#i need to. start painting abstract gestures again :|

[kozionogin]

sulking form

#i need to. start painting abstract gestures again :| #also. hello to the 5 ppl that are reading this #original art

[mlittinfineartstage1]

The next phase of development in trying to articulate my practice I continued the experimentation and explored other options, one being putting the canvas on the floor and working on top of it, not having a top and a bottom and making the canvases even larger to satisfying my need to occupy space which in turn I need, the vitality.  I also started using acrylic paints again to create my first layers, it is more fluid, and I can move the paint better, oils are rigid in comparison and I don’t have the patience they demand at this stage of my process. I tried using various methods of mark making, including large scrapers, larger brushes, splattering the paint creating gestural marks which convey my movement. With the newfound confidence the artists talk brought me, I was finally letting go, believing in myself, I can’t control the way I paint, I was holding something back, misconstrued planning and thinking. I am a movement artist and an abstract expressionist painter I’ll never going to get away from it, no matter how much I try and control it. What makes a painting? What perception of visual pleasure does it convey and why? I was planning and over thinking what I was doing, it was supressing my process, I can’t function without being expressive, making gestural marks, quick, action painting as Xie Rong said,’ there is a role of the body in making’ [1] (Xie Rong GSA Sofa talk 2022) and her movement plays a big part of her process, mark making, changing of the physical form.

[1] (Xie Rong GSA Sofa talk 2022)

[elanaspodstudiosem2]

Making connections - The Swan

HILMA AF KLINT

During our exhibition Sincerely, yours I was told that my paintings (Breath work I & II) look like Hilma Af Klint's swan paintings. After that comment, I haven't stopped thinking about it, and I can definitely see the resemblance now after comparing the works side by side.

"The Swan is a group of 24 oil on canvases made between 1914 and 1915. Detailed and programmatic in their sequencing, these paintings rely on both widely recognized symbolism and Hilma af Klint’s own idiosyncratic forms and symbols. In alchemy, the swan represents the union of opposites necessary for the creation of what is known as the philosopher’s stone, a substance believed to be capable of turning base metals into gold. Here, af Klint’s black-and-white palette underscores the dualities of light and dark, male and female, life and death." - https://www.guggenheim.org/audio/track/group-ix-suw-the-swan-no-1-1915-by-hilma-af-klint

"The swan that the series is named after is featured prominently in a number of the works. Here, we see the black and the white swans meeting at a point towards the center of the canvas. We see the dissolution of representational work into abstract form, and the theories and ideas that she’s working with are put forth using both manners. And so, we see the idea of duality both illustrated by representational imagery, like the meeting of these two swans, but we also see it in other canvases in the series where a single form is repeated, or is mirrored, in abstract ways across the canvas. So, this horizon line that we see here occurs over and over again in the works from this series, breaking the canvas into two sections that are pulled together, whether they’re pulled together through forms taken from real life or imagined forms" - https://www.guggenheim.org/audio/track/group-ix-suw-the-swan-no-1-1915-by-hilma-af-klint

^ Group IX/SUW, The Swan, No. 1 (1915) by Hilma af Klint.

^ Breath Work I & II

I feel like my paintings are the The Swan painting but without the actual painting of the swan, to me the both hold the same kind of atmosphere and aura. I know they look similar because of their colour palettes - they all have white, blue and black but I think they both have the same sort of presence and textural, gestural qualities too. They feel very present - as if they were made in the same moment. Hilma also used layered in some of her practice/paintings which is another interesting connection. I looked into her at the start of the year when we went to The Secret Paintings exhibition at City Gallery but I think I need to look into her again in more depth, I feel like my practice has reached a point where she should be a very relevant artist to me and my research...

[somnianus]

On Chinese and Eastern Dramatic Acting vs Western

Part 1    Part 2

Mostly in ref to the Untamed/Word of Honor, but applies to a lot of East Asian works-

I’ve been getting the sense that people I know from the west (also being Asian-American myself) often interpret Chinese/Japanese/Korean drama and theatre to be too corny/cheesy/over-acted. A quick search on some internet forums confirms this. Maybe it’s because I used to watch a lot of C-dramas when I was a kid (Legend of the Condor Heroes/Return of C Heroes/Journey to the West/The Reincarnated Princess/etc), I personally did not notice that the acting was over the top. 

I don’t really speak for the quality of acting of these actors because I barely follow them in their careers, but I do know that some of them are immature actors or don’t have much formal training (which may cause the cheesiness above). However, Eastern dramatic acting in general does seem like a common complaint, so I decided to look into it - this is all coming from someone who JUST recently got back into watching C-dramas btw, doing my own research so don’t mind me if there’s some incorrect things down here, I am by NO means at all an expert in drama and theater (lol):

^Villains are often depicted with very exaggerated facial expressions (Above, Xue Yang, The Untamed)

Part 1

1. Chinese concept of mo vs western equivalent of “mimesis” or “imitation”

From this, an excellent chapter on Chinese theatrical concepts vs Western concepts.

Mo plays a significant part in traditional Chinese theatre, usually held to be antithetical to the realism of Western theatre because of its emphasis on theatricality. 

Mo means mimesis or imitation, but in a very different sense from the Western concept. One of the first Chinese scholars to use this term, Fu Sinian, used it to compare Western theatre to Chinese theatre:

Presenting a real event and performing an entertaining show are not compatible. The former emphasizes imitation (yige zhong mofang^b); the latter stresses spontaneity and entertainment. The former performance produces a lifelike image; the latter has nothing to produce. The former puts emphasis on the plot; the latter puts emphasis on theatricality. Therefore they are completely contradictory to one another.

This guy actually goes onto critique Chinese theater, saying it should be more like Western realism, so that there will “be no singing, and the acting will imitate people’s real gestures.” However! Other Chinese critics tried to approach Western vs traditional Chinese drama as two DIFFERENT but still valid forms of art. For example, Yu Shangyuan (1927) said western performance is “writing realistically” (xie shi) and chinese performance as “writing suggestively” (xie yi). Western dramas really rely on an accurate/semi-accurate representation of life and realism. Traditional Chinese drama and acting relied on the “symbolic and imaginative.”

Then what is mo? It is the emotional display, the emotional revelation, that is shown on stage. Starting from the Yuan dynasty, the Chinese drama was thought to be a continuation of poetry rather than its own independent stage art.

Poetry is where the intent of the heart goes. Lying in the heart, it is “intent”; when uttered in words, it is “poetry.” When an emotion stirs inside, one expresses it in words; finding this inadequate, one sighs over it; not content with this, one sings it in poetry; still not satisfied, one unconsciously dances with one’s hands and feet. [anonymous, 1975, from Shi Daxu 200 BCE]

Chinese drama with dancing and singing, was the most expressive product of poetry. The importance of mo cannot be stressed enough - it is the measure by which traditional Chinese drama was judged, how well this drama make you feel? Love, pain, loss, guilt, happiness? Plot becomes something that doesn’t matter as much (more on that later).

^Beijing/Peking Opera - highly stylized, emotive, “unrealistic” performances

To emphasize how central and important this concept is, it’s thought that a good Chinese playwright never fails to “seize a highly dramatic scene to stage an elaborate presentation of an emotional state.”

Love is of source unknown, yet it grows ever deeper. The living may die of it, by its power the dead live again. [Peony Pavilion, Mu dan ting]

This quote really shows how important it was to show these emotions on stage, to inspire the audience to feel deeply. Chinese critics believed that the best part about drama was how efficient it is to display emotion. Playwrights should “depict extreme bitterness, extreme happiness, extreme silliness, and extreme sobriety; imitate these feelings to the utmost (miao mo jin xing^p).”

Such performances are not necessarily accurately mimicking reality, but they are obtained through the “revelation” of a character’s internal emotional world.

2. Mo vs the depiction of reality or theatrical truth

The Chinese concept of aesthetic truth relates a lot to theatrical truth. In a lot of traditional Chinese art, painting, poetry, etc, aesthetic truth is not empirical, and doesn’t have to be accurate to life, or realistic. It’s a “truth that lies beyond mere superficial likeness.”

To the Chinese artist, an accurate resemblance between art and reality is not only superficial but often distorting. Chinese artists hold a dialectical view on the “form” (xing) and the “spirit” or “content” (shen) of an artistic object. According to them, xing  and shen are not always complementary. On the contrary, they often stand in opposition to one another. (referenced in the chapter above)

Traditional Chinese artists would rather represent the object with the wish that their representation matches its spirit, or abstract identity, than its actual form because a “photographic image is a shallow image.” It’s easy to draw a picture of something realistically, but it’s much harder and more satisfying to depict its nature, its feeling, its spirit.

This also naturally affects theater and dramatic performances.

Dramatic writing can be divided into two types: “a painting-like work” or a “transformed work,” in which the latter has higher artistic value because it reaches more towards the essence of dramatic object. Realistic imitations are fine, but they’re not really enough to reveal the mo or true feelings of something.

In addition, traditional Chinese dramatists believe that “all dramas are nothing but allegories. One need not ask about their origins in actual life.” You might be able to see, then, that these older playwrights and critics really fancied the overdramatic depictions of emotions.

a. The Chinese notion of theatrical truth/aesthetic truth vs European

Onto what we, as part of the Western audience, are more used to:

For Italian neoclassical critics, the pleasure of a drama hinges  on how accurate, how realistic, the depiction is. Castelvetro, the leading Italian Neo-Classical critic and creator of the concept of “the three unities,” claims thus:

We cannot imagine a king who did not exist, nor attribute any action to him.

Another Italian critic, Robortellus, said that a creative/imaginative story with no “verisimilitude” (truthfulness, in this context, realism) is less appealing than one that imitates a real-life event:

Thus if a tragic plot contained an action which did not really take place and was not true, but was represented by the poet himself in accordance with verisimiltude, it would perhaps move the souls of the auditors, but certainly less.

So basically, it’s fundamentally the opposite of Chinese theater. Italian dramatic works prized being realistic, being properly adapted from reality and real events. Chinese dramatic works, however, enjoyed the emphasis on heartfelt emotional demonstrations, or mo. Even in critical writings, the word “truth” is used, but it is usually used to modify the word “heart” or “emotion.” It is very concerned with the internal, the truthfulness of heartfelt emotional expression.

Taken these contexts, you can see why the Chinese stage/dramas are wholly “unreal” as Tao-Ching Hsu puts it. Everything, the makeup, the costumes, the props, is expressive and suggestive rather than imitative.

b. Bejing/Peking Opera, jingju

A famous example is the Beijing/Peking Opera, jingju. The makeup and costumes themselves are fantastical representations. The colors and patterns suggest different moods, temperaments, characters, and even changes in emotions. Actors would make distinct movements to depict distinct emotions with varying levels of energy. The stage itself may be sparse, because it is not as important as the expression of emotion and drama. 

The stage is sparse not because of the lack of technology or funding, but because it leaves room for the actor themselves to fully express their internal thinking/feeling/emotions. Characters can cross hundreds of miles in a few steps or may take the whole stage to cross a supposed road. This representation looks “unreal” to a realistic-minded audience, but it is very genuine to a Chinese audience.

Summary (so far)

This crucial understanding of the concept of mo (the emotional revelation), and the way traditional Chinese drama depicts life and stories, informs how their modern works are also portrayed. Coming from a Western dramatic background, where realism and plot are the most important aspects of a work, it can be very confusing, right? Even Chinese scholars began to judge their own dramatic works through a Western lens.

How does this traditional background affect modern Chinese dramas and works? I think it still has a very large effect, even though much of Western ideals about dramatic works have been heavily integrated into modern Chinese dramas.

Part 2: On Theatricality and how it transfers into Chinese Cinema

#cdramas #theater #acting style #beijing opera #the untamed #word of honor #kdramas #jdramas #theatricality #east asian cinema

[rivalsforlife]

Phoenix Wright: The Truth Reborn: Oh No We’re Doing This Again

hi.

Nearly two months ago, I wrote an essay summarizing and making very wild conclusions about the second Takarazuka Musical. I did this about two and a half years after watching the first Takarazuka musical. As such I did not have the full context for many things from the musical and was relying mostly on my memory, which blocked many things from this musical for my own safety. However, just this week, I decided to rewatch it, because I enjoy tormenting myself. I said I wouldn’t write anything on it. Here I am writing something on it.

Here’s the youtube thumbnail so that you know what you’re getting yourself into. And here, of course, is the link. This is the HD version which may be slightly more pleasant to watch. Maybe.

It was not quite as cringe in a funny way as the second musical to me, and therefore this essay may be less funny, but I feel like I’m doing a disservice to people by providing a summary of the second musical while completely neglecting the first. Quite possibly doing this is even more of a disservice. I just eagerly await the day that the third musical is translated because *that* will be the day that I finally shuffle off this mortal coil. Either way, I want to write this stuff down so that I never have to watch the musical again out of curiosity.

The following essay will contain major spoilers for both the first and second Phoenix Wright Takarazuka musicals, as I will be using many points from this musical to argue my thesis of the second musical. ... like you were going to watch them anyways. 

This one broke 8k. I’m dead inside.

Introducing The Director

Again another disclaimer that I don’t have anything against the actresses or the theatre troupe. I DO have something against Suzuki Kei, who I recently learned is the writer and director of all three of the Ace Attorney Takarazuka musicals, and is quite possibly my mortal nemesis.

This man is the one who brought this monstrosity into the world.

This man, allegedly, cleared the first four ace attorney games *seven times* before sitting down to write these musicals. He played these goddamn games seven times and did not take in a single word. The man clicked through them mindlessly while watching a badly written legal romance drama in the background and got them completely confused. I genuinely have no idea how this man could have played these games more times than even me and yet managed to get so many characters (MAYA!!!!) completely and utterly wrong. This haunts me every day, truly.

This man played Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney - Justice for All, Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney - Trials and Tribulations, and Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney seven times. SEVEN TIMES EACH!! and was told to create a musical based on the series. He played these games seven times each and you know what he said?? You know what he said?? “This sucks, I’m getting rid of all of Phoenix’s backstory, butchering half the characters, and writing Phoenix/Lana fanfiction, but also rewriting all of Lana’s backstory so that she was Phoenix’s childhood friend, and you know what, I’m changing her name for good measure.”

I think this man played the games seven times each and then hated it so much and was so sick of it he tried to write something that destroyed as much of the series as possible while still being vaguely recognizable. And then somehow it became a massive hit because people like me see this and go “what the actual hell” and watch it, or people who haven’t played the games see this and go “wow what a great musical!” and then he wrote TWO MORE, destroying EVEN MORE every time in his wake, until finally, finally, he stopped after making Edgeworth straight and time traveling into the past to face off against a corrupt Gregory. I guess that was the last straw.

I have to issue a disclaimer here that for legal reasons this is a joke. I don’t actually hate this man and would not punch him in the face if I met him because that would be rude, and he is entitled to his wrong interpretation of the games. I don’t know what his thought process was. But allegedly he did play the games seven times according to the wiki. This whole essay here is satire and not slander and I don’t want to offend this guy if he somehow stumbles across my nonsense tumblr post. At the same time: Suzuki Kei blink twice if you need help.

Anyways half the reason that I’m making this essay is because I want to share my fake ao3 page for this musical. The other half will become apparent later.

Sorry if that’s illegible because of tumblr quality it’s not really important. All you really need to know is that it’s a fake ao3 screenshot for the musical. Also in the author’s note I said he played the games four times but it was actually seven I just remembered wrong because I didn’t want to believe it.

at this point you may be like “Grace shut up and get to the actual musical” and okay, fine, let’s start this nonsense. Also note that I may be referencing things from my essay on the second musical very frequently; I’m not going to force you to go read that though because the fact that you’re reading this is enough of a torment already.

The Musical Begins

Unlike the second musical, this one opens with some narration from Phoenix.

Transcript:

Phoenix: I’m reviewing a particular case at the moment. To me, this case... is one I’ll never forget.

Immediately I think this is important because it establishes that this whole musical takes place in a flashback that Phoenix is reflecting on. Why is this important? Because we know, by the time of the second musical which takes place three years later, Leona is dead.

Knowing that Leona is inherently doomed to die of her Sad Woman Disease paints this whole musical in a different light. It’s not Phoenix reflecting on how he got back together with his lover; it’s Phoenix dwelling on their past together, and the opportunities they had, before her life was so cruelly and inexplicably taken away. We don’t know if Phoenix’s reminiscing takes place before or after Leona’s death... but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was after.

Phoenix, still in the present, starts to sing. “A wave appears on the horizon like a mirage, it trembles, then vanishes. Your voice, carried upon the waves, fades upon the shore, erasing the splendor of the past.”

This line actually shows up in the second musical, sung by Lucia about her imprisoned fiance quite possibly. It’s kind of hard to tell what the meaning of these songs even are. They’re too abstract for me I think. But this line appears very frequently in the first musical when Phoenix is thinking about Leona.

Then we enter the flashback time.

Phoenix inexplicably yells at a newspaper saleswoman. This is not relevant to anything whatsoever. Then Larry barges in to the office, looking for Maya. Phoenix describes him as “A real trouble maker, but you just can’t hate the guy”, the latter part of which I think many people would disagree with. 

Well, afterwards, Maya comes in. Phoenix describes her like this while making exaggerated “can you believe this shit” gestures.

Transcript:

Phoenix: She’s as ditzy as they come. Oh, and about the outfit... Apparently she comes from a family of spirit mediums. Try not to make fun of her, okay?

Suzuki Kei personally has it out for Maya and I can never forgive him for it. Maya in these musicals is here for pure comedic relief but it’s not even comedic because I just get so angry. How can you play the trilogy seven times and think this about her?? The girl who figured out DL-6?? The girl who told Phoenix to sacrifice her life in order to find the truth?? The girl who put on a brave smile in order to try and cheer up her younger cousin even after she saw her own mother murdered right in front of her eyes?? That Maya Fey?? Ditzy as they come??????

Ugh. Moving on.

Maya and Larry run off, leaving Phoenix to watch the American Broadcast.

Important things to note here are the Godot mug, the little line up of what I think are the messed up little ace attorney figurines beneath the screen, and the fact that while this broadcast is supposedly from and to America the screen is actually not at all showing America. Like literally almost everywhere in the world except North and South America.

The broadcast says that Leona Clyde, age 24, was arrested for murdering the senator Robert Cole! Leona Clyde -- that’s Phoenix’s ex-girlfriend! He runs off to the detention center.

She is not happy to see him.

Leona: Mr. Wright... I’m not the woman you once knew.

Let’s Play A Matching Game

Sorry for the abundance of screenshots that are going to be throughout this section. Phoenix convinces Leona to let him defend her. Some of the conversation seems... familiar.

Leona: No one would defend someone who admits to killing a senator. I’m waiting for a court-appointed attorney.

Edgeworth: Every defense attorney I’ve talked to has turned me down.

Phoenix: In that case, let me defend you.

Game Phoenix: Let me defend you.

Leona: Don’t be ridiculous!

Edgeworth: Don’t be ridiculous.

Phoenix: I’ll never accept that you’re a murderer. Let me prove your innocence!

Game Phoenix: Huh? Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to prove that Miles Edgeworth is innocent.

Leona: I’ve already confessed my guilt.

Gumshoe: He confessed that he did it! In court!

Leona: It’s foolish to think you can win this case.

Edgeworth: My case is near hopeless, Wright.

Leona: (in response to phoenix offering to defend her) No you won’t! Don’t ever come here again.

Edgeworth: Look, just go away, and leave me alone!

Phoenix: You of all people should know. Once I decide to do something, I see it through to the end.

Edgeworth: Once you start on something, you always see it through, don’t you?

Leona: I never thought that you’d be representing me.

Phoenix: Ah, who could have guessed this day would come?

Edgeworth: Not me.

Phoenix: You believed in me. You saved me. And this time, I swear... I swear I’ll save you!

Game Phoenix: Edgeworth believed in me, and I believe in him. I’m the only one who knows the real Edgeworth. I’m the only one who can help him.

I could’ve done a few more, but tumblr is already threatening to murder my laptop.

So long story short, Phoenix manages to convince his lover to let him be the defense on the case. Then immediately after swearing to save Leona, he starts singing a song, which I’m not screencapping because this is enough:

“As long as there are people in this world, there’s only one path I will follow! As long as there is love in this world, there’s only one path I will believe in!”

Edgeworth sings this in the second musical after saying that he returned to California because of Phoenix. Phoenix sings it now after swearing to defend Leona. You draw your own conclusions.

And then we finally get the opening credits. Eleven minutes in.

Just Pretend This Is Narumitsu Fanfiction

Following the credits, we see a beautiful beach. Couples (exclusively heterosexual, of course,) dance and embrace in the background for some time, before revealing Phoenix and Leona, in the Even Further Past, before the LSATs or whatever the ace attorney universe’s excuse for law school exams are.

Phoenix establishes his absolute hatred of change, an important characterization moment.

Phoenix: The view here never changes, huh?

Phoenix reminisces on when they were kids. Leona’s parents were both lawyers (they’re both lawyers) and sometimes they would be like lawyers with her when she was a kid. This inspired her to also become a lawyer after their tragic death of Sickness. They never specify what the sickness is that caused two people who must be relatively young to die while Leona was in her early twenties at the latest. It may be whatever sickness claimed Leona’s life later. Sad Woman Disease. (Sad Man Disease for her father, I guess?)

Phoenix also talks about why he’s becoming a lawyer.

Phoenix: Watching you chase your dream inspired me to become a lawyer too.

So, it’s not “my childhood friend looked sad in a newspaper” because I guess that makes no sense or is too gay or something. But this is another important piece of Phoenix characterization. His entire life so far has been focused around Leona. They’ve been friends since they were kids, and then Phoenix decided to become a lawyer solely because Leona was becoming a lawyer. Not even to try and get back into contact with her after she moved away or anything; just because he’s so obsessed with her that he wants to have the same career as her, then they can run a Mom & Pop Law Firm or something, years in the future, after years of happy marriage and a few children or like whatever the hell.

Well, there’s a few steps they’ll need to get to that. At this point Phoenix still hasn’t confessed his feelings for Leona. He does so here, on this beach.

Leona tries to protest.

Leona: But I’m pushy, selfish, and only care about my goals... You’d get fed up with me.

Phoenix: That’s what I’ve always admired about you. That’s who I’ve been chasing all these years. That’s the only person... I love.

Sooo, Phoenix, your type is pushy selfish people who only care about their goals...? In the first, older lower-quality video translation it was “only care about my work”, too. Hm. Things to think about.

They sing a little duet together. Then we go back to present-day of what’s technically still a flashback. Whatever. Murder is happening.

Back To The Murder

So some plot things to establish: Leona is the legal counsel of Governor Miller, who is running for president in the AMERICAN PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION. After the flashback so that Phoenix has some time to change clothes, they show an interview of him talking about the murder.

Governor Miller: I vow to forge a peaceful country with my own two hands, and to prepare myself for whatever may lie ahead.

Reporters: Through thick and thin, he’s a friend of the people!

The Takarazuka musicals are not very good at hiding their killers.

Phoenix: Oh yeah... It’s almost time for the presidential election, isn’t it?

NEVER FORGET, WRIGHT. THIS IS AMERICA. LAND OF THE FREE! god what even was that line.

Anyways, we meet Gumshoe, who is incompetent once again. Maya runs around the crime scene, picks up the murder weapon, puts her fingerprints all over everything, moves things around, all while Phoenix is like “lol get a load of the world’s stupidest girl” or whatever. But who cares about that.

It’s time to get to the only valid part of this musical.

Edgeworth’s Gay Little Villain Solo

You may have seen this one before.

Edgeworth arrives, but not really. It’s like Phoenix heard Edgeworth was prosecuting and immediately entered a dream-like state, where Edgeworth is heralded by the sound of trumpets in Great Revival. He’s played by a different actress than in the other two musicals, since I think she retired in between the six or so months from this musical to the second. She still plays the role well, though, or as well as can be when you’re written in an ace attorney Takarazuka musical.

Shrouded in scarlet solitude... it’s Edgeworth.

Yes, those are six Edgeworths. Yes, they pick Phoenix up and carry him around and dance with him. Yes, it was probably not meant to be at all homoerotic.

He sings a song that’s called “My rule”. I only figured this out later, but it’s loosely based on a “catchphrase” of his in the Japanese version - in game 1 he says something along the lines of “All I can do is get every defendant declared guilty! So I make that my policy.” In DD in his dramatic anime introduction before the trial, he says “I intend to question the defendant with all I have. For that is a part of my creed.” “So I make that my policy” and “For that is a part of my creed”, to my understanding, are both translated from the same line, which I think is like, “sore ga watashi no ruru”, “That is my rule.” (If I’m wrong, please correct me.) In this song he sings about how he’ll reduce all criminals to ash and such, basically talks about his game 1 prosecuting strategy as “my rule”. 

It’s very fun and probably if you want to only watch one number of this musical, it can be this one. It starts about 26:10 in the video I linked.

Once the musical number is done, Phoenix and Edgeworth stare at each other, and the background fades into the courtroom, so court begins. I feel like I should note that Phoenix has not picked up any evidence or talked to any witnesses in this investigation except for Gumshoe, since Maya just moved some things around and then Phoenix had some weird fever dream about Edgeworth which presumably took up the rest of the day.

The Trial, Day 1

Edgeworth: Consider it a prelude to the poignant Greek tragedy that’s about to unfold.

Maya: The real tragedy’s your pompous attitude!

Those are the only screenshots I took of this trial day. Here’s a summary, though:

The trial starts off with Leona confessing, Phoenix says “no I think she’s innocent”, and since ace attorney doesn’t care about the defendant’s wishes he’s allowed to proceed. For some reason Leona lets him do this without complaint. 

Gumshoe is the first witness, he claims to have caught Leona red-handed at the scene of the crime, standing over the corpse. Phoenix tries to claim that since Gumshoe didn’t see Leona committing the crime, he didn’t actually catch her red-handed, to which Edgeworth responds “What do you think being caught red-handed means?” 

Once Gumshoe is dismissed, Lotta takes the stand. She has a photo of the actual moment of the crime, where Leona is holding a knife in the air in front of the victim. 

The Takarazuka musicals like to do this thing where the image is blurry and zoomed out, but then Phoenix will go “I’VE NOTICED A CONTRADICTION” and it zooms in really far as the resolution increases drastically in order to show you the contradiction that is impossible to spot for yourself, because they don’t want people figuring out the mystery in this musical based off of a video game where you have to solve the mystery yourself. Anyways Phoenix zooms in on this photo and sees that there’s blood on Leona’s hand, presumably before she stabbed the victim. How did it get there?

Edgeworth suggests the victim was stabbed multiple times. Phoenix says the autopsy report contradicts that. Edgeworth, uncharacteristically, does not update it to suit his argument. 

Phoenix concludes that this photo is not showing the moment Leona stabbed the victim, but the moment Leona removed the knife! ... Which somehow casts doubt on her having been the one to stab the victim. Because as everyone knows, anyone wanting to kill someone would never remove a knife, it’s not like they’d bleed out faster that way, or anything.

And this whole contradiction is confusing because presumably if the victim was stabbed and then the knife was removed, they’d know that happened, because then the knife would not be found stuck in the victim’s body, since the victim was only stabbed once. So this shouldn’t be news to the prosecution that someone removed the knife after stabbing. But the investigation was headed by the most incompetent version of Gumshoe ever, so. sure. I guess no one knew.

That at least manages to extend the trial another day.

This Totally Has To Be Illegal

After the trial, Phoenix goes to talk to Governor Miller, aka Mr. Totally The Real Killer. Phoenix asks him why he decided to hire Leona as his legal advisor.

Basically, it’s because her parents were both renowned lawyers. Her father was a Chief Prosecutor, and her mother was a defense attorney. ... a prosecutor and a defense attorney couple... who does that remind us of...

Phoenix points out that just because her parents were good lawyers, it doesn’t mean she’d necessarily be one. Miller says that, sure, but she is actually really talented, and her law school marks were spectacular. Phoenix says “WHY WERE YOU LOOKING AT HER LAW SCHOOL MARKS”, like it’s somehow? suspicious? for a government official hiring legal counsel to look at their law school marks?

Apparently it IS suspicious because Governor Miller freaks out and asks if this is an interrogation. Before Phoenix can press much further, he gets a phone call, and leaves Phoenix alone in a big room.

So naturally Phoenix behaves like a fully grown adult running a law firm.

If all he did was sit in the chair, lift up a desk lamp, and poke his finger on a pen, that’s one thing. But then he leans over, OPENS THE GOVERNOR’S DESK DRAWER, and finds a knife that’s just sitting there casually. It looks like a butter knife. It’s not anything major. Maybe the dude just wanted to butter his toast?

I mean I know Phoenix will dig around in stuff whenever in the games, but he has no reason to suspect Governor Miller at all, much less dig through his drawer probably full of confidential government documents to lift up a knife that he thinks is suspicious. It’s not even covered in blood or anything?

Naturally Governor Miller’s assistant comes in just then, and Phoenix puts the knife. in his breast pocket. 

bud. It may look like a butter knife, but putting knives up against your chest is not a great idea. Much less stealing a knife from a governor? 

Well, in his panic, he accidentally knocks over a bunch of books on the desk. The governor’s assistant helps him pick them up, and they find a photo. Look a little familiar?

The photo has the assistant, the victim Robert Cole, Governor Miller, and the victim’s brother who died in an incident two years ago. He’s the “Neil Marshall” of this musical, and he died in what was essentially the SL-9 incident. Same general premise, except it occurred in the courthouse, and the names are different.

AND FINALLY WE REACH THE END OF ACT 1. They do a musical number here which is a weird sort of mashup of the main opening credits song, Edgeworth’s Villain Solo, and the love duet between Phoenix and Leona. They are all such different songs that it sounds a little weird.

ACT 2, FINALLY

The act begins on a sour note with Maya playing with the knife and showing off her characterization, which is one of the most infuriating Maya characterizations you’ll sometimes see around the fandom by people who don’t like Maya.

Maya: Let me whip up my special spirit channeler hamburgers!

sigh.

But then we’re saved (?) by the arrival of EDGEWORTH, who is presumably just here to chat. He asks Phoenix if he’s defending Leona in hopes of winning her back, then says to keep out of it, since it’s a very important case and he can’t understand the gravity of it.

Then Phoenix says this.

Phoenix: Would you be saying that if you were the one on trial? The defendant is in a dark prison, reaching out for hope... Can you imagine the loneliness and sorrow of being ostracized?

CAN YOU IMAGINE IT, EDGEWORTH? CAN YOU IMAGINE IF YOU WERE ON TRIAL AND I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO WOULD DEFEND YOU AND BELIEVED IN YOUR INNOCENCE??

Edgeworth responds to this by essentially rehashing his speech in Turnabout Sisters about how he needs to find all defendants guilty because he can’t guarantee their innocence and all that. Maya gets upset and leaves so that Phoenix and Edgeworth can talk about their childhood in private.

Phoenix once again complains about how people change since nine years old.

Phoenix then says that he has something Edgeworth doesn’t: the POWER TO BELIEVE! Then Maya comes in and tries to spike Edgeworth’s coffee, so he leaves.

The Class Trial

Phoenix explains a bit about Edgeworth and his backstory to Maya. Namely, the class trial. Phoenix was accused of stealing lunch money, Edgeworth stood up for him, but instead of Larry, Leona stood up for him. I guess Suzuki Kei thought “oh the class trial, if Leona stood up for him, it would be so romantic, because she’s a woman, and he’s a man”, or something like that. 

Edgeworth wanted to become a Great Lawyer Like His Father! But then he turned cold as ice.

Phoenix: His father got too deeply involved in a case... and paid for it with his life. Edgeworth saw him murdered. He was never the same again. I bet he couldn’t forgive the criminal.

Yeah I bet he couldn’t ever forgive the person he thought killed his father all these years, Phoenix. I bet he really hates that person, Phoenix. I bet he has nightmares about that person killing his father or something, Phoenix.

Phoenix: He vanished, then returned without his mercy or compassion. He had become a monster. When he lost his father, he also lost the ability to believe in others.

So like... one of the most chilling things about this musical is that they never actually solve DL-6. This probably roughly takes place 15 years after DL-6, since they were about the same age when the class trial started, and at least Leona is 24 now. The next musical takes place three years from now, and in it, Edgeworth refers to von Karma as his mentor, implying he’s still around and doing things.

So, in addition to everything else going wrong with this musical, DL-6 still happens, but von Karma never frames Edgeworth for it fifteen years later. The statute of limitations runs out, and von Karma forever gets away with his crime. And Edgeworth has no idea.

What changes did they make to DL-6, though, you may ask? I’m desperate to know as well. In the third musical, which I’ve watched because I hate myself but am unable to fully understand because I don’t know much Japanese, there is a scene where Miles flashbacks to DL-6. It’s abstract, but he makes gun-throwing motions at Gregory, followed by a gunshot sound.

Therefore, in this musical’s internal canon, either Miles Edgeworth shot his father, or he believes he did for the rest of his life.

... moving on.

Phoenix: But he still has his humanity. It’s still there, deep down inside!

At least, if nothing else, Phoenix still believes in him. Even this Takarazuka Musical couldn’t touch that.

The Feenie Sweater

Right after this, Larry barges in, and Phoenix leaves him alone with Maya. The musical tries teasing Larry/Maya, but fortunately, Maya’s having none of it.

Maya: You’re barking up the wrong tree.

Props to this musical for not being as bad as it could have been.

After this, the two sit down on the couch, and Maya asks for more gossip on Phoenix and Leona. Larry launches into a story, which turns into a flashback that ends up being narrated by Phoenix halfway through. This one’s about Phoenix and Leona’s relationship.

This is an interesting line in here, “I’ll guide you to the future”, for it loosely referencing the sort of love ballad Phoenix sings with Lucia in the second musical which is about “I’ll take you to that radiant future”, and he later sings to the memory of Leona right around the time of his big spiral into despair.

I’m sorry if you haven’t read my other essay and just said “wait what” to what I just typed.

Leona was getting ready to move to New York to defend the weak “in the big city”. This is rather strange wording because it implies that California does not in fact have a big city. She says some things in her conversation with Phoenix that probably plant some of his later issues.

Leona: This is the first time we’ll be apart since we were kids.

Leona: We promised we’d always be together.

Leona: I’ll be waiting. Waiting for you to come to me.

Haha. Sure would be a shame... if something were to happen... and they wouldn’t be able to be together anymore...

So some dancers wearing black come in and take off their outer jackets, to symbolize the passage of time. They circle around Phoenix and Leona. In this, you can just barely see, Phoenix is wearing a pink sweater beneath his jacket.

“Oh,” I think to myself, “Is that the Feenie sweater? Are they including it here as a reference to the games?”

Then the dancers keep moving.

THAT IS NOT THE FEENIE SWEATER. That is a pink sweater with a sexily drawn woman on it.

This is the other half of the reason why I decided to go through with making this essay. 

This is so incredibly funny to me. Suzuki Kei Who Has Played The Games Seven Times has seen the hand-knit bright pink sweater with a giant red heart on it seven times. The sweater Iris, Phoenix’s girlfriend, lovingly knit for him that he wears all the time even though it is one of the tackiest, cheesiest items of clothing to ever exist. And so, when the costume designers were designing the clothes for College Phoenix Wright, they asked themselves: “Should we include the Feenie sweater?”

and “NO,” someone must have shouted, “NO, we can NOT include the Feenie sweater, it is PINK and it has a HEART on it and it’s TOO GIRLY. Phoenix Wright is a MANLY MAN. He would not EVER wear something PINK with a HEART on it.”

“BUT,” someone else said, “it’s a REFERENCE to the original games, where he DID wear a pink sweater with a heart on it! We MUST include it to pander to the fans!”

“WAIT,” a third person interjected. “I have a BRILLIANT IDEA. We can keep the pink... But to make it VERY CLEAR he is a heterosexual, masculine male... we put a sexy woman on it.”

And Person Three Got A Raise.

Thank god we’re finally halfway done this musical.

We Just Have To Go On With Our Lives Now

There’s plot or something happening. Leona breaks up with Phoenix inexplicably over the phone. Probably because of that freaking sweater. Imagine wearing that. God.

Eventually we go back to Phoenix talking to Leona, and he asks about the Jack Lyon case, which is the rip-off version of the Joe Darke case. Leona is pretty cagey about it, but Phoenix proves that she was there in the gallery that day. Leona refuses to answer, claims again that she killed the victim in her case, and leaves.

This makes Phoenix sad, so he starts singing.

Phoenix: I want to bring you back! I believe in you.

If this sounds familiar, it’s the part where I started absolutely losing my mind in the second musical because this line had never shown up before then, I’d forgotten it was in this musical, and Phoenix was screaming it alone in a red room, so I thought he was like desperately resorting to a necromancy ritual in hopes of bringing Leona back to life.

Instead, this line actually has CONTEXT, though it does just end up enforcing my theory. This is Phoenix mourning what he used to have with Leona, wanting to bring the “old her” back, because he’s devastated that people sometimes change. There are several flashbacks of their college days where he’s wearing his Sexy Woman Sweater. He does succeed in winning her back at the end of this musical. Before she dies, of course.

Phoenix in musical 2 still believes that he can bring back what he used to have with Leona... even beyond death. That’s something affirmed by this musical. I’m very grateful to it for somehow managing to enforce my nonsensical theory.

Doctor Ema

After this, Phoenix returns to his office, and meets with someone new.

That’s right! Only now, halfway through the musical, do we actually get to meet the Ema-equivalent to Leona’s Lana-equivalent. Her name is Monica Clyde. She has little rainbow heart stickers on her briefcase, which is the closest thing this musical has to acknowledging that gay people exist.

But what does this little briefcase contain, you may ask? Scientific investigation tools? No.

A full surgical toolset. Because you never know when someone’ll get sick, or when someone will need an entire operation in front of you. I guess.

So yes, Monica Clyde is not a forensic scientist in training, but a doctor! She decided to become a doctor because of her parents, who passed away of The Sickness, and so became a doctor in order to save lives like theirs.

Once more this has much darker and deeper implications than the musical is even aware of, because Monica is so anxious about treating sick people that she carries a full surgical toolset around with her at all times, scared to lose someone like she lost her parents... and then sometime in the next three years, Leona, her big sister, is going to die.

Of what? The strange Sickness that claimed her parents? A car accident? A botched spur-of-the-moment surgery? Whatever it is, Monica was unable to save her, even when she’d been training her entire life for it.

Monica is not mentioned at all throughout the second musical. It’s as if she does not exist.

Because unlike Ema of Rise From The Ashes, Monica is not at the heart of this story. She is, primarily, a plot device here to make Leona not trust Phoenix so that he can angst about their relationship. 

What a mess this world is.

The Trial, Part 2

Rather than try to prove Leona’s innocence, Phoenix wants to link the current case to not-SL-9, the Jack Lyon case. He does this by showing this picture.

Senator Cole, the victim, is in this picture. His younger brother whose name I’ve forgotten, the victim of not-SL-9, is also in this picture. They are brothers. It is apparently novel that they are in the same picture, and somehow makes their cases linked.

As well, Governor Miller is in the picture. I guess you could say like... Governor Miller’s legal counsel is the defendant, so that’s another link? Even though the Governor would presumably know a Senator, so this isn’t an unusual group. Right now Phoenix has absolutely nothing to prove that these two cases are linked other than “hey, these two victims are brothers”, but apparently it works. So they spend a lot of time talking about not-SL-9, since Leona has confessed to the murder on day 1 and there is absolutely nothing indicating that she can’t be immediately declared guilty.

They hid the fact that Monica was a hostage in this not-SL-9, meaning that some of the case records were forged. Here’s Edgeworth’s reaction when this comes out.

Edgeworth: This is an outrage! I’m the most influential prosecutor in America! There’s nothing I don’t know!

In RFTA, when Edgeworth learns he’d been using forged evidence to give a man the death penalty, he is devastated, his entire worldview is shaken, he sees himself as a monster who could end up becoming horribly corrupt if he isn’t stopped.

Musical Edgeworth goes “I DIDN’T KNOW SOMETHING???”

It’s certainly strange characterization, but I guess Edgeworth is further behind in his character arc than in RFTA, so... ugh. Fine. 

Phoenix calls Monica out as a witness to prove she was involved in the case. This causes Leona to panic, and try to dismiss Phoenix as her attorney, like Lana in RFTA, but Edgeworth interjects to call Monica in anyways. He and Phoenix have a little moment.

Edgeworth: You said to believe in others. I suppose I’ll try believing in you. Try to keep up.

Phoenix: Edgeworth!

So Monica comes to the stand to testify. We get to see this picture of Monica being held hostage, and not-Joe-Darke’s incredible eyeliner.

Lots of it is very similar to the actual RFTA, except instead of the victim being stabbed on the knight with the giant knife, he’s instead stabbed with a regular old knife. Leona still refuses to admit to what really happened, until Edgeworth convinces her to believe in Phoenix.

Edgeworth: Your attorney is a runaway train with a one-track mind. Yet he placed all of his faith in you. Believe in him. You owe him that much.

Leona testifies, and says that when she found the victim, he was stabbed with a scalpel.

Here is where things get weird.

Scalpels Can’t Kill People

So basically earlier in this trial, they talk about how Leona knew that the knife that stabbed the victim was double-edged despite being buried in his chest. The judge questions if this means Leona killed him, but Phoenix is quick to say no, she was searched when she entered the courthouse and couldn’t have concealed a knife.

Yet, Monica was able to bring in her surgical toolkit which contains several sharp knives, scalpels, scissors, etc.

This is the first major contradiction.

Leona continues to say that when she found Monica, and the scalpel stabbed in the victim, she also ran into Governor Miller, who if you haven’t been able to tell yet is the Gant-equivalent of this musical. He offered to help her with the cover-up, etc.

The next bit goes a lot like RFTA. Phoenix accuses Governor Miller, who barges in, says Phoenix has the decisive evidence in his pocket. This is the “butter knife” that Phoenix took from his office when he dug around in confidential documents and stole it for no particular reason. It has Monica’s fingerprints on it! ... And Phoenix’s and Maya’s too probably because they were handling it without gloves, but they don’t mention that part.

Leona cries about how she shouldn’t have trusted Phoenix because he was apparently now blaming Monica, Monica looks terrified, she and Leona have some good sister moments but it’s not as good as it could be if the story was actually about Leona and Monica like how RFTA was about Lana and Ema. But Phoenix has the decisive piece of evidence that can turn this around.

It is this:

Phoenix: Scalpels are made for medical incisions, not stabbings. So how did it stab the victim?

...

...

...

... What?

So like. Yes, scalpels are made for medical incisions. Medical incisions often involve cutting through flesh, very easily. As a result, they are sharp. Extremely sharp. As in: their purpose is literally to stab people, very specifically.

Yes, they’re easier to control, so that surgeons don’t regularly stab people how they’re not supposed to be stabbed, but it’s not like, impossible to stab someone in a killing way with a scalpel? Admittedly, I have never tried to kill someone using a scalpel. And I do not have experience using a scalpel for surgeries because I am not a surgeon. But I’m pretty sure, if you take a sharp scalpel, and you stab someone in the chest with it with a reasonable amount of force... they die.

Like, is this a particular kind of scalpel that is not very sharp? Is the problem that the blade doesn’t match up with the initial wound? But even then, we don’t have the original unforged autopsy report or even a picture, so how would Phoenix know what the original wound looked like to say it didn’t match up? And even then why wouldn’t Phoenix say that instead of SCALPELS CAN’T STAB PEOPLE???

This is his decisive contradiction and it makes ABSOLUTELY NO SENSE TO ME!!!

Well Darn I Guess Scalpels Can’t Kill People

This is such a decisive piece of evidence, that scalpels can’t kill people, coming from the man who thought “caught red-handed” does not involve being caught standing over a corpse with blood on your hands, that it causes Governor Miller to confess.

Unlike Gant, who created the murder with Neil Marshall both to ensure that there was decisive evidence to convict Joe Darke, a serial killer who had not left any decisive evidence behind, and gain control over the prosecutor’s office in order to pull similar stunts to get criminals convicted using false evidence, Governor Miller does not have that as his motive. After all, he’s not a police officer. Instead, he ended up accidentally killing not-Joe-Darke, and then set up the incident in order to get Leona on his side. As her parents were both influential lawyers and very respectable, having her and her parents’ reputation on his side could help him become President of America Where This Takes Place.

So, let’s just take a moment to run over some of the things that made the original Rise From The Ashes great, in my opinion. Just for fun.

1 - The heart of the story between the Skye sisters. Lana closing off to protect Ema, Ema wanting to get through to her sister and get back to the way things used to be. Phoenix, in this story, is more of a bystander to this plotline rather than in the heart of it himself.

2 - Edgeworth’s Character Development. Basically RFTA creates an interesting transition between Turnabout Goodbyes and JFA. It causes Edgeworth to re-evaluate everything he knows about being a prosecutor. So quickly on the heels of Turnabout Goodbyes, it crushes the last bit of hope in him. It compares him to Gant, who also hates criminals, and forces him to wonder if his hatred of crime will one day lead to him being a criminal himself. He’s already convicted one person on forged evidence; how many others could there be?

3 - The Ends Justify The Means. ... wait come back, don’t leave. What I found neat about this case was also Gant’s motive. At one point he was presumably an honest person who hated crime and wanted to stop criminals. But over time in the police force, he became corrupted. He wanted to have all criminals convicted. So what do you do when you don’t have the evidence to convict them? Joe Darke was a serial killer who has killed several people and may have killed more if he’d gone free. The only way to stop and convict him was by using forged evidence. Other criminals could hide evidence to get away with their crimes, so people like Gant would make it up to catch them; but then when do you stop? What happens if there’s no evidence because someone is truly innocent? When does the line between “this person is a criminal and I want to stop them” and “I just want to convict everyone I’m dealing with” become blurred? This is also something he shares with Edgeworth and helps to advance his character.

All three of these things are either lessened or outright ignored in this musical. Leona and Monica’s story takes a backseat to Phoenix and Leona’s Love Story, with Monica only showing up halfway through, and mainly as an excuse as to why Leona is withdrawn. Edgeworth doesn’t seem to blame himself for the forged evidence he used, and doesn’t have a crisis questioning his morality over it. And Governor Miller’s motive is purely power. Unlike Gant, who would have become Chief of Police whether he solved SL-9 or not, Miller needed Leona to win the presidency. And instead of asking her to help him with his campaign like a normal person, he just blackmailed her instead.

... How do you play the games seven times and miss this much?

The Case Finally Ends

god. we’re almost there.

The case ends, Leona is declared not guilty but will still face trial for covering up murders and such. Probably less of a sentence than Lana because she was not involved in ongoing police corruption? Either way she’s dead in three years, so she’s got something a bit more concerning coming up.

She’s led away. Phoenix sings a bit about Leona before being interrupted by Edgeworth... who has something important to tell him.

Edgeworth: You awakened within me those once-cherished emotions I had discarded. I see visions of a distant, nostalgic past.

So basically this is the unnecessary feelings of the musical. Something along the lines of “seeing you again and fighting for my former ideals is making me question many things about myself.”

How does Phoenix respond?

Phoenix: Edgeworth... Try talking normally for a chance.

Sure, we were all thinking it, but that’s a little cold, Phoenix.

Edgeworth tries a smooth recovery.

Edgeworth: I don’t do... idle chit-chat.

This doesn’t accomplish much. So he leaves to allow Leona to visit with Phoenix alone. He’s got to go change for something more important coming up.

Leona and Phoenix decide that they’re going to get back together once Leona is done her sentence! They make a promise that is very funny if you know she’ll be dead in three years.

Phoenix: I’ll be waiting. For you.

There are a lot of hugs here, I’m not screencapping them all. There are also several moments where their faces get very close together and like, their nose brushes the other’s cheek or something, but they never actually kiss. Is it because the actresses weren’t comfortable with it (valid), or they thought kissing would be too much for the musical (sure, whatever), or since both characters are played by women the show staff did not want two women kissing on stage (probably the real answer)? I don’t like watching kisses, but I kept bracing myself for one and then it never happened, so.

Phoenix ends the main part of the musical with one last musical number starring my personal favourite piece:

Phoenix: I want to bring you back! I believe in you.

I like to think that at this point, this is present-day Phoenix, after finishing his reminiscing, still desperately wishing he could bring Leona back from death.

But alas, he cannot. And so, after one last daydream of them dancing together on the beaches of California, singing about their love, the musical ends.

Dance Time!

This starts at exactly the two hour mark, if you’re interested in watching what is, once again, one of the only fun parts of this musical.

Seriously, Edgeworth’s actress kills it here, when I first saw this I went “oh, this is why I saw so many people being gay for her on twitter.”

Edgeworth’s song is an encore of “My Rule”, so it’s lots of fun. Afterwards Phoenix gets another fun piece.

Then we get to the love ballad part, which I can probably overanalyze, I feel like I haven’t done enough ridiculous over-analyzing in this essay in comparison to the other.

Uhhh so the fog represents how Phoenix feels lost in this world without Leona. You can see it in the second screenshot separating the two of them, representing the barrier of death between the two of them. Idk it’s midnight I’m getting worn out from having to think about this musical for so long.

But his mourning over Leona’s death becomes even more apparent in the credits, where Phoenix sings that one line again:

Phoenix: I want to bring you back! I believe in you.

I’m not fixing that screenshot, I think it’s oddly fitting, in a way. That’s me right now.

Then at the very end, he sings this song.

Phoenix: I’ll spend... this eternal life... soaring through... the heavens!

Technically, this refers to his name Phoenix, but let’s dig a little deeper. He spends the rest of his life soaring through the heavens... the heavens that Leona went to after her untimely death, perhaps?

Overall, the musical becomes much more interesting when you just see it as a prequel to the second musical. This musical establishes many core concepts of Phoenix’s character: his refusal to believe in the concept of things changing, for one, and also his extreme dependency on Leona who he was never separated from since they were kids and where he based his entire life around her dreams and ideals. All he can think about is her. And in the end, he promises to wait for her in California.

Yet, to paraphrase Miles Edgeworth, all that is waiting for him is her death. Their dream of opening up a Mom & Pop Law Firm will never come true.

Thanks again for bearing with me even though this wasn’t as funny!

#ace attorney #phoenix wright the truth reborn #idk maybe someone wanted to know what the first musical was like without actually watching it? #my essays #my posts #i'm TIRED i'm going to BED goodNIGHT #this is less funny jokes and more actually criticizing the musical #because so much of this is like. wow. you really thought that was a good idea huh #just skip to the feenie sweater part honestly that's the funniest part of this musical

[ghost-strawberry]

Art is a Window to the Soul

Fanfic for Phic Phight 2021. Prompt by Arioz: In his sophomore year Danny decides to take an art class as a required elective. His teacher is... concerned with some of his work.

"It's... something." Miss Davies gingerly picked up the sketchbook, turning it one way then the other, occasionally squinting her eyes. She carefully turned a page and her face flashed through a mixture of horrified shock, outraged fear and then settled on acute anxiety. The teacher placed the sketchbook down and lifted her gaze to meet Danny's. He squirmed internally under the stare. Glancing downwards he could see the artwork spilling from the open page, bright reds and greens in stark contrast to the dripping black. Danny could have kicked himself. Why did he hand this stuff in to his art teacher? He should have just kept it to himself. Or better yet, not made it at all.

 Danny didn't respond. He didn't know what he could say to explain himself. That these nightmarish visions were a reflection of his inner landscape? These violent scenes are something that happens to him almost everyday? Normal kids didn't paint things like this. They painted flowers, or self-portraits, or wind-swept landscapes.  His heart dropped further as he looked back towards her and saw her furrowed brow and worried expression. He knew she would tell him that he was deranged, that he needed psychiatric help, or that his mind didn't work right and shouldn't be bothering everyone else with the horrific images in his brain.  Danny waited, shuffling his feet on the tiled floor, wishing he could just turn invisible. Serval wild escape plans ran through his head, including transforming into Danny Phantom right there, knocking Miss Davies out, wrecking the sketchbook and hoping she would think it was all a dream. He stood patiently.  "Are you okay?" Her warm and friendly tone surprised him.  "Uh... what?"  "Are you doing alright?"  "I... Yeah, I'm fine." Danny looked away and picked at a loose thread hanging from his shirt. Miss Davies closed the book on her desk and sat down heavily on her seat, gesturing Danny to do the same. It was the last thing he wanted to do right now. He slowly took the seat opposite her. He ran through an imagined scenario where he over-shadowed her and made her think this was someone else's artwork.  "It's very good you know," she commented lightly, referencing the work as if she was talking about the balmy weather. "There's a lot of movement in it, very expressive, obviously. You're certainly skilled with a paintbrush Mr Fenton."  Danny opened his mouth and closed it again. Miss Davies continued, "but, you know, it does alarm me somewhat, the content of your work. There seems to be a strong narrative within the art, even through your abstract pieces, of pain... and brutality."  "I... I just saw that stuff in computer games," Danny stammered, desperately trying to come up with an explanation, "yeah I was thinking about... the struggles that people face across the world, the endless wars. I wanted to make something that... raises awareness about the problems that some people face."  Miss Davies made an affirming noise that didn't sound like she believed him. She slid the sketchbook across the desk towards him. Danny looked at it and made no move towards it. He wondered if his parents had ever made a device that wipes peoples memories.  Miss Davies spoke in a gentle voice, "I think it's really great that you feel able to express yourself like this. Creating is so important in how we process the things that have happened to us, the emotions that we experience. The topics that you have chosen to represent... they are very important for people to know about."  Suddenly Danny couldn't stand to look at her. Her sweet words were too much, her pity was almost unbearable. He stood up too quickly, grabbing his sketchbook so fast it was hard to see, causing her to jump.  "Sorry," Danny said, automatically in an emotionless tone.  "Daniel, please," she implored him, "is there something that you want me to know about? Is there something happening at home?" Her deep brown eyes were full of concern. She was young, for a teacher. Danny hadn't noticed before.  "Really, I'm fine Miss Davies. I'll try and paint, less graphically, from now on." Danny started towards the door. He kind of wished he could tell her the truth. How many times did he have to assure people he was fine?  "Don't ever censor yourself Mr Fenton," she said, her voice slightly raised now, but not unkindly, "you have a real talent for art. I think you should keep pursuing what you feel strongly about."  "Sure," Danny lied. He turned and walked out of the room.  "And don't destroy that sketchbook!" Miss Davies shouted after him. Danny sniggered with the irony; the book had already started smoke from his between his fingers. He cut off the flow of ecto-energy to his palms. Maybe he would throw it into the Ghost Zone and say that he lost it. He was sure Youngblood would get a kick out of it, if he came across it. Danny kept walking down the hallway. When Miss Davies thought Danny was out of listening range, she picked up a phone and dialed a number.  He heard her speak softly; "Mr Lancer, I want to arrange a meeting with Mr Fenton's parents."

#Danny Phantom #phic phight 2021 #aw ye first phic for the phight #danny has some angst

[cudan2]

One Last Surgery

Spring Break Shadowing Part 5.1

Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Word Count: 2,043

Summary: You finally find out the reason for going to the children’s hospital, but you’re more distracted than usual today and Dr. Cullen can tell. 

A/N: Tell me why part 5 of SBS takes up over half of the whole series? I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for 5 months because I keep adding more to it smh. Now it’s too long so I’ve decided to split it up into 3 parts (in addition to parts 6 and 7). I’m making the final edits the rest of this part now - 5.2 should be posted in like two days.

Anyways, this is technically the beginning of  #1 and #2 on my headcanon list.

Masterlist

XXX

Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital is only across the street from Doctor Cullen’s office, but it seems to take forever to get there. You trail the doctor like a lost puppy through a skyway and a series of corridors before eventually reaching the right building. Different is definitely an understatement.

Gone are the linoleum-tiled floors, the abstract paintings lining the hallways, and the stark white walls. Instead, there are bright colors everywhere you look. Artwork featuring various galaxies and planets scatter throughout the hospital, and giant stars are imprinted along the floors; even the whole atmosphere just feels different.

You don’t get much time to analyze the differences though. Doctor Cullen is wasting no time to reach the destination, and his long legs aren’t making it any easier to keep up.

“Not that I don’t like surprises, but any chance you can tell me what we’re doing in the children’s hospital now?”

“Impatient, are we?” Doctor Cullen chuckles. He stops at an elevator and pushes the up button, only giving into your question once he catches a glimpse of your pout. “Alright, you win. Are you familiar with a cleft palate or cleft lip?”

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open with it. You shake your head no and get on the elevator with him. He presses the button for the floor and then leans against the wall, arms outstretched on the handrail, and gives you an explanation. 

“A cleft is a gap or split occurring in the roof of the mouth, upper lip, or both. It is due to improper joining of the tissue during fetal development. There are no definitive known causes as of right now, but it’s believed that the environment and genetics can play a role.

The hospital has its own craniofacial team, but I was asked to join this particular case given its more complicated nature. Hanna became one of the first patients I treated when I came to Columbia,” Doctor Cullen finishes fondly, a smile gracing his lips.

“What makes this case complicated?” you ask.

“Hanna was born with a bilateral complete cleft lip and palate, meaning her lip cleft is two-sided and continues into her nose. It took quite a few surgeries to repair the lip, but now the next step is to repair the palate.”

The elevator reaches the floor and dings. You follow Doctor Cullen out and continue prodding him with more questions, which he is more than eager to answer. It’s incredible how knowledgeable he is. Granted, it is his job to know these things, but you couldn’t begin to imagine yourself being able to even scratch the surface of these topics, not to mention give a mini lecture on it.

You’re soon standing at the door to a patient room while the doctor asks Hanna’s parents if you can observe. They readily agree, and Doctor Cullen motions for you to come in.

Inside the room, you see an infant that can’t be more than a year old – Hanna.  She’s sitting upright on the bed, leaning against who you assume to be her father. You notice two fading scars going up into her nose above her lip. Her mother is waving a stuffed toy around her, but Hanna’s attention is fixated on the blonde doctor.

“Y/N, allow me to introduce you to Hanna’s parents, Anthony and Linh Pham. And this is Doctor Giselle Adamou, who will be working with me on the surgery,” Doctor Cullen gestures to the older doctor in the room.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” you say politely.

Pre-op goes differently than what you’ve gotten used to observing this week. There is no case presenting given the lack of residents on the case. If anything, this is what you would expect out of a non-teaching hospital.

Doctor Cullen re-explains the procedures to Hanna’s parents, but halfway through, Hanna crawls to the end of the bed where Doctor Cullen is and attempts to stand, arms outstretched as if to say, “Up! Up!” Bewilderment is not a word you would have associated with him, and yet you catch the brief widening of his eyes that betray his usually calm demeanor.

“I think she wants you to hold her,” Linh comments.

“I can see,” Doctor Cullen muses. “Do you mind?”

“She’s all yours.” Linh picks her daughter up from the bed and hands her to the doctor. The sound of Hanna’s elated laughter fills the room, and you can’t stop a small smile from appearing on your own face. A cute baby and a gorgeous doctor? You don’t know who to thank for the sight.

Meanwhile, Hanna starts playing with various pens in Doctor Cullen’s breast pocket while Doctor Adamou continues where her colleague left off. You try to pay attention, you really do. Like Hanna though, your attention lies on someone else, and that someone else happens to be Doctor Cullen.

The more you study him, the more the minute features you never noticed about him before seem to pop out to you. Under the bright fluorescent lighting of the hospital, the dark purple circles under his eyes are more apparent than ever. How ironic for the preacher of health to lack sleep himself. His eyes, which you normally consider to be a vivid golden, are darker than you initially thought them to be. They are liquid pools of dark amber, speckled with dustings of gold and flecks of black. There isn’t a single blemish on his face that you can see either, further confirming your belief that this man is truly the most attractive person you have ever met. Either that or he must have one hell of a skincare routine.

It’s unnerving how young his appearance is. Skincare and diet can only do so much for a person, right? Doctor Cullen has to be at least 35 at the minimum, yet he could easily pass off as someone from your own school.

“Any last minute questions?” you hear Doctor Adamou ask and snap back into reality. By missing nearly everything the older doctor talked about, you already know you’ll be so screwed if and when Doctor Cullen decides to interrogate you on this case.

Neither parent has anything left to say, so Doctor Cullen gives a reluctant Hanna back to her mother. She lets out a cry and his expression softens.

“I know, sweetheart. I’ll miss you too, but I need to get ready for your big surgery, okay? I promise you’ll see me again in a few hours.” His soothing voice does wonders for her. In an instant, Hanna quiets down and her frown is replaced with giggles and smiles again. She waves the two of you off, and you both take your leave with Doctor Adamou trailing behind you. You’re not even halfway out the door yet when Doctor Cullen starts testing your knowledge again.

“Y/N, what procedure will we be doing to repair Hanna’s cleft?” 

You do not have this one in the bag whatsoever. You wrack your brain for information that could help you, but Doctor Adamou interjects before you get a chance to say anything.

“Why does it not surprise me that you’re treating students like interns already, Carlisle?”

“I am merely advancing the education of next generation’s doctors,” he responds.

“Whatever you say,” she laughs. “Don’t scare off Y/N though, or we won’t have any doctors left in the next generation.” She turns to you after picking up files from a nearby counter and says, “You come running to me if he pushes you too hard, alright?”

You grin. “For sure.”

“Good. I look forward to seeing you both in the OR,” she says before heading off.

You like Doctor Adamou. Each surgeon you’ve met here so far has had such different personalities, yet each also has the charisma and confidence to take control of a room and command respect. You, on the other hand, could barely get your own friends to listen to your own words. How are you ever going to get on the level of all the amazing doctors around you?

“She saved you there,” Doctor Cullen comments, leafing through Hanna’s charts as he walks you into an empty elevator to the operating floor. Oops, it’s just your luck that he noticed your lack of attention during the pre-op. “It’s unlike you to be distracted. Penny for your thoughts?”

The elevator doors shut, and he looks up from the chart, his eyes falling onto yours. He has that twinkle in his eyes again – the one that brings warmth to your cheeks and could make anyone weak in their knees. You know it’s silly, but a single look from him could make you spill any of your deepest and darkest secrets, yet a part of you also knows that he would keep it. You’re not naïve – you know it’s dangerous to put so much faith into a man you only met this week – but there’s something about him that told your instincts to trust him from the very beginning.

Call it intuition, or maybe it’s just plain stupidity, but you sure as hell aren’t going to tell him about how you got distracted because of his pretty face.

You hesitate for a moment and let out a sigh. “How do you do it?” He quirks a brow, momentarily perplexed, and you attempt to find the right words. “How do you make all of this look so easy? How do you know what the right thing to say is? Or trust that what you’re doing is even right? How did you know if this was all meant for you? This is really dumb, but it seems like everyone here was born for this job, and then there’s... me.”

There’s a slight sense of dread starting to form in your stomach. You’re unsure if what you asked even made any sort of sense and wonder if you gave too much away. Giving any reason to second guess your abilities is like digging your own grave when it comes to this career. Expressing uncertainty is one of the biggest taboos of the cutthroat world that is pre-med because schools would not accept students that aren’t absolutely, totally, and completely sure about this path.

You’ve wanted this for so long, yet there’s still a part of you that doubts if you would be enough.

Rather than going straight to gowning and scrubbing in for the surgery, Doctor Cullen grabs your hand and leads you down to an abandoned hallway, only letting go once the two of you are hidden in an alcove away from any prying ears or eyes.

“What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for surgery?”

“We have a few minutes to spare. Y/N, please know that I understand how you feel,” he says softly. “There was a time when I questioned my own abilities as well… whether my perseverance could overcome adversity. It took quite some time to reach where I am today.  However, without enduring those trials and tribulations, I would not be here. With time comes experience, and it is that experience that allows me to perform my job the best I can.”

His voice reminds you of a gentle breeze, rustling the leaves of a tree on a cool summer night when he continues speaking in hushed tones. It brings a blanket of reassurance, a sense that things would eventually be alright.

“I have said this before, but I see enormous potential in you. You still have a great deal of time to grow and develop your skills. It’s easy to get caught up in comparing yourself with others, especially given today’s societal standards, but I believe you are much more capable than you may think you are. Everyone’s journey is different and yours may not necessarily be as linear as you would prefer. In due time though, I have faith that you will succeed.”

What he says is exactly what you needed to hear.

The swell of tears pricks at your eyes and start blurring your vision, but you blink them away quickly, fighting the urge to wrap your arms around the doctor. 

“Thank you, Doctor Cullen.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“You’re very welcome. Now, I believe there’s a little girl waiting on us.” 

XXX

Tag List - Message me to be added or removed to either this series or the rest of my fics!

@jelly-fishy-babie @notahappytree @anxiousgoldengirl

#carlisle cullen #carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle cullen imagine #twilight #twilight fanfiction #twilight imagines #twilight renessaince #twilight saga #twilight reboot #twilight renaissance #doctor daddy cullen #you guys can't tell but this whole story was one large self-insert #i started writing this at the beginning of the pandemic #was in the midst of my junior year and about to apply to dental schools #basically got rejected from all 19 schools i applied to only for one to rescind their rejection and offer me a spot for next year's class #it's a school in new york too!! #what are the odds? #for anyone struggling out there or feeling like things aren't going the way you want them to - life has a way of working out eventually #twilight fanfic

[nationalharryleague]

Work of Art

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Genre: AU, Artist!Harry, fluff, angst if you squint

Word count: 4K

A/N: Hi everyone! This is my entry for @hsogolden​ ’s AU writing challenge! Check out their blog they are incredibly talented!!! ALSO, a MASSIVE thank you and shoutout to the lovely Miss Lu, @harrysgucciloafers​!!! I could have never done it without her!! Thank you so much for reading and remember, feedback is so so so appreciated!!! You can also send requests to my ask anytime!! I hope you enjoy :) More of my writing can be found in my masterlist :) 

***

Sleep was fleeting and you remained staring at your popcorn ceiling in your shitty apartment for longer than you would have liked. It was later than you would have liked when your phone buzzed and lit up the ceiling of your bedroom. Knowing sleep was still far off, you rolled over and examined the text from an unknown number, the bright screen blinding you in the process.

Hi, I was thinking of you today. I thought I would show you this piece that I made of you. Hope you’re doing well. Hx, attached was a slightly blurry photo of a beautiful painting of a woman.

The woman in the painting was made up of beautiful bright colors, her skin a mix of green, blue, and purple tones. Her eyes were a bright and captivating cerulean, standing out behind wide framed glasses, and she wore an intriguing and knowing smirk on her lips. Her hair fell down in blunt bangs over her forehead and framed her heart shaped face. She was young, looking to be only a little bit older than you.

The painting was captivating. It was crafted with such bright tones, using color blocking that blended the abstract with some elements of realism. It felt like someone poured all of their emotion and adoration or hurt (you couldn’t decide which) into it. You couldn’t decide if the artist loved or hated this figure staring back at you. One thing you knew was that whoever texted you was incredibly talented and had obviously dedicated so much time to this piece. You felt awful that it hadn’t reached its intended destination.

Um… Wrong number, you typed out, feeling a pang of sympathy for whoever ‘H’ was.

Oh… okay. Sorry to bother you., your phone screen lit up again.

Your art is beautiful, you quickly sent back, attempting to offer some sort of consolation to the mystery artist. Sorry I’m not who you wanted to talk to.

Don’t worry about it. Just looking for someone from a lifetime ago.

That last part kept you up for most of the night. You couldn’t stop thinking about what that could mean. Old friend? Estranged relative? Another artist? You let your mind dream up Oscar-worthy scenarios until you finally fell asleep.

***

“Please come to Scott’s art show with me,” Grace whined from across the table at your favorite coffee shop. Grace was your best friend from college and hadn’t figured out to get rid of you yet.

“You know how I feel about your shitty boyfriend and his shitty art,” you fired back. Scott was a pretentious “artist” who made “ironic” misogynistic sculptures and frequently “forgot” to pay Grace back for his share of rent. You hated his guts.

“I promise I’m going to break up with him soon. I just need to get to the end of the month so I get my money’s worth for rent,” she assured you. “By the way, I’m going to need some help moving out at the end of the month,” she mentioned nonchalantly. You let out a chuckle at her and playfully rolled your eyes.

“I will go to the show with you on one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You’ll hold my hand.”

A few hours later you walked into the modern and cold art show space, holding onto Grace’s hand for dear life, feeling unwelcome in this environment. Grace blended in easily, her bright blue hair and arms of tattoos suiting her well.  The edgiest thing you had ever done was getting your nose pierced… until your grandma threw a fit and your mom made you take it out. You were not an artist and you did not feel welcome in the art community, or at least the type of artists that hang out with Scott. You worked in an office, you dressed plainly and simply, and you didn’t think there was anything special about yourself. You were strikingly ordinary, a sharp contrast from most other people in the gallery. You felt like an outsider because you were one.

Walking around the gallery, you hung onto Grace while examining and appreciating the artwork. You took careful steps, as if to not take attention away from the paintings on the walls and spent time examining each piece as you moved through the room. As you moved from wall to wall, your eyes fell on a strikingly familiar painting. The same girl with the bright blue eyes and the bangs stared back at you, the devilish smirk still playing upon her lips like she knew you had met before.

Releasing Grace’s hand, you all but ran up to the painting in question, trying to take in all the details that didn’t translate over the slightly grainy photo on your phone. The painting took on a life of its own up close. The paint itself was layered thick and thin across the canvas creating a rough texture that made the girl come alive. You were half waiting for her to make eye contact with her captivating baby blues and start staring back at you. You felt like you could reach inside the canvas and hold the beautiful woman’s face in your hands.

“Do you like it?” a deep British voice asked after clearing their throat behind you.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful,” you murmured, still staring at the green and purple woman. It took you a moment to rip yourself away from her piercing eyes and look towards the voice, only to turn around and find an even more captivating set.

They were bright green and belonged to a tall, dark haired man that was breathtaking. He had chocolate brown curls that seemed to be sticking in every direction, like a purposefully perfect bedhead, and stubble that moved up his jaw and down his neck. He had plushy pink lips framing his bright smile and his two front teeth came down the tiniest bit too far. He was wearing a white tshirt that was painted to his fit body as it was a size too small for him, showing off his arms of tattoos, and a pair of orange corduroy flares. His ensemble was topped off with a pearl necklace. He arched a brow when your mouth hung open slightly, trying to take all of him in.

“The painting is gorgeous,” you eventually were able to spit out. “I feel like I know her.”

“I’m glad that I was able to create something so captivating,” he smiled at you. So he was the one that painted it, meaning he was the one who had texted it to you. After getting over the initial shock, you gave yourself an internal high five for having this guy’s number. “Harry,” he introduced himself, reaching out a perfectly manicured hand to shake yours. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Y/N,” you smiled back, debating if you should tell him that you had kind of met before. It felt creepy to tell him, like you were some sort of voyer on an intimate part of his life. “I love her. Can you tell me a little bit more about it?” you asked. You had to figure out if it was worth being creepy about.

“So did I,” he said with a light chuckle. “She’s someone that I used to know,” he elaborated looking over your shoulder, surely making eye contact with the woman. Maybe you were reading into it too closely, but you thought a flash of hurt passed across his features.

“Do you always paint mysterious people from your past?” you teased, wanting to break the slightly awkward silence and also willing to do anything to talk to him further.

“Actually, I’m mainly a landscape painter,” he smiled at the ground, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Looking back at Harry’s wall of paintings you realized that the girl was the only person on the wall, flanked by beautiful landscape paintings depicting all different areas of the world. You quickly picked your favorite, a monochromatic green scene of the Eiffel tower.

After you asked if he traveled a lot to paint, the conversation began to flow. You strolled around the mainly empty studio space, footsteps falling in sync, him teaching you about his paintings and you asking questions, desperate to learn anything you could from him and just wanting to hear that beautiful accent. You learned he grew up in Cheshire and moved to New York for school and never left, but he travelled to Europe often to see his family and to paint. He told you about how his ultimate goals in life were to have one of his pieces in the Museum of Modern Art and to find his soulmate. He was a hopeless yet hopeful romantic. He also had two cats, Evie and Stevie (the latter was obviously named after Stevie Nicks).

He was so beautiful. He had this magical twinkle in his eye that you just couldn’t get over. He looked like he was one of the sculptors’ in the room’s life work. He was just as much of a piece of art as anything on display in the studio.

When the crowd started to thin, Grace came and found you, still rolling her eyes from something stupid Scott had said, him trailing not far behind. “Hi my love,” she greeted you, kissing your cheek casually as always. “We were getting ready to head out but I can see you’ve made a friend.”

“Harry is the artist behind all these amazing paintings,” gesturing to the long wall displaying his artwork. “This is my best friend Grace,” you said, turning back to him. “And that’s her soon to be ex-boyfriend, Scott,” you laughed and pointed to him staring at a blank white canvas in the corner that was obviously not part of the exhibition.

“Wait,” he began, shaking his head and laughing, pointing accusingly between the two of you. “You two aren’t together?”

“What? No!”

“It’s just that you were holding hands for a while when you came in and then she called you ‘love,’ and then kissed your cheek,” he continued laughing, his cheeks a bright red. It was adorable. You felt your cheeks heat up just as bright red as his.

“Oh my god, no.” You broke out into a fit of giggles of your own.

“Well, in that case, would you like to grab a drink or something sometime?”

***

You decided to order a martini when you got to the bar the next night. You thought it would make you look fancy and you hoped it would impress your worldly date. You had put on your favorite red dress (the one that hugged you in all the right spots and hid the wrong ones), praying he would dress up like you did, and slid carefully onto the barstool. Bouncing your knee nervously, you sipped your drink slowly until you saw his well dressed figure enter the bar, making your heart skip a beat.

He was dressed in high-waisted wide-legged tan pants and a bright red cardigan printed with small white hearts that was held together in the front by a single button, leaving his chest and signature pearl necklace on display. His chest tattoos were now slightly visible, the faces of two swallows looking back at you, as well as what you thought might be some sort of antennae peeking up from his stomach. He also wore an award winning smile and shot you a wink when he spotted you from the entrance of the bar. Once again, he took your breath away.

“Hello darling,” he greeted you as he made his way over. You began to panic when he started leaning into you, relieved when his lips found their way to your cheek and quickly moved to the other. When he kissed your cheeks, it sent sparks through your body. Oh my god, he is so British, you squealed inside your head, unable to suppress your American excitement. “I like your color choice,” he smirked looking between your outfits of almost the exact same red. You could only hope your cheeks didn’t match as well.

“Great minds dress alike,” you remarked, earning a laugh from the gorgeous man in front of you. Turns out, your joke was enough to break the ice. Soon the conversation began to flow freely, without anxiety or trepidation, like you were a pair of souls reunited after lifetimes apart. You were two martinis in when you decided to break the news that the art gallery was not the first time you had spoken.

“I think I have to break something to you,” you giggled, everything seeming a little funny after a few drinks, “the art show was not the first time we met.” His eyebrows knit together in slight confusion so you decided to elaborate. “The night before the show you sent a picture of that painting to a wrong number, and that wrong number was me. I promise it was all a coincidence and I am not stalking you.” You held your breath while you waited a moment with bated breath for a reaction from him, but released the stress that had found its way into your shoulders when his smile returned to his lips.

“I knew you had more interest in Amelia than most people,” he chuckled. Amelia, you repeated to yourself, now having a name for the face of your mystery woman.

“When Grace dragged me to that studio and I saw her again, I just had to know more. But then I met you and got a little distracted,” you flirted, “accidentally” nudging his leg with the point of your stiletto.

“I’m glad I’m just a distraction to you,” he feigned offense, clutching his pearl necklace with the hand that wasn’t hanging onto his neat tequila.

“Meeting you tonight was actually just an elaborate ruse to learn more about your Amelia,” you sarcastically confessed, sending him back one of the winks he had been shooting you all night. Your wink wasn’t met with his typical laugh, but a slightly pained smile that didn’t reach his eyes. You worried you had hit a nerve.

“She’s not my Amelia anymore. Actually, I don’t think she ever was,” he spoke gently, taking a sip of his drink and breaking eye contact for what felt like the first time tonight. Oh no oh no oh no, you began to panic in your head. What did this woman do to him?  

“I once had an ex tell me they had cancer so I wouldn’t break up with them,” you offered, forcing a laugh and praying you could brighten up his mood again. Thankfully, it worked, bringing back the crinkles by his eyes that appeared whenever he smiled or laughed.

You breathed a sigh of relief when the rest of the night went smoothly. It was better than smooth actually, it felt easy and exciting. Harry made your heart sing and your stomach flutter. He was a perfect gentleman, walking you all the way home (even when he lived on the other side of the city) and even up to your apartment, insisting he needed to make sure you made it inside safe.

The pair of you were standing in front of your front door when he leaned in and pressed his blushed lips to yours. He tasted like the lime that sat on the rim of his drunk and smelled like shampoo and vanilla. Every hair on your body stood up on point and everywhere he touched you felt like your skin lit on fire; you never wanted this moment to end. He gently held your face and you could feel his lips turn into a smile as he pulled away, his beautiful green eyes meeting yours once again.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he breathed, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

“I think we should do this again,” you said, still catching the breath that he took away.

“I promise you’ll be hearing from me soon. I already have your number,” he chuckled, still beaming. You watched as he walked down the hallway away from you, winking and blowing you a kiss before turning the corner. As soon as you entered the apartment, you slid down your front door, dizzy from the haze he had created in your head. You couldn’t wait to see him again.

***

After that night, you couldn’t believe someone like him kept coming back to someone like you. You insisted you were too boring for someone who had such an incredible personality and background. Yet three months later, he was yours and you were his.

You spent almost all your nights together, crammed into one of your small New York City apartments, wrapped in each other’s arms and hypothetically solving the world’s problems. You had learned in this time that Harry was incredibly intelligent and well spoken, no matter how long it took him to get his words out due to his slow cadence. In your conversations, you had come to the agreement that most of the world’s problems could be solved with a little empathy and that green was definitely the best color.

Tonight you laid naked in his bed, your head resting just above your favorite butterfly, and played with his fingers as you listened to him speak about postmodernism and how it rocked the art world. You didn’t understand a thing he was going on about but you loved to hear him speak, his voice vibrating through his chest and how he pulled on his bottom lip when he was thinking. You scanned the studio apartment from his bed, trying to pay attention but losing that battle. The floor was littered with finished and unfinished paintings leaning up against the walls and you noticed one familiar face you had grown fond of was missing.

“Where did your painting of Amelia go?” you asked when he took a second to breathe during his diatribe.

“I sold it,” he said curtly.  You hadn’t talked much more about Amelia after that first night, the woman obviously being a sore spot, but you couldn’t help but wonder what happened.

“Oh, okay. I liked that painting a lot,” you spoke cautiously, trying not to hit whatever nerve you had previously.

“It was nice, but I think she should haunt someone else now,” he said with a sigh. Haunt?, you thought to yourself.

“H,” you began, rolling yourself off him to look him in the eye, “can I ask what happened with her?” You held your breath, afraid you might lose him to the heartbreak again.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s long gone.”

“Harry,” you lightly scolded him by using his full name which you rarely did, thinking back to when you agreed not to keep anything for each other. With a sigh, he began to speak.

“I was with her for a couple months last year and when I look back at it, it was really messy. We fought all the time and kept a lot from each other. But I had my rose colored glasses on and I would go as far as saying I was probably in love with her. I was even looking for engagement rings.” You felt a pang of jealousy within you at the idea of Harry loving anyone else. “That was until I found out that she already had a husband.”

Your heart broke for him after your initial shock, resting your hand on his warm cheek in an attempt to soothe him. He didn’t seem sad recounting the story or at the mention of her like he was before; he was now dealing with the remaining hurt of rejection.

“I painted her while I was still really mad,” he continued. “My original plan was to send it to her husband and tell him what had happened. But I decided that three lives didn’t need to be ruined instead of one. And then I was just kinda stuck with the painting. I thought selling it was a good way to get her out of my life and it’s more productive than lighting it on fire,” he finally said with a light chuckle.

A lot made sense all of a sudden. You now understood why Harry always got a little jealous when he saw other guys looking at you. He would loop an arm around your waist and press a kiss to your cheek while he stared them down. He thought you didn’t notice but you always did. You also understood why he was so open with you about how much he cared about you. It was a good thing you were equally as obsessed with him.

“I’m sorry, H. You didn’t deserve to go through all of that,” you said softly after a moment, unsure of what else you could offer.

“It’s okay. We grow from our past,” he shrugged. “And if I hadn’t painted her, I wouldn’t have found you,” he smiled sweetly, pulling you back into him and pressing his lips onto yours.

***

“Oh my goodness, what are you doing?” you giggled when Harry asked you to close your eyes.

“I have something to show you. Please close your eyes,” he asked again.

“What if I don’t want to close my eyes?” you teased, poking the dimple in his cheek caused by his cheeky grin. He rolled his eyes and began his plea again.

“Close your eyes, please. Do it.”

You gave in this time, closing your eyes and letting your heart flutter in anticipation. Harry knew you loved surprises and often took advantage of that fact. You felt him gently rest his cupped hands over your eyes, obviously not trusting you to not peak (he probably shouldn’t). He pressed himself to your back, urging you to make your way further into his apartment.

“Styles, if you let me walk into something, I swear to god,” you continued your giggling, overcome with excitement. Harry mumbled an ‘Oh, hush,’ in your ear before he stopped you both and lifted his hands away.

Your breath caught in your throat as you took it in. The painting was in Harry’s signature style, layered bright colors and varied textures across the canvas. Staring back was your own face, painted in a bright red monochrome with the exception of the color of your eyes that remained the same. You were posed with a bright smile that crinkled the skin by your eyes and you were wearing the red dress that you had worn that first night at the bar.

“Harry, oh my god. It’s so beautiful,” you managed to get out, still in shock.

“I know you don’t think you are, but are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t want anyone else in the world to be my muse.” You felt as if you could explode or melt with the amount of love you had for this man. You held him up on such a pedestal, and now you knew he did the same for you. “From the moment I saw you, I thought you were a work of art. So, I thought I’d actually make you into one.”

Your cheeks burned from the smile you couldn’t shake if you wanted to and you felt yourself get a little teary eyed. You felt as if you had spent the majority of your life thinking you were nothing special and just another person walking down the street. Harry made you feel like you were the center of the universe. You wanted to love yourself like Harry loved you; like you loved him.

“I love you,” you blurted, small tears rolling down your face, wiped away by Harry’s talented hands.

“I love you too,” he murmured softly, pulling your body to his. “I’ll always have your face hung up high in my gallery.”

There she is!! I hope you enjoyed it!! You can let me know what you think here!! :) 

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[senju-sekhmet]

The Leash (Part 12, Fin.)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death, angst with a happy ending ~8600 words (this chapter, finished work: 83.600) Previous: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 7; Part 8; Part 9; Part 10; Part 11

Read on AO3!

Final chapter! To all the brave souls that kept up with this fic until now: THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! <3 Disclaimer below, as always!

DISCLAIMER! My super self-indulgent work comes to an end! I hope this makes up a bit for all the angst that happened and - stick around until the end for more notes from silly me <3

_________

The burn had faded.

Abruptly as ever, and it was followed by nightmares that you knew well. Nightmares whose intensity paled in comparison to being burning alive, but nonetheless nightmares they were. They also passed, and back you were in nothingness. Drifting under the surface that you couldn’t break through.

You had not died, had you? They had kept you alive. They still were. It must’ve been Hashirama. Maybe Tobirama had been there, too. 

It was so tiring to think of all this.

The darkness began to stretch. You still were suspended in it, held down - bound somehow - but the nightmares didn’t return. Instead a different kind of sensation set in: itches. Everywhere. Inside, outside - wherever that was, anymore. A headache, maybe? You felt… warm. It became uncomfortable quickly, but nowhere near the sensation of withdrawal - which might be because alongside all this came numbness. As though someone had cut the chains of suspension, lowered you down and put a weighted blanket over you. It still was confining, but in a way also a shallow repose.

You were too frightful to trust it.

You didn’t know what was happening anymore.

You just wanted to rest, but the itch and the aches everywhere were keeping you from it. How annoying.

 ______

His heart beat achingly and there was a tightness in his chest that felt awfully familiar. The only reason he wasn't being crushed again by heartache again was his brother tending to you.

It had been twelve hours since Tobirama and his brother had literally pushed you off of the verge of death. Now, it was time to pay the price for keeping your heart beating and your lungs breathing.

Violent shivers ran through your body, the sheets were drenched from sweat. Hashirama was inspecting ink on the seals that kept supporting you - ensured your heart beat strongly, upped the blood pressure, sustained your organs more than your body would right now. Wordlessly, Tobirama handed him new drenched parchments to replace the dried up ones at the centers of the seals that released the medication they each had been soaked in.

His hand trembled slightly. "The severity-"

Hashirama cut him short firmly. "Her condition is critical, but stable. All she needs now is time." His brother gazed up at him. “You should rest more, Tobirama.”

His scarlet eyes glared at him, lifting from your pitiful form only momentarily. “I will once Y/n is better.”

It wasn't the first time Tobirama had spoken up. When the true brunt of the overload had started to hit you initially, he nearly panicked - what little peace of mind he had found combusted in an instant and his concern for had him back in a vice grip. His brother on the other hand had not been impressed; he had known it would come to this and his confidence alone had reassured him. Time and again he had told Tobirama it was going to be fine.

All it needed was time.

The man didn’t question his brother, of course - but it wouldn’t easily quench his worries, either. Not when you were lying here, trembling, feverish - whimpering. And he - helpless to do anything but watch. Like before.

He was tired of seeing you teetering on the edge of death with no means of pulling you back. He didn't want to wait anymore for your recovery, he wanted things to start becoming better now. He was tired of being helpless.

He'd spent every waking second by your side until he knew you were well again.

 ______

More time passed.

Possibly. The blanket didn’t lift. The nightmares - the nightmares didn’t return, either. That surprised you. The circle… the circle was broken, somehow.

Was this death then, after all?

The itch had faded too, slowly - the uncomfortably warm sensation, the aches - it all went away. You were your sweet nothingness, far away from all you had endured, your horrible memories.

No pain.

You could stay here comfortably. If this was death, then you were fine with it. Though you felt one ache still - Tobirama. 

He would never forgive himself. If only you could tell him, one last time - that you were alright, that he gave his all. That you loved him and would do so forever.

That sorrow haunted your bliss. And it wouldn’t fade. Quite the contrary - it became stronger and stronger. The stronger it became, the more sensations and thoughts broke through. At first, your mind began to shake off the dark stupor that held it captive until now. Your thoughts became clearer. The process of all you went through - the lack of nightmares now, the breaking of the agonizing routine that previously had governed your life cruelly - it could, should mean one thing. But you didn’t dare to delve into the thought more. Instead, you focused on the sensations that you picked up. Presences. You didn’t feel alone in your darkness anymore. Someone was watching you. You knew them well. Countless times, you’ve traced over his chakra network gently as an inward embrace too tender to put into words.

Tobirama.

He must be doing the same. Occasionally, there was another presence you could identify too, after your mind cleared up more: Hashirama’s. 

It made you reel - with excitement. It must mean one thing?

And yet no matter how much you wanted to reach out - you didn’t exactly know how. It wasn’t like you were asleep. Either they put you into this state - or maybe you were too weak? - but every time you tried to shake off the nothingness that had become your comfortable cocoon, you ended up exhausting yourself to a point your mind started to drift away again. Maybe not yet.

You kept on digging your way out bit by bit, every time you felt able to. Senses were returning. At first, there was touch. Perception of yourself - not in the abstract sense, but in an acute way. Your legs, your arms. Your chest. The beating of your heart. Your hand being touched, Tobirama’s chakra warmly hailing and covering your network. At first you simply basked in that sensation. You wanted to return the gesture, but it wasn’t possible - that frightened you, but you didn’t question it. Yet. You just continued to work your way out of this. Every now and then, someone would grasp your jaw to pour a liquid in - the leash, you realised. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t resist it. After touch came hearing. There wasn’t much, really. The birds chirping outside. Conversations between Tobirama and his brother, though you were too tired to follow them, really.

Finally - finally came your eyes. When you opened your eyes again for the first time in who knew how long, your lids felt as heavy as leaden blankets. You almost wanted to close them again directly, figuring the endeavour was just too tiresome.

If it wasn’t for the face by the side of your bed.

His scarlet eyes lit up in a rare streak of excitement. Excitement you could identify as such, at the very least. He suddenly was closer - you realised he must’ve gotten up from his chair to sit by your side - you felt a warm sensation on your hand. His was on it - and already, his chakra moved over your network. That you still had no access to. “Y/n?”, the jitter in his baritone voice was unlike him. Frightened, almost.

You forced yourself out of the proverbial swamp to give him a better look-over. As per usual, his facial markings were painted on perfectly, the black undergarment he wore when neither in battle nor in formal attire was spotless - and his white hair, spiky as per usual.

You realised then, you had thought you never would see his face again. 

His brows furrowed and his lips formed a thin, turned-down line. “Y/n?”, he inquired again, now growing more worried. Something wet rolled over your cheek. A sound - you were sobbing.

You really were here, again. With him. 

“T-Tobi…”, you croaked out, choking on your own voice. It didn’t sound like you. Raspy, blocked. Withered from not being used. More sobs followed that you had no control over.

Tobirama’s expression grew heartbreakingly sorrowful - his lower lip trembled. He nodded jerkily and extended a hand to cup your cheek gently; wipe at your tears tenderly. Carefully. As if too much pressure might harm you. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and then finally - “I’m here.” The jitter was gone from his deep voice. It was reaffirming now.

“I-I t-thought…”, you took a deep breath, working through every word slowly. “... I d-d-died.” The tears continued to roll down your cheeks as Tobirama caressed you.

Now he sounded decidedly pained. Haunted. “You almost did.” In an ironic way, his brutal honesty was reassuring. This really was Tobirama in front of you. “But you’re safe now. You’ll make it, Y/n.” With the determination in his voice, there was no question about that bit.

Suddenly, you felt an urge quell within you so desperately you were overwhelmed to even get the words out properly. You’d have moved on your own to sit up, were it not for the fact just keeping your eyes open was tantamount to running uphill at full speed. But you needed this, now. Badly. Achingly. “H-hold m-me, please,” you stuttered with your rusty voice.

Tobirama hesitated momentarily and stopped his caressing motion on your cheek. He swallowed, indecision clear on his face, “I’m not sure if I should-”

“D-damn it,” you hissed, each second letting your ache for him to be nearer grow more painful. Your sobs came out as wheezing sounds now, increasingly frustrated by the moment that really just lasted so very shortly.

Suddenly his arms wrapped around your chest and his warm face buried itself in the cold crook of your neck, letting you tilt your head to smell his hair. The fresh scent of his - when was the last time you’d smelled it? Whether it was sheer force of will or actually more hidden strength, you willed one of your thin arms to rest on Tobirama’s back that was heaving intensely. He was careful to not put any weight on you except for the contact of your bodies, his chest covering yours - you knew it, but all that mattered was he was here. The sheer purity of the moment snuffing out the ache, the fear - all of the torment and agony of the past days, weeks, whatever it has been.

You simply basked in this as you closed your eyes to feel the connection not just physically, but also from his chakra.

Alive.

You made it.

Although - “My c-chakra,” you whispered questioningly, not bothering to form a full sentence nor break the silence - the serenity - longer than you had to.

Tobirama’s breath came warm against your skin. “Sealed, right now. I’ll open it up-”

He wanted to move. “No,” you replied swiftly, with as much firmness as your weak voice could muster since your body certainly wouldn’t hold anyone back. “Stay.”

Wordlessly, he settled back against you to let the moment continue. Your damn chakra could wait, it would be muted anyway, wouldn’t it?

No matter how long you wanted to stretch this all out, tiredness was beginning to grip you. And despite the fight you put up, you couldn’t help the hand slipping off of Tobirama’s back and your eyes involuntarily closing, every now and then. You hated it. You’ve been away for too long.

Tobirama felt it too, of course. Despite your protest, he pulled back slowly to resume holding your hand gingerly in his. His scarlet eyes had a reddish hue to them now, but his expression was mellow. “You should rest again, Y/n.”

You huffed. “I b-believe I r-rested enough.”

A fine smile formed on his slips and he shook his head. “Not nearly enough, I’m afraid.”

You rolled your eyes in response. “T-tell me f-first. What h-happened.” And your tone left no question about how much you wanted to know, now.

Which Tobirama recognized easily with a sigh. He took a deep breath and his gaze wandered to the ceiling, his deep voice neutral now. You knew what this meant. “We’ve almost run out of leash and it was just through a trick that I learned the final secret to this damn drug. Had it taken any longer, the withdrawal might have killed you. It is thanks to Hashirama’s expertise the chakra overload didn’t, actually.” His effort to keep his voice neutral was failing slightly as the tremble returned to it.

So that was the itch, the ache. Interesting, because for chakra overload - you really hadn’t felt much.

“We managed it the same way we did during the withdrawal,” Tobirama explained, “But the reaction became severe nonetheless. You ran an extremely high fever we had to cool down and it was only due to sedation you weren’t in pain,” his eyes had wandered back to your face, studying it cautiously now. Almost as if he was searching for evidence to the contrary.

You, on the other hand, had to muster all your left energy to process the information and most looked as though you were ready to crash at any given second.

Surprisingly, Tobirama continued his explanation, even though his gaze became more worried. “The seals stabilised you throughout the rest of the overload reaction, which was… intense.” He paused for a moment, his voice having become more quiet. Once more he had to clear his throat before he found his voice again, visibly struggling to find the words and yet speaking clearly nonetheless. “Your condition still became critical. Like said, had it been any other than Hashirama healing you during the last withdrawal, you might have died.”

You exhaled breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. Your gaze drifted over your blanketed self as the realisation hit you more and more. 

Might have died.

Close. Everything had been so close.

You’d been running from one danger into the next, life being threatened each lasting second, no break in sight.

“Y/n,” Tobirama’s firm voice became more distant as drawing breaths was becoming harder again and you forcefully swallowed down tears. “Y/n,” he called out again, less firm - a hand stroked up your forearm gently.

“I d-don’t,” you began, trying to wrenched the words out past your sobs, “It’s- d-damn it!”, either your voice got stuck or the wheezing breaths made it to hard, but you couldn’t articulate the overwhelming amount of shock that coursed through your veins. At least you thought it was that. More like a conglomerate of shock, existential pain, sorrow and ultimately, despair.

Tobirama watched helplessly as you fell apart more and more, his eyebrows furrowing in a most desperate way. Once more he reached for your face but this time, his palm stroked your hair gently as his lower lip quivered in search for better words. He didn’t have any - most likely because he felt much the same, if you were to guess. Finally though - “You’ll be fine,” his baritone voice but a whisper, “You’re safe now.” Over and over again.

“I’m here for you.”

Although the moment wasn’t filled with serenity, you needed it. You needed to hear it - over and over again, to feel him caressing you, his chakra like a warm blanket on your network. 

You survived, that was one thing.

But the danger - the danger was over.

Finally.

Exhale. Relax.

Eventually, the tears stilled and your breath evened out. Exhaustion claimed you fast now, but you wanted to keep gazing at his face. Tobirama’s expression had grown more mellow. He allowed it, for a bit longer. Eventually though - “Rest now, Y/n. I’m not - you’re not going anywhere. Allow me,” he pulled the blanket down your chest.

You still were littered with seals of course, but Tobirama’s fingers had already settled right in the middle of your chest in the center of the intricate chakra seal. A brief glow later, you could access your sluggish, muted chakra again. The comfort in that feeling alone sent you further down into drowsiness.

A pitiful sigh escaped your lips.

He covered you up with the blanket again. You thought you might have heard him again, but you couldn’t make out any words. Already, sleep had claimed you.

 ______

The next few times you woke didn’t differ much from one another; usually your strength lasted only long enough for you to open your eyes and stay awake for a short period of time before sleep claimed you again. Even so, the intervals began to increase and as they did, so did your strength to move your arms at least. It was frustrating nonetheless - lying flat on your back only was entertaining for so long. The spirit and mind weren’t as broken, worn out and torn as the rest of you, it seemed.

“I think I’ll go crazy at some point,” you huffed lowly. It was evening and the room was drenched in beautiful, reddish hues of the evening sun. “There really is nothing to do.”

Tobirama was sitting in the chair beside your bed, slowly raising up an eyebrow as his lips formed a fine smirk. “If you’re complaining again, then you must be recovering well,” he observed with dry irony, which you could only roll your eyes at. He had kept his promise - being there for you, any waking second. You suspected he knew since he administered the leash to you - and therefore he was well aware when you’d be awake again to talk to. Whenever you opened your eyes, he was there.

It was comforting. You weren’t doing well on your own, right now.

“Honestly Tobi, I want to see you bed-ridden for what -  weeks?  - you’re the one who quite literally has to be tied down before he’d actually rest, no matter what,” you scoffed back.

In ever so slight amusement, he pursed his lips more. “Don’t talk like you’re better at it, Y/n. I know for a fact were you able to, you’d be getting out and about even when you really, really should not.” The unspoken ‘like you had been’ hung in the air almost tangibly as you stared at him. You’d never hear the end of this.

“The ceiling, this room and its window can only entertain me for so long,” you pouted.

Tobirama’s smile grew more sympathetic. “It’s only going to get better now.”

You sighed. “I know,” you couldn’t prevent frustration leaking into your voice. Then, something occurred to you. “I noticed,” you began slowly, shifting ever so slightly to face him more. “I’m not… having these nightmares anymore, at all. After I’ve taken the leash. In fact…,” a frown formed on your face. “I do not dream at all. Did... did you do something to it?”, frankly you found the question pointless. You know he had to - you’d been getting the leash for an agonizingly long time now, and that definitely had changed.

His smile faded ever so slightly. “I did. During learning how to create the leash itself I realised it doesn’t require the exact psychotropic agents they tortured you with necessarily. Just something to latch onto, if you will. So right now, you’re just getting a light tranquilizer alongside the leash.”

You had to snort then. “I figured. Explains why I feel like crashing every time I’ve taken it.” He nodded solemnly in reply. Then, a smirk formed. “And why I feel so damn hazy all the time.”

Now, he rolled his eyes. “I’d consider it a positive side effect, to be honest.”

“To actually force me to rest?”

He sighed exasperatedly. “Certainly,” his tone was caustic. “Judging by how sharp your tongue has gotten again, I’m sure without the tranquilizing base solution of this leash, you’d be moving way too much right now.”

Your lips formed a kissing motion. “You love my sharp tongue, though.”

His eyebrows shot up instantly at the suggestiveness of the statement, but he couldn’t deny the chuckle that rumbled in his chest. He was too proud to answer verbally, though. Still, you were sure there was something of a reddish hue around his facial markings.

“Honestly, you should be glad I’m not making an offhanded comment about how my love keeps me tied to this ‘leash’, Tobi.”

“Y/n!”

That instantly let his deep voice rise in volume as it became quite stern. He had crossed his arms in front of his chest. Now, you were definitely sure he had gotten red.

You merely chuckled in reply that Tobirama found difficult to join in, but the proverbially ruffled feathers smoothed out again quickly. It was how you knew he was relieved - making fun at his expense without getting a smart remark in return. In a sense, you were quite glad you were able to again, really.

Besides, you didn’t exactly with the dead, dreamless sleep the tranquilising base of the leash provided. Your brain had been served excellent fodder for nightmares - drugs or no - and you didn’t want to revisit any. Was it an easy way out? Maybe, for a time.

Until you felt ready to tackle… everything again.

Fortunately though, recovery did speed up more and more. Each dose of the leash forced you to sleep it off for a handful of hours after which you felt rather groggy, and clouded of mind - under normal circumstances, you’d start to refuse to take medicine of this kind eventually, but this time you knew it truly must not be delayed. Not that Tobirama didn’t diligently make sure you always were right on time with it - at first he had to help you take it by supporting your chest, neck and head pretty much. By now, you managed to sit up straight already, which was a huge relief. A step closer to leaving this bed. Your muscles still groaned and ached from wounds you had suffered what seemed eons ago, on top of the general soreness you still felt due to damages you had taken during the withdrawal.

“Shouldn’t these have healed by now?”, you complained as you once more had settled against the headboard of the bed, letting out a low groan.

Tobirama withdrew after having helped you up there with his hands under your shoulders. He had refused to at first - you needed to  rest  still of course - but you threatened to just do it yourself if he wouldn’t. With gritted teeth he had pretty much hefted you up, under the premise you wouldn’t push yourself. The pain you felt now made him look like he was ready to yank you back down if you did so much as whimper again.

“Normally, they would have,” he explained sternly, his scarlet gaze inspecting you. “But without one’s own innate chakra reserves and your poor condition overall, it is unsurprising they did not heal well. Plus, you suffered again during the withdrawal.”

You sighed and opted to refrain from showing any more signs of pain or weakness. It made sense, of course. “Just my luck,” you muttered under your breath.

He had settled back into his chair and crossed his arms. “We will be able to start healing you again very soon, Y/n,” he supplied slowly. “We’ve already started to remove the seals that sustained you and increase your capacity to receive chakra again.”

That had been a relief - seeing the ink wiped off of your skin as a visual reminder things were, in fact, getting better. The biggest of them being the chakra seal on your chest. Not that you had been afraid of it - but as a person that naturally was very in tune with your own chakra as everyone in your clan was, it had felt… looming. The muting component of the leash was bad enough, but by now, you had gotten used to it. The fact you were in a safe environment helped a much greater deal, though. Still - “How… how’s work on the cure coming along, Tobi?”, you inquired suddenly, sheepishly, almost.

He leaned forward on the chair and exhaled a heavy breath. “Slow, but… steady.” He gazed up at your eyes with a solemn expression, neither sugarcoating the facts nor being overly harsh about it. “It’s possibly going to be as complex as the leash. But I’ll get there.” You wouldn’t question his determination. “We have time.” That probably was about the only advantage to all of this right now.

A smile formed on your lips. “Thank you.” 

You beckoned him closer with a wave of your hand which he followed hesitantly by settling down on the side of your bed and a questioning glance. Your hand snuck around the back of his neck to pull him closer to you, your fingers lacing into his short hair as his forehead rested against yours. You felt the tension in his shoulders as your free hand trailed up them to cup his face, but his eyes closed slowly and he exhaled a gruff breath. His chakra coated your network warmly already as you tried to return the notion as best you could, which wasn’t much. He simply sighed in return and allowed you to caress him for a silent moment.  

Offering a small bit of comfort when really, it was him who poured all his energy into aiding you.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips with such tenderness you felt his chakra flutter.

He swallowed before answering. “I love you too,” he coarsely answered, rough from emotion as one of his hands reached around your chest again to pull you even closer.

You couldn’t remember the last time the two of you had shared an intimate moment like this - and you knew well how he felt about them in a semi public place like this one.

The fact he relatively willingly permitted it was quite saying something.

The fact he actively pulled you even closer did so even more.

Slowly your lips ghosted over his in the utmost tender motion, gasping slightly when he met them with equal softness of his own.

Just a few more moments you allowed yourself this, you wanted to keep him as close as possible right now - before pulling back ever so slightly. When he opened his eyes again, his scarlet gaze was on fire. You didn’t need words to know what he felt. Once more your thumb gently stroked his cheekbone before you leaned back against the headboard again and he withdrew, ending the chakra connection with a final warm caress over your network.

Another day later, you had shedded the last of the seals that had been sustaining you. Hashirama examined you after and was quite pleased, even. Finally, you were on your own again, in a sense. It was a freeing sensation albeit one that came with a tinge of fear. You still weren’t cured yet and had precious little time in which you didn’t sleep off Tobirama’s version of the leash. After you inquired exactly what kind of tranquilizing agent he had used, your considerations as to why your sleep was so dead and dreamless were confirmed: it didn’t just endorse rest, it muted all kinds of emotions, good and bad. It was numbing. 

You still weren’t sure how to feel about that - on the one hand, it felt too easy to escape from memories you did not want to deal with that definitely had been haunting you before the withdrawal cracked you. On the other hand, you just weren’t ready to deal with more, now. What you did know for certain was that Tobirama had put consideration in picking the tranquilizer as the base for the leash.

Like right now, when you were fighting against the haze in your mind and the heavy fog that tried to push you back into sleep. You had slept enough. You simply wanted to be awake for now. With a low groan you lifted yourself up to sit in the bed, ignoring the aches flaring in your arms, back and abdomen. Momentarily, your vision blackened, but you stabilised yourself swiftly with your arms on each side.

You must’ve pulled it off earlier, since Tobirama was not here yet - either that, or something happened. Your thoughts were too muddled to consider it more. Dazedly, you started at the window that let the morning sun in while trying to form another thought.

 _______

Tobirama’s days had settled into a routine that pretty much was dictated by your waking hours. Without death breathing down your neck and the constant feeling of a looming heart attack, there was little to put the man off, really. As expected, your recovery would be slow and arduous, but you’d make it. He’d be there for you throughout every bit of it as he promised, and he was very intent on keeping this promise. With the modification to the leash, you were resting a lot better too, which in turn improved Tobirama’s sleep. After he had administered the first dosage of the leash with the tranquilising base solution and you had drifted off, he himself had slept for a good fourteen hours.

It had been one of the hardest battles of his life.

Not that he allowed himself any complacency, though. In fact the word barely existed in his vocabulary, but especially so right now - you still needed the cure for this leash. 

Unfortunately, developing one proved to be a lot slower than copying the leash. And this was not because your life did not hang in the balance anymore - it was because Tobirama had no testing modality outside of the six prisoners whose lives, alas, still needed to be preserved carefully. And with your life saved, the necessary precautions for experimentation had risen an annoying lot. Except for Kimi, who had been tethered to Tobirama’s very own leash, he had put them all under Zenji’s leash and instructed the interrogation squad’s members on administration intervals and the likes of the drug. All he had to do was produce the thing in a large quantity, which by now had become a well-practiced process.

Zenji in particular had a slew of colorful insults ready for Tobirama, including himself, his brother, his family, his whole clan, Konoha - and yet it was with a sly smirk Tobirama’s iron grip on his jaw silenced him, wrestled his mouth open and poured the leash in.

“Now you can experience your own masterful work firsthand. It’s poetic, really,” he commented cynically, watching Zenji’s pupils dilate already.

“There’s no… cure… for the leash,” the man slurred hatefully, grunting in pain.

Tobirama’s smirk grew and he raised both eyebrows. “You made predictions about the possibility and impossibility of things before, and yet here we are Zenji,” he leaned in closer. “With your help, no less.”

The prisoner’s unfocused gaze looked for Tobirama’s arrogant face, but the psychotropic agents were overcoming him more and more. 

“Now you’ll be of equal use again.”

He didn’t stick around for the torture anymore; there was no need. What he needed were these six as outlets for his experiments on a cure. Since the muting component faded, it came down to breaking the seal of the disrupting component somehow. However there was no trace of the seal as such once the drug was ingested - only in the way the disruption was branding itself into the victim’s body. Of course Tobirama well understood how the seal as such worked, but that meant he also understood countering it was a difficult task exactly because of that. Quickly it became obvious he needed more than just to unravel the disruption’s brand; whatever achieved this needed to be woven into the cure much like the leash was created. It would need to be a key that would unlock the chains of the leash.

He was lucky to have such skill in the weaving process as such, by now.

His first experiments were rather edgy. The substances used were primitive in comparison to the leash and aggravated the prisoner’s health to such a degree in one case, Tobirama was forced to provide extended medical support. Ikuro was squinting a lot at the proceedings, although everyone understood there was no alternative.

What time he didn’t spend experimenting or in the laboratory was spent within your room - when you were awake, or at least trying to be awake. Exhaustion and the tranquilizer both sapped consciousness from you a fair deal, but as your strength returned to you slowly, so did your capacity to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a given time. It was the hugest relief - to see you becoming yourself again, truly. Your smile, your laugh, the quips you made - the smart glint in your eyes.

The way you started to refuse to rest.

Of course you had quickly guessed it was no coincidence he has used this particular tranquilizer as base for the leash. But the reason was not to keep you literally too knocked out to move about.

The scars you bore were not just physical, inward and outward. There was a lot of mental damage that Tobirama had gathered enough clues towards already before you had hatched your withdrawal plan. This substance - this substance might be an easy crutch for now, but he refused to let you carry more weight than you had to right now. It was a selfish decision he made for you, he knew that.

Since you never protested, he figured you were in silent agreement, for now.

After the last of the seals were removed from you, it was time for the next step in your recovery, which he had discussed with his brother at length already, before you’d wake regularly. Once you were stable - and had not received any chakra for quite some time - they could finally start healing you properly again. 

“It’ll be complicated,” Hashirama warned. “The withdrawal has damaged the functionality of her organs. The injuries she received during her imprisonment are not the ones I’m not worried about.”

Tobirama wasn’t, either. Those were simple in comparison. The withdrawal had wrecked you from the inside out - alongside your body’s reaction to it. He frowned. “You assume we may not heal everything?”

Hashirama clicked his tongue. “I’ve learned not to make any assumptions when it comes to this drug, to be quite honest,” he muttered in a rare streak of bleak irony.

Tobirama could only huff in response.

They’d have to give it their best. If there was anyone who could do it, it was his brother, after all.

Today was the day - after his brother’s evaluation of your state yesterday, they’d start to mend the real damage today. Both were on the way to your room. It was still early in the morning and Tobirama couldn’t deny having sound sleep at night was quite a blessing after the nightmare he and you had suffered. Even so, you should be asleep still at this time.

He opened the door to your room silently - only to find you sitting in bed already, staring out of the window. He spoke before his mind could even process the angered worry that filled him. “Y/n,” his tone firmly questioning - for now.

 _______

Your head snapped around to your new company, startled. The look on Tobirama’s face was one you knew well - he’d start scolding you any moment now with how deeply he was frowning already. Hashirama on the other hand, bright as ever - broadly smiling. How these two were brothers, you sometimes really had to wonder about.

“Tobirama, Hashirama,” you nodded, smirking. The urge to just sleep again had subsided somewhat, though your mind still was foggy. Sitting up was an exercise on its own, still, not to mention the pain you felt.

“Why are you awake already?”, Tobirama shot back instantly, rounding the bed swiftly. You’d like to think there was worry attached to the sternness of his tone. “Did something happen?”

You sighed softly and smiled. “No, don’t worry. I just didn’t want to sleep any more, that’s all. I’m much the same I was before.” You really refused to say you were fine. Someone who couldn’t sit up for longer periods of time without pain was not fine.

Tobirama stayed silent, but his scarlet gaze was inspecting you closely. You rolled your eyes and lowered yourself back onto the bed before he’d tell you to, unable to prevent a quiet groan from escaping you.

“Careful,” he stepped closer instantly as worry flashed in his eyes, but you waved him off quickly.

Hashirama cleared his throat then and stepped closer to the other side of the bed, practically beaming now. You raised an eyebrow. “We’ll start mending your injuries again today, Y/n,” he announced with no small amount of pleasure.

Your eyes widened. That would be a huge relief - literally and proverbially. However, you were hesitant to feel hopeful just yet. Frankly most of your mental power went towards processing the announcement still. “How much of them?”, you inquired, when you found you couldn’t come up with a smarter way to articulate your budding worry over the resilient hope that formed.

Tobirama answered solemnly. “You’ve not received chakra in quite a bit now, so there is some capacity to work with. But the damage you suffered was very extensive and will require multiple sessions, most likely.” His voice had become softer, though you focused on the information mostly.

“I will start with the most vital damages,” Hashirama continued, “Seeing how the wounds you received from the stone have begun healing on their own by now, albeit slow. I know they’re most painful, but we must ensure you first recover truly from inside out. Bones, muscles and skin come second.”

You had to give a snort at that, earning you a puzzled look from Hashirama and a raised eyebrow from his brother. “Apologies,” you amended quickly, “I understand. It’d just be nice to move without pain again. Or at all, and not just lie still.”

Tobirama cut in sternly, quickly. “You mustn’t, yet. Healing anything is only going to help if you don’t squander it by pushing yourself too much too fast, Y/n. You know that.” The warning in his tone was clear. And you knew he was right - one of the most basic principles of all medical jutsu - like surgical sutures, they needed time to kick in fully. 

Hashirama was more accommodating. “I can ease it somewhat, of course.”

Tobirama’s glance shot towards his brother. “It’s vital to focus on the most important injuries.”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s get started.”

You couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled up while you rolled up your gown. Hashirama’s warm hands gently placed themselves on your abdomen, and already you felt his chakra spreading in your network, his presence becoming more prominent. Your eyes locked with Tobirama’s who had crossed his arms again, giving you a tender smile that you returned; a different kind of warmth blossoming in your chest. Then, you let your head rest on the pillow and stared at the ceiling before closing your eyes as his brother’s work was unfolding.

Just like when Tobirama had healed you before, the procedure became something of an internal massage of all the parts of you that had been tortured, abused, beaten. Suffered under the withdrawal of the leash, withered and strained. Without your own chakra at your disposal, it was extremely difficult to trail alongside them, but frankly the thoroughly comfortable feeling that settled in was quick to make your eyelids leaden again. 

Very carefully, he first tended to your heart and lungs first - strengthening attacked tissue, mending microscopic damages and if needed, precisely cutting away whatever scars your body already had formed to let real organ matter regrow there. Whether it was your imagination or not you couldn't say, but you thought your breaths became deeper and your heartbeat slowed down into a more powerful rhythm. His attention shifted to other organs then: liver, kidney, the gut - and much in the same manner, they tended diligently to the damages. 

A stray tear of relief ran down your cheek as shivers ran up and down your spine. 

Finally came the injuries inflicted by the torture - process here was more difficult. The gentle, healing massage took on a more forceful note, as though he had to work out kinks in stiff muscle that had not been used much. Almost pinching here and there when even your tardish chakra felt the tear of inferior scar tissue that had formed due to a lack of attention and use. You felt the old wounds warm up ever so slightly, promoting blood flow as well as making the matter more receptive to his care, although the time he spent healing here was notably shorter compared to what they had done before.

It was uncomfortable - not the smooth procedure from before but the quite literal rebuild of what you knew was broken and had been healed broken. Every now and then you’d huff or grunt when the unpleasant sensation bordered pain, but you kept yourself in check - Tobirama was still watching, and you didn’t want him to worry again.

Eventually, Hashirama withdrew as quietly as he’d begun.

You had difficulty opening your eyes again. All of you felt warm now, refreshed - revitalised. The sleep that wanted to overcome you now wasn't the heavy exhaustion you permanently felt, it was pure comfort. It was the same feeling you had after visiting a hot spring after a day of training. The feeling of the sun on your skin on a rare lazy day, a peaceful day.

Peaceful. That was how you felt.

Hashirama was beaming at you, but Tobirama was wearing a slight frown again. “Are you alright?” - the discomfort hadn’t escaped his notice, of course.

You cleared your throat, swallowing down a hoarse lump. “Yeah,” nodding slowly. “Better than before,” you dared a brave smile.

His frown deepened, but he didn’t comment further. In the end, this was necessary - like many other things had been - and so, he’d accept it. He - you - had no other choice.

Hashirama cleared his throat. "I managed to heal quite a bit, more than I expected, in fact. Of course there still is work to be done, but the damages the withdrawal created I believe I will be able to manage with time and patience.” He gave you an appreciative nod. “You're a tough woman." He chuckled brightly.

Tobirama’s mien grew more tender as his frown smoothed out, a light smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

It was difficult not to get intoxicated by his optimism, especially when you felt the way you did now. "Thank you."

"The next session will have to wait since I used an extensive amount of chakra now. And as for the injuries you suffered…" Hashirama knit his brows. "... those will require more work. Your body started to mend those already. Unfortunately in inferior ways, due to your poor condition."

You gave an awkward shrug, as much as that was possible in bed. "I felt that, yeah." 

Tobirama's frown returned somewhat again, but he didn't comment. 

Before either of them spoke again, you did - with an idea that had hit you just this moment. Something that jolted through your system more uncomfortably than the hope had done before, despite being much the same feeling. "So, since I need to rest so much now…", you gave Tobirama a meaningful gaze he held entirely neutrally, "... couldn't I actually -" You paused. Suddenly, you felt silly, but with the expectant glances on you, you swallowed it down and continued. "Could I perhaps rest at home? I'm stable now, and this room is starting to drive me insane."

Tobirama sucked in a sharp breath through his nostrils, hands gripping the fabric of his black shirt more tightly as he spoke up promptly. "Y/n, as much as I'd like to grant you this, we must consider-"

"Absolutely. I'll stop by to help to heal you again." Hashirama cut in, grinning broadly.

Tobirama's mien turned positively furious at being blindsided by his sibling. "Anjia!"

Hashirama was unfazed. "Patients recover better in homely environments. Y/n is stable, like she said - you saw it yourself, Tobirama. Also, you can ensure even better that she rests well."

"That-", he clenched his teeth at having this argument used against him, but just a moment later, the heated fury had subsided to a smoldering kind of anger that gave his sternness a cutting edge. "She still is in poor condition and should be hospitalised. If anything changes, here is where the aid needed will be."

Hashirama held both palms up and tilted his head. You, on the other hand, were rolling your eyes and waiting for your moment to chime into this conversation. About your own damn self. "I don't see what should happen. So long as the leash is administered on time - which you have been doing - and she rests properly, she's going to get better now."

Tobirama was losing ground and worse yet, he realised this. To his own brother no less. He bared his teeth slightly. "I can't be there every moment in case she needs help. And I won't allow just anyone into our house."

Now was your chance. "Actually, you can." Tobirama's head snapped to you and the furious gaze bored through you. You didn't flinch though. "You can just leave a shadow clone with me. If I need help, you can teleport over. But as you know," now you raised an unimpressed eyebrow, "I'm mostly sleeping and resting."

Tobirama pinched the bridge of his nose as he often would when frustrated. "Y/n…", he began slowly, but you didn't let him start.

"You're with me so much anyway. I'd feel a lot better at home. And you can work there, too. It's easier for everyone."

His expression grew more mellow and his hand dropped as his irritated mien fell. Your pleading glance did the rest. "Fine. But if anything - anything at all - happens, I'll get you back here right away. No discussion." Then he frowned again and any trace of mellowness was wiped off of his face. "The same goes for you not sticking to your bed rest."

You grinned brightly already. "Naturally." You'd find your way around once you could move more again, of course. 

Hashirama clapped his hands then cheerfully. "Right then!", he beamed at his brother who just gave a scowl in return. "I'll see you soon. Mito and I will visit, anyway. Until then," he waved, and already was on his way out before you could raise your hand to wave back.

Tobirama sighed. "Regular visits are just another downside," he stated perfectly blearily.

You chuckled. "Cheer up. We'll have a lot more privacy. And…" you paused for a moment, fumbling with the blanket draped over you. "Finally, no more lonely nights."

He turned around to you, eyebrows knitted in a sorrowful fashion that told of the shared statement more than words could. Still, "That… is correct." He stepped closer to the bedside, an utterly warm smile forming now. "It's been a forlorn and cold place without you, Y/n. I’m... beyond relieved that will change now."

With all of the comfortable peacefulness you felt from the healing procedure still, that statement alone made your eyes tear up already in a most soft way. "So am I, Tobirama."

He bent down then and reached under your haggard body with his arms; one gripping your chest tightly, the other wrapping under yours knees. Bridal-style he hefted you up easily - unsurprisingly. Even before your capture he could handle you well. Now your weight was a joke. Closely cradled against his chest, you let your head rest against him with a content sigh. His warm breath hit your face as he bent over briefly to kiss your forehead gently, making you shift your gaze to meet his. The scarlet irises were swimming with a kind of love that alone made your renewed heart pump vigorously. 

Already the world around you lurched and a moment later, you were in your bedroom. Your tired gaze found it to be exactly the same it had been before your departure on that fateful mission - one that most likely changed your life forever, you realised. Sparsely furnitured, but practical. A large bed in the middle of the room, adjourning the wall - and broad windows on two walls, overlooking your small garden. 

“Welcome home,” Tobirama whispered down to you, a slight tremor to his baritone voice. 

“I’m glad,” was all you managed before yet another pure tear rolled down your cheek.

Slowly, he walked to your side of the bed to settle you down as gently as possible. The softness of your own sheets, your own bed elicited a small groan from you and you couldn’t help but bask in the moment with a content mien. “At times, I thought I’d never be here again.”

Tobirama swallowed hard, and when you gazed up at him you saw his jaw working. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Y/n.” The sheer determination these words bore had the warm feeling blossoming in your chest again, but you could only nod in reply. And words might be a sob right now.

“I’ll get you different clothes.”

“No, wait,” you shook your head. He paused mid-walk, having already made for the wardrobe, to give you a questioning glance.

“Come here.” You patted his side of the bed, and nodded.

He quirked an eyebrow up. “Y/n, it’s morning.” Of course, only Tobirama Senju would object to getting into bed again just because of the time of day. 

You rolled your eyes. “I’m going to crash any minute now anyway, so you might as well come here now. I can change later.”

With a wondering glance still he slipped to his side of the bed, scooting closer to you as you wrestled yourself to lie on the side. Once he was close enough he assisted in pulling you over, but you weren’t done yet - your arms snuck around his chest and wordlessly, he drew you close to him in a tight embrace. You nestled your face into his chest again as he locked his arms around his, letting his head rest on yours and your legs intertwined. In this position, you could hear his slow, even heartbeat. The steady rhythm was enough to elicit a whole different kind of serenity from you that doubled the warm, comfortable tiredness you felt, but you weren’t quite done yet. Just a moment longer.

Tobirama’s hands ran soothing motions over your back. Yours did the same, feeling the tension ease out of his muscles with each passing second as your caresses drew a content rumble from him.

“Not such a bad idea, was it?”, you giggled quietly.

Tobirama huffed. “How will I get out once you’re asleep without waking you, Y/n?”, he accused playfully, but you could hear the smile from his tone alone.

“You’ll find a way. After all, it’s most important I  rest .” You jabbed playfully at his side - just about the only spot Tobirama might be the slightest bit ticklish.

He shrugged it off with a chuckle. “You are absolutely correct. I will.” He tightened the embrace somewhat more, a hand reaching up to the base of your neck to massage your scalp. “So, sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.”

With your eyes closed now, it was a matter of seconds until sleep overtook you. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

A wholesome kind of rest wrapped around you, drowning all sensations out in the comfort of Tobirama’s arms.

You were home. _________ AAAAAAND! That’s a wrap on the Leash. Let me know what you thought of it - and let me just say THANK YOU VERY VERY MUCH for reading it all! I definitely, really, REALLY loved seeing the returning likes/reblogs for all these parts - thanks a lot! That being said - IT WOULD SEEM... Tobirama hasn’t found the cure yet, has he?! Which means... yes! I’ll write a sequel - it won’t be as big as the Leash at all. Possibly an epilogue or a little miniseries dealing with the consequences of all this - but it’ll get a wrap, eventually!

But! Happy ending <33

#tobirama #tobirama senju #tobirama x reader #tobirama senju x reader #sekhmet writes

[rhysismydaddy]

An Artful Revenge Pt. 2

Feyre’s part of The Damnation Series. Part 1 is here.

I am proud of myself for finishing this shit, because it’s long as fuck. Whoops.

~Feyre~

Honestly, I should’ve known.

I should’ve known that somehow, with whatever endless resources he has, he would find me. 

That’s all I can think as I find my way into the Impressionists exhibit and find Rhysand Azara, real estate agent to the stars, leaning against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee and looking at Dancers in Blue with narrowed eyes. 

It’s been five days since our date, and like the cliché I am, I’ve spent the entire time thinking about him. I’ve checked my phone countless times, and I even decided to stalk him and Googled his name. 

When--just like he’d said--nothing came up, I googled Dancers in Pink. He said he had it, but it had been sold a few years ago in an auction to “Amren Valenta.”

Unless Rhysand had a stage name, that was definitely not him. 

I dug some more, but after three hours all I discovered was that he owned Azara Industries, which owned a lot of buildings downtown. Oh, and he never let himself be photographed. 

Which was upsetting, because it means I had nothing to stare at whilst stalking him. 

Pathetic. I am so pathetic.

But anyway, I should’ve known he’d come here. He’d said he’d call, but he didn’t have my number. Plus, I’d told him I come here pretty much every day, so really, what did I expect?

I still laugh as I spot him though, somehow surprised, and ask, “Here to flirt with more art students?”

“Just one,” he answers, running his eyes over me as I draw closer. 

Gods, this man is seductive. He’s just looking at me, but I feel his gaze like a touch, dragging over my entire body with slow, intentional grazes. 

My breath hitches, and his eyes twinkle, like he’s well aware to the dirty place my mind has wondered. I can tell he’s holding in some likely-male comment, but he refrains from embarrassing me and he holds out another cup of coffee. 

I take it, grateful for the caffeine boost, and find it somehow made exactly the way I like it. Maybe I’m not the only one stalking. 

Although his methods have to be better than mine if he already knows about the definitely unhealthy amount of sugar I put in my coffee. 

“How many times have you been here this week?” I ask, curious to see his level of devotion. 

“Three. Not a very convenient way of communicating with someone, I admit. I was about to send a smoke signal.” He watches me sip the coffee, watches my tongue dart over my lip. “Plans tonight?”

I fight a sigh and decide to be a student worthy of my scholarship for once. “I told myself I’d work on my senior project.”

His lips twitch at my dejected tone. “What is it?”

A ginormous pain in my ass. “Bad,” I say simply. 

He shakes his head, sipping his coffee and eyeing me over the rim of the cup. “Details.”

For someone who offers no information, he loves demanding it from me. Instead of fight it, I groan and give in to the patriarchy. “It’s just bad! It’s supposed to be a mix of different styles and mediums, but it’s going so poorly I might just start over. Or drop out and become a starving artist a year ahead of schedule.”

Rhysand smiles at my phrasing. “I would never let you starve. And what do you mean, mixing styles and mediums?”

“For someone who frequents museums and has millions of dollars in art, you don’t know much about it, do you?”

“I have people for that.”

“Amren Valenta?” I ask without thinking, exposing myself as a stalker. 

He pauses, cup halfway to his smirking mouth, and raises a brow. “Clever, creepy little woman,” he teases. “But yes. Amren is my curator, and we use her name because I don’t want media attention. As I’m sure you know.”

Busted and blushing to high hell, I roll my eyes and become a junior detective. “Isn’t it illegal to buy something with someone else’s name? What if the IRS comes after you?”

Rhysand looks at a loss for words at that. If I weren’t serious, it would make me laugh how shocked he looks. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

I roll my eyes again, because we both know he doesn’t give a shit. It’s not like the IRS actually enforces rules for the one percent, anyway.

“Now tell me about your project.”

Rolling my eyes at how bossy he is, I tell him, “I wanted to combine photography and painting. And I wanted it to be kind of abstract, but also realistic enough.”

“Ambitious.”

I sigh, not able to repress it this time. “Stupid, is what it is. I don’t even know where to start. I have no motivation, let alone inspiration, to work on it.”

A contemplative look crosses his face. “I know where you could find inspiration.”

I raise an eyebrow and gesture around us, because in case he’s missed it, we’re in a museum. Inspiration abounds. But he scoffs and whispers, “This is child’s play compared to a certain someone’s private collection.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, playing along and pretending I don’t know the someone he’s talking about.

He nods, looking around as if making sure there are no spies in the completely empty room listening we’re standing in. “He has Degas, Monet, Dali, you name it. And he’s generous enough to let you come over tonight.”

Pursing my lips, I scan his face, trying to see if he’s serious. I mean... I am dying to see his collection. But, “Is this just a ploy to get me naked?”

He puts a hand on his chest, offense written across his face. “You think I’d try to seduce you while you study?”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably right.” He chuckles, then says, “If you need to get naked to look at art, I certainly won’t complain. But no, Feyre darling, this isn’t a ploy.”

I pause, half stuck on the whole darling thing and half contemplating what to do. 

Ploy or not, I know that if I go to his apartment or house or mansion or castle, I’ll probably sleep with him. He’s too attractive, and my resolve just isn’t that great where’s he’s concerned. 

Plus, I know it’s insane, but art just... Never mind.

I tell myself nothing’s going to happen and that I’m going because of the art--both lies--as I say, “Okay.”

He extends a hand, and I slide mine into it, almost sighing at how perfect we fit together. Would that be the case everywhere? 

Feyre.

I avoid looking at him as he leads me from the room and outside, where a very beefy guy holds open the door to a black sedan. “Seriously?” I ask Rhysand as he ushers me in the back, then climbs in beside me.

“I usually drive myself,” he says in defense, smiling when I roll my eyes.

The city blurs around us as Beefcakes drives, and I’m about to ask where the hell he lives when the car pulls to a stop and the door opens. Climbing out, I look up at the black, shiny penthouse tower, and say, “Of course you live here.”

It’s expensive and in the city and has a million floors, and I bet he lives at the very tippy top.

He gives me a strange look but pulls me in the lobby, then into an elevator. We shoot up flight after flight till we reach the penthouse, confirming my suspicions. 

For what feels like the millionth time, I ask myself why the hell Rhysand’s taken an interest in me. I mean, a year of therapy got me to admit I’m decent looking and all, but I’m... I’m a college student. He’s older and richer and has his life together. Why does he want me?

I don’t have long to contemplate life’s great mysteries because the elevator doors slide open, revealing his apartment, and I become too busy trying to mask my surprise.

I thought the place would be... I don’t know, like him. Sleek. Modern. Luxurious. 

And it is, at least that last part. Everything is obviously expensive. But there’s also a homey quality created by a fireplace, plush couches, decorative rugs, tapestries.

It’s burgundy and black and cream, and so unexpected I smile.

I step in and walk automatically toward the huge windows, taking in the view and realizing we’re at the dead center of the city. In all directions, Chicago’s spread out, lights and traffic and Lake Michigan surrounding us.

Even though the place is beyond wonderful, there’s one thing missing. 

I turn to Rhysand and raise a brow. “No art?”

“One floor down.”

I have to press my lips together to keep the questions in. One floor down, as in it takes up the whole floor. As in he has a private museum. As in I’m so fucking excited I can hardly walk. 

But he seems to be baiting me, seeing how long I’ll last before demanding to be taken down there, so I casually walk around his apartment, taking in all the little details. “It’s more... lived in than I would’ve thought.”

He nods, knowing what I mean even though it was a poor way of explaining it. “I have a few places around the city, but this is the one I prefer.” Nodding to the kitchen, he asks, “Hungry?”

“You cook?” The thought of him covered in flour seems absurd, but we all have our hobbies.

He smiles like I’ve said something funny. “No, but I have takeout menus in there.”

“Hopeless,” I tease, going to the kitchen and opening the fridge like I’m the one who lives here. “I’ll find something.”

I end up finding beer, wine, cheese, and various fruits and vegetables.

Not a lot, but enough to make a charcuterie board, which just so happens to be my specialty. I search for a few minutes before finding a wooden cutting board, then start to assemble whatever snacks I can find.

Cherries and grapes, two types of cheeses, carrots, and crackers fill most of the board, and I fill in gaps with blackberries and chocolate chips I’m surprised he has. 

Once it’s completed and visually appealing enough, I slide it over to where he’s seated on a barstool and bow dramatically. “I’m a master cheese plate maker.”

“I see that. Wine?”

Nodding, I reach in the fridge and grab the first bottle I see. Setting it in front of him, I move to the cabinet and get two glasses and an opener.

Rhysand takes the opener and eyes the bottle, lips twitching as he smoothly uncorks it.

“What?” I ask, unable to figure out what’s funny. Was it weird to make a board or something? Surely even rich guys like cheese and crackers, right?

He pours two glasses, shaking his head and silently refusing to let me in on the joke.

Eyes narrowed, I sit next to him and suspiciously take a small sip from my glass. He watches me, probably expecting me to say something about it, so I offer, “It’s good.”

He bites his lip but can’t keep the laugh in at that, so I finally demand, “What?”

“It’s an $800 bottle of wine, Feyre.”

I almost spit it all over him, which would indeed be a shame, because there’s probably $50 in my mouth. Managing to swallow it down, I sputter, “You... you should’ve said something!”

He’s still laughing, but he stops to take a huge swallow and shrug. “I say we drink the whole bottle.”

I put my head in my hands, blushing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I couldn’t care less.” He pries my hands away. “Seriously. I just wanted to tease you.”

Now that, I believe. But I still ask, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” He smiles, taking another sip. “I keep the really expensive stuff at the townhouse, anyway.”

I roll my eyes and drink some more, somehow trying to taste it better or something now that I know it’s liquid gold. Shifting to put my foot on the stool, I lean across him to grab the platter.

His gaze glides over me slowly, and there’s surprise in his eyes, like he can’t believe I’m sitting in front of him so casually. 

It’s probably weird to be so... open around a stranger, but he’s not exactly normal, so I don’t feel any pressure to be, either.

Regardless, it’s a little hard to breathe with him looking at me like that, so to break the tension, I grab a cherry, pull the stem off, and hold it an inch in front of his face. 

“Ready?”

His eyes cross and he pushes my hand away so he can actually see what I’m holding. “Ready,��� he confirms.”

I stick the stem in my mouth, using a trick I spent three hours teaching myself on a rainy afternoon to tie it in a knot, then pull it out with a victorious grin.

“Very impressive,” he notes, but before I can gloat about my supreme cherry-knotting abilities, he steals the stem and sticks it in his own mouth.

My eyes are wide, but I don’t have time to ask what the hell he’s doing before he pulls it out. 

Unknotted.

“Impressive,” I repeat, actually meaning it. “How’d you do that?”

“I’m good with my tongue,” he says immediately, obviously having been lying in wait for the question, and I huff a laugh.

If I called my sisters and told them what I’m going right now, they’d probably try to have me committed. I’m sitting in a billionaire’s penthouse apartment, drinking expensive wine and watching him untie cherry stems with his tongue. 

“How was your week?” I ask to get us back in semi-normal territory, grabbing a cracker off the plate.

He answers vaguely and asks me about mine, and just like that, we fall into easy conversation.

It’s honestly strange to me that after one date, we can talk like this. With my ex, it took weeks before I was really comfortable around him, and yet I feel completely at home with Rhysand.

He tells he’s from the south side of Chicago and asks about my hometown, and I it feels natural. It’s just... easy.

“By the way, you can just call me Rhys,” he tells me as we finish off the platter. “Using my full name reminds me of when I got in trouble in grade school.”

I drain my wine glass, a slight buzz in my veins, and ask, “So I only call you Rhysand when I’m about to spank you?”

He howls with laughter, then surprises me by asking, “What’s your middle name?”

“Adalene. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out what I’ll call you when we get around to spanking.” I blush as he continues, “Feyre Adalene should do.”

He puts the empty wine bottle in the trash and runs a finger over my red cheek. I bat it away, embarrassed, but he just laughs and asks, “Ready to go downstairs?”

For some reason, I get a little nervous, but I put on my big girl pants and nod, taking his hand when he offers it.

Then we’re back in the elevator, coasting down a floor, and just before the doors open, he says, “Close your eyes.”

Anticipation makes it difficult to follow the request but I manage, and he guides me out of the elevator and turns me slightly. “Open.”

I open my eyes and come face to face with something I never thought I’d see. 

“You... you have a...” I whisper, not quite able to get the word out.  

“Meule.”

One of eight left in private collectors hands, Monet’s Meules--or Grainstacks--are some of the most recognizable, renown works of art in the world. The last was sold four years ago for over $80 million.

Amren Valenta is a very, very rich woman, according to her art collection. 

I’m standing inches from it now, mildly unsure of how that happened, looking at the sunset colors bleed into the shadows of the grain, taking in the easy lines and brushwork.

Turning to look at him, I see he’s leaned against the wall next to the painting, head tilted as if I’m the most interesting thing in the room.

“I can’t believe I’m here right now,” I say honestly, my voice airy and light.

He just smiles and motions to my right. “The collection goes in a loop.”

I nod, and after a few more minutes staring at the Monet, I start to walk.

Or more like mosey. 

If he’s irritated with how long I’m taking, he doesn’t mention it. He follows me as I stare after pieces of art I never dreamed of being close to. Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Klimt, Pollock, Munch.

And then, at the edge of my peripheral, I see it.

Dancers in Pink hangs besides a smaller Degas, but it’s all I can look at. The dancer’s skirts are so bright in person, the tulle layers seeming to come off the canvas. The gold in the background is vibrant and metallic, in sharp contrast with the dark wall it hangs on.

Gods, it’s beautiful.

I know there are more famous paintings in here, but I’ve spent three years going to look at Dancers in Blue, never imagining I’d see one a similar work. 

Tears slide down my face and a laugh bubbles out of me, the two reactions complete opposites but both somehow feeling right.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, and I feel Rhysand’s chin settle on my shoulder as he hugs me from behind. “You know,” he whispers, seeming to not want to disrupt my moment with loud noises, “I never understood how important this is to people.”

“Oh, Rhysand. It’s... wonderful.”

It’s an inadequate way to say what I want to say, but it’s all I can come up with at the moment. I lean into him, and we stand like that, me staring at the painting, him at me, for a long while. 

When I start to get tired, I turn in his embrace, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and kiss him softly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I somehow finish the loop, and by the time we’re in the elevator again, I’m so emotionally spent I can’t hardly breathe.

“Inspired?” he questions, linking our hands and pulling me closer to his side.

I nod, but inspired doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m grateful and overwhelmed and so happy I could burst.

A professor once told me that art is a gift that lasts forever and never stops giving, and I never really understood what she meant until now. Over a hundred years after Dancers in Pink was completed, it still brings people to tears.

It’s a powerful and beautiful and eternal way to send a message, and it makes me feel like a small piece of the puzzle, but at the same time, so important and alive.

We glide smoothly back up to his apartment, but neither of us move once the doors ding open. 

Because technically, there’s no longer a reason for me to be here. 

I’ve seen the art, drank his expensive wine. I should get my bag and go. 

I should... but I don’t want to. 

Rhysand’s perfectly quiet and still beside me, patiently waiting for me to make up my mind. 

The angel on my shoulder tells me how sweet and considerate he’s being. The devil tells me to reward this behavior with a few sinful ideas. 

Running a hand through my hair, I debate my options. Be smart and leave, or stay and try and fight the urge to throw myself at him. 

“Oh, fuck it,” I mutter, dramatically taking a step forward like I’m going into war.

He laughs as he follows me off the elevator, strolling back to the kitchen. “More wine?”

I nod, because at this point, I’m already a lost cause. He opens a new bottle and pours me some. “How much was this one?”

“Ten dollars,” he lies, fighting a smile. “On sale at Walmart.”

“I’m surprised you even know what Walmart is,” I laugh, taking my seat back at the bar. 

“You forget I’m from the south side. All this,” he motions around us, as he takes the seat next to me. “Used to be nothing more than a dream.”

“How’d you do it?” I ask, genuinely curious. Most people with his kind of wealth were born into it and given every advantage possible. “What’d you do?”

He looks down at the floor, but there’s a sudden set of his jaw, a tightness in his shoulders. “Whatever I had to.”

I don’t point out he’s given me yet another non-answer. Instead I say simply, “I find working for something makes you value it more, anyway.”

His eyes find me again, and there’s something I can’t read in his gaze. “Yes, it does. And it makes you do whatever it takes to keep it.”

I swallow and nod slowly, trying to figure out what exactly he means.

He takes a deep breath, then drinks the wine in his glass in a single swallow. There’s a story there, and it’s easy to see it burdens him, but it’s his to tell in his own time. 

Just to get that strain out of his gaze, I switch topics completely. “Honestly, I’m still trying to figure out how you untied that damn cherry stem.”

Rhysand smiles, a full one that showcases all his pretty little teeth, and leans in, the intent clear in his eyes. 

“Come here and I’ll show you,” he whispers.

I press my lips to his and open them immediately--for the lesson, of course--and his tongue meets mine in a slow glide. 

Where our first kiss was all heat and drifting hands, this one’s slow and sensual and like ice cream melting on a summer day. 

His mouth fits mine perfectly, and his hands seem to be made to hold me, sliding up my thighs to settle on my hips. The hair at his nape is soft against my fingers, and I lean on the stool to get closer and wrap my arms around his neck.

I suck on his tongue, and he makes a low sound, then his hands are tightening and lifting, and I’m being settled on his lap.

Both of us on one stool isn’t ideal, but I wrap my legs around his waist and hope we don’t go crashing over. 

Gravity comes into play and I start sliding, so he turns the stool and traps between him and the counter. The granite digs into my spin, but I can’t be bothered to care, because the new position gives his hands freedom to roam again, and he slides them over my thighs, across my ass, up my sides. 

His thumbs brush the sides of my breasts, and they become heavy and aching against his chest.

His mouth slowly drags down to my neck, and I sigh as he finds that one spot that drives me crazy. His nips the skin, tongue smoothing the small hurt, and his name slips out of me in a quiet moan. 

Everything seems to change at once.

Cursing creatively, he sweeps me into his arms and stands, then walks us into his living room and plops onto a plush couch. 

My ADHD kicks in and I’m momentarily distracted by how soft the leather is, but then his tongue runs across the seam of my lip and I snap back into focus.

My hips are churning against him, desperate for some friction, and I kiss him without restraint, abandoning our slow, peaceful rhythm from earlier. I hadn’t realized I’d been working on the buttons of his shirt, but then a band of tan skin is exposed, and I dip my head to press my lips against it. 

He tugs my hair to bring my mouth back to his, and I practically attack him, biting his lip and pulling his hair and generally acting like a depraved cavewoman.

He doesn’t complain, though. His hands drag my hips closer, then slip under the hem of my sweater. 

The scrape of his callouses on my sides snaps me back to the shocking reality where I’m--yet again--making out with a man I hardly know, and I gasp, then curse, then practically jump backwards off his lap. 

Standing in front of him, I put a hand over my mouth like that’ll stop me from using it and look him over. 

He’s all sprawling legs and swollen lips and beautiful eyes, and I force my eyes to the ceiling. “You look like a hot, virginal dork I just deflowered in the back of my minivan,” I tell him. 

“I feel a bit like that,” he laughs, running a thumb over his bruised lips almost in shock. “Although it’s always nice to be desired.”

I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so distracted by him looking so thoroughly messy. 

But I know that despite what just happened, I can’t do this with him yet. 

I mean, I definitely could, and it definitely would be enjoyed by all parties involved, but I would regret it. 

Rhysand isn’t someone I can just sleep with and forget. I’ve known him a week, and I already feel a strange sort of bond with him. 

If we slept together, then never spoke again, it would hurt me more than I’d care to admit. 

“I think I should leave.”

He nods like he was expecting this, but asks, “Why?”

Putting my hands on my hips, I repeat what I said earlier. “Working for something makes you value it more, remember?”

He smiles and stands, taking a minute to straighten the clothes I’d pawed out of place.

“It also makes you do whatever it takes to keep it,” he reminds me, a shiver sweeping over me at the words. “Come on; I’ll walk you out.”

We go to the elevator and stay on opposite ends the entire ride down. I’m a little proud, because I most certainly thought about crossing over to his half. 

Stepping outside, Rhysand motions for Beefcakes to open the door. “He’ll drive you home.”

“Thank you,” I say, starting towards the car. 

I take two whole steps before he’s somehow in front of me, blocking the path. “Two more things.”

He kisses me, gently but firmly, then pulls back and slips a piece of paper in my hand. “It’s your turn to send smoke signals.”

I look down at the paper and see a number written in a slashing scrawl, intelligently putting together that it’s his phone number. I look back up to respond, but he’s already back at the entrance to the building. 

Rhysand looks over his shoulder, winks, and disappears inside. 

I get in the SUV and tell Beefcakes my address, and off we go. I study the piece of paper the entire way there, mind reeling with everything that happened today. 

The easy conversation, the art, the kiss. 

Is this how it feels to be swept off your feet?

And how long, exactly, do I have to wait before calling him?

________________________________________________

This took me so long to edit holy FUCK. Part 3

@perseusannabeth​ @cursebreaker29​ @a-bit-of-a-cactus​ @elriel4life​ @girl-who-reads-the-books​ @shinya-hiiragi​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @ireallyshouldsleeprn​ @highqueenofelfhame​ @nahthanks​ @ghostlyrose2​ @tillyrubes10​ @claralady​ @tswaney17​ @rowanisahunk​ @superspiritfestival​ @thegoddessofyou​ @awesomelena555​ @booksofthemoon​ @greerlunna​ @jlinez​ @studyliketate​ @over300books​ @justgiu12​ @maastrash​ @aesthetics-11​ @bamchickawowow​ @b00kworm​ @sleeping-and-books​ @musicmaam​ @hizqueen4life​ @maybekindasortaace​ @elorcan-trash​ @emikadreams​ @alpha-omegas​ @joyceortiz13​ @sapphic-beauty​ @meowsekai​ @ahappyhistorianreader​

#feyre #feysand #feysand fanfiction #rhysand #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #feyre archeron

[peaceoutofthepieces]

Tracing Time

Disclaimer that I am not a therapist nor bipolar but I have had a therapist so I’m hoping it’s not too awful of a depiction. Also want to add a minor content warning for the ending scene for homophobia, nothing explicit or even verbal, just a woman with an icky vibe.

Wednesday, 16:04

Song: Haux - Youth

Sander tips his head against the back of the couch and stares at the fan in the corner. It drones in slow circles, doing little more than disturbing the air right in front of it. It still makes the air in the room chilly enough that Sander is glad he’s wearing a sweater, though.

Between it and the window is an ‘abstract’ painting of the brain. Abstract in that the supposed organ is actually scattered in pieces throughout the canvas, all in various states of destruction. One has trees growing out of it, for example. Another is on fire; it’s Sander’s favourite.

He’d stared at it with an absurd sort of fascination in his first session, almost two years ago now, and his therapist, Agathe, had simply smiled at him and asked if he liked art. It was a sneaky way in, but he supposed that was the point. These meetings have gotten fewer and farther apart over that time, now that he can supposedly manage himself to a high enough standard on his own. Well, not quite enough, he supposes, or he probably wouldn’t be here at all. He can practically hear Agathe’s rebuke that they are just ‘casual check-ins’, and Sander is free to go whenever he pleases.

At every one of those reminders, Sander debates doing exactly that—getting up and going. Instead, he usually ends up slumping sullenly for a few minutes before Agathe prods her way back in.

They haven’t been mandatory in a long time, these sessions, but now there’s just something...reassuring. There are still times he doesn’t bother making an appointment, but knowing he can, and knowing that someone with the right knowledge doesn’t see any reason to worry about him, leaves a pretty damn good sense of relief.

And he did have a bit of a blip, at the start of the year. A few days in which he had to be prodded and coerced into just taking a drink of water, and had spent the majority of in his room. It had overlapped the holidays, so he’d let Robbe come and cocoon himself with him for a good chunk of the time.

It hadn’t made him better. But it made him...safe, or something similar, and that was the most he could hope for.

It was the coming-out-of-nowhere aspect that had shaken him a bit. He’d felt better, just keeping up his sessions then, being sure that he was at least doing alright with his medication. It’s working okay, the sitting and talking, so he shows up and just lets Agathe keep making sure.

The door cracks open now and she slips back in, dropping into the couch across from Sander and shooting him her usual calm, too-happy smile through light lipstick. It brings out her dimples. She’s not yet marred by wrinkles, but there’s something soft and aging about her face, anyway. Maybe it’s the graying roots. “Sorry about that, I forget this thing way too often.” She holds up the clipboard she’d carried in with an exasperated sigh, murmuring under her breath as she flicks through it and gets settled.

It’s all painfully familiar. It makes Sander smile.

He does like her. He’s never bothered denying that.

“So, how are we today?” It’s the same way she always starts, though it’s usually accompanied by—ah, there we go—clasped hands and another smile.

“Good,” Sander says. It’s automatic, but he also means it. Today is fine. It’s good.

She raises her brow when he doesn’t offer anything else. “Alright, good. Belated birthday wishes are in order, I believe?”

“Yeah, thank you. Just yesterday.”

She nods, and Sander does not think about how that was dumb when she obviously already knows. But she just settles back and crosses her legs. “Did you do anything to celebrate?”

Sander’s lips finally stretch in a smile of his own. He thinks it’s probably a little dopey, a little lovestruck, and she probably knows exactly what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. “I had breakfast with my parents because Robbe took me out for dinner. Then he had a surprise party planned at our friends’ flat.”

“A party on a school night?” Agathe’s brows raise, and she shakes her head with a small laugh. “How do they deal with that today?”

“No clue,” Sander breathes out a huff of his own, trying not to feel overly amused by how Gilles had been in the class they shared with Sander earlier in the day. For once, they hadn’t said a word, just sat with their head down for the entire lecture, wincing every now and then when Sander laughed. He hadn’t even heard from any of the others, but Robbe had looked dead on his feet this morning, as well. He’d sent Sander a slightly sunnier selfie about half an hour ago, though, so he’s probably fine. “Not very well, I imagine.”

She tilts her head. “You seem well enough.”

“Well, I wasn’t drinking,” Sander shrugs.

At this, her serene little smile returns and her nod seems approving, and even though Sander hadn’t been looking for it, he grudgingly admits that it feels good. “I know that can be a difficult choice, and I’d rarely be able to make it myself,” she laughs again. “It’s great that you feel strong and comfortable enough in that group to do your own thing.”

Sander can’t help a little snort. “Are you kidding? It was one of them that had me drinking mocktails.”

“Really?” Agathe grins.

“Yeah, but then he got kinda drunk, and the last couple he made me were just disgusting because he thought these awful mixtures would be a really good idea.”

She laughs gently. “Well, it seems like it’s not the worst. ‘He’ isn’t Robbe?”

Sander shakes his head. “No, but one of his friends.”

“And what about Robbe, then? How is he?”

“Good.” A soft smile steals over his face. “The best, as always.”

“Treating you well.”

Sander’s smile widens, and he raises his brows without saying anything.

Agathe points at him. “Not what I meant, and not what I need to know.”

“I thought we can talk about whatever I want in here,” Sander says innocently.

“Alright, then,” she acquiesces. “Tell me all about it.”

Sander blanches. He thinks about it, opens his mouth, and then thinks about it some more. Closes his mouth again.

Her smile is downright devious. “That’s what I thought.”

He huffs. “It’s very healthy, just so you know.”

“I am sure.”

“Explorative. Always consenting, of course. Frequent.”

“All very normal and well for teenage boys,” she nods, and it would be completely serious if Sander couldn’t see her eyes twinkling. She pauses. “Although, I can’t call you that anymore. How does it feel to be twenty?”

Sander narrows his eyes. “Nice change of subject.”

“Oh, if you had more to say, please continue. Just a thought that occurred to me, I don’t mean to steer you, you know that.”

He does know that, and it makes him pause, because. How does it feel to be twenty? He realises he hasn’t thought about it. He realises that’s probably a good thing—that he didn’t get stuck on his birthday this year, that it was something he just enjoyed. Maybe it was simply going to sleep next to Robbe that helped, but no anxiety had taken over at the end of the day.

Even after his conversation with Jens. It’s not the most prominent part of the day of Sander’s mind even now. Instead he finds himself tucking his hand into his pocket and grasping Robbe’s key, running his thumb over the already familiar ridges.

He hadn’t even been worrying about his major fuck-up with his assignment. He’s still not.

He’s not really giving himself the chance.

Should he be?

“It feels the same as being nineteen,” he says finally. “I didn’t become a different human in a day, sadly.”

He can see her latching on. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“‘Sadly’?”

“It’s just...a joke.”

“Okay. But why do you think it’s funny?”

It annoys him, because she’s not judgmental. She’s neither amused nor disappointed. Just curious, earnest, all focused and attentive as she gazes calmly, patiently at Sander. Even his attempt at throwing her off, making her awkward, hadn’t shaken her. She remains unfazed, as always. It’s annoying.

“I don’t,” he admits, “I guess. I don’t know what I’d consider it.”

Agathe nods, softening in her understanding, and it makes something twist in his chest. “Are you not happy with the human you are, Sander?”

He gives her a bland look. When she keeps waiting, he shrugs, gesturing at the room.

“I know,” she says gently, “that of course, you feel you would be happier without your illness. But who you are now—what you study, what you’re passionate about, who you surround yourself with, how you live your life day to day. Do you wish all of that was different?”

Sander doesn’t have to think about it quite as much. “No. But I—“

He cuts himself off, hesitating. She raises her brows and nods, prompting him onwards but not pushing. If he really wants to wait her out, she’ll move on.

“I just wish that it was easier,” he says.

She tilts her head. “Easier how?”

“I messed up. At college. I completely missed an assignment because I mixed up the dates with another one.”

She winces in sympathy. “And what happened in that case? Does that mean that assignment is marked as a fail?”

“No,” Sander admits. “He gave me the time I thought I’d have to do it. Marked it down as an extension. It’s due on Friday now.”

“And is it going alright?”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t struggling with it too much?”

“No.”

“Then it seems like a fairly simple mistake. Easy to make and also, thankfully, easy to fix for you. It’s not unusual. But do you see it as an effect or consequence of your illness? Is that why it bothers you?”

Sander is quiet.

She sets her clipboard aside and leans forward, clasping her hands again as she considers him. “You have to remember, Sander, that all humans are not without fault. That regardless of who we are or what we may have to deal with, we will inevitably make mistakes. Not every slip up is a reflection of you, or a sign of failure, of failing health. You’ve actually been doing very well for a long time, now. But this belief, or this worry, that it is taking a hold of you again can sometimes help it take on that direction. Do you know what I mean?”

He takes a moment to absorb the words before nodding, knowing that if he answers too quickly she won’t believe he’s listening. But he does know. He understands. He hates that she’s probably right.

“So in a situation like this,” she continues, “do you not think, that it is more beneficial for you to focus on correcting your mistake and the fact that you have that ability? Not only mentally, but overall. That your professor is so understanding must mean he thinks well of you.”

He shouldn’t ask. He does anyway, quietly. “You don’t think it’s just pity, or something?”

“No,” she huffs. “No, I do not. Did he give you the impression that that was why he was doing it?”

Sander rolls his shoulders, adjusting his position. “No.”

Her smile returns. “I think,” she says slowly, “that this all shows just how well you’re doing. That you can acknowledge your doubts are likely just that—doubts—and that you take responsibility when you mess up and try to rectify it. Do you not think those are all good things? Things just as healthy as your sex life?”

It shocks a laugh out of him, and he sees her eyes crinkle. “Maybe,” he allows. “But it really is very healthy. I don’t know if anything else should be forced to live up to the standard.”

She represses a smile. “I remember there was a time when you would never have even spoken about this in such a kind way.”

She’s right. It still freaks him out, sometimes, the hypersexuality that can be induced by his mania, and it even made him hold back from Robbe after his episode, at the beginning. The last thing he wanted was to freak Robbe out, or disgust him, or make him uncomfortable. Then Robbe had seemed downtrodden for about a week before hesitantly asking Sander if he’d done something wrong or if Sander wasn’t actually attracted to him, and Sander had corrected his doubts and behaviour fairly quickly, because how dare the most beautiful boy in the universe think that?

“How do you feel you’re doing, Sander?” Agathe asks. “Because although I can observe, only you can feel what you feel. If you are genuinely worried, we can talk about it.”

“No,” Sander admits, after a moment. “I think everything is okay, actually.” Which is the best it can ever be, really.

Now her smile is genuinely happy. “I think so, too. And I think, even if it comes about that it’s not, you have a better support than ever. Do you agree?”

That one’s easy. “Yes.”

“It’s important to remember,” she adds, “maybe more than anything else, that if a lapse or an episode or whatever does occur, it’s not the end of the world. It’s also not a reflection of you, or a failure. Bad days, bad weeks, that’s all a part of life, and something we know you’re more than capable of dealing with and getting past. I’ve watched you do it many times before now and it’s an admirable, wonderful thing.”

Sander doesn’t actually know what to say to that. He just swallows, and feels oddly emotional, and offers her a slight nod.

The rest of the session passes in a lighter atmosphere. She lets him ramble about his assignment to alleviate what stress he does feel over it, and they spend the leftover minutes discussing his party.

Sander considers talking to her about the other thing on his mind, but ultimately decides against it. She’s already taught him how to work through that, and he really doesn’t think it will help to be putting it back into open air. Instead he leaves with a fairly upbeat farewell, and heads in the opposite direction from home.

Robbe had texted him about where he was meeting with Yasmina for a study session, and it takes Sander less than ten minutes of walking to get to the small cafe from his appointment. He sees the two of them as soon as he enters, but neither of them notice him, so he moves to the counter to buy himself a coffee before making his way over.

He’s a couple of feet away when Yasmina catches sight of him and offers her bright smile, and then Robbe is looking over his shoulder.

“Hello,” Sander greets them both, grinning as he cups Robbe’s cheek and leans down to kiss the crown of his head. “I can see we’re very busy.”

Robbe has his hand wrapped around Sander’s wrist, preventing him from pulling away. He turns his head and presses a sweet kiss to Sander’s palm, nuzzling lightly against it. Sander lets his fingers slip over and tug gently on the boy’s earring before Robbe tangles their hands together and offers Sander his crinkly smile. “Hi.”

“Not anymore, I guess,” Yasmina says dryly, but she’s still grinning when Sander glances back at her.

He raises his hands; well, his free one. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” He hadn’t, really, he’d just wanted to be here when they were done to take Robbe home. He always likes being in the other boy’s company after a therapy session. Despite them not being quite so heavy at the moment, it’s always draining. Robbe is always able to replenish him with soft touches and soothing kisses, providing Sander with a silent, comforting company.

“Don’t be silly,” Robbe rebukes, predictably, swinging Sander’s hand idly now. “How are you?”

Sander squeezes his hand. “Good. I’m surprised you look so healthy, though.”

Robbe groans and buries his face against Sander’s arm. “Don’t. I’m suffering in silence.” He tilts his head ‘subtly’ at Yasmina.

Yasmina raises her brows at him, somehow managing to look wholly unimpressed and teasing all at once. “At least you can stave it off with sugar and coffee.”

Robbe has the sense to look sheepish, ducking his head in a nod. “You’re right, sorry, sorry.” He lets out a sigh. “You’re on too high of a level for me, Yasmina.”

“Queen shit,” Sander agrees, just to earn one of the girl’s unimpressed glances for himself. “Should I run now?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just sit down and drink your coffee. And keep your hands to yourself, if you can manage it? I still need my study partner, thank you.”

Sander grins and obeys, swinging a seat from the next table around to join them, dropping into it happily. He doesn’t place it as close to Robbe’s as he’d like, but Robbe leans into him for a moment anyway before refocusing his attention on his friend.

For the first while, Sander is content to listen and sip his coffee, feeling tiredness begin to creep into his bones. He lets his head loll against his own shoulder, trailing his eyes over Robbe’s profile and drifting into a sort of daydream. He can see the boy’s lips moving, but he has no idea what either of them are saying. They only let out the occasional comment, trading questions and answers and sighs and mutters. Robbe’s eyes are still red and a little puffy, a sign of his lingering exhaustion. He rubs at them absently as he looks down at his book and lets out another sigh, and leaves an eyelash on his cheek.

Sander reaches out and gently swipes it away with his thumb, an entirely mindless action that has Robbe looking at him in surprise before breaking out into a smile. He catches Sander’s hand before Sander can withdraw it completely, laying it on the table next to him. Instead of holding it, Robbe runs his hand along Sander’s sleeve, rubbing the soft seam between his fingers as he continues his work.

For some reason, it makes Sander blush. He’s sure his smile is unbearably happy, and he flicks a glance at Yasmina just to make sure she doesn’t know, only to catch her eye. She’s already smiling at him, and she purses her lips and raises her brows, teasing. Sander pulls a face at her, and she simply shakes her head as her smile widens.

“Can you work on your assignment while you’re waiting for us?” Robbe questions suddenly, drawing Sander’s attention back with a tilt of his head.

Sander glances at his bag, which he’s carried with him all day since he had to go straight to his session from a class. He considers for a moment but ultimately shakes his head. With yesterday being an exception, he usually prefers working at night—and when it’s not cutting into time he could otherwise spend admiring Robbe. “I’ll work on it when I go home,” he promises. Then, because he can’t help himself, “You’re too distracting.”

Robbe’s grin is small, and exasperated, but he yearns towards Sander, leaning across the table. Sander meets him and presses a quick kiss to his lips, then his nose, his cheek, before resolutely sitting back and waving at the textbooks and notes strewn in front of them. Robbe’s grin turns into a pout for half a second before he squeezes Sander’s wrist and focuses again.

Sander sinks back with a sigh, enjoying the feeling of Robbe’s fingers brushing against his wrist and skimming his hand, but he doesn’t feel quite as settled. There’s a prickle skittering over his neck, and he looks to his side and finds a woman staring at him.

Her nose is screwed, and there’s a vague curl to her lip. The disgust in her expression only heightens as Sander meets her eye and she flicks her gaze down to where Robbe’s hand rests over his. Sander can only stare back, dumbfounded.

When she looks at his face again, he raises his brows, as utterly bored as he can manage, and it only takes a moment for her to look away and get out of her seat across the cafe.

Sander tenses as she gets closer, hand enclosing around Robbe’s entirely, but she merely offers him another look before leaving. He deflates, squeezing Robbe’s fingers. It’s only when Robbe squeezes back that he panics again and quickly looks at the boy. But Robbe is in the middle of asking Yasmina a question, neither of them having noticed a thing.

“I meant to wish you a happy birthday,” Yasmina says, breaking him out of the moment. His mind has fogged over, and it takes him a moment to process the words. By then, she’s already moving on. “How was the party, anyway?”

Robbe and Sander share a look, and Yasmina waits. “Jens hardly said a word to me the whole day,” Robbe tells Sander, but he seems more amused than upset, so Sander allows himself to laugh.

“You didn’t tell him we didn’t actually do anything?”

“I did!” Robbe raises his hands. “He didn’t believe me.”

“What, what did you do to Jens?” Yasmina asks, confused. Then, after a second, “You know what, no, I probably don’t want to know.”

She cringes, and Robbe apologises profusely as Sander bursts into laughter, the weird incident from moments ago already forgotten.

Totally forgotten.

~^~

previous/next

#wtfock #sobbe #rosander #robbe x sander #sander driesen #sander season #tracing time #had to have yasmina in here at some stage!

[reidetic]

The Pantheon: The War or The World? - A.H

A/N: This is the second installment in ‘The Pantheon’ series. You can find the first, Golden, here. Big shout out to @zhuzhubii for their dialogue help and @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff and a discord friend (who’s tumblr I cannot tag fsm) for beta-ing both stages of this fic. This about to get real dark, y’all. Heed the content warnings.

CW/TW: Murder, violence, general angst, did you hear me about murder?

Couple: None, gen fic.

Category: Angst

Word Count: 1.8k

War. Violence. Anger, malevolence, fury. Aaron was familiar enough with them all. Over a decade in the Behavioral Analysis Unit and he had seen nothing but the wrath of mankind, spilled over from held tongues. Everything stems from fear and terror, and he would go to the grave swearing he fathered the abstract. He felt he left destruction behind him in a wake of combat, and failed to keep his fists from their fury. 

He hadn’t held his rage against Foyet, and it terrified him to no end that he held no regrets about it. If you spend your waking hours chasing the entities of psychopathy, do you not worry that one stumble will place you among the pack? Will the darkness that now inhabits him be his fall from grace? What would he teach his son about the world if he collapsed beneath it? 

He’d be lying to himself if he said the pressure only began after she left. Aaron knew a lot of things when he was young, but the lesson he never quite learned was how to slow down, and life stepped in quickly enough. Her name on his lips burned like fire for months after, only ever calling her Mom to Jack, never once braving the knowledge that the only woman he had given a piece of himself to was now gone, and he had absolutely no one to blame but himself. He still remembers the grip of Derek’s hands around his arms as he pulled him away from the fatality beneath him, still remembers the blood staining his fingernails. There is only so much evil soap can erase. 

Sometimes he felt like the Devil studied the blueprints of his life for ideas, and then he remembered that it’s only him that creates the wars waging on the homefront. How long can he sit here in the dark, touching the floor in their home where his wife’s blood stained the wood? He hadn’t been here in years, but he needed to be here, he needed to feel her again. The blonde underneath him wasn’t Haley, no, but she was close enough. She bore just enough resemblance to his wife and son to justify stealing her away, but just was different enough to let his fist close around her throat. Too fragile to fight him off, she never stood a chance, not when he’s creating his own bloodshed. The blood running from her eyebrow where his wedding ring had sliced her skin open simply pushes him over the edge, and when her body stops writhing under his closed hand, he realizes he has no idea what her name is. 

Maybe he was born with this brutality, perhaps he never stood a chance against the test of time. After all, he wasn’t just chasing killers, he was learning from them too. Cold, calculated, planned. Premeditated, wasn’t that what they called it? He watched her for weeks, needed to know that she would fulfill his fantasy, his need. He made sure she was alone, no children or husbands left behind. Not just to eliminate witnesses, but because Aaron had been on the side of that losing fight. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. This is just his conflict, this is just his deserved combat. No one would be surprised if he snapped, would they? It was all he knew, it was ever-consuming and at the end of it, he’d be lucky to have even a fragment of a soul left. Emily had warned him once about keeping everything so far shoved down that you lose the ability to distinguish between yourself and your trauma.

There was so much darkness, so much fear. He was so tired of holding everything on his shoulders. So he found a way to put it down, he found a way to try to heal. He had to make it right. He had to give Haley another chance to die, and maybe this time it would be right. 

--

There hadn’t been a break in this case for months. Women disappearing then reappearing mangled and murdered, always a different MO, their only common thread was victimology. Blonde single women, never anyone to miss them other than their work. 

“Hey, I hate to say this but...these women, they all look like Haley.” JJ says tentatively, glancing at the tacked up photos of the victims.

An unnerving quiet falls over the room as the team looks at JJ, a mixture of resignation and horror painting their faces. 

Rossi nods with a pained look. “They do. And...Aaron fits the profile.”

Spencer looks up and adds quietly, “And he took off work for three weeks when the killings started.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Not Hotch.” Morgan stands and shakes his head. “I still think it’s Evans.” 

Rossi sighs. “Evans has an alibi, Morgan. Aaron doesn’t.” 

Morgan scoffs, looking to anyone for help and settles on Emily. “Prentiss, you really believe this?”

She sighs, looks up at him and says, “I’m sorry Derek, he fits the profile perfectly. We always say profilers make the best unsubs.”

“Damn the profile! They can be wrong. We’ve been wrong before.” Morgan pleads, looking around the room for someone on his side.

“Look, why don’t we just go to his house? If I’m right, then we bring him in. If we’re wrong, then we’re just checking on him. Okay?” JJ reasons.

“You can waste your time all you want, but I’m going to talk to Evans.” Morgan seethes, looking to Spencer. “You coming with me, kid?” Spencer just nods, throws JJ an apologetic glance, and grabs his jacket and vest, following Morgan out of the room.

“I’ll go with you, JJ. Prentiss, stay behind and keep in contact with Garcia, just in case.” Rossi instructs. JJ nods, and they head in the opposite direction of Morgan and Spencer, and JJ prays she’s wrong about this.  

--

Prying open the door to Hotch’s house, JJ shakes her head. This isn’t how she wanted this to end. She tiptoes through the room, Rossi following behind her while they work to clear the area. As they go upstairs, she starts to hear crying.

Toeing open the bedroom door, JJ calls through, “Hotch?” She sees him, hunched over a blonde woman, blood pooling on the carpet between his knees. “Hotch!” He still isn’t responding, sobs wracking through his body. “...Aaron?” She tries, pitching her voice down. 

He turns to look at her then, no sign of recognition on his face. He looks broken and battered. He still doesn’t look like a murderer.

Meeting his eyes, she says, “Aaron, it’s JJ. We can help you but I need you to put the knife down.” The heart beating inside her chest is so much less scared than it is breaking in half to watch this man she called family die. 

He turns to her, blood on his outstretched hands and a sad smile on his face. “You’re here, you’re finally here.” 

Confused, JJ cocks her head to the side, gun still trained on him.“I’m...here?” She asks.

He lurches towards her, knife in hand.“I missed you so much.” He swipes a blood covered hand under his eye to wipe away the tears, and JJ’s stomach curdles at the sight.

Rossi takes a step forward to meet JJ, and says quietly, “Aaron, stay back.” Hotch doesn’t seem to hear him, staring directly at JJ.

Unsure of what’s happening, JJ decides to lean into it, in the hopes that making him feel understood would avoid casualties. “I...missed you too.”

He gestures behind him to the still body, and says, “I did it, see? I finally got it right!” He’s shouting, and his happiness is unnerving.

JJ steps forward a little, staring at him. “Aaron...I’m sorry, but I don't understand. Could you...explain it to me?” Maybe even in this state, he’s still sane enough to be logical. Maybe.

Hotch barks a bitter laugh, “Foyet, he didn’t do it right. He…disgraced you.” You? All of a sudden JJ realizes what’s happening and she chokes back tears. She’s not Haley, but she can be for a minute if it protects him.

She softens her voice, holsters her gun and steps forward with her hands up. “I’m...I’m here now. And I've missed you so much. Why don't you put the knife down, and then-”

He shakes his head violently, sweat and tears flying off his face.“It’s too late.” He’s muttering to himself and JJ can’t understand the words under his breath.

JJ swallows thickly. “What do you mean? I’m here, it’s ok-” 

He cuts her off abruptly, waving the knife at the girl behind him dismissively. “She's already gone. She’s already gone.” He looks up through tears and smiles sadly at JJ, at the figure of his late wife in front of him. “...I got you back, though. You're here. You're here and I...-” He breaks down in sobs, sinking to his knees and clutching the knife to his chest. 

 JJ steps closer, looking down at him in pity. “That's right, I’m here. And everything will be okay, I just need you to put the knife down. Can you do that for me, Aaron? Put the knife down.”

He looks up at her, dropping the knife to the floor with a loud clatter and JJ drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around the broken man before her and they’re both crying. “I’m so sorry, Haley.” She just shushes him, pulling him up to his feet.

“I gotta cuff you now, Hotch. It’s for your own good.” Rossi has tears in his eyes, pulling the silver metal from his belt and clasping it around Hotch’s wrists. It’s then that the illusion shatters, and he sees what he’s done. JJ leans down and presses her fingers to the inside of the girl’s wrist, searching for a pulse, but it’s useless. Like he said, it was too late. She was already gone. 

“JJ?” Hotch asks pitifully. “What did I do?” He looks so tired, so crushed.

“I don’t know, Aaron. But we’ll fix it.” She’s still got slow tears rolling down her cheeks, and she takes him from Rossi, guiding him down the stairs and out the front door where the rest of the team is waiting, the looks on their faces a mixture of fear and disgust and pity.

War was ever-consuming. War within, war in the world he struggled to hold up on his shoulders. He could never decide if he saw himself more as Ares or Atlas, never could deify himself in the way he was expected to. Head of the unit, head of his remaining household, head of his world. And yet, he chose war every time. This time, the blood on his fingertips was no longer metaphorical, but the weight of the world fell off. As he’s pulled away from his home, he sees JJ and Jessica huddled over his son, and he wonders if what he’s done is worth the weightlessness. 

taglist: @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff @andiebeaword @dreatine​ @muffin-cup​ @httpnxtt​ @sunlight-moonrise​  @samanddeanstolethetardis221b​ @spencer-reid-in-a-pool​ @fanficlibrary82​ @zhuzhubii​ @prettyricky187​ @reidlusts​ 

#criminal minds fanfic #aaraon hotchner #aaron hotch fanfiction #hotch fanfiction #criminal minds gen fic #unsub!hotch #dark!hotch

[vindicatedvirgil]

art is (not) dead / analogical

inspired by an idea brainstormed in a discord server i’m in.

art critic logan!!!!! give him art rights! immediately!!!!

[masterlist]

---

Logan adjusted his glasses, eyes focused on the abstract painting in front of him. When it came to artwork in that style, he either appreciated it or it confused him, and this piece fell into the latter category. It was a white canvas with cloud-like shapes in various shades of purple, gray, and black. Logan wanted to understand what the artist was trying to convey, but he only felt perplexed. As he stepped up to read the information about the piece, a man stood to his left. 

“Priced a bit high,” Logan muttered, gripping his pen a little tighter. He scribbled down the title, price, and artist of the piece, then straightened back up. He spun on his heel, and the man who was standing there was looking at him, frowning. Logan observed the badge on his black coat, denoting him as an artist. The name… “Oh, this is your piece,” Logan said, recalling the name he had just written down.

“Is there something wrong with my art…” the man, named Virgil Storm, narrowed his eyes onto Logan’s badge, explaining that he was the critic at the show, “...Mr. Crofters?” Logan sighed, glancing back to the large art piece.

“I do not understand why you have titled it ‘anxiety’,” Logan explained, “and the colors don’t… bring any certain emotion.” Virgil rolled his eyes, inhaling sharply. He was used to this by now, critics claiming they knew what art needed to be, but he was sick of it. The art represented how he felt, no matter how abstract it was.

“Look, you don’t need to understand art for it to be worth something,” Virgil explained, gesturing to all of the art surrounding them. “It means something to the artist. But you wouldn’t understand that, you just like critiquing and judging the things that people put countless hours into, hmm?” Logan frowned at this, and felt a pang of unease. “Yes, Mr. Crofters. I’ve heard of you and your… critiquing. You caused Roman Prince, one of the greatest artists in the area, to have a mental breakdown because you didn’t ‘understand’ the piece that he dedicated to his brother.”

“Look, Storm. This is what I studied. I know art-”

“You know what you like, and I don’t care if you think my art is overpriced. You couldn’t create something with half as much heart or emotion, I’m sure,” Virgil started to step away, but Logan stepped in front of him, eyes dark.

“I can paint,” Logan informed him. He thought he was no good, though, which is why he became a critic. He hadn’t painted in years.

“Oh? Prove it, then,” Virgil fished a business card out of his pocket. “The address for my studio is there. Come by tomorrow and prove to me that you can do art.”

-

Logan stared at the brick building, the wide windows startling him. He considered turning back, going home, because why did he need to prove himself to a cocky artist like Virgil Storm? Except he didn’t turn back, he gripped the paints that he had dug out of his closet a little tighter in his hand and stepped to the door, knocking only once. If Virgil didn’t hear him, then he could say it wasn’t his fault-

Of course, Logan was not that lucky. The door swung open, revealing Virgil with a stained button-up lavender shirt, paint-splattered black pants, his long hair pulled into a bun. “Ah, the critic,” Virgil smirked, stepping aside to let Logan inside. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show after my painting sold for higher than the listed price.”

Logan glanced around at the bottom floor of the lofted building; it was covered with full, half-full, and blank canvases and plants, and he could see that on the second level there was a full bedroom. There were two easels set up, one with what Logan assumed was Virgil’s current work in progress, the other with a blank canvas. He glanced down at his own clothes; his polo shirt and tie and slacks, and wondered if he should have worn something that he didn’t mind getting paint on.

“Need an apron?” Virgil asked, strolling over to the easels. He pulled an apron from behind one of them, paint splatters and charcoal stains coating most of the fabric. “You can use this one,” he tossed it at Logan, who nearly dropped his paints in the process. Virgil lifted a paintbrush from his easel, and Logan noted the bright colors he was using with the current piece; yellows, pinks, and teals in a pattern that almost resembled a sunset. 

“Thanks,” Logan set his paints down on the bottom of the easel and slipped the apron over his head, then got out his brush. He glanced over at Virgil, who seemed to be deep in thought, lips pursed as he splattered some orange onto the canvas. Logan began with black paint, outlining a figure, and the two painted in silence for a while, until Virgil set his paintbrush down and stretched his arms up, his shirt riding up to reveal a pierced belly button. Logan blinked, then returned his focus to the silhouette he was painting.

“Want anything to drink? I’ve got about twenty types of tea, but there’s also wine…” He ran a hand through his hair to fix it back up into a bun, not realizing that there was yellow paint on his fingers, and Logan bit back a grin when the paint streaked Virgil’s dark hair.

“Um, tea’s fine. Whatever kind you’re having,” Logan responded. He had loosened his tie earlier and his glasses were situated on the top of his head, and he felt more relaxed than he had in years; painting was something he enjoyed so much, but with his work schedule and the discouragement he faced from those around him… he had stepped away from the thing that he was so passionate about.

Logan refocused on his painting; it was a silhouette of a man standing outside, and he had decided that he would paint the night sky around the frame of the man’s likeness. After a few minutes, he felt Virgil standing next to him, and noted that the artist had placed a mug of tea on the table between the easels. 

“Wow,” Virgil breathed out, his eyes focused on the painting. “Your silhouette work is incredible,” he murmured, and Logan glanced at him, wondering if he was being mocked, but the expression on Virgil’s face only showed admiration. 

“Oh. Um. Thank you,” Logan grabbed the mug of tea, holding it up to his lips to distract from the blush that had coated his cheeks. The aroma of roses and jasmine wafted into his nose, and he felt a bit calmer. No one had ever complimented his art; he didn’t know how to react to Virgil’s kind words. 

Luckily, he didn’t need to say anything more, as Virgil stepped away and back to his easel. 

-

By the time they had both finished their paintings, the sun had gone down and Virgil had flipped on the lights of the loft, revealing several sets of fairy lights in the windows. It was almost… magical, Logan thought, and as he pulled the apron back over his head, hanging it off of the easel, he wondered if he’d be allowed to come back and paint another time.

Virgil stood beside him, hand on his chin, looking at Logan’s painting closely. Perhaps unconsciously, Logan had given the silhouetted man a bun and a paintbrush, and he wondered if Virgil would notice.

“Well, it looks like I owe you an apology, Mr. Art Critic,” Virgil finally said, turning to glance at Logan. “You can paint, and you’re good. You should enter in the next show.”

“It’s really not… that good,” Logan muttered, closing the case with his paints. “It’s been a long time since I painted. I don’t think I’ve touched a paintbrush since college.”

“Why is that?” Virgil asked, eyes focused on the way that Logan’s face was turning a pale pink.

“I was… discouraged often. My parents didn’t think that painting was a worthwhile endeavor, but I didn’t want to step away from the world of art,” Logan’s eyes followed Virgil, who sat down on a plastic-covered couch, then beckoned the critic over. He sat down next to him, and Virgil pulled his legs under him, his elbow on the edge of the couch and his chin in the palm of his hand.

“You realize that’s what you’ve become, don’t you?” Virgil asked incredulously. Logan raised his eyebrows, frowning. “Roman hasn’t painted in weeks. If I wasn’t familiar with my own self-doubt, your words could have stopped me, too. Art isn’t meant to be judged, it’s meant to be appreciated and encouraged, and you should be aware of that, if that’s what you went through.”

“I… I’m sorry.” Logan didn’t say anything else, he wanted to run and never come back, but he felt like he could trust being around Virgil. “Do you… have Roman’s phone number? I would like to apologize to him.” Virgil nodded, but made no other movements, except to flutter his eyes shut. “I should go.”

“Do you want to take your painting with you?” Virgil asked, glancing over at the easels. Logan glanced, too, and shook his head.

“No. You can keep it,” he wanted to ask Virgil if he could come back the following day to paint some more, but he didn’t want to impose. Or be annoying. Logan often found that people didn’t want to spend time with him, so he began to favor being alone. “It was nice to paint again, if only for a bit.”

“You’re not going to get back into it?” Virgil’s hand was on his forearm, and Logan sucked in a deep breath, then shook his head.

“I have no reason to,” he explained, wanting to pull his arm away. Virgil grimaced at this. 

“Yes you do. You love it. You’re good at it. Don’t give up on it again,” Virgil’s voice was nearly pleading, and Logan looked away from the man, because the emotions were too strong, and he couldn’t bear to feel them. He didn’t want to feel anything. “Logan.”

“I can’t. I don’t have an easel or canvases or…” Logan trailed off, and Virgil squeezed his arm gently. “I can’t get back into it. It’s not… serious enough. I want to be taken seriously. I need to be.”

“Why?” Virgil’s voice was calling him back, his long fingers warm against Logan’s skin, and the critic resisted the urge to run again. “Why do you need to be taken seriously? Because of your parents? Logan, your skills speak for themselves. You can be taken seriously as an artist.”

“Does your family take you seriously?” Logan asked, and Virgil’s eyes opened. He chewed on his lower lip, then sighed before responding.

“I haven’t spoken to my family since I was seventeen. There was a lot more than just my art that they didn’t accept me for,” Virgil’s voice was low, and Logan just nodded, understanding. “You can come back to paint whenever you want, Logan.”

-

And so he did. The following morning, he showed up at Virgil’s loft, bagels and coffee in hand. Instead of his normal professional attire, he was wearing an old pair of jeans and a NASA t-shirt that had bleach stains. The door was open when he approached it, so he peeked in to see Virgil already at his easel, a new painting in the works, dressed in the same outfit as the day before.

“Um, good morning, Virgil,” Logan said, announcing his presence. “I brought some bagels and coffee,” he said, stepping over to set the food and drinks on the kitchen counters. 

“Thank goodness, I’m going to need caffeine. I didn’t finish the painting from yesterday until three in the morning,” Virgil groaned, stepping away from the easel temporarily to grab the coffee Logan had brought for him. “You’re my hero.” Logan turned bright red at this, looking down at his feet. “Oh. I talked to Roman. He actually started painting again. Let me get my phone to show you the picture,” Virgil stepped away, and Logan had to hold back again. Standing close to the other man was intoxicating, but he craved it. Even though he had only known the painter for two days, he was entranced, and had never felt the need to gravitate around another person in that way.

When Virgil stepped back over to him, phone showing a picture of a painting of a throne. Logan smiled faintly at it, remembering Roman’s penchant for theatricality and royalty. And then Logan realized just how close he was standing to Virgil. The artist seemed to notice, as well, because he stepped away, clearing his throat. Without saying anything, the two went to their easels, and painted in silence for some time.

Virgil had given his canvas a thorough once-over with black paint, and allowed it to dry before starting to add colors on top of it; dark blues and purples were swirled on. Logan found himself pause what he was doing to watch the way that Virgil arched his wrist in a precise way to allow for different points of pressure from the brush. He wondered if Virgil had studied art, and glanced around the room to see if he could locate any degrees. None were visible, though, and he didn’t want to ask and break the comfortable silence they had entered.

They painted in that space of tranquility for a few hours, until Logan heard his stomach grumble. Virgil chuckled a bit at this, setting his brush down and stepping back from his own easel. “I’ll order us some lunch, is Chinese takeout alright?”

“Sounds delicious. Kung Pao Chicken, please,” Logan responded, setting his brush down to look at his painting as a whole. It was a silhouette again, but this time there were two figures, and it looked like they were dancing. He hadn’t done the background yet, but he wanted to do something similar to the galaxy he had painted the day before. He heard Virgil finish making the order for takeout, and then felt his presence next to him.

“Are they dancing?” Virgil asked, letting his hair out of its bun. Logan ignored the way that his dark hair framed his pale face, and instead just nodded. “You must be familiar with dancing, I can almost see the movement in them.”

“I’m not much of a dancer, but my cousin Patton is,” he explained, remembering the times when, as teenagers, he and Patton would learn different styles of dance, even ballroom dancing. A smile crossed his features, and he barely noticed that music started playing from a speaker. Then he felt arms on his, pulling him into Virgil’s arms so they could move to the music. “Virgil, I-”

“Shh, just dance with me,” Virgil’s voice was calm, and Logan leaned into the touch, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder, Virgil’s hands settling on his waist. They moved around the empty space of the room until the doorbell rang, and Logan felt as if he had been pulled out of a dream. The two ate their takeout in silence, though the quiet was not as pleasant as it had been prior; there was now this tension spread out in front of them, and neither of them knew what to do with that.

By the time they had both finished eating and returned to their easels, Logan knew that he was visibly rigid, but his hands shook with every movement. He could barely press his paintbrush against the canvas without needing to pull away for fear of making one wrong move. Of course, it was the fact that he was afraid of all of his past wrong moves and the fear that if he made a false choice now, the progress he had made and the confidence he had built up with his painting again would fade away. 

Virgil could practically feel the unease dripping from Logan’s body, so he left his painting to dry (at this point, all he wanted to do was add some white borders to the swirls), and stepped over to Logan, taking the brush from his hand. “You want to talk about it?” Logan wouldn’t meet his eyes, but nodded, and the two moved to sit on the couch, Virgil leaning close into the cushions, watching Logan with those dark eyes of his. 

“I want to learn how to be okay with the things that I tried to push back,” he finally said, and Virgil knew it wasn’t just the painting he was talking about. “But… I don’t know where to start.”

“You already have started, Logan. You’re painting again, and you need to keep painting, no matter how hard it is or how conflicted you feel,” Virgil’s voice was soft as he scooted a little closer to the critic, and his fingers pulled Logan’s face to look at him. “As for the other things… take your time. Be open. It’s… hard. But… I think that everyone deserves a second chance, and I’m happy to help you on your journey.”

-

Logan stepped into the building and walked up to the table with badges, scanning the rows until he found the one he was looking for: Logan Crofters, Artist, Dancing Under the Stars. A faint smile crossed his face as he pinned it to his jacket, and then he wandered to where he knew the canvas was hung. 

On his way there, he passed Roman, whose throne painting was hung proudly as the center of the show, and they shook hands, exchanged friendly greetings, and made promises to see each other at the after party. Then Logan went to stand by his painting, the lights from up above illuminating the silhouettes in a way that no natural light could. 

Logan felt a presence to his left, and glanced over to see Virgil beaming brightly. His sunset painting was on display a few exhibits over. Their hands linked together, Virgil’s thumb brushing comfortably over the back of Logan’s hand, and Logan leaned up to press a kiss to Virgil’s cheek.

“I put in my notices,” he informed Virgil, who nodded, still smiling. “No more critiquing. No more boring apartment.” He hadn’t been spending much time in his apartment over the past several months, anyways. Each morning he’d find himself waking up in Virgil’s warm embrace, the fairy lights of the loft illuminating their way, and each afternoon they’d paint side by side like they had at the start, except now when they needed a break, they’d fall into each other’s arms, cascading across the room, lips brushing together like paintbrushes on a canvas.

#amanda writes sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #analogical #ts analogical #romantic analogical #ts virgil #virgil sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #ts sanders sides #sanders sides #art critic logan #painter virgil

[dickwheelie]

Here’s a little jmart safehouse scene I wrote for the @tma-safehouse-fest (a 3-week-long event you should totally check out)! I wanted to post today since Sept 25 is the anniversary of their first day in the safehouse :)

Happy birthday to all jonmartin fans, I can’t believe we were all born today!

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“Are you going to use . . .  all of these?”

Jon surveyed the vast selection of boxes Martin was taking out of the brown paper bag he’d brought back from the village’s only convenience store. When Martin had left an hour ago, Jon had assumed he was going out to get groceries, but now there wasn’t a single foodstuff in sight.

“Um,” Martin said, high-pitched and frazzled, as he took out the last box and stared down at the safehouse’s tiny, and currently very cluttered, kitchen table. “Well. I, ah, I’m not sure. I started putting things in my basket and then honestly I just sort of panicked? And I, uh. I bought the lot.”

“. . . Right,” Jon said slowly, hands on his hips, staring down at the wide array of colors and brands. “I mean. I’m hardly the expert, but . . .”

Martin sighed. “It’s a lot of hair dye.”

“It’s a lot of hair dye,” Jon said, nodding.

They both continued to stare at the pile in silence for another minute or two.

“How much did all this cost?” Jon said, for lack of anything better to say.

“Oh, I don’t even know,” Martin said, waving a dismissive hand. “I pinched Peter’s credit card weeks ago and it hasn’t been declined yet. Used it to buy myself a new phone.”

Jon let out a sharp, surprised laugh. He glanced over at Martin, whose hair had once been black and was now a pale grey, and said, “Mr. Blackwood, I believe that’s fraud.”

A smile twitched at the corner of Martin’s mouth, and Jon tallied up one small victory.

“Here,” Jon went on, moving to pick up some of the boxes of dye. “Let’s get these into the bathroom, they’re no use out here.”

They busied themselves for a few minutes moving the boxes into the bathroom cupboards, and then when those were full, stacking them up on the lip of the bathtub. Afterwards, they just sat there, Jon on the closed toilet lid, and Martin on the floor of the bathroom.

Martin really had bought everything, Jon thought. He didn’t know much about hair dye, but he was fairly certain Martin didn’t need blond root touch-ups. He looked again at Martin’s nearly-white hair, and went to reach for one of the black dyes.

But then he paused, his eye landing on a bright pink dye on the edge of the bathtub. A bittersweet memory popped into his head, back when he had first gotten the head archivist job, of meeting Martin for the first time, and noticing the bright pink nail polish he had on. At the time, Jon had had . . . other matters on his mind, but under all the chaos and anxiety, he remembered thinking how nice Martin’s nails had looked.

He smiled to himself, and picked up the pink dye. As Jon started to read through the instructions on the back of the box, Martin, who had been staring into the middle distance, glanced over at him quizzically.

“Which one is that?”

“Pink,” Jon said, showing him the front. “Or, I guess, Fruit Punch. Which is different from pink. Somehow.”

Martin huffed a laugh. “Yeah, they’re all like that.” He took the box from Jon and examined it. “Um . . . why this one? Did you want to use it?”

“No,” Jon said, quickly. He was fairly sure pink wasn’t his color. “I think you should.”

Martin blinked up at him in surprise. “Oh. I, uh. I was just going to dye it black again.”

“I know,” Jon said. He got up and went over to join Martin on the bathroom floor, leaning back against the wall next to him. Automatically, Martin reached over to hold his hand in his. “I just thought, maybe if you wanted to try something different.”

“Why pink?” Martin said, puzzled but smiling.

Jon looked down at Martin’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You used to wear that color of nail polish. I was too much of a prick to tell you at the time, but I thought it was lovely on you.”

“Aw, Jon,” Martin said, teasing. “You had such a crush on me.”

“Pot, kettle,” Jon said, and Martin actually laughed out loud. Jon added another tally.

“Alright,” Martin conceded after a moment, “alright. I’ll try the pink.”

“Well, I mean,” Jon said, quickly backtracking, “if you don’t want to, don’t let me pressure you—black is just as nice—”

“Jon,” Martin said, smiling at him, and there was a bit of light in his eyes that hadn’t been there a minute ago. “I want to try the pink.”

“O-Okay,” Jon said quietly.

Martin got up from the floor, and offered a hand to pull Jon up with him. “You’re gonna have to help me dye it, you know,” he said, setting the box on the corner of the sink.

“Sure, of course,” said Jon. The instructions hadn’t seemed too difficult, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to burying his hands in Martin’s hair.

“And you’re gonna let me dye yours,” Martin went on with a devilish grin.

“I’m—what?”

“Do you want all of Peter Lukas’s money to go to waste, Jon?” Martin said, gesturing at the piles of untouched boxes.

Jon barked out a laugh before he had time to stifle it with his hand. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”

“Good, then.” Martin grabbed a towel off the rack. “Pick out a color, and we’ll get started.”

By the time they were done, both of their hands were stained up to the wrists, the bathroom looked like an abstract artist had painted it over, and they still had at least a dozen boxes of hair dye left over. Still, looking in the mirror at Martin’s bright pink hair and Jon’s darker violet color, side by side, Jon was willing to concede that it had been well worth the trouble.

(And he would be lying if he said that having Martin’s hands buried in his hair for over an hour wasn’t a very lovely bonus.)

#tmasafehousefest #the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes