#realized i have a file of just several layers of mostly just me trying to draw duck and rue in like

[fate-defiant]

hey kid you want some fuckin uuuuuuuhDoodles x5

[mastersoftheair]

"Masters of the Air details: Part 1-Graphics

"[...]I had the pleasure of working with the graphics department on many topics from navigation to mission planning, forms, manuals, research and just plain answering questions.

"Dan Burke was the department head but I mostly worked with Megan Jones and her wonderful pup Indy.

"When on set, like in one of the offices that you have seen in the first two episodes or anywhere else in the series, you will see bulletin boards, clip boards, file folders and in/out trays and typewriters filled with paperwork. If you were able to pick up one of these documents you will find actual 100th BG documents faithfully recreated and they are also pertinent to the specific time of the scene. And I am not just talking a page on top but all the way through the stack!

"The mission orders came in to the bomb groups via teletype machines and were printed out on special sized roll paper. Meg found a guy who had working WWII teletypes and then she found the exact paper. She printed up the correct mission reports and they were coming out of the machines and looked great!

"One of the things that Meg asked me about was the navigation paperwork. Crosby had several scenes where he was navigating and just what kind of paperwork would he have had?

"Charts, maps and navigators logs was the answer to begin with and I had brought examples of those with me to teach the actors how to look like they could navigate. I even had some of my Dad's paperwork and nav kit along. Meg recreated his bare nav log to use with Crosby's scenes.

"We then looked in to the mission routes so we could fill out the nav logs and mark the charts and big briefing wall map accurately. I dove in to the archives mission files that they had procured from sources in the US but since this was deep in the middle of COVID the archives were closed down and getting additional research information was problematic. The National Archives in the UK opened up and I was there on the weekend doing research. Instead of the multi generation degraded copies that production received from the US these files were all original and in perfect condition. Incredible stuff for sure with all of the photos complete with Air Ministry water marks on the back of the paper.

"In the mission files were the planned route of the mission and also the actual route flown which were often quite different. I dug in to the files and was able to plot out the planned and actual mission routes on charts that Meg had reproduced. For the pilot types reading this I also plotted all of the routes on ForeFlight to help with quick calculations for the headings as we actually put in the winds that were encountered and reported in the mission file. Meg ended up getting Foreflight so we could share the plots and work out the future missions.

"One of the things that I hadn't realized but was revealed in the reports was just how much time was spent in forming up the whole attacking armada. Each bomb group would all take off and form up over their own air field. Then they would go to specific assembly areas and form up the wings and full task force. It took two, three or more hours of flying just to do this over the UK before they headed toward fortress Europe. Amazing really and it explains why so many aircrew died during this from collisions climbing through the ugly weather. Hundreds and then thousands of aircraft all coming up through the heavy cloud layer on instruments trying not to hit each other. A lot of them did and a near miss sequence is depicted in the series.

"So when you see the paperwork, posters, maps, teletypes and amazing other details you can appreciate the efforts of Megan and the graphics department. And all of the other departments, Some of which I will try to highlight in future posts if this is of interest." - (Taigh Ramey on Facebook)

[qu1etwolf]

Dating Game

Chapter 11

The next morning your skin still feels grimy even though you showered twice before going to bed. Sleep didn't happen, not for a lack of trying though. You spent half the night in your bed with the soft comforter up to your chin staring at the ceiling before getting up and trying to find ways to keep your brain occupied. You took a third shower, read a little of the latest time waster romance book you had on your nightstand, made a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on toast, and now you can see the sun poking over the top of the buildings outside your window.

"This is Christine Everhart with WHiH Newsfront. It seems gang violence is ramping up on the outskirts of Hell's Kitchen. Police report several bodies recovered from a crime scene this morning…"

You pick up your remote and turn the TV off with a sigh. Maybe if you just pretend none of this ever happened you can go back to your boring life with your quiet routine. No rogue assassins on your doorstep. Only coffee, your morning walk playlists, your quiet job, and your books.

It's difficult to feel anything but numb. Your thoughts are pins and needles and hard to keep ahold of.

A ding blared through the room, a lot louder than it should be. You don't even want to look at it. The thought of facing another person, even digitally, is exhausting.

There's another ding. You look at your phone and realize there was a nearly ten minute gap between the alerts. It felt like seconds.

The screen goes black on your cellphone as you just turn it off instead of checking the messages.

Your feet feel like lead as you walk down the stairs to the door of your restroom. You splash water in your face from the sink, avoiding your own reflection. Last night staring at your tired eyes looking back at you lifted the hairs on the back of your neck. It felt wrong and out of place.

A little while later you have curled back up in your bed and wrapped up in several blankets. There's a chill you can't seem to shake that has sunk into your core. Maybe tomorrow things will be different.

You walk through the glass doors of FuturePharm promptly at eight Monday morning after spending an hour trying to hide your dark circles with layers of concealer and foundation. You are pretty sure you failed. The brilliant white lighting in the building is like a knife to the brain almost immediately.

Walking past the planters with fancy exotic tropical plants that they probably paid a fortune for, you nod at the security guard in the corner. The clicking of your heels on the floor is exaggerated in the quiet of the mostly empty lobby. You plop less than gracefully down into the leather chair behind the large front desk. It only takes you a few minutes to get logged into the system.

The sound of the morning shift walking in pollutes the air. The next forty five minutes consists of scanning employee badges before putting their personals in a basket and passing them to security to check as they file through the metal detector beside your desk. It is repetitive and you zone out while asking for badges, purses, watches, and other items repeatedly.

"Badge please?" you say as you hold out your hand without looking up.

"Excuse me?"

"I need your badge, please, sir. Personal belongings go in the box there." You gesture at the basket beside the metal detector.

"I don't think she knows who I am. Do you not know who I am?" The man’s voice echoes loudly in the nearly empty lobby.

It is at that moment you snap out of your brain fog and finally take in the dark haired man standing on the other side of your desk in his dark grey suit and red and black patterned tie. His eyes are hidden behind very expensive looking sunglasses. Your heart threatens to beat itself out of your chest and your eyes widen.

"Mr. Stark, sir," you squeak out, "I wasn't informed we would have a high profile client in the building today. Of course, of course, here's your guest badge. I will just sign you in here -"

"Don't bother. Williams? Call this woman's boss's boss's boss. I'm sure they expect better out of their employees." He gestures pointedly at one of the few men in his entourage before security allows him and his men to walk past them unbothered.

"Shit, " you sigh to yourself.

You pull your messages up on your screen but nope. There isn’t a single one informing you that Tony fucking Stark is going to come in today. You drag your hands down your tired face and then smile brightly at the woman who places her badge down on the counter a few minutes later.

Badge after badge, check in after check in, you force yourself to focus so you don’t make another mistake. The longer the morning goes, the more difficult it gets to keep up your customer service voice.

The computer makes a loud ding. The emblem for the company messaging system is flashing down in the corner of the screen. Your shoulders tense as you stare at it for a few seconds before dragging your mouse pointer over to click on it.

A little box expands onto your screen. The little notification dot is beside your name. There are company wide chats, department wide chats, and personal ones. The personal ones don't get used very often.

Your shift is over after your lunch break as you are clearly ill and need to take some time off. Melissa will cover the rest of your shift.

Terri Jones, HR

Oh, well that wasn't as bad as expected. You can work with that. The adrenaline leaks out of your system as you let out a heavy sigh.

About half an hour later you pack your things, and say hello and goodbye to Melissa all in the same breath. The cheerful redhead got there earlier than you expected. You check your watch just to make sure. Of course she did. You start the walk back to your apartment. Might as well just eat at home if you don't have to head back to your desk.

You hear a small roar of noise as you round a corner between two buildings. The voices are a jumble of chaos to your ears, you can't pick out what they are saying. What you do see are a hundred or more angry faces and signs with anti-superhero slogans.

Who Are They Avenging?

We Are Just Collateral Damage!

No More Heroes!

Murderers!

Babykillers!

The commotion is currently being held back from spilling into the streets by very stressed members of the NYPD, but only barely. A water bottle full of gravel bounces off of a riot shield on the other side of a hastily constructed fence. The shouting from both sides is so loud the words are jumbled and almost unintelligible. What the hell happened while you were at work? These people are going to spill out into the main streets soon. The crowd is pretty small, but it is growing steadily.

Anti-superhero sentiment isn't as uncommon as people would like to believe it is. Turns out people don’t like to feel inferior.

Ducking down an alley to avoid the commotion, your head spins with the chaos of the day. It’s not even lunch and something seriously wrong is just in the hanging air like a heavy fog. It's palpable. A few people shove past you to go join the crowd of protestors.

The rest of the short walk home is for the most part quiet.

As you climb the stairs, walk down your hallway, and go through your door the only thing you can see in your mind is the faces of the crowd twisted in anger. You drop your bag by the door and flop onto your couch before turning the news on.

Your hand flies to your mouth as you see a crater where the center of a town once was on nearly every channel you come across. As you flip through your channels the ticker tape across the bottom of the screen changes only slightly between them but informs you that at some time in the early morning a superhuman exploded with the strength of a large bomb and took half of a neighborhood in Stamford, Connecticut with him. There are few details provided other than the search for survivors and bodies was ongoing, with several superhumans arriving throughout the day to lend their help. On one channel a news reporter was interviewing Steve Rogers himself, the stress of the disaster settling in the lines on his face.

You sink into your couch as you, unfortunately, land on a channel playing the Daily Bugle report. The anchor is waving his hands erratically as he speaks with blind conviction.

"These people are living among you! We don't know what their abilities are! I have it on good authority that the Avengers themselves were behind the vicious attack on Stamford this morning! This is a disgusting perversion of humanity and must be stopped! What else do we need to happen? People are dead and it is clearly the fault of the likes of Captain America, Iron Man, Spiderman, and these men who think they are Gods! Who else has to die before we stop them? This is J. Jonah Jameson for the Daily Bugle. Stay tuned as we continue to cover this atrocity."

You sit staring blankly at your TV completely lost in your thoughts. There is no way that Jameson's assessment of the disaster is correct. It can't be. You know the Avengers are pretty often reckless, but not the kind of reckless to take down an entire neighborhood.

Your cell phone dings and your attention snaps down at the screen. You have a new email. There are also notifications for the text messages that you ignored yesterday. The little notification blip on your screen just reminds you that you have issues you should probably handle.

You check the texts first and the number they originate from isn't one you recognize.

–I'm sure you know who this is. I know everything that happened was probably a shock. Meet me for dinner? - N–

A message from about 10 minutes later follows that one from the same number.

–Okay, you don't wanna talk. I get it. Just text me at this number. I just want to make sure that you're okay. - N–

You let out a sound that is something between a laugh and a sigh. The feelings from the other night come flooding back in. You can taste the fear, see the blood, and feel the pressure of his lips on yours. The smell of the car exhaust and the noise of the city clouds your senses. Eventually, you drift back to yourself still sitting on your couch in your apartment but it feels unfamiliar and strange. You aren't sure if you want to deal with anyone even remotely associated with superheroes again.

You check the email sitting in your inbox that made you pick your phone up in the first place.

Dear valued employee,

Couldn't even be bothered to use your name? Typical.

We regret to inform you that your position with FuturePharm has been terminated. Attached to this email is a document detailing your generous severance package. Please print, sign, and return the document by the end of the week.

Tom Lancaster

President and CEO of FuturePharm

The phone goes flying across the room in a burst of frustration. If they were going to do this all along then why didn’t they just tell you before you left? A series of frustrated grumbles and growls fall out of your mouth at the thought of having to job hunt again. You had been at FuturePharm for more than a few years.

Your feet drag as you walk over to pick the phone up out of the floor. You flip it around in your hands and there's not a crack in sight. Silver linings, you guess.

You text Natasha back and your nails click hard against the screen.

–Well, I don't have anything else to do. Seems like my day just opened up. Where do you want to meet?-

She responds to you with a location of a small noodle shop not far from the usual coffee place almost immediately. Walking again out in that mess wasn’t an option you were willing to take so Uber it is.

You jump in a quick shower and put on the basics - a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and sneakers. You pull your hair back into a low ponytail because doing anything more than that is exhausting.

Once your Uber arrives you step outside your apartment and lock the door. There is a shiny grey sedan parked on the curb and the man inside waves his hand. You open the back, tell the driver hello and give him the address to the noodle shop. He turns to you and gives you a bright smile. His face youthful with dark curls framing his temples.

"Do you mind if I leave the news on? The stuff going on right now is pretty crazy."

"Sure. Just get me there as quickly as you can and there's a good tip in it for you."

"Will do, ma'am!"

He reaches down and presses the button that turns his radio back on. The newscaster's voice is clear as a bell.

"- still on the scene in Stamford where the current death toll has risen to 589, with several more injured. I'm sad to report that most of these were children as one of the buildings closest to the explosion was Westover Ridge Elementary. Westover had just begun classes when the blast occurred. We will keep you up to date as this situation progresses. Back in local news, the Hells Kitchen murders are still eluding investigators. They would like your help. If you have any information, please dial the tip line at 1-800-274-2465 or the non-emergency police line. Back to Paul for the weather -"

You tuned out the driver's commentary and the droning voice of the meteorologist. The glass of the window is cold against your forehead as you watch the city pass by.

The car lurches to a stop. Several of the protestors you have seen on your walk home from work had filed out into the street. NYPD are trying to herd them back up on the sidewalk. It seems as if they are getting more restless and coming to a frightening tipping point. You could breathe the tension into your lungs and feel it sit there heavy and unmoving. The driver honked at the people scattered in the way as if that would make them move faster.

The second the path is clear the car moves forward, the last few people hurriedly stepping out of the way. Your driver, whose name you learn is Marcus, carries on rather chipper as if he is trying to distract you and himself from the chaos that was seeping its way into the city.

You finally pull up in front of the little corner noodle shop whose name you couldn't read above the door. You must be on the edge of Chinatown.

You get out of the sedan after giving Marcus the decent tip you promised him and walk in the door of the restaurant. The smell of Asian spices and fresh noodles overwhelms your senses. It has a lovely bar running through the center of the room and only a handful of tables along the edges of the walls by the windows. You find Natasha sitting at one in the back of the room, a brightly colored bowl in front of her and a second one on the other side of the table.

She pats her hand on the table in front of her as a gesture for you to sit down.

You make your way through the maze of tables to the back and sit in the chair across from the somber looking redhead. You have never seen her look so depressed since the day you met.

"Hey," you say with a softness to your voice. "Are you okay? You seem a little...off."

"I discovered what FuturePharm was doing behind closed doors finally. And why I got asked to keep an eye on the company. I was monitoring their emails and it seems like they let you go?"

"Yeah. I apparently had an off day on the wrong day and offended Stark. Not that that is difficult to do or anything."

"Can I tell you what that company is up to? We, I mean ‐ Buck and I, we might need your help." She speaks quietly as if she is afraid someone, anyone, would overhear what she is saying. She is almost impossible to recognize in her casual clothing so I'm not sure why she would think anyone is listening in, but I guess in her line of work you can never be too careful.

"Please tell me. I noticed some things there toward the end that I would love an explanation for," you respond, slightly confused.

She places an average looking manilla folder on the table and pushes it across the table.

You flip open the folder and there are dozens of pages full of formulas and chemistry that you don't understand in the slightest. It just looks like jumbled letters and numbers with shorthand notes seemingly in their own coded language. Pushing aside the pages of formulas, you see dossiers on a handful of people, ones you don't recognize. Names, lists of abilities, backgrounds, photos - they all run together after you flip through six or seven of them. Memos with large black bars of redacted text are next.

"Natasha…what is this?"

"I can't go into detail here." Her eyes shift around the empty restaurant before she scoops up the folder and slides it carefully back in her bag. "Let's finish our food and head back to my place. At least I know it's safer."

After several minutes of silently shoveling noodles into your mouth, you couldn't control the thoughts starting to bounce around your head.

What was Tony fucking Stark making? Bio-weapon? Vaccine? Some kind of virus that only infects Hydra agents? No, that one was dumb.

Thoughts swirl around your mind endlessly. It keeps you in a cloud of confusion as you walk to Natasha's pristine BMW, get in, and begin to flit in and out of traffic with ease.

The bright city lights slowly give way to dark narrow streets, square non-descript buildings, and the occasional safe harbor of a streetlight. The city that, up until recently, you felt safe and at home in twinkles like fireflies before the buildings swallow any evidence that it exists.

Natasha taps a small button on the dash. A delivery bay door on the side of one of the smaller factories rattles open. Beyond the heavy garage door is a sloped passage wide enough for a large vehicle to maneuver down if they were careful and watched their side mirrors.

The small space is mildly claustrophobic after the door slams shut behind you. She looks over at you with a wide grin. "Hold on to your ass."

As soon as the car comes to a stop, the concrete under you gives way and descends further under the building like an elevator. You have no way of knowing how deep you have gone once you finally come to a stop. The room beyond the blast doors that open in front of you is large and has a small handful of vehicles parked in seemingly no order at all.

Natasha pulls the car into the space closest to the door, grabs the files, and gets out.

"Well come on then," she says, impatiently tapping her foot, while your eyes take in the vastness of the garage. Her words focus your attention and you get out of the car to follow her past the heavy metal door into the interior of the complex.

After a short walk down a hallway you step through a door into a very warm apartment. Dark leather and mahogany furniture adorn a space easily twice the size of your own. Matte maroon walls with a grey oak floor, it really is exactly what you would expect Natasha to live in.

She places the folders on a tall kitchen table and waits for you to stop gawking at the apartment.

"FuturePharm was moved here from Austin, Texas after the…fiasco that happened down there. Tony bought the company and its nanotech research. Apparently, they never stopped looking for a way to replicate the serum. Tony is trying to refine the Extremis tech with a synthetic serum. No one but Erskine has ever been able to perfect the formula." Natasha wanders around the brightly lit kitchen as she speaks, gathering glasses and filling one with a honey colored bourbon. "Alcohol or..?"

"Water…water is fine," you say before sliding into the tall bar stool style chair while flipping through the folder again, still unable to grasp most of what is on the pages.

Natasha places a small glass of ice water in front of you before perching on a tall chair opposite you at the table. She takes a sip of her drink before continuing.

"I have a favor to ask. Your login information. Do you still have it? I'm sure they have probably already removed it from the system but it's worth a shot. I need to get into their files and see what they are up to and that would be easier than…well, what I usually do."

"Uh, yeah. I guess. This won't come back on me, will it?"

"What do you think I am, sugar? An amateur? You can stay here for a few days, though, just in case while I keep my ear to the ground and make sure….if you'd like, anyway. We have a guest room."

You sigh heavily. "I didn't pack anything."

"That's fine. I can go get some of your things for you."

"Fine. But I want to go on the record to say that I don't like this plan."

"Your opinion has been noted. Write down your info. The faster I get there the faster the chance they haven't deactivated it yet."

You scribble your information in the small notebook that Natasha hands you. She leans down and kisses you on the temple lightly. "Mi casa es su casa. Help yourself to anything. The guest room is through that door on the left there. I just ask that you stay here in the apartment and don't go poking around the rest of the complex. I don't wanna come home to the emergency systems going haywire because you touched the wrong door."

"Got it. Eat all the food, don't leave, sleep in that room over there. Sounds like I'm in a fancy prison, Tash." You chuckle to yourself. What could be so dangerous down here that you need to stay locked away? Wait. You probably don't want the answer to that question.

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't wait up. Feel free to ignore Barnes if he ever actually comes home. I haven't seen him since the bar." She hops off the chair and grabs her things in a rush, bolting out the door.

As soon as the door closes, the room gets deathly quiet. You could hear a pin drop. The mention of Bucky's name brings back all of the wild rollercoaster of emotions from the last few weeks. Part of you wishes that man wasn't such a mess. The tangle of red flags wrapped around broad shoulders, chiseled cheekbones, and steel grey eyes is almost worth digging through to see what you can unearth behind those Fort Knox level walls. Doesn't mean you are any less angry at him for his behavior.

You sigh and decide to try and get comfortable instead of letting your mind wander. You spend the next hour or two exploring the guest room - it's pretty sparse, compared to the rest of the apartment. You fix a meager sandwich with what you can scrounge up in the kitchen. With nothing else to do, you curl up on the couch under a quilt you dragged out of the guest room closet and mindlessly flip through the channels on the television.

Knock knock knock

Your mind slowly resurfaces to the sound, looking around frantically at the unfamiliar surroundings before remembering where you are.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

"Natasha! It's Steve! Open the door!"

You bolt straight up, suddenly fully awake. Should you open the door? What if it's—

"NATASHA! Buck's hurt, come on, open the damn door!"

You scramble over to the door, opening it slightly. The excessively tall blonde on the other side of the door regards you with suspicion.

"You're that Steve? Rogers? Captain fucking America?" you shout somewhere between excited and confused.

He shoves the door wider and reveals one very beat to hell looking James Buchanan Barnes. His clothing is shredded and his skin is mottled with rapidly forming bruises, more than a few deep cuts still oozing blood down skin marred with black smudges and dirt. The one eye that isn't swollen widens a short second before he rasps out "Doll!"

Steve looks from you to Bucky and back again and shakes his head. "One, where is Natasha? Two, who are you? Three, help me get this heavy jerk to the couch."

You wrap an arm around Bucky's waist as he grins lopsided at you. "She's out. I'm…a friend. It's safer for me to be here for a couple days while she chases a lead. What the fuck happened?"

Chapter 12

Dating Game Masterlist

Fic Masterlist

[kindahoping4forever]

Feedback // Ashton Irwin

I've been sitting on this fic for a minute so thank you to everyone who's patiently waited for me to post it (shoutout to Sly)! This story was really just me getting inspired and clowning after Ashton's "Down To Earth" IG stream back in April. As always, thanks to @cal-puddies for the invaluable guidance as I tried to pare my writing style down into a pwp format (try being the operative word, 3500 words is still the best we could do lmao).

Warnings: Distracted Boyfriend!Ash, oral sex on a male, moderately rough unprotected sex (on the red leather couch) including mild dirty talk, brief choking and a spank or two.

Word Count: 3535

Masterlist // Ko-Fi and New 2021 Taglist linked above

Let  me  know  what  you  think!

"Baby! I didn't know you were home!"

You turn around to see Ashton in the doorway of the bedroom, voice as cheerful as the yellow beanie covering his head.

"Didn't hear you come in," he comments, walking over to you.

You slide your arms around your boyfriend’s neck with a sigh. "Rushed up here, phone was about two seconds from shutting off," you explain, greeting him with a tender kiss.

He watches as you kick off your shoes and yank your bra off under your shirt, tossing everything haphazardly in the direction of the closet before flinging yourself on the bed. "Tough day?"

You groan, dragging your hands over your face before extending your arms, encouraging him to join you. “Eh, not great and very long,” you report, giving a satisfied sigh when Ash climbs on the bed and immediately pulls you on top of him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. You do the same and the both of you lay quietly in this prone embrace for several peaceful moments before you break the silence. “How about you, how was your day?”

You feel him shrug under your body. “Can’t complain,” is his simple reply.

“Make anything cool?” You prompt, knowing he’s being low-key because he thinks you need to chill out, not realizing nothing relaxes you more than listening to him talk about his passions.

“Hmm… anything cool...” Ash giggles, hugging you closer. “I dunno, got a good start goin’ on this one track that could be pretty cool, got a nice vibe.”

You raise your head up to look at him and scratch your fingers across his beard, you’re so glad he decided to let it grow again. “Yeah? Tell me more.”

He hums as you continue to rub his face. “Only been at it for a couple hours, ‘s just a track for now, we’ll see what I can do with it,” he breezes, moving your hand from his face to his mouth so he can kiss it.

“Well, whenever you feel like you need a fresh pair of ears, I’d love to hear it,” you enthuse, moving to lay at his side.

He turns to give you a bright grin. “Yeah? A little in-house focus group?” He teases, leaning in for a sweet kiss that starts to get needy the longer it goes on.

You pull off his hat, running your fingers through his long hair as he moves to kiss along your neck. “Don’t know if you know this but I’m a big fan of your work,” you tease back.

He kisses your lips again, biting a bit as he pulls away to quip, “We talking ‘bout my music or something else?”

You giggle, deciding that indulging this frisky mood is exactly how you would like to unwind tonight. You inch closer, pulling him back into a kiss and he responds eagerly, hand coming up to massage at the base of your neck like it always does. For the next few minutes, the only thoughts in your mind revolve around Ashton, how he feels, how he tastes and where you need his mouth or hands on you next.

When you let out a moan at the way his fingers are gripping your skin under your shirt and he doesn’t press himself against you in response, you can tell he’s gotten distracted. You laugh knowingly against his lips, “You’re back to thinking about that song now, aren’t you?”

He looks at you with a sheepish smile. “I was actually still workin’ and came up here just to grab a hoodie when I found you.”

You playfully push him off of you, shaking your head. “Dude, you should’ve told me! You know I’m not one to fuck with The Process,” you admonish, scrunching your nose up at the trail of kisses he pecks over your face as he sits up.

“Nah, my brain needed a break and my girl needed me, it worked out perfectly,” he insists, rubbing your arm affectionately before getting off the bed.

He quickly fishes his desired sweatshirt out of the closet and pulls it on over his t-shirt, mussing his hair even more than you already had. He walks back over, ready to kiss you goodbye when you sit up on your knees to stop him. “I was serious about giving it a listen if ya want,” you say, smoothing his hair down before resting your hands on top of his inside his hoodie pocket. “If you’re not ready that’s fine but just FYI I‘m interested.”

Ash grins at you, squeezing your hands before using them to pull you to your feet. “Aww, you know you’re my fave audience, baby,” he gushes, reaching to grab his hat off the bed. “Let’s go give it a spin.”

“Well. As much as you can ‘spin’ a computer file,” you mutter, trying to annoy him just because it’s fun.

As you head for the door, you hear him snort behind you a split second before he grabs you, sliding his beanie on your head far enough to cover your eyes; you burst into giggles as he playfully bumps into you, passing you in the hallway. “Smart ass,” he grumbles, voice still smiling.

Ash makes it down to the basement first and starts clicking on files and flicking switches, excited to play his work for you. You stop at the foot of the stairs and survey the room with wonder. Multiple guitars - electric, acoustic, bass, 12-string - are strewn across the room, cables run from his computer to the adjacent room where he houses his drums, food delivery containers line the coffee table; he’s clearly been down here since you left this morning.

While he sets up, you make yourself useful, setting the guitars back in their racks, stacking the food trash; when you’re done, you start to drag a chair over to the computer when you notice he’s staring at you like you’ve grown an extra head.

“What are ya mad at me or somethin’?” He scoffs, patting his legs and looking at you expectantly.

You smirk and take a seat in his lap, watching closely as his long fingers fly over the keyboard, hand adeptly working the mouse, making a few final adjustments to the track. You hear a quiet “there we go” under his breath and then he’s settling in, pulling you back against him and rubbing over your thighs as you wait for the song to begin.

It’s a simple demo so far - layered background vocals, drum and bass, some synth, a little guitar line here and there - but he’s right, it’s definitely a vibe. You’re pleased that his reflection is visible in the computer screen, you love seeing him grooving behind you, pursing his lips and nodding his head along to the beat as you feel his fingers tapping along on your waist while he holds you close.

The track is short and before he can even ask your opinion, you tell him to play it again; his face lights up at your request and he proudly complies. When it finishes this time, you shift to look at him and smile. “That’s wild you did that all yourself and in such a short amount of time,” you marvel. “See, I was right, you did do something cool.”

Ashton laughs, kissing the side of your head as he leans forward to reach the keyboard. “You think so? Well, what’s really cool is this…” He starts clicking around again, isolating the different elements and revealing which sounds are electronic and which are live instruments, which section he thinks he’ll write lyrics over tomorrow, where he’s thinking of pasting in more guitar.

You respond when appropriate but mostly you just listen intently, watching fondly as he animatedly details his thought process; this is why you offered to come down here with him, this is the best part about being his “fave audience.” You love his music but more than that, you love how much he loves his music.

He stops mid-explanation of a section to tinker with it, clearly having a brainstorm right in front of you. You curl into his chest, observing quietly as he cycles through effects and begins stacking tracks. He chews his lip, deep in thought as he lets the song play again and you can't help but press a few kisses to his jaw.

Ash continues his work and you continue yours, moving from his jaw to his neck; your kisses eventually become more heated, with you adding tongue and even teeth to the equation. You suck his earlobe into your mouth, wiggling his earring with the tip of your tongue and finally he pulls away, chuckling, "Baby, come on."

You shrug, playing with his hair. "I just love watching you work."

He laughs, "Then goddamn, baby, let me work!" He growls as you nip at his throat and you smile to yourself because you can tell he's already rethinking his request.

"Seems like you shoulda thought about this before you invited a girl down to your basement to listen to some dreamy space pop alien makeout jam," you tease, relishing the feeling of his laughter vibrating his throat under your tongue.

"Can I get you to leave that review when this goes up on iTunes?" He cracks, finally turning his attention to you.

"I might be persuaded," you flirt, humming with victory as he pulls you into a hungry kiss.

Ashton wastes no time returning the affection you showed him, lips devouring yours, hands quickly making their way under your shirt to lazily massage your tits. You’re mid-moan, his fingers just about to make it inside your waistband when suddenly he’s pulling away.

It takes you a beat to realize what’s happened, your body confused by the sudden absence of his touch. You open your eyes to see him busy at the computer again and it’s so absurd to you, you have to laugh.

“Two minutes,” he says half-apologetically, half-distracted, squeezing your thigh but not taking his eyes off the screen.

You smirk to yourself, immediately aware of what your next move is. “Take as long as you need, baby. When genius strikes, you gotta go for it,” you state ominously, not that he notices. Nor does he notice you sliding yourself off his lap and onto the floor between his legs.

You run your hands up and down his thick thighs before letting your touch wander to the front of his jeans, palming over his crotch, happy to find that at least part of him was interested in your makeout session. You can’t decide if you’re more amused or annoyed by his focus but it’s not until your hand is on his cock, freeing him from his pants that he tears himself away from his project.

“Excuse me, ma’am, can I help you with something?”

You lock eyes with him as you stick your tongue out and dramatically lick your hand, coating your palm with saliva before giving his cock a tight squeeze and beginning to stroke him steadily. “I also had a genius idea I was just following through on,” you shrug. “Might take a little longer than two minutes, though, I’m a bit out of practice… my boyfriend’s been pretty busy.”

Ash giggles wildly, both at your joke and your audacity. “You’re crazy, I’m literally about to be done with… fuck…” His retort is interrupted by you, eyes still trained on his, licking long stripes up the sides of his cock, sucking gently at the head before licking your way back down.

“Go ahead and finish your work, baby, I’ll just keep busy until you’re done,” you insist, mischief in your eyes as you look up one last time before taking him into your mouth.

You hear a sharp inhale, a softly chuckled “fuckin’ ridiculous” and then finally, mouse clicks as he attempts to get back to it. You do your best to distract him, bobbing up and down enthusiastically, sucking loudly, humming around him, making sure he knows how much you’re enjoying your task.

It only takes a minute or so for him to get sidetracked by your efforts. “This is a shitty home demo I’ve spent all of 90 minutes on, there’s no way it’s so good you just had to have my cock right here and now,” he insists, struggling to keep his voice steady, not wanting you to hear how affected he is.

You pop off, gingerly playing with his balls as you zing back, “I dunno babe, you guys had plenty of shitty songs on your first album and from what I’ve heard, you did more than alright in the pussy department.”

Ashton’s laughter quickly turns to a strained moan as you slide back down on him, letting him hit the back of your throat. “My bad, didn’t realize I’d shacked up with a groupie,” he jokes. You silently congratulate yourself as you notice him flexing his hand into a fist, knowing he’s trying to keep himself from pressing down on your head.

You pull off him again, making sure to let the spit cascade from your mouth as you smugly reply, “Like I said before: big fan.” Before he can even think about responding, your mouth is back on him.

You’re not surprised he attempts to resume working again; you’re both stubborn, it’s a wonder anything ever gets resolved in your relationship. You can tell he’s trying his best to stay on task but the whispered curses under his breath give him away. As a last resort, he turns the volume on his speaker up a few more notches, hoping the track will drown out the exaggerated choking sounds you’re intent on making.

A few moments later, he reaches down and yanks his beanie off your head. “Fuckin’ bright yellow bouncing over my crotch is hard to ignore,” he grumbles. “All I see is my hat, looks like I’m suckin’ my own dick for all I know.”

You can’t resist continuing to rib him. “How is that not your greatest fantasy? Your favorite person giving you your favorite pleasure?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, did you want to blow me or roast me?”

You give him your brightest smile and reply, “Unlike you, I’m pretty good at multi-tasking.”

A brief cackle and a clipped “alright” are all you hear before you’re being hoisted up off the ground, thrown over Ash’s shoulder and carried over to the couch across the room. You squeal with surprise and delight as he unceremoniously dumps you on it, briskly strips you both of your clothes and promptly bends you over the red leather.

He nudges your knees further apart, pressing you against the back of the couch. “Of course you’re this fuckin’ wet already,” he teases, breath hot on your neck as he runs himself through your folds. “You think that’s from my cock down your throat or from you winding me up so much?”

Whatever clever comeback you’d thought up dies on the tip of your tongue because suddenly he’s sliding his cock inside you and now that’s all you can care about. You whine as he quickly establishes a vigorous pace, one hand bracing himself against the couch, the other reaching around you, down your torso to reach your clit. “How’s this for multi-tasking?”

A few breathless cries of his name are the best you can manage as he relentlessly plays with you, somehow in perfect rhythm with his rough thrusts, sending your whole body into sensory overload.

“Or how ‘bout this?” He growls, moving his hand from between your legs to your throat, fingers offering just the slightest amount of pressure, knowing it’ll drive you crazy wondering if and when he’ll add more. “Don’t got any more funny jokes for me, baby?”

You moan at his taunting, placing a hand on top of his on your neck, trying to get him to squeeze harder; he refuses and his denial makes you moan even louder. "Jesus, Ash," you pant, pushing back against him to egg him on. “Feels so fucking good.”

You're so caught up that you don't even notice his song is still playing over the speakers until a few moments later when Ashton suddenly pulls out of you, muttering to himself as he grabs the remote from the coffee table and shuts the music off.

Confused, you look back and see him amusedly shaking his head. "Yes, I was still producing that in my head, don’t start," he giggles.

You fall back on the couch, laughing in disbelief. “We’ve gotta get you some hobbies, buddy, that’s insane.”

He snickers, laying you on your back and settling on the couch behind you, pulling your leg over his hip. “I don’t think fucking you counts as a hobby,” he jokes, gripping his cock and slipping it back inside you.

“Not with that attitude,” you quip, a little more breathlessly than you meant to but with how slowly Ash is rocking into you, you can’t help it.

You tilt towards him, angling yourself to pull his mouth down to yours; you’re feeling overwhelmed and you need him close. His tongue traces over your lips, his kiss the familiar reassurance you need in this moment. “Ash…” You whimper quietly, closing your eyes and savoring the feel of his beard grazing your skin.

“I know, baby, me too,” he soothes, cradling you tighter against him. His hips begin to pick up speed and his hand moves to knead your breasts and tug at your nipples before travelling further down.

Ashton rubs slow, tight circles on your clit, stopping to give your thigh a light smack when you start raising your hips a little too eagerly, bucking up in an attempt to get him to move at a speed more to your liking. You moan first at the realization that he’s going to keep teasing you like this and then again, louder, at the sharp slap of his palm that once again comes down on your skin.

“You’ve got a nice tone tonight, baby, I should get you to lay down some vocals for this track,” he jokes, choking back a moan of his own when your surprised laughter causes you to clench around his length.

You chuckle smugly at him, “Not so funny all of a sudden, huh?”

You feel yourself getting closer so you start rolling your hips along with his, murmuring at the feeling of him deep inside you; you grind against his hand playing between your legs and as he finally amps up the pace, your release becomes closer and closer to reality. Your breathing syncs with his in a needy, staccato rhythm that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in his song.

“Is this what you wanted?” He huffs out. Typically when he asks you that while he’s buried in you, there’s a tone of arrogance or punishment behind it but right now as he holds you, your sounds continuing to meld together, it couldn’t feel farther from that.

“Yes, Ash, god yes…” you breathe, reaching to hold onto him as your orgasm overtakes you.

Ashton keeps driving his cock inside you, whining slightly at the feeling of you pulsing around him. You cry out, not realizing how loud or long your moans are until you hear his voice in your ear, gently lulling you back down.

He’s still moving inside you, hips beginning to stutter and when you hear his breath catch, you know he’s there. You tuck yourself into him, cooing, “Come on, Ash... fill me up, babe.” Three strokes later and he’s pumping his cum inside you, gasping your name. He slows his movements, heavy breath underscored by a contented hum as you caress his bearded cheek.

He leans in and kisses you passionately, completely enveloping you, possibly your favorite feeling in the world. He exhales loudly and keeps holding you, kissing over your face tenderly.

You giggle as he indulges for a moment before reluctantly pulling away, reaching for the takeout napkins on the coffee table; he attentively cleans you up and quickly settles back onto the couch, pulling you on top of him.

You lay together, blissed out, while you play with the necklace hanging down on his chest and he strokes over your hair.

