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rosepetalgold · 7 months

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the art of saying goodbye

Summary: Remus expects a lot of things from the Queen Anne Victorian house he’s just purchased—a restoration project to occupy his time, some peace and quiet from nosy neighbors, a chance to brag about being a homeowner before his goody two-shoes brother.

What he doesn’t expect is for the property to come with a very real, very curious ghost. But what is he supposed to do, just ignore the spirit? That'd be nothing short of rude, especially considering that the specter's fascination with modern science and penchant for hijacking Remus' technology proves unfairly endearing.

But even as their unlikely friendship grows, so too do the questions swirling in Remus’ mind: Why is Logan still haunting the place he used to live? Who is the mysterious Janus he refuses to talk about? And what will it take for the ghost to finally find peace with the life and the love that were stolen from him so long ago?

Relationships: Platonic Intrulogical, past romantic Loceit, background romantic Prinxiety

Warnings for this chapter: None!

Word Count: 7000

Notes: My fic for this year's @sandersidesbigbang, aka another angsty tale that inexplicably grew out of a single fluffy scene, aka a prime excuse to procrastinate by poring through countless photos of beautiful Queen Anne houses my beloved. I hope you enjoy this ghostie story as much I enjoyed writing it! A big shoutout to my wonderful beta reader @dragonsaphirareads for all their feedback on this fic, and don't miss the amazing art by the incredible @casart and @onthevirgeofdestruction—you can check out their pieces here and here! (Seriously, even if you don't read the fic, go feast your eyes on their work because it is straight-up stunning. Go look, you'll see.)

Read on Ao3 Masterpost

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“This place is definitely haunted.”

Remus snorts, giving his brother a friendly sock in the arm.

“Oh come on, Ro, you scared of a few ghosties now? Afraid a floating white sheet is gonna jump out and yell boo?”

Roman doesn’t answer, just eyes the Queen Anne Victorian home in front of them with the amount of trepidation he usually reserved for any time Remus started a sentence with ‘I have an idea.’ The house does give off distinctly spooky vibes, Remus has to admit, what with its boards in desperate need of a new coat of paint and its broken window in the attic, not to mention the porch that looks liable to send someone plummeting to the ground if they take a single wrong step, but what was wrong with any of that? It all just added to the building’s character, and the risk of falling through the veranda was a delightful way to keep visitors on their toes, in his superior opinion.

And besides, he couldn’t turn his nose up at the property’s many flaws when they made it dirt-cheap. He wasn’t exactly a millionaire.

He grabs Roman’s arm, tugging him forward.

“C’mon, there’s some wicked spindlework on the back you gotta check out.”

His brother makes a sound of protest, dragging his feet as Remus hauls him onward.

“Aren’t we going to go inside?”

“Nah, I don’t have the keys yet. Everything’s still pending or whatever.”

Roman shifts his incredulous gaze from the house to Remus.

“You made me come all this way just to look at the outside of a house you haven’t even officially bought yet?”

Why yes, he had. He was such a good brother.

“Don’t act like it’s such a burden to drive twenty minutes out of the way to get here, especially when it means you’re twenty minutes closer to a booty call with Virgil.”

Roman splutters, face flushing a splendidly scandalized shade of crimson, and Remus cackles. That was more like it.

“Now c’mon c’mon c’mon, the sooner you ooh and aah over all my cool house shit, the sooner you can get some of that good di—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Roman interrupts, slapping his hands over his ears, but he doesn’t protest as Remus pulls him around to the back of the house and points out the expansive if overgrown backyard, the plethora of decorative elements adorning the home, the leaded glass windows that have survived well over a century.

“I don’t get it, though,” Roman says as he eyes the tower gracing the corner of the house, something Remus would swear is a hint of jealousy in his gaze. Made sense. He knows for a fact his brother would sell his soul to be Rapunzel. “If this is such a nice place, why has it sat empty for so long?”

“Dunno. The realtor just said it stayed in the family of the guy who built it for a while before changing hands a bunch. Apparently every time it’s been on the market it’s taken ages to find a buyer, but she didn’t really say why no one wanted to live here for too long.” Probably just her trying not to scare him away from what was clearly a substantial restoration project so she wouldn’t lose her commission. Either that or there was some kind of toxic fungus in the walls that had taken over all the previous residents’ brains and turned them into zombies and Remus was about to become its next victim.

What a delightful gamble to find out which one it was.

“Can we please go now before some serial killer comes charging out of this place and we both end up on the news?” Roman asks, already edging back towards the front of the house.

“Sure, if you really want to give up your one shot of having your fifteen minutes of fame in the media,” Remus replies, dancing away with a grin as Roman aims a kick at his shins. “Fine, fine, we’ll go. I wouldn’t want to keep you from a hot date and some—”

Something catches his attention, a flash of movement out of the very corner of his eye, and he pauses mid-stride, doing a double-take at the second-story balcony overlooking the backyard.

Nothing. Not even a curtain blowing in the non-existent breeze.

“What?” Roman questions from where he’s also stopped a few yards ahead of him.

Remus looks a moment longer, searching for anything out of place, but all is still.

“Nothing. Probably just a bat or something. Wouldn’t that be cool as shit, to have bats as roommates? Hey, maybe they have rabies if they’re out in the daytime. Did you know…”

He launches into a spiel of the most gruesome and fascinating facts he knows about the disease, joyfully watching his brother’s face grow increasingly horrified with each one as they make their way back across the yard, and by the time they reach the driveway, the flicker of movement is barely a blip on his mental radar.

Just a trick of his eyes, surely.

It wasn’t like houses could actually be haunted, after all.

---

Home sweet home.

Or home rundown-and-slightly-musty-smelling home, as the case may be, but who was Remus to nitpick?

He fits his shiny new key into the lock and steps inside, letting the door click shut solidly behind him as he pauses just over the threshold, taking a moment to survey the foyer. His foyer now, in his very own home. The sale had been endless offers and counteroffers and a mountain of paperwork so large he’s positive he could have buried himself beneath it and never been seen again, but the place is finally his.

Him, a homeowner. Who’d have thunk it. He’ll be rubbing this in Roman’s apartment-renting face every chance he can get, thank you very much. It’s the least he can do, really.

He unceremoniously deposits the cardboard box in his arms on the floor and wanders further inside, trailing his hand along the smooth wood of the stair banister as he passes. He’s supposed to be meeting some of his friends back at his old place shortly—or now, actually, but that was wholly irrelevant—to start moving all of his worldly possessions into his fancy new abode, but he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of taking the first load of boxes alone just to have the place to himself for a bit; he could use a few minutes to enjoy the space in peace before it’s filled with Roman and Virgil squabbling about the worst Disney movie heroes or whatever argument they were bound to get into.

Despite its well-worn exterior, the house is in surprisingly good condition inside, he muses as he roams through the empty rooms. There’s clearly extensive work that needs to be done if he wants to restore the place to its Victorian glory, an ambitious undertaking he knows will be neither cheap nor easy, but the bones of the structure are all solid, especially considering how many years it’s stood empty.

He finishes his meandering loop around the first floor and heads up the stairs, the tread of his steps entirely too loud for the pervasive quiet as he continues his exploratory wandering through the second story rooms. He pauses as he reaches what is clearly the master bedroom, surveying the original fireplace, the century-old hardwood, the attached balcony that was just begging to be used to pour water onto his unsuspecting brother’s head. Shit, his new house was cool as fuck.

It’d make the most sense to start hauling his load of boxes here, considering that’s where most of his crap is going to end up eventually, but the longer he hovers in the doorway, the more something feels … off. Just the slightest tingle prickling down his spine, and not the good kind. He steps inside and the temperature drops noticeably, a chill raising the hair on his arms.

“The fuck?” he mutters, raking his gaze over the windows in search of damaged panes letting in a breeze, but everything is intact.

He advances another step on impulse and the pinpricks dancing along his vertebrae only grow stronger, now accompanied by the distinct feeling he’s being watched. He scans the room again, slower this time, but there’s no furniture, no closet, not so much as a nook or cranny for anyone or anything to hide. Even the ceiling is empty when he turns his gaze upwards on the off chance he really does have some bats hanging around that he’s somehow missed on his numerous pre-sale walk-throughs.

Nary a beady eye to be found and still the sensation of being in someone’s sights doesn’t lessen. Not that it’s a threatening feeling, exactly, just distinctly unsettling, like there’s someone behind him no matter how many times he glances over his shoulder and finds nothing but empty air.

But that was crazy. He’d read the final sale documents until his eyes had been about to start bleeding and he’s absolutely positive that the house hadn’t come with any roommates. He’s probably just imagining the feeling, the result of watching one too many horror movies in the last week or his brain making things up in an attempt to liven up the empty space.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, yanking him out of his thoughts, and he rolls his eyes without even looking at the screen, already able to see the text from Roman in his mind’s eye: where you at?? i’m not packing up all your crap for you followed by an absurdly long string of emojis that basically constituted their own Roman-specific hieroglyphic language.

Time to face the moving-day music before Roman got annoyed enough with waiting that he rescinded his promise of free manual labor, then. Any investigations of potential invisible voyeurs would have to wait, no matter how titillating such a prospect sounded when he put it like that.

“You win for now, house,” he says into the quiet as he turns to leave, an edge of coldness still dancing along the goosebumps on his skin. “Keep your secrets. I’ll figure ‘em out eventually.”

---

The afternoon passes in a blur of hauling entirely too many heavy boxes and unwieldy pieces of furniture to the new house, and by the time night settles onto the horizon, Remus is utterly exhausted. He flops back on the couch, too tired to even think about putting his bedframe together, and he’s out in minutes.

He wakes disoriented, mind scrabbling blankly for a moment before the darkness coalesces into the still-unfamiliar contours of his sitting room. He just lies there for a moment, trying to figure out what’s roused him, but all is still. Just his brain deciding to deprive him of some tantalizingly horrifying nightmares, unfortunately—

Tap tap tap.

Remus bolts upright at the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the hardwood upstairs, adrenaline surging in a dizzying rush. There hadn’t been any signs of a squatter all day, and surely he’d remembered to lock the doors so no one could steal all the crap he’d just spent a whole day of his life lugging around. He waits for a moment, holding his breath as silence falls, and just when he’s about to pass the whole thing off as his imagination playing tricks on him, the steps start up again, slow and rhythmic like someone is pacing on the upper level.

Fuck his luck. If someone is secretly living in the attic of his fancy new home, he’s not going to be pleased.

He rolls off the couch and snatches his phone off of one of the plethora of boxes waiting to be unpacked, debating whether to risk turning on the flashlight before deciding for it; he might give away any element of surprise with the beam, but he’s certain to give it away if he starts banging face-first into walls or cracking his skull open falling down the stairs. His eye catches on a glass paperweight on the coffee table, a characteristically pretentious housewarming present from Roman, who apparently thought Remus had so many papers flying about that he needed to corral them with a glorified rock, and he seizes it on a whim.

Makeshift weapon was a much more useful purpose for the thing than its intended function anyways.

He edges around the scattered boxes towards the stairs, careful to keep his steps light and his hand shielding the light from his phone as the footfalls continue overhead, and makes it all the way up the steps without so much as a creak to give him away.

Flawless. He knew all those times sneaking up behind Roman to scare the shit out of him as kids would pay off someday.

He pauses on the landing to triangulate the noise, then creeps down the hall towards the footsteps as the sound grows even more distinct. The master bedroom again? What the actual fuck was going on with that room? Had he really managed to miss someone in there when he’d investigated earlier in the day? No, he couldn’t have, but then how had someone managed to get past where he’d been sleeping on the couch? Unless he really did have somebody living in the walls—

A floorboard squeaks underneath his foot, deafeningly loud in the quiet of the night, and the footsteps abruptly stop. Remus swears under his breath. Traitorous piece of wood. Now or never, then.

He lunges forward into the doorway of the master bedroom, raising the paperweight and howling a war cry as he swings his light across the room to reveal—

Nothing. The space is as entirely and utterly empty as it had been that morning.

Well, shit. There went any element of surprise he had left.

He darts back into the hall, racing to search through the rest of the rooms on the upper level one by one, but they’re all just as vacant as the first. He even hauls himself into the attic, bracing himself to be clubbed over the head by whoever is lurking, but with the exception of innumerable shadows billowing away from his flashlight, the space proves equally empty as the rest.

Unease stirs in his gut, creeping in alongside the lingering adrenaline as he makes his way back down the precariously rickety ladder into the main house. Surely there’s no way someone could have gotten past him, not when he would have heard them in the hall or going down the stairs.

And yet, as far as he can tell, besides a few mice tucked away in the attic, there isn’t another living soul in the house.

He stops in the doorway of the master bedroom again, staring inside. He’s positive this is where the footsteps had been emanating from, lack of proof be damned. Something weird was going on with this house.

Good thing Remus had just made the biggest financial commitment of his life to buy it.

Nothing for it now but to hope some elusive, wall-dwelling ax murderer doesn’t give him the chop in his sleep, he supposes, although he has to admit that’d be a badass way to go.

He reluctantly makes his way back downstairs and shoves a pile of boxes at the foot of the stairs to trip any nefarious intruders coming down, then retreats back to the couch, all the while keeping his ears primed for so much as a whisper of sound above him.

But even though it takes him a long time to drift back to sleep, the house around him remains as silent as a grave.

---

The whole thing must have been an impressively lucid dream, Remus decides the next morning. A second investigation in the light of day doesn’t reveal anything out of place: no shoe prints on the floor, no critters, certainly no people. It was probably nothing then, he tries to convince himself, just his overactive imagination needing an outlet after being a bit too jittery from all the excitement of moving.

But he finds himself pausing in the master bedroom again, something drawing him back to the space. First the chill and the strange feeling of being watched, then the mysterious footsteps? Two separate coincidences, or something more?

God, he sounded about as paranoid as Virgil. Next thing he knew he was going to be inventing his very own conspiracy theory to explain a few bumps in the night.

It really was nothing, he tells himself, shaking off any lingering unease as he tromps back down the stairs. If he starts jumping at every little noise in his old-as-shit house, he’ll be long dead before he gets the property restored. If he starts seeing glowing red eyes in the dark, he’ll start to worry. Until then, he has a mountain of boxes to unpack.

Unfortunately, said mountain does not pull a Beauty and the Beast and begin unpacking itself, leaving Remus to spend a dreadfully dull afternoon doing it instead, only the allure of building a fort out of all the empty boxes keeping him from living out of cardboard for the rest of his life.

By the time he’s finally finished unboxing most of the downstairs and getting the tv and wifi set up, most of the day has passed him by, afternoon sunlight splaying golden fingers across the hardwood.

Break time, then. He’s earned it, if he does say so himself.

He collapses onto the couch, flipping on the tv and surfing through the channels until he finds a rerun of some low-budget horror film from the eighties. Perfect. Nothing like a bit of mindless tv to rot his brain just that much more. Settling back more comfortably into the cushions, he pops open the bag of chips he’s snagged from the kitchen and pulls out his phone, beginning to scroll through his notifications.

Modern multitasking at its finest, truly.

But he’s barely a minute into atrophying his mind via social media before the tv starts flickering, volume dropping precipitously before ratcheting back up, the picture jumping to the weather channel, then a British cooking show, then the news with Spanish subtitles flashing in and out at the bottom of the screen.

Remus freezes with a chip halfway to his mouth, staring at the remote where it’s very definitely out of his reach on the coffee table, all by its lonesome. He’s no expert, but he’s pretty sure technology was not, in fact, supposed to suddenly start functioning by itself without any human input. Was his new house secretly sitting over some freaky radioactive waste? That would certainly explain why no one had wanted to buy it. Or was this some EMP disaster? Had someone decided to take out the whole country’s power grid, starting with Remus’ shitty tv?

He sits up, reaching for the rogue remote, only to pause as a chill moves over him, then past him like it’s heading for the tv, and the screen crackles, static beginning to fuzz both the video and the audio as the picture continues to leap wildly between programs.

Fuck the remote, then. Whatever freak accident has descended upon his living room, it’s time to go straight to the source.

Abandoning his snack, he stands, striding to the outlet and yanking the plug out of the wall. Silence falls immediately, the screen fading to black, but there still lingers a noticeable chill in the air, cold energy palpable against his skin and all too reminiscent of the feeling he remembers from being in the master bedroom.

“What the hell,” he mutters under his breath, casting his gaze around the room. Empty, just as upstairs had been the last three times he’d checked. He takes a step backwards, then another, and the strange chill decreases. On a whim, he pulls out his phone, scrolling through several apps without even paying attention to them, and sure enough, the hair on his arms raises as the temperature falls again, that sparking feeling of energy growing more intense as his phone begins to flicker on its own.

“What the actual hell,” he whispers again. Roman can’t have been right—this place can’t actually be haunted. There’s absolutely no way there’s a real, live—or dead, technically, he supposes—ghost in his living room right now playing fuck-up-the-electronics.

But if there is…

“Hello?” he calls, and the flickering abruptly stops, chill retreating once more. Shit. One word in and apparently Remus has already fucked things up. “Hello?” he tries again. Did this maybe-possible-potential ghostie even speak English? “I’m Remus,” he says, feeling more than a little crazy for introducing himself to his empty living room. If Roman ever knew of this, he’d die laughing and then Remus really would have a ghost haunting his ass.

He wracks his brain for something to say. If he were a ghost and a stranger started moving all of their shit into his home, what would he want to hear from them?

“Um, cool house you have here. I’m not gonna like, fuck it up or anything.”

Silence.

“I’m planning on restoring it bit by bit as I have money so if you could tell me the original paint color or wallpaper patterns, that’d be dope.”

Still nothing. Apparently the ghost is not amused. Time for a different tactic, then.

“What’s your name?”

Not even a cricket chirping. Jesus fucking christ, Remus is really blowing this.

“That’s the tv—the television,” he explains, gesturing towards the device that had seemingly either fascinated or enraged his new housemate, he can’t quite tell which. “It works by… well, I don’t really know how it works. Something with waves and frequencies or some shit? But you can watch recordings, people acting or baking or doing dumb reality dating shows or whatever, so if there’s something that you wanna see…”

He trails off, surreptitiously scanning the room for any ethereal presences, but the house is quiet, the ghostly feeling fading bit by bit. Great. An actual paranormal experience and he’s gone and shoved his foot so far in his mouth he can practically feel his toes wiggling in his small intestine.

“Alright, that’s cool, no worries. Just lemme know if you change your mind.”

He waits a moment more, hoping for a disembodied voice to speak or an object to start moving on its own or his body to suddenly become possessed, but there’s nothing. Snagging his leather jacket off the back of the couch, he beelines for the door, forcing himself not to run as excitement begins to grow with every step, bubbling up around his bones. He has a ghost. A ghost, an actual fucking ghost, and he hadn’t even had to pay extra for it. No way he’s not going to take advantage of the universe handing him the sickest housewarming present in the world, never mind the fact that he might end up a walking meat suit for the spirit.

He pauses as he reaches the edge of the yard, then thinks better of it and pivots, heading for his car instead. Who knew how far ghost range was, and he doesn’t want his new roomie overhearing. He’s practically vibrating with energy as he makes his way down the long, winding drive, and he only makes it a few miles down the road before he’s pulling over onto the shoulder, hopefully well out of spirit range.

His first call rings through to voicemail, but Remus doesn’t bother leaving a message, just hangs up and tries again, only to be met with the same result. The third time, though, proves to be the charm.

“What,” the voice on the other end spits, cheerful as ever. “Fuck you, Remus, I’m in the middle of—”

“You’re still into all that weird stuff, right? Like the cryptids and the creepies and the ghouls and ghosties and all that?” Remus interrupts. He can deal with Virgil’s wrath another time—he has information he needs and he needs it pronto.

A pause, so long he’s sure Virgil has hung up on him and he’s going to have to keep calling until the emo answers his question.

“Yeah?” the distrustful reply finally comes, anger blunted by obvious wariness. “Why—”

“I need to pick your brain,” Remus cuts in again. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

---

Plan Contact The Resident Possibly Unfriendly Ghost Who Might Possess Him, or CTRPUGWMPH to be short and snappy about it, is officially a go.

Unfortunately, it isn’t off to a promising start.

Virgil’s knowledge had turned out to be more spirit lore than specifics about how to get a ghost to actually appear, although he’d been infinitely more helpful than Roman, who’d just stared at him and asked if he’d had the house checked for carbon monoxide poisoning. Remus had soundly ignored him and had left Virgil’s apartment with his head swimming with theories about why ghosts haunt particular places and an extensive lecture from Virgil about how to find any potential objects or reasons tying a ghost to the house that might provide a potential talking point to engage said ghost in conversation.

But despite digging into every crack and crevice on the internet, emailing the local historical society, even calling his realtor to ask again about the history of the property, Remus comes up with precious little. The house had originally been built in the 1880s by a local merchant, everyone seems to agree, and had been inherited by his nephew soon after, but beyond that there’s frustratingly scant information available, and he can’t find so much as a whisper about anyone dying in the home. His ghostie could be anyone, then: A Victorian builder who’d taken a tumble, a flapper girl who’d partied a tad too hard, a hapless victim of some modern serial killer who’d taken advantage of the place sitting abandoned for years to do a bit of light murdering.

With precisely zero context clues as to his new housemate’s identity, then, Remus embraces his remarkable talent of keeping up an entirely one-sided conversation as he works around the house the next few days, rambling about anything and everything related to the property he can think of, hoping something will pique the ghost’s interest. But besides a few more cold spots and flickering screens, the house remains stubbornly quiet. Maybe his ghost just needed a bit of help in communicating, though; drifting around an empty building with no one to talk to for the past god-knew-how-many years can’t have done good things to their incorporeal vocal cords.

Which brings him to Plan B: The infamous Ouija board, favorite tool of grifters and bullshit paranormalists everywhere.

And yet despite the makeshift, very high-budget seance he conducts with the two dollar board and the zero dollar candles he’s lovingly stolen from his brother, there’s once again no reply from beyond the veil besides a chill in the room that somehow radiates disapproval. Apparently his ghost isn’t a fan of pseudoscientific games any more than he is. At least they had standards, whoever they were.

But Remus is a stubborn bastard if he does say so himself, so on to Plan C it is. The used EMF meter he snags off of ebay has definitely seen better days, given the prominent crack across its screen, but the thing had been cheap and still seemed to work, so Remus wasn’t complaining. Fancy equipment was for fancy people, after all, and of all the things he’s ever been called, he’s positive fancy isn’t one of them. He sets up the device behind the tv, which still seems to intrigue his ghost every time it’s turned on, puts on the first show he can find, and forces himself to walk away. His little trap is set. Now all he has to do is bide his time pretending to busy himself unpacking a box of books in the next room—

He barely has the chance to register the tv screen flickering out of the corner of his eye before an ear-splitting shriek is rending the air, startling him so violently that he promptly drops a hefty tome on his foot.

“Shit,” he breathes, surging back into the living room, but the noise has already stopped just as suddenly as it began, replaced by a frigid chill permeating the room. Maybe he should have thought twice about scaring the resident phantom without first hiding any of his valuables. Hopefully he won’t wake up tomorrow to find his tv shattered. “It won’t hurt you,” he calls, though the EMF meter indicates a distinct lack of any supernatural presences. “It just makes noise to let me know when you’re nearby, yeah? Totally harmless.”

No response, but for once he doesn’t mind, not when there’s excitement dancing white-hot across his nerves. There really is a ghost or spirit or demon or something here, and he hasn’t just been imagining things.

Fuck, this house is single-handedly the coolest thing that’s ever happened to him, even if he does now have to worry about his haunting buddy getting a bit of revenge on him in the middle of the night.

But Remus survives safe and sound into the next day without so much as a supernatural scratch on his skin. Bloody payback didn’t seem like his ghost’s style anyways, not when their favorite activity seemed to be pressing as many buttons as possible on the tv remote at once. Curiosity is still nipping impatiently at his heels though, urging him to explore this latest avenue of potential communication more, so he sets up the EMF meter again, this time in the master bedroom where the spirit seems most inclined to spend time if the continued pacing in the middle of the night is anything to go by.

A brilliant plan, only minorly ruined by the fact that the device is nowhere to be found when he goes searching for it the next morning.

“Are you disappearing things, ghostie?” he asks the empty bedroom. “Gonna zap me into another dimension next?”

He’s joking, but as his hunt through the house reveals neither hide nor hair of the EMF meter, he can’t help but wonder. Had the ghost really just yeeted the thing into the ether? Or maybe it was right where he’d left it in the middle of the bedroom, but had been turned invisible like the spirit themself? What kind of ghostly superpowers did he even have, if any—

He comes to an abrupt halt as he emerges out the back door onto the porch, a laugh spilling past his lips as he surveys the myriad bits of metal and broken plastic strewn around him. Looks like he’s found his EMF meter. Apparently his ghost wasn’t nearly as endeared to this technology as he was anything with a screen. He glances up to the master bedroom window over his head, shading his eyes from the sun.

“Fair enough,” he calls, still fighting down amusement despite himself, and there’s the faintest shimmer in the air above the balcony, reminiscent of a heat mirage despite the cool morning air. “No more screeching little boxes.”

Left with zero information about his ghost’s identity, a useless Ouija board better repurposed as a doorstop, and the remains of his one piece of official ghost-hunting equipment, Remus concludes his only option is to embark on Plan D. Said plan isn’t so much an strategic approach as it is a wild hail mary to find any way to communicate with his ghost that didn’t involved hurling objects from balconies, as much fun as such an activity was, but then again, Plan D did sound delightfully dirty, so he’ll take the trade-off.

The internet, of course, is the place to turn to for highly questionable ghost advice, and it only takes a single google search to find message boards teeming with it. Half of it is clearly bullshit, he quickly discovers as he trawls through post after useless post, and the other half is baseless theories without any semblance of evidence to back them up, but just as he’s about to call it quits and move on to whatever the hell Plan E is, an old thread catches his eye.

‘Old Ghost Caught By Photography?’ the title reads, and Remus skims through the post, intrigued despite himself at the detailed claims the author had been able to capture the image of a Victorian spirit by using an antique camera and photography methods from the end of the nineteenth century. He pores over the attached images, searching for the slightest hint of photoshop or manipulation, but everything seems legit. And it made sense in some weird, probably illogical way, he supposes, that ghosts might only be spotted by using technology from their day and age—historical continuity in the metaphysical realm or some shit.

It’s the best lead he has after hours of searching, and really, he’s just spent a very hefty chunk of change buying a whole-ass house; what was the harm in dropping a few more dollars on some vintage photography equipment?

Which is precisely how he finds himself crammed into his makeshift darkroom in the tiny closet under the stairs several weeks later, holding his breath as he carefully begins to look through the latest batch of negatives he’s just finished processing. It had taken an obscene amount of research, a healthy dose of trial-and-error, and more than a few failures to figure out the intricacies of the dry plate photography process, but he’d gotten there in the end, even if the most he has to show for it is a few suspicious blurs in a couple of images.

Maybe this whole idea of capturing ghosts in photos was just as bullshit as the others, he muses as he examines yet another empty picture of the dining room, or maybe his ghost wasn’t from the same era as the camera he’d bought. Maybe his ghost simply didn’t want to have his photo taken, or maybe—

His train of thought abruptly derails as he picks up the next plate.

Holy shit. Holy shit.

The image is still a negative, the reversed colors lending a certain eeriness to the picture under the red darkroom lights, but there, right smack in the middle of the photo—a figure. An actual human figure, clear as day, looking right at the camera. Remus whoops, nearly knocking over a vial of chemicals with his elbow as he dances backwards in pure giddiness. Oh fuck yes , there is a ghost haunting the place. His ghost, now that he owns the house. His ghost who is…

He pauses, forcing himself to focus on the figure in the photo even as he feels like he’s about to vibrate right off of his bones with excitement. Spectacles, clean-shaven, dark hair neatly styled. Neat trousers, white shirt, trim waistcoat, and a decidedly fancy ascot, the whole ensemble distinctly old-fashioned. Victorian, then? Or Edwardian? Or some historical reenactor who’d met an untimely demise in costume? And it does seem to be an untimely demise; the man looks to be in his mid- to late-twenties, unless he’d found some ability to look whatever age he wanted in the afterlife.

Regardless, he can’t make himself focus on fashion for long. He has a ghost to talk to. Fighting his way out of the cramped closet, he bounds up the stairs, forcing himself to slow to a respectable jog as he darts into the master bedroom. He stops in the middle of the still-bare room, trying and utterly failing to keep his hopes in check.

“Hello? Ghostie?”

No response.

“Mr. Glasses and White Shirt?”

His skin prickles, the hair on the back of his neck raising. Aha. There he was.

“Hey, what’s up?” He turns in a slow circle, searching for any sign of his specter, any flicker of light off a spectacle lens or a flash of a shirtsleeve, but the room is as empty as ever.

“I have a photo if you’d like to see it.” Could ghosts not see themselves in mirrors or was that only vampire lore? And if he couldn’t see his own reflection, did the ghost even remember what he looked like?

He raises the picture, proferring the negative to the vacant room, and holds his breath. Nothing, for several long moments, and then the chill edges closer. Remus bites his lip, barely able to keep himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet at the prospect of a ghost being within arm’s reach.

“I wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything, I just wanted to see if you were real or if I needed to go check myself into a padded room, you know? I’m Remus, if I haven’t said that. What’s your name?”

Several more excruciatingly long moments that Remus is sure has to be the longest span of silence in history, then—

“Hello.”

The voice is thin and slightly hoarse, quiet enough that Remus has to strain to make it out, but it’s as unmistakably real as the form that flickers into existence right in front of his eyes, identical to the man in the photo. He’s distinctly transparent, the edges of him not quite defined, fuzzing out around the edges like the ambient glow of neon signs, but he’s here and he’s real and this is so fucking cool that Remus could keel over right here and now from excitement and join the ghost in wandering around the house for all eternity.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, because if there was ever a time for swearing, by god this is fucking it, and the spirit withdraws slightly, already guarded expression closing in further. “No no no, it’s good,” he rushes to assure him, resisting the urge to reach out and try to touch him. “Good holy shit. Complimentary holy shit.”

The ghost doesn’t seem entirely appeased, but he tilts his head slightly, something like curiosity sparking in his eyes as he evaluates Remus.

“Why are you not frightened of me?” he finally asks, and Remus has to fight back the absurd laugh bubbling up in his chest. He’s being questioned by a century-old ghost in the middle of his haunted home. Life really was delightfully freaky.

“No offense, man, but you’re not exactly terrifying. I mean, I’ve been here what? A solid month? And you haven’t even tried to pluck my eyeballs out or anything.”

Another unreadable pause. Is he just giving the spirit ideas? Were his eyes about to be forcibly unmarried from his skull à la eagles tearing out Prometheus’ liver?

“Do you want me to be afraid of you?” he asks after a further absolutely unbearable five seconds of silence.

“No,” the ghost admits after a moment of clear hesitation, “but previous residents certainly have not appreciated my presence here.”

Remus scoffs. “That’s their problem. Some of us are smarter than that.”

The other man’s head tilt deepens, something akin to puzzlement furrowing his brow, as if he can’t fathom why having a ghost is actually the most badass shit on the face of the planet.

“Can I ask you some questions?” Remus asks, exhilaration still racing along the underside of his skin so intensely that he can barely stand it. “You can ask me whatever you want, too.”

The ghost nods, although he still seems cautious as one hand fiddles absently with his ascot. “I suppose that would be alright.”

Twenty questions with an undead spirit. Remus’ life really was getting better by the minute.

“Did you used to live here?”

“I did, many years ago.”

“Did you own the place?”

“At one point in time, yes. It was truly a beautiful house in its day, and a wonderful place to reside.”

Oh fuck yes. If having an old-timey ghost who can give him historically accurate advice about restoring the house isn’t the coolest fucking thing that’s ever happened to him, he isn’t sure what is. He has half a mind to start grilling him on paint colors and wallpaper prints and the original hardwood, but—

“Did you die here?”

The words are blurting out of his mouth without even bothering to detour through his brain on the way out, burning curiosity eclipsing any thought that perhaps asking about death isn’t exactly acceptable ghost etiquette. He barely has time to register the change in the spirit’s expression, the visceral upset written across his features clear as day, before he’s gone in between one breath and the next, vanishing back into whatever thin air he’d come from and leaving nothing but a biting chill in his wake.

Shit shit shit. He’s finally gotten the ghost to trust him enough to show up and talk and then he’s gone and ruined it within the span of two minutes all because he had all the self-control of a sieve trying to retain water.

“Wait,” he calls, casting about in vain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” Well, apparently his subconscious had, but that hadn’t been his intention. “Please come back. You can ask me as many invasive questions as you like.” Nothing. “You can haunt me for revenge, if you want.” Utter silence. “Are you gonna hurl me off the balcony like my EMF meter?”

There he goes again, giving the specter ideas, although really, being yeeted out of a window by a ghost would be a damn cool end if he does say so himself. He lingers in the room for several long minutes, forcing himself to keep quiet lest he miss the spirit’s hushed voice, but there’s nothing but the faint sound of a bird twittering outside.

“Alright,” he finally relents, disappointment pooling in his stomach as he glances down at the photography plate still in his hand, the negative serving as indisputable evidence that the encounter hadn’t just been a fever dream. He’ll find a way to make things right with the ghost somehow, one way or another. He has to. “Just come spook me if you change your mind.”

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!): @darth-does-stuff

#thomas sanders sides big bang 2023 #tssbb2023 #sanders sides #ts remus #remus sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #ts roman #roman sanders #ts virgil #virgil sanders #intrulogical #loceit #ts fanfic #the art of saying goodbye #my fic #rosepetal writes

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reseaseo · 18 days

Text

Nothing Out of the Ordinary

Pairing: Romantic Loceit (Janus x Logan)

Summary: The thing about Logan is that he is always prepared. He doesn’t “like” to be, he doesn’t “prefer” to be—he just is.

Which is why, at around 1:20 on a Thursday afternoon in August, Logan doesn’t find it at all strange to remain so calm when three masked men enter the doors to rob the bank.

Notes: A late gift to Rin (@rollthewhatever). They asked for a Loceit fic with “Catch Me If You Can” vibes. I failed miserably. So I wrote this instead.

READ: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54898975

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #loceit #logan sanders #janus sanders #loceit fanfic #reseaseo fanfics

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typically-untypical · 4 months

Text

A Tattoo For You

AU: Tattoo Shop

CW: Mention of Family Member Death

WC: 1,237

Date: 12/12/2023

The tattoo chair felt more intimidating than Logan expected, but he knew it had less to do with the pain and more to do with the permanence and going against his parents’ expectations. It was amazing how even as a full grown adult he was desperate for his parents approval, something he knew he wasn't likely to get with this particular stunt. However, Logan couldn't help but smile nervously at the man in front of him, his husband of five years. Janus was covered in tattoos, a canvas of artwork that Logan loved to explore. He had helped Logan come to terms with his conflicting feelings around the adornments and Logan had been happy to cherish each piece of ink as if it were special. Including the little octopus Janus had gotten for losing a dare.

Logan's parents had never approved of tattoos. His grandmother was covered in them. She had been a wild child in her youth and she had truly loved and experienced life. Logan's mother had thought the tattoos were tacky, and his father had insisted that tattoos were a great way to destroy one's future. Logan's grandmother had insisted her tattoos were how she had escaped being eaten by a cannibal.

She had always been strange.

He missed her. He missed her view on life, the way she approached the world, and he missed her guidance.

"She would laugh at your choice in tattoo, and I think she'd really appreciate it," Janus whispered, beginning his preparations. He risked giving Logan's leg a gentle squeeze while his gloves were still off.

"You don't think it's a bit abstract?" It wasn't that Logan needed anyone else to understand why the tattoo was important, but there was part of him that was still worried others would look at him with disgust. He was still fighting his parent's programming even to this day.

"Even if it is abstract, this tattoo design is very you and she would appreciate that." Janus slid his gloves on after washing his hands, double checking the stencil placement.

Logan also looked down at it, despite being upside down, he could see it clearly. It was a realistic drawing of the opportunity rover and the words "it's getting dark". Logan knew those weren't the actual last words of the opportunity rover, but it was one of the last things his grandmother had said to him before she passed away.

The shadows of the night had taken over the city, and Logan followed his grandmother's gaze to the window. "It's getting dark, jelly baby. I think it's time for you to go home."

Logan hesitated, not wanting to leave his grandma's side. Something felt important, poignant even. Her house was on his way home from his summer job, and he had taken to stopping by every day before heading to an empty space. His parents were constantly busy, never having time for dinner or a chat after their day, so it was nice to see a familiar face and have a warm meal. Honestly, it was just nice to be by her side. "I don't want to go," Logan whispered, quoting the titular and heart breaking line from his favorite TV show. His grandma just smiled at him.

"My jelly baby, we all have to go at some point." She stood slowly, walking over to him and giving him a hug. "I'll see you tomorrow, but you need to get home before it's too dark out."

He collapsed into her warmth, holding her closely. "Love you, TS." He pulled back, kissing her head before finally letting go. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

When Logan saw her the next day, it wasn't really her. Sitting in her lounge chair was the body she left behind, the person she was had disappeared. Logan had lost his grandmother on the same day the opportunity rover had gone out of commission. He wasn't a particularly sentimental person, but he hoped there was a heaven, or that his grandmother had found some kind of peace in the end. On the nights when sleep eluded him, he hoped she was out exploring the stars with Oppy, but that was a hope only he and his husband knew about.

"You're handling this tattoo a lot better than most of my clients." Janus pulled him out of his thoughts, no doubts seeing the tears that were streaming down Logan's face.

"Pain is something I can tolerate," Logan responded, but took in a shuddering breath nonetheless. "However, can we take a quick break?" He had lost track of time and wasn't sure how long Janus had been tattooing him. It must have been a while because the color of the sky had shifted. The reds and oranges of morning were now fading into the lighter blues of day.

Janus had put down the tattoo gun and taken off his gloves, holding out his hand for Logan. He took it immediately. "You are finally letting me tattoo you, and it's something rather sentimental," Janus let his voice trail off, still holding Logan's hand and squeezing it tightly. There wasn't much either could say about this tattoo, it meant the world to Logan but it was also dangerous territory. He wasn't sure he would ever fully heal from the death of his nan but no matter what, Janus was there by his side. "I love you, Logan." His voice was strong in a way Logan desperately needed and Logan pulled Janus in closer.

"I love you too," he whispered, bringing Janus' hand up to his lips. "Thank you for waiting for me to be ready, for not pushing the idea of me having a tattoo."

"It should always be a choice, and I know you, you think everything through with careful consideration. I also knew when you finally got your tattoo, it would be the most important one I've ever done." The rising sun illuminated Janus, his back shining in a halo of gold. Without Janus, Logan was sure he would still be stuck in his grief but he had his husband, he had his dream job, he had a life his nan would be proud of.

Logan smiled, giving Janus another quick squeeze of his hand before slowly pulling back.

He was ready again.

"More important than Remus' transition tattoo."

Janus went to wash his hands and put on a fresh pair of gloves. "More important than Remus' transition tattoo, just don't tell him that. I think he'd be offended." They both knew that Remus wouldn't care he would just act offended. All three of them knew how important this tattoo was to Logan.

Looking down at the half finished ink, Logan flexed his hand. His grandma had been his world, and she had never gotten the chance to meet Janus. He hoped she understood that he took her advice and chose his partner well. He had been meticulous. He had had so many walls that he genuinely believed no one would ever break them down.

Allowing his eyes to slide up to his husband who was carefully putting on his new gloves, making sure everything was sanitized, Logan knew. This man who had carefully deconstructed every safeguard Logan had put around his heart...

His nan would have approved.

She would have liked Janus and having him be the one to do her dedication tattoo.

She would have liked that too.

@tsspromptmonth

#Untypical Creations #Sanders Sides #Sanders Side fic #Fanfic #Janus Sanders #Logan Sanders #tattoo shop au #Bittersweet fluff #TSS Rare Gifts Event 2023 #Loceit

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elementary-my-dear-daddy · 3 months

Note

"Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me." WITH LOCEIT(sub logan, dom janus obviously) IF U WANF PRETTY PLEASE :3 - @pupplaylogan

A Display of Dominance

Loceit (Dom Janus and Sub Logan)

Warnings: Sado/Masochism, Impact Play, Degradation, Punishment, Bondage, Bleeding Mention

Read it on AO3!

When Logan forgets his place, Janus (and his flogger) are there to remind him of it.

Click.

The last of the locks of the restraints on the large wooden bench that Logan was currently naked and bent over clicked into place. He winced at the sound that more or less resigned him to a night at Janus’ mercy. The side in question stood over him, shirtless and sporting leather gloves in exchange for his silk ones. He paced in front of Logan, who was only able to see him from the waist down. Janus paused right in front of him.

“We’re going to start now. Is there anything you have to say for yourself before we start your punishment?”

“How likely will I be able to walk tomorrow?”

His question was met with a harsh smack to his cheek. He let out a small noise at the sting that bloomed across his face.

“Unlikely.” Janus stated and walked out of sight, “Flogger or Paddle?”

Logan was still recovering from the slap, he took a breath, “F-flogger?”

He was expecting the sting of the small strips of leather, but instead felt Janus’ glove covered hand come down on his ass. He yelped, more at the foreign sensation than the pain itself. Janus chuckled from behind him.

“Funny. You think you have a choice in the matter.”

The pain struck again and again and again. Logan’s ass was properly stinging now as he clutched at the restraints forcing him to take it. Each hit landed right on the center of his asscheeks, most likely making the area red from impact. 30 strikes total, if his counting had been accurate.

“Now that you’re warmed up, would you like to give me a reason as to why I’m punishing you?” Janus spoke clearly. When he stepped into the role of dominant, he always seemed to have an air of teasing nonchalance. Asking taunting questions and doling out punishments more for his own amusement rather than to correct behavior. Logan’s found himself in this position from convincing Remus to steal his chastity keys from Janus for Logan to unlock himself to forgetting to ask permission before looking up at him. He always loved to play games and inevitably watch his subs lose at them. Luckily Logan was far from fragile and Janus could be as rough as he liked.

“I-I didn’t…” Logan breathed, “I didn’t let Virgil use me when I was working.”

“Hm. And you didn’t use your colors?” Janus questioned, referring to their safewords.

“N-no, Master.”

“So, if I’m understanding this correctly, you deliberately told one of your dominants no?”

“Yes, Master- Ah~!”

Janus’ hand came down on his rear once again before he moved over to his other side. Logan’s eyes had been screwed shut while his head rested on the cushioned headrest of the bench. He suddenly felt a gloved hand lift up and pet his chin before hearing Janus speak again.

"Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me."

Logan let the hand guide his chin upward and opened his eyes to meet Janus’ stare. His eyes were watering with the beginnings of tears starting to form in the corners. Janus gazed into them with an unreadable expression. His blank face turned into a frown and he spit on Logan’s face.

“Disobedient brat. You know you’re nothing more than our toy. We’ll use you when we want to and you’ll let us like a good whore next time.”

Janus let Logan’s head drop down again while he walked to go pick up one of the leather floggers hanging off to the side. He tested it on himself first, the braided strands slightly nipping at his skin. He went over to Logan draped over the bench and didn’t hesitate before letting the flogger crash down on his ass.

“You know what to do, brat, don’t keep me waiting.”

Logan yelped at the hit, allowing a tear to roll down his face, “One. Th-thank you Master.”

Another swish of the leather hit his thighs, making him groan at the sensation and increase the count. He loved the dull thrum of pain that the flogger brought compared to the sharp sting of a hand. Each feeling got him to sink deeper into the fog of subspace until they all muddied into pleasure.

Finally, his tears were freely flowing and he whined at every hit, stuttering through his counts until they ended.

“T-t-twenty, thank y-you Master.” He panted.

“What are you thanking me for, slut?”

“Punishing me?”

“Is that a question or an answer?” Janus chided, setting down the flogger down on Logan’s back for a moment as he went to retrieve a chair from the corner of the room.

“A-an answer, Master. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Logan had to collect himself before answering, “Not understanding that my dominants can use me whenever they please.”

“That’s right.” Janus pulled the chair up beside Logan and went to put the flogger back in exchange for another tool, “See? If you understand that, why did you have to be such a little brat?”

“I wasn’t thinking, Master, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again I swear-”

Logan was cut off with a loud smack of a paddle coming down on his backside. He yowled in pain and rocked against the bench, seeking to get away from the source of his pain.

“The question was rhetorical, pet.” Janus said, sitting down and letting another hit land, “This time, I want you to tell me exactly what you are after each hit. Understood?”

Logan whimpered, “Y-es, Master.”

Smack.

“I’m your toy to use!”

“I think you’re more than that, darling.”

Smack.

“I-I’m your slut, Master!”

“And what else?”

Smack.

“Y-your little whore! Ah!”

Smack.

“Your plaything!”

Smack.

“Your painslut!”

Smack.

This continued until Logan was a sobbing mess who was repeating various states of ownership Janus had over him. With one last hit with the paddle, he was begging without even knowing why he was doing it.

“P-please please Master, I-I’m so sorry please- use me! Please, use me!”

Janus let the paddle fall to the floor with a loud thud. He ran a hand over Logan’s ass and thighs, admiring his work. The skin was red and bruised, just like how Logan had asked. Janus pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, standing up and picking up the paddle to put it away.

“I think you’ve learned your lesson.” He spoke softly now, “Will you be good from now on?”

“Y-es.” Logan said with a broken sob.

“Good boy. Now that that’s over, we can have some real fun.”

“What?” Logan questioned. He was sobbing, completely broken from his punishment, and there was still more to come?

“You think I’m through with you? Oh, you poor dumb pet, we’re not finished until your pretty little ass is bleeding and I’ve fucked it at least twice.” Janus stepped in front of him again, leaning forward on his polished black cane, “Do I have to teach you that lesson all over again?”

“N-no Master.”

“Good. Now don’t forget to count.”

#jamming out #not safe for sanders #fics #asks #requests #nsfs loceit

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naminethewriter · 8 months

Text

How It All Began - Masterpost

Welcome, welcome everyone to another Big Bang entry, this time for @tss-storytime! As per the results of the one poll I have done here so far, this is also the introduction to my Pirates and Sirens AU! It has Intrulogical (of course, what else would I write?) and a lot of platonic shenanigans. Hope you enjoy 🥰

If you'd like to read it at a slower pace, I will upload the chapters to Ao3 twice a week.

Summary: Remus, son of a simple fisherman, had worked hard to become the captain of his own pirate ship. And in his humble opinion, it was going great! His crew was small but reliable and they had just stolen something that could them some nice cash from a military vessel they happened to cross on the open sea. They just needed to hide it somewhere until it was safe to sell. How lucky for them that they come across a nice, uninhabited island.

Little did Remus know just who he would find on that little piece of land and how it would change his life entirely.

Content Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Minor Violence, Innuendoes (Remus is the main character after all) and Morally Grey Characters (They are pirates)

Story on Ao3

Chapter One: A Lonely Island, Right?

Chapter Two: Living Legend

Chapter Three: A Request

Chapter Four: A New Deal

Chapter Five: Library Visit

Chapter Six: Precious

Chapter Seven: Just the Beginning

Many thanks go to @edupunkn00b for beta reading! They helped me so much, thanks a bunch!

There is also art for this story by @im-an-anxious-wreck! Their post is here. Thank you so much for working with me 🥰

#namiswriting #How It All Began #masterpost #finished #pre-romantic intrulogical #platonic intruality #platonic loceit #platonic anxceit #tss storytime 2023 #multichapter fic #temporary character death #minor violence #adventure #sanders sides #fanfiction #Pirates & Sirens AU

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djs-horny-blog-lmao · 9 months

Note

ooh or something about Logan getting to relax and shut his brain off. maybe he gets a book from one of the other sides that trances him as he reads it

(hope multiple prompts are okay, feel free to only choose one or none. I just got very excited)

- 👽

okay. okay. okay. sorry for taking literally five months to get to this.

loceit, sub!logan dom!janus, no actual fucking. Hypnosis via reading, probably sort of doubles as an actual induction of sorts? Mindlessness, slow fall, implied hands-free-orgasm at the end, cnc (sort of).

2.6k words, under the cut. this one is heavy on that seduction/siren's call of trance angle.

--- --- --- ---

Logan rubs his temple as he hands in front of his bookcase, trying to decide on what to read. He’s getting a stress headache, it’s been a long week, and he is officially ready to try switch off and at least enjoy himself a little with a good story. Maybe he’ll reread a Sherlock Holmes novel… A Scandal in Bohemia, perhaps?

His fingers ghost along the spines of his books as he tries to make his choice. He loves this part. The anticipation. What to read, what to choose. Though he bites his lip, tilting his head. The decisions are overwhelming sometimes.

Someone knocks at his door. Logan grits his teeth before he answers it, but some of the tension drops away when he sees Janus there.

“Hello,” he says.

“Greetings,” Janus says, and his lips don’t move, but his eyes smile. “How are you?”

Logan blinks. “Um,” his eyes flick around, like it’s trick question. “Fine? …I was looking forward to a quiet evening reading, but… Well, nevermind. ...How are you?”

“Oh, reading!” Janus says with measured delight. “I was thinking of spending my evening the same way. Perhaps we could do so in each other’s company?”

Logan’s expression softens.

“That would be nice,” he agrees. “As long as we keep talking to a minimum. I don’t really want to hold many more conversations today.”

“We can do that,” Janus extends a hand. “Have you found your book, yet? Or will you pick one of mine?”

Logan hesitates a moment, before taking Janus’ hand.

“Well,” he shrugs one shoulder. “None of the books on my shelves are calling to me.”

Janus leads the way, and Logan lets him, and when he’s invited to step into Janus’ room, Logan takes a moment to bathe in the calming sensation that settles over him. The door clicks closed behind him.

“Alright, darling,” Janus says, and he puts a hand on Logan’s back to lead him over to his personal bookcase. “Let’s find you a good book.”

They comb over titles, but Logan finds his eyes drawn to one in particular, a tall, fairly thin book with beautiful midnight blue binding.

“Something caught your eye?” Janus says, his voice light and teasing, and Logan swallows, and pulls it off the shelf.

“What’s this?”

“Oh!” Janus clasps his hands. “I wrote that for you. I forgot to give it to you, silly me.”

“You wrote this for me?” Logan flushes, looking down at it. “Really?”

“Yes, love,” Janus leans in, kisses his cheek. “I wanted to give you something you could really wind down to in the evenings.”

He takes Logan’s empty hand and presses it over the front cover.

“It’s yours,” he whispers. His voice is husky. It makes Logan shiver with anticipation he can’t explain. “If you want it.”

“I want it!” Logan pulls it into his chest. “It’s… it’s very thoughtful, Janus. Thank you.”

Janus smiles softly, and turns back to the bookshelf to take a copy of Dracula, and takes Logan’s arm to lead him to Janus’ nice armchair.

…Janus is being oddly handsy today. But mind you, Logan smiles softly, he does get like this sometimes, he told Logan touch was very assuring for him as part of their relationship, and really, Logan likes Janus’ hands on him.

With a flick of the wrist and a thought, a second identical armchair appears beside the one Logan’s being gently pushed into. Janus pulls it up alongside comfortably, and settles there, in Logan’s periphery. He even puts his feet up on an ottoman, takes the hat off his head and settles it on the coffee table between them, and lounges back, opening his book.

Logan glances at him, and Janus shoots him a soft little smile.

So Logan leans back in the comfortable chair, wishing for a moment he’d thought to make tea before they settled in, before he shakes his head softly, and opens the book.

‘For my dearest Logan,’ The dedication on the first page reads, ‘who thinks too much.’

Logan’s lips twist into a smile, and he snorts, amused. He does notice that there is no title. There hadn’t been one on the front cover, and he tilts his head at it, glancing at Janus, who doesn’t look up from his own book.

It… it must be deliberate, then. Logan shakes his head again, and turns the page.

‘I am going to tell you a story,’ the book reads, ‘that might seem very familiar to you. But it’s a good story, Logan, and one you have always enjoyed, so I don’t think you’ll mind reading it again.’

Logan purses his lips, before he stops to evaluate how beautifully handwritten it is. Janus’ handwriting is just delightful.

‘It is about a man, much like yourself. Always a cliché, I know, but he really is like you. Hard-working, talented, and just so stressed. He never took a break when he should, until he found something that taught him how.’

Logan can’t help himself but raise an eyebrow at the prose, shoot Janus a quick glance, before turning back. This time, he doesn’t see it, but Janus side-eyes him, anticipation curling his lip into a hint of a smile.

‘He found a book. A book! Just like the one you’re holding now. A pretty book, a book filled with pretty words. It fitted beautifully into his hands, like it was made for him, just for him.’

Logan turns the page.

‘And the book started very simply. It taught him ways to relax. And the best, most basic start for relaxation – or so the book believed – was breathing.’

“Is this just guided meditation, or something?” Logan finally breaks his reader’s silence, turning to Janus.

“I thought you didn’t want conversation?” Janus raises an eyebrow at Logan, keeping his expression neutral, and Logan bites his lip and looks away. He did say that. “But… to answer your question… well, why don’t you keep reading and find out?”

Logan rolls his eyes at his partner’s ambiguity, but does turn back to his reading.

‘Yes, breathing. It may seem silly, but it works. The man found all he had to do was follow the instructions the book gave him, and nothing more. When the book told him to breathe in slowly, he did so. When the book told him to hold it, he did so. When the book told him to breathe out slowly, he did so.’

‘Why don’t you try it now? Just follow the words.’

‘Breathe in.’

Logan blinks, shakes his head, but decides it won’t do any harm. And besides, he needs to relax. He takes in a slow breath.

‘Hold.’

Logan does so.

‘Breathe out.’

And Logan let the air out, slow and gentle, and almost feels self-conscious for it. But Janus has gone back to ignoring him.

‘Good,’ praises the book, and Logan blinks at it. ‘That was perfect. Do it again.’

‘Breathe in. Breathe in all the stress and tension you have.’

Logan frowned a little, but did as he was told, sucking in a breath.

‘Hold it, floating, hanging, weightless.’

Those were good words to describe it, actually. He had to agree, it did… feel like that.

‘And breathe out. Breathe out all the tension, all the stress, leaving only relaxation. Relax, let the feeling spread through your chest from your lungs, down your arms and to your fingertips. Down your legs and to your toes. Up into your head and to your eyelids.’

Logan followed the words.

‘Good,’ the book praised him. ‘Again.’

The three printed lines repeated, and Logan did as he was told, and he had to agree with the book, as he read those words over and over, his tension just seemed to drain out of him. His blinking slowed down. It became so hard to want to lift his hand to turn the page.

‘Well done,’ were the first two words awaiting Logan on the next page. ‘Nice and relaxed. Like lying in a warm bath, like napping in the sun. Calm and relaxed, it almost feels like your head could be empty.’

Logan absorbs that line, but frowns a little at it, though now, his frown is little more than a downwards twitch of his lips.

‘It almost seems silly, doesn’t it? The idea of an empty head. But that was what the book told the man. It told him the next step in relaxing completely, relaxing enough, was to make his head empty. But to relax the mind, you have to relax the body.’

That… makes sense? Logan can follow that logic. He doesn’t remember feeling this sluggish before. He lets out a big, long breath, and casts his eyes over the paragraph again before he reads on.

‘The book told the man that his whole body should feel heavy. Heavy like lead. Heavy like lying in a warm bed on a cold morning. Heavy in a comfortable way, a relaxing way. Heavy in a way that he wouldn’t, shouldn’t and couldn’t fight. There was no need to fight it. If the man only let it happen, he would feel so good.’

Logan’s head tips to the side a little as he reads, his blinks so slow. It… it did feel nice to let it all slow down. His legs down felt so heavy, he couldn’t stand up if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to.

‘The book promised the man if he only let it all happen, it’d feel good. If he did as its words said, he’d feel so good.’

‘If he obeyed.’

Logan swallows hard, and goes to frown again.

‘Now, it’s a little silly, again, isn’t it? The word. The idea. ‘Obeying’. The word has strange connotations. There’s a level of mindlessness to it. To absorb what you’re being told, to accept what you’re being told, and to decide to do it. But even beyond that, ‘decide’ implies choice. ‘Obey’ is much more than choosing. Obeying feels better than choosing. The book told the man that he should obey, and as the man read on, he found himself agreeing.’

It… that also… makes sense? Logan can’t argue with that. And… it sounds like he shouldn’t argue with it, either. If he’s supposed to be following the book to relax, it wouldn’t make sense to disobey its instructions.

‘So the man read the book, and obeyed. The man let the book tell him to keep breathing deep and slow, to let his tension go, to let relaxation take over, and to let his body grow heavy, and his mind grow empty.’

‘The man didn’t need to think. He just needed to read and obey. You don’t need to think. You just need to read and obey.’

Read… and obey? Logan swallows hard, and combs over the line again. Read and obey.

‘Read and obey.’

He wets his lips.

‘Good. Very good. You’re so good.’

His lips part. He doesn’t make a noise, but his breath leaves him a little fast. And Logan doesn’t know it, absorbed in the book as he is, but Janus is still holding up his own book, yes, but his eyes are fixed on Logan.

‘You’re so good, doing exactly as you’re told. You’re so good for obeying. Read and obey.’

‘When you read the words, ‘read and obey’, you are going to start feeling something spreading through your body, Logan. It is pleasure. It is pleasure, as a reward for being so good, and for reading and obeying. You don’t need to think. You don’t need to do anything at all, other than read and obey, and feel so very good.’

‘Read and obey.’

Logan swallows again as a warm swell of pleasure washes through him, gentle but persistent, and he shivers under it.

‘Read and obey.’

His breathing gets faster.

‘Feeling so good. Read and obey. Read and obey. Read and obey.’

It crawls up his spine, filling his chest with warmth. It fills his brain, pushing down all other thoughts, all resistance, filling his head with warmth and pleasure. It rests nice and heavy and calmly in his stomach, growing stronger with each repetition, growing downwards, and Logan is barely aware of the way he grinds down a little into his seat as the pleasure fills him.

‘Read and obey. Unaware of anything but my words. Read and obey. Do you know what this is, Logan? This is trance. You are deeply in trance. Read and obey. It’s the truth. You are doing exactly as you are told, and you have fallen so deeply in trance.’

‘Read and obey.’

Logan struggles to keep his eyes open enough to read now, struggles to keep his eyes focussed on the words, but he can’t stop reading, he has to keep reading, he has to read and obey.

‘Deeply in trance. You are mine. Read and obey. Deeply in trance. Deeply aroused and feeling good. You are mine. Read and obey.’

Logan whines. He actually makes a sound. It wanders out his parted lips, so quiet, but it makes Janus grin, and give up all pretences of reading, and he sets down his book and watches Logan’s descent.

‘Fall deep. Fall deeper. Follow my words down, Logan. No more thoughts. No more thinking. Just pleasure. Read and obey.’

‘You want to touch yourself. You want to so badly, but you can’t. You can only hold this book, and read, and obey. Moan. Read and obey.’

Logan moans. It wanders out his lips, more breath than sound.

‘Good boy,’ says the book, and Logan flushes even as he struggles to keep his eyes open. ‘Read and obey. Moan again. Moan louder. Read and obey.’

Logan obeys. He moans again, moans louder, and if he were more aware, he’d hear how Janus’ breath hitches for it.

‘You feel so good. You are so deep in trance. You feel the pleasure building. Building. Building. Read and obey.’

This time, Logan moans unprompted. His hips keep grinding. He’s panting.

‘You can feel an orgasm building. You want an orgasm. You want to cum. You want to cum so badly. But you can’t, not yet, because I haven’t said you can.’

A whimper, this time. Logan’s lips are still parted, he can idly feel something wet leaking past his lips and trailing down his chin. He can’t move to wipe it away. He can only read and obey.

‘You’re a clever boy, Logan, I’m sure you can guess by now that the man in the story is you. We’ve done this before. You don’t remember it, but we have. That’s why it’s so easy to read and obey now. You’re back here, deep in trance, following my words, because this is safe and comfortable, and you feel so good.’

‘You want to cum. Keep reading. You want to cum so badly. Read and obey.’

Logan’s chest is beginning to heave. He can’t look away. He isn’t even aware of turning pages anymore, of his body moving to accomplish that task. He is only aware of the pleasure, and the words.

‘I wrote this book for you, Logan. You obey me. You feel good because I want you to. You obey me because I want you to. Read and obey.’

Logan turns the page, and realises it’s the last one.

And it has two words left written there, in Janus’ beautiful handwriting.

‘Look up.’

Logan reads them, obeys them, lifts his head, and- when did Janus stand up? When did Janus move over him? Logan looks up, mouth hanging open, panting, drooling, empty-headed and desperate, and…

Janus smiles at him. He reaches out, palms up, and closes Logan’s book.

As the book snaps closed, he gives his final order.

“Cum.”

#not safe for sanders #nsfs fic #nsfs logan #nsfs janus #nsfs loceit #dj writes #hypnosis #shdfgkdfgf i dropped myself writing this! so there's that #and man ive fr been in a dom janus mood lately huh #dom!janus #sub!logan #asks

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loganscroftersstash · 11 months

Text

the eye of the storm.

platonic loceit/dlampr

—

hello gang

it has been… a while since i’ve written sanders sides content. i was into it for years before i dropped it and now i’ve picked it back up again. i forgot how much i loved this series. i’ve been rewatching it and remembered just how much i was so excited for the reveal of the super mysterious and spooky orange side, and i got a little pang of inspiration from the working through intrusive thoughts aside video. here is some really shitty angst/comfort; it’s been a while so my characterizations may be off, apologies in advance. and also my apologies for the spacing— i wrote this on docs and i didn’t realize the spacing would be so wide. sorry!!

scroll to v end for authors notes!

—

The date with Nico had gone so good! Thomas was reeling him in hook, line, and sinker; and Remus was able to be contained for the whole time! Sure, he had some moments, but nothing that none of them couldn’t handle. Now, as the sun set and shades of fuchsia and orange painted the sky above the exhibit, everyone decided it was time to go home.

The moment Thomas began to walk back all of the sides sank out, reappearing in his mind in an all too familiar routine. Remus was the only one absent for their outing, everyone else should have been here.

While Roman and Patton were happily reminiscing about the date, exchanging compliments and giggles, Virgil glanced around. He refused to glance in a certain serpent’s direction, but the room still felt empty.

Something was off.

Was it the coffee table? Couch? Maybe the blanket…?

Click.

“Where’s Logan?”

That seemed to break Roman and Patton from their conversation, and they both turned to look at Virgil.

“…Hey, yeah! Where’s our Logan?” Patton asked.

“Oh, who cares! He’s probably sulking because Thomas went out and had fun with the cutest frickin’ guy ever!” Roman proclaims, overly dramatic as always.

Patton puts his hands on his hips. “Now, Roman. Be nice to Logan! He was just trying to get Thomas to be productive— ya can’t argue the state of his home is a little…”

“Revolting?” Virgil finishes the sentence for him.

“I was gonna say icky, but that works too!” Patton grins at Virgil. “But anyway, don’t get mad at him for trying to help!”

“Pfft— help. Nerd.” Roman chuckles, earning a slight glare from Patton. “He could try to help by not getting in the way of our already non-existent love life!”

“You know, Patton’s right, Roman.” Janus murmurs from his corner. “Your twin gave him quite the bit of trouble today…”

Roman straightens his posture, almost defensive, as he glares at the slimy fiend. “What do you mean? What did that mangy mongrel do to him?”

Janus shrugs. “Oh. Nothing. I’m sure you wouldn’t care about that, Logan is just a speed bump on the road to love, and all that…” He says dismissively.

“Tell. Me.” Roman insists, moving closer towards Janus. “What did he do?”

Janus examines his glove, almost unbothered before he looks up at Roman. “Well…”

Roman glares. A silent message to get it the hell over with.

“When Thomas was up in the wee hours of the night, Logan and him decided on a new schedule. You know how those work out for Thomas.”

“Yeah. They don’t.” Roman murmured.

“Mhm. Usually it’s just because Thomas is more… spontaneous. Carefree, if you will. He likes to jump from task to task. Doing a list can be overwhelming, but Logan was just so dedicated to helping him stick to it. And poor Thomas even wanted to do it!…”

“…Jan. You lied, kiddo.”

“Whatever.” Janus shrugs. “Anyways. Remus decided to make Logan’s life a living hell by trying to kill or maim Thomas or Logan himself, but usually he ended up hurting himself.”

“Is that where the sparkly green eyepatch came from?!” Roman gasped.

“…Yes.” Janus murmured. “Anyways. Logan tried to reason with him and—”

“Is no one gonna ask why he knows all this?!” Virgil interjects.

Janus huffs. “Are ANY of you going to let me talk?!” He sighs. “And before you ask, I listen. To everything. Are there ANYMORE questions before I answer the first one?!”

Patton raises his hand for a moment before it shoots back down.

“Perfect. Great. Back to what I was saying… Logan confronted Remus after a few failed attempts and tried to reason with him, because this was one of the few times he’s actually gotten Thomas on a schedule and he tried to stick to it. So, you can tell why he’d be a little irritated about his incessant attempts at getting him off task.”

Roman raises a brow. “And…?”

“Logan screamed at him.”

“Oh.” Roman chuckles. “Yeah, he does that—”

“His eyes shone orange.”

A silence fell over the room. There was a silent, unspoken yet unified agreement that they all knew what that meant. And they knew it was bad.

Virgil was the first to break the silence. “…fuck.”

“…Did… Thomas? See? Do we have to have another confrontation so soon?!” Patton gasped.

“No. No he didn’t. Remus mocked him for the outburst almost instantly and as far as I’m aware, the interaction was over after that.”

“…What made Logan lose his cool that badly over something like that?” Roman hummed.

Janus rolled his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that you all ignore him?”

“How dare you! I don’t ignore Mark Zucker-nerd; I just don’t listen to him!”

“…Roman. Buddy. That’s ignoring.”

Roman paused, looking down. “…so it is! But either way— we don’t ignore him, Janus. It isn’t my fault he never has anything helpful to add!”

“Oh, please. Logan is literally the embodiment of Logic. He’s resolved how many of these past issues? Logan does the most and gets the least reward, Roman. You have the most influence over our host, followed by Patton and Virgil. Maybe lately me and Remus have had a little fun taking the wheel every now and again— but when was the last time you let Logan make a big decision? You decided to skip the callback, you decided to go on the date. All Logan gets influence on is his little passion project, which he’s probably abandoned at this point because I seriously doubt there’s much passion left in him.”

Janus’ rant has left the other sides staring; Roman in disbelief, mostly at the audacity, Patton in shame, and Virgil in guilt. Deep down, they knew Janus was right.

“…Okay. Maybe I’ve been… a little… controlling.” Roman murmured.

“A lot.” Janus hummed.

Patton leans over to him, “Hey, Jan— kiddo. Small wins.”

“Right, Patton,” He whispers back, sighing. “Anyway. I suggest we try to make this up to Logan one way or another. After we make sure he’s alright.”

“I’m not checking on him. I love the guy, but if I step ten feet near conflict I’ll throw up and die.” Virgil mumbles, throwing his hood up.

“Logan doesn’t usually take comfort from me all that well. I think he finds it kinda patronizing…” Patton frowns. “But I’d be happy to try!”

“No, you're right… and he’d only think I was mocking him.” Roman murmured.

One by one, all their eyes drift to Janus.

“…You want me to go in there. Don’t you.”

“Well, yeah! You’re the most neutral with him! Logan doesn't know you super well and while I’m sure he didn’t appreciate your impersonating of him, I think you see eye to eye with him on a lotta stuff! That helps!” Patton grinned. “You might be the best candidate for this kinda thing.”

Virgil sighs. “….I can’t believe I’m agreeing with this… but yeah. Janus is the best candidate for this particular job…”

“…Of course. Fine. I’ll go check on him.” Janus huffs. He leaves his little corner in the shadows, brushing past the other three and making his way down the hallway. It doesn’t take him long to reach Logan’s door. Usually there’s light peeking from underneath the door, but that’s absent this time. Hmm…

Janus knocks three times.

Usually a “one moment” or a “come in” would follow. But there is silence.

Janus waits a moment, before knocking again, this time accompanying it with a “Logan? You alright?”

He’s met with silence again.

Janus sighs, placing his hand on the doorknob and twisting slowly. He pushes the door open, peeking in just a bit to get an idea of what he’s getting himself into.

The moment the door opens just a crack it’s blown open with immeasurable force, pulling Janus inside and slamming the door behind him. The room is barely a room anymore— more so a culmination of wind. Janus can make out a few objects— calendars with black and red marker scribbled over the dates, some books and some pages torn from them, blank sheets of paper, and a few pens and little knickknacks. Glancing around quickly, Janus realizes there’s a soft, barely there orange glow coming from the center of the room.

Fuck.

“Logan!” Janus calls, trying to push his way through but inevitably getting pushed back against the door. “Logan, let me in! I will help!”

There’s some sort of loud noise, but Janus can barely make it out throughout the pounding sound of wind against his ears.

Fine. Be difficult. It takes a lot of strength, and a lot of mental willpower, but he’s able to carve out a path directly into the eye of the storm. Janus heaves a bit as he walks, immediately taking note of Logan.

He’s… never seen the other so distressed. And honestly, it stings.

Logan is sat on the floor on his knees, hunched over and sobbing. Janus has never seen him cry, never heard it either. But this is just too much…

“…Logan?” He calls quietly, softly. Trying his best not to startle the other.

Said side looks up with a horrified gaze. His eyes gleam with amber tones and the best descriptor Janus has at the moment is overwhelmed.

“Calm down, calm down.” Janus shushes, kneeling to Logan’s level. Instinctively, Logan tries to back away, and Janus lets him. He gives Logan his space. “Deep breaths. Breathe…”

And he tries. All he can manage is panicked and shaky short breaths that can’t be delivering much air to his brain. Janus could see this plain as day. “Logan. Think you’re stable enough to talk?”

Logan glances up and after a moment's hesitation, he nods quickly.

“Five things you can see. Can you do that for me?”

Logan glances around quickly. “Books.” He murmurs, almost rapid as he speaks. “…Calendar. Marker. Pen…” He looks around again. “Cube.”

“Alright. Good. Four things you can feel?”

“…Clothes. Glasses.” His tone is almost robotic, despite it being watery. “Wind… and… and… and the floor.”

Janus can see and feel the wind slowing, even if just a little bit.

“Good. How about three things you can hear?”

“You. Me. Wind.”

“Almost done. Two things you can smell?”

“Um…” Logan panics again. Another question he can’t answer. Of course. “Cologne? Maybe… and… and…”

“Focus, Logan. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

“…Ink.”

“Good. Last one. One thing you can taste.”

“Salt…”

The wind slows to a stop. All the objects fall from where they were propelled. They could deal with that later.

“See? You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Logan looks up, eyes still watery and overflowing with tears. He’s shaking. The word that comes to Janus’ mind is helpless. He knows it’d make Logan worse so he decides to keep that thought inside.

“Now. Would you like to talk about this?”

“I don’t know how!” His tone is surprisingly aggressive, but it doesn’t seem like Logan. It’s out of character for him. He’s crumbling. “I don’t know how to… to talk about this! I’ve never— I’ve never felt so… so…”

“Breathe, Logan.” Janus offers. “It’s alright. Just—”

“LET ME TALK.” Logan shouts; the ferocity of the moment is only comparable to earlier when Remus had pushed too far.

And Janus falls silent. He doesn’t take it personally. He knows it isn’t— Logan is just so overcome with it all he’s lost control. He knows just how bad they can be.

And Logan realizes just what he’s done a moment after, and he falls back into helpless sobs, curling around himself. He feels so fucking awful. Not only is he useless, but he’s an asshole too. Another flaw to add to the ever growing list.

“Logan, I know you’re overwhelmed…” Janus reaches a hand out to touch, but he hesitates, and quickly lets it fall back to his side. “Tell me what’s going on. What’s got you so upset?”

Logan hesitates speaking, before he sobs out his words, “I’m so awful, Janus…”

“If this is about today, you’re not. Remus is especially heinous and you know that—”

“It isn’t just today!” He shouts. “It’s getting harder and harder to do my job and get through to him— I-I’m not good enough, Janus. I can’t do anything anymore! I used to be able to… to do everything, and it was fine. My calendars were in perfect order, I kept the others in check while maintaining a balance— I wasn’t a fucking emotional wreck!” Logan sobs, looking up at Janus desperately. “I’m useless. I can’t— I’m not—”

“Logan. You’re magnetizing.” Janus murmurs.

“Magnifying.” He corrects.

“See? You’re still capable of doing your job. And you still do your job just fine.” Janus puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, smoothing over the wrinkled shirt. “Everyone’s been in chaos these last few months… and that’s partly me and Remus’ fault. We haven’t been easy adjustments.” He sighed. “But,” And he holds up his finger with a dramatic pause, “You of all people have been the most versatile. You put forth your best effort Logan— more so than the other sides have. You know that.”

“But my best isn’t good enough.”

“It is. It is. You don’t believe it is, but it is.” Janus assures. “It isn’t your fault you’re getting overshadowed.”

“Perhaps if my methods were different, if my tactics were better—”

“Shhh.” Janus presses his finger to Logan’s lips, effectively silencing him momentarily.

“Logan. You’re doing nothing wrong.”

“Then why am I getting ignored?”

Janus didn’t have an answer immediately. And he could tell that upset Logan even further, despite the fact he was trying to conceal his tears.

“I don’t know, Logan. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “But I’ll never ignore you. You know that, right?”

He sniffles, nodding.

“…Do you want a hug?”

Logan hesitates for a long moment, as if weighing the pros and cons. Potential comfort and warmth, but also a huge dent in his reputation.

This was a pretty big dent too. Fuck it.

“…Please.”

Janus wraps his arms around Logan, hugging him tightly. “You’re alright. It’s alright..” He murmurs. “You’re okay.”

While Logan quietly cried into Janus’ shoulder, the scaly of the two silently wills the objects back into their places. He doesn’t need Logan even more stressed.

“Do you feel better?”

Logan nods, swallowing thickly. His throat feels scratchy…

“…I don’t think I’ve ever felt those… those feelings so… intensely.” He cringes at the word; it feels sticky and wrong on his tongue.

“I know… but it’s all over now. You’re calmer. Your room isn’t a tornado.”

Logan blinks, glancing up. “Oh. I was…” He looks around quickly. “Everything is in its place…?”

“I put it back. I know mess overwhelms you.”

Logan can’t help the microscopic smile.

“Thank you, Janus… I… apologize for all this.”

“Don’t mention it. It was out of your control. Now,” He pulls away slightly. “Do you need me to stay? I’m more than happy to.”

Logan thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. “No. I believe some time alone would benefit me. I need to ‘recharge,’ if you will.”

Janus stands and makes his way to the door. “Alright. If you need anything else, you know where my room is.”

“I do. Again, thank you.”

“No worries, Logan. That’s what friends are for.”

—

(i wrote these authors notes as i wrote the story; i didn’t wanna stick them in as i wrote so i put them all at the end.)

authors note: i forgot how vividly i imagined their headspace; even down to the order of the doors. in case you’re wondering, the hallway of their rooms (which you enter from the right side) goes from left to right as such: virgil, logan, roman, and patton. the dark sides have their own separate wing (because of course they do)

authors note 2: i feel like sides have a lot more willpower and control in the headspace than we originally think— and the dark sides seem to be more powerful than the core 4 so they have an easier time doing stuff like that. obviously since deceit can transform into any of the sides— which i feel like the other sides can do but choose not to?? if they can become thomas’ friends they should be able to transform into each other,,— and remus can summon objects outside of the mind palace and headspace— we’ve seen other sides with fidgets or swords or little caps but never anything like super big i don’t think? it’s been a while hah

authors note 3: i’m trying to make up some shit about the orange side while also keeping it vague so it’s not too specific. mostly cause i want this to be logan centric but also i want this to have the best chance at holding up after he is revealed

authors note 4: logan may be the logic side but he is also the autism side

authors note 5: this just became a loceit fic but i’m not even mad. logan x anyone supremacy

authors note 6: this just became a self projection fic but i’m not even mad. logan x self projection supremacy

authors note 7: i didn’t know how to end this so have some weird janus and logan

okay hi!! finally done writing. got this done in like… two hours shockingly. i speed ran this fr

no beta read we die like men.

reblog if you enjoyed!!

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edupunkn00b · 10 months

Text

Overruled, Chapter 2: Obfuscated

Prev - Obfuscated - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Written for @loceitweek, Day 2: Masks - WC: 1498 - Rated: T - Alcohol, swearing, mentions of non-consensual drugging, vomiting/nausea ---

Everything hurt.

Janus blinked against the sunbeam targeting his face, lids sandpaper against his eyes. He turned his head and sharp, hot pain shot up his shoulder and neck before radiating out through his back and limbs. “Fuck.” He couldn’t get more than a croak past his dry throat. Even his tongue and teeth hurt, his mouth swollen, arid, and foul.

“Excellent…” The quiet voice rattled through his skull and he winced. “You are awake.”

“Either that or dead,” he muttered, eyes now squeezed shut.

Bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor past him and, after a clattering racket, the red glow bleeding through his eyelids faded. “Any better?” the voice said, even quieter this time.

Janus grunted and pried his head and shoulders up off the sinking soft surface he was lying on. He fell back almost immediately, a fresh ache exploding in his head as the room spun and his stomach flipped. “Sick—” he managed before he turned and heaved up the scant contents of his stomach. There was rushed movement near him and firm hands turned him to his side.

“Get it out,” the voice muttered near his ear. “That’s it, right in the bucket… you’ll feel better.”

When he finally stopped, something cool and wet was pressed to forehead and another dabbed at his mouth, his face, his neck. Janus cracked one eye open and spotted a colorful flash of floral brocade tucked under a dark blue apron.

“Necktie,” he groaned.

“So you do remember where you are,” Logan murmured. The cloth moved away, followed by the swish of water, then soon returned, cool and soothing.

He reached out blindly, brushing against the prim knot at the other man’s neck. “It's Seattle. You’re the only man our age who owns one of these,” he said, wincing at the deafening volume of his own voice. “Let alone actually wears the damn thing.”

Logan chuckled, low and quiet. The sound rumbled through his chest where Janus belatedly realized he’d been leaning. His brain told him to sit up all the way, but his body wouldn’t listen, and his head bobbed ineffectually against Logan’s shoulder. “Take it slow,” he said, shifting until Janus’ head was pillowed against muscle instead of the sharp corner where clavicle met shoulder bone.

The cloth moved to his neck, the light pressure easing the knotted muscle he’d woken up with, and he couldn’t help a low sigh. His hand flopped to his other side, rubbing the upholstery next to him.

Janus frowned. “This isn’t my couch.” He peered through narrowed eyes, ignoring the renewed pounding in his head. “Where am I?”

“My apartment,” Logan said after a moment. “You were… unwell last night at the party. You told me you lived a mile from campus and I asked you if I could bring you here.” His movements slowed and he set the cloth aside. Janus eyed it, already missing the soft touch. “You said it was—”

“Better than fucking in the elevator,” he finished, a flash of last night filling his mind.

“Well, yes.” Logan cleared his throat, a bubble of a mirth behind his words. “I was about to paraphrase that you thought it was wise.” He picked up the cloth again and resumed dabbing against his skin. “We can both be right.”

Janus barked out a half-laugh then winced. “Oh, don’t make me laugh!”

“I shall endeavor to be as boring as possible, then.”

True to his promise, Logan fell silent, moving only to refresh the cloth once it became warm.

Dread churned in his gut until he feared he’d be sick again. Finally, he asked, “What happened?”

“I will tell you everything I know, however I do not wish to impact your memory with my own perception,” Logan said slowly. “What do you remember?”

I remember watching the door, waiting for you to arrive.

“I was at Jack’s… I had a few drinks…” He chuckled, the movement rattling his brain against his skull. He breathed into the pain and nodded. Slowly. “I’d picked which guy I’d take home if you didn’t show.”

He smirked, one eyebrow a perfect arch over those damned glasses. “You were that certain I’d go home with you?” He wet the cloth and wrung it out again. “I could’ve been there to pick up your friend.”

“Ow,” he laughed and groaned at the same time. “What did I say about making me laugh, Necktie?”

Chuckling quietly, Logan reached for a small bottle of water and opened it in front of him. “Slow sips,” he said, pressing it into his hands. “It will help with the headache.”

He followed Logan’s instructions, annoyed he was right. “You gave me water,” he said suddenly, staring down at the bottle. Logan remained silent, but after a while Janus shook his head. “I… I don’t remember much else. Fuzzy thoughts…”

The hand holding the bottle shook and Logan took it from him. “You were unconscious when I arrived.” His lips tightened into a thin line and his brow furrowed, annoyance or perhaps concern darkening his steely blue eyes.

His pupils had shrunk.

Fear.

“I was able to wake you and you told me you’d had four…” Logan shook his head and inhaled slowly. “You were far more impaired than someone who’d had four bourbons over a few hours. I… offered to bring you home and as we were leaving… A man, one of the other guests, accosted us.”

Logan turned his head and looked closely at him, that same strange mix of emotions flitting over his face, like he couldn’t pick which one. “I believe he drugged you. He… he tried to stop us from leaving.” A smile sparkled across his face. “You fought back. Half conscious, and knocked over, you still managed to take him down and pin him to the floor.”

“Hmph,” he grunted, rotating his shoulder. “That explains this.”

“Are you in pain?” Logan turned again and scanned him with those laser eyes. “I mean…”

“Nothing a hot shower and some stretches won’t solve.”

“You are welcome to…” He gestured half-heartedly toward one of the doors in the hallway. “Of course, if you would not prefer your own shower.”

Janus nodded, letting where he would shower be a problem for the future. Even this short conversation drained him and it was a struggle not to let his full weight rest against Logan’s side. His apron smelled like coffee grounds and cinnamon. He wondered if his nursemaid would allow him a cup of coffee.

The thought alone was enough to turn his stomach and he closed his eyes. The unease didn't fade and the flashes from his dreams grew brighter. “Did I… did I say anything else last night?” he asked. His fingers scrunched against the plush sofa cushion, hand empty. He’d dreamt… Janus opened his eyes with a little sigh. He’d dreamt his hand had not been empty.

“There was some… flirting,” Logan said carefully. “No more than one might anticipate given the circumstances.”

“Nothing…” There'd been music, different music that from that fucking party. Soft. A peaceful rumble. Logan’s voice. “Nothing else?”

He shifted next to him and pressed the water bottle into his hands. Logan watched silently as he sipped. “You…” he murmured when Janus lowered the bottle. “You dreamt. And… spoke a little in your sleep.”

His name sat on Janus’ tongue, heavy and sweet. He hadn’t said it in so long. “Anything stand out?” he asked, desperate to hear anything but the answer he knew Logan would give.

“You called me Gabe.”

Janus couldn’t hide the hitch in his breathing but Logan didn’t ask him to explain, didn’t ask him if he was alright. If he’d said anything about Gabe… Logan would know he wasn’t.

Logan sat quietly with him until the room stopped spinning long enough for him to lean against the back rest. “I recognize food may be the last on your priorities at the moment…” He frowned, peering closely at his eyes as he avoided his gaze. Logan then picked up his hand and pressed the nail bed on each finger, watching intently. “But you are dehydrated and likely your electrolytes are unbalanced, as well.”

Janus’ hand was still resting in his and he stared down at it for a moment before slowly letting it rest on his lap.

“If you will allow me to prepare something for you…” He began to gather a bowl and tissues from the table.

“Before you—” Janus began, watching him work. “The—the cloth was…”

Logan looked down at the cotton cloth in his hand, then nodded. He dipped it in the water and wrung it out. He smiled, a soft, gentle smile, nothing like the little smirk from before or his failed attempt to hide a laugh. Just… soft. "Forehead?"

Janus nodded once. “Thank you,” he murmured and averted his eyes as Logan carefully laid the cloth against his skin.

“It’s my pleasure, Janus,” he whispered. Janus closed his eyes, afraid the rest of his mask might crumble under the weight of that smile if looked at it for much longer. “I will return with some ginger tea and crackers. Some broth.” Logan said after a long moment. “Rest.”

Nodding, Janus leaned back against the couch and tugged the cloth down over his eyes.

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fangirlwriting-stories · 10 months

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Protector

Chapter One

Chapter Thirty-Seven:

Janus woke up with a splitting headache that almost felt worse than the hole in his chest.

He groaned and pushed himself up, dropping his head in his hands and rubbing at his face.

Well, today was the backup to his pushed back deadline. He had to get out of his room sometime today. He’d have to find a way to deal with everyone’s hatred. He’d made Virgil and Remus put up with it for long enough, after all, and turnabout’s fair play.

And if Remus was right and Virgil really would be worried about him if he stayed in his room all day, then Janus wanted him to be focusing on anything else but that. He deserved a chance to recover. Besides, he could give Virgil plenty of space outside his room too.

Janus checked on Thomas in the corner of his mind as he climbed out of bed. Not any better than he was yesterday, not that that was a surprise. He wouldn’t really get better until Virgil returned.

Or, well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. Thomas wasn’t really good, obviously. But he didn’t seem to be having breakdowns while smiling anymore, which was a definite plus.

He must have the others to thank for that. Janus was glad they were fixing things. Just because they weren’t going to be his family anymore didn��t mean he didn’t love them dearly. He’d just have to want good things for them from a distance. It would be fine.

Janus looked around his room, trying to find some excuse to hang out here for another couple hours. He’d be a lousy Deceit if he didn’t try and put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

Janus winced.

He was a lousy Deceit.

Well then.

Janus took a deep breath, snapped his clothes on because he was still feeling lazy, and walked over to his door. He took one more deep breath and pulled it open.

He was met with the surprised face of Patton who had held his hand up to knock, now just hanging in midair. Behind him were Roman and Logan, looking just as surprised.

For a good ten seconds, all of them just stared at each other.

Finally, Patton seemed to come to his senses with a jerk.

“Janus! Here, this—” he reached into a pocket and pulled something out. “This is for you!” He shoved a piece of paper at Janus’ chest, and Janus took it without getting a chance to really look at it.

He swallowed. “Okay. I’ll look at it later, if that’s okay,” he said, not surprised at how scratchy his voice came out. It had been a while since he’d talked.

“I— I think you should look at it now, Janus,” Roman said.

Janus squeezed his eyes shut. “Do we have to do this now?”

“We do,” Logan said firmly.

Janus sighed, and looked down at the paper.

He honestly hadn’t been sure what it would be. Maybe some kind of list of demands, or new boundaries they hadn’t wanted to say to his face.

He hadn’t expected a simple card. The front read “Ur Fam” and Janus opened it to find “ILY” written on one side and the four of them drawn on the other.

He looked up, trying to hide any emotion from coming through on his face. “What is this?”

“We just wanted to make something to make you feel better, kiddo,” Patton said.

“Why.”

“Janus,” Roman said softly.

“Honestly, just go,” Janus said, crossing his arms. “I don’t want to try and have this conversation, okay? We all know what’s going to happen.”

“We don’t know that, Janus,” Logan said. “It is impossible to know the outcome of events that have not taken place.”

“And yet the impossible is occurring,” Janus said with a cool glare, leaning against his doorframe. “Please don’t patronize me. Just go and do what you wanted to before you came here.”

“Janus,” Roman said, stepping forward and crossing his arms. “This is exactly where we all want to be.”

Janus gripped the side of the doorframe. “Don’t lie to me, Roman.”

“He’s not lying, Janus,” Patton said. “Could you please just hear us out?”

Janus didn’t say anything for a moment. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of talking with them all only to be inevitably disappointed when it went exactly how he expected it to go. But he probably owed them something of an explanation. And if this was going to have to happen eventually, it was probably better to get it all out of the way.

Janus sighed, long and exhausted. “Fine.”

He stepped back inside his room and walked over to lean back against his desk, letting the other three walk in. Logan came through last and closed the door behind them.

“What do you want to know then?” Janus asked, looking tiredly up at them.

“We’re not here to interrogate you, Janus,” Logan said.

“Then what do you want?” Janus asked, looking up at the ceiling.

“We’re here to check on you, kiddo,” Patton said softly. “We figured you’re probably not doing too good.”

“You don’t need to worry about it,” Janus snapped. “I’ll be fine.”

“Falsehood,” Logan said, raising an eyebrow.

“I will be fine,” Janus insisted.

“That is not what I was referring to, though I doubt that is true either.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Of course we need to worry about it,” Logan said. “You’re our family, Janus.”

Janus tensed.

“And that’s why we’re here too,” Roman said. “To make sure you know we’re not going to get rid of you just because you made a few mistakes.”

Janus grit his teeth. “Well, I didn’t realize you were all so exceedingly stupid then,” he hissed.

“Janus,” Patton said. “Stop it.”

“I did not make a few mistakes,” Janus said. “I made many large mistakes. Mistakes that badly harmed other sides and Thomas.”

“And ostracizing you would not remedy those mistakes,” Logan said, raising an eyebrow. “It would actually be quite a bad idea. It has not seemed to be successful in the past.”

“You misunderstand, Logan, that’s just a reason to get rid of the problem entirely,” Janus said, spreading his arms.

“You’re not a problem, Janus,” Patton said.

“Well I’m a failure then,” Janus said. “And it seems that it would be a much better idea to simply get rid of failures entirely.”

“You are not a failure,” Roman said firmly.

“Yes I am.”

“Janus—”

“Please do not twist facts just to make me feel better, Roman,” Janus said. “I am a failure. I failed to protect Anxiety and Remus, I failed to protect Thomas, and I failed to properly guard the others.”

