#And uh. Obviously things are in disrepair

[imminent-danger-came]

Here's a clip comp of all the times MK repeats the things the people around him say! Or at least all of the times I've noticed!

#SO WHEN I SAY MK FUNCTIONS AS A MIRROR #I ALSO MEAN THAT HE LIKE. REFLECTS THE THINGS PEOPLE SAY/DO TO HIM BACK #spent a lil too long on this video but that's okay #when don't I spend too long on something #Update for people invested in my fanfic adventures: my fic is currently at 1.3K! #I should finish up soon #It's a Red Son pov. And MK is NOT okay TM #But that's fine cause we have a Red Son #And he's surprisingly okay at comforting people #It takes place like. RIGHT after the s4 special ends at the beach party #MK and Red Son wind up at the suilian cave #And uh. Obviously things are in disrepair #There's gonna be a convo about the way MK's view of Monkey King has changed the same way Red Son's view of DBK has changed #Just like. Understanding how they actually are rather than the pedestal they originally put the two on you know? #I know myself so it'll probably end on a somber note #But more like. hurt/comfort then it's kinda sad/ominous at the end #I can't believe my first fic is a Red Son pov. Like idk who I thought it would be but I'm surprised it's Red Son #But Red Son is actually a BLAST to write #He's no nonsense but he has his own nonsense. It's great #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk parallels #monkie kid #lmk MK #my videos

[artbyblastweave]

Gideon the Ninth Liveread, Chapter 9

I like the subtle gag of capitalizing “Gideon’s First morning.” 

The bathroom sequence is an old standby- “fish-out-of-water-from-a-spartan-culture-explores-an-upper-mediocre-living-space” and paints an interesting picture of Gideon’s knowledgebase and ingrained Taboos. She knows what a Sink is from comic books but not what a bathtub is. She knows that soap made from human fat is an off-putting thing to wash oneself with, and uses the sonic in light of that, but at the same time grew up in an environment where all soap was human fat and thus there was no local taboo for her to pick up. Strongly suspect she’s never used soap before, just to spite the nuns; it’s also possible that she knows soap generally isn’t made from human fat (again via her comic books) but suspects that First House soap specifically might be, given their parallels to the religiosity of the Ninth House; This seems unlikely, given the lack of available humans, but it’s also unclear where they’re getting their supplies from, so, uh. Who knows. Anway this has been your daily three hundred word tangent about human fat soap.

Gideon’s complaint about Harrow upon finding the ring gone implies a previous track record of Harrow taking Gideon’s things; It keeps coming back to the fact that their Rivalry growing up was comically intimate and petty for how spiteful it was. Harrow knowing enough to cut Gideon’s attempted loophole abuse off at the knees also attests to this.

The general disrepair of Canaan House is interesting; they did the bare-minimum necessary to get it functional for the presence of some of the best and brightest of the empire, and while the house is obviously too big to keep in full repair on a skeleton crew, they had some lead time to get some contractors in, for the quarters at least! The general decay of the situation feels like a flex; “you; treasured scions of the great houses, are not special enough to merit anything but birdnets over the holes.”

Here we get a confirmation of my earlier assessment that Skeletons have essentially taken the niche of robotics technology in this setting; the skills involved in making a skeleton are described in similar terms to coding and precision engineering. This stand-in for robotics technology is notably not a one-to-one thing that could be swapped out for actual robots, or clones, or a similar servile construct race; the one-to-one necessity of human death to provide energy and materials for each skeleton integrates the technology directly into the story’s themes. 

Alright, enter Magnus. The way that Gideon juxtaposes Magnus with the horrible teenagers of the fourth (and I love their affect, incidentally, I used to do something similar to my roommate all the time when I wanted to bother him) is interesting. The first descriptor is “Wholesome.” My knee-jerk reaction is that Gideon is casting about for a parental figure of some sort and he’s the first candidate she’s really encountered; I find him mildly endearing if a bit overbearing. There is a Specific Bit that he’s leaning into, the same basic bit that semi-parodic characters like Sir Hammerlock from Borderlands are leaning into. Polite-to-a-fault pseudo-British Gentleman adventurer, except probably less divorced from the imperialist connotations.  We’ll see how things go with him.

Gideon’s description of Canaan House- deceptively lateral in its layout, with no obvious path to the upper lower sections, but still deeply confusing- is interesting, because this clearly was a house at one point. What was it like when this place was in use by humans? How many humans was it in use by? Was it a Winchester-house situation where the handful of people using it thought it would be funny to make it impossibly complicated?

Gideon’s earlier lack of recognition of plumbing-like, as a concept- are reiterated here; she doesn’t understand the function of the pool, constantly calling it a “Pit,” incapable of understanding why there would be ladders leading down into it- but she does immediately recognize the rest of the space as a gymnasium, which tells you a lot about her priorities. I get a lot of chatter on this site about the “Pool Scene,” and you know what, I actually really heavily doubt that this scene was that.

Oh, she can’t swim, can she? She’s on an ocean planet, A Pool has very pointedly been presented as a place of narrative importance, and she grew up on a bone-dry rock. She can’t swim. 

Alright, this door will be relevant later. And I’m not just saying that because I’m perpetually six chapters ahead in the book of the chapter I’m writing these about, expanding on my initial notes as I go. It’s a big black door with an exquisitely-described skull that only Gideon knows about.

Alright, enter the thirdlings. First real in-depth examination of them.

Naberius is interesting because he’s hitting on basically all the observations I’ve hit upon about the mind games being played at Canaan house- the deliberately-squalid conditions, the funny little mentor man, the shuttles being pushed off the platform- except he’s approaching the matter from the perspective of these mind games’s target audience, that is to say, someone extremely entitled who views these things an affront to someone of his standing rather than, say, as a gigantic red fucking flag that they’re all about to be killed. He’s talking about writing to the heir’s fathers about it.  Now, Naberius is implicitly a badass because he’s the cavalier from a House that’s got it’s shit together, so this might account for the discrepancy, but this is still pretty unique; it’s like if the fodder children in Charlie and The Chocolate Factory exhibited suspicion of Wonka’s set-up as a test of character intended to thin them out but plowed ahead with the offending behaviors anyway. He knows what kind of story he’s in but hasn’t internalized it.

I can’t tell which twin is which in the “second voice and third voice” sequence, but I can tell which twin Gideon is very, very into. The takeaway here is that Ianthe is the booky one, Coronabeth is the golden child, and....

oh god. That took a turn. Coronabeth treats Naberius like a dog, and the narration uses that imagery. Ostensibly she does this on the behalf of her sister- the golden child standing up for the maligned lesser twin- but look me in the eye and tell me that this isn’t coming from a place of royalty-inculcated sadism. And then Ianthe, despite being the offended party in theory, despite being the more abrasive of the two by far, is the one to get Coronabeth to simmer down; not on any moral grounds but because she’s wasting time. And then Coronabeth starts being chummy with Naberius (Babs!) again like nothing happened. It’s been implied to me that Ianthe is the evil one in the dynamic? (and what is the dynamic, exactly? Three or four different reads on this sequence. They’re siblings. They’re a preppy clique. They’re... a third secret thing.)

And in the end, Ianthe is the one to hang back and deliver a cryptic warning to Gideon. “I would not attract attention from the necromancer of the third house.” And this could be in reference to her sister (who Ianthe appears to be the leash-holder for) and thus a warning, or it could be in reference to herself, and thus a threat, because Gideon already has attracted her attention. That’s what’s happening right this second. Yeah, no wonder Naberius went right to mind games. That’s just his lived experience with these two.

As a last note, the recurring theme with these three is that of boundries, and pushing them; they were introduced as arriving late, they brought one more person than they were expected to, their conversation was intensely mutually antagonistic but in a reasonable way until Naberius inadvertently crossed an unspoken line; Coronabeth’s response, in turn, is clearly influenced by the need to toe some line Ianthe has set; and as they leave, Ianthe takes time to communicate that Gideon is on the path to transgression but doesn’t yet merit corrective action. 

It’s actually a little reminiscent of Gideon’s own situation on the ninth- a upbringing defined by an endless state of rebellion that was still on some level coloring within the lines; the lines in question just being really, really weird. Gideon’s no stranger to fucked-up “what-exactly-is-the-nature-of-this-relationship” relationships, either!

As a last note, “Coronabeth” is an outrageously funny name to me. Part “Corona,” Part “Annabeth.” Faintly portmanteau-ish. Almost reminds me of. It reminds me of. You know what webcomic this reminds me of by now

#gideon the ninth liveread #gideon the ninth #gideon the 9th #gideon nav #blastweave livereads #the locked tomb #tlt #the locked tomb liveread #thoughts #meta #ianthe tridentarius #magnus quinn #coronabeth tridentarius #naberius tern #jesus these keep getting longer and longer

[joviantwelve]

WBW: it's cyberpunk so obviously you gotta have EVIL MEGACORPS. who are the biggest players? how much do they directly compete with each other? how bad are they at being the government?

Thank you Benedict you keep WBW alive

WELL, in the regions that were former countries that've since collapsed, anything goes, which yeah usually results in "scramble to become the first monopoly to seize regional power."

since it directly correlates to regional control (as a ""government""), local claims and acquisitions become more important. in a lawless world, other nations can just......Reject your exports. trade isn't necessarily as free as it was, especially since the regional power can dictate what does and doesn't come through.

Still, not EVERYWHERE is like this, though the remaining democratic areas collaborating with the more ruthless corpo ones is seen as a worrying trend. I'm trying to focus on just the one little area in the north Atlantic I've developed, worldbuilding-wise, but I don't want to have those typical dystopia pitfalls that imply that the entire world fell into the same disrepair uniformly. the world will end up looking very different, but it will heal.

BUT for MY main region, the NAF, the Carmichael Communications Conglomerate (C3) swooped in when the de facto country was young and vulnerable and needed some financial support. They've evolved from providing telecommunications services, to the entire energy grid, to, uh, all information technology and infrastructure in the area, basically, including the dome that keeps the city relatively comfortable (and fairly ignorant of the outside world). In those aspects, it's impossible to compete with them, but they DO have a southern (whatever's left of New England) and western (mostly Quebec) border...

I...admit I haven't thought much of those, or what their corporate specialty could be. I wanted to commentate mostly on ISPs and private utilities and the like with C3 (still not over net neutrality being blissfully with us and revoked in less than a year, nope). I'm 100% certain there's stupid corporate warfare and espionage, but I haven't thought about those aspects too much yet! (but now I probably will!)

HOWEVER

I HAVE thought about the other corporations C3 has collaborated with. I don't have names for them because coming up with snappy names that sound like they could be Real Companies is difficult, but I intend to name them at some point in the future:

The Enforcers, obviously, acting as the main policing force. they're not a full worldwide presence; rather, regions set up bases of operations for them and invite them in and such. C3 wants them because they're just a legion of obedient mercenaries that quite literally defend their interests.

I think the Enforcers' parent company is something a little more broad, focusing on cloning technologies and the like. Not the same company, but there are also gross Gattaca-esque genetic engineering programs here and there, with one sort of near the NAF.

I've also imagined there needing to be some sleazy insurance groups in the city as well; if the Enforcers are the cops then they're the courts. barf.

C3 has also recently collaborated and traded talent with an overseas company dedicated to studying memory, neurology, brain circuits, etc. Kinda weird why they'd want that. The CEO taking over after Ivanna was originally from there.

And finally, various android companies! I think android tech is just moving past its "wild west" stage in canon, like the early 90s era of PCs where you'd have new companies doing wild things that'd be out of business within a couple years. Carmichael's manufacturer was one of these, and has since gone bankrupt. Hope he won't need any spare parts anytime soon.

I just...need names....ahh...

Lastly, yes, very bad at government, though I feel like each regional power is probably especially bad at something different each time. A lot of hells to choose from. For C3 I've imagined it as full control over most things in daily life, replacing the currency with "company" ones and thus de facto restricting the economy, having partial stake in "local" business and thus having a say in it, making it hard for citizens to move elsewhere, etc.

#text #xyzoul

[lee--felix]

It’s A Manual, Obviously | Masterlist | Pairing: mechanic!San x gn!reader Word Count: 2k Genre: Suggestive Warnings: Sexual innuendos, profanity, little bit of dom!San energy if you’re looking for it, use of she/her but it’s referring to the car and not the reader, light bickering/name calling, use of “sweetheart” A/n: I don’t know if I’m more mad at myself for coming up with this idea, or y’all for getting enough notes on my post to make me write it. Filthy sinners, all of ya. Here’s your greasy boy San. I have a limited knowledge of car repair so some of this is entirely made up lmao. If someone wants to write a smut based on this, I will absolutely read it. Please like/reblog if you enjoyed it! tags: @hopexclouds @wooyoungsbae @wtfyunho @yungisstar1117 @jenossslut @maarkcraft @yunkiwii @nymeriaaa @troy-on-sea @hjsraccoon @dazzling-lightzzz @sanraes @baguette-atiny (please message me to be added/removed from this list at any time) --------- Head mechanic, a title you once held with so much pride. Working on cars had truly been your passion for years, but you were on to bigger and better things in life. That’s not to say that working on cars was a bad thing... just that you had grown out of it over the years. You preferred to take your car into your old shop to watch the boys work, particularly the head mechanic that replaced you, Choi San. Normally you would cautiously watch from afar while your former coworkers tuned up minor things, trusting that they wouldn’t screw anything up as they had proven their skills to you multiple times. Today, though, was a perfect day to do some closer boy-watching... and you were going to see what this San person could really do.

Your garage had a couple different cars to choose from, but you picked the one that was in quite a state of disrepair. There were more things wrong with it than you could count, and you’d be surprised if it even made the drive there. It had been a project car that you abandoned when your schedule became too hectic to bother with it. It still had quite a few tricks up its sleeve, but you wanted to see if you could really test this new head mechanics skills. Luckily, you had already let your former coworkers know that you were coming and that you specifically wanted San freed up for the day. The only promise? They couldn’t tell him why he needed to be free all day. ----- “Wooyoung, can you pull that car inside for me?” San called as you handed the keys over to the front attendant. You smirked, knowing full well that Wooyoung couldn’t touch that car. “Uh... Sannie, I can’t do that.” Wooyoung replied, eyeing you down as you made your way into the large garage to watch the first mistake San would make today. “What? Why-” “It’s a manual, obviously.” You cut him off, pointing to the work order hanging by the door. “The only tech you have that can drive a stick shift is Yunho.” A smirk took your lips quicker than you expected as you hid most of your expression behind your sunglasses. Always check the paperwork first, you never know what you might be dealing with. If a car is broken enough that it can’t be properly driven into the shop, you’ll destroy it by trying. “(your name)?” San’s voice was more smug than you would’ve liked it to be. “I’ve heard a lot about you. So I finally get to meet you in person, and work on your car?” He smiled a daringly smug smile, taking the keys from the rack mounted to the wall. “Yunho’s not here today, guess I’ll have to do it myself.” You watched him through the tinted lenses of your sunglasses, listening very closely for any dropped gears or the telltale signs of stalling the engine. It was all too common for newer stick shift drivers to miscalculate the timing on the clutch and stall it out. Much to your satisfaction (and a bit of disappointment at not being able to taunt him about it), he got the car safely into the garage and onto the lift. Being such a gentleman, he didn’t even slam the door. Just rocked it gently closed with the lightest thump. “So what am I doing to her today?” His voice was light and airy, almost cheerful to be at your service. This was a trap, but you weren’t entirely sure how. Either he was more confident than he should be, or he was skilled enough to be certain he would impress you. Either way it made your blood boil in an oddly satisfying way. “The better question would be, what aren’t you doing to her today?” You chuckled. “Lets see.. you could start with brakes and rotors, oh and you might as well replace those calipers too. They’re looking pretty bad these days. Fuel injectors could use a cleaning.” You snapped the gum you had been chewing, trying to think of what all you really wanted to see him do. These were just basic things that anyone here should be able to do... how could you really put him on the spot? “Oh, of course, there’s a weird electrical problem going on. I’ve checked the alternator, it’s definitely not that. Probably trace the wires back and see if there’s damage, or maybe an issue with the fuses? Dash lights keep flashing erratically at random intervals.” His eyes had never left yours as you spoke to him, hoping all the information was getting in. He nodded, running a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “I’ll do everything in that order, including flushing the brake fluid since we’re replacing calipers.” He smirked at you, hoping to have caught you slipping up but you were always a step ahead. “Well of course, that’s standard when you replace calipers. If I have to specify that it needs done, then you’re not following the proper steps.” You blew a small bubble with your gum, letting it loudly pop before gathering it back up with your tongue. “I’ve got all day, you can stand here and admire me for as long as you want. But I’d suggest you get started if you want it to still be daylight by the time you’re done.” The other boys snickered and laughed at your attitude, remembering the tough time you gave all of them when they were training with you. San scoffed playfully, turning his attention to your car. As he made sure the lift was properly secured, he reached for the button to start it. But of course, you had something to say about that as well. “Watch the neon underglows, sweetheart, they probably cost more than your car is worth.” You called out. “Break them and you’ll owe me a new set.” You pointed to the delicate neon tubes running along the underbody. Genuine neons were not only rare, but extremely delicate. So delicate, in fact, that you could only drive this car 3 or 4 months out of the year before risking the tubes shattering due to temperature change. LED versions would have been more practical, but you wanted to be extra for once. “That’s why I secured the lift on a secondary anchor spot instead of the main one that you covered up.” San shot back at you, lifting the car to the desired height. “Better hope they’re not causing your electrical problem or I’ll just have to take them off.” He continued, grabbing some tools and screwing the lug nuts off your tires. You laughed under your breath, knowing those tires were probably stuck on there way too well. He’d have quite the time getting them off. As you watched him struggle with the tire, you couldn’t help but push your sunglasses down your nose to get a better view. His arms were shiny with sweat and speckled with black spots of oil and grease. His muscles bulging and straining as he hopelessly tugged at the stuck tire. Sighing in frustration, he grabbed an old tire sitting in the corner of the garage and beat it against your tire, trying to shake it loose from its chokehold on the axle. No such luck, it was as stuck as ever. Just as you were about to make a suggestion, he let out a frustrated grunt that made you shut your mouth so fast you didn’t even realize you had it open in the first place. “Jongho! Come help me with this!” The youngest teammate walked over, laughing at a struggling San. Together, the two boys braced their shoulders on the front of the tire, San holding his hand above his head to catch it. “One, two, three- fuck!” They both slammed their body weight into the tire, causing it to wobble off the supports and nearly take them both out as he struggled to catch it. Once he had ahold of it, he let it slide down his arm, leaving a greasy trail behind it before it bounced onto the concrete. The entire brake job went so smoothly that you couldn’t even make a sarcastic remark if you tried. He had very clearly done this hundreds of times, going so far as to multitask two tires at a time while giving commands to the other boys to fetch him parts and tools. All the while, he made sure to look back and confirm that you were watching, often making a face at you and turning around before you could say anything. Cleaning the fuel injectors was pretty straightforward and hands-off. Just disconnect the gas, hook up the cleaner, run the car through the cycle. As he watched the engine churning under the hood while he waited, he leaned back against the nearby counter. His back arched as he flung his head backwards, trying to appear as though he was just stretching out his spine. His muscles tensed again as he pulled his arms up to stretch them, giving a slightly forced yawn before shaking his head and looking over at you. Hearing the engine wind down, he quickly licked his bottom lip before turning back to the car and disconnecting everything. That was a sight you needed to calm down from for a moment. “So this electrical problem...” San started, snapping you completely out of your daydreaming about his tongue. “Anything that triggers it?” “Not that I can tell.” You got up from your seat on the cold concrete, confidently walking over to the car as if you hadn’t just been imagining him... ah, don’t think about it. He can see it in your face. Focus. He dug his hands down into the engine bay, tracing various wires lightly with his fingers, feeling for any stripped or damaged wiring. He mumbled to himself, giving you a subtle look every once in a while as he made his way up and down the brightly colored plastic casings. Upon finding the wires in perfect shape, he pulled open the fuse box. “Fuse 32.” You stated without giving the fuse box another look. You had them memorized. You had everything about this car completely memorized, right down to the- “Fuse 34.” San’s smug voice had returned, swiftly correcting you with another lick of his lips. Fuck, stop doing that. As you hovered over the box, fingers tracing every small plastic fuse, you realized he was absolutely correct. Everyone in the garage paused in their work, holding their breath at the stern correction. Nobody had ever copped an attitude like that with you before, and you loved it. “Right... fuse 34. You’re correct, my mistake.” Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, returning to their work but chattering under their breath about how it was so rare for you to make such a mistake. “They switched the fuses in this model only, I can see how it’s easy to get them confused. Especially if you haven’t done this for years.” A devilish grin spread across his face as he pulled the faulty fuse and tossed it into the garbage, replacing it with a new one. He pulled out his phone, tapping a few buttons before turning the screen to you. “But don’t worry, I’ll pretend you were right the first time if you give me your number.” You almost choked on your gum at just how smooth that actually was. Laughing, you typed your number into his phone and handed it back. “Smooth.” You commented, helping him unlatch the hood and push it shut. His hair was sticking to the sweat on his forehead, oil stains beginning to melt in the salty mixture. Suddenly, he slipped a finger under your chin, harshly pulling it up to meet his almost demonic gaze. “Why don’t you come by tonight? We’ll see how... enthusiastic... you are about a stick shift.”

#ateez #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez imagines #ateez headcanons #choi san #ateez san #san x reader #san fanfic #san imagines #okay but someone please write a smut based on this because I need it in my life #also CAN YOU IMAGINE DOM SAN JUST GRITTING HIS TEETH THE ENTIRE TIME TRYING NOT TO SMACK YOU SILLY #BECAUSE WOW I NEED IT

[igirisuhito]

Title: Writing down all the things gone wrong Relationship(s): Komaeda Nagito/Matsuda Yasuke Rating: Teen Summary: Upon receiving a gift from Hinata, Komaeda attempts to learn more about a student who once went to Hope's Peak academy. After a strange nightmare, he contemplates the trustworthiness of his memory. Trigger Warnings: Childhood trauma, Religious discussion (I guess?), Doctor/Patient, Medical angst, regular angst, Treatment refusal, Dementia Notes: Happy birthday Komaeda. I hope you like suffering. 

[Ao3 Link]

『••✎••』

"Hey uh, do you want this?"

Hinata's hand outstretches towards him, holding a thin paperback book between calloused fingers. It appears to be a school notebook; worn, ragged, really in a complete state of disrepair. The once white cover was now a full grey, bearing smudged writing and barely recognisable symbols. If they were symbols from any other organisation, Komaeda probably wouldn't have recognised them and asked why Hinata thought to insult him with this utter piece of trash.

"I know you like Hope's Peak memorabilia, right? This isn't really memorabilia, per say, but…" As he rambles away to himself, Hinata starts to look more and more awkward. Is he embarrassed? Ah, who wouldn't be humiliated, being seen giving such a thoughtful gift to Komaeda in an act of pity.

Before Hinata can try and make some other excuse, Komaeda reaches out, pale digits barely passing over the messy kanji. "Ry…ko… Oto…'s…"

He has to pause, squinting hard at the words. He wonders if there's a chance he's reading it wrong. "Memory notebook? Like a diary?"

Komaeda takes the notebook into his hands, accepting the gift. However, he can't suppress the grin that crosses his face as he looks back up at Hinata, the desire to tease the other just too tempting to resist. "Oh my Hinata-kun… why are you walking around with a girl's diary?"

"I-I got it from the Monomono machine, okay?!" He flushes bright red, beginning to stammer as he shoves his hands back into his pockets. "I-It could be a guy's!"

Doubtful, Komaeda flicks the crinkled pages open, carefully separating each one with his fingers. The way the ink is washed out on every page reminds him of when you would accidentally put a receipt through the wash, full of barely comprehensible writing and doodles. An overuse of love hearts and sparkles, however, proves his theory correct.

"Even if you didn't get it from somewhere weird... I'm not sure if it's really okay for me to accept this!" Sucking in a deep breath, Komaeda grips his elbows in order to calm himself. "There must be some incredibly bad luck waiting for me! For Hinata-kun to go out of his way to give me something so amazing… haha, I feel a little tingly just thinking about it!"

"Seriously, it's no big deal," it seems as though Hinata's face is just getting hotter, he must be truly embarrassed by how much of a fuss Komaeda is making over it. "Just take it, okay? We had a good time today."

"Well, thank you, Hinata-kun. It makes me unbearably happy that you would give me a gift like this!" Smile stretching impossibly wide, Komaeda holds the notebook close to his chest, careful not to crush it.

"Go home, Komaeda."

With an aggressive nod, he says his farewells, "Well then, I'll see you tomorrow, Hinata-kun."

And with that, Hinata turns away, already running off down the beach. He's sprinting like he's trying to escape something, though it wouldn't surprise Komaeda if he was just trying to run away from any possibility of them speaking again. Unfortunately for Hinata, their time on this island isn't nearly over, and he would have to face Komaeda once again tomorrow in Jabberwock Park.

A soft sigh slips past his lips with the thought. He glances towards the horizon, the glowing sea of orange as waves gently roll up on the shoreline. The sun is setting on another perfect day. A cool breeze plays at the strands of Komaeda's hair, knocking it into his eyes. He brings a hand to his face, tucking the loose white locks behind one ear as he glances back down towards the notebook in his hands.

"Memory notebook, huh?"

◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌

Komaeda sits himself down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, placing his gift from Hinata at his side. It has been an unbearably long day, between spending the morning working to collect resources and the afternoon making sandcastles with Hinata, he was worn to the bone.

He leans down to undo the zips on his boots before kicking them off. As he wiggles his toes, he is overcome by the unpleasant sensation of sand sticking between them. With a groan, he begrudgingly pulls off his socks too, all too aware of the sound of the grains hitting the floorboard as he does. A mess to deal with later.

Quickly dusting off his feet, then brings them up onto the bed with him, laying back on the covers. An ache immediately begins to settle in his muscles, and a yawn forces its way out of his mouth. With the warm heat of the evening, it feels as though he could fall asleep right here and now. As pleasant as that would be, he has yet to properly examine Hinata's gift. He'd been brimming with anxious excitement to look at it the whole walk back to his cabin.

Bringing the notebook up to his side, he lays his head against the pillow and flicks it open. The first page is filled with rushed writing done in black pen, ink that has since been washed away. If he squints hard enough, he can just barely make out the characters, fill in some blanks. This is definitely a notebook once belonging to somebody going to Hope's Peak Academy.

How exciting!

He turns the page. There's a two page spread of nothing but blurry sketches and doodles, and from what he can tell, they're incredibly well done. The artist obviously had quite the knack for reproducing realistic details, honing in on fine points such as the eyes and lips.

Carefully flicking to the next page, he finds more hastily scribbled notes and drawings. It's unusual, the subject is the same in almost every occasion, and with each depiction Komaeda finds himself starting to build a better image of that person in his head.

The ballpoint scribbles illustrate a young Japanese man, bearing long shoulder length hair and meticulously detailed eyelashes. His lips are thin, often turned down in a frown, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The owner of the diary was very clearly infatuated with him, and he could understand why. The man was naturally gorgeous even with such a pouty face.

And somehow, he felt strikingly familiar.

Komaeda turns through a few more pages, carefully poring over the illegible kanji and fuzzy details. No matter how hard he squints, he just can't understand what the words read, as though the information is purposefully taunting him, hanging just out of reach. With a sigh, he closes the notebook and allows his eyelids to flicker shut.

"How despairing."

◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌

"Your dementia is progressing quickly." Crossing one leg over the other, the doctor spun around in his chair to face Komaeda.

His demeanour was… laid-back. Much too laid back for a doctor. And mean, harsh, unnecessarily cruel. It was clear on his face that he thought Komaeda was the most revolting thing he'd seen all day, and he was probably right.

"Ah, such is fate for someone as worthless as me. Perhaps I really am meant to die." He laughed softly to himself, gazing down at his lap.

"Shut up," the doctor hissed. "Are you taking your medication?"

Komaeda stared out the window, wordless in his thoughts. The sunlight streaming through the glass felt warm on his skin, unlike the chill of metal on the medical bed beneath him. It was a lovely day brimming with hope, a day he would have liked to be out there enjoying.

"It's a nice day isn't it, M̆̋͑��̩̹̗͕̮̼a̦̮̟̠̓͜ť̇҉̺̙s̪̦̟̋ͤ̽͗͜ŭ̺͉̖̫͍̯̪ͯ̐͠d̷̬̤̹̩̱̫̻̺͊a̵̯͙͖̙̩͇͂͛̓̊-kun?"

"Huh?" The doctor blinked, before looking up from his clipboard and out the window. "What are you talking about? Answer the damn question."

He remained silent, continuing to gaze out the window at the campus below. There were students socialising, exercising, running to class. Blurs of smiling faces amongst a sea of brown, each student filled with a sense of pride. The air is filled with distant laughter and chatter. It's too quiet in the room.

"Why don't you wear the Hope's Peak Uniform?"

There was a loud clatter as the doctor's clipboard hit the floor. Before Komaeda can react, (as if he was going to), he's risen to his feet and practically pounced on the boy. The doctor's pale hands reached for his chest, securing a handful of his sweater. A soft gasp escaped his lips, being pulled forward until he came nose to nose with the doctor, warm erratic breaths coming short and fast on his lips.

His face was difficult to see when he was on the other side of the room, but Komaeda realised that distance was not the issue. Even when he was so close the details were hazy, Komaeda only barely being able to make a deep frown etched beneath his dark bangs. Every time he tried to take in more details, it was as though he were looking too closely at a painting, unable to take in the full image beyond a few brush strokes.

"I knew it. Of course you wouldn't take them." He spit, teeth bared and eyebrows furrowed. "You just think your fucking luck is going to save you, that this is all some big plan for 'hope'."

The doctor let go, allowing Komaeda to slump back into his chair. He looked distressed, unreasonably so to the point of unprofessionalism. The doctor swept back his hair, giving Komaeda a glimpse of glaring blue eyes before he pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets.

Komaeda couldn't help but chuckle to himself. And before he knew it, he was laughing. Laughing raucously, in a way that made his whole body shake with dread, his mind spin with despair. His fingers wound their way to his scalp and he gripped and pulled at his hair until he could see the doctor's horrified expression looking back at him.

"Hope?" The word dripped from his mouth like venom. "There is no hope in taking that. The disease is incurable! There's no point in messing with that fact! What hope is there in waking up every day sick as a diseased dog just so I can tack a few extra years of suffering onto my lifespan? Do you want me to suffer, is that it? Does the Ultimate Neurologist truly believe he can play God? That you can cure a terminal illness? It's embarrassing, you truly don't know when to draw the line, to give up on a piece of human garbage like-!"

"What the fuck would you know about God, you demented freak?!"

Komaeda bit his tongue, a sickening grin forming on his face.

"You think some God is going to sweep you away from this? There is no damn God!" The doctor near screams the words. "There's you, me, and a miserable little pile of pills. You're the one who refuses to see an expert, you're the one who insisted on seeing an 'Ultimate', and yet you refuse to do what you've been told. I don't know why I bother, shit, you can rot in that empty skull of yours for all I care."

By the time he was done with his rant, he'd fallen back into his chair, dejected, out of breath. Komaeda didn't miss the flush on his cheeks, the way his nails dug into his thighs. What a brash display of emotion.

"I never knew you felt so strongly about God, Matsuda-kun." Straightening out his sweater, Komaeda shot the other a wide smile. "I guess it makes sense, you are a man of science, after all."

The doctor did not raise his head, remaining in his hunched over position. He was shaking, fists scrunching the fabric of his pants as he tried to regain his composure, probably to stop himself from jumping across the room and choking Komaeda to death. He thought he would have deserved it at this point.

"Do you really not understand how privileged you are? Are you doing this just to mock me, to make me suffer? I shouldn't have expected any less from Komaeda fucking Nagito," his voice trembled and cracked. "Am I the incompetent one? Should I be coming to your dorm every night and forcing the damn things down your throat? I can't fucking listen to you, I can't stand you. Every time you look at me with that stupid fucking grin on your face it feels like you think this is all a joke. What if you do die? What do you think is gonna happen to the people who love and care about you?"

Komaeda opened his mouth to refute him, but quickly snapped it shut again when a scalpel zipped past his head, lodging itself in the wall behind him with a thwunk. The doctor had raised his head, arm poised with another scalpel in hand and eyes filled with deadly intent as he glared at Komaeda.

"Get the fuck out of my office you ugly bastard."

◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌ ◌

Komaeda opens his eyes suddenly, silently.

It's no dramatic waking up from a nightmare, no shooting up out of bed with his lungs burning and chest heaving. Just a sudden realisation that he is awake and that he has been dreaming. Perhaps he was kicked out of Matsuda's office, but how would he know? It was just as possible that he'd risen to his feet and beaten him senseless.

…Matsuda?

It's a familiar name, but not one that belongs to anyone Komaeda knows. "Matsuda-kun. Matsuda… Hope's Peak?"

He mumbles to himself, attempting to make sense of the information thrown at him. They say dreams are pulled from your memories, so why would he have memories from Hope's Peak? Why would he have memories of a person he has never known?

"Matsuda… I called him the Ultimate Neurologist, didn't I?" He asks the question to the darkness of his room. "I wouldn't forget somebody like that, would I?"

Komaeda sits up, pushing his hair back as he brings a hand to his forehead. "Would I?"

Eyes drifting along the covers of his bed, he spots the memory notebook. "I wonder if I should start keeping one too," he chuckles.

#Matsukoma #Matsuda Yasuke #Komaeda Nagito #Danganronpa #Danganronpa 0 #Fanfiction #Ficgiri

[hallowed-be-thy-username]

And here we are with part 2, the second half of @jokersqueenofchaos’s request with her OC Eliza!!

You know I love me some sexual tension so I let that beast run wild! I really enjoyed the challenge of writing with your OC, lovely, and I’m so damn excited to post the ending 💓💓 Eliza is amazing and I’m still so honored to have written her for you!

It’s written again with plain text set in the present and italics as a flashback

Here is a link for part 1

Thank you again, dear!!

Ledger Joker x original female character, Ledger Joker x Eliza

Word count: 3,069

Warnings: some serious sexual tension, allusion to murder, allusion to sex, spicyy

Green Hair and a Red Smile, part 2

After turning the handle on the faucet, Eliza held her hand beneath the stream of water until it felt warm. It was strange, thinking back on it now. She spent so much time on her own, never even interested in anything but that. Why should she allow herself to be trapped in a cubicle, working nine to five, moving along with the rest of the flock only to be effectively slaughtered once her utility had run out? But this was obviously different. There was another path. The path further off the beaten path.

Her fingers plucked the elastic from her hair to let it fall down to her shoulders before ducking her head underneath the water, wisps of blue starting to swirl down the drain. She cupped water in her hands to let it run down the back of her head and little trails of warm water saturated the collar of her t-shirt. For the first time in a long time, she felt drawn to someone and since that day, she’s never looked back.

--

The feeling she’d been carrying in her stomach all day twisted into an even tighter knot as the sun hung low toward the horizon. It was almost time. Eliza was walking the streets along the Narrows, only a block away from the address Joker had given her. She asked herself, what are you doing here? There wasn’t a real answer to that, not yet. She was there to find out.

Cars were left to fall further into disrepair along the side of the road and most of the building’s windows had their glass broken. Naturally, the area appeared deserted, leaving plenty of opportunity for Gotham’s most cunning citizens to do what they did best. She peeked over her shoulder before crossing the street and continuing around a corner. The place was in front of her now, 228 W Holt. The brick building had five stories and the faded letters above the front entrance read, ‘Gotham Steel Works’. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, before cautiously approaching the door to tug on the handle.

It was locked. Her blood felt like ice as she questioned whether she had the right address, whether this was a set up and she’d made a big mistake. She tugged on the handle once more before cursing under her breath, feeling as though she was on the verge of panic. Then she turned around and was startled to see someone suddenly standing behind her.

“You Eliza?” the young man asked.

Eliza tried not to appear as frazzled as she was and nodded her head, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Follow me.”

He quickly turned and headed down the adjacent alley, not even looking back to see if she was keeping up with his long strides. She moved fast to keep from falling behind as he rounded the corner to the back of the building. There were two more men waiting there, both much larger than the one she followed. She slowed down and eyed both of them while they watched her continue to follow the younger man to a back door off of a loading dock. Her hand slid into her pocket to hold onto her knife until the door closed behind her. It was dark and there was no time for her eyes to adjust before Eliza heard another door open. She squinted in the darkness and saw the man go up a flight of stairs. Almost tripping over a pile of rubble, she managed to catch up before he reached the top.

Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw him. He looked back at her over his shoulder, his gaze on her before she could even blink. He turned around to face her, his expression didn’t change but she saw something in his eyes. The room encompassing that entire floor was lined by huge windows. Dim golden light from the setting sun outside streamed through the cracked panes of glass to cast shadows on the floor. Rows of large columns supported the high ceiling of the decaying room, a cluttered old desk sitting alone in the center with two chairs on either side.

“Ahh ya made it,” Joker purred, his mouth pulling into a grin. “Let’s begin, hm?”

Her eyes widened and she sucked in a breath at the sound of his voice before nodding at him, her eyes never leaving his face. A feeling that she shouldn’t be there twisted her insides more as she watched Joker wave the young man away and he headed back down the stairs. They were alone. But this wasn’t the first time they’d been alone. Her rationality continued it’s battle with her overwhelming need to be caught in that clown’s gaze as he beckoned her toward the desk.

Her feet moved all on their own, taking careful steps toward the desk. Her cheeks were already burning when she felt his eyes on her as she walked. This implicit, albeit ill-advised, trust she had in him kept hanging on and wouldn’t let go. Was it actually trust or just blind devotion? But if he was going to hurt her he would have done it by now, right?

She remained in her trance as she lowered herself onto one of the chairs while he removed his coat and gloves. He met her gaze as he sat opposite to her at the desk, kicking his feet up to rest his heels with his ankles cross on its ledge. Her gaze flickered over his face, over his scars, but not for too long. Not long enough to appear that they disturbed her, but rather that maybe they interested her. He took the opportunity to study her demeanor. Still and calm yet trembling with some contrasting force that clawed at her psyche, begging her to turn and run but ultimately falling silent in the depths of her mind. What was he going to do with her? Let her follow him around like a lost puppy? Then what? Perhaps she could prove useful. His mind cooked up a few scenarios until he pondered a phony hostage setup… like a fishing lure. Bait for a giant bat.

He blinked away his drifting thoughts and stated in a very forward manner, “Let’s set some, uh, ground rules, shall we? Number one, no squealin’, I’ll know if you squeal. Number two don’t touch any-thing you see layin’ around. And number threee, stop starin’ at me,” tapping a finger on one hand with each statement. Then a small smirk pulled at his mouth while he blinked back at her as she gradually understood his words.

Eliza’s cheeks burned even hotter and she quickly averted her gaze to the floor. It was so hard to tell whether he was serious or if he was trying to trick her. Did it matter?

“I, uh… I didn’t mean to stare.”

“Mm, ‘course ya didn’t.”

A tingle crawled its way into her belly and her eyes quickly shifted back to his face. Then the words came from her mouth before she could stop them.

“No… I did.”

Her words reached his ears and his eyes remained fixed on her with brows raised as her mouth opened, possibly in an effort to recant her statement, but she remained silent. No one liked looking at him. His face startled and terrified. Why would anyone enjoy looking at it? Perhaps she’s a masochist.

The corner of his mouth twitched at his own joke.

What to do? Perhaps she’s trying to toy with him. She’d taken this little interaction to the next level and Joker was not one to play second fiddle when it comes to controlling a conversation.

“Well rules were, uh, ma-de to be broken, Elizaaa” he rumbled in a deep voice, lacing his fingers together over his lap. “How would you describe what you see then, hm?”

She tried to but she couldn’t understand what had just happened in such a short amount of time. He hadn’t even said anything about this so-called job and here she was admitting that she’d been staring at him. Then the tingle she felt, that knot in her stomach, suddenly made her uncomfortably and intensely aware of something. She was attracted to him. It was unmistakable. Heat rose up until it was over the top of her head. How did she not see it before?

He waited for her answer, watching the flame grow behind her eyes. This wasn’t originally a trap he had planned to set, but it would serve its purpose none the less. She stared at him, as he expected she would. Perhaps searching for the right word to utter. Crazy, diabolical, troubling, ruined, disturbing, unsettling. Terrifying.

“You’re…  handsome,” she answered, her voice threatening to crack. Her nerves were standing on end. She came here to follow that feeling she got when he looked at her like that, now she wanted more, and she couldn’t stop herself.

Joker started to chuckle, a wide grin stretching over his face. She must be joking, trying to beat him at his own game. That, she was not going to succeed at. But then there were her eyes. Her eyes said otherwise. Behind her tentative expression he could see a looming excitement, bubbling just beneath the surface, tickling at her insides.

Handsome.

Compliments wouldn’t get her anywhere, but she did capture his attention. Handsome is not a word he’d use to describe himself. Not a word anyone else would use, for that matter. He smirked as he stared her down with intensity, studying her. He wondered what else was going on in that muddled mind of hers, clawing at her from the inside, begging to be set free. The buzz of building anticipation emanating from her was contagious. He found himself wanting her to keep talking. He dropped his heels from the table and leaned across it toward her, bringing his face within a foot of hers.

“Well, Elizaaa. If I’m, uh, handsome, how would you describe these scars?” he said before running his tongue along his lower lip and tilting his head, keeping her in his gaze.

Her heart continued to pound mercilessly against her ribs as her eyes darted to his mouth. Her thoughts were becoming more and more warped together, blurring where her fear ended, and her arousal began. It was so new, so strange, so alluring.

Her thoughts drifted from her subconscious, straight out through her mouth, her voice distant and dream-like. “They look like… like they’re rough. But, soft. Maybe they’re soft.”

Her words carried such a typical civility for such an atypical meeting. They dared each other to toe that line between normalcy and that dark place below it, waiting to see who falls over the edge first. Joker couldn’t deny that this excited him. It was egging him on to push her closer. But something was holding him back, keeping him on that ledge with her.

Eliza’s eyes never left his mouth, unblinking and focused while her gaze remained somehow so distant. Her own lips parted as she lifted her hand from the table and cautiously brought toward to his face. Then her trembling fingertips brushed lightly over the dented skin.

He flinched. He wanted to smack her hands away, grab her thin little wrists and slam them down on the table. But he couldn’t. He willed himself to move but kept still, his jaw tensing as he focused his fiery stare on her pensive face, her eyelids heavy, her lips flushed and rosy. Something stirred inside him. He hated to admit it, but a lack of intimate contact had been grating away at him. That human need. He hated it. Her proximity only reminded him of that need. That eternal itch, begging to be scratched.

She was no longer in control of her actions. Caution was far behind her and she’d entered a state of mind that offered no rationality. She leaned in further, her gaze unfaltering. Her other hand had joined in the perilous exploration of his face, fingers grazing closer to his lips as his tongue slipped out of his mouth to lick them. Her rapid huffs of breath washed over his face, intensifying the tension that hung thickly between them.

The damaged nerve endings conducted their erratic signals, the haphazardly healed tissue trying desperately to function as it once did. Her soft touch sent goosebumps roiling down his back. Her touch felt… good. Fingertips so timid and light, it made his stomach flutter maddeningly and his breath heavy. That inner need to be touched mercilessly devoured the feeling.

Joker felt himself losing control. He didn’t like that. He wanted to be angry. But anger is what was expected, even from himself, and he took pride in opting for the unexpected. Spontaneity gave him power.

He slowly reached his hands up to hold either side of her face, their noses now inches apart. His voice came out like gravel.

“You want to know what they feel like?”

Eliza’s throat went dry and her chest squeezed against the sharp breath she tried to take, stunned by his question. It ran through her head, searching for her response, but none could be found.

Electricity ran across her skin and the warmth in her belly fluttered into her chest when his fingertips suddenly grazed her heated cheeks. Joker couldn’t remember the last time his hands had touched someone without the intention of causing harm, leaving stains of red behind. But he hadn’t forgotten how. As he held her face, her hands found his neck, heat radiating from beneath his collar as her fingers continued their torturous caress across his skin. I was maddening, how much he liked it. His breath quickened but his expression remained like stone as he fought with his innermost desires. He fought his need to feel her, more of her. Let go, push her away.

Then her nose made the slightest contact with his, her eyes burning him as his insides boiled, rising higher into his chest.

This little contest he’d instigated had reached a breaking point, now trapping them both in a web of their own magnetism, growing stronger with each second they spent with such a slight distance between them. A need to take her for himself rang in his ears. You’re mine.

Closer still. She leaned in closer and nodded, giving him wordless affirmation, permission. Her breath on his lips beckoned him.

Impulse, a sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act.

He reached his fingers into her hair before pulling her forward, crashing his lips into hers. The overwhelming sensation of plump flesh on flesh flooded his senses as he devoured her, tangling his mouth with hers with unrestrained passion as if he was going to swallow her whole. The taste of her lips, her tongue, it was intoxicating. It reached down to his bones and held on tight. This was self-indulgence to its highest degree. He let it take him over, his senses swirling with endorphins he so often deprived himself of. His belly was winding tighter and tighter with that desire he knew too well, his body begging for release. So many times, he’d ignored it, or quickly provided it some feeble source of friction it so desperately called for, in an effort to make it disappear. But it always came back. A hollow and wanting thirst that was never quenched.

She kissed him back. Her mouth eagerly accepted his and allowed him to consume her with dizzying fervor as she desperately gripped his collar. Eliza’s blood ran hotter than it ever had before. It sparked and rushed through her veins, plunging her deep below the surface of the deep, dark desire that now enveloped her. More. She wanted more.

The flames threatening to consume them both reached fever pitch, Joker’s control over his own actions quickly turning to ash.

The he pulled back, the rising heat in his core coming to a halt just below boiling point. He huffed as his heart continued to pound, his eyes flickering over her face, looking for any clues in her expression. Her heavy lids reflected some concentration or inquisitiveness as she stared back at him, her jaw just slightly dropped and posture as if she’d just been doused in cold water.

There wasn’t any fear there, no. It felt as though she’d lost her mind. She’d lost her mind and it was supposed to be that way. An assiduousness took over her features before she leaned back in, her own lips finding his in reciprocation. He stiffened at the tenderness in her kiss, his determination to steel himself hanging on by a thread. But the slow, provocative dance of her mouth against his plucked at that thread, keeping him there, tangling his fingers in her hair.

She could feel them, his scars. They caressed her cheeks and glided over her lips when he kissed her. Rough. Soft.

--

Tossing her freshly dyed hair over her shoulders, Eliza watched herself in the mirror again. That night changed her. She never needed anyone but being with him felt like belonging. The twitching of his mouth, his piercing glances, they stirred something in her that made everything else feel so dull. There was no going back. She’d been captured by the inexplicable charm that blinded her to everything else she once knew. But it didn’t feel like a loss. The world would move on with or without her. It always did. Now she’d move on without it.

The day after Pandora’s box opened, the day after that beast called lust ran free, he licked her kiss off of his lips as she lowered the black plastic bag over his head. Only an hour after her thumb hit the call button. After she told the deep voice on the other end, the one she knew wouldn’t be able to speak for much longer, “I have your clown.”

Her smile grew at the reflection in the mirror as his paint-stained hands slid around her waist, their grip warm and firm. He held her against his chest, his face alongside hers as he lifted a hand from her waist to twist one of her bright blue locks around his finger.

“Mm so this is what you’ve been up to, hm?”

Eliza let her head fall back against Joker’s chest and she answered, “I can do yours next.”

Taglist @youmaycallmebrian @heavymetalnarwhal @neverputsaltinyoureyes @jokersqueenofchaos @into-crazy @killingjokee @astheworlddturns @jslittlebirdie @drreidsconverse @vipervixxen

#heath ledger joker #the dark knight #tdk joker #ledger!joker #joker fanfiction #ledger joker x oc #request #oc request

[starlightsearches]

Office Romance: Ch 20 Inspection

General Hux and Kylo Ren have found themselves competing for the affection of a lieutenant aboard the Finalizer.

Series Warnings: Language, some violence, near-death experiences.

Masterlist

AN: Haha, I finally did it! Thank you all so much for your support while I figured out where this story goes, and where it ends. I received so many kind messages and so much love. Warnings for this chapter: angst, canon-typical violence (force choking), discussions of abuse, kind of?

You wake up with bleary eyes and a pounding headache. For a moment, you're able to forget why you feel so terrible—not just physically, but deep in your bones—and you sit and wait until it hits you.

You had cried late into the night—cried until you couldn’t anymore—but as soon as the memories resurface, so do the tears, stinging your tired eyes. It's only just started, but you're sure that it will take a miracle for you to get through the day.

You force yourself out of bed and to the sink, drinking straight from the faucet, and then you down a rehydration canister as well, for good measure. (Technically, they're for medical use only but they're a godsend for hangovers.) The taste is questionable, and you'll have to piss like a bantha later, but it'll be worth it if it gets you feeling like a human again.

You rinse off in the sani-steam and put on your uniform, already feeling better. The positivity is immediately lost when you see Ren's helmet sitting on your desk. The memory is blurry even now that you're fully awake—stumbling through the halls on the way back to your room, the weight of his helmet sitting heavy in your hands, and the words running through your head on repeat just in case you ran in to him: you left this, you left this, you left this.

What would you say to him now? You obviously have to talk about it, but . . .  how? There's a slight unease settling in your stomach as you think about what had happened between you and Ren. Had you liked it, the kiss? It's hard to separate the event from everything that had happened after, which you definitely had not liked.

After a moment of debating, you decide to take the helmet with you, tucking it under your arm and hoping that the bulk of your greatcoat would hide it from view.

You walk in the direction of the bridge, doing your best to appear normal as you try to sense Ren's location through the force. It's not something you've tried before, and not something that he had tried to teach you yet. It's more difficult than you anticipated; everytime you open yourself up to the force you become overwhelmed by the feeling of all the lives on the ship, and you're unable to distinguish between any of them, let alone pick out Ren's unique signature from the group.

You pull yourself from your search just before you collide with someone—a harried-looking maintenance tech busy staring at her data pad. She doesn't notice you, and you catch her by the shoulder just before impact, stopping her momentum. She lets out a small oof, the data pad threatening to tumble from her hands before she gets a hold of it.

"I'm so sorry, Lieutenant General," she says, saluting once she recognises you, "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"It's alright, I wasn't either." You give her a small smile, hoping to put her at ease, to show that you're not angry, but it doesn't take long for you to realize that you're not what's making her nervous.

"Busy day today?" you ask, scoping out the surface of her thoughts searching for the origin of her woes. Please don't let it be Ren, please don't let it be Ren . . . 

"Uh, yeah, actually," she replies with a little trepidation, "we've got like, seven different emergency repairs and they're all- "

" Code 4120?" you finish for her, and she looks back, surprised. You don't know all the repair codes, but that one you've memorized. Lightsaber damage.

"Uh, yeah, actually," she replies with a nervous laugh, "I don't know what got into the commander but I hope it doesn't happen again." She blushes—embarrassed to talk this way about a commanding officer in front of another commanding officer—and walks off quickly, leaving you to dwell on the information alone.

You continue on your way to the bridge, but decide to stop at the officer's dining area first, hoping to grab a cup of caff before officially starting your shift. As soon as you enter, though, you'd like to walk back out, because the first thing you see is Ren's shiny new black eye, uncovered and set in a fiery glare towards Hux's normal seat, which is currently unoccupied. There are others in the dining area, though, full of sick curiosity as they shovel their rations into their mouths, glancing at Ren every few seconds, desperate to know what happened. You have to be careful. These next few moments could be explosive if you weren't.

"Your helmet, sir. You left it in the training room after our sparring session," you say to Ren, dropping it on the table in front of him. Everyone perks up when you address him, hoping to be clued in on the drama, but Ren doesn't even look at you, which suits your plans just fine, for now.

You lean in just a little closer, trying to sell the lie as you whisper, loud enough for the people closest to hear, "and I'm very sorry about your eye, sir."

"Wait, you gave him that?" Someone takes the bait, and you hold in your sigh of relief as you turn to address them. It's Kaimill Wate, the one you picked to be your replacement for Phasma after your promotion.

"Yes, Lieutenant. It was an accident, my hand slipped." Ren continues to ignore you, but the rest of the officers buy into your lie anyway. Thank the gods for that.

The only one who still seems suspicious is Mitaka, and his eyes follow you around the room, his mouth formed into a slight frown. You grab your caff and flash him a look, hoping he'll get the message, and he does, standing from his seat immediately and tossing out the rest of his breakfast before following you out the door.

"What is going on with you?" he asks, as soon you're alone, his whispers tight and angry as he checks to make sure that no one around you is listening.

"Oh, fuck," the words fall out completely unbidden, and the panic slips back in to its home in your chest. Would you have to feel this way forever? Constantly on edge, waiting for this to explode into the light and ruin you? It's no way to live; you don't think you can bear it.

"Hey," Mitaka speaks again, pulling you to a stop, "tell me what's going on." His voice and touch are gentle and it breaks your heart all over again that you've spent so much time lying to someone who cares for you so deeply. 

"I will tell you what's going on, Doe, I promise. Just not right now." He seems distrustful, and you don't blame him after everything that's happened, but he nods in agreement, and you feel a little more at ease.

"Are you ready for the inspection?" Mitaka asks to change the subject, and your eyes widen with surprise.

"What inspection?" Normally the Directorate gave ships a week's notice before any official visits. Had you somehow managed to forget in all the chaos?

"The general sent out an alert early this morning. It was a surprise for him, too, I think," Mitaka responds, just as you enter the bridge. Hux is there at the view ports, looking no worse for wear, despite his injury.There’s a maintenance worker with him, probably updating him on the progress for the repairs, but it doesn't seem like he's truly listening, and after a moment, they walk off.

"Who is performing the inspection?" you whisper to Mitaka, hoping to avoid the general's attention for as long as possible. You’re still not sure what you want from him. And you don’t know how he’ll react when he sees you again, or if he’ll react at all.

"Hello, Lieutenant General," the voice behind you answers your question before Mitaka can, and when you recognise it, you can feel the cup of caff begin to slip from your fingers. No, not him. Not here.

"General Pryde, welcome to the Finalizer," Hux has arrived, and Mitaka takes his place on the bridge, leaving you alone with the two men as they greet each other with a slight nod and hate in their eyes. You have to hope that you're still asleep, because this is a nightmare. You try to wake up; nothing changes.

"Shall we begin?" Pryde asks, and both of them turn to look at you. Even with some kind of miracle, you're not sure you'll survive this.

You try your best to remain focused, but there's little hope for that when you think you sense Ren around every corner, when you're simultaneously trying to catch the general's eye and stay invisible to him, when you have to watch every word that exits your lips to make sure that Pryde will not sense even the slightest trace of the deep and abiding hatred lurking just below the surface of your skin.

No, You're not focused, not in the slightest, but you know the general would rather chew on mouthfuls of glass than look like a fool in front of a superior officer and he makes up for your lack, leading you and Pryde from place to place, careful to avoid the parts of the ship that Ren had left in disrepair. The whole thing goes fairly well, as far as you can tell, and you breathe a sigh of relief once you return to the bridge, finally finished with your looping tour.

"Thank you for your time, General," Pryde says dismissively, and you tune back into the conversation, nervous about the change you can sense in his mood. He turns his attention to you, and although he has the same stony demeanor as always, you know what he's feeling, and you know what he's about to say, "I'd like to speak to your lieutenant for a moment. Could you spare her?"

General Hux looks at you for the first time since the last time he looked at you, since you watched him walk away. You're afraid to look back, but you do anyway, ready to see the loathing you deserve reflected back at you, but his gaze is absent of any emotion at all, and somehow that’s worse.

He's waiting for permission. It takes you a moment to realize that this extended eye contact is not some kind of a punishment that the general is hoping to inflict, but an offer of protection from Pryde. He's willing to say no for you.

You give him the slightest nod you can manage, and only then does he speak, "of course, Allegiant General." He walks off without a word, and you watch him go without a chance to thank him.

Pryde clears his throat, and you follow him from the bridge, down to the hangar where his ship waits for him. Something about the moment makes you feel like a little girl again, like he's about to yell at you for running through the house or breaking a lamp, and the same sickness comes right back, the same fear, the same sight that you saw so often in the plane between waking and sleeping: Pryde, blaster in hand, pointing the barrel of the weapon directly between your eyes.

It's a ridiculous notion, a silly thought. You're not a child anymore. You're a soldier. A force-wielder. You can defend yourself. But could you defend yourself?

As soon as Pryde finds an empty corridor, he acts, pulling you into some abandoned meeting room. You breathe deeply through your nose and think calm thoughts. He just wants to talk to you in private.

"Well?" He's already angry, which means you'll have to be careful, have to hit every mark and deliver each line with perfect inflection to keep his anger at bay. Even without an audience he still demands the doting daughter routine. Lucky for you though, it's a role you have had a lifetime to perfect.

"It's good to see you, father," you say, pressing a soft kiss to his papery check, trying very hard to keep thoughts of your last kiss out of your mind. This was a critical performance; you could not afford any distractions.

He relaxes only slightly, but you refuse to let your guard down until you know what he wants. It seems that he is ready to join in on your act, putting on the guise of a concerned father. He must want something.

"You seem tired," he begins—less convincing in his role than you manage to be, which is understandable. He's under less pressure. "Is everything alright?"

"I didn't get much sleep," you offer, " I've been kept busy since my promotion." He looks skeptical, but you're not sure why, especially since it's the truth, or part of it, at least.

"Is General Hux giving you too much of his work? I would recommend you for a transfer to the Supremacy. I'm sure that General-"

'I don't want to leave the Finalizer, father," you interrupt, and the look in his eyes makes the regret appear instantaneously. "It's just one night without sleep; it won't kill me. I appreciate the concern."

"Your mother sends her regards." He seems mollified enough, and then he changes the subject, which doesn't surprise you in the slightest. He doesn't care how you are. He's just searching for weakness.

"Tell her I miss her," you respond on instinct, and then after a beat, "and you, as well, father." Gods, You want this conversation to be over. You're tired of walking on glass and hoping it won't splinter beneath your feet.

"We've been talking recently," he says, falsely casual, "she thinks you should come home. We both do." It's off-script, and the surprise throws you out of your act and directly into a spiraling panic.

"What?" You genuinely think you might faint. Even after the news you received last night, this somehow manages to come as a bigger shock. Maybe you should have seen it coming. You thought you were safe from him here, but maybe that was all an act too.

"We don't feel comfortable having you work in such a dangerous environment, and after the assassination attempt, can you blame us? Your mother was a wreck for days after the event, hardly sleeping, unable to eat. I thought the stress would kill her."

He's trying to guilt you into giving in, and you might have been more receptive of it, if it had been anyone else. You wish the stress would kill her. Wish it would kill them both.

"Please, come home. We'll take care of you again. We'll keep you safe." He rests a hand on your shoulder, the loving father, the one you always deserved, and you hate yourself for it, but you almost buy into it. Because you want to believe, damn you, want to believe that someone else would care for you. You want to unload, give away the reins and let someone else make the tough decisions again. Because you're so damn tired. Because you're not strong enough to do it yourself.

Hot, fat tears roll down your cheeks and you bow your head in defeat. The woman, the fortune teller from Irrade, she was right. It's not always an or the other. You can choose not to decide. You can give up.

Pryde lifts your gaze to his, wipes the tears from your cheeks, pulls you in for an embrace. You don't find home in his arms, but maybe someday you could.

"You'll be safe now," he whispers and you will yourself to believe it, "I'll take care of everything." It's not until he runs a hand through your hair, an approximation of a soothing gesture, that you notice it. For some reason, that's the contact that tunes you into his thoughts—thoughts that he must have had the whole time but kept hidden, and you were too distracted to see them.

"You know," you say, pulling yourself from his grasp, "about my training. About Ren." How could you have been so blind? He didn't want to save you, he wanted to save himself. Every part of you hums with rage, and you let the anger flow through you, too tired to stop it.

“You lied to me!” You’ve never yelled at him before, but the words burst out of you, “you don’t want me back, you want me away from him!”

"Now, wait, see here-" he blanches, trying to cover his tracks, but you don't need to see any more to know that it's a kindness for you to only block his windpipe. You're being merciful. You should snap his neck. Force choking is another skill Ren never taught you, but this one is easy and so very satisfying as you bring Pryde to his knees.

"No, general, you see here," you say, getting in his face, looming over him, "I'm not going anywhere. And you are going to stay. the. fuck. away from me. And then maybe I'll let you live." You storm out of the room, not bothering to glance back, not caring to check if you had killed him or not.

You march through the corridors with no destination in mind, desperate to escape the rage that wells up inside, and you finally understand Ren. It would feel good to destroy something right now, but walking would have to suffice.

You end up on the bridge without realizing it. Still, you've never felt more in control. The anger has left your body and you find strength has replaced it. You're not going to run from this. You're going to make a choice.

AN: Okay, that’s it for this chapter! I’m not going to give an ETA for the next one, because I think I’m going to be doing something a little different. I also will probably put requests on hold for the moment until I finish this story up; I’m assuming it will only be three or four more chapters. Let me know what you think!

Tags: @acunningstargazer​, @itsa-pseudonym, @ddaeing, @dark-night-sky-99, @i-jus-wanna-writehappy​, @fresa-luna, @leiadelreyy, @averillian, @sunbanna (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x you #general hux x you #general hux x reader #general hux fanfic #armitage hux fanfiction #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren #armitage hux #my writing #office romance #long post

[ahumansvoid]

What Almost Was

So this is kind of the original way Din Djarin Accidentally Saves the Galaxy was going before I decided I really didn’t want to deal with that. So I cut it and rewrote it. 

But I kept the original version and I’m bored so I’m posting it. It’s obviously unfinished, but it’s just what I had going before I decided I did not want to do it. 

Enjoy!

Characters: Obi-wan Kenobi, Jango Fett, Din Djarin, Cara Dune

Words: 3000~

Warnings:  Description of Death/Body disposal (Kind of)

This starts about right after the end of DDAStG, so Jango and Obi-wan have their heads together in a Kov’nyn or Keldabe Kiss. And is in Jango’s POV at first.

They stay like that for a while before Obi-wan pulls back, “Master Yoda.” Jango looks over to see the old Troll walking toward them.

“Change of plan, there has been. With me, you will come. To Be’ilad, others will go. Meet up with the others, we now will.” Yoda states. Obi-wan nods and follows the Troll. Jango walks over to Boba, who was questioning Cara about some things. Jango notes Dooku’s body is missing, but considering the soldiers around and his non-functional ship, Jango presumes one of the Clones took him. “Follow, you will.” Yoda states, addressing Amidala, Skywalker, Jango, Mando, Cara and Boba.

They all silently follow Yoda and Obi-wan onto a transport.

Yoda explains while they are heading back to the others, “To Coruscant, Obi-wan and I will go. Take care of things, we will. Deal with the Clones, Shaak and Plo will. Return to Naboo, Anakin and Senator Amidala will. To Be’ilad, Mando, Cara, Jango and Mace will go.”

No one argues with the old Troll. 

Jango doesn’t like being seperated from Obi-wan- something he will attribute to the Force bond because he can- but if Obi-wan’s agreed to this then he won’t argue.

“Do I still have to take your stupid medical exam?” Cara asks.

“No. Under what you are, I do. Not ill, you are. Displaced.”

“Although really everyone should get checked out by medical. We were all just in a fight.” Obi-wan tacks on.

“I’ll take Anakin to medical before we head back to Naboo.”

Skywalker shrugs, “We can go to medical on Naboo.” Jango thought that was odd. While he’s never lost a limb, he can’t imagine it’s a benign pain like it apparently it to Skywalker.

Obi-wan seems amused, “You’ll go to medical here. You won’t be able to tamp down the pain with the Force for the entire journey back to Naboo.”

Skywalker huffs but doesn’t argue.

The rest of the trip is silent. Upon landing at the command center, they all disembark and Obi-wan and Yoda immediately separate from the group and head off on their own. Senator Amidala helps Skywalker over to what looks like a medical tent, leaving Jango, Mando, Cara and the kids standing around not entirely sure what they should do.

Until a dark-skinned Jedi approaches them. The one Jango had told he and Obi-wan were married.

Mace Windu, his mind supplies.

Well, the Bond supplies. At least he’ll never have a problem identifying Jedi.

“Do any of you have any pressing issues or can we head to Be’ilad now?” Windu asks, cutting right to the point.

“We’re good.” Cara answers for all of them, “What ship are we taking?”

Which was a good question. “We would all fit on the Slave I,” Jango states, he doesn’t really want to leave him ship behind. 

Windu raises an eyebrow but says, “Very well. Take us to your ship, Fett.”

Jango really hopes Windu only knows his name from Obi-wan and not his previous activities, because that’d make this trip awkward. Still, Jango lead the group away from the battle and to where he had parked the Firespray.

_-Obi-wan-_

“So, why are we going to Coruscant rather than Be’ilad?” Obi-wan hadn’t wanted to ask in front of everyone, instead going along with what Master Yoda said, but he was curious.And they were in a sealed cockpit so it wasn’t as if anyone could hear them.

“See who trained the Child, I did.” Yoda states, “Chancellor Palpatine, it was. A sith, he is.”

“That,” Obi-wan hesitates, “That is a weighty accusation Master Yoda.”

“An accusation it is not! A fact, it is. The future, those three are from. Know the artifact they speak of, I do. Send those where needed it does. Needed they were here. Save the Galaxy they have.”

“What do you mean save the galaxy? Stopping the war was important but,” The war wouldn’t have destroyed the Galaxy.

“Showed me, the Child did. Destroy the Jedi, Palpatine did. Descend into suffering, the Galaxy did.”

“And what are we going to do once we reach Coruscant? A Child’s memory from the future is not viable evidence.” If the Child’s memory was correct, they have no proof Palpatine is a Sith Lord. And Obi-wan didn’t have much faith in the Child’s memory. Memory was a fickle thing, subject to change each time you remembered an event. 

“Reveal to us, he will. Hide a body, you know how to.” Yoda states solemnly.

And.

Obi-wan didn’t like the implications of that.

Yes, he knew how to hide a body, but he didn’t like the implication that they’re going to kill the Chancellor.

That Yoda has already decided this.

It’s not good.

“I don’t like what you are implying Master. What if he is not a Sith Lord?” Because it seemed Yoda was already certain he was.

“Then excuse your ramblings, I will, as a damaged man, dealing with much loss.”

What.

“Ramblings?”

“To the Chancellor, you will go. Inform him of Skywalker’s return to Naboo, you will. About Dooku’s capture, tell him you will. Ramble you will, about the strife Dooku has caused for the Jedi. If Sith he is, try to turn you he will. Lost his apprentice he has.”

“So the plan is, is that I share my more unfavourable opinions with the Chancellor of the Republic, so he might take me on as his apprentice.” Obi-wan sighs, he didn’t like this plan.

“Take you as his apprentice, he will. Stupid he would be, to pass that opportunity.”

Obi-wan raised an eyebrow, “I do recall having to browbeat Qui Gon into taking me as his Padawan.”

Master Yoda made a sad sound, “Foolish, I was. Responsible for that, I was. A connection, you as Qui Gon had. Nurture it, I thought was right. Wrong I was. More broken than I thought, Qui Gon was. Allowed you a different Master, I should have.”

Obi-wan always knew Yoda had had some hand in Qui Gon being his master. But the implication that Yoda had arranged it so Qui Gon was the only one able to be his master… well. Obi-wan had never considered that. Still, nothing to be done now, “It is in the past Master. You cannot undo what you have already done. Live in the moment, and look to the future. Not the past.”

“Hmph, turning my words back at me? Insolent youngling.” Obi-wan smiles at the grumble. It had been a long time since Yoda had called him a youngling.

“I will try to summon as much ire as I can, but I don’t know how convincing I will be.”

“Have faith in you, I do.”

Well. At least one of them does.

Obi-wan certainly didn’t.

_-Be’ilad-_

The place definitely wasn’t abandoned. There were a lot of sentients milling about. Jedi Monks. Non-violent, they don’t fight. Not trained to, true pacifists. Windu bows and says something to one of them, then gestures for them to follow. They all enter the first room of the temple and stop.

“Guide us to where you went,” Windu states, gesturing for Mando or Cara to lead.

Mando looks to Cara, who sighs and pushes through one of the doors, she keeps walking without stopping until they were pretty far into the temple. 

She stops at a wall, looking back in confusion. “There should be a door there.” She points to the wall that looks like just a wall. The monk who had come with them seemed a bit surprised, and waved their hand.

Doing something with the Force evidently as the wall recedes to reveal a door the Cara pushes open and leads them all into the room. It was a circular room that was angled slightly. It was lower in the center than the rest of the room, and in the center was a giant white crystal.

“The kid touched this and we got sent flying back.” Cara states, gesturing to the crystal.

The Monk hums, “How interesting. This is a Force Artifact, it has been dormant for very long,” To prove their point the Monk touches the Artifact, both Mando and Cara visibly tense up but nothing happens, “But our history dictates that when active, this Artifact will send you to where you need to be. The Force needed you two where you ended up.”

“Uh,” Cara sighs deeply, “Can it send us back in time? Or forward?” She looked like it pained herself to ask that. 

Did she think they were time travelers? Weird.

“Theoretically, yes. The Force does as the Force wills, it is not bound by our laws.” The Monk explains.

“Oh. Great.”

“What has made you ask such a thing?”

Cara seemed to of had a mental debate before responding, “Because when me and Mando came in here, there wasn’t anyone here. It had been abandoned for at least a decade, probably two or three. It was in disrepair, there was no life. But there were bodies. Everywhere. Skeletons.”

The Monk hums in interest, “A future you came from, but not the one you will see now. Changed the past, the Force has chosen to. Through you, it has. How peculiar.”

Jango was going to get a headache if people started talking weirdly constantly. Seriously, why can’t any of this be straightforward?

“You don’t seem disturbed that I just told you you all die.”

The Monk shrugs, “You may come from a far off future, or one in ten years, but that matters not. For we do not care about death. To die, is to join the Force. We do not fear it. We do not care for it. It will happen. And we will honor our fate.”

Well that’s, an interesting view. 

And if Kenobi shares it, definitely explains his stupid decisions and careless remarks about death in the arena.

“So, can we not go back?” Mando asks.

“The future you came from no longer exists. It was destroyed the moment you came here.” The Monk states.

Well. Jango sure hopes neither of them left anything behind since they certainly weren’t getting it back. Or anyone behind.

“Thank you, Monk Gyta.” Windu states and the Monk in turn bows and leaves the room. “Satisfied?”

“We can’t go back.”

“The Jedi will help you all get back on your feet.” Windu states.

Which.

Jango doesn’t think that’s the problem.

They probably leave family or friends behind.

But Jango didn’t really know what to say.

_-Obi-wan-_

Well.

Obi-wan owed Yoda 20 credits.

Because, holyshit the Chancellor was a Sith Lord.

And wanted Obi-wan as his apprentice.

Great. Just great.

Obi-wan leaves the Rotunda and heads to the Temple to meet up with Master Yoda, activating a camera looper he had hidden within Palpatine’s office as he does. It would make the camera see him doing paperwork and nothing more on repeat for six hours. Master Yoda and Obi-wan would convene on the correct course of action before heading back to the Rotunda to meet with the Chancellor to officially go over what happened on Geonosis and Dooku’s capture. 

Unofficially, they were going to kill the Chancellor of the Republic.

And Obi-wan was going to dispose of his body.

Great.

Obi-wan was never telling Anakin about this.

Or anyone for that matter.

Maybe Jango. 

They were married apparently.

“Lost in thought, you are?” Yoda asks, Obi-wan had come to the old Troll’s rooms mindlessly.

“I suppose so. I’m apparently married to Jango Fett but cannot for the life of me recall a ceremony.” Obi-wan remarks, entering Yoda’s room and letting the Grandmaster shut the door behind him.

“Hmph. A celebration we will throw you. Legally married you two already are.”

…

Well. 

Okay, then.

“Nice to know. Such a shame I wasn’t present for it.” Obi-wan was only slightly annoyed with that. And only slightly because he knows none of the other Jedi knew of his ‘marriage’ to Jango until a few hours ago, so one of them must have filed his marriage license. Either knowing he wasn’t actually married or worried that the government had lost his and Jango’s marriage license and filed one for them.

“Your nuptials, enough of. A Sith lord, the Chancellor is?” 

Obi-wan sighs, “Yes. He asked me to be his apprentice.”

“Say, what did you?”

“Yes? I didn’t know what else to say. And didn’t know what would happen if I said no.” Obi-wan imagined death. Or torture. Or torture then death. Or something worse than death Obi-wan didn’t really want to think about.

Yoda nodded, “See him later, we will. Kill him, you will.”

“Excuse me?” Obi-wan agreed to dispose of the body, he did not agree to killing the Chancellor. That raised him from accessory after the fact and destroying evidence to murder 1 plus everything else.

“Crush his heart you will. In control you are.”

“...What?” Obi-wan, for the first time since he was a kid, had no clue what Yoda was saying.

“Slipped into the dark you have. Touch it you do.  Darkness you use, but let it control you, you do not. In control you always are. Never fall you will.”

“I’m honoured by the faith you have in me master,” ’and slightly disturbed how often you think I use the Dark side’ Obi-wan thought privately, “but I don’t know what you want me to do. Crush his heart? I’ve never heard of such a technique.”

“Crushed blasters you have. Crushed droids you have. Crushing fruit, you learnt by. Crushing a heart is no different.”

“Well for one, I can see the droids I’m crushing, or the fruit, but I cannot see someone’s heart.”

“Mmm, practice, we will. Dragon heart fruit, you will crush. Placed where you cannot see, it will be.” Yoda states, using the force to levitate a few dragon heart fruits out of his fruit bowl and places it behind the chair Yoda was in. “Focus you will on crushing one of the dragon fruits, but show it you cannot. Let him know what you are doing, you cannot!”

Obi-wan nods, great. Just great. This was definitely something he wanted to do.

Not. Taking a deep breath Obi-wan tries to sense the dragon fruit as best he can but his concentration is ruined by Yoda hitting him in the leg. “What?”

“Obvious it is, concentrating you are.”

Obi-wan sighs and tries again, trying to make it less obvious he was concentrating.

He got hit in the leg again.

This was going to be a long day.

_-Jango-_

“We traveled back in time.” Cara states. They were on their way to Coruscant, have been for a while. So for Cara to be saying this now…

“Did it just hit you that you time traveled?” Jango asks, it had been a while since the Monk told them that.

“Honestly I‘ve kind of been hoping this was just a bad dream. But I don’t think so. And how the fuck is time travel just acceptable to you? How are you not freaking out?”

“All is possible through the Force,” Windu states serenely. 

Which Jango translates from Jedi bullshit to normal basic, “Just don’t think too hard and don’t care about anything and it’s fine.” For Cara and Mando’s sake.

Definitely not to subtly call the Jedi out.

Never.

Wait since when is Jan go subtle?

…

He blames Kenobi for this.

Even if it’s not possible. Obi-wan is to blame. Somehow.

“I’m sure that makes a lot of things easier.”

“Mmhmm. So, any plans for your future now that you’ve processed the fact that you time travelled?” Jango asks.

“Bounty hunting probably?”

“You don’t have to decide right now. “ Windu cuts in, “We will brief you on the current political situation along with relevant details of the past and anything you’re curious about in the Jedi Temple. You are welcome to stay there as long as you need to until you get back on your feet.”

“Your offer is very generous.” Mando states.

“You require assistance. It would be wrong of me to not offer.”

“So, what, you just go around offering assistance to anyone who needs it?” Cara asks.

“As Jedi, we try. We do not always succeed, but we will not turn down a request for help. If we see someone who needs help, we will try to help them, but it is not always possible. Sometimes, we help the wrong people and do a great disservice to others. “ Windu states.

“Well, that sounds like something that has nothing to do with either of us.”

“Yes. Now, do you wish for that youngling to be entered into the Creche and trained or would you prefer to keep him?” Windu asks, no doubt gesturing to the Terror Child Jango had reluctantly let back into the cockpit on the condition Mando keeps a tight hold of it. But Windu wasn’t in Jango’s eyeline so he wasn’t entirely sure what the Jedi was doing.

“I… don’t know.”

“That is fine. You will have time to make that decision.”

Silence descended onto the cockpit.

Jango kind of wish he had a radio in here because it was not a comfortable silence.

_-Obi-wan-_

“Need all this, you do?” Yoda asks, stepping into the room Obi-wan had commandeered.

They had successfully killed the Chancellor of the Republic without getting caught, the Sentinels were out defusing any contingencies or plans Palpatine had made, and Obi-wan had the body to start disposing of it.

So Obi-wan had commandeered a room in the temple, had several large jars, a bone grinder, and currently was removing most of the blood from Palpatine’s body. Obi-wan had Palpatine upright, syringe needles in several major blood vessels in the legs to tube the blood into a couple of the large jars.

“You asked me to get rid of the body. Jars are for the organs, bone grinder to grind the bones, and once that’s all done I’ll send it to a butcher I’m friends with who’ll sell it to whoever wants human meat.”

“When told us, Qui Gon did, of your newfound skill. Expected this, I did not.”

“Well what did you expect?” Obi-wan asks, he had nothing to do until the blood drains.

#Din Djarin Accidentally Saves the Galaxy #Obi-wan Kenobi #Jango Fett #Din Djarin #My writing #A different way this coudlve gone #well #it can still go this way #but im not writing it #not now #Extra #star wars #star wars fanfiction

[aliceslantern]

Grow, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 3

Suddenly human and abandoned in the Keyblade Graveyard, Demyx struggles to survive and come to terms with what his life is. Only by chance is he saved from exposure, and brought to Radiant Garden to recover. Unsure of who he is and where to even begin, Demyx finds a kindred spirit in Ienzo, and before long finds perhaps he isn't the only one lost in this new life. But how can they move forward with so much holding them back?

Roughly canonverse, Zemyx, hurt/comfort. Started for Zemyx day (9/6). Updates Wednesdays until it's done.

Chapter summary:  Newly recovered, Demyx tries to figure out what he wants from this life.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Demyx was getting used to being prodded by Even. He checked on him at least once a day. The more time passed, the more often Demyx looked forward to it, because at least he was someone to talk to. As long as he was tethered, he couldn’t really go anywhere by himself.

“Admittedly I know little about ophthalmology,” Even said, staring deep into his eyes with the same penlight. “These should help. I had Ansem print them for me.” He handed Demyx a pair of glasses.

“...Ansem?”

“Oh--right. I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting.” His lip curled. “The former king of Radiant Garden. This is his castle.” His tone was bitter.

Demyx only knew a little about the story of the apprentices from his time in the Organization, and that he suspected was embellished. “So is he, like, your boss?”

“No,” Even said shortly. “He was our mentor--in the past, anyway. Now we work together.”

“With Kairi.”

“Yes. Try those, will you? I have to get back down there soon.”

Demyx put them on. After days of blurriness, to have clarity back was odd. “Whoa. HD.”

“I had to hazard a guess at the strength.”

“No, they’re fine.” He blinked.

“Well, that just means the poor vision has nothing to do with what you went through.” He shook his head. “One less thing to worry about.”

“You must be busy.”

“Idle hands make the devil’s work,” Even said absently. Then, “well… I suppose busy hands do too.”

“What do you guys do down there?” He swung his legs back and forth a little.

“You know of the princesses of heart, yes? Kairi’s one of them. We’re hoping given her connection to Sora, and the special properties of a heart of light, we might be able to find answers as to where that boy is. If he is.” A pause, then, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, it’s not like you understand.”

Demyx shrugged, trying to hide how he was stung.

“Regardless, it is a concrete goal to work towards… and for that I’m thankful.”

He turned away. With his newly sharpened vision, Demyx could see more acutely the lines around his eyes, the gray mixed into his blond hair. He looked exhausted. “Thanks, Ev,” he said. “Do you know how much longer I’m gonna need this?” Gesturing to the port in his hand.

“Even,” he corrected, then sighed. “I suppose you have a point… your last labs were the best yet. If you’re up and about you can take care of yourself.”

“Yeah. Plus I’m kind of going insane sitting here for so long.” He offered a hesitant smile.

Even considered. He went over to the sink, washed his hands, put on gloves, and grabbed some gauze. “I’m afraid this may hurt,” he said.

Demyx had thought it was just a needle, but it was more of a thin tube inside of his vein due to how long they’d thought he’d have it. Removing it did hurt a lot, and he swore out loud. But once it was gone… despite his throbbing hand… he felt so much lighter. “Can I walk around?” he asked. “Can I do stuff?”

“So long as you are careful. ”

“Thank you!” He leapt to his feet and pulled Even into a hug; he jerked as though he’d been shocked.

“Please do not touch me,” he hissed in a completely different tone. There was something dark and closed off in his eyes, more than his typical sharpness.

“I’m sorry--I’m just so glad.”

“Yes. Quite. Well.” He left without so much of a backwards glance.

Demyx bit his lip. He hadn’t meant anything by it. It was just a hug, right? He’d apologize again later when Even checked on him.

It was time to get out of this room. Apparently this place served as a sort of infirmary for the castle, though nobody else had had to come down here. It had its own bathroom, so Demyx hadn’t even needed to cross its threshold. Leaving felt odd, but it wasn’t like he was in prison.

The hallways down here were dark, without windows, sconces providing the only light. The carpeting was thick, heavy, and needed a good clean; it squished uncomfortably under his slippers. He wandered for a while, mentally taking stock every now and again so he would be able to find his way back. The layout was weird, putting it lightly, and he could see places where the castle had been renovated, or added on-to, architecture and design clashing oddly. Apparently the apprentices had all lived here in the heyday--they must live here now. It wasn’t like Demyx was a stranger to living in castles, but this one felt so much more real and old than the one in the World that Never Was. He ran his fingers along the crown moulding, touched the lamps when he saw them. This place must’ve once been nice, but it was dirty, and in a state of relative disrepair.

Would this be his home now?

The thought was jarring, and he stopped in his tracks. Pushed the glasses up his nose. The better he physically got, the more apparent it was that he had nowhere to go and nobody. No friends, no family. Hadn’t Lea and Isa just extended that invitation to be nice? Did they really mean what they said?

A weepiness came over him, and he bit it back. He felt like he’d been buffering for so long, going here nor there in his life? What did he want? Who was he really? The more he thought about it, the less Demyx felt like the self he’d been as little as two weeks ago. Was he changing? Becoming “different”?

All these thoughts were giving him anxiety.

He wandered for a little while longer, coming across a section that seemed a bit cleaner than the others. There was wood flooring here, not carpeting, and Demyx could see some old windows in the walls. A few swatches of paint were here and there. He saw a few doors here and there and tried one on impulse; it was open. He could just barely see bedroom furniture, a small rose bush in a pot by a window--

“What are you doing snooping around?”

The voice startled him; he yelped and clutched at his chest, the new glasses falling to the floor. Demyx scrambled to pick them up. Slowly, he turned and saw Dilan, Xaldin’s Somebody, in a blue uniform. Frowning. “I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn’t know… I’m guessing this is your room, then?”

“...Quite,” he said gruffly. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go barging into spaces you haven’t been invited to.”

“Of course. Yeah.”

There was a pause. His hair was neater than Xaldin’s, Demyx realized, and was his skin a bit darker.

“I didn’t know you guys lived here,” Demyx continued. “I was just… taking a look around.”

“You’re up on your feet, then?”

“Well. Obviously.” He cleared his throat a little. “I haven’t been able to leave that room for like a week.” A wry laugh.

“Ienzo told me what happened.” Dilan shook his head. “What a cruel thing to do.”

Demyx shrugged. He and Xaldin hadn’t had the best rapport in the Organization days, and he didn’t know what to say.

“You’re well, though?” he asked.

“...Getting there. I think.” He rubbed at his sore arm.

“Do you… know what you’re to do next?”

“No,” he admitted slowly. “It’s been… hard.”

“Of that I am well aware.” He touched his chest.

“So… I’m gonna go,” Demyx said. “I won’t, uh, mess with your stuff.”

“Much appreciated.”

Demyx set off in the opposite direction. He was getting hungry now, his appetite only growing in the passing days. Usually someone brought along a meal to him, so he headed back. He found a sandwich and an apple on a plate on his bedside, and once this lunch was done with, he just… sat. Waiting. After a few minutes of this, he decided to take out Arpeggio to try and get his mind off of things. His fingers were a bit shaky, but within about fifteen minutes he was able to play with the same fluidity as before.