“Hey, sorry I gave you such a hard time,” you smile. “Didn’t realize how much I wanted your attention until I didn’t have it anymore.”

He looks at you, amused. “Honestly didn’t notice you acting any differently.”

You jab his side. “Also sorry I talked shit about your first album, I do actually like it quite a bit.”

Ash cackles, tracing designs on your back. “Oh good, I was worried that was going to be what finally drives us apart,” he cracks.

You snicker, nuzzling your head into his chest. You enjoy a few quiet moments together before he begins softly humming an unfamiliar melody and you smile, knowing his creative wheels are turning again.

You lift your head up again to offer one last apology. “I’m sorry I once again disrupted The Process.”

Ashton laughs mischievously, running his hands down your body. “I mean… overall I’d say this was some pretty valuable feedback.”

————-

Thank you to everyone who has signed up for the taglist, both for the support and the lovely (occasionally hilarious) feedback! If you haven’t signed up yet, the form is linked above! (If you signed up and your name is crossed out or not listed, I was unable to tag you, please check your blog settings and either re-sign up or send me a message letting me know you allow mentions now) @notinthesameguey @cxddlyash @2fangirl4u @cashtonasfuck @talkfastromance4 @itjustkindahappenedreally @saywhatnow07 @mymindwide @suchalonelysunflower @pxrxmoore @findingliam-o @fedorable-killjoys @trix-arent-for-kids @olivia-foster-irwin @saphseoul @calmsweetcreature @onthecliffside-mgc @feliznavidaddycal @himbohood @maggiesupertramp @wiiildflowerrr @karajaynetoday @ashtonangst @sunshineeashton @aladyofalbion @youngblood199456 @xsongbirdx @loveroflrh @fairytrice @calumrose @irwindoll @polycashton @in-superbloom

[lia-jones]

Growing Together - Chapter Twenty-Six - Dura Lex, Sed Lex

Before we start:

This work is unbeta'd and English is not my first language. I apologize for any mistakes you may find. Have fun reading!

They made us pack a suitcase, just in case. So that the child wouldn’t have to go through the pain of being separated at the place he learned to love and call his own. Like leaving the love of his parents in a cold and impersonal courtroom would be any better.

I resentfully grabbed a duffel bag and filled it with some of Owen’s belongings without him knowing. I put inside a toothbrush and a comb, some underwear and some clothes, pajamas. I put in there all the things he would need for a night out, keeping his favorite things in his room. Because he wouldn’t need to go. Because even if he did go, he wouldn’t go for long. But mostly because the things he loved the most belonged with the place he loved the most and with the people that loved him the most.

The morning of the trial, I found myself staring at his room, holding that duffel bag tightly, my nails digging deep in the fabric, almost ripping it. I hated that duffel bag and all it represented. If I could, I would set it on fire.

“Are you ready? It’s time to go.”

Victor was standing in the doorway, impeccably dressed in his charcoal suit with a burgundy shirt. He looked calm and focused, undefeatable. Ready for the battle.

“I don’t want Owen to see this.” I showed him the bag I was holding. “Go ahead and put Owen in the car, I’ll go shortly.”

“Andrea.” My husband held my hand, giving me a determined look.

“I know.” I squeezed his hand. “We got this.”

____________________________________________________________

Something came up. I’ll be home for dinner.

The note was taunting, sitting perfectly on the polished marble surface, sporting her usual perky handwriting.

Andrea was nowhere to be found.

“Are you sure she didn’t tell you where she was going?”

Owen, who was busy cutting his french toast, shrugged yet again.

“No. Only that she had a plane to catch. And that I should behave while she’s gone.”

“It’s not like her to just leave without saying anything.” Victor took his phone from his pocket, wondering if he should try to call an eleventh time.

“Well, she did say something.” The boy replied matter-of-factly, eyes still on his plate. “She left a note.”

Victor wanted to explain to his son that the information on that note amounted to nothing, that even though his mother had been clear enough that she’d be gone, she had also been cryptic enough to worry him. Victor hated to be kept out of the loop like that, it was a habit that came with his job, to always hold every single piece of information about everything. Andrea, however, was well versed in the art of pulling the rug from under his feet, and sometimes could act so randomly it was hard for him to predict her next move. He had to admit he found it alluring, but also annoying.

It wasn’t like he was controlling or domineering, he just felt safer knowing at all times where she was, what she was doing, and who she was doing it wi-

“Eat your toast.” Victor quickly ended the subject, not in the mood to explain anything anymore.

___________________________________________________________

“All rise.” The bailiff announced. “Department One of the Family Court is now in session. Judge Erica Bridges presiding. Please be seated.”

We all got up from our seats, Victor taking Owen’s hand as to motion him to do the same. The judge was a petite woman with bright blue eyes that were framed with dark eyebrows and hair. She looked far too young to be a judge, yet she had this intimidating aura that made everyone around her feel insignificant. It,reminded me of my husband, keeping everyone on their toes with his mere presence.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” The judge opened a file in front of her. “Calling the case of Cole VS Lee regarding the custody of Owen Cole. Are both sides ready?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The layers replied.

I couldn’t help but look to my side, to the familiar face that had been giving me grief for so long: Pamela Cole. She sat beside her lawyer with a humble look on her face, wearing a modest black dress like she was in mourning, probably to earn sympathy points from the judge. A heatwave coursed through my body, as anger started to churn inside of me. Anger for her audacity to come into my office and tell me all those lies, wanting to take advantage of my sympathy. Anger towards myself, for being an idiot and believing her.

I hated her for having the same DNA as my child, as I hated DNA for being used for such vile purposes. My mind was running wild with thoughts of revulsion and grievance when I felt a warm hand taking mine. It was my husband, looking intently at me like he could read my thoughts, probably because he was having them too. And with just a little magical squeeze of his fingers, all the fire was gone, being replaced by a sense of confidence. We were ready. She would not win.

“And are you Owen?” I heard the judge addressing my son. “You are a very handsome young man.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He answered politely. “My mom tells me the same thing.”

Laughter echoed in the courtroom.

“You know what we are doing here today, Owen?”

“My grandmother wants to be my forever family.”

“Good.” The judge smiled at him. “Now, I have something to ask you. We are going to start talking about very boring grownup things, so it would be better if you go with this gentleman to a special room we have, where you can read, or play a little. Is that ok?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me who I want to be with?” Owen frowned.

“Oh, I definitely want to know what you feel about all this. It won’t take long, I’ll call you after a little while, ok?”

I squeezed Victor’s hand tighter as I watched our son being taken away. This was it, it was about to start. How did he look so cool, so centered, when all I wanted was to just grab the boy and make a run for it? But then he looked at me, and I could see it in his eyes. The glint of worry only a wife’s trained eye would recognize on him.

“Very well, now that the child is away, you can make your first statements.”

__________________________________________________________

“Where on Earth are you?” He answered the phone, ready to scold her.

“Well, you are correct. I am indeed on Planet Earth.” She joked, unfazed by his severe tone. “I have ten missed calls from you, didn’t you see my note?”

“You mean the elaborate itinerary of my wife’s whereabouts and the extensive list of reasons why she suddenly disappeared the day before our son’s custody trial?” He gave her a mocking tone. “No, I must have missed it.”

“Victor…” She sighed.

“If instead, you are referring to the ridiculous piece of crumpled paper you left on our kitchen counter stating you were alive by the time you left the house, then yes, I am holding it as we speak.”

“Something came up.”

“Your note already told me as much, if I can decipher your messy handwriting correctly. What else do you have to say for yourself?”

Another sigh came from the other end of the line. Victor was perfectly aware of how difficult he was being, but he couldn’t be more indifferent to it. A week ago, they were fighting because he had kept her at bay. Now, she was doing the exact same thing. If Victor was a gambler, he would bet his fortune on how he wouldn’t like the reason.

“Look, I’ll be completely honest with you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I had an idea. Something that can help us. And I wanted to give it a try.”

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to contain his frustration. What was she up to this time? And why wouldn't she give him a straight answer already?

“You can tell me when I get there. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll come to pick you up.”

“Do you trust me?” Her disarming question.

“With my life.” He promptly answered. “However, do I need to remind you that we agreed never to keep things from each other? What happened to “we’re in this together”?”

“You told me I wouldn’t fight hard enough for you and Owen.”

Victor paused. He did say that. He wished he didn’t.

“I don’t think that’s true, and you know that.” His tone softened.

“Maybe it is. Well, it was. The truth is…” She hesitated for a second. “I felt weak. I felt like I was losing. And I was so afraid to lose again that I thought it would be better to just stop fighting. I felt like if I lost, I would never recover from it. Do I make sense?”

Victor remembered her howling in his arms at that clinic in Switzerland, when she was told they couldn’t have a biological baby. And his own desperate moments on that kitchen floor, not long ago.

“What I didn’t realize was that, by giving up, I was letting both of you down. I was letting my family down. So this is my way to show you that I believe in us, I believe in us as a family, I’m fighting for us. That’s why I need to do this alone. I need to prove to you that I’m all in. Will you let me?”

___________________________________________________________

“Your Honor, the adoption was made under extremely odd circumstances, and with no respect for the law.” Pamela’s lawyer argued. “My client was not informed of her daughter’s passing, or that the child was left alone.”

“The late mother left a suicide note stating that she did not intend the grandmother to have any contact with the child.” One of Victor’s lawyers argued back.

“I take it you have such a letter in your possession.” The Judge asked.

I jumped on my seat, surprised that they were even mentioning it. Didn’t we agree we weren’t going to use it? I watched incredulously as the lawyer glanced at Victor, waiting for instructions. Victor squeezed my hand again, nodding to the lawyer. What the hell was happening? The lawyer paused and sighed heavily before addressing the judge again.

“No, Your Honor, we do not. That letter was unfortunately lost with some other papers.”

“Your Honor, with all due respect, this trial is a waste of our time.” The other lawyer spoke again. “Should Victor and Andrea Lee be ordinary people instead of public figures, the orphanage would have contacted the grandmother, as it lawfully should, and we wouldn’t be wasting public time and resources! My client has proved that she is fit to be the child’s guardian, and by law, she should have custody. And despite whatever story Mr. Lee’s lawyers wish you to believe, there is obviously no letter from the daughter. Even if there was, there would still be the matter of the daughter’s mental condition when she wrote it.”

“Do you have anything else to present to us to make your case?” The judge turned to our legal team.

__________________________________________________________

Owen spent most of his day in his bedroom, coming out only when summoned. Things had changed dramatically between Victor and Owen since the panic attack, and Owen was treating him with the same distance he did back when he first started living with them: he started to address him as Sir again and seemed to avoid all kinds of interactions. When they were forced to be together, like when sharing a meal, Owen kept his eyes on his plate, barely saying anything other than some short bitter words.

Victor couldn’t blame him. He had acted cold and distant during the funeral, disregarding his family. Everything one won’t expect from a parent. It was only natural that Owen was suspicious of him now, he had lost his trust in him. Victor’s penance was now to get it back.

“Are you hungry?” Victor entered the boy’s room after a brief knock. “I have some frozen mango, we could make sorbet together.”

“No, thank you.” Owen answered, not caring to lift his eyes from the book he was reading.

“What do you have there?” Victor tried again. “Is that the book Mom bought you?”

“Yes.”

“The Beesy Life.” He read from the cover. “Anything interesting about bees?” Knowing his son, he would surely jump at the opportunity of stating an extensive list of facts.

“They make honey.” He quickly dismissed him. “Can you leave so I can read?”

“Why don’t we go outside and play some football together? It’s sunny today.”

The boy seemed to bury himself even more in his book.

“No, thank you. I’m reading.”

Victor surely had his work cut out for him. With a heavy sigh, he sat on his son’s bed. Diversions wouldn’t work, he would have to stop being a coward and just cut to the chase.

“Owen, we need to talk. Do you think you can put that book down?”

Victor grimaced as his son obediently placed the book on his lap, giving him his undivided attention. It was so hard to find the right words. Andrea usually helped him with these things, making notice little things he couldn’t see, encouraging him to open up a little more. Ironically, when things were hard, Andrea was always nowhere to be found. Or maybe things were hard because she wasn’t around, Victor wasn’t sure anymore. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to imagine how Andrea would do it.

“I need to apologize.” Victor began. “I was callous and cold towards you and your mother, and-”

“Was it because of that letter you got? The day we went to the market?”

Victor turned to his son, astonished.

“Mom cried the day you got that letter. And every day after that.” The boy explained, like he understood Victor’s surprise. “And you began to fight. You never fight.”

“Owen...” Victor looked at his son, not knowing what to say.

“What did it say?”

_______________________________________________________

“Alright Owen, now that the grownups have talked, I want to get to know you better. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

My son looked at me with hesitant eyes, and I gave him a small nod of reassurance, mouthing It’s ok.

“Ok.” He nodded, following the bailiff nervously to the witness stand.

“Well done. Are you comfortable there?”

My husband’s hand squeezed mine hard. I ran my thumb over his. Owen would be ok. He was a smart child.

“Do you see this document I’m holding?” The judge showed him a folder. “This is your file, it tells me things about you. So, I know you are five, and you have been living with the Lees for almost a year, and you are doing very well at school… But it doesn’t tell me other important things, like, what are your favorite hobbies, if you have any close friends…”

“My best friend’s name is Mathew, he’s from my class. We play soccer together.” Owen promptly answered. “I like to play soccer, with my friends or with my Dad. I also like insects, I want to be an entomologist. That’s why my Mom calls me Bug. Oh, and we have a pet lobster! His name is Mr. Lobster, my Dad lets me feed him sometimes.”

“A pet lobster? That’s unusual.” She chuckled. “I can see in your file that you are doing well at school, no disciplinary reports… It seems you adjusted very well to that new reality.”

“Miss Dillon says God works in mysterious ways.” The boy looked at the judge in all seriousness. The judge frowned, taken aback by his statement.

“I could say that He does, Owen. But why do you say that?”

“A while ago, we went to have dinner at Gavin and Mia’s, and Mom got sick and threw up all over the floor. And later that night, I woke up and Mom and Dad were talking, and I did something I shouldn’t have.”

I looked at Victor, confused. What on Earth was Owen talking about?

“What did you do, Owen?” The judge asked.

“I eavesdropped.” His head hung in shame. “But I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I was worried about Mom. And then I heard Dad talking about the bad man that hurt Mom, and because of him she can’t get a baby. So…” Owen looked at me, hesitating.

“Yes?” The judge pressed.

“I don’t like that Mom got hurt so badly, but if God works in mysterious ways, maybe He made that bad man hurt Mom so she would adopt me, because He knew my other mom would die.” He shifted nervously in his chair, giving the judge a pleading look. “I know the other lady is my real family, and maybe she is a really nice lady, but I already have a family. I love my Mom and Dad, and I know they love me. Can I please keep them? Can they be my forever family? Please?”

My son’s words pierced my heart, and all the tears of fear and anguish I had been hiding came full force. Despite knowing my background, Owen would never really know how he was an angel in my and Victor’s life, filling our life with color and love. Losing my son was like getting my heart ripped out of my chest, and nothing would ever fill that gap. Victor’s grip on my hand tightened, the brief twitch of his finger making me look up. His eyes were also filled with tears, as he held onto my hand for strength, just like I held his. And as I looked around, wiping my tears with the back of my fingers, I noticed there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Except for Pamela, who looked at us with utter disdain.

“Well, Owen…” The judge cleared her throat. “Thank you so much for talking to me. I will consider your words.”

_________________________________________________________

Victor looked his son in the eyes, trying to formulate the right words to say. There weren’t any. If his wife was there, and not on some kind of wild goose chase, she would tell him to speak from the heart. And it was more and more evident that raw honesty would have to do.

“You have a grandmother. Your biological mother’s mother. She wants to adopt you.”

“I have a grandmother?”

Victor’s eyes fell to the ground.

“Yes.”

Owen jumped from his seat, eyes wide in anger.

“You told me nothing would make you send me back! You told me you were my forever family!” The boy broke down crying. “You were lying!”

“I never lied to you, Owen, you-”

“You told me I was a Lee! That I was your son!” Victor tried to hug his son, but he wouldn’t let him, hitting him with his clenched fists. “You don’t love me, you want to send me back!”

“You are my son!” Victor held his son tight, his voice echoing through the apartment. “You are a Lee, you’ll always be a Lee, and no one will take you away!” Victor felt his eyes sting with emotion, his voice faltering as he spoke. “I will not allow it.”

Victor pulled his son to his arms, tears running freely from his eyes too. He was so brutally inept when it came to expressing his feelings, yet he needed to show his son he loved him above everything.

“I am your father, Owen, and there is no law in this world that can change that. And we do want to be your family. Otherwise, why would your mother be crying all this time? Why would I become so insufferable?”

“Please don’t leave me.” Owen begged, his face buried in his father’s chest.

Victor knew that sentiment all too well. To hold a loved one so desperately and still feel her slip away from his fingers, leaving nothing but loneliness, no one to gather and mend the shards of his broken heart. But those days were over for Victor. And they were also over for Owen.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Victor smiled, wiping the tears from his boy’s cheek. “You belong with us.”

Before he was a father, Victor would scorn those romantic fools that told him about how deeply a parent can love his child. He simply found it impossible to be. He has never been loved that deeply, he couldn’t even fathom how that must feel like. But at that moment, with Owen's little arms wrapped around his neck, Victor’s heart felt like a deep wide ocean, filled with love and joyful selflessness, a complete devotion to that little red-haired boy. And a promise, no, a purpose to devote every single day of his life to his happiness.

“So I don’t need to go?” Owen asked, breaking his embrace.

“No, you don’t. You’re a Lee and that’s settled.”

Owen’s bedroom door flung open.

“Mom!” Owen left his father’s arms to run to his mother.

“Bug!” Andrea lifted him in her arms, giving him a tight hug. “I missed you so much, little one!”

“Where have you been?” Victor went to his wife.

“I did it.” She bit her bottom lip in excitement, putting their son down and reaching for her purse.

“And may I know what exactly did you do?”

“We won.” She smiled widely, handing Victor an envelope.

Victor read the document inside, not believing his own eyes. They had never contemplated it, it seemed so impossible…

“What is it, Dad?” Owen looked at both of them, excited. Victor lifted him up in the air with joy, twirling him in his arms.

“What we needed to officially make you a Lee.”

__________________________________________________________

Victor stood quietly at a hidden corner of the main hallway, talking on his phone. An oblivious passerby would think he was having a calm conversation, but I knew better: by the look in his eyes, Victor Lee was making some serious threats at that precise moment. Our legal team was reunited not far behind, deeply engaged in a quiet conversation, the panic very clear in the faces of some of them. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong. And my job was to sit quietly with Owen, trying to distract them the best I could from the gravity of the situation.

“One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war!” Owen chanted excitedly, as I tried my best to discreetly grasp what was happening. “Mom, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Bug. Go ahead.” I answered distractedly as I noticed my husband look at his phone in silence, poker face in place.

“You may all come in.” The bailiff called us. “The judge has come to a deliberation.”

A bad feeling glued me to my seat, and for the life of me, my legs wouldn’t work. I looked at my son, the sweet five year old that meant the world to me, and I feared this would be the last time I would see them. I slapped myself mentally for being distracted looking at Victor and the lawyers, when I could just have enjoyed this last moment with him and played thumb wars.

“Owen, you come with me to the other room, alright?” The bailiff took his hand and I held his other one, unwilling to let go.

“Lady…” The bailiff pleaded.

Just one second, damn it! I may lose him forever, I just need this extra second!

“Owen…”

“Yes, Mom?” Sweet brown eyes stared at me expectantly.

I wanted to tell him I loved him, and that he would be an honorable man, and that someday I would love to know the kind of person he would grow up to be. I wanted to tell him that I would cry for him every single night, that he wasn’t born out of my mangled body but he was mine, that I would never forget about him, for as long as I should live. I wanted to tell him I would never adopt another child, that no child would ever take his place, and that my heart would belong to him forever. But I couldn’t. If he was going to be with his grandmother, I had to make things as easy as I possibly could for him. Even if they were impossibly hard for me. So, instead, I ruffled his hair.

“You did very well, with the judge.” I smiled. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks!” He smiled confidently. “I love you, Mom!”

As Owen walked away, holding the bailiff’s hand with a smile, a dark shadow ran across my line of vision. It was Victor, taking his son in his arms. And that was when I knew my suspicions weren’t unfounded: we were losing him.

I witnessed the sadness in Victor’s eyes as he smiled at his son, hugging him and tousling his red curls. And then the glint of despair, as his eyes landed on me, his expression telling me he was close to falling apart. I wouldn’t have to be strong just for Owen. I would have to be strong for Victor too. So I summoned the last of my strength and stood up. For better and for worse, we are in this together. I won’t let you fall, handsome.

We never said a word, as Victor took my hand and led me inside the courtroom. I didn’t know what had failed, and it wasn’t important. I took a shot and I missed. We wouldn’t win this one. I thought about the duffel bag in my car and regretted not putting one of Owen’s favorite books in there. He would need something to distract him tonight.

The judge entered the room, and while I could see the hesitant look on everyone’s faces, I couldn’t care less about it. I had no interest in hearing someone say I couldn’t be a mother, I already was. Even if a piece of paper said otherwise. Owen was my son.

“I have to say, this was one of the hardest decisions I had to make in my whole career.” The judge started her deliberation. “Dura lex sed lex. This means, the law is hard, but it is the law. The law speaks of rights and duties, it tells us in which direction to go, but the law does not contemplate feelings. The law does not abide by what makes us feel better. The law is impartial to love and to emotions. It is so by design, so we don’t let our hearts cloud our judgments. The law is correct, but that doesn’t exclude the fact that it can be very painful.”

The sound of heavy wooden doors opening abruptly echoed through the room, making us all jump in surprise. From them, one of our lawyers ran, stopping only in front of the judge.

“Your Honor, I apologize for my audacity towards this court.” The lawyer bowed. “But new evidence has arrived that cannot be ignored.” He handed her an envelope.

I looked at Victor, puzzled. Was it…

“Can you please explain to me and Mrs. Cole’s lawyer, what exactly am I looking at?” The judge opened the envelope.

“Mrs. Lee was able to track down the child’s biological father.” The lawyer explained. “She flew yesterday to Acomb and met him at the hospital where he is working as an intern doctor, and he granted her and Mr. Lee parental rights. We were just waiting for the lab to give us the DNA results.”

“And why am I getting this just now?”

“We couldn’t present the documents without being sure that Mr. Richardson was indeed Owen’s biological father.”

“Your Honor, this is highly inadequate! I contest this man’s right to give parental rights, he was never in the child’s life to begin with!” Pamela’s lawyer argued.

“Neither was your client, Counsellor.” The judge gave the lawyer a frown. “Well, it works for me.” The judge banged her hammer. “The Family Court decides that Mr. and Mrs. Lee will be granted full custody of the child Owen Cole, concluding the adoption process, effective immediately. Congratulations, you can get your son for the next room.”

Victor and I practically crashed against each other in a tight embrace, smiles mixed with tears, emotions running wild. We had won, we had our son. We were officially a family.

We entered the other room with joy in our hearts, laughing as Owen ran into our arms.

“I'm going home with you guys?”

“You are officially a Lee!” Victor laughed as he threw the boy in his arms.

“You adopted me? You are my forever family?” Owen teared up, reaching out to me so he could hug me as well.

“We are a family.” My throat tightened as I hugged the two men I loved the most in this world. “And we are forever.”

Victor pulled me close to them, wrapping both me and our son in a tight hug. And I couldn’t help but think back to our year, so full of adversity. Despite it all, we came through. We fought and found solace in one another. We became stronger and more united, we grew together, as a family, and we would continue to do so.

Love does conquer all.

Author's Note: This project has been going for a year now (it started in February 2020) and it won't be over any time soon, so I would like to ask you, as much as possible, for your support, because we still have a very long way to go. So, if you enjoy the work, don't forget to comment and reblog. It gives it traction and enables other people to learn about it, and for me to get more excited about what I do.

[stardustndice]

---- A Coffe Stain. A Pistol. A Sudden Confession. 

Part 1 of 2 of an FBI AU Obi Wan Kenobi x Reader Story. Read Part 2 Here.

a/n: this for u @hellotherekenobi . You made this monster and now you must deal with it (I love u tho thank you for the inspiration this was hella fun to write and I probably wasn’t accurate AT ALL concerning the FBI :)

Word Count: 3.0k oh dear god

You’re wading through the endless piles of busywork while rain taps at the window of the field office building. Your eyes dart to the time display on the seemingly-ancient computer provided by the bureau (you’d asked the higher ups multiple times for replacements, but evidently no one seems to listen to the rank-and-files anymore). 23:08. A groan slips past your lips as you run a hand through your hair. You make a mental note to shower when you get home. And how come your feet still ache from your heels even though you’d barely gotten up from your desk all day? As your thoughts continue to drift sleepily away from the task at hand, the sound of something hitting your desk tugs you out of dreamland.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” a gentle voice whispers, the source of a cup of semi-acceptable coffee. Ah. You’d forgotten that your partner was still at the office. You turn your head slightly to gaze up at Special Agent Obi-Wan Kenobi. He cut his hair. He looks much more…mature, yes that’s the work-appropriate word. He’s missing the silky locks at the back, with that tiny wave at the bottom that you’d stared at on more than a few field missions. The beard was a little longer, too.

Oh god, you hadn’t even bothered to look at him today. You’d rushed to your desk to get an early start on a new assignment. Your heart shrivels out of guilt, and evidently it’s clear on your face. Obi’s eyebrows knit together in concern, an expression you’ve etched into your brain by now. “Is…is everything alright?” he stammered, unsure of what to say to console you.

“No no no! I’m sorry,” you stutter, turning quickly in your chair to fully face him. “Shit, I’ve been so busy with…everything that I didn’t even notice that you cut your hair. It looks handsome, Obi.” He smirks and runs a hand through his hair, sweeping back a few strands that had fallen onto the middle of his forehead. “Yes, I suppose it does. Although, it rather upset me this morning when you didn’t comment. If you had gone to the break room you would’ve witnessed me sobbing on the sofa, drowning in my own sorrow,” he says, as he equips an expression of anguish.

“The couch with the moldy cushion?” You question.

“The couch with the moldy cushion,” he sighs as you theatrically turn to gaze horrified at the break room door.  After a few beats of silence, you break into giggles and he looks back at you, a warm smile creeping onto his face. Your gazes lock for a split second longer than your average moment when you conveniently remember something in order to drag your focus away from his stupidly gorgeous azure eyes. “You still having trouble with Sarek?”

He groans and drags a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me,” he grumbles as he trudges to his desk a few feet behind you and collapses dramatically into his chair. You grimace in apology and he gives a half-hearted smile in return. Sarek, a Trandoshan hunter who’d slipped through Agent Kenobi’s grasp several times, had struck again, this time kidnapping an assortment of women. The problem? Despite Kenobi’s talent for making connections, he’d made none between any of the victims that had been reported missing, no matter how many times he combed through their files.

It isn't easy to seep the determination out of Obi Wan Kenobi, but Sarek has almost done it.

You feel his eyes on you as you pivot back to your busywork. As you begin sorting through the manila folders, you take a sip of coffee and set it down. Obi packs up his things and gives you a nod goodbye before strolling out of the building. Going to pick up your cup of coffee for another caffeine charge, you realize you've set it on a file. A few choice curses cut through the silence before you pause, the cup in your hand hovering above a chestnut circle now imprinted on the page. Circled by the cup's stain is a familiar location, Kina's Coven. You wrack your brain to remember where it's from and it hits you: Obi Wan had referenced it when he first talked to you about the case. The connection. This could be it.

You leap out of your seat so fast you nearly ram into Kenobi's desk behind you. If I run I can catch him on his way out, you realize, and barrel through the glass double doors into the hallway. Quickly approaching the doors to the lobby, your hands fly out in front of you to push them open. The little air in your lungs is then knocked out as you collide with something and fall to the ground.

A leather briefcase thumps onto the carpet and you search for the person you knocked over to quickly find a mildly disgruntled but mostly amused Agent Kenobi lifting his head just a few inches in front of you, his breath tickling your cheeks and a grin lighting up his face.

"Hello there."

You look down and see that, while trying to break your fall, you've planted your hands on the plush carpet to either side of Obi Wan's chest. You’re also on top of him, your legs partially layered over his. Your face reddens and you scramble haphazardly to get off of your partner before someone walks in and sees you in such a...compromising position (yes, in the middle of the night, of course).

Thank God for push-to-open doors.

You brush off your pants and roll your shoulders. Despite rambling apologies, he waves you off and straightens his suit jacket. "It's alright," he remarks. "I haven't gotten that much action in a long time."

"Yes, I assumed you hadn't" you quip, a smirk paired with a raised brow painted on your face. "But that's not what I'm here for. I think I found something that will help your case." At that, Kenobi straightens, his eyes searching yours in question.

"Kina’s Coven recently reported one of their dancers missing, a Mirialan named Kaiela Hveti.” you explain, and your partner’s eyes widen.

“Kina’s? Most crimes at that lovely establishment are swept under the rug, are they not?” he asks.  “Few of our agents have been able to gather significant evidence against them.” You nod your head towards the door to the hallway and start walking, Kenobi trailing soon behind you.

“Not this one. Evidently Kaiela is a crowd favorite, meaning she isn’t someone they’re willing to lose without a fight,” you remark. “And I’m not just any agent, Kenobi. You of all people should know that,” you say, shooting him a playful wink and pulling open the glass doors back into the office.

Obi lowers himself into his desk chair, hunched over with elbows on his knees. You smile to yourself as you shuffle through the files on your desk with your back to your partner. Part of the reason why the two of you rose through the ranks so fast was your trust in each other; neither one of you was scared of being seen as weak or stupid if they had to ask the other for help. You learned about his “negotiate with deduction and knockout charm until someone ends up firing a gun” method quickly (which worked surprisingly well). He learned about your "figure out everything seconds before you might die" trick, too.

You practically read each other’s minds. You take care of each other.

Is that why your heart has been trying to squeeze its way out of your ribs whenever he utilizes his aforementioned charm lately?

You shake your head in an effort to clear your thoughts and hand Obi Wan the paper with the coffee stain, which he spots (of course) and raises a brow at before his head shoots up.

"You're making the face," you say, smiling softly. His mouth is barely open, eyes wide and searching the document. You wouldn't be surprised if you heard gears grinding in his brain. He doesn't answer, so you comically wave a hand in front of his face. "I'm guessing that this helps…?" you trail off, waiting for Obi to come out of his 'Eureka.' He snaps out of his reverie and beams at you, nearly sending you into cardiac arrest.

"Ok, Kenobi, I can't read minds, so you'll have to elaborate on your discovery," you said, walking back to your desk and sitting on the edge, crossing your arms. He looks at you strangely, so quickly you almost don't catch it, but then his face shifts into neutral before you can raise a brow.

"One of our intelligence analysts found email correspondence between Sarek and someone going by the initials K.H. It was...intimate. They are lovers, or at least they were, from what I could gather," he explains, stroking his beard.

"Did he frequent places like Kina's?" you ask. He shakes his head and you frown. Another dead end is materializing in front of you, as much as you hate to admit it. But all of the sudden, your partner snaps his fingers and grins.

"He didn't frequent the Coven, but if I recall correctly…" he fumbles through a stack of manila folders on the corner of his desk and triumphantly holds up a piece of paper. "Some of his friends operate in that area-"

"And Sarek doesn't want to be seen around them out of fear of being connected with their operations." you finish, nodding to yourself. Obi smirks, reading over the file again. "Little does he know, we've managed to dig up how Sarek is connected to each of them. Not the most rock-solid evidence, but enough to arouse suspicion," he remarks.

"So...are you thinking what I'm thinking?" you smile as your knee bounces in anticipation.

"If you're thinking of paying a visit to Kina's, then yes, I suppose I am," Obi sasses. The both of you share a look before darting up and racing out of the office to get ready.

——

There’s no way I’m getting into a strip club in a pantsuit, you think, staring at the questionable outfits in lockup. After what feels like months of searching, you find an incredibly revealing cocktail dress (much to your chagrin) and pumps. As you look at your new outfit, you sigh. Obi Wan didn’t even have to change out of his suit, and he’s probably waiting for you outside now. Blush blooms bright on your cheeks as you think of how on earth you’re going to keep it together, attempting to look sexy next to one of the most attractive people you know while also trying not to pin him to a wall and aggressively make out with him. Maintaining an air of professionalism is difficult when you’re simultaneously processing newfound, violently intense feelings for your longtime friend. After strapping a holster for your pistol to your thigh, you nod at your reflection in the mirror. Your shaky legs make their way out of the bathroom and head towards the garage. After a nervous deep breath and applying a coat of lipstick, you step out into the lot.

It doesn’t take you long to find Obi Wan leaning up against a jet black Maserati and your heart slams against your chest. He hears the echo of your heels and glances up. Upon seeing you, his whole stance shifts. He straightens his posture and squares his shoulder, straightening his tie and loosening his collar. A soft smile adorns your lips and you relax seeing his boyish panic.

“Ready to go? Have everything you need?” You notice that he combed his hair back into place. Obi clears his throat awkwardly, not something he does often. You’re so used to seeing him cool and collected under pressure and shake your head, nudging his shoulder playfully. “You sure I can bring you to a strip club? I don’t know if you can handle the literal strippers if you can’t handle your friend in a dress,” you tease.

“That’s not— I— hmph,” He mutters, unable to come up with a coherent comeback. Instead, he opens the passenger door for you and avoids eye contact. Was that a tinge of red on his cheeks? You don’t have time to look closer because he ushers you into the car, almost rudely.

——

The electronica pulses in the floor and up through your body as you stalk the bar, searching for anyone that matches the pictures Obi Wan gave to you in the car on the ride there. The two of you had split up, him waltzing down to the dance floor leaving you to shiver at some of the looks these men were giving you at the bar. You risk a glance at the dance floor and immediately regret it.

Two women and one man are practically draped over his shoulders and licking their lips, and you feel a needle prick your heart. You watch his mouth move for a moment. He’s undoubtedly utilizing his honey-sweet charm to trap one of those “friends” into spilling valuable information. Jealousy is racing through your veins like the venom of a snake. Quickly, you focus on the task at hand before he can catch you staring. It’s a good thing that you do: you spot one of the men you’re looking for. His name is Orwen, and he’s one ugly son of a bitch, with pale skin and a scar running horizontally across the top of his bald head.

When you slide gracefully onto the seat beside him, you make sure to accidentally hike your dress up to show the little bit of thigh that wasn’t already exposed in an effort to grab his attention. It works. He worms a thick arm around your waist and you try to swallow the bile rising in your throat. Instead, you focus on the cold metal of the handgun on the thigh farthest from him.

“Aren’t you a tall glass of whiskey,” Orwen slurs as he yanks you towards him by your waist. With all of the effort you can muster, you force a snake-like smirk onto your face and lean into him enough to smell the cheap beer on his breath.

“And I suppose a handsome fellow such as yourself is looking for a drink.” He gives you a wolfish grin and hops off the stool, roughly snatching your arm. He begins to drag you towards a side room. You venture a guess that it’s used for more…private activities.

——

Little do you know that your partner spots you from the dance floor. As soon as he sees Orwen tug you away from the bar, his easygoing charm evaporates. Anger bubbles in his stomach and he follows a stealthy distance away from the pair of you. He saunters to the room you’re shoved into. A “do not disturb” light is on, but he knows that there are no locks on the doors to these rooms for safety reasons. He is steady as he reaches into his suit jacket to place a hand on the holster holding his pistol, but not pulling it into view so as not to cause a scene.

When he opens the door, it seems he’s arrived late to the party. Orwen is lying on a neon pink bed with his head against the wall, hands behind his head. You, on the other hand, are at the end of the bed, pistol aimed straight at the raging boner in Orwen’s skinny jeans.

“Am I interrupting anything?” Obi asks, walking to your side. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye and shake your head, grinning.

“No, actually, you’re right on time. Help me with this?”

“As you wish,” he mock bows, and moves to restrain Orwen. But before he can, a shriek echoes through the crowd.

You and Obi glance at each other before you run out to check on the situation. One of the women sucking up to your partner has taken one of the workers hostage. The girl sobs as a knife is pressed just enough into her throat to draw a line of blood. You whirl around to glance at Obi Wan.

“So the redhead gave you nothing? ‘Cause now she’s got a hostage and a knife,” you snap. Obi Wan swiftly handcuffs Orwen to the bedpost and scans the situation out on the dance floor. He cringes.

“Anyone tries to stop her and it’s game over for her hostage. We need to negotiate with her and find out what she’s after without setting her off,” he reasons. You huff and he raises a brow.

“Maybe if you weren’t busy flirting with her we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.” You immediately regret your words as soon as they leave your mouth. You’re tired and cranky and you didn’t mean them but seeing your crush sweet-talking her earlier certainly wasn’t aiding your struggle.

“I was only fraternizing with the woman to see if she had any information, you know that,” he says calmly, though you can see him tense.

“Oh, really? I don’t see why you wouldn’t full-on flirt with her, she’s certainly a catch,” you snark, rapidly descending into a defensive position in this stupid argument that you’re really starting to wish never happened. But fire is in his eyes when he turns to you and stops the turning of the world with a soft reply.

