint and facial recognition are taking over to keep your data safe.

Low-Code and No-Code Development: Now, even if you're not a coding whiz, you can build your app with low-code and no-code platforms. It's like the easy-bake oven of app development.

How brillmindz can help

BrillMindz, as a leading mobile app development company in Saudi, is at the forefront of leveraging these emerging technologies. Our expert team utilizes 5G, AR/VR, AI, blockchain, and IoT to create cutting-edge mobile apps. We specialize in crafting Progressive Web Apps (PWAs), ensuring seamless experiences. With our expertise in cross-platform development tools, we save time and resources. We prioritize biometric security, making apps more secure. Plus, we offer low-code and no-code solutions, making app development accessible to all. When you partner with BrillMindz, you're embracing the future of mobile app development with a team that's already there. Email us at info@brillmindz.com

[firewvlk]

Look who just woke up- is that JODIE COMER? No, I must have been mistaken, that’s ANASTASIA “ANA” VOLKOV from MARVEL (BLACK WIDOW OC). I heard they are 29 and stuck here just like everyone else. Even in the 20’s, she still gives off a HIGHLY SKILLED ASSASSIN, A WIDE RANGE OF FAKE ACCENTS MASKING A HEAVY RUSSIAN ONE, A FRACTURED SENSE OF SELF AND WORTH, A PAST SHE’D LIKE TO FORGET, AND A DESIRE TO BELONG SOMEWHERE impression. But here, they are working as a HIT(WO)MAN. They’re known to be quite CUNNING & CHARMING, but have a tendency to be MANIPULATIVE & INDIFFERENT on their bad days.

gender/pronouns:

cisfemale & she/her

how long have they been in sydney:

real time: 2 years

fake time: a little over a decade

which suburb do they live in:

she lives in king’s cross

personality description:

due to her life as a spy and assassin, ana has a chameleon like personality, whatever a situation calls for, she adapts to. she can be cold and ruthless yet playful and polite. she can be anything you want her to be. despite no longer being under mind control, she continues to hide behind an almost emotionless persona and other masks, rather than face her actual emotions. she doesn’t trust easily and really doesn’t care for anyone outside herself and her fellow widows, though you’ll never hear her admit it. she’s also extremely competitive and wants to be the best at everything she does.

memories of their real life:

born & raised in moscow to a ukrainian immigrant & a russian ex-soldier

taught to fight & use weapons (guns, knives, etc.) very young by her father

lost her father when she was 8 or so, he got tangled up with a gang, and they killed him, leaving her, her mother, and little brother to fend for themselves

not really having the resources to take care of them (and cos ana was a problem child) she was left at an orphanage, and then handed over to the red room shortly after

she was put into the black widow program and that was her life for roughly the next two decades

until yelena “freed” her and other widows from their mind control

she goes back and forth between being grateful and pissed about that. she likes having her freedom, but she doesn’t like having to remember her past and actually think and feel now

looked up her family once she had her mind back, but discovered her mom just had a whole new fam & zero regrets about damning her to the life she had

bitter™

still kills for hire ‘cos what other skills does she have ??

i’ll prob add more when my head isn’t pounding

what was their fake life like:

tba after plotting

[chameleoncharm]

All caught up on the Owl House recently and... well, why not? It's been a while since I've done a Chameleon Charm crossover. Bumped the colors a bit, but not sure if it was necessary or not. Whatever, still a fun little side exercise ^^ Ferdinand would probably be a wild witch with a preference for fire and abomination magic, and Veronica uhm... I'm not sure., lol.

[alexia-redacted]

I really didn't see you had re-blogged this 😔

"I'll always come back to you"

thanks, M! you'll be happy to know it really is fluff :D

First sentence game

I'll Always Come Back to You

“I’ll always come back to you,” Natasha speaks but you feel like she is too far away for you to feel her words. You bow your head, cheeks wet from your lingering doubts. 

You don’t look up until the spy has crossed the room and her warm breath washes over your face. “I’ll always come back to you,” she repeats it right against your skin, making you smile through your tears.

“I don’t understand why,” you whisper. You watch as your girlfriend’s brow furrow and you feel the need to explain yourself again, “you could blend in anywhere. Have anyone. You’re a chameleon with marks in the likes of billionaires and top-models.”

“You’re more attractive and charming than they will ever be,”

You hum, dropping your forehead against her collarbone. Nat’s hands rub soothing lines along your spine. She feels how tense you still are. “I’m right here with you. I am. Not whoever I pretend to be when I’m working. I’ll always choose you because with you I can just be myself.”

Her arms bring you closer and when her lips find the crown of your hair, you can feel her soft smile and you know that Natasha Romanoff is yours to love.

[fatefulfaerie]

Once Upon A Time

Long one shot under the cut. Every once in a while I obsess over Gelato (Roman x Neo) so...yeah...

Spoilers for RWBY: Roman Holiday (read it if you haven’t it’s so good!!)

He didn’t know how to treat it like anything but a heist.

Roman had definitely kissed a girl before, Bleu Berry at the orphanage when he was twelve, Crimsen Blank when he was fifteen, Verd Webster when he was seventeen, and then of course the off and on thing with Chameleon while he worked for Lil’ Miss.

But something about kissing Neo was special, something not to be messed up or done lightly like every other young woman he had kissed. He had to do it right.

It had seemed like a lifetime ago since Roman had planned a heist without Neo, and he found himself at a loss because of it. She really was the brains of their partnership...and the brawn…

Why was he even here?

Neo gave him a distinct look. She snapped her fingers in front of his face.

“Sorry.”

He was staring again, at her instead of the television. His cover story was that he stared into space when he was really tired.

Lie.

It was really him taking glances from under her nose, like pickpocketing a stranger’s wallet.

Steal.

Cheat.

Survive

Love.

When did that get in there?

Normally when they sat down together to watch the large, holographic screen that emitted from Neo’s facedown scroll -- Roman still hadn’t gotten his hands on a new scroll. He was perfectly able to steal one of course, especially since the Vale City Mall had the most pathetic security. He just kept straight up forgetting -- they were watching themselves on TV, laughing about the coverage of their recent ridiculous robbery and eating spicy hot wings from the Cuckoo Crazy Chicken Shack.

This was the first time that Roman was thinking about someone else while watching his own name flash across the screen.

He was catching feelings for her, and there was no doubt about it. He had been catching feelings ever since she saved his life in the alley where she first showed off her semblance, and then more and more as they spent time together.

Roman pinpointed the moment she showed him the fabulous outfit she had made for him as that oh moment that you read about in romance novels.

Not that he read. He accidentally stole a book once. Once. Neo was the reader. He could hardly summon the patience. When Neo gave him a book to read, he skipped to the end. Roman didn’t see the point in all the rest.

But for some reason with this conundrum, this real-life conundrum, he couldn’t bring himself to skip to the end, to just kiss her like it meant just as much as any other kiss.

He tried to plan it like a heist, watching Neo, memorizing her routine, figuring the best moment of the day to perform the act, but it didn’t work. Neo was too unpredictable. She wasn’t like a bank or a warehouse that had their security guards on the same schedule every day. Her chaos was part of her charm, always doing the unexpected, but Roman was absolutely lost as to when he should make his move, if at all. They had a good thing going here, after all, and for all he knew he could kiss her one second and be knocked out cold the next.

Roman felt a slap on his shoulder and he looked over.

What the hell?

Neo was mute yet Roman could hear her say it. She must have been doing airplane arms before she slapped him.

She pointed at him and then her right ear, her forehead creased with inquisition.

“No, I am not going deaf,” Roman said.

She must have been clapping and snapping to get his attention.

“I’m just thinking,” he explained, the words spilling out just as he realized he might have to come up with an answer for what he was thinking.

But Neo nodded in understanding. What a wonderful human being. She mimed sleep, resting her head on hands that touched palms.

“Yeah,” Roman agreed. “Sleep. Good idea.”

Since his fancy condo was ambushed by Lil’ Miss, the two partners in crime had settled in an abandoned building that had gone from being a restaurant to a convenience store to a nail salon in the span of three months, before being abandoned for a year now. This street was a terrible place for an above-board business and even the Vale Government had let it rot, too small and inconsequential to be made into a factory or a warehouse of any sort.

Neo and Roman found it a week after the skirmish at the Vanille mansion. It was dilapidated and falling apart but it was only as broken as each of them were before they found each other. They quickly saw it as home.

So Roman stood up in order to head towards his bedroll in the corner. Neo watched him with a suspicious eye.

“Now that we’ve done as much damage as we could with the information from Mr. Vanille’s computer…”

Neo had already noticed that Roman never referred to the late Jimmy Vanille as her dad. Biologically he was her dad but he never treated her like a daughter.

“We may as well start on this dust business,” he continued. “Dust Till Dawn seems like the easiest target to me but I’d rather start bigger, something more fun.”

He turned around in case Neo had anything to add but she only stood up and paced towards him, using her semblance to change into Roman Torchwick himself. Roman looked at the mirrored version of himself as Neo made fun of the way he had been acting, staring with a blank expression, losing his train of thought. She then changed back into herself and shrugged her shoulders with her hands up as if to ask him why.

“I…I don’t know.”

He stammered. He rarely stammered.

She crossed her hands over her heart, then offered her hands to him. He knew what that meant.

Can I help?

She was always so thoughtful.

“It, umm…”

He had to be confident about this, he absolutely had to. He was Roman Torchwick, after all, the fabulous, the famous. He was fearless. He was clever and could get any girl he wanted, even the best of the best that stood in front of him. He could do this.

“Roman Torchwick this is the VPD,” a voice bellowed. Roman closed and opened his eyes.

“Why is it never you?” He asked Neo quietly, who was smirking. She stuck out her tongue.

“Come out with your hands up,” the loud voice continued. “We’ve got you surrounded.”

Neo turned back into Roman.

“Meet you at Forever Fall?” He asked.

Neo nodded and ran off to get caught by the police. Roman pocketed Neo’s scroll and grabbed Melodic Cudger and Hush, the two hooks of which clinked in his grasp.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Torchwick,” he heard as he was halfway out the window in the back. Roman froze and listened. He dared to let his vanity doom him. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t do you justice.”

Roman turned his head.

What was that supposed to mean?

He could see the scene barely, through a gap in one of the distant boarded windows. Neo, in his image of course, stood with her hands in surrender.

“A volatile jokester,” the policeman continued, circling around Neo. “Always has something to remark. Doesn’t seem to want to shut up.” He stopped his spherical pacing and turned on his heel. “Do you know where I got these phrases?”

Neo shook her head.

“Vale Police Department records,” he said. “It’s how they describe you, and it’s how I know you aren’t really in front of me right now, are you Torchwick?”

He felt the panic in his heart, he tried to slip out the window but his forehead met a gun as it cocked with a click.

Their strategy had worked twice already, a disguised Neo getting arrested as Roman fled to a rendezvous location. Neo would use her semblance to escape captivity easily and they would have cheated the system. But it seems the police caught on.

Roman was almost impressed as he bumped shoulders with Neo in the back of the cop car, their weapons confiscated and Neo’s scroll slammed in half by the heel of one of the officers. Their hands were literally tied and Roman might have found a way to fight his way out of this but hey, he had never seen the interior of the Vale Police Department before. He figured it was time for a grand tour of the rathole’s rat hole.

“What’s that?” were the next words out of his mouth twenty minutes later. The VPD building was disappointing. Roman regretted wanting a look inside within a couple steps.

“Semblance inhibitor,” the officer replied, latching a second pair of handcuffs onto Neo’s wrists and only Neo’s wrists. “New tech from Atlas. It drains aura.”

Neo looked at Roman with a flash of panic in her eyes. She was always so confident in her chaos that it was a rare sight to see her scared.

“It’s okay,” he managed softly.

“We’re submitting her for questioning,” the officer continued, nearly interrupted as if Roman hadn’t said anything. “And we’re sending you back to Mistral. Lil’ Miss will be elated to learn that you are alive.”

They began to pull them away along two different hallways.

“No,” Roman said, struggling. “No!”

He lurched for Neo with all his might and caught her lips. That one moment of vulnerability where she tried to keep him with her cost him his better sense as he was very nearly yanked away, only seeing Neo’s face in shock.

“She’s mute, you idiots!” Neo heard Roman exclaim. “She couldn’t answer even if she wanted to. You lay a hand on her and so help me gods I’ll--”

A door slammed shut. Neo didn’t get to hear that last bit.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trivia Vanille a.k.a. “Neopolitan”

Height: 4’10”

Age: 19

Prisoner ID Number: 827338

It was the first time in several years that she genuinely smiled in a picture, and it was a mugshot. Although she could see in her file the name that was dead to her, they referred to her verbally only as Neopolitan. The respect made Neo over the moon with happiness, made her almost forget her concern to get out of this without her semblance. The lock on her normal handcuffs were simple enough to pick once she was left alone but the one that shone blue and drained her energy even now would take a bit more creativity.

Roman Torchwick

Height: 5’11”

Age: 27

Prisoner ID Number: 827299

How many times did he have to tell them? He was six foot three. Six. Feet. Three. Inches. They never listened to him and it bothered him that it was on his permanent record that he didn’t measure up to at least six feet. For goodness sake, he was a celebrity. Any dunce on the street knows that he has orange hair, a white jacket, a grey scarf tied around his neck, and dashing emerald eyes. Everyone knows that he gave himself the birthday of October 31st (the mother who abandoned him at the orphanage didn’t care to specify the day that he had an excuse to steal cake) and that he was six foot three. It was on his mugshot and everything. He pleaded until he had two hands on the bars of his temporary holding cell. He was on his knees.

“Lights out.”

He sighed.

“Fine.”

He heard a foot stomp behind him. His cellmate was standing against the barred window that let in only streaks of moonlight, only fractions of nightlife and remnants of an already crumbled world.

He was a quite heavyset man and Roman’s heart skipped a beat. Roman was good in a fight but he wasn’t sure about these odds as he slowly stood up. This guy looked to have the strength of ten men and his arms were crossed.

Descending pink triangles dispelled the illusion and Roman choked a sigh of relief when the burly man turned into the small silhouette of Neo herself. Her hip cocked to the side and Roman knew, although he couldn’t see it, that she was smirking.