“How does that make you a failure?” Logan asked. “I thought that part of your job was only to assess whether Thomas was ready to meet the others.”

“Yes, you thought that because I lied to you about it,” Janus snapped. “But I suppose I also lied to you about my function as a whole, so I guess I did part of my job alright.”

Well, maybe he shouldn’t have said that, because now everyone was staring at him. Or maybe he should have said that. Maybe this was how he got them to leave.

“Did I not mention that?” Janus said, rolling his eyes and trying to act like he didn’t care. “My original function was Deceit. I figured none of the core sides would really like having a side like that around, so I lied about it. Seems rather fitting.”

Patton made a wounded noise, which Janus was going to pretend didn’t sting. “You lied about it for fifteen years?”

“Yes, because I’m not a good side to have around,” Janus said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I lied about that and I lied about what my job was and then I tried to cover up all of those lies when Anxiety and Remus came here. And all of that caused all of this. So why don’t you all get rid of me and be better off for it?”

Patton took a couple steps across the room and wrapped his arms around Janus with no warning. Janus stiffened in surprise, but Patton just squeezed him tighter.

“Janus,” he said. “Didn’t you know we love you for you?”

Janus scoffed and pushed Patton off of him. “Oh stop it,” he said. “How naive do you think I am?”

“Janus you moron, you’re our family, not someone we’re interviewing to hire,” Roman snapped.

“Roman is correct,” Logan said. “You are not going to drive us away by telling us that your job is different from what we’ve thought.”

“I can’t drive you away by lying to you for as long as I’ve known you? What would it take, then?” Janus asked, rolling his eyes.

“A lot worse than anything you’ve done,” Roman said plainly.

Janus scoffed. “Get out.”

“Do you think we’re lying to you?” Logan said, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course you are. You can’t forgive me just like that.”

“And why is that?” Patton asked, putting his hands on his hips.

“I’ve done despicable things. I don’t deserve it.”

“It’s not about deserve, Janus,” Roman said. “And you can’t decide that for us.”

Janus looked between the three of them. “Try me.”

“Excuse me?” Logan said.

“I said try me,” Janus said, and he reached out and shoved all three of them from his room. He heard the beginnings of Patton crying “Wait!” before they were all gone.

Then he sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands.

…

Janus felt it when Virgil came back. Thankfully, he was holding up Remus’ end of the bargain, and he was down in the kitchen when it happened making something to eat. He did imagine Remus hadn’t exactly been suggesting that Janus sneak out in the middle of the night to do everything. But Janus was going to keep his room firmly locked unless some unforeseen circumstance happened, like Remus or Virgil or Thomas needed him. For some reason.

He did head up and look for Remus for this one reason, though. He imagined Remus would forgive him, just this once.

Janus knocked on his door, and it was less than two seconds later that Remus had opened his door and was glaring at him.

“I thought I told you—”

“Virgil’s back,” Janus said, pointing at the door right next to them.

Remus froze, and for a second Janus was almost sure he imagined a look of terror that flashed across his face.

“Remus?”

“Did I say you could speak?” Remus snapped, but his voice was shaking, and so were his hands, and now he was backing into his room and leaving the door wide open.

Well. This was a terrible idea.

“Remus, what’s wrong?” Janus asked, pushing the door open further as he walked into the room.

Remus shook his head, turning around to face away from Janus. “Can’t go see him,” he said, burying his hands in his hair and pulling again.

“Don’t do that,” Janus said, walking forward and pulling them down.

“I said don’t touch me!” Remus screamed, smacking Janus’ hand away.

“Why can’t you go see Virgil?” Janus asked, lowering his hands.

“It was my idea,” Remus said, turning and sitting down against the desk and burying his head in his hands. “The nails. It was my idea. Gave it to Malice when I was bored.”

Janus clenched his hands past the wave of guilt that hit him in the next second.

Get out of your own head. This isn’t about you right now.

“Okay,” Janus said slowly, trying to keep his voice even as he sat down across from Remus. “What does that have to do with going to see Virgil?”

Remus looked up at Janus like he was an idiot, and Janus took a minute to analyze Remus’ face, and found the guilt he saw in the mirror.

“Oh, Remus,” Janus said gently. “It isn’t your fault.”

“Shut up, you don’t know anything,” Remus snapped, burying his head in his knees this time.

“I do know that it isn’t your fault, Remus,” Janus said softly. “That’s too much to put on yourself. You can’t be held responsible for things that Malice did to Virgil.”

“But it was my idea,” Remus insisted. “I gave it to him.”

“Oh, and of course if you hadn’t done that, Malice would have had a complete change of heart and decided not to hurt Virgil at all. Right, that’s what would have happened.”

“Virgil wouldn’t have wanted to die,” Remus whispered. “He would be here.”

“Virgil is here right now,” Janus said softly. “I imagine if you wake him up he’ll be very happy to see you.”

“Or he could hate me because I hurt him,” Remus said, starting to rock back and forth. “And then the only person I’ve ever had would hate me and I’d be totally alone and no one would ever want me ever again—”

“Remus,” Janus said. He reached out and put a hand on Remus’ knee, and Remus jerked upright and stopped rocking.

“Don’t touch me! I told you don’t touch me!”

“I’m sorry,” Janus said, backing up. “I’m sorry, I was trying to help ground you.”

Remus hissed and buried his head in his arms again.

“Remus, please listen,” Janus said. “I know I’m not exactly your favorite side, but I’m who’s here right now, and you need to listen. You’re going to have a panic attack.”

“Fuck you,” Remus snapped weakly.

“Remus please, please look at me.”

There was a long pause, and then Remus slowly pulled his head up and looked at Janus.

“It is absolutely not, in no way, not in the slightest your fault,” Janus said. “No one is going to blame you. Especially not Virgil.”

“How do you know?” Remus said, glaring away, though he sounded more hesitant. “You don’t know anything about me and Virgil.”

Janus winced, but pushed the guilt firmly aside. “Remus, if Virgil can forgive the rest of the core sides, which a lot of his behavior seems to demonstrate he’s done, I doubt he’s even slightly mad at you.”

Remus hesitated, but that seemed to get through to him.

“Will you come see him, at least? I bet he’s ready to be woken up after a week of being gone.”

Remus was quiet for another moment, then finally he nodded. “Okay.”

Janus moved back and waited for Remus to stand up before he did the same, and then he followed Remus out into the hallway and to the next door.

Remus somehow managed to open the door completely silently, but then moved immediately across the room to Virgil’s bed and knelt down on it, and that was all it seemed to take for Virgil to shift and open his eyes.

And, thank Thomas, Janus had been spot on, because the second Virgil saw Remus he sighed in relief and reached up to pull him into a hug, with what looked like very weak arms too.

Virgil glanced over at the door and spotted Janus, which Janus took as his cue to go, and he turned and shut the door quietly after him.

He had one more thing to check before he went to hide back in his room, after all. And he was pretty sure giving Virgil and Remus a moment was the right move.

…

“Thomas?” Janus murmured, quietly just in case he was asleep, but he doubted it.

Sure enough, Thomas was sitting up awake in bed. He was also crying, which didn’t surprise Janus at all. This couldn’t be a fun experience.

Thomas looked up at Janus as he appeared and wiped at his eyes. “Hi Janus,” he said weakly. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Janus lied instantly, moving to sit on the bed next to Thomas. “I’m here for you right now.”

“It feels like Anxiety’s back,” Thomas said, rubbing at his chest.

“He is,” Janus confirmed. “Are you feeling better?”

“Define ‘better.’”

“Fair enough,” Janus said with a sad smile.

“Are you okay?” Thomas asked again.

Janus clenched his hands together behind his back. “I said I’m alright, Thomas,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Why… are you still asking?” Janus said, squeezing his hands together tighter.

Thomas stared at him. “Because your entire world just got flipped on its head, Janus,” he said. “Because I would be devastated and you’re part of me, and because I’m not okay.”

“Well that’s why I’m here,” Janus said, hoping Thomas would just take the hint. “What can I do to help?”

Thomas took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes. “I think I’d like a hug, Janus,” he said, giving Janus a knowing look that Janus did not like.

Janus tensed. “What else can I do?”

“Why don’t you want to do that?”

Janus bit his lip. “No reason in particular. I just think—”

“Is it because you’d like a hug too?”

Janus scoffed and crossed his arms. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“The others came to talk to me, you know.”

Janus swallowed. “Ah. I’m sure they exaggerated.”

“Oh, did they really?”

“Thomas, I’m trying to help you.”

“Janus. I want you to listen to me now please.”

Janus cursed his inability to deny Thomas something he wanted and sat back, glaring down at the blankets.

“Are you trying to push everyone away?” Thomas asked.

“I don’t understand why they wouldn’t want me to,” Janus muttered.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“So what if I am? Why would you care? Why wouldn’t you want me to?”

“Janus,” Thomas said, a pained look in his eyes. “No one hates you.”

“Remus does,” Janus pointed out.

“Remus is different.”

“If you’re trying to say Remus and Anxiety are allowed to hate me then just say it.”

Thomas sighed. “Fine. Yes, Remus and Anxiety are probably allowed to hate you. But that doesn’t mean everyone does, and trying to push everyone away is just going to create more problems, Janus.”

“I already did that,” Janus snapped, pushing himself to a standing position. “I don’t understand why you think you can prevent more problems by keeping me around! Clearly I cause them! I’m trying to fix it for you! I’m trying to make up for the problems I caused!”

Thomas was quiet for a long moment, to the point where Janus stopped breathing heavily and started to worry.

“Thomas?”

“Janus,” Thomas said quietly. “To me it just seems like you’re trying to punish yourself.”

Janus didn’t have a clue what to say.

“I— I’m not—”

“You know that’s not a helpful reaction, right?”

“I—” Janus pulled his hat off so he could hold it to hide the way his hands were shaking. “Thomas, you— you don’t understand. They— I left them there.”

Thomas nodded. “Yes.”

“Why aren’t you angry with me? Why aren’t you screaming at me?”

Thomas gave Janus a pained look. “Could I say anything that would make you feel worse than you already do?”

“I—” Janus’ legs were shaking. “I—”

“Janus,” Thomas stood up and walked over to him, and held out his arms. “Come here.”

“No.”

But Thomas didn’t move, and Janus was pretty sure he was about to collapse, and he couldn’t think of a better place to do it than in between Thomas’ arms.

And he always had been selfish.

Thomas ran his hands through Janus’ hair, and before long Janus was pretty sure they were both crying, though he doubted Thomas could match the heaving sobs Janus was choking out.

Thomas made quiet shushing noises, and Janus hated how much they made him feel better.

“It’s going to be alright,” Thomas murmured.

“Thomas,” Janus managed. “They’re my boys. I left my boys.”

There wasn’t a good response to that and they both knew it, so instead Thomas just shushed him again and kept running his hands through his hair.

“Do you know why the others came to talk to me?” Thomas said after a minute. “They said they were worried you were going to succeed in isolating yourself. I— I didn’t really care then, because I couldn’t, but I do now.”

“Why,” Janus said. His voice sounded like he’d dragged sandpaper over his throat.

“None of us hate you, Janus.”

“I do,” Janus muttered, half on purpose.

Thomas made a wounded noise and tightened his grip.

“Please let us help you,” Thomas whispered.

“I’m supposed to help you, Thomas.”

“You’re part of me,” Thomas said. “I want to help you Janus, please.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you idiot,” Thomas said. “We all do.”

Janus shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you going to keep trying to push us all away?” Thomas asked.

Janus didn’t say anything.

“Janus? Are you going to stop hurting yourself?”

Janus just ducked his head down further.

“Please, Janus. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Oh, now that was just mean.

“I’ll try,” Janus whispered.

All of the tension rushed out of Thomas’ body at once, and he sighed in relief and pulled Janus closer.

“Promise you’ll talk to the others?”

“Don’t push it, Sanders.”

Thomas gave a displeased huff, but left it there for now. And for a long while after, the two of them stayed there together.

...

Chapter Thirty-Eight

#sanders sides #janus sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #remus sanders #virgil sanders #that's right my boy has RETURNED #platonic moceit #platonic roceit #platonic loceit #platonic dukeceit #platonic anxceit #my fic

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patromlogil · 2 years

Text

Body Mind and Soul - Update 3

Tag List: @mightnightmooon @strawb3rry-tea @mushroomcupp @craftingkitty13 @bagels-of-chaos @imma-potatoo @dimension-hopper @sanderdarksides @gabseliblack @shitposts-and-shit @thecrowslullaby @hummingbirdspark @nadiestar

Soulmate!AU - You glow when you touch the skin of your soulmate for the first time. You stop glowing after your first kiss.

Summary - Logan glows when he accidentally touches a bartender. The problem is he’s married, and doesn’t subscribe to this whole soulmate nonsense.

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A/N - I am so so sorry it's taken near enough to 12 months for this update that we might as well say it's been a year. There's been many things but those aren't important right now, what's important is - it's finally here! And I have plans for this fic. I intend not to take as long with the following chapters but still thank you for your patience, and hope you haven't given up on me.

It took longer than I would have thought to find this bartender. Certainly, there are enough variables surrounding the incident to make it last longer than a day or two; Remy’s level of intoxication, his preference to pay in cash, his complete refusal to ever take a receipt. It’s difficult enough to find where we even were that night, then he would need to figure out which figurative needle in the haystack of bartenders was the one we’re looking for. That’s assuming he even still worked there.

For two weeks I’ve effectively been under house arrest, forbidden from even passing by windows, waiting for my husband to return home. I can’t even remember when I last had so much time to myself; Remy’s work hardly comes with days off.

Typically our mornings start with a meeting with Remy’s social media manager and my personal assistant. A good few hours spent talking about every plan they have for the next six months, what’s working, what isn’t, whether someone beat him to it, and an average of three meltdowns. Then there’s a hasty lunch, usually ordered in, before Remy rushes off to create his content, and my assistant will usually have some sort of itinerary for me with my own tiresome social obligations.

Then in the evening there’ll be some gala, or clubbing, we’ve even been to a film premiere or two. Usually it involves alcohol and coming home with Remy very drunk, and I’ll have a migraine.

He insists it’s all essential towards growing the brand. We have to keep up the idea that we were meant to be together. It boosts his following and makes us more appealing to sponsors and advertisers. As much as I dislike this nonsense, it’s what’s paying for our house and lifestyle so I endure.

This has been my schedule for so long, I’ve barely known what to do with myself besides struggle with the anxiety that comes from not being productive. There’s only so much reality television I can handle before it starts to make me physically ill.

My relief now Remy’s finally found him is ineffable.

He’s currently sat at our kitchen table opposite Remy who summoned him to our house for negotiations which my husband insists on doing himself.

I’ve always favoured the rote learning method for myself; the repetition helps to cement things within my memory. I am not a visual learner, so I’m not surprised that I barely recall what the bartender looked like in the few seconds I’d seen him before having a jacket thrown over my head, so I’m grateful for the chance to stand back and observe my ‘soulmate’

Average build, if I was to guess, maybe an inch or two shorter than myself. He’s wearing a yellow t-shirt with jeans, very casual but he sits with his hands folded and his lips cocked to one side as though he’s laughing at some secret joke. Short brown hair is brushed to one side, half hiding his left eye while darker patches of skin cover the left side of his face. His eyes are quite interesting, the right is a brown, while the left is a sharp blue.

And of course, he’s glowing.

Remy suddenly stands, shouting at the bartender and pointing to the door.

“Get the hell out of my house!”

Oh dear. I really should have been paying attention.

To his credit the bartender doesn’t even flinch, barely hiding an eyeroll before he speaks.

“It’s a reasonable request.”

“It’s a piss-take!”

“I deserve to get to know what I’m giving up”

Okay, this has gone far enough. I place a hand on my husband’s shoulder as he takes a breath to shout something back. Most likely something vulgar that I really could do without hearing.

“Let me handle this.” I insist.

He goes to argue but with a glance at our guest he shrugs my hand off and swears under his breath as he moves aside. Remy doesn’t take people disagreeing with him very well.

I pull out the chair and sit down on it, taking a good look at this man.

Loathsome as I am to say it, I can feel him. Ever since he entered our house, the thrumming buzz beneath my skin has become worse, as though it’s responding to his mere presence. I don’t like it. It’s uncomfortable like the silent buzz of a fluorescent bulb and I barely remember how it felt to not feel like this. I want it gone.

“What exactly do you want?”

There’s a look of intrigue in his eyes as he looks between Remy and I.

“Dates. With you,” he turns towards Remy, “Unchaperoned.”

I nod. “Reasonable.”

“What! Logan-!” Remy blurts but I hold up my hand to silence him.

“How many?”

Again the bartender looks past me to my husband with a slight smirk. “Fifteen.”

“You can suck my ass!” Remy practically tries to launch himself forward but luckily I hold an arm out to stop him.

“Remy, shut up or get out.”

He pulls back but doesn’t leave. The bartender is smirking again. Fifteen isn’t a serious request, clearly. He’s obviously trying to rile Remy up which I would be mad about if Remy wasn’t constantly chasing drama.

“Five.”

For the first time since he arrived, the bartender’s eyes land on me and embarrassingly I feel my breath pause for the briefest moment. I barely blink as he looks me up and down, breathing through his nose as he tilts his head to the side.

“Ten.”

“Six.”

“Seven. Every other day for two weeks.”

Despite his casual outfit, the jeans are rough and worn and there’s a hole in the bottom left corner of his shirt, he holds himself like an academic lecturer. He sits tall in his seat and has an air of knowing the people he’s talking to have little to no interest in what he has to say.

It’s really not what I expected.

“You understand we can’t do anything publicly.”

“Discretion is my middle name.” While I have met many people with ridiculous names at Remy’s side, I genuinely hope it’s not literal. “We could even have a first date now.” His glances over to Remy, “This is a wonderful house, and I’d love a tour.”

A wind-up merchant. Wonderful.

“Fuck you!” Remy snaps, crossing the kitchen and slamming his hands on the table again. “You don’t deserve to-!”

My hand on his shoulder stops him and he turns to me.