“Because she isn’t you.”

[luxlightly]

Ok I was originally not going to post this because it's A Lot of headcanon for an improv video game comedy series and just send it to one person but they never responded and I'm attention starved. So here's my huge, Bubby centric, monster of a headcanon that ties the whole series together. Mostly under a cut because it's A Lot. (written in one sitting on my phone so excuse the multiple changes in tense and typos)

So the big sort of thing is that Bubby caused the resonance cascade. He sabotaged the computers. He just meant for it to be a distraction to escape black mesa but Benry's involvement and the chaotic element of the Player Character interacting with him caused everything to go to hell fast. Also Benry and Bubby are sort of brothers.

Going backwards to explain:

So some of this really stretches the canon because it's mixing a "it's a real world" au and "it's still a video game" au kind of ideas. 

Basically the world of the video game exists sort of as a parallel dimension within the game's code. The G-man exists kind of outside of the rules, able to control more or less the code or console. He's kind of the Mastermind behind black Mesa as a whole who exists outside the game's code to a sort of in between layer (in those time stop moments) where he can only be seen by those who are also in some way connected to the Real World through either direct connection to the Player or sufficient connection to the console code. His reach is in ways limited because of this and he cannot easily interact with the game world characters. He uses Black Mesa as a way to use the science of their word to try to create new things from the code or otherwise more precisely control it.

Which is where Bubby comes in. Basically, black Mesa took the basic code for the security officer Barney and tried to create new copies with connections to the code they could use. However it was pretty much a complete failure. Only two of the attempts even survived to maturity with any kind of personally intact, but they weren't right. Trying to connect them with the code like that broke them in certain ways. On creation, the scientists asked them their names to try to get them to access their own files to find the name, but neither could, it came out garbled. So instead they went by the names they more or less gave themselves. 

Bubby is able to connect to the console commands specifically to set objects and characters on fire(among some others in small amounts that are far less well controlled), but he can't understand that's what it is. It's just psychokinesis to him. And he's not good at controlling it, especially when he was younger. He's also scrawny, has several phobias, and is overall much more suited to academic pursuits than being any kind of soldier for them. It also causes him to glitch at times('here i come, Gordon! Here I come, Gordon! Here I come, Gordon!). His code is more or less like a badly implemented mod that tried to unlock god admin mode but failed and now doesn't quite fit back in with the original code right.

They kept him as a scientist at black Mesa mostly to keep him under surveillance. He knows this. He doesn't know anything about the code or anything, but he knows he was made there etc etc. He spent most of his time just keeping the other scientists afraid of him and his spontaneous combustion and studying as much as he could. He'd never been outside. He wasn't allowed to leave. He'd never really cared to. 

Until (and this was largely inspired by the '30 something Coomer and Bubby when Coomer first joined black Mesa by @inkwellstars) a new scientist was hired. Bubby largely ignored him except for trying to scare him away from any annoying attempts and friendship with some showy (if poorly controlled) pyrotechnics. But Coomer was just fascinated and made a terrible pun about his new coworker being 'a real hothead'. Which infuriated Bubby into taking an interest in him. Coomer remained the only person who was unfazed enough by the fire and the shark teeth to not just still hang around, but even tease him, no matter how hard Bubby tried to intimidate him out of it. Eventually, Bubby realized it was the last thing he actually wanted. That this man was the first person who he'd ever had treat him… Like a human being. And for the first time, he considers a world outside black Mesa. And it's somewhere he wants to go. He wants to follow this man when he walks out the sliding lab doors back to a world he'd never been a part of. 

Not that he's pining or anything!! Coomer was a married man, after all!(no way no sir not that). 

 Bubby has a lot of unmanaged anger because he just catches on fire if he gets too frustrated. After a discussion of Coomer's past boxing ambitions, they set up the underground boxing league mostly just as the two of them, letting Bubby actually let off some steam in a metaphorical instead of literal way. He gets his ass handed to him every time but it's nice to not be treated like either the boss' fragile, expensive toy or a living Molotov cocktail. Bubby learns a bit of fighting along the way,to boot. He gets much better at controlling his fire. Coomer picks him up in a "lift off the ground and spin around" bear hug when he manages to set something aflame without setting any part of himself alight first. Bubby somehow feels that was more important to him than the accomplishment itself. Eventually word gets out about the quite literal underground rings they've started up and it becomes a whole league and Bubby takes a more spectator role, contented to play coach to Coomer.

However, Coomer's impressive strength and fortitude aren't only noticed by an admiring(and sightly love struck) Bubby. Black Mesa decides to try, instead of using code to try to create a new entities with connection to the code, to use an existing character, enhance them, and then create copies of them. Coomer became that existing character.

At first it seemed to work perfectly. They had a character able to alter the world at their will(sending Gordon back and forth through time/creating portals), access a super human, nearly godlike state of power(super player feature) and alter the code in a multitude of other ways. They implemented a system of authorization to stop him from accessing these powers without permission from a handler. These PlayCoins could only be gained and used by someone directly connected to the console code or real world. Someone connected to that liminal space between code and reality the g-man exists in. However, trying to create duplicates didn't create a new, equally powerful entity, it just split the power of the original. From there, Coomer's spirit was still too powerful to be completely controlled, so they split him into dozens of clones, dividing up that power until he was within a range they could control. The effect on his psyche was devastating, however. It trapped him into the code of 'tutorial npc' but his response triggers got completely broken so he responds to the wrong things. Before the scripted events of the game in which those triggers are, it didn't affect his day to day behavior, but it did leave him with an inescapable partial awareness of the game itself. As split as he is, he can't understand or remember anything about what it means, it's just a constant disconnect between him and the game's reality. It causes his marriage to fall apart. 

Bubby doesn't know about what happened to Coomer. A lot of his own memories are controlled and tampered with as well. But he feels as though his getting close to Coomer caused his suffering and they end up drifting apart for a long time and Bubby's longing to see the world outside his laboratory home fades alongside their once strong bond.

Until. The other failed test tube character made from the mangled and stripped code of the security officer Barney who was torn out of the code to be twisted to the g man's whims comes to Bubby with an idea. The man who is not a man. Who has no parents and named himself : Benry.

Benry seemed like he should have been perfect. He kept the most physical resemblance to the original Barney, he seemed physically stable. As far as anyone could tell, he was completely connected to the console code. He should be able to control whatever he wanted, but besides the sweet voice and an unnatural fortitude, he seemed to have no remarkable qualities. Also he was all but totally incoherent. Memory, temporal and spacial awareness,and speech function were severely impaired. He often forgot where and when he was('... What happened to your arm?'), got his own memories confused with the memories of the now non-existent Barney ('you and me we used to be friends do you remember i don't know what happened'). Along with an erratic and unpredictable personality. He was considered another of countless failures and given a menial security job, like with Bubby, mostly just to keep an eye on him. Benry and Bubby, despite being practically siblings, aren't close, but do trust each other insomuch as they know the other probably won't outright kill them. 

But Benry was not as unremarkable as he seemed.

And the introduction of a new element would throw everything into chaos: The Player. And, by extension, The Game.

The Player, in this instance, refers to the assumed person who is playing the game in which the characters exist. They are a discrete, unseen, and unmentioned character, who is neither Wayne nor Gordon Freeman. Wayne is the actor playing both Gordon and, in ways The Player, in the same way that Holly is playing the character of Coomer. Gordon is the AI character who exists within the game world. He believes he is in control of his actions and that what he experiences is real. He exists on the same layer of fiction as the other AI such as the character of Coomer.  The Player is whomever, within the fiction of the series, is physically playing The Game.

The Game is the actual scripted, programmed events that were programmed in the "real world" (the Player's real world in which they live and are playing the Game). It represents the events that happen from the time the Player begins the game and when they complete it. The Game represents the overlap between the reality in which the AI exist and The Player's world. Presumably a copy of the original game Half Life. 

As the events of The Game draw nearer, it makes every charterer with a connection to the code antsy. Bubby starts thinking, for the first time in years, about the world outside black Mesa's walls. Thought becomes longing. Longing becomes desperation. A need to escape from here by any means necessary.

Benry approaches him with an idea. They'll sabotage the big test that Dr.Freeman is running. The whole thing will likely explode, causing enough destruction and distraction for them to slip away in the chaos (with Coomer in tow if Bubby could help it). Freeman would almost certainly die but that was a necessary casualty for their freedom. Bubby never liked him anyway. There was just something...off about him. Like a weird double vision he couldn't shake around the man. Like something was both there that shouldn't be and missing that should be. Bubby avoided him. He didn't think he'd ever had a single conversation with him. He agrees.

Benry stops Gordon at the entrance and tries to stall him as long as possible with bogus requests to give Bubby as much time to sabotage the test as possible (which he does by crawling inside the computers, claiming he's fixing a problem). 

However,Gordon is not connected to the console code, but directly to the real world through being controlled by The Player. As the Player triggers the scripted events of The Game, the holes and mangled code the g man and black Mesa have been tampering with start going haywire. Especially as Benry interacts with him directly. His latent connection to the console code starts activating, giving him ability to control himself and the game more and more, but his memory issues and temporal confusion makes him unable to determine what is and isn't real so his code powers start just making it real, beginning to actively break the Game from within. The bogus excuse about a passport (he forgot the word for ID and had to roll with the lie) became a reality and a powerful one. He starts teleporting and clipping through the walls.

Bubby starts the test, unaware of the change. He played along with the passport thing to not blow Benry's story. But by the time he reaches the chamber, it's already a real thing everyone else there had and should have. 

When the cascade starts, though, Bubby is caught off guard. It was just supposed to explode. It wasn't supposed to bridge dimensions and cause this rift. He assumes Gordon did something to cause it to fail so catastrophically. He phases through the window of the observation room (something he didn't even know he could do and likely didn't even realize he was doing and forgot afterwards since he was immediately knocked out) but it's too late to stop it.

Then the events of the Game are in full swing and all the broken code of every character crumbles and results in the "look Gordon! Ropes!" Glitched tutorial Coomer, a Bubby whose setting himself on fire on accident for the first time in years, and a Benry who transcends beyond the confines of his code into an extradimemsional Chimera of sorts who can pass in and out of the liminal G space, become and summon skeleton minions who also can be or not be in that space, able to be seen by anyone or just by someone able to perceive that plane of existence, such as Gordon.

As Coomer destroys his clones, he gets pieces of his power and fragments of memory back. Enough to know that they are clones and that killing them returns his powers to him. Bubby and he quickly rekindle their bond, with the memory tapering being undone.

Bubby is still desperate to leave, trying to get Gordon to go faster by guilting him and saying he wants to go home (though black Mesa is his actual home). However everything just seems to get more and more drawn out and they can never really make progress.

Benry convinces Bubby that Gordon is the reason that they can't leave. Bubby can sense that something is different about Gordon so he believes it. Benry may or may not believe it himself. He may have realized that leading the Player to the end would only end the Game and tried to subvert that path. Or the programmed event of Gordon's ambush might have just pushed them both to it. Impossible to say. 

In any case, Bubby is quickly also detained and put back in his tube.

With enough clones killed, and having accidentally jumped out of the play box and seen that there's nothing physically beyond black Mesa, Coomer becomes aware of and connected to the console code and aware of the "real world". He tries to use Gordon's connection to the Player to get to the real world, though at this point he can only understand it as the world of Gordon's "dreams". When Tommy kills all of the clones, then knocks out Coomer, it causes a full reset and Coomer becomes his full,unshattered self again. He still is limited by his need for authorization through PlayCoins, but he's much more coherent and quickly becomes completely aware of his situation within the Game and starts talking directly to the Player through Gordon at times. 

The rest is history. 

As for some other non directly related things: Tommy is g man's attempt at a more biological connection between the code and the game universe. Tommy is his son and has all the abilities of a g-man but is largely unable to use them and unaware of them due to his young age (comparatively to the immortal g man, 36 is still a child) and his innocence. He is also completely integrated with the game universe with no glitches from the union. Tommy is not aware he's the Gman's son. He thinks it's just some guy who bought him Vin Diesel and the minions. Tommy tends to use his powers entirely accidentally when he does, with the exception of creating Sunkist. In doing so he also surpassed his father's ultimate limit: creating a completely new element to the game without having to gut other code. He created the perfect dog out of completely new content he willed into existence. Unfortunately for G-Man, Tommy is far too pure and goodhearted to be used to any nefarious ends. 

[silverfootstepswrites]

Middle Ground [1]

Stage 1: Forest Level

“Doctor, a message from her Imperial Majesty. The Emperor has a headache and refuses to meet with the nobles. They’ve livid,” the maid reported, holding her tray tight against her chest. She leaned in through the doorway, polished shoes shifting as she waited for a response.

Sakura glanced up from her notes. She let out a sigh, lifting her glasses on top of her head. Her assistant gave a sympathetic sort of grimace to the maid before he finished tying the curtains back.

Sakura rubbed the inner corners of her eyes as she thought. She turned her head to say, “Some pennyroyal tea, then. Do we have any of the dried leaves left?”

Her assistant crossed the room to open up one of the glass cabinet doors. He plucked a jar from the shelf to peer into it.

“Just enough.”

“Excellent. Let’s get some water boiling.”

Several minutes later, Sakura sent her assistant out with a pot of the still-steaming tea. The maid held the door open for him.

“Don’t spill any!” she called after the boy. She watched him run down the hall until he turned the corner. And then she shut the door. With a moment of peace, she could finally read the mail that had arrived earlier that morning.

Ever since she had taken on the role as the imperial physician, the letters had started pouring in. Nobles asking for favors. The frantic doctors of those nobles asking for advice. The amount of diplomacy involved in her job had surprised her. But she didn’t dislike it.

Another knock on the door interrupted her. The pen rolled free from her fingers as she got out of her seat. She dusted off the front of her dress before she answered, a neutral smile on her lips.

“Hello.” The greeting slipped out of her mouth more out of habit than anything.

A shifter stared back at her, big sapphire eyes gleaming. He wasn’t a stranger- not that that made his intrusion any less unwelcome. She remembered his name. As simple as the inside of his head: Naruto. He smiled, pointed teeth showing.

A surly-looking man peered over the shifter’s shoulder at her, his black hair wavering like a candle flame. He raised a hand in greeting.

Sakura slammed the door in both their faces.

“Whew, for a second, I thought I wasn’t going to have a good, normal day,” she remarked to no one. And then she felt a breeze on her back. Which would have been nice had she not remembered locking the windows earlier that morning. She turned around, eyes already rolling.

Kakashi sat on the windowsill. As he raised his hand, a lockpick dangled between his fingers. The metal tools jangled together when he wiggle his hand in a silly wave.

Hands on her hips, Sakura glowered at him. He smiled.

Shaking her head, Sakura opened the door to let the other two in. The shifter strolled in first, sniffing at the smell of herbs that always lingered in her office.

“Woah! Look at you, Miss Fancy!” he exclaimed. He went for a hug, which she dodged.

The man who followed him into the room at least had the decency to shut the door. He turned to Sakura and held out his hand. Palm glowing slightly. Like the rest of him.

“Hey,” was all he said. But at least it was a real greeting.

“Hi, Sasuke,” she sighed, She shook his hand. Then she glared harder, arms folding across her chest.

“What’re you doing here?” Sakura asked. Mostly to Sasuke, but also to the others.

“Can you come adventuring with us?” Sasuke requested without hesitation. She heard Kakashi sigh from the window, “Kid, we talked about easing her into it.”

“Sorry,” replied Sasuke without sounding sorry at all.

And Sakura had trouble processing the question because noises started up behind her. The irritating, fumbling kind. Papers rustling, the books on her shelf thumping together. And then her desk chair scraping across the floor.

“Naruto!” she barked, still staring at Sasuke. The rattling stopped.

“Quit digging through my drawers. How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t just go around breaking people’s pots and digging through their crap!” she scolded.

Naruto’s pointed ears drooped as he set the ceramic jar back down on her desk.

“But there could be gold in them. You never know, Sakura,” he sulked.

She threw them out of her office. She was 90% certain that the door hit Naruto on his way out. When she heard metallic clicking, she leaned against the door to call, “And if you try to break back in, Kakashi, I’ll summon an insect plague directly into your mouth.”

The clicking stopped.

-----

A few months passed. The short summer season came and went in the blink of an eye. The empress gave birth to a healthy baby boy, which was cause for celebration. The empress had lost a great deal of blood throughout the ordeal, but Sakura had managed to stabilize her. That had won even more of the emperor’s favor. Gold, praises, whatever she wanted.

But even with the high spirits inside the palace, Sakura began to hear unsettling rumors. Sickness in the villages in the south. An entire city that was abandoned overnight. Great swathes of crops rotting before the harvest.

Sakura understood that these weren’t the sorts of things she was paid to think about. That didn’t stop her from sending a letter home. She couldn’t help but worry. Maybe it would be better for her family to move north, which seemed safer at the moment.

Heavy thumping at the door interrupted her thoughts. Her assistant had been nodding off in the corner and jolted awake with a snort. She pushed him back onto the stool as she got out of her chair to pull the handle. She blinked a few times as she took in Naruto and Sasuke leaning against each other.

Naruto grinned. Blood coated his pointed teeth.

“Heya there, Sakura!” Naruto greeted her, waving his arm. Well, the arm that wasn’t a bloody stump. Sakura squinted hard at the mess of mangled bone and sinew. Wrinkled her nose at the smell. And she could see Sasuke clutching his opposite arm which looked similarly grisly. Only, slightly worse, because it was also smoldering.

Her teeth snapped together as she exclaimed, “Get in here!”

She seized both of them by the front of their tattered cloaks, yanking them into the room. Kakashi followed, carrying a dusty sack. And then, to her horror, more people began filing into her quarters. Most were complete strangers to her. One of them shoved a bunch of daisies into her hands, dirt still clinging to the scraggly roots. Another knocked into the doorframe as he tried to squeeze inside.

“What the- who the....” Sakura interrupted herself, sighing. She pressed her palm to her temple, exactly where throbbing had begun to manifest. She pointed out the door with her other hand.

“Anyone who isn’t currently gushing blood, get out,” she ordered.

There was a clunk as someone knocked into her desk. Her poor assistant dove to catch a vase of roses as it teetered off her desk. As her headache intensified, Sakura raised her free hand. Fire began to rise from the tips of her fingers.

“Out the door or I will roast all your asses,” she warned.

Kakashi ushered everyone outside, whistling over the protests. He tipped his tattered hat to Sakura before shutting the door behind him.

“You two. Sit,” Sakura then ordered, turning to Naruto and Sasuke. They sat on the dark blue couch by the door. The fire that sat in her hand shifted. Turning to a gentle green glow.

“Now talk. What the hell happened?” she asked. Her assistant brought the stool over from the corner so that she could sit in front of her two patients.

“Well, we were fighting a dragon...” Naruto began. Quite cheerful despite the fact that he was missing a hand. The glow encased his bleeding stump. He yelped when the nerves and bone began regrowing. Sasuke winced, but he was less whiny about the ordeal.

“A dragon? Are you insane?” Sakura exclaimed.

“That’s what I said,” muttered Sasuke.

“Those things are huge! Some of them breathe acid! Why would you try to fight one?” she went on. And Naruto tilted his head to one side.

“Oh.... seriously? I just heard it was guarding some crazy good loot,” Naruto confessed. And then he thumped himself on the chest. “Daddy needs some new armor!”

Sakura debated whether or not she could get away with throttling a patient.

“Well... was the treasure worth it?” she finally decided to ask.

“Dunno. We kind of got.... destroyed...and ran away… without loot,” answered Naruto. He laughed a little, nudging Sasuke with his shoulder. Like they were sharing some hysterical inside joke.

Sasuke stared directly at Sakura. He didn’t have to say a word. She recognized a cry for help when she saw one.

Sakura was less than gentle as she patched up their arms. She could have soothed the pain. She just chose not to. She stopped the bleeding and regrew the bones, which was an exhausting affair. Her assistant stepped in to help pile on the magical ointments and salves that would prevent infection and help speed up the body’s healing process.

“It’ll take a couple months for the muscle and skin to grow back,” Sakura warned.

“Holy shit. I was just hoping you’d stop me from bleeding to death,” remarked Naruto. He wiggled his skeletal fingers. He held still as Sakura bound it all up with bandages. Under the layers of linen, it was hard to tell the grisly truth about his regenerating hand.

Naruto gave himself a high-five as Sakura bandaged up Sasuke’s arm.

“Don’t do that,” Sakura ordered without looking at him.

“Why not?”

“You don’t have any nerves there yet. So you could damage it without even realizing,” she explained.

“Dumbass,” muttered Sasuke.

“Oh, like you knew,” snorted Naruto, rolling his eyes. But he did stop high-fiving himself. Instead, he turned to grin at Sakura.

“We were so sure that we were screwed. You’re the best.”

The sudden compliment only made her suspicious. Her eyes narrowed, but she let him talk.

“Anyway, that’s why we need you, Sakura. All the health potions in the world can’t replace ya,” Naruto declared.

“Hire someone out of a tavern. I’m busy,” Sakura rejected him again.

“But it HAS to be you, Sakura! It’s not the same without you!” whined Naruto, undeterred.

“....It is tough. We were way better off with you in the party,” Sasuke agreed. And she couldn’t imagine how much it took for the great Sasuke to admit to something like that. He never had anything positive to say about anyone. Not even himself.

“Speaking of which, who were all those people? How the hell do you have so many people in your party?” Sakura then demanded. Naruto raised his bandaged hand. Stopped. Raised his other hand to scratch the back of his head instead.

“Huh. Dunno. Just.... like... gathered them as we went, I guess,” mused Naruto. And then his eyes went wide. “Oh! By the way, you gotta meet Neji! He’s an elf! Figured you guys would want to talk about.... being elfy.... and stuff.”

Sakura rubbed her temples. “Naruto, we’ve been over this. I’m a half-elf. It’s not the same thing.”

“Oh.... yeah. Sorry. Forgot,” he replied, turning a little pink. Then he was talking again.

“But come on, Sakura. It’ll be like old times. We really, really need you. We gotta kill the demon king,” Naruto insisted.

Sakura’s left eye twitched.

“And we’re not as reckless as we used to be, I promise.”

Next to Naruto, Sasuke silently shook his head. Naruto saw that. He paused to think. And then he shrugged.

“Okay, yeah, we almost died, like, a bunch of times. And then there was that time we fell into a poison swamp. That really sucked,” Naruto went on.

Sasuke’s eyes met hers. He gave her the world’s flattest stare. “Please,” he whispered.

Sakura pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Guys.” She sighed. “It’s not that simple. I work for the emperor now. I can’t just up and leave.”

“Cool. I’ll talk to him,” Naruto chirruped.

Before Sakura could stop him, he was out the door, running in the direction of the throne room.

Half an hour later, Naruto was back, a fancy parchment in his hand. It bore the royal seal, along with a looping signature at the bottom.

“Says here that the Imperial Physician, Sakura Haruno- Is that your surname? Seriously? Anyway- you’re hereby temporarily relieved of her duties to aid the noble hero (that’s me) in his quest to vanquish the demon king,” Naruto read before he handed her the paper for inspection. For a moment, Sakura considered throwing it into the fireplace. But even she wasn’t bold enough to burn an imperial document.

Instead, she glared at Naruto. “Have I ever told you that I hate your charisma modifier?”

Naruto gave his chest another proud thump. “Gramps used to say I could charm the skin off a bear.”

Sakura grimaced. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Naruto nodded, rubbing his chin. “Yeah, he kind of lost his mind in his later years. Said lots of weird stuff before he died.”

She threw the parchment at his face.

Sakura met them at the city gates at dawn the following day. They weren’t difficult to find. Especially given how loud Naruto’s voice was as he laughed.

She had spent almost two years traveling with Naruto, Sasuke, and Kakashi. They had journeyed through a good portion of the southern jungles and the riverlands. They hadn’t made a huge fortune, but the gold they’d acquired had been enough to support her as she studied for the imperial physician’s exam.

It had been three years since they had parted ways. Sakura had fallen out of touch quite purposely. She had a suspicion that Kakashi was the one who had tracked her down. He was like a bloodhound.

“Where’s everyone else?” she inquired as she dropped her rucksack at her feet.

“They went ahead. We’ll meet up with them tomorrow,”

Naruto was a shifter. He claimed that his inner beast was a fox, which she would have doubted had she not witnessed him bite out the throat of an enemy on numerous occasions. Sometimes he seemed more like a person. Other times he seemed more like a beast. Most of the time, he was just reckless. He gave her a silly little waggle of his hand, which just made her head hurt more.

Beside him was Sasuke. He was an genasi, which he had once explained during a rare sociable moment, meant that he was descended from a human and a genie. Which side was which, according to Sasuke, he couldn’t say. She had spent the better part of a year avoiding his glare before she realized that he was just as quiet and ill-tempered with everyone else. But he wasn’t all bad. After all, he hadn’t burnt Naruto to a crisp after all these years. Sakura wasn’t sure that she would’ve exercised such restraint in his shoes.

Last was Kakashi, the human rogue. She knew the least about him. And she was sort of satisfied to keep things that way. She got the feeling that he had told her more lies about himself than truths.

Naruto pointed at the only stranger in their group. It was the massive, grey-ish blue man who had nearly shattered the vase in her office. He stood a head above everyone else. And his huge muscles only added to his ridiculous size. According to Naruto, he was a fighter they’d found passed out on the side of the road.

Sakura stared at Naruto while he babbled on. It took him a while, but he finally noticed and raised his eyebrows at her. “What’s wrong?” He leaned in to whisper. “Have you never seen a tiefling before? He’s not a demon. Don’t be a racist, Sakura.”

Gritting her teeth, Sakura shoved him away with her shoulder.

“Naruto, you don’t even know who this is and you’re just... traveling together?” she demanded.

“He’s cool! I swear!” Naruto insisted. Like she was being the weird one.

The tiefling man grinned, revealing individually pointed teeth. Sakura pursed her lips.

“Sasuke!” Sakura sighed, already turning toward him.

“I said no, but he wouldn’t listen,” Sasuke defended himself. He had obviously had this argument with Naruto many times before.

“Naruto, you-” Sakura stopped. Took a deep breath to calm herself before she tried again. “You can’t just pick people off the side of the road and say ‘let’s go’. That’s not how it works.”

“Why not? That’s how we met you,” replied Naruto, eyes wide. 

Kakashi stifled a snort from somewhere behind her. Sakura whipped around to glare at him. Kakashi’s nose was buried in a book like he couldn’t even hear her. Hissing through her teeth, Sakura returned her disapproving stare to Naruto.

Naruto jabbed his thumb into his chest. “I’m a great judge of character, Sakura. Trust me,” was all he said.

Sakura turned her pleading gaze to Sasuke one last time. 

“Don’t try to reason with him,” he advised.

Rubbing her temples, Sakura gestured for Naruto to proceed with the introductions.

“Anyway, this is Kisame. He helped us punch a bunch of giant rats after we picked him up, so we asked him to join up.”

Kisame put his fist on his hip, obviously as an excuse to flex his bicep at her. 

“Of course you did,” muttered Sakura. She felt exhausted even though they hadn’t taken a step outside the city yet. Her eyes found Kakashi, who raised his eyebrows at her.

“If we die, I’ll kill you,” she warned. She pointed an accusatory finger at him.

Kakashi’s eyes crinkled in the corners. She knew he was laughing. “You haven’t changed, Sakura.”

-----

The winding forest path was cold. Sakura wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, following several steps behind Naruto, who was absorbed in conversation with Kisame. From the snippets that drifted back to them, they seemed to be discussing how Kisame swung his sword. She must have been right because after several paces, they both began miming cutting motions. Striking from above. From the side.

“You can’t just use your arms. They’ll pop out of the sockets. You have to put your back into it,” Kisame told him as Naruto copied his movements. 

Kakashi hung back, which left Sakura and Sasuke to walk beside each other in the middle of their group.

They were quiet for a bit. Which she knew didn’t really bother Sasuke, since he didn’t really like to make small ta-

“You’ve been busy, Imperial Physician,” he commented.

Startled, Sakura turned to look at him. Sasuke stared straight ahead. His pale profile sharp against the foliage. 

“Uh.... yeah. I guess,” she fumbled to say. 

“I told you you’d pass,” he added.

That took Sakura a moment. And then she remembered one of those nights camped out in the woods. Naruto had been sitting on a stump wiping goblin blood off his greataxe while Kakashi sat high up in a tree to keep watch. She couldn’t exactly remember why they had started talking about it, but she did remember what she had told Sasuke:

What if I fail the exam? Everyone in my village worked so hard to get me here.

It took Sakura another beat to realize that Sasuke was teasing her. She smiled. 

“Yeah. You did,” Sakura agreed. She didn’t know what else to say. After another minute of crunching through the foliage, Sasuke spoke again.

“You like your job?” he asked.

Sakura thought, head tilting up to stare at the trees. At the spotty sunlight that poked in between the leaves.  

“Yeah. I like it,” she answered. 

“Hey! There’s a cave or something up here!” Naruto called from ahead, waving his arm at them. Sasuke clucked his tongue as Naruto then proceeded to charge into the dark hole in the stone. A series of garbled, sharp cries rang out, while alerted them to the presence of at least several goblins.

“That moron,” grumbled Sakura under her breath as they took off in a run after him. 

They camped along the side of a cliff that night. Out of habit, Sakura pitched her tent between Naruto and Sasuke’s. They dug holes in the ground with branches they’d snapped off a tree. And though it had been a while, Sakura found herself shaking her head and occasionally laughing at Naruto’s jokes.

Naruto volunteered to go gather firewood. He grabbed Sasuke by the cloak and dragged him along too, ignoring Sasuke’s glares and protests. 

Sakura opened up her rucksack to check on her supplies. She pulled out a bundle of soft leather. When she undid the cord securing it, she could unfold it to reveal an herb pouch filled with sprigs and flowers. She plucked a few of the green leaves and rubbed them together in her hands to release the oils. The smell of peppermint filled the air as she began patting her neck, arms, and legs. 

“Keeps mosquitoes away,” she then explained when she felt Kakashi staring at her. 

Kisame tilted his head as he watched her settle by the campfire. Her cloak draped over her shoulders. Their eyes met through the flames. 

Sakura didn’t exactly trust him. But she didn’t see a point in being rude either. 

“Is something the matter?” she asked. 

As he stirred the stew bubbling away over the fire, Kakashi glanced at her too. 

Kisame rested his elbow on his knee. “I’m trying to understand something. I’m wondering if you’re the type of person to give me a straight answer,” he said. 

“Well, since I’m not Kakashi, sure,” she responded. 

“Hey, now,” Kakashi chuckled, probably smiling under the black mask that covered his mouth. 

“What do you get out of helping the hero? This one’s obviously in it for the money,” Kisame then stated, pointing a finger in Kakashi’s direction. The rogue didn’t even bother to deny what was obviously true. 

“The ranger’s in it for loyalty. But what about you?” Kisame went on. 

Sakura considered this, arms crossing under her cloak. She met Kisame’s black eyes through the flames. 

“Because stopping the demon king is the right thing to do. Obviously,” she replied. 

Kisame’s eyes narrowed. “Naruto’s probably going to get us killed,” he pointed out. Sakura tilted her way this and that. 

“Oh, yeah, probably,” she finally agreed. And Kisame’s forehead wrinkled as she laughed. 

They journeyed for three more days through the forests. Naruto’s tail flicked back and forth, swatting at the mosquitoes that nipped at his neck and his arms. Any that ventured too close to Sasuke erupted into flames, sizzling into ash. And Naruto whispered that Kakashi must not have any blood in his veins because the bugs didn’t even try to get close to him. Which made Sakura snicker as she handed Kisame a sprig of spearmint. 

“Here. The mosquitoes get pretty aggressive in this part of the forest,” Sakura warned him as she offered him the plant. As she walked off to rejoin Naruto and Sasuke, Kisame stared down at the pointed leaves. He sniffed. And then he crushed it between his palms as he rubbed his hands together. The fresh scent curled through the air. When he looked up, Sakura was looking at him. She mimed patting her hands on her neck and behind her ears. Then she rubbed her hands up and down her arms and legs. He copied her. She smiled in response before she turned back to Naruto to scold him about something.

They wound their way through the rest of the forest. Sasuke took down a pair of rabbits in the undergrowth with a few arrows. And Naruto snatched a few trout out of the river with easy swipes of his clawed hands. 

“And some fruit!” Naruto emerged from the brush with his good hand filled with lumpy green shapes. Sakura took one look at them and swatted them to the ground. 

“Hey! You’re the one always complaining about us not eating enough fruits and vegetables,” sulked Naruto, staring down at the forest floor. 

“Those are oleander fruit, Naruto. We’ll die if we eat those. You shouldn’t even be touching them,” Sakura scolded.

“Aw, really? I thought these would be okay,” he grumbled. 

“For a shifter, you’ve got shitty survival skills,” Sasuke remarked, chin in his hand as he watched from next to the fire. Naruto glared at him. 

“I don’t need survival skills,” Naruto snapped. And then he pointed a proud thumb at his chest. “I’ve got luck.”

“He said before he died of poisoning,” Sakura concluded with a sigh. She glanced down at the fruit for a moment. And then she kicked up some leaves and dirt to bury them. 

“Well,” said Sasuke, staring at the lump of dirt.

“Well,” repeated Naruto, also staring. 

They both looked up at Kakashi, who shrugged. “Well. Meat it is, I guess.”

The skin on Sakura’s hand prickled a little as the poison seeped in. She shook her hand a little, the pendant wrapped around her wrist glowing as it purified the toxins. She then reached out to touch Naruto’s wrist to do the same for him. 

When Sakura returned several minutes later, Kakashi had gutted and cleaned the animals. The skin sizzled and popped as it hung over the campfire. With a grunt, she settled on one of the stones near the fire. When she looked over at Sasuke, he was busy staring off into the distance. Waving her hand offered no reaction, so she bent over to pick an acorn off the ground. It hit him on the back of the head. Sasuke turned to her with a glare. She motioned for him with both hands. 

“Does it hurt?” she asked as he shuffled over a few places to sit next to her. Dumping his arm in her lap, he went back to looking away. 

“Sort of. It tingles. Sometimes it wakes me up,” Sasuke admitted. 

“Good. That means the nerves are growing,” Sakura replied as she gathered energy to her palm. It glowed gold before she placed it on his bandaged forearm. The light soaked into him, illuminating the shape of his skeleton beneath the linen. 

“Looks good. Next!” Sakura then called. Naruto appeared from nowhere. He shoved Sasuke out of the way, who went tumbling backwards into the undergrowth. Grinning way too hard, Naruto sat on the ground in front of Sakura, draping his arm over her lap. She took a moment to stare down at him. 

“You know, one of these days, he’s going to kill you for that,” she warned him. 

Naruto shrugged his other shoulder. “Maybe. Worth it.”

Sakura did the same for Naruto. She asked questions about the pain and scanned the inside of his healing arm. Despite the fact that she had treated their arms at the same time, Naruto’s arm was rebuilding itself a little more quickly. Many of the muscle fibers had started to regrow around the skeleton. The magic that allowed him to move his arm would slowly start to fade once his body was able to do it on his own. 

When Sakura gave a nod of approval, Naruto didn’t move. Sakura twitched her leg. He still didn’t budge. When she glanced down, she found Naruto’s face strangely glum. His eyes squeezed shut, corners of his mouth turning down. Sasuke, who had gotten to his feet, hands balled into fists, stood still. His hand uncurled as he took in Naruto’s slumped shoulders.

“Your legs are so soft, Sakura. This is comfy,” sighed Naruto. 

Sakura gave him a look of disgust. “Sasuke, just kill him now,” she requested. She jolted Naruto off her lap and dealt a solid kick to his back, sending him rolling across the forest floor. His laughter dissolved into a yelp as Sasuke aimed a small fireball in his direction. 

Huffing, Sakura moved to the other side of the fire to sit next to Kisame. He grunted at her in greeting. 

“Are you sure about these clowns?” he inquired. 

Rubbing her hands over her face, Sakura watched Sasuke grab the back of Naruto’s shirt. Naruto let out a high-pitched shriek in protest. Kakashi watched them from his spot on a tree branch, making absolutely no move to stop the two from squabbling. 

“Maybe they’ll annoy the demon king to death,” suggested Sakura. She and Kisame snickered a little.

The next city they arrived in was their rendezvous point. As the armed guards checked their travel documents, Sakura peered in through the iron portcullis.  She took a step back when one of the guards eyed her. After a minute, the guards returned their document.

“Open up!” one of the guards called. The chains clanked and gears groaned as the gate slowly lifted. 

“Welcome,” he then said, dipping his head to her. 

Sakura smiled. 

“You know him?” asked Naruto as they walked into the city. 

“Nope,” answered Sakura. 

As Sakura continued on ahead, Naruto whipped his head around to glare at the guard. He pointed at his eyes, and then at the guard, sharp canines glinting. The guard paled. As a proud smirk appeared on Naruto’s face, Sasuke grabbed the shifter by the back of the shirt and pulled him along. 

“If Sakura sees you doing that, she’ll kill you,” sighed Sasuke. 

“Doing what?” Sakura called over her shoulder. It was Naruto’s turn to blanch. His pleading eyes fell on Sasuke, who just sighed again. 

“He was scratching at his bandages,” Sasuke lied. 

‘Thank you,’ mouthed Naruto as Sasuke continued to drag him along the cobblestones. 

Kakashi lead them into a seedy pub along a dark, crooked street. Sakura made a face as she glimpsed the wooden sign above the door. It was of a sinister-looking boar with long tusks. She leveled Kakashi with a look. His eyebrows rose as he held the door open for her. 

“If this is a brothel-” Sakura hissed. 

“Yes, yes, you’ll kill me. It’s not,” responded Kakashi. 

Sakura strode past him, her fists held tight at her sides. At the first sign of a petticoat, she was prepared to punch Kakashi in the jaw.

This wasn’t the first dingy tavern she had ever been in. In fact, during the early days of adventuring together, they had never been able to afford the fancy inns on the main streets. She hadn’t missed the lecherous leers from greasy strangers eyeing her as she walked into the place. The gazes usually cooled somewhat when they spotted the holy symbol dangling from her wrist. 

Thankfully, while the place seemed old and a little grimy, it wasn’t as seedy as she had feared. In fact, a group of people sitting at a long table waved as Naruto scanned the room. He returned the gesture. And then he turned around to grab Sakura’s wrist. He pulled her along. 

“You finally get to meet the rest of the party! C’mon!” he exclaimed. 

The first person that Naruto introduced was a bard. Which Sakura knew before Naruto said so because he carried a dulcimer. He was a human with dark brown hair and an impressive beard.

“Asuma here is good at singing,” Naruto explained, pointing at the human man carrying a dulcimer.

“Yes. Bards are known for that,” she retorted. Sasuke smirked as he walked up to join her. 

“We found him fighting off a pack of sewer rats so we saved him. And then I told him to join us,” Naruto went on. 

“Where did you find sewer rats?” Sakura demanded.. 

“The sewers, of course!” was Naruto’s cheerful reply. 

“Why were you in the sewers?” wondered Sakura, disgusted by the mere idea of sloshing around in the filth under a city. 

Sasuke made a face, too. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he muttered. He wrinkled his nose. 

“It was shitty,” Kakashi added. 

Sasuke’s eyes turned murderous. “I will gut you, old man,” he whispered. 

Shaking her head, Sakura pushed Sasuke’s hand down, which had started to sizzle. She turned her attention back to Naruto and the others. 

“Well, Asuma, hi, I guess,” Sakura said. Asuma held his hand out. He had a firm grasp, but his gaze seemed kind as they shook. 

When Asuma sat back down, Naruto gestured toward the willowy man who sat beside him. His long, silky hair was tied back, revealing pointed ears. When their eyes met, Sakura could feel him appraising her.

“Hello,” he said first. 

Sakura hesitated for a moment. She tried to find the sarcasm in his gaze. But there was none. Slowly, she took his hand. 

“Hello,” she said in return. 

“So, this is Neji,” Naruto announced, grinning way too hard. His eyes darting back and forth between them. He practically vibrated with excitement. “I figured you guys could talk about elf stuff together.”

Sakura cringed. She had learned the hard way that full elves never considered a half-elf like her one of them. While many were polite enough not to say it out loud, the disgust was clear in their eyes. The mere of idea of being compared to an A’Tel’Quessir was an insult. Almost-people. Or “round ear” if they were more direct. 

To her surprise, Neji gave her hand a light squeeze. Corner of his mouth lifting a little. 

“I look forward to it,” he replied to Naruto, still looking right at her. 

As Naruto went on talking, Sakura pulled her hand from Neji’s grasp. She took a step back, bumping into Sasuke. He looked a little annoyed until she said “sorry”. And they were quiet as they watched Naruto interact with the elf. 

She almost didn’t say anything for fear of sounding narrow-minded. But after half a dozen times of her opening her mouth and then closing it again, Sasuke nudged her with his elbow. 

“Just say it,” he grumbled.

Sakura peeked at Sasuke. He was staring right back at her, hand resting on his hip. And then she stole a glance back at the rest of the group. They seemed engrossed in a lively conversation about some kind of monster they’d slain. Lips twisting to one side, Sakura motioned for him. Sasuke tilted his head down toward her, rolling his eyes. 

“I’ve never met such a friendly elf before. They’re usually more.... racist,” she uttered in the tiniest voice possible. 

“That’s not a secret or anything, you know,” retorted Sasuke in a normal voice. When Sakura flapped her hand at him, he snorted. 

“But you’ll see why,” he then said. 

Before Sakura could grill him, she heard her name. Naruto gestured for her, pointing to the last person sitting at the end of the table. It was a halfling woman who was just finishing up polishing a rapier. She had brown hair tied up in buns on either side of her head. In front of her sat a long piece of cloth. Resting on top of it were knives of every shape and size. 

Their eyes met.

“This is Tenten. She’s part of Asuma’s crew,” Naruto told her. 

Tenten slowly lowered her sword. They stared at each other. Saying nothing.

“Uh-oh. Guess there might be rivalry between the ladies. Sakura’s used to being the only girl, after all,” snickered Naruto. And then he yelped “ow” as Sasuke kicked the back of his knee.

Sakura strode across the floorboards, hands reaching out. The halfling woman grasped them. They were both smiling, despite the fact that they had never even met before.

“Thank Freya. A woman,” Sakura sighed with relief.

“Finally, someone who won’t stink like horse shit,” replied the halfling.

“I brought extra soap.”

“Bless you.”

[mcrmadness]

I was tagged by @froschimbrunnen for this Rammstein themed tag game, thanks! :D

Get to know me in 10 questions. Copy and paste the questions if you’re tagged, or if you feel like it.

Rules: There are no rules. Tag whoever you want. Don’t tag anyone. Tag yourself. You don’t have to answer all of the questions. Do what you please. Have fun.

created by: @vapor-stein

1. I’m curious: when did you discover Rammstein? I started listening to them in 2011 but I have known about them ever since Amerika became internationally popular and it was playing in the radio all the time in 2004. And because Finland is very much into metal music, Rammstein is very popular here too. And my dad has liked them a lot for a very long time so he often showed us their music videos even when I wasn’t into R+ yet.

2. Tell me your story. How did you discover them? Like I said, it was in 2011 when I got interested in them. I have never been into metal music and I always felt that Rammstein is way too metal for me too. But my siblings had got into Rammstein a bit before me and I remember doing German homework with my brother and we were listening to music, Rammstein this time. And the song Amerika was playing and I had known about this song for years and I didn’t find it bad, but also not that interesting. But I still started to feel like maybe I should still give it a try? And after the song comes their song Moskau. And that was it. That sounded actually good. And I asked my dad for the files and started to investigate their music myself and here I am now.

3. Favorite song? It’s difficult to say just one when all the albums are slightly different from each other and each album has its own best song. But I have to say that “Mein Land” is actually the first one to come in mind. I have liked it a lot ever since I heard it for the first time and it still is one of those songs that makes me feel as good as it did then. “Links 2-3-4″ is also a favorite, I really love the march rhytm in songs! And I like “Adios” a lot too, it has great drums and it’s a bit faster song too which is not that typical for them but it works really great. I also like “Zerstören” A LOT. And have to mention “Halleluja” and “Feuerräder”, those are great.

4. Least favorite song? Come on. I know you have one. I have more than one, Rammstein is one of those bands that have REALLY good songs but then also each album has several not-so-interesting songs. I guess everything just needs to be in balance :D But I mainly don’t really care about very slow songs so I often skip songs like “Feuer und Wasser” or “Rammstein”, I’ve also never really been into “Wiener Blut” nor “Stein um Stein” etc., you get the point.

5. Favorite album? Hmmm, this is a tough one. Mutter and Rosenrot have probably the biggest amount of songs that I don’t skip, and I also really like Sehnsucht, but then again I also really loved the 2019 album too, as it’s a very rare one because I don’t skip a single song. And I really like it how it sounds so Rammstein yet so different, and most of the songs have these little details that sound like they would be almost like easter eggs or tributes to their older albums, and that’s super interesting, because the songs still sound like completely new songs! So I think I’m gonna go with “Rammstein”.

6. Least favorite album? Probably not hard to count from here that it’s “Herzeleid” :D It also has some really good songs but most of the time is has a lot less melodies than the other albums and I really love music with lots of melody and layers. I think what appeals to me with this album the most is the rhythm and drums.

7. Something that speaks to you in the deepest sense of the word: a lyric? A specific song? I’m so bad with lyrics (with all bands) that I cannot say anything to this. I guess I have gone through all the songs with English translations when I was bored but I legit cannot remember the stories to more than maybe a couple of songs. I guess “Halleluja” is kinda interesing, and “Mein Land” is very simple what comes to lyrics and I kinda like it how the words go together with the sound so I guess I’m gonna say those. But I don’t have any song that would be somewhat special to me, those are the only ones I can remember now and not even that well.

8. Unpopular opinion: about a member? A scandal? Anything? Not really. I am partially a fan and I own t-shirts and all cds and dvds etc. but I’ve never been SO into them that I’d have spent hours on reading about them. I rarely watch any interviews and mostly I know stuff only if I’ve read it from Wikipedia or from their dvds. I don’t think I have even watched all of the documents ON the dvds, but I believe I have at least seen all the concert dvds :D So I don’t think I have any interesting (nor uninteresting) unpopular opinion.

9. Have you ever seen them live? Tell me what you felt. Lol yes, 4 times so far (all here in Finland). In 2013, 2016, 2017 and 2019 :D The first three were all festivals. And what I felt? Well, for starters: I always feel like dying because of the bass. They almost always (except for last year) start the concerts with the bass going up so slowly you barely notice it, then you just feel like everything is shaking and I start to panic has my heart gone crazy and then I realize it’s just the GROUND shaking. And the 2019 one was even worse and I literally felt like my head was gonna explode because they legit did all they could at making it as loud as possible, I was wearing earplugs but the bass was SO FUCKING LOUD that I’m surprised the stadium even stands anymore. The whole ground was shaking and I’m sure the sound waves kept crashing into the walls and all and making it all shake even more. So it feels very uncomfortable at first and I’d say you don’t really get used to it ever, especially not when being a highly sensitive person. That is actually the worst part for me and I wonder every time why did I go there again when it always makes me feel like I’m dying. Yet I always do that. I guess I’m just stupid.

Anyway, can’t really see a lot because I’m short and there’s so many people always (over 30 000 people at the stadium last year, that’s the same amount of people that live in my town alone o_o), but I still think it’s worth it. Especially last year it was pretty good spot after all because the light show was incredible and if you stand in the front, you definitely are not going to see all that! And the fire is always very interesting because I’m terrified of fire, but somehow in their show it’s fascinating. And fire is such a powerful element because no matter how far you’d be from it, you can still feel the warmth within seconds. The show itself is also incredible, and I cannot wait for them to release this show on dvd so that I’ll actually see the show happening on the stage too, not just the light and fire show :D

10. Do you play any instruments? If you do, can you play any song by them? No I don’t, I used to play piano as a kid but then I stopped for whatever reasons. So no, I can’t play any songs from them, tho if I ever had an electric piano, maybe I could try something. But I’m the most beginner as it gets since I was ~8 when I played and stopped playing the piano.

I think I’m gonna tag @cupcakecurl, if you want to do this one! :)

[marshmallow-phd]

Sins of the Father

Genre: Mafia Au

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

Summary: Soon after your second birthday, your parents were killed and you were adopted by your father’s best friend, taken away to their home country where you lived your life in peaceful ignorance. As far a as you knew, your parents simply left you large fortune to be released to you once you reached your twenty-third birthday. At least, that’s all you thought you were inheriting. When a famously ruthless mafia boss discovers your existence, you are left at his mercy. While under his roof, you learn more about your father than you ever wished you had, including the part of your inheritance that made you the most valuable person in the underworld. Hidden in a bank in New York City were files that held the darkest secrets of the mafia families and everyone in their pocket. With another terrifying leader’s eyes trained on you, you’ll learn to watch your back… and guard your heart, before your father’s past becomes your doom.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I 15 I 16 I Final

**

You were starting to realize that you had no real stubborn streak to speak of. No matter how much you wanted to just stay in that bedroom and stare at the ceiling or the wall, avoiding all contact with the inhabitants of this penthouse for the rest of the evening, you had to admit, you were getting bored. And thirsty.

Just as your resolve had broken, a knock came from your door.

“Who is it?” you called out.

“It’s Chanyeol. We have your stuff.”

Practically running to the door, you gladly yanked it open with excitement. Sure enough, there was the giant with several cardboard boxes beside him. Chen and Kai popped up behind him and the three of them started carrying the boxes inside your four walls. While it may seem a little trivial, having your things that belonged solely to you made you feel less isolated. This place would never be home, but at least you could be surrounded by familiarity.

“We grabbed most of your clothes,” Chanyeol grunted, putting the box in his hands down next to your bed, “but I think your sister took a few pieces, claiming them as hers.”

You shrugged. “It’s whatever.”

Chen dropped the two smaller boxes he was carrying into your closet and started opening them up to take out the clothes stored inside.

“You don’t have to do that,” you exclaimed, scrambling to try and stop him. Seeing as they all wore expensive suits, you didn’t want them judging your frugal style. You didn’t believe in spending a lot of money on clothes when you could enjoy what you wore for cheaper prices.

“In all honesty, I will unpack everything for you,” Chen volunteered. “The longer this takes, the longer we can stay away from Junmyeon.”

To not take too much advantage of his help, you started slipping shirts onto the empty hangers. “Is he that mad?”

“I’ve seen Junmyeon yell at underlings and shove things,” Chen admitted. “But this is new. He’s obviously pissed, but he’s forcing himself to hold it in. I think he took what you said to heart and doesn’t want to take it out on Baekhyun. Usually, Baekhyun is livelier, but he talked back to Junmyeon about bringing you here and then got forced to pick you up as a consequence. So, if it’s possible, don’t be mad at him, he was just doing his job.”

Your hands froze on the heavy sweater you were currently wrestling onto a white plastic hanger. Baekhyun had a puppy-like face that didn’t match the scowl he’d worn around you, making it easy to believe Chen about his usually more peppy personality. “I’m not mad at him. I just can’t figure out how I even got into all this.” Staring at the clothes that now occupied the once empty bars, you sat down on the floor. “I had plans, you know. I wanted to travel, see the world. Maybe find out where I came from. Discovering my father’s shady past and then being handed over to a mafia boss for a fake marriage wasn’t exactly on the outline I made.”

“You never know,” Chen offered sympathetically. “You could still do that someday.”

You laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, right. I’m stuck in this jail cell.”

“Junmyeon likes to travel.” Chanyeol popped into the closet, his hands in his pockets. “He likes the anonymity of it. I’m sure he’d take you along.”

For a moment, you contemplated Chanyeol’s suggestion. But then the thought of how you’d most likely have to share a hotel room with Junmyeon to keep the appearance as his “wife” and the image just grated on your nerves.

“If that’s my only choice, then I’ll just stay here,” you concluded. “That’s not real freedom.”

Chanyeol shook his head at your willfulness. Behind him, Kai rolled his eyes with sigh.

Xiumin, the eldest of the members, stepped into the walk-in and cleared his throat. “Boss wants to see us all.”

You got a few apologetic looks thrown your way as they all filed out of the closet. Left to finish off the unpacking on your own, you checked the items off the list you had made the previous night to make sure everything was present. One of the boys being kind enough to leave it on the bed before they slipped out.

There wasn’t much you had to call your own or that you really wanted to be brought over here. Most were just essentials so you could shower and not walk around naked. Only two picture frames, gently folded between your blanket and a few jackets, were important enough keepsakes to remind you of your old life.

One was the only evidence you had of your birth parents’ existence. The three of you were on a picnic blanket in a green park filled with trees and a blue sky painted the backdrop, smiling at the camera like an average family that knew nothing but happiness. Like there wasn’t a dark secret hidden behind the façade. The picture was obviously professionally done, with the lighting and colors adjusted just right to complete the look. In a fit of anger, you shoved the photo in the nightstand drawer, slamming it closed with more force than necessary.

The other picture was the one you preferred.

Taken on your third birthday, the first one you’d spent with your new family – your real family – it meant more to you than any expensive portrait. It wasn’t as nicely put together as the other, but that’s what made it special.

Minah was crying because she couldn’t have the first bite of the cake while Mingyu was absorbed in his video game. The pointed hat on your head off kilter and you had a spot of sauce on your shirt. But none of it mattered. Even now, you smiled down at the picture, your own goofy, toothy grin shining brightly. Taegun and Hyunmin were hovering over you, smiling at the camera as well. Little did Hyunmin know that just a second after the camera flashed, her nose would be covered in frosting and Taegun would be running away to the bathroom to hide.

Missing them terribly, you placed the frame on the nightstand where you could say good night to them before you went to sleep.

The last box was filled with little knick-knacks that you’d collected over the years: a jewelry box no bigger than your palm decorated with white roses, a beauty and the beast snow globe you’d bought when the family went to see the musical, among other odds and ends. They weren’t terrible important. You’d mostly put them on the list out of spite. After putting them in their places on the desk, you turned back to look for the more important items from your list.

However, there were only about four or five books thrown into the bottom of the box. Apparently underlining the word hadn’t been enough of a clue to whoever packed your things. Not only that, but your album was nowhere to be found either.

Seething, you snatched up the list and marched down the hall to Junmyeon’s office. Letting the anger drive your bravery, you pounded on his door with your fist.

“Come in.”

You stomped inside, pushing past the see of grown men to Junmyeon’s desk.

“What do you need, (y/n)?” Junmyeon asked with a very uninterested voice. He didn’t even bother to look up from the papers in his hand.

You slammed down the list on the desk, forcing him look up. “I wrote down the things I wanted brought here and most of them are here. But some were left behind and I don’t appreciate that.”

Sighing, Junmyeon set the papers down, staring up at you as he folded his hands in front of him. “And what was left behind?”

“When I asked for my books, I meant I wanted all of them, not just four.” You tried to keep your voice even and reasonable. Junmyeon was a leader and therefore used to negotiations. Being a hot head while he was still mad from this afternoon’s encounter was not the answer. “Also, the photo album isn’t here either. I even wrote down that’s under my bed so it’d be easy to find.”

Junmyeon glanced at the boys behind you. Following his gaze over your shoulder, you found Chanyeol looking guilty while Baekhyun just seemed annoyed.

“How many books do you have left?” Baekhyun’s voice had a layer of reluctance in it. If he was smart, he knew to just give in to keep the peace. You’d go along with most situations to make it easier for everyone, but this was not something you would compromise on.

“Enough to fill a whole bookshelf,” you replied.

Xiumin, who was standing behind Junmyeon, sneered. “We’re not delivery boys. You can live with–”

Junmyeon threw up a hand to stop him. “That is an awful amount of books for my men to carry up here.”

“Fine. They can leave the bottom two shelves there,” you compromised. The bottom was where you kept the books you didn’t read anymore as they were well below your interest and reading level. You’d kept them around simply for nostalgia’s sake. “But I also want the album.”

That seemed to satisfy him a little. “Agreed. In a few days, we’ll go back–”

“Actually, boss,” Chen chimed in. “I can go tonight. I’ve got all my work done for the…,” he flashed a concerned look at me before continuing, “for the thing you’re setting up. I’ve got the time.”

“I’ll go with him,” Chanyeol volunteered.

“Same here,” Kai added.

You gave each of them a small smile, appreciating their effort into making you more comfortable.

Junmyeon ran a hand through his hair. “Fine, just go.”

Feeling a small victory, you walked out of the office with your head held high. You stopped by the kitchen and reheated the food Kyungsoo had made for you earlier, your appetite at an all-time high since breakfast was your last real meal. Being in a slightly better mood, you were able to enjoy the food with more enthusiasm this time around. It was better than any restaurant.

“Barely here a day and you’ve already got most of them wrapped around your finger.”

Baekhyun sauntered into the kitchen, slinking down across from you at the island. You continued to eat, trying to put on the air that he didn’t intimidate you. It was a lie as you still remembered your introduction to him, but Chen had asked you not to go too harsh on him. Besides, you believed what you had told Junmyeon. You blamed the feared leader more than anyone.

“I think they’re just trying to make up for the fact that I’m here against my will,” you corrected. You chewed over a mouthful of rice before adding, “I’ll admit I wasn’t the nicest yesterday either, so I think we should just let yesterday slide and start over. Let bygones be bygones between the two of us.”

He narrowed his eyes as if he was studying your expression. There was a moment of silence.  Ignoring it, you just continued to eat, letting him answer when he decided to do so.

Letting out a long breath, he extended his hand out towards you. “I’m Baekhyun, pick-pocket and conman extraordinaire.”

The giggle couldn’t be helped at his introduction. Taking his hand, you grinned, “Nice to meet you, Baekhyun. I’m (y/n).” You pulled on his hand, causing him to lean forward over the counter. Trying – and most likely failing – to be menacing, you lowered your voice. “If any of my stuff goes missing, I’ll stab you.”

He chuckled, sitting back and letting go of your hand. “You’re not exactly frightening, but don’t worry. There’s no fun in taking from you. Not to mention Junmyeon’s already on my ass.” He slapped the table, getting up from the stool. “Well, I have to get going. Don’t eat too much.”

Baekhyun was practically skipping out of the kitchen as he left you alone.

**

Three weeks went by and you slowly became accustomed to the new surroundings. While you thought you would go crazy being locked up in the penthouse, you sanity was kept at bay by the revolving door of babysitters. They hardly left you alone, unless you kicked up too much of a fuss about your privacy.

To pass the time, each one taught you about their role in the group, save Xiumin who was never around. Apparently, he was Junmyeon’s second-in-command so he went with him to all the meetings and work related events that the others didn’t have to attend.

You already knew Yixing as the on-call doctor, but that was about all you had really learned about him. He’d only helped watch you twice during the beginning and both times he’d been called away to patch someone up. After that, it was decided it was just better for him to come check up on everyone occasionally.

A slight sadness came over you every time he had to leave, but you didn’t protest. Not verbally, at least. His gentleness and child-like sweetness drew you to him. Even though you enjoyed everyone’s company, you hoped the others didn’t notice your special attachment to the doctor. His demeanor gave you a sense that this world you had been drawn into wasn’t all darkness and that it wouldn’t change you like you feared.  

Chen, as the vanguard, was the one you were especially worried about picking up on your change of attitude when Yixing was around. He was highly observant and a master at extracting information without the subject even knowing it. If he was detecting anything about you, though, he never brought it up.

Kai was probably your second favorite out of the boys, although there was nothing romantic behind your enjoyment of his company. He was kind and charming, making you laugh easily. Kyungsoo warned you of his womanizing ways, but then backtracked, insisting that you were in no danger as the fiancé of their leader. You had no interest anyway, simply enjoying Kai when he was around. The boy practically lit up when you agreed to let him teach me how to count cards. He was the gambler of the group, able to swindle money out of even the most professional players. It was incredible the memory he had and his ability to calculate the math within seconds.

Kyungsoo didn’t approve of teaching you the tricks of the trade, but, it seemed, he didn’t approve much of anything that involved letting you know too much about their illegal business. He was a loner - something you identified with - preferring to stay away from the action behind his computer screen, hacking away.

What surprised you the most was Chanyeol’s position. He was the muscle and the surveillance. Security was his top priority, which would explain why he was your most frequent guard. He was so lively and laughed so much, it was hard to wrap your mind around the picture of him as the first to throw a punch despite his size.

The biggest mystery, however, was the youngest of the group. With just one look, Sehun could name the make, model, and year of any gun and take it apart before putting back together again perfectly. He had connections all over this side of the world to get the arms they needed for any job. But he was quiet. He often kept his distance, only occasionally joining in on whatever antics the boys were up to in order to keep you entertained.

Junmyeon was the one who was around the least. He was usually gone by the time you rolled out of bed and made it home around dinner time or a few hours after. Personally, you preferred the latter. Meal times with just the boys were animated, including the occasional sporadic food fight. When that happened, you would immediately hide under the table until the coast was clear.

In the times that Junmyeon joined the dinner table, the boys were more subdued. They still joked around, but their interactions with you were limited. At the head of the table, Junmyeon stayed silent. He didn’t allow business talk while eating, but every once in a while you would catch the smallest hint of a smile whenever Chanyeol did something clumsy or Sehun made a snarky comment. If eye contact was made with you during his rare smiles, it would quickly fade and his eyes would drop back down to his food.

This particular night, he was smiling more than usual and they lingered far longer than you’d seen before. His eyes soften when they met yours instead of going hard and indifferent like they usually did. You couldn’t understand where this change was coming from. It was making you uneasy.

When everyone was finished, you helped Kyungsoo clean up the kitchen. It made you feel not so useless since whenever he was around you weren’t allowed to even touch a frying pan to feed yourself. The noise from the dining room died down as everyone filed out to their own apartments scattered around the area.

Eventually you were left alone with Junmyeon retreating to his office. Though the sun was beginning to disappear under the city skyline, you were restless and not ready to turn in for the night.

Wandering the halls, your album that you had made such a fuss over popped into your head. Typically, you only went through its pages when you had something to add to it, but now you felt the need to leaf through it just for a sense of comfort, even if it was imaginary.

Taking it from its hiding space under your mattress, you made yourself a cup of tea and settled on the couch in the living room, your legs wrapped up in a blanket. You flipped through the pages at a moderate pace, stopping every once in a while to smooth out a picture or read a description you had scribbled down as to why you wanted to visit that particular museum or monument. Some places held legends or stories while others so imposing and fascinating that you needed to experience them for real.

You only made it halfway through the album before your eyelids began to droop. Around Greece, they were becoming too heavy to fight. By the time you made it to Sienna, they were closed completely.

**

The sun had set when Junmyeon finished reading through the security papers Chanyeol had put together for the event tomorrow. His back was aching from being erect so long and his head was pounding, demanding rest. Locking the papers up in the side drawer, Junmyeon sat his elbows on the desk, massaging his temples with his finger tips.

If he was honest, he was actually surprised at your behavior since you came here. The first twenty-four hours had been rough, but after that, things quieted down. You never tried to escape, you didn’t act out or trash the place. In fact, you seemed settled in and got along with his men. That was the only thing that bothered him.

You seemed to get along and genuinely enjoy the presence of everyone else, but would clam up the moment he walked into the room. Jongdae and Chanyeol were constantly telling stories about your sense of humor and how, though you were a decent blackjack player when following the rules, you couldn’t count cards or keep a straight face during poker to save your life.

“You know,” Jongdae had clicked is tongue, staring out the window during their driver earlier in the day, “you could actually try to get to know her yourself. Since you’re set on keeping her around to get the files, you could spend some time with her. Sure, she’s not like the other girls you dated in the past, but maybe that’s a good thing. Hell, maybe this could work out for real, you know?”

Junmyeon had to suppress a groan. “You talk too much, Jongdae. Besides, you heard her, she doesn’t like gangsters.”

“Yup,” he nodded, “I did hear her. She said she likes gentlemen. I’ve seen you in action, hyung. You can practically be Prince Charming when you want to be.”

Prince Charming. Junmyeon almost laughed. Since when did Charming run one of the largest underworld operations in Seoul?

“She’s not my type,” he insisted.

“She’s beautiful,” Jongdae pointed out. “In our world, that makes her everyone’s type.”

Back in the present, Junmyeon stood up out of the chair, rubbing his hands down his face. Part of him wondered if just breaking into the vault in New York would be easier. He could send Jongdae over first to dig up information to find out which bank the Closer had used to house his findings and then take it from there.

No, not possible.

Junmyeon already had targets on his back in his own country. No need to take it international.

Exiting his office, Junmyeon took two steps towards his bedroom before noticing the living room light was still on. Slightly irritated, he huffed his way over to turn them off. Though he could afford it, he tried to preserve energy when he could.

Just as he put his hand on the switch, he noticed you fast asleep on the couch. Carelessly lying on the floor was the album you’d thrown a fit about. Junmyeon picked it up, expecting baby pictures and documentation of your growth through the years. What awaited as he opened to the first page was something much more.

The first page was just covered with handwritten quotes about traveling and seeing the world. Each new sheet in the album was filled with pictures and brochures and little notes about different places you wanted to see. From what Junmyeon could make out, most of the places were related to your favorite books. You wanted to go to visit your favorite classical author’s birthplace. Some retelling of Romeo and Juliet had taken place in Sienna and, according to the print out folded beneath a photo of a two story building, you could stay in the same hotel that the main character did in the novel.

Junmyeon stared in disbelief at the woman sleeping on the couch when he came to the last decorated page. You weren’t as timid or simple minded as he’d thought. Part of him hated himself for what he had done. This was a girl with dreams, with expectations of where your life would go, and he’d taken them away just to fulfill his own.

Perhaps, when this was all over, he could allow you to go to one of these places. Not alone, of course. He had too many enemies for that. But maybe you wouldn’t mind if he tagged along, just to keep you safe. Even if he didn’t have enemies, it was dangerous for a young woman to travel the world alone.

Tucking the album under his arm, Junmyeon carefully lifted you off the couch, constantly checking to see if he’d woken you up. But you stayed fast asleep as he carried you to your room and laid you down on the bed. He pulled the covers up to your chin and placed the album on the nightstand. After brushing the tips of his fingers against your face, Junmyeon walked out of the room, praying that you wouldn’t hate him after tomorrow.

[striving-artist]

Art Class - Papers

so in response to This post and because my first rendering teacher was phenomenal, and taught us not just how the medium works, but how it’s made, I’m just gonna infodump everything I know about traditional mediums for you here.  I know too much, so I gotta split this up. This post is just about paper. 

you should be choosing your paper based on the tooth, aka, the little bumps. and let’s start with water color paper.

First up. Rag edge is when the paper doesn’t have a sharp edge on it. Sometimes this means that the paper was hand made. Sometimes it means that the manufacturer is faking it. You can tell the difference by how crazy expensive it is. Sometimes it’s only on two edges because they’re doing long rolls and cutting to sheet size. if all four sides are rag edge, they’re probably going to be more expensive, and are usually found in flat files in art stores. 

There are hot press water color papers that have a fine tooth and let you do modern looking works. This is made by taking the paper pulp, laying it in, and then basically hot ironing it until its gone smooth. This means that you can work over hot press paper a lot more before the paper starts to pill.

Cold press water color paper has more ooth and more visible little lumps of paper pulp, and lets you do more classical water color looks. This is like when you take a shirt out of the basket and realize its wrinkled but you just try to smooth them out rather than grab the ironing board. I love this look, but if you go back too many times to the same spot, or if you push too hard/work too wet, you might start tearing up the pulp, and then that spot will always look different than the rest. 

You’ve also got rough finish water color paper that never gets pressed, so the pulp gets laid and levelled, but never ironed out. And that means that you’d better not need to rework things because ooh boy but that stuff will pill up if you work it too hard. 

More heat in the finishing means that there’s more of a shell or skin on the face of the paper. That is how you get the smoother look, and yes, it is great for inks and thin, staining colors. But! if you work through that skin on hot press, it’s over. You might, maybe, be able to hide that mistake on rougher paper, but on hot press once the page goes rough, you’re done. 

But, Strife, you’re thinking, how come some papers *cough*Arches*cough* are so freaking expensive? Honestly, it’s a brand name with a history to it mostly. But, They also have fewer impurities in the paper pulp, and they take color better.  More expensive water color papers do tend to stay flat better when wet. 

Which brings me to the next point. 

Watercolor blocks. You know how watercolor paper comes with all the edges stuck together except for a 2″ section that’s sometimes on a corner? That’s on purpose, and you aren’t supposed to take a sheet off until the art is done. What it’s doing is holding the thing tight and in place so it can’t warp so much. Then, after you’re done, you run a stick (I use a butter knife) around the outside to separate it. 

If you don’t have a block, and just have loose sheets - tape them down, all the way around the outside, to a rigid surface. Don’t be shy. Don’t just get the corners. Get the entire border. And if this is a large sheet/you’re having trouble with it. Mist the back with spray glue before you tape the edges. You’ll get such a better product if you aren’t fighting warping. 

So. Other papers than water color. 

What a lovely illustration, but, feel free to ignore it’s recommendations whenever you want. Especially if you’re doing mixed media. What matters is that you know what you’re working on, and you know whether you want to preserve the tooth of the paper or not. (think about when you press hard with colored pencils and it goes super smooth - you’re ironing out of the tooth of the page) Do you want paper where you have a single plane, or do you want to have all those peaks and valleys to work with?

Anyway, non watercolor paper types:

Tracing Paper, sometimes called onion paper or trace is for tracing. obviously. it’s translucent, toothier than you expect it to be, hates erasers, and has a distinct sound when you crumple it up. It’s also useful as sheeting between pages so graphite or whatever doesn’t transfer. It’s made by either using really selective materials and keeping everything very thin, OR by making a normal type paper that’s kind of like printer paper, and then dipping it in acid for minute to eat some of it away. 

Newsprint is a mild tooth, fine pulp, really thin paper. We use it for sketching because it makes it almost impossible to go back and erase anything. The paper with wrinkle or tear if you’re not super careful. This is why it’s the go to for 30 second sketches. It’s cheap, but it’s not for your masterpiece. 

Then there’s sketch paper which tends to have a mild tooth, fine pulp, and is usually around 100lb this stuff is the work horse for most artists. I have about a dozen notebooks like this kicking around. you can work inks, graphite, colored pencils, you can erase for a long while without breaking the skin of the paper. there isn’t so much tooth that you’ll burnish it down and get a weird textureless spot. It comes in in a bazillion sizes, and is relatively cheap. I believe almost all of this runs through a hot press, but that’s for efficiency, not in a dedicated attempt to iron out all texture. 

Next, there are bristol sheets - super super smooth, like, I want to just touch them all the time, great for marker and ink - that are made with really finely ground pulp and made with hot press rollers to get them as smooth as can be. These tend to be fairly heavy weight, kinda like super luxe cardstock. If you’re using a non-ink on them though, be careful you aren’t etching into it. If you press too hard, you’ll make your sketch permanently visible. On the other hand, if you’re playing with embossed sheets in mixed media, this stuff is the jam. It tends to be on the high cost end of mid range papers. 

Vellum. Okay so. This name gets used for trace sometimes. Those people are wrong. Vellum is heavier weight than trace, and smoother. You can erase on it without destroying the thing, and it usually comes on a roll, because for ages it was used as an architecture drafting medium. Originally (pre-modern) vellum was a name for ultra thin sheets of calf skin that you could scrape away a layer if the word was wrong. Nowadays it’s a translucent paper product that can be great fun to work on. BUT. if it’s cheap to buy, it’s probably just tracing paper with a label change. As weird as this is, you can hear the difference between them. 

Pastel paper is usually just watercolor paper in non-block form since there’s not a risk of water warping. However, what it should be is gritty. It’s not just ultra toothy, it should be rough - sandpaper rough. That’s because pastels need something to grab or they slide away. Keep in mind though, when you’re staring at the fancy color toned pastel blocks, that you can’t blend much on them. you put the pastel down on something too gritty, and that’s exactly where it’s gonna stay. These are made as cold press paper if memory serves, with an added mixture of grit that rises to the top.

Artagain papers are pretty much the same as sketch paper, but they have added fibers, usually a cotton or linen. This makes them tougher. They often have a color tone, or visible little strings in them. 

Transfer paper is NOT the same as Trace paper. They are opposites. Don’t grab the wrong one. Transfer is a god-send if you need to sketch but the paper for the final piece is too expensive. It’s clean on one side, covered in graphite (and sometimes chalk) on the other, and you set it between your sketch and your fancy paper, with the graphite facing the final paper. Tape the whole thing in place so you can check your progress without ruining alignment. Then you (lightly) trace your sketch, and get just enough of the information down that you can do your thing without ruining a 60$ piece of paper. It’s also reusable several times before there’s not enough graphite left. 

Okay, one last one, and technically it’s not paper, it’s plastic, but I’m mentioning it anyway. Plastic vellum is so.freaking.cool. It’s basically a clear sheet of acrylic with a thin skin of milking on the outside, on both sides that has enough tooth to it you can use it for most mediums. It takes colored pencil in this bizarre, high shine way, and gives you perfectly smooth marker lines. This stuff hates water color btw. But! What’s amazing about it is that because it’s translucent, you can do art on either side. Or, you can do layers of it and let things fade into faux mist. 

That’s every type of art paper I can think of at the moment. let me know if you have questions. 

[marlahey]

we stumbled in the dark; i knew we’d be alright (part thirteen)

a shawn mendes rpf fic rating/warnings: a bit of language, descriptions of a panic attack notes: at this point I’m pretty sure you guys have been waiting like four months, so all I can say is thank you for being so patient. I should warn you in advance though: I have 5 deadlines in February. I think I’m mostly over the writer’s block I was dealing with before, but your girl is hella stressed and only has brief pockets of time to write for fun. you should thank kris @missgoalie75 for convincing me to split the parts and for being an amazing beta, as ever. please send me your thoughts/questions/comments! I’ve missed you all. happy birthday to the anon from earlier in the week! hope your day was wonderful, and your surprise ended up in the next chapter lol. parts thirteen and fourteen are dedicated to the incomparable @accioarmenian: I love you. thank you for everything. (previously; start at part one here; find all parts here) london; now

Shawn, you’ve come to realize, is a very tactile sleeper.

