#whatever it’s fine I’ll read some fics and ignore my own existence and thoughts

[cosmo-spams]

people are just busy it’s fine. they’re allowed to be busy they don’t hate you. yeah this is the second day in a row she took hours to respond and then proceeded to turn down plans but like. it’s fine. she’s just busy.

[kingofanemptyworld]

Rin, identity issues, and the complications of being an isolated, alienated teenager

It feels sort of weird to say but I generally don’t head canon characters as having particular sexualities. Whatever people go for in fics is usually fine with me - gay, lesbian, bi, pan, something more general like queer. As long as it makes sense for the story they’ve built and the character they’ve shaped to fit it, I’m good. Unless you’re ignoring a canon LGBTQ+ sexuality, in which case, yeah, I’ll take issue with that.

But anyway. Rin.

I’ve got my personal ship for him (BonRin my beloved), but regardless of the pairing I see him as bisexual. He’s so open with his infatuation with Shiemi, and okay, sure, fandom likes to ignore the love interest in shounen for the most part because we’ve got gay ships to peddle. But I don’t see the point in that unless it really reads like it’s a front, or a result of a character suppressing themselves for one reason or another. And with Rin, I think it’s pretty clear his affection for Shiemi is sincere. You technically have the in-universe evidence of the demon that brought out his true desires to back that up, but even without it, Rin likes her. It’s complicated because of Yukio and Shiemi’s own inexperience with romance, and yet I never once doubt he really likes her.

That being said… he’s very appreciative of the guys in his life, too. (Peddling my gay ship here) Bon in particular, considering he’s often admiring how cool he thinks Bon is, that his haircut suits him whether it’s the blonde rooster look or the undercut. If you don’t want to see it as romantic interest, that’s your prerogative, but to me Rin comes across as seeing cool and cute as different traits he finds attractive (in Bon and Shiemi respectively).

I also think his bisexuality would fit neatly into his narrative struggles to “pass” throughout the early parts of the series. Rin has grown up as the neighborhood problem child, ostracized for being violent, and eventually he decides he’s fine with just his brother and his father — and the rest of the monastery, presumably — for company. (Except that’s absolutely not true and clearly he’s starved for friendship and support.) People looked at him and saw a monster, even before his demonic heritage made an appearance; why would he bother giving them even more ammunition when it comes to reasons to hate him? So no matter when he figured out his attraction to guys, he’s not going to lean into it, because he also likes girls, right? (Ignoring for a moment that bisexuality is a lot more nuanced than that.)

Rin likes girls, Rin is human — that’s what’s going to get people to like him, or at the very least tolerate him. That he likes guys, that he’s half demon, he can shove that shit down and pretend it doesn’t exist. Lock up any stray thoughts and keep the sword sheathed around anyone who doesn’t already know.

(Excuse me for being amused by Rin wielding his humanity and supposed heterosexuality as a sword and shield.)

The problem, of course, is that he can’t keep up the facade forever. The narrative won’t let him. Rin has to embrace his demonic side, because it’s the only way to move forward and to continue to help his loved ones. And once he’s moved past the issue of his friends being upset over the deception, when they understand he’s still Rin despite what he’d hidden from them, Rin is finally allowed to be himself. He uses his flames, he lets his tail move freely in the open around the Cram School kids. Rin still doesn’t like this side of himself — it’s inextricably tied to every moment of pain and isolation he’s dealt with his entire life, including the death of Father Fujimoto (and, y’know, his mom). But he is moving forward, he’s trying to adapt.

And isn’t that some great fucking subtext for his bisexuality, too?

[bettsfic]

Hi betts! I hope you’re doing alright and that your semester is wrapping up smoothly. I have a question about genre, I guess? I’ll preface this with the fact that I am not a writer or lit person, but just an enthusiastic reader. But as I’ve been on Tumblr and TikTok (in this case BookTok), I’ve noticed that it’s a lot of the same kinds of books that people get obsessed over. Largely, SFF written by women and often in “new adult.” I’m thinking of V. E. Schwab, Leigh Bardugo, etc. I’ve read a number of these books and enjoyed some of them quite a lot, but they’ve never captivated me the way they do some. That’s fine, people have different tastes. But after being served yet another TikTok about this same category of book, I kinda realized that for some reason they just don’t feel that adult to me. Which is weird because they typically deal with very adult themes. Some are super sexual or violent and the like, but the way they’re written doesn’t feel mature to me. Even The Poppy Wars, which is very adult, falls into this category for me (I did enjoy this one, though). I’ve tried to interrogate this for bias, especially since I know a lot of people like them because they are written by women, (mostly) feature more diversity, and have large female audiences. But then I think about which books did feel adult, but fall in similar genres: N. K. Jesimin and Ursula Le Guin come to mind (even her youth fiction feels more adult to me). So I guess I’m curious what you feel makes a writing style more mature versus simply the content? Why is it that SFF, while often depicting adult events, doesn’t come across as mature? I guess my frustration is that it’s one of my favorite genres, but the recommendations I’m getting across many folks just...isn’t the SFF I want. How does one distinguish between these? Idk if I’ve expressed this well and I definitely am not trying to judge people. I’m just looking for a certain atmosphere in my reading that I find rarely.

i’m so excited i have an answer to this. so first i want to say, i experience this also and it’s why i struggle to get through a lot of books. it’s why i love the secret history but couldn’t get twenty pages into if we were villains, even though everyone told me they had a lot in common. even if the description of a book is compelling and the story is very much to my taste, and even if the writing is totally competent, i’ve found that sometimes there’s just something lacking that makes me set a book down and never pick it back up. 

i was thrilled to find there’s term for this: the implied author.

the implied author was coined by wayne c. booth in his book the rhetoric of fiction which, while dense, is a really fantastic read (if you’ve been keeping up with my newsletter you know how feral i am for this book). as a blanket definition, the implied author is the space that exists between the narrator and the writer. when you read something, you can’t make any factual conclusions about the writer (the author is dead and all that), but the narration often tips you off to the idea that the consciousness behind the writing is wiser and knows more than the narrator. 

that’s a very condensed version of booth’s definition, which takes up like 40 pages. here forward are some conclusions i’ve drawn based on it. 

when the space between the narrator and implied author is narrow, some of us as readers tend to get bored pretty quickly. it’s what you’re referring to as maturity. however, when that space is wide, when it’s clear that the implied author is much, much bigger than the narration, that’s when i’m willing to sink my teeth into something. the wider that distance, the more i’m happy to ignore things like syntactical clumsiness or poor grammar. i would follow a good implied author into hell. 

for example, i could write a story from the point of view of a violent abuser. if you were to read it, you wouldn’t be able to say for certain that i, the writer, was not a violent abuser also. but you would be able to tell via the implied author whether or not there is an awareness of the abuse, whether it’s being written with intentionality. not morality, mind you, but artistic purpose. 

the implied author has an idiosyncratic relationship to the reader. sometimes depending on the complexity of the work and the critical reading skills of the reader, the presence of the implied author can be invisible. this is the catalyst, imo, to a significant amount of the present morality discourse. many (if not all) purity officers and antis don’t have the reading skills to be able to see the implied author, or that the moral trespasses that occur in fiction are written intentionally and for a purpose. they believe that anything depicted in fiction is advocating for or promoting that which it’s depicting. 

lolita is kind of the ultimate classic example of the inability of some readers to see the implied author. nabokov even has a fictional preface from the pov of a scholar doing research, flat-out telling us that humbert is a bad guy and Do Not Trust Him. and yet, lolita has been misinterpreted and vilified for decades now.

in that same vein, the implied author is the reason that some stories put a bad taste in our mouths. it’s how we reach the conclusion that a story is racist or sexist or homophobic outside the literal depictions of racism, sexism, and homophobia. how can you witness racism taking place in a story and know that it’s speaking to the experience of racism and not advocating for racism? that’s the presence of the implied author. sometimes, though, you can’t tell. sometimes a writer tries to speak to the experience of something and fails at making clear their own awareness. or sometimes, they’re just not aware at all. 

in fanfiction, the implied author takes place, in part, in the tags. i remember stumbling upon a fic written by a purity officer which depicted an extremely unhealthy, non-negotiated power dynamic. and none of it was tagged. i had no evidence the author was aware that they were even writing something “problematic.” obviously i support their right to depict whatever kind of relationship they want for whatever reason they want, but i did find it a bit off-putting, that this person who was a known harasser in fandom had no seeming understanding that they were writing the very kind of fic they were rallying against.

but, you know, my hands aren’t clean either. until the MFA, i was a very poor reader. for example, in 2010 i read the hunger games for the first time. in 2020 i re-read the series on my kindle, where all my annotations from 2010 had been saved, and so i got to see all my glaring misinterpretations of the text. every time katniss has to get dolled up in the capitol and made beautiful, i left a note like “ugh,” because i thought all depictions of performative femininity were Bad. even though thg is a YA book and i was an honors student in college, i was still unable to see that katniss’s beautifying was commentary on consumerism. i was oblivious to collins’ implied author, the presence in the book that is shaking you by the shoulders and going, THIS IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH SOCIETY. 

but sometimes, like in your case, the opposite situation occurs: you the reader are wider than the implied author, and so some books have little to offer you in terms of depth or insight into the human experience. i don’t mean that to sound pretentious or anything; what i mean is, we all read at different skill levels and for different reasons, and we all get different things out of the stories we read. we’re all at different places in our reading lives, and we all have room to grow.

i hope i explained this clearly enough! hopefully one day i’ll be able to write a formal essay on this, because booth wrote about it in the 60s and a lot has happened in fiction since then. 

[ghoste-catte]

I was curious what advice would you give to someone new to writing fics? I've been wanting to get back into it but haven't seriously written something since high school. I hope this isn't an annoying question or anything!

Not an annoying question at all! I'm just a little worried that I won't have terribly good or useful advice. To be honest, I also sort of stopped writing in earnest right as I finished high school, and didn't pick it back up until my late 20s. It's certainly an adjustment! But I think the few things that really helped me get back into writing fic as a hobby and something I spend quite a bit of time on would be:

Write for yourself first, then find your other motivations. My original inspiration in getting back into fic writing was that there just were not that many fics I liked for my favorite pairing, and I wanted more of them, and I especially wanted more with the tropes and characterizations I wanted to see. I think at the very core of anything you need that internal spark that drives you. At the same time, for me at least, if I just relied on my own drive, I would not get much done; I need some external guardrails. So having people send prompts, or writing for particular events, or writing stuff for friends really helps me to get my ass in gear and finish stuff. That may not be the perfect motivator for you, and that's fine! You just gotta figure out what is.

Be open to inspiration. Anything and everything can be spun out into a story with the right tweaking. Obviously stuff like music is a classic inspiration source, but I've also pulled ideas from poetry, from memes, from Reddit threads, from YouTube videos, from rambling conversations on Discord and from real life to make fics out of. So many times, someone will post a silly Twitter screencap, and I'll think, There's a fic in this. And a lot of the time, there is! Research is a wonderful thing, but so is serendipity. If you're out there actively looking for ideas, eventually one that you like will stumble past you.

Find your community. I can genuinely say I never would have finished more than one fic if I didn't have fandom friends to talk to about even stupid headcanons, to bounce ideas off of, and to encourage me (and to encourage them in turn!). Discord has been a godsend, and some of my closest online friends are people I met in the GaaLee discord server. As I've gotten more comfortable as a writer, I've also joined general writing servers and Reddit communities and have found them immensely helpful on both a motivational level (bingos, sprints, owe-me challenges) and on a craft level (plot workshopping and writing ethics and live grammar help). It's a lot easier to think about fic ideas and hash through problem moments when I have a constant stream of fandom-related chatter coming from the little people who live in my phone! Ao3 is an amazing website, and it's great as, well, an archive, but it isn't social media by design. If you want conversation and human connection and cheerleading, you've gotta forge out and find it.

Make it a habit ... If you want to produce anything longer than a couple hundred words, you really have to set aside time for it. And writing is just like knitting or dirt biking or painting little model figurines: the more you do it, the more easily it comes. When I was first getting back into the proper swing of things, I committed myself to 30 minutes of writing per week. Just 30 minutes. I didn't even hit that goal every week, but there were tons of weeks I got on a roll and went over that amount, and by the end of the year I'd written over 200,000 words. I used to spend an hour laboriously tip-tapping out 200 words, but now I can easily blow through 1k in a 50 minute sprint. It's all about training that muscle.

... But don't make it a chore. With fanfic, you aren't doing this as a job, and you aren't ultimately doing it for anyone other than you. That means you can take breaks when you need them, you can set deadlines and then fail to meet them, you can write stuff and then decide to never post it. When you start getting burnt out, when the practice loses the joy and energy, stop. There's no 'hustle' here. In our capitalist society we're so trained to push past our limits and keep going even when it hurts us, but the hobby you do for connection and relaxation and whatever else shouldn't be like that.

Ignore metrics. Sometimes stuff isn't gonna get hits, or kudos, or comments. There are some basic 'rules' as to the stuff that does and doesn't get traction, but every time you post something it's a roll of the dice. If you're focused on watching that kudos counter tick up, you will get bummed out fast. And any writer will tell you that the stuff you think is your best work will never be the stuff that gets the most accolades. So you have to find something else to give you a sense of success. For me, it's watching my wordcount go up in my stats and those occasional comments where someone has a lot to say and that one person who always leaves me a <3 emoji (and, shout out to @egregiousderp, having someone to have long one-on-one conversations with about the stuff that never made it to page).

Don't strive for perfection. It's really easy to want your first ever fic to be a complete showstopper, the best fic fandom has ever seen, hitting all the tropes and the ideas and the characterization that you just know fandom is missing and would be everyone's top favorite if only it was written. This is a trap. No one fic can be all things. Most people who want to write an epic as their very first venture will not see the end of that epic, because they haven't put in the practice hours to make something on that scale work. That's not to say you can't start out with a big, sprawling multichap, just don't expect it to be the greatest thing since sliced bread if you're just starting out, and be okay with abandoning it for greener pastures if you get to that point. Think of the first time someone makes a vase out of clay or bakes a loaf of bread. That's never their best vase or their best bread. If they keep up with it, they'll make more and better vases and loaves. Likewise, your first fic is probably not gonna be your best fic. See it for what it is: your launchpad.

You can't edit an empty page, but you can over-edit a full one. This kind of spins off of #7, but if the words aren't there, you can't fix them. Daydreams and headcanons are fantastic (and god, how many times have I wished for a speech-to-text engine that projected my falling asleep thoughts onto a Google doc for later perusal), but they aren't fic. If you want to write fic, you've gotta get comfortable with the idea of sloppy outlines and rough first drafts. You can't build a house without a frame and you can't build a man without a skeleton (I mean, you can, I guess, but he'd be one floppy man). The nice thing about fic is that it doesn't matter if that frame is structurally unsound or the skeleton has 18 too many bones, you can clean that up in the editing process. But you can't start hanging curtains and arranging furniture in something that doesn't even have walls. That's the process. But! Also know when to set down the editor's pen and say, "Okay, this is good enough for government work", and call it done. ("Done" doesn't have to mean "posted", but it does mean, "I'm done picking at this for now, and I'm gonna go write some more stuff".) Over-editing can make stuff seem laborious and forced, and it prevents you from actually improving. To continue belaboring the house metaphor, you can spend your whole life rearranging furniture in just one room, but the end result of that is a pretty narrow existence and a room with a lot of footprints and tracks in the carpet.

Write shit down. When you have ideas, jot them down--in a notebook, in a Google Doc, in the Notes app of your phone, in pen on the back of your hand. You think you will remember that brilliant line of dialogue or sparkling snippet of narration or genius plot that came to you in a dream, but you Will Not. Write it down. Write it down. Write it down! There have been so many times when a fic was completely saved by past!me having written down my shower thoughts about what happens next in the fic, that present!me had completely forgotten about and was floundering over.

Have fun with it! Try different stuff. Try stupid stuff. Try experimental stuff. Do stuff you've never done before that you aren't sure will work. It's important to get comfortable with your niche (for example, I know I'm never going to be the sort of person who writes intricate plots of intrigue or super long 100k epics or detailed battles), but you can't find that niche unless you explore lots of different niches! Figure out what you love and what you absolutely hate, and then keep doing the stuff you love.

Okay, so that was actually TEN things, but ... I hope you still found this helpful. Feel free to send another ask if any of this was confusing or unclear. Good luck with your fic writing and, if you want, send me a link to what you've written once you've written it! I'd love to read it.

[drabbles-mc]

Burnt

Kozik x OFC (Tawnie Trager)

Inspired by Day 16 of the July Prompts: sunscreen

Part 2 can be found Here

Warnings: language

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Me? Back at it again with another slice of life fic? It’s more likely than you think! In my head this takes place on the same day as my other SOA Beach Day fic Say Cheese but the stories exist separately from one another. Also, if you’re interested in this pairing you can check out these fics: X X

SOA Taglist: @garbinge​ @masterlistforimagines​ @adela-topaz-caelon​ @chibsytelford​ @mijop​ @xladymacbethx​ @i-just-read-stuff​ @jitterbugs927​ @kkim120​ @toni9​ @unicornucopia-fuckers​ @shadow-of-wonder​ @punkgoddess-98​ @paintballkid711​ @black-repunzel99​ @lexondeck​ @mrsstevenbuchananstark​ (If you want to be added just let me know!)

“Dad,” she aggressively shoved the bottle of sunscreen into his hand, “Dad just put it on.”

“No,” Tig tossed it over onto the towel, “I’m not putting that on. I don’t need it. I’ll be fine.”

Rolling her eyes, she picked the bottle back up. She squeezed a generous amount onto her hand and then proceeded to slap it onto his chest, “You’re tough but you’re not tougher than the fucking sun. Get over yourself.”

He groaned as he looked down at the mess of lotion that was on him now, “You fucking kidding me, T?”

“Nope,” she shook her head as she rubbed some into her own arms and legs.

Once she was done, she looked around to see who else was close. She loved all the boys in the club, but she would be the first to tell them all when they were being idiots. She was adamant about the whole sunscreen thing ever since they all decided to do a beach day together. The guys had given her shit about it at first, wondering when she became so concerned with those kinds of things, but when it came down to it the last thing they wanted was the pain that came from serious sunburn. So, most of them silently put some on, refusing to make eye contact with each other and acknowledge the situation.

“Kozik!” she called over to the man who was laying out towels for each of them.

His head whipped up, instantly looking over at her, “Yea?”

“You got some on?” she waved the bottle in his direction.

“Let him get burned,” Tig mumbled under his breath as he wiped away the last of the lotion that his daughter had caught him with.

Tawnie ignored the comment, shaking her head slightly as she waited for Kozik’s answer. He made his way over to her, reassuring her that, yes, he had put some on the second they got to the beach. He knew that there was no way she was going to let him get away with anything else, and she was the last person that he wanted to be pissing off.

“Can you get my back?” she asked as she handed him the bottle, pulling her hair out of the way.

“Um,” he could feel Tig’s eyes boring into him, “sure.”

Kozik silently prayed to whatever gods there were that Tig wasn’t going to pick him up and drown him in the ocean. He tried to focus on the task at hand, but he also wondered if that would make things worse. And she must’ve sense the tension, too, because she glanced back over her shoulder and looked at her father, eyebrows raised.

“You want him to get your back too, Dad?” she asked.

Kozik’s entire body froze up as he waited for the fallout. Surprisingly enough, Tig just sighed and shook his head before turning and walking down towards the water, “Those hands go below her shoulders and you’re a fucking dead man, Kozik.”

She chuckled quietly as he finished applying the sunscreen, “He’s full of it. You know that, right?”

“You sound pretty confident but I’m not so sure,” he chuckled as he closed the bottle and tossed it back into her bag.

“If he was going to kill you, he totally would have done it already.”

“That’s…that’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

She laughed as she pressed her palms flat against his chest and pressed a light kiss to his lips, “Just relax. Who knows when we’re going to be able to all have a fun day together.”

“And what are you going to spend your fun day doing? Besides assaulting people with sunblock?”

She gave him a playful shove, “Shut up. I’m gonna go fucking swimming, duh. I haven’t been to the beach in ages,” she paused, tilting her head slightly, “What’re you gonna do?”

“Watch you swim,” a smirk crept across his face.

She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. It’d been an interesting, and slightly bumpy, road for the two of them to get to where they were at now. But she was happy about it, about him. And despite the constant pushback from her father, there was a certain type of ease and comfort that came from being with him. She knew that she wouldn’t have ever been able to be with someone who didn’t understand the type of life she lived, and no one understood it better than a man who was actually SAMCRO. But as she stood there looking at him, smiling with a few streaks of sunscreen still on his cheeks, he was more than just a guy from the MC. She never knew what it felt like to date someone who was your best friend until then.

She snapped herself out of her sappy thoughts with a shake of her head, “Don’t let my dad catch you leering.”

“I thought you said he was full of it?”

“I mean,” she laughed as she skipped off towards the water, “nothing is a hundred percent.”

He shook his head and watched her as she took off to go swim and cause whatever kinds of trouble she could manage to stir up along the way. Being with a Trager was a lot of things, but it was certainly never boring.

The afternoon sun was beating down on all of them. Most of them had found their way back to their chairs and towels and started digging into the food and drinks that they had brought with them. Tawnie was camped out on her towel, watching the volleyball game that was happening. Her father and Opie were pitted against Jax and Kozik, and to all of their credit it was shaping up to be a pretty competitive game. But she did notice the fact that Tig’s shoulders were getting redder and redder as the minutes went by—clearly he hadn’t put any extra sunscreen on except what she had forced on him. She shook her head silently, a smug smile creeping across her face. He’d have to learn the hard way, the way that he did with most things.

“Game point!” she called out before taking a sip of her beer.

“Better win this one for your girl, Kozik,” Jax quipped with a laugh.

She chuckled but she could see it on her father’s face that he was not at all amused by the comment. He dove, saving the ball from hitting the sand. There was now a new level of determination and desire to win. He never wanted Kozik to win at anything, but now there was an extra layer on top of it all.

The four of them were going back and forth for a while. Tawnie sat back, unable to hide the fact that she was incredibly impressed by them. Her eyes went wide when she saw Kozik jump up, spiking the ball down onto the other side of the net with an incredible amount of force. She couldn’t contain her laughter as she started clapping.

“Way to bring it home!” she beamed over at him.

“Lucky shot,” Tig said, already shaking his head.

Despite the tension that had been present during the game, once it was over everything went back to business as usual, which Tawnie was incredibly thankful for.

Tig was walking ahead, talking to Jax and Opie while she hung back with Kozik. She slipped her hand into his as they walked, smiles on both of their faces.

“You think it’s alright that I didn’t let him win?” he asked with a smirk.

She laughed, nodding, “It’s good for him. I’m thinking of it as karma for not using sunblock.”

“I think the blisters that are gonna be on his shoulders tomorrow will be karma enough.”

“Maybe,” she laughed, leaning against his side.

He glanced down at her, admiring her still-damp hair and the little patches of sand that were still stuck to parts of her stomach and arms. She looked so at home at the beach, and he had never felt more at home than when he felt her pressed up against his side.

“We should do this shit more often,” he said as they walked along the shore, waves lapping at their feet.

“Yea, well,” she chuckled, “When you guys take a break from your life of crime, we can do big family beach days whenever you want.”

“I’ll bring it up in church next time.”

She laughed, “Well,” she lifted their interlocked hands and kissed his knuckles, “you gotta let me know how that conversation goes.”

“If I live through it, you’ll be the first to know,” he smiled as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

The sound of Tig’s voice cut through the softness of their moment, “Hey! I said no hands below the shoulders!”

[vanderlindemorgans]

Mr. Perfectly Fine

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Two weeks after breaking up with you, you're picking up the pieces of your heart that had been broken by your now ex-boyfriend Javier Peña. You want answers, a clear reason as to why things fell apart. The only problem is that Javier refuses to even acknowledge your existence

Warnings: A little bit of period-typical sexism, but not much, Javier being an asshole, mentions of prostitution, some low level typical Narcos themes

Authors Note: So this idea has been swimming around in my head ever since the song was released last week. I already had a Bad Breakup fic for Javi planned but I’ve decided to extend it into three parts! Also reader speaks in English bc I do not understand a word of Spanish other than that one line in Ultraviolence. None of this is beta read, so there’s bound to be a few mistakes - if I get anything really wrong then let me know. 

Part 2 | MASTERLIST

The tension in the room was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. From the moment someone walked in they could feel it, the stifling air of awkwardness surrounding every single person in the room as they pretended to carry on with their work, averting their eyes to the spectacle presented in front of them, a war of agitation rife between two agents sitting across the room from each other as well as the unfortunate Steve Murphy who just happened to sit between you two. From your end it was simple silent fury, directed right across the room to where your partner, or rather, ex-partner, Javier Peña was seated at his own desk, casually leafing through mountains of paperwork and suspect photos as if you weren’t practically shooting daggers at him from across the way. 

He wasn’t doing anything, and that was exactly the problem - you wanted him to do something, say something, anything, if only it would show that he even gave a damn about the situation at all. But he never did. Every morning when he walked into work carrying a black coffee in his hands, his top shirt buttons hanging loose as they always seemed to be and his hair mustled as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly, he said nothing. He walked past you as if you weren’t even there, ignoring your stares and crashing down at his desk, ready to continue the endless chase for Pablo Escobar. And it infuriated you. Oh lord, how it made you burn. With every refusal of acknowledgement he gave, you became even more tempted to march right over to him and strike him across his stupid handsome face. You never did, of course, and you never would. Physical confrontation just wasn’t your style. Nevertheless, the mere thought of such did bring you a small bit of joy to your broken little soul. 

Things had been going like this for two weeks now. You hadn’t expected much on the first morning back in the office after what had happened between you. A part of you wanted him to come grovelling to you, insisting that he’d made a mistake and begging for you to take him back. That in itself was nothing more than a fantasy: Javier Peña was too proud to grovel. If anything, his behaviour shouldn’t have surprised you in the slightest. He was the one who broke up with you over a 27 second phone call, after all. 

Despite taking that into consideration, you thought by now you would have heard something from him. He’d have to talk to you eventually since you two were working the same case. Apparently no, because it appeared that he went out of his way to deliver every piece of correspondence meant for you through to Murphy, letting him act as a sort of unwilling middle man between the two of you. You knew that Steve already felt awkward enough having to be in the same room with the two of you whilst this was all going on, so your sympathy for him deepened when he was thrust into the even more awkward position of messenger. Sometimes you swore he made up fake meetings with Messina to attend to or new leads to investigate just so he could get away from the suffocating air of hate around you and Javi. And really, who could blame him?

You felt your nose twitch in annoyance as you trained your eyes forward to him, periodically looking down at various files of intel to keep up the facade that you were indeed working, though you eyes were across the room for most of the time, searching for any sign of emotion on his face. Nothing, zilch, not a single trace, his expression only showcasing general indifference, as if nothing were wrong at all. You gripped your hand tightly around the edge of your pen, thinking of everything you wished you could say to him. How’s your heart after breaking mine, Javi? For your information, ever since you pulled that bullshit on the phone, I’ve been miserable as all fucking hell. Before all that happened, I wanted to try. I was even ready to try to forgive you after that stupid fight, but you just had to make that call. You know what? I’d actually hate you less if you just acted like you cared a little that we broke up. But noooo, you’re just Mr. Perfectly Fine, what with your ignoring me and your casual cruelty, your always showing up at just the right time, and your insincerity, and the way you think everything fucking revolves around you. Well, I’ll tell you something Javi - I’m done! Absolutely done with you and your shit. Jump off a cliff for all I care!

“I’ll be back later on, gonna go follow up on a few leads” your thoughts were cut off by Javier’s abrupt announcement, your eyes gracing themselves upwards to watch him hastily scoop his jacket off the back of his chair and skulk his way out of the office. Every bitter word you wanted to say to him burned on your tongue, though you only managed to settle on a simple yet seething glare while his eyes glazed over you, rushing himself out of the room as quickly as humanly possible. You noticed Murphy look over his shoulder like he was about to say something but it was too late - Javi was already long gone. 

_______

Letting out a low groan of frustration, you slammed the door to your car shut and threw your head back against the seats headrest, the stress of the job and the emotional weight of the day combining to make you even more tired than you would usually be at the end of a long day. Javier hadn’t been back to the office since he left, leaving both you and Murphy to pick up all the work he’d left in his absence. If that wasn’t infuriating enough, the thought of him running around all of Bogotá just to avoid seeing you brought your anger to new unreachable heights. It was annoying - him not being around should have left your mind to be free to do some actual goddamn work but instead, just as before, every single moment he occupied your mind, living there permanently as if it were his right. How much more infuriating could that man get?

Thankfully, the drive home wasn’t any more of a nuisance than usual, since the apartment complex you shared with the others wasn’t that far from the embassy, so that was a small positive at the very least. Once you’d pulled up to the lot you were feeling a lot more level-headed than you did before, and were mainly looking forward to kicking back in pajamas and watching whatever was on TV with the leftover pizza from the night before. It wouldn’t do much to take your mind off everything with Javi, though, you knew that much. Still, a small bit of bliss was still bliss. 

Your apartment was down the hall from Javier’s, which had made it easier for you two when you were together but now felt like another sore reminder of what had been. Sighing heavily to yourself, you kicked the door to your car shut and stuffed the keys into the pocket of your jeans. A minor annoyance, sure, nothing you couldn’t handle though. You wondered if he would even be back right now. He had to be, right? An idea started to creep into your head at that thought, taking root and festering until you had practically talked yourself into doing it already, descending up the stairs with a sense of purpose behind you. Maybe if you showed up on his doorstep you could force him to confront you, make him look you in the eye. Any sort of acknowledgement to what you two had would be nice at this point, and if you had to take action yourself to get him to do it, then so be it. 

The closer you got to his door the more you felt you should turn back, a feeling of uneasiness beginning to form somewhere deep in your chest. This might be a bad idea. What if you two got into a fight again? As much as you wanted nothing more than to hurl some carefully crafted insults at Javi and his stupid gorgeous face, you weren’t exactly up for a full on battle that could result from it. Would it be better to simply go home and ignore your problems a little more?

Once you were only inches from the door was when you started to hear it. At first it sounded muffled, on account of the fact that there was a physical barrier between you and them, and you weren’t quite sure exactly what you heard at first but when you pressed yourself closer to the door you could hear it all clear as day - a woman moaning loudly on the other side, whimpering out Javi’s name and betraying exactly what was going on within the walls of the apartment. You felt your breath hitch in your chest, the world feeling like it was collapsing around you from the very second you realised why he had left early for the day. Unable to stop yourself, you tore yourself away from the apartment door and ran down the hall to your own place, tears falling at a rapid pace that refused to stop. You didn’t know if the woman in there was an informant, or a prostitute, or some random chick he’d picked up in a bar after ditching work for the day. In the end none of it mattered though. All that mattered is that it wasn’t you in there with him, like it used to be, like it should be, and that fact made you hurt all the more fiercely.

Fumbling with the keys to your apartment, you choked on a low sob working your way through the waterfall of tears in your eyes to try and wrestle the key into the lock. Through your haste, you accidentally let them fall loose from your palms and onto the ground, prompting a loud “fuck!” to ring out from your throat, loud enough for everyone in the neighboring apartments to hear. Not like you really cared about that, to be honest. With your hands shaking, you finally managed to throw the door to your apartment open, slamming it back closed with a thud and leaning back against it with your head in your hands, slowly descending to the ground to finally give in to the wave of sorrow threatening to claim you. 

You’d known his reputation before you started seeing each other, that he slept with all his informants and chased every woman who crossed his path in Colombia. Actually, it had made you hesitant to get involved with him in the first place but once you two had bitten the bullet and finally admitted your damn feelings for each other, Javier had ceased with his wild ways, becoming solely dedicated to you and you alone. And sure, you two weren’t together anymore, there wasn’t anything stopping him from being with other women. It felt like a deeper twist of the knife though, what you’d heard from behind that door, and it practically confirmed the sickening feeling that had been building in you since the first day back in the office after your breakup, when Javi refused to even look you in the eye and acted as if you’d vanished off the face of the planet. He doesn’t care about me anymore. 

Moving on had been that much easier for him. While it took everything in you to get up each day, he was doing absolutely ok. More than ok, if the sounds coming from his apartment were anything to go by. He was even already settling back into his old reputation. You should’ve known it was too good to be true - the manwhore of the DEA, Javier Peña actually wanting to settle down with one woman, actually caring about a girl beyond what she could be in bed. You remembered the raised eyebrows when you two had first gotten together: for most, it just seemed so out of nowhere. You’d ignored them all, remembering all the times you’d be tangled up with Javi on the couch, his head nestled into your neck while your heart raced a mile a minute, hearing every sweet nothing and praise he’d whisper to you. Stupid girl, you should’ve known. 

_______

After such a huge revelation, you thought things might’ve changed. In what way they would, you didn’t really know. Maybe the change would be sudden, such as you finally working up enough of a resolve to actually go confront Javier on his shit. Or maybe you’d take a leaf out of his book and start trying to seem like nothing was wrong at all, maybe go out on a few dates with some other guys. One of the Search Bloc guys had been eyeing you up every time he came over with Carillo to talk strategy, maybe you could go out with him. Though you knew it wouldn’t help - unlike Javier, who was actually more than happy with where you two had left things, you weren’t, and acting like it was just to throw it in his face wasn’t really going to work if he didn’t care enough to look over at you in the first place. And even then, the idea of falling into bed with some random man that you didn’t care for all that much in the name of moving on didn’t seem right to you. 

Nevertheless, you expected some form of change to happen the morning after when you came into work to see Javier sitting at his desk, on the phone to someone you couldn’t care less about. But nope. Nothing had changed. You sat down and stared across the room at him, just like you’d done every day for the past two weeks, and he ignored your stare to continue with writing something down on his notepad, just like usual. 

Maybe the change would be gradual, you thought, staring back over at the man in the midst of your ire with one of your coldest glares. And sure enough, around midday Steve had come up to you asking to retrieve something from the evidence room for him. Apparently he needed to look over something but was too busy with his own work to go fetch it - you knew on some level that his excuse was bullshit as it had been a pretty slow day for all of you but sure, whatever, if it got you out of that room and away from Javi for at least a few blissful moments that was fine by you. 

Reaching out for the door to the evidence room, you pushed it open and admitted yourself into the crowded space, twisting around to slam the door shut firmly behind you. Before you were rows of shelves containing every bit of evidence the DEA had accumulated against Escobar - there wasn’t as much as there probably should have been due to the fire that had broken out at the Palace of Justice years before yet the amount contained in that small room was still impressive in size. Moving between the shelves, you scanned the rows of boxes looking for the one Steve had asked for in particular, taking your time with it as there was a small sense of serenity to being in that room. For once it felt like you could breathe. You didn’t have to sit at a desk across from your ex, you didn’t have to go home to your apartment that was literally across the hall from his, you could be alone and not feel suffocated by his ever-present shadow over your life. Though, in some way you supposed, your own memories could still prove just as suffocating as Javier’s own godforsaken presence.

As if by thinking of him you’d magically summoned him, the man himself strode through the door to the evidence room, appearing to be in quite a hurry however once he noticed you were there he stopped, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before returning to their usual stoic glare. You could barely contain your own disappointment at his sudden appearance, letting your face twist into a low scowl as you watched him walk down the aisle you were standing in, his eyes dashing from row to row searching for any place to look so they could avoid landing on you. Anger bubbled within you, a thousand different sarcastic or otherwise snarky remarks coming to mind that you could throw out at him, every one of them becoming increasingly more scathing the more you thought about it. Letting out a small sigh, you forced yourself to push all those delightful insults to the back of your mind, not wanting to become caught up in any more personal drama than you had to. Get the box and go. It’s that simple. There doesn’t need to be anymore to this. 

A minute later your eyes landed on the fabled box you’d been searching for, shoved into a corner and so out of the way you almost missed it completely. You thought of asking Steve what was in the box that he needed so bad when out of nowhere you heard a familiar voice speak up from behind you.

“Listen, I...about what happened on the phone a few weeks ago-”. 

So, it seems Mr. Perfectly Fine has finally decided to break his silence. In an instant you twisted yourself around to face him, quickly taking in his serious expression and stiff stature before your eyes met for the first time in two weeks.“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to speak to me now? That’s a first. I thought you were steadfast gonna ignore me for the rest of my life” you spat, not allowing him any form of politeness or decorum in your reply. Why should you? He’d ignored you for weeks. He deserved this. 

You watched as Javier tensed at your words, clearly not expecting the bite back that you had given to him. There was some part of his expression that almost looked sheepish in a way, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he really wanted this conversation to happen at all. “I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just-” he started with you rolling your eyes and cutting in almost immediately. “Save it for someone who actually gives a shit. Shouldn’t be hard since you don’t seem to care all too much yourself” you snarled, an action which only made him even more tense. 

“I do care, and I kind of always have fucking cared so if you could calm down a little and stop getting yourself worked up we can actually talk about what happened. Can you do that for me at the bare minimum?” he retorted, a harsh edge appearing in his tone that indicated he was already becoming frustrated with your attitude. You knew Javi’s emotions like the back of your hand - he wasn’t a patient man, and he had no time for snark or sarcasm, though only if it was directed at him. When it came to himself, he was more than happy to indulge in a small bit of pettiness. You didn’t much care at that moment though: as far as you were concerned, he lost the right to a civilised discussion when he broke up with you over the phone and then pretended you were invisible for weeks. It’s not like things can get any worse than they are now, right?

“Oh, sure, sure, we can totally talk. How about I start then?” you fired back, every word simmering with venom and dripping raw with sarcastic edge. Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the shelf to take him in, from the creases in his tie to his tired eyes staring straight into you. Wait, tired? You didn’t realise it until then but he had been looking pretty tired lately, almost like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Then again, his sleep schedule had never been quite stellar, so that wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. And he was probably up all night with that woman I heard him with, you reminded yourself bitterly.  “Look at you, so dignified in your well pressed suit, so smug and self-involved, so far above me in every way, so far above that you won’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge my presence. Tell me, Javier, has it really been that easy to forget about me?” you taunted. “Though I supposed when you’re seducing every whore in Colombia into your bed it would be easy, wouldn’t it?”. 

Javier was caught off guard by your remark, not anticipating that you would go so far as to accuse him of returning to his old ways. “First of all, she was an informant, and I had to leave yesterday to go meet up with her. Things ran into overtime and that’s the reason I wasn’t back. I thought you of all people understood that gathering intel is a vital part to the fight against Escobar?” he replied, that last line at the end being delivered with only a little more underlying snip than the rest yet it was more than enough for you to feel around thirty percent more pissed at him. 

You scoffed at his lies, your lip curling into a snarl at his attempt at patronising you. “Don’t patronise me. I’m well aware of the ins and outs of this job, in case you’ve forgotten I’ve been working with the DEA for eight years now, which is why I’m calling bullshit on your pathetic excuse for a lie. You do realise we live in the same building right? I know you were doing more than having a friendly discussion with her in there, in fact, I quite literally heard you two through the goddamn walls on my way back home. And before you try to spin some shit about how it was necessary for the case, you and I both know that fucking the informant isn’t a standard part of procedure. You don’t see Murphy bedding any of his sources of intel, do you?”. 

“Murphy’s married, princesa” he deadpanned, throwing in that little nickname he had for you that two weeks ago would have made your heart flutter but at this time and in the context he used it only soured your mood further. “That’s besides the point. You’ve been acting like I never even mattered to you at all, and it’s honestly making me wonder if I ever did? Especially since I apparently didn’t deserve the dignity of a proper breakup and got a 27 second phone call instead. Tell me, when did you change your mind? I thought I was supposed to be the one you were waiting for all your life. Guess that was pretty easy to change, wasn’t it?” you snapped.

“Hermosa, can you just fucking listen for one minute?! God, you’re impossible sometimes” Javier shouted, that infamous temper of his rising towards the surface at a rapid rate. It was only a matter of time before he spat something out that he would no doubt regret. In your own haze of anger though, that fact didn’t register with you at all - you only saw red. If you had to scream back at him to finally pull some answers out of the man, then so fucking be it.

“No, how about you listen for once! I know we had that big fight but we could have just talked. The next day when you called me up I was ready to forgive you for being a complete ass. And what did I get instead? ‘I’m sorry, I think we should stop seeing each other’ and a dead dial tone after that. I can tell the only reason you’re apologising today is just so you don’t have to feel like the bad guy in all of this. So what’s the truth? Why were you so ready to throw away a whole relationship over one night of terse words?” you screamed, not caring that you two were at work and anyone could pass by outside and hear you two argue. With the way you both were shouting, you wouldn’t be surprised if the entire building could hear your screaming match with Javier. None of that mattered to you though. The only thing that mattered was the truth. 

You weren’t the only one refusing to hold back in any of this: any lingering spark of politeness had vanished in Javi, his eyes turning dark with searing anger you had only seen in him a couple of times before. “You want to know why? You want to fucking know why? It’s because you’re a fucking pain to deal with. You may be a fantastic agent but god you can be so stupid sometimes. You’re too reckless, you throw yourself into danger too willingly with no consideration for anyone else. Did you ever stop to think what would happen to the people who cared about you if you died? Do you even give a shit about the people trying to protect you?” he confessed, fury burning with every word that came out of his mouth, his admittance making you flinch. It was just like he said during your last fight, the one that led to him dumping you in the first place. 

Everything he said from that night came rushing back to you, remembering how furious he’d been at you for what had happened during your last raid together. You could see that underneath it all he was concerned for your safety, a gesture that was usually sweet but frustrated you that night as you felt something more akin to a porcelain doll than a capable agent in his eyes. Just because I’m your girlfriend, doesn’t mean you can treat me like I need to be protected. I can handle myself just fine. That was what you’d said to him that night, which should have been the end of it but somehow as the argument went on things got more and more heated that by the time he’d stormed out of your apartment neither of you could remember what had started it all. 

What took you by surprise was that apparently he was still stewing about this, for some reason not wanting to believe in your capabilities as an agent and that alone made you more pissed at him. “I don’t need to be protected, Javier. I’m a woman, a DEA agent for crying out loud, not a flower! I’m more than capable of handling myself, I was literally trained for this! Nobody else here seems to have a problem with how I approach things so maybe the issue isn’t my method of attack but the fact that you’re a paranoid asshole?”. 

He raised a single eyebrow back at you, looking somewhat skeptical of your claim but more so angry that somehow you two had managed to circle back around to the very thing that had started this whole mess.“Really? Because our last raid you were throwing yourself into the fray as if it were a suicide mission. It was a miracle you only ended up with a minor sprain to the wrist. Those men, the sicario’s, they don’t fucking hold back, one wrong mistake means the difference between life and death” he snapped.“And you know what? After constantly stressing over your safety every minute I was done. If you wanna end up with a bullet between your eyes, be my guest”.

The second those words slipped from his lips, he knew he’d fucked up. As the tears started to form in your eyes you could see him freeze up, his burning temper that had caused him to be so hateful before starting to slowly seep back, replaced with remorse and a hint of panic if you squinted. Although that didn’t matter much right now - his venomous words were rattling around in your brain, acting as a metaphorical hammer that took the final swing towards your damaged heart. Apparently what you heard through the walls the night before hadn’t been enough to break you completely, since there was still enough left of your heart for the rest of it to be shattered by his callous cruelty. 

Forcefully swallowing down your cries, you wanted so badly to disappear from the room. You wanted to melt into the floor, to run away and go find one of Escobar’s men and gloat about all you’d done to try to stop him so you could feel the mercy of a fatal gunshot wound to the head. All the pain you had felt previously paled in comparison to the knife that cut you then, the tight feeling of your throat closing with every word you forced out. “So you were lying. You don’t care about me at all. You...you think I’m stupid. And reckless. And...not able to handle being here…”. 

“Shit, princesa, that’s not what I meant, I-” Javier started, desperately scrambling to fix the mess he’d caused, however, you weren’t going to let him. He’d made his bed, now he had to lie in it. Any hope he might have had of making things right was now thrown straight out the window. No more chances. Not anymore. 

“I think that’s exactly what you meant, Javi. Well, you got your wish I guess. I’ll get out of your life for good” your voice wobbled as you spoke, the next few minutes becoming a blur from when you’d pushed past him and ran out of the evidence room, hearing him call your name behind and not bothering to turn back to face him, running through the halls past different agents and members of the DEA, your hand shielding yourself in a pathetic attempt to save face. Somehow you’d managed to make it out to your car, throwing yourself into the driver's seat and jamming the keys into the ignition, your mind going in a million different directions. Your first thought was to go back home, though you knew that you’d have to hear Javi come back later, probably with yet another woman he picked up. You didn’t exactly have any friends in Colombia - with your line of work there hadn’t been exactly a lot of time to sit around and mingle with people, and truth be told you wanted to avoid people at all costs right then. Without any idea as to where you might be going, or what you were going to do, you pulled your car out of the parking lot and slammed on the gas to get you out of there, the world surrounding you not registering to you anymore and every sound becoming a rush against your ears that you paid no mind to. 

One thing was for sure - you weren’t going to give Javier a single drop more of you. Your time, your mind, your energy, your tears, nothing. He’d already proved himself to be a lying sack of shit who didn’t care about you, so as it stood, you wouldn’t care about him either. Like the end of a tragic tale, everything had crashed and burned, and now that you thought about it more, maybe that was how things needed to be. 

Goodbye, Mr Perfectly Fine. I’ve been Miss Misery for the last time. 

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[hurricanery]

If the Sun Comes Up - pt. 4

A/N: Hi, it’s been a while, but here’s part 4 of If the Sun Comes Up! (AU - interns fic). This is me ignoring s17!!! Sorry for the delay, this has been repeatedly deleted from my drafts for the last week & then i didn’t even edit or make changes SO idk what all that was for. anyway thank you for sticking with this story! Previous parts here: part 1 // part 2 // part 3

Or, you can read on ao3.

_______

And so it starts, you switch the engine on

We set controls for the heart of the sun

One of the ways we show our age

_______

She has no idea how she got here. Or more specifically, how she could be pressured into something like this. Maggie typically prided herself on standing firm; standing her own ground and refusing to be swayed by others. But none of that self-proclamation holds true right now.

Because she’s here. Driving Winston’s car. Trunk filled to capacity and two of her roommates squeezed into the backseat.

The hypocrisy of it all is almost infuriating. Because Maggie hates camping.

“I hate camping,” she voices her detest out loud.

An apologetic sigh can be heard from Winston next to her, where he sits passenger side. But ultimately, it’s Amelia’s voice that grabs her attention, the bewilderment making itself known from the backseat.

“Oh, come on,” there’s an element of disbelief to her tone, and Maggie locks eyes with her through the rear-view mirror.

“Step out of your comfort zone a little, Maggie!” She raises her eyebrows, beginning to gesture with her hands. Link shuffles in his seat, where he’s squeezed in tightly beside Amelia, in an attempt to free up a little space for her body language. Some of the camping supplies had ended up packed over half of the backseat, and Maggie can’t help but chuckle at the proximity of Amelia’s hand to Link’s face as she gestures absentmindedly. “It’s camping. It’s adventurous, it’s-”

Maggie has since focused back on the road, but the sudden pause in speech makes her feel uneasy. Amelia’s focus shifts from the packaged tent next to her, to the back of Winston’s head, and then back to Maggie.

“It’s sleeping in a tent,” she continues, a spark of gleam in her eyes as she scans the couple in the front seat. “Or, maybe it’s not sleeping. Hey, I mean, whatever the two of you-”

“Amelia,” Maggie cuts in, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter as Winston’s hand comes to rest on her knee, giving it a soothing squeeze.

“Come on, babe,” Winston murmurs. “It’ll be fun. And plus, Karev would definitely be proud of us.”

Maggie grins a little, despite herself.

They’d been a bit all over the place, as a group of interns. A little bit too chaotic and never fully on the same page. As their resident, Karev was constantly voicing his impatience about the dynamics of the group. She partly thinks that yes, Alex would be proud of the bonding journey that they’d chosen to embark on, but the more realist part of her brain can’t ignore the obviousness that being roommates was probably bonding enough.

Maggie peeks in the rear-view once more, this time checking to make sure that Lexie and Jo are still following in the car behind them. She catches Amelia’s stare again and consequently feels the need to brace herself.

“Babe?” Amelia bites her lip, repeating the pet name Winston had just used. “What happened to ‘we’re just friends?’”

“We are friends.” Maggie sighs, trying her best to ignore the amusement that radiates from Winston at this specific call-out.

“And Link and I are friends,” Amelia’s quick with her rebuttal, tilting her head towards Link. “I don’t go around calling him babe.”

Link sucks in a breath, and then another one, with the addition of Amelia’s afterthought. “But maybe I’ll start.”

It’s subtle. The way Link’s face changes. He hides it just as quickly as it surfaces. But it’s there, she hasn’t imagined it, and it’s the first thing to make Maggie genuinely smile for the length of the trip so far.

“I’m kidding,” Amelia nudges Link with her shoulder. “I can come up with a better nickname than that.”

“Okay enough,” Maggie suppresses the grin she feels spreading across her cheeks. She reaches forward for the knob on the dashboard, turning the music up.

Link’s relief at the diversion tactic is almost palpable. Maggie can practically feel it from the backseat. She thinks maybe the feeling rising in her chest equates to sympathy.

She loves Amelia. She really does. Which is saying a lot, especially for her. It takes effort for her to grow comfortable with people, or to even relate on any level. She’s always felt a step ahead of most people in life. But Amelia really challenges her. It’s only been a couple of months since they’d met, and somewhere along the way, things changed. Amelia’s unpredictable nature had shifted from something Maggie initially feared, to something she appreciates. Like the human embodiment of the push she needs. The push she needs to take things less seriously, or the push she needs to open up and be spontaneous. Whatever the case, it’s never felt more necessary. Like she’s been missing out on it for too long. So, she tries to embrace it at every turn.

“Are we almost there?” Amelia pipes up again from the backseat. “I have to pee, and believe me, I’m down for a little side-of-the-road action if that’s what it comes down to-”

Maggie groans impatiently. But then she remembers about embracing it. So decidedly, her next words sound gentle. “We’re almost there, hold it together.”

_______

It ends up taking two full hours for six surgical interns to figure out how to set up a campsite. And even though the task is grueling, the level of teamwork somehow exceeds what they normally display during a typical hospital shift.

The sun starts to set as the second of the two tents finally stands on it’s own and everyone takes a moment to finally relax.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Link sits back against the tree on the outskirts of their surrounding area.

Jo huffs out a breath as she joins him, rolling her eyes. “That was two hours of my life that I’ll never get back.”

“What’s next?” Amelia steps out of the larger tent, pulling a sweatshirt over her head. “Does anyone know how to build a bonfire?”

_______

She has no idea how it got to this. How six grown adults could resort to immature party games around a campfire and feel so content about it. Maggie had been relieved when the game of ‘truth or dare’ ended as quickly as it started. She’d been hoping for something a bit more intellectual. A little less high school.

Unfortunately her hopes were never granted.

“Wait, I feel like the stakes aren’t high enough.” Amelia had tossed the observation out flimsily.

But the observation had its impact.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

And then the ideas had piled on.

“Loser has to cover my scut work in the ER all week.”

“No way.”

“Loser has to make us each a s'more.”

“Nah. Stakes not high enough.”

“Loser has to jump in the lake.”

Amelia had voiced the last one, resulting in a surprised type of silence. The type of silence that could raise stakes.

It was the ultimatum they were looking for, apparently. And to much of Maggie’s dismay, they hadn’t moved on to an intellectual game. Nothing worth raising the stakes over, at least.

Because they’d settled on a game of ‘never have I ever.’

“Okay, okay. My turn. What have I not done…?” Amelia trails off, deep in thought, and it earns some chuckles from the group. “Oh! Never have I ever had a threesome.”

Suspectful eyes dart around the bonfire, and Link’s attempt to conspicuously fold down a finger fails.

��Link!”

Jo giggles hysterically.

“You have?” There’s surprise in Amelia’s voice, and it corresponds with the way her face lights up.

“You haven’t?” Link bites back.

“Well, almost, I guess. But-”

“Okay!” Jo interjects. “No need for context! That’ll just slow us down. Link, your turn.”

“Okay,” Link grins determinedly across the bonfire, eyes landing on Amelia. “Never have I ever almost had a threesome.”

Amelia scoffs, dropping a finger.

“Wait!” Maggie fast-tracks her disapproval. “Are we singling people out now? The game will end too quickly if we-”

“Never have I ever been named after an iconic literary figure.” Amelia jumps in again, completely ignoring Maggie’s objection.

Link drops a finger, rolling his eyes. Too easy.

“Never have I ever slept with Mark Sloan.”

He sounds proud of this one. And all focus drifts to Amelia, whose eyes narrow only slightly as she drops another finger.

“You did what?” Maggie seems skeptical.

“You did what? When?” And Lexie’s voice sounds strained.

“Shit, sorry. Too far?” Link’s pride genuinely replaces itself with worry.

“I never meant for it to be a secret.” There’s something distinct about Amelia’s tone as she jumps back into the game, clearly with the intention of going after Link again. “Never have I ever-”

“No!” Maggie seems to be the only one intervening at this point. “No, stop. My turn. If we play it your way, this game will be over in two seconds.”

Amelia and Link shrug dismissively amidst the general hums of agreement.

“Never have I ever…” Maggie pauses, taking a moment to truly think on it. She racks her brain for ways to prolong the game. “Never have I ever been arrested!”

Amelia slowly drops her last finger, a grimace consuming her face, and Maggie’s mouth opens wide in shock.

“Amelia, what,” she breathes. “I was trying to keep people in the game. What-”

“We agreed on no context!” Amelia is quick to refute, forcing a grin as she repeats the request spoken earlier.

“Okay….” She draws out her response, and the next part of her sentence sounds quiet, or laced with secondhand defeat. “But you lost the game already.”

“That’s fine,” Amelia is just as quick to stand from her chair, shrugging casually at what that entails.

“Amelia-”

“To the lake? Or am I doing this without witnesses?”

Maggie’s brows furrow at the bitterness that exists in that question, but then Amelia turns, walking away from them, and Maggie is the first to go after her.

_______

"Amelia, you’re the one who made the rule. You can’t back out now.”

They’re all huddled together at the sandy area near the dock that edges out into the dark lake, and Maggie can’t hold back her impatience. She’s a rule-follower, after all. She's also cold. And she just wants to be by the bonfire again.

“I know, I know. I’m….” Amelia trails off, exhaling harshly. “Just give me a minute.”

There’s momentary quiet. The kind of quiet that nearly gives room for everyone to re-think what’s about to happen. But, if anyone's thoughts were the loudest, they were Amelia’s.  

“The sun was still out when I made up this rule!”

That’s true. Maggie can give her that. It’s late now, purely dark outside except for the glow of the moonlight reflecting off of the lake.

“We don’t know what’s in there…” Amelia adds, eyes focused on the body of water before them. “We don’t know if it’s safe to swim here.”

“It’s a state park,” Winston chuckles.

“And there’s a sign right there,” Lexie adds matter-of-factly, nodding towards the edge of the sand. “No lifeguard on duty. Swim at your own risk.”

“Amelia, it's a swimming beach.”

There’s an element to Amelia’s expression that Maggie sees herself in. It provokes that feeling. The heart-lurching feeling that comes with the awareness that you can’t bring yourself to do the thing you intend to do. The restlessness that rises with the opposition of your mind moving miles a minute but your feet remaining frozen where you stand. It takes place in the nervous system. And it’s like the physical manifestation of not being able to rip the bandaid off, or not being able to take the plunge, to be more literal in this scenario.

Suddenly, Maggie’s hit with the fleeting recognition that everyone’s the same deep down. Some were just better at hiding it than others.

The revelation almost makes her feel sympathy. Almost.

Because Amelia’s version of hiding it was turning out to be displaced over-confidence.

“I knew you were all talk and no-”

“I’ll jump in with you,” Link interrupts, nudging Amelia, who shakes from her daze as she turns away from the lake, locking eyes with Link.

“Shit, I’m down, too,” Jo shrugs. “I’m right behind you guys.”

A look of pure skepticism crosses Amelia’s face, and Link just starts to grin, hugely.

“No,” Maggie breathes. “No, no, no.”

Because she knows what this is about to turn into. And then it’s all happening, fast.

Link is stripping down to his boxers, tossing his clothes into a pile on the grass just left of the dock. And then he’s running. His feet clamber against the wood paneling as he takes off over the structure that extends along the shore and into the body of water.

There’s a huge splash. And then he resurfaces, gasping.

“It’s not that deep, come on!” He yells. “And it’s warm, too. Like a hot tub!”

The next thing Maggie registers is that Jo is following suit, peeling off her sweatshirt and tossing it towards Link’s pile of clothes.

She feels Winston’s hand grip her shoulders, gently pushing her towards the dock as he murmurs “Come on, babe.”

There’s another splash somewhere, and then Jo resurfaces, giggling hysterically. "Link!” She gasps dramatically, “You liar, this is fucking freezing!”

And all Maggie can think is this is so unfair.

_______

It’s so unfair.

The fact that five people have somehow endured jumping into this lake and yet, Amelia remains unscathed. Secure, on dry land, a smirk on her face that can only signify that she thinks she’s won.

“Amelia!” Maggie yells once again. “You have thirty seconds to get into this water.”

“Maggie-”

“No way,” Maggie cuts her off before the smug tone can set her off even further. She lets go of Winston’s shoulder, which she’s been holding onto for dear life since she jumped in, and she swims closer to the dock. Closer to Amelia. “I won’t let you play us like this.”

Amelia grins further, dipping just her toes in the water. “Maggie, I’m not trying to play anyone, I-”

“Get in the water, Amelia!” Maggie shouts, but her impatience only leads to more smugness on Amelia’s behalf.

She almost gives up. Accepts defeat. But then Link is joining her, inching towards Amelia on the dock, whose expression falters only slightly as they approach.

“Should we splash her?” Maggie tilts her head towards Link, inquisitive edge to her voice. “We could splash her.”

The threat seems to be the push Amelia needs. She shakes her head incessantly as they make their advance, and she takes a deep breath before she goes to remove her jeans, adding them to the pile of clothes that everyone else has stripped off.

Jo whistles from somewhere further out into the lake and Amelia’s smirk returns, a complete result of the knowledge that she has an audience. Her classic Harvard sweatshirt gets added to the pile and then she’s on an even playing field with everyone else, dressed down to whatever underwear she’d thrown on this morning.

They continue their approach, and Amelia looks down just as a burst of wind forcibly shakes the branches of a tree above, thus causing her to wrap her arms around herself.

“You’ll warm up faster if you get in, Shepherd.” Link says in a low tone.

“I know,” Amelia’s tone is just as low. “But I’m not jumping.”

“What happened to adventurous?!” Maggie mocks her. Not harshly, but more so aiming to re-inspire the fearlessness that previously had been.

“I’m not jumping in,” Amelia repeats as she sits at the edge of the dock, letting the water hit her up to about mid-shin. “I’m just gonna kind of slide in….” She trails off as Link pushes forward, now in shallow enough water to stand. And when Amelia goes to wrap her arms around herself again, Maggie swears it’s out of modesty this time.

“It’s harder that way,” Link smiles up at her. “But okay.”

“Okay,” she repeats his sentiment, but doesn’t make any move to get into the water.

“Okay,” Maggie interjects, directing her next words at Link. “As apparently the only rule-follower here, I give you full permission to do whatever it takes to get her into this water already.”

Her instructions result in a mischievous twitch of Link’s lips, and conversely, a look of complete betrayal from Amelia.

“Your rules.” Maggie quietly defends herself.

Link turns back to Amelia, who meets his gaze with pure panic in her eyes. But he steps closer anyway, placing his hands around her shins and pulling her a couple inches closer to where he stands in the water.

She gasps. Her hands fly out, landing on his shoulders. “Wait wait wait!” She cries, the alarm in her voice matching the frantic action of her nails digging into his skin.

Link stops his movements, placing his hands on her knees as he tries to read her facial expression.

Her eyes dart between his. “You swear it’s not too cold?”

“It’s not cold, Amelia,” he murmurs, moving his hands underneath her bare thighs and pulling her forward an inch more.

Maggie looks between the two, suddenly feeling out of place, or like she’s witnessing a private moment. But, she can’t tear her eyes away. She feels transfixed by the eye contact happening between the pair, and she lets out a stunned chuckle.

“It’s not cold,” Link repeats, and now Maggie scoffs. Because this moment is becoming almost unbelievable with tension. But then Link’s expression changes. Just as quickly as flipping a switch. The facet of mischief returns to his eyes and then he’s opening his mouth again.

“And I’m so sorry for this!” He shouts as he finally pulls Amelia into the water, throwing his head back with laughter as she resurfaces before him.

Her arms are still wrapped around his shoulders in a viselike grip. “Alright, screw you for that!” She laughs as she comes to her senses, consequently letting go and distancing herself from Link. “But thank you, I guess."

“My pleasure.”

Maggie watches, eyes burning with curiosity, and she’s not able to hide the smile that creeps onto her lips as the pair move as far away from each other as possible. The interaction is way too amusing, and part of her feels like, if she were the menacing type, this would be the perfect opportunity to pay back some of Amelia’s relentless teasing with some of her own.

“Can we get out now?” Lexie swims up, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m kinda over this.”

“I just got in. Was that for no reason?!”

“And whose fault is that?” Maggie snickers. But it doesn’t sound harsh at all, as she offers Amelia a comforting smile.

When they eventually leave the shoreline, Maggie feels a sense of fondness course through her. Or maybe protectiveness. Whatever the feeling, it was definitely the stark opposite of her previous annoyance with the way the evening was turning out.

She carefully observes as Amelia slows behind the group, and she slows with her, matching her pace.

Amelia offers her a small smile, before a shiver takes over her body, interrupting her guise. It makes sense, Maggie thinks. Because soaking wet hair and the sun going down in the middle of nowhere might just bring on that sort of involuntary action.

But she can’t ignore the shift in energy. The sudden vanishing of the confidence and even the playful competitiveness.

“You okay?” She eventually asks.

“Tired.” Amelia only offers a shrug, her thumbnail nearly reaching the corner of her mouth in a restless action. But it’s like she catches herself, as Maggie’s stare burns into her, and instead she drops her hands to her sides.

“Me too,” Maggie’s voice is soft, and an impulse rises in her that screams comfort. Suddenly, her arm is wrapping around Amelia’s shoulder tightly, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get some sleep.”

_______

It’s a known fact that Maggie hates camping. She can think of several reasons for that. One of the side effects she’d fail to consider, though, was the consequent lack of rest that would come with it.

It couldn’t be any later than 5am, she concludes, as she unzips her and Winston’s tent and steps out into the dark campground.

To much of her surprise, she’s not alone. She’s not the only one experiencing the unwanted side effects of sleeping in a tent.

“Hey,” Amelia’s voice sounds gravelly, as she perks up from the chair she’s seated at around the empty bonfire. “Good morning.”

“How can it be morning?” Maggie groans. “Does it really count as morning when you didn’t get any sleep at all?”

“You’re preaching to the choir.”

Maggie frowns. “You didn’t sleep?”

“Link snores. And Lexie talks in her sleep….” Amelia weakly attempts a smile, and it just makes Maggie’s frown deepen.

“Everything alright?” She asks.

“Yeah, just wish I’d slept better.”

Maggie squints, because there’s detail there that she can’t quite decipher. She scans Amelia’s face another moment, before an idea strikes.

“Do you want to go on a hike with me? Watch the sunrise?”

“You don’t really seem like the hiking type.”

“You’re right. I guess ‘hike’ is a strong word. But anyway, how about it?”

Amelia stares blankly at her for a long moment, before eventually she nods, standing up.

“Alright,” Maggie grins. “Let me tell Winston where we’re going first.”

_______

They take a marked path. Signs at every turn highlight for them which way to go. It’s a few minutes into the hike before either of them speaks. It’s Amelia who opens up the conversation.

“Ready to be home?”

Maggie laughs. “Absolutely. I’ve been ready since the moment we got here.”

“Well, hopefully they have the cars all packed by the time we get back.”

Maggie nods, then reaches for the water bottle she’d brought with her, taking a few sips.

“Do I tease you and Winston too much?”

The question completely catches Maggie off guard, and she harshly swallows her sip of water.

“Huh?”

“I can be….a little overbearing sometimes. But,” Amelia offers a quick side-glance. “At least I’m self aware about that.”

“Not at all. I mean, honestly, Winston gets a kick out of it so-”

“Yeah, but do you?”

Maggie stops walking, her face muddled with confusion. It takes Amelia a moment to realize she’s stopped, and she turns around, meeting Maggie’s stare expectantly.

“Amelia….If it bothered me I would tell you.”

Amelia nods at this information, and then turns away, continuing on the path.

“Was I too harsh last night? About the rules of the game?” Maggie quickens her pace, catching up.

“No,” Amelia laughs under her breath. “We needed the discipline, I think.”

“Yeah but you didn’t need to jump into that lake. I can be a little of overbearing sometimes, too, so-”

“Nah. We balance each other out.”

Maggie squints, a little surprised by that observation. She’s taken aback by the accuracy of it, and it’s evident in her inflection.

“We kind of do, don’t we?”

Amelia beams at her, before her gaze returns to the path below. “I’m glad we came to that realization.”

Comfortable silence falls between them, and there’s a few minutes dedicated purely to the hike, before Amelia clears her throat to speak again.

“Although, I am trying to jump less. So maybe I need you to balance me out just a little more.”

“You lost me,” Maggie quirks an eyebrow at her. “Are we talking about the lake still?”

“Metaphorically. Maybe.”

Maggie’s expression just grows more perplexed, urging Amelia to continue.

“I’ve been….historically known to jump into things. Or people. Or habits, or…” She cuts herself off with a harsh breath, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. “I’d like to do that less. The whole….jumping blindly and hoping I’ll land, thing. So. Maybe I need you to balance me out a little more.”

Maggie nods, slowly grasping the explanation. “I get that.”

“Do you?”

“Well, no,” Maggie frowns. “I’ve never been one to….do anything, really, without weighing the pros and cons first. But, I do get what you’re saying, though. Even if I can’t personally relate.”

Amelia keeps her eyes glued to the path ahead, and the lack of response forces Maggie to attempt filling the silence with her own self-reflection.

“I’ve been thinking of taking a note from you, in that way, actually. Sometimes I really need to think less.”

This makes Amelia smile. “Maybe we can try to meet in the middle somewhere.”

“Yeah, that might be good for us.”

As the conversation trails off again, Maggie can’t help but question what specifically Amelia is referencing. She doesn’t want to push, especially given her recent self-proclamation as overbearing. But part of her thinks that one last inquiry won’t hurt.

“You and Link seem to have fun.”

Amelia’s eyes snap up to Maggie’s face before the sentence is even finished.

“What makes you say that?”

There’s not an ounce of emotion in Amelia’s expression. It’s probably the best poker face Maggie has ever seen. And so she’s careful with her next words, her voice slow and questioning.

“I just mean....you know….the banter?”

“Banter?”

“Yes the banter, Amelia,” she lets out a stunned chuckle. “I don’t know how else to put it! It’s like you’re constantly play-fighting. It’s like….it’s like this weird, alluring competitiveness that’s almost uncomfortable to watch. It’s being at each other’s throats over a stupid game of ‘never have I ever.’ It’s the craziest form of flirting I’ve ever witnessed, and it’s-”

“Link and I are friends.”

“Winston and I are friends.” She bites down on her grin, trying to contain the pride that radiates as she uses Amelia’s own pointed claims against her.

“Okay, don’t pull that on me.”

“I think it’s perfectly fair-”

“Maggie.”

“Amelia.”

Two pairs of eyes tighten upon scrutinized contact.

“Amelia,” she softens her expression a bit. “All I’m saying is….despite it being weird to watch.” She releases an awkward exhale.  “I think it works. I think you’ve kinda met your match.”

“There’s no match to be made, Maggie! I’m-”

They’re both a little caught off guard by the frustration and volume of Amelia’s tone. And Amelia takes a moment to breathe before she continues, an octave lower this time.

“I’m jumping less, remember?”

Maggie wants to frown. She wants to disagree. She almost wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

But they’re edging towards the outskirts of the campsite. She can hear voices, and the distinct sound of car trunks slamming shut. Which signifies that they’re nearing the end of the hike, so she bites her tongue instead, because Amelia looks too exhausted to argue it more.

They clear the trees, entering the campground, and Winston watches them approach.

“Hey! Cars are packed, but it’ll be a tight squeeze again,” he smiles sympathetically. He walks forward to rest his hands on Maggie’s shoulders in familiar reassurance. “And you get to sleep in the car, because this time I’m driving.”

_______

Maggie doesn’t think she’s imagining this part.

Her lack of sleep the night prior results in Winston’s refusal to let her drive. Which only bothers her a little, because the exhaustion outweighs her requisite for control.

Her eyes feel heavy as she rests her head against the window. She tries to focus on the road ahead as Winston drives; doesn't want to give up being a second pair of eyes as she sits passenger side. But her fatigue gets the best of her. Although it’s difficult to separate her overtired brain from certainty, she doesn’t think she’s imagining this part.

She hears it first. Link’s chuckle.

It’s enough to shake her from her reverie. She lifts her head and tries to be conspicuous as she turns, glancing into the backseat.

Amelia’s sat in the middle seat again, squeezed tightly between the camping supplies and then Link on the other side of her. Her eyes are fighting to stay open, and she's doing that weird head bobbing thing. That subconscious move that happens quite literally before falling asleep.

“Hey. Here.”

The sound of Link’s voice causes Amelia’s eyes to widen, quickly becoming aware of herself. She continues to blink, fighting off a bout of exhaustion that Maggie completely sympathizes with.

When Amelia locks eyes with him, Link simply pats his shoulder, indicating a potential landing spot for her head.

She frowns tiredly at him.

“Just do it,” he shrugs, patting his shoulder again. “I’m a better option than that boxed tent.” He nods past her. “As far as pillows go, at least.”

Amelia seems to fight it for a second. She really does. Her eyebrows pull together as she continues to stare blankly at Link.

Maggie diverts her attention because once again, she feels like she’s intruding on some private moment. But she remains listening. She can’t help it. There’s some shuffling around and then-

“Hm.” She hears Amelia hum. “You do make a decent pillow.” It’s followed by a murmured “Thank you.”

“Sure. What are friends for?”

Link’s response is barely a whisper, but Maggie can hear it still, even over the general hum of the highway below. She doesn’t think she’s imagining this part.

What are friends for?

It’s enough to make her turn in her seat again, an incredulous stare plastered on her face as she raises her eyebrows in Link’s direction.

He seems not to notice her interest, or rather her disbelief. Because his focus is consumed by the dark head of hair resting against his shoulder.

Amelia’s eyes are shut tight, her expression revealed when she adjusts herself slightly against him. And then Link smiles to himself, still unaware of the scrutiny descending from the front seat.

Maggie allows the doubt to flood her mind as she turns to rest against her own window again, and she fights off a smile as she lets her eyes finally close.

Friends. Right.

//

[internalsealpanic]

Love Through the Ages (Tim Drake)

Summary:  Love like baggage needs to be declared.

a/n: This is part two of a series that is a fic rec list disguised as a fic. For these fics, most of the characters will be speaking different languages, so unless specified otherwise assume that the characters are speaking in the first language I mention. They’re all vampires with centuries under their belt. Why wouldn’t I make them all polyglots.  Also, thank you to the proof reading gang for putting up with my shenanigans.  I will have links to the fics I recommend in the fic itself.

Warnings: Everyone is dramatic.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist. 

You watch the rusty green of the warehouse wall disappear behind a spray of orange paint. There is nothing more satisfying than watching paint make old things new. 

A whistle interrupts your reverie, making the can slip from your hand. You swear, the harsh syllables echoing in the empty air. The can bounces down the scaffold and lands in someone’s hands. Tim’s face gets sprayed with a mist of orange. He makes a noise and rubs at his face. You bark out a laugh and he grimaces at you. The begrudging fondness obvious on his face. 

He waves at you, eyes still stinging from the paint. Giddiness flourishes in your chest. “I knew I’d find you here!” He shouts in a dialect of Mandarin that you hadn’t heard in ages.

It takes you a moment to understand him. You’re honestly extremely rusty. It takes you another moment to realize that it made no sense for him to find you. “How?” You shout back in Romanian. 

Tim shakes his head, throwing his hand over his shoulder. “Open canvas.”

You snort, looking down at him. Tim’s breath catches as he stares up at you, your smile. You’re haloed by sunlight. You look like an angel descending from heaven.

Tim’s forced to pick up his jaw when he hears your voice again. You’re tapping your watch. The words are lost to him.

“What?!”

You shake your head, strands of hair coming loose from behind your ear. “I asked...” You shout in a coarse frawl. “... Isn’t it a bit early for you to be here?”

It was. 

He was only 30 minutes early. No big deal. 

He shrugs. “I just wanted to watch you paint.” He says, trailing off. Oh God, Tim thinks. Does he sound lovesick? Is Cassie right? He pushes the thoughts down, opting to look at the building instead. On the side of the building was an immaculate portrait of the Red Hood rendered like a saint, haloed in golden light and surrounded by your orange marigolds. It would look at home in any grand cathedral. Your talents never ceased to amaze him.

“Should I ask why you’re defacing a building?”

You turn back to the building picking up a can of yellow paint. You tilt your head. “It’s a massive improvement, yes?”

Tim looks around. The pavement is littered with wet trash mixed. The buildings were rusted. Everything else is covered in grime. “You’re rude…  but not wrong.”

You preen, electing to ignore the first half. You turn back to your canvas before Tim can get another word in. He knows he’s lost you. 

“So, why *the* Red Hood?” 

You look away from the portrait, setting the can of yellow spray paint. It sprays your sweatshirt and Tim laughs. You stick your tongue out at his face flushing. You liked this sweatshirt. He gave it to you the last time you had meandered into Gotham. “Why not? We’re in the Bowery. He’s like a saint here.” You snip, switching to Russian. Ok, that made sense. You toss your sweatshirt into Tim’s face. The fabric is lousy with the smell of paint and of 5-hour energy drinks. It was an improvement over the pungent odor of garbage. 

He tries to rub the orange paint on his face away before he tucks your sweatshirt beneath his arm. You’re still looking down at him, wry amusement on your face. “I’ll paint your beloved Red Robin when I get to China Town. Heard he was quite popular in those parts.”

Tim’s heart flutters.  He stutters out his next question. “Why are you using spray paint for this type of illustration?”

“Kon said I couldn’t do it.”

Tim snickers, “As if Kon could tell the difference.”

You frown only realizing your mistake. You curse under your breath. Tim doesn’t stop laughing at you. “Shut up!” You snarl.

Tim dodges the next paint can you throw but the next one hits him square in the face. You grin triumphantly. Tim raises a middle finger at you and you giggle in response. You feel bad, seeing him wince in pain. You’d buy him apology tea later but for now, you clasp your hands and call out to him sweetly. “Sorry, Timmers!”

Tim, equally as mature and well aware that you’re only half sorry, blows out a breath, muttering something colorful before shouting back: “we should get going if we wanna eat out after looting the museum.”

At that, you launch yourself off the scaffolding, your body feeling weightless as it falls. Tim drops your sweatshirt as he holds his arms out to catch you. He catches you easily. You two spin as you wrap your arms around him. 

“You are certifiably insane.” He laughs. His nose smooshed against yours. 

“And so are you.” You snort, hugging him. 

He hugs you back. You hum so softly into his hair that Tim wouldn’t be able to tell it from a breath if he were human.  Tim holds you close, hugging your waist tightly. He doesn’t really want to let you go. You don’t either.  You and Tim stand there for a bit when you hear his cell beep. 

“Why does your phone sound like a pager?” 

“Because Babs told me how to.”

“That literally explains nothing.”

“I’m not taking crap from the gremlin who had ‘Baby Shark’ as their ringtone for 12 months. WILLINGLY.”

You pout at him, your face so close to his. Tim’s only half paying attention to your defense. To be fair, it basically boiled down to ‘it isn’t that bad’ and ‘Bart’s ringtone is worse’. 

After a short shopping trip and a cab ride later, you arrive at the museum in fresh clothes and less paint on his face for Tim. 

“All the World’s a Stage. They botched it! The nerve! The barbarity of it all. It's just like when they botched ‘Words with Friends’ or ‘In Ice We Trust’ or even ‘Tomcat’. That last one was pretty much gift wrapped for them!” You say throwing up your hands nearly hitting Tim and whatever poor bastard was unlucky enough to be behind you. 

“For someone who isn't invested in modern media, you're getting fired up.” Tim chuckles, eyes flickering behind you. You had managed to miss the people behind you but you do have a rather conspicuous space behind you. 

“They had such good material to work with”  you say, gesticulating wildly. “And- and they butchered it.”

“You need a 5 minute breather?” Tim asks, resting a hand on your back. 

 “Shut up,” you laugh.

Tim grins at you as if he had no idea what this ultimate betrayal feels like. 

Determined to prove him wrong, you say : “C'mon, Timothy,  you ranted like this when they botched the star thingy.”

“It’s Star Wars, you heathen.”

“Star. Thingy.” You repeat, crossing your arms. 

Tim squints at you. You know he’s not gonna blow up at you but somehow that’s scarier. 

“You can pay for your own cab later.” He grumbles. 

“Star. Thing-Y.” 

Tim turns to leave. This always worked. Always without fail, you grab at his hand, lacing your fingers with his. Tim tries not to smile.

“Fine.”

“Was that so hard?”

“It was excruciating actually.”

“You're being dramatic.” He says, showing the woman behind the ticket counter your passes. 

“Excuse me, I left all my drama in the Renaissance.”

“Oh really?”

“Ok not really but admit that both Andromeda and Stars, Forgive Me have better writing.“ You bite out.

 “I- That’s unfair,” he says. You raise your brow in response. 

“...”

“Fine,” he sighs. “But admit that Andromeda should have been named ‘Space Whores’.”

You squint at him then smile. “Oh abso-posi-tute-ly.”

 “Have you seen this dirty old hockey mask?” You ask, tapping the glass as if the hockey mask would react if you just agitate it enough. 

 “What is that?” Tim asks, looking over your shoulder. His brows crinkles when he sees the mask. “How is that romantic?”

You hum. “Ask the curator?” You suggest, looking around. He was usually out and about. He could never sit still even if he tried. You lean down narrowing your eyes at the plaque. “Says here some dude called Jason terrorized 3 kids over summer.”

“That’s very romantic for our Jay to do.” Tim says, crossing his arms and switching to Cantonese. It was a weird habit but you knew why. Apparently for all Jason’s skill in languages he somehow could not get a handle on Cantonese. 

 “Not that Jason.” You say, smirking. 

“You sure?” Tim asks, leaning closer to you. 

You snicker,  “As in character as that would be...”

“True,” he says, edging closer and closer to you. You rock on your heels nervously at the proximity. “It’s a shame, I thought there would be a machete to match too…” You can feel Tim’s breath on your cheek. 

“OH LOOK AT THIS.” You say twisting away and pointing to a black and white photo. Tim’s hands leave his sides to grab for you, to pin you to his chest, but he has enough self control not to. Instead, he follows you.

“It’s just a man and a woman in business suits. Yanno something you can see in any metropolitan city.”

“Yes but,” you say, tracing a nonsensical pattern into the air, “I’ve heard a story about this, they were both extremely rich and heads of their companies, went from enemies to lovers - my all time favourite.” 

Tim looks closer at the photo of the man and woman with their backs to the camera just holding hands along the NYC sidewalk. It’s cute. “I thought your favorite was lovers to enemies.”

“Well of course, it is! The drama, the absolute tragedy. It’s better than any trope in existence. But I love that this is just black and white. You don’t need anything else to indicate they’re in love with each other.”

Tim is all too tempted to point out that that likely wasn’t intentional, that it was a limitation of the time, but the look in your eyes robbed him of his breath, so he swallowed his thoughts. 

Your eyes rove over the room frantically in search of something. 

“So is there any reason you wanted to go to this exhibit instead of watching lavalantula 10 in theaters?” Tim says, tapping another case. 

You turn to look at him, shock etched into your features.“10? We've seen lavalantula 1 through 9 in theaters? Why did I agree to that?”

“Cus you love me?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Probably not.”

Tim gives you a hurt look. 

You scowl at him. You have no idea why everyone thinks he’s the nice Wayne sibling. He is a manipulative little shit who plays you like a fiddle. And yet here you are falling for it. An absolute buffoon. 

You grumble an apology under your breath before continuing. “This is more cultural Timmers and lord knows we need more culture.” You wave sarcastically. 

“I think we've lived enough culture.”

“it cannot hurt to experience more Tim,” you snort. He rolls his eyes. You grab onto his arm and look up at him bright eyed. Two can play it at that game. “Please Tim....”

He scowls at you. “Fine-”

“Yes!”

“-but you owe me a movie marathon.”

“Fine. Fine,” you nod, “just don’t pick something dumb.”

“I just got the new star trek box collection.” He beams. 

“You could just shove me into a grave.” You sigh dramatically. 

Tim grins. “The Renaissance called-”

“Oh fuck you, Grackle.”

He snorts and you hate that you fall in love with him more every time he laughs. 

You cross your arms giving him a hard look. “Fine but we have to have an intermission of my choice.” You say, offering a hand. 

“Deal.” He says, shaking your outstretched hand. 

“Great, you've just agreed to watch the Great British Baking Show with me.” You say smug. 

Tim curses himself. 

"Are you still looking for that one painting?"

You tip your body back to look at him, your eyes wide and startled. It takes no time at all for them to shift to their usual angry shape. "Yes," you say quietly. It's Tim’s turn to be startled. Your hands curl into a fist. "It wasn't done and those bastards took it." 

Tim reaches out to put his hand on your shoulder. 

You cast your hands up to the sky dramatically.  "The barbarity of it all!"

Tim smiles, letting his hand fall to his side. You would be ok. 

You two walk on as Tim rants about StarGate  could have had a bigger fanbase if it hadn’t excluded so many people. You add StarGate to the list of things to not remember. 

You stop.

Your heart presses a bruise in your throat. 

Framed in  wood laden in ivy and marigolds is a painting that was painfully familiar.  Even unwashed, you can still see the bright reds of rose petals, the wild greens of the women’s skirts, the brilliant oranges of marigolds, and the blinding whites of cobble stones. The image was a practice in entropy made into perfection. The chaos of Valentine's day in a small town square reduced and captured in an infinitesimal moment.

Damian told you that people had started calling them Warsaw’s Faceless Sweethearts. You hated that.  A part of you wants to scream. You want to tell them that this wasn’t for them. This painting was made for one person and one person only.

You’ve been staring at it too long. Tim looks at you. You’ve known him too long to not know that he’s worried. That he’s feeling that stupid surge of protectiveness he always does when you go quiet. It’s in the cautious way he reaches out to you, slow and steady the way you approach a spooked animal. You want to lash out at him but he’s your Tim. Besides, too much of your mind is trapped in the painting, in the white gazebo, in between the couple who’s stuck in the moment before a kiss. 

Tim stands closer to you, his fingers lacing into yours with centuries worth or practice. He looks at the painting. “This painting looks familiar.” Tim says for the lack of anything better to say. It was yours. He knew that with only a few seconds of looking. 

“I… I don’t think so,” you say clumsily, “that’s definitely not the painting I’ve been looking for. Yup that one looks completely finished. Yup definitely.” You tug at Tim’s arm. 

He gives you a look, staying perfectly in place, before turning back to the painting. His gaze draws low. In a glass case sits scraps of paper lined with charcoal.  It takes an embarrassingly long time for Tim to realize that they’re sketches the artist did. Tim recognized the baker, the blacksmith, the seamstress, and even the constable. Most glaring of all he recognizes your marigolds.  His eyes drift to the sketches of the couple in  the gazebo. They were numerous, haphazard and unsatisfied. You were clearly frustrated with the groom’s face. Tim wonders who the poor guy could be. 

In the corner of the page in the center, he sees it.  “Wait… is that me?”

“NO!”

“Is that you?” He asks, pointing to the figure next to his. In the sketch, your lips are brushing against his. Tim’s lip tingles trying to replicate the sensation. 

You’re frozen stiff. You try to pull your hand away. You want to bury your face in them. Scratch that, you wanna be buried six feet under. Tim doesn’t let go of your hand. 

“That’s the umbrella you lost back in London.”

“I lost a lot in London, Timmy.” 

“Well...” Ok. Yeah, you did. Hence why he can’t get you to London even with the promise of letting you ‘improve’ Buckingham palace. But that isn’t the point. “(Y/n), this is gorgeous.” He says, turning to you. You look at him stunned and scared. He squeezes your hand.

You shake yourself out of his grip. Tim lets you. He knows when to back down. 

You step forward leaning on the rope separating you from your work. “I told you it wasn't finished.” You say, glaring at the painting as if willing the colors to move. 

“What happened?” He asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.

You bump your shoulder against his. “Warsaw.”

“I don’t follow.”

“That little town in Warsaw. It was kind of hard to finish the painting when soldiers were setting fires to houses. Ok, they didn’t do it directly but there was smoke.”

“Yeah kind of.” Tim agrees, smiling sadly. He looks back at the painting. “I want to keep it.”

“What?” You blink not quite following the shift in conversation. 

“Darling, I think we should have it. It’s ours after all.” Tim says holding your hand in his. Your mind is bouncing between too many things. He called you darling. He’s holding your hand. He’s smiling so sweetly at you. You’re addicted to that look in his eyes, pure unadulterated adoration. 

You cover your face with your free hand, feeling the smile on your face go uncomfortable wide. You feel something on your forehead, a kiss like a raindrop. It comes again and you feel like you’re going to collapse. 

“It’s yours..” He trails off hesitantly. “..if..” You look up at Tim, waiting with bated breath. Tim squeezes your hands. “...if you’ll be mine. ”

@batarella​, @anothertimdrakestan​, @lucy-roo​, @multifandomgirl-us​, @bungunz​, @birdy-bat-writes​,  @boosyboo9206​, @americasmarauders​ , @l-inkage​, @arestorationofbalance​ , @cloudie-skay​, @wunderstell​   @hyp-oh-critical​ @glorified-red​

[crystalirises]

5 Times Fundy is Left Alone (+3 Times He's Not)

In which, Crys forgot to crosspost this sskskkskss. Anyway, this is a fic about the boat glitch! Just a warning though, I know the boat glitch is about astral projection but I did not utilize the rules of astral projection in this fic so please don’t read this through the lens of astral projection. Anyway hope you guys like this fic :D!

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886223/chapters/74572116

Ghostbur hummed a soft tune underneath his breath as he picked at the flowers by the lake, eyes flitting up towards the sky every now and then as a soft breeze ruffled his translucent hair.

His gaze turns towards the lake, the symphony dancing at the edge of his tongue quelling to a silence as he caught the glimpse of familiar ginger hair in the distance. His heart raced as he watched his little champion’s boat glide along the glimmering surface of the lake. Ghostbur hadn’t seen his son since… he couldn’t remember when was the last time, but oh well! He smiled to himself as he thought about how great it was that his son had found a new hobby to partake in. Ghostbur wasted no time as he floated over to where Fundy was, a soft smile on his face as he hovered in front of his little champion. He waved a hand in front of the fox hybrid’s face, hoping to catch his son’s attention before Fundy panicked and fell off the boat. Ghostbur was pretty spooky if he did say so himself! “Fundy! Hey, Fundy! Enjoying the lakeview, son?”

Fundy didn’t glance up at him, a blank look in his son’s eyes as he continued to stare past the spectre. Ghostbur awkwardly chuckled, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck as he waited for Fundy to look at him. He floated closer, wondering if his little champion hadn’t heard him. His son didn’t flinch, even as Ghostbur sat down at the edge of the boat, flower basket in hand.

“Fundy?” He hesitated, form flickering before placing a hand against his son’s shoulder. He frowned as Fundy didn’t twitch, eyes glazed over as if lost in a world of his own. Ghostbur couldn’t help but panic, wondering what was wrong with his little boy. “Fundy! Please, son!”

The ghost felt a pinch of pain in his heart as Fundy continued to ignore him. He didn’t know what to do! He wrapped his arms around himself, hyperventilating as he tried to calm down.

Ghostbur couldn’t help but wonder what he had done wrong, what he had done to cause his little champion to ignore him so - and that had to be what was happening! Why else would Fundy not respond to him? He bit the inside of his cheeks, wishing that he could feel some semblance of pain to drown out the ache in his heart and the whispers in his head. Fundy wasn’t talking to him, why wasn’t his son talking to him?! Ghostbur couldn’t help but curl into himself, rocking back and forth, the boat creaking under the sudden shift of movement. What did he do wrong?!

Then all fell still, the sound of birds chirping in the distance the only sound that broke through the silence. If one were to look out into the lake, they’d see a ghost and a fox… both unmoving.

“Well, Fundy… it was great talking to you but I really ought to get back to Phil and Techno! So, um, here have some blue and uh… oh! A flower! You like flowers, right?” Ghostbur snapped out of whatever daze had fallen into, honestly, he should stop spacing out! He shook his head, his signature smile appearing back on his face as he placed some blue in his son’s unresponsive hand and a flower tucked behind his son’s ear. “I have to go now, Fundy! I’ll talk to you later! Bye!”

Ghostbur wasn't sure what had happened, but he was happy to know his son was enjoying the fresh sun and the cool air. He had hardly seen his little champion since… well, he couldn't remember and if he didn't remember then it probably didn't matter anyway! Ghostbur floated away from the small boat, pausing at the edge of the lake as he turned to give one glance towards his son. Fundy sat in the boat, eerily still and staring into the distance… almost as if he wasn't truly there… but that was a silly thought! His son was probably just busy thinking about one of his crazy contraptions! Ghostbur could only hope that Fundy didn't overwork himself too much. His little champion shouldn't tire himself out. Ghostbur gave his son one last wave, before disappearing further inland, humming a soft tune underneath his breath. He'd see Fundy again, maybe tomorrow if Ghostbur looked for him. Hm… no, maybe his little champion wanted some peace and if so… Well Ghostbur was not going to deny his son what he wanted!

Fundy wakes to blue melting off his fingertips and a wilted flower tucked behind his ear.

---

Niki tugged the collar of the dark brown coat closer to her chin, scowling as she felt the harsh wind against the landscape, ruffling her pink hair as she looked up into the sky. She didn't know what had compelled her to visit the remains of a country no longer worth fighting for, but here she was, basking in the beauty of the lake. She took a deep breath, calming her shaky nerves. Techno had just offered her a position she couldn't refuse, and she'd be damned if she let another country rear its ugly head into the peace they had so clearly established. Countries brought war, governments brought misery. Why let a new one rise from the ashes of the past? Doesn't she have the power and the right - the responsibility - to make sure no one ever loses themselves to the idea of a nation ever again?

She sighed, wishing people could just open their eyes and see the truth for what it was. As she ran a hand through her hair, she noticed a boat in the distance, floating and drifting as though no one was controlling it. Her eyes narrowed as she moved a bit further up the dock, the wood creaking beneath her boots as she finally came to a stop at the edge. From there, she could see the glimpse of ginger hair, the sun casting it in an ethereal golden glow. Niki's eyebrows furrowed together as she watched Fundy's boat continue to float through the lake, the fox hybrid unmoving even as his boat began to hit jutting rocks or the edge of the lake. Niki waited until Fundy finally settled, the boat stuck against the shore. She made her way towards him, concern flitting in her mind before his betrayal casted anger in her heart. Of course she'd find him here, where else would he be? Gods know the fox was sentimental. He'd never abandon L'Manburg so long as a part still remained. Maybe getting rid of the lake would make him leave too.

"Fundy!" She trampled past the flowers growing by the edge of the lake, her hands curled into fists by her sides as she reached the fox hybrid. She glanced down at him, pausing as she took in the dark circles underneath his eyes and how thin he seemed to have gotten. She felt her anger disappear as she crouched beside him, hands twitching as she thought of what she should do. "Fundy? It's Niki. When was the last time you slept or ate? … Fundy?"

The fox hybrid sat there, silent and eyes empty of emotion. She winced as she reached out a hand to pat him on the cheek, pulling back as she felt his too cold cheek against her palm. If it weren't for the subtle movement of his chest rising and falling, she would have thought him to be dead. She sat down against the grass, feeling the blades tickle against her ankles as she tried to coax the fox hybrid into looking at her. Fundy didn't look at her once.

"Fundy… are you ignoring me?" Niki couldn't help but feel hurt. He was the one who betrayed her, who betrayed their belief, and now he was pretending as if she wasn't there?! Niki felt her fury rise once more, all previous concern lost as she rose up from where she sat. "Well, FINE! You know what?! I thought we could be friends again! I thought you were on my side again! I wanted to trust you but you're still nothing but a no good traitor! That's what you'll always be!"

She expected him to turn towards her, eyes blazing at the words she had just spoken, but he didn’t even move. Niki ran her hands through her hair, nails biting into her scalp as she let out a scream of frustration. Why wasn’t he looking at her?! Was he that adamant about keeping quiet that he’d let her insult him like that? She took a deep breathe, anger clouding her judgement.

“I’m leaving, Fundy. I don’t want to see you again. If you’re going to pretend I don’t exist…” She gritted her teeth, her whole body trembling with rage. “Then you don’t matter to me either.”

Fundy didn’t twitch, didn’t cry, didn’t scream. Nothing. Almost as if he was but a corpse.

“WHY WON’T YOU SAY ANYTHING?!” Niki felt tears at the corner of her eyes, gliding past her cheek as she shrieked at him, a part of her begging him to turn around and look at her - just look at her. She wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her coat, sniffling as she looked at the frail form of a man who she thought would always be her friend. Her bottom lip trembled as she stared at him, dead and unhearing to her please. “Fine. Be that way, but don’t come crawling back to me if you ever want to talk.” Although she shouldn’t have done it, Niki roughly pushed him off the boat, knocking him to the muddy edge of the lake. With that, she walked away.

Fundy wakes to mud tangled in his hair and a burning ache on his shoulder.

---

Tommy wasn’t sure why Sam Nook had thought they needed flowers for the hotel and why he had sent Tommy of all people to do it. He picked at the flowers without care, trampling over some of them in his haste to pick the best among the rest. He grumbled underneath his breath, nearly slipping into the lake for the tenth time that day. Honestly, why did he have to be the one to pick fucking flowers? He was Tommyinnit, he shouldn’t have to do this shit.

The wind ruffled his hair as he looked over at the lake, a pang in his chest as he tried to ignore the ruin behind him. L’Manburg was gone. Tommy took deep breaths, like the ones Puffy taught him to do each time he got frustrated. As he tried to calm his thoughts, he saw a boat gliding against the surface of the lake, a familiar pair of fox ears catching Tommy’s attention. He was surprised to find Fundy there of all places. Actually, when was the last time he’d seen Fundy? Whatever, right now, it was clear that the furry didn’t even know how to properly row a boat.

“Oi, Fundy! You have to use a paddle or else you’re just going to drift further away from the lake like an idiot!” He waited for a response, a cry of protest or fear… but it never came. Tommy furrowed his eyebrows, worry crossing his mind as he realized Fundy was slightly slumped over, not that he looked like he was unconscious but he certainly looked as if he wasn’t really present. Tommy dropped the flowers, running to the edge of the dock as he watched Fundy’s boat continue to float, following the direction of the wind as it continued to push him further and further away from the dock. “FUNDY! Come on! What the fuck are you even doing, I一 I’m going to get you, alright? Just… stop acting like an idiot by the time I get there or fucking else!”

He kicked off his shoes, grumbling underneath his breath as he jumped into the icy cold water of the lake, shivering as he began to swim his way towards Fundy’s boat. He was going to kill that furry for fucking ignoring him. Tommy nearly shrieked when he felt a fish swim against his arm, sputtering dirty lake water as he splashed around. After a moment of floundering and shrieking, Tommy finally made his way towards the boat, clutching the rotting edge as if it were a lifeline.

“Fundy, seriously, have you gone deaf or some shit?” With ease, Tommy pulled himself onto the boat, surprised to find paddles hanging from the edge. Tommy took them, the paddles seemingly unused as they looked newer compared to Fundy’s boat which was slowly rotting away with moss clinging to some parts of the wood. He turned towards Fundy who stared glassily into the distance, his head slumped forward as though he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Tommy chuckled, awkward and wrong against his ears as he sat down at the front of the boat. “Fundy?”

He waited but Fundy didn’t even look at him, silent even as Tommy began to pester and curse him. Tommy sighed, shaking his head at the furry’s choice of silence. He rubbed his hand on his mouth, wondering whether throwing Fundy into the lake would wake him up. He decided against that and decided to just row the boat back towards the dock and hope that the sudden movement would wake the fox hybrid up. Tommy began to row them back home, casting side-glances over at his… his silent nephew. He didn’t like how quiet Fundy was, didn’t like it one bit. Fundy should be complaining or… or something. “You know, I haven’t seen you since fucking Doomsday. What, did you fall into a ditch or something? ...I’ve been doing great, man. You know I’m helping Sam Nook with the hotel and shit. Yep, no more fucking wars for me, you know? It’s nice. The peace, that is. You know, you could help out over at the hotel if you want to.”

Tommy shuddered at the lack of response, not even a stutter or protest. What the fuck was wrong with Fundy? He shook his head, forcing his aching arms to keep rowing until they reached the dock, Tommy letting out a sigh of relief as he let his limbs rest from the growing soreness blossoming on his shoulders. He walked onto the dock, freezing cold from his impromptu swim.

“Time to get out of the boat. It’s nearly night and I’m not leaving you out here to get eaten by a fish or whatever the fuck else lives in this lake.” He waited but Fundy stayed where he was, almost slumping over if Tommy hadn’t reached out to keep him steady. Tommy shook his head as Fundy continued to give him the silent treatment, choosing to take the rope of the boat and tie it to one of the wooden posts on the dock. As amusing as the thought of Fundy waking up at night to find that he had drifted out to sea was, Tommy wasn’t going to let his nephew drown (not again). He reached down into his shorts pocket, grasping the pen Sam Nook had given him. He took it out, gently grabbing Fundy’s cold and unfeeling wrist. “Whatever, stay here all night if you want to, but at least stop by at the hotel tomorrow, yeah? You better be listening, furry…”

Tommy scribbled the address of the hotel onto Fundy’s palm, wincing at how Fundy didn’t wake up from the chill of the ink. He watched as Fundy’s hand banged against the side of the boat, the fox hybrid not crying out in pain despite the blossoming patch of red against his skin. It would bruise, but at least it wouldn’t bleed. Tommy hesitated, wondering what he should do, what he could do. Fundy wasn’t reacting to anything, not to Tommy and certainly not to whatever was happening to his own body. Maybe pushing him into the lake wasn’t such a terrible idea at all. He waited and waited. A part of him hoped that Fundy would wake up at any second, but when the chill of the day turned to the freezing cold of the night, Tommy found himself walking away. He gave Fundy one last glimpse before heading off towards the hotel, wondering what he could have done to wake his nephew up. Whatever. Tommy tried to help, and that was good enough.

Fundy wakes to find his boat tied to the dock and fading black ink against his palm.

---

Ranboo scurried about the edge of the lake, a grass block in hand as he looked out wearily into the lake. He couldn’t quite remember why he was there, his mind fuzzy with muted memories that he was sure he wouldn’t recall anytime soon. He turned to head towards the dock, the wood groaning beneath his feet as he took a nervous step onto the walkway. He didn’t want to step onto it and gain a nasty surprise in case the dock decided to collapse underneath his weight. He wasn’t quite sure how long it had been since anyone had visited the lake, the place too close to the remains of New L’Manburg to really invite anyone over. He wasn’t sure why he was even there to begin with. Somedays he wished he could just remember where he ran off to in his sleep.

As he slowly walked across the wooden surface, he caught a glimpse of a familiar fox hybrid at the edge of the dock. Ranboo paused where he was, terrified of confronting Fundy, especially on a day where he was already frazzled and scared. He just wanted to go home to Phil and Techno!

“Hey… Fundy…” Ranboo pushed down the terror he felt. It was just Fundy. Fundy couldn’t do anything to Ranboo, not without inciting Phil and Techno’s wrath. He was safe. He was fine. Fundy wasn’t going to hurt him. He stepped closer, surprised to find Fundy’s head resting against the wooden dock, the rest of his prone body sitting on a boat that looked ready to collapse at any moment. He felt a strike of fear in his chest as he crouched down beside the unmoving fox hybrid, his hand hovering above dirty ginger hair as Ranboo wondered if he should wake Fundy up. His fingers were shaking, small tremors racing up and down his arm as he slowly retracted his hand away from the fox hybrid. He couldn’t help but feel safer that way. Fundy wasn’t… he wasn’t in his body. Ranboo knew this trick, knew that Fundy wasn’t really there with him.

Ranboo sat down next to Fundy, curling up into himself as he looked down at the shell of - his used to be - best friend’s body. He liked it better this way. At least he now felt safe next to Fundy.

“So… this is where you’ve been… you’re not really here so I guess I’m talking to myself.” Ranboo glanced over at Fundy, praying that Fundy wasn’t in the area. He didn’t want to think what would happen if Fundy’s soul was sitting right beside him, listening to him talk. Ranboo would scream and teleport away if Fundy suddenly woke up. He didn’t want the confrontation. “I… uh… I’ve been doing great. I see you’ve… lost yourself… I’m not surprised, I guess.”

He pulled his knees closer to his chest, grass dirt block forgotten on the ground as Ranboo felt pain inside his chest. He missed talking to Fundy, even if it was just the husk he was talking to.

“Fundy… why are you doing this to yourself… you look… horrible. Like, really horrible, when was the last time you were… awake?” He didn’t expect to gain an answer, he’d be horrified if Fundy suddenly spoke. Ranboo wiped away the dirt on his hands against the bottom of his pants, wincing as they left a mark on the dark cloth. “I guess it’s better this way. You’re not on any side but your own, and I honestly think you’re safer this way… I guess. You… you’re probably happier in your own world… good… stay there. I don’t… I don’t want to fight you again, Fundy. If this is how we… avoid fighting… then okay. I’d rather you like this than us fighting again.”

Ranboo stopped himself, words stuttering against his throat as the fear flooded back into his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to stay a moment longer. Fundy could wake up at any moment and he did not dare provoke the luck gods by staring any longer. Ranboo stood up, his knees shaking as he turned to go, pausing only when he realized how he shouldn’t leave Fundy in such a position. Despite his terror, he turned back to help Fundy off the boat, placing him down on the dock. Ranboo stared and stared, feeling a stinging pain at his eyelids the longer he looked.

“I… I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I thought it would be easy but seeing you like this, I一 I can’t deal with this, Fundy! Just… please… be awake when I come back, okay?” Ranboo winced as he felt a tear drip down his chin, his skin burning as he felt more tears spring from his eyes. He couldn’t stay a moment longer, being near Fundy - even seeing Fundy - pained him. Ranboo walked away, nearly tripping on his own two feet as he forced himself to leave. He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay. “No. I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry… goodbye...” Then he was gone.

Fundy wakes to find himself on the dock and blades of grass floating over his head.

---

Phil flew over the ruins of L’Manburg, his heart beating heavily in his chest as he looked over at the rising moon in the distance that bathed the ground in its silver glow. A few weeks ago, Ranboo had come home with the remnants of tear tracks on his cheek, the enderman hybrid couldn’t remember what had made him so upset and Phil didn’t press him. At some point during the night, on this particular night, Phil heard Ranboo mutter Fundy underneath his breath and felt rage at the thought that Fundy - his disowned grandson - had somehow made Ranboo cry.

As he glided through the night sky, he found himself looking down at the lake where he had once spent an entire afternoon with Fundy, catching fish and laughing as he tried desperately not to think about how Fundy reminded him of his own son, Wilbur. He flew down, closer to the lake.

The lantern in his hand served as his beacon as he landed at the old dock, illuminating the rotting path with its golden glow. Phil walked closer to the edge, pausing as he noticed a figure lying down on a boat. He hesitated before moving closer, his sandals clacking against the wood as he drew near. Phil lifted his lantern, catching a glimpse of ginger hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in nearly a month. His breath caught in his throat as he fell to his knees with a thump, hands reaching out to pull the prone form of his grandson out of the nearly collapsing boat.

He couldn’t help but panic, all previous anger gone as he felt how cold his grandson’s body was. Phil held him close to his chest, wings wrapped around them to keep away the chill of the night. Alone as he was, he couldn’t help but think of another memory such as this, another time where he had held his own son's cold body to his chest. He had cried then, screamed his throat raw until he’d lost the ability to speak for a few days. Wilbur, his boy, who only ever wanted to let the world hear his symphony. Phil wasn’t sure why Wilbur’s death had hurt him so much. It was inevitable. He was Philza Minecraft. He had lived through centuries of death and misery, had lost so much to war or to nature, yet it was Wilbur Soot’s death that caused him grief after centuries of apathy and detachment. Holding his grandson - who you disowned, the voices in his head cackled in glee - he felt hollow and empty, like he’d lost another child that he couldn’t keep safe.

He stopped as he felt Fundy’s beating heart, faint as it was. Phil relaxed his hold, still keeping Fundy in his arms as he tried to calm down. Fundy was alive. He hadn’t failed Wilbur again.

Phil couldn’t help but keep his grandson close, the false scare was enough to keep him from flying back home. He was unsettled by Fundy’s glassy eyes, how they barely held any life in them despite his grandson’s clearly beating heart. Fundy hadn’t moved at all, almost as if he was nothing but a statue, frozen in time. Phil couldn’t help but wonder if his grandson had died along with L’Manburg, if - just like the nation - he was nothing but a husk of what was. Phil shivered, his wings curling closer around them. No. That wasn’t the case. Phil knew that. He knew this particular form of magic, how his own grandson came to know it he’ll, perhaps, never know.

He’d heard stories of it, hadn’t mastered the form of magic himself as he never found a reason to in his lifetime. He knew tales of people - lost to history now and remembered only by those who lived long enough to remember - who lost themselves into a world unseen by any other. They would lay down somewhere, most of them having an item or particular ritual to help ease the transition of their mind from the physical realm to the spiritual realm. Then they would be like what his grandson was right now, empty shells as their spirit disappeared to do what they wanted to do in the realm of their own making. Some said that form of magic wasn’t harmful, that it was merely a ticket to a world of fantasy that the users would eventually snap out of, but Phil knew better. What people forget - what they chose to forget - was the inevitable ending. At some point, people would begin to lose themselves to their own fantasies, their bodies rotting away as they一

Phil took in a shuddery breath, resting his chin against his grandson’s head as he gently closed Fundy’s eyes with his hand. Fundy would wake eventually, he had to. The other option was downright unforgivable. He looked down at Fundy, the lantern’s light revealing dark circles underneath the fox hybrid’s eyes, his body much too thin for someone of Fundy’s height. His clothes had tears and holes in them, his hair having grown past his shoulders and matted with leaves and mud. Phil couldn’t help but pull Fundy closer to his chest, wondering how anyone - how he - could have let this happen. He wished he could take the fox hybrid away, take him home where he could be cared for, but taking the body without the spirit inside could prove fatal.

Despite his senses screaming at him to take Fundy, Phil knew he couldn’t. He stood up, his grandson in his arms as he made his way towards the edge of the lake. He placed Fundy down on a patch of grass, wishing he could pretend that Fundy was sleeping and would wake up at any time. Phil placed his lantern beside his grandson, wings rustling behind his back as he turned to leave. He’d be back. Maybe he’d send Techno to watch over Fundy if Phil couldn’t make it. For now, he had to leave. With a flap of his wings, he was off, once more, into the night sky.

Fundy wakes to the sound of flapping wings and a newly lit lantern by his side.

---

Technoblade looked up into the starry night sky, boots thumping against the ground as he made his way through the wreckage of New L’Manburg. He wasn’t quite sure why Phil had begged him to pay a visit to the New L’Manburg lake, his father adamant that he go and… watch.

He wasn’t sure what he would find, but he’d brought along an axe in the case that he’d need it. Techno didn’t expect a lot, unsure of what Phil had meant by ‘Please… he might respond if he hears your voice.’ The voices in his head certainly weren’t any help, most of them screaming about blood or death, a few begging him to sleep (those he didn’t pay attention to because sleep was for nerds). Techno paused by the edge, the lake water silver as beams of moonlight blessed the land. He waited for a moment, his ears twitching as he picked up the sounds of crickets and fish darting through the lake. Techno wanted to turn around and go home, tell Phil he hadn’t found the so-called ‘he’ that he had wanted Techno to talk to. Just as he was about to turn and leave, he paused, eyes narrowing as he noticed a boat in the distance. Someone had clearly missed the water because the boat was on dry land, unmoving despite the passenger in its seat.

Techno made his way to the boat, taking note that it was recently made. He stilled as he spotted Fundy on the boat, his nephew (???) sitting eerily still, his hands in his lap as he stared out onto the quiet lake. Any other normal being would have shivered at the sight, but not the blood god.

“Fundy.”

He noticed the twitch of an ear, as though Fundy had heard him but didn’t dare move from where he was. Techno moved closer, taking a hesitant step forward until he was close enough to touch the top of Fundy’s head. He hesitated before placing a hand on top of his nephew’s hair, the voices in his head encouraging and mocking him as he slowly began to pet Fundy’s hair. Someone had recently cut his hair, the style reminiscent of what Phil would do to Tommy, although Tommy’s haircut was usually uneven since he couldn’t sit still for even a second. Fundy had no such problem, unmoving and dead as he was. Techno had heard tales and legends from Phil of this kind of magic, knowing full well that he couldn’t just take Fundy and leave (despite the protests of the voices for him to either take Fundy home or to punt him off a cliff).

Techno sighed, unclasping his cloak from his shoulders before settling it over Fundy, his clothes cold from the night air. He wasn’t sure how, but it seemed as though Phil had either forgotten the concept of making a house where Fundy could stay in or that Fundy had made his way outside again to disappear into the fantasies of his mind. Techno sat down beside his nephew, waiting.

He wasn’t quite certain what Phil had hoped to gain by sending Techno of all people to speak to Fundy, not that he ever had much interaction with twin’s son before. The piglin hybrid turned towards Fundy, sighing underneath his breath as he moved the fox from the boat and onto a soft patch of grass. The fox hybrid continued to lay there, unmoving, the only indication that he was still alive was the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. “Hey, uh, kid. Uh… mind waking up soon?”

All he got was a slight twitch of the ears, as if Fundy’s spirit could hear him. Techno let out a huff before settling back to where he was seated, knowing deep down that his nephew’s spirit was somewhere nearby, perhaps even listening. He couldn’t fathom why his voice would attract Fundy as they weren’t even close. Neither Phil, Ranboo, nor Niki could wake him, why could Techno, even if it was just a twitch of the ear? Techno shook his head, pink hair framing the sides of his face as he looked up into the night sky. “You know if you weren’t unconscious, I’d probably tell you the story of the stars. I used to tell Wilbur and Tommy the tales before we grew up and went our separate ways. Fundy... I’m not… good at this uncle thing. I don’t have anything to say that could make you wake up, and really, you’re probably better off never waking up.”

He winced, ears flicking as he realized how terrible that last line sounded. Phil really shouldn’t have sent Techno of all people. He rubbed a hand on his face, trying to compose the right words to say. Wilbur was the poet, not him. “Kid, just... don’t go to where we can’t follow.”

Techno could have sworn he felt Fundy move just a bit closer towards him.

---

Eret raced through the ruins of New L’manberg, their cape fluttering in the wind as they looked behind every piece of debris that jutted from the ground. Their heart beating erratically against their chest as they looked everywhere for a single sign of their son. They couldn’t find a single trace of Fundy anywhere, panic blooming in their head as they headed towards the lake.

They had been away due to a meeting with some of the local monarchs in the area. When they had gotten back, Eret didn’t expect to be hit with the news that Fundy wasn’t quite… conscious.

Eret supposed they should have pressed for more details from the frazzled and scared grandfather who looked like he hadn’t slept a wink in a week, but the panic had overridden their logic as they had quickly rushed towards the ruins of New L’Manburg. They had to find Fundy immediately.

“Fundy! Fundy, it’s Eret! I’m back! I’m back!”

They paused at the edge of the lake, finding a prone figure in the grass, a familiar red cape draped over who Eret could only assume was Fundy. They broke into a sprint, stopping a few steps away from their son who didn’t even flinch at their oncoming footsteps. Oh gods…

Eret pressed a hand against Fundy’s cheek, nearly pulling away as they felt how cold it was. They looked at the dark circles underneath the fox hybrid’s closed eyes, almost as if someone had closed them to look as if he was sleeping. From what Eret could remember from their conversation, Phil had told them enough about what was currently happening to their son. They crouched, a part of them unable to leave Fundy alone in such a secluded area. Phil had told them not to move or take the body away, but Eret couldn’t and wouldn’t bring themselves to leave Fundy’s body alone. Their hands gently slid underneath the fox hybrid’s shoulders and knees.

“Funds? It’s Eret. Can you hear me? Are you anywhere near me, right now?” Eret hefted Fundy up into their arms, panicking at how light he was. “Fundy, please. I’m here now. I’m right here.”

They nearly gave up until they felt movement. Eret looked down and nearly cried tears of joy as Fundy slowly moved his arm up, resting it on Eret’s shoulder before the arm flopped back down again. There were soft murmurs coming from the fox hybrid’s mouth, words that Eret couldn’t quite understand nor hear but was enough to make them feel relieved. Fundy was somewhere nearby, he had to be. Eret wasn’t sure how this form of magic worked, but they would do anything to fix this. There had to be a reason Fundy wasn’t going back into his body, had to be a reason why he wasn’t waking up. “It’s alright, Fundy. I’m taking you somewhere safer, alright?”

They felt Fundy curl closer towards them as they felt what Eret could only describe as “ghostly” hands run through their hair, nearly jumping when they felt a hand hold their shoulder before the touch disappeared once more. Eret tightened their grip on Fundy’s body, moving back towards the ruins, careful not to move too quickly in case Fundy’s spirit lost Eret within the wreckage. Phil would probably panic if he saw Eret with Fundy’s body. Hopefully they could tell him what had happened before the frantic grandfather started flying around the Essempy, looking for any telltale sign of a lost and very confused fox hybrid. Every so often Eret would stop, feeling a hand touch their back before disappearing again, a sign that Fundy’s spirit was still there. Eret kept walking until they saw their castle in the distance. Home. They were bringing Fundy home.

And as Fundy kept muttering underneath his breath, Eret swore they’d bring Fundy home.

No matter what.

---

Wilbur walked down the length of the castle hallway, refusing to stop even as his father and Eret kept screaming for him to come back. His heart was dead set on finding his son as he could. He remembered Ghostbur’s memories, remembered his last memory of Fundy. Despite his feet wobbling against the carpet and his knees shaking with new life, he forged onwards.

He hated how he had left his son alone on that boat. Even though he knew he wasn’t to blame for his ghostly counterpart’s action, Wilbur felt the guilt and shame as he realized he could have spared his son the agony if he - as Ghostbur - had just tried to wake Fundy up. It had gotten out of hand. Phil had given him some of the details, most of them fuzzy as he had just woken up from literal death by the time Phil had begun to speak. Fundy’s spirit - gods did he end up killing his son? - couldn’t return to the body, having spent too much time in the spirit realm without anything to ground him back to the physical realm. Wilbur brushed past everyone who tried to stop him in the hallway, pushing past Technoblade, Niki, and Ranboo (who he had yet to formally meet), only pausing briefly when he caught Tommy’s eyes. Unlike everyone, Tommy didn’t try to stop him, letting him through with a solemn nod. The two of them would talk later.

Wilbur walked until he nearly collapsed against the doorway of Fundy’s room, his legs still not used to being, well, alive. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the untouched bedroom, his son’s too still form lying on the bed for, what he could only assume, was a very long time. He forced himself to stand, to stagger to his son’s side, grasping his son’s too cold hand in his as he tried to keep himself from sobbing. He heard footsteps pause outside his room, a brief moment of silence before he heard the door shut close. Low and worried whispers faded down the hallway.

“Fundy… My poor boy… I’m so so sorry.”

Wilbur pulled himself to his knees, grasping his son’s hand with both of his hands as he kept his breath steady and calm, the panic rising in his throat with every second that he was forced to watch his son lay there… dead to everything and to the world. As if he was barely holding on.

“Dad’s here, Fundy. I’m right here.” He pressed his son’s hand closer to his chest, on top of his beating - and alive, gods he couldn’t believe he was alive - heart. Fundy didn’t stir and despite the pain he felt, Wilbur couldn’t blame Fundy for not wanting to wake to his voice. After everything they had gone through, he was the last person Fundy wanted to see. “I’m here, son.”

He hesitated, pausing before deciding to move closer, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed as he finally got the chance to take a good look at his son. His son was thin, too thin. The dark circles underneath Fundy’s eyes reminded him too much of the ones he used to have when he was alive and wasn’t quite as sane as he was now. Fundy’s hair and tail looked perfectly well groomed, as if someone had taken the time to brush them, possibly Eret since they were the only ones who knew how. Wilbur tucked a stray hand of hair, tracing circles against the knuckle of his son’s hand. “Funds… I’m here. I’m really here. I wasn’t the best dad, I know. Gods, please wake up. Please don’t leave me now that I’m back. I could take you fishing, like you always wanted. We could do whatever you want, start a forest fire or-or something. Please, just don’t leave.”

Even if he knew that there was a slim chance that Fundy would break through the bounds of reality and enter his own body just to push Wilbur away, he moved closer to his son. Even if Fundy came back just to yell at Wilbur about his shitty parenting job, he wouldn’t mind. Anything, if it meant Fundy would wake up again. He pulled his son into a gentle embrace, arms wrapping around his son’s prone form and sobbing as he realized that Fundy wasn’t trying to push him away - not that he can, but his spirit probably wanted to. “Please, just wake up, please. Yell at me. Shout at me. Curse at me. I don’t fucking know! Punch me if you want. Just please please please wake up. You can’t go like this. Please! Come back, son. Please don’t leave. Please, don’t leave me again. I couldn’t handle it the first time, how much more now that there’s a chance you’re going to leave me forever? Please… just wake up, Fundy. Please, wake up.”

Wilbur held onto his son, his hold never wavering even as fatigue began to take its toll on his resurrected body. He didn’t dare leave, didn’t dare sleep in the case that Fundy… Wilbur tried not to think about what he’d do if he lost his son a second time. He buried his face in his son’s ginger curls, singing a lullaby that he used to sing to Fundy when he was just a kid, when he was Wilbur’s little champion - all bright eyes and puffy cheeks as he tried to stay up and prove that he was old enough to stay up late. His voice cracked as he reached the last verse, breaking down into a sob. “Gods, please, don’t let his last memory of me be the time I told him I despised him.”

He continued to sob, begging any deity with a heart to save his son.

He only stopped when he felt Fundy shift, his son’s tired golden-flecked brown eyes - life, weak as it was, dancing in his gaze - fluttered open. He held his breath as a tear rolled down his son’s cheek, a weak smile finding its way to Fundy’s lips.

“Hi, dad.” Fundy let out a sigh before falling back to sleep, the beating of his heart much stronger than it had been before. Wilbur nearly sobbed, clutching his son closer as he wept.

Fundy was alive.

His son will be okay. Wilbur would make sure of that.

(+1)

Fundy woke to the sun in his eyes, hissing as he turned over on his bed, his head still heavy and drowsy with sleep. Despite the ache in his bones, he forced himself to stand up and walk.

He looked around the room, surprised to find that nothing had changed despite what felt like years of wandering in the spirit realm. He nearly collapsed as he took one step out of the bed, his legs weak with disuse as he slugged his way towards the door, pausing as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked frail, which wasn’t a surprise to him at all. He looked much healthier for someone who had been “unconscious” for an entire… two months? Three? Four? Fundy wasn’t sure. He shook his head, wincing as a spike of pain tore through his head, almost pushing him back to unconsciousness. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself from collapsing again. He couldn’t go back to sleep again. He wasn’t sure he could after everything. Of course, with the dark circles underneath his eyes, he was sure that Eret or Wilbur would tell him to sleep a few more hours. That conversation could wait after breakfast. Fundy was starving.

His hand reached down for the doorknob, pulling the door open before he stumbled into the empty hallway, keeping a hand to the wall as he made his way towards the dining room (if Eret hadn’t chosen to move the rooms around while Fundy was away). From the sounds of murmurs and laughter, Fundy knew he was going the right way. He finally made his way to the doorway of the dining room, pausing only to watch the nearly domestic scene before him. Eret and Niki were happily chatting away as Tommy and Tubbo helped Niki with what she was baking. Phil, Techno, and Wilbur were talking while Ranboo listened to their conversation intently.

Fundy leaned against the doorway, pressing all his weight against his shoulder as he listened to (family? friends? acquaintances?) their conversation. His eyes drooped close, stuttering to a wake when he nearly slipped on the floor, quickly adjusting himself as to not alarm anyone. Unfortunately (Fortunately?), the noise caught everyone’s attention, eyes turned towards him in surprise. Wilbur was the first to break out of his stupor, rising from his seat to pull Fundy into am embrace. Fundy held onto his dad just as fiercely, not wanting to ever let go again.

Fundy felt himself smile.

“Missed me?”

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

this is so long omg ;-;

[twistedlymad]

Reader Giving Into Darkness (Overblotting Reader)

Hewwo everyone! I hope you guys are fine and having a lovely time! 

First off, I’d like to apologize for the inactivity for these past few days, I caught a fever last Saturday and I had to do some editing work for Sunday, so, I didn’t really write a lot last Saturday and Sunday. Don’t worry though! I’m fine now and I immediately jumped back into writing!

Secondly, this fic was supposedly to be an overblotting reader fic, but now, after writing and proof-reading it, it doesn’t seem like an overblotting reader story, more like, reader gave way for darkness to take over them. I have no idea anymore haha! I will most probably write another story for overblotting reader depending on how this one goes. (Also tell me if you want a part 2 to this, for now, I haven’t got one planned yet)

Third, I’d like to thank you guys once again for supporting me so much! I do hope you’ll enjoy this story that I’ve written! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day! (Story is under the cut uwu)

It was a pretty mundane day at Night Raven College. You’ve got your daily dose of chaos, your classes went along swimmingly and surprisingly, no fights occurred between your group of dumbass friends! I would even say that it was a boring day!

Or had it really been a mundane day?

You were on your way back to your class after helping Professor Trein run a small little errand, he needed to have a few paperwork submitted but Lucius had fallen asleep on his lap. You volunteered to go in his place instead since you needed some fresh air after sitting at a desk for an entire day. You brought Grim along since the furball wanted to tag along with you.

You were humming softly to yourself as you cheerfully made your way, you couldn’t wait to sit with your friends again and continue your day happily.

“Fgnaaa, you seem to be in a really good mood today (Y/N).” Grim said from your embrace, you giggled in response to his words.

“Well, today has been a really good day so far! I’m sure that today will be a perfect day.” You said as you let a smile grace on your face.

“Well, whatever you say (Y/N).” Grim said as he let out a small yawn.

However, when you got to the doorway of your class, your ears picked up on a few chatters of familiar voices.

You were about to enter your classroom but you had halted yourself just behind the doorframe for you had heard your name being mentioned. You didn’t want to enter your class just yet, for some reason, you had wanted to hear what the chatter was about and why it involved your name.

“(Y/N) doesn’t need to know.” One of the voices said.

“Why did we even ask (Y/N) in the first place?” A second voice asked.

“Yea, it’s not like it’ll be any help to us anyway, after all, (Y/N) can’t use magic.” Another voice piped up, agreeing with the first two voices.

“Let’s not mention this when (Y/N) comes back later, this’ll remain between us.” The first voice said once more and you heard a few grunts and hums of agreement from a few different voices.

You slowly lowered your head as you leaned against the doorframe of your classroom. Those voices were all too familiar to you, for they were the voices of your best friends, the ones that you had spent so many time with, the ones that you had went through the most with, the ones that you had trusted yourself with.

You felt as if you had been slapped in the face harshly after hearing the voices that you had felt safe with associate themselves with such words.

Slowly squatting down, you released Grim from your embrace and onto the ground. The furball faced you with a sad look on his face.

“(Y/N)… They-” Grim started but he was cut off by you gently pressing your index finger on his mouth.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.” You said with a smile on your face.

“We still have some time before class right? I’ll be going for a little walk then.” You said as you stood back up and walked away. Grim looked at you with worry as he stayed in his place, his eyes locked onto your leaving figure. You knew he was watching, so you took a sharp turn, letting a wall come between his stare and your figure.

Once you knew that you weren’t being watched anymore, you ran as fast as you could, adrenaline was pumping through your veins as your vision began to blur. You weren’t sure where you were running to, you just wanted to get out of that place, as far as possible.

Unbeknownst to you, a figure had been watching the whole event and they were smirking to themselves the entire time.

“According to plan I see… Excellent.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After running for what seemed like hours, you find yourself in a forest, surrounded by trees, the only sounds that you heard were the chirping of various animals and insects that inhabited it. You sat down under one of the tall trees while taking deep breaths in hopes to help soothe yourself. You wiped away your tears as they flowed.

The chatter of your friends rang in your head as you reminisced your memories with them, as if whenever you tried to remind yourself of all the good times you had with them, the chatter would be there to tell you that it was all fake.

“They don’t care for you.” Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice spoke out. Or had it been an unfamiliar voice?

You frantically looked around, searching for the source of the voice. It took you some time before your eyes landed on a small little puddle of water beside you, your reflection was as clear as sky as you looked.

So it did give you quite the scare when your reflection suddenly spoke up while you didn’t.

“Don’t mind them, you don’t need them.” Your reflection said to you.

“What?” You asked as you took a closer look at the puddle. You rubbed your eyes to make sure that what you were seeing was real. You wanted to make sure that you weren’t dreamin-

“Oh, you’re not dreaming, don’t worry about that.” Your reflection said, as if it had read your thoughts.

“No. They do, I am their friend after all.” You huffed and stood up, arguing to your reflection’s previous statement. You didn’t want to question the existence of your talking reflection, after all, you were in Twisted Wonderland, a place where magic is real and almost anything can happen, even talking reflections. Heck, take the mirror of darkness for an example.

“Besides, they could be talking about anything! Maybe they were talking about homework. I just overreacted, that’s all.” You replied further to your reflection as well as reassuring yourself.

“Are you entirely sure?” Your reflection asked you once more. “You heard what they said loud and clear.” It said to you. You took in a deep breath through clenched teeth as you closed your eyes and turned away, hugging yourself as you tried to walk away. You wanted to ignore your reflection, you thought that it was just giving negative feedback on the events that had already happen, you wanted to believe that your friends were possibly talking about something else.

But you were shocked when you heard the next sentence come out of your reflection’s mouth.

“Friends don’t talk to friends like that.”

You whipped your head around immediately, looking at the puddle as beads of tears formed in and fell from your eyes. Your reflection was right after all, friends don’t talk to friends like that, friends will tell you their problems straight away, friends don’t hide secrets about friends and most importantly…

True friends don’t talk about friends behind their backs.

As you were buried deep in your thoughts, your reflection smirked a little after seeing the look of hurt on your face. It waited for a few seconds before continuing its statement.

“Don’t worry, like I’ve said, you don’t need them. You only need me.” Your reflection said with a smirk. “After all, I am a part of you.”

“A part… Of me?” You asked, you didn’t completely understand what your reflection had meant by its words.

“Yes, for I am your conscience, I know what you need right now and that’s me.” Your reflection said to you. It then wiped off the smirk it had on its face and extended its hand towards you.

“Take my hand.” It said. “I promise you, with me, you won’t ever feel heartbreak anymore, you won’t ever experience betrayal anymore and you don’t need anything else, you just need me.”

“But, my friends-“ But before you could finish your sentence, you were cut off by your reflection.

“They don’t want you! You only need me!” Your reflection yelled, clearing its throat, it told you once more.

“Take my hand.”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to take the hand, you knew that it was dangerous. But, the chatter of your friends continued to repeat itself in your head, its ringing was making your head spin and drowning out your sense of danger and uncertainty, making you temporarily forget all the good times you had with them and all the happiness you had experienced with them.

As the ringing in your head continued, you felt confused and broken, you didn’t know what to do. Your heart ached as you remembered the memories you made with your friends, for everything was fake. The happiness, the sadness, the trust, the comfort, everything had been fake.

You just wanted this feeling to stop.

Then, the ringing of your friends’ chatter in your head was soon replaced by the chanting of your reflection’s offer. Your reflection seemed to be so welcoming, you felt as if only your reflection understood you, you felt as if you could trust yourself with it, after all, it is a part of you, right?

Surely you could trust yourself with yourself.

So, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes as you extended your own hand towards your reflection. Placing your hand on your reflection’s, you felt your hand being gripped by it. You then opened your eyes to see that your reflection was holding your hand rather firmly with a peaceful look on its face.

But all of a sudden, your reflection looked back at you with a sharp look, its mouth twisted upwards into a menacing smirk as it tightened the grip it had on your hand. You let out a small gasp as you tried to pull your hand away, but you didn’t succeed, the grip on your hand was far too strong.

A black cloud began to form on your gripped hand as your reflection cackled. You finally managed to disconnect your hand from your reflection’s when you forcefully pulled your hand away. When you inspected your hand, your eyes could only widen in horror as you saw the cloud that continued to linger on your hand.

And it was slowly spreading.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grim had managed to get your friends’ attention as he questioned the harsh choice of words of your friends, but, your friends only looked at him in confusion as he did so.

“What do you mean Grim? We never said anything like that.” One of your friends replied.

“Fgnaaaaa! Don’t lie to me! Me and (Y/N) clearly heard you guys say those words.” Grim said angrily.

“But, Grim, we were doing homework, plus, we couldn’t talk since the professor was there.” Another friend stated. Grim froze in his place as he realized that he had just seen the professor leave the classroom as you were running away.

So, how did that chatter even happen? If it wasn’t from your friends, then…

“Oh no.” Grim said with a grim look on his face.

“What’s wrong Grim? Is everything okay?”

“No. You guys need to follow me. NOW.” Grim ordered your friends as he ran out the classroom, your friends gave each other a look of worry before rising from their seats and followed the furball.

Your friends had a hard time catching up with Grim as he swiftly navigated his way through the busy hallways of the school. Your friends were yelling questions to him, wanting answers for this sudden change of behavior.

“Just, follow me!! I don’t think (Y/N) is safe!!” Grim yelled back, hoping that his answer would satisfy the curiosity of your friends. As the furball ran, he was buried deep in his thoughts as well.

‘I hope you’re there (Y/N), you always go there whenever something’s wrong, please be there, please be safe… Please.’ Grim thought to himself as he continued to run, eventually running into a forest, the exact same forest that you were in.

However, when they got to you, it was already too late. Your figure was surrounded in a cloud of sheer blackness, leaving only your torso and head available. The cloud slowly rose up, covering your entire body little by little. It was getting hard for you to breathe, your body felt numb, you couldn’t move any parts of your body.

You were panicking, afraid that your friends will get injured just because you had made a wrong decision. You were also afraid for your own life, for you knew what was happening to yourself all too well. You’ve always managed to save the others from this situation, yet you have never thought that it would happen to yourself.

You thought that since you didn’t have magic, it would never happen to you.

Yet, here you are, experiencing the exact same thing that had happened to some of your friends.

“(Y/N)!” Your friends yelled for you, their faces donned looks of pure fear and shock.

You gave them one last look, it was a very interesting look.

It was a look of worry,

Yet it was also a look of sorry,

A look of terror,

And a look of horror.

Tears flowed out your eyes as the cloud slowly engulfed your torso and is partially engulfing your head. With one last breath, you muttered the following words:

“Run… Save… Yourselves…”

Darkness had consumed you as your vision was clouded by pitch black. You felt tired, sleepy, drowsy, your eyelids were heavy and they were drooping on their own. Yet, you tried to fight it, you weren’t going to it control your body with such ease. But it was no use, you had already accepted the darkness when you accepted your reflection’s hand.

Your friend’s smiling faces were the last thing on your mind as you fell into a deep slumber.

As the cloud began to disperse, everyone just stood there, looking at your figure that stood before them, or rather, what was once your figure.

“(Y/N)…” Your friends called out your name softly as they stared at the monstrous and black form you had donned on.

“We have to fight her to save her.” Grim said.

“We have no choice.” The furball continued as your friends nodded in agreement.

‘Hang on (Y/N), please, for us.’ Was the only thought on everyone’s minds as they readied their magic pens.

Let’s just hope they could save you like how you saved them.

[erin-bo-berin]

A Game of Chess

MASTERLIST

This was an anon request to write a fic that involved Spencer’s childhood friend Ethan that appeared in season 2′s episode Jones. To the anon who requested this, I’m so sorry it took so long to write, but I seemed to have trouble getting this fic perfect. But finally, I tweaked it and molded it into a story I’m proud of and really like how it turned out. Shoutout to the wonderful @multifandommandy​ for helping me with the inspiration for the unsub in this fic. With her suggestion of using the real Axeman of New Orleans from the 1900′s, the unsub in this fic was born. I hope you guys enjoy this fic. Enjoy some sassy, jealous Spencer. Happy reading!

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: M (smut)

Word Count: 6,907

New Orleans. 

Home of jazz, amazing food and beautiful sights.

Unfortunately, it was also the home of a current and active serial killer.

You and the rest of the Behavioral Analysis team had been called in for a serial killer running rampant in New Orleans, which meant that left little time to actually enjoy the sights.

“Remind me before we leave to take you to this jazz club I think you’d like,” your friend and coworker, Spencer nudged you with a smile.

“If we have a moment to breathe,” you groaned, taking a peek at the murder board that had already been set up by the local detectives.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make time for my favorite agent.”

He gave you a slight smile and a sly wink as he headed in the opposite direction of you to get started on some geographical profiles.

You felt a flush creep up from your neck all the way to your cheeks. It was no lie that you fancied the intelligent Dr. Reid and some days, you thought he actually reciprocated your feelings.

It felt like the two of you had been circling one another constantly for months, either pretending the feelings didn’t exist or shamelessly flirting with one another. At this point, you weren’t sure anything would ever happen between you two.

That still didn’t stop how flustered he could make you. Such as how he had just done.

It was something special to have his undivided attention. That was a recurring thing for you though. You always seemed to receive a more special kind of attention from him than the rest of your friends—aka the rest of the BAU team.

You were heading towards the table in front of the murder board to set down your things when JJ quite literally appeared out of nowhere by your side.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that wink,” she smirked knowingly, settling down in a seat at the head of the table.

“Don’t start,” you retorted, cutting your eyes towards her in a warning glance.

“I’m just saying,” she smirked, opening the file and flipping through it before she spoke her next words.

“It’s just a matter of time before the other shoe drops.”

Whatever that meant.

•

You hooligans think you can catch me, but you can’t. You won’t. I’m much more cunning than you think.

You’ve found victims one, two and three. What about four, five and six? Seven? Maybe they exist, maybe they will exist soon. That’s for me to know and you to find out. If I wanted to, I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.

“Well, that’s not chilling at all,” you muttered.

A letter had been sent to the NOLA police department, apparently from the killer himself. He was taunting them and your team, that much you knew.

“Definitely a narcissist,” Rossi said, relaying your thoughts, “He thinks he’s untouchable.”

“Not to mention he actually took a line from the infamous Axeman of New Orleans case,” Spencer pointed out.

Everyone blinked at him, clueless.

“The Axeman was a serial killer from May 1918 to October 1919 here in New Orleans. He was never caught, but he typically murdered couples with an axe; axes that belonged to the victims. It’s similar to our current unsub although he’s killing women with an axe. That’s actually kind of similar to the Axeman because he did actually slay a few single victims, some being female and-”

Spencer paused, noticing the entire team staring at him, once again.

“I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“Just a bit,” you nodded, holding back a grin.

Once the boy got started on something, it was hard to get him to stop. Or not talk 100 mph.

“Is this guy a genius or something? I didn’t even know about that serial killer,” the local detective, named Valadez, whispered to you as Spencer started back up and more to the point.

“You get used to it, trust me,” you grinned.

“The Axeman actually sent a few letters of his own,” Spencer said, looking at the copy of the letter, examining it, “He quite literally copied one sentence word for word.”

“Which one would that be?” Tara asked.

“I could slay a thousand of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death,” Spencer read.

“That’s the copied line?” Emily asked.

“Yeah,” Spencer answered distractedly, still studying the writing, “From the Axeman’s letter on March 13th, 1919.”

“So is this just a copycat?” Matt asked.

“I don’t think so,” Spencer answered, “Although the similarities shouldn’t be ignored. He kills women with axes and then sends a letter that has a line that’s verbatim for what the Axeman said.”

“So maybe he’s getting his inspiration from this Axeman guy?” JJ questioned.

“It’s possible,” Spencer nodded.

Spencer was totally in the zone, looking at the writing, tongue poked out of the side of his mouth.

“At most, he has an ego that needs to be stroked,” you said, “There will definitely be more victims.”

“Victim three, Raquel Clayton was discovered outside a jazz club,” Detective Valadez said, studying the murder board.

Spencer’s head jerked up.

“Did you say jazz club?”

“Yeah, does that mean something to you?” Luke asked, curious.

“The Axeman also mentioned in said letter he would spare anyone that was listening to jazz music on a specific night. That night the entire town had dance halls filled with people listening to jazz music. Either his motive is somehow related to this or this guy is just fascinated by the Axeman case. What jazz club was it?”

You were glancing over the detective’s shoulder, reading the file. The name struck you as one you’d just heard earlier in the day. With a smirk, you looked at Spencer.

“Up for a trip to your favorite jazz club?”

•

“It doesn’t surprise me that I managed to actually bring you here, but under the fact of work circumstances,” Spencer grumbled.

“Hey, we’re here aren’t we? We can enjoy a little music while we ask around and see if anyone has seen anything.”

The club was darkly lit, but was filled with soothing sounds of jazz music. You could see why Spencer liked it here.

“The music is pretty.”

“It is, isn’t it?” he agreed.

You stood for a few moments more taking in the pleasant sights and sounds around you before sighing.

“Guess we better get to work, huh?”

Spencer nodded.

“You start with the bartender and workers around there, I’ll start at the back. I’ll meet up with you later,” Spencer said.

You nodded and headed off to start your first rounds of questioning.

-

An hour later you met a disheartened Spencer. He’d had no more luck than you had. No one had seen anyone suspicious, no one had seen anything, there wasn’t even the first hint of who a suspect was.

This guy seemed to be as invisible as the real Axeman.

“Maybe Jazz was just a coincidence?” Spencer asked.

“You know as well as I do, that there’s no such thing as coincidences in our line of work,” you commented.

He was about to say something when a voice interrupted him.

“Reid, is that you?!”

You and Spencer turned to see a tall man, roughly the same age as Spencer with dark hair and dark eyes. His long beard would’ve been unruly on anyone else, but on this man it seemed to fit him perfectly.

“Ethan?” Spencer’s face lit up, as he hugged the guy.

“It’s been quite a long time since I’ve seen you. What’s it been? 13 years?”

“About,” Spencer nodded, “I didn’t know you were still here in New Orleans.”

“I just got back after some traveling. You can take the boy out of New Orleans but you can’t take New Orleans out of the boy.”

You watched the exchange back and forth, smiling politely.

“Are you gonna introduce me, Spencer?” you asked.

“Well, does Reid here have a girlfriend? Cause if so, he sure does have mighty fine taste,” the man said.

“No, he’s not my boyfriend,” you chuckled, “I’m his partner.”

You held out your hand.

“Supervisory Special Agent Y/N Y/L/N. But you can just call me Y/N.”

He smiled, shaking your hand.

“Reid, you didn’t tell me the FBI had such beautiful girls like Y/N here. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have dropped out of the FBI so long ago.”

You smiled bashfully as you dropped your hand from his.

“Y/N this is an old friend from Las Vegas, Ethan. We grew up together.”

With a sidelong glance at Spencer you could see him jaw clenching and unclenching. Something he did when he was annoyed. That intrigued you. What was annoying him?

“So you were in the FBI?” you asked, curious.

“Nah. After the first day of training, I dropped out. Left it to this guy here,” Ethan nodded to Spencer, “I knew Reid would be the better agent anyway.”

“What made you drop out?”

You winced, realizing your tactlessness. 

“Sorry if that was too personal of a question,” you apologized.

“No need to apologize,” he held his hands up, “With a pretty agent like you, I’d spill all my secrets.”

A slight blush grazed your cheeks and you smiled brightly up at him. It was nice to hear such compliments. It was something you weren’t used to.

“I figured out I wasn’t up for being in the FBI. Much more of a musician, I guess you’d say.”

“Oh, you play?”

“Sax, piano, a little guitar.”

“Impressive,” you grinned.

“So, Reid. You doing better now? No more addiction?”

“Addiction?”

You furrowed your brows, looking at Spencer quizzically.

“It’s nothing,” Spencer mumbled.

“Last time I saw him he was pretty messed up,” Ethan said, demonstrating a shaking hand, “What was it you were on again?”

“Dilaudid,” Spencer answered, lips pressed in a thin line.

“What?”

You had joined the team only eight years ago, in your early twenties, just shy of Spencer’s thirtieth birthday. He’d already been with the BAU for eight years himself by that time. There were a lot of things you didn’t know about his past and apparently, this was one of them.

“Y/N is a newer member to the team,” Spencer said, suddenly seeming more relaxed, “She only joined a couple of years ago.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been in the BAU again man?” Ethan asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“Fifteen years.”

“Damn. That’s impressive. I could never. Guess that’s why I ended up here,” he motioned with his glass, indicating this certain jazz club.

Spencer’s phone rang, but he ignored it.

“Speaking of,” Ethan turned to you, “How would you like to hear some great music sometime? I could get you front row seats. Maybe even play a request or two just for you.”

He winked at you, increasing your flush. It’d been a long while since you’d had a guy hit on you, hence your constant flushing. You were flattered and you were seriously thinking about taking up his offer.

Spencer’s cell started in again. Once again, it went ignored.

“If I get a chance, I’d love to come hear you play.”

He was about to say something when the cell rang again. For a second you actually thought it was Spencer’s phone again, until you felt the vibration against your thigh from your own phone.

“One second, excuse me,” you apologized, taking your phone out of your pocket.

You had a missed call, followed by a new text.

New body found. Meet us at crime scene ASAP.

It was from Emily.

“I’m awfully sorry to break up this reunion, boys,” you said, “But we gotta go. The job calls.”

“No problem. See you around dude,” Ethan said, patting Spencer on the back.

“Anytime you want to take up my offer, just drop by. I’ll hook you up.”

This was said to you.

He raised his tumbler in your direction with a flirty grin as he backed away.

When you turned to follow Spencer out, you realized he’d already left.

•

You and Spencer arrived at the crime scene ten minutes later.

“What took you guys so long?” Emily asked.

“Sorry, my phone was off and Y/L/N didn’t tell me you needed us.”

You shot Spencer a look.

What the hell was he talking about? You certainly had. Especially after he’d ignored his own ringing phone twice.

“It’s fine, you’re here now,” Emily said.

“Another body was dumped. Female, approximately 25-30, seems to be wounded from an ax,” Detective Valadez said.

“Man, he really did a number on this poor woman,” you mumbled, shaking your head, “She must’ve really pissed him off.”

The victim was so wounded and bloodied, it was difficult to identify much else about her.

“I know what that’s like,” Spencer mumbled.

You glanced at him again, your questioning glance being plainly ignored.

What was up with him?

“Split up. Witnesses said they had just seen her get off of the bus down the street. We need to know how she ended up here,” Emily said, “Y/N, Spence. I want you to start at the bus stop and see if you can retrace her steps.”

So that’s how you and Spencer ended up at the bus stop, him mumbling to himself and you exasperated at his silent treatment.

“How are we going to figure anything out when you won’t even talk to me?”

He continued to ignore you, walking up and down the sidewalk, thinking.

“If you’re mad can you just please tell me why?”

“I don’t know. You might be too busy flirting with some passerby,” he grumbled.

You were even more confused. 

“What are you talking about?”

Back to ignoring you again.

“I think we’ve figured out about as much as we can from here, let’s go,” Spencer said, taking off.

He left you behind feeling even more confused than to begin with.

•

The only bright spot of the next few days was that there was a break in the case.

Thanks to Spencer’s excellent geographical profiling skills, he’d managed to narrow down the unsub’s hunting ground.

The icing on the cake?

In the dead middle of his hunting ground was a jazz club. The same jazz club you’d been to with Spencer the day before, the one where Ethan frequently played at.

Two more victims had been murdered, something that made your heart twist painfully in your chest. You’d been too late to help them, but now, you could get justice for the poor women who had met their untimely end. 

To attempt to catch him, the team came up with the idea of sending an undercover in and staking out the place in an attempt to lure him out.

You were going to be the one that would be sent in. In fact, you yourself volunteered to. You wanted to arrest this guy and throw him in handcuffs. It’s what the bastard deserved after his heinous crimes.

Even though Spencer had hardly talked to you for the last few days, he still flat out refused. He kept trying to talk you out of it and convince Emily to send someone else in. But you’d already made up your mind. 

“You’re not going in there, Y/N,” he protested.

“Yes. I am.”

Your voice had a steely edge. He wasn’t going to change your mind.

“Do you know how dangerous it is?!” he’d thrown back at you.

“Gee, no. I never thought about it,” your sarcastic tone was harsher than you intended, but it felt good.

If he was going to be mad at you for whatever reason, then so be it. But you had every right to be just as angry at him for giving you the cold shoulder.

“This is serious, Y/N.”

“You know what, Spencer? You have some nerve acting like you care about me all of a sudden. You have no right to order me around like you’re my father. Especially since you’ve been passive aggressive with me all damn week.”

With that, the plan was set.

And you went in.

•

“Remember, Y/N,” came Emily’s voice in your invisible earpiece, “If you encounter our unsub, we have to catch him in the act. It’s very likely he will attack you and try to hurt you, you know that right?”

You trailed a finger around the lip of your tumbler, looking around the mostly empty bar before answering.

“I’m aware. I’ll be alright.”

“Okay. Just act like a normal young woman out having a night out. We know he’s picked up all his victims here.”

“Got it.”

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Agent Y/LN,” you heard.

You turned around, seeing Ethan stroll up to you, a sly grin on his face.

“Well hello there,” you grinned, leaning against the bar, “And please, call me Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he said trying out the name, “Might I say you look outstanding tonight.”

You smiled down at the deep teal ruched dress you had donned for the evening. It was a simple dress with thin spaghetti straps and a deep plunging neckline, showing off more of your breasts than you ever had at work. It fit on your body perfectly, hugging your curves and highlighting them. A pair of strappy, gold, stilettos were the only accessory you’d paired with it.

“Thank you. I’ve been anxious to hear you play.”

“Where’s Reid? Did he not come with you?” Ethan asked.

“Oh, he’s around,” you replied coyly.

Just outside, down the street sat Luke, Rossi, Emily and Spencer in an undercover van, watching the entire thing on their monitors.

The styrofoam cup in Spencer’s hand crumpled from his grip on it as he watched the scene unfold before him. Thankfully, he’d already finished his coffee earlier.

Rossi glanced at the cup then to Luke, with a raised brow.

“You okay there Reid?” Luke asked, knowingly.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out. 

“Right,” Rossi drawled, clearly not convinced.

“Isn’t that your childhood friend?” Emily asked.

Yup,” Spencer said and nothing else.

“I saved you a seat at the front, just like I said I would,” Ethan said.

Spencer’s blood boiled when he saw Y/N’s hand on Ethan’s arm. She was doing that thing she did when she flirted: that cute half smile and a peek up through her lashes. 

He’d seen it before many times. It was just one of the many things he’d noticed about her before.

“I’ll personally escort you.”

Ethan wrapped an arm around her waist, leading her towards the stage. They were briefly off camera for a moment and Spencer couldn’t help but feel the jealousy tugging at him. He wouldn’t even be in this position if—well it wasn’t important right now.

They appeared back on camera, near the stage. He sat her at one of the tables at the front.

“I’ll try hard not to mess up. It’s a bit nerve wracking when you have such a beautiful girl in the audience to cheer you on.”

Spencer fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

Y/N actually giggled in response.

“Reid, you’re seconds away from snapping that pencil in half,” Rossi said.

He peered down, not even realizing he’d picked up a pencil to worry in his hands.

“Anything you’d like to share?” asked Rossi.

Spencer looked at the three expectant faces staring back at him and grimaced.

“Not particularly,” he grumbled.

“Reid’s just mad that his friend is making moves on his girl,” Luke stated, nonchalantly.

“She’s not my girl,” Spencer replied.

“Dude, come on. We all know that you like her and just refuse to make a move.”

Spencer glanced at Rossi and Emily who seemed in agreement to Luke’s statement. A glance at the monitors showed that nothing exciting was happening anyway, so there was no way to avoid this conversation with his teammates.

“It’s like a game of chess,” Rossi said, steepling his fingers together.

“What is?” Spencer asked.

“You and Y/N,” he replied, “But it’s like you’re both stuck in a stalemate waiting for the other to make a move.”

He had no reply to that. What was there to say? Rossi was right and it was all his own damn fault.

“Take this as a lesson, kid,” Rossi advised.

“A lesson how?”

“Let this be your motivation.”

-

Ethan had left you since he was up next.

You sat at the table, sipping on your drink when you heard an unfamiliar voice to your right.

“Looks like you’re awfully lonely tonight.”

You turned to see an average looking man dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. He seemed out of place in such a casual outfit. That didn’t qualify him as the unsub though.

“Maybe I like to be alone?”

That stopped the guy in his tracks. He quite literally backpedaled and left you alone again. You heard a muffled snort in your earpiece.

“You sure know how to tell ‘em,” Luke scoffed.

“Yeah, well, if our unsub is picking up women with lines that bad, we’re in even more trouble than we realized,” you muttered.

You knew from the profile that this unsub was full of himself and egocentric. He would have to be smooth enough to actually lure a woman back with him. 

“We’ll keep watching,” Emily said.

You sat alone in peace as Ethan played. He was rather good and you had to say you were impressed. 

Your drink eventually disappeared and when you caught Ethan’s eye, you held up your glass just slightly, nodding towards the bar so he knew you were getting a refill. You stood, heading towards the bar, deciding you’d just go for a simple water. You were on the job, after all.

“I’ll take a water, please,” you told the bartender.

He was young, maybe early 30’s with dark hair. He seemed put together, even for a bartender. His outfit was neat and mess free and not a hair was out of place.

“For a beauty like you, you should have a drink, it’s on the house. It’s my specialty.”

He leaned forward to you, giving you a sly wink, as he reached for a glass without even hearing your answer.

“No, that’s okay, really.”

“Oh come on. One drink won’t hurt. I make the best drinks in the city,” he said.

Something in your mind was trying to piece together, but you couldn’t get it to completely form. Shaking it off, you reluctantly relented.

“Okay, I’ll take one then.”

He mixed the drink, poured it in the glass and slid it towards you.

“Now tell me that isn’t the best drink you’ve ever had.”

You took a sip. It was too strong for your taste but you smiled anyway.

“It’s very good,” you lied.

“So, have you heard about these weird ax murders happening around here?” he questioned, wiping the bar.

“Mhm,” you hummed, “Scary stuff.”

“It’s amazing these deadbeat feds can’t seem to catch him,” he shook his head, as if it were a real tragedy.

Neurons in your mind were sparking and there was something about him that was setting you on edge.

“What did you say your name was, again?” you smiled, flirtatiously.

“I didn’t.”

His grin was icy. 

Red flags were going up. If he wasn’t your unsub, then this guy surely wasn’t someone to mess with.

“Oh my bad,” you giggled, playing the part of a flirty, young woman, just there for some fun.

“Anyway, all I gotta say is, is that this guy is really proving a point.”

“How so?” you asked.

“You just gotta give the ax to some people,” he replied, slamming his palm down on the bar top, making you jump, “You know what I mean?”

You nodded, seeming interested, but goosebumps were forming on your skin. It was too much to be a coincidence that this guy wasn’t the unsub and he sure had the ego to match the profile.

“Oh excuse me,” you said, reaching for your phone in your purse, pretending like you were getting a phone call, “It’s my boss. She can’t leave me alone even on a night out.”

You smiled apologetically and put the phone to your ear.

“Hello? Yeah, just a minute, I can’t hear you.” 

You covered your other ear as if you were trying to hear as you headed towards one of the side doors. 

Once you were out of the building, you pulled your phone away, hitting the speed dial for Emily.

“Prentiss.”

“Emily, it’s me. Did you hear any of-”

Before you could finish your question, you felt a hand over your mouth and you were jerked backwards. You kicked and screamed in tandem as your phone hit the pavement and you were dragged back into the darkened alley.

-

“Y/N? Y/N?!” Spencer yelled, panicked eyes looking at the others.

“Everyone move. Now. We believe the suspect has a federal agent,” Emily barked into her walkie talkie.

“Cover the parameter. We have no idea which direction he could’ve taken her,” Luke added over the radio.

Spencer was out of the door before anyone could stop him.

“REID! REID!”

He heard Rossi yell out after him, but he didn’t stop running.

If that son of a bitch dared to hurt a hair on Y/N’s head, he was going to leave here tonight in a body bag instead of handcuffs.

Spencer would make damn sure he’d see to it.

•

Your back hit the brick wall, the nearby streetlight hitting something metal just right that it gleamed for a split second. 

Your heart stopped when you saw the blade of a hatchet in the bartender’s hands.

“I knew the feds had been around here snooping for me,” he sneered.

“How?” 

You tried to act cool. This was part of your job, to be in dangerous situations. But truth be told, you were terrified.

“Your little boyfriend Ethan mentioned seeing you and your partner here the other day asking around about me. Little did he know he was really doing me a favor by letting me in on that little piece of gossip.”

Ethan. He had just gotten back from a tour of the world. He was innocent in all this, yet somehow he still ended up mixed up in it.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you scowled, wriggling against his grasp.

He held you tight with one arm across your neck and shoulders, his arm almost to the point of choking you. You had to stall, had to do something. Where was Emily and the team?

“Where were you that day anyway? I never saw you here.”

“That’s because it was my day off. Lucky break huh?” he snorted, “Besides, I was in search of victim number five.”

Lillie Newton. She was victim number five. She had a name, she wasn’t just a number. 

Anger boiled within you. Pure hatred for someone as evil as this man that stood before you.

“Why? Why do it? Were you just trying to be another copycat?”

“You know, one of the things said about the Axeman of New Orleans was that his crimes were mostly ethnically motivated. He killed mainly Italian-Americans or Italian immigrants. For some reason, he must’ve hated them. I found it...inspiring. Of course, I have nothing against the Italians. Unless they’re women, that is.”

“Oh so that’s it? You hate women? Talk about typical psychopath 101,” you spat.

A sharp sting came across your cheek as he slapped you, hard. Hard enough to bring tears to your eyes.

“Listen here, bitch. I’d watch my mouth if I were you, because this baby?” he lifted up his machete for you to see, “This can do a lot of damage. I can’t wait to strike it into you and chop you up so your FBI friends won’t even be able to recognize you.”

You swallowed hard. Your brain was scrambling for a way to escape. You were just about ready to kick him in the groin when he was suddenly yanked away from you, his hard grip leaving your body.

You blinked quickly, not understanding what had just happened until you saw Spencer a few feet away, punching the guy. It wasn’t just one punch either. Two, then three came. You bounded into action then.

“Spencer! Spencer, stop!” 

You tried pulling him away as the rest of your team came running into the alleyway. He managed to get one more hit in before you successfully pulled him away and Luke had pulled the unsub up, slapping cuffs on him faster than you realized he even could.

Spencer grabbed you and pulled you close, holding you tight. His head went into the crook of your neck as he clung to you, all of his apparent fear and worry being transmitted from him to you through the hug. No matter what tiff you both may have been in the middle of, he still cared about you.

“I was so scared something happened to you,” he mumbled.

He pulled back, looking over you, assessing you to see if you had any injuries.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I promise.”

His finger brushed your cheek lightly and you winced.

“Did he hit you?!”

“Slapped me, but I’m okay. It’s just a little sore,” you told him.

“You might have a nasty bruise there in a few days.”

“Least it’s just a bruise, huh?” you smiled a tiny bit.

“Yeah.”

He was gazing directly at you as if no one else were around, as if there wasn’t a bustle of activity around you. In that moment, it was just the two of you.

“Spence.”

You both turned to see Emily, motioning for him, needing his help.

Spencer let go of your arms, stepping back a bit.

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

With a nod, you watched him head in Emily’s direction. It had been a long day. A long week actually. But the murderer had been caught and there would be justice for the poor families who had lost their daughters.

That wasn’t all though.

Something had seemed to shift between you and Spencer. Sort of like a chess piece in it’s hesitant movement to another square.

•

By the time you’d handed over the unsub to the local precinct so he could be their problem, it was well past midnight.

Everyone had been way too exhausted to even think of boarding the jet tonight, so it was mutually decided that they’d spend one more night in New Orleans and head home tomorrow. Everyone had gone their separate ways once back at the hotel.

You headed to your room, managing to score an ice pack for your sore cheek. Unfortunately, after all the excitement, there was no time to talk to Spencer and he’d left the precinct before you had anyway. You made a mental note to check in on him tomorrow and maybe even see if things were okay between you two.

You’d changed out of the dress and into more comfortable clothes—sweatpants and a t-shirt. You were sitting at the small table in your room, icing your cheek and pretty much about to fall asleep when there was a knock at your door. Sitting the ice pack down, you walked to the door, opening it. You were surprised to see Spencer standing on the other side.

Before you had the chance to say anything, he grabbed your face and kissed you.

After your brief initial shock, your lips moved with his so fluidly it seemed natural, like you did this every day.

Minutes may have passed, or it might just have been seconds as you kissed him back, your hands naturally finding a spot to rest against his chest.

You were so stunned when he pulled away, that it took a moment for you to realize he had said something.

“Huh?” you asked, still dazed.

“I asked if I could come in,” he repeated.

“Oh, yeah, of course.”

You stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind him. Your head was still reeling from the kiss as you turned around and saw him sit down on your bed, his hands running through his hair.

“Come here,” he whispered.

You walked over to him, standing in front of where he sat.

“I’m so sorry,” he began.

Your confusion deepened. Was he sorry about the kiss? About you getting hurt? About being mad?

He said nothing else as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to him and holding you tight.

“When I saw the unsub had you…” he mumbled into your neck, trailing off as his voice cracked.

You pulled out of his embrace to look at him. You now stood in between his legs, even closer than you had been before, your body mere inches from his.

“I was so afraid I might never see you again. Suddenly, me being angry at you was the least important thing in the world.”

“Why were you mad? If I did something I’m so sorry, I-”

“Shh, no,” he mumbled, his finger covering your lips gently to silence you, “It was my own fault, I’m so sorry.”

You waited silently, seeing if he was going to elaborate. His eyes closed, his expression looking pained and even a bit embarrassed.

“I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” you questioned, your brows furrowed, not understanding.

“Of Ethan flirting with you,” he sighed, “And you flirting back.”

“I,” you paused, your mind racing, not being able to piece everything together quick enough, “I was just being nice to him, then just playing the part earlier. Why would you be jealous?”

He gave a half laugh, almost a humorless one.

“Because I’m crazy about you, Y/N,” he whispered, his gaze finally meeting yours.

His hand cupped the side of your face, his other hand resting lightly on your waist. You didn’t move from his touch nor did you make a move to push his hands away. 

“And seeing you with someone else made me see red. Just the thought of you being someone else’s and not mine because I’d been too scared and stubborn, locked in this chess game, if you will, with you, not making a move. I was afraid I had been too late and I was mad at myself.”

“I’m not interested in Ethan. I only have eyes for you,” your eyes slid to his lips, unable to stop yourself.

You were still thinking of the way his lips had felt against yours. The softness of them, the passion in the kiss, the way his hands had cupped your face and held on firmly like he himself was afraid the moment was just a fluke.

“It’s always been that way.”

Your voice was barely a whisper now as your eyes slid closed and your lips found his again.

This time, the kiss was more heated. Your feelings for one another had finally been laid on the table, igniting a need to act on them.

Your hand tangled in his curls as you kissed him back fervently, suddenly feeling like you couldn’t get enough of him. You had spent years not knowing what kissing him would be like and now it felt like you were simply making up for lost time.

You smiled gently against his lips when he moaned into the kiss. Apparently, he was just as eager for your touch against him, as you were for his against you.

His hands reached for the hem of your top, pulling away to pull it up and over your head. His tongue moved out and over his lips slowly, his eyes taking in your newly exposed skin. Your own hands pulled at his loosened tie, dropping it once it left his body. 

Spencer’s mouth met your neck, leaving soft kisses down it as your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. The simple task seemed so much harder as you were distracted by the feel of his lips on your skin.

In one fell swoop, he’d picked you up and turned, tossing you in quite a gentle manner against the mattress of your hotel bed. His hand ran over your exposed stomach, his kisses moving lower. You chewed on your bottom lip as you watched him, unable to control the growing desire forming between your legs.

You were so caught up in the sensation, it didn’t even register what he had been doing until you felt the slight tug of your waistband being pulled downwards. His fingers gripped the material and pushed it down over your raised hips until it was completely off.

You wasted no time in ridding him of his own pants as well.

Left in only your undergarments, you and Spencer laid practically skin to skin, taking a moment just to enjoy one another. He kissed you again, his slight scruff tickling your face, while his hands roamed your body.

You, also, took your sweet time exploring the new found territory of his bare skin underneath your hands. They ran over his back, his chest, his arms, his sides before finding their way back to his face, your lips moving in a fluid dance with his own.

He reached behind you, unhooking your bra, pulling the straps down until the item had completely left your body. You were almost positive he held back a groan as he took in your naked top half. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Your legs inadvertently clenched at his cursing. It wasn’t often he did it, but something told you that in bed it was a good possibility that he could be a completely different person.

His hands cupped each breast, his lips kissing your throat as he massaged them. His fingertips briefly moved over your peaked nipples, making you moan softly. 

Spencer wasted no time though, his touch quickly retreated downwards to the only item left on your body. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties and pulled them off, leaving you completely exposed and turned on beneath him.

Maybe it was a mixture of how close you came to death tonight and your feelings for him, but you didn’t want this moment to end. You wanted to hang on to it forever. That’s why you took your time, hands pushing off his underwear, your eyes meeting his.

It was like he could read your thoughts. Being as close as you two had been previous to this, it wasn’t surprising, but knowing you so well in this instance was just on a whole other level of mind blowing. He nodded, wanting to enjoy this for as long as he could too.

His hand covered yours, interlocking your fingers together as he pushed into you. The new feeling of him inside you was overwhelming but really good.

Your hands stayed laced together as he kissed you and moved within you. Your body met his rhythm and soon instead of two, your bodies moved as one.

Breaking the kiss, your head fell back against the pillow as you moaned. You couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that he felt so incredible. His teeth bared into his bottom lip as he gazed down at you, his desire written plainly on his face.

“Spencer,” you whimpered, pulling your legs up his sides, allowing him a deeper access.

His movements quickened as your pleasure heightened, fulfilling the need for more. You couldn’t help but smile, even as you moaned, at the curl that fell over his brow, moving with each thrust.

“God, Y/N,” Spencer groaned, his forehead falling against yours, eyes closing, “Fuck.”

You briefly registered the other noises in the room besides both of your moans: the bed creaking and the headboard hitting the wall.

“Spence,” you mumbled, whimpering as he hit a sensitive spot, “You're gonna wake up the entire team.”

“Let them hear,” he grunted, “Let them know who you belong to.”

“Whatever you want,” you mumbled, pulling him towards you once again.

Your fingers dug into his back as your high built deep within you. He moaned against your lips, his hands gripping your sides as you both moved frantically, desperate to reach complete ecstasy.

“Fuck, Spencer,” you moaned, your noises suddenly higher in pitch and volume, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He kissed you as you came apart, the fire in your veins shooting through you as quick as lightning. Luckily, his kiss muffled most of your loud moan. 

He buried his face in your neck as he soon followed, his own moans filling your ears, much to your delight.

Your fingers tangled in the back of his hair as you panted, starting to come down from the high. His body was slick against yours as he finally turned his face to yours, kissing you once again.

The cool air of the hotel room hit your sweaty skin, cooling it gently, but your insides still felt red hot, both in reaction to the sex and the fact that it was Spencer, the fact that he was as crazy about you as you were him.

The fact that both of you no longer played this complicated game you’d inadvertently been involved in for so long.

It was only after he’d stilled, his body still flush against your skin that he smiled one of his heart stopping grins, before finally speaking.

“Checkmate.”

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[whenisitenoughtrees]

look me up and define me (please remind me) (part 2/2)

He is whatever puts Thomas first. But that changes so often that he doesn’t know what he is beyond that.

He is Janus when he is alone, but only when he is not someone else.

Janus has never minded the fact that his identity is fluid, ever-changing. He acts as whoever Thomas needs him to be in the moment, and if that means he doesn't know much about himself as an individual, well. It's never been a problem for him.

Until he gives away his name, and then it very much is.

Chapter Warnings: identity issues, body dysphoria, body horror, panic attack, self-harm (hair pulling), mild injury

Chapter Word Count: 5,947

Pairings: platonic TDLAMPR, implied Moceit

Notes: This is the second part of a two-part fic, so I’d start with part one if you haven’t read it. Also, this fic as a whole was inspired by the awesome ‘The Record Player Song’ animatic by @turbovickii, which, 10/10 would recommend if you haven’t seen it

(part one)

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

“Do you ever think about the past?” Patton asks him. It’s a gloomy day, rain beating against the mindscape’s windows to mimic the downpour keeping Thomas trapped inside his apartment. On days like these, he has learned, Patton tends toward melancholy reflection, toward sipping wine in the living room rather than attempting to cook or bake.

He has found himself glad of it, most of the time. Even on a good day, Patton is often too distractible to bake without supervision, and on these days, his eyes glaze and his movements slow as he reminisces on days long gone. Frankly, he should not be trusted anywhere near the kitchen, and they both know it.

“Not really,” he lies. “Not unless it suits. Do you?”

He already knows the answer to that, of course. Patton hums noncommittally, eyes flitting to the rain-splattered windowpane. It’s just the two of them right now; the others emerge from their rooms more often now than they did just after the wedding, but still not often enough. Patton is struggling, both with himself and with his relationships, and for that reason alone, he will do his best to support. Even if he doesn’t know quite how. Even if he himself grows more and more adrift with every passing day.

“I wish we’d been friends sooner,” Patton says. “I was pretty mean to you when we were kids.”

He sighs. “I was pretty mean right back,” he says, ignoring the implications of friends, all the meanings contained in that one word. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

Patton smiles at him, and his heart skips a beat. “Still,” he says. “I’m glad we’re friends now, Janus.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. He can’t tell Patton that their friendship is based on a lie, that who he thinks of as Janus is nothing more than a shadow, that in these moments, he is drawing on a Patton-like persona more than anything else. He can’t tell Patton that he thinks about the past far more than he should, simpler times, when he was someone else, young and fresh-eyed and hopeful, not just willing but eager to do anything and everything to help Thomas and the rest of them.

That was when the trouble started. When deception became integral to his being. When he lost himself under all the rest, if there was ever anything to be lost in the first place. Isn’t it ironic, that Thomas’ sense of self-preservation has no sense of self of his own?

I’m glad we’re friends now, Janus.

He would be, too, if Janus were real. But Janus isn’t real, and he doesn’t know how to make him so.

So, he doesn’t respond to Patton. Just smiles, smiles and smiles and smiles and hopes that he can’t see through the facade. It’s something Patton himself would do, he thinks, and pretends that the thought doesn’t make him sick.

And so the days pass. Life continues. Nothing is solved. He grows closer with the others, more welcome in their discussions, more appreciated by Thomas, even, and he would be ecstatic if it weren’t for the fact that interacting with them is like pulling teeth. They all look at him in a certain way, now, like they understand him, or want to, and it is all he can do to prevent himself from shouting at them, from telling them that they understand nothing. He is a mask built upon another mask built upon more masks, and there is nothing underneath them. Janus is the name given to the void they hide.

How could they possibly understand him when he doesn’t understand himself? When he is slowly beginning to realize that there is nothing to understand at all, that Janus is just a name, and a name means nothing at all if there is not a person behind it, attached in a way that he has never been?

Janus isn’t his name. It isn’t, and it is, but the difference between those is negligible. They all expect him to be Janus, now, but he has never known who that is, has never been anything but an amalgam of the others and of Deceit. How is he supposed to be Janus when he doesn’t--

There is a hand on his arm.

He jerks away, blinking. Virgil is standing close to him, too close, hand outstretched, but rather than his typical snarl, his face is neutral, nothing but a crease between his brows betraying his discomfort.

“You back?” he drawls, but the words are nowhere near as biting as they usually are.

He blinks again, looking around the room. Thomas’ living room. The others are all present, all but Remus, and all of their eyes are on him. They are discussing Thomas’ next creative venture, if he remembers correctly, going over potential ideas and plans, and for some reason, they wanted his input as well. He’s not sure why; they’ve gone through this perfectly well without him in the past, and once the meeting starts, he barely has anything to say. Which allows his mind to wander.

A mistake.

He steps away from Virgil, hoping that the movement comes off as casual, and brushes a bit of imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Apologies,” he says. “Lost in thought. What was the question?”

He ignores the way Virgil’s eyes narrow.

“Uh,” Thomas says, oddly hesitant. “Are you sure about that? We’ve been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now. Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” he says. “A bit tired, perhaps.” Not a lie. He’s exhausted. It’s hardly the whole truth, and something in him burns to be showing any amount of weakness at all, any vulnerability, but better this than sharing any of the rest.

“Oh,” Thomas says. “Well, I just--”

“Falsehood.”

The word is quiet, but it cuts through the conversation like a hot knife through bread. Because for all that the word is Logan’s trademark phrase, it is not Logan who speaks, but Virgil. Virgil, who is still standing too near, hunched in on himself, his face set in an expression he can’t begin to interpret.

For a long moment, there is silence.

“That’s my word,” Logan says. It seems a halfhearted complaint.

“Wait, I’m confused,” Roman says. “Where’s the falsehood?”

“I’ll admit, I’m confused as well,” he says, though he’s not, though his heart is beating far too quickly, though he knows exactly what Virgil means, and both fear and betrayal swirl in his chest and stiffen his spine. His nerves rise to a crescendo, and he has to focus on his breathing to make sure his form doesn’t slip. He must remember how they view him now, how they look at him and think Janus, must remember to maintain Deceit’s face, though the anxiety flooding his senses urges him to exchange the yellow for purple, the scales for eyeshadow, because that’s what he’s always done when he feels this way, when his chest feels tight and his breaths come too short. This is a Virgil-feeling, but he can’t shift right now because he’s supposed to be Deceit, is supposed to be Janus, and if he changes now, the house of cards on which he’s built his acceptance crumbles.

He can’t let that happen. He feels terrible now, but the isolation of before was worse. Now that he’s admitted as much to himself, he wouldn’t be able to bear going back.

“Now, now,” Patton says, “let’s let Virgil speak.”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, brow furrowed. “Virgil, what do you mean?”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Let him explain,” he says, jerking a thumb in his direction. “He’s the one lying.”

And just like that, all eyes return to him. He wonders, idly, if he could get away with summoning Remus, if he could throw a bit of chaos into the mix and watch them all scramble. They’d forget about him in the wake of that, he’s sure. But no, he can’t do it now, not when it would be so obvious. His strengths lie in his subtlety, his skill at misdirection. Remus is a blunt instrument, one not suited for this task.

He raises his hands, claps sarcastically. “Well done, Virgil,” he says. “I’m so impressed by your ability to remember my basic function. Good job. Can we refocus the conversation now?”

The sarcasm helps him focus. Helps him settle into the persona, into who he’s supposed to function as in this moment. He can lie his way out of this. He’s done it before. He can do it again.

“Okay, usually I’m all for calling him out,” Roman says, “but he’s said, like, two things this whole time.”

“Yes,” Logan adds, “and one of those was-- oh. I see.”

“What?” Thomas asks.

Patton gasps. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, no.” Patton looks at him, then, so much warmth and empathy in his gaze that he wants to die, just a little bit, because he doesn’t deserve any of it, doesn’t deserve his friendship, because the person that Patton thinks he is getting to know has never existed in the first place. “If something’s the matter, you can tell us! You know that, right?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” he grits out, but no one listens. He takes a moment to glare at Virgil, who stares back, nonplussed.

“Oh, hey,” Thomas says, looking surprised. Like he never considered the idea that something could be wrong with him. He would have liked to keep it that way, but it might be too late for that now. “Yeah, if something’s the matter, we want to hear about it. You don’t need to lie about that, Janus.”

And Thomas is so genuine in his concern, so compassionate, so kind to a side that he used to hate and fear. But it’s the name that sends him over the edge, the name that makes him flinch, hard, because he can’t escape it, can’t escape the fact that they all expect him to be something that he has never been, that he can never be.

He is whatever Thomas needs, but Thomas has never needed Janus, and he doesn’t know how to be something that Thomas doesn’t need. How to be a person in his own right, how to be the person they believe he is.

Thomas sees him flinch, because of course he does, because it was obvious. He steps forward, worry written plain on his face, but he mirrors the motion, stepping back. Thomas stops.

“Is there anything I can--”

“He doesn’t like it when you say his name,” Virgil says, and the room goes still. Virgil swallows, clearly not comfortable with the attention, but he soldiers on. “He didn’t tell me why.”

“Shut up,” he bites out, before he can stop himself.

“Is that true?” Thomas asks, asks him, all wide-eyed and hurt and he can’t take this--

“That doesn’t seem to make sense,” Logan says, and yes, please, keep talking, Logan, everyone pay attention to Logan now, thank you, “considering that he told us his name himself. Though, to be fair, the way in which he did so could be construed as an attempt to gain trust, rather than because he actually wanted to share.”

“Oh, come on,” Roman snorts. “Nobody was forcing him to say anything.”

“Oh my god, Roman, that’s not helping,” Virgil says. Defending him? That makes no sense, but alright.

“I’m just saying! He took his glove off all on his own--”

“That doesn’t mean Logan is wrong,” Patton ventures.

They just keep talking, all their voices overlapping and intermingling, talking about him, arguing about him like he’s not right here, and he backs up until he hits the wall. He needs them to stop, needs this to stop, needs to spend another week or two alone in his room before he can even think to face them again. He threads his fingers through his hair, pulling hard, but the pain does nothing to help him focus. He wishes he could cover his ears, wishes he didn’t have to hear this, wishes that today hadn’t happened at all. Wishes he could come up with an excuse, a lie to throw them off and redirect their attention, but his mind is frighteningly blank.

“Guys, enough.” Thomas’ voice silences the room, and then, Thomas turns to him. “Janus?” he prompts softly. “Are you okay?” And he means well, he does, but--

He can’t do this. Can’t do this at all, can’t think of a single lie to tell, and nothing else is helping either. He can’t think logically, and his rolling emotions are no help, and trying to summon bravado is a failure, and he is already so scared that he doesn’t see how indulging in any more anxiety could possibly help matters.

He needs--

He needs something else, anything else, anything but this, and--

He shifts before he can stop himself. And once he starts, he can’t hold back, can’t stop seeking comfort in another form because that’s what he always does when his own doesn’t cut it. He cycles through all of them, melting and changing and remaking himself with every second that passes, but nothing helps, nothing abates the buzzing under his skin or the ringing in his ears. But he keeps doing it anyway, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

And the damage is done. His eyes are screwed shut, but there’s no way they’re not all staring at him. The silence is deafening.

He stands there, trying to land on an identity, and finds nothing. Because there is nothing.

“Ja… Deceit?” someone says, and it’s Patton’s voice, trembling and unsure, and somehow, that is the breaking point.

He opens his eyes, meets Thomas’ shocked gaze. And then he sinks out.

He rises up in his room unsteadily, lurching. He almost falls, though he catches himself against a bedpost, panting. His form is still shifting, still fluid; he can feel the changes rippling across his face like rushing water, so continuous that it’s beginning to hurt. He stumbles over to the mirror and watches it, the parade of outfits and hair styles and eye colors, morphing and twisting his face into nothing he recognizes.

And then suddenly, he settles. On scaly skin, on one yellow, slit eye. On a bowler hat, on a capelet, on yellow gloves. It’s his default setting. The serpentine tempter.

He looks, and who he sees staring back at him is utterly alien. The image moves when he does, blinks when he blinks, and the same tears that he feels streaming down his cheeks are reflected there. It’s him, he knows, because it couldn’t be anyone else. But he feels so disconnected from it, feels like he’s looking at a stranger, and perhaps he is. Does he know himself? Does he have a self to know?

He stares, and the image in the mirror stares back. And then, he rears back and punches the glass.

The sound it makes when it shatters is the most satisfying thing he’s heard in a long time.

He stands there, gasping, heedless of the shards embedded in his hand. For a moment, he feels safe, feels secure, as if the enemy has been defeated, as if in shattering the image, he has shattered himself, too, and is finally free. But then, he feels himself shift, feels his body do it entirely without his permission, as if on instinct, and catches a glimpse when he can’t help but look down, a glimpse of capelet sliding into hoodie sliding into green sash into red sash into cardigan into hoodie--

His legs give out, and he lands hard. Glass digs into his hands and knees, but he can’t bring himself to move, can’t bring himself to do anything but shake and struggle for breath and hope that this will end.

He doesn’t know who he is, doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be. If he could figure it out, maybe this would stop, but he can’t think straight, can’t think about much of anything at all past the fact that it hurts, and that he’s scared, and that he feels as though his very bones are trying to burst out of his skin. It’s coming so fast now that he can barely keep track; he is Virgil, then Patton, then Roman, then Patton, then Logan then Remus then Roman then Virgil then PattonthenLoganthenRemusthen--

The door bursts open. Someone enters, black and green, and he can’t focus on their face, can’t do anything but flinch back as their footsteps approach, huddle in on himself and pray that they won’t hurt him, that they won’t exacerbate the pain.

“--ee? Dee?” The voice filters in, and it’s Remus, loud and shrill and concerned, and he wishes he had the strength to comfort him, to reassure him, but he thinks that if he opens his mouth, he’ll scream. He feels like his skin is sliding off, like it’s cracking open, and he has no way to anchor himself, no port in this storm, no control over what’s happening to him, and he’s so scared.

“--ell me what to do, what’s happening--” Remus is saying, and then there are hands on him, on his face, and he jerks away because the touch burns. Remus is still babbling: “--kay, won’t touch you, but Dee, please, you gotta tell me what to do--”

--then his room is suddenly full of people, people standing, watching, talking, saying words he can’t understand, moving toward him, and he flinches back and away, because he doesn’t want them here, doesn’t want them to see him like this, doesn’t want them near him because no doubt they’ll only make it worse and he can’t breathe and he can’t stop shifting because it’s supposed to help but it’s not, it’s hurting him, and he thinks he hears Remus shouting at them, telling them to get back, to go away, but he can’t--

Then, someone presses their hand into his, and tells him to breathe. The rest of the world dissolves into static.

It takes a long time for him to be able to follow their example, but he focuses on the point of contact, on their hand holding his, and part of him wants to jerk away as though he’s been scalded. But the touch is through his gloves, fabric separating their skin, and somehow, that makes it bearable. And the other part of his mind wants to hold on and never let go, so that’s what he does.

His breathing slows. The shifting stops, and the pain subsides into a dull ache.

He looks up, and Virgil is crouched in front of him, the rise and fall of his chest outlining a familiar pattern.

“Can you hear me?” Virgil asks, his voice quiet and the closest thing to calm he ever gets.

He nods.

Someone lets out a breath, a sigh of relief, and he looks around. They’re all here, all of them, crouching around him. Remus is closest, is right by his side, hands hovering but not touching. Patton and Logan are sitting to either side of Virgil, Logan with furrowed brow and Patton looking near tears himself. Even Roman is here, hovering over Logan’s shoulder, and though he’s keeping his distance, worry mars his face. He knows, knows he must look absolutely pitiful if Roman is worried about him.

And Thomas is here, too. Kneeling at his other side, kneeling in broken glass from the mirror, and all for him? After that wretched display, Thomas still came after him?

Thomas is looking at him. His eyes are shiny.

“Sorry,” he rasps, and then frowns. His voice is lower, rougher than he anticipated, and glancing at himself, it is easy to determine the reason. His hands are gloved, but purple-patched sleeves cover his arms. He’s Virgil right now, Virgil, even though the real Virgil is sitting right in front of him, is still, for whatever reason, holding his hand.

“Hey,” Virgil-- the real Virgil-- says, “don’t do that. C’mon.”

He pulls his hand away, trying to school his face into a glare, into any expression that would suit Virgil’s face better. He’s sure he looks miserable. His mind races, supplying him with biting words and insults, and it makes him angry, a bit, because where was this when he needed it? It’s too late, now, too late to pretend that this never happened. They’re all here, in his room, his safe place, his sanctuary.

Only, it hasn’t been that for a long time, has it? How long has it been since he was comfortable here? Since he was comfortable anywhere?

The realization makes him shudder, and before he knows it, he is sliding into Patton’s form instead. The grey cardigan settles around his shoulders, but it brings none of the comfort that it usually does. He just feels pathetic, and he knows the others must see it.

He can’t look at Patton. Doesn’t want to know what he’s thinking. Doesn’t think he could bear to see rejection painted there.

His breath hitches.

“Hey,” Thomas says, and he can’t help but turn to look, because he has never been able to help but do what Thomas asks of him. He turns to look, and through vision that is once again blurry with tears, he sees Thomas reach out. Slowly, accentuating the motion so that he has plenty of time to reject him, to pull away. He is tempted to smack the hand away, to gather up the strength to eject them all from his room and lock the door behind them, anything to avoid having to talk about this.

But this is Thomas, so he allows him to place a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” Thomas says softly. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay too, but we’re here for you.”

It’s not a lie. He knows because it chimes in the air, clear and bright and true, like a clamoring of bells ringing in the morning. No tricks, no subterfuge, just the one person he would do anything for, telling him that it’s going to be alright, that everything is going to be alright.

He forces himself to shift again, forces the scales back across his face, focuses on maintaining the gloves to cover hands that are cut and bleeding and embedded with glass shards. It itches, itches and burns and doesn’t feel right at all, but if he’s going to do this, he could at least try not to look like any of them while he speaks.

“No,” he says, and jolts at the sound of his own voice, strange and foreign. “You deserve an explanation.”

“Maybe,” Virgil says suddenly, “but that doesn’t mean you owe it to us.”

He swivels his head to stare at him, and Virgil scowls, glancing away.

“Look,” he says, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to hurt you, back there. It’s just, you’ve been weird and spacey ever since you came to talk to me, and I just thought that if something was wrong, and I didn’t know what to do, then maybe somebody else would. But I’m sorry for going about it like I did.”

“I--” His tongue feels clumsy, thick in his mouth. An apology from Virgil is not something he ever thought he would receive, but this, too, hangs between them like a breath of fresh air, nothing but truth in his words. “Apology accepted,” he says, and it feels lacking compared to all that still lies unvoiced between them, but Virgil visibly untenses.

“Cool,” he mutters. “Don’t read too much into it.”

Despite himself, he smiles, just a bit, an upwards twitch of his lips.

And then, Logan clears his throat. “I don’t want to put any undue pressure on you,” he says, “but if you would be willing to discuss what ails you, I am in complete agreement with Thomas. Perhaps we can help you find a solution.”

He takes a breath to steady himself, taking a brief survey of the room, watching all of them gathered around him, attentive and unsure. He… could tell them, he realizes. He could tell them, and they would listen, and they might even believe him. He could tell them, and there is nothing stopping him from doing so but himself, old habits that have been ingrained in him over years and decades, habits that insist that he cannot afford to be vulnerable, that he cannot afford to show weakness, that the moment he bares his throat to them, they will pounce.

But looking at them, at Patton, so determined to help, at Logan, face open and non-judgemental, and even at Roman, who has the least reason out of all of them to want to see him well and yet is here anyway, he wonders if that is the case at all.

Thomas’ hand is still on one shoulder, a steadying point of contact. Without looking, he reaches back and finds one of Remus’ hands, still hovering, and guides it to rest on his other. Remus makes a sound of relief and tightens his grip, and it is almost uncomfortable, but it also serves as a reminder that he is not alone, for once, and that perhaps, he can have help, if he asks for it.

Does he dare do this? It will hurt him, and it will hurt them. Will likely hurt Thomas.

But, he realizes, it’s too late to prevent that. Thomas is already hurt, is already lost and confused and worried. The least he can do is tell him why.

So, he looks to Patton. If he’s going to share this, if he truly wants them to understand, he needs to start at the beginning.

“Do you remember what I used to call myself?” he asks. “When Thomas was young, I mean, before I was labeled Deceit. Back when you were Feelings and Logan was Learning.”

“I--” Patton’s face screws up in an obvious effort to remember. “That was so long ago, I don’t--” He pauses, mouth working silently, and then, his eyes open wide. “You know, I’d forgotten that we used to call you something else,” he says. He doesn’t sound happy about it. “Weren’t you Self?”

He nods. “Self,” he repeats. It’s been so long since he said the name aloud. It’s like an old favorite shoe, well-worn but now half a dozen sizes too small. “That’s right. Back then, I was entirely about self-preservation. Anything that boosted Thomas’ sense of self, I was in charge of.” He closes his eyes, slipping back into the memories. “Deception didn’t become a major part of that until later, until there were… issues. Until Thomas began to doubt himself more, experience more internal conflict.” He opens his eyes again, meeting Patton’s once more. “Then, I did anything I could to keep things running smoothly. I was… whoever I needed to be, whenever I needed to be them, as long as it would benefit Thomas. You usually didn’t catch me.” He splays his hands, relishing the sting of his bloodied knuckles. “I’m like glue, filling in the cracks.”

“You impersonated us that much?” Virgil asks, voice strangled.

He shrugs. “For all intents and purposes, I was you,” he says quietly. “I got used to it after a while. Too used to it, I suppose.”

“What do you mean by that?”

It’s Thomas who speaks now, low and urgent and worried, and he turns to him, turns to the man he has given everything to protect.

“As best I can tell,” he says, and he is not trying to be bitter, but something of the kind leaks through anyway, “I’m a… a mimic, of a sort. Or maybe just a mirror. I’ve spent so long being whatever was needed that I never developed into anything else, and then I told you my name and you started calling me Janus, and I-- I couldn’t handle it. I can’t.” He shudders, closing his eyes. He can’t bear to meet Thomas’ gaze anymore, can’t bear to see the condemnation he knows must surely come now. “I can’t meet those expectations. At best, I’m… a fake. A sham. Janus… it’s my name, but there’s not a person attached to it. Everything I am is built on traits I’ve taken from everyone else.” He shakes his head, a sour smile curling his lips. “Take away the lies, and there’s nothing left of me.”

“That’s why you don’t like us using the name,” Thomas says. “You don’t feel like it’s yours.”

“Nothing that I am is mine,” he answers, and falls silent, waiting for the sentence to fall, the gavel to pound.

For a moment, no one says anything at all.

“That’s not true,” Patton says, and the fierceness in his voice takes him aback. His eyes snap open.

“Patton--”

But Patton shakes his head, his face flushing pink. “No, you let me talk,” he says. “That’s not true, and I’m so sorry that we’ve let you feel like it is. I should’ve--” He breaks himself off, biting his lip. “No, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re not just a mimic, or a mirror, or what have you, and you should never, ever have been made to feel like you had to be.”

He didn’t expect this, didn’t expect a passionate defense. He’s not sure where this is coming from, not sure what he did to provoke this.

“I--”

“I mean, we’ve been spending time together, right?” Patton continues. “And you’ve been enjoying that, unless you were faking, but I don’t think you were. Do you really think that you were only having fun because it was something you’d done when you were being me?”

His throat runs dry. His first instinct is to say, yes, of course, because he’s spent so long thinking this way. But instead of his usual conviction, his mind fills with a buzzing noise, and he can’t bring himself to speak.

“I agree with Patton,” Logan speaks up. “True, there may be some activities that you initially took interest in for the purpose of impersonating one of us. However, that does not make your own enjoyment of those activities any less valid, or any less a part of who you are. You, specifically, not you when you are attempting to emulate one of us. Unless you don’t actually enjoy our chess matches.”

But--

“Yeah, and you don’t have to actually be one of us in order to feel something that one of us feels, or do something that one of us does,” Virgil says. “Just because Logan is Logic doesn’t mean that you have to be Logan in order to be logical. I mean, can you imagine if Logan were the only one capable of basic logical reasoning? You dumbass,” he tacks on.

That, at least, is enough to prompt an answer out of him. “It’s a habit,” he says weakly. His head is spinning. He doesn’t know what else to do, what else to say. How can they be saying these things so easily? How can they so casually uproot the foundations that his existence is built upon?

“You are worthy of personhood in your own right,” Roman adds, quietly. “I… I know that we have had our arguments. But you are our equal, just as deserving of an individual identity. There is nothing you need do to earn that.”

“You’re my best fucking friend,” Remus says suddenly, his grasp on his shoulder tightening. “You are. Not you trying to be someone else. I like you. I’ll kill anyone who says different.”

He feels a pang at that, because that’s just it. Remus thinks he’s his friend, thinks he likes him for who he is, but how can he, when even he doesn’t know who he is himself?

“I know it hurts to not know what you’re doing,” Patton says softly, “or even who you are, or who you’re supposed to be. But you’ve got us.”

“I don’t know who I am when I’m not trying to be someone else,” he says, the admission ripped from him almost unwillingly. “I don’t know who Janus is.” The tears well up again, and he lets them fall.

Patton is so kind. They are all being so kind, even Virgil, who hates him, even Roman, who he has wronged. What has he done to deserve this kindness?

“I think,” Thomas says haltingly, “that I’m gonna hug you now, if that’s okay.”

And he startles, remembering again that Thomas is here, too, even though he’s been quiet. Though he hasn’t been quiet, exactly, has he? They are all part of him, after all; they all make up his thoughts and feelings and hopes and dreams, so in a way, Thomas doesn’t need to be vocal himself to make his opinions known.

The realization hits, then, as Thomas wraps his arms around him, that Thomas cares about him. And not just Thomas, but the rest of them, too, piling around him, Remus clinging to his back and Patton tucking himself into his side and Virgil laying a hand on his arm. They are here for him, came after him, and for the first time, he considers the idea that their regard might not be contingent on the presentation of a certain identity.

The concept is foreign to him. He has spent so long being whatever he thought they needed, thought they wanted, and that was what led him here, attached to a name with nothing behind it. He has spent so long pretending to be strong, to be cool, to be collected. There has never been time not to be, never been time to make himself vulnerable, to allow himself to discover who Janus might be, if given the chance.

He shudders, burying his face in Thomas’ shoulder.

“It’s okay not to know,” Thomas says, and the love and acceptance in his voice is so real and so true that he begins to cry harder. “You don’t need to know right now. But we can help you figure it out, alright? We’ll do this together.” His voice softens. “You’re not on your own.”

He doesn’t know who he is. Doesn’t know where to begin to find out. But that much, perhaps, he can believe.

“Okay,” he whispers, and just this once, lets himself trust.

----------

Patton is at the oven, cursing under his breath, trivial words like “shucks” and “darn” and once in a while, a particularly vehement, “Damn!” The kitchen fills with smoke and the scent of burning cookies.

He hangs in the doorway for a while before making his presence known.

“Not having any trouble at all, I see,” he says, and Patton jerks, spinning around. His face lights up upon seeing him, and he hopes the warmth in his cheeks isn’t visible.

“Hi,” Patton says, and laughs ruefully. “What, you don’t think I’m smoking hot?”

He has to bite back his instinctual response, which is just as well, because Patton continues before he can think of anything appropriate.

“I’ve still got enough dough for another try, if you wanna help,” Patton says cheerfully. “Um, is Janus okay right now or no?”

He considers. It still doesn’t fit quite right, doesn’t settle on his shoulders. But he thinks he can do this without falling into the mindset that he has to be somebody else, that he has to wrap another identity around himself. He can do this maskless, and if he finds himself faltering, Patton will help him.

He can do this. And it’s not perfect, but perhaps, here’s a start.

“Janus is fine,” he says, and steps into the kitchen.

Writing Taglist:  @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree @glitchybina @psodtqueer @mrbubbajones @snek-boii

Part 2 Taglist: @bunny222

[incorrect-julie-and-the-phantoms]

Willie helping Alex with a panic attack

Hi!!! This fic also used some quote prompts from @jatfaaw.

TW there is an explicit anxiety attack described here so please if that upsets you do not read! 

You can read the fic below the cut to you can click here to read on AO3.

my shoulders are small, but you can cry on them too

Pairing: Alex/Willie, Willex

Tags: Fluff, anxiety attacks, first kiss, getting together

Summary:

After the events of the finale, Alex has an anxiety attack.

Alex scratched at where the mark used to be. It hadn’t seemed real at the time, even as each sharp pang sapped his very existence. It had all seem so surreal. What it meant. How it was slowly sucking the energy out of him, all because of something he couldn’t control.

Now that it was gone, it all was hitting him at once. All he had been able to do was watch as his two best friends went through the same agony, looking like they were dying all over again. It brought back painful memories of feeling like he was burning from the inside out as his two best friends lay next to him in the ambulance, dead. The consequences of Alex being excited to show off his ghost friend, Willie, to his band.

Speaking of Willie, Alex felt a pain in his chest at the realization that whatever feelings he had for the boy didn’t matter now. Even if by some miracle Willie liked him back, there was no way they could do anything about it., what with Willie being held hostage by the same person who had done this to his friends. Willie was probably in the same danger that they had been in, and being friends with him probably would put him in more danger.

The thoughts swam around in his head, coming faster as he felt his heart beating faster. My best friends were dying. I was dying. All my fault. Willie. All my fault. My best friends were dying –

He felt tears welling up at the corner of his eyes and spilling over as he choked for air. Alex teleported, not wanting his bandmates to see him like this, to some alleyway. His breathing was coming faster now as he scratched at the mark in an increasing franticness. He backed up against the wall sinking to the ground as he tried to get it under control.

It was ridiculous, seeing as how he was a ghost, but he started to feel lightheaded from hyperventilating. His fingers and toes tingled and his vision went spotty. Alex was aware in some abstract manner that his face was wet with tears but he couldn’t care less in that moment.

Alex wasn’t sure how long he was out there, alone in the cold he couldn’t feel, until a set of hands gripped his own. He wasn’t even sure how long that the hands had been there until he gradually became aware of their existence through the haze of his panic. His vision was out of focus but he heard a voice speaking to him, just barely catching the end of the sentence.

“–lex. Hey look at me, focus on me.” The familiar voice sounded as if it was underwater. Alex struggled to follow his instructions but his vision was blurred from oxygen loss and tears. “ Come on Alex,” the voice continued, “I’m gonna count, I need you to breathe with me, okay? In, two, three, four… hold six, seven, eight. Out, two, three, four… hold six, seven, eight.”

Alex fought to catch his breath and breathe with the soothing voice. He felt one of the hands release his own and move to the back of his neck, rubbing soothing circles with each word. After a period of choking, Alex managed to start to breathe in time with the person’s command, struggling to not slip back into his hyperventilating state.

“Great job, I’m proud of you,” the voice reassured him as Alex slowly calmed himself down. “Easy does it.”

The unfortunate side effect of being able to breathe, was now his body was able to catch up with just how upset he had been before the anxiety attack. Alex moved his hands to cover his face as the first sob wracked through his body.

The boy in front of him cursed and Alex felt, rather than saw, him move to pull him into a tight hug. An arm wrapped around his shoulder as another moved to cup the back of his head, easing Alex into a position where he was crying on this stranger’s shoulder.

As Alex buried his sobs into the poor guy’s shirt he caught the familiar smell of asphalt and something else, something he had smelled when he gave Willie that goodbye hug before the Orpheum concert. Now Alex knew why the voice sounded familiar.

He looked up into a set of concerned brown eyes which incited another rise of anxiety in his chest. What was Willie doing here? Didn’t he know how dangerous this was? He had already put so much on the line just helping them with the Orpheum. Didn’t Willie know how dangerous it would be to speak to him? Didn’t–

“We’re gonna play a game, okay Alex?” Willie spoke, cutting through his thoughts. He pulled back to cup Alex’s cheek.

“Yeah?” Alex asked, wincing at how raspy his voice sounded.

“Name five things you can see for me.”

“What?” He wasn’t sure how that was relevant to the situation. “Why.”

“Humor me.”

Letting out a grumble of annoyance, Alex scanned the alley around him. “The penis graffiti, the garbage bin, the other penis graffiti, your skateboard, your helmet.” You, Alex’s mind unhelpfully added.

“Alright, now four things you can feel?”

“The ground, my clothes, the breeze, the bottle poking my back.” Your hand on my face.

“Three things you can hear?”

“Some kids shouting, my heart beating, whatever annoying bug is chirping in the garbage bin.” Your voice.

“Two you smell?”

“Rotten food and the hot dog cart down the street.” Asphalt.

“One thing you can taste.”

“My mouth?” Alex answered uncertainly. ‘Would be nice if I could taste your tongue too,’ his brain chimed in unhelpfully. Alex felt his face burn red at his thoughts. Even in the middle of an anxiety attack, Willie was all he could focus on.

Except, Alex frowned as he brought his hand to his chest, his heart wasn’t going quite as crazy as before and he didn’t feel like bursting into tears again. He looked up at Willie’s face in confusion.

“Feel better?” Willie asked softly. He lowered his hand from Alex’s face, leaning away from him. Alex tried to ignore the answering flare of disappointment.

“Yeah, surprisingly.” He ducked his eyes away from Willie’s concerned gaze, embarrassed at being seen like that. “How did you find me?”

Willie looked down at his hands and fiddled them sheepishly. “Honestly?” He asked, avoiding Alex’s gaze.

“Honesty is preferable yeah.” With a small sigh, Willie flicked his gaze up, causing Alex’s breath to catch in his throat at the grief darkening his normally warm brown eyes.

“I saw you disappear at the Orpheum and assumed you passed over,” Willie answered nervously, “so I went to Julie to make sure she was okay, then I saw you.” Willie looked down and fiddled with his hands.

“That still doesn’t explain why you followed me.”

Willie dropped his hands, looking up at Alex through his lashes. “I thought I would never see you again,” he spoke softly. “But there you were, and I couldn’t...” Willie trailed off.

“Couldn’t what?” Alex pressed.

“I couldn’t…” Willie hesitated again. “I was too scared that if I let you out of my sight that you would disappear, and that I would wake up from this wonderful dream where you were still in the same world as me.”

Alex’s breath caught in his chest at those words and a swarm of butterflies were fluttering in his chest. Did Willie mean what he thought he meant? Was this?...

“Willie,” Alex said quietly, “Willie you can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not,” Willie insisted. “Alex, I thought I lost you and those couple hours were the worst hours of my life, and I died .” Alex tried to duck his head, overwhelmed, but Willie reached his hand up to cup his face, “you make my world stop Alex Mercer.”

‘But Caleb…” Alex trailed off, chest tightening as joy and despair warred inside him. He needed to warn Willie, tell him about what could happen if they were seen together, Willie should especially know how dangerous it was.

“To hell with Caleb!” Willie cursed suddenly, causing Alex to jump a little. “If you want me gone, then tell me. But to have even a small chance to be with you,” Willie reached down to grip Alex’s hands, a hopeful smile spreading across his face. “I would go up against that psycho alone.”

Alex stared at him silently. He wracked his brain for a response other than ‘please make out with me now thank you’ or ‘hnngh?’ As the silence stretched on from his inability to speak, Willie’s grip loosened and the hopeful smile dimmed from his face. Still at a loss for what to say, Alex blurted out his next words.

“Oh my god, you really did hit your head hard didn’t you?” Whatever was left of the smile on Willie’s face disappeared into a hurt expression. “A simple ‘no’ would have been fine,” he pouted. He moved to stand up. “I’m sorry for springing that on you, I guess I’ll just...” Willie pointed his thumb towards the entrance to the alley.

Alex stared as the guy he was halfway in love with moved to leave. No no no no no, this was definitely not what he wanted. He leaped to his feet and lunged for Willie’s wrist, turning him around to face him. As the other boy stared back at him in bewilderment Alex realized how shaky his legs were. Whether it was from the anxiety attack or what he was about to do next, he wasn’t sure.

“Idiot,” Alex breathed out before leaning in to press his lips against Willie.

As far as first kisses went, it wasn’t bad. Willie was too shocked to respond, but Alex really liked him so at the first touch the butterflies went mental in his chest and his brain definitely was giving off some happy hormones.

Alex leaned away, breathless with nerves, as he stared at Willie’s face. The boy’s expression was almost comical, eyes wide with shock and mouth falling open in surprise. Alex stared at him, waiting for him to respond.

The mouth slowly turned upward into a smile, and Willie reached up to run his hand through Alex’s hair. “Yeah,” he said in a tone that was almost reverent, “but I guess if I’m your idiot it’s okay though.” And at that, he leaned forward to capture Alex’s mouth in a kiss again.

As far as Alex was concerned, this was the best second kiss in history.

[papa-nihilism]

Hello There! If it wouldn't be too late to ask for a fic (please feel free to ignore if so), may I please possibly request #61 and #69 for Lokius? I would truly appreciate it!

Anon, I am SO SORRY that it took me too long to answer you. I wanted to watch the last episode before jumping into ideas for the prompt you gave me and honestly, I'm glad that I did. It was nice to write again for these two and I feel like I know them a little bit more now - however, excuse me if any of them sound a little bit out of character and please warn me if I do so. I'm always trying to improve haha Anyway! You asked for: love confessions + flirting under fire. I didn't knew what flirting under fire was - at least, not with a NAME to it and it's one of my favourite tropes. It reminded me of that Pirates of the Caribbean scene with William and Elizabeth and it was such a nice memory. I took the liberty of creating some back story for Mobius and throwing some prophecies for the end of the show. Oh, btw, I am always taking requests (not only for Lokius, Winterbaron or Marvel pairings), so feel free to message me whatever idea you have! <3 I hope you like it! As usual, the story is available under "read more" and on ao3 as well! Reblogs and comments are more than welcome! <3 Warnings: Spoilers for episode 3.

"This place is going to explode in a few minutes, come on," Sylvie's voice was urgent as the trio made their way through the halls of the TVA in a hurry. Loki's left arm rested on Mobius' shoulders as the god walked with some difficulty, practically being dragged by the ex-agent through the halls to the exit of the institution, where they would use a temp-pad to escape.

Los Angeles, California, 1996.

The location and time had been handpicked by Loki after stealing one of the TVA files contained in a specific folder. The folder about the recruitment of Mobius M. Mobius. As far as he had read, Mobius used to work in a local marina, organizing the rental of spaces and, mainly, Jet Skis. The irony of it made him laugh - even though it was a powerful group, the TVA had not been able to erase some of the most intrinsic things about Mobius the mortal, the Midgardian: his passion for his work and for water sports, even if the ex-agent did not know where it came from. Loki allowed himself a few sentimental moments while reading the files, before Sylvie took them from his hands and offered, "so, are we going to save your Prince Charming or not?"

The Asgardian could not even consider the possibility of not accepting that offer.

It didn't take long before they were inside the TVA again.Sylvie had been busy fighting the plan, while Loki had searched the rooms for Mobius. It was not an easy reunion - the agent still held grudges over Loki's supposed betrayal of his trust, and even though he had explanations, the Asgardian knew he deserved some of that treatment. "I promise it will all make sense later but please come with me," he begged - and to the surprise of both Mobius and Loki, the mortal followed him without question.

And there the three of them were, running away from the remaining TVA guards, following the plan of the one who, until recently, was the main reason for the union between god and mortal, variant and variant.

They were a few feet from the temp-pad when one of the guards' bullets hit Loki's other shoulder - not enough to endanger the other's life, but enough to slow his steps, which were not remotely as fast as they needed them to be. "You two, run to the temp-pad, I'll slow them down. Don't leave without me!" uttered Sylvie to both of them, and nodding, Mobius dragged Loki to the temp-pad on a rock, resting the brunette there as he fiddled with the settings.

"Mobius...," mumbled Loki. They hadn't had time to talk, and even though he didn't want to have that conversation there, in imminent danger of one of the two of them getting hit and to the sounds of Sylvie's screams in the background, he needed to talk. Now. “Not now, Loki”, said Mobius, without looking at the others' faces. Underneath the frown, Loki knew he was scared - the whole situation was a little scary for himself and, in a way, he was living it twice - as Loki and as Sylvie. He could feel her fear and, in some ways, he knew that he was experiencing the same fear. The thought that coming back to the main timeline could end his or hers existence had crossed their minds a few times and they both had talked about that - she was willing to sacrifice herself after her job was done. He wasn’t, but he would do that to keep her alive as long as she promised that she would look after Mobius and try to find Thor. Sylvie had promised she would do her best but, in the end, none of them knew what could happen when they cross the timelines. The irony of it all would make him laugh if it were an Asgardian party tale and not something he was actually experiencing - something that could cause him a real loss in his life.

The agent, for his part, was... being liberated. What was he so terrified of? That didn’t made sense but he could feel the fear both in the air and in his eyes. "Mobius, pay attention to me. Don't change the date on the temp-pad. I... looked at your files. We'll get you back to your life before all this, before... the TVA declared you a variant and imprisoned you here," Loki explained, finally drawing Mobius' attention to himself, who was staring at him visibly confused and alarmed by the offer being made. As if he was insulted by what Loki had said. "Loki, what makes you think I would ever want to go back to my previous life? I've seen too much, I'm not the same person as before. The 90's may have been a few years ago but I don't know how to be who I used to be," Mobius was direct - he was looking at Loki intently, hoping that his eyes would make sure of how serious he was being about this.

He hoped, too, that Loki could tell between the lines of what he was saying that he didn't want to be separated from him again. And a significant part of the agent hoped that the feeling was reciprocated by the other man in front of him. The black-haired one, on the other hand, was watching Mobius with visible confusion, not understanding how he could deny himself the possibility of coming back to the life that was stolen from him. However, soon he could understand why and a little smile appeared on his lips.

Allowing himself one last impulsive act, Loki leaned his body on the rock at his back and brought both hands to Mobius' face, sealing their lips in a delicate, yet urgent kiss - a kiss that reflected the peculiar mixture that was the impulsiveness of his act in the midst of how much he had wanted to do it for so long, even though a significant part of that time had been spent denying himself that desire. He felt the reciprocation on Mobius' part - as hesitant and as intense as his own, in a contradiction that completed itself. If it weren't for the occasion and the moment they were living, Loki would have appreciated how "a contradiction that completed itself" seemed to explain the whole trajectory of the two of them up to that point.

Something inside him, however, told him that that would not be the last time he would have Mobius' lips against his own.

"Hey, could you two hurry up there?" shouted Sylvie, approaching the two of them with urgency, interrupting their moment without any hesitation. Loki held on to Mobius, seeking support, and held on to Sylvie, trying to keep her close to him while she manipulated the temp-pad.

Whatever happened when the three of them returned to the main timeline would be up to fate - as long as he was with those who had become his true north, he would be fine.

[thotful-writing]

Invasion Ch. 14

Description:  A planet conquering race of Saiyans invaded Earth and deemed it worthy of habitation. After bringing the humans to their heels, they set up a new society where humans had one role, to serve. You found yourself in the unlucky faction of being bought and sold as a human pet. With absolutely no interest in owning a human but no way out of having one, Kakarot made a bid on you at the urging of his brother. It was only a matter of time before you were either killed or forced into obedience.

You can find previous chapters in this link: Ch. 12 and Ch. 13 or you can read it here on my AO3

Note: Sorry about the delay in updates on stuff. Sweat is in it’s final chapter now and will be posted soon. Thank you to everyone who is still reading our fics, we really appreciate it!

___________________________________

Vegeta’s grip around your throat was harsh, “you made a deal with me, woman.”

“Forget the deal. Send me to the Arena.” You weren’t scared of the prospect anymore.

He smirked, “you act as though you have a choice here. I paid for you. I put myself on the line more than once and I fully expect to be repaid.”

“What do you want?” You stared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how scared you were.

“I can still smell him on you. Kakarot. His scent seeps from your pores.” He inhaled close to your ear.

You couldn’t hide the pounding of your heart against your chest at his closeness and how unnerving he was being. You knew you could take down another human, but fighting off a saiyan was something completely different.

Suddenly he released you and stepped back, “I’ll make this short, I know about your little trips to the Arena with Gine.”

“H-How-“

“Doesn’t matter how. I’m taking over your training and your placement at the Arena. You’ll fight and win until I’m satisfied you’ve paid off your debt.”

You weren’t sure you were actually hearing him correctly, “you want me to fight? And what happens once I’m free of my debt to you?”

“You’ll never truly be free, of course, but you can come and go as you please. No expectations or questions from me.”

The offer sounded too good to be true. You wanted to continue fighting anyways, but having him take over was a little worrisome.

“I do this and I’m free from any obligation? That includes being mated with?” You didn’t care about being blunt at this point.

“If that’s what you want.” He said.

“Fine. I’ll do it. Train me and I’ll fight in the Arena for you.” You had no hesitation after hearing that you’d have free reign over your own interest in being mated with.

“We’ll start tomorrow. Dawn.” He pushed past you and left your room without so much as a glance at you.

You closed your door and collapsed on the bed, the ache in your chest returned when thoughts of Kakarot flooded your mind again. You wondered where he was and if he was even still alive at this point. You knew you’d have no access to anymore information about him. You hated that you loved him, that you convinced yourself you could have a decent life with him. Never again would you trick yourself or let yourself fall prey to such childish notions.

The next day came and you dragged yourself out of bed after spending most of the night obsessing over Kakarot and switching between crying and being angry with yourself. When you finally found Vegeta he was in one of the many training rooms in the palace that he had built, of course, Bulma had the walls reinforced to withstand his anger and power.

“Late.” He snapped.

“Would’ve helped if you’d told me where the fuck you were going to be.” You said without thinking about who you were talking to, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Kakarot’s mother has trained you, right? Show me.” He stood firmly in the center of the room as you walked towards him.

It was odd seeing him without his normal saiyan armor, he seemed almost approachable for a split second.

“You- You want me to hit you?” You were a little hesitant as you’d been informed previously that any slight against the Prince would end with your head being removed from your body.

“Yes. Now get on with it.” He said impatiently.

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly as you prepared for what would be a rigorous training session or the last few seconds of your life. You attacked him quickly, aiming to almost land a hit somewhere, but of course you missed. He was quicker, nimble, barely moving himself out of the way. He moved with ease as if you were moving at a slowed down speed, which compared to him you probably were.

“Again.” He said, hands behind his back as he waited.

You attacked again, launching yourself at him, trying your hardest to hit him at least once. You aimed for his chest, missing. Again, aiming for his abdomen, missing. You fought harder, fist coming close to his cheek, but again falling short. By the time you were done, sweat was dripping from your brow and he had barely moved an inch.

“Pathetic. How are you winning fights like this? Are the other saiyans really not training their humans?”

“Turles is. His human fights like him.” You panted, trying to catch your breath.

“Then you should have beat her in your first fight.” He said.

You furrowed your brow, “how much do you actually know about all that?”

“Enough to know you fight like you’re not trying to win, just get the life beaten out of you.” He explained.

It wasn’t that he was wrong, but you didn’t realize it was that obvious to other people.

“Bruises feel better than the other shit.” You shrugged.

“Winning will feel even better. You lose a fight and I add more to your debt.”

“That seems unfair. There are some really good fighters at the Arena.”

Vegeta scoffed, “then it would be wise to be better.”

It seemed like a simple thing to him, to just be a better fighter, but it wasn’t that easy for you. He knew why you started fighting, what was driving you, but he expected you to just flip a switch and fight to win instead of trying to numb the other pain you felt.

Over the next few months Vegeta trained you. Each day you left feeling like your body was just going to dissolve into a puddle. Your muscles ached, bruises covered you from head to toe and he refused to let you use one of the med pods. He wanted you to remember where the bruises and cuts came from. He pushed you, pushed your limits, pushed your body until you begged for him to stop, but even then he pushed more.

“Pathetic. Kakarot actually saw you as a viable mate?” He paced around you as you lay motionless on the floor.

“Don’t.” You sneered breathlessly.

“I’m just trying to understand what he saw in you. It couldn’t have been your fighting skills because those are non-existent. Bulma could kick your ass at this point.”

You felt your anger raging inside, unfurling in your stomach as you pushed yourself up off the floor on shaking limbs. You wiped the blood from your lip, sweat stinging the wounds that covered you.

“I’m done. Fuck this.” You pushed past him.

“Quitting already? Not surprising for someone so spineless. Don’t know what I expected when you didn’t even try to save him.”

You stopped in your tracks, “what?”

“You made no attempts to stand up for him, to break him free. You had all of the resources at your fingertips, Bulma, Gine, but you just let him die.”

You turned around quickly, “are you fucking serious? I had no way of saving him. The second I would have tried he would’ve stopped me or some other giant saiyan fuck would’ve intervened.”

“At least you would have tried instead of cowering like the weak human you are.” Vegeta snapped.

With clenched fists and rage burning in your throat, you launched yourself at Vegeta. He narrowly blocked your attack, but that didn’t stop you. You were determined to make him eat the words he shoved in your face. All of the pain and aches that had forced you to your knees previously, were now driving you forward. The pain pushed you, the rage fueled you. Vegeta smirked in your face at the failed attacks he continued to avoid, until you landed one hit across his jaw. The second your fist made contact with his face you felt it, that jolt of accomplishment, pride that you’d actually done it.

An expression of pure astonishment was etched across his face and your own, “you little-“

With a hand around your throat instantly he shoved you back against the wall, fingers digging into your skin. Your chests heaved, fighting to regain control over the rage you both felt in the moment. His gaze burned into yours, heat radiating off of both of your bodies.

“Am I still pathetic?” You asked breathlessly.

“Yes, but a little less now,” he said with a rare smirk, “use that anger first next time.”

There was something in that moment, something that had changed the dynamic between you. You couldn’t place it, or maybe you didn’t want to admit it, admit the building bond between you. Despite his callousness, roughness with you, it was there, drawing you in to something different.

“You should be ready for your first fight soon.” He released your throat, ignoring whatever look you were giving him.

“I’m not ready, I got my ass handed to me last time. Gine had to put me in one of those pods for like hours afterwards.” You shook your head.

“Don’t get injured as badly and you should be fine. I’ll arrange it for next week.” He walked by you without giving you a moment to argue your point.

You didn’t feel ready, hitting Vegeta once didn’t exactly seem like a great qualifier to fight in the Arena, although it did feel amazing. Training with Vegeta had given you something to focus on for the last few months, almost daily, for hours, you spent time fighting him. His snide remarks pushing you further, using your anger and hatred to boost your strength. Never in a million years did you think you’d look forward to spending time with him, but it was the perfect distraction and a pure carnal release to fight with him.

The next week came and your anxiety was unfurling in your gut as you stood at the sidelines in the Arena. Vegeta was next to you, but made no move to give you any support or last words of encouragement.

“Remember, you lose, I add to your debt.” He said just before you entered the cage.

“Thanks. That helps.” You said sarcastically.

You came face to face with your opponent, clearly an unfair match, which made you wonder if Vegeta had hand picked her. She was at least a good two feet taller than you, built like a fucking truck. Her biceps alone were bigger than your head.

“You both know the rules. Tap out, knock out, or death. Those are your only ways out of here.” The referee saiyan said.

You nodded and looked up at your opponent, her gaze set directly on you as if she was thinking about all the ways she was going to eat you after she dismembered you.

“Fight.” He said and stepped out of the cage.

You readied yourself, getting into a fighting stance and preparing for a direct attack, but she didn’t move, not even a little. She stood still, almost like a statue.

“Um, are you okay?” You asked when she just stood there.

She stared at you but didn’t answer. It felt weird attacking someone who showed very little brain activity.

“What are you waiting for? Attack her!” Vegeta yelled from the side.

You turned to look at him, “I can’t, look at her, she’s-“

Suddenly you were being lifted off the ground by a harsh grip around your throat. You gasped and grabbed at her arm, but it did nothing to keep her from basically tossing you across the cage. You landed with a thud on the ground, the air knocked from your lungs. She was trudging towards you, looking even angrier. You pushed yourself up off the ground and brushed yourself off before running headfirst at her.

Attacking her abdomen did nothing, landing punch after punch was basically useless as she showed no signs of even feeling it. With one swift slap, she knocked you down again, almost burying you into the ground.

“Fuck. What are you?” You struggled to stand back up.

She came right for you again, not slowing down or showing any signs of stopping until you were either unconscious or dead. You wiped the blood from your lip, trying to refocus on how you were going to defeat this mountain. You looked around your surroundings, trying to find something to take her out with, but the cage was devoid of anything. You had nothing on you either, but she still had her collar, which looked to be digging into her skin. That was your out. Your key to winning.

You stood still, waiting for the right moment to attack. She lunged at you, giving you an opening. You moved swiftly around her and grabbed the collar from behind, jerking it back as you used all of your weight to hang onto her by it. She tried to grab the collar but it was too tight around her neck for her to get any leverage. She turned around, trying to sling you off, but you wrapped yourself around her like a vine, determined not to die. She fell to her knees, gasping for air as her face turned red, hands still trying to grab onto something to get you off of her.

“I’m so sorry.” You said as she fell face first on the ground, consciousness fading from her.

A significant amount of complaints and boos were thrown out by the saiyans, most of whom had probably bet against you. You climbed off of her and headed for the cage door.

“See that? I took that monster down by myself.” You panted as you approached Vegeta.

“Nothing more than luck for you. There’s no way you would’ve been able to defeat her without it.” He rolled his eyes.

“Still counts though, right? My debt?”

“Sure. Let’s go.” He sighed.

He was silent for the time it took to get back to the palace, clearly annoyed with the way you’d won. It was annoying how nothing was impressive or good enough for him, he was a stark contrast to Kakarot, which was irritating.

“You know a little positive reinforcement goes a long way.” You said as you followed him back to the training room.

“Oh, you want praise for using a trick to win a fight? How noble of you to avoid using any actual strength.” He snapped.

“You said win, you never said I had to explicitly fight with my fists.” You argued.

“What honor is there in what you just did? How do you have any pride after that?” He turned to face you.

“The fuck do I care about honor and pride? I just want to live my life.”

Vegeta was on you in an instant, hand around your throat once again as he shoved you back against the wall, “what kind of life is it if you take the coward’s way out every time?”

“I’m not a coward.” Words you didn’t fully believe yourself, but you said them anyways.

“Prove it. All I see is a weak, little human whining about how unfair her life is, refusing to take it back for herself.” He sneered, eyes burning into yours.

With adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you made a stupid decision. You grabbed a handful of his hair, jerking his head back as much as he allowed.

“Let me go.” You said through gritted teeth as his hand tightened around your throat.

“Maybe you would be useful for something, a feisty little mate. Sell you off to the highest bidder?” He grinned, sharp fangs on full display.

You pulled harder on his hair, trying to keep him from moving closer, but it did nothing. He leaned in, lips ghosting against yours. You snapped at him, biting his lip and drawing blood.

“Insolent little-“ Vegeta squeezed your throat.

Everything in your mind was telling you it was wrong, the sudden feeling of attraction was nothing more than the adrenaline left over from your fight, but you ignored it. You needed another release, something else entirely taking over you. You leaned forward as much as he would let you and flicked your tongue over the blood on his bottom lip. His eyes were wild, matching your own with the need you both felt in that moment.

As if you both knew what the other was thinking, you released the hold you had on one another and attacked. He pressed his lips to yours, biting you harshly just as you’d done to him. You repeated in your mind that it was nothing more than a release, something you needed.

You grabbed the waistband of his pants and shoved them down, “this doesn’t mean anything. I’m not your fucking mate.”

He turned you around and slammed you against the wall as he jerked your pants down, “I’d never take someone as feeble and useless as you for a mate.”

Before you could make another comment, he shoved his cock into you, forcing a loud yelp from your lips. You pushed back against him, refusing to give him any satisfaction or notion that he was the one fucking you. His fingers dug into your hips, pinching the skin harder by the second. He took out his full frustration on your body, grabbing, biting, fucking, all of it as hard as he could without breaking you completely.

Every doubt, feeling of guilt, you pushed from your mind while he drove into you over and over, each thrust harder than the last. It wasn’t like you had anyone to worry about, Kakarot was long gone by now and it was just you at this point.

A silent, mind numbing haze fell over you as you walked back to your room, a ghost of his harsh grip lingered on your skin, sweat sticking to your clothes. The vast differences between him and Kakarot weighed heavily on you. Over the last few months you’d worked so hard to push every memory of Kakarot out of your mind, forget the feeling of his tail wrapped around your thigh, the heat that radiated off of him in the night. One desperate release with Vegeta brought all of it flooding back to your mind at once, the good and the bad.

Kakarot was rough with you, but caring at the same time. His touch was firm, but gentle, filled with all the emotion he held back. Vegeta was all surface, harshness with nothing beneath it for you. You’d noticed the way he was with Bulma, how he took such care with her, but for you it was different, lacking. It was evident you were nothing more than a release for him as well. You weren’t complaining, you didn’t want anything more with him, but it made your chest ache at the thought that you wouldn’t have that with anyone again.

[brasskier]

@badthingshappenbingo trope #3 (and this one was actually requested!)

Thank you to the incredible @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for reading this one over for me!

Trope: Suicide attempt

Summary:  Yennefer's just running a few errands, and doesn't expect to end up talking Geralt's bard down from a rooftop. Jaskier is ready to leap, and doesn't expect a certain mage to interrupt his grand finale. Both of them might just walk away with a better understanding of one another. (Or, a character study in borderline personality disorder.)

TW for suicidal ideation/threats/gestures and reference to self-harm. The descriptions aren’t graphic and he doesn’t actually jump, but this whole fic deals with suicide and mental illness. Be safe y’all <3

Read it on my ao3 or below the cut:

The trip to Tretogor wasn’t supposed to last long. Replenish her stock after the utter disaster that was the dragon hunt, some odds and ends as she came upon them, maybe get absolutely shitfaced and forget the whole thing happened. That was all. And it looked like, for a pleasant change of pace, there weren’t going to be any complications. Errands finished, Yennefer was enjoying a hearty roast at one of the better taverns in the city when she noticed the early warnings of a brewing commotion. First murmurs, then the voices grew louder and more persistent, and then people were pushing outside. She ignored them; a petty barfight was not something she particularly wanted or needed to get involved with. The bar was still stirring, and eventually when she finally shifted her focus off her roast, the tavern was near-empty, only the drunkest of patrons remaining. Even the barkeep was shuffling outside. Clearly, something was happening. Something big. With a beleaguered sigh, she pushed up from her chair and headed out the door.

A surprisingly large crowd greeted her outside, more expansive than the usual clamor around a simple drunken brawl. She approached the barkeep, standing on the outskirts of the mob, and she didn’t even have to speak before the barkeep jerked his head skyward. She traced his gaze to the roof of a towering building casting its shadow over them.

“Poor sod’s gonna jump, I reckon,” the barkeep ruminated, eyes still fixed upwards. In place of the massive beast she fully expected to be perched atop the building stood the figure of a man, trembling at the very edge of the roof. She squinted, an uncanny familiarity settling into her gut.

She mumbled her half-hearted thanks, already pushing through a portal to the rooftop. The man, still frozen in place on the opposite edge, didn’t seem to notice the sudden company, and her uneasiness grew into a sinking dread.

“Jaskier?” she called, tentatively, afraid to startle him. Any last shred of hope that she was mistaken (though the intricately embroidered doublet was hard to mistake) was gone when he jerked his head back to face her. His mouth was agape, an uncomfortable mixture of surprise and disappointment drawn across his features. “What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like?” He snapped back. There was more than his usual sarcasm or mock-incredulity in his voice, real and deep-felt anger coloring his tone.

“Don’t do it,” she urged, surprising herself with the tenderness in her own words. “Come on now. Just come down.” Why did she care? The question gnawed in the back of her mind, and she did her damndest to push it aside. She’s a good person, after all, right? She’d do it for anyone, surely. None of Geralt’s not-getting-involved nonsense.

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” He let out a barking laugh, thin and breathy, pitching forward ever so slightly with the force of it. She felt her whole body tense, hands reaching out reflexively.

“Where’s Geralt? What happened?” This was, apparently, the single worst line of conversation she could’ve settled on, because he dropped abruptly to a squat and for a split second she was certain she was about to witness the man’s death. 

“I’m not his fucking keeper.” He was nearly at a roar now, a fever-pitch that sent a shiver down Yennefer’s spine. “Haven’t seen him in a week. Not since— not since—” Though she couldn’t see his face, his eyes fixed resolvedly on the ground below, she could hear the tears cut through his words, his breath hiccuping.

“Shh,” she hushed him. Clearly, something had happened after she stormed off. What, precisely, could wait until later, when he was back on solid ground. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“The fuck do you know about fair?” he scoffed, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his abdomen against the biting wind. 

“He fucked me over, too.” She should’ve been offended, and she would’ve been if she wasn’t far more concerned with making sure the bard didn’t fling himself into an early demise, which would be decidedly unfair. That sentiment did little to ease him, and withdrew no response. “Fuck Geralt,” she declared, trying again. “Damn brute thinks he can just take as he pleases.”

“And— and then discard you once he’s had his fill,” he mumbled, offering her the slightest glance back, tears glistening against the pink of his cheeks. 

“You’re better than that,” she set forth like a thesis. “You’re — loathe as I am to admit it — talented, bard. People like you. You’ll find plenty of material to write about.” Perhaps an appeal to both logos and pathos would be sufficient, at least enough to get him off the ledge. 

“It won’t be the same.” He frowned tragically over his shoulder at her. “I've lost it all, Yen. Look at me— I'm just a silhouette.”

“That's nonsense. He… you're more than him. He's not everything.” It felt ridiculous to her, throwing yourself off a roof over an argument with a friend. After all, Jaskier had always managed to exist in the spaces between Geralt before; teaching, or penning his next obnoxious ballad, or bedding married women, or whatever it is overgrown manchild bards do. But, then, she'd almost killed herself to restore something she knew she could never get back. So perhaps they were even.

“Look, this is awfully sweet of you, but—” he swept his arm, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular. “Just let me go. I’m doing everyone a favor.” He turned his attention back to the ground, wind rippling through his hair. “Should’ve done this a long time ago.” She felt her heart skip — a long time ago? This wasn’t just a histrionic reaction to whatever might’ve occurred between him and Geralt; gods knew how long he’d felt like this.

“You know I can’t do that,” she retorted, drawing tentatively closer. “Don’t make me portal you down.” He huffed, waving her off with a trembling hand. 

“Please, Yen.” Realistically, she knew it would be easy to oblige his request. Walk away, pretend not to hear the sickening thud, and carry on. He was only her ex-witcher’s ex-bard, after all. “I always knew it'd end like this. I’m just… I’m glad I even made it past thirty, really.” 

“That’s— I’m not— no, Jaskier. I’m not letting you throw yourself off a roof, for the love of the gods. That’s insane.” She wasn’t sure what was more insane, letting him go, or standing here arguing with him. “You’re going to be real glad when you make it to forty, bard.”

“Am I though, really? This isn’t my first time, believe it or not. And every time I live, or I back out, or I let someone talk me out of it. And I always regret it in the end.” Her mind reeled again — every time? How many had there been? She pushed the thought back.

“You won’t find out unless you get down,” she argued, drawing closer still. He tensed, sensing her presence, hands balling and unfurling repetitively. “Come on. Go to the tavern with me, get something to eat, have a—” she was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath now “—more drink. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning, and if you still regret it, well…” 

“Fine,” he finally agreed on the tail end of a sigh, turning to fully face her. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” She didn’t like the resolve with which he said those words, but he was agreeing to come down, which at least was a small victory. She’d handle tomorrow when it came around. In the meantime she needed to get them both down. “Or eventually,” he tacked on as she held her hands out, forming a portal back to solid ground. “Inevitably.” The word rang in her mind as she looped an arm around him and led him through the portal. As an afterthought, she summoned a blanket with a flick of her fingers; it was one of those cheap, thin blankets they kept at the inn, but it would do. She tossed it over his shoulders and he dug his fingers into the fabric, drawing it closer around himself.

Once they were back in the tavern, that thin blanket still draped over Jaskier's shoulders and mug of ale held in shaking hands, it was time to talk.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, dragging his thumb up and down the cool tankard, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs. “I’ve caused such a fuss. You must be anxious to get out of here.” He finally glanced in her direction when he felt a hand land on his forearm.

“It’s fine, really,” she insisted, and he couldn’t bear the pity in her eyes. “Now are you going to tell me what that was all about?” He huffed a laugh, looked away again.

“It’s just, you know. Me and my theatrics.” He shrugged, running a hand along his jaw.

“Bullshit.” When, exactly, Yennefer had gotten so good at seeing right through him, he wasn’t sure. But he did know he definitely didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry. I just, I… I get like that, I guess,” he muttered finally, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass.

“Suicidal, you mean? You just get… suicidal?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow, moving her hand up to his shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess.” He reached blindly, dropped a hand over hers. “When something goes wrong. Someone leaves me again. I just, I fuck up a lot, and I’m no good at dealing with the concequences.” 

“That’s— gods, I know you’re an idiot, but that’s really worth killing yourself over?” She tried to keep her tone light, clipped, maybe a little detached. He was uneasy with the attention, it was obvious, and she was also certainly not ready to admit that maybe, just a tiny bit, she sort of cared about him.

“Geralt, he ran me off,” he mumbled, sinking further into the blanket. “After the hunt, after your fight, he blamed me. For everything, the entire two decades of our, well. I guess it wasn’t friendship.” He chewed at his lip, a nervous habit, anger bubbling below the surface at the thought of that day. “Told me the greatest gift life could give him would be to take me off his hands.” Yennefer balked at him, finally hearing the context of his despair, and she was just about ready to portal right over to wherever Geralt had fucked off to and give him a piece of her mind.

“That’s terrible,” she told him, the best she could really offer. Nothing she could say would undo what’d happened, and nothing could change how much it hurt him. “He really is a bastard.” Jaskier nodded slowly, raised his tankard up in toast. “When’s the last time you ate? You must be starving.”

“Stew would be nice,” he replied quietly, meekly. She haled one of the barkeeps, ordered him a stew, and requested another round of drinks. “It’s not just the fight, though,” he added once the server was gone. “I don’t know how to explain it, Yen. Why I do the things I do, or feel the way I feel. It’s just, it’s all too much sometimes, you know?” She knew. All too well, she knew. She was only just beginning to understand herself, just beginning to feel some semblance of control. He was so young — perhaps not by human standards, but comparatively. 

“I know. It’s hard.” They felt like empty platitudes, like she had no idea how to truly connect with him, and it was frustrating. She wanted to help him, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure he wanted it. 

“Yeah.” He bobbed his head, picked at the wood of the table. They drifted into silence, neither sure how to fill it, neither sure this was a conversation either wanted to have. The stew arrived, and he picked at it rather than devouring it like he usually did his rations. 

“You know I’m sterile, right?” she finally broke the silence once he’d finished his food and pushed the bowl aside, leaning closer, her voice pitched in a conspiratorial whisper. He nodded solemnly, averting his gaze, watching the light catch in his amber ale. “And you know I’ve gone to great lengths to rectify that, correct?” Another slow nod.

“I know, Yen. I’m sorry, I know you have far more right to be miserable than I do. And here I am, wallowing like a toddler—” She waved a hand to cut him off.

“No, listen, stupid bard. It’s really not about being able to have kids. It’s about the fact that I don’t have a choice, that I’ve never had a choice,” she elaborated, hiking the blanket further up his shoulders as it started to slip.

“I know. And here I am, I’ve gotten everything I wanted. I got to choose; running away, going to Oxenfurt, becoming a bard, traveling. Gods, I followed Geralt to the ends of the bloody Continent for two decades of my life I’ll never get back — but that was my choice.” 

“Would you please let me finish my point, instead of interrupting me to wallow in guilt?” He gnawed at his lip, finally turning to face her. “It wasn’t about being a mother, it was about choice. So this—” she waved her arm dramatically, wondering for a moment when exactly she’d started picking up his mannerisms. “This isn’t about Geralt at all, is it?” After a moment of contemplation, he carefully shook his head. “Then what is it about?” 

“I don’t know, to be honest,” he muttered at the tail end of a swig from his tankard. “I’ve just always been like this,” he said with a sweep of his hand, palm upturned, string-callused fingers twitching aimlessly. Her violet eyes bore into him expectantly, and he felt angry for a flicker of a moment — she was a witch, right? He should be able to just sit back while she delves into the darkest crevices of his psyche, let her root around and not have to struggle to put his life into context and language. “Can’t you just, y’know…” He tugged at his fingers, tilted his head.

“Read your mind?” she finished the question, scooting closer to him, and he felt the hair on his arms rise. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He nodded, and she pressed her forehead against his, pulling him in close, enveloping him in the lilac and gooseberries he knew Geralt loved so much. He understood why; he felt inexplicably safe, even as the logical half of his brain urged him to pull back. This was all for show, and he knew that— she didn’t need to touch him to read him. Either way, he was grateful to not have to give language to the nameless, that she could just see.

See Jaskier at seventeen, screaming at Valdo from across the courtyard, "if you leave me I swear the fuck to melitile I'll kill myself," knowing he's made this exact threat verbatim so many times Valdo can't believe him, unable to recall what they were even arguing about anymore. When they break up, his mother tells him the first heartbreak always hurts the worst; it hurts all the same every time thereafter.

Jaskier at twenty, slicing thin lines into his thigh for what had to be the millionth time, running out of unmarred skin, witcher/tentative friend asleep somewhere beside him in the darkness. If asked, he’s not sure he’d have an excuse. Sometimes to feel something, sometimes to feel nothing. Either way, this uncertainty is what keeps his wrists clean.

Jaskier at twenty-three, wailing great, hiccuping sobs, shoulders rattling, blind beyond teary eyes. Geralt, gods bless him, doesn’t know what to do, stands arm’s-length away, regards him with uncertainty and pity. They’d fought about something that didn’t matter and he couldn’t remember, and that rage washed over him, red-hot, balled fists trembling at his side. “Get out! Gods, are you thick? Leave, Geralt; I fucking hate you.” But then Geralt listened, because Geralt didn’t play Jaskier’s games, and now there he was, sobbing, babbling, “don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’ll be better, I can’t lose you, it’ll kill me, don’t go.” Geralt stays; they pretend nothing ever happened.

Jaskier at twenty-seven, at the ashes of his latest burnt bridge, just another failed relationship that feels altogether more like death than separation. Grieving it more like death, too; sobbing until he could do little more than stare at the ceiling and try to breathe, mourning a cemetery of mistakes and a lifetime of failure.

Jaskier at thirty-two, depression blanketing him with the fresh snow, the man he'd tangled up his entire identity in fucked off to the mountains for the winter while he sludged through classes, distracting himself from having to confront the fact that he doesn't recognize his own face in the mirror. Jaskier does exist in the spaces between Geralt, but, sometimes, that Jaskier is a husk.

Jaskier a few days ago, marching back to Oxenfurt because that's all he knows, doubtful Jaskier even exists anymore, the emptiness in his mind unbearable and somehow terminal, altogether certain he's been incompatible with life from the very moment he entered it and resolved to rectify nature's mistake himself. 

Jaskier who, his entire life, has felt everything, too much, all at once. Who's always been led by his heart — and not in the beautiful, Romantic way, but messy, tragic, and uniquely Jaskier. A man so utterly at the mercy of his own mind, drowning in feelings he doesn't have the language to name, his entire being defined not by who he is but what he does and who he loves. 

Jaskier, on a rooftop in Tretogor, itchy feet ready to fling him off the ledge. He'd told Valdo once, in the in-between hours not quite night or morning when everything seems strange and far away, that he knew how he was destined to die. Pressed on, even as Valdo chuckled and called him presumptive, “I'm going to kill myself.” Not today, or tomorrow, but inevitably. He said it not with the certainty of someone who's seen into the future but the cynical resignation of a man who knows no other escape. And Valdo punched his arm, told him not to talk like that, promised it would get easier one day. He hates Valdo now, not that he remembers why, and that day has yet to come.

She pulled back eventually— finally — and swept a shaky thumb over his cheek. He chewed on his lip, staring expectantly with hauntingly wide eyes. 

“Jaskier.” It was barely a whisper, uttered at the end of a sharp exhale, and when violet eyes met his they shone with an uncanny recognition. He wasn't sure what, precisely, she'd seen, but he knew whatever it was had been enough. He'd invited her to the bleakest corners of his mind, and now she regarded him like a lame horse. He ducked his head, but she caught him with a hand on his chin. “You know that's not how destiny works.”

“Hmm?” He wracked his brain to figure what she might be referring to, coming up empty-handed. He didn't have a big, grand destiny like she or Geralt did. He was just Jaskier the bard, Jaskier the one-night stand, Jaskier the disappointment. 

“It doesn't have to end like that. You have a choice,” she elaborated, still painfully vague, but he understood. 

“This isn't the first time, Yen, I—” 

“I know. I saw.” Right, she saw, probably everything, and he had the wherewithal to feel humiliated for it. 

“I've cheated it enough times. I can't outrun it forever.” It felt nice, at least, to let his walls down a little, stop playing the perpetual naive optimist. Almost a relief, even, a weight off his shoulders. 

“I know. But you're strong, Jask.” She moved her hand from his chin to the back of his head, guiding it to rest against her shoulder. “We have more in common than I thought, you know.” He laughed, thin and heady, but with a little more conviction this time, and pressed his face against her neck. 

“Is that your way of telling me you're fucked up, too?” He asked, and, despite the levity in his tone, he truly was curious. 

“Yes, bard,” she hummed, reaching out to sip at her tankard.

“You're not going to give me any more than that?” He fought off a yawn, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. “I just told you everything.” 

“Maybe someday,” she replied, setting the mug back on the table. “But right now I think you could use some rest. We both could.” She slipped out of the booth and he let his head tilt back against the wall, mourning the absence of her warmth. 

She returned a few minutes later, room procured, and hiked the blanket back over his shoulders as he reached for his lute and followed after her. It was a nice enough room, two beds on opposite sides, a bath he had no intention of utilizing. Exhausted, he kicked off his boots, shrugged off his doublet, and dropped onto the bed. He let his mind wander, dozing as Yennefer readied herself for bed, eyelids heavy by the time she blew out the candles.

“You won't try again?” Yen asked from across the room after a while, barely a silhouette in the faint moonlight. Jaskier rolled over to face her, finding her staring distantly out the window.

“You, uh, you have to be more specific,” he muttered, tugging the blanket closer to his chin. It smelled of lilac and ale. 

“How am I supposed to make that more specific?” It came out sharp, like her usual tone with him, but he could still feel an uneasy twinge to her words. 

“I mean, I don't know.” He felt stupid for reasons beyond his grasp. “Not today, or tomorrow. But I can't promise never.” There was a long pause, and Jaskier barely breathed, wondering if he'd managed to upset her as sleep crept up on him. 

“Not today is enough,” she said finally, sounding almost far away, and his breath hitched in his throat.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, voice thick with impending sleep. “When are you leaving?” The me he omitted at the tail end rang in his mind, unspoken but understood, heavy in the nighttime silence. She was supposed to leave in the morning, so he could either move on or finish what he’d set out to do; he wasn’t sure he wanted her to uphold that promise anymore.

“Not today.” He exhaled slowly. Not today is enough. And maybe, just maybe, enough not today's would add up to never.