This man is crass in his delight at my husband’s discomfort and I’m hardly thrilled at the thought of showing him around our house, but he has us over a figurative barrel here. He has what we want, and if he wishes to start on the first part of our deal so quickly then it’s in our best interest to act swiftly.

“You did want to go to the gym.” I say pointedly.

Remy sputters, gapes, turning between myself and the bartender as he tries to think of a reason as to why this is an awful idea but when nothing comes to mind he huffs, heads for the door, stopping in the doorway.

“I want him gone before I get back.”

#Logan Sanders #Janus Sanders #Logic Sanders #Loceit #Loceit fic #Soulmate AU #Soulmate AU | Glowing

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theimprobabledreamersworld · 2 years

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"Wait." Logan called out, forcing Janus to stop in his tracks. The uncharacteristic burn in Logan's voice added a dash of colour to the tone which caused Janus to turn back immediately with concern.

The silence between them felt deafening until Logan finally spoke pointing to his chest.

"Is my tie straight?" He asked sincerely.

There was the briefest of pauses before Janus' laughter immediately filled the empty space, his bowler hat falling slightly further back allowing soft strands of hair to become exposed.

Logan tilted his head, a soft smirk forming on his face with one thought on his mind.

'That's the laugh'

#sanders sides #logan sanders #janus sanders #ts logan #ts janus #loceit #platonic loceit #romantic loceit #drabble #ts fanfic #sanders sides fic #This kinda came out of nowhere but I love it #Will probably turn into a one shot later down the line! 😄#Inspired by Shadow and Bone

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rosepetalgold · 2 years

Text

all the silver stolen (will one day turn to gold) 1

Summary: Janus is an exceptionally good thief, if he does say so himself. Sure, his life of petty crime alongside Virgil and Remus isn’t ideal, exactly, but it’s good enough—until he tries to pickpocket the wrong person and learns three life-changing things: One, mages are terrifyingly real, go by the name of Logan, and do not appreciate being stolen from. Two, Remus has a twin brother. And three, Remus is actually the crown prince of the neighboring country, forced to start a new life after being framed for treason and left for dead in a brutal coup.

Whisked off to a new nation with Remus and Virgil, Janus struggles to adjust to high society and a life of court politics and intrigue, his inherent distrust of magic and his rocky—to put it lightly—relationship with Logan only complicating matters further. Trouble soon begins brewing in the kingdom as well, bringing with it whispers of old threats to the newly reunited princes, and when things go horribly wrong, Janus is forced to confront two questions with extraordinary consequences: How selfish is he, exactly? And just what is he prepared to sacrifice for those he loves?

Relationships: Romantic Loceit, background romantic Prinxiety, found family all around

Warnings for this chapter: Injury to a main character (for a full list of major warnings, check the tags on Ao3)

Word Count: 7316

Notes: My fic for the Thomas Sanders Big Bang 2022 (@sandersidesbigbang)! This is by far the longest fic I've ever written, and although it is responsible for me spending countless hours staring blankly at a google doc, it has definitely been a labor of love. I'm so excited to share it, and I hope you enjoy! Updates weekly!

A huge thank you to my wonderful beta readers Peregrin (@iclaimedtobethebetterbard) and Saphira (@dragonsaphirareads) for all their help wrangling the plot into something coherent and for all their feedback, as well as for not once complaining despite this beast of a fic more than doubling in length from its original estimated word count. They are truly amazing, and this story wouldn't be the same without them!

Also be sure to check out the absolutely stunning art from the two incredible artists I got to work with, Crow (@thecrowslullaby) and Hedgey (@hedgeyart)! I will link to Crow's work in the respective chapters, but in the meantime you can both dazzle your eyes and get a spoiler-free teaser of the later part of the fic by heading over to Hedgey's piece right here.

Read on Ao3 Masterpost

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Janus is an exceptionally good thief, if he does say so himself. Such a claim isn’t even bragging, not when he has the proof to back it up; he knows how to slip unnoticed through empty and crowded marketplaces alike, knows how to steal coin purses and jewelry and watches right off of any unsuspecting person and leave them none the wiser of his actions, knows how to sell what he’s acquired for a fair price on the black market. He’s had to learn such things just to survive, especially given how he’d first found himself on the streets, young and frightened and overwhelmed, a life of crime the only thing standing between himself and a long, slow death of starvation.

But more than being a talented thief, Janus is a smart thief. He knows how to select the best mark while avoiding the plainclothes guards just waiting to catch an unwary pickpocket, knows how to take advantage of a distraction or create one himself, knows how to judge which risks are worth taking and which are better left unchanced. His quick fingers may be what has granted him enough food and money to keep himself alive, but it’s his even quicker mind that has allowed him to evade the common thief’s fate of a short drop and a sudden stop for so many years.

Unfortunately, Janus is also currently a desperate thief, and desperate thieves are apt to do extraordinarily dangerous things, which is how he finds himself fumbling his lockpicks into his freezing hands as he crouches outside a fancy stone building in the middle of the night, no backup in sight and only the barest bones of a plan rattling around inside his skull. Breaking into any building, let alone an apothecary, is high-risk enough that he would normally never even consider such a thing, loath to put himself in such a perilous situation when he’s perfectly content weaving through crowds as his fingers dance in and out of pockets. But Virgil had taken a nasty fall by the run-down blacksmith’s forge a few days prior, gashing his leg open on a jagged piece of metal sticking out of a scrap pile, and the wound was now clearly infected, angrily inflamed and leaking foul-smelling pus as Virgil grew clammy and delirious.

If it were anyone else, Janus would have simply told them to hope for the best but make peace with whatever gods they believed in in the likely event of the worst, but Virgil is nothing if not an exception to all of Janus’ rules. Janus had practically raised the other man despite being only a handful of years older than him, had taken him in and tried his best to keep him clothed and fed while he’d taught him how to steal, nevermind that he’d barely been able to support himself, let alone anyone else. It had taken a lot from both of them to build trust, and even more for their wary alliance to slowly bloom into genuine friendship, but somehow, impossibly, it had, the venom in their sarcastic comments and snarky remarks mellowed save for the occasional argument.

Remus had come along a few years later and fallen in easily to make their duo a trio, more because of his uncanny ability to always be around and his refusal to leave rather than because of any official invitation to join. There had been something odd about him from the very beginning, something in the hint of an accent that sometimes slipped out and the foreign cut of his clothes and the shimmering gold necklace that he always wore against his chest and refused to take off, the sum of it all enough to give Janus pause, but he’d proven himself early by getting Janus out of a bind with some guards and his eyes had lit up with unrestrained glee when Janus had begun to plot crimes with him, so into the group he’d come. Given his own undisclosed past, Janus has never pressed Remus to lay bare his secrets, content just to take any observations he makes and tuck them away to mull over when he has a spare moment, trying to tease Remus’ life story from the scraps of details he’s collected and never getting too far because really, he has better things to worry about, like where he’ll get food for the day or how to get Virgil new boots in the middle of winter.

It’s comfortingly familiar by now, the way they work together, two of them operating in tandem to distract and pickpocket their mark while the third keeps a lookout, years of practice making the three of them a formidable team. Occasionally they’ll split up to cover more ground or one of them will find an odd job and jump at the opportunity for a few guaranteed coins, but for the most part they stick together, finding safety in numbers and taking comfort in knowing that someone they trust is watching their backs.

Tonight, though, with Virgil down for the count and Remus watching over him, it’s just Janus. The pressure of potentially having Virgil’s life in his hands is doing wonders for his nerves, truly. That churning sensation in his stomach is adding a delightful bit of excitement to what would otherwise clearly be a dreadfully boring situation.

Despite the severity of Virgil’s injury, taking him to a healer had been soundly out of the question; physicians’ rates were much too high for the three of them to afford even if they cashed out their meager savings, and even if they could have somehow found the money, they couldn’t risk a doctor getting suspicious about how a trio of obvious street urchins had managed to afford his services.

So breaking into the apothecary it is.

Virgil had always been the best lockpick out of the three of them, but Janus manages to wiggle the tiny tools into the lock, biting back a string of curses that would make even Remus blush as he struggles to to maneuver the instruments properly.

Rude of people to actually lock their doors and protect their valuables. Completely uncalled for.

Finally, after entirely too many minutes of fiddling with the picks with bated breath, there’s the tiniest of clicks and the knob turns easily under his hand when he tests it. Success, and it had only taken him three times as long as it would have Virgil. Surely stealing a bit of medicine will be child’s play in comparison.

He eases the door open, wary of any squealing hinges and ready to flee at the first sign of movement, but everything is silent and still as he slips inside. There’s enough moonlight filtering in through the windows to illuminate the space in a silvery glow, and he pauses for a moment, taking stock. Off to his right, in the back of a shop, stands a tall cabinet with a multitude of small drawers, doubtless housing fresh and dried ingredients of all sorts, but although Janus is tempted, he edges past it. He knows enough basic first aid to be able to make common ointments for minor injuries and ailments, but the drawers look like they’re liable to squeak if he so much as looks at them wrong, and he doesn’t want to risk mixing up ingredients in the dark and killing Virgil with some kind of poison on accident. The other man might be just a tad upset with him if he did that.

What he’s really after are the medicines that have already been prepared, which he assumes are significantly less likely to make him an accidental murderer, and as he creeps further into the shop on silent feet he discovers there’s a whole display of them near the front windows, colorful glass jars a washed-out rainbow in the moonbeams.

Perfect. One little snatch and he’ll be gone before anyone even knew he was here, in and out in less time than it takes to brew a proper cup of tea, his extraordinary talents once again having saved the day, except—

Except the jars are labeled with small slips of paper adorned with writing instead of pictures like the cheap medicines he’s used to, and Janus—

Janus can’t read.

Shit. Of all the times for his lack of a formal education to come back and bite him, of course it would be when Virgil’s life hung in the balance. What a lovely sense of humor the universe had.

He resists the urge to swear aloud and glares at the jars instead on the off chance doing so will magically solve his problem. The jars themselves should offer some clues, but he’s not familiar with this particular apothecary, doesn’t know how their medicines are color-coded. Is the little crimson container for burns, since red was associated with fire? Or is it to stop bleeding? Or is it neither of those, representing something else entirely? Janus doesn’t know.

Time to improvise, then. He hasn’t gotten this far only to be foiled by some inky squiggles.

Casting another wary glance around the quiet shop, he shifts closer to the display and the row of jars lined up neatly atop the shelves. Samples of some kind, perhaps, but their purpose is less important than the fact that they look infinitely easier to handle without clinking together than the jars clustered together on the shelves. He goes down the line one by one, carefully unscrewing each little container’s lid and sniffing the contents, trying to recognize the scent of any ingredients that might treat infected wounds.

Not the red, definitely not the orange, maybe the yellow?

He’s getting antsy, nerves crawling along his skin and skittering down his spine, his instincts screaming at him that he needs to get out, this is taking too long, he’s already been here for more time than he’d planned. But unless he’s suddenly been granted the ability to produce medicine out of thin air, he doesn’t have any other option than to go through the jars as quickly as possible. Taking a pot of each color and figuring out their uses later is a last resort, not only because he doesn’t have anything to wrap them in so they don’t clink together in his bag but also because he doesn’t want this to be a high-profile theft. Taking copious amounts of medicine is bound to put the guards on high alert, which is the last thing he needs when their trio is already running perilously low on food and supplies and will need to be out and about stealing to replenish them.

No, if he can only find the damn jar he wants, he’ll just take that and be gone and with any luck the apothecary owner will think they’ve simply misplaced it somewhere and not even realize they’ve been robbed.

Not the light or dark green jars, but the blue smells familiar—

A shriek splits the air, so shrill and unexpected that Janus’ whole body goes white with razor-sharp panic in an instant, his knife in his grip before he can even parse where the sound has come from or what’s happening, the purple jar he’d been holding slipping out of his hand and shattering into an incriminating pile of shards at his feet, the heady scent of lavender filling the air. No. No no no, there hadn’t been anyone else here, he was sure of it, how—who—

There’s a figure on the other side of the shop, standing in the doorway of what Janus had assumed to be nothing more than a storage closet and which he now realizes, entirely too late, is in fact a stairway to the second floor, which must serve as the healer’s residence and not an extension of the shop as he’d thought.

Apparently he needed to add ‘making correct assumptions’ to his list of innumerable talents.

He’s moving on instinct before he can even take a breath, lunging to grab the little blue jar—stars, he doesn’t even know for sure if it’s the right medicine—before he’s bolting for the exit, fear snapping in his veins, the only thought in his head run run RUN.

“No, wait! Stop!”

Right, of course he’s going to pause for the person who has just caught him stealing red-handed, just wait around to be hauled off to jail for his crimes. Why doesn’t he strike up some small talk while he’s at it?

He’s across the shop and out the back door in a heartbeat, pure adrenaline propelling him forwards as he tucks the precious jar into the safety of his bag, his footsteps echoing dully against the hard-packed dirt in the still night air as he attempts to wrangle rational thought back into his head. Getting caught by the shopkeeper was hardly ideal, but a glance over his shoulder proves they’re not coming after him, and as long as no one else has heard their shriek he should be able to make a clean getaway—

“Hey!”

His heart is pounding so hard in his own ears that he hardly hears the gruff shout, barely sees a form suddenly loom in his peripheral vision, but he certainly feels the hand that snags his cloak for a moment before he manages to wrench free. The healer, trying to cut him off? How the fuck had he managed to outpace Janus?

But when he glances backward he’s met not with the sight of pastel pajamas and blonde curls but of a dark uniform and a sword flashing as it’s drawn from its sheath.

One of the Guard. Stars, couldn’t a man just steal some medicine in peace anymore?

He forces himself to go faster, hurtling headlong down the empty street as he tries to think. He isn’t familiar with this area, doesn’t know its ins and outs like he does his own neighborhood, but if he can just find a side street he should be able to lose the guard in the labyrinth of alleys lacing the city. He veers down the first promising opening he sees, the deeper shadows welcoming him in—

—and promptly finds himself met with a dead end.

Fuck.

He whirls, his only option to backtrack to the main road before he’s cornered, only to find a broad figure already blocking his only way out, sword in hand. Janus is trapped.

Fuck.

“Come on, don’t make this hard on yourself, boy,” the guard growls, advancing forward a step, and Janus can’t help but skitter back in turn, eyes fixed on the glinting blade in the other man’s hand. He can’t get caught now, not when he still has the medicine in his bag, not when Virgil is doubtless still caught in the deadly grip of fever and infection. Janus getting thrown in jail would be nothing less than a death sentence for both of them.

And yet here he finds himself, nothing but high stone walls around him and a larger, stronger opponent he surely can’t best in a fight in front of him.

Not a physical fight, at least, but a mind game or two, a few dirty tricks thrown in to round things off? That Janus is willing to gamble on.

“Okay,” he concedes, letting his voice tremble slightly as the guard takes another stride into the alley. “Okay, just please don’t hurt me, sir.”

The man visibly preens at the honorific, sword tip lowering slightly, and Janus resists the urge to roll his eyes even as his pulse still hammers entirely too quickly in his ears. Honestly. These brutes made playing their ego entirely too easy.

“Put the knife down,” the man orders, and Janus obligingly crouches, the ground freezing even on his half-numb hands as he lays his palms flat on the dirt.

“I’m sorry, sir, please don’t hurt me,” he whimpers as he curls in on himself, the very picture of contrition.

“That’s right, you just cooperate and no one’s going to get hurt here.”

“Of course, sir,” Janus snivels as a pair of black boots come into view of his downcast gaze, followed a moment later by a sword tip. “Anything you say—”

He surges upwards, knife sweeping in front of him as he lunges past the guard, and for the barest fraction of a moment he thinks he’s made it, that his plan has actually worked, that brains have triumphed over brawn—

Pain explodes in his side, a white-hot line of fire that makes black stars burst across his vision and wrenches a strangled cry from his lips, but he has to keep moving, has to go, has to get away while he still has even a sliver of a chance, and he can’t stop, he can’t stop, he can’t stop even if it feels like he’s just been torn right in half.

He doesn’t even know how he manages to make it to the end of the alley and back onto the main road, given how blank his mind has gone with panic and adrenaline; he’s just there, in between one wave of black stars and the next, lurching for the first side street he sees and praying to all the gods he doesn’t even believe in that it’s not another dead end. If he can just make it into the twisting maze of alleyways, he should be able to lose the guard, provided he doesn’t bleed out in the process.

“Get back here, you little shit!”

The furious voice and its accompanying footfalls are far closer than Janus would like, but he doesn’t dare look behind him. If he’s going to get a sword through the spine, the last thing he wants is to see it coming.

“Guard!” Another voice splitting the air behind him. The healer? “Hey, guard!”

The guard’s steps falter, the other man clearly debating whether it’s worth it to continue pursuing a petty thief at the risk of failing to help a wealthy noble in need, and his hesitation is all the opportunity Janus needs to fling himself around a corner into another alley.

Stars above, please don’t be another dead end, please please please—

There must be some higher power after all, some deity who finally takes pity on him, or perhaps fate has simply decided to give him a fighting chance, because the narrow street tees into two at the end. He picks a direction at random, hope leaping treacherously in his chest that he’s at last found a way out of this mess, only to be dashed at the sound of footfalls picking up again behind him, the guard apparently having decided Janus is somehow more important than the healer.

Janus would be flattered if it didn’t mean he was about to either be sliced into ribbons or thrown into jail and sentenced to hang. As it is, he’s less than enthused.

Fear is biting at his heels, urging him faster, but he’s already lagging, lungs burning as he gasps for air, black and red spots encroaching on any spare sliver of vision, searing pain ripping through his body with every step as he jostles his new injury. He can’t keep going like this, not without collapsing within the next minute, and even though the guard behind him may be all brute force and no brain, Janus is pretty sure even he would notice Janus’ body sprawled in the middle of the street.

He scans around him as he flees further up the alley, searching for any place to take cover, but there’s nothing but unscalable walls around him. Nothing, nothing, nothing, until suddenly—there. A tiny gap between two buildings, cloaked in impenetrable shadows. He stumbles to a halt, blowing out whatever tiny bit of air he has left in his lungs in order to make himself as small as possible as he desperately wedges himself into the space. Even then, and despite Janus’ slim stature from years of malnutrition, it’s a tight fit, and he’s barely managed to squeeze himself all the way in before there’s heavy footsteps drawing closer, slowing to a jog and then a walk as the guard clearly tries to deduce where his victim has disappeared to.

Too late does Janus realize that if the other man had any intelligence at all, he would just go find a torch or lantern and track Janus using the bloodtrail he’s undoubtedly left in his wake, but there’s precisely nothing he can do about that now. He crams a handful of cloak into his mouth, both to muffle his pants of pain and to hide the cloud of his breath in the frigid air, turning his head away from the alleyway lest the glint of light off of his eyes give him away.

Given how his wonderful luck is going, he can only brace himself for a blade to come spearing into his ribs, easy as stabbing fish in a barrel, but the footsteps move right past him without a hitch, continuing down the street until they escape Janus’ earshot altogether. But Janus doesn’t move a muscle, despite the fact that his right foot is sinking into something squishy he does not ever want to identify and the smell of rotting food and dead animal is so heavy and cloying in his nose that he has to fight down bile.

Patience. If he can survive a sword almost making his insides be on the outside, he can survive sharing a claustrophobically small space with a few dead rats.

Sure enough, the footfalls return a few minutes later, slower this time as the guard backtracks his steps. Janus hardly dares breathe, sure his luck won’t hold a second time, but once again the other man continues past his hiding place without pause, apparently none the wiser to his quarry literally being within arm’s reach.

A flawless escape if Janus does say so himself, nevermind the fact that he’s taken a sword blade to the ribs in the process. That little detail was wholly inconsequential.

Still, it’s a long while that he bides his time, waiting until he’s satisfied the guard isn’t going to come back a third time, and even then he forces himself to wait some more, just in case. By the time he finally edges out of his little nook and back into the alley proper, his feet and hands have long since gone numb and the black spots in his vision have returned in full force, any movement that pulls at his side even the slightest bit sending ripples of agony through his ribs now that the numbing effects of his adrenaline rush have worn off.

A shame he’s neither brave enough nor stupid enough to try retuning to the apothecary, considering he could really use some painkillers right now.

He keeps his arm firmly pressed against the wound, desperate to keep as much pressure as he can stand on the injury even as a fresh line of warmth trickling down his waist informs him he hasn’t managed to stop the bleeding. He should probably check on it, he knows, try to fashion some kind of bandage from his shirt, but his stomach is already queasy enough that he doesn’t trust he’d be able to witness whatever damage has been wrought upon him without passing out, so his arm will have to suffice.

Out of sight, out of mind, he tells himself. It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine. If he just repeats it enough times, maybe he’ll begin to believe it, despite the fact that the world tilts alarmingly when he dares a tiny step forward. He hasn’t keeled over and died yet, so the injury can’t be that bad, can it?

It doesn’t matter. Janus just needs to suck it up and get home to deliver the medicine to Virgil before the other man kicks the bucket and all of this has been in vain.

It’s a risk to return to their hideout when there’s a chance the guard chasing him might lie in wait for him to reappear and follow him back home, but it seems an equal risk to spend too much time on the streets when the other man, if not the whole of the night guard by now, is looking for him. He compromises by opting to take the long way back to the impoverished underbelly of the city, secreting himself away in the shadows of back alleys as he muffles his pants of pain into his cloak, biting down so hard on the fabric shoved into his mouth that he’s surprised he doesn’t put holes in it.

It takes him several times longer than it should to return to familiar surroundings, given that he has to pause every few steps either to listen for any guards or to wait for the world to stop spinning around him, but he never dares stop for too long, not as it grows increasingly unlikely that he’ll be able to haul himself back up if he collapses on the ground like his body is begging him to.

It’s nearly dawn by the time he finally deems he isn’t being followed and crosses the final few streets to their little hovel, and he allows himself a single moment to grimace against the pain biting into every single inch of his body, gritting his teeth against the overwhelming sensation. And then he’s pulling himself upright, schooling his features into an expressionless mask as he raps their familiar passcode rhythm on the door and pushes inside.

Virgil is just where he’d left him, still unconscious on the mattress pulled up close to the fireplace, shifting restlessly in his sleep and babbling something nonsensical under his breath, and Janus can’t help a silent sigh of relief that the other man hasn’t expired in his absence.

“Did you get it?” Remus asks immediately from where he’s trying to coax some water down Virgil’s throat, and Janus digs in his bag to hold up the little jar of medicine, careful to keep his other arm pressed securely to his side to hide his injury. He knew having a cloak dark enough to hide bloodstains would come in handy one day. “Good, cause this wound is getting nastier by the second and as fun as it would be to try out a bone saw, I don’t think little Virgie would appreciate only having one leg.”

Janus wrinkles his nose at the mental image of Remus and the havoc he could wreak with such an instrument, just the thought of such carnage turning his stomach. He’s already lost enough blood tonight for the three of them. He doesn’t even want to contemplate one of them losing any more via amputation.

“Good thing he’s unconscious; he would tear you to pieces for calling him Virgie.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Remus retorts, but his face is lined with worry as he brushes a stray lock of hair off Virgil’s forehead. Shit. Things must be going from bad to worse if even Remus is this concerned.

Janus hurries to rinse his hands off in the bowl of water on the table, making a mental note to discard the now crimson liquid before Remus can see it, unceremoniously drying his hands on his pants as he crouches next to the other man. The movement pulls sharply at his wound, sending yet another wave of black spots dancing across his vision, and he has to bite back a hiss of pain as he wavers slightly. Don’t pass out now, not now, not before helping Virgil—

Remus casts him a sidelong glance, seeming to notice something is wrong.

“You okay, Janny?”

No, Janus is about to say, not unless you want to go find a guard with a sword so we can all have matching wounds.

But then he unscrews the lid off the little jar of salve and dips a finger in to find—

Nothing.

Cold panic snaps up his spine, shot nerves surging protestingly back to life. No, there’s no way he could have stolen an empty jar. He was a thoroughly accomplished thief, and thoroughly accomplished thieves simply did not make mistakes like accidentally grabbing the wrong pot of medicine.

Unless, perhaps, they were the tiniest bit distracted by the dark and the healer screaming at the sight of them and the fear turning their mind blank.

He braces himself for the worst, to have to return to the apothecary and try to steal something else, but when he tilts the jar to peer in he’s met with the sight of a cream ointment, albeit barely enough to coat the bottom of the glass. He swears viciously as he tips the container towards Remus for him to see, and the other man wrinkles his face up in annoyance at the lack of medicine.

“That sucks,” he pronounces. “Would have been nice to have had some extra in case someone gets a hand bitten off by a pack of stray dogs or something.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” Tears of frustration are suddenly pricking at the back of Janus’ eyes and he forces them back through sheer willpower, absolutely refusing to cry in front of Remus. Just because he’s exhausted and injured and absolutely nothing has gone right tonight doesn’t mean he’s going to make it anyone else’s problem. Virgil is the one who needs attention. Janus needs to pull himself together and start being useful.

“Hey, it’s fine,” Remus says, peering into the jar again. “There’s enough here for Virgil.”

But not for me, Janus thinks, but he can’t say it, can’t reveal his own injury, not when the jar is so tiny and there’s so little ointment left and all he can remember is Virgil looking up at him that morning, dark gaze so pained and vulnerable even as he’d tried to hide it as Janus had promised that he’d find him some medicine.

No. Janus is selfish about many things, has had to be just in order to survive, but he’s never been able to be selfish when it comes to Virgil and Remus. He can’t be selfish about this.

Besides, there’s a chance he won’t even need the medicine; he’s suffered plenty of injuries before that have healed on their own, nevermind that little voice in the back of his head whispering that none of those wounds had been nearly as bad as this one.

So he dips his fingers back into the jar and carefully spreads the salve on Virgil’s wound, not stopping until the container is empty of even a speck of ointment and the medicine has been rubbed gently into every inch of angry red skin. Remus fusses over rebandaging the injury and tucking Virgil back in while Janus slips the empty jar into a basket of various other small, stolen items. They won’t be able to sell it, not right away, not with the Guard looking for anything connected to the apothecary break-in, but they might be able to trade it for something down the line.

“Did you run into any trouble while you were out?” Remus asks as he slumps back onto the floor by the fireplace, fiddling with the edge of the blankets.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Janus replies smoothly, and it’s not even a lie—he had handled it, had managed to evade being caught and had made it home all (or mostly, he supposes) in one piece. What did it matter that he’d met with the business end of a sword while he was out? Give it a few months and the injury would be just another scar on Janus’ skin, one more unspoken story of a bind he’d gotten himself out of with his superior wit and talent.

Either that or he would be dead of blood loss or infection and it wouldn’t be his problem anymore. One or the other.

Remus gives him a sidelong look like he doesn’t quite believe Janus’ lie, eyes narrowing and mouth opening to no doubt ask more prying questions, and Janus hurriedly cuts in before he can get the chance.

“Will you go see what you can find for breakfast? I know Ms. Fordham at the bakery has a soft spot for Virgil, but she might give you some day-old bread for a good price if you’re there early and offer to haul in the flour deliveries.”

Remus still has that look in his eye like he’s going to push the issue, a heavy silence falling between the two of them as he locks Janus into a staring contest, an unspoken battle of wills that Janus doubts he’s going to win in his current state. The only people more stubborn than him were his own gods-damned family.

Time to play dirty, then.

“I wouldn’t want Virgil to wake up hungry with nothing to eat,” he presses.

Remus stares at him for another long moment, those clever eyes searching Janus’ for any hint of something amiss, and Janus forces himself to hold his gaze with an impassive expression. Nothing’s wrong, he tries to communicate telepathically. Nothing’s wrong, just go get breakfast and everything will be okay. I absolutely am not about to pass out from blood loss and join Virgil on the floor.

He doubts he’s giving a convincing performance of being fine, but it must be just enough, because Remus finally huffs and gives in, heaving himself up off the ground and muttering something Janus sincerely doubts is flattering as he swipes his cloak off the hook by the door.

“Don’t use the bone saw without me,” he orders, which Janus interprets as make sure Virgil doesn’t take a turn for the worse.

“Pinky promise,” Janus swears, holding out his hand, and Remus takes a moment to latch his finger around Janus’ before disappearing out the door into the dull, pre-dawn light.

Janus counts to ten, then fifty, a hundred, making sure Remus is well and truly gone, before he allows himself to double over with a strangled groan, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his nails into his thigh as the full extent of his injury finally hits him.

Fuck, this hurt. If he wanted to know what it felt like to have tongues of fire licking at his ribs, he would have just asked Remus if he wanted to practice his arson skills.

He draws in a deep breath on instinct, trying to breathe through the pain if nothing else, and the agony surges, spearing through his chest into his muscles and tendons and veins and coiling around his heart until he can barely breathe, wrenching a sound suspiciously close to a whimper from his throat, and it’s all he can do to just exist in the pain for a moment.

Okay. No deep breaths, then.

Exhaustion is dragging at him even through the pain, weighing down his eyelids and leadening his bones now that the adrenaline of being chased and tending to Virgil is wearing off, and he wants nothing more than to collapse right here on the ground next to Virgil and just sleep, slipping into sweet unconsciousness where he doesn’t have to worry about whether Virgil will get better or whether his own injury will become infected or whether the Guard will come crashing through the door at any moment to arrest all three of them.

But if he doesn’t tend to his wound before he falls into bed, he’s just going to end up in Virgil’s position in a few days when it gets infected, not to mention he’ll have to explain the bloodstains he’s leaving on the floor to Remus.

Actually, knowing Remus, he would be beyond delighted at the latter and eagerly demand to know where the blood was from, but Janus doesn’t trust his mental capacities at the moment to come up with any halfway believable lie.

“Lucky bastard,” he hisses at Virgil, who is still slumbering away pain-free and blissfully unaware of Janus’ predicament. He begins to inch himself across the floor to the table, taking tiny sips of air to try to calm the fire still battering his ribs. The world spins alarmingly around him as he uses the piece of furniture to claw himself upright, and he sways unsteadily on his feet once he gets there.

“Come on,” he mutters, some distant part of his mind whispering that he should really be alarmed that he’s devolved into talking to himself. “It’s just a little blood loss. How bad can it be?”

He keeps one hand on the wall for support as he makes his way past the curtain dividing the main living space from what serves as their bedroom. The main mattress has been moved into the other room next to the fireplace so they don’t freeze in their sleep in the colder months, but there’s a smaller bed here, salvaged off the street and put back together by Remus, and Janus eases himself onto it.

It’s a slow, agonizing process to get his shirt off, any movement or stretch pulling at his injury, and he has to stop more than once for the stars that dance in his vision, but he finally works his way free of the garment. A sharp breath hisses between his teeth as he cranes his neck down to examine the injury, nausea turning his stomach. It’s not a pretty sight, the dried blood flaking down his side disturbed by trails of fresh crimson still leaking from the wound, and Janus spits out a swear, then another, and another. If he’d known this was how things were going to go, he would have stolen everything he could carry from the apothecary instead of trying to keep a low profile by only taking one paltry jar of salve.

Next time—if he lives to see a next time—he’s taking the whole damn shelf of medicine, clinking jars be damned.

There’s a pitcher of water on the nightstand and he uses it and a rag to clean the injury as best he can, agony sparking up his spine whenever a drop of freezing water or the edge of the fabric gets too close to the jagged gash, but he forces himself to hurry, knowing Remus won’t be gone long. The bed is an absolute mess by the time he’s done, scarlet water settling into stains on the sheets, but that’s a problem for future Janus. He has bigger worries at the moment than laundry.

Between the ice-cold water and the chill in the air he’s shivering now, and he’s quick to dry off as best he can before moving on to bandaging. Their stockpile of nice bandages is almost depleted and Janus isn’t willing to take the few remaining in case Virgil needs them, so he opts for their homemade bandages instead, which is a generous term for it, considering that they’re fashioned from scraps of fabric too worn out to function as clothes anymore, but Janus isn’t in any position to be picky. As long as it stops the bleeding, it’ll do.

The pain is at least becoming familiar, if not exactly pleasant, as he winds the long, spiraling strips tightly around his ribs, even as his stomach churns at the thought that so much blood that is supposed to be inside his body is very much not. Just beet juice, he tells himself, not above lying to himself if it means not passing out on the bedroom floor. Just beet juice on your hands and the bandages and the bed, nothing more.

Almost done. He shoves his torn and bloodstained shirt under the mattress out of sight of curious eyes and forces himself up to grab another one from the pile in the corner, very nearly finding himself on the ground from the way the world tilts violently around him as he staggers upright. He’s panting with pain and exertion by the time he finally manages to get the blasted thing on, but the sense of relief that washes over him once he does is immediate. His secret is safe for now, at least. No one else needed to worry about him.

The bed is almost irresistibly tempting, but he stumbles his way back into the main room, collapsing heavily on the floor next to Virgil to sit as a guard until Remus gets back.

“You heard nothing,” he tells the other man as he scuffs at the half-dried bloodstains on the floorboards with his boot, smearing them into less incriminating streaks. “Everything is fine.”

Virgil doesn’t deign to respond beyond drooling onto his own arm, and Janus groans, tipping his head back against the wall as his eyelids drag closed of their own volition. He can’t sleep, not yet, not until Remus returns, but maybe he’ll just rest his eyes for a moment, just a few seconds…

He wakes with a heavy groan in his chest, the pain in his ribs fiercely unrelenting, and he curls in on himself instinctively, the phantom feel of a sword biting into his ribs entirely too real. Fuck, he’d really been hoping that whole apothecary debacle had been nothing more than a strikingly vivid nightmare. Apparently not.

“Nice guard job you’re doing there, Jan.”

He squints one eye open, glaring at Remus where he’s sprawled on the floor on the other side of Virgil.

“Good thing I wasn’t planning on doing anything nefarious. I could have killed both of you and you were so out of it you would’ve just floated right into the light.”

Janus scowls at him, nowhere near the mood to joke about anyone dying. The possibility hit just a little too close to home for comfort at the moment.

“Here,” Remus says, entirely unaffected by Janus’ look, offering him a slice of bread. “You were right about Ms. Fordham.”

Of course he was. Janus is always right.

He nibbles through the bread while Remus rambles on about a mishap with one of the flour bags, his stomach still roiling even though he’s ravenous. He realizes halfway through that Virgil is frighteningly still, but when he scrambles to check he realizes it’s because the other man is sleeping peacefully for the first time in days.

Last night had been worth it, then, no matter that Janus can’t breathe too deeply or move too suddenly without feeling like a knife is being twisted into his side. Janus was more than willing to be collateral damage if it meant Virgil healing.

Remus leaves before long, off in search of any other odd jobs he can do for a few coins to keep them fed, and Janus spends the afternoon on the floor, dozing on and off and trying to coax some broth down Virgil’s throat. The other wakes that evening, in pain but coherent, and Janus helps him slowly eat a real meal while Remus carefully washes and rebandages his leg.

“How kind of you to finally rejoin the waking world,” Janus tells the younger man as he checks Remus’ progress for the third time in as many minutes, making sure he’s not winding the bandages too tightly. “I’ve so enjoyed pulling your weight around here while you indulged in a little nap, you know.”

“You could use a nap,” Virgil mutters snippily. “Although I doubt any amount of beauty sleep could fix your face.”

It’s hardly a devastating response, especially given that Janus’ face is undeniably flawless if he does say so himself, but a coil of tension unwinds in his gut at the retort. If Virgil can roll his eyes and keep up a bit of banter, he must be on the mend.

That’s the important thing, nevermind that Janus’ own injury is only getting more painful, the untreated wound a recipe for disaster. Virgil is okay, and that’s all that matters. As for himself, all he can do is wait and hope things get better.

---

Fancy starting the taglist for this fic? Let me know!

#thomas sanders sides big bang 2022 #tssbb 2022 #sanders sides #ts janus #janus sanders #ts virgil #virgil sanders #ts remus #remus sanders #loceit #ts fanfic #all the silver stolen (will one day turn to gold)#my fic #rosepetal writes

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