Besides his nose pressing into either your hair, your shoulder, or the curve of your neck, Shawn’s hands seek to touch you anywhere he can: your waist,  the not-exactly-flat of your stomach, the bare skin of your thigh. Sometime in the fleeting blue hours between midnight and dawn, you wake to his fingers sliding underneath his own t-shirt, palms cradling your shoulder blades as he pulls you in. The hollow of his neck is warm and soft. It’s surprising, in a way, the tightness of the grip keeping you in place. You’re not quite awake yet; your brain hasn’t risen above the nebulous layers of warm and safe to register, bed, hotel, London, tour. You think, Shawn, and close your eyes. Hazy sunlight lines the edges of the curtains when you wake again. Your head is no longer cushioned by the absurdly plush hotel pillow, but instead by the warm, firm expanse that is Shawn’s chest, rising and falling as he breathes. It’s your arm that’s slung over his torso this time, your knee that’s slotted between his legs beneath the duvet. You don’t know if he’s awake yet. Part of you is afraid to lift your chin to find out. But then in the corner of your eye you see a familiar guitar tattoo lifting, and gentle fingers tuck your hair back behind your ear. Shawn’s lips brush against the top of your head, as weightless as a ghost. “Hi,” he murmurs. Without too much thought, you rub your nose a little into his chest and to your surprise, Shawn jumps with a breathless huff. Interesting. You tilt your head back with a smile. His eyes are still hooded from sleep, but the tenderness in them is clear. “Hi,” you whisper back. “Sleep okay?” You hum a yes. “I didn’t know you were ticklish.” “I’m not.” At your raised eyebrow, Shawn just lifts his own. “El,” he says, like a warning. “Shawn,” you parrot. His reflexes are apparently slower first thing in the morning (another fact you file away for future reference), but you still only manage a sharp twist and quick wiggle of your fingers against his sides – he giggles; you can’t believe you’ve never heard him laugh like this – before Shawn’s hands grab your wrists and press you back into the bed, your arms pinned above your head. “You’re in for it now,” he says, so low it’s almost a growl.

It’s too early, you think, for your insides to twist like this. It’s also monumentally unfair that he can hold both of your wrists in one hand and tickle you with the other, but you’re too busy shrieking with laughter to put that thought into words. You have to try really hard not to flail too much (kicking Shawn in the groin would definitely ruin the mood); his fingers skitter over your hip, not even under his t-shirt which has ridden up considerably in all the ruckus, and you wouldn’t think too much of it until Shawn’s thumb brushes the underside of your breast and your breath chokes off in a hitch. Your bra is on the floor, along with your top and your jeans, and suddenly you both know it. Shawn pulls back immediately. He releases you and draws himself all the way up to his knees. It’s almost intimidating to see him like this, towering over you, but as you take in Shawn’s wide eyes, you realize what he sees: the hem his t-shirt caught up around your ribs, revealing your stomach and baring your belly button. He’s kneeling between your legs. Shawn’s gaze flicks down to the tiny bow at the top of your olive green underwear and then back up to your eyes, so quickly you could’ve almost imagined it. But his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and you know you didn’t. “Sorry,” he says, and you nod, flushing. “S’ok.” You wish you sounded more certain. It is fine. If your heart wasn’t already jack-hammering from his earlier attack, you’d probably still be breathless now; a shiver of power stirs in the pit of your stomach. It’s thrilling (also shocking) to see the look on his face and realize you could hurt him just as badly as he could hurt you. You see it in a flash: Shawn ducking down between your thighs, hooking his fingers into the hem of your underwear, his hand reaching back up your body, to touch you with purpose where he just did by accident. You can practically feel his breath on the inches of bare skin below your navel. You blink the thought away. Shawn blinks back. “Breakfast?” he asks. His ears are pink, as are the high points of his cheeks. You nod a second time. Shawn looks flustered. He clears his throat. “I’m just gonna…” Before you can say anything Shawn peels away and off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom and leaving you to stare up at the ceiling and attempt to collect yourself. Get it together. A few minutes later Shawn returns, looking decidedly less flushed. “All yours,” he says, and you laugh when he dives over your body to the centre of the bed. “Someone’s a little more chipper already,” you observe. He plants a cool kiss to the first place he seems to be able to reach, which is where the back of your neck and your shoulder meet and the collar of his t shirt has slipped down. You jump a little and he smiles into your skin; you think you can feel his teeth and it takes effort not to shudder. “Cold water,” Shawn mutters, sounding vaguely aggrieved. “Had to...” He pauses. You want to turn your head to look at him, but Shawn kisses you again, a little higher. His nose brushes loose hair from your undone bun at the nape of your neck and you do tremble this time. “Calm down.” You feel very warm, suddenly. Cold water doesn’t sound half bad. Shawn isn’t quite touching you anymore, but you can feel him everywhere, in places he hasn’t even been before. “Sorry, I think?” It’s your turn to slide away (a bit reluctantly, to be honest) trying not to think too hard about the way you walk away from him. It feels like a new, silent game. “No,” comes his voice, a little hoarse. You don’t intend to lean on the corner of wall between the bedroom and bathroom when you turn around, but it doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate the way Shawn’s gaze travel all the way from your bare feet to your eyes. Under any other circumstance with anyone else it would be degrading, but now that frisson of power surges back up. “You don’t have to be sorry,” Shawn continues. You nearly blush under the heat of his gaze, but you force it down. “I’m definitely not.” “Okay,” you say, stretching your arms above your head to pop the joints of your shoulders. Shawn’s eyes swing back down to your legs; your insides twist pleasantly again. “I’m not sorry then.” It feels like you’re winning. You hear him groan as you close the bathroom door. (You do get breakfast. Eventually.) * “There you guys are!” You lift your hand to instinctively to wave back at Parker, but you turn your head to glance at Shawn, who shrugs. Armed with everything you’ve trekked across the continent over the past two months, you’re not sure you have room for the surprise of Shawn’s drummer, who you expected to be gone already with Brian, Charlie, and the crew on the first round of flights out of London. Geoff’s family plans to meet him in New York for a little vacation, so he’s told you, while Kristin and Kelsey both hail from Manhattan. “What are you still doing here?” you ask, accepting Parker’s one-armed squeeze as if you hadn’t said goodnight in this very lobby about twelve hours before. “I thought you left this morning!” You follow his eyes across the room to Shawn’s head of lighting, who is staring up at a large painting with her hands behind her back. You recognize a look you can only describe because Shawn’s given it to you before: tenderness, joy, wanting. “Thought I’d see what else the Big Apple has to offer.” Parker winks. “Don’t tell her I called it that. She hates it.” “You’re coming to New York?” you ask dumbly. He laughs. “Wow, Sinclair. Don’t look so disappointed, huh?” “I–I’m not!” you stammer, attempting to backtrack. Parker just laughs again. “Leave her alone, Park.” Kelsey appears at your shoulder, rolling her eyes. The drummer raises his hands in surrender. “C’mon,” she says, grinning at you. “Let’s go home.” * By some twist of good fortune, you and Shawn end up having an entire row of three seats to yourselves on the flight while Ava sits with Andrew several rows ahead. Parker wiggles his eyebrows as he passes; Kristin just shakes her head just behind him, shooting you an apologetic glance which makes you laugh.

You’ve just gotten everything stowed beneath your seat and wrangled your seatbelt from underneath you when you catch Shawn yawning. “Tired already? We haven’t even taken off yet!” He shrugs, almost helplessly. “You know me and planes, El.” You laugh lightly at him and then even more at his vaguely wounded expression. “Well,” you start, forcing the rest of the words out before you can chicken out, “You can lay down, if you want.” Shawn’s eyes widen as you gesture at the empty seat on his other side, all the way to you. “Probably be more comfortable.” “You sure?” The in-flight entertainment blinks merrily in front of you. “Positive.” His expression softens. “You’re the best. I’ll trade you, in a bit. Shouldn’t sleep the whole flight anyway.” Shawn lifts the armrest to his left and the one between you. You busy yourself clicking through the movie selection. “Wish I had a–” “Would you guys like a couple of pillows?” You turn to find a flight attendant smiling gently down at you, small rectangles covered in plastic in hand. “A blanket maybe?” Shawn smiles so brightly you almost have to look away. “All of those would be so amazing, thank you.” He accepts the pillows like they’re gifts, as though they have the same value as the Givenchy hoodie he’s currently wearing. The woman nods, the picture of professionalism as she leans forward just a little and lowers her voice. “I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Mendes, but there’s a gentleman further down the cabin who asked if I could pass you this.” She hands over a folded drink napkin; Shawn’s face relaxes from the bemusement of being called Mr. Mendes to curiosity; there is a message scrawled in black ink inside. “He says he doesn’t want to cause a big scene,” she continues. “So don’t feel obligated to respond if that makes you uncomfortable.” “Oh not at all,” he assures her. “I’d love to send something back in a few minutes, if we catch you on your way through?” She smiles again, though there’s something deeper in it now, like a newfound respect. “Of course. I’d be happy to.” The attendant glances at you a second time. She seems very cognizant of the way Shawn leans comfortably into your space. “The drinks cart will be on its way after takeoff, but you guys alright otherwise? Need anything else?” You confirm with Shawn with a look. “No thank you,” you reply. You squint at her tag glinting in the light of the cabin. “Grace. Thanks so much.” “I’ll be back with that blanket,” she replies, and carries on up the aisle checking on everyone she passes. When you turn back to Shawn, he’s studying the note, pillows apparently forgotten in his lap. You pull them both away and tear the plastic open, settling them across your legs and settling carefully in for several hours of sitting. “This is so cute,” His eyes sparkle in that particular way they do after a touching fan interaction. “Here, look.” You take the note gingerly, catching Shawn’s gaze one more time. He nods, almost exasperated at your desire to give him these moments in as much privacy as possible. Dear Shawn, If I recall my daughter’s various stories properly, I’m not the first father to send you a note on a napkin. I hope this isn’t too much of a bother. Emma would never let me hear the end of it if she knew we were on the same flight, so please forgive me for fulfilling a fatherly duty. She’d want me to tell you she loves you, of course, and your music. But I should also tell you how much you inspire her. She picked up the guitar after going to a concert of yours for the first time years ago, and now she tells me she wants to learn piano too. I want to thank you personally, Shawn, for reminding her how good and important both dreams and hard work are. All the best for the remainder of your tour, and we’ll see you at Madison Square Garden on Saturday. All the best, Ronan Mckelvey “Wow.” When you put down the napkin, blinking rapidly and fully prepared to pretend it’s just the dry cabin air, Shawn is rooting through his backpack at his feet. “What is it?” “One sec,” he replies. His words are slightly muffled. “Just swear I had...damn it– yes.” He straightens, triumphant, with a pen between his teeth, and his notebook which has a tour pick stuck between its pages. With the help of the tray table, Shawn flips deftly to the next blank page and tears it carefully from the rest of the book. You avert your eyes as he leans over to write, his forehead creased in adorable focus. “This okay?” Shawn murmurs a few minutes later, startling you from deciding between Crazy Rich Asians and How to Train Your Dragon 2. He pushes the sheet of his notebook towards you. Dear Mr. Mckelvey, Thank you so much for your note. It’s really no bother at all. I’m just happy that Emma enjoys my music and I’m truly honoured at the thought of her taking up any instrument after seeing me perform. It’s also really cool that she has a dad like you to keep a sharp eye out on long haul flights from London! Attached to the back of this note is the information for my publicity team. If you get in touch with them, I would love it if you both joined me for a meet and greet before the show on Saturday. Below is something for Emma too. I hope she likes it. Shawn — Dear Emma, Your dad is one cool guy. Here’s something to help you with guitar, though I’m sure you have lots :) Keep practicing! Don’t ever stop. You guys are so much of why I can do this at all. Thank you with all my heart. Can’t wait to meet you! Love, Shawn He has a loose roll of scotch tape in his hands, frowning at it. “Hey El d’you think you could—” Shawn looks up at you and stops short. “What?” I love you. The thought is startling in its suddenness and its truth. You have to swallow the words back and replace them with others. “You’re amazing, you know that?” A blush colours Shawn’s ears. You want to kiss him. You take the tape from his hands instead, working up the end with your nail. “Why do you carry a roll of tape with you?” “I rip a lot of pages in this thing,” he says, like a shameful admission. Fondness swells. Before you can reply or even turn back to face him, Shawn leans forward and presses his mouth against your temple; the kiss is there and gone in the space of a breath. “You’re amazing too.” You have concentrate on the tape. You tear two pieces; he thanks you and you watch him stick the pick to the bottom of the note, and a smaller sheet on the back that contains your sister’s work email. “We’re just going to assume that Emma’s dad is a good guy and isn’t gonna give her Av’s info,” he says, and you snort a laugh as the safety announcements finally begin. Shawn replaces his tray table and sits up straight, watching Grace with apparent attentiveness even though you’re sure he could sing a flight safety demonstration backwards. By the time it’s over and you’re in the air, he’s yawning again. “Here,” you say, prying the message from his fingers. “Sleep.” Shawn blinks owlishly. “You sure this is okay?” He eyes the pillows in your lap; you hold up your headphones and gesture at the screen. “I’m good. I peed before we boarded. I’m comfortable. Can you just...” It’s a little too easy to forget yourself and reach an arm out to drag Shawn forward by the collar of his hoodie. He goes so willingly that it makes your insides do a funny little backflip. “C’mere.” Shawn looks like he might kiss you again; you might let him, but he just leans down and presses his cheek into the pillows, facing away from you. You lift your arm to give him more space to wriggle into a comfortable position, his feet curved in to tuck beneath the last seat in front of your row. His shoulder digs into your hip, Shawn’s left hand reaching up to grasp your knee. His fingers stroke some indecipherable pattern that makes goosebumps ripple down your legs. “Comfy?” you ask. You have no idea what prompts your own hand to card through Shawn’s curls, tracing lightly over the side of his face, but he just hums in response, closing his eyes. It’s fascinating, the way it always is in these quiet moments, the way the tensions of Shawn’s life just ease away. “S’nice,” he mumbles, almost unintelligible. “Hmm?” “Your hands.” Shawn’s voice had gone slow and deep. “Always like your hands.” Your face heats. Fortunately, the man on the other side of the aisle is engrossed in his iPad and the drinks cart is still several rows away. “Weirdo,” you murmur around a laugh. You don’t stop though. You slide your hand down the back of Shawn’s neck, chasing the warmth beneath his collar; he groans a little, but doesn’t shrug you away. Your stomach jumps. “Okay?” Shawn hums again. “Wake me up after the movie?” “Kay.” By the time Grace returns with a thin navy airline blanket, just beating the drinks cart, Shawn’s asleep. She takes one look at him sprawled across your lap, glances at his fastened seat belt, and proceeds to open the blanket for you, leaning into the row to spread it over him in one practiced, smooth motion. At your slightly open-mouthed expression, she winks. “Two kids,” she whispers. You smile at her and extend the note that Shawn had folded carefully in half. “This is for Mr. Mckelvey.” Grace nods. “I’ll pass it along. Have a good trip now, hun.” And then you and Shawn are alone again. Or at least, as alone as you could ever be on a long-haul flight across the Atlantic. The weight of him is become familiar in a new, exciting way; you recall the slow, tender morning in his hotel room that feels oddly far away, now. It’s hard to imagine that you’ll have another morning like that without a deadline of some kind to pull you out from beneath warmer blankets and softer pillows. A girl can dream, right? * “Lenny.” Ava’s face is grave when you look up from Crazy Rich Asians to find her standing over you. Your heart sinks. “What is it?” you demand. “What’s wrong?” She just extends her iPad. Inside The Life of Shawn Mendes’ New Sweetheart! Besides the skin routine that keeps his gorgeous face flawless, Shawn Mendes’ fans everywhere have had a single burning question: who is the mysterious young woman who’s been spotted with him on tour? We have the official scoop! Shawn fans, meet Ellie Sinclair. How do she and Shawn know each other? Through her sister, who’s part of Shawn’s personal team! Ellie’s reportedly been on tour with them since the very beginning of the Shawn Mendes 2019 World Tour, but unconfirmed rumours abound that the pair have had several secret rendez-vous long before then. Eagle-eyed fans first spotted Ellie (18) and Shawn (20) together in Norway outside the arena, and she has since been seen with members of the band and crew across Ireland and the UK. According to tour attendees who have also seen her during shows, Ellie works with tour photographer Kelsey Jones, and so is apparently responsible for several of the amazing shots from Shawn’s official Instagram. Ellie’s personal account is private and she doesn’t seem to be present on any other social media, so very little has been known about her personal life, until now! A source close to the couple has revealed never gonna before revealed details about Shawn’s new paramour exclusively for us. Ellie’s older sister Ava has been her primary guardian since she was 11, when both of their parents were killed in a car accident. Ellie survived the crash and has dealt with the incredible trauma of that event through private therapy, while Ava established herself at the management company that would come to sign the one and only Shawn Mendes. When Ava became a permanent member of Shawn’s team, it seems that she and Ellie were a package deal. “She’s been a big part of his life on tour,” our source says. “They spend a lot of time together.” As for when things got romantic? The timeline is unclear. Fans swear up and down that a grainy captured video at the end of the Manchester show last week was of Shawn and Ellie locked in a tight embrace, but no one has been able to confirm this for certain. Our industry sources also say that Shawn is due in New York early ahead of his two sold out MSG dates, but there’s no news as to whether Ellie will be joining him. Is Shawn Mendes officially off the market? If so, hearts are breaking all over the world. If not, exactly what kind of relationship are he and Ellie in? There certainly seems to be chemistry in these photos. What do you think readers? Sound off in the comments! You definitely don’t look at the comments. “Who do you think it is?” Your sister sighs as you hand back the iPad. “The source?” Ava shrugs. “I mean, the amount of people who know about our parents and the amount of people who also know you’re on tour is a pretty small Venn Diagram.” She glances down at Shawn, who still snores very gently in your lap, completely oblivious. You resist the urge to reach for his hand that’s curled up by your knee. There’s also a strange urge to shield him. Not from Ava, but from everything else. Pulls for his focus and attention are the last thing Shawn needs.  “I don’t think it was Hannah,” Ava says gently, before you can even process the thought yourself. “I know you guys haven’t been talking, but this requires knowing the right people to contact and I don’t think she’d be capable of figuring that out, or even being that malicious.” “I’m surprised at how accurate it is,” you admit. “Aren’t tabloids full of lies usually?” “This actually doesn’t tell anyone very much beyond what they’d be able to figure out with a google search.” Your sister’s mouth pinches. “You probably don’t remember this, but we were in the local news, after.” You don’t remember. You can only imagine what those headlines were like. “As for you two spending a lot of time together–“ There’s that urge to hang onto Shawn again. “That’s a pretty vague statement. There’s nothing of substance here to suggest that it’s anyone here with us, who’s actually seen the two of you hang out, or even hang out privately.” More memories of this morning lurch forward. “So there’s no real source?” Ava shrugs again, not dismissive but vaguely helpless. “It’s hard to tell, honestly. But whatever the case, we just have to move forward with the knowledge that people know who we are. I guess the only saving grace is that we don’t have any other family for journalists to pester.” She has a point, of course, but it doesn’t bring you any comfort. The seatbelt sign suddenly dings to life. Ava brushes her hand over your head as the lead attendant asks people to return to their seats to prepare for a potential few minutes of rough air. “You don’t have to go or stay unless you want to.” A knot twists in your throat, so you just nod. Shawn’s promise rings in your ears. It takes at least a minute before you remember to un-pause the movie.

* “El?” Calloused fingers touch your chin. You jump a little to find Shawn staring up at you, frowning in concern. You drag your hand over your cheek, mortified; did you just cry on him? When had he woken up? “Hey…” Shawn shifts, blinking slowly. “What is it?” Staying still while he twists himself upright isn’t that hard when you want to disappear from existence entirely. You feel almost trapped when Shawn’s eyes are finally level with yours again. “It’s nothing.” Liar. Though your brain is miles away, Crazy Rich Asians is at the exact scene that made you cry the first time you saw it: the wedding ceremony, which at least makes your feeble excuse plausible. “I’m fine.” Shawn gives you a long look that you only barely manage to keep, before he turns to watch Nick and Rachel exchange silent I love yous. “Is this a sad movie?” “No,” you laugh weakly. “Romantic comedy. About to get a bit sad, though.” You drop your right earbud and hand it to over. Shawn snakes his arm around your waist to pull you closer, so you can lean your head against his neck. He also drags the blanket up over both of you, so all of a sudden you find yourself cocooned in a warm, Shawn-scented bubble. “Is he the rich one?” “Yes.” Pausing seems best at this point. He listens silently to your cliff notes version of the plot up until this point before reaching out to the screen with his long, unoccupied arm. “Got it.” The Young family disapproval stings in a way it hadn't the first time you saw this film, even though the situations aren’t the same at all. Shawn is of course the glaring difference now, both in your life and even as a physical presence curled around you on this plane, instead of the dark shape of your sister beside you in the movie theatre. Something entirely selfish in you just wants this flight to suspend you in time and space, where no one can touch you. It feels safe above the ocean and clouds, just like it did beside the Seine in Paris, onstage in Madrid, and even over the phone in your own bedroom in Toronto. Shawn is safe. You know it; you’ve always known it. So why does the idea of New York feel so different? More questions rattle around in your brain: can Shawn keep you safe? Is that even a fair thing to ask of him? Does your fear even matter if you trust him, and trust each other? You’ve never had the impression that Shawn isn’t honest with you, and you’ve always strived for the same, even when it’s uncomfortable. But is that enough? “Where’s your head right now?” he asks suddenly, jolting you once again from your thoughts. Shawn’s lips quirk faintly at your clearly visible distracted air. “I’m here, sorry.” Your answering smile is probably unconvincing. “I’m here, with you.” “D’you have the time?” You wriggle your phone out from between your bodies. “Uh, like 5 o’clock London time? Which makes it…noon in New York, right?” You understand the look only a moment too late. Shawn’s smile spreads slowly across his face, a particular pleasure at catching you unawares. “And how do you feel, here with me at either 5 o'clock or noon?” While the standard kind of embarrassment has mostly faded with him, it has been replaced with a fierce reminder of how vulnerable Shawn has the power to make you feel. “Did you just…?” “Yep.” He sounds endearingly proud. “I just El’d you.” You snort. “Okay we are definitely not calling it that.” “You can make fun of the name after you answer,” Shawn replies patiently, a little teasing. God he’s serious. If not about the name of this emotional check in, then the intent behind it. “I’m…” That same knot from earlier resurfaces. “Nervous, I guess?” “About New York?” He phrases it like a question, but Shawn doesn’t seem surprised. You can’t tell if that’s good or bad; you nod anyway. In your long pause, he speaks again. “You don’t have to–“ “Andrew doesn’t think I should be here.” The confines of the seat keep you from reeling back too far, away from Shawn’s shock and dismay (is that anger? in the line between his eyebrows? you’re too afraid to be sure) but it’s too late. The truth had left your mouth unbidden, making it a now almost corporeal thing to taunt the close air between you. But Shawn doesn’t pull away, like you’d expected. Instead, he reaches for you, his nimble fingers circling your wrists like you’re really in danger of disappearing at any moment. “What?” His Adam’s apple bobs. A full question seems to fail him. “When?” Your heart roars in your throat. “Um, two days ago. Before you went on. He came to tell me–” Shawn squeezes gently when you falter. “He came to tell me that people know who I am, now. Online.” An expression like a dark shadow crosses over his face, but he doesn’t speak. Shawn doesn’t interrupt as you relay the conversation you’d had with his manager with as little emotion as possible, because you still can’t fault Andrew for doing his job, for looking out for his client and his friend. “I don’t want to put you in a weird spot,” you explain, almost in a rush to finally get this anxiety off your chest. “I can just go–“ “No.” Shawn’s grip tightens – just for a moment – a motion as inadvertent your admission, judging by how his eyes widen and how quickly he releases you. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding almost ashamed. “If you–” You feel like you should brace yourself. “If that’s what you want. I meant what I said, in Ireland. If you want to go home I’d never try and stop you.” Your heart sinks a little at the thought. But then Shawn traces up the veins of your wrist, that familiar gesture that you still can’t figure out, if it’s meant to comfort you or himself. He looks up through his eyelashes. “But I want you here, okay? I do.”   You wonder if you’ve ever looked so certain about anything in your life. What about Andrew? Before you can muster the courage to ask the question, feeling like a child, Shawn continues. “I’m gonna talk to him, as soon as I can. We’ll figure it out.” Another shadow crosses his face. “I’m sorry.” “And you say I apologize too much,” you reply, attempting a joke, grasping at some kind of control over your anxiety spinning out. "You’re not doing anything wrong. And neither is he, really.” Shawn opens his mouth, but you raise an eyebrow at him. “It takes two people to be in a relationship, Shawn. I knew what I was getting into. Or at least, I thought I did.” He just looks at you, his eyes softening. “What?” “A relationship, huh?” He looks so pleased at the thought; your stomach swoops. “You know what I mean,” you say, as if he’s arguing with you instead of trying to fight a wide grin. You make a vague, helpless gesture. Shawn just catches your fingers. “Yeah I know. One day at a time, right?” He pulls you gently closer, ducking his head down and pausing only when your noses brush and you’ve stopped moving. “Just one?” he breathes, another familiarity. You wish you could press them all into the pages of his journal for safekeeping, reminders of all the tiny joys you’ve had. Just in case. “Everyone’s asleep.” A glance over his shoulder proves he’s right. So you tilt your chin just enough to meet Shawn’s mouth; it’s as gentle as he’s ever kissed you, but there’s something weighted in it, as though he’s determined to leave an impression behind, as if you could ever forget the feeling. “Tired?” he asks when you reluctantly pull away. You nod, only slightly surprised at how sleepy you really are, now that he’s mentioned it. Shawn slides wordlessly over into the far aisle seat, tugging you along. So far on your scales of physical intimacy, curling up and putting your head on the pillows in his lap doesn’t technically rank that high. But, you suppose, first times are always going to linger in your mind. Shawn chuckles softly as you copy his earlier wiggling to find a vaguely comfortable position. You’re careful to put the middle seat belt on, albeit loosely, and keep your feet out of the aisle. Shawn helps you tuck yourself beneath the blanket and pulls your hair away from your face, tracing the shell of your ear. He bends down and kisses you again before you can speak. “I’ll wake you up before they serve dinner,” he promises. You find, after letting go of this weight you’d been carrying all weekend, that there isn’t anything else to say.

