#like the circus at least has a floor and walls and the grounds has ground and sky

[wackywatchdotcom]

something thats always confused me is why people assumed early on that pomni 'saw something' while she was out in the void... like i dont see it in discussion anymore but that idea always confused me, cus i thought it was very blatantly a 'pomni is not processing what is happening because theres a lot going on and she was already struggling immensely and kinda freaking out before being full on launched into an area that has nothing but distant light and squares and nothing else and you are moving but youre not' thing

[backtothedrawingboard]

More Jax Headcanons

•He is incredibly touch starved. He doesn't like to actively seek physical affection, but if it's given, he usually won't pull away.

•He especially likes scratches to the base of his ears, but he only lets people he's very close to do this.

•He purrs when content. Much to his chagrin.

•He flops on the floor/couch/whatever like a real rabbit does.

•He was an easily spooked child. He clung to his parents whenever he was around a lot of people or in scary situations.

•He never grew out of being afraid of the dark or loud sounds. He keeps a brave face in front of others, but internally panics.

•He commissioned Gangle to draw his parents so he has something to remember them by. He was very picky to make sure every detail was correct and threatened her under blackmail to keep it a secret.

•He leaves birthday gifts for everyone on their birthdays but keeps it anonymous. They never know who gave it to them.

•100% addicted to energy drinks. He drinks at least 3 a day.

•He sleeps the least out of anyone in the Circus. When everyone else calls it a night, he often stays up to contemplate or sneak off to the grounds.

•He made it to the Void multiple times in an attempt to escape before being subtly threatened by Caine. He never tried again.

•He never particularly liked Kaufmo because he thought the clown was obnoxious. He only realized how much he missed him when he couldn't pick on him anymore.

•Surprisingly, he rarely got in trouble at school or with his parents. He was a pretty well-behaved kid and didn't want to let his parents down by displeasing them.

•He makes kandi bracelets and wears them when no one's around.

•He has shoes in the Circus. He just chooses not to wear them.

•He does not like Gangle at all. He thinks she's pathetic and needs thicker skin.

•He learned the day Zooble arrived not to mess with them too much. He got strangled immediately.

•After an adventure, if he's upset over something minor, he'll lock himself in his room and mope. He cheers himself up by watching his favorite movies.

•He is the only one who could remember his own name when he first woke up in the Circus.

•He is the only one who can break the fourth wall. He is well aware that the viewers are watching.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

This crackship was supposed to be FUNNY but then it got really serious instead?

At least it's sweet. Or at least @elder-dragon-reposes thinks so!

Yo @incorrectskyrimquotes do you want some Leara/Ralof romance/pining?

ao3 | masterlist

She's curled in the corner of the wagon when he first notices her. Dark red hair falls in a curtain over her face, but Ralof thinks he sees the tip of a leaflet ear poking between the fallen strands. An elf, then. He doesn't remember seeing her during the ambush and the skirmish that followed. He wonders how she got there. He wonders why. Was she at the border?

When she wakes, it's signaled by strained shoulders and a near-visible shrinking in on herself. Then Ralof is met with the most startling blue eyes he's ever seen, bright and cold and thick with ice. They sweep his face, then turn to the other occupants of their carriage. At the moment, Ralof swears those eyes hesitate and widen when the elf woman spots Jarl Ulfric, but later, he isn't sure.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."

She stares at him again and is quiet.

She is quiet when the Imperials corral them from the carriages to hear General Tullius's damning talk-down to Jarl Ulfric.

Then, they're in line for the chopping block. Hadvar, damn traitor that he is, is standing there prim as a princess with his quill and parchment, ready to take down the names of the convicted.

Ralof wants to curse him. He cannot.

Then the elf woman is in front of Hadvar..

"Who . . . are you?" "Leara Ormand. I, I'm from Daggerfall." "I'm sorry, miss. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."

She hangs her head.

This was Imperial justice, Ralof thought. The innocent were condemned just as easily as those who fought for others' freedom. Anything that was inconvenient for the Empire must go.

They execute Snorri first, Talos guard him. Then they call the elf woman, Leara, forward. Her head no longer hangs. She walks forward with the same cool face and straight spine he's seen in other high elves.

Thunder rumbles, not for the first time since this circus began.

She kneels at the block.

All Oblivion breaks loose.

Smoke and screams resonate through the air as fire splits the skies. Visibility is lost. Ralof stumbles to the ground.

Amid the screaming, he hears a word echoing above the den and so penetrating that it chilled his soul.

Dragon.

He stumbles over something—someone. The woman, Leara.

Her hand snatches at his arm, shockingly cold amid the blistering heat.

They drag each other to the tower, making it just before Jarl Ulfric and the others close and bar the door. He turns to ask Jarl Ulfric—Could the legends be true?—and then she is gone like a dart up the stairs.

Ralof doesn't see Leara again until he stumbles into the Keep. She's on the floor, propped against the wall with her face flushed and her hands encrusted in frost. In her hands, she's clutching the hilt of a katana, but where she got it, Ralof doesn't know. Her eyes are closed, and she looks desperately like she's trying to catch her breath. But Ralof knows that soon this room will be swarming with Imperials fleeing the firestorm outside. They needed to go.

Their trip through the keep and its cave network is a blur of exhaustion and bloodshed. Her hands leave a trail of black frosted blood pools in their wake. The katana sings like hissing ice in her hands when they face the Torturer and sleeps just as easily when they agree to sneak past the bear.

He takes Leara to Gerdur. He needs to return to Windhelm as soon as possible, but it is clear as sunlight that Leara has been caught in a bad spot. When Gerdur hears about their escape from Helgen, she is only too willing to help out Ralof's new "friend."

Ralof waves Leara goodbye the morning after they stumble into Gerdur's yard. She is sitting on the porch, her katana beside her, but her face is clean from the ash of their near-death.

"Be well, Ralof!"

She says in farewell.

Ralof grins at her, not quite full, and leaves. And his mind wanders down other paths, away from his harried flight with Leara Ormand.

But he thinks of her again when he's faced with the white-blue ice of the White River biting at the ancient stones of Windhelm. When he returns to the field, he halfway remembers the song of her katana in the whistling of the wind through the pines.

But it is the dragon attack on Whiterun that eventually brings her back to the forefront of his mind. The attack is months after Helgen, but not long enough for the people of Skyrim to forget that a dragon leveled an entire village and stirred the embers of the Civil War into a full blaze with Ulfric Stormcloak's escape from the Imperials. The fighting has just picked up again after the winter lull when the news of the attack spreads like wild . . . dragon fire.

And with that news comes the murmur of Dragonborn. The Greybeards called her.

"Her?" "Some pointy ear. Not a Nord."

It is only when someone mentions that the Dragonborn carries a katana that Ralof knows that she and Leara are the same. It makes for a good story around the campfire when Ralof tells how he and the Dragonborn escaped that first dragon attack. Most don't believe him. Some do.

Then there are those who scoff at the idea of an elf woman being the Nords' hero. It's not long before Ralof finds himself in front of Commander Gonnar for brawling over it.

Commander Gonnar is . . . not impressed.

"Do you think we're out here to brawl like barflies?" "No sir." "No, because we have a job to do, leiutenant, and you can't perform your job when you're out there rolling in the dirt because someone insulted an elf to your face." "She's the Dragonborn, sir." "Well, then, she doesn't need you taking up for her, does she?" "Yes, sir."

Commander Gonnar sends him back to Windhelm soon after that. Less trouble in the camp.

Even in Windhelm, support for the Dragonborn is mixed, especially when Ralof hears about her plans to hold a peace talk at High Hrothgar. He volunteers for Ulfric Stormcloak's guard. The Jarl, at least, doesn't seem to care about What the Dragonborn is, so long as she takes care of Skyrim. That's fair enough, all things considered.

At High Hrothgar, Leara is happy to see him. Ralof is surprised when she catches his hand up in hers, a grin curving her white gold face. She seems happy . . . for someone who then proceeds to manipulate an entire table to agree to her terms while holding everyone else at their starting positions.

Yes, Leara is perfectly fine. Or so Ralof convinces himself, until he finds her in an alcove, sometime after dinner, with her katana in her hands and her face too pale. Her breathing is shallow and she's not seeing.

Ralof is crouched beside her in a moment.

"Leara—" "Elenwen. Elenwen."

Her skin is clammy. Oh.

Ralof holds Leara's hand through the panic attack beating on her. The best he can do is talk to her and rub her shoulder. Eventually, he manages to pry the katana from her death grip. Her hands soon fist in his hauberk. She falls asleep not long after that.

She is apologetic but still thankful afterward. For the first time, Ralof sees the layer of ice in her eyes give way to glimpses of spring waters.

Ralof might not know what happened to Leara, but he knows being a hero hasn't suddenly made her invincible. If anything, it's exacerbated a deeper problem. Problems he doesn't dare to tease out when General Stone-Fist sits down to talk about the Dragonborn as the Stormcloaks make their descent from the Throat of the World.

Months pass before he sees her again, and then it's on the wings of her victory over the World-Eater. She sweeps into WIndhelm and soon Ralof finds himself at the bar with her at Candlehearth Hall. He looks forward to speaking to her again but is nonetheless surprised by her turn in conversation.

"What do you know about the Butcher murders?" "Well . . ."

Ralof can't say he's kept up with the whole drawn-out tragedy, but Leara seems intent on investigating, and he commits to helping her—as much as his duties allow, that is. Later, when she brings the amulet to him with whispered descriptions of a room bathed in sinew and blood, he suggests the court wizard. Ulfric trusts the man, and from what Ralof has heard, Wuunferth seems pretty knowledgeable.

Directing Leara to speak to Wuunferth does not prevent her from being stabbed by the Butcher days later. She takes Calivto Corrium out with her own bloodied ice before collapsing in a shivering heap. She is taken to her room at Candlehearth before Ralof can check in on her. Before he can see that she's okay.

Leara will be okay. Ralof will not.

When Ralof accompanies the guards to clear out the House of Curiosities, he finds the Dibella statue modeled in Leara's likeness: White gold, small, naked, and frigid.

Rage bursts in his chest. He throws it into the wall. On impact, it shatters in a rain of pottery shards, painted and false.

From there, Ralof hurries to Candlehearth. There, he finds Leara propped in a chair; when he enters, she's half-heartedly nibbling an apple tart but, at the sight of him, sets it aside.

"Ralof! Would you like some pastry?"

Her smile is bright, if strained by the lingering pain. She half-raises the plate toward him.

Ralof takes it from her, and setting it on the table, kneels beside her chair. As he does so, he takes the cold hand in his, clasping it between both palms. He bows over her hand in his, his forearms braced against the chair arms.

"Ralof? Are you okay? What's happened?"

But Ralof can't speak. How can he? How can he speak into existence the truth his spirit has been seeking this whole time? He must tell her. He's not a coward, but a brave son of Skyrim! But the words stick in Ralof's throat, even when Leara's other hand comes to card through his hair.

When he leaves, the words are still lodged in his throat. The whole time he doesn't speak, Leara simply strokes his hair, and when he leaves, she offers another smile. Confused, certainly, but soft. Kind.

Ralof is tempted to ask Generals Stone-Fist or Thrice-Pierced to deploy him to a camp in Hjaalmarch or the Reach, but every time, he's driven to stay. All the while, Leara is recovering. Soon, she's back on her feet, and when she mentions leaving Windhelm, Ralof feels as if he'll be sick.

What will she do once she's out there, alone?

She's capable, he reminds himself. Yes, she defeated the World Eater. But then she was nearly murdered by a serial killer. All it took was one mistake. One. And Leara would be, Leara . . .

Leara would be dead.

t's that thought that drives him to Candlehearth again. He's hurrying down the hall toward Leara's room before he realizes Elda is calling him.

"She's gone." "What?" "The Dragonborn, she checked out this morning."

Bile churns in Ralof's gut. She's gone.

Again the Palace of the Kings, Ralof seeks the training yard. Hack. Slash. Stab. Leara left. Slash. Hack. Stab. Leara was alone. Slash. Swipe. Turn. Leara might not come back. Stab. Hack. What if she . . .

No. He was being dramatic.

Ralof is not given long to wallow. General Stone-Fist promotes him to captain and deploys him to the Reach, clear across Skyrim. In the Reach, there's more to worry about than the abstract until proven idea of Leara's present safety. Ralof's, for one thing, and the state of the Stormcloaks campaign in the region, for the greater.

He is in the Reach a month before reports filter out of Markarth about heightened Forsworn activity in the city. The Forsworn were already a pain in the rear out in the hills and crags. Ralof did not look forward to weeding out a potential secondary force when the Stormcloaks marched on Markarth.

Then, a report comes saying there's been a breakout from Cidhna Mine. And that Madanach is alive. Ralof has a bad feeling about this. He's pretty sure Jarl Ulfric will have plenty to say about the situation.

Whatever Ulfric would say is driven from Ralof's mind when a thin figure stumbles into camp. Her hair is wild, her eyes are wild, and in her hands is that same katana.

Ralof is running to Leara to catch her in his arms before her knees even threaten to buckle.

"It's my fault." "Shhh." "Ralof, Ralof, Markarth . . ." "We'll take care of it. Don't worry, Leara."

Soon, she's asleep in the medical tent. Ralof is sitting beside her when Commander Kottir pokes his head in.

"So, that's the one stirring up the fuss in camp." "The Dragonborn, Commander." "That's what I hear."

Commander Kottir nods, grim.

"See that she doesn't die on our hands. We can't afford the talk."

Jaw clenched, Ralof just nods. Leara's hand is in his. Over the cot, he catches the commander's eye. Kottir's eyes linger on the joined hands before slipping from the tent.

When Leara wakes, Ralof learns all the dark details of Leara's ill-fated investigation iin Markarth that turned into her incarceration and eventual jailbreak with the King in Rags and his court.

"I had no idea what I was getting into. It was like a completely different playing field from what I'm used to."

Ralof can't offer much advice, except that when the Stormcloaks take over Markarth, they'd weed out the Forsworn support. Leara's face is drawn, but she squeezes his hand.

When she leaves, she says she's heading for Solitude. Ralof wishes her well, but a feeling of foreboding seeps into his bones. She doesn't say why she's going to Solitude, but there's a particular gleam in her eye that piques him in a certain way.

Without Leara in camp, Ralof's focus goes back to the war. General Stone-Fist comes out west, and Ralof is asked to accompany him to Hjaalmarch. They have their eyes on Fort Snowhawk, but before they get there, an anonymous tip comes in that the Dragonborn is being held by the Thalmor at Northwatch Keep.

When he reads the note, Galmar's face is hard. Ralof is cold.

"We can't leave her there, General." "We might have no choice."

But Ralof can't accept that. He'll go after her by himself. His knapsack is packed and his sword is sharpened when he heads for the edge of camp. Galmar stops him.

"You're not going to Northwatch alone." "Respectfully, General, but I am. I can't just leave Leara with the Thalmor when I can do something about it." "No, Captain, you're not going alone." "But sir—" "We'll be leading a raid on the fortress."

The Stormcloak attack on Northwatch is swift and pointed. The Thalmor wizards are difficult, but they're no contest when met in the tight melee range of the halls. General Stone-Fist's battlecry rings off the stonework, rallying the rebels. This is not like their plans for Snowhawk. They weren't trying to hold the fort. Raid, disrupt, and devastate, however? Doable.

Throughout the raid, Ralof felt at turns cold and furious. Leara is here somewhere, he thinks as he leads a group down into the dungeons.

The scent of blood and bile burns his nose. Ralof pushes forward until, rounding a corner, he runs headlong into a tall golden-haired Altmer. Lightning sizzles on her fingers, burning the air and setting Ralof's teeth on edge even as he thrusts his sword deep into her stomach.

Blood curdles out of her mouth as Ralof pushes passed her into the cell beyond. There.

Her head lulled to the side and eyes heavy, Leara is strapped to the wrack, her thin arms stretched skeletal over her head. In her mouth is a heavy gag, tied tight to prevent her from using the Thu'um. Ralof is at her side in an instant, making quick work of the bindings. He pulls the gag from her mouth, tossing it to the side. Behind him, one of the battlemaidens drops to her knees, checking Leara's throat and wrists.

"Captain." "How is she, Tilda?" "Sir, I don't think—"

But Ralof has Leara in his arms, her head falling against his shoulder. She's not heavy at all. They were starving her. Feeding meant removing the gag, risking the Voice. She wasn't this light in the Reach. They starved her.

He hugs her tighter to his chest, and hurries from the keep, Tilda and another soldier on his heels.

That night, after setting fire to the keep, Galmar meets him in the field healer's tent. It's even less equipped than what they have at one of their permanent campsites, and Ralof fears it won't be enough.

Leara is incredibly small and broken under the blankets. New golden scars peak from under the collar of her waif-thin shirt, tracing the path of her veins. Sitting by her bedside, Ralof has held her hand since Tilda finished examing her, the battlemaiden's face grey. The chill in Leara's hand is different now. Unsettling. He can feel the weight of Galmar's eyes on him.

"Tilda told me." "Oh." "If she wakes, she may not be the same."

Galmar cut himself off, but Ralof didn't pay attention. His focus was centered on the slight rise and fall of Leara's chest as she breathed. Every breath was shallow, and none of them restful.

"Listen, Ralof. When the time comes, if you need to take some time and go back home for a few weeks, not a man amung us would begrudge you that."

His throat thick, Ralof only nods.

With Leara in the condition she was in, it was risky to move her, but staying meant her death. The Stormcloaks were caught in a delicate situation, especially considering that they were still in Imperial territory.

"I can give you two days."

Ralof heard Galmar say to Tilda. The battlemaiden nodded. She worked diligently with Leara, praying to Talos, Mara, and Kyne for healing while attempting to work her own arts. Ralof prayed too, though his prayers beseeched Akatosh second only to Talos. But he also prayed to Arkay, begging for the tenuous thread of Leara's life to be strengthened.

One day elapsed. The second one drew toward its close.

There was no change. Within the last hours, Ralof sat on his knees, her hand in his and clasped against his forehead as he leaned into her cot. Ralof's chest ached.

One of the soldiers appeared at the tent flap, but Ralof didn't look up.

"Captain, General's ordered the camp to pack up and head out." "Thank you, Jorvar."

Then it was Tilda's hand on his shoulder.

"Come, Ralof. We must wrap her up and get her on a horse. We've given her as much rest as we can." "She's not strong enough." "Perhaps not, but we have to trust in the Divines that she may be."

His mouth in a line, Ralof simply nodded. Sighing, Tilda turned to finish packing the medical supplies they'd brought from the Haafingar camp.

A tear stung his eyes, followed by another. They weren't the first he'd shed over her, but the fear and despair were beginning to gnaw deeper into his spirit. With trembling lips, Ralof dotted a kiss on Leara's palm, then her knuckles, and the pads of each finger. At last, he drew the thin hand to lay flat on his heart.

Please.

Leara remains stable on the trip to the Haafingar camp, wrapped in blankets and nestled in the bottom of their one wagon. Tilda keeps vigil at her head. Beside the wagon, Ralof rides on horseback, his sword and Leara's katana sheathed at his side.

They make it to the camp, and Tilda is able to administer different medicines that she did not have before. Some color returns to Leara's face, but she still breathes shallowly. Soon, Tilda grows adamant that they must take her to Whiterun, to the Temple of Kynareth. Galmar, while seeing reason in some of Tilda's arguments, is quick to remind the battlemaiden that Whiterun is not their ally. The Stormcloaks cannot step foot in the city. Tilda insists that they can under certain terms.

In the midst of them, Ralof keeps praying that perhaps Leara would at least open her eyes. One last time. During these times, he often falls asleep, his head by her arm on the cot.

It is one of these times that Ralof fell asleep that he thought he woke up. Really, he was sure in the moment that he had, but afterward could never be totally sure. As he lay in half-sleep, he watched a man with golden skin and blue-fire eyes slip into the tent. As he approached, his feet made no noise.

The man's hand passed unfelt (and yet felt) over Ralof's head before landing on Leara's arm. As if entranced, Ralof watched the man remove Leara's hand from his grip and tuck it over her stomach.

"Oh, little one."

For the rest of his life, Ralof could never remember what happened afterward. One minute he was half watching the stranger pass the backs of his fingers over and over Leara's sallow cheek, and then the next, well. The next moment Ralof knew on waking was Leara's fingers carding through his hair. He stirred, and then stared.

From her pillow, Leara was smiling at him. It was a slight smile, still touched with pain, but it was alive because she was awake and she was here.

Ralof met the summer lake warmth of Leara's eyes. And he knew. He clasped her hand in his, and once more began to kiss it. Leara laughed, small and tired, but awake and alive. So very much alive!

He grinned at her.

"I love you." "I know."

Her voice was worn, tired, and fracturing, but so soft and relieved. Hopeful. He pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of Leara's wrist. Yes, he loved her very much, and he would tell her so every day for the rest of their lives.

fin

[m39]

Doom WADs’ Roulette (2006): Impossible: A New Reality

Br1: Impossible: A New Reality

Main author(s): JK

Release date: October 20th, 2006

Version played: ???

Required port compatibility: ZDoom

Levels: 1 (MAP01 replacement)

Remember M.C. Escher? You know, that guy who would draw geometrical mindfucks like the stairs that make you end up in the same place even though you keep going up or down? There is a reason why there is an award named after him in this installment of Cacowards.

Impossible: A New Reality is like Escher himself did a Doom map... That’s all I’m gonna say for now since I don’t know what to say in this paragraph anymore. So let’s just take a look at this map and see why it earned the award.

The plot is basically one wall of text so here is a summary:

You hate your boss, you bang his wife, you kill your boss, you bury him in an Indian burial ground (how original), then your ass is dragged to the map.

A New Reality looks rather good, I guess. I saw better-looking maps that were uploaded on the Internet before this one but this map still looks fine. I didn’t see anything severely bad looking.

The music track used for this map (a MIDI cover of Black Rose from Eternal Darkness) is really good to listen to. It might not sound like the typical Doom stuff, but it fits this map so well it doesn’t even matter.

This map is a mindfuck, I can tell you that. There are moments where you get stuck, but it’s a far cry from some of the moon-logic bullshit from the 90s.

As for how weird this map is, it has some mindfucking moments. Sure, by today's standards, it is just some of the locations looping themselves over and over (with silent teleporters that supposedly make it look more convincing but it looks kind of janky today) and the passages that supposedly lead to one place when instead lead to another (because the map is split into fragments that aren’t actually connected; and that’s why it doesn’t show its locations on the Automap), but it still looks kind of cool despite being kind of outdated.

Honestly, I feel like this map is weirder than Happy Time Circus. Even though that map has an insane motive of a demonic carnival, after around the first third of it, that map becomes stale and a chore to play through until the last area of it. Meanwhile, A New Reality might have a much weaker punch but it’s spread throughout the entirety of itself, constantly keeping your attention and making you think about what will happen next (at least partially in my opinion).

Asides from screwing with your perception and cohesive thinking, there is also a puzzle room where you have to press three switches out of sixteen to open a door in front of you. The solution to this puzzle is found in the area near the start but you have to follow the arrow on the floor to get there.

This map isn’t hard. Some of the stuff with monsters using invisible teleporters tend to be annoying among others but overall, I feel like it was rather easy almost all of the time.

It would be better if this map didn’t have stealth enemies in it. At least it’s just Imps this time.

There is only one new enemy added in A New Reality, called Mister Cyberdemon, who’s basically a siege cow that drops the yellow key after dying.

There are no game-breaking bugs on this map. The only bugs I noticed were one of the textures being unintentionally misaligned and one small part of the map in the yellow key area (which kind of feels like a maze in my eyes) being visible on the Automap. I don’t know if it’s an accident or was intentional but either way, it helped me escape from there.

Impossible: A New Reality might be slightly janky by today's standards but it is still a fun map to play. Check out if you are interested. And don’t forget to look at this video for more:

As for the next map on the bronze list... well... we will get to that in the near future.

I’ll see you later.

Bye.

[magicshopaholic]

A Phone Call (Jimin x OC)

Summary: Jimin has something important to tell Sooah.

Pairing: Jimin x OC, minor Taehyung x OC (different OCs)

Genre: Humour, mild smut, mild angst (yes, somehow, they exist together)

Word count: 9.5 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, smoking, alcohol, making out, nipple play, dry humping

A/N: Set around three months after Stranger Things, during the same weekend as In Time. Naturally, it contains some Taehyung and Dilara. Jiimin is the epitome of cutie-sexy-lovely, and it's always a blast writing Sooah. Despite all these references, it can be read standalone, too.

Tagging: @quarter-life-crisis2, @meirkive, @dreaming-with-happiness, @jiminjhang, @confessionsofamarshlily, @kflixnet  (drop a message if you want to be added)

Listen to: “wake up with you” by emerson leif

jimin masterlist | main masterlist

The first time she smiles at him, Jimin is checking into the hotel. 

She’s across the lobby, standing with people in similar t-shirts as she talks into an earpiece. There’s a small notebook in one hand and she’s simultaneously opening a bottle of water as she continues her conversation. She looks busy. There’s something oddly charming about that, and Jimin leans back against the reception desk as their staff completes the formalities, being helped out by Namjoon and Hoseok.

She catches his eye while her mouth is full of water. She freezes, clearly recognising him, and Jimin takes a beat before smiling at her. He presumes she’s taken off guard, for even though she smiles back, she does it without swallowing, making her face look like a cartoon character’s, with inflated cheeks and bright eyes.

Even though they don’t approach each other, the image stays in his mind. The silly, awkward smile, her hair tucked back by the earpiece, the comical way she froze in her tracks when she’d realised who he was. It wasn’t the effect he’d specifically intended to have, but he didn’t mind it in the slightest.

The next time she smiles at him, it’s much less awkward. Jimin walks into an elevator, head bent low over his phone when he looks up to see the only other occupant. 

“Hi, there.”

She’s bold. He likes it.

“Hi.” Jimin sees that the button to the ground floor has been pressed, so he leans back against the wall of the elevator and smiles back at her. 

They have twenty floors to go. Jimin sneaks another look at her; she’s in the same t-shirt as yesterday, this time with a jacket on top. He looks away the instant he notices her checking him out, unable to stop a smile from creeping onto his face.

“You can take a picture,” he says after a moment, turning to her.

She looks momentarily startled, but recovers quickly. “You don’t have enough people doing that on the streets?”

“You don’t look like paparazzi.”

“I’m not.” A moment passes where they hold each other’s gaze, a flirty moment of youthful anticipation. “My name is Ahnjong.”

“Jimin.” He lowers his head briefly as she nods as well. Even with heeled boots on, she has to be at least a few inches shorter than him.

Ahnjong - he loves the name - nods. “I know.”

He grins. “K-pop fan?”

“Event planner.”

Jimin’s stomach does an unexpected backflip. “Oh. So do you travel with this whole…” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “... Formula One circus throughout the year?”

“No, I don’t. I’m not part of Formula One,” she explains, crossing her arms across her chest and looking slightly more relaxed. “The company I work for got hired for the Grand Prix.” She raises her eyebrows knowingly. “And you’re on the guest list.”

“Excited to perform,” he says automatically.

“Excited to watch.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Ahnjong breaks away, a faint pink blush spreading across her cheeks. Jimin can’t help but grin wider at the sight, pleased at the reaction, when the elevator doors open. “See you around, Park Jimin,” she says, sounding slightly more formal. She exits before Jimin even straightens up from where he was leaning against the wall.

He steps out and catches a glimpse of her jogging over to another girl in the same black t-shirt who hands her a clipboard. Ahnjong nods at whatever she says and strides out of the lobby purposefully, taking out her phone from her pocket as she disappears from you. There’s something oddly exciting about what he’s just witnessed, and he can’t help but hope he runs into her again, the event planner with the clipboard and Bluetooth speaker.

—

Jungkook and Seokjin have a bet going on, and Jimin doesn’t like that he isn’t a part of it. 

He supposes it’s his own fault; they’d come up with it after Jungkook and Jimin had returned from the gym on Thursday morning and gone straight to Seokjin and Yoongi’s shared room. Yoongi was nowhere to be seen - Seokjin’s only contribution to his whereabouts had been that he’d looked a bit annoyed when he left, which told Jimin next to nothing.

Jungkook went straight to the minibar and began taking inventory of the items in it, clicking his tongue at the calories in each. Jimin hung around behind Seokjin who was playing Mario Kart on his computer, doing a rather mediocre job. There was a missed call on his phone that he knew he had to return eventually, but for now, he was content just throwing suggestions at the older member.

