#unfortunately every time I look at it its like staring straight down into a bottomless ocean trench

[scramble-crossing]

Being in the twewy fandom while knowing nothing about Kingdom Hearts is such a bizarre experience because no one you follow is ever just a casual kh fan. They're all in the fuckin trenches crawling out every two weeks to string together some of the most incomprehensible posts to ever grace mankind's dashboard like wtf is a Baldr. Stairs? There's some bald old man named Xanax or whatever the fuck and maybe he's kissable? Every now and again someone will make a post with a really heavy emotional tone like "Omg when Glup Shitto went darkheart and Scrimbly Jim had to nort him 😭😭" and then the image below it looks like it came from a gatchalife youtube sketch. I'm glad you're all having fun I just desperately wish I understood what you're talking about like even a little bit.

[field-s-of-flowers]

Spring Rain and Sugarplums

Princess Yue was everything a young royal should have been: Poised and dignified, yet gentle and sweet. It was a good thing, too. As the oldest and only child of Chief Arnook, Yue was heir to the throne. She’d spent her whole life balancing the life of a princess with her very real desire to do good for her people.

But now, Yue’s most pressing concern was getting married.

In the time before, a Tribal princess might have married a nobleman from Agnia, the capital city, or maybe a man from one of the Temples who was willing to give up his monk’s lifestyle. But ever since both the Tribes and the Temples had been ravaged by the Capital’s forces (an open secret; only Agnia wouldn’t admit to its responsibility), and knowing that the farmlands were next, alliances were pretty much cemented. The Tribes needed to be strong themselves.

That’s why nobody cared when Yue said she wanted to marry one of her own people.

And so a letter was sent out, to every eligible bachelor or maiden from either Tribe. It said that Princess Yue was holding a ball, so that she could pick a future consort. Many scoffed- a ball? In these times? But there were plenty of people perfectly willing to go.

As Yue was dressing for the ball, she tried to keep her head high, as she always did. The gown was beautiful, silk the color of spring rain with gold accents. It was a pain to put on, though, even with numerous attendants fussing over the snags in the fabric.

Yue knew it was silly, and ungrateful besides, that a princess such as her felt anything other than constant joy. But when duty is always calling for you, one tends to feel... trapped. And when one of those duties is marriage of all things, an unfortunate feeling of helplessness descends upon anyone- especially a girl like our heroine.

So it was only natural that, for the small window of time she was alone in her room, Princess Yue would allow herself to cry.

In a whirlwind of hours, the ball was on its way. All the lords and ladies of the court bowed and smiled to Yue, barely noticing her red eyes. People didn’t, not always. And as she descended the stairs, there were cheers. Of course there were. Every tribal citizen loved their perfect princess. That was a fact Yue had known since she was born, that would be true until the her dying day.

But one girl caught her eye. She wasn’t cheering. She wasn’t even looking up. Instead, she was staring down at a sugarplum-purple dress that looked almost made of magic itself.

Spirits, what Yue would give to be that girl.

She couldn’t wait for the dancing.

There were plenty of people in line to dance with her. The girl stood in a corner, staring, unsure of what to do. There was a man that wanted to dance with her, too. Good, thought Yue. Let her have her fun.

But she pushed him away, heading straight towards the white-haired girl in blue.

“Hi- Ah!” She was tripping over her gown. It was charming, from where Yue sat. “Hi, would you like to dance?”

People gasped, and looked at each other in shock. You didn’t just say a thing like that to a Tribal Princess. But Yue was far more trained on the girl’s eyes: A deep, cobalt blue, like bottomless pools of clear water. They sparkled, too, in a way she’d never seen.

“Of course, I would love to.”

She was lively, this one. She wasn’t perfect. She didn’t know all the steps, though it was clear she’d practiced. But the spring in her step swirled Yue around like she’d never been swirled before. What was in this girl that made her so intoxicating?

“Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“My, uh... stepbrother taught me. I think you’d like him.”

“He’s clearly a dancer, you do this so well.” She internally cringed, hard. What was that supposed to- Oh, and now the girl was smiling. The beautiful sugarplum girl was smiling, and Yue was melting into a blushing puddle of hibiscus red.

“Thank you! He’s not a dancer, but he taught me the steps, and I guess I added my own spin on it. It’s very nice to meet you, by the way. What’s your name?”

Now that’s a question she had never been asked.

“Yue,” she said. “What-”

“Yue? As in Princess Yue? Oh, oh my spirits, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t even be-”

“No! No, it’s alright,” she giggled, relieved to finally be the one at ease. “Let’s go into the courtyard. There are some flowers that I think you’d like.”

The garden was beautiful. White and blue flowers reflected the pearly moonlight, and the wind made it look almost like the garden itself danced to the muffled music. Sugarplum (the name Yue gave to the girl in her mind) pointed out the names of nearly every flower in the courtyard.

“Those are jade vines, I think! Did you know they only grow in the Tribes? And those are Silenicus orchids. They’re so beautiful. They’re the exact color of your hair, I think! And those...” She sighed.

“What?”

“Those are called Tiger-seal’s Claw. They were my mother’s favorite flower.” She pointed to a bush of swirling leaves and shadow-gray vines.

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you. I think you would’ve liked her. She knew a lot about flowers.”

“I’m sure I would’ve.”

Yue glanced at the clock, prompting Sugarplum to do so as well. A look of panic crossed her face.

“I have to go. It’s been wonderful talking to you, and you’re an amazing dancer. Don’t try to find me, it’ll only be trouble for both of us. Appa! Appa, where are you-”

“You’re leaving? What about- I don’t even know your name!”

She mounted the horse (when had it gotten here?) and smiled back at the princess. “Sorry- Oh, what did he say- yip yip?”

And with that, the horse began to run like the wind.

“It’s Katara!” She shouted as she turned the corner.

That bush began to sway in the wind again. Yue could barely remember its name.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Heaven, Hell and You

John Constantine x OFC (Valarie Moore) 

Masterlist  Chapter 1

Warnings- Violence, biblical references (sort of, I think)

Chapter 2

Humming under her breath, Valerie strolled through the little convenience store in the city. She still donned her uniform, light blue scrubs and white shoes, though thankfully, she was only half as tired as usual. Even better was the fact after her shift gone by, Valerie would have the next twenty four hours off and wouldn't have to see the hospital, and by extension, the ICU for the next day or so. It was her one day off for the week and she was determined to make the most of it. The most beginning with unwinding in a warm bath and a glass of wine. 

The shopping basket was hooked in her crooked elbow as she slowly walked to the liquor aisle, slowing down even further as she passed shelves lined with different kinds of pasta on her way. Maybe she could make herself dinner too, instead of ordering takeout. For a minute, Valerie seriously considered it, but then, remembering how long it might take and how much she'd anticipated doing absolutely nothing, she decided that it could be an activity for some other night and that pizza would do just fine. Once again, she began, head down, cast towards the beat up tiled floor, not even noticing that she was walking straight into someone.

"Shit," she swore, coming into contact with a man's chest, consequently stumbling backwards, "Sorry," Valerie huffed a quiet, breathless chuckle upon noticing how strikingly handsome he was; sharp bone structure, pale skin and raven  hair.

"Its my fault," he dismissed, not even bothering with returning her shy smile. Instead, he shoved one hand into the pocket of his black trench and readjusted his hold on his half filled basket, "Sorry about that," he nodded politely, proceeding to furrow his brows in what she perceived to be confusion. "Do I know you?"

Equally confused, Valerie's lips quivered with questions unspoken, and eventually, she found herself tucking a soft brunette lock behind her ear, the little diamond stud on her earlobe twinkling teasingly, “I don’t think so,” she licked her pink, bare lips, “Maybe I just have one of those faces,” Valerie giggled quietly, though, she could tell by the man’s stare that he wasn’t buying it for a second. It was slightly unnerving, the way he was looking at her, like he actually believed that they knew each other.

“Maybe,” he scoffed, apparently only agreeing cause he really couldn’t place her, “Sorry,” he cleared his throat quietly.

He seemed to shake off whatever he was feeling, moving to go around her before she could even dismiss his apology and assure him that it was all good. As Mr. Tall, dark and mysterious, went about his way, Valerie turned around, sparing him one last glance, trying to ignore the disappointment in their conversation being over. She didn’t really get out a lot, discounting work, and her flirting skills were very rusty, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t know a hot guy when she saw one, and she’d just spoken to one, barely. 

When he didn’t look back, either pretending to not see her or just ignoring her completely, Valerie sighed heavily, continuing towards the limited liquor selection without another look back hoping to eventually dust off her disappointment that he hadn’t shown much interest in her.

2 Weeks Later John usually preferred to drink alone, at his loft, sometimes in front of the television, sometimes while he worked. Needless to say, John didn’t ordinarily visit bars and pubs, but alas, Angela had called earlier that day wanting help with a case, and seeing that she was one of his only friends, he didn’t really think it right to refuse her. So there he was, at some no name, low lit place in the city, nursing a glass of whiskey straightening up when he saw her come through the doors of the place. “Hey,” she smiled softly, still in her work clothes, holster peeking out from beneath her blazer, file in hand, “You got started without me,” she nodded to the glass on the table as she sat on the opposing chair. 

“You took too long,” he huffed, bringing the glass to his lips. The air around them stank of cigarettes, which wasn’t exactly ideal considering that, quitting had been hard, and even a year later, the smell alone still tempted him sometimes. Reaching into his pocket, he dug around for the pack of nicotine gum that he had taken to carrying around, shoving a stick into his mouth before talking again. “That the case?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, handing over the manila folder, “Why don’t you look it over while I go get a drink?” 

Wordlessly, John took it, letting it lay open on the table before him, slowly sipping his drink as his weary eyes scanned the pages, looking for anything that would prove inhumanity. There were definitely some things that looked ritualistic, and John could certainly see why Angela had grown some suspicions; the Latin scrawling and the way the bodies had been mutilated pointed to something supernatural. But John could also easily see the human factors, the little details that showed him the killer was actually human; there were slight discrepancies in the incantations printed in blood on the walls and the marks were hardly drawn with fluidity. “Your guy, whoever he is, is human,” John eventually determined, sliding the folder back towards Angela. 

Slumping her shoulders, she took a swing of her beer, running a hand through her hair with a defeated sigh, “Seriously? I just thought….”

“I can see why,” he nodded, “But here,” he hit one of the pictures with the pad of his fingers, “And here,” he tapped another spot, “These translations don’t make sense. It’s definitely Satanic worship, but not by a half breed.”

“Great,” She groaned, “Now its back to the drawing board I guess…” John didn’t really hear the rest of Angela’s sentence, for when he looked up, he was greeted by a familiar face. It was the girl from his dreams again, and of course, the same one he’d met at the convenience store just about two weeks ago.

Since then, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head, his troubling dreams had only grown more  lucid, and once or twice, he’d even found himself unable to determine if he was actually dreaming until he’d wake up, most times with his heart ready to burst from his chest and his mind a mess. At first, he’d tried to convince himself that meeting her had been a dream too, but now, seeing her walking into the bar, flanked by about four other people, John knew that it was real. She, whoever she was, was real.

And she was absolutely stunning in person, far better than what his mind had managed to conjure up. It wasn’t hard to think that she wasn’t real, John never thought that it was possible for a human to look so……..remarkably flawless. Could humans even be made that perfect? Part of him longed to know her; know who she was, what she was like, why she’d dominated his dreams for months before they’d even crossed paths. But another, though weaker, part urged John to keep his distance, to stay away from her; those dreams had to mean something, and above everything, they meant that she was trouble. 

Still, John found himself, sitting in a wooden chair that didn’t really do anything for his back, staring at the girl he’d been losing sleep over as she stood at the bar, getting drinks while her friends claimed a table. She wasn’t wearing scrubs that night, instead, she’d switched them out for a little black dress that ended above her knees, boasting her very nice legs, with capped sleeves and tiny red polka dots about the entire thing. Though his eyes stayed on her, she didn’t look his way for a second, too busy trying to wave over the buzzing bartender. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Angela snapped her fingers in front of John’s face, rousing his attention. Meeting her frown, John finished off his drink, not really able to lie and say he had been, considering she was very likely to question him on it, knowing full and well that he wouldn’t have an answer. “What are you looking at?” Angela turned in her chair, trying to see what, or rather who, he was seeing. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he huffed gruffly, rolling his whiskey orbs and twirling the empty glass in his hands, “I’m gonna get another drink.”

“Feel free to flirt while you’re at it,” she teased lightly, and he largely ignored her, not even turning Angela’s way as he headed towards the bar. 

He’d had every intention of ignoring her, just like he had when she’d turned around to give him one final glance back at the store, but by some unfortunate coincidence, the only empty spot left at the bar just happened to be right next to where she was standing. Slipping in, John maintained his silence, not even looking at the woman as he leaned on the lip of the varnished, wooden bar top, drumming his fingers impatiently. She didn’t seem to notice him at first, though, all she had to do was turn to the side to  before her eyes lit up in recognition, “It’s you,” she gasped, taking a tentative step back.

Clearing his throat quietly, John didn’t bother to force a smile, smiling wasn’t really his thing anyway, “It is,” he nodded, “Funny seeing you here,” even if he had absolutely no interest in smiling with her, that didn’t mean he was particularly opposed to seeing her smile.

But, alas, she didn’t. John couldn’t blame her though, passing jokes weren’t really his area of expertise, and she just scrunched her face, “Is it though? I mean, its downtown L.A, you probably see the same person three times a week, it’s just, you almost knocked me over, so you actually remember.”

Rolling his eyes again, John shook his head, avoiding her pretty dark gaze. She had nice eyes. No, nice might have been an understatement, she had gorgeous eyes, so dark and bottomless, almost completely black. If given the opportunity, John thought that he wouldn't mind getting lost in them. Maybe that was why he’d been avoiding them so much, because he wanted to mind, because getting lost in her eyes meant he’d have to get to know her, and getting to know her meant letting her in. And his life wasn’t one that allowed for that sort of thing. Besides, he didn’t even know her name. 

“You walked into me,” he argued half heartedly, hoping the bartender would make his way to their end soon. The longer he stayed, the more they’d talked, and the more they talked, the more he’d want to know.

“If I remember correctly, I believe you said that it was your fault,” she quipped, a teasing glimmer in her dark pools, and a smirk up turning her lips.

Huffing a chuckle, John sighed in relief when the bartender drew nearer, “I was being polite, don’t make me regret it.”

“What a gentleman,” the woman taunted sarcastically, no malice in her tone, though, it was laced with subtle intrigue, and before John knew it, she was offering her petite hand, “I’m Valerie, Valerie Moore.”

Reluctantly, John  took her hand, enclosing it in his larger, calloused one, “John Constantine.” As hard as he tried, it was difficult to pretend that her touch didn’t have an effect on him. Her, Valerie’s, hands were so soft, and John felt like just the slightest haste could hurt them. He could see why she was in the medical field though, he could tell by the scrubs she’d been wearing, with the hospital’s name etched on the breast pocket, her hands felt healing. It was hard to describe how, but quickly, John had imagined that anyone graced by Valerie’s touch would feel better about anything in seconds, he knew he did.

Scrunching her face, Valerie giggled as she reclaimed her hand, and by just her relaxed demeanor, so different from how flustered she’d been at the store, it was obvious that she’d probably been drinking even before getting to the bar, “Like the Roman Emperor?”

Snorting, John squinted his eyes, “What?” He fought a smile, caught off guard by the fact.

Glancing down at their feet, her pale cheeks took on a rosy hue, accentuating her thick dark lashes, “It’s nothing,” she mumbled, her giddy giggles softer, “My dad’s a history teacher and sometimes I just-”

“Hey,” a matronly woman, no doubt years older than Valerie interrupted, gently laying a ring adorned hand on her girl’s bare shoulder. Maybe she was her mother, though it didn’t quite seem like it, surely though, she was someone that cared enough to come check in when Valerie was caught in conversation with a lanky stranger, “Everything okay hun?” The short, plump women looked between them, and it was only then that John realized just how close they’d been standing.

“Huh?” Valerie cast her wide innocent eyes towards her friend, “Yeah, I’m fine Martha, I was talking John’s ear off over here,” her blush deepened. She was so, painfully innocent John thought, girls in L.A weren’t usually like that, so blushy and reserved. 

Nodding slowly, Martha gave John a cautious once over, as if determining whether or not he was worth her friend’s company or not, “Okay,” her tone held a skepticism and when the bartender placed a some beers near where they were standing, Martha took a few, only leaving behind one for Valerie, “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, but everyone’s right over there. Right Val?”

“Yeah,” she nodded astutely, “I’ll be right over, thanks Martha.” When the older woman was out of earshot, Valerie turned back to him, offering a shy smile and quick blinks. After, she took a quick, tentative sip of her beer, before speaking again, “Sorry about that, Martha’s just…..protective.”

“It’s okay,” John inhaled deeply, vaguely aware of Angela casting him an intrigued stare from their table. He knew she wasn’t jealous or anything of the sort; they’d tried the whole dating thing for a short stint, after he’d started cleaning himself up and she’d had time to properly grieve for her sister, but in the end, had decided that they were much better off as friends. “I should let you get to it,” he got his drink, another finger of whiskey, “Be careful, okay?” John didn’t know why he’d let himself say it, but the urge might have nagged him otherwise. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that Valerie might be in actual danger. 

“Um,” stunned, Valerie straightened her back, swallowing thickly, “Yeah okay. It was nice to meet you John,” and before he could return her words, just after her smile faltered, she was turning on the flat heel of her black ballet pump and hurrying off towards the group she’d arrived with, and unlike that night in the store, she didn’t look back.

It was late when Valerie and her friends from the hospital had finally decided to leave the bar, nearly stumbling out onto the sidewalk. “You sure you’re good to drive Val?” Damien, one of the other Nurse practitioners, probed before he could start walking in the direction of his own car.

“Yeah,” already, she was rummaging through her little purse for her keys. Of course, she wasn’t exactly sober, but Valerie didn’t live too far away from the place they’d chosen, it was just about a fifteen minute to her place. “I got this,” she laughed giddily, trying to suppress a stumble as she moved away from the group. The rest of goodbyes were exchanged with an air of skepticism, and her friends seemed reluctant to let her leave, but Valerie was a bit past noticing their worry, eventually shaking them off, slowly staggering towards her car, parked all the way at the top of the street. 

Everything was fine, at least for a while until the night chill broke through her thin coat and at some point, the path in front of her started to seem bleary. Worse yet, she was pretty sure that there was someone following her, keeping close the shadows, several feet behind her, their identity shrouded. Unnerved, she sped up, clutching her keys tightly, the metal cool in her palms. Heavy, shallow breaths were hard to contain, and that was when it happened, sending the iciest chill up her spine.

“Precious little Valerie shouldn’t be walking alone. Bad things happen when pretty girls walk alone….” The ragged, hoarse voice seemed closer than it ever had, and then, out from the shadows, merely two or three feet in front of her, was a boy, no older than sixteen, his skin hard and yellow, and his eyes unfocused and glassy. 

Half a panicked scream left her quivering lips and Valerie could feel her heart trying to break through her ribs and leap right out of her chest. In an instant the boy…..or whatever was left of his apparently decaying form lunged for her, barely phased when she swung her bag offensively, hitting him square in the jaw. “What the fuck?” She breathed, too frightened to scream as she stumbled, falling back into the damp sidewalk.

Wildly, she kicked him in the face, not caring if her attempts of fighting back were barely buying her time. It couldn’t end that way; she was too young. “Let go of me!” She violently wiggled her leg out of his grasp, scrambling up and trying to run towards her car, her left shoe slipping off in the process, nearly causing her to slip on the slippery concrete. 

For a split second, Valerie thought that she might have escaped her nasty faith, but nothing was as unforgiving as whatever was after her. Enraged, it’s high pitch, demented shrill rang out ear piercingly, “No!” It reached for the back of her dress, “Valerie comes with me!”

It was over. It had to be, the teenager from hell had caught her. He was stronger than her, or so she thought, and he was about to drag her to whatever hole he’d crawled out from. But then unthinkable happened, all in a blur; a familiar form leaping out of alongside the darkened store fronts, formerly protected by the darkness, was now fighting her battle for her. And much more efficiently too. In what seemed to be an instant, though might have just been minutes sped up by her adrenaline fueled mind, John ‘not the Roman emperor’ Constantine, had the kid pinned down,  splashing what Valerie could only presume to be water, or maybe clear liquor on his face. Really, she didn’t know, but she could tell that it had been enough to weaken him enough, so John could subsequently start reading from a little black book. “Close your eyes,” he growled, taking a minute from his words.

“What?” Confused and scared, it was safe to say that Valerie was having a hard time processing even the simplest instructions.

Taking another quick, very reluctant break, John, more annoyed than ever, simply spat, “Your eyes, close them!”

Without any other reasonable explanation besides not wanting him, or anyone else to viciously attack her, Valerie shut her eyes tight. Her other senses kicked in, working in overdrive, trying to piece together what was going on, though all she could comprehend were John’s continued prayers and then, after a few minutes, a body tackling her, once again knocking to the floor again. It wasn’t the boy though, no, he had smelt disgustingly of sulfur, but this person gave off another aroma; soap, cologne and whiskey. Cracking one eye open, Valerie sighed in relief once her suspicions were confirmed; it was John. 

His face hovered less than an inch over hers, lips so close that it would take barely any effort to lean up and kiss him. Their breaths were shared and Valerie could feel John’s hard chest pressing on her breasts, his weight heavy on hers, though, she didn’t think she wanted him to move anyway. His presence and their proximity was so consuming that she hadn’t even noticed the shattered glass surrounding them, pieces caught in her hair, though his larger body shielding her from the worst of it. “You-”

She didn’t get to finish, for the minute that John realized that he was lingering, holding her down for longer than he needed to, he struggled into a standing position, offering his hand to help Valerie do the same. “You need to come with me,” was all he chucked out when they’d just started grasping their bearings, his fingers enclosed around her upper arm, trying to pull her along.

Though, now sobered by her near heart stopping experience, Valerie fought his grip, almost yelping when she saw the boy laying on the ground, looking far different from how he’d been when he attacked her, and the glass from one of the store fronts completely shattered, “What the fuck is going on?” Her hair was wet from some puddle or the other, her clothes were soaked through too and one side of her shoes was still missing. And that was just the physical damage. What was going on in her head was something entirely different. 

“I can explain this when you’re safe,” he urged her along, not even phased by her fighting.

Trying to yank her arm away, Valerie refused to give in so easily, “And I’m safe with you? I barely know you. And we can’t just leave that kid on the sidewalk.”

“He wasn’t the one that almost died back there,” his low, gruff voice dripped with annoyance, and Valerie could tell that he really just wanted her to shut up. But how could she with all that was going on?

“What was that back there? What the hell was wrong with that kid? Are you a priest, why were you saying Saint Michael’s prayer?” The questions just tumbled out of her mouth, right as she’d finally wrenched herself from John’s grip.

Finally, realizing that she was too stubborn for them to make it to his car, John slumped his shoulders, begrudgingly giving in. Why’d he have to want to save her so bad? “You speak Latin?”

“What?” She scoffed, folding her arms, “I don’t, and if you’re not going to answer my questions, then I’m going back to my car.” 

Turning on her heel, Valerie had just started walking again, when John halted her with a series of brief explanations, “That was a possession, and then an exorcism. That kid was possessed and no, I’m not a priest.” When she turned back to him, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his black slacks, “Now lets try this again, do you speak Latin? And don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t,” now traded places, with Valerie being the annoyed one, she spoke through gritted teeth, “Why’s that so important to you anyway?”

“You ask so many questions,” he rolled his eyes, “And its important because that’s the only way you would have understood a word of that prayer. Unless you’re a really devout Catholic.”

Taken aback, Valerie’s eyes widened, jaw hanging slack, “I’m not,” she gasped, she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d set foot in a church or even prayed. “You…..I….you were…...that was Latin?”

“Well it wasn’t exactly English,” John joked, dry and humorless, only frowning when he noticed her trouble, “But you didn’t know that.” All she managed was a slight shake of her head. “Did you understand what he was saying?”

It couldn’t be. “Yeah,” nothing followed the breathy peep, as Valerie was too busy getting lost in a swirling pool of despair. A demon possessed kid knew her name, tried to kidnap her, and now she could speak dead languages? Maybe she should have just stayed home that night. “What’s…..I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” John grabbed her shoulders, probably thinking it would ground her, Valerie knew the little trick well, it was something she did when patients started freaking out, something about having someone’s comforting touch was centering. “But I might be able to help you, I just need you to trust me, okay?”

Trust him? A man she didn’t know? A man who could probably want her dead, just like some apparent demon.

But his eyes were so sincere, and beneath his cynicism and sarcastic quips, it actually seemed like he cared.

It wasn’t something her father would approve of, and Martha would definitely give her a lecture or two on her naivety, but there she was, thinking that maybe John was exactly who he said he was; someone that could help.

“Okay,” Valerie relented, finally letting John urge her to his car, going wherever he’d take her just so she could have some answers.

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves  @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea  @luxx-aeterna

[lady-divine-writes]

A Dish Best Served Cold - A Prince of Omens Inspired One-shot (Rated NC17)

Summary: Starmakers rarely Fall. Crowley was the first. But every time one does, Crowley feels it, like razor sharp thorns throughout his body. When the latest one does, Aziraphale offers to accompany Crowley to Hell to make certain they're all right. But while they're there, Aziraphale decides to settle a score on his husband's behalf. (3689 words)

Notes: All right, I said I wasn't going to do this again, but I couldn't help myself. So this is inspired by @whiteleyfoster 'Omens of Egypt' mini comic 'Down' about Crowley's Fall from Heaven, along with their Bastille torture implied pic, which you can see here . I know there's a contest going on. This isn't about that. There's better writers for that. It's just something I've been working on since the end of 'Down'. I needed some BAMF Aziraphale sticking up for his demon husband against his former managers, so to speak. Warning for angst and mention of torture (not explicit).

Read on AO3.

“N-no … s-stop … I … I didn’t … I didn’t do … anything wrong … I … I’ll stop! I … swear!”

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside, then rolls on his hip to face his husband grabbing at the sheets covering his body, gripping so hard his knuckles have begun to turn white.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale whispers, brushing aside strands of hair from Crowley’s face with careful fingertips. “Wake up, dearest. Please wake up. You’re safe, my love. You’re all right …”

“N-no … no, you can’t … p-please …”

“Crowley? Dear? Can you hear me?”

“N-no … no, please …”

Aziraphale sighs as his husband continues to whimper. He rests a hand over one of his to anchor him, give him something tangible and familiar to hold on to, even in sleep.

An anchor is all Aziraphale can offer because there is no consoling him.

Crowley had once confided to Aziraphale that as much as he loved sleep, he had nightmares pretty on the regular, and they got worse as time went on. They’re rarer now that angel and demon sleep together, but they still crop up from time to time.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale can’t always tell which torture he’s reliving - being tossed out of Heaven into a steaming pit of sulfur, or the various punishments he endured the second he became a demon.

Having the down torn from his wings over the sin of being vain and naive.

Or having symbols of degradation burned into his skin with hot irons for the treachery of rescuing an angel.

Aziraphale didn’t even know that was a possibility until he’d discovered them.

The burns had faded, but the malevolent power that created them remained, its vile signature seared into Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale stumbled across them one night while they were making love, when they were close together, mouth to chest, with Crowley sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, riding him. Aziraphale blew hot air across Crowley’s chest and there they were.

Aziraphale’s divinity had brought them to light.

The way Crowley covered them, the shame in his expression when he confessed what he’d gotten them for, speared Aziraphale to the depths of his soul.

For that, and for a hundred other things (including blessing that blasted Thermos of water) Aziraphale has never forgiven himself. Crowley tells Aziraphale there’s nothing to forgive, especially when they’re in the throes of passionate embraces and a single puff of breath from Aziraphale’s lips brings those marks to the surface. Despite the consequences of his decisions, they were Crowley’s decisions, and the ones pertaining to Aziraphale’s health and safety, he’d repeat a thousand times.

Yet, the nightmares continue.

“Sleep easy, my love.” Aziraphale leans over and lays feather-light kisses on his demon’s sweaty forehead. “Sleep, and dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley’s breathing slows. The furrows in his brow smooth away. His hands begin to loosen, let go of their vice hold. He melts into the sheets, eyelids fluttering slowly.

A small smile even manages to tilt up the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it. Relax. Be calm … at peace. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you alone.”

Crowley hums behind his lips, finally happy in his dreaming.

Aziraphale exhales with relief. It worked … thank God.

…

But for only about a minute.

Aziraphale goes back to his book, but a second later, Crowley jerks, jarring the bed as if the mattress had saved him from a terrible tumble. He sits bolt up, fist clutching his chest over the shadow of one particularly gruesome burn, his eyes wide and unblinking like those of a frightened foal.

“No!” he gasps, staring straight ahead, the remainder of his nightmare fading where Aziraphale can’t see.

“No what, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, careful not to speak too loudly in case it takes Crowley a moment to remember where he is, and that he’s not alone. “Which nightmare was it this time?”

“A … an angel … will Fall,” Crowley reveals in a voice that trembles. “A … a Starmaker.”

His answer stuns Aziraphale into closing his book and setting it on the table beside the bed without saving his place first. “Is that … will that really happen?”

Crowley swallows hard. “Yes.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, on the verge of tears. “Yes, I … I feel it. I could see it. It’s happening now. Tonight.” His eyelids pinch shut. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain, but Aziraphale knows it will be difficult to erase.

Starmakers rarely Fall. Maybe one in a thousand years. Crowley was the first, and for some reason, he can feel when another does. It rips through him like shards of ice, makes the return trip like tongues of fire, and haunts him for days after.

Aziraphale has often wondered if Hell did that on purpose - found a way to curse him with that foresight as one of their many forms of discipline.

Or perhaps it was Heaven’s doing.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised either way. It seems like something they would both come up with.

“Do you have any idea when they will …?”

“Any second now,” Crowley says on a single breath, eager to push the knowledge from his mouth.

“Well then …” Aziraphale lifts the comforter off his legs and makes to get out of bed “… would you like to accompany me to Hell? Make sure they’re all right?”

Crowley’s eyelids snap open, blown pupils finding Aziraphale’s smiling face. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve traveled to Hell together. Crowley looks like he might jump at the offer, but something holds him back.

Things are different now. They’re different now. They’re free agents. Crowley doesn’t answer to Hell anymore. As for Aziraphale, it’s not like Hell welcomed angels too freely downstairs with open arms before the Nope-ageddon. Angels’ visits to Hell have always been procedural, planned ahead, with paperwork involved. Heaven holds the keys to the bottomless pit, after all. It’s their job to tend to the prisoners there.

What Aziraphale is recommending they do is more than a little unprecedented.

If Aziraphale gets himself in a tight spot, Heaven more than likely won’t help him.

Is one Starmaker worth that chance? Worth the Guardians of the Gates treating Aziraphale the way they treated Crowley?

No, Crowley decides. For all it does to break his heart, it’s not worth putting his angel in danger.

“I’m … I’m probably overreacting,” he says, forcing himself to calm down. “There’s … there’s no reason to drag you down there. They’ll be fine. They … they don’t need me.” He closes his eyes again. Aziraphale can see the pain on his face, the memory of that poor angel’s Fall, or maybe his own, playing behind his eyes.

The harsh reality is that those angels that Fall need to learn the hard way that Hell is a terrible place. No one is waiting in the wings (so to speak) to rescue them.

No matter how slight their sin.

But this is important to Crowley. Aziraphale knows it is.

And Crowley means the world to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale puts a hand beneath his husband’s chin, coaxes his eyes open with kisses to his lips. “It never hurts to check, my dear. I’ll go get my coat.”

***

Hard-packed dirt where very little grows.

Thick clouds of black, acrid smoke.

Yellow-orange sulfur seeping from the earth, super-heated and bubbling, popping, releasing noxious gas into the air.

Aziraphale pops the collar of his coat, holds the ends tight over his nose.

He hates the smell of Hell.

The pools of sulfur fallen angels nosedive into are located right outside the gates, so they’re still far from the mildew infested basement that is Hell’s head office.

But this outdoor landing pad is probably worse: surrounded by air that burns the sinuses with every breath, the breeze swirling around them hot and oppressive instead of cool and refreshing.

Looking up and seeing a Heaven that no longer welcomes you, stars you will never touch again.

He envisions Crowley here - scared, confused, emerging from the pits for the first time to see his beautiful, snowy-white wings blackened and singed, covered in this foul-smelling ooze.

All alone.

Consigned here by those he loved.

Aziraphale feels a long-building contempt for Heaven rise up in his chest and does everything to keep it at bay. This isn’t him, he reminds himself. Not really. It’s Hell’s influence. It’s too easy to surrender to anger here, which is why the Almighty sends the Archangels to conduct Heaven’s business in Hell.

They’re more immune to the air here.

“There they are!” Crowley says, rushing towards a pit about fifty feet from where they materialized, where a drenched and bedraggled set of wings sits atop an orange mess, attached to an angel … a demon … lying underneath the surface.

Aziraphale doesn’t rush to help. Best to let Crowley lead that charge. Instead, he keeps watch. He’s only been here a handful of times, but that’s definitely enough.

One time in particular, he could do without.

Aziraphale peers through the black smoke, trying to decipher their bearings. Crowley snapped them here. It’s the easiest way to come. Which means that Hell should know they’re there. Every time Crowley performs a miracle, they receive a fax. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance a welcoming committee of some sort might arrive.

The wind blows.

The smoke shifts.

Vacant mold-gray eyes catch his.

Bingo.

As the smoke continues to clear, Aziraphale gets a better view, and he smiles.

Luck, oddly, seems to be on his side.

“You stay here, my dear,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice since he knows Crowley will hear him. “I’ll take care of this.”

Aziraphale isn’t a vengeful angel. His job is to inspire humanity, to spread love.

Wrath is normally reserved for Archangels.

But as in most things, Aziraphale doesn’t feel they’ve done their jobs right for close to a millennium.

And besides, this is personal.

Aziraphale strolls up to the demon hopping through the sulfur pits in his direction.

“You’re Dagon, right?” he asks.

The demon slows, approaches warily, not expecting to meet Aziraphale (of all entities) after the memo they received.

Not expecting to see an angel flash a smile that is eerily at home here in Hell.

“What’s it to you?” Dagon asks.

“Come on. Let me preen these for you,” Aziraphale hears Crowley say to the new demon he’s helping out of the sulfur. “And take my advice … learn to do it for yourself. You don’t want to ask anyone down here for help.”

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale steps to the right, blocking Dagon when they try to blow past. “I just like to know whom I’m addressing. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aziraphale sashays left - another block that leaves Dagon gnashing their teeth in frustration. “Crowley says you’re a rather creative demon … when it comes to cruelty and violence.”

Dagon squashes their plan to leap around the angel and grins proudly at that remark. “Did he now?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale returns, the words as dry as the ground beneath his feet. “In fact, he told me that from the first day he Fell you couldn’t keep your hands off him. I almost got jealous … until he elaborated.”

Dagon’s face falls, their eyes blank, but they snicker when they catch on.

Every time Dagon tore at Crowley’s wings.

Every time they put a hot iron to Crowley’s skin, tied him up and whipped him for his treachery.

Or worse …

That’s what the angel is referring to.

Dagon can’t help noticing the loathing in Aziraphale’s eyes, the undeniable rage.

And Dagon smiles.

Anger feeds demons like well-roasted mutton. It intoxicates them like wine.

And the anger of an angel?

That’s about the finest vintage any demon can find on earth.

Hence why calling off the war disappointed them so.

It makes Dagon long to stab Crowley in the back with their claws to see how angry this angel can get.

What Dagon might be able to convince him to do.

Dagon tries to dash past again, but Aziraphale is surprisingly quick. This time, Dagon walks straight into Aziraphale’s chest and stops short.

It’s like walking into a brick wall.

Dagon sniffs. They refuse to be intimidated by an angel. Especially a plump and useless little Principality like this one. Dagon remembers Ligur talking about what the Archangels think of him, how they have no respect for him.

Thinking of Ligur reminds Dagon that that demon is gone. Gone at the hands of Crowley, who doused them with Holy Water.

Holy Water he got from this angel.

The only angel in Heaven that can withstand Hellfire, pudgy or not.

Dagon’s face goes pale. They swallow hard. Those memories of torturing Crowley, the times they’d been so proud of, flood their mind with vivid sound and color.

Staring at this angel’s cold, hard expression, they begin to regret every single one.

“You look parched,” Aziraphale says with an unexpectedly warm smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s hot down here,” Dagon growls suspiciously. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be Hell.”

“True, true. That’s why I brought this.” Aziraphale reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a tartan Thermos. Dagon stiffens at the reveal, but they’re too curious to back away.

It’s just a Thermos. How much damage could Aziraphale possibly do with a Thermos?

“It’s … it’s a Thermos,” the demon points out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says in a condescending tone. “Very good. And what do you think it’s filled with?” He pulls off the cup and puts it in his pocket, then unscrews the cap. “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Dagon scoffs. “How the Heaven should I …?” Their eyes blow wide as context melds together in one harrowing spark of realization. “That wouldn’t be … Holy Water? W-would it?” Dagon takes a step back, but Aziraphale’s hand shoots out, grabs the demon by the wrist. Thick, sausage fingers wrap tightly around, solid as stone.

“You know,” Aziraphale says in a low, gravelly voice to match, “I don’t like the way you’ve treated my husband.”

Dagon pulls, trying to break free, but Aziraphale has a grip like iron. “We’re … we’re demons! It’s what we do! Wot did you expect?”

“Doesn’t matter what I expect. It matters what I’ll tolerate.” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos to his mouth and takes a drink. Dagon stares as Aziraphale gulps the blessed liquid, licking his lips when he’s done. But from the sound of sloshing, there seems to be plenty left. “Oh! How rude of me,” Aziraphale says, holding the Thermos out to his captive. “Fancy a sip?”

Dagon’s eyes nearly pop out of their head. “You … you wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos over Dagon’s wrist where it’s caught in the angel’s fist. “By the way, I wouldn’t tug too hard if I were you. I am clumsy. I might slip. It only takes one drop to dissolve a demon.” On cue, a single drop begins to form on the silver lip of the container. Angel and demon watch it grow, dangle like a trapeze artist lowering themselves down the rung of their swing, preparing to jump. Aziraphale looks on in amusement; Dagon in utter horror. The drop lengthens, heaves, the tenuous connection thinning as it threatens to break.

“N … n-no! “ Dagon stutters, lurching backward, but Aziraphale holds on impossibly tighter.

“What was that you said?” Aziraphale asks, taking his eyes away from the precarious drop, not caring a whit for its fate.

“It … it’s going to fall!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, inadvertently shaking the Thermos as well. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite …”  

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

He sticks out his tongue and catches the drop seconds before it falls.

Dagon makes a strangled sound as they struggle to recoil.

Aziraphale watches the demon flail in his grasp and laughs. “Phew! Will you look at that? That was a close one!”

“You’ll … you’ll start a war!” Dagon cries, utilizing this momentary reprieve since the Thermos is still there, held aloft by the angel, his loathing brewing into a full-fledged flame. “A war between demons and angels! You didn’t want that, re-remember?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. You wanted a war, didn’t you? Well, now you’ll get your wish, provided doing away with you is impetus enough to start one. Pity you won’t be around to join in. I’ve heard you give some rousing pep talks.”

“N-now, listen to reason, angel …”

Aziraphale’s grip around Dagon’s wrist ratchets from tight to bone-crushing, almost bringing Dagon to their knees. They lose their footing, but Aziraphale drags them closer, holds them upright by that one thin and straining joint.

“You … don’t get to call me that!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I …”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley’s voice creeps into Aziraphale’s ear. It sounds distant for the pounding in Aziraphale’s head, but it’s mere inches away “… don’t ...”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to look at his husband, the full force of his anger trained on this one pathetic demon, ready to turn them into dust with the weight of that alone. But Aziraphale pictures Crowley’s amber eyes in his mind - doe wide and pleading.

Begging for no more.

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yes.” A hand finds Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m sure. Don’t do this. For me?”

Aziraphale shudders. He would do anything for Crowley, give him anything he wanted … but he can’t seem to do this. For all his posturing, all of his simply wanting to put the fear of God into this demon for everything Crowley said they’ve done, he can’t just let go. With his Thermos poised over the green-gray and fetid skin of their arm, he’s so ready to pour.

And it would feel good.

It would feel like righting a wrong.

The wrong of Aziraphale not being around to protect Crowley when he truly needed protecting.

But the kneading of his shoulder muscles loosens his grip ever so slightly. A kiss on the crown of his head loosens it more.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers against his scalp, his cheek pressing there to enjoy the softness of his hair, “please?”

“Urgh! All right!” Aziraphale grumbles, releasing his grip. He’d been holding on so tight, it takes a few seconds for his corporal form to actually detach, sending Dagon stumbling back, landing undignified on their tailbone in the sulfur. “But just you remember, Dagon,” Aziraphale adds, straightening his waistcoat, “the next time you get it in your empty head to try and do something … anything … to my husband, that he’s the only reason you’re not a puddle right now. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” the demon stutters. “I-I’ll remember.”

“In that case, I do believe some appreciation is in order.”

Dagon shoots a glare Crowley’s way. Not an inch of conceit can they see on Crowley’s face, only concern for his angel. And that makes Dagon furious. Despite themselves, Dagon scowls. But seeing as Aziraphale has put no cover on his Thermos and could always change his mind (that’s what Dagon would do) Dagon has little choice. “Thank you,” they grind through pointed teeth.

“Thank you what?” Aziraphale stresses.

If Aziraphale weren’t both immune to Hellfire and carrying a Thermos of Holy Water, Dagon would bolt out of that pool of sulfur and rip him to shreds.

At least, that’s what they tell themselves.

“Thank you … sir.”

“Better. Now run along. My compassion only lasts so long in this place, and it’s getting rather hot out here.” Aziraphale swirls the Thermos in Dagon’s direction, taking another drink as the demon scurries away, mumbling under their breath. The sulfur pits become tensely quiet, thicker and heavier than the black smoke stinging their eyes.

“Aziraphale …?”

“How’s the fallen Starmaker?” Aziraphale asks before Crowley can finish. Whether he intended on thanking Aziraphale or lecturing him, Aziraphale isn’t ready to hear it.

Crowley sighs. “As good as can be expected.”

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for, I suppose,” Aziraphale says with a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t you think that was going a little too far?” Crowley asks, lowering his voice and gesturing toward a sulking Dagon with his chin.

“Not at all. In fact … would you like to make your friend Dagon over there lose their bowels, so to speak?”

“Only always.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Without question.”

“Take a nice long swig out of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says, handing off the Thermos.

Crowley knows this Thermos. Knows it well. He pauses when Aziraphale offers it to him. Touching it gives him a jolt, fills his brain with the echoes of Ligur’s screams, but he can’t betray fear for one second. He’s supposed to be the demon who can withstand Holy Water, after all.

Plus he trusts Aziraphale … more than anything.

He brings the Thermos to his lips and throws his head back, taking the biggest mouthful he can before his survival instincts can force him to stop and spit it out. He hears Dagon curse from across the sulfur pits, and Crowley almost sputters. His eyelids squeeze, preparing for the burn of the righteous.

It burns, all right, but it doesn’t dissolve him into the dirt.

“It’s … it’s not Holy Water,” Crowley comments only loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, helping himself to another hefty mouthful. “It’s not water at all! It’s vodka!”

“Oh dear. Look at that,” Aziraphale says in a dry, sarcastic tone. “I brought the wrong Thermos. I’ll be more aware of how I pack next time.”

Crowley shakes his head, wrapping his arms around his angel’s body and holding him tight. “You know, you’re pretty sexy when you’re being all guardian angel and stuff.”

“Yes, well, it’s only for you, my love,” Aziraphale says, resting his head against Crowley’s chest and hugging him back, more than ready for his husband to snap them back home. “Only for you.”

[kingsuckjin]

The Enigma of Bunny |Pt. 11

Pairing: Jungkook, Yoongi, Jimin, Seokjin, Taehyung x reader featuring Namjoon and Hobi

Genre: mystery, thriller? Idk anymore.

Synopsis: You find a very sick young man in an alley and out of the bottomless barrel of kindness that is your heart, you decide take him home. Only then do you realize this stranger doesn’t speak, but that’s not the only strange thing about him by far. Who is he? Where did he come from? What happened to him? And why can’t he remember anything or even speak?

Warnings: None

Words: 4.5k

Prev // Next

➡My Masterlist

"So, the school definitely wouldn't be open right now- so here's what I have so far." Yoongi looked down at his phone as you sat in the driver's seat watching him and ready to listen to the information he had taken down so far. "Bunny was a trainee. He lived with his group. Went to an art school and juggled a night job. He was a happy kid until about a year before everything he began acting strange, depressed, he kept to himself, had to have had the girlfriend by then if she knew him well enough to supposedly help him through his family's death, he was on his phone a lot, probably with her. 'He had to call her all the time' those were the group guy's words, that's fucking weird but anyway... he got really bad after his family's death, seemed to cling to this weird Amanda girl, he cried a lot, showed up to work with cuts and then quit everything all at once, he didn't even show up to pick up his last check. There's two things I think we should do, the first being come back tomorrow and talk to maybe a professor and also talk to the police back home." Yoongi read off what he had typed up on his phone.

"Yoongs, I'm not driving all the way back here just to-"

"Call them you dummy. Call the school and see what you can find out." Yoongi interrupted you along with an added eye roll.

"I think we should go straight to the police, honestly this is getting weird." You admitted with a stressed sigh and ran your fingers through your hair..

"Oh so you believe my crazy theories now?" Yoongi tilted his head as he looked at you as if to say I told you so. But it was all beginning to dawn on you that his crazy theory could be right after all, you had never had a good feeling when thinking about where Jungkook was now, but you just couldn't fathom one of Yoongi's theories being right.

"It's not about who’s right and wrong, I just have a terrible feeling. I've- I've had it for a while now- I- I just didn't think it could be true..." You did, you had this strange sinking feeling in your gut that just wouldn't go away and it had only worsened as time went on. "Why didn't anyone see all this weird stuff and go to the police initially?! Why did no one care?!" You went off in frustration, pounding at the steering wheel as you drove.

"It's not that no one cared or didn't see it, it was the same reasons you had. Probably no one believed creepy shit could happen to someone they knew. See, everyone always sees this kind of stuff on the news to people they don't know, never to them or the people they care about so when it does happen it's probably hard to recognize the signs. But this does happen, it could happen to anyone." He explained

"What though? What exactly are we talking about here? What happened to him?" You asked feeling your hands already shaking. You just wanted him to confirm it one more time, to say it out loud again so it was nailed into your head.

"Y/n, I think he's been taken." The words made you feel sick. You began to sob uncontrollably and Yoongi made you pull over. You couldn't help but imagine Jungkook chained up around his wrist in the dark like he had explained in his dream once before.

"Oh god Yoongi, please don't say that." You wailed but he was was already leaned across the car console holding you.

You had let him go so long he could already be... you didn't want to think about that. Guilt ran through you as you thought about how you had made him go back, possibly to his captor. Your sweet Bunny might be somewhere hurting and dark and cold. That would mean he wasn't lying about coming back, he just couldn't.

"It will be alright, let's hope it's not true and just keep looking." Yoongi told you gently.

You waited until you your tears slowed down and dried your damp cheeks with your sleeve before beginning the trip back home. It was a long, quiet drive. You knew that when you get back you'd probably end up staying on Yoongi's sofa like you have the past few days. You hadn't really wanted to stay at your place alone because of Jimin, the psycho down stairs, the break up and now all of this. You felt like life was really starting to eat you alive and it was probably your own stupid fault.

The next morning after you woke up on Yoongi's sofa and he made you coffee, you headed home to have a moment to yourself to process all of this and make a decision as to what to do here. you sat there on your sofa staring at your phone on the table just thinking about it all.

This whole thing seemed just too much for you and Yoongi to handle, you weren't professionals, you weren't police, you weren't really detectives and this was not a game. Not only that, but you felt like time was ticking away, maybe every moment mattered.

You picked up your phone off the coffee table and made the call.

"Seoul police department." A vaguely familiar voice answered.

"I was wondering if I could speak to detective Namjoon?" Your voice cracked from nervousness a little but you cleared it and tried to push it aside.

"He's not here but can I take a message for when he gets back?" You could almost swear you had heard this officer's distinct voice before but you couldn't recall the name.

"Uh yeah tell him its y/n, y/l/n from-"

"Ohhh! Y/n or noona, I remember you. This is officer Jung, from the day you came to pick up that Jeon boy. I worked with detective Kim Namjoon on that case. Is there something I could help you with?" You now instantly remembered the cheerful officer.

"You did? That's great, then yeah there might be. Were you there when Jungkook’s girlfriend picked him up?" You asked. Was it okay to ask something like this? Did it go against some sort of confidentiality? Should you have even asked?

"Unfortunately not, we left it to the other officers, we really didn't feel the need to be there for that. Why?" He seemed curious now. You felt nervous about this and you were sure that he would just think you were crazy, but you had to do something.

"I think there's a problem."

"What kind?" He replied immediately.

"You're not going to believe me but... I was concerned."

You went on to explain everything, absolutely everything from the psychologist appointment to what the people who knew him had said.

His next words startled you.

"Do you think you could come down here? Detective Kim should be here by the time you get here. This is... it's rather strange." Officer Jung actually sounded like he might believe you.

After the phone call you got dressed but as you did so your phone began to ring nonstop. You picked it up and let out a groan at the word "boss" across the screen. You rid yourself of the annoyance in your voice and the slight fear of getting yelled at by this man for not working, and answered the phone.

"Hel-" your words were cut off by his stern, deep voice.

"Why have you not been answering my calls and texts?"

"I-I-uh…" you fumbled for an excuse.

"What more could you want from me? I've given you everything I could think of and you still refuse to do your job and you ignore me."

At his words a spark of bravery ignited inside of you.

"Frankly, Taehyung, you can take your job and shove it." You thought it would feel good to just say it, but unfortunately that spark of bravery had already abandoned you and died leaving you with nothing but nervousness.

"Is that so?" His voice seemed calm and almost amused by your little outburst. "If this is your resignation from your job then I don't accept, if you really want to quit then come see me and we can talk it over, if not, you're still employed by me and I'd appreciate it if you answer your calls and texts."

"Yes sir." You replied in defeat.

"Listen, I don't care how busy you are or what's going on in your life. When I reach out to you, you make yourself un-busy, you owe it to me, got it? I'm the single most important thing to you from here on out, understood?" His voice was firm and you could just envision him giving you that cold look of his.

"Yes sir." You replied with your voice far weaker than before.

"Good. Something needs to be done about this and we will be meeting before the week is over, I'll be in contact." And with that, the call ended.

You had a seat on the side of your bed for a moment to collect yourself until you decided to put the call behind you at least for now until you did what you needed to do right now, and that was to go to the police station.

You felt like you couldn't do it alone right now and decided that maybe Yoongi would be useful being there to so you headed right back to Yoongi's apartment and you didn't even have to beg for him to get dressed out of his pajamas at noon and come with you.

Officer Jung and detective Kim were already waiting for you when you and Yoongi arrived. Nothing was said, making you think that officer Jung had already filled detective Kim in on your story. They led you both into a small, basic white room with four chairs and a tape recorder on the rickety looking plastic topped table.

"Do either of you mind if we record this?" Detective Kim asked and you and Yoongi both shook your heads and had a seat across from them. He clicked a button on the recorder and a red light came on.

"Alright now, just start from the beginning, officer Jung has already explained everything to me but I just need it for the recording just in case this might be something very serious like you are insinuating." You were once again stunned and left wondering why and how they believed you when these accusations were even hard for you to believe.

"How much from the beginning?" You asked and looked between the serious faced officer and detective.

"To when and how you met Jungkook, I need to know everything from both of you." Detective Kim looked at you and Yoongi.

You both nodded.

"This is Sargent Jung Hoseok and Detective Kim Namjoon from the Seoul police department and we are here with Y/N Y/l/n and-"

"Min Yoongi." Yoongi replied.

"Go ahead." Detective Kim looked at you again with a reassuring smile which did nothing to settle your nerves.

You started from the beginning telling the whole story with Yoongi occasionally adding comments, and both the police officer and detective asking questions.

You had been interviewed for hours giving every detail you could, when you felt your phone going off in your pocket.You ignored it and tried to stay focused on what was being asked next, but it was hard when your phone just kept letting out little vibrations in your pocket.

"Now, this is a personal question, but we have to know everything." Detective Kim said "Did you and Jeon Jungkook ever sleep together or were you ever involved romantically during any point when he was with you?"

"Yes." You replied and swallowed hard but no one in the room seemed to bat an eye at your confession.

"When was this?" Officer Jung now asked.

"The night before he left." You let out a sigh after your reply.

"Did he say anything strange to you during that time? Did you two sleep together or did you just share your feelings with each other?" The detective asked.

You swallowed your nervousness once again as your hands shook a little. Why was talking about this so hard on you? You wiped your sweaty hands on your jeans and just left there on your thighs.

"Both. We slept together and he told me he loved me, I said it back. I guess all of that time together just... it made us close." You tried to reason why everything that night happened.

"That seems reasonable." Namjoon gave a confirming nod along with his words that helped urge you to speak more.

"He also left me a note for me to read after he left." You added, knowing you should mention it.

"Do you have the note?" Officer jung asked raising a brow at you, you could tell it had peaked his interest.

You pulled the note out of your bag and Yoongi gave you a weird look so you explained as you laid it on the table.

"I figured I might need it when you asked me to come down." You shrugged as the detective picked it up.

"May I read it? Out loud for the recording?"

"Yes." You replied to the detective who unfolded it and then began to read, making your cheeks feel hot.

"Y/n.

Please don't be sad. I understand that you just wanted to do the right thing. You wanted me to see if I loved her and you wanted me to find out who I am, but I promise you I'll be back soon. It hurts to leave, it's scary, I hate it, but it's okay, we'll both be okay until I'm home again. I only say I'll be back because I know there's no way I could love someone as much as you, find someone as giving and caring as you. Just hold tight for me for the next few days and I'll come home to you.

-love,

Your Bunny"

"So we now have it in writing that he promised he would be back." Officer Jung said. "That's important as proof of intent on returning."

"Y/n, do you have any enemies or stalkers or maybe ex-boyfriends that might not like the idea that he was staying with you?" Namjoon asked "I know you think it could be this Amanda girl, but what about on your end? I just want to be through."

"I just got out of a relationship and the guy and I kept running into each other before hand and he even met Jungkook but I don't think he would..."

"What was his name?" Detective Kim asked right away.

"Kim Seokjin, but as I said-" you wanted to argue that he was a nice guy, that he would never want to hurt anyone but in your paranoid mind you were now seeing everyone as potential suspects.

"Just trying to be thorough." The detective reminded.

"Jimin." Yoongi said out of nowhere catching everyone's interest.

"Park Jimin, your stalker. Or even your boss, he's rich and evil enough to do something horrible like this."

"Tell us about them." Officer Jung told you. "And it's important to remember to tell us if you were romantically involved with them and how."

You began to sweat even harder. How were you even supposed to talk about what happened with your boss? You looked to Yoongi beside you, as if to curse him for even bringing it up but when you did you felt a hand take yours under the table.

"It's okay, I've got you. No one is going to judge you here." Yoongi said softly and both the detective and officer agreed.

You didn't want to, but you told them everything and hoped Taehyung wouldn't find out about it.

As they had promised, no one in the room seemed to judge you as you told them everything about your boss, Jimin and Jin.

Office Jung and Detective Kim said that they'd look into the potential suspects, and talk to Jungkook’s former group, bar, and even the school and update you with any news.

But that wasn't enough for you. When you and Yoongi got back out to your car an overwhelming feeling of frustration and helplessness ignited in you and you once again found yourself sitting in your car with Yoongi looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to burst and spill your thoughts, and you did.

"There has to be something more I can do." You sighed.

"I don't think there is. The police can handle it from here, they can do more than we could." Yoongi told you as if that were supposed to stop this suffocatingly helpless feeling you had bubbling away in you.

"So what now? I just wait?" You said it with slight anger at this now being out of your hands. You didn't regret going to professionals but it felt so out of your control now and you hated the feeling.

"Pretty much." He shrugged.

"I can't do that... I've already waited too long! What if he's hurt?! what if hes-" you began to feel panicked and trapped from feeling so helpless, your eyes began to water up.

"Y/n." Yoongi interrupted you with a firm voice "it's best not to think about that right now. You did the right thing by going to them and they took it seriously. I'm sure they'll find him."

You closed your eyes, laying your head back against the headrest and took a deep breath to calm you but snapped your eyes open at the feeling your phone go off once more.

"Who the fuck is-" you had already taken out your phone but reading the name alone on the texts was enough to stop your sentence.

"Stop cursing, it's unlike you." Yoongi scolded but you were too deep in reading the texts to reply to him. He had most likely seen your lack of reply and eyes glued to your phone and finally took notice.

"What?"

You began to read some texts out loud to him.

"Jin: I'm so sorry, I didn't think things through before just leaving like that a few days ago. I was stupid. I thought about it and realized you would never do anything like that."

"Jin: will you please forgive me, baby?"

"Jin: I love you and I feel so guilty for leaving. I'll make it up to you if you let me."

"Jin: please reply, its breaking my heart. I just love you so much."

"Jin: you forgive me don't you baby?"

"What the heck?" You said in confusion.

"What? He misses you." Yoongi shrugged.

"Can you believe this guy? It's been four days and he thinks calling me baby and saying he loves me will somehow-" your confusion had turned to annoyance upon thinking about it.

"Wait." Yoongi paused and you looked at him in the now momentarily silent car as he looked to be thinking. "He told you he loves you? When did you two start saying that to each other? I thought we had a conversation about that not too long before the whole incident where you told me he hadn't said it yet and you didn't know if you were ready to." Yoongi seemed puzzled but so were you.

"Exactly. I think he thinks telling me now will get me back or something." You said with a scoff.

"And why is he calling you baby? I've been around you two enough to know he calls you cutie or lamb chop or cupcake." Yoongi pointed out.

"I don't know what he's thinking."

"Well either way you're not supposed to mention to anyone the police investigation so don't do that if you decide to take the idiot back." Yoongi, leaned back in the passenger's seat, crossed his arms and huffed.

"I know, I know. I just have a lot of stuff going on right now and I can't take him back." Your voice was weak, Jin’s texts had succeeded more than you'd like to admit at planting a tinge of guilt, or a small bit of longing for him in your mind.

"Well tell him that." Yoongi said so you began to try to write out a reply to Jin, but you deleted it and wrote out a new one before erasing that too and deciding on a simple reply. You read your reply to yoongi only after hitting send.

"I do forgive you but I just can't do this right now, Jin. I'm sorry."

Jin's reply back was immediate.

"Let's just talk this over, okay? Just come see me. If you don't want to do this right now then that's okay, I understand, but just come talk to me, baby."

Yoongi was now reading the text over your shoulder making you turn and give him a dirty look before he spoke one word quickly and rather urgently.

"Don't."

"Why?" You asked with your brows furrowed in confusion.

"Somethings not right."

"What? What do you mean? Don't be paranoid, Yoongs."

"I'm not, I just have a bad feeling." He said and you rolled your eyes "have I been wrong yet?"

"I don't know yet."

"Fine. Let's go see Jin. Right now. I'll stay in the car while you talk to him." Yoongi decided for you.

"It could be a while. Look, It will be alright-"

"No, what if it is Jin, huh? What if he was stalking you and that's why you kept running into him like that? You don't know what he's capable of when he's upset. What if he kidnapped Jungkook so he could run into you again and-" Yoongi spewed out his worries that felt like quite a reach to you.

"Yoongi, I've known him forever, he's not like that. Even when he gets upset it's not even that serious." You tried to reason.

"Or what if it's someone else entirely, what if its not even him texting you? Someone who doesn't know he doesn't call you baby?"

"You're being crazy! Why are you so protective over me anyway?! Why are you helping me with all of this when you like me?! What if it's you?! What if you're the only insane one?!" You went off now. You understood all of this made him worried but he was letting it make him paranoid.

"I'm helping you because I'm your friend and I care! I care about your feelings! Yeah, I like you but it doesn't matter because someone is missing and this is all so fucked up and weird! At the end of the day all I want is for you to be happy because you're kind and you've been through enough and you deserve it!" He yelled back.

You paused with your anger and frustration melting away. You stared at him in wide eyed shock until you felt tears in your eyes again.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to yell and make you…" Yoongi said with sincerity but you shook your head.

"No, I'm sorry. This is all a lot. Not what you said just now, everything, all these-these problems I don't know how to fix." You sniffled.

"I know." He laid a hand on your back for comfort. "But maybe if you go talk to Jin it will help solve maybe one of them."

You nodded.

"You can come with me, it shouldn't take too long." You started your car and gave into his worrying. What he was asking wasn't much, plus you felt bad for calling him crazy.

"What exactly is his address?" Yoongi asked and you told him but of course asked why.

"I don't know, I thought you mentioned he lived the other way across town, my mistake." He muttered while looking at his phone.

"I thought about moving there, those are some really nice apartments but now that... it's over with Jin and I... you know, I don't really want to live next to him."

"Well you don't know that. He seems to know he messed up. Maybe after everything settles down..." he trailed off.

"I-I can't." You admitted.

"I figured. I understand you're still waiting." Yoongi did seem to understand, just like he always did.

"Thank you." You announced before taking another deep and calming breath and to rid yourself of nervousness and worry, not only from everything today, but also from heading over to see your now ex boyfriend to talk.

"For?"

"For being so concerned about me all the time, for helping me every time I need it, for just being there. I know you like me and I'm sorry-" you wanted to try to talk about it, to let him know you hadn't ignored his confession, but he didn't seem to want that.

"No. No, it's no problem. You're kind of the only friend I have and I really don't want to ever mess that up. I've thought about it before and if you did like me and we did end up dating one of us would screw it up because that's honestly what we're good at doing in relationships from what I've noticed, so it's no big deal." He told you.

"I'm- I'm your only friend?" You asked with a bit of a smile.

"Yeah, I'm kind of not a people person in case you haven't noticed." He muttered ad you couldn't help but laugh a little at how true that was.

"That's kind of cute that I'm your only friend." You were now grinning.

"Shut up. I'm your only friend too."

"Oh. Oh yeah." You said in realization.

He then muttered something.

"What?" You asked him wondering of you said what you thought he did.

"I said and I like your polka dot umbrella, its cute! Damn, listen better." He said loudly and defensively.

"I can't when you mutter everything." You said but you laughed at what he had just told you about your umbrella. "I'll get you a matching one for your birthday."

"You better not." He replied dryly but with a hint of a small smile.

The car was silent for a little bit before he spoke again.

"You don't owe him a conversation, he left you like an idiot."

"I know Yoongs, I'd still like to be on good terms with him though. Not a fan of people hating me."

"If we just go home now I'll pay for pizza and let you pick the toppings this time." He offered but you just sighed and shook your head as you drove. "I'm afraid of you getting hurt, not even like me being crazy and accusing him of things, but...emotionally hurt from him again."

"I promise, I'm over it already. I'm over Seokjin." You assured him. "Plus we're almost there anyway, might as well go."

"Alright." Yoongi sighed in defeat.

Taglist:

@rikkafunthepureone @illnevertrustmyselfagain @sam-moss @minyoongi-infiresme @appreciatethefoolishness @sugajinny @loserjeonjk @im-emo-motherfuckers @savanna-1 @bulletproof-points @ddaengyoonmin @adelina1299 @hyungwonopex @jeonsclit @dinorahrodriguez @aaaaamnaaa @wildbeest55 @youraveragealto @weebasaurusrex @amudot @rhayad @m1lktae @arcofpiper @curlykoo @ilvebeenabad @liviaolivia @vampire-jimin @treatpeoplewithkindnesshoe @monsterwoosboo @obeythehemmings @jimintaelove @heyitsayjayy @peachy-bhun @ruinedbyjin @busansgloss @mikaisthicc @kassandravictoria @wifeofkimtaehyungofbts @a-kookie-with-my-tae @nooooooooona @exochanyeoltao @pastel-devil-06 @myownescapetowonderland @aylinruiz18 @madjammil @valleyvictoria @chloefran

[kittinoir]

Echoes of You Ch. 5

You can read this on Ao3

The photoshoot was over after that, and for once, Marinette couldn’t say she was upset the time was cut short.

To her surprise, most of the staff seemed…annoyed that they weren’t to continue. She watched them pack up, grumbling about the lost hours and messed up schedules and spoiled models.

“Come with me.”

Marinette jumped, nearly knocking over an irritated grip. Dominique raised a brow. She looked remarkably unflustered for someone who’d been being hunted down by a monster intent on shish-kabobing her to death.

“The shoot - ”

“Cancelled,” Dominique barked as she turned on her heel. Marinette scrambled to keep up, snatching her bag and sketch book off her chair. “An artists constitution is a delicate one. Adrien finds he is unable to continue under these conditions.”

Marinette’s heart leapt. Adrien. She hadn’t even thought about him during the attack. She hadn’t seen where Scream-ripper had come from; what if she’d run him through on her way to the set? Feelings of failure swirled through her; she hadn’t been able to protect him. She hadn’t been able to protect anyone.

But…no… What was she supposed to have done? She did everything she could; there was no way someone like her could have done anything. Besides, she remembered with a shudder, she’d done what she’d had to. She’d given Chat Noir a second chance. Apparently it had paid off.

To her surprise, Dominique lead Marinette straight out of the building to the car. Adrien, she saw, was already inside, staring out his window. Dominique spun on her heel without waiting for so much as a ‘thank you' and Marinette slid in quietly, pulling the door closed behind her. Suddenly the comments she’d heard about spoiled models made a lot more sense, and she scowled. Anyone who knew Adrien would know he wouldn’t just blow off work if it wasn’t serious, even if, as she was learning, it wasn’t something he was truly passionate about.

“You ok?” Marinette asked quietly. She suddenly realized she didn’t know if her question was rude or not, but she also discovered she didn’t really care. Right then it didn’t matter that this boy held her heart in his hands, whether he knew it or not; no one should have to hurt alone.

“Yeah,” Adrien said, barely glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah. Just…that was intense. I figured everyone could use some time to recover, myself included. Juliette was a talented seamstress.”

“Juliette?”

“The girl who got akumatized,” Adrien said, finally looking at her. “I don’t know what Dominique did, but I’m going to try to speak to my father about it. Juliette’s only been working for our label for a couple of months, but she was skilled and passionate - kind of like you, actually. I think she deserves another shot.”

Akumatized…? Marinette bit her lip as she probed the emptiness that was becoming more and more familiar. She didn’t know what it was, exactly, but she got the sense she was barely skimming the surface of a next to bottomless lake.

“I…I don’t know what that- ”

A rocking guitar riff Marinette recognized from Jagged Stone’s latest single ripped through the car, cutting her off. Adrien winced.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling out his phone. “My father. I have to take this.”

“I understand,” Marinette said. After all, he was his boss, too.

Unfortunately, the car pulled up outside the bakery minutes later. Adrien was still on the phone. From what she could gather, Gabriel Agreste seemed more concerned about the thousands of dollars going to waste from the shoot being cut short than he did about the attack itself. 

Adrien waved to her as she slid out of the back seat. A blank mask had settled over his features, and just for a second, a heartbeat really, he looked like someone else, someone she didn’t know. A stranger. The boy she loved was gone.

Marinette shut the door, but slid quickly up to the drivers side as inspiration struck. She knocked on the window, her hand acting before her brain caught up. She blanched as Adrien’s bodyguard rolled down the window but didn’t falter.

“Wait, please,” she said, “Just for a minute. I have something for Adrien. And - and for you! If you just wait, please, just for a second.”

The bodyguard didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. Marinette took that as a positive and turned to dash into the bakery.

“Marinette?”

Sabine Dupain-Cheng paused mid-transaction as her daughter came tearing into the bakery, very nearly knocking over not one, not two, but three customers as she did.

“Hi mom!” Marinette said as she tore open a bag and began shovelling pastries inside. “I’m home, the shoot was great, I just need a sec.” Blueberry muffin. Apricot scone. Chocolate croissant. She grabbed a smaller bag and shovelled three or four more pastries into it before dashing back outside. She handed the smaller bag to the bodyguard. The eager smile was small, but she didn’t think she was imagining it. He dug in right away, a silent but loud and clear sign that he would wait to leave while she conducted her business.

Biting her lip, Marinette tugged open the back door one more time. Adrien turned, eyes wide, still on the phone.

“As a thank you,” Marinette whispered. She placed the bag on the seat. Adrien softened and smiled.

“Thank you,” he mouthed, but then his father reeled him back in. She waved and shut the door, waiting and watching as the car pulled away.

Marinette barely saw the bakery as she headed back inside and up to their apartment, to her room, and up to her balcony. 

The sun was just beginning to set over the city, glinting off the glass and stone, but it was completely lost on her. How had a day that had started so wonderfully turned into such a nightmare? The…akuma was burned into her memory, picking at Marinette’s focus. Every thought turned back to the attack.

Scream-ripper hadn’t been working on her own, obviously. But who… Hawk Moth. That was what Adrien had said that morning; that Hawk Moth was becoming more volatile. But how? What could have twisted that woman’s body that way? She shuddered; what could have turned her to stone?

Marinette jumped as her own phone rang, the Clara Nightengale verse letting her know Alya would be on the other end. “Hello?”

“Tell. Me. EVERYTHING!”

Marinette frowned. “I…what?”

“You were there, girl!” Alya said almost too fast for Marinette to understand. “I saw it on the news! New akuma! What was it? Did you get a picture? A video? DID LADYBUG RESCUE YOU?”

“Alya, calm down,” Marinette said as panic threatened to overwhelm her. “I don’t know, I…”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alya demanded. “Didn’t you see it?”

“I…I…”

“Are you…ok, girl?” Alya asked, suddenly serious. “Did you get hurt while you were there?”

And just like that, Marinette found herself choking back tears. “Something’s wrong, Alya,” Marinette got out. “There’s all these…these gaps, and things I can’t remember, and I don’t…I don’t know what to do. I think I need help.”

“I’m on my way, Marinette,” Alya said. “Do you want me to grab anyone else on the way? Rose? Juleka?”

“No, no,” Marinette said. “I just don’t know….I don’t know…”

“It’s ok,” Alya said. Marinette could hear her pulling on a jacket through the phone. “Be there in 10, ok?”

Marinette bit her lip. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, girl,” Alya said. She hung up, and Marinette stared down at her phone, suddenly wondering if she wasn’t over-reacting. Was she really forgetting things, or had she just been so busy with her own escapades she’d missed the obvious?

Marinette climbed back down her ladder and made her way to her desk, pushing aside a stale plate of half-eaten cookies before she sat down. Like her phone, the webpage automatically loaded the Ladyblog. That, more than anything, assured Marinette this wasn’t something she was dreaming. It was real.

She was still scrolling through the Ladyblog when Alya burst in seven minutes later with pastries.

“I came as fast as I could,” Alya panted, dropping onto the chaise and patting the empty end. “What’s going on, girl? Was it…” Alya dropped her voice to a whisper, “Was it the akuma?”

Marinette joined Alya on the end of her chaise, crossing her legs and clutching a pillow to herself. “Yes, but…no. It’s been…well, everything, just…”

“Ok,” Alya said slowly, “Everything how? On the phone you mentioned…I think gaps…?”

“Yeah,” Marinette said as a blush fought its’ way onto her cheeks. “This is going to sound so stupid, but I think there are gaps…in my memory.”

Alya frowned. Marinette recognized her reporter face. “Random memories? Like people, or events? Homework, or friends? You remember that you’re a total goner for Adrien, right? Because you, like, just started managing coherent conversations with him.”

“Yes, I remember that,” Marinette said. Despite it all, she giggled. “I don’t think I could ever forget that. But…I don’t know. I don’t usually realize what I’ve forgotten until someone’s talking about something like I should know it.”

“Ok,” Alya said. She’d pulled out a notebook and was tapping her pen on her chin. “Do you have any specific examples?”

“Well…yeah, I…” Marinette dredged up her memories of the past twelve hours. “Like this morning when you said you had an interview for the Ladyblog. I knew about it, but I didn’t. I remembered you want to be a journalist and had been working on this project, but I couldn’t remember what the blog was about, except it was the home page on my phone and my computer, so obviously I’ve read it. 

“And then this morning, Adrien said something about Ladybug and Chat Noir and Hawk Moth, and…Alya, I had no idea who they were.”

Alya stared at her, as though waiting for clarification. “Wait, like…nothing?”

Marinette shook her head. “None at all.”

“O-ok,” Alya said, jotting down her notes. “Anything else?”

“The… akuna?…attack today,” Marinette said, bracing herself against the terrifying memories.

“The akuma,” Alya corrected. She raised a brow as though she wasn’t completely sure Marinette wasn’t just playing a prank, but the other girl just shrugged.

“I had no idea what it was, what it could do.”

“That’s pretty typical,” Alya said cautiously. “Every one is different with different powers.”

“I didn’t know that,” Marinette said quietly, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. “I don’t know where they come from, or how they’re made.”

“Well, it seems to me,” Alya said slowly, “That the things you have trouble remembering have to do with the Miraculous.”

A chill ran down Marinette’s spine, a silent warning. “The what?”

“The…Miraculous,” Alya repeated. “Oh, my god. How many heroes are there?”

“I don’t know,” Marinette said, “I guess two? Ladybug and Chat Noir?”

“How did they get their powers?”

“Sleight of…hand, maybe…?”

Alya was practically vibrating. “What is Hawk Moth after?”

“I don’t know, Alya!” Marinette said, clenching her hands to keep her panic under control. “I don’t know what he wants, or who he is, or why he’s doing all this!”

Alya reached over and squeezed Marinette’s hands a silent apology. “It’s ok, Marinette, it’s ok. I have a theory.”

Marinette wasn’t sure how someone could derive a theory from all the crazy things she’d already said, but she let Alya plow ahead, desperate for any explanation, even a wrong one.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir are Paris’s protectors,” Alya began, “But sometimes they need help. They get their powers from their Miraculous, a magic piece of jewellery guarded by an immortal being. There are a few pieces of this jewellery. When Ladybug and Chat Noir need help, they ask a select few people to wear a Miraculous and help them defeat an akuma.”

“Isn’t that…dangerous?” Marinette asked.

“Not that I know of,” Alya said. “The Miraculous protect the wearer, but once the one time power is used, they have five minutes until the transformation exhausts itself and they transform back into their civilian self.”

“Ok…” Marinette said. “I’m with you so far. What does any of that have to do with me?”

“Ladybug and Chat Noir had a close scrape with Hawk Moth, in person, a few days ago,” Alya said. “Normally he just sends out his akuma’s to do his dirty work for him, but for whatever reason, he came in person that time.”

“Adrien mentioned something about it,” Marinette said, suddenly recalling their conversation. “But there wasn’t anything about it on the Ladyblog.”

Alya shrugged, her brow creasing. “It was a bad day. I was across town at a family function and no one could get close enough to film or ask questions. Worse, it was at the top of Montparnasse, so the actual news outlets weren’t able to get close enough to film, either. I missed a lot of what happened that day. What I could gather, though, was that another Miraculous holder was with them, one of other heroes.”

“Ok,” Marinette said. “So?”

“So,” Alya said, “I think that hero might have been you.”

Marinette nearly fell of the chaise. “Me!? I can barely remember who the Kitty is, you think I was out there with them?”

“I think,” Alya said softly, “That while the Miraculous can protect your body, they can’t always protect the mind. I’ve heard of cases before, where people are so traumatized by what they experience their mind tries to protect them. Sometimes they go blind, or deaf, or…forget things that hurt too much. I don’t really know what happened that day, Marinette, but not all of the stories on the Ladyblog are good ones.”

Marinette pulled a blanket off the back of the chaise and pulled it around herself with shaking fingers as she processed what Alya had said. Her, a…super hero? But she’d never been one for direct confrontation; what in the world would make Ladybug choose her?

“It’s ok, girl,” Alya said, pulling her best friend in for a tight hug. When Alya realized Marinette was trembling, she didn’t let go. “It’s just an idea, something I read about. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s a side effect of an akuma - like Oblivio!”

Marinette struggled to calm down. “Oblivio?”

“Yeah, they were this super-villain that erased people’s memories. Maybe Hawk Moth’s getting stronger and this is a side effect of that.” Alya paused, then quietly said, “Actually…Oblivio was me.”

“You?” Marinette straightened, staring at her friend.

“Me,” Alya said with a nod, “And Nino.”

“But…how - ”

“I guess that’s the most important thing you need to know,” Alya said as she studied her jeans. “Anyone can be akumatized, Marinette. Anyone. When you feel really angry, or sad, or any strong negative emotion, it somehow creates an opening for Hawk Moth. He can send one of his butterflies after you. It amplifies that emotion until you’re happy to work with him, so you have to be careful. He’ll sweet talk you, promise you whatever you want, in exchange for one thing.”

“What?” Marinette whispered through lips that had gone cold.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir’s Miraculous.”

[mrslittletall]

Title: A Storm is coming (Chapter 8) Fandom: Dark Souls Characters: Chosen Undead/Dragon Slayer Ornstein Word Count: 3.344 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16603610/chapters/44733007 Previous chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/184714873284/title-a-storm-is-coming-chapter-7-fandom-dark

Summary: Ornstein gives Tempest a bath. The training begins. Tempest questions the cooking skills of the dragon slayer.

(Author's note: Oh boy, time for some fluff ^^ I want to get them into friends and lovers eventually, so we have to start somewhere, no?)

“Train me?”, Tempest stood up, still trying to process what his ears had just heard.

“I have spoken clearly the first time. You definitely need to be shaped into a warrior.”, Ornstein surveyed Tempest and added in a snarky tone: “I would like to shape you into a knight, but I feel that is beyond hope.”

“So, um, what do you want me to do?”, Tempest asked.

“First, it is time to get this armour off you.”, Ornstein came nearer and started undressing Tempest, who lowly squeaked in protest. Once every piece of armour had been clattered to the ground, Ornstein, who had grabbed Tempest wrist into his own gauntlet, stared at him aghast.

“Right, I forgot that this happens to you when you die. Please reverse this.”, he said, averting his gaze.

“Um, fine.”, Tempest left briefly to reverse his hollowing at the nearby bonfire, the firekeeper staring at him, after all, he only was clothed with a loin cloth now, before returning to Ornstein, starting to freeze a bit, being underdressed like this. While a lot of his senses turned off because he was undead, his blood still was flowing, hollowed out or not and naturally his body tried to stay warm.

When Tempest returned to Ornstein, the dragon slayer stared at him. “By the lord, I thought you had the decency to get properly dressed, why are you running around half naked?!”

“Um...”, Tempest started. He wasn't even sure why he hadn't put any clothes on. He had worn this armour for so long that it didn't even occur to him. “I thought it was part of the training.”, he finally brought out. Ornstein however, still stared at him.

“Ugh, I thought it was your hollowed out form that was reeking so much, but apparently your last bath has been ages ago. Look at all this dirt.”, he scolded while gesturing with both hands to Tempest body, which certainly was covered in quite a bit dirt. “I certainly won't train you, when you stink up the air like that. It is time for you to take a bath.”

Before Tempest could protest, the dragon slayer had picked him up with one hand and just slumped him over his shoulder, heading for the cathedral. While being carried like this, Tempest noticed that Ornstein seemed to limp a tiny little bit. Guilt washed over Tempest. Ornstein probably had gotten injured when he had been searching for him in the archives.

Once Ornstein had entered the cathedral, he headed straight for the part that Tempest didn't even had noticed when first having entered the marvelous building. At least this time he didn't had to be afraid of any silver knights. Tempest admired a bit how Ornstein was able to find his way in this big cathedral so easily when he remembered how often the dragon slayer had took wrong turns in the archives. Well, Ornstein had lived here for a millenia, of course he would know his way around here.

In front of a particular room, Ornstein finally put Tempest down.

“Wait here.”, he said and then undid his armour. Wait wait wait... did Ornstein intend to go into the bath with him? Tempest assumption only seemed to verify when the dragon slayer also attempted to undo the shirt he wore and neatly folded and laid it into a shelf near the door to the room. Tempest already braced himself for the dragon slayer to let fall his trousers, but he simply picked Tempest back again, entered the room and the next thing Tempest knew was that he had been thrown into hot water.

He emerged from the water, coughing and spitting it out where it had entered his lungs. Looking down at him, Tempest realized that he didn't wore his loin cloth anymore. Staring at the side of the big pool, where Ornstein stood, he could see that the dragon slayer casually threw it on the ground.

“That was a bit far.”, Ornstein called over to him. “Come back.”

Shrugging, Tempest came back to the side where Ornstein was kneeling. He actually had to swim there, the water felt quite deep for him. He figured, it was because the bath had been made for the likes of Ornstein, who naturally were a lot taller than humans. As soon as he was at Ornstein's side, he asked: “So, to actually clean myself, I need a washing cloth and soap.”, Tempest said. The dragon slayer didn't say anything. Instead, Ornstein himself drew out the desired items and started to rub Tempest himself.

“Look at this dirt. Just how long has it been since you cleaned yourself?”, Ornstein asked with a wrinkled nose.

“I don't think I had any bath since I left the Undead Asylum.”, Tempest answered truthfully.

“Gross. You have been to Blighttown!”, Ornstein practically shouted the last word while continuing to scrub the dirt away from him. Tempest in fact noticed a few cuts, bruises and what seemed to be freshly clotted bleeds on the dragon slayer's bare chest along a myriad of old scars, mostly burns. His chest tightened when he laid his eyes on a particular big scar across his chest, the one that had struck the dragon slayer down. Ornstein suddenly stopped scrubbing and said: “Stop staring.”

Tempest quickly avoided his gaze and being completely at the mercy of the dragon slayer, didn't dare to say another word, until Ornstein handed a fresh washing cloth to him. “Do your private parts yourself.”, he said and sat down, closely watching Tempest.

Tempest accepted the washing cloth but before he actually started to clean himself, he asked: “Um, do you intent to watch me doing this?”

“Oh, sorry, I used to give the little ones bathes and when I kept my gaze off them they would just escape. I just can't get rid of this habit.”, Ornstein said and turned around to give Tempest some privacy. Tempest had no clue about who Ornstein even had talked. Did he had kids once? Little siblings? Or was he referring to pets like a dog? Once Tempest was done, he exclaimed it loudly and asked if he was allowed to leave the pool now.

“Look at all this dirt.”, Ornstein gestured to the part of the pool that had practically blackened by all the dirt before giving Tempest a towel. “I am going to find a few clothes for you, just don't wander away.” With that words the dragon slayer left and Tempest was left alone to dry his body off.

Tempest just had finished rubbing his hair dry when the dragon slayer returned and tossed a few black leather clothes in front of him. “Unfortunately, Ciaran's clothes are the only ones that may fit you.”, he said. Tempest picked the clothes up. Nothing too bad, just some simple pants and a vest. No underwear though. Well, Tempest would hopefully be able to wash his loincloth later. It still laid on the side of the pool.

After slipping into the clothes, it became apparent that they had been made for a female body, but they fit Tempest well enough. He felt both lighter and a lot more unprotected without the elite knight armour. After Tempest was dressed, Ornstein, who had put on his armour (and hopefully his shirt) back again in the meantime, nodded in satisfaction and ordered him to follow. They ended up at the large area near the bonfire.

“Pull out your weapon and show it to me.”, Ornstein ordered and Tempest did so, pulling the Katana out and presented it to the dragon slayer. He took it and eyed it thoroughly.

“A weapon from the east. Has a nice edge to it, very sharp blade, makes foes bleed quickly. However, breaks easily. How did you even come into the possession of such a weapon? They aren't exactly common here.”

That actually was a rather funny story. In the Undead Burg, Tempest had found a merchant but unfortunately had lacked any souls to actually buy anything from him at the moment, so he politely declined his wares, which only prompted the merchant to say out aloud, that he should fall off a cliff. Annoyed by such a mean thing, Tempest had shoved the merchant and accidentally scratched him with the tip of his sword, which the merchant had took as cue to attack him with this particular katana. But before he could do anything, the merchant had lost balance and fell down the burg. Tempest had picked up the katana later at the place where he had died. The merchant never appeared again. He either moved on or had become hollow.

Tempest opened his mouth and said “Well.”, intending to tell this story, when the dragon slayer already interrupted him. “Show me which other weapons you have.”

Tempest closed his mouth and went for the bottomless box at the bonfire, returning with every weapon he had picked up so far. It weren't too much. A combination of swords, a mace, an axe, some spears. Tempest actually expected that Ornstein picked up one of the spears, but instead, he went for a straight sword.

“Straight swords are a good weapon to start with.”, Ornstein explained. “You can use a very versatile movement with them and they are quite sturdy.” Ornstein swung the sword around a bit, did a thrust attack, a slash, a slice and series of quick slashes in demonstration. Tempest only stared at awe. This knight in front of him really knew what he was doing. He felt like he had always just blindly swung his weapon around.

“However.”, Ornstein continued, “The best sword won't do anything when its bearer can't wield it correct. Here.”, he tossed the sword to Tempest. “I need to know how well you handle yourself in a duel so that I have a base to start.” Ornstein picked up another sword for himself, leaning his dragon slayer spear against a wall.

“What, I shall duel you?”, Tempest asked aghast.

“You already won against me, remember?”, the dragon slayer replied. “Now prepare yourself.”

That was the only warning Tempest got before Ornstein lunged at him and struck him with his own sword. Tempest winced in pain and rolled away, a method that had been rather effective for dodging the strikes of his mostly far larger foes.

Ornstein turned around and swung his sword at him, Tempest quickly threw his own in the air, trying to block the blow, but got quickly overwhelmed by the quick follow up strikes that the dragon slayer pressured onto him. After what felt like less a minute, he laid on the ground, the sword tip on his throat and Ornstein simply said: “Dead.”

Tempest was grateful when the dragon slayer removed the sword tip from his throat, casually leaning it over his shoulder, when Tempest crawled back up. Was this really the same guy he had fought in the cathedral? It felt like the Ornstein the cathedral had either been weakened or had been going easy on him. No, Tempest didn't think he did go easy on him. Sometimes he had been killed in two strikes. But when Ornstein had put this pressure on him when with the executioner, Tempest wouldn't have stand the slightest chance.

“Everything is off about your stance.”, Ornstein said, coming closer to Tempest. “You need to correct it.” The dragon slayer forcefully touched Tempest arms, legs and waist and bent him into a what felt like a very awkward stance for Tempest.

“Hold this for 30 minutes, then we can continue.”, Ornstein said, leaning against the wall next to his spear.

While Tempest tried to hold the pose Ornstein had forced him into, he had some time to observe the dragon slayer. After a short while, Ornstein put the sword down he had used to duel with and instead picked up his spear again, just staring blankly at nothing. Or at least his lion helmet made it look like this. Tempest didn't like this awkward silence and decided to try for some smalltalk.

“I didn't knew you were so good with a sword. I thought the spear was your favoured weapon.”

“The spear is my favoured weapon, but I have trained the silver knights for a millennia to use swords. Of course I know how to wield a sword.”

“So when you favour spears, why do you want to train me with a sword?”

“Better basics. Easier to teach. Spears are more specialized. By the way, your stance is crumbling.”

That was true, Tempest wasn't able to hold it any longer and pretty much stumbled on the ground.

“Ouch, my entire body feels like hurting.”, he complained.

Ornstein sighed beneath him. “That could take some time...”

And so they continued the session, Ornstein occasionally coming over to Tempest to forcefully correct his stance (Tempest swore he could hear his bones creak). This procedure continued until it was night all of a sudden. Tempest hadn't even noticed that the sun had gone down. Instead, it was like someone had pulled a switch and made the day into the night. “That was sudden...”, Tempest mentioned.

“Gwyndolin has gone to sleep, then we should call it a day too.” Ornstein said and started to get into motion, walking towards the cathedral. Tempest followed him.

“So, uh, why was it dark all of a sudden? What has it to do with the dark sun going to sleep?”, Tempest asked Ornstein.

“Hmm.. I thought you already had found this out.”, Ornstein said. “Didn't you notice something strange about the sun while we were out there?”

“The night came far too sudden, I didn't even saw the sun move.”, Tempest said and it hit him like a brick. “The sun didn't move! Not a single time until I have arrived here. It must have been several days! Why didn't I ask myself why it was never night until now?”

“So you figured that this town is covered in an eternal dusk. It always was the time when Anor Londo looked most beautiful.”

“So it's an illusion?”, Tempest asked, having to make an effort to keep up with Ornstein's long steps. Tempest looked in the sky to see a risen full moon. “A full moon, a dark sun...”, he whispered to himself. He glanced at Ornstein but the dragon slayer apparently was done talking with him.

Back at the cathedral, Ornstein assigned a room to Tempest. It clearly once had been used as a guest room, aside from a bed, a cupboard and a table with chairs nothing was in it. Tempest didn't need to sleep, but lying down on a bed would be more comfortable when he had to wait for the night to pass.

Besides showing Tempest the room, Ornstein hadn't give him any further instructions. While Tempest's bones and muscles did hurt, a quick sip of Estus eased the pain and he didn't feel like lying on the bed for several hours, so Tempest decided to explore the cathedral on his own. He was just walking through the hallways, when he smelled a horrible stench, like someone burned something up really bad. Apparently, having a bath made him sensitive to scents again, after Blighttown he had pretty much given up on using his nose ever again. It hadn't occurred to him that his own stench had been at fault for this.

Tempest followed the stench to find an open door. Silently, he peaked in and saw Ornstein sitting at the table of a room that very much looked like a kitchen, reluctantly staring at whatever it was that he had cooked up. Seeing the kitchen, it itched in Tempest's hand. It had been so long, far too long. But the sight of the dragon slayer at the table, trying to eat an awful meal, made him reluctant to go in. He didn't know if Ornstein simply was a terrible chef or if this was some form of self punishment, so the small Undead decided to move on.

The next day they continued their training. This time Tempest managed to hold the stance the desired time, so that Ornstein was satisfied with moving on to the next step. Which consisted in drillling every possible way a sword could be swung into Tempest's head. And the dragon slayer was a strict one, Tempest couldn't count how many times he had to repeat a certain strike until Ornstein was finally satisfied. Like the day before, they only stopped after the day had switched to the night.

This evening Tempest peaked into the kitchen again, seeing Ornstein eating a dish that made his nose turn up. This continued for several days until Tempest was sure about one thing.

This wasn't some kind of self-punishment, Ornstein simply was a terrible cook and his growing reluctance to eat day after day surely showed that he didn't enjoy his meals. In Tempest a plan took shape.

The small Undead had snuck into the kitchen before the dragon slayer would get up and rummaged around in the supplies. To his surprise, he saw that there were plenty. There were so much ingredients, he never had seen so many at home. Tempest gathered everything he needed and got ready to prepare them, cutting up vegetables and meat, getting spices ready that were neatly stacked on a rack. He quickly put the one labeled with bone dust away though, putting it far behind the others, so that he never would accidentally grab it.

Tempest fired up the oven with his pyromancy and intended to put a pot on it, but he was too small to actually reach it. Looking around, Tempest spooted a footstool in the corner and put it in front of the oven, stepping on it, getting the pot ready and starting to cook the stew with the prepared ingredients. Even though Tempest himself didn't taste a lot anymore, his sense of smell was still excellent and so he should be able to dish out something nice. At least it would taste better than whatever it was that Ornstein had been cooking. Soon, the kitchen was filled with a nice smell. After the stew was done, Tempest covered the pot with a lid to keep it warm and waited.

Soon enough, the dragon slayer entered the kitchen, hair neatly tied back into a ponytail, but not in his iconic armour yet, instead, in that simple linen clothes he usually wore underneath. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Tempest leaning against the wall. “What the...?”

“Surprise.”, Tempest blurted out, removing the lid of the stew and filling up a plate with it. “You have never asked me, but I am quite a decent chef. I thought I should thank you for training me with a little meal.”

The brows of the dragon slayer furrowed, but then his gaze softened. Tempest put the plate on the table, placed a spoon in it and retreated to the wall again. Ornstein came over to take a look. He sat down, stared into the stew for a few minutes and then put the spoon up to have a taste of it. Tempest vibrated with excitement.

“That tastes... nice.”, Ornstein said. “Not as good at Smough's, but... it's warm.”

Tempest was satisfied. That felt like the most of a compliment he could get out of the dragon slayer's mouth.

“I am going to the training grounds and wait there for you.”, Tempest said, standing up from leaning against the wall and approaching the kitchen door. When he was almost through it, he heard the dragon slayer say: “Wait...”

Tempest turned around. “Yes?”

“Would you cook again..? Not.. not because I like it very much or so, but... it is still better than mine, so...”

A big grin flashed over Tempest's face. “Of course.”, he said.

(Author's note: Time for Tsundere Ornstein. Also, I want to thank Sekiro for teaching me how sword fights are looking like! Thank you, Sekiro!) Next chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/185270390139/title-a-storm-is-coming-chapter-9-fandom-dark

[pagerunner-j]

Before I begin, the obligatory disclaimer: the following is a bit of a feelings dump, and it’s more personal than I meant to get, especially since I’d intended to avoid posting personal stuff here at all. When I say “please don’t reblog,” I mean “PLEASE LISTEN THIS TIME AND DON’T REBLOG.”

But there’s a lot I’m trying to process about last night’s story, the friction between narrative and game mechanics, and the emotional repercussions of this sort of scenario. It’s been a long build-up that all kind of came to a head for me last night. Ergo, this post.

To give proper context, though, I need to back up a bit to the first campaign and explain why Percy’s second death, brief as it may have been, was ultimately worse for me than the first.

—

2017 did not start well. One January day I got a call from my audibly ill father saying that both he and my mother were in the emergency room. She’d been admitted for congestive heart failure. He was diagnosed within the day with what turned out to be stage 4 colon cancer. He’d been avoiding appointments, ignoring symptoms, and putting off the inevitable, until the doctors went in only to find that the tumors had spread to the point that there was nothing they could do. I still have a clearer mental image than I’d like of my dad’s scars, along with bags and tubes hanging out because what was left of his system couldn’t do its job anymore. They stitched him back up as neatly as they could, but there was no fixing the real damage. It was done.

I didn’t have much room to breathe for quite a while. My life was pretty much consumed with trying to figure out how the hell to handle any of this. I did manage, for better or for worse, to keep carving out a little bit of time each week to watch Critical Role, because I needed something good to think about while everything else was falling apart.

Unfortunately for me, it took less than two weeks between the day all that began and the final battle with Raishan.

I was braced for possible bad outcomes, considering the severity of the fight, but what I wasn’t prepared for was for someone to get felled in a way that was basically mundane. Sure, it was a dragon that did it, so much of the situation was fantastical: an enormous mythical monster, and a swipe of larger-than-life claws. But what I had to deal with, because it was, of course, described in detail, was an evisceration. It was, to be blunt, my favorite character getting his guts ripped out. And because Pat had to go and up that ante, writer that he is, I found myself sitting numbly through a scene afterward of Kerrek beside Percy’s body, trying uselessly to put the ruined mess back together.

I still can’t think about that scene without feeling sick. I couldn’t even feel properly relieved when Percy got revived. I wanted to. Obviously I was glad that he was there for the rest of the campaign, because I wanted to see his story find a less abrupt end. I just didn’t feel any better about the idea that well, sure, he got a magic fix. It just kind of ended up spotlighting the futility of what I was staring down.

My dad died in May that year, on a Thursday night. I got home very late after hours of trying to deal with things, and found myself alone, overwhelmed and unsure what to do with myself. For lack of anything else better to do, I pulled up that night’s VOD. I couldn’t really focus on it; I kept drifting out and only sort of coming back to. I let the episode keep running for a while, though, at least wanting some friendly voices to listen to.

Then I realized what everyone was doing, and I looked at the timestamp, and I counted backwards. And I froze.

While the party was playacting at speaking with the dead, I was sitting in a hospice room listening to my father pleading with us to let him go.

I only got a few seconds further in before I stopped the video and turned away.

Despite the fact that I’ve watched almost everything Critical Role has ever done, I still have no idea how that episode ends.

—

After all this I went in for my own medical tests, since my own heretofore-handwaved-by-my-doctors health concerns suddenly seemed more pressing. It turns out, unsurprisingly, I inherited all the fun stuff. Fortunately, none of the growths were cancerous yet, because at least my unfortunate genetic legacy is something that, with proper screenings and care, it’s possible to stay ahead of. But I was told they’d need me to come in in another six months, and probably every year after that forever — or until something finally goes nuclear, whichever comes first.

Guess we’ll see.

My shorter term problems were enough to deal with on their own. The day after the test, I found out I was losing my health insurance. Two days later I found out I was losing my job. Everything since has basically been trying to patch things together from scraps. Sometimes things are sort of okay. Sometimes it’s a bottomless pit of uncertainty. Obviously, nothing in the wider world has exactly improved since, either. In sum total: fun times, especially considering I was already struggling with severe anxiety before all this began.

I wasn’t really sure how to emotionally process the ratcheting stakes in Critical Role at that point either. When you’re still watching the show because you need a breather from months of continual crisis, but your beloved characters are facing down things like, oh, a dread god and the very real possibility of everything going straight to hell, it’s…not exactly something you can turn to for relief, per se. I kept on going, because the bright spots were still so good, but I can’t exactly say I was enjoying myself for significant parts of the run, either. It was also where I started to feel a very real frustration with D&D and the inherent capriciousness that can creep in.

In short, I desperately, desperately did not want this battle to go wrong. I didn’t want to have to face a story that I’d become so invested in going completely south not because it necessarily made narrative sense, but because the dice (as they always have the opportunity to do) said “fuck you.” Yes, the feeling was probably more selfish on my part than anything else. But I still hope it’s understandable for emotional reasons, and it also got me thinking again about the entire logic of “that’s just how the game works,” and how far you can run with that before you finally trip and hurt yourself.

I’ve always had problems with a few common things in game design. One of them — usually less of a problem when we’re talking about high-level D&D, although it can still surprise you — is when things arbitrarily become harder in the game than they would be in real life. (Floor/jumping puzzles in video games where you can’t step diagonally For Reasons, I’m looking at you.) Another is any kind of gameplay mechanic that robs you of your turn or otherwise puts you out of play. Varying degrees of success or failure is one thing, but I could never understand what’s ever fun about being stopped from participating in the thing you’ve come to do. Still, one way or another, there are so many ways for that to happen. Failed dice rolls, getting stunned or disabled, outright death: there are so, so many ways.

And it’s one thing if that’s happening during the course of, say, an everyday board game, but it feels different if it starts changing the course of a full-blown story.

Part of this is the editor in me talking (who will have words with me about this post, I’m sure), because she has Opinions about it all. She always wants to keep the story on track, not go off on useless tangents, and not drop things without getting proper resolution. She’s big on structure and pacing, suspicious of too much chaos. She does not get along well with D&D. This isn’t to say that this forms the entirety of my opinion, mind; I can still appreciate the way the game works, and the fact that so many interesting and unexpected things can be born entirely because of the random element, improvisation, and decisions you have to make in the moment. But dropped threads, unfinished plots, interrupted ideas, the things that get lost, or the characters that do…those can end up haunting me.

Honestly, and this is probably always going to be a fundamental disconnect between me and any D&D game: I’ve discovered both through watching CR and playing the game a bit myself that I don’t really care about the game as much of anything except as a skeleton for storytelling. If it supports the narrative, if it gives structure, if it enables activities, if it provides opportunities for play, I’m all for it. If it yanks the rug out from under you just because, again, the dice decided to say “fuck you,” or the rules get weird, or there’s something else that just doesn’t mesh between player and scenario and/or DM, I have a harder time with it.

And it’s crushing when stories I care about collapse or turn sour because the game says so, and for reasons that feel almost cruelly arbitrary — particularly when I’m getting more than enough of that in real life.

So for CR, the ending of campaign 1 was an exercise in protracted anxiety. I was in a space where I needed something to work out, but even the entertainment I’d been turning to was becoming dangerously precarious. Wasn’t the best feeling.

In the end, luckily, it ended about as well as it could have: not without consequence, but without everything crashing down. I felt relieved, and satisfied, and glad we got a chance for resolution with the characters we’d been following for months. If anyone had to permadie, the character who was already bound to the goddess of death was not a shocker, and in many ways it’s the kindest choice; he got more resolution than any human being in the real world ever will. It barely even registered as a sad ending. I envied him, really.

I’ve watched far worse go down.

Meanwhlie, i was also thinking that even though it would be tough to say goodbye to these characters, it could also be a refreshing reset. We’d get new characters needing to find out who they are, what they want, what they’re good at, how to relate to each other, how to begin. Smaller stories, with not everything having to be about the END OF THE WORLD (again). Lower stakes. I was fine with the idea of lower stakes for a while, and less threat of impending death and pain.

Well. Like I said. It was an idea.

That brings me around to Molly, and to story decisions and gameplay decisions that both broke my heart seven ways from goddamn Sunday.

—

It took me a while to come at this part, because it took some time for the thought to crystallize that I wasn’t only reacting to the rolls of the dice in last night’s scenario. That was part of it, absolutely. Luck is a thing, strategies work or don’t, fate is capricious. I wish that several things had played out very differently, and I’m especially upset that the way things fell out, it stopped a story in its tracks that had barely even started. (I’ll come back to that.) So the start of the thought was still game vs. narrative, and it’s part of why I wrote that whole run-up you just read.

That said, the more I poked at it, the more I got upset that we were playing out a scenario like this at all.

I was thinking aloud about this in another post, but to preface it a bit better: There’s an entire meta level to three players being gone last night that everyone knew about. I understand the impulse to avoid metagaming, but it also creates some odd situations, like everyone trying (and failing, because — yep — the dice said “fuck you”) to investigate the area and find out why their friends were gone. So we had to start with a big, clunky process of the characters figuring out what the audience and the cast already knew: that Matt had written Jester, Fjord, and Yasha out by having them get kidnapped. The story is streamlined enough. The gameplay around it, not so much.

But here’s what I got hung up on once it all sunk in: why did this have to be the story in the first place?

I’m not thrilled with how a situation that arose in real life because of pretty much the prototypical joyous event (i.e. a new baby) and something that had been mundane on the show until now (Ashley being away) got turned into a brutal story about a triple kidnapping and trafficking, which promptly resulted in a death. And it says a lot about the underlying plot they’re dealing with, which is not something I’m sure I’m willing to ride with much further. I’ve been leery for a while – starting off with mutterings about an evil god only a few episodes in put me on edge from the start – and then there’s the political unrest and the religious conflicts and people disappearing…it’s all going somewhere really unpleasant really fast.

It’s also derailed a story I wanted, which hurts like hell.

We’d barely even gotten to know Molly. Molly had barely even gotten to know Molly. We got tantalizing hints, and plenty of suggestions that there was more to discover — probably an entire character arc’s worth of material. And then…this. My inner editor? Yeah, she’s screaming with frustration. In any traditionally structured narrative, this would not have happened, because even if a death was in the cards, ether it would have been timed differently so that you could get further down the road with him, or if the character was always meant to die early, any decent edit would have trimmed out most of the details that suggested at things that never got payoff. But it’s D&D, and so it’s the push-pull at work: game vs. story, plus a(n un)healthy dose of “unavoidable meta circumstances vs. the apparent need for A: drama and B: to barrel right ahead into a crisis even though there were other choices that could have been made in the light of said meta circumstances.” And…here we are.

Here we are, with a dead character who should not, let’s be honest, be dead, and a story left hanging, and far fewer obvious options for fixing it than we had at any such crisis point in the previous campaign, and lots of miserable, hurt people.

One of them being me.

—

There’s a reason this shit hurts. Personally speaking, it would hurt even if I didn’t have over a year’s worth of unfortunate circumstances making narrative swerves like this even harder to take. It hurts because the story and the characters are so engaging, because they’re worth the investment, and, yes, because when things go wrong, sometimes they’re for reasons that make me want to flip a goddamn table. And yes, maybe it’s silly to get worked up when they might — might — be able to do something about it. But we can’t count on it, and so yes. It hurts. It hurts to have a source of joy becoming something else, especially when there were so many other options. It hurts to watch favorite characters get hurt and killed, yet still be expected to write it all off as “that’s just how the game works!”, as if having emotions about it is a weakness and to be scorned.

Honestly, I found myself screaming “FUCK THE GAME” aloud last night (and probably upsetting the neighbors), which sums my feelings up succinctly enough that I should have started right there. :\

But…again, here we are, and here I am, struggling with feeling hurt and sad and exhausted with so many things veering toward pain again when I was hoping for something different, and writing big long word-vomits of posts about it.

Because D&D.

(Memo to Editor Brain: I’m tired, and I’m not going to give you another three hours to edit this post into something more manageable, so you will just have to cope. Not everything or everyone gets good endings anyway. Apparently.)

[winterblues]

prompt response to: andreil trapped in a small space scenario

As much as all these late night practices aided Neil in strengthening his form, some nights he felt so incredibly drained of energy that by the end of them he almost cursed his own resolve. 

Neil let out an exasperated breath as he tucked his helmet under his aching arm and trudged; zombie-like into the empty locker room. Kevin followed, taking long, agitated strides and muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he disappeared into the showers without sparing Neil a second’s glance. Neil didn't have the energy left to satiate Kevin’s relentless appetite for grief. Not in the moment, anyway. 

Neil’s body felt like cotton candy, soft; pliable, limbs worn pink and sore. Neil was halfway to his locker when he heard Andrew moving behind him. Neil peeled his gear off carefully and stuffed the majority of it into his giant locker before slamming it shut and turning on his heel to look at Andrew, who was slumped against the lockers on the other side, hands shoved deep in his pockets, pale hair wild and eyes bleary from a crucial lack of sleep.

“Go and shower. You fucking reek.” Andrew prompted. It had been a long day for them all, Neil could sense Andrew mirroring his own exhaustion.

“Yeah. I’ll make it quick,” Neil promised, before breaking into the slightest smirk. “I mean, unless you want to help me out.”

“Help yourself,” Andrew replied, dully.

Neil knew better than to take offense to that as he merely shrugged and made a beeline for the showers.

“Offer’s on the table if you change your mind. I’ll keep the stall unlocked.”

Neil showered as hurriedly as he could, knowing that Andrew would be waiting. The hot steam from the shower abated the stinging pain that reverberated through his sore bones and he felt himself tilting his head back towards where the force of the water was most concentrated. Newfangled bruises bloomed along the back of his elbows, the bottom of his left knee, across his inner wrist. He didn’t pay them much heed. Every injury he garnered on the court was a testament to how far he had come, how far he would go. They hurt less when he thought about them that way.

They reminded him he was alive.

Neil dried his hair off with a towel before pulling his clothes back on, rather clumsy-handedly. By the sounds of it, Kevin was still in the shower. Neil headed straight for the lockers. He frowned when Andrew wasn’t within his direct line of sight. He could hear shuffling coming from the storage room towards his left. 

He wandered in to find Andrew attempting to keep a stack of old exy racquets from toppling over each other in what could have turned into one completely unfortunate domino effect.

“Scavenging for scraps?”

“Your helmet,” Andrew muttered. “You ruptured your chin guard. I was checking if they had any replacement parts collecting dust here.”

“Any luck?”

“No.”

“I’m just going to put it on Kevin’s tablet,” Neil replied. “He aimed that last shot at my jaw on purpose.”

“MAYBE YOU SHOULD LEARN TO DODGE LIKE ANY COMPETENT STRIKER WOULD!” snapped an irked, disembodied voice from the distance.

Sometimes Neil forgot how thin the walls here really were… Maybe Kevin just had the ears of a vampire bat, to have been able to hear them over the gushing of the water.

“MAYBE YOU SHOULD MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!” Neil roared back, scathingly, before rolling his eyes and slamming the door closed behind him. Andrew stared at him, dead-eyed. “What are you doing?”

“What? I want to relish in dissing Kevin in relative privacy.”

“You’ll lock us in, idiot.”

“I didn’t—“

“These hinges haven’t been oiled in years. They’re flimsy.” There was a sudden, unspoken urgency in Andrew’s voice at that final word that made Neil’s insides twist. “Okay,” Neil said, hand curling around the door knob. 

He turned at it and—shit. Was Andrew about to be proven right? He gave it a hard yank and then another, and then a couple more for good measure. At this point, Andrew took a step forward, nudging Neil hard enough from waist to shoulder that he stumbled and felt his spine meet the cold expanse of wall. 

Andrew then maneuvered to inspect the door himself.

Neil’s insides caved in on themselves. The storage room was tiny. Smaller even, than an average walk-in closet. Not to mention it was brimming with a maw-full of junk. It was also crowded and dark and smelled like an abundance of dust.

There was a dull bulb that flickered like an eighties horror film in the top right corner of the closet and Neil was half convinced he could hear something skittering behind the shelves. It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of ambiances, but he knew better than anyone that there were worse places to get trapped in.

Andrew had now taken to straight up kicking at the door and pounding his fists against it hard enough that Neil could feel the vibrations in his teeth.

“It’s no big deal,” Neil said, gently. “Kevin will get us out.”

“Kevin—“ Andrew snapped, his pupils blown wide as he turned to meet Neil’s gaze. “Probably thinks we’re hooking up.”     

Neil wanted to say that Kevin wouldn’t abandon them, but then again, he wouldn’t put that kind of an assumption past Kevin, especially when he was feeling frustrated. 

Andrew’s head snapped back up. “Do you have your phone on you?”

“It's in my bag,” Neil pinched the top of his nose. “Outside.”

“Shit.”

Neil watched Andrew for a quiet moment. His heart beginning to pound in alarm. He took in the wild, emancipated flicker in Andrew’s eyes, the calamity in his tone of voice. His gaze was capering everywhere like cat’s eyes to lasers. He looked as if he was imagining every wall in the room closing in on them all at once. “Andrew,” Neil’s voice was the barest suggestion of a whisper.

Andrew’s eyes flickered up to meet his, he was attempting to keep his lips tightly pressed together but there was a prominent strain to the curve of his mouth. His expression feral and bottomless; a consequence of the fear that was threatening to take over.

“What.”

“Are you claustrophobic?”

Andrew said nothing, but the torrent in his gaze was confirmation enough.

They had to give up after fifteen solid minutes of incessant banging against the unrepentant door and every cry for Kevin falling on deaf ears.

Andrew was beginning to look very pale and his breathing had grown ragged. 

There was a tremor of misery rising up Neil’s throat as Andrew slumped against the door with his knees pressed into his heaving chest.

Neil was not used to Andrew making himself so small, it set something alight within him. Andrew compensated for the inconvenience of his height by having an overwhelming presence—the sort you’d do better facing head on rather than just flat out ignoring. If it was even humanly possible to ignore.

This… This was terrible and new.

Neil could taste iron at the back of his mouth, thinking back on one of his worst memories of Andrew.

Even back then, lying defeated on bloodstained sheets, Andrew hadn’t tried to make himself scarce. His nonchalance, his disdain, his fear for what might’ve happened to Aaron… It had been an ugly cocktail of emotions (or a brittle lack there of) but it’d been larger than life. Neil could still feel the sheer animosity rolling off of Andrew, stiff and defensive and horrible. 

His laughter had been a warning.  

It had been so loud it had taken up the entire room.

Neil looked to Andrew again.

He remembered Andrew facing his fear of heights on their rooftop: Andrew’s knuckles, whitened from a hindered blood flow, the slumped ridges of his shoulders, the way he stared down at the ground, as if the ground would erupt from beneath him, extend its jaws and swallow him whole.

“You know,” Neil began, crouching down next to Andrew. Neil felt the need to keep talking. “When my mother and I were on the run, I spent a lot of time in compact spaces. In closets, airport bathroom stalls, beneath motel beds. Mom would ask me to stay extremely still and close my eyes as tightly as I could. She wasn’t very good at consoling me, I don’t think she even knew how to begin with; but she would ask me to turn the world off, like it was that easy to just wield my brain like a switchboard. To hone in on a single, conquerable thing.” Something nauseous crawled its way up his windpipe, something he’d once mistaken for fondness. “See, she said when it comes to entrapment, helpless animals thrive in the little victories.”

“You are a study in helplessness,” Andrew sucked in another strangled breath.

Neil continued. “She demanded I find something to clutch onto. It could be anything. The rancid smell of a cigarette, the sound of her voice, or something physical that I could touch,” Neil’s eyes met Andrew’s with intent, awaiting certain affirmation. Andrew picked up his gaze instantly. 

But only if you let me...

Andrew managed a small nod.

At this, Neil let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding to begin with and wrapped his hands over Andrew’s, which were busy digging into the soft material of his track pants over his knees. Andrew’s fingers were cold, limp. Neil brought their entwined hands towards his mouth and blew at them, gently. His breath warmer than the temperature of the confined room. “It’s not about finding your happy place or some unhelpful bullshit like that. I think it has more to do with cognitive response, we breathe subconsciously, right? So if you just find something else to focus on, your body naturally complies.”

“Shut up.”

Andrew’s breaths sounded sharper now, shorter. His fingers dug into the skin of Neil’s palm before clutching for the back of Neil’s head. He dug his fists into his hair and pulled, every gasp hissed in between clenched teeth. It hurt, but watching Andrew crumble in this way hurt more. 

“It’s okay,” Neil insisted, pressing slow, breathy kisses to every single one of Andrew’s knuckles. “Just focus on me. Look at me. Everything else is just everything else. Andrew,” Neil said. “Look at me. Nothing else.”

“I thought you were nothing.”

“That’s right. I’m nothing. It’s easier to concentrate on my nothing, right?”

“God. Stop talking—“

“Tell me what’s happening. How difficult is it to breathe? Can you feel your heart rate escalating? Do you feel clammy?”

“I’m going to kill Kevin Fucking Day.”

“I’ll help you dispose of the body,” Neil replied, approvingly, before resting his forehead against Andrew’s and closing his eyes for a brief moment. He could feel Andrew shaking against him. 

“My fourth home,” Andrew said then, in between harsh, heavy breaths. “It was a game.”

“What—?”

“Get locked in a dark broom closet and search for the key.”

The words were distorted by a familiarly casual lack of concern. The sort that drove Neil to his wit’s end.

Neil felt a sudden pang of unbidden rage whorl up inside his chest. Now he was imagining a young Andrew. Probably no older than ten, locked within the dark confines of some asshole’s dusty old broom closet, utterly afraid and completely alone. Another onset of pain, the kind of pain that was more than just physical and Neil could feel clogging up his brain. It was beginning to get volcanic. Neil felt his nostrils flare as his grip on Andrew’s hands tightened, just slightly. Their fingers were now slick with sweat but Neil couldn’t care less.

“They should pay,” Neil’s voice was hoarse, throaty. It was as if a knife was growing within his stomach, large and serrated. “For what they did to you. They should all pay. I want to tear—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Andrew’s voice was still ringed with panic, but strangely enough, his gaze had become more solid; rapt on Neil’s own. 

As if reminding Neil of the reach of his own apathy mattered more than the fear rapidly possessing him, voice a faultless escaped breath.

“I don’t care.”

“You never do,” Neil replied, tone still frantic despite half-assed attempts to throttle the fury. “I’ll just have to amp up my own contempt tenfold—for the both of us.”

“Fucking junkie.”

“What can I say? I’m hooked,” Neil said, the corner of his lip tugging up to form a grin that left him rather surprised by himself. So hopelessly hooked. Andrew didn’t look too amused, Neil could feel his pulse racing at his wrists, beneath the press of Neil’s fingers. “Hey, hey. Stay with me now. We’ll get out of here. It’ll be okay. Breathe, okay? Try to breathe.”

Andrew did so, all the while staring Neil down begrudgingly. 

“I hate you.”

“You really outdid yourself with that. I mean groundbreaking revelation.”

“You’ll break my percentage meter.”

“Before you take another shot at breaking me? Sounds unfair.”

There was a look in Andrew’s eyes at that, one Neil couldn’t exactly place. It was something conflicted; at war with itself. It sank into Neil’s skin.

Andrew’s grip on Neil’s hair finally loosened as he untangled one of his hands from Neil’s in favor of fastening it around the nape of Neil’s neck and reeling him towards him. “Yes or no?”

“It will never be no,” Neil waited for Andrew’s lips to engulf his own. He watched Andrew inhale (his breath still wary but less labored than before), watched his eyelashes flutter shut and then the unparalleled heat of Andrew’s mouth.

The kiss was a hard, steadying press like a paperweight. An affirmation of trust. Andrew was letting Neil knead the tension out of him. Neil kept his movements gentle even as Andrew’s tongue hungrily scaled his throat. Andrew’s other hand left Neil’s to venture underneath his shirt and Andrew pressed a hand flat against Neil’s stomach, where the scarring was at its coarsest. Neil sucked in a shivering breath at the destabilizing touch. When they pried their lips apart, Neil brought Andrew close until their chests were pressed flush against one another. He could feel Andrew’s heart beating against his own, every cataclysmic breath. Andrew’s pupils were wide and there was almost a certain brimming exhilaration within them. Neil netted his fingers in the soft expanse of Andrew’s hair and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Block out all those rotten memories. Burn them. We’ll make new ones.” 

“Oh?” Andrew said, dryly. “Is that your attempt at an assurance?”

“That’s a promise.”

“Careful,” Andrew drawled. “That’s still foreign dialect for a pathetic little runaway.”

“It’s your language,” Neil replied. “So I’ll learn it.”

At this, Andrew blanched.

Only this time, Neil had a feeling it had nothing to do with panic.

Neil awoke to a jolting pain riding up his left ankle, Andrew’s face pressed into his neck and Coach Wymack looming over him with an incredibly dangerous look on his face.

“I swear I will kick the shit out of you until you whimper,” Wymack imposed.

“Coach!” Neil cried.

“I know I said I don’t care what you maggots do off court but bedrooms exist for a reason,” Wymack grumbled. “Next time, use them. Now, would you care to explain to me what the fuck you two were doing cooped up in here? Keep it PG, yeah?”

“It isn’t what it looks like,” Neil snapped, cheeks flaring. “I shut the door too hard and locked us in.”

Wymack’s expression changed, albeit marginally as his gaze dropped to Andrew. “Is he—?”

“He’ll be fine.” Neil reassured, with a small sigh. When Wymack shot him a doubtful glare, Neil immediately remedied his phrase. “Not my flimsy definition of fine—Genuinely fine.”

For a moment, Wymack said nothing, before clearing his throat and looking Neil square in the eye, expression hardening once more. “Wake him up, get yourselves freshened up and get the fuck out of my sight.” He said, pointing at Andrew, who was still curled up against Neil like a cat.

“Yes, Coach.”

He turned on his heel to leave, before halting abruptly. “And Neil?”

“Yes?”

“Thank fuck you were with him.”

Neil felt a prickle of something sad stab at his throat, but he nodded.

“Get plenty of water and some grub in your systems. Don’t think I’m letting you off easy. It’s gonna be a grueling day ahead.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Don’t ‘yes, coach’ me.”

“Yes, Coach. Er— Alright?”

Wymack groaned audibly, stared up at the ceiling like what-will-I-ever-do-with-this-good-for-nothing-little-shit before skulking off. Next to him, Andrew stirred.

“You’re awake,” Neil said, softly.

“Keen observation,” he responded, voice still groggy like early morning honey.

“Wanna get the fuck out of here?” Neil asked.

“Wanna get the fuck off of you,” Andrew said, pushing himself up and off of Neil. He was a little wobbly as he rose to his feet and had to extend an arm up against the wall to keep himself upright. 

He stared at the door blown wide open and the barcodes of light pooling in from outside. Stray voices floated up from the foyer. Neil pulled himself to his feet and stretched to work out a kink in his neck. 

Andrew was out the door before he could finish. 

Neil followed him out, equally eager to be free of the dry smell of mold exposure and cardboard boxes.

Andrew turned to him, expression unreadable. Neil halted just in time to keep himself from walking straight into his back. 

“I will say this once and once only so listen closely if you care to hear it.”  

“Hm?”

“You know I don’t care for useless sentiments,” Andrew said. “What you did, I won’t forget it.”

Neil felt something warm and unnamable bloom behind his ribs. Neil didn’t think Andrew understood, or maybe he understood perfectly and just didn’t want to admit it. Knowing Andrew, it was probably the latter. Either way, Neil didn’t require an acknowledgement or a worthless show of gratitude. He hadn’t done it out of courtesy, he’d done it because he couldn’t bear the thought of what might’ve happened otherwise. Couldn’t bear the thought of watching Andrew fall victim to the weight of his past. Time upon time again.

“It was nothing.” Neil replied quietly, but he hoped Andrew heard the underlying notion within his words. 

It was everything.

Andrew’s face was a blank canvas while Neil’s was a mosaic of abstracts.

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“I know.”

[chronotrek]

756. [MOV] Nemesis

SCORE:

(2/5 stars)

Troi and Riker are getting married, and the gang's all here, including Guinan and Wesley Crusher in a non-speaking role apparently wearing a Starfleet uniform, undoing whatever character development had been given him, along with Worf who apparently is no longer the Federation ambassador to Qo'noS and is just back to being Picard's tactical officer, undoing whatever character development had been given him. (Hint: this could possibly be a theme for the whole film (hint: it is)) Picard, in his best man speech, begs them to reconsider the marriage and abandoning him for their own ship, the Titan, but Riker's been First Officer long enough. Data sings the happy couple "Blue Skies" while Worf nurses a Romulan ale insta-hangover.

Before the Enterprise heads to Betazed for the Betazoid ceremony, where everyone shall appear nude despite Worf's protestations, they pick up a positronic signature on a planet near the Romulan neutral zone and decide to divert course to investigate. Picard brazenly ignores the rules about the captain not going on away missions and that pesky Prime Directive (in what could possibly be a stark departure from Picard's entire history as a measured paragon (hint: it is)) as they drive a dune buggy across a desert, picking up android pieces (including a head that strongly resembles Data's) and shooting guns at the indigenous Mad Max car gang.

The Enterprise is greeted by the Scimitar, a gigantic Reman-constructed warbird that is clearly meant to be the final boss fight. They're invited aboard to meet Shinzon, and are surprised to find that he's not Reman, though he certainly identifies as one. He's actually human. More than that, he passes a striking resemblance to Tom Hardy Picard. After creeping on Deanna, he produces a blade and cuts his hand, presenting the knife as a gift. Back on the Enterprise, Dr. Crusher's analysis confirms it: Shinzon is a clone of Picard.

Shinzon invites him to dinner on Romulus, where he exposits his origin. He was created by a previous Romulan regime that had intended at some point to assassinate Picard and replace him with the clone, putting an undetectable spy right inside Starfleet. But as often happens on Romulus, the regime changed and the new government decided the plan was too risky, so they shuttled Shinzon off to the dilithium mines of Remus where he suffered under the Romulan heel, seeing no sky for over a decade. His only solace came from the Remans who took him in and raised him as one of them. After proving himself a capable military commander during the Dominion War, Shinzon and his Reman allies constructed the Scimitar and staged a coup, ensuring the freedom of the Reman people. Picard wants to believe Shinzon is genuinely extending an olive branch to the Federation, but tells him it will take time to earn their trust, especially after having just staged a violent coup in which the Romulan senate was killed.

Returning to the Enterprise, he's met with some unfortunate news. They've detected thalaron radiation from the Scimitar, an extremely lethal radiation that in the Scimitar's configuration has the potential to eradicate life on a planetary scale. In addition, they've discovered an unauthorized access to the ship's database, but Data's figured out a way to turn that into a tactical advantage. Picard wanted to take Shinzon at his word but it appears the dude lured them here under false pretenses. And just so we can fully establish that Shinzon and the Remans are EVOL, it turns out the Reman Viceroy Ron Perlman has telepathic abilities he can use to help Shinzon mind-rape Deanna Troi, because that's what passes for plot in 2003.

Just as Picard is refusing to let Deanna relieve herself from duty after being, y'know, raped (what the fuck, Jean-Luc, seriously), he gets beamed over to the Scimitar and tied to a bench so they can extract blood from him for... reasons. Shinzon (looking rather sickly) and Picard have a discussion about how each of them would have taken the same actions as the other had they had each other's lives, something they both delight in pointing out to the other while simultaneously strongly disliking considering themselves. B-4 beams aboard the Scimitar, the spy who accessed ship information. His use as bait is clear now. Of course, it was already clear to the Enterprise crew, because that's not B-4, it's Data posing as him, and he helps break Picard out by engaging in a hallway shootout culminating in stealing a Reman fighter and flying out a window. The Enterprise beams the fighter aboard before the Scimitar can tractor it, and goes to warp to rendezvous with the fleet that has been briefed on the Scimitar's thalaron weapon and its likely target of Earth.

Dr. Exposition Crusher (god they wasted her character in this film) explains that Shinzon was engineered to have an accelerated aging spurt so he'd match Picard's age when it was time to replace him, but they never activated the growth spurt, and the genetic modifications mean his body is starting to break down. It can only be treated by a "complete transfusion" (of what exactly she does not specify, but we can assume it means it would kill Picard), and that appears to be Shinzon's full interest in his original. Meanwhile, Data is forced to deactivate B-4, who doesn't even understand what he did wrong.

The Scimitar is pursuing the Enterprise in cloak, and waits for them to pass through a nebula that will interfere with their communications before attacking. The Enterprise is firing blindly against a cloaked vessel that Geordi can't find a way to track. Shinzon briefly ceases fire to project himself holographically into Picard's ready room, but it's more of a chance for him to gloat megalomaniacally before vanishing. (One wonders why he harbors more resentment for Picard than for the Romulans.) A couple of Romulan warbirds decloak who have decided that maybe they don't want a genocide on their conscience and are determined to stop Shinzon from eradicating Earth. One ship is destroyed and the other crippled, but it buys the Enterprise enough time to use an alternate means of tracking the ship, as Deanna reverses the psychic link between her and Ron Perlman to identify the Scimitar's location. They fire basically everything at the Scimitar which knocks out its cloak.

The Scimitar counters by focusing fire on one shield section, weakening it enough to send through a boarding party so that we can get some fisticuffs action in our big spaceship battle. Worf and Riker head down to deal with it, and Riker faces off directly against Ron Perlman, a battle which winds its way through Jefferies tubes, eventually leading to a poorly-secured catwalk over a bottomless pit (as we all know, starships have bottomless pits), where Riker is ultimately triumphant over Ron Perlman.

Another volley from the Scimitar causes major hull breaches, including turning the bridge viewscreen into a viewport, sucking the helmsman out into space before a force field can be erected. Shinzon positions the Scimitar directly in front of the Enterprise for a staring match, but Picard takes advantage of Shinzon's flair for the dramatic by ordering Deanna to take the helm and ram the Scimitar. (I don't want to seem racist, but it seems like every time a Betazoid is flying a starship, it crashes into something or gets sucked into the Delta Quadrant. #WereAllThinkingIt #SpeciesRealist #TheirEyesAreAllPupilAndNoIrisTheyCantFlyIfTheyCantFocus #Biotroof #IfItWasntClearIDontBelieveThis) This fucks both ships up, and at this point they've both exhausted their complement of weaponry. The only thing the Scimitar can do is back up to decouple the two ships and charge the thalaron array.

Their only hope of survival is to beam someone over to the Scimitar and deactivate the thalaron weapon, so naturally they're going to send over the most qualified combatant: Picard. (He's the main character so he has to punch the bad guy, can't let Worf get the glory or have anything meaningful to do in this film) Once they beam him over, the transporter systems short out, but Data knows Picard needs help, so he uses a hull-breached corridor to launch himself across the vacuum of space toward the Scimitar so he can climb aboard.

Picard fights his way to the Scimitar's bridge and easily dispatches the Remans who are supposed to be super-tough warriors, but whatever. Naturally, he uses his gun as a melee weapon and breaks it like an asshole, so he's now in a fistfight with Shinzon who turns out to have a couple knives on his person and starts swiping menacingly at Picard. They make it into the thalaron generator room, where Picard breaks a pipe off the wall as Shinzon charges at him and it impales the clone in his chest. And, because all clones are superhuman movie monsters, Shinzon menacingly pulls himself forward along the pipe to get face to face with Picard and get a last word in before dying. Data shows up just in the nick of time to slap a one-way transporter beacon onto Picard, sending him back to the Enterprise, while he fires a phaser at the shitty CGI thalaron generator, destroying the Scimitar and sacrificing himself for the Enterprise.

The surviving Romulan warbird sends shuttles to assist the Enterprise as the senior staff open a bottle of Chateau Picard and reminisce about their fallen comrade. Riker recalls first meeting Data in the holodeck as Data was trying and failing to whistle. Riker can't remember the tune. (It was Pop Goes the Weasel.) Notably silent in a moment that would be a time for a best friend to shine, Geordi instead gets no lines and is yet another wasted character in a film that's only serving as a Picard/Data vehicle.

The Enterprise-E is back at Earth spacedock getting rebuilt, and Picard sees Riker off as he goes to captain the Titan. B-4 has been reactivated, presumably with his Reman programming removed, and Picard is telling him about Data's sacrifice and hopes B-4 can one day become a more complete individual like Data was. As Picard gets up to leave, B-4 is humming "Blue Skies" to himself, an indication that he's starting to recall the memories Data implanted on him. Perhaps Data can live again... or perhaps Brent Spiner is getting too old to play an ageless robot.

NITPICKS

Romulan ale is no longer illegal, the trade embargo was lifted during the Dominion War.

Positronic signatures aren't exclusive to androids. A positron is literally just the antiparticle of an electron.

Thalaron radiation is described as being able to consume organic material at the subatomic level, which is nonsense. The distinction between organic and inorganic is made at the atomic level, since organic matter is matter that contains carbon. Once you go subatomic, it's just elementary particles and quarks below that. If thalaron radiation targets organic matter specifically, it has to do it at the atomic or molecular level.

What was the point of the mind-rape other than "Rawr I am a bad guy and I must do bad guy things!" I get that they did it to set up Deanna later turning it against them, but they couldn't have used their psychic power to, I dunno, steal secrets while she was on the bridge? They just used it to be creepy evil assholes?

Why do Remans have a control interface full of tightly spaced buttons when they have those massive fingernail claws poorly designed for such control schemes?

Why is Shinzon planning on using the thalaron radiation on Earth? What animosity does he have for Earth? I would think if he hated anyone, it's Romulans. Why not use it on Romulus?

First Contact established the Enterprise-E as having either 24 or 26 decks. Why is there a 29th deck all of a sudden?

Picard says he and Shinzon have the same heart. Picard's heart is artificial.

Worf's line "The Romulans fought with honor" is not given its due, at all. It's a throwaway line in the film, but when you consider Worf's entire story arc, for him to come to a point where he would ever say that is fucking huge from a character development standpoint. The dude HATES Romulans. They couldn't have thrown in at least one or two lines earlier in the movie where he expresses distaste for them?

Where is the catwalk area with a bottomless pit for the Reman Viceroy to plummet to his death? My first thought was a turbolift shaft, but there was a walkway suspended directly across the pit of death that would get in the way of a turbolift. Not to mention, this is on the erroneous deck 29. You're telling me there's a bottomless pit 3-5 decks below the bottom of the ship?

FAVORITE QUOTES

LaForge: Did you ever think about getting married again? Guinan: No, twenty-three was my limit.

Picard: Don't worry, Number One, we'll still have you to Betazed with plenty of time to spare... Riker: Thank you, sir. Picard: ...where we will all honor the Betazoid tradition. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the gym.

Picard: Your wife would never forgive me if anything were to happen to you. You have the bridge, Mister Troi.

Janeway: The Son'a, the Borg, the Romulans. You seem to get all the easy assignments.

Shinzon:You may go. B-4: Where? Shinzon: Out of my sight.

Shinzon: The same noble Picard blood pumps through our veins. Had you lived my life, you'd be doing exactly as I am. So look in the mirror, See yourself. Consider that, Captain. I can think of no greater I torment for you. Picard: Shinzon, I'm a mirror for you as well.