new york; now It’s fine, you tell yourself as you disembark from the plane. Evening is settling in by the time you pass into the terminal, darkness descending rapidly despite having moved backwards in time. You tell yourself again through the long, winding lines at border control, where you keep your brain occupied teaching Shawn how to play First Letter, Last Letter and you tie at two games apiece. “Excuse me, Shawn?” A man pushing a sleek charcoal suitcase appears; he’s holding a familiar slip of paper in one hand. Shawn’s eyes light up and he waves you and everyone else wordlessly forward while Ava stays behind. Everyone pauses at a bench several meters down the long white hall. You shouldn’t stare, you know, as Shawn takes Mr. Mckelvey's hand and shakes. But you realize suddenly that you’re not quite looking at a boy anymore, but a young man. A strange mix of pride, affection, and anxiety swirl in your stomach. You turn away. You’re just a kid, really. So is he. You like each other. Isn’t that what children do? “C’mon, Ellie.” Kristin knocks her shoulder into yours. “Just keep going.” * It’s fine, you tell yourself as you pass through the arrivals door. Nothing’s going to happen. “We’ll go grab the car,” Andrew says. “And meet you guys outside.” “Sounds good,” Shawn replies, and together you help Andrew and Ava load everything but your backpacks onto two luggage carts. “Anyone know where Geoff went?” “Bathroom,” Parker says. “He’ll be out in a few.” “Uncle Shawn!” Everyone stops as a tiny streak of dark brown hair blurs forward. Shawn crouches down to receive a toddler, no older than three or four, catching him in his arms just as the boy stumbles briefly on the slick airport floor. “Matty!” He lifts the child smoothly, who giggles as he’s spun around. “Hey little man!” When Shawn stops, you watch as Matty wraps his tiny arms around the elder boy’s neck, squeezing tight. Shawn catches your eye over the shoulder of Matty’s navy t-shirt. His swallow hand splays across the entirety of the toddler’s back, keeping him secure. Your heart aches, suddenly. You mouth, Uncle Shawn? and his ears turn red. “What are you doing here?” You can’t tear your eyes away from Shawn’s brilliant grin, the ease with which he holds Matty against his hip, the shining adoration in his eyes. Any evidence of eight hours over the ocean disappears. “Where your mom?” When you finally take the boy in properly, you nearly gasp out loud; Matty is the spitting image of Geoff. “Right here, rockstar.” A blonde woman appears at a more sedate pace. Shawn wraps an around her and kisses her cheek. “Soph, hey.” To your surprise, he reaches out and tugs you forward. “You’ve met everyone, but this is Ellie. El, this is Sophie, Geoff’s wife.” Her smile is warm and friendly; you swallow a sudden burst of intimidated nerves. “Nice to meet you Sophie.” “So this is the famous Sinclair.” It feels like she’s appraising you. You flush. Parker snorts a laugh. “I’ve heard so much about you.” “Um.” You push your hair behind your ear. “Good things, I hope.” Sophie laughs. “Geoff is very fond of you.” You have no idea what to say. Shawn squeezes your hand just once and lets go. You want – beyond any reasonable or rational thought – him to take it back, but you don’t move and manage a flustered smile. “The little speedster is Matthew,” Sophie continues, blowing a kiss to her son, still attached to Shawn like a spidermonkey. “Who’s lucky enough to have the best godfather around, even though he started calling him Matty and now he won’t respond to anything else.” Her warm, amused gaze passes over to Shawn; his ears go pink again. “We’re surprising Daddy,” Matty says, though it comes out more like suppising. “Don’t tell, Uncle Shawn.” “Oh I won’t.” Shawn schools his face into seriousness. Just before he manages it, you see his lips twitch and his nose scrunch as if to say, what about me? You have to smother a fond laugh. “But he’s gonna be coming through any minute, are you ready?” The boy nods enthusiastically. Shawn places him back down on the floor. “Here, why don’t you just come around here…” He pushes Matt gently behind his long legs, and pulls his mother into place at his side so Geoff’s son is entirely hidden behind them both. You step off to the side with Parker and the Jones sisters just as the guitarist appears through the automatic double doors. You’ve seen Geoff pleased before, happy of course – he, just like Shawn, loves performing – but you’ve never seen his face light up like it does when he spots his wife, beaming at him. “I was supposed to pick you up tomorrow!” He stops in his tracks, dropping his bag at his feet as Sophie lopes forward at a run. She launches herself into his arms, locking her legs around his hips and laughing just as her son had when Geoff twirls. They kiss, not so much as to make you squirm in discomfort, but in a way that clearly shows you, that’s what having a home in someone else looks like. Your chest aches again. Geoff pulls back first. “Where’s–” “Daddy!” Matty tears around Shawn. “Surprise, Daddy! Surprise!” His giggles fill the air again as Geoff plants kisses all over his face. You’re knocked breathless from a rush of déjà vu; you used to race down the walk to meet your dad upon his return from work, where he did exactly this, exclaiming, Rigby? Roosevelt? King? between kisses, to which you’d squirm and exclaim Sinclair! Your Eleanor! “Ellie?” “Hmm?” Your attention snaps back to the present. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” “I was wondering if are you guys busy tomorrow night?” Sophie’s warm smile hardly wavers. “Geoff says Andrew and your sister have some sort of business dinner, but I thought you and Shawn might like to join all of us for a home-cooked meal?” She laughs when her husband clears his throat pointedly. “Okay, a meal cooked in my parents’ house?” You look quickly at Shawn, whose gaze is warming you through like a spotlight. You’re reminded of his gentle, careful if you want to from across the table in Stockholm. You want to hold his stare, to pull on the thread of his silent reassurance until it’s a blanket you can wrap around yourself. Your brain is a little stuck on how easily Sophie had said you and Shawn, like you were a package deal, as though it were a given, a worn and comfortable fact and not a giant question mark on the lips of fans and splashed across headlines. He’s read it. You can see the truth behind his eyes. But you have no idea if you’ll ever be brave enough to broach the topic of your truly sad childhood, if you’ll ever have the strength to fill in all those awful gaps with every moment that Ava made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, picked you up when you were down, every moment you were okay, even if you weren’t. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” you begin. Your mother would be proud of your ability to maintain your manners, you think with a pang. “I’m sure you want to spend time with–” “You’re coming,” Geoff cuts in. He jerks his thumb at Parker, who winks at you. “You’re all coming. I’m going to slide you questionably legal beverages across the table, and we are going to talk about anything besides work and play Garageband on each other’s instruments.” You blink. In the corner of your eye, Shawn is grinning. “I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow, then.” Sophie claps her hands together. “Amazing!” She pulls Matty from Geoff’s grip. “Okay baby, it’s home time alright? Can you say bye to Uncle Shawn and Aunty Ellie? We’re gonna see them again tomorrow.” The boy waves obediently. “Bye bye!” “See you soon buddy!” Shawn wiggles his fingers and you mirror the action with a smile. Sophie’s eyes are tender when she reaches forward to Shawn’s cheek and plants a kiss there. “See you tomorrow, hun. I’ll get Geoff to text you the details, yeah?” You’re surprised when she reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze. “Can’t wait to catch up.” You can only squeeze back, however faintly, staring as the three of them disappear into the airport crowd. “So...Uber?” Kelsey says now, glancing at her sister, who nods. “Split the fare with me.” Parker holds up his own phone. “Punch in my number.” “You don’t have to–” He plucks Kelsey’s phone from her hand before she or Kristin can say more, beyond a familiar, “Park…” “Let me do a nice thing, huh Jones?” The light tech rolls her eyes, but there’s something pleased in it, too. “Don’t call it just yet,” Kelsey says. “I’ll be right back. Gotta pee.” Several minutes later, Shawn glances down at a message from Ava. “They’re just coming around.” “Your chariot awaits, your majesties.” Parker winks again when you snort. “C’mon, I’ll walk you guys out.” You’re still reeling a little from your first meeting with Geoff’s family, so you just fall silently into step with him, following behind as Shawn makes his way towards a set of automatic double doors. He sees them before you do, the assembled fans on the other side of the glass; there’s fifteen at least, gawking as though you’re a particularly exotic zoo creature, but that’s not what causes you to freeze up. “Sincl–” It’s the blinding light of a flashbulb. Shawn turns back to look at you with wide eyes. Parker’s hand on your arm yanks you back, pulling you aside, but not fast enough to fool the heads of half a dozen men holding cameras, swivelling in your direction. You hear the sharp exclamation of a girl just as the doors hiss closed. “Oh my god, she’s here.” Parker snagged Shawn too, somehow, or maybe Shawn turned back of his own accord, because a familiar cologne floats towards you. You want to inhale but you can’t quite breathe. “El?” “I’m fine," you lie automatically. Parker’s grip tightens. You can’t look at either of them, staring instead at their shoes and the off-white airport floor. Your heart pounds against your ribs. “Like hell you are.” Shawn’s phone pings. “They have to circle around cause of traffic,” he reports. “It’ll take a few minutes.” You’ve never felt Paul’s absence so acutely; he isn’t due in New York for two more days, before Shawn’s first promo appearance. You feel vaguely nauseous at the thought of walking out without him. “Go, Shawn.” His eyes widen when you nod out at the gathered group of fans without actually looking at any of them. “Go say hi.” “I don’t have to.” “You never say no,” you point out. You hate yourself a little for wanting him to start. “There aren’t that many of them, and Andrew’s still coming back, right? It’s fine. I’m fine.” Shawn deflates, looking torn. You want to muster a smile but you can’t quite manage it. “Are you sure?” he asks. No. “I’m fine.” You reach for the handle of his guitar case just to make your point. Shawn releases the instrument, but you can still see the frown around his mouth. His now free hand finds your wrist as he turns away. It’s just the tips of his fingers brushing bone, but it’s enough. You turn your back on the door as it hisses open to a chorus of, “Hi Shawn!” To his credit, Parker waits almost a full thirty seconds before he slides his phone back into his pocket and asks, “Wanna talk about it?” You just shake your head, shrugging. “What’s there to talk about?” The drummer gives you a long look. “You know you don’t have to be a hundred percent okay all the time, right?” Like a bobblehead, you just nod silently. “And you’d tell me if you weren’t? Like if we dipped anywhere below seventy percent on the Sinclair pep-o-meter?” “Pep-o-meter?” you echo, wrinkling your nose. “Why are boys so bad at naming things?” “Sinclair.” “Parker, honestly.” It would be exasperating, exhausting even, but the truth is that you’re grateful he’s here. “Yes. I would tell you. And I’m not, alright? I’m not under seventy percent okay.” His eyebrows doubt you. “So seventy one percent, yeah?” You make a face at him. “Seventy four at least.” He snorts. Faster than you would have thought, Ava sends you a message. Be there in 90 seconds tops. When you look up, Shawn is staring at you through the glass. You have no idea what he says to the line after he takes one last photo, but a girl at the end looks personally offended. “Hey– hey,” Parker begins when he notices you eyeing the doors. “Don’t worry, okay? Eyes over here. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Shawn returns, taking back his guitar with an automatic smile, though he looks worried. You need to get better at schooling your expression. “Still got your cap, kid?” Rustling and the sharp sound of a zipper reaches your ears. You glance up just in time to watch a pair of hands plunk Shawn’s Madison Square Garden cap onto your head. It’s too big; the brim slips low over your forehead. In a starkly tender counterpoint to his dark expression, Parker’s fingers reach out to pull your hair forward over your ears, shielding your face. “Give me your bag, Sinclair.” You give it up wordlessly. “Shawn you’re gonna walk ahead, kay?” “But–” “You have to be the first one in the car. You know the rules.” Shawn’s frustration crackles in the air like lightning. You want to speak but nothing comes out. Parker’s hand lands on your shoulder. When you finally pull your eyes all the way up to his, the drummer’s calm determination pierces a pinprick of light in your anxiety. “Don’t look at any of them, okay?” He squeezes. “I got you. It’s gonna be fine.” You swallow. Shawn ducks his head, his eyes dark and still worried. He doesn’t say anything, but you force yourself to nod anyway, a pretend reassurance. It’s only six people, really. Twenty at most, if you count the fans. But your heart still races. “Let’s go.” Parker wraps his arm around you, tucking you into his side. You’re grateful that his strength drags you forward until your legs remember how to move on their own. On the other side of the double doors, you find yourself holding your breath. For three endless seconds, everything stops. Flash. Click. Flash. Click. And then, as though you’re coming up from underwater, you hear the shouting. “Shawn! Ellie! How was the flight?” Your stomach drops all the way to your feet. Shawn stiffens ahead of you, but keeps walking. You glue your eyes to his back. You can barely see the dark SUV parked some fifty feet ahead of you as the paparazzi press in closer, buoyed by the cluster of fans calling Shawn’s name. He turns only to them and you hear his voice beneath all the others, “I’m sorry guys, but I can’t take anymore photos tonight. I’ll see you Friday?” Shawn’s already pressing forward again. You don’t dare turn your head to meet a volley of piercing stares. Flash. Click. Flash. Click. “Are you guys here alone?” “What am I?” Parker mutters, audible only to your ears, “Chopped liver?” You’d laugh, if you could. “Where are you staying?” “Is this a romantic getaway before the show?” One voice in particular keeps trying to get your attention, but you shrink away from it, turning your face into Parker’s chest. “How’s therapy, Ellie?” The distance between you and the car feels like it’s getting longer instead of shorter. Suddenly, Shawn has his hand on the door, flinging it open. Parker leans away from you to throw your backpack into the backseat. You see a flash of Ava’s face in the melee, her lips pressed together so tightly they’re white.  Flash. Click. Flash. Click. He’s ducked his head into the door; you’re nearly there, and then– “What’s your job on tour sweetheart? Does he pay you to keep him company?” Your knees almost give out. Parker goes rigid; Shawn whirls around. You’ve never seen anger like this, in the sharp, vicious twist of his mouth, blazing in his pupils, overblown in the rapid, too-bright light. He’s half in, half out, his neck twisting in a vain attempt to find the man who’d shouted the question at you, who continues to lob things that become more and more obscene with each passing second. Flash. Click. Flash. Click. “Is she a good fuc–” “Shawn.” You jump at Parker’s sharp tone, scrambling back as Shawn lurches to his full height. “Get in the car.” For the first time, you think Shawn might refuse, that he might push past his drummer to hurtle himself at the mob. Parker steps into his path, pulling you in too as he moves so you can hear, hissed and urgent and furious, “Don’t make a scene.” Shawn freezes, as though he’s been cursed into stone. The heat of his gaze pass over you, still cowering into his drummer, gripping at the older man’s sweater so hard your fist shakes. And then Shawn’s clambering into the car, sliding across the seat. You nearly trip as Parker presses you in after him. The door slams shut. All the voices are abruptly muffled, but the flashes still reflect painfully inside the car. Andrew peels away from the curb. You curl into yourself, and it’s not until all the noise fades away that you become aware of a wheezing, choked sound and realize it’s you. “El?” He sounds strained, like it takes effort to keep his voice even. You close your mouth. You close your eyes too, even as Shawn’s hand brushes your own. You jump again; he pulls away and you hate yourself. “S-Sorry,” you wheeze out, still working on controlling your breathing. You’re safe. You’re fine. Shawn doesn’t even seem to register your misplaced apology, which is the first sign that things are more out of control than usual. “I’m here,” he murmurs, so softly that you know it’s not for his manager or your sister to hear, though he doesn’t try to touch you again. “I’m here.” “You guys alright?” Andrew asks. You drag your head up; his expression is inscrutable in the rearview. You force yourself to nod again. Shawn’s gaze bores into you, but he says, “Yes.” He’s lying, of course, but no one calls him out. “We’re getting you a new credit card,” Ava says now. You can feel her desire to turn around and make certain of your condition herself, and you can’t decide if you’re more grateful or upset that she doesn’t do it. “I have no idea how these kids keep getting your flight information, but we need to make you a new account. I’ll see about keeping all your miles.” “They leaked the flight?” Traces of anger carve lines around his eyes, made even deeper as it’s flashed over by streetlights along the highway. You’ve never been afraid of Shawn, not like this. But it occurs to you how quickly everything could have changed beneath those cameras. Another wave of nausea rolls in your stomach. “That’s how those paps knew we’d be there?” Ava makes a noise, a non-committal hum. “More likely that someone else called them to the airport before we got here, but they probably stuck around after they saw a crowd waiting for you. I booked these flights myself. Unless an airline agent called them.” She’d never disparage his fans out loud, but her displeasure is clear. Shawn’s jaw locks. You close your eyes again. The car ride passes in tense silence as the long stretches of darkness are soon replaced by the glaring, ever present brightness of New York and awful traffic. You don’t remember it being this busy last time you were here, boxed in on all sides by other cars and cabs and brave bikers. You didn’t think you were claustrophobic, really, but you feel slightly suffocated, even with the more than foot between you and Shawn in the backseat. “How long?” Shawn asks. He sounds impatient, which is just as unusual. “Ten minutes, maybe?” Ava’s tone is almost preternaturally calm, meant to soothe, but it does very little to the stiff line of Shawn’s shoulders, like water breaking on rock. There’s something about his anxiety that makes it easier to face your own; you slide your hand carefully across the seat, until your pinkies touch. He exhales slowly, leaning back. You’re safe. So why can’t you relax? You get the answer sooner than you’d like. “Ava.” Even Andrew is tense now. “Do we have a plan B?” Shawn sits up. The car stops. You hear it before you see it: the slightly muted roar of a crowd, audible even above the omnipresent city hum. It blocks nearly the entirety of the hotel’s entrance, which is flanked by even more photographers than at the airport. Stuck on the driver’s side closest to the curb, you don’t even have time to cover your face before flashbulbs descend. Your body jumps before your mind can even really register your fear. Somehow, you lock eyes with the man right in front of the glass. To your surprise, he look sorry; you’re blinded and he disappears. “Fuck.” A seat belt buckle clangs. Shawn’s arm reaches to pull you back, followed by the rest of his body as he practically crawls over you to the other side of the car, nearly knocking his cap off your head. Instead of shrinking away, he pulls himself upright and makes himself bigger, a sudden shield from the forward onslaught. Shawn’s left hand slides down your arm, behind his back, to your fingers; his right covers his face. He squeezes and doesn’t let go. “Close your eyes.” Screams outside evolve into a chant: “Shawn! Shawn! Shawn!” He leans back; you press your forehead between his shoulder blades, curling your free hand into the edge of his sweater, pulling your shoulders up to your ears to make yourself as small as possible, but it doesn’t stop the shaking. “It’s okay,” Shawn says, a constant, murmured refrain. You can barely hear him over the clicks, persistent like a swarm of insects. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.” Andrew speaks up. “Shawn…” “I’m not getting out.” “They’re blocking us in, I–” “We’re not getting out of the car.” You flinch; Shawn’s grip on your fingers tightens. “It’s not happening.” You hear it again, that strain. “Please don’t make us go out there.” There is a very long pause. Your ears ring. We. Us. You know without having to look that a silent, furious conversation is happening in the front seat. That claustrophobic feeling presses harder. “Keep your head down,” Ava says at last, brokering no room for argument. “We’re leaving.” There’s a whir as the automatic window rolls down; the shouts become nearly deafening, but your sister’s voice rings like steel when she snaps, “Get away from the car if you don’t want to get hit.” “That a threat, lady?” The window rolls back up. You have to focus on Shawn’s heart, audible even against his back. The light from all sides of the car makes even your closed eyes ache; it feels like you’re spinning. Andrew revs the engine. You chance a glance out the front of the SUV just in time to watch men scatter like tiny rats. The car rolls forward at a crawl until you’re free of people, and then Andrew leans on the gas; jarred from all that noise to stark silence, from a standstill to motion, your stomach lurches up into your throat, pulling up bile. “Okay?” Shawn asks. He’s breathing a bit too fast, still. You manage to shake your head. “I need–” You struggle to put the words in the right order– “Out. I need out. Gonna be sick.” “Ava,” Shawn calls, alarmed. “Hang on just a second,” she says. “Turn–” “Got it.” Andrew’s voice still sounds strained, though you’ve left the hotel behind. “Just hope we weren’t followed.” The car’s barely stopped before you��re whirling around, stumbling out of the door so quickly you nearly fall, hands and knees, onto the pavement. The white painted lines of the parking lot shudder beneath the neon gas station light, and then still; you heave yourself towards the concrete stop and the patch of grass and weeds just beyond. The airline dinner comes up just as hands land on your back. “You’re okay,” Ava hums. “Just get it out.” She smooths back your hair; the feeling transports you back to every flu you’ve ever had, recalling how as the years passed, your sister’s hands went from fluttering and unsure to calm and certain as you both got older and she gained more of a handle on watching over you. You’re not sure if you’ve ever told her, how grateful you are. It feels unreal, that this is your life now. “I’ll get her water,” Andrew says from somewhere behind your back. “Want anything?” “I’m fine,” Ava replies as you retch again with a groan. Shawn’s phone rings, loud in the otherwise silent and empty parking lot. “Hello? Oh hey– wait, sorry? I’m...yeah. Hey Andrew, wait up!” It’s stupid probably, but some part of you is glad Shawn is not longer around to watch you puke your guts out as his footfalls catch up with his manager. There’s only so much vulnerability one can take in a single evening. When your stomach is finally empty a minute later, Ava eases you down onto the stop. “Deep breaths,” she says as you close your eyes, which still burn from the flashbulbs. “Something cold’ll help.” Jerking your head up is a terrible idea. You blink away the spinning to find a man standing over you. There’s a large camera in his hand, his expression oddly familiar. It takes a moment longer to place it: the sorry. “Pardon?” Ava places an arm around you like a shield. The man gestures at you, at his own face with one large hand. “Something cold, over her eyes. It’ll help with the dizziness from the uh,” he holds up his camera, “flashbulbs.” Your sister’s hand curls tighter around your arm. The hair on the back of your neck rises. “Right,” she says, her tone carefully even. “Thanks for the tip.” This guy looks young, you think. Somewhere between Charlie, youngest in the band at twenty-two and Geoff, eldest in his mid thirties. Before he can speak again, a familiar voice cuts through the dark. “Ava!” You’ve never appreciated how long Shawn’s legs are, how far his strides get him in so little time, because in the half second it takes you to find his eyes across the parking lot, Shawn is only a few feet away, Andrew just behind. He’s carrying a ginger ale and a small sleeve of Ferrero Rocher in one hand. From his other swings a bag of gummy bears. Your favourites. Andrew has three bottles of water. The man steps back. “Can we help you?” Andrew asks calmly, cutting across Shawn’s stony glare. “No,” the paparazzo replies, holding up his free hand as if in surrender. “Just wanted to help.” He glances from you to Shawn and back again. “You might want to get going. This is a regular stop after the hotel for lots of us. You probably don’t want to get caught out here.” Andrew and Ava share a look. “We’re just leaving.” Ava pulls you to your feet; Shawn looks like he wants to help, but rocks back on his heels at the very last moment. On the other side of the car, you accept a bottle of water from Andrew, leaning down to swish your mouth and spit into the grass, momentarily out of sight. You smile at him gratefully; Shawn’s manager puts a firm, steadying hand on your elbow as you pull yourself inside. “Hang on.” Shawn drops the sweets and drinks onto the seat, turning back towards the man still standing there on the concrete with the other passenger door open. Andrew is still on his feet too. “That photo you got. At the hotel. Have you put it out yet?” The paparazzo shakes his head. “How much is it worth to you?” There’s a beat of stunned silence.

“I dunno man, couple hundred at most? Who knows what’s already been put out from tonight. I mean–“ He looks over Shawn’s shoulder at you, quickly then away. “It’s not a great shot. You’re barely in it.” Shawn’s already unfolding his wallet. “If I give you…two hundred and fifty right now, would you delete it?” The man’s mouth falls open. “I– I mean–” He sighs, shuffling awkwardly. “I can just delete it dude, really. It’s not a great photo and…” He looks at you again. “I feel kinda bad. That wasn’t a great scene, back there.” “I don’t want you to lose money,” Shawn replies. He holds out several bills. “Here. Take it.” Apparently sensing that trying to argue is futile, the photographer accepts. “If you look here, I can show you.” He extends his camera towards Shawn. After a moment and some audible menu buttons, he says, “There. It’s gone.” “I really appreciate this,” Shawn says, holding out his hand. You’re reminded of the tableau at the airport with Mr. McKelvey. “I didn’t catch your name.” “Scott.” They shake. “I guess I’ll see you around, then.” “Do you have business card or something?” Scott scrambles into his pocket; Shawn glances back over his shoulder at you with a small smile. “I’ll see you, Scott.” The other man is just staring as Shawn gets into the car and closes the door, Andrew following suit. You lean down to put your forehead against your knees, but the image of Scott’s slightly confused surprise lingers. “Hey.” Shawn slides across the seat, touching your back. “C’mere. This is gonna suck for a second.” It’s like ice touching your temple; you jump, but his calloused fingers brush over your eyebrows and forehead until his palm, cold with condensation, covers your eyes. Shawn guides you into his lap, sliding your hair off the back of your neck. His thumb presses in circles into the divot behind your ear. It feels like you can finally breathe again.  “Okay?” You nod into his hand, groaning a little, half pain and half relief. Shawn chuckles under his breath. A few minutes later the dizziness finally abates; you sit up cautiously and pull away from him. Not because you want to. Shawn just brushes your hair back, silently searching your face. “Where are we going?” you ask before he can speak, before he can act on the guilt in his expression. He offers you a Tums instead, the omnipresent mint flavour from his backpack. You chew carefully at a red light, leaning back into your seat. Shawn doesn’t move, though. He puts his left hand on your knee, stroking warm half moons with his fingers. “Somewhere else.” * “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Shawn looks up from his attempt to pick out the green and red gummy bears from the bag in the half-dark of city night. Does it ever get properly dark here, you wonder, or will you never be rid of this phantom glare behind your eyelids? “Do what?” You take a breath and lower your voice. “Pay for that photo.” He tilts his head. “I’m– are you mad? Did you not want me to?” Ava catches your eye. You glance away, back to Shawn, trying to sort out your feelings. “No, I um, I appreciated it.” “But?” Shawn coaxes gently. You pick at the label on your water. “I just– I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to, do that. For me.” The swallow pulls your hand away from the bottle. “El, I–” “We’re here,” Andrew says suddenly. You turn to look out the window, a little ashamed at how grateful you are for the reprieve. In an effort to do away with the feeling, you lean forward and pluck a gummy bear from Shawn’s other hand. He lets out an indignant, laughing, “Hey!” and you just twist back to push the door open. What feels like a back alley borders on being poorly lit by two lights high up on the buildings on either side; the SUV barely fits. There’s no one around. It seems too loud for this time of night, but you remember. New York. “Are we about to be kidnapped?” You’re only half joking. Shawn slings his backpack over his shoulder, offering you yours. Ava slips out, texting intently, but Andrew is still sitting in the driver’s seat. “Aren’t you getting out?” you ask, and he shakes his head. “We’re not staying.” Andrew nods at your sister. “This is just the rendezvous point for you two.” “What do you mean rendezv–…” You trail off just as another large car swings into the alley, momentarily blinding. You shield your eyes, nerves prickling until Shawn steps calmly up beside you. A backlit head of blonde hair pokes out of the passenger side window. Taylor’s wide grin has your water slipping out of your shocked hands. “Hey guys,” she says. “Hop in.” (part fourteen)

[writingismyhappytime]

Good Little Dreamer (Part 12)

Chris Cerulli x Reader

Warnings: Language, Violence, Smut

You're terrified.

You don't know where you are, you just woke up in this place, and it's dark. You vaguely remember falling asleep after your bath, but that's it.

Where are you?

Where's Gretel?

What the hell are you wearing!?

You frown down at the black dress you're wearing, it cinches much too tightly at the waist and it's itchy --- you weren't wearing this before. It's definitely not a dress Christopher would pick, he has much better taste.

You twist, realizing you're sitting on a cot of old blankets on the ground, and you can hear dripping water from somewhere. There's a horrid smell, like a room that hasn't been opened in a long time, or hasn't seen fresh air either, and it's cold, you're shivering.

Your eyes flick over to the candles sitting in a basket, giving off sad amounts of light, just enough to see by. There's a gimpy chair beside them, the seat cracked and splintered, but that's the only furniture in the room... which is incredibly claustrophobic. The walls are gray, like concrete, and there's just a door that leads out, no windows or anything.

You shift nervously, slowly getting to your feet, your hair falling into your eyes. This place seems oddly familiar, but you can't place it, which you might honestly be grateful for. It makes your skin crawl, and it's so small!

Hmm.

Should you try the door?

You know you're not dreaming, you can obviously tell the difference between that world and reality, which makes it more disconcerting.

What should you do?

Your eyes flick up, but you don't see your shadow. That's odd, it usually never leaves your side. Well, wherever it is, you hope it finds Christopher and leads him to you, or Gretel! Either one of them would be nice about now!

You feel safer when they're around.

You curl your arms around yourself against the cold, rubbing the black sleeves made of cheap material, very rough as well. You're used to your soft dresses at this point, his silk sheets and soft pillows.

Not this.

Whatever this is.

You tense as you hear a sound, as if a lock is being opened, and you take a hasty step back as the door begins to swing into the room. You press your back against the wall as a woman steps into the doorway, her black hair done in a braid over her shoulder, face very plain and weathered; she's wearing a black dress similar to yours, the end reaching the floor, covered in dust and grime. There's something about her eyes, though, the yellow color reminding you distinctly of Gretel's.

And Roma's?

Who is this woman?

"You're awake. Roma is waiting for you, come." the woman gestures with her hand for you to follow her, but you'd rather jump out of a window then go anywhere to Roma.

Oh.

Oh does this mean you were kidnapped!? Oh no! What about Gretel? Did they take you while you were asleep? This is why you shouldn't sleep anymore!

"Girl, come." The woman gestures much more forcefully this time, the skin around her eyes creasing as she huffs at you. You hesitate only for another second --- what's the point of disobeying? What's that going to get you? Maybe if you just comply, you'll get through this.

You hesitantly take a step forward, and the woman looks satisfied before turning sharply, starting down a long hallway. Her hand is raised, emitting light, but there's no candle or flashlight, it's just --- bright.

Well that's cool, can you do that?

Your eyes flick back and forth, and you notice that the concrete walls are lined with other doors made of metal, and it's absolutely freezing! Why are there no windows? Without the woman, it would be completely dark, you wouldn't be able to see anything.

Why does it smell like dirt?

The woman doesn't speak to you as you walk, she just leads you down what seems like a labyrinth of halls and rooms, lifting her skirt as she takes a curving stairwell up to another level, the metal loud beneath every step. You cringe as you follow her, trying hard not touch anything, to make yourself as small as possible.

Christopher.

Where is he? Why did he let this happen? What if they hurt him? What if he's stuck in a dream, and can't wake up? These are dreamwitches, they're supposed to be his weakness --- this is all your fault. He'd be perfectly safe if he hadn't gotten mixed up with you!

The woman glances over her shoulder at you, and you notice the gray inching through her roots when you step close, the lines around her lips. Your eyes trail to the exposed part of her neck, noticing the white scars that dip into her collar, but they seem unnaturally straight. How did that happen to her?

The woman opens a door in front of her, and you can hear the screech of the hinges as it opens inward, revealing some kind of office. You notice dented metal filing cabinets, a silver desk, bookshelves lining the walls. You can hear the dripping sound again, there's a bucket in the corner to catch water, and the cold seems even worse in there!

You take a step back with a shiver, holding yourself tighter.

"Go inside and wait."

Uh, no thanks.

You shake your head, eyeballing the room; it looks like a disaster zone, and there's no telling what mold might be growing in there! Where is that leak even coming from!? And again, no windows!

You yelp as the woman grabs your shoulder roughly, apparently not in the mood to bargain as she shoves you forcefully into the room, slamming the door behind you.

You stagger into the desk, causing the cheap metal to move a few inches across the floor with a horrid screeching sound. You can hear a lock being closed, so apparently you're not going to be able to leave the room, either.

You scowl as you glance back, straightening slightly.

Yep, it's frigid.

And you're freezing.

Can you see your breath? It's too dark to tell.

There's a single lamp on the corner of the desk, one of those that you can bend in all sorts of directions, with several layers of dust. It's giving off enough light to see by, but the room mostly just looks abandoned and unused. There's not even a chair to sit in, and the furniture is just junk.

Christopher would never allow his home to look like this, he has more pride.

You hope Roma doesn't take forever, you'll freeze to death.

You rub your hands together as you move to one of the cabinets, gingerly pulling on the metal handle. It comes open, but it's empty, as are all of the other ones. The desk doesn't have any drawers, and the papers on it are waterlogged or actually sticking to the surface, the writing illegible --- does anyone even use this room?

There's nothing of use in it.

Not even a pencil.

And why is it so cold!?

Your fingers are beginning to ache with it, no matter how hard you rub them or hug yourself, but you're hoping this is as unpleasant as it gets. You're just hoping Christopher finds you before too long, that he comes roaring in on a big black hellhound like an anti-knight in shining armor and saves the day!

Because, well, if you're being honest, you don't even know how to save yourself. Your powers are laughable, even with your shadow, you have amnesia, and you've been pampered from the moment you woke up. You don't know how to even defend yourself in a fight! How do you punch someone? Are you supposed to tuck your thumb in your hand? Or not?

You exhale heavily in aggravation.

You know you should be more frightened, that you should be shaking in your bones out of fear not cold, but, well, you're just annoyed. Maybe that's your tactic of not letting the situation get to you. You don't want to acknowledge that Roma might hurt you, kill you, imprison you and never let you out, you might never see Christopher again ---.

You turn as the door behind you opens, your eyes zeroing in on the slim man walking through it.

He looks like a hobo.

Roma's black hair falls around his shoulders, but it looks freshly washed, his jaw stubbled. His eyes are that freakish yellow color, and he's wearing a green, patched coat that looks more appropriate for someone living on the street. His brown shirt and dark jeans have also seen better days, and the more you look at him, the harder it is to believe he's someone to be afraid of.

"Ah, (Y/N)!" Roma says brightly as he sees you, his voice the same as it is in your dreams. "You're awake, good."

Ahuh.

You narrow your eyes at him as you turn to face him --- he's shorter then you in reality, which for some reason gives you satisfaction. You can look down at him, even if it's just by a few inches.

"Right, you barely remember me," he sighs, his gloved fingers sinking into his pockets. "I know this must seem as quite a shock to you, dearest niece. That demon was showering you in presents and had you imprisoned in his home."

You weren't imprisoned.

You could always leave if you wanted, right?

"Well, still not the talkative type? You never were," he clucks, pacing forward to the other side of the desk. You don't answer, just watch him. "You must have inherited that from your father, whoever he was. As well as your height." he glances up. "Nevertheless, you're still one of us. Do you remember being raised here?"

You shake your head.

Nope.

"Your mother really did a number on your mind. Always such a clever, spiteful... witch," he grumbles, and you have the sense that's not the word he wanted to use. He leans his hip again his desk, gazing at you. "I know you must be worried, being brought here so suddenly. Sorry about that. We just couldn't let that demon make a whore out of you, it looks as if he hasn't bitten you anywhere, so that's a relief."

You frown.

Did they... inspect you or something?

Your cheeks heat; well that's embarrassing.

"I should've known he would have you all these years, the bastard. He decimated our kind, you know, to destroy our magic because we were a threat to him," Roma scowls, his face darkening --- he looks so young, probably in his early twenties, but there's this air about him, something that lets you know he's much, much older. How did he manage to stay so young for so long? Is there magic for that --- well, Gretel does it, so of course there is.

But why do their eyes turn yellow?

"We've been hiding underground for a while now, at least the last century. Americans became so worried during their last world war, built tons of these things underground in case of bombings. Came in quite handy for us," the warlock glances around fondly. "Not much to look at, but keeps us safe and that's all that matters. Demons wouldn't think to look for us here."

Demons didn't care enough to look, actually, but whatever.

How do you get out of here?

"Why am I here?" You finally ask, growing impatient. He's getting on your nerves, you're growing restless --- you want to go home!

Roma raises his brows. "You're here because you're one of us, you're my niece. This is where you belong."

You don't like that answer. You're not going to stay where it's cold and damp and toxic fumes permeate the air constantly! Underground bunker your ass --- it's more like a tomb!

"I know you think this place must be bad, but it's not. It's better then being a whore to a demon."

"I am not a whore!" You say indignantly, your hands curling tightly. "Christopher isn't ---."

"He's poisoned your mind, he took you from us and kept you as his. He destroyed our culture and now he was keeping you as his pet."

Oh he fucking did not.

"I am no one's pet," you snap, shifting. "It was never like that. He took care of me, he did everything he could to make sure I woke up from a coma, he ---."

"Made you complacent, and then fucked you, right?" Roma interrupts you, catching you off guard as he stands. You take a step back as he approaches you, his gold eyes glittering. "He fucked you, made you think he cared about you, but you don't exactly see him coming after you now, do you? Why isn't he here, beating down the door to save you? He's a demon, (Y/N), he doesn't give a shit about you!"

(Y/N)? Is that your name? You almost like Esme better.

"You don't know anything!" You retort, standing your ground when he stops in front of you. "All you want is that stupid shadow thing that I have! You don't care about Christopher, or even me! You just want more power!"

You're not sure why you say the words, it's as if you can't stop yourself.

Roma gives a humorless laugh. "You've got quite a mouth on you, does the demon like defiance? Must make it more interesting. And yes, I do want your shadow, not that it's addition will make much difference considering how little power you have yourself --- you took more after a human then you did us."

You glare at him.

Why does everyone have to keep rubbing that in?

"Pity, really. When it was your mother who wound up pregnant, I was most surprised. She was always so against expanding the clan until we knew we were safe." Your uncle shrugs. "Whatever. She should have just let me take your shadow when you were a child."

You're glad she didn't.

You really want to kick him in the balls, you suddenly have an overwhelming urge to do so and then make a break for it. Would he really expect it? Probably not.

Your eyes flick to the door, which he left wide open, so you know it isn't locked. You're not sure where you could go, but there has to be somewhere to hide, right? Is there like some secret hatch you could throw open and find some sunlight? Like in one of those spy movies Gretel likes? She's let you watch a few of them, but they always seem overly violent and dramatic in your opinion.

"You're the reason I was in a coma for ten years," you say after a moment, turning to look down at Roma again, glaring. "She put a curse on me to keep me away from you."

"Yes. Rather dramatic, isn't it? She was always one for flare. Doesn't seem like it did you any good, you're still here now, aren't you?" He smirks at you, satisfied; to finally get back at that bitch of a mother you had, it pleases him to no end. "I'm still going to get what I want, and she's dead."

Dead.

Right.

"Did you ---?"

"Kill her? Yes. I found her in some shitty town, I tried to get your location out of her, but she wouldn't tell me. Probably didn't know, now that I think about it," he rubs the back of his neck. "She probably ditched you somewhere, in your coma state, thinking you would be safer that way. Either way, she failed. And she's dead, which is unfortunate."

You think you're going to be sick. How can he talk so casually about murdering your mother in front of you? He's talking about it like it's nothing, like torturing his own sister and killing her is just another Tuesday.

How can he be like that?

"What is wrong with you?" You demand, horrified. "How can you ---?"

"How can I be this way? Why don't you ask your goddamn demon lover." He snaps, startling you with the vehemence of his tone. "How he fucking hunted us for centuries, made us loose our culture, our history, turned us into rats scurrying to find sanctuary! I lost everything because of that fucker and his family, and I've not survived this long to let him get the upperhand now. Do you know how many years I've been alive, (Y/N)?"

You don't like that name at all, you decide.

"Centuries, almost as long as he has. I was just a kid when he started hunting us, and our kind has been running from him for nearly seven hundred years. Him. That very creature you've been spreading your legs for, (Y/N). You have no idea how angry I was when I realized he had you," you tense as his fingers suddenly brush against your cheek, closing around your chin and forcing you to look at him.

"You can act belligerent if you wish, he's probably brainwashed you at this point, made you feel bad for him. Doesn't matter. All I want is your shadow." Suddenly he seems more intimidating, the more you look into those vile yellow eyes of his. You try to strain away from him, but he won't let you, and instead you find yourself backed into the dusty wall, shrinking away --- it's automatic for you to cower from him.

How awful was he to you as a child for you to still feel this way?

"What use is my shadow to you?" You strain away from him the best you can.

"Shadows are messengers, the conduits we can use to amplify our magic. With most of our kind dead, they've turned rabid, become lost in the world and therefore useless. Your shadow, however, is still able to be used. If I have it, I'm much stronger, I can fight the demon."

Fight the --- goodness gracious.

"Christopher wouldn't have come after you if you'd just left us be," your hand closes around his shoulder, shoving him away from you and causing him to stagger. "He doesn't care anymore."

"Well, he should. Does he think after what he did to us we'd just let it go?" your uncle glares at you. "Do you think we've forgotten!?"

Well, apparently not.

You don't know what to say.

"I'm going to get your shadow, and you can either relinquish it to me, or I can take it from you. And if I take it from you, it's not going to be pleasant."

Like... painful?

"I don't even know how to give you my shadow even if I wanted too," you mutter, trying to keep a fair difference between the two of you."I don't even know where it is!"

Roma snorts. "Pathetic. You don't even know how to control your own magic, but I suppose that does come with memory loss." You cringe as his fingers wrap around your arm. "We'll draw it back then, one way or another. It always comes running to the witch when it thinks she's in danger."

Danger!?

Your eyes zero in on his face, and you refuse to budge when he pulls on you. You're not going anywhere with him! Is he going to torture you? Hurt you? What exactly does he mean by danger!?

"Don't be a difficult child, (Y/N)." He warns you, but you cut your eyes at him. Yep, you definitely don't like that name at all, it's horrible and you're not even sure you can pronounce it right. Romanian you suppose, considering that's where your clan is from.

Ironically you don't even know how to speak the language. All of that is lost to you and you honestly don't care to recover it. Perhaps it's a good thing your memory is gone, maybe your mother gave you a blessing instead of a curse.

"I am not a child." You say flatly, digging your heels into the cold concrete. It makes sense that you're underground, the dampness, the chill of the air, how there's no windows --- your clan really is living like rats, and that can't be pleasant. They shouldn't have to live in fear, they shouldn't be lead around by some dickhead like your uncle!

No wonder your mother left.

"You are in years, (Y/N). I am ---."

"A thousand years old, I got it. You're ancient, and bitter, and a freaking asshole. Do you really think bullying is how you're going to get your way?" You demand, bristling. "When Christopher and Gretel get here ---."

Roma snorts, his lips twisting. "Gretel's not coming for you, my dearest, and neither is that demon. They'll never find this place."

"Yeah? You wanna bet? Do you really think as powerful a demon as Christopher is ---?"

"Do you really think a demon like that gives two shits about you, some girl he's only had the pleasure of fucking for a few weeks? No, you overestimate how important you are."

"No I'm not!"

"Pine after him as you will, he won't find you, he never bit you. You're mine again, (Y/N), and this time I'm not going to let you go." Roma's grip tightens until it hurts, his fingers digging deep into your wrist. You take a step back, but he jerks, forcing you to stagger forward --- he's strong to be so little. "I'm going to take your shadow, and I'm going to use your magic. You don't have a choice!"

Like hell!

You scowl at him, your fingers curling into fists --- again, you wish you knew how to punch where you wouldn't hurt yourself. That would really come in handy about now!

"Besides, it's been two days. If your demon hasn't come for you yet, he's not going too. He's probably relieved someone took you off his hands," Roma sneers, just to rub it in worse. Actually, from how the demon sounded over the phone, he was enraged to learn you were gone, but you are his pet. Demons are all known to be incredibly possessive and jealous, they prefer to break their toys before letting someone else have them.

You are no exception.

You've grown up well, you're a pretty young woman, you have your clan's black hair and glittering eyes --- well, eyes they all used to have, before they had to find ways to retain their youth so their culture didn't die. Roma is tired of having to make sacrifices every fifty so odd years just so he can stay young, but he thinks with enough power he can retain his immortality indefinitely, without any extra effort on his part.

There used to be a witch clan who knew the magic to retain youth indefinitely, but they disappeared decades ago, along with their books. If he could find one of their descendants, he could probably find the books, but it's as if all record of them has been wiped --- irritating.

So now he's stuck with you, the spitting image of his sister in her prime. Oh how just looking at you brings back memories, and the urge to wring your neck. Well, maybe he'll get the opportunity, you do need an attitude check.

"He's coming for me and I know it." You say firmly, refusing to believe otherwise. Have you really been gone two days? How long were you asleep? You find it odd you didn't dream at all, that it was just darkness for you. Is that why Christopher couldn't reach you? Or does he have to be touching you to feed?

You've never asked.

"Well, if he wants you so badly, it's because of your pretty face." Roma says thoughtfully, and you press your lips tightly together as he cups your jaw, studying you. "Maybe by the time he gets here, you won't be so nice to look at. He can have you back so long as you give me your shadow, but if you can't even call it back, we'll have to force it."

"Force it?" You don't like how that sounds.

"Mmm. You'll see. Now be a good girl and follow me."

"No way!" You try to wrench away, making a lunge for the door, but his grip is like iron. He snorts as he jerks you back, slinging you so hard you hit the filing cabinets, knocking them over as you fall.

"Such a brat," he grumbles as his fingers curl through your long hair, and you gasp in pain as he wrenches your head back, pain thudding in your knees where you fell on them. "Am I going to have to teach you how to behave all over again? Tsk tsk. You need a lesson in obedience. You seem to have forgotten."

"Fuck you!"

Your head turns with the force of his backhand, and you feel your lower lip split instantly. Your hands immediately rise to your face in horror, tears welling in your eyes --- shit! He actually hit you! But why are you surprised?

This used to be your life, didn't it?

This was the life your mother tried to take you from.

This is the life that found you again.

But no, no you don't want it! You don't want to live like this again, you simply refuse! You won't go back to this, you'd rather die!

You thrash as Roma tries to grab you, shrieking. He growls as he fights you, trying to get you under control but failing. You manage to crawl away from him, backing up on your hands as quickly as you can as he stalks after you. You hold you breath as he grabs you again, but you bring your leg up sharply, catching him right in the special bits.

Roma curses immediately, instinctively letting go of you to grab himself in pain --- did you really just kick him in the balls!?

Jesus that fucking hurts!

You're pretty sure Gretel told you to do that once, that it would even work on a demon, if even then just to stun them for a couple seconds. You scramble to your feet, staggering as you make it to the door. You grab it, dragging the heavy metal behind you and slamming it shut, trapping Roma in the room.

Your heart is beating so hard it's as if it's going to jump from your chest, there's a roaring in your ears that makes it impossible to hear anything else! You have to find a way out, you have to hide, you have to get Christopher --- you have to do something!

You won't belong to anyone, you won't let them hurt you or make you suffer anymore pain, you refuse! You're going to get out of here if it's the last thing you do!

Roma won't get your shadow, and he won't get you either!

~~~~~~~~~~~

"She's hurt." Christopher worries. He stands in Angelos castle, staring down at the map. He knows exactly where you are, but not how to get to you.

His suggestion to have the hellhounds just start digging didn't go over well.

"Well of course she is." Ghost is annoyed. Where is his obnoxiously calm and collected brother? Christopher is known for his coldness, and it's quite irritating he's getting so panicky.

"I found the blue prints for the bunker they're in, it was built during the sixties by some paranoid nut. Two ways in and out, here and here," he gestures at the table where the blue plans are laid out, calculating. "We can each pick an entrance, swarm it, let the hounds go in first."

"You boys always let the hounds have all the fun, don't you?" Red grumbles where she stands beside Angelo, his arm absently hooked over her shoulder.

They're all downstairs in Angelos office, gazing over the plans. Red refused to be exempt, and Angelo simply didn't want to do anything but she insisted --- she might not like Christopher, but your situation sounded painfully similar to hers and she's determined to help.

Horror is resting upstairs oblivious, his fairy at his side. Ryan and Joshua agreed to stay back just in the event and hold the castle, which Angelo doesn't think is necessary.

He also doesn't want Red leaving, but he's not sure if he can convince her to stay. In her condition, it's too dangerous, what if something happens? He couldn't stand the thought of losing her.

Not again.

"Do you have any suggestions then?" Ghost addresses the witch with a quirked brow, crossing his arms; she distinctly doesn't like him either, although he reminds her of a world old scholar trapped inside a twenty-something's body. She heard he used to be quite a dickhead, going through pets until they were used up, flaunting his money and laughing as he snapped necks --- until he found his mate and suddenly was grounded.

"Why not cause a distraction, draw them out of their compound?"

"Who's to say that won't drive them deeper?" Christopher frowns. "They'll know it's me coming for her."

"What's so special about this girl, anyhow?" Angelo complains, piqued. "What makes you want her so badly you're willing to do this? She's just a pet, isn't it? A pathetic excuse for a witch?"

Ghost glances at Christopher under his lashes; he hadn't mentioned you're a dream witch to anyone.

"She's mine, and no one else can have her," Christopher says flatly, clenching his hands. "So I'm going to destroy every goddamn person in that bunker, and none of them are to come out."

"What if there's children?"

"Not even then," Christopher can't let another dream witch live, he just can't. What if they keep coming after you because you're one of them? No, he'll never find peace if they live, he has to kill them, all of them, in case they want revenge. He'll never be able to let you enjoy the world if one of them is still alive, not where they can haunt your dreams or his.

He wants to take you out and show you the world, it's what you deserve.

Red looks horrified, stiffening under her demons arm. "You can't kill children!"

"I won't allow any of their kind to breathe another breath," Christopher returns, not about to be swayed. "They won't stop until they have her, they'll hunt her, there'll never be any peace," he mutters, more to himself then anyone else at the table. "We'll never be able..."

Red frowns; is Christopher losing his mind? What's this mumbling?

Christopher turns away, running his fingers through his hair as he begins to pace. Worry is gnawing and eating at his bones, and he's not resting, he can't focus --- until he has you in his hands again he won't!

Is this guilt? Is that what he's feeling?

"Send Christopher in first, since they are expecting him," a new voice wheezes, and everyone looks over.

"Oh, you're finally alive again," Angelo comments, and Gretel sends him a vile look as she hobbles into the room.

She's died a few times before, each time unpleasantly, but so long as she's not beheaded, she'll come back. It's just each time takes a little longer, her body doesn't recover quite as easily. She's not as sturdy as a demon after all, she wasn't meant for this, but she's not going down easy, either.

Blood magic is so useful.

Every time she renews her youth, she ties another's life to hers --- should she bite the dust, the other life takes her place, letting her come back. It's not perfect or humane, but she doesn't intend on greeting Hell wide open just yet.

"Send him in, let them be focused on him and the hounds, then the rest of you start," Gretel says in a raspy voice, her hair looking dull as it hangs on either side of her face. She just now got her vocal cords straightened back where she could speak, she hates it when someone breaks her neck --- fucking Roma, thinking he's the shit all the time. She remembers seeing him around in the witch world, but she never realized what he was.

Oh she's going to kick his ass.

"You don't think they'll expect the rest of us?" Ghost asks, and Gretel shakes her head, tying her red hair up into a bun, cracking her knuckles as she stretches; Red eyeballs her curiously.

"No. Why would a demon put so much effort forth for a pet?" Gretel shrugs. "Roma won't be expecting it. It's been two days, he's probably getting relaxed now."

"Esme just woke up, maybe forty five minutes ago," Christopher offers, his hands slinking into his pockets nervously. "We need to take that compound tonight before they do anything to her."

"Why do these witches want her so badly?" Angelo inquires. "Did you steal her from them?"

Ghost looks at Christopher; they can't exactly keep it from Angelo forever. Gretel quirks a brow as she crosses her arms, not about to spill the beans, that's on the old demon.

There's an awkward silence.

Red looks around curiously, then, "Is she a blood witch or something? Is that why you want her?"

What other kind is there that is so hated? But with how the older demons attitude is towards that type of witch, Red can't imagine him caring if she lived or died.

So.

What gives?

"No." Christopher answers after a moment. "She's not a blood witch. She's a dream witch."

Red has no idea what that is. She looks blank as Angelo riles at her side in disbelief.

"What!?"

Ghost chuckles, leaning back on his heels.

"Some of them survived I supposed. They took Esme." Christopher shrugs, tapping his fingers nervously. "I need to finish killing them all before they take their wrath out on her."

"But she's a dream witch?" Angelo is incredulous. They spent centuries hunting those witches to supposed extinction! It was a wonderful bonding experience for the older three, actually, probably why they have such a, well, did have such a decent relationship.

Why would Christopher take one as a pet? An accident?

"... yes. But she's mine, she doesn't have a harmful bone in her body." Christopher defends you, frowning. He's taken care of you and dotted on you for the past ten years, you adore him and you'd never intentionally hurt him; maybe accidentally set him on fire because you can't control your powers, but that was only his sleeve.

"She's quite meek," Gretel agrees as she rubs her neck. "But we need to get to her quickly, she'll say something Roma will not like."

No doubt.

"So I storm the place then," Christopher sort of liked the sound of that plan. "I distract them with the hounds. Once I'm inside, you guys come in."

"Why should we?" Angelo grumbles, earning a pinch from Red.

"Shut up, Angelo, we're going."

"We?" The demon looks miffed. "There is no we. There is me. You're staying here."

"What? No way! You'll need my magic!

"We have Gretel." Angelo smirks at the ancient witch, who merely glares at him. She still hates him.

"She doesn't have magic like I do," Red says stubbornly, crossing her arms as she steps away from Angelo to stare him down, annoyed. Her dark red hair frames her face, and her eyes narrow.

Well.

Gretel purses her lips, and Christopher glances at her.

"We might need powerful magic, considering our opposition," Ghost says carefully, knowing it'll infuriate Angelo but not caring. "She'll be perfectly safe."

"No!" Angelo simply refuses, she's in too fragile a state! She has to stay in the castle where she's safe or he'll lose his mind the entire time worrying about her! He won't be useful at all! Actually, he refuses to be useful if she's in any danger!

"She won't be any safer here, Angelo. Once Roma realizes we're all at the compound, it's very likely he'll come after her --- especially if she sleeps," Christopher adds cleverly, Angelo's face darkening. "She must come with us. It's all or nothing."

"This is such bullshit." Angelo grumbles, but drops it at that.

"Good, so we have a plan." Gretel rubs her throat, her voice starting to return to normal. She's a little woozy, but vengeance gives a great adrenaline rush. "We know where they are, there's a portal only a few miles, but it's heavily used by demons, so they'll notice our arrival."

"Let them," Ghost dismisses the concern. "It's no business of theirs anyhow."

"But don't you think they're going to wonder about witches at your side?"

"Well, I'm fucking one of them, so no." Angelo rolls his eyes, his hand absently going to press against Red's back, as if just to make sure she's still close to him. "It's clear who our lovers are."

"Well, you don't exactly hide it, that's for sure." Ghost snorts, earning an ill look. "You always have to be the most dramatic, don't you?"

"Fuck off, Devin."

"Don't tell me to fuck off, you ---."

"Now is not the time!" Christopher scowls, both younger brothers quieting. He's so very tired of their squabbling! If it was possible for him to have gray hairs, that's all he would have! He leans forward, pressing his palms flat against the surface of the table where their plans are laid out. "We're all going, and that's that."

"Well, what's the plan when we get there?" Angelo demands, Red's hand slipping through his, as if it to remind him to hold his attitude in check. "We get in there and start slaughtering everyone, how do we even know what your witch looks like?"

Christopher hesitates; he hadn't thought about that. He doesn't have a photo of you to share, he's never worried about things like that with his long memory. Ghost has seen you, but Angelo ---.

"She's very tall, long black hair," Gretel describes you in detail. "Her height gives her away."

"Oh, so just don't kill any tall witches with black hair, got it." Angelo rolls his eyes. "Now how long is this going to take? I don't have faith Joshua nor Ryan have the capabilities of not burning my castle to the ground while I'm gone."

"It shouldn't take long," Christopher just wants you, he doesn't care about anything else. He can sense your fear, it's doubling each second they waste, gnawing at the edges of his mind. It's like he feels it, but he knows it isn't his, that pinching in his chest, you're so afraid you can hardly make yourself go.

What are they doing to you?

Trying to strip you of that shadow, useless as it is?

Is Roma hurting you? What would he do to his own niece?

What he did to his sister? Blood obviously means nothing.

"These witches are old," Gretel says after a moment, yellow eyes flicking about the room. "They make sacrifices to stay young, keep their youth through the centuries. Roma dates back to the original time before their slaughter, so they're going to be powerful, him most of all. You need to watch your back, be careful. If they get in your head, it's going to be very difficult to fight them."

Ugh, Angelo remembers, they suck.

Christopher straightens, half turning as he senses ---.

"Well! Look at all of my boys, gathered under one roof," their father says brightly as he enters the room gracefully, his eyes curious. All of his sons stiffen, staring at him as if he's unwelcome, how rude. "It's been a while since I've seen all your faces at once."

"Father, what are you doing here?" Ghost frowns as David comes to stand beside him. David grins, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light of the room. His blonde hair is brushed and styled like he's back in the eighties, with thick makeup around his eyes, gold rings in his ears. His lavender jacket is long and sweeps around his ankles, making his entrance very dramatic, and, Red thinks, overly done.

She doesn't like him anymore than Angelo does, he's so flighty and he doesn't care about his family so long as he doesn't have to bother with them. Ghost is obviously his pick out of all seven of them, but that's because Ghost is also an energy demon and telekinetic. She just... David just doesn't look anything like his boys, although Horror did inherit his blue eyes from him where all the others have such darker colors.

"Well, I've come to help." David replies, crossing his arms. He looks very proud of himself, which is of course suspicious. "My sons need me, don't they? Well I'm here."

"But you're... never here."

"You boys are always getting yourself into one mess or another," David dismisses, waving his ringed hand in the air. He looks at Christopher. "And your big brother cleans it up. I'm never needed."

"But you think you are now?" Angelo is incredibly annoyed, why does his Father look like an eighties throwback with huge hair and overly colored clothing? The demon hated that era, all the humans tasted like hairspray!

"For Christopher, yes," David tilts his head slightly. "Plus, I like his girl, she's so..."

"Don't even say it," Gretel snaps, glaring openly at him. "You have your own motives, don't even pretend you're here because it's out of the goodness of your black heart. What do you want?"

"You should watch your tone with me, witch." David says lightly, spearing her with his different colored eyes. "Lest your spells stop reviving you."

Christopher doesn't care why David is there, but his help... unfortunately, his help will be appreciated. Christopher is honestly nervous going up against that type of witch again, he remembers how weak and pathetic he was under their control before. David saved him then, when his son needed him most, and at least he's here now.

"This is our plan," Christopher says before anyone else can start arguing, gesturing at the map on the table. David looks interested, tapping his lips thoughtfully.

"So you're just going to storm in and start killing everyone?"

"Basically. Except anyone who's tall and black haired." Angelo snorts.

"Oh, she's very pretty, very young. You'll know her when you see her, she reeks of Christopher," David shrugs his shoulders, causing all eyes to go on him.

"Wait, you've seen her?" Angelo huffs; is he the only one who's been left out? Red squeezes his hand painfully tight, and he sends her an ill look. Why is he always getting left out of things? Of course David would come to Christopher's fucking rescue, but he never helps Angelo, he wouldn't help him save Red! Of course, Angelo never asked him for help, but if David knew he didn't show up to offer assistance either!

"So how is Richard doing?" David asks, momentarily distracting from the rescue plan. He glances upward, he can feel his sons pain, it's actually one of the reasons he came. "Is he going to make it?"

"He should be fine. A few days of recuperation, TLC, he'll be on his feet." Red answers when no one else does. "Joshua and Ryan are staying with him while we go."

"We?" David sends her a curious look. "In your condition?"

"What condition?" Ghost frowns, seeing Red actually whiten. What's going on there?

"Can we focus?" Christopher demands, clenching his hands against the table. How can he save you with this band of argumentative misfits? They can't get along well enough to accomplish a single thing! He's going to have to do all of this on his own!

Useless!

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, boy, we'll find Esme." David pats his shoulder in an attempt to lightly soothe. "Why don't we all get going if the plan is complete?"

Yes, let's.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You hide behind a large concrete beam, scrunching yourself down as small as you can manage. So far this hiding place is sufficient, everyone searching for you has walked past and not noticed you. You're so very cold, though, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you shiver continuously. It's dark, and damp, and that rancid smell of mold and mildew is making your nose burn.

You've been here for hours now, waiting and waiting, hoping Christopher is coming for you. You don't like the damsel in distress idea but you don't have much of a choice, either. You can't get out yourself, they'll kill you after they get your shadow and you just woke up!

It's not fair!

You shudder, curling your knees tightly to your chest; it doesn't help you're pressed up against the cold walls, either, and you could really use a blanket before you get pneumonia. This is probably the worst experience you've had since you woke up, it's really not cool.

Or it's too cool, actually, but whatever.

Christopher, where are you?

~~~~~~~~~~

Christopher frowns, staring down at the metal door in the solid earth that's keeping you from him. It's several inches thick, made of steel, as if that's going to be an obstacle.

Of course the compound is located in the middle of the woods, thick trees make it hard to navigate, and it's pitch black outside, clouds obscuring the moon. Christopher isn't sure if there are magical alarms, if the witches have set up any kind of defense, but that doesn't matter; he's going to tear it all down.

He glances over as a hellhound pads silently to his side the red veins of its body glinting beneath its thin black fur. It's moves towards the steel door, the rest of the pack prowling through the forest, slinking through the trees, long talons digging into the earth as they patrol.

Christopher can already sense thoughts, those of his brothers, his father, Gretel where she stands loyally at his side. She does seem genuinely worried about you, he supposes after taking care of someone for ten years you get a little attached.

He wonders if she's ever been attached in her entire life.

"Can you sense her?" Gretel asks, her red hair pulled back on her head, gray hairs starting to form in the long strands. Dying takes a lot out of her magic, and she'll start aging again rather rapidly; once this is all over she'll have to go make another kill. "Is she close?"

"No, the earth is too much." He can't find you just yet. "Once we're inside, I'll be able to locate her easily enough."

He shifts, and the hellhound at his side moves toward the door at the silent command from its master. Gretel winces at the sound of bending, shredding metal as the hound starts tearing at the steel door with its talons, ripping and peeling it back.

"You could have just opened it with the handle," she grumbles, and Christopher shrugs.

This way sounded more intimidating.

He wonders if the witches can hear the door being torn apart, if the sound echoes beneath the ground, he really hopes so; that was the effect he was going for.

He watches impatiently as the hellhound finally manages to rip the door from the ground, sending it sailing into a tree and snapping it in half. He barely hears it crash onto the forest floor, his eyes gazing down into the darkness below him.

"Well," he says, "I like the fact they've already put themselves underground."

"And we don't have to do it for them." Gretel chuckles, cracking her knuckles. Christopher gestures with his hand, and the hellhounds begin slinking down the hole, their talons tip tapping against the metal floor below. Christopher peers down curiously, his eyes easily adjusting to the darkness.

"Well, there's a ladder, and --- screaming." He's pleased. So his hounds found someone already! How satisfying. "Shall we?"

"Age before beauty."

The demon rolls his eyes before taking a step forward into the darkness, not bothering with the ladder. He lands easily, and turns, catching Gretel and effortlessly sitting her down beside him.

She frowns into the darkness, her yellow eyes gleaming; she can't see a damn thing.

"It smells awful," she grumbles, disliking the earthy, musty smell assaulting her nose. She hears a slow drip of water from somewhere, the faint sounds of a hellhound casually tearing into flesh, some errant screams.

"Where is Esme?" She asks impatiently, wanting nothing more then to get you and get out. She feels trapped like this.

"This way," Christopher begins moving forward, Gretel following him curiously. She glances at the metal walls, frowning as the scent of blood hits her nose.

"Roma probably anticipated you coming, he might be prepared." The witch reminds warily, stiffening. "Hexes, traps, he's not down here just for shits and giggles, this place is warded to the nines."

"Not against my hounds apparently."

"No, especially against your hounds." Why are demons so conceited and arrogant? "They've not gotten past the first few halls, they're just prowling back and forth." Gretel can sense the enchantments, they're done in blood along the walls, fresh too. "Follow in my footsteps."

"Follow you?" Christopher scoffs as he looks down, eyes narrowing. "You don't know where we're going."

"Then you tell me. But hell, if you want to go in front, be my guest." Gretel gestures forward in annoyance. "Step right into the fucking spike pit for all I care, but don't say I didn't warn you first."

Christopher seethes a moment, then relents, taking a step back. Gretel's right, he can't be foolish about this. He needs to let her go first, that way he doesn't make a mistake, he can't be impulsive, he's not that kind of demon anymore. He's learned to restrain himself, to be calm and calculated, and he can't let that crack. He needs to be that way for you, so you can be safe.

Gretel steps forward, seeing a hellhound at the end of the hallway, scratching at the walls uselessly. She hates the way they look, their skin like molten lava, as if the fire is just begging to burst to the surface and consume everything. Their talons are sharp, but not near as bad as their teeth --- they're pieces of hell made solid, controlled only by demons, or those whose blood they've ingested.

They're frightening, but they're still animals, of a sorts.

"Well?" Christopher demands when the witch in front of him doesn't move, and she scowls at him over her shoulder, her black shirt clinging tightly to her skin as she raises her hand, already starting to look wrinkled.

She snaps her finger.

Lights immediately envelop the hallway, and Christopher flinches away from the brightness, raising a pale hand. He squints, suddenly able to see every magical seal on the walls in bright red, and they pulse bright before going dark.

"Well, I disabled the hexes in this hallway, but it's going to be a trying process going all the way through." Gretel states, slightly worried. Of course she made it look easy, but she's weak, she's not sure if her magic is strong enough to get her all the way through the compound if every hall is like this. She'll turn into an old prune and have to hobble, and that'll just make her a liability. She wants to save you, you're too pure and precious and she doesn't want the world to take that away from you.

But how can she do it if she's ninety-nine years old?

"We brought Red along for a reason," Christopher says after a moment, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. He doesn't have to worry about mortality, but he supposes the ever looming threat of death coming at you as your body withers must be concerning. "Can you teach her how to disable the traps?"

"Of course I can. But she's on the other side of the ---."

"I'll text Angelo, tell him to bring her here. Conserve your strength for the big fight." Christopher admittedly is rather fond of Gretel, and she has genuine worry for you, which makes him not want her damaged either. Besides, you're very fond of her as well, it would break your heart if she's hurt and you'd be upset with him.

He doesn't want that.

~~~~~~~~

What's all that noise?

You hunker down even deeper behind the pillar, terrified as you hear screams erupt throughout the compound. Not typical, surprised screams --- no, these are absolutely awful, gut-wrenching, pain-filled screams that make your stomach queasy and your head roar. You've never heard such terrible sounds, and you never want to again!

Your hands clamp against your ears, and you press hard, trying to keep the sound out. What's going on? What's happening?

You sniffle, your cheeks hot with tears you couldn't hold back. You're shaking from the cold, parts of you must be frozen, and you don't know what to do! You don't have any sort of direction down here, you don't even know where to start to look for an escape!

It just makes you want to cry more!

Where's Christopher!?

You suddenly hear laughter, dark, merciless as it echoes against the wall. You don't recognize it, and you flinch as you hear something slam against the metal walls, some kind of strange tip tapping.

Tip tapping?

Hmm?

You stiffly lean slightly, just enough to see around the pillar.

A hellhound!

Oh, a beautiful, beautiful hellhound!

You've never been so happy to see them in your entire life!

If a hound is here, that must mean --- Christopher!

Relief swamps your body immediately, your fingers dropping to curl around the pillar as you start to rise. You hesitate, but the moment the hound sees you, it's at your side. Heat billows off its black fur, and you look down, seeing its red veins and muscles pulse beneath the skin, its soulless eyes gazing at you for a few seconds before turning away.

Oh so warm!

Like being near a furnace!

You'd never noticed their warmth before!

"Ah! Is that another one?" someone asks in an amused voice, and your head turns.

Wait.

"Angelo?" You say in shock, staring at the black haired demon as he prances down the hallway. He recognizes you instantly, two hellhounds flanking him, one limping. He tilts his head a little, his finger rising.

"Oh, I do know you," he says, looking annoyed. "You're that witch Christopher said he was training with Gretel. Are you the precious one we're here to get back?"

"Christopher is here?" You gasp, your face brightening. You step forward, your black dress dragging through the damp behind you. "He came?"

"Well, yes, obviously. Why the hell else would I be in this tomb?" The pale demon shrugs, black eyes glancing around. You're grateful to see him, although you're still wary around him. His pale skin is inked so heavily you can barely see the color, and the white shirt he wears is open at the collar, sleeves rolled up but splattered with red.  

"Damn. Welp, I told him I would find you first." Angelo looks smug, the flickering lights glinting off his silver rings as he tugs his phone from his shirt pocket. "Now he owes me one. You know you're a lot of trouble, girl."

"Esme." You correct him, looking down the hallway and not seeing his frown; no one corrects him! "Where is Christopher?"

"On the other side of the compound, of course. Where he's useless." Angelo leans back on his heels. He's impervious to this witchy magic, he just keeps letting the traps on the walls go off to see what happens. It's been drawing all the attention his way, which he supposes is a good way to keep the witches occupied.

He let Red go with Christopher to help on that end, she's probably safer that way anyhow. He's worried about her, her condition, what they're going to do. He's pleased of course, but he never really thought it would happen, or what the consequences would be, of what he's done. Well, they've done. Okay, so it takes two to tango of course, but really, Red is always so eager in bed and he just can't keep his hands off of her, it's no wonder that she's ---.

You eek suddenly, flinching down and covering your head as the wall above you explodes in a shower of stone and earth. The hellhound is immediately snarling, covering you with its body and taking the worst of the blows before it makes a mad dash down the hallway, it's growls echoing off the walls as it attacks.

Angelo reaches for you, grabbing your arm roughly and dragging you to your feet, not caring if you trip over your stupid, ugly dress. He holds you beside him in annoyance, tucking his phone away.

"I'll take you to Christopher and we can get the hell out of this place. I hate being underground." He grumbles, noticing your red cheeks and bloodshot eyes; have you been crying and hiding behind that pillar the entire time? You're not much of a fighter, are you, not like his Red.

When he went to her rescue, she was already killing her captors.

You just sat around and waited for rescue.

You hastily wipe at your eyes, and he notices the bruise on your cheek, Christopher won't be pleased about that.

"Well, let's go this way," Angelo tugs in the direction he came, seeing the hellhound currently trying to nip at the ankles of a stubborn witch. "Keep your eyes down, don't look up. These witches like to get in your head."

He remembers now why he liked killing them so much.

You do as told, letting Angelo drag you behind him, his grip never laxing on your arm. You struggle to keep up with his longer strides, shivering still, able to see your breath. You can hear fighting, your heart races at the sound, your palms are damp despite your chill --- did Christopher call in the entire cavalry?

You glance over, seeing your shadow is suddenly clinging to your shoulder. Oh, there it is! You were wondering where it was hiding, you haven't felt its presence. Did it manage to find you thanks to the demons? Was it locked out? You wish you knew how to utilize it properly!

You feel so useless.

"And --- well." Angelo stops so abruptly you walk into him, staggering as you try to keep your balance. You stare down the hallway, noticing there's a gaggle of witches this time, all of them looking very angry. "So we should go right."

You start to go, but Angelo is suddenly hissing.

"Fuck," he snarls, finding he's trapped to the spot. He grinds his teeth, seeing the hex on the floor too late, and now he's bloody well unable to move! He struggles against it, but it's going to take a few minutes to break, and those witches are steadily approaching with vengeance in their eyes. He hopes they get close enough so he can rip them out.

"Keep going!" He barks at you when you hesitate, unsure. "Two lefts and four rights, that's where you'll find him. Well, don't just stand there, you useless girl! GO!"

You flinch as he yells at you, but you do as told, gathering your stupid skirt in hand as you make a mad dash down the hallway, one hellhound staying at your side. Your black hair flows behind you as you run, your chest constricting. You take a sharp left, and then another, your heart beating so hard it makes your head rush!

You almost feel dizzy, no, you are dizzy! You stagger, falling hard into the wall, a weakness suddenly overtaking your limbs and causing your legs to fail. You sink hard onto your knees with a gasp, your hair flowing forward to curtain your face.

What the hell ---?

There's suddenly a sharp pain against your temple, so unexpected you shriek in pain, your hands rising. Your eyes widen in horror as you realize your sight is going, that everything is turning black, you can't see, you can't move, you, you ---!

~~~~~~~~

Christopher breaks the witches neck before she ever sees him, letting her corpse fall to the ground. He steps over her, his eyes flicking through the empty rooms he passes, prowling the halls.

He separated from Gretel and Red, left them back a few halls ago, they were too slow! Angelo said he found you, and Christopher can't keep waiting for them to disarm every single trap! There's no time!

You're in pain again, something must have happened!

He can feel his skull throb, and his pace increases until he's nearly a blur, weaving his way to you. He has your blood, he knows exactly where you are, if he's just a little faster --- his speed is enough to keep the hexes from getting him, and he can feel them go off behind him, if he's any slower he'll be wounded.

It's just a chance he's going to have to take for you.

He pauses abruptly outside one solid door, his black eyes zeroing in on it. He can smell you, your blood, it calls to him. No, really, he can smell your blood, you're bleeding. Whoever hurt you is going to pay dearly.

His pale hand rises, and he lightly pushes on the door, the hinges screeching as it slowly begins to swing open. The lights above him are flickering, buzzing, irritating his senses, but that's just because he doesn't like flashing lights, he hated disco.

"Roma," the demon spits the name as if its acid, thoughtlessly stepping forward into the room, not caring when the door slams shut behind him. This room is the largest he's seen, very long, with tables and chairs that are pushed against the wall, easily able to fit fifty people inside.

Which Roma, apparently, has. Witches line the walls, males and females, and the demon notices that he hasn't even seen a child, not a single one since he's been inside the bunker. All the witches are washed out, probably due to not seeing the sun in so many years, with sunken eyes and haggard faces.

Roma stands at the far end of the room, his hands in his pockets, looking like he's just crawled out of a dumpster. Everyone in the room has yellow eyes, they gleam just like Gretel's, so it's useless to guess any of their ages. They could be as old as he, sacrificing others so that they might live. Christopher doesn't doubt that Roma doesn't have safeguards in place should his life end, so he's going to have to make sure he decapitates him, removes his heart, makes it impossible for him to reanimate.

He cracks his knuckles.

"Give me Esme." Christopher demands, black eyes centered. "Give her to me!"

"You want my niece so badly? You can have her, once her shadow is mine." Roma replies, smirking. "Although she won't be so pretty when I'm done with her."

The demon seethes, his entire body bristling at the words. He grinds his sharp teeth, clenching his fists as he starts forward furiously. "You keep your goddamn hands off of her!"

"Ah, ah! Not so fast!" Roma clucks, black, dirty hair framing his face as he twitches his finger back and forth in a mocking manner. "Do you really think I wasn't prepared for you to find us one day?"

"I don't care!" Christopher growls, but he finds he's slowing down, as if something is holding him back, or he's having to push forward. He fights against the hold, his eyes flicking up the tiled ceiling, noticing the line of hexes and curses drawn in fresh, dripping blood along every crevice. Roma had his witches redecorate, eh? Well, Christopher will make sure every wall is decorated in their blood before the night is over.

He curses as he's forced to come to a stop, just far enough away where he can see you but never touch. You're slumped on the cold tile floor behind Roma, your black hair hiding your face, but there's blood staining the delicate strands. He's not sure what awful dress you're wearing, but you're hurt, you need him! You're also conveniently unconscious, but your shadow is hovering at your shoulder, flicking back and forth so quickly it's hard to see.

It's panicked.

Roma looks at the demon curiously before glancing at you, the niece he never expected to have. You look just like your mother, and your eyes make him nostalgic for the past, before they all had to do what was necessary to keep their culture alive. All these witches rely on him to keep them safe from the demon, to keep them living, and everyone has had to make sacrifices for their cause.

Perhaps if he kills Christopher now, it'll be the end of it.

But Roma is no fool, he knows two other brothers are with the demon, frolicking through the compound and setting off all the traps. The witch doesn't expect that to hold them, just slow them down long enough for Christopher to die.

It's not easy to kill a demon, only true decapitation will do the trick, but Roma isn't afraid of gore. He does want to make it slow, however. Perhaps he should hurt you first, make the demon watch as you scream in pain --- taking your shadow is only the first awful thing he's going to do to you.

"How long before his brothers reach us?" He asks of one of his witches.

"They're both trapped in the south wing." someone replies, their voice weak and breaking. "The wards are holding."

Good.

Pleased, Roma stretches, sighing happily.

"I've waited centuries to see your face again, Christopher." he says, sulfur eyes focusing on the demon as he thrashes against his invisible hold. "Now I want to see it in pain."

Christopher curses as he feels chains wrap around his wrists, although he can see nothing. His arms lift until it hurts, stretching out straight from his shoulders. He strains against them, flexing his hands into claws as he bears his teeth --- he'll rip through Roma's throat!

"Ah! Now, let's not get too excited." Roma shakes his head, clucking. "You're not going anywhere, not until we're down. My witches also want to take a little out of you. You see, you've made us rats, scurrying around below the earth. None of us are very happy with our way of life." he paces slightly, glancing at all the unhappy faces. "Want their pound of flesh, for lack of better wording. You don't mind, do you?"

Yes.

Christopher very much minds.

"I don't care about them or their goddamn suffering," he snaps, wrenching hard on one side and feeling the invisible ties give slightly. "I just want Esme!"

"Well, there she is," Roma tosses his hand in your direction where you lie, unmoving. "You want her so badly, get her. Go to your whore."

Motherfucker.

How dare he call you that!

Christopher glowers, his eyes completely black and reflecting the room around him. He thrashes wildly again, but it doesn't seem to do any good, just tires him! He's never felt a hold like this before, and he vaguely wonders if it's just in his head, if the witches really have anything holding him back. He glances around, but all of their thoughts are guarded from him, he can't ready any of them, not like he can you.

"If you give me Esme, I will leave." He forces himself to speak, hating that he even has to say the words. "All I want is her, I won't take another life. But if you don't give her to me, I promise you, I will personally rip every throat out of every man and woman in this room and bathe in their blood. You can listen to their screams."

"How predictable. You think threats will do anything at this point?" Roma scoffs, although he does notice the ripple in his people. No one really wants a fight, they just want to be left alone, but he can't pass up this opportunity, it'll never happen again! "After all you've done to my kind, what makes you think we believe you?"

"A demons promise is final. I cannot break it." Christopher says, exhaling heavily. His wrists are aching now, his skin feels as if it's burning, but he still can't move! His gaze is on you again, seeing you stir just the slightest, and you seem to be alright except your head wound. He wishes he could heal you, kiss away your tears and feel you in his arms.

Until he can hold you, he won't be content.

"No, I don't believe you. I'd much rather torture (Y/N) and make you watch then make a deal." Roma shakes his head, dirty hair flying. "And look! Sleeping Beauty awakes!"

You feel sick, woozy, like you're going to throw up at any moment! Your entire body is aching and you're not sure why, you can't even push yourself up off the freezing floor!

Roma chuckles as he kneels beside you, roughly shaking your shoulder until you groan, rolling over onto your back. He tugs on your hair before cupping your face, fingers digging into your cheeks.

"There, there, sweet girl. If you just give me your shadow, we could avoid all this pain you're going to feel," he clucks. Did he forget to mention he's already started that process? How convenient the damned thing showed up finally, now he doesn't have to chase it down, or risk losing it into the void. He can absorb it, but you have to be on the brink of death first, your connection has to sever with it.

Your eyes flutter, and you're so pale, there's no color in your cheeks.

"Esme!"

Christopher?

Your eyes focus, and they immediately find the demon fighting to get to you. He looks so angry, his teeth bared, black eyes and blood splattered across his clothing. Oh, and that's your favorite shirt on him too, the color compliments his normally hazel eyes.

You thoughtlessly reach for him, struggling to get up, to move, to ---.

Roma catches your wrist, amused. Look at you, struggling up against his magic like you're going to stand a chance. You're more human than witch, he would have discarded you years ago if he'd had you in his care, you're of no value to him.

Perhaps also one of the reasons your mother hid you, hoping you would at least live.

Stupid woman.

He hopes she knows what she's done to you by trying to help you live. He shuffles, reaching into the inside of his coat, producing a tiny blade. He hums to himself as he turns your arm over, listening to you cry out in pain absently as he draws the knife down your wrist, slicing open your vein easily.

You're shrieking, and your blood immediately begins to splatter against the floor in a pretty waterfall effect, your hand spasming. Well, he think he might have caught a few nerves there, oh well.

He lets your arm drop back to the floor, and you immediately curl on your side, big alligator tears in your eyes as you start to sob. Your hand closes against the wound, as if that's going to make a difference, and your uncle rises to his feet in satisfaction.

There, that'll speed the process.

"You see, Christopher, I don't need her alive. And I never necessarily said you could have her back with her heart still beating, either," Roma turns, brandishing the blade stained with your blood at the demon. "That's no fun. Besides, all of this is completely avoidable."

"I'll rip your fucking head off!" Christopher bellows, feeling heat explode through his veins, his vision going red around the edges. He can feel your pain, sharp and horrid in his wrist, and it's starting to feel like there's needles in his mind, pressing against his skull, trying to break him. The witches are chanting, their voices are in unison, but he can't make out the words, he never can with magic. He's growing tired, it's draining him, how the hell are they keeping him from you!?

He's never felt power like this, never encountered it!

Perhaps it's the fact there's so many witches, that their ages rival his own and therefore their power is impressive. He refuses to think he doesn't stand a chance, he refuses to think he can't save you!

"Oh, hear her crying?" Roma taunts, boldly strolling forward; the demon hasn't been able to break free yet, so he's feeling much more confidant then before. He's been perfecting that holding spell for centuries, he's pleased to know it works so well, especially when his finest are chanting it repetitively. "Don't you wish you could stop it?"

"Fuck you!"

Roma laughs, and it's such an ugly sound.

Christopher's eyes narrow as Roma stops a mere inches away from him, his face tilting as he looks up.

"You killed my parents, did you know that? I watched you twist their heads like bottle caps. I was only fourteen." Roma comments, thoughtfully twisting the blade in his hand. "My cousins, my aunts. Others of my caravan. We never bothered you, you had no reason to come after us."

Christopher had every reason.

"No, you are a coward, as all demons are." Roma decides, not impressed with the sight he sees. Christopher's face haunted him for a long time, made his mortal sleep a nightmare. It doesn't hurt anymore, he's just angry, there's a deep, bitter rage inside of him that has only grown more gnarled and blistering as the years go on. Anything Christopher has or wants, Roma will destroy it, he will torture the demons mind until he's nothing more than a shell of himself.

Death is too kind.

"Christopher," you rasp in pain, finally managing to sit up. Blood is pooling in the floor around you, you can feel it drain out of you. Is this really how you're going to die? In this ugly dress and in this dirty floor? Your eyes focus on the demon you care about so much, unable to even feel your own fingers.

I'm so sorry.

You're sorry you got him into this mess, that you've caused him so much trouble. His life was probably okay before he found you. He was... he was...

Your eyes flick around, seeing no one offers to help you, that their lips just keep moving. You're one of them, you were raised with them, and they don't even care what's happening with you. Why don't they challenge Roma? This isn't right! You're an innocent, you've never done anything wrong to them!

You're supposed to be part of their clan, aren't you?

How could they be such cowards?

You hate them, all of them! They deserve to suffer! They all deserve what's coming to them!

You're having a hard time breathing for your tears, and your quivering has nothing to do with the cold. Blood stains your temple, trails down to your cheek, your hair drying against your skin. You're going to die of bloodloss, of all damned things.

Christopher looks at you helplessly.

He gasps in surprise as pain suddenly assaults his shoulder, black blood oozing against the silver blade buried in his flesh. You shriek immediately as Roma stabs him, as if that does any good.

"Why don't we see how you look with a thousand cuts, hmm?" Roma's eyes are bright, he's enjoying himself. "How does Mr. Cerulli look when he's cut all to pieces? Will every cut heal, or is it going to scar? I'm curious. Why don't I slice every inch of flesh for every life you've taken from my kind?" the witch demands through his teeth, the blade cutting cleanly against Christopher's cheek and causing him to hiss. "Starting with this face of yours."

"Stop it!" You gasp, trying to move, trying to get to your feet! No! No, they can't hurt him! "Don't ---!"

"Hush!" Roma hisses over his shoulder, you're not going to ruin his fun! "Or I'll do worse to you, you little bitch."

You suddenly choke, your blood soaked hand rising to your throat in surprise! Your eyes widen in horror as you begin to cough, crimson decorating your lips before splattering against the floor.