But it was… harder. Not physically. But as he picked through old compositions he felt the emptiness composed by his Nobody self, the sadness, the loneliness. At the same time, they felt like they’d been created by a stranger, despite the fact that he remembered writing them. A strange dissonance. Wasn’t this what he’d wanted, a heart to truly feel music with?

What did Demyx feel?

He tried to parse it out. Empty, again? Tired, sad? Overwhelmed?

Having a heart was supposed to be easy.

He let Arpeggio fade and curled up. A cool breeze came in through the cracked window. He stared out at the little bit of town he could see, feeling on the verge, the breath of remembering--

“I thought I heard you playing. How do you feel?”

Demyx’s head snapped up. He saw not Even, but Ienzo, in that white-coat getup. He was carrying a small bundle. “Um, alright,” he said, blinking yet more tears out of his eyes. “Where’s Even?”

“He and Ansem are trying to solve a problem with one of our simulations.” He cocked his head a little. “I do know enough about medicine.”

“I know, I just…” He swallowed, and considered telling Ienzo. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“I brought you some more clothes, too. And this.” He held up a gummiphone. “You might find a use for it--if you don’t break this one.”

Demyx took it from him. “Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to--”

“The castle is large. It makes it easier to keep in touch if we all have one--heaven forbid something happen to you.” His tone was dismissive.

Ienzo came over to him, went through the familiar motions of taking his vitals. He listened to Demyx’s heart. It was strange to be so close to him, and a little uncomfortable in a way Demyx couldn’t define. His eyes were a bit greener than Demyx remembered, and his eyebrows furrowed together just slightly. Demyx could hear him breathe. “Your heart rate’s a little high,” he said. “Are you nervous?”

He cleared his throat. “No. Ah. Just a little anxious, I guess.” He felt the blood rush to his face, trying to place that feeling.

“Why?”

“I just don’t know what to do now,” Demyx admitted.

Ienzo took the stethoscope out of his ears. “That is the question, isn’t it,” he said slowly. “After so long of having little to no choice, suddenly the world is open in front of us. Like having the rug yanked from under you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It really is. But don’t you… have your work, and stuff?”

Ienzo set the object aside. “I do,” he said. His eyes flicked up in thought. “But at the same time… I was with the Organization for considerably longer than you. Work… well, it’s something concrete to work towards.”

“Even said the same thing.”

His expression darkened a little. “We all seek to be better people. To… make up for the hell we’ve wrought. Working with the guardians of light… providing them with whatever they need to the best of our abilities... is the least we can do.”

Demyx picked at the lint on his pants. “I… thought about it, in the desert,” he admitted. In his newly-sharpened peripheral he saw Ienzo’s head snap up, his eyes widening. “If this wasn’t karma.”

Slowly, he nodded.

“But… you know…” He forced a laugh. “I’m here , right? If whatever forces exist in this world wanted me gone… I would be toast. Same for you. And Even and them. We literally came back from the dead.”

“A second chance,” Ienzo murmured. “Quite.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “But that doesn’t help tell me what to do. Or how to feel about any of it.” The blood rushed to his face. “And I’m sure you’re too busy to listen to this.”

“No,” Ienzo said. He sat down next to Demyx on the bed. He was shorter than Demyx remembered. More weird reformation? “This is the first bearable conversation I’ve had in a while.”

He snorted. “Really?”

Ienzo sighed heavily. “A lot happened that I don’t particularly care to get into at the moment. But things between us are… a bit tense.”

“...Oh.” Ienzo’s smile was small and sad. Demyx couldn’t actually remember if he’d ever seen him do it, and before he could stop himself he said, “you have a nice smile. I’ve never seen it.”

The blood rushed to Ienzo’s face.

“I’m sorry, was that weird to say?”

“No, ah.” He pulled at his collar a little. “No.” He knotted his hands in his lap. “I know in the past our rapport has been… rocky.”

Demyx bit his lip and thought back. For a long while, he and Zexion had both been part of the reconnaissance team, but whenever they’d been paired together, it hadn’t exactly ended well. Their personalities clashed like oil and water; Demyx’s carefree attitude and low ambition combined with Zexion’s perfectionism always ended in fights. “You could say that again.”

He chuckled a little; strangely, it had no sound. “Perhaps it would do to start over,” he said. He offered his hand. “I’m Ienzo.”

“Demyx. Nice to meet you.”

He pretended not to notice the tingle he felt when they shook.

#grow #demyx #ienzo #zemyx #even (kingdom hearts) #dilan (kingdom hearts)

[zoequeenz]

Compulsion (Part 1)

A/N: SO, a little bit of this chapter and all of the pilot is a bit different from how I have written some of the newer chapters. It is a bit funky but I like to say I have changed it and now have a better writing style. I would also like to mention there is a flashback at the beginning that is why the first part is a little odd. Enjoy :)

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER 

(TRIGGER WARNING: mentions sexual assault)

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Previously on Criminal Minds…

‘Anyone recognize these faces?’

‘Victims of the footpath killer”

“That’s what Virginia newspapers are calling him.”

“We refer to him at the “unknown subject” or “Unsub.”

“I told Virginia P.D., they’re looking for a white male in his 20’s, who owns an american-made truck, works a menial job.”

“I told ‘em when you find him, don’t be surprised to hear him speak with a severe stutter.”

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(Jason Gideon’s POV) (Still in flashback)

I had just finished paying for my gas and I knew I had caught him.

“Have a n-i-nice day.” stuttered the Footpath Killer.

I then walk out, only to be followed.

“The gun.”

“T-ta-take out the gun.” he demands in a non-threatening voice. But I do.

“Th-throw it.” he says.

“Any particular direction?” I ask. He then hits the back of my knee sending me to the floor. He takes me inside then slams me up against a wall.

“Who-who are y-”

“Who are you?”

Who are you?” he asks over and over.

“FBI.” I admit.

“T-t-t”

“Take out your w- your w-wallet.” he demands and I do.

“Wh-what- what do you kn-.”

“What do you know?” he asked.

“About you?” I question.

“Or about the people you’ve murdered?”

“I know a lot about you. I know how you do it. I know you can’t stop. And I know something that no one’s ever been able to tell you… I know why you stutter.”

(Back in the Office)

“Weren’t you a little bit worried he might just shoot you?” a trainee asks.

“I was a lot worried.” I tell her.

“But how did you find him?” another asks.

“I was just stopping for gas.” I say.

“I walked into that store, and saw pieces of a profile that I’d given to Virginia P.D. almost a year ago. Truck in disrepair, a devilish young man, severe stutter.” I say.

“James Reese once said, “there are certain clues at a crime scene which, by their very nature, do not lend themselves to being collected or examined.” I tell them.

“How does one collect love, rage, hatred, fear?” I asks.

“These are things that we’re trained to look for.” I state.

“So anyone else would have just seen a guy who stutters, but you saw the footpath killer.” the third trainee says.

‘Right. But sometimes these guys are still found by just dumb luck.” I say.

“Berkowitz was caught because of a parking ticket.”

“Except the cop wasn’t staring down a shotgun like you were.” Elle says.

“This is true. This is also good time to stop.” I tell them.

“Thank you sir.” a trainee says.

“Thank you.” I say.

“Okay, I’m curious. Why did he stutter?” Elle asks.

“You’re on your way to becoming part of the behavior analysis team now, Elle. You tell me.” I tell her.

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Persephone Chase’s POV

“Spencer this is boring, chess is not a fun game.” I tell him as I watch from the desk across from the genius boy.

“Percy, it passes time quicker and builds my logic skill.” he replies.

“Like you need to build on that.” I say sassily.

“Check. Checkmate 3 moves.” Gideon says moving a piece off the board. I laugh.

“What…” Spencer says confused.

“You know you’ll beat him when you start learning.” Derek says making me laugh harder, which also leads Spencer to make this weird face.

“Learning what?” he asks.

“To think outside the box.” Derek tells him.

He looks at me and all I can do is give him a sympathetic look.

“Hey, you can still beat everyone else on the team.” I say.

“Yeah, except Gideon.” Spencer sighs in defeat.

“Question for you.” Elle says walking in.

“Shoot.” Derek says.

“The footpath killer, why did he stutter?” she asks.

“Come on Elle, we’ve all asked him, and he won’t say.” Derek tells the brunette.

“Yeah, even our favorite genius doesn’t know.” I say mocking Spencer.

“He wants us to figure it out.” I continue.

“Okay. I’m up for a challenge.” she speaks confidently.

“Good, because these go to you.” JJ says putting down a plethora of files.

“Special Agent Jennifer Jareau, JJ if you like.” JJ says introducing herself.

“Elle…”

“Greenaway-highest number of solved cases in Seattle 3 years running, specialty in sex offender cases.” JJ says.

“Not bad.” Elle comments in a surprised tone.

“Well, I’m the unit liaison. My specialty is untangling bureaucratic knots. You’ll probably be talking to me a lot. My door’s always open, mostly because I’m never in my office, so just call me on my cell, okay? We’ll talk.” JJ explained.

“Did you watch?” she asks Hotch how hastily replied “Yeah.”

“Think everybody should see it.”

“BAU team, can you meet me in the conference room, please? I need to show you something.” Hotch more like tells instead of asks.

We all walk to the conference room, of course like always I sit next to my best friend.

“This is from the Phoenix office, Bradshaw College in Tempe, 6 fires in 7 months.” Hotch tells us.

“Who recorded it?” Gideon asks.

“A student with a digital camcorder.He was watching a fire in the building across from their dorm. The other person you’ll see is his roommate, 20 year old Matthew Rowland.” JJ says.

(VIDEO)= Underlined

“This is crazy. Hey, Matt, get over here. You gotta see this. The buildings on fire.” one of the students said.

“Bro, you getting this?” Matt asked in amazement.

“Is that the kid?” Gideon asks. “Yeah, that’s him.” Hotch answers.

“Relax man. There’s always fires during rush week.” the unnamed student says.

“Yeah, but that’s pretty big.” another student says.

“Dude, over here. Check this out. What is it?” Matt asks.

“I don’t know, but it’s coming underneath the door.” the camera kid says.

“Is someone in the hallway?” Matthew asks.

“Hey, someone’s trying to get in.” Matthew continues.

“Hey, man, you should get away from there.” the cameraman says.

“Oh, my god! It smells like gas.” Matthew said,

“Oh, god! God! Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” both boys said as Matthew went up in flames.

“Put me out! Oh, my god! Oh, god! Help.” exclaimed Matthew.

“Einstein once said:”Imagination is more important than knowledge.Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.”

“There are two common stressors for a serial arsonist.” Spencer says as he plays chess.

“Loss of job, loss of love.” I say engrossed in his game.

“When was the first fire set?” Derek asks.

“March, Uh, the next one was May, and the third one wasn’t ‘till September, then 2 weeks there were 3 in one night.” Hotch answers.

“He’s speeding up. Fire’s are closer together.” Gideon says.

“Hey, Reid, you got a statistic on arsonists?” Derek asks.

“Derek what do you think.” I say mocking him earning an eye roll from Derek.

“What do you got Reid?” Derek asks annoyed.

“82%, are white males between 17 and 27. Female arsonists are far less likely, their motive typically being revenge.” Spencer informs us, and I can’t help but fall for my partner even more. I guess scrawny genius nerds are my type.

“Sounds like our boy’s a student.” Derek concludes.

“Don’t be so sure.” Gideon says out of the blue.

He continues “You rely too much on precedent, you never allow for the unexpected...if he went from setting one fire to three in two weeks time…”

“Rapid escalation.” Hotch said for him.

“He’s gone from the power to damage a building to something far more satisfying...the power over life and death.” Gideon says.

Derek sits down to a pamphlet about about the school whilst Gideon and Hotch continue on.

“Who we talking to first?” Gideon asks.

“Dean of students, Helen Turner.” Hotch answers.

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We have landed and made it to the college. Everyone gets out but I hesitate, I hated college. I didn’t hate the learning no. I hated the people. Mostly my boyfriend and his stupid frat brothers. I of course being the dumb freshman fell in love with the most popular guy there. Wrong choice!! He ended up drugging me at a party, he and his friends ended up taking advantage of me whilst I was vulnerable. Even worse was that was my first time too. I was mortified when I found out but like most people I was too scared to bring him to court and never did, I ended up switching colleges. I have yet to tell anyone besides Derek who I know shares a similar past. That is why I am scared to get out of this car. It's like a safe haven at the moment.

“Hey, where is Chase?” Hotch asks.

“Still in the car.” Reid says.

“Well tell her to get out we have a case.” Hotch says annoyed.

“I’ll get her.” Morgan says.

“But I-” Reid begins.

“Trust me pretty boy, I need to handle this one.” Derek says walking to my car door.

“Hey little one, you need to come out.” he tries coaxing me out.

“Derek please, I can’t...you know what happened.” I plead.

“Hun I know but you’ve got to put on that facade and help with the case it’s your job.”

“Besides, no one is gonna hurt you anymore. You’ve got Reid and I to protect you.” He tells me.

“Fine.” I say and take a deep breath.

We walk over to the team.

“Sorry, I got side tracked.” I announce.

“Tell me later Chase.” Hotch says and I nod.

“No badges. I don’t want to satisfy the unsub’s need for attention by letting him know he got the FBI here. Try not to look official.” Gideon says while we walk into the school.

We stop at the steps and he turns then looks at us then says…

“Try to look less official.”

I giggle. Derek, Elle, and Hotch are in formal clothing and here is Spencer and I in what I would call casual clothing. He brings Ellen out and we being to speak with her while walking.

“Obviously, I’d rather be meeting you under different circumstances.” she says.

“This is fire inspector Zhang.”  she adds on leaning her head towards an asian man.

“This morning the chemistry department reported several bottles of highly flammable chemicals missing.” he informed us.

“I’m prepared to evacuate this campus.” she tells us adding on a “Thank you.” to Gideon and Hotch for opening the doors.

“That brings with it its own problems.” Hotch says.

“You might evacuate the arsonist as well.” Gideon adds.

“Then the case goes unsolved.” I say.

“The campus is reopened, but the fires start up again.” Elle finishes for me.

“Hotch, Gideon hold on a second.” Derek says.

“You said the chemicals went missing today.” he asked the fire inspector.

“Uh huh.” Zhang answered.

“It says here that one of the previous fires was set with diesel fuel that disappeared from the grounds keeping facility.” Derek stated.

“How long after it disappeared was the fire set?”

“One day.” Helen answered.

“If he’s holding to a pattern…”Gideon says walking away with Hotch.

“Who’s to says the next fire won’t be today?” Hotch finishes.

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We then get to the crime scene. It actually wasn’t that bad. Of course there are clear signs that a fire was here but it wasn’t burnt beyond recognition.

“Door was locked.” Hotch says.

“Matthew Rowland and his roommate watched as the door knob turned against the lock.” Spencer adds.

“But the unsub couldn’t get in.” I say.

“So he pours the accelerant into the room from the hallway.” Spencer adds.

“Which means he couldn’t see the fire.” Hotch says with a confused expression.

“ But he could hear Matthew Rowland screaming.” Spencer adds.

“Yeah, but not for long.” I say.

“He would have left quickly.” Hotch says.

“Yeah, to avoid being spotted.” Spencer states.

“It doesn’t make sense.” I say.

“Pyromania as a mental disorder may just be a simple myth, but we know from precedent that serial arsonists derive pleasure from pathological firesetting.” Spencer informs us.

It makes my knees grow weak for a second. This boy is gonna kill me before I am even close to death. I still have no idea why I like when he says random facts.

“Sex and power.” Hotch adds.

“But a serial arsonists wouldn’t just set a fire and walk away.” I state.

“He needs to experience it.” Hotch tells us.

“So why would he set a fire he couldn’t watch?” Spencer asks.

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“He turned the water off just before the fire.”  Zhang says while opening a box with a phone, a flashlight, and another item inside.

“The last three were set with these. Two devices, simultaneous ignition.”

“There was no device used on Matthew Rowland.” Gideon says.

“Unsub set that one manually?”

“He wanted to be there to enjoy the kid’s death.” Derek says.

“Not necessarily.” Hotch argues.

“Well, if the target was Matthew Rowland, then why set the other two fires?” Elle asks.

“The motives for arson are relatively simple.” Spencer says.

“There’s vandalism, crime concealment, political statement, profit…”

“And revenge.” Hotch says finishing Spencer’s sentence.

“We interviewed Matthew Rowland’s roommate. No reason for revenge.” Zhang tells us.

“What about vandalism?” Ellen asks.

“No. The fires are too sophisticated, and if he’s trying to make a political statement, he’s not being too clear about it.” Elle says.

“There’s an underlying strategy in this case.” I add.

“Matthew, firefighters, injured victims.” Gideon begins.

“To the unsub, they’re not people. They’re…”

“They’re objects.”  Hotch finishes.

“More like, uh…” Gideon beings only to be cut off by Spencer.

“Chess pieces.”

“Exactly.” Gideon says throwing a burnt MP3 player back on the table.  

NEXT CHAPTER 

#criminal minds #criminal minds series rewrite #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x OC #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid series #best friends with a genius profiler

[javocjovian]

Gossamer Wings

Title: Gossamer Wings Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22486564 Rating: E Ships: Destiel focus, implied background Sabriel (Gabriel lives) Tags: Top!Castiel/Bottom!Dean, hurt/comfort, angst, loss, fluff, Castiel’s wings, wing kink, healing sex, comfort sex, Destiel focus Summary: Set in Season 12, Dean struggles to cope with Mary’s betrayal after she confesses to working for the British Men of Letters. Luckily, an angel is watching over him. Word Count: 4836

This fic was written for the @profoundnet​ scavenger hunt, based on the following bot prompts:

- Dean is cleaning his gun - Cas is preening his wings - Sam has genital herpes

- Dean is feeling vulnerable - Cas is polishing his angel blade - Sam just walked in on Cas and Dean boning

Happy 2nd Birthday, PB!!!

Beta-ed by @banshee1013​

Gossamer Wings

Despite the bunker being occupied by two people and an angel, it was unusually quiet. It had been that way since that morning, when Mary left.

For a while the silence felt explosive. It reverberated like an unearthly presence after Mary’s departure, but after it faded a much worse silence took its place—a black hole had opened up, producing a heavy, suffocating silence like the kind at a wake, or a funeral.

This funeral was a different kind than Dean was used to, however. This was the funeral of a person still living, and in a way the funeral of Dean himself. He could feel pieces of himself beginning to rot, corroding away as if dissolved in acid, polluting his mind and his memories with doubt and resentment. It was a slow, brutal death. A death deserving of a slow, brutal silence.

 Although Dean bore the brunt of this insatiable void, exposed to it on a level Sam never could have been, Sam was united with Dean in this silence. He supported him without flinching and Dean appreciated it more than words could express. Or perhaps words could express it. Perhaps they were words for only a mother's ears, to be purged and healed by the gentlest of love. How cold and uncaring irony was.

 Castiel arrived late in the afternoon. Sam filled him in on the landing, and no more words were spoken. The only sound was the occasional, sloppy clatter of metal on the table as Dean cleaned his gun.

Castiel didn’t dare break the silence. He joined Dean at the table as if answering a silent prayer. Aside from a nod of greeting, Dean didn’t look at him. Castiel could see Dean's world shifting in his eyes and he knew at once he needed to stay. He decided it would be best if he didn't sit around staring at Dean, however, so while Sam disappeared into the catacombs of the bunker Castiel opted to polish his angel blade.

 Even if he couldn't express it, Dean was grateful for Castiel's presence. He knew Castiel hadn’t come by for more than an update on Kelly Kline, so when he took out his blade Dean felt a part of his world resolidify under his feet.

For the first time since Mary's rebirth, Dean felt as though he had something sturdy to latch onto. Something immovable to stand sentry amidst the void threatening to break apart his world. Dean couldn’t think too hard about it, though. The thoughts clouding his head were too blurry to commit to and yet so heavy that they seemed to press against his skull and weigh him down. The silence helped. Cleaning his guns helped. The illusion of productivity kept his mind in survival mode, leaving the thoughts to simmer in a cloud of noxious nothingness, not existing and yet existing far too much.

 Castiel tried to think of something to say—some way to pierce through that cloud and comfort Dean—but he saw no good way to do it. So instead he kept polishing his angel blade. Eventually it was so shiny he had to angle it to keep from casting light into Dean's eyes, although Dean might not have noticed. Perhaps this silence was what Dean needed. Castiel did not know. Perhaps he should speak. Perhaps Dean was waiting to hear words of comfort.

Just as Castiel was resigned to speak, Sam returned with a duffel bag over his shoulder. Castiel sighed in relief.

"Hey." Sam looked exhausted.

Dean didn't look up. "Hey."

"I gotta uh… go find Gabriel. Take care of a thing," he said quietly.

Dean grunted.

Sam shot a Cas an appreciative look and headed up the bunker stairs. His footsteps clambered against the metal steps and echoed across the cavernous ceiling.

 Castiel watched him leave in vague concern, but he didn't ask questions. The Winchesters had never been prime examples of healthy coping mechanisms. Far be it from Castiel to stop Sam from going off on his own, especially if Dean didn't have issue with it. Castiel listened to Sam's footfalls fade and the heavy door swing shut.

The silence grew louder.

When Castiel could no longer pretend the polishing was making any difference, he slipped his blade into his coat. He almost dropped it for being so clean.

Dean hadn't noticed. He'd was already dismantling a second gun.

In the silence, an odd thought came to Castiel—He hadn't cleaned his wings in a while. Years, perhaps. They didn't work anymore, but his wings had once been a source of pride for Castiel, and he used to take care of them meticulously.

He didn’t have naturally extravagant wings like Michael, or elegantly wild ones like Gabriel. Even Lucifer’s had a dark allure, despite their light, almost alien-like glow. By contrast, Castiel’s wings took work to keep vibrant and strong, but Castiel was happy to expend the energy. His had been on par with Naomi’s and even Joshua’s, all because of effort.

Perhaps, even though Castiel’s wings didn't work, there was still use in taking care of them. Admittedly, he’d been unable to stand the damage done to them, damage he blamed himself for when the Metatron took his grace, and he’d let his wings fall into disrepair. But maybe the act would absorb him like it once did.

 Castiel got up and moved to a more comfortable chair away from the table. He was resigned to make some noise, but it hadn't disturbed Dean. Castiel let his gaze linger on Dean for a second, then turned to his wings.

Unfurling them was like taking off a heavy coat after a very, very long day. He stretched them out and was surprised by how good it felt. They didn't hurt any more, but Castiel never presumed they would feel good again. Not like before Metatron, before the Leviathans even.

A few celestial feathers fell to the ground and vanished, but Castiel could only expect that. At least Dean couldn't see his wings. Dean had never seen his wings. Nothing beyond shadowy, incorporeal impressions anyway. The thought filled Castiel with a kind of grief; albeit nothing, he was sure, compared to Dean's.

Castiel curved a large, spindly wing over his shoulder and began to pick at the broken and fading feathers. He winced a little every time a feather had to plucked, the healthy ones surrounding it swelling slightly. It was a necessary pain. For the health of the whole wing some feathers had to be removed. Castiel remembered how he used to think that way. Now every feather seemed precious, especially as he had lost so many. But the moment Castiel removed them they fell to the ground and vanished into specs of light.

For the first time in a while Castiel met Dean's eye, and for a moment he thought Dean wanted to speak. Castiel waited, almost holding his breath, but Dean looked away and resumed cleaning his gun. For fear of saying the wrong thing and making Dean flee, Castiel said nothing and began tending to his other wing.

They fluttered over the table briefly, an ashy shadow of their once magnificent, inky blue splendor. This wing still hurt a little, but he knew it wasn't from the fall. Dean's body had long been rebuilt, losing him the handprint that had once immortalized his rescue from Hell, but Castiel's wing still bore the matching scar.

It had been a coincidence, really, like Castiel being assigned to Dean in the first place. He had used his wing to shield them both when Castiel lifted Dean out of the sulfur and brimstone. Dean had reached up to grip his wing and the wound shone like daybreak. It fueled Castiel's grace, healing him, but a scar remained—A human handprint. Dean didn't remember this of course, and Castiel saw no reason to put that on his shoulders. The scar had long faded anyway. The mark that had once been baby white was now icy black, a shade lighter than the surrounding plumagem but it still stood out to Castiel.

Again, Castiel saw Dean looking at him and again Dean lowered his eyes.

Worried his moving around was bothering Dean, Castiel stopped preening. His wings settled back down, the feathers deflating slowly. He found himself staring at the color. He'd always been fond of blue, although he had been jealous of that one parrot in the Amazon jungle. He had the most lustrous, shimmering emerald feathers. He’d turned his eyes to Castiel, black like shiny stones, and cawed as if to say "you would look better in green". Cas assumed he was being mocked and flew away, but perhaps the parrot had been correct, as parrots often were.

Castiel realized he'd been staring, but he found Dean staring back. Castiel had been absentmindedly stroking his clean, even feathers. It felt good, even now, but it was obviously bothering Dean. Castiel dropped his arm sheepishly.

"Cas," Dean spoke at last. His voice was raspy with disuse, or overuse, he wasn't sure. "What are you doing?"

Castiel cleared his throat."I uh… my wings. They were uneven. I was just fixing them." He flushed slightly, realizing how unimportant it was.

Dean wasn't cleaning his gun anymore. Castiel wondered when he'd stopped.

"I can see that," Dean said.

"I'll stop, if it's…" Castiel said automatically, but then he paused. Dean could see that? Did he mean he could actually see his wings or was it just a turn of phrase? Castiel's brow furrowed. A part of him didn’t want to know, but his lips formed the question before he could stop them.

"Can you… see them?"

Dean's emerald eyes lingered on Castiel before returning to the gun. "Yeah. I can."

Castiel's expression melted. His wings shrunk, as if being compressed by the unspoken void in the room.

"Ever since we went to Heaven," Dean said. "Sam says he can't see them anymore, but…"

"You still can?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally.

Castiel tried to mask how thunderstruck he was. He swallowed thickly and looked away. Dean gave him the courtesy of resuming his cleaning.

"Kind of hard to miss when you're over there preening."

Just like that, Castiel felt his embarrassment begin to fade. There was a note of teasing in Dean's voice. Castiel sighed. "I didn't realize."

Dean glanced at him gently. "Don't worry about it."

Castiel watched Dean put the gun back together, doing everything in his power 'not to worry about it'. But he was failing. Every embarrassing moment came back to him as if someone were injecting the memories into his brain. All the times Castiel's wings failed him, how ragged they looked this past year, all the times he and Dean were alone together… Castiel may have been hard to rile up but wings were the most expressive part of an angel. Oh the frailties they had betrayed. Even now, Castiel became increasingly aware of every little breath and twitch that fluttered through his weak and pitiful plumage. Castiel's face felt hot. He could see that parrot again, whistling smugly at him.

Dean set the reassembled gun down at last. It gleamed as brightly as Castiel's angel blade buried in his pocket.

For the first time in hours, Dean got up. Castiel expected him to go to the kitchen (he hadn't eaten anything greasy in far too long) and anticipated a moment to himself, but Dean didn't leave the room. He walked over to Castiel.

Castiel looked up at him, feeling unusually ruffled. Without explanation, Dean sat on his lap. Castiel's arms came up automatically, holding onto Dean as Dean leaned down and kissed him.

Castiel was surprised to say the least. He had been prepared to not so much as move for the next few days if need be, but for what felt like the millionth time he was met with the humbling fact that he knew nothing about human grief.

Still he knew enough to know that this wasn't usually how humans coped. So when Dean broke the kiss, Cas murmured, "Dean?"

Dean didn't respond. He just leaned against Cas with his hands on Castiel's, his eyes closed, their foreheads pressed together. Dean’s body was so warm. Castiel could feel his sides expand softly with every breath.

Inappropriate as it was, Castiel was struck by the beauty of Dean's grief. He couldn't help but admire every vulnerable, human line in his face, so close to Castiel’s. If Castiel’s wings had a face it would resemble Dean’s. Castiel reached up and stroked his cheek, his fingertips brushing through Dean's short hair.

Dean kissed him again, and this time Castiel kissed back. It was a slow, lingering kiss. The sound filled the silence like water lapping against the shoreline. Castiel could have sat forever in that silence, but guilt was beginning to creep into him. Dean was so very warm. But it was his duty to protect Dean, more so now than ever before, so when the kiss broke Cas asked again, more persistent this time, "Dean?"

Dean finally looked at him. His eyes were tinged with pink, yet the green shone more brightly than ever.

"Do you... want to talk about it?" His voice was barely audible, but Dean heard him.

"No," he said brusquely. As if to keep Castiel from asking any more questions, Dean kissed him again.

Castiel wasn't sure what they were doing could be called kissing anymore. They were barely moving at all, just brushing their lips together, breathing against each other.

Castiel had a hard time breaking away this time. This was the most affectionate Dean had ever been with him, and it made Castiel very happy. So happy that he realized his wings had puffed up, despite their newfound desire to hide behind his back. The resulting spark of self-consciousness urged him into speech.

"Dean," Cas spoke again. "I think… ah."

The words died in his throat as Dean reached up and gently touched his wing. Castiel inhaled softly. Dean looked transfixed by the rippling blue and black, like a deep sea or the furthest reaches of space. Castiel’s eyes fell closed.

"Does that feel good?" Dean asked, observing him.

Castiel nodded silently. He wouldn't call an angel's wings erogenous, but touching them was something only a lover would do. And Castiel was reminded that Dean was in fact his lover.

Castiel opened his eyes and saw Dean's gaze had begun to smoulder. Guilt was overridden by more animalistic drives, and Castiel pulled Dean into a kiss. Dean met him gladly, opening the kiss and leaning into him fully. He sat completely on Castiel's lap, feeling the inside of Castiel's wing while Castiel’s arms wrapped around him. The kiss became insatiable, but it wasn't until Castiel felt Dean roll his hips into him that Castiel stopped.

Castiel took hold of Dean's hips and Dean stopped with difficulty. He freed Castiel's lips, looking winded and confused. Castiel's heart sank.

Castiel swallowed, trying not to let Dean's lingering taste overtake him yet again. "Dean," he mustered. "Is this really want you want right now?"

The resulting look of annoyance was hard to endure. Dean studied him, then finally said, "Yes, Cas. It is."

Castiel didn't believe him. "It's just…" He stopped. He could tell at once that bringing up Mary was the wrong thing to do, so he searched for other words. They came to him with surprising ease. "Dean. You know I would do anything for you," he said seriously, "But I need to know that this is really what you want."

Dean's annoyance began to fade. Castiel watched him in resignation, but when Dean refocused on Castiel his irritation had been replaced by something Castiel rarely saw—vulnerability. Dean didn't want this—he needed this. So when Dean swallowed and said, his voice quiet but certain, "Yeah, Cas. I do," Castiel didn't hesitate.

Guilt sturdily replaced by duty, Castiel brought his hands up to Dean's face and pulled him into a deep kiss. Dean melted. He kissed Castiel over and over again with growing desire. No inch of Castiel's skin went unkissed. Then he leaned over Castiel and kissed his wing.

Castiel's chest (and his feathers) swelled. Self-consciousness gave way to pleasure as Dean lavished his wings with affection, but it quickly became too much. Castiel pulled Dean back down and took him into a hungry kiss. Soon they were making out on the chair and Dean was rolling his hips against Castiel's stomach. This time Castiel didn't stop him. Instead, his hands dropped to Dean's ass.

Without warning Castiel stood up, lifting Dean with shocking ease. Dean felt a jolt of arousal as he was handled like a rag doll. He grabbed Castiel’s jaw and the kiss turned fiery.

Castiel carried him the short distance to the war table, never once breaking that kiss, and sat Dean on the edge. Castiel pulled Dean's shirt off, revealing scared yet firm skin dusted with freckles. Dean quickly reciprocated, getting Castiel out of his coat. It fell right through Castiel's wings as if they weren't there, yet Dean could see them growing in size, puffing up like a stormy, frothy sea. He unbuttoned the top of Castiel's shirt and kissed the bare skin of Castiel's neck.

Castiel sighed and undid the rest of his shirt on his own. Dean's arms wove around his back to the base of Castiel's wings and gave them an experimental rub. Castiel groaned.

Castiel leaned forward, toppling Dean onto his back. Dean saw Castiel eyes—shockingly blue and electrified—and he felt a second jolt of arousal that sparked into flames as Castiel yanked Dean's pants and boxers off in a single motion. Dean swallowed a moan. He always enjoyed when Castiel used his inhuman strength in bed, and this time was no different.

"Cas," Dean panted gruffly as Castiel began feeling up Dean's nude body. His hands were coarse and calloused, but Dean loved it. The contrast between his gentle touches and his firm hands drove Dean wild. He spread his legs on either side of Castiel's hips, shameless in his nudity and hungry for more.

Castiel began removing his own pants, and Dean was happy to see that he was just as erect, if not more, than Dean. He watched hazily as Castiel leaned over him, his wings spreading high above them, and took both of their erections into his hand.

Dean's lips parted in a silent groan. Castiel began stroking them together and Dean's hips seemed to lift of their own accord.

Dean's was clearly enjoying the stimulation—Castiel could feel precum beading at the tip of Dean's head—but rather than pacify Dean as this act often did it only seemed to frustrate him.

"Cas, Cas…" Dean breathed, "I appreciate the effort but…"

Somehow, Castiel understood. "You want me to fuck you," he said, his voice breathlessly blunt.

Dean's cock twitched. It was so rare to hear Castiel talk like that. It sent shivers down Dean's spine.

"Yes," Dean practically whimpered.

Castiel let go at once. He parted Dean's legs, reached down, and slipped his fingers between Dean's thighs, then his eyes glowed blue. His wings lit up in patches, like lightning arcing across the night sky, and Dean realized what he had done. He’d lubed Dean up using grace. Dean made a rather unmanly noise. Castiel had never used his power like that before.

Realizing he had aroused Dean into stunned silence, Castiel took over completely. His wings flared, shielding them from the harsh bunker lights, and he pulled Dean’s hips close. Dean spread his legs in anticipation, and within seconds Castiel was sliding in. Dean silence broke and he moaned in bliss.

Castiel filled Dean to the brim, gave him a second to adjust, then pulled out and did it all over again. Dean's head dropped onto the table.

Castiel enjoyed watching Dean's body shake and his jaw stiffen. He liked seeing Dean's cock, an unusually gorgeous one for a human, dribbling precum with every thrust. He loved the sounds Dean tried and failed to hide, and the way his body moved, as if milking every last bit of pleasure from the motions. He loved everything about this one particular human.

"Cas, oh Cas… harder."

With Dean's encouragement, Castiel began doing just that. He fucked Dean senseless on the war table, drawing groan after groan from Dean’s lungs. Truth be told, it was a little harder than Castiel thought would be comfortable, but Dean had always enjoyed a little too much. Castiel maneuvered his hips to find that angle Dean loved, and sure enough Dean’s back arched and he began cursing.

“Oh fuck, fuck’s sake… there, Cas. There…”

Dean's legs came up over Castiel's ass and Castiel scooped Dean up in his arms. Dean was panting and swearing into Castiel's shoulder, muttering his name repeatedly. Castiel had never heard such a beautiful prayer.

In Dean's rapturous haze, he reached around Castiel's back and clumsily massaged his wings. Castiel's body trembled and he groaned. Dean had only ever heard Cas groan a few times, so there was no way in Hell Dean was letting go of that spot. He raked his fingers through the inky feathers and Castiel bucked into him hotly. Dean moaned, spurring Castiel on.

Castiel’s wings may have looked damaged and battle worn seconds ago, but it that moment they shone brighter than any of the Archangels’. In that moment, Dean couldn't tell that Castiel had lost a single feather. He was the most magnificent angel Dean had ever seen, feathers glowing like a neutron star.

 “Cas, oh Cas,” Dean's voice cracked and he began sputtering, "gonna come…"

Castiel's eyes were closed now, but he nodded feverishly. “Then come Dean,” he rasped, not letting up.

Dean didn't stand a chance. His breath hitched, his body shuddered, and Dean felt his pleasure burst at last, expanding throughout every muscle and even into ones he didn’t know he had. He gasped and moved his arm to stroke himself as he came, spurting with every thrust. Soon his head fell back and his body shudder. He couldn't keep his eyes open. He heard Castiel grunt and spasm, then come to a staggering halt deep inside his body, and Dean knew he was coming, too.

Dean was still muttering Cas’s name, hardly aware of himself in that moment. His body was ringing so powerfully that he couldn't move. Castiel seemed unlikely to move, either. He was laying atop Dean, his chest expanding against Dean's with every satiated breath. Dean let go of his wings and put his arms around his back. Castiel was heavy and warm, and the weight felt good.

Dean’s voice came back to him as he caught his breath, and soon he was panting out, "Oh my g… Cas. Where did you learn that?"

Castiel picked his head up to look at Dean. He looked windblown, but answered simply, "The pizza man."

Dean stared at him for a second, then laughter slowly rumbled through him, shaking Castiel gently.

Although Dean rarely laughed after sex—it seemed a worrisome thing to do—Castiel was relieved to hear it. Dean's eyes glittered as he smiled at Castiel.

"Damn. Cas, that..." Dean started to catch his breath. "...that was amazing. I've never felt so good in my life."

Castiel smiled back.

Dean lay on the table, still chuckling to himself as Castiel got up. He pulled out gently, only then realizing his error.

As if reading his mind, Dean said, "Don't worry about it. I gotta shower anyway." He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.

"Yes… I suppose you can't be impregnated."

Dean chuckled, "I better not. But I appreciate the effort." He shot Castiel a roguish look.

Castiel smiled a little wider. He leaned over Dean once again and wove their fingers together. He kissed Dean's bruised knuckles, enjoying the smile it brought to Dean's face. But like an odd note in a familiar song, Castiel realized something wasn’t right.

Dean wiped another tear from his eye. His smile had changed.

"Dean?" Castiel said, beginning to see that Dean was in pain, "Did I hurt you?"

Dean took a quick breath. "No, no Cas. You're good." He was telling the truth, but still, more tears were forming. "Shit," Dean murmured, wiping his eyes again.

Castiel suddenly understood. He didn't say anything, he just lay gently atop Dean, holding his hand and caressing his fingers. He kissed his hand, closing his eyes patiently. Dean was grateful.

Dean wiped his eyes again, focusing on the feeling of Castiel’s lips on his fingers. It calmed him, and at last Dean took a shallow breath and murmured, “Sorry, Cas.”

Castiel opened his eyes—They were as blue as a warm summer sky. Castiel reached up and wiped a stray tear from under Dean's thick eyelashes. "Don’t be.”

Dean gazed at Castiel appreciatively, even more so as Castiel ended the conversation by leaning down and kissing him.

 After a few lazy moments, Castiel could feel Dean's comfort returning. Dean began gently stroking Castiel's wings and smiling slightly.

“Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Castiel hesitated over Dean’s lips, but Dean gave him such a warm look that Castiel asked his question anyway. "Why didn't you tell me you could see my wings?"

“I was afraid you'd hide them,” he admitted.

Castiel paused. That was exactly what he would have done. It wouldn't have even occurred to him that Dean enjoyed seeing them, not after they broke. This revelation filled Castiel with affection, but still, he sighed. "I wish you could have seen them before. They were… magnificent."

Dean’s smile surprised Castiel.

"They still are, Cas,” he said simply. “They're the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

For a moment Castiel looked distant, like he was processing Dean's words. His wings rippled slightly, brushing against Dean's hand. When Castiel detected that Dean was in fact telling the truth, Castiel was overcome with emotion. The only thing he could think to say was, "I love you, Dean."

Dean's smile widened. He dabbed at his eyes. "Shut up."

Castiel smiled and kissed him.

Dean kissed back, murmuring softly against his lips, “...love you too…”

Castiel held Dean to him, kissing him on the war table. The compressing, creeping silence that had plagued the bunker evaporated at last. The bunker felt bigger, and Castiel's wings felt too heavy to carry. It was a wonderful weight.

 Despite this improved silence, neither of them heard the bunker's door close from upstairs. It wasn't until they heard a pained intake of breath that they realized they were no longer alone.

Dean sat up on his elbows and looked over his shoulder. Sam was determinedly facing the other direction and rubbing his eyes as if trying to erase the image burned into his retinas.

"Hiya Sammy," Dean grinned.

Castiel nearly fell off the table.

"Really? On the table?" Sam demanded blindly.

Castiel's wings shrunk instantly. He looked like a guilty dog who'd just snuck a treat, and it almost made Dean start laughing again.

"Sorry, Sam," Dean chuckled as Castiel hurriedly passed him his clothes. "But you should really knock."

"On the front door?" Sam heard clothing being put on and chanced a glance at them, but was met with the sight of Dean's bare ass. "God, damnit…! Put...put some clothes on, Dean."

"The human body is a thing of beauty, Sam," Dean announced.

"Yeah, well, your human body is cleaning that table. With bleach."

 Much to Castiel’s relief, once everyone was fully clothed Sam and Dean moved on quickly. That, or Sam was already denying it had happened. Either way, the atmosphere improved greatly. They sat around the kitchen and chatted while Dean cooked the greasiest meal he could think of, claiming he was so hungry he could eat a salad.

Rather than being upset with Castiel, which had been Castiel’s primary concern, Sam seemed grateful. He attributed Dean’s change in mood to Castiel’s… intervention… and left it at that.

It wasn’t until dinner that Castiel finally remembered. “Sam, did you say you needed to see Gabriel?” He asked curiously.

Sam looked up from his plate, which he was devouring despite his assertions that no meal needed that much tabasco sauce.

Dean glanced at him casually. When Sam took too long to respond, Dean smirked. “Gabriel gave you herpes didn’t he?”

Sam nearly choked. “No!”

Castiel squinted.

Sam beat his chest with his fist, going red. “No! He just…”

Dean rose a brow, chewing slowly.

“I may have… called him immature last night.”

Dean snorted.

“So he… uh, yeah. But it’s fine. We made up.”

Dean eyed him slyly. “I’ll bet you did.”

“Shut up.” Sam smiled.

Castiel watched Sam and Dean laugh and bicker, and felt oddly at peace with the world. He knew the subject of Mary would have to come up eventually, especially given the reason for her departure, but the time wasn’t now, and Castiel was glad for that.

#pbbirthdaybash #profoundnet #Destiel #fanfiction #fanfic #My writing #sarasaurusrex

[cannibalisticskittles]

an act of kindness, ch. 14

pairing: unknown/reader notes: [14/16?]. part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven., part twelve, part thirteen, ao3 link.

Misun is the first to say what you’re all thinking:

“...there’s nothing here.”

And unfortunately, she seems to be right.

Tracking down Saeran’s coordinates has led you miles past city limits, giving you hours of tense silence and ample time to contemplate all the ways this could go wrong — and now, here you are, seeing at long last the culmination of your searching, the supposed pot of gold at the end of your rainbow, and it is… pine trees as far as the eye can see, broken up only by a poorly-maintained dirt road that forks and winds out of sight behind more trees.

Vanderwood had pulled up an aerial map of the area on the way, in between monitoring Mint Eye’s mass exodus — and sure, it looked unremarkable then, too, but surely there had to be a reason why Saeran sent you here of all places? Surely he would be here?

But he isn’t.

To your left, Misun leans forward to squint out the windshield. “Are we sure we’re in the right place?” she asks.

“This is where the coordinates led,” Vanderwood answers.

Misun worries her lower lip between her teeth before she speaks. “Then — could the coordinates be a little bit… off? They were coded, weren’t they? So could they be meant to lead up the road somewhere, or a few miles away, or… just have been decoded wrong somehow?”

“They’re not wrong.” Vanderwood’s words are firm. “Not on my end, anyway. Maybe you should be asking if your brother-in-law coded them right, or if he even sent them at all, instead of doubting me.”

“I know that’s a possibility, I’m just saying we should double-check things on our end since we can’t do anything about potential problems on his end,” Misun says.

As Misun and Vanderwood continue to bicker, Seven, who has been silent thus far, reaches to the center console for your phone — sort of a communal phone by now, you muse, watching Seven snap a picture through the windshield. He navigates to the messenger app.

“...you have a plan?” you ask.

Seven opens the once-more purged chatlog with Saeran before answering. “A thought,” he says, and sends the picture. “We’re right where he said to be. If he did send those coordinates… if it was him…” Seven hesitates. “...it would be smart to wait until he knows we’re following. To make sure Mint Eye can’t find him first.”

You nod slowly. “So… we’ve got to prove that we’re on the right track?”

Unaware of your discussion, Misun and Vanderwood are still going at it.

“Look, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but can you really say there’s no margin for error here?”

“Not with this there’s not!”

Seven ignores their argument. “If I’m right. I… might not be. But—” And he shrugs helplessly. “It’s what I would do in his shoes.”

“And now we just wait here until he tells us where to go from here? Or… until…” You don’t want to think about the possibility that Saeran won’t reply.

And that, at least, seems to get Vanderwood’s attention.

“How long are we waiting out here in the open?” they ask. You can’t tell if the touch of irritation in their voice is from the idea of waiting or just a lingering side-effect of arguing with Misun.

“As long as it takes,” Seven says. “So keep watching the cameras to see if anything changes there and we’ll keep watch here.”

Vanderwood clicks their tongue. “Sounds like a good way to get ambushed,” they mutter. “We still can’t confirm who sent the message.”

“No,” says Seven, “but even if it is an ambush, we can handle it. This car is bulletproof.”

“Bulletproof,” Vanderwood repeats.

“Uh-huh! So if anyone comes — we stay in the car,” Seven says, “and as long as no one opens the doors, we’ll be fine.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Vanderwood hisses out a breath between their teeth. “You won’t catch me opening doors for cultists,” they mutter. Still, their expression relaxes minutely.

For a moment after, there is silence.

Misun is the first to break it. “So...” She begins, “if Saeran doesn’t reply, or doesn’t show up, then… what do we do, eventually? I mean, obviously, if Mint Eye bursts out of the woods and rushes the car—” Your fingers clench against your thighs at the image. “—then yeah, it’s an ambush, but if nothing happens, then… do we assume they... caught him? And then, if they have — what do we do? Do we go to Mint Eye directly?”

“There’s no guarantee he’d be there,” Vanderwood adds. “Nobody’s seen him on the cameras yet.”

The reminder is sobering. If he’s not here, and if he’s not there… if Mint Eye really is a step ahead of you… where do you go then?

“I think,” you start, and then your phone blips.

You and Seven both scrabble for your phone before you realize that he’ll actually know what to do with whatever message has popped up and you concede it to him. He unlocks it, opens it, and scans the screen.

And then he tosses it to Vanderwood. “—more coordinates.”

Relief washes over you like a wave. You and Misun both lean forward to peer at the screen over Vanderwood’s shoulder, nearly knocking heads in your haste.

It looks like a jumbled mishmash of letters and numbers, same as before, but Vanderwood stares and stares and stares until they finally say, “got it.”

They set the phone aside and switch tabs on Seven’s laptop. Mint Eye’s camera feed disappears, replaced by the aerial map they’d used to navigate to the first coordinates. They begin to type something in, looking back occasionally at the phone.

“Oh, now was it really necessary to fight me on that for so long if decoding it is that quick?” Misun complains. Vanderwood ignores her.

When they finish entering in the decoded coordinates, the view on the screen shifts slightly. “Here,” they say. “North, and… a little west.” They glance through the windshield. “Take the left path.”

And Seven does. The car goes into motion so fast that this time, you really do knock heads with Misun. There’s little time to nurse your wounds; you’re too busy feeling anxious over what’s going to happen next.

‘North and a little west’ turns out to be just a few short minutes up the path, and looks much the same as where you’d been, with the exception of a slightly denser thicket of trees lining the road. Still, Seven takes and sends another picture.

The response comes much quicker this time. Again, Vanderwood scans the mess of a message and then plugs in the resulting coordinates, making sense out of chaos.

“North, then east this time,” they say.

And off you go again.

These coordinates lead you farther away, and you are brought to another branching path — three forks instead of two.

Another picture.

A minute passes in silence, then two, then three.

“I bet the next one will take us up the left path,” Misun says. Though her words are light, her expression is grim.

“...middle,” you guess, and she gives you a thin but genuine smile for indulging in her game, as though for a moment you could pretend the stakes weren’t quite so impossibly high.

It’s not too long before the next message comes in, though of course, worry makes it feel like it takes much longer.

You and Misun were both wrong: “East,” Vanderwood says. “Take the right path.”

As you watch the trees around you grow taller, blocking out more and more sunlight, you wonder how many times one road can possibly fork.

Not many more, it turns out, as the next coordinates take you off-road. You suppose you can see why Saeran chose this area to hide out in. As the trees become denser, and the trail grows thinner, it becomes nigh on impossible to see the road from the aerial map. You’re forced to slow to a crawl, each occupant of the car scanning the path ahead from out of the windows for some break in the trees, some sign of a road that has long fallen into disrepair, obscured by years of leaves and bits of detritus.

Your current location blips away on the map, moving through the canopy of trees. Vanderwood can point out the general area where the coordinates lead, but other than the slight thinning of the forest near the location, it’s unremarkable — and without being able to see the road, there’s no way to know how, exactly, you’re going to get there. Besides, it’s unclear how much longer you can even rely on the map; Seven’s phone is starting to die. Acting as a powerful enough hotspot to keep his laptop connected to Mint Eye’s cameras is really taking a toll on it, and it’s only through a stroke of luck that it’s lasted this long.

And with the difficulties you’re having navigating into the forest, you have to assume you’ll have more or less the same amount of difficulty navigating out of it — which will complicate matters in the event that this turns out to be a trap.

Which it might be. After those first messages, there hasn’t been anything that seems distinctly Saeran. Just coordinates, plain and simple. But then, is there anyone back at Mint Eye who comes even close to Saeran’s level? Anyone who can replicate even a smidgen of his talents? And on the other, other hand, how complicated would it really be to send slightly-coded coordinates and clear out old messages?

You flex your fingers to keep from digging your nails into the soft flesh of your palms, and it’s a relief when Vanderwood finally says, “we’re getting close. Be on the lookout.”

You refocus your attention on your window, watching diligently for a break in the trees.

On and on and on you go until Misun gasps. “Oh! There, there! To the right!”

It’s a sharp turn, and the car struggles over an exposed tree root, but you watch as your blip nears the area Vanderwood marked on the map, you watch as the trees thin out ever so slightly, you watch as the light up ahead grows brighter, and then —

And then.

And then there is a cabin, small and low and nestled tightly amongst the trees that obscure it from above.

The car slows to a stop at the treeline. Within, all is still and silent.

Seven is the first to move, releasing his white-knuckled grip from the steering wheel to raise your phone in a shaky hand, snap a picture, and send it. Then he just… stares. His breath, when he lets it out, shudders.

“...that’s it, right?” Misun asks eventually. You’ll have to thank her for asking, once you remember how to speak.

“Yeah,” says Seven, so soft you have to strain to hear him. “I think so.”

He sets your phone down. Four sets of eyes turn to it. The minutes crawl by, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. You can’t bring yourself to look at the cabin, unable to bear the anticipation.

And then Seven straightens. From the mirror, you catch the look of grim determination that crosses his face.

“I’m going up to the door.”

“You’re going to leave the bulletproof car,” Vanderwood says flatly.

Seven just nods, looking resolute.

“Seven…” Misun reaches out as she exchanges a searching look with him. You miss whatever silent exchange is going on between them, but her expression is rife with unspoken emotion.

He clasps her hand between both of his. “I have to know. I have to try,” he murmurs. And then he releases her hand and leans back. “Keep the car on,” he says. “Just in case.” The rest is implied: in case it’s Mint Eye in there. In case you need to make a break for it.

He steps out of the car.

But he only gets a few steps away before the door to the cabin opens, and there, there, there is Saeran.

Standing in the doorway, unmistakably himself.

He looks not to Seven, but to the car. You freeze, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to think. He has you pinned under the weight of his gaze.

“I—” you start, then falter. Instead, you reach for the passenger door.

“Hey—” Misun grabs at your sleeve.

You slip easily from her grasp, clutching your arm to your chest to prevent her from trying again. What could you say to explain it to her, to impress upon her the absolute urgency you feel when you look at him, the need to be there, to know that he’s real?

“Please,” is all you can manage.

Her hand drops. She says nothing, but she doesn’t try to stop you when you reach once more for the door.

You dimly register Seven, still standing right where he was when Saeran opened the door as you stumble out of the car, but then Saeran is looking at you and when he sees you — his expression softens and he smiles.

The emotion you feel at that is indescribable.

You move toward him, steps unsteady at first, then stronger until you’re fairly running to him. He opens his arms somewhere along the way and you crash into him, are swept up in him, feel his arms encircle you as he draws you to him, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“Saeran,” you breathe. He murmurs your name into your hair and you feel tears prick at your eyes.

You throw yourself into him, winding your arms around his waist. He smells like something acrid, something bitter, something… elixir-like. You pull away with some effort so you can look at him closely. Saeran resists this change, but you’re able to pull away enough to place your hands on his face.

His eyes are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles, and his posture, never great even the best of times, leaves him slouched against you in a way that conveys absolute exhaustion — but he is steady on his feet, and as he looks at you, there is affection in his gaze, a warmth that makes your breath catch.

“...hey boss,” you say, “good to have you back.” He snorts, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Hey, you,” he whispers.

From behind you comes the crunch of gravel under hesitant feet. “...Saeran.”

Saeran stiffens at the sound of Seven’s voice. “Don’t,” he says softly, grip on you tightening.

Seven enters your peripheral vision. “Saeran, there are so many things I want to ask, to say… I…”

“Don’t. Don’t say that name. I don’t want to hear it from your lying mouth.”

Seven stills. You try to turn to see him better, and Saeran crushes you to his chest. “I’m not — I didn’t lie to you. When we were kids—” You feel more than see the way Saeran’s breath stutters, the way his chest heaves. “—I meant everything I said to you. I meant it when I said I’d protect you, that I’d get us out of there together, I swear. Saeran, I thought—”

“That’s enough.” Saeran’s voice is harsh.

Seven carries on regardless. “I thought you were safe,” he pleads. “I changed my name and became a secret agent to help you. I never wanted to abandon you, but I thought that the only way we could escape our father’s reach was if we separated.”

Their father?

Saeran flinches back at Seven’s words, but then he scoffs. “Who thought of that insane idea…?”

More footsteps. Misun?

“V did,” Seven stresses. “And V promised that he and Rika would take good care of you if I left! I trusted him, but it was still so, so hard to leave you Saeran.” Seven’s voice is soft, his words pleading.

Saeran is unmoved. “That’s fairly convincing… I almost believe you. A lot of people would.” His grip on you tightens. “But I know the truth. And I won’t be fooled again.”

“I never forgot you,” Seven insists. “I never stopped thinking about you. I wasn’t supposed to find out anything about you while I was in the agency, and it was better not to know where you were in case our father… found me in spite of the agency. Or if the agency learned that I was still trying to hear about you. But I couldn’t go on without knowing you were safe, that you were happy, so… I would ask Rika how you were doing.”

Seven takes a deep breath as if to steady himself. “Two years ago, Rika secretly sent me a floppy disk, and inside were pictures of you, of your smile, and a letter she wrote me. When she told me you were doing well, that you were happy, I believed her.”

Saeran scoffs again, but he’s begun to tremble and his grip on you loosens.

“Look, I—” Seven fumbles with his jacket, eventually pulling something out of his pocket. A floppy disk. He holds it out to Saeran. “I know this doesn’t mean anything to you right now, but I swear, it’s all on there, just like I said.”

“...no,” Saeran says. “I don’t believe it.”

Misun — you can tell it’s her now — takes a step forward. “Saeran, it’s true. I’ve seen it.”

Saeran shakes his head tightly. “No. Maybe there’s something on there, but even if there is, you’ve just made it up. You’re only trying to hurt me again.” The trembling is worse now.

There is frustration in Seven’s voice. “Saeran, please, if you would just listen—”

Saeran finally lets you go, and you can see his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists as he works out what to say. He fairly bristles with anger, with indignation, with hurt.

— and then he turns away.

“I’m going inside.”

And in he goes, pushing his way into the cabin. You are left standing there, staring after the spot he occupied.