Roman rushed forth and hugged her, embraced her desperately like he never had before. He must have really thought they weren’t getting out of this one together.

“How?” he asked when they separated, his eyes searching her moonlit face.

Neo mimed picking a lock but then shook her head. She then mimed smashing her heel into an invisible pair of handcuffs between her two wrists and gave Roman a thumbs up.

“Good to know Atlas technology goes so fancy on design that brute force is the solution to breaking it. Would you like to pick the cell lock or shall I?”

Neo nodded and skipped to do just that, as if that were the easy part. Neo plucked pins from her mess of brown and pink hair and got to work kneeling before the lock and snaking her arms around the other side of the bars. Roman leaned on the bedpost and ignored his actual cellmate, the actual burly, wideset man who was knocked out on the bottom bunk and had a gnarly bruise the resembled Neo’s heeled boots across his face.

“About earlier, I…” Roman hesitated. “I guess I just wanted to apologize if I took you by surprise. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do, don’t get me wrong, I just…”

After several clicks, the door swung open and Neo turned around to face Roman, approaching him. Roman wondered if she had even heard him until she grasped his tied gray scarf and pulled him into her lips. It was all the answer Roman needed as they explored each other’s mouths, Neo slowly backing up and Roman chasing her, walking forward. When she let loose his lips they were out of the cell. She smiled. Roman was absolutely smitten.

She turned into a security guard, one they had seen earlier and she took his hand, Roman giggling under his breath as they fled from the Vale Police Department and into the wild night they had claimed as their own.

The memory became foggy, as it always did. It turned into a million other nights of chaos with him, all melding into a single lifetime that was now deceased. Trivia Vanille once died in the burning rubble of the Vanille Estate and left Neopolitan in her stead, but the moment Neo saw a blinding “X” over Roman’s aura gage a different Neopolitan had emerged. This one wasn’t languishing in her new sense of identity, wasn’t happy beyond belief in her friendship with this Torchwick guy. No, this Neopolitan was in pain, deep soulful, cutthroat, bleeding pain. When she threw a parasol and made her dad bleed she felt nothing. When her parents died because of the dust her dad harbored, she felt free. But when Roman died, she felt grief for the very first time, felt loss and lost in this world that didn’t understand her, would never understand her like he did.

Neo blinked her eyes open.

She liked when her dreams dipped into her memories up until the point where she woke up, where reality reminded her what was past and what was present.

It smelled like blood here. Neo had started to wonder if this is what it was like to be in the womb, gestating, trapped, waiting to be reborn in Salem’s image. The thought made Neo gag. This was the last place she wanted to be, seen as a mere chess piece in Salem’s game. She grew up as a chess piece that had been discarded, then used, then discarded again, like a dirty towel her parents kept forgetting about. What once liberated her was her newfound knowledge that her decisions could be her own but now she was CInder’s helper? beneficiary?

She would have to stomach it until Cinder upheld her end of the deal and got her to Ruby Rose.

Neo pushed against the bed she was assigned and sat up, although she would use the term bed extremely loosely. It was a hunk of red rock and the small room looked like the maw of a Grimm more than anything else. Neo would quantify it to a torture chamber if there wasn’t a small young man literally being tortured a few rooms over. She at least had it better off than him, but that didn’t say much.

Neo steadied her breath and closed her eyes. She thought of him, not the boy who screamed in anguish down the hallway but him. Roman. She thought of his brown, leather slip-on shoes and how much he hated the hassle of tying laces. She thought of his dark grey pants and how they collected around his ankles. She thought of his white coat and remembered tailoring it to his size, remembered thinking of the moment she would surprise him with it. She remembered his gloves and how it felt to be held by those hands. She remember his grey scarf and tried not to think about how it was on her neck instead of his. She tried to think of his piercing green eyes and his pumpkin orange hair, his bowler hat that had a red ribbon and a grey feather. She tried to remember his voice.

She opened her eyes and stood up slowly, pacing towards the illusion she had created, feeling tears sting in her eyes, feeling her heart beat with relief she tried to subdue.

“Neo,” he said softly.

She bawled, tears streaming down her face. She took the hat off her head and put it on her doll. She cupped his face with her hands and found herself missing having to go on her tippy toes like this.

Neo thought she could hold the illusion long enough to at least hug him, to at least derive some comfort from her memories and what her semblance was able to do with them. Yet, the illusion just as soon shattered, crumbling into shards of glass. Neo’s gasp was shaky as she looked down into her palms. Her breaths matched no rhythm and her soul bled as if she had lost him all over again. She looked up.

Cinder.

Her lip quivered. Neo couldn’t help it. Her brow furrowed in anger despite her sadness. The pink and the brown were like flames. And yet Cinder couldn’t even see her hate. No one could see anything of her.

“Salem wants everyone on the bridge,” Cinder said. “Welcome to reality.”

She walked off without a care and Neo fell to her knees, gathering the glass shards. She seethed with anger as she held them delicately in her hands. Her panting increased as balled her hands into fists, not caring in the slightest the sharp pain in her palms or the blood staining her white gloves.

She made a silent promise to Roman then, not to live for herself like she once did but to survive long enough to give Ruby Rose everything she deserved.

[bigskydreaming]

Doing some writing today off and on between errands and work, and jumping around various Kings of the Sky installments, specifically Dick, Jason and Cass stuff, so probably gonna post snippets from a bunch of them as I go. 

(Kings of the Sky is an AU that goes canon divergent from the point of Jason calling Dick for advice for dealing with Bruce after the Garzonas case and where things end up going dramatically different from that point on. Including Jason not dying, being part of his own lineup of Titans between Dick and Tim’s, Dick being adopted not long after the Church of Blood incident, Cass being the third Wayne kid to be taken in and adopted and with Tim and Duke being next and then Damian coming along later once they find out about him. This is basically my ‘the family’s alright’ AU with largely ‘Good Dad Bruce’ except for Dick and then Jason yelling some sense into him about the other, respectively, in the first two installments, just FYI).

Anyway, this bit is from a story called “In Their Shadows Grow Trees Of Good and Evil,” set about a year after Cass has been adopted, when she and Jason are both sixteen and Dick’s twenty-one. Also just FYI, because canon has never been specific about what ways Cass is neurodivergent due to the comic-book style ‘rewiring’ of her brain so that she could learn to speak later in life, I tend to go with her being dyslexic and having aphasia. She sticks exclusively to sign language and being a silent presence in her costumed personas, so that there’s no chance of people connecting the dots between Black Bat and Cassandra Wayne, as she mostly speaks verbally in her civilian persona and doesn’t hide her aphasia. The reason there’s not likely to be any obvious signs of aphasia in the snippets of her I post is because I wait until I complete something to choose words at random to replace with aphasia-born mixups, so its more realistic and I’m not gearing her dialogue towards deliberately placed moments. Just in case you were wondering.

In Their Shadows Grow Trees of Good and Evil

“Hey Todd,” sneered an exquisitely obnoxious voice. “Why’s your sister so fucking weird?”

Jason sighed the sigh of a soul a mere century into its eternity of damnation as he rose from the lunch table he’d been studying at and crammed the rest of his books into his backpack. Then he pasted a cheerfully bland smile on his face and turned around, geared for academia warfare (teenage prep school edition).

“Hey Craig,” he said brightly. “Why’d you come out of the womb so ugly your parents had to tie a piece of steak around your neck just to get the family dog to go near you? Mysteries abound.”

The advancing junior slowed a step, momentarily rocked by his truly impressive return volley. The grimace Craig’s already gargoyle-esque features twisted into made his face even more unpleasant to look at than usual, which was quite the feat. Jason would have applauded if just looking at it hadn’t already turned him to stone.

But the bargain basement basilisk kept on towards him rather than turn tail and skulk off to pop his emotional blisters, so Jason sighed a sequel to his first one. Looked like it was one of those days where Craig felt up to powering through. Guess someone had eaten their self-esteem Wheaties that morning. Joy.

“You think you’re pretty hot shit, don’t you, Todd?”

Jason shrugged. “I mean, to be honest I kinda have a one track mind, so right now I’m mostly just thinking about punching you in your mistake.”

“My what?”

“Your face,” Jason elaborated with exaggerated patience.

“Huh?”

“Oh my god, I’m saying your face is a mistake. See, its not as fun when I have to stop and explain it to you. Ugh, you ruin everything.”

He neatly sidestepped the older boy as R2-Dumbass stayed frozen, smoke coming off of his internal CPU while trying to catch up. For a second Jason thought he was home free, but then he remembered the universe fucking hated him so haha, sucks to suck. Also, a small crowd had gathered to witness the verbal jousting match, and nothing invigorated an asshole like Craig more than an audience of like-minded peers. So there was that too.

“Whatever. Laugh it up all you want, you little shit,” the junior rallied. “But just remember, mocking your betters will never change the fact that you were born street trash and you’ll be street trash until the day you die.”

Honestly? Not his best effort. Jason almost felt bad using any of his good material. Seemed like overkill at this point. But he did have a strict Scorched Earth policy to maintain, so.....

“Yeah but my dad could buy out and ruin your dad so that means I still win, right?”

He smirked as the barb landed and Craig’s face set into a sunset vista of strangled purple and furious red. Bam. Direct hit.

“Listen, you - “

“Oh for fuck’s sake, it was rhetorical,” Jason interrupted. “I don’t actually care what you think even a little bit. Nobody does. You don’t matter. Please go be irrelevant elsewhere, you’re fucking dismissed, you loser.”

“Speak for yourself, charity case.” Oh goodie, Craig’s backup singers had finally arrived. Now if only he could remember to care enough to learn their names in the first place. Seriously, who told the extras they could have lines? “All the jokes in the world can’t change who and what you are.”

Jason shrugged and continued nonchalantly up the hill to where his sister was standing with arms crossed, staring down at something on the other side.

“True genius is never appreciated in its own time,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll be immortalized in song eventually.”

The mob of morons deigned to let him go without further incident. Though he suspected that had less to do with his scathing wit and more to do with him being headed towards Cass. She was immaculately presented as always, wearing the Gotham Academy uniform like she was born to it despite hating its uncomfortable stiffness every bit as much as he did. But that was just Cass for you. 

For all that she still struggled at times to engage verbally or speak up in social settings, her mastery of body language remained without peer. She could chameleon-camouflage her way into matching poise and posture with anyone - a skill that had allowed her to walk into school on her very first day with her head held high as though she owned everything in her sight. Exuding so much Queen Bee Intimidation Factor even the other hive queens were afraid to approach her  themselves. Sending forth their drones to try and woo her into an alliance, only to see her remain oh-so-casually above it all, a slightly contemptuous smile adorning her lips.

Basically, she scared the shit out of their classmates without them having anywhere close to a true understanding of why, and Jason was outrageously jealous. Rude. Unfair. Why did his siblings always get all the cool toys when all he had was his rakish charm, scintillating intellect and debonair.....nah, who was he kidding. He was fucking awesome. 

“Sup, sis,” he said, cresting the hill to stand beside Cass. “Just FYI, I just took a popularity bullet for you, which means you owe me your dessert tonight. Its a family rule that’s totally a real thing and definitely not something I just made up right now because Alf is making chocolate soufflé.”

She made no acknowledgment and remained stock still, a Colossus at Rhodes peering down into the shifting shadows of the parking lot below.

He peered down as well, though with absolutely no idea what they were looking at. Solidarity, yo.

“So are we staring fixedly at anything in particular, or should I just pick my own spot and commit?”

His humor was totally wasted on her as always. Instead of laughing and telling him what a lovable goof he was, she just inclined her head in the direction of a blonde girl where she was standing next to the driver’s side door of a Mercedes-Benz, dictating final commandments to her peons before departing. Well, probably. Jason was just guessing, based on his own body language reads, and like, general disdain for literally everyone at this school that wasn’t related to him.

He made a face. An extra special one reserved just for this classmate in particular. “Ugh, Madison Dunleavy? She’s the worst.”

Cass raised a cool eyebrow. “I thought Craig Hendricks was the worst.”

“He is. They’re both the worst. Its a hotly contested position here at Gotham Academy.”

She rolled her eyes and nodded back down at the Queen of Air and Darkness. “So. You know her?”

“Nope,” Jason said. “Come to think of it, I’ve actually never seen her in my life. No idea who that is. Can’t help you, sorry. Shall we go home?”

The Eyebrow of Inquisition speared him with clear intent. Who the fuck needed words when you could pack the Encyclopedia Britannica into a single facial expression?

Jason sighed gustily. 

“I had a slight altercation with her freshman year that led to her declaring her undying enmity for me until the end of time. The word nemesis may or may not have been thrown around once or twice. I can’t recall.”

The Eyebrow of Inquisition lowered nary an inch. Ugh, she wanted more? Why did everyone in his family hate privacy, with the obvious exclusion of himself when snooping through Cass and Dick’s rooms for blackmail material, which was actually intel-gathering and thus another matter entirely.

“Okay so basically what happened was my first week here I overheard her talking shit about me and not even twenty minutes later she was pretending to kiss my ass in homeroom, like probably because of Bruce, y’know? So I just busted out laughing and told her to fuck off and die and she has inexplicably loathed me ever since.”

Avoiding further Eyebrow Inquisition-ing, he made a show of peering around aimlessly. When the silence extended and it was clear Cass was absolutely not going to break first, Jason waved a hand in dismissal and took to peering oh so casually at his fingernails. "I suppose I was less tactful back in those days.”

He chanced a look up, finally, and saw his sister’s eyebrow had somehow managed to mighty morphin power ranger its way into a configuration evoking both judgment and disbelief, with the latter perhaps aimed at the idea he was significantly differing in the tact department these days either.

“I don’t love the implications your face is making right now,” he told her.

She ignored him, because of course she did. 

“Does she know Dick?” She asked instead. Jason shrugged.

“I mean, maybe? She’s probably seen him around at one of those stupid galas we have to go to, and actually I think maybe she has an older brother who was either in Dick’s grade or like, one above or below it? I don’t know.”

Now both eyebrows were doing the dance of disbelief. Okay, so maybe that was poor situational awareness on his part, since it wasn’t like Gotham Academy was a big school with a ton of other kids and also he’d only been in the same class as Madison for like over two whole years, but whatever. There were extingent circumstances.