"Esme!" Christopher cries, barely noticing the next slice against his arm, the sharp jab in his ribs. He's horrified as he looks at you, as he feels your weakness, he doesn't even notice his own pain! He doesn't feel the cuts, he doesn't give the black blood any attention as it soaks into his clothing, splatters across the tiled floor below him.

His entire focus is you.

You're dying, your blood is seeping out of you so quickly, what if he can't save you? What will he have to do to make sure that you live? He will give his life to Roma if he thought he could ensure your safety! But he knows Roma won't make a deal, no matter what it could give him. He's too set on torture, but you, you're innocent, you're his family!

You want them to stop hurting Christopher! You have to make it stop, you have too! Even if you die, you don't care! You can barely take a breath, you can barely inhale, there's such a pain, a burning in your lungs you don't understand! You're choking on your own blood!

Your eyes flick to your shadow, at its frantic dance around you. It's so small and dainty, and you almost feel bad that you're going to die and it's going to lose you all over again? Would it mind doing something for you, though?

Can it save Christopher?

You have a tendency for heat, don't you?

If you can only ever do one spell, let it be this one!

Your eyes focus on Roma suddenly, and the shadow stills behind you. This is all your fault, and you won't let anyone hurt your demon, not ever again! Even if it kills you, you're going to stop this torture! You hate being the damsel in distress, you hate being weak and useless, you hate being unable to even defend yourself!

You hate Roma!

You hope he burns.

Roma bellows the instant he sees the flames ignite up his sleeve, the force of the spell taking him by surprise and causing him to stagger. He furiously tries to pat it out, but it's burning a bright orange, unrelenting as it makes its way up his shoulders, the scent of burning hair assaulting his nose. He turns enraged eyes on you, seeing your shadow has almost tripled in size where it hovers behind you, multiplying your power threefold.

Dammit!

"You fucking bitch!" Roma barely manages to get out of his jacket, tossing it to the ground. "I'm going to break your neck!"

You give him a red-stained smirk.

You've never been so satisfied to burn someone alive before, but at least... at least you got one good spell out. You're starting to feel woozy again, and the edges of your vision are so blurry. You're very tired, and so cold, you just want to lie down and close your eyes for a few seconds, your surroundings don't matter anymore.

"Esme!" Christopher thrashes wildly, angrily, and the hold gives just the slightest again, some of the witches stuttering in their chant. He can't let this go on a single second longer, he could lose you! You're weeping openly, suffering, and it's his fault! He has to save you, he has to get to you, you're the love of his life!

It's as if something shatters in his mind, as if someone breaks a mirror and the pieces scatter.

Christopher's bellow shakes the room as he wrenches free of his bonds, as he frees himself. The witches shriek as piece of the walls and ceilings threaten to collapse, as they lose all control over the demon, the enraged sound echoing throughout the entire compound as he moves.

Roma only has time to turn in surprise before Christopher's hand is reaching through his chest, his hand clamping around the beating heart. Roma gives a strangled gasp, his yellow eyes going wide.

"You're going to suffer for what you've done," Christopher breathes, black blood coating his lips, his eyes reflecting Roma's expression back at him. "But for now, I need you out of the way."

Christopher squeezes, the witch's heart exploding inside his chest. He gargles for a few seconds, his blood pouring past his lips before the demons discards him, letting him fall to the ground, interest lost. Roma twitches for only a few seconds before he grows still, his eyes still wide in shock.

Bastard.

He doesn't spare any of the other witches a look, he just goes straight for you. You've fallen over onto your side, and your eyes are open but there's no spark in them, there's no glitter.

"No, no, no," he gasps, falling to his knees beside you. He gathers you up into his arms, your blood already soaking into his clothing. He grabs your wrist, his lips thoughtlessly sealing against your flesh. He runs his tongue across the open wound repeatedly, not tasting your blood, just trying to stop it!

"Esme!"

~~~~~~~~

Gretel is horrified where she stands.

Angelo and Ghost together manage to pry open the door to the room where the eldest brother is, he wasn't hard to find considering they heard his rage probably all the way into the next state! Ghost has never heard such a primal sound before, filled with so much anger that it makes even his heart beat faster!

They know Christopher is hurt, they can feel it, and both brothers strain before the entire door comes off its hinges. Ghost tosses it out of his way, and he strides purposefully into the large room, his hounds flanking him.

Hmm.

Witches all over the place, one dead in the floor bleeding out, and there's Christopher leaning over someone.

"Esme!" Gretel gasps, and she shoves past the demons, making a break for where you lie. She runs to where you are, her silver hair falling loose of its bonds; she's used so much magic, she feels ancient, and if she doesn't rejuvenate soon her age will catch up with her! Her face still looks mostly young, just wrinkles around her eyes, she noticed earlier with dismay, but that's a price she's willing to pay to get you back.

Red comes to Angelo's side, her hand curling nervously around his arm.

Well.

She, Angelo, and Ghost stand in the doorway, a large amount of witches flanking either side of the room, and she's not exactly sure what to do next. Should they kill all the witches? She didn't expect so many of them to still be alive, not with how many they killed outside!

And where the hell is David?

She saw him only once earlier, but he's disappeared, completely useless!

Bollocks.

"What do we do?" Red whispers, pursing her lips. "Should we kill them all?"

"Not unless they attack us." Ghost replies, crossing his arms. The hellhounds are already flooding the room, snapping at witches, some of them whimpering or shrieking in fear as they cower away. None of them look like they're in particularly good physical condition, shake too hard and their bones might snap. "Just make sure none of them use their magic."

"Easier said then done." Red grumbles. She can see the oldest brother across the room, kneeling on the floor with Gretel. He keeps repeating your name over and over in the most heartbroken tone Red has ever heard, and she's more than surprised to hear it from him.

The most calm and collected, the one who always seems like he knows the answer to everything.

"He loves her." Red says after a moment, her throat tightening. It's obvious, although his brothers are too stupid to see it. Why else would he go through so much to save you? He literally hid you away as a secret for a decade, abandoned his own family for you --- there's no other explanation.

"What?" both brothers gasp, turning to stare down at the witch between them.

"Christopher doesn't love anyone, he doesn't know how." Angelo disagrees instantly, curling his lip. "He's just possessive."

"Don't be fucking moron, look at this." Red gestures with her hand. "He's ---."

"Heartbroken." Ghost nods his head, his hands slipping into his pockets. "She's dying."

"She seems dead to me," Angelo pretends to not be interested, but... fuck. Everything is suddenly so complicated! It makes complete sense why Christopher was so adamant about getting you back, you're probably the only person he's ever cared about in his thousand years of life.

And now you're gone.

[evil-butterfly-man]

a Gabriel/Nathalie fic, 1.4k

The lights were still on in Gabriel’s workshop. Nathalie allowed herself a moment to regain her composure before entering. Used as she was to working late hours, the Peacock Miraculous was not a good addition to her schedule. She tired much more easily nowadays. Still. She had a job to do.

“Sir? Is there anything else you require?”

“Nanph—” Gabriel couldn’t enunciate properly with several pins stuck in his mouth, but she assumed it was her name he was trying to say. Then he gave her a careful, measuring look, from the soles of her shoes to the top of her head. A strange spark gleamed in his eyes.

There was more, then. Nathalie walked further into the spacious room, taking in the dress being constructed on a mannequin. She assumed it to be a dress, anyway.

“Ah hmph—I have a favour to ask of you,” Gabriel said, removing the pins before either of them disappeared down his throat.

“Sir?”

Yet again, he considered her figure.

“Would you mind putting on this dress? It’s very much a work in progress, but I need to assess if this design is going somewhere.”

Nathalie stared at him flatly. “If you require a model, I could arrange for someone to come over.”

“At this hour?” Gabriel gestured to the dark windows. Then he looked at them properly, checked his watch, and sighed. “I didn’t realize how late it was. You’d probably prefer to go home?”

Instead of the truth, Nathalie asked: “How urgent is this project?”

“Quite urgent. Clara Nightingale commissioned this outfit for the Grammys, but it’s proving a bit more challenging than I anticipated.”

Despite all that, he seemed quite taken with his work. It was rare for him to construct the dresses himself, even though he had once admitted that this was the part he most enjoyed.

“Miss Nightingale and I have very different figures,” Nathalie said.

“Not as different as you’d think,” Gabriel said. “Please, Nathalie? Tomorrow you can take the afternoon off to make up for today, and it won’t take more than half an hour.”

Hardly the most outlandish thing he had ever asked of her. Besides, she was too tired to argue, and an afternoon off was tempting indeed.

“Very well. Sir.”

So there she was, Nathalie Sancoeur, blinking under the harsh lights of an Agreste mansion bathroom, trying to work out how to put the damn thing on. It slipped like silk over her naked skin, showing more of her back than she was comfortable with and pooling around her feet. She had to hold up the fabric with both hands to keep it where it should be and then pick her way very carefully so as not to avoid embarrassing herself.

Gabriel gestured to a podium and Nathalie climbed it with a weary sigh. Then she had to supress a shiver when she felt his hands on her, clasping hidden clasps and arranging the layers of fabric around her body. His touch was one hundred percent professional, deft fingers working close to her skin but never quite touching it. Satisfied, he stepped away.

“What do you think?” he asked.

There were several full-length mirrors. Nathalie turned around slowly, fixing her eyes on her reflection.

“It’s,” she paused. “Absurdly youthful, sir.”

“Very much not your style, I agree,” Gabriel said.

She was beginning to see the idea behind the design. There was quite a lot going on with the lower part of the dress, so that even when she finished turning, the folds of fabric were still in motion. The colours, too, were vibrant and shimmering, changing before her very eyes. Somehow it all came together, creating an impression of an outfit that was always in motion. Vibrant, cheerful, energetic – very much like the singer herself.

Not at all like Nathalie, of course.

“Can you walk around, please?”

Gabriel held up his hand to support her when she took a step down. Nathalie tried not to lean too heavily into his hold.

She had to walk carefully so as not to tangle the excess of fabric between her legs. Not a model’s walk, but then again, none of this had been in her job description.

“Thank you,” Gabriel nodded. “Can you dance in it?”

“I don’t dance, sir,” Nathalie told him flatly.

His eyes travelled upwards, focusing on her face for the first time. She felt naked under his gaze, her neck, shoulders, and collarbones mostly exposed, her arms entirely bare. Even breathing made the dress rustle and shimmer, and it was pinned quite tightly around her chest so that she had to keep her breaths shallow.

“Ah,” Gabriel regarded her with an uneasy expression, an odd flush colouring his cheeks. His hair was unruly and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, so she supposed they were both grossly underdressed by their own standards. “I did not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

“If I suspected you were, I would already be midway through filing a lawsuit,” Nathalie said.

Gabriel’s lip twitched. Then, because nothing made sense tonight, he held out his hand.

“Will you indulge me just a moment longer? Miss Nightingale was very specific about the dancing.”

Nathalie stared at his outstretched palm with what had to be a blank expression. She was a seasoned professional and her face seldom betrayed her, but tonight was shaping up to be a true test of her self-control.

Her hand fit easily into Gabriel’s light grip. She stood straight-backed and held his gaze when he stepped closer, his other palm sliding warmly around her waist and then upwards, settling on the bare skin of her back. It sent a pleasant shiver down Nathalie’s spine. Instead of pondering that strange fact, Nathalie put her own free hand on Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Keep your elbow higher—yes, like that—and arch back—perfect—are you ready?”

She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t dance.

Closer now, Gabriel shifted his weight and gently pushed her backwards, until Nathalie took the hint and then took a step to accommodate him. She couldn’t even see where she was going. Gabriel did, however, counting to four under his breath and marking out the corners of an invisible square. All that she had to do was anticipate his movements and follow his lead, and that – that was something Nathalie knew.

He glided across the floor and somehow carried her with him. Nathalie couldn’t help glancing at her feet from time to time, especially once the bastard made her twirl.

“This seems unnecessary,” she said, but couldn’t quite keep the smile off her face. The dress fanned our around her and then kept moving when she stopped, a myriad pinpricks of light reflecting of the shimmering fabric.

She caught Gabriel’s hand much more readily this time around and shifted closer. This was a lot easier than she anticipated—

Then she tripped.

It was the damn dress tangling between her legs. A piece of fabric got caught beneath her heel and then ripped, loudly, as Nathalie lost her balance and toppled forwards, straight into Gabriel’s arms.

He softened her fall, but she was still face-first in her boss’s chest, her glasses askew and her breathing unsteady.

“Are you all right?”

She could feel the rumble of his voice as well as hear it. An interesting sensation.

Nathalie peeled herself away and took a hasty step back, fixing the glasses as she did so. Once she straightened, she was able to look him in the eye, if only barely.

“Very well, sir. Are you?” she examined the back of the dress and frowned. “I apologize—”

“Don’t. It was entirely my fault.”

Gabriel was staring at her with an odd, troubled expression. Then he turned abruptly and beckoned her to follow.

“I’ll help you get out of it,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do this anyway.”

Again, Nathalie stepped onto the platform. She held the fabric tightly around herself as he circled her, unpinning and unfastening bits of material so that she could undress herself without damaging the outfit further. The pressure around her chest eased and she took a deeper breath, only to feel him jerk back when her skin brushed his fingers.

Nathalie didn’t breathe much afterwards.

Back in the bathroom, safe and alone, she uncurled her hands and let the dress slide down her body. It fell in a shimmering pile around her feet. She picked it up right after and then put on her own clothes. Sensible, elegant clothes – if only the blazer hadn’t electrified her hair once she pulled it over her head, and if only she could stop her face from flushing, everything would be perfectly normal.

Gabriel accepted the dress back with a blank expression, and then didn’t look at her again once they bid each other good night.

Yes. Normal.

[isakwon]

Coffee Bean (Extinct) Part 6

Pairing: Park Chanyeol x Reader

Genre: Romance & Angst 

Word Count: 3k

Coffee Bean Masterlist

Summary: It’s believed the red string of fate can tangle and make annoying knots. But it can never break, but can it become untied from one person on either end?

A/N: Warm thank you’s to @amberevans736  @vlessful07  and @ireallywannatryandbehappy. 

   Winters from Eastern and Central Time zones always had the perfect timing for anything hot and steamy to stay warm. Movie theaters turned their heat temperature warmer than toasters around the building and their seat people either wear fluffy coat layers and some three layers of pants and leggings anyway. The sun would shine in two hours, but people outside would still shiver because the wind blowing would make the air colder. It’s worse during the night. 

You found Yixing and Sehun sitting on the bench inside the lobby.

”Damn it’s freezing,” Baekhyun says through his chattering teeth, gulping the last of his hot drink before tossing it in the trash can.

Shortly after Yixing leaves you to excuse yourself to the restroom while previews and trailers for upcoming movies play over the screen. Once Baekhyun pulled the snacks from his coat pockets and placed them on a saved empty seat, he realized how Chanyeol receiving a reaction quite the opposite from what was expected surprised him.

The natural interaction between them shocked him even more. She didn’t try to refresh his memory, tell him about their past nor showed him the matching string around her finger. They looked like strangers that were brought together for the first time due to an accident and got along instantly. 

 “Baek, are you okay?” Sehun asked, ripping the straw wrapper open.

 He wondered about telling Sehun what happened once she left them alone. Upon your arrival, they mostly talked about your stardom in South Korea until there was nothing else spoke about leading with now. Baekhyun walked into the kitchen where Junmyeon and Sehun stood, banging glasses into the sink and giving them his glare. Baekhyun was thankful Y/N didn’t hear them talk about whether they continued speaking to each other absentmindedly. The last thing he wanted was seeing her sentimental and overcome with gloominess just at the mention of Chanyeol’s name. He had no idea that things Junmyeon suggested were right. No idea that she would still have hope on her shoulders for long.

“It’s nothing.” 

Baekhyun looks down his hands rubbing together sucking his lips. He looks at Sehun looking at Baekhyun through his eyelids with brows narrowed down on the skin where his eyes and nose met. 

“Baek, tell me what's wrong?” 

Baekhyun glances down again before nodding. 

“Y/N and Chan bumped into each other.” 

  Sehun droops his mouth open while his brows rose, forming upside down arched crescents. Yixing overhears the sentence that pulls his head toward in urgency. Just the other night when he and Yixing exchanged texts with Chanyeol, that plan backfired and came resulting that Y/N and Yeol could overcome breaking their vow. 

“What? What happened?” 

“I don’t know; I only saw Y/N facing his back turned on her.” 

The smiles flashed brighter than the bulbs dangling from the ceiling, her eyes beady, listening to endless giggles and contagious laughter while seeing her face glow. Baekhyun stood beside the restroom door watching. 

”All I heard was them laughing at each other like nothing.”

“How did you manage to leave?” 

 “We snuck out.” 

Sehun was starting to get more irritated with Chanyeol. He wanted to grab him by the collar, hold grudges against him, call him a coward and even now he wants to communicate with him. Chanyeol knows who she is, and he needs to prove himself that he was lying straight to her face, but nothing seemed worthy now. Sehun leaves his lips agape. He was right, there was no hope, and Chanyeol was moving on. But how was forgetting their past lover’s name or how they looked possible. Y/N didn’t change much. 

Did his memories get erased entirely? 

The guys always believed that their friends deserved one another. Baekhyun also blamed himself for leading you to the cafe even though stopping there was just for getting the body warm with chocolate and lattes. He brought Y/N warming Chanyeol with hot chocolate, and both had their feelings warming with the exchanged smiling and soft speaking and patting his arm becoming closer than the last. He should’ve known better than thinking it would be okay after her sitting there for an entire morning several days ago, the morning after your arrival. 

Baekhyun began to wonder whether you were actually using the restroom or using the restroom as an escape to allow tears to run freely onto your palms.

  “Do you think they’ll meet again or-”

“Would that matter now?” Sehun asks, perking an eyebrow up. 

He purses his lips into a thin line until they nearly disappear, shaking his head. 

  Sehun’s questioned expression remains over him. Chanyeol always sent cards, letters and sometimes taped small flowers or her favorite snacks that aren’t available in Seoul. He always wanted for someone to look at him or someone to look at the same way he saw looking at each other. His grin would form hills from his cheekbones rising, and the bags underneath showed fully while knitting her brows upwards watching Chanyeol from afar. 

His friends shared examples of romance and health any of them could ask for in the future. But once they heard about the engagement, the hope of forever was mostly lost. Except for Y/N and Chanyeol carried something so intense, some grew helpless for them to have their forever. How does someone completely forget about someone they loved so much. Just how? Both of them turn their vision on the screen still playing cinema rules over the screen in silence without making a peep. 

  The water from the restroom faucet felt colder on your hand than the air outside, it also tasted refreshing. Enough for cooling down the knot stuck in the middle of your throat. Nobody would stop someone from using the restroom but would complain if that person took nearly three minutes, which you usually do not unless you had spent that time crying.

You should’ve been sitting down with Baek and Sehun in the auditorium eating snacks with them, instead of drinking water from the faucet but they cannot see tears that managed to come out. Everything still felt somewhat wrong, or you just felt heartbreak again seeing Chanyeol and not even remembering your name. 

The self-made promise is respecting Chanyeol falling in love while another part wanted denial that things could indeed end. 

 “Aah,” Your mind went blank while your chest felt like a hole as you leaned against the sink and lifted your chin up toward the mirror. Just staring toward your reflection in the mirror, you felt like breaking down like the constant memories that ran over your mind.

  Chanyeol smiling from the cafe hasn’t left the mind either. As Chanyeol calmly reacted getting burned to watch you with double lighting dots floating diagonally apart his large captivating dark brown irises eyes seemed like all-stars gotten closer. His smile could instantly turn whatever sour mood he saw you have become that mood into lightheartedness, and his eyes darker as if he knew that smile cured anything. His skin tone from the lighting reminded you of the bonfires glowing dark oranges onto him and made him look golden.   

  “Aish Chanyeol,” you muffle through clasped fingers, “I missed you so so much and not being able to say so while hugging you hurts even more. What’s worse is you’re still not leaving my thoughts, I don’t know how long until they stop though.”  

  You wiped away oncoming tears with your sweater covered wrist as you curve your back into a regular posture. Another person enters through the restroom door and makes glimpses toward you before proceeding, allowing you closer toward the door.  

“Hey, are you...are you Y/F/N?” 

  The sudden question stopped you in your tracks, moving your head toward the woman who just passed. She must’ve been another international fan for Korean Entertainment Industry or a Broadway fanatic, another of the few that recognized theatre stars. Fame as Broadway stars differed from television actors and musicians, although you considered them similar. The musical theatre was your roots to your stardom where the theatre is constructed with positivity and bubbly behavior. 

You smiled, “I am.”  

“Oh, my-oh you have no idea how much I loved your debut covers!” her sudden excitement widens your flattered smile. 

  A few other fans approached you on the morning while walking to the cafe early morning asking for selfies and signatures in their journal and phone case that they later show off. If it weren’t for Broadway fans, your recognition wouldn’t have been what it is now, and that was the same story for the stardom in South Korea. Except learning Korean made the journey a bit more crucial even being tutored and applying for a visa after the engagement news and convincing immigration to accept your papers. 

“Please, please, can I have a picture?” 

You smile, “Yes.”

  “Who was the person who turned these in?” Director Kim asked. 

The Representative woman responds, sinking his chin into her neck.  ”Your son Jongdae.”

Director Kim falls silent hanging his jaw open.

“Jongdae? My son Jongdae; whose on a work vacation?” 

”Yes, sir.”

 The look on her face more worried. Director Kim is dumbfounded and repressed. Impresa never had any scandals and shares equal respect for their employees and models. Anyone who has a problematic burden off their chest, confession, complaints, anything concerns Impresa mostly. Someone against the agency could be making these complaints anonymously. 

”Take your leave, ” 

The woman nods and quietly walks to the door. Director Kim felt angered by the early dates printed on each page, and each case had filed since April in the previous year. His son kept Illegal actions involving Impresa’s name hidden from him and now since he was away for three days, he cannot confront to Jongdae about.

Like any father, director Kim wanted to make sure his children are humble and honest and responsible and are taking care despite not carrying his DNA. The first time they met, a little Jongdae gave Director Kim no chances opposed to Somil. Though his older sister always clung around him and always bragged to her friends about him and how lucky they have the things the Director purchased for them, Jongdae avoided his adoptive father for weeks.

As a toddler, Jongdae opened up for his new parent and his sister once they were riding the train to an annual carnival where he held his new teddy bear and flashing light toy on the way back home while cuddling on Kim’s lap.If only Jongdae were back from his working trip Director, Kim would've called him to his office to speak privately upon this. Jongdae would already aware of the elephant in the room seeing manila folders with the police department titles. 

Now at the moment, he would wait until Jongdae returns before bringing his daughter into the problem. 

  Neither you nor Sehun would stop talking about the movie you had just seen that bored Baekhyun to sleep. All talk about the film on the way home was beginning to drive him crazy that skipping toward the living room made him let out a relieved sigh. The boys present in the house greet you as Sehun tosses the leftover popcorn in the trash can. As the wind was getting stronger cracking the tree branches harder, Kyungsoo raises the heating temperature despite getting his ear nagged off by the others about high bill prices.

“How was the movie guys?” Minseok asks, “Who was the killer?” 

  “It was great, I can’t say who committed the crime though.” You raise your brows, and Minseok rolls his eyes while smirking. “It will tell you if you read the book too.”

You hum a quiet giggle turning away from Minseok pleading for you to give away the ending and you just told him off suggesting that he watches the film instead. He always fell asleep during the movies and admittedly that annoyed you. Snapped pictures of him sleeping on the couch during the films saved deep in your text messages.

Holiday lights flash from the tree standing in the corner next to the window beside the television playing soul music and Jongin places another present with the others. The boys finished wrapping some of their gifts with just five days left until new year’s eve. 

”Y/N, ”

Junmyeon whispers your name looking over his shoulder where the boys then turn back to you. ”Here you go.” 

He holds a rectangular box wrapped with metallic dark blue wrapping paper topped with silver ribbons forming to look like a tiny bow and a sticker tag saying ’to Y/N.’ 

”Happy New Year.” He says. 

You look at him widening your eyes slightly and turning your lips into a small ’o,’ and he gives you a look of hope that you will like his gift. He tilts the box in front of you to take it. The paper felt smooth against your skin, and you shake your head while giving a gentle smile.

”Myeon, I can't open presents until New Year's Day.” 

“But we don’t know how long you will be here.” He says. ”This is my way to say how much I missed you and how excited I was hearing you'll be spending the holidays with us.” 

Junmyeon glances at the present in your hands still unwrapped and you turn the box while rubbing the paper with your index finger. Junmyeon was the heart in your friendship with the boys that never believed holding grudges, unlike Sehun. 

You smile toward Junmyeon and tell him to follow you. There the boys are all present in the dining room, perfect for the small announcement you’re about to give away. 

 “Guys,” you say, clapping your hands together, “Since my flight over to New York I have had some big news that I wanted to share on New Year's Eve.”  

Not one of them had asked for when you were going to board a plane after the year ended. Because it would sound like your friends would be urging you to leave and make you feel unwanted, but you didn't think that way. You carried so much love and trust and cared for the boys, and they stuck with you during the years as a trainee. Even tutoring you on learning fluent Korean. Sure, you did have trust issues before with friends from the past who made you feel like you were important or wanted more for just someone to spew their rant. But the relationship you have with them became more than friendships consists. 

 “I know you’re all thinking about I’ll be staying in New York and going back to Seoul.” 

They all turn towards you. 

”The thing is that I'm not going back to Seoul nor South Korea for a while.” 

”Does that mean you're staying?” Jongin asks.

You smile while shaking your head. ”Yep. I'm back in the city, and I'm here to stay.”

Minseok, Yixing, Kyungsoo, and Jongin rise from their seats to approach open arms and widened smiles, each wrapping you in tight bear hugs. Some of them were a little speechless hearing the second sudden surprise; honestly, these boys' hearts probably can't take many surprises anymore since you arrived. Their wrath around you felt tighter than hugging you after coming out behind the tree. 

”Y/N what about your career in Seoul?” Jongin rocked you side to side. 

”I put that on vacation.” You revealed how the main reason you were staying was that you accepted an acting role in an upcoming drama. The casting director had seen your performance on a Korean West Side Story as Anita that made her think you would fit the leading role. When she mentioned New York as the setting, you tried keeping your excitement internal to look composed. 

Junmyeon was the last person to hugged placing his hands on your forearms and smiling at you. 

”Oh my gosh Y/N, I can hardly believe this. Are you gonna stay with us, getting a place because the bedroom is yours.” 

     Your eyes beam, ”Myeon, during the flight staying here, was the plan.” 

”You haven't opened my gift yet.” He says, and you respond

   ”I’ll hold onto it to open first thing New Years Eve night.” His face slants scrunching his nose. 

”Rules are rules.” You shrug lifting the box and start heading to your room.

Once you walked into the bedroom, you remember the blanket that was tossed away was still in the dryer. You didn’t feel the need of folding the comforter since it was going to be used again anyway, so you stuck your hands under the fluffy cotton boulder and began carrying your feet down the hall. Suddenly Sehun’s frame stands in front of you like a wall suddenly appearing. He was dressed in a blue-striped sweater and greyhound gray basketball shorts, his black hair curtain over his sharp eyes. 

“Y/N do you not want to talk about something?” Baekhyun wouldn’t immediately spread the news of your reunion and you refused to assume what and who Sehun was talking about. 

“Nothing.” You respond. 

Sehun crosses his arms. ”I know you saw Chanyeol today Y/N. Though I wasn't there to see what happened, Baekhyun told me only part of what he saw. Also strangers wouldn't stare at each other for a long time after getting burned.”

Your fingers clasp around the blanket,

“So do you know that Chanyeol doesn’t know who I am?”

He nods.

        Thank you for reading!♡

[sarkastically]

Whole in His Way

(Since the cable I bought to try and connect the HDDs to the new computer don’t work because I’m an idiot and didn’t realize it was for laptop HDDs, I can’t get to those files yet so. Have a drabble in the Love Made Manifest world with Baze and Han interacting.)

Of all the people Luke brings to them--and there are many because Luke is bright and boisterous and people adore him, are drawn to him as though he is a fire on a cold night, even if he does seem sadder than he should sometimes, heavy almost, the weight of the Jedi lingering on him like a mark no matter how much he listens to their teachings, no matter how many times he or Chirrut tell Luke that is okay to want, that the Force thinks no less of someone for falling in love--the one that Baze thinks is the most interesting, the most perplexing is the pilot who will only call himself “smuggler” the word itself snapped off and spit out at them as though in an attempt to make them stop regarding him at all. 

Han Solo. They had heard of him before meeting him thanks to Cassian’s connections and Jyn’s ability to wheedle information out of thin air. Mostly, however, they had heard of him from Bodhi who keeps tabs on all the pilots in the galaxy he wants to emulate and counts this man among them. 

This man who slouches into corners to play card games, translating his companion’s Wookie for anyone who needs to know what is being said but often not talking at all, frowning at the cards in his hands, winning even when he doesn’t pay attention. It takes Baze several days to figure him out with his gruffness and his habit of turning around, walking away whenever someone who is not Chewie or Leia or Luke approaches him. He even wheels away from Chirrut once, his steps hastening him towards his ship, which is where he spends most of his time, twidling his thumbs and tinkering with things that probably do not need to be fixed, ignoring all the ones that do. 

Baze almost had words with him over that one until Chirrut laid a hand on his arm, steady, sure. “That one is in the habit of running. It won’t do any good to chase him; he has to choose to settle.”

“The Force clings to him like a cape,” Baze had said, and Chirrut only nodded.

“He won’t want to know.”

“Since when has that ever stopped you?”

Chirrut walked away, chuckling, sounding very much like a fool with a plan, sounding very much like he had every single day of his life.

The Force does cling to Han like a cape, though, and Baze cannot unsee it once he notices it. It swishes and glides and, strangest of all, it guides. Cassian and Jyn convince Han to partake in a shooting game, and Han is the best shot easily, distractedly, barely even paying attention to anything, like he doesn’t care, like he doesn’t even want to win, yet every shot finds home. Luke and Bodhi goad him into doing piloting tricks alongside them, and they are good but there’s something different about the way Han flies like you could give him nothing but scape metal never meant to be in the air, and he could escape on it.

“The Force is different for him,” Baze complains after dinner, his head in Chirrut’s lap, Chirrut’s fingers in his hair, brushing, placing intricate braids here and there, winding in bits and bobs that the children--Jyn and Bodhi and Cassian and Luke as much as the orphans--gift him. Leia does not seem to want more fathers, is polite and interested in learning but staunch and formal. And Han. Doesn’t seem to understand the concept of parents at all, looks at both of them like he expects them to kick him off Lyra at any moment. The Wookie is older than both of them combined, and Baze has to stop himself from using honorifics like grandfather in Jedhan when speaking to him. 

“It’s pure there,” Chirrut says simply as though Baze ought to know and tugs harder on a bit of hair than Baze thinks he needs to.

Baze huffs through his nose but does not move, waits.

Chirrut hums in something that only Baze would know is slight disappointment, and Baze wonders what reaction his husband was aiming to get. “He doesn’t know he’s using it. It bends them to him. Things just work out. He doesn’t believe in it, but.”

“The Force believes in him,” Baze finishes, catches Chirrut’s wrist mid-air to pull the hand down, place a kiss on the palm even though it leaves wisps of his hair undone. “We’ve not seen that before.”

“Neither the Whills nor the Jedi knew all the secrets of the Force, my love. To presume otherwise is foolish.”

“Like you?”

Chirrut clicks his tongue and lifts his face as though astounded by the suggestion. “Force, why did you burden me with such a man?”

“That’s not what you said the other night.”

When Chirrut moves his face back down, slightly off-center, Baze feels a thrill at the smirk stretched across his face. “Really? I don’t remember that at all.”

“No?”

“No. Not a bit.”

Threading his fingers into Chirrut’s robe to pull him down, Baze chuckles. “Perhaps I can remind you.”

The next morning finds Baze alone with the orphans, Chirrut having taken the others into the forest for meditation that morning at Luke’s request. For the most part, the orphans entertain themselves, and Baze is simply keeping an eye out to make sure that nothing goes awry while tinkering with several of the droids who need some slight repairs following Kay and Artoo’s modification battle. None of the Lyra droids need flamethrowers, for Force’s sake.

He’s just about done fixing the fourth and final flamethrower bedecked droid when he hears high pitched squeals of laughter coming from outside. Where none of the orphans are supposed to be at the moment but have obviously taken advantage of his distraction to sneak out. Wiping the grease off on his pant legs, Baze rises slowly and makes his way to the courtyard, but the sight that greets him makes him pause in the doorway.

In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by orphans, covered in them--one on his shoulders, one clamped around each of his legs, a toddler balanced on his hip as if it has always belonged there--is Han Solo. Han Solo, smuggler, killer, in it for the money, Force caped, loner, is covered in children, smiling. Baze knows people. He has always had a keen, quick eye for knowing people, for seeing through their layers to the heart of them. Chirrut has accused him of using the Force for this and maybe that is true, but Baze mostly thinks it’s because, unlike his husband, he is quiet, patient, looks, listens, studies.

Yet, he could not have suspected this facet of the man Luke brought to them, proclaiming him to be his best friend, proclaiming him to be a hero, and all Baze had seen was what Solo wanted to show them, scruffy, hard, alone. 

He should have known, really, he’s worn those clothes before.

Han’s interactions with the children tell a different story. This is a man who has interacted with children before, a lot, who likes them. Not like Jyn who took ages to warm to the orphans or Cassian who is gentle but seems to worry about breaking them. Or Leia who is always kind yet somewhat clinical and detached. Han is none of these things. Han knows how to tickle to make them laugh with glee, and is saying all the normal things one does in play. Of them all, Han reminds him most of Bodhi in this moment.

“Hey, hey. You guys have got me. Okay. I’m beat.” It’s not the voice of a man who can fire a gun without looking and never miss a shot.

And then it stops. Because Han has seen him. Han has been caught. And his teeth are locked in a grimace that makes Baze wonder what his own face looks like to elicit such an expression.

“You were losing some of them,” he says, recovering quickly. “I just thought I’d save you from having to track them through the trees.”

“You can play with them. They like you.”

“Yeah, I just.” Han has managed to step out of the arms encircling his legs without dislodging either the child on his hip or the one on his shoulders with the ease of someone familiar with such a task. “It’s probably not the best idea. You know. I’m not.”

Baze accepts the toddler when Han hands him over, watches as Han easily sets the girl from his shoulders onto the ground.

“I’m probably not a good role model for `em anyway.” Smuggler. Killer. Greedy. Swindler. Scruffy. 

Nothing.

Baze looks at him and sees his thoughts, his worries etched across his face. Baze looks at him and sees. Orphan. Oh.

When Baze claps his hand against his thigh, the children gather around him, ready and eager and listen. “Go back inside and wait for me. I won’t be long.” The rest of the children scuttle back into the main building, leaving Baze and Han standing across from each other, the toddler still in Baze’s arms, occupied with curling his fingers into Baze’s beard.

“Is that why you’ve stayed on your ship so much, Captain Solo?”

Han acts like more of a boy than even Luke, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking at his beloved ship more than at Baze. “I don’t go in for your hocus-pocus.” And I’m a smuggler. I’ve killed people. These last things go unsaid, do not need to be said because Baze knows them already. How Han thinks he is a bad person unfit to be around the children. How Han thinks any set of commitments could turn ugly without any notice. How he doesn’t know whether or not he should run. How he doesn’t want to.

How afraid he is of that fact.

“That’s okay,” Baze says, and he means it. The Force believes in Han. Baze has always believed even when he was angry and resentful, he knew it was there. Han has never known the Force as the Force. He has known it as always getting through by the skin of his teeth, Baze will not destroy the kind of faith he has by naming it. That’s not his place.

Han rubs a hand on the back of his neck, his eyes still on anything but Baze. “Look. I’m not. I’m not saying that Luke can’t manage to do exceptional things. I just. I don’t know how they work.” And I’m scared to know how they work.

“Captain Solo, you do not owe us an explanation of what you do or do not believe.” There is no handbook for this kind of interaction. Baze does not know quite what he is trying to assuage. With Jyn, he knows that she wants people to listen and help her understand feelings that are too big for her. Bodhi needs help finding his way out of the panic-stricken portions of his mind that can be too much sometimes. Cassian needs help admitting that he needs help. 

Han stands there, lost but whole in his own way because he has had enough years to make himself into something even if he doesn’t seem to like whatever it is he has made. This is me, he almost seems to say, and I don’t like it either but you cannot take it away from me.

No, Baze thinks, and he doesn’t really want to because whatever Han has made himself, he knows to be gentle with children.

“You’re an orphan,” Baze says.

The way Han’s shoulders snap up is the answer before even the words, which could be the opening to a duel if Baze was another person, the one before the death and the coming back. “Yeah.”

“You’re good with them. Would you like to help me until the others come back?”

Han’s mouth, once stretched thin like something ready to tear, falls open, and his eyes are wide, vulnerable. Baze can almost see him as a boy then before he closes his mouth and looks away. And nods. “I can do that. For you. I can do that.”

“Thank you, Captain Solo.” Baze turns to walk back into the building.

It takes a moment longer than he expected because Han seems to do everything in his own time, but it comes. Like he knew it would. “Han.”