“You play it then,” snapped Seokjin after Jimin’s third attempt at correcting him.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said easily, traipsing over to where Jungkook was and picking up a Diet Coke. “Don’t they have kombucha?”

“They don’t have anything,” complained Jungkook mournfully, looking like a child as he sat cross-legged in front of the minifridge, glaring into the empty void. He turned around to look up at Jimin. “Why Yeongam of all places?”

“Because this is where the circuit is,” came Namjoon’ voice out of nowhere, making Jimin jump and choke on his drink. The leader absently patted him on the back as he walked by, almost knocking the wind out of him, as he typed into his phone, brow furrowed slightly.

“Wow, you got the adjoining room?” Jungkook asked in wonder, looking between Seokjin and Namjoon.

“Yeah, but you two and Hobi got the biggest suite,” said Namjoon without looking up, sitting on the edge of the bed now. “He’s asked if we can move up the sound check, by the way,” he added, finally looking up at them. “Is that good with everyone? Be ready in an hour?”

All three of them nodded, Seokjin going to text Yoongi. Jimin looked around and frowned.

“Where’s Taehyung?”

Namjoon jerked his head towards their shared room. “In the shower,” he replied, going back to his phone.

“Wasn’t he in the shower when we left for the gym?”

“Yes. I think he’s trying to drown himself,” said Namjoon seriously.

“That sounds like a good idea actually,” said Jimin absently, before catching Seokjin’s eye. “The shower, not the… drowning.”

“Taehyung would disagree, apparently.”

“He saw her earlier today,” piped up Jungkook.

“Yeah, no kidding,” muttered Namjoon, while Jimin fell silent. “Anyway. Get showered and changed, you two. Or not,” he added, getting up to leave. “You can shower later, too.”

“No, it’s too hot,” murmured Jimin, already feeling uncomfortable with the air conditioner on his sweaty skin. Plus, on an unrelated note, he’d spotted a certain event planner in the lounge a few floors down on his way out from the gym and while he wasn’t one to actively seek out a woman unless he was sure of her interest, in this case, he was pretty sure of her interest.

Bidding a non-committal goodbye to Jungkook and Seokjin as the former began chucking grapes at the latter to catch, Jimin took the elevator back down to the gym floor. He was sure he’d seen her - but he wasn’t desperate. No, if someone saw him, he could always say he’d left something in the gym. In fact, if he thought about it, he probably had left his towel there… and the last thing he needed was some crazed fan stealing it to sell it online.

As it turned out, he hadn’t left his towel at the gym and neither did he see Ahnjong again. It was mildly annoying, not just that she seemed to disappear in a flash, but also that he was thinking about her at all.

It’s always the quiet ones.

Even now, standing backstage at the Korea International Circuit, Jimin shivers. The voice feels old as time and the words make his heart skip the kind of beat it rarely does. When he’d heard it in his head earlier today, he’d jogged back to his room without a second thought and locked himself in the bathroom as soon as possible. Taking a leaf out of his best friend’s book, he’d crawled into the tub and lain there motionlessly until Hoseok had banged on the door, shouting at him to get ready for sound check.

Everyone’s starting to pack up now. They’re done with their performance, followed by a nerve-wracking few minutes of crowd work with Max Verstappen, Christian Horner and Dilara Komyshan. Jimin didn’t have to say a word - none of them did, in fact - but he’d been uncomfortably self-conscious the entire time, as though everyone on stage and in the audience was looking directly at him, blaming him for what he knew was his fault.

They’d been ushered off fairly quickly, however, and now he hangs around backstage while the Red Bull drivers do their interview. Some of the stylists pack up and the hospitality staff bustles around as well. Namjoon is speaking to a couple of important looking people while Jimin glances surreptitiously at him, trying vaguely to understand how someone so uncoordinated can look this tall and imposing when he wants to. 

Jin and Jungkook scuffle about something, a bet they'd made while Jimin had been lounging by himself in his tub. Yoongi is to the side on his laptop while Hoseok sits beside him, one headphone on as he nods seriously. Taehyung is nowhere to be found.

Thoroughly bored and somewhat annoyed, Jimin huffs and gets up, deciding to at least find Taehyung before he possibly throws himself off the balcony backstage. Finally, after five minutes of searching, Jimin spots him downstairs with a plume of light and silvery smoke wafting up from his still figure. He looks like a painting, face stony and a hand in his pocket, his red hoodie looking jarring against the cloudy grey of the evening.

Jimin sighs, leaning against the railing as he watches his best friend, knowing better than anyone that the moment the cigarette comes out, he is to be left alone. Through the speakers, he hears her voice as she answers a question, her accent foreign yet familiar, and his stomach churns uncomfortably.

"Are you lost?"

Jimin jumps. Heart hammering, he turns around to see Ahnjong behind him, her head tilted slightly.

"Fuck," he mutters, exhaling.

She raises her eyebrows. "Did I scare you?"

"Only almost to death."

Her lips purse as though trying to suppress a smile. "Sorry." She points behind her. "I think your leader is looking for you."

"Oh. Um -" He bites his lip and glances back over the railing to look at Taehyung again. There's a fresh cigarette between his fingers, long and thin, and Jimin knows there’s nothing more that can be done now. He turns back to Ahnjong. “I’ll be right there. Thanks.”

She nods once and turns slightly, as though to leave, when Jimin calls her name. “Yes?”

“Uh -” Shit. His eyes dart from the ear piece to the clipboard in her hand, and he swallows. “Is there anything to do around here?” he blurts. “I mean… have you been to Yeongam before?”

“I haven’t, but…” She points vaguely to something behind her. “There’s a bar about twenty minutes away. One of the mechanics used to live here,” she adds in explanation.

“Right.” Jimin bites his lip. “Is it any good?”

Ahnjong shrugs. “You’ll have to go to find out, I guess.”

“You don’t know?”

“Nope. Going there for the first time tomorrow myself.” 

There’s a familiar twinkle in her eye and Jimin can’t help but feel his mouth twist into a smile. “Oh, really? How come?”

“Need a break. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just wanted to know what people do here when they need a break.”

She chuckles. “Do you want to come? Two of my friends will be there but I’m usually a third wheel with them, so…”

There’s a distant sort of disappointment in his stomach at her response, and he realises a moment later it’s because he was looking forward to the banter going on a bit longer. “They sound like great company,” he says finally. 

“They’re alright.”

She’s still waiting for a response. Out of nowhere, Jimin remembers the missed call he has yet to return and his heart skips an uncomfortable beat. But he can’t afford to talk himself out of it. 

“Sounds like a plan. Actually,” he adds quickly, remembering something. He leans backwards over the railing to see Taehyung, now simply standing by the wall with both his hands in his pockets. “Do you mind if I bring a friend, too?”

—

The next day, Jimin spends all afternoon with Hoseok. He wakes up at a quarter to noon and orders room service that he and Jungkook split. The latter then disappears to get feedback on his new song from Namjoon and Yoongi, while Jimin seeks out Hoseok, who’s all dressed and on his way to explore the circuit.

“Why?” Hoseok asks suspiciously when Jimin accosts him on his way to get the rental car. He pulls up his hood as the clouds gather overhead.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, suddenly realising he honestly has no idea why. “I’m sick of staying in the hotel. And it’ll be nice to see the cars… you know.” He makes a vague gesture with his hands. “Practicing. Please, hyung,” he whines, when Hoseok doesn’t falter.

He relents eventually, and Jimin ends up following him around as he tours the paddock, genially introducing himself to the team principals and the mechanics. Jimin takes his cue, occasionally basking in the attention from the fans he can tell are there for BTS, even if they don’t say it. There’s a sticky spot when they pass the Red Bull garage, and even though that’s where they need to be for the next two days, Jimin can’t help but wish he had more members of the group to blend in with.

“Should we say hi to her?” Hoseok asks in a low voice, in direct contrast to the open and jovial persona he’s been putting on all day. She is across the garage, looking small and blazing in her Red Bull jumpsuit, her hair loose and wavy down her back. She’s standing with a staff member in a team t-shirt in glasses, nodding seriously as he explains something to her while referring to a sheet of paper in his hand.

Jimin swallows, his heart thumping. Dilara, for all intents and purposes, has ignored their presence in a way that would make him proud if he weren’t the target. The only time she’d provided any sort of acknowledgment that they existed at all was when she’d knocked into him backstage yesterday. 

He’d been hurrying to meet Namjoon, still riding the high of having a date the next day, when he’d felt a thud against his side. His heart had almost dropped into his stomach when he’d realised who it was, but before he’d managed to get her whole name out of his mouth, she’d flinched out of his grasp and brushed past him. 

That had been less than twenty-four hours ago, but nothing in her body language today would indicate that she even remembers, let alone cares. The image of her eyes widening yesterday stays with Jimin; apart from that, he and Hoseok could be part of the wall for all the attention she’s giving them.

“I don’t think it matters,” mutters Jimin, just as she climbs back into her car and twists her hair up before putting on her helmet. She looks like a machine and just the way she’d hurried away from him yesterday, her car zooms out of the garage, leaving Jimin infinitely thankful for his foresight at not inviting Taehyung to the paddock.

When Jimin finally does drag Taehyung out of the hotel, determined to get him out of his spiral of self-pity, he’s surprised at how willingly he comes along. Taehyung doesn’t seem enthusiastic by any means, but he seems to have exhausted every sad song on his playlist and consumed a month’s quota of nicotine while pining away for the girl he lost, leaving with nothing to do but at least try to move on.

Jimin drives the same rental car to the bar, a small and folksy sort of establishment on the highway. He scans the place for Ahnjong the moment he walks in, wondering in a momentary panic if he’d misread the address or, worse, her intentions. 

“Let’s, uh, let’s sit at the bar,” says Jimin after a moment, hoping his nervousness doesn’t reflect in his voice because while he may have dragged Taehyung along with him, he’s still neglected to tell his friend that he’s here on a date. There’s no telling what he might feel if he finds out he’s tagging along to further Jimin’s love life while his own is in the toilet.

For now, Taehyung shuffles silently behind him as he takes a seat at the bar, tapping his fingers on the counter to the beat of the song. It’s vaguely familiar, possibly Michael Jackson, he guesses. The bartender comes up to them and Jimin orders a beer, knowing he’ll need to keep his wits about him. “Whiskey?” he asks Taehyung, who shakes his head. 

“Rum,” he says gruffly before going back to glaring at the countertop.

As soon as the drinks arrive, Jimin dives for his, desperate for something to do with his hands. He allows himself to look around now, taking in the vintage decor, the dart board in the corner and the overall casual style of the place. He’s glad he’s not overdressed; while it wouldn’t be crazy that he and Taehyung came out for a drink or two, the less attention he draws to himself, the better.

Taehyung is done with his first drink before Jimin is even halfway through. Much as he wants to comment on it, he doesn’t, simply watching him order another and mentally noting that either he limits himself to his own drink, or he texts one of the other members to pick them up later. He unlocks his phone to check who’s online, when the notification blinks up at him again. One missed call.

“Lost again?”

Her voice is soft through the old timey rock and roll, and this time Jimin doesn’t jump. He sets his phone down and turns on his bar stool slightly, wondering vaguely if the leap in his chest is excitement or relief as she takes the seat next to him.

“Definitely not.” He holds up his bottle. “I’m exactly where I need to be. Can I buy you a drink?”

Ahnjong smiles. Now no longer in her work clothes, she looks even prettier than before. Her hair is down and she’s in a light blue dress that ends at her knees, a denim jacket over it. “Sure.” When she speaks, his gaze is naturally drawn to her mouth. Red lips, he notes, and his stomach flips.

“Where are your friends?” he asks, peering around her to her other side and seeing no one.

“At the booth over by the corner,” comes her reply, followed by a sigh. “I said I’d get the drinks but honestly? I just thought I’d give them a few minutes to themselves and get some breathing room of my own.”

Jimin looks over his shoulder at the corner booth, a semi-circular one with a low table. There are two women, both probably in their mid-twenties, sitting close to each other and laughing at something. It’s an innocuous sight, but he gets what Ahnjong means; while he doesn’t know their relationship, there’s something about the way they’re sitting that makes it seem like they’re the only two people in world.

“And how’s your friend? Is he - oh.” Ahnjong blushes slightly and sits back, and Jimin suspects she’s recognised Taehyung.

“He’s… not in the mood. You look nice,” he says quickly, anxious to change the topic from Taehyung. It works; her smile is infectious and Jimin grins back, glad he’s got her attention back.

“Thanks. So do you. Just less… shiny than what we see on stage,” she adds.

“I try to keep a low profile.” Jimin looks back at her table. “Do you want to join them? I wouldn’t want to steal you away from your friends.”

“I don’t mind being stolen away from my friends.”

“No?”

“As long as it’s worth my while.”

“Is that a challenge?” 

Ahnjong chuckles. “More of a request. I love my friends, but…” She sighs, her eyes flckering back to them. “It takes a lot to pry their attention away from each other.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge.”

She laughs. “You can take it as one. But I wouldn’t mind having you to myself for another drink, if that’s okay with you.”

“As you wish,” he replies with a grin, even as he feels the same slow disappointment he had yesterday at her straightforwardness. On paper, it’s a good thing. In reality, he can’t help but miss the game.

They do eventually join her friends. The two women look up when Ahnjong arrives as though they hadn’t even realised she’d gone anywhere. Jimin feels a stab of sympathy for her, especially when she sets their drinks on the table and introduces him and Taehyung.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere,” the taller one, Minyoung, says. With shoulder-length hair and a charming smile, she looks like she could be Ahnjong's sister.

"Probably at the paddock," replies Jimin easily. "Do you work for the same company as Ahnjong, too?”

“Yes, that’s where we met,” says the other one, who’d only introduced herself as “Silver”. She has a short, choppy bob cut with - Jimin notes with mild amusement - silver streaks along the sides. “Do you work for F1?”

“Oh, no,” he says immediately. “I’m a… a guest, I guess.” He turns to Taehyung briefly, as though to check if that’s the right word.

“That’s cool. And your friend…?” Minyoung peers slightly around them to look at Taehyung as well, eyes wide with interest.

It seems to take him a few seconds to realise that he’s being spoken to. His eyes flicker up while the rest of him remains motionless, his glass still before his lips. With the hood of his sweatshirt on his head and the blond strands falling down the sides of his face, he looks unbelievably incongruous in the bar full of well-dressed pub-goers. 

When he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, Jimin clears his throat, silently hoping he won't ruin this for him. He feels Ahnjong on his other side, and his heart races. His best friend meets his gaze, eyes narrowed, and after a moment his shoulders seem to deflate.

"Taehyung," he says shortly.

It's not great, but Jimin takes it. Turning back to Ahnjong and her friends, he raises his bottle slightly, wanting to get their attention away from Taehyung. 

Ahnjong looks relieved, too, and clinks her bottle with his. "Glad you could make it."

"Glad you asked." He notices Silver looking curiously at him and gives her an innocent smile. "And it's nice to meet you both, too."

"Likewise," she says after a moment, while Minyoung gives him another warm, open smile. 

"I wish Ahnjong had told us she was bringing a date - we would've booked a bigger table," she offers, her gaze darting to Taehyung again, conspicuously single. "Not to mention… maybe another friend?" She raises her eyes hopefully, as though to check whether she's guessed right.

Jimin feels Taehyung freeze next to him, and internally sighs. "What for?" he asks after a moment, voice deep and low.

"Um, just… you know." Minyoung shrugs awkwardly. "Someone you might get along with. Unless you're…"

"Leaving?" He sets his empty glass on the table and stands up. "I think I am."

Minyoung looks a bit taken aback while Ahnjong looks a little less shocked, but still awkward. "Uh, I'll be right back," he says quickly, hurrying behind Taehyung and grabbing his shoulder as subtly as he can.

"Dude," he mutters quietly, "what are you doing?"

Taehyung whips around, his jaw hard. "That's why you brought me here? This wasn't about trying to make me feel better; it was you needing a wingman for a date?"

"Yes," replies Jimin instantly. "I do want you to feel better and I've been trying. But I also knew you wouldn't come if I told you the truth, which is that she asked me out and I - I panicked. She was bringing her friends and I didn't want to show up alone, so I brought my best friend along."

Taehyung is silent for a moment. "What about Sooah?"

"What about her? Listen, Ahnjong - she asked me out, alright?" he says, feeling his phone burn in his pocket. "She's cute and charming and I just needed one night out. Can't you just… gather yourself for a bit?"

"And what? Pretend to be enthusiastic about a group date?"

"Yes. God knows I've lied for you enough," mutters Jimin, realising the moment he's said it that he didn't mean to. He looks up at Taehyung to see a flicker in his eyes that he recognises despite only a momentary flash: guilt.

He sighs. "I'm not asking you to flirt with anyone. But I like her," he says and his voice is slightly smaller this time. "And I don't think we'll ever meet again or anything, so it's literally just one night. For me."

Taehyung is staring at the floor, his hands in his pockets. For a moment Jimin thinks he's going to cry but then he looks up and his eyes are dry. "Of course. I… I'll just go get another drink," he mumbles, pointing weakly to the bar and not meeting Jimin's eyes. "Do you want anything?"

"Oh. Um…" He looks at the almost empty beer in his hand, and then back at Ahnjong. His heart skips a beat in anticipation and he knows he needs more liquid courage for tonight. He figures he can probably rope Jungkook in to pick them up later. "A vodka with cranberry juice?" 

"Sure." Taehyung shuffles away, looking more pitiful than Jimin expected.

He feels a brush against his arm. "Everything okay?" 

Jimin turns around, feeling lighter all of a sudden. "Yeah. He's just getting another drink."

She nods. "I didn't want to scare you this time," she explains when his eyes flicker to her hand, still on his arm.

He bites his lip, watching with a growing smile how her cheeks redden slightly as she drops her hand. "It worked. Shall we go back to the table?"

This time, her friends seem a little less focused on each other and welcome him back with more warmth - at least Minyoung does. Silver continues to watch him a little suspiciously but Jimin tries to ignore it and focus on Ahnjong who, by all indications so far, seems to be glad he's here.

The welcome Taehyung gets when he returns is slightly more forced, but when a waiter comes over with a round of shots he's paid for, the girls seem to relax a bit more. 

Jimin simply squeezes his shoulder once, knowing the peace offering is for him but also that Taehyung wouldn't want to called out as bringing one. The shots - tequila - liven everyone up a bit, including Ahnjong. Coupled with the vodka, Jimin finally feels like the night might go somewhere.

Ahnjong is genuinely nice; they mostly talk to each other, sitting side by side on the couch and only occasionally adding to the group conversation when they're asked something. She stops drinking after a while, however, citing a low tolerance which prompts Jimin to grudgingly stop as well, feeling it would be rude to continue drinking by himself.

Taehyung seems to have no such issue, though, guzzling drink after drink. While he lowers his pace, there isn't a single moment that he doesn't have a drink in his hand. 

"Let's order food," suggest Ahnjong, hailing a waiter and giving Jimin a knowing look. He gives her a small smile in return, knowing she's noticed what he has as well.

The drinking aside, Taehyung seems to be trying at least. He's not being his regular effusive self; in fact, he's being the most charmless Jimin has ever seen, but it's still a huge improvement over the monosyllabic ghost he's been since they arrived in Yeongam yesterday.

He notices Minyoung actively trying to engage him in conversation, while Silver looks slightly annoyed. Jimin watches it in mild amusement with only a twinge of envy, that even at his absolute dullest, Taehyung can manage to charm someone with no effort at all.

Surprisingly, Jimin loses track of time after a while. His head is swimming pleasantly and he finds he hadn't anticipated how good it would feel to leave the hotel and the paddock behind for an evening. Behind him, Taehyung still seems to be on his best behaviour, given the circumstance, and Minyoung and Silver seem to be engrossed in each other again, their fingers loosely linked on the former's thigh.

"So… when do you go back? To Seoul?" Ahnjong asks him after a while.

"Sunday night," he answers, his gaze darting momentarily to her mouth as she bites her lower lip. Red lips. From the distance, the sight makes his stomach flutter.

"Oh." She nods. "I'm going to Thailand on Monday. There's a concert and… at least a week's commitment there."

Jimin nods, glad she's confirmed the possibility of no more dates after this one before he had to. "We should probably make the best of this then."

"I was thinking the same thing," she says softly, and leans forward and kisses him.

Once again, Jimin is caught off guard at the premature end of the banter but the feel of her lips - red lips - against his makes the dissonance dim somewhat. Her mouth is soft and he leans in as well, tilting his head so he can open his mouth against hers.

She sighs softly, her long hair falling down her shoulder and shielding them slightly. Her hand, he realises belatedly, is firm on his thigh. A bit more confident now, he pulls her a bit closer by the waist.

Ahnjong's hand moves higher up now and Jimin can feel himself stir. "Do you want to, um…" He looks around briefly - it doesn't look like anyone's noticed - but realises slowly that there's really nowhere else they can go.

She raises her eyebrows. "Do you have a car?" she prompts after a moment. 

Before he knows it, they're in the shotgun seat of his rental car. Ahnjong is straddling his lap, her jacket off and the straps of her dress falling down her shoulders as they make out like teenagers. Jimin pulls her closer by the hips, lost in her soft body and pleasant flowery scent. His hands move up her thighs, feeling her curvy backside and the elastic of her underwear but going no further, at least not until he gets any indication from her that he can.

She moves her hips against his, moaning into his mouth at the friction. They break apart and he trails his lips down her neck, feeling her speed up against his crotch as she moves his hand up to her breast and squeezes it.

"Fuck," mutters Jimin, feeling himself harden even more inside his jeans. 

"Suck them," she murmurs, and Jimin obliges, tugging the neck of her dress down slightly and feeling the soft globe of her small breast in his hand, noting somewhere in his mind that she isn't wearing a bra. It's not quite a handful but he kisses it anyway, flicking his tongue over her erect nipple before taking it into his mouth.

He squeezes her arse and sucks on her nipple as she cums, moaning softly against his hair. She slows down, her breathing uneven, before cursing under her breath.

"Sorry?" 

"I…" She sits back and adjusts her dress before dropping her face in her hands. 

Jimin frowns, slightly afraid now. "Are you okay?"

Ahnjong nods with a muffled sound of affirmation. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment, raising her head. "I don't - I don't usually do this."

"This, as in…"

"... this," she repeats uneasily. "Casual hook ups."

He raises his eyebrows, for he honestly wouldn't have guessed, given her confidence. "Uh… okay. Do you - do you want to stop?"

She holds his gaze and exhales shakily before nodding. "I'm - I'm really sorry."

"Don't be," he says immediately, even as the mild disappointment crawls into his stomach and his pants stay tight as ever. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course," he says honestly. He pats her shoulder. "I'm sorry if I… I mean, if I did anything -"

"No! No, absolutely not."

"Oh. Okay. Okay, good."

"Yeah."

The silence is awkward, given that she's still on his lap, fresh from an orgasm he'd barely done anything for. 

Ahnjong breaks the silence. "I should go find my friends."

"Yeah," he agrees quickly, nodding as she grabs her jacket and tries to clamber off his lap inside the car. He unlocks the door and opens it, watching goosebumps appear on her arm from the sudden gust of cool breeze.

Both of them climb out and Jimin shuts the door behind him, keeping a respectful distance while she puts on her jacket and runs her fingers through her hair. Taking an executive call, he drops a message to Seokjin, asking him to come over and pick them up, despite this being the most sober Jimin has felt all night.

"So…" 

Jimin looks up to see her standing before him, looking a bit apologetic. He feels bad all of a sudden. "Do you want a ride back to the hotel?" he asks kindly.

"Oh, that's okay," she says immediately. "We'll get a cab."

"Is that safe?"

"There's three of us," she answers. "And we're at a different hotel anyway."

"Okay." There's another pause where he feels his face soften. "Goodnight, Ahnjong." He still loves the name. “See you around.”

She smiles and nods. "Goodnight, Jimin. I really did have a good time," she adds before taking a step back and waving before walking back to the bar.

Jimin stays where he is, watching her until she enters. His disappointment is multifold, but he can't put his finger on any of its causes save for the obvious one. Even there, he feels his erection disappearing and resigns himself to a cold shower when he gets back to the hotel.

He looks down at his phone again and sees Seokjin's sarcastic reply, using a roundabout way to say he's on his way. Under that, one missed call.

A long-lost anxiety creeps into his heart. He owes nothing to anyone - but why, then, does it feel like he's keeping a secret? 

In spite of everything, Taehyung would be the best person to talk to about this. He's been there since the beginning, hasn't he? He knows the history, he knows the parties involved, and he knows Jimin. The last part scares Jimin more than it comforts him, and for a moment he wonders if he can just keep it to himself for the rest of his life.

There's nothing to do about it, he supposes after a minute. He's done nothing wrong, and the anxiety will cure itself. He starts walking back to the pub, about to enter when Taehyung steps out.

Jimin exhales. "I'm sorry," is the first thing he says. "For ditching."

Taehyung frowns slightly. "Did you? I was in the smoking zone."

That would explain it. Jimin had assumed he was in the men's room when he'd sneaked out with Ahnjong, their fingers linked and pulses racing.

"Oh. Jin hyung is coming, by the way. To pick us up," he clarifies.

"Great," replies Taehyung dryly. Like Jimin, he sounds more sober than he has all night.

For the second time tonight, he frowns. "Are you okay?"

"Just peachy. Why wouldn't I be?"

Jimin raises his eyebrows, deciding he doesn't want to get caught in whatever is going on in Taehyung's head right now. "Let's just go back to the car. Hyung should be here soon."

They begin walking to the parking lot, the air feeling colder than it was a moment ago.

"Jimin."

He doesn't look up, not until Taehyung says his name again. "What?"

"Are you okay?"

"I hooked up with her." The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. He takes a longer step forward and turns around on the spot, facing Taehyung.

His friend pauses. "I know."

"What? How?"

"Through the magic of sight, Jimin. You two weren't exactly hiding," he comments, hands in his pockets. "What's the problem?"

Jimin swallows. "There's no problem."

Taehyung says nothing for a moment. "Just tell her."

"Tell - who are you -"

"Tell Sooah," he interrupts. "I mean, that's what's troubling you, right?"

Jimin exhales, his breath coming out in mist, strange for a summer night. "I - it's not troubling me." When Taehyung simply raises an eyebrow, clearly not believing him, he looks away. "It's not the same. We're not - we're not dating."

"You're doing something," says Taehyung. "And if you're in doubt, just tell her. Soon," he adds, before cracking a hollow, stony smile. "Ironic, huh?"

Jimin winces slightly in agreement, sensing that Taehyung is, despite whatever he may say, definitely not peachy. He seems to have descended into an almost frightening state of calm, with an intense nothingness behind his eyes.

Jimin takes a wary step forward as Taehyung begins walking, and gently holds his arm. "Uh, Tae -"

"No, really. Just tell her. Tell her everything. I mean, someone should learn from my -"

He stops abruptly, and whatever lack of emotion he was displaying disappears in an instant, only to be replaced by what looks like the very life being drained out of him.

"What -"

But Taehyung doesn't move, his gaze fixed resolutely on something behind Jimin. Jimin turns and for a moment, his mind doesn't register why the sight is familiar. It takes him another couple of seconds to realise it's because he's had the misfortune of catching Dilara exactly like this before, backed up against a wall and passionately making out with someone - except this time, it's definitely not Taehyung.

"Oh, my God," he whispers, not even realising he's said it out loud. It's definitely her, there's no doubting it. The short stature, the fit and lean thighs, the long and wavy hair - and, of course, Taehyung's reaction. Jimin’s mind is still reeling, for he can’t fathom how she’s landed up here. Was he so focused on Ahnjong that he hadn’t noticed Dilara at all?

“Did you know she was here?” he asks softly, unsurprised when Taehyung doesn’t respond. His eyes move to the guy devouring her, making him wince. “Who the hell is that? Why does it look like he’s eating her f- Taehyung, no!” he hisses, his hands snapping up to push Taehyung back by the chest when he takes a step forward.

Taehyung says nothing; his gaze is transfixed on them, his face one of dismay and his eyes wet. Jimin forgets about everything else for a moment, feeling only sympathy for his friend and knowing he hasn’t a clue how Taehyung is feeling. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, realising he hasn’t even heard him but hoping he won’t draw any attention to them, for the only thing worse for Taehyung than seeing Dilara suck face with some other guy would be for her to catch him doing so.

Fortunately, at that moment, Jimin spots Seokjin climbing out of a cab and entering the parking lot. Breathing a sigh of relief, he pushes Taehyung back again, this time breaking his laser gaze. 

“Seokjin hyung is here. Come on,” he mutters, turning him around by the shoulder and steering him to the car where the older member waves to them. Jimin hurriedly fishes out the remote key and unlocks the car before chucking it to Seokjin.

“How was your night out? Did you -” Seokjin is interrupted by Taehyung climbing into the backseat and slamming the door shut. “What happened?” Seokjin asks in bewilderment, turning to Jimin as he opens the driver’s door.

“Just… don’t ask,” mutters Jimin, getting into the shotgun seat next to him and strapping himself in. Seokjin follows a moment later, glancing at Taehyung in the rearview mirror before evidently deciding to go with Jimin on this one.

The ride back is unbelievably silent. Even Seokjin says nothing for once, while Taehyung may as well not be in the car for all the sound he makes. Jimin catches a glimpse of him in the side mirror, when a streetlamp momentarily shines on him; he can't pinpoint the emotion, but he remembers it instantly as the one he'd had three months ago when a mysterious package had arrived at their dorm.

Jimin truly can't imagine what he must be feeling right now. There's sympathy for sure, combined with an uncertain amount of guilt - except he can't begin to fathom what he feels most guilty for. 

It makes his stomach churn almost painfully; he hates uncomfortable situations. Even when they reach the hotel, he lets Taehyung go without a word. Next to him, Seokjin sighs.

"Okay, what happened?" he asks the moment Taehyung is out of earshot. "He looks like he's going to throw himself off the balcony." He scoffs. "There's only one thing that can make him look like that."

Jimin stares at him until he catches on. "Bingo." He starts to walk away.

"Wait! What - what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he says unconvincingly, continuing to walk away.

"Jimin!"

"I don't want to talk about it!" he says loudly before entering his hotel room and shutting the door behind him. Somehow, amidst the smell of faint male deodorant and their laundry detergent, the lingering scent of Ahnjong's flowery perfume seems stronger for a moment.

Jimin massages him temples, wondering how the hell a fun night out became this fucked up. He looks up when he hears a sound and sees Hoseok emerge from the bathroom.

"You're back!" he cries happily. "How was the date, Casanova? Did you - what happened?" 

Not again. Jimin swallows and pushes himself off the door where's leaning. "Don't want to talk about it, hyung," he repeats, suddenly feeling exhausted. He leaves before Hoseok can ask again, knowing he might break if he does and having no way of knowing what might tumble out of his mouth if he opens it.

He trudges into the room he's sharing with Jungkook, breathing a sigh of relief when he sees it empty. He doesn't think he has the energy to evade Jungkook right now, especially if he's in an interrogative mood. He sits on the edge of his bed before falling back, closing his eyes and sort of wishing he hadn’t gone out tonight at all. How had everything gone so… of track? How did the most unexpected things keep happening - and how did Jimin somehow find himself in the middle of it?

Taehyung’s face swims through his mind again; he’d looked almost catatonic. It had nothing to do with Jimin and yet, he feels like it had everything to do with him. It’s only part of what’s weighing on him, though, and when the multitude of thoughts become too much for him to handle, he finds himself making a phone call.

Sooah picks up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

Jimin swallows. The weight on his chest seems to increase but his body feels lighter somehow. The bed suddenly feels like it's made of feathers and he sinks into it.

"Hey. Sorry I missed your call."

“No problem.” She sounds like she’s shifting, and Jimin thinks he can hear a smile in her voice. “I figured you were busy.”

He thinks back to yesterday and nods, forgetting she can’t see him. “I was. Performing and all.”

“I’ll bet. How was it?”

“Pretty good. Lots of fans. Missed my biggest one, though,” he adds cheekily, hoping a second later that he hasn’t crossed a line.

Sooah chuckles. “And who would that be?”

“Just someone. Knew her a long time ago.”

“Yeah? You don’t anymore?”

“Not as well. She has a job that keeps her really busy.”

“That’s busy,” she agrees. “Is she busier than Bangtan?”

“Feels like it sometimes.” Jimin bites his lip, running a hand through his hair and enjoying the momentary silence. She’s probably in bed, getting ready to turn in. He pictures black pajamas with planets and strawberries on them before remembering that she would’ve probably changed her pajamas since two years ago.

“I’m sure she watches your stuff online.”

“I don’t think so. That would imply she misses me sometimes.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like her.”

Jimin grins, flipping over onto his front. “I think she does, though.”

“Watch you online?”

“Miss me.”

Sooah hums, and the pause after it makes his heart skip a beat. “Only as much as you miss her, probably.”

He clutches his phone a little tighter, the words on the tip of his tongue. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“No, we won’t.” There’s a faint sound of rustling, and Jimin pictures a quilt; possibly the same one she’s had since he’s known her, with patchwork on the torn and frayed spots. Tank top and pajamas, he decides, with her hair loose down her shoulders. Slightly tangled.

“How have you been?” he asks after a moment, for she sounds a bit tired.

“Not bad. It was Eunji’s brother’s birthday dinner tonight and she asked me to join. You know, for moral support,” she explains, and he pictures her rolling her eyes.

“Yeah? Did it work?”

“Oh, yeah. Oh, you mean for Eunji?” she realises after a second. “Not really. I had champagne and free lobster so it worked for me.”

Jimin snickers. “Making the best out of a bad situation, as always.”

“As always,” she agrees, sounding humoured as well. “Are you alright, though?”

He feels a jolt in his stomach. “Me? Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You sound weird.”

“You sound weird.”

“Not making the case you think you are, Jimin.”

Jimin sighs. There’s too much on his mind and he hasn’t even begun navigating his way through it. “It’s… nothing.” He swallows, anticipating another prod. 

Sooah surprises him. “Okay. If you say so.”

He bites his lip. There’s something knowing in the pause between them and Jimin finds himself dropping his face onto the bed and groaning into the covers.

“Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.”

With a huge effort, Jimin raises his head. His bangs fall messily into his eyes but he makes no move to toss them out, looking out forlornly out the large windows through the dark strands. “Taehyung, uh… he saw his ex-girlfriend. Making out with some other guy.”

She lets out a low whistle. “That’s rough. What did he do about it?”

“He… well, you know Taehyung,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. “He did what he always does.”

“Shut everyone out and acted like a martyr?”

“Pretty much. Just… more, if that’s possible,” he adds, rolling his eyes a bit because if he’s being honest, while he sympathises with his friend, it doesn’t take a genius to pinpoint whose fault it is that he ended up here in the first place.

Sooah chuckles disbelievingly before stopping abruptly. “Sorry. Just… wow, more Taehyung? What does that look like?”

“Not pretty.” Jimin shakes his head. “Like, I know he’s hurting and all, but he’s going to be a nightmare tomorrow. I just know it.”

“Right. And this ex…” She trails off questioningly. “This is the ex?”

“Yep.”

“Not the one after her.”

“Nope.”

“Wow.” There’s a pause where she seemingly processes this. “And the reason it’s affecting you so much is…?”

“It’s - it’s not,” he stutters, feeling very exposed all of a sudden. “He - come on, he’s my best friend. You should’ve seen his face,” he adds quickly. “Christ, Sooah. This is… I mean, this is bad, right? Seeing your ex like that?”

“Depends. Are you finally going to tell me what happened there?”

He sighs. “Seriously?”

“Well, yeah. You’re asking me if it’s bad. How and why they broke up is just slightly relevant to that.”

“I - I can’t tell you.”

“Why? Did you fuck your best friend’s girl or something, Chim?”

“What?” he exclaims, for it hadn’t occurred to him that this could be a viable conclusion. “Are you - God, no! Jesus, Sooah,” he mutters, feeling his heart pound uncomfortably.

“Okay, calm down! It was just a guess,” she says loudly, sounding a bit annoyed but also - and he isn’t sure if he’s imagining it - a little relieved. “You just sound way too down about your friend having seen his ex in a compromising position, that’s all.”

“I - that’s because I’m a good friend,” he says defensively, even as the irony dawns on him like a little cartoon devil on his shoulder. And even though I’m not the one who stuck my cock in someone else, I still lied to her and she broke up with him a day later. “And… it’s not my place to tell.”

“Okay. Fair enough.” There’s a few seconds of silence while Jimin picks on a loose thread in the bedsheet, the guilt from a little while ago finding its way back into his stomach again. “Chim. I’m sorry. I won’t pry anymore.”

“No, don’t apologise,” he mumbles immediately, feeling thoroughly inadequate tonight. “I may have overreacted. I just can’t imagine how he feels, you know?”

“I’m sure,” she says slowly. “It’s just… you sound a little bit like you did that time you went away, remember?” she continues, her voice gentler. “You’d signed for a three month tour and didn’t tell me until the last minute?”

So… he’s sounding guilty. It’s not a stretch; in fact, it both endears him and annoys him in equal measure that she can still read him so well, even after all these years. At nineteen years old, with blue streaks in her hair, she’d been most angry at the fact that he’d hidden it from her. Now, alone on a hotel bed in Yeongam, Jimin can still remember how he’d felt standing before her, trying to justify it to himself that he didn’t want to hurt her.

He exhales deeply. “I may have… done something. Not with her,” he clarifies quickly, feeling the need to make this as clear as possible. “But… something. I thought I was doing the right thing, but… I may have played a part in their break-up.” Something drops in his stomach when he finally says it out loud. 

“I see.” Sooah is quiet for a moment. “Does Taehyung know?”

“Oh, he knows. I’m the least of his problems, though.”

“Well…” It’s clear she’s trying to read into it what she can without asking any more questions. “Maybe you could start by apologising? To whomever you need to for… whatever it is that you did. It may not fix it,” she adds reasonably, “but you’ll feel better. Lighter”

“Maybe,” he mutters half-heartedly, knowing that there isn’t a way in hell that Dilara would let him close enough to her to get a single word out of his mouth.

She seems to catch on to his tone. “Jimin, come on. Even if you did something wrong, you’re not a bad person. Cut yourself some slack, baby.”

For a former high school volleyball captain turned party girl, sometimes Sooah sounds wise beyond her ears, enough to remind him that she’s an adult woman with an adult job now. Even the endearment doesn’t sound like anything more than her simple belief in him to be a good person. Despite spending all night at a pub with a group of people and riding back with his friends, this is the least alone Jimin has felt all night.

He can’t do this to her. He hurt Dilara by lying to her, he hurt Taehyung by dragging him along tonight; he’s not going to hurt Sooah by keeping her in the dark, even if technically, he hasn’t done anything wrong.

“Sooah, I…” Where to begin? “Listen, the reason I called was… well, I need to tell you something. Hang on,” he says suddenly, remembering. “You called me.”

“Right.” She pauses. “It’s not… you go first.”

“Um.” Jimin frowns but rallies the next second, knowing that if he stalls this anymore, he’s going to chicken out. He’ll keep it from her, he’ll dance around the topic every time it comes too close, until some idiot like Taehyung or Jungkook will blurt it out without thinking and he and Sooah, once again, will descend into their pattern of fighting until they fall out.

Focus.

“Okay, um… look, I know we said we’d be honest with each other. In that spirit…” Jimin bites his lip, the moment where Ahnjong had asked him out feeling like days ago instead of about thirty-six hours at most. “I had a date tonight. We, uh, we hooked up and… yeah, I mean, it was just a date,” he finishes lamely, realising vaguely that he should’ve probably rehearsed this a bit in his head before speaking.

“Oh.” It’s clear she wasn’t expecting this. “You’re dating?”

“I mean, not - not regularly. Don’t really have the time.” He shrugs, remembering again that she can’t see him. “But I did tonight. I don’t know if it’ll become a thing, but… you know. Full disclosure and all.”

“Of course. Yeah. Thank you for telling me.”

Sooah was right; he does feel lighter. He didn’t imagine she would actually be angry about it; they had been her rules and he’d done nothing wrong. It was just the words that were struggling to leave his mouth and now that they have, he feels like he can breathe again.

“This doesn’t change anything, right?” Jimin asks after a moment, when she still hasn’t spoken. “I mean, you and I… we -” He winces, wishing he was better with words.

“No, no, we’re - we’re cool, Jimin. I’m actually... I’m actually a bit relieved, honestly.”

Huh?

“You are?”

“Yeah, I… I mean, the reason I called you yesterday was to…” She exhales deeply. “I had a date. Yesterday. And I was a bit nervous to tell you that I’m seeing someone, if I’m being honest, but now I guess I didn’t need to be.”

Jimin frowns, wondering if he’s heard her correctly. “You - what?” He sits up on the bed. “Um… who - you’re seeing him?” He chuckles without humour, trying to slow down his words. 

“We know each other through work,” she explains, “and we ended up hanging out a couple times because things have been really hectic and crazy… and then he asked me out a few days ago. We went out last night.” She pauses. “It’s just been one date so far.”

“How long has this been going on?” he asks, trying to sound amused as he remembers, in this very moment, that it's been nearly three weeks since he's met Sooah in person.

“It’s not going on. Like I said,” she adds, and her voice is a bit more steady, “we went out last night. Once.”

Last night. She’d called him yesterday morning, and Jimin had found something or the other to do rather than call her back. His stomach churns, and the fact that she’d called him baby a few minutes ago feels like a joke the universe is playing on him. 

“Jimin?”

"So far?"

"What?"

He clears his throat. "You said it's been one date so far. Is this, like, a thing?"

Sooah pauses, and he's surprised at how his heart sinks. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that. The fact that he went on a dubious group date with someone he’d run into a couple of times, only for her to have a minor crisis while she was half-naked on his lap, makes him feel ridiculous.

“Jimin?”

"Yeah, I'm here." He stares at his feet. "It's cool. Thanks for telling me."

"Of course." She waits again, presumably for him to say something, but Jimin can’t handle any more tonight. “Should we talk later?”

“Yeah. I’m - I’ll be busy this weekend, but when I get back. I guess.”

“Definitely, yeah. Bye, Jimin.”

“Bye. Sooah.”

He hears a faint beep as he lowers his phone. There’s a low rumbling in his stomach; it occurs to him that somewhere in the midst of the beer, the vodka, the gasps and sighs in his car, his friend’s crisis and Sooah’s news, he’s forgotten to eat. Despite that, the thought of food right now makes him feel sick. 

It’s not as though Sooah’s news is that surprising; it was bound to happen sooner or later. Both of them would find someone someday; he met new people all the time and she... she was Kim Sooah. But beyond that vague image of faceless significant others, he can’t picture anything.

It's late at night - too late. He can hear Hoseok outside watching TV, but he can't bring himself to join him, not when he'd rejected his offer to talk. He's hungry and alone, and the only thing that’s seeming clearer by the minute is that at the end of a sub-standard night, Jimin finally has some idea of how Taehyung felt tonight.

—

Thank you for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

[erensproudsimp]

Rivalry

Jean kirstein x Eren Jeager x reader

⚠ Sexual Content Ahead ⚠

Summary: Threesome with Eren and Jean in the middle of a party? Hell yeah.

Word count: 2.4k

"So, how do I look?" coming from the bathroom you asked your roommate about your outfit.

"YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY STUNNING Y/N!This little black dress really brings out your curves, " Hitch squealed.

"Aww Thank you bestie! When are you getting dressed?" you questioned looking for your black heels.

"I was just about to, I bet this party is going to be the best ever organized this year," Hitch excitedly said.

"Right? Heard that almost all students are going, I feel like it's going to be crazy and moreover it's organized by Jean,"you added while wearing your jewelries.

Hitch came out in a sexy red sleeveless dress which suited her perfectly.

" Oh. my. god. Marry me right now, what did I do to deserve such a pretty best friend, "you flattered her wiping fake tears from your eye.

" Says the girl who's going to take all the boys' breaths and by boys I specifically mean Eren and Jean, "she replied eyeing you from head to toe.

"Sheesh Hitch, you know that I'm not interested in them right?" you said arms crossed.

"I don't know y/n, that little blush is saying something else. So who are you going to choose among them?" Hitch teased.

"I'm pretty both of them asked me out due to their rivalry with each other but I have no interest in helping either win," you said with a sigh.

"I mean you may never know that they actually do have feelings for you, I remember seeing Jean stare at you during class," she explained wearing her makeup. Smacking her lips to spread the lipstick, she turned to look at you, "At least give one of them a chance? Like two of the hottest guys on the campus asked you out, think about it y/n," she suggested.

"They were already my best friends but maybe until tonight I'll try to make a decision but for now let's go enjoy okay?" you beamed.

"Let's go impress some bitches, have some liquor, spit on our haters and have the best night of our life," flicking your hair back you left the dorm with Hitch agreeing with you.

Parking your car, you got out to admire the grandiose building belonging to Jean in sight. Muffled music could be heard through the walls.

"Maybe I should give Jean the chance," you said.

"Haha yes girl get that bag," Hitch giggled dragging you inside.

Laughter, people making out on the dancefloor, a background scent of sweat mixed with booze, you finally saw your friends near the bar counter. Conversations stopped the second everyone noticed me and Hitch's entry.

" All eyes on me in the centre of the ring just like a circus," you sang in her ear as she smirked.

Walking proudly to radiate your confidence, both of you went to the bar, the crowd going back to their initial interaction.

"Hey guys!" you shouted throwing yourself on Sasha.

"Welo," Connie replied with a drink in his hand.

"Where are the others?" Hitch asked them.

"Mikasa, Armin and Eren haven't arrived yet and Jean is ensuring everything is in control," Ymir answered hugging Historia close to her.

Ordering a glass of wine from the bartender, you sipped said drink while chatting with your friends. Right at that moment the trio entered through the door.

" Look they came,"Historia pointed at them.

" Hello everyone, where's Jean? "Armin asked.

You looked at Eren taking in how he was looking so attractive in an all black outfit. However, he did not once glance in your direction making you assume it was because you haven't yet given him an answer.

" There he is,"Mikasa said as the man in question neared the group.

" Is everyone having fun? "Jean enquired leaning on the counter.

His stance screamed dominance but in such a subtle way it was sensual. You tried to meet his eye but he didn't acknowledge your presence too. Well, it was what you were supposing to be as in in contrary both of them were enraptured with your appearance they couldn't bring themselves to look at you.

"I'm going to the dancefloor," you announced frustrated by the lack of attention you got from the two men after finishing your third drink.

Pushing your way in, moving to the music you tried to take off your mind off having to choose someone between them. A stranger came up to you to ask if they could dance with you. With no hesitation noticing how handsome he was, you let him hold you in his arms as a distraction.

"Not gonna lie, I'm gonna be shocked if she doesn't hook up with someone tonight, like look at her man," Hitch commented hoping to push either Eren or Jean to approach you.

"Right? She honestly looks so hot," Sasha added understanding what she was trying to do.

Like they hoped, the tactic worked as both men stood up together. They looked in each other's eye as though communicating telepathically passing one message and it was to not let anyone come near to you.

Heading into the crowd to find you, Hitch and Sasha high fived leaving everyone else in the unknown.

Searching all round, they at last found you dancing with a random guy, your body all over him. There was a cold fury in their eyes and Eren pursued his lips in anger. He went up to the guy and gave him a death stare. The stranger felt his blood drain from his face into his gut as he abruptly left you.

At first you were puzzled at why the guy just disappeared until you saw Jean and Eren and understood the situation.

"Mind if I dance with you?" Eren asked holding his hand out.

"May I too?" Jean rushed in not to let Eren take the sole lead.

Taking both hands smilingly you replied, "Yes, you both may."

Jean twisted you in his arms pressing your ass against his hips as Eren held your waist in his hands your chest against his, both guys grinding on you.

Eren leaned in and hid his face in the crook of your neck. You tilted your head to give him more access to the area as he licked his tongue over your so sensitive skin.

Jean feeling a bit left out took a glass of wine from a passing waiter grabbed your soft flocks in his hand and pulled it slowly to not hurt you. Your head was placed on his shoulder as Eren continued to nibble on your neck.

"Open your mouth," Jean ordered you his lips brushing your ear and you obeyed without arguing.

He then poured the wine from the glass into your mouth. Moaning through the process, the liquid coursed from your throat into your stomach spreading its warmth all over. Jean still grinding on you pushed his hips forward for you to feel his growing bulge.

Rhythmically swaying your body to the beats of the music playing, you brushed your ass to Jean's bulge and hips against Eren's. Being sandwiched between them was like a dream come true.

Eren's hands slid up and down your arms, head intact on your neck. Jean was not doing any lesser either as he bent over to reach the other side of your neck, his hot breath ruffling and began showering it with kisses.

Grabbing your chin to lift it up, Eren pressed his soft lips on yours tasting the alcohol from your mouth.

"Hey- that's not fair," Jean snatched you from Eren, threw your body on his shoulder and slapped your ass to carry you away. Shortly Eren followed, "Give her back to me!"

Jean made you sit on a bed gently, kissed you lightly on your cheek then went to close the door of the room but Eren busted in right before he could.

"Oh you're not having her all to you, not until I'm still alive," Eren stated.

"Fuck you Eren, I'm not going to let you have her either you know," Jean cursed him.

At this point you didn't know what to say as anticipation filled your being so you just allowed everything happen by itself.

Before Jean could do anything, Eren rushed to you, pulled you in his arms made out with you in front of him to make him jealous which of course worked.

" Jeager!" Jean shouted approaching you both.

Eren's tongue was roaming in all corners of your mouth to explore them, a small moan leaving your throat.

Both guys froze hearing that.

"Eren, move I want to be the one to make her create those cute sounds," Jean pushed Eren to replace his mouth on you.

Jean was more passionate than Eren, probably because of the jealousy he was feeling.

"How about we hear what y/n has to say?" Eren suggested.

"Yeah y/n, make a decision, it's either Eren or me," Jean continued.

"I-, guys trust me I've been thinking about this and honestly speaking, for me it's either both of you or no one. Don't get me wrong you're both equally amazing and handsome so choosing one is just unfair. I love you both but I'm not going to choose one I'm sorry. Moreover, I don't want to fuel the rivalry between you two," looking at the floor you replied. You thought that this would make them feel disappointed but in reality it was the contrary

" Y/n..,"Jean hugged you so did Eren from the back.

" I'm glad you didn't choose to reject one of us, "Eren whispered in your ear.

" Yeah I'm so pleased too, "Jean agreed lifting your chin to kiss the bottom of your neck.

" And don't appogise y/n, you're not at fault here, we are for asking you out because of our competition so let us make up for it, "Eren's voice holding the promise of sex.

His hands unzipped your dress pealing it off you to leave you in your black lace underwear. Both Jean and Eren's face went scarlet red on seeing you in this state.

From the back Eren's big, warm hands reached out to cup your boobs while nibbling on your shoulder. In front Jean knelt down on you to kiss you on your stomach as his hands were caressing your curves.

Taking Eren's face in one hand, you stroked his face with your thumb, the other hand in Jean's hair playing with it.

"Can I?" Jean asked indicating to the removal of your undergarment.

"By all means, do whatever you wish," you gave both consent.

Seizing this opportunity Eren unhooked your bra and let it fall to the ground.

"You're so beautiful y/n," Jean gasped.

Your body chose that moment to shiver.

Not being able to control it anymore Eren lifted you in bridal style dropping you lightly on the bed. Ripping his shirt of his toned body, your eyes were locked on his abbs. Jean lost no time in taking his off too.

You were mesmerised. Those men were built like fantasies, their chest sculptured with the honed muscles of a god.

"Come here."

To your astonishment they obeyed sitting on each of your sides.

"What do you want us to do angel?" Jean asked with such adoration in his eyes.

"Tell us your deepest desires, we will make it a reality," placing his hand over your thighs Eren encouraged you.

"Use me as your plaything."

This one simple request was enough to send them off the edge.

"As you wish m'lady," Jean replied before kneeling in front of you.

More kisses along your neck by Eren while Jean split your legs to bury his face in between. You sucked in a deep breath.

Trailing his tongue on your inner thighs up to your soaked folds, Jean teased you.

Taking your mouth into a fiery kiss, sucking on your lower lip, Eren fondled your boobs. Sticking your tongue out to ask for permission he took it in without a second thought.

"Hmmm ah-," you panted on his mouth as Jean kissed your core, giving it a tender lick. Grabbing your hips to forbid you to move, he inserted his tongue in and out of you while rubbing your clit with his fingers. Pure heaven.

"You like that huh?"

You threw your head back at his words humming a yes, Eren proceeding to move from your neck to your collarbones to mark himself on your skin. A slight pain overcoming with pleasure sent chills down your spine.

"Jeaaann- ah- Ereenn," you screamed their names turning them on more.

Shortly after your stomach clenched as you came on Jean's face.

"You taste so good y/n," he said licking his lips.

"Now's my turn," Eren declared unbuckling his pants topping you.

"You okay with this right?" he asked concernedly caressing your cheek. You nodded and looked over to Jean signaling him to come over your head.

Slowly penetrating his dick into your cunt, you stifled a moan as you were helping Jean take off his trousers, his hardened member sprung free from its trap.

As Eren was thrusting his hips in you moaning your name, you were jerking Jean off with your hand, him panting loudly.

"Y/n go faster please," Jean whined.

Spreading his precum oozing from the tip, your fingers stroked it down the shaft.

"Forgive me for what im about to do y/n," the unbearable thirst pushed Jean to shove his swollen dick into your mouth. You muffled a moan at his action willingly taking it. Moving your wet muscle inside your mouth, you sucked him.

"Fuck y/n you feel so good tightly wrapped around me," Eren breathed picking up speed. Your breath stuck in your lungs, your eyes rolled back.

Two handsome men fucking you senselessly, you couldn't be in any more bliss.

"Good girl," Jean petted your hair as you swallowed every drop of him. Collapsing next to you, he was gradually grasping his breath.

On the other hand, Eren was still going pushing and pulling into you and from you.

"Go ahead, cum for me y/n."

Your legs were practically shaking as you came a second time over him. Realising he was reaching his limit, he pulled out and released his hot fluid on your belly.

Out of breath, he fell onto you as you hugged him. Ruffling Jean's hair you tried to wake him up.

"Jean we have a party remember? now wake up, you don't want people thrashing your house. You too Eren, Mikasa must be worried sick by now with your absence," you advised both only for your words to fall on deaf ears.

Sighing you stayed still to enjoy their warmth a little more.

Just a little more.

End.

Thank you for reading this. :)

[rosalineandrosemary]

one final goodbye

hi! i wrote this for @maribat-angst-fluff-april with prompt 14, goodbye. you can check out my partner, @yoltastic09 ‘s fluff submission here. anyway, warnings for major character death and descriptions of blood and the fic is below the cut!

the video is blurry, filmed with shaking hands. when it focuses, they see a girl coated in red spotted spandex. she’s leaning against a wall, eyes closed and smiling softly, but their eyes are locked on the stab wound through her abdomen.

“thanks… thanks alya.” her voice is soft and raspy, and behind the camera, someone chokes on a sob.

“lb, please. just hold on a bit longer. chat... carapace. Someone will bring your lucky charm and it’ll be okay.” the voice, alya, trembles, and the spotted girl’s eyes fly open.

“i didn’t tell you, did i? alya, there’s no saving me. that’s why we’re recording this. I have his miraculous but my lucky charm can’t fix me. it’ll fix paris and i’ll still be here.” the camera falls to the ground with a clatter, and beyond the black screen they can hear alya’s sobs. 

“alya please, I need you to do this. I need to be able to tell them myself. I need to be able to tell you myself.”

“tell me what?” alya’s voice is thick and broken, and the camera is lifted off the ground. they see a girl, fox ears coming from her head and in another spandex suit, before the camera focuses on the bleeding girl again.

“hello viewers, hi alya. my name is marinette dupain-cheng, also known as ladybug. and this is my final goodbye.” 

the dark room where they sit is filled by the sound of things shattering, a mug falling to a ground, a wine glass being crushed in someone’s tight grip. 

“alya, i love you. it’s been an honor fighting alongside you as ladybug, and despite our ups and downs, and even how things were before you got your head on straight, it’s been amazing being your friend. i’m so sorry that this is how things turned out.” alya sniffles, and her soft words are easily picked up by the mic.

“mari, please. you can’t leave us, please.” marinette smiles and looks away, faltering. she takes a deep heaving breath and looks back at the camera. 

“maman, papa, i’m so sorry i couldn’t tell you about this. i’m so sorry that i can’t say goodbye properly. i’m sorry that i lied and i’m sorry that i kept this from you. i just didn’t want you getting hurt. you two are the best parents a girl could have and i’m so grateful to call you two mine. please don’t blame yourselves. i chose to keep this a secret to protect you, and you raised a pretty clever little girl. there isn’t anything you could have done to stop this.” marinette is crying at this point, tears streaking across the red of her mask and down her cheeks. “make sure they see this alya. please make sure they see this.” 

“of course, i promise girl. i’ll do anything.” alya’s voice is broken but marinette nods solemnly before continuing. 

when they see this, marinette’s parents wail and sob, the sounds echoing throughout the arrondissement. their neighbors tense, waiting for the destruction their akuma could cause, but hawkmoth is gone, and tom and sabine dupain-cheng are free to mourn their only daughter. 

“bruce, or, well, dad. i thought you might want to hear me call you that at least once, considering i’m not going to be able to meet you again for you to hear me say that legitimately. i’m sorry i didn’t tell you about this. i’m sorry that when i said goodbye, that when i said i’d see you again soon, that it turned out like this. it was nice being your daughter, at least for a little while.” the viewers turn to look at him with the mention of his name, and bruce opens his palm, glass shards falling to the floor. he stands up, staggering to the side, and walks out of the room.

when bruce had first met marinette, he thought she’d fit in with the rest of them. he wasn’t oblivious to the jokes his kids made about the black hair, blue eyes, and the way she held herself made him think she’d fit in in other ways too.

she was always cautious, always nervous, like she was expecting something to attack her out of nowhere. she was good at hiding it, beaming sunshine smiles and a charming yet genuine demeanor, and he could see the resemblance from miles away. he had seen her baking with alfred, laughing with dick and jason, drinking coffee with tim. she had found a slot in their family and fit herself there perfectly, and in the short time he knew her, he had grow to care for the daughter he was unaware he had.

the last time he saw her, she hugged him and smiled, a soft tentative thing, as she whispered goodbye. she turned to leave, but her back was too straight, her shoulders too tense. he swore to himself that he’d find out what was troubling her back in paris and that he would see if there was anything he could do about it. 

bruce never got the chance. 

“dick. you’re a great older brother. i’m sorry that i couldn’t be your younger sister for very long. it could have been fun. we might have done acrobatics together, or you could have showed me trapeze if you wanted. you try so hard to take care of people, please remember to take care of yourself.”

marinette, dick thought, was tiny. she was so much shorter than he was, and she looked up at him when she introduced herself. bruce’s other unknown child. she has the hair, and the eyes, clouded with the same world-weariness he had seen in all of them. he hadn’t been the first to meet her, as that honor had gone to bruce and alfred, and tim had been walking by when she walked in the door, but he had been the first to declare her his younger sister. he asked her questions and she responded, she asked him questions and he responded. 

he learned of her love of fashion and cooed as she bashfully showed off her outfit that she had sewed and designed herself. he told her of his gymnastics and trapeze skills, and she was wide eyed and nearly glowing when she asked if he could teach her. he had swallowed heavily, looked away and back at her, and told her that “maybe we can next time, marinette. i think b-man has an itinerary for you and everything.”

she had looked disappointed for a second before composing herself. “okay, maybe next time. but speaking of mr. wayne, i should probably go find him again, talk to you later dick!” he had heaved a sigh of relief, scared of bringing her so close to something that had already taken his family once. 

when he hugged her goodbye before she left for the airport, small hands clasped around his back, dick resolved that he would try to teach marinette the trapeze next time she came over. There would be nets and she wouldn’t get hurt and then there would be more memories of the trapeze that didn’t come with the bittersweet tinge of all his memories at haly’s circus. 

dick didn’t get that chance. 

“hi jay. i was making you something, did you know that?” marinette laughs softly, then inhales sharply as she aggravates her wound. and yet, she continues. “no, of course you didn’t. i didn’t tell you. it was almost done, just had a few finishing touches. you could still wear it though. it's a leather jacket. i saw that the one you had seemed to be getting worn out, thought you might want a new one. a new leather jacket for my big brother.” her tears quicken and she attempts to curl in on herself, even as her body lay against the wall. she looks so small. “even if your advice wasn’t the best you were still there and i was happy to be ‘pixie pop.’ i wish you were here. you’re safe, you know that? you feel safe, like if anything tried to hurt me you’d fix it. And i’m scared but at least other people are safe now. Thank you for making me feel safe.”

jason todd did not think he was a good man. there was too much blood on his hands for that. and even if the bastards had deserved it, it still didn’t make him a good person. so when he had seen the tiny slip of a girl who ran into him as she attempted to find bruce, his first instinct had been to stay away. she was so tiny, so pure, and no amount of washing would ever be able to clean his hands. 

but then she had flinched and started spewing out apologies, hands flying everywhere as she drove herself further down this spiral, and he saw in her what he had seen in so many of the other street kids. fear of retaliation, a desperation to appease him because she was afraid of what he might do.

and jason was furious. not with her, but with whoever had taught this girl (bruce’s daughter. he had warned them all about her, telling them to hide the objects that showed their “nightly pursuits.” he hadn’t told them she’d be so small.) that she had to apologize like this. whoever had traumatized her in this way. 

“hey, no need to apologize, pixie pop. no harm, no foul, right?” she had looked up at him, confused, and he grinned at her and clenched his fists, trying to dispel some of the anger festering in his chest. 

“who’s pixie pop?” she had said, eyebrows furrowed adorably.

“you are, of course. because you’re so tiny, like a little fairy. and all my siblings need nicknames, like dickie-bird, or replacement, or demon spawn. and since you’re my little sister now, you get a nickname too.” she had smiled and nodded, responding with a soft “okay,” and he swung an arm around her shoulder.

“so let me help you find bruce. but on our way there, is there anyone you’ve got any problems with? Any bullies you’d like big bro jason to deal with?” she had tensed, pursed her lips, and shook her head.

“there’s nothing you can deal with. it’ll be fine.” he hadn’t believed her, but he wasn’t going to pry.

when he hugged her goodbye, she had shook, clutching the sleeves of his jacket within her hands, but when he went to ask her what had happened, she said she’d tell him next time. he said he’d help her through anything.

jason never got the chance. 

“cass.” with this, she attempts to lift her hands from where they lay on the floor. she’s shaking with the effort, but manages to hold them up to her chest. slowly, she signs out every word with her hands. “i think that you could tell something was up. i don’t know how, and i’m not sure even you knew it would end up like this, but i think you could. thank you for trusting me, even if it ended up like this. thank you for being my friend, and i’m sorry i couldn’t improve my sign language fast enough to have a full conversation with you. i hope this is good enough.”

cass could tell that marinette was like them from the way she held herself. she had muscles curled under her clothing, and whenever she tripped she shifted her center of gravity if she didn’t catch herself first. 

cass hadn’t really spoken with her, standing as bruce introduced her to marinette. she could tell when marinette had processed bruce saying she preferred sign language, and when marinette’s shoulders sunk, she could tell it was with concern instead of malice. 

marinette turns to her with a small frown, apologizing for not knowing any sign language. marinette smiles afterwards though, and reaches out a hand. “i’d love to learn asl though! and i’d also love to be friends if you’d want to be. of course we don’t have to be, i don’t want to…” she trails off as cass takes her hand and nods. marinette’s smile grows wider and a small warmth grows in her chest. 

friends sounds nice. and marinette promises that she’ll try to learn asl and they’ll have a conversation in a way that cass is comfortable with, talking with that same smile. 

the last time cass sees marinette, she signs goodbye. marinette’s right hand goes up, thumb out, and she closes the rest of her fingers to her palm. she continues with the sign for cass’ name, and cass responds in turn, goodbye and marinette, and marinette leaves, excited at getting it right. 

marinette inhales, a wheezing breath, and the video is interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls and a man’s calling voice. “ladybug? rena?” 

alya lets out another sob and the man approaches. they can tell when he sees marinette, as he stalls before sprinting towards them. 

he’s clad in blue and snake print, teal tips at the bottom of his black hair, and he goes directly for marinette, trying to press a red and black spotted objects into her hands. 

“ladybug please, please take it you can fix all of this with the lucky charm. just do miraculous ladybug and the magic will fix it.” he begs her, voice jumping. marinette clutches the object in her hand but makes no motion to do anything with it, and he speaks again. “ladybug…” he hesitates for a second before continuing. “marinette, my melody, please don’t die on me.” her eyes widen slightly before she looks away.

“i should have known you already knew, mon coeur. but you also have to know this is the end.” she smiles at him, lifts the object in her shuddering hands and attempts to yell miraculous ladybug. she’s cut off halfway through by her own coughing, shaking her whole body and sending blood spilling from her lips.

it works regardless though, and the remaining waynes watch in awe as glowing ladybugs reverse the property damage. they fix the walls and the pavement before crowding around marinette’s body, but when they leave the wound is still there. the blood is still there. 

marinette’s eyes are drooping, and when she tries to talk, it comes out a whisper. “damn it. i thought i had more time.” she coughs again, more blood dripping out of her mouth. “tim, i was so happy to be your work buddy. steph, you are so fun and so important and it was so so lovely being your sister and your friend. damian, i wish i could have been your sister without scaring you, but that won’t be a problem anymore.” her breathing is shallow but she continues going, trying to say all the words she’s scared she wouldn’t be able to. “alfred, being your granddaughter, baking with you, all of that was such a pleasure. babs, spending time with you was so much fun and i wish we could do that again, that we could be friends for longer. duke, i know we didn’t interact much but i wish we could have.” she exhales, leans her head back against the reformed wall. her eyes flutter closed. 

“goodbye.” she says, one last word before her chest stills and marinette dupain-cheng dies.

[amillionsmiles]

in your bedroom after the war (Dick/Artemis)

Title: in your bedroom after the war Summary: As far as coping mechanisms go, Artemis could be doing worse. At least her method has a gymnast’s ass. / Post-Invasion, pre-Outsiders. Rated M.  A/N: I have one (1) agenda and that is messy grieving fuck buddies who are each other’s ride-or-dies. if you are not into fic that sits squarely in sad feral horny territory, then this is probably not your speed.

[Read and review here] or continue under the cut.  

| GOTHAM

| JANUARY 14, 2017; 12:05 AM EST

Artemis is a bit heavier than she was in her teenage years, but her feet land lightly on the fire escape by the window. An hour ago, she’d called her mom from Metropolis, promising she’d be home by midnight. Ever since her daughter faked her death a year ago, Paula Nguyen has become even more of a worrywart, and Artemis knows that the five minutes she’s running late are going to cause her to receive an earful.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back in this neck of the woods.” A familiar figure drops from the roof above onto the rung below her.

“Nightwing.”

She’s not surprised that he’s been keeping tabs. Officially, he’s been on a leave of absence for the past six months, but Dick, like her, is vigilant in his grief.

She’d come back to Gotham because it put her closer to Metropolis and Beta Squad’s continued investigation of LexCorp, but the truth is that she could have Zeta-tubed from Palo Alto easily. Their—her—apartment had been no good though, not without Wally. So she’d left most of her things in storage to figure out later and moved back in with her mom. On days when Artemis can’t muster the energy to get out of bed, Paula wheels determinedly around the kitchen, ready to whip up some mì xào  or a warm bowl of  mì gói.  They play card games and laugh about how bad Wally was at tiến lên the first time Paula tried to teach him. Your boy has no patience, he always wants to play his strongest cards right away, her mom had teased, and Wally had protested, I make it a rule to always put my best foot forward! and Artemis had loved him even more then.

Loved. Loves. She hates the past tense.

“I mean, were you ever going to ask me to grab coffee?”

She can see the bits of Wally in his cracks. In a room together, it was always easy to tell they were best friends from the way they riffed off each other. The acrobat and the speedster: all verbal gymnastics and fast-moving quips. But unlike Wally, who liked poking fun because he liked getting attention, Dick is at his wittiest when trying to avoid talking about himself.

Artemis reaches out and pulls him to sit down beside her. She makes a show of looking at her watch.

“How’s… 12:15 AM this Saturday?”

Dick pretends to check it against his mental schedule. If his is anything like hers, it probably goes: Wake up. Exercise (beating up bad guys counts). Mourn.

“Yeah, seems like I can swing it.”

“Perfect,” says Artemis, sliding up the glass panes to let them into her childhood bedroom. “I’ve got just the stuff.” 

*

In the kitchen, Brucely stirs briefly from his dog bed to sniff the air and  yip, then curls back asleep. Paula hands Dick a mug, waiting for him to take a sip before saying, “So you were the one who had the brilliant plan to have my daughter fake her death.” 

Dick splutters; from the table, Artemis rises to his defense. “Mom,” she says. “Leave him be.”

Setting his cup down, Dick leans against the cabinets, bending his head slightly and rubbing the back of his neck. He does a good job of appearing chastised, and Artemis wants to roll her eyes, if only because she’s heard from Bette and Raquel that this pose is far too effective at convincing women to want to forgive him or try again.

“I’m not leading much of anything these days, if that’s at all a comfort to you.”

“Hmph.” Paula sniffs. “You live alone?”

“Yeah.” Dick shoots Artemis a questioning look over her mom’s head. Artemis shrugs.

“What do you do to fill the time?”

“A lot of reading. Gotham’s library system actually has a pretty good selection, believe it or not. I’ve also gotten really into meditating.”

“And you don’t sleep.”

Dick stiffens. For the first time, he looks exposed, a boy with too much guilt and too much time on his hands.

“I do. Tonight I was just… restless.”

Paula nods and backs up her wheelchair so she can sit by Artemis, curling her fingers over Artemis’s hand and squeezing. She raises her drink, Artemis and Dick following suit, the three of them toasting to invisible losses.

“Aren’t we all.”

*

Later, back on the fire escape, Dick taps his fingers against the railing, jittery. “I feel like I need to start doing jumping jacks. What was in that stuff?”

Artemis bites back a smile. “Yeah, Vietnamese coffee packs a hit. That’s my bad. Probably should have given you something non-caffeinated at this hour.”

“It’s fine. I’ll jog it out, or something.” He turns to go, but Artemis stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, listen—it was good seeing you tonight. And if you need someone to talk to…” What she really means is: it’d be nice to be around someone who’s hurting as much as I am. Not to say that the rest of the team wasn’t as torn up over Wally’s death, but she and Dick had been ground zero. Closest to the blast.

After a pause, Dick nods. “Yeah… I could use a sparring partner, actually. I’ll send you an address.”

“Okay.” Satisfied, Artemis withdraws her hand, curling her fingers into her palm.

It feels like a start.

*

Dick’s directions lead Artemis to Wayne Manor; from there he takes her to the Bat Cave.

“I thought you were striking out on your own,” Artemis says, using her forearms to deflect a kick to her face. Dick grunts and recovers, throwing a punch to her stomach; she dances out of the way.

“I am. I just pop in here from time to time because Bruce has better equipment. Plus there’s less of a chance of me disturbing the neighbors.” He gestures to the eerily blue-lit stone walls around them.

Artemis feints and goes low, ducking under Dick’s guard. Two quick hits to Dick’s sternum pushes him back, before he gets a hand on her wrist and twists her around so that her back is pressed against his chest.

“Weren’t we supposed to be talking?”

Kicking his shin, Artemis breaks free. “All right, fine. I’ll start.”  Jab.  “I keep wanting a scapegoat.”  Kick.  “Like, one person to blame, instead of something as big as the Reach. But it’s not some giant revenge thing, and I know Wally wouldn’t want me to go down that sort of all-consuming rabbit hole even if it was, and that pisses. Me. Off.” On those last words, she manages to use Dick’s momentum against him and flips him over her shoulder.

For a minute, it’s so quiet between them she can hear the faint plip of water dripping from a stalactite into the water below the sparring dais. Still lying on the floor, Dick confesses, “I keep hearing him.”

“I make a joke to myself and he’s there, in my ear, with the punchline. And then…” He passes a hand over his face.  “And then I realize that the real punchline is him being gone.”

Slowly, Artemis approaches him. She feels like she did when they were undercover at Haly’s circus so many years ago, that brief moment of hangtime before their hands connected in the air. She means to sit down next to him, pat his shoulder, she doesn’t know what, but instead Dick sweeps her legs out from under her and she goes down hard, the air whooshing out of her chest as she falls flat on her back.

“Agh!” The release sets something loose inside her. Next thing she knows, she’s yelling again, louder, just because.

Dick catches on and then it’s just the two of them shouting, their voices echoing through the cavern, threading around and piling atop each other like a flock of birds. After they’re done, Dick rolls so that they’re lying side by side.

“You know, when we were starting out—when we first became friends—I used to make fun of Wally that if he kept talking so much while running he was bound to swallow more bugs, or something. And he’d just shoot back like, ‘Nah dude, you think I’m not fast enough to see them and dodge them in the air?’ But you know how he was always so hungry after missions? One time I was so mad at him I put a bug in his sandwich. I’ve never forgotten the look on his face after he bit into it and I said, dodge that.”

“You didn’t.” Artemis gasps and covers her mouth, horrified, but she can see it so vividly: the colors draining from Wally’s face, making his freckles pop even more against his skin, the same greenish tint his cheeks took the time they went to Vietnam and he got food poisoning. He’d spent two days feverishly glaring up at the mosquito netting, and Artemis had draped cold hand towels over his forehead and promised she wasn’t going to leave him for the very obliging boy who kept bringing them ice.

“I did.” Dick is gleeful. “Really put the ‘rank’ in prank.”  

Artemis snorts; the snort turns into a full-blown guffaw. Dick turns toward her, laughing too. His hair is matted with sweat but still soft; it brushes against her forehead.

It feels so good to be close to someone again, to be able to flip on a dime from sadness to frustration to anger to laughter and not have to explain herself. She can’t remember the last time she smiled and didn’t feel guilty about it, and she means it more affectionately than anything when she reaches over and brings Dick’s mouth to hers, like if she inhales whatever they’ve temporarily managed to create here between them, it’ll be enough to tide her over for the next few months. For a second, he’s warm and responsive, before his lips stiffen and he pulls back.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

Shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t.  Shouldn’t beat yourself up about it, shouldn’t blame yourself for getting back in the game.  Artemis is sick of people telling her how to deal, how it’s supposed to go.  It’ll get better and then it doesn’t. People talk like there are guidebooks for this kind of shit, like it’s a marathon she just needs to pace herself through. And it’s the stupidest thing, but she misses being held.

She sits up and crosses her arms, resisting the urge to curl in on herself. “You didn’t do anything. I’ll go.”

“No, Artemis, wait, I don’t think you should go, I just want to understand what’s going on—”

“I want you to touch me, okay?” she explodes. “I want you to touch me because he’s never going to again and I know you loved him too and—and maybe if it’s you, I won’t feel so desperately alone.”

Dick looks stricken, and then, hesitantly, he reaches for her. His eyes are so blue, the kind of crushed eggshell you’d use to make a paint. “You’re not alone.”

“Prove it,” she says, vision blurring with tears—wanting, needing him closer, and then his hairline is up against hers again and his nose is at her cheek, his mouth at her jaw, soft but with a willingness to bruise. Don’t ask me what we’re about to do, Artemis silently begs, and Dick doesn’t.

 *

 Wally had been a restless lover. Always turning them over, switching positions. Artemis had taken it as a challenge, part of the ongoing competition that defined their relationship. Deep down, she’d known that Wally would be just as content if the rest of their sex life consisted solely of spooning gently on Sundays, which, if anything, was why she’d been so eager to experiment—because it felt like an easy gift she could give, not something she had to master to “maintain excitement” or make him stay.

She’s not sure what she expected from Dick. Maybe that’s a comfort—that she wasn’t fantasizing before they happened, wondering about all the mechanics of how it would go. Dick lets her call the shots, lets her ride him into the ground, the grip of his fingers around her thighs the only reminder she isn’t just angling toward oblivion. When he presses his thumb between her legs, it’s a weird sort of anchor—like hearing a voice pick up on a line you thought was dead. She has a body, and here’s someone on the other end of it, caring about her release. As soon as that thought hits, the relief shudders through her; she keeps rocking long enough to feel Dick follow, a stutter and a grunt, before she collapses boneless over him, the sweat of his skin a comforting stickiness against her cheek.

Internally, she apologizes to Bruce for desecrating his training space. Then again, they’re hardly the first of the Justice League to get handsy in less than appropriate places. She’s seen how Black Canary and Green Arrow act around each other.

Below her, Dick catches his breath. The rush of blood—his or hers—is loud in her ears.

“I didn’t think you’d be so…”  Giving, she means to say, but it gets lost on her tongue. “I mean, Zatanna…” she trails off again.

If Dick’s embarrassed at the prospect of his ex-girlfriend having blabbed about the details of their sex life to Artemis, he doesn’t show it. His fingers find a snag in her hair; gently, he works it loose. The air smells hedonistic. He keeps combing. Nice is the only word she can think to describe it, and that makes her want to cry again, so she squeezes her eyes shut.

“Thank you,” she whispers against his chest.

Dick pauses his ministrations. He flattens his palm against the base of her neck and just—holds her there.

“Don’t mention it.”  

When she goes home that afternoon to shower, she runs the water on full blast for a long time.

 *

 Armed with Chinese food, she visits Dick’s place the next day intent on making amends. Dick doesn’t even act surprised; he just points to the glass coffee table where she can set the bag of chopsticks, napkins, and takeout.

“I’m trying to decide what to watch.”

There’s really no need for him to stand in front of the TV the way he does, one hand propped on his hip as he clicks through options with the remote. Artemis lets herself ogle, a bit. The surest way to blow past what happened between them yesterday is to be honest with herself, right? And as far as coping mechanisms go, Artemis could have done worse. At least her method has a gymnast’s ass.

“Any preferences?”

“Between what?” asks Artemis, cracking open the carton of lo mein and settling back against the cushions. The Netflix suggestion algorithm onscreen paints a condemning picture of Dick’s tastes. “True crime or… true crime?”

Wally had been really into nature documentaries. One time during freshman year, when they were still living on Stanford’s campus, they’d gotten high in Wally’s dorm room and watched Blue Planet. Wally had cried when the seal got flung apart by killer whales.

“I’ll Be Gone in the Dark it is, then,” says Dick. He settles next to her on the couch, peeling back one of the orders and sniffing its contents. “What’s this one?”

“Salt and pepper ribs. They were today’s special.”

“Artemis.” Dick beams. “You really do care about me.”

 *

 Ten minutes into the episode begs a single question: “Isn’t it sort of depressing that you spend so much of your day fighting crime, and then you go home to unwind and just watch… more of it?”

Dick shrugs. “It keeps me sharp. And it’s nice seeing other people solve problems.”

“Well, if you ever feel like branching out, there’s a short film about Rubik’s cubes you might like.” Artemis nudges his side. “Remember when you were a scrawny math geek?”

Bringing both hands behind his head, Dick smirks. “Still a math geek. Just not scrawny.”

Artemis stares. That was just a bit of friendly showboating, right? Or was it a flirt? Not trusting herself, she whips her gaze back toward the TV. What feels like eons later, the credits roll.

“Artemis,” Dick says, too soft for having just finished a show about murder. He taps the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got some food stuck.”

She wipes with the back of her hand; a breaded piece of orange chicken emerges as the culprit. Without thinking, she flicks it off, sending it flying somewhere onto Dick’s carpet.

“Oops.”

Chuckling, Dick shakes his head. “I need to vacuum tomorrow, anyways.”

The mention of tomorrow stirs her. “Right. I should head out.”

“Yeah.” Dick rises to help her clean up their mess, holding open the plastic bag so she can toss in the soiled napkins and other bits of trash. “Or—”

He hesitates, but the hesitation’s enough. It might as well be a hand on her wrist, with how it stops her in her tracks. All night, despite what she told herself, she’s been looking for proof: proof that his aloneness fits the shape of hers, that he needs her, too. This time, Dick makes the first move—cups her face in both hands and kisses her, slow and deep and full of heat. Some pepper from the food they ate still lingers on his lips, making her mouth tingle, and Artemis is dizzy and flat on her back on the couch before she knows it, giving in.

Not scrawny at all, she thinks, admiring the solidness of Dick’s knees on either side of her, the weight of his frame as they grind together. The sheer mechanics of it feel very horny-teenager-after-prom, but the way Dick sucks her bottom lip and swallows her breath down with it is decidedly adult.  These days, Artemis practically lives in her sports bra, which doesn’t exactly grant easy access, but when Dick’s fingertips skim over the cotton covering her breasts the sensation zings all the way down her spine.

“Need… off…”

“Yeah,” Dick murmurs, humming as he moves down the column of her neck. “Gimme a sec, I’m working on it.”

She’d worn sweats because she figured their bagginess would keep her from sparring again and any potential… situations that could arise from that. Instead, all it means is Dick unties the drawstrings easily, sliding her pants down her legs. Cool air brushes across her as he shifts positions; she wants to sob in relief. His teeth graze her hip and then catch the edge of her panties and—oh. Fuck. The moan tears out of her and she scrabbles at the armrest, hips rising of their own accord. Next time, she is handcuffing Dick to a bed, because what he’s doing with his tongue and fingers should be illegal. She can feel him grinning, the bastard, and the only thing keeping her from crushing his head to a pulp between her thighs is the maneuver he pulls where he hooks her knees over his shoulders, so he can change the angle and plunge in deeper. Artemis shoves the edge of her T-shirt into her mouth at the last minute, only barely managing to muffle her cry.

Dick surfaces from his solo mission looking entirely too satisfied, mouth glistening. Trembling, still, from her orgasm, Artemis squints at him, possessed by some combination of unbridled lust and rage.

“Dick.”

“You calling, or asking?”

“Shut up,” she hisses. She feels like a newborn foal, after what he just did to her, but the urge to dismantle him just as thoroughly sends her surging upward and pushing him back. Dick welcomes their reversed positions by peeling off his shirt and tossing it over his shoulder, all while Artemis works furiously at his belt. It shouldn’t feel so good, to hear the metal clink against his button and watch the leather slide through the loops. To see the shadows the light of the TV casts on him—the lashes on his cheeks, the hollow of his throat. Artemis hadn’t paid much attention the first time, too desperate and caught up a bit in self-loathing, but now she’s actually enjoying this, savoring the flex of Dick’s abs as he pushes up to meet her, his skin pebbling at her touch.

“I’m going to take you apart,” she purrs.

Dick groans and bucks. The sensation sends a sharp spike of pleasure through her, and she clamps down on him tighter, refusing to yield.

“Try me, Tigress,” he rasps, pushing himself up on one arm so he can mouth at her collarbone. With his other hand, he pulls off her hairtie so her hair comes free of her ponytail, and this is going to be a thing with him, isn’t it, him wanting to fuck her while her hair swings loose around her face. She indulges him for a few minutes, claws his back and bites his shoulder for good measure, but then she’s pushing him back down and stretching out her body as languidly as possible to remind him who’s boss. Their pace slows. Dick keeps a hand fisted in her hair, so he can tug her head back in order to keep her neck exposed to his wanton mouth, but his grip gets less sure the closer she pushes him to the edge.

“Art—” says Dick, the single syllable like a painting pinned to the wall, fraught with desire, and then he just lets it drop, the tresses of her hair falling through his fingers. She wants to tell him that he’s beautiful, that he does look like a boy wonder, right then, in the midst of coming undone, chest flushed and hair mussed and pupils blown nearly wide enough to overtake the blue.

She doesn’t, but she stays the night, and that’s close enough.

 *

  High-functioning, Artemis’s therapist had called her, before Artemis moved back to Gotham. And it does feel like a high—the sneaking around, the after-hours meet-ups, the back-and-forth. There’s no one really keeping tabs on her, though Artemis has plenty of cover stories if anyone asks (new intel, side reconnaissance, etcetera, etcetera). Her mom eyes her and says, “As long as you’re not planning on staging your own death again, because I will find out and I will kill you this time,” and that’s that. Artemis nearly laughs. If anything, what she’s doing is the opposite, a small resurrection. An entire month and a half passes this way: day trips and dinners and movie nights and Dick and her in a bathtub, in the shower, against a wall. She even wears a gown and heels once, not because they have an actual event to attend, but because Dick has a fantasy that involves taking her from behind in the Wayne Manor library.

They’re in his apartment on a Sunday morning bathing in the afterglow, sheets tangled around their waists. Thank god Dick is one of those assholes that splurged on not only a nice mattress but also a solid bed frame. Artemis reaches over to push the hair out of his eyes. The black tuft on the back of his head that she likes grabbing is fluffed up like a duck's tail, and under the sunlight slanting through the windows, he looks angelic.

“Are you falling back asleep?”

Yawning, Dick snags her around the waist, dragging her to him. She should not delight this much in being manhandled.

“You wore me out,” he complains, tucking his chin over her shoulder.

“They just don’t make them like they used to,” Artemis sighs. Dick growls a little at the dig, fingers tightening against her hip.

Well. If he’s going to nap, she is, too. Comfortably spooned, she snuggles back against him, prepared to drift off.

“Do you think Wally would have wanted…” Dick doesn’t finish the thought.

Artemis turns in his arms. Dick has long eyelashes, and he’s looking at her through them almost bashfully. She places a hand on his chest. Feels his heartbeat thump once, twice.

“I think he would want us to be happy.”

“Are you?” Dick’s voice fades out and he has to swallow hard to clear his throat. “Happy?”

“I’m not… miserable.” 

Dick runs his hand up her bare arm, over her shoulder. “Me neither.”

“You know, Wally and I thought…” She bites her lip, remembering a whoosh of air, Wally speeding to her side to kiss her and interrupting her report on the disabled Paris MFD.  I know we promised each other we’d get out of this game, but maybe we can have our life together and play hero, too.  “We thought we’d have everything.”

Dick’s response isn’t mournful; it’s matter-of-fact. “After my parents died, I never really convinced myself that I could have it all.”

“That sounds like something Batman would say.”

“Does it?”

“A little.”

Once upon a time, Artemis had stood before the team ready to lay bare her darkest secret, waiting to be kicked out. And Dick had shown his hand: he’d known from the beginning and hadn’t cared.  You aren’t your family. You’re one of us. She knows he’s second-guessed himself over the years, wondering how fit he actually is to play leader. But for her, trust has always been the easiest thing about the two of them. It was why she’d said yes so easily to his deep cover mission—because she knew that he wouldn’t quit until he’d brought all of them home, that he would do whatever he could to keep them safe.

Taking his face in both her hands, she looks deep into his eyes. “You deserve good things, Dick Grayson.”

“Mm.” Dick smiles into her kiss, hooks his ankle over hers. “Keep telling me that. I’ll start to believe it.”

 *

 Jade abandons Will and Lian on a Tuesday, and Artemis’s carefully crafted equilibrium falls apart. At least this time she’s not the one directly being left, unlike when she was a teenager. Her expectations of her older sister had hardly been high, but if she’d plotted them on a graph they’d have trended upward. Now they’ve tanked.

“Did she leave any hint of where she was going?” Dick asks over the whir of his juicer. He’s gotten really into squeezing oranges lately; Artemis can’t complain because he always gives her the first glass.

“It’s Jade. She never wants to be found, and I hardly think she’s about to try an  Eat Pray Love type thing.”

“Eat Slash Steal, maybe?” Dick offers, dropping two ice cubes into a drink and setting it in front of her.

Artemis sips, balling up a napkin and throwing it at him at the same time. “Watch it, that’s still my family you’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry. How’s Will taking it?”

“As well as any dad trying to raise a two-year-old by himself would.”

“So, poorly.” Dick taps his finger against the table. “Are they coming here?”

Artemis looks at him blankly. “Why?”

“I figured they might want to be closer to you and your mom now that Jade’s gone. Gotham’s not so bad—you and I turned out fine. And Will probably needs to look into preschools and a babysitter for Lian soon. If you move in with me, you can bring her over whenever.”

The last piece of information slips in so casually she thinks she’s misheard. “What?”

“If you move in with me, you can bring Lian over whenever,” repeats Dick. “This place is as good as yours. You’re over here all the time anyway.”

Suddenly, she can’t breathe. “You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She can’t meet his eyes. “W—Will’s home is in Star City. He’s not going to move.”

Slowly, Dick says, “Okay. But my offer doesn’t really depend on Will.”

Her stuff is still in boxes. She’s still paying for a storage unit almost 3,000 miles away. And Dick is waiting on her so intently it makes her chest hurt.

Artemis stands up. “We’re not doing this.”

Dick’s eyebrows rise. Annoyance, or maybe anger, flickers across his face. “You wanna fill me in on what exactly it is we’re doing, according to you?”

“We’re not going to fight about this like we’re…”  In a relationship. In love. In anything other than a messy configuration started by shared grief. She doesn’t say any of it out loud, but she doesn’t need to—Dick’s always been great at reading people, and he’s known all her tells from the start.

“Right.”  The single syllable comes out as cold and pointed as an icicle. He pushes his chair back from the table and stands up. The clouds are rolling in, throwing shadows across his features. Even now, Artemis wants to kiss him, wants to be the one to smooth the furrow between his eyebrows away.

“Dick…”

“Do me a favor, will you?” Dick grabs his jacket from the hook by his door, shrugging it on. He pauses, briefly, in the doorway. “Lock my door on the way out.”  

That night, she lies alone in her bedroom next to the picture of her, Wally, and Brucely. Brucely snuffles at the foot of her bed and then leaps onto the covers, and this time she doesn’t shoo him off. Neither does she fall asleep.

 *

 There was a song Jade had liked to sing, passed down from their mother: a Vietnamese lullaby about a yellow butterfly, to the tune of “Frère Jacques.” The butterfly flies all over the sky. Come and see. Come and see. When it became clear that Artemis’s hair would grow in blond, not black, Jade started pulling it, making her giggle. You’re the yellow butterfly, see?

The taxicab she calls for the airport is bright yellow in the morning light. Plain old civilian travel for plain old civilian business. You don’t need to be a superhero to fly across the country and move in with your brother-in-law and your niece. She’ll sing silly little songs and wash Lian’s hair, and they’ll be a family same as anyone else’s: clumsy, incomplete.

“Artemis.” Dick coalesces out of the fog. They haven’t seen or spoken to each other in a week, and she should be mad that he’s here because it probably means he’s been monitoring her web traffic and caught wind she’d bought plane tickets. Still, all she feels is relief.

Jade had laughed when Artemis had let slip what she was doing during one rare sisterly bonding moment. “Oh, darling sister, your thing with your little bird boy isn’t about moving on. You’re using him as a holding pattern. Try not to damage him too much, hm?” Rankled, Artemis had hung up the phone—what did Jade know about anything, besides shoving it under the rug and pretending it didn’t matter? Now, though, Artemis sees things more clearly. Jade did know something about bodies and what they could and couldn’t fix; after all, isn’t that why she ran?

She worries with the strap of her duffel bag, letting Dick approach.

“If this were a romcom, you would have waited until I got to the airport and then run through security.”

“If this were a romcom,” says Dick, stopping in front of her and shoving his hands in his pockets, “I’d be trying to make you stay.”

She thinks he might be the one person left on this planet who knows her best. She thinks they could save each other, if they’d let themselves try. But they each have work to do on their own, first.

Setting down her bag, she tucks her face into the crook of his neck and breathes him in. Wherever else she goes, this spot will always feel like forgiveness. Nose buried in her hair, Dick squeezes her back.

The taxi driver rolls down his window. “Is this guy coming with us or not?”

Artemis pulls back, and there’s so much sky in Dick’s eyes.

“You know where to find me,” she says.

 *

 | STAR CITY

| JULY 29, 2018; 7:30 AM PST

 “Who are you here to recruit this time?” Will asks, leaning against the doorframe, but Artemis doesn’t need an answer, doesn’t need any details but the black hair she can see just over Will’s shoulder, Dick’s voice at the end of a line.

He jumps, and she jumps with him. They’ll figure out everything else as they go.

Before Dick can respond, she says: “I’m in.”

[numberonephantompizza1]

Poppy Fanfic: “Ask Her”

For context: This is a fanfic I wrote in order to join the Poppy Milk dev team and show off my writing skills. Since the callout at the time said we’d need to write a lot of sidequests, I wanted to ask the question of what a Poppy-centered side-quest would be like. I got the idea that it would be from an Asker’s perspective, and everything sort of came naturally after that. Even though I’m on the dev team right now, it’s not canon to Omega Timeline: Poppy’s Story and even has some inaccuracies that contradict canon. With that said, please feel free to read the story below the cut.

---

You noticed something very different inside your room when you woke up. The lights were off and the sun hadn’t yet risen, but there was a certain… aura, coming from your door. You were filled with a certain trepidation, but… you approached it. It was hard to see in the light, but it looked… grey. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped through...

...and found about the last person you would’ve expected. The spitting image of Frisk - CORE!Frisk, that was, looking up at you, in the middle of a white void.

“Wh- You’re real?!” you asked, dumbfounded.

“Of course I’m real. Have you been taking all this multiverse stuff for granted? Everything is real somewhere,” Core answered, simply. 

“I… I don’t… and you, me…” you panted, starting to feel a small panic attack coming on.

“Focus,” Core snapped their fingers, grounding you back in reality. Okay, this was happening now.

“Let’s get down to business. Simply: you don’t like me. And I don’t like you. But we BOTH like Poppy. Poppy, my dear, sweet angel… has unfortunately recently come to the realization that Askers ALSO exist in the multiverse. And now she wants to do a ‘meet n’ greet’ with one of her fans. Trust me, I TRIED to talk her out of it, but she can be darn persuasive when she wants to be. And as you’re now realizing, that’s where you come in. 

“I wanna make you a deal. You play along with whatever Poppy wants until she gets bored of this. If you’re on your best behavior - and that means, don’t give her anything bad, don’t tell her anything you KNOW she shouldn’t know, don’t use any magic, and be a general good influence - if you play nice, in exchange, I will allow you to hang out with ANY resident of the Omega Timeline. 

“Want to spend a day full of wacky hijinks with a Papyrus, or even an Underswap Sans? Consider it done. Want to know how Deltarune Chapter 2 plays out ahead of time? I know a Susie with your name on it. Whatever you want, so long as you play by the rules, and don’t ask for anyone obviously ridiculous. So… do we have ourselves a deal?”

You contemplated that offer, and everything that was happening, trying to suppress your inner urge to geek out for just a few moments. The Omega Timeline, Poppy, and all the AU’s you could think of and more were real. And you just got an invitation to visit them.

“Yeah, of course!” you nodded excitedly, though your enthusiasm only seemed to make Core more anxious.

“Don’t make me regret this…” Core sighed, as the whiteness seemed to melt away into a cozy-looking house with wooden floors and lime walls, where you were standing directly outside of a white door. Core seemed to have disappeared.

Technically, there was nothing stopping you from exploring. So you did just that. You walked up to a shelf with some family photos. One was a photo of Poppy, Core, Dusted and Rust all together, in some meadow, looking happy. At least, you assumed Dusted and Rust were happy, they didn’t show up well on camera. There was another photo of Poppy alone, looking somewhat younger than she did on the blog, seated on a chair in a photo that looked far more staged. She held an actual poppy flower in her hand and smiled brightly.

You opened the cabinet doors, curious of what knick-knacks you might find in there. Some crayons, a few random glass cups, some art by 3-year-old Poppy that was so poorly done its meaning was hard to decipher, and a locked box. You reached for the box--

“Getting a bit sidetracked, aren’t we?”

You jolted up, and faced Core behind you. Even though they were child-sized, they crossed their arms with the poise and authority of a stern parent. You laughed anxiously. “Ahahaha… ahaha… ha……..”

“...Strike one.” Core said, and vanished. The meaning of that was all-too clear. Deciding not to dilly dally any longer, you went to the room you suspected to be Poppy’s, and knocked. 

“Just a sec!” Poppy said, and opened the door. She looked up at you, and gasped. “Wow, Granpa really did come through…!” She twirled excitedly. “You must be my adoring fan, aren’t you?” she asked.

You stared down at the girl in stunned silence.

“To be honest, I kinda figured you’d be some gray guy with sunglasses, but that’s kinda silly in hindsight. How you doin’?” She asked that last line in a mock accent as you continued to stare.

“Baby,” you said.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you quickly tried to change the subject. “Yeah, it’s… y’know, it’s great to be here…” You clasped your hands together, biting your lip. You were in an Undertale AU, faced with the AU granddaughter of another AU character. You still weren’t entirely over that. Was this fever dream? Fandom heaven, or fandom hell?

“I know! Once I heard you guys weren’t from the Omega Timeline, I realized I hadn’t met even ONE of my fans… even if you guys are super annoying some of the time.” 

“Uhhh, yeah…” you wondered if you should apologize on behalf of the askers who put Poppy in the hospital that one time. Then again, it seemed kind of awkward, and it might have been best not to bring that up while Core was watching, which was always. Looking down at the cutesy girl, it was almost tempting to pull her into a hug, but you managed to keep your composure. 

“I wanted to do something a little more special than just some sorta interview, though, because you ask me questions all the time anyways,” Poppy said. “Granpa said you’ve never been to the Omega Timeline before, so I wanna give you the big tour!” Poppy went to the door. “I’m gonna be outside when you’re ready!” She left the room.

Seeing the empty room in front of you, you were tempted to snoop again, but you’d learned your lesson after last time. You headed straight out after Poppy.

You couldn’t help but gasp in awe of the serenity of the great outdoors as you were beckoned to it. You’d been outside before, obviously, but everything just looked so… nice. The blue sky, the grassy grounds, the ornate buildings… you’ve seen this place in pixel art and a couple drawings before, but seeing it with your own eyes was another story. And the next thing for you to nearly faint at was seeing the Undertale characters running around, Sanses, Undynes, Frisks, even goat moms. 

Poppy smiled. “...It’s nice, isn’t it? I KNEW taking you on a tour was a good idea.” She smirked. “Now remember, just because this is a meet-up doesn’t mean it’s free, and there WILL be a fee at the end of our ride.”

“...Uh… I left my wallet at home,” you said, patting your pockets, “And I don’t have any, uh... ‘G,’ I think. Unless the G stands for ‘Gratitude,’ amiright?” you did finger guns.

“G stands for Gold,” Poppy corrected you bluntly, unamused. She returned to her chipper attitude just as quickly, though. “Now, let me show you around!” She led you down the street. 

Walking with her, seeing so many versions of your favorite characters in the flesh, walking around… well, the temptation to talk to SOME of them was irresistible, Core be damned. You did resolve not to go too far off-track, but you shared some words with the folks you passed by, Poppy thankfully stopping each time you did. You met two Frisks - one boy, one ambiguous - an Underswap Undyne, a human version of Toriel, and surprisingly, a version of Princess Peach.

You and Poppy approached an elegant fountain, stood upon proudly by a statue of a mustachio’d CORE!Frisk. “This is the Timeline Plaza! It’s sort of the local park, where people meet up to do... stuff. Just hang out. Make a picnic. Play ball. All that good park-y stuff, y’know? And there’s stores in all directions, so it’s pretty good.” She proudly showed off her home to you, with a smile.

You talked to more on the way to the next place. An Inverted Fate Papyrus. A weird Ralsei who said his name was “Noyno.” An Asgore wearing a hoodie, who you assumed was swapped with Sans. (Poppy did scold you a little bit for this, telling you that just because someone has a hoodie you shouldn’t assume they’re swapped. You apologized.)

“This is Grillby’s! One of them, anyways. The nearest one to my house. It’s pretty good if you want an OK burger. Sanses love the place, though. It’s… kind of unhealthy. And a little gross.” Poppy said. “Especially when they just drink… raw… ketchup.”

“Can’t handle a little ketchup?” you smiled mischievously. “We drink it by the gallon back in my universe,” you lied.

“...I really hope you’re joking,” Poppy said, alarmed.

“Am I?” you smiled brighter.

“...W-well, we’re not going in there, so you can FORGET about drinking that much ketchup!” Poppy said, afraid of the sheer power of your ketchup-drinking.

You and Poppy moved onto the next spot. You met an Underswap Alphys who seemed to be trapped in a red-and-gold palette. You met a robot dressed as a circus ringmaster, who claimed to be a Chara. You met a Dummy dressed in a Frisk shirt. (You didn’t assume it was swapped with Frisk this time, which turned out to be a mistake, because it was.) Poppy stared at you awkwardly now, wondering why you were talking to all these random strangers. Finally, you and Poppy reached your next destination.

“The theater! Where we show off all the greatest hits! Including MY movie, which, not to brag, but it’s--”

Except, you’d been distracted by a hyperdeath Asriel, and were ignoring Poppy for the moment.

“...” Poppy spoke up. “That’s what I don’t get about you.”

“Huh?” that seemed to wake you up, and you looked at her. 

“Everytime it’s always, ‘have you met Underswap Sans,’ or ‘have you met JangoTale Frisk,’ or some other weird thing. You always ask that. But… they’re just people. Why do you always assume I know some random Sans or Frisk or someone?”

“I…” you were a bit taken aback. “...I don’t… we don’t assume you know them, they’re just… they’re just important.” 

“Important?” She asked. “...I-I mean, yeah, EVERYONE’s important, but, I don’t really get what you mean…”

“They’re all--” You paused, trying to collect your thoughts, think of everything you knew from the blog, and tried to actually talk to her. “...They’re like friends to me. Kinda.”

“...You guys are friends with them? I thought you were stuck in your world…” she frowned.

“No, it’s like-- I’m not ‘friends’ with Underswap Frisk, or-- or Storyshift Frisk, or Shifty or whatever, I’m just friends with… Frisk.”

...Poppy stared at you like you just said the ground was turning to jelly, or something equally bafflingly inane. “...I… think you’re confused. Look, sometimes newcomers struggle with this. Your Frisk isn’t the only Frisk--”

“I know! It’s… You don’t get it. This world, these worlds are so special and creative, and they mean a lot to me. I know we can be really edgy, and I know we ask weird questions about Dusted and Rust, but that’s all because… because...” you paused.

Poppy looked, seeming upset about hearing her siblings mentioned in the context of ‘edgy’ questions, not seeing what you were seeing. Core, standing behind her, holding up a hand signal.

The number two.

You were getting carried away. You overstepped.

“...Um… I’m sorry.” You pulled her into a hug as Core vanished. “There’s really no reason for us to ask those questions. We can just be dumb sometimes.”

“...” She hugged back. “Yeah, it’s okay. I knew you guys were super weird and dumb before I convinced Granpa to let you in here, so I guess I should’ve seen this coming,” Poppy smiled, regaining her confidence as you did your best to not be offended at being called weird and dumb.

“Okay! I think I have just one last stop in mind to cap this tour off on a high note! Literally, hehehe…” She giggled mischievously. This time, you didn’t stop to talk to others, following her directly as you approached a peak overlooking the town. For yet another time, and probably the last, you couldn’t help but ogle at the town’s beauty. “Pretty good, right?” She sat down.

“Ha… with all the climbing, I was worried we’d fall down a mountain,” you joked. Poppy seemed to roll her eyes, as you sat beside her. “...I guess I get how you can call this place home. I mean, once I stop nerding out, anyways. You don’t see stuff like this in my… reality.”

“Just gallons and gallons of ketchup, huh?” she commented. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Yeah.”

And you two just stared into the distance for a while. ...She wasn’t just a character. She was a human being.

...Or, technically just a ‘being,’ scratch the human part. Still, you felt a bit desensitized to all this. And so did she. You related in that way.

“I can’t say you exactly passed with flying colors, but you fulfilled your end of the agreement well enough.”

Without any warning, you were back in a white void with CORE!Frisk, just like before. You almost forgot about the deal you made, what with all the time you spent with Poppy. You stood.

“Uh… yeah. So, my reward…” you drifted off, remembering the offer Core gave you. The chance to meet just about any AU character of your imagining… or at least, any that would be peaceful enough to be in the Omega Timeline. Which still left a WIDE variety of options…

Who did you want to see? What mattered most to you?

...

Thinking deeply… you told Core their name.

“...Oh. Really? Well, I guess it makes sense for you that you’d want to see them,” Core remarked. “I can’t guarantee they’ll give you what you’re looking for, but a deal’s a deal. Let’s head off.”

You and Core went somewhere else.

---

And that’s all she wrote! If you read this far, thank you. Working on the game since then has been fun, and I think you’ll like what we have in store. Until then, ciao.

[westmoor]

eskel falls behind on his way to kaer morhen one year. not convinced he’ll make it up the trail in time anyway, he detours for a decent contract and ends up in aedirn just as a cold front sweeps down from the north.

stomping back through the castle gates to collect his payment and make time to find boarding before nightfall, he starts down a corridor intending to seek out the castellan but gets waved through to the great hall instead, where a duke has fashioned himself something of a winter court. 

pausing a moment outside the oaken doors - thick, but not thick enough to obscure the sounds of music and merriment - he decides the rush to find a roof for the night outweighs the risk of becoming the evening’s entertainment for a gaggle of spoiled lower vassals, and pushes through.

the chatter dies with the first impact of his boot on marble floors. by the third, the dwindling tune of a lute makes an abrupt stop. within the fifth, the whispering has started.

the guests draw back to the walls to stay clear of his course, but he makes no note of any faces and keeps his eyes trained on the table at the end of the hall, on the duke and the promise of coin.

only one breaks the pattern and eskel very nearly startles when a brightly dressed lad approaches on his left, but deliberately ignores him, unwilling to play into... whatever this turns out to be.

it takes him a moment to realise that the whispers seem far less fearful and worried than he has come to expect, instead they have picked up to more of a nervously excited murmur. the duke stands at the end of the hall - rather close, now - and appears to look him over, his armour and stature, his wolf medallion, his hair, before pausing on his face. there’s a stray glance thrown over his shoulder, and he can sense the young man at his left still standing far closer than anyone else dares. 

eskel has a vague feeling he’s supposed to be someone else.

he isn’t, though, and for once it doesn’t seem anyone holds a particular grudge against him for that, as the duke thanks him for his services and tells him to collect his fees from the castellan - eskel nears a biting remark at that, but keeps quiet, it won’t do to offend even though that was what he intended to do in the first place before being dragged before this entire circus - and rather unexpectedly offers him a room in the servant’s quarters for the night. apparently there’s a snowstorm brewing.

--

he had expected the surprises to end there, and he was mistaken. overhearing the maids whispering about the white wolf has put some of his worries at rest, it at least explained last night’s odd behaviour, and he supposes despite the awkwardness he’d rather be mistaken for geralt than for lambert as far as these things go. at any rate, he expects the world to swing back to normal now that’s cleared up. it doesn’t quite.

the snowstorm hasn’t let up, which considering his regular witcher luck is nothing noteworthy, but before he can venture into it he finds himself intercepted. he’s told the storm will weather for a while yet, the coming days or weeks look similarly bleak, and someone or other seems to have been in someone’s ear about him.

not in the usual way, though. which is why he currently finds himself holed up in a gamekeeper’s hut - old, but well-built and vacant - just within the castle grounds with some simple yet fresh provisions and a perfectly adequate stack of firewood to tide him over.

it is, at the least, very unusual. but he figures for now it’s not worse than trudging through a snowstorm to the nearest hospitable village, and at best he’ll be left undisturbed until he moves on, and if not he’ll have a decent enough chance of disappearing into the woods should the locals decide to form a mob. at any rate, he expects to stay out of everyone’s way, and for everyone to stay out of his. being a witcher takes care of that in most cases. being a witcher with facial disfigurement does in the rest.

still turning over recent events in his mind as daylight fades outside sturdy timber walls, he’s spent his surprise and reacts more with apprehension when there’s sound of someone approaching through the snowdrift. not that it’s more than a single person, by the count of steps, and they’re clearly not trying to sneak up on anyone, if the huffing breath is worth accounting for, but eskel still waits for a knock before he pulls the door open.

the visitor is a stranger, though he realises quickly - by the height and stature and green-and-gold silk - that he’s seen him before, yesterday. the brigtly-clad man who drew closer even as every other person in the room backed away.

eskel wonders idly whichever monster in need of slaying this poor sod has run into so late at night, and in a snowstorm no less, before the pungent scent registers, along with the covered jug under the man’s arm. 

wine, fortified. spiced, by the smell of it. rich. it takes a moment to realise the lad is already talking.  

talking fast, too, and the witcher’s mind reels to catch up with what he’s saying; some polite apology for the disturbance, but then the wine having been freshly mulled when he left and something about this atrocious weather and -

eskel regards the stranger in the doorway for a moment longer - the nicely tailored doublet and fine lace of his undershirt peeking out at the collar, an instrument case slung over his shoulder that likely held the lute he’d heard the previous night - before all the loose pieces from the past day and a half slide into place.

“you’re geralt’s bard,” he says. 

the way the entire figure in front of him lights up with the smile that statement yields is all the answer he really needs, but geralt’s bard steps closer and offers a hand anyway: “it’s jaskier”

[famouskittychild]

Star Wars Fun in the Sun

vol 2 - At the pool

This is my gift (vol2) for @milfsyndullas in the Fun in the Sun gift exchange (hosted at @starwarsfandomfests). Some poolside fun during a break away from the war with the trio of Obi-wan, Anakin and Ahsoka. 

AO3 

.

.

.

The small skiff that had carried them down to the planet was a welcome sight. It was the first civilian craft they had been in for a while, and the unusual colours, shapes and interior kept them occupied during the descent.

“What a nice little ship this is” expressed Ahsoka what all three of them were thinking. Obi-wan answered with his usual serenity.

“Yes, it was acquired for the Grand Army not long after the beginning of the war. The planet we are heading to is on a supply line, so many of their infrastructure is now helping the war effort.”

Anakin’s mood darkened a bit though if anyone would’ve asked why, he couldn’t have answered. Ahsoka did find the problem for him.

“So… they had to give up their livelihood to the Republic…”

“... and the Republic uses it so they can go back to live their lives undisturbed by war as soon as possible.” Obi-wan nodded.

The skiff banked and they had a great view at the land under them. Green forests, white dwellings and small blue lakes were the dominant features under the patchy cover of rainclouds. The craft straightened out, bringing the landscape slowly out of view. The pilot’s voice came through the on-board comm system.

“We will be landing in five minutes. Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for landing.”

 The facility that was chosen as housing for the visiting officers was a sprawling complex of low, simple buildings nestled in a valley between gently rising hills. The person who took them over from the clerk at the front desk told them about the place after Obi-wan asked about it. Lilac Crescent was a holiday resort, with the attractions of forest walks, multiple lakes and wildlife reserves nearby.

“Soon after the war started, the ‘Crescent was acquired for the war effort. The tourism dried up anyways, what with all the blockades and restrictions. We usually host training sessions here, or provide housing for all kind of personnel, from troopers to clerks to maintenance workers. Most recently we had a conference for medical personnel. This way please.”

They reached a pair of glass doors on the corridor. It opened onto a spacious square that had a large enough space in the middle for every resident to gather there. Outside of the open area, the lawn was dotted with benches, tidy bushes and picnic tables. Small pathways led to the white walled cabins strewn around the premises, trees giving shade to them here and there.

Their building was off from the main one somewhat. Behind the cabins there were clusters of larger houses with two stories.

“Those have apartments, as we were told we can expect some of your colleagues to join you later. We had prepared an apartment with three bedrooms for you; if there is any request or you would like a different one, please let us know and we can make the necessary adjustments.”

“Thank you” Obi-wan answered for all three of them. They knew they wont be asking for anything.

There were differently coloured doors for each of the separate apartments on the outside of the building, but their guide led them to a widest, double door in the middle. It opened into an alcove cutting straight through the building,  walls lined with ferns and other shadow tolerant plants. As they rounded the corner and stepped into the inner courtyard, they all drew to a stop. Their guide grinned at them, no doubt expecting their reaction from experience with other visitors. Ahsoka’s jaw dropped, Anakin broke into a grin, and even Obi-wan’s smile grew wider.

“A swimming pool?” Ahsoka breathed.

“With parasols!” Anakin pointed out, which made Ahsoka snap around to look at him. She didn’t expected him to single those out when there was a small slide at one corner.

“And a slide!” she pointed it out to him.

“This is very nice.” Obi-wan turned to their guide. “Thank you.”

Their guide smiled.

“You are very welcome. Your unit will be just over there” they pointed towards the corner on their right, at one of the transparent wide doors. “Communal rooms on the ground floor, bedrooms and fresher upstairs. The shed over there contains pool equipment. There’s instructions for everything that needs instructions, and the rest is safe to use as is.”

They gave the keycards to Anakin who stood closest.

“The main building has meals all through the day, and we have a delivery service too, accessible from your datapads, both for groceries and meals. Just use the comm in the lounge if you need anything, any time.”

They thanked them for their help, smiling and looking forward to spending a few days there, then the employee left and they went to settle into their rooms. The glass double doors opened to the lounge, with low sofas in cheerful colours. Other transparent sliding doors separated the kitchen and dining areas, with windows set high on the walls that looked outside, for privacy. They opened all of them and enjoyed the breeze crossing the house.

Ahsoka run upstairs then yelled down telling them she had found her room.

“Its the one with the blue curtains!”

Anakin was inspecting the taps and Obi-wan was reading the safety guide posted on the hallway wall. Ahsoka grabbed their bags and carried them upstairs, leaving them in the middle of the foyer on the landing, thinking the other two can choose their rooms later. They were still inspecting the place when she got back downstairs. Anakin was now looking at the kettle, flipping the switch on and off on it. It was an old, almost entirely mechanical model, nothing like the automated appliances they were used to. She plopped down onto a sofa and relaxed.

“Don’t get too comfortable, we will have to leave for the briefing soon.” Obi-wan told her, as she expected he would, and she sighed. They might have come here for training and other official stuff, not even knowing for exactly how many days, but at least their surrounding were nice. She looked out at the pool. Very nice.

If only the weather would cooperate.

 After returning at the end of their official schedule later that day, Ahsoka went to the top floor straight away, leaving the other two downstairs. There was a large closet on the corridor, right by the stairs, that she wanted to investigate. She wondered what would be stored there; not bedlinen or bathing towels, as those were supplied with each room in their own closets. She opened the large doors and her jaw dropped. The contents of the spacious storage were so colourful, it reminded her of a toyshop.

“What are these? Circus tent accessories?” She mused, than looked closer. The neat piles were sorted by type it seemed. There were some that looked like towels, in several sizes. Others seemed to have tailoring and hems - cloaks, probably; and then there were thin shawl-looking pieces, and simple carrier bags in several sizes, and an assortment of hats. She pulled out one of the clothes-looking things: it was a loosely shaped yellow and blue striped dress. It was probably meant to fit many sizes and shapes with its wide sleeves, overlapping panels and ties at the waist and hems.  

The corners of her mouth turned upwards. This closet was here probably for the same reason the shed down by the pool was: to be used by guest who didn’t bring their own things, or just needed a spare of something. She could choose for herself, yes. But she could also choose for all three of them.

Just to spare the bother for the others.

 Fifteen minutes later, she hopped down the stairs, with a pile for the two jedis on her arm.

Anakin looked up at the sound of her barrelling down the stairs and stopped in his tracks as she came into view.

“Where did you got those?”

Ahsoka stopped in the middle of the room and looked down at herself as if just noticing that something is out of the ordinary.

“Oh. These. I found them in the closet upstairs. I’ve got some for you, master, and for Master Kenobi.” She lifted her arm with the suspicious pile. Anakin raised an eyebrow at her.

“Thank you for your effort”, he said cautiously. If her current look and the cascade of colours and patterns he could see where any indication, they weren't in for anything good.

Over her clothes she was wearing a cheerful lilac wrap-dress with a pattern of small blue flowers. She had a large towel thrown over her shoulder in a riot of greens, yellows and purples. The most unusual was the wide brimmed yellow hat she had over her montrals, the top of them sticking out of it.

She must’ve noticed his gaze as she glanced up at her headwear.

“I even found hats for non-round-heads. This will be good against the sun, isn’t it?” She addressed the question for both of them, as Obi-wan had moved closer too.

“What had you chosen for us?” he asked her in his usual light tone. Anakin braced himself, and his padawan’s exited grin just further spurred his suspicions.

He was right. She got them a similarly riotous assortment of shirts, dressing gowns, towels and even hats. Obi-wan seemed happy with her choices, but Anakin felt a bit uncomfortable.

“These are so… colourful.” He tried to put it into words. He wasn’t sure it was right for them, or for him, to wear things like these.

Ahsoka shrugged with a mischievous grin.

“That was my intent, master. Usually we have plain clothes, but we are on holiday. I thought we might enjoy our clothes for once, not just use them.”

Anakin looked at her, and realized he had to make a choice. She was right, there was nothing wrong with letting their hair down a bit. On the other hand, he also realized that his padawan had probably chosen the most outrageously coloured and patterned and maybe even tailored things she could find.

Out of habit, he glanced over to his former master. Obi-wan looked back from the corner of his eye, lips in a half smirk, and Anakin knew he had came to the same conclusion. But Anakin was the teacher here; it had to be his choice how to handle this.

“Make sure to take some holo recordings whilst we are wearing these, as you already went to the trouble of selecting the most outrages ones for us.”

Ahsoka opened her mouth to dispute some of what he said, then wisely changed her mind.

 The weather, as it often happens, did not cooperate. It rained through the next day, but at least they were busy with their schedule. They were also told to have a rest for another four days. Their troopers were back on Kamino, getting their usual update courses and evaluations. They could expect the officers showing up sometime the last day or two, depending on other factors. Until then, they were free to relax.

They talked about maybe going back to Coruscant, but Obi-wan cut that idea short.

“We haven’t had any time away either from the battlefields or the operation planning on Coruscant. Rest is important, too. Let’s recharge in the next few days.”

“Then when the boys get here we can dive straight back into action.” Anakin added, already on board. Ahsoka looked between the two of them, then shot a pointed look towards the courtyard.

“Swimming pool?” she asked. So far they had no time to try it out.

“Not in this weather” Anakin looked out through the doors. Over the low roofs of the building, the clouds were grey. It was raining intermittently.

“Not exactly pool weather,” Obi-wan was still cheerful despite it, “but good for a barbecue.”

The other two met his enthusiasm with doubt.

“Master Kenobi, it’s raining.” Ahsoka stated, just in case he missed the obvious. She could find no other explanation.

“Thank the Force for whoever had invented the umbrella, than.” He smiled at them once more before getting up from the sofa and getting ready to head out.

 Off to the side of the lounge doors in front of every apartment was a small enclosed area with tiled floor, surrounded with low walls and small shrubs. There was enough room for a table and four chairs on one side and a pair of sunbeds opposite. It also had a built in grill with a cover over it at about shoulder height but no roof for whoever was standing in front of it.

Ahsoka and Anakin decided to stick to the lounge, reading their datapads and watching holos. They occasionally looked outside at Obi-wan, grilling away in his purple shirt decorated with palm leaves. He was using one hand to hold whatever utensil he needed and the other to hold the colourful umbrella. He even twirled it once in a while.

They thought him a bit silly, standing outside in the gloomy weather and messing with the smoky grill when they had a very well equipped and rain-free kitchen. Until he came back indoors with a pile of grilled meats and vegetables.

“Get those salads we ordered earlier, please. Time for dinner.”

Ahsoka retrieved the stack of dishes they had ordered from the Crescent’s own kitchen. Obi-wan piled up a plate for her with meats, and shared out the veggies between Anakin and himself, then they all had their pick from the salads. Anakin pestered Ahsoka light heartedly about her not eating her veggies, and she showed her carnivore canines to him as answer. But they both thanked Obi-wan for making the majority of the food, and for making it delicious. 

“Lets hope the weather turns soon” he answered before tucking in.

 The colourful wooden building the opposite of their apartment on the other side of the pool, turned out to be a shed housing treasures, at least according to Ahsoka. When they had woken up to clear skies and sunshine the that morning, it was all she could do to wolf down her breakfast porridge before she raced outside.

On their third day, it finally did, and they broke out the pool equipment.

Anakin followed her.

“I think I should supervise. I don’t want the pool to end up with rainbow bubbles.” He got up, and Obi-wan stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. That was something that didn’t occur to him before. Than he reminded himself that they were on officially mandated holiday, and the employees of the Crescent assured them that everything is safe that was stored around the pool for guests to use. He hoped safe didn’t mean skin coloured to purple and teal patches that takes weeks of three rounds of daily sonic use to fade away.

The sun was still low but started to rise above the rooftops surrounding the courtyard. It made him remember another thing he had learned the hard way. He gathered the dishes but left the washing up for later, then he followed his former padawan and their current padawan outside.

The sun had already dried up any remnants of puddles on the tiled courtyard. He did spot some dew on the patches of lawns between the poolside and the individual terraces but only where there was till shadow. He knew the last reminders of the past few rainy days will vanish before noon and the meteorology service promised sunshine with a bit of breeze for the coming days. Perfect poolside weather.

He caught up with the younger ones and peaked over their shoulders. They were combing through the contents of the pool shed, at the moment inspecting the second shelf from the left. It had colourful boxes on the top shelves and some larger containers at the bottom.

“What are those?” He asked, and the other two jumped. “Sorry.”

Anakin waved him to not worry about it, and shoved him one of the boxes.

“Inflatables. There’s an airpump over there,” he pointed at a small machine in the corner, “and we are trying to choose.”

“I want the thranta. They are adorable.” Ahsoka said, showing the box already in her hand. Anakin raised an eyebrow.

“Those are aiwhas, obviously. The shape of the head…”

Ahsoka leaned forward, ready to argue with him. Obi-wan threw his palms up, stopping them.

“Argue later, please. For now, I want to remind you two to a very important thing.”

They both turned to him and showered him with guesses.

”Not to drown in the pool?” ”Not to pee in the pool?””Anakin! Where did you get that idea?!””The boys, obviously…”No eating in the pool!””No datapads, they aren’t actually waterproof.””Wear haircaps!””Not me!””Wear goggles?“

“Stop, please.” Obi-wan sighed, and the other two calmed down a bit. “I meant sunscreen. Plenty of sunscreen.” He paused, then looked at each of them in turn. “Learned that the hard way.”

“I smell a good story” grinned Ahsoka.

“I smell a funny story” Anakin added. Obi-wan rolled his eyes.

“If you want to know, yes, at one time I gut a sunburn so bad after a mere afternoon outside that I needed medical care. My face was red for two weeks and I needed to slather enough cooling lotion on myself that it would’ve covered a grown thranta. Or an aiwha.”

The other two tried not to laugh. Obi-wan was so pale, it was hard to imagine him all red, but they managed it of course. And it was hilarious. Only their respect for him stopped them to laugh at him, at least whilst he was standing in front of them.

“I haven’t seen any in the house, I guess people bring their own with them when they come here. I’ll put on a delivery request for them. Until that arrives, you two stay out of direct sunlight.” Again he looked at each of them in turn. It must have been really important to him if he was putting so much emphasis on it. “You don’t want to end up all red like I did back then.”

“Well that would be terrible” Ahsoka deadpanned, looking at her arms. Obi-wan smiled.

“I apologize. I should have worded that differently.”

“Like ‘burned like a crispy stuffed tomato’ for example?” Anakin volunteered. Obi-wan shot him a look but there was humour behind it. He left them to continue their exploration and went back to the lounge to put the order in on his datapad.

 The shed was a treasure throw. Neither of them had ever been to a place like this. They did swim at the temple’s pool but that was for learning and training. They never had the opportunity yet to just have fun with some water. It was extra nice that it wasn’t a beach - no sand. Anakin could never get used to having sand around water. Sand was desert, aridity, and water was everything the desert wasn’t. He could also never wrap his mind around the fact that the larger the body of water the more sand it’s shores tended to have.

Or that people went there willingly not just to swim but to play in the sand. For him, that substance was hard, gritty life, and when having fun, he didn’t wanted to be reminded of that.

Ahsoka had no such qualms, although she knew about her master’s aversion and she sympathised with him.

 By the time Obi-wan had arrived with the sunscreen sometime later, the other two had a competition going on. The airpump stood unused by their side and they were trying to inflate their respective pool floats using only their own lung capacities.

“That’s futile but a valiant effort” Obi-wan commented, and the other two threw him the annoyed look of the young. “I also have the sunscreen here, if you two need a break.”

They didn’t, of course, and they continued their strenuous competition. Watching the other two getting more and more winded whilst their floats where still barely more than colourful limp piles at their feet, Obi-wan sat down at one of the sunbeds around the pool with his yellow-green-red spotted towel and started to put lotion on his skin methodically.

“Do you need help, master?” Anakin asked some time later. Obi-wan looked up to see that they had stopped - and barely made progress - and were both looking at him. He shook his head, a bit confused about the question.

“No, I can manage, thank you Anakin.”

The other two exchanged looks than turned back to him. Than he realized. He was finished with the front of his torso and his shoulders; next would be his back. Which they thought would be a problem for poor old Obi-wan, obviously.

“Don’t worry I can reach my own back.” He turned around so they could see, and hooked his hands together behind his back, one arm over his shoulder the other reaching up from below. “See?”

He turned around and the other two had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. He didn’t blame them. He might’ve had similar thoughts about others at their age.

“Now how are those floats going?” he asked while his hands were working on his back.

“Abysmal.” “Hopeless.” “Futile.” “They are faulty.” “Yes, I bet they have holes on them.”

Obi-wan shot a look at them that made them stop.

“Well, I guess, we should admit defeat…”Anakin conceded, “and just use the machine.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, master” agreed Ahsoka too.

They went over to the machine and in a few minutes they had two colourful, vaguely air-whale shaped mattresses. Ahsoka’s one was teal and turquoise and gray, while Anakin had a pink-blue-yellow one for himself.

“Would you like one too, master?” They already started to walk towards the shed.

“No thank you Anakin, I’ll chose one later after I finished.”

“It’s not a problem” and they already vanished. Obi-wan sighed, wondering what will he get. Between his shirts that Ahsoka cheerfully picked out for him every morning - he had a pink one on with tiny porgs all over it today- and his towels - those he choose himself, but the selection for both ranged from “cheerfully bright” through “interesting pattern” to “what where they on when they designed this”- he probably wore more colour in this past few days than usually did in a standard year, disguises included. He decided to wait to see what they chose for him, than he’d just have make his own choice if he doesn't like their selection.

 He didn’t liked it. It was some large bird, green and purple, and unlike theirs, wasn’t flat but shaped like a very awkward chair. So he went and rummaged around, settling on a large torus shaped something in all the colours of the rainbow. He was already covered in colours, so he thought why not go all out.

They air-whales were already floating on the water. Anakin and Ahsoka were sitting at the edge of the pool near them, hanging their legs into the water, passing the sunscreen bottle back and forth between them. After inflating his own device, Obi-wan saw that they were taking the task of screening up seriously. He got hold of the doughnut firmly, took a two careful steps to speed up than jumped onto the water. As he landed, he splashed up a good deal of water - straight at the two younger ones.

“Master!” he heard the two indignant voices. He turned to look at them innocently.

“Yes my dears?”

They had water dripping all over them. He knew they’ll get back at him later. He padded away, looking for the small portable music device he remembered seeing somewhere beside the pool. Might as well have some music too.

 Their attack was coordinated and well executed. Anakin floated in front of him, blocking his view and chatting with him. Under that cover, Ahsoka managed to round him unnoticed, then at a sign they both grabbed his doughnut and upturned it, tossing him into the water.

“Vengeance!” the yelled, laughing, as Obi-wan resurfaced spluttering, shaking his hair out of his eyers. Their alliance broke up almost immediately as their floats bumped into each other and they started to jostle.

“Hey, mind the thranta!” Ahsoka warned.

“It’s an aiwha.” Anakin pushed her, and her mattress wobbled heavily, threatening to throw her off.

“Yours maybe. This one isn't.”

They argued back and forth about the properties of the different air-whale species until they managed to knock each other off their respective float. All three in the water, the fight turned to everyone for themselves. Ahsoka was the shortest but also the most agile, and she swam around the other two like a fish. Anakin and Obi-wan was evenly matched, and they managed to push each other under the water and being pushed down by the other about equal frequency. Ahsoka won the battle when she remembered that she saw some long, straight foam rolls in the shed and whilst the other two was occupying themselves she sneaked out to get them Than she slapped them both on top of their heads, making them admitting defeat.

 When they got too tired - and hungry - they climbed out of the water and wrapped up in their oversized towels. Ahsoka’s was so large it covered her like a tent, but she loved the one she had and kept in on: it had tookas all over it. Than they fired up the barbecue again. This time Obi-wan had help, mostly because the other two were really hungry. After eating, he pulled out a second box of deliveries, just when they were getting ready to get back into the water.

“What are those?”

The largish box was full with bottles and jars, their contents a rainbow of colours.

“This, dear Ahsoka,” Obi-wan checked his datapad, “ well, let me read out the official product designation. This is a ‘The starter box every pool party needs if you want to avoid your guests getting too rowdy, touchy or messing up your place in one way or another - Everything You Need to Make Your Own Mocktails, Starter pack for twelve guests’. This was the smallest package, the others were for 24, 30, 50 or even more guests.”

“That’s how they called their product?” Anakin dug into the box, pulling out a jar with small golden fruits in it. It harmonised with the shirt he had on, with songbirds. “And they are still in business…”

“Who has twelve guest?” was Ahsoka’s observation.

“Here are some recipes” Obi-wan handed a small puck to her. She pushed a button on the cheap plastic gadget and a cheery hologram of an assortment of colourful drinks in fancy glasses showed up. She scrolled to the next picture, and there was indeed a recipe for the simplest of drinks under it.

“Syrup, water, bubbles - where do we get bubbles?” she mused.

“I think there’s a gadget for that. All is supposed to be in the box.” Obi-wan shrugged.

They all choose from the supplied list than set to measure and shake and stir. The first round was a success.

“Let’s try some of the more complicated ones” Anakin suggested only halfway into his drink. Ahsoka scrolled through the recipes and they found one that they both liked.

“How about this one. ‘Chandrilla Sunrise’. Phew, long list, but doesn’t seem too complicated.”

Their first try failed, predictably.

“Focus, padawan. I think we’ll have to follow the instructions by the letter.” Anakin furrowed his brows.

“Oh dear, that’s terrible” commented Obi-wan, than he turned back to his own holopad quickly. “I’ll will just look up some more tricks and recipes while you two… brew.”

They messed up something again. The colours didn’t stay separate bands but blended together into a muddy mix. Obi-wan found the root of their problem.

“The recipe doesn’t mention it, but here it says you have to keep each syrup chilled before pouring them into the glass, than wait a bit for it to warm up to air temperature before adding the next one.” The other two made a ‘hmm, gotcha’ noise simultaneously. “Other advise is to chill the glass beforehand.”

“Let’s try those ideas.” Anakin’s enthusiasm renewed, they got back to work on their third glass. It was a success, finally. Then they had to repeat the process two more times so each of them had a glass for themselves. Decorating them with straws, paper shapes that went over the edge and extra candied fruits.

Ahsoka exchanged her towel to a blue dress with puffy pink clouds printed on it, then turned the volume up on the music player before picking up her glass again. The sun was shining, their bellies were full and no one was shooting at them. It was a great day.

 The sun was slowly getting lower over the rooftops. Music was playing at an acceptable volume now after Ahsoka started to go a bit overboard before and they had to shout to hear each other. Some of the sunbeds were covered with towels and wraps and hats as they tossed them aside when not needed. They took turns on the slide, having a competition about who could make the biggest splash when crashing into the water. Anakin seemed to be in the lead.

“It’s not fair, you are just taller, that’s your advantage!” Ahsoka complained as they stood at the edge of the pool. Obi-wan agreed with her.

“Yes, he doesn’t use any technique aside of stretching out all limbs.”

Anakin grinned at them.

“You two are just sore losers.” Then he suddenly turned and with a single step, reached the edge of the pool and jumped. The other two barely had enough time to turn away before he smashed into the pool, splashing plenty of water at them.

 After declaring Anakin the splasher champion, him and Ahsoka got back on their floats for another round of foam-noodle duel and general splashing about. Obi-wan had stuck to his datapad, still reading about drink-making tricks and flavour harmonization and fruit types. He floated around on his doughnut as far as possible from the ruckus the other two were making, sipping from his glass with an umbrella in it and a fruit rind over its edge. By the end of the day, he had made almost a dozen different drinks, and they never had to float around long without one in hand, or put aside at the edge of the pool.

“Don’t forget to visit the fresher if you need to, master” Ahsoka reminded Anakin, who shot her a look of mock offence.

“Now why would you say that?” He took a sip of his drink, than furrowed his brow. “Actually that's not that bad of an idea.”

It took him a while to paddle to the edge of the pool using only one hand.

“You can do it, master!” “Use your legs!” “Don’t drop the glass, I spent half hour on that one!” was just a few of the advice he had received.

He mock- growled back at them then laughed himself as he finally climbed up onto the tiles.

“I'm so proud of you” Obi-wan told him, and raised his glass, Ahsoka’s giggling behind him.

They stayed out after the sun had already set, than gathered up their their stuff and went to sleep tired but happy.

 Just like the day before, Anakin and Ahsoka spent most of the day in the pool. They got very good at jumping in from the edge of the pool without their feet slipping on the wet tiles. When they got tired of that, they flopped onto their respective air-whales and padded about, occasionally bumping into each other and having a wrestling match. Obi-wan had joined them before, after the sun dipped a bit lower after the glare of the middle of the day. He even jumped in himself a few times, though he enjoyed the slide more. He was now making a late afternoon meal; the leftovers were all gone and he was happy to muck about the barbecue yet again.

He heard some noises from outside. It was quiet aside of the splashing coming from the pool and the noises made by the small portable music player. Maybe they were getting some neighbours before the officers arrived. They were expecting them the next day, no later than noon. Then the noises grew louder and he could tell that they were definitely made by sentients, and were getting closer. He stuck his head out around the barbecue’s wall and peaked towards the courtyard entrance, just in time to see the approaching group of clone officers step out into the sunshine. They burst into hollering upon seeing them, and when Ahsoka and Anakin noticed them they greeted them from the water with equal enthusiasm.

Obi-wan sighed. How lucky, he thought, that he spent the last afternoon studying how to make mocktails. He checked that everything that was on the grill could be left there for a little while, than he wiped his hands on his ‘Best chef in the sector’ apron and got his datapad.

As the officers gathered around the pool, chatting with Anakin and Ahsoka and no doubt planning to get in the water as soon as possible, he opened the delivery service on his datapad. He run through the items in his head that they’ll need to feed everyone. And the drink supplies too.

Maybe he can get some of them to help out with the food and drink preparations - if he can drag them from the pool first.

[theskywaslookingback]

I've seen you taking prompts and if it's not a bother, Jontim with angy Tim letting all his anger go after Elias or someone equally nasty hurts Jon real bad?

you have the patience of a saint. here you go.

litany (in which certain things are crossed out)

"Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?" - Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

When the tape clicks on, Tim can’t even find it in himself to be surprised. He’s been viciously marking over statements for at least an hour, highlighting anything that mentions a circus, skin, or a dance. There’s less of it than he thinks there should be, and every minute his eyes skim over written word after written word makes his blood boil higher and higher. He throws the marker to the floor, the bump and skid of the nub marking a trail of yellow from the desk to the floor where it rolls under Melanie’s desk.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly, his shoulders tucked up to his ears.

The recorder whirrs, cassette winding in its casing, a low hum of static emitting from it as the previously locked trap door to the tunnels swings open. Jon comes tumbling out, breathing hard. He looks...God, he looks like a wreck. Hair cropped haphazardly short, like chunks had been cut out with a bread knife, clothes hanging off him like rags. The door closes with an ominous creak, and is that--? Vaguely he makes out the shape of a hand, though that’s not right because no hand looks like that , waving right before the trap door shuts. But no, that’s…

“Well then, where have you been?”

Jon looks up, startled. There are deep bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. His eyes dart off of Tim to the desk where the tape recorder sits. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I was...gone.” He says awkwardly. He keeps rubbing at his wrist and hand like they ache, and the skin does look rubbed red and raw.

“I know that. It’s not like you’re ever really here .”

The last time Tim really saw Jon must have been at least six weeks ago, shortly after their boss outed himself as a murderer . Tim tries not to think about that overmuch. The way Jon’s hand had gone for the recorder almost absently as he tried to apologize, to explain. Tim had yelled, he remembers that, said if Jon wanted to talk they would have to do it without the recorders and then Jon had left . And, well, that was the end of it, really.

Now, Jon flinches. His eyes resolutely trained on the floor at Tim’s feet and Tim can’t remember the last time that Jon looked him in the eye. Like everything else at the moment it just makes him angry.

“I-- I have to talk to Elias.” Jon says. He pulls himself up to standing and shuffles past Tim like it hurts to move.

“Jon.”

Jon stops. “Get this thing off my desk.” Tim can’t bear to look at him.

“Oh.” Christ , why does he sound so sad? “Yes, of course.”

The hand that comes down is so small, dark skin pocked over with holes that mirror the ones in Tim’s own hand. He remembers when they were both smooth, unmarked. The weight of that hand in his own, the feel of that palm under his lips. That seems so long ago now, before the stale air of the Archives turned them both sour and rotten. Jon’s hand closes around the smooth dark tape recorder, fingers folded around it both careless and reverential. His wrist and forearm are covered in abrasions, the skin peeling back in spots leaving half scarred, raw red skin. Before he can stop himself Tim closes his hand over Jon’s.

Jon jerks, in either fear or surprise Tim can’t say. “Tim, I--”

“What did this?”

“Tim it’s-- it’s fine I just...I need to talk to Elias.” Jon tries to pull away again and Tim squeezes hard enough to feel those delicate bones under him shift. “Ah! Ah! Tim--”

“ Jon .”

“Ah, the Circus, it was-- one of them kidnapped me and ah, they had me tied to a chair.” Jon chokes a little on his own words. “They-they we’re going to uh, wear me. I-I-I think it had something to do with a ritual. A dance. They called it the Unknowing .”

Tim lets go and Jon takes a step back, cradling his hand and tape recorder next to his heart. Tim can barely hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. He flexes his fists, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest.

“So what they just...let you go?”

“Not exactly,” Jon huffs, “it’s-- it’s complicated.” He glances over his shoulder to the Archives entrance, like calculating his chance at getting out the door before Tim can-- do what? Stop him? Is that what he wants to do? He looks so tired, his shoulders hunched and arms scabbed over with half healed rope burns.

“They hurt you.”

Jon huffs out a breath, preparing for...something. Some kind of denial most likely, or maybe even an apology. Whatever it is Tim can’t hear it right now. He stands, the scrape of his chair on the floor making Jon’s jaw snap shut.

He swallows. “Well, yes and no. I mean, my skin is in better condition than it’s been in years.” Jon smiles for the briefest moment before it falters into a grimace, “Is that weird? That’s...kind of all they talked about.”

“Of course that’s weird ,” Tim bites, “everything about you is weird .” He takes a full step toward the door before Jon grabs his arm. Tim shakes him off, more violently than he needs to or even intends.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to have a word with Elias.”

“Why?” Jon asks. It sounds startled out of him, like the abrupt firing of a gun. The tape crackles in Jon’s hand, growling like an aching, hungry stomach. “I mean, why do you care?” He doesn’t sound accusatory or angry, just curious.

‘I don’t,’ is what Tim wants to say. It’s what he means to say. But instead his stomach swoops and the words tumble from his mouth, unwanted and unbidden but true, “You’re all I have left.”

Jon’s mouth does something funny, trembling into an ‘o’. He fumbles for words, though nothing comes out but vague stammering noises. Tim snarls and grabs him by the shirt, twisting his hand in the fabric and pulling hard until Jon meets him chest to chest.

“Do not do that to me ever again.”

“I-I didn’t mean to--”

“Don’t.”

Jon goes quiet. His hand twitches like he wants to grab Tim’s but lets it hover indecisively to the side until Tim lets him go. Jon stumbles backward, bumping into Martin’s desk. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, “okay, I-- okay.” Then, even softer with his eyes on the floor he says, “I’m sorry.”

The inside of his chest explodes white hot, a mix of anger and guilt and shame, and Tim slams his hand on his desk. The cheap wood rattles, pens bouncing off onto the floor and rolling away. His poor desk plant tips to the side and crashes hard against the wood floor and spills ceramic and potting soil across the ground. Martin comes thundering down the stairs a moment later, his eyes wide and startled.

“Tim, what’s--” He starts before his eyes land on Jon and his mouth drops into a soft ‘o’. “Jon?”

“Martin,” Jon breathes, and it comes out sounding overwhelmingly relieved.

Martin crosses the room to fuss, his hands reaching out like he wants to touch but knows he’s not allowed. He reaches out and takes the tape recorder from Jon’s hand, overly gentle. Tim can’t...he turns and strides up the stairs with furious purpose. Martin can do whatever he’d like. If he wants to work himself up into knots trying to care for someone with no sense of self preservation or common sense he’s certainly welcome to do so. Tim’s already burned that bridge.

It’s just...when Tim had nothing else at least he had Jon. And there is a very small part of himself that misses Jon terribly. The easy laughter drawn out by late nights with bad takeout, bent over research reports and books on the occult they couldn’t possibly hope to understand. The curve of his mouth, small and shy, after a kiss. The feel of his hand on Tim’s back, or holding his own. His body, small and lithe, curled into Tim’s side while they walked to the tube after work.

He misses his friend more than any of that. He misses the trust.

Tim is at Elias’ office before he can even think about it, riding a wave of rage so strong it almost knocks the air out of him. He throws the door open, letting it slam against the wall as he storms through.

Elias sits back in his chair and doesn’t even pretend at surprise. “Hello Tim.” He says cordially, smiling for all the world like nothing could ever go wrong for him. “Jon’s back then, is he?”

“You knew,” Tim starts, voice simmering with fury, “this whole time you knew where he was, didn’t you.”

Elias blows out a slow breath. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“Tim--”

“Elias.”

“I knew Jon had been taken, yes,” Elias says, splaying his hands out in front of him as though in supplication, though the look on his face is amused, “but I did not know where. I was working on it, though it seems Jon did not need my help in the end.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Tim snarls, slamming his hands down on Elias’ desk and leaning in toward him. “Why didn’t you say anything ? Why did you let us think--” He cuts himself off, biting into the inside of his own cheek.

Elias tilts his head and narrows his eyes, there’s something vaguely predator-like about that gaze that almost makes Tim uneasy. “And what good would that have done, Tim? Hm? Would you have gone to him? Saved him?” Elias leans in and his eyes are so bright Tim has to lean back. “No. Don’t lie to yourself. You would have watched too, just to see him suffer because you thought he deserved it.”

Tim clenches his jaw, teeth clacking together hard enough it sends a jolt of pain up the muscle. “You--” He starts, but there are no words to convey the wrath making itself at home in his ribcage. A rage turned inward because Elias is right and Tim doesn’t know what to do with that.

Elias just stares at him, patiently, eyes bright and lips turned up in amusement. When nothing else comes he finally leans back into his chair. “Right,” He closes his eyes for half a heart beat and then looks up at the door, “That will do for now, I think. Jon is on his way up here right now so no need to close the door on your way out.”

Tim turns on his heel and leaves, his throat tight. He does slam the door shut behind himself as he leaves, an attempt to soothe the complicated torrent working its way around his chest, making it hard to breathe. He sees Jon down the hall, striding purposefully toward Elias’ office. He’s barehanded, no tape recorder in sight, and somehow that gives Tim enough pause to gasp in a breath.

Jon hesitates when he sees Tim, rocking back on his heel like he doesn’t know where to go, and then Tim takes two steps forward and pulls him into his arms. It’s not quite a hug, Tim’s arms are too tight and Jon has no way to move either forward or back, but Tim presses his face into Jon’s hair anyway just for a moment. When he lets go Jon stares up at him, bewildered.

“Tim?"

“No.” Tim says sharply, “Don’t start, just--”

“Right,” Jon says, confused, “right, okay--”

“Just--” Tim huffs out a breath, “Stay safe.” He says and leaves Jon standing there in the middle of the hall.

Tim has lost so much in his life. He’d lost Danny, and he’d lost Sasha. Now he’d almost lost Jon and didn’t even realize it. It wouldn’t happen again, Tim thought fiercely, not ever again.

[makkoskafanfic]

KakuHidan WIP fic teaser

This is part of WIP release March! A KakuHidan one for a change.

This is a Maffia - Modern setting AU but with special powers. I planned to write something like this... oh since I first started to ship KakuHidan some 9 years ago, probably. 

The idea came up again as we were rewatching Naruto last year and I got pretty far with it, before we reached the HashiMada arc and of course all the fangirl neurons in my brain got hyperfixated on HashiMada again. 

I have almost 10K words written of it, so I hope to continue one day, and not to let it go to waste. This scene is Kakuzu’s and Hidan’s first meeting. As such I would rate it M (or a strong PG13? I don’t really get the ratings) No sexual themes at this point, but there are a bunch of people getting killed, blood, gore, violence and Hidan’s dirty mouth. 

Strange to say after this, but I had fun writing this, hope you will enjoy.

Kakuzu secured the Harley and looked at the unassuming building he found at the address he was given. While it wasn’t in the best of neighbourhoods, it certainly wasn’t in the worst Konoha City could offer either. A sign in the window announced it was for sale and the faded advertisement above the door let him know it used to be a barber’s shop. All in all, not where he would imagine some crazed prophet performing his homicidal ritual. Well, his source assured him this was the place - the man knew Kakuzu didn’t take disappointment well, so it was unlikely he’d give him anything but a hundred percent confirmed information.

He walked around the building to a small alley packed with overflowing rubbish bins to find the backdoor. He pushed on it and it gave easily - it wasn’t locked.  It opened to a small room that once must have been used by the staff. It was mostly empty now, save for the empty shelves along the walls, a small desk with some old newspapers stacked on it, the large cardboard box underneath it and for the man sitting in an old office chair with one arm broken off. He stood up as Kakuzu entered. He took in his appearance, his leather jacket, his dark jeans, his mid-calf boots, the mask covering the lower half of his face, the biker helmet under his arm and he still somehow came to the wrong conclusion. He was just as tall as Kakuzu and more obviously muscled, which probably gave him a false sense of security.

“Here for a haircut? I’m afraid we’re closed for business.”

“Wouldn’t let you touch my hair,” Kakuzu grumbled. “I’m here for Hidan.”

The man’s eyes cut briefly towards the desk, which told Kakuzu what he needed to know. 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No? I was told I need to come here to praise Lord Jashin and see the wonders he’s capable of.” He was also told some idiotic password that he didn’t bother to remember.

“The show has already started,” the man sneered at him, “no late joiners allowed.”

“That’s a pity,” Kakuzu took the helmet from under his arm, looked at it pensively for a moment, before smiting the man down with it in a lightning fast movement. There was a sickening, wet thump as it crashed the man’s skull. He wiped the blood off, noticing it got dented with annoyance. This mission was already proving to be a headache. At least there was never a complaint from Pein when he added his extra expenses for his damaged accessories.

He pushed the desk and the box out of the way, uncovering a trapdoor on the floor. A narrow staircase led down into darkness.

“A barber shop with a dungeon,” he muttered to himself as he descended. “What a circus.”

The light seeping down through the open trapdoor quickly dimmed completely as he took on the corridor. Always well prepared, he took a small torch from his inner pocket and switched it on. There were a few side doors, but he didn’t bother with them. As he walked down the corridor, the voices coming from behind the door at the end became louder and louder. He pocketed the torch and slid it open.

The people inside didn’t seem to notice his late entry. Kakuzu did a quick count. There were eighteen of them on the floor, plus two on the low stage - a woman tied to a chair, and the man he recognised as Hidan from what Pein had shown him.

First impressions were important and Kakuzu trusted his instincts. Hidan was loud, foul mouthed as he sprouted his religious nonsense and Kakuzu was taken by the deep intuition that he, for his own peace of mind, had to kill this man. He was trouble. 

He pushed himself through the small crowd, ignoring the men’s protest that he was blocking the view. Just a few feet away from Hidan he took his time to assess his opponent. He was young, just as Pein’s file said, face smooth, his half-naked body well toned. He seemed physically strong with his lean muscles, but not a match for Kakuzu’s own might of course. He was ranting about his Lord Jashin, something about his eternal gift and punishment of heathens… he was damn noisy. His voice was a deep baritone which could have been pleasant if it was quieter and if he wasn’t working himself towards shrill yelling as he got more and more agitated. The people around Kakuzu didn’t mind though - they were murmuring appreciatively, repeating some of the phrases, like “Hail Lord Jashin”, “Bring death and destruction, oh Lord,” “I swear to murder and destroy in your name”.

Kakuzu knew he was supposed to observe the whole ceremony to see the presumed powers of this preacher for himself, but he wasn’t sure he could stand much more of this. He could just shoot Hidan and see if he died or not. Not quite what Pein wanted, but it would do the job, wouldn’t it?

Hidan's eyes swept the crowd during his speech and Kakuzu made the mistake of meeting them. The dark mass was abruptly cut short. The crowd muttered as their leader fell silent, but Hidan ignored them. 

“Looks like we have a heathen, an unbeliever in our midst today!” he glared at Kakuzu, then suddenly laughed, pointing at him. “Kill him my children, let his blood flow freely as it pleases Lord Jashin!”

How the little shit knew instantly, Kakuzu had no time to ponder as the mob closed in on him immediately. Most of them were unarmed, but he spotted a few knives and what looked like a beer bottle broken in half. He kicked the first man who reached him in the stomach so hard he flew away to collide with the edge of the stage. He crumbled to the ground there like a puppet whose strings were cut. That gave him some space to work with.

His opponents were no skilled fighters, so even with their numbers against him, Kakuzu didn’t have a hard time. The magazine of his Sig Sauer held fifteen rounds, almost enough for the whole bunch. Kakuzu never missed a shot - he liked to be effective and he hated anything to go to waste. The rest he took down by bare hands. The men managed to land a few hits, even a couple of stabs, on his arms and chest, which enraged him further. They were ruining a perfectly fine leather jacket. 

He took it off and tossed it aside quickly when the last of his attackers fell to the ground with a smashed-in face. Blood was running down his left arm from a long and shallow cut. There were smaller wounds on his chest, though they were easily to ignore. 

He looked up at the two people on the stage who didn’t join the fight yet. The woman tied to the chair - unconscious, maybe drugged, so no kind of threat, and the annoying preacher. Hidan didn’t seem to be disturbed by the defeat of his followers. He had a long, sharp pike in his hand - he pointed at Kakuzu with it and he grinned.

“Lord Jashin blessed me with glorious destruction today! All this blood and the corpses! Thank you, Lord Jashin! I’m your forever faithful follower and will sacrifice this son of a bitch to you as well! His blood will seal the sacred…”

“Shut up,” Kakuzu cut into this annoying speech, feeling the beginning of a headache forming behind his brows. “One more word of this nonsense and you’ll end up in so many little pieces even your god wouldn’t be able to tell how you looked originally.”

“How dare you interrupt my prayer, you heathen fucker?!” Hidan shrieked at him. “You’ll die in the most glorious agony!” Like the obviously brainless idiot he was, he charged Kakuzu with a shrill battle-cry of “Lord Jashin”, holding his pike in front of him as if he was some misbegotten knight on a tournament.

Kakuzu waited till the last moment before he stepped to the side, grabbed Hidan’s wrist and yanked it above his head. Despite his cruising grip, the priest didn’t drop his weapon. He went fully berserk, getting caught like this. His shoulder gave a sickening, loud pop as it dislocated, but he didn’t seem to notice the pain. He brought both of his legs up and kicked out, aiming at Kakuzu’s crotch. He managed to turn away slightly, but the impact on his thigh and side was still bruising. He grunted in pain, cursed the little shit under his breath and raised him even higher up from the ground. 

Hidan shrieked in indignation and still didn’t let his weapon go. Kakuzu had to give it to him, there was something to be said for his tolerance of pain. He caught the preacher’s free hand as he swung it to claw at his face and took a firm hold on it too. Hidan swore, but was far from giving up.

He bit Kakuzu’s neck in an underhanded move and kicked him in the knees so hard his legs buckled. He allowed them to fall to the ground, pinning Hidan underneath his heavier bulk. He clasped his hands above his head, restraining them and kneeling on his legs to immobilise him fully. The Jashinist screamed vulgarities at him, thrashing wildly as he tried but failed to dislodge Kakuzu.

“Shut. Up” Kakuzu grid out, slightly breathless as he was fighting this utter madman. “You little shit, just stay still for a…”

Hidan spit him in the face, more blood than saliva, barely missing his eye. That did it. 

Stitches came loose on the underside of Kakuzu’s wrists, allowing the secret weapon of his body to burst forward.

“What the fuck…” Hidan gasped as the tentacles wrapped themselves around his neck and squeezed. After that only unarticulated, gurgling sounds left his throat. 

While Kakuzu found satisfaction in defeating his enemies, he always killed because that was his job or because that was the fastest way to achieve his goals and not because it caused him joy. This time however he found immense pleasure in the sudden silence. It was broken by pathetic, wet, choking sounds only, then not even those as Hidan’s lungs ran out of air. His trashing slowly quieted down, but Kakuzu didn’t let go until the last twitches stopped and Hidan’s eyes - a surprising shade of violet, now that he had the chance to see them from close up - rolled up in their sockets. 

He looked quite dead, with the foam in the corner of his open mouth, with his blood everywhere, but Kakuzu checked his pulse before he withdrew his tentacles to be sure. He rolled off from the still body and allowed himself to spread out on his back for a minute. His whole body ached, his clothes were ruined and he was in a foul mood.

“I’ll ask for a pay rise after this,” he muttered to the deadly quiet room. He closed his eyes - only to open them in alarm when he felt movement from next to him. He tried to roll away, but Hidan - magically back from the dead, the pike he never let go throughout his thrashing raised high - was too close. The preacher bore the weapon down, into his heart.

“Take that you rotten bastard,” he cackled and tried to yank the pike free, probably to thrust it through his chest again. Kakuzu grabbed it and didn’t let go. “You can hope they pay well in Hell, but I don’t think Lord Jashin will be kind to a heathen shithead like you! He will torture you for an eternity and reward me, his faithful servant with…”

Kakuzu breathed through the sharp pain, raised his free hand and grabbed his slicked back hair. He sat up and dragged him back, until Hidan didn’t have any other chance but to let his weapon go, if he didn’t want to lose a handful of hair.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch, it hurts you shitty fuck! Let my hair go!”

Kakuzu yanked the metal rod out from his heart, wincing at the pain. He could feel his threads moving under his skin, stitching the gaping would back up. Losing two hearts under a week. Maybe he was getting old. 

“You should be busy being dead,” he told the priest. “And as such not concerned about your hair.”

“Fuck you, my hair looks too good to be touched by the likes of you!”

“It’s a horrible dye. This must have been a shithole of a barber shop.”

“As if you are the one to talk! When did you get a cut last time? Never? And what’s with that fucking mask? Is it the flu season or what?”

“Shut up,” Kakuzu said with resignation as he knew now it was in vain. 

“You shut up. Why are you not dead, anyway?”

“Because we are both out of luck today.”

He stood up and experimentally let Hidan’s hair go. The priest got to his feet as well, examining him with his head tilted to the side. He then looked around the room, at all the scattered bodies lying around and sighed.

“This was the best mass I ever celebrated,” he said dreamily. “Was I mistaken? Are you sent by Lord Jashin?”

“No,” Kakuzu snorted at this absurdity. “I was sent by the Akatsuki. The Leader heard of your special… ability and wanted me to recruit you to our ranks.”

“What the fuck is the Akatuski?”

Kakuzu looked at him silently, pondering the probability of someone living in Konoha and never hearing about its most powerful criminal organisation. Hidan looked honestly clueless. An immortal idiot. Wonderful. 

“A place that would offer someone like you many possibilities. You get jobs done and it will treat you well.”

“I only want to spread the word of Lord Jashin and live to please him.”

“You want people to listen to you? Or you want to kill them? The Akatsuki will help you with both.”

 “Are there more people like you?” 

“There are some… not ordinary people in the organisation,” Kakuzu said carefully. “Though not quite like me.”

“So only me and you are immortal?” Hidan grinned at him. Kakuzu didn’t contradict him - he wasn’t immortal, just very hard to kill, but he didn’t need to give the advantage of knowing that. It seemed he was being successful in his recruitment. He wasn’t quite convinced it was a good thing. “So what now?”

“I am to present you to our Leader in two days. You’ll come with me, so I can keep an eye on you till then.”

Hidan looked around and shrugged.

“It’s not as if I have any followers alive at the moment. I guess I can go and see that Akatsuki bloke with you. Who are you, by the way?”

“I’m Kakuzu.”

“Kakuzu, ehh? Is that a last name or a first name?”

“It’s a name,” Kakuzu snapped irritably. “You can call me by it.”

“All right then, Ka-ku-zu,” Hidan grinned as he dragged his name out in an inane sing-song. “I’m Hidan.”

“I know,” he sighed with resignation. “Go and grab whatever you need and let’s head out.”

Hidan muttered something about his sacrifice and went to finish the woman off, probably. Kakuzu changed the magazine in his gun and made sure that they left nothing but dead bodies behind. They needed no potential eye witnesses. He didn’t bother with cleaning up though - good luck for anyone who tried to find his fingerprints in any recent databases. 

He put on his torn jacket, re-tied his hair in its ponytail and waited impatiently for Hidan. The Jashinist reappeared at last, wearing a hooded coat, but still no shirt and a small backpack.

“I’m ready to embark this new journey Lord Jashin guides me on,” he grinned at him and Kakuzu was quite sure he was just trying to piss him on. He glared at him, but it didn’t intimidate the younger man at all.

“Let’s go then.”

[nvvermore]

Songbird vs Rattlesnake

People get mean when the chips are down, and Amaryllis and Vesper were no exception to the rule.

words: 2115

cw: fighting, descriptions of burns/cuts/blood, manipulation, abuse, misgendering/deadnaming (for context, this is set in a period before anyone had ever come out)

—

“Hey Mal,” the greeting is snarled from behind directly behind Amaryllis. Whirling around reveals Veronique, leaning against the wall, nonchalant, positioned like she’d been just waiting for them to pass by. They wouldn’t be surprised to learn that was the case.

“What do you want?” they spit back. Really, they didn’t have the capacity for her antics today. Amaryllis hated being caught off-guard by their sister, anxiety now bubbling in the pit of their chest.

“Wow, I can’t simply seek out my baby sister for a little chat?”

Her arms are folded over her chest, and Amaryllis notes she’s in her riding clothes; her long, violet hair had been braided back, knee-high riding boots giving her short stature a boost, and well-tailored jodhpurs and dark riding jacket perfectly in place, not a wrinkle in sight. Clearly, she hadn’t come from the stables.

“No, you can’t.” 

Veronique couldn’t, because her days of sitting and chatting pleasantly with Amaryllis were far behind them. They couldn’t imagine a single reason why she’d have a sudden change of heart.

“Gods, you really are such a fucking diva,” she pushed herself away from the wall, “I get it, the precious little songbird has much more important things to do than entertain the likes of me.”

“All I do is entertain the likes of you. That’s the only reason anyone keeps me around.”

“And you don’t even appreciate it.”

“Why would I appreciate being treated no different from a circus animal?” Kept in a cage and only let out to play for a selfish crowd, then shoved back in until the next show.

“I don’t know what the hell they all see in you,” she began to close the distance between them. Despite Amaryllis being the one who towered over her, they were intimidated. It was hard not to be. Though they wouldn’t let it show, even if Veronique surely knew the unease they instilled. “You get the entire crowd's love and attention and yet you don’t even give a damn about it!”

“You’re right, I don’t. It’s all just smoke and mirrors; I couldn’t possibly care any less.”

“You’re insufferable!”

Veronique was right before them now, had to tilt her head all the way up to look at them properly, but it didn’t detract from her imposing aura. Amaryllis returned their ice-blue glare, refusing to falter before her.

Over the years they’d gotten better at standing up to her; or at least standing their ground when she taunted them. Amaryllis didn’t like fighting— with anyone— especially not someone so unpredictable. Someone who, despite how illogical the feeling was, they loved. Someone who was supposed to love them, and possibly did once, but had been ruthlessly turned against them.

Veronique was never hostile to them before Amaryllis had started to take the stage; she might have been the only person who was nice to them who didn’t have to be. As a child their concept of ‘nice’ had been skewed, sure, but they were certain no one was forcing Veronique’s hand when Amaryllis would stumble upon her stargazing in the estate‘s gardens.

 She’d invite them to sit and tell them all about the constellations. Or point out the bush nearby full of lilac-colored hydrangeas, and how they were her favorite. She’d explained how they symbolized heartlessness, and all flowers had a special meaning. Once, long before they ever saw themself as ‘Amaryllis’ or even a them, they’d asked her what the scarlett flowers in the garden meant, to which she replied ‘pride’.

The siblings were only six years apart in age, ten and sixteen around the time in question, but Amaryllis thought she was so much older and wiser. So gentle compared to the rest of the family, a trait they admired and constantly tried to emulate. 

Amaryllis wasn’t allowed at parties, but that didn’t stop them from eavesdropping, inspired by the way everyone in the room seemed to gravitate towards Veronique. Showering her with compliments on her excellent riding form or her perfect aim with a bow, and how every word made her smile shine as bright as the stars she’d pointed out to them. They had very little understanding of familial relationships— and most social situations— and how they were supposed to work, but they understood that she was their big sister, and it made them happy to see her happy.

And then Amaryllis’s talent was exploited, and everything shifted. So they knew very well why Veronique hated them so much. The spotlight that once illuminated her belonged to them now, involuntarily snatching it away from her. And unfortunately for the both of them, their parents had made sure it was not a beam large enough to share. 

Amaryllis was wracked with guilt at first, but it faded along with Veronique’s kindness towards them. After a while, they stopped feeling guilty. It wasn’t their fault, and like Amaryllis, her anger should have been directed at their parents who’d decided to pit them against each other. With every new act of disdain, the interactions they’d shared as children became irreparably tainted. It began to make sense why she favored hydrangeas, with their callous meaning.

“It must run in the family,” Amaryllis folded their arms in front of their chest. Clearly mimicking her posture, Veronique didn’t look pleased.

“Yea, on your mother’s side.”

The jab was misplaced, Amaryllis didn’t know their birth mother and never had; and when they gave no reaction Veronique scowled. Despite all her intimidation, she’d never been good at masking her expression. Before Amaryllis could retort at all, they were shoved backwards, just barely keeping their balance from the harsh action.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You! That’s what’s wrong with me. You! You’ve ruined everything for me! Always have!”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice, take it up with my superiors.”

Another shove, and another, and then Amaryllis was thrown against the wall and Veronique’s hands were circling around their neck. Their hands shoot to seize her wrists, nails digging into her skin as they attempt to pull her away. She’s strong, strong enough to hold Amaryllis a good inch off of the ground.

Their toes point down, reaching, but brush uselessly against the marble flooring. Amaryllis doesn’t want to fight back but there’s little choice, she’s actually trying to cut off their air. With regret even now, they slam a knee up into her stomach and she lurches back. Veronique is a skilled fighter, a star athlete, but now she’s angry and distracted and has left herself open in the process.

Their other knee slams into the floor as they’re dropped, and Amaryllis thanks their perfect breath control for the fact they aren’t breathless in the slightest. Veronique isn’t hurt, just surprised and irate. It wasn’t as if they had any other option, but Amaryllis may as well have just jabbed an already riled up rattlesnake with a stick.

“What the fuck? Escalating from tormenting me, to what? Attempted murder?”

Unhearing, she bends down to unsheathe a dagger from her boot. Certainly, they’re royally screwed. Amaryllis could keep up with a frenzied and unarmed Veronique, but they’re no match for her armed.

Amaryllis rises and quickly backs down the corridor, not sure if it's better to keep their eyes on her or turn and make a run for it. They’re cursing themself for not spending more time learning combat magic. Maybe they could charm her, but they’re terrified and unfocused, and when they open their mouth to scream, nothing comes out. The only things that could be heard were the clicking of boots against the tiling and Amaryllis’s rapid heartbeat.

In the blink of an eye Veronique is caught up to them, and effortlessly lands a kick to their chest that sends them crashing to the floor. Then she’s on them, pinning them to the floor, eyes dark and dagger poised with intention. Their hands catch her wrists again, and there’s a power struggle over the blade’s proximity to Amaryllis’s neck. They flail and kick but it’s no use; Veronique knows how to keep someone down, and is dense with muscle that makes her heavy.

“If you’re so miserable, let me do you a favor and put you out of it.”

It wasn’t a joke, it never had been, but the revelation sunk further the closer Veronique’s blade came to its mark. Amaryllis let their head fall back to the flood as the struggle continued, desperate to conjure up something, anything, to get out of this impasse. But they were afraid to the point of tears, already so tired, and magic didn’t come easy in such a state.

If they so much as took too deep a breath or flinched, the tip of the dagger would graze their nose. They weren’t trained for this, their stamina was impressive but they didn’t use it for fighting, but Veronique was trained for this. Amaryllis’s eyes fluttered shut and they wondered if it would be so horrible to just give in; she wasn’t wrong, they were miserable.

Just when they were debating on letting go, a raucous scream rang out and Amaryllis recoiled. They had thought it might have been their voice, but then they felt the sharp sting of the dagger slicing their cheek open as Veronique was dropping the knife and jolting away from them.

“You witch,”

Distantly, Amaryllis noted how warm their hands felt, and when they opened their eyes to the view of their palms turned searing sanguine, like iron fresh from the forge. A gasp falls from their lips, but the motion tells their brain the pain wasn’t coming from their hands. Slowly, they pick up a faint, but repulsive scent, and as their shock fades, they start to put the pieces together. 

The screams were still sounding, and when they finally looked to Veronique, there were angry, bright red handprints burned into her wrists; enough to cause notable damage, but too little to have damaged the nerves. Somehow, at the last possible second, Amaryllis had mustered up magic capable of drastically heating up their palms. They weren’t even entirely sure if they had even known such a thing was possible.

It saved them, but it felt wrong. Never before had Amaryllis used their magic for something so destructive. The worst they’d ever done was place harmless charms on ‘noble’ guests. Despite Veronique’s full intention to gut them, they felt a conflict stirring, and for a moment wondered if they were capable of any healing.

Suddenly Veronique was approaching, and Amaryllis sat up and snatched up the dagger that had been abandoned nearby. As they held it, their touch began to rapidly heat the metal, and soon enough the weapon complemented their hands. There was a low hiss as their blood that had decorated the blade heated too, boiling away and leaving it congealed. Amaryllis was shaking and crying and bleeding, but they were unyielding as they turned the dagger on its owner.

Amaryllis watched her face carefully, telling themself they were prepared for her next move, so when something in her expression shifted, they saw. Like she had been in a trance, captivated by her rage and misplaced hatred, and it just hit her exactly what she’d done. Veronique gasped, the tears that had come from the burns now falling for completely different reasons. Frantically her eyes flitted between the red of Amaryllis’s eyes, the red of the wound marring their pale skin, the red of the blade leveled at her.

“Mal…” she choked out, and then she was dashing down the hall, gone as abruptly as she had seemed to appear.

Then, a scoff sounded from behind Amaryllis and they spun around, still on edge. Standing a few feet away, looking thoroughly disappointed, was the madame. She looked down upon her ward, bloodied and on the floor, and rolled her eyes.

“What a pity,” she said simply, and in that moment, Amaryllis reconsidered their stance on violence. “I had assumed she was more capable, but perhaps I had too much faith in her.”

It was the first true confirmation Amaryllis had of the woman’s crime; her carefully planned manipulation had fallen short, and she couldn’t even pretend to act like it was an accident.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” she ordered, and then left without another glance.

After that day, even long after the cut across Amaryllis’s freckled face had healed and faded into an unsightly scar, they never saw very much of Veronique again. Sometimes at night— however illogical it was— they’d find themself at the hydrangea bush in the garden, eyes trained on the stars, wishing they’d both been dealt a different hand in life.

—

[beauregardlionett]

this poem is my confessional (loving you isn’t a sin)

AO3 Link

A/N: big shout out to my man @sadwizardvibes for the inspiration AND for writing me a fucking song to go with this piece thanks for fueling my beauyasha brainrot man <3

If she was honest with herself, giving Beau that poem had been entirely an impulse decision. Yasha had told Jester she would work on it—which she did—and that she would find a special moment for it. But most of the moments she shared with Beau were special to her, so that didn’t exactly narrow things down. She cherished every conversation and tried her hardest to keep Beau safe. Especially after the events at the chantry, Yasha appreciated every moment she got with Beau.

So, she had handed the paper over and prayed she didn’t embarrass herself.

Beau had seemed flustered, touched, and Yasha had wanted nothing more than to kiss her then and there. But she had held back, because she wanted Beau to at least read the poem before anything else happened.

And then all of that insanity with Vess and Molly—no, Lucien—had happened, and Yasha found herself grateful nothing else had transpired between her and Beau. She hated to think the memory of their potential first kiss might have been marred by the events following.

Regardless, they were underway toward Aeor; the snowy landscapes were taxing, endless, and a little boring. Supposedly it was a good thing they had encountered none of the foretold beasts, but Yasha harbored a lot of pent up frustration and nerves. It would be nice to have something to take that out on.

At the end of their second day, Caleb set up his tower. He ushered them all inside to a haven of warmth and stained glass they were becoming steadily more familiar with. Dagon seemed understandably impressed with the magical structure and grateful for the guest room he was directed to.

Usually they would gather up for dinner together, but there seemed to be a silent, unanimous decision that exhaustion took precedence. They retired to their various rooms with yawns and quiet ‘good nights’, safe for the time being. Yasha lay on her back on the cot in the room with the floral mural. She traced an absent gaze over the patterns, identifying flowers in her head and hoping it would lull her anxious mind to sleep.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Molly—Lucien—and what they would do when they caught up to him. Yasha couldn’t stop thinking about Beau, about the poem she carefully tucked away to read later. Yasha couldn’t help but remember of Zualla as she stared at the flowers on her wall.

There was a knock at her door.

Pushing to her feet after a moment, Yasha walked to her door to poke her head out. She was confused about who might be at her door at this hour until her eyes found Beau fidgeting on the other side of the threshold.

“Hi,” Beau mumbled, hands behind her back.

“Hi,” Yasha breathed back, opening the door a little wider. “Are you okay? It’s late.”

“Yeah,” Beau said, voice pitching up a little at the end in a tell Yasha quickly realized meant she was nervous. “Yeah, I just uh…”

Yasha raised an eyebrow at Beau’s nerves, unused to a Beau who floundered. She realized in the second before Beau pulled the piece of parchment out from behind her back what this was about. The Aasimar flushed pink and her eyes flicked to the ground, embarrassed.

“This was…really beautiful, Yasha,” Beau mumbled, fingers fiddling with the edges of the paper. “But I uh…I noticed this.”

Yasha chanced a look up, Beau extending the paper and pointing to a tiny note scrawled in the bottom corner. She had forgotten about that.

In her messy, cramped handwriting, Yasha had scrawled the word harp? She had been considering turning her poem into a song, because it was always easier for her to express things through music. Plus, she knew that Beau enjoyed her music, so why wouldn’t she put it to chords? But Yasha ended up pushing the idea aside. It was one thing for Beau to like Yasha’s wordless performances, and a whole other for Yasha to direct poetry with music toward the woman of her affection.

“It was…just an idea,” Yasha said with a half-hearted dismissive gesture.

“Would you play it for me?”

Yasha felt her cheeks grow warmer, more red than pink now. But before she could give it too much thought, the Aasimar felt herself nodding. She stood aside and let Beau into her room, leading the monk back into the chamber painted with flowers.

Beau sat cross-legged on the floor across from Yasha as the Aasimar tuned her harp. She took a little longer with the task than strictly necessary, just so she could freak out in silence.

Of course, she had prepared chords for this, because she had run with the idea. But Yasha shied away from it, losing her courage. Music was something that had helped Yasha heal, a meditation in her own way. It brought her peace and offered her an outlet for emotions she didn’t quite know how to express. So, to have Beau sitting before her, eyes trained solely on Yasha, was intense and nerve-wracking.

If Yasha had learned anything, though, it was that she could trust Beau. The monk had been looking out for her, and for the entire group, since day one. Before Beau had trusted any of them, she had still been looking out for them. It was something Yasha admired about Beau—her capacity to care and to love despite everything she had been through. Beau inspired Yasha to keep fighting.

The least she could do was play this for her.

She didn’t need the parchment back. Yasha had spent hours pouring over the words and the chords to make sure it sounded perfect.

Oh, oh Beau, I’m grateful for you.

You waited while I wandered,

While everyone was wondering

If I’d ever come back, you stayed true.

Her voice faltered slightly at the start, uncertain and underused, but she persisted. Beau’s eyes on her simultaneously made her nervous and strengthened her resolve.

Oh, oh Beau, you mean so much to me,

I’ve lost so many people,

I cannot fathom losing

The woman who has loved so fearlessly.

Yasha rarely sang. She used to sing for Zualla in those quiet stolen moments years ago. When they were out in the fields alone, walking or hunting or just existing to stare at the stars. She sang once for Molly, both of them a little past tipsy after a good night for the circus. He had told her she possessed a voice fit for performances, but Yasha had waved him off.

Her voice was sweet, higher than her speaking voice because she sang from her nose and her head. It threw most people for a loop, but Beau merely sat there and stared. Her blue eyes were wide with awe, lips slightly parted. If Yasha didn’t know Beau couldn’t be charmed, she would almost think the monk under a spell.

And I’ve ambled and trekked over miles and miles,

Every step lead me straight back to you.

You gave me the space to learn where I belong

And I’ll tell you right now, it’s the truth.

It was almost like nothing else existed. Yasha’s fingertips buzzed against the taut strings of the harp, her voice vibrated in her chest, and Beau’s eyes stayed fixated on Yasha’s face. This was all that mattered right now, and Yasha couldn’t think of what existed before this, or what might exist after.

Oh, oh Beau, the one I’m thinking of,

I want to hold your hand and

Stand quietly beside you.

I want to confess, you’re my love.

The last strum of her harp faded into silence, and Yasha reveled in the peace vibrating through her veins. She had rarely known stillness like this before discovering music.

Beau sniffed, and Yasha twitched as she startled, eyes snapping up to Beau’s face. The monk still stared at her, eyes wide and watering.

No one’s ever written me a poem before. Yasha remembered the soft-spoken admission as a tear tumbled down Beau’s cheek. She guessed without asking that no one ever sung for Beau before, either.

“Yasha…” Beau breathed. “That was incredible. Your voice…”

The Aasimar ducked her head, not even trying to suppress the smile pulling at her lips. Beau’s awe was so genuine, Yasha barely knew how to face it head on.

“I didn’t know if you would…y’know want to hear it like that. Or if you would just rather read it,” Yasha rambled, running her fingers with absent focus up and down one string on her harp. “So…yeah, I mean, it’s a song, too. But it was originally a poem. For you.”

“Yeah,” Beau’s voice cracked. “I don’t—Yasha, that was…incredible. You’re incredible. You wrote that? For me?”

“Of course,” Yasha said, looking up again with a small frown. The note of disbelief in Beau’s voice upset her. Why wouldn’t she write a poem for Beau?

“Thank you,” Beau said, her voice overflowing with an emotion Yasha could empathize with, but couldn’t name.

“I am glad you liked it,” Yasha said as she set her harp aside. She didn’t know where to go from here. Jester had said Beau was waiting for Yasha to make the first move, and this…was this enough? It felt weird to question that kind of thing because Yasha had been married before. Theoretically, she should know how to do this. But then again, everything she and Zualla had done had been in secret. Yasha never learned how to express affection for someone openly.

And knowing what she did about Beau, Yasha figured that the monk had no better clue in any of this than she did.

“Maybe uhm…” Yasha started, but stopped. She didn’t want to mess this up. “Maybe after we finish this job…we could, y’know…get dinner? Just us?”

Watching a slow smile spread and pull at Beau’s lips was like watching a sunrise. It began slowly, a little hesitantly, colors bleeding into and washing away the darkness of Beau’s uncertainty. It was a gentle harbinger that lasted a lifetime in no time at all. Then, between one blink and the next, the sun. Beau grinned with wild abandon, lips pulled wide to reveal her teeth, and eyes scrunching at the corners with the force of it. Yasha’s heart went giddy in her chest at the mere sight of Beau’s joy.

“I’d like that,” Beau whispered. There was the same quiet, awed excitement in her voice from when she first received Yasha’s poem.

Yasha’s cheeks hurt from how hard she was smiling. “It’s a date.”

[dopescotlandwarrior]

Sinners & Saints

A special thanks to @statell​ for all your help

Previous Chapters at AO3

Chapter Four

“Hmm, I’m sorry sir, this is a fake. I know that’s hard to hear. I will speak to the police if you want to make a report.”

“You bloody well look again. That vase is Ming so that means you are an idiot.”

Jamie walked to the appraisal room at Christie’s where Claire was working today. His fists balled up listening to the man yell at the Sassenach.

“I assure you it’s a fake sir and I’ve decided not to help you with a report, you can go.”

“If you move one step, I will stop you until you prove why it’s a fake.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, fine.”

Claire picked up the vase and threw it against the wall making the man gasp, red-faced, while Claire pushed past him and picked up a shard. Jamie’s eyebrows went up and he tried not to laugh, completely spellbound by her.

“The only true test of a Ming is the blue color of the clay after it’s fired. See, this is white. Oh all right you big baby, I’ll pay for it, I’m sure I have a dollar bill in my purse.”

The man screamed like a banshee and lunged for her, feeling his feet leave the ground, his face changed to shock as he reached behind him trying to open the hand that held him. Jamie shook his head when the man started yelling for help. He dragged the man to the door and whispered in his ear.

“Get near the lady again and I’ll rip your throat out, okay?”

The man bolted out the door and spun around to look at Jamie who smiled and thanked him for coming before closing the door. There were only two more people waiting for Claire to appraise their art and both looked nervous, clutching their prized paintings and looking at the shattered mess on the floor. One lady left, and the other was thrilled she had an authenticated treasure. Claire was a popular appraiser and seemed to know exactly where to find proof of her valuation. She would spin her laptop and there it was, selling price and picture of a comparable piece from the same artist.

Christie’s was very good at locking the doors at six o’clock, even when people pounded to get in. The room was suddenly empty except for Jamie and Claire. He helped her pack up and though she seemed normal in every way he could feel a disturbance in her energy.

“Sassenach, we have been up late every night this week. If you’re as tired as I am, maybe you should rest tonight and not be pestered by me.”

“Did you just suggest room service and a movie before early shut-eye? If so, then I accept!”

Jamie smiled and exhaled gratefully. It would have been a supreme sacrifice to lose a night with the Sassenach and he loved her suggestion.

“It’s our last night together, so we can celebrate the holiday a day early in our pajamas okay?”

Jamie’s palm itched as he thought about running his hand up the satin nightgown. He would miss her when they both went home and he wondered what promises they would make, if any.

“Javier has invited you to dinner tomorrow night. He throws a lavish party on Christmas eve at his restaurant and wants to meet you. What do you say?” She wrapped her arms around his middle for a hug.

“Of course, it would be my honor.”

Claire laughed seeing Jamie load his arms up with all her belongings, “you are super hot and so darn useful Jamie.”

That made him laugh but truth be told, like it or not, he was living for her next statement of endearment, whatever that might be. He just wanted to matter to her because that was the first step in building something that would change their lives. As long as there was a chance he might catch Casper, there was a chance at a life with the Sassenach.

“Jamie, I want to hire you to show me some exercises to build up my upper body strength, what do you say? There’s a gym at the hotel and I am worried because I can barely do three pull-ups anymore.”

“It would be a pleasure to assist you Sassenach,” he smiled realizing they would have the entire day tomorrow. No work for either of them, but such a strange request from one so fair.

When Jamie knocked later that evening, Claire felt the now familiar butterflies take flight in her stomach. She was convinced he had no idea she was Casper so she could just be herself, a professor with a crush on a cop. She asked several questions over the last few days about which agency he worked for but he was vague with the answers, saying the task force he led was a multi-agency effort. She didn’t want to pry and assumed his partial answers were a testament to an underlying boredom or unhappiness with the job. She might overthink her way right out of these hot nights with him, so she stopped analyzing him and just looked forward to the next time his hungry eyes devoured her.

Jamie had shamelessly taken possession of her body and mind every night this week and tried to calm himself down as he walked to her door. Even if he needed handcuffs it was the Sassenach’s turn at seduction and he just had to wait. He groaned inwardly trying to think of anything except her long legs, tiny waist, long hair, perky breasts, and her sweet kisses. He felt defeated already.

After a delicious meal brought by room service, Claire curled up in Jamie’s arms for a new movie they both enjoyed. Halfway through Claire turned toward him and unbuttoned his shirt pushing it off his shoulders. She moved her hand down the arm that was wrapped around her waist and tried to concentrate on the movie. She twisted to face him ten minutes later and kissed his neck and chest, pulling his face to hers she kissed him deeply and touched him everywhere.

The movie ended and Claire got up to lite the candles and hand Jamie another beer. She pulled him to the side of the bed and straddled his lap, kissing him slowly and then sinking to the floor. Jamie was fascinated with her moves, feeling like she was trying them for the first time, but that was ridiculous.

Getting his jeans off seemed to take an eternity while Jamie studied her. Keeping his hands to himself allowed him to experience Claire’s world and it was so different he was astounded. When she put him in her mouth, he could see this act pushed her arousal and she lost herself until Jamie pulled her away. Her mouth was open and eyes half-closed when he pulled her face to him for a deep kiss. I promise to try again to let you lead Sassenach, but I’m taking over, he thought.

Later, in the dark, Jamie ran his fingers through her hair and marveled at the mystery of Claire Beauchamp.

“Sassenach, how does one so tender throw a vase against the wall in front of the owner?”

“It really got his attention,” she giggled in her sleepiness. “He’s an opportunist that got hustled is what he is. I have no respect for people like that. He knew nothing of its providence or even which dynasty and had the audacity to challenge my authority on the subject. He deserved it.”

Jamie cataloged her answer in his brain and smiled to himself when she asked him to come closer. He wrapped her up in his arms and listened to the human equivalent of purring. A low soft moan that came from a happy place deep within her. He slept and dreamed of Lallybroch feeling her shift position through the night and reach for him. His sweet Sassenach.

Jamie was up and dressed early to conclude some new hire business. He gently pushed the hair out of Claire’s face, and she smiled trying to pull him in for a hug. He kissed her cheeks and whispered he would meet her in the hotel gym at noon and then left her to her dreams.

The morning blew past as Claire wrote reports, made phone calls, and returned email. She was feeling happy like sparklers were going off inside of her. It was Christmas eve, a holy holiday, and Jamie would be with her to celebrate tonight. She bounced into the hotel gym and saw Jamie sitting on a bench, red-faced and sweating. A long bar was racked behind him with three large weights at both ends. Impressive, she thought, as she walked to him. He carefully kissed her cheek trying to avoid sweating all over her.

“Ah, my Sassenach, what is your goal with this workout?”

“I want to do at least five pull-ups, underhanded and over-handed, without effort please.”

Jamie walked around her and listed the muscle groups she needed to work, touching each while he circled her.

“You need specific strength building for biceps, triceps, pectorals, deltoids, trapezius, Rhomboideus major, and teres major. Are you joining the circus Sassenach?”

“Certainly not, but I carry heavy canvases that are getting more difficult to manage and it’s required to be a decent cat burglar.” She gave her best ‘I am a professor smile’ and giggled.

“Uncle” was muttered after an hour and she clung to Jamie. He walked her back to her room and gently massaged her tired muscles. He could feel them shaking under the skin and hoped he hadn’t pushed her too hard.

“You need to soak in a tub of hot water mo chridhe. I will watch the game and guard you. Okay?”

Jamie was asleep when she got out of the tub. He looked like a handsome angel, so serene in his rest. He was relaxed, unguarded, and he looked ten years younger. Something about Jamie made her feel hopeful and happy for some reason. She tried to imagine going back to Chicago, getting Frank out of her life, starting another semester, and the big decision about stealing art. That was the reality of her life, and this week was a sweet tryst with an incredible man, and that was all.

“Sassenach, come lass.”

He held his hand out to her and pulled her to him so he could make her forget whatever made her look so sad.

In late afternoon, Claire straightened her hair and lined her eyes putting two coats of mascara on her lashes, powder on her cheeks that shimmered, and red lipstick. She wore a silver sparkling wrap-around dress and thigh-high boots that stopped an inch from the hem. When she opened the door for Jamie, she was shocked. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt and a paisley blue tie. He looked scrubbed with his hair slicked back. His eyes looked like blue diamonds.

“Wow, you clean up nicely,” she said wrapping her arms around him.

He had a gorgeous bottle of Italian Merlot in a gift box for Javier and Claire was very impressed. Rubbing her lipstick on a tissue she reached for him and kissed until his toes curled. He looked closely at her face and hair and she knew he loved the way she looked. What a fine way to start the evening, she thought.

Javier opened the door to greet them and was quite happy about the snow falling outside. He shook Jamie’s hand with a warm smile and kissed Claire’s cheeks. They were brought into the dining room of the restaurant where a huge table was set with finery. Javier made the introductions and Jamie sat down next to the host while Claire made her way around the table, hugging and kissing the people in Javier’s inner circle. When she came back to Jamie he was in a lively conversation with Javier and another man about the European football leagues. The men were laughing and Javier told the other man in French, “this kid knows his football.” Jamie thanked him in French making them all laugh.

Course after course was placed in front of Claire. Soup, salad, a sumptuous duck and roasted vegetables, followed by coffee, and a delightful chocolate mousse with fresh whipped cream. Claire would take two or three bites of each in order to finish the meal. Jamie ate every bite with a smile on his face and Javier almost cried. She watched Jamie engage any conversation that was offered, with the appropriate grace, humor, or sympathy. She was so grateful he came. When he was bantering with another guest, Claire watched is face until he turned his head and smiled at her. She could feel the blush spread across her cheeks as she quickly looked away. Two old women snickered to each other and talked behind their napkins.

Jamie shook hands with Javier who handed him a business card and asked him to call when he was in town. The blush on Jamie’s cheeks showed how much he appreciated the gesture. They piled into the back of the Rolls Royce and Joseph took them back to the hotel. He watched them kissing and was happy they were going to separate ends of the earth tomorrow. He could see no good coming from this relationship.

Joseph hugged Claire and when she turned around his smile disappeared and the look he gave Jamie made his blood run cold. The older man got behind the wheel and drove away without a backward glance. Jamie wasn’t sure what to make of that but he looked up and saw his pretty girl beckoning him out of the snow.

“Merry Christmas Jamie.”

“Merry Christmas Sassenach. Come here.”

At three in the morning, Claire’s cell phone started ringing and didn’t stop. Jamie whispered that her phone was ringing and it could be an emergency of some kind. Claire sat up and grabbed her phone, suddenly afraid that something bad had happened.

“Hello!”

“Claire darling you come home tomorrow right? Yes, well I am making sure because it’s Christmas and you have been gone.”

“Frank why are you calling me in the middle of the night you scared the shit out of me!”

“If I wasn’t so drunk I would think you were yelling at me. That’s ridiculous because I’m a fuckin Senator and you are a measly teacher. Now listen Claire, this is your last trip to wherever, from now on you are here or at the school. Got that?”

Frank was so drunk she could hardly understand him, and she was getting mad. “Now tell me how to unlock your computer.”

“Why are you in my house, Frank?”

“Why not.”

She heard a loud bang, the sound of glass breaking, and Frank in the background yelling profanities.

“You fucking computer!”

Claire clicked off and ran to her laptop to look up the police precinct closest to her. She gave a report that her ex-boyfriend broke into her apartment and was destroying everything. She explained she was in Paris and told them his name.

“His name is Frank Randall.”

“Is it spelled like the Senator Frank Randall?”

“It is Senator Frank Randall.”

The cop who was taking the report smiled to himself. Senator Randall had voted to defund the Chicago police and they hated him for being a ball-less politician parrot. He wouldn’t enjoy his time with them tonight.

Claire was fuming and slipped her nightgown over her head, filling a glass with bottled water.

“What can I do to help Claire?”

“Nothing Jamie, I’m fine, I’m just going to wait for the police to call. Go back to sleep.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, honestly, it’s taken care of. A rather unpleasant episode with my soon to be ex.”

Jamie could not believe she was shutting him out of this incident with Frank like he didn’t matter and had no business in her real world. He was being respectful when he didn’t ask her about after they leave Paris or maybe he just didn’t want to know.

“Claire, were you going to call me when you go back to Chicago?”

“What?”

He could see it in her eyes, confusion about a question that seemed so simple to him. She never planned to see him again, or even call. He was nothing to her. He dressed quickly and left her room. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her so he said nothing. He went to his room and changed into jeans for a long walk through the city while he worked this out in his head.

Claire couldn’t stop crying as she watched him out her window. He walked away hunched into his coat against the cold. She sobbed, realizing she had lost herself in the arms and charm of Jamie Fraser. She never told him she would call, she never said she had feelings for him. She would never forget his face as he figured out what this week was to her. She laid on his pillow with his wonderful smell and cried herself to sleep.

In the morning, Claire called Jamie’s room, and looked for him in the dining room and gym. She asked at the front desk and was told he checked out. It felt like an emotional bomb going off inside her and she struggled to get to her room before falling apart. She looked at his name in her contacts and wrote him a text about how sorry she was, then deleted it. She was dreadfully sorry she hurt him but knew all along they would go separate ways. She didn’t think it would feel so bad.

Claire boarded her plane with puffy red eyes and a pounding headache. About every ten minutes she felt the tears start again and finally ordered whisky so she could sleep. Her life stretched out before her and never seemed so bleak. Jamie Fraser showed her a fresh new day where anything was possible, and he held her like a precious treasure. Now she was going back to her life in a dirty, crime-ridden city, with a drunk Frank telling her what to do, and she could not find a ray of light in all that. She raised her hand for another whisky.

Claire walked toward the baggage claim and could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Geillis hugged her gushing questions about Paris and going on about her new man. The doorman at her building helped carry her suitcases to the elevator asking if she needed help to her apartment. She tipped him and said she would be fine. Her key slid into her door lock and she bent to take the first case inside. A large fist came out of nowhere and cold-cocked her. The assailant left her on the floor with her door open and suitcases in the hall. She was unconscious.

Jamie walked through Paris for hours, but the decorations and lights were not noticed this time. His brain crunched the facts that were heartily ignored for the last four days realizing he believed what he wanted. She was an enigma with an enchanting personality that drew him to her, she was mysterious because she shared little about who she was inside. He didn’t believe she wanted to hurt him, but it hurt nonetheless.

Jamie flew back to Scotland pounding whisky and sleeping to avoid thinking about the Sassenach. He retrieved his car and drove the country roads to Lallybroch, feeling better with each passing minute. He would hurt and miss her, but he truly hoped to forget her in time.

Claire’s face was swelling badly when the paramedics arrived, she was asking for Jamie, completely disoriented. When she saw only strangers around her, she started to cry like her soul was dying. The EMT’s brought her suitcases into the apartment and tested her for a concussion, asking her to come to the hospital but she refused. When they left, she turned in a circle and saw destruction everywhere. The glass-top computer desk was shattered on the floor, cables yanked out, monitor smashed, furniture was in pieces, and the kitchen floor was inches deep with shattered glass, crystal, and dishes.

Two officers were lifting prints in the bedroom and walked out to see a young woman looking as shattered as the apartment. They knew this was done by someone she knew, this was personal and laced with violent hatred. Both were afraid for her and asked where they could take her for the night.

Claire looked up at the officers taking a moment to understand the question. She shook her head and opened the door for them. Other than have a cruiser drive by her building during the night, there was little they could do without her cooperation. They left reluctantly, both fearing he would come again, this time for her life.

Claire recognized she was in shock. All she could see was Jamie’s face, at dinner when he smiled at her, sleepy and hugging her, laughing at her banter, and crumbling from the truth. If there was whisky and a remaining chair she would have stayed right there, but there wasn’t. She took her suitcase and left to stay in a hotel where she sat in the darkness staring at nothing until Paris woke up.

Javier listened to his goddaughter cry and explain being knocked out and the destruction of everything she owned, even her clothes had a knife taken to them. Javier took the call in his office and accepted a glass of water and a baby aspirin from Joseph who recognized a dangerous tone of voice in his employer, and lifelong friend. Joseph closed his door so Javier would not be disturbed and took a position nearby to stop anyone from knocking. Javier called his name, and Joseph, not liking where the dominoes were falling, prepared for the worst.

“The bear is in trouble, he’s going to kill her!” Javier ranted the story out as Joseph felt the magma rising in his soul. They knew she might go to jail someday until they could get her out, but being struck and terrorized by that perverted piece of shit had Joseph on the edge of reason. Javier was packing up his briefcase and told Joseph to get packed, they were going to Chicago.

Claire clicked off her phone and sat still. She had not stood up since coming to this room in the middle of the night. She dialed Frank.

“Hello darling, Merry Christmas! What time will you be ready for dinner?”

“Come anytime, Frank.” She disconnected.

She had not intended to confront him, but he would have to start pretending, shock, concern, anger, protectiveness, all the emotions a real fiancé would have when he stumbles into her wrecked apartment. She expected her phone to start ringing in about twenty minutes.

“Hello Frank, did you get a good look at the mess you made last night. Shut your mouth or I will..” He kept sputtering a string of words and talking louder. She clicked off and waited. This happened three more times before he remained quiet on the phone so she could talk.

“If you want to stay alive to pursue whatever it is you’re pursuing you only have one rule, never speak to me or see me again for as long as you live. Even if you see me by accident…bye-bye baby. I’m not the meek teacher you think I am, and you have fucked with the wrong person. Don’t believe me? Try it Frank, and I’ll be more than happy to order your life extinguished.”

Claire felt some weird kind of closure with that and stumbled to the bed where she passed out from exhaustion. She dreamed of Jamie whispering in her ear and felt the happiness bubble up inside her. The ringing of her cell phone pulled her out of sleep. She didn’t know where she was or how long she slept and Javier’s worried voice on the phone was asking where she was. Her face hurt so badly she couldn’t remember the name of the hotel until she looked at the branding all around her.

Javier almost fainted when he saw Claire’s face. He was no stranger to violence, but the Bear’s face was beyond recognition, black and swollen with one eye puffy and closed. He hugged her gingerly and walked her to the bed. Claire was telling him she was fine, but she was very much not fine. Joseph had turned away from her to hide his tears and get control of himself. Javier handed her a pill and a glass of water. Once she was asleep, Joseph stayed in the room and Javier went looking for a new residence for her. He was gone all day and she slept peacefully.

Joseph looked down at her, deep in sleep. He saw the fifteen-year-old, fresh from the jungle, quiet and self-protective, completely vulnerable. He remembered her locked in the bathroom for hours, showering, flushing the toilet, showering again. Her fingers were puckered for the first several weeks from so much washing. Joseph and Javier bent over backwards to make her welcome and finally, after two weeks, she smiled, and then laughed at something said and Joseph thought his heart would explode with happiness. They were devoted to her happiness, and when she grew up, she returned their kindness by becoming the most extraordinary woman. Now here she was, beaten and broken. He took a deep breath and went back to his seat to pull himself together.

Javier arranged for a medical doctor to examine Claire at the hotel because she refused to leave the room. He gave her antibiotics and pain medication and ordered rest for a week as the swelling came down in her face. He was happy to say her eye was not damaged, and her sight would clear up in time. Claire took the medicine as directed and slept like the dead. Javier would go out each day making arrangements for her apartment and filling it with furniture, dishes, crystal, flat wear, pots and pans, linens, towels, shower gels, shampoo, even some makeup. He had impeccable taste, but he was not a thirty-year-old female in Chicago, so he hired a decorator to make the selections. All of it was the best quality money could buy and Javier was in heaven to be spoiling his Bear.

Claire had put the brakes on Javier’s extravagance at age eighteen. She allowed him to finance school and a simple wardrobe and saved her money for anything else she wanted. Joseph would drive her to her job each afternoon at a nearby printer. She sat on plastic for the ride home because she was covered in ink smears and dirt from crawling into the machines. Javier would wince seeing her filthy and exhausted but could never convince her to quit.

Everything changed for Claire when she was hired by Christie’s auction house to be a runner during auctions. Every other day she assisted the appraiser, the decorator, or anyone else that needed help. She was exposed to the great artists of the Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo , Neoclassicism, and Romanticism periods and she was hooked. During dinner one evening, she laid out her plan; what schools she would attend, what graduate school she would choose for her PHD, and her choice of career, teaching fine art at a respected University. She apologized for not knowing which University yet and Joseph shot a few peas across the table before he could raise the napkin to his mouth. The original plan never wavered, she did exactly what she said she would do.

After two weeks of rest, Javier checked them all out of the hotel and brought Claire to her new home, a high security, luxury apartment overlooking Lake Michigan. It was extravagant and huge, filled with high-end furniture and decorations. Claire found beautiful crystal stemware, glasses, mugs, plates and everything in between. Her closet was filled with basic clothing, drawers filled with undergarments, sweaters, belts and socks. She pressed her fingers against her mouth and couldn’t stop the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. She hugged her godfather, and then Joseph, shaking with emotion, so grateful for all their help.

Claire utilized the gourmet kitchen to cook an American favorite for Javier and Joseph, filet mignon, lobster tail with butter for dipping, baked potato and herb-roasted carrots. Javier hovered in case she needed help and Joseph laughed and told him to sit down and enjoy the sun setting on the Chicago skyline. Javier planned to rave over this simple, no sauce meal until the beef melted in his mouth and the lobster exploded with flavor. He lost himself in the unusual and primitive meal and Claire mentally high-fived herself. The meal was symbolic. She was a grownup who could manage life on her own, thanks to their help.

Claire hugged them goodbye at the elevator and promised to visit at Christmas next year. When the elevator doors closed, she took her first steps in independence, free of Frank, free to pursue her career, free to choose her every next step. The only thing still missing was color. The apartment building was opulent and surely full of beautiful colors, but she only saw shades of gray in the objects she passed.

Geillis made arrangements for Claire’s senior graduate student to start her classes when the new semester started. The administration was told her face was heeling after a car accident and they were too happy to help. The first day she walked into her lecture hall there was only sympathy on the faces watching her. She was grateful and soon her love of teaching took over and life returned to normal, albeit colorless.