“Look, she’s a total snob who’s always looked down on me and in return I willfully ignore both her existence and that of everyone and everything even tangentially related to her. Its called equality, Cass.”

She pursed her lips and went back to the peering, because of course in the mind of Cass it made total sense that the Grand Inquisition didn’t need to be followed up by any explanation on her part, what the hell. Like was he supposed to have inferred it?

“What’s this all about anyway?”

“I heard her talking about Dick earlier,” she said without peeling her eyes away from her personal recon mission. “I don’t know what she said though, I just heard her say Grayson, and then I was busy looking at what her body was saying. I know it was about Dick because she shut down when she saw me. And I didn’t like the way she....looked....before that happened. The way she was talking. It was.....”

Jason frowned but held back any follow-up questions while he waited - with total patience because he wasn’t an absolute cad, thank you very much - for his sister to find the word she was hunting for. It was a major source of frustration for her, that whatever neural map her brain followed put body language and spoken language in totally different regions of her brain, separated by a fairly great divide. Meaning she usually had to make a conscious choice to focus on body language or conventional languages - whether verbal or sign. But it tended to be one or the other; she’d yet to master taking in and comprehending both forms of ‘language’ at the same time. And none of them had quite figured out how to convince her that she wasn’t actually missing anything when she chose to focus on one specific form of communication - that she was still observing far more than most people ever would.

“Proprietary,” Cass settled on at last. She nodded her satisfaction with her choice of word, and Jason waited a whole two point five seconds before sticking  his whole foot in his mouth.

“Proprietary?” He asked with a scrunched nose as he weighed that for possible context and implications. “You sure?”

She glared. He winced. It was a whole thing.

“Yeah, I know, sorry, sorry, I heard it the second it was out of my mouth. We don’t actually have to experiment with the legitimacy of if looks could kill.”

Cass rolled her eyes, but eh. That could’ve gone worse.

Jason swiftly redirected attention anyway. Discretion is the better part of valor, after all.

“So. The Queen of Air and Darkness was talking about our big bro, and her mood was.....proprietary, huh?” He recapped while digesting the info like a boss. “Well. Definitely not loving that, I gotta say. Hold please.”

Pulling out his phone and pulling up his most recent texts, he began typing furiously.

“What are you doing?” Cass asked.

“Texting Tom,” he replied, because duh. Hah, now it was his chance to have the answers that should be patently obvious and thus make with the ‘are you kidding me’ when she asked obvious questions she should know the answer to! How do you like them apples, sis?

“Why are you texting your boyfriend right now?”

Jason rolled his eyes, because fair is fair, but never ceased texting for a moment. Time was of the essence here, probably. Well, maybe. Okay probably not. But it’d still been like half an hour since he and Tom had last texted and that’s a very fucking long time in teenage years.

“To be our getaway driver tonight, obviously.”

She stared at him. He didn’t look up, but he could feel it anyway. He was very intuitive like that.

“What?”

Jason heaved another sigh, one keyed to tones of ‘oh my god, do I really have to spell this out,” exasperation. He was just racking up the bonus points here. It was really too bad this wasn’t an actual competition he could actually win and this was all just pettiness taking place wholly in his own head. Lame. 

“Well, clearly we now have to go snoop in Madison’s house aka lair to see if its actually a house or a full on lair. Because she’s either a creeper or like, legit evil, and its important to know which one before we proceed, because obviously we can only bust her for being a weird creeper about our brother as Jason and Cass, whereas if she’s legit evil, that’s gotta go down as Robin and Black Bat. I’ll handle the snooping, you’ll take look-out, but we still need a wheelman and that’s why I’m texting Tom. This is all very mission-oriented, okay. I’m a professional.”

“Right,” she affirmed, while sounding anything but convinced. “Why don’t we just tell Bruce?”

Without looking up or breaking stride, he said: “I’m going to give you til I finish typing this sentence to figure out what was wrong with what you just said. Remember that we are talking about hypothetical danger to our brother, and also Bruce’s idea of a proportionate response to any of his children being in even hypothetical danger. And also our brother’s idea of a proportionate response to Bruce’s idea of a proportionate response. Look, you’re still new so I’m gonna need you to just trust me on this one. Its gonna be a no on telling Bruce without further intel.”

Cass said nothing in response to that, which meant that she was conceding the point and recognized the wisdom of his words. Or maybe that she was just gonna go ahead and do what she wanted anyway and just wasn’t bothering to fight about it, but it was probably that first thing.

“Well you better not just make out with your boyfriend all night,” is what she said at last, and that got his attention reeeeeal quick like.

“Umm. Wow. Okay. So, first off, you’re not the boss of me and who I make out with and when, so jot that down. And second, now I’m definitely going to make out with my boyfriend extra hard, with the exception of when we are actually on our recon mission because as previously established, I am a professional. And also, again, you’re not the boss of me.”

Jason ignored her Eye Roll With Extra Emphasis, and instead just held up his phone to Text With Extra Emphasis, as he read along with what he was typing.

“By the way babe, we have to make out extra hard tonight,” he said, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth while he dragged out his dictation with the kind of focus that usually led to Bruce asking why he couldn’t apply as much intensity to training as he did to pettiness. “Cass has suddenly decided she can dictate terms to me and I need to shut that shit down ASAP, so thank you in advance for your assistance in this matter. Smoochies and other gay stuff to the best boyfriend ever.”

Jason frowned as a response pinged back seconds later. 

TheCatsMeow: ....the things I put up with for the sake of your weird family dynamics.

TheOnlyRobinThatRocks: Yeah, yeah. You’re a saint among were-panthers. Must you mock? Why can’t you just tell me I’m pretty instead?

TheCatsMeow: Sorry. Let me try again. OMG you’re so pretty Jase how did I get so lucky xoxo.

TheOnlyRobinThatRocks: No. Its too late. It feels forced and unbelievable now. You’ve ruined it forever.

TheCatsMeow: Got it. From now on I will only tell you that you’re repulsive and hideous.

TheOnlyRobinThatRocks: I’m breaking up with you.

TheCatsMeow: But after I help you with your mission tonight.

TheOnlyRobinThatRocks: Obvsly. I’m a professional. Why do people keep forgetting this?

TheCatsMeow: And also the making out to spite your sister.

TheOnlyRobinThatRocks: Yeah we should do that first too. I mean we already penciled it in.

[johns-prince]

I was reading Norman's biography of Mick Jagger the other day and at some point I realized that good old Mick had it BAD for John. They hung out a lot in the Lost Weekend and Mick seemed heartbroken when May told him John had gone back to Yoko. He was so upset that he talked to the press about it multiple times, whining about not having any access to John and that he was hiding behind Sean. Mick wasn't wrong, though. I was just very entertained by his reaction. Then there is this:

"Mick, as a result, had found himself in the—for him—highly unusual position of wanting to see someone but having his every friendly overture rebuffed.

From his sitting room window, he could see the Gothic rooftops of Lennon’s home, and would sometimes act out the part of a spurned girlfriend: “[John’s] right over there. Does he ever call me? Does he ever go out? No. Changes his phone number about every ten minutes. I’ve given up . . .” But there was no disguising how much this apparent indifference really hurt. Once or twice, he put aside the Tyranny of Cool sufficiently to leave Lennon a note with his own current phone number at the Dakota concierges’ desk, but no response ever came."

LOL "John is right over there. IS HE THINKING OF ME?" The thirst was real, you guys. I don't remember Mick being this sad about any of his women leaving him. Me thinks Johnny hit and quit it but someone fell in love, you see.

I agree, Mick sounds like a jilted lover/girlfriend here who just wants to be at least acknowledged. He was seriously upset about the fact that, when John went back to Yoko he knew that she didn’t like him. She thought he wasn’t worth John’s time and was a bad influence. Gotta remember, Mick and John had been friends since the sixties-- Mick was much closer to John then Paul, even.

Also talk about the gall because she was completely fine with John hanging out with the likes of Klein, Phil Spector, and Magic Alex... Like, talk about bad influences-- Phil fucking pointed a gun at John because he liked to freak John out and upset him. She liked these people. She approved of them for John. Yoko isn’t fully to blame, John also holds blame for how he’d treat people and just cut them off [even if he personally didn’t want too] but she encouraged John to cut ties with family and close, old friends just, like that.  

I feel for Mick. I honestly feel for anyone who loved John, it did seem trying at times. I mean, sometimes it’s not always easy for me to love John just as some crazed groupie... I could only imagine how intense and, confusing and exciting and, memorable it would have been to know him, personally, and get to love him personally. 

I personally don’t think anything serious happened between John and Mick. Kind of like how I believe nothing deeper then just, solid friendship was between John and Stu-- someone he could confide in, who wasn’t just Paul. 

Was there flirting between the two? Absolutely, though I find it to be a partially playful joking sort of flirting between friends, and partially with a serious edge to it. Libra’s are natural flirters, they often to do it unintentionally because it’s just, part of their personality. John most likely both an unintentional and intentional flirt, and his male friends weren’t left out on his teasing’s and naughty, playful behavior [specifically moreso open and direct about it in the 70s] 

But, I do think you’re right that Mick had it bad. Most male friends of John seemed to have it bad for him, in some way or another. Women and men loved John-- he was rather easy to love, despite how he’s painted and the sort of front he put up. As Paul said-- John was a loveable guy, everyone loved him, and he was right [though Paul usually only mentions everyone else when talking about loving John, deflects onto others at the same time but I digress] 

Even men who apparently thought of him a poky bastard seemed to inevitably be drawn to him, and like him [like David Bailey] 

He was loved, so, so much.

“The theory is that when John went off to Spain on holiday with Brian, that’s what it was all about - John trying to get his position clear as the leader of the group. Also, I’m sure Brian was in love with John. We were all in love with John, but Brian was gay so that added an edge.” Paul McCartney - Anthology

PAUL: “Well, I’m sure Brian was in love with John, I’m sure that’s absolutely right. I mean, everyone was in love with John; John was lovable, John was a very lovable guy.” [x]

“What did John Lennon see in me? I think outrageousness and being true to myself and not giving a fuck. We hit it off straight away, even though I was in complete awe of him. He was nothing else but kind to me. I never saw the other side of John, the Harry Nilsson drinking side of John, where he turned on a sixpence. I only saw the gentle, gorgeous side of John, and he was gentle not only to me but my parents, my band members, and I just fell in love with him.”

— Elton John [x]

“Nowhere can the caring side of John Lennon be documented more accurately than in his relationship with Malcolm Evans, the very tall and bespectacled man who became a regular as a road manager, along with Neil Aspinall, on the Beatles’ tours. Evans had a magnetic personality and was a favorite with reporters and the women who tagged along. His smile and charm could be deceptive; he would have done anything to protect the Beatles. At one point on the touring aircraft, while traveling from Jacksonville to Boston in 1964, a tired Mal Evans sat next to me in the rear of the aircraft with tears trickling down his face. I asked, “What’s the matter?” Mal answered, “John got kind of cross with me … just said I should go f— off. No reason, ya’ know. But I love the man. John is a powerful force. Sometimes he’s rough, if you know what I mean, man. But there’s no greater person that I know.” I never learned what the dispute was about, but I do know that a few minutes later, a sullen Lennon walked by and embraced Evans.” — Larry Kane [x]

“Sharing a twisted sense of humour and a penchant for mischief, Nilsson and Lennon were natural buddies. It was perhaps inevitable that the LA-dwelling singer would gravitate towards Lennon. Lennon clearly appreciated Nilsson’s edginess and was very likely looking for a male soulmate to fill the hole left by McCartney. For his part, Nilsson’s feelings for Lennon ran even deeper: ‘I really fell in love with him. He was all those things you wanted somebody to be.”

Man On The Run: Paul McCartney in the 1970s by Tom Doyle [x]

“But the acerbic John is the one we know and love, you know, because he was clever with it, so it was very attractive. But, for me, I have more than a slight affection for the John that I knew then, when we were first writing songs, when we would try and do things the old songwriters had done. I slightly regret the way John’s image has formed, and because he died so tragically it has become set in concrete. The acerbic side was there but it was only part of him. He was also such a sweet, lovely man – a really sweet guy. ””

— Paul McCartney, discussing John Lennon [x]

John was a charming man in his own right, charismatic, and funny. Having a good sense of humor is always attractive, and draws people to you. As Paul says, and Elton, John was kind, he was sweet and friendly. He wasn’t always this, Mr. Tough and aggressive, ripping into people with his sharp tongue. He was gentle, he could be gentle, in his own way. Warm, and loving. 

He had this ability to just... make you feel like you’ve known him longer then you actually have. Like you have some sort of, special relationship or connection with him-- that you were the only one who was close enough to see underneath his armor, to know him as intimately as anyone else ever could. 

Course, this was simply how many felt and wanted to be the reality[specifically men], when it wasn’t, not exactly. They didn't really know the real John, they didn't get to see him at his most sincere, when his beautiful armor was chipped away and he was standing naked and scared. He described himself like a chameleon when it came to social settings, when interacting with different individuals [friends], which honestly makes sense as a Libra [Gemini’s are just as guilty of this] 

They got to know a facet of John... Maybe they did get a glimpse of John here and there, but it’s just reality that John didn’t just, open up so easily to people like that. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable, and he had a habit of testing people’s loyalty and love for him [whether it had been consciously or not, I’m not always sure] because of the insecurities and doubt that one day, they’d turn on him or abandon him. 

Again, he had this way in making people [other men] feel as if they had an intimate and special connection with him. And maybe they did to varying degrees. John had a way to act open with others, without actually being open and vulnerable, or at least not fully. I’m not sure if I’m making sense lol

Only ones who I think ever got to know the real John, were Mimi(of course she raised him), Pete (friends since they were just peanuts), Cynthia somewhat, May got glimpses and wanted John to be himself and independent... Yoko to a degree (though she focuses on entirely pushing and talking about Brand John Lennon™)  

And who I know for a fact did, and does know John the most intimately, deeply, unabashedly, is Paul.

But anyway, speaking of being so very attractive, John was attractive. Like, many women and men found him exceedingly attractive, like this one male photographer who believed John was the most handsome out of the band;

“I think John was the best looking, actually. The refined nose.  He never went out of his way to be a disagreeable person.  He would be the one to go over and just sit and sign some little girl’s book...” 

Harry Benson, photographer who took the photo of the iconic pillow fight and other well known Beatle photos, talks about John. [x]

Then we have David Bailey, who described Paul, Ringo, and George as rather pleasant-- while describing John as being a fucker, a bit poky. 

And yet, it was John who David Bailey claimed to like, out of all of them. 

“I didn’t like the Beatles – I liked John ... John was a fucker. Paul was always the nicest guy in the world. George, he always seemed full of angst. Ringo always seemed Mr Nice Guy. But John was a bit poky; I liked him.” 

-- David Bailey Originally; published in the March 2014 issue of British GO magazine.

That’s honestly the only parts of the interview worth reading, Bailey is sort of a dickhead and clearly seems biased against Paul, and just The Beatles as a band in general, so [which is fascinating. Considering he might’ve been peeved towards Paul ever since John brought his partner along for that photoshoot because he didn’t want to go in alone lol]

Mick did love John, though in what way or in what varying degree, is up for discussion and personal conclusion. Just like how it’s up to interpretation and discussion how much and in what way David Bowie, Elton John, Harry Nilsson, Mal Evans, Billy Preston, and Brian Epstein loved John. 

But it’s clear as day that, in my opinion, they almost all seemed to have some sort of man-crush on him. A serious admiration. Harry Nilsson sounded like he was in a bro-mance with John [or at least he wanted to be in one with him]

Course we can’t forget Paul, but we all know that Paul loved John in such varying degrees, it’s truly impossible to label it. They’re soulmates, can’t really categorize the love between soulmates so easily. 

Anyway, point of this all; Mick definitely had it bad for John, but then again who didn’t? 

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

PART I | PART II

concept: a collection of happenings, the little moments with him. there will be many more parts. this is the first non-date of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 1,8k

warnings: none.

author's note: welcome to the third part of like... twenty. i already have a bunch of them written, so now i'm just going through and reading and editing. hope you enjoy :)

He hadn't noticed you yet, and it was becoming almost laughable.

You weren't hidden away, by any means. You were there, in the café, as arranged. Your very first premeditated and arranged meeting with Chris.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't rethought your outfit at least twelve times. You had started in simple jeans and a tee, upgraded to a skirt and tank, fucked it all with a summer dress, and now – after several iterations of similar outfits – you were sporting something in between. A tank top with the same jeans and a slouchy cardigan.

Honestly, you didn't know why you were so in your head about it.

Maybe it was because he'd seen you at your best, and then again in your work ensemble which was as close to your best as possible. Looking good meant more tips at the club, and VIPs tipped quite well if you didn't care too much about the degradation of having to flaunt yourself for it.

You knew it wasn't because he was famous – you didn't care much with that sort of thing, given your work leading to so many interactions with these perceived "betters" that the "starstruckness" of it all had long since worn down from a galaxy to merely a scatter of glitter. So what was it then?

Another five minutes passed, and he still hadn't seen you.

You glanced down at the sketchbook propped against your knee. You were seated in one of the unforgivably comfortable armchairs towards the front of the café, surrounded by college students buried in their notes or typing furiously away on laptops. You fit in quite seamlessly with them, you realised, managing to unintentionally chameleon yourself into their aesthetic. You had one leg tucked underneath you, the other curled to your chest, sketchbook close to you so no one could see what you were drawing. It was a very personal thing for you, your art.

Also mildly embarrassing, considering you had been drawing him.

You had no intention of finishing the sketch – you had started it the moment he entered the café and sat down, and continued in hopes that he would see and acknowledge you – effectively halting the process and leaving it alongside the so many other unfinished projects you'd accumulated over the years – so the meeting could begin.

You called it a meeting, because if it wasn't a meeting, it was a date. And you weren't going to be presumptuous enough to assume the latter, so you decidedly chose to believe the former. You were there to discuss the terms of your new and exciting job of looking after Dodger after all. If it was a date, however, it would explain the sudden apprehension you felt, and the numerous outfit changes, and the goddamn butterflies that sought to tear your stomach apart.

You'd met him before, this wasn't some new occurence. Hell, he'd even asked you to move in after just happening to run into eachother twice... Why the sudden nerves?

The longer time drew on in the café, the more it became a little game to you. How long would it be before he saw you? And how far into the sketch would you be when he finally did?

You had already finished most of his face, and were now working on his lips.

His eyes had been the hardest to capture at the time, because you'd spent so long staring into them in the past – during long conversations and across packed and busy bars – and it was as if you knew them too well to put on paper.

With his lips, the situation was almost entirely reversed. You hadn't paid them much attention at all and it was almost as if you'd forgotten what lips looked like in general. You glanced up from your work to see him talking to a waiter, ordering a cup of coffee – and you decided to watch his lips.

His lips were practically highlighted by the shadow of scruff on his strong jaw. How you'd never noticed them as prominently as you did now, you didn't know.

One thing about them, was that they looked soft. They looked soft, like they could kiss the breath out of you, leave you dizzy. And they stretched so easily into a thankful smile when the waiter returned with his order that it was impossible not to smile too.

The pencil moved easily on the parchment paper as you began to get to work, the gentle curve of the cupid's bow, to the small little upturn at the corners of his mouth, even in their natural position. You almost wished you'd brought colours with you, but you knew that no shade of pink would be a perfect match.

Another ten minutes passed, ten minutes of him checking his watch, his phone, sipping his coffee, tapping on the table... Ten minutes of you realizing what a total creep you were being.

But there was something so beautiful about him. Even in the small movements, it was entrancing to watch. You were outright staring, sketch pushed aside and finished, as good as it was going to get. It was one of your best, you admitted reluctantly. The attention to detail was bordering on mirror like, and you didn't know if that made you a stalker or if it made you a romantic. Not that you were considering romance with your future roommate, but you'd be a liar if you didn't admit the thought had briefly crossed your mind. Specifically in the "meeting or date" debate – one which you'd shut down with the agreement to yourself that it was a meeting, nothing more.

You decided then that this had gone on long enough, and if he hadn't noticed you by now, he never was going to. The last thing you wanted him to think was that you'd stood him up. Considering how you'd both met, and the message you'd sent to the person guilty of that particular crime, it wouldn't be the best look for you. Not to mention it was a fucking dick thing to do, in any case.

You unfurled yourself from the position you'd held on the couch, your muscles screaming at you in discomfort.

The foot you'd sat on was dead asleep, and wiggling it brought the onset of pins and needles. Groaning in annoyance, you rose unsteadily, sketchbook in hand.

The idea that struck you just then was a stupid one, but given the fact that all rationality of yours had been poisoned since you'd met Chris – you were still struggling to comprehend how he'd managed to convince you to move in with him so easily – you resolved yourself. It'll be funny, you told yourself.

Pulling your pencil out from where it was tucked behind your ear, you scribbled a quick note on the bottom corner, before tearing the sketch free from the pad. You moved around the café, making sure to keep out of Chris' eyeline. Not a difficult feat by any means, his focus shifted between his coffee and the door at almost perfectly timed intervals. You could feel his impatience growing – his brow furrowed, muscle in his jaw ticking. But also a familiar look you recognized from the other night: concern.

You reached the table at which he sat, but he didn't pay you any mind. His attention was elsewhere. You slid the sketch onto the table – as close to him as you dared – before disappearing to the counter to place an order, perfectly hidden behind a wall of strangers, but able to see his every reaction.

Your order was being made by the time he noticed the paper on his table.

He stared at it for the longest time – the sketch of him sitting at that exact table, wearing what he was wearing, frozen in graphite in his most revisited position of being utterly engrossed with all the newcomers slipping into the café, searching for the one face he was expecting. His shoulders stiffened – and then he saw the note hurriedly written at the bottom corner, and all tension dissipated.

The face he gets when he's looking for another cab to steal from some unsuspecting girl

You stifled a laugh when his brow furrowed – that adorable crease forming immediately – and realization the dawned on him that you were there, and had been for a while if you'd managed to get that sketch done and as perfected as it was. Your coffee was handed to you, and as you watched him swivel his head in confusion, you decided to put him out of his misery.

You walked deliberately and confidently into his eyeline, gently blowing on the hot liquid you clutched before giving him a charming – if not teasing – smile.

"Mr Evans, cab thief extraordinaire," you joked, sliding onto the seat in front of him. You placed the sketchpad you had tucked under your arm onto the table, sliding the pencil back out from behind your ear to place it on top in case it fell. You set your coffee down, lacing your fingers together before resting them on the table.

"Miss {your last name}, stalker sketch artist," he retorted, his mouth already forming a lopsided grin. Your attention was immediately drawn to his lips...

Stop it.

"Hey, it's not my fault you didn't see me. I needed something to pass the time while you were sat there being utterly oblivious."

He opened his mouth to respond, but words seemed to fail him. Chuckling, he looked down at the drawing again. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a sincere gentleness, one that stirred something in the pit of your belly. "It's really good."

"I had a lot of time," you shrugged the compliment off, like you did many you received before. You were accused of being too humble at times – if that were even a thing – and it annoyed some of the people around you.

"But you know," he leaned closer to you, almost conspiratorially. "A normal person would've just told me they were here."

There was a joking glint in his eye, and although he had tried to fight it, he found himself grinning again. There was something about being around you – it rendered him practically incapable of doing anything other than smile.

"Mr Evans," you paused to sip your coffee. "I am anything but normal."

"What exactly are you, then?" You tried not to falter at the sight of his tongue darting out to wet those perfect lips as he awaited your response.

"I, Captain, am fun. Something which you look like you need a lot more of."

He laughed, the sound warm and welcoming. "Is that so?"

You shrugged non-chalantly. "It is."

"I can hardly wait."

[jflicker]

So I found this OC/SI Katekyo Hitman Reborn fanfic series (Russian Roulette: Reloaded) that I’m just head over heels with. Just really appreciated going in-depth about the Arcobaleno pre-Cursed and really writing them out into people. They’re so essential in the canon story, but reading this series really drives it in how tragic the whole affair is because the Curse really ruined lives. It’s so fucking great, seriously. After finishing and then rereading (at the time, the most recent chapter was chapter 59 in part two of The Dragoness’ Library, Russian Roulette: Second Chamber), I ended up making this instead of drawing fanart lol.

It includes a kind of exploration into Flame-compatible gemstones and what exactly those canon Flame rings are made of. I’ve been into semi-precious stones/crystals as well as the less well known gemstones for a while now, and recognized some of the kinds that ended up being used by or associated with certain characters. For example, Reborn finds his Sun Flames are compatible with moonstones and yellow jade, and has moonstones embedded in the handle of one of his guns. 

Another thing that was really fun about the story was the Sonya’s (Russian dragon-mom and the World’s Greatest Thief) relationship with Reborn, them basically co-parenting Shamal. Their dynamic is seriously the cutest thing ever with both being ridiculous and competent and not seeing how they’re casually breaking people’s minds left and right.

And coincidentally, I had yellow jade beads and a number of gold charms. Including this little gold axe charm I never knew what to do with. Unfortunately most of the stones Sonya regularly use are a bit expensive for me. Instead of something like spinel, I decided to represent her with cacoxenite amethyst, picking out the iron mineral shows up as the most reddish to represent our favorite Storm-Cloud. 

Yellow Jade: Reborn

Cacoxenite Amethyst: Sonya Basanova

Gold charms: Reference to how they both have Sun Flames

Of the charms...

Cloud – Sonya

Sun – Reborn 

Cat – Tattoos act like a resume in the Russian criminal underground. Children slated to become thieves are given cat tattoos, so Sonya’s first tattoo was a cat and she’s a bit of a, lol, cat burglar.

Cross – Reborn and Shamal are Catholic Christians. It’s a major thing with the co-parenting.

Big Dragon – Sonya is often referred to as some form of “dragon lady” and later gets a large dragon tattoo to indicate she has stolen from the state.

Axe – She keeps medieval weapon charms that she Propagates into full-size or just multiple. One of her go-to weapons that she menaces people with are golden axes that she chucks around.

Sun – Reborn, but I’m hoping to replace this one with a handgun charm.

Chinese Dragon – Reference to Sonya’s networking with the Chinese Triads, who also call her “dragon lady”.

Sun – Reborn, but I’m hoping to replace this one with a lizard or chameleon charm.

[purrincess-chat]

Kill Em With Kindness CH1

I teased this fic a little earlier, and here it is! I have had this general idea for a while now it was based on a post that I saw forever ago after Chameleon came out initially, but I could never figure out exactly how to work it, but then Ladybug happened and it solved the problem I was having with it, so now I can make it exist. >:) For those who wanted more out of Marinette and Adrien in MDCSP, this fic is for yall!

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

Marinette’s stomach churned as she flipped through the photos on her phone for the dozenth time. None of it made sense to her. Adrien knew Lila was a liar, so how had she weaseled her way into a photoshoot for Gabriel? Just when she was starting to think things were going back to normal.

“Marinette! You have a visitor!” Sabine called up the stairs, and she darkened her screen with a sigh.

“Coming,” she replied less than enthusiastically as she stood up, but to her surprise, two green eyes peeked up from her trap door.

“Can I come in?”

“A-Adrien?” She gasped, fumbling a little as he climbed up. “What are you doing here? N-Not that you can’t come here because you can come here whenever you want just I- what’s up?”

“Well, after everything that’s happened, I wanted to come see how you were doing, and I feel like I should explain myself. Can we talk?” He quirked a brow.

“Of course.” Marinette nodded, gesturing to the chaise which he sat on before leaning his elbows on his knees with a sigh.

“Okay, so I know you’ve probably seen the photoshoot, and I want you to know that it doesn’t mean I’m on her side- I’m not; quite the opposite, actually,” he said, flicking his gaze to her. “I feel like I should apologize to you. I used to think Lila’s lies were harmless, but she’s hurt the people I care about more than once, and that’s not okay.”

He laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them with a pensive frown.

“I’m not proud of it, but I couldn’t sit by and do nothing while she attacked you, so before our shoot I talked to her and forced her to fix everything so you could come back,” he explained. “I made her lie again, but it was to undo the damage she caused, so that’s not so bad, right?”

“You did that for me?” Marinette’s eyebrows raised.

“Of course,” he said with a small smile. “You’re my friend, and Lila crossed a line. I couldn’t standby and do nothing while she ruined your life.”

Marinette felt her cheeks flush under his warm gaze, and she bit her lip, reaching into her pocket to retrieve her lucky charm.

“Looks like my Adrien good-luck charm works,” she said, and Adrien perked up upon seeing it.

“I’m glad,” he said before retrieving his own. “We’ll be fine so long as we have each other.”

He took her hand, pressing the charms together between their palms then lowering his gaze with a frown.

“I wish we could do something about Lila. I don’t want her to hurt anyone else, but she’s so good at spinning the truth. There’s really no way for us to prove any of it,” he said glumly, and Marinette pursed her lips in thought.

“What if we don’t prove anything?” She asked, and when Adrien quirked a brow, she continued, “Lila lies with every breath, and she just bends the truth more when you try to question her, so what if instead of challenging her, we back her into a corner by playing along?”

“How so?” His eyes narrowed.

“It will be a lot of work, but with the two of us we could probably pull it off.” She tapped her chin. “So, Lila is always coming up with stories, illnesses, excuses, so what if we kept track of all of them and held her accountable? Like for her sprained wrist, we could give her a wrist brace that she has to wear, or since she was so worried about a napkin gouging out Max’s eye, we could put safety glasses in the cafeteria. This way it seems like we’re being nice and supportive to everyone else, but in reality we’ll be waiting for her lies to contradict each other- which they often do if you pay attention. Lila banks on other people’s obliviousness when she lies.”

“So, you want to get back at her by being nice?” He tilted his head to one side.

“It’s called kill em with kindness.” Marinette smirked, and Adrien faced her with a grin.

“That’s wonderfully devious of you, Marinette,” he complimented, “and I think it’s just what we need.”

“I don’t take lightly to people lying to my friends,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I know. I shouldn’t have insisted on ignoring her before. I feel like everything is my fault,” he said, lowering his gaze to his feet, and Marinette reached out to place a hand on his shoulder.

“It isn’t your fault that Lila is a liar, Adrien. You were just trying to be the bigger person, but unfortunately for us, Lila is a special kind of despicable,” she assured him. “But so long as we have each other then she can’t win.”

“You’re right. Thanks, Marinette.” He pulled her in for a hug, and her cheeks grew hot. “So, where should we start?”

“Well,” Marinette started, tapping her chin. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”

***

The following day everyone was buzzing about the photoshoot as expected, but Adrien only felt calm as he walked past his schoolmates. Lila was good. So good that she’d even fooled his father, but he wasn’t going to stand for her lies anymore. It was time to burn down Lila’s web once and for all.

“Adrien and I just have such a natural chemistry,” Lila was saying as he approached their group.

“Hey, Adrien, great photoshoot. You and Lila totally rocked,” Alya said with a grin.

“Thanks, Alya. My photographer is really good at giving direction during our shoots. Anyone can model if he’s behind the camera.” Adrien gave a modest shrug, shooting a pointed look at Lila.

“It was amazing getting to work with you, Adrien,” she said with that saccharine fakeness she was so good at, but Adrien’s attention was soon diverted as Marinette walked through the front doors.

“Marinette!” He called, waving her over before rushing to meet her halfway with everyone else.

“Welcome back, Marinette!”

“We knew it was all a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, you’d never do any of those things.”

Adrien cut through the crowd, gaze fixed on her with a bright smile, and he pulled her into a warm hug.

“I’m so happy you’re back here where you belong, Marinette. How could anyone ever believe you’d do such horrible things?” He said, rocking her back and forth. “It’s absolutely ridiculous. You’re so caring and trustworthy and genuinely kind. There’s no way you could have ever done those things.”

“Yeah, you’re like the last person on Earth to cheat or intentionally hurt someone, girl,” Alya agreed.

“I’m really sorry for any trouble my disease caused you, Marinette,” Lila said, clasping her hands together in front of her and curling her shoulders. “I hope you don’t hate me.”

“Not at all, Lila,” Marinette said with a gentleness that made Lila’s head snap up. “In fact, I brought you a brace for your knee. It was really horrific seeing you fall down the stairs, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. Knee injuries can be so delicate; you should probably take it easy for a while. Such a shame too since we were all planning to go swimming tomorrow and now you can’t come.”

“Yeah…” Lila eyed the brace in Marinette’s outstretched hand and the friendly smile on her face in confusion before taking it. “Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome, Lila. I hope you and I can put this whole thing behind us,” Marinette said, and their classmates cooed adoringly.

“Wow, Marinette, you really are amazing,” Max said.

“Isn’t she just the best?” Adrien added with a nod.

“I’m just trying to mend these bridges. I think Lila and I just got off on the wrong foot because of a misunderstanding. I hope from now on that we can be friends,” Marinette said, holding out a hand in good faith, and Lila flicked her gaze around to all of her classmates’ expectant faces.

“Of course, Marinette. I’d be happy to be your friend.” She smiled before shaking her hand.

“I’m glad.” Marinette perked up as the bell rang, and their group dispersed.

Lila shot her a skeptical glare, but Marinette simply smiled sweetly.

“I don’t know what you’re plotting, but just know that it’s never going to work,” Lila hissed in her ear, and Marinette pulled back innocently.

“I don’t know what you mean, Lila. I’m just trying to be nice,” she said before following after everyone.

Adrien fell into step beside her as they walked, biting back a smug grin.

“Phase one complete,” he murmured under his breath, and a smirk curled on Marinette’s lips.

“Onto phase two.”

Tagging: @teresarosiadeviluke2112 @sam-spectra @lennves because they asked

Next chapter

[zwritestuff]

Some Things Are Bound To Be (Chapter Three) - Kyara

A/N: Me? Actually updating regularly and not letting the months go by? Who would've thunk. This chapter actually took me a lot of erasing and deleting, and there are some scenes that didn’t make the cut, but I like the end result! Hope you guys do too :D This ended up being 4.5K, so it’s quite a treat. A million thanks to @fromthenorthernskies​ for screaming on the doc beta-ing this chapter!

AO3 Link!

Kyne would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy having lunch with Kiara; it was way too different from sharing a coffee and sweets in Kyne’s office in the middle of the day. Now they weren’t alone, and they had to lower their voices when they wanted to laugh loudly, but it was nice. She always has a good time when she’s with Kiara.

She learns that Kiara’s favorite color is purple, her favorite movie is Beetlejuice and one day she wants to have a pet chameleon so when she dresses it up, it changes its color to the one of the garment. Kyne tells her that’s something a privileged rich kid would say, but it oddly makes sense - and that if she ever does it, she expects to see a picture.

When it’s time to come back to the office, they walk through the streets with their shoulders bumping and their hands brushing ever so slightly, neither of them having the courage to grab the other’s hand. That’s until they cross a particularly busy street, and Kyne wraps her pinky around Kiara’s. To not lose her, she mumbles, not sure if she heard her. Their fingers stay intertwined even when they make the walk to Kyne’s office, closer than they should be in an empty hallway with space to spare. 

They get a few stares, and Kyne feels her free hand twitch. She tries to brush it off and focus on what Kiara is telling her instead. She’s talking about the ball, and how they will go about dress shopping on Friday.

“If you drag me to go shopping before I’ve had a shower, I’m breaking up with you,” Kyne says, coming to a stop in front of the door of her office, letting go of Kiara’s finger. Kyne could swear she saw Kiara look disappointed for a brief moment, but if it happened she doesn’t bring it up. Why would she, anyway?

Kiara laughs shortly, and dismisses it with a wave of her hand. “I’ll pick you up from your place after you get a shower, then we go shopping. That sounds okay?” She asks gently, clasping her hands behind her back. Kyne has noticed she does that a lot when she talks to her. Not that she thinks much about it, or Kiara for that matter.

“Sounds fine to me,” she agrees, smiling with satisfaction. Kiara smiles back, saying she should get back to her office, promising to text her later. Kyne furrows her brow at that, only the slightest bit concerned. “You still haven’t told me how you got my number, y’know. It’s kinda creepy,” she says before Kiara can bid her goodbye.

“If you think about it, I have everyone’s phone numbers at my disposal. Whether I decide to make use of them or not, that’s up to me.” Kiara shrugs, Kyne stares at her for a moment. She hadn’t thought about that.

“You know, sometimes I forget one day you’ll inherit this whole thing,” Kyne comments. It’s not a lie though. She has never met someone as powerful as Kiara that just decided to hang out with her employees instead of all the other powerful people. Sometimes Kyne forgets she could fire her if she got on her nerves, and treats her like she’d treat an old friend. 

It seems to work in her favour, though; her friends always ask her how she had struck a friendship with none other than Kiara, the infamous heir of the company that never cracked a smile. Kyne was always skeptical of that - whenever she hung out with her, Kiara was nothing but a giggling mess, not the stoic person her friends, and everyone else apparently, made her to be.

Perhaps she was the only person with the privilege of being able to make Kiara laugh. She wouldn’t mind that in the slightest.

Kiara just stares at her with an amused smile, and Kyne proceeds to explain herself after a moment. “You steal the cupcakes you bring me and always ask me if I have a spare charger, when you have the money to buy an entire cupcake shop and a thousand chargers if you want to,” she explains with a grin, and Kiara laughs wholeheartedly, the slightest hint of a blush appearing on her cheeks.

She’s decided her new favorite thing is making Kiara laugh, not only because it seems she’s one of the few people able to make her smile, but also because she throws her head back, scrunches up her nose and drops the invisible weight from her shoulders. It suits her a lot better.

“Stolen cupcakes are the best cupcakes,” Kiara jokes with a complicit smile. Kyne chuckles, rolling her eyes. “I gotta go for real now, but have a good rest of your day.” She smiles, waving at her, and Kyne waves back.

“Have a good day, and don’t fire anyone!” She jokingly exclaims, entering in her office.

She’s barely settling down in her chair, wondering when Kiara would text her, when Priyanka, Bo, and Scarlett enter without knocking and Kyne sinks in her chair when they all give her curious looks.

In the grand scheme of things, Kyne hadn’t considered the fact that her friends were all but trying to get her to ask Kiara out and scam her to get her money, only for Kyne to always shut them down by saying they’re just casual friends - they said it so often she swore it wasn’t a joke anymore.

They have questions, questions that Kyne isn’t prepared for answering, because she never really asked Kiara if she could tell her friends that this is fake - though she supposses she can’t, if the conversation they previously had means anything.

“Oh, there’s nothing going on between me and Kiara, you guys are just imagining things!” Scarlett mocks, mimicking her voice. Kyne groans, sinking into her chair and covering her face with her hands. “So you lied to our face this whole time? You bitch,” they complain, folding their arms.

“Normally I don’t agree with Scarlett, except now,” Boa pipes up, “Bitch,” she echoes, and Kyne swears she’ll snap her optic nerve by the strength she rolled her eyes with.

“Would you guys let me explain?” She exclaims in frustration. “There should be a category in the Olympics for jumping into conclusions, you all would excel at it,” Kyne comments, cocking a brow.

Priyanka takes a seat in the free chair on the other side of the desk, looking solemnly at her. “Firstly, you know I would. Second, go right ahead, then. Explain,” Priyanka says, cocking a brow in her direction. Kyne looks at her friends, and they all have the same stern, confused look. Shit.

She bites the inside of her cheek, thinking of something to say that’s convincing enough to appease her friends. She knows lying isn’t good, but if she already messed herself up in a lie of gigantic proportions, what would another little white lie do?

“It’s not like I’m dating Kiara, per se,” she begins, “We’re just getting to know each other.” The skeptical looks don’t vanish from her friends’ faces, and Kyne fidgets with her hands under her desk before dropping the bomb. “And she’s bringing me to a charity ball on Saturday,” she muses, speaking fast enough to make her words almost unintelligible. She purposely leaves out the part about meeting Kiara’s parents, because her brain might be good with numbers, but not with coming up with lies on the spot.

“Excuse me, what?” Bo says, furrowing her brow. “Did you just say she invited you to the Starzy Charity Ball?” She asks, eliciting an over the top gasp from Scarlett and Priyanka. Kyne cocks a brow, is this ball of common knowledge? Maybe they weren’t lying when they said the company could be shutting down and Kyne wouldn’t know.

“When did your hoe ass land a date with Kiara Schatzi and an invitation to the Starzy Ball?” Priyanka inquires, sounding as confused as she looks. Kyne would laugh at their collective reaction if she didn’t feel the slightest bit annoyed.

“I am very charming when I want to, thank you very much,” she replies, matter-of-factly, with a shit-eating grin. 

Scarlett perches themself against the desk, folding their arms with a childish pout. “So you’re telling us you’ll be at a ball full of rich people, and you still won’t consider my magnificent plan of scamming some of them, running away and not work a day of our lives again?” They dramatize, bringing a hand to their chest.

Kyne snorts, quickly laughing along with her friends. Of course Scarlett takes every opportunity they get to talk about their “millionaire plan” as if it was that easy. At this point, Kyne just brushes it off as an in-joke.

They stay at her office a little longer than they should, trying to get all the details out of Kyne, but she keeps her answers short and concise, not giving much away - though there’s not much to say, really, and she’s not particularly good at lying, especially to her friends. Especially to Priyanka. Kyne swears she can smell the bullshit even before it comes out.

She’s surprised when Priyanka seems to believe her; out of the three of them, Kyne suspected she would be the one to pick up on the plot holes in her story. But she has yet to look suspicious, so she tries not to worry about it.

They finally leave her office when they notice the time and that they should be back to work, but they make it very clear that they want every detail possible about the ball, and that she’s not going to escape their query once Sunday arrives.

“How do y’all know I’m not going to be with Kiara on Sunday too?” Kyne challenges playfully, earning a screech from her friends. She has no idea where that came from, and almost right away she regrets it.

“Damn, you had lunch once and you already wanna climb on her?” Scarlett teases, making Kyne blush on the spot. She tries to stammer out an answer, but before she can they’re biding her goodbye and leaving the office.

The door is shut closed again, and Kyne groans, rubbing her eyelids. Well, that didn’t go as bad as planned, but it certainly didn’t go as smoothly as she would’ve wanted. She hopes and prays that the last line doesn’t find it’s way to Kiara’s knowledge.

Speaking of which, she hears the text alert go off in her phone, and when she goes to check, she bites back a smile when she reads it and sees it’s from Kiara.

***

Friday comes before Kyne can even notice it, and when she arrives at work that day, she feels her hands twitch every so often at the thought of going shopping with Kiara once work is over. They had exchanged a few texts here and there over the past two days, agreeing on an hour and talking about their boundaries when it came to money - though that was more Kyne's doing than Kiara’s.

It's one thing to let Kiara buy her a coffee or a cupcake; it's not that big of a deal, and something she can repay easily. But letting Kiara buy her a dress that costs about the same as her rent is a completely different thing, and she made sure to voice her concern to her to avoid any misunderstanding. Kiara had understood, but she said that, in the slight case a dress caught Kyne's eye and it happened to be expensive, it wouldn't bother her to buy it.

If anything, it's the least I can do to thank you, honey, she had texted her, and the pet name had left Kyne speechless for a couple moments. She had no idea how to answer it, so she just left it at that. Though she thinks about it more than she should.

She's chewing on a pen, reading a report they had sent her with a request to calculate the budget for a new hotel the company was building in partnership with some other rich people. Exciting stuff to do on a Friday morning, basically. There's a knock on the door, and she tells whoever it is to come in. She doesn't even need to look up to know it's Kiara.

A cupcake is settled in front of her, and she smiles when she looks up and finds Kiara staring right back at her. 

“Good morning,” she says, sitting in front of her and taking a sip from a Starbucks foam cup. Kyne bids her good morning too, and takes a bite from her cupcake. “Ready for today?” Kiara asks, with a playful gleam in her eyes. Kyne bites the inside of her cheek, fidgeting with her hands.

“I have a feeling that I should be worried,” she comments, chuckling nervously. Kiara laughs shortly, dismissing her with a wave of her hand.

“Don't be, this will be fun! I'm positive about that, it won't be that different from going shopping with a friend or by yourself,” Kiara assures her, but Kyne isn't sure if she should mention that she mostly shops at thrift stores and modifies the clothes she buys by herself, while Kiara probably spends hundreds in one item of clothing.

She keeps her mouth shut, and smiles gently at her instead. "I'll take your word for it, then." Kiara sets the foam cup on the desk, and claps excitedly.

“So, I think we haven't talked about tomorrow, and how we'll get ready together, or if we will get ready together for that matter--”

“Wait, what?” Kyne interrupts her, furrowing her brow. Kiara tells her that she had thought about bringing her to her apartment to do their hair and make-up together before the ball. Kyne plasters a smile on her face, but on the inside, there's a ball of nerves forming in her throat that keeps her from speaking.

It starts to dawn on her that, tomorrow, she'll know yet another face of Kiara at the ball, and she'll have to act accordingly to it. She'll have to hang from her arm like arm candy, talk to people that could buy her entire apartment complex without batting an eye, and actually meet Kiara's parents, whom she had only seen briefly in the hallways and never dared to look in the eye. 

Maybe this was a hell of a bad idea disguised at just being not that bad.

She remains silent for a minute too long, and Kiara senses that something is off; she leans forward, looking at her with a tinge of worriedness, and asks her what's wrong. Everything, Kyne wants to answer, but she doesn't find the courage to vocalize her thoughts — besides, she knows it’s too late to back down, and she doesn’t want to let Kiara down.

So she swallows her fears, clears her throat and tries to lie as best as she can.

“I’m kinda intimidated at the thought of meeting your parents,” she says, which isn’t technically a lie, but it isn’t all of the truth either. Kiara’s expression softens up, and she goes out her way to assure her that meeting her parents won’t be as bad as she thinks, that they’re actually great people. But the only thing that flashes through Kyne’s mind is how fast she will be fired once they fake their break up and her boss is mad at her for breaking his daughter’s heart.

Kiara is talking, she sees her lips moving, but the words don’t reach her ears. Kyne takes a deep breath, and tries to concentrate on what she’s saying.

“Besides, you’re already pretty, it shouldn’t take you too long to get your makeup done, right?” She says, giving her a sly wink. Kyne blinks repeatedly before blushing — well, that’s what she gets for zoning out.

Kyne tries to shut down all the negative thoughts, and gives Kiara a genuine smile. Or as genuine as she can.

“I can try to paint fast, I guess,” she offers, biting the inside of her cheek, hoping Kiara hadn’t noticed she wasn’t paying her attention.

Kiara smiles, the conversation goes on and Kyne tries her best to not let her anxiety eat her up, which is easier said than done.

***

It turns out that going shopping with Kiara is fun, despite the initial awkwardness when she had picked Kyne up and neither knew what to say to break the ice. It oddly felt like a blind date, in which you have no idea how your date even looks like, but that wasn’t exactly their case. So after some moments of uncomfortable silence, Kyne had asked Kiara if she had started How To Get Away With Murder like she promised she would do, and the conversation just flowed naturally.

Kiara takes her to the fancy side of the mall, with stores with prices so expensive Kyne and her friends could never afford, so they took pictures of the garments on display and then commissioned Kyne to recreate them for much cheaper. She drags her through three different stores in the span of an hour, searching all over for something that Kyne likes and agrees on the price of - the later was harder than they had imagined. Kyne doesn’t need her degree in math to know that their concept of cheap isn’t the same.

Their hunt in store number three isn’t successful, even though Kiara insisted she tried on a red mermaid gown on sale that would look beautiful on her - which it did, but it was too tight for Kyne’s liking, and it didn’t come in any other size.

“You know, you could buy me some nice fabric and I could wipe out a whole dress overnight. I did that for my high school prom,” Kyne comments as they’re leaving the store, and Kiara cocks a brow, amused.

“Wait, for real? I didn’t know you could sew,” she says, signaling Kyne to keep walking forward. Their hands brush again, just like on Wednesday after lunch, and Kyne wants to reach for Kiara’s hand and squeeze it tight so she doesn’t lose her in the crowd. But she desists from it.

“Yeah, my Lola taught me new things every time I visited over the summer when I was a kid. She says I came out just like her, because my mom can’t even thread a needle,” she tells her with a giggle, remembering all the summers she spent sitting next to her Lola, watching her sew beautiful garments, rummaging through her sewing room and imagining she was an important designer. 

Kiara snorts, grinning from ear to ear. “Now I kinda want to see what you could come up with if I bought you fancy fabrics,” she tentatively says, hiding her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Kyne wraps her arm around her bicep, pulling out her phone and scrolling through her gallery for a particular photo.

“If I pulled this in one night out from some fabrics I had in my house, I’m pretty sure I can come up with something for tomorrow.” She shows her a photo of her when she was eighteen, after she finished doing her makeup and was getting ready to go to prom with her friends - looking back, there are a ton of things wrong, except the golden floor length dress hugging her frame.

“You look so tiny,” is the first thing Kiara says, and Kyne pinches her arm out of reflex, sarcastically thanking her for the compliment on her dress. “Your dress is stunning, but I guess you already know that.” She gives her a playful smile, suddenly coming to a stop. “You know what? I have a new idea.”

“Oh god, not another one,” Kyne dramatizes, and Kiara pinches her back.

“This one is actually good!” She protests, and Kyne tells her to go ahead. “I need to know if you can sew another dress overnight, though.” Kiara’s tone grows high pitched, and Kyne puts two and two together rather easily, though she’s a bit confused.

“Either you wanna take me up on the fabric offer, or you want me to make you a gown for tomorrow,” Kyne says tentatively, cocking a brow. Doesn’t Kiara already have a dress? And why would she want Kyne to make her one, when she can perfectly buy some fancy dress for herself?

Kiara insists on her question, asking her to just answer with a yes or no, and Kyne says it depends on the design; it’s not something she can do if the design is something massive and opulent, like she probably wants.

She pulls out her phone with a big smile, quickly opening Pinterest and showing Kyne one of her boards. “My mom actually wanted me to get something very extra, but I said ‘mom, I’m an adult now, I can wear whatever I want!’. But in the end, I forgot to buy a dress altogether,” Kiara confesses sheepishly, but Kyne is too concentrated on the board. 

She sees a lot of vibrant colors that would go well in Kiara, and she tries to imagine how long it would take her to create any of those rather intricate designs. Surely more than one day and a half, she thinks - then, one design in particular catches her eye; it’s a floor length dress with a small cut on the left leg, the top half being off the shoulder. It’s fancy enough, easy to make, and it would look great on Kiara.

“I have a royal blue fabric that would go really well with this design,” Kyne comments absent-mindedly, looking back and forth between the photo and Kiara. “It’s expensive fabric though, so I expect nothing short of a royal dress in exchange,” she jokingly says, but Kiara takes it to heart.

“Let's go then, your majesty, we have some shopping to do.” She tugs at her arm to keep walking, with a playful smile on her face. Kyne tries to ignore the fact their arms are still linked, and that Kiara strokes the back of her arm with her thumb ever so slightly.

It takes her two more stores to find a dress that Kyne actually likes and has no complaints about; it’s a deep shade of green, floor length, with a deep cleavage and some delicate embroidery details all over it. Kyne almost rejects it despite absolutely adoring it, all because of the price - Kiara just swipes her credit card before Kyne changes her mind.

The bag feels heavy in her hands, and there’s a tinge of worry in the back of her mind. What if she wastes her and Kiara’s time, and she ends up not liking the dress she makes? She’d be absolutely mortified, not only because she already cost her five hundred dollars, but because she’d hate to let Kiara down.

Her train of thought is interrupted by Kiara asking her if she wants to have ice cream before they leave. Kyne accepts, smiling gently, trying to push her worries to the back of her mind.

***

Admittedly, it's been a long time since Kyne brought anyone outside her friend circle and family to her apartment. It's not as messy as it is most days, and she'd like to think it's cozy enough, with all the pictures scattered around and the potted plants on the windows to make up for the small space. Kiara says something about not knowing she had a green thumb, while she takes off her shoes and leaves them at the entrance, despite Kyne's insistence that it's not really necessary if she doesn't want to.

Having her around feels weird, especially because just a week before all they knew about each other was compressed to the type of coffee they liked and how much they hated corporative meetings. She eases up once Kiara leaves her jacket on the coat rack, loosens up the buttons of her shirt and her hair, flopping onto the couch and asking with a child-like excitement when will they start.

“I need to take your measurements first,” she says, rummaging through her drawers for her measuring tape. Kiara practically jumps off the couch, bouncing with excitement.

“I can't wait to get a custom made dress from Miss Kyne Aguilar herself,” she teases lightheartedly, and Kyne coos.

“Don't get your hopes up,” she deadpans, getting a giggle in response.

Kyne tries to ignore the annoying way her heart beats so fast when Kiara laughs, and she makes her stand very still while she takes her measurements, but she feels Kiara’s eyes following her throughout the whole process. She swallows thickly when she brings the measuring tape up to her hips, writing down her measurements faster than she ever did, trying to ignore the heat creeping up at the back of her neck - though it’s almost impossible to ignore when she places the tape over Kiara’s chest, and now she’s sure her stare is glued on her.

“This should be quick,” Kyne muses, once she’s finished with the measurements, breathing out a sigh of relief when she walks to her cabinet full of her sewing equipment, pulling out basic molds for the top part. 

“You know, if you actually can do this, I’m going to be really impressed,” Kiara says, settling on Kyne’s couch again and tucking her legs under her body. Kyne cocks a brow at her, setting up her things at the coffee table.

“I take payment in cash, not surprise,” she deadpans, eliciting a faux offended yelp from Kiara. She giggles after a moment, spreading out the fabric and fetching for chalk in her pencil case to trace the initial patterns. “It shouldn’t be that hard, y’know? Your design is very standard, I thought you’d want something more, I don’t know, fancy.” She steals a glance at Kiara, who cocks a brow and shifts on the couch, dismissing it with a wave of her hand.

“I’m not a big fan of those big, opulent dresses, honestly. I prefer comfort above everything - ‘sides, I'm pretty sure I'd look like a clown,” Kiara comments, watching with interest as Kyne fumbles with the fabric, making sure it's perfectly symmetrical.

Kyne pauses to meet Kiara's gaze. “I mean, have you seen yourself? You wouldn't look bad even if you wore a sack of potatoes,” she says earnestly, and she's not sure where did the courage to say that came from, but the smile that breaks in Kiara's face makes Kyne's stomach twist again.

“Coming from the woman that can pull off every color under the sun, that's a very high compliment,” Kiara compliments back, causing Kyne to blush slightly and dismiss her with a wave of her hand. 

The next hours pass in a blur of cutting and sewing fabric, making sure she wasn't pinching Kiara with the pins, and Kyne's heart beating so fast it may come out of her ribcage whenever Kiara's laugh echoes through the apartment.

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Five):Heart Like A Wildflower

Notes: Soooooo we get some Joseph POV for the first time but certainly not the last. Capturing his voice and energy is not an easy feat for me, but I hope this comes across alright. Also this chapter is a bit short for me; so, hopefully that’s still chill because I’m still very proud of it in many aspects. 

Word Count: 6253

Chapter Warnings: Joseph being a crazy motherfucker, PTSD  Faith Nips (sometimes white dresses are very sheer, don’t kill my vibe), Body Horror

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

“We’re moving closer and closer to the edge; with every passing day we grow closer to the moment we’ve been preparing for. When the first seal breaks, when we will begin to reap the land for all we need to survive the collapse; to show our strength and our resilience and march through Eden’s Gate as a family. For I am your Father and you are my children…” 

“Praise be to you,” his congregation speaks to him unison, their voices echoing into cacophony in the small church.  Despite his growing flock, the church remains small and humble. Joseph much prefers it that way, despite the land and resources to expand, he never wishes to stray from their modest roots.

There’s a catch in his throat as the sermon ends; he means what he says, he always does. But, there is a new gravity to his words. The collapse is close. He knows it. There is a tension rising, the electricity in the air before the storm comes crashing down. The seal has yet to open, but it’s only a matter of time and that time is quickly running out. 

His flock stands from the pews, people of varying gender, race, experience, all united under his message. One woman comes to stand before him, a shake in her hands, Layla a young follower who works under Faith’s guidance for the project. 

It’s not uncommon for members of the flock to come speak to him following service, asking questions and needing his guidance. He knows every member by name; knows their struggles as intimately as he knows his own. So, it is no surprise to see her coming to him for counsel or comfort. Her attire is more surprising, he knows her typical manner of dress, the black leather jacket on her clashing against the vibrancy of her clothes. Behind her, Theodore, a chosen who works under John, lingers behind her. 

“Father Joseph…” She begins tentatively, unsure of herself. 

“Layla, The Father has greater concerns than what you’ve drugged in.” 

“What is it, my child?” 

“I’ve brought someone-”

“A police officer,” Theodore cuts her off, “who arrested brother Nathaniel and I.” 

“A wayward soul worthy of salvation, I don’t know how to explain it, but she saved me, and I knew I had to bring her here, if you’re able to speak with her…” 

“All are worthy of salvation, so long as they open their hearts to us and join our family,” he tells her, casting a glance at Theodore who avoids his gaze, guilt coloring his features. He is a valuable worker, perhaps one of few who can work closely with John and withstand the youngest Seed brother’s more…dramatic inclinations, but he struggles with Pride and Wrath as many do. 

“Please, Father, I don’t know if I can reach her…would you speak with her?” 

“Of course, my child.” Joseph lays a hand on her shoulder, hoping to ease some of the young woman’s nerves.

Layla and Theodore fall in step behind him as he makes his way to the door of the church; his brothers and sister are near the exit. Jacob’s scarred forearms are crossed over his chest, John fiddling with the sleeves of his coat, and Faith leaning against a pew. 

“There’s a cop outside,” Jacob tells him in warning. 

“She’s harmless, I promise.” 

Layla words do nothing to ease the tension in the eldest Seed’s body language, prepared to fight for his family and the project whenever necessary.  Joseph squeezes his older brother’s shoulder as he passes, hoping the contact can do something to ease the tension within him. 

The day has already been a stressful one for the Seed family; John spending earlier hours a mess over someone sharing a video of him online only for him to be ridiculed, something easily sending the younger brother into hysterics. Which, while that certainly hasn’t been a priority for anyone else, John has a way of making sure his concerns become everyone else’s concerns. 

Night air chills his fevered skin, wet with sweat from his sermon in the small candle lit church. Members of his flock talking amongst themselves following the service; the only sign of unrest the occasional wary glance towards the side of the church. 

“Layla, are you almost fuckin’ done? I’m freezing my tits off out here and I can’t afford to lose much more.” 

The crude statement comes from a young woman, sitting in front of the church chin perched on a motorcycle helmet. And all at once Joseph’s breath catches in his throat, pain throbbing in his temples as the hair on the back of his neck stands at end. All at once he’s struck with it, the burden of his prophetic stature, stuck with a simple fact. 

He knows. 

He knows it as well as he knows his own name. As intimately as he knows his own heartbeat. Knows it as certainly as he knows the collapse will come. Knows it as deeply as he knows the Voice. He knows it as well as he knows his own word; the prophecy and truths that he speaks. 

He knows. 

She is the Lamb.

The one who will open the first seal, the harbinger of doom, the beginning of the end. Unwittingly or not, in rebellion or in ignorance, she will be the one to bring forth the collapse. He’s felt it, the tension, the build, creeping towards the edge with every passing moment and it’s because the Lamb has arrived. They’re truly nearing the end. 

From between the ears of her helmet, her dark eyes watch everyone with intensity, flickering like a cat prepared to run or fight should anyone draw too close. Her gaze lands on him and his family; a dark brow raising, as if to question their presence on their property standing before their church. 

It has been said that over time, one stops seeing new people, seeing instead patchwork of those they’ve met before. Traits and details becoming echoes of the first person to show them. And as the Lamb stands before him; Joseph finds himself piecing her together through comparisons. 

The way her short dark hair falls across half her face only to be pushed back, reminds him of a love he lost long ago. There’s something in the eyes, as she meets his gaze, head held straight. Memories of a young Jacob standing up for him; the unbreakable will and fire always burnishing behind his eyes, an unspoken strength. She holds that same strength, but much like Faith it hides behind a soft face and a short build, just shy of being the height of his shoulder. When her gaze lands on Layla, the way the side of her mouth quirks up, the raise of her eyebrow; mischief and confidence radiating off of the expression, brings back memories of John using his silver tongue to get them out of trouble.  He knows people, can read their hearts; she’s a soldier, a survivor. Someone needing a purpose, not yet aware that she already has one. 

It is easy to blame the Lamb for their role, for opening the seals and beginning the end. But the Lamb works in the place of the Lord, whether they know it or not, they’re the hands through which he acts.  Setting forth the Collapse is not an act of malice on the part of their Creator. That first seal must be opened and someone must do it; it’s what must happen for those chosen to reach New Eden. Whether she will do it aligned with them and understanding of her role or not remains to be seen. She is chosen as well, a special soul given the gift of  purpose, what she does with her gift is another matter entirely. 

“I’m done waiting, Layla, jacket,” The Lamb speaks, holding her hand out to Layla. The out of place leather jacket clearly meant to drape across her shoulders instead of the flock member’s. He watches the muscles beneath her shirt  shift, pulling tighter over her biceps as she impatiently waits.

“You should have come inside, the time would have flown by,” Layla tells her. 

“Nah, in my experience sermons last even longer when you actually have to listen to ‘em,” her deep brown eyes flicker to Joseph, “no offense.”

“None taken, I’m Joseph Seed,” he extends his hand to her and she slowly takes it, as if he may strike her, her hand is scarred and calloused, a rough burn across her palm. 

“Nice to meet ya, I, uh, recognize you from the giant fuckin’ statue.” 

“Isn’t it lovely, you can feel his love spreading across the land,” Faith speaks up, the statue her doing, “it’s nice to see you again.” 

For the first time, The Lamb drops her gaze, red flushing across her tawny cheeks. 

“You know her, Faith?” 

“We saw each other briefly, a week or so ago, she reached out for me.” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m like real fuckin’ sorry about that,” she scratches the back of her head, “I, uh, thought you were someone else…” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah…” She stares at her feet, fiddling with her uniform shirt, a lie. 

“Well, I’m not sure who you thought I was, but I’m Faith.” 

“Nice to meet ya, for real. And…sorry again.” 

“While we're making introductions, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m John Seed,” the youngest Seed brother steals her attention, sticking a hand out for her to shake. His lawyer smile bright and wide, more Duncan than Seed in the moment. 

“Uh,” she reluctantly shakes his hand, “likewise I guess…” 

“We’re always happy to meet one of this county’s finest.” 

Jacob scoffs and rolls his eyes, the least tolerant of John’s chameleon-like behavior, knowing full well that just a week ago John was complaining about the police force for arresting Theodore and Nathaniel. This exact officer doing so, according to the former.

“’preciate it, but uh, if the introductions are done,” she tells him as she drops his hand, she’s not phased or charmed, refocusing on Layla again, “I’m actually kinda in a hurry, so if I could just get my jacket back, I’d appreciate it.” 

“Layla, are you holding her jacket hostage?” He casts a soft gaze towards Layla, no malice, it’s nothing significant and despite The Lamb’s insistence on getting it back. She doesn’t appear angry, just…on edge.  Layla shrinks, like a scolded child. 

“Maybe…I just wanted her to meet you.” 

“A noble cause, my child,” he squeezes her shoulder, “but we’ve inconvenienced her enough.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”  

Layla pulls the leather jacket from her shoulders and hands it to Joseph, head ducked down. He offers it back to The Lamb with a gentle smile, a gesture she returns with hesitance, the expression not quite reaching her eyes as she takes her jacket from him.

“Thanks…” She pulls it on, despite being a little large on the small woman, it suits her. 

“This Friday, we’re having a barbecue following our service, it’s open to everyone, if you’d like to come.” 

“While I definitely, totally, would if I could, but I work Fridays so….,” she shrugs her shoulders, “I’ll just get out of your hair, now.” 

And she’s off, a quick hand wave as she rushes out of the gates, eager to get away from them and the church. Hopefully, his words will reach her and she’ll find the path before it’s too late. Her role as Lamb has marked her worth, her importance, the significance of her salvation. 

Dahlia slams her trailer door shut behind her, scrubbing her hands over her face. She feels dirty, gross and vile. Religious people do that to her, make her feel like something is wrong with her. They’re pure and she’s filthy. Meeting them, The Seeds was even more off putting than she expected. They’re not bad people; at least she can’t make that sort of judgment off of a five minute interaction. But, they’re off. From John’s businessman smile that didn’t meet his eyes to Joseph’s intense gaze that cut through to her soul. They hardly felt human. Though, if they weren’t off, she can’t say she’d feel any different, given her hatred of religion. 

She hasn’t ventured to step foot in the church in Falls End and hasn’t talked to the pastor there either; a streak she plans to maintain. Unless they need her out there as a cop, she’s not spending casual time there. Even free food isn’t enough to tempt her into spending time at church. She takes a shower, watches tv with a lackluster microwave meal as dinner and tries not to think about that family for the rest of the night. 

The Seeds are already close to a distant memory as she works the next day; stuck as a desk jockey to her misery. Filling out paperwork for hunting violations; that and traffic violations are the biggest crimes of Hope County. She understands the importance of protecting the environment and the animals but does the paperwork for it feels like fucking overkill. Her hands are cramping from typing and signing shit, all because a bunch of idiots decided to go hunting bucks out of season. 

Something pings off her skull, a crumpled piece of paper falling to her desk after hitting her. She glares at Pratt who’s smirking like the little shit he is. She throws it right back, pelting his cheek when he turns away. He rips another piece of paper from a notebook, crumpling it up into a ball and throwing it at her face only for her to bat it back at him. Then she rips a piece of paper out of her own notebook and throws it at Pratt’s dumb face. 

She hits Pratt in the nose with one; it falls and adds to the pile of paper balls that’s built around them, when the door opens. Nancy, the dispatcher and secretary for all intents and purposes, popping her head in. 

“Deputy Hale,” she speaks softly to catch her attention, “there’s someone here to see you.” 

“Me?” 

Dahlia looks over to Pratt as if he knows something but he just shrugs. She clambers up from her chair, double checking that her uniform is in order for utmost professionalism as she leaves the bullpen office; Pratt following in tow whether from curiosity or boredom she’s not sure. 

In the lobby is Layla from the other night, flashing a bright smile Dahlia’s way when she emerges. She’s holding a Tupperware container and the young deputy can’t help raising an eyebrow; what is going on here?

“Deputy Hale!” 

“Hey, is something wrong?” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Layla shakes her head emphatically, “I thought I’d bring you something to eat.” 

She thrusts the Tupperware container out at Dahlia who reluctantly takes it, brushing across Layla’s hands and feeling the warmth of the food. 

“Why?” 

Pratt elbows her in the ribs when she asks the questions mouthing the words ‘don’t be rude’ at her when she looks at him incredulously. It’s a genuine question, why the fuck would Layla bring her food? Not that she’s complaining, it’s just weird.

“Well, you don’t cook right?” she notes Dahlia’s confusion, “your grocery bags last night were full of microwave meals or packaged crap, I figured you could use some decent food. As thanks, for helping me.” 

“Uh, yeah cooking isn’t…a huge priority for me.” 

“Her lunches are usually energy drinks and zingers,” Pratt cuts in, literally no one needs that information, so she elbows him in the ribs right back. 

“That’s not good, Deputy, you should take care of yourself…eating garbage, smoking, you should be more concerned with your health.” 

“I appreciate your concern, but if your meals come with lecture, I’m gonna pass,” Dahlia tries to push the container of food back into Layla’s hands. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried about you…I think you should really reconsider coming to our barbecue Friday.” 

“Not happening.” 

“I’m sure, if you gave our church a chance-”

“Layla, I said no and I meant it.” 

“But-“ 

“No buts,” Dahlia puts the food down on the counter, “I know you mean well, but you need to back off.” 

With that Dahlia marches back into the office; heat simmering beneath her skin. It stings at the back of her eyes, claws and burns it’s way up her throat. She runs her hand down her face, raking her nails down the skin harder than necessary as if she could carve out her anger as if the red lines could free that feeling, release it from her body. 

Stripes for the backs of fools, they are to the soul what healing blood is to a wound, for the Lord disciplines the one he loves. 

She kicks her desk, the voice reverberating in her skull isn’t her own and she wishes nothing more than to carve her own head open, to cut his voice and memory out like a cancer. 

“The fuck was that about?” Pratt asks as he comes into the office, nearly making Dahlia jump out of her skin. He’s carrying the Tupperware container of food, raising an eyebrow at her as if she’s grown a second head. 

“I helped her out last night, some dude was harassing her, I had to wait outside a church for hours and now they’re trying to drag me to some fuckin’ barbecue.” 

“And you reacted like a lunatic, because?” 

“’Cause I don’t like being harassed into religious shit.” 

“Eden’s Gate invites everyone to their little barbecues,” Pratt shrugs, “it's not a big deal, just some free food.” 

“If I say no the first time, no the second time, no the third time; don’t ask me a fourth time. It’s not that fuckin’ complicated.” 

Dahlia plops herself down in her chair, kicking at her desk again as she does so, as if it’s to blame for the mess in her head. 

“Eh,” Pratt shrugs, “they don’t mean anything by it, not really.”

“I don’t like it,” she says again with a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose, why can’t people just accept she doesn’t like this. Why is she in the wrong for not wanting to be badgered?

“You’re...surprisingly sensitive, you know that?”

“Piss off, I’m not sensitive.”

“You kinda sorta are. Bail on the F.A.N.G Center ‘cause it’s too noisy, avoid bars, avoid barbecues, hate church. Do you even like being around people at all?”

“Sometimes, it just depends….like what’s going on, how many sounds there are... and stuff.”

“So, you’re sensitive.”

“Well, doesn’t it bug you! It’s manipulation, food and barbecues to trick you into a false sense of security, then bam, you’re dealing with an eight hour lecture on how god ruins your life ‘cause he loves you or some shit.”

“And...we give people coffee before interrogations and then bam, they’re in a cell. We’re not any better.  Everyone is at least a little manipulative, it’s just life, why is it any worse when christians do it?”

“It’s not, I just, I just don’t like church, okay? Can we drop this?”

“Okay, okay, but if you don’t want the food…”

“Keep it, my appetites gone, just give some to Petunia.”

He rolls his eyes but, when he thinks she’s not looking he goes out back. Pratt can say what he wants but he has just a big soft spot for that opossum.  The day continues with desk work; Whitehorse scolding them for the paper mess when he sees it. Hudson calls them children and honestly, they kind of are. She’s not sure why Pratt brings out that immature gremlin part of her, but at least it’s fun.

“You know, this is your fault,” Dahlia tells Pratt as she’s picking up crumpled paper and tossing it in the trash can. Whitehorse said their better not be any paper on the floor by the time they clock out. It’s getting very close to that time; Dahlia having procrastinated the clean up and, well, Pratt is still leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t got a care.

“According to you, everything’s my fault.”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s true.”

“How you figure?”

“You threw the first paperwad at me.”

“You didn’t have to throw one back.”

“You didn’t have to throw one in the first place!”

“That’s besides the point.”

“It’s literally the entire point.”

Another crumpled piece of paper rattles off her skull, plopping down to the pile. She glares up at Pratt who’s smirking like he’s the funniest person in the world. Everyone keeps telling her how Whitehorse is soft and easy on her, which may be true, she has no doubt that being sent their way by Lloyd has made the sheriff more fond of her. But, she can’t expect that to keep her safe from reprimand. She’s still on probationary hire and has to try to be on her best behavior at least some of the time.

“Pratt, you’re in more danger of getting your ass reamed than her, so you should probably watch it,” Hudson pipes up, checking her phone as they get closer to quitting time.

“No ones getting reamed, it’s paper, for fucks sake.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t make you stay back to clean it up.”

“Eh, sounds like a job for a probie,” Pratt tells Hudson, before throwing a paper ball at Dahlia’s head. She chews her lip and adds to it; that’s a thought, Pratt getting stuck behind on clean up. She may be short, but she’s fast… Dahlia watches the time as she keeps throwing paper balls into the otherwise empty trash can.

“You’re just being an ass now,” Hudson tells him as they near the final minute of their shift. Dahlia standing up with a now filled trash can.

“Hey, Pratt,” Dahlia catches his attention, “got ya a hat.”

She promptly plops the trashcan on his head , paper falling down on him and slaps the side of it for equal measure.

“Fuckin’ hell!” He yells as she darts off, his problem now.

“Bye Hudson!” She calls out behind her as she rushes to clock out and leave the station, hyena cackling as she goes. The image of him with that trash can on his head, god she hoped Hudson managed to take a photo for her.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, her stomach from laughing as she jumps onto her motorcycle. A peaceful ride back to the trailer park, the wind whipping past her and music rattling inside of her helmet.

Then she sees her.

Faith looks so completely out of place in front of the rundown trailer park, long white dress fluttering in the breeze as she balances on a rock near the entrance. Un-fucking-relentless. Her green eyes spark alight when she sees Dahlia pulling up on her motorcycle, waving her direction. Dahlia rides right past her, if she pretends she didn’t see her, it’s fine. She locks up her bike and makes a beeline for her trailer door.

Just as she’s closed it behind her, intent on avoiding the pushy little church mouse, a knock rings out. She can’t exactly say she’s not home, can she? The young deputy opens the door a crack, Faith standing on her porch as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling when she sees Dahlia’s face poking through.

“Deputy.”

“I already told Layla off for this pushy crap, I ain’t in the mood for preaching.”

“I just wanted to chat, is that so wrong?” Faith asks as Dahlia pushes the door open just a hair more.

“Does this chat involve trying to get me into church?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t had it yet.”

“I appreciate the honesty, but,” she glances down seeing Faith’s bare feet, “are you not wearing shoes?”

“Uh...no.”

“Are you stupid?” Dahlia asks, finally opening the door fully.

“That’s rude.”

“There are needles on the ground, dumbass, needles.”

“So, walk with me and make sure I don’t get hurt.”

“Y’all really like taking advantage of my kindness, don’t you?”

“So, you don’t want to walk with me?”  She pouts and bats her eyelashes up at Dahlia.

“Come on,” Dahlia tells her as she leaves, “let's get this over with.”

“Are you always so negative?”

“Life tends to do that.”

Faith walks alongside Dahlia as they leave the trailer park; watching carefully as the woman walks, to ensure she doesn’t step on anything dangerous. Not that the church mouse seems to have any concern about the issue, nearly floating along as if she’s meant to be there.

“It does, your life has worn on you a lot, hasn’t it?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you?”

“I expected to be waiting on you for longer…”

“Why?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as Faith balances across stones in the field around the trailer park.  

The white clad woman starts to wobble, sticking her arms out to balance herself from the misstep, and Dahlia instinctively sticks her own hand out to catch her. Their hands catch each other, skin brushing together. Dahlia bristles and tries to pull away, the warmth of someone else’s skin jolting her, but Faith intertwines their fingers before she can avoid the touch. 

Faith’s hand is slimmer than her own, but the fingers slightly longer, more elegant. The skin softer and nicer than Dahlia’s too, smooth without calluses or scars.

“Everyone knows the deputies go to the bar after work; the one in Falls End, I assumed you’d be with them.”

“I can’t drink, legally, yet.”

“So, you can’t be there without drinking? Don’t they invite you?”

“No one wants to take a teetotaler to a bar.”

“That sounds lonely, do you have friends in the trailer park?”

The sky's alight with stars, dotting the black blanket of night. A chill in the air hangs through as the night settles in, goosebumps prickling up at the places her skin shows. She wanders how Faith stands it, in her thin white dress. Her eyes cast down at the woman and she realizes how truly thin the dress is; the soft pink of nipples just showing through. Someone should buy Faith a coat…and shoes…

“Not really a cop friendly place, pretty sure they’d rather hang me than be my friend,” Dahlia looks back to the sky, ignoring her discovery to try and find Andromeda.

“Do you have family nearby? You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I’m not close with my family and uh, from Louisiana.” That’s all the information she offers, not comfortable spilling her life story to some stranger, even a soft handed stranger with pretty eyes.

“So, you’re all alone.”

“Thank you for the observation.”

“Layla said she was worried about you, you’re alone and don’t even take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, uh, I think you all worry a bit too much about me.”

“It can be hard, accepting kindness when you’re so used to cruelty,” Faith pivots to face Dahlia and captures her other hand, intertwining the fingers there as well, “we become accustomed to the pain, thinking it’s what we deserve. So, when we are shown love, it feels wrong, unnatural, it scares us so we avoid it.”

“Are we done with this conversation? I wanna be done with this conversation.”

Dahlia yanks her hands from Faith’s, the intensity of her words and her gaze eating away at the deputy. But Faith yelps, the sudden move knocking off her balance from the little stone ledge she’s been walking along. Dahlia jumps up the ledge and recaptures one of Faith’s hands and wraps an arm around the woman’s waist, to catch her further. 

They stare at each other for a moment, soft green eyes looking up at her, they’re pressed close together in this position. The warmth of the youngest Seed’s siblings body pressing against her, nearly every inch of their bodies together. Faith feels so delicate, lithe and fragile in her arms. Breath fanning across each other’s faces, the tiniest of spaces having stopped them from an accidental kiss. Any passerby might think they were dancing and Dahlia had dipped Faith. 

A little...awkward, but at least Faith didn’t go tumbling back onto rocks.  Pink colors the apples of Faith���s cheeks, faint across her delicate cheeks.

“You okay?” Dahlia asks, maybe the cold is stinging Faith’s skin or she was flustered from the slip?

“Just fine, thank you,” Faith says as Dahlia steps back, gently guiding Faith off the little ledge, back safely on the ground.  The deputy’s eyes find the expanses of Faith’s arms, scars catching the moonlight. A chemical formula seemingly carved into one arm; each covered in track marks. Faith fiddles with a dirty blond lock of hair, focusing her gaze on the ground. 

“Are we done, now?”

“I know you’re busy and I know you’re reluctant, but even if it seems like there’s no place for you anywhere, there’s always a place for you with us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll leave you for now, then. I hope to see you soon.”

“Good night, Church Mouse, be safe.”

They part ways, Dahlia making her way back to the trailer park. She has no true desire to deal with Faith or Eden’s Gate, but she seemed less pushy at the very least. Though the conversation wasn’t anymore fun. Layla’s conversation left her nearly foaming at the mouth. Faith’s has left her wanting to find the nearest hole and bury herself in it. Yes, Dahlia is a lonely piece of shit, thank you so much for pointing it out church mouse.

She closes her trailer door behind her, more aware than ever that her trailer is empty. No one to greet her, no one to talk to. No friends to spend her nights with, no family to call or do anything with. Lloyd and Caroline are people she cares about, certainly, but she’s not their kid. She was a two-year charity case.

After a shower, Dahlia lands on the couch, watching tv again. When she thinks of it, she hasn’t slept much in her bed since moving in here. Spending most of her free time in the trailer on the couch; falling asleep watching tv, listening to music, or reading horror manga on her phone. 

Dahlia tried the first night, the large bed the trailer came with clearly meant to accommodate a potential couple. She’s not sure how to distinguish bed sizes; if it’s a double, a king, a queen, whatever. But she knows every bed she’s ever slept in before, aside from a few early childhood nights of crawling into her mother and dad’s bed, she’s been in one meant for just a single person. Her childhood bed, her bed at Lloyd and Caroline’s, or she’s been without a bed entirely. Sleeping in her share of closets, on benches, on the floor, etc. She can sleep on a park bench or in the bayou muck, but not in too large of a bed.  It makes absolutely no sense, but she’s use to being a cluster fuck of a human being. 

She smokes a cigarette, easing her nerves, trying not to think about her conversation with Faith. The loneliness that keeps seeping into her chest and following her wherever she goes. She’s long ago accepted that it’s a part of her life now, a part of her, and no one else is to blame. There’s no place or group of people that will erase. 

People, groups, like Eden’s Gate like to tell people they have the cure. That panacea to fix every trouble someone may have. They give pretty smiles and tell people that with a little bit of faith they’ll find a place where they belong. That following their ways eases that ache, makes everything okay. 

But, it’s not true. Not for her at least. God never made her feel more at ease, more at peace, there’s no god strong enough to ease the ache of loneliness. Nothing on the outside can fix what’s wrong with her inside. She can sing hymns and praise the man in the sky until she’s blue in the face, but it will never make her happy. 

If anything, the idea of god just pisses her off more. 

Someone who is supposed to hold all the power, who knows each of his creations intimately, yet doesn’t give enough of a shit to save them. This supposed god watched and knew her suffering, knew everyone’s suffering, and didn’t care. Hell, even the bible makes it clear god is a dick.  

Why the fuck should she praise him? 

If he were real, she’d punch him. 

Eden’s Gate likely means well; she knows that. They think they’re doing the right thing, saving her soul. All strong religious types think that way; they tell you you’re going to burn in hell as a helpful warning like letting you know your shoe is untied, they just don’t want you to get hurt. 

If hell is real…eternal damnation is worth it to piss off god. 

She staggers up and out of bed, the bed she doesn’t sleep in,  something itches at the back of her throat. Dahlia doesn’t question it, she moves, something is climbing up her esophagus. Rough and tearing up the tender flesh. Metallic taste of blood clings to her taste buds, cloying and noxious as she runs down the hallway towards her bathroom. The fluorescent light of it is like a beacon in the twilight hours. She doesn’t remember her hallways being this long, but with the urgency of something tearing her throat open from the inside, she doesn’t question it.

Dahlia reaches her bathroom and grabs the sides of the sink, nails digging into white porcelain, the strength of her hold is the only thing keeping her grounded. She coughs and gags, spattering blood across it, staining the white. Her breath staggers and stalls unable to break past what’s clogging her throat, ripping it apart. Blood and bile coating her tongue as she tries to get it out.

She coughs and hacks to no avail, only more blood for her troubles as it carves away at her throat. Dahlia shoves her fingers into her mouth, pushing further into her throat, trying to get a hold of whatever it is, to pry it out.

Then she gags and it all comes out; full white blossoms tinged pink with her blood fall into the sink. She spits out soft stained petals and dark green leaves. The flowers from the field by the trailer park, that were outside the church, that she saw when she first saw visions of Faith. She thinks she’s free, the flowers free from her throat. When her stomach churns again, gagging and coughing as fresh blossoms burst forwards from her throat. Each one cutting off her air for a nauseating moment before she can force it out. Again and again, blood stained flowers fall from her mouth. Her vision swims as white flowers float in a puddle of blood within her sink.

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.  Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

She falls to her knees, clutching at the base of her throat as she vomits again, blood and flowers splattering on her thighs. Dahlia gasps and takes in a desperate breath, throat raw and aching. Blood coating her teeth and tongue, syrupy and metallic, a petal stuck to her lips as she gasps. A soft sputtering cough sends blood spittle into her hands.

Is it over?

A tickle itches at the back of her raw and stinging throat, her stomach feels bloated with expanding and blossoming flowers ready to climb up her tender airway. She retches into her hand, bloody petals coating and clinging to her hand as she struggles to puke the rest up, blood dripping down her wrist in heavy drops.

Somewhere a woman laughs, the sound echoing in the bathroom, surrounding her. Mocking her pain or celebrating it; she can’t be certain. 

Dahlia wakes up with a jolt, a cold sweat clinging to her skin as she gags and coughs, the phantom sensation of flowers in her throat. She sits on the edge of the catch, sputtering to catch her breath. Nothing is in her throat, the dream was ridiculous, vomiting flowers. But it felt real and her throat aches deeply. She rubs at the back of her neck, waiting for her heart to stop rabbiting in her chest, for the tension in her muscles to fade. 

She stands from the couch and takes the short walk to her bathroom, legs wobbling as she moves. The pure clear white of her sink is a stark contrast to the red stained one, filled with flowers, in her nightmare. There’s still a tickle in her throat, a faint metallic tang of blood on her tongue; echoes of her nightmare. The faint sound of laughter still resonates in her skull as she scrubs water over her face, as if she could wash the nightmare from her mind.