“That, ah… could have gone better,” Misun murmurs.

“And it could have gone a lot worse,” you say, remembering his occasional fits of rage at the mere mention of Seven back at Mint Eye — and at the motel, and after seeing him at the apartment.

Seven looks downright devastated. “Saeran… what happened to you…?”

You look between him and the cabin.

You can’t wait for Saeran to cool down; Mint Eye may not know where you are now, but the longer you stick around, the more likely it becomes that they’ll figure it out, and who knows how long it’ll take for him to come out on his own? But you can not let Seven keep trying to talk to him when Saeran is this riled up.

...the cabin door is ajar. There’s nothing stopping you from following Saeran.

So… you do.

“Let me try to talk to him,” you murmur, though you don’t check to see if anyone heard you before you step cautiously inside, peering through the dim light afforded through the moth-eaten curtains and the open door behind you.

There’s no need to search; it’s a small cabin, one room, a sitting area with a little kitchenette off to the side. Saeran is leaning against the wall by the far window, fingers tangled in his hair. He does not look up when you enter.

You pad across the room. He remains still, staring blankly down at the floor even when you’re right in front of him. You spend a moment in consideration.

The likelihood of him being at peace with Seven’s presence after just a few minutes to cool down is… low. The likelihood of him being at peace with Seven’s presence if you talk to him about it is also extremely low, but, well. Maybe you can at least persuade him to make it back to the car with you without any bloodshed.

Never let it be said that you cannot, on occasion, be a halfway-decent optimist.

So you shuffle over until you’re standing beside him, then gently bump your shoulder against him. “Saeran?”

It takes a long, long moment before he reacts, but finally he raises his head and looks at you. “Has he been filling your head with lies, too?”

You’d thought he was handling things rather well, all considering, but the look in his eyes now is… less than tranquil.

Rather than address the explicit question, you lean into him. “Hey,” you say, “nobody’s said anything to change my mind on you, or on anything else. I still think what I thought before, just… stronger, maybe.” Though it helps that you’d never actually held any ill will towards Seven. Perhaps you can simply gloss over that part for now. “I’m still with you. Alright?”

This seems to mollify him, and the feverish look in his eyes cools. Still, you wouldn’t exactly say he’s relaxed. He flexes his fingers at his side, eyes cast down as if he’s thinking of something to say. You bite your tongue to keep from filling the silence, and after a moment, he speaks.

“The floppy disk...” He trails off.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “He never showed me anything like what he says is on it, but I was there for less than a day. Could be real, could be not.” Based on everything you’ve seen, though, you’d put your money on real. If Rika’s running Mint Eye, she’s been around Saeran for however long he’s been there, at least, so why wouldn’t she have been able to send Seven a few pictures?

Saeran shakes his head. “It’s not real. It might look like it, but he’s good at forging believable fake information.”

“And you’d be good at identifying it as fake information,” you point out. “You could look it over anyway.”

His brow furrows.

You hold up your hands, palms up. “Hey, I said could, not should.” Though perhaps it would help. God knows the animosity he holds towards his brother isn’t going to go away without chipping away at it with anything less than a sledgehammer.

Saeran’s gaze sharpens. “Could be bugged. Likely to be bugged. And it’s fake anyway. Humoring him by taking it would just be giving him what he wants.” His hands clench into fists. “Another chance to hurt me,” he mutters.

Oh. His mood is darkening. Deflect.

So, you adopt a cavalier tone and say, “eh, it wouldn’t work though, right? You could just buy a hunk of junk computer, haul it out to somewhere remote, put in the floppy disk, and if it’s a virus or whatever, you can leave it and run without caring that the location’s been compromised, no big deal.” He snorts, and you give an exaggerated shrug. “And if the pictures are fake, you’ll figure that out, and then you’ll have the peace of mind of knowing he doesn’t have any ammo against you. You can’t buy that kind of relief. ...but yeah, I see your point.”

You lapse into silence again.

You wonder how much time you have, whether you even really have the luxury of waiting at all. Maybe Mint Eye’s been figuring out where you are all this time and they’re gaining on you. Maybe you should be urging Saeran to rush to the car right now, speeding off into the horizon. Or maybe Seven finally finished tracking Mint Eye and he’s about to come in and say he’s pinpointed the exact evacuation point and he’s already got plans to storm the place and put an end to Mint Eye all drawn up and ready.

Maybe it’s all going to be okay after all.

And then Saeran shifts. “Wait.” He’s looking towards the doorway, where you catch a flicker of movement. “That person…”

You peer closer until you make out what the movement is — Vanderwood, walking towards Seven, where he is standing in front of the cabin. Huh.

“Vanderwood,” you say. “They worked with Seven at the agency. They helped us find you. I wonder what they’re doing…?” Trying to see what’s taking so long, maybe?

For a moment, he simply watches them near, and then he pushes off from the wall and walks closer to the door, remaining just out of sight. You follow after him, curious.

“Not thrilled to be leaving the relative safety of the bulletproof car like the rest of you,” Vanderwood says when they’re within earshot of Seven, “but something’s going on with the agency.”

“What?” Seven’s voice is sharp, alert. “Have they found us?”

“Could be,” they say, somehow managing to not sound panicked. “But… it seems like something else is going on. Hell if I know what. It’s big enough to get everyone worked into a tizzy. Based on the messages—”

“Messages?” Seven asks.

They wave a hand. “Same ones I always get: threats of what will happen if I don’t get you to do your work on time. More than I usually get, though. A lot more. I’d chalk it up to the boss realizing we’re deserters, but these messages are different. The boss seems—” And they pause, as if mulling over how to describe it. “—desperate. Panicked.”

“Shit,” Seven mutters. “Can you access anything currently, other than the messages?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Right. Okay," Seven mutters. “That’s not good, but we don’t know that they’ve managed to track us down. When Saeran — when he’s back with us — you drive, and I’ll send Jumin the coordinates to the evacuation point and hack into the agency’s mainframe, see what’s going on while we put some distance between us and Mint Eye. I don’t like how close we are now.”

You hear Saeran huff beside you, and then he pushes past, stepping into the doorway. “I didn’t leave Mint Eye just to get snatched up by your secret agency,” he snaps.

Seven startles a little, whirling to face Saeran. After another moment, you step out awkwardly behind Saeran.

“If there’s a chance that someone followed you, fix it now,” Saeran says.

“I second that,” Vanderwood says. “It’s not going to be good if the agency catches us.” And then they give Saeran a once-over. “...it’s uncanny how similar you look. I can’t believe that Seven’s had a twin all this time.”

Saeran’s mouth twists. “I knew it. I knew Luciel would never mention me. He just forgot all about me to have those grand parties.”

“Saeran, that’s not—”

Saeran cuts off Seven’s protests. “Shut up. I don’t care about whatever you have to say.” His lip curls into a sneer. “I’ve already been unfortunate enough to need your help, but that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me, and it doesn’t mean I’m going to clean up your mess.”

“Saeran, we can't stay here, it’s too visible. We can fix this on the way to somewhere safe,” Seven pleads.

“Then you can fix it here just as easily,” Saeran snaps.

Seven falters. “My phone — I don’t know if there’s enough battery left to learn anything before it dies.”

“All the more reason to stay and finish the job,” Saeran says. “There’s an outlet inside.”

“There’s power here?”

“There’s a generator,” he snaps. “Make use of it, or don’t, just fix this mess you caused.” His posture is stiff, his gaze imperious. But after a moment, he relents. “Then… when it’s safe… then I’ll go with you.”

Relief flashes across Seven’s face, and he opens his mouth to reply.

“But that still doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to talk to me,” Saeran is quick to add.

Seven’s mouth closes. Vanderwood looks between the two of them and quirks an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“Now… let’s go.” Saeran looks back at you, then begins to walk.

Seven blinks in surprise and raises a hand as if to reach out to Saeran — and then he lets it drop. “Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk,” Saeran says without turning back. “Like I said, this is your mess, not mine, and since you can’t seem to shut your damn mouth, I’m moving out of earshot.”

Misun speaks up. “But wouldn’t that make you too visible? If someone’s looking for you...”

“I’ll stick to the woods,” he says. “The trees are dense, and I won’t be seen.” There is, you note, no hint of the irritation that plagued his voice when he spoke to Seven; his response to Misun is entirely polite. Interesting. Then he calls your name, and finally looks behind him. “Come on. I’m not leaving you with him.”

You stare at him, feeling a little like a deer in headlights. Do you… follow him? Just leave Seven and Misun and Vanderwood in the lurch? But then, you can’t just leave Saeran to wander alone. Part of you feels like you ought to call him back, try to get him and Seven to hash out their problems here and now. Like if he goes now, with things left unsaid, he’ll stay gone; slip away and disappear forever, off to somewhere he never has to see Seven again. The rest of you recognizes what a terrible, terrible idea that is, and of course, how can you expect years of hurt to be wiped clean all at once?

And yet there’s still a lingering touch of guilt when you take a hesitant step in Saeran’s direction.

“Um,” you say to the three pairs of eyes currently on you. “...we’ll be back? Good luck with — the agency, and all that.”

You can hear Vanderwood beginning to berate Seven as you scurry after Saeran. “Seven, you’d better tell me what the hell is going on here. This isn’t the reunion I was expecting.” Their voice fades with each step you take.

Saeran’s strides are long and purposeful, and it takes until the group and the cabin have disappeared from view for you to be able to keep pace with him.

You’re not sure if there’s any rhyme or reason to his wandering, but even so, you walk in silence for several minutes, following his lead. There’s no path to guide you — not that you’d really expected there would be, given the state of the ‘road’ leading up to the cabin — so he ducks under branches and steps over tree roots, and you shadow him, waiting for him to run out of steam.

The moment comes eventually.

His strides begin to slow, his steps lose some of that stiff purposefulness, and at last, he sighs, leans against a tree, and tips his head back against the trunk as his eyes slide shut. There’s a weariness to him that your short walk cannot account for. Whatever happened in your absence, he seems to be carrying it with him even now. God, they really did a number on him.

You shuffle awkwardly on your feet, unsure if he’s up for conversation right now or if he intends to just wait out Seven’s investigation of the agency in silence. Even if he does want to talk, he might not want to talk now, and you doubt he’d be thrilled if you immediately launched into an interrogation of what happened to him when he was back in Mint Eye. Not as a starter, anyway.

...off guard. He keeps catching you off guard. In Mint Eye, it was easier. You knew where you stood. You knew where he stood. Now… well, he’s dodging Mint Eye, and he still wants you near, and he still wants Seven to disappear, but beyond that? Hard to say.

Eventually, the silence and the wondering grows too much for you.

“A generator, huh?” You ask. “Got a pretty decent set-up going here.”

It takes him a moment to respond, but respond he does. “Someone used to live here once,” Saeran says, eyes still closed. “Why wouldn’t they make it livable?” His tone is even. Good. That’s a good sign.

“I suppose,” you say. “I guess I was just expecting something a little more rustic. Seems like anyone wanting to live so far out here would want the authentic experience.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. They didn’t build it too off grid. It’s less than a mile off a main road and there’s a campground nearby, too.”

“Huh,” you say. You contemplate this, then ask, “how’d you know there’d be somewhere safe out here, anyway? Can’t imagine you just stumbled upon it.”

“I knew it was here,” he says. “It’s one of Mint Eye’s peripheral properties, gifted by a disciple when they came to Paradise.”

A chill runs down your spine. “So they know where this is?” You ask. “They could find us here?” Oh god, oh god, if they know you’re here, they’re coming—

But he finally looks at you and shakes his head. “The exodus is more important than reclaiming old territory, particular when it couldn’t even fit a third of Mint Eye’s believers. Later down the line, when things are settled, finding a use for it may become a higher priority, but for now, no.”

“But — won’t they come looking for you? I mean, they probably already are looking for you. And wouldn’t they start with places they know about?” You can hear the edge of panic creeping into your voice, but you can’t stop it.

He tilts his head at you. “You didn’t tell anyone about the cabin, did you?��

“We sent those pictures so you’d know when we’d reached your coordinates.” Oh, god, you sent them photo evidence of where you were.

“But in the group chat?” Saeran’s voice is firm, pulling you back to Earth.

You shake your head. “Not a word.”

“Good. Then there’s no reason for them to know.” Noting your puzzled look, he adds, “I didn’t have time to disconnect the main computer from most of the app, but my own, private messages should still be secure.”

“But — how can you know?” You protest. “What if not all their energy is going towards evacuating? What if they managed to get into your messages? What if—”

“Hey,” he says, “come here.” He beckons you to him with a sweeping wave of his arm. Your steps are wooden but you still comply, and when you’re near enough, he slings an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in close. “We’re safe,” he says. “Okay?”

You hesitate, mind swirling with thoughts of Mint Eye bursting out from the bushes.

“Okay?” he presses.

“...okay,” you say at last. “Okay.” Safe. What an odd concept.

“I’m here,” he says. “I won’t ever let anything happen to you. I swear.”

The tenseness doesn’t leave you entirely, but your shoulders relax as he rests his chin on your head. Funny how you always end up here, like this. Entangled. Using touch as an anchor point. Funny how much it comforts you. And it is kind of peaceful out here, when you let yourself soak in your surroundings. The birds chirping, the light filtering through the leaves, Saeran’s arms around you…

The moment is ruined by his phone beeping. Saeran makes a face, but reaches into his pocket anyway.

“I can’t believe you have service out here,” you remark as he scans the screen. He scowls at whatever he sees.

“‘Rescuing me…’” His lip curls.

You glance over his shoulder at the screen and, sure enough, there’s a message from Seven in the main chat, a bare-bones explanation that they are safe at the moment, still in the process of rescuing Saeran, and asking that the RFA refrains from attempting to find them. No mention of the agency.

You can see why Seven would want to update the RFA, reassure them that everything is still okay for now. You can also see how his choice of words might strike a chord with Saeran.

“Hey, c’mon,” you say, trying to avoid the old, familiar ‘Seven is the worst’ spiral. “You don’t think I look dashing enough to stage a daring rescue?” You strike a pose, as ridiculous as you can manage while kept in his embrace.

He snorts, but the look in his eyes is fond. “He isn’t. But you, yes.” And then he tilts his head. “...hmm.”

“What? Do I have something on my face?”

“Not yet.” Saeran’s smile widens, and then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your neck. You hear the telltale, shutter-like click of a picture being taken, but you don’t have time to dwell on it because in the next moment, he nips at your skin.

“Hey!” You squirm in his arms, but he holds fast. He smiles against you, and draws back just enough to lean his head against yours. There’s another shutter click. He nuzzles against you for a moment — too short, too brief, the warmth of him comforting — and there is yet another click.

“Cute,” he says as he finally loosens his grip and pulls away to look at his phone.

“Oh — well,” you say, feeling your face heat up, “not that I’m not flattered, I guess, but what was that for?” You attempt to peer at his screen but he dodges you, holding his phone to his chest. You huff.

Saeran does not relent. He squints at you, then at his screen. “Hmmm.” He fiddles with his phone, gives you another long look, then fiddles with it again.

“Saeran.” Your impatience is palpable.

Finally, though, he is satisfied with... whatever he was doing. “Here,” he says, and holds out his phone to show you—

...he’s made one of the pictures his lock screen. The pair of you, beaming on his screen, the moment of fondness now immortalized for all to see. There you are, face flushed, mouth half-open in protest, while his eyes are locked on you, obvious affection in his gaze. Your breath hitches to see such naked admiration.

It’s so… mundane, taking a picture of — and you grow bashful despite yourself — someone you care about for your wallpaper, that the last of the tension finally leaves you. Here, here is something free of Mint Eye, a sign that there will be many more Mint Eye-free moments in the coming days, and for a moment, you cannot speak, overwhelmed with relief over such a small and simple thing.

“God, I missed you,” you manage eventually.

And he chuckles. “Did you, now?” The low timbre of his voice draws a shiver from you, but you still make a face at him for the words themselves.

He’s teasing. He, who latches onto you at every opportunity like a barnacle against a ship hull — you’ll ignore the fact that you’re latching onto him just the same — feigns confusion in the face of your emotional vulnerability? The nerve.

Still, your sardonic response dies on your tongue. Why shouldn’t you be honest? There’s no point in pretending you didn’t miss him. Something simple, after all this confusion. Haven’t you earned that? Hasn’t he? And so:

“Yes,” you say. “I really, really did. I was — scared,” you admit. “Scared that maybe we wouldn’t get here in time, or that Mint Eye would find you first. I was scared that maybe it wasn’t even you sending these texts at all, that maybe Mint Eye had gotten ahold of your phone and someone was pretending to be you, or that—” You swallow back the lump in your throat and admit to the thing you had feared the most, the possibility you tried to set aside but that had instead hooked its claws deep into your belly and lingered, hanging heavy on you. “—that maybe you hadn’t wanted to go with me after all and it was you sending those messages, but you were just… luring me back in, I guess. Tying up loose ends.”

He wraps both arms around you. “You’re not a loose end.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Tears threaten to spring forth when you manage to loose it. “Yeah? Well. I’m glad to hear it. I’m — I’m glad you’re here. Part of me just can’t believe you’re here right now. Like you’re going to disappear if I take my eyes off you for too long.”

He gives a soft laugh. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere anymore.”

After all the running and hiding and waiting and hoping… he’s here. Now you’ve just got to take care of the… substantial threats that could change that. You shake your head against him as you remember. “I can’t believe,” you say, more than a little rueful, “that on top of everything else, on top of Mint Eye and Seven’s agency — which would be bad enough on its own — there’s someone else after you that we’ll have to look out for? How could I not worry?”

He pulls away slightly, and when you look at him, his brow is furrowed. “Someone else?”

“Seven said—” you begin, by way of explanation.

Saeran’s eyes darken. “I imagine he said a lot of things.”

“—that there was someone who wanted to hurt you and then you also said — damn it, Saeran, you know—” You hesitate, but… oh, just go for it. “You know, if you want me to hear the truth of everything that happened not through Seven’s framing, you could tell me yourself.”

He draws in a sharp breath.

You try again, as gently as you can. “I’m not trying to dredge up old, bad memories, but… y’know. I’m here and ready to listen, if you wanna talk about it.”

Saeran watches you, considering. “No,” he says. You wince. He pulls you closer, holding you to his chest. “But I do want you to know.” He rubs his thumb idly against your arm as he thinks. “First… tell me what he told you.”

“Oh. Okay,” you say, “simple enough. Let’s see…” You rack your brain. “Well. To start with, he didn’t tell me this, exactly, I figured it out on my own, but… you and Seven are brothers. Twins.” Even now, you speak carefully, hesitant to bring to light their connection when any connection to Seven is something to loathe in Saeran’s eyes. “That’s why you didn’t let me look at any of his pictures, isn’t it?”

A terse nod. That’s as good of a reaction as you could hope for. You keep going.

“So then… Seven said that before the, ah, incident at the apartment, it’d been eight years since he saw you. That you and he had… a less-than-ideal childhood—” Saeran snorts derisively, but lets you continue. “—and that you’ve known V since before you parted. And way back then, V told him that if he joined the agency, that would keep him safe, but they wouldn’t allow him to keep in contact with his family. So V promised Seven that he would keep you safe. Ah, and I guess Rika did too, and she told him you were doing well a few years ago, but you heard that. That was the first I’d heard about any letter or pictures, though he did say he had something he thought might convince you he was telling the truth. He might’ve meant that. Seven also talked about V maybe being involved with Mint Eye—”

“He isn’t,” Saeran says.

“Well, Seven figured he was, based on finding Mint Eye blueprints in Rika’s apartment,” you say. “Though, then I saw a picture of her and recognized her as the Savior, so… that could explain it. Still seems like V knew something about Mint Eye, given how insistent he was that no one look at anything in the drawers, so… maybe he just knows Mint Eye exists and Rika was involved somehow and he’s covering that up? I wonder if Rika supposedly being dead has anything to do with that…”

“He’s always been a liar,” Saeran says mildly, though the frown is back. “Does anyone else know?”

“Besides me, Seven, and Misun? Ah, and Vanderwood, who doesn’t really care. The rest of the RFA knows we found something to do with Mint Eye, so they know V was trying to hide that, but… not about Rika. No one else knows about her yet. We thought… Seven thought… it would be too much for them right now.”

Saeran nods. “That may be the case.” He casts his eyes upward. “Betrayal is not easy to recover from.”

You peer at him closely as you mull over your next question, then ask, “So… it really is Rika, right? The same Rika who looked after you as a kid decided that keeping you safe meant dragging you to Mint Eye…?” Was that why he looked up to her so much? He’d already thought of her as someone who cared for him when she — proposed Mint Eye to him, or brought him there, or however it happened?

But Saeran just shakes his head. “Tell me what else Seven said.”

“Ah. Right. Okay.” Much as it pains you to leave the subject unexplored. “...safety. Seven told me that being safe, and taking drastic measures to make sure that was the case, mattered because someone wanted you dead. Guessing that’s… your dad, based on what you said at the cabin.” He nods. “According to Seven, that may be an ongoing problem. Seven thinks he’s still looking for you. Said we’d have to be careful, whatever else we did, because if word about you got out, it would… end badly.”

“...he is,” Saeran says. “He’s still looking for me. For us.” The disgusted curl of his lip does nothing to quell the way your stomach lurches with sympathetic horror.

You suck in a breath through your teeth. “I—” What can you say? You can’t even imagine what that would be like. “I…” You look down and he pets your hair reassuringly. How in the world did he end up comforting you?

“Well,” you say eventually. “There’s… not much else, actually. That’s about all he said. I still don’t know why your dad wants to kill you, or what we’re going to do about that, or how you or Seven know V, or why V knew about the agency, or why he thought that would help, or why Seven went through with it if he thought V could keep you safe without it, although obviously V failed at that, the lying bastard—” Your breath escapes you in a shaky burst. Focus. Calm yourself. “But, um, that’s what I know, little though it is.”

When you finish, he is silent. You want to prompt him, remind him of what he said, but… if he’s going to talk, it shouldn’t be because he feels like he needs to. Your curiosity shouldn’t take precedence when it comes to his trauma.

“The truth,” Saeran whispers at last, “is so much more than that. Seven... Luciel… only sounds sympathetic because he leaves out what he did. The rest of the truth.”

Saeran takes a deep breath. “The word wrong doesn’t even begin to describe what he did. He abandoned his little brother who absolutely trusted him and ran away to save himself.” And then his eyes go slightly hazy as a smile creeps up his face. “Oh, no, I said it wrong. It’d be more exact to say that he comfortably used his brother who absolutely trusted him to run away on his own.”

The things he’s said before ring in your ears, full of words like betrayal and shithole and nowhere else I belong.

“He said he left me with V, to be safe…?” Saeran scoffs. “He didn’t care whether or not V took care of me. He didn’t care if anyone did. He never bothered to check. And he has said... so many things he didn’t mean. Back then, he told me—” He cuts himself off with a bitter laugh. “He told me his plan was to work and work and work until he had enough money to escape with me. And I…” Saeran’s voice grows quiet. “When I was young... I thought that I would probably die before I become an adult. In that hellish house… I couldn’t imagine any other end for me. But when he said that… I started to believe in hope. I started to believe that maybe I wouldn’t die before that day after all, and I would escape that place with him.”

And though you know how this story must go, you feel a stubborn, senseless flicker of hope. As though the tale will suddenly change, and he’ll tell you that he was right and they got out and he was safe and he was happy, or — that there was some bright spot in his dismal past, something better than the nightmare he’s lived. Nonsensical as the thought is, it makes his next words hurt all the more.

“But I was naïve. It was all lies. The whole time, I know exactly what he was thinking.” Saeran adopts a singsong voice. “‘Oh,’ he thought, ‘I can use weak Saeran as bait and escape that monster of a mother!’” You jolt. Monster of a mother? “‘For now, I’ll take care of him because I feel bad for him... and when I see him suffer because of how weak he is, I feel like I’m living a better life. But one day I’ll leave this place, team up with V to create the RFA, have parties, chat online, and have fun! Saeran is just a burden… Yeah! I’ll feel much better if I just disappear without a word~!”

You wince at the excited flourish in his voice as he ends his imagining.

“And one day, he went out… and he didn’t come back. At first, I looked for him… the sun came up and morning came in that hell, but he wasn’t there. I was so worried. I worried that he might be dead, that our father got to him… I cried for days. No matter how many times that woman strangled me—” You stiffen in shock. “—hit me, threatened me for being noisy, that weak, naïve me cried for days missing him. And all the while, I asked myself, ‘did he leave because he was sick of me? Was he mad at me? Still, he’ll come back. Yes, he’s got to come back, he’s my brother… my brother… my brother…!’”

His hands clench into fists. “I thought he was dead. But… once I found out that he was alive, the shock…” A breathy laugh. “I can’t put it into words. I thought he was hurt. Dead. That he would never abandon me, knowing what it would do to me. But he did. He used his own brother to escape that hellish house, he left me there to be—” His hand flutters up to his neck. Your heart aches for him. “Without the Savior...” He hesitates. “Without Rika, I would have lived a miserable life with that woman and starved to death with shackles on my ankles.”

“That woman… your mother…” Your voice shakes. “Your mother was the cause of so much of your pain? Not your father…?”

“Oh, he wants me dead. I’m a stain on his reputation, and it would be better for him if I never existed at all. And since that’s not true, the next best thing is to make sure I stop existing.” So easily he says it, as though it’s just a simple fact of life. And… for him, it must be. “But it was that woman that made life a living hell. Nothing was ever good enough. I was never good enough. She…” He looks down. “I couldn’t bear it. But I had to bear it. Each and every day. So there,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Now you know. Now you know the truth.”

The truth…

Truth is a funny thing. You believe Seven when he says he left because he wanted to protect Saeran. In fact, you’re inclined to believe Seven in most everything he says; he may not have been entirely upfront with you, given that he didn’t tell you it was his father that was pursuing the both of them, but he was honest about not being able to tell you that.

But you also believe Saeran when he speaks of the pain he’s endured, that Seven has caused him. And regardless of Seven’s intent, or anyone else’s… that pain is there. It exists.

And to have so many sources of pain… his father, his mother, his brother, a cult …

“Saeran…” Tears spring to your eyes. Once again, you are speechless. You can do nothing to soothe the old wounds, nothing but wrap your arms around him and try not to sob into his chest.

“I’m… glad you know now.” He’s getting teary now. He sniffles, then says, “I’m not that weak little Saeran he used to know. I’m not.” His voice cracks on the last syllable.

You cup his face. “No,” you say, “no, you’re not weak.” You tremble. “I don’t think you ever were.”

A noise escapes him, soft and wounded but somehow grateful. He presses his forehead to yours.

And so you stand, trembling against each other, both nearly weeping and awash with the terrible and wonderful sensation of understanding.

“Please,” you say when the tears have dried and you are able to find your voice once more. “Let’s go. Let go together. I’m ready to close out this chapter of running and looking over my shoulder. I want to leave that behind and just… be safe. And I am,” you say, “so ready for you to be happy.” He is so, so close to being free from the first of his tormentors, and your heart thrills to think of it.

Still red-eyed, he takes your hand in his and just holds it for a moment. “...alright,” he says. “Together.”

And you begin the journey back.

As you wind through the trees hand-in-hand, hoping you remember the way back, you speak. “Hey…are you going to be okay? We’ve still gotta… work together. We’re not out of the woods yet.” And then you realize yourself. “I mean—”

“Obviously.” But there’s a faint smile on his face.

“Yeah, yeah, smart aleck.” It’s said with the utmost affection, glad that he’s of a mind to tease after… everything. “I just mean, are you going to be okay? With having Seven near?”

His face twists and he grunts in response. “No other option. I don’t want anything to do with him,” Saeran mutters. “But you… I’ll endure it. For you. As long as he doesn’t try to talk to me again.”

“Mmh.” He probably will. Well, he definitely will at some point; there is no future you can imagine in which Seven is at all okay with just letting Saeran slip through his fingers now that he’s found him again. But maybe he won’t try until after you’ve gotten somewhere safe.

“...we’ll have Misun as a barrier,” you say at last. If Seven is tempted to repeat his earlier attempts at conversation, Misun may be able to dissuade him, or at least redirect the flow of it. “Ah, and you’re… fine around her, right?”

“Misun?” He tilts his head at you. “Besides her terrible taste in partners, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Nothing to say about the bite?” There are still faint pink marks on his skin from the mostly-healed bite gained during their last encounter. You run your thumb along these, feeling the slightly-puckered skin.

“Her reaction was… understandable.” He flexes the fingers of his previously-bitten hand against yours as if remembering. “If not unfortunate.”

“You’re very forgiving.”

“I try to be,” he says. “To those who deserve it.”

Charitable.

You walk in silence for a while longer until you notice his pace slow. When you glance at him, he’s checking his phone. “Any word?”

There’s a moment before he responds, distracted by whatever he’s looking at. “...no. Not yet.”

“Huh,” you say. “Well, hopefully it’s all taken care of and they just haven’t wanted to bother you.”

He shrugs and slides his phone back into his jacket pocket. Before it disappears, you catch sight of his lockscreen again.

“...I wanna see those other pictures you took later,” you say.

“They were blurry.” He gives you a look, pointed but amused. “Someone wouldn’t stop squirming.”

“Hey, that is not my fault,” you complain. “You try staying still when someone’s biting your neck.”

His eyes light up and a wicked grin grows on his face.

“Not an invitation,” you groan. “They’ll come looking for us if we stay out too long, and I have no desire to be caught in flagrante delicto.” But all it takes is the barest hint of a pout to get you to relent. “...next time, maybe. When we take a pic for my phone.”

He hums a contented note and swings your linked hands. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Yeah, I bet you will.” But you can’t help the fondness in your voice.

As you get closer to the cabin, you come to be aware of something else, something past the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. There is noise up ahead. A car engine? They must be waiting for you. You hope they haven’t been waiting too long. If they’re already back in the car, though, that’s a good sign that they’ve figured out whatever’s happening with the agency.

“Sounds like they’re ready to go,” you say. “Good. I’d hate to wait out here in the open. I’ll feel better once we’re somewhere I know no one can... follow…”

You think, at first, that you’re imagining it, your worst fears realized before your eyes, and so your feet carry you forward numbly while your voice stalls out, noise without meaning.

Cars, black and shiny and not supposed to be here. Disciples in robes.

Found, found, found.

“Saeran.” His name comes out strained, strangled. You begin to regain control of your body, coming off autopilot and digging in your heels. “We have to go,” you whisper. “We have to run, now, before they see—”

But his hand, still in yours, pulls you forward.

You can hear voices now, stern commands amidst shouts of protest. Vanderwood is being led out of the cabin, arms held behind their back by two disciples guiding them to one of the cars. From the voices coming from inside the cabin, you can assume that there are yet more of Mint Eye’s believers within.

Surrounded. You are surrounded.

“S-Saeran...?”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “you’re okay. You’re with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Saeran…” Your throat is dry. Your feet are lead. The sound of your heartbeat is deafening. “Why...?”

“Why would you be safe? Why would I ever not want you to be safe?” There’s a touch of amusement in the way he smiles. It fades when you do not play along and remain aghast. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I wanted to be honest with you from the start, but I knew you’d never listen if I did. This was the only way to fix everything. But you are safe with me. I would never lie to you about that. I’ll never lie to you again.”

“You—”

A disciple turns, hearing your approach, maybe, and makes as if to move toward you — but despite your heart leaping into your throat, they do naught but bow their head in deference to Saeran.

And that’s what really clinches it — that of course, of course, of course they wouldn’t see him as a threat, of course they wouldn’t restrain him like the others. That though your stomach hollows out, you are not surprised. That this is only confirmation of what you’d already suspected — maybe already known on some level.

And if you have been promised honesty, then you may as well take it.

“You called them.” Your voice leaves you in a breathless whisper. “And back at the motel, you called them then, too. You were never going to leave Mint Eye behind.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. There is grief in his eyes, in the set of his brow, the twist of his lip. “I know this must be hard for you.” He does not dispute it. It is as a dagger in your heart.

He stops walking now, paused at the edge of the clearing, bidding you to wait with him as well. To observe? To give you time to absorb this information? As though it helps. Watching more disciples lead a struggling Misun from the cabin only makes the sting of this betrayal — because that’s what it is, isn’t it? — even keener.

“You c-c-called them.” You stutter out the words with effort, bitter as they are in your mouth. “You brought them here.” All those things you feared back at the motel, when you saw Mint Eye there, turning out to be true. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you blink them furiously back.

“I thought—” And a laugh escapes you because it’s so absurd now. Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you see? “I thought I — I — got through to you, I thought—” That he wanted to be with you enough to forsake Mint Eye. That you managed to undo their programming all at once.

“You did,” he assures you. You have to bite back another laugh. Clearly, you didn’t. ��You showed me how much you care, how far you were willing to go for me.” His eyes shine with emotion. “You just didn’t see how good Magenta could be. And that’s my fault. You came at such a momentous time, and I was so focused on preparing for the endless party... it had to be done, of course, but to you, unfamiliar with Magenta, I understand how such devotion could seem… a burden.”

“A burden—?” As if that’s all it was. As if months, years, of sequestering himself to better invite others into a drug-happy cult warranted nothing more than a footnote, merely a minor inconvenience, easily overlooked.

“I know, I know,” Saeran soothes. “I know how it could seem that way. The long hours spent in service to paradise, the isolation that provided focus for the many tasks to complete that left so little time to bask in the Savior’s presence and learn from her sermons, having to watch over those who hurt me…" His jaw clenches momentarily, but then he relaxes and chuckles softly, reaching up to cup your cheek again. “You thought that was all it was. You thought the Savior was using me.” He makes it sound as though the idea is absurd, and not the absolute truth you know it is. “I understood the necessity. I knew the rewards that such diligence would bring us all, the peace that awaited those meant to join us at the endless party. But you… how could you know, when you were so new, so uninformed? How could you know without ever being shown?”

You feel numb. Or, no — you feel sick. Would he cut his explanation short if you vomited on his shoes? You think you understand the gist of it anyway.

“You have not yet seen the bliss that Paradise brings to those who were lost, the relief they feel to finally cast aside their painful lives and belong somewhere, to feel the endless love of the Savior. But you will. And once you see that we only want what’s best for everyone, then you’ll understand that it is safe there, and you’ll be happy. I’ll be with you, we’ll be together, and everything will be fine. Nothing will ever come between us again. And the savior—”

“Rika,” you say. A dead woman pulling the strings of a cult.

“The savior —” he persists.

“But that is who she is.” You can be just as stubborn. And if you’re going to be facing hell again, you can face it with answers. “The founder of the RFA. She knew you years ago, she looked after you, and she dragged you there with her. And because she made the RFA, now she has you targeting them, too.”

A sigh, and then he says, “She knows their pain better than anyone. She knows they need to be saved. And she knew I needed to be saved.”

“So why not just extend the invitation personally? She knows them, they know her, what’s stopping her from just asking them to join herself without all the secrecy?” Besides the greatly-exaggerated rumors of her death.

“Seven.” His lip curls. “He would pull them away with his lies.” And then he shakes his head, his anger fading. “Regardless of what you call her, she will understand your lapse of faith. She knows that you just needed more time to allow Mint Eye into your heart. And we’ll have all the time in the world now. She will forgive you for your mistake and welcome you back into Paradise.” And then he frowns. “She should be here by now… perhaps inside…?” He starts forward, toward the cabin.

While he’s distracted you could — make a break for it. Tear your hand from his grasp and run back into the woods. Sure, you’d be lost, but you could outrun them for a while. A good long while, most likely. He’d never catch you with those string bean legs of his, though one of the disciples might be able to. But… you do not.

You just trail behind him.

And then Seven emerges from the cabin, flanked by a pair of disciples, defeated. Saeran stops in his tracks, eyes alight with satisfaction.

“At last,” he murmurs. He sounds almost awed.

Seven is stiff in their grasp, but he resists still, in a way, scanning the area around him desperately — and when he catches sight of Saeran, his eyes go wide with surprise, then dismay, then outright panic. “Saeran!” he cries.

Saeran bristles, and he grimaces when Seven lurches toward him.

“Saeran, V—”

One of the disciples escorting him hisses a command to be silent and jerks Seven’s arm, pulling him away from Saeran.

Saeran is no longer delighted. “Shut up,” he hisses. And then his eyes narrow. “Did you say—” He follow Seven’s gaze, now directed at the other, silent disciple, and stiffens. “...you. Remove your hood.” His voice is low. Wary. Dangerous.

A moment of hesitation, and then the disciple complies, revealing—

Mint hair. Mint eyes.

V.

“—you.” Surprised. Stunned. Then enraged. “Where is the Savior? Why are you here?!”

V is silent. Whether he has nothing to say or just cannot find the words doesn’t really matter, you suppose, because, either way, Saeran doesn’t give him much time before he speaks again, demanding answers.

“What did you do to the Savior?!” Saeran takes a step towards V, hands clenching into fists at his side.

“...the Savior sent me to lead them to Magenta.” V’s voice is soft when he finally speaks. “I’ve received orders to bring you all to Mint Eye.”

“Orders—?!”

“Saeran, you didn’t know?” Seven sounds plaintive.

“Shut up!” Saeran snarls, then jabs a finger at V. “And you shut up, too! Why are you here instead of the Savior?” He doesn’t seem to see the contradiction in his commands.

V is uncowed in the face of Saeran’s aggression. “Because the savior chose me… she said I had to be the one to send the message.” That last part is almost whispered.

Saeran seems to be processing this statement.

“I don’t like this,” he mumbles at last. There’s a ragged edge to the words. “But we’ll return to Magenta first.” He straightens, and it’s like he’s shrugged on that aura of authority again. “…disciples.” With that one little word, the robed disciples stand at attention. “They’ve been checked? All of them?” He very pointedly directs his question beyond V.

The disciple at Seven’s left nods. “We have checked them for weapons and any contraband that could be used against Magenta.”

“Their phones?”

Another nod. “Yes, we’ve cleared them of anything they could use to communicate. He was trying to send out coordinates.”

You feel a slight spark of hope at those words, but this is dashed when Seven shakes his head. No success. No help coming.

“Give his to me.”

The disciple complies, pulling it from the folds of his robes.

Saeran looks at it in his hands, turning it over. He squeezes it tightly, still staring. And then he drops it to the ground and crushes it underfoot. It makes a final-sounding crunch. He looks back up. “Take him,” he says. “Prepare to depart.”

You jolt as a hand closes around your arm from behind. You didn’t even know there was someone behind you.

But Saeran pulls you to him protectively, tucking you into his side. “No,” he says. “Not them. I will escort them. But the others — ensure they are prepared for the journey.”

When V starts to move, making as though he’s going to continue escorting Seven, Saeran stops him. “Don’t think of doing anything else, V.” His voice is sharp.

“He does not trust you,” says the disciple behind you. “We will take care of the nonbelievers without you.”

And V bows his head, conceding. Only then do the believers force Seven forward, into the car.

Saeran mutters as he pulls you along, away from Seven, away from V. “I don’t care what orders he has. V is in charge of nothing. V is worth nothing. A traitor has no place in the Savior’s eyes. He’ll know that soon.”

He speaks of betrayal when he has done this to you. When he has lied to you, given you hope only to snatch it away. Numbness stills your tongue, prevents you from giving voice to this irony. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

You toss one last look over your shoulder at V as Saeran pulls you away. What do you feel as you look at this man? A man who knew Saeran — and Seven — as children, a man who proclaimed the death of a still-living woman, a man who is standing before you in cult colors now, sending a message to those he’d once sworn to protect?

There is — sorrow on his face, but from what? He’s one of Mint Eye’s believers. And how long has he believed? All this time? Was this his plan? Their plan, his and Rika’s? Why does he look sad, then? And what right does he have to feel like that when he’s here, dragging you all to paradise?

What right when Saeran’s voice wavers so and his hand trembles in yours?

The second car starts. The door lies open. Your turn now.

A believer bids Saeran take his place at the front, and you prepare to climb into the cage-like back of the car alone. As you do, though, he slides in beside you, and there he stays as the car begins its journey to bring you back into the belly of the beast — by your side, hand gripping yours so tight it’s painful.

Despite everything, you don’t pull away.

#saeran #mystic messenger #saeran choi #saeran route fic tag #mine

[cottontail20]

She's Got Help

Summary:  After the battle against Thanos, Carol vows to find all the women who helped her, meet them properly, and see if there is any way she can help them in return.

Ao3 link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/19125343

When Carol Danvers chose her career as a pilot, it was a man's world, almost impossible to break into. The Kree, enlightened though they claimed to be, had not actually been much different.

Things had changed a little by the time Fury summoned her back to Earth. This was clear in the way Natasha Romanoff had taken leadership over the remaining Avengers, and nobody batted an eye. However, Carol didn't fully realize just how much had changed until she had taken possession of the Gauntlet during the battle against Thanos, and an entire squad of bad-ass women stepped up to help her. The fact that Carol could have handled the situation by herself was beside the point.

It was.. pretty damn awesome.

Carol had not met most of these women before. She didn't really know them. But she was going to. Carol was going to find everyone of those women, and get to know them. She was going to thank them, and see if there was anything she could do for them in return. --

Hope Van Dyne. The Wasp.

Carol looked at the first name on the list Fury had gathered for her. Well, not exactly the first, but the easiest to track down.. or at least, the easiest one to track down who wasn't grieving the recent loss of her husband (Carol planned to leave Pepper Potts until later). She double-checked the address where Hope was supposedly most often found, and looked up at the house she currently stood in front of. It was a little run down, as many homes left vacant after the Decimation were, but efforts had been made towards restoring it.

Carol knocked on the door. After a few moments, a teenage girl answered it, her jaw dropping.

"You.. You're Captain Marvel."

"Carol works too" Carol grinned. "Hi. Is Hope home?"

"Uh.." The teen seemed slightly in shock.

"Cassie, who is it?" Hope poked her head around another door, her own eyes widening. "Oh.. hi."

"Hi" Carol's grin widened. "Would you like to go grab coffee?"

"Uh.. sure" Hope shrugged and disappeared briefly, returning with her handbag. "Cassie, tell your Dad where I've gone when he wakes up, okay?" --

"So.." Hope began, as she and Carol sat outside a Cafe a short while later, both clutching steaming lattes, "Not that this isn't a nice surprise, because you're Captain Marvel, and you're awesome" Hope shook her head at that.. Scott was rubbing off on her. "But.. We really don't know each other, so what's this about?"

"Just an itch to get to know my fellow super women" Carol shrugged. "So, tell me about yourself, Hope. Is Cassie your daughter?"

"No. Scott's from his first marriage. I adore her though, and I get along great with her Mom."

"And how long have you been the Wasp?"

"Uh.." Hope paused, thinking a moment. For the victims of the decimation, working out time had become a little more complicated. "For about three years before I was snapped. But I've been an expert in self defense much longer than that."

"Career bad-ass then" Carol grinned. "My kind of girl."

"I guess so" Hope chuckled, sipping her Latte.

"One more thing.."

"Mmmhm?"

"Is there anything you need help with?" Carol asked. "I'd just like to, well, return the favor."

"Hmm.." Hope thought for a moment. "You seem like someone who has friends in high places."

"More like.. A friend with friends in high places" replied Carol, thinking of Fury.

"Before the decimation, my Dad and I might have been in a teensy little bit of legal trouble. I'm not sure how that stands now. No-one's come at us yet, but.."

"I'll look into it for you" Carol thrust out a hand towards Hope. "It was nice to meet you, Hope."

"You too" Hope smiled, firmly shaking Carol's hand. --

Brunhilde. Usually goes by The Valkyrie. Newly crowned Queen of New Asgard.

There was a large commotion among the people of New Asgard as a glowing golden figure soared above the deceptively small 'fishing village'. The Valkyrie, her attention caught by the noise, looked up from her ever growing 'To Do' list in time to see Carol Danvers landing in front of her.

"Hi" Carol grinned.

"You're that.. glowing girl who destroyed Thanos's ship" Valkyrie blinked. "Thor likes you."

"Carol Danvers" Carol curtsied. "At your service, Queen Valkyrie."

"Please don't do that.." Valkyrie frowned. "It's weird."

"Noted. Have you got time to talk?"

"Not really.." Valkyrie looked back to her very long list. "But I guess you can walk with me while I do my morning sweep of the place.." --

Carol tailed Valkyrie as she strolled around New Asgard, checking the progress of a few ongoing projects, listening to new problems people brought to her. Many new houses were in the process of being built, to combat a slight overcrowding problem caused by the restoration of the previously decimated Asgardians. However, it was slow going given that many of New Asgard's existing buildings were in disrepair, splitting the attention of the builders.

"You're a little swamped here, huh?" Carol asked.

"Gee, you noticed.."

"How about I look into sending a bit of extra help?"

"You'd do that?" Valkyrie looked at her, slightly surprised.

"Sure" said Carol. "I was looking to find a way to help all the women who stood with me in that battle, and between you and me, I've got a bit of a soft spot for refugees from other worlds."

"A few extra hands would be great" Valkyrie managed a smile. "Thank you." --

Princess Shuri, head of Science and Technology development in Wakanda, and General Okoye, leader of the Dora Milaje.

"Not that it is not nice to see you, Ms. Danvers" said Okoye, with a raised eyebrow, "But why, exactly, are you here?" Okoye was aware of Carol from their conference calls with Natasha, but they had never really gotten to know each other, so Captain Marvel's sudden arrival in Wakanda had come as a surprise.

They were currently standing in the middle of Shuri's lab. The Wakandan Princess had greeted Carol rather enthusiastically upon her arrival, but had since had her attention reclaimed by her latest project.

"Simple answer" said Carol, throwing her arms wide, "I'm here to help! What do you ladies need? Anything at all."

"I do not need anything but to serve my Country" Okoye replied instinctively.

"Pfft, that's boring" Shuri looked up from her work, laughing. "She said anything, Okoye! Surely you can think of something a little more creative."

"Well.." Okoye relaxed the tiniest bit, thinking. "I am somewhat disappointed that we still do not have a Starbucks."

"I don't really have much control over that, but I guess I can look into it" Carol shrugged. "What about you, Princess?"

"I would like to re-establish Wakanda's outreach program in the U.S. Obviously I could not run it efficiently as a pile of dust" Shuri replied. "It would be helpful to know of which areas are most in need."

"Easy done" Carol grinned.

She left almost as quickly as she had come.

"She is.. strange" said Okoye.

"I like her" Shuri smiled. --

Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries, Head of Stark Foundation, Operator of the 'Rescue' suit. Wanda Maximoff, The Scarlet Witch.

When Wanda Maximoff had unexpectedly revived her long-dead love, Vision, after Tony Stark's funeral, Pepper Potts had asked her to move in to the Lake House she'd shared with her late husband. It was an arrangement that had come as a surprise to many. Pepper and Wanda hardly knew each other, and by all accounts, Wanda Maximoff and Tony Stark had never really gotten along.

But then again, Pepper had never really judged people based on whether her Husband got along with them. Tony had disliked plenty of people that Pepper thought perfectly pleasant, and Wanda was definitely one of those. And in this particular case, she knew that Tony did not actually dislike Wanda. Events in the past had complicated the relationship, though Pepper had chosen not to pry.

Really, the decision to let Wanda stay had relatively little to do with Wanda herself, pleasant though she was. Keeping Wanda meant keeping Vision, and Pepper had a couple of good reasons to keep Vision around. Vision had clearly meant a lot to Tony, with how long he had spent trying to fix him. While on the surface Vision seemed back to normal since Wanda had woken him, he still had quite a bit of recovering to do. If Pepper could give him a safe place to recuperate, then she would.

The other reason for keeping Vision close was for her daughter's benefit. Morgan had immediately embraced him as her 'big brother', and Vision had found himself with an adorable little shadow throughout his recovery. Morgan had grown quite attached to Wanda, as well. Anyone or anything that made Morgan happy was a precious commodity to Pepper right now.

So, both Vision and Wanda stayed. --

Carol Danvers, of course, didn't know all of the backstory that made the current situation at the Lake House unusual to some. All Carol saw was a slightly unconventional family unit that seemed to be working out alright, and, having been part of an unconventional family herself, thought all power to them.

Like all the women she had called on recently, Pepper had been surprised to see Carol, but immediately asked her inside. Carol was the reason Pepper had had five more precious years with Tony, so of course was always welcome.

Carol, a little quieter than she had been during her other visits, gently asked Pepper how she was doing(As well as could be expected), then sat patiently while Pepper poured Coffee.

"I heard Wanda Maximoff is staying here at the moment, and I was hoping I could talk to her too. Is she around?"

"She and Vision took Morgan out to play. They should be back soo.."

Before Pepper could finish, the back door burst open, a child's laughter echoing through the house. Wanda entered first, followed by Vision, with little Morgan clinging to his back.

"Oh.. Hello.. um.." Vision's eyes fell on Carol, seeming a little confused, his brow furrowed as though he was thinking very hard.

"It's okay, Vizh" Wanda laid a comforting hand on his arm. "You haven't met her yet. This is.. Carol, right?"

"Carol Danvers. Nice to meet you."

"Ah. Nice to meet you too, Carol" Vision smiled, relaxing now, then turned to Pepper. "Miss Potts, Morgan was wondering if she could have a juice pop."

"Call me Pepper, Vision" Pepper chuckled. "And yes. But just one, okay?"

"Yay!" Morgan cheered, and Vision carried her away into the Kitchen. Wanda made to follow them.

"Wait, Wanda" Carol called after her. "Can I have a quick word?"

"Uh.. okay" Wanda moved to sit beside Pepper, seeming nervous. "What's this about? Vision's fine. His memory's a little patchy still, but it's coming back. He doesn't need any tests or.."

"Of course not. He seems like a Sweetie" said Carol, who had too many unusual friends to worry much about anyone else's choices in that regard. "I was just wondering if you or Pepper.. needed anything. It's a thing I'm doing, helping all the women who helped me. So, what do you need? Any problems need solving? Legal trouble?"

"Now that you mention it" Wanda said after a moment. "My citizenship status is a little unclear. It's probably the last thing on anyone's mind right now, but.. I can't risk anything taking me away from Vizh."

"I know some people who know some people. I'll look into it. Pepper.. I know nothing can make up for what you've lost recently, but if there's anything at all I can do for you.."

Pepper looked towards the Kitchen. Morgan was laughing again.

"The most important thing to me right now is keeping my daughter happy" She replied eventually. "I'm sure she would think it was really cool if Captain Marvel came to visit now and then."

Carol grinned. Be cool Auntie Carol to another adorable kid? Too easy. --

Nebula, daughter of Thanos. Mantis, Member of the Guardians Of The Galaxy.

Peter Quill almost had a heart attack when he woke from a nap to the sight of a glowing woman knocking on the front window of the ship.

"Hey, Carol!" Rocket waved, calling back into the depths of the ship. "Thor, Carol's here! Go 'round the back so I can let you in.." --

After Rocket let her in, following the directions he had given her, Carol headed back further into the ship, finding Nebula teaching Mantis how to play paper football.

"Whoa. People play that all the way out here?"

"Stark taught me" Nebula looked up, managing to hide her surprise. "What brings you all the way out here?"

"I'm here to talk to you two, actually" Carol replied. "And I was hoping to find your sister."

"Your guess is as good as ours" Nebula frowned. "We've been looking, but.."

"If you could help us find Gamora" said Mantis, we "We would all be very, very grateful."

"Don't be stupid, Mantis. If we can't find Gamora, Danvers can't.." Nebula paused to look up at Carol, the tiniest bit of hope entering her eyes. "Could you?"

"I have connections" said Carol. "Might take a longer trip than I planned, though. Just give me a second to organize some stuff.."

"Hey, Fury!"

He could almost see her smile.

"Carol. I was just about to call you.."

"You're okay if I stay off-world a little longer, right?

"Actually, we may have a situation. Guy claiming he's from another universe..."

"Sounds cool. Beep me if things get serious. Bye!"

"Carol! Wait.." Fury sighed. She was already gone. "Okay. Spider-kid it is.."

#carol danvers #Captain Marvel #hope van dyne #valkyrie #general okoye #okoye #shuri black panther #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #scarletvision #pepper potts #nebula #mantis #MCU #Avengers #avengers endgame #endgame fix it

[our-smooty]

You Wanna Ride My Bike?

Fandom: Gorillaz

Rating: Teen

Relationships: HanniStu

Tags: Flirting, HanniStu, Cuteness, a little violence, reckless driving

Summary: Murdoc hadn’t ever said much about his family, mostly referring to them as that old bastard and that cunt Hannibal. Stu didn’t have to courage to ask though, Murdoc was too testy for that. Really he shouldn’t have thought Murdoc was driving all the way to Stoke on Trent just to go record hunting. But 2D had always been a little naive, and as usual, it got him into some strange situations.

“I told you, you didn’t have to soddin’ come so stop whinin’,” Murdoc growled, accelerating from where they’d stopped at a red light with just a little too much force. 2D winced as he was thrown back into his seat, still pouting.

“But I wanted t’go to the record shop! And you said you were gonna go…” The car jerked violently into another lane, then skidded to a halt to avoid hitting another car in front. “C-can’t you slow down?”

Murdoc tapped his fingers against the wheel impatiently. “We are gonna go after we pay my shit-stain of a brother a little visit.”  He ignored the request to drive slower, speeding through the intersection and taking a swift left. “He still lives in fuckin’ Stoke, in our dad’s old place, and I don’t want to be drivin’ all day!”

Murdoc hadn’t ever said much about his family, mostly referring to them as that old bastard and that cunt Hannibal. Stu didn’t have to courage to ask though, Murdoc was too testy for that. Really he shouldn’t have thought Murdoc was driving all the way to Stoke on Trent just to go record hunting. But 2D had always been a little naive, and as usual, it got him into some strange situations.

A few more hair-raising turns and one poorly executed U-turn, they arrived at what Stu assumed was Murdoc’s childhood home. The bassist had said something about his dad biting the big one a few years back, and then laughed about how Hannibal still lived in the old codger's run-down council flat. What he could need from his older brother 2D had no idea, but it had to have been important for Murdoc to care about it.

“Stay in the car,” Murdoc ordered, getting out and slamming the door shut. 2D sighed and rolled his eyes, but listened, propping his knees up on the dash and sinking into his seat. Who knew how long it would take Murdoc to get whatever it was he wanted? And it wasn’t like there was anything in here to keep him occupied. Within just a few minutes 2D was already bored out of his skull and playing with the door handle.

Would it be so ad if he got out, just to stretch his legs? Surely Murdoc couldn’t get mad at him for that? 2D popped the door open slowly, watching the front door Murdoc had gone through for any sign of movement. Carefully he stepped out onto the chipped and cracked drive, stretching his hands into the air and popping his spine. The drive hadn’t been that long, but Stu never did fit very well into Murdoc’s car. He did a few paces of the driveway, noting the patchy, dead lawn and the general disrepair of the house. Stashed down the side was what looked like a motorcycle covered in a sheet, and 2D desperately wanted to take a peak. But he was too scared of Murdoc coming out to find him, so instead, he sat on the front step and pulled out a fag, endeavouring to smoke a few before returning to the cramped car.

3 cigarettes later, he was still sitting out there alone and he was starting to get antsy. What if Murdoc’s brother was a really bad guy, even worse than Murdoc himself? The bassist could be in trouble or causing trouble. The last thing they needed was Murdoc doing more prison time, after that time in Mexico. Stubbing out his last fag 2D stood on shaking legs in front of the door, hand raised to knock. Should he even knock, if he was worried about what was going on inside? Careful not to make a sound he tested the handle and found it unlocked.

“M-Murdoc,” he whispered through the smallest crack in the door he could manage. Inside he could hear voices, not shouting but not quiet either. One of them was definitely Murdoc, but the other he didn’t recognize. “H-hello?”

He opened the door wider and stepped inside, his hands up under his chin with anxiety. The house was in a sorry state, cracks in the walls and loose floorboards everywhere. But someone had obviously made an effort to keep things clean, or cleaner that Kong was at least. Though that wasn’t saying much. Stu took a few steps into the hall, letting the door shut behind him. The voices were quiet now, and that made him nervous.

“Murdoc?” he called again, creeping forward to look into the first room. It was a tiny, sparsely furnished living room. No one was around, so he moved on to the next room, the one at the end of the hall where he’d heard the voices. Poking his head into the doorway cautiously, he scoped out the seemingly empty room. Where had everyone gone, 2D swore he’d heard shouting less than five minutes ago.

“Can I help you?” A rough voice asked from directly behind him. The singer yelped, throwing up his hands and jerking away from the voice. “Woah, didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”

“W-w-w-what?” 2D stuttered, taking a few steps back. “Who’re y-you?” He kept walking backward and away. The voice belonged to a man who was leaning casually in the doorway. The green skin and heavy features made it obvious this was Murdoc’s brother, and 2D trembled where he stood, suddenly realizing he was trespassing in the house of someone who could be even worse than the bassist.

“You must be that kid Murdoc’s been dragging around and forcing to sing his little songs,” the man laughed, digging through his pockets and pulling out a packet of Lucky Lungs. “I assume you know who I am?”

2D nodded, eyeing the other and trying desperately to think of an escape route. “Y-you’re his brother, yeah?” He edged backward until his back bumped into the counter.

“Surprised the fuckin’ prick even mentioned me. He always was an ungrateful brat.” 2D tittered a nervous laugh as the other took a few steps into the room. He suddenly realized that Murdoc’s brother was tall, very tall. How had the bassist turned out so short if his brother looked like this? He looked strong too, not like a bodybuilder but like someone who did physical labour on the daily. 2D couldn’t help but let his eyes linger a second too long.

“I-I’m sorry for comin’ in here. Murdoc s-said to wait in the car but I--” Hannibal laughed shaking his head.

“He was gonna make you wait in the car this whole time? Shit, he could be here for hours goin’ through Dad’s old stuff, you woulda died of heat stroke.”

“O-oh.” What else was he supposed to say? Murdoc hadn’t even cracked a window for him like you would a dog. Not that he should have expected better.

Hannibal seemed to sense his downturn in mood, and offered one of the cigarets in his pack to the singer. “Yeah, he always was kind of a total cunt. Smoke?”

2D took one eagerly and pulled out his own lighter. “I always figured he was jus’ born an asshole,” he muttered. Hannibal laughed loudly again, crossing his arms over his chest. 2D gulped as he watched the muscles in the other’s arms bunch and twist.

“He really was. Fuckin’ dick didn’t stop crying for the first three years of his life, then he turned into a complete arse.” 2D laughed as well, completely enchanted by the idea of a young Murdoc getting in trouble and being a brat. “So what’s your name then, Murdoc never did bother tellin’ me.”

“Stuart, o-or 2D. I go by 2D for the band.” He was still nervous, even though so far Hannibal hadn’t been anywhere near as scary as Murdoc. Something told him he should still be wary though, there was a sharpness in Hannibals eyes that was reminiscent of his bandmate.

“Stuart then, nice to finally meet you,” Hannibal said, extending his hand. Stu fumbled with his fag before doing the same, admiring the other’s firm handshake. It wasn’t often he met someone taller than him, being 6”2’himself. It was kind of… exciting.

“Same. You’re, uh, different than I though’ you’d be,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.  He’d been expecting someone exactly like Murdoc, someone who would hit him and call him names. Instead, he’d been offered a cigarette and told an embarrassing tidbit about the bassist’s past.

“You were probably expecting another Murdoc, right?” Hannibal asked, walking to the fridge and pulling out a couple of beers. He set them on the table and motioned for 2D to sit. The singer did, rolling the beer can between his hands.

“Kind of. He said you were a-a--” Again he stuttered, worried about upsetting the admittedly intimidating man. Hannibal just grinned, showing off sharp teeth.

“A cunt? A bastard? My baby brother needs to get more creative with his names if he expects them to get a rise outta me.” 2D decided he liked Hannibal a lot more than Murdoc. “Anyway, while he’s up in Dad’s old room looking for God-knows-what you can stay in here if you want.”

“Thanks,” 2D said gratefully, taking a sip of his bear. “D’you know what he’s lookin’ for?”

Hannibal shook his head. “Not a bloody clue, he didn’t tell me shit. He didn’t say anythin’ to you?”

“No, he didn’t even wan’ me to come,” he admitted sheepishly. “I probably shoulda jus’ stayed back at Kong with Noodle and Russel but I was so bored.”

Hannibal leaned his chin on a fist, watching the singer speak. Unlike with other people, Stu felt like the other man might actually be listening to him, and interested in what he had to say.

“So I-I came with him, ‘cause he said he was goin’ to the record store after.” 2D fidgeted in his seat slightly, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “I was gonna get a couple’a new records, for my collection. But if this is gonna take hours like you said then I don’t think we’re gonna go…”

“I could take you, if you want,” Hannibal offered, still sipping his beer. “We’d have to go on my bike but…”

Despite still being wary, 2D felt himself begin to get excited. He’d always wanted to drive a motorcycle, but riding one sounded pretty good too. And getting to hold onto Hannibal’s waist and feeling those muscles up close, that sounded amazing.

“Really? But won’ Murdoc get mad?” he asked nervously. He really wanted to go to the record store, and Hannibal didn’t seem so bad, but he was scared of what Murdoc might do if he left. The bassist was possessive of anything he deemed “his”, including 2D himself.

“I can handle Murdoc. Managed for nearly 16 years to keep that little bugger from landing a solid punch on me,” Hannibal boasted, standing up from the table. “Come on, there’s a good record store in town we can go to.”

“O-Ok!” Stu abandoned his beer and followed the taller man outside and around the side of the house. Hannibal pulled the cover off the bike and went to move it so Stu could get on. It wasn’t anything too flashy, but it was still cooler than anything Stuart had ever own. Bright red with black leather, a little scuffed but lovingly repaired and maintained. “Oh wow.”

“Ok, hop on back,” Hannibal instructed, swinging one long leg over and getting comfortable. Something squirmed in Stu’s belly at the sight of Hannibal straddling the seat. But he didn’t have time to think about it, because he was getting on himself, pressing close to the older man’s leather jacket covered back. Hannibal was warm, even in the Summer heat. “Ready? Hold on tight.”

As they sped down the driveway, Stuart did just that. Reckless driving must have been a Niccals family trait because Hannibal drove like they were being chased by the cops. 2D could barely enjoy the scenery, but he had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t have been able to anyway, with the way Hannibal's muscles felt under his hands. They arrived at the high street quickly and Hanibal pulled a dangerous U-turn to park in front of a record store.

“Here, this is the best place in town,” Hannibal said, turning the bike off. He got off in one smooth motion, the heels of his combat boots barely scraping against the asphalt. Stu tried to dismount just as gracefully, but his gangly legs caught on the side and he began to tumble face first.

“Shi--” he started, bringing his hands up to protect his face from the worst of the scrapes that were coming. But the pain never came, because just before he hit the pavement a pair of strong arms caught him around the middle and hauled him upright.

“Woah there, careful now love.” 2D’s face began to heat up rapidly as he was pulling in close to Hannibal's chest. “Not the most graceful, are you?”

“S-sorry!” Stu said, looking away. Hannibal’s eyes were a deep hazel, with the most amazing flecks of gold. 2D looked down and wondered what his lips would feel like on his own because from this close up they looked soft and inviting. “I-I--”

Hannibal chuckled and stepped back, keeping a hand on 2D’s shoulder to steady him. “Don’t worry, I lift things heavier than you on the daily.”

As if that made it any better. The singer felt like his face was on fire from how hard he was blushing. “Is that t-the record s-store?” Maybe if he changed the subject he could get a second to cool himself off.

“It is, come on I’ll introduce you to the owner.”

“You know the owner?” His embarrassment forgotten, 2D began to feel excitement again. Hannibal laughed--he seemed to do that a lot--and held the door open for him.

“Yeah, me and Doc used to come here all the time as kids. The owner’s still the same guy. But don’t mention Murdoc to him, punk owes him over a hundred quid in stolen records.” 2D giggled and nodded, walking inside the shop, eager to pick out some new vinal.

They wandered around the shop for a few hours. Hannibal made good on his promise to introduce 2D to the owner, and the man turned out to be a Gorillaz fan. Hannibal also showed Stu one of the back rooms where the owner did record player repairs. The singer was in heaven, looking at all the old machines. Hannibal hung back, for the most part, watching 2D fawn over the machines and talk shop with the owner. Eventually, he tore himself away from the back room long enough to peruse the vinal, a few of which Hannibal pointed out to him as being his favourites.

Hours passed in the blink of an eye and Stu didn’t realize it until he felt his mobile vibrating in his pocket. The caller ID made his heart sink.

“It’s Murdoc,” he said, happy demeanour dropping immediately. “Oh God we’ve been gone for hours and--”

“Give me the phone,” Hannibal said, his hand outstretched. Stu hesitated for just a second, but he really didn’t want to deal with Murdoc so he did as he was asked. The second Hannibal answered the call, the bassist’s angry voice could be heard over the speaker.

“--uckin’ hours Stuart! I told you to say in the soddin’ car and now you and that bloody--”

“Hey Doc, it’s me,” Hannibal said, demeanour completely calm. “Stu and I just popped down to that record store on Main, you know the one.”

“Hannibal? Why do you have his phone?” 2D could feel his anxiety rising at the angry tone. He rocked up on his heels and looked around nervously, something Hannibal didn’t miss.

“None of your business. Did you find what you were looking for?” Murdoc’s voice was quieter now and 2D couldn’t hear what he said but Hannibal seemed to understand. “Good. We’ll be back in a few so don’t get your panties in a bunch. Yeah, fuck you too.”

He handed the cellphone back to Stu with a grimace. “He’s gotten even surlier than I remembered. You ready to go?” 2D nodded silently and went to pay for his records. The shop owner tried to give him a discount but he refused, being rich and all now. Sullenly, he followed Hannibal back out to the bike and they drove off, the good mood from earlier completely gone.

When they arrived back at Hannibal's flat Murdoc was sitting on the front step smoking. His head snapped up when the bike came into view and 2D could tell he was still fuming mad. The singer could already feel the back of his head tingling where Murdoc usually slapped him.

“Took you bloody long enough!” He screamed, standing up and stalking over to them. Hannibal dismounted and stood tall, with his arms crossed. “Where the fuck were you?”

“I told you, we went to the record shop. Didn’t think you’d care,” he explained, letting Murdoc get right up in his face without even flinching. “You need to calm down, Doc. And your breath stinks.”

2D watched in awe as Murdoc deflated in the face of Hannibal’s indifference. “We’re busy people Han, you can’t jus’ wander of with my singer!”

“We were a few minutes down the road, calm the fuck down,” Hannibal said, rolling his eyes. 2D stood next to him, their arms nearly brushing. He’d never seen Murdoc act that way with anyone, he was definitely impressed.

“Whatever. 2D, get in the car. We’re leavin’.” Murdoc stomped off, slamming the driver side door with significant force. Stu watched him, then turned back to Hannibal.

“Well, nice meetin’ you,” he said lamely, mentally cursing himself. It was so much easier with the birds who liked him because he was famous.

Hannibal nodded and extended a hand, shaking 2D’s firmly, but not so much as to hurt him. “It was nice to mee you to, Stu. I hope I can see you again some time.”

2D was saved the embarrassment of stammering out a reply by Murdoc honking the horn forcefully. Instead, he scampered away and into the car. Waving the Hannibal from the window. The other waved back slightly, leaning up against his bike and watching them peel off the road. As they turned out of sight, 2D looked down into his lap, smiling.

“Oi, what’re you smilin’ at then?” Murdoc snapped, reaching over and giving 2D a whack on the back of the head. The singer jolted forward, his hands going up to shield himself, his phone flying out of his pocket. When Murdoc didn’t hit him again, he reached out for his phone and settled back in the seat.

“Nothin’,” he mumbled, noticing there was a text on his phone. Sorry for my brother’s bad behaviour, it runs in the family. With a big smile, he typed back A little bad behaviour can be good, sometimes. “Nothin’ at all.”

#fanfic #hannistu

[britishassistant]

Tom Walker and the Devil

S’funny. Even after the whole business with the apple in Eden, even after Sodom ‘n Gomorrah and Herod and the Crusades and the entirety of the fourteenth century, the human capacity for willful blindness still amazes me.

Hm? Oh, don’t start on their supposed “capacity for goodness and optimism” again, angel. Look—look, don’t you dare start going off about the “ineffability of His plan” or I’m taking the wine and finding somewhere else to have a nice drink. What? Oh, so it’s proof you want, eh? Well, I was in the New World recently, and you wouldn’t believe the rate at which humans made deals with me, then tried to weasel out of them once they got cold feet!

Names? Well…there was Deacon Peabody, Absalom Crownshield… oh, and then there was Tom Walker. He was a riot, Tom was. The others, they at least had a reason for making deals with me; Deacon thought he was ensuring that his offspring would continue to live comfortably and have plenty of influence by swindling the natives out of their land, and Absalom became a buccaneer and displayed great riches to impress the mousy daughter of a fishmonger. Tom was only ever interested in how much money he had in his own pocket, a proper miser through and through! He never spent any money on firewood, nor on repairs for his shack, not even of food for his horse! …Yes angel, but the horse died eventually, so at least it wasn’t suffering very long. The only woman to ever marry him was just as miserly as he, and she had a fearsome temper! Attacked anyone who vexed her with fingernails and teeth and— …yes, angel that is how I got these scratches. Stop sniggering.

Anyway, going back to Tom Walker—I thought I’d told you to stop sniggering. Thank you. Where was I? Oh, right. I met Tom Walker when he decided to stray from the path, if you’ll pardon the pun, and managed to stumble into my neck of the woods where I was sheltering in an old fort the natives had abandoned. No it wasn’t very comfortable, I was miserable and wet half the time, but it had atmosphere, you see? Dark, dangerous, inconveniently hard to reach, really lets people know what they’re dealing with, doesn’t it? I even went through the trouble of starting a few rumors about it being a sacrificial alter to demonic spirits.

So old Tom sits down to catch his breath, and he manages to unearth a skull which he then kicks. Taking that as my cue, I appear, with my axe and half-native garb and dark skin all covered with soot and—what? No, I don’t know why I was covered in soot. It’s based off of what scares him, remember? Maybe he was scared of blacksmiths, or an honest day’s work. Anyway, we get to talking, and I show him this new system for remembering my victims that I created; I carve their names into a tree, the interior of which rots in accordance to how rotten their souls are, and I count down the days until I can collect them by hitting each tree with my axe until they die and the tree falls down. What? Oh, what d’you mean “poor, innocent trees?” Trees aren’t capable of moral action, let alone innocence or guilt! No, look—look, forget about the trees for a second, and let me carry on with my story, will you?!

Where was I…so I show him my remembering system (not one word about trees if you want to keep those feathers) give him the sales banter about how I’m responsible for all human evils, blah de blah de blah, and he guesses that I’m “Old Scratch” as they call my lot over there. We get to talking, and I mention that I know where the treasure of the pirate Kidd is buried and that only those in my favor can get at it—complete lies of course, anyone could get at the stuff, though there’s not much left to get at now—and Tom begins salivating. I mean, drool dripping down his chin and everything, the entire works. Of course he clams up a bit when I mention the conditions of the bargain being selling his soul. Of course, I’d sort of expected that; he’s a miser, and misers never want to give away anything that they perceive as having value to other people, even if they don’t value it themselves. No—no he didn’t angel, otherwise why would his soul be in poor enough condition for me to take an interest in the first place? Haven’t got an answer for that one, have you? Thought not. I tell him to go home and think on it for a few days and I brand him with my thumb as a sign of good faith and partly because it heightens the experience. No, he didn’t feel a thing, and besides it’s not like your lot are any less dramatic.

So I wait. The next day, to my surprise, a grouchy woman comes along at about twilight and demands that I give her the same deal I gave her husband. No, I wasn’t happy. What d’you mean why?! Because I’m meant to choose souls that will cause the most collateral generation of evil! Take Deacon Peabody for instance. He swindles those natives off of their land. Those natives then have to go find somewhere else to live. They don’t trust settlers anymore, so they may attack any lone merchants that they come across. That merchant, if he isn’t dead, is likely to be more surly and rude to his coworkers and distrusts the natives more than ever, so he drives harder bargains when dealing with them. And the cycle continues on and on until low-level evil accumulates into something really horrifying. Like Salem. Now, this only works if someone in a position of relative influence is able to do something that effects a group on a wide scale, and I ask you, what kind of influence does a housewife have in this day and age? Absolutely none. Forming a contract to get her soul when it’s obviously going down there anyway would be a complete waste.

So I decide to mess with her a bit, and tell her that if she wants to make a deal with me she has to bring me every portable thing she considers valuable in her house. Of course, she looks very put out about that, but she goes home and comes back the next evening with her apron laden with the stuff. I tell her to take it off and give it to me, which she does unwillingly. Then I go “see ya!” and start running. You should’ve seen her face!! It was hilarious. Practically priceless… yeah, it stopped being funny when she sprung on me like a mountain lion and began clawing my face off.

I didn’t even know what was going on at first. One moment she was standing there, the next she was mauling me! So I throw her off of me, but I didn’t really look where I was throwing, and she ended up sort of impaled…well, more like split in half by one of the trees’ branches. Oh, don’t give me that look! It was an accident and you know it! Why did the trees even have branches like that—obviously they need to look intimidating! Have you ever tried to make a tree look scary? It’s next to impossible! You’ve got to make the trunk all gnarled and knotty and the branches look like they’re curling down to grasp you! And—fine, I’ll get on with it. Well, since the body was just there and not really doing anything so I, uh, took its organs, and wrapped them up in her apron, and left them for Tom to find. His scream was pretty hilarious too, now that I think about it.

So a few evenings later, Tom comes back and agrees to the deal. We haggled a bit, him refusing to be a slave trader no matter what, funnily enough. Eventually we settled on him being a usurer, which he was very eager to start with. He started out small, creating a good reputation for himself and began to drive people to bankruptcy during a recession. The poorer the person, the harder his terms, and he was soon able to afford himself a fine house and carriage with horses to pull it. Of course, he let the house and carriage fall into disrepair because he was too lazy to pay for its upkeep. The horses starved, like usual. I, for my part, was just hanging around, waiting for the perfect moment to strike down the tree with his name on it. I made some deals with other mortals, even getting this minister to leave his congregation to become a slaver with the excuse that pagan peoples deserved a life of servitude to Christian masters. But none of them were ever as entertaining as Tom. He got extremely paranoid about me collecting my due. To try and trick me out of it, he became an avid churchgoer, praying louder than the pious, carrying around a small bible in his coat and keeping a huge one on his desk in his counting house. You should’ve seen that thing. It was bigger than a whole human baby. I measured.

Anyway, one afternoon during the dog days of summer, Tom was doing what he did best—turning away some poor sot who had made the mistake of borrowing money from him. But what sets this speculator apart from the others is that he’s persistent, and he eventually frustrates Tom to the point where Tom exclaims “The Devil take me if I ever made a farthing!” Those, of course are the words I was waiting to hear. I appear with a pitch black horse, and tell him in my deepest voice that he’s come for. He goes really pale, and his eyes bulge like a toad’s stomach, but there’s nothing he can do because his two bibles are upstairs and well away from me. I fling him onto the horse and set it galloping down the street at such a pace that his clerks have to stick their pens in their ears to dull the noise of hooves. The horse took Tom out of the town, back into the woods where he first met me, and bucked him off into a ravine that was the resting place of what remained of Kidd’s treasure. He broke his neck, and his body was never found, as a thunderbolt set the entire forest ablaze that night. When the trustees tried to take charge of his property, nothing was found except cinders and wood shavings. In his stable there were skeletons instead of horses and his great house also burned down. Such was the end of Tom Walker.

Hm? Oh, what d’you mean, this wouldn’t have happened but for me? Look, he and his wife were going down there anyway because of how miserly they were. All I did was provide him an opportunity to tap into his greater potential for evil. Even then, he took his job to extremes that my suggestions barely covered. If he’d wanted to, he could have just lent out money at a reasonable rate, since all usurers, good or bad, belong to my lot. He was the one who delighted in driving others to bankruptcy, willingly and knowingly. Sooner or later your people are going to have to open their eyes and see that maybe the Father’s precious little creations really aren’t so perfect after al—! W-wait, h-hold on a minute, angel, b-be reasonable and put the bloody holy water down—!

#my writing #good omens #the devil and tom walker #washington irving #terry pratchett #neil gaiman #crowley #aziraphale #tom walker #tom walker’s wife #sometime around the beginning of the Arrangement #when they still don’t like or trust each other much #but just enough to have a glass of wine together every so often #aka #when Crowley learns that boasting about his wiles to his heavenly counterpart #is maybe not the best idea #given the angel’s access to holy water #and inability to thwart said wile #when arguing about the logistics of human nature #good and evil #and whether free will was a mistake #crowley pov #second person pov #I originally wrote this for an English class assignment #it got me one of the highest grades I’d ever recieved in that class #the teacher was a harsh marker #so I was really pleased with it #posting it here in honor of the new TV show #goodomens #ineffable

[boysdontcryblood]

Chapter Two

[warnings from the first chapter still apply; reform school setting, authority figures abusing their power, non-corporal punishment]

. + . + . + . + . + . + .

Ali hated this fucking school. It hadn’t even been two weeks, and he was already about ready to climb the damn walls of this freaky place. He hated everything about the reform school; the teachers, the staff, the inedible lunches, the random ass cold spots all over the building, and the constant detention— sorry, remedial study— were only a few of the many things he despised.

The only thing that made the horrible teachers and dehumanizing punishments (almost) worth it was the new friends he had made. It felt like he was naturally drawn to them, and he looked forward to seeing them at lunch and after class every day. Ben with his silent yet rebellious demeanor; Patty with his bright (if rare) smiles that could light up a room; and Foley with his jokes and awesome hugs. They made his life a bit brighter, and he was thankful for them.

As soon as the bell to his last class rang and the teacher dismissed them, Ali ran out of his seat like a rocket whose fuse had just been ignited. He made his way to the courtyard, where Patty and Ben were standing underneath a large tree. Patty’s face brightened when he saw Ali, but the smile faded as a passing teacher glared at him.

“How long have you guys been waiting?” Ali asked. He decided against hugging them, just in case that teacher decided to stick them in remedial study.

“Our class only ended five minutes ago, so not very long,” Ben answered. “Are we ready to go or what?” 

“I’ve been ready since this morning.” Ben’s lips tugged upwards a bit into a small smile, and Ali couldn’t help but smile back.

“What about you, Patty?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. I hope you guys know, though, that if we get in trouble I will never forgive you.”

“Hey, it’s not like we’re banned from walking around the school. We’re just… not going to be supervised this time. We’ll be fine, honest.”

Patty rolled his eyes but motioned with his hands for them to continue anyway. Ali checked around the courtyard, making sure there were no teachers or staff in sight, before slinking away. Ben and Patty turned to follow him as he left the courtyard. There was a side door across the yard from the main entrance, and Ali had yet to see anybody come or go through that door in the week and a half of his confinement.

This was the one escape that Ali got from the stifling aura of the classrooms or the chilly atmosphere of the dormitories. Little by little, he had been exploring the mansion-like school. It gave him something to do besides sit around in his dorm room all day. Patty and Ben joined him sometimes (Foley declined whenever they asked), and it was great fun to see what they could discover and how many hidden places they could fit into. Several parts of the school, like the entire west wing, had been abandoned due to some unfortunate accident or a health code violation, and these places had fallen into disrepair and decay. These were Ali’s favorite parts to explore, even if things did get a little spooky sometimes. Ali often felt invisible eyes following him as he explored, and he would see something flicker in the corner of his vision but turn around to find empty space. Patty had reported the same feelings, but Ben said he’d never felt anything of the sort. Ali didn’t know if he was lying in order to try and appear cool and collected in front of his friends, or if he genuinely didn’t think anything was wrong.

“Why don’t we ever invite Awsten or Otto along on these, uh... these, uh, excursions?” Ben asked. His voice barely rose above a whisper as they slipped through the door and into an unlit hallway. Ali pulled out his cell phone, which they weren’t technically allowed to have on them, and turned on the flashlight so that they could continue on in the darkness.

“Because they’d get us caught. Besides, they’re in detention anyway.”

“Where were you keeping your phone?” Patty asked.

“I keep it in my interior jacket pocket. Nobody ever looks there.”

Patty’s mouth formed a small ‘O’ shape. Nothing else was said as the three of them crept down the hallway. This hallway much resembled the main hallway of the school building, except there were fewer doors and it had obviously been abandoned for years, if not decades. The trio kept walking, passing doorway after doorway until the hallway abruptly turned to the right. After they rounded the turn, the three students came face-to-face with a doorway. There were no other doors down this section of hallway, and the single door was slightly ajar.

Something about this place made the hair on the back of Ali’s neck stand up. A faint but still nerve-wracking feeling settled deep in his stomach, and one glance at Patty told him that his friend felt the same thing. There was something malevolent in that room, and while he didn’t know how he knew that, Ali didn’t want to stick around to find out what that “something” was.

“Come on, let’s go back. I don’t like it here,” Ali said, which was the first time anything even remotely close had come out of his mouth.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either. It feels... evil,” said Patty. The two of them started to turn back around, but Ben quickly reached out and grabbed their arms to stop them.

“What, are you guys backing out now? I don’t feel anything; we’re going in, and that’s final.”

“Who made you the leader?”

“I did. Now let’s go.” Ben let go of Patty and Ali and dutifully marched forward. Before Patty or Ali could stop him he threw the door wide open, disturbing several cobwebs and lots of dust as he did. A blast of cold air swept over them, and Ali found himself shivering and rubbing his arms through his jacket sleeves to keep warm.

“Isn’t it fucking August? Why is it so cold?” Ben didn’t seem the least bit worried about the evil that Ali could feel trickling down his spine. Reluctantly, Ali followed his friend through the doorway, and he could hear Patty’s soft footsteps behind him. As soon as they crossed through the doorway the temperature instantly dropped, leaving the boys freezing cold with no source of warmth. The cold had flushed away any remaining curiosity Ali had had about the room, and now all he wanted was to get as far away as possible.

Ben had stopped in the middle of a circular room, with only the one door leading in and out of the room. There were several portraits hanging from the wall, many of which were covered in dust and cobwebs and had translucent black veils laid over them. There was one, however, of the current headmaster, and several portraits had remained uncovered by veils, which probably meant that whoever was portrayed in the paintings were still alive. The paintings seemed to follow Ali with their eyes, watching his every move as he slowly made his way over to where Ben was standing. There were dead things all over the floor, ranging from rats to simple weeds and flowers that had grown through the concrete. Ali had to pick his way over the mass destruction on the floor. There was something lurking in the shadows— or, more accurately, the shadows themselves seemed to be moving, and several times a hand-like mirage tried to reach out and grab at Ali.

The scariest thing about it, though, were the several upside-down crucifixes on the wall.

“This place isn’t so bad,” Ben said. He was being too loud; he was going to either get the three of them caught, or he was going to disturb whatever evil creature lived in the room.

“Nope, fuck this. I’m-” Patty began to say ‘out’, but he cut himself off with a scream as he toppled to the floor.

“Patty!” In an instant Ben was by his side, grabbing onto his arms and trying to help him stand again. For the first few moments, Patty wouldn’t (or maybe couldn’t) get off of the floor, but eventually, the shadows that had wrapped themselves around his ankle dissipated and he was able to stand once more. As soon as his feet had touched the ground he was grabbing Ben’s hand and running for dear life out of the room, with Ali hot on their heels. Ali turned and slammed the door shut with as much force as he could muster, and he only let out the breath he had been holding when he heard the lock click into place.

“We are never coming back here,” Patty said. He was still clinging to Ben, who looked more confused than anything.

“Guys, it was just a normal room. What’s so bad about it?” he asked.

“I can tell you that, young man.” Ali instantly froze as he recognized the voice. Slowly he turned around, only to find Ms. Sharpe, one of the school’s vice principals, standing behind the trio of boys. “It’s off limits to students.”

The evil thing that Ali had sensed in the room had returned, but this time in the form of a short and rather pudgy old spinster lady. The smile on her face told the young freshman that they weren’t getting off the hook without some serious punishment in their future. 

Patty was glaring at Ali out of the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t going to be let off the hook by Patty, either, and somehow he felt worse about that than the prospect of remedial study.

At least whatever was inside that room hadn’t followed them out. 

Hopefully.

#as it is #stigmata au #cody's turn #boys dont cry